Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 8/Seasonable wooing

2805986Once a Week, Series 1, Volume VIII — Seasonable wooing
1862-1863Louisa Crow


When the merry Spring flung her odorous gifts
To the smiling Earth below,
’Till the hawthorn scattered o’er every hedge
Her flowery, fragrant snow;
And the bright-eye tapestried each sunny bank,
The blue-bells tinted each glade,
And the plenteous cowslip beneath our feet
A golden carpeting laid:
Then I wove wild blossoms to crown my love,
A queen on a throne of hay;
But she mocked my pains with a saucy smile,
And answered my love-suit nay.

But I breathed it again in the summer eve,
Adown in a leafy lane,
Where the frolic sunbeams might seek to pierce
The deep, cool shadow in vain;
Where the rustling ivy around the elm
Its glossiest garland weaves,
And the clinging bramble the pathway bars
With trails of silvery leaves.
Then the sweet wild-rose I plucked for her hair
And told my love with a sigh;
But she heard me again with a saucy smile,
That mocked a tear in her eye.

But I wooed her once more when the hills were full
Of reapers bowing the corn,
And their cheerful voices who gathered it in
Were ringing from night till morn;
And purple and crimson were buds we snatched
As the cold keen sickle drew near,
To weave a wreath for the harvest feast,
The last of the waning year.
And I wound it round her, and bade her yield,
Yield to my flowery chain;
But she broke the bond with a blush and a smile,
And my vows were breathed in vain.

“I may not woo thee, dear maiden, now,”
I sighed ’neath the wintry sky,
“My hopes, like earth’s treasures, have withered away,
And buried in coldness lie;
But love’s truest mission shall still be mine,
To bow to each storm and wait,
With a changeless faith, that in brighter hours
May win it a happier fate!”
Then she yielded her waist to my circling arm,
And her crimsoning cheek to my kiss,
And whispered, “I had been easier won,
Had your wooing been ever as this.”

L. C.