Then other lovers came around you, Your beauty grew from year to year, And many a splendid circle found you The centre of its glimmering sphere. I saw you then, first vows forsaking, On rank and wealth your hand bestow; O, then I thought my heart was breaking!-- But that was forty years ago. And I lived on, to wed another: No cause she gave me to repine; And when I heard you were a mother, I did not wish the children mine. My own young flock, in fair progression, Made up a pleasant Christmas row: My joy in them was past expression; But that was thirty years ago. You grew a matron plump and comely, You dwelt in fashion's brightest blaze; My earthly lot was far more homely; But I too had my festal days. No merrier eyes have ever glisten'd Around the hearth-stone's wintry glow, Than when my youngest child was christen'd; But that was twenty years ago. Time pass'd. My eldest girl was married, And I am now a grandsire gray; One pet of four years old I've carried Among the wild-flower'd meads to play. In our old fields of childish pleasure, Where now, as then, the cowslips blow, She fills her basket's ample measure; And that is not ten years ago. But though first love's impassion'd blindness Has pass'd away in colder light, I still have thought of you with kindness, And shall do, till our last good-night. The ever-rolling silent hours Will bring a time we shall not know, When our young days of gathering flowers Will be an hundred years ago. Thomas Love Peacock. 1785-1866 594. The Grave of Love I DUG, beneath the cypress shade, What well might seem an elfin's grave; And every pledge in earth I laid, That erst thy false affection gave. I press'd them down the sod beneath; I placed one mossy stone above; And twined the rose's fading wreath Around the sepulchre of love. Frail as thy love, the flowers were dead Ere yet the evening sun was set: But years shall see the cypress spread, Immutable as my regret. Thomas Love Peacock. 1785-1866 595. Three Men of Gotham SEAMEN three! What men be ye? Gotham's three wise men we be. Whither in your bowl so free? To rake the moon from out the sea. The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine. And our ballast is old wine.-- And your ballast is old wine. Who art thou, so fast adrift? I am he they call Old Care. Here on board we will thee lift. No: I may not enter there. Wherefore so? 'Tis Jove's decree, In a bowl Care may not be.-- In a bowl Care may not be. Fear ye not the waves that roll? No: in charmed bowl we swim. What the charm that floats the bowl? Water may not pass the brim. The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine. And our ballast is old wine.-- And your ballast is old wine. Caroline Southey. 1787-1854 596. To Death COME not in terrors clad, to claim An unresisting prey: Come like an evening shadow, Death! So stealthily, so silently! And shut mine eyes, and steal my breath; Then willingly, O willingly, With thee I'll go away!