Because I think you'd scarce refuse Because I know you'd sometimes choose Because I think I'm just so weak A church-a priest-a sigh-a ring— Edward Fitzgerald. CCCLXIII. 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; 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. I spoil'd the volume-who can tell I lived my life; I had my day; I watch the sport with earnest eyes, That hail the triumph of my friends. We work so hard, we age so soon, W. J. Prowse. CCCLXIV. CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS. ONCE on a time, when sunny May Upon a bank of blushing flowers: And smiling, who could choose but love him? For not more glad than Childhood's brow, Was the blue heaven that beam'd above him. Old Time, in most appalling wrath, The birds were mute, the lilies faded. With curling lip and glancing eye 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. Then stepp'd a gloomy phantom up, Pale, cypress-crown'd, Night's awful daughter, And proffer'd him a fearful cup Full to the brim of bitter water: Poor Childhood bade her tell her name; And when the beldame mutter'd "Sorrow," He said,-"Don't interrupt my game; I'll taste it, if I must, to-morrow." The Muse of Pindus thither came, And woo'd him with the softest numbers 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 talk'd of all the wondrous laws Which Nature's open book discloses, And Childhood, ere she made a pause, Was fast asleep among the roses. Sleep on, sleep on! Oh! Manhood's dreams Of Glory's toils, Ambition's schemes, CCCLXV. I'd be a Butterfly born in a bower, Where roses and lilies and violets meet; Roving for ever from flower to flower, And kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet! I'd never languish for wealth, or for power; I'd never sigh to see slaves at my feet: I'd be a Butterfly born in a bower, Kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet. O could I pilfer the wand of a fairy, I'd have a pair of those beautiful wings; Their summer days' ramble is sportive and airy, I'd be a Butterfly, sportive and airy, Rock'd in a rose when the nightingale sings ! What, though you tell me each gay little rover Surely 'tis better when summer is over To die when all fair things are fading away. Some in life's winter may toil to discover Means of procuring a weary delay— I'd be a Butterfly; living, a rover, Dying when fair things are fading away! Thomas H. Bayly. CCCLXVI. MY LITTLE COUSINS. LAUGH on, fair Cousins, for to you All life is joyous yet; Your hearts have all things to pursue, And nothing to regret; And every flower to you is fair: And every month is May: You've not been introduced to Care, Laugh on, laugh on to-day! Old Time will fling his clouds ere long The voice whose every word is song Your quiet slumbers, hopes and fears Oh yes, if any truth is found In the dull schoolman's theme, If mirth, youth's playmate, feels fatigue At least he'll run with you a league ;— Perhaps your eyes may grow more bright O'er me have many winters crept But I have learn'd, and toil'd, and wept; I've never had the gout, 'tis true; My hair is hardly grey; But now I cannot laugh like you: I used to have as glad a face, I once could run as blithe a race But never mind how I behave! Winthrop M. Praed. |