Cito Pede Preterit Aetas - A Philosophical Dissertation

Gillians dead, God rest her bier,     How I loved her many years syne;     Marions married, but I sit here,     Alive and merry at three-score year,     Dipping my nose in Gascoigne wine.     - Wambas Song, Thackeray.     A mellower light doth Sol afford,     His meridian glare has passd,     And the trees on the broad and sloping sward     Their lengthning shadows cast.     Time flies. The current will be no joke,     If swollen by recent rain,     To cross in the dark, so Ill have a smoke,     And then Ill be off again.     Whats up, old horse? Your ears you prick,     And your eager eyeballs glisten;     Tis the wild dogs note in the tea-tree thick,     By the river, to which you listen.     With head erect and tail flung out,     For a gallop you seem to beg,     But I feel the qualm of a chilling doubt,     As I glance at your favrite leg.     Let the dingo rest, tis all for the best;     In this world theres room enough     For him and you and me and the rest,     And the country is awful rough.     Weve had our gallop in days of yore,     Now down the hill we must run;     Yet at times we long for one gallop more,     Although it were only one.     Did our spirits quail at a new four-rail,     Could a double double-bank us,     Ere nerve and sinew began to fail     In the consulship of Plancus?     When our blood ran rapidly, and when     Our bones were pliant and limber,     Could we stand a merry cross-counter then,     A slogging fall over timber?     Arcades ambo! Duffers both,     In our best of days, alas!     (I tell the truth, though to tell it loth)     Tis time we were gone to grass;     The young leaves shoot, the sere leaves fall,     And the old gives way to the new,     While the preacher cries, tis vanity all,     And vexation of spirit, too.     Now over my head the vapours curl     From the bowl of the soothing clay,     In the misty forms that eddy and whirl     My thoughts are flitting away;     Yes, the preachers right, tis vanity all,     But the sweeping rebuke he showers     On vanities all may heaviest fall     On vanities worse than ours.     We have no wish to exaggerate     The worth of the sports we prize,     Some toil for their Church, and some for their State,     And some for their merchandise;     Some traffic and trade in the citys mart,     Some travel by land and sea,     Some follow science, some cleave to art,     And some to scandal and tea;     And some for their country and their queen     Would fight, if the chance they had,     Good sooth, twere a sorry world, I ween,     If we all went galloping mad;     Yet if once we efface the joys of the chase     From the land, and outroot the Stud,     Good-bye to the anglo-saxon race!     Farewell to the norman blood!     Where the burn runs down to the uplands brown,     From the heights of the snow-clad range,     What anodyne drawn from the stifling town     Can be reckond a fair exchange     For the stalkers stride, on the mountain side,     In the bracing northern weather,     To the slopes where couch, in their antlerd pride,     The deer on the perfumd heather?     Oh! the vigour with which the air is rife!     The spirit of joyous motion;     The fever, the fulness of animal life,     Can be draind from no earthly potion!     The lungs with the living gas grow light,     And the limbs feel the strength of ten,     While the chest expands with its maddning might,     Gods glorious oxygen.     Thus the measurd stroke, on elastic sward,     Of the steed three parts extended     , Hard held, the breath of his nostrils broad,     With the golden ether blended;     Then the leap, the rise from the springy turf,     The rush through the buoyant air,     And the light shock landing, the veriest serf     Is an emperor then and there!     Such scenes! sensation and sound and sight!     To some undiscoverd shore     On the current of Times remorseless flight     Have they swept to return no more?     While, like phantoms bright of the feverd night,     That have vexd our slumbers of yore,     You follow us still in your ghostly might,     Dead days that have gone before.     Vain dreams, again and again re-told,     Must you crowd on the weary brain,     Till the fingers are cold that entwind of old     Round foil and trigger and rein,     Till stayd for aye are the roving feet,     Till the restless hands are quiet,     Till the stubborn heart has forgotten to beat,     Till the hot blood has ceasd to riot?     In Exeter Hall the saint may chide,     The sinner may scoff outright,     The Bacchanal steepd in the flagons tide,     Or the sensual Sybarite;     But Nolans name will flourish in fame,     When our galloping days are past,     When we go to the place from whence we came,     Perchance to find rest at last.     Thy riddles grow dark, oh! drifting cloud,     And thy misty shapes grow drear,     Thou hangst in the air like a shadowy shroud,     But I am of lighter cheer;     Though our future lot is a sable blot,     Though the wise ones of earth will blame us,     Though our saddles will rot, and our rides be forgot,     Dum Vivimus, Vivamus!