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And heartaches when they're worst, and when

No other medicine tells,
In maids or matrons, youths or men,

Yield to our-Bagatelles !

“Last week a statesman came, whose eyes

Scarce knew what sweet repose is,
We gave one draught of Beauty's sighs,-

Look there-how calm he dozes !
A lawyer called the week before,

Who talked of naught but Blackstone, We took him to our sylphid store,

And a pair of wings we waxed on;
And if you'll look in yonder grove, -

Just by that grot of shells, –
You'll find him making shocking love,

And talking—Bagatelles !”
The sick youth raised his drooping head

As the sylphid ceased to speak,“ Hush, hush,” she cried, “you must to bed,

And be quiet for a week !"
And soon a Muse, with rainbow wings,

And looks of laughing joy,
Came with a lute of silver strings;

And she sat beside the boy :
And when I saw them last they lay

Far up those flowery dells,
And the boy was growing glad and gay

As she sung him—Bagatelles !


(The Brazen Head.)
The world pursues the very track

Which it pursued at its creation ;
And mortals shrink in horror back

From any hint of innovation ;
From year to year the children do

Exactly what their sires have done ;
Time is ! time was !—there's nothing new,-

There's nothing new beneath the sun!
Still lovers hope to be believed,

Still clients hope to win their causes ;
Still plays and farces are received

With most encouraging applauses ;
Still dancers have fantastic toes,

Still dandies shudder at a dun ;
Still diners have their fricandeaus,-

There's nothing new beneath the sun!
Still cooks torment the hapless eels,

Still boys torment the dumb cockchafers ;
Lord Eldon still adores the seals,

Lord Clifford still adores the wafers';
Still asses have enormous ears,

Still gambling bets are lost and won ;
Still opera dancers marry peers,

There's nothing new beneath the sun !
Still women are absurdly weak,

Still infants dote upon a rattle ;
Still Mr. Martin cannot speak

Of anything but beaten cattle ;
Still brokers swear the shares will rise,

Still Cockneys boast of Manton's gun;

Still listeners swallow monstrous lies,

There's nothing new beneath the sun!
Still genius is a jest to earls,

Still honesty is down to zero;
Still heroines have spontaneous curls,

Still novels have a handsome hero;
Still Madame Vestris plays a man,

Still fools adore her, I for one ; Still youths write sonnets to a fan,

There's nothing new beneath the sun ! Still people make a plaguey fuss,

About all things that don't concern them, As if it matters aught to us,

What happens to our grandsons, burn them ! Still life is nothing to the dead,

Still Folly's toil is Wisdom's fun; And still, except the Brazen Head,

There's nothing new beneath the sun !

WHEN Sorrow moves with silent tread

Around some mortal's buried dust,
And muses on the mouldering dead
· Who sleep beneath their crumbling bust,
Though all unheard and all unknown
The name on that sepulchral stone,
She looks on its recording line,
And whispers kindly, “Peace be thine !"

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The pain and pleasure of my lot

Are nought, and must be nought, to thee;
Thou seest not my hopes and fears;
Yet thou, perhaps, in other years,

Wilt look on this recording line,
And whisper kindly, “Peace be thine!”



(Imitated from the Spanish.)
O TELL me not of broken vow-
I speak a firmer passion now;
O tell me not of shattered chain-
The link shall never burst again!
My soul is fixed as firmly here
As the red sun in his career,
As victory on Mina's crest
Or tenderness in Rosa's breast;
Then do not tell me, while we part,
Of fickle flame and roving heart;
While youth shall bow at beauty's shrine,
That flame shall glow—that heart be thine.
Then wherefore dost thou bid me tell
The fate thy malice knows so well?
I may not disobey thee !-yes!
Thou bidst me—and I will confess :
See how adoringly I kneel :
Hear how my folly I reveal :
My folly !-chide me if thou wilt,

Thou shalt not, canst not, call it guilt :-
And when my faithlessness is told,

Ere thou hast time to play the scold, * This and the following poems first appeared in the Etonian.

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I'll haste the fond rebuke to check,
And lean upon the snowy neck,
Play with its glossy auburn hair,
And hide the blush of falsehood there.

Inez, the innocent and young,
First shared my heart, and waked my song ;
We were both harmless, and untaught
To love as fashionables ought ;
With all the modesty of youth
We talked of constancy and truth,
Grew fond of music and the moon,
And wandered on the nights of June
To sit beneath the chesnut tree,
While the lonely stars shone mellowly,
Shedding a pale and dancing beam
On the wave of Guadalquivir's stream.
And aye we talked of faith and feelings,
With no distrustings, no concealings;
And aye we joyed in stolen glances,
And sighed, and blushed, and read romances.
Our love was ardent and sincere,
And lasted, Rosa-half a-year!
And then the maid grew fickle-hearted,-
Married Don Josè—so we parted.
At twenty-one I've often heard
My bashfulness was quite absurd ;
For, with a squeamishness uncommon,
I feared to love a married woman.

Fair Leonora's laughing eye
Again awaked my song and sigh:
A gay intriguing dame was she,
And fifty Dons of high degree,
That came and went as they were bid,

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