Classic Poem

I think that, thanks to Paget's lance,
— And thanks to Chester's learning,
The hearts that burned for fame in France
— At home are safe from burning:
I think the Pope is on his back;
— And, though 'tis fun to shake him,
I think the Devil not so black
— As many people make him.

I think that Love is like a play,
— Where tears and smiles are blended,
Or like a faithless April day,
— Whose shine with shower is ended:
Like Colnbrook pavement, rather rough,
— Like trade, exposed to losses,
And like a Highland plaid, — all stuff,
— And very full of crosses.

I think the world, though dark it be,
— Has aye one rapturous pleasure
Concealed in life's monotony,
— For those who seek the treasure;
One planet in a starless night,
— One blossom on a briar,
One friend not quite a hypocrite,
— One woman not a liar!

I think poor beggars court St. Giles,
— Rich beggars court St. Stephen;
And Death looks down with nods and smiles,
— And makes the odds all even:
I think some die upon the field,
— And some upon the billow,
And some are laid beneath a shield,
— And some beneath a willow.

I think that very few have sighed
— When Fate at last has found them,
Though bitter foes were by their side,
— And barren moss around them:
I think that some have died of drought,
— And some have died of drinking;
I think that nought is worth a thought, —
— And I'm a fool for thinking!