قراءة كتاب A Selection from the Works of Frederick Locker
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اللغة: English
الصفحة رقم: 6
colour were the eyes when bright and waking?
And were your ringlets fair, or brown, or black,
Poor little head! that long has done with aching?
It may have held (to shoot some random shots)
Thy brains, Eliza Fry,—or Baron Byron's,
The wits of Nelly Gwynn, or Doctor Watts,—
Two quoted bards! two philanthropic sirens!
Thy brains, Eliza Fry,—or Baron Byron's,
The wits of Nelly Gwynn, or Doctor Watts,—
Two quoted bards! two philanthropic sirens!
But this I surely knew before I closed
The bargain on the morning that I bought it;
It was not half so bad as some supposed,
Nor quite as good as many may have thought it.
The bargain on the morning that I bought it;
It was not half so bad as some supposed,
Nor quite as good as many may have thought it.
Who love, can need no special type of death;
He bares his awful face too soon, too often;
"Immortelles" bloom in Beauty's bridal wreath,
And does not yon green elm contain a coffin?
He bares his awful face too soon, too often;
"Immortelles" bloom in Beauty's bridal wreath,
And does not yon green elm contain a coffin?
O, cara mine, what lines of care are these?
The heart still lingers with the golden hours,
An Autumn tint is on the chestnut trees,
And where is all that boasted wealth of flowers?
The heart still lingers with the golden hours,
An Autumn tint is on the chestnut trees,
And where is all that boasted wealth of flowers?
If life no more can yield us what it gave,
It still is linked with much that calls for praises;
A very worthless rogue may dig the grave,
But hands unseen will dress the turf with daisies.
It still is linked with much that calls for praises;
A very worthless rogue may dig the grave,
But hands unseen will dress the turf with daisies.
TO MY GRANDMOTHER.
(SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE BY MR. ROMNEY.)
This relative of mine
Was she seventy and nine
When she died?
By the canvas may be seen
How she looked at seventeen,—
As a bride.
Was she seventy and nine
When she died?
By the canvas may be seen
How she looked at seventeen,—
As a bride.
Beneath a summer tree
As she sits, her reverie
Has a charm;
Her ringlets are in taste,—
What an arm! and what a waist
For an arm!
As she sits, her reverie
Has a charm;
Her ringlets are in taste,—
What an arm! and what a waist
For an arm!
In bridal coronet,
Lace, ribbons, and coquette
Falbala;
Were Romney's limning true,
What a lucky dog were you,
Grandpapa!
Lace, ribbons, and coquette
Falbala;
Were Romney's limning true,
What a lucky dog were you,
Grandpapa!
Her lips are sweet as love,—
They are parting! Do they move?
Are they dumb?—
Her eyes are blue, and beam
Beseechingly, and seem
To say, "Come."
They are parting! Do they move?
Are they dumb?—
Her eyes are blue, and beam
Beseechingly, and seem
To say, "Come."
What funny fancy slips
From atween these cherry lips?
Whisper me,
Sweet deity, in paint,
What canon says I mayn't
Marry thee?
From atween these cherry lips?
Whisper me,
Sweet deity, in paint,
What canon says I mayn't
Marry thee?
That good-for-nothing Time
Has a confidence sublime!
When I first
Saw this lady, in my youth,
Her winters had, forsooth,
Done their worst.
Has a confidence sublime!
When I first
Saw this lady, in my youth,
Her winters had, forsooth,
Done their worst.
Her locks (as white as snow)
Once shamed the swarthy crow.
By-and-by,
That fowl's avenging sprite,
Set his cloven foot for spite
In her eye.
Once shamed the swarthy crow.
By-and-by,
That fowl's avenging sprite,
Set his cloven foot for spite
In her eye.
Her rounded form was lean,
And her silk was bombazine:—
Well I wot,
With her needles would she sit,
And for hours would she knit,—
Would she not?
And her silk was bombazine:—
Well I wot,
With her needles would she sit,
And for hours would she knit,—
Would she not?
Ah, perishable clay!
Her charms had dropt away
One by one.
But if she heaved a sigh
With a burthen, it was, "Thy
Will be done."
Her charms had dropt away
One by one.
But if she heaved a sigh
With a burthen, it was, "Thy
Will be done."
In travail, as in tears,
With the fardel of her years
Overprest,—
In mercy was she borne
Where the weary ones and worn
Are at rest.
With the fardel of her years
Overprest,—
In mercy was she borne
Where the weary ones and worn
Are at rest.
I'm fain to meet you there,—
If as witching as you were,
Grandmamma!
This nether world agrees
That the better it must please
Grandpapa.
If as witching as you were,
Grandmamma!
This nether world agrees
That the better it must please
Grandpapa.
O TEMPORA MUTANTUR!
