I think the studies of the wise,
The hero's noisy quarrel,
The majesty of Woman's eyes,
The poet's cherish'd laurel,
And all that makes us lean or fat,
And all that charms or troubles,--
This bubble is more bright than that,
But still they are all bubbles.
I think the thing you call Renown,
The unsubstantial vapour
For which the soldier burns a town,
The sonnetteer a taper,
Is like the mist which, as he flies,
The horseman leaves behind him;
He cannot mark its wreaths arise,
Or if he does they blind him.
I think one nod of Mistress Chance
Makes creditors of debtors,
And shifts the funeral for the dance,
The sceptre for the fetters:
I think that Fortune's favour'd guest
May live to gnaw the platters,
And he that wears the purple vest
May wear the rags and tatters.
I think the Tories love to buy
"Your Lordship's and "your Grace's, By loathing common honesty,
And lauding commonplaces:
I think that some are very wise,
And some are very funny,
And some grow rich by telling lies,
And some by telling money.
I think the Whigs are wicked knaves-
(And very like the Tories)—
Who doubt that Britain rules the waves,
And ask the price of glories:
I think that many fret and fume
At what their friends are planning,
And Mr. Hume hates Mr. Brougham
As much as Mr. Canning.
I think that friars and their hoods,
Their doctrines and their maggots,
Have lighted up too many feuds,
And far too many faggots:
I think, while zealots fast and frown,
And fight for two or seven,
That there are fifty roads to Town,
And rather more to Heaven.
I think that, thanks to Paget's lance,
And thanks to Chester's learning,
The hearts that burn'd for fame in France
At home are safe from burning:
I think the Pope is on his back;
And, though 'tis fun to shake him,
I think the Devil not so black
As many people make him.
I think that Love is like a play,
Where tears and smiles are blended,
Or like a faithless April day,
Whose shine with shower is ended:
Like Colnbrook pavement, rather rough,
Like trade, exposed to losses,
And like a Highland plaid,—all stuff,
And very full of crosses.
I think the world, though dark it be,
Has aye one rapturous pleasure
Conceal'd in life's monotony,
For those who seek the treasure ;
One planet in a starless night,
One blossom on a briar,
One friend not quite a hypocrite,
One woman not a liar!
I think poor beggars court St. Giles,
Rich beggars court St. Stephen;
And Death looks down with nods and smiles,
And makes the odds all even :
I think some die upon the field,
And some upon the billow,
And some are laid beneath a shield,
And some beneath a willow.
I think that very few have sigh'd
When Fate at last has found them,
Though bitter foes were by their side,
And barren moss around them :
I think that some have died of drought,
And some have died of drinking;
I think that nought is worth a thought,-
And I'm a fool for thinking!
A RIDDLE ON THE LETTER II.
'Twas in heaven pronounced—it was mutter'd in hell,
And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell;
On the confines of earth 'twas permitted to rest,
And the depths of the ocean its presence confess'd.
'Twill be found in the sphere, when 'tis riven asunder,
Be seen in the light'ning, and heard in the thunder.
'Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath,
Attends at his birth and awaits him in death:
Presides o'er his happiness, honour, and health,
Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth.
In the heaps of the miser 'tis hoarded with care,
But is sure to be lost on his prodigal heir.
It begins every hope, every wish it must bound,
With the husbandman toils, and with monarchs is crown'd. Without it the soldier, the seaman may roam,
But woe to the wretch who expels it from home!
In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found,
Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passion is drown'd.
'Twill not soften the heart; and tho' deaf be the ear,
It will make it acutely and instantly hear.
Yet in shade let it rest like a delicate flower,
Ah, breathe on it softly—it dies in an hour.
CHARADE ON THE NAME OF THE POET CAMPBELL.
COME from my First, ay, come ;
The battle dawn is nigh;
And the screaming trump and the thundering drum
Are calling thee to die;
Fight, as thy father fought;
Fall, as thy father fell:
Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought;
So, forward! and farewell!
Toll ye my Second, toll;
Fling high the flambeau's light;
And sing the hymn for a parted soul
Beneath the silent night;
The helm upon his head,
The cross upon his breast,
Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed;
Now take him to his rest!
Call ye my Whole, go, call;
The Lord of lute and lay;
And let him greet the sable pall
With a noble song to-day:
Ay, call him by his name;
No fitter hand may crave
To light the flame of a soldier's fame
On the turf of a soldier's grave!
So look the mornings, when the sun
Paints them with fresh vermilion ;
So cherries blush, and Catherine pears,
And apricots, in youthful years;
So corals look more lovely red,
And rubies lately polished;
So purest diaper doth thine,
Stained by the beams of claret wine;
As Julia looks, when she doth dress
Her either cheek with bashfulness.
DOLCE FAR NIENTE.
SOOTH 'twere a pleasant life to lead,
With nothing in the world to do,
But just to blow a shepherd's reed,
The silent seasons thro' :-
And just to drive a flock to feed,–
Sheep,-quiet, fond, and few!
Pleasant to breathe beside a brook,
And count the bubbles, love-worlds, there; To muse within some minstrel's book,
Or watch the haunted air ;
To slumber in some leafy nook,—
Or idle anywhere.
And then, a draught of nature's wine,
A meal of summer's daintiest fruit;
To take the air with forms divine;
Clouds, silvery, cool, and mute;
Descending, if the night be fine,
In a star-parachute.
Give me to live with Love alone,
And let the world go dine and dress;
For Love hath lowly haunts-a stone
Holds something meant to bless.
If life's a flower, I choose my own-
'Tis "Love in Idleness."
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