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C.D. Warner, et al., comp.  The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes.  1917.
 
To My Grandmother
By Frederick Locker-Lampson (1821–1895)
 
Suggested by a Picture by Mr. Romney

THIS relative of mine—
Was she seventy-and-nine
      When she died?
By the canvas may be seen
How she looked at seventeen,—        5
      As a bride.
 
Beneath a summer tree
As she sits, her revery
      Has a charm;
Her ringlets are in taste,—        10
What an arm! and what a waist
      For an arm!
 
In bridal coronet,
Lace, ribbons, and coquette
      Falbala;        15
Were Romney’s limning true,
What a lucky dog were you,
      Grandpapa!
 
Her lips are sweet as love,—
They are parting! Do they move?        20
      Are they dumb?—
Her eyes are blue, and beam
Beseechingly, and seem
      To say, “Come.”
 
What funny fancy slips        25
From between these cherry lips?
      Whisper me,
Sweet deity in paint,
What canon says I mayn’t
      Marry thee?        30
 
That good-for-nothing Time
Has a confidence sublime!
      When I first
Saw this lady, in my youth,
Her winters had, forsooth,        35
      Done their worst.
 
Her locks (as white as snow)
Once shamed the swarthy crow.
      By-and-by,
That fowl’s avenging sprite        40
Set his cloven foot for spite
      In her eye.
 
Her rounded form was lean,
And her silk was bombazine:—
      Well I wot,        45
With her needles would she sit,
And for hours would she knit,—
      Would she not?
 
Ah, perishable clay!
Her charms had dropped away        50
      One by one.
But if she heaved a sigh
With a burthen, it was, “Thy
      Will be done.”
 
In travail, as in tears,        55
With the fardel of her years
      Overprest,—
In mercy was she borne
Where the weary ones and worn
      Are at rest.        60
 
I’m fain to meet you there;—
If as witching as you were,
      Grandmamma!
This nether world agrees
That the better it must please        65
      Grandpapa.
 
 
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