Ye halls on whose daïs the don of to-day is
To feed on the beef and the benison,
Ye common room glories, where beneficed Tories
Digest their belief and their venison,
Ye duels scholastic, where quibbles monastic
Are asserted with none to confute them,
Ye grave congregations, where frequent taxations
Are settled with none to dispute them:
Far hence be the season when radical treason
Of port and of puddings shall bilk ye;
When the weavers aforesaid shall taste of our boar’s head,
The silk-winders swallow our silky:
When the mob shall eat faster than any vice-master,
The watermen try to out-tope us;
When Campbell shall dish up a bowl of our bishop,
Or Brougham and Co. cope with our Copus.[7]
GOOD NIGHT.
Good night to thee, lady!—though many
Have join’d in the dance to-night,
Thy form was the fairest of any,
Where all was seducing and bright;
Thy smile was the softest and dearest,
Thy form the most sylph-like of all,
And thy voice the most gladsome and clearest
That e’er held a partner in thrall.
Good night to thee, lady!—’tis over—
The waltz, the quadrille, and the song—
The whisper’d farewell of the lover,
The heartless adieu of the throng;
The heart that was throbbing with pleasure,
The eyelid that long’d for repose—
The beaux that were dreaming of treasure,
The girls that were dreaming of beaux.
’Tis over—the lights are all dying,
The coaches all driving away;
And many a fair one is sighing,
And many a false one is gay;
And Beauty counts over her numbers
Of conquests, as homeward she drives—-
And some are gone home to their slumbers,
And some are gone home to their wives.
And I, while my cab in the shower
Is waiting, the last at the door
Am looking all around for the flower
That fell from your wreath on the floor,
I’ll keep it—if but to remind me,
Though withered and faded its hue—
Wherever next season may find me—
Of England—of Almack’s—and you!
There are tones that will haunt us, though lonely
Our path be o’er mountain or sea;
There are looks that will part from us only
When memory ceases to be;
There are hopes which our burden can lighten,
Though toilsome and steep be the way;
And dreams that, like moonlight, can brighten
With a light that is clearer than day.
There are names that we cherish, though nameless;
For aye on the lips they may be;
There are hearts that, though fetter’d, are tameless,
And thoughts unexpress’d, but still free!
And some are too grave for a rover,
And some for a husband too light.
—The ball and my dream are all over—
Good night to thee, lady! good night!