"Tis fit, though all have something to deplore, That he, who joined them once, should keep to part no more." The wretched father, who, when he had read And ever since had paced about his room, The days were then at close of autumn, A little rainy, and towards night-fall chill; There was a fitful, moaning air abroad; And ever and anon, over the road, The last few leaves came fluttering from the trees, The people, who from reverence kept at home, And hour on hour went by, and nought was heard And others said, that they could hear a sound A voice of chanting rose, and as it spread, The train, and now were entering the first street. And in their lifted hands the gushing sorrow rolled. But of the older people, few could bear To keep the window, when the train drew near; The bier approaching, slow and steadily, In sunny manhood he, They say that when Duke Guido saw them come, On that same night, those lovers silently THE FEAST OF THE POETS. T'OTHER day, as Apollo sat pitching his darts Through the clouds of November, by fits and by starts, He began to consider how long it had been, Since the bards of Old England had all been rung in. "I think," said the God, recollecting, (and then He fell twiddling a sunbeam as I may my pen,) "I think - let me see yes, it is, I declare, As long ago now as that Buckingham there : And yet I can't see why I've been so remiss, Unless it may be and it certainly is, That since Dryden's fine verses and Milton's sublime, I have fairly been sick of their sing-song and rhyme. There was Collins, 'tis true, had a good deal to say; But the rogue had no industry, neither had Gray: And Thomson, though best in his indolent fits, Either slept himself weary, or bloated his wits. But ever since Pope spoil'd the ears of the town Jove, I'd as soon have gone down to see Kemble in love. And as nothing's done there now-a-days without eating, See what kind of set I can muster worth treating. And here I could tell, if it was'nt for stopping, But fancies like these, though I've stores to supply me, I'd better keep back for a poem I've by me, And merely observe that the girls looked divine, And the old folks in-doors exclaimed "Bless us how fine!" Apollo, arriv'd, had no sooner embodied His essence ethereal, than quenching his godhead, He chang'd his appearance-to-what shall I say? To a gallant young soldier returning in May? |