A Selection from the Works of Frederick Locker Part 2

O TEMPORA MUTANTUR!

Yes, here, once more, a traveller, I find the Angel Inn, Where landlord, maids, and serving-men Receive me with a grin: They surely can't remember _me_, My hair is grey and scanter; I'm changed, so changed since I was here-- "O tempora mutantur!"

The Angel's not much altered since That sunny month of June, Which brought me here with Pamela To spend our honeymoon!

I recollect it down to e'en The shape of this decanter,-- We've since been both much put about-- "O tempora mutantur!"

Ay, there's the clock, and looking-gla.s.s Reflecting me again; She vowed her Love was very fair-- I see I'm very plain.

And there's that daub of Prince Leeboo: 'Twas Pamela's fond banter To fancy it resembled me-- "O tempora mutantur!"

The curtains have been dyed; but there, Unbroken, is the same, The very same cracked pane of gla.s.s On which I scratched her name.

Yes, there's her tiny flourish still, It used to so enchant her To link two happy names in one-- "O tempora mutantur!"

What brought this wanderer here, and why Was Pamela away?

It might be she had found her grave, Or he had found her gay.

The fairest fade; the best of men May meet with a supplanter;-- I wish the times would change their cry Of "tempora mutantur."

REPLY TO A LETTER ENCLOSING A LOCK OF HAIR.

"My darling wants to see you soon,"-- I bless the little maid, and thank her; To do her bidding, night and noon I draw on Hope--Love's kindest banker!

_Old MSS._

If you were false, and if I'm free, I still would be the slave of yore, Then joined our years were thirty-three, And now,--yes now, I'm thirty-four!

And though you were not learned--well, I was not anxious you should grow so,-- I trembled once beneath her spell Whose spelling was extremely so-so!

Bright season! why will Memory Still haunt the path our rambles took; The sparrow's nest that made you cry,-- The lilies captured in the brook.

I lifted you from side to side, You seemed as light as that poor sparrow; I know who wished it twice as wide, I think you thought it rather narrow.

Time was,--indeed, a little while!

My pony did your heart compel; But once, beside the meadow-stile, I thought you loved me just as well; I kissed your cheek; in sweet surprise Your troubled gaze said plainly, "Should he?"

But doubt soon fled those daisy eyes,-- "He could not wish to vex me, could he?"

As year succeeds to year, the more Imperfect life's fruition seems, Our dreams, as baseless as of yore, Are not the same enchanting dreams.

The girls I love now vote me slow-- How dull the boys who once seemed witty!

Perhaps I'm getting old--I know I'm still romantic--more's the pity!

Ah, vain regret! to few, perchance, Unknown--and profitless to all: The wisely-gay, as years advance, Are gaily-wise. Whate'er befall We'll laugh--at folly, whether seen Beneath a chimney or a steeple, At yours, at mine--our own, I mean, As well as that of other people.

They cannot be complete in aught, Who are not humorously p.r.o.ne, A man without a merry thought Can hardly have a funny-bone!

To say I hate your gloomy men Might be esteemed a strong a.s.sertion, If I've blue devils, now and then, I make them dance for my diversion.

And here's your letter _debonnaire_!

"_My friend, my dear old friend of yore_,"

And is this curl your daughter's hair?

I've seen the t.i.tian tint before.

Are we that pair who used to pa.s.s Long days beneath the chesnuts shady?

You then were such a pretty la.s.s!-- I'm told you're now as fair a lady.

I've laughed to hide the tear I shed, As when the Jester's bosom swells, And mournfully he shakes his head, We hear the jingle of his bells.

A jesting vein your poet vexed, And this poor rhyme, the Fates determine, Without a parson, or a text, Has proved a somewhat prosy sermon.

THE OLD OAK-TREE AT HATFIELD BROADOAK.

A mighty growth! The county side Lamented when the Giant died, For England loves her trees: What misty legends round him cling!

How lavishly he once did fling His acorns to the breeze!

To strike a thousand roots in fame, To give the district half its name, The fiat could not hinder; Last spring he put forth one green bough,-- The red leaves hang there still,--but now His very props are tinder.

Elate, the thunderbolt he braved, Long centuries his branches waved A welcome to the blast; An oak of broadest girth he grew, And woodman never dared to do What Time has done at last.

The monarch wore a leafy crown, And wolves, ere wolves were hunted down, Found shelter at his foot; Unnumbered squirrels gambolled free, Glad music filled the gallant tree From stem to topmost shoot.

And it were hard to fix the tale Of when he first peered forth a frail Pet.i.tioner for dew; No Saxon spade disturbed his root, The rabbit spared the tender shoot, And valiantly he grew,

And showed some inches from the ground When Saint Augustine came and found Us very proper Vandals: When nymphs owned bluer eyes than hose, When England measured men by blows, And measured time by candles.

Worn pilgrims blessed his grateful shade Ere Richard led the first crusade, And maidens led the dance Where, boy and man, in summer-time, Sweet Chaucer pondered o'er his rhyme; And Robin Hood, perchance,

Stole hither to maid Marian, (And if they did not come, one can At any rate suppose it); They met beneath the mistletoe,-- We did the same, and ought to know The reason why they chose it.

And this was called the traitor's branch,-- Stern Warwick hung six yeomen stanch Along its mighty fork; Uncivil wars for them! The fair Red rose and white still bloom,--but where Are Lancaster and York?

Right mournfully his leaves he shed To shroud the graves of England's dead, By English falchion slain; And cheerfully, for England's sake, He sent his kin to sea with Drake, When Tudor humbled Spain.

A time-worn tree, he could not bring His heart to screen the merry king, Or countenance his scandals;-- Then men were measured by their wit,-- And then the mimic statesmen lit At either end their candles!

While Blake was busy with the Dutch They gave his poor old arms a crutch: And thrice four maids and men ate A meal within his rugged bark, When Coventry bewitched the park, And Chatham swayed the senate.

His few remaining boughs were green, And dappled sunbeams danced between, Upon the dappled deer, When, clad in black, a pair were met To read the Waterloo Gazette,-- They mourned their darling here.

They joined their boy. The tree at last Lies p.r.o.ne--discoursing of the past, Some fancy-dreams awaking; Resigned, though headlong changes come,-- Though nations arm to tuck of drum, And dynasties are quaking.

Romantic spot! By honest pride Of eld tradition sanctified; My pensive vigil keeping, I feel thy beauty like a spell, And thoughts, and tender thoughts, upwell, That fill my heart to weeping.