ODE —‘ ON A DISTANT PROSPECT’ OF MAKING A FORTUNE.

Now the “rosy morn appearing”

Floods with light the dazzled heaven;

And the schoolboy groans on hearing

That eternal clock strike seven: -

Now the waggoner is driving

Towards the fields his clattering wain;

Now the bluebottle, reviving,

Buzzes down his native pane.

But to me the morn is hateful:

Wearily I stretch my legs,

Dress, and settle to my plateful

Of ( perhaps inferior ) eggs.

Yesterday Miss Crump, by message,

Mentioned “rent,” which “p'raps I'd pay;”

And I have a dismal presage

That she'll call, herself, to-day.

Once, I breakfasted off rosewood,

Smoked through silver-mounted pipes -

Then how my patrician nose would

Turn up at the thought of “swipes!”

Ale,— occasionally claret, -

Graced my luncheon then: - and now

I drink porter in a garret,

To be paid for heaven knows how.

When the evening shades are deepened,

And I doff my hat and gloves,

No sweet bird is there to “cheep and

Twitter twenty million loves:”

No dark-ringleted canaries

Sing to me of “hungry foam;”

No imaginary “Marys”

Call fictitious “cattle home.”

Araminta, sweetest, fairest!

Solace once of every ill!

How I wonder if thou bearest

Mivins in remembrance still!

If that Friday night is banished

Yet from that retentive mind,

When the others somehow vanished,

And we two were left behind: -

When in accents low, yet thrilling,

I did all my love declare;

Mentioned that I'd not a shilling -

Hinted that we need not care:

And complacently you listened

To my somewhat long address -

( Listening, at the same time, is n't

Quite the same as saying Yes ).

Once, a happy child, I carolled

O'er green lawns the whole day through,

Not unpleasingly apparelled

In a tightish suit of blue: -

What a change has now passed o'er me!

Now with what dismay I see

Every rising morn before me!

Goodness gracious, patience me!

And I'll prowl, a moodier Lara,

Through the world, as prowls the bat,

And habitually wear a

Cypress wreath around my hat:

And when Death snuffs out the taper

Of my Life, ( as soon he must ),

I'll send up to every paper,

“Died, T. Mivins; of disgust.”