I love to think that those I loved May gather round the bier Of him, who, whilst he erring proved, Still held them more than dear. My friends wax fewer day by day, Yes, one by one, they drop away, And if I shed no tear, Dear parted Shades, whilst life endures, This poor heart yearns for love--and yours! Will some who knew me, when I die, Shed tears behind the hearse? Will any one survivor cry, "I could have spared a worse-- We never spoke: we never met: I never heard his voice--and yet _I loved him for his verse_?" Such love would make the flowers wave In rapture on their poet's grave. One hundred years! They soon will leak Away--and leave behind A stone mossgrown, that none will seek, And none would care to find. Then I shall sleep, and find release In perfect rest--the perfect peace For which my soul has pined; Although the grave is dark and deep I know the Shepherd loves his sheep. VANITY FAIR. "_Vanitas vanitatum_" has rung in the ears Of gentle and simple for thousands of years; The wail is still heard, yet its notes never scare Or simple or gentle from Vanity Fair. I hear people busy abusing it--yet There the young go to learn and the old to forget; The mirth may be feigning, the sheen may be glare, But the gingerbread's gilded in Vanity Fair. Old Dives there rolls in his chariot, but mind _Atra Cura_ is up with the lacqueys behind; Joan trudges with Jack,--is his sweetheart aware What troubles await them in Vanity Fair? We saw them all go, and we something may learn Of the harvest they reap when we see them return; The tree was enticing,--its branches are bare,-- Heigh-ho, for the promise of Vanity Fair! That stupid old Dives! forsooth, he must barter His time-honoured name for a wonderful garter; And Joan's pretty face has been clouded with care Since Jack bought _her_ ribbons at Vanity Fair. Contemptible Dives! too credulous Joan! Yet we all have a Vanity Fair of our own;-- My son, you have yours, but you need not despair, Myself I've a weakness for Vanity Fair. Philosophy halts, wisest counsels are vain,-- We go--we repent--we return there again; To-night you will certainly meet with us there-- Exceedingly merry in Vanity Fair. THE LEGENDE OF SIR GYLES GYLES. Notissimum illud Phaedri, _Gallus quum tauro_. Uppe, lazie loon! 'tis mornynge prime, The cockke of redde redde combe This thrice hath crowed--'tis past the time To drive the olde bulle home. Goe fling a rope about his hornnes, And lead him safelie here: Long since Sir Gyles, who slumber scornes, Doth angle in the weir. And, knaves and wenches, stay your din, Our Ladye is astir: For hark and hear her mandolin Behynde the silver fir.