The Poetical Works of Laman Blanchard With a Memoir by Blanchard Jerrold |
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THE TOUR OF LOVE AND TIME.
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 | The Poetical Works of Laman Blanchard |  |
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THE TOUR OF LOVE AND TIME.
Long since, as tradition unravels,
Love, weary of Venus's eyes,
With Time started off on his travels,
To make the grand tour of the skies;
But, though they departed together,
To keep side by side was in vain;
Love basked in the fine sunny weather,
While Time was seen trudging through rain.
Love, weary of Venus's eyes,
With Time started off on his travels,
To make the grand tour of the skies;
But, though they departed together,
To keep side by side was in vain;
Love basked in the fine sunny weather,
While Time was seen trudging through rain.
Love, calling and panting, long after
Came up with him, ready to drop;
And pleaded, with song and sweet laughter,
But could not persuade Time to stop.
Old Obstinate paused not a minute,
Though round him there grew in his march
A cloud with Jove's thunderbolt in it,
Or Iris threw o'er him her arch.
Came up with him, ready to drop;
And pleaded, with song and sweet laughter,
But could not persuade Time to stop.
Old Obstinate paused not a minute,
Though round him there grew in his march
A cloud with Jove's thunderbolt in it,
Or Iris threw o'er him her arch.
‘Come skip me a twelvemonth, old fellow,
And call it a leap-year, you know!
Look round us—blue, red, green, and yellow—
I must have some sport as we go.
Why travel while noon burns above there?
Now let us wait here till it's dark,—
Just stop while I aim at yon dove there,—
If not,—well, I must have a lark.’
And call it a leap-year, you know!
Look round us—blue, red, green, and yellow—
I must have some sport as we go.
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Now let us wait here till it's dark,—
Just stop while I aim at yon dove there,—
If not,—well, I must have a lark.’
Now swift as the thought that comes o'er him,
Love snatched Time's scythe as he mows;
He crops not one blossom before him,
But cuts all the thorns from the rose.
Still Time plodded on up the mountain,
Ne'er raising his eyes from the dust;
While Love stays to drink at a fountain,
And drops the scythe in it—to rust.
Love snatched Time's scythe as he mows;
He crops not one blossom before him,
But cuts all the thorns from the rose.
Still Time plodded on up the mountain,
Ne'er raising his eyes from the dust;
While Love stays to drink at a fountain,
And drops the scythe in it—to rust.
But Time, in due course, nothing reaping,
Again to the fountain came round;
The scythe is once more in his keeping,
For Love lay asleep on the ground.
He woke, and but two moments reckoned,
To seize on Time's glass and escape;
Love poured out its sand in a second,
And filled it with juice from the grape.
Again to the fountain came round;
The scythe is once more in his keeping,
For Love lay asleep on the ground.
He woke, and but two moments reckoned,
To seize on Time's glass and escape;
Love poured out its sand in a second,
And filled it with juice from the grape.
Time now, o'er the hills and the levels,
Guessed minutes by mere grains of sand,
Till, when the thief dropped 'mid his revels,
The glass was restored to his hand.
Then Love to the Fairies flew frantic,
Possessed with a project sublime;
Brought scissors, and, desperate antic!
Cut off the white beard of old Time.
Guessed minutes by mere grains of sand,
Till, when the thief dropped 'mid his revels,
The glass was restored to his hand.
Then Love to the Fairies flew frantic,
Possessed with a project sublime;
Brought scissors, and, desperate antic!
Cut off the white beard of old Time.
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Day and Night saw the woeful disaster,—
Time stood, from astonishment, still;
The Hours didn't know their own master,
But frolicked about at their will.
Eight and Nine were at Sixes and Sevens,
Twelve struck before Three had begun;
Five changed her old post for Eleven's,
While Love kissed Eleven for One.
Time stood, from astonishment, still;
The Hours didn't know their own master,
But frolicked about at their will.
Eight and Nine were at Sixes and Sevens,
Twelve struck before Three had begun;
Five changed her old post for Eleven's,
While Love kissed Eleven for One.
In turn all disclaimed their old father,
Though some said they thought he was like;
And none were for striking—the rather.
Because 'twas a general strike.
Jove, now, looking down on these gambols,
Saw Chaos resuming his state,—
And so put an end to Love's rambles,
While waltzing intensely with Eight.
Though some said they thought he was like;
And none were for striking—the rather.
Because 'twas a general strike.
Jove, now, looking down on these gambols,
Saw Chaos resuming his state,—
And so put an end to Love's rambles,
While waltzing intensely with Eight.
‘Your tour, crazy Love, has its dangers,
And here it must end,’ said the god;
‘Henceforth, you and Time must be strangers,
Or, meeting, pass on with a nod.
Time, ev'ry brief instant is dying,
While you have a life without end;
Your visits to him must be flying—
Eternity claims you—ascend!’
And here it must end,’ said the god;
‘Henceforth, you and Time must be strangers,
Or, meeting, pass on with a nod.
Time, ev'ry brief instant is dying,
While you have a life without end;
Your visits to him must be flying—
Eternity claims you—ascend!’
1843.
| The Poetical Works of Laman Blanchard | |