(Suggested by a Picture by Mr. Romney)
Under the elm a rustic seatWas merriest Susan's pet retreat To merry-make.
This Relative of mineWas she seventy-and-nine When she died?By the canvas may be seenHow she look'd at seventeen, As a Bride.
Beneath a summer treeHer maiden reverie Has a charm;Her ringlets are in taste;What an arm! and what a waist For an arm!
With her bridal-wreath, bouquet,Lace farthingale, and gay Falbala, --If Romney's touch be true,What a lucky dog were you, Grandpapa!
Her lips are sweet as love;They are parting! Do they move? Are they dumb?Her eyes are blue, and beamBeseechingly, and seem To say, "Come!"
What funny fancy slipsFrom atween these cherry lips? Whisper me,Fair Sorceress in paint,What canon says I mayn't Marry thee!
That good-for-nothing TimeHas a confidence sublime! When I firstSaw this Lady, in my youth,Her winters had, forsooth, Done their worst.
Her locks, as white as snow,Once shamed the swarthy crow; By-and-byThat fowl's avenging spriteSet his cruel foot for spite Near her eye.
Her rounded form was lean,And her silk was bombazine: Well I wotWith her needles would she sit,And for hours would she knit, -- Would she not?
Ah perishable clay!Her charms had dropt away One by one:But if she heaved a sighWith a burthen, it was, "Thy Will be done."
In travail, as in tears,With the fardel of her years Overprest,In mercy she was borneWhere the weary and the worn Are at rest.
Oh if you now are there,And sweet as once you were, Grandmamma,This nether world agreesYou'll all the better please Grandpapa.
