PMiMaiiii p, „..,,, c-\,T°> , / TT^ . oK-r lS^. LIBRARY III'. UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA Received .._...., .^...r^rf^l'^y^Vty / SsS*- Ac cessions N^o .3/^y3 S/ie(f No. - ^V^^ 4e 'o^¥5 THE POEMS WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED RKVISKD AND COMPLETE EDITION WITH A MKMOIR BY THK REV. DKRWENT COLKRIDGE TWO VOLUMES IN ONE NEW YORK WHITK, STOKES, & ALLKN 1 885 ^•*^ OP" THR fTJHIVERSITY] '^ilFO B.' 3'^ 75 3/ ^^3 TO THE MEMORY or HELEN PEAED, THIS COLLECTION OP HER LAMENTED HUSBAND'S POEMS, PUBLISHED IN TULFILMENT OP HER LONO-CHERISHED WISH AND INTENTION, IS Al-PBCTIONATKLY IN801UBED UEE DAUaHTERS. CONTENTS OF VOL. I PAQB AUTERTISEMENT ......... 7 Memoib 9 TALES. Lillian. Cakto 1 63 " Canto II 74 Gog Canto I &3 " (Janto II 9-^ The Tr.ouuADouB. Canto I Id'j " " Canto II 136 " " Canto III 101 The Lfqend op the Haunted Trek . . . .110 The Legend of the Dracuenfei.s 195 The Bridal of Bel.mont 20C The Legend of the Tbufel Uaus 281 The Kfd Fisherman 242 POEMS OF LOVE AND FANCY. LiDiAN's Lo\'k 255 Mr First Folly 271 A Shooting Star 272 . Stanzas Written for a Friend 274 L'Incosnue 275 Peace he Thine 277 2 CONTENTS. PAOI To . I. " We met but in one oiddt D ance" . . 2TS " IL "As o'ek the Deep tiib Seaman roves"' 2S0 " III. "O Lady, whek I mutely gaze" . . 23-3 The Pobtrait . 2S6 To . "Stit-l is the Earth, ami sIILL the Sky" . 2S7 " "In such a TiiiE AS this, when eveey Heaet is Light" 290 The Parting 293 The Last 297 A Fakewbll 299 An Excuse 303 Second Love 304 A Keteospect 306 A Ballad: Teacujng how Poetey is best paid for . 309 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Stanzas written in the first Leaf of Lillian . 319 Stanzas sent in exchange for Two Drawings . . 321 Fragments op a Descriptive Poem .... 823 A Preface 326 Love at a Rout 829 x The Modern Nectar 332 My Own Funeral 335 Time's Song 837 From Metastasio 833 Lines Writtp.n on the Eve of a College Examina- tion 339 Alexander and Diogenes 844 "Arminiub 347 Kemembee Me • 851 To the Rev. Derwent (;oleridge 852 From Goethe 358 Memory 354 FuiMus 356 Lady C 's Thanks 857 Childhood and ms Visitors 853 Childhood's Criticism .... . . . 8C1 CONTENTS. 3 PAoa Beauty and her Visitoks 864 How AM I LIKE UER? 86T My Little Cousins 869 On an Infant Nephew 871 Lines 873 A Fragment 375 Hope and Love 376 SELwouTiiy 3(9 Cassandra 881 SiK Nicholas at Marston Moou 8S5 The Covenanter's Lament for Bothwell Brigg . 3S9 King's College Chapel, Cambridge .... 392 ■\Vritten in a blank page of "The Keepsake" . S93 Anticipation S94 Lady JIybtle's "Boccaccio" 896 Qfern Adelaide 400 Hesse Homburg 402 Lord Mayo 403 Beested Lodge 404 lATiN Hymn to the Vine in 406 The Sabbath 407 The Newly-Wedded 409 ■- To Helen, with Keble's "Christian Year" . . 410 July 7tu, 1S36 412 Sketch of a Young Lady Five Months Old . . 413 Sonnet to R. C. Hildyard 415 Sonnet to B. J. M. P 416 To Helen, with Ckabbe's Poems 417 To Helen, July 7th, 1S37 418 Sonnet written in Lockhap.t's " Life of Scott" . . 419 Verses written in a Child's Book .... 420 To Helen, with a small Candlestick .... 421 " with Southey's Poems, July Tth, 18SS . 421 The Home of ms Childhood 422 To Helen, with a Diary 424 July 7th, 1839 425 ADVEETISEMENT. The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed were prepared for publication after his decease by iiis widow, and were to have been carried through the press, at her request, by the Rev. Derwent Cole- ridge, to whom the publication of an introductory Memoir was also intrusted. By her death tlie prose- cution of this undertaking has devolved upon her daughters, under whose direction the present col- lected edition is now, in accordance with their lamented mother's design, presented to the public. Their acknowledgments are gratefully offered to the many kind friends by whose contributions and suggestions the work has from time to time been assisted. To Lady Young, the author's sister, the collection is indebted for many interesting pieces in her pos- session. These are cliiefly of early date, and are now published for the first time. She has added to the obhgation by placing in the hands of the compiler of the Memoir a number of Mr. Praed's letters, and has malerially contributed, by her recollections of his early life, to the interest and accuracy of the record. The Rev. John Moultrie, the Rev. B. H. Kennedy, D.D., the Rev. C. H. Hartshorne, Charles Knight, Esq., with other of Mr. Praed's valued friends, have also furnished important aid ; and with these must 8 ADVERTISEMENT. be named the late Rev. E. C. Hawtrey, D. D., the late Kobert Hildyard, Esq., Q. C, and the late Alaric Watts, Esq. More recently, the editor of the last American edition of Mr.Praed's Poems has shown the interest which he continues to take in the subject — an in- terest largely shared by a numerous body of his countrymen — by his kind and valuable communi- catioiis. It only remains to add that, in bringing out these Poems, the Rev. Derwent Coleridge has liad tlie as- sistance and co-operation of Sir George Young, Bart., the author's nephev*^, who has carefully verified the text of the Poems, collating them with the author's manuscript copies, from which many important cor- rections, and several large additions, have been de- rived, and to whom is due tlie arrangement adopted in the present edition. MEMOIR The literary productions of Wintubop Mackworth Praed, though given to the world many years ago, in publications more or less of an ephemeral charac- ter, continue to excite considerable interest. Of tho Poems, three separate collections have appeared in America, neither of them complete or accurate, yet reflecting credit on the taste and enterprise of our trans-Atlantic brethren. In this country, an authorized edition has for some time been announced, not before it had been long expected and desired. The delay has been occasioned by no want of zeal on the part of those more immediately concerned in the under- taking, who may rather be charged with too anxious a sense of duty, than with any indifference of feeling. Though well aware that there is a tide in the affairs of books, no less than of men, and that a debt is due to the generation which is passing away for which the next can give no acquittance, they have been willing to forego the advantage of a timely appear- ance, and even to be held defaulters in a matter of admitted obligation, rather than bring out what seemed to them an imperfect work, or do less than justice to liim whose memory as a man, no less than an author, it is intended to preserve. The life of an individual may be written for 10 MEMOIR. various reasons, and the undertaking in each case be fairly justified. He may have been suificiently dis- tinguished in the world whether of thought or action, in literature or in public life, to draw the eyes of men to his private fortunes and character, — what he has done leading them to inquire what he was ; or there may have been something in the man himself, some rare excellence, or strange peculiarity, which may impart a special interest to his portraiture ; or, lastly, by a certain felicity of nature, aided perhaps by an advantageous position, he may have drawn around him so large a circle of admiring friends, that the ordinary monuments of regret and affection have been deemed inadequate. Thus the pen has been called in to make up the deficiencies of the statuary and the painter. Each of these motives might readily be illustrated by appropriate examples, but they more commonly act in combination ; and so it is in the present instance. If one should be deemed weak and insufficient, it may yet add strength to the plea which it cannot support alone. Not unknown, nor without mark in the arena of political conflict, the name of Praed is stiU remembered as at least that of a forward pupil in the school of statesman- ship; and though his literary honours, won in earli- est manhood, and sustained by the casual produc- tions of a leisure hour, were worn carelessly, while he was preparing for higher distinctions and more serious duties, yet now that years have gone by, and we have to audit the past with no expectation of any future account, we find that he has left beliiud him a MEMOIK. 1 1 permanent expression of wit and grace, of refined and tender feeling, of inventive fancy and acute ob- servation, unique in character, and his own by an undisputed title. Some brief record, if not tf the rising orator and politician, yet of the accomplished poet and sparkling essayist, may surely accompany liis writings, and join in whatever welcome they may receive. Such at least may be taken as tho pretext and occasion of the following biography : but it need not be concealed that tho work has been undertaken from feelings of a more personal nature, and with somewhat of a higher aim. So marked and individual a character, so full both in its moral and intellectual endowments, so tine in modification, so peculiar in the interchange and play of light and shade, if happUy depicted, might, it was thought, be studied with pleasure and advantage on its own ac- count. And if this language be criticised as the heightened utterance of partial friendship, it will yet be repeated by many voices. To his contemporaries, to all by whom he was intimately known, to very many who knew liim mainly by report, and who perhaps cherish the remembrance of a casual meet- ing, the name of "Winthrop Puaed is still as the sound of music. The depths of his nature were indeed opened but to few ; not often or willingly to them: but he had a special faculty and privilege, better than any craft of wUl, by which he attracted even when he seemed to repel, — and was more than popular even when in his younger and gayer days he appeared to court animadversion, and defy di.?like. 12 MEMOIR. WiNTHEOP Mackworth Praed, the subject of the present Memoir, was the third and youngest son of William Mackworth Praed, Sergeant-at-law, and for many years chairman of the Audit Board. He was born in London, in the house then occupied by his father, 35 John Street, Bedford Row, on the 26th of July, 1802. Bitton House, at Teigumouth, in the county of Devon, his father's country seat, is how- ever to be regarded as his paternal home. He was called Winthrop from the maiden name of his mother, a branch of whose family emigrated to America, and rose to eminence in the time of Charles the First; and Mackworth from his father, whose family originally bore that name, but had taken the name of Praed some generations earher. His con- stitution was delicate, and when about six years of age he passed through a severe illness, which threatened his hfe. On this occasion a copy of verses was written in his name by his father, a man of highly-cultivated mind, by whom the poetic faculty which early developed itself in his youngest son was carefully fostered and directed. As these verses, in addition to their intrinsic merit, have a biographical interest, they are here preserved : — AUGUST, 1S08. I.llTI.E WINTHEOP'B meditation ON UI8 BECOTEKV FKOM A DANGEROUS ILLNESS. To Thee, Almighty God 1 -vvho from the bed Of sickness hast vouchsafed to raise me up To health and strength renewed, with grateful heart I offer up tny praises and thanksgivings, MEMOIR. 13 And I beseech Thee that tny life prosorved May through Thy grace be constantly employed In goodly works, and keeping Thy cornmundmentsl You next, my dearest mother, I approach With thankfulness and joy 1 You gave me birth, You fostered me in infancy, and taught My dawning mind to seek our heavenly Father, To trust in Him, to love and to adore Hira. You through my lingering illness wakeful sat, The tedious nights beside me, while your voice. Sweeter than Zephyr's breath, soothed my comiilaints, Assuaged my pains, and lulled me to repose. Whate'er of medicine passed my feverish lips, What little food my stomach would admit. Your hand administered. Oh 1 if at times I answered crossly, or in froward mood Seemed to reject the help you fondly tendered. Impute, to the disorder all the blarae, And do not think your darling was ungrateful Not for the riches of the East, the power Of mightiest emperors, nor all the fame Conquest bestows on warriors most renowned. Would I offend you— kindest, best of mothers I May all your days be blest with many comforts. The last of them far distant! and the close. When it shall come, be smoothed by resignittion, And welcomed by the hope of bliss eternal 1 That the child should have been made thus early to express the tender and solemn thoughts and feelings here imputed to him in the language of poetry, may perhaps have been no more than u striking coincidence ; but there can be no doubt that his poetic faculty, in w'hatever degree it may have been inherited, was recognized at a very early period, and that it was developed under very favourable Vol. I. -2 14 MEMOIR. influences His home education was, indeed, of tho best kind in all respects. Ample evidence of this is afforded by his letters written from school at a very early age, and which not merely record an amount of attainment considerably beyond his years, but which exhibit a clearness and accuracy, both of thought and language, not less remarkable, and of far surer promise. The same remark applies with stiU greater force to his early verses. Indications of wit and fancy, afterwards so conspicuous in his writings, are not wanting; but the qualities by which they are most favourably distinguished are distinct- ness of thought and accuracy of expression. The metrical construction is always perfect; and if these fundamental excellences be due in the first instance to the character of his own mind, there can be no doubt that they were brought out and strength- ened by his father's strict and judicious criticism. He never spared tlie pruuing-knife, preferring that the literary exercises of a boy should be stiff and formal, rather than loose and careless. He required plain sense plainly spoken, and would tolerate no extravagances. But to return. The prayer whicl' the child was made to utter in his father's verses, " that the last of his mother's days might be far distant," was not granted. She died about a year afterwards, too soon for the loss to be severely felt by the younger children. It can, however, scarcely be doubted that the remembrance of his own loss was present to the mind of the poet, and acted as a stimulus to his imagination MEMOIR. 15 on more than one occasion. The readers of " The Troubadour" will remember, in this connection, the beautiful passage — "My mother's grave, my mother's grave," &c. (See p. 115.) Her place was, indeed, well supplied by the care of an elder sister, under whoso superintendence his education was carried on at home till he had completed liis eightii year, when he was sent, in 1810, to Langley Broom School, near Colubrook, where he remained under the care of Mr. Atkins, the gentleman by whom it was then conducted, about four years. Such a boy could hardly fail to engage the particular attention of his master; and it appears that he made considerable progress under the teaching which he there received, however much may be ascribed to his own talent and the careful preparation which he had received at home. His vacations, moreover, were put to full account, not only in the way of rest and recreation, but of mental culture. His physical powers were not strong, and he was thus led to prefer the amusement and quiet employments of which he could partake in-doors to more vigorous and active sports. He delighted in reading of a more profit- able kind than is common with young people, Plutarch's Lives being one of his chief favourites: Shakspeare he would read aloud to his sisters. Young as he was, he already took much pleasure in cliess, of which he continued fond during the whole of liis life, and soon became a very good 16 MEMOIR. player. He also amused himself with the composi- tion of short dramas, too unripe, as may well be supposed, for publication, but in which he already- displayed that talent for drollery which he after- wards exhibited in so elegant and refined a form. From Langley Broom School he was sent to Eton, where his father had been educated, and where he had been preceded by his eldest brother, William Mack- worth. This important event took place on the 28th of March, 1814, before he had completed his twelfth year. Of the feelings with which he found himself denizened among the inhabitants of this new world — new and strange to him, and he for a while, it would appear, strange to them — we have no distinct record. His countenance at this time, as remem- bered by one of his surviving schoolfellows, was grave, his complexion pale, and his person slight. His appearance and manners, eventually so attrac- tive, were already marked and peculiar. A studious and retiring boy, of delicate bodQy frame, he was neither inclined, nor from want of physical power enabled, to enter warmly or vigorously into active sports. His intellectual superiority was, however, speedily recognized, and received the fullest and most appropriate encouragement. He was placed under the charge of the late Eev. J. F. Plumptre, then one of the Assistant Masters, afterwards one of the Fellows, of Eton College, to whose personal kindness and careful tuition he was under deep obligation. His first debt of gratitude was, however, due to his elder brother, who for some MEMOm. 17 time directed his studies with a care and ability of which he was duly sensible. His progress was rapid, and in httle more than a year he was " sent up for good," as it is termed, for a copy of Latin lyrics, the first of a series of similar distmctions, numerous beyond all previous example. Meanwhile his poetic faculty was exercised not alone in the usual routine of school exercises, distinguished in his case by a sparkhng vein of thought more than commonly original and charac- teristic. Poetry, in his mother-tongue, was his recreation. His ready pen sported with equal ease whether in verse or prose composition. It has been said that his poetic faculty was care- fuUy watched and cultivated at home : the same advantage attended him at school. His tutor, Mr. Plumptre, made it a practice to train such of his pupils, as sliowed any talent in that direction, in the composition of English verse, ofiering prizes for voluntary competition on given subjects. Five or sii poems, some of considerable length, attest the ardour with which Praed entered into these contests. Together with the present Lord Carlisle, he carried off most of the honours ; and, besides the encourage- ment thus given, his style, in all probability, ac- quired much of its classical elegance and remarkable facility, as well from the practice thus afforded, as by the judicious criticism to which his pieces were subjected. Some of these exercises, with other early "buds of promise," dating from the fourteenth year of his age, have been printed in the following collec- 18 MEMOIR. tion. However immature, they will, it is believed, be read with pleasure, if only as throwing light upon the formation of the author's mind. It was not long before his productions were to be submitted to a wider public. In the year 1819 there appeared in print a selection from the pages of two school periodicals, " The College Magazine," and " Horce Otiosai,"* which had previously been circulated in manuscript, and had obtained considera- ble celebrity among the Etonians of that day, but to which Praed, being somewhat junior to the princi- pal writers, had contributed nothing. Some time after the discontinuance of these miscellanies in the year 1820, Praed set on foot the " Apis Matina," a manuscript journal, conducted with at least equal ability, of which one copy only is known to have been preserved entire, but in which several pieces, afterwards printed in the "Etonian," originally appeared. It was in copying out the pages of the " Apis Matina"f for circulation that Praed acquired ♦The writers in the "College Magazine" and "Horie Otiosje" were Howard, now Lord Carlisle, H. N. Coleridge, W. Sidney Walker, Moultrie, Curzon, Necch, Trower, and 0. H. Townsheud, all of whom, except Howard, afterwards con- tributed to the ''Etonian.'' t The " Apis Matina" consisted of six numhers, written in the months of April, May, June, and July, 1S20. The princi- pal contributors, after Praed, who wrote about half of it, were Trower (now Bishop of Gibraltar) and F. Curzon. The latter left Eton at Election, 1820. The following pieces, aflenvarda printed in the " Etonian," first appeared in the " Apis Matina," The lines "To Julio," "To Julia," "To Florence," "Laura," and "The Invocation to the Deities," by Praed. "The MEMOIR. 19 his peculiar handwriting, of which Mr. Charles Knight, in his "Autobiography of a "Working-Man," observes, " It was the most perfect calligraphy I ever beheld. No printer could mistake a word or a letter. It was not what is called a running hand, yet was written with rapidity, as I have witnessed." Though in the strictest sense a voluntary enterprise on the part of the boys, yet their performances were not regarded without interest by the musters. The Rev. E. C. Hawtrey — then an Assistant — after- wards Head Master, and eventually Provost of Eton — to whom Praed was indebted for many personal attentions, the more gratifying as he had no special connection with him in the school, addressed a letter of advice to him on the occasion of this his first effort at editorsliip, which was inserted in the second number. This pleasant relation continued during the whole of his school life, and ripened into a lasting friendship.* The "Apis Matina" was immediately succeeded by the " Etonian." It is upon his contributions to the latter periodical that the brilliancy of Praed's early reputation was founded, and by which it is still main- Temple of Diana at Ephesus," and "The Lapland Sacrifice," by Curzon. "Eciith," "Genius," by Trower. The rest of Praed's poetical pieces, and nearly all his prose, were of a satirical cast, very amusing, but not suited for republication. * It was at Dr. Hawtroy's request that the paper in the " Etonian." vol. ii. p. 74, on the death of a schoolfellow, was written. He had himself written some elegant Latin lines on the same subje'»t, which were translated by Praed. See vot ii. p. 2fi?. 20 MEMOIR. tained. The first number of this work was printed and published in October, ]820, from which time it continued to appear monthly till July, 1821, when, upon Praed'g leaving Eton, it was brought to a close. Of this publication Praed, together with his friend Walter Blunt, was the projector and editor, and there can be no doubt that it was he whose genius im- pressed upon it its distinctive character, and chiefly contributed to obtain for it the reputation which it still retains above all other juvenile periodicals. It has been questioned in what sense this term is to be understood, and whether this miscellany is to be at- tributed in main part to the School or to the Univer- sity. Certainly in main part to the School. The publication was indeed arranged in concert with a few undergraduates who had recently left Eton, young men already of high mark, whose contributions were of distinguished excellence.* These, however. * Among the contributors appear the names of Henry Nelson Coleridge, William Sidney Walker, John Moultrie, and John Louis Petit, to -which that of Chauncey Hare Townshend, omit- ted in the printed list (" Etonian,"' vol. ii. p. 4S3), and who wrote the sonnet to " Ada," which is there attributed to Praed, ought to have tieen added; aU of whom have become known in the world of letters. The only name in the list supplied by Oxford, is that of Henry Neech. Of the youthful aspirants thua early associated with Praed in the career of literary enterprise, the two first-named belong with him to the past. The Hon. William Ashley, Edmund Beales, William Chrichton, tlie Hon. Francis Curzon, Richard Durnford, William Henry Ord, Thomas Powys Outram, and Walter Trower, who, with others, coutribu- MEMOIK. 21 in the aggregate, hardly exceeded one-fourth part of each number. The remainder was the work of actual schoolboys, by far the largest portion being due to Praed himself. His was the guiding spirit, and as his productions exceeded those of his associates, whether in the School or at the University, in quan- tit}', so they rankedeamong the very best in quality. The work is agreeably characterized by the buoy- ancy of youthful spirits, the grave portions being upon the whole of considerably less value than the gay. The writers, while they give themselves out as boys, appear throughout under feigned names, the whole being wrought up into a sort of drama. The leading articles, in which the plot or action, if it may be so called, is carried on, bore tlie title of the King of Clubs. These, with the exception of a few pages here and there, in which the principal dramatis personse are severally introduced, were uniformly written by Praed, sometimes in prose, sometimes in verse, which presented no obstacle to the rapid flow of his thoughts. It has indeed been said that his talent exhibited itself to most advantage in the latter form ; and perhaps his early prose compositions have been imduly depreciated by the comparison. That they should not possess the same permanent interest as his poems, is no more than was to be expected. Many of his prose articles, more particularly his "lead- ted to the " Etonian," were still at schooL Among the anony- mous contributora were R. Streatfleld, and J. A. Kinglake — " Dear to poetry, And dearer to hia friends."— Si(r?j Hall. 22 MEMOIR. cif:;," are of an occasional cliaracter, and the fashion of this kind of writing passes away; but there is Uttle or no inferiority in point of power. He displays the same facility of expression, the same lively observa- tion, and very much of the same wit and fancy, whether he writes in prose or verse. The possessors of the " Etonian" are referred to the articles "Old Boots," " Eeminiscences of my Youth," "Yes and No," "Lovers' Vows," "The Knight and the Knave," "On the Poems of Ho- mer," — compositions as various in style and subject, as they are finished in execution, and surely display- ing far more of the spirit and vigour, than of the im- maturity of youth. The work was brought out by Mr. Charles Knight, the well-known publisher, himself distinguished by those literary talents and accomplishments which he has subsequently turned to such valuable account. As the testimony of a contemporary, personally engaged in the transactions recorded, no apology is needed for here introducing the following extract from his very . interesting " Autobiography of a Working-Man," to which a reference has already been made. After speaking of the manifest dehght taken by Mr. Blunt, in doing what he calls the " editorial drudgery,'' he proceeds to say : " Mr. Praed came to the prmtmg- ofiBce less frequently. But during the ten months of the life of this Miscellany — which his own produc- tions were chiefly instrumental in raising to an emi- nence never before attained by schoolboy genius Bimilarly exerted — I was more and more astonished MEMOIR. 23 by the unbounded fertility of his mind and the readi- ness of liid resources. He wrote under the signature of 'Peregrine Courtenay,' the President of 'The King of Clubs,' by whose members the magazine was as- sumed to be conducted. The character of Peregrine Courtenay, given in ' An Account of the Proceedings which led to the Publication of the "Etonian," ' fur- nishes no satisfactory idea of the youthful Winthrop Mackworth Praed, when he is desciibed as one 'pos- sessed of sound good sense, rather than of brilliance of genius.' His 'general acquirements and universal information' are fitly recorded, as well as his acquaint- ance with ' the world at large.' But the kindness that lurks under sarcasm; the wisdom tliat wears the mask of fun ; the half-melancholy that is veiled by levity; — these qualities very soon struck me as far out of the ordinary indications of precocious talent. "It is not easy to separate my recollections of the Praed of Eton from those of the Praed of Cambridge. The Etonian of 1820 was natural and unaffected in his ordhiary talk ; neither shy nor presuming; proud, without a tinge of vanity ; somewhat reserved, but ever courteous ; giving few indications of the suscep- tibility of the poet, but ample evidence of the laugh- ing satirist ; a pale, slight youth, who had looked upon the aspects of society with the keen perception of a clever manhood ; one who had, moreover, seen in hu- man life something more than follies to be ridiculed by the gay jest or scouted by the sarcastic sneer. I had many opportunities of studying his complex charac- ter. His writings tlien, especially liis poems, occa- 24 MEMOIR. Bionally exhibited that remarkable union of pathoa with wit and humour \rhich attested the oiiginaUty of his genius, as it was subsequently developed in ma- turer efforts. In these blended qualities a superficial inquirer might conclude that he was an imitator of Hood. But Hood had written nothing that indi- cated his future greatness, when Praed was pouring forth verse beneath whose gayety and quaintness might be traced the characteristics which his friend Mr. Moultrie describes as the peculiar attributes of his nature — ' Drawing off Intrusive eyes From that intensity of human love And that most deep and tender sympathy Close guarded in the chambers of his heart.' — ne Dream of Life.^ This record of a schoolboy's life, rich in actual achievement as well as in promise for the future, would be incomplete if a word were not added of the part he took in those recreations which form no un important feature of a schoolboy's career. His amusements were indeed for the most part of an intellectual character. As a chess-player he found no equal among boys of his own age, and it is remem- bered that he was selected, when comparatively young, by a schoolfellow in the upper part of the school — the celebrated Dr. Pusey — as an antagonist who could meet him on equal terms. In school theatricals, then in high vogue at Eton, he was a distinguished performer. He was not, however, altogether a stranger to more active sports MEMOIR. 25 Though from the delicacy of his constitution he took no part in the leading athletic exercises by which Eton has always been distinguished, yet in the va- riety of the game of fives, then peculiar to that school, an exercise in which the dexterity and grace of tlie player are exhibited to much advantage, he was unrivalled. He afterwards became an excellent tennis-player. He was also fond of whist, and played very well. It was not till the last year of his Eton life that he entered the Debating Society, of which he at once became a distinguished member. One other circumstance remains to be recorded of which he was justly proud, and for which, to employ the language of the valued friend by whom the information has been communicated, "the thanks of Etonians are no less due than for the brilliant legacy of ' The Etonian' itself." By his efforts, with some assistance from the masters and other friends, the "Boys' Library" was founded at Eton. This, the first institution of the kind, was established in an upper room at the college bookseller's, as a society to which a few of the senior boys might belong, and to which they might present an occasional volume on leaving or on revisiting Eton, to testify their sympa- thy with the studies of their successors. Under Dr. Hawtrcy's superintendence, and aided by his magnifi- cent liberality, it became what it is, the sanctuary of learning, and the refuge of quiet to many a boy for whom a public school would else afford small oppor- tunity of satisfying a desire for knowledge, beyond the mere routine of school-work. If Eton has no 26 MEMOIR. longer to lament the injury done within her walls tc the organization of a Shelley, or a Sidney Walker, ehe owes it in a great measure to the public library •which was founded by Praed.* The summer of 1821 terminated Praed's brilliant career at Eton, and in the October of the same year ho commenced his residence as an undergraduate at Trinity College, Cambridge. Since the days of Can- ning, no Etonian had brought with him so high a reputation, and large expectations were formed with respect to his academical career. It was indeed soon apparent that neither his time nor his talents would be devoted exclusively, or even mainly, to the pursuit of university distinction. Hia disposition was eminently social, his company gladly welcomed wherever he was pleased to bestow it, whether by his immediate contemporaries or by men of higher standing. In a word, his habits were by no means those of a severe or regular student, while, as we shall see presently, it was not long before ho found himself literary employment foreign to his academi- cal pursuits, and sufficient of itself to occupy almost any pen but his own. For scientific studies he had no peculiar liking or aptitude, though he acquired * At the back of one of the stalls in Eton Callejco Chapol, erected by Mr. W. Mackworth Praed, as a fitting; tribute to the memory of his brother in that place, is the follomns: inscrip- tion, from the pi n of Dr. llawtrey : — " Winthropo Mi'.ekworth Praed olim Coll. SS. Trin. .apud Can- tabrisiam socio iitcria humanioribiis senatorils nuraeribns et BjbliolheciB iu puerorum Etonensiutn frugem inchoata,' laudu felicissinid ornato pcsuit fratcr maximus natu." MEMOIR. 27 without difficulty the modioura of mathematical knowledge which was then required from the candi- date for classical honours. His scholarship was pre-eminently of the Etonian cast, as it was commonly exhibited at that day — elegant, refined, and tasteful, characterized by an unconscious, and, as it were, living sympathy with the graces and proprieties of diction, rather than by a minute analysis of its laws, or careful collation of its facts. It must be understood, however, that this IS spoken comparatively. Though his scholarship was distinguished for its grace and finish rather than by its depth, it was far indeed from superficial, and his mastery over the resources of the classical tongues, as displayed in his composition, was in particular most remarkable. The following critical remarks, for which the compiler of this Memoir is indebted to a friend, are so much to the point, that they are given in his own words: " The character of Praed's Latin and Greek verse is peculiar. It is the exact translation for the most part of the same style and diction which he wielded with hardly greater ease in his native language. The same sparkling antithesis, tiie same minute elaboration of fancy, whether employed in depicting natural or mental objects, and the same ever-present under-current of melancholy are found in both. Of a certain kind of Greek, adapted to the curious production called at Cam- bridge a Sapphic Ode, and of a certain degree of Latin scholarship, competent to express all the ideas necessary to his verse, but not to sound the depths 28 MEMOIR. or exhaust the capacities of the language, he was master. His epigrams are perhaps the most scholar- like of his productions in classic verse ; but it maj' be said of them all, what cannot be said of many such exercises, that they were Greek and Latin poetry."* There can be no doubt, indeed, that he might have attained still higher distinction as a scholar by a course of systematic study, for he showed in after- life both the power of thorough investigation and a sense of its value; but the bent of his genius, and perhaps the state of his bodily health, inclined him to more discursive occupation. As it was, though ho failed as a competitor for the University Scholar- ship, f the long and shining list of his academic honours bore full testimony not merely to his extraor- dinary talent, but to the high character of his scho- lastic attainments. In 1822 he gained Sir William Browne's medal for the Greek Ode, and for the Epigrams; in 1823 the same medal a second time for the Greek Ode, ■with the first prizes for English and Latin declamation in his College. In 1824 Sir William Browne's medal a second time for Epigrams. In 1823 and 1824 he also gained the Chancellor's medal for English verse, * Specimens of these remarkable compositions will he found ill vol. ii. of this collection. t He had been second in the examination for the Pitt Scholarship, beating all competitors of his own standing, and sat auain the following year for tho Battle Scholarship, when it appears that three votes out / iniiij • " A Aragon a tali Is nayed to warm A headless maiden's beart,^ and the following poem was an attempt to explain the riddle. The partiality with which it has been honoured in manu- script, and the frequent applications which have been made to the author for copies, must be his excuse for sending it to the press. It was written, however, with the sole view of amusing the friends in whose circle the idea originated ; .and to them, with all due humility and devotion, it is inscribed. Teinity College, Cambbidge, Ockiber 26, 1822. LILLIAN. "A fh-agon's tail is flayed to warm A headless maiden's heart." JJ1S8 . "And he's cleckit this great muckle bird oat o' this wee egg I he could wile the veiy flounders out o' the Frith!" — Mb. Sad- dletree. CAXTO I. There vtsls a Dragon in Arthur's time (When dragons and griffins were voted prime), Of monstrous reputation : Up and down, and far and wide, lie roamed about in his scaly pride ; And ever, at morn and even-tide. He made such rivers of blood to run As shocked the sight of the blushing sun, And deluged half the nation. It was a pretty monster too. With a crimson head, and a body blue, 64 LILLIAN. And wings of a warm and delicate hue, Like the glow of a deep carnation ; And the terrible tail that lay behind, Reached out so far as it twisted and twined, That a couple of dwarfs, of wondrous strength, Bore, when he travelled, its horrible length, Like a Duke's at the Coronation. His mouth had lost one ivory tooth, Or the Dragon liad been, in very sooth, No insignificant charmer ; And that alas ! he had ruined it, Wlien on new-year's day, in a hungry fit, He swallowed a tough and a terrible bit — Sir Lob, in his brazen armour. Swift and light were his steps on the ground. Strong and smooth was his hide around. For the weapons which the peasants flung Ever unfelt or unheeded rung, Arrow and stone and spear. As snow o'er Cynthia's window flits. Or raillery of twenty wits On a fool's unshrinking ear. In many a battle the beast had been, Many a blow he had felt and given : Sir Digore came with a menacing mien, But ho sent Sir Digore straight to Heaven ; Stiff and stour were the arms he wore. Huge the sword he was wont to clasp ; LILLIAN. 65 But tho sword was little, the armour brittle, Locked in the coil of the Dragon's grasp. He came on Sir Florice of Sesseny Land, Pretty Sir Florice from over the sea. And smashed him all as he stepped on the sand, Cracking his head like a nut from the tree. No one till now had found, I trow. Any thing good in the scented youth, Who had taken much pains to be rid of his brains. Before they were sought by the Dragon's tooth. He came on the Sheriff of Hereford, As he sat him down to his Sunday dinner ; And the Sheriff he spoke but this brief word, " St. Francis be good to a corpulent sinner!" Fat was he, as a Sheriff might be, From the crown of his head to the tip of his toe; But the Sheriff was small, or nothing at all, "When put in the jaws of the Dragon foe. He came on the Abbot of Arnondale, As he kneeled him down to his morning devo- tion ; But the Dragon he shuddered, and turned his tail About, " with short uneasy motion." 66 LILLIAN. Iron and steel, for an early meal, He stomached with ease, or the Muse is a liar ; But out of all question, he failed in digestion, K ever he ventured to swallow a friar ! Monstrous brute !— his dread renown Made whispers and terrors in country and town ; Nothing was babbled by boor or knight But tales of his civic appetite. At last, as after dinner he lay, Hid from the heat of the solar ray By boughs that had woven an arbour shady, He chanced to fall in with the Headless Lady. Headless ? alas! 'twas a piteous gibe ; I'll drink Aganippe, and then describe. Her father had been a stout yeoman, Fond of his jest and fond of his can. But never o'er-wise ; And once, when his cups had been many and deep. He met with a dragon fast asleep, — 'Twas a Fairy in disguise. In a dragon's form she had ridden the storm, The realm of the sky invading ; Sir Grahame's ship was stout and fast. But the Fairy came on the rushing blast. And shivered the sails, and shivered the mast, LILLIAN, 67 And down went the gallant ship at last, With all the crew and lading. And the Fay laughed out to see the rout, As the last dim hope was fading ; And this she had done in a love of fun, And a love of masquerading. She lay that night in a sunny vale, And the yeoman found her sleeping ; Fiercely he smote her glittering tail, But oh ! his courage began to fail, When the Fairy rose all weeping : "Thou hast lopped," she said, "beshrew thine hand ! The fairest foot in Fairy-laud ! " Thou hast an infant in thine home ! — Never to her shall reason come, For weeping or for wail, Till she shall ride with a fearless face On a living dragon's scale, And fondly clasp to her heart's embrace A living dragon's tail." The Fairy's form from his shuddering sight Floated away in a stream of light. Disconsolate that youth departed. Disconsolate and poor; And wended, chill and broken-hearted. To his cottage on the moor ; 68 LILLIAN. Sadh^ and silently he knelt His lonely hearth, beside ; Alas ! how desolate he felt, As he hid his face, and cried. The cradle where the babe was laid Stood in its own dear nook. But long — how long ! — he knelt, and prayed, And did not dare to look. He looked at last ; his joy was there, And slumbering with that placid air "Which only babes and angels wear. Over the cradle he leaned his head : The cheek was warm, and the lip was red ; And he felt, he felt, as he saw her he, A hope — v/hich was a mockery. The babe unclosed her eye's pale lid : — Why doth he start from the sight it hid ? He hath seen in the dim and fitful ray, That the light of the soul hath gone away ! Sigh nor prayer he muttered there. In mute and motionless despair. But he laid him down beside his child. And Lillian saw him die — and smiled. The mother ? she had gone before ; And in the cottage on the moor, With none to watch her and caress, No arm to clasp, no voice to bless, The witless child grew up alone. And made all Nature's book her own. LILLIAN. 69 If, in the warm and passionate hour When Eeason sleeps in Fancy's bower, If thou hast ever, ever felt A dream of delicate beauty melt Into the heart's recess, Seen by the soul, and seen by the mind, But indistinct its loveliness, Adored, and not defined; A bright creation, a shadowy ray, Fading and flitting in mist away. Nothing to gaze on, and nothing to hear, But something to cheat the eye and ear With a fond conception and joy of both, So that you might, that hour, be loath To change for Some one's sweetest kiss Tliy vision of unenduring bliss. Or lose for Some one's sweetest tone The murmur thou drinkest all alone — If such a vision hath ever been thine. Thou hast a heart that may look on mine ! For oh ! the light of my saddened theme Was like to naught but a Poet's dream, Or the forms that come on the twilight's wmg, Shaped by the soul's imagining. Beautiful shade, with her tranquil air, And her thin white arm, and her flowing hair, And the light of her eye so coldly obscure. And the hue of her cheek so pale and pure ! 70 LILLIAN. Reason and thought sh-e had never known, Her heart was as cold as a heart of stone ; So you might guess from her eyes' dim rays, And her idiot laugh, and her vacant gaze. She wandered about all lone on the heather, She and the wild heath-birds together ; For Lillian seldom spoke or smiled. But she sang as sweet as a little child. Into her song her dreams would throng, Silly, and wild, and out of place ; And yet that wild and roving song Entranced the soul in its desolate grace. And hence the story had ever run That the fairest of dames was a Headless One. The pilgrim in his foreign weeds Would falter in his prayer ; And the monk would pause with his half-told beads To breathe a blessing there ; The knight would loose his visor-clasp, And drop the rein from his nerveless grasp, And pass his hand across his brow With a sudden sigh, and a whispered vow, And marvel Flattery's tale was told, From a lip so young, to an ear so cold. She had seen her sixteenth winter out. When she met with the beast I was singing about : LILLIAN. Yl The Dragon, I told you, had dined that day; So he gazed upon her as he lay, Earnestly looking, and looking long, "With his appetite weak, and his wonder strong. Silent he lay in his motionless coil ; And tlie song of the Lady was sweet the while : — "IsTonny nonny! — I hear it float. Innocent bird, thy tremulous note : It comes from thy home in the eglantine, And I stay this idle song of mine, Nonny nonny ! — to listen to thine ! "•ISTonny nonny! — 'Lillian sings The sweetest of all living things!' So Sir Launcelot averred ; But surely Sir Launcelot never heard Nonny nonny! — the natural bird!" The Dragon he lay in mute amaze. Till something of kindness crept into his gaze ; He drew the flames of his nostrils in. He veiled his claws with their speckled skin. He curled his fangs in a hideous smile ; And the songof the Lady was sweet the while: — " Nonny nonny ! — who shall tell Where the summer breezes dwell? Lightly and brightly they breathe and blow, 72 LILLIAN. But whence they come and whither they go, Nonuy nonny ! — who shall know ? " Nonny nonny ! — I hear your tone, But I feel ye cannot read mine own ; And I lift my neck to your fond embraces, But who hath seen in your resting-places, Nonny nonny! — your beautiful faces?" A moment ! and the Dragon came Crouching down to the peerless dame. With his fierce red eye so fondly shining, And his terrible tail so meekly twining, And the scales on his huge limbs gleaming o'er, Gayer than ever they gleamed before. She had won his heart, while she charmed his ear, And Lillian smiled, and knew no fear. And see, she mounts between his wings (Never a queen had a gaudier throne). And fairy-like she sits and sings. Guiding the steed with a touch and a tone. Aloft, aloft in the clear blue ether. The dame and the Dragon they soared together ; He bore her away on the breath of the gale — The two little dwarfs held fast by the tail. Fanny ! a pretty group for drawing ; My dragon like a war-horse pawing, LILLIAN. My dwarfs in a friglit, and my girl in an attitude. Patting the beast in her soulless gratitude. There ; you may try it if you will, While I drink my coffee, and nib my quili. KND OF UA.KTO 1 7i LILLIAN LILLIAN. CANTO U. The sun shone out on hill and grove ; It was a glorious flay; The lords and the ladies were making love, And the clowns were making hay ; But the Town of Brentford marked with wonder A lightning in the sky, and thunder, And thinking ('twas a thinking town) Some prodigy was coming down, A mighty mob to Merlin went To learn the cause of tMs portent ; And he, a wizard sage, but comical. Looked through his glasses astronomical, And puzzled every foolish sconce By this oracular response : — '■'■Now the Slayer doth not slay, Weahness flings her fear away, Power lears the Powerless ; Pity rides the Pitiless ; Are ye Lovers ? are ye hravc ? Hear ye this, and seek, and save ! LILLIAN. 75 He that would toed the loveliest maid, Must don the stoutest mail, For the Rider shall never he sound in the head, Till the Ridden le maimed in the tail. TTey, diddle diddle ! the cat and the fiddle ! None tut a Lover can read me my riddW How kind art thou, and oh ! how mighty, Cupid ! thou son of Aphrodite ! By thy sole aid, in old romance. Heroes and heroines sing and dance; Of cane and rod there's little need ; They never learn to write or read ; Yet often, by thy sudden light. Enamoured dames contrive to write ; And often, in the hour of need. Enamoured youths contrive to read. — I make a small digression here : I merely mean to make it clear, That if Sir Eglamour had wit To read and construe, bit by bit, All that the wizard had expressed, And start conjectures on the rest, Cupid had sharpened his discerning. The little god of love, — and learning. He revolved in his bed what Merlin had said. Though Merlin had laboured to scatter a veil on't ; 76 LILLIAN. And found out the sense of the tail and the head, Though none of his neighhours could luaJfe head or tail on't. Sir Eglamour was one o' the best Of Arthur's table round ; lie never set his spear in rest, But a dozen went to the ground. Clear and wai-m as the lightning-flame, His valour from his father came, His cheek was like his mother's ; And his hazel eye more clearly shone Than any I ever have looked upon. Save Fanny's, — and two others I With his spur so bright, and his rein so light, And his steed so swift and ready, And his skilful sword, to wound or ward, And his spear so sure and steady, ITe bore him like a British knight From London to Penzance, Avenged all weeping women's slight, And made all giants dance. And he had travelled far from home, Had worn a mask at Venice, Had kissed the Bishop's toe at Eome, And beat the French at tennis : Hence he had many a courtly play. And jeerings and gibes in plenty, LILLIAN. Y7 And ho wrote more rhymes in a single day Tlian Byron or Bowles in twenty. He clasped to his side his sword of pride. His sword, whose native polish vied With many a gory stain ; Keen and bright as a meteor-light ; But not so keen, and not so bright, As Moultrie's jesting vein. And his shield he bound his arm around, His shield, where glowing saffron wound About a field of blue ; Heavy and thick as a wall of brick, ]^ut not so heavy and not so thick As the Edinburgh Eeview. With a smile and a jest he set out on the quest, Clad in his stoutest mail, With his helm of the best, and his spear in the rest. To flay the Dragon's tail. The warrior travelled wearily, Many a league and many a mile ; And the Dragon sailed in the clear blue sky; And the song of the Lady was sweet the while : " My steed and I, my steed and I, On in the path of the winds we fly, And I chase the planets that wander at even, And bathe my hair in the dews of heaven ! Voi. L— 6 78 LILLIAN, - Beautiful stars, so thin and briglit, Exquisite visions of vapour and light, I love ye all with a sister's love, And I rove with ye wherever ye rove, j\jid I drink your changeless, endless song, The music ye make as ye wander along I Oh ! let me be, as one of ye. Floating for aye on your liquid sea ; And I'll feast with you on the purest rain, To cool my weak and wildered brain, And I'll give you the loveliest lock of my liair For a little spot in your realm of air!" The Dragon came down when the morn shone bright. And slept in tlie beam of the sun ; Fatigued, no doubt, with his airy flight. As I with my jingling one. With such a monstrous adversary Sir Eglamour was far too waiy To think of bandying knocks ; He came on his foe as still as death, Walking on tiptoe, and holding his breath, And instead of drawing his sword from his sheath, He drew a pepper-box ! The pepper was as hot as flame, The box of a wondrous size ; Ho gazed one moment on the dnnie. Then, with a sure and a steady aim, LILLIAN, 79 Full in the Dragon's truculent phiz lie flung the scorching powder — whiz ! And dai'kened both his ej^es ! Have you not seen a little kite Eushing away on its paper wing To mix with the wild winds' quarrelling? Up it soars with an arrowy flight, Till, weak and unsteady, Torn by the eddy, It dashes to earth from its hideous height. Such was the rise of the beast in his pain. Such was his falling to earth again ; Upward he shot, but he saw not his path, Blinded with pepper, and blinded with wrath ; One struggle — one vain one — of pain and emotion, And he shot back again, "like a bird of the ocean!" Long he lay in a trance that day, And alas ! he did not wake before The cruel Knight, with skill and might, Had lopped and flayed the tail he wore. Twelve hours, by the chime, he lay in his slimo, More utterly blind, I trow. Than a Polypheme in the olden time. Or a politician now. He sped, as soon as he could see. To the Payiiim bowers of Rosalie ; 80 LILLIAN. For there the Dragon had hope to cure, By the tinkling rivulets ever pure, By the glowing sun, and fragrant gale. His wounded honoui-, — and wounded tail. He hied him away to the perfumed spot ; The little dwarfs clung — where the tail was not ! The damsel gazed on that young Knight, With something of terror, hut more of delight ; Much she admired the gauntlets he Avore, Much the device that his huckler bore, Much the feathers that danced on his crest. But most the baldric that shone on his breast. She thought the Dragon's pilfered scale Was fairer far than the warrior's mail. And she lifted it up with her weak white arm. Unconscious of its hidden charm. And round her throbbing bosom tied, In mimicry of warlike pride. Gone is the spell that bound her ! The talisman hath touched her heart. And she leaps with a fearful and fawn-like start As the shades of glamoury depart ; Strange thoughts are glimmering round her ; Deeper and deeper her cheek is glowing, Quicker and quicker her breath is flowing. And her eye gleams out from its long dark lashes Fast and full, unnatural flashes ; LILLIAN. 81 For hurriedly and wild Doth Eeason pour her hidden treasures, Of human griefs, and human pleasures. Upon her new-found child. And "Oh!" she saith, "my spirit doth seem To have risen to-day from a pleasant dream ; A long, long dream ! but I feel it breaking ; Painfully sweet is the throb of waking:" And then she laughed, and wept again ; While, gazing on her heart's first rain. Bound in his tui-n by a magic chain, The silent youth stood there : Never had either been so blest ; — You that are young may picture the rest, You that are young and fair. Never before, on this warm land. Came Love and Reason hand in hand. "When you were blest, in childliood's years, With the brightest hopes, and the lightest fears, Have you not wandered, in your dream. Where a greener glow was on the ground, And a clearer breath in the air around. And a purer life in the gay sunbeam, And a tremulous murmur in every tree. And a motionless sleep on the quiet sea ? And liave you not lingered, lingered still, All unfettered in thought and will, A fair and clierished boy ; 82 LILLIAIT. Until you felt it pain to part From the wild creations of your art, Until your young and innocent lieart Seemed bursting with its joy ? And then, oh then, hath your waking oye Opened in all its ecstasy. And seen your mother leaning o'er you, The loved and loving one that bore you, Giving her own, her fond caress, And looking her eloquent tenderness? — "Was it not heaven to fly from the scene "Where the heart in the vision of night had been, And drink, in one o'erflowing kiss. Your deep reality of bliss ? Such was Lillian's passionate madness, Such the calm of her waking gladness. Enough ! my Tale is all too long : Fair Children, if the trifling song, That flows for you to-night, Hath stolen from you one gay laugh. Or given your quiet hearts to quaff One cup of young deUght, Pay ye the Rhymer for his toils In the coinage of your golden smiles, And treasure up his idle verse "With the stories ye loved from the lips of your nurse. COG. S3 GOG. " A most delicate monster I" — The Tempest. CANTO I. King Arthur, as the legends sing, Was a right brave and merry king, And had a wondrous reputation Through this right brave and merry nation. His ancient face, and ancient clothes, His tables round, and rounder oaths. His crown and cup, his feasts and fights. His pretty Queen and valiant knights, "Would make me up the raciest scene That is, or will be, or has been. These points, and others not a few, Of great importance to the view, As, how King Arthur valued woman. And how King Arthur thrashed the Roman, And how King Arthur built a hall, And how King Arthur played at ball, I'll have the prudence to omit. Since brevity's the soul of wit. Oh ! Arthur s days were blessed days, "Wlien all was wit, and worth, and praise, And planting thrust's, and planting oaks, And cracking nuts, and cracking jokes, 84. GOG. And turning out the toes, and tiltings, And jousts, and journeyings, andjiltings. Lord ! what a stern and stunning rout, As tall Adventure strode about, Eang through the land! for there were duels For love of dames, and love of jewels ; And steeds, that carried knight and prince As never steeds have carried since ; And heavy lords, and heavy lances ; And strange, unfashionable dances ; And endless bustle and turmoil In vain disputes for fame or spoil. Manners and roads were very rough ; Armour and beeves were very tough ; And then — the brightest figures far In din or dinner, peace or war — Dwarfs sang to ladies in their teens, And giants grew as thick as beans ! One of these worthies, in my verse, I mean, O Clio ! to rehearse : He was much talked of in his time. And sung of too in monkish rhyme ; So, lest my pen should chance to err, I'll quote his ancient chronicler. Thus friar Joseph paints my hero : — " Addictus cmdibus et mero, Impcaidus^ luxuriosus^ (JOG. 85 Freces^ jejuniaque i^erosus^ Metum ubique vultu jactans, Boves ubique manu maotans, Tauros pro cozna varans, post hos Lihcnter edens pueros tostos, Anglorum, et {nifallit error) Ipsius Regis scepe terror, Equorum equitumque cajitor, Incola rupis, ingens raptor Episcopalium honorum, Damnatus hostis Monachorum /" Such was his eulogy ! The fact is, He had a most outrageous practice Of running riot, bullying, beating, Behaving rudely, killing, eating ; He wore a black beard, like a Jew's, And stood twelve feet without his shoes ; He used to sleep through half the day, And then went out to kill and slay ; At night he drank a deal of grog. And slept again ; — his name was Goo. He was the son of Gorhoduc, And was a boy of monstrous pluck ; For once, when in a morning early He happened to be bruising barley, A knight came by with sword and spear, And halted in his raid-career : The youngster looked so short and pliant. 86 GOG. He never dreamed lie was a giant, And so he pulled up with a jerk, And called young bruiser from his work ; " Friend, can you lead me by the rein To Master Gorboduc's domain ? I mean to stop the country's fears, And knock his house about his ears!" The iirchin chuckled at the joke, And grinned acutely as he spoke : " Sir Knight, I'U do it if I can ; Just get behind me in my pan ; I'm off — I stop but once to bait, I'll set you down before the gate." Sir Lolly swallowed all the twang. He leaped into the mortar — bang ! And when he saw him in the vessel, Gog beat his brains out with the pestle. This was esteemed a clever hit, And showed the stripling had a wit; Tlierefore his father spared no arts To cidtivate such brilliant parts. No giant ever went before Beyond his "two and two make four," But Gog possessed a mind gigantic, And grasped a learning quite romantic. 'Tis certain that he used to sport The language that they spoke at court; Had something of a iauntv air. GOG. That men so tall can seldom wear ; Unless ho chanced to need some victuals, He was a pleasant match at skittles ; And if he could have found a horso To bear him through a single course, I think he might have brought the weight 'Gainst all that Britain counted great. In physic he was sage indeed. He used to blister and to bleed, Made up strange plasters — had been known To amputate or set a bone, And had a notable device For curing colic in a trice By making patients jump a wall, And get a most salubrious fall. Then in philosophy, 'twas said. He got new fancies in his head ; Had reckonings of the sea's profundity. And dreams about the earth's rotundity j In argument was quite a Grecian, And taught the doctrine of cohesion. This knowledge, as one often sees. Softened his manners by degrees ; He came to have a nicer maw, And seldom ate his mutton raw ; And if he had upon his board At once a peasant and a lord, He called tlie lord his dainty meat, And had him devilled for a treat. 88 GOG. Old Gorboduc, the legends say, Happened to go to pot one day ; Tlie how and why remains a question ; Some say he died of indigestion From swallowing a little boat In drinking dry Sir Toby's moat. Others assert that Dame Ulrica (Whom he confined beneath a beaker, Having removed her from her cottage To stew her in a mess of pottage) Upset her prison in the night, And played Ulysses out of spite, So that he woke in great surprise With two sharp needles in his eyes. Perhaps Ulrica may have lied ; At all events — the giant died, Bequeathing to liis son and heir, Illustrious Gog, the pious care To lord it o'er his goods and chattels. And wield his club and fight his battles. 'Twould take an Iliad, Sirs, to tell The numerous feats on fiood and fell, At which my hero tried his hand ; He was the terror of the land, And did a thousand humorous things, Fit to delight the ear of kings ; I cull what I consider best, And pass in silence o'er the rest. GOG. 89 There was a Lady sent from "Wales, With quiet sea, and favouring gales, To land upon the English shore, And marry with Sir Paladore. It seems she sailed from Milford Haven, On board the Bittern, Captain Craven, And smiles, and nods, and gratnlation, Attended on her embarkation. But when the ship got out from land, The Captain took her by the hand, And with a brace of shocking oaths. He led her to her chest of clothes. They paused ! — ^lie scratching at his chin. As if much puzzled to begin : She o'er the box in stupor leaning, As if she couldn't guess his meaning. Then thus the rogue the silence broke — His whiskers wriggled as he spoke : — "Look out an extra gown and shift ; You're going to be turned adrift ; As many gewgaws as you please. Only don't bounce upon your knees ; It's very fine, but don't amuse. And isn't of the smallest use. Ho there ! above ! put down the boat ! — In half an hour you'll be afloat; I wouldn't have you lose a minute; — There — put a little victuals in it; — 90 GOG. You think I'm playing oif a sham, But — split my vitals if I am I" Struggling and tears in vain were tried, He hauled her to the vessel's side, And still the horrid brute ran on. Exclaiming in ferocious tone — "You needn't hollow to the crew, Be quiet, it will never do ; — Pray spare your breath ; come wind and weather, We all are sworn to this together ! Don't talk us round ! 'cause why ? you can't 1 — Oh! sink my timbers if we an't ! So — gently ! — ^mind your footing — there ! You'll find the weather very fair ; You'd better keep a sharp look-out, There are some ugly reefs about ; Stay ! — what provision have they made ye ? I wouldn't have ye famished, Lady ! Dick ! lend a hand, ye staring oaf, And heave us down another loaf ; Here are two bustards — take 'em both ; You've got a famous pot of broth ; You'd better use the sculls — you'll find You've got a deuced little wind ; Now ! — don't stand blubbering at me, But trim the boat and put to sea." — He spoke ! regardless of her moan, They left her in the boat, alone I GOG. 91 According to our modern creed, It was a cruel thing, indeed ; Unless some villain bribed them to it, I can't conceive what made them do it. It was a very cruel thing ! — She was the daughter of a king ; Though it appears that kings were then But little more than common men. She was a handsome girl withal. Well formed, majestic, rather tall ; She had dark eyes (I like them dark), And in them was an angry spark, That came, and went, and came again, Like lightning in the pause of rain ; Her robe adorned, but not concealed, The shape it shrouded, yet revealed ; It chanced her ivory neck was bare, But clusters rich of jetty hair Lay like a garment scattered there ; She had upon her pale white brow A look of pride, that, even now Gazed round upon her solitude, Hopeless perhaps, but unsubdued. As if she thought the dashing wave. That swelled beneath, was born her slave. She felt not yet a touch of feai', But didn't know which way to steer ; 92 GOG. She thought it prudent to get back : The wind due east ! — she said she'd tack; And, though she had a tinge of doubt, She laughed, and put the helm about. The wind went down — a plaguy calm ; The Princess felt a rising qualm ; The boat lay sleeping on the sea, The sky looked blue, — and so did she ! The night came on, and still the gale Breathed vainly on her leather sail ; It scarcely would have stirred a feather : Heaven and her hopes grew dark together; She slept ! — I don't know how she diited,— And light returned and brought no wind ; She seized her oars at break of day, And thought she made a little way ; The skin was rubbed from off her thumb, And she had no Diaculum (Diaculum, my story says, Was not invented in those days) ; At last, not being used to pull, Slie lost her temper — and her scull. A long long time becalmed she lay ; And still untired, from day to day She formed a thousand anxious wishes. And bit her nails, and watched the fishes ; To give it up she still was loath ; — GOG. ^^ She ate the bustards and the broth ; And when they failed, she sighed and said, "I'll make my dinner on the bread !" She ate the bread, and thonght with sorrow, "There's nothing left me for to-morrow!" She pulled her lover's letter out. And turned its vellum leaves about; It was a billet-doux of fire. Scarce thicker than a modern quire ; And thus it ran — " I never suppe Because mine Jieatte dothe eatte me uppe ; And eke^ dear Loue^ I never dine, JVor drinke atte Courte a cuppe of icine; For daye and nighte, I telle you true, Ifeede uponne my Louefor youy Alas ! that Lady fair, who long Had felt her hunger rather strong Said (and her eye with tears was dim), "I've no such solid love for him!" And so she thought it might be better To sup upon her lover's letter. She ate the treasure quite or nearly. From "Beauteous Queen ! " to " yours sincerely ;" She thought upon her father's crown, And then despair came o'er her! — down Upon the bottom-'boards she lay. And veiled her from the look of day; Vol. I.— 7 94: GOG. The sea-birds flapped their wings, and she Looked out npon the tumbling sea ; And there was nothing on its face But wide, interminable space. And so she gave a piteous cry — The murmuring waters made reply ! Alas I another morning came. And brought no food ! — the hapless dame Thought, as she watched the lifeless sail, That she should die "withouten fail;" Another morn — and not a whifF ! The Lady gi-ew so weak and stiff That she could hardly move her stumps ; At last she fed upon her pumps ! And called upon her absent Lord, And thought of going overboard : As the dusk evening veiled the sky, She said, " I'm ready now to die !" She saw the dim light fade away, And fainted, as she kneeled to pray. I sing not where and how the boat With its pale load contrived to float. Nor how it struck off Hartland Point, And 'gan to leak at every joint; 'Twill be enough, I think, to tell ye Linda was shaken to a jelly, And when she woke from her long sleep, GOG. 95 Was lying in the Giant's keep, While at a distance, like a log, Iler cajitor snored — prodigious Gog I He spared as yet his captive's life ; She Avasn't ready for the knife, For toil, and famine, and the sun Had worn her to a skeleton ; He kept her carefully in view, And fed her for a week or two ; Then, in a sudden hungry freak, He felt her ann, and neck, and cheek. And being rather short of meat. Cried out that she was fit to eat. The monster saw the bright dark eye That met his purpose fearlessly ; He saw the form that did not quail, He saw the look that did not fail. And the white arm that tranquil lay. And never stirred to stop or stay ; He changed his mind, — threw down the kiiifo. And swore that she should be his wife. Linda, like many a modern Miss, Began to veer about at this ; She feared not roasting! but a ring ! — Lord, 'twas quite another thing ; She'd rather far be fried, than tied. And make a sausage, than a bride ; 96 GOG. She had no hand at argument, And so she tried to circumvent.* "My Lord," said she, "I know a plaster, The which before my sad disaster I kept most carefully in store For my own knight, Sir Paladore ; It is a mixture mild and thin ; But when 'tis spread upon the skin, It makes a surface white as snow Sword-proof thenceforth from top to toe ; I've sworn to wed with none, my Lord, Who can he harmed by human sword. The ointment shall be yours ! I'll make it, Mash it and mix it, rub and bake it ; You look astonished ! — you shall see, And try its power upon me." She bruised some herbs ; to make them hot She put them in the Giant's pot ; Some mystic word she uttered there. But whether they were charm or prayer The convent legend hath not said ; A little of the salve she spread ' The latter part of Linda's history In Ariosto's work is an ingredien*, ; I can't imagine how my monks and he Happened to hit upon the same expedient : You'll find it in " Orlando Fnrioso;" But Mr. Hoole's translation is but so so. 000. 97 Upon liei- neck, and then she stood In reverential attitude, With head bent down, and lips compressed, And hands enfolded on her breast ; "Strike!" and the stroke in thunder fell Full on the neck that met it well ; "Strike!" the red blood started out, Like water from a water-spout ; A moment's space — and down it sunk, That headless, pale, and quivering trunk. And the small head with its gory wave Flew in wild eddies round the cave. You think I shouldn't laugh at this ; You know not that a scene of bliss To close my song, is yet in store ; For Merlin to Sir Paladore The head and trunk in air conveyed. And spoke some magic words, and made, By one brief fillip of his wand. The happiest pair in all the land. The Giant — but I think I've done Enough of him for Canto One. END OF CANTO I. 98 GOO. The morn is laughing in the sky, The sun hath risen jocundly, Brightly the dancing beam hath shone On the cottage of clay and the abbey of stone ; As on the redolent air they float. The songs of the birds have a gayer note, And the fall of the waters hath breathed around A purer breath and a sweeter sound ; And why is Nature so richly dressed In the flowery garb she loveth best? Peasant and monk will tell you the tale ! There is a wedding in Nithys-dale. With his green vest around him flung, His bugle o'er his shoulders hung, And roses blushing in his hair, The Minstrel-Boy is waiting there I O'er his young cheek and earnest brow Pleasure hath spread a warmer glow, And love his fervid look huth dight In something of ethereal light : And still the Minstrel's pale blue eye Is looking out impatiently To see his glad and tender bride Come dancing o'er the hillock's side; GOG. 99 For look ! the sun's all-clieering ray- Shines proudly on a joyous day; And, ere his setting, young Le Fraile Shall wed the Lily of Nithys-dale. A moment, and he saw her come, That maiden, from her latticed home, "With eyes all love, and lips apart, And faltering step, and beating heart. She came, and joined her cheek to his In one prolonged and rapturous kiss, And while it thrilled through licart aud limb The world was nought to her or him ! Fair was the boy ; a woman's grace Beamed o'er his figure and his face ; Ilis red lips had a maiden's pout. And his light eyes looked sweetly out. Scattering a thousand vivid flashes Beneath their long and jetty lashes ; — And she, the still and timid bride That clung so fondly to his side, Might well have seemed, to Fancy's sight, Some slender thing of air or light ! So white an arm, so pale a cheek, A look so eloquently meek, A neck of such a marble hue, An eye of such transparent blue, Could never, never, take their birth From parentage of solid eartli ! 100 GOG. He that had searched fair England round A lovelier pair had never found Than that Minstrel-Boy, the young Le Fraile, And Alice, the Lily of ISTithys-dale ! Hark ! hark ! a sound ! — it flies along. How fearfully ! — a trembling throng Come round the bride in wild amaze, All ear and eye to hear and gaze ; Again it came, that sound of wonder. Rolling along like distant thunder ; " That barbarous growl, that horrid noise— AYas it indeed a human voice ? The man must have a thousand tongues. And bellows of brass by way of lungs!" Each to his friend, in monstrous fuss, The staring peasants whispered thus : — ''Hark! hark! another echoing shout!" And, as the boobies stared about. Just leaping o'er a mountain's brow. They saw the Brute that made the row ; Two meadows and a little bog Di\ided them from cruel Gog ! Maiden and matron, boy and man. You can't conceive how fast they ran ! And as they scampered, you might hear A thousand sounds of pain and fear. "I get so tired." — " "Where's my son?" — '' How fast the horrid beast comes on I"' — GOG. 101 " What plfigny teeth !" — "You heard him roar? I never pufted so much before!" "I can't imagine what to do!" — "Whom lias he caught?" — "I've lost my shoe!" " Oh ! I'm a sinful"—" Father Joe, Do just absolve me as we go !" "Absolve you here? pray hold your pother; I wouldn't do it for my mother ! A pretty time to stop and shrive, Zounds, we shall all be broiled alive ! I feel the spit!" — "Nay, Father, nay. Don't talk in such a horrid way !"— " mighty Love, to thee I bow ! Oh ! give me wings, and save me now !" — "A fig for Love !"— "Don't talk of figs! He'll stick us all like sucking pigs. Or skin us like a dish of eels''' — "Eun — run — ^Iie's just upon your heels!" — " I promise the Abbey a silver cup. Holy St. Jerome, trip him up!" — "I promise the Abbey a silver crown ! Holy St. Jerome, knock him down!" — The Monster came, and singled out The tenderest bit in all the rout ; Spite of her weeping and her charms, He tore her from her lover's arms : Woe for that hapless Minstrel-Boy! Where is his pride — his hope — his joy? His eye is wet, his cheek is pale ; He hath lost the Lily of Nithys-dale! 102 GOG. It chanced that day two travelling folk Had spread their cloth beneath au oak, And sat them gayly down to dine On good fat buck and ruddy wine. One was a Friar, fat and sleek, With pimpled nose and rosy cheek, And belly, whose capacious paunch Told tales of many a buried hauncli. He was no Stoic! — In his eye Frolic fought hard with gravity : And though he strove in conversation To talk as best beseemed his station, Yet did he make some little slips ; And in the corners of his lips There were some sly officious dimples, Which spake no love for roots and simj^les. The other was a hardy Knight, Caparisoned for instant fight ; You might have deemed him framed of stone, So huge he was of limb and bone ; His short black hair, unmixed with gray, Curled closely on his forehead lay; His brow was swarthy, and a scar, Not planted there in recent war, Had drawn one long and blushing streak Over the darkness of his cheek; The warrior's voice was full and bold, His gorgeous arms were rich with gold ; But weaker shoulders soon would fail GOG. 103 Beneath that cumbrous mass of mail ; Yet from his bearing you might guess He oft had worn a softer dress, And hxid aside that nodding crest To lap his head on lady's breast. The meal of course was short and hasty, And they had half got through ttie pasty, When hark! — a shriek rung loud and shrill ; The churchman jumped, and dropped the gill ; The soldier started from the board, And twined his hand around his sword. Wliile they stood wondering at the din. The ilinstrel-Boy came running in ; With trembling frame and rueful face He bent his knee, and told his case : — "The Monster's might away hath riven My bliss on earth, my hope in Heaven ; And there is nothing left me now But doubt above, and grief below ! My heart and hers together fly. And she must live, or I must die ! Look at the caitifl[''s face of pride, Look at his long and haughty stride ; Look how he bears her o'er hill and vale. My Beauty, the Lily of aSTithys-dalel" They gazed around them ; — Monk and Knight Were startled at that awful sight ! 104 GOG. They never had the smallest notion How vast twelve feet would look in motion. Dark as the midnight's deepest gloom, Swift as the breath of the Simoom, That hill of flesh was moving on ; And oh ! the sight of horror won A shriek from all our three beholders — He bore the maid upon his shouldei-s! "Now," said the Knight, "by all the fame That ever clung to Arthur's name, I'll do it— or I'll try, at least, To win her from that monstrous Beast." "Sir," said the Friar to the Knight, " Success will wait upon the right; I feel much pity for the youth, And though, to tell the honest truth, I'm rather used to drink than slay, I'll aid you here as best I may !" They bade the minstrel blow a blast. To stop the monster as he passed ; Gog was quite puzzled ! — " Zounds — I'feg ! My friend — piano! — let me beg!" Then in a rage towards the place He strode along a rattling pace ; Firm on the ground his foot he planted, And "wondered what the deuce they wanted!" No blockhead was that holy m.an, He cleared his throat, and thus began : — GOG. 105 " pessime! — that is, I pray, Discede — signifying, stay ! Damno — that is, before you go, Sis comes in convivio ; Ali — that is, set dov.-n tlie lass ; Monstrum — that is, you'll take a glass? Oh, holy Church ! — that is, I swear You never looked on nicer fare ; Informe — Tiorridum — inm ane! That is, the wine's as good as any ; Apage ! — exorcizo te ! That is, it came from Burgundy; "We hoth are anxious — execrande ! To drink your health — alominande ! And then my comrade means to put His falchion through your occijnit P^ The Giant stared (and who would not To find a monk so wondrous hot ; So fierce a stare you never saw ; At last the brute's portentous jaw Swung like a massy creaking hinge. And then, beneath its shaggy fringe Rolling about each wondrous eye, He scratched his beard and made reply : — '• Bold is the Monk, and bold the Knight, That wishes with Gog to drink, or fight, For I have been from east to west, And battled with King Arthur's best. And never found I friend or foe 106 GOG. To stand my cup — or bear my blow !" "Most puissant Gog! altliougii I burst," Exclaimed tbe Monk, "I'll do the first;" And ere a moment could be reckoned. The Knight chimed in— "I'll try the second." Tiie Giant, ere he did the job. Took a huge chain from out his fob : He bound his captive to a tree ; And young Le Fraile came silently, And marked how all her senses slept. And leaned upon her brow, and wept ; He kissed her lip, but her lip was grown As coldly white as a marble stone ; He met her eye, but its vacant gaze Had not the light of its living rays ; Yet still that trembling lover pressed The maiden to his throbbing breast. Till consciousness returned again. And the tears flowed out like summer rain ; There was the bliss of a hundred years In the rush of those delicious tears! The helm from ofl* the Warrior's head Is doifed to bear the liquor red : That casque, I trow, is deep and high, But the Monk and the Giant shall drain it dry ; And which of the two, when the feat is done, Shall keep his legs at set of sun ? GOG. 107 They filled to the brim that helm of gold, And the Monk hath drained its ample hold ; Silent and slow the liquor fell As into some capacious well : Tranquilly flowing down it went, And made no noise in its long descent ; And it leaves no trace of its passage now, But the stain on his lip, and the flush on his brow. They filled to the brim that helm of gold, And the Giant hath drained its ample hold ; Through his dark jaws the purple ocean Ean with a swift and restless motion, And the roar that heralded on its track Seemed like the burst of a cataract. Twice for each was the fountain filled. Twice by each was the red flood swilled ; The Monk is as straight as a poplar-tree, Gog is as giddy as Gog may be ! " ISTow try we a buffet!" exclaimed the Knight, And rose collected in his might, Crossing his arms, and clinching his hand, And fixing his feet on their firmest stand. The Giant struck a terrible stroke, But it lighted on the forest-oak; And bough and branch of the ancient tree Shook, as he smote it, wondrously : His gauntleted hand the Warrior tried ; i03 GOG. Full it fell on the Giant's side ; He sank to earth with a hideous sliock, ' Like the ruin of a crumbling rock, And that quivering mass was senseless laid In the pit its sudden fall had made. That stranger Knight hath gone to the tree To set the trembling captive free ; Thrice hath he smitten Avith might and main, And burst the lock, and shivered the chain ; But the knotty trunk, as the warrior strove, Wrenched from his hand the iron glove, And they saw the gem on his finger's ring, And they bent the knee to England's King. "Up! up!" he said, "for the sun hath passed, The shadows of night are falling fast, And still the wedding shall be to-day. And a King shall give the bride away !" The abbey bells are ringing With a merry, merry tone ; And the happy boors are singing With a music all their own ; Joy came in the morning, and fled at noon ; But he smiles again by the light of the moon : That Minstrel-Boy, the young Le Fraile, Hath wedded the Lily of Nithys-dale ! (Eton, 1821.^ THE TROUBADOUR. 109 THE TROUBADOUR. " Le Troubadour Brulant d'amour." French Ballah, OANTO I. In sooth it was a glorious day For vassal and for Lord, Wlien Coeur de Lion had the sway In battle and at board. He was indeed a royal one, A Prince of Paladins ; Hero of triumph and of tun, Of noisy fray and noisy fun, Broad shoulders and broad grins. You might have looked from east to west, And then from north to south, And never found an ampler breast, jSTever an ampler mouth, A softer tone for lady's ear, A dantier lip for sirup, Or a ruder grasp for axe and spear, Or a firmer foot in stirrup. VoT.. L-8 110 THE TROUBADOITR, A ponderous thing was Eichard't; can, And so was Richard's boot ; And Saracens and liquor ran, Where'er he set his foot. So fiddling here, and fighting there, And murdering time and tune, With sturdy limb, and listless air, And gauntleted hand, and jewelled hair, Half monarch, half buiToon, He turned awaj' from feast to fray, From quarrelling to quaffing. So great in prowess and in pranks, So fierce and funny in the ranks. That Saladin the Soldan said. Whene'er that mad-cap Richard led. Alia ! he held his breath for dread. And burst his sides for laughing ! At court, the humour of a king Is always voted " quite the thing ;" Morals and cloaks are loose or laced According to the Sovereign's taste. And belles and ])anquets both are dressed Just as his majesty thinks best. Of course in that delightful age, When Richard ruled the roast. Cracking of cranium s was the rage, And beauty was the toast. Ay! all was laugh, and life, and lore ; THE TROUEADOUK. Ill And lips and shrines were kissed ; And vows were ventured in the grove, And lances in the list ; Ajid boys roamed out in sunny weather To weave a wreath and rhyme together, While dames in silence, and in satin, Lay Jistening to the soft French-Latin, And flung their sashes and their sighs From odour-breatWng balconies. From these bright days of love and glory I take the hero of my story. A wandering Troubadour was he ; He bore a name of high degree. And learned betimes to slay and sue, As knights of high degree should do. ■While vigour nerved his buoyant arm. And youth was his to cheat and charm. Being immensely fond of dancing, And somewhat given to romancing, He roamed about through towers and towns, Apostrophizing smiles and frowns. Singing sweet staves to beads and bonnets, And dj^ng day by day, in sonnets. Flippant and fair, and fool enough. And careless where he met rebuft', Poco-curante in all cases Of furious foes, or pretty faces. With laughing lip, and jocund eye, 112 THE TROUBADOUR. And studied tear, and practised sigli, And ready sword, and ready verse, And store of ducats in liis purse. He sinned few crimes, loved many times, And wrote a hundred thousand rhymes ! Summers twice eight had passed away Since in his nurse's arms he lay, A rosy, roaring child, While all around was noisy mirth, And logs blazed up upon the heartli, And bonfires on the wild ; And vassals drank the brown bowl dry. And cousins knew "the mother's eye," And wrinkled crones spoke proplieey. And his brave father smiled. Summers twice eight had passed away ; His sire's thin locks grew very gray ; He lost his song, and then his shout. And seldom saw his bottle out. Then all the menials straight began To sorrow for "the poor old man," Took thought about his shirts and shoe-ties, And pestered him with love and duties. Young Roger laced a ci'imson row Of cushions on his saddle-bow ; Red "Wyke at Christmas mingled up More sugar in the wassail-cup ; Fair Margaret laid finer sheets; THE TROUBADOUR. 113 Fat Catharine served riclier sweets ; And all, from scullion up to squire, Who stirred his cop of kitchen fire, Seemed by their doings to determine The knight should ne'er be food for vermin. All would not do; the knight grew thinner, And loved his bed, and loathed his dinner; And when he muttered — "Becket — beast, Bring me the posset — and a priest," Becket looked grave, and said, "Good lack!" And went to ask the price of black. Masses and medicines both were bought. Masses and medicines both were naught ; Sir Hubert's race was run ; As best beseemed a warrior tall. He died within his ancient hall : And he was blest by Father Paul, And buried by his son. 'Twere long to tell the motley gear That -waited on Sir Hubert's bier ; For twenty good miles round Maiden and matron, knave and knight, All rode or ran to see the sight ; Yeomen with horse and hound. Gossips in grief and grogram clad, Young warriors galloping like mad, Prior.^ and peddlers, pigs and pyxes, Cooks, choristers, and crucifixes, 114: THE TROUBADOUR. Wild urchins cutting jokes and capers, And taper shapes, and shapely tapers. . The mighty barons of the land Brought pain in heart, and four-in-hand ; And village maids, with looks of woe, Turned out their mourning, and their toe. The bell was rung, the hymn was sung, On the oak chest the dust was flung ; And then, beneath the chapel-stones. With a gilt scutcheon o'er his bones, Escaped from feather-beds and fidget. Sir Hubert slept with Lady Bridget. Tlie mob departed : cold and cloud Shed on the vault there icy shroud, 7 And night came dark and dreary ; But there young Vidal lingered still. And kept his fast, and wept his fill. Though the wind in the chapel was very chill, And Vidal very weary. Low moaned the bell ; the torch-light fell In fitful and faint flashes ; And he lay on the stones, where his father's bones Were mouldering now to ashes ; And vowed to be, on earth and sea, Whatever stars shone o'er him, A trusty knight, in love and fight. As his father had been before him. THE TROUBADOTJE. 115 Then in the silence of the night Passionate grief was his delight ; He thought of all the brave and fair Who slept their shadowy slumber there ; And that sweet dotage held him long, Ere sorrow found her voice in song. It was an ancient thing — a song His heart had sung in other years, When boyhood had its idle throng Of guiltless smiles, and guileless tears ; But never had its music seemed So sweet to him, as when to-night, All lorn and lone, he kneeled and dreamed, Before the taper's holy light, Of many and mysterious things, Ilis cradle's early visitLngs, The melancholy tones, that blest The pillow of his sinless rest, The melody, whose magic numbers Broke in by snatches on his slumbers, When earth appeared so brightly dim. And all was bliss, and all for him, And every sight and every sound Had heaven's own day-light flowing round. " My mother's grave, my mother's grave I Oh ! dreamless is her slumber there, And drowsily the banners wave 116 THE TKOUBADOUE. O'er her tliat was so chaste an.'I fair; Yea ! love is dead, and memory faded 1 But when the dew is on the brake, And silence sleeps on earth and sea, And mourners weep, and ghosts awake, Oh ! then she coraeth back to me, In her cold beauty darkly sluuled ! " I cannot guess her face or form ; But what to me is form or face ? I do not ask the weary worm To give me back each buried grace Of glistening eyes, or trailing tresses! I only feel that she is here, And that we meet, and that we part ; And that I drink within mine ear. And that I clasp around my heart, Her sweet still voice, and soft caresses ! " Not in the waking thought by day, Not in the sightless dream by night. Do the mild tones and glances play, Of her who was my cradle's light ! But in some twilight of calm weather She glides, by fancy dimly wrought, A glittering cloud, a darkling beam, With all the quiet of a thought. And all the passion of a dream. Linked in a golden spell together!" THE TROUBAPOrK. 117 Oh ! Vidal's very soul did weep Whene'er that music, like a charm, Brought back from their unlistening sleep The kissing lip and clasping arm. But quiet tears are worth, to some, The richest smiles in Christendom ; And Vidal, though in foUj^'s ring He seemed so weak and wild a thing. Had yet an hour, when none were by. For reason's thought, and passion's sigh. And knew and felt, in heart and brain, The Paradise of buried pain ! And Vidal rose at break of day. And found his heart unbroken ; And told his beads, and went away. On a steed he had bespoken ; His bonnet he drew his eyelids o'er. For tears were like to blind him ; And he spurred Sir Guy o'er mount and moor. With a long dull journey all before. And a short gay squire behind him. And the neighbourhood much marvel had ; And all who saw did say, The weather and the roads were bad. And either Vidal had run mad. Or Guy had ran away ! Oh ! when a cheek is to be dried, All pharmacy is foUy ; 118 THE TEOUBADOUE. And Vidal knew, for he had tried, T]iere''s nothing like a rattling ride ' For curing melancholy ! Tliree days he rode all mad and mute; And when the sun did pass, Three nights he supped upon dry fruit, And slept upon wet grass. Beneath an oak, whose hundred years Had formed fit shade for talk or tears, On the fourth day he lay at noon, And put his gilt guitar in tune ; When suddenly swept by, In gold and silver all arrayed, A most resplendent cavalcade ; Baron and Beauty, Knave and Knight, And lips of love, and eyes of light. All blended dazzlingly. Ah ! all the world that day came out With horse and horn, and song and shout; And belles and bouquets gayly bloomed^ And all were proud, and all perfumed. And gallants, as the humour rose, Talked any nonsense that they chose, And damsels gave the reins for fun Alike to palfry and to pun. It chanced no lady had been thrown, No heir had cracked his collar-bone, So pleasure laughed on every cheek, THE TEOUBADOUR. 119 And naught, save saddles, dreamed of pique. And brightest of that brilliant train, With jewelled bit, and gilded rejn. And pommel clothed in gorgeous netting, And courser daintily curvetting, Girt round with gallant Cavaliers, Some deep in love, and some in years, Half exquisites and half absurds, All babbling of their beasts and birds, Quite tired of trumpeting and talking. The Baroness returned from hawking. The Lady halted ; well she might; For Vidal was so fair. You would have thought some god of light Had walked to take the air ; Bare were both his delicate hands. And the hue on his cheek was high, As woman's when she understands Her first fond lover's sigh ; And desolate very, and very dumb, And rolling his eyes of blue. And rubbing his forehead, and biting his thumb, As lyrists and lovers do. Like Queen Titania's darling pet, Or Oberon's wickedest elf, He lay beside a rivulet. And looked beside himself ; And belles full blown, and beaux full dressed, 120 THE TEOUBADOUR. Stood there with smirk aud smile, And many a finger, and many a jest, Were pointed all the while. Then Vidal came, and bent his knees Before the Lady there. And raised his bonnet, that the breeze Might trifle with his hair ; And said, he was a nameless youth, Had learned betimes to tell the truth. Could greet a friend, and grasp a foe, Could take a jest and give a blow, Had no idea of false pretences, Had lost his father, and his senses, Was travelling over land and sea, Armed with guitar and gallantry ; And if her will found aught of pleasure In trifling soul, and tinkling measure. He prayed that she would call her own His every thought, and every tone. "Bonne grace, good Mary, and sweet St. John!" That haughty dame did say ; A goodly quarry I have won, In this our sport to-day ! A precious page is this of mine, To carve my meat, and pour my wine, To loose my greyhound's ringing chain, And hold my palfrey's gaudy rein, THE TROUBADOUR. 121 And tell strange tales of moody sprites, Around the hearth, on winter nights. Marry ! a wilful look, and wild ! But wo shall tame the wayward child, And dress his roving locks demurely, And tie his jesses on securely." She took from out her garment's fold A dazzling gaud of twisted gold ; She raised him from his knee ; The diamond cross she gravely kissed. And twined the links around his wrist With such fine witchery. That there he kneeled, and met her glance In- silence and a moveless trance, And saw no sight and heard no sound, And knew himself more firmly bound Than if a hundred weight of steel Had fettered him from head to heel. And from that moment Vidal gave His childish fancy up, Became her most peculiar slave, And wore her scarf, and whipped her knave, And filled her silver cup. She was a widow : on this earth It seemed her only task was mirth ; She had no nerves and no sensations ; No troubling friends nor poor relations; 122 THE TKOUBADOUB. IsTo gnawing grief to feel a care for, Fo living soul to breathe a prayer for. Ten years ago her lord and master Had chanced upon a sad disaster ; One night his servants found him lying Speechless or senseless, dead or dying, "With shivered sword and dabbled crest. And a small poinard in his breast, And nothing further to supply The slightest hint of how or why. As usual, in such horrid cases, The men made oath, the maids made faces ; All thought it most immensely funny The murderer should have left the money, And showed suspicions in dumb crambo, And buried him Avith fear and flambeau. Clotilda shrieked and swooned, of course, Grew very ill, and very hoarse. Put on a veil, put off" a rout. Turned all her cooks and courtiers out, And lived two years on water-gruel, And drank no wine, and used no fuel. At last, when all the world liad seen How very virtuous she had been, She left her chamber, dried her tears, Kept open house for Cavaliers, Few furnished all the cob webbed rooms, And burned a fortune in perfumes. She had seen six-and-thirty springs, THE TEOUBADOUE. 123 And still her blood's warm wanderings Told tales in every throbbing vein Of youth's high hope, and passion's reign, And dreams from which that lady's heart Had parted, or had seemed to part. She had no wiles from cunning France, Too cold to sing, too tall to dance ; But yet, where'er her footsteps went, She was the Queen of ATerriment : She called the quickest at the table, For Courcy's song, or Comine's fable, Bade Barons quarrel for her glove, And talked with Squires of ladie-love. And hawked and hunted in all weathers. And stood six feet — ^including feathers. Her suitors, men of swords and baimcrs, Were very guarded in their manners, And e'en when heated by the jorum Knew the strict limits of decorum. "Well had Clotilda learned the glance That checks a lover's first advance ; That brow to her was given That chills presumption in its birth, A.nd mars the madness of our mirth And wakes the reptile of the earth From the vision he hath of heaven. And yet for Vidal she could find No word or look that was not kind : With him she walked in shine or shower, 124 THE TEOUBADOUR. And quite forgot the dinner-hour, And gazed upon him, till he smiled, As doth a mother on a child. Oh! when Avas dream so purely dreamed I A mother and a child they seemed : In warmer guise he loved her not ; — And if, heneath the stars and moon, He lingered in some lonely spot To play her fond and favourite tune. And if he fed her petted mare, Aud made acquaintance with her bear, Arid kissed her hand whene'er she gave it, And kneeled him down sometimes, to crave it, 'Twas partly pride, and partly jest, And partly 'twas a boyish whim, And that he liked to see the rest Look angrily on her and him. And that — in short, he was a boy, And doted on his last new toy. It chanced that late, one summer's gloaming, The Lady and the youth were roaming, In converse close of those and these. Beneath a long arcade of trees ; Tall trunks stood up on left and right. Like columns in the gloom of night, Breezeless and voiceless ; and on high, "Where those eternal pillars ended, The silent boughs so closely blended Their mirk, unstirring majesty. THE TKOUBADOUR. 125 That Superstition well might nm To wander there from twelve to one, And call strange shapes from heaven or hell Of cowl and candle, hook and bell. And kneel as in the vaulted aisle Of some time-honoured Gothic pile To pay her weary worship there Of counted beads, and pattered prayer. Clotilda had, for once, the vapours, And when the stars lit up their tapers, She said that she was very weary — She liked the place, it was so dreary — The dew was down on grass and flower, 'Twas very wet — 'twas very wrong — But she must rest for half an hour, And listen to another song. Then many a tale did Vidal tell Of warrior's spear, and wizard's spell ; How that Sir Brian le Bleu had been Cup-bearer to a fairy queen ; And how that a hundred years did pass, And left his brow as smooth as glass ; Time on his form marked no decay. He stole not a single charm away, He could not blight That eye of light, Nor turn those raven ringlets gray. Vol. I.— 9 126 THE TEOUEADOUIi. But Brian's love for a mortal maid Was written and read in a magic sign, When Brian slipped on the moonlight glade, And spilled the fairy's odorous wine ; And she dipped her fingers in the can, And sprinkled him with seven sprinkles, And he went from her presence a weary man, A withering lump of rheum and wrinkles. And how that Satan made a bond "With Armonell of Trebizond — A bond that was written at first in tears, And torn at last in laughter — To be his slave for a thousand years, And his sovereign ever after. And oh ! ■ those years, they fleeted fast, And a single year remained at last, A year for crouching and for crying, Between his frolic and his frying. " Toil yet another toil," quoth he, " Or else thy prey I will not be ; Come hither, come hither, servant mine, And call me back The faded track Of years nine hundred and ninety-nine!" And Satan hied to his home again On the wings of a blasting hurricane, THE TROUBADOUB. 127 And left old Armonell to die, And sleep in the odour of sanctity. In mockery of the Minstrel's skill The Lady's hrow grew darker still; She trembled as she lay, And o'er her face, like fitful flame, The feverish colour went and came, And, in the pauses of the tune. Her black eyes stared upon the moon With an unearthly ray. •' Good Yidal," — as she spoke she leant So wildly o'er the instrument That wondering Vidal started back, For fear the strings should go to wrack — " Good Yidal, I have read and heard Of many a haunted heath and dell, Where potency of wand or word. Or chanted rhyme, or written spell, Ilath burst, in such an hour as this, The cerements of the rotting tomb. And waked from woe, or torn from bliss, The heritors of chill and gloom, Until they walked upon the earth, Unshrouded, in a ghastly mirth, And frightened men with soundless cries, And hueless cheeks, and rayless eyes. Such power there is ! — if such be thine, 128 THE TKOUBADOtTK. Why, make to-night that sound or sign ; And while the vapoury sky looks mirk In horror at our midnight work, "We two will sit on two green knolls, And jest with unembodied souls, And mock at every moody sprite That wanders from his bed to-night." The boy jumped up in vast surprise, And rubbed his forehead and his eyes. And, quite unable to reflect, Made answer much to this effect : "Lady! — the saints befriend a sinner ! — Lady! — she drank too much at dinner! — I know a rhyme, and^ghosts forsooth ! — I used to sing it in my youth ; 'Twas taught me — curse my foolish vanity !- By an old wizard — stark insanity ! — Who came fi'om Tunis — 'tis the hock! — At a great age and — twelve o'clock ! — He wore — Lord ! — a painted girdle. For which they burnt him on a hurdle • He had a charm, but — what the deuce It wasn't of the slightest use ; There's not a single ghost that cares For — mercy on me! how she stares!' And then again he sate him down. For fiercer fell Clotilda's frown, THE TEOUBADOUK. 129 And played, abominably ill, And horribly against his will. "Spirits, that walk and wail to-night, I feel, I feel that ye are near ; There is a mist upon my sight. There is a murmur in mine ear, And a dark, dark dread Of the lonely dead. Creeps through the whispering atmosphere " Ye hover o'er the hoary trees, And the old oaks stand bereft and bare ; Ye hover o'er the moonlight seas. And the tall masts rot in the poisoned air ; Ye gaze on the gate Of earthly state. And the ban-dog shivers in silence there. " Come hither to me upon your cloud, And tell me of your bliss or pain, And let me see your shadowy shroud. And colourless lip, and bloi idiess vein ; Where do ye dwell. In heaven or hell? And why do ye wander on earth again ? " Tell to me where and how ye died. Fell ye in darkness, or fell yo in day, 130 THE TEOUBADOmS. On lorn hiil-side, or roaring tide, In gorgeous feast, or rushing frav ; By bowl or blow. From friend or foe, Hui'ried your angiy souls away ? " Mute ye come, and mute ye pass. Your tale untold, your shrift unshriven ; But ye have blighted the pale grass. And scared the ghastly stars from he;u'en ; And guilt hath known Your voiceless moan. And felt that the blood is unforgiven !" He paused ; for silently and slow The Lady left his side ; It seemed her blood had ceased to flow. For her cheek Avas as white as the morning snow. And the light of her eyes had died. She gazed upon some form of fright, — But it was not seen of Vidal's sight ; She drank some sound of hate or fear, — But it was not heard of Vidal's ear : "Look! look!" she said; and Vidal spoke : " "Why ! zounds ! it's nothing but an oak !" "Valence!" she muttered, " I will rise; Ay I turn not those dead orbs on mine ; THE TROUBADOUR. 131 Fearless to-night are these worn eyes, And nerveless is that arm of thine. Thrice hast thou fleeted o'er my path ; And I would hear thy dull lips say, Is it in sorrow, or in wrath, That thou dost haunt my lonely way ? Ay! frown not ! Heaven may blast me now, In this dark hour, in this cold spot ; And then — I can but be as thou. And hate thee still, and fear thee not !" She strode two steps, and stretched her hand In attitude of stern command ; The tremor of her voice and tread Had more of passion than of dread ; The net had parted from her hair, The locks fell down in the powerless air. Her frame with strange convulsion rocked — And Vidal was intensely shocked. The Lady drew a long, low sigh, As if some voice had made reply, Though Vidal could not catch a Avord, And thought it horribly absurd. " Remember it ? — avenging power ! I ask no word, I need no sign, To teach me of that withering hour That linked this wasted hand in thine ! He was not there! — I deemed him slain ; — And thine the guilt, — and mine the pain ! 132 THE TROUBADOUR. There are memorials of that day Which time shall never blot away, Unheeded prayer, unpardoned sin, And smiles without, and flames within, And broken heart, and ruined fame, And glutted hate, and dreaded shame. And late remorse, and dreams, and fears, And bitter and enduring tear!" She listened there another space, And stirred no feature of her face. Though big drops, ere she spoke again. Fell from her clammy brow like rain : At last she glanced a wilder stare. And stamped her foot, and tore her hair. " False fiend ! thou liest, thou hast lied ! He was, what thou couldst never be — In anguish true, in danger tried- - Their friend to all — my god to me ! He loved — as thou couldst never love — Long years — and not, till then, in guilt ; Nay ! point not to the wailing grove, I know by whom the blood was spilt, I saw the tomb, and heard the knell. And life to me was lorn and blighted, — • He died — and vengeance watches well! He died — and thou wert well requited!" Again ehe listened : — full five score You might have counted duly o'er — THE TEOTJBADOUB. 133 And then she laughed ; so fierce and shrill That laughter echoed o'er the hill, That Vidal deemed the very ground Did shake at its unearthly sound. " T do not tremble ! be it so I — Or here or there ! in bliss or woe ! — Yea I let it be ! and we will meet, Where never " and at Vidal's feei She sank, as senseless and as cold As if her death were two days old ; And Vidal, who an hour before Had voted it a horrid bore, His silken sash with speed unlaced, And bound it round her neck and waist, And bore her to her castle- gate. And never stopped to rest or bait, Speeding as swiftly on his track As if nine fiends were at his back. Then rose from fifty furious lungs A Babel of discordant tongues : " Jesu ! the Baroness is dead !" — " Shouldn't her Ladyship be bled?" — "Her fingers are as cold as stone !" — "And look how white her lips are groAvu! A dreadful thing for all who love her ! 'Tis ten to one she won't recover !" — " Ten ?" — " Did you ever, Mrs. Anne ? Ten rogues against one honest man I"- - 134 THE TROUBADOUR. " How Master Vidal must have fought! It's what I never should have thought ; He seems the sickliest thing alive;" — " They say he killed and -wounded five!" — " Is Master Vidal killed and wounded ? I trust the story is unfounded !" — " I saw him on his legs just now," — " What! sawed his legs off? well, I vow"— " Peace, babbler, peace! you see you've shocked her ! Help ! ho !"— " cold water for the Doctor ! Her eyes are open !" — " how they blink ! "Why, Doctor, do you really think," " My Loi-d, we never think at all ; I'll trouble you to clear the hall, And check all tendency to riot. And keep the Castle very quiet ; Let none but little Bertha stay ; And — try to keep the Friar aAvay I" Poor Vidal, who amid the rout Had crept in cautious silence out, Reeled to his chamber in the stagircrs, And thought of home, and dreamed of daggera Day dawned : the Baroness was able To beam upon the breakfast-table. As well as could be well expected. Before the guests were half collected. " A fainting-fit ; — a thing of course ; — THE TEOUBADOITR. 13o In sooth it might have ended worse ; Exceedingly obliged to Vidal ; — Pray, had the groom repaired her bridle ? She walked too late ; — it was a warning ; And who was for the chase this morning ?" Days passed, and weeks : Clotilda's mien Was gay as it before had been, And only once or twice her glance Fell darkly on his countenance, And gazed into his eyes of blue, As if she read his young heart through : At length she mildly hinted — " Surely Vidal was looking very poorly, — He never talked, — had parted quite "With spirits, and with appetite ; She thought he wanted change of air ; — It was a shame to keep him there ; She had remarked the change with sorrow, And well, he should sot out to-morrow." The morrow came, 'twas glorious weather. And all the household flocked together To hold his stirrup and his rein, And say, "Heaven speed !" with might and main. Clotilda only said, " Farewell !" And gave her hand to kiss and clasp ; He thought it trembled, as it fell In silence from his lip and grasp. 136 THE TROUBADOUR. And yet upon her cheek and brow There dwelt no flush of passion now ; Only the kind regret was there "Which severed friends at parting wear, And the sad smile and glistening eye Seemed naught to shun, and naught defy. "Farewell!" she said, and so departed; And Vidal from his revery started, And blessed his soul, and cleared his throat, A.nd crossed his forehead — and the moat. All milliners who start from bed To gaze upon a coat of red. Or listen to a drum. Know very well the Paphian Queen Was never yet at Paphos seen, That Cupid's all a hum. That minstrels forge confoimded lies About the Deities and skies. That torches all go out sometimes. That flowers all fade except in rhymes, That maids are seldom shot with arrows, And coaches never drawn by sparrows. And yet, fair cousin, d'2Q A PREFACE, A PREFACE. I HAVE a tale of Love to tell; — Lead me thy liglit lute, L. E. L. Lend me thy lute ! what other strings Should speak of those delicious things, Which constitute Love's joys and woes In pretty duodecimos? Thou knowest every herb and flower, Of wondrous name, and wondrous power, Which, gathered where white wood-doves nestlej And beat up by poetic pestle, Bind gallant knights in fancied fetters. And set young ladies writing letters : Thou singest songs of floods and fountains, Of mounted lords and lordly mountains. Of dazzling shields and dazzling glances, Of piercing frowns and piercing lances, Of leaping brands and sweeping willows. Of dreading seas and dreaming billows, Of sunbeams which are like red wiue, Of odorous lamps of argentine. Of cheeks that burn, of hearts that freeze, Of odours that send messages, A PREFACE. 327 Of kingfishers and silver pheasants, Of gems to -which the Sun makes presents, Of miniver and tiuieworn walls, Of clairschachs and of atabals. Within thy passion-haunted pages Throng forward girls — and distant ages, The lifeless learns at once to live, The dumb grows strangely talkative, Resemblances begin to strike In things exceedingly unlike. All nouns, like statesmen, suit all places, And verbs, turned lawyers, hunt for cases. Oh ! if it be a crime to languish Over thy scenes of bliss or anguish. To float Avitli Raymond o'er the sesv. To sigh with dark-eyed Rosalie, And sit in revery luxurious Till tea grows cold, and aunts grow furious, T own the soft irapeachraeni true, And burn the Westminster Review. Lend me thy lute ; I'll be a poet ; All Paternoster Row shall know it ! I'll rail in rhyme at cruel Fate From Temple Bar to Tyburn Gate ; Old Premium's daughter in the City Shall feel that love is kin to pity, Hot ensigns shall be glad to borrow My notes of rapture and of sorrow, 328 A PREFACE. And I shall hear sweet voices sighing, "So young ! — and I am told he's dying!" Yes! I shall wear a wreath eternal, For full twelve months, in Post and Journal, Admired by all the Misses Brown "Who go to school at Kentish Town, And worshipped by the fair Arachne Who makes ray handkerchiefs at Hackney I Vain, vain ! — take back the lute ! I see Its chords were never meant for me. For thine own song, for thine own hand, That lute was strung in Fairy-land ; And, if a stranger's thumb should fling Its rude touch o'er one golder; string, — Good-night to all the music in it I The string would crack in half a minute. Take back the lute! I make no claim To inspiration or to fame ; The hopes and fears that bards should cherish, I care not when they fade and perish ; I read political economy, Voltaire and Cobbett, and gastronomy, And, when I would indite a story Of woman's faith or warrior's glory, I always wear a night-cap sable. And put my elbows on the table, And hammer out the tedious toil By dint of Walker and lamp-oil. LOVE AT A ROUT. 329 I never feel poetic mania, I gnaw no laurel with Urania, I court no critic's tender mercies, I count the feet in all my versos, And own myself a screaming gander Among the shrill swans of Mseauder! (1S24.) LOVE AT A ROUT. When some mad bard sits down to muse About the lilies and the dews, The grassy vales and sloping lawns, Fairies and Satyrs, ISTymphs and Fauns, He's apt to think, he's apt to swear. That Cupid reigns not anywhere Except in some sequestered village Where peasants live on truth and tillage; 'J'hut none are fair enough for witches But maids who frisk through dells and ditches; That dreams are twice as sweet as dances, That cities never breed romances ; That Beauty always keeps a cottage. And Purity gi-ows pale on pottage. 330 LOVE AT A EOTTT. Yes ! those dear dreams are all divine ; And those dear dreams have all been mine. I like the stream, the rock, the bay, I like the smell of new-mown hay, I like the babbling of the brooks, I like the creaking of the crooks, I like the peaches and the posies, — But chiefly, when the season closes, And often, in the month of fun, When every poacher cleans his gun, And cockneys tell enormous lies. And stocks are pretty sure to rise. And e'en the Chancellor, they say, Goes to a point the nearest way — I hurry from my drowsy desk To revel in the picturesque ; To hear beneath those ancient trees The far-oif murmur of the bees, Or trace yon river's mazy channels With Petrarch, and a brace of spaniels. Combining foolish rhymes together, And killing sorrow, and shoe-leather. Then, as I see some rural maid Come dancing up the sunny glade. Coquetting Avith her foud adorer Just as her mother did before her, " Give me," I cry, " the quiet bliss Of souls like these, of scenes like this ; LOVE AT A EOUT. 331 "Wlierc ladies eat and sleep in peace, T\'herc gallants never heard of Greece, Where day is day, and night is night, Where frocks — and morals — both are white; r«lne eyes below — blue skies above — These arc the homes, the hearts, for Love !" r.nt this is idle ; I have been A sojourner in many a scene, And picked up wisdom in my way, And cared not what I had to pay; Smiling and weeping all the while, As other people weep and smile ; And I have learned that Love is not Confined to any hour or spot ; He lights the smile and fires the frown Alike in country and in town. I own fair faces not more fair In Ettrick, than in Portman Square, And silly danglers just as silly In Sherwood, as in Piccadilly. Soft tones are not the worse, no doubt, For having harps to help them out; And smiles are not a ray more bright By moonbeams, than by candle-light ; I know much magic oft reposes On wreaths of artificial roses, And snowy necks, — I never found them Quite spoilt by having cameos round them. 332 THE MODERN NECTAR. In short, I'm very sure fhat all Who seek or sigh for Beauty's thrall May breathe their vows, and feed their passion. Though vi'hist and waltzing keep in fashion, And make tlie most delicious sonnets, Til spite of diamonds, and French bonnets ! (1824.) THE MODERN NECTAR. OxE day, as Bacchus wandered out From his own gay and glorious heaven, To see what mortals were about Below, 'twixt six o'clock and seven, And laugh at all the toils and tears, The endless hopes, the causeless fears, .The midnight songs, the morning smarts, The aching heads, the breaking hearts, Which he and his fair crony Venus Within the month had sown between us, He lighted by chance on a fiddling fellow Who never was known to be less than mellow, A wandering poet, who thought it his duty To feed upon nothing but bowls and beauty ; Who worshipped a rhyme, and detested a quari'el, And cared not a single straw for laurel, THE MODEEN KECTAJl. 066 Holding that Grief was Sobriety's dangliter, And loathing critics, and cold water. • Ere day on the Gog-Magog hills had fainted, The god and the minstrel were quite acquainted ; Beneath a tree, in the sunny weather, They sat them down, and drank together : Tliey drank of all fluids that ever were poured By an English lout, or a German lord, Bum and shrub and brandy and gin, One after another, they stowed them in. Claret of Carbonell, porter of Meux, Champagne which would waken a wit in dukes. Humble Port, and proud Tokay, Persico, and Creme de The, The blundering Irishman's Usquebaugh, The fiery "Welshman's Cwrw da; And after toasting various names Of mortal and immortal flames. And whispering more than I or you know Of Mistress Poll, and Mistress Juno, The god departed, scarcely knowing A zephyr's from a nose's blowing, A frigate from a pewter flagon. Or Thespis from his own stage-wagon ; And rolling about like a barrel of grog, lie went up to heaven as drunk as a hog ! " Xow may I," he lisped, " forever sit In Lethe's darkest and deepest pit "\'0L. I.— 22 334 THE MODERN IfECTAE. Where dulness everlasting reigns O'er the- quiet pulse and tlie drowsy brains, Where ladies jest, and lovers laugh, And noble lords are bound in calf, And Zoilus for his sins rehearses Old Bentham's prose, old Wordsworth's verses, If I have not found a richer draught Than ever yet Olympus quaffed, Better and brighter and dearer far ' Than the golden sands of Pactolus are!" And then he filled in triumph up. To the highest top-sparkle, Jove's beaming cup, And pulling up his silver hose, And turning in his tottering toes (While Hebe, as usual, the mischievous gypsy Was laughing to see her brother tipsy), He said — " Mnj it please your high Divinity, This nectar is — Milk-Punch at Trinity!" (1525.) MY OWN FUKEKAL. 335 MY OWN FUNERAL. FKOII DE BERANGEE. This morning, as in bed I lay, Half waking and half sleej^ing, A score of Loves, immensely gay, Were round my chamber creeping ; I could not move my hand or head ■ To ask them what the stir meant; And "Ah," they cried, "our friend is dead; Prepare for his interment !" All whose hearts v/ith mine were blended, "Weep for me ! my days are ended ! One drinks my brightest Burgundy, "Without a blush, before me ; One brings a little rosary. And breathes a blessing o'er me ; One finds my pretty chambermaid, And courts her in dumb crambo ; Another sees tlie mutes arrayed "With fife by way of flambeau : In your feasting and your feting, Weep for me! my hoarse is waiting. 336 MT OWN FUXEEAL. "Was ever such a strange array ? The mourners all are singing; , From all the churches on our way A merry peal is ringing; The pall that clothes my cold remains, Instead of hoars and dragons, Is blazoned o'er with darts and chains, With lutes, and flowers, and flagons : Passers-by their heads are shaking ! "Weep for me ! my grave is making. And now they let my coflBn fall; And one of them rehearses, For want of holy ritual, My own least holy verses : The sculptor carves a laurel-leaf, And writes my name and story ; And silent Nature in her grief Seems dreaming of my glory : Just as I am made immortal, — Weep for me ! — they bar the portal. But Isabel, by accident, Was wandering by that minute ; She opened that dark monument, And found her slave within it ; The clergy said the Mass in vain, The College could not save me ; time's song. 337 But life, she swears, returned again With the first kiss she gave me: You who deem that life is sorrow. Weep for me again to-morrow ! a826.) TIME'S SONG. O'er the level plains, where mountains greet me as I go, O'er the desert waste, where fountains at my bidding flow, On the boundless beam by day, on tlie cloud by night, I am riding hence away: who will chain ray flight? War his weary watch was keeping, — I ha\'e crushed his spear; Grief within her bower was weeping, — I have dried her tear ; Pleasure caught a minute's hold, — then T harried by, Leaving all her banquet cold, and her goblet dry. 338 FEOil METASTASIO. Power had won a throne of glory : -n'here ia now his fame? Genius said, "I live in story:" who hath heard his name ? Love beneath a myrtle-bough whispered, " Why so fast?" And the' roses on his brow withered as I passed. I have heard the heifer lowing o'er the wild wave's bed; I have seen the billow flowing where the cattle fed; Where began my wanderings ? Memory will not say ! Whei'e will rest my weary wings ? Science turna away! (1S26.) FROM METASTASIO. The venomous serpent, dearest, Shall couch with the cushat dove, Ere a true friend, as thou fearest, Shall ever be false in love. BEFORE A COLLEGE EXAMINATION. 339 From Eden's greenest mountain Two separate streamlets came ; But their source was in one fountain, Their waters are the same I (May 21, 1826.) LINES WIJITTEX ON THE EVE OF A COLLEGE EXAMINATION, I. St. Mart's tolls her longest chime, and slumber softly falls On Granta's quiet solitudes, her cloisters and her halls ; But trust me, little rest is theirs, who play in glory's game, And throw to-morrow tlicir last throw for academic fame ; Whose hearts have panted for this hour, and, while slow months went by, Beat high to live in story — half a dozen stories hiirh. 340 BEFOEE A COLLEGE EXAMINATION. No ; there is no repose for them, the solitary few, Who muse on all that they have done, and all they meant to do ; And leave the prisoned loveliness of some hope- haunted book, With many a melancholy sigh, and many aa anxious look ; As lovers look their last upon the Lady of their fancies, When barb or bark is waiting, in the middle of romances. m. And some were born to be the first, and some to be the last : — I cannot change the future now ; I will not mourn the past ; But while the firelight flickers, and the lonely lamp burns dim, ril fill one glass of Claret till it sparkles to the brim, And, like a knight of chivalry first vaulting on his steed, ' Commend me to my Patron Saint, for a blessing and good speed ! — IT. Lady ! if my pulse beats quick, and my lieart trembles now, I5i:F0EE A COLLEGE EXAMINATION. 341 If there is flush upon my cheek, and fever on my brow, It is not. Lady, that I think, as others tliink to- night, Upon the struggle and the prize, tlie doubt and the delight. Nor that I feel, as I have felt, ambition's idle thrill, Nor that defeat, so bitter once, is bitter to nie still : T, I think of thee ! I think of thee ! It is but for thy sake That wearied energies arise, and slumbering hopes awake ; For others other smiles might beam, so only one were mine ; For others other praise might sound, so I were worthy thine ; On other brows the Avreath might bloom, but it were more than bliss To fling it at thy feet, and say, "Thy friendship hath done this." VI. Whate'er of chastened pride is mine, whate'er of nurtured power, Of self-restraint when suns -invite, of faith when tempests lower, S42 BEFOEE A COLLEGE EXAinNATIOX. "Whate'er of morning joy I have, whate'er of evening rest, Whate'er of love I yet deserve from those I love the best, Whate'er of honest fame upon my after-life may be, — To thee, my best and fairest, — I shall owe it all to thee! VII, I am alone — I am alone! thou art not by my side. To smile on me, to speak to me, to flatter or to chide ; But oh ! if Fortune favour now the effort and the prayer. My heart will strive, when friends come round, to fancy thou art there ; To hear in every kindly voice an echo of thy tone, And clasp in every proffered hand the pressure of thy own. VIII. As those who shed in Fairy-land their child- hood's happy tears Have still its trees before their sight, its musio in their ears, Thus, midst the cold realities of this soul-weary- ing scene, BEFORE A COLLEGE EXAMINATION. 343 My heart will shrink fi-om that which is, to that which once hath heen ; Till common haunts, where strangers meet to sorrow or rejoice, Grow radiant with thy loveliness, and vocal with thy voice. IX. My sister ! — for no sister can be dearer than then art — My sister ! — for thon hadst to me indeed a sister's heart, — Our paths are all divided now, but believe that I obey, And tell me thou beholdest what I bid thee not repay : The star in heaven looks brightest down upon the watery tide : It may not warm the mariner, — dear Lady, let it guide 1 344: ALEXAJSfDER AND DIOGENES. ALEXANDER AND DIOGENES. "Diogenes Alexandro roganti nt diceret si quid opus e.sscU 'nnnc Quidem paullulum,' inquit, 'a sole.'" — Cicero, Ta»e Disp. I. Slowly the monarch turned aside: But when his glance of youthful pride Rested upon the warriors gray "Who bore his lance and shield that day, And the long line of spears, that came Through the far grove like waves of tiaiiic, His forehead burned, his pulse beat high, More darkly flashed his shifting eye, And visions of the battle-plain Came bursting on his soul again. n. The old man drew his gaze away Eight gladly from that long array, As if their presence were a blight Of pain and sickness to his sight; And slowly folding o'er his breast The fragments of his tattered vest. As was his wont, unasked, unsought. Gave to the winds his muttered thouL':ht, Naming no name of friend or foe, And reckless if they heard or no. ALEXANDEE AND moGENES. 345 III. " Ay, go thy way, thou painted thing, Puppet, which mortals call a King, Adorning thee with idle gems, With drapery and diadems, And scarcely guessing, that beneath The purple robe and laurel wreatli, There's nothing but the common slime Of human clay and human crime I — My rags ai-e not so rich, — but they Will serve as well to cloak decay. IT. " And ever round thy jewelled brow False slaves and falser friends will bow : And Flattery, — as varnish flings A baseness on the brightest things, — Will make the monarch's deeds appear All worthless to the monarch's ear. Till thou wilt turn and think that fame So vilely dressed, is worse than shame ! — The gods be thanked for all their mercies, Diogenes hears naught but curses. V. "And thou wilt ban(piet! — air and sea Will render up their hoards for thee; And golden cups for thee will hold Rich nectar, richer than the gold. — S-iG ALEXAJSTDER AND DIOGENES. The cunning caterer still must share The dainties which his toils prepare ; The page's lip must taste the wine Before he fills the cup for thine : Wilt feast with me on Hecate's cheer I I dread no royal hemlock here ! YI. " And night will come ; and thou wilt lie Beneath a purple canopy, "With lutes to lull thee, flowers to shed Their feverish fragrance round thy bed, A princess to unclasp thy crest, A Spartan spear to guard thy rest. — Dream, happy one ! — thy dreams will be Of danger and of perfidy, — The Persian lanc«, the Carian club ! — I shall sleep sounder in my tub. VII. " And thou wilt pass away, and have A marble mountain o'er thy grave, "With pillars tall, and chambers vast, — Fit palace for the worm's repast ! I too shall perish ! let them call The vulture to my funeral ; The Cynic's staft', the Cynic's den. Are all he leaves his fellow-men ; Heedless how this corruption fares, — Yea, heedless, though it mis with theirs. (1S26.) AKMINIUS. ARMINIUS* "Cernebatur contra minitabundus Arminius, prailimnqua denuntians". — Taoit. Aunal. ii. 10. I. Bacx, — back! — he fears not foaming flood Who fears not steel-clad line ! No offspring this of German blood, — No brother thou of mine ; Some bastard spawn of menial birth, — Some bound and bartered slave : Back, — back ! — for thee our native earth Would be a foreign grave! Away ! be mingled with the rest Of that thy chosen tribe ; And do the tyrant's high behest, And earn the robber's bribe ; * ArminiuB, the assertor of the liberties of Germany, had a brother who had been brouglit up and had risen to high rank in the Roman service. Upon one occasion, when the two armies were separated by the river Wesor, the brothers, after a colloquy which ended in reciprocal reproaches, were scarcely prevented, says Tacitus, fronv rushing into the stream and en- gaging hand to hand. 34S AEMINITJS. And win the chain to gird the neck, The gems to hide the hilt, And blazon honour's hapless wreck With all the gauds of guilt. in. And wouldst thou have me share the prej ? By all that I have done. By Yarus' bones, which day by day Are whitening in the sun, — The legion's shattered panoply, The eagle's broken wing, I would not be, for earth and sky, So loathed and scorned a thing! IV. Ho ! bring me here the wizard, boy, Of most surpassing skill. To agonize, and not destroy. To palsy, and not kill : If there be truth in that dread art. In song, and spell, and charm, Now let them torture the base heart, And wither the false arm ! V. I curse him by our country's gods. The terrible, the dark. The scatterers of the Eoman rods. The Quellers of the bark! AKMINIDS. 34:9 They fill a cup with bitter woe, They fill it to the brim ! "Where shades of warriors feast below That cup shall be for him ! vr. I curse him by the gifts our land Hath owed to him and Rome — The riving axe and burning brand, Rent forests, blazing home ; — Oh, may he shudder at the thought, Who triumphs in the sight ; And be his waking terrors wrought Into fierce dreams by night. vn. I curse him by tlie hearts that sigh In cavern, grove, and glen, — The sobs of orphaned infancy, The tears of aged men ; — "When swords are out, and spear and diir' Leave little space for prayer. No fetter on man's arm and heart Hangs half so heavy there. VIII. Oh, misery, that such a vow On such a head should be ! Why comes he not, my brother, now, To fight or fall with me, — Vol. I.— 23 350 AKMINIUS. To be my mate in banquet bowl, My guard in battle throng ? And worthy of his father's soul And of his country's song ? But it is past ; — where heroes press And spoilers bend the knee, Arminius is not brotherless, — His brethren are the free ! They come around; one hour, and light "Will fade from turf and tide ; Then onward, onward to the fight, With darkness for our guide ! X. To-night, to-night, — when we shall meet In combat face to face, — There only would Arminius greet The renegade's embrace ; The canker of Eome's guilt shall be Upon his Roman name. And as he lives in slavery, So shall he die in shame I (182T.) REMEMBER ME. 351 REMEMBER ME. In Seville, when the feast was long, And lips and lutes grev.' free, At Inez' feet, amid the throng, A masquer bent his knee ; And still the burden of his song "Was, " Sweet, remember me ! " Remember me in shine and shower, In sorrow and in glee ; When summer breathes upon the flower; When winter blasts the tree; When there are dances in the bower, Or sails upon the sea. "Remember me beneath far skies, On foreign lawn or lea ; When others worship those wild eyes Which I no more may see ; When others wake the melodies Of which I mar the key. " Remember me ! my heart will claim No love, no trust from thee ; Remember me, though doubt and blame Linked with the record be ; Remember me, — with scorn or shame, — But yet, remember me!" 0827.) 352 TO THE KEY. DERWEST COLEKIDGfE. TO THE REV. DERWENT COLERIDGE, ON HIS MARRIAGE. Who must the beauteous Lady be That wins that heart of thine ? Tn a dream, methinks, she comes to me, Half mortal, half divine, Robed in a fine and fairy dress From Fancy's richest store, — A more becoming garb, I guess, Than e'er man's mistress wore ! With a step that glides o'er turf and stone As light as the morning beams. And a voice whose every Avhispered tone Calls up a host of dreams ; And a form which you might safely swear Young Nature taught to dance, And dazzling brow and floating hair Which are themselves romance ; And eyes more eloquently bright Than ether's brightest star. With much of genius in their light. And more of fondness far ; And an untainted love of earth And all earth's lovely things. And smiles and tears, Avhose grief and mirth Flow forth from kindred springs ; FKOM GOETHE. 353 And a calm heart, so wholly given To him whose love it wixkes, That through all storms of Fate and Heaven It hcnds with his — or breaks. Such must the beauteous Lady be That wins that heart of thine, And is to thy fair destiny Wliat none may be to mine I (1S2T.) FROM GOETHE. Unheeded toils, unvalued cares. And slighted sighs, and baffled prayers, Hate, cruelty, caprice, disdain, — Are these thy sad harp's saddest theme. Thy morning thought, thy midnight dream ? Away ! — it is a weary lot To waste love's songs where love is not ; But do not thou, fond boy, complain ; Alas ! to some 'tis bitterer far To love, and feel how loved they are ! (Junk 12, 1S28.) 354 MEMOET. MEMORY. Nessun maggior dolore Che recordarsi del tempo felice, Nella miseria. DanU. I. Stand on a funeral mound, Far, far from all that love thee : With a barren heath around, And a cypress bower above thee : And think, while the sad wind frets. And the night in cold gloom closes. Of spring, and spring's sweet violets. Of summer, and summer's roses. Sleep where the thunders fly Across the tossing billow ; Thy canopy the sky, And the lonely deck thy pillow ; And dream, whUe the chill sea-foam In mockery dashes o'er thee. Of the cheerful hearth, and the quiet home, And the kiss of her that bore thee. MEMOEY. III. Watch in the deepest cell Of the foeman's duiigeon-tower, Till hope's most cherished spell Has lost its cheering power ; And sing, while the galling chain On every stiff limb freezes, Of the huntsman hurrying o'er the plain. Of the breath of the mountain breezes. Talk of the minstrel's lute. The warrior's high endeavour, "When the honeyed lips are mute, And the strong arm crushed forever ; Look back to the summer sun, From the mist of dark Deceniber ; Then say to the broken-hearted one, " 'Tis pleasant to remember 1" (Ai'BiL 11, 1S29.) 355 356 FuiMus ! FUIMUS ! Go to the once-loved bowers ; "Wreathe blushing roses for the lady's hair : Winter has been upon the leaves and flowers, — They were ! Look for the domes of kings ; Lo, the owl's fortress, or the tiger's lair! Oblivion sits beside them ; Mockery sings, They were ! Waken the minstrel's lute ; Bid the smooth pleader charm the listening air: The chords are broken, and the lips are mute :^— They were ! Visit the great and brave ; Worship the witcheries of the bright and fair: Is not thy foot upon a new-made grave? — They were! Speak to thine own heart; prove The secrets of thy nature. What is there? Wild hopes, warm fancies, fervent faitli, fond love, — They were! LINES. 6b i We too, we too must fall ; A few brief years to labour and to boar ; — Then comes the sexton, and the old trite tale, "We were!" (May 21, 1829.) LINES. SENT IN THANKS FOR A BOTTLE OF VEKY FINE OLD BRANDT. WRITTEN FOR LADY C . Spirits there were, in olden time, Which wrought all sorts of wondrous things (As we are told in prose and rhyme) With wands and potions, lamps and rings ; I know not, Lady fair, — do you ? — Whether those tales be false or true. But in our day — our dismal day Of sadder song and soberer mirtli. If any spirits ever play Upon the faded fields of earth, Whose magic. Lady fair, can fling O'er winter's frosts the flowers of spring, — 868 CHILDHOOD A2fD HIS VISITORS. If any spirits haunt our Isle Whose power can make old age look gay, Revive the tone, relume the smile, And chase threescore of years away, — Such spirits, Lady fair, must be Like those your kindness sends to me I (Mat 2, 1829.) CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS. Once on a time, when sunny May "Was kissing up the April showers, I saw fair Childhood hard at play Upon a hank of blushing flowers : Happy — he knew not whence or how, — And smiling, — who could choose but love liim ? For not more glad than Childhood's brow "Was the blue heaven that beamed above him. Old Time, in most appalling wrath. That valley's green repose invaded ; The brooks grew dry upon his path, The birds were mute, the lilies fiided. CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITOliS. 350 But Time so swiftly winged bis fllglit, In haste a Grecian tomb to batter, That Childbood watched bis paper kite, And Ijftew just nothing of the matter. With curling lip and glancing eye, Guilt gazed upon the scene a minute ; But Childhood's glance of purity Had such a holy spell within it, That tlie dark demon to the air Spread forth again his baffled pinion, And hid his envy and despair, Self-tortured, in his own dominion. IV. Then stepped a gloomy phantom up. Pale, cypress-crowned, Night's awful daughter, And proffered him a fearful cup, Full to the brim of bitter water : Poor Childhood bade her tell her name ; And when the beldame muttered — " Sorrow," He said, — "Don't interrupt my game; I'll taste it, if I must, to-morrow." V. The Muse of Pindus tliither came, And wooed him with the softest numbers That ever scattered wealth and fame Upon a youthful poet's slumbers. 360 CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITOES. Though sweet the music of the lay, To Childhood it was all a riddle, And "Oh," he cried, " do send away That noisy woman with the fiddle !" TI. Then Wisdom stole his bat and ball, And taught him, with most sage endeavour, Why bubbles rise, and acorns fall, And why no toy may lust forever : She talked of all the wondrous laws "Which Nature's open book discloses. And Childhood, ere she made a pause, "Was fast asleep among the roses. vn. Sleep on, sleep on! — Oh! manhood's dreams Are all of earthly pain or pleasure, Of Glory's toils, Ambition's schemes. Of cherished love or hoarded treasure : But to the couch where Childhood lies A more delicious trance is given. Lit up by rays from Seraph-eyes, And glimpses of remembered heaven. (1829.) CHILDHOOD'S CRITICISM. 361 CHILDHOOD'S CRITICISM. ON HEE REPEATING THE PRECEDIXG LINES. "You've only got to curtsey, whisp — — er, hold your head up, laugh and lisp, And then you're sure to take." Rejected Addresses. I. A Poet o'er his tea and toast Composed a page of verse last winter, Transcribed it on the best Bath post, And sent the treasure to a printer. He thought it an enchanting thing ; And, fancying no one else could doubt it, Went out, as happy as a king, To hear what people said about it. II. Queen Fame was driving out that day ; And, though she scarcely seemed to know him, He bustled up, and tried to say Sometliing about his little poem ; But ere from his unhappy lip Three timid trembling words could falter, The goddess cracked her noisy whip, And went to call upon Sir "Walter! 362 childhood's criticism. in. Old Criticism, whose glance observed Tlie minstrel's blushes and confusion, Came up and told him he deserved The rack at least for his intrusion : The poor youth stared and strove to spealc; His tyrant laughed to see him wincing, And grumbled out a line of Greek, Which Dulness said was quite convincing. IV. Then stepped a gaunt and wrinkled witch, Hight Avarice, from her filthy hovel ; And "Ehymc," quoth she, "won't make you rich ; Go home, good yonth, and write a novel ! Cut up the follies of the age ; Sauce them with puns and disquisitions ; Let Colburn cook your title-page, And I'll insure you six editions." V. Ambition met him next ;— he sighed To see those once-loved wreaths uf kurel, And crept into a bower to hide, For he and she had had a quarrel. The goddess of the cumbrous crown Called after him, in tones of pity, " My son, you've dropped your wig and gown!^^ And, bless me, how you've torn your Chitty I" childhood's criticism. 363 VI. 'Twas all iinlicecled or unheard, For now he knocked at Beautj^'s portal ; One word from her, one golden word. He knew, would make his lays immortal. Alas ! he elbowed through a throng Of danglers, dancers, catgut scrapers. And found her twisting up his song Into the sweetest candle-papers. VII. He turned away with sullen looks From Beauty, and from Beauty's scorning. " To-night," he said, " I'll burn my books ; I'll break my harpstrings in the morning." — When lo, a laughing Fay drew near ; And with soft voice, more soft than Circe's, She whispered in the poet's ear The sounds the poet loved — his verses ! VIII. He looked, and listened; and it seemed In Childhood's lips the lines grew sweeter : Good lack! till now he had not dreamed How bright the thought, how smooth the metre. Ere the last stanza was begun. He managed all his wrath to smother ; And when the little Nymph had done, Said, " Thank you, Love ; — I'll write another !" VOctobkhI, 1829 j 364 BEAUTY A^V BCEK VISITOR?. BEAUTY AND HER VISITORS. I. I LOOKED for Beauty : — on a throne, A dazzling throne of light, I fonnd her ; And Music poured its softest tone And flowers their sweetest breath around her. A score or two of idle gods, Some dressed as peers, and some as peasant*, "Were watching all her smiles and nods, And making compliments and presents.. And first young Love, the rosy boy, Exhibited his bow and arrows, And gave her many a pretty toy. Torches, and bleeding hearts, and sparrows : She told him, as he passed, she knew Her court would scarcely do without him ; But yet — she hoped they were not true — There were some awkward tales about him. Wealth deemed that magic had no charm More mighty than the gifts he brought her, And linked around her radiant arm Bright diamonds of the purest water: BEATJTY AND HER VISTTOES. 365 The Goddess, with a scornful touch, Unclasped the gaudy, galling fetter ; And said, — she thanked him very much,— She lili;ed a wreath of roses better. IV. Then Genius snatched his golden lute, And told a tale of love and glory : The crowd around were hushed and mute To hear so sad and sweet a story ; And Beauty marked the minstrel's cheek, So very pale — no bust was paler ; Vowed she could listen for a week ; But really — he should change his tailor I V. As died the echo of the strings, A shadowy Phantom kneeled before her, Looked all unutterable tilings, • And swore, to see was to adore her ; He called her veil a cruel cloud, Her cheek a rose, her smile a battery : She fancied it was Wit that bowed ; — ■ I'm almost certain it was Flattery. TI. There was a beldame finding fault With every person's every feature ; And by the sneer, and by the halt, I knew at once the odious creature : Vol. L— 24 366 BEAUTY AND HEE VISITOES. " You see," quotli Envy, " I am come To bow — as is my bouudeii duty ; — They tell me Beauty is at liome ;— Impossible! that canH be Beauty !" I heard a murmur far and wide Of "Lord! how quick the dotard passes!" As Time threw down at Beauty's side The prettiest of his clocks and glasses ; But it was noticed in the throng How Beauty marred the maker's cunning ; For when she talked, the hands went wrong ; And when she smiled, the sands stopped run- vni. Death, in a doctor's wig and gown, Came, arm in arm with Lethe, thither, And crowned her witli a withered crown, And hinted, Beauty too must wither ! "Avaunt!" she cried— "how came he here? The frightful fiend! he's my abhorrence !" I went and whispered in her ear, " He shall not hurt you !— sit to Lawrence 1" (1829.) HOW AM I LIKE HER? 367 HOW AM I LIKE HER? "Toil are very like her." — 3fi-es II I^ . " Ecsemblances begin to strilco In things exceedingly unlike." — MS. Poem. How am I like her ? — for no trace Of pain, of passion, or of aught That stings or stains, is on her face : Mild eyes, clear forehead, — ne'er -^-as -wrought A fitter, fairer dwelling-place For tranquil joy and holy thought. How am I like her? — for the fawn Not lighter bounds o'er rock and rill Than she, beneath the intruding dawn Threading, all mirth, our gay quadrille ; Or tripping o'er our level lawn To those she loves upon the hUl. How am I like her ? — for the ear Thrills with her voice. Its breezy tone Goes forth, as eloquently clear As are the lutes at Heaven's high throne ; And makes the hearts of those who hear As pure and peaceful as her own. 3G8 HOW AM I LIKE HER? How am I like her ? — for lier ways Are full of bliss. She never knew Stern Avarice, nor the thirst of praise Insatiable ; — Love never threw Upon her calm and sunny days The venom of his deadly dew. How am I like her ? — for her arts Are blessing. Soi-row owns her thrall; She dries the tear-drop as it starts, And checks the murmurs as they fall ; She is the day-star of our hearts, Consoling, guiding, gladdening all. How am I like her? — for she steals All sympathies. Glad Childhood's play Is left for her ; and wild Youth kneels Obedient to her gentle sway ; And Age beholds her smile, and feels December brightening into May. How am I like her ?— The rude fir Is little like the sweet rose-tree : — Unless, perchance, fair flatterer, In this your fabled likeness be, — That all who are most dear to her Axe apt to be most dear to me. (October 10, 1829.) MY LITTLE COUSINS. 369 MY LITTLE COUSINS. E voi ridete ? — Certo ridiamo. Cosi /an tuite. Laugh on, fair consins, for to you All life is joyous yet ; Your hearts have all things to pursue, And nothing to regret ; And every flower to you is fair; And every month is May ; You've not been introduced to Care, — Laugh on, laugh on, to-day ! Old Time will fling his clouds, ere long, Upon those sunny eyes; The voice whose every word is song, "Will set itself to sighs ; Your quiet slumbers, — hopes and feai's Will chase their rest away ; To-morrow, you'll be shedding tears, — Laugh on, laugh on, to-day! Oh, yes ; if any truth is found In the dull schoolman's tlieme,— ■ If friendship is an empty sound, And love an idle dream, — 370 MT LITTLE COUSINS. If Mirth, youth's phaymate, feels fatiguo Too soon on life's long way, At least he'll run witli you a league, — Laugh on, laugh on, to-day ! Perhaps your eyes may grow more briglit As childhood's hues depart ; You may be lovelier to the sight, And dearer to the heart ; You may he sinless stUl, and see This earth still green and gay ; But what you are you will not be, — Laugh on, laugh on, to-day ! O'er me have many winters crept. With less of grief than joy ; But I have learned, and toiled, and wept,— I am no more a boy ! I've never had the gout, 'tis true; My hair is hardly g^ay ; -But now I cannot laugh like you, — Laugh on, laugh on, to-day! I used to have as glad a face. As shadowless a brow : I once could run as blithe a race As you are running now; ON AN INFANT NEPHEW. 371 But never mind how I behave, Don't interrupt your play ; And though I look so very grave, Laugh on, laugh on, to-day 1 (Ma ECU 8, 1S30.) ON AN INFANT NEPHEW. The little one — the little one ! 'Tis a fearful thing and strange, That the silent seasons as they run Should work such mighty change! The lips that cannot lisp my name May rule the stern debate ; And the hands too weak for childhood's game Sport with the falchion's weight ! The beauteous one — the beauteous one ! In the wide world, I wis, There's many a beauteous thing, but none Of beauty like to this. In youth and age, eartli's sinful leaven Where'er we go we ti-ace ; But there is only peace and Heaven In the smile of an infaoit's lixce. o72 ON AN INFANT NEniEW, The merry one — the merry one ! He is all wit and whim ; Our life has naught but a cloudless sun And a waveless sea for him. He knows not Sorrow's thorny path, Nor Pleasure's flowery snare, JTor heeds the bitter glance of wrath, Nor the haggard cheek of Care. The cherished one — the cherished one 1 A mystery is the love Of parents for their infant son ; It cometh from above. He is all music to their ear, All glory to their sight; By day he is their hope and fear, Their thought and dream by night. The guiltless one — the guiltless one ! How blest the earth would be, If her best and holiest men had done No more of wrong than he ! If the blot of sin and the doom of pain On the baby's brow be set, — O brother ! — who shall see the stain, Or read the sentence yet ? a830.v LINES. 373 LIXES. The hues of life are fading from her wan and wasted cheek ; Her voice is as an infant's voice, a whisper faint and weak ; But still we look and listen, for our hearts have never known Such sweetness in a countenance, such softness in a tone. She is passing from the world, from the weary Avorld away, From the sorrows that afflict us, from the pleas- ures that betray ; And another Home — a fairer Home — is opened to her sight, Where the summer shines forever, where the roses know no blight. I know that we shall miss her, in the evening and the dawn. In our converse round the fireside, in our walk upon the lawn ; I know that we shall miss her, in our mirth and in our care, In the breaking of our bread, and in the breath- ing of our prayer. 374: LINES. And not the ring or brooch alone, bnt whatsoe'er Ave see, The river and the green hill-side, the cottage and the tree, "Will bring her image back to us ; there is not m our heart A single hope — a single fear — in which she has no part. Yet weep not, if you love her, that her tedious toil is done ; Oh, weep not, if you love her, that her hoi}' rest is won ! There should be gladness in your thought and smiles upon your brow. For will she not be happy then? — is she not happy now ? And we will learn to talk of her; — and after many years The tears which we shall shed for her will not be bitter tears, "When we shall tell each other, with a fond and thankful pride. In vv'liat purity she lived, and in what peaceful- ness she died. (May 26, ISSO.) A FRAGMENT. 375 A FRAGMENT. Hast thou e'er watched and wept beside the bed On wliich some dying friend reposed his head, — ■ Some loved and reverenced friend, from whom thy youth Learned its first dream of happiness and truth? When those fast-fading eyes were closed on earth, On its vain mourning, and its vainer mirth, "When the strong spirit in the painful strife Already seemed to live its after-life, Viewing the homes which are prepared above "With firmer knowledge and with fonder love, — Oh then, with what sad reverence didst thou dwell On every word that from those wan lips fell ! How didst thou consecrate with grateful care The half-told message and the half-breathed prayer I And, when the soul was trembling to depart, How was the look engraven on thy heart Which turned to seek thee, ere the spirit passed, And smiled a blessing on thee at the last ! (ISSO.) 376 HOPE AND LOVE. HOPE AND LOVE. One day through Fancy's telescope, Which is my richest treasure, I saw, dear Susan, Love and Hope Set out in search of Pleasure : All mirth and smiles I saw them go; Each was the other's hanker ; For Hope took up her brother's bow, And Love, his sister's anchor. II. They rambled on o'er vale and hill. They passed by cot and tower ; Through summer's glow and winter's chill, Through sunshine and through shower : But what did those fond playmates care For climate or for weather ? All scenes to them were bright and fair, On which they gazed together. III. Sometimes they turned aside to bless Some Muse and her wild numbers, Or breathe a dream of holiness On Beauty's quiet slumbers : HOPE AND LOVE. 377 "Fly on," said Wisdom, with cold sneers; " I teach my friends to doubt you:" " Come back," said Age, with bitter tears; "My heart is cold without you." IV, When Poverty beset their path, And threatened to divide them, They coaxed away the beldame's wrath Ere she had breath to chide them, By vowing all her rags were silk. And all her bitters, honey. And showing taste for bread and milk, And utter scorn for money. V. They met stern Danger in their way. Upon a ruin seated ; Before him kings had quaked that day, And armies had retreated ; But he was robed in such a cloud, As Love and Hope came near him, That though he thundered long and loud, They did not see or hear him. VI. A gray-beard joined them. Time by name ; And Love was nearly crazy To find that he was very lame, And also very lazy : 378 HOPE AND LOVE. Hope, as he listened to her tale, Tied wings upon his jacket; And then they far outran the mail. And far outsailed the packet. VII. And so, when they had safely passed O'er many a land and hillow,' Before a grave they stopped at last, Beneath a weeping willow : The moon upon the hnmhle mound Her softest light was flinging ; And from the thickets all around Sad nightingales were singing. VIII. "I leave you here," quoth Father Time, As hoarse as any raven ; And Love kneeled down to spell the rhyme, Upon the rude stone graven : But Hope looked onward, calmly hrave, And whispered, " Dearest brother. We're parted on this side the grave, — We'll meet upon the other." (1830.) BELWOKTHir. 379 SELWORTHY. WEITTEN TINDER A SKETCH OF SIR THOMAS AO- LA^^D'S COTTAGES FOR THE POOR. I. A GEXTLE Muse was hovering o'er The wide, wide world, and looking long For a pleasant spot where a Muse might pour To the wood or the wave her liquid song ; And ""Who," said she, "of the kind aud free — Who will open his gate for me?" II. "Come hither," said "Wealth, "to my crowded mart, "Where splendour dazzles the gazer's eye ; "Where the sails approach and the sails depart "With every breath of the summer sky." " Oh, no," said she ; " by the shore of the sea "V/ealth has no room in his store for me I" III. "Come hither," said "War, "to my moated tower ; Danger and Death have walked the plain ; 380 SELWOTiTHY. But the arrowy sleet of the iron shower Beats on these stubborn walls in vain." " Oh, no," said she ; " there is blood on the key War shall not open a lock for roe !" tv. "Come hither," said Love, "to my rosy dell, Where nothing of grief or care has birth; Rest in my bower, where sweet dreams dwell, Making a heaven— a heaven of earth." "Oh, no," said she; "at this trysting-tree Love is too happy to think of me !" V. And she lifted at last the humble latch, And entered in at a lowly door ; For Charity there had spread the thatch O'er the peaceful roof of the sick and poor. And "Here," said she, "my rest shall be; Here is a home and a theme for me." (AtiGiTST 7, 1830.) OASSAJSTDEA. 381 CASSANDRA. AvfltS irpb? aA/C)jf /cat iiapTraya? Soixiov K. u irOp eVavya^ouirai' aicTTuiTripLOv. LycopJieron, Cassandra, C'J I. They harried to the feast, The warrior and the priest, And the gay maiden with her jewelled brow ; The minstrel's harp and voice Said,. "Triumph and rejoice!" One only mourned! — many are mournina: now! II. " Peace ! startle not the light With the wild dreams of night;" — So spake the princes in their pride and joy, When I iu their dull ears Shrieked forth my tale of tears, "Woe to the gorgeous city, woe to Troy I"-— in. Ye watch the dun smoke rise Up to the lurid skies ; Ye see the red light flickering on the stroam; Vol. L— 25 382 OASSAOTJEA. Ye listen to fhe fall Of gate, and tower, and wall ; Sisters, the time is come ! — alas, it is no dream rv. Through hall, and court, and porcb, Glides on the pitiless torcli ; The swift avengers faint not in their toil : Vain now the matron's sighs, Yain now the infant's cries ; — Look, sisters, look ! who leads them to tha ■spoil \ Not Pyrrhns, though his hand Is on his father's hrand ; Not the fell framer of the accursed Steed ; Not Nestor's hoary head. Nor Teucer's rapid tread. Nor the fierce wrath of impious Diomede. VI. Visions of deeper fear To-night are warring here ; — I know them, sisters, the mysterious Three : Minerva's lightning frown, And Juno's golden crown, And him, the mighty Ruler of the sounding seal CASSANDRA. S83 VU. Througli wailing aud through woe, Silent and stern they go ; So have I ever seen them in my trance : Exultingly they guide Destruction's fiery tide, And lift the dazzling shield, aud poise the deadly lance. VIII. Lo, where the old man stands, Folding his palsied hands, And muttering, with white lips, his querulous prayer : " Where is my noble son. My best, my bravest one — Troy's hope and Priam's — wliere is Hector,— where ?" IX. Why is thy falchion grasped? Why is thy helmet clasped ? Fitter the fillet for such brow as thine ! The altar reeks with gore ; O sisters, look no more ! It is our father's blood upon the shrine I s. And ye, alas ! must roam Far from your desolate home, Far from lost Iliura, o'er the joyless wave ; 884 CASSANDRA. Ye may not from these bowers Gather the trampled flowers To wreathe sad garlands for your brethren'ti grave. XI. Away, away ! the gale Stirs the white-bosomed sail ; Hence ! look not back to freedom or to fame ; Labour must be your doom, Night-watchings, days of gloom, The bitter bread of tears, the bi-idal conc!j of shame. xir. Even now some Grecian dame Beholds the signal-flame, And waits, expectant, the returning fleet ; " Why lingers yet my lord ? Hath he not sheathed his sword ? Will he not bring my handmaid to my feet ?"' XIII. Me, too, the dark. Fates call : Their sway is over all, Captor and captive, prison-house and throne : — I tell of others' lot ; They hear me, heed me not! Hide, angry Phoebus, hide from nie mine own ! (1S30.) SIR NICHOLAS AT MAESTON MOOR. 385 SIR NICHOLAS AT MARSTON" MOOR. To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas! the darion'r, note is high ; To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas ! the huge drum makes reply : Ere this hath Lucas marched with his gallant cavaliers, And the bray of Eupert's trumpets grows faint- er on our ears. To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas ! White Guv is at the door, And the vulture Avhets his beak o'er the field of Marston Moor. Up rose the Ladj Alice from her brief and bro- ken prayer, And she brought a silken standard down the narrow turret-stair. Oh, many were the tears that those radiant eyes had shed, As she worked the bright word "Glory" in the gay and glancing thread ; And mournful was the smile that o'er tliose beauteous features ran. As she said, " It is your lady's gift, unfurl it in the van." 386 SLR NICHOLAS AT MAKSTON MOOK. " It shall flutter, noble wench, where the best and boldest ride, Through the steel-clad files of Skippon and the black dragoons of Pride ; The recreant soul of Fairfax wiU feel a sicklier qualm. And the rebel lips of Oliver give out a louder psalm, When they see my lady's gewgaw flaunt bravely on their wing. And hear her loyal soldiers' shout, for God and for the King!" — 'Tis noon ; the ranks are broken along the royal line; They fly, the braggarts of the Court, the bullies of the Ehine : Stout Langley's cheer is heard no more, and Astley's helm is down. And Eupert sheathes his rapier with a curse and with a frown ; And cold Newcastle mutters, as he follows in the flight, "The German boar had better far have supped in York to-night." The Knight is all alone, his steel cap cleft in twain, His good buff jerkin crimsoned o'er with many a gory stain ; SLK NICHOLAS AT MAK3T0N MOOR. 387 But still he waves the standard, and cries, amid the rout — " For Church and King, fair gentlemen, spur on and fight it out!" And now he wards a Eoundhead's pike, and now he hums a stave, And here he quotes a stage-plaj, and there he fells a knave. Good speed to thee, Sir Nicholas ! thou hast no thought of fear ; Good speed to thee. Sir Nicholas! hut fearful odds are here. The traitors ring thee round, and with every hlow and thrust, "Down, down," they cry, "with Belial, down with him to the dust !" " I would," quoth grim old Oliver, "that Belial's trusty sword This day were doing battle for the Saints and for the Lord!" The Lady Alice sits with her maidens in her bower ; The gray-haired warden watches on the castle's highest tower. — "What news, what news, old Anthony?" — " The field is lost and won ; 388 SIR NICHOLAS AT MAE3T0N MOOK. The ranks of war are melting as the mists beneath the sun ; And a wounded man speeds hither, — I am old and cannot see, Or sure I am that sturdy step my master's step should be." — " I brmg thee back the standard, from as rude and rough a fray As e'er was proof of soldier's tliews, or theme for minstrel's lay. Bid Hubert fetch the silver bowl, and liquor quantum svff. ; I'll make a shift to drain it, ere I part with boot and buff; Though Guy through many a gaping wound is breathing out his life. And I come to thee a landless man, my fond and faithful wife ! " Sweet, we will fill our money-bags, and freight a ship for France, And mourn in merry Paris for this poor realm's mischance ; Or, if the worst betide me, why, better axe or rope, Than life with Lenthal for a king, and I'eters for a pope ! LAMENT FOR BOTH WELL BEIGG. 389 Alas, alas, my gallant Guy ! — out on the crop- eared boor, That sent me with my standard on foot from Marston Moor I" (1S30.) THE COVENANTER'S LAMENT FOR BOTHWELL BRIGG. The men of sin prevail ! Once more the prince of this world lifts his horn : Judah is scattered as the chaff is borne Before the stormy gale. "Where are orir brethren ? where The good and true, the terrible and fleet? They whom we loved, with whom we sat at meat, "With whom we kneeled in prayer ? Mangled and marred they lie, Upon the bloody pillow of their rest : Stern Dalzell smiles, and Clavers with a jest Spurs his fierce charger by. 890 LAMENT FOE BOTHWELL BRIGG. So let our foes rejoice ; — We to the Lord, who hears their impious boasts, "Will cull for comfort ; to the God of Hosts We wUl lift up our voice. Give ear unto our song ; For we are wandering o'er our native land, As sheep that have no shepherd ; and the hand Of wicked men is strong. Only to Thee we bow. Our lips have drained the fury of Thy cup ; And the deep murmurs of our hearts go up To Heaven for vengeance now. Avenge, — oh, not our years Of pain and wrong ; the blood of martyrs shed ; The ashes heaped upon the hoary head ; The maiden's silent tears ; The babe's bread torn away ; The harvest blasted by the war-steed's hoof ; The red flame wreathing o'er the cottage roof; Judge not for these to-day ! Is not Thine own dread rod Mocked by the proud, Thy holy Book disdained, Thy name blasphemed, Thy temple courts pro- faned? Avenge Thyself, Godl LAMENT FOK BOTHWELL BRIGG. 391 Break Pharaoh's iron crown ; Bind with new chains their nobles and their kings ; "Wash from Thine house the blood of unclean things ; And hurl their Dagon down ! Come in Thine own good time ! We will abide : we have not turned from Thee ; Though in a world of grief our portion be. Of bitter grief and crime. Be Thou our guard and guide ! Forth from the spoiler's synagogue we go, That we may worship where the torrents flow, And where the whirlwinds ride. From lonely rocks and caves "We will pour forth our sacrifice of prayer. — On, brethren, to the mountains ! Seek we there Safe temples, quiet graves I (1S30.) 392 STANZAS. STANZAS, WRITTEN TTNDEE A PICTURE OF KTKG's CCLI.EGH CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE. EXTEACTED rEOM AN ALBUM IN DETONSHir.E. Most beautifnl ! — I gaze and gaze In silence on the glorious pile ; And the glad thoughts of other days Come thronging back the while. To me dim Memory makes more dear The perfect grandeur of the shrine ; But if I stood a stranger here, The ground were still divine. • Some awe the good and wise have felt, As reverently their feet have trod On any spot where man hath knelt. To commune with his God ; By sacred spring or haunted weU, Beneath the ruined temple's gloom, Beside the feeble hermit's cell, Or the false prophet's tomb. But when was high devotion graced "With lovelier dwelling, loftier throne. Than here the limner's art hath traced From the time-honoured stone ? LINES FOK "THE KEEPSAKE." 393 Tlic Spirit here of 'WovsLip seems To hold the sonl iu willing thrall, And heavenward hopes and holy dreams Come at her voiceless call ; — At midnight, when the lonely moon Looks from a vapour's silvery fold ; At morning, when the sun of June Crests the high towers with gold ; For every change of hour and form Makes that fair scene more deeply fair ; And dusk and daybreak, calm and storm, Are all religion there. (1880.) LINES WniTTEN FOE A BLANK PAGE OF " TIIK KEEPSAKE.' Lady, there's fragrance in your sighs, And sunlight in your glances ; I never saw such lips and eyes In pictures or romances ; And Love will readily suppose. To make you quite enslaving, That you have taste for verse and prose, Hot pressed, and line engraving. 394 ANTICIPATION. And then, you waltz so like a Fay, That roand you envy rankles ; Your partner's head is turned, tliey say As surely as his ankles ; And I was taught, in days far gone, By a most prudent mother, That in this world of sorrow, one Good turn deserves another. I may not win you ! — that's a bore ! But yet 'tis sweet to woo you ; And for this cause, — and twenty more, I send this gay book to you. If its songs please you, — by this light! I will not hold it treason To bid you dream of me to-night, And dance with me next season. (1880.) ANTICIPATION. " On, yes! he is in Parliament; He's been returning thanks ; You can't conceive the time he's spent Already on his franks. AJSTICrPATION. 395 He'll think of nothing, night and day, But place, and the gazette:" No matter what the people say, — You won't believe them yet. " He filled an albnm, long ago, "With such delicious rhymes; Now we shall only see, you know, His speeches in the ' Times;' And liquid tone and beaming brow, Bright eyes and locks of jet, He'll care for no such nonsense now :" — Oh ! don't believe them yet ! " I vow he's turned a Goth, a Hun, By that disgusting Bill ; He'll never make another pun ; He's danced his last quadrille. "We shall not see him flirt again "With any fair coquette ; He'll never laugh at Drury Lane." — Psha ! — don't believe them yet. " Last week I heard his uncle boast He's sure to have the seals ; I read it in the ' Morning Post' That he has dined at Peel's; You'll never see him any more. He's in a ditlerent set ; 396 STANZAS. He cannot eat at half-past four :" — No? — don't believe them yet. ''In short, he'll soon be false and cold, And infinitely wise ; He'll grow next year extremely old, He'll tell enormous lies ; He'll learn to flatter and forsake, To feign and to forget :" — • Oh, whisper — or my lieart will break — You won't believe them yet ! (1830.) STANZAS WRITTEN IN LADY MTRTLE's BOCOAOCIO. I. Iif these gay pages there is food For every mind, and every mood, Fair Lady, if you dare to spell them : Now merriment, now grief prevails ; But yet the best of all the tales Is of the young group met to tell them. STAKZAS. 397 n. Oh, was it not a pleasant thonglit, To set the pestilence at nanght, Chatting among sweet streams and flowers ; Of jealous husbands, fickle wives. Of all the tricks which Love contrives. To see through veils, and talk through tow- ers? in. Lady, they say the fearful guest, Onward, still onward, to the west, Poised on his sulphurous wings, advances ; Who, on the frozen river's banks. Has thinned the Russian despot's ranks, And marred the might of Warsaw's lances Another year — a brief, brief year ! And lo ! the fell destroyer here, He comes with all his gloomy terrors ; Then Guilt will read the properest books, And Folly wear the soberest looks, And Virtue shudder at her errors. T. And there'll be sermons in the street ; And every friend and foe we meet "Will wear the dismal garb of sorrow ; Vol. I.— 26 398 STANZAS. And quacks "will send their lies about, And wearj Halford will find out He must have four new bays to-morrow. VI. But you shall fly fron^ these dark signs, As did those happy Florentines, Ere from your cheek one rose is faded ; And hide your youth and loveliness In some bright garden's green recess, By walls fenced round, by huge trees shaded vn. There brooks shall dance in light along. And birds shall trill their constant song Of pleasure, from their leafy dwelling ; You shall have music, novels, toys ; But still the chiefest of your joys Must be, fair Lady, story-telling. vin. Be cautious how you choose your men ; Don't look for people of the pen, Scholars who read, or write the papers ; Don't think of wits, who talk to dine. Who drink their patron's newest wine. And cure their patron's newest vapours. STANZAS. 399 IX. Avoid all youths who toil for praise By quoting Liston's last new phrase ; Or sigh to leave high fame behind thera ; For swallowing swords, or dancing jigs, Or imitating ducks and pigs ; Take men of sense, — if you can find thera. Live, laugh, tell stories ; ere they're told, New themes succeed upon the old ; New follies come, new faults, new fashions ; An hour, a minute, will supply To Thought a folio history Of blighted hopes, and thwarted passions. King Death, when he has snatched away Drunkards from brandy, Dukes from play, And Common-councilmen from turtle, Shall break his dart in Grosvenor Square, And mutter, in his fierce despair, " Why, what's become of Lady Myrtle ?" (1831.) 400 LINES IN AN ALBUM. LINES WEITTEIT IN AN ALBTTM, THE GIFT OF QUEEJl ADELAIDE TO LADY MAYO. A BEAUTIFUL and bounteous Fay Beside a cradle sang one day ; The mother heard not, but the child In her glad dream looked up and smiled. " I bring thee a rose— a rose for thee, The sweetest of my bower ; It is a token thou shalt be As lovely and loved a flower : Thou too shalt brightly bloom, and wear In future years, as now, Deep beauty in thy sunny hair, Blue eyes, and tranquil brow. " I bring thee a lute — an ivory lute ; I bring it for a sign That Wit shall sue with an anxious suit For a look or a word of thine. Grave Science at thy feet shall lay Whate'er the wise have known, And Music charm thy cares away With lier most delicious tone. LINES IN AN ALBUM. 401 " I bring thee a sceptre ! wake and gaze On the symbol of high command: A nation's love, in after-days, Shall trust it to thy hand, When from thy home thou shalt depart And go o'er the bounding wave To be the Bride of a Monarch's heart, The Queen of the free and brave. " I bring thee a Book — a holy Book : In all thy grief and mirth It is a spell to bid thee look Still up to Heaven from earth, And turn to Him who alone forgives With a firm and faithful trust, And live the life which virtue lives, And die as die the just !" I need not whisper to your thought For v\-hat fair child those gifts were wrougli', Nor tell how true our English eyes Have found the Fairy's prophecies. (1S31.) 403 LINES m AN ALBUM. LINES WRITTEN IN THE SAME, tTNDEE A PICTUEE OF THH DUCAL PALACE AT HESSE HOMBURG, THE EESI- DEXCE OF THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH, DAITGIITEB OF GEORGE III. It is a joyous land, I guess ; The sun shines bright, the breeze roves free ; And Nature flings her fairest dress On humble herb and lofty tree ; But thou wilt think in those far bowers, With half a smile, and half a sigh. Thy childhood wreathed as fragrant flowers, And laughed beneath as warm a sky. And proudly o'er those poplars tall And tapering firs the Palace gleams; But ah ! the time-worn Castle's wall Is stiU remembered in thy dreams ; And that broad Terrace still is dear, Where, when the star of day went down, Thy good old Sire went forth to hear Rich blessings, richer than his crown. And other friends are round thee now Than those that shared thine early mirth ; LINES UNDEK A PORTKAIT. 403 And thou hast newer slaves to bow, And foreign lutes to hymn thy worth ; But thou wilt never quite forget That here, where first thy praise was heard, Thy virtues are recorded yet, Thy name is yet a household word. And if thou ne'er mayst see again The white cliffs of thy fatherland, And if henceforth we seek in vain Thy cheering smile and bounteous hand, — Thou wilt be what thou wast and art, Where'er thy bark may chance to roam ; And thou wilt keep thine English heart. And thou wilt love thine English home ! (1881.) LINES WEITTEN TJXUEE A PORTRAIT OF LORD MAYO, DRAWN BY THE QUEEN. A COURTIER of the nobler sort, A Christian of the purer school ; — Tory, when Whigs are great at Court, An d Protestant, when Papists rule ; 404 BEESTED LODGE, BOGNOE. Prompt to support the Monarch's crown, As prompt to dry the poor man's tears; Yet fearing not the Premier's frown, And seeking not the rabble's cheers ; Still ready, — favoured or disgraced, — To do the right, to speak the true ; — The Artist who these features traced A better Subject never knew ! (NOVEMBEE, 1833.) LINES WRITTEN UNDER A VIEW OF EERSTED LODGE, BOGNOR. If e'er again my wayward fate Should bring me, Lady, to your gate, The trees and flowers might seem as fair As in remembered days they were ; But should I in their loved haunts find The friends that were so bright and kind ? My heart would seek with vain regret Some tones and looks it dreams of yet; I could not follow through the dance The heroine of my first romance; BERSTED LODGE, BOQNOR. 405 At hi8 own board I coiild not see The kind old man that welcomed me. Wlien round the grape's ricli juices pass, Sir William does not drain his glass; When music charms the listening throng, " Pescator'''' is not the song; Queen Mah is ageing very fast, And Coelebs has a wife at last. I too am changed, as others are; I'm graver, wiser, sadder far : I study reasons more than rhymes. And leave my Petrarch for the "Times," And turn from Laura's auburn locks To ask my friend the price of stocks. A wondrous song does Memory sing, A merry — yet a mournful thing ; When thirteen years have fleeted by, 'Twere hard to say if you or I Would gain or lose in smiles or tear^4,^ By just forgetting thirteen years. (1S83.) 406 LATIN HYMN TO THE VIRGIN. LATIN HYMN TO THE VIRGIN. I. Virgin Mother, thou hast known Joy and sorrow like my own ; In thy arms the bright Babe lay, As my own in mine to-day ; So He wept and so He smiled ; Ave Mary ! guard ray child ! From the pains and perils spread Eound about our path and bed, Fierce desires, ambitious schemes, Moody doubts, fantastic dreams. Pleasures idle, passions wild, Ave Mary ! guard my cliild I III. Malve him whatsoe'er may be Dearest to the saints and thee ; Tell him, from the throne above, Wliat to loathe and what to love; To be true and just and mild, Avo Mary I teach my child 1 THE 8AUBATH. 4U7 IV. By the wondrous mercy won For the world by thy blest Sou, By the rest Ills labours wrought, By the bliss His tortures bought. By the Heaven He reconciled, Ave Mary ! bless my child ! V. If about his after fate Sin and sorrow darkly wait, Take him rather to thine arms From the world and the world's harms ; Thus unscathed, thus undefiled, Ave Mary ! take my child ! THE SABBATH. I. Foe whom was the Sabbath made \ It brings repose and rest ; It hushes Study's aching head, Ambition's anxious breast: The slave that digs the mine. The serf that ploughs the soil, 408 THE SABBATH. For them it was ordained to shine ;— It is for all that toil. n. For whom was the Sabbath made ? — It opens the Book of Peace, Which tells of flowers that never fad^. Of songs that never cease : If the hopes you nursed decline, If the friends you cherished die, For you it was ordained to shine ; — It is for all that sigh. III. For whom was the Sabbath made?— It calls the wretch to prayer, "Whose soul the noonday thoughts upbraid And the midnight visions scare : It calls thee to the shrine ; Fear'st thou to enter in ? For thee it was ordained to ehiae — It is for all that sin. THE NEWLY-WEDDED. 409 THE NEWLY- WEDDED. I. Now the rite is duly done ; Now the word is spoken ; And the spell has made us one Which may ne'er be broken : Rest we, dearest, in our home, — Roam we o'er the heather, — We shall rest, and we shall roam, Shall we not? together. II. From this hour the summer rose Sweeter breathes to charm us ; From this hour the winter snows Lighter fall to harm us : Fair or foul — on land or sea — Come the wind or weather, Best and Avorst, whate'er they be, We shall share together. III. Death, who friend from friend can part, Brother rend from brother. Shall but link us, heart and heart, Closer to each other : 410 TO HELEN. We will call his anger play, Deem Iiis dart a feather, "When we meet him on our way Hand in hand together. (1835.) TO HELEN. WRITTEN IN THE FIRST LEAF OF KEBLE's "CHRIS- TIAN YEAR," A BIRTHDAY PRESENT. My Helen, for its golden fraught Of prayer and praise, of dream and tho'.ight, Where Poesy finds fitting voice For all who hope, fear, grieve, rejoice, Long have I loved, and studied long. The pious minstrel's varied song. Whence is the volume dearer now ? There gleams a smile upon your brow, Wherein, methinks, I read how well You guess the reason, ere I tell. Which makes to me the simple rhymes More prized, more conned, a hundred times. TO HELEN. 411 Ere vanished quite the dread and doubt Affection ne'er was born without, Found we not here a magic key Opening thy secret soul to me ? Found we not here a mystic sign Interpreting thy heart to mine ? "What sympathies up-springing fast Through all the future, all tlie jiast, In tenderest links began to bind Spirit to spirit, mind to mind, As we, together wandering o'er The little volume's precious store, — Mused, with alternate smile and tear. On the high themes awakened here Of fervent hope, of calm belief. Of cheering joy, of chastening grief; The trials borne, the sins forgiven, The task on earth, the meed in heaven ! My Own ! oh, surely from above Was shed that confidence of love. Which, in such happy moments nursed When soul with soul had converse first, Now through the snares and storms of life Blesses the husband and the wife ! (February 12, ISSG.) ^■^2 TO HELEN. TO HELEN. When some grim sorceress, wliose skill Had bound a sprite to work her wiil, In mirth or malice chose to ask Of the faint slave the hardest task, — She sent him forth to gather np Great Ganges in an acorn- cup, Or heaven's unnumbered stars to bring In compass of a signet-ring. Thus Helen bids her poet write The thanks he owes this morning's light; And " Give me," — so he hears her say, — "Four verses, only four, to-day." Dearest and best ! she knows, if Wit Could ever half Love's debt acquit, Each of her tones and of her looks Would have its four, not lines, but books. (House op Commons, July 7, 1836.) SKETCH OF A YOtTNG LADY. 413 SKETCH OF A YOUNG LADY FIVE MONTHS OI.D. My pretty, budding, breathing flower, Rethinks if I, to-morrow, Could manage, just for half an hour, Sir Joshua's brush to borrow, I might immortalize' a few Of all the myriad graces "Which Time, while yet they all are new, "With newer still replaces. Fd paint, my child, your deep-blue eyes. Their quick and earnest flashes ; I'd paint tlie fringe that round them lies, The fringe of long dark lashes ; I'd di-aw with most fastidious care One eyebrow, then the other. And tliat fair forehead, broad and fair, The forehead of your mother. I'd oft retouch the dimpled cheek "Where health in sunshine dances; And oft the pouting lips, where speak A thousand voiceless fancies ; Vol. I.— 27 411 SKETCH OF A YOUJ^G LADY. And the soft neck would keep me long, The neck, more smootli and snowy Than ever yet in schoolboy's song Had Caroline or Chloe. ^ov less on those twin rounded arms My new-found skill would linger, Nor less upon the rosy charms Of every tiny finger ; Nor slight the small feet, little one, So prematurely clever That, thougli they neither walk nor run, I think tliey'd jump forever. But then your odd endearing ways — What study e'er could catch them ? Your aimless gestures, endless plays — What canvas e'er could match them ? Your lively leap of merriment. Your miirmur of petition. Your serious silence of content. Your laugh of recognition. Here were a puzzling toil, indeed. For Art's most fine creations ! — Grow on, sweet baby ; we will need. To note your transformations, No picture of your form or face. Your waking or your sleeping, SONNET. 4n But that which Love shall daily trace, And trust to Memory's keeping. Hereafter, -when revolving years Have made you tall and twenty, And brought you blended hopes and feai-s, And sighs and slaves in plenty. May those who watch our little saint Among her tasks and duties, • Feel all her virtues hard to paint, As now we deem her beauties. (OCTOBEU 10, 1S3C.) SONNET TO K. C. nir.DTAED. Pkofit and praise attend you, wheresoe'er You charm the country, or amaze the town, "With flow of argument, and flow of gown ! I will not here forget you ; but will spare. Amidst my tranquil joys, a wish and prayer That you may win quick riches, high renown, — Hereafter, better gifts — more like my own 1 kindest found, when kindness was most rarel 416 SONNET. When I recall the days of hope and fear In which I first dared call my Helen mine, Or the sweet hour when first upon my ear Broke the shrill cry of little Adeline, The memory of your friendship, Friend sincere, Among such memories grateful I entwine. (October 15, 1836.) SONNET TO B. J. M. P. A SAD return, my Brother, thine must he To thy void home ! loosed is the silver chain, The golden bowl is broken ! — not again Love's fond caress and Childhood's earnest glee After dull toil may greet and gladden thee. How shall we bid the mourner not complain, Not mui-mur, not despond ? — ah me, most vain Is sympathy, how soft soe'er the key, And argument, how grave soe'er the tone ! In our still chambers, on our bended knees, Pray we for better help ! There is but One "Who shall from sorrow, as from sin, release : God send thee peace, my Brother ! God alono Guideth the fountains of eternal peace. (October 19, 1836.) TO HELEN. 417 TO HELEX, WITH CRABBE's poems — A BIRTRDAT PRESENT. Give Crabbe, dear Helen, on your shelf, A place by Wordsworth's mightier self; In token that your taste, self- wrought From mines of independent thought, And shaped by no exclusive rule Of whim or fashion, sect or school, Can honour Genius, whatsoe'er The garb it chance or choose to wear. Nor deem, dear Helen, unallied The bards we station side by side ; Difierent their harps, — to each his own ; But both are true and pure of tone. Brethren, methinks, in times like ours Of misused gifts, perverted powers, — Brethren are they, whose kindred song Nor hides the Eight, nor gilds the "Wrong, (Febetjaet 12, 183T.) 4:18 TO HELEN. TO HELEN. What pi-ayer, clear Helen, shall I pray, On this my brightest holiday, To the great Giver of all good. By whom our thoughts are understood— Lowly or lofty, wild or weak — Long ere the tardy tongue can speak ? For yon, my treasure, let me pray — That, as swift Time shall steal away Year after year, you ne'er may deem The radiance of this morning's beam Less happy — holy — than you know It dawned for us two years ago. And for our infimts let me pray — Our little precious babes — that they, Whate'er their lot in future years, Sorrow or gladness, smiles or tears, May own whatever is, is just, And learn their mother's hope and trust. And for my own heart let me pray That God may mould me day by day, soNisrET. 419 By grace descending from above, Moi-e -worthy of the joy and love Which His beneficence divine • On this, my best of days, made mine. (July T, 1S87.) SONNET WEITTEN nr THE FIRST LEAF OF LOCKIIART's "life OF SIR WALTER SCOTT." Lo the magician, whose enchantments lend To the dim past a fresh and fairy light, "Who malves the absent present to our sight, And calls the dead to life ! Till time shall end, O'er him the grateful Muses shall extend Unfading laurels ; yet methinks, of right, With holier glory shall his fame be bright, - Leal subject, honest patriot, cordial friend. Of such a spirit, by your cheerful tire This record, Helen, welcome shall appear ; To which your husband-lover's duteous lyre, j!:5'ot tuneless yet, sweet Helen, to your ear, A-dds the warm wish these winter eves inspire, " A merry Christmas, and a glad New Year 1" (DEOEMliEK 20, IS3T.) 420 VEESES IN A child's BOOK, VERSES WRITTEN IN THE FIKST LEAF OF A CHILd's BO(iK, GIVEN BY TO HER GODSON, AGED FOl K. My little Freddy, when yon look Into this nice new story-book, Which is my Christmas present. You'll find it full of verse and prose, xiud pictures too, which I suppose Will make them both more pleasant. Stories are here of girls and boys. Of all their tasks, aiid all their toys. Their sorrows and their pleasures; Stories of cuckoos, dogs, and bees, Of fragrant flowers and beauteous trees— In short, a hoard of treasures. When you have spelled the volume through, One tale will yet remain for you (I hope you'll read it clearly) ; 'Tis of a godmarama, who proves By such slight token, that she loves Her godchild very dearly. (Dkcbmbbr 25, 1S37.) TO HELEN. 421 • TO HELEN, WITU A SMALL CANDLESTICK — A BIKTJIDAY PEESENT, If, wandering in a wizard's car Through yon blue ether, I were able To fashion of a little star A taper for my Helen's table, — "What then?" she asks me with a laugh; — Why, then, with all Heaven's lustre glowing, It would not gild her path with half The light her love o'er mine is throwing 1 (Febeuaet 13, 1838.) TO HELEN, WITH SOUTHEy's poems. A HAPPY and a holy day Is this alike to soul and sight ; With cheerful love and joyful lay Would I, dear Helen, greet its light. 422 THE HOME OF HIS CHILDHOOD. But vain the purpose — very vain ! I cauuot play the mmstrel's part, When recent care and present pgiin Untune the lyre, iinnerve the heart. Yet prize these tomes of golden rhyme; And let them tell you, in far years, "When faint the record traced by Time Of brightest smiles or saddest tears — As sunward rose the Persian's prayer, Though clouds might dim the votary's view, So still, through doubt and grief and care, My spirit, Helen, turned to you. (July T, 183S.) THE HOME OF HIS CEILDHOOD. I. He knows that the paleness still grows on his cheek. He feels that the fever still burns on his brow, And what in his thought, in his dream, does he seek Far, far o'er the ocean that circles him now? THE HOME OF HIS CHILDHOOD. 423 'Tis the Home of his Childhood ! the first and tlie best! Oh, why have, you hurried him oyer the wave, That the liand of the stranger may tend on his rest, That the foot of the stranger may tread on his grave ? II. Here the son may be brighter, tlie lieaven more blue, But, oh 1 to his eyes they are joyless and dim ; Here the flowers may be richer of perfume and hue, — They are not so fair nor so fragrant to him : 'Tis the Home of his Childhood ! Oh, bear him again To the play-haunted lawn, to the love-lighted room. That his mother may watch by his pillow of pain, That his father may whisper a prayer o'er his tomb I (St. Leonard'8-on-Sea, December 22, 1S3S.) 424 TO HELEN. TO HELEN, WITH A DIARY, A BIETHDAT PEESEXT. If daily to these tablets fair My Helen shall intrust a part Of every thought, dream, wish, and prayer, Born from her head or from her heart — "Well may I say each little page More precious records soon will grace, Than ever yet did bard or sage From store of truth or fable trace. Affection — friendship here will glow. The daughter's and the mother's love, And chai'ity to man below, And piety to God above. Such annals, artless though they be. Of all that is most pure and bright — Oh, blessed are the eyes that see ! More blessed are the hands that write! (February 12, 1S89.) TO HELEN". 425 TO HELEN. Deaeest, I did not dream, four years agi^, Wlien tlirougli your veil I saw your briglit tear shine, Caught your clear whisper, exquisitely low, And felt your soft hand tremble into mine. That in so brief — so very brief a space, He, who in love both clouds and cheers our life, "Would lay on you, so full of light, joy, grace, The darker, sadder duties of the wife, — Doubts, fears, and frequent toil, and constant care , For this poor frame, by sickness sore bestead ; The daily tendance on the fractious chair, The nightly vigil by the feverish bed. Yet not unwelcomed doth this morn arise. Though with more gladsome beams it might have shone : Strength of these weak hands, light of these dim eyes, In sickness, as in health, — bless you, My Owu ! (SuDBURT, July T, 1S89.) END OF VOL. I. "VOLUME' U. CONTENTS OF VOL. II. POEMS OF LIFE AND MANNERS. PART I. V*GK The Eve of Battle ^1 The County Ball 27 To Julio, on his coming of Age 53 To Julia peepaking foe uek Fikst Season in Town 58 Lauea '^^ TiiE Confession of Don Cap.los To The BACnELOR ^9 Mareiage ^^ How TO RHYME FOE LOTE 92 Changing Quarters 9""^ Reminiscences of my Youth 104 BuuLY Hall ,112 Yale ! 128 PART II. Ea-EET-DaY CiLAllACTEES. I. The Yioak . . . 137 ' '^ " II. Qulnce . . . .141 " " III. The Bellb op the Ball- EooM . . . .145 « " IV. My Partnee . . . 15ft " •' V. Portrait of a Lady . 164 The Childe's Destiny 1^ ± CONTENTS. PAGB Josephine 161 The Chant op the Bkazen 1Ie\d 164 Twenty-Eight and Twenty-Nine .... 168 Song foe the Foueteentu of February . , . 172 Apeil Fools .175 Good-Night to the Season 179" Arrivals at a Wateeing-Place 1S3 The Fancy Ball 187 A Letter op Advice 198 ^ The Talented Man 197 -< Letters from Teignmouth. I. Ouk Ball . . . 200-^^ " " " II. Private Theatkicals . 204 Tales out of School 207 Palinodia . . ■ 209 Utopia 213 Marriage Chimes 217 School and School-Fellows 22t^" Peologue to "Tub Honeymoon" 225 POEMS WRITTEN" IN EARLY YOUTH. On Pitt 2-31 On the Departure or an Old IIoitsekeeper . . 232 Valentines. I. Imitation op Metastasio's Partenza 234 " 11. A Madrigal 235 * III. The Dove 236 IV. The Deities .237 A Faulb 238 Lines on leaving Otteeton 240 Forget Me not 242 Woman: a Fragment 243 Munito 244 Lines written in Voltaire's '•Chaui.es XII." . . 245 To Florence 247 Maeius amidst the Ruins of Carthage .... 260 Kdwaed Morton 251 A. Child's Grave 25S CONTENTS. A Letter from Eton Ox THE Deatu op a School-Fellow BONKBT PAQB 259 . 2C2 '2i>4 PEIZE POEMS, TRANSLATIONS, AND EPIGEAMS. Australasia Athens The Ascent of Elijah Ptkauides ^gyptiao^ The Pyka-mids op Egypt In Obitum T. F. Mlddleton, Episc. Calctttteksi8 Hdtdostan Epioeammaton Libek : EPfi TE AHTA K'OYK EPn. a. (Tkanslatiom of the Foregoing) . ScBiBiMirs Indocti Doctiqi-e . (Translation of the Foregoing) NiroiB Seeia docunt in Mal^v. I. (TeanslAtion of tub Foregoing) II. III. IV. ScRiBiMus Indocti Doctique. I. (Translation op the Foregoing) II. . Translations : Song op the Sailors op Salamis . The Death of A.iax .^NEAS and the SllJYL TuE Hoopoe's Invocation to the NiGmiNCALE Fko-m Lucretius Stans Pede in Uno 267 279 292 302 303 816 317 329 330 330 -331 831 332 334 884 S85 335 S3G 337 340 ;342 343 344 r,47 CONTENTS. SONGS. Lord Eoland . Tes or No Tell Him I love Him yei "Where is Miss Myrtle? The CoNFESSioif Last "Words . The KinNAWAT . Long Ago i remember, i remember Bhadowb op Sadness . CHARADES AND ENIGMAS I. II. III. IV. V. XI. VII. VIII. IX. X. XI. XII. XIII. XIV. XV. XVI. XVII. XVIIL XIX. XX. XXL XXII. Hbart-pree . The Letter A . Good-Night , A Bottle . Eainbow Firefly A Chi.me of Bells Knighthood Heart-ache . Death-'watoh . Bowstring Moonlight Link-Boy Bell-rope . bctteess Peacock Moonshine "Woden Necklace "Windlass . Season . Crossbow . 353 354 356 357 360 361 363 364 oC6 367 STl , 372 373 , 374 376 377 378 378 380 381 383 3S5 386 887 888 890 891 , 895 895 896 CONTENTS. XXIII. XXIV. XXV. xxvr. XXVII. XXVIII. XXIX. XXX. -XXXI. XXXII. XXXIII. XXXIV. XXXV. XXXVI. XXXVII. XXXVIII. Donkey . CouETSnip . GLOW-Wonji Nightshade Wakden . Bridegroom Nightcap Ca.mpbkll . CAMBl'.IIKiE IIeirloom . Footpad . C0PBOAKD . Uklmstonb ruineoeave Blockhead fosglovs PAGB 397 . 808 S99 • 400 401 , 402 . 404 405 . 406 407 . 403 409 . 410 411 . 412 POEMS OF LIFE AND MANNERS. PART I. TStoit, 1820-1821.) POEMS EY WIXTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED. THE EVE OF BATTLE. " It is not yet near day. Come, go with mo : Under our tents Til play the eaveadiopper." Shalxpeare. The night comes on, and o'er tlie field The moon shines bright on helm and shield; But there are many on that plain That shall not see her light again ; She loolvs serene on countless bands Of mailed breasts and steel-bound hands ; And shows a thousand faces there Of courage high, and dark despair, All mingled as the legions lie Wrapped in their dreams of victory. A lowering sound of doubt and fear Breaks sudden on the startled ear. And hands are clinched, and cheeks are pale, And from bright blade and ringing mail 12 THE EVE OF BATTL3. A thousand hands, with busy toil, Clean off each ancient stain or soil ; Or spots of blood, v.-here truth may read For every drop a guilty deed. Survey the crowds who there await, In various mood, the shock of fate ; Who burn to meet, or strive to shun, The dangers of to-morrow's sun. Look on the husband's anxious tears, The hero's hopes, the coward's fears, The vices that e'en here are found. The follies that are hovering round ; And learn that (treat it as you will) Our life must be a mockery still. Alas ! the same caprices reign In courtly hall, or tented plain ; And the same follies are revealed In ball-room, and in battle-field. Turn to you open tent, and see Where, drunk with youth and Burgundy, Reclines, his midnight revel o'er, The beau of battle, Theodore. Before him, on his desk, he lays The billet-doux of other days ; And while he reads his fancy lingers On those white hands and witching f.ngora That traced the darling signatures — THE EVE OF BATTLE. 13 The " Yonrs till death," and "Truly yours :" And as by turns they meet his eye, He looks, and laughs, and throws them by, Until, perchance, some magic name Lights up a spark of former flame ; And then he ponders, in his trance, On Mary's love-inspiring glance. On Chloe's eye of glittering fire, And Laura' s look of fond desire. Poor Theodore ! if valiant breast. And open heart, and song, and jest, And laughing lip, and auburn hair, And vow sent up by lady fair, Oan save a youthful warrior's life, — Thou fall'st not in to-morrow's strife. Look yonder ! — on the dewy sward Tom "Wittol lies— a brother bard ; He lies and ponders on the stars. On virtue, genius, and the wars ; On dark ravines, and woody dells, On mirth and muses, shot and shells ; On black mustachios, and White Surrey, On rhyme and sabres — death and Murray ; Until at last his fancy glows As if it felt to-morrow's blows; Anticipation fires his brain With fights unfought, unslaughtered slain ; And on the fray that is to he 1-i THE EYE OF BATTLE. Comes forth a Dirge or Elegy ; And if lie meets no heavier harm To-morrow, from a foemau's arm, Than cracked cuirass, or broken head. He'll hasten from his fever's bed, And, just broke loose from salve and lint, Eush, like a hero, into print; Heading his light and harmless prattle— " Lines written on a field of battle." Thou favoured bard, go boldly on; The Muse shall guard her darling son ; And when the musket's steady aim Is levelled at the pet of fame. The Muse shall check the impious crime. And shield thee with a ream of rhyme ; But if 'tis doomed, and fall thou must, Since bards, like other men, are dust. Upon the tomb where thou shalt sleep Phcebus and Mars alike shall weep ; And he that loved, but could not save. Shall write " Hie jacet" o'er thy grave. What wight is that, whose distant nose Gives token loud of deep repose ? What ! honest Harry on the ground ? r faith thy sleep is wondrous sound, For one who looks, upon his waking, To sleep "the sleep that knows not breaking." But rest thee, rest ! thou merriest soul THE EVE OF BATTLE. 15 That ever loved the circling bowl ; I look upon his empty cup, And sudden tears, uncalled, spring up ; Perchance in this abode of pother Kind Harry may not drain another ; But still our comrades at the Bell On Harry's prowess long shall tell. And dignify, with well-earned praise, The revelry of other days. And then the merry tale will run Of many a wager lost and won, On many a jest, and many a song, And many a peal of laughter long, That from our jovial circle broke At Harry's toast, or Harry's joke; Again, at Fancy's touch restored, Our old sirloin shall grace the board ; Again, at Fancy's touch, shall flow The tap we drained an age ago. And thou, the soul of fun, the life Of noisy mirth, and playful strife, Mayst sleep, in Honour's worm-worn bed, The dreamless slumber of the dead. But oft shall one sad heart, at least, Think on the smile that never ceased Its catching influence, till the earth Closed o'er the lips that gave it birth. I'll pour upon thy tranquil rest 16 THE EYE OF BATTLE. The hallowed bowl of Metis's best ; And recollect, with smile and sigh, Thy " beer with E, and bier Avith I." Dazzle mine eyes? or do I see Two glorious Suns of Chancery? The pride of Law appears the first, And nest the pride of Moulsey Hurst. Faithless and feeless, from the bar Tim Quill is come to practise war : Without a rival in the ring. Brown Eobert "peels" for Church and King. Thus ever to your country's lights Together go, ye kindred knights ! Congenial arts ye aye pursued ; " DaylighV ye studied to exclude ; And both of old were Icnoion to Crib, And both were very apt iofil. Together go ; no foe shall stand The vengeance of our country's brand, When on his ranks together spring Cross-luttocTcs and c^'oss-questioniug. Sir Jacob arming ! what despair Has snatched him from his elbow-chair? And hurried from his good old wine The bachelor of fifty-nine ! What mighty cause lias torn him thus Unwilling from suburban rus, THE EYE OF BATTLE. 1 7 Bade him desert his one-horse chaise, His old companions, and "old ways ;" Give up his Baccalaurean tattle, And quit the bottle for the battle ? Has he forgot, in martial ardour, His wig, his tea-pot, and his larder ? Has he forgot — ungrateful Sub. — Champagne, backgammon, and — the club? Has he forgot his native earth, His sofa, and his decent hearth ? Has he forgot his homely fare, And her, the maid with yellow hair, That dressed the meat, and spread the board, Laid fuel on the fire, and poured. In stream as sparkling as her eye, From its green goal the Burgundy ? That Hebe, in thy native town, Looks from her latticed window down, And, when the newsman paces by, Runs, with a sharp and fearful cry. And cheek all pale, and eye all wet. To seek thy name in the Gazette. What fate has bid her master roam, An exile, from his cheerful home? What! has his landlord turned him out? Is he gone mad with love — or gout? Has Death imposed his finger bony Upon his mistress — or his crony? Have sober matrons ceased to praise YoT.. XL— 2 18 THE ETE OF BATTLE. The lover of their youthful days ? Are belles less eager to command, With wink and smile, his ready hand ? Fears he the sudden dissolution Of club-house — or of constitution ? Has the last pipe of hock miscarried ? Has 1 forget, last week he — married. Thou, too, thy brilliant helm must don, Etona's wild and wayward son, Mad, merry Charles. While, beardless yet, Thou look'st upon thy plume of jet. Or smilest as the clouds of night Are drifted back by morning's light, Thy boyish look, thy careless eyes. Might wake the envy of the wise. Six months have passed since thou didst rove. Unwilling, through Etona's grove. Trembling at many an ancient face That met thee in that holy place ; To speak the plain and honest truth, Thou wast no scholar in thy youth. But now go forth — broke loose from school, Kill and destroy by classic rule, Or die in fight, to live in story. As valiant Hector did before ye. . On ! on ! take forts, and storm positions, Break Frenchmen's heads — instead of Prisciau's, And seek in death and conflagration THE EVE OF BATTLE. 19 A gradus to thy reputation. Yet when the war is loud and high, Tliine old mistakes will round thee fly ; And still, in spite of all thy care, False quantities will haunt thee there, For thou wilt make, amidst the thronj)^, Or (^(tji] short, or aXeog long. Methinks I know that figure bold, And stalwart limbs of giant mould ! 'Tis he — I now liis ruddy face, My tried, staunch friend, Sir Matthew Chase. His snore is loud, his slumber deep, Yet dreams are with him in his sleep, And Fancy's visions oft recall The merry Hunt, and jovial Hall — And oft replace before his sight The bustle of to-morrow's fight. In swift succession o'er his brain Come fields of corn, and fields of slain ; And, as the varying image burns. Blood and blood-horses smoke by turns ; The five-barred gate, and muddy ditch, Smoleusko, and "the spotted bitch," Parisian puppies — English dogs, "Begar" and "damme," — beef and frogs, la strange, unmeaning medley fly Before poor Nimrod's wandering eye. He speaks ! what murmuring, stifled sounds 20 THE EVE OE BATTLE. Burst from his throat : " Wliy, madam ! zounds ! Who scared me with that Gorgon face? I thought I saw my Lady Chase." And thou, too, Clavering — Humour's son ! Made up of wisdom and of fun ! Medley of all that's dark and clear, Of all that's foolish, all that's dear; Tell me, what brings thee here to die. Thou prince of eccentricity ? Poor Arthur ! in his childhood's day He cared so little for his play, And wore so grave and prim a look, And cried so when he missed his book, That aunts were eager to presage The glories of his riper age ; And fond mamma in him foresaw The bulwark of the British law. And Science, from her lofty tliroue. Looked down and marked him for her own. Ah ! why did Flattery come at school To tinge him with a shade of fool 1 Alas! what clever plans were crossed! Alas! how wise a judge' was lost! Without a friend to check or guide. He hurried into fashion's tide, He aped each folly of^the throng. Was all by turns, and nothing long ; Through varying tastes and modes he flew, THE EVE OF BATTLE. 21 Dress — 'boxing — racing — dice — Virtti; !N"ow looking blue in sentimentals, No^- looking red in regimentals, iKow impudent, and now demure, iS'ow- blockhead, and now connoisseur, Ifow smoking at "The Jolly Tar," Now talking Greek with Doctor Parr ; A friend by turns to saints and sinners, Attending lectures, plays, and dinners, The Commons' House, and Common Halls, Chapels of Ease, and TattersaU's ; Skilful in fencing and in fist. Blood — critic — jockey — methodist; Causeless alike in joy or sorrow, Tory to-day, and Whig to-morrow, All habits and all shapes he wore. And loved, and laughed, and prayed, and swore : And now some instantaneous freak, Some peevish whim, or jealous pique, Has made the battle's iron shower The hobby of the present hour. And bade him seek, in steel and lead, An opiate for a rambling head. A cannon-ball will prove a pill To lull what nothing else can still ; And I, that prophesy his doom, "Will give him all I can — a tomb, And o'er a pint of hiilf-nnd-hdf. Compose poor Arthur's epitaph : — 22 THE EVE OF BATTLE. " Here, joined in death, th' observer sees Plato — and Alcibiades ; A mixture of the grave and funny, A famous dish of Salmagundi." Allan M'Gregor! from afar I see him, midst the ranks of war, That all around are rising fast From slumbers that may be their last ; I know him by his Highland plaid. Long borne in foray and in raid, His scarf, all splashed with dust and gore, His nodding plume, and broad claymore ; I know him by that eagle eye, Where foemen read their destiny ; I know him by that iron brow That frowns not, burns not, quails not, now, Though life and death are with the ray That redly dawns upon to-day. Woe to the wretch whose single might Copes with dark Allan in the fight ; He knows not mercy — knows not fear; The pibroch has to Allan's ear A clearer and a sweeter note Than mellow strains that blithely float From lyre or lute, in courtly throng. Where Beauty smiles upon the song. Of artful wiles against his foe Nothing he knows, or cares to know ; THE* EVE OF BATTLE. 23 Far less he reeks of polished arts, The batteries in the siege of hearts. And hence the minions of the ton, While fair and foolish dames look on, Lang-h at Old Allan's awkward bow, His stern address, and haughty brow. Langh they? — when sounds the hollow drum, And banded legions onward come, And life is won by ready sword, By strength to strike, and skill to ward. Those tongues, so brave in woman's war, Those cheeks, unstained by scratch or scar, Shall owe their safety in the fight To hoary Allan's arm of might. Close to the Clansman's side is seen Dame Fortune's soldier, James M'Lean. I know him well — no novice he In warfare's murderous theory ; Amidst the battle's various sound, "While bullets flew like hail around, M'Lean was born ; in scenes like this He passed his earliest hours of bliss; Cradled in war, the fearless child Looked on the scene of blood, and smiled ; Toyed with the sabre of the Blues Long ere he knew its hellish use ; His little fingers loved to feel The bayonet's bright point of steel, 24 THE EVE OE BATTLE. Or made his father's helmet ring "With beating up — " God save the King!" Those hours of youthful glee are fled ; The thin gray hairs are on his head ; Of youth's hot current naught remains Within the ancient warrior's veins. Yet, vrhen he hears the battle-cry, His spirit beats as wild and high As on the day that saw him wield His virgin sword on battle-field ; The eve on which his comrades found him, "With England's colours wrapped around him, His face turned upwards, and his hand Still twined around his trusty brand, As, spent with wounds, and weak with toil. He lay upon the bloody soil. E'en now, though swift advancing years Might well decline this life of fears. Though the deep scars upon his breast Show claim to honourable rest, He will not quit what time has made His joy, his habit, and his trade. He envies not the peasant's lot. His cheerful hearth, and humble cot ; Encampments have to him become As constant, and as dear a home. Such are the hearts of steel, whom War Binds in their cradle to his car, THE EVE OF BATTLE. 25 And leaves them in their hxtter day, With honour, medals, and half-pay. Burdened with all the cares of life. Repentance — asthma — and a wife. And what am I, who thus can choose Such subject for so light a muse? Who wake the smile, and weave the rhyme In such a scene, at such a time ? Mary, Avhose pure and holy kiss Is still a cherished dream of bliss, When last I saw thy bright blue eye, And heard thy voice of melody, And felt thy timid, mild caress, I was all hope — all joyonsness! We parted — and the moiTow's sun — O God ! my bliss was past and done ; The lover's hope, the husband's vow. Where were they then? ah I where wert Ihou? Mary! thou vision loved and wej>t. Long years have passed since thou hast slept, liemoved from gaze of mortal eye, The dreamless sleep of those that die : Long years! yet has not passed away The memory of that fatal day When all thy young and faded grace Before me lav in Death's embrace. 26 THE EVE OF BATTLE. A throb of madness and of xjain Shot through my heart and through my brain ; I felt it then, I feel it now. Though time is stamped upon my brow ; Though all my veins grow cold with age, And o'er my memory's fading page Oblivion draws her damning line, And blots all images — save thine. Thou left'st me— and I did become An alien fi-om my house and home ; A phantom in life's busy dream ; A bubble on misfortune's stream ; Condemned through varying scenes to rove, With naught to hope, and naught to love ; No inward motive, that can give Or fear to die, or wish to live. Away I artvay ! Death rides the breeze ! There is no time for tlioughts like these ; Hark! from the foeman's distant camp I hear their charger,s' sullen tramp ; On! valiant Britons, to the fight! On ! for St. George, and England's right I Green be the laurel — bright the meed, ■ Of those that shine in martial deed ! Short be the pang — swift pass the breath, Of those that die a Soldier's death. THE COUNTY BALL. 27 THE COUNTY BALL. "Busy people, great and small, Awkward dancers, short and tall, Ladies, fighting which shall call. Loungers, pertly quizzing all." Anon. Tins is a night of pleasure ! Care, I shake thee from me ! do not dare To stir from out thy murky cell, "Where, in tlieir dark recesses, dwell Thy kindred Gnomes, who live to nip The rose on Beauty's cheek and lip. Until, beneath their venom ed breath, Life wears the pallid hue of Death. Avaunt ! I shake thee from me. Care ! The gay, the youthful, and the fair, From " Lodge," and " Court," and " House," and " Hall," Are hurrying to the County Ball. Avaunt! I tread on haunted ground, And giddy Pleasure draws around, To shield us from thine envious spite, Her magic circle ! Naught to-night Over that guarded barrier flies But laughing lips and smiling eyes ; 28 THE COUNTY BALL. My look shall gaze around me free, And like my look my line shall be ; While fancy leaps in every rein, While love is life, and thought is pain, I will not rule that look and line By any word or will of thine. The Moon hath risen ! Still and pale Thou movest in thy silver veil, Queen of the night ! the filmy shroud Of many a mild, transparent cloud Hides, yet adorns thee ; — meet disguise* To shield thy blush from mortal eyes. Full many a maid hath loved to gaze Upon thy melancholy rays; And many a fond, despairing youth Hath breathed to thee his tale of trutli •. And many a luckless rhyming wight Hath looked upon thy tender light, And spilt his precious ink upon it, In Ode, or Elegy, or Sonnet. Alas! at this inspiring hour I feel not, T, tliy boasted power ! Nor seek to gain thine approbation By vow, or prayer, or invocation ; I ask not what the vapours are. That veil thee like a white cymar ; Nor do I care a single straw For all the stars I ever saw ! THE COUNTY P..VLL. 29 I fly from thee, I fly from these, To bow to earthly Goddesses, Wliose forms in mortal beauty shine As fair, but not so cold, as thine. But this is foolish ! Stars and Moon, You look quite beautiful in June ; But, when a Bard sits down to sing, Your beauty is a dangerous thing ; To muse upon your placid beam. One wanders sadly from one's theme ; And when weak Poets go astray. The stars are more in fault than they. The Moon is charming ! so, pei'haps. Are pretty maidens in mob-caps; But, when a Ball is in the case, They're both a little out of place. I love a Ball ! there's such an air Of magic in the lustre's glare, And such a spell of witchery In all I hear, and all I see. That I can read in every dance Some relic sweet of old romance ; As Fancy wills, I laugh and smile, x\nd talk such nonsense all the while, That when Dame Reason rules again, And morning cools my heated brain, Eeality itself doth seem 30 THE COUNTY BALL. Naught but the pageant of a dream ; Id raptures deep I gaze, as now, On smiling lip, and tranquil brow, While raerry voices echo round, And music's most inviting sound Swells on mine ear ; the glances fly. And love and folly flutter high. And many a fair, romantic cheek, Eeddened with pleasure or with pique, GloAvs with a sentimental flush. That seems a bright, unfading blush ; And slender arms before my face Are rounded with a Statue's grace : And ringlets wave, and beauteous feet. Swifter than lightning, part and meet; Frowns come and go; white hands arc pressed ; And sighs are heard, and secrets guessed. And looks are kind, and eyes are bright. And tongues are free, and hearts are light. Sometimes upon the crowd I look. Secure in some sequestered nook, And while from thence I look and iij;ten, Though ladies' eyes so gayly glisten, Though ladies' locks so lightly float, Though Music pours her mellowed note, Some little spite will oft intrude Upon my merry solitude. THE COUNTY BALL. 31 By turns the ever-varying scene Awakes within me mirtli and spleen ; By turns the gay and vain appear, — By turns I love to smile and sneer, Mixing my malice with my glee, Good-humour with misanthropy; And while my raptured eyes adore Half the bright forms that flit before, I notice with a little laugh The follies of the other half. That little laugh will oft call down. From matron sage, rebuke and frown ; Little, in truth, for these I care, — By Momus and his mirth I swear ! For all the dishes Rowley tastes. For all the paper Courtenay wastes, For all the punch his subjects quaff, I would not change that little laugh.* Shall I not laugh, when every fool Comes hither for my ridicule ; When every face, that flits to-night In long review before my sight, Shows off, unask'd, its airs and graces, Unconscious of the mirth it raises? * Hoc ego opertuni. Hoc ridcre meum, t.im nil, nulla libi vendo lUade. pera. 32 THE COUNTY BALL. Skilled to deceive our ears and eyes By civil looks and civil lies, Skilled from the search of men to hide His narrow bosom's inward pride, And charm the blockheads he beguiles By uniformity of smiles. The County Member, bright Sir Paul, Is Primo Buffo at the Ball. Since first he longed to represent His fellow-men in Parliament, Courted the cobblers and their spouses. And sought hig honours in mud-houses. Pull thirty Springs have come and fled ; And though from off his shining head The twin destroyers, Time and Care, Begin to pluck its fading hair. Yet where it grew, and where it growf>, Lie powder's never-varying snows. And hide the havoc years have made, In kind monotony of shade. Sir Paul is young in all but years, And when his courteous face appears, The maiden wall-flowers of the room Admire the freshness of his bloom. Hint that his face has made him vain, And vow "he grows a boy again ;" And giddy girls of gay fifteen Mimic his manner and his mien, TIIK COU:>JTY BALL. 33 And when the supple politician Bestows Ills bow of recognition, Or forces on tli' avei-ted ear The flattery it affects to fear. Tliey look, and laugh behind the fan, And dub Sir Paul " the young old man." Look! as he paces round, he greets. With nod and simper, all he meets : — " Ah ! ha ! your Lordship ! is it you ? Still slave to Beauty and heaux yeux ? Well! well! and how's the gout, my Lord? — My dear Sir Charles! upon my word, L'air de Paris, since last I knew you. Has been Medea's caldron to you : — William! my boy! how fast you grow! Yours is a light fantastic toe, Winged with the wings of Mercury ! I was a scholar once, you see ! And how's the mare you used to ride? And who's the Hebe by your side ? — Doctor! I thought I heard you sneeze! How is my dear Hippocrates? What have you done for old John Gates, The gouty merchant with five votes? What! dead? well! well! no fault of yours 1 There is no drug that always cures! Ah ! Doctor, I begin to break. And I'm glad of it, for your sake." Vot. IL— 3 34 THE COUXTY BALL. As thus the spruce M. P. runs on, Some quiet dame, who dotes upon His speeches, buckles, and grimace, Grows very eloquent in praise. "How can they say Sir Paul is proud? I'm sure, in all the evening's crowd. There's not a man that bows so low ; His words come out so soft and slow ; And when he begged me 'keep my seat,' He looked so civil and so sweet." — "Ma'am," says her spouse, in harsher tone, " He only wants to keep his own." Her Ladyship is in a huff. And Miss, enraged at Ma's rebuff, Eings the alarm in t'other ear : "Lord! now. Papa, you're too severe; "Where in the country will you see Manners so taking, and so free?" " His manners free ? I only know Our votes have made his letters so!" " And then he talks with so mucli ease — And then he gives such promises." " Gives promises ? and well he may! You know they're all he gives away !" " How folks misrepresent Sir Paul 1" " 'Tis he misrepresents us all I" " How very stale ! but you'll confess He has a charming taste in dress ; And uses such delightful scent ; THE COUNTY BALL. And Tvhen he pays a compliment — " " Eh ! and what then, my pretty pet? ^Yhat then?— he never pays a debt!" Sir Paul is skilled in all the tricks Of politesse, and politics; Long hath he learned to wear a mien So still, so open, so serene, That strangers in those features grave Would strive in vain to read a knave. Alas ! it is believed by all There is more " Sir" than " Saint" in Paul ; He knows the value of a place ; Can give a promise with a grace ; Is quite an adept at excuse ; Sees when a vote will be of use ; And, if the Independents flinch, Can help his Lordship at a pinch. Acutely doth he read the fate Of deep intrigues, and plans of State ; And if, perchance, some powdered Peer Hath gained or lost the Monarch's ear, Foretells, without a shade of doubt, The comings in, and goings out. When placemen of distinguished note Mistake, mislead, misname, misquote, Confound tlie Papist and the Turk, Or murder Sheridan and Burke, Or make a riddle of the laws. Sir Paul grows hoarse in his applause: 35 36 THE COUNTY BATX. And when, in words of equal size, Some oppositionisi replies, And talks of taxes and starvation, And Oatliolie emancipation. The Knight, in indolent repose, Looks only to the ayes and noes. Let youth say "grand!" Sir Paul says "str.iT!' Let youth take fire ! — Sir Paul takes snuft". Methinks, amid the crowded room, I see one countenance of gloom ; Whence is young Edmund's pain or pique ? Whence is the paleness of his cheek ? And whence the wrathful eye, that now Lowers, like Kean's, beneath the brow ; And now again on earth is bent, 'Twixt anger and embarrassment ? Is he poetical — or sad ? Eeally — or fashionably mad? Are his young spirits colder grown At Ellen's — or the Muses' frown ? He did not love in other days To wear the sullens on his face, When merry sights and sounds were near ; Nor on his unregarding ear Unheeded thus was wont to fall The music of the County Ball. I pity all whom Fate unites To vulgar Belles on gala-nights : THE COUNTY BALL. 37 But chiefly liim who haply sees The day-star of liis clestiuies — The Beauty of his fondest dreaming, Sitting in sohtude, and seeming To hft her dark, capricious eye Beneath its fringe reproachingly. Alas! my luckless friend is tied To the fair Hoyden by his side, "Who opens, without law or rule. The treasures of the Boarding-school : And she is prating learnedly Of Logic and of Chemistry, Describing chart and definition With geographical precision. Culling her words, as bid by chance, From England, Italy, or France, Until, like many a clever dunce. She murders all the three at once. Sometimes she mixes by the ounce Discussions deep on frill and flounce ; Points out the stains that stick, like burrs, To ladies' gowns — or characters ; Talks of the fiddles, and the weather, Of Laura's wreath, and Fannie's feather ; — All which obedient Edmund hears, With passive look, and open ears. And understands about as much As if the lady spoke in Dutch ; Until, in indignation high, 38 THE COTJKTT BALL. She finds the youth makes no reply, And thinks he's grown as deaf a stock As Dido, — or Marpesian rock.* Ellen, the lady of his love, Is doomed the like distress to prove. Chained to a Captain of the Wars, Like Venus by the side of Mars. Hark ! Valour talks of conquered towns, See! silent Beauty frets and frowns; The man of fights is wondering now That girls iconH speak when dandies how! And Ellen finds, with much surprise. That Beaux will speak when Belles despise; " Ma'am," says the Captain, "I protest I come to ye a stranger guest. Fresh from the dismal, dangerous land, Where men are blinded by the sand, "Where undiscovered things are hid In owl-frequented pyramid. And Mummies, with their silent looks. Appear like memorandum-books, Giving a hint of death, for fear We men should be too happy here. But if upon my native land Fair ones as still as Mummies stand, By Jove — I had as lief be there!" * Dido — non magis — sermone movetur Quam si dura silex, aut stet Marpesia caiites. — Vlr(t. THE COUNTY BALL. 39 (The lady looks— "I wish you were;") " I fear I'm very dull to-night" — (The lady looks— " You're very right;") "But if one smile — one cheering ray" — (The lady looks another way ;) "Alas ! from some more happy man" — (The lady stoops, and bites her fan ;) " Flattery, perhaps, is not a crime" — (The lady dances out of time.) " Perhaps e'en now, within your heart, Cruel ! you Avish us leagues apart, And banish me from Beauty's presence!" The lady bows in acquiescence, "With steady brow and studied face, As if she thought, in such a case, A contradiction to her Beau Keitlier polite — nor apropos. Unawed by scandal or by sneer, Is Reuben Nott, the blunderer, here ? "What ! is he willing to expose His erring brain to friends and foes ? And does he venturously dare, Midst grinning fop, and spiteful fair, In spite of all their ancient slips, To open those unhappy lips ? Poor Reuben ! o'er his infant head Her choicest bounties Nature shed ; 40 THE COUNTY BALL. She gave him talent, hinnour, sense, A decent face and competence, And then, to mar the beauteous plan. She bade him be — an absent man. Ever offending, ever fretting, Ever explaining, and forgetting, He blunders on from dav to day. And drives his nearest friends awav. Do Earces meet with flat damnation? He's ready with "congratulation." Are friends in ofliice not quite pure ? He owns "he hates a sinecure." Was Major , in foreign strife, Not over prodigal of life ? He talks about "the coward's grave;" And "who so base as be a slave ?" ' Is some fair cousin made a wife In the full autumn of her life ? He's sure to shock the youthful bride Witli "forty years come Whitsuntide." He wanders round ! I'll act the spy Upon his fatal courtesy. Which always gives the greatest i)aiu. Where most it strives to entertain. "Edward! my boy! an age has passed. Methiuks, since Eeuben saw you last; How fixres the Abbey? and the rooks? Yoiir tenants? and vour sister's looks? THE COUNTY BALL. 41 Lovely and fascinating still, With lips that wound, and eyes that kill? "When last I saw her dangerous face, There was a lover in the case. A pretty pair of epaulettes! But then, there were some ugly dehts ! A match? Nay! why so gloomy, hoy ? Upon my life I wish 'em joy!" With arms enfolded o'er his breast, And fingers clinched, and lips compressed. And eye whose every glance appears To speak a threat in Reuben's ears. That youth had heard ; 'tis brief and stern The answer that he deigns return ; Then silent on his homeward way, Like Ossian's ghosts, he strides away. Astonished at his indignation, Reuben breaks out in exclamation : " Edward ! I mean— I really meant — Upon my word — a compliment ; You look so stern! nay, Vvhy is this ? Angry because I flattered Miss? What! gone? The deuce is in the man! Explain, Sir Robert, if you can." — "Eh! what? perhaps you liavcn't lieard! — ■ Excuse my laughing ! — how absurd ! 42 THE COUNTY BALL. A slight faux pas/ — a trifle — merely ! Ha ! ha ! — egad, you touched him, nearly." All blunderers, when they chance t(j make In colloquy some small mistake, Make haste to make a hundred more To mend the one they made before. 'Tis thus with Reuben! through the thron» With hurried steps he hastes along ; Thins, like a pest, the crowded seats. And runs a muck at all he meets ; Eich in his unintended satire. And killing where he meant to flatter. He makes a College Fellow wild By asking for his wife and child ; Puts a haught Blue in awful passion By disquisitions on the Fashion ; Eefers a knotty case in Whist To Morley, the Philanthropist ; Quotes to a Sportsman from St. Luke, Bawls out plain "Bobby" to a Duke ; And while a Barrister invites Our notice to the Bill of Eights, And fat Sir John begins to launch Into the praises of a haunch, He bids the man of quibbles pause By eulogizing " Spartan Laws ;" And makes the Epicure quite wroth By eulogizing " Spartan Broth." THE COUXTY BALL. 43 Error on Error grows and swells, For, as a certain proverb tells, " When once a man has lost his way, — " But you have read it, — or you may. Girt with a crowd of listening graces, "With expectation on their faces, Chattering, and looking all the while As if he strove to hide a smile That fain would burst Decorum's bands, Alfred Duval, the hoaxer, stands. Alfred ! the eldest born of Mirth ! There is not on this nether earth So light a spirit, nor a soul So little used to all control. Frolic, and Fun, and Jest, and Glee, Burst round him unremittingly ; And in the glances of his eyes Ever his heart's good-humour flies. Mud as the breezes of the South ; And while, from many a wiser moutli. We drink the fruits of education, The solid Port of conversation, — From Alfred's lips we seem to drain A ceaseless flow of bright Champagne In various shapes his wit is found ; But most it loves to send around, O'er half the town, on Rumour's gale, Some marvellously-fashioned tale, 44 THE COrNTT BALL. And cheat the unsuspecting ear Tfith groundless Lope or groundless fear. To sjjeak in civil words — Ms bent Lies sadly to — ^Embellishment. "Sir!" says Morality, "you know You shouldn't flatter Falsehood so : The Nurse that rocked you in your crib, Taught you to loathe and scorn a fib, And Shakspeare warns you of the evil, Saying, 'Tell truth, and shame the Devil!' I like, as well as you, the glances Where gay Good-Humour brightly dances ; But when a man tells horrid lies. You shouldn't talk about his eyes." Madam ! you'll think it rather odd That, while I bow me to the rod. And make no shadow of defence, I still persist in my oflJ'ence ; And great and small may join to blame The echo of the Hoaxer's fame ; But be it known to great and small, — I can't write sermons at a ball. 'Tis Alfred fills the public prints With all the sly, ingenious hints That fly about, begirt with cares. And terrify the Bulls and Bears. Unrivalled statesman ! War and peace He makes and breaks with perfect ease ; THE COUSTY BALL. 45 Skilful to crown and to depose, lie sets up kings and overthrows ; As if apprenticed to the work, lie ties the bowstring round the Turk, Or makes the Algerine devout, Or plagues His Holiness with gout, Or drives the Spaniards from Madrid As quick as Bonaparte did. Sometimes at home his plots he lays, And wildly still his fancy plays. He pulls the Speaker from the Chair, Murders the Sheriffs, or the Mayor, Or drags a Bishop through the mire. Or sets the Theatres on fire, Or brings the weavers to subjection, Or prates of mobs and insurrection. One dash of his creative pen Can raise a hundred thousand men ; They march ! he wills, and myriads fall ; — One dash annihilates them all ! And now, amid that female rout, What scandal doth he buzz about? What graud aflair or mighty name Intrusts he to the gossip Fame ? Unchecked, unstayed, he hurries on With wondrous stories of the Ton ; Describes how London ladies lose Their heads in helmets, like the Blues; 46 THE COUNTY BAX,L. And how the highest cii'cles meet To dance with pattens on their feet ! And all the while he tells his lie With such a solemn gravity, That many a Miss parades the room. Dreaming about a casque and plume; And vows it grievously must tire one To waltz upon a pump of iron. Jacques, the Oantah ! I see him brood, Wrapped in his mental solitude, On thoughts that lie too deep, I wis, For such a scene and hour as this. Now shall the rivers freeze in May, Coquettes be silent at the play ; Old men shall dine without a story, And mobs be civil to a Tory ! All miracles shall well befoll. When Youth is thoughtful at a ball. From thoughts that grieve, and words that vex. And names invented to perplex ; From latent findings, never found ; And mystic figures, square and round ; Shapes from whose labyrinthine toil A Dasdalus might well recoil ; He steals one night — one single night. And gives its moments to delight. THE COUNTY BALL. 47 Yet still upon his sti-uggling soul Tho mnddy wave of Cam will roll, And all the monsters grim, that float Upon that dark and mirky moat, Come jabbering round him— dark equation. Subtile distinction, disputation ; Notion, idea, mystic schism, Assumption, proof, and syllogism ; And many an old and awful name Of optic or mechanic fame. Look ! in the van stern Euclid shows The Asses' Bridge upon his nose ; Bacon comes forward, sage austere, And Locke and Paley both are there ; And Newton, with a spiteful hiss. Points to his "(?e Principiis.'''' Yet often, with his magic wand. Doth Mirth dispel that liideous band; And then, in strange confusion lost, The mind of Jacques is tempest-tossed. By turns, around it come and flee The dulce, and the utile; By turns, as Thought or Pleasure wills. Quadratics struggle with Quadrilles; And figures sour, and figures sweet, Of problems — and of dances — meet ; Bisections fight with '■'■down the middles^'''' And chords of arcs with chords of fiddles ; Vain are the poor musician's gi'aces ; 48 THE COUNTY BALL. His bass gives way to given bases ; His studied trill to sbapelv trine ; His mellowed sliake to puzzling sine; Eacb forming set recalls a vision Of some enchanting proposition, And merrj '■'■Chasses-croises huW'' Is little more than Q. E. D. Ah ! Stoic youth ! before his eye Bi-ight beaiities walk unheeded by : And wliile his distant fancy strays Eemote through Algebraic maze, He sees, in whatsoe'er he views, The very object he pursues, And fairest forms, from heel to head. Seem crooked as his x and zj_ -' Peace to the man of marble I — Hush ! Whence is the universal rush ? Why doth confusion tlms affright The peaceful order of the night. Thwart the musicians in their task, And check the schoolboy's pas de hasqnc? The Lady Clare hath lost a comb ! — If old Queen Bess, from out her tomb, Had burst with royal indignation Upon our scandalous flirtation, — Darted a glance immensely chilling Upon our waltzing and quadrilling,— Flown at the fiddlers in a pet. And bade them play her minuet, — THE COimTY BALL. 49 Her stately step, and angry aye, Her Avaist so low, her neck so liigh, Her habit of inspiring fear, Her knack of boxing on the ear, — Could ne'er have made the people stare, Like the lost comb of Lady Clare ! The tresses it was wont to bind, Joy in their freedom ! uncoufined They float around her, and bedeck The marble whiteness of her neck "With veil of more resplendent hue Than evef Aphrodite threw Around her, when, unseen, she trod Before the sight of man or God. Look how a blush of burning red. O'er bosom and o'er forehead spread. Glances like lightning ; and aside The Lady Clare hath turned her head, As if she strove in vain to hide That countenance of modest pride, Whose colour many an envying fair "Would give a Monarch's crown to wear. Persuasion lurks on woman's tongue — In woman's smile, oh ! raptures throng — And woman's tears compassion move — But oh ! 'tis woman's blush we love/ JTow gallantry is busy round ! A.11 eyes are bent upon the ground! Vol. n'.-4 50 THE COIJNTY BALL. And (lancers leave the cheerful measure To seek the lady's missing treasure. Meanwhile some charitable Miss, Quite ignorant wliat envy is, Sends slowly forth her censures grave — "How oddly beauties will behave I Oh ! quite an accident ! — ^last year, I think, she sprained her ankle here; And then there were such sudden halts, And such a bringing out of salts!" — "You think her vain?" — " Oh, gracious! no! She has a charming foot, you know ! And it's so pretty to be lame— I don't impute the slightest blame — Only that very careless braid ! — The fault is with the waiting-maid ! I merely mean — since Lady Clare Was flattered so about her hair, Her comb is always dropping out — Oh ! quite an accident ! — no doubt!" The Sun hath risen o'er the deep, And fathers, more than half asleep, Begin to shake the drowsy head. And hint "it's time to be in bed." Then comes chagrin on faces fair ; Soft hands are clasped in mimic prayer ; And then the warning watch is shown, And answers in a harsher tone THE COUNTY BALL. 51 Eeply to look of lamentation, And argument, and supplication ; In vain sweet voices tell their grief, In speeches long, for respite brief; Bootless are all their "Lord !" s and " La!" s, Their " Pray, Papa !" s and "Do, Papa !" s; "Ladies," quoth Gout, "I love my rest! The carriage waits! — eundum est." This is the hour for parting bow. This is the hour for secret vow, For weighty shawl, and hooded cloak. Half-uttered tale, and whispered joke. This is the hour when ladies bright Relate the adventures of the night, And fly by turns from truth to fiction, From retrospection to prediction: They regulate, with unbought bounty, The destinies of half the county ; With gypsy talent they foretell How Miss Duquesne will marry well, And how 'tis certain that the Squir^j TViU be more stupid than his sire, And how the girl they cried up so. Only two little months ago, Falls off already, and will be Really quite plain at twenty-three. Now Scandal hovers laughing o'er them, "While pass in long review before them The Lady that my Lord admires — 52 THE COUNTY BALL. The gentleman that moves on wires — The youth with such a frightful frown — And "that extraordinary gown." Now characters are much debated, And witty speeches are narrated ; And Criticism delights to dwell On conquest won by many a belle, On compliments that ne'er were paid, On offers that were never made, Eefusals— Lord knows when refused, Deductions — Lord knows how deduced ; Alas ! how sweetly Scandal falls From lips of beauties — after Balls. The music stops, — the lights expire, — The dance is o'er, — the crowds retire; And all those smiling cheeks have flowu! Away ! — the rhjTiier is alone. Thou, too, the iVdrest and the best, Hast fleeted from him with the rest ; Thy name he will not, love! unite To the rude strain he pours to-night ; Yet often hath he turned away Amidst his harsh and wandering lay, And often hath his earnest eye Looked into thine delightedly, And often hath his listening ear But thou art gone! — what doth he here? TO JULIO. 53 TO JULIO, ON HIS COMING OF AOE. Julio, while Fancy's tints adorn The first bright beam of manhoocrs morn, The cares of boyhood fleet away Like clouds before the face of day; And see, before your ravished eyes New hopes appear, new duties rise ; Restraint has left his iron tlirone. And Freedom smiles on twenty-one. Count o'er the friends whom erst you knew, "When careless boyhood deemed them true, — With whom you wiled the lazy hours Fiound fond Etona's clas^sic towers, Or strayed beside the learned mud Ofancient Cam's meandering flood ; The follies tluit in them you view. Shall be a source of good to you. "With mincing gait, and foreign air, Sir Philip strays tlirough park and square, Or yawns in Grange's sweet recess, In all the studied ease of dress; 54 TO JULIO. Aptly the manling's tongue, I deem, Can argue on a lofty theme, — Which damsel hath the merrier eye, "Which fop the better-fancied tie, Which perfume hath the sweetest savour, Which soup the more inviting flavour ; And Fashion, at Sir Philip's call, Ordains the collars rise and fall, And shifts the Bitimmel's varj-ing hue From blue to brown, from brown to bJue And hence the motley crowd who e'er Bear Fashion's badge, or wish to bear. From Hockley Hole to Rotten Row, Unite to dub Sir Philip — beau. And such is Fashion's empty fame — Squire Robert loathes the very name; The rockets hiss, the bonfires blaze. The peasants gape in still amaze; The field unploughed — the ox unyoked. The farmer's mouth with pudding choked, The sexton's vest of decent brown, The village maiden's Sunday gown. In joyful union seem to say, "Squire Robert is of age to-day." The bumpkins hurry to the Bell, And clam'rous tongues in riot swell ; TO JULIO. 56 Anger is hot — and so is liquor ; They drink confusion to the Vicar — And shout and song from lad and lass, And broken lieads — and broken glass, In concert horrible, declare Tlieir loyal reverence for the heir. Right justly may the youthful Squire These transi^orts in his slaves inspire ; At every fireside through the place He's welcome as the curate's grace ; He tells his story, cracks his joke. And drinks his ale "Z^l■e other folk ;^^ Pearless he risks that cranium thick At cudgelling and single-stick ; And then his stud ! — why ! far and wide It is the county's chiefest pride ! Ah ! had his steed no firmer brains Than the mere thing that holds the reins, Grief soon would bid the beer to run Because the Squire's mad race was done, Not less than now it froths away, Because "the Squire's of age to-day." Far diflferent pomp inspired of old The youthful Eoman's bosom bold, Soon as a father's honoured hand Gave to his grasp the casque and brand, And oft' the light preetexta threw, 56 TO JULIO. And from his neck the bulla drew, Bade him the toga's foldings scan, And glory in the name of " Man." Far different pomp lit ardour high In the young German's eager eye, "When, bending o'er his offspring's head, An aged sire, half-weeping, said, — " Thy duty to thy father done, Go forth — and be thy country's son." Heavens ! how his bosom burned to dara The grim delight of manhood's war, And brandish in no mimic field His beaming lance and osier shield : How his young bosom longed to claim In war's wild tumult manhood's name, And write it, midst the battle's foam. In the best blood of trembling Rome ! Such was the hope, the barbarous joy, That nerved to arrns the German boy ; A flame as ardent, more refined, Shall brightly glow in Julio's mind ; But yet I'd rather see thee smile Grimly on war's embattled file, I'd rather see thee wield in strife The German butcher's reckless knife, Thinking thy claims to manhood grow From each pale corse that bleeds below ;- I'd rather view thee thus, — than see A modern blockhead rise in thee. TO JULIO. 57 Is it a study for a Peer To breathe soft vows in lady's ear, To choose a coat — or leap a gate, To win an heiress — or a plate ? Far nobler studies shall be thiue — So Friendship and the Muse divine : It shall be thine, in danger's hour, To guide the helm of British power, And, midst thy country's laurelled crown, To mis a garland aU thine own. Julio, from this auspicious day, ITew honours gild thine onward way ; In thee Posterity shall view A heart to faith and feeling true, And Fame her choicest wreaths shall blend For Virtue's, and the poor man's friend. 58 TO JULIA. TO JULIA, PEEPARING- FOE HER FIRST SEASON IN TO"WK. Julia, while London's Jfixncied bliss Bids you despise a life like this, "While Ohiswick .and its joys you leave, For hopes that flatter to deceive, You will not scornfully refuse (Though dull the theme, and weak the Muse) To look upon my line, and hear "What Friendship sends to Beauty's ear. Four miles from Town, a neat abode O'erlooks a rose-bush, and a road ; A paling, cleaned with constant care. Surrounds ten yards of neat parterre, "Where dusty ivy strives to crawl Five inches up the whitened wall ; The open window thickly set "With myrtle, and with mignonette, Behind whose cultivated row A brace of globes peep out for show ; The avenue — the burnished plate, That decks the would-be rustic gate, Denote the fane where Fashion dwells, -— "Lyce's Academy for Belles." TO JULIA. 59 'Twas here, in earlier, happier days, Retired from Pleasure's weary maze, You found, unlcnown to care or pain, The peace you will not find again. Here Friendships, far too fond to last, A bright, but fleeting radiance cast On every sport that Mirth devised. And every scene that Childhood prized, And every bliss, that bids you yet Recall those moments with regret. Those friends have mingled in the strife That fills the busy scene of life. And Pride and Folly — Cares and Fears, Look dark upon their future years : But by their wrecks may Julia learn Whither her fragile bark to turn ; And, o'er the troubled sea of Fate, Avoid the rocks they found too late. You know Camilla : o'er the plain She guides the fiery hunter's rein ; First in the chase she sounds the horn. Trampling to earth the farmer's corn, That hardly deigned to bend its head, Beneath her namesake's lighter tread. With Bob the Squire, her polished lover, She wields the gun, or beats the cover; And then her steed I — why ! every clown 60 TO JULIA. Tells how she rubs Smolensko down, And combs the mane, and cleans the hoof, "While wondering hostlers stand aloof. At night, before the Christmas fire, She plays backgammon with the Squire ; Shares in his laugli, and in his liquor, Mimics her father and the Vicar ; Swears at the grooms — without a blush Dips in her ale the captured brush. Until — ^her father duly tired — The parson's wig as duly fired — The dogs all still — the Squire asleep, And dreaming of his usual leap — She leaves the dregs of white and red. And lounges languidly to bed ; And still, in nightly visions borne, She gallops o'er the rustic's corn ; Still wields the lash — still shakes the box, Dreaming of "sixes" — and the fox. And this is bliss! The story runs, Camilla never wept — save once, Yes ! once indeed Camilla cried — 'Twas when her dear Blue-stockings died. Pretty Cordelia thinks she's ill — She seeks her med'cine at Quadrille ; "With hope, and fear, and envy sick. TO JTJLIA. 61 She gazes on the dubious trick, As if eternity were laid Upon a diamond, or a spade. And I have seen a transient pique "Wake, o'er that soft and girlish cheek, A chilly and a feverish hue, Bligliting the soil where Beauty grew, And bidding Hate and Malice rove In eyes that ought to beam with love. Turn we to Fannia— she was fair As the soft fleeting forms of air. Shaped by the fancy— fitting theme For youthful bard's enamoured dream. The neck, on Avhose transparent glow The auburn ringlets sweetly flow, The eye that swims in liquid fire. The brow that frowns in playful ire, All these, when Fannia's early youth Looked lovely in its native truth, Diffused a bright, unconscious grace. Almost divine, o'er form and face. Her lip has lost its fragrant dew. Her cheek has lost its rosy hue, Her eye the glad enlivening rays That glittered there in happier days, Her heart the ignorance of woe Which Fashion's votaries may not know. 62 TO JULIA. The city's smoke — the noxious air— The constant crowd — the torch's glare — The morning sleep — the noonday call — The late repast — the midnight ball, Bid Faith and Beauty die, and taint Her heart with fraud, her face with paint. And what the boon, the prize enjoyed, For fame defaced, and peace destroyed ? "Why ask we this ? With conscious grace She criticises silk and lace ; Queen of the modes, she reigns alike O'er sarcenet, bobbin, net, vandyke ; O'er rouge and ribbons, combs and curls, Perfumes and patches, pins and pearls ; Feelings and faiutings, songs and sighs, Small-talk and scandal, love and lies. Circled by beaux behold her sit, While dandies tremble at her wit ; The Captain hates " a woman's gab ;" "A devil!" cries the shy Cantab ; The young Etonian strives to fly The glance of her sarcastic eye, For well he knows she looks him o'er. To stamp him "buck," or dub him "bore." Such is her life — a life of waste, A life of wretchedness — and taste; TO JTJLIA. 63 And all the glory Fannia boasts, And all tlie price that glory costs, At once are reckoned np, in one — One word of bliss and folly — Ton. JTot these tlie thoughts that could perplex The fancies of our fickle sex, "When England's favourite, good Queen Bess, Was Queen alike o'er war and dress. Then ladies gay played chesse — and ballads, And learned to dress their hair — and salads ; Sweets — and sweet looks were studied then, And both were pleasing to the men ; For cookery was allied to taste. And girls were taught to blush — and baste. Dishes were bright — and so were eyes. And lords made love — and ladies pies. Then Yalour won the wavering field, By dint of hauberk and of shield ; And Beauty won the wavering heart. By dint of pickle, and of tart. The minuet was the favourite dance, Girls loved the needle — boys the lance ; And Cupid took his constant post At dinner, by the boiled and roast, Or secretly was wont to lurk In tournament, or needle-work. Oh ! 'twas a reign of all delights, 64 TO JULIA. Of Iiot Sir-loins, — and hot Sir knights; Feasting and fighting, hand in hand, Fattened, and glorified the land; And noble chiefs had noble cheer, And knights grew strong upon strong beer ; Honour and oxen both were nourished, And chivalry — and pudding flourished. I'd rather see that magic face, That look of love, that form of grace. Circled by whalebone, and by ruffs. Intent on puddings, and on pufl^s, — I'd rather view thee thus, than see " A Fashionable" rise in thee. If Life is dark, 'tis not for you (If partial Friendship's voice is true) To cure its griefs, and drown its cares, By leaping gates, and murdering hares, Nor to confine that feeling soul. To winning lovers — or the vole. If these and such pursuits are thine, Julia ! thou art no friend of mine ! I love plain dress — I eat plain joints, I cannot play ten-guinea points, I make no study of a pin. And hate a female whipper-in. LAURA. LATJRA. 65 "Kor she in shaps and beauty did excel All other idols that the heathen do adore." " Aud all about her altar scattered lay Great sorts of lovers piteously complaining." A LOOK as blitlie, a step as light As fabled nymph, or fairy sprite ; A Yoice, whose every word and tone Might make a thousand hearts its own ; A brow of fervour, and a mien Bright with the hopes of gay fifteen ; These, loved and lost one! these were thine, When first I bowed at Beauty's shrine ; But I have torn my wavering soul From woman's proud and weak control ; The fane where I so often knelt, The flame ray heart so truly felt. Are visions of another time. Themes for my laughter,— and my rhyme. She saw, and conquered ; in her eye There was a careless cruelty, That shone destruction, while it seemed Unconscious of the fire it beamed. Vol. n.— 5 66 LAURA. And oh ! that negligence of dress, That wild, infantine playfulness, That archness of the trifling brow, • That could command — we know not how, Were links of gold thai held me then, In bonds I may not bear again ; For dearer to an honest heart Is childhood's mirth than woman's art. Already many an aged dame, Skilful in scandalizing fame, Foresaw the reign of liaura's face, . Her sway, her folly, and disgrace. Minding the beauty of the day More than her partner, or her play : — " Laura a beauty ? flippant chit ! I vow I hate her forward wit!" (" I lead a club !")— " Why, Ma'am, between us. Her mother thinks her quite a Venus ; But every parent loA'"es, you know, To make a pigeon of her crow." " Some folks are apt to look too high — She has a dukedom in her eye." "The girl is straight" ("we call the ace"), "But that's the merit of her stays." " I'm sure, I loathe malicious hints — But — only look, how Laura squints !" "Yet Miss, forsooth" — ("who play'd the ten: ' Is quite perfection with the men ; LAURA. 67 The tiattering fools— they make me sick" — (" -^ell — four by honour?, and the trick.") While thus the crones hold high debate On Laura's charms and Laura's fate, A few short years have rolled along, And — first in Pleasure's idle throng — Laura, in ripened beauty proud, Smiles haughty on the flattering crowd ; Her sex's envy — fashion's boast — An heiress — and a reigning toast. The circling waltz, and gay quadrillo, Are in or out, at Laura's will ; The tragic bard, and comic wit, Heed not the critic in the pit, If Laura's undisputed sway Ordains full houses to the play ; And fair ones of an humbler fate, That envy, whUe they imitate. From Laura's whisper strive to guess . The changes of inconstant dress. Where'er her step in beauty moves. Around her fly a thousand loves; A thousand graces go before. While striplings wonder and adore ; And some are wounded by a sigh, Some by the lustre of her eye ; And these her studied smiles insnare, And those the ringlets of her hair. 68 LAUEA. The first liis flutteriug heart to lose, Was Captain Piercj of the Blues ; He squeezed her hand, — he gazed and swore He never was in love before ; He entertained his charmer's ear With tales of wonder, and of fear ; Talked much and long of siege and fight, Marches by day, alarms by night ; And Laura listened to the story. Whether it spoke of love or glory ; For many an anecdote had he Of combat, and of gallantry; Of long blockades, and sharp attacks, Of bullets, and of bivouacs; Of towns o'ercome, — and ladies, too,— Of billet — and of billet-doux ; Of nunneries and escalades And damsels, and Damascus blades. Alas! too soon the Captain found How swiftly Fortune's wheel goes round; Laura at last began to doze. E'en in the midst of Badajoz ; And hurried to a game at loo From AVellington and Waterloo : The hero, in heroics left. Of fortune, and a wife bereft, With naught to cheer his close of day But celibacy, and half-pay, LAUKA. 69 Since Laura and his stars were cruel — Sought his quietus in a duel. He fought aud perished ; Laura sighed, To hear how hapless Piercy died ; And wiped her eyes, and thus expressed The feelings of her tender breast : "What! dead? — poor fellow — what a pity! He was so handsome and so witty ; Shot in a duel, too ! — good gracious — How I did hate that man's mustachiosi" Next came the interesting beau, The trifling youth — Frivolio ; He came to see, and to be seen, Grace and good-breeding in his mien; Shone all Delcroix upon his head, The West End spoke in all he said ; And in his neckcloth's studied fold Sat Fashion, on a throne of gold. He came, impatient to resign What heart he had, at Laura's shrine; Though deep in self-conceit incased, He learned to bow to Laura's taste ; Consulted her on new quadrilles, Spot waistcoats, lavender, and gills; As willed the proud and fickle fair, He tied his cloth, and curled his hair ; Varied his manners — or his clothes, Aud changed his tailor, or his oaths. 70 LAURA. Oh! how did Laura love to vex . The fair one of the other sex! For him she practised every art That captivates and phigiies the heart. Did he bring tickets for the play ? No — Laura had the spleen to-day. Did he escort her to the ball ? No — Laura would not dance at all. Did he look grave? — "the fool was sad;" "Was he jocose? — "the man was mad." E'en when he knelt before her feet, And there, in accents soft and sweet, Laid rank and fortune, heart and hand, At Laura's absolute command. Instead of blushing her consent, She "wondered what the blockhead meant?" Yet still the fashionable fool "Was proud of Laura's ridicule ; Though still despised, he still pursued. In ostentatious servitude. Seeming, like lady's lap-dog, vain Of being led by Beauty's chain. He knelt, he gazed, he sighed, and swore, "While 'twas the fashion to adore ; "When years had passed, and Laura's frown Had ceased to terrify the town, He hurried from the fallen grace. To idolize a newer face ; LAUKA. "71 Constan-t to nothing was the ass, Save to his follies — and his glass. The next to gain the Beauty's ear Was William Lisle, the sonneteer, Well deemed the prince of rhyme and blank ; For long and deeply had he drank Of Helicon's poetic tide, Where nonsense flows, and mimbers glide ; And slumbered on the herbage green That decks the banks of Hippocrene. In short — his very footmen know it — William is mad — or else a poet.* Ho came and rhymed ; he talked of fountains, Of Pindus, and Pierian mountains ; Of wandering lambs, of gurgling rills, And roses, and Castalian hills ; He thought a lover's vow grew sweeter, When it meandered into metre ; And planted every speech with flowers, Fresh blooming from Aonian bowers. "Laura, I perish for your sake," — (Here he digressed about a lake ;) " The charms thy features all disclose," — (A simile about a rose ;) "Have set my very soul on fire,"— • ■' Ant insanit homo^aut versus facit." — Hor. ' All Bedlam— or Parnassus is let out." — Popt. '2 LAUKA. (An episode about his lyre ;) " Though you despise, I still must love,"- (Something about a turtle dove ;) "Alas! in death's uustartled sleep,"— (Just here he did his best to weep ;) "Laura, the willow soon shall wave Over thy lover's lonely grave." Then he began, with pathos due, To speak of cypress, and of rue. But Fortune's unforeseen award Parted the Beauty from the Bard ; For Laura, in that evil hour, When unpropitious stars had jjovrer, Unmindful of the thanks she owed, Lighted her taper with an ode. Poor "William all his vows forgot, And hurried from the fatal spot, In all the bitterness of quarrel, To write lampoons— and dream of laurel. Years fleeted by, and every grace Began to fade from Laura's face ; Through every circle whispers ran. And aged dowagers began To gratify their secret spite : — " How shocking Laura looks to-night ! We know her waiting-maid is clever. But rouge won't make one young forevei- ; Laura should think of being sage, You know — she's of a certain age." LAUKA. Y3 Her wonted wit began to fail, Her eyes grew dim, her features pale ; Her fame was past, licr race was done, Her lovers left her one by one ; He-i* slaves diminished by degrees, They ceased to fawn — as she to please. Last of the gay, deceitful crew, Chremes, the usm'er, withdrew ; By many an art he strove to net The guineas of the rich coquette ; But (so the adverse fates decreed) Chremes and Laura disagreed ; For Chremes talked too much of stocks, And Laura of her opera-bos. Unhappy Laura ! sadness marred What tints of beauty time had spared ; For all her wide-extended sway Had faded, like a dream, away ; And they that loved her passed her by With altered or averted eye. That silent scorn, that chilling air. The fallen tyi-ant could not bear ; She could not live when none admired, And perished, as her reign expired. I gazed upon that lifeless form. So late with hope and fancy warm; That pallid brow, that eye of jet, 74: LAIJEA. Where lustre seems to linger yet ; Where sparkled through an auburn tress The last dim light of loveliness, Whose trembling ray was only seen, To bid us sigh for what had been. Alas ! I said, my "wavering soul. Was torn from woman's weak control; But when, amid the evening's gloom, I looked on Laura's early tomb ; And thought on her, so bright and fair. That slumbered in oblivion there ; That calm resolve I could not keep, And then I wept, — as now I weep. THE OOXFESSION OF DON CARLOS 75 THE CONFESSION OF DON CARLOS IMITATED FEOJI THE SPANISH. Oh ! tell not me of broken vow — I speak a firmer passion now ; Oh! tell not me of shattered chain— The link shall never burst again ; My soul is fixed as firmly here As the red Sun in his career ; As Victory on Mina's crest, Or Tenderness in Rosa's breast. Then do not tell me, while we part, Of fickle flame, and roving heart ; While Youth shall bow^t Beauty's shrine, That flame shall glow— that heart be thine. Then wherefore dost thou bid me tell The fate thy malice knows so well ? I may not disobey thee! — Yes! Thou bidd'st me, — and I icill confess :— See how adoringly I kneel — Hear how my folly I reveal ; My folly I— chide me if thou wilt. Thou shalt not — canst not call it — guilt. And when my faithlessness is to.d, Ere thou hast time to play the scold, 70 THE COKFESSION OF DOX CAiJLOS. I'll haste the fond rebuke to check, And lean upon thy snowy neck, Play with its glossy auburn hair, And hide the blush of falsehood there. Inez, the innocent and young, First shared my heart, and waked my song ; We were both harmless, and untaught To lo've as fashionables ought ; "With all the modesty of youth, "We talked of constancy and truth ; Grew fond of Music, and the Moon, And wandered on the nights of June, To sit beneath the chestnut-tree. While the lonely stars shone mellowly, Shedding a pale and dancing beam On the wave of Guadalquivir's stream. And aye we talked of faith and feelings, With no distrustings, no concealings ; And aye we joyed in stolen glances, And sighed, and blushed, and read romances. Our love was ardent and sincere, — And lasted, Eosa — half a year! And then the maid grew fickle-hearted. Married Don Jose — so we parted. At twenty-one, I've often heard, My bashfulness was quite absurd ; For, with a squeamishness uncommon, I feared to love a married woman. THE CONFESSION OF DON CARLOS. 71 Fair Leonora's laughing eye Again awaked my song and sigh : A gay intriguing dame was she; And fifty Dons of high degree, That came and went as they were bid, Dubbed her the Beauty of Madrid. Alas ! what constant pains I toolc To merit, one approving look : T courted Valour and the Muse, "Wrote challenges — and billet-doux; Paid for Sherbet and Serenade, Fenced with Pegru and Alvarade ; Fought at the Bull-fights like a hero, Studied small-talk, — and the Bolero ; Played the guitar — and played the fool This out of tnne — that out of rale. I oft at midnight wandered out, Wrapped up in love — and my capote, To muse on beauty — and the skies, Cold winds — and Leonora's eyes. Alas ! when all my gains were told, I'd caught a Tartar — and a cold. And yet perchance that lovely brov. Had still detained my captive vow ; That clear blue eye's enchanting roll Had still inthralled my yielding soul ; But suddenly a vision bright Came o'er me in a veil of light. And burst the bond whose fetters bound mo, 78 THE CONFESSION OF DON CARLOS. And brake the spell that hung around me, Recalled the heart that madly roved, And bade me love, and be beloved. Who was it brake the chain and spell ? Dark-eyed Castilian ? — thou canst tell ! And am I faithless ? — woe the while, What vow but melts at Rosa's smile ? For broken vows, and faith betrayed, The guilt is thine, Castilian maid ! The tale is told, and I am gone ! Think of me, loved and only one. When none on earth shall care beside How Carlos lived, or loved, or died ! Thy love on earth shall be to me A bird upon a leafless tree — A bark upon a hopeless wave — A lily on a tombless grave — A cheering hope — a living ray, To light me on a weary way. And thus is Love's Confession done ; Give me thy parting benison ; And ere I rise from bended knee, To wander o'er a foreign sea, Alone and friendless, — ere I don My pilgrim's hat, and sandal shoon — Dark-eyed Castilian ! let me win Forgiveness sweet for venial sin ; Let lonely sighs and dreams of thee. Be penance for my perjury. THE BACHELOR. 79 THE BACHELOR. T. QUINCE, ESQ., TO THE REV. MATTHEW PRIXGLE, You wonder that your ancient friend Has come so near liis journey's end, And borne his heavy load of ill O'er Sorrow's slough, and Labor's hill, Without a partner to beguile The toilsome way with constant smile. To share in happiness and pain. To guide, to comfort, to sustain, And cheer the last, long, weary stage, That leads to Death, through gloomy Age ! To drop these metaphoric jokes, And speak like reasonable folks, It seems you wonder, Mr. Pringle, That old Tom Quince is living single. Since my old crony and myself Laid crabbed Euclid on the shelf. And made our Conge to the Cam, Long years have passed ; and here I am, With nerves and gout, but yet alive, A Bachelor, and fifty-five. Sir, I'm a Bachelor, and mean, Until the closing of the scene, 80 THE BACHELOE. Or be it rigtt, or be it wrong, To play the part I've played so long, Nor be the rat tbat others are, Cauglit by a ribbon or a star. " As years increase," your worship criey, " All troubles and anxieties Come swiftly on : you feel vexation Abouti.your neighbours, or the nation ; The gout in fingers or in toes. Awakes you from your first repose ; You'll want a clever nurse, when life Begins to fail you ! — take a wife ; Believe me, from the mind's disease Her soothing voice might give you ease, And when the twinge comes shooting through you, Her care might be of service to you." Sir, I'm not dying, though I know You charitably think me so ; Not dying yet, though you, and others, In augury your learned brothers, Take pains to prophesy events Which lie some twenty winters hence. Some twenty ? — look ! you shake your head. As if I were insane or dead. And tell your children and your wife, — " Old men grow very fond of life I" THE BACliF.LOi:. SI Alas ! your prescience never ends As long as it concerns your friends ; But your own fifty-third December Is what you never can remember ! And when I talk about my health. And future hopes of weal or w'ealth, — With something 'twixt a grunt and groan, You mutter in an under tone, " Hark ! how the dotard chatters still .'* He'll not believe he's old or ill ! He goes on forming great designs, — Has just laid in a stock of wines, — And promises his niece a ball, As if gray hairs would never fall ! I really think he's all but mad." Then, with a wink and sigh, you add, " Tom is a friend I dearly prize, But never thought him over wise!" You — who are clever to foretell Where ignorance might be as well, • 1 must confess that Dr. Swift Has lent me here a little lift : For when /steal some trilling hits From older and from brighter wits, I have some touch ofconbtience left, And seldom like to hide the theft. This is my [dan ; I name no name, Bnt wish all others did thi- same. Vol. II.— G 82 THE BACHELOE. "Would marvel how my health has stood : My pulse is firm, digestion good, I walk to see my turnips grow, Manage to ride a mile or so, Get to the village chtirch to pray, And drink my pint of wine a day ; And often, in an idle mood, Emerging from my solitude, Look at my sheep, and geese, and fowls, And scare the sparrows and the owls ; Or talk with Dick about my crops. And learn the price of malt and hops. You say, that, when you S'aw me last. My appetite was going fast, My eye was dim, my cheek was pale, My bread — and stories — both were stale, My wine and wit were growing worse. And all things else, — except my purse ; In short, the very blind might see I was not what I used to be. My glass (which I believe before ye) "Will teach me quite another story; My wrinkles are not many yet — My hair is still as black as jet — INfy legs are full — my cheeks are ruildy — My eyes, though somewhat sank by study, Retain a most vivacious ray, THE BACHELOR. 83 And tell no stories of decay ; And then my waist, — unvexed, unstayed By fetters of the tailor's trade, — Tells you, as plain as waist can tell, I'm most unfashionably well. And yet you think I'm growing thinner ! You'd stare to see me eat my dinner ! You know that I was held by all The greatest epicure in Hall, And that the voice of Granta's sons Styled me the Gourmand of St. John's ; I have not yet been found unable To do my duty to my table. Though at its head no Lady gay Hath driven British food away, And made her hapless husband bear Alike her fury and her fare. If some kind-hearted chum calls in, — • An extra dish, an older bin, And John, in all his finery dressed, Do honour to the welcome guest ; And then we talk of other times, Of parted friends, and distant climes, And lengthened converse, tale, and jest, Lull every anxious care to rest ; And when unwillingly I rise, With newly-wakened sympathies, From conversation — and the bowl, 84: THE BACHELOK. The feast of stomach— and of soul, I lay me down and seem to leap O'er forty summers in my sleep ; And youth, with all its joy and pain, Comes rushing on my soul again ; I rove where'er my boyhood roved — I love whate'er my boyhood loved — And rooks, and vales, and woods, and streams. Fleet o'er ray pillow in my dreams. 'Tis true some ugly foes arise E'en in this earthly Paradise, Which you, good Pringle, may beguile By Mrs. P.'s unceasing smile. I am an independent elf. And keep my comforts in myself If my best sheep have got the rot — Or if the Parson hits a blot — Or if young Witless prates of laurel — Or if my tithe produces quarrel— Or if my rooting wants repairs — Or if I'm angry with my heirs — Or if I've nothing else to do — I grumble for an hour or two ; Eiots, or rumours, unrepressed. My niece, or knuckle, over-dressed, The lateness of a wished-for post, Miss Mackrell's story of the ghost. New wines, new fashions, or new faces, THE BACHELOR. 85 New bills, new taxes, or new places, Or Mr. Hume's enumeration Of all the troubles of the nation, Will sometimes wear my patience out! Then, as I said before — the gout — Yv'ell, well, iny heart was never faint — And yet it might provoke a saint. A rise of bread, or fall of rain, Sometimes unite to give me pain, And oft my lawyer's bag of papers Gives me a taste of spleen and vapom-s. Angry or sad, alone or ill, I have my senses with me still ; Although my eyes are somewhat weak. Yet can I dissipate my pique By Poem, Paper, or Review ; And though I'm dozy in my pew, At Dr. Poundtext's second leaf, I am not yet so very deaf As to require the rousing noise Of screaming girls and roaring boys. Thrice — thrice accursed be the day "When I shall fling my bliss away, And, to disturb my quiet life, Take Discord in the shape of wife I Time, in his endless muster-roll, Shall mark the hour with blackest coal When old Tom Quince shall cease to sec 86 THE BACHELOE. The Chronicle with toast and tea, Confine his rambles to his park, And never dine till after dark. And change his comfort and his crony. For crowd and conversazione. If every aiding thought is vain, And momentary grief and pain Urge the old man to frown and fret, He has another comfoi't yet ; This earth has thorns, as poets sing, Bnt not forever can they sting ; Our sand from out its narrow glass Kapidly passes I — let it pass ! I seek not — I — to check or stay The progress of a single day, But rather cheer my hours of pain Because so few of them remain. Care circles every mortal head, — The dust will be a calmer bed ! From Life's alloy no Life is free. But — Life is not eternity ! When that unerring day shall come To call me from my wandering, home,— The dark, and still, and painful day, When breath shall fl^eet in groans away, When comfort shall be vainly sought. And doubt shall be in every thought, THE BACHELOK. 87 ^Mieii words shall fail th' uuiittered vow, And fever beat the burning brow, When the dim eye shall gaze, and fear To close the glance that lingers herc^ Snatching the faint departing light. That seems to flicker in its tiight, When the lone heart, in that long strife, Shall cling unconsciously to life, — I'll have no shrieking female by To shed her drops of sympathy ; To listen to each smothered throe, To feel, or feign, otiicious woe ; To bring me every useless cup. And beg " dear Tom" to drink it up; To turn my oldest servants otf, E'en as she hears my gurgling cough ; And tlien expectantly to stand. And chafe my temples with her hand ; And pull a cleaner night-cap o'er 'em, That I may die with due decorum ; And watch the while my ebbing breuth. And count the tardy steps of Death ; Grudging the Leech his growing bill, And rapt in dreams about the will. I'll have no Furies round my bed ! — They shall not phigue me — till I'm dead ! Believe me ! ill my dust would rest, If the plain marble o'er my breast. 88 THE BACHELOE. That tells, in letters large and clear, " The Bones of Thomas Quince lie here!" Should add a talisman of strife, "Also the Bones of Jane his Wife!" No ; while beneath this simple stone Old Quince shall sleep, and sleep alone, Some Village Oracle, who well Knows how to speak, and read, and spell, Shall slowly construe, bit by bit, My "na^Ms" and my "o5n^," And then, with sage discoxirse and long, Eecite my virtues to the throng : — " The Gentleman came straight from Col- lege! A most prodigious man for knowledge! He used to pay all men their due. Hated a miser — and a Jew, But always opened wide his door To the first knocking of the poor. None, as the grateful Parish knows. Save the Church-wardens, were his foes ; They could not bear the virtuous pride "Which gave the sixpence tliey denied. If neighbours had a mind to quarrel, He used to treat them to a barrel ; And that, I think, was sounder law Than any book I ever saw. THE BACHELOE. 89 The Ladies never used to flout him ; But this was rather strange about him, That, gay or thoughtful, young or old, He took no wife, for love or gold ; Woman he called 'a pretty thing,' — But never could abide a ringl" Good Mr. Pringle ! — you must see Your arguments are light with me; They buzz like feeble flies around me, But leave me firm, as first they found me. Silence your logic ! burn your pen ! The Poet says "avc all are men;" And all " condemned alike to groan!" You with a wife, and I with none. "Well ! — yours may be a happier lot. But it is one I envy not ; And you'll allow me, Sir, to pray. That, at some near-approaching day, You may not have to wince and whine. And find some cause to envy mine ! 90 MAKEIAGB. MARRIAGE. What, what is Marriage? Harris, Prir^cian, Assist me with a definition. — " Oh!" cries a charming, silly fool. Emerging from her boarding-school — " Marriage is — love without disguises, It is a — something that arises From raptures and from stolen 'glances, To be the end of all romances ; Vows — quarrels — moonshine — babes — but hush ! I mustn't have you see me blush." "Pshaw !" says a modern modish wife, " Marriage is splendour, fashion, life ; A house in town, and villa shady, Balls, diamond bracelets, and ' my lady ;' Then for finale, angry words, ' Some people 's — ' obstinate 's — ' absurd I "s And peevish hearts, and silly heads. And oaths, and 'bete 's and separate beds 1"' An aged bachelor, whose life Has just been sweetened with a wife, Tells out the latent grievance thus : " Marriage is — odd ! for one of us MARRIAGE. 91 'Tis worse a mile than rope or tree, Hemlock, or sword, or slavery ; An end at once to all our ways. Dismission to the one-horse chaise ; Adieu to Sunday can, and pig. Adieu to wine, and whist, and wig ; Our friends turn out, — our wife's are clapped in; *Tis 'exit Crony,' — 'enter Captain.' Then hurry in a thousand thorns, — Quarrels, and compliments, — and horns. This is the yoke, and I must wear it ; Marriage is — hell, or something near it !'' "Why, marriage," says an exquisite, Sick from the supper of last night, " Marriage is — after one by me ! I promised Tom to ride at three. — Marriage is — 'gad ! I'm rather late ; La Fleur ! — my stays! and chocolate ! — [Marriage is — really, though, 'twas hard To lose a thousand on a card ; Sink the old Duchess ! — three revokes ! 'Gad ! I must fell the Abbey oaks : Mary has lost a thousand more ! — Marriage is- -'gad ! a cursed bore!" Hymen, who hears the blockheads groan, Rises indignant from his throne. 92 MARRIAGE. And mocks tlieir self-reviling tears, And ^Ybispe^s thus in Folly's ears : " O frivolous of heart and head! If strifes infest your nuptial bed, Not Hymen's hand, but guilt and sin, Fashion and folly, force them in ; If on your couch is seated Care, / did not bring the scoffer there ; If Hymen's torch is feebler grown, The hand that quenched it was your own ; And what I am, unthinking elves, Ye all have made me for yourselves I" HOW TO KHYME FOR LOVE. 03 HOW TO RHYME FOR LOVE. At the last Lour of Fannia's rout, When Dukes walked in, and lamps went out, Fair Chloe sat : a sighing crowd Of liigh adorers round her bowed, And ever Flattery's incense rose To lull the Idol to repose. Sudden some Gnome, that stood unseen, Or lurked disguised in mortal mien. Whispered ir Beauty's trembling ear The word of bondage and of fear, — " ]Srarriage :"— her lips their silence broke, And smiled on Vapid as they spoke— '^ I hate a drunkard, or a lout, I liate the sullens and the gout ; If e'er I wed— let danglers know it, — 1 wed with no one — but a poet." And who but feels a Poet's fire When Chloe's smiles, as now, inspire ? AVho can the bidden verse refuse AVhen Ohloe is his theme and Muse ? Thus Flattery whispered round ; And straight the humorous fancy grew, That lyres are sweet when hearts are true ; 94: HOW TO RHYME FOE LOVE. And all who feel a lover's flame Must rhyme to-night on Chloe's name ; And he's unworthy of the Dame, Who silent here is found. Since Head must plead the cause of Hearty Some put their trust in answer smart. Or pointed repartee ; Some joy that they have hoarded up Those Genii of the jovial cup, Chorus, and Catch, and Glee. And, for one evening, all prepare To be "Apollo's chiefest ca-e." Then Vapid rose — no Stentor this, And his no Homer's lay — Meek victim of antithesis, He sighed and died away : — " Despair my sorrowing bosom rivtt-, And anguish on me lies ; Chloe may die while Vapid lives. Or live while Vapid dies ! You smile ! the horrid vision flies. And Hope this promise gives ; I cannot live while Chloe dies, Nor die while Chloe lives!" Nest Snafl3e, foe to tears and sadness, Drew fire from Chloe's eyes ; And, warm with drunkenness and uiaduess, HOW TO RHYME FOR LOVE. 95 He started for the prize. " Let the glad cymbals loudly clash ! Full bumpers let's be quaffing ! Kopoetl! Hip! hip! here goes!— Blow— blow the trumpet !— blow the—" Here he was puzzled for a rhyme, And Lucy whispered "nose" in time, And so they fell a-laughing. " Gods!" cried a Minister of State, " You know not. Empress of my Fate, How long my passion would endure, If passion were a sinecure ; But since, in Love's despotic clime, Fondness is taxed, and pays in rhyme, Glad to retire, I shun disgrace. And make my bow, and quit my place." And thus the jest went circling round. And ladies smiled and sneered, As smooth Fourteen, and weak Fourscore, Professed they ne'er had rhymed before. And Drunkards blushed, and Doctors swore. And Soldiers owned they feared : Unwonted Muses were invoked By Pugilists and Whips ; And many a Belle looked half provoked. When favoured Swains stood dumb and choked, Atid Warblers whined, and Punsters joked, And Dandies bit their lips. 96 HOW TO KHYME FOE LOVE. At last an old Ecclesiastic, "Who looked half kind, and half sarcastic, And seemed, in every transient look, At once to flatter and rebuke. Cut otf the sport with " Pslia! enough ;" And then took breath, and then — took snuff. "Ohloe," he said, "you're like the moon ! You shine as bright, you change as soon ! Your wit is like the moon's fair beam. In borrowed light 'tis o'er us thrown; Yet, like the moon's, that sparkling stream To careless eyes appears your own ; Your cheek by turns is pale and red ; And then (to close the simile, From which, methinks, you turn your heail, As half in anger, half in glee) — Dark would the night appear without you— And — twenty fools have rhymed about you." OHAJSTGING QUARTERS. 97 CHANGING QUARTERS. A SKETCn. "Ahl then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress ! * * * * ns SIS Hf And there was mounting in hot haste." IJi/ran Fair laughs the morn, and out they coino A.t the solemn beat of the rolling drum, Apparelled for the march ; Many an old and honoured name, Young Avarriors, with their eyes of flame, And aged veterans in the wars. With little pay, and many scars. And titled Lord, and tottering Bean, Right closely wrapped from top to toe In vanity and starch. The rising Sun is gleaming bright, And Britain's flag is waving light, And widely, where the gales invite, The charger's mane is flowing: Around is many a staring face Of envious Boor, and wondering Grace, And Echo shouts through all the place, — " The Soldiers be a-going!" Beauty and Bills are buzzing now Vol. II.— 7 98 CHANGING QUAETER8. In many a martial ear, And, midst the tumult and the row, Is seen the Tailor's anxious bow, And Woman's anxious tear. Alas ! the thousand cares that float To-day around a scarlet coat ! There's Sergeant Cross, in fume and fret. With little Mopsa, the coquette, Close clinging to his side : Who, if fierce Mars and thundering Jove Had had the least respect for love. To-day had been his bride — Aud, midst the trumpet's wild acclaim, She calls upon her lover's name In beautiful alarm ; Still looking up expectantly To see the tear-drop in his eye, Still hanging to his arm ; And he the while — his fallen chop Most eloquently tells That much he wishes little Mop Were waiting for — another drop, Or hanging — somewhere else. Poor Captain Mill ! what sounds of feur Break sudden on his startled ear ! On right and left, above, around him, Tom, the horse-dealer, roars, "Confound him I A pretty conscience his ; CHANGING QUARTERS. 99 To ruin thus iny finest bay, And Lurry off, like smoke, to-day, — If there's no hiw, some other way. By Jove, he'll smart for this!" Ah ! fly, unhappy, while you can ! The Captain is a dangerous man, A right old Jockey's son ! Ah! fly, unhappy, while you may! The Captain first knocks up the Bay, And then — knocks down the Dun '. Old Larry is as brave a soul As ever drained an English bowl ; His head and heart alike are tried ; And when two comrades have a]j])lied Or hand to sword, or lip to pewter. Old Larry never yet was neuter. But now the Hero (like a fool Eipe from a milksop boarding-school, In love or fortune crossed), Silent, and pale, and stupid, stands, Scratches his head with both his hands, And fears the hostile Host. Oh ! can it be ? are hearts of stone So small, and soft, and silky grown, That Larry fears a lick ? Oh 1 wrong not thus his closing years, 'Tis not the Host of France he fears, But of the Candlestick. 100 CHANGma QUARTERS. The Brute is there! — in long array, All clean set down from day to day, The dreaded figures stalk ; The Veteran, with his honest hlows. Can settle well a Score of Foes, But not a Score of Chalk. Alas! alas! that warrior hot Balls from ten-pounders feareth not, But Bills for pennies three ; And if he trembles, well I wot He would not care for Gallic shot. So here he were shot-free. Fat Will the Butcher, in a pet, His furious fang hath sharply set On luckless Captain Martinette, And thus the booby cries: "Don't kick. — As sure as eggs is eggs You will not have me off my legs, Captain, although you tries ; And you must know, good Sir, a"s how I mean to ha' my money now, Or know the whens and whys." The little Captain, whom 'twould kill To be a public scoff. Shuffles, and whispers — " Honest Will, For forty shillings is your bill — Take twenty — and be off." T!ie Butcher, much a friend to run, CHANGING QUARTERS. 101 And somewhat apt to laugh or pun, Stands grinning like his calves ; Till for his joke his debt he barters — •' Sir, Gommen, when they change their quarters, Shouldn't do things by halves." He, too, the pride of war, is there, Victorious Major Ligonier. A soldier he from boot to phime, In tented field, or crowded room. Magnanimous in martial guise. He eats, and sleeps, and swears, and lies ; Like no poor cit the man behaves. And when he picks his teeth, or shaves, He picks his teeth with warlike air, And mows his beard e7i militaire. But look ! his son is by his side. More like a young and blushing bride Than one in danger's hour. All madly doomed to run and ride. And stem tlie Battle's whelming tide. And face its iron shower. In peace too warm, in war too cold. Although with girls he's very bold, With men he's somewhat shy ; Nature could not two gifts afford, And so she did not make his sword So killin"' as bis eve. 102 CHANGmC QUARTERS. Is there an eye which nothing sees, In what it views to-day, To whisper deeper thoughts than these. And wake a graver lay ? Ah, think not thus ! when Lovers part. When weeping eye and tremhhng heart Speak more than words can say ; It ill becomes my jesting song To run so trippingly along. And on these trifling themes bestow What ought to be a note of woe. I see young Edward's courser stand, The bridle rests upon his hand ; But beauteous Helen lingers yet. With throbbing heart, and eyelid wet ; And as she speaks in that sweet tone ' Which makes the listener's soul its own, And as she heaves that smothered sigh Which Lovers cannot hear and fly, In Edward's face looks up the while. And longs to weep, yet seems to smile. "Fair forms may fleet around, my love! And lighter steps than mine. And sweeter tones may sound, my love ! And brighter eyes may shine ; But wheresoever thou dost rove, Thou wilt not find a heart, my love, CHANGING QUARTERS. 103 So truly. I'.'holly tliine, As that which at thy feet is aehiug, As if its very strings were breaking! "I would not see thee glad, my love! As erst, in happier years ; Yet do not seem so sad, my love ! Because of Helen's fears! Swiftly the flying minutes move, And though we weep to-day, my love, Heavy and bitter tears. There'll be, fxir every tear that strays, A thousand smiles in other days I" lOJi EEMLN'ISCElsCES OF MY YOUTH. REIMIXISCEXCES OF MY YOUTH. ' 'I'tere's not a joy the world can give, like that it takes away. "When the glow of early thought declines in feeling"; dull decay." — Byron. Scene of my best and brightest years I Scene of my childhood's joys and fears' Again I gaze on thee at last ; And dreams of the forgotten past, Robed in the visionary hues That Memory llings on all she vie-\vs, Come fleeting o'er me! — I could look Unwearied on this babbling brook, And lie beneath this aged oak, And listen to its raven's croak, And bound upon my native plain, — ■ Till Fancy made me Boy again ! I could forget the pain and strife Of manhood's dark, deceitful life ; I could forget the ceaseless toil, The hum of cities, and the coil That Interest Sings upon our hearts, As Candour's faded glow departs; I could forget whatever care It has been mine to see or share, REMINISCENCES OF MY YOUTH. 105 And be as playful and as wild As when — a dear and wayward child — I dwelt upon this fairy spot, All reckless of a bitterer lot. Then Glee was high, and on my tongue The happy laugli of Folly hung. And Innocence looked bright on Youth, And all was bliss, and all was truth. There is no change upon the scene, My native plain is gayly green ; Yon oak still braves the wintry air, The raven is not silent there ; Beneath my foot the simple rill Flows on in noisy wildness still. Nature hath sufiered no decay ; Her lordly children ! where are they ? Friends of my pure and sinless age, The good, the jocund, and tlie sage ; Gone is the light your kindness slied, In silence have ye changed or fled; Ye and your dwellings ! — yet I hear Your well-known voices in mine ear, And see your faces beaming round. Like magic shades on haiinted ground. Hark! as they murmur down the dt-ll, A lingering tale those voices tell ; And while they flit in vacant air, 106 SEMINISCENCES OF MY YOUTH. A beauteous smile those faces wear. Alas ! I turn my dreaming eyes, The lovely vision fades and flies ; The tale is done — The smile is gone — I am a stranger, — and alone. Within yon humble cottage, where The fragrant woodbine scents the air, And the neat door looks fair to view. Seen through its leafy avenue, The matron of the Village School Maintained her ancient state and rule. The dame was rigid and severe, "With much to love, but more to fear • She was my nurse in infancy ; And as I sat upon her knee, And listened to her stories, told In dialect of Doric mould, "\Yhile wonders still on wonders gvew. I marvelled if the tale were true ; And all she said of valorous knight, And beauteous dame, and love, and figh* Enchanter fierce, and goblin sly, My childhood heard right greedily. At last the wand of magic broke. The tale was ended ; and she spoke Of learning's everlasting well. And said, "I ought to learn to spell;" KEMESriSCENCES OF IVIT YOUTH. 107 And then slie talked of sound and sense ; Of verbs and adverbs, mood and tense ; And then she would with care disclose The treasured Primer's lettered rows — Whereat my froward rage spoke out, In cry and passion, frown and pout, And with a sad and loathing look, I shrank from that enchanted book. Oh! sweet were those untutored years, Their joys and pains, their hopes and fears ; There was a freshness in them all Which we may taste, but not recall. Fo ! man must never more enjoy The thoughts, the passions of the boy, The aspirations high and bold. Unseen, unguided, uncontrolled ; The first ambition, and the pride That youthful bosoms feel and hide ; The longings after manhood's sun, Which end in clouds — as mine have done. In yonder neat abode, withdrawn From strangers by its humble lawn. Which the neat shrubbery enshrouds From scrutiny of passing crowds. The Pastor of the Village dwelt : To him with clasping hands I knelt. When first he taught my lips to pray, 108 KEMINISCEXCES OF MY YOUTH. Mj steps to walk in Virtue's way, My heart to honour and to love The God that ruleth from above. He was a man of sorrows ; — Care "Was seated on his hoary hair ; His cheek was colourless ; his brow "Was furrowed o'er, as mine is now; His earliest youth had fled in tears. And grief was on his closing years. But still lie met, with soul resigned, The day of mourning ; and his mind, xseneath its load of woe and pain. Might deeply feel, but not complain ; And Virtue o'er his forehead's snows Had thrown an air of meek repose, More lovely than the hues that streak The bloom of childhood's laughing cheek ; It seemed to tell the holy rest That will not leave the righteous breast, The trust in One that died to save, The hope that looks beyond the grave, The calm of unpretending worth, The bliss that is not of the earth. And he would smile; but in his smile Sadness would seem to lurk the while : Child as I was, I could not bear To look upon that placid air; I felt the tear-drop in mine eye, And wished to weep, and knew not why. REinmSCENCES OF MY YOUTH. 109 He had one daughter. — !Many years Have fleeted o'er me, shice my tears Fell on that form of quiet grace, That humble brow, and beauteous face. She parted from this world of ill "When I was yet a child : but still, Until my heart shall cease to beat, That countenance so mildly sweet, That kind blue eye, and golden hair, Eternally are graven there. I see her still, as when she stood In the ripe bloom of womanhood ; Yet deigning, where I led, to stray, And mingle in my childhood's play ; Or sought my father's dwelling-place, And clasped me in hei* fond embrace ; A friend — when I had none beside ; A mother — when my mother died. Poor Ellen ! she is now forgot Upon the hearths of this dear spot ; And they, to whom her bounty came. They, who would dwell upon her name With raptured voice, as if they found Hope, comfort, riches, in the sound, Have ceased to think how Ellen li^'d : — Why should they sorrow for the dead* Perhaps, around the festive board, Some aged chroniclers record 110 KEMmiSCENCES OF MY YOUTH. Her hopes, her virtues, and her tomb And then a sudden, silent gloom Creeps on the lips that smiled before, And jest is still, and mirth is o'er. She was so beauteous in her dress Of unaffected loveliness, So bright, and so beneficent. That you might deem some fairy sent To hush the helpless orphan's fears. And dry the widow's gushing tears. She moved in beauty, like the star That shed its lustre from afar, To tell the wisest on the earth The tidings of a Saviour's birth ; So pure, so cheering was her ray — So quickly did it die away. There came a dark, infectious Pest To break the hamlet's tranquil rest ; It came — it breathed on Ellen's face ; And so she went to Death's embrace, A blooming and a sinless bride, — And how, I knew not — but she died. I was the inmate of her home. And knew not why she did not come To cheer my melancholy mood ; Her father wept in solitude ; The servants wore a look of woe, EEMINISCENCES OF MY YOUTH. Ill Their steps were soft, their whispers low ; And when I asked them why they sighed, They shook their heads, and turned aside. I entered that forbidden room ! All things were still ! a deathlike gloom Stole on me, as I saw her lie In her white vest of purity. She seemed to smile ! her lips were wet, The bloom was on her features yet: I looked! at first I thought she slept — But when her accents did not bless — And when her arms did not caress — And when I marked her quiet air, And saw that soul was wanting there — I sat me on the ground, and wept! 112 SUKLT HALL. SURLY HALL. "Mercy o' me, what a multitude are herel They grow still, too, from all parls they are coming. As if we kept a fair here !" — Shakspeare. The sun hath shed a mellower beam, Fair Thames, upon thy silver stream, And air and water, earth and heaven, Lie in the calm repose of even. How silently the breeze moves on, Flutters, and whispers, and is gone ! How calmly does the quiet sky Sleep in its cold serenity ! Alas ! how sweet a scene were here For shepherd or for sonneteer ; How fit the place, how fit the time, For making love, or making rhyme ! But though the sun's descending ray Smiles warmly on the close of day, 'Tis not to gaze upon his light That Eton's sons are here to-night ; And though the river, calm and clear, Makes music to the poet's ear, Tis not to listen to the sound That Eton's sons are thronging round. SUKLY HALL. 113 The sun unheeded may decline. Bine eyes send out ,i brighter shine ; The wave may cease its gurgling moan, Glad voices have a sweeter tone; For, in our calendar of bliss, "We have no hour so gay as this, When the kind hearts and brilliant eyes Of those we know, and love, and prize, Are come to cheer the captive's thrall, And smile vT{:)on his festival. Stay, Pegasus, — and let me ask, Ere I go onward in my task, Pray, reader, — were you ever here Just at this season of the year ? jS'o? — then the end of next July Should bring you with admiring eye, To hear us row, and see us row, And cry — "How fast them boys does go!" For Father Thames beholds to-night A thousand visions of delight : Tearing and swearing, jeering, cheering, Lame steeds to right and left careering, .Displays, dismays, disputes, distresses, Ruffling of temper, and of dresses; Wounds on the heart, and on the knuckles; Losing of patience, and of buckles. An interdict is laid on Latin, And scholars smirk in silk and satin ; Vol. IL— 8 114 SURLY HALL. And dandies start their thinnest pumps, And Michael Oakley's in the dumps ; And there is naught beneath the sun, But dash and splash, and falls and fun. Lord ! what would be the cynic's mirth, If fate would lift him to the earth, And set his tub, with magic jump, Squat down beside the Brocas clump ! "What scoifs the sage would* utter there, From his unpolished elbow-chair. To see the seamstress' handiwork. The Greek confounded with the Turk, Parisian mix'd with Piedmontese, And Persian joined to Portuguese ; And mantles short, and mantles long, And mantles right, and mantles wrong, Misshaped, miscoloured, and misplaced, "With what the tailor calls — a taste. And then the badges, and the boats. The flags, the drums, the paint, the coats ; But more than these, and more than all, The pullers' intermitted call — "Easy!"— "Hard all!"— -'Xow pick her up!" "Upon my life, how I shall sup!" Would be a fine and merry matter, To wake the sage's love of satire. Kind readers, at my laughing age, SURLY HALL. 115 I thank my stars I'm not a sage ; I, an unthinking, scribbling elf, Love to please others, — and myself ; Therefore I fly a malo joco. But like desipej'e in loco, Excuse me that I wander so ; All modern i)ens digress, you know. Now to my theme! Thou Being gay, Houri or goddess, nymph or fay, "Whoe'er, whate'er, where'er thou art, "Who, with thy warm and kindly heart, Hast made these blest abodes thy care ; Being of water, earth, or air, Beneath the moonbeam hasten hither, Enjoy thy blessings ere they wither. And witness, with thy gladdest face, The glories of thy dwelling-place ! The boat puts off! — throughout the crow J The tumult thickens; wide and loud The din re-echoes ; man and horse Plunge onward in their mingled course. Look at the troop : I love to see Our real Etonian Cavalry ; They start in such a pretty trim. And such sweet scorn of life and limb. I must confess, I never found A horse mach worse for beine: sound , 116 SUKLY HALL. I wish my Nag not wholly blind, And like to have a tail behind ; And though he certainly may hear Correctly with a single eai", I think, to look genteel and neat, He ought to have his two complete. But these are trifles ! olf they go Beside the wondering River's flow ; And if, by dint of spur and whip. They shamble on without a trip, "Well have they done ! I make no question They're shaken into good digestion. I and my Muse, — My muse and I, Will follow with the Company, And get to Surly Hall in time To make a Supper and a Rhyme, Yes! while the animating crowd, The gay, and fair, and kind, and proud, "With eager voice and eager glance Wait till the pageantry advance. We'll throw around a hasty view, And try to get a sketch or two. First in the race is William Tag, Thalia's most industrious fag : Whate'er the subject he essays To dress in never-dying lays, — A chief, a cheese, a dearth, a dinner, SITRLY HALL. H' A cot, a castle, cards, Corinna, Ilibernia, Baffin's Bay, Parnassus, Beef, Bonaparte, Beer, Bonassus, — Will hath his ordered words and rhymes For various scenes and various times, "Which suit alike for this or that, And come, like volunteers, quite pat. He hath his Elegy, or Sonuet, For Lucy's bier, or Lucy's bonnet ; And celebrates, with equal ardour, A Monarch's sceptre, or his larder. Poor William ! when he wants a hint, All other Poets are his mint ; He coins his epic, or his lyric, His satire, or his panegyric, From all the gravity and wit Of what the ancients thought and writ. Armed with his Ovid and his Flaccus, He comes like thunder to attack us; In pilfered mail he bursts to view. The cleverest thief I ever knew. Thou noble Bard, at any time Borrow my measure and my rhyme ; Borrow (I'll cancel all the debt) An epigram or epithet; Borrow my mountains, or my trees, My paintings, or my similes; Nay, borrow all my pretty names, My real or my fancied flames — 118 SUELT HALL. Eliza, Alice, Leonora, Mary, Melissa, and Medora ; And borrow all my "mutual vows," My "ruby lips," and "cruel bi'ows;" And all my stupors, and my startings, And all my meetings, and my partings ; Tlius far, my friend, you'll find me willing, Borrow all things, save one — a shilling ! Drunken, and loud, and mad, and rasli, Joe Tarrell wields his ceaseless lash ; The would-be sportsman ; o'er the sides Of the lank charger he bestrides. The foam lies painfully ; and blood Is trickling in a ruddier flood, Beneath the fury of the steel Projecting from his arm^d heel. E'en from his childhood's earliest bloom, All studies that become a groom, Eton's S2)es gregis, honest Joe, Or knows, or would be thought to know ; He picks a hunter's hoof quite finely, And spells a horse's teeth divinely. Prime terror of molesting duns, Sole judge of greyhounds and of guns, A skilful whip, a steady shot, Joe swears he is ! — who says he's not? And then he has such knowing faces For all the week of Ascot races, BUKLY HALL. 119 And talks with such a mystic speech, Uutangible to vulgar reach, Of Sultan, Highflyer, and Ranter, Potatoes, Quiz, and Tara O'Shanter; Bay colts and brown colts, sires and dams, Bribings and bullyings, bets and bams; And how the favourite should have won, And how tlie little Earl was done; And how the filly failed in strength. And how some faces grew in length ; x\nd how some people, — if they'd show. Know something more than others know. Such is his talk ; and while we wonder At that interminable thunder, The undiscriminating snarler Astounds the ladies in the parlour, And broaches, at his mother's table. The slang of kennel and of stable. And when he's drunk, he roars before ye One excellent, unfailing story About a gun, Lord knows how long, With a discharge. Lord knows how strong; Which always needs an oath and frown To make the monstrous dose go down. Oh ! oft and oft the Muses pray That wondrous tube may burst one day. And then the world will ascertain Whether its master hath a brain. Then, on the stone that hides his sleep. 120 SUELY HALL. These accents shall be graven deep ; Or, "Upton"* and "0. B." between, Shine in the "Sporting Magazine:" " Civil to none, except his brutes, Polished in naught, except his boots — Here lie the relics of Joe Tarrell ; Also, Joe Tarrell's double-barrel!" Ho ! — by the muttered sounds that slip. Unwilling, from his curling lip ; By the gray glimmer of his eye, That shines so imrelentingiy ; By the stern sneer upon liis snout — I know the Critic, Andrew Crout ! The Boy-reviler ! amply filled With venomed virulence, and skilled To look on what is good and fair, And find, or make, a blemish there. For Fortune to his cradle sent Self-satisfying Discontent; And he hath caught from cold Keviews, The one great talent, to abuse ; And so he sallies sternly forth, Like the cold Genius of the North, To check the heart's exuberant fulness, And chill good-humour into dulness. Where'er he comes, his fellows shrink * Two constant supporters of that instructive miscc!laDy SUELY HAJLL. 121 Before his awful nod find wink ; And whensoe'er these features plastic Assume the savage or sarcastic, Mirth stands abashed, and Laughter flies, And Humour faints, and Quibble dies. How sour he seems! — and, hark ! he spoke ; We'll stop and listen to the croak ; 'Twill charm us if these happy lays Are honoured by a fool's dispraise ! — " You think the boats well manned this year ! To you they may perhaps appear! — I, who have seen those frames of steel, Tuekfield, and Dixon, and Bulteel, Can swear, — no matter what I swear ! Only — things are not as they were I And then our Cricket ! — think of that! "We ha'nt a tolerable Bat ; It's very true that Mr. Tucker, Who puts the Field in such a pucker. Contrives to make his fifty Euns ; — What then? — we had a Hardinge once! As for our talents, where are they? Griffin and Grildrig had their day ; And who's the star of modern time? Octosyllabic Peregrine; Who pirates, puns, and talks sedition, Without a moment's intermission I And if he did not get a lift, Sometimes, from me and Doctor Swift, 122 SUSLY HAI.L. I can't tell what the deuce he'd do!-- But this, you know, is entre nous ! I've tried to talk him into taste, But found my labour quite misplaced ; He nibs his pen, and twists his ear, And says he's deaf, and cannot hear; And if I mention right or rule, — Egad ! he takes me for a fool !" Gazing upon this varied scene With a new Artist's absent mien, I see thee, silent and alone, My friend, ingenious Hamilton. I see thee there — (nay, do not blush) — Knight of the Pallette and the Brush, Dreaming of straight and crooked lines, And planning portraits and designs. I like him hugely ! — well I wis No despicable skill is his, "Whether his sportive canvas sliows Arabia's sands, or Zembla's snows, A lion, or a bed of lilies, Fair Caroline, or fierce Achilles ; I love to see him taking down A school-fellow's unconscious frown, Describing twist, grimace, contortion, In most becoming disproportion, While o'er his merry paper glide STIRLT HALL. 123 Rivers of wit; and by his side Caricatura takes lior stand, Inspires the tliooght, and guides the liaud ; I love to see his honoured books Adorned with rivulets and brooks; Troy, frowning with her ancient towers, Or Ida, gay with fruits and flowers ; I love to see fantastic shapes. Dragons and Griflins, Birds and Apes, And Pigmy Forms, and Forms Gigantic, Forms Natural, and Forms Eomantic, Of Dwarfs and Ogres, Dames and Knights, Scrawled by the side of Homer's fights. And portraits daubed on Maro's poems. And profiles pinned to Tully's proems ; In short, I view with partial eyes Whate'er my brother-painter tries. To each belongs his own utensil, I sketch with pen, as he with pencil ; And each, with pencil or with pen. Hits off a likeness now and then. He drew me once — the spiteful creature ! 'Twas voted "like" in every feature; It might have been so ! — ('twas lopsided, And squinted worse than ever I did.j However, from that hapless day 1 owed the debt, which here I pay; And now I'll give my Mend a hint:— '' Unless you want to shine in print. 124 SUELY HALL. Paint lords and ladies, nynaphs and fairies, And demi-gods, and dromedaries ; But never be an author's creditor, Nor paint the picture of an editor !" Who is the youth with stare confounded, And tender arms so neatly rounded ; And moveless eyes, aud glowing face, And attitude of studied grace ? Now, Venus, pour your lustre o'er us ! Your would-be servant stands before us. Hail, Oorydon ! let others blame The fury of his fictioned flame ; I love to hear the beardless youth Talking of constancy and truth ; Sweai'ing more darts are in his liver Than ever gleamed in Cupid's quiver ; And wondering at those hearts of stone, Which never melted like his own. Oh! when I look on Fashion's moth, Eaptin his visions, and his cloth, I would not, for a nation's gold, Disturb the dream, or spoil tlie fold ! And who the maid whose gilded chain Hath bound the heart of such a swain ? Ah! look on those surrounding Graces! There is no lack of pretty faces ; M 1, the Goddess of the night, 8UELY HALL. 125 Looks beantiful with all her might ; And M , in that simple dress, Inthralls us more, by studying less ; D , in your becoming pride, Ye march to conquest side by side, And A , thou fleetest by. Bright in thine arch simplicity ; Slight ai'e the links thy power hath wreathed, Yet, by the tone thy voice hath breathed, By thy glad smile, and ringlets curled, I would not break them for the world ! But this is idle ! Paying court I know was never yet mj forte; And all I say of Jfvmph and Queen, To cut it short, can only mean, That when I throw my gaze around, I see much beauty on the ground. Hark ! hark ! a mellowed note Over the water seemed to float I Hark ! the note repeated ! A sweet, and soft, and soothing strain Echoed, and died, and rose again, As if the xTymphs of Fairy reign Were holding to-night their revel rout, And pouring their fragrant voices out. On the blue waters seated. Hai'k to the tremulous tones that flow, And tho voice of the boatmen as thev row ! 126 SUELY HALL. Cheerfully to the heart they go, And touch a thousand pleasant strings Of Triumph, and Pride, and Hope, and Joy, And thoughts that are only known to Boy, And young Imaginings ! The note is near, the Voice comes clear, And we catch its Echo on the ear "With a feeling of delight; And as tlie gladdening sounds we hear, There's many au eager listener here, And many a sti aining sight. One moment, — and ye see Where, fluttering quick, as the breezes blow. Backwards and forwards, to and fro. Bright with the beam of retiring day, Old Eton's flag on its watery way Moves on triumphantly ; But what, that ancient poets have told Of Amphitrite's Car of Gold, With the Nymphs behind, and the Xymphs before, And the Nereid's song, and the Triton's roar, Could equal half the pride That heralds the Monarch's plashing oar Over the swelling tide ? And, look! — they land, those gallant crews, With their jackets light, and their bellying trews ; 6UELY HALL. 127 And Ashley walks, applauded, by, With a world's talent in his eye ; And Kinglake, dear to Poetry, And dearer to his friends ; Hibernian Roberts, you are there, With that unthinking, merry stare, Which still its influence lends To make us drown our Devils blue. In laughing at ourselves — and you ! Still I could lengthen out the tale, And sing Sir Thomas with his ale. To all that like to read ; Still I could choose to linger long, Where Friendship bids the willing song Flow out for honest Meade ! Yet, e'en on this triumphant day, One thought of grief will rise ; And though I bid my fancy play, And jest and laugh through all the lay, Yet sadness still will have its way. And burst the vain disguise ! Yes ! when the pageant shall have passed, I shall have look'd upon my last ; T shall not e'er behold again Our pullers' unremitted strain ; Nor listen to the charming cry Of contest or of victory, That speaks what those young bosoms feel, 128 SUELY HALL. As keel is pressing fast on keel ; Oh ! bright these glories still shall be. But they shall never dawn for me. E'en when a Realm's Congratulation Sang Pseans for the Coronation ; Amidst the pleasure that was round me, A melancholy Spirit found me ; And while all else were singing "lo!" I couldn't speak a word but "Heigh Lo '" And so, instead of laughing gayly, I dropped a tear, and wrote my " Vale." VALE. Eton ! the Monarch of thy prayers E'en now receives his load of cares ; Throned in the consecrated choir. He takes the sceptre of his sire, And wears the crown his father bore, And swears the oath his father swore ; And therefore sounds of joy resound, Fair Eton ! on thy classic ground. A gladder gale is round tliee breathed. And on thy mansions thou hast wreathed A thousand lamps, whose various hue "Waits but the night to burst to view ; "Woe to the poets that refuse To wake and woo their idle Muse, "When those glad notes — " God save the Kiiu From hill, and vale, and hainlet ring ! 8UKLT HALL. 129 Hark, how the loved, inspiring tune Peals fortli from every loyal loon Who loves his country, and excels In drinking beer, or ringing bells ! It is a day of shouts and greeting, A day of idleness and eating ; And triumph swells in every soul, And mighty beeves are roasted whole ; And ale, uubouglit, is set a-running. And Pleasure's hymn grows rather stunning ; And children roll upon the green. And cry — " Confusion to the Queen 1" And Sorrow flies, and Labour slumbers, And Clio pours her loudest numbers ; And hundreds of that joyous throng, "With whom my life had lingered long, Give their gay raptures to the gale In one united, echoing — " Hail !" I took the harp, I smote the string, I strove to soar on Fancy's wing ; And murmur in my Sovereign's praise The latest of my boyhood's lays. Alas! the theme was too di\nne To suit so weak a Muse as mine ; I saw, I felt it could not be ; No song of triumph flows from mo : The harp from which those sounds ye ask Is all unfit for such a task ; Vor,. IT.— 9 130 SUELY HALL. And the last eclio of its tone, Dear Eton, must be thine alone 1 A few short hours, and I am borne Far from the fetters I have worn ; A few short hours, and I am free ! — And yet I shrink from liberty, And look, and long to give my soul Back to thy cherishing control. Control ! ah, no ! thy chain was meant Far less for bond than ornament ; And though its links be firmly set, I never found them gall me yet. Oh ! still through many checkered years. Mid anxious toils, and hopes, and fears. Still I have doted on thy fame. And only gloried in thy name. How I have loved thee ! Thou hast boon My hope, my mistress, and my Queen ; I always found thee kind, and thou Hast never seen me weep — till now. I knew that Time was fleeting fast, I knew thy pleasures could not last, I knew too well that riper age Must step upon a busier stage ; Yet when around thine ancient towers I passed secure my tranquil hours. Or heard beneath thine aged trees The drowsy humming of the bees, SURLY HALL. 131 Or wandered by thy winding stream, I would not check my fancy's dream ; Glad in my transitory bliss, I recked not of an hour like this ; And now the truth comes swiftly on, The truth I would not think upon ; The last sad thought, so oft delayed,— " These joys are only born to fade." Ye Guardians of my earliest days ! Ye Patrons of my earliest lays ! Custom reminds me that to you Thanks and farewell to-day are due. Thanks and farewell I give you,— not (As some that leave this holy spot) In laboured phrase, and polished lie, "Wrought by the forge of flattery, But with a heart that cannot tell The half of what it feels so well. If I am backward to express. Believe my love is not the less ; Be kind as you are wont, and view A thousand thanks in one "Adieu!" My future life shall strive to show I wish to pay the debt I owe ; The labours that ye give to May, September's fruits shall best repay. And you, my friends, who loved to sh.iro Whate'er was mine of sport or care ; 132 SUKLY HALL. Antagonists at Fives or Chess, Friends in the Phiv-ground or the Presb, I leave ye now, and all that rests Of mutual tastes, and loving breasts, Is the lone vision, that shall corae, "Where'er mv studies and mv home, To cheer mv labour and my pain, And make me feel a boy again. Yes! when at last I sit me down, A scholar, in my cap and gown, — When learned Doctrines, dark and deep. Move me to passion or to sleep, — When Clio yields to Logic's wrangles. And Long and Short give place to Angles. — When stern Mathesis makes it treason To like a rhyme, or scorn a reason,^ — With aching head, and weary wit. Your parted friend shall often sit. Till Fancy's magic spell hath bound him. And lonely musings flit around liim ; Then shall ye come, with all your wiles Of gladdening sounds, and warming smiles ; And naught shall meet his eye or ear. Yet sliall he deem your souls are near. Others may clothe their Valediction With all the tinsel charms of fiction ; And one may sing of Father Thames, SURLY nALL. 133 And Naiads with a hundred names ; And find a Pindus here, and own The College pump a Ilelicon ; And search for Gods about the College, Of which old Homer had no knowledge. And one may eloquently tell The triumphs of the Windsor belle, And sing of Mira's lips and eyes In oft-repeated ecstasies ; Oh ! he hath much and wondrous skill To paint the looks that wound and kill, As the poor maid is doomed to brook, Unconsciously, her lover's look, And smiles, and talks, until the poet Hears the band play, and does not know it. To speak the plain and simple truth, I always was a jesting youth, A friend to merriment and fun, No foe to quibble and to pun ; Therefore I cannpt feign a tear ; And, now that I have uttered here A few imrounded accents, bred More from the heart than from the head Honestly felt, and plainly told. My lyre is still, my fancy cold. POEMS OF LIFE AW MMNERS. PART II. (Eton, 1S2&-1S32.) EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS. I.— THE VICAR. Some years ago, ere Time and Taste Had turned our parish topsy-turvy, When Darnel Park was Darnel "Waste, And roads ati little known as scurvy, The man Avho lost his way between St. Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket, Was always shown across the Green, And guided to the Parson's wicket. Back flew the bolt of lissom lath ; Fair Margaret, in her tidy Idrtle, Led the lorn traveller up the path, Through clean-clipped rows of box and myrtle ; And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray, Upon the parlour steps collected. Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say, " Our master knows you ; you're expected !" Up rose the Eeverend Doctor Brown, Up rose the Doctor's winsome marrow, 138 THE VICAK. The lady laid her knitting down, Her husband clasped his ponderous Barrow ; "Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed, Pundit or papist, saint or sinner. He found a stable for his steed. And welcome for himself, and dinner. If, when he reached his journey's end. And warmed himself in court or college. He had not gained an honest friend, And twenty curious scraps of knowledge ;— If he departed as he came, "With no new light on love or liquor, — Good sooth, the traveller was to blame. And not the Vicarage, nor the Vicar. His talk was like a stream which runs With rapid change from rocks to roses : • It slipped from politics to puns ; It passed from Mahomet to Moses •, Beginning with the laws which keep The planets in their radiant courses, And ending with some precept deep Fur dressing eels or shoeing horses. He was a shrewd and sound divine. Of loud Dissent the mortal terror; And when, by dint of page and line, He "stablished Truth, or started Error, THE VICAB. 139 The Baptist found liiui far too deep ; Tlie Deist sighed with saving sorrow ; And the lean Levite went to sleep, And dreaJTied i)f tasting j)ork to-morrow. His ^ermon never said or showed That Earth is foul, that Heaven is gracious, Without refreshment on the road From Jerome, or from Athanasius ; And sure a righteous zeal inspired The hand and head that penned and phmned For all who understood, admired, [them. And some who did not understand them. He wrote, too, in a quiet way, Small treatises, and smaller verses ; And sage remarks on chalk and clay. And hints to noble lords and nurses ; True histories of last year's ghost, Lines to a ringlet or a turban ; And trifles to the Morning Post, And nothings for Sylvanus Urban. He did not think all mischief fair. Although he had a knack of joking ; He did not make himself a bear, Although he had a taste for smoking : And when religious sects ran mad, He held, in spite of all his learning, 140 THE VICAE. That if a man's belief is bad, It will not be improved by burning. And he was kind, and loved to sit In the low hut or garnished cottage, And praise the farmer's homely wit. And share the widow's homelier pottage : At his approach complaint grew mild, And when his hand unbarred the shutter, The clammy lips of Fever smiled The welcome which they could not utter. He always had a tale for me Of Julius Cgesar or of Venus : From him I learned the rule of three, Cat's-cradle, leap-frog, and Qn(B genus : I used to singe his powdered wig, To steal the staff he put such trust in ; And make the puppy dance a jig When he began to quote Augustine. Alack the change ! in vain I look For haunts in which my boyhood trifled ; The level lawn, the trickling brook, The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled : The church is larger than before ; You reach it by a carriage entry : It holds three hundred people more : And pews are fitted up for gentry. QUINCE. 141 Sit in the Vicar's seat : you'll hear The doctrine of a gentle Johnian, Whose hand is white, whose tone is clear, Whose phrase is very Ciceronian. Where is the old man laid? — look down, And construe on the slab before you, ITio Jaoet GVLIELMVS BROWF, ViR Nulla non donandus lauea. (1520.) II.— QUINCE. " F.allentis scuiita vitae." — Horace. Near a small village in the West, Where many very worthy people Eat, drink, play whist, and do their best To guard from evil Church and Stee[)le, There stood — alas ! it stands no more ! A tenement of brick and plaster, Of which, for forty years and four. My good friend Quince was lord and master ! Welcome was he in hut and hall, To maids and matrons, peers and peasants, 142 QUINCE. He won the sympatMes of all, By making puns and making presents ; Though all the parish were at strife, He kept liis counsel and his carriage, And laughed, and loved a quiet life, And shrank from Chancery suits and — riage. Sound was his claret and his head ; Warm was his douhle ale — and feelings ; His partners at the whist-club said, Tliat he was faultless in his dealings. He went to church but once a week ; Yet Dr. Poundtext always found him An upright man, who studied Greek, And liked to see his friends around him. Asylums, hospitals, and Schools, He used to swear were made to cozen ; All who subsci'ibed to theni were fools, And he subscribed to half a dozen ; It was his doctrine that the poor Were always able, never willing ; And so the beggar at his door Had first abuse, and then a shilhng. Some public principles he had. But was no flatterer, nor fretter ; Ke rapped his box when things were bad, QUINCE. 143 And said, "I cannot make them better!" And much he loathed the patriot's snort, And much he scorned the placeman's snuffle, And cut the fiercest quarrels short, With — " Patience, gentlemen, and slmiBe." For full ten years his pointer, Speed, Had couched beneath her master's table ; Tor twice ten years his old white steed Had fattened in his master's stable — Old Quince averred, upon his troth. They were the ugliest beasts in Devon ; And none knew why he fed them both. With his own hands, six days in seven. Whene'er they heard his ring or knock, Quicker than thought, the village slatterns riung down the novel, smoothed the frock. And took up Mrs. Glasse, and patterns ; Adine was studying baker's bills ; Louisa looked the queen of knitters ; Jane happened to be hemming frills ; And Bell, by chance, was making fritters. But all was vain ; and while decay Came like a tranquil moonlight o'er him, And found him gouty still, and gay, With no fair nurse to bless or bore him ; His rugged smile, and easy chair. 14-i QUINCE. His dread of matrimonial lectures, His wig, Ms stick, his powdered hair. Were themes for verv strange conjectures. Some sages thought the stars above Had crazed him with excess of knowledge ; Some heard he had been crossed in love, Before he came away from college — Some darkly hinted that his Grace Did nothing, great or small, without him ; Some whispered, with a solemn face, That there was something odd about him! I found him at threescore and ten, A single man, but bent quite double ; Sickness was coming on him then, To take him from a world of trouble — lie prosed of slipping down the hill, Discovered he grew older daily ; One frosty day he made his will — The next he sent for Dr. Bailey ! And so he lived — and so he died : — When last I sat beside his pillow, He shook my hand, and "Ah!" he cried, " Penelope must wear the willow. Tell her I hugged her rosy chain While life was flickering in the socket ; And say, that when I call again, I'll bring a license in my pocket. THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM. 145 " I've left my liouse and grounds to Fag — (I hope his master's shoes will suit him) ; And I've bequeathed to you my nag, To feed him for my sake — or shoot him. Tlie Vicar's wife will take old Fox — She'll find him an uncommon mouser ; And let her husband have my box, My Bible, and my Assmanshauser, " Whether I ought to die or not My doctors cannot quite determine ; It's only clear that I shall rot, And be, like Priam, food for vermin. My debts are paid ; — but Nature's debt Almost escaped my recollection ! Tom ! we shall meet again ; and yet I cannot leave you my direction!" III.— THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM. Years, years ago, ere yet my dreams Had been of being wise or witty ; Ere I had done with writing themes, Or yawn'd o'er this infernal Ohitty ; Years, years ago, while all my joys Were in my fowling-piece and filly ; Vol. II.— 10 14G THE BELLE OF THE BALL-KOOM. In short, while I was yet a boy, I fell in love with Laura Lilly. I saw her at the County Ball: There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle Gave signal sweet in that old hall. Of hands across and down the middle, Ifers was the subtlest spell by far Of all that sets young hearts romancing : She was our queen, our rose, our star ; Andthen she danced — oh, heaven, her dancing! Dark was her hair, her hand was white ; Her voice was exquisitely tender ; Her eyes were full of liquid light ; I never saw a waist so slender ; Ilcr every look, her every smile. Shot right and left a score of arrows ; I thought 'twas Venus from her isle. And wondered where she'd left her sparrows. She talked of politics or prayers — Of Southey's prose, or Wordsworth's sonnets, Of danglers or of dancing bears, Of battles, or the last new bonnets ; By candle-light, at twelve o'clock, To me it mattered not a tittle. If those bright lips had quoted Locke, I might have thought they murmured Little, THE BELLE OF THE BALL-EOOM. liT Tlirongh sunny May, through si;ltry Juii-, I loved her with a love eternal ; I spoke her praises to the moon, I wrote them to the Sunday Journal. My mother laughed ; I soon found out That ancient ladies have no feeling ; My father frown'd ; hut how should gout See any happiness in kneeling? She was the daughter of a dean. Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic ; She had one brother, just thirteen, Whose colour was extremely hectic ; Her grandmother, for many a year. Had fed the parish with her bounty ; Her second cousin was a peer, And lord-lieutenant of the county. But titles and the three per cents. And mortgages, and great relations, And India bonds, and tithes and rents. Oh ! what are they to love's sensations ? Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks, Sucli wealth, such honours, Cupid chooses ; He cares as little for the stocks. As Baron Rothschild for the muses. She sketched ; the vale, the wood, the beach. Grew lovelier from her penciFs shading ; 148 THE BELLE OF THE BALL-KOOil. She botanized ; I envied each Young blossom in her boudoir fading ; She warbled Handel ; it was grand — ■ She made the Catalina jealous ; She touched the organ ; I could stand For hours and hours to blow the bellows. She kept an album, too, at home, Well filled with all an album's glories ; Paintings of butterflies and Rome, Patterns for trimmings, Persian stories ; Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo, Fierce odes to famine and to slaughter ; And autographs of Prince Leboo, And recipes of elder water. And she was flattered, worshipped, bored. Her steps were watched, her dress v/as ni)led, Her poodle dog was quite adored. Her sayings were extremely quoted. She laughed, and every heart was glad, As if the taxes were abolished ; She frowned, and every look was sad. As if the opera were demolislied. She smiled on many just for fun — I knew that there was nothing in it ; I was the first, the only one Her licart had thought of for a miiiuix- ; THK BELLE OF THE BALL-KOOM. 149 I knew it, for she told me so, In phrase which was divinely moulded ; She wrote a charming hand, and oh ! How sweetly aU her notes were folded ! Our love was like most other loves — A little glow, a little shiver ; A rosebud and a pair of gloves, And "Fly IN'ot Yet," upon the river ; Some jealousy of some one's heir. Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, A miniature, a lock of hair. The usual vows — and then wc parted. We parted — months and years rolled by ; "We met again four summers after; Our parting was all sob and sigh — Our meeting was all mirth and laughter ; For in my heart's most secret cell, There had been many other lodgers ; And she was not the ball-room's belle, But only — Mrs. Something Rogers 1 (1S30.) 150 MY PARTNER. IV.— MY PAETNER. "There is, perhaps, no subject of more universal interest in the whole range of natural knowledge, than that of the unceas- ing fluctuations which take place in the atmosphere in which we ure immersed." — British Almanac. At Cheltenliam, where one drinks one's 1111 Of folly and cold water, I danced, last year, my first quadrille, With old Sir Geoifrey's daughter. Her cheek with summer's rose might vie, When summer's rose is newest ; Her eyes were blue as autumn's sky. When autumn's sky is bluest ; And well my heart might deem her one Of life's most precious flowers, For half her thoughts were of its sue, And half were of its showers. I spoke of novels : — " Vivian Grey" Was positively charming, And " Almack's" infinitely gay, And "Frankenstein" alarming; I said " De Vere" was chastely told. Thought well of " Herbert Lacy," Called Mr. Banim's sketches "bold," And Lady Morgan's " racy ;" t>rY PARTNER. 151 I vowed that last new thing of Hook's "Was vastly entertaining ; And Laura said — " I dote on books, Because it's always raining!" [ talked of music's gorgeous fane, I raved about Rossini, Hoped Eonzi would come back again, iVnd criticised Pacini ; I wished the chorus singers dumb, The trumpets more pacific, And eulogized Brocard's d plomb, And voted Paul " terrific !" What cared she for Medea's pride Or Desdemona's sorrow ? " Alas !" my beauteous listener sighed, " "We must have rain to-morrow !" I told her tales of other lands; Of ever-boiling fountains, Of poisonous lakes, and barren sands, "V^ast forests, trackless mountains : I painted bright Italian skies, I lauded Persian Roses, Coined similes for Spanish eyes. And jests for Indian noses : I laughed at Lisbon's love of mass, Vienna's dread of treason ; And Laura asked me where the glass Stood at Madrid last season. 152 MY PARTNER. I broaclied whate'erhad gone its rounds, The week before, of scandal ; TVTiat made Sir Luke lay down his hounds, And Jane take up her Handel ; Why Julia walked upon the heath, With the pale moon above her ; Whei-e Flora lost her false front teeth, And Anne her falser lover ; How Lord, de B. and Mrs. L. Had crossed the sea together ; My shuddering partner cried — " Ciel! How could they — in such weather ?" Was she a Blue ? — I put my trust In strata, petals, gases ; A boudoir pedant? — I discussed The toga and the fasces ; •• A cockney-muse ? — I mouthed a deal Of folly from " Endymion ;" A saint ? — I praised the pious zeal Of Messrs. Way and Simeon ; A politician ? — It was vain To quote the morning paper ; The horrid phantoms came again, Eain, hail, and snow, and vapor. Flat flattery was my only chance : I acted deep devotion, Found magic in her every glance, MY PARTNER. 153 Grace in her every motion ; I wasted all a stripling's lore, Prayer, passion, folly, feeling. And wildly looked upon the floor, And wildly on the ceiling ; I envied gloves upon her arm. And shawls upon her shoulder ; And when my worship was most warm, She "never foiand it colder." I don't object to wealth or land ; And she will have the giving Of an extremely pretty hand. Some thousands, and a living. She makes silk purses, broiders stools. Sings sweetly, dances finely, Paints screens, subscribes to Sunday schools, And sits a horse divinely. But to be linked for life to her ! The desperate man who tried it, Might marry a Barometer, And hang himself beside it! (1828.) 15i PORTE AIT OF A LADY. V,— PORTRAIT OF A LADY. IN THE EXHIBITION OF THE EOTAL AOADEMT. What are you, Lady ? — naught is here To tell us of your name or story ; To claim the gazer's smile or tear, To dub you Whig, or damn your Tory. It is beyond a poet's skill To form the slightest notion, whether We e'er shall walk through one quadrille, Or look upon one moon together. You're very pretty!— all the world Are talking of your bright brow's splen