Piled with a dapper Dresden world, Beaux, beauties, prayers, and poses, Bonzes with squat legs undercurled, And great jars filled with roses. Ah, heart that wrote! Ah, lips that kissed! Into what keeping you dismissed A reverent one. Though we to-day Starring some pure primeval spring, Or Love a mere exotic! I need not search too much to find And see, through two score years of smoke, The pale, smooth forehead, silver-tressed; And still the sweet half-solemn look I kneel to you! Of those you were, Whom some old store of garnered grief, Crowns like a wreath of autumn leaf Peace to your soul! You died unwed Despite this loving letter. And what of John? The less that 's said Of John, I think, the better. A GENTLEMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL. HE lived in that past Georgian day, When men were less inclined to say That"Time is Gold," and overlay With toil their pleasure; He held some land, and dwelt thereon, Reynolds has painted him, a face The eyes are blue, the hair is drest With buds brocaded. He wears a brown old Brunswick coat, With silver buttons, round his throat, A strangeness, which, to us who shine. Inspires compassion. He lived so long ago, you see! He found it quite enough for him He liked the well-wheel's creaking tongue, --He liked the thrush that stopped and sung, He liked the drone of flies among His netted peaches; He liked to watch the sunlight fall His were the times of Paint and Patch, The sober doves that round his thatch Spread tails and sidled; |