"Alas! that tongue should start thus, in the race,
"Ere mind can reach and regulate its pace!--
"For, once outstript by tongue, poor, lagging mind,
"At every step, still further limps behind.
"But, bless the boy!--whate'er his wandering be,
"Still turns his heart to Toryism and me.
"Like those odd shapes, portrayed in Dante's lay.
"With heads fixt on, the wrong and backward way,
"His feet and eyes pursue a diverse track,
"While _those_ march onward, _these_ look fondly back."
And well she knew him--well foresaw the day,
Which now hath come, when snatched from Whigs away
The self-same changeling drops the mask he wore,
And rests, restored, in granny's arms once more.
But whither now, mixt brood of modern light
And ancient darkness, canst thou bend thy flight?
Tried by both factions and to neither true,
Feared by the _old_ school, laught at by the _new_;
For _this_ too feeble and for _that_ too rash,
_This_ wanting more of fire, _that_ less of flash,
Lone shalt thou stand, in isolation cold,
Betwixt two worlds, the new one and the old,
A small and "vext Bermoothes," which the eye
Of venturous seaman sees--and passes by.
A GHOST STORY.
To THE AIR OF "UNFORTUNATE MISS BAILEY."
1835.
Not long in bed had Lyndhurst lain,
When, as his lamp burned dimly,
The ghosts of corporate bodies slain,[1]
Stood by his bedside grimly.
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