 | The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury |  |
359
LAMENT (OF ONE OF THE OLD RÉGIME).
O the times will never be again
As they were when we were young:
When Scott was writing “Waverleys,”
And Moore and Byron sung;
When Harolds, Giaours, and Corsairs came
To charm us every year,
And “Loves” of “Angels” kissed Tom's cup,
While Wordsworth sipped small beer;
As they were when we were young:
When Scott was writing “Waverleys,”
And Moore and Byron sung;
When Harolds, Giaours, and Corsairs came
To charm us every year,
And “Loves” of “Angels” kissed Tom's cup,
While Wordsworth sipped small beer;
When Campbell drank of Helicon,
And didn't mix his liquor;
When Wilson's strong and steady light
Had not begun to flicker;
When Southey, climbing piles of books,
Mouthed “Curses of Kehama,”
And Coleridge in his dreams began
Strange oracles to stammer;
And didn't mix his liquor;
When Wilson's strong and steady light
Had not begun to flicker;
When Southey, climbing piles of books,
Mouthed “Curses of Kehama,”
And Coleridge in his dreams began
Strange oracles to stammer;
When Rogers sent his “Memory,”
Thus hoping to delight us,
Before he learned his mission was
To give feeds and invite us;
When James Montgomery's “weak tea” strains
Enchanted pious people,
Who didn't mind poetic haze,
If through it loomed a steeple;
Thus hoping to delight us,
Before he learned his mission was
To give feeds and invite us;
When James Montgomery's “weak tea” strains
Enchanted pious people,
Who didn't mind poetic haze,
If through it loomed a steeple;
When first reviewers learned to show
Their judgment without mercy;
When “Blackwood” was as young and lithe
As now he's old and pursy;
When Gifford, Jeffrey, and their clan
Could fix an author's doom,
And Keats was taught how well they knew
To kill, “à coup de plume.”
Their judgment without mercy;
360
As now he's old and pursy;
When Gifford, Jeffrey, and their clan
Could fix an author's doom,
And Keats was taught how well they knew
To kill, “à coup de plume.”
No women folk were rushing then
Up the Parnassian mount,
And seldom was a teacup dipped
In the Castalian fount;
Apollo kept no pursuivant
To cry out, “Place aux Dames!”
In life's round game they held good hands,
And didn't strive for palms.
Up the Parnassian mount,
And seldom was a teacup dipped
In the Castalian fount;
Apollo kept no pursuivant
To cry out, “Place aux Dames!”
In life's round game they held good hands,
And didn't strive for palms.
O, the world will never be again
What it was when we were young,
And shattered are the idols now
To which our boyhood clung;
Gone are the giants of those days
For whom our bays we twined,
And pigmies now kick up a dust
To show the “march of mind.”
What it was when we were young,
And shattered are the idols now
To which our boyhood clung;
Gone are the giants of those days
For whom our bays we twined,
And pigmies now kick up a dust
To show the “march of mind.”
| The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury | |