'The tender Grace of a day that is past.' br br The dew is on the roses, br The owl hath spread her wing; br And vocal are the noses br Of peasant and of king: br 'Nature' (in short) 'reposes;' br But I do no such thing. br br Pent in my lonesome study br Here I must sit and muse; br Sit till the morn grows ruddy, br Till, rising with the dews, br 'Jeameses' remove the muddy br Spots from their masters' shoes. br br Yet are sweet faces flinging br Their witchery o'er me here: br I hear sweet voices singing br A song as soft, as clear, br As (previously to stinging) br A gnat sings round one's ear. br br Does Grace draw young Apollos br In blue mustachios still? br Does Emma tell the swallows br How she will pipe and trill, br When, some fine day, she follows br Those birds to the window-sill? br br And oh! has Albert faded br From Grace's memory yet? br Albert, whose 'brow was shaded br By locks of glossiest jet,' br Whom almost any lady'd br Have given her eyes to get? br br Does not her conscience smite her br For one who hourly pines, br Thinking her bright eyes brighter br Than any star that shines - br I mean of course the writer br Of these pathetic lines? br br Who knows? As quoth Sir Walter, br 'Time rolls his ceaseless course: br 'The Grace of yore' may alter - br And then, I've one resource: br I'll invest in a bran-new halter, br And I'll perish without remorse.