If life no more can yield us what it gave, It still is linked with much that calls for praises; A very worthless rogue may dig the grave, But hands unseen will dress the turf with daisies. TO MY GRANDMOTHER. (SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE BY MR. ROMNEY.) This relative of mine Was she seventy and nine When she died? By the canvas may be seen How she looked at seventeen,-- As a bride. Beneath a summer tree As she sits, her reverie Has a charm; Her ringlets are in taste,-- What an arm! and what a waist For an arm! In bridal coronet, Lace, ribbons, and _coquette Falbala_; Were Romney's limning true, What a lucky dog were you, Grandpapa! Her lips are sweet as love,-- They are parting! Do they move? Are they dumb?-- Her eyes are blue, and beam Beseechingly, and seem To say, "Come." What funny fancy slips From atween these cherry lips? Whisper me, Sweet deity, in paint, What canon says I mayn't Marry thee? That good-for-nothing Time Has a confidence sublime! When I first Saw this lady, in my youth, Her winters had, forsooth, Done their worst. Her locks (as white as snow) Once shamed the swarthy crow. By-and-by, That fowl's avenging sprite, Set his cloven foot for spite In her eye. Her rounded form was lean, And her silk was bombazine:-- Well I wot, With her needles would she sit, And for hours would she knit,-- Would she not? Ah, perishable clay! Her charms had dropt away One by one. But if she heaved a sigh With a burthen, it was, "Thy Will be done." In travail, as in tears, With the fardel of her years Overprest,-- In mercy was she borne Where the weary ones and worn Are at rest. I'm fain to meet you there,-- If as witching as you were, Grandmamma! This nether world agrees That the better it must please Grandpapa. O TEMPORA MUTANTUR! Yes, here, once more, a traveller, I find the Angel Inn, Where landlord, maids, and serving-men Receive me with a grin: They surely can't remember _me_, My hair is grey and scanter; I'm changed, so changed since I was here-- "O tempora mutantur!" The Angel's not much altered since That sunny month of June, Which brought me here with Pamela To spend our honeymoon! I recollect it down to e'en The shape of this decanter,-- We've since been both much put about-- "O tempora mutantur!" Ay, there's the clock, and looking-glass Reflecting me again; She vowed her Love was very fair-- I see I'm very plain. And there's that daub of Prince Leeboo: 'Twas Pamela's fond banter To fancy it resembled me-- "O tempora mutantur!"