But lace can from a pillow part
And by a touch, of cunning art
Adorn the casket of the heart,
Where every grace,
Half hidden by its witching fold,
Seeks to betray a charm untold--
How envies each admirer bold
The bit of lace!
Still maidens' mind and garments change,
And so there comes a new exchange;
The real Valenciennes finds a strange
New resting-place,
Where tiny feet and ankles hide,
And where but for a shoe untied
No human eye had e'er espied
The bit of lace.
A crowded street, a sudden scare,
A little rush, a lengthy tear,
A snowy skirt that needs repair,
Decides the case.
And what each morn her footman missed
Hung from a dainty, dimpled wrist,
And ardent lovers fondly kissed
The bit of lace.
* * * * *
This tale is incomplete, I know,
But where else could the traveller go?
Ah, it was fifty years ago
All this took place.
And nodding, in her noonday nap,
Secure from every sad mishap,
I see in Grandma's dainty cap
The bit of lace.
_Red and Blue._
~A Song to Her.~
A song to a maid with eyes like stars;
Lad, you can sing it.
Any old tune to trip the bars,
Any old voice to ring it;
Love will wend it away to her;
Love will mend it and pray to her;
Love with his love will wing it.
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