But now at thirty years my hair is grey— |
(I wonder what it will be like at forty ? |
I thought of a peruke the other day—) |
My heart is not much greener ; and, in short, I |
Have squandered my whole summer while ’twas May, |
And feel no more the spirit to retort ; I |
Have spent my life, both interest and principal, |
And deem not, what I deemed, my soul invincible. |
No more—no more—Oh ! never more on me |
The freshness of the heart can fall like dew, |
Which out of all the lovely things we see |
Extracts emotions beautiful and new ; |
Hived in our bosoms like the bag o’ the bee. |
Think’st thou the honey with those objects grew ? |
Alas ! ’twas not in them, but in thy power |
To double even the sweetness of a flower. |
No more—no more—Oh! never more my heart, |
Canst thou be my sole world, my universe ! |
Once all in all, but now a thing apart, |
Thou canst not be my blessing or my curse : |
The illusion’s gone for ever, and thou art |
Insensible, I trust, but none the worse, |
And in thy stead I’ve got a deal of judgement, |
Thou Heaven knows how it ever found a lodgement. |
My days of love are over ; me no more |
The charms of maid, wife, and still less of widow, |
Can make the fool of which they made before,— |
In short, I must not lead the life I did do ; |
The credulous hope of mutual minds is o’er, |
The copious use of claret is forbid too, |
So for a good old-gentlemanly vice, |
I think I must take up with avarice. |
Ambition was my idol, which was broken |
Before the shrines of Sorrow, and of Pleasure ; |
And the two last have left me many a token |
O’er which reflection may be made at leisure : |
Now, like Friar Bacon’s Brazen Head, I’ve spoken, |
‘Time is, Time was, Time’s past’ : a chymic treasure |
Is glittering Youth, which I have spent betimes— |
My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes. |
What is the end of Fame ? ’tis but to fill |
A certain portion of uncertain paper : |
Some liken it to climbing up a hill, |
Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour ; |
For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill, |
And bards burn what they call their ‘midnight taper’, |
To have, when the original is dust, |
A name, a wretched picture and worse bust. |
What are the hopes of man ? Old Egypt’s King |
Cheops erected the first Pyramid |
And largest, thinking it was just the thing |
To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid ; |
But somebody or other rummaging, |
Burglariously broke his coffin’s lid : |
Let not a monument give you or me hopes, |
Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops. |
But I, being fond of true philosophy, |
Say very often to myself, ‘Alas! |
All things that have been born were born to die, |
And flesh (which Death mows down to hay) is grass ; |
You’ve passed your youth not so unpleasantly, |
And if you had it o’er again—’twould pass— |
So thank your stars that matters are no worse, |
And read your Bible, sir, and mind your purse.’ |
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