They'd seen the sun descend, the blending hues,
Rich, in succession, come, then fade away,
Regretting that such splendour they should lose
With the departure of the solar ray;
Do we not note this every dawning day—
That beauty is short-lived and soon must pass?
More beautiful, more wasted by decay,
We see it and we cry “Alas! Alas!
Our days are as a tale that is told—we are but grass!”
LXXII.
I will apply a philosophic rule
Which, like most rules, admits of some exception,
But I was no philosopher at school,
I'll tell you that much so there's no deception,
In fact, a perfect dunce, you've no conception—
But that you'll say is foreign to my tail,
I thank you for your generous correction,
I copied all my masters to a nail,
Yet no one ever asked me if I was for sale.
LXXIII.
Who was it said Variety was Beauty
Or Beauty was Variety?—no matter,
To recollect his name is not my duty,
It may have been Theocritus's hatter,
For aught I know, my brains are in a batter,
I'm older than I used to be by far,
Yet, joking all aside, myself I flatter
My faculties are lively as they are,
And yet—let's see—who was that Philosophic Star?
LXXIV.
I can't think—never mind. But I maintain
That Beauty is Variety (and I
Emphatically say the same again)
Just now it doesn't matter how or why:
If anybody wishes to deny
That this is true—then—let him come and prove it,
If anyone has doubt of it, I'll try—
I'll do my very utmost to remove it.
If 'twere a lie most certainly I should reprove it.
LXXV.
It is when Autumn sweeps the frosty plain
And tips the woods with flaming hues, that I
Delight to pause and gaze and gaze again
Where varied tints the landscape beautify;
It is the smirking maiden's nut-brown eye,
Fair skin all traversed by the tender blue,
Her cherry cheeks and lips that make me sigh,
Besides her snowy teeth—now don't they you?
That's right, I knew that you'd agree, of course they do.
LXXVI.