That Age of Folly and of Cards, Of Hackney Chairs and Hackney Bards -No H-LTS, no K-G-N P-LS were then Dispensing Competence to Men; The gentle Trade was left to Churls, Your frowsy TONSONS and your CURLLS; Mere Wolves in Ambush to attack The AUTHOR in a Sheep-skin Back; Then SAVAGE and his Brother-Sinners In Porridge Island div'd for Dinners; Or doz'd on Covent Garden Bulks, And liken'd Letters to the Hulks ;- You know that by-gone Time, I say, That aimless easy-moral'd Day, When rosy Morn found MADAM still Wrangling at Ombre or Quadrille, When good SIR JOHN reel'd Home to Bed,
From Pontack's or the Shakespear's Head; When TRIP convey'd his Master's Cloaths, And took his Titles and his Oaths; While BETTY, in a cast Brocade, Ogled MY LORD at Masquerade; When GARRICK play'd the guilty Richard, Or mouth'd Macbeth with Mrs. PRITCHARD; When FOOTE grimaced his snarling Wit; When CHURCHILL bullied in the Pit ; When the CUZZONI Sang-
But there! The further Catalogue I spare, Having no Purpose to eclipse That tedious Tale of HOMER'S Ships ;- This is the MAN that drew it all From Pannier Alley to the Mall, Then turn'd and drew it once again From Bird Cage- Walk to Lewknor's
'T WAS in mid autumn, and the woods were still.
A brooding mist from out the marshlands lay
Like age's clammy hand upon the day, Soddening it;—and the night rose dank and chill.
I watched the sere leaves falling, falling, till
Old thoughts, old hopes, seemed fluttering too away,
And then I sighed to think how life's decay,
And change, and time's mischances, Love might kill.
Sudden a shadowy horseman, at full speed Spurring a pale horse, passed me swiftly by,
And mocking shrieked, "Thy love is dead indeed,
Haste to the burial!"- With a bitter cry I swooned, and wake to wonder at my creed,
Learning from Death that Love can never
Was blurred with blood and tears, or black | (Dip, dip, ye oars, and dash the dark seas by), In swine-sloth here while death is stealing
So that at last a hunger seized him, a rage Of richer lore than our poor life can dole, And loud he called on Death to dower his
With the great past's unrifled heritage. And lo, a creaking step upon the stair, A croak of song, a jingle, and Death came in
Mumming in motley with a merry din And jangle of bells, and droning this re- frain,
"God help the fools who count on death for gain."
So had the sage death-bell and passing
AN AUTUMN FLITTING
My roof is hardly picturesque
It lacks the pleasant reddish brown Of the tiled house-tops out of town, And cannot even hope to match The modest beauty of the thatch : Nor is it Gothic or grotesque No gable breaks, with quaint design, Its hard monotony of line, And not a gargoyle on the spout Brings any latent beauty out: Its only charm— I hold it high – Is just its nearness to the sky.
But yet it looks o'er field and tree, And in the air
One breathes up there
A faint, fresh whiff suggests the sea. And that is why, this afternoon, The topmost slates above the leads Were thick with little bobbing heads, And frisking tails, and wings that soon Shall spread, ah me!
For lands where summer lingers fair, Far otherwhere.
I heard a muttering, Saw a fluttering,
Pointed wings went skimming past, White breasts shimmered by as fast, Wheel and bound and spurt and spring - All the air seemed all on wing.
Then, like dropping clouds of leaves, Down they settled on the eaves All the swallows of the region, In a number almost legion Frisked about, but did not stop Till they reached the ridge atop.
Then what chirping, what commotion ! What they said I have no notion, But one cannot err in stating There was very much debating. First a small loquacious swallow Seemed to move a resolution; And another seemed to follow, Seconding the subject-matter With a trick of elocution. After that the chirp and chatter Boded some more serious end, meant
But the turmoil passed away : How it happened I can't say, All I know is, there was peace. Whether some more thoughtful bird Said the quarrelling was absurd, And implored that it should cease; Whether what appeared contention Was a difference not worth mention, Just some mere exchange of words Not uncommon among birds, I have only my own notion, You may make a nearer guess; All at once the noise was over, Not a bird was now a rover,
Some one seemed to put the motion, And the little heads bobbed "Yes."
Oh, that sudden resolution,
So unanimously carried!
Would they'd longer talked and tarried, With their fiery elocution! What it bodes I cannot doubt; They were planning when to go, And they have settled it, I know; Some chill morning, when the sun Does not venture to shine out, I shall miss them - overnight They will all have taken flight, And the summer will be gone.
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