O fashion’s rage! If I’m a poet, E’en by my wife I’m plagued at times Until (and other minstrels know it) I in her album scrawl some rhymes. TO THE YOUNG. Heed not the confusion, resist the illusion Of golden apples that lie in thy way! The swords are clashing, the arrows are flashing, But they cannot long the hero delay. A daring beginning is halfway to winning, An Alexander once conquer’d the earth! Restrain each soft feeling! the queens are all kneeling In the tent, to reward thy victorious worth. Surmounting each burden, we win as our guerdon The bed of Darius of old, and his crown; O deadly seduction! O blissful destruction! To die thus in triumph in Babylon town! THE UNBELIEVER. Thou wilt repose within mine arms! With rapturous emotion My bosom heaves and throbs and thrills At this delicious notion. Thou wilt repose within mine arms, Whilst with thy fair gold tresses I sport, and thy dear darling head My shoulder gently presses! Thou wilt repose within mine arms! To truth will turn my vision, And here on earth shall I enjoy The highest bliss elysian. St. Thomas! Scarce can I believe The fact, my doubts will linger Until upon my rapture’s wounds I lay my eager finger. WHITHER NOW? Whither now? my stupid foot Fain to Germany would guide me; But my reason shakes its head Wisely, seeming thus to chide me: “Ended is the war indeed, “But they still keep up courts-martial, “And to writing things esteem’d “Shootable, thou’rt far too partial.” That’s quite true, and being shot Has for me no great attractions; I’m no hero, and unskill’d In pathetic words and actions. Fain to England would I go, View’d I not with such displeasure Englishmen and coals--their smell Makes me sick beyond all measure. To America methinks I would sail the broad seas over; To that place of freedom where All alike may live in clover, Did I not detest a land Where tobacco’s ’mongst their victuals, Where they never use spittoons, And so strangely play at skittles. Russia, that vast empire fair, Might be tolerably pleasant, But I should not like the knout That’s their usual winter present. Sadly gaze I up on high, Where the countless stars are gleaming, But I nowhere can discern Where my own bright star is beaming. Perhaps in heaven’s gold labyrinth It has got benighted lately, As I on this bustling earth Have myself been wandering greatly. AN OLD SONG. Thou now art dead, and thou knowest it not, The light of thine eyes is quench’d and forgot; Thy rosy mouth is pallid for ever, And thou art dead, and wilt live again never.