He liked their ruffling, puffed content, For him their drowsy wheelings meant More than a Mall of Beaux that bent, Or Belles that bridled. Not that, in truth, when life began But now his "fervent youth" had flown Where lost things go; and he was grown As staid and slow-paced as his own Old hunter, Sorrel. Yet still he loved the chase, and held But most his measured words of praise His rustic diet. Not that his "meditating" rose With fruitless prying; But held, as law for high and low, Without replying. We read alas, how much we read! The jumbled strifes of creed and creed Our groaning tables; Cotton's "Montaigne," "The Grave" of Blair, A "Walton "— much the worse for wear, And "Esop's Fables." One more, "The Bible." Not that he Had searched its page as deep as we; It may be that he could not count Once he had loved, but failed to wed, And still when time had turned him gray, The earliest hawthorn buds in May Would find his lingering feet astray, Where first he met her. "In Cœlo Quies" heads the stone On Leisure's grave, now little known, A tangle of wild-rose has grown The So thick across it; Benefactions" still declare He left the clerk an elbow-chair, And "12 Pence Yearly to Prepare Lie softly, Leisure! Doubtless you, Your easy breath, and slumbered through But we, to whom our age allows Scarce space to wipe our weary brows, Look down upon your narrow house, Old friend, and miss you! A GENTLEWOMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL. HE lived in Georgian era too. SHE Most women then, if bards be true, Succumbed to Routs and Cards, or grew Devout and acid. But hers was neither fate. She came Of good west-country folk, whose fame. Has faded now. For us her name Is "Madam Placid." Patience or Prudence, what you will, As those old musky scents that fill And for her youthful portrait take Some long-waist child of Hudson's make, Stiffly at ease beside a lake With swans and willows. I keep her later semblance placed In shadowy sanguine stipple traced By Bartolozzi; A placid face, in which surprise For her e'en Time grew debonair. Had spared to touch the fair old face, The soft white hand that stroked her lace, So left her beautiful. Her age And yet she once had been the rage; Indeed, affirmed by one or two, Some spark at Bath (as sparks will do) I know she thought; I know she felt ; Perchance could sum, I doubt she spelt; She knew as little of the Celt As of the Saxon; |