MpMiiill THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES LONDON RHYMES. LONDON RHYMES BY FREDERICK LOCKER LONDON 1882 CHISWICK I'RESS :— C. WHITTINGHAM AND CO. TOOKb COURT, CHANCERY LANE. CONTENTS. PAGE Advice to a Poet i My Mistress's Boots 5 The Reason Why 8 Tempera Mutantur '. 9 A Winter Fantasy 12 The Housemaid 13 To my old friend Postumus 16 Heine to his Mistress 18 On "A Portrait of a Lady " 29 " Her quiet resting-place is far away " 22 The Bear Pit 24 Unreflecting Childhood 26 The old Stonemason 28 The Music Palace 30 Mrs. Smith 33 To Lina Oswald 36 The old Government Clerk 38 Old Letters 42 Inchbae - 45 The Jester's Plea 47 The Rose and the Ring 50 Nuptial Verses 52 An Old Buffer 55 Many years after 57 vi CONTENTS. PAGE Gcrakline Green : — The Serenade 60 My life is a 6i From the Cradle 63 The Twins 64 The Old Cradle 65 Love, Time, and Death 68 An Epitaph 69 Baby Mine 70 Du Rys de Madame D'Allebret 71 The Lady I Love 72 Our Photographs 74 My First-born 76 Mr. Placid's Flirtation 1, 78 St. George's, Hanover Square 83 Ma Future 84 Vanity Fair 86 My Neighbour's Wife 88 Arcady 90 Mabel's Muff 91 A Kind Providence 93 Notes 97 ADVICE TO A POET. Now if you'll ofi/y take, percluittce. But half the pains to learn, that we Still take to hide our ignorance — How very clever you will be .' Dear Poet, do not rhyme at all ! But if you must, don't tell your neighbours, Or five in six, who cannot scrawl. Will dub you "donkey" for your labours. This epithet may seem unjust To you, or any Verse-begetter : — Must we admit, I fear we must. That nine in ten deserve no better ? Then let them bray with leathern lungs, And match you with the beast that grazes ; Or wag their heads, and hold their tongues. Or damn you with the faintest praises. 2 LONDON RHYMES. 15e patient, for be sure you won't Win vogue without extreme vexation : And hope for sympathy, — but don't Expect it from a near relation. When strangers first approved my books, My kindred marvell'd what the praise meant ; They now wear more respectful looks. But can't get over their amazement. Indeed, they've power to wound beyond That M'ielded by the fiercest hater, For all the time they are so fond — Which makes the aggravation greater. Most warblers only half express The threadbare thoughts they feebly utter : Now if they tried for something less They might not sink, and gasp, and flutter. Fly low at first, — then mount and win The niche for which the town's contesting ; And never mind your kith and kin, — But never give them cause for jesting. LONDON RHYMES. Hold Pegasus in hand, control A taste for ornament ensnaring ; Simplicity is yet the soul Of all that Time deems worth the sparing. Long lays are not a lively sport, So clip your own to half a quarter ; If readers now don't think them short, Posterity will cut them shorter. * * * * I look on bards who whine for praise With feelings of profoundest pity : They hunger for the Poet's bays. And swear one's waspish when one's witty. The critic's lot is passing hard, — Between ourselves, I think reviewers, When call'd to truss a crowing bard, Should not be sparing of the skewers. * * 'i * We all, the foolish and the wise, Regard our verse with fascination, Through asinine-paternal eyes. And hues of Fancy's own creation ; LONDON RHYMES. Piythee, then, check that passing sneer At any self-deluded rhymer Who thinks his beer (the smallest beer !) Has all the giist of alt Hochheitner. * * * * Oh, for the Poet- Voice that swells To lofty truths, or noble curses — I only wear the cap and bells, And yet some Tears are in my verses. I softly trill my sparrow reed, Pleased if but one should like the twitter ; Humbly I lay it down to heed A music or a minstrel titter. LONDON RHYMES. MY MISTRESS'S BOOTS. Sfie has dancing eyes and ruby lips, Delightful hoots — and away she skips. They nearly strike me dumb, — I tremble when they come Pit-a-pat : This palpitation means These Boots are Geraldine's — Think of that ! O, where did hunter win So delicate a skin For her feet ? You lucky little kid, You perish'd, so you did, For my Sweet. The faery stitching gleams On the sides, and in the seams, And reveals LONDON RHYMES. That the Pixies were the wags Who tipt these funny tags, And these heels. What soles to charm an elf! — Had Cnisoe, sick of self, Chanced to view One printed near the tide, O, how hard he would have tried For the two ! For Gerry's debonair. And innocent and fair As a rose ; She's an Angel in a frock, She's an Angel with a clock To lier hose ! The simpletons who squeeze Their pretty toes to please Mandarins, Would positively flinch From venturing to pinch Geraldine's. LONDON RHYMES. Cinderella's lefts and rights To Geraldine's were frights : And I trow The Damsel, deftly shod, Has dutifully trod Until now. Come, Gerry, since it suits Such a pretty Puss (in Boots) These to don. Set your dainty hand awhile On my shoulder. Dear, and I'll Put them on. Albl'ry : June 20, 1864. LONDON RHYMES. THE REASON WHY. Abk why I love tliese roses fair, And whence they come and whose they were ; They come from lier, and not alone, — They bring her sweetness with their own. Or ask me why I love her so ; I know not : this is all I know. These roses bud and bloom, and twine As she round this fond heart of mine. And this is why I love these flowers. Once they were hers, they're mine — they're ours I love her, and they soon will die, And now you know the Reason Why. LONDON RHYMES. TEMPORA MUTANTUR! Yes, here, once more a traveller, I find the Angel Inn, Where landlord, maids, and serving-men Receive me with a grin : Surely they can't remember Me, My hair is grey and scanter ; I'm changed, so changed since I was here- tempora mutantur ! The Angel's not much alter'd since The happy month of June, That brought me here with Pamela To spend our honeymoon : Ah me, I even recollect The shape of this decanter ! We've since been both much put about — O tempora mutantur ! lo LONDON RHYMES. Ay, there's the clock, and looking-glass Reflecting me again ; She vow'd her Love was very fair, I see I'm veiy plain : And there's that daub of Prince Leeboo ; 'Twas Pamela's fond banter To fancy it resembled rne — O tempora mutantur! The curtains have been dyed, but there, Unbroken, is the same — The very same — crack'd pane of glass On which I scratch'd her name. Yes, there's her tiny flourish still ; It used to so enchant her To link two happy names in one — O tempora midanttir! * * ♦ * The pilgrim sees an empty chair Where Pamela once sat ; It may be she hadfoitnd her grave. It might be worse than that : LONDON RHYMES. ii The fairest fade, the best of >ncii Have met luith a siipplanter ; — / ze/ish that / could like this cry Of tempora mutantur. 1856. 12 LONDON RHYMES. A WINTER FANTASY. Your veil is thick, and none would know The pretty face it quite obscures ; But if you foot it through the snow, Distrust those little Boots of yours. The tell-tale snow, a sparkling mould, Says where they go and whence they came, Lightly they touch its carpet cold. And where they touch they sign your name. She pass'd beneath yon branches bare : How fair her face, and how content ! I only know her face was fair, — I only know she came and went. Pipe, robins, pipe ; though boughs be bleak Ye are her winter choristers ; Whose cheek will press that rose-cold cheek ? What lips those fresh young lips of hers ? LONDON RHYMES. 13 THE HOUSEMAID. The poor can love through toil and pain, A Ithough tluir homely speech is fain To halt in fetters : They feel as much, and do far more Than some of those they bo^u before, Miscall d their betters. Wistful she stands — and yet, resign'd, She watches by the window -blind : Poor Girl. No doubt The passers-by despise thy lot : Thou canst not stir, because 'tis not Thy Sunday out. To play a game of hide and seek With dust and cobweb all the week Small pleasure yields : Oh dear, how nice it were to drop One's pen and ink — one's pail and mop ; And scour the fields. 14 LONDON RHYMES. Poor Bodies few such pleasures know ; Seldom they come. How soon they go I But Souls can roam ; For, lapt in visions aiiy-sweet, She sees in this unlovely street Her far-off home. The street is now no street ! She pranks A purling brook with thymy banks. In Fancy's realm Yon post supports no lamp, aloof It spreads above her parents' roof, — A gracious elm. A father's aid, a mother's care, And life for her was hapjjy there : But here, in thrall She waits, and dreams, and fondly dreams, And fondly smiles on One who seems More dear than all. Her dwelling-place I can't disclose ! Suppose her fair, her name suppose Is Car, or Kitly ; LONDON RHYMES. 15 She may be "jfane — she might be plain — For must the Subject of my strain Be always pretty ? * * * Oft on a cloudless afternoon Of budding May and leafy ^nne, Fit Sunday weather, I pass thy window by design, And wish thy Sunday out and mine Might fall together. For sweet it were thy lot to dower With one brief joy : a white-robed flower That prude or preacher Hardly could deem it were unmeet To lay on thy poor path, thou sweet, Forlorn yotmg Creature. * * » But if her thought on wooing run And if her Sunday-Swain is one Who's fond of strolling, She'd like my nonsense less than his, And so it's better as it is — And that's consoling. 1864. i6 LONDON RHYMES. TO MY OLD FRIEND POSTUMUS. (J. G.) And, like yon clocke, 7uJten twelve shalle sound To call our soulcs aivay, Together may our hands be fotaid, An earnest that we praie. My Friend, our few remaining years Are hasting to an end, They glide away, and lines are here That time can never mend ; Thy blameless life avails thee not, — Alas, my dear old Friend ! Death lifts a burthen from the poor. And brings the weary rest ; But oft from earth's green orchard trees The canker takes our best— The Well-beloved ! she bloom 'd, and now The turf is on her breast. LONDON RHYMES. 17 O pleasant Earth ! This peaceful home ! The darling at my knee ! My own dear wife ! Thyself, old Friend ! And must it come to me, That any face shall fill my place Unkno-\\ni to them and thee ? Ay, vainly are we fenced about From peril, day and night ; Those awful rapids must be shot, Altho' our skiff be slight ; O, pray that then we may descry Some cheering beacon-liwht. i8 LONDON RHYMES. HEINE TO HIS MISTRESS. What do the violets ail, So wan, so shy ? Why are the roses pale ? Oh why ? Oh why ? The lark sad music makes To sullen skies ; From yonder flowery brakes Dead odours rise. Why is the sun's new birth A dawn of gloom ? Oh why is this fair earth My joyless tomb ? I wait apart and sigh, I call to thee ; Why, Heart's-beloved, why Didst thou leave me ? 1876. LONDON RHYMES. 59 ON "A PORTRAIT OF A LADY." BY THE PAINTER. I gathered it wet far Ttiy aztin sweet Pet As we whisper d and walk'd apart : S fie gave vie that rose, it is fragrant yet, — A7id oh, it is near my heart. She is good, for she must have a guileless mind With that noble, trusting air ; A rose with a passionate heart is twined In her crown of golden hair. Some envy the cross that caressingly dips In her bosom, and some had died For the promise of bliss on her red, red lips, And her thousand charms beside. She is lovely and good ; she has peerless eyes ; A haunting shape. She stands In a blossoming croft, under kindling skies, — The weirdest of faeiy lands ; 20 LONDON RHYMES. There are sapphire hills by the far-off seas, Grave laurels, and tender limes ; They tremble and glow in the morning breeze, — My Beauty is up betimes. A bevy of idlers press around, To wonder, and wish, and loll ; ' ' Now who is the painter, and where has he found The Woman we all extol. With her fresh young mouth, and her candid brow, And a bloom as of bygone days?"— How natural sounds their worship, how Impertinent seems their praise ! I stand aloof; I can well afford To pardon the babble and crush As they praise a work (do I need reward ?) That has grown beneath my brush : Aloof — and in fancy again I hear The music clash in the hall, When they crown'd her Queen of their dance and cheer, — She is mine, and Queen of all ! LONDON RHYMES. 2t Yes, my thoughts are away to that happy day, A few short months agone, When we left the games, and the dance, to stray Through the dewy flowers, alone. My feet are again among flowers divine, Away from the noise and glare, When I kiss'd her mouth, and her lips press'd mine. And I fasten'd that rose in her hair. iS68. 22 LONDON RHYMES. A t Susan's name the fancy plays With chiming thoughts of early days, And hearts unwrung : IVhen all loo fair our future smiled. When she was Mirth's adopted cldld, A nd I was young. * * * * And summer smiles, but summer spells Can Jtever charm where sorrow dwelh — No maiden fair. Or sad, or gay, the passer sees, — A nd still the much-loved elder-trees Throw shadows there. Her quiet resting-place is far away ; None dwelling there can tell you her sad stor>'. The stones are mute. The stones could only say, " A humble Spirit pass d aioay to glory.'" She loved the murmur of this mighty town ; The lark rejoiced her from its lattice prison; And now her grave is green— her bird has flown, Some dust is waiting— a glad Soul has risen. LONDON RHYMES. 23 No city smoke to stain the heather bells ; Sigh, gentle winds, around my lone Love sleep- ing; She bore her burthen here, but now she dwells Where scorner cannot come, and none are weeping. My name was falter'd with her parting breath ; These arms were round my Darling at the latest ; All scenes of death are woe, but painful death In those we dearly love is woe the greatest. I could not die; He will'd it otherwise: My lot is here, and sorrow, wearing older, Weighs do^\'n the heart, but does not fill the eyes, — Even my friends may think that I am colder. But when at times I steal away from these. To find her Grave, and pray to be forgiven. And when I watch beside her on my knees, I think I am a little nearer Heaven. iSOi. 24 LONDON RHYAfES. THE BEAR PIT. IN THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS. It seems that poor Bruin has never liad peace ' Twixt hatd men hi Bethel, and wise men in grease. Old Adage. We liked the Bear's serio-comical face, As he loll'd with a lazy, a lumbering grace ; .Said Slyboots to me (as if she had got none), " Papa, let's give Bruin a bit of your bun." Says I, "A plum bun might please wistful old Bruin, He can't eat the stone that the cruel boy threw in ; Stick yojirs on the point of mamma's parasol. And then he will climb to the top of the pole. " Some Bears have got two legs, and some have got more, Be good to old Bears if they've no legs or four ; Of duty to age you should never be careless, — My dear, I am bald, and I soon may be hairless ! LONDON RHYMES. 25 " The gravest aversion exists among Bears From rude forward persons who give themselves airs, We know how some graceless young people were maul'd For plaguing a Prophet, and calling him bald. "Strange ursine devotion! Their dancing-days ended, Bears die to ' remove ' what, in life, they defended : They succour'd the Prophet, and, since that affair. The bald have a painful regard for the bear." My Moral ! Small people may read it, and run. (The Child has my moral, — the Bear has my bun.) 26 LONDON RHYMES. UNREFLECTING CHILDHOOD. The zuorld would lose its fittest joys Without its little girls and boys ; Their careless glee, and simple ruth. And trust, and i>inoce>ice, and truth. — Ah, what ivonld your poor poet do Without such little folk as yoji ? It is indeed a little while Since you were born, my happy Pet ; Your future beckons with a smile, Your bygones don't exist as yet. Is all the world with beauty rife ? Are you a little Bird that sings Her simple gratitude for life, And lovely things ? The ocean, and the waning moons, And starry skies, and starry dells, And winter sport, and golden Junes, Art, and divinest Beauty-spells : LONDON RHYMES. 27 Festa, and song, and frolic wit, And banter, and domestic mirth, — They all are ours ! dear Child, is it A pleasant earth ? And poet friends, and poesy. And precious books, for any mood : And then — that best of company — Those graver thoughts in solitude That hold us fast and never pall : Then there is You, my Own, my Fair — And I . . . soon I must leave it all, — And much you care. 1871. 28 LONDON RHYMES. THE OLD STONEMASON. A showery day in early spring, An Old Man and a Child Are seated near a scaffolding, Where marble blocks are piled. His clothes are stain'd by age and soil, As hers by rain and sun ; He looks as if his days of toil Were veiy nearly done. To eat his dinner he had sought A staircase proud and vast, And here the duteous Child had brought His scanty noon repast. A worn-out Workman needing aid ; A blooming Child of Light ; The stately palace steps ; — all made- A most pathetic sight. LONDON RHYMES. 29 We had sought sheher fi-om the storm, And saw this lowly Pair, — But none could see a Shining Form That watch'd beside them there. 1874. 30 LONDON RHYMES. THE MUSIC PALACE. Shall you go ? / do7t't ask yoji to seek it or shun it ; J went oil an impulse : I've been and I've done it. So this is a Music-hall, easy and free, A temple for singing, and dancing, and spree ; The band is at Faust, and the benches are filling, And all that I have can be had for a shilling. The senses are charm'd by the sights and the sounds ; A spirit of aiifable gladness abounds : With zest we applaud, and as madly recall The singer, the cellar-flap-dancer, and all. What vision comes on with a wreath and a lyre ? A creature of impulse in scanty attire ; She plays the good sprite in a dream-haunted dell, She has ankles ! and eyes like a wistful gazelle. LONDON RHYMES. 31 A clown sings a song, and a droll cuts a caper, And then she dissolves in a rose-colour'd vapour : Then an imp on a rope is a painfully-pleasant Sensation for all the mammas that are present. But who is the Damsel that smiles to me there With so reckless, indeed, so defiant an air ? She is bright — that she's pretty is more than I'll say. Is she happy ? At least she's exceedingly gay. # # * # * It seems to me now, as we pass up the street. Is Nell worse than I, or the worthies we meet ? She is reckless, her conduct's exceedingly sad — A coin may be light, but it need not be bad. Heaven help thee, poor Child : now a graceless and gay Thing, You once were your Mother's, her pet and her plaything : Where was your home ? Are the stars that look down On that home, the cold stars of this pitiless Town ? 32 LONDON RHYMES. The stars are a riddle we never may read, I prest her poor hand, and I bade her Godspeed ! She left me a heart overladen with sorrow — You may hear Nelly's laugh at the palace to- morrow ! Ah ! some go to revel, and some go to rue, For some go to ruin. There's Paul's tolling two. LONDON RHYMES. 33 MRS. SMITH. Heigh-ho .' they're -wed. The cards are dealt. Our frolic games are o'er ; I've laugh' d, andfool'd, and loved. Tve felt— As I shall feel no more > Yon little thatch is ^uliere she lives. Yon spire is -where she met me ;— / think that if she quite forgives, She cannot quite forget me. Last year I trod these fields with Di,— Fields fresh with clover and with rye ; They now seem arid : Then Di was fair and single ; how Unfair it seems on me, for now Di's fair — and married ! A blissful swain— I scorn 'd the song Which tells us though young Love is strong. The Fates are stronger : Then breezes blew a boon to men, The buttercups were bright, and then This grass was longer. D 34 LONDON RHYMES. That day I saw and much esteem 'd Di's ankles, that the clover seem'd Inclined to smother : It twitch'd, and soon untied (for fun) The ril)bon of her shoes, first one. And then the other. I'm told that Virgins augur some Misfortune if their shoe-strings come To grief on Friday : And so did Di, and then her pride Decreed that shoe-strings so untied Are "so untidy ! " Of course I knelt; with fingers deft I tied the right, and tied the left : Says Di, "This stubble Is very stupid ! — as I live I'm quite ashamed ! . . . I'm shock'd to give You so much trouble ! " For answer I was fain to sink To what we all would say and think Were Beauty present : LONDON RHYMES. 35 "Don't mention such a simple act — A trouble ? not the least ! In fact It's rather pleasant ! " I trust that Love will never tease Poor little Di, or prove that he's A graceless rover. She's happy now as Mrs. Smith — And less polite when walking with Her chosen lover ! Heigh-ho ! Although no moral clings To Di's blue eyes, and sandal strings, We've had our quarrels. I think that Smith is thought an ass, — I know that when they walk in grass She wears balmorah. 1864. 36 LONDON RHYMES. TO LINA OSWALD. (with a birthday locket.) " My Darling ivants to see you soon,"— I hless the little Maid, atid thank her; To do Iter bidding; night and noon I draw on Hope — Love's kindest banker l Your Sun is in brightest apparel, Your birds and your blossoms are gay, But where is my jubilant carol To welcome so joyous a day? I sang for you when you waxe. smaller, As fair as a fawn, and as wild : Now, Lina, you're ten and you're taller — You elderly child. I knew you in shadowless hours, When thought never came with a smart ; You then were the pet of your flowers, And joy was the child of your heart. LONDON RHYMES. 37 I ever shall love you, and dearly ! I think when you're even thirteen You'll still have a heart, and not merely A flirting machine ! And when time shall have spoil'd you of passion, Discrown'd what you now think sublime, Oh, I swear that you'll still be the fashion, And laugh at the antics of Time. To love you will then be no duty ; But happiness nothing can buy — There's a bud in your garland, my Beauty, That never can die. A heart may be braised and not broken, A soul may despair and still reck ; I send you, dear Child, a poor token Of love, for your dear little neck. The heart that will beat just below it Is open and pure as your brow — May that heart, when you come to bestow it. Be happy as now. 1869 — 1872. 38 LONDON RHYMES. THE OLD GOVERNMENT CLERK. (old style.) A kindly good Man, quite a stranger to/ame. His heart still is green, tho' his head shmvs a hoar lock ; Perhaps his particular star is to blame, — It may be he never took Titne by the forelock. We knew an old Scribe, it was "once on a time," An era to set sober datists despairing : Then let them despair ! Darby sat in a chair Near the Cross that gave name to the Village of Charing. Though silent and lean, Darby was not malign, What hair he had left was more silver than sable ; He had also contracted a curve in the spine, From bending too constantly over a table. His pay and expenditure, quite in accord, Were both on the strictest economy founded ; LONDON RHYMES. 39 His rulers were known as the Sealing-wax Board,— They mled where red-tape and snug places abounded. In his heart he look'd down on this dignified Knot ; And why ? The forefatlier of one of these senators — A rascal concern' d in the Gunpowder Plot — Had been barber-surgeon to Darby's progenitors. Poor fool ! is not life a vagary of luck ? For thirty long years of genteel destitution He'd been writing despatches ; which means he had stuck Some heads and some tails to much circumlo- cution. This sounds rather weary and dreaiy ; but, no ! Though strictly mglorious, his days were quiescent ; His red-tape was tied in a true-lover's bow Every night when returning to Rosemary Crescent. 40 LONDON RHYMES. Tliere Joan meets him smiling, the Young Ones are there ; I lis coming is bliss to the half-dozen wee Things ; The dog and the cat have a greeting to spare, And Phyllis, neat-handed, is laying the tea-things. East wind, sob eerily ! Sing, kettle, cheerily ! Baby's abed, but its Father will rock it ;— His little ones boast their permission to toast That cake the good fellow brings home in his pocket. This greeting the silent Old Clerk understands, Now his friends he can love, had he foes he could mock them ; So met, so surrounded, his bosom expands, — Some hearts have more need of such homes to unlock them. And Darby at least is resign 'd to his lot ; And Joan, rather proud of the sphere he's adorning, Has well-nigh forgotten that Gunpowder Plot,— And he won't recall it till ten the next morning. LONDON RHYMES. 41 A day must be near when, in pitiful case, He will drop from his Branch, like a fiuit more than mellow ; Is he yet to be found in his usual place ? Or is he already forgotten ? Poor Fellow ! If still at his duty he soon will arrive ; He passes this turning because it is shorter ; He always is here as the clock's going five ! — Where is He ? . . Ah, it is chiming the quarter ! 1856. 42 LONDON RHYMES. OLD LETTERS. Have sorrows come ? Has pleasure sped ? Is earthly bliss an evtpty hiihble ? /s some one dull, or something dead^ O may I, mayn't I share your trouble ? Ay, so it is, and is it /air ? Poor men {your elders and your betters .') IVho can't look pretty in despair. Feel quite as sad abojit their letters. Her Letters. Old letters ! wipe away the tear For vows and hopes so vainly worded ; A Pilgrim finds his Journal here Since first his youthful loins were girded. Yes, here are scrawls from Clapham Rise ; Do mothers still their schoolboys pamper ? Oh how I hated Dr. Wise ! Oh how I loved a well-fill'd hamper ! LONDON RHYMES. 43 How strange to commune with the Dead ! Dead Joys, dead Loves. Wan leaves — how many From Friendship's tree imtimely shed — And here is one, ah, sad as any ; A ghastly bill ! '' I disapprove.'" And yet She help'd me to defray it : What tokens of a Mother's love ! bitter thought, — I can't repay it. And here's the offer that I wrote In '33 to Lucy Diver ; And here John Wylie's begging note, — He never paid me back a stiver. And here my feud with JNIajor Spike ; That bet about the French Invasion : — I must confess I acted like A simpleton on that occasion. Here's news from Paternoster Row ; How mad I was when first I learnt it ! They would not take my Book, and now 1 wish to goodness I had burnt it. 44 LONDON RHYMES. And here's a score of notes at last, With"Zoz/^" and «'Z'(?z'^,"and ''Sever— Never''; Though hope, though passion may he. past, Their perfume seems, ah, sweet as ever. A Human Heart should beat for two, Whate'er may say your single scorners ; And all the Hearths I ever knew Had got a Pair of chimney-corners. See here a double violet — Two locks of hair — A deal of scandal ; I'll \)\xxn what only brings regret . . . Kitty, go, fetch a Lighted Candle. 1856. LONDON RHYMES. 45 INCHBAE. Anon he shuts the solemn book To heed the falling of the brook, He cares but little why it flows, Or whence it comes, or where it goes. For here, on this delightful bank, His past — his future are a blank ; Enough for him the bloom, the cheer, They all are his to-day, and here. But hark ! a voice that carols free. And fills the air with melody ! She comes ! a Creature clad in grace. And joyful promise in her face. So let her fearlessly intrude On this his much-loved solitude ; Is she a lovely phantom, or That Love he long has waited for ? 46 L OND ON RHYMES. welcome as the morning dew ; Long, long have I expected you ; Come, share my seat, and, late or soon, All else that's mine beneath the moon. And sing your happy roundelay While Nature listens. Till to-day This mirthful stream has never known A cadence gladder than its own : Forgive if I too fondly gaze, Or praise the eyes that others praise : 1 watch'd my Star, I've wander'd far- Arc you my Joy ? You know you are ! Let others praise, as others prize, The witching twilight of your eyes — I cannot praise where I adore. And that is praise — and something more. LONDON RHYMES. 47 THE JESTER'S PLEA. These verses were published in 1S62, in a vokime of Poems (by several hands), entitled " An Offering to Lancashire." The world's a sorry wench, akin To all that's frail and frightful : The world's as ugly, ay, as sin,— And almost as delightful ! The world's a merry world (/;v tern), And some are gay, and therefore It pleases them, but some condemn The world they do not care for. The world's an ugly world. Offend Good people, how they wrangle ! Their manners that they never mend, — The characters they mangle ! They eat, and drink, and scheme, and plod, — They go to church on Sunday ; And many are afraid of God — And more of Mrs. Grundy. » * « 48 LONDON RHYMES. The time for pen and sword was when "My ladye fayre" for pity Could tend her wounded knight, and then Be tender to his ditty. Some ladies now make pretty songs. And some make pretty nurses : Some men are great at righting w rongs, And some at writing verses. I wish we better understood The tax our poets levy ; I know the Muse is goody-good, I think she's lather heavy : She now compounds for winning ways By morals of the sternest ; :Methinks the lays of nowadays Are painfully in earnest. When wisdom halts, I humbly try To make the most of folly : If Pallas be unwilling, I Prefer to flirt with Polly ; LONDON RHYMES. 49 To quit the goddess for the maid Seems low in lofty musers ; But Pallas is a lofty jade— And beggars can't be choosers. I do not wish to see the slaves Of party stirring passion, Or psalms quite superseding staves. Or piety " the fashion." I bless the Hearts where pity glows. Who, here together banded, Are holding out a hand to those That wait so empty-handed ! Masters, may one in motley clad, A Jester by confession. Scarce noticed join, half gay, half sad. The close of your procession ? This garment here seems out of place With graver robes to mingle. But if one tear bedews his face, Forgive the bells their jingle. £ 50 LONDON RHYMES. THE ROSE AND THE RING. (Christmas, 1854, and Christmas, 1863. She smiles, but her heart is in sable, Ay, sad as her Christmas is chill ; She reads, and her book is the Fable He penn'd for her while she was ill. It is nine years ago since he wrought it. Where reedy old Tiber is king ; And chapter by chapter he brought it, And read her Tlie Rose and the King. And when it was printed, and gaining Renown with all lovers of glee, He sent her this copy containing His comical little croqtiis ; A sketch of a rather droll couple, She's pretty, he's quite t'other thing ! He begs (with a spine vastly supple) She will study The Rose and the Ring. LONDON RHYMES. 51 It pleased the kind Wizard to send her The last and the best of his Toys ; He aye had a sentiment tender For innocent maidens and boys : And though he was great as a scomer, The guileless were safe from his sting : How sad is past mirth to the mourner — A tear on The Rose and the Ring! She reads ; I may vainly endeavour Her mirth-chequer'd grief to pursue, For she knows she has lost, and for ever, The heart that was bared to so few ; But here, on the shrine of his gloiy. One poor little blossom I fling ; And you see there's a nice little story Attach'd to The Rose and the Riiip- o 1864. 52 LONDON RHYMES, NUPTIAL VERSES. " Romance can roam not far from home ; Knock gently, she tnust answer soon ; J 'tn sixty-Jive, and yet I strive To hang my garland on the moon'' The town despises modem lays : The foolish town is frantic For story-books that tell of days "Which time has made romantic ; Of days, whose chiefest glories fill The gloom of crypt and barrow ; When soldiers were, as Love is still, Content with bow and arrow. But why should we the fancy chide ? The world will always hunger To know how people lived and died When all the world was younger. We like to read of knightly parts In maidenhood's distresses. LONDON RHYMES. 53 Of tryst, with sunshine in light hearts ; And moonbeam on dark tresses ; And how, \\-lien errante-kuyghtc or erl Proved well the love he gave her, She'd send him scarf or silken curl. As earnest of her favour ; And how (the Fair at times were rude !) Her knight, ere homeward riding, Would take, and, ay with gratitude, His lady's silver chiding. We love the rare old days and rich That poetry has painted ; We moum those pleasant days with which We never were acquainted. Absurd ! our modern world's divine, A world to dare and do in, A more romantic world. In fine A better world to woo in I The flow of life is yet a rill That laughs, and leaps, and glistens ; And still the woodland rings, and still The old Damcetas listens. 54 LONDON RHYMES. Romance, as tender as she's true, Our Isle has never quitted : So, Lad and Lassie, wlien you woo, Vou liardly need be pitied. Our lot is cast on pleasant days. In not unpleasant places ; Young ladies now have pretty ways, As well as pretty faces ; So never sigh for what has been, And let us cease complaining Tliat we have loved when our dear Queen Victoria was reigning. Oh yes, young love is lovely yet. With faith and honour plighted : I love to see a pair so met, Youth — Beauty — all united. Such Dear Ones may they ever wear The roses fortune gave them : Ah, know we such a Blessed Pair ? I think we do ! God save them ! LONDON RHYMES. 55 AN OLD BUFFER. Buffer. — A cushion or apparatus, with strong springs, to deaden the buff or concussion between a moving body and one on which it strikes. -Webster's English Dictionary. " 1/ Blossom's a sceptic, or saucy, I'll search, Andril find her a wholesome corrective — iti Church .' " Mamma loquitur. " A knock-me-down sermon, and worthy of Birch," Says I to my Wife, as we toddle from church ; " Convincing indeed ! " is the lady's remark ; " How logical, too, on the size of the Ark ! " Then Blossom cut in, without begging our pardons, " Pa, was it as big as the 'Logical Gardens ? " " Miss Blossom," says I to my dearest of Dearies, " Papa disapproves of nonsensical queries ; The Ark was an Ark, and had people to build it, Enough that we're told Noah built it and fill'd it : 56 LONDON RHYMES. Mamma doesn't ask how he caught liis opossums." —Said she, "That remark is as foolish as Blossom's ! " Thus talking and walking, the time is beguiled By my orthodox Wife and my sceptical Child ; I act as their buffer, whenever I can, And you see I'm of use as a family man. I parry their blows, and I've plenty to do — I think that the Child's are the worst of the two ! My Wife has a healthy aversion for sceptics. She vows they are bad— why, they're only dys- peptics ! May Blossom prove neither the one nor the other, But do as she's bid by her excellent mother. She thinks I'm a Solon ; perhaps, if I huff her. She'll think I'm a. . . Something that's denser and tougher. LONDON RHYMES. 57 MANY YEARS AFTER. ANOTHER POET SPEAKS. (See Note.) I saw some books exposed for sale — Some dear, and some— stage-play and tale — As dear as any : A few, perhaps more orthodo.x Or torn, were tumbled in a box — ' All these a penny. ^ I open'd one at hazard, but Its leaves, though soil'd, were still uncut ; And yet before I'd read a page, I felt indeed A wish to cut that leaf, and read Some pages more. A Poet sang of what befel When, years gone by, he'd paced Pall Mall : While walkina: thus — 58 LONDON RHYMES. A Boy — he'd met a Maiden. Then Fair women all were brave, and men Were virtuous ! They oft had met, he wonder'd wliy ; He praised her sprightly air, and I Believe he meant it : They never spoke, but if he smiled Her eyes had seem'd to say (poor Child !) ' I don^t resent it.' And then this Poet mused and grieved, In kindly strain, his Verse relieved By kindlier jest : Then he, with sad, prophetic glance. Bethought him she, ere then, perchance Had found her rest. Then I was minded how my Joy Sometimes had told me of a Boy With curly head — ' You know,' she'd laugh — (she then was well !) ' I used to meet him in Pall Mall, Ere you me wed.' LONDON RHYMES. 59 And then, for fun, she'd vow, ' Good lack, I'll go there now and fetch thee back At least a curl I ' She once was here, now she is gone ! And so, you see, my Wife was yon Bright little Girl ! I am not one for shedding tears ; That Boy's now dead, or bow'd with years ; But see — sometvncs He'd thought of Her I — that made me weep ; That's why I bought — and why I keep His Book of Rhymes. 1878. 6o LONDON RHYMES. GERALDINE GREEN. I. THE SERENADE. If pathos should thy bosom stir To tears more siveet than laughter, Then bless its kitid interpreter, A nd love him ever after ! Light slumber is quitting The eyelids it prest ; The fairies are flitting, Who lull'd thee to rest. Where night dews were falling, Now feeds the wild bee ; The starling is calling, My Darling, for thee. The wavelets are crisper That thrill the shy fern ; The leaves fondly whisper, " We wait thy return." iS6i. LONDON RHYMES. 6i Arise then, and hazy- Regrets from thee fling, For sorrows that crazy To-morrows may bring. A vague yearning smote us, But wake not to weep ; My bark. Love, shall float us Across the still deep, To isles where the lotus Erst luU'd thee to sleep. II. MY LIFE IS A At Worthing, an exile from Geraldine G , How aimless, how wretched an Exile is he ! Promenades are not even prunella and leather To lovers, if lovers can't foot them together. He flies the parade, by the ocean he stands ; He traces a " Geraldine G." on the sands: 62 LONDON RHYMES. Only "G.I" though her loved patronymic is "Green,"— " I will not betray thee, my own Geraldine." The fortunes of men have a time and a tide, And Fate, the old Fury, will not be denied ; That name was, of course, soon wiped out by the sea, — She jilted the Exile, did Geraldine G. They meet, but they never have spoken since that ; He hopes she is happy, — he knows she is fat; She, woo'd on the shore, now is wed in the Strand ; And / — it was I wrote her name on the sand. iSs4. LONDON RHYMES. 63 FROM THE CRADLE. They tell me I was born a long Three months ago, But whether they be right or wrong I hardly know. I sleep, I smile, I cannot crawl, But I can cry : At present I am rather small— A Babe am I. The changing lights of sun and shade Are baby toys ; The flowers and birds are not afraid Of baby-boys. Some day I'll wish that I could be A bird and fly; At present I can't wish— you see A Babe am I. 64 LONDON RHYMES. THE TWINS. Yes, there they lie, so small, so quaint, Two mouths, two noses, and two chins ; "What Painter shall we get to paint And glorify the Twins? To give us all the charm that dwells In tiny cloaks and coral-bells, And all those other pleasant spells Of Babyhood, and not forget The silver mug for either Pet — No babe should be without it ? Come, Fairy Limner ! you can thrill Our hearts with pink and daffodil, And white rosette, and dimpled frill ; Come, paint our little Jack and Jill, And don't be long about it ! LONDON RHYMES. 65 THE OLD CRADLE. And this was your Cradle? Why, surely, my Jenny, Such cosy dimensions go clearly to show You were an exceedingly small Picaninny Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago. Your baby-days flow'd in a much-troubled channel ; I see you, as then, in your impotent strife, A tight little bundle of wailing and flannel, Perplex'd with the newly-found fardel of Life. To hint at an infantile frailty's a scandal ; Let bygones be bygones, for somebody knows It was bliss such a Baby to dance and to dandle, — Your cheeks were so dimpled, so rosy your toes! F 66 L ON DON RHYMES. Ay, here is your Cradle; and Hope, a bright spirit, With Love now is watching beside it, I know. They guard the wee Nest it was yours to inherit Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago. It is Hope gilds the future, Love welcomes it smiling; Thus wags this old World, therefore stay not to ask, " My future bids fair, is my future beguiling?" If mask'd, still it pleases — then raise not its mask. Is Life a poor coil some would gladly be doffing ? He is riding post-haste who their wrongs will adjust ; F"or at most 'tis a footstep from cradle to coffin — From a spoonful of pap to a mouthful of dust. Then smile as your future is smiling, my Jenny ; I see you, except for those infantine woes. LONDON RHYMES. 67 Little changed since you were but a small Pica- ninny — Your cheeks were so dimpled, so rosy your toes ! Ay, here is your Cradle, much, much to my liking. Though nineteen or twenty long winters have sped. Hark ! As I'm talking there's six o'clock striking, — It is time Jenny's baby should be in its bed. 1855. 68 LONDON RHYMES. LOVE, TIME, AND DEATH. Ah me, dread friends of mine— Love, Time, and Death ! Sweet Love, who came to me on sheeny wing, And gave her to my arms — her lips, her breath, And all her golden ringlets clustering : And Time who gathers in the flying years. He gave me all, but where is all he gave ? He took my Love and left me barren tears. Weary and lone I follow to the grave. There Death will end this vision half divine, — Wan Death, who waits in shadow evermore. And silent, ere he give the sudden sign. O, gently lead me thro' tliy narrow door. Thou gentle Death, thou trustiest friend of mine — Ah me, for Love . . . xvill Death my Love restore ? LONDON RHYMES. 69 AN EPITAPH. Her worth, her wit, her loving smile Were with me but a little while ; She came, she went ; yet though that Voice Is hush'd that made the heart rejoice. And though the grave is dark and chill, Her memory is fragrant still, — She stands on the eternal hill. Here pause, kind soul, whoe'er you be. And weep for her, and pray for me. •JO LONDON RHYMES. BABY MINE. Baby mine, with the grave, grave face, Where did you get that royal calm. Too staid for joy, too still for grace? I bend as I kiss your pink, soft palm ; Are you the first of a nobler race. Baby mine ? You come from the region of long ago, And gazing awhile where the seraphs dwell Has given your face a glory and glow — Of that brighter land have you aught to tell ? I seem to have known it — I more would know, Baby mine. Your calm, blue eyes have a far-off reach. Look at me now with those wondrous eyes, Why are we doom'd to the gift of speech While you are silent, and sweet, and wise ? You have much to learn — you have more to teach, Baby mine. LONDON RHYMES. 71 DU RYS DE MADAME D'ALLEBRET. How fair those locks which now the light- wind stirs I What eyes she has, and what a perfect arm ! And yet methinks that little Laugh of hers — That little Laugh is still her crowning charm. AVhere'er she passes, countiyside or town, The streets make festa, and the fields rejoice. Should sorrow come, as 't will, to cast me down, Or Death, as come he must, to hush my voice, Her Laugh would wake me, just as now it thrills me — Th.it little giddy Laugh wherewith she kills me. 72 LONDON RHYMES. THE LADY I LOVE. The Lady I sing is as charming as Spring, I own that I love the dear Lady I sing : She is gay, she is sad, she is good, she is fair. She lives at a Number in Square. It is not 21, it is not 23 — You never shall get at her Number from me ; If you did, very soon you'd be mounting the stair Of Number (no matter what !) Square. They say she is clever. Indeed it is said She is making a Novel right out of her Head ! That poor little Head ! If her Heart were to spare I'd break, and I'd mend it in Square. I've a heart of my own, and, in prose as in rhymes, This heart has been fractured a good many times ; An excellent heart, tho' in sorry repair — Little Friend, may I mend it in Square ? LONDON RHYMES. 73 " What nonsense you talk." Yes, but still I am one Who feels pretty grave when he seems full of fun ; Some people are pretty, and yet full of care- — And Some One is pretty in Square. I know I am singing in old-fashion'd phrase The music that pleased in the old-fashion'd days ; Alas, I know, too, I've an old-fashion'd air — Oh, why did I ever see Square ! Postscript. The writer of prose, by intelligence taught, Says the thing that will please, in the way that he ought, But your poor despised Bard, who by Nature is blest, (In the scope of a couplet, or guise of a jest,) Says the thing that he pleases as pleases him best. 74 LONDON RHYMES. OUR PHOTOGRAPHS. She play'd me false, but that's not why T haven't quite forgiven Di, Although I've tried : This curl was hers, so brown, so bright. She gave it me one blissful night, And — more beside ! Our photographs were group'd together ; She wore the darling hat and feather That I adore ; In profile by her side I sat Reading my poetry — but that She'd heard before. Why, after all, Di threw me over I never knew, I can't discover, And hardly guess ; May be Smith's lyrics she decided Were sweeter than the sweetest I did — I acquiesce. LONDON RHYMES. 75 A week before their wedding day, That Beast was call'd in haste away To join the Staff. Di gave him then, with tearful mien. Her only photograph. I've seen That photograph, I've seen it in Smith's pocket-book ! Just think ! her hat, her tender look, Are now that Brute's ! Before she gave it, off she cut My body, head, and lyrics, but She was obliged, the little Slut, To leave my Boots. 76 LONDON RHYMES. MY FIRST-BORN. " He shan't be their namesake, the rather That both are such opulent men : His name shall be that of his father, My Benjamin, shorten'd to Ben. " Yes, Ben, though it cost him a portion In each of my relatives' wills : I scorn such baptismal extortion — (That creaking of boots must be Squills.) " It is clear, though his means may be narrow, This infant his Age will adorn ; I shall send him to Oxford from Harrow,— I wonder how soon he'll be born ! " A spouse thus was airing his fancies Below, 'twas a labour of love. And was calmly reflecting on Nancy's More practical labour above ; LONDON RHYMES. 77 Yet while it so pleased him to ponder, Elated, at ease, and alone ; That pale, patient victim up yonder Had budding delights of her own : Sweet thoughts, in their essence diviner Than paltry ambition and pelf; A cherub, no babe will be finer ! Invented and nursed by herself ; At breakfast, and dining, and teaing, An appetite nought can appease, And quite a Young-Reasoning-Being When call'd on to yawn and to sneeze. What cares that heart, trusting and tender, For fame or avuncular wills ? Except for the name and the gender. She's almost as tranquil as Squills. That father, in reverie centred, Dumbfounder'd, his thoughts in a whirl, Heard Squills, as the creaking boots enter'd. Announce that his Boy was — a Girl. 78 LONDON RHYMES. MR. PLACID'S FLIRTATION. yentima was cross, a>td I lost my umbrella That day at tfie tomb of Cecilia Metella. Letters from Rome. Miss Tristram's /o«/c'/ ended thus : " Nola bene. We meet for croquet in the Aldobrandini." Says my wife, "Then I'll drive, and you'll ride with Selina " (Jones's fair spouse, of the Via Sistina) , We started : I'll own that my family deem I'm an ass, but I'm not quite the ass that I seem ; As we cross'd the stones gently a nursemaid said "La- There goes Mrs. Jones with Miss Placid's papa ! " Our friends, one or two may be mention'd anon, Had arranged rendezvous at the Gate of St. John : LONDON RHYMES. 79 That pass'd, off we spun over turf that's not green there, And soon were all met at the villa. You've been there ? I'll tiy and describe, or I won't, if you please. The cheer that was set for us under the trees : You have read the vienu, may you read it again ; Champagne, perigord, galantine, and — champagne. Suffice it to say, I got seated between Mrs. Jones and old Brown — to the latter's chagrin. Poor Brown, who believes in himself, and — another thing. Whose talk is so bald, but whose cheeks are so — t'other thing. She sang, her sweet voice fill'd the gay garden alleys ; I jested,but Brown would not smile at my sallies ; — (Selina remark'd that a swell met at Rome Is not always a swell when you meet him at home.) 8o LONDON RHYMES. The luncheon despatch'd, we adjourn'd to croquet A damty, but difficult sport in its way. Thus I counsel the sage, who to play at it stoops, Belabour thy neighbour^ and spoon through thy hoops. Then we stroll'd, and discourse found its kindest of tones : "How charming were solitude and— Mrs. Jones ! " " Indeed, Mr. Placid, I dote on the sheeny And shadowy paths of the Aldobrandini ! " A girl came with violet posies, and two Soft eyes, like her violets, freshen'd with dew, And a kind of an indolent, fine-lady air, — As if she by accident found herself there. I bought one. vSelina was pleased to accept it ; She gave me a rosebud to keep — and I've kept it. Then twilight was near, and I think, in my heart. When she vow'd she must go, she was loth to depart . LONDON RHYMES. 8i Caitivo momento ! we dare not delay : The steeds are remounted, and wheels roll away : The ladies condemn Mrs. Jones, as the phrase is, E It vie with each other in chanting my praises. "He has so much to say!" cries the fair Mrs. Legge ; " How amusing he was about missing the peg ! " "What a beautiful smile I " says the plainest Miss Gunn. All echo, " He's charming ! delightful ! — What fun ! " This sounds rather nice, and it's perfectly clear il Had sounded more nice had I happen'd to hear it ; The men were less civil, and gave me a rub. So I happen'd to hear when I went to the Club. Says Brown, " I shall drop Mr. Placid's society ; (Brown is a prig of improper propriety ;) " Hang him," said Smith (who from cant's not exempt) " Why he'll bring immox-ality into contempt." G 82 LONDON RHYMES. Says I (to myself) when I found me alone, " My wife has my heart, is it always her own ?" And further, says I (to myself) " I'll be shot If I know if Selina adores me or not." Says Jones, " I've just come from the scavi, at Veii, And I've bought some remarkably fine scarabaii ! " LONDON RHYMES. 83 ST. GEORGE'S, HANOVER SQUARE, She pass'd up the aisle on the arm of her sire, A dehcate lady in bridal attire, Fair emblem of virgin simplicity ; Half London was there, and, my word, there were few That stood by the altar, or hid in a pew, But envied Lord Nigel's felicity. Beautiful Bride ! So meek in thy splendour, So frank in thy love, and its trusting surrender. Departing you leave us the town dim ! May happiness wing to thy bower, unsought, And may Nigel, esteeming his bliss as he ought, Prove worthy thy worship, — confound him ! 84 LONDON RHYMES. MA FUTURE. We parted, but again I stopt To greet her at the door, Her thimble, mine the gift, had dropt Unheeded to the floor. Her eyes met mine, her eyeUds fell To veil their sweet content ; Her happy blush and YvoA fa>TiOell Were with me as I went. And when I join'd the human tide And turmoil of the street, A Spirit-form was at my side. And gladness wing'd my feet. Exultingly the world went by. The town and I were gay ! And one far stretch of soft blue sky Seem'd leading me away. LONDON RHYMES. 85 I left her happy, and I know That we shall meet anon ; I left my Love an hour ago, And yet she is not gone. 86 LONDON RHYMES. VANITY FAIR. " Vanitas vanitatum " has rung in the ears Of gentle and simple for thousands of years ; The wail still is heard, yet its notes never scare Either simple or gentle from Vanity Fair. I often hear people abusing it, yet There the young go to learn and the old to forget ; The mirth may be feigning, the sheen may be glare, But the gingerbread's gilded in Vanity Fair, Old Dives there rolls in his chariot, but mind Black Care has crept up with the lacqueys behind ; Joan trudges with Jack, — are the Sweethearts aware Of the trouble that waits them in Vanity Fair ? We saw them all go, and we something may learn Of the harvest they reap when we see them return ; The tree was enticing, its branches are bare, — Heigho for the promise of Vanity Fair. LONDON RHYMES. 87 That stupid old Dives, once honest enough, His honesty sold for star, ribbon, and stuff ; And Joan's pretty face has been clouded with care Since Jack bought her ribbons at Vanity Fair. Contemptible Dives ! too credulous Joan I Yet we all have a Vanity Fair of our own ; My son, you have yours, but you need not despair — I own I've a weakness for Vanity Fair. Philosophy halts — wise counsels are vain, We go, we repent, we return there again ; To-night you will certainly meet with us there — So come and be meny in Vanity Fair. 1852. 88 LONDON RHYMES. MV NEIGHBOUR'S WIFE! Hark ! Hark to my neighbour's flute ! Yon powder'd slave, that ox, that ass are his : Hark to his wheezy ]iipe ; my neighbour is A worthy sort of brute. My tuneful neighbour's rich — has houses, lands, A wife (confound his flute) — a handsome wife ! Her love must give a gusto to his life. See yonder — there she stands. She turns, she gazes, she has lustrous eyes, A throat like Juno, and Aurora's arms — Per Bacco, what a paragon of charms ! My neighbour's drawn a prize. Yet, somehow, life's a nuisance with its woes, Disease and doubt — and that eternal preaching : We've sufier'd from our early pious teaching — We suffer — goodness knows. LONDON RHYMES. 89 How vain the wealth that breeds its own vexation ! Yet few of us would care to quite forego it : Then weariness of life — and many know it — Is not a glad sensation : And, therefore, neighbour mine, without a sting I contemplate thy fields, thy house, thy flocks, I covet not thy man, thine ass, thine ox. Thy flute, thy — anything. 90 LONDON RHYMES. ARCADY. Lively Shepherdess. Now mind, He'll call on you to-morrow at eleven, And beg that you will dine with us at seven ; If, when He calls, you see that He has got His green umbrella, then you'll know He'll not Be going to the House, and you'll decline. But if He hasn't it, you'll come and dine. Happy Shepherd. But if it rains : then how? and where ? and when ? And how about the green umbrella then ? Lively Shepherdess. Then He'll be Wet, that's all, for if I don't Choose He should take it, why, of course ! you goose ! he won't. LONDON RHYMES. i$i MABEL'S MUFF. She's jealous ! Does it grieve me ? No ! I'm glad to see my Mabel so, Carina 7nia ! Poor Puss ! That now and then she draws Conclusions, not without a cause, Is my idea. She loves ; and I'm prepared to prove That jealousy is kin to love In constant women. My jealous Pussy cut up rough The day before I bought her muff With sable trimming. These tearful darlings thuik to quell us By being so divinely jealous ; But I know better. Hillo ! Who's that ! A damsel ! Come, I'll follow : — no, I can't, for some One else has met her. 92 LONDON RHYMES. What fun ! He looks " a lad of grace." She holds her muff to hide her face ; They kiss, — The Sly Puss ! Hillo ! Her mufF, — it's trimm'd with sable ! It's like the muff I f^ave to Mabel ! . . . Goodl-o-r-d, SHE'S MY PUSS ! LONDON RHYMES. 93 A KIND PROVIDENCE. He dropt a tear on Susan's bier, He seem'd a most despairing Swain ; But bluer sky brought newer tie, And— would he wish her back again ? The moments fly, and when we die, Will Philly Thistletop complain ? She'll cry and sigh, and— dry her eye. And let herself be woo'd again. NOTES. NOTES. "A Winter Fantasy." The two first stanzas are imitated from Theo- phile Gautier. "To My Old Friend Postumus." The Well-beloved !— B. L. died 26th July, 1853. "The Rose and the Ring." Mr. Thackeray spent a portion of the winter of 1S54 in Rome, and while there he wrote his little Christmas story called "The Rose and the Ring." He was a great friend of the distinguished American sculptor, Mr. Stoiy, and was a fre- cjuent visitor at his house. I have heard Mr. Story speak witli emotion of the kindness of Mr. Thackeray to his little daughter, then recovering from a severe illness, and he told me that Mr. Thackeray used to come nearly every day to read H 98 NOTES. to Miss Story, often bringing portions of his manuscript with him. Five or six years afterwards Miss Story showed nic a very pretty copy of "The Rose and the Ring," which Mr. Thackeray had sent her, witli a facetious sketch of himself in the act of present- ing her with the work. " Nuptial Verses." These lines were published in 1863 in "A Wel- come," dedicated to the Princess of Wales. " Many Years After." These lines are intended as a sequel to my verses in "London Lyrics," entitled "The Pilgrims of Pall Mall." "Du Rys de Madame D'Allebret." After Clement Marot. "St. George's, Hanover Square." "Dans le bonheur de nos meilleurs amis nous trouvons souvent quelque chose qui ne nous plait pas entierement." This book is DUE on the last date stamped below %fi BBL ir AUG ^2^T\r 10»i-ll,'50 (2555)470 i^K 3 1985 ,„, li 3 1 1 58 00926 262 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY AA 000 367 900 8 mmmm