“ellen, i will no longer call you mine,

that time is past, and ne’er can come again;

[pg 309]

however other lights undimmed may shine,

and undiminishing, one truth is plain,

which i, alas! have learned,—that love can wane.

the dream is pass’d away, the veil is rent,

your heart was not intended for my reign;

a sphere so full, i feel, was never meant

with one poor man in it to be content.

“it must, no doubt, be pleasant beyond measure,

to wander underneath the whispering bough

with dian, a perpetual round of pleasure.

nay, fear not,—i absolve of every vow,—

use,—use your own celestial pleasure now,

your apogee and perigee arrange.

herschel might aptly stare and wonder how,

to me that constant disk has nothing strange—

a counterfeit is sometimes hard to change.

“oh ellen! i once little thought to write

such words unto you, with so hard a pen;

yet outraged love will change its nature quite,

and turn like tiger hunted to its den—

how falsehood trips in her deceits on men!

and stands abash’d, discover’d, and forlorn!

had it been only cusp’d—but gibbous—then

it had gone down—but faith drew back in scorn,

and would not swallow it—without a horn!

“i am in occultation,—that is plain:

my culmination’s past,—that’s quite as clear.

but think not i will suffer your disdain

to hang a lunar rainbow on a tear.

whate’er my pangs, they shall be buried here;

no murmur,—not a sigh,—shall thence exhale:

smile on,—and for your own peculiar sphere

[pg 310]

choose some eccentric path,—you cannot fail,

and pray stick on a most portentous tail!

“farewell! i hope you are in health and gay;

for me, i never felt so well and merry—

as for the bran-new idol of the day,

monkey or man, i am indifferent—very!

nor e’en will ask who is the happy jerry;

my jealousy is dead, or gone to sleep,

but let me hint that you will want a wherry,

three weeks’ spring-tide, and not a chance of neap,

your parlours will be flooded six feet deep!”