III.

With curling lip and glancing eye
Guilt gazed upon the scene a minute;
But Childhood's glance of purity

Had such a holy spell within it,
That the dark demon to the air
Spread forth again his baffled pinion,
And hid his envy and despair,
Self-tortured, in his own dominion.

IV.

Then stepped a gloomy phantom up,

Pale, cypress-crowned, Night's awful daughter,

And proffered him a fearful cup

Full to the brim of bitter water:

Poor Childhood bade her tell her name;

And when the beldame muttered-"Sorrow,"

He said,-"Don't interrupt my game;

I'll taste it, if I must, to-morrow."

V.

The Muse of Pindus thither came,

And wooed him with the softest numbers

That ever scattered wealth and fame

Upon a youthful poet's slumbers; Though sweet the music of the lay, To Childhood it was all a riddle, And "Oh," he cried, "do send away

That noisy woman with the fiddle!"

VI.

Then Wisdom stole his bat and ball,

And taught him, with most sage endeavour, Why bubbles rise and acorns fall,

And why no toy may last for ever.
. She talked of all the wondrous laws
Which Nature's open book discloses,
And Childhood, ere she made a pause,
Was fast asleep among the roses.

VII.

Sleep on, sleep on! Oh! Manhood's dreams
Are all of earthly pain or pleasure,
Of Glory's toils, Ambition's schemes,
Of cherished love, or hoarded treasure:
But to the couch where Childhood lies
A more delicious trance is given,
Lit up by rays from seraph eyes,
And glimpses of remembered Heaven!

(1829.)

CHILDHOOD'S CRITICISM.

TO MISSES

ON HER REPEATING THE PRECEDING LINES.

"You've only got to curtsey, whisp -
-er, hold your head up, laugh and lisp,
And then you're sure to take."

I.

REJECTED ADDRESSES.

A POET o'er his tea and toast

Composed a page of verse last winter, Transcribed it on the best Bath post, And sent the treasure to a printer.

He thought it an enchanting thing;

And, fancying no one else could doubt it, Went out, as happy as a king,

To hear what people said about it.

II.

Queen Fame was driving out that day;

And, though she scarcely seemed to know him,

He bustled up, and tried to say

Something about his little poem;

But ere from his unhappy lip

Three timid trembling words could falter,

The goddess cracked her noisy whip,

And went to call upon Sir Walter !

III.

Old Criticism, whose glance observed
The minstrel's blushes and confusion,
Came up and told him he deserved

The rack at least for his intrusion :

The poor youth stared and strove to speak ;
His tyrant laughed to see him wincing,
And grumbled out a line of Greek,

Which Dullness said was quite convincing.

IV.

Then stepped a gaunt and wrinkled witch,
Hight Avarice, from her filthy hovel;

And "Rhyme," quoth she, "won't make you rich;
Go home, good youth, and write a novel !
Cut up the follies of the age;

Sauce them with puns and disquisitions;

Let Colburn cook your title-page,

And I'll ensure you six editions."

V.

Ambition met him next ;—he sighed

To see those once-loved wreaths of laurel, And crept into a bower to hide,

For he and she had had a quarrel.

The goddess of the cumbrous crown

Called after him, in tones of pity,

"My son, you've dropped your wig and gown!

And, bless me, how you've torn your Chitty!"

VI.

'Twas all unheeded or unheard,

For now he knocked at Beauty's portal;
One word from her, one golden word,

He knew, would make his lays immortal.
Alas! he elbowed through a throng
Of danglers, dancers, catgut scrapers,
And found her twisting up his song
Into the sweetest candlepapers.

VII.

He turned away with sullen looks

From Beauty, and from Beauty's scorning. "To-night," he said, "I'll burn my books; I'll break my harpstrings in the morning.”. When lo, a laughing Fay drew near;

And with soft voice, more soft than Circe's, She whispered in the poet's ear

The sounds the poet loved-his verses!

VIII.

He looked, and listened; and it seemed

In Childhood's lips the lines grew sweeter:

Good lack till now he had not dreamed

How bright the thought, how smooth the metre.

Ere the last stanza was begun,

He managed all his wrath to smother;

And when the little Nymph had done,

Said "Thank you, Love;-I'll write another!"

OCTOBER 1, 1829.