The Good Old Times.

Part II.—After The Feast.

THE morning to the castle brings
No sound of healthful carollings;
No manly voice is raised on high
To chant the praise of woman's eye;
No joyous smiles now wreathe the board,
No fulsome praise now greets the lord;
No ready pages swiftly glide,
To deftly pour the rosy tide;
Nor music glad, nor ribald song,
Are here to cheer the festive throng—
The toast, the jest alike forgot,
When morning dawns upon the sot!

The guards that should the castle keep
Are buried in a drunken sleep;
The lord of all the wide domain
Lies on his couch in ceaseless pain.
His brain, that last night flashed with wit,
Is racked by demons of the pit,
Who seem with shriek and torturing yell,
Unto the suffering sot to tell,
"That he who makes of wine his god,
Must sacrifice with bitter sob,
For temples when to Bacchus raised,
Are temples that will ache and throb.'

The guests are scattered through the hall,
And ev'ry face, as by a pall,
Is covered o'er—sad sight to see—
With helpless, dull stupidity,
That told how last night's festive drain
Had robbed of light and sense each brain.
The knights, whose swords had never failed,
Whose hearts in battle never quailed,
Are striving in a huddled heap
To snatch a moment's drunken sleep.
Such were the feasts where maidens fair
Were toasted by the brave and bold—
One word escapes the poet's care,
Not good, but drunken days of old.