THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK

And when I heard you were a mother, I did not wish the children mine.

My own young flock, in fair progression, Made up a pleasant Christmas row:

My joy in them was past expression ; But that was thirty years ago.

You grew a matron plump and comely,

You dwelt in fashion's brightest blaze ; My earthly lot was far more homely;

But I too had my festal days. No merrier eyes have ever glisten'd

Around the hearth-stone's wintry glow, Than when my youngest child was christen'd ;

But that was twenty years ago.

Time pass'd. My eldest girl was married,

And I am now a grandsire gray ; One pet of four years old I've carried

Among the wild-flower'd meads to play. In our old fields of childish pleasure,

Where now, as then, the cowslips blow, She fills her basket's ample measure;

And that is not ten years ago.

But though first love's impassion'd blindness

Has pass'd away in colder light, I still have thought of you with kindness,

And shall do, till our last good-night. The ever-rolling silent hours

Will bring a time we shall not know, When our young days of gathering flowers

Will be an hundred years ago.

�� �