« 上一頁繼續 »
ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF CLAPHAM
Au me! those old familiar bounds!
My pensive thought recalls !
Within yon irksome walls !
Aye, that's the very house! I know
Its chimneys in the rear!
And turn’d our table-beer!
There I was birch'd! there I was bred!
From Learning's woful tree!
* No connection with any other Ode.
The summon'd class !—the awful bow !-
And wholesome anguish sheds !
Have nothing in their heads !
And Mrs. S*** ?-Doth she abet (Like Pallas in the parlour) yet
Some favour'd two or three,The little Crichtons of the hour, Her muffin-medals that devour,
And swill her prize—bohea ?
Aye, there's the playground! there's the lime,
So wildly I have read !
Of Love and Cottage-bread ?
Who struts the Randall of the walk ?
Who scoops the light canoe ?
Hal Baylis ? blithe Carew ?
Alack! they're gone-a thousand ways !
And some have perish'd young — Jack Harris weds his second wife ; Hal Baylis drives the wayne of life;
And blithe Carew-is hung!
Grave Bowers teaches A B C
Poor Chase is with the worms !
“ And push us from our forms ! ”
Lo! where they scramble forth, and shout,
At play where we have play'd !
And some are in the shade!
Lo there what mix'd conditions run !
And Fortune's favour'd care-
The Nabob's pamper'd heir!
Some brightly starr'd—some evil born,
For fair or foul renown!
Look, here's a White, and there's a Black !
And there's a Creole brown!
Some laugh and sing, some mope and weep,
Their only sons at home ;-
And pant for years to come!
A foolish wish! There's one at hoop;
The marble taw to speed !
Would I were in his steed!
Yet he would gladly halt and drop
With this world's heavy van-
To wish to be a man !
Perchance-thou deem 'st it were a thing
And sleep on regal down!
That hat without a crown!
And dost thou think that years acquire
More happy than his son ?
And see how forced our fun !
Thy taws are brave !—thy tops are rare !— Our tops are spun with coils of care,
Our dumps are no delight ! The Elgin marbles are but tame, And 'tis at best a sorry game
To fly the Muse's kite!
Our hearts are dough, our heels are lead,
Like balls with no rebound !
Towards that merry ground !
Then be contented. Thou hast got
There's sky-blue in thy cup!
A sorry breaking up!