  At Leila's heart, from day to day, Love, boy-like, knock'd, and ran away; But Love grown older, seeking then "Lodgings for single gentlemen," Return'd unto his former ground, And knock'd, but no admittance found— With his rat, tat, tat. His false alarms remember'd still. Love, now in earnest, fared but ill; For Leila in her heart could swear, As still he knock'd, "There's no one there." A single god, he then essay'd With single knocks to lure the maid— With his single knock. Each passer-by, who watch'd the wight, Cried "Love, you won't lodge there to-night!" And love, while listening, half confess'd That all was dead in Leila's breast. Yet, lest that light heart only slept, Bold Love up to the casement crept— With his tip, tap, tap. No answer;—"Well," cried Love, "I'll wait, And keep off Envy, Fear, and Hate; No other passion there shall dwell, If I'm shut out—why, here's a bell!" He rang; the ring made Leila start, And Love found lodgings in her heart— With his magic ring. L.B. Designed Etched & Published by George Cruikshank May 1st 1841 |
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