On these mill’d rags—a change mysterious!—
I with a goose-quill must rehearse
Partly in jest, and partly serious,
Some foolish nonsense turn’d to verse.
I, who am wont my thoughts to utter
Upon thy rosy lips so fair
With kisses that like bright flames splutter
Up from my bosom’s inmost lair!
O fashion’s rage! If I’m a poet,
E’en by my wife I’m plagued at times
Until (and other minstrels know it)
I in her album scrawl some rhymes.
TO THE YOUNG.
Heed not the confusion, resist the illusion
Of golden apples that lie in thy way!
The swords are clashing, the arrows are flashing,
But they cannot long the hero delay.
A daring beginning is halfway to winning,
An Alexander once conquer’d the earth!
Restrain each soft feeling! the queens are all kneeling
In the tent, to reward thy victorious worth.
Surmounting each burden, we win as our guerdon
The bed of Darius of old, and his crown;
O deadly seduction! O blissful destruction!
To die thus in triumph in Babylon town!
THE UNBELIEVER.
Thou wilt repose within mine arms!
With rapturous emotion
My bosom heaves and throbs and thrills
At this delicious notion.