I

Sir L IDIAN had attained his sixteenth year;
— The golden age of life, wherein are met
Boyhood's last hope and Manhood's earliest fear
— In mingled bliss and beauty; — you forget
Your cradle's laughter, and your school-room's tear,
— Your maiden medal, and your first gazette;
But never, never, the bright dreams that blind you
When sixteen years are newly left behind you.

II

The daily longings to be very great,
— The nightly studies to be very killing,
The blessed recklessness of human hate,
— The sonnet-singing, and the sigh-distilling,
The chase of folly, and the scorn of fate,
— Friendship's fresh throb, and Passion's April thrilling
For some high lady, whom your elder brother
Declares is old enough to be your mother.

III

Sir Lidian had attained his sixteenth year,
— And was the loveliest stripling in the land;
His small soft features and his colour clear
— Were like a budding girl's; his delicate hand
Seemed fitter for the distaff than the spear;
— Locks of bright brown his spotless forehead fanned;
And he had eyes as blue as summer's heaven,
And stood a little more than five feet seven.

IV

No gallant flung a lance so fleet and true
— From the trained courser through the golden ring;
No joyous harper at the banquet threw
— A lighter touch across the sounding string;
Yet on his cheek there was the hectic hue
— And in his eye the fitful wandering
Which chill our praise to pity, that a bloom
So fresh and fair is destined to the tomb!

V

And though he danced and played, as I have hinted,
— In dance and song he took but little pleasure;
He looked contented, though his partner squinted,
— And seldom frowned when minstrels marred the measure;
When the rich sky by evening's glow was tinted,
— More glad was he to wander at his leisure,
Despising fogs, apostrophizing fountains,
Wasting the time, and worshipping the mountains.

VI

And yet he had not loved! — his early fancies
— Of love, first love, the transport and the pain,
Had been extracted from the best romances,
— And were, perhaps, of too sublime a strain;
So when he woke from those delicious trances,
— He shut his eyes and chose to sleep again,
Shunning realities for shades, and fleeing
From all he saw to all he dreamt of seeing.

VII

In starlit dells and zephyr-haunted bowers,
— Moistened by rivulets whose milky foam
Murmured the sweetest music, where warm showers
— That trickled fresh from Heaven's eternal dome
Watered bright jewels that sprung up like flowers, —
— In such a scene his fancy found a home,
A Paradise of Fancy's fabrication,
Peopled by Houris of the heart's creation;

VIII

Who never thrummed upon the virginals,
— Nor tripped by rule, nor fortunately fainted,
Nor practised paying compliments and calls,
— Looking satirical, or looking sainted,
Nor shrieked at tournaments, nor blushed at balls,
— Nor lisped, nor sighed, nor drooped, nor punned, nor painted;
Nor wrote a book, nor traded in caresses,
Nor made remarks on other people's dresses.

IX

These were his raptures; — these have all been mine;
— I could have worshipped once a constellation,
Filled the fine air with habitants divine,
— Found in the sea all sorts of inspiration;
Gone out at noon-day with a Nymph to dine,
— Held with an Echo charming conversation,
Commenced intriguing with a star, and kissed,
Like old Ixion, a coquettish mist.

X

Now all is over! passion is congealing,
— The glory of the soul is pale and dim;
I gaze all night upon a whitewashed ceiling,
— And get no glimpses of the seraphim;
Nothing is left of high and bright revealing
— But a weak longing and a wayward whim;
And when Imagination takes the air,
She never wanders beyond Grosvenor-square.

XI

Not that I've been more wicked in my day
— Than some, perhaps, who call themselves my betters;
I liked to prattle better than to pray,
— And thought that freedom was as sweet as fetters;
Yet when my lip and lute are turned to clay,
— The honest friend who prints my Life and Letters
Will find few stories of satanic arts,
Of broken promises or broken hearts.

XII

But I have moved too long in cold society,
— Where it's the fashion not to care a rush;
Where girls are always thinking of propriety,
— And men are laughed at if they chance to blush;
And thus I've caught the sickness of sobriety,
— Forbidden sighs to sound, and tears to gush;
Become a great philosopher, and curled
Around my heart the poisons of the world.

XIII

And I have learnt at last the hideous trick
— Of laughing at whate'er is great or holy;
At horrid tales that turn a soldier sick,
— At griefs that make a Cynic melancholy;
At Mr. Lawless, and at Mr. Bric,
— At Mr. Milman, and at Mr. Croly;
At Talma and at Young, Macbeth and Cinna, —
Even at you, adorable Corinna!

XIV

To me all light is darkness; — love is lust,
— Painting soiled canvas, poetry soiled paper;
The fairest loveliness a pinch of dust,
— The proudest majesty a breath of vapour;
I have no sympathy, no tear, no trust,
— No morning musing and no midnight taper
For daring manhood, or for dreaming youth,
Or maiden purity, or matron truth.

XV

But sweet Sir Lidian was far more refined;
— He shrank betimes from life and life's defiling;
His step was on the earth, but oh! his mind
— Made for itself a heaven! the fool's reviling
He did not seek, or shun; and thus, enshrined
— In glad and innocent thoughts, he went on smiling,
Alone in crowds, unhearing and unheeding,
Fond of the fields, and very fond of reading.