Now as a graybeard I sit here in state,
By street and by lane held in awe, sirs;
And may be seen, like old Frederick the Great,
On pipebowls, on cups, and on saucers.
Yet the beauteous maidens, they keep afar;
Oh, vision of youth! Oh, golden star!
FOR EVER.
The happiness that man, whilst prisoned here,
Is wont with heavenly rapture to compare,—
The harmony of Truth, from wavering clear,—
Of Friendship that is free from doubting care,—
The light which in stray thoughts alone can cheer
The wise,—the bard alone in visions fair,—
In my best hours I found in her all this,
And made mine own, to mine exceeding bliss.
LINES ON SEEING SCHILLER'S SKULL.
[This curious imitation of the ternary metre of Dante was written at the age of seventy -seven.]
Within a gloomy charnel-house one day
I viewed the countless skulls, so strangely mated,
And of old times I thought that now were gray,
Close packed they stand that once so fiercely hated,
And hardy bones that to the death contended
Are lying crossed,—to lie for ever, fated.
What held those crooked shoulder-blades suspended?
No one now asks; and limbs with vigour fired,
The hand, the foot—their use in life is ended.
Vainly ye sought the tomb for rest when tired;
Peace in the grave may not be yours; ye're driven
