The curtains have been dyed; but there, Unbroken, is the same, The very same cracked pane of glass On which I scratched her name. Yes, there's her tiny flourish still, It used to so enchant her To link two happy names in one-- "O tempora mutantur!" * * * * * What brought this wanderer here, and why Was Pamela away? It might be she had found her grave, Or he had found her gay. The fairest fade; the best of men May meet with a supplanter;-- I wish the times would change their cry Of "tempora mutantur." REPLY TO A LETTER ENCLOSING A LOCK OF HAIR. "My darling wants to see you soon,"-- I bless the little maid, and thank her; To do her bidding, night and noon I draw on Hope--Love's kindest banker! _Old MSS._ If you were false, and if I'm free, I still would be the slave of yore, Then joined our years were thirty-three, And now,--yes now, I'm thirty-four! And though you were not learned--well, I was not anxious you should grow so,-- I trembled once beneath her spell Whose spelling was extremely so-so! Bright season! why will Memory Still haunt the path our rambles took; The sparrow's nest that made you cry,-- The lilies captured in the brook. I lifted you from side to side, You seemed as light as that poor sparrow; I know who wished it twice as wide, I think you thought it rather narrow. Time was,--indeed, a little while! My pony did your heart compel; But once, beside the meadow-stile, I thought you loved me just as well; I kissed your cheek; in sweet surprise Your troubled gaze said plainly, "Should he?" But doubt soon fled those daisy eyes,-- "He could not wish to vex me, could he?" As year succeeds to year, the more Imperfect life's fruition seems, Our dreams, as baseless as of yore, Are not the same enchanting dreams. The girls I love now vote me slow-- How dull the boys who once seemed witty! Perhaps I'm getting old--I know I'm still romantic--more's the pity! Ah, vain regret! to few, perchance, Unknown--and profitless to all: The wisely-gay, as years advance, Are gaily-wise. Whate'er befall We'll laugh--at folly, whether seen Beneath a chimney or a steeple, At yours, at mine--our own, I mean, As well as that of other people. They cannot be complete in aught, Who are not humorously prone, A man without a merry thought Can hardly have a funny-bone! To say I hate your gloomy men Might be esteemed a strong assertion, If I've blue devils, now and then, I make them dance for my diversion.