ROSE-MOUNT.
A NEIGHBORLY EPISTLE.
Hartford, April, 1843.
To the Lady of Rose-Mount, I've long wished to pay
Such thanks as were due for her musical lay,
But many a care, with importunate mien,
Would thrust itself me and my lyre between;
And lastly, the hydra of house-cleaning came,
With dripping fingers, and cheeks of flame;
Pictures, and vases, and flower-pots fled,
At her flashing eye, and her frown of dread,
While tubs and brushes, with Vandal haste,
Like a mob of Chartists, their betters displaced,
And she at the head of that motley crowd,
A brandished broom for her sceptre proud,
Held all in an uproar, from sun to sun,
Then went off in a rage, ere her work was done.
Keep clear of her, dearest, as long as you can,
She's a terror, in sooth, both to woman and man,
And husbands, especially, quake when they see
Their sanctums exposed to her ministry.
