Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895. 1895.
Frederick Locker-Lampson 182195To My Grandmother
T
Was she seventy-and-nine
When she died?
By the canvas may be seen
How she look’d at seventeen,
As a bride.
Her maiden reverie
Has a charm;
Her ringlets are in taste;
What an arm!… what a waist
For an arm!
Lace farthingale, and gay
Falbala,
Were Romney’s limning true,
What a lucky dog were you,
Grandpapa!
They are parting! Do they move?
Are they dumb?
Her eyes are blue, and beam
Beseechingly, and seem
To say, “Come!”
From atween these cherry lips!
Whisper me,
Sweet sorceress in paint,
What canon says I may n’t
Marry thee?
Has a confidence sublime!
When I first
Saw this lady, in my youth,
Her winters had, forsooth,
Done their worst.
Once sham’d the swarthy crow:
By-and-by
That fowl’s avenging sprite
Set his cruel foot for spite
Near her eye.
And her silk was bombazine:
Well I wot
With her needles would she sit,
And for hours would she knit,—
Would she not?
Her charms had dropp’d away
One by one;
But if she heav’d a sigh
With a burden, it was, “Thy
Will be done.”
With the fardel of her years
Overpast,
In mercy she was borne
Where the weary and worn
Are at rest.
And sweet as once you were,
Grandmamma,
This nether world agrees
’T will all the better please
Grandpapa.