Starring some pure primeval spring, 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, Whose fair old faces grow more fair Whom some old store of garnered grief, Their placid temples shading, Crowns like a wreath of autumn leaf With tender tints of fading. 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 HE SCHOOL E 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,Where, I forget,-the house is gone; His Christian name, I think, was John,His surname, Leisure. Reynolds has painted him,-a face The eyes are blue, the hair is drest In plainest way, -one hand is prest Deep in a flapped canary vest, With buds brocaded. He wears a brown old Brunswick coat, A soft cravat;-in all you note An elder fashion, 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 fed her young,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, He liked their ruffling, puffed content,- Not that, in truth, when life began, But now his "fervent youth" had flown 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, What God withholds no man can know, And smiled away inquiry so, Without replying. We read-alas, how much we read! The jumbled strifes of creed and creed With endless controversies feed Our groaning tables; |