“An indifference to tears, and blood, and human suffering, that could only belong to a Boney-parte.”—Life of Napoleon.
TIME was, I always had a drop
For any tale or sigh of sorrow;
My handkerchief I used to sop
Till often I was forced to borrow;
I don’t know how it is, but now
My eyelids seldom want a drying;
The doctors, p’rhaps, could tell me how—
I fear my heart is ossifying!
O’er Goethe how I used to weep,
With turnip cheeks and nose of scarlet,
When Werter put himself to sleep
With pistols kiss’d and clean’d by Charlotte;
Self-murder is an awful sin,
No joke there is in bullets flying,
But now at such a tale I grin—
I fear my heart is ossifying!
The Drama once could shake and thrill
My nerves, and set my tears a stealing,
The Siddons then could turn at will
Each plug upon the main of feeling;
At Belvidera now I smile,
And laugh while Mrs. Haller’s crying;
’Tis odd, so great a change of style—
I fear my heart is ossifying!
That heart was such—some years ago,
To see a beggar quite would shock it,
And in his hat I used to throw
The quarter’s savings of my pocket:
I never wish—as I did then!—
The means from my own purse supplying,
To turn them all to gentlemen—
I fear my heart is ossifying!
We’ve had some serious things of late,
Our sympathies to beg or borrow,
New melo-drames, of tragic fate,
And acts and songs, and tales of sorrow;
Miss Zouch’s case, our eyes to melt,
And sundry actors sad good-bye-ing.
But Lord!—so little have I felt,
I’m sure my heart is ossifying!