The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed With a Memoir by the Rev. Derwent Coleridge. Fourth Edition. In Two Volumes |
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STANZAS
WRITTEN IN A COPY OF LILLIAN, |
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 | The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed |  |
277
STANZAS WRITTEN IN A COPY OF LILLIAN,
SENT TO A LADY IN EXCHANGE FOR TWO DRAWINGS ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE POEM.
The gifts the Rhymer begs to-day
Shall long be dear to him,
When Passion's glow shall pass away,
And Fancy's light grow dim,
And nought remain of boyhood's schemes,
But Sorrow's tears, and Memory's dreams.
Shall long be dear to him,
When Passion's glow shall pass away,
And Fancy's light grow dim,
And nought remain of boyhood's schemes,
But Sorrow's tears, and Memory's dreams.
Yes, dear the gifts shall ever be;
For Humour there hath flung
A spell of magic witchery
On all he thought and sung,
And blended in a living dance
The creatures of his own romance.
For Humour there hath flung
A spell of magic witchery
On all he thought and sung,
And blended in a living dance
The creatures of his own romance.
E'en he might shudder at the sight
Of his own monster's feast;
E'en he might feel a sweet affright,
As, ruling the rude beast,
His own fair damsel skims the sea
In all her headless ecstacy.
Of his own monster's feast;
E'en he might feel a sweet affright,
As, ruling the rude beast,
His own fair damsel skims the sea
In all her headless ecstacy.
278
These gifts shall be unfading signs
That, in his early days,
Some beaming eyes could read his lines,
Some beauteous lips could praise;
Fair Lady, from the cup of bliss
He wants and wishes only this!
That, in his early days,
Some beaming eyes could read his lines,
Some beauteous lips could praise;
Fair Lady, from the cup of bliss
He wants and wishes only this!
For he was born a wayward boy,
To laugh when hopes deceive him,
To grasp at every fleeting joy,
And jest at all that leave him,
To love a quirk, and loathe a quarrel,
And never care a straw for laurel.
To laugh when hopes deceive him,
To grasp at every fleeting joy,
And jest at all that leave him,
To love a quirk, and loathe a quarrel,
And never care a straw for laurel.
And thus, the creature of a day,
And rather fool than knave,
And either very gravely gay
Or very gaily grave,
He cares for nought but wit and wine,
And flatteries,—such as this of thine!
And rather fool than knave,
And either very gravely gay
Or very gaily grave,
He cares for nought but wit and wine,
And flatteries,—such as this of thine!
| The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed | |