Maryland, my Maryland, and other poems/The Cobra Capello
THE COBRA CAPELLO
“The cobra, though exceedingly venomous, has an aspect of gentleness and docility.”—Encyclopedia.
Beautiful—yes! for her basilisk eyes
Gleam out when the features are luscious and mellow;
Beautiful—yes! but adown the disguise,
I detect just a tinge of the Cobra Capello.
And I think Mother Eve looked exactly like this
When she played such a prank on uxorious Adam;
I’ve a chronic dislike to a serpentine kiss,
And never eat apples in any style, Madam.
Beautiful—yes! as she paddles her fan
’Mid the bordered lagoons of her robe of white muslin;
And the tight little boot taps a quick rataplan,
In a way most piratical, not to say puzzling.
She prates of Tom Noddy, the handsome young goose
Of Don Trombonetti, divine on the flute;
And then, with a smile that’s as arch as—the deuce,
Quotes pert panegyrics on somebody’s foot!
She’ll sing you a hymn or tell you a fib,
(Just one of those cynical, feathery trifles,)
And then, with a smirk that I think rather glib,
Sigh after some monster that left with the Rifles.
She vows I’m a miracle walking with men—
(Ugh! I swallow it all with a groan and a cough),
For I know that most women are comical, when
Their nightcaps are on and the visitors off!
Ay, rattle ahead and prattle away,
But, in sepulchred thought, I brood over another;
We parted, alas! about nine months today,
And we never must meet again—somehow or other.
They tell me, poor bird, it is painful to see
How you’ve changed, since we rode in the warm summer weather;
And oh, if I felt you were pining for me,
I’d hew me a path that would bring us together.
In your solitude still, do you sing the old songs?
O, the “Long Weary Day!” shall it cease for us never?
But here, in the ruck of the sumptuous throngs,
Your name in my lone heart is sacred forever!
Ah me! I am chill, for ’tis fearful to sit
By the Cobra, when languished with tenderer matters—
Ha! I see that my secret is guessed—every bit—
For she’s nibbling her lip, and the fan is in tatters.
Beautiful—yes! but I shall not succumb,
Though wifeless from Beersheba even to Dan;
Heigho! if my heart were but under her thumb,
She’d crumple it, too, like the innocent fan!