"Oh where have you sent my poor brother? Look, look at the Windsor Express!" Ring, darling, and order the carriage; Who has been quite a fool since our marriage,— I'll take him directly away. For of all their atrocious ill-treating, The end it is easy to guess ; Some day they'll be killing and eating (OCT. 27, 1832.) PALINODIA. "Nec meus hic sermo est, sed quem præcepit." Horace. THERE was a time when I could feel And though I'm hardly twenty-four, VOL. II.-14 Lady, the mist is on my sight, My day is night, my bloom is blight, I never talk about the clouds, I never wander forth alone Upon the mountain's brow; I weighed last winter sixteen stone- I never wish to raise a veil, I never tell a tender tale, I cannot kneel as once I did, I've quite forgot my bow, I never do as I am bid I'm not a lover now. I make strange blunders every day, Take smiles for wrinkles, black for gray, I fly from folly, though it flows From lips of loveliest glow; 1 I don't object to length of nose- I find my Ovid very dry, Tom Moore for Mr. Mill. And belles may read, and beaux may write— I care not who or how; I burnt my album, Sunday night; I'm not a lover now! I don't encourage idle dreams Just foaming from the cow; When Laura sings young hearts away, I'm deafer than the deep; When Leonora goes to play, I sometimes go to sleep; When Mary draws her white gloves out, Too hot to kick one's heels about!- I'm busy now with State affairs, I ask the price of railroad shares, I may be yet what others are, 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, My day is night, my bloom is blight, (1826.) UTOPIA. "I can dream, sir, If I eat well and sleep well."-The Mad Lover. IF I could scare the light away, If I could bid the clouds obey, In slumber's hour for me. I had a vision yesternight Of a lovelier land than this, Where heaven was clothed in warmth and light, Where earth was full of bliss; And every tree was rich with fruits, And every field with flowers, And every zephyr wakened lutes In passion-haunted bowers. I clambered up a lofty rock, And did not find it steep; I read through a page and a half of Locke, |