Page:The Leadbeater Papers (1862) Vol 1.djvu/37
This page has been proofread, but needs to be validated.
1766.]
THE ANNALS OF BALITORE.
23
Or when the gardens shine most bright,
(Alas how transient is delight!)
Some roving dog, in luckless hour,
Has trampled down the fairest flower;
Or filthy swine with brutal taste
Has laid the pride of Summer waste:
Or when they hope secure to glide,
Descending rain has marred their slide;
Their pillar, late so snowy-white,
Deformed and spoiled disgusts the sight.
Lo! the poor invalid on high
From the sick chamber casts his eye,
Beholds their sports with jealous pain,
And wishes for his health again.
See all forlorn the new-come boy!
Tasteless to him each scene of joy:
How does he solitary roam,
And whine, and sigh, and think of home!
Some thoughtless lads deride the swain,
While others pitying soothe his pain;
Thus (while they wipe his tears away):
"Like thee we mourn'd: but now can say
No joys more sweet than here thou'lt find;
So give thy sorrows to the wind."
Alas, what grief, should Vice invade
With backward steps this learned shade.
Or Folly, with unmeaning face,
Intrude into this happy place!
No longer are ye dear to fame,
But fall a prey to guilt and shame;
Your glory fades, and ye no more
Are deemed the pride of Ballitore.
But heav'n avert the fatal day
Which takes your innocence away!
(Alas how transient is delight!)
Some roving dog, in luckless hour,
Has trampled down the fairest flower;
Or filthy swine with brutal taste
Has laid the pride of Summer waste:
Or when they hope secure to glide,
Descending rain has marred their slide;
Their pillar, late so snowy-white,
Deformed and spoiled disgusts the sight.
Lo! the poor invalid on high
From the sick chamber casts his eye,
Beholds their sports with jealous pain,
And wishes for his health again.
See all forlorn the new-come boy!
Tasteless to him each scene of joy:
How does he solitary roam,
And whine, and sigh, and think of home!
Some thoughtless lads deride the swain,
While others pitying soothe his pain;
Thus (while they wipe his tears away):
"Like thee we mourn'd: but now can say
No joys more sweet than here thou'lt find;
So give thy sorrows to the wind."
Alas, what grief, should Vice invade
With backward steps this learned shade.
Or Folly, with unmeaning face,
Intrude into this happy place!
No longer are ye dear to fame,
But fall a prey to guilt and shame;
Your glory fades, and ye no more
Are deemed the pride of Ballitore.
But heav'n avert the fatal day
Which takes your innocence away!