Come shower or sunshine-hope or fear, The palace or the plough, My heart and lute are broken here I'm not a lover now! Lady, the mist is on my sight, The chill is on my brow, My day is night, my bloom is blight, SCHOOL AND SCHOOL-FELLOWS. TWELVE years ago I made a mock I wondered what they meant by stock; I knew the streets of Rome and Troy, Twelve years ago I was a boy, Twelve years ago!-how many a thought The fields, the forms, the beasts, the books, The voices of dear friends, the looks Of old familiar faces. Where are my friends?—I am alone, And some compose a tragedy, And some compose a rondo o; And some draw sword for liberty, And some draw pleas for John Doe. Tom Mill was used to blacken eyes, And Medler's feet repose unscann’d, Beneath the wide Atlantic. Wild Nick, whose oaths made such a din, Does Dr. Martext's duty; And Mullion, with that monstrous chin, And Darrel studies, week by week, And Ball, who was but poor at Greek, And I am eight-and-twenty now— The world's cold chain has bound me; And darker shades are on my brow, And sadder scenes around me: In Parliament I fill my seat, With many other noodles; And lay my head in Germyn-street, But often when the cares of life Have set my temples aching, When Captain Hazard wins a bet, For hours and hours, I think and talk I wish that I could run away From house and court, and levee, Where bearded men appear to-day, Just Eton boys, grown heavy ; That I could bask in childhood's sun, And dance o'er childhood's roses; And find huge wealth in one pound one, Vast wit and broken noses; And pray Sir Giles at Datchet Lane, And call the milk-maids Houris; That I could be a boy again A happy boy at Drury's! TO A LADY. WHAT are you, lady?—naught is here To dub you whig, or daub you tory. It is beyond a poet's skill, To form the slightest notion, whether We e'er shall walk through one quadrille, Or look upon one moon together. You're very pretty!-all the world Are talking of your bright brow's splendor, And of your locks, so softly curled, And of your hands, so white and slender: Some think you're blooming in Bengal ; Some say you're blowing in the city; Some know you're nobody at all; I only feel, you're very pretty. But bless my heart! it's very wrong: You're making all our belles ferocious; Anne " never saw a chin so long;" And Laura thinks your dress" atrocious;" |