The fondness or the flowers; Remembered-not with Passion's. sigh, Alas! your lips are rosier, Your eyes of softer blue, And I have never felt for her Our love was like the bright snow-flakes, Or the bubble on the wine, which breaks Before you lip the glass. You saw these eye-lids wet, Love, Which she has never seen; But bid me not forget, Love, (1826.) THE CHANT OF THE BRAZEN HEAD. "Brazen companion of my solitary hours! do you, while I recline, pronounce a prologue to those sentiments of wisdom and virtue, which are hereafter to be the oracles of statesmen and the guides of philosophers. Give me to-night a proem of our essay, an opening of our case, a division of our subject. Speak !"-(Slow music. The Friar falls asleep. The Head chants as follows.)-THE BRAZEN HEAD. "I THINK, whatever mortals crave, A wreath-a rank-a throne—a grave— I think that life is not too long, Who will not read a sermon. "I think you've looked through many hearts, And mused on many actions, And studied man's component parts, I think the world has lost its wits, And you have lost your labour. "I think the studies of the wise, And all that charms or troubles- "I think the thing you call Renown, For which a soldier burns a town, Is like the mist which, as he flies, "I think one nod of Mistress Chance And shifts the funeral for the dance, I think that Fortune's favoured guest "I think the Tories love to buy "Your Lordships' and 'Your Graces,' By loathing common honesty, And some grow rich by telling lies, "I think the Whigs are wicked knaves, And very like the Tories, Who doubt that Britain rules the waves, And ask the price of glories; I think that many fret and fume At what their friends are planning, And Mr. Hume hates Mr. Brougham As much as Mr. Canning. "I think that friars and their hoods, I think while zealots fast and frown, "I think that, thanks to Paget's lance, I think the Pope is on his back, And, though 'tis fun to shake him, "I think that Love is like a play Whose shine with shower is ended; "I think the world, though dark it be, Has aye one rapturous pleasure, Concealed in life's monotony, For those who seek the treasure; One planet in a starless night— One blossom on a brier One friend not quite a hypocrite One woman not a liar! "I think poor beggars court St. Giles, Rich beggars court St. Stephen; And death looks down with nods and smiles, I think some die upon the field, |