And dost thou think that years acquire New added joys? Dost think thy sire More happy than his son?

That manhood's mirth?--Oh, go thy ways To Drury-lane when--_plays_, And see _how forced_ our fun!

XVIII.

Thy taws are brave!--thy tops are rare!-- _Our_ tops are spun with coils of care, Our _dumps_ are no delight!-- The Elgin marbles are but tame, And 'tis at best a sorry game To fly the Muse's kite!

XIX.

Our hearts are dough, our heels are lead, Our topmost joys fall dull and dead Like balls with no rebound!

And often with a faded eye We look behind, and send a sigh Towards that merry ground!

XX.

Then be contented. Thou hast got The most of heaven in thy young lot; There's sky-blue in thy cup!

Thou'lt find thy Manhood all too fast-- Soon come, soon gone! and Age at last A sorry _breaking-up_!

SONG.

There is dew for the flow'ret[6]

And honey for the bee, And bowers for the wild bird, And love for you and me.

There are tears for the many And pleasures for the few; But let the world pass on, dear, There's love for me and you.

There is care that will not leave us, And pain that will not flee; But on our hearth unalter'd Sits Love--'tween you and me.

_Our_ love it ne'er was reckon'd, Yet good it is and true, It's _half_ the world to me, dear, It's _all_ the world to you.

[Footnote 6: The first two stanzas by Hood, the other two contributed by Barry Cornwall at the request of Mrs. Hood, with a view to the poem being set to music.]

THE WATER LADY.[7]

[Footnote 7: Suggested, according to Hood's son, by a water-color drawing by Keats's friend Severn.]

Alas, the moon should ever beam To show what man should never see!-- I saw a maiden on a stream, And fair was she!

I staid awhile, to see her throw Her tresses black, that all beset The fair horizon of her brow With clouds of jet.

I staid a little while to view Her cheek, that wore in place of red The bloom of water, tender blue, Daintily spread.

I staid to watch, a little space, Her parted lips if she would sing; The waters closed above her face With many a ring.

And still I staid a little more, Alas! she never comes again!

I throw my flowers from the shore, And watch in vain.

I know my life will fade away, I know that I must vainly pine, For I am made of mortal clay, But she's divine!

AUTUMN.

The Autumn is old, The sere leaves are flying;-- He hath gather'd up gold, And now he is dying;-- Old Age, begin sighing!

The vintage is ripe, The harvest is heaping;-- But some that have sow'd Have no riches for reaping;-- Poor wretch, fall a-weeping!

The year's in the wane, There is nothing adorning, The night has no eve, And the day has no morning;-- Cold winter gives warning.

The rivers run chill, The red sun is sinking, And I am grown old, And life is fast shrinking; Here's enow for sad thinking!

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.

I remember, I remember, The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day, But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away!

I remember, I remember, The roses, red and white, The violets, and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light!

The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburnum on his birthday,-- The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember, Where I was used to swing, And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing; My spirit flew in feathers then, That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow!

I remember, I remember, The fir trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky: It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm farther off from Heav'n Than when I was a boy.

THE POET'S PORTION.

What is a mine--a treasury--a dower-- A magic talisman of mighty power?

A poet's wide possession of the earth.

He has th' enjoyment of a flower's birth Before its budding--ere the first red streaks,-- And Winter cannot rob him of their cheeks.

Look--if his dawn be not as other men's!

Twenty bright flushes--ere another kens The first of sunlight is abroad--he sees Its golden 'lection of the topmost trees, And opes the splendid fissures of the morn.