Now as a greybeard I sit here in state,

By street and by lane held in awe, sirs;
And may be seen, like old Frederick the Great,

On pipebowls, on cups, and on saucers. 
Yet the beauteous maidens, they keep afar;
Oh vision of youth!  Oh golden star!

1826.
-----
For ever.

The happiness that man, whilst prison’d here,

Is wont with heavenly rapture to compare,—­
The harmony of Truth, from wavering clear,—­

Of Friendship that is free from doubting care,—­
The light which in stray thoughts alone can cheer

The wise,—­the bard alone in visions fair,—­
In my best hours I found in her all this,
And made mine own, to mine exceeding bliss.

1820.*
-----
From an album of 1604.

Hope provides wings to thought, and love to hope. 
Rise up to Cynthia, love, when night is clearest,
And say, that as on high her figure changeth,
So, upon earth, my joy decays and grows. 
And whisper in her ear with modest softness,
How doubt oft hung its head, and truth oft wept. 
And oh ye thoughts, distrustfully inclined,
If ye are therefore by the loved one chided,
Answer:  ’tis true ye change, but alter not,
As she remains the same, yet changeth ever. 
Doubt may invade the heart, but poisons not,
For love is sweeter, by suspicion flavour’d. 
If it with anger overcasts the eye,
And heaven’s bright purity perversely blackens,
Then zephyr-sighs straight scare the clouds away,
And, changed to tears, dissolve them into rain. 
Thought, hope, and love remain there as before,
Till Cynthia gleams upon me as of old.

1820.*
-----
Lines on seeing Schiller’s skull.

[This curious imitation of the ternary metre of Dante was written at the age of 77.]

Within a gloomy charnel-house one day

I view’d the countless skulls, so strangely mated,
And of old times I thought, that now were grey.

Close pack’d they stand, that once so fiercely hated,
And hardy bones, that to the death contended,

Are lying cross’d,—­to lie for ever, fated. 
What held those crooked shoulder-blades suspended?

No one now asks; and limbs with vigour fired,
The hand, the foot—­their use in life is ended.

Vainly ye sought the tomb for rest when tired;
Peace in the grave may not be yours; ye’re driven

Back into daylight by a force inspired;
But none can love the wither’d husk, though even

A glorious noble kernel it contained. 
To me, an adept, was the writing given

Which not to all its holy sense explained,
When ’mid the crowd, their icy shadows flinging,

I saw a form, that glorious still remained. 
And even there, where mould and damp were clinging,