Chapter 10 of 32

p. 33ODE—‘ON A DISTANT PROSPECT’ OF MAKING A FORTUNE.

Now the “rosy morn appearing”
   Floods with light the dazzled heaven;
And the schoolboy groans on hearing
   That eternal clock strike seven:—
Now the waggoner is driving
   Towards the fields his clattering wain;
Now the bluebottle, reviving,
   Buzzes down his native pane.

But to me the morn is hateful:
   Wearily I stretch my legs,
Dress, and settle to my plateful
   Of (perhaps inferior) eggs.
Yesterday Miss Crump, by message,
   Mentioned “rent,” which “p’raps I’d pay;”
p. 34And I have a dismal presage
   That she’ll call, herself, to-day.

Once, I breakfasted off rosewood,
   Smoked through silver-mounted pipes—
Then how my patrician nose would
   Turn up at the thought of “swipes!”
Ale,—occasionally claret,—
   Graced my luncheon then:—and now
I drink porter in a garret,
   To be paid for heaven knows how.

When the evening shades are deepened,
   And I doff my hat and gloves,
No sweet bird is there to “cheep and
   Twitter twenty million loves:”
No dark-ringleted canaries
   Sing to me of “hungry foam;”
No imaginary “Marys”
   Call fictitious “cattle home.”

p. 35Araminta, sweetest, fairest!
   Solace once of every ill!
How I wonder if thou bearest
   Mivins in remembrance still!
If that Friday night is banished
   Yet from that retentive mind,
When the others somehow vanished,
   And we two were left behind:—

When in accents low, yet thrilling,
   I did all my love declare;
Mentioned that I’d not a shilling—
   Hinted that we need not care:
And complacently you listened
   To my somewhat long address—
(Listening, at the same time, isn’t
   Quite the same as saying Yes).

Once, a happy child, I carolled
   O’er green lawns the whole day through,
p. 36Not unpleasingly apparelled
   In a tightish suit of blue:—
What a change has now passed o’er me!
   Now with what dismay I see
Every rising morn before me!
   Goodness gracious, patience me!

And I’ll prowl, a moodier Lara,
   Through the world, as prowls the bat,
And habitually wear a
   Cypress wreath around my hat:
And when Death snuffs out the taper
   Of my Life, (as soon he must),
I’ll send up to every paper,
   “Died, T. Mivins; of disgust.”