The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed With a Memoir by the Rev. Derwent Coleridge. Fourth Edition. In Two Volumes |
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WRITTEN UNDER A VIEW OF BERSTED LODGE, BOOKOR. |
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The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed | ||
372
LINES WRITTEN UNDER A VIEW OF BERSTED LODGE, BOOKOR.
If e'er again my wayward fate
Should bring me, Lady, to your gate,
The trees and flowers might seem as fair
As in remembered days they were;
But should I in their loved haunts find
The friends that were so bright and kind?
Should bring me, Lady, to your gate,
The trees and flowers might seem as fair
As in remembered days they were;
But should I in their loved haunts find
The friends that were so bright and kind?
My heart would seek with vain regret
Some tones and looks it dreams of yet;
I could not follow through the dance
The heroine of my first romance
At his own board I could not see
The kind old man that welcomed me.
Some tones and looks it dreams of yet;
I could not follow through the dance
The heroine of my first romance
At his own board I could not see
The kind old man that welcomed me.
When round the grape's rich juices pass,
Sir William does not drain his glass;
When music charms the listening throng,
“O Pescator” is not the song;
Queen Mab is ageing very fast,
And Cœlebs has a wife at last.
Sir William does not drain his glass;
When music charms the listening throng,
“O Pescator” is not the song;
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And Cœlebs has a wife at last.
I too am changed, as others are;
I'm graver, wiser, sadder far:
I study reasons more than rhymes,
And leave my Petrarch for the “Times,”
And turn from Laura's auburn locks
To ask my friend the price of stocks.
I'm graver, wiser, sadder far:
I study reasons more than rhymes,
And leave my Petrarch for the “Times,”
And turn from Laura's auburn locks
To ask my friend the price of stocks.
A wondrous song does Memory sing,
A merry—yet a mournful thing;
When thirteen years have fleeted by,
'Twere hard to say if you or I
Would gain or lose in smiles or tears,—
By just forgetting thirteen years.
A merry—yet a mournful thing;
When thirteen years have fleeted by,
'Twere hard to say if you or I
Would gain or lose in smiles or tears,—
By just forgetting thirteen years.
The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed | ||