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Of jealous husbands, fickle wives,
To see through veils, and talk through towers ?
Lady, they say the fearful guest
Poised on his sulphurous wings, advances,
And marred the might of Warsaw's lances.
Another year—a brief, brief year-
He comes with all his gloomy terrors;
And Virtue shudder at her errors.
And there'll be sermons in the street;
Will wear the dismal garb of sorrow;
He must have four new bays to-morrow.
Ere from your cheek one rose is faded ;
By walls fenced round, by huge trees shaded.
There brooks shall dance in light along,
Of pleasure, from their leafy dwelling ;
You shall have music, novels, toys;
Must be, fair Lady, story-telling.
Be cautious how you choose your men :
Scholars who read, or write the papers;
And cure their patron's newest vapours.
for sigh to leave high fame behind them.
Take men of sense, if you can find them.
Live, laugh, tell stories ; ere they're told,
New follies come, new faults, new fashions;
Of blighted hopes, and thwarted passions. King Death, when he has snatched away Drunkards from brandy, Dukes from play,
And common-councilmen from turtle, Shall break his dart in Grosvenor Square, And mutter, in his fierce despair,
“Why, what's become of Lady Myrtle?”
“Non voglio cento scudi.”—Italian Song. O SAY not that the minstrel's art,
The glorious gift of verse,
Can ever be a curse;
And poortith hold his purse.
Though he charm no rich relation,
With such remuneration
Beyond his calculation.
Annuities and Three per Cents,
Little cares he about them;
He rambles on without them;
Oh, never bid him doubt them!
Childe Florice rose from his humble bed
And prayed, as a good youth should ;
Into the neighbouring wood;
And where the old oak stood.
And as he lay at the noon of day
Beneath the ancient tree,
A grey-haired pilgrim passed that way ;
A holy man was he,
At a shrine in a far countrie.
Oh, his was a weary wandering,
And a song or two might cheer him,
As the ancient man drew near him;
And the thrush said, “Hear him, hear him!”
He sang high tales of the martyred brave,
Of the good, and pure, and just, Who have gone into the silent grave
In such deep faith and trust, That the hopes and thoughts which sain and save
Spring from their buried dust.
The fair of face, and the stout of limb,
Meek maids and grandsires hoary, Who have sung on the cross their rapturous hymn,
As they passed to their doom of glory;
Nor their names erased from story.
With angels watching round them;
As he looks on the chains that bound them; And peace is shed on the murderer's head,
And he kisses the thorns that crowned them.
Such tales he told ; and the pilgrim heard
In a trance of voiceless pleasure ;
For the depths of his inmost soul was stirred
By the sad and solemn measure :
“It is all I have of treasure !”
A little child came bounding by ;
And he, in a fragrant bower,
Rare spoil for a nursery dower,
He chased from flower to flower.
“Come hither, come hither," 'gan Florice call;
And the urchin left his fun :
Retreats the baffled dun ;
Where she leaves a heart half won.
Then Florice did the child caress,
And sang his sweetest songs :
Which to the soul belongs,
Of human rights and wrongs; .
All parts of this vast plan;
And only life in man;
And where the longer span?
And how the heart grows cold without
Soft Pity's freshening dews;