Yes, you, you only, Lady Fair, Adorned a Castle in the Air, Where life, without the least foundation, Became a charming occupation. We heard, with much sublime disdain, The far-off thunder of Cockaigne; And saw, through rifts of silver cloud, The rolling smoke that hid the crowd. With souls released from earthly tether, We hymned the tender moon together. Our sympathy from night to noon Rose crescent with that crescent moon; The night was shorter than the song, And happy as the day was long. We lived and loved in cloudless climes, And even died (in verse) sometimes. Yes, you, you only, Lady Fair, Adorned my Castle in the Air. Now, tell me, could you dwell content In such a baseless tenement? Or could so delicate a flower Exist in such a breezy bower? Because, if you would settle in it, 'Twere built for love, in half a minute. What's love? Why love (for two) at best, Is only a delightful jest; But sad indeed for one or three, --I wish you'd come and jest with me. You shake your head and wonder why The cynosure of dear Mayfair Should lend me even half a sigh Towards building Castles in the Air. "I've music, books, and all you say, To make the gravest lady gay. I'm told my essays show research, My sketches have endowed a church; I've partners who have brilliant parts, I've lovers who have broken hearts. Poor Polly has not nerves to fly, And why should Mop return to Skye? To realize your _tete-a-tete_ Might jeopardize a giddy pate; As grief is not akin to guilt, I'm sorry if your Castle's built." Ah me--alas for Fancy's flights In noonday dreams and waking nights! The pranks that brought poor souls mishap When baby Time was fond of pap; And still will cheat with feigning joys, While ladies smile, and men are boys. The blooming rose conceals an asp, And bliss, coquetting, flies the grasp. How vain the prize that pleased at first! But myrtles fade, and bubbles burst. The cord has snapt that held my kite;-- My friends neglect the books I write, And wonder why the author's spleeny! I dance, but dancing's not the thing; They will not listen though I sing "Fra poco," almost like Rubini! The poet's harp beyond my reach is, The Senate will not stand my speeches, I risk a jest,--its point of course Is marred by some disturbing force; I doubt the friends that Fortune gave me; But have I friends from whom to save me? Farewell,--can aught for her be willed Whose every wish is all fulfilled? Farewell,--could wishing weave a spell, There's promise in the word "farewell."