He then finds that the temper to which she has driven him
Is not like to be sweeten'd by the beer she has given him;
So he rises in wrath. 'But my tea cannot miss,'
He half-doubtingly says, 'to be better than this.'
The whole afternoon he has nothing to do—
He reads his old newspaper twenty times through ;
If the weather were good he might saunter about,
But the rain is so heavy he cannot go out.
Between yawning and nodding, time passes away,
And tea comes at last, after weary delay :
Now surely the Fates will relent at his lot,
And allow him 'the cup that inebriates not.'
Alas, no!--to his sorrow no tea will pour out,
For a host of tea-leaves have got fix'd in the spout ;
And before he can clear out the obdurate stopper,
The tea is as cold as the bread and the butter.
The butter, in spite of his scolding and warning,
Is, if possible, worse than he had in the morning :
She has paid no regard to one word he commanded,-
What mortal's good temper is able to stand it?
Not much, to be sure, at the best he could boast,
And his dinner mischance had extinguish'd the most,
While the little not slain in the previous flutter
Is now drown'd in the tea, and interr'd in the butter.
No longer the course of misfortune we trace:
But we thought we could draw from his pitiful case
A moral as plain as if Æsop had shown it-
Get a snug little house and a wife of your own in't.
WEET thing of beauty! life would be
A waste devoid of all things fair,
Did not my bosom leap to thee,
The soother of its grief and care:
For woman's hand and woman's heart
Can minister a healing balm ;
Snatch from the soul the quiv'ring dart,
And breathe o'er all a halcyon calm:
A ministering angel she,
To lighten mortal misery!
O, when I first beheld thy face,
And press'd in mine thy gentle hand,
Thy blooming cheek and modest grace
Wav'd o'er my soul a magic wand;
Thy kindly tone, thy playful smile,
Bespeaking innocence and love;
The lustre of thine eyes the while
That beam'd like angel-orbs above;
All join'd upon my heart, to pour
A joyance, never felt before!
I deem'd the bosom must be blest
That lean'd confidingly on thine;
But honour then the wish suppress'd
That e'er such blessing might be mine.
I saw thee bloom, a floral gem,
Such as the earth has rarely shown,
How beauteous on its graceful stem!
And yet between us was there thrown
A passless bar! But that is past :
Sweet rosebud, thou art mine at last!
And O, the ardours of my soul,
At our first happy interview,
Know no abatement, but control
My bosom wholly as when new.
I then but knew the garniture
That lent its beauty to the rose ;
But now I taste the essence pure
That from its core divinely flows,
Absorbing all those bitter tears
That follow in the wake of years!
Perchance thine eyes are dimmer now,
Thy step less light, thy cheek less fair:
More grave thy voice and smile; but thou
Art still the soother of my care.
Now from thy lips a current flows
Of meek intelligence and truth,
And kindness in thy bosom glows
More sweet than all the charms of youth;
And, dove-like, thither, would I bound,
When troubled waters rage around.
Life is a changeful scene; and we
May scarce have felt its sorrows yet;
But still, whate'er the prospect be,
The path howe'er with thorns beset,
Still true to thee and Heav'n above,
I shall not seek another shrine
For solace, but hold fast the love
That ever guides my soul to thine:
Still shall I to thy breast repair,
And find my consolation there!
INTENDED FOR A SONG IN SHERIDAN KNOWLES'S WILLIAM TELL.'
ELL me not that Love is young,
That my lute is sweetly strung:
Love is worn, and grey from ruth,
And my strings have lost their youth.
Like some unimprison'd bird,
Bleeding, with a pinion shorn,
Love is doom'd to 'plain unheard,
Beauty's smile is still his thorn.
If his pinion prove his sway,
Love is aged grown, and grey.
Tell me not that Love, sweet maid,
Lacking wealth, doth love upbraid;
Or that Mammom has a power
Over Love in Beauty's bower.
Beauty never is so bright,
But that Time can work its woe;
Nor is Time so swift of flight,
But that Love can fly also:
Scythe against his bow doth prove,
Blind and aged grown is Love.
But in vain Love wings the air,
If with Beauty dwell disdain,
Vainly Beauty spreads its snare-
Love, though blind, can break its chain:
And the bow is bent in vain
Where wealth perjur'd warps the string; Heart, O heart! grow cold again:
Love is but an idle thing!
Still to peasants Love saith, Nay;
Nor to princes saith Love, Aye.
41. LINES TO A LADY.
Go, lady, to thy lonely room,
Should moody shadows cross thy brow;
And there, in that congenial gloom,
Brood, heart-struck, o'er each broken vow.
Go, gaze upon the golden ring,
If yet the spell retains its force,
Until the snakes of memory sting
Thy spirit into late remorse.
And when from Sorrow's sacred fount
The bitter tears at length shall flow,
Let poor profan'd her throne remount,
And wing thee into hopeless woe.
And let Imagination wing
Her way unto that sultry shore,
Where lone he lies whose name shall fling An arrow through that heart once more.
Aye, rather let it rankle there,
And agonise both heart and brain, Than in the transports of despair Thus wed thyself to woe again. Aye, let the thick mist cloak thy mind, And champ the bit of bitter thought, Than break the bonds that ought to bind, And sell the love the dead hath bought.
Go, pine and ponder o'er the past,
Or laugh in some mad heartless mood, For thou wilt be from first to last
The sport of passion unsubdued. And yet I'd rather see thine eyes,
Keen, large, and lustrous though they be, Dimm'd by the grief that never dies, Than hear those fits of frantic glee.
But Destiny's dark hand hath writ
The records of thy future fate,
And let thy purpose fix or flit,
The warning comes, and comes too late. Yet, could this weak and workless will
Call phantoms from Death's dusty sphere, There one should shake that purpose still, Or bear thee to that far, far bier.
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