« AnkstesnisTęsti »
In these light moods, I call to mind,
He darkly would allude
Some passion unsubdued ;
He railed at women's faith as Cant;
We thought him grandest when He named them Siren-shapes that “ chant
On blanching bones of Men ;”– Alas, not e’en the great go free From that insidious minstrelsy!
His lot, he oft would gravely urge,
Lay on a lone Rock where
The Billows of Despair.
We, bound with him in common care,
Our lives to dedicate ;-
and yet, though soon, too late, We, sorrowing, sighed to find A gradual softness enervate
That all superior mind,
The verse that we severe had known,
Assumed a wanton air,
Of eyebrows, lips, and hair ;
Nay worse. He, once sublime to chaff,
Grew whimsically sore
We found him simpering o’er ;
Then worse again. He tried to dress ;
He trimmed his tragic mane ; Announced at length (to our distress)
He had not "lived in vain " Thenceforth his one prevailing mood Became a base beatitude.
And O Jean Paul, and Fate, and Soul !
We met him last, grown stout,
“All wool,”—enwound about ;
BE seated, pray.
“A grave appeal”? The sufferers by the war, of course ; Ah, what a sight for us who feel,
This monstrous mélodrame of Force ! We, Sir, we connoisseurs, should know,
On whom its heaviest burden falls; Collections shattered at a blow,
Museums turned to hospitals !
“ And worse," you say ;
" the wide distress !" Alas, 'tis true distress exists, Though, let me add, our worthy Press
Have no mean skill as colourists; Speaking of colour, next your seat
There hangs a sketch from Vernet's hand; Some Moscow fancy, incomplete,
Yet not indifferently planned ;
Note specially the gray old Guard,
Who tears his tattered coat to wrap A closer bandage round the scarred
And frozen comrade in his lap ;
But, as regards the present war,
Now don't you think our pride of pence Goes—may I say it ?—somewhat far
For objects of benevolence ?
You hesitate. For my part, I
Though ranking Paris next to Rome, Æsthetically-still reply
That “Charity begins at Home.” The words remind me. Did
catch My so-named “Hunt"? The girl's a gem; And look how those lean rascals snatch
The pile of scraps she brings to them !
“But your appeal's for home,”—you say,–
For home, and English poor! Indeed ! I thought Philanthropy to-day
Was blind to mere domestic need However sore-Yet though one grants
That home should have the foremost claims, At least these Continental wants
Assume intelligible names ;
While here with us—Ah ! who could hope
To verify the varied pleas,
With all our shrill necessities!