by Edmund Yates.
Originally published in Temple Bar–A London Magazine for Town and Country Readers (Ward and Lock) vol.2 #8 (Jul 1861).
No Times! no book!—and I must wait
A full half-hour 'ere Doldrum comes!
Brown would find pictures in the grate,
Jones watch the twirling of his thumbs:
Both noble aims; but, after all,
E'en such delights are apt to pall:—
Confound the stupid place!
What shall I do the time to pass?
I'll give five minutes to the glass,
And contemplate my face.
My face! Is this long strip of skin,
Which bears of worry many a trace,
Of sallow hue, of features thin,
This mass of seams and lines, my face?
The aspect's bad, the glass is wrong,
Some cheating ray must fall along
The surface of the plate!
I've known myself now forty year,
Yet never saw myself appear
In such a sorry state.
I'll speak to Doldrum—wait awhile!
Let's think a bit before deciding.
Of late I've noticed Nelly's smile
Has been less kind and more deriding.
Can I be growing old? Can youth
Have said farewell? The simple truth
I'll have, no doubt concealing;
Straightway I'll put my heart to school,
And though I find I've played the fool,
I'll speak out every feeling.
When introduced to Minnie Blair
Last night, on waltzing purpose bent,
I saw that rosebud smile and stare,
Half pity, half astonishment.
"Engaged," she murmured as I bowed;
But 'ere I mingled with the crowd,
I caught her muttered word—
"I waltz with him! How can Grace bring
Me such a pompous stout old thing?
She's really too absurd!"
A "stout old thing!" Oh, Lucy, love,
Ten long years resting in the grave,
Whose simply-sculptured tomb above
The feathery-tufted grasses wave,—
Couldst thou hear such a term applied
To him who won thee for his bride,
Whose heart for thee nigh broke?
Round whose slim neck thine arm would twine
As round the elm the eglantine,
Or ivy round the oak.
'Twas but last week, in Truefitt's shop,
A man, with aspect grave and calm,
Said I was "thinning at the top,"
And recommended some one's Balm!
What "balm in Gilead" could recall
The mother's touch that used to fall
Upon my childish brow?
That soft sweet hand that used to toy
With thick curl-clusters of her boy—
Where is that mother now?
Gone is my hack, my gallant roan,
Too hot for use. I've in his place
A cob "well up to fourteen stone,"
Of ambling gait and easy pace.
The arm that stopped the Slasher's blow,
Or clave Rhine's flood, hangs listless now,
No grist to any "mill."
The legs so stalwart and so strong,
Which, all unfaltering, climbed Mont Blanc,
Scarce crawl up Primrese Hill.
My heart!—my what?—ten years have passed,
Ten dreary years of London life
And worldly selfishness, since last
My heart was quickened in Love's strife:
A look would make my pulses dance;
How swift would dim my bright eye's glance
When Grief turned on her main!
Naught makes my eye now brightly glow
Save Mumm's Moselle, or Clos Vougeot,
Or Veuve Clicquot's champagne.
Yet I have known—ay, I have known,
If e'er 'twere given to mortal here,
The pleasure of the lowered tone,
The whisper in the trellised ear;
The furtive touch of tiny feet,
The heart's wild effervescing beat,
The maddened pulses' play:
Those hearts are now all still and cold,
Those feet are 'neath the churchyard mould,
And I—have had my day!
What! quiv'ring lips and eyelids wet
At recollection of the dead!
No well-bred man should show regret
Though Youth, though Love, though Hope be fled!
Ha! Doldrum, man, come back! What news?
So Frank's gazetted to the Blues!
And Jack's got his divorce.
I'll toddle down towards the Club;
A cutlet—then our usual "rub"—
You'll join us there, of course!