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| DEAR PRISCILLA, quaint and very | |
| Like a modern Puritan, | |
| Is a modest, literary, | |
| Merry young American: | |
| Horace she has read, and Bion | 5 |
| Is her favorite in Greek; | |
| Shakespeare is a mighty lion | |
| In whose den she dares but peek; | |
| Him she leaves to some sage Daniel, | |
| Since of Lions she’s afraid,— | 10 |
| She prefers a playful spaniel, | |
| Such as Herrick or as Praed; | |
| And it’s not a bit satiric | |
| To confess her fancy goes | |
| From the epic to a lyric | 15 |
| On a rose. | |
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| Wise Priscilla, dilettante, | |
| With a sentimental mind, | |
| Does n’t deign to dip in Dante, | |
| And to Milton is n’t kind; | 20 |
| L’Allegro, Il Penseroso | |
| Have some merits she will grant, | |
| All the rest is only so-so,— | |
| Enter Paradise she can’t! | |
| She might make a charming angel | 25 |
| (And she will if she is good), | |
| But it’s doubtful if the change’ll | |
| Make the Epic understood: | |
| Honey-suckling, like a bee she | |
| Goes and pillages his sweets, | 30 |
| And it’s plain enough to see she | |
| Worships Keats. | |
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| Gay Priscilla,—just the person | |
| For the Locker whom she loves; | |
| What a captivating verse on | 35 |
| Her neat-fitting gowns or gloves | |
| He could write in catching measure, | |
| Setting all the heart astir! | |
| And to Aldrich what a pleasure | |
| It would be to sing of her,— | 40 |
| He, whose perfect songs have won her | |
| Lips to quote them day by day. | |
| She repeats the rhymes of Bunner | |
| In a fascinating way, | |
| And you’ll often find her lost in— | 45 |
| She has reveries at times— | |
| Some delightful one of Austin | |
| Dobson’s rhymes. | |
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| O Priscilla, sweet Priscilla, | |
| Writing of you makes me think, | 50 |
| As I burn my brown Manila | |
| And immortalize my ink, | |
| How well satisfied these poets | |
| Ought to be with what they do | |
| When, especially, they know it’s | 55 |
| Read by such a girl as you: | |
| I who sing of you would marry | |
| Just the kind of girl you are,— | |
| One who does n’t care to carry | |
| Her poetic taste too far,— | 60 |
| One whose fancy is a bright one, | |
| Who is fond of poems fine, | |
| And appreciates a light one | |
| Such as mine. | |
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