The rogue is growing a little old; Five years we've tramp'd through wind and weather, And slept out doors when nights were cold, And ate and drank-and starved-to gether. We've learn'd what comfort is, I tell you! A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow! The paw he holds up there has been frozen), Plenty of catgut for my fiddle We'll have some music, if you are willing, And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough is, sir!) Shall march a little.-Start, you villain! rifle! (Some dogs have arms, you see!) Now hold your Cap while the gentlemen give a trifle (This out-door business is bad for March! Halt! Now show how the rebel strings), Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle, And Roger and I set up for kings! No, thank you, sir,-I never drink; Roger and I are exceedingly moral,— Aren't we, Roger?-see him wink!— Well, something hot, then, we won't quarrel. He's thirsty, too-see him nod his head? What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk!— He understands every word that's said,And he knows good milk from water and chalk. The truth is, sir, now I reflect, I've been so sadly given to grog, I wonder I've not lost the respect (Here's to you, sir!) even of my dog. But he sticks by, through thick and thin; And this old coat, with its empty pock ets, And rags that smell of tobacco and gin, He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets. There isn't another creature living Would do it, and prove, through every disaster, So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving To such a miserable thankless master! No, sir!-see him wag his tail and grin! By George! it makes my old eyes water! That is, there's something in this gin That chokes a fellow. But no matter! shakes When he stands up to hear his sen tence. Now tell how many drams it takes To honor a jolly new acquaintance. Five yelps, that's five! he's mighty knowing! The night's before us, fill the glasses! Quick, sir! I'm ill,-my brain is going; Some brandy, thank you; there, it passes! Why not reform? That's easily said; But I've gone through such wretched treatment, Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread, And scarce remembering what meat meant, That my poor stomach's past reform; And there are times when, mad with thinking, I'd sell out Heaven for something warm To prop a horrible inward sinking. Is there a way to forget to think? At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends, A dear girl's love,-but I took to drink ; The same old story; you know how it ends. If you could have seen these classic features, You needn't laugh, sir; they were not then Such a burning libel on God's creatures; I was one of your handsome men! If you had seen her, so fair and young, Whose head was happy on this breast! If you could have heard the songs I sung When the wine went round, you wouldn't have guess'd That ever I, sir, should be straying From door to door with fiddle and dog, Ragged and penniless, and playing To you to-night for a glass of grog. She's married since, a parson's wife; 'Twas better for her that we should part; Better the soberest, prosiest life Than a blasted home and a broken heart. I have seen her? Once: I was weak and spent On the dusty road; a carriage stopp'd; But little she dream'd, as on she went, Who kiss'd the coin that her fingers dropp'd! You've set me talking, sir; I'm sorry; It makes me wild to think of the change! What do you care for a beggar's story? I had a mother so proud of me! 'Twas well she died before. Do you know If the happy spirits in Heaven can see The ruin and wretchedness here below? Another glass, and strong, to deaden This pain; then Roger and I will start. I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden, Aching thing, in place of a heart? He is sad sometimes, and would weep if he could, No doubt, remembering things that were A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food, And himself a sober, respectable cur. I'm better now; that glass was warming,— street. Not a very gay life to lead, you think? But soon we shall go where lodgings are free, And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink ; The sooner the better for Roger and me. J T. TROWBRIDGE The Bridge of SighS. "Drowned! drowned!"-Hamist. ONE more Unfortunate, Gone to her death! Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care,― Fashion'd so slenderly, Young, and so fair! Look at her garments Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing; Take her up instantly, Touch her not scornfully; Gently and humanly; Now is pure womanly. Make no deep scrutiny Rash and undutiful : Only the beautiful, O change! O wondrous change! Burst are the prison-bars,— O change! stupendous change! CAROLINE BOWLES SOUTHEY. THE PAUPER'S DRIVE. THERE'S a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot, To the churchyard a pauper is going, I wot; The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs; And hark to the dirge which the mad driver sings: Rattle his bones over the stones! He's taking a drive in his carriage at last; But it will not be long, if he goes on so fast: Rattle his bones over the stones! He's only a pauper whom nobody owns! You bumpkins! who stare at your brother convey'd, Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid! And be joyful to think, when by death you're laid low, You've a chance to the grave like a gemman to go! Rattle his bones over the stones! He's only a pauper whom nobody owns! But a truce to this strain; for my soul it is sad, To think that a heart in humanity clad He's only a pauper whom nobody Should make, like the brutes, such a deso owns! late end, Oh, where are the mourners? Alas! there And depart from the light without leaving are none; He has left not a gap in the world, now he's gone, Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or nian; To the grave with his carcass as fast as you can: Rattle his bones over the stones! a friend! "WHY sit'st thou by that ruin'd hall, Thou aged carle so stern and gray? He's only a pauper whom nobody Dost thou its former pride recall, owns! Or ponder how it pass'd away?"«Know'st thou not me?" the Deep Voice cried; "So long enjoy'd, so oft misused— Alternate, in thy fickle pride, Desired, neglected, and accused! The pauper at length makes a noise in the "Before my breath, like blazing flax, Pres hath envye, and wele is blent over alle. Savoure no more then the behove shalle; Rede wel thy self that other folke canst rede, And trouthe the shal delyver, hit ys no drede. Peyne the not eche croked to redresse In trust of hire that turneth as a balle, Grete rest stant in lytil besynesse; Bewar also to spurne ayeine an nalle, Stryve not as doth a croke with a walle; Daunt thy selfe that dauntest otheres dede, And trouthe the shal delyver, hit is no drede. That the ys sent receyve in buxomnesse, The wrasteling of this world asketh a falle; Her is no home, her is but wyldyrnesse. Forth pilgrime! forth best out of thy stalle! Loke up on hye, and thonke God of alle; Weyve thy lust, and let thy goste the lede, And trouthe shal thee delyver, hit is no drede. GEOFFREY CHAUCER. SIC VITA. LIKE to the falling of a star, LINES. HENRY KING. WRITTEN BY ONE IN THE TOWER, BEING YOUNG AND CONDEMNED TO DIE. My prime of youth is but a frost of cares, My feast of joy is but a dish of pain, My crop of corn is but a field of tares, And all my goodes is but vain hope of gain. The day is fled, and yet I saw no sun; And now I live, and now my life is done! My spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung, The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green; My youth is past, and yet I am but young, I saw the world, and yet I was not seen. My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun; And now I live, and now my life is done! I sought for death, and found it in the wombe, I lookt for life, and yet it was a shade, I trade the ground, and knew it was my tombe, And now I die, and now I am but made. The glass is full, and yet my glass is run; And now I live, and now my life is done! CHIDIOCK TYCHBORN. ON HIS DIVINE POEMS. WHEN we for age could aeither read nor write, The subject made us able to indite: The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er; | Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers, So calm are we when passions are no more. For then we know how vain it was to boast Of fleeting things, so certain to be lost. Whose loves in higher love endure; What soul possess themselves so pure, Or is there blessedness like theirs? LIV. Clouds of affection from our younger eyes has made. Stronger by weakness, wiser men become As they draw near to their eternal home. Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view, That stand upon the threshold of the new. EDMUND WALLER. FROM "IN MEMORIAM.” I. I HELD it truth, with him who sings And find in loss a gain to match? Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drown'd, 66 XXXII. Her eyes are homes of silent prayer, Nor other thought her mind admits But, he was dead, and there he sits, And He that brought him back is there. Then one deep love doth supersede All other, when her ardent gaze Roves from the living brother's face, And rests upon the Life indeed. All subtle thought, all curious fears, Borne down by gladness so complete, She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feet With costly spikenard and with tears. That nothing walks with aimless feet; That not a worm is cloven in vain; I can but trust that good shall fall So runs my dream: but what am I? LXXVIII. Again at Christmas did we weave The holly round the Christmas hearth; The silent snow possessed the earth, And calmly fell our Christmas-eve: The yule-clog sparkled keen with frost. No wing of wind the region swept, But over all things brooding slept The quiet sense of something lost. As in the winters left behind Again our ancient games had place, The mimic picture's breathing grace, And dance and song and hoodman-blind. Who show'd a token of distress? No single tear, no mark of pain: O last regret, regret can die! No-mixt with all this mystic frame, Her deep relations are the same, But with long use her tears are dry. |
