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I have been laughing, I have been carousing,

Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies—

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 6

I loved a love once, fairest among women;

Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her—

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man;

Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;

Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. 12

Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood,

Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse,

Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,

Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling?

So might we talk of the old familiar faces— 18

How some they have died, and some they have left me,

And some are taken from me; all are departed;

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.


Ah what avails the sceptred race,
Ah what the form divine!

What every virtue, every grace!
Rose Aylmer, all were thine.

Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes
May weep, but never see,

A night of memories and of sighs
I consecrate to thee.


Green little vaulter in the sunny grass, Catching your heart up at the feel of June, Sole voice that’s heard amidst the lazy noon, When even the bees lag at the summoning brass;

* Rose, a daughter of Baron Aylmer, and a youthful companion of Landor, died in India in

f written in competition with Keats, whose sonnet may be seen on p. 492.

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§ This is a specimen of the half gay, half grave vers de société of which Praed was a master. Teignmouth is a watering-place in Devonshire. The various places named "belong to the locality. The Ness is a promontory. The Den is a Fo formed by a sand-bank between the own and the sea. aldon is a range of hills: Shaldon, a village just across the river Teign : Dawlish, another seaside resort three miles away. As for the other allusions, Sir Thomas Lawrence was a famous Fo painter of that date (1829); National Schools (line 38) had lately been established at various places by a national society for the education of the poor: “Captain Rock" was a fictitious name signed to public notices by one of the Irish insurgents of 1822 : “Hock” is a kind of wine —Hochheimer; a “Blue” is a “blue-stocking” —a woman affecting literature and politics.

You'll find us all changed since you vanished;
We’ve set up a National School;
And waltzing is utterly banished;
And Ellen has married a fool;
The Major is going to travel;
Miss Hyacinth threatens a rout;
The walk is laid down with fresh gravel;
Papa is laid up with the gout;
And Jane has gone on with her easels,
And Anne has gone off with Sir Paul;
And Fanny is sick with the measles,

And I’ll tell you the rest at the Ball. 48

You'll meet all your beauties;–the Lily,
And the Fairy of Willowbrook Farm,
And Lucy, who made me so silly
At Dawlish, by taking your arm;
Miss Manners, who always abused you,
For talking so much about Hock;
And her sister, who often amused you,
By raving of rebels and Rock;
And something which surely would answer,
An heiress quite fresh from Bengal:—
So, though you were seldom a dancer,

You'll dance, just for once, at our Ball. 60

But out on the world!—from the flowers
It shuts out the sunshine of truth;
It blights the green leaves in the bowers,
It makes an old age of our youth:
And the flow of our feeling, once in it,
Like a streamlet beginning to freeze,
Though it cannot turn ice in a minute,
Grows harder by sudden degrees.
Time treads o'er the graves of affection;
Sweet honey is turned into gall;
Perhaps you have no recollection

That ever you danced at our Ball. 72

You once could be pleased with our ballads—
To-day you have critical ears;
You once could be charmed with our salads—
Alas! you’ve been dining with Peers;
You trifled and flirted with many;
You've forgotten the when and the how;
There was one you liked better than any—
Perhaps you’ve forgotten her now.
But of those you remember most newly,
Of those who delight or inthrall,
None love you a quarter so truly
As some you will find at our Ball. 84
They tell me you’ve many who flatter,
Because of your wit and your song;
They tell me (and what does it matter?)
You like to be praised by the throng;
They tell me you're shadowed with laurel,
They tell me you’re loved by a Blue;
They tell me you're sadly immoral—

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Tintadgel bells ring o'er the tide,
The boy leans on his vessel side;
He hears that sound, and dreams of home
Soothe the wild orphan of the foam.
“Come to thy God in time!”
Thus saith their pealing chime:
Youth, manhood, old age past,
“Come to thy God at last.”

But why are Bottreau's echoes still?
Her tower stands proudly on the hill;
Yet the strange chough that home hath found,
The lamb lies sleeping on the ground.
“Come to thy God in time!”
Should be her answering chime:
“Come to thy God at last!”

Should echo on the blast. 16

The ship rode down with courses free,
The daughter of a distant sea:
Her sheet was loose, her anchor stored,
The merry Bottreau bells on board.
“Come to thy God in time!”
Rung out Tintadgel chime;
Youth, manhood, old age past,
“Come to thy God at last!”

The pilot heard his native bells
Hang on the breeze in fitful swells;
“Thank God,” with reverent brow he cried,
‘‘We make the shore with evening's tide.”
“Come to thy God in time!”
It was his marriage chime:
Youth, manhood, old age past,

His bell must ring at last. 32

“Thank God, thou whining knave, on land,
But thank, at sea, the steersman's hand,”
The captain's voice above the gale:
“Thank the good ship and ready sail.’’
“Come to thy God in time!”
Sad grew the boding chime:
“Come to thy God at last!”

Boomed heavy on the blast. 40

Uprose that sea! as if it heard
The mighty Master's signal-word:
What thrills the captain's whitening lip?

* “The rugged heights that line the sea-shore in the neighborhood of Tintadgel Castle and Church [on the coast of Cornwall] are crested with towers. Among these, that of Bottreau, or, as it is now written, Boscastle, is without bells. The silence of this wild and , lonely churchyard on festive or solemn occasions is not a little striking. On enquiry I was told that the bells were once shipped for , this church, but that when the vessel was within #t of the tower the blasphemy of her captain was punished in the manner related in the Poem. The bells, they told me, still lie in the bay, and announce by strange sounds the approach of a storm,”—R. S. Hawker.

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“Most readers,” says the Manuscript of Mr. Pattieson, “must have witnessed with delight the joyous burst which attends the dismissing of a village-school on a fine summer evening. The buoyant spirit of childhood, repressed with so much difficulty during the tedious hours of discipline, may then be seen to explode, as it were, in shout, and song, and frolic, as the little urchins join in groups on their playground, and arrange their matches of sport for the evening. But there is one individual who partakes of the relief afforded by the moment of dismission, whose feelings are not so obvious to the eye of the spectator, or so apt to receive his sympathy. I mean the teacher himself, who, stunned with the hum, and suffocated with the closeness of his school-room, has spent the whole day (himself against a host) in controlling petulance, exciting indifference to action, striving to enlighten stupidity, and labouring to soften obstinacy; and whose very powers of * Old Mortality is a story of the rising of the Scotch Covenanters about 1677-9 against the English church and throne. Scott had once met, in the churchyard of Dunnottar, one Robert, Paterson, familiarly known as “old Mortality,” and he chooses to make him responsible for the substance of the tale. It is one of the “Tales, of My Landlord”; and the Landlord of Wallace Inn, Mr. Cleishbottom the schoolmaster, and the manuscript of

his assistant, the frail Mr. Pattieson, are all a part of the fictitious background,

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