f>'0m m^-i ■^rr. / THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES C.FOX rbrr ON OATEN FLUTE ON OATEN FLUTE AND OTHER VERSICLES BY WILLIAM TOYNBEE LONDON PRINTED AT THE CHISWICK PRESS 1897 CONTENTS. ON OATEN FLUTE. PAGE The Relenting of Winter 3 An April Carol 4 A May Madrigal 6 On the Hills : May 7 A June-Day Ditty 8 Twilight : Late Summer 9 The Bridle Road 10 The Wane of Summer 12 A Summer Sunrise 13 Autumn. 1888 14 Corn Carrying 1 5 A Fair November 17 An Early Winter 18 To Hesperus 19 A Rural Epicurean 20 VARIOUS. To Cynthia 23 Imogen 24 On Chantrey's Effigy of the Honourable Mrs. Stanhope and Infant Child, in Chevening Church, Kent . . 25 Benedicta 26 A Death-Bed 28 Miserrima 29 PAGE The Temple Embankment — Late Night 30 On an Anniversary 31 A Farewell 32 In Reverie's Hour 33 Song of the Sea Fairies 35 The Triumph of Tears 36 An Adagio 37 Lethe 38 An April Regret 39 Erotion 40 " 'Tis Enough ! " 43 At a Grave-side 44 To One Long-Mourned 45 Ishmael 4G In Fableland 47 The King's Daughter 51 A St. James's Carol 52 Vauxhall. 1797 56 Catch 58 " Going Home " . . 60 A Sunday Night Reminiscence 62 PRELUDE. No craft superlative I ply, I carol 7iot for cultured ears, A journeyman of so?ig a?n I, Filling the loivliest of spheres ; With Just the trivial tu?iester's art. Content to breathe in numbers broken Themes that frequent the homely heart, Tho' by the lips but little spoken. Then, souls eclectic, look askance, Herein, I fear youUl fail to trace Alight worthy ev'n the passing glance Of those that scorn the commonplace ; While others with win^d footsteps thread Thoughfs every labyrifith and by-ivay, Its beaten tracks I faltering tread, A Immble singer of the highway. THE RELENTING OF WINTER. Winter still reigns, tho' with benigner sway, Less grudgingly day yields its dole of light, Less swiftly dusk is dispossessed by night, And tho' no mirth the fields as yet betray, Nor any verdurous glint invades the grey Of croft and copse, less sadly on the sight Their dim lines loom, as tho' some truant sprite Of distant Spring among them hidden lay. Assiduously around the sheltered fold The shepherd hovers, making there retreat From the wind-harried reaches of the wold For the lamb-laden ewes, whose strenuous bleat Promises, ere another moon be old, To the lorn earth fair life and clamourings sweet. AN APRIL CAROL. March is gone with wreck and riot, March is gone with blast and bane, Woods once more are wrapt in quiet, Rills unruffled glide again ! Lord of havoc and of ruin Ever wildly whirling on, Sorrow and disaster strewing, March, remorseless March, is gone ! Leaving plain and pasture wan. Laying shoot and sapling low, Lord of ravage and of woe, March, remorseless March, is gone ! April's here, a bee is humming, April's here, a primrose peeps ; Soon the cuckoo will be coming, Bluebells teem in dingle deeps ! Merle and mavis, lark and linnet Quaver forth the message clear, 5 More enraptured every minute, " April, tender April's here ! " Maid of mingled smile and tear. Laughter blending with her sighs. Weeping out of laughing eyes, April, tender April's here ! A MAY MADRIGAL. Kingcup and cowslip overspread The meadows with a maze of gold, The crofts are emerald-carpeted, The thorns their creamy flakes unfold ; Laburnums shimmer, lilacs shower Eddies of prodigal perfume, A rose is flushing into flower — 'Tis May, 'tis May, the month of bloom ! The thrush, with blitheness brimming o'er, Inaugurates his gala key, The blackbird, tentative no more. His top-note takes of ecstasy ; And where the willows streamward slant, As stars steal out and shadows throng, The nightingale her first will chant — 'Tis May, 'tis May, the month of song ! ON THE HILLS: MAY. Below in tranquil lustre lies the weald, Verdant with croft and slowly heightening corn, While drowsily upon the breeze is borne The hum of toilers in an upland field, By hanger and high underwood concealed, Who, halting from the labour of the morn, Cluster beneath a hedge of flowering thorn. And to the listlessness of noonday yield. In the clear heights above the hilltop's sward, Poised o'er a budding brake of eglantine. The skylark hymns as though he had outsoared His wings' accustomed scope, and could divine Elysian islands luminously shored, And seas that with enchanted azure shine. 8 A JUNE-DAY DITTY. My kingdom is the forest free, My court the dingle green, My palace the wide-spreading tree, My wealth the summer sheen ; My sceptre is a woodbine spray, My throne a mossy seat, Where lordly foxgloves homage pay. And thyme-flowers kiss my feet. My jester is the laughing brook, My bard the lulling breeze, I banquet in a clover-nook On nectar showered by bees ; My temple is the beechen glade, My choir the cooing dove. My priestess a smile-dimpled maid. My heart's high goddess Love. TWILIGHT: LATE SUMMER. The breeze that since the morn at will has blown, In sudden subjugation dies away ; There is no movement in the woodbine spray, The trembling hazel-leaves have tranquil grown ; And ceasing from the murmurous monotone Which it has softly breathed throughout the day, The churchyard poplar motionlessly grey, Broods, mourner-like, above the hillocks lone. Up from the homestead languorously swim The faint blue smoke-wreaths ; o'er the pensive corn Dusk gradually spreads her pinions dim. Spelling the spirit with a sense forlorn, As from beyond the cliff-land's shadowy rim The dolorous cadence of the sea is borne. 10 THE BRIDLE ROAD. From lane to lane it winds along, An unfrequented way, Where foxgloves in profusion throng, And countless rosecups sway ; Past corn-crowned tracts and heathery sweeps. Thro' bramble arches spied, Down-dipping into bosky deeps. Where humble homesteads hide. The squirrel springing from the copse Halts there around to peer, Upon its sward the rabbit crops, Without a thought of fear ; The pigeon from her pine-tree nest Secure across it wings. The thrush lutes there his liveliest, The merle his clearest sings. II And, as day dwindles shadow-fraught, An incense there ascends, More magically sweet than aught The garden's fragrance lends ; As tho' in dusk's enchanted hour. With eve's first furtive gloom. There rose from every raptured flower A vesper of perfume. 12 THE WANE OF SUMMER. Summer is passing. From the banks no more Impend the starry sprays of eglantine, Sadly the honeysuckle-swathes decline, The fragrance of the meadow-sweet is o'er ; The skylark that all day was wont to pour Thro' the dream-haunted air his strain divine, Has vanished, in mute solitude to pine For the razed wheat from which he used to soar. Summer is passing. Fitfully we hear Her knell low-faltered 'neath the faint wind's breath ; And yet so beauteous doth her guise appear. In such a radiant swoon she slumbereth, That Autumn, from her ambush hovering near, Is half in doubt if it indeed be death. 13 A SUMMER SUNRISE. The stars have stolen to repose, The wind's tranced whisper ebbs away, In the wan east a rift of rose Betokens dawn's returning sway. A hallowed hush pervades the air. As tho' to greet the ascendant sun, From every leaf there sped a prayer, From every flower an orison. Solemnly night's last vestige pales. The gates of morn are open rolled, Azure above the rose prevails. Above the azure fretted gold. Then upward, brooking earth no more, Joy's minstrel thro' the ether swims, And, hailing dawn the conqueror. Chant after chant of victory hymns. 14 AUTUMN. 1888. Spring, long awaited, blossomed but to fleet, For hardly had she from their moaning won The winds to melody, and coaxed the sun To tinge with emerald the trembling wheat, When Summer, envious of a spell so sweet, And all the sudden wonder it had done, Dissolved the dream of joy at last begun, Then stole not e'er again from her retreat. But ah ! the solace wrought by Autumn's smile For Summer's ban of tearfulness and blight ! Almost it seemed as tho' from her exile Spring, in atonement for too swift a flight, Had ventured back on earth, to make awhile A golden resurrection of delight. 15 CORN CARRYING. With restless whirr of reaping The fields no more resound ; The marshalled sheaves are sleeping With mellow sunshine crowned ; And some the pitchfork bearing, Some mounted on the wain, The farm-folk forth are faring To gather in the grain. With tassels gaily nodding Above each rough-hewn head. Around the stubble plodding The patient teamsters tread ; Now, at the collar straining. As slow the waggon heaves, Now, motionless remaining. For fresh relays of sheaves. i6 Then, as day nears its ending, And the last load they pile. The gleaner-folk, slow-wending, Along the stem-tracks file ; Youth garrulously trooping, On toil but half intent ; Old age in silence grouping. Laboriously bent. At length the sun, long fading, Sinks regally to rest, His death-pageant pervading The wide realms of the west. Eve's scent floats from the clover, Eve's star shines o'er the hill ; The stress of day is over, And all the weald is still. 17 A FAIR NOVEMBER. "Ah, would," I sighed, "that Winter might not wake ; Winter that compasses to all things grief, Wreck to the blossom, ruin to the leaf, Silence to every songster of the brake ; That I might never hear the hoarse wind make O'er wold and upland, barren of the sheaf. Lament for Autumn's pageant all too brief, Nor on the rill behold the foam's weird flake ! " — Then Winter came, but with such placid mien, Such likeness to the lenity of Spring, So softly did the sere hues intervene, So gradually the redbreast cease to sing. That less he seemed the all-dreaded lord of teen Than slumber's angel, tired earth visiting. i8 AN EARLY WINTER. Day slowly shudders out with sullen light ; Along the pleasance-path a dank air blows, Fretting the ruined remnant of a rose, That looms from its stark tendril, wanly white. Ravage of blast, and balefulness of blight Border and slope and alley-sward disclose ; A spectral charnel-place the garden grows, Grey Golgotha that erst was Eden bright. — Dusk wanes and, vapour-veiled, the moon awakes, Haunting with, haggard glint the reaches drear ; Then bodefully a gust the stillness breaks, As, grasping witb gaunt hand his hoar-gemmed spear, Wolf-hearted Winter stealthy ingress makes, To filch the diadem from Autumn's bier. 19 TO HESPERUS. {From Bton.) Dear Hesperus, fair lamp of Aphrodite, Dear Hesperus, pure jewel of the night, Amid the multitude of stars as mighty As thou art pale beside Selene's light, Hail, friend, and to the shepherd's merry-making Illume my path with thy benignant beam, For her new course the moon to-day is taking, And so the sooner has withdrawn her gleam. Think not I would maraud beneath night's cover, Or maltreat those that on their lone way rove ; Nay, no molester am I, but a lover, And surely thou wilt lend thy sheen to love ! 20 A RURAL EPICUREAN. {From Moschus.) When the wind softly sways the azure sea My languid spirit kindles at the sight, And then the land no more is a delight, Only the mighty main seems fair to me. But when the waters in their wrath grow hoar, And the long rollers rage in curling foam, I turn again towards my wooded home, And list to look upon the sea no more. Oh, sweet the land, and sweet the forest dark, Whose pines make song, whate'er the wild wind's strife. And dire indeed must be the fisher's life, Who toils upon the deep, his home a bark, Precarious his prey. But, ah, for me Repose beneath the full leaves of the plane. Where the adjacent rivulet's refrain, Soothes with its even-voiced serenity. VARIOUS. 23 TO CYNTHIA. {On Her Sixteenth Birthday.) Ah, couldst thou only thus for ever stay ! Just woo'd by sunshine, just caressed by shower, No more a floweret, yet not quite a flower, Too old for April, yet too young for May ! Terrestrial, but untinged with earth's gross clay, Uranian, but undazzled by Heaven's dower ; Empress, tho' all unconscious of thy power, Siren, tho' all unwitting of thy sway ! Oh, sweeter thus to view thee, and depart Eternally from that charmed sphere of thine, Than tarrying, find thee changed from what thou art, A star more luminous, but less divine, Than watch unclose the cloister of thy heart, And Innocency stealing from the shrine. 24 IMOGEN. Her luminous face, her delicate form, Her hair's fine-threaded gold, Her colouring, jessamine-white, rose-warm, Her mouth's sweet mobile mould. The dainty turn of her stem-like throat, Her head augustly set, A vestal Lamballe might well denote, Or virginal Antoinette. She glides thro' life with her girlish guise, As she would thro' the vernal meads. Surveying the flowers with intent, pure eyes, And ignoring the noxious weeds. Her mind is a volume treasure-stored, Upon whose leaves of light The sunbeams their waking thoughts record, And the stars their reveries write. 25 ON CHANTREY'S EFFIGY OF THE HONOURABLE MRS. STANHOPE AND INFANT CHILD, IN CHEVENING CHURCH, KENT. Upon them a consummate slumber lies, Unfathomable, infinite repose, Like the sublime tranquillity that glows In the expiring sheen of sunset skies. A newly-unfurled flower the mother's guise. The babe's a floweret that engrafted blows, A rose-bud interblended with a rose. One with its life, and dying when it dies. Death wrested them, but was constrained to stay His Avithering touch, to transient pity woo'd By lorn Love's anguishment ; and as they lay Twined on the bier, in beauty unsubdued, Fond Genius, seizing the sepulchral clay. Divinely moulded their similitude. 26 BENEDICTA. " Oh where," she asked, "does the butterfly, That flits in the sunshine, dwell ? And is it a song, or is it a sigh That floats from the ringdove's dell ? And what do the light winds say as they roam With their murmur so soft and low ? And the foxglove, is it the fairies' home, As it used to be long ago ? And do they steal out on a starry night, When nobody sees or hears ? And weep to depart with the dawn's first light ? And the dewdrops, are they their tears ? And what is the tale that the whispering wheat Keeps telling the passers-by ? And why does the rose always smell most sweet Just before it is going to die ? " — And so, with her young soul ever astir, The bright summer long she basked, Till the Father Omniscient sent for her, And answered her all she asked. 28 A DEATH-BED. Through the dark valley thou wilt pass to-night. To the drear labyrinth of troubled years, The fruitless sighs, the unavailing tears, At last the end grows slowly into sight. Death doth but wait for day's retreating light, For that spelled hour when eve's first beacon peers. And vespers gently fall on jaded ears. To give thy soul the signal for its flight. Then, with a brow unclouded as of old, A heart no longer scathed by sorrow's scars, Out of life's mists and vapours manifold. Into that clime no shadow ever mars, Thou wilt emerge, and rapt communion hold With the belov'd, long gathered to the stars. 29 MISERRIMA. A WEARILY-WAN little face, A feeble, forlorn little smile, Poor faltering feet That must pace their beat For many and many a mile — A star stealing out in the dusk, A lamp that luridly flares ; In the wide city's whirl Just a nameless girl — Nobody cares ! A desolate, dearth-stricken room, A pillow pushed up to the wall, A flicker that shows A face in repose, Silence, and that is all ; Save just on the woe-begone cheek That look which such raptness wears. That light on the brow — Ah, who shall say now, " Nobody cares " ? 30 THE TEMPLE EMBANKMENT— LATE NIGHT. Chimes multitudinous tell midnight's hour ; Now silvery-faint, now solemnly profound, With slow reverberation they resound From the vast throng of steeple, dome, and tower. The stars no longer few and fitful cower. But in resplendent galaxy abound. Sparkling pellucid 'gainst a sapphire ground. Condign regalia of night's vestal power. With mounting flood the majestic river flows. Past swarthy banks freed from the fret and din Of craft and crane, a tide of tranced repose, Save for some spot where misery seeks to win Furtive emancipation from its throes, Or shame dissolves its vassaldom to sin. 31 ON AN ANNIVERSARY. Thy little face was May to me, Thy little voice as vernal song, And like the brooklet's revelry Thy tiny footsteps glanced along ; So pure the radiance of thine eyes. Such halcyon rapture gemmed their rays, That were there Spring in Paradise, 'Twas surely imaged in thy gaze ! God gave thee, then repented Him ; Haply when thou hadst winged afar. Less gladly sang the Cherubim, Less brightly shone the Morning Star ; For hardly hadst thou hither sped, To earth thy first eifulgence given, When He reclaiming arms outspread, And cradled thee again in Heaven. 32 A FAREWELL. Farewell, 'tis not for me to say Thy heart has been untrue ; I've only found the sky was grey When I believed it blue. Farewell, by me 'twill ne'er be said Thy smile came but to fleet ; I've only found my rose was dead When I believed it sweet. Farewell, I claim from thee no tear, No sigh from thee would wring ; I've only found 'twas Winter drear When I believed it Spring. 1 -> IN REVERIE'S HOUR. {For Music.) As twilight gathers o'er nie Day's turmoil I forget ; The world fades out before me With all its fume and fret ; As forth the stars come stealing, And faint the fire-gleams grow. Fond reverie wakes, revealing The Loved of long ago. No mystic incantation To summon them I need, The heart's mute invocation They answer as I plead ; Out of the shadows gliding They round me gently smile, Like children who from hiding Have wandered back awhile. D 34 As twilight gathers o'er me, And faint the fire-gleams grow, I conjure up before me The Loved of long ago ; Free range to reverie giving, I view the Past outspread, Till all the dead seem living And all the living dead ! 35 SONG OF THE SEA FAIRIES. In the far-away meadows the maidens sing Of the earth in its garb of green, And their hearts are as bhthe at the burst of Spring As tho' Winter never had been. They twine the daisies, they wreathe the may, And laugh with the linnet's mirth, Yet Spring's but a dawn, and Summer a day, On the breast of the changeful earth. To the far-away meadows we never roam, Our realm is the boundless blue, Our flowers are the coral, our wreaths the foam Of an ever unfading hue. They reck not the heat of the fiercest sun. The iciest blast they brave ; Spring, Summer, and Autumn and Winter are one In our home 'neath the dancing wave ! 36 THE TRIUMPH OF TEARS. {For Music.) To Love I thought to tender My lyre's most tuneful strain, The brightest it could render I plied and plied again. The wheat in mirth was springing, The sky shone clear above, But blithe as was my singing It never brought me Love ! I changed my song to weeping, I cast my lyre away, Its chords no longer sweeping To carols light and gay. The fields in dearth were pining. The sun had paled above, But lo, my tears were shining, For they had brought me Love ! 37 AN ADAGIO. Ah me, ah me, to sit in the shining world, And know that for us there's a bhght in each bloom unfurled. To list to the notes of the Spring-birds rippling by, And know that for us in every song is a sigh, Ah me, ah me. Ah me, ah me, to walk in the fields, and find At every step a shadow stealing behind. When all the green of the earth is smiling gay, The wraith of a love long hushed and hidden away. Ah me, ah me. 38 LETHE. They tell of a dark-flowing river, On whose banks there is never a gleam ; Ah, the young and the gay, how they shiver To think of that stream ! But tho' of its shadow-swept waters The young and the gay will not drink, Sorrow beckons her pale sons and daughters To kneel at its brink. There Pain stays the shaft in his quiver. There Grief steals away, and Regret ; Yes, it needs but one sip of that river To sleep and forget ! 39 AN APRIL REGRET. If Spring must return with its flush of flowers, Its songs, its sighs, its luminous skies, Its gUmmer of green in numberless bowers, Its day that ever more slowly dies, Spring with its sunshine. Spring with its showers, Its linnet waking, its lark a-wing. Oh, for some land where the snow ever lies, For Spring without Love is no longer Spring, And Love it can never again be ours, No, never again be ours. 40 EROTION. {Martial Epig., Book V. 38.) Far fairer did my darling seem Than ev'n the full-plumed swan ; No lamb beside Tarentum's stream Matched my Erotion ! More exquisite she was to me Than the most lustrous pearl Of Lucrine lake or Persian sea, My peerless little girl! The lily in its purest prime, The snow's unsullied fall, The ivories of Orient clime, Whiter was she than all ! Her hair surpassed the coils that crown The maidens of the Rhine, The dormouse with its golden down, Iberia's fleeces fine. 41 Sweet was her breath as Paestan bowers As amber all a-glow, Or honey freshly hived from flowers That on Hymettus blow. The squirrel by her side had been Bereft of all its grace, The peacock paltry 'mid its sheen, The Phoenix commonplace ! « Scarce cold upon the new-made pyre My pretty darling lies ; The Fates were wrought with envious ire To rob me of my prize ; And ere six years she'd counted quite, In her sixth winter-tide, My pet, my plaything, my delight, My own Erotion died ! Yet Paetus, who himself displays The wildest of despair, 42 (He's pummelled now his chest for days, And pulled out half his hair !) Paetus is pleased to rally me On being a little sad — " What ! snivelling for a slave ! " sneers he, " Vou surely must be mad ! "Why /have lost a -ivife, endowed With all the world could give, Riches, position, lineage proud. Yet /contrive to live ! " Our friend with courage truly rare Against misfortune strives ; He finds himself a millionaire, Yet, strange to say, survives ! 43 "'TIS ENOUGH!" I LOVE thee ; Life's but toil, they say, Over a desert rough, A joyless, lightless, flowerless way ; I love thee, 'tis enough ! I love thee ; Death bestows, they say, No balm for Life's rebuff. Wan night instead of weary day ; I love thee, 'tis enough ! 44 AT A GRAVE-SIDE. They say thou art in Heaven, that Heaven is fair, And neither toil nor i)ain can enter there, Nor bitter tears be any longer shed. It may be so, I only know That thou art dead. They say thou art in Heaven, and bending down, White-robed, with on thy brow a radiant crown, Biddest me softly to be comforted. It may be so, I only know That thou art dead. They say that thou art happy, that thou canst be Happy, my heart's one stay, afar from me ! Down to thy grave's deep grass I bow my head. It may be so, I only know That thou art dead. 45 TO ONE LONG-MOURNED. I DREAM of thee, not as the white-wing'd are That roam the cloudless isles ; Not gazing down upon me from afar Where only radiance smiles ; But as on this drear earth thou wert to me, I dream of thee. I dream of thee, my singer by the way Where else there was no song ; My comforter, that madest darkness day, Even my weakness strong ; Yes, as in this lone world thou wert to me, I dream of thee. 46 ISHMAEL. The fields are all sweet with hay, The brakes are all blithe with song, On the hedges rose garlands sway. Convolvulus clusters throng, As shoeless and tattered, and grimy, and grey, He shuffles along. A skylark sings high above, A thrush from yon hanging bough, Far away in the wood a dove. But he passes with scowling brow. Their melodies once he was wont to love. He hates them now. Hates all ; save the sheltering night. When under a bank he creeps, And squalor is out of sight. And hunger its distance keeps. And unmocked by the birds and the meadows bright. His misery sleeps. 47 IN FABLELAND. {With Three Old Favourites.) Draw the curtain, close the shutter, Range the screen across the door, Lulling to a languid mutter All the traffic's rush and roar ; As the drowsy flame grows dimmer, Curling round the log's charred brand, Let us glide amid its glimmer Into far-off Fableland. Silently the great enchanter Rises up before us there ; Time, the spoiler, the supplanter, Has not touched one silvery hair ; Still with beaming smile unbanished. Still with tear but half concealed, As of old, on nights long vanished, He his spell begins to wield. 48 From the bell a fairy tinkle, From the wand a magic wave, And with eyes that starlike twinkle Dazzling Trix greets Esmond grave ; While intent upon his pleading So remorselessly withstood, With a look half-interceding Sighs sweet Rachel Castle wood ! Next, ah, what a wondrous medley Opens out before our view ! Purse-proud Osborne, pauper Sedley ; Trusty Dobbin, George untrue ; Emmy winning, Becky wiling ; Craftless Rawdon, cunning Steyne — Loving, hating, sobbing, smiling ! ^^'as there ever such a scene ? Then the wand a moment falters As it circles through the air ; Round us something weirdly alters, W' hat we cannot tell, nor where ; O'er our eyes a mist comes stealing, Pensive silence reigns supreme. 49 Till a vesper-bell's faint pealing Falls like music in a dream. Gradually it ceases sounding — Whose those suppliant hands upborne ? Whose that face with peace abounding, Yet so wan, so sorrow-worn ? Feebly seems the breath to flutter, Quaveringly the lips exclaim — " Adsum ! " that is all they utter ; He has answered to his name ! ***** Death's dark torrent, onward rushing Ever sweeps some track away. Ever some lov'd voice is hushing, In our ears but yesterday. 'Mid the dusk of life's December On its Spring our sad thoughts fall, Till we pine to not remember, Till we pray to not recall ! Then, like troubled children yearning For some charm their grief to quell, E \ 50 Do we find our hearts returning To the great enchanter's spell ; To the solace of those pages That no change can ever sear, Where each tender smile assuages And there's balm in every tear. 51 THE KING'S DAUGHTER. {From Heine.) I DREAMED of a king's daughter, Wet was her cheek and cold, And she sat beneath the Undens green, And my heart in thrall did hold. *' Thy father's throne I would not. Nor his sceptre, tho' gold it be, I would not his flashing diadem : Thou sweet one, I would but thee ! " " It may not be," she whispered, " In the grave they have laid me low. And only at night I come to thee. Because I love thee so." A ST. JAMES'S CAROL. {^For a Spinet Accompaniment?) Could Time but ripple backward and bear me on its flow, My bourne would be St. James's a century ago, The age ere bow and curtsey as yet had taken wing. The age of verve and sparkle when George the Third was king ! When manners were politer, And wit and mirth beamed brighter, The debonair St. James's when George the Third was king ! I'd dally with his lordship in flowered silk arrayed, I'd languish to my lady resplendent in brocade. Frequent the Mall each morning, each afternoon the Ring, For life was all diversion when George the Third was king ! 53 A round of sport and pleasure, Of laughter and of leisure, Ay, life was all diversion when George the Third was king ! Then as the stars out-twinkled I'd step into my chair, And in the train of Beauty to Ranelagh repair. For PhyUis turn fine phrases, for Chloe couplets string, As was the courtly custom when George the Third was king ! Now homage softly sighing, Now archly versifying. As was the courtly custom when George the Third was king ! In the small hours home-faring, from club to club I'd flit. Here scent the latest scandal, there sip the latest wit, At lansquenet or faro my guineas gaily fling. For gallants all were gamesters when George the Third was king ! 54 Now wagers madly making, Now fortunes wildly staking, For gallants all were gamesters when George the Third was king ! And as the dice rings louder, the claret flows more free, Let some wild spark too pertly press home the repartee. How nimbly from its ambush the arbiter would spring, That settled all dissensions when George the Third was king ! If Rank and Fashion wrangled The -blades that by them dangled Soon settled all dissensions when George the Third was king ! *j^ ^ ^ db TP TP tF tp Dear age of glee and glitter, oi persiflage and play, Your "mode" is now deemed musty, your "ton" has had its day ; New fashions and new phases the years revolving bring, 55 But ah, for me St. James's when George the Third was king ! When manners were politer, And wit and mirth beamed brighter, The debonair St. James's when George the Third was king ! 56 VAUXHALL. 1797. When wearied with Brooks's, When White's windows pall, Sure, the snuggest of nooks is A box at Vauxhall ! Tho' the House and the Lobby At times may enthrall, If you ask me my hobby, r faith, 'tis Vauxhall; Voting straight is a duty One soon would find gall. If it weren't for the beauty That throngs to Vauxhall ! Now 'tis proud Lady Betty With dukes at her call, Now humbler Miss Letty Who reigns at Vauxhall ! 57 Now an eye archly beaming, A waist wondrous small, Or laugh music-teeming That witches Vauxhall ! Tho' modish Mayfair is With rout and with ball, No revelry there is Like that of Vauxhall ! Oh, the frohc and laughter And life of it all ! Paris e'en is dull after A spell of Vauxhall ! Then tho' dynasties tumble. And ministers fall. May one kingdom ne'er crumble, Gay, giddy Vauxhall ! 58 CATCH. {For a C/iiid's Song-book.) Why are you singing so soon, Robin ? Autumn as yet is unborn, The banks and the bowers Still glimmer with flowers, And they haven't yet carried the corn, Robin, They haven't yet carried the corn. What is the theme of the song, Robin, You quaver each calm afternoon. When the linnets all hush, And even the thrush Restrains her impetuous tune, Robin, Restrains her impetuous tune ? Does it bode of the winter to be, Robin, When the green from your bough will have fled, 59 And all will be drear, And solemn and sere, Save your gay little waistcoat of red, Robin, Save your gay little waistcoat of red ? Farewell, I must off to the town, Robin, Where trillers like you never throng. And no song is e'er heard Save the sparrow's, pert bird, If his can be reckoned a song, Robin, If his can be reckoned a song. Farewell, but I'm coming again, Robin, When winter-winds whistle and blow, And for crumbs at the door With bright eyes you implore ; Farewell, till we meet in the snow, Robin, Farewell, till we meet in the snow ! 6o "GOING HOME." {For Music.) Going home — the bUthe birds sinsing Soft from every bank and spray, Faint winds to the uplands winging Incense from the new-mown hay; O'er her brow the year's first roses, In her heart Love's first delight ; Going home as sunset closes — Good-night, pretty one, good-night ! Going home — the dark clouds frowning. Naught around but ceaseless din, Even Pity's accents drowning In the world of tears and sin ; On her brow no longer gladness, In her heart Care's hopeless blight ; Going home to shade and sadness — Good-night, weary one, good-night ! 6i Going home — the stars awaking, Calm above the city's roar, Tidings unto worn hearts breaking. Of repose for evermore ; On her brow retreating sorrow, In her heart returning light ; Going home till Joy's good-morrow — Good-night, happy one, good-night ! 62 A SUNDAY-NIGHT REMINISCENCE. Ever so many years ago, when folk were not so wise, And faces were more fraught with smiles, and hearts heaved fewer sighs, There lived a good old Clerk, my dear, unseeking for renown, Ever so many miles away from noisy London town. His shoulders had a tell-tale stoop, his cheeks were shrunk and lean, His coat, a black when it was new, had aged into a green, The buckles on his shoes, my dear, that once for silver shone. Grew more and more like lead to look as Time went stealing on. 63 But tho' his form with years was bowed, his brow with furrows seamed, And tho' his clothes to threads were worn, his smile upon you beamed So tenderly benign, my dear, to everyone it told He had a heart, at any rate, that never could grow old! His stipend wasn't over much, as stipends count to-day, But little as his utmost was, he gave it all away, A miserable dole, my dear, 'twould now, no doubt, be found. Yet every penny-piece from him seemed worth another's pound. His sermons were not talented, you would have called them tame, " Be good, be just, have charity," each week he taught the same ; No doctrine, no research, my dear, that I must needs allow. And yet they always reached the heart ; how many do so now ? 64 Ah, well, the world has changed since then, is changing every day, Each moment that it spins around it grows more wise, they say ; And yet, I sometimes think, my dear, (no doubt, a dotard's whim,) 'T would be, perhaps, a better world if there were more like him ! CHISWICIC PRESS : — CHARLKS WHITTINGHAM AND CO. TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON. BY THE SAME AUTHOR. A SELECTION FROM THE SONGS OF BERANGER. IN ENGLISH VERSE. OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. "Mr. Toynbee has one quality rather rare in translators — he is best where his original is best. 'The Marquis of Carabas ' is capital. . . . Scarcely less good are ' The Old Corporal ' and ' Off to the Country,' though in widely different manners. Is there any full translation of Be'ranger's songs in English ? If not, let Mr. Toynbee complete the task." — Academy. " On the whole, anybody who cannot read Beranger in French, could hardly do better than procure this fascicuhis of specimens. . . . Here is a version of 'L'Habit de Cour,' which represents Mr. Toynbee — if not Beranger — at his best, and which might almost hold its own as a native English poem." — Spectator. "Mr. Toynbee has not touched the songs which Thackeray translated ; and for this we are very sorry, because Mr. Toynbee's work is better than Thacke- ray's. He has succeeded in performing a task that seemed impossible, and his little book is a valuable piece of literature. Father Prout rendered a great many of Beranger's songs in English, and some of his verses are extremely good ; but he lacked the poHsh and poetic insight which Mr. Toynbee possesses in such high degree. For years past we have turned at times to Father Front's translations, and we thought that nothing better of the kind could be done ; but Mr. Toynbee has shown us our mistake, and the good priest is supplanted." — Vanity Fair. "The translation is generally faithful, and the verse runs easily. . . . The poem which Beranger calls ' La Bonne Vieille ' is improved, if anything, in the process of adaptation." — St. jfaines's Gazette. " The muse of Beranger is so simple and naive that she can wear our English dress with ease and grace, and Mr. Toynbee has kept much of the mirth and music of the original. ... The best translation in the book is ' The Court Suit,' and if Mr. Toynbee can give us some more work as clever as this, we shall be glad to see a second volume from his pen." — Pall Mall Gazette. "A bright, full-throated, iiisouciant mm?,Ue\,\ike De Beranger, is difficult to render into a foreign tongue. . . . We opened Mr. Toynbee's volume with the same misgivings with which we should handle a French translation of Burns. . . - But _Mr. Toynbee has triumphed over all the difficulties which are not insuper- able." — Anglican Church Magazine. " This selection of the best songs of a famous poet is done into English verse by Mr. William Toynbee, who has evidently the true spirit of poetry." — Liverpool Daily A Ibion. " Mr. Toynbee's translations are throughout musical and spirited, and while possessing all the 7'erve oi ihe originals, are characterized by that indefinable elegance and lightness of touch which are found in our best English vers dc soci^tt'." — Bimiinghajii Daily Gazette. " Mr Toynbee has caught the true Bc'ranger spirit and swing. ... We have to thank him for a really delightful little volume of Beranger in English."— Glas^cnu Herald. " We have seen few translations which do fuller justice to the peculiar quality of the poet translated than those of Mr. Toynbee. . . . Reading Mr. Toynbee is the ne.xt best thing to reading Beranger himself." — Manchester Examiner. "This charming little book ought to please all who like tripping lines breathing a mingled gaiety and pathos that smacks of YimTi.a."— Yorkshire Post. LONDON: KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH & CO. LAYS OF COMMON LIFE OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. "There is no attempt at fine writing, but there is an admirable attempt, and generally a very successful one, to enter into the lives and thoughts and express the feelings of the people who are written about." — The Academy. " There is no mistaking the undeniable power and somewhat weird fascination that characterize many of its pages."— Vanity Fair. "The rope-dancer, the agricultural labourer out of employ, the man about town, the thought reader, are here invested with true harmony and feeling." — Illustrated London A'ews. "The socially unsound factors in our community are hit off with much power and pathos. There is scarcely one of tliese ' Lays ' that may not be read through with interest. Mr. Toynbee has evidently a great pity for the weak, and he finds for this sentiment eloquent and dramatic expression." — Tlw Graphic. " Warmly recommended to all who agree with Schiller that pathos and tragedy tend to purify the heart." — Li^ht. " Some of them are particularly powerful."— Z;V(,'ra;-j' IVorld. " Quite above the common run of verses — pathetic for the most part, sometimes amusing. " — Liverpool Mercury. "They have real originality and their pathos rings Irwc." —ATanchestcr Examiner. " Very clever, and a skilful elocutionist will find it worth his while to look into them carefully." — Glasgow Herald. " Dramatic in conception and forcible in execution." — Birminghatn Daily Post. LONDON: REMINGTON & CO. THE TJKKAy.T UI5IVERSITY OF CALIFOm«i« LOS ANGELES -^ ^ UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the hist date stamped below. ir. I.9-I7m 8,'55(B3339s4)444 VW^'^^ ■ ^'^ffff^^ PR To^mbec 5671 On oaten flute Tl;5So PR ^671 Tii58o UC SOUTHFRN RFGIOMAL LIBRAfiY f ACILIT AA 000 372 638