At length broke under me; and now has left me,
Weary and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me. 
Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye: 
I feel my heart new opened.  O, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes’ favors! 
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have: 
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.

SHAKESPEARE.

THE APPROACH OF AGE.

     FROM “TALES OF THE HALL.”

Six years had passed, and forty ere the six,
When Time began to play his usual tricks: 
The locks once comely in a virgin’s sight,
Locks of pure brown, displayed the encroaching white;
The blood, once fervid, now to cool began,
And Time’s strong pressure to subdue the man. 
I rode or walked as I was wont before,
But now the bounding spirit was no more;
A moderate pace would now my body heat,
A walk of moderate length distress my feet. 
I showed my stranger guest those hills sublime,
But said, “The view is poor, we need not climb.” 
At a friend’s mansion I began to dread
The cold neat parlor and the gay glazed bed;
At home I felt a more decided taste,
And must have all things in my order placed. 
I ceased to hunt; my horses pleased me less,—­
My dinner more; I learned to play at chess. 
I took my dog and gun, but saw the brute
Was disappointed that I did not shoot. 
My morning walks I now could bear to lose,
And blessed the shower that gave me not to choose. 
In fact, I felt a languor stealing on;
The active arm, the agile hand, were gone;
Small daily actions into habits grew,
And new dislike to forms and fashions new. 
I loved my trees in order to dispose;
I numbered peaches, looked how stocks arose;
Told the same story oft,—­in short, began to prose.

GEORGE CRABBE.

STANZAS

     WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES.

  The sun is warm, the sky is clear,
  The waves are dancing fast and bright,
  Blue isles and snowy mountains wear
  The purple noon’s transparent light: 
  The breath of the moist air is light
  Around its unexpanded buds;
  Like many a voice of one delight,—­
  The winds’, the birds’, the ocean-floods’,—­
The City’s voice itself is soft like Solitude’s.

  I see the Deep’s untrampled floor
  With green and purple sea-weeds strown;
  I see the waves upon the shore
  Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown: 
  I sit upon the sands alone;
  The lightning of the noontide ocean
  Is flashing round me, and a tone
  Arises from its measured motion,—­
How sweet, did any heart now share in my emotion!