Ode - 'On A Distant Prospect' Of Making A Fortune.

Now the "rosy morn appearing"      Floods with light the dazzled heaven;     And the schoolboy groans on hearing      That eternal clock strike seven:-     Now the waggoner is driving      Towards the fields his clattering wain;     Now the bluebottle, reviving,      Buzzes down his native pane.     But to me the morn is hateful:      Wearily I stretch my legs,     Dress, and settle to my plateful      Of (perhaps inferior) eggs.     Yesterday Miss Crump, by message,      Mentioned "rent," which "p'raps I'd pay;"     And I have a dismal presage      That she'll call, herself, to-day.     Once, I breakfasted off rosewood,      Smoked through silver-mounted pipes -     Then how my patrician nose would      Turn up at the thought of "swipes!"     Ale, - occasionally claret, -      Graced my luncheon then:- and now     I drink porter in a garret,      To be paid for heaven knows how.     When the evening shades are deepened,      And I doff my hat and gloves,     No sweet bird is there to "cheep and      Twitter twenty million loves:"     No dark-ringleted canaries      Sing to me of "hungry foam;"     No imaginary "Marys"      Call fictitious "cattle home."     Araminta, sweetest, fairest!      Solace once of every ill!     How I wonder if thou bearest      Mivins in remembrance still!     If that Friday night is banished      Yet from that retentive mind,     When the others somehow vanished,      And we two were left behind:-     When in accents low, yet thrilling,      I did all my love declare;     Mentioned that I'd not a shilling -      Hinted that we need not care:     And complacently you listened      To my somewhat long address -     (Listening, at the same time, isn't      Quite the same as saying Yes).     Once, a happy child, I carolled      O'er green lawns the whole day through,     Not unpleasingly apparelled      In a tightish suit of blue:-     What a change has now passed o'er me!      Now with what dismay I see     Every rising morn before me!      Goodness gracious, patience me!     And I'll prowl, a moodier Lara,      Through the world, as prowls the bat,     And habitually wear a      Cypress wreath around my hat:     And when Death snuffs out the taper      Of my Life, (as soon he must),     I'll send up to every paper,      "Died, T. Mivins; of disgust."