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“ Years after years have past away,
Less light and gladsome! Why
Run ever swiftest by ?”
The reply of an octogenarian (the elder D’Israeli) to a beautiful lady, who wrote him some verses on his birth-day, May 11, 1845. “ A wreath from a muse, a flower from a grace,
Are visions of fancy which memory can trace.
Addressed to Lady Blessington at Genoa by Lord Byron :
“ You have asked for a verse, the request
In a rhyme it were strange to deny;
And my feelings (its fountain) are dry.
What Lawrence has pencilled so well;
And the theme is too soft for my skill.
And the Bard in my bosom is dead ;
And my heart is as grey as my head.
There are moments which act as a plough,
But is deep in my heart as my brow.
"Let the young and the brilliant aspire
To sing, while I gaze on in vain ;
The string which was worthy the strain.”
Answer by Lady Blessington.
'Twas not vanity urged the desire;
No more can I poets inspire.
And the roses have fled from my cheek;
I the praise due to beauty should seek.
Of some saint, bear a relic away;
As a treasure, when distant I stray.
Whose chords can such rapture bestow,
From which music and poetry flow.
May have altered thy locks' jetty hue;
Hide the ravaging marks from our view."
Lines of Lord Erskine, for an inscription for a collar of a lap-dog of the Countess of Blessington :
« Whoever finds and don't forsake me,
Shall have nought in way of gains ;
And he shall see her for his pains."
Note accompanying lines to Lady Blessington, by Thomas Moore:
Sloperton, Feb. 19, 1834. “ MY DEAR LADY BLESSINGTON, “When persons like you condescend so to ask, how are poor poets to refuse? At the same time, I confess I have a horror of Albumizing, Annualizing, and Periodicalizing, which my one inglorious surrender (and for base money too) to that Triton of literature, Marryat, has but the more confirmed me in. At present, what with the weather and my history, I am chilled into a man of mere prose. But as July approaches, who knows but I may throw into song, and though-as O'Connell has a vow registered in heaven against pistols, so I have against periodicals; yet there are few, I must say, who could be more likely to make a man break this (or any vow) than yourself, if you thought it worth your while. .
“ And so with this gallant speech, which from a friend of a quarter of a century's date is not, I flatter myself, to be despised, “I am, my dear Lady Blessington,
“ Most truly yours,
“ THOMAS MOORE."
“ What shall I sing thee? shall I weave
of that sweet summer eve,
Verses for an album, written at the request of the Countess of Blessington, by George Colman.
“ August 1, 1819.
By writing crambo for 'em!
I must, of course, abhor 'em.
Was always fond of giving,
By which he makes his living.'
Mine is but Poetry's small beer, * " I believe it was to a piper ; but it sounds more poetical to say, to our own singing."-T. M.
And every line will shew it:
The Brewer and the Poet.
"Tis now no drudging duty,
Whose leaves, though I ne'er spied 'em, Are graced with verse from wits profest, Bards by Apollo highly blest; No doubt they've done their very best, How shall I look beside 'em ?
6. u Dare I, in lame and silly pride, Hobble where Rogers loves to glide ?
Whose sweetly simple measures Make enviers of Genius mad, Delight the moral, soothe the sad, Give Human life a zest, and add To Memory's greatest Pleasures.
That master, to a tittle,
Not half so Great as Little.