P R 
 
 4891 
 
 L2 
 
 L6 
 
 1870 
 
 MAIN 
 
"' ' ''.:- 
 
 
LONDON LYRICS 
 
LONDON LYRICS 
 
 BY FREDERICK LOCKER 
 
 BOSTON 
 FIELDS, OSGOOD, AND CO. 
 
 1870 
 
LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED BY VIRTUE AND CO., 
 CITY ROAD. 
 
LI 
 it, 
 
 DEDICATION. M A ^ U 
 
 I PAUSE upon the threshold, O most dear, 
 
 To write thy name ; so may my book acquire 
 One golden leaf. For Some yet sojourn here 
 
 Who come and go in homeliest attire, 
 Unknown, or only by the few who see 
 
 The cross they bear, the good that they have wrought : 
 Of such art thou, and I have found in thee 
 
 Truth and the love that HE, the MASTER, taught ; . 
 Thou likest thy humble poet : canst thou say 
 With truth, my dearest, " And I like his lay ? " 
 
 ROME, May, 1862. 
 
 248957 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Castle in th Air 3 
 
 The Old Cradle 9 
 
 O Tempera mutantur ! 1 1 
 
 Piccadilly 13 
 
 The Old Government Clerk 15 
 
 Arcadia 18 
 
 The Pilgrims of Pall Mall 23 
 
 The Russet Pitcher 26 
 
 The Fairy Rose 30 
 
 Circumstance 32 
 
 A Wish 33 
 
 Geraldine Green 
 
 1. The Serenade 35 
 
 2. My Life is a ....... 36 
 
 Vanity Fair ......... 38 
 
 Bramble -Rise 40 
 
 Old Letters 44 
 
 Susan 
 
 1. The Alder Trees 46 
 
 2. A Kind Providence 48 
 
 My First-born 49 
 
 The Widow's Mite 51 
 
Vlll CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 St. George's, Hanover Square 52 
 
 Vx Victis 53 
 
 A Human Skull 57 
 
 To my Old Friend Postumus 59 
 
 The Victoria Cross . . . . . . . .61 
 
 " I might have been more kind " . . . . .64 
 
 The Angora Cat ........ 66 
 
 Reply to a Letter enclosing a Lock of Hair . . .68 
 The Bear Pit . . ... . . . .72 
 
 My Neighbour Rose ........ 74 
 
 The Old Oak Tree at Hatfield Broadoak . . . .78 
 
 To my Grandmother . ...... . .83 
 
 The Skeleton in the Cupboard 86 
 
 Glycere . . . ....... .89 
 
 The Crossing- Sweeper 91 
 
 A Song that was never sung ... . . .94 
 
 On an Old Muff . ..... . . .97 
 
 An Invitation to Rome, and the Reply 
 
 1. The Invitation ...... 
 
 2. The Reply 
 
 Geraldine . 
 
 The Housemaid . . . .... 
 
 The Jester's Plea 
 
 To my Mistress . . . . . . . 
 
 My Mistress's Boots ....... 
 
 The Rose and the Ring 
 
 1863 . 
 
 Mrs. Smith 
 
 Janet 
 
CONTENTS. ix 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Implora Pace ......... 134 
 
 Sir Gyles Gyles 136 
 
 Mr. Placid's Flirtation 141 
 
 To Parents and Guardians 145 
 
 Beggars 148 
 
 Little Pitcher 151 
 
 Advice to a Poet 153 
 
 An Aspiration 159 
 
 Geraldine and I ........ 161 
 
 Her Letters ......... 163 
 
 The Old Shepherd 
 
 1. On the Hills 165 
 
 2. At Home 166 
 
 St. James's Street 167 
 
 Rotten Row 1 70 
 
 A Nice Correspondent ! . . . . . . . 1 73 
 
 The Silent Pool / 176 
 
 Misgivings 178 
 
 On an Old Buffer 180 
 
 To Lina Oswald 182 
 
 On "A Portrait of a Lady" 184 
 
 The Jester's Moral 186 
 
 Notes 191 
 
PUBLISHED IN 1857 
 
THE CASTLE IN THE AIR. 
 
 YOU shake your saucy curls, and vow 
 I build no airy castles now ; 
 You smile, and you are thinking too, 
 He's nothing else on earth to do. 
 
 It needs Romance, my Lady Fair, 
 To build a Castle in the Air : 
 Ethereal brick, and rainbow beam, 
 The gossamer of Fancy's dream ; 
 And much the architect may lack 
 Who labours in the Zodiac 
 To rear what I, from chime to chime, 
 Attempted once upon a time. 
 
 My Castle was a gay retreat 
 
 In Air, that somewhat gusty shire, 
 
 A cherub's model country seat, 
 Could model cherub such require. 
 
 Nor twinge nor tax existence tortured, 
 
 Even the cherubs spared my orchard ! 
 
THX CASTLE IN THE AIR. 
 
 No worm destroyed the gourd I planted, 
 And showers came when rain was wanted. 
 I own'd a tract of purple mountain, 
 A sweet mysterious haunted fountain, 
 A terraced lawn, a summer lake, 
 
 By sun- or moon-beam always burnish'd ; 
 And then my cot, by some mistake, 
 
 Unlike most cots, was neatly furnish'd 
 A trellis'd porch, a pictured hall, 
 A Hebe laughing from the wall ; 
 
 Frail vases, Attic and Cathay ; 
 While under arms and armour wreath'd 
 In trophied guise, the marble breathed, 
 
 A peering faun a startled fay. 
 And flowers that Love's own language spoke, 
 Than these less eloquent of smoke, 
 And not so dear. The price in town 
 Is half a rose-bud half-a-crown ! 
 
 And cabinets and chandeliers, 
 
 The legacy of courtly years ; 
 
 Stain'd windows dark, and pillow'd light, 
 
 Soft sofas, where the Sybarite, 
 
 In bliss reclining, might devour 
 
 The best last novel of the hour. 
 
 On silken cushion, laced and pearl'd, 
 
 A shaggy pet from Skye was curl'd ; 
 
 While drowsy-eyed, would dozing swing 
 
 A parrot in his golden ring. 
 
THE CASTLE IN THE AIR. 
 
 All these I saw one happy day, 
 
 And more than now I care to name ; 
 
 Here, lately shut, that work-box lay, 
 There stood your own embroidery frame. 
 
 And over this piano bent 
 
 A Form from some pure region lent. 
 
 Her auburn tresses darkly shone 
 
 In lovely clusters, like your own; 
 
 And as her fingers touch'd the keys, 
 
 How strangely they resembled these ! 
 
 Yes, you, you only, Lady Fair, 
 Adorn'd my Castle in the Air, 
 And life, without the least foundation, 
 Became a charming occupation. 
 We heard, with much sublime disdain, 
 The far-off thunder of Cockaigne ; 
 And saw, through rifts of silver cloud, 
 The rolling smoke that hid the crowd. 
 With souls released from earthly tether, 
 We gazed upon the moon together. 
 Our sympathy from night to noon 
 Rose crescent with that crescent moon ; 
 The night was briefer than the song, 
 And happy as the day was long. 
 We lived and loved in cloudless climes, 
 And even died (in verse) sometimes. 
 
 Yes, you, you only, Lady Fair, 
 Adorn'd my Castle in the Air. 
 
THE CASTLE IN THE AIR. 
 
 Now, tell me, could you dwell content 
 In such a baseless tenement ? 
 Or could so delicate a flower 
 Exist in such a breezy bower ? 
 Because, if you would settle in it, 
 Twere built for love in half a minute. 
 
 What's love ? Why love (for two), at best, 
 
 Is only a delightful jest ; 
 
 As sad for one as bad for three, 
 
 I wish you'd come and jest with me. 
 
 You shake your head and wonder why 
 
 The cynosure of dear Mayfair 
 Should lend me even half a sigh 
 
 Towards building Castles in the Air. 
 " I've music, books, and all you say, 
 To make the gravest lady gay. 
 I'm told my essays show research, 
 My sketches have endow'd a church ; 
 I've partners who have brilliant parts 
 I've lovers who have broken hearts. 
 Poor Polly would not care to fly, 
 And Mop, you know, was born in Skye. 
 To realise your tete-b-tete 
 Might jeopardise a giddy pate ; 
 Indeed, my much-devoted vassal, 
 I'm sorry that you've built your Castle !" 
 
 And is this all we gain by fancies 
 
 For noonday dreams and waking trances ; 
 
THE CASTLE IN THE AIR. 
 
 The dreams that brought poor souls mishap 
 When Baby Time was fond of pap ; 
 And still will cheat with feigning joys, 
 While beauty smiles, and men are boys ? 
 The blooming rose conceals an asp, 
 And bliss, coquetting, flies the grasp. 
 How vain the toy that pleased at first ! 
 But myrtles fade, and bubbles burst. 
 The cord has snapt that held my kite ; 
 My friends won't read the books I write, 
 
 And wonder bards can be so spleeny ! 
 I dance, but dancing's not the thing ; 
 They will not listen, though I sing, 
 
 " Fra poco " almost like Rubini ! 
 The poet's harp beyond my reach is, 
 The senate will not stand my speeches ; 
 I risk a jest, its point of course 
 Is marr'd by some disturbing force ; 
 I doubt the friends that Fortune gave me ; 
 But have I friends from whom to save me ? 
 
 Farewell ! can aught for her be will'd 
 Whose every wish is all fulfill'd ? 
 Farewell ! could wishing weave a spell, 
 There's promise in those words, fare well. 
 
 The lady's smile show'd no remorse, 
 " My worthless toy has lost its gilding," 
 
 I murmur'd with pathetic force, 
 
 " And here's an end of castle-building ; " 
 
THE CASTLE IN THE AIR. 
 
 Then strode away in mood morose, 
 
 To blame the Sage of Careless Close ; 
 
 He trifled with my tale of sorrow, 
 
 " What's marr'd to-day is made to-morrow ; 
 
 Romance can roam not far from home, 
 
 Knock gently, she must answer soon ; 
 I'm sixty-five, and yet I strive 
 
 To hang my garland on the moon/' 
 
 1848. 
 
THE OLD CRADLE. 
 
 AND this was your Cradle ? Why surely, my Jenny, 
 Such slender 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 that newly-found fardel call'd Life. 
 
 To hint at an infantine frailty's a scandal ; 
 
 Let bygones be bygones, and somebody knows 
 It was bliss such a Baby to dance and to dandle, 
 
 Your cheeks were so velvet, so rosy your toes. 
 
 Ay, here is your Cradle ; and Hope, at times lonely, 
 With Love now is watching beside it, I know. 
 
 They guard the small nest you inherited only 
 Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago. 
 
10 THE OLD CRADLE. 
 
 It is Hope gilds the future, Love welcomes it smiling ; 
 
 Thus wags the old world, therefore stay not to ask, 
 " My future bids fair, is my future beguiling?" 
 
 If mask'd, still it pleases then raise not the mask. 
 
 Is Life a poor coil some would gladly be doffing? 
 
 He is riding post-haste who their wrongs will adjust; 
 For 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, 
 Little changed since you were but a small picaninny 
 
 Your cheeks were so velvet, so rosy your toes ! 
 
 Ay, here is your Cradle ! much, much to my liking, 
 Though nineteen or twenty long winters have sped ; 
 
 But hark ! as I'm talking there's six o'clock striking, 
 It is time JENNY'S BABY should be in its bed. 
 
 1853- 
 
O TEMPORA MUTANTITR ! 
 
 YES, here, once more a traveller, 
 I find the Angel Inn, 
 Where landlord, maids, and serving-men 
 
 Receive me with a grin : 
 They surely can't remember me, 
 My hair is grey and scanter ; 
 I'm changed, so changed since I was here- 
 " O tempora mutantur ! " 
 
 The Angel is not alter'd since 
 
 The sunny month of June, 
 That brought me here with Pamela 
 
 To spend our honeymoon. 
 I recollect it down to e'en 
 
 The shape of this decanter, 
 We've since been both much put about 
 
 " O tempora mutantur ! " 
 
 Ay, there's the clock, and looking-glass 
 
 Reflecting me again ; 
 She vow'd her love was very fair, 
 
 I see I'm very plain. 
 
O TEMPORA MUTANTUR ! 
 
 And there's that daub of Prince Leeboo : 
 
 'Twas Pamela's fond banter 
 To fancy it resembled me 
 
 " 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 scratched her name. 
 Yes, there's her tiny flourish still, 
 
 It once could so enchant her 
 To link two happy names in one 
 
 " O tempora mutantur ! " 
 
 The Pilgrim sees an empty chair 
 
 Where Pamela once sat ; 
 It may be she is past all care, 
 
 It might be worse than that ! 
 Some die, and then some best of men 
 
 Have met with a supplanter ; * 
 I wish that I could change this cry, 
 
 " O tempora mutantur ! " 
 
 1856. 
 
PICCADILLY. 
 
 PICCADILLY! Shops, palaces, bustle, and 
 breeze ; 
 
 The whirring of wheels, and the murmur of trees ; 
 By night or by day, whether noisy or stilly, 
 Whatever my mood is I love Piccadilly. 
 
 Wet nights, when the gas on the pavement is 
 
 streaming, 
 And young Love is watching, and old Love is 
 
 dreaming, 
 
 And Beauty is whirling to conquest, where shrilly 
 Cremona makes nimble thy toes, Piccadilly. ! 
 
 Bright days, when a stroll is my afternoon wont, 
 
 And I meet all the people I do know or don't: 
 
 Here is jolly old Brown, and his fair daughter 
 
 Lillie; 
 No wonder some pilgrims affect Piccadilly ! 
 
 See yonder pair riding, how fondly they saunter ! 
 She smiles on her poet, whose heart's in a canter : 
 Some envy her spouse, and some covet her filly, 
 He envies them both, he's an ass, Piccadilly ! 
 
1 4 PICCADILLY. 
 
 Were I that gay bride, with a slave at my feet, 
 I would choose me a house in my favourite street ; 
 Yes or no I would carry my point, willy-nilly : 
 If no," pick a quarrel ; if " yes," Piccadilly ! 
 
 From Primrose balcony, long ages ago, 
 
 " Old Q." sat at gaze, who now passes below? 
 
 A frolicsome statesman, the Man of the Day ; 
 
 A laughing philosopher, gallant and gay ; 
 
 No darling of fortune more manfully trod, 
 
 Full of years, full of fame, and the world at his nod : 
 
 Can the thought reach his heart, and then leave it 
 
 more chilly 
 "Old P. or Old Q., I must quit Piccadilly?" 
 
 Life is chequer'd; a patchwork of smiles and of frowns ; 
 
 We value its ups, let us muse on its downs ; 
 
 There's a side that is bright, it will then turn us 
 
 t'other, 
 
 One turn, if a good one, deserves yet another. 
 These downs are delightful, these ups are not hilly, 
 Let us turn one more turn ere we quit Piccadilly. 
 
 1856. 
 
THE OLD GOVERNMENT CLERK. 
 
 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 his spine, 
 From bending too constantly over a table. 
 
 His pay and expenditure, quite in accord, 
 
 Were both on the strictest economy founded ; 
 
 His masters were known as the Sealing-wax Board, 
 And they ruled where red tape and snug places 
 abounded. 
 
 In his heart he look'd down on this dignified knot ; 
 
 For why ? The forefather of one of these senators, 
 A rascal concerned in the Gunpowder Plot, 
 
 Had been barber-surgeon to Darby's progenitors. 
 
1 6 THE OLD GOVERNMENT CLERK. 
 
 Poor fool, what is life ? A vagary of luck ! 
 
 Still, for thirty long years of genteel destitution 
 He'd been writing State Papers, which means he had 
 stuck 
 
 A few heads and some tails to much circumlocution. 
 
 This sounds rather weary and dreary ; but, no ! 
 
 Though strictly inglorious, his days were quiescent. 
 His red-tape was tied in a true-lover's bow 
 
 Every night when returning to Rosemary Crescent. 
 
 There Joan meets him smiling, the young ones are 
 there ; 
 
 His 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 
 
 The nice cake that 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 I 
 
 mock them ; 
 So met, so surrounded, his bosom expands, 
 
 Some tongues have more need of such scenes to 
 unlock them. 
 

 THE OLD GOVERNMENT CLERK. 17 
 
 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. 
 
 A kindly good man, quite a stranger to fame, 
 
 His heart still is green, though his head shows a 
 hoar lock ; 
 
 Perhaps his particular star is to blame, 
 
 It may be, he never took Time by the forelock. 
 
 A day must arrive when, in pitiful case, 
 
 He will drop from his Branch, like a fruit 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 ; 
 If not within sight as the clock's going five, 
 
 We shall see him before it is chiming the quarter. 
 
 1856. 
 
ARCADIA. 
 
 THE healthy-wealthy-wise affirm 
 That early birds obtain the worm, 
 The worm rose early too ! 
 Who scorns his couch should glean by rights 
 A world of pleasant sounds and sights 
 That vanish with the dew : 
 
 Bright Phosphor from his watch released 
 Now fading from the purple east, 
 
 As morning gets the stronger ; 
 The comely cock that vainly strives 
 To crow from sleep his drowsy wives, 
 
 Who would be roosting longer. 
 
 Uxorious Chanticleer ! And hark ! 
 Upraise thine eyes, and find the lark, 
 
 The matutine musician 
 Who heavenward soars on rapture's wings, 
 Though sought, unseen, who mounts and sings 
 
 In musical derision. 
 
ARCADIA. 19 
 
 From sea-girt pile, where nobles dwell, 
 A daughter waves her sire farewell 
 
 Across the sunlit water : 
 All these were heard or seen by one 
 Who stole a march upon that sun, 
 
 And then upon that daughter ! 
 
 This dainty maid, the county's pride, 
 A white lamb trotting at her side, 
 
 Had tript it through the park ; 
 A fond and gentle foster-dam, 
 Maybe she slumber'd with her lamb, 
 
 Thus rising with the lark ! 
 
 The lambkin frisk'd, the lady fain 
 Would coax him back, she call'd in vain, 
 
 The rebel proved unruly ; 
 The sun came streaming o'er the lake ; 
 One followed for the maiden's sake, 
 
 A happy fellow truly ! 
 
 The maid gave chase, the lambkin ran 
 As only woolly truant can 
 
 Who never felt a crook ; 
 But stay'd at length, as if disposed 
 To drink, where tawny sands disclosed 
 
 The margin of a brook. 
 
ARCADIA. 
 
 His mistress, who had followed fast, 
 Cried, " Little rogue, you're caught at last ; 
 
 I'm cleverer than you." 
 She then the wanderer convey'd 
 Where branching shrubs, in tangled shade, 
 
 Protected her from view. 
 
 And timidly she glanced around, 
 All fearful lest the slightest sound 
 
 Might mortal footfall be ; 
 Then shrinkingly she stept aside 
 One moment and her garter tied 
 
 The truant to a tree. 
 
 Perhaps the world would like to know 
 The hue of this enchanting bow, 
 
 And if 'twere silk or lace ; 
 No, not from him ! be pleased to think 
 It might be either blue or pink, 
 
 'Twas tied with maiden grace. 
 
 Suffice it that the child was fair 
 As Una sweet, with golden hair, 
 
 And come of high degree ; 
 And though her feet were pure from stain, 
 She turn'd her to the brook again, 
 
 And laved them dreamingly. 
 
ARCADIA. 
 
 Awhile she sat in maiden mood, 
 
 And watch'd the shadows from the wood, 
 
 That varied on the stream ; 
 And as each pretty foot she dipp'd, 
 The little waves rose crystal-lipp'd 
 
 In welcome, it would seem. 
 
 Yet reveries are fleeting things, 
 That come and go on whimsy wings ; 
 
 As kindly Fancy taught her 
 The Fair her tender day-dream nurs'd ; 
 But when the light-blown bubble burst, 
 
 She wearied of the water ; 
 
 Betook her to the spot where yet 
 Safe tethered lay her captured pet, 
 
 To roving tastes a martyr ; 
 But all at once she saw a change, 
 And scream'd (it seem'd so very strange !) 
 
 Cried Echo, "Where's my garter?" 
 
 The blushing girl her lamb led home ; 
 Perhaps she thought, " No more we'll roam 
 
 At peep of day together ; 
 Or if we do, why then it's plain 
 We will not venture forth again 
 
 Without an extra tether !" 
 
ARCADIA. 
 
 A pure white stone will mark this morn, 
 He wears a prize, one gladly worn, 
 
 Love's gage, though not intended ; 
 Indeed he'll guard it near his heart, 
 Till sun, and moon, and stars depart, 
 
 And chivalry has ended ! 
 
 Dull World ! He now resigns to you 
 The tinsel star, and ribbon blue, 
 
 That pride for folly barters : 
 He'll bear his cross amid your jars, 
 His ribbon prize, and thank his stars 
 
 He does not crave your garters. 
 
 1849- 
 
THE PILGRIMS OF PALL MALL. 
 
 MY little friend, so small and neat, 
 Whom years ago I used to meet 
 In Pall Mall daily, 
 How cheerily you tript away 
 To work, it might have been to play, 
 You tript so gaily. 
 
 And Time trips too. This moral means 
 You then were midway in the teens 
 
 That I was crowning ; 
 We never spoke, but when I smiled 
 At morn or eve, I know, dear Child, 
 
 You were not frowning. 
 
 Each morning when we met, I think 
 One sentiment us both did link, 
 
 Nor joy, nor sorrow ; 
 And then at eve, experience-taught, 
 Our hearts were lighter for the thought, 
 
 We meet to-morrow ! 
 
24 THE PILGRIMS OF PALL MALL. 
 
 And you were poor ! so poor ! and why ? 
 How kind to come, it was for my 
 
 Especial grace meant ! 
 Had you a chamber near the stars, 
 A bird, some treasured plants in jars, 
 
 About your casement ? 
 
 I often wander up and down, 
 
 When morning bathes the silent town 
 
 In golden glory : 
 Perhaps, unwittingly, I've heard 
 Your thrilling-toned canary-bird 
 
 From that third story. 
 
 I've seen some change since last we met 
 A patient little seamstress yet, 
 
 On small means striving, 
 Are you (if Love such luck allows) 
 Some lucky fellow's little spouse ? 
 
 Is baby thriving ? 
 
 My heart grows chill can soul like thine 
 Have tired of this dear world of mine, 
 
 And snapt Life's fetter ? 
 To find a world whose promised bliss 
 Is better than the best of this, 
 
 And is it better ? 
 
THE PILGRIMS OF PALL MALL. 25 
 
 Sometimes to Pall Mall I repair, 
 And see the damsels passing there ; 
 
 But if I try to 
 
 Obtain one glance, they look discreet, 
 As though they'd some one else to meet ; 
 
 As have not / too ? 
 
 Yet still I often think upon 
 
 Our many meetings, come and gone ! 
 
 July December ! 
 Now let us make a tryst, and when, 
 Dear little soul, we meet again, 
 The mansion is preparing then 
 
 Thy Friend remember ! 
 
 1856. 
 
THE RUSSET PITCHER. 
 
 " The pot goeth so long to the water till at length it cometh 
 broken home." 
 
 AWAY, ye simple ones, away ! 
 Bring no vain fancies hither ; 
 The brightest dreams of youth decay, 
 The fairest roses wither. 
 
 Ay, since this fountain first upwell'd, 
 
 And Dryad learnt to drink, 
 Knit hand in hand, have lovers held 
 
 Sweet parley at its brink. 
 
 From youth to age this waterfall 
 
 Most tunefully flows on, 
 But where, ay, tell me where are all 
 
 The constant lovers gone ? 
 
 The falcon on the turtle preys, 
 And beardless vows are brittle ; 
 
 The brightest dream of youth decays, 
 Ah, love is good for little. 
 
THE RUSSET PITCHER. 27 
 
 " Fair maiden, set thy pitcher down, 
 
 And heed a truth neglected : 
 The more this sorry world is known. 
 
 The less it is respected. 
 
 " Though youth is ardent, gay, and bold, 
 
 It flatters and beguiles ; 
 Though Giles is young, and I am old, 
 
 Ne'er trust thy heart to Giles. 
 
 " Thy pitcher may some luckless day 
 
 Be broken coming hither ; 
 Thy doting slave may prove a knave 
 
 The fairest roses wither." 
 
 She laugh'd outright, she scorn'd him quite, 
 
 She deftly fill'd her pitcher; 
 For that dear sight an anchorite 
 
 Would deem himself thericher. 
 
 Ill-fated damsel ! go thy way, 
 
 Thy lover's vows are lither ; 
 The brightest dreams of youth decay, 
 
 The fairest roses wither. 
 
 ***** 
 
 These days were soon the days of yore ; 
 
 Six summers pass, and then 
 That musing man would see once more 
 
 The fountain in the glen ; 
 
28 THE RUSSET PITCHER. 
 
 Again would stray where once he stray'd, 
 Through copse and quiet dell, 
 
 Half hoping too to meet the maid 
 Pass tripping from the well. 
 
 No light step comes, but, evil-starr'd, 
 
 He finds a mournful token, 
 There lies a russet pitcher marr'd, 
 
 The damsel's pitcher broken ! 
 
 Profoundly moved, that muser cried, 
 " The spoiler has been hither 
 
 O would the maiden first had died, 
 The fairest roses wither ! " 
 
 He turn'd from that unholy ground, 
 His world-worn bosom throbbing ; 
 
 A bow-shot thence a child he found, 
 The little man was sobbing. 
 
 He gently stroked that curly head, 
 " My child, what brings thee hither ? 
 
 Weep not, my simple child," he said, 
 " Or let us weep together. 
 
 " Thy world, I ween, is gay and green, 
 
 A garden undefiled ; 
 Thy thought should run on mirth and fun,- 
 
 Where dwellest thou, my child?" 
 
THE RUSSET PITCHER. 29 
 
 'Twas then the rueful urchin spoke : 
 
 " My daddy's Giles the ditcher, 
 I fetch the water, O I've broke 
 
 I've broke my mammy's pitcher ! " 
 
THE FAIRY ROSE. 
 
 are plenty of roses" (the patriarch 
 JL speaks) 
 
 " Alas ! not for me on your lips, and your cheeks ; 
 Sweet maiden, rose-laden enough and to spare, 
 Spare, spare me the Rose that you wear in your hair." 
 
 " O raise not thy hand," cries the girl, "nor suppose 
 That I ever can part with this beautiful Rose : 
 The bloom is a gift of the Fays, who declare it 
 Will shield me from sorrow as long as I wear it. 
 
 " ' Entwine it,' said they, * with your curls in a braid, 
 It will blossom in winter it never will fade ; 
 And, if tempted to rove, recollect, as you hie, 
 Where you're dying to go 'twill be going to die.' 
 
 " And breathe not, old man, such a mournful ' heigho,' 
 Dost think that I have not the will to say l No ?' 
 I could turn a deaf ear to a prayer to a vow, 
 Though the suitor were far more persuasive than thou !" 
 
THE FAIRY ROSE. 31 
 
 The damsel pass'd on with a confident smile, 
 The old man extended his walk for awhile ; 
 His musings were trite, and their burden, forsooth 
 The wisdom of age, and the folly of youth. 
 
 Noon comes, and noon goes: all the fields are in 
 
 shade 
 
 As the patriarch strolls in the path of the maid ; 
 The corn's in the ear, and awaiting the sickle, 
 The evening is fair if the damsel is fickle. 
 
 And Echo is mute to his leisurely tread, 
 " How tranquil is nature reposing ! " he said ; 
 He onward advances, and Fate seems to lead, 
 "How lonely ! " quoth he it is lonely indeed ! 
 
 He gazes around, not a creature is there ; 
 No sound on the ground, and no voice in the air ; 
 But fading there lies a poor bloom that he knows 
 " Bad luck to the Fairy that gave her the Rose !" 
 
 1853- 
 
CIRCUMSTANCE. 
 
 THE ORANGE. 
 
 IT ripen'd by the river banks, 
 Where, mask and moonlight aiding, 
 Don Juans play their pretty pranks, 
 Dark Donnas serenading. 
 
 By Moorish damsel it was pluck'd, 
 Beneath the golden day there ; 
 
 By swain 'twas then in London suck'd, 
 Who flung the peel away there. 
 
 He could not know in Pimlico, 
 
 As little she in Seville, 
 That / should reel upon that peel, 
 
 And wish them at the devil ! 
 
A WISH. 
 
 TO the south of the church, and beneath yonder 
 yew, 
 
 I have watch'd two child-lovers, unseen ; 
 More than once were they there, and the years of the 
 
 two, 
 When united, might number thirteen. 
 
 They sat by a grave that had never a stone 
 
 The name of the dead to determine ; 
 It was Life paying Death a brief visit a known 
 
 And a notable text for a sermon. 
 
 They tenderly prattled ; ah, what did they say ? 
 
 The turf on that hillock was new : 
 Little Friends, did ye know aught of death or decay ? 
 
 Could the dead be regardful of you ? 
 
 I wish to believe, and believe it I must, 
 That her father beneath them was laid : 
 
 I wish to believe I will take it on trust 
 That father knew all that they said. 
 D 
 
34 A WISH. 
 
 My own, you are five, very nearly the age 
 
 Of that poor little fatherless child ; 
 Ay, and some day a true-love your heart will engage, 
 
 When on earth I my last may have smiled. 
 
 Then visit my grave, like a good little lass, 
 
 Where'er it may happen to be ; 
 And if any daisies should peer through the grass, 
 
 O be sure they are kisses from me. 
 
 And place not a stone to distinguish my name, 
 
 For the stranger and gossip to see ; 
 But come with your lover, as these lovers came, 
 
 And talk to him sweetly of me. 
 
 And while you are smiling, One Greater will smile 
 On the dear little daughter He gave ; 
 
 But mind, O yes, mind you are happy the while 
 / wish you to visit my grave. 
 
 1856. 
 
GERALDINE GREEN, 
 i. 
 
 THE SERENADE. 
 
 LIGHT slumber is quitting 
 The eyelids it prest ; 
 The fairies are flitting 
 
 Who charm'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." 
 
36 GERALDINE GREEN. 
 
 Arise then, and hazy 
 Distrust 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 lull'd thee to sleep. 
 
 1861. 
 
 n. 
 
 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 ocean he stands ; 
 He traces a " Geraldine G." on the sands ; 
 Only "G. ! " though her loved patronymic is "Green/ 
 I will not betray thee, my own Geraldine. 
 
GERALDINE GREEN. 37 
 
 The fortunes of men have a time and a tiae, 
 
 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 7 it was I wrote her name on the sand. 
 
 1854. 
 
VANITY FAIR. 
 
 V ANITAS 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 
 Atra Cur a is 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 ! 
 
VANITY FAIR. 39 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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, wisest counsels are vain, 
 We go, we repent, we return there again ; 
 To-night you will certainly meet with us there 
 So come and be merry in Vanity Fair. 
 
 1852. 
 
BRAMBLE-RISE. 
 
 WHAT changes greet my wistful eyes 
 In quiet little Bramble- Rise, 
 The pride of all the shire ! 
 How alter'd is each pleasant nook ; 
 And used the dumpy church to look 
 So dumpy in the spire ? 
 
 This village is no longer mine ; 
 
 And though the Inn has changed its sign, 
 
 The beer may not be stronger : 
 The river, dwindled by degrees, 
 Is now a brook, the cottages 
 
 Are cottages no longer. 
 
 The mud is brick, the thatch is slate, 
 The pound has tumbled out of date, 
 
 And all the trees are stunted : 
 I'm sure these thistles once grew figs, 
 These geese were swans, and once these pigs 
 
 More musically grunted. 
 
BRAMBLE-RISE. 41 
 
 Where boys and girls pursued their sports 
 A locomotive puffs and snorts, 
 
 And gets my malediction ; 
 The turf, the fairies all are fled ! 
 The ponds have shrunk, and tastes have spread 
 
 For photograph and fiction. 
 
 Ah, there's a face I know again, 
 Fair Patty trotting down the lane 
 
 To fetch a pail of water ; 
 Yes, Patty ! still I much suspect 
 Tis not the child I recollect, 
 
 But Patty, Patty's daughter ! 
 
 And has she too outlived the spells 
 Of breezy hills and silent dells 
 
 Where childhood loved to ramble ? 
 Then Life was thornless to our ken, 
 And, Bramble-Rise, thy hills were then 
 
 A rise without a bramble. 
 
 Whence comes the change ? 'Twere easy told 
 That some grow wise, and some grow cold, 
 
 And all feel time and trouble : 
 If Life an empty bubble be, 
 How sad are those who will not see 
 
 A rainbow in the bubble ! 
 
42 BRAMBLE-RISE. 
 
 And senseless too, for Madam Fate 
 Is not the fickle reprobate 
 
 That moody sages thought her; 
 My heart leaps up, and I rejoice 
 As falls upon my ear thy voice, 
 
 My frisky little daughter. 
 
 Come hither, Pussy, perch on these 
 Thy most unworthy father's knees, 
 
 And tell him all about it ! 
 Are dolls but bran ? Can men be base ? 
 When gazing on thy blessed face 
 
 I'm quite prepared to doubt it. 
 
 O may'st thou own, my winsome elf, 
 Some day a pet just like thyself, 
 
 Her sanguine thoughts to borrow; 
 Content to use her brighter eyes, 
 Accept her childish ecstasies, 
 
 If need be, share her sorrow ! 
 
 The wisdom of thy prattle cheers 
 
 This heart ; and when outworn in years, 
 
 And homeward I am starting, 
 Lead me, my darling, gently down 
 To Life's dim strand : the skies may frown, 
 
 But weep not for our parting. 
 
BRAMBLE-RISE. 43 
 
 Though Life is calPd a doleful jaunt, 
 With sorrow fraught, in sunshine scant ; 
 Though earthly joys, the wisest grant, 
 
 Have no enduring basis ; 
 It's pleasant in this lower sphere 
 (For her so fresh, for me so drear) 
 To find in Puss, my daughter dear, 
 
 A little cool oasis ! 
 
 April, 1857. 
 
OLD LETTERS. 
 
 OLD letters ! wipe away the tear 
 For vows and wishes vainly worded ; 
 A pilgrim finds his journal here 
 
 Since first his youthful loins were girded. 
 
 Yes, here are wails from Clapham Grove ; 
 
 How could philosophy expect us 
 To live with Dr. Wise, and love 
 
 Rice pudding and the Greek Delectus ? 
 
 How strange to commune with the Dead ! 
 
 Dead joys, dead loves ; and wishes thwarted ; 
 Here's cruel proof of friendships fled ; 
 
 And sad enough of friends departed. 
 
 Yes, 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. 
 
OLD LETTERS. 45 
 
 And here my feud with Major Spike, 
 Our bet about the French invasion ; 
 
 I must confess I acted like 
 A donkey upon 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 
 
 I'd give a trifle to have burnt it. 
 
 A ghastly bill ! "I disapprove : " 
 And yet She help'd me to defray it : 
 
 What tokens of a mother's love ! 
 O bitter thought ! I can't repay it. 
 
 And here's a score of notes at last, 
 
 With " love " and " dove," and " sever " 
 " never," 
 
 Though hope, though passion may be past, 
 Their perfume is as sweet as ever. 
 
 A human heart should beat for two, 
 Despite the taunt of 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 burn what only leaves regret 
 
 Go, Betty, bring a lighted candle. 
 
 1856. 
 
SUSAN. 
 i. 
 
 THE ALDER-TREES. 
 
 AT Susan's name the fancy plays 
 With chiming thoughts of early days, 
 And hearts unwrung ; 
 When all too fair our future smiled, 
 When she was Mirth's adopted child, 
 And I was young. 
 
 I see the cot with spreading eaves, 
 
 Bright shines the sun through summer leaves, 
 
 But does not scorch, 
 The dial stone, the pansy bed ; 
 Old Robin trained the roses red 
 
 About the porch. 
 
 'Twixt alders twain a rustic seat 
 Was merriest Susan's pet retreat 
 To merry make ; 
 
SUSAN. 47 
 
 Good Robin's handiwork again, 
 O must we say his toil was vain, 
 For Susan's sake ? 
 
 Her gleeful tones and laughter gay 
 Were sunshine on the darkest day ; 
 
 And yet some said 
 
 That when her mirth was passing wild, 
 Though still the faithful Robin smiled, 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 Perhaps the old man harbour'd fears 
 That happiness is wed with tears 
 
 On this poor earth ; 
 Or else, maybe, his fancies were 
 That youth and beauty are a snare 
 
 If link'd with mirth. 
 
 And times are changed, how changed that scene ! 
 For mark old Robin's mournful mien, 
 
 And feeble tread. 
 
 His toil has ceased to be his pride, 
 At Susan's name he turns aside, 
 
 And shakes his head. 
 
 And summer smiles, but summer spells 
 Can never charm where sorrow dwells ; 
 No maiden fair, 
 
48 SUSAN. 
 
 Or sad, or gay, the passer sees, 
 And still the much-loved Alder-trees 
 Throw shadows there. 
 
 The homely-fashion'd seat is gone, 
 And where it stood is laid a stone, 
 
 A simple square : 
 The worldling, or the man severe, 
 May pass the name recorded here \ 
 But we will stay to shed a tear, 
 
 And breathe a prayer. 
 
 1855- 
 
 ii. 
 
 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. 
 
 1861. 
 
MY FIRST-BORN. 
 
 " T T E shan't be their namesake, the rather 
 L A 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 ; 
 
50 MY FIRST-BORN. 
 
 Yet while it so pleased him to ponder, 
 
 Elated, at ease, and alone ; 
 The 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. 
 
 One breakfasting, dining, and teaing, 
 With 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, 
 
 Dumfounder'd, his thoughts in a whirl, 
 
 Heard Squills, as the creaking boots enter'd, 
 Announce that his Boy was a Girl. 
 
THE WIDOW'S MITE. 
 
 A WIDOW ! she had only one, 
 A puny and decrepit son ; 
 Yet, day and night, 
 
 Though often fretful, weak and small, 
 A loving child, he was her all 
 The Widow's Mite. 
 
 The Widow's Mite, ay, so sustained, 
 She battled onward, nor complained 
 
 When friends were fewer : 
 And while she toil'd for daily fare, 
 A little crutch upon the stair 
 
 Was music to her. 
 
 I saw her then, and now I see, 
 That though resign'd and cheerful, she 
 
 Has sorrow'd much : 
 She has HE gave it tenderly 
 Much faith and, carefully laid by, 
 
 A little crutch. 
 
 1856. 
 
ST. GEORGE'S, HANOVER SQUARE. 
 
 " Dans le bonheur de nos meilleurs amis nous trouvons souvent quelque 
 chose qui ne nous plait pas entierement." 
 
 SHE pass'd up the aisle on the arm of her sire, 
 A delicate 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. 
 
 O 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 bosom, unsought, 
 And may Nigel, esteeming his bliss as he ought, 
 
 Prove worthy thy worship, confound him ! 
 
V& VICTIS. 
 
 " A /T Y Kate> at the Waterlo Column, 
 1 VJL To-morrow, precisely at eight ; 
 
 Remember, thy promise was solemn, 
 And thine till to-morrow, my Kate ! " 
 
 ***** 
 
 That evening seem'd strangely to linger, 
 The license and luggage were pack'd ; 
 
 And Time, with a long and short finger, 
 Approvingly mark'd me exact. 
 
 Arrived, woman's constancy blessing, 
 
 No end of nice people I see ; 
 Some hither, some thitherwards pressing, 
 
 But none of them waiting for me. 
 
 Time passes, my watch how I con it ; 
 
 I see her, she's coming no, stuff ! 
 Is it Kate and her smart little bonnet ? 
 
 It's aunt, and her wonderful muff! 
 
54 V^E VICTIS. 
 
 (Yes, Fortune deserves to be chidden ; 
 
 It is a coincidence queer 
 That whenever one wants to be hidden 
 
 One's relatives always appear.) 
 
 Near nine ! how the passers despise me, 
 They smile at my anguish, I think ; 
 
 And even the sentinel eyes me, 
 And tips that policeman the wink. 
 
 Ah ! Kate made me promises solemn, 
 At eight she had vow'd to be mine ; 
 
 While waiting for one at this column, 
 I find I've been waiting for nine. 
 
 O Fame ! on thy pillar so steady, 
 
 Some dupes watch beneath thee in vain : 
 
 How many have done it already ! 
 How many will do it again ! 
 
PUBLISHED IN 1862 
 
A HUMAN SKULL. 
 
 A HUMAN Skull ! I bought it passing cheap, 
 Indeed 'twas dearer to its first employer ; 
 I thought mortality did well to keep 
 
 Some mute memento of the Old Destroyer. 
 
 Time was, some may have prized its blooming skin ; 
 
 Here lips were woo'd, perhaps, in transport tender ; 
 Some may have chuck'd what was a dimpled chin, 
 
 And never had my doubt about its gender ! 
 
 Did she live yesterday or ages back ? 
 
 What colour were the eyes when bright and waking? 
 And were your ringlets fair, or brown, or black, 
 
 Poor little head ! that long has done with aching ? 
 
 It may have held (to shoot some random shots) 
 Thy brains, Eliza Fry ! or Baron Byron's ; 
 
 The wits of Nelly Gwynn, or Doctor Watts, 
 Two quoted bards ! two philanthropic sirens ! 
 
58 A HUMAN SKULL. 
 
 But this I trust is clearly understood, 
 
 If man or woman, if adored or hated, 
 
 Whoever own'd the Skull was not so good, 
 Nor quite so bad as many may have stated. 
 
 Who love, can need no special type of Death ; 
 
 He bares his awful face too soon, too often ; 
 " Immortelles " bloom in Beauty's bridal wreath, 
 
 And does not yon green elm contain a coffin ? 
 
 O, true-love mine, what lines of care are these ? 
 
 The heart still lingers with its golden hours, 
 But fading tints are on the chestnut-trees, 
 
 And where is all that lavish wealth of flowers ? 
 
 The end is near. Life lacks what once it gave, 
 Yet death has promises that call for praises ; 
 
 A very worthless rogue may dig the grave, 
 
 But hands unseen will dress the turf with daisies. 
 
TO MY OLD FRIEND POSTUMUS. 
 (j. G.) 
 
 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 aye from Earth's green orchard trees 
 
 The canker takes our best, 
 The Well-beloved ! she bloonYd, and now 
 
 The turf is on her breast ! 
 
 And vainly are we fenced about 
 
 From peril, day and night, 
 Those awful rapids must be shot, 
 
 Our shallop will be slight ; 
 So pray that then we may descry 
 
 Some cheering beacon-light. 
 
60 TO MY OLD FRIEND POSTUMUS. 
 
 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 
 
 Unknown to them and thee ? 
 
THE VICTORIA CROSS. 
 
 A LEGEND OF TUNBRIDGE WELLS. 
 
 SHE gave him a draught freshly drawn from the 
 springlet, 
 
 O Tunbridge, thy waters are bitter, alas ! 
 But love finds an ambush in dimple and ringlet ; 
 "Thy health, pretty maiden!" He emptied the 
 glass. 
 
 He saw, and he loved her, nor cared he to quit her ; 
 
 The oftener he came, why the longer he stay'd ; 
 Indeed, though the spring was exceedingly bitter, 
 
 We found him eternally pledging the maid. 
 
 A preux chevalier, and but lately a cripple, 
 He met with his hurt where a regiment fell, 
 
 But worse was he wounded when staying to tipple 
 A bumper to " Phoebe, the Nymph of the Well." 
 
62 THE VICTORIA CROSS. 
 
 Some swore he was old, that his laurels were faded, 
 All vow'd she was vastly too nice for a nurse ; 
 
 But Love never look'd on the matter as they did, 
 She took the brave soldier for better or worse. 
 
 And here is the home of her fondest election, 
 The walls may be worn, but the ivy is green ; 
 
 And here she has tenderly twined her affection 
 Around a true soldier who bled for the Queen. 
 
 See, yonder he sits, where the church flings its shadows; 
 
 What child is that spelling the epitaphs there ? 
 To that imp its devout and devoted old dad owes 
 
 New zest in thanksgiving, fresh fervour in prayer ! 
 
 Ere long, ay, too soon, a sad concourse will darken 
 The doors of that church, and that peaceful abode ; 
 
 His place then no longer will know him but, hearken, 
 The widow and orphan appeal to their God. 
 
 Much peace will be hers. " If our lot must be lowly, 
 Resemble thy father, though with us no more ; " 
 
 And only on days that are high or are holy, 
 She'll show him the cross that her warrior wore. 
 
 So taught, he will rather take after his father, 
 And wear a long sword to our enemies' loss, 
 
 Till some day or other he'll bring to his mother 
 Victoria's gift the Victoria Cross ! 
 
THE VICTORIA CROSS. 63 
 
 And still she'll be charming, though ringlet and dimple 
 Perchance may have lost their peculiar spell ; 
 
 And often she'll quote, with complacency simple, 
 The compliments paid to the Nymph of the Well. 
 
 And then will her darling, like all good and true ones, 
 Console and sustain her, the weak and the strong ; 
 
 And some day or other two black eyes or blue ones 
 Will smile on his path as he journeys along. 
 
 Wherever they win him, whoever his Phoebe, 
 Of course of all beauty she must be the belle, 
 
 If at Tunbridge he chance to fall in with a Hebe, 
 He will not fall out with a draught from the Well. 
 
" I MIGHT HAVE BEEN MORE KIND." 
 
 HER quiet resting-place is far away, 
 None dwelling there have wept for her sad 
 
 story: 
 
 The stones are mute. The stones could only say, 
 " A humble spirit pass'd away to glory." 
 
 She loved the murmur of this mighty town, 
 The lark rejoiced her from its lattice prison \ 
 
 A streamlet soothes her now, the bird has flown, 
 Some dust is waiting there a soul has risen. 
 
 No city smoke to stain the heather bells, 
 Sigh, gentle winds, around my lone love sleeping, 
 
 She bore her burthen here, but now she dwells 
 Where scorner never came, 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 surely greatest ! 
 
"l MIGHT HAVE BEEN MORE KIND." 65 
 
 I could not die : HE will'd it otherwise ; 
 
 My lot is here, and sorrow, wearing older, 
 Weighs down the heart, yet does not fill the eyes, 
 
 And even friends may think that I am colder. 
 
 I might have been more kind, more tender ; now 
 Repining wrings my bosom. I am grateful 
 
 No eye can see this mark upon my brow ; 
 All, all my old companionship is hateful. 
 
 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. 
 
 1861. 
 
THE ANGORA CAT. 
 
 GOOD pastry is vended 
 In Cite Fadette ; 
 
 Madame Pons can make splendid 
 Brioche and galette ! 
 
 Monsieur Pons is so fat that 
 
 He's laid on the shelf; 
 Madame Pons had a cat that 
 
 Was fat as herself. 
 
 Long hair, soft as satin, 
 
 A musical purr 
 'Gainst the window she'd flatten 
 
 Her delicate fur. 
 
 Once I drove Lou to see what 
 
 Our neighbours were at, 
 When, in rapture, cried she, " What 
 
 An exquisite cat ! 
 
THE ANGORA CAT. 67 
 
 " What whiskers ! She's purring 
 
 All over. Regale 
 Our eyes, Puss, by stirring 
 
 Your feathery tail ! 
 
 " Monsieur Pons, will you sell her?" 
 
 " Mafemme est sortie, 
 Your offer Pll tell her, 
 
 But will she?" says he. 
 
 Yet Pons was persuaded 
 
 To part with the prize : 
 (Our bargain was aided, 
 
 My Lou, by your eyes !) 
 
 From his legitime save him, 
 
 My fate I prefer ! 
 For I warrant she gave him 
 
 Un mauvais quart d'Jieure. 
 
 I'm giving a pleasant 
 
 Grimalkin to Lou, 
 Ah, Puss, what a present 
 
 I'm giving to you ! 
 
REPLY TO A LETTER ENCLOSING 
 A LOCK OF HAIR. 
 
 " ' My darling wants to see you soon,' 
 
 I bless the little maid, and thank her ; 
 To do her bidding, night and noon 
 I draw on Hope Love's kindest banker ! " 
 
 Old MSS. 
 
 YES, you were false, and though I'm free, 
 I still would be the slave of yore ; 
 Then join'd our years were thirty- three, 
 And now, yes, now, I'm thirty-four. 
 And though you were not learned well, 
 
 I was not anxious you should grow so ; 
 I trembled once beneath her spell 
 Whose spelling was extremely so-so ! 
 
 Bright season ! why will Memory 
 
 Still haunt the path our rambles took, 
 The sparrow's nest that made you cry, 
 
 The lilies captured in the brook ? 
 I'd lifted you from side to side, 
 
 You seem'd as light as that poor sparrow ; 
 I know who wish'd it twice as wide, 
 
 I think you thought it rather narrow. 
 
REPLY TO A LETTER. 69 
 
 Time was, indeed, a little while ! 
 
 My pony could your heart compel ; 
 And once, beside the meadow-stile, 
 
 I thought you loved me just as well ; 
 I'd kiss'd your cheek ; in sweet surprise 
 
 Your troubled gaze said plainly, " Should he ?" 
 But doubt soon fled those daisy eyes, 
 
 " He could not wish to vex me, could he ?" 
 
 The brightest eyes are often sad, 
 
 But your fair cheek, so lightly swa/d, 
 Could ripple into dimples glad, 
 
 For O, my stars, what mirth we made ! 
 The brightest tears are soonest dried, 
 
 But your young love and dole were stable ; 
 You wept when dear old Rover died, 
 
 You wept and dress'd your dolls in sable. 
 
 As year succeeds to year, the more 
 
 Imperfect life's fruition seems, 
 Our dreams, as baseless as of yore, 
 
 Are not the same enchanting dreams. 
 The girls I love now vote me slow 
 
 How dull the boys who once seem'd witty ! 
 Perhaps I'm getting old I know 
 
 I'm still romantic more's the pity ! 
 
70 REPLY TO A LETTER. 
 
 Ah, vain regret ! to few, perchance, 
 
 Unknown, and profitless to all : 
 The wisely-gay, as years advance, 
 
 Are gaily-wise. Whatever befall, 
 We'll laugh at folly, whether seen 
 
 Beneath a chimney or a steeple ; 
 At yours, at mine our own, I mean, 
 
 As well as that of other people. 
 
 They cannot be complete in aught 
 
 Who are not humorously prone, 
 A man without a merry thought 
 
 Can hardly have a funny bone. 
 To say I hate your dismal men 
 
 Might be esteem'd a strong assertion ; 
 If I've blue devils now and then, 
 
 I make them dance for my diversion. 
 
 And here's your letter debonair ! 
 
 " My friend \ my dear old friend of yore" 
 And is this curl your daughter's hair ? 
 
 I've seen the Titian tint before. 
 Are we the pair that used to pass 
 
 Long days beneath the chestnut shady ? 
 You then were such a pretty lass ! 
 
 I'm told you're now as fair a lady. 
 
REPLY TO A LETTER. 7 I 
 
 I've laugh'd to hide the tear I shed, 
 
 As when the Jester's bosom swells, 
 And mournfully he shakes his head, 
 
 We hear the jingle of his bells. 
 A jesting vein your poet vex'd, 
 
 And this poor rhyme, the Fates determine, 
 Without a parson or a text, 
 
 Has proved a rather prosy sermon. 
 
 1859. 
 
THE BEAR PIT 
 
 AT THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS. 
 
 WE liked the bear's serio-comical face, 
 As he loll'd with a lazy, a lumbering grace ; 
 Said Slyboots to me (just as if she had 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 yours on the point of mamma's parasol, 
 And perhaps 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 ! 
 
 " The gravest aversion exists among bears 
 
 For rude forward persons who give themselves airs, 
 
 We know how some graceless young people they 
 
 maul'd 
 Just for plaguing a prophet, and calling him bald. 
 
THE BEAR PIT. 73 
 
 " 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), 
 Does it argue that Bruin has never had peace 
 'Twixt bald men in Bethel, and wise men in grease? 
 
MY NEIGHBOUR ROSE. 
 
 THOUGH slender walls our hearths divide, 
 No word has pass'd from either side, 
 How gaily all your days must glide 
 
 Unvex'd by labour ! 
 
 I've seen you weep, and could have wept ; 
 I've heard you sing, and may have slept ; 
 Sometimes I hear your chimney swept, 
 My charming neighbour ! 
 
 Your pets are mine. Pray what may ail 
 The pup, once eloquent of tail ? 
 I wonder why your nightingale 
 
 Is mute at sunset ? 
 
 Your puss, demure and pensive, seems 
 Too fat to mouse. She much esteems 
 Yon sunny wall, and sleeps and dreams 
 
 Of mice she once ate. 
 
MY NEIGHBOUR ROSE. 75 
 
 Our tastes agree. I dote upon 
 
 Frail jars, turquoise and celadon, 
 
 The " Wedding March " of Mendelssohn, 
 
 And Penseroso. 
 
 When sorely tempted to purloin 
 \Q\\rpietd of Marc Antoine, 
 Fair Virtue doth fair play enjoin, 
 
 Fair Virtuoso ! 
 
 At times an Ariel, cruel-kind, 
 
 Will kiss my lips, and stir your blind, 
 
 And whisper low, " She hides behind ; 
 
 Thou art not lonely." 
 The tricksy sprite did erst assist 
 At hush'd Verona's moonlight tryst ; 
 Sweet Capulet ! thou wert not kiss'd 
 
 By light winds only. 
 
 I miss the simple days of yore, 
 
 When two long braids of hair you wore, 
 
 And chat botte was wonder'd o'er, 
 
 In corner cosy. 
 
 But gaze not back for tales like those : 
 It's all in order, I suppose, 
 The Bud is now a blooming ROSE, 
 
 A rosy posy ! 
 
76 MY NEIGHBOUR ROSE. 
 
 Indeed, farewell to bygone years ; 
 How wonderful the change appears, 
 For curates now and cavaliers 
 
 In turn perplex you : 
 The last are birds of feather gay, 
 Who swear the first are birds of prey ; 
 I'd scare them all had I my way, 
 
 But that might vex you. 
 
 At times I've envied, it is true, 
 That hero blithe, of twenty-two, 
 Who sent bouquets and billets doux, 
 
 And wore a sabre. 
 
 The rogue ! how close his arm he wound 
 About her waist, who never frown'd. 
 He loves you, Child. Now, is he bound 
 
 To love my neighbour ? 
 
 The bells are ringing. As is meet, 
 White favours fascinate the street, 
 Sweet faces greet me, rueful-sweet 
 
 'Twixt tears and laughter : 
 They crowd the door to see her go, 
 The bliss of one brings many woe ; 
 O kiss the bride, and I will throw 
 
 The old shoe after. 
 
MY NEIGHBOUR ROSE. 77 
 
 What change in one short afternoon, 
 My Charming Neighbour gone, so soon ! 
 Is yon pale orb her honey-moon 
 
 Slow rising hither ? 
 O lady, wan and marvellous, 
 How often have we communed thus ; 
 Sweet memory shall dwell with us, 
 
 And joy go with her ! 
 
 1861. 
 
THE OLD OAK-TREE AT HATFIELD 
 BROADOAK. 
 
 A MIGHTY growth ! The county side 
 -L\. Lamented when the Giant died, 
 
 For England loves her trees : 
 What misty legends round him cling ! 
 How lavishly he once would fling 
 
 His acorns to the breeze ! 
 
 Who struck a thousand roots in fame, 
 Who gave the district half its name, 
 
 Will not be soon forgotten : 
 Last spring he show'd but one green bough, 
 The red leaves hang there still, and now 
 
 His very props are rotten ! 
 
 Elate, the thunderbolt he braved, 
 For centuries his branches waved 
 
 A welcome to the blast ; 
 From reign to reign he bore a spell 
 No forester had dared to fell 
 
 What Time has felFd at last. 
 
THE OLD OAK-TREE. 79 
 
 The monarch wore a leafy crown, 
 
 And wolves, ere wolves were hunted down, 
 
 Sought safety in his gloom; 
 Unnumber'd squirrels frolick'd free, 
 Glad music fill'd the gallant tree 
 
 From stem to topmost bloom. 
 
 'Twere hard to say, 'twere vain to seek 
 When first he ventured forth, a meek 
 
 Petitioner for dew ; 
 No Saxon spade disturbed his root, 
 The rabbit spared the tender shoot, 
 
 And valiantly he grew, 
 
 And show'd some inches from the ground 
 When St. Augustine came and found 
 
 Us very proper Vandals : 
 When nymphs had bluer eyes than hose, 
 When England measured men by blows, 
 
 And measured time by candles. 
 
 The pilgrim bless' d his grateful shade 
 Ere Richard led the first crusade, 
 
 And maidens led the dance 
 Where, boy and man, in summer-time, 
 Our Chaucer ponder'd o'er his rhyme ; 
 
 And Robin Hood perchance, 
 
8o THE OLD OAK-TREE AT 
 
 Stole hither to maid Marian 
 
 (And if they did not come, one can 
 
 At any rate suppose it) ; 
 They met beneath the mistletoe, 
 We did the same, and ought to know 
 
 The reason why they chose it. 
 
 And this was call'd the traitor's branch, 
 Stern Warwick hung six yeomen stanch 
 
 Along its mighty fork ; 
 Uncivil wars for them ! The fair 
 Red rose and white still bloom, but where 
 
 Are Lancaster and York ? 
 
 Right mournfully his leaves he shed 
 To shroud the graves of England's dead, 
 
 By English falchion slain ; 
 And cheerfully, for England's sake, 
 He sent his kin to sea with Drake, 
 
 When Tudor humbled Spain. 
 
 While Blake was fighting with the Dutch 
 They gave his poor old arms a crutch ; 
 
 And thrice four maids and men ate 
 A meal within his rugged bark, 
 When Coventry bewitch'd the Park, 
 
 And Chatham sway'd the senate. 
 
HATFIELD BROADOAK. 8 1 
 
 His few remaining boughs were green, 
 And 'dappled sunbeams danced between, 
 
 Upon the dappled deer, 
 When, clad in black, two mourners met 
 To read the Waterloo Gazette, 
 
 They mourn'd their darling here. 
 
 They join'd their boy. The tree at last 
 Lies prone, discoursing of the past, 
 
 Some fancy-dreams awaking ; 
 Resigned, though headlong changes come, 
 Though nations arm to tuck of drum, 
 
 And dynasties are quaking. 
 
 Romantic spot ! By honest pride 
 Of old tradition sanctified ; 
 
 My pensive vigil keeping, 
 I feel thy beauty like a spell, 
 And thoughts, and tender thoughts, upwell, 
 
 That fill my heart to weeping. 
 
 The Squire affirms, with gravest look, 
 His oak goes up to Domesday Book ! 
 
 And some say even higher ! 
 We rode last week to see the ruin, 
 We love the fair domain it grew in, 
 
 And well we love the Squire. 
 G 
 
82 THE OLD OAK-TREE. 
 
 A nature loyally controll'd, 
 
 And fashion' d in the righteous mould 
 
 Of English gentleman ; 
 Some day my child will read these rhymes, 
 She loved her " godpapa " betimes, 
 
 The little Christian ! 
 
 I love the Past, its ripe pleasance, 
 Its lusty thought, and dim romance, 
 
 And heart-compelling ditties ; 
 But more, these ties, in mercy sent, 
 With faith and true affection blent, 
 And, wanting them, I were content 
 
 To murmur, " Nunc dimittis" 
 
 HALLINGBURY, April, 1859. 
 
TO MY GRANDMOTHER. 
 
 (SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE BY MR. ROMNEY.) 
 
 THIS relative of mine 
 Was she seventy and nine 
 When she died? 
 By the canvas may be seen, 
 How she look'd at seventeen, 
 As a bride. 
 
 Beneath a summer tree 
 Her maiden reverie 
 
 Has a charm ; 
 Her ringlets are in taste ; 
 What an arm ! and what a waist 
 
 For an arm ! 
 
 With her bridal-wreath, bouquet, 
 Lace, farthingale, and gay 
 
 Falbala, 
 
 Were Romney's limning true, 
 What a lucky dog were you, 
 
 Grandpapa ! 
 
84 TO MY GRANDMOTHER. 
 
 Her lips are sweet as love ; 
 
 They are parting ! Do they move ? 
 
 Are they dumb ? 
 Her eyes are blue, and beam 
 Beseechingly, and seem 
 
 To say, " Come." 
 
 What funny fancy slips 
 
 From between these cherry lips? 
 
 Whisper me, 
 Sweet deity in paint, 
 What canon says I mayn't 
 
 Marry thee ? 
 
 That good-for-nothing Time 
 Has a confidence sublime ! 
 
 When I first 
 
 Saw this lady, in my youth, 
 Her winters had, forsooth, 
 
 Done their worst. 
 
 Her locks, as white as snow, 
 Once shamed the swarthy crow ; 
 
 By-and-by, 
 
 That fowl's avenging sprite 
 Set his cruel foot for spite 
 
 Near her eye. 
 
TO MY GRANDMOTHER. 85 
 
 Her rounded form was lean, 
 And her silk was bombazine : 
 
 Well I wot, 
 
 With her needles would she sit, 
 And for hours would she knit, 
 
 Would she not ? 
 
 Ah, perishable clay ! 
 
 Her charms had dropt away 
 
 One by one : 
 But if she heaved a sigh 
 With a burthen, it was, " Thy 
 
 Will be done." 
 
 In travail, as in tears, 
 With the fardel of her years 
 
 Overprest, 
 In mercy she was borne 
 Where the weary and the worn 
 
 Are at rest. 
 
 I fain would meet you there ; 
 If witching as you were, 
 
 Grandmamma, 
 This nether world agrees 
 That the better you must please 
 Grandpapa. 
 
THE SKELETON IN THE CUPBOARD. 
 
 THE characters of great and small 
 Come ready made (we can't bespeak one) ; 
 Their sides are many, too, and all 
 
 (Except ourselves) have got a weak one. 
 Some sanguine people love for life, 
 
 Some love their hobby till it flings them, 
 How many love a pretty wife 
 
 For love of the eclat she brings them ! 
 
 In order to relieve my mind 
 
 I've thrown off this disjointed chatter, 
 And much because I'm disinclined 
 
 To venture on a painful matter : 
 I once was bashful ; I'll allow 
 
 I've blush'd for words untimely spoken, 
 I still am rather shy, and now . . . 
 
 And now the ice is fairly broken. 
 
THE SKELETON IN THE CUPBOARD. 87 
 
 We all have secrets : you have one 
 
 Which mayn't be quite your charming spouse's ; 
 We all lock up a skeleton 
 
 In some grim chamber of our houses ; 
 Familiars who exhaust their days 
 
 And nights in plaguing fops and fogies, 
 And who, excepting spiteful ways, 
 
 Are blameless, unassuming bogies. 
 
 We hug the phantom we detest, 
 
 We rarely let it cross our portals : 
 It is a most exacting guest, 
 
 Now are we not afflicted mortals ? 
 Your neighbour Gay, that jovial wight, 
 
 As Dives rich, and bold as Hector, 
 Poor Gay steals twenty times a night, 
 
 On shaking knees, to see his spectre. 
 
 Old Dives fears a pauper fate, 
 
 And hoarding is his gloomy passion ; 
 And some poor souls anticipate 
 
 A waistcoat straiter than the fashion. 
 She, childless, pines, that lonely wife, 
 
 And hidden tears are bitter shedding ; 
 And he may tremble all his life, 
 
 And die, but not of that he's dreading. 
 
88 THE SKELETON IN THE CUPBOARD. 
 
 Ah me, the World ! How fast it spins ! 
 
 The beldams dance, the caldron bubbles ; 
 They shriek, and stir it for our sins, 
 
 And we must drain it for our troubles. 
 We toil, we groan the cry for love 
 
 Mounts upward from the seething city, 
 And yet I know we have above 
 
 A FATHER, infinite in pity. 
 
 When Beauty smiles, when Sorrow weeps, 
 
 When sunbeams play, when shadows darken, 
 One inmate of our dwelling keeps 
 
 A ghastly carnival but hearken ! 
 How dry the rattle of the bones ! 
 
 The sound was not to make you start meant. 
 Stand by ! Your humble servant owns 
 
 The Tenant of this Dark Apartment. 
 
GLYCERE. 
 
 OLD MAN. 
 
 I 
 
 N gala dress, and smiling ! Sweet, 
 What seek you in my green retreat ? 
 
 YOUNG GIRL. 
 
 I gather flowers for my hair, 
 
 The village yonder claims the best, 
 For lad and lass are thronging there 
 
 To dance the sober sun to rest. 
 Hark ! hark ! the rebec calls, Glycere 
 
 Again may foot it on the green ; 
 Her rivalry I need not fear, 
 
 This wreath shall crown the Village Queen. 
 
 OLD MAN. 
 You long have known this tranquil ground ? 
 
 YOUNG GIRL. 
 
 Indeed it all seems marr'd to me. 
 
90 GLYCERE. 
 
 OLD MAN. 
 
 Light heart ! who sleeps beneath this mound 
 
 Was fairest of yon company : 
 The flowers to eclipse Glycere 
 Are hers, poor child. Her grave is here ! 
 
THE CROSSING-SWEEPER. 
 
 THE SUTTEE. 
 
 A CROSSING-SWEEPER, black and tan, 
 <L\. Told how he came from Hindostan, 
 And why he wore a hat, and shunrtd 
 The Ryals of the Pugree Bund. 
 
 My wife was fair, she worshipp'd me, 
 
 Her father was a Caradee, 
 
 His deity was aquatile, 
 
 A rough and tough old Crocodile. 
 
 To gratify this monster's maw 
 
 He sacrificed his sons-in-law; 
 
 I married, though the neighbours said he 
 
 Had lost five sons-in-law already. 
 
 Her father, when he play'd his pranks, 
 Proposed " a turn on Jumna's banks ;" 
 He spoke so kind, she seem'd so glum, 
 I felt convinced that mine had come. 
 
92 THE CROSSING-SWEEPER. 
 
 I fled before this artful ruse 
 To cook my too-confiding goose, 
 And now I sweep, in chill despair, 
 A crossing in St. James's Square ; 
 
 Some old Qui-hy, some rural flat 
 May drop a sixpence in my hat ; 
 Yet still I mourn the mango-tree 
 Where Azla first grew fond of me. 
 
 These rogues, who swear my skin is tawny, 
 Would pawn their own for brandy-pawnee; 
 What matter if their skins are snowy, 
 As Chloe fair ? They're drunk as Chloe ! 
 
 Your town is vile. In Thames' s stream 
 The crocodiles get up the steam ! 
 Your Juggernauts their victims bump 
 From Camberwell to Aldgate pump ! 
 
 A year ago, come Candlemas, 
 I woo'd a plump Feringhee lass ; 
 United at her idol fane, 
 I furnish'd rooms in Idol Lane. 
 
 A moon had waned when virtuous Emma 
 Involved me in a new dilemma : 
 The Brahma faith, that Emma scorns, 
 Impaled me tight on both its horns : 
 
THE CROSSING-SWEEPER. 93 
 
 She vow'd to BURN if she survived me: 
 Of this sweet fancy she deprived me, 
 She ran from all her obligations, 
 And went to stay with her relations. 
 
 My Azla weeps by Jumna's deeps, 
 
 But Emma mocks my trials, 
 She pokes her jokes in Seven Oaks, 
 
 At me in Seven Dials, 
 I'm dasttd if these Feringhee folks 
 
 Ain't rather worse than Ryals. 
 
A SONG THAT WAS NEVER SUNG. 
 
 " 'TpHE well-beloved are only dead 
 
 JL To idle mirth and sorrow, 
 Regretful tears for what is fled, 
 
 And yearnings for to-morrow." 
 Alas, that love should know alloy ; 
 How frail the cup that holds our joy ! 
 
 " How sweet, how passing sweet to rove 
 
 Through fields of asphodel ; 
 Where all we've lost, and all who love, 
 
 Rejoice !" Ah, who can tell? 
 Yet sweet it were, knit hand in hand, 
 To lead thee through a better land. 
 
 Why wish the fleeting year to stay ? 
 
 When time for us is flown, 
 There is a garden, far away, 
 
 An Eden all our own : 
 And there I'll whisper in thine ear 
 Ah ! what I may not tell thee here ! 
 
PUBLISHED IN 1865 
 
ON AN OLD MUFF 
 
 TIME has a magic wand ! 
 What is it meets my hand, 
 Moth-eaten, mouldy, and 
 
 Cover'd with fluff ? 
 Faded, and stiff, and scant ; 
 Can it be ? no, it can't 
 Yes, I declare it's Aunt 
 Prudence's Muff! 
 
 Years ago, twenty-three, 
 Old Uncle Barnaby 
 Gave it to Aunty P 
 
 Laughing and teasing 
 " Pru., of the breezy curls, 
 Whisper those solemn churls, 
 What holds a pretty girts 
 
 Hand without squeezing ? " 
 
 Uncle was then a lad 
 Gay, but, I grieve to add, 
 Sinful ; if smoking bad 
 Baccy' s a vice : 
 H 
 
98 ON AN OLD MUFF. 
 
 Glossy was then this mink 
 Muff, lined with pretty pink 
 Satin, which maidens think 
 "Awfully nice!" 
 
 I seem to see again 
 
 Aunt, in her hood and train, 
 
 Glide, with a sweet disdain, 
 
 Gravely to Meeting : 
 Psalm-book, and kerchief new, 
 Peep'd from the Muff of Pru. ; 
 Young men, and pious too, 
 
 Giving her greeting. 
 
 Sweetly her Sabbath sped 
 Then, from this Muff, it's said, 
 Tracts she distributed : 
 
 Converts (till Monday !) 
 Lured by the grace they lack'd, 
 Follow'd her. One, in fact, 
 Ask'd for and got his tract 
 
 Twice of a Sunday ! 
 
 Love has a potent spell \ 
 Soon this bold Ne'er-do-well, 
 Aunt's too susceptible 
 Heart undermining, 
 
ON AN OLD MUFF'. 99 
 
 Slipt, so the scandal runs, 
 Notes in the pretty nun's 
 Muff, triple-corner' d ones, 
 Pink as its lining. 
 
 Worse follow'd, soon the jade 
 
 Fled, (to oblige her blade !) 
 
 Whilst her friends thought that they'd 
 
 Lock'd her up tightly : 
 After such shocking games 
 Aunt is of wedded dames 
 Gayest, and now her name's 
 
 Mrs. Golightly. 
 
 In female conduct flaw 
 Sadder I never saw, 
 Faith still I've in the law 
 
 Of compensation. 
 Once Uncle went astray, 
 Smoked, joked, and swore away, 
 Sworn by, he's now, by a 
 
 Large congregation. 
 
 Changed is the Child of Sin, 
 Now he's (he once was thin) 
 Grave, with a double chin, 
 Blest be his fat form ! 
 
100 ON AN OLD MUFF. 
 
 Changed is the garb he wore, 
 Preacher was never more 
 Prized than is Uncle for 
 Pulpit or platform. 
 
 If all's as best befits 
 Mortals of slender wits, 
 Then beg the Muff, and its 
 
 Fair Owner pardon : 
 Airs for the best, indeed 
 Such is my simple creed, 
 Still I must go and weed 
 
 Hard in my garden. 
 
 1863. 
 
AN INVITATION TO ROME, AND 
 THE REPLY. 
 
 THE INVITATION. 
 
 OCOME to Rome, it is a pleasant place, 
 Your London sun is here seen smiling brightly : 
 The Briton too puts on a cheery face, 
 
 And Mrs. Bull is suave and even sprightly. 
 The Romans are a kind and cordial race, 
 
 The women charming, if one takes them rightly ; 
 I see them at their doors, as day is closing, 
 More proud than duchesses and more imposing. 
 
 A far niente life promotes the graces ; 
 
 They pass from dreamy bliss to wakeful glee, 
 And in their bearing, and their speech, one traces 
 
 A breadth of grace and depth of courtesy 
 That are not found in more inclement places ; 
 
 Their clime and tongue seem much in harmony ; 
 The Cockney met in Middlesex, or Surrey, 
 Is often cold and always in a hurry. 
 
,102 , t r AN INVITAtiON TO ROME, 
 
 Though far niente is their passion, they 
 
 Seem here most eloquent in things most slight ; 
 
 No matter what it is they have to say, 
 The manner always sets the matter right : 
 
 And when they've plagued or pleased you all the day, 
 They sweetly wish you " a most happy night." 
 
 Then, if they fib, and if their stories tease you, 
 
 ; Tis always something that they've wish'd to please 
 you ! 
 
 O come to Rome, nor be content to read 
 Alone of stately palace and of street 
 
 Whose fountains ever run with joyful speed, 
 And never-ceasing murmur. Here we meet 
 
 Great Memnon's monoliths, or, gay with weed, 
 Rich capitals, as corner-stone, or seat, 
 
 The sites of vanish'd temples, where now moulder 
 
 Old ruin, hiding ruin even older. 
 
 Ay, come, and see the statues, pictures, churches, 
 Although the last are commonplace, or florid. 
 
 Some say 'tis here that superstition perches, 
 
 Myself I'm glad the marbles have been quarried. 
 
 The sombre streets are worthy your researches : 
 The ways are foul, the lava pavement's horrid, 
 
 But pleasant sights, that squeamishness disparages, 
 
 Are miss'd by all who roll about in carriages. 
 
AND THE REPLY. 103 
 
 Anent one fane I deprecate all sneering, 
 
 For during Christmas-time I went there daily, 
 
 Amused, or edified, or both, by hearing 
 The little preachers of the Ara Cceli. 
 
 Conceive a four-year-old bambino, rearing 
 
 Her small form on a rostrum, trick'd out gaily, 
 
 And lisping, what for doctrine may be frightful, 
 
 With action most dramatic and delightful. 
 
 O come ! We'll charter such a pair of nags ! 
 
 The country's better seen when one is riding : 
 We'll roam where yellow Tiber speeds or lags 
 
 At will. The aqueducts are yet bestriding 
 With giant march (now whole, now broken crags 
 
 With flowers plumed) the swelling and subsiding 
 Campagna, girt by purple hills, afar 
 That melt in light beneath the evening star. 
 
 A drive to Palestrina will be pleasant, 
 
 The wild fig grows where erst her rampart stood ; 
 There oft, in goat-skin clad, a sun-burnt peasant 
 
 Like Pan comes frisking from his ilex wood, 
 And seems to wake the past time in the present. 
 
 Fair contadina, mark his mirthful mood, 
 No antique satyr he. The nimble fellow 
 Can join with jollity your saltarello. 
 
104 AN INVITATION TO ROME, 
 
 Old sylvan peace and liberty ! The breath 
 
 Of life to unsophisticated man. 
 
 Here Mirth may pipe, here Love may weave his 
 wreath, 
 
 " Per dar 1 al mio bene" When you can, 
 Come share their leafy solitudes. Pale Death 
 
 And Time are grudging of our little span : 
 Wan Time speeds lightly o'er the changing corn, 
 Death grins from yonder cynical old thorn. 
 
 I dare not speak of Michael Angelo 
 
 Such theme were all too splendid for my pen. 
 
 And if I breathe the name of Sanzio 
 (The brightest of Italian gentlemen), 
 
 Is it that love casts out my fear, and so 
 
 I claim with him a kindredship ? Ah ! when 
 
 We love, the name is on our hearts engraven, 
 
 As is thy name, my own dear Bard of Avon ! 
 
 Nor is the Coliseum theme of mine, 
 'Twas built for poet of a larger daring ; 
 
 The world goes there with torches, I decline 
 
 Thus to affront the moonbeams with their flaring. 
 
 Some time in May our forces we'll combine 
 (Just you and I), and try a midnight airing, 
 
 And then I'll quote this rhyme to you and then 
 
 You'll muse upon the vanity of men. 
 
AND THE REPLY. 105 
 
 come ! I send a leaf of April fern, 
 
 It grew where Beauty lingers round decay : 
 The ashes buried in a sculptured urn 
 
 Are not more dead than Rome so dead to-day ! 
 That better time, for which the patriots yearn, 
 
 Enchants the gaze, again to fade away. 
 They wait and pine for what is long denied, 
 And thus I wait till thou art by my side. 
 
 Thou'rt far away.! Yet, while I write, I still 
 Seem gently, Sweet, to press thy hand in mine ; 
 
 1 cannot bring myself to drop the quill, 
 
 I cannot yet thy little hand resign ! 
 The plain is fading into darkness chill, 
 
 The Sabine peaks are flush'd with light divine, 
 I watch alone, my fond thought wings to thee ; 
 O come to Rome O come, O come to me ! 
 
 1863. 
 
 THE REPLY. 
 
 Dear Exile, I was pleased to get 
 Your rhyme, I've laid it up in cotton ; 
 
 You know that you are all to " Pet," 
 She fear'd that she was quite forgotten ! 
 
106 AN INVITATION TO ROME, 
 
 Mamma, who scolds me when I mope, 
 Insists mamma is wise as gentle 
 
 That I am still in love. I hope 
 That you feel rather sentimental. 
 
 Perhaps you think your Love for lore 
 
 Should pine unless her slave be with her ; 
 Of course you're fond of Rome, and, more 
 
 Perhaps you'd like to coax me thither ! 
 Che! quit this dear delightful maze 
 
 Of calls and balls, to be intensely 
 Discomfited in fifty ways 
 
 I like your confidence immensely ! 
 
 Some girls who love to ride and race, 
 
 And live for dancing like the Bruens, 
 Confess that Rome's a charming place, 
 
 In spite of all the stupid ruins : 
 I think it might be sweet to pitch 
 
 One's tent beside the banks of Tiber, 
 And all that sort of thing, of which 
 
 Dear Hawthorne's " quite'' the best describes 
 
 To see stone pines, and marble gods, 
 
 In garden alleys, red with roses, 
 The Perch where Pio Nono nods ; 
 
 The Church where Raphael reposes. 
 Make pleasant giros when we may ; 
 
 Jump stagionate where they're easy ; 
 
AND THE REPLY. 107 
 
 And play croquet the Bruens say 
 There's turf behind the Ludovisi. 
 
 I'll bring my books, though Mrs. Mee 
 
 Says packing books is such a worry ; 
 I'll bring my " Golden Treasury," 
 
 Manzoni, and, of course, a " Murray;" 
 A Tupper, whom good people prize ; 
 
 A Dante Auntie owns a quarto 
 I'll try and buy a smaller size, 
 
 And read him on the muro torto. 
 
 But can I go ? La Madre thinks 
 
 It would be such an undertaking : 
 I wish we could consult a sphinx ; 
 
 The thought alone has left her quaking. 
 Papa (we do not mind Papa) 
 
 Has got some " notice " of some " motion," 
 And could not stay ; but, why not, Ah, 
 
 I've not the very slightest notion. 
 
 The Browns have come to stay a week, 
 
 They've brought the boys, I haven't thank'd 'em, 
 For Baby Grand, and Baby Pic, 
 
 Are playing cricket in my sanctum : 
 Your Rover, too, affects my den, 
 
 And when I pat the dear old whelp, it . . 
 It makes me think of you, and then . . 
 
 And then I cry I cannot help it. 
 
108 AN INVITATION TO ROME. 
 
 Ah yes before you left me, ere 
 
 Our separation was impending, 
 These eyes had seldom shed a tear, 
 
 I thought my joy could have no ending ! 
 But cloudlets gathered soon, and this, 
 
 This was the first that rose to grieve me 
 To know that I possess'd such bliss, 
 
 For then I knew such bliss might leave me. 
 
 My thoughts are sadder than my rhymes ! 
 
 But yours have made my spirit better : 
 And though perhaps I grieve at times, 
 
 I'd meant to write a cheery letter ; 
 But skies were dull, Rome sounded hot, 
 
 I fancied I could live without it : 
 I thought I'd go, I thought I'd not, 
 
 And then I thought I'd think about it. 
 
 The sun now glances o'er the Park, 
 
 If tears are on my cheek, they glitter ; 
 I think I've kiss'd your rhyme, for hark, 
 
 My " bulley " gives a saucy twitter ! 
 Your blessed words extinguish doubt, 
 
 A sudden breeze is gaily blowing, 
 And, hark ! The minster bells ring out 
 
 " She ought to go. Of course she's going ! " 
 
 1863. 
 
GERALDINE. 
 
 A SIMPLE child has claims 
 On your sentiment her name's 
 
 Geraldine. 
 
 Be tender, but beware, 
 
 She's frolicsome as fair, 
 
 And fifteen. 
 
 She has gifts to grace allied, 
 Each gift she has applied, 
 
 And improved : 
 
 She has bliss that lives and leans 
 On loving, and that means 
 
 She is loved. 
 
 Her grace is grace refined 
 By sweet harmony of mind : 
 
 And the Art, 
 
 And the blessed Nature, too, 
 Of a tender and a true 
 
 Little heart. 
 
HO GERALDINE. 
 
 And yet I must not vault 
 Over any foolish fault 
 
 That she owns : 
 Or others might rebel, 
 And enviously swell 
 
 In their zones. 
 
 She is tricksy as the fays, 
 Or her pussy when it plays 
 
 With a string ; 
 She's a goose about her cat, 
 Her ribbons, and all that 
 
 Sort of thing. 
 
 These foibles are a blot, 
 Still she never can do what 
 
 Is not nice, 
 
 Such as quarrel, and give slaps 
 As I've known her get, perhaps, 
 
 Once or twice. 
 
 The spells that move her soul 
 Are subtle sad or droll : 
 
 She can show 
 That virtuoso whim 
 Which consecrates our dim 
 
 Long-ago. 
 
GERALDINE. 1 1 1 
 
 A love that is not sham 
 
 For Stothard, Blake, and Lamb ; 
 
 And I've known 
 Cordelia's wet eyes 
 Cause angel-tears to rise 
 
 In her own. 
 
 Her gentle spirit yearns 
 
 When she reads of Robin Burns 
 
 Luckless Bard, 
 Had she blossom'd in thy time, 
 
 how rare had been the rhyme 
 
 And reward ! 
 
 Thrice happy then is he 
 Who, planting such a Tree, 
 
 Sees it bloom 
 To shelter him indeed 
 We have sorrow as we speed 
 
 To our doom ! 
 
 1 am happy having grown 
 Such a Sapling of my own ; 
 
 And I crave 
 
 No garland for my brows, 
 But peace beneath its boughs 
 
 To the grave. 
 
 1864. 
 
THE HOUSEMAID. 
 
 " Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide." 
 
 ALONE she sits, with air resign'd 
 She watches by the window-blind : 
 Poor girl ! No doubt 
 The pilgrims here 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 : 
 O dear, how nice it is to drop 
 One's pen and ink, one's pail and mop 
 
 And scour the fields ! 
 
 Poor Bodies few such pleasures know ; 
 They seldom come. How soon they go ! 
 
 But Souls can roam : 
 And, lapt in visions airy-sweet, 
 She sees perchance in this dull street 
 
 Her own loved home ! 
 
THE HOUSEMAID. 
 
 The road is now no road. She pranks 
 A brawling stream with thymy banks ; 
 
 In Fancy's realm 
 
 This post supports no lamp, aloof 
 It spreads above her parents' roof, 
 
 A gracious elm. 
 
 How often has she valued there 
 A father's aid, a mother's care : 
 
 She now has neither : 
 And yet she sits, and fondly dreams, 
 And fondly smiles on one who seems 
 
 More dear than either. 
 
 The poor can love through want and pain, 
 Although their homely speech is fain 
 
 To halt in fetters : 
 They feel as much, and do far more 
 Than some of those they bow before, 
 
 Miscall'd their betters. 
 
 Oft on a cloudless afternoon 
 Of budding May and leafy June, 
 
 Meet Sunday weather, 
 I pass her window by design, 
 And wish her Sunday out and mine 
 
 Might fall together. 
 
114 THE HOUSEMAID. 
 
 For sweet it were my lot to dower 
 
 With one brief joy, one white-robed flower ; 
 
 And prude, or preacher, 
 Could hardly deem I did amiss 
 To lay one on the path of this 
 
 Forlorn young creature. 
 
 Yet if her thought on wooing run, 
 And if her swain and she are one, 
 
 And fancy strolling, 
 She'd like my nonsense less than his, 
 And so it's better as it is 
 
 And that's consoling. 
 
 Her whereabouts I won't disclose ! 
 Suppose she's fair, her name suppose 
 
 Is Car, or Kitty ; 
 
 She may be Jane she might be plain 
 For must the object of my strain 
 
 Be always pretty ? 
 
 1864. 
 
THE JESTER'S PLEA. 
 
 These verses were published in 1862, in a volume 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 nearly as delightful ! 
 The World's a merry world (pro tem.\ 
 
 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 ! 
 The manners that they never mend, 
 
 The characters they mangle ! 
 They eat, and drink, and scheme, and plod, 
 
 And go to church on Sunday ; 
 And many are afraid of God 
 
 And more of Mrs. Grundy. 
 
Ti6 THE JESTER'S PLEA. 
 
 The time for Pen and Sword was when 
 
 " My ladye fayre," for pity 
 Could tend her wounded knight, and then 
 
 Be tender at his ditty. 
 Some ladies now make pretty songs, 
 
 And some make pretty nurses : 
 Some men are great at righting wrongs, 
 
 And some at writing verses. 
 
 I wish we better understood 
 
 The tax that poets levy ! 
 I know the Muse is goody good, 
 
 I think she's rather 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 ; 
 To quit the goddess for the maid 
 
 Seems low in lofty musers ; 
 But Pallas is a lofty jade 
 
 And beggars can't be choosers. 
 
THE JESTER'S PLEA. 117 
 
 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 ! 
 
 A righteous Work ! My masters, may 
 
 A Jester by confession, 
 Scarce noticed join, half sad, half gay, 
 
 The close of your procession ? 
 The motley here seems out of place 
 
 With graver robes to mingle, 
 But if one tear bedews his face, 
 
 Forgive the bells their jingle. 
 
TO MY MISTRESS. 
 
 O COUNTESS, year succeeding year 
 Can show that Time is wasting here ; 
 He soon will do his worst by you, 
 And garner all your roses too. 
 
 It pleases Time to fold his wings 
 Around our best and brightest things ; 
 He'll mar your damask cheek, as now 
 He stamps his mark upon my brow. 
 
 The same mute planets rise and shine 
 To rule your days and nights as mine : 
 Once I was young as you, and see ! . . 
 What I am now you soon will be. 
 
 And yet I bear a certain charm 
 That shields me from your worst alarm ; 
 And bids me gaze, with front sublime, 
 On all the ravages of Time. 
 
TO MY MISTRESS. 119 
 
 You boast a charm that all men prize : 
 This gift of mine, that you despise, 
 May, like enough, be still my own 
 When all your vaunt has paled and gone. 
 
 My charm may long embalm the lures 
 Of eyes, ah, sweet to me as yours : 
 And ages hence the great and good 
 Will judge you as I choose they should. 
 
 In days to come the count or clown, 
 With whom I still shall win renown, 
 Will only know that you were fair 
 Because I chanced to say you were. 
 
 Proud Lady ! scornful beauty mocks 
 At aged heads and silver locks ; 
 But think awhile before you try 
 To scorn a poet such as I. 
 
 KENWOOD, July 21, 1864. 
 
MY MISTRESS'S BOOTS. 
 
 THEY nearly strike me dumb, 
 And I tremble when they come 
 Pit-a-pat : 
 
 This palpitation means 
 That these Boots are Geraldine's 
 Think of that ! 
 
 O where did hunter win 
 So delectable 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 it shows 
 
 That the Pixies were the wags 
 Who tipt these funny tags, 
 
 And these toes. 
 
MY MISTRESS S BOOTS. 
 
 The simpletons who squeeze 
 Their extremities to please 
 
 Mandarins, 
 
 Would positively flinch 
 From venturing to pinch 
 
 Geraldine's. 
 
 What soles to charm an elf! 
 Had Crusoe, 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, 
 With a fascinating cock 
 
 To her nose. 
 
 Cinderella's lefts and rights 
 To Geraldine's were frights : 
 
 And, I trow, 
 The damsel, deftly shod, 
 Has dutifully trod 
 
 Until now. 
 
MY MISTRESS S BOOTS. 
 
 Come, Gerry, since it suits 
 Such a pretty Puss (in Boots) 
 
 These to don, 
 Set this dainty hand awhile 
 On my shoulder, dear, and I'll 
 
 Put them on. 
 
 June 29, 1864. 
 
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 the Rose and the Ring. 
 
 And when it was printed, and gaining 
 
 Renown with all lovers of glee, 
 He sent her this copy containing 
 
 His comical little croquis ; 
 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. 
 
124 THE ROSE AND THE RING. 
 
 It pleased the kind Wizard to send her 
 
 The last and the best of his toys ; 
 His heart had a sentiment tender 
 
 For innocent women and boys : 
 And though he was great as a scorner, 
 
 The guileless were safe from his sting : 
 O 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 hears she has lost, and for ever, 
 
 A heart that was known by so few ; 
 But I wish on the shrine of his glory 
 
 One fair little blossom to fling ; 
 And you see there's a nice little story 
 
 Attach'd to the Rose and the Ring ! 
 
 1864. 
 
i86 3 . 
 
 These verses were published in 1863, in "A Welcome," dedicated to 
 the Princess of Wales. 
 
 THE town despises modern lays : 
 The foolish town is frantic 
 For story-books that tell of days 
 That time has made romantic : 
 Of days whose chiefest lore lies chill 
 
 And dead in crypt and barrow ; 
 When soldiers were, as Loves are 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, 
 Of tryst with sunshine in light hearts, 
 
 And moonbeam on dark tresses ; 
 
126 1863. 
 
 And how, when errante-knyghte or erl 
 
 Proved well the love he gave her, 
 She sent 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 poesy has painted ; 
 We mourn the good old times with which 
 
 We never were acquainted. 
 To-day a lady tried to prove, 
 
 And not a lady youthful, 
 " Ah, once it was no crime to love, 
 
 Nor folly to be truthful !" 
 
 Pooh ! Damsels then in castles dwelt, 
 
 Nor dared to show their noses : 
 Then passion that could not be spelt, 
 
 Was hinted at in posies. 
 Such shifts make modern Cupid laugh :- 
 
 Now sweethearts, in love's tremor, 
 Can tell their vows by telegraph, 
 
 And go off in the steamer ! 
 
1863. 127 
 
 The earth is yet our Mother Earth, 
 
 Young shepherds yet fling capers 
 In flowery groves that ring with mirth. 
 
 Where old ones read the papers. 
 Romance, as tender and as true, 
 
 Our Isle has never quitted : 
 So lad and lassie when they woo 
 
 Are hardly to be pitied ! 
 
 yes ! young love is lovely yet, 
 With faith and honour plighted : 
 
 1 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 THEIM ! 
 
 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 
 That we have loved when Our Dear Queen 
 
 VICTORIA was reigning ! 
 
MRS. SMITH. 
 
 LAST year I trod these fields with Di, 
 And that's the simple reason why 
 They now seem arid : 
 Then Di was fair and single ; how 
 Unfair it seems on me, for now 
 Di's fair and married ! 
 
 In bliss we roved : I scorn'd the song 
 Which says that though young Love is strong, 
 
 The Fates are stronger : 
 Breezes then blew a boon to men, 
 Then buttercups were bright, and then 
 
 This grass was longer. 
 
 That day I saw, and much esteem'd 
 Di's ankles, which the clover seem'd 
 
 Inclined to smother : 
 It twitch'd, and soon untied (for fun) 
 The ribbon of her shoes, first one 
 
 And then the other. 
 
MRS. SMITH. 129 
 
 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, " The stubble 
 Is very stupid as I live 
 I'm shock'd I'm quite ashamed to give 
 
 You so much trouble." 
 
 For answer I was fain to sink 
 
 To what we all would say and think 
 
 Were Beauty present : 
 " 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 ! 
 K 
 
130 MRS. SMITH. 
 
 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 balmorals. 
 
 1864. 
 
JANET. 
 
 I SEE her portrait hanging there, 
 Her face, but only half as fair, 
 And while I scan it, 
 
 Old thoughts come back, by new thoughts met- 
 She smiles. I never can forget 
 The smile of Janet. 
 
 A matchless grace of head and hand, 
 Can art portray an air more grand ? 
 
 It cannot can it ? 
 
 And then the brow, the lips, the eyes 
 You look as if you could despise 
 
 Devotion, Janet ! 
 
 I knew her as a child, and said 
 She ought to have inhabited 
 
 A brighter planet : 
 
 Some seem more meet for angel wings 
 Than Mother Nature's apron strings, 
 
 And so did Janet. 
 
132 JANET. 
 
 She grew in beauty, and in pride, 
 Her waist was trim, and once I tried, 
 
 In sport, to span it 
 At Church, with only this result, 
 They threatened with quicunque vult 
 
 Both me and Janet. 
 
 Fairer she grew, till Love became 
 In me a very ardent flame, 
 
 With Faith to fan it : 
 Alack, I play'd the fool, and she 
 The fault of both lay much with me, 
 
 But more with Janet. 
 
 For Janet chose a cruel part, 
 How many win a tender heart, 
 
 And then trepan it ! 
 She left my bark to swim or sink, 
 Nor seem'd to care and yet I think 
 
 You liked me, Janet. 
 
 The old old tale ! you know the rest 
 The heart that slumber'd in her breast 
 
 Was hard as granite : 
 Who breaks a heart, and then omits 
 To gather up the broken bits, 
 
 Is heartless, Janet ! 
 
JANET. 1 33 
 
 I'm wiser now, for when I curse 
 
 My Fate, a voice cries, " Bad or worse, 
 
 You must not ban it : 
 Take comfort, you are quits, for if 
 You mourn a love, stark dead and stiff, 
 
 Why so does Janet." 
 
 1864. 
 
IMPLORA PACE. 
 
 IS life at best a weary round 
 Of mingled joy and woe ? 
 How soon my passing knell will sound ! 
 
 Is Death a friend or foe ? 
 My days are often sad, and vain 
 Is much that tempts me to remain 
 And yet I'm loth to go. 
 
 must I tread yon silent shore, 
 
 Go hence, and then be seen no more ? 
 
 1 love to think that those I loved 
 
 May gather round the bier 
 Of him who, if he erring proved, 
 
 Still held them more than dear. 
 My friends grow fewer day by day, 
 Yes, one by one they drop away, 
 
 And if I shed no tear, 
 Departed shades, while life endures, 
 This poor heart yearns for love and yours. 
 
IMPLORA PACE. 135 
 
 When I am gone will any eye 
 
 Shed tears behind the hearse ? 
 Will any one survivor cry, 
 
 " I could have spared a worse 
 We never spoke ; we never met ; 
 I never heard his voice ; and yet 
 
 I loved him for his verse ? " 
 Such love would roake the flowers wave 
 In gladness on their poet's grave. 
 
 A few, few years ! like one short week 
 
 Will pass, and leave behind 
 A stone moss-grown, that none will seek, 
 
 And none would care to find. 
 Then I shall sleep, and find release 
 In perfect rest the perfect peace 
 
 For which my soul has pined ; 
 And men will love, and weary men 
 Will sue for quiet slumber then. 
 
SIR GYLES GYLES. 
 
 "Notissimum illud Phaedri, Gallus quum tauro." 
 
 UPPE, lazie Joon ! 'tis mornynge prime, 
 The cockke of redde redde combe 
 This thrice hath crowed, 'tis past the time 
 To drive the olde bulle home. 
 
 Goe fling a rope about his hornnes, 
 
 And lead him safelie here : 
 Long since Sir Gyles, who slumber scornes, 
 
 Doth angle in the weir. 
 
 And knaves and wenches, less adoe, 
 
 Our Ladye is astir : 
 By cockke and pie she lutes it too 
 
 Behynde the silver fir. 
 
 His Spanish hat he bravelie weares, 
 With feathere droopynge wide, 
 
 In doublet fyne, Sir Valentyne 
 Is seated by her side. 
 
SIR GYLES GYLES. 137 
 
 Small care they share, that blissfulle pair ; 
 
 She dons her kindest smyles ; 
 His songes invite and quite delighte 
 
 The wyfe of good Sir Gyles. 
 
 But pert young pages point their thumbes, 
 
 Her maids look slye, in shorte 
 All wondere how the old Knyghte comes 
 
 To tarrie at his sporte. 
 
 There is a sudden stir at last ; 
 
 Men run, and then, with dread, 
 They vowe Sir Gyles is dying fast ! 
 
 And then Sir Gyles is dead ! 
 
 The bulle hath caughte him near the thornes 
 
 They call the ParsonnJs Plotte; 
 The bulle hath tost him on his hornnes, 
 
 Before the brute is shotte. 
 
 Now Ladye Gyles is sorelie tryd, 
 
 And sinks beneath the shockke : 
 She weeps from morn to eventyd, 
 
 And on till crowe of cockke. 
 
 And tho' the sun returns, and though 
 
 Another morninge smiles, 
 No cockke will crow, no bulle will low 
 
 Agen for pore Sir Gyles. 
 
138 SIR GYLES GYLES. 
 
 And now the knyghte, as seemeth beste, 
 Is layd in hallowed mould ; 
 
 All in the mynstere crypt, where rest 
 His gallant sires and olde. 
 
 But first they take the olde bulle's hide 
 And crest, to form a shroud : 
 
 And when Sir Gyles is wrapp'd inside 
 His people wepe aloud. 
 
 Sir Valentyne doth well incline 
 To soothe my lady's woe ; 
 
 And soon she slepes, nor ever wepes, 
 An all the cockkes should crowe. 
 
 Ay, soone they are in wedlock tied, 
 Full soon ; and all, in fyne, 
 
 That spouse can say to chere his bride, 
 That sayth Sir Valentyne. 
 
 And gay agen are maids and men, 
 Nor knyghte nor ladye mournes, 
 
 Though Valentyne may trembel when 
 He sees a bulle with hornnes. 
 
SIR GYLES GYLES. 139 
 
 My wife and I once visited 
 
 The scene of all this woe, 
 Which fell out (so the curate said) 
 
 Four hundred years ago. 
 
 It needs no search to find a church 
 
 That all the land adorns, 
 We pass'd the weir, I thought with fear 
 
 About the olde bulk's hornnes. 
 
 No cock then crow'd, no bull there low'd, 
 
 But while we paced the aisles, 
 The curate told his tale, and show'd 
 
 A tablet to Sir Giles. 
 
 " 'Twas raised by Lady Giles," he said, 
 
 And when I bent the knee I 
 Made out his name, and arms, and read, 
 
 HlC JACET SERVVS DEI. 
 
 Says I, " And so he sleeps below, 
 His wrongs all left behind him." 
 
 My wife cried " O ! " the clerk said, " No, 
 At least we could not find him. 
 
 " Last spring, repairing some defect, 
 
 We raised the carven stones, 
 Designing to again collect 
 
 And hide Sir Giles's bones. 
 
140 SIR GYLES GYLES. 
 
 " We dug adown, and up, and round, 
 
 For many weary morns, 
 Through all this ground ; but only found 
 
 An ancient pair of horns." 
 
MR. PLACID'S FLIRTATION. 
 
 " Jemima was cross, and I lost my umbrella 
 That day at the tomb of Cecilia Metclla." 
 
 Letters front Rome. 
 
 MISS TRISTRAM'S poulet ended thus: "Nota 
 bene, 
 
 We meet for croquet in the Aldobrandini." 
 Said my wife, " Then I'll drive, and you'll ride with 
 
 Selina" 
 (The fair spouse of Jones, of the Via Sistina). 
 
 We started : I'll own that my family deem 
 
 That I'm soft, but I'm not quite so soft as 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 mentioned anon, 
 Had arranged rendezvous at the Gate of St. John : 
 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 ? 
 
142 MR. PLACID'S FLIRTATION. 
 
 I will try and describe, or I won't, if you please, 
 The good cheer that was set for us under the trees : 
 You have read the menu, 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. 
 
 The luncheon despatch'd, we adjourn'd to croquet, 
 A dainty, 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 strolPd, and discourse found its kindest of 
 
 tones : 
 
 " O how charming were solitude and Mrs. Jones." 
 " Indeed, Mr. Placid, I dote on the sheeny 
 And shadowy paths of the Aldobrandini." 
 
MR. PLACID'S FLIRTATION. 143 
 
 A girl came with violet posies, and two 
 Gentle eyes, like her violets, laden with dew, 
 And a kind of an indolent, fine-lady air, 
 As if she by accident found herself there. 
 
 I bought one. Selina was pleased to accept it ; 
 She gave me a rosebud to keep and I've kept it. 
 Thus the moments flew by, and I think, in my heart, 
 When one vow'd one must go, two were loth to 
 depart. 
 
 The twilight is near, we no longer can stay ; 
 The steeds are remounted, and wheels roll away. 
 The ladies condemn Mrs. Jones, as the phrase is, 
 But 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!" says the plainest Miss 
 
 Gunn. 
 All echo, " He's charming ! delightful ! What fun !" 
 
 This sounds rather nice, and it's perfectly clear it 
 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. 
 
144 MR. PLACID S FLIRTATION. 
 
 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 immorality into contempt. 17 
 
 Says I (to myself), when I found me alone, 
 
 " My dear 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 Veil, 
 I've bought some remarkably fine scarabaei ! " 
 
TO PARENTS AND GUARDIANS. 
 
 PAPA was deep in weekly bills, 
 Mamma was doing Fanny's frills, 
 Her gentle face full 
 Of woe j said she, " I do declare 
 He can't go back in such a PAIR, 
 They're quite disgraceful ! " 
 
 " Confound it," quoth Papa perhaps 
 The ban was deeper, but the lapse 
 
 Of time has drown'd it : 
 And yet what reason to suppose 
 He utter'd worse, for goodness knows 
 
 He MEANT Confound it ! 
 
 The butcher's book, that needful diary, 
 Had made my father's temper fiery, 
 
 And bubble over : 
 
 So quite in spite he flung it down, 
 And spilt the ink, and spoilt his own 
 
 New table-cover 
 L 
 
146 TO PARENTS AND GUARDIANS. 
 
 Of scarlet cloth ! Papa cried " pish ! " 
 (Which did not mean he did not wish 
 
 He'd been more heedful) : 
 " But luckily this cloth will dip, 
 And make a famous PAIR get Snip 
 
 To do the needful.'' 
 
 'Twas thus that I went back to school 
 In garb no boy could ridicule, 
 
 And soon becoming 
 A jolly child, I plunged in debt 
 For tarts, and promised fair to get 
 
 The prize for summing. 
 
 But O ! my schoolmates soon began 
 Again to mock my outward man, 
 
 And make me hate 'em ! 
 Long sitting will broadcloth abrade, 
 The dye wore off, and so display'd 
 
 A red substratum ! 
 
 To both my parents then I flew 
 Mamma shed tears, Papa cried " Pooh, 
 
 Come, stop this racket : " 
 He'd still some cloth, so Snip was bid 
 To stitch me on two tails ; he did 
 
 And spoilt my jacket ! 
 
TO PARENTS AND GUARDIANS. 147 
 
 And then the boys, despite my wails, 
 Would slily come and lift my tails, 
 
 And smack me soundly. 
 O weak Mamma ! O wrathful Dad ! 
 Although your doings drove me mad, 
 
 Ye loved me fondly. 
 
 Good friends, your Little Ones (who feel 
 These bitter woes, which only heal 
 
 As wisdom mellows) 
 Need sympathy in deed and word ; 
 So never let them look absurd 
 
 Beside their fellows. 
 
 My wife respects the THINGS I've doff'd, 
 And guards them carefully, and oft, 
 
 She'll take and air them ! 
 The little Puss adores this PAIR, 
 And yet she doesn't seem to care 
 
 That I should wear them. 
 
BEGGARS. 
 
 I AM pacing Pall Mall in a rapt reverie, 
 I am thinking if Sophy is thinking of me, 
 When I'm roused by a ragged and shivering wretch, 
 Who appears to be well on his way to Jack Ketch. 
 
 He has got a bad face, and a shocking bad hat ; 
 A comb in his fist, and he sees I'm a flat, 
 For he says, " Buy a comb, it's a fine un to wear ; 
 Only try it, my Lord, through your whiskers and 'air." 
 
 He eyes my gold chain, as if anxious to crib it ; 
 He looks just as if he'd been blown from a gibbet. 
 I pause . . . and pass on, and beside the club fire 
 I settle that Sophy is all I desire. 
 
 As I walk from the club, and am deep in a strophe 
 That rolls upon all that's delicious in Sophy, 
 I'm humbly address'd by an " object " unnerving 
 So tatter'd a dame must be "highly deserving." 
 
BEGGARS. 149 
 
 She begs, and I'm touch'd, but I've much circumspec- 
 tion : 
 
 I stifle remorse with a soothing reflection 
 That cases of vice are by no means a rarity 
 The worst vice of all's indiscriminate charity. 
 
 Am I right ? How I wish that our clerical guides 
 Would settle this question and others besides ! 
 For always to harden one's fiddle-strings thus, 
 If wholesome for beggars, is hurtful for us. 
 
 A few minutes later (how pleasant for me !) 
 
 I'm seated by Sophy at five-o'clock tea : 
 
 Her table is loaded, for when a girl marries, 
 
 What bushels of rubbish they send her from Barry 's ! 
 
 " There's a present for you, Sir ! " Yes, thanks to her 
 
 thrift, 
 
 My pet has been able to buy me a gift : 
 And she slips in my hand, the delightfully sly thing ! 
 A paper-weight form'd of a bronze lizard writhing. 
 
 " What a charming cadeau ! and," said I, " so well 
 
 made, 
 
 But perhaps you don't know, you extravagant jade, 
 That in casting this metal a live, harmless lizard 
 Was cruelly tortured in ghost and in gizzard?" 
 
150 BEGGARS. 
 
 " Pooh, pooh," said my lady (I ought to defend her, 
 Her head may be giddy, her heart must be tender), 
 " Hopgarten protests they've no feeling, and so 
 It was only their muscular movement, you know." 
 
 Thinks I when I've said au revoir, and depart 
 (A Comb in my pocket, a Weight at my heart), 
 And when wretched mendicants writhe, we've a notion 
 That begging is only a muscular motion. 
 
LITTLE PITCHER. 
 
 (A BIRTHDAY ODE.) 
 
 Muse (for the muse is a Mentor of mine) 
 -L Observes that to-day Little Pitcher is nine ! 
 'Tis her fete! so, although retrospection is pleasant. 
 We'll muse on her past, but we'll think of her Present^ 
 
 A Gift ! In their praise though we've raved, sung, and 
 
 written, 
 
 I don't care to give her a puppy or kitten ; 
 Though their virtues I've heard Little Pitcher extol : 
 She's old for a watch, and she's young for a doll ! 
 
 Of a worthless old Block she's the dearest of Chips, 
 For what nonsense she talks when she opens her lips. 
 Then her mouth when she's laughing, indeed it 
 
 appears 
 To exult at the tips of her comical EARS. 
 
152 LITTLE PITCHER. 
 
 Her Ears ! ah, her Ears ! I remember the squalling 
 With which mine were greeted, when Rambert and 
 
 Lawling 
 
 Were boring (as I do) her Organs of Hearing 
 Come ! I'll give her for each of those Organs an 
 
 Earring ! 
 
 Here goes ! They are form'd of the two scarabaei 
 I bought of the old contadino at Veii. 
 They cost a ism pauls, but, as history shows, 
 For what runs through the Ears, we must pay through 
 the Nose. 
 
 And now, Little Pitcher, give ear to my rede, 
 And guard your two gems with a scrupulous heed, 
 For think of the woeful mishap that befell 
 The damsel who dropp'd such a pair in the well. 
 
 That poor Little Pitcher would gladly have flown 
 And have given her Ears to have let well alone ; 
 For when she got home her Instructress austere 
 Dismiss'd her to bed with a Flea in her Ear. 
 
 What ! Tell you that tale ? Come, a tale with a sting 
 Would be rather too much of an excellent thing ! 
 I can't point a moral, or sing you the song 
 My Years are too short and your Ears are too long. 
 
ADVICE TO A POET. 
 
 DEAR Poet, never 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 : 
 O must we own 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. 
 Be patient, you will get your due 
 
 Of honours or humiliations : 
 So look for sympathy, but do 
 
 Not look to find it from relations. 
 
 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. 
 
154 ADVICE TO A POET. 
 
 Indeed, they've power to wound, beyond 
 That wielded by the fiercest hater, 
 
 For all the time they are so fond 
 Which makes the aggravation greater. 
 
 Most warblers now but half express 
 
 The threadbare thoughts they feebly utter : 
 If they attempted nought or less ! 
 
 They would 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. 
 
 Hold Pegasus in hand control 
 
 A vein for ornament ensnaring ; 
 Simplicity is yet the soul 
 
 Of all that Time deems worth the sparing. 
 Long lays are not a lively sport, 
 
 Reduce your own to half a quarter ; 
 Unless your Public thinks 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. 
 
ADVICE TO A POET. 155 
 
 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. 
 
 We all, the foolish and the wise, 
 
 Regard our verse with fascination, 
 Through asinine paternal eyes, 
 
 And hues of Fancy's own creation ; 
 Then pray, Sir, pray excuse a queer 
 
 And sadly self-deluded rhymer, 
 Who thinks his beer (the smallest beer !) 
 
 Has all the gust of alt hochhrimer. 
 
 Dear Bard, the Muse is such a minx 
 
 So tricksy, it were wrong to let her 
 Rest satisfied with what she thinks 
 
 Is perfect : try and teach her better. 
 And if you'll only use perchance 
 
 But half the pains to learn that we, Sir, 
 Have used to hide our ignorance 
 
 How very clever you will be, Sir ! 
 
NOW FIRST COLLECTED AND 
 PUBLISHED 
 
AN ASPIRATION. 
 
 Written for two Woodcuts in " A Round of Days." 
 (Christmas, 1865.) 
 
 IASK'D Miss Di, who loves her sheep, 
 To look at this delightful peep 
 Of April leafage, pure and beamy : 
 A pair of girls in hoops and nets 
 Caress a pair of woolly pets, 
 
 And all is young, and nice, and dreamy. 
 
 Miss Di has kindly eyes for all 
 That's pretty, quaint, and pastoral : 
 
 Said she, " These ladies sentimental 
 Are lucky, in a world of shams, 
 To find a pair of luckless lambs 
 
 So white, and so extremely gentle." 
 
 I heard her with surprise and doubt, 
 For though I don't much care about 
 
 The World she spoke with such disdain of, 
 And though the lamb I mostly see 
 Is overdone, it seem'd to me 
 
 That these had little to complain of. 
 
l6o AN ASPIRATION. 
 
 When beings of the fairer sex 
 
 Arrange their white arms round our necks, 
 
 We are, and ought to be enraptured 
 I would I were your lamb, Miss Di, 
 Or even that poor butterfly, 
 
 With some small hope of being captured. 
 
GERALDINE AND I. 
 
 " Di te, Damasippe, deaeque 
 Verura ob consiliura donent tonsore." 
 
 I HAVE talk'd with her often in noonday heat, 
 We have walk'd under wintry skies, 
 Her voice is the dearest voice, and sweet 
 
 Is the light in her gentle eyes ; 
 It is bliss in the silent woods, among 
 
 Gay crowds, or in any place, 
 To mould her mind, to gaze in her young 
 Confiding face. 
 
 For ever may roses divinely blow, 
 
 And wine-dark pansies charm 
 By the prim box path where I felt the glow 
 
 Of her dimpled, trusting arm, 
 And the sweep of her silk as she turn'd and smiled 
 
 A smile of coral and pearls ; 
 The breeze was in love with the darling child, 
 And coax'd her curls. 
 
 She show'd me her ferns and woodbine sprays, 
 
 Foxglove and jasmine stars, 
 A mist of blue in the beds, a blaze 
 
 Of red in the celadon jars : 
 M 
 
1 62 GERALDINE AND I. 
 
 And velvety bees in convolvulus bells, 
 
 And roses of bountiful Spring. 
 But I said " Though roses and bees have spells, 
 They have thorn and sting." 
 
 She show'd me ripe peaches behind a net 
 
 As fine as her veil, and fat 
 Gold fish agape, who lazily met 
 
 For her crumb I grudged them that ! 
 A squirrel, some rabbits with long lop ears, 
 
 And guinea-pigs, tortoiseshell wee ; 
 And I told her that eloquent truth inheres 
 In all we see. 
 
 I lifted her doe by its lops; said I, 
 
 " Even here deep meaning lies, 
 Why have squirrels these ample tails, and why 
 
 Have rabbits these prominent eyes ? " 
 She smiled and said, as she twirl'd her veil, 
 
 " For some nice little cause, no doubt 
 If you lift a guinea-pig up by the tail 
 His eyes drop out ! " 
 
 1868. 
 
HER LETTERS. 
 
 Written for a Woodcut in " Pictures of Society." 
 (Christmas, 1865.) 
 
 MY lady fair, my lady fair, 
 I'm very much perplex' d concerning 
 Your modish dress, your pensive air, 
 And all those letters you are burning. 
 
 Have sorrows come ? Has pleasure sped ? 
 
 Is earthly bliss an empty bubble ? 
 Is some one dull, or something dead ? 
 
 O may I, mayn't I share your trouble ? 
 
 The letter dropping from that hand, 
 
 The hand on which that cheek is leaning, 
 
 The papers torn, the glowing brand, 
 All, all are eloquent with meaning. 
 
 Perhaps the rain has dash'd your day, 
 
 Has Bulky breathed his last fond twitter ? 
 
 Or has the Loved One gone away, 
 And was he O too sad to quit her ? 
 
164 HER LETTERS. 
 
 She reads her letter all alone ! 
 
 Ah, no he never meant to slight her ; 
 She's very sad for him. I own 
 
 I'm half prepared to hate that writer ! 
 
 Sweet lady, so unkindly starr'd, 
 
 Forgive my frank and friendly ardour, 
 
 But if your fate is very hard, 
 
 O think that mine is even harder ! 
 
 Ay, so it is, and is it fair ? 
 
 Poor men (your elders and your betters !) 
 Who can't look pretty in despair, 
 
 Feel quite as sad about their Letters. 
 
THE OLD SHEPHERD. 
 
 Written for Two Woodcuts in " A Round of Days." 
 (Christmas, 1865.) 
 
 I. ON THE HILLS. 
 
 THE vapours glitter on the hill, 
 The morning airs are soft, 
 There's music in the merry rill, 
 
 And music in the croft. 
 But turn from what is gay and green 
 To gaze on this pathetic scene. 
 
 The silent tarn is frozen dry, 
 
 The hills return no sound, 
 There's winter in the dappled sky, 
 
 And winter on the ground. 
 The shepherd knows the scene austere, 
 And when the wind is temper'd here. 
 
1 66 THE OLD SHEPHERD. 
 
 AT HOME. 
 
 I grudge that lonely man his crook ; 
 
 It seems no idle whim, 
 That if he reads in Nature's book, 
 
 Her voice has been to him 
 A spiritual life, to sway 
 And cheer him on his endless way. 
 
 O fair are these sequestered lives, 
 
 Their labours never soil, 
 Thrice blest is he who thus derives 
 
 A dignity from toil ; 
 And He who loves us all will keep 
 The shepherd who so loves his sheep. 
 
ST. JAMES'S STREET. 
 
 (A GRUMBLE.) 
 
 ST. James's Street, of classic fame ! 
 The finest people throng it ! 
 St. James's Street ? I know the name, 
 
 I think I've pass'd along it. 
 Why, that's where Sacharissa sigh'd 
 
 When Waller read his ditty ; 
 Where Byron lived, and Gibbon died, 
 And Alvanley was witty. 
 
 A noted street. It skirts the Park 
 
 Where Pepys once took his pastime ; 
 Come, gaze on fifty men of mark, 
 
 And then recall the fast time ! 
 The plats at White's, the play at Crock's, 
 
 The bumpers to Miss Gunning ; 
 The bonhomie of Charlie Fox, 
 
 And Selwyn's ghastly funning. 
 
 The dear old street of clubs and cribs, 
 As north and south it stretches, 
 
 Still seems to smack of Rolliad squibs, 
 And Gillray's fiercer sketches ; 
 
1 68 ST. JAMES'S STREET. 
 
 The quaint old dress, the grand old style, 
 
 The mots, the racy stories ; 
 The wine, the dice, the wit, the bile, 
 
 The hate of Whigs and Tories. 
 
 At dusk, when I am strolling there, 
 
 Dim forms will rise around me ; 
 Lepel flits past me in her chair, 
 
 And Congreve's airs astound me ! 
 And once Nell Gwynne, a frail young sprite, 
 
 Look'd kindly when I met her ; 
 I shook my head, perhaps, but quite 
 
 Forgot to quite forget her. 
 
 The street is still a lively tomb 
 
 For rich, and gay, and clever ; 
 The crops of dandies bud, and bloom, 
 
 And die as fast as ever. 
 Now gilded youth loves cutty pipes, 
 
 And slang the worse for wearing : 
 It can't approach its prototypes 
 
 In taste, or tone, or bearing. 
 
 In Brummell's day of buckle shoes, 
 
 Starch cravats, and roll collars, 
 They'd fight, and woo, and bet and lose 
 
 Like gentlemen and scholars : 
 
ST. JAMES'S STREET. 169 
 
 I like young men to go the pace, 
 
 I half forgive old Rapid ; 
 These louts disgrace their name and race 
 
 So vicious and so vapid ! 
 
 Worse times may come. Bon ton, indeed, 
 
 Will then be quite forgotten, 
 And all we much revere will speed 
 
 From ripe to worse than rotten ; 
 Then grass will sprout between yon stones, 
 
 And owls will roost at Boodle's, 
 And Echo will hurl back the tones 
 
 Of screaming Yankee Doodles. 
 
 I like the haunts of old Cockaigne, 
 
 Where wit and wealth were squander'd, 
 The halls that tell of hoop and train, 
 
 Where grace and rank have wander'd, 
 The halls where ladies fair and leal 
 
 First ventured to adore me ! 
 And something of the like I feel 
 
 For this old street before me. 
 
 1867. 
 
ROTTEN ROW. 
 
 I HOPE I'm fond of much that's good, 
 As well as much that's gay ; 
 I'd like the country if I could, 
 
 I like the park in May : 
 And when I ride in Rotten Row, 
 I wonder why they call'd it so. 
 
 A lively scene on turf and road, 
 
 The crowd is bravely drest : 
 The Ladies' Mile has overflow'd, 
 
 The seats are in request : 
 The nimble air, so warm and clear, 
 Can hardly stir a ringlet here. 
 
 I'll halt beneath the pleasant trees, 
 
 And drop my bridle-rein, 
 And, quite alone, indulge at ease 
 
 The philosophic vein : 
 I'll moralise on all I see 
 I think it all was made for me ! 
 
ROTTEN ROW. 171 
 
 Forsooth, and on a nicer spot 
 
 The sunbeam never shines ; 
 Young ladies here can talk and trot 
 
 With statesmen and divines : 
 Could I have chosen, I'd have been 
 A Duke, a Beauty, or a Dean ! 
 
 What grooms ! what gallant gentlemen ! 
 
 What well-appointed hacks ! 
 What glory in their pace and then 
 
 What Beauty on their backs ! 
 My Pegasus would never flag 
 If weighted as my lady's nag. 
 
 But where is now the courtly troop 
 That once rode laughing by ? 
 
 I miss the curls of Cantilupe, 
 The smile of Lady Di : 
 
 They all could laugh from night to morn, 
 
 And Time has laugh'd them all to scorn. 
 
 I then could Irolic in the van 
 With dukes and dandy earls ; 
 
 I then was thought a nice young man 
 By rather nice young girls : 
 
 I've half a mind to join Miss Browne, 
 
 And try one canter up and down. 
 
172 ROTTEN ROW. 
 
 Ah, no ! I '11 linger here awhile, 
 And dream of days of yore ; 
 
 For me bright eyes have lost the smile, 
 The sunny smile they wore : 
 
 Perhaps they say, what I'll allow, 
 
 That I'm not quite so handsome now. 
 
 1867. 
 
A NICE CORRESPONDENT! 
 
 THE glow and the glory are plighted 
 To darkness, for evening is come ; 
 The lamp in Glebe Cottage is lighted, 
 
 The birds and the sheep-bells are dumb. 
 I'm alone at my casement, for Pappy 
 
 Is summon'd to dinner to Kew : 
 I'm alone, my dear Fred, but I'm happy 
 I'm thinking of you. 
 
 I wish you were here. Were I duller 
 Than dull, you'd be dearer than dear ; 
 
 I am drest in your favourite colour 
 Dear Fred, how I wish you were here ! 
 
 I am wearing my lazuli necklace, 
 The necklace you fasten'd askew ! 
 
 Was there ever so rude or so reckless 
 A darling as you ? 
 
 I want you to come and pass sentence 
 On two or three books with a plot ; 
 
 Of course you know " Janet's Repentance ?" 
 I'm reading Sir Waverley Scott, 
 
174 A NI CE CORRESPONDENT! 
 
 The story of Edgar and Lucy, 
 
 How thrilling, romantic, and true ; 
 The Master (his bride was a goosey !) 
 Reminds me of you. 
 
 To-day, in my ride, I've been crowning 
 The beacon ; its magic still lures, 
 
 For up there you discoursed about Browning, 
 That stupid old Browning of yours. 
 
 His vogue and his verve are alarming, 
 I'm anxious to give him his due ; 
 
 But, Fred, he's not nearly so charming 
 A poet as you. 
 
 I heard how you shot at The Beeches, 
 I saw how you rode Chanticleer, 
 
 I have read the report of your speeches, 
 And echo'd the echoing cheer. 
 
 There's a whisper of hearts you are breaking, 
 I envy their owners, I do ! 
 
 Small marvel that Fortune is making 
 Her idol of you. 
 
 Alas for the world, and its dearly 
 Bought triumph, and fugitive bliss ! 
 
 Sometimes I half wish I were merely 
 A plain or a penniless miss ; 
 
A NICE CORRESPONDENT! 175 
 
 But, perhaps, one is best with a measure 
 
 Of pelf, and I'm not sorry, too, 
 That I'm pretty, because it's a pleasure, 
 My dearest, to you. 
 
 Your whim is for frolic and fashion, 
 
 Your taste is for letters and art, 
 This rhyme is the commonplace passion 
 
 That glows in a fond woman's heart. 
 Lay it by in a dainty deposit 
 
 For relics, we all have a few ! 
 Love, some day they'll print it, because it 
 Was written to you. 
 
 1868. 
 
THE SILENT POOL. 
 
 Written for Two Woodcuts in " A Round of Days." 
 (Christmas, 1865.) 
 
 A WINTRY sky at eventide, 
 XJL And doleful woods. My faith, yon lassie 
 Was rash to wait alone beside 
 
 The silent pool, so still and glassy. 
 
 It looks far deeper than the sea, 
 
 More ghostly than the lake of Charon ; 
 
 The sudden bank appears to me 
 
 A fearsome spot to nurse despair on. 
 
 She watch'd and wept. To meet him here 
 She climb'd the stile, and cross'd the stubble ; 
 
 He's come at last to dry her tear, 
 And ease her of her tender trouble. 
 
 They've met. Their greeting is, indeed, 
 The fondest of young Love's embraces ; 
 
 The blessed moments lightly speed, 
 Love only Love, can see their faces. 
 
THE SILENT POOL. 177 
 
 O happy love, without alloy 
 
 O happy youth, that never closes 
 O happy eyes, that veil their joy 
 
 And O, sweet lips, more sweet than roses ! 
 
 Most people like to bill and coo, 
 
 And some have done it for the last time, 
 
 So, blissful pair, we envy you 
 
 Your pleasant and improving pastime. 
 
 For life is toil, and age is bane 
 
 When all we love is dead or missing; 
 
 But if we see this Pool again, 
 
 You'll still be here, and still be kissing. 
 
MISGIVINGS. 
 
 Written for a Woodcut in " Pictures of Society." 
 (Christmas, 1865.) 
 
 THE lambs begin their wonted game 
 When skies are fair and fields are vernal ; 
 And then young girls would do the same, 
 And laugh at lambs with tie maternal. 
 
 Away they run by pool and glade, 
 The air is glad with breezy laughter ; 
 
 Their anxious mothers look dismay'd, 
 And do their best to follow after. 
 
 Poor Lady, you are sad indeed ! 
 
 Your tender mother's heart is bleeding ; 
 Your lamb is off to paths that lead 
 
 You know not where those paths are leading ! 
 
 Your lambkin pined for stronger food 
 Than homely care, and home caressing ; 
 
 She's gone ! You gave her all you could 
 A bright blue ribbon, and your blessing. 
 
MISGIVINGS. 179 
 
 Then let her sport where roses blow, 
 
 And laugh away her sunny hours ; 
 And if she pluck some weeds, we know 
 
 They fade, ay, faster than her flowers. 
 
 She does not need the shepherd's crook ; 
 
 Her griefs are only passing shadow ; 
 She'll bask beside the purest brook, 
 
 And nibble in the greenest meadow. 
 
 She'll tarry but a little while, 
 
 I see her now returning hither 
 With wreathed brow and rosy smile 
 
 Perhaps she brings a lambkin with her ! 
 
AN OLD BUFFER. 
 
 BUFFER. A cushion or apparatus, with strong springs, to deaden the 
 buff or ccncussion between a moving body and one on which it strikes. 
 Webster's English Dictionary. 
 
 AKNOCK-ME-DOWN sermon, and worthy 01 
 Birch," 
 
 Say 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," said 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 read Noah built it and fill'd it : 
 Mamma does not ask how he caught his 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. 
 
AN OLD BUFFER. l8l 
 
 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 that they're bad when they're only dyspeptics ; 
 May Blossom prove neither the one nor the other, 
 But do what 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 ! 
 
 MAMMA, loquitur. 
 
 " If Blossom's a sceptic, or saucy, I'll search, 
 And I'll find her a wholesome corrective in Birch." 
 
TO LINA OSWALD. 
 (AGED FIVE YEARS.) 
 
 I TUMBLE out of bed betimes 
 To write my love these little rhymes ; 
 And meet the hour, and meet the place 
 To bless her happy morning face. 
 I send her all my heart can store ; 
 I seem to see her as before. 
 
 Again she stands beneath the boughs, 
 Reproves the pup, and feeds the cows ; 
 Unvex'd by rule, unscared by ill, 
 She wanders at her " own sweet will ;" 
 For what grave fiat could confine 
 My little charter'd libertine, 
 Yet free from feeling or from seeing 
 The burthen of her moral being ? 
 
 But change must come, and forms and dyes 
 Will change before her changing eyes ; 
 She'll learn to blush, and hope, and fear 
 And where shall I be then, my dear ? 
 
TO LINA OSWALD. 183 
 
 Little gossip, set apart 
 But one small corner of your heart j 
 There still is one not quite employed, 
 So let me find and fill that void ; 
 Then run and jump, and laugh and play, 
 But love me though I'm far away. 
 
 The world would lose its finest joys 
 Without its little girls and boys ; 
 Their careless glee, and simple ruth, 
 And trust, and innocence, and truth, 
 Ah, what would your poor poet do 
 Without such little folk as you ? 
 
 BROOMHALL, September, 1868. 
 
ON " A PORTRAIT OF A LADY." 
 
 Vide Royal Academy Catalogue. 
 
 BY THE PAINTER. 
 
 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 ripe 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 faery lands : 
 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 ! 
 
ON "A PORTRAIT OF A LADY." 185 
 
 A bevy of idlers press around, 
 
 To wonder, and wish, and loll ; 
 " Now who is the painter, and where has he found 
 
 A woman we all extol, 
 With her rosebud mouth, and her candid brow, 
 
 And the bloom 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. 
 My thoughts are away to that happy day, 
 
 A few short weeks 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. 
 I gathered it wet for my own sweet pet 
 
 As we whispered and walk'd apart ; 
 She gave me that rose, it is fragrant yet, 
 
 And its home is near my heart. 
 
 1868. 
 
THE JESTER'S MORAL. 
 
 " I wish that I could run away 
 
 From House, and Court, and Levee : 
 Where bearded men appear to-day, 
 Just Eton boys grown heavy." 
 
 W. M. PRAED. 
 
 IS human life a pleasant game 
 That gives the palm to all? 
 A fight for fortune, or for fame, 
 
 A struggle, and a fall ? 
 Who views the Past, and all he prized, 
 
 With tranquil exultation ? 
 And who can say, I've realised 
 My fondest aspiration ? 
 
 Alas, not one ! No, rest assured 
 
 That all are prone to quarrel 
 With Fate, when worms destroy their gourd, 
 
 Or mildew spoils their laurel : 
 The prize may come to cheer our lot, 
 
 But all too late ; and granted 
 'Tis even better, still 'tis not 
 
 Exactly what we wanted. 
 
THE JESTER'S MORAL. 187 
 
 My schoolboy time ! I wish to praise 
 
 That bud of brief existence, 
 The vision of my younger days 
 
 Now trembles in the distance. 
 An envious vapour lingers here, 
 
 And there I find a chasm ; 
 But much remains, distinct and clear, 
 
 To sink enthusiasm. 
 
 Such thoughts just now disturb my soul 
 
 With reason good, for lately 
 I took the train to Marley-knoll, 
 
 And cross'd the fields to Mately. 
 I found old Wheeler at his gate, 
 
 Who used rare sport to show me : 
 My Mentor once on springe and bait 
 
 But Wheeler did not know me. 
 
 " Goodlord ! " at last exclaim'd the churl, 
 
 " Are you the little chap, sir, 
 What used. to train his hair in curl, 
 
 And wore a scarlet cap, sir?" 
 And then he took to fill in blanks, 
 
 And conjure up old faces ; 
 And talk of well-remember'd pranks 
 
 In half-forgotten places. 
 
1 88 THE JESTER'S MORAL. 
 
 It pleased the man to tell his brief 
 
 And rather mournful story, 
 Old Bliss's school had come to grief, 
 
 And Bliss had " gone to glory." 
 His trees were fell'd, his house was razed, 
 
 And what less keenly pain'd me, 
 A venerable donkey grazed 
 
 Exactly where he caned me. 
 
 And where have all my playmates sped, 
 
 Whose ranks were once so serried ? 
 Why some are wed, and some are dead, 
 
 And some are only buried ; 
 Frank Petre, erst so full of fun, 
 
 Is now St. Blaise's prior, 
 And Travers, the attorney's son, 
 
 Is member for the shire. 
 
 Dull maskers we ! Life's festival 
 
 Enchants the blithe new-comer ; 
 But seasons change, then wtere are all 
 
 The friendships of our summer ? 
 Wan pilgrims flit athwart our track, 
 
 Cold looks attend the meeting, 
 We only greet them, glancing back, 
 
 Or pass without a greeting ! 
 
THE JESTER'S MORAL. 189 
 
 I owe old Bliss some rubs, but pride 
 
 Constrains me to postpone 'em, 
 He taught me something, ere he died, 
 
 About nil nisi bonum. 
 I've met with wiser, better men, 
 
 But I forgive him wholly ; 
 Perhaps his jokes were sad, but then 
 
 He used to storm so drolly. 
 
 I still can laugh, is still my boast, 
 
 But mirth has sounded gayer ; 
 And which provokes my laughter most, 
 
 The preacher, or the player? 
 Alack, I cannot laugh at what 
 
 Once made us laugh so freely, 
 For Nestroy and Grassot are not 
 
 And where is Mr. Keeley ? 
 
 O shall I run away from hence, 
 
 And dress and shave like Crusoe ? 
 Or join St. Blaise? No, Common Sense 
 
 Forbid that I should do so. 
 I'd sooner dress your Little Miss 
 
 As Paulet shaves his poodles ! 
 As soon propose for Betsy Bliss, 
 
 Or get proposed for Boodle's. 
 
190 THE JESTERS MORAL. 
 
 We prate of Life's illusive dyes, 
 
 And yet fond hope misleads us ; 
 We all believe we near the prize, 
 
 Till some fresh dupe succeeds us ! 
 A bright reward, forsooth ! And though 
 
 No mortal has attain'd it, 
 I still hope on, for well I know 
 
 That Love has thus ordain'd it. 
 
 PARIS, November, 1864. 
 
 (Published in 1865.) 
 
NOTES. 
 
 NOTE TO "A HUMAN SKULL." 
 
 " In our last month's Magazine you may remember there 
 were some verses about a portion of a skeleton. Did you 
 remark how the poet and present proprietor of the human skull 
 at once settled the sex of it, and determined off-hand that it 
 must have belonged to a woman ? Such skulls are locked up 
 in many gentlemen's hearts and memories. Bluebeard, you 
 know, had a whole museum of them as that imprudent little 
 last wife of his found out to her cost. And, on the other hand, 
 a lady, we suppose, would select hers of the sort which had 
 carried beards when in the flesh." The Adventures of Philip 
 on his Way through the World. Comhill Magazine, January -, 
 1861. 
 
 NOTE TO "To MY OLD FRIEND POSTUMUS." 
 The Well-beloved ! B. L. died 26th July, 1853. 
 
 NOTE TO "GLYCERE." 
 
 Un Vieittard. Jeune fille au riant visage, 
 
 Que cherches-tu sous cet ombrage ? 
 La Jeune Fille. Des fleurs pour orner mes cheveux. 
 
 Je me rends au prochain village. 
 Avec le printemps et ses feux, 
 Bergeres, bergers amoureux 
 
 Vont danser sur 1'herbe nouvelle. 
 
 Deja le sistre les appelle : 
 Glycere est sans doute avec eux. 
 
 De ces hameaux c'est la plus belle ; 
 Je veux PefFacer a leurs yeux : 
 
 Voyez ces fleurs, c'est un presage. 
 
IQ2 NOTES. 
 
 Le Vieillard. Sais-tu quel est ce lieu sauvage ? 
 La Jeune Fille. Non, et tout m'y semble nouveau. 
 Le Vieillard. La repose, jeune etrangere, 
 
 La plus belle de ce hameau. 
 Ces fleurs pour effacer Glycere 
 
 Tu les cueilles sur son tombeau ! 
 
 BfiRANGER. 
 
 NOTE TO " To MY MISTRESS." 
 
 " M. Deschanel quotes the following charming little poem by 
 Corneille, addressed to a young lady who had not been quite 
 civil to him. He says with truth ' Le sujet est leger, le 
 rhythme court, mais on y retrouve la fierte de 1'homme, et aussi 
 1'ampleur du tragique.' 
 
 ' Marquise, si mon visage 
 A quelques traits un peu vieux, 
 Souvenez-vous, qu'a mon age 
 Vous ne vaudrez guere mieux. 
 
 * Le temps aux plus belles choses 
 Se plait a faire un affront,* 
 
 Et saura faner vos roses 
 Comme il a ride mon front. 
 
 ' Le meme cours des planetes 
 Regie nos jours et nos nuits ; 
 On m'a vu ce que vous etes, 
 Vous serez ce que je suis. 
 
 * Cependant j'ai quelques charmes 
 Qui sont assez eclatants 
 
 Pour n'avoir pas trop d 'alarm es 
 De ces ravages du temps. 
 
 * Vous en avez qu'on adore, 
 Mais ceux que vous meprisez 
 Pourraient bien durer encore 
 Quand ceux-la seront uses. 
 
NOTES. 193 
 
 * Us pourront sauver la gloire 
 Des yeux qui me semblent doux, 
 Et dans mille ans faire croire 
 Ce qu'il me plaira de vous. 
 
 ' Chez cette race nouvelle 
 Ou j'aurai quelque credit, 
 Vous ne passerez pour belle 
 Qu'autant que je 1'aurai dit. 
 
 * Pensez-y, belle Marquise, 
 Quoiqu'un grison fasse effroi, 
 II vaut qu'on le courtise 
 Quand il est fait comme moi.' 
 
 The last four stanzas in particular are brimful of spirit, and the 
 mixture of pride and vanity which they display is remarkable." 
 Saturday Review, July 2$rd, 1864. 
 
 NOTE TO "THE ROSE AND THE RING." 
 
 Mr. Thackeray spent a portion of the winter of 1854 in Rome, 
 and while there he wrote his little Christmas story called " The 
 Rose and the Ring." He was a great friend of the distin- 
 guished American sculptor, Mr. Story, and was a frequent 
 visitor at his house. I have heard Mr. Story speak with 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 to Miss Story, often 
 bringing portions of his manuscript with him. 
 
 Five or six years afterwards Miss Story showed me a very 
 pretty copy of "The Rose and the Ring," which Mr. Thackeray 
 had sent her, with a facetious sketch of himself in the act of 
 presenting her with the work. 
 
 NOTE TO "SiR GYLES GYLES." 
 
 I have reprinted these burlesque lines, and some others of the 
 same character, although I confess they are now eclipsed by the 
 excellent verses of Mr. Henry Leigh and Mr. W. S. Gilbert, 
 whose best poems are, in their way, as good as the " Rejected 
 Addresses," and will survive many works of far greater pre- 
 tension. 
 
 O 
 
IQ4 NOTES. 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 The kind of verse which I have attempted in some of the pieces 
 in this volume was in repute during the era of Swift and Prior, 
 and again during the earlier years of this century. Afterwards it 
 fell into comparative neglect, but has now regained some of 
 its old popularity. 
 
 Suckling, Swift, Prior, Cowper, Landor, Thomas Moore, 
 Praed, and Thackeray may be considered its representative 
 men, and each has his peculiar merit. We admire Suckling 
 for his gusto, and careless, natural grace, Swift for his mordant 
 humour, and Prior for his sprightly wit. Cowper was a master 
 of tender and playful irony ; Moore, as a satirist, was a very 
 expert swordsman, and, although possessing little real senti- 
 ment, he had wit and sparkling fancy in abundance. Praed 
 possessed a fancy less wild than Moore, while his sympathies 
 were narrower than Thackeray's, and his pathos and humour 
 were inferior. He had plenty of wit, however, and a highly 
 idiomatic, most finished style, an exquisite turn of expression, 
 and, in his own vein, has never been, and it may be safely 
 affirmed, never can be excelled. Nevertheless, the same objec- 
 tion may be made against the poetry of Praed which might be 
 brought against the poetry of Pope, namely, that there is little 
 relief to his picture, because all is so sharply cut, and so distinct. 
 There are no peeps of tender blue sky or half-defined distances 
 in his landscape. 
 
 Landor was rather wanting in humour and variety, but he 
 atoned for it by his pathos, and his pellucid and classical style. 
 The best of his little poems are as clearly cut as antique gems, 
 and appear to me to be almost the perfection of poetic ex- 
 pression. 
 
 It is with diffidence that I again offer my own trifling volume to 
 the public. No one is so painfully aware as myself of its many 
 shortcomings, of its extreme insignificance, and of its great in- 
 completeness. If I have included pieces which ought to have 
 been consigned to the dust-bin of immediate oblivion, I hope 
 for forgiveness. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 PRINTED BY VIRTUE AND CO., CITY ROAD, LONDON. 
 
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 THIS BOOK IS DUS ON THE LAST DATE 
 STAMPED BELOW 
 
U.C.BERKELEY LIBRARIES