ABSTRACT
Verses to rhyme with ‘Rose.’ 1. Mrs. Austen. This morning I woke from a quiet repose, I first rubb’d my eyes, and I next blew my nose; With my stockings and shoes I then covered my toes, And proceeded to put on the rest of my clothes. This was finished in less than an hour, I suppose. I employ’d myself next in repairing my hose. ’Twas a work of necessity, not what I chose; Of my sock I’d much rather have knit twenty rows. My work being done, I look’d through the windows, And with pleasure beheld all the bucks and the does, The cows and the bullocks, the wethers and ewes. To the library each morning the family goes, So I went with the rest, though I felt rather froze. My flesh is much warmer, my blood freer flows, When I work in the garden with rakes and with hoes. And now I believe I must come to a close, For I find I grow stupid e’en while I compose. If I write any longer my verse will be prose. 2. Miss Austen (Cassandra). Love, they say, is like a rose; I’m sure ’tis like the wind that blows, For not a human creature knows How it comes or where it goes. It is the cause of many woes: It swells the eyes and reds the nose, And very often changes those Who once were friends to bitter foes. But let us now the scene transpose And think no more of tears and throes. Why may we not as well suppose A smiling face the urchin shows? And when with joy the bosom glows, And when the heart has full repose, ’Tis mutual love the gift bestows. 3. Miss Jane Austen. Happy the lab’rer in his Sunday clothes! In light-drab coat, smart waistcoat, well-darn’d hose, And hat upon his head, to church he goes; As oft, with conscious pride, he downward throws A glance upon the ample cabbage rose Which, stuck in button-hole, regales his nose, He envies not the gayest London beaux. In church he takes his seat among the rows, Pays to the place the reverence he owes, Likes best the prayers whose meaning least he knows, Lists to the sermon in a softening doze, And rouses joyous at the welcome close. 4. Mrs. Elizabeth Austen. Never before did I quarrel with a rose, Till now, that I am told some lines to compose, Of which I have little idea, God knows; But since that the task is assigned me by those To whom love, affection, and gratitude owes A ready compliance, I feign would dispose And call to befriend me the muse who bestows The gift of poetry both on friends and foes. My warmest acknowledgments are due to those Who watched near my bed and soothed me to repose, Who pitied my sufferings and shared in my woes, And, by their simpathy, relieved my sorrows. May I as long as the blood in my veins flows Feel the warmth of love which now in my breast glows, And may I sink into a refreshing doze When I lie my head on my welcome pillows.
