John Kenyon Poems

Riches I had! they faded from my view—
And troops of friends! but they deceived me too—
And fame! it came and went—a very breath;
...

With different colour glows each ray
That joins to feed the solar day.
Yet, each commingling as they pass,
They lose distinction in the mass,
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We sprang on no ignoble soil;
'Twas on the field of Waterloo.
Our culture was the battle-toil,
And many a hero's blood—our dew.
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With all its best of sense and wit
Each Album's earlier leaves are writ;
No page—but Love and Friendship on it
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Soft lays, that dwell on lips and eyes.
Long since with me have had their day;
At fifty, hearts grow cold or wise;
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Crotchets—odd mixings up of soul and sense—
(Sense, if the truth were told, oft mastering Soul)
Full sure he had; but we did suffer them,
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Tis not because fierce swords are flashing there,
With license and a reckless scorn of life,
When for some petty gaud upstarts a strife,
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ODE I.
Sing the old Atridæ!
Sing, my Lyre, of Cadmus.
But the Lyre, refusing,
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Gossip right and left you're strowing,
Never heeding what you do;
Tho' each idle word you're sowing
Friend and neighbour long may rue.
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'Argantyr! awake—awake—
Hervor bids thy slumbers fly.
Magic chords around thee break;
Argantyr! reply—reply.'
...