LIFE. THERE are who think this scene of life A frightful gladiatorial strife, A struggle for existence, Where class contends with class, and each Must plunder all within his reach, To earn his own subsistence. Shock'd at the internecine air Of this Arena, they forswear Its passions and its quarrels; They will not sacrifice, to live, All that to life its charms can give, Nor sell for bread their morals. TO A LADY. [On giving the writer a little bronze Cupid from Pompeii.] THANKS for thy little God of Love, Dug from Pompeii-whose fate 'tis, Henceforth to be install'd above My household Lares and Penates. Oh! could its lips of bronze unclose, Perchance, on that benighted day Of one whose mansion might display The choicest stores of classic taste. Of some one whose convivial board With all embellishments was deck'd, A constant feast of Intellect. Of one who, tho' she ne'er declined Loved more to fill her house and mind Of one who thus could give delight Whether unlearn'd or erudite, Of one, in short, resembling You! To the dark tomb, thou Pagan Sprite! Thrice welcome to this world of light, Where worshippers thou still wilt find. Methinks thy new abode is one Thou wilt not, Cupid! disapprove, For all my married life has run A lengthen'd course of constant love. Prompt me, thou type of higher hope! Until, in its ascending scope, It soar to social and divine. So, little Elf! shalt thou be eyed With double favour by thine owner, Both as a tutelary guide, And a memorial of thy donor. |