Is human life a pleasant game That gives a palm to all? A fight for fortune, or for fame? A struggle, and a fall?
Who views the Past, and all he prized, With tranquil exultation? And who can say, I've realised My fondest aspiration?
Alas, not one! for rest assured That all are prone to quarrel With Fate, when worms destroy their gourd, Or mildew spoils their laurel:
The prize may come to cheer our lot, But all too late — and granted ‘ Tis even better — still‘ tis not Exactly what we wanted.
My school-boy time! I wish to praise That bud of brief existence, The vision of my youthful days Now trembles in the distance.
An envious vapour lingers here, And there I find a chasm; But much remains, distinct and clear, To sink enthusiasm.
Such thoughts just now disturb my soul With reason good — for lately I took the train to Marley-knoll, And crossed the fields to Mately.
I found old Wheeler at his gate, Who used rare sport to show me: My Mentor once on snares and bait — But Wheeler did not know me.
“Goodlord!” at last exclaimed the churl, “Are you the little chap, sir, What used to train his hair in curl, And wore a scarlet cap, sir?”
And then he fell to fill in blanks, And conjure up old faces; And talk of well-remembered pranks, In half forgotten places.
It pleased the man to tell his brief And somewhat mournful story, Old Bliss's school had come to grief — And Bliss had “gone to glory.”
His trees were felled, his house was razed — And what less keenly pained me, A venerable donkey grazed Exactly where he caned me.
And where have all my playmates sped, Whose ranks were once so serried? Why some are wed, and some are dead, And some are only buried;
Frank Petre, erst so full of fun, Is now St. Blaise's prior — And Travers, the attorney's son, Is member for the shire.
Dame Fortune, that inconstant jade, Can smile when least expected, And those who languish in the shade, Need never be dejected.
Poor Pat, who once did nothing right, Has proved a famous writer; While Mat “shirked prayers” ( with all his might! ) And wears, withal, his mitre.
Dull maskers we! Life's festival Enchants the blithe new-comer; But seasons change, and where are all These friendships of our summer?
Wan pilgrims flit athwart our track — Cold looks attend the meeting — We only greet them, glancing back, Or pass without a greeting!
I owe old Bliss some rubs, but pride Constrains me to postpone‘ em, He taught me something,‘ ere he died, About nil nisi bonum.
I've met with wiser, better men, But I forgive him wholly; Perhaps his jokes were sad — but then He used to storm so drolly.
I still can laugh, is still my boast, But mirth has sounded gayer; And which provokes my laughter most — The preacher, or the player?
Alack, I cannot laugh at what Once made us laugh so freely, For Nestroy and Grassot are not — And where is Mr. Keeley?
O, shall I run away from hence, And dress and shave like Crusoe? Or join St. Blaise? No, Common Sense, Forbid that I should do so.
I'd sooner dress your Little Miss As Paulet shaves his poodles! As soon propose for Betsy Bliss — Or get proposed for Boodle's.
We prate of Life's illusive dyes, Yet still fond Hope enchants us; We all believe we near the prize, Till some fresh dupe supplants us!
A bright reward, forsooth! And though No mortal has attained it, I still can hope, for well I know That Love has so ordained it.
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