قراءة كتاب A Selection from the Works of Frederick Locker
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اللغة: English
الصفحة رقم: 3
tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR, BY J. E. MILLAIS, R.A. To face Title
THE JESTER On Title
THE JESTER'S MORAL 1
ON AN OLD MUFF 11
THE OLD OAK-TREE AT HATFIELD BROADOAK 25
OLD LETTERS 40
PICCADILLY 47
A WISH 64
THE OLD CRADLE 70
TO MY MISTRESS'S BOOTS 75
THE ROSE AND THE RING 78
THE RUSSET PITCHER 82
TAIL PIECE 86
MRS. SMITH 95
THE CASTLE IN THE AIR 112
THE LEGENDE OF SIR GYLES GYLES 127
ARCADIA 140
MR. PLACID'S FLIRTATION 149
THE ANGORA CAT 160
LITTLE PITCHER 167
THE JESTERS MORAL
I wish that I could run away
From House, and Court, and Levee:
Where bearded men appear to-day,
Just Eton boys grown heavy.—W. M. Praed.
From House, and Court, and Levee:
Where bearded men appear to-day,
Just Eton boys grown heavy.—W. M. Praed.
Is human life a pleasant game
That gives a palm to all?
A fight for fortune, or for fame?
A struggle, and a fall?
Who views the Past, and all he prized,
With tranquil exultation?
And who can say, I've realised
My fondest aspiration?
That gives a palm to all?
A fight for fortune, or for fame?
A struggle, and a fall?
Who views the Past, and all he prized,
With tranquil exultation?
And who can say, I've realised
My fondest aspiration?
Alas, not one! for rest assured
That all are prone to quarrel
With Fate, when worms destroy their gourd,
Or mildew spoils their laurel:
The prize may come to cheer our lot,
But all too late—and granted
'Tis even better—still 'tis not
Exactly what we wanted.
That all are prone to quarrel
With Fate, when worms destroy their gourd,
Or mildew spoils their laurel:
The prize may come to cheer our lot,
But all too late—and granted
'Tis even better—still 'tis not
Exactly what we wanted.
My school-boy time! I wish to praise
That bud of brief existence,
The vision of my youthful days
Now trembles in the distance.
An envious vapour lingers here,
And there I find a chasm;
But much remains, distinct and clear,
To sink enthusiasm.
That bud of brief existence,
The vision of my youthful days
Now trembles in the distance.
An envious vapour lingers here,
And there I find a chasm;
But much remains, distinct and clear,
To sink enthusiasm.
Such thoughts just now disturb my soul
With reason good—for lately
I took the train to Marley-knoll,
And crossed the fields to Mately.
I found old Wheeler at his gate,
Who used rare sport to show me:
My Mentor once on snares and bait—
But Wheeler did not know me.
With reason good—for lately
I took the train to Marley-knoll,
And crossed the fields to Mately.
I found old Wheeler at his gate,
Who used rare sport to show me:
My Mentor once on snares and bait—
But Wheeler did not know me.
"Goodlord!" at last exclaimed the churl,
"Are you the little chap, sir,
What used to train his hair in curl,
And wore a scarlet cap, sir?"
And then he fell to fill in blanks,
And conjure up old faces;
And talk of well-remembered pranks,
In half forgotten places.
"Are you the little chap, sir,
What used to train his hair in curl,
And wore a scarlet cap, sir?"
And then he fell to fill in blanks,
And conjure up old faces;
And talk of well-remembered pranks,
In half forgotten places.
It pleased the man to tell his brief
And somewhat mournful story,
Old Bliss's school had come to grief—
And Bliss had "gone to glory."
His trees were felled, his house was razed—
And what less keenly pained me,
A venerable donkey grazed
Exactly where he caned me.
And somewhat mournful story,
Old Bliss's school had come to grief—
And Bliss had "gone to glory."
His trees were felled, his house was razed—
And what less keenly pained me,
A venerable donkey grazed
Exactly where he caned me.
And where have all my playmates sped,
Whose ranks were once so serried?
Why some are wed, and some are dead,
And some are only buried;
Frank Petre, erst so full of fun,
Is now St. Blaise's
Whose ranks were once so serried?
Why some are wed, and some are dead,
And some are only buried;
Frank Petre, erst so full of fun,
Is now St. Blaise's
