Part 11 (2/2)

Or could so delicate a flower Exist in such a breezy bower?

Because, if you would settle in it, 'Twere built for love, in half a minute.

What's love? Why love (for two) at best, Is only a delightful jest; But sad indeed for one or three, --I wish you'd come and jest with me.

You shake your head and wonder why The cynosure of dear Mayfair Should lend me even half a sigh Towards building Castles in the Air.

”I've music, books, and all you say, To make the gravest lady gay.

I'm told my essays show research, My sketches have endowed a church; I've partners who have brilliant parts, I've lovers who have broken hearts.

Poor Polly has not nerves to fly, And why should Mop return to Skye?

To realize your _tete-a-tete_ Might jeopardize a giddy pate; As grief is not akin to guilt, I'm sorry if your Castle's built.”

Ah me--alas for Fancy's flights In noonday dreams and waking nights!

The pranks that brought poor souls mishap When baby Time was fond of pap; And still will cheat with feigning joys, While ladies smile, and men are boys.

The blooming rose conceals an asp, And bliss, coquetting, flies the grasp.

How vain the prize that pleased at first!

But myrtles fade, and bubbles burst.

The cord has snapt that held my kite;-- My friends neglect the books I write, And wonder why the author's spleeny!

I dance, but dancing's not the thing; They will not listen though I sing ”Fra poco,” almost like Rubini!

The poet's harp beyond my reach is, The Senate will not stand my speeches, I risk a jest,--its point of course Is marred by some disturbing force; I doubt the friends that Fortune gave me; But have I friends from whom to save me?

Farewell,--can aught for her be willed Whose every wish is all fulfilled?

Farewell,--could wis.h.i.+ng weave a spell, There's promise in the word ”farewell.”

The lady's smile showed no remorse,-- ”My worthless toy hath lost its gilding,”

I murmured with pathetic force, ”And here's an end of castle building;”

Then strode away in mood morose, To blame the Sage of Careless Close, He trifled with my tale of sorrow,-- ”What's marred to-day is made to-morrow; Romance can roam not far from home, Knock gently, she must answer soon; I'm sixty-five, and yet I strive To hang my garland on the moon.”

GLYCERE.

OLD MAN.

In gala dress, and smiling! Sweet, What seek you in my green retreat?

YOUNG GIRL.

I gather flowers to deck my hair,-- The village yonder claims the best, For lad and la.s.s are thronging there To dance the sober sun to rest.

Hark! hark! the rebec calls,--Glycere Again may foot it on the green; Her rivalry I need not fear, These flowers shall crown the Village Queen.

OLD MAN.

You long have known this tranquil ground?

YOUNG GIRL.

It all seems strangely marred to me.

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