A CURATE'S COMPLAINT.

Where are they all departed,
The loved ones of my youth,
Those emblems white of purity,
Sweet innocence and truth?
When day-light drives the darkness,
When evening melts to night,
When noon-day suns burn brightest,
They come not to my sight.

I miss their pure embraces
Around my neck and throat,
The thousand winning graces
Whereon I used to dote.
I know I may find markets
Where love is bought and sold,
But no such love can equal
The tender ties of old.

My gentle washer-woman,
I know that you are true;
The least shade of suspicion
Can never fall on you.
Then fear me not, as fiercely
I fix on thee stern eyes,
And ask in terms emphatic,
"Where are my lost white ties?"