Bagatelles!

I saw one day, near Paphos’ bowers, In a glass--sweet Fancy’s own-- A boy lie down among the flowers That circled Beauty’s throne. Poor youth! it moved my pity quite, He looked so very sad;-- Apollo said “his head was light,” But Pallas called him “mad.” A little sylphid, hiding near, Flew out from some blue-bells, And whispered in the pale youth’s ear, “Pray, try our Bagatelles!

“You’ve pondered over those musty books Till half your locks are grey;-- You’ve dimmed your eyes, you’ve spoiled your looks, You’ve worn yourself away! Leave Wisdom’s leaden page awhile, And take your lute again, And Beauty’s eyes shall round you smile, And Love’s repay the strain: Leave politics to dull M.P.’s, Philosophy to cells,-- Good youth!--you’ll ne’er succeed in these-- So try our Bagatelles!

“We’ve cures in these enchanted bowers For every sort of ill,-- Our only medicines are flowers, Sweet flowers that never kill! Our leeches, too, are wondrous wise In mixing simples up,-- We’ve frozen dew-drops from the skies For the fevered lover’s cup; We’ve moonbeams gathered on the hills, And star-drops in the dells; And we never send you in our bills-- Pray, try our Bagatelles!

“And youths from every court and clime Come here to seek advice, And maids who have misspent their time Are kept preserved--in ice! Bright fountains in our gardens play, And each has magic in it,-- We cure blue devils every day, Blue stockings every minute: And heartaches when they’re worst, and when No other medicine tells, In maids or matrons, youths or men, Yield to our--Bagatelles!

“Last week a statesman came, whose eyes Scarce knew what sweet repose is, We gave one draught of Beauty’s sighs,-- Look there--how calm he dozes! A lawyer called the week before, Who talked of naught but Blackstone, We took him to our sylphid store, And a pair of wings we waxed on; And if you’ll look in yonder grove,-- Just by that grot of shells,-- You’ll find him making shocking love, And talking--Bagatelles!”

The sick youth raised his drooping head As the sylphid ceased to speak,-- “Hush, hush,” she cried, “you must to bed, And be quiet for a week!” And soon a Muse, with rainbow wings, And looks of laughing joy, Came with a lute of silver strings; And she sat beside the boy: And when I saw them last they lay Far up those flowery dells, And the boy was growing glad and gay As she sung him--Bagatelles!

THERE’S NOTHING NEW BENEATH THE SUN.

(The Brazen Head.)

The world pursues the very track Which it pursued at its creation; And mortals shrink in horror back From any hint of innovation; From year to year the children do Exactly what their sires have done; Time is! time was!--there’s nothing new,-- There’s nothing new beneath the sun!

Still lovers hope to be believed, Still clients hope to win their causes; Still plays and farces are received With most encouraging applauses; Still dancers have fantastic toes, Still dandies shudder at a dun; Still diners have their fricandeaus,-- There’s nothing new beneath the sun!

Still cooks torment the hapless eels, Still boys torment the dumb cockchafers; Lord Eldon still adores the seals, Lord Clifford still adores the wafers; Still asses have enormous ears, Still gambling bets are lost and won; Still opera dancers marry peers,-- There’s nothing new beneath the sun!

Still women are absurdly weak, Still infants dote upon a rattle; Still Mr. Martin cannot speak Of anything but beaten cattle; Still brokers swear the shares will rise, Still Cockneys boast of Manton’s gun; Still listeners swallow monstrous lies,-- There’s nothing new beneath the sun!

Still genius is a jest to earls, Still honesty is down to zero; Still heroines have spontaneous curls, Still novels have a handsome hero; Still Madame Vestris plays a man, Still fools adore her, I for one; Still youths write sonnets to a fan,-- There’s nothing new beneath the sun!

Still people make a plaguey fuss, About all things that don’t concern them, As if it matters aught to us, What happens to our grandsons, burn them! Still life is nothing to the dead, Still Folly’s toil is Wisdom’s fun; And still, except the Brazen Head,-- There’s nothing new beneath the sun!

PEACE BE THINE.

When Sorrow moves with silent tread Around some mortal’s buried dust, And muses on the mouldering dead Who sleep beneath their crumbling bust, Though all unheard and all unknown The name on that sepulchral stone, She looks on its recording line, And whispers kindly, “Peace be thine!”

O Lady! me thou knowest not, And what I am, or am to be; The pain and pleasure of my lot Are nought, and must be nought, to thee; Thou seest not my hopes and fears; Yet thou, perhaps, in other years, Wilt look on this recording line, And whisper kindly, “Peace be thine!”