Ay, here stands the Poplar, so tall and so stately,
On whose tender rind-'twas a little one then-
We carved her initials; though not very lately,
We think in the year eighteen hundred and ten.
Yes, here is the G which proclaim'd Georgiana;
Our heart's empress then; see, 'tis grown all askew;
And it's not without grief we perforce entertain a
Conviction it now looks much more like a Q.
This should be the great D, too, that once stood for Dobbin,
Her loved patronymic--Ah! can it be so?
Its once fair proportions, time, too, has been robbing:
A D? we'll be Deed if it isn't an O!
Alas! how the soul sentimental it vexes,
That thus on our labours stern Chronos should frown; Should change our soft liquids to izzards and Xes,
And turn true-love's alphabet all upside down!
YOU'LL come to our Ball;-since we parted,
I've thought of you more than I'll say ;
Indeed, I was half broken-hearted
For a week, when they took you away.
Fond fancy brought back to my slumbers
Our walks on the Ness and the Den,
And echo'd the musical numbers
Which you used to sing to me then.
I know the romance, since it's over,
'Twere idle, or worse, to recall :
I know you're a terrible rover;
But Clarence, you'll come to our Ball!
It's only a year, since, at College,
You put on your cap and your gown;
But, Clarence, you're grown out of knowledge,
And changed from the spur to the crown:
The voice that was best when it falter'd
Is fuller and firmer in tone,
And the smile that should never have alter'd—
Dear Clarence-it is not your own:
Your cravat is badly selected;
Your coat don't become you at all; And why is your hair so neglected? You must have it curl'd for our Ball.
I've often been out upon Haldon
To look for a covey with pup;
I've often been over to Shaldon,
To see how your boat is laid up:
In spite of the terrors of Aunty,
I've ridden the filly you broke;
And I've studied your sweet little Dante
In the shade of your favourite oak:
When I sat in July to Sir Lawrence,
I sat in your love of a shawl;
And I'll wear what you brought me from Florence,
Perhaps, if you'll come to our Ball.
You'll find us all changed since you vanish'd;
We've set up a National School;
And waltzing is utterly banish'd,
And Ellen has married a fool;
The Major is going to travel,
Miss Hyacinth threatens a rout,
The walk is laid down with fresh gravel,
Papa is laid up with the gout;
And Jane has gone on with her easels,
And Anne has gone off with Sir Paul;
And Fanny is sick with the measles,—
And I'll tell you the rest at the Ball.
You'll meet all your Beauties; the Lily,
And the Fairy of Willowbrook Farm,
And Lucy, who made me so silly
At Dawlish, by taking your arm;
Miss Manners, who always abused you
For talking so much about Hock,
And her sister, who often amused you
By raving of rebels and Rock;
And something which surely would answer.
An heiress quite fresh from Bengal;
So, though you were seldom a dancer,
You'll dance, just for once, at our Ball.
But out on the World! from the flowers
It shuts out the sunshine of truth:
It blights the green leaves in the bowers,
It makes an old age of our youth;
And the flow of our feeling, once in it,
Like a streamlet beginning to freeze,
Though it cannot turn ice in a minute,
Grows harder by sudden degrees:
Time treads o'er the graves of affection;
Sweet honey is turn'd into gall;
Perhaps you have no recollection
That ever you danced at our Ball!
You once could be pleased with our ballads,--
To-day you have critical ears;
You once could be charm'd with our salads-
Alas! you've been dining with Peers;
You trifled and flirted with many,—
You've forgotten the when and the how;
There was one you liked better than any,—
Perhaps you've forgotten her now.
But of those you remember most newly,
Of those who delight or enthrall,
None love you a quarter so truly
As some you will find at our Ball.
They tell me you've many who flatter,
Because of your wit and your song:
They tell me and what does it matter?—
You like to be praised by the throng:
They tell me you're shadow'd with laurel :
They tell me you're loved by a Blue:
They tell me you're sadly immoral-
Dear Clarence, that cannot be true!
But to me, you are still what I found you,
Before you grew clever and tall;
And you'll think of the spell that once bound you;
And you'll come-won't you come?—to our Ball! Winthrop M. Praed
SWEET Nea!-for your lovely sake
I weave these rambling numbers,
Because I've lain an hour awake,
And can't compose my slumbers;
Because your beauty's gentle light
Is round my pillow beaming,
And flings, I know not why, to-night,
Some witchery o'er my dreaming!
Because we've pass'd some joyous days,
And danced some merry dances;
Because we love old Beaumont's plays,
And old Froissart's romances!
Because whene'er I hear your words
Some pleasant feeling lingers;
Because I think your heart has cords
That vibrate to your fingers!
Because you've got those long, soft curls
I've sworn should deck my goddess;
Because you're not, like other girls,
All bustle, blush, and boddice!
Because your eyes are deep and blue,
Your fingers long and rosy;
Because a little child and you
Would make one's home so cozy!
Because your little tiny nose
Turns up so pert and funny;
Because I know you choose your beaux
More for their mirth than money;
Because I think you'd rather twirl
A waltz, with me to guide you,
Than talk small nonsense with an earl,
And a coronet beside you!
Because you don't object to walk,
And are not given to fainting;
Because you have not learnt to talk
Of flowers, and Poonah-painting;
Because I think you'd scarce refuse
To sew one on a button;
Because I know you'd sometimes choose
To dine on simple mutton!
Because I think I'm just so weak
As, some of those fine morrows,
To ask you if you'll let me speak
My story-and my sorrows;
Because the rest's a simple thing,
A matter quickly over,
A church-a priest—a sigh-a ring—
And a chaise and four to Dover.
Edward Fitzgerald.
MY LOST OLD AGE.
By a Young Invalid.
I'm only nine-and-twenty yet,
Though young experience makes me sage; So, how on earth can I forget
The memory of my lost old age?
Of manhood's prime let others boast;
It comes too late, or goes too soon:
At times the life I envy most
Is that of slipper'd pantaloon!
In days of old-a twelvemonth back!
I laugh'd, and quaff'd, and chaff'd my fill;
And now, a broken-winded hack,
I'm weak and worn, and faint and ill.
Life's opening chapter pleased me well;
Too hurriedly I turned the page;
I spoil'd the volume-who can tell
What might have been my lost old age?
I lived my life; I had my day;
And now I feel it more and more,
The game I have no strength to play
Seems better than it seem'd of yore.
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