Winthrop Mackworth Praed (28 July 1802 – 15 July 1839)—typically written as W. Mackworth Praed—was an English politician and poet.
Hail, blest Confusion! here are met All tongues, and times, and faces; The Lancers flirt with Juliet, The Brahmin talks of races.
I think while zealots fast and frown, And fight for two or seven, That there are fifty roads to town, And rather more to Heaven.
I remember, I remember how my childhood fleeted by. The mirth of its December, and the warmth of its July.
And oh! I shall find how, day by day, All thoughts and things look older; How the laugh of pleasure grows less gay, And the heart of friendship colder.
Dame Fortune is a fickle gipsy, And always blind, and often tipsy; Sometimes for years and years together, She 'll bless you with the sunniest weather, Bestowing honour, pudding, pence, You can't imagine why or whence; Then in a moment Presto, pass! Your joys are withered like the grass
Twelve years ago I made a mock Of filthy trades and traffics; I considered what they meant by stock; I wrote delightful sapphics; I knew the streets of Rome and Troy, I supped with fates and Fairies-- Twelve years ago I was a boy, A happy boy at Drury's.
The Baptist found him far too deep; The Deist sighed with saving sorrow; And the lean Levite went to sleep, And dreamed of tasting pork to-morrow.
Of science and logic he chatters, As fine and as fast as he can; Though I am no judge of such matters, I'm sure he's a talented man.
Apollo has peeped through the shutter, And awaken'd the witty and fair; The boarding-school belle's in a flutter, The twopenny post's in despair; The breath of the morning is flinging A magic on blossom and spray, And cockneys and sparrows are singing In chorus on Valentine's day.
Still and pale Thou movest in thy silver veil, Queen of the night! the filmy shroud Of many a mild, transparent cloud Hides, yet adorns thee.
I think, whatever mortals crave, With impotent endeavor, A wreath--a rank--a throne--a grave-- The world goes round forever; I think that life is not too long, And therefore I determine, That many people read a song, Who will not read a sermon.
Woman! thou loveliest gift that here below Man can receive, or Providence bestow.