« PredošláPokračovať »
WHÁT race is it which a mán runs
Faster, faster, every moment,
RosaMOND, May 9, 1859.
I FOLLOW not the rhymer's trade;
To please, I have no zest;
Like bée's cell or bird's nest.
To please himself, Correggio drew;
To please myself, I write;
My verse is my delight.
ROSAMOND, Sept. 30, 1859,
EPITAPH FOR ANACREON.
God's providence in every thing is clear:
ROSAMOND, April 28, 1859.
LOYAL and full of confidence in princes,
Less loyal, I, and of small faith in princes
* Dublin, which has a statue of Moore, has none of Swift.
TRUTH AND FALSEHOOD.
“How canst thou doubt that Time 's my sire ?"
Said Truth to me, one day,
Far from the public way.
"I do not doubt,” said I, "for Time
Is Falsehood's sire, and she To Truth is so exceeding like,
Truth's sister she must be."
“For shame!" said Truth, “to taunt me so;"
And slipped her arm from mine; “The fault is not in me, but in
Those purblind eyes of thine,
“That do not, or that cannot, see
The difference between Truth's simple, unaffected air,
And Falsehood's studied mien."
So said, she turned, and left me there,
And I went on alone,
Her voice's silver tone.
Rejoiced, I turned about, and, lo!
Truth's radiant form was there,
And unembarrassed air.
“Welcome, sweet maid! we 're friends again,
Never to quarrel more.”
As good friends as before.
“Where hast thou been? This whole, long year.
I have sought thee up and down,
In country and in town.”
Full well I knew 't could not be Truth
Who held so wild discourse,
Shook Falsehood off by force;
And onward walked, with Nature's face
And mine own thoughts content, And none to tell, or true or false,
Which way it was I went. ROSAMOND, RATHGAR ROAD, DUBLIN, Sept. 27, 1859.
PHILOSOPHY'S LABOUR LOST.
"I don't mean to disturb the thorns and weeds,
“Glaubt mir, es ist kein Mährchen, die Quelle der Jugend, sie rinnet Wirklich und immer. Ihr fragt, wo? In der dichtenden Kunst."
ETERNAL youth cannot be and was never,
But men even now begin to call her, Sibyl.