XII. There's nothing in the world (that is in Trinity) Of a fair face in woman, I protest I'm sick of this unvaried regularity Of whisker'd cheeks and chins of black barbarity. XIII. "Tis a vile world-a world of dung and draymen, XIV. In me these things breed legions of blue devils;— Looks none the sweeter for the thought that I XV. And that fond dream, which lured me on for ever And write my name on an enduring urn, Unquench'd, though aimless, hath not ceas'd to burn With self-exciting fire, and thirst supplied By longings which can ne'er be satisfied. XVI. Here am I now, at twenty-three, inditing My soul, to rush at famous destinies; No occupation for my pen more meet Than scribbling nonsense at so much per sheet. XVII. "Time's past”—I should have nurs'd the seed, and cherish'd XVIII. I should have been more cautious in my diet, And then my poems would have been divine. XIX. Affections, tastes, and impulses, which should, Under the care of Study and of Nature, Have fed my spirit with the proper food, And made it reach the true poetic stature. I should have then been strong, and wise, and good, Yet my friends like me still (at least I think so,) Which is the reason why I eat and drink so. XX. But thou, Ione, wilt thou not despise Thy poet, for this vain and heartless song?- Some thoughts which to a deeper vein belong, XXI. Oh! 'tis most true-too justly thou disdainest The wretch who still (though hopeless) half aspiresAlas! I know the heart, in which thou reignest, Should be a temple for all high desires, Pure thoughts, and noble darings;—not the vainest And yet could'st thou but know how thou hast been XXII. How, ere that silent phantom, which I fear'd, And, in my dim horizon, Hope appear'd, My spirit turn'd to thee, and hung with sighs On thy sweet image, in the region sphered Of its lost dreams and sainted memories; And how each meaner wish I did remove, XXIII. How, when fears rose, which I could not repress, That the mad revel, and the frantic brawl, And the pale harlot's passionless caress, Might soon my crush'd and grovelling soul enthral Through long, long years of toil and hopelessness, Till pleasure on my weary sense should pall, And crimes be to me more familiar things Than e'er were Fancy's dreams, or Faith's imaginings I said, XXIV. "This must not be; I still can cherish The inspiration of thy wild, wild eyes; Though hopes, once strong within me, wane and perish, Thy shrine is still unshaken-thou must be XXV. Could'st thou know thisBut why do I awaken Hath not each hope of my fond soul been shaken, And shall I still avert a lingering glance XXVI. Must I not waste the best years of my youth By the kind looks of love and constant truth, XXVII. "Wisdom doth live with children round her knees," Says Wordsworth; and he says what's very true; But then, to nurse the children, if you please, I'm very sure my Muse could never do; In the year twenty, when my blood was hot, I took the liberty to tell you so,— At least to hint some notions which I'd got Just then, that all your flash, and smoke, and glow, Was quite or very nearly-all my eye, A sort of barren fancy's tympany; XXIX. The passage I allude to you may find To tell me your intentions, and not drive a On a blind errand; tell me whether I've a Chance of succeeding in your trade, and whether You'll aid me soon, or cut me altogether. XXX. In fact, Miss Muse, there's been enough coquetting, And shut my Euclid up, and should be getting A point at which you'll own its nearly time XXXI. Therefore I tell you fairly, once for all, Then scampering off in your capricious mood; |