Why feign to spread a cheerful feast, And then thrust in our faces These barren scraps (to say the least) Of Stoic common-places?
Recount, and welcome, your pursuits : Sing Lyde's lyre and hair; Sing drums and Berecynthian flutes; Sing parsley-wreaths; but spare,-
O, spare to sing, what none deny, That things we love decay; That Time and Gold have wings to fly ;— That all must Fate obey!
Or bid us dine-on this day week— And pour us, if you can,
As soft and sleek as girlish cheek, Your inmost Cæcuban ;—
Of that we fear not overplus ; But your didactic 'tap'- Forgive us!-grows monotonous;
(FOR A DRAWING BY E. A. ABBey)
HOW weary 'twas to wait! The year Went dragging slowly on;
The red leaf to the running brook Dropped sadly, and was gone; December came, and locked in ice The plashing of the mill;
The white snow filled the orchard up;
But she was waiting still.
Spring stirred and broke. The rooks once more 'Gan cawing in the loft;
The young lambs' new-awakened cries
Came trembling from the croft;
The clumps of primrose filled again
The hollows by the way;
The pale wind-flowers blew; but she
Grew paler still than they.
How weary 'twas to wait! With June, Through all the drowsy street,
Came distant murmurs of the war, And rumours of the fleet;
The gossips, from the market-stalls, Cried news of Joe and Tim;
But June shed all her leaves, and still There came no news of him.
And then, at last, at last, at last, One blessed August morn, Beneath the yellowing autumn elms, Pang-panging came the horn; The swift coach paused a creaking-space, Then flashed away, and passed;
But she stood trembling yet, and dazed: The news had come--at last!
And thus the artist saw her stand, While all around her seems As vague and shadowy as the shapes That flit from us in dreams; And naught in all the world is true, Save those few words which tell That he she lost is found again— Is found again—and well!
H, Postumus, we all must go :
This keen North-Easter nips my shoulder;
My strength begins to fail; I know
You find me older;
I've made my Will. Dear, faithful friend- My Muse's friend and not my purse's ! Who still would hear and still commend My tedious verses,—
How will you live-of these deprived? I've learned your candid soul. The venal,- The sordid friend had scarce survived A test so penal;
But you Nay, nay, 'tis so. The rest Are not as you: you hide your merit; You, more than all, deserve the best True friends inherit;—
Not gold, that hearts like yours despise ; Not "spacious dirt" (your own expression), No; but the rarer, dearer prize—
You catch my thought? What! Can't you
You, you alone, admired my Cantos;I've left you, P., my whole MS.,
In three portmanteaus !
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