My heart is weary, my peace is gone, | And lo! as I beheld with awe How shall I e'er my woes reveal? III. The sun bursts out in furious blaze, I pass in sunshine burning hot By cafés where in beer they deal; What is yon house with walls so thick, O gracious gods! it makes me sick, O cursed prison strong and barred, And quit that ugly part of Lille. The church-door beggar whines and I turn away at his appeal : My heart is weary, my peace is gone, A stranger in the town of Lille. IV. Say, shall I to yon Flemish church, Ye virgins dressed in satin hoops, Ye martyrs slain for mortal weal, Look kindly down! before you stoops The miserablest man in Lille. A pictured saint (I swear 'tis real), It smiled, and turned to grandmam ma! It did! and I had hope in Lille ! But the red sun went down In golden flame, And though she looked round, Presently came the night, Through the long darkness, By the stream rolling, Shrill blew the morning breeze, Biting and cold, Bleak peers the gray dawn Over the wold. II. "Rouse thee, sir constable-- III. Vainly the constable Shouted and called her ; Vainly the fisherman Beat the green alder, Vainly he flung the net, Never it hauled her! IV. Mother beside the fire Sat, her nightcap in; Father, in easy chair, Gloomily napping, When at the window-sill Came a light tapping! V. And a pale countenance Looked through the casement Loud beat the mother's heart, Sick with amazement, And at the vision which Came to surprise her, Shrieked in an agony "Lor! it's Elizar!" VI. Yes, 'twas Elizabeth Yes, 'twas their girl; Pale was her cheek, and her Hair out of curl. "Mother!" the loving one, Blushing, exclaimed, "Let not your innocent Lizzy be blamed. VII. "Yesterday, going to aunt Jones's to tea, Mother, dear mother, I Forgot the door-key! There's lines from John Milton the | There's landscapes by Gruner, both chamber all gilt on, And pictures beneath them that's shaped like a bow; I was greatly astounded to think that that Roundhead Should find an admission to famed O lovely's each fresco, and most picturesque O; And while round the chamber astonished I go, solar and lunar, Them two little Doyles too, deserve a bravo; Wid de piece by young Townsend, (for janins abounds in't ;) And that's why he's shuited to paint That picture of Severn's is worthy of rever'nce, But some I won't mintion is rather I think Dan Maclise's it baits all the For Surrounding the cottage of famed Eastlake has the chimney, (a good one to limn he,) And a vargin he paints with a sarpent below; While bulls, pigs, and panthers, and other enchanthers, Are painted by Landseer in sweet And nature smiles opposite, Stanfield he copies it; O'er Claude or Poussang sure 'tis he that may crow: But Sir Ross's best faiture is small mini-áture He shouldn't paint frescoes in famed There's Leslie and Uwins has rather small doings; There's Dyce, as brave masther as And the flowers and the sthrawberries, In the pictures from Walther Scott, never a fault there's got, Sure the marble's as natural as thrue And the Chamber Pompayen is sweet to take tay in, And ait butther'd muffins in sweet sweet philoso'phy, or crumpets and coffee, O where's a Pavilion like sweet Pimlico? |