Volume I Part 78 (1/2)

ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, Since others it hath ceased to move: Yet, though I cannot be beloved, Still let me love!

My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone!

The fire that on my bosom preys Is lone as some volcanic isle; No torch is kindled at its blaze-- A funeral pile.

The hope, the fear, the jealous care, The exalted portion of the pain And power of love, I cannot share, But wear the chain.

But 'tis not thus--and 'tis not here-- Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now, Where glory decks the hero's bier, Or binds his brow.

The sword, the banner, and the field, Glory and Greece, around me see!

The Spartan, borne upon his s.h.i.+eld, Was not more free.

Awake! (not Greece--she is awake!) Awake, my spirit! Think through whom Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake, And then strike home!

Tread those reviving pa.s.sions down, Unworthy manhood I--unto thee Indifferent should the smile or frown Of beauty be.

If thou regret'st thy youth, why live?

The land of honorable death Is here:--up to the field, and give Away thy breath!

Seek out--less often sought than found-- A soldier's grave, for thee the best; Then look around, and choose thy ground, And take thy rest.

George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]

GROWING GRAY ”On a l'age de son caeur.”

A. D'Houdetot

A little more toward the light;-- Me miserable! Here's one that's white; And one that's turning; Adieu to song and ”salad days;”

My Muse, let's go at once to Jay's, And order mourning.

We must reform our rhymes, my Dear,-- Renounce the gay for the severe,-- Be grave, not witty; We have, no more, the right to find That Pyrrha's hair is neatly twined,-- That Chloe's pretty.

Young Love's for us a farce that's played; Light canzonet and serenade No more may tempt us; Gray hairs but ill accord with dreams; From aught but sour didactic themes Our years exempt us.

Indeed! you really fancy so?

You think for one white streak we grow At once satiric?

A fiddlestick! Each hair's a string To which our ancient Muse shall sing A younger lyric.

The heart's still sound. Shall ”cakes and ale”

Grow rare to youth because we rail At schoolboy dishes?

Perish the thought! 'Tis ours to chant When neither Time nor Tide can grant Belief with wishes.

Austin Dobson [1840-1921]