« VorigeDoorgaan »
And young beginners may as well commence
The dreary "fuimus" of all things human,
But Heaven must be diverted: its diversion.
The English winter-ending in July,
To recommence in August-now was done.
'T is the postilion's paradise: wheels fly;
On roads east, south, north, west, there is a run. But for post-horses who finds sympathy?
Man's pity 's for himself, or for his son,
Always premising that said son at college
Has not contracted much more debt than knowledge.
The London winter 's ended in July—
When its quicksilver 's down at zero,—lo!
And happiest they who horses can engage;
They and their bills, "Arcadians both,'
To the Greek kalends of another session. Alas! to them of ready cash bereft,
What hope remains? Of hope the full possession, Or generous draft, conceded as a gift,
At a long date-till they can get a fresh one,~ Hawk'd about at a discount, small or large ;Also the solace of an overcharge.
But these are trifles. Downward flies my lord,
'T is granted; and the valet mounts the dickeyThat gentleman of lords and gentlemen;
Also my lady's gentlewoman, tricky,
Trick'd out, but modest more than poet's pen
Can paint, "Cosi viaggino i ricchi!”
(Excuse a foreign slipslop now and then,
If but to show I've travell'd; and what 's travel,
The London winter and the country summer
When Nature wears the gown that doth become her,
I've done with my tirade. The world was gone;
Were vanish'd to be what they call alone,—
Lord Henry and the Lady Adeline
Departed, like the rest of their compeers, The peerage, to a mansion very fine;
The gothic Babel of a thousand years.
None than themselves could boast a longer line,
Where time through heroes and through beauties steers; And oaks, as olden as their pedigree,
Told of their sires, a tomb in every tree.
A paragraph in every paper told
Of their departure: such is modern fame : 'T is pity that it takes no further hold
Than an advertisement, or much the same; When, ere the ink be dry, the sound grows cold. The Morning Post was foremost to proclaim Departure, for his country-seat, to-day,
Lord H. Amundeville and Lady A.
"We understand the splendid host intends
To entertain, this autumn, a select
And numerous party of his noble friends;
'Midst whom we 've heard from sources quite correct,
The Duke of D. the shooting season spends,
Also a foreigner of high condition,
The envoy of the secret Russian mission."
And thus we see—who doubts the Morning Post?
With those who, Pope says, "greatly daring dine." 'T is odd, but true,-last war, the news abounded More with these dinners than the kill'd or wounded.
As thus: "On Thursday there was a grand dinner;
Column: "Date, Falmouth, There has lately been here
The vacancies are fill'd up-see Gazette."
To Norman Abbey whirl'd the noble pair,
Mix'd gothic, such as artists all allow
It stood embosom'd in a happy valley,
Crown'd by high woodlands, where the druid oak Stood like Caractacus in act to rally
His host, with broad arms 'gainst the thunder-stroke;
The branching stag swept down with all his herd,
Before the mansion lay a lucid lake,
Broad as transparent, deep, and freshly fed
And sedges, brooding in their liquid bed:
Its outlet dash'd into a deep cascade,
Sparkling with foam until again subsiding, Its shriller echoes-like an infant made Quiet-sank into softer ripples, gliding Into a rivulet; and, thus allay'd,
Pursued its course, now gleaming, and now hiding Its windings through the woods; now clear, now blue, According as the skies their shadows threw.
A glorious remnant of the gothic pile
(While yet the church was Rome's) stood half apart In a grand arch, which once screen'd many an aisle. These last had disappear'd—a loss to art:
The first yet frown'd superbly o'er the soil,
And kindled feelings in the roughest heart,
Which mourn'd the power of time's or tempest's march, In gazing on that venerable arch.
Within a niche, nigh to its pinnacle,
Twelve saints had once stood sanctified in stone; But these had fallen, not when the friars fell,
But in the war which struck Charles from his throne, When each house was a fortalice-as tell
The annals of full many a line undone,The gallant cavaliers, who fought in vain For those who knew not to resign or reign.
But in a higher niche, alone, but crown'd,
But even the faintest relics of a shrine
A mighty window, hollow in the centre,
But in the noontide of the moon, and when
Through the huge arch, which soars and sinks again.
Some deem it but the distant echo given
Back to the night-wind by the waterfall,
Others, that some original shape or form,
Shaped by decay perchance, hath given the power (Though less than that of Memnon's statue, warm In Egypt's rays, to harp at a fix'd hour) To this gray ruin, with a voice to charm.
Sad, but serene, it sweeps o'er tree or tower: The cause I know not, nor can solve; but such The fact I've heard it,-once perhaps too much.