Ah! long ago it seems to me,
Those sweet old days of summer,
When I was young and fair was she,
And sorrow only rumor.

And all the world was less than naught
To me who had her favor;
For Time and Care had not then taught
How Life of Death hath savor.

And all the day the roving bees
Clung to the swinging clover,
And robins in the apple trees
Answered the faint-voiced plover.

And all the sounds were low and sweet;
The zephyrs left off roaming
In curving gambols o'er the wheat,
To kiss her in the gloaming.

I

'Mid glad green miles of tillage
And fields where cattle graze,
A prosy little village,
You drowse away the days.

And yet — a wakeful glory
Clings round you as you doze;
One living lyric story
Makes music of your prose.

Here once, returning never,
The feet of Song have trod;
And flashed — O, once forever! —
The singing Flame of God.

II

These were his fields Elysian:
With mystic eyes he saw
The sowers planting vision,
The reapers gleaning awe.

Serfs to a sordid duty,

God neuer had a church but there, men say,
The diuell a chapell hath rais'd by some wyles.
I doubted of this saw, till on a day
I westward spied great Edinbrough's Saint Gyles.

He who in his old age longeth after youth,
Say to him, " What dost thou that thou mockest at thy shame? "
He whose years are many and joins youth and age together,
Better than his case is that of the wild rue.
Now so gorged at table that his power is gone of eating,
Yet insatiable he turns his eyes on the food that is before him.
In their designs, in their behaviour, in their deeds,
Suspicious are all men of one another.
Now my beard is white, why should I fear death?
Gone have all my friends, though their hair was black, before me.

Straying one day amid the leafy bowers,
A Presence passed, masked in a sunny ray,
Tossing behind him carelessly the hours,
As one shakes blossoms from a ravished spray, —
Strewing them far and wide,
Nor glanced to either side.

A-sudden as he strolled he chanced upon
A flower which full within his pathway blew,
White as a lily, modest as a nun,
Sweeter than Lilith's rose in Eden grew —
Her beauty he espied,
Approached and softly sighed.

His breath the blossom stirred and all the air

O mother! thou art chang'd since erst
Thy love thine infant daughter nurst;
Sweet songs that infant daughter heard —
Another babe is now preferr'd.

When I was weak and young and small,
O! thou wert love and kindness all;
Now if a youth but speak to me,
I hear reproachful words from thee.

R EPROACH me not — my mother, now!
But let me take the marriage vow —
At love's soft name my bosom sighs,
And love is bursting from mine eyes.

Surely those are not thy cheeks which thy raven tresses cover!
Rather these are fresh shoots of the hiacynth lying amongst roses;
Long has been my search for thee, at last fortune has favoured me,
Such a mistress have I found that all men's tongues are in her praise.
Was it Kais or Wamak? Was it Farhad or Khusru?
All who knew love's troubles, a thousand blessings on each.
Mortals are but fleeting, there are none but those remaining
Whose names amidst this passing world are told in future stories.
Tales of others! What are they? To thyself they warning give.

He challenged all that came within his ken,
And Error held with steadfast mind aloof.
E'en Truth itself he put upon the proof:
Holding that Light was God's first gift to men.

A pleasant Passage often lurks
A midst the grave, in finish'd Works —
For Proof (a Proof is ne'er amiss)
Le Sieur Despreaux has left us this.

A canting Priest, of special Note
For leathern Lungs and brazen Throat,
Had got the Knack to draw Respect
From all of feeble Intellect;
And, without Learning, Wit, or Art,
To govern each old Woman's Heart.

From Time to Time his Audience grew —
From Time to Time their Tears he drew —
On no Occasion would he fail
To usher in a long Detail

Are there two hearts that are united, they will part in two a mountain,
To the union of two natures how many joys succumb?
Black must be her tresses, dimples she must have and jewels;
The face that is a fair one all men love to gaze upon it.
They who sincerely in this world love one another,
Trouble and good fortune to them are all alike.
People curse the Devil as the source of every evil,
Yet it is their own passions that rule all in their actions.
A hundred troubles round, the result of our own passions,