And see, through two score years of smoke, The pale, smooth forehead, silver-tressed ; And still the sweet half-solemn look As when one shuts a serious book I kneel to you! Of those you were, Whom some old store of garnered grief, Crowns like a wreath of autumn leaf With tender tints of fading. Peace to your soul! You died unwedDespite 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 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 Filled with a fine, old-fashioned grace, Fresh-coloured, frank, with ne'er a trace Of trouble shaded; 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, 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; 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 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; |