PALINODIA.

“Nec meus hic sermo est, sed quem præcepit.” —Horace.

There was a time, when I could feel All passion’s hopes and fears; And tell what tongues can ne’er reveal By smiles and sighs and tears. The days are gone! no more—no more The cruel Fates allow; And though I’m hardly twenty-four,— I’m not a lover now. Lady, the mist is on my sight, The chill is on my brow; My day is night, my bloom is blight; I’m not a lover now! I never talk about the clouds, I laugh at girls and boys, I’m growing rather fond of crowds, And very fond of noise; I never wander forth alone Upon the mountain’s brow; I weighed, last winter, sixteen stone;— I’m not a lover now! I never wish to raise a veil, I never raise a sigh; I never tell a tender tale, I never tell a lie: I cannot kneel, as once I did; I’ve quite forgot my bow; I never do as I am bid;— I’m not a lover now! I make strange blunders every day, If I would be gallant; Take smiles for wrinkles, black for grey, And nieces for their aunt: I fly from folly, though it flows From lips of loveliest glow; I don’t object to length of nose;— I’m not a lover now! I find my Ovid very dry, My Petrarch quite a pill, Cut Fancy for Philosophy, Tom Moore for Mr. Mill. And belles may read, and beaux may write,— I care not who or how; I burnt my Album, Sunday night;— I’m not a lover now! I don’t encourage idle dreams Of poison or of ropes: I cannot dine on airy schemes; I cannot sup on hopes: New milk, I own, is very fine, Just foaming from the cow; But yet I want my pint of wine;— I’m not a lover now! When Laura sings young hearts away, I’m deafer than the deep; When Leonora goes to play, I sometimes go to sleep; When Mary draws her white gloves out, I never dance, I vow,— “Too hot to kick one’s heel’s about!” I’m not a lover now! I’m busy, now, with state affairs; I prate of Pitt and Fox; I ask the price of rail-road shares, I watch the turns of stocks. And this is life! no verdure blooms Upon the withered bough: I save a fortune in perfumes;— I’m not a lover now! I may be yet, what others are, A boudoir’s babbling fool, The flattered star of Bench or Bar, A party’s chief, or tool:— Come shower or sunshine, hope or fear, The palace or the plough,— My heart and lute are broken here;— I’m not a lover now! Lady, the mist is on my sight, The chill is on my brow; My day is night, my bloom is blight I’m not a lover now!