“Nec meus hic sermo est, sed quem præcepit.”
—HORACE.
There was a time, when I could feel
All passion’s hopes and fears;
And tell what tongues can ne’er reveal
By smiles and sighs and tears.
The days are gone! no more—no more
The cruel Fates allow;
And though I’m hardly twenty-four,—
I’m not a lover now.
Lady, the mist is on my sight,
The chill is on my brow;
My day is night, my bloom is blight;
I’m not a lover now!
I never talk about the clouds,
I laugh at girls and boys,
I’m growing rather fond of crowds,
And very fond of noise;
I never wander forth alone
Upon the mountain’s brow;
I weighed, last winter, sixteen stone;—
I’m not a lover now!
I never wish to raise a veil,
I never raise a sigh;
I never tell a tender tale,
I never tell a lie:
I cannot kneel, as once I did;
I’ve quite forgot my bow;
I never do as I am bid;—
I’m not a lover now!
I make strange blunders every day,
If I would be gallant;
Take smiles for wrinkles, black for grey,
And nieces for their aunt:
I fly from folly, though it flows
From lips of loveliest glow;
I don’t object to length of nose;—
I’m not a lover now!
I find my Ovid very dry,
My Petrarch quite a pill,
Cut Fancy for Philosophy,
Tom Moore for Mr. Mill.
And belles may read, and beaux may write,—
I care not who or how;
I burnt my Album, Sunday night;—
I’m not a lover now!
I don’t encourage idle dreams
Of poison or of ropes:
I cannot dine on airy schemes;
I cannot sup on hopes:
New milk, I own, is very fine,
Just foaming from the cow;
But yet I want my pint of wine;—
I’m not a lover now!
When Laura sings young hearts away,
I’m deafer than the deep;
When Leonora goes to play,
I sometimes go to sleep;
When Mary draws her white gloves out,
I never dance, I vow,—
“Too hot to kick one’s heel’s about!”
I’m not a lover now!
I’m busy, now, with state affairs;
I prate of Pitt and Fox;
I ask the price of rail-road shares,
I watch the turns of stocks.
And this is life! no verdure blooms
Upon the withered bough:
I save a fortune in perfumes;—
I’m not a lover now!
I may be yet, what others are,
A boudoir’s babbling fool,
The flattered star of Bench or Bar,
A party’s chief, or tool:—
Come shower or sunshine, hope or fear,
The palace or the plough,—
My heart and lute are broken here;—
I’m not a lover now!
Lady, the mist is on my sight,
The chill is on my brow;
My day is night, my bloom is blight
I’m not a lover now!