“Fragile creations of still frailer man,
That men outlast,
Though to eternity, from whence he came,
The scribe be past.

O there are tongues within these dry brown leaves
That speak as Autumns do;
They cry of death and sorrow,
To me—to you.”

Mr George Thornbury.

Old letters! wipe away the tear,
And gaze upon these pale mementoes,
A pilgrim finds his journal here
Since first he took to walk on ten toes.

Yes, here are scrawls from Clapham Rise,
Do mothers still their school-boys pamper?
O, how I hated Doctor Wise!
O, how I lov’d a well-fill’d hamper!

How strange to commune with the Dead—
Dead joys, dead loves, and wishes thwarted:
Here’s cruel proof of friendships fled,
And sad enough of friends departed.

And here’s the offer that I wrote
In ’33 to Lucy Diver;
And here John Wylie’s begging note—
He never paid me back a stiver.

And here my feud with Major Spike,
Our bet about the French Invasion;
On looking back I acted like
A donkey upon that occasion.

And here a letter from “the Row,”—
How mad I was when first I learnt it!
They would not take my Book, and now
I’d give a trifle to have burnt it.

And here a heap of notes, at last,
With “love” and “dove,” and “sever” “never”—
Though hope, though passion may be past,
Their perfume is as sweet as ever.

A human heart should beat for two,
Whatever say your single scorners,
And all the hearths I ever knew
Had got a pair of chimney corners.

See here a double violet—
Two locks of hair—a deal of scandal:
I’ll burn what only brings regret—
Go, Betty, fetch a lighted candle.