New England Artisan, And Laboring Man's Repository

POETRY.

[From the Orient Pearl, published at Calcutta.]

LAZY MISS.

BY H. L. V. DEROVIO, ESQ.

That's right—sleep on, sweet idle girl,
Thy book is thrown aside;
Sleep cannot spoil that arm of pearl,
Nor those rich blushes hide.
Thy hand anon the desk is laid—
Hard pillow for thy rest—
But when, like thee, we've toiled or played,
All pillows are the best.

Sleep on—those eyes now closed in sleep
May beam with joy elate,
Or destined be, perhaps to weep,
A cat's—or lover's fate.
Those lips, which tempt our lips to taste,
May glad some embryo dandy;
Be chapped when winter comes to waste,
Or moisten sugar candy.

Sleep on—sleep on—those eyes of thine
So beauteous, though they're closed,
Were never made on books to shine—
Thy head should not be posed.
What's Grammar to the dreams that now
Flit through thy passive mind?
Geography can't puzzle thee,
'Tis given unto the wind.

Let Afric be a stormy sea,
Let Asia gem the Atlantic;
Such knowledge was not made for thee,
But blues and beaux pedantic.
Arithmetic would make thee sick,
Pneumatics make thee sad;
By Chemistry thou'dst frightened be,
And Gas would drive thee mad.

And Algebra was made for skulls
With more of brains than hair;
But it shall not plague thee a jot—
Twould spoil the ringlets there.
That x, y, z, would harm thy head
I'll almost pledge my word—
Equations would but try thy patience,
Each surd would be absurd.

Sleep on, and dream of days
When thy poor head must ache
Of nights made glad by words of praise,
And hearts that round thee break.
Dream of the joyous time when thou
Shall glisten through the dance,
Light as a shaft from Cupid's bow,
And bright as thine own glance.

Dream of the many ardent sighs
Thy sparkling smiles shall wake,
Dream of the grief those conscious eyes
In youthful hearts will make.
Dream of the voice thou'lt love to hear,
And him who'll prize thy looks;
Then sleeper, wake—perhaps to fear
Thy dear mamma's rebukes.