My Moral--Small People may read it, and run, (The child has my moral, the bear has my bun),-- Forbear to give pain, if it's only in jest, And care to think pleasure a phantom at best. A paradox too--none can hope to attach it, Yet if you pursue it you'll certainly catch it. THE CASTLE IN THE AIR. You shake your curls, and wonder why I build no Castle in the Sky; You smile, and you are thinking too, He's nothing else on earth to do. It needs Romance, my Lady Fair, To raise such fabrics in the air-- Ethereal brick, and rainbow beam, The gossamer of Fancy's dream, And much the architect may lack Who labours in the Zodiac To rear what I, from chime to chime, Attempted once upon a time. My Castle was a gay retreat In Air, that somewhat gusty shire, A cherub's model country seat,-- Could model cherub such require. Nor twinge nor tax existence tortured, The cherubs even spared my orchard! No worm destroyed the gourd I planted, And showers arrived when rain was wanted. I owned a range of purple mountain-- A sweet, mysterious, haunted fountain-- A terraced lawn--a summer lake, By sun- or moon-beam always burnished; And then my cot, by some mistake, Unlike most cots, was neatly furnished. A trellised porch--a pictured hall-- A Hebe laughing from the wall. Frail vases, Attic and Cathay. While under arms and armour wreathed In trophied guise, the marble breathed, A peering faun--a startled fay. And flowers that Love's own language spoke, Than these less eloquent of smoke, And not so dear. The price in town Is half a rose-bud--half-a-crown! And cabinets and chandeliers, The legacy of courtly years; And missals wrought by hooded monks, Who snored in cells the size of trunks, And tolled a bell, and told a bead, (Indebted to the hood indeed!) Stained windows dark, and pillowed light, Soft sofas, where the Sybarite In bliss reclining, might devour The best last novel of the hour. On silken cushion, happy starred, A shaggy Skye kept wistful guard: While drowsy-eyed, would dozing swing A parrot in his golden ring. All these I saw one blissful day, And more than now I care to name; Here, lately shut, that work-box lay, There, stood your own embroidery frame. And over this piano bent A Form from some pure region sent. Despair, some lively trope devise To prove the splendour of her eyes! Her mouth had all the rose-bud's hue-- A most delicious rose-bud too. Her auburn tresses lustrous shone, In massy clusters, like your own; And as her fingers pressed the keys, How strangely they resembled these!