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THE POEMS 
 
 FREDERICK LOCKER - 
 
 AUTHORIZED EDITION 
 
 HBCFREDEWCK3* 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 WHITE, STOKES, & ALLEN 
 1884 
 
MARY USE 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE OLD CRADLE 7 
 
 PICCADILLY, . . . . . . n 
 
 THE OLD GOVERNMENT CLERK, . . 15 
 
 THE PILGRIMS OF PALL MALL, . 20 
 
 MANY YEARS AFTER 24 
 
 TEMPORA MUTANTUR ! 27 
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 30 
 
 ARCADIA 32 
 
 THE CASTLE IN THB AIR, . . .38 
 
 A WISH 44 
 
 GERALDINB GREEN : 
 
 1. THE SERENADE 47 
 
 2. MY LIFE is A , ... 48 
 
 VANITY FAIR 50 
 
 BRAMBLE-RISE, 53 
 
 OLD LETTERS, 57 
 
 MAt/0 
 
 22CG36 
 
iv CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 MY FIRST-BORN 60 
 
 THE WIDOW'S MITE 63 
 
 ST. GEORGE'S, HANOVER SQUARE, . 64 
 
 A HUMAN SKULL 66 
 
 To MY OLD FRIEND POSTUMUS, . 69 
 
 LOULOIJ AND HER CAT, ... 71 
 
 THE NYMPH OF THE WELL, . . 74 
 "HER QUIET RESTING-PLACE is FAR 
 
 AWAY," 78 
 
 REPLY TO A LETTER ENCLOSING A 
 
 LOCK OF HAIR, .... 81 
 
 THE BEAR PIT 86 
 
 MY NEIGHBOUR ROSE, ... 89 
 THE OLD OAK TREE AT HATFIELD 
 
 BROADOAK 93 
 
 To MY GRANDMOTHER, ... 99 
 
 THE SKELETON IN THE CUPBOARD, . 103 
 
 ON AN OLD MUFF, .... 107 
 AN INVITATION TO ROME, AND THE 
 
 REPLY : 
 
 1. THE INVITATION, . . . in 
 
 2. THE REPLY 117 
 
 GERALDINE 122 
 
 THE HOUSEMAID, . . 126 
 
CONTENTS. V 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE JESTER'S PLEA 129 
 
 To MY MISTRESS i3 2 
 
 MY MISTRESS'S BOOTS 134 
 
 THE ROSE AND THE RING, . . 13? 
 
 NUPTIAL VERSES 139 
 
 MRS. SMITH 142 
 
 IMPLORA PACB, 145 
 
 MR. PLACID'S FLIRTATION, . . 147 
 
 BEGGARS, *53 
 
 THE JESTER'S MORAL, 15? 
 
 ADVICE TO A POET 162 
 
 AN ASPIRATION 166 
 
 A GARDEN IDYLL 168 
 
 ST. JAMES'S STREET 171 
 
 ROTTEN Row i7S 
 
 A NICE CORRESPONDENT ! . . 178 
 
 AN OLD BUFFER, 181 
 
 To LINA OSWALD, .... 184 
 
 ON "A PORTRAIT OF A LADY," . . 186 
 THE Music PALACE, .... 189 
 A TERRIBLE INFANT, . . . . 193 
 WITH A BOOK OF SMALL SKETCHES, 193 
 
 AT HURLINGHAM 194 
 
 UNREFLECTING CHILDHOOD, . . 197 
 
vi CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGB 
 
 LITTLE DINKY, 199 
 
 GERTRUDE'S NECKLACE, ... 201 
 
 GERTRUDE'S GLOVE 203 
 
 MABEL : 
 
 1. AT HER WINDOW, . . . 204 
 
 2. HER MUFF 205 
 
 To LINA OSWALD, .... 208 
 
 THE REASON WHY 210 
 
 A WINTER FANTASY, .... 211 
 THE UNREALIZED IDEAL, . . .213 
 IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN, ... 215 
 LOVE, TIME, AND DEATH, . . .217 
 THE OLD STONEMASON, ... 219 
 A RHYME OF ONE, .... 221 
 
 MY SONG, 223 
 
 INCHBAE, 226 
 
 ANY POET TO His LOVE, ... 228 
 
 THE CUCKOO, 230 
 
 HEINE TO His MISTRESS, ... 231 
 FROM THE CRADLE, . . . . 232 
 
 THE TWINS 233 
 
 AN EPITAPH 234 
 
 BABY MINE 235 
 
 Du RYS DE MADAME D'ALLEBRET, . 237 
 
CONTENTS. Vll 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE LADY I LOVE 238 
 
 OUR PHOTOGRAPHS 241 
 
 MA FUTURE 243 
 
 MY NEIGHBOUR'S WIFE! ... 244 
 
 ARCADY 246 
 
 A KIND PROVIDENCE 247 
 
 NOTES, 251 
 
POEMS OF FREDERICK 
 LOCKER. 
 
 THE OLD CRADLE. 
 
 AND this was your Cradle? Why, 
 
 surely, my Jenny, 
 Such cosy dimensions go clearly to 
 
 show 
 
 You were an exceedingly small picka- 
 ninny 
 
 Some nineteen or twenty short sum- 
 mers ago. 
 
 Your baby-days flow'd in a much-trou- 
 bled channel ; 
 
 I see you, as then, in your impotent 
 strife, 
 
8 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 A tight little bundle of wailing and flan- 
 nel, 
 
 Perplex'd with the newly-found fardel 
 of Life. 
 
 To hint at an infantile frailty's a scan- 
 dal ; 
 
 Let bygones be bygones, for some- 
 body knows 
 It was bliss such a Baby to dance and to 
 
 dandle, 
 
 Your cheeks were so dimpled, so rosy 
 your toes. 
 
 Ay, here is your Cradle ; and Hope, a 
 
 bright spirit, 
 With Love now is watching beside it, 
 
 I know. 
 They guard the wee nest it was yours to 
 
 inherit 
 
 Some nineteen or twenty short sum- 
 mers ago. 
 
 It is Hope gilds the future, Love wel- 
 comes it smiling ; 
 
THE OLD CRADLE. 9 
 
 Thus wags this old world, therefore 
 
 stay not to ask, 
 
 " My future bids fair, is my future be- 
 guiling ? " 
 
 If mask'd, still it pleases then raise 
 not its mask. 
 
 Is Life a poor coil some would gladly be 
 
 doffing ? 
 He is riding post-haste who their 
 
 wrongs will adjust ; 
 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 pickaninny 
 Your cheeks were so dimpled, so rosy 
 your toes ! 
 
10 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 Ay, here is your Cradle, much, much 
 
 to my liking, 
 
 Though nineteen or twenty long win- 
 ters have sped. 
 Hark ! As I'm talking there's six o'clock 
 
 striking, 
 
 It is time JENNY'S BABY should be in 
 its bed. 
 
 1855. 
 
PICCADILLY. 
 
 Minnie, in her hand a sixpence, 
 
 Toddled off" to buy some butter 
 ( Minnie' 1 s pinafore was spotless} 
 
 Back she brought it to the gutter ; 
 Gleeful, radiant, as she thus did, 
 Proud to be so largely trusted. 
 
 One, two, three small steps she'd taken 
 
 Blissfully came little Minnie ; 
 When, poor bantling- ! down she tumbled, 
 
 Daubed her hands, and face, and pinny, 
 Dropping, too, the little slut, her 
 Pat of butter in the gutter. 
 
 Never creep back so despairing 
 
 Dry those eyes, my little fairy : 
 Most of us start off in high glee, 
 
 Many come back "quite contrairy" 
 Pve mourn* d sixpences in scores too, 
 Damaged hopes and pinafores too. 
 
 A SKETCH IN SEVEN DIALS. 
 
 PICCADILLY! Shops, palaces, bustle, 
 and breeze, 
 
 The whirring of wheels, and the mur- 
 mur of trees ; 
 
 By night or by day, whether noisy or 
 stilly, 
 
 Whatever my mood is, I love Piccadilly. 
 
12 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 Wet nights, when the gas on the pave- 
 ment 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, Picca- 
 dilly ! 
 
 Bright days, when a stroll is my after- 
 noon 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 Picca- 
 dilly ! 
 
 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, Pic- 
 cadilly ! 
 
PICCADILLY. 13 
 
 Were I such a bride, with a slave at my 
 feet, 
 
 I would choose me a house in my fa- 
 vourite 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; 
 
 Never 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 Picca- 
 dilly " ? 
 
14 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 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. 
 
 (OLD STYLE.) 
 
 A kindly, good man, quite a stranger to fame, 
 His heart still is green, thd his head shows a 
 hoar lock ; 
 
 Perhaps his particular star is to blame, 
 It may be he never took Time by the forelock. 
 
 WE knew an old scribe, it was " once 
 
 on a time," 
 
 An era to set sober datists despair- 
 ing : 
 Then let them despair t 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 ; 
 
l6 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 He had also contracted a curve in the 
 
 spine, 
 
 From bending too constantly over a 
 table. 
 
 His pay and expenditure, quite in ac- 
 cord, 
 Were both on the strictest economy 
 
 founded ; 
 
 His rulers were known as the Sealing- 
 wax Board, 
 
 They ruled where red tape and 
 snug places abounded. 
 
 In his heart he look'd down on this dig- 
 nified knot ; 
 And why? The forefather of one of 
 
 these senators 
 A rascal concern'd in the Gunpowder 
 
 Plot- 
 Had been barber-surgeon to Darby's 
 progenitors. 
 
 Poor fool, is not life a vagary of 
 luck? 
 
THE OLD GOVERNMENT CLERK. \J 
 
 For thirty long years of genteel des- 
 titution 
 
 He'd been writing despatches ; which 
 means he had stuck 
 
 Some heads and some tails to much 
 circumlocution. 
 
 This would seem 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 Rose- 
 mary 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. 
 
18 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 East wind, sob eerily ! Sing, kettle, 
 
 cheerily ! 
 Baby's abed, but its father will rock 
 
 it; 
 His little ones boast their permission to 
 
 toast 
 That cake the good fellow brings home 
 
 in his pocket. 
 
 This greeting the silent old Clerk under- 
 stands, 
 Now his friends he can love, had he 
 
 foes he could mock them ; 
 So met, so surrounded, his bosom ex- 
 pands, 
 
 Some hearts have more need of such 
 homes to unlock them. 
 
 And Darby at least is resign'd to his lot ; 
 And Joan, rather proud of the sphere 
 
 he's adorning, 
 
 Has well-nigh forgotten that Gunpow- 
 der Plot, 
 
 And he won't recall it till ten the next 
 morning. 
 
THE OLD GOVERNMENT CLERK. 19 
 
 A day must be near 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 ; 
 He always is here as the clock's going 
 
 five 
 
 Where is he? ... Ah, it is 
 chiming the quarter ! 
 
 1856. 
 
THE PILGRIMS OF PALL MALL. 
 
 Her eyes and her hair 
 
 Are superb ; 
 She stands in despair 
 
 On the kerb. 
 Quick, stranger, advance 
 
 To her aid : 
 She's across, with a glance 
 
 You're repaid. 
 She's fair, and you're tall, 
 
 fal-lal-la ! 
 What ivillconte of it all? 
 
 Chi lo sa ! 
 
 CUPID ON THE CROSSING. 
 
 MY little friend, so small, so 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 
 
THE PILGRIMS OF PALL MALL. 21 
 
 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 that we met, I think 
 One sentiment us two did link, 
 
 Not joy, nor sorrow ; 
 And then at eve, experience-taught, 
 Our hearts were lighter for the thought, 
 
 We meet to-morrow / 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Often I wander up and down, 
 
 When morning bathes the silent town 
 
 In dewy glory 
 
 Perhaps, unwitting, I have heard 
 Your thrilling-toned canary-bird 
 
 From that third story. 
 
22 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 I've seen some change since last we 
 
 met 
 A patient little seamstress yet, 
 
 On small wage striving, 
 Have you a Lilliputian spouse ? 
 And do you dwell in some doll's 
 
 house ? 
 Is baby thriving ? 
 
 My heart grows chill ! Can soul like 
 
 thine, 
 Weary of this dear World of mine, 
 
 Have loosed its fetter, 
 To find a world, whose promised bliss 
 Is better than the best of this ? 
 
 And is it better ? 
 
 Sometimes to Pall Mall I repair, 
 And see the damsels passing there ; 
 
 But if I try to . . . 
 To get one glance, they look dis- 
 creet, 
 As though they'd some one else to 
 
 meet : 
 As have not / too ? 
 
THE PILGRIMS OF PALL MALL. 23 
 
 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, 
 In some serener sphere, why then 
 
 Thy friend remember. 
 
 1856. 
 
MANY YEARS AFTER. 
 
 I SAW some books exposed for sale- 
 Some dear, and some drama and 
 tale 
 
 As dear as any : 
 A few, perhaps more orthodox 
 Or torn, were tumbled in a box 
 
 " All these a penny." 
 
 I open'd one at hazard, but 
 
 Its leaves tho' soil'd were still uncut ; 
 
 And yet before 
 I'd read a page, I felt indeed 
 A wish to cut that leaf, and read 
 
 Some pages more. 
 
 A poet sang of what befel 
 When, years before, he'd paced Pall 
 Mall; 
 
MANY YEARS AFTER. 25 
 
 While walking thus ' 
 A boy he'd met a maiden. (Then 
 Fair women all were brave, and men 
 
 Were virtuous !) 
 
 They oft had met, he wonder'd why ; 
 He praised her sprightly bearing. (I 
 
 Believe he meant it :) 
 No word had pass'd, but if he smiled 
 Her eyes had seem'd to say (poor 
 child !) 
 
 " 1 don't resent it." 
 
 And then this poet mused and grieved, 
 And spoke some kindly words, relieved 
 
 By kindlier jest : 
 
 Then he, with sad, prophetic glance, 
 Bethought him she, ere then, perchance, 
 
 Had found her rest. 
 
 Then I was minded how my Joy 
 Sometimes had told me of a boy 
 
 With curly head 
 
 " You know," she'd laugh (she then 
 was well !) 
 
26 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 " I used to meet him in Pall Mall 
 
 Ere I was wed." 
 And then, in fun, she'd vow " Good 
 
 lack, 
 I'll go there now, and fetch thee back 
 
 At least a curl ! " 
 
 She once was here, now she is gone ! 
 And so, you see, my wife was yon 
 
 Bright little girl. 
 
 I am not one for shedding tears 
 That boy's now dead, or bow'd with 
 
 years 
 
 But see sometimes 
 He'd thought of Her / that made me 
 
 weep ; 
 
 That's why I bought and why I keep 
 His book of rhymes. 
 
TEMPORA MUTANTUR ! 
 
 He dropt a tear on Susan's bier, 
 
 He see nf d a most despairing swain f 
 But bluer sky brought newer tie, 
 
 And would he ivisA her back again ? 
 The moments fly, and when ive die, 
 
 WillPhilly Thistletop complain ? 
 She'll cry and sigh, and dry her eye, 
 
 And let herself be ivotfd again. 
 
 A KIND PROVIDENCE. 
 
 YES, here, once more a traveller, 
 
 I find the Angel Inn, 
 Where landlord, maids, and serving- 
 men 
 
 Receive me with a grin : 
 Surely they can't remember Me, 
 
 My hair is grey and scanter ; 
 I'm changed, so changed since I was 
 here 
 
 O tempora mutantur / 
 
 The Angel's not much alter'd since 
 The happy month of June, 
 
28 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 That brought me here with Pamela 
 
 To spend our honeymoon. 
 Ah me, I even recollect 
 
 The shape of this decanter ! 
 We've since been both much put about 
 
 temper a mutantur ! 
 
 Ay, there's the clock, and looking- 
 glass 
 
 Reflecting me again ; 
 She vow'd her Love was very fair, 
 
 1 see I'm very plain. 
 
 And there's that daub of Prince Leeboo : 
 'Twas Pamela's fond banter 
 
 To fancy it resembled me 
 O tempera mutantur ! 
 
 The curtains have been dyed ; but there, 
 
 Unbroken, is the same, 
 The very same crack'd pane of glass 
 
 On which I scratch'd her name. 
 Yes, there's her tiny flourish still ; 
 
 It used to so enchant her 
 To link two happy names in one 
 
 O temper a mutantur ! 
 
TEMPORA MUTANTUR ! 29 
 
 What brought this pilgrim here ? and 
 why 
 
 Was Pamela away ? 
 It may be she had found her grave, 
 
 Or he had found her gay. 
 The fairest fade, the best of men 
 
 Have met with a supplanter ; 
 I wish that I could like this cry 
 
 Of tempora mutantur 1 
 
 1856. 
 
CIRCUMSTANCE. 
 
 THE ORANGE. 
 
 " At Brighton, just a year ago. 
 
 As I mas leaving maison MUTTON, 
 My scarf got caught, it vex>d me so, 
 
 On that tall Captain Rosens button. 
 / thought he'd think me too inane 
 
 And awkward that September sunny. 
 And now September* s come again I 
 And now we're married ! airft it funny ?" 
 
 EXTRACT FROM MRS. ROSE'S DIARY. 
 
 IT ripen'd by the river banks, 
 
 Where, mask and moonlight aid- 
 ing, 
 Dons Bias and Juan play their 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. 
 
CIRCUMSTANCE. 31 
 
 He could not know in Pimlico, 
 
 As little she in Seville, 
 That 7 should reel upon that peel, 
 
 And wish them at the devil. 
 
 1856. 
 
ARCADIA. 
 
 Yes, Fortune deserves to be chidden. 
 
 It is a coincidence queer 
 Whenever one ivants to be hidden 
 
 Some blockhead is sure to appear ! 
 
 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 re- 
 leased, 
 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 dozing longer. 
 
ARCADIA. 33 
 
 Uxorious Chanticleer And hark 
 Upraise thine eyes, and find the lark, 
 
 The matutine musician 
 Who heavenward soars on rapture's 
 
 wings, 
 Sought, yet unseen who mounts and 
 
 sings 
 In musical derision. 
 
 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 country'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 calFd in 
 vain, 
 
34 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 The rebel proved unruly ; 
 The sun came streaming o'er the lake ; 
 One followed for the maid's dear sake, 
 
 A happy fellow truly. 
 
 The maid gave chase, the lambkin ran 
 As only woolly truant can 
 
 Who never felt a crook ; 
 But stayed at length, as if disposed 
 To drink, where tawny sands disclosed 
 
 The margin of a brook. 
 
 His mistress, who had followed fast, 
 Cried, " Little rogue, you're caught at 
 
 last ; 
 
 You've made me lose my shoe ! " 
 She then the wanderer convey'd 
 Where kindly shrubs, in branching 
 
 shade, 
 Were screen and shelter too : 
 
 And timidly she glanced around, 
 All fearful lest the slightest sound 
 
 Might mortal footfall be ; 
 Then shrinkingly she stept aside 
 
ARCADIA. 35 
 
 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 laced ; 
 No, not from him ! Be pleased to think 
 It might be either blue or pink ; 
 
 'Twas tied with maiden taste. 
 
 Suffice it that the child was fair 
 As Una, blythe, with golden hair, 
 
 And come of high degree ; 
 And though her feet were pure from 
 
 stain, 
 She turned her to the brook again, 
 
 And laved them dreamingly. 
 
 Awhile she sat in maiden mood, 
 And watched 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, as 'twould seem. 
 
36 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 Yet reveries are fleeting things, 
 That come and go on whimsy wings ; 
 
 As kindly fancy taught her, 
 The Fair her tender day-dream nursed ; 
 But when the light-blown bubble burst, 
 
 She wearied of the water ; 
 
 Betook her to the spot where, yet, 
 Safe tether'd lay her captured pet, 
 
 To roving tastes a martyr ; 
 But all at once she spied a change, 
 And scream'd (it seem'd so very 
 strange !) 
 
 Cried Echo, Where's my garter f . . 
 
 The Lady led her lambkin home ! 
 Maybe she thought, "No more we'll 
 roam 
 
 At peep of day together ; " 
 Well, if they do, or if they don't, 
 It's pretty clear that roam she won't 
 
 Without an extra tether. 
 
 A pure white stone will mark this 
 morn j 
 
ARCADIA. 37 
 
 He wears a prize, one gladly worn, 
 
 Love's gage, though not intended ; 
 And let him wear 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 CASTLE IN THE AIR. 
 
 The old, old tale ! ay, there's the smart : 
 Her heart, or what she calTd her heart, 
 
 Was hard as granite : 
 Who breaks a heart and then omits 
 To gather up the broken bits. 
 
 Is heartless, Janet. 
 
 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 ; 
 Much, too, the architect may lack, 
 Who labours in the Zodiac, 
 To rear what I, from chime to chime, 
 Attempted once upon a time. 
 
THE CASTLE IN THE AIR. 39 
 
 My Castle was a gay retreat 
 
 In Air, that rather gusty shire, 
 A cherub's model country seat, 
 
 Could model cherub such require. 
 Nor twinge nor tax existence tortured, 
 Even the cherub spared my orchard ! 
 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 burn 
 
 ish'd ; 
 And then my cot, by some mistake, 
 
 Unlike most cots, was neatly fur- 
 
 nish'd. 
 
 A trellis'd porch, a pictured hall, 
 A Hebe laughing from the wall ; 
 
 Vases, Etruscan and Cathay ; 
 While under arms and armour wreath' d 
 In trophied guise, the marble breathed 
 
 A peering faun a startled fay. 
 
 On silken cushion, laced and pearl'd, 
 A shaggy pet from Skye was curl'd ; 
 
40 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 While, drowsy-eyed, would dosing swing 
 A parrot in his golden ring. 
 
 All this 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 clusters, lovely as your own ; 
 
 And as her fingers touch'd the keys, 
 
 How strangely they resembled these ! 
 
 Yes, you, you only, Lady Fair, 
 
 Adorn'd a Castle in the Air, 
 
 Where 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 hymn'd the tender moon together. 
 
THE CASTLE IN THE AIR. 4! 
 
 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 died (in verse) a thousand times ! 
 
 Yes, you, you only, Lady Fair, 
 Adorn'd my Castle in the Air. 
 Now, tell me, could you dwell content 
 In such a baseless tenement ? 
 Say, 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 ; 
 But not so nice for one or three, 
 I only wish you'd jest with me. 
 
 You shake your head and wonder why 
 
 A denizen of dear Mayfair 
 Should be so silly as to try 
 
42 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 And build a Castle in the Air. 
 " I've music, books, and all," you say, 
 " To make the gravest lady gay. 
 I'm told my essays mark 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-a-tete 
 Might jeopardise a giddy pate ; 
 Indeed, my much devoted vassal, 
 I'm sorry that you've built your Castle ! " 
 
 The lady's smile showed no remorse, 
 " My worthless toy has lost its gild- 
 ing," 
 I murmur'd with pathetic force, 
 
 " And here's an end of castle-build* 
 
 ing;" 
 
 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 ; 
 
THE CASTLE IN THE AIR. 43 
 
 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. 
 
A WISH. 
 
 To the south of the church, and beneath 
 
 yonder yew, 
 
 A pair of child lovers I've seen ; 
 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; oh what did 
 
 they say ? 
 
 The turf on that hillock was new. 
 Little Friends, could ye know aught of 
 
 death or decay ? 
 Could the dead be regardful of you ? 
 
A WISH. 45 
 
 I wish to believe, and believe it I 
 
 must, 
 
 That there her loved father was laid : 
 I wish to believe I will take it on 
 
 trust 
 That father knew all that they said. 
 
 My Own, you are five, very nearly the 
 
 age 
 
 Of that poor little fatherless child, 
 And some day a true-love your heart 
 
 will engage, 
 
 When on earth I my last may have 
 smiled. 
 
 Then come to my grave, like a good lit- 
 tle lass, 
 
 Where'er it may happen to be ; 
 And if any daisies should peer through 
 
 the grass, 
 Be sure they are kisses from me. 
 
 And place not a stone to distinguish my 
 
 name, 
 For stranger and gossip to see ; 
 
46 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 But come with your lover, as these lov- 
 ers came, 
 And talk to him sweetly of me. 
 
 And while you are smiling, your father 
 
 will smile 
 
 Such a dear little daughter to have ; 
 But mind, oh yes, mind you are happy 
 
 the while 
 I wish you to visit my grave. 
 
 1856. 
 
GERALDINE GREEN. 
 
 THE SERENADE. 
 
 If pathos should thy bosom stir 
 
 To tears more sweet than laughter^ 
 
 Then bless its kind interpreter^ 
 And love hint ever after J 
 
 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." 
 
48 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 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 lulled thee to sleep. 
 1861. 
 
 ii. 
 
 MY LIFE IS A 
 
 Fair Emma mocks my trials^ 
 She pokes her jokes in Sevenoaks 
 At me in Seven Dials. 
 
 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. 
 
GERALDINE GREEN. 49 
 
 He flies the parade, by the ocean he 
 stands ; 
 
 He traces a " Geraldine G." on the 
 sands ; 
 
 Only "G.!" though her loved patro- 
 nymic is " Green," 
 
 " I will not betray thee, my own Geral- 
 dine." 
 
 The fortunes of men have a time and a 
 
 tide, 
 And Fate, the old Fury, will not be 
 
 denied ; 
 That name was, of course, soon wiped 
 
 out by the sea, 
 She jilted the exile, did Geraldine G. 
 
 They meet, but they never have spoken 
 
 since that ; 
 He hopes she is happy he knows she 
 
 is fat ; 
 SAe, wooed on the shore, now is wed in 
 
 the Strand, 
 And 7 it was I wrote her name on the 
 
 sand. 
 1854. 
 
VANITY FAIR. 
 
 " VANITAS vanitatum" has rung in the 
 
 ears 
 Of gentle and simple for thousands of 
 
 years ; 
 The wail still is heard, yet its notes never 
 
 scare 
 Either simple or gentle from Vanity 
 
 Fair. 
 
 I often hear people abusing it, yet 
 There the young go to learn and the old 
 
 to forget ; 
 The mirth may be feigning, the sheen 
 
 may be glare, 
 But the gingerbread's gilded in Vanity 
 
 Fair. 
 
 Old Dives there rolls in his chariot, but 
 mind 
 
VANITY FAIR. 51 
 
 Atra Cur a is up with the lackeys be- 
 hind ; 
 
 Joan trudges with Jack, are the Sweet- 
 hearts 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. 
 
 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! 
 
52 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 Yet we all have a Vanity Fair of our 
 
 own ; 
 My son, you have yours, but you need 
 
 not despair 
 I own I've a weakness for Vanity Fair. 
 
 Philosophy halts wise counsels are 
 
 vain, 
 We go, we repent, we return there 
 
 again ; 
 To-night you will certainly meet with us 
 
 there 
 So come and be merry in Vanity Fair. 
 
 1852. 
 
BRAMBLE-RISE. 
 
 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. 
 
 THE RUSSET PITCHER. 
 
 WHAT changes meet my wistful eyes 
 In quiet little Bramble-Rise, 
 
 The pride of all the shire ; 
 How altered 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. 
 
54 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 The mud is brick, the thatch is slate, 
 The pound has tumbled out of date, 
 
 And all the trees are stunted : 
 Surely these thistles once grew figs, 
 These geese were swans, and once these 
 pigs 
 
 More musically grunted. 
 
 Where boys and girls pursued their 
 
 sports 
 
 A locomotive puffs and snorts, 
 And gets my malediction ; 
 The turf is dust the elves are fled 
 The ponds have shrunk and tastes have 
 
 spread 
 To photograph and fiction. 
 
 Ah, there's a face I know again, 
 There's Patty trotting down the lane 
 
 To fill her pail with water ; 
 Yes, Patty ! but I fear she's not 
 The tricksy Pat that used to trot, 
 
 But Patty, Patty's daughter ! 
 
 And has she, too, outlived the spells 
 Of breezy hills and silent dells 
 
BRAMBLE-RISE. 55 
 
 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 
 
 simply told ; 
 For some grow wise, and some grow 
 
 cold, 
 
 And all feel time and trouble : 
 If life an empty bubble be, 
 How sad for those who cannot see 
 The rainbow in the bubble ! 
 
 And senseless too, for Madame 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 little friskful daughter. 
 
 Come hither, fairy, perch on these 
 Thy most unworthy father's knees, 
 
 And tell him all about it. 
 Are dolls a sham ? Can men be base ? 
 
56 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 When gazing on thy blessed face 
 I'm quite prepared to doubt it. 
 
 Though life is calPd a doleful jaunt, 
 Though earthly joys, the wisest grant, 
 
 Have no enduring basis ; 
 It's pleasant in this lower sphere, 
 To find with Puss, my daughter dear, 
 
 A little cool oasis ! 
 
 Oh, may'st thou some day own, sweet 
 
 elf, 
 A pet just like thy winsome self, 
 
 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. 
 April, 1857. 
 
OLD LETTERS. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 * * 
 
 Ay, so it is, and is it fair? 
 
 Poor men (your elders and your betters /) 
 Who can't look fret ty in despair ; 
 
 Feel quite as sad about their letters. 
 
 HER LETTERS. 
 
 OLD letters ! wipe away the tear 
 For lines so pale, so vainly worded ; 
 
 A Pilgrim finds his journey 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 De- 
 lectus ? 
 
58 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 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. 
 
 Here's news from Paternoster Row ; 
 
 How mad I was when first I learnt it ! 
 They would not take my Book, and now 
 
 I wish to goodness I had 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"; 
 
OLD LETTERS. 59 
 
 Though hope, though passion may be 
 
 past, 
 
 Their perfume seems ah, sweet as 
 ever. 
 
 A human heart should beat for two, 
 Whate'er may say your single scorn- 
 ers; 
 
 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 brings regret 
 Kitty, go, fetch a lighted candle. 
 
 1856. 
 
MY FIRST-BORN. 
 
 Of a worthless old Block she's the dearest of Chifa 
 For what nonsense she talks when she opens he* 
 lips. 
 
 LITTLE PITCHER. 
 
 "HE shan't be their namesake, the 
 rather 
 
 That both are such opulent men : 
 His name shall be that of his father, 
 
 My Benjamin, shorten'd to Ben. 
 
 " Yes, Ben t 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 Har- 
 row, 
 I wonder how soon he'll be born ! " 
 
MY FIRST-BORN. 6l 
 
 A spouse thus was airing his fancies 
 Below, 'twas a labour of love, 
 
 And was calmly reflecting on Nancy's 
 More practical labour above ; 
 
 Yet while it so pleased him to ponder, 
 
 Elated, at ease, and alone ; 
 That pale, patient victim up yonder 
 
 Had budding delights of her own : 
 
 Sweet thoughts, in their essence diviner 
 Than paltry ambition and pelf ; 
 
 A cherub, no babe will be finer ! 
 Invented and nursed by herself; 
 
 At breakfast, and dining, and tea-ing, 
 An appetite naught 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. 
 
62 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 That father, in reverie centred, 
 
 Dumbfounder'd, his thoughts in a 
 
 whirl, 
 Heard Squills, as the creaking boots 
 
 enter'd, 
 Announce that his Boy was a Girl. 
 
THE WIDOW'S MITE. 
 
 A WIDOW she had only one ! 
 A puny and decrepit son ; 
 
 But, day and night, 
 
 Though fretful oft, and weak and small, 
 A loving child, he was her all 
 
 The Widow's Mite. 
 
 The Widow's Mite ay, so sustain'd, 
 She battled onward, nor complain'd 
 
 Tho' 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. 
 
 Why little Di should throw me over 
 I never knew, / carft discover, 
 
 Or even guess ; 
 
 Maybe Smith's lyrics she decided 
 Were sweeter than the sweetest I did, 
 
 / acquiesce. 
 
 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. 
 
 Beautiful Bride ! So meek in thy splen- 
 dour, 
 
 So frank in thy love, and its trusting 
 
 surrender, 
 
 Departing you leave us the town 
 dim ! 
 
ST. GEORGE'S, HANOVER SQUARE. 65 
 
 May happiness wing to thy bower, un- 
 sought, 
 
 And may Nigel, esteeming his bliss as 
 
 he ought, 
 
 Prove worthy thy worship, con- 
 found him ! 
 
A HUMAN SKULL. 
 
 A HUMAN Skull! I bought it passing 
 
 cheap, 
 
 Indeed 'twas dearer to its first em- 
 ployer ! 
 
 I thought mortality did well to keep 
 Some mute memento of the Old De- 
 stroyer. 
 
 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 ? 
 
A HUMAN SKULL. 67 
 
 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. 
 
 But this I trust is clearly understood ; 
 
 If man or woman, if adored or hated 
 Whoever own'd this Skull was not so 
 
 good, 
 
 Nor quite so bad as many may have 
 stated. 
 
 (Vho love can need no special type of 
 
 Death ; 
 
 Death steals his icy hand where Love 
 reposes ; 
 
68 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 Alas for love, alas for fleeting breath 
 Immortelles bloom with Beauty's bridal 
 roses. 
 
 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. 
 
 1860. 
 
TO MY OLD FRIEND POSTUMUS. 
 (j. G.) 
 
 And, like yon clocke, when twelve shalle sound 
 
 To call our soules aivay, 
 Together may our hands be found, 
 
 An earnest that ivefraie. 
 
 MY Friend, our few remaining years 
 
 Are hastening to an end, 
 They glide away, and lines are here 
 
 That time can never mend ; 
 Thy blameless life avails thee not, 
 
 My Friend, my dear old Friend ! 
 
 Death lifts a burthen from the poor, 
 
 And brings the weary rest, 
 But oft from earth's green orchard trees 
 
 The canker takes our best 
 The Well-beloved! she bloom'd, and 
 now 
 
 The turf is on her breast. 
 
70 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 Alas for love ! 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 ? 
 
 Ay, all too vainly are we screen'd 
 
 From peril, day and night ; 
 Those awful rapids must be shot, 
 
 Our shallop will be slight ; 
 O pray that then we may descry 
 
 Some cheering beacon-light. 
 
LOULOU AND HER CAT. 
 
 / '; nervous too, I hate a cat ! 
 Extremely so ; but, as for that, 
 It is not only cat or rat, 
 Or haunted room, or ghostly chat, 
 That makes my heart go pit-a-J>at. 
 
 GOOD pastry is vended 
 
 In Cite Fadette ; 
 Maison Pons can make splendid 
 
 Brioche and galette. 
 
 M*sieu Pons is so fat that 
 He's laid on the shelf; 
 
 Madame 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. 
 
72 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 I drove Lou to see what 
 These worthies were at, 
 
 In rapture, cried she, " What 
 An exquisite cat ! 
 
 " What whiskers ! She's purring 
 
 All over. Regale 
 Our eyes, Puss, by stirring 
 
 Your feathery tail ! 
 
 " M>sieu Pans, will you sell her ? " 
 
 " Mafemme est sortie, 
 Your offer I'll 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 spouse I prefer, 
 For I warrant his gave him 
 
 Un mauvais quart d'heure. 
 
LOULOU AND HER CAT. 73 
 
 I'm giving a pleasant 
 
 Grimalkin to Lou, 
 Ah, Puss, what a present 
 
 I'm giving to you ! 
 
THE NYMPH OF THE WELL. 
 
 Whoever shall win you, a Fan or a Pkcebe, 
 Of course of all beauty she must be the belle ; 
 
 If at Tunbridge you chance to fall in with a Hebe, 
 You tvill not fall out with a draught from the 
 Well! 
 
 SHE smiled as she gave him a draught 
 
 from the springlet, 
 O Tunbridge, thy waters are bitter, 
 
 alas ! 
 But love has 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 there, the 
 
 longer he stay'd ; 
 
 Indeed though the spring was exceed- 
 ingly bitter, 
 
 We found him eternally pledging the 
 maid. 
 
THE NYMPH OF THE WELL. 75 
 
 A preux chevalier, and but lately a 
 
 cripple, 
 
 He met with his hurt where a regi- 
 ment fell ; 
 
 But worse was he wounded when stay- 
 ing to tipple 
 
 A bumper to " Phoebe, the Nymph 
 of the Well." 
 
 Some swore he was old, that his laurels 
 
 were faded, 
 All vow'd she was vastly too nice for 
 
 a nurse ; 
 But love never looks 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. 
 
76 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 See, yonder he sits, where the church- 
 bells invite us, 
 
 What child is that spelling the epi- 
 taphs there ? 
 'Tis the joy of his age ; and may love 
 
 so requite us, 
 
 When time shall have broken, or 
 sickness, or care. 
 
 And when he is gone, thro' her widow- 
 hood lowly 
 He'll still live as Chivalry's Light to 
 
 her son : 
 But only on days that are high and are 
 
 holy 
 
 She will show him the Cross that her 
 hero had won. 
 
 So taught, he will rather take after his 
 
 father, 
 
 And wear a long sword to our ene- 
 mies' loss ; 
 And some day or other he'll bring to 
 
 his mother 
 Victoria's gift the Victoria Cross ! 
 
THE NYMPH OF THE WELL. 77 
 
 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 jour- 
 neys along. 
 
HER QUIET RESTING-PLACE. 
 
 At Susan 1 s name the fancy plays 
 With chiming thoughts of early days. 
 
 And hearts umvrung : 
 When all too fair our future smiled, 
 When she was Mirth's adopted child, 
 
 And I 7vas young. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 And summer smiles, but summer spells 
 Can never charm where sorrow dwells 
 
 No maiden fair , 
 
 Or sad, or gay, the passer sees, 
 And still the much-loved elder trees 
 
 Throw shadows there. 
 
 HER quiet resting-place is far away ; 
 None dwelling there can tell you her 
 
 sad story. 
 The stones are mute. The stones could 
 
 only say, 
 
 "A humble spirit passed away to 
 glory." 
 
 She loved the murmur of this mighty 
 town ; 
 
HER QUIET RESTING-PLACE. 79 
 
 The lark rejoiced her from its lattice 
 
 prison ; 
 A streamlet lulls 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 woe the 
 greatest. 
 
8o POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 I could not die : HE willed it otherwise ; 
 My lot is here, and sorrow, wearing 
 
 older, 
 Weighs down the heart, but does not 
 
 fill the eyes, 
 
 Even my friends may think that I am 
 colder. 
 
 But when at times I steal away from 
 
 these, 
 
 To find her grave, and pray to be for- 
 given, 
 And when I watch beside her on my 
 
 knees, 
 I think I am a little nearer heaven. 
 
 1861. 
 
REPLY TO A LETTER ENCLOSING 
 A LOCK OF HAIR. 
 
 She laughed she climb' d the giddy height ; 
 
 I held that climber small; 
 I even held her rather tight, 
 
 For fear that she should fall. 
 A dozen girls were chirping round, 
 
 Like five- and-tiuenty linnets ; 
 / must have held her, /'// be bound, 
 
 Some five-and-tiventy minutes. 
 
 YES, you were false, and, if 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, 
 
82 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 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. 
 
 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, 
 
 u Should he ? " 
 But doubt soon fled those daisy eyes, 
 
 " He could not mean to vex me, could 
 he?" 
 
 The brightest eyes are soonest sad, 
 But your rose cheek, so lightly sway'd, 
 
 Could ripple into dimples glad ; 
 
 For oh, fair friend, what mirth we 
 made ! 
 
 The brightest tears are soonest dried, 
 
REPLY TO A LETTER. 83 
 
 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 growing old, I know 
 
 I'm still romantic, more's the pity. 
 
 Vain the regret to few, perchance, 
 
 Unknown, and profitless to all : 
 The wisely-gay, as years advance, 
 
 Are gaily-wise. Whate'er befall, 
 We'll laugh at folly, whether seen 
 
 Under a chimney or a steeple ; 
 At yours, at mine our own, I 
 mean, 
 
 As well as that of other people. 
 
84 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 I'm fond of fun, the mental dew 
 
 Where wit, and truth, and ruth are 
 
 blent ; 
 And yet I've known a prig or two, 
 
 Who, wanting all, were all content ! 
 To say I hate such 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 ? 
 Then you were such a pretty lass 
 
 I'm told you're now as fair a lady. 
 
 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. 
 
REPLY TO A LETTER. 85 
 
 A jesting vein your poet vex'd, 
 And this poor rhyme, the Fates de- 
 termine, 
 
 Without a parson or a text, 
 
 Has proved a rather prosy sermon. 
 
 1859- 
 
THE BEAR PIT. 
 
 IN THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS. 
 
 It seems that poor Bruin has never had peace 
 ' Tivixt bald men in Bethel, and ivise men in grease. 
 
 OLD ADAGE. 
 
 WE liked the bear's serio-comical face, 
 As he lolPd 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 wist- 
 ful old Bruin, 
 
 He can't eat the stone that the cruel 
 boy threw in ; 
 
 Stick yours on the point of mamma's 
 parasol, 
 
 And then he will climb to the top of the 
 pole. 
 
THE BEAR PIT. 87 
 
 " 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 
 From rude forward persons who give 
 
 themselves airs, 
 We know how some graceless young 
 
 people were maul'd 
 For plaguing a Prophet, and calling him 
 
 bald. 
 
 " Strange ursine devotion ! Their dan- 
 cing-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." 
 
88 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 MY MORAL Small people may read it, 
 
 and run. 
 (The child has my moral, the bear has 
 
 my bun.) 
 
MY NEIGHBOUR ROSE. 
 
 And kitawes and wenches^ less adoe, 
 
 My neighbour is astir .' 
 By cockke and pie she lutes it too 
 
 Behynde the silver fir ! 
 
 THOUGH walls but thin our hearths 
 
 divide, 
 
 We're strangers, dwelling side by 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 might 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 
 
90 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 Is mute at sunset. 
 
 Your puss, demure and pensive, seems 
 ! Too fat to mouse. Much she esteems 
 Yon sunny wall, and, dozing, dreams 
 Of mice she once ate. 
 
 Our tastes agree. I dote upon 
 Frail jars, turquoise and celadon, 
 The Wedding March of Mendelssohn, 
 
 And Penseroso. 
 
 When sorely tempted to purloin 
 Your/zV/^ 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 would 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, 
 
MY NEIGHBOUR ROSE. 91 
 
 And chat botle 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 ! 
 
 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. 
 
 Sometimes I've envied, it is true, 
 That hero, joyous 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 ? 
 
92 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 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 ; 
 Oh, kiss the bride, and I will throw 
 
 The old shoe after. 
 
 What change in one short afternoon, 
 My own dear neighbour gone, so soon ! 
 Is yon pale orb her honey-moon 
 
 Slow rising hither ? 
 O Lady, wan and marvellous ! 
 How oft have we held commune thus ; 
 Sweet memory shall dwell with us, 
 
 And joy go with her. 
 
 1861. 
 
THE OLD OAK-TREE AT HAT- 
 FIELD BROADOAK. 
 
 What ? Tell you that tale ? Come, a tale with a 
 
 sting 
 
 Would be rather too much of an excellent thing! 
 I cartt point a moral, or sing you the song, 
 My Years are too short and your Rars are too 
 
 long. 
 
 LITTLE PITCHER. 
 
 A MIGHTY growth ! The county side 
 Lamented when the Giant died, 
 
 For England loves her trees : 
 What misty legends round him cling ; 
 How lavishly he once could 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 yet, and 
 
 now 
 His very props are rotten ! 
 
94 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 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 fell'd at last. 
 
 The Monarch wore a leafy crown, 
 And wolves, ere wolves were hunted 
 down, 
 
 Found shelter in his gloom ; 
 Unnumber'd squirrels frolick'd free, 
 Glad music fill'd the gallant Tree 
 
 From stem to topmost bloom. 
 
 It's hard to say, 'twere vain to seek, 
 When first he ventured forth, a meek 
 
 Petitioner for dew ; 
 No Saxon spade disturb'd 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 : 
 
THE OLD OAK-TREE. 95 
 
 Then nymphs had bluer eyes than hose. 
 England then measured men by blows, 
 And measured time by candles. 
 
 The pilgrim bless'd his grateful shade 
 Ere Richard led the first crusade ; 
 
 And maidens loved to dance 
 Where, boy and man, in summer-time, 
 Chaucer once ponder'd o'er his rhyme ; 
 
 And Robin Hood, perchance, 
 
 Stole hither to Maid Marian ; 
 (And if they did not come, one can 
 
 At any rate suppose it) ; 
 They met beneath the mistletoe, 
 We've done the same, and ought to know 
 
 The reason why they chose it ! 
 
 And this was call'd the Traitor's 
 
 Branch, 
 Guy 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 ? 
 
96 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 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 swayed the Senate. 
 
 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 ; 
 At rest, though headlong changes come, 
 
THE OLD OAK-TREE. 97 
 
 Though nations arm to roll of drum, 
 And dynasties are quaking. 
 
 Romantic spot ! By honest pride 
 Of old tradition sanctified ; 
 
 My pensive vigil keeping, 
 Thy beauty moves me like a spell, 
 And thoughts, and tender thoughts, up- 
 well, 
 
 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. 
 
 A nature loyally controlled, 
 
 And fashion'd in that righteous mould 
 
 Of English gentleman ; 
 My child some day will read these 
 
 rhymes, 
 She loved her " godpapa " betimes, 
 
 The little Christian ! 
 
98 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 I love the Past, its ripe pleasance, 
 And lusty thought, and dim romance,- 
 
 Its 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.) 
 
 Under the elm a rustic seat 
 Was merriest Susarisfet retreat 
 To merry make. 
 
 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 ! . . what a waist 
 
 For an arm ! 
 
IOO POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 With her bridal-wreath, bouquet, 
 Lace farthingale, and gay 
 
 Falbala, 
 
 Were Romney's limning true, 
 What a lucky dog were you, 
 
 Grandpapa ! 
 
 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 atween these cherry lips ? 
 
 Whisper me, 
 Sweet sorceress 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, 
 
TO MY GRANDMOTHER. IOI 
 
 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. 
 
 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 
 
102 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER 
 
 Overprest, 
 
 In mercy she was borne 
 Where the weary and the worn 
 
 Are at rest. 
 
 O, if you now are there, 
 And sweet as once you were, 
 
 Grandmamma, 
 This nether world agrees 
 'Twill all the better please 
 
 Grandpapa, 
 
THE SKELETON IN THE CUP- 
 BOARD. 
 
 The most forlorn what worms we are ! 
 Would wish to finish this cigar 
 Before departing. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 A little to relieve my mind 
 
 I've thrown off this disjointed chatter, 
 But more because I'm disinclined 
 
 To enter on a painful matter : 
 
104 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 Once I 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. 
 
 We all have secrets : you have one 
 Which mayn't be quite your charm- 
 ing spouse's ; 
 We all lock up a skeleton 
 
 In some grim chamber of our houses ; 
 Familiars who exhaust their days 
 And nights in probing where our 
 
 smart is 
 
 And who, excepting spiteful ways, 
 Are " silent, unassuming parties" 
 
 We hug this phantom we detest, 
 
 Rarely we 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 brave as Hector 
 Poor Gay steals twenty times a night, 
 
 On shaking knees, to see his spectre. 
 
SKELETON IN THE CUPBOARD. 105 
 
 Old Dives fears a pauper fate, 
 
 So hoarding in his ruling passion ; 
 Some gloomy souls anticipate 
 
 A waistcoat, straiter than the fash- 
 ion! 
 
 She childless pines, that lonely wife, 
 And secret tears are bitter shed- 
 ding ; 
 
 Hector may tremble all his life, 
 And die, but not of that he's dread- 
 ing. 
 
 Ah me, the World ! How fast it spins ! 
 
 The beldams dance, the caldron bub- 
 bles ; 
 They shriek, they stir it for our sins, 
 
 And we must drain it for our troubles. 
 We toil, we groan ; the cry for love 
 
 Mounts up from this poor seething 
 
 city, 
 And yet I know we have above 
 
 A FATHER, infinite in pity. 
 
 When Beauty smiles, when Sorrow 
 weeps, 
 
106 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 Where sunbeams play, where shadows 
 
 darken, 
 One inmate of our dwelling keeps 
 
 Its ghastly carnival ; but hearken ! 
 How dry the rattle of the bones ! 
 
 That sound was not to make you start 
 
 meant : 
 
 Stand by ! Your humble servant owns 
 The Tenant of this Dark Apartment. 
 
ON AN OLD MUFF. 
 
 He cannot be complete in aught 
 Who is not humorously prone, 
 
 A man without a merry thought 
 Can hardly have a funny bone. 
 
 TIME has a magic wand ! 
 What is this 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 Doubledee 
 Gave it to Aunty P. 
 
 Laughing and teasing 
 " Pru., of the breezy curls, 
 Question those solemn churls, 
 What holds a pretty girl's 
 
 Hand %vithout squeezing f 
 
108 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 Uncle was then a lad 
 Gay, but, I grieve to add, 
 Sinful ; if smoking bad 
 
 Baccfs vice : 
 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 ! 
 
ON AN OLD MUFF. 109 
 
 Love has a potent spell ; 
 Soon this bold Ne'er-do-well, 
 Aunt's too susceptible 
 
 Heart undermining, 
 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 stilt 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-. 
 
1 10 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 Changed is the Child of Sin, 
 Now he's (he once was thin) 
 Grave, with a double chin, 
 
 Blest be his fat form ! 
 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 this Muff and its 
 
 Fair Owner pardon : 
 All 's 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. 
 
 OH, come to Rome, it is a pleasant 
 
 place, 
 Your London sun is here, and smiling 
 
 brightly ; 
 
 The Briton, too, puts on his cheery face, 
 And Mrs. Bull acquits herself politely. 
 The Romans are an easy-going race, 
 With simple wives more dignified 
 
 than sprightly ; 
 I see them at their doors, as day is 
 
 closing, 
 
 Prouder than duchesses, and more im- 
 posing. 
 
 A sweet far niente life promotes the 
 graces ; 
 
112 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 They pass from dreamy bliss to wake- 
 ful glee, 
 And in their bearing and their speech, 
 
 one traces 
 
 A breadth, a depth a grace of cour- 
 tesy 
 
 Not found in busy or inclement places ; 
 Their clime and tongue are much in 
 
 harmony : 
 
 The Cockney met in Middlesex or Surrey, 
 Is often cold, and always in a hurry. 
 
 Oh, come to Rome, nor be content to 
 
 read 
 
 Of famous palace and of stately street 
 Whose fountains ever run with joyful 
 
 speed, 
 And never-ceasing murmur. Here 
 
 we greet 
 Memnon's vast monolith ; or, gay with 
 
 weed, 
 
 Rich capitals, as corner-stone, or seat, 
 The site of vanish'd temples, where now 
 
 moulder 
 Old ruins, masking ruin even older. 
 
AN INVITATION TO ROME. 113 
 
 Ay, come, and see the statues, pictures, 
 
 churches, 
 
 Although the last are commonplace, 
 or florid. 
 
 Who say 'tis here that superstition 
 
 perches ? 
 
 Myself, I'm glad the marbles have 
 been quarried. 
 
 The sombre streets are worthy your re- 
 searches : 
 
 The ways are foul, the lava pavement's 
 horrid, 
 
 But pleasant sights that squeamishness 
 disparages, 
 
 Are miss'd by all who roll about in car- 
 riages. 
 
 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 
 
114 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 We love, the name is on our hearts en- 
 graven, 
 
 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 com- 
 bine 
 (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 ! 
 
 Come ! We will charter such a pair of 
 
 nags! 
 The country's better seen when one is 
 
 riding : 
 We'll roam where yellow Tiber speeds 
 
 or lags 
 
AN INVITATION TO ROME. 115 
 
 At will. The aqueducts are yet be- 
 striding 
 
 With giant march (now whole, now bro- 
 ken 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 pleas- 
 ant ; 
 
 The wild fig grows where erst her 
 rampart stood ; 
 
 There oft, in goat-skin clad, a sunburnt 
 
 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 fel- 
 low 
 
 Can join with jollity your saltarello. 
 
Il6 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 Old sylvan peace and liberty ! The 
 
 breath 
 
 Of life to unsophisticated man. 
 Here Mirth may pipe, Love here may 
 
 weave his wreath, 
 " Per daS 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. 
 Oh, come ! I send a leaf of April 
 
 fern, 
 It grew where beauty lingers round 
 
 decay : 
 
 Ashes long buried in a sculptured urn 
 Are not more dead than Rome so 
 
 dead to day ! 
 That better time, for which the patriots 
 
 yearn, 
 Delights the gaze, again to fade away, 
 
THE REPLY. 1 17 
 
 They wait, they 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 clasp thy 
 
 hand in mine ; 
 I 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 flushed with 
 
 light divine, 
 I watch alone, my fond thought wings 
 
 to thee ; 
 
 Oh, come to Rome. Oh come, oh 
 come to me ! 
 
 1863. 
 
 THE REPLY. 
 
 Dear Exile, I was proud 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. 
 
Il8 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 Mamma, who scolds me when I mope, 
 Insists, and she is wise as gentle, 
 
 That I am still in love ! I hope 
 That you feel rather sentimental ! 
 
 Perhaps you think your Loveforlore 
 Should pine unless her slave be with 
 
 her. 
 Of course you're fond of Rome, and 
 
 more 
 Of course 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 those banks of 
 Tiber, 
 
 And all that sort of thing, of which 
 
THE REPLY. 119 
 
 Dear Hawthorne's "quite" the best 
 describer. 
 
 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 play croquet ; the Bruens say 
 
 There's turf behind the Ludovici ! 
 
 I'll bring my books, though Mrs. Mee 
 
 Says packing books is such a worry ; 
 I'll bring my Golden Jreasury, 
 
 Manzoni, and, of course, a " Mur- 
 ray ! " 
 Your verses (if you so advise !) 
 
 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 !) 
 
I2O POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 The thought alone has left her quak- 
 ing ! . 
 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. 
 
 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 end- 
 ing ! 
 
 But cloudlets gather'd soon, and this 
 
THE REPLY. 121 
 
 This was the first that rose to grieve 
 
 me 
 
 To know that I possess'd the bliss, 
 For then I knew such bliss might 
 
 leave me ! 
 
 My strain is sad, but, oh, believe 
 
 Your words have made my spirit 
 
 better ; 
 And if, perhaps, at times I grieve, 
 
 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 kissed 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. 
 
 She will not need the Shepherd's crook, 
 Her griefs are only passing shadow ; 
 
 She 1 II bask beside the purest brook, 
 And nibble in the greenest tneadow, 
 
 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, 
 And each she has applied, 
 
 And improved : 
 
 She has bliss that lives and leans 
 On loving, ah, that means 
 
 She is loved. 
 
 Her beauty is refined 
 
 By sweet harmony of mind, 
 
GERALDINE. 123 
 
 And the art, 
 
 And the blessed nature, too, 
 Of a tender, of a true 
 
 Little heart. 
 
 And yet I must not vault 
 Over any foolish fault 
 
 That she owns ; 
 Or others might rebel, 
 And enviously swell 
 
 In their zones. 
 
 For she's 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. 
 
124 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 The spells that draw her soul 
 Are subtle sad or droll : 
 
 She can show 
 That virtuoso whim 
 Which consecrates our dim 
 
 Long-ago. 
 
 A love that is not sham 
 
 For Stothard, Blake, and Lamb ; 
 
 And I've known 
 Cordelia's sad 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, 
 Oh, 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 
 
GERALDINE. 125 
 
 We have joyance as we speed 
 To our doom ! 
 
 I am happy, having grown 
 Such a Sapling of my own ; 
 
 And I crave 
 
 No garland for my brows, 
 But rest beneath its boughs 
 
 To the grave. 
 
 1864. 
 
THE HOUSEMAID. 
 
 The poor can love through toil 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 boiu before^ 
 
 MiscalFd their betters. 
 
 WISTFUL she stands and yet 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 : 
 Oh 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 ; 
 Seldom they come. How soon they go ! 
 
THE HOUSEMAID. I2/ 
 
 But Souls can roam ; 
 For lapt in visions airy-sweet, 
 She sees in this unlovely street 
 
 Her far-off home. 
 
 The street is now no street ! She pranks 
 A purling brook with thymy banks. 
 
 In fancy's realm 
 
 Yon post supports no lamp, aloof 
 It spreads above her parents' roof, 
 
 A gracious elm. 
 
 A father's aid, a mother's care, 
 And life for her was happy there : 
 
 Yet here, in thrall 
 She sits, and dreams, and fondly 
 
 dreams, 
 And fondly smiles on one who seems 
 
 More dear than all. 
 
 Her dwelling-place I can't disclose ! 
 Suppose her fair, her name suppose 
 
 Is Car, or Kitty ; 
 
 She may be Jane she might be 
 plain 
 
128 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 For must the subject of my strain 
 
 Be always pretty ? 
 
 * * # 
 
 Oft on a cloudless afternoon 
 
 Of budding May and leafy June, 
 
 Fit Sunday weather, 
 I pass thy window by design. 
 And wish thy Sunday out and mine 
 
 Might fall together. 
 
 For sweet it were thy lot to dower 
 With one brief joy : a white-robed flowet 
 
 That prude or preacher 
 Hardly could deem it were unmeet 
 To lay on thy poor path, thou sweet, 
 
 Forlorn, young creature. 
 
 * * * 
 
 But if her thought on wooing run 
 And if her Sunday-swain is one 
 
 Who's fond of strolling, 
 She'd like my nonsense less than his 
 And so it's better as it is 
 
 And that's consoling. 
 
 1864. 
 
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 almost 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 ! 
 
 Their manners that they never mend, 
 The characters they mangle ! 
 
 They eat, and drink, and scheme, and 
 
 plod, 
 They go to church on Sunday ; 
 
130 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 And many are afraid of God 
 And more of Mrs. Grundy. 
 
 The time for pen and sword was when 
 
 "My ladye fay re " for pity 
 Could tend her wounded knight, and 
 then 
 
 Be tender to his ditty. 
 Some ladies now make pretty songs, 
 
 And some make pretty nurses : 
 Some men are great at righting wrongs, 
 
 And some at writing verses. 
 
 I wish we better understood 
 
 The tax our poets levy ; 
 I know the Muse is goody good, 
 
 I think she's rather heavy : 
 Now she 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 
 
THE JESTER'S PLEA. 131 
 
 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. 
 
 I do not wish to see the slaves 
 
 Of party stirring passion, 
 Or psalms quite superseding staves 
 
 Or piety " the fashion." 
 I bless the Hearts where pity glows, 
 
 Who, here together banded, 
 Are holding out a hand to those 
 
 That wait so empty-handed ! 
 
 Masters, may one in motley clad, 
 
 A Jester by confession, 
 Scarce noticed join, half gay, half sad, 
 
 The close of your procession ? 
 This garment here seems out of place 
 
 With graver robes to mingle, 
 But if one tear bedews his face, 
 
 Forgive the bells their jingle. 
 
TO MY MISTRESS. 
 
 His musings ivere trite, and their burden, forsooth. 
 The wisdom of age and the folly of youth. 
 
 COUNTESS, I see the flying year, 
 And feel how Time is wasting here : 
 Ay more, he soon his worst will do, 
 And garner all Your roses too. 
 
 It pleases Time to fold his wings 
 Around our best and fairest things ; 
 He'll mar your blooming cheek, as now 
 He stamps his mark upon my brow. 
 
 i 
 
 The same mute planets rise and shine 
 To rule your days and nights as mine : 
 Once I was young and gay, and 
 
 see ! . . 
 What I am now you soon will be. 
 
 And yet I boast a certain charm 
 
 That shields me from your worst alarm ; 
 
TO MY MISTRESS. 133 
 
 And bids me gaze, with front sublime, 
 On all these ravages of Time. 
 
 You boast a gift to charm the eyes, 
 I boast a gift that Time defies : 
 For mine will still be mine, and last 
 When all your pride of beauty's past. 
 
 My gift may long embalm the lures 
 Of eyes ah, sweet to me as yours : 
 For ages hence the great and good 
 Will judge you as I choose they should. 
 
 In days to come the peer 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 fly, 
 Or spurn a poet such as I. 
 
 KENWOOD : July 21, 1864. 
 
MY MISTRESS'S BOOTS, 
 
 She has dancing eyes and ruby lips, 
 Delightful boots and aivay she skips. 
 
 THEY nearly strike me dumb, 
 I tremble when they come 
 
 Pit-a-pat : 
 
 This palpitation means 
 These boots are Geraldine's 
 
 Think of that ! 
 
 O, where did hunter win 
 So delicate a skin 
 
 For her feet ? 
 You lucky little kid, 
 You perish'd, so you did, 
 
 For my sweet. 
 
 The faery stitching gleams 
 On the sides, and in the seams, 
 And it shows 
 
MY MISTRESS'S BOOTS. 135 
 
 The Pixies were the wags 
 Who tipt these funny tags, 
 And these toes. 
 
 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, 
 She's an angel with a clock 
 To her hose. 
 
 The simpletons who squeeze 
 Their extremities to please 
 
 Mandarins, 
 
 Would positively flinch 
 From venturing to pinch 
 
 Geraldine's. 
 
136 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 Cinderalla's lefts and rights 
 To Geraldine's were frights : 
 
 And I trow, 
 
 The damsel, deftly shod, 
 Has dutifully trod 
 
 Until now. 
 
 Come, Gerry, since it suits 
 Such a pretty Puss (in Boots) 
 
 These to don, 
 Set this dainty hand awhile 
 On my shoulder, dear, and I'll 
 
 Put them on. 
 
 ALBURY, 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. 
 
138 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 It pleased the kind Wizard to send her 
 
 The last and the best of his toys ; 
 He aye had a sentiment tender 
 
 For innocent maidens and boys ; 
 And though he was great as a scorner, 
 
 The guileless were safe from his 
 
 sting: 
 How sad is past mirth to the mourner 
 
 /V tear on the Rose and the Ring ! 
 
 She reads ; I may vainly endeavour 
 
 Her mirth-chequer'd grief to pursue, 
 For she knows she has lost, and for ever, 
 
 The heart that was bared to so few ; 
 But here, on the shrine of his glory, 
 
 One poor little blossom I fling ; 
 And you see there's a nice little story 
 
 Attach'd to the Rose and the Ring. 
 
 1864. 
 
NUPTIAL VERSES. 
 
 THE town despises new world lays : 
 
 The foolish town is frantic 
 For story-books that tell of days 
 
 Which time has made romantic ; 
 Of days, whose chiefest glories fill 
 
 The gloom of crypt and barrow ; 
 When soldiers were, as Love is still, 
 
 Content with bow and arrow. 
 
 But why should we the fancy chide ? 
 
 The world will always hunger 
 To know how people lived and died 
 
 When all the world was younger. 
 We like to read of knightly parts 
 
 In maidenhood's distresses, 
 Of tryst, with sunshine in light hearts, 
 
 And moonbeam on dark tresses ; 
 
 And how, when err ante -knyghte or erl 
 Proved well the love he gave her, 
 
140 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 She'd send him scarf or silken curl, 
 
 As earnest of her favour ; 
 And how (the Fair at times were rude !' 
 
 Her knight, ere homeward riding, 
 Would take, and, ay with gratitude, 
 
 His lady's silver chiding. 
 
 We love the rare old days and rich 
 
 That poetry has painted ; 
 We mourn that sacred age with which 
 
 We never were acquainted. 
 Absurd ! our modern world's divine, 
 
 A world to dare and do in, 
 A more romantic world. In fine 
 
 A better world to woo in ! 
 
 The flow of life is yet a rill 
 
 That laughs, and leaps, and glistens ; 
 And still the woodland rings, and still 
 
 The old Damoetas listens. 
 Romance, as tender as she's true, 
 
 Our Isle has never quitted : 
 So, LAD and LASSIE, when you woo, 
 
 You hardly need be pitied. 
 
NUPTIAL VERSES. 141 
 
 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. 
 
 Oh yes, young love is lovely yet, 
 
 With faith and honour plighted : 
 I love to see a pair so met, 
 
 Youth Beauty all united. 
 Such dear ones may they ever wear 
 
 The roses fortune gave them: 
 Ah, know we such a BLESSED PAIR ? 
 
 I think we do ! GOD SAVE THEM '. 
 
MRS. SMITH. 
 
 Heigh ho ! they 1 reived. The cards are dealt, 
 
 Our frolic games are o'er ; 
 I've laugh* d, and fool" d, and loved. I've felt 
 
 As I shall feel no more ; 
 Yon little thatch is where she lives, 
 
 Yon spire is inhere she met me ; 
 / think that if she quite forgives, 
 
 She cannot quite forget me. 
 
 LAST year I trod these fields with Di, 
 Fields fresh with clover and with rye ; 
 
 Now they seem arid. 
 Then Di was fair and single ; how 
 Unfair it seems on me, for now 
 
 Di's fair and married ! 
 
 A blissful swain I scorn'd the song 
 Which says that though young Love is 
 strong, 
 
 The Fates are stronger: 
 Breezes then blew a boon to men, 
 The buttercups were bright, and then 
 
 This grass was longer. 
 
MRS. SMITH. 143 
 
 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. 
 
 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 ringers deft 
 I tied the right, and tied the left: 
 
 Says Di, " The stubble 
 Is very stupid ! as I live 
 I'm quite ashamed ! . . . I'm shock'd 
 to give 
 
 You so much trouble ! " 
 
 For answer I was fain to sink 
 To what we all would say and think 
 Were Beauty present: 
 
144 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 " Don't mention such a simple act 
 A trouble ? not the least ! In fact 
 It's rather pleasant ! " 
 
 I trust that Love will never tease 
 Poor little Di, or prove that he's 
 
 A graceless rover. 
 She's happy now as Mrs. Smith 
 And less polite when walking with 
 
 Her chosen lover ! 
 
 Heigh-ho ! Although no moral clings 
 To Di's blue eyes, and sandal strings, 
 
 We've had our quarrels.- 
 I think that Smith is thought an ass, 
 I know that when they walk in grass 
 
 She wears balmorals. 
 
 1864. 
 
IMPLORA PACE. 
 
 My lot as I rove, 
 
 Is to sing for the throng; 
 And will not they love 
 
 The poor child for his song? 
 
 LIFE is at best a weary round 
 
 Of mingled joy and woe ; 
 How soon the passing knell will sound ! 
 
 Is death a friend or foe ? 
 Our fleeting days are sad, and vain 
 Is much that tempts us to remain 
 
 Yet we are loth to go. 
 Must I soon tread yon silent shore, 
 Go hence, and then be seen no more ? 
 
 I 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 ; 
 
146 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 And if I shed no tear, 
 Departed shades, while life endures, 
 This poor heart yearns for love and 
 Yours. 
 
 That day, will there be one to shed 
 
 A tear behind the hearse ? 
 Or cry, " Poor Yorick, are you dead ? 
 
 I could have spared a worse 
 We never spoke ; we never met ; 
 I never heard your voice ; and yet 
 
 / loved you for your verse ? " 
 Such love would make 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 gain 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. 
 
MR. PLACID'S FLIRTATION. 
 
 " Jemima ivas eras s, and I lost my -umbrella 
 That day at the tomb of Cecilia Metella." 
 
 LETTERS FROM ROME. 
 
 Miss TRISTRAM'S poulet ended thus : 
 
 ' ' Nota bene, 
 We meet for croquet in the Aldobran- 
 
 dini." 
 Says my wife, " Then I'll drive, and 
 
 you'll ride with Selina " 
 (Jones's fair spouse, of the Via Sistina). 
 
 We started : I'll own that my family 
 deem 
 
 I'm an ass, but I'm not such an ass as I 
 seem ; 
 
 As we crossed the stones gently a nurse- 
 maid said " La 
 
 There goes Mrs. Jones with Miss Placid's 
 papa!" 
 
148 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 Our friends, one or two may be men- 
 
 tion'd 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 ? 
 
 I'll try and describe, or I won't, if you 
 
 please, 
 The 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 lat- 
 
 ter's chagrin. 
 Poor Brown, who believes in himself, 
 
 and another thing, 
 Whose talk is so bald, but whose cheeks 
 
 are so t'other thing. 
 
MR. PLACID'S FLIRTATION. 149 
 
 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 stroll'd, and discourse found 
 
 its kindest of tones : 
 " Oh, how charming were solitude and 
 
 Mrs. Jones ! " 
 " Indeed, Mr. Placid, I dote on the 
 
 sheeny 
 And shadowy paths of the Aldobran- 
 
 dini! 
 
150 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 A girl came with violet posies, and two 
 Gentle eyes, like her violets, freshen'd 
 
 with dew, 
 And a kind of an indolent, fine -lady 
 
 air, 
 As if she by accident found herself there. 
 
 I bought one. Selina was pleased to ac- 
 cept it ; 
 
 She gave me a rosebud to keep and 
 I've kept it. 
 
 Then twilight was near, and I think, in 
 my heart, 
 
 When she vow'd she must go, she was 
 loth to depart. 
 
 Cattivo momenta f we dare not delay : 
 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 ; 
 
MR. PLACID'S FLIRTATION. 151 
 
 " 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 per- 
 fectly 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. 
 
 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 con- 
 tempt." 
 
 Says I (to myself) when I found me 
 alone, 
 
152 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 " My dear wife has my heart, is it al- 
 ways 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 
 
 scam, at Veii, 
 And I've brought some remarkably fine 
 
 scarabagi ! " 
 
BEGGARS. 
 
 Some beggars look on : I extremely regret it 
 They wish for a taste. Don't they wish they may 
 
 get it. 
 
 She thus aggravates both the humble and needy, 
 Yoitllown she is thoughtless / think she is greedy. 
 
 PUNCH. 
 
 I AM pacing the 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 seems 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 Pm a 
 flat, 
 
 For he says, " Buy a comb, it's a fine 
 un to wear ; 
 
 On'y try it, my Lord, through your whis- 
 kers and 'air." 
 
154 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 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 ... I 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 wretch must be "highly 
 
 deserving." 
 
 She begs, I am touch'd, but I've great 
 circumspection : 
 
 I stifle remorse with the soothing reflec- 
 tion 
 
 That cases of vice are by no means a 
 rarity 
 
 The worst vice of all's indiscriminate 
 charity. 
 
BEGGARS. 155 
 
 Am I right ? How I wish that my cleri- 
 cal guide 
 
 Would settle this question and others 
 beside. 
 
 For always one's heart to be hardening 
 thus, 
 
 If wholesome for beggars, is hurtful for 
 us. 
 
 A few minutes later I'm happy and 
 
 free 
 To sip " Its own Sophy kins' " 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 delight- 
 fully sly Thing, 
 
 A paper-weight form'd of a bronze lizard 
 writhing. 
 
156 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 " What a charming cadeau ! and so 
 truthfully moulded ; 
 
 But perhaps you don't know, or deserve 
 to be scolded, 
 
 That in casting this metal a live, harm- 
 less lizard 
 
 Was cruelly tortured in ghost and in 
 gizzard ? " 
 
 " Po-oh ! " says my lady, (she always 
 
 says " Pooh " 
 When she's wilful, and does what she 
 
 oughtn't to do !) 
 " 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, 
 
 there's a notion 
 That begging is only their ''muscular 
 
 motion." 
 
THE JESTER'S MORAL. 
 
 / grudge that lonely man his crook, 
 
 It seems no idle ivhim 
 That if he reads in Nature's book, 
 
 Her voice has been to hint 
 A spiritual life, to sway 
 And cheer him on his endless way. 
 
 THE OLD SHEPHERD. 
 
 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 : 
 
158 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 The prize may come to cheer our lot, 
 But all too late ; and granted 
 
 If even better, still it's not 
 Exactly what we wanted. 
 
 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, 
 
 He once rare sport could show me : 
 My Mentor too on springe and bait 
 
 But Wheeler did not know me. 
 
 " Goodlord ! " at last exclaim'd the 
 
 churl, 
 " Are you the little chap, sir, 
 
THE JESTER'S MORAL. 159 
 
 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. 
 
 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." 
 Fell'd were his trees, 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, then so full of fun, 
 
 Is now St. Blaise's prior, 
 And Travers, the attorney's son 
 
 Is member for the shire. 
 
l6o POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 Dull maskers we Life's festival 
 
 Enchants the blithe new-comer ; 
 But seasons change ; oh where are all 
 
 Those 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. 
 
 Old Bliss I owe some rubs, but pride 
 
 Constrains me to postpone 'em, 
 Something he taught me, 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 ? 
 
THE JESTER'S MORAL. l6l 
 
 I'll join St. Blaise (a verseman fit, 
 
 More fit than I, once did it) 
 / shave my crown ? No, Common 
 Wit 
 
 And Common Sense forbid it. 
 I'd sooner dress your Little Miss 
 
 As Paulet shaves his poodles ! 
 As soon propose for Betsy Bliss, 
 
 Or get proposed for Boodle's. 
 
 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 ! 
 And yet, tho' Life's a riddle, though 
 
 No clerk has yet explain'd it, 
 I still can hope ; for well I know 
 
 That Love has thus ordain'd it. 
 
 PARIS, November, 1864. 
 
ADVICE TO A POET. 
 
 Now ifyotfll only take, perchance 
 But half the pains to learn, that we 
 
 Still take to hide our ignorance 
 Ho-w very clever you will be / 
 
 DEAR Poet, do not rhyme at all ! 
 
 But if you must, don't tell your neigh- 
 bours, 
 Or five in six, who cannot scrawl, 
 
 Will dub you donkey for your labours. 
 This epithet may seem unjust 
 
 To you, or any verse-begetter : 
 Must we admit I fear we must 
 
 That nine in ten deserve no better ? 
 
 Then let them bray with leathern lungs, 
 And match you with the beast that 
 
 grazes 
 Or wag their heads, and hold their 
 
 tongues, 
 Or damn you with the faintest praises- 
 
ADVICE TO A POET. 163 
 
 Be patient, but be sure you won't 
 
 Win vogue without extreme vexation : 
 
 Yet hope for sympathy, but don't 
 Expect it from a near relation. 
 
 When strangers first approved my 
 
 books, 
 My kindred marvell'd what the praise 
 
 meant ; 
 
 Now they wear more respectful looks, 
 But can't get over their amazement. 
 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 only half express 
 
 The threadbare thoughts they feebly 
 
 utter : 
 
 Now if they tried for something less, 
 They might not sink, and gasp, and 
 
 flutter. 
 
 Fly low at first, then mount, and win 
 The niche for which the town's con- 
 testing ; 
 
164 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 And never mind your kith and kin 
 But never give them cause for jesting. 
 
 Hold Pegasus in hand, control 
 A taste for ornament ensnaring ; 
 
 Simplicity is yet the soul 
 
 Of all that time deems worth the 
 sparing. 
 
 Long lays are not a lively sport, 
 So clip your own to half a quarter. 
 
 If readers now don't think them short, 
 
 Posterity will cut them shorter. 
 ft * * 
 
 I look on bards who whine for praise 
 With feelings of profoundest pity : 
 
 They hunger for the Poet's bays, 
 And swear one's waspish when one's 
 witty. 
 
 The critic's lot is passing hard 
 
 Between ourselves, I think reviewers, 
 
 When call'd to truss a crowing bard, 
 
 Should not be sparing of the skewers. 
 #*** 
 
 We all, the foolish and the wise, 
 Regard our verse with fascination, 
 
ADVICE TO A POET. 165 
 
 Through asinine-paternal eyes, 
 And hues of fancy's own creation ; 
 
 Prythee, then, check that passing sneer 
 At any self-deluded rhymer 
 
 Who thinks his beer (the smallest beer !) 
 
 Has all the gust of alt hochheimer. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Oh, for the Poet-Voice that swells 
 
 To lofty truths, or noble curses 
 I only wear the cap and bells, 
 
 And yet some tears are in my verses. 
 I softly trill my sparrow reed, 
 
 Pleased if but one should like the 
 
 twitter ; 
 Humbly I lay it down to heed 
 
 A music or a minstrel fitter. 
 
AN ASPIRATION. 
 
 Alas, hoiv deplorably love has miscarried, 
 
 The stripling is dead, and the -virgin is married > 
 
 I ASK'D Miss Di, who loves her sheep, 
 To look at this Arcadian peep 
 
 Of April leafage, pure and beamy : 
 A pair of girls in hoops and nets 
 Have found 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 dis- 
 dain of i 
 
AN ASPIRATION. 167 
 
 And though the lamb I mostly see 
 Is overdone, it seem'd to me 
 
 That these had little to complain 
 of. 
 
 When Beings of the fairer sex 
 Arrange their white arms round our 
 
 necks, 
 
 We are, we ought to be enrap- 
 tured 
 
 Would that I were your lamb, Miss Di, 
 Or even yon poor butterfly, 
 
 With some small hope of being 
 captured. 
 
A GARDEN IDYLL. 
 
 There are plenty of roses (the patriarch speaks") 
 But alas not for nte, on your lips and your cheeks / 
 Sweet Maiden, rose laden enough and to spare 
 Spare, O spare me the rose that you wear in your 
 hair. 
 
 WE have loiter'd and laugh'd in the 
 
 flowery croft, 
 
 We have met under wintry skies ; 
 Her voice is the dearest voice, and soft 
 
 Is the light in her wistful eyes ; 
 It is sweet in the silent woods, among 
 
 Gay crowds, or in any place 
 To hear her voice, to gaze on 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, 
 
A GARDEN IDYLL. 169 
 
 And the sweep of her silk as she turn'd 
 
 and smiled 
 
 A smile as fair as her pearls ; 
 The breeze was in love with the darling 
 
 child, 
 As it moved 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 : 
 And velvety bees in convolvulus bells, 
 
 And roses of bountiful June 
 Oh, who would think the summer spells 
 Could die so soon ! 
 
 For a glad song came from the milking 
 
 shed, 
 
 On a wind of that summer south, 
 And the green was golden above her 
 
 head, 
 
 And a sunbeam kiss'd her mouth ; 
 Sweet were the lips where <hat sunbeam 
 dwelt 
 
I7O POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 And the wings of Time were fleet 
 As I gazed ; and neither spoke, for we 
 
 felt 
 Life was so sweet ! 
 
 And the odorous limes were dim above 
 
 As we leant on a drooping bough ; 
 And the darkling air was a breath of 
 
 love, 
 
 And a witching thrush sang " Now ! " 
 For the sun dropt low, and the twilight 
 
 grew 
 
 As we listen'd, and sigh'd, and leant 
 That day was the sweetest day and we 
 
 knew 
 What the sweetness meant. 
 
 1868. 
 
ST. JAMES'S STREET. 
 
 (SEE NOTE.) 
 
 ST. JAMES'S STREET, of classic fame, 
 
 The finest people throng it. 
 St. James's Street ? I know the name, 
 
 I think I've passed 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 famous street ! To yonder Park 
 
 Young Churchill stole in class-time ; 
 Come, gaze on fifty men of mark, 
 
 And then recall the past 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. 
 
172 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 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 ; 
 The quaint old dress, the grand old 
 style, 
 
 The tnots, the racy stories ; 
 The wines, 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. 
 
ST. JAMES'S STREET. 173 
 
 Now gilded youth loves cutty pipes, 
 And slang that's rather scaring, 
 
 It can't approach its prototypes 
 In taste, or tone, or bearing. 
 
 In BrummeH's day of buckle shoes, 
 
 Lawn cravats, and roll collars, 
 They'd fight, and woo, and bet and lose 
 
 Like gentlemen and scholars : 
 I'm glad young men should 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, in- 
 deed, 
 
 Will then be quite forgotten, 
 And all we much revere will speed 
 
 From ripe to worse than rotten : 
 Let grass then sprout between yon 
 stones, 
 
 And owls then roost at Boodle's, 
 For Echo will hurl back the tones 
 
 Of screaming Yankee Doodles. 
 
174 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 I love the haunts of Old Cockaigne, 
 
 Where wit and wealth were squan- 
 
 der'd ; 
 The halls that tell of hoop and train, 
 
 Where grace and rank have wander'd ; 
 Those halls where ladies fair and leal 
 
 First ventured to adore me ! 
 Something of that old love I feel 
 
 For this old street before me. 
 
 1867. 
 
ROTTEN ROW. 
 
 Most people like to bill and coo, 
 
 And some have done it for the last time ; 
 So, happy folk, we envy you 
 
 Your pleasant and improving pastime. 
 
 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 love 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 chairs are in request : 
 The nimble air, so soft, so clear, 
 Hardly can stir a ringlet here. 
 
 I'll halt beneath the pleasant trees, 
 And drop my bridle-rein, 
 
1 76 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 And, quite alone, indulge at ease 
 
 The philosophic vein : 
 I'll moralise on all I see 
 Yes, it was all arranged for me ! 
 
 Forsooth, and on a livelier spot 
 
 The sunbeam never shines. 
 Fair 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 gentle- 
 men ! 
 
 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 laugh of Lady Di : 
 
 They all could laugh from night to morn, 
 
 And Time has laugh'd them all to scorn. 
 
ROTTEN ROW. 177 
 
 I then could frolic in the van 
 With dukes and dandy earls ; 
 
 Then I 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. 
 
 Ah, no I'll linger here a while, 
 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! 
 
 An angel at noon, she's a woman at night. 
 
 All softness, and sweetness, and love, and delight. 
 
 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 for the others have flitted 
 
 To dine with a neighbour at Kew : 
 I'm alone, but I'm not to be pitied 
 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 ? 
 
A NICE CORRESPONDENT! 179 
 
 I want you to come and pass sentence 
 On two or three books with a plot ; 
 Of course you know "Janet's Repent- 
 ance"? 
 
 I'm reading Sir Waverley Scott, 
 The story of Edgar and Lucy, 
 
 How thrilling, romantic, and true ! 
 The Master (his bride was a goosey ! ) 
 Reminds me of you. 
 
 They tell me Cockaigne has been 
 
 crowning 
 
 A Poet whose garland endures ; 
 It was you that first told me of Brown- 
 ing, 
 
 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. 
 
180 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 There's a whisper of hearts you are 
 
 breaking, 
 
 Dear Fred, I believe it, I do ! 
 Small marvel that Folly is making 
 Her idol of you ! 
 
 Alas for the World, and its dearly 
 
 Bought triumph, its fugitive bliss ; 
 Sometimes I half wish I were merely 
 
 A plain or a penniless miss ; 
 But, perhaps, one is best with a " meas- 
 ure 
 
 Of pelf," and I'm not sorry, too, 
 That I'm pretty, because 'tis a pleasure, 
 My darling, 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. 
 
AN OLD BUFFER. 
 
 BUFFER. A cushion or apparatus, with strong 
 springs, to deaden the buff or concussion between a 
 moving body and one on which it strikes. Webster's 
 English Dictionary. 
 
 " If Blossom's a sceptic, or saucy, P II search, 
 And Pll find her a wholesome corrective in 
 Church ! " 
 
 MAMMA loquitur. 
 
 "A KNOCK-ME-DOWN sermon, and 
 worthy of Birch," 
 
 Says I to my wife, as we toddle from 
 church ; 
 
 " Convincing indeed! " is the lady's re- 
 mark ; 
 
 4 '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 Gar- 
 dens ? " 
 
182 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 " Miss Blossom," says I to my dearest 
 of dearies, 
 
 " Papa disapproves of nonsensical que- 
 ries ; 
 
 The Ark was an Ark, and had people to 
 build it, 
 
 Enough we are told 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. 
 I parry their blows, I have plenty to 
 
 do 
 I think that the child's are the worst of 
 
 the two ! 
 
AN OLD BUFFER. 183 
 
 My wife has a healthy aversion for 
 
 sceptics, 
 She vows they are bad they are only 
 
 dyspeptics ! 
 May Blossom prove neither the one nor 
 
 the other, 
 But do as she's bid by her excellent 
 
 mother. 
 She thinks I'm a Solon ; perhaps, if I 
 
 huff her, 
 She'll think I'm a something that's 
 
 denser and tougher. 
 
TO LINA OSWALD. 
 (AGED FIVE YEARS.) 
 
 When vapid poets vex thee sore. 
 
 Thy Mentor 's old, and would remind thee, 
 That if thy grie/s are all before, 
 
 Thy pleasures are not all behind thee. 
 
 I TUMBLE out of bed betimes 
 To make my love these toddling rhymes ; 
 And meet the hour, and meet the place 
 To bless her blythe good-morning face. 
 I send her all this heart can store ; 
 I seem to see her as before, 
 An angel-child, divinely fair, 
 With meek blue eyes, and golden hair, 
 Curls tipt with changing light, that shed 
 A little glory round her head. 
 
 Has poet ever sung or seen a 
 Sweeter, wiser child than Lina ? 
 Blue are her sash and snood, and blue'u 
 The hue of her bewitching shoes ; 
 But, saving these, she's virgin dight, 
 A happy creature clad in white. 
 
TO LINA OSWALD. 185 
 
 Again she stands beneath the boughs, 
 Reproves the pup, and feeds the cows ; 
 Unvexed 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 ? 
 
 Little gossip, set apart 
 But one small corner of thy heart ; 
 Still there is one not quite employ'd, 
 So let me find and fill that void ; 
 Run then, and jump, and laugh, suul 
 
 play, 
 But love me though I'm far away. 
 
 BROOMHALL, September, 1868. 
 
ON " A PORTRAIT OF A LADY." 
 
 BY THE PAINTER. 
 
 I gathered it wet for my own sweet Pet 
 As we whisper 1 d and walked apart : 
 
 She gave me that rose, it is fragrant yet, 
 And oh, it is near my heart. 
 
 SHE is good, for she must have a guile- 
 less mind 
 
 With that noble, trusting air ; 
 A rose with a passionate heart is twined 
 
 In her crown of golden hair. 
 Some envy the cross that caressingly 
 
 dips 
 
 In her bosom, and some had died 
 For the promise of bliss on her red, red 
 
 lips, 
 And her thousand charms beside. 
 
 She is lovely and good ; she has peerless 
 
 eyes ; 
 A haunting shape. She stands 
 
ON " A PORTRAIT OF A LADY." 187 
 
 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 amorous 
 
 breeze, 
 My Beauty is up betimes. 
 
 A bevy of idlers press around, 
 
 To wonder, and wish, and loll ; 
 " Now who is the painter, and where 
 has he found 
 
 The woman we all extol, 
 With her fresh young mouth, and her 
 candid brow, 
 
 And a bloom as of bygone days ? " 
 How natural sounds their worship, how 
 
 Impertinent seems their praise ! 
 
 I stand aloof ; I can well afford 
 
 To pardon the babble and crush 
 As they praise a work (do I need re- 
 ward ?) 
 
1 88 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 That has grown beneath my brush : 
 Aloof and, in fancy, again I hear 
 
 The music clash in the hall, 
 When they crown'd her Queen of their 
 dance and cheer, 
 
 She is mine, and Queen of all ! 
 
 Yes, my thoughts are away to that 
 
 happy day, 
 
 A few short months agone, 
 When we left the games, and the dance, 
 
 to stray 
 
 Through the dewy flowers, alone. 
 My feet are again among flowers divine, 
 
 Away from the noise and glare, 
 When I kiss'd her mouth, and her lips 
 
 press'd mine, 
 And I fasten'd that rose in her hair. 
 
 1868. 
 
THE MUSIC PALACE. 
 
 Shall you go ? I don't ask you to seek it or shun it ; 
 I went on an impulse, Pve been and I've done it. 
 
 So this is a music-hall, easy and free, 
 A temple for singing, and dancing, and 
 
 spree ; 
 The band is at Faust, and the benches 
 
 are filling, 
 And all that I have can be had for a 
 
 shilling. 
 
 The senses are charm'd by the sights 
 
 and the sounds ; 
 
 A spirit of affable gladness abounds : 
 With zest we applaud, and as madly 
 
 recall 
 The singer, the cellar- flap- dancer, and 
 
 all. 
 
 What Vision comes on with a wreath 
 and a lyre ? 
 
190 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 A creature of impulse in scanty attire ; 
 
 She plays the good sprite in a dream- 
 haunted dell, 
 
 She has ankles ! and eyes like a wistful 
 gazelle. 
 
 A clown sings a song, and a droll cuts a 
 
 caper, 
 And then she dissolves in a rose-colour'd 
 
 vapour : 
 Then an imp on a rope is a painfully 
 
 pleasant 
 Sensation for all the mammas that are 
 
 present. 
 
 But who is the damsel that smiles to me 
 there 
 
 With so reckless, indeed, so defiant an 
 air? 
 
 She is bright that she's pretty is more 
 than I'll say. 
 
 Is she happy? At least she's exceed- 
 ingly gay. 
 
 It seems to me now, as we pass up the 
 street, 
 
THE MUSIC PALACE. IQI 
 
 Is Nell worse than I, or the worthies we 
 meet? 
 
 She is reckless, her conduct's exceed- 
 ingly sad 
 
 A coin may be light, but it need not be 
 bad. 
 
 Heaven help thee, poor child : now a 
 
 graceless and gay thing, 
 You once were your mother's, her pet 
 
 and her plaything. 
 Where was your home ? Are the stars 
 
 that look down 
 On that home, the cold stars of this 
 
 pitiless town ? 
 
 The stars are a riddle we never may 
 read 
 
 I prest her poor hand, and I bade her 
 Godspeed ! 
 
 She left me a heart overladen with sor- 
 row 
 
 You may hear Nelly's laugh at the 
 palace to-morrow ! 
 
192 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 Ah ! some go to revel, and some go to 
 
 rue, 
 For some go to ruin. There's Paul's 
 
 tolling two. 
 
A TERRIBLE INFANT. 
 
 I RECOLLECT a nurse call'd Ann, 
 Who carried me about the grass, 
 
 And one fine day a fine young man 
 Came up, and kiss'd the pretty lass : 
 
 She did not make the least objection ! 
 
 Thinks I, "Aha! 
 When lean talk Til tell Mamma." 
 And that's my earliest recollection. 
 
 WITH A BOOK OF SMALL 
 SKETCHES. 
 
 IN days gone by, and year by year, 
 
 I gleaned the sketchlets garnered here : 
 
 Some pains they cost me, much shoe 
 
 leather 
 
 Before they all were got together. 
 Dear children, I must flit anon ; 
 O, guard them kindly when I'm gone. 
 
AT HURLINGHAM. 
 
 THIS was dear Willy's brief despatch, 
 
 A curt and yet a cordial summons ; 
 " Do come ! I'm in to-morrow's match, 
 And see us whip the Faithful Com- 
 mons" 
 
 We trundled out behind the bays, 
 Through miles and miles of brick and 
 
 garden ; 
 Mamma was drest in mauve and 
 
 maize, 
 Of course I wore my Dolly Vardcn. 
 
 A charming scene, and lively too, 
 The paddock's full, the band is play- 
 ing 
 Boulotte's song in Barbe bleue ; 
 
 And what are all these people saying ? 
 They flirt! they bet! There's Linda 
 Reeves 
 
AT HURLINGHAM. 195 
 
 Too lovely ! I'd give worlds to borrow 
 Her yellow rose with russet leaves ! 
 I'll wear a yellow rose to-morrow ! 
 
 And there are May and Algy Meade ; 
 
 How proud she looks on her promo- 
 tion ! 
 The ring must be amused indeed, 
 
 And edified by such devotion ! 
 I wonder if she ever guess'd ! 
 
 I wonder if he'll call on Friday ! 
 I often wonder which is best ! 
 
 I only hope my hair is tidy ! 
 
 Some girls repine, and some rejoice, 
 And some get bored, but I'm con- 
 tented 
 To make my destiny my choice, 
 
 I'll never dream that I've repented. 
 There's something sad in loved and 
 
 cross'd, 
 For all the fond, fond hope that rings 
 
 it : 
 There's something sweet in " loved and 
 
 lost " 
 And Oh, how sweetly Alfred sings it ! 
 
196 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 I'll own I'm bored with handicaps ! 
 Bluerocks / (they always are " 
 
 With May, a little bit, perhaps, 
 And yon Faust's teufelshund is shock- 
 
 ing ! 
 Bang . . . bang . . . ! That's Willy ! 
 
 There's his bird, 
 Blithely it cleaves the skies above 
 
 me ! 
 
 He's miss'd all ten ! He's too absurd ! 
 I hope he'll always, always love me ! 
 
 We've lost ! To tea, then back to 
 town ; 
 
 The crowd is laughing, eating, drink- 
 
 ing : 
 The moon's eternal eyes look down, 
 
 Of what can yon sad moon be thinking 
 Oh, but for some good fairy's wand, 
 
 This pigeoncide is worse than silly, 
 But still I'm very, very fond 
 
 Of Hurlingham, and tea, and Willy. 
 
UNREFLECTING CHILDHOOD. 
 
 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 J>oet do 
 Without such little folk as you ? 
 
 IT is, indeed, a little while 
 
 Since you were born, my happy pet ; 
 Your future beckons with a smile, 
 
 Your bygones don't exist as yet. 
 Is all the world with beauty rife ? 
 
 Are you a little bird that sings 
 Her simple gratitude for life, 
 And lovely things ? 
 
 The ocean, and the waning moons, 
 And starry skies, and starry dells, 
 
 And winter sport, and golden Junes, 
 Art, and divinest Beauty-spells : 
 
198 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 Festa and song, and frolic wit, 
 
 And banter, and domestic mirth, 
 They all are ours ! dear child, is it 
 A pleasant earth ? 
 
 And poet friends, and poesy, 
 
 And precious books, for any mood : 
 
 And then that best of company, 
 Those graver thoughts in solitude 
 
 That hold us fast and never pall : 
 Then there is You, my own, my fair- 
 
 And I ... soon I must leave it all, 
 And much you care. 
 
 1871. 
 
LITTLE DINKY. 
 
 (A RHYME OF LESS THAN ONE.) 
 
 THE hair she means to have is gold, 
 Her eyes are blue, she's twelve weeks 
 old, 
 
 Plump are her fists and pinky. 
 She fluttered down in lucky hour 
 From some blue deep in yon sky bower 
 
 I call her LITTLE DINKY. 
 
 A Tiny now, ere long she'll please 
 To totter at my parent-knees, 
 
 And crow, and try to chatter : 
 And soon she'll take to fair white frocks, 
 And frisk about in shoes and socks, 
 
 Her totter changed to patter. 
 
 And soon she'll play, ay, soon enough, 
 At cowslip-ball and blindman's-buff ; 
 
20O POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 And, some day, we shall find her 
 Grow weary of her toys indeed 
 SheUl fling them all aside to heed 
 
 A footstep close behind her. 
 
 And years to come she'll still be rich 
 In what is left, the joys with which 
 
 Our love can aye supply us ; 
 For hand in hand we'll sit us down 
 Right cheerfully and let the town 
 
 This foolish town, go by us. 
 
 Dinky, we must resign our toys 
 To younger girls ', to finer boys, 
 
 But we'll not care a feather : 
 For then (reflection's not regret} 
 Tho> you'll be rather old! we' II yet 
 
 Be boy and girl together. 
 
 As I was climbing Ludgate Hill 
 I met a goose who dropt a quill, 
 
 You see my thumb is inky ; 
 I fell to scribble there and then, 
 And this is how I came to pen 
 
 These rhymes on LITTLE DINKY. 
 
GERTRUDE'S NECKLACE. 
 
 As Gerty skipt from babe to girl, 
 Her necklace lengthen'd, pearl by pearl ; 
 Year after year it grew, and grew, 
 For every birthday gave her two. 
 Her neck is lovely, soft and fair, 
 And now her necklace glimmers there. 
 
 So cradled, let it sink and rise, 
 And all her graces emblemize. 
 Perchance this pearl, without a speck, 
 Once was as warm on Sappho's neck ; 
 Where are the happy, twilight pearls 
 That braided Beatrice's curls ? 
 
 Is Gerty loved ? Is Gerty loth ? 
 Or, if she's either, is she both ? 
 She's fancy free, but sweeter far 
 Than many plighted maidens are : 
 Will Gerty smile us all away, 
 And still be Gerty ? Who can say ? 
 
202 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 But let her wear her precious toy, 
 
 And I'll rejoice to see her joy : 
 
 Her bauble's only one degree 
 
 Less frail, less fugitive than we ; 
 
 For time, ere long, will snap the skein, 
 
 And scatter all the pearls again. 
 
GERTRUDE'S GLOVE. 
 
 Elle avait au bout de ses manches 
 Une paire de mains si blanches ! 
 
 SLIPS of a kid-skin deftly sewn, 
 A scent as through her garden blown, 
 The tender hue that clothes her dove, 
 All these, and this is Gerty's glove. 
 
 A glove but lately dofft, for look 
 It keeps the happy shape it took 
 Warm from her touch ! What gave the 
 
 glow? 
 And where's the mould that shaped it so ? 
 
 It clasp'd the hand, so pure, so sleek, 
 Where Gerty rests a pensive cheek, 
 The hand that when the light wind stirs, 
 Reproves those laughing locks of hers. 
 
 You fingers four, you little thumb ! 
 Were I but you, in days to come 
 I'd clasp, and kiss, I'd keep her go ! 
 And tell her that I told you so. 
 KlSSINGEN, September, 1871. 
 
MABEL. 
 
 AT HER WINDOW. 
 
 AA, minstrel, hoiv strange is 
 The carol you sing ! 
 
 Let Psyche, mho ranges 
 
 The garden of spring^ 
 
 Remember the changes 
 
 December will bring. 
 
 BEATING heart ! we come again 
 Where my Love reposes : 
 
 This is Mabel's window-pane ; 
 These are Mabel's roses. 
 
 Is she nested ? Does she kneel 
 
 In the twilight stilly ; 
 Lily clad from throat to heel, 
 
 She, my virgin lily ? 
 
 Soon the wan, the wistful stars, 
 Fading, will forsake her ; 
 
MABEL. 205 
 
 Elves of light, on beamy bars, 
 Whisper then, and wake her. 
 
 Let this friendly pebble plead 
 
 At her flowery grating. 
 If she hear me will she heed ? 
 
 Mabel, I am 'waiting. 
 
 Mabel will be deck'd anon, 
 
 Zoned in bride's apparel ; 
 Happy zone ! Oh hark to yon 
 
 Passion-shaken carol ! 
 
 Sing thy song, thou tranced thrush, 
 Pipe thy best, thy clearest ; 
 
 Hush, her lattice moves, O hush 
 Dearest Mabel '.dearest . . . 
 
 II. 
 
 HER MUFF. 
 
 LIVELY SHEPHERDESS. 
 
 Now mind, 
 
 He'll call on you to-ntorrow at eleven, 
 And beg that you will dine with us at seven ; 
 If, when He calls, you see that He has got 
 His green umbrella, then you' II know He'll not 
 Be going to the House, and you'll decline. 
 But if He hasn't it, you' II come and dine. 
 
206 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER, 
 
 HAPPY SHEPHERD. 
 
 But if it rains : then how ? and where ? and when ? 
 And how about the green umbrella then ? 
 
 LIVELY SHEPHERDESS. 
 
 Then He'll be met, thafs all, for if I don't 
 Choose He should take it, why, of course ! you goose ! 
 He won't. 
 
 ARCADY. 
 
 SHE'S jealous ! Does it grieve me ? No ! 
 I'm glad to see my Mabel so, 
 
 Carina mia ! 
 Poor Puss ! That now and then she 
 
 draws 
 Conclusions, not without a cause, 
 
 Is my idea. 
 
 She loves ; and I'm prepared to prove 
 That jealousy is kin to love 
 
 In constant women. 
 My jealous Pussy cut up rough 
 The day before I bought her muff 
 
 With sable trimming. 
 
 These tearful darlings think to quell us 
 By being so divinely jealous ; 
 But I know better. 
 
MABEL. 207 
 
 Hillo! Who's that ? A damsel ! Come, 
 I'll follow : no, I can't, for some 
 One else has met her. 
 
 What fun ! He looks a lad of grace." 
 She holds her muff to hide her face ; 
 
 They kiss, The Sly Puss ! 
 Hillo ! Her muff, it's trimm'd with 
 
 sable! . . 
 It's like the muff I gave to Mabel ! . . . 
 
 Goodl-o-r-d, SHE'S MY PUSS ! 
 
TO LINA OSWALD. 
 
 (WITH A BIRTHDAY LOCKET.) 
 
 "My darling wants to see you soon" 
 / bless the little maid, and thank her ; 
 
 To do her bidding, night and noon 
 I draw on Hope Lovers kindest banker ! 
 
 YOUR Sun is in brightest apparel, 
 Your birds and your blossoms are gay, 
 
 But where is my jubilant carol 
 To welcome so joyous a day ? 
 
 I sang for you when you were smaller, 
 As fair as a fawn, and as wild : 
 
 Now, Lina, you're ten and you're taller 
 You elderly child. 
 
 I knew you in shadowless hours, 
 
 When thought never came with a 
 smart ; 
 
 You then were the pet of your flowers, 
 And joy was the child of your heart. 
 
 I ever shall love you, and dearly ! 
 I think when you're even thirteen 
 
TO LINA OSWALD. 209 
 
 You'll still have a heart, and not merely 
 A flirting machine ! 
 
 And when time shall have spoil'd you of 
 * passion, 
 
 Discrown'd what you now think sub- 
 lime, 
 Oh, I swear that you'll still be the fashion, 
 
 And laugh at the antics of time. 
 To love you will then be no duty ; 
 
 But happiness nothing can buy 
 There's a bud in your garland, my 
 beauty, 
 
 That never can die. 
 
 A heart may be bruised and not bro- 
 ken, 
 
 A soul may despair and still reck ; 
 I send you, dear child, a poor token 
 Of love, for your dear little neck. 
 The heart that will beat just below it. 
 
 Is open and pure as your brow 
 May that heart, when you come to be- 
 stow it, 
 
 Be happy as now. 
 1869-1872. 
 
THE REASON WHY. 
 
 ASK why I love the roses fair, 
 
 And whence they come and whose they 
 
 were ; 
 
 They come from her, and not alone, 
 They bring her sweetness with their 
 
 own. 
 
 Or ask me why I love her so, 
 I know not, this is all I know, 
 These roses bud and bloom, and twine 
 As she round this fond heart of mine. 
 
 And this is why I love the flowers, 
 Once they were hers, they're mine 
 
 they're ours ! 
 
 I love her, and they soon will die, 
 And now you know the reason why. 
 
A WINTER FANTASY. 
 
 December has brought you a bonnie May, 
 A bonnie sweetheart is bound your way : 
 He is coming tho" 1 you little ivot^ 
 You are waiting yet he knows it not ! 
 
 YOUR veil is thick, and none would 
 know 
 
 The pretty face it quite obscures ; 
 But if you foot it through the snow, 
 
 Distrust those little boots of yours. 
 
 The tell-tale snow, a sparkling mould, 
 Says where they go and whence they 
 
 came, 
 
 Lightly they touch its carpet cold, 
 And where they touch they sign your 
 name. 
 
 She pass'd beneath yon branches bare, 
 How fair her face, and how content ! 
 
 I only know her face was fair, 
 I only know she came and went. 
 
212 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 Pipe, robins, pipe ; though boughs be 
 
 bleak, 
 
 Ye are her winter choristers ; 
 Whose cheek will press that rose-cold 
 
 cheek? 
 
 What lips those fresh young lips of 
 hers? 
 
THE UNREALIZED IDEAL. 
 
 MY only love is always near, 
 
 In country or in town 
 I see her twinkling feet, I hear 
 
 The whisper of her gown. 
 
 She foots it ever fair and young, 
 Her locks are tied in haste, 
 
 And one is o'er her shoulder flung, 
 And hangs below her waist. 
 
 She ran before me in the meads ; 
 
 And down this world-worn track 
 She leads me on ; but while she leads 
 
 She never gazes back. 
 
 And yet her voice is in my dreams, 
 To witch me more and more ; 
 
 That wooing voice ! Ah me, it seems 
 Less near me than of yore. 
 
214 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 Lightly I sped when hope was high, 
 And youth beguiled the chase, 
 
 I follow, follow still ; but I 
 Shall never see her face. 
 
IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN. 
 
 A FRIENDLY bird with bosom red 
 Is fluting near my garden seat ; 
 
 Your sky is fair above my head, 
 And Tweed rejoices at my feet. 
 
 The squirrels gambol in the oak, 
 All, all is glad, but you prefer 
 
 To linger on amid the smoke 
 Of stony-hearted Westminster. 
 
 Again I read your letter through, 
 " How wonderful is fate's decree, 
 
 How sweet is all your life to you, 
 And oh, how sad is mine to me." 
 
 I know your wail who knows it not ? 
 HE gave, HE taketh that HE gave. 
 
 Yours is the lot, the common lot, 
 To go down weeping to the grave. 
 
2l6 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 Sad journey to a dark abyss, 
 
 Meet ending of your sorrow keen, 
 
 The burden of My dirge is this, 
 
 And this My woe, // might have 
 been ! 
 
 Dear bird ! Blithe bird that sings in 
 frost 
 
 Forgive my friend if he is sad ; 
 He mourns what he has only lost, 
 
 I weep what I have never had. 
 
 LEES, September 27, 1873. 
 
LOVE, TIME, AND DEATH. 
 
 AH me, dread friends of mine Love, 
 
 Time, and Death ! 
 Sweet Love who came to me on sheeny 
 
 wing, 
 And gave her to my arms her lips, her 
 
 breath, 
 
 And all her golden ringlets clustering : 
 And Time who gathers in the flying 
 
 years 
 He gave me all, but where is all he 
 
 gave? 
 He took my Love and left me barren 
 
 tears, 
 
 Weary and lone I follow to the grave. 
 There Death will end this vision half 
 
 divine, 
 Wan Death, who waits in shadow 
 
 evermore, 
 And silent, ere he give the sudden sign ; 
 
2l8 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 O, gently lead me thro' thy narrow 
 
 door, 
 Thou gentle Death, thou trustiest friend 
 
 of mine, 
 
 Ah me for Love . . . will Death 
 my Love restore ? 
 
THE OLD STONEMASON. 
 
 A SHOWERY day in early spring 
 
 An old man and a child 
 Are seated near a scaffolding 
 
 Where marble blocks are piled. 
 
 His clothes are stain'd by age and soil, 
 
 As hers by rain and sun ; 
 He looks as if his days of toil 
 
 Were very nearly done. 
 
 To eat his dinner he had sought 
 
 A staircase proud and vast, 
 And here the duteous child had brought 
 
 His scanty noon repast. 
 
 A worn-out workman needing aid ; 
 A blooming child of light ; 
 
 The stately palace steps ; all made 
 A most pathetic sight. 
 
220 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 We had sought shelter from the storm, 
 
 And saw this lowly pair, 
 But none could see a Shining Form 
 
 That watch'd beside them there. 
 
 1874. 
 
A RHYME OF ONE. 
 
 Explain why childhood 's path is sown 
 With moral and scholastic tin tacks ; 
 
 Ere sin (Original) was known, 
 
 Did Adam groan beneath the syntax ? 
 
 You sleep upon your mother's breast, 
 
 Your race begun, 
 
 A welcome, long a wish'd-for guest, 
 Whose age is One. 
 
 A baby-boy, you wonder why 
 
 You cannot run ; 
 You try to talk how hard you try ! 
 
 You're only One. 
 
 Ere long you won't be such a dunce ; 
 
 You'll eat your bun, 
 And fly your kite, like folk, who once 
 
 Were only One. 
 
 You'll rhyme, and woo, and fight, and 
 joke, 
 
222 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 Perhaps you'll pun ! 
 Such feats are never done by folk 
 Before they're One. 
 
 Some day, too, you may have your joy, 
 
 And envy none ; 
 Yes, you, yourself, may own a boy, 
 
 Who isn't One. 
 
 He'll dance, and laugh, and crow, he'll 
 do 
 
 As you have done : 
 (You crown a happy home, tho' you 
 
 Are only One). 
 
 But when he's grown shall you be here 
 
 To share his fun, 
 And talk of times when he (the dear !) 
 
 Was hardly One ? 
 
 Dear child, 'tis your poor lot to be 
 
 My little son ; 
 I'm glad, though I am old, you see, 
 
 While you are One. 
 1876. 
 
MY SONG. 
 
 YOU ask a song, 
 
 Such as of yore, an autumn's even- 
 tide, 
 
 Some blest boy-poet caroll'd, and then 
 
 died. 
 Nay, / have sung too long. 
 
 Say, shall I fling 
 
 A sigh to Beauty at her window-pane ? 
 I sang there once, might I not once 
 
 again ? 
 Or tell me whom to sing. 
 
 The peer of Peers ? 
 Lord of the wealth that gives his time 
 
 employ- 
 Time to possess, but hardly to enjoy 
 He cannot need my tears. 
 
224 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 The man of mind, 
 Or priest, who darkens what is clear as 
 
 day? 
 
 I cannot sing them, yet I will not say 
 Such guides are wholly blind. 
 
 The Orator ? 
 He quiet lies where yon fresh hillock 
 
 heaves : 
 'Twere well to sprinkle there those 
 
 laurel-leaves 
 He won, but never wore. 
 
 Or shall I twine 
 The Cypress ? Wreath of glory and of 
 
 gloom, 
 
 To march a gallant soldier to his doom, 
 Needs fuller voice than mine. 
 
 No lay have I, 
 No murmured measure meet for your 
 
 delight, 
 No song of Love and Death, to make 
 
 you quite 
 Forget that we must die. 
 
MY SONG. 225 
 
 Something is wrong, 
 The world is over-wise ; or, more's the 
 
 pity, 
 
 These days are far too busy for a ditty, 
 Yet take it, take my Song. 
 
 1876. 
 
INCHBAE. 
 
 ANON he shuts the solemn book 
 To heed the falling of the brook, 
 He cares but little why it flows, 
 Or whence it comes, or where it goes. 
 
 For here, on this delightful bank, 
 His past his future are a blank ; 
 Enough for him the bloom, the cheer, 
 They all are his, to-day and here. 
 
 But hark a voice that carols free, 
 And fills the air with melody ! 
 She comes ! a creature clad in grace, 
 And gospel promise in her face. 
 
 So let her fearlessly intrude 
 On this his much loved solitude ; 
 Is she a lovely phantom, or 
 That love he long has waited for ? 
 
INCHBAE. 227 
 
 welcome as the morning dew ; 
 Long, long have I expected you ; 
 Come, share my seat, and, late or soon, 
 All else that's mine beneath the moon. 
 
 And sing your happy roundelay 
 While nature listens. Till to-day 
 This mirthful stream has never known 
 A cadence gladder than its own : 
 
 Forgive if I too fondly gaze, 
 
 Or praise the eyes that others praise : 
 
 1 watch'd my Star, I've wander'd far 
 Are you my joy ? You know you are ! 
 
 Let others praise, as others prize, 
 The witching twilight of your eyes 
 I cannot praise you : I adore, 
 And that is praise and something more. 
 
ANY POET TO HIS LOVE. 
 
 A rather sad man, still at times he wasjolly^ 
 And though hating a fool he'd a weakness for folly. 
 
 IMMORTAL VERSE ! Is mine the strain 
 To last and live ? As ages wane 
 Will one be found to twine the bays, 
 And praise me then as now you praise ? 
 
 Will there be one to praise ? Ah no ! 
 My laurel leaf may never grow ; 
 My bust is in the quarry yet, 
 Oblivion weaves my coronet. 
 
 Immortal for a month a week ! 
 The garlands wither as I speak ; 
 The song will die, the harp's unstrung, 
 But, singing, have I vainly sung? 
 
 You deign'd to lend an ear the while 
 I trill'd my lay. I won your smile. 
 
ANY POET TO HIS LOVE. 229 
 
 Now, let it die, or let it live, 
 My verse was all I had to give. 
 
 The linnet flies on wistful wings, 
 
 And finds a bower, and lights and 
 
 sings ; 
 
 Enough if my poor verse endures 
 To light, and live to die in yours. 
 
 1875- 
 
THE CUCKOO. 
 
 WE heard it calling, clear and low, 
 That tender April morn ; we stood 
 And listened in the quiet wood 
 
 We heard it, ay, long years ago. 
 
 It came, and with a strange, sweet cry, 
 A Friend, but from a far-off land ; 
 We stood and listened, hand in hand, 
 
 And heart to heart, my Love and I . 
 
 In dreamland then we found our joy, 
 And so it seem'd as 'twere the Bird 
 That Helen in old times had heard 
 
 At noon beneath the oaks of Troy. 
 
 O time far off, and yet so near ! 
 
 It came to her in that hush'd grove, 
 It warbled while the wooing throve, 
 
 It sang the song she liked to hear. 
 
 And now I hear its voice again, 
 And still its message is of peace, 
 It sings of love that will not cease 
 
 For me it never sings in vain. 
 
HEINE TO HIS MISTRESS. 
 
 WHAT do the violets ail, 
 
 So wan, so shy ? 
 Why are the roses pale ? 
 
 Oh why ? Oh why ? 
 
 The lark sad music makes 
 
 To sullen skies ; 
 From yonder flowery brakes 
 
 Dead odours rise. 
 
 Why is the sun's new birth 
 
 A dawn of gloom ? 
 Oh why is this fair earth 
 
 My joyless tomb ? 
 
 I wait apart and sigh 
 
 I call to thee ; 
 Why, Heart's-beloved, why 
 
 Didst thou leave me ? 
 1876. 
 
FROM THE CRADLE. 
 
 THEY tell me I was born a long 
 
 Three months ago, 
 But whether they be right or wrong 
 
 I hardly know. 
 I sleep, I smile, I cannot crawl, 
 
 But I can cry : 
 At present I am rather small 
 
 A Babe am I. 
 
 The changing lights of sun and shade 
 
 Are baby toys ; 
 The flowers and birds are not afraid 
 
 Of baby boys. 
 Some day I'll wish that I could be 
 
 A bird and fly ; 
 At present I can't wish you see 
 
 A Babe am I. 
 
THE TWINS. 
 
 YES, there they lie, so small, so quaint, 
 
 Two mouths, two noses, and two chins ; 
 What Painter shall we get to paint 
 
 And glorify the Twins ? 
 To give us all the charm that dwells 
 In tiny cloaks and coral-bells, 
 And all those other pleasant spells 
 Of Babyhood, and not forget 
 The silver mug for either Pet 
 
 No babe should be without it ? 
 Come, Fairy Limner ! you can thrill 
 Our hearts with pink and daffodil, 
 And white rosette, and dimpled frill ; 
 Come, paint our little Jack and Jill, 
 
 And don't be long about it 1 
 
AN EPITAPH. 
 
 HER worth, her wit, her loving smile 
 
 Were with me but a little while ; 
 
 She came, she went; yet though that 
 
 Voice 
 
 Is hush'd that made the heart rejoice, 
 And though the grave is dark and chill, 
 Her memory is fragrant still, 
 She stands on the eternal hill. 
 
 Here pause, kind soul, whoe'er you be, 
 And weep for her, and pray for me. 
 
BABY MINE. 
 
 BABY mine, with the grave, grave face, 
 Where did you get that royal calm, 
 
 Too staid for joy, too still for grace ? 
 I bend as I kiss your pink, soft palm ; 
 
 Are you the first of a nobler race, 
 Baby mine ? 
 
 You come from the region of long ago, 
 And gazing awhile where the seraphs 
 
 dwell 
 
 Has given your face a glory and glow 
 Of that brighter land have you ought 
 
 to tell? 
 
 I seem to have known it I more would 
 know, 
 
 Baby mine. 
 
236 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 Your calm, blue eyes have a far-off 
 
 reach, 
 Look at me now with those wondrous 
 
 eyes, 
 Why are we doom'd to the gift of 
 
 speech 
 While you are silent, and sweet, and 
 
 wise ? 
 
 You have much to learn you have more 
 to teach, 
 
 Baby mine. 
 
DU RYS DE MADAME D'ALLE- 
 BRET. 
 
 How fair those locks which now the light 
 
 wind stirs ! 
 
 What eyes she has, and what a per- 
 fect arm ! 
 And yet methinks that little Laugh of 
 
 hers 
 That little Laugh is still her crowning 
 
 charm. 
 Where'er she passes, country-side or 
 
 town, 
 The streets make festa, and the fields 
 
 rejoice. 
 Should sorrow come, as 'twill, to cast 
 
 me down, 
 Or Death, as come he must, to hush 
 
 my voice, 
 Her Laugh would wake me, just as now 
 
 it thrills me 
 
 That little giddy Laugh wherewith she 
 kills me. 
 
THE LADY I LOVE. 
 
 THE Lady I sing is as charming as 
 
 Spring, 
 
 I own that I love the dear Lady I sing : 
 She is gay, she is sad, she is good, she 
 
 is fair, 
 She lives at a Number in Square. 
 
 It is not 21, it is not 23 
 
 You never shall get her Number from 
 
 me ; 
 If you did, very soon you'd be mounting 
 
 the stair 
 Of Number (no matter what !) 
 
 Square. 
 
 They say she is clever. Indeed it is 
 
 said 
 She is making a Novel right out of her 
 
 Head! 
 
THE LADY I LOVE. 239 
 
 That poor little Head ! If her heart were 
 
 to spare, 
 I'd break, and Pd mend it in 
 
 Square. 
 
 I've a heart of my own, and, in prose as 
 
 in rhymes, 
 This heart has been fractured a good 
 
 many times ; 
 
 An excellent heart, tho' in sorry repair 
 Little Friend, may I mend it in 
 
 Square ? 
 
 11 What nonsense you talk: 1 Yes, but 
 
 still I am one 
 Who feels pretty grave when he seems 
 
 full of fun ; 
 Some people are pretty, and yet full of 
 
 care 
 And Some One is pretty in 
 
 Square. 
 
 I know I am singing in old-fashion'd 
 phrase 
 
 The music that pleased in the old- 
 fashion'd days ; 
 
240 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 Alas, I know, too, I've an old-fashion'd 
 
 air 
 Oh, why did I ever see Square ! 
 
 POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 The writer of prose, by intelligence taught, 
 Says the thing that will please, in the way that 
 
 he ought, 
 But your poor despised Bard, who by Nature 
 
 is blest, 
 
 (In the scope of a couplet, or guise of a jest,) 
 Says the thing that he pleases as pleases him 
 
 best. 
 
OUR PHOTOGRAPHS. 
 
 SHE play'd me false, but that's not why 
 I haven't quite forgiven Di, 
 
 Although I've tried : 
 This curl was hers, so brown, so bright, 
 She gave it me one blissful night, 
 
 And more beside ! 
 
 Our photographs were group'd together ; 
 She wore the darling hat and feather 
 
 That I adore ; 
 In profile by her side I sat 
 Reading my poetry but that 
 
 She'd heard before. 
 
 Why, after all, Di threw me over 
 I never knew, I can't discover, 
 
 And hardly guess ; 
 May be Smith's lyrics she decided 
 Were sweeter than the sweetest I did 
 
 I acquiesce. 
 
242 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 A week before their wedding day, 
 That Beast was call'd in haste away 
 
 To join the Staff. 
 
 Di gave him then, with tearful mien, 
 Her only photograph. I've seen 
 
 That photograph, 
 
 I've seen it in Smith's pocket-book I 
 Just think ! her hat, her tender look, 
 
 Are now that Brute's ! 
 Before she gave it, off she cut 
 My body, head and lyrics, but 
 She was obliged, the little Slut, 
 
 To leave my Boots. 
 
MA FUTURE. 
 
 WE parted, but again I stopt 
 
 To greet her at the door, 
 Her thimble, mine the gift, had dropt 
 
 Unheeded to the floor. 
 
 Her eyes met mine, her eyelids fell 
 To veil their sweet content ; 
 
 Her happy blush and kind farewell 
 Were with me as I went. 
 
 And when I join'd the hitman tide 
 
 And turmoil of the street, 
 A Spirit-form was at my side, 
 
 And gladness wing'd my feet. 
 
 Exultingly the world went by, 
 The town and I were gay ! 
 
 And one far stretch of soft blue sky 
 Seem'd leading me away. 
 
 I left her happy, and I know 
 
 That we shall meet anon ; 
 I left my Love an hour ago, 
 
 And yet she is not gone. 
 
MY NEIGHBOUR'S WIFE! 
 
 HARK ! hark to my neighbour's flute ! 
 Yon powder'd slave, . that ox, that ass 
 
 are his : 
 
 Hark to his wheezy pipe ; my neigh- 
 bour is 
 A worthy sort of brute. 
 
 My tuneful neighbour's rich has 
 
 houses, lands, 
 A wife (confound his flute) a handsome 
 
 wife ! 
 
 Her love must give a gusto to his life. 
 See yonder there she stands. 
 
 She turns, she gazes, she has lustrous 
 
 eyes, 
 
 A throat like Juno and Aurora's arms 
 
 Per Bacco, what a paragon of charms ! 
 
 My neighbour's drawn a prize. 
 
MY NEIGHBOUR'S WIFE ! 245 
 
 Yet, somehow, life's a nuisance with 
 
 its woes, 
 Disease and doubt and that eternal 
 
 preaching : 
 We've suffer'd from our early pious 
 
 teaching 
 We suffer goodness knows. 
 
 How vain the wealth that breeds its 
 
 own vexation ! 
 
 Yet few of us would care to quite fore- 
 go it : 
 Then weariness of life and many know 
 
 it 
 Is not a glad sensation : 
 
 And therefore, neighbour mine, with- 
 out a sting 
 I contemplate thy fields, thy house, thy 
 
 flocks, 
 
 I covet not thy man, thine ass, thine ox, 
 Thy flute, thy anything. 
 
ARCADY. 
 
 LIVELY SHEPHERDESS. 
 
 Now mind, 
 
 He'll call on you to morrow at eleven, 
 And beg that you will dine with us at 
 
 seven ; 
 If, when He calls, you see that He has 
 
 got 
 His green umbrella, then you'll know 
 
 He'll not 
 
 Be going to the House, and you'll decline, 
 But if He hasn't it, you'll come and dine. 
 
 HAPPY SHEPHERD. 
 
 But if it rains : then how ? and where ? 
 
 and when ? 
 And how about the green umbrella then ? 
 
 LIVELY SHEPHERDESS. 
 
 Then He'll be Wet, that's all, for if I 
 
 don't 
 Choose He should take it, why, of course! 
 
 you goose ! he won't. 
 
A KIND PROVIDENCE. 
 
 HE dropt a tear on Susan's bier, 
 
 He seem'd a most despairing Swain ; 
 But bluer sky brought newer tie, 
 
 And would he wish her back again ? 
 The moments fly, and when we die, 
 
 Will Philly Thistletop complain ? 
 She'll cry and sigh, and dry her eye, 
 
 And let herself be woo'd again. 
 
NOTES. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 "St. GEORGE'S, HANOVER SQUARE." 
 
 " DANS le bonheur de nos meilleurs amis 
 nous trouvons souvent quelque chose qui ne 
 nous plait pas entierement." 
 
 "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 de- 
 termined off-hand that it must have belonged 
 to a woman? Such skulls are locked up in 
 many gentlemen's hearts and memories. Blue- 
 beard, 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." Adventures of Philip on his Way 
 
252 NOTES. 
 
 through the World. Cornhill Magazine, Jan* 
 uary, 1861.* 
 
 "To MY OLD FRIEND POSTUMUS." 
 
 The Well-beloved !B. L. died 2 6th July, 
 
 1853- 
 " To MY MISTRESS." 
 
 M. Deschanel quotes the following charm- 
 ing 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 I'homme, et aussi 1'ampleur du tragique." 
 The last four stanzas, in particular, are brimful 
 of spirit, and the mixture of pride and vanity 
 they display is remarkable. 
 
 " Marquise, si mon visage 
 A quelques traits un peu vieux, 
 Souvenez-vous, qu'a mon age 
 Vous ne vaudrez guere mieux. 
 
 *When I first sent these lines to the Cornhill 
 Magazine, Mr. Thackeray, the editor, and an admirable 
 judge of verse, proposed an alteration in the third 
 stanza, and he returned it to me as it now stands. 
 Originally I had made it to run thus : 
 
 Did she live yesterday, or ages sped ? 
 
 What colour were the eyes when bright and waking? 
 And were your ringlets fair ? Poor little head ! 
 
 Poor little heart ! that long has done with aching 
 
NOTES. 253 
 
 " Le temps aux plus belles choses 
 Se plait 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 charm es 
 Qui sont assez eclatants 
 Pour n'avoir pas trop d'alarmes 
 De ces ravages du tempa. 
 
 " Vous en avez qu'on adore, 
 Mais ceux que vous meprisez 
 Pourraient bien durer encore 
 Quand ceux-U seront uses. 
 
 " Us pourront sauver la gloire 
 Des yeux qui me semblent doux, 
 Et dans mille ans faire croire 
 Ce qu'il me plaira de vous. 
 
 11 Chez cette race nouvelle 
 Od 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." 
 
254 NOTES. 
 
 " 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 distinguished 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. Thackery 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. 
 
 "NUPTIAL VERSES." 
 
 THESE lines were published in 1863 in " A 
 Welcome," dedicated to the Princess of Wales ; 
 and "An Aspiration" was written for two 
 Woodcuts in " A Round of Days." (Christ- 
 mas, 1865.) 
 
 '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. 
 
NOTES. 255 
 
 "A GARDEN IDYLL." 
 
 WHEN these verses appeared in Macmillaris 
 Magazine they ran as follows, but many of my 
 readers could not see the point, and others, 
 seeing it, disliked it so heartily, that I altered 
 them in sheer vexation ; now they have two 
 readings, and can take their choice. 
 
 GERALDINE AND I. 
 
 Di te, Damasippe, deaeque 
 Verum ob consilium donent tonsore. 
 
 I HAVE talk'd with her often in noon-day 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 that 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 as fair as her pearls ; 
 The breeze was in love with the darling child, 
 And coax'd her curls. 
 
256 NOTES. 
 
 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 : 
 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 a-gape, who lazily met 
 
 For her crumbs I grudged them that ! 
 A squirrel, some rabbits with long lop ears, 
 
 And guinea-pigs, tortoise-shell wee ; 
 And I told her that eloquent truth inheres 
 In all we see. 
 
 I lifted her doe by its lops, quoth 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. 
 
 " ST. JAMES'S STREET." 
 
 I HOPE my readers, whoever they may be, will 
 not credit me with all the sentiments expressed 
 in this volume. I am told that these lines 
 
NOTES. 257 
 
 have disturbed some Americans, but surely 
 without cause. The remark in the seventh 
 stanza is natural in the mouth of a rather ex- 
 clusive habitue of St. James's, who has the 
 mortification to feel that he is no longer young, 
 who is too shallow-minded to appreciate our 
 advance in civilisation during the last forty 
 years, but who is nevertheless sufficiently keen 
 to see what is possible in the future. My 
 friends know I have a sincere admiration for 
 the American people. 
 
 "A NICE CORRESPONDENT." 
 
 ERE long, perhaps in the next generation, 
 the word NICE, and some other equally com- 
 mon words, may have passed into the limbo of 
 elegant, genteel, &c. Fashions change, and 
 certain words sink in the scale of gentility, and 
 pass, like houses, into the hands of humbler oc- 
 cupants. But what can poor poets do I 
 
 "A WINTER FANTASY." 
 
 THE two first stanzas are imitated from 
 Theophile Gautier. 
 
 THE kind of verse I have attempted in some 
 of the pieces in this volume was in repute dur- 
 ing the era of Swift and Prior, and again 
 during the earlier years of this century. Af- 
 
258 NOTES. 
 
 terwards it fell into comparative neglect, but 
 has now regained a little of its old popularity. 
 Herrick, Suckling, Waller, Swift, Prior, 
 Cowper, Landor, Moore, Praed, and Thack- 
 eray may be considered its representative men, 
 and each has his peculiar merit. Herrick is a 
 finished artist, with a delightful feeling and 
 fancy, and some of his flower-pieces are as 
 perfect as anything of the kind in the lan- 
 guage. We admire Suckling for his gusto, 
 and careless, natural grace ; while Waller has 
 never been equalled for the way in which he 
 blends his courtly wit and rhythmic elegance ; 
 his lines '' To a Rose," and " On a Girdle," in 
 these respects, leave nothing to be desired. 
 Swift is pre-eminent for the intensity of his 
 mordant humour, as Prior for his genial and 
 sprightly wit, or as Hazlitt very happily ex- 
 presses it, his " mischievous gaiety" Cowper 
 is a master of tender and playful irony. Lan- 
 dor is wanting in humour and variety, but he 
 atones for it by his pathos, and his pellucid 
 and classical style. Moore, as a satirist, is a 
 very expert swordsman, and although there is 
 rather too much tinsel in his sentiment, he has 
 wit, and fun, and music, and sparkling fancy 
 in abundance. Praed has considerable fancy, 
 but it is less wild than Moore's, while his sym- 
 pathies are narrower than Thackeray's ; he 
 has plenty of wit, however, and a highly idio- 
 matic, incisive, and most finished style, and, in 
 his peculiar vein, has never been equalled, 
 
NOTES. 259 
 
 and it may be safely affirmed, never can be ex- 
 celled. What am I to say of Thackeray ? As 
 he is yet rather too near to us, I will not criti- 
 cize him ; but I may observe that he is almost 
 as humorous as Swift, and occasionally almost 
 as tender as Cowper, and one does not exactly 
 see why he might not have been as good an ar- 
 tist as most of those above mentioned. 
 
 Lovelace has given us one or two little 
 poems, by no means perfect, but which in 
 their way are admirable. The gay and gallant 
 Colonel is at this moment one of our really 
 popular minor poets, and all for the sake of 
 some two short pages of verse ! Marlowe, 
 Wotton, Ben Jonson, Raleigh, and Montrose 
 must not be forgotten, as all have written ex- 
 cellently ; not to speak of Carew, Sedley, Par- 
 nell ("When thy beauty appears"), Pope, 
 Gray, Goldsmith, Captain Morris (" I'm often 
 asked by plodding Souls "), Canning (the im- 
 mortal "Needy Knife-grinder"), Luttrell, 
 Rogers, Coleridge, Mrs. Barbauld (" Human 
 Life"), W. R. Spencer, the brothers Smith 
 (the inimitable "Rejected Addresses"), 
 Haynes Bayly, Dr. Barham, Peacock ('' Love 
 and Age"), Francis Mahony ("The Bells of 
 Shandon"), Leigh Hunt, Hood, Lord Macau- 
 lay ("A Valentine"), Mrs. Browning, and 
 many others, dead and living. 
 
 Light lyrical verse should be short, elegant, 
 refined, and fanciful, not seldom distinguished 
 by chastened sentiment, and often playful, and 
 
260 NOTES. 
 
 it should have one uniform and simple design. 
 The tone should not be pitched high, and the 
 language should be idiomatic, the rhythm 
 crisp and sparkling, the rhyme frequent and 
 never forced, while the entire poem should be 
 marked by tasteful moderation, high finish, 
 and completeness ; for however trivial the sub- 
 ject matter may be, indeed rather in propor- 
 tion to its triviality, subordination to the rules 
 of composition, and perfection of execution, 
 should be strictly enforced. Each piece can- 
 not be expected to exhibit all these character- 
 istics, but the qualities of brevity and buoy- 
 ancy are essential. 
 
 It should also have the air of being sponta- 
 neous ; indeed, to write it well is a difficult 
 accomplishment, and no one has fully suc- 
 ceeded in it without possessing a certain gift 
 of irony, which is not only a rarer quality than 
 humour, or even wit, but is altogether less com- 
 monly met with than is sometimes imagined. 
 The poem may be tinctured with a well-bred 
 philosophy, it may be gay and gallant, it may 
 be playfully malicious or tenderly ironical, it 
 may display lively banter, and it may be satiri- 
 cally facetious, it may even, considering it as a 
 mere work of art, be pagan in its philosophy 
 or trifling in its tone, but it must never be pon- 
 derous or commonplace. It is needless to say 
 that good sense will be found to underlie all 
 the best poetry of whatever kind. There are 
 good poets whose productions are more pol' 
 
NOTES. 261 
 
 ished than finished, their stanzas are less pen 
 feet than their single lines, and their whole 
 poems are not so satisfactory as either ; and 
 again there are better poets who are more fin- 
 ished than polished ; now it seems to me that 
 both qualities are peculiar to, and are pretty 
 equally balanced in the best productions of the 
 authors I have mentioned above. 
 
 It is interesting to see what Voltaire* says 
 of rhyme, its value, and its difficulties, and 
 then to observe with how little success it is 
 usually practised. Rhyme and alliteration 
 cannot be too important features in burlesque 
 verse. They may be prominent in satire and 
 semi-humorous poetry, but their presence 
 should be less and less marked as the poem 
 rises in tone. It is consoling to find that the 
 most worn and the worst used rhymes and 
 metres instantly recover all their charm and 
 freshness in the hands of a master. 
 
 This volume is now arranged finally. It is 
 with diffidence that I again offer it to the pub- 
 lic. No one is so painfully aware as myself of 
 its many shortcomings, its extreme insignifi- 
 
 " We insist that the rhyme shall cost nothing to the 
 ideas, that it shall neither be trivial, nor too far-fetched ; 
 we exact rigorously in a verse the same purity, the 
 same precision, as in prose. We do not admit the 
 smallest license ; we require an author to carry without 
 a break all these chains, and yet that he should appear 
 ever free." 
 
262 NOTES. 
 
 cance, and its great incompleteness, and I 
 never felt it more keenly than now, in sending 
 out this the eighth edition. My dear reader, 
 if I have included pieces which ought to have 
 been consigned to the dust-bin of immediate 
 oblivion, I hope you will forgive me. 
 
 THE END. 
 

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