E’en the ambrosial-whisker’d flunkey Eyes thy boots and thine unkempt Beard and melancholy monkey More in pity than contempt. Far from England, in the sunny South, where Anio leaps in foam, Thou wast rear’d, till lack of money Drew thee from thy vineclad home: And thy mate, the sinewy Jocko, From Brazil or Afric came, Land of simoom and sirocco— And he seems extremely tame. There he quaff’d the undefilèd Spring, or hung with apelike glee, By his teeth or tail or eyelid, To the slippery mango-tree: There he woo’d and won a dusky Bride, of instincts like his own; Talk’d of love till he was husky In a tongue to us unknown: Side by side ’twas theirs to ravage The potato ground, or cut Down the unsuspecting savage With the well-aim’d cocoa-nut:— Till the miscreant Stranger tore him Screaming from his blue-faced fair; And they flung strange raiment o’er him, Raiment which he could not bear: Sever’d from the pure embraces Of his children and his spouse, He must ride fantastic races Mounted on reluctant sows: But the heart of wistful Jocko Still was with his ancient flame In the nutgroves of Morocco; Or if not it’s all the same. Grinder, winsome grinsome Grinder! They who see thee and whose soul Melts not at thy charms, are blinder Than a trebly-bandaged mole: They to whom thy curt (yet clever) Talk, thy music and thine ape, Seem not to be joys for ever, Are but brutes in human shape. ’Tis not that thy mien is stately, ’Tis not that thy tones are soft; ’Tis not that I care so greatly For the same thing play’d so oft: But I’ve heard mankind abuse thee; And perhaps it’s rather strange, But I thought that I would choose thee For encomium, as a change. CHANGED. I KNOW not why my soul is rack’d Why I ne’er smile as was my wont: I only know that, as a fact, I don’t. I used to roam o’er glen and glade Buoyant and blithe as other folk: And not unfrequently I made A joke. A minstrel’s fire within me burn’d, I’d sing, as one whose heart must break, Lay upon lay: I nearly learn’d To shake. All day I sang; of love, of fame, Of fights our fathers fought of yore, Until the thing almost became A bore. I cannot sing the old songs now! It is not that I deem them low; ’Tis that I can’t remember how They go. I could not range the hills till high Above me stood the summer moon: And as to dancing, I could fly As soon. The sports, to which with boyish glee I sprang erewhile, attract no more; Although I am but sixty-three Or four. Nay, worse than that, I’ve seem’d of late To shrink from happy boyhood—boys Have grown so noisy, and I hate A noise.