Well I remember those days of yore, Those still sweet days that can never again Come up from Dreamland's silent shore, Though I long for them in vain. O the tender blue in Amy's eyes, Where the love-light glitter'd, soft and modest! And I see her form before me rise, So delicately bodiced. And the crescent moon in the sky is faint, Now the old bells rang in that grey church tower, Why should I think of the honeymoon, Of the vague red cliffs and the bright blue sea OI drank the wine of my life that June, When the wind on the sands blew free ? When the seagull dipt, and the white sail glittered, And my gay girl-wife on the sands would sing, And never a thought of care embittered My days with that sweet young thing. Well, it's over now. We didn't agree. Her modiste's bills were large, I thought. And the devil-black eyes of little Lorette Well, thanks to Sir Cresswell Cresswell, we, Jack, another glass of champagne. MORTIMER COLLINS, A COMEDY. PROLOGUE. WAS all over between us, you thought, when we parted, 'Twas good-bye to me and to trouble or care; A sigh and a tear, a poor boy broken-hearted, Was naught, for what feelings had you then to spare? 'Twas nothing to you that my best hopes were shattered, You knew all the time that you meant we should part; With fair words did you think I e'er could feel flattered, From lips feigning truth with such falseness at heart? ACT I. Ah! lovely and lost one, I muse in the gloaming, And think of one midsummer twilight last year, But one little year past, when we two were roaming With hand locked in hand by the still solemn mere. Have you, love, forgotten that night and those pledges, Half-whispered, half-sobbed, 'neath that calm summer sky? In fancy I hear the faint shiver of sedges, ACT II. You've made, what the world calls, a capital marriage, Your dinners are perfect, your dances the rage; They talk, at the clubs, of your new pony-carriage, And sneer at your husband, who's double your age. Ah! fairest of false ones, I'd have you remember, Though blooming and bright be the freshness of May, "Twill tremble before the cool breath of December, 'Twill silently droop and then wither away! ACT III. They tell me you're happy; and yet, on reflection, I find they talk more of your wealth than of you; And if you have moments of thought and dejec tion, It may be those moments are known but to few ; You've rubies and pearls and a brilliant tiara; You breakfast off Sèvres of the real bleu du Roi ; 'Tis better no doubt than a heart, mia cara, And a poor posy ring with its "Pensez à moi?" ACT IV. Nay, blame not your husband, nor think you're used badly, 'Twas simply a matter of money and trade; You named him your "figure," he paid it too gladly, Your heart was no part of the bargain he made. He purchased a wife to embellish his table, To humour his whims and obey his behests: One lovely and clever, one willing and ableTo prove his good taste and to talk to his guests. ACT V. At times, when 'mid riches and splendour you languish, To still your poor conscience you fruitlessly try; As tears are fast falling in bitterest anguish, You'll own there is something that money can't buy. Yes, love, there are mem'ries e'en gold cannot stifle, The ghost of a dead love that will not be laid; And while in the bright world of pleasure you trifle, Do you never meet the sad eyes of the shade? J. ASHBY STERRY. AT HOME. NVITATIONS I will write ; To the cream of the Nobility,- See my footman, how he runs! I'm "at home" to Peers and Peeresses, I'm "at home" to all the set I'm "at home" to Guardsmen all, I'm " at home to men Political, Poetical and Critical, And the punning men of wit, I call Oh! the matchless Collinet How I love to hear the thrill of it! THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY. NOT AT HOME. OT at home! not at home! close my curtain again; Go and send the intruders away; They may knock if they will, but 'tis labour in vain, For I am not made up for the day. F |