When some mad poet stops to muse
About the moonlight and the dews,
The Fairies and the Fauns,
He’s apt to think, he’s apt to swear,
That Cupid reigns not anywhere
Except in groves and lawns,
That none have vulnerable livers
But bards who haunt the banks of rivers,
That none are fair enough for witches
But maids who roam through dells and ditches,
That dreams are twice as sweet as dances,
That cities never breed romances,
That Beauty always keeps a cottage,
And Innocence grows pure on pottage.
Yes! those dear dreams are all divine;
And those dear dreams have all been mine;
I like the dawning of the day,
I like the smell of new-mown hay,
I like the peaches and the posies,—
But chiefly, when the season closes,
I wander from my drowsy desk
To revel in the picturesque,
To hear beneath those hoary trees
The far-off murmur of the seas,
Or trace yon river’s many channels
With Petrarch, and a brace of spaniels,
Combining foolish rhymes together,
And killing sorrow, and shoe-leather.
Then, as I see some village maid
Go dancing down the sunny glade,
Coquetting with her fond adorer
As nobler dames have done before her,
“Give me,” I cry, “the quiet bliss
Of souls like these, of scenes like this;
Where damsels eat and sleep in peace,
Where gallants never heard of Greece,
Where day is day, and night is night,
Where frocks—and morals—both are white;
Blue eyes below—blue skies above—
Here are the homes, the hearts, for Love!”
But this is idle; I have been
A sojourner in many a scene,
And picked up wisdom in my way,
And cared not what I had to pay;
Smiling and weeping all the while,
As other people weep and smile;
And I have learnt that Love is not
Confined to any hour or spot;
He lights the smile and fires the frown
Alike in desert and in town.
I think fair faces not more fair
In Peebles, than in Portman Square,
And glances not a ray more bright
In moonbeams, than in candle-light;
I think much witchcraft oft reposes
In wreaths of artificial roses,
And ringlets—I have ne’er disdained them
Because the barber has profaned them;
I’ve been half mad with half a million
Whose legs have never crossed a pillion,
Whose hands have never dressed a salad,
Whose lips have never sung a ballad:
I think that many a modern dance
Breeds pretty subjects for romance;
And many a concert has its springs
For breaking hearts as well as strings:
In short, I’m very sure that all
Who seek or sigh for Beauty’s thrall
May breathe their vows, and feed their passion,
Though whist and waltzing keep in fashion,
And make the most enchanting sonnets,
In spite of diamonds, and French bonnets!