We loved, or thought we loved; and love,
To us a passion new and strange,
Shone like a star in heaven above,
Bright, calm, incapable of change.
Our life was one bright dream of joy,
A golden age, without alloy
Of jealousy or doubt;
Youth we possessed, and strength and health,
We'd gain, if Fate so willed it, wealth, And if not-do without!
Ah me, poor fools! a twelvemonth more
Was 'whelmed in time's unceasing tide,
And Ellen left her native shore
An Indian merchant's blooming bride.
A man he was in council great,
Of aspect grave and mien sedate,
Brown face and little mind;
Parting with her few tears I shed,
I drank his health, and wished him dead, And hated all mankind!
A "lapse of years" then intervenes,
And when I see the stage once more,
The characters, the very scenes,
Are grander than they were of yore.
The room is filled with nick-nacks rare,
Rich Indian perfumes load the air,
Huge servants bow around;
So oriental is the show,
It needs the cab I leave below
To prove it British ground.
For Ellen has returned—she greets
Me with a cold and formal bend,
And once or twice I think repeats
Her joy to see "her father's friend."
She looks at me with languid stare,
She orders" tiffin," asks for air,
And grieves o'er "punkahs" missed.
Can this be that same laughing girl,
With merry eye and tangled curl,
I 'neath the hawthorn kissed?
same, indeed! and why should I
O'er vanished passion vainly grieve;
Bemoan her greeting chill, or try
Myself unaltered to believe?
Though Ellen's glance be cold and strange,
All unaffected by the change,
I chatter, smile, and bow;
For, truth to tell, since Ellen wed,
My heart so many times has bled,
As to be callous now!
My horse, my club, my opera-stall,
A cheerful fire, a pleasant book,
Are now more potent in their thrall
Than winning voice or upturned look.
My wind in waltzing's growing scant,
In climbing hills I oftener want
To view the prospect fine;
Naught care I now for hair or eyes,
But have great taste in Strasbourg pies,
And something know of wine.
My purse is full, my wants are few,
I've gained a certain meed of fame;
I'm sponsor to a Soyer's stew,
Poole to a coat has given my name.
Bewitching houris nod and smile
As I ride down the "lady's mile,"
I lounge at White's, am great at Pratt's,
I'm loved by all the tabby-cats,
Whose daughters are for sale.
Yet sometimes in my opera-stall
A voice will ring upon my ear,
A sudden chord will thrill thro' all
My being, and I feel a tear
Dimming my eye, a tribute paid
To those old days when Nell's head laid
And nestled on my breast.
What lies there now? a load of care,
The cambric-fronted shirt I wear,
And black embroidered vest.
But I would give, ay, I would give,
Were I permitted to bestow,
Half of the years I've yet to live,
To feel as I felt long ago!
To feel as fresh in heart and brain,
As free from all earth's earthy pain,
As when, beneath the trees,
I wound my arm round that young girl,
While all her mass of golden curl
Was tossing in the breeze!
Though to beauty it certainly cannot aspire, 'Tis a cosy old coat for a seat by the fire.
When I first put it on it was awfully swell :
I went to a picnic, met Lucy Lepel,
Made a hole in the heart of that sweet little girl,
And disjointed the nose of her lover, the Earl.
We rambled away o'er the moorland together,
My coat was bright purple, and so was the heather;
And so was the sunset that blazed in the west,
As Lucy's fair tresses were laid on my breast.
We plighted our troth 'neath that sunset aflame,
But Lucy returned to her Earl all the same;
She's a grandmamma now, and is going down hill,
But my old velvet coat is a friend to me still.
It was built by a tailor of mighty renown,
Whose art is no longer the talk of the town,
A magical picture my memory weaves
When I thrust my tired arms through its easy
sleeves.
I see in my fire, through the smoke of my pipe,
Sweet maidens of old that are long over-ripe,
And a troop of old cronies, right gay cavaliers,
Whose guineas paid well for champagne atWatier's.
A strong generation, who drank, fought, and kissed,
Whose hands never trembled, whose shots never
missed,
Who lived a quick life, for their pulses beat high,
We remember them well, sir, my old coat and I.
Ah! gone is the age of wild doings at court, Rotten boroughs, knee-breeches, hair triggers and port;
Still I've got a magnum to moisten my throat, And I'll drink to the Past in my tattered old coat. MORTIMER COLLINS.
"LE DERNIER JOUR D'UN CONDAMNÉ.”
LD coat, for some three or four seasons
We've been jolly comrades, but now
We part, old companion, for ever;
To fate, and the fashion I bow.
You'd look well enough at a dinner,
I'd wear you with pride at a ball,
But I'm dressing to-night for a wedding—
My own, and you'd not do at all.
wine-stains about you,
You're scented too much with cigars,
When the gas-light shines full on your collar,
It glitters with myriad stars,
That wouldn't look well at my wedding,
They'd seem inappropriate there-
Nell doesn't use diamond powder,
She tells me it ruins the hair.
You've been out on Cozzen's piazza
Too late, when the evenings were damp, When the moonbeams were silvering Cro'nest, And the lights were all out in the camp. You've rested on highly-oiled stairways Too often, when sweet eyes were bright, And somebody's ball dress, not Nelly's, Flowed round you in rivers of white.
There's a reprobate looseness about you,
Should I wear you to-night, I believe,
As I come with my bride from the altar,
You'd laugh in your wicked old sleeve,
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