We lived and loved in cloudless climes,
And died (in rhymes) a thousand times.

Yes, you, you only, Lady Fair,
Adorn’d my Castle in the Air,
Now, tell me, could you dwell content
In such a baseless tenement?
Or could so delicate a flower
Exist in such a breezy bower?
Because, if you would settle in it,
’Twere built, for love, in half a minute.

What’s love? you ask;—why, love at best
Is only a delightful jest;—
As sad for one, as bad for three,
So I suggest you jest with me.

You shake your head, and wonder why
   A denizen of dear May-Fair
Should ever condescend to try
   And build her Castle in the Air.

I’ve music, books, and all, you say,
To make the gravest lady gay;
I’m told my essays show research,
My sketches have endow’d a church.
I’ve partners, who have witty parts;
I’ve lovers, who have broken hearts;
Quite undisturbed by nerves or blues,
My doctor gives me—all the news.
Poor Polly would not care to fly;
And Wasp, you know, was born in Skye.

To realise your tête-à-tête
Might jeopardise a giddy pate;
And quel ennui! if, pride apart,
I lost my head, or you your heart.
I’m more than sorry, I’m afraid
My Castle is already made.

And is this all we gain by fancies
For noon-day dreams, and waking trances,—

Such dreams as brought poor souls mishap,
When Baby-Time was fond of pap:
And still will cheat with feigning joys,
While women smile, and men are boys?

The blooming rose conceals an asp,
And bliss coquetting flies the grasp:
And, waking up, snap goes the slight
Poor cord that held my foolish kite,—
Your slave, you may not care to know it,
Your humble slave will be your Poet.

Farewell!—can aught for her be will’d
Whose every wish is all fulfill’d?
Farewell!—could wishing weave a spell,
There’s promise in those words “Fare well!”

I wish your wish may not be marr’d;—
Now wish yourself a better Bard!

THE CRADLE

Aye, here is your cradle!  Why surely, my Jenny,
   Such slender dimensions go somewhat to show
You were an exceedingly small pic-a-ninny
   Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago.

Your baby-days flow’d in a much-troubled channel;
   I see you as then in your impotent strife,—
A tight little bundle of wailing and flannel,
   Perplex’d with that newly-found fardel called life.

To hint at an infantine frailty’s a scandal;
   All bye-gones are bye-gones—and somebody knows
It was bliss such a baby to dance and to dandle,
   Your cheeks were so velvet—so rosy your toes.

Aye, here is your cradle! and Hope, a bright spirit,
   With Love now is watching beside it, I know;
They guard o’er the nest you yourself did inherit
   Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago.

It is Hope gilds the future, Love welcomes it smiling;
   Thus wags this old world, therefore stay not to ask,—
“My future bids fair, is my future beguiling?”
   If mask’d, still it pleases, then raise not its mask.

Is life a poor coil some would gladly be doffing?
   He is riding post-haste who their wrongs will adjust;
For at most ’tis a footstep from cradle to coffin,—
   From a spoonful of pap to a mouthful of dust.

Then smile as your future is smiling, my Jenny!
   I see you, except for that infantine woe,
Scarce changed since you were but a small pic-a-ninny,—
   Your cheek is still velvet—pray what is your toe?

Aye, here is your cradle! much, much to my liking,
   Though nineteen or twenty long winters have sped;

But, hark! as I’m talking there’s six o’clock striking,
   It is time Jenny’s Baby should be in its bed!

O TEMPORA MUTANTUR!

“O cruel Time!  O tyrant Time!
Whose winter all the streams of rhyme,
The flowing waves of Love sublime,
   In bitter passage freezes.
I only see the scrambling goat,
The lotos on the water float,
While an old shepherd with an oat
   Pipes to the autumn breezes.”

Mr M. Collins.

Yes! here, once more, a traveller,
   I find the Angel Inn,
Where landlord, maids, and serving-men,
   Receive me with a grin:

They surely can’t remember me,
   My hair is grey and scanter;
I’m chang’d, so chang’d since I was here—
   “O tempora mutantur!”

The Angel’s not much alter’d since
   That sunny month of June,
Which brought me here with Pamela
   To spend our honey-moon!
I recollect it down to e’en
   The shape of this decanter.
We’ve since been both much put about—
   “O tempora mutantur!”

Aye, there’s the clock, and looking-glass
   Reflecting me again;
She vow’d her Love was very fair—
   I see I’m very plain.
And there’s that daub of Prince Leboo,
   ’Twas Pamela’s fond banter
To fancy it resembled me—
   “O tempora mutantur!”

The curtains have been dyed; but there,
   Unbroken, is the same,
The very same cracked pane of glass
   On which I scratch’d her name.
Yes! there’s her tiny flourish still,
   It used to so enchant her
To link two happy names in one—
   “O tempora mutantur!”

* * * * *

What brought this wand’rer here, and why
   Was Pamela away?
It may be she had found her grave,
   Or he had found her gay.
The fairest fade; the best of men
   May meet with a supplanter;—
How natural, how trite the cry,
   “O tempora mutantur!”

PICCADILLY

“Often, when I have felt a weariness or distaste at home, have I rushed out into her crowded Strand, and fed my humour till tears have wetted my cheek for unutterable sympathies with the multitudinous moving picture; * * nursed amid her noise, her crowds, her beloved smoke, what have I been doing all my life, if I have not lent out my heart with usury to such scenes!”

C. Lamb.

Gay shops, stately palaces, bustle and breeze,
The whirring of wheels, and the murmur of trees,
By