LXXI. I thought of drowning, poison, shooting. My hopes, like routed ranks retreating, Left me the crust of sorrow eating, Till dawn of day, When sons of Mars their drums were beating Not far away.
LXXII. I heard the clash of bayonets ring— I ran—I flew on glory’s wing To serve my country, not my king, Nor served in vain; Our deeds the future bards will sing In epic strain.
LXXIII. To Jane Levay I bade adieu, And ere to manhood’s years I grew The tidings o’er the country flew That Jane was married; So overboard my hopes I threw, And single tarried.
LXXIV. Now, when I draw my pension fee I view it with an eye of glee, And think: “My courtship, ’tis to thee I owe this guerdon:” Then if I take a fortnight’s spree, I beg your pardon.
LXXV. My tale is told; and if my skill Has charmed away one earthly ill, Has made one aged bosom thrill, Let cynics frown, The few who know my follies will Not write them down.
LXXVI. For you, my boys, with ardent eyes, Whose nightly dreams and daily sighs Are urged by beauty’s maddening dyes And glossy curls, Till older—mark me!—I advise, Keep from the girls.
FEAR OF BLINDNESS.
A horror, like the darkness of the tomb, Came over me when told, That I might lose the brightness and the bloom, The blessed green and gold Of landscapes, and the circuit of the skies. If doomed such ill to bear,— If never more, indeed, these clouded eyes May taste their daily fare Of books and beauty’s charm, it were unwise To yield me to despair.