Part 6 (1/2)

Yet, far in the west, where the day's faded roses, Touch'd by the moonbeam, are withering fast; Where the half-seen spirit of twilight reposes, Hymning the dirge of the hours that are past,

4

There, where the ocean-wave sparkles at meeting (As sunset dreams tell us) the kiss of the sky, On his dim, dark cloud is the infant storm sitting, And beneath the horizon his lightnings are nigh.

5

Another hour--and the death-word is given, Another hour--and his lightnings are here; Speed! speed thee, my bark; ere the breeze of even Is lost in the tempest, our home will be near.

6

Then away o'er the wave, while thy pennant is streaming In the shadowy light, like a shooting star; Be swift as the thought of the wanderer, dreaming, In a stranger land, of his fireside afar.

7

And while memory lingers I'll fondly believe thee A being with life and its best feelings warm; And freely the wild song of grat.i.tude weave thee, Bless'd spirit! that bore me and mine from the storm.

CIV.

But where is f.a.n.n.y? She has long been thrown Where cheeks and roses wither--in the shade.

The age of chivalry, you know, is gone; And although, as I once before have said, I love a pretty face to adoration, Yet, still, I must preserve my reputation,

CV.

As a true dandy of the modern schools.

One hates to be oldfas.h.i.+on'd; it would be A violation of the latest rules, To treat the s.e.x with too much courtesy.

'Tis not to wors.h.i.+p beauty, as she glows In all her diamond l.u.s.tre, that the beaux

CVI.

Of these enlighten'd days at evening crowd, Where fas.h.i.+on welcomes in her rooms of light, That ”dignified obedience; that proud Submission,” which, in times of yore, the knight Gave to his ”ladye-love,” is now a scandal, And practised only by your Goth or Vandal.

CVII.

To lounge in graceful att.i.tudes--be stared Upon, the while, by every fair one's eye, And stare one's self, in turn; to be prepared To dart upon the trays, as swiftly by The dexterous Simon bears them, and to take One's share, at least, of coffee, cream, and cake,

CVIII.

Is now to be ”the ton.” The pouting lip, And sad, upbraiding eye of the poor girl, Who hardly of joy's cup one drop can sip, Ere in the wild confusion, and the whirl, And tumult of the hour, its bubbles vanish, Must now be disregarded. One must banish

CIX.