Minora Carmina C. C.R •A ' ''■ :> &• MINORA CARMINA. MINORA CARMINA. TRIVIAL VERSES. BY C. C. R. 3Lont(on : SWAN SONNENSCHEIN, LOWREY & CO., PATERNOSTER SQUARE. 1887. fc.» LOAN STACfJ GOD SAVE THE QUEEN! June i27id^ 1887. Long to reign over us, God save The Queen ! Though many a loyal stave Has by the nation's voice been sung, Has from the nation's heart been wrunii The old words still sound good and brave, They '11 ring across the western wave, From eastern hills an echo crave. To-day all Englishmen among — God save the Queen ! Column and aisle and architrave, High mountain-top and deep sea-cave, Tlie chorus hear in many a tongue ; From many a distant shore it's flung On waters that our island lave — God save the Queen ! 37 $- 9 F CONTENTS. -♦-M- IN THE LONDON SEASON. PAGE Up for the Season 3 Return of the Swallows 6 Nunc est Ccenandum 9 A Lenten Lecture 12 London in May 15 Sweet Seventeen 18 Going to Propose 21 Wedding Presents 26 Commemoration at Oxford 29 A Lay of Henley 34 At Lord's 38 China Lives 42 Souvenirs of the Season . . . . .52 IN THE COUNTRY-HOUSE SEASON. In Time of Nutting 57 A Box OF Grouse 62 La Chasseresse , . 67 A Day's Pheasant Shooting 71 043 VI CONTENTS, The Eve of the First KiRBY Gate Our Christmas House-Party Our County Ball The Student's Valentine Jack the Runner After the Winter Season MISCELLANEOUS VERSES— PARI Christmas Ghosts Through the Meadows Art Students My Own Fireside A Faded Flower The Language of Ruins A Lay of Ill-luck In the Master's Room ISIy Lady Singing The Land of Love The Professor Explains A Helping Hand Stolen Fruit Nothing in the Paper Sonnets — March April A Dancing Girl . Life 's a Chase . /. PAGE 75 80 84 87 91 96 lOI . 107 . 112 . 115 . 117 . 120 . 123 . 126 . 129 . 131 • 134 . 136 • 143 . 145 . 149 • 154 . 155 . 156 . 161 CONTENTS. vii PAGE A Catullian Riddle 166 Two Roses 168 Urbana in Rure 171 Romance of an Old Garden 173 Carmen Nuptiale ....... 180 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES.— PART IL In Memoriam : The Duke of Albany 185 Prince Eugene Louis Napoleon .... 188 Henry Wadsvvorth Longfellow . . . .190 A Bouquet from Cannes 193 Le Jour des Morts 196 Eaux de Vichy 198 King Carnival 203 On the Boulevards 206 x\ux Dames 211 A Norman Peasant Girl 213 A Fair Toxophilite 218 A Transatlantic Cousin . .... . 222 Kitty . . 227 A "Few of them" 231 The Sussex Fortnight 236 Down the Road : To the Derby 238 To Ascot 241 Jo 245 At the Pantomime 249 VIU CONTENTS. PAGli Pictures in Wine Colours : Champagne 253 Sherry 256 Burgundy 259 RIVERSIDE RHYMES. The Riverside Season A Song of Yesterday A Bank Holiday Up a Backwater The Old Riversider A Riverside Rose Old Henley Days My Lady Coquette Under Hurlingham Trees August Up the Rive,r A Fragment Andante Pastorale . The Last Pull . A Present day Pyrrha 265 268 272 275 279 283 286 290 293 296 299 302 308 313 LAST WORDS. Two Books •1 T *- 0^/ IN THE LONDON SEASON. B UP FOR THE SEASON. " Up for the Season." Ah me, what a magic, Small though the words, can be hidden therein ! Ring up the curtain ! Or comic or tragic Be the finale^ the play must begin. Pa may be surly, and swear that it 's early Comfort and covert-side both to forsake ; Ma, without warning, will whisper one morning News of a mansion she's settled to take. "Up for the Season." The Duke and the Duchess Splendour must add to the general glare ; Brown, Smith, and Robinson also, (for such is Force of the fashion) are bound to be there. Credit with Gunter will cost you a hunter — Two it may be— ere the fall of the year ; IN THE LONDON SEASON. But a small matter the coin that we scatter, So in the papers our parties appear. " Up for the Season." A probable marriage, A certain flirtation, a scandal or two ; A new coat of varnish adorning the carriage, A character that must be varnished anew ; Some one you pet for a monlh, and regret for, Maybe, a week, or, it may be, for life : A *' No," that, one guesses, an ultimate " Yes " is- Somebody 's bolted with somebody "s wife. "Up for the Season." And see what a dash is Lady Dash cutting we deemed was cut down ;- Phoenix-like rising from bankruptcy's ashes, Well may we term her the talk of the town. Lordlings may lark it away to Newmarket, Ladyships leaving in London alone- Somebody's visit — "Platonic" — Oh, is it? — Nothing can matter if nothing is known. UP FOR THE SEASON. " Up for the Season." But where are the Beauties Former years gathered from North and from South ? Blighted too early the bloom off the fruit is, Dried are the innocent dews from the mouth. Some who have thriven, well-dressed and well- driven, Pass in the Park with a carriage and pair ; Others, who failed to win fortune, have sailed to India, Australia — does any one care ? "Up for the Season." Why yonder 's a statesman Who, wiih yourself was at College or Hall ! He was a Small's man when you were a Great's man ; Now he is great, and you feel that you're small. Time turns the tables. Last year you were Mabel's First love. She passes you now with a frown. This poem, you swear, is a medley, but where is Medley to equal " the Season " in town ? IN THE LONDON SEASON. RETURN OF THE SWALLOWS. They left when leaves were falling In silence from the trees ; They come, Spring voices calling Them back across the seas. Released from wintry durance Each blossom sings a psalm, Glad in the sweet assurance Of future warmth and calm. Ring out, bluebells, and banner Your fronds each tender fern, To hail in heartsome manner Our swallows' safe return ! And they, unrestful swallows, While throudi our leafless wood RETURN OF THE SWALLOWS. Shots pierced, and rang view-holloas. Have in strange places stood — Scaled pyramids ungainly — And, scorning Arab guile, Have face to face seen plainly The serpent of Old Nile. What stick the Mahdi drums with — What pensions Pasiias earn — - Of news the latest comes with Our swallows' safe return. Across the wide Campagna They 've led the Roman hunt : Then sought in dull Romagna Their worldly tastes to blunt.' What fashion, and whose fit, is The proper thing to seek, They learned in winter cities Long, long ere Holy Week. 8 IM THE LONDON SEASON. Spain's politics the state of — What fires in Etna burn — All known is at the date of Our svvallouV safe return. No doubt, gay social swallows, Where not the flight of bird. Nor of "Our Own," e'er follows, Your silken wings were heard. But let all rumour spare her, Her name no scandals taint, Who than the rest is fairer As lilies are than paint. See, swiftly borne, my belle come To arms for her that yearn ! Smile, sky — laugh, waves — to welcome My swallow's safe return. I^UNC EST CCENANDUM. NUNC EST CCENANDUM. Although the season sadly May ope, in contrast grim With those when pleasure madly Whirled on the wings of Whim — Though sporting members sigh for The huntsman, hound, and horn, And invalids loud cry for Health-spots from which they 're torn ; Yet e'en to town detested Comes comfort in tlie line— " Your presence is requested " — You 're going out to dine. Though wars and warlike rumours Make dark the face of day, lo IN THE LONDON SEASON. And though my lady's humours Pen can't describe as gay — Though " Franciscans " are falling, And farms not {^v^^ to let, And pamphlets quite appalling Have reached you from Thibet— This makes you double-breasted 'Gainst home and foreign whine- *' Your presence is requested " — You're going out to dine. The list of '" Last Night's Dinners " A "daily" column fills. To show that saints and sinners Have gone to work with wills. The blind, the deaf and dumb — what- E'er cause demands a dole — Find knives and forks are somewhat Good tools at takins: toll. NUNC EST CCENANDUM. n Who deems that he 's molested, Reading this note benign — "Your presence is requested" — You're going out to dine? And when the draining beakers To each time-honoured toast— Yourself among the speakers — Has ceased to be a boast, Then notes pour in, suggestive Of cobwebs' '74 — And meetings fond or festive, And that dear girl next door- Notes, monogramed and crested With multiform design. To say that you 're " requested " To "just look in and dine." 12 IN THE LONDON SEASON. A LENTEN LECTURE. Since we're told to shun excesses Smooth those mutineering tresses, Lay in lowest drawer the dresses Where are many colours blent. Flowers we 'd see on bosom chilly, None save safifron Lenten lily, As your pious steps go by us, now it's Lent. Sable robes, that fall sedately- Round a figure full and stately, To its graces can add greatl}'', Though in sign of sadness meant. By the care of skilful modiste, So the penitent is bodiced, That ne'er 's less work left to guesswork than in Lent. A LENTEN LECTURE. n Though the pastoral Grand Lama Opera ostracise and drama, The religious panorama Feeds the eye to some extent : And, while music slow and solemn Floats o'er altar, arch, and column, Whispering passes, though, alas, is it not Lent ? Though the trois-temps be forbidden, Sweet to hear one's errors chidden By a Bradley, Lee, or Liddon, Or some yotmg man eloquent. Then you need not fear you 've lost your Figure's charm by kneeling posture — Fair hands folded, arms well moulded, shown in Lent. Though the fondest heart may weary Of the same old strain, and dreary " Tenebrae " and " Miserere " Folk confess in drawing-room pent, U IN THE LONDON SEASON. Yet in cosy corner, then is Time to show him views of Venice — " Bridge of Sighs," and arch replies, and — O, it 's Lent ! Easter come, you'll be obdurate To the Mario-voiced young curate, Whom you looked, O so demure at, Till those forty days were spent. Should he claim you gave him fairly Up your heart, you answer barely, "No, I'm wiser. Canst deny, sir, it was Lent?" LONDON IN MA Y. LONDON IN MAY. My tastes are not urban — no Turk in his turban Loves better a softness o'erhead ; And my Lincoln and Bennett — I'm a grateful man when it Is changed for a fez, blue or red. In June I 'm in clover as I sit and watch over The pangs of my rod-captured prey ; And later I '11 hook me — I '11 fly — where you book me, So you leave me my London in May In summer's full glare it is hot — you can't bear it ; In autumn it 's curtained by fogs ; In winter it's dreary — trees wan, women weary, The best of men gone to the dogs. l6 IN THE. LONDON SEASON. But on fair leaves and ladies as yet there no shade is To token their coming decay ; And each park and square 's charming, with fresh- ness disarming All scoffers at London in May. Not alone upon faces and foliage the grace is Of newness, not wholly gone by. Of new novels unprinted, new scandals unhinted Before, here 's a copious supply ; New triumphs of pen or of pencil; a tenor Untried; and in French a French play. New cries, too, for linkboys — what you lose only think, boys, By losing a London in May. So I sang and I reasoned, and every year seasoned At least for the last month of spring, Till May, Maytime's daughter, became mine, and wrought her Wiles o'er all I do and I sing. LONDON IN MAY. 17 ^^Urbs tu Ro7na mihi^^ — what matter if sky-high We soar, dear, or sea-depths essay? Form and fashion's quintessence are you, and your presence E'er makes for me London in May. c i8 IN THE LONDON SEASON. SWEET SEVENTEEN. This year of grace is reached at last ; The giddy days of girlhood past, Those salad days so green, Louisa now is coming out. Young ladies know what they 're about At Seventeen. And if I prophesy my pet Will be the belle of all her set, Should envy step between, And point with a sarcastic eye To some who've bid a long "Good-bye" To Seventeen? A land of promise is her world. Its glories only half unfurled ; With Hope to cast a sheen SWEET SEVENTEEN. 19 O'er all the vistas opening This life appears a lovely thing For Seventeen. No classic figure hewn of stone, A charm she hath that's all her own, Such charm as must have been Hers who unto the artist stood For Youth, in piquant cape and hood, Aged Seventeen. And to the Ladies Joan and Jane, Her loving neighbours in the Lane, Her beauty 's cause of spleen When followed by Lord That or This, They vow that she's a forward Miss, Miss Seventeen ! On either cheek she wears a rose, A set of pearls her lips enclose ; — No pearls were ever seen IN THE LONDON SEASON. So sweetly framed as in her smile ! They'll dub her in the Ladies' Mile "Sweet Seventeen." GOING TO PROPOSE. 21 GOING TO PROPOSE, There is something in his air To disclose That he's going forth to dare Future woes. Half resigned and half despairing, Sighing softly, softly swearing, On his lonely way he 's faring To propose. Winter's tempests haven 't shed Any snows On that curly auburn head Of our beau's ; Yet his steps appear to falter, As from swift to slow they alter. 22 IN THE LONDON SEASON Like the minstrel's whom Sir Walter To us shows. On all men he glares as if They were foes ; Stops and sternly eyes his stiff Patent toes. Though the way 's not long nor hilly From the Strand to Piccadilly, You would say it knocked him silly From his pose. Though in poetry 'tis sweet To propose, Yet 'twould scarcely seem a treat Done in prose, If we judge by the forlorn — full Of foreboding, meek and mournful — Face of him we knew so scornful Of Fate's blows. GOING TO PROPOSE. 23 How his purpose to explain, How compose All the thousjhts wherewith his brain Overflows, Now he ponders. Ah ! those speeches, Mellow, soft, as ripest peaches, Will unlovely as owl's screeches Sound, he knows. Number forty — forty-four. Very slow 's He in coming to that door Of Miss Flo's : Counts the figures like a Cocker ; Handles gingerly the knocker — Can it be he dreads to shock her In repose ? Though he'd placed a pound on each One of those 24 IN THE LONDON SEASON. Steps, so might he never reach The top rows, Yet in hasty trepidation, Just as if a poor relation Were behind, on this occasion Up he goes. What's the cause of all these fierce Mental throes That his bosom rack and pierce, D' you suppose ? Why, a winsome little fairy. Who, in attitude unwary, Shows a glimpse, 'neath laces airy. Of silk hose ! Doffed her Lenten suit, in hue Like a crow's, She appears in fresh and new Furbelows; GOING TO PROPOSE. 25 And above the frock's completeness — Negligence combined with neatness — Smiles a face, with bloom and sweetness Of a rose. Now that face from throat to hair Brightly glows : Well she wots he's waiting there To propose. "Ayes" will have it, need we mention? Ne'er would feminine convention Throw out any man's intention By the "noes." IN THE LONDON SEASON. WEDDING PRESENTS. "X. Y. Z., Esq., Bank Notes." ' One more of them gone and got married "- While, Lily ! you 're left in the lurch ! — "And likely to be till I'm carried In the coach with black horses to church. And, see, to the list of her presents The weekly a column devotes, Where, brighter than crosses or crescents Of jewels, are blazoned 'Bank Notes.' "Nor glory of rings and of brooches. Nor sideboard consignment of plate In value to paper approaches, Computed as per present rate. BANK NOTES. 27 How it opens up vistas unended, Whereto fancy-wafted one floats, And ponders on purchases splendid To be made by the aid of ' Bank Notes ' I "More than one set of spoons my informer Records — that must surely be wrong ? Doubtless he, who provides a spoon-warmer, Has found they get cold before long. Tune and time by piano and timepiece Oft are lost — oft are wrecked butter-boats ; But she always has left a sublime piece Of furniture who has * Bank Notes.' " Old lace ? The first time she shall wear it, Its fragile existence may end — A fancy-dress-ball partner tear it With his spur's rowel long past a ' mend ' Bric-h.-brac doesn't go far, I've heard, to Keep even a pony in oats : 28 IN THE LONDON SEASON. By bank-people cheques are referred to — You know — but all bow to ' Bank Notes.' " Bank Notes. And how many ? Not stated. An indefinite number, like x. There's a sum for the brain calculated Of one of my curious sex. Men may call it commercial in tone, or Haw 'Humbug!' from husky old throats — We girls give a hand to the donor Who freely breaks out in ' Bank Notes.' " A big B and big N, as is proper For initials that govern the land ! Birth, pedigree, rank, come a cropper, With the 'flimsies' no longer to hand. No treasure I grudge in her trousseau, Whereon youthful womanhood dotes ; But I envy that girl — yes, I do so — Those crispy and crumptious 'Bank Notes.'" COMMEMORATION AT OXFORD. 29 COMMEMORATION AT OXFORD. Of an ancient city taking stately holiday, and waking All its echoes, silence breaking in each cloister, court, and square ; Of smoothed wrinkles from each forehead, even of dons the most abhorred ; Of flirtations in the corridors devoted erst to prayer. Prayer forsooth 's not done away with, but the liturgy they pray with. And the sort of things they say, without reserve would monks condemn. In compiling Oxford stories, what its lore is, what its glories, Write "page one of Ars Armoris^' 'mid the memories of Commem. 30 IN THE LONDON SEASON. Of youths gorgeous as to raiment, and regardless as to payment — Sires will what's by ''making hay" meant, "while their sons shine," learn ere long ; Of those sires themselves, a bevy whom the " men " denote as heavy, Grizzled warriors seen at Levy, parsons heard at Evensong, Lawyers skilled at drawing cases, artists famed for drawing faces. Men of race and men of races — honour's here, be sure, for tJwn — Here Q.C.'s and special pleaders, there M.P.'s and party leaders. Yonder trade's financial feeders, 'mid the memories of Commem. Hear them tell how they would lark it, ere life knew a care to cark it, 'Mid their meetings in the Market-place and greetings in " the Corn " \ COMMEMORATION AT OXFORD. 31 Or, at luncheon chez Chef Boffin, call to mind poor Tom, a toff in Other days, now in his coffin 'neath the shade of Matterhorn ; Dick, that demon with the women ; Hal, the fiz he used to swim in — • If there's something somewhat dim in those old eyes, shall we contemn Hearts more soft than their profession, or yield sentiment concession In this work of retrogression through the memo- ries of Commem ? Those "Old Times" men have not wended hither- wards way unattended By sweet girls, who now, as then did sweet ancestresses of theirs. Raise degreeless minds aloft on wings of love, " men's " manners soften, Nor permit whome'er they often meet to turn out utter bears. 32 IN THE LONDON SEASON. 'Neath the tall trees of St. Giles's he recipient of the smiles is Of Cecilia, whom he 'II style '' Sis " ere his word- flow she can stem ; By-and-by at the Masonic dance she'll dose him with a tonic, Which will lend a tinge Byronic to his memories of Commem. Of a richly decorated room wherein are congregated Friends and strangers, celebrated in the world's wide scroll of fame — How we shout as an old crony, an ancient House- man or old Johnian, Up the floor of the Sheldonian steps in answer to his name ! Of, remote from theatre crowded, walks by leafy branches shrouded, Under skies, — or clear or clouded, mattered not to youthful phlegm, — COMMEMORATION AT OXFORD. 33 Rows down river — O the sotto voce talks at the Rock Grotto !— " Kiss but never," that's the motto of these memories of Commem. Of a Broad Walk where sedately treads a Sunday crowd, innately Stamped with breeding's seal, or lately risen a gilded rank to take; Of soft music floating dreamily o'er skins and cos- tumes creamy, Till the "men" forget life's seamy side beside Vigornia's lake; Of old halls where Logic pauses from his terms, effects and causes, Swept away by silks and gauzes, dazed by daz- ling gold and gem ; Of young vows at Oxford plighted, of young men in London slighted, Of cigars with love-notes lighted, are the memo- ries of Commem. 34 IN THE LONDON SEASON. A LAY OF HENLEY. A BREAK in the London season — a pause From step on the treadmill keeping; From the Row and the rout and the roundabout — Seed sown for sorrowful reaping ; From the damning new plays with faintest of praise, And through old operas sleeping. Pleasant it is by the river side In evening's cool to wander, When the long day's done, and the long odds won, And the siren's voice falls fonder, As she leads you, more bold than Ulysses of old, Riparian scenes to ponder. Here a lilac bush, an acacia there, The river-bank still fringes; A LAY OF HENLEY. 35 The white house, Hke a pale shy girl, 'neath a veil Of cedar boughs still cringes ; The sun, sinking low, with a golden glow, Trees, house, and the river still tinges. The old boat's moored where it used to be, Half hid where the bushes are thicker — A queer-built craft, roomy fore and aft, The scorn of a Lowndes or a Dicker, It could bear us arights at eve, when the lights Would glance and the shadows flicker. Does the boat still know the willow-bend Where it oftentimes was secreted? Or has it forgot that lone lovely spot Where two lone lovers were seated, And the old, old tale that never grows stale Was in old, old manner repeated? From Henley town of unwonted life Would the sounds come o'er us stealinsr. 36 JN THE LONDON SEASON. While from windows bright unwonted light Was the revel within revealing ; But light and sound came alike half-drowned Through the rifts of our emerald ceiHng. What was the wager we made one day On some one of next day's races? The coin at my chain, if she won, was her gain \ And mine, that sweetest of faces In a locket that hung from her neck among The secrets hid by her laces. What was the wager I claimed next day, And called on my love to deliver? The heart-shaped gaud on the breast of Maud, With her each heart-throb that would quiver. From laces that float round her beautiful throat She frees it — it falls in the river. When the river-world is so gay to-day At the saturnalia aquatic — A LAY OF HENLEY. 37 Time of music and muscle, of toilettes and tussle, And effects most truly dramatic That the sudden rain, perchance, may explain — Do you deem my fancies erratic, That they wander away to the spot where my "lay" Was made one eve of the races? My coin was the cost of a heart that was lost When won — not uncommon the case is. I 've now no coin for a girl to purloin ; No golden heart 's under her laces. 38 IN THE LONDON SEASON. AT LORD'S. So merry Junes a dozen, Have come, and passed away, Since you, my charming cousin, Would field for me all day ! Can this tall lily by my side Be that wild elf who used to pride Herself upon her play? No doubt I was a bully. As boys will be to girls — She now repays me fully With baronets and earls, Whose names trip lightly from her tongue, What time the sunbeams glint among Her wealth of golden curls. AT LORD'S. 39 She wears a light-blue bonnet — She knows I'm Oxford mad — Forget-me-nots upon itj — A sight to make me sad, For well I know that floral ware Is meant to catch the eager stare Of some young undergrad. I try all scientific Devices for defence; My hitting 's quite terrific, My stopping too intense ; But she throws in a well-aimed smile, And then I learn that all the while My score does not commence. At lunch with wine (d'you wonder?) My throttle I anoint. And make advances under The cover of the joint; 40 IN THE LONDON SEASON. But quick returns she throws me back, When pointed most in my attack, From cautious cover-point. She knows about elevens — Is sure she could command Studd, Patterson, and Evans, And tell them where to stand. But this be sure — however straight She bowl you, you '11 not meet your fate From doings underhand. Well, mine were all the winnings Those dozen Junes ago. She now must have her innings, And I field out, I know. With none the pace for long can last : Her bowling's now extremely fast, And mine extremely slow. AT LORD'S. 41 What time at Hollow Thicket We played beneath the trees, I kept all day my wicket Delightfully at ease. Her prayers were met by answers cool : 'Tis I who fain would play the fool — To-day — upon my knees. 42 IN THE LONDON SEASON. CHINA LIVES. Ah me ! if mortals only could (Which God forbid that mortals should !) Lead lives as purely free from all Defects as on the sombre wall Of yonder room, wherein are met The cream of the High Culture set, Blue china hves its blameless days, How sweet and comely were our ways I Our dainty hands we ne'er should soil With soul-degenerating toil, But mark in pity, calm, profound, The world that wags its weary round Pursuing bubbles — glory, pelf — We beings of ethereal delf. How chaste and smooth its aspect ! Such CHINA LIVES, 43 A surface scandal ne'er could touch, Nor aught that lowers or pollutes. Beside it humankind are brutes, Even the best. But some there are (Behold them !) made of substance far More rarified than common clay, Born centuries before their day, Who, scorning things of earthenware, With bluest china might compare. Sir Chingwell Chippendale could trace His birth to no ancestral race. (No matter what his father sold — Whate'er it was it turned to gold. A baronet the old man died, And rich — the world was satisfied. A monument's raised o'er his head, And now his son reigns in his stead.' Young Chingwell was to Eton sent, And Granta all her graces lent 44 !N THE LONDON SEASON. To make him what he fain would be — A scholar of the first degree In fashion — not in classic lore, Or mathematic — such a bore These trifles to a man who knew The shape and touch, the tint and hue Of each variety and class Of china that could ever pass Before the rapt collector's eyes, And what was worthless, what a prize. He scorned his comrades' coarse delight In chase of rat and terrier-fight, Nor understood what joys could yield The racecourse and the hunting field, While on his finer feelings jarred Examinations, cold and hard. Ere long the groves of Academe, Where china 's not a favourite theme. Distasteful grew. His trophies rare Seemed to require a larger air. CHINA LIVES, 45 Hence he and his collections came, Heralded by aesthetic fame, To town, where soon a clientele Of ladies fair and students pale Pay court to Culture's newest friend, And nightly with his china blend. Lady Valeria de Vaux, Good-looking as young ladies go, Sweet-mannered if she wished to please. Calm, lady-like, and at her ease, Highly connected (see Debrett), And moving in the choicest set, Some seven seasons now has seen, And scarce an offer has there been. She's played all parts. As ingenue She lisped of daisies and the dew. And cottages where roses twine, - And moonlit evenings on the Rhine. An ancient peer was then her aim, 46 IN THE LONDON SEASON But old Broadacres saw the game, And chuckled to himself, " My dear, The women of your house, I fear, Though all the men are doubtless brave, Are " Leave such stories in their grave. She failed. When Croesus Crabtree's son Entered the Church — he had but one — Valeria joined the votive throng At Matins and at Evensong Who went to hang upon the tones Of one who half a million owns. But when he, sighing, said that he Upheld in priests celibacy. Religion, it must be confest. Completely lost its interest. So now that Higher Cult's unfurled Its glorious banner, and its world Has gladly hailed, though coming late, A Cambridge undergraduate With title, talents (so men said) CHINA LIVES. 47 And wealth (his father's will she'd read), Valeria thought her course was clear. Failing the curate and the peer, She'd flutter upon wings of Art And China into Chingwell's heart. Her dress was changed and soon became A dress in nothing but the name ; Her hair assumed a disarray ; Her eyes seemed looking far away, Like one possessed by distant thought, Or in whom inspiration wrought. To-night at Chingwell House her place Is near her host. On either face Is impress of the mind within. That 'mid this fashionable din Holds commune with itself too deep In uttered language forth to leap. (Anxiety distracts his soul Lest Smith should break that sugar-bowl. 48 IN THE LONDON SEASON. " Now will this ninny speak to-night ? And will the settlements be right ? " Such is her maiden reverie.) Well, we shall se^ what we shall see. The ball of converse rolls the while ; Ranges from Ruskin to Carlyle ; Treats of all subjects dreamed, or not, In all philosophy ; and what Has puzzled sages many a year Is made to seem quite simple here. De rebus omnibus^ I wis, Et de qidbusdam aliis^ Boldly the fairest lips discuss. Just listen now to gold-haired Gus, Who's captured there a new recruit, The Indian hero. Colonel Loot. "Been long returned? You've heard, of course, In France they 're now to have divorce. The next election 's not in doubt ; CHINA LIVES. 49 The Government will not go out. The statesman of the future 's there With the ambrosial beard and hair. I have no time for skating. Yes, Sir Chingweli's house is a success, A perfect masterpiece. He owns To some suggestions from Burne-Jones. The pictures? Really something grand. Ail day the uninspired may stand In front of them and cannot see Whatever they 're supposed to be. The very mat on which you wipe Your feet's the real Morrissian type. There 's Paul, the poet — such a pet — Oh ! no, he is not published yet. The fierce outpourings of his pen Are food too strong for common men. But cherished by the faithful few With eyes to read the great and true. E ?o IN THE LONDON SEASON. China — oh ! had I but my will I 'd spread it o'er each house until No room for aught beside was leff. I 'd die of my blue cups bereft." So on — and on — the topics pass From politics to Venice glass ; Young girls just out of Girton's gate Sagely on social problems prate ; But Grandmamma with wondering eyes Looks on in spectacled surprise, Recalls her own far different youth, When all she heard she deemed was trutli, And amidst all these sceptics' zest Thinks that the old days were the best. Old customs mayn't be void of ill, But with their faults we love them still, Like England's self And maybe, more True womanhood in dames of yore, True manhood in the men who knew CHINA LIVES. 51 Nothing about these bits of "blue," Was found, than in this Cultured race Of touzled hair and faded face, Who 'twixt themselves and china see Some undefined affinity, And, like that on which they bestow Such care, are less for use than sho^v 52 IN THE LONDON SEASON. SOUVENIRS OF TPIE SEASON. Upon the table they lie scattered there. Worth packing — what? A painted Watteau fan I held, nor would return, for with a man She 'd danced I liked not. Lock of auburn hair She cut, because, she said, she well could spare Of what she had too much. Longer I scan A faded rose ; for, if construe one can Language unspoke, when to her bosom's bare Firm polished surface first she pressed it — so. Then warmed its redness at her red lips' glow. Then at my feet the twice-blessed treasure cast. While fluttering laces proved her heart beat fast, She more revealed than she would have me know In one sweet souvenir of the season past. SOUVENIRS OF THE SEASON, 53 A fan, a curl, a flower. With these compare, Heaped in one ruin, every cherished plan. Of former friends a disaftected clan, Some streets of wrinkles where the ground was fair, Some miles of unpaid bills, a load of care, A bank-book closed that but last May began, A tooth-mark left me by her black-and-tan ; And then the balance of the scales declare — Stay ! on my lady's side one item throw : A card's here for her wedding. Shall I go, And earn the breakfast that may be my last. Before I face the fierce winds' angry blast. Steaming Boulogne-wards, where sad exiles show Souvenirs like these of many a season past? IN THE COUNTRY-HOUSE SEASON. Si IN TIME OF NUTTING. Widow she of some years' standing, Bachelor well-balanced I, Here we 've met upon the landing, But — no, not upon the sly. Mid-October ; merry voices Of young nutters reach our ears, As the noon in smiles rejoices, Though the dawn was one of tears. So when youth 's been 'whelmed in sorrow, Weeping maid or boy From maturer life may borrow Compensating joy. Very buxom now the dame is ; Ver)' beautiful withal, 57 58 JN THE Country-house season. And her eyes' soft glance the same is Once that held me in its thrall ; When the smiler's waist was slimmer, And no angler half so smart Threw the fly and set the trimmer For that dainty fish — a heart; When a youth came hither strutting, Lavish of self-praise, And the twain went out a-nutting In the dear old days. Very witty then that youth was (Is she laughing in her sleeve ? Very scornful she, good sooth, was Of his wit, one may conceive) ; Classic, too, with his 7iux^ fiticis^ And quotation Oxford-bred, Of the couplet where the uses Of the nut are trebly * read : * Nux vigilat, recreat, nutrit, etc. JN TIME OF NUTTING. 59 And he'd cite, so very callow's Oft the undergrad, Nut-lore gathered from "All Hallows' Eve" to make her sad. Strange that scene should come back clearly As we stand together now; Twenty years since then, or nearly. Have been laid upon my brow. Strange that I should find this morning In this journal, dimmed with age, Record of a woman's scorning, Record of a lover's rage. Strange an old newspaper cutting Memories should raise Of the jocund time of nutting In the dear old days. Here — October twenty-second— "Violet Home to Viscount Hurst 3 ^^ 6o IN THE COUNTRY-HOUSE SEASON There — not later much, I 've reckoned — '* Ensign — Someone — to the First." While she whirled across the Border, Ladyship a week or so, We for India 'd had our order, And were steaming Eastward ho ! Did I mourn, maybe, the college Left in angry haste ? Did she find the fruit of knowledge Bitter to the taste? Well, what matter? Bronzed and grizzled If I be, and staid in air ; If the snows of time have drizzled Landmarks on her raven hair ; If we passed a fierce ordeal Ere from dross we sorted gold. Ere we knew the false from real ; Still, we 're not — so very old. IN TIME OF NUTTING. 6i Love, your hand — the blind is shutting Out intruders* gaze — So once more in time of nutting Come the dear old days ! 62 IN THE COUNTRY-HOUSE SEASON. A BOX OF GROUSE. No, I haven't cut the strings yet — Time I did. Proof that Scotland has good things yet Here hes hid. Swift it 's sped across the Border, All its passage deftly planned; Pleasure did those cards afford her, Written in so clear a hand, Since she's honoured thus my order On demand. For, when first the northward journey Was explained, Here by counsel and attorney I was chained. A BOX OF GROUSE. 63 But I wrote that fair enslaver Of my soul that, though I spurned Thought of asking gift or favour — As, no doubt, ere now she 'd learned — Grouse for me'd not lose the flavour Once discerned. Here it stands, like many another Southward flown, Winged by comrade, cousin, brother, To the lone Left-behind ones. But what fever Turns me hot and turns me pale? Ne'er before was I receiver Of a parcel sent by rail ? Did— O, did my heart believe her Hand would fail ? Would not tie the strings securely, Or paint right 64 IN THE COUNTRY-HOUSE SEASON. This address (she knows it surely !) Black and white ? Would not indicate the staircase (Here they 're all so much the same) ? Would not (I suppose a bare case) Add initials to my name, Giving homonyms a fair case For a claim ? Well, it 's here, and can recall me Yonder lodge, Cramped, but which could ever stall me By some dodge Of the fay, to whom confided Was our menage, high and low ; And whose genius, many-sided, Made all things so smoothly flow ; Sweetness, light, where'er she glided, Seemed to grow. A BOX OF GROUSE. 65 Each man, at the crag that bounded Her outlook, Paused, before the point he rounded ; Kerchief shook ; 'Gainst the stone face, old as story, Of the lodge, saw, brightly fair, Of her face the damask glory — Age and youth were imaged there. While the lichens, dark and hoary, Foiled her hair. When at eve they laid the dead oat, Did she choose This one from the plunder spread out, That refuse — Pick the plumper and rotunder. Wide of girth and broad of breast, For her bird in town, I wonder, Helping him before the rest, F 66 IN THE COUNTRY-HOUSE SEASON. Who — although we're miles asunder — Still's her guest? Cut the strings. Beneath the cover, See, here lies Her dear pasteboard, to a lover Such a prize ! Sweet as marmalade of Keiller Are the words you mustn't guess — Sweet as kiss young love can steal, or — Eh? It's only an address? " Peters, Poulterer and Game-dealer, Inverness." LA CHASSERESSE. 67 LA CHASSERESSE. Cometh the season we all of us long for, Season beloved of the sons of the gun, Bracing our muscles, and making us strong for Fits of flirtation and feasting and fun ! With it from seaside — it may be to Dee-side, Thames-side, or Humber-side, any address Where she 's invited — delighting, delighted, Cometh, and charmeth, the gay Chasseresse ! She, like yourself, makes a pleasure of trouble, If it conduces to slaughter of game; She in the boudoir, you over the stubble, Gallop a hobby that 's one and the same. Time, wind, and weather, of fur and of feather, Alter your mode of pursuit; and no less 6S LV THE COUNTRY-HOUSE SEASON. She, by the changes of season, arranges Choice of her weapons, the gay Chasseresse ! So, on a surly-eyed morning of winter, See her give spur to her spirited mare ; Perfect 's the habit that does more than hint her Perfect proportions — the neatest of wear. He — her attendant, in scarlet resplendent — Offers "a lead"; but you'll hear him confess 'Neath the aroma of weeds, he came home a Mile to the rear of the gay Chasseresse. Springtime her Londonward way bids her take, with Sporting aspirants to fashion and fame : Many the centre she's certain to make with Arrowy glances so certain of aim. Nokes through her glasses is shot as he passes Under her box ; at a lunch of their mess, Stokes has to sit by her side, and is hit by Drumsticks he carves for the gay Chasseresse. LA CHASSERESSE. 69 Soon at the Isle the sea-maiden, sea-mummer, Loathe her with venom or load her with vows : Butchery 's been in no previous summer Seen to compare with her killing of Cowes. There a " tea-kettle " steam-yacht has its metal Put by her mettlesome ways to a stress; Nosed aquilinely, the skipper is finely Snubbed by a cut from the gay Chasseresse. Now mellow autumn is here, country houses Crowded, and echoes alive on the hill. Charming in choicest of gaiters and blouses. Ha, merry gentlemen, she 's with you still ! Miniature weapon in hand, could she step on Canvas, 'twere picture you 'd die to possess : Surely Diana her snip sent to plan a Costiane de chasse for the gay Chasseresse. All the year round for her sport is the proper Season, and plentiful ever her prey. 70 IN THE COUNTRY-HOUSE SEASON. Like Atalanta she 's fast : you can stop her Only by dropping your gold in her way. Some who depart whole in body, and heart-whole. Find themselves winged by a flying caress ] Forsan lassata, itondum satuita, Still on the track is the gay Chasseresse. A DAY'S PHEASANT SHOOTING. 71 A DAY'S PHEASANT SHOOTING. The Spot. All summer long the ancient place In somnolence reposes, Regarding with half-sleepy face The summer's wealth of roses ; But when the woods, no longer vain, Assume a garment sober, And in a slowly-falling rain Sad leaves descend, the place again Is wakeful in October. The Party. The Squire, a fossil tough and dry, In all things orthodox is, And sees that coverts cati supply Pheasants as well as foxes. 72 IN THE COUNTRY-HOUSE SEASON. The Captain's home from shooting grouse, To rearrange the stable; And Gus, the gourmet of "the House, "' Devotes his academic nous To matters of the table. Staid Hetty's here — her husband still Is stationed off Ragusa; Miss Gorgon's after Gus — now will That Perseus spare Medusa? Our madcap Mignonne has in tow The Major, man of inches : A hunt that travels somewhat slow — No cash on either side, you know, Is where the slipper pinches. The Sport. On punctual hours the Squire is firm — No breakfasting by batches — A DAY'S PHEASANT SHOOTING. 73 The early bird that 's caught the worm The early cartridge catches. If battues here supply no "stuff" To galvanise the gapers, Feather and fur are found enough By men who shoot upon the rough For sport, and not for papers. The witching hour of half-past one Brings luncheon and the ladies, AVith science set, where, from the sun And wind, a welcome shade is. Ah me, that Paris-sent costume For walking o'er the stubble ! Ah me, those tresses' faint perfume ! Cock-pheasants well may airs assume ; We 've ceased to give them trouble. The Finish. An English dinner, snug and slow A sporting chat to follow. 74 IN THE COUNTRY-HOUSE SEASON, When every man extends his bow, Outrivalling Apollo. And when the clocks are sounding twelves, A genuine elixir Transports the punch-bowls from the shelves, Whereout to drink the Queen, ourselves. And eke the manly mixer. THE EVE OF THE FIRST. 75 THE EVE OF THE FIRST. '•' You may call me to-morrow as soon as you please, And be sure that the horses aren't late ; See the breeches are cleaned, and the boots off the trees, And that breakfast is ready by eight ! " One day in the year, be it cloudless and clear, Or with weather at wildest and worst, The sportsman must go to take part in the show That's sacred to him on the First. Yes, that 's the old horse — how he neighs in his stall ! No doubt he has wind of the fun. For the men in the yard he has heard, one and all, Discussing the chance of a run. 76 IN THE COUNTRY-HOUSE SEASON. His figure was stiff, but there isn't an " If" About him. Of cash you've disbursed It 's little you reck when you lead at a check With the Hunt all behind on the First. Of what could we talk on an evening like this ? My Lord, as he lolls at the Club, In the boudoir at tea-time the hard-riding miss, And Jack who drinks beer at his " pub " ; All have something to tell of a horse they 've to sell— An old one they Ve carefully nursed, Or a young one they've tried, that will take down the pride Of all who go out on the First For days, every man that you passed on the road — The farmer when marketwards bound, The Squire when his newly-bought nag he bestrode, The labourer tilling the ground — THE EVE OF THE FIRST. 77 Not one but would say, in a pleased sort of way, Even ere the bad markets were cursed. As though 'twere a treat just the words to repeat, " We shall see you, of course, on the First." As you watch the blue smoke curling lazily up From your weed, or your meerschaum, or clay, With your hand resting lightly upon the tall cup, And your pal sitting over the way. Who (severely, it 's true) says, " The bottle 's with you," You pause, ere you slaken your thirst. To draw in your breath, and swear nothing but death Will keep you at home on the First. And the smoke, as it curls, is assuming a shape — The shape of a muster of hounds, Of horses, and horsemen. The curtains that drape The windows are woodlands, and sounds 78 IN THE COUNTRY-HOUSE SEASON Come loud and come clear that are known to your ear — A splash ! and a horseman 's immersed In a deep, muddy ditch. You can see the youth pitch On his head. It 's yourself, on the First. The First ! A long lane, well protected with trees, A man who looks flurried and hot, A fairy-like maid who is riding at ease, And trying to seem (what she/s not) Alarmed, as she turns a fair cheek that scarce burns From the question — to ask it who durst? Why, the man is yourself. Do you still love the elf Who told you you were not " the First " ? THE EVE OF THE FIRST. 79 Ay de mi! When the years cluster thick, and the hair Clusters thin on the top of the pate, x\nd the brows are all furrowed and wrinkled with care, These visions of sport are too late. We'll raise a thin shout to the men who are out, And then have a glorious burst The length of the street (where alone we are " Fleet "), And a kill in the Strand on the First. 8o IN THE COUNTRY-HOUSE SEASON KIRBY GATE. Quum positis novus exuviis nitidusque juventa est Venator, Now we've laid aside the humble *' Ditto " suits, wherein to tumble Or stick on, and shout or grumble, When cub-hunting, 'twas our fate, We may sport more sporting vesture ; — For to do and don your best you 're Bound when this command is given — " Kirby Gate." " Oh ! new splendour " — Oh ! the study Lavished on that garment ruddy, And on boots that "somewhat muddy" Must confess their normal state — KIRBY GATE. 8i While the neatest of all bows is That which 'neath the knee reposes Of the customer got up for Kirby Gate. Whosoe'er 'twas perpetrated That old libel, where 'tis stated Days Novembrian are ill-fated, In his breast were lies innate. For a fact, a man may swear to, . Is — no Englishman would care to Cut his throat the month we meet at Kirby Gate. But we miss each year old faces — Hers, the mistress of all graces, His, the first at dangerous places — Comrades of no distant date : And we see — nor scorn confession — Phantom forms in the procession As it files to Gartree Hill from Kirby Gate. G 82 IN THE COUNTRY-HOUSE SEASON. Old times here we must be curt on, And new horses try a spurt on, For away upon the Burton Side 's a fox that will not wait ; And the fences big and blind as Solid walls of green you find, as You sit down to make the pace from Kirby Gate. From afar we con with fancy's Eye that field of varied chances, That most moving of romances Which can ne'er its students sate : — Here 's the once more proven clinker, There to collar-work and blinker One condemned that 's failed to " pass " at Kirby Gate. Pass the bottle. Many a thirst-time. Since we saw those hounds the first time, KIRBY GATE. 83 Have we known — and, " At the worst I 'm Sinking at the usual rate," Each can say with round him steely Eyes grown dim, and wrinkles freely Marking brows that once were smooth at Kirby Gate. Many an ancient will remember, Seated by the glowing ember, The first Monday in November ; Many a veteran will relate. While they brew his evening mixture. Tales of that time-honoured fixture, And the doings of the Quorn from Kirby Gate. 84 IN THE COUNTRY-HOUSE SEASON. OUR CHRISTMAS HOUSE-PARTY. Back here in chambers, dim and dusty, Amid pipes and papers, and pens and ink, And dog's-eared editions and parchments musty, I '11 sit by the fire, and dream and think, — Think of the house with the many gables. Red-bricked and with ivy half o'er-grown, Where cellar and pantry, and coverts and stables Were free to all comers as if their own — Dream of the days that sped so sweetly, Like love-songs measured to noble rhyme ; Of the girl who entranced my soul completely And our gay house-party at Christmas-time. That stately house is a painter's study Of calm repose with its antique air ; — OUR CHRISTMAS HOUSE-PARTY. 85 Its smiling face so broad and ruddy, Like the face of him who is master there. Our white-haired host — how his words of welcome On the ear would fully and richly strike ! Let the London scribe, or the county belle, come, The hearty greeting's for all alike. "No books I hope, sir, in yon portmanteau ? On Puck, not Pegasus, you 've to climb ; And a canter's healthier work than a canto For warming the blood at Christmas-time." Miss Maud had scarcely a glance for the rhymer In town who ventured a song to send. (I drink her health in this clear Hockheimer, And wish her all one may wish, — a friend.) Her neck and brow more white than the lilies ; Her lips like a red, red rose's core Smile till each man to her own sweet will is A slave for once and for evermore. 86 IN THE COUNTRY-HOUSE SEASON. And he vows 'iieath her gaze to be a performer, With gun, or in saddle, of feats subhme; And perhaps her heart beats a Httle warmer Than it did in town, at this Christmas-time. We 've joys that in memory must outlast yours Who strive alone for political prize : Gallops over the lush December pastures Beneath the soft December skies, Some fun in the coverts among the pheasants. Some strolls with the ladies along the lanes ; The Christmas tree and the Christmas presents. The pool or rubber, the losses or gains. And, after the short-lived daylight's closing, The song or dance till the small hours chime; Can I live twelve months, in the hope reposing Of another such party next Christmas-time? OUR COUNTY BALL. 87 OUR COUNTY BALL. Outsiders see most of the game. Old fellow, we '11 stand here and look on ; Though, doubtless, you find rather tame An affair that you can't have a book on. Yet here by a numerous field Are prizes and places disputed, That to layers and backers might yield A market where all should be suited. Here, before put in training for brides, Led out are the fillies of fashion ; And often the form here decides If a town course they 're fit for a dash on. Some bear them as scorning a lead, Some seem to hang back and to falter : 88 IN THE COUNTRY-HOUSE SEASON. But "the office" how few really need On a track where the post is the altar ! The prizes are ranged round the room ; The candidates peer at them shyly, And pick and appraise those in whom Are essentials they value most highly. Courage, talent, fidelity ? Nay, These are not reckoned worthy the winning. See the favourite coming this way ! No workwoman, sir, but she's spinning. Her glances are lavishly shed. Here a smile she will grant, there a favour, Here a hand-shake, there nod of the head — Now what from mistakes is to save her? Of her lovers she reads 'twixt the lines : On a bald crown a coronet places, Or sees the gold ore hid in mines Beneath most unpromising faces. OUR COUNTY BALL. 89 Here penalties some have incurred, Who for make and shape victory merit; — Beauty's daughters may such to the third And fourth generation inherit. And some for some former affairs Society's system has weighted — Best chance in a maiden race theirs Who allowances take unabated. But not to the young ones alone The interest 's confined of the meeting, Although they're a lot, you will own. Would take in Belgravia some beating Certain townsmen will make it a near Thing, before the festivity ceases, For first word in his Grace's sound ear On agreements and granting of leases. You'll perceive at the room's lower end Local ladies, the doctors' and lawyers' 90 IN THE COUNTRY-HOUSE SEASON Each straining to outstrip her friend In winning nods from the top-sawyers. Every dance joy, or jealous)^, strong In bosoms maternal arouses, As their daughters are left, or along Are whirled by guests from the great houses. 'Tis only a county-town ball. Where many a butt for your wit is ; Yet here is epitomised all The society life of great cities. The " Quidquid agunt homines, Votum, timor, ira, voluptas," Your philosopher studies at ease, And goes home when he decently supped has. THE STUDENTS VALENTINE. 91 THE STUDENT'S VALENTINE. Like some white fluttering feather, It on his table fell ; — What 'twas I doubt me whether That bookish man could tell. On shoulders perched of Liddell, It hid the face of Scott : He ne'er had met such riddle In volumes polyglot. But as to sphinx Egyptian Point arrow-headed signs, So here of an inscription He reads between the lines. Each dot above the "i's" is, Each curly-tailed "Q," 92 IN THE COUNTRY-HOUSE SEASON. An index that he prizes To show who sent it — who? "A simple Northern lassie — But, then, her eyes are bright; Her locks are gold and massy ; Her step is true and light ; Her face sweet fun is full of, Beneath her rustic toque ', And few can get the pull of Her tongue at equivoque. " Eyes bent demurely downwards, Her way at eve she takes By shortest cut that townwards The bleak moorside forsakes. Rough winds begin to hurtle, As steps she 'cross the heath. And lift her scarlet kirtle To show the shoon beneath. THE STUDENT'S VALENTINE. 93 ''Scarce dares she at the counter For * Valentines ' to ask ; And maiden blushes mount her Cheeks, bending o'er her task. She fixes, then refuses — She takes up and lays down — Till this at last she chooses For Quills in Cambridge town." While thus the student sketches His fancy-picture, smiles From friends around he fetches Who load his shelf in piles. What time his bow Apollo Unstrings, old Homer nods, And peals of laughter follow From all the classic gods. He guesses not — the dullard ! — The Saint this morning shed 94 TIV THE COUNTRY-HOUSE SEASON. That thing of lace and coloured Foil on a lady's bed. It flew there with its brothers, A shower of valentines — She greeting has for others, But this one she declines. " No ring, no brooch, no bracelet ! What can the fellow think? 'Twill suit old Soberface — let Me have my pen and ink. There—' Quilsby Quirk, Coll : Downing ; How pleased the fool will be, And smooth his forehead's frowning. And dream— once more — of me ! '■' That simple Northern lassie He sketched in college-rooms — Her eyes are somewhat glassy, Her lips have lost their blooms. THE STUDENT'S VAEENTIAE. 95 Moorside for Piccadilly She's changed — the rest one knows — And now she paints the lily, And has to buy the rose. Yet not a mission wasted That valentine's we deem ; — Through it a lone heart tasted Love's sweets if in a dream. His lips devoutly kiss it; A moisture dews his eyes : — Where ignorance is bliss, it Is folly to be wise. 96 IN THE COUNTRY-HOUSE SEASON. JACK THE RUNNER. Yes, sir, none can say you're wrong; Here they call me "Jack the Runners- Jack, who 's good for glass or song, And at keeping all day long With the hounds confessed a "oner." True, sir, it may be I might Find more orthodox employment — That 's the term — from early light Toil — go weary home at night — And know nothing of enjoyment. But, you see, I wasn't bred For a life of hum -drum labour — JACK THE RUNNER. Gipsy days my mother led, And my father fought and bled Wearing a light horseman's sabre. Far back as the record goes — Oh ! we 've pedigrees, we yeomen — Ancestors of mine it shows Drinking deep and dealing blows Where they flagons found or foemen. I, too, dreamed of soldier's fame — I, too, took the Royal shilling — In my battery bore a name That no farmer's son would shame — Till the pace became too killing. Canteen-keeper had a niece — I was not the first one blinded By your eyes. Miss Beatrice — Women all are of a piece; Others have behaved as mine did. H 98 IN THE COUNTRY-HOUSE SEASON. She 'd not with a sodger mate ; So the service lost a gunner. Then, of course, she swore she 'd wait ; Then I heard — but all too late: So I'm only ''Jack the Runner." No, sir, I 've no call to curse — Tips and tipple both are plenty. Better men are faring worse — William dying — so the nurse Told me — and he 's barely twenty. Mostly I 've by night a roof; And by day, when of their metal Hounds are giving staunchest proof. Chaps who've got to pad the hoof. Need to be in fairish fettle. Often I 've a quiet sneer At the swells who 'd over-ride me. JACK THE RUNNER. 99 Life has taught me very clear, That if I 'd a nag to steer, Care'd find room to sit beside me. Think 'st at covert-side to-day- There 's a che«erier heart than this is, Rugged, horny-pahned, and grey Though the wearer of it ? Nay ! Search among the men and misses. Women first. See, envy stirs Lady Di to eat her heart out, For she knows that mare of hers Ain't a patch on Mrs. Spur's ; — But she'll have to play her part out. Here 's the town contingent, who '11 Spoil his gallop for the Master; — Well he knows that gaudy school Holds a heavy-handed fool Like to cause the hounds disaster. loo IN THE COUNTRY-HOUSE SEASON. Farmer wants to sell a horse — Doctor's looking out for cases — "Chief" is thinking of ^'the force"— Captain wondering will the course Suit his ventures at the races. Mine 's a mind unfettered — mine Fragrance of the southern breezes — Eyes of pretty girls that shine — Sweet dog-music — I repine Only when it snows or freezes. Same to me 'tis, if the sky ' Lighter be of hue or dunner ; If the beauties dwell or fly, Still I'm with them, smart and spry— So they call me "Jack the Runner." AFTER THE WINTER SEASON. loi AFTER THE WINTER SEASON. Farewell, all ye sylvan beauties, Unto whom 1 've paid my duties In this dreary Httle township you call Wooton-i li- the- Wold; You, with whom I Ve oft been skating, Though the pastime sorely hating, But a man had need do something to keep out the bitter cold ] — True I have not loved you blindly, But I bid you "Good-bye" kindly, And I leave without reluctance your temptation- guarded fold. With your chaperons frowning gravely, There were some of you went bravely Whether flood or floor or fallow were the course you speeded o'er; I02 IN THE COUNTRY-HOUSE SEASON On her skates was Kitty fearless, In the ball-room Bessie peerless, And Miss Pussie in the saddle had us pounded by the score. Say, does my departure grieve you ? • Ah ! I cannot weep to leave you, Though it seems exceeding likely I shall never meet you more. Stern old Time, as he advances, Stops the hunting and the dances For the cosy ingle-corner and the cordial beef-tea. Shades of Phyllis and of Chloe, Locks of ebon, bosoms snowy, Nothing is there now in common 'twixt your comely selves and me ! Though a stud be recommended Up at Tatt's as something splendid, 'Twill not tempt the wily veteran to run up to town and see. AFTER THE WINTER SEASON. 103 I can still enjoy a gallop, Or a sail in roomy shallop, And, like Walter Savage Landor, "I write verses now and then;" To old form I try to race up, But I cannot keep the pace up, Like the heroes that I read of, unto threescore years and ten. So I pray you let me lightly Down Lethean streams, and rightly Set me inter seniores^ or among the elder men. MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. PART I. CHRISTMAS GHOSTS. Ere the mellow lamps are lighted, with my past a while united, Here I sit ; While from out the ruddy embers ghosts of many gone Decembers Round me flit. Each one, not in sadness solely, nor with joy sur- rounded wholly, Comes and goes ; And for me this Christmas nightshade 's set in flowers of dark and bright shades, Rue and rose. Towards yon grey old church's steeple toil the thick-soled country people Up the hill; 107 io8 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. Save for bells that ring a merry peal of paeans, all is very Calm and still. With the rest, assembling thereat, seem to play a childish pair at Groom and bride. Me is nervous, and, at most, lets her his hand touch — tiny ghostlets Side by side. In a curtained room, and shuttered, heads are bent and words are muttered O'er a book; Nor is dose of social senna feared from faithful old duenna, Who won't look. What 's writ in those ghostly chapters, that his fingers thus have trapped hers? By what spells CHRISTMAS GHOSTS. 109 With the Christmas chimes are blended notes of silver-tongued and splendid Marriage-bells ? Faded tapestry, fresh faces, ancient portraits, modern graces — An array Brought together by the golden links of love and custom olden For the day. Ghosts, of course. But very human seems that spirit playing Schumann ; Not so loud She can't hear words, like caresses, dropped by one, one other — blesses — In the crowd. Where the sheer side of the hill is strewn with snow as if with lilies, While beneath no MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. Oft is flung, by crested surges that ne'er cease their solemn dirges, A foam-wreath. There, a place of mournful fitness, stand a ghostly few to witness Last rites paid Unto one who 'd breathed a wish her home should with these humble fisher Folk be made. We, who once her love contested, hid our worst where we our best hid — In that grave ; Brotherhood in grief had kinned us. Sleeps he now 'neath sands the Indus' Waters lave. Cypress with our Christmas hollies twines, and for past faults and follies We've to pay. CHRISTMAS GHOSTS. in But all ghosts of spite and hatred, of them finally, though late, rid, Let us lay. 112 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. THROUGH THE MEADOWS. In the meadows in the Maytime, In the golden Summer's gay time, In the silver Autumn's grey time, In the time of Winter's snow — Through long months you must remember, January to December, How we wandered, talked, and pondered, long ago ! In the meadows New Year's morning, Chilly winds of Winter scorning, Where the huntsman's cry gave warning That the hounds had gone, you 'd go — You, the reckless lady rider, I, the cavalier beside her, Whom she meets with, and defeats with, " No, sir ; no." THROUGH THE MEADOWS. 113 In the meadows when the early Morns of Spring beheld the pearly Dew-drops glisten, and when curly Locks would in confusion flow, How we heard the song-bird's matin From the hammock which we sat in, You a bonny lass, I "Johnny," and your beau ! In the meadows, amber-flooded By the July sun, and studded With wild flowers that bloomed and budded, Scorning aid that men bestow — How the lover whom you 'd cheated Asked and asked the oft-repeated Question, "Will you, dear?" and still you answered, "No." In the meadows Autumn leaves are Falling, garnered all the sheaves are. 114 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. And his hopes, as one believes, are Into nothingness to grow — When, from rosy hps, unbidden, Comes a word that, though half-hidden By caresses, clearly "Yes" is — can't be "No." ART STUDENTS. 115 ART STUDENTS. Sweet, kindly lives which pleasant memories waken Even in one, no brother to the guild ; Firm, friendly hands which mine have often taken, Nor time nor space our friendship yet hath killed ! And from the South I welcome aye the message Breathing success, and telling triumphs won ; — How this, or that, old friend's fulfilled the presage Of his bright youth, and proved Art's worthy son. How one has wooed fame with a " Kiss of Glory " ; One spent his fancy on a woodland elf; One dared a step beyond Homeric story, And from the marble summoned Homer's self; ii6 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. One than the rest more weak, or more ambitious, Thought to a goddess he could give new birth. Deemed she was human, found the thrall delicious; — Failed earthly hands on what was not of earth ! Rare gift is yours for whom the times now olden Can be recalled on canvas or in stone ; Who to the prosy present unbeholden Live lives poetic that are all your own. Yet, as men tell — nay, fear not the confession — At Carnival you led the miming crowd. Who, Simonetti, thought of that procession Whereof the world of Rome might well be proud ? Back from live joys unto dead bones and ashes, Which out of funeral urns shall rise again ! Fair dames may scorn ; 'neath the Madonna's lashes Beam tender eyes that ne'er can cause you pain. MY OWN FIRESIDE. 117 MY OWN FIRESIDE. When the world has wearied the worker's bra hi With its toil and traffic, its strife and din, Sweet, ah, sweet, 'tis to rest again Where the red light dances and glances within Painting with colours fantastic and quaint Those pictures the day hath coldly eyed. The living sinner, the martyred saint, That hang by my own fireside. Painting me scenes from the far-off past, The past when the world and I were young. Fugitive scenes that can scarcely last, But pleasant to hnger a minute among; — Poor ashes of love in a broken urn — A harp unstrung, and a rose that hath died — ii8 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. But the music and sweetness seem to return To me here by my own fireside. A woman sings in the silent street An old love-song that she used to sing ; The melody, low and tender and sweet, Her face before me is fain to bring. It was here on my bended knees I besought Her to come to my hearth and heart, my bride ; — She came — and she's left me alone with thought To mourn by my own fireside. It was here that he stood, the friend of my youth, That last long night ere his leave was up. And a beau sabreur he seemed, in truth. As we quaffed together the loving-cup. A curse on the savage arm that sped The weapon that laid him low in his pride ; But yet he comes from the realm of the dead At night to my own fireside. MV OWN •FIRESIDE. 119 It was here that I sat in the early days Of childhood, and hstened to tales sublime Of warlike work and of warriors' ways, An old voice quavered in ballad rhyme. It is here that I sit and wait for the sound Of the stern command we must all abide, That shall send me to take up other ground Afar from my own fireside. I20 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. A FADED FLOWER. Kind hands the easy chair have rolled To leave it 'neath the lime-tree's shade, Where she, now grown so grey and old, Would wander when a maid. Her eyes upon a volume rest — Long nights of tears have made them dim- But in the poet's pages prest A memory breathes of him — Breathes in a rose whose breath is faint; — Of her life's summer ^twas the last, And with it Fancy's fingers paint A picture of the past. A FADED FLOWER, 121 O'er all the earth there lies the hush Of afternoon. Two figures trace The garden path. A maiden blush Mounts on her aged face, For he is speaking. He the fair Embodiment of manhood's truth Seems as he sofdy whispers there — The lover of her youth. Whispers that ere the breeze could steal The roses' dewy pearls, he sought A floAver that should to her reveal His heart's unspoken thought. Before that summer breeze returned To bring the roses' bloom again, Flickered the love that fierce had burned, And joy gave birth to pain. 122 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. Another ne'er could be the same, Though she became another's v/ife, And proudly wears an honoured name ;- But such is woman's life. THE LANGUAGE OF RUINS. 123 THE LANGUAGE OF RUINS. Here, 'mid the memories of bygone ages, Pondering pause awhile On those departed kings, and saints, and sages Who trod this cloistered aisle. Say, have from hence their spirits wholly vanished, While still these stones can last, Or, if the Present in its turn be banished, Can we recall the Past ? Eldest of arts, she leaves her relics hoary For mortals yet to come. Music and Painting have for all their story ; — Is Architecture dumb ? 124 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. Are there for nought, her high and reverend places? Each one of them repeats In clearest type our triumphs and disgraces, Our victories and defeats ? Whate'er her style, the Saxon, Norman, Doric, She's aye a tale to tell : " Beauty's light tread hath made these stones his- toric, Or there some hero fell. *'See where the crumbling hand of Time discloses An old breach in the wall; — Warwick's handwriting when the rival Roses Contended for the Hall. " In yonder turret died the hoyden Hester, Slain by a jealous lord; Here rang at noon the rude song of the jester, Or flashed a gallant's sword." THE LANGUAGE OF RUINS. 125 Whisper me not these mailed men are ghostly, Their shining armour rust, Or these fair dames ne'er had existence mostly, And those who had are dust. 126 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES, A LAY OF ILL-LUCK. In youth my pastors and my masters Said there was no such thing as luck ;- Men always meeting with disasters Deserved to struggle in the ruck. Is such the case? Nor priest nor poet, No creeds nor cantos do I scan ; — I only claim, and all may know it, To be a most unlucky man. " Labour " I preach less than I practise. Practice o'er preaching must prevail, They told me. But the simple fact is Whate'er I touch appears to fail. I've failed as lawyer and lamplighter, As soldier, sailor, sacristan, A LAY OF ILL-LUCK. 127 And even as a sporting writer: — Most truly an unlucky man. I never rode a mare to stop her Like certain parties I could tell, Nor did a deed half so improper As nursing any dear gazelle; — I surely should have broke the bridle If once I tried the pulling plan, And e'en a darling doll-eyed idol Would spurn such an unlucky man. They placed me in a merchant's office : I never had a pound's " increase ; " My lazy chum (who such a toff is) Married the Go's consumptive niece. When hedging I fell into ditches — Correctly hedge I never can — All things I dropped except the stitches In both my sides — unlucky man ! 128 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. I don't suppose I 'm very handsome, Yet have a playful vein of fun ; — Young maidens, when I 'd fain entrance 'em With witty words, why do they run ? I 'm far from frolicksome or flirty, No slender waists I strive to span, But when I ask for Grace or Gerty, Mamma says " No — unlucky man ! " Disliked alike by maid and matron, I walk the weary world alone : I 've ne'er found e'en a wealthy patron Who yearned to make his wealth mine own. My wisdom — dear I've had to buy it — Is worthless under Folly's ban : — Here's going cheap, and who will try it. The luck of an unlucky man ! IN THE MASTERS ROOM. 129 IN THE MASTER'S ROOM. The business of the day is done, A pipe emits a faint perfume j The master of the house hath won His quiet hour within his room. The flames upon the hearth at play Bring out the pictures on the wall, The papers piled in disarray, The books that on each other fall Each volume wears a kindly face, As of a true and trusty friend; Battered maybe, devoid of grace, But frank of converse, free to lend. Dryden and ''Druid," side by side. The poet and the sportsman pen ; K I30 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. See Nana blushing seek to hide Behind a row of Reverend men. K lawyer's lease has business with A manuscript of schoolboy rhymes ; Beneath the works of Adam Smith Are copies of the Sporting Times. To meet the light there lowly stoop Some copies of Salvator's views ; In yon alcove 's a marble group, A Nymph, a Naiad, and a Muse. Near Paley's placid brow a brush — (Eh ! but it was a stout old fox) — Nell Gwynne is making Cromwell blush, Queen Mary has a smile for Knox. What dynasties domestic reign, What cook may come, what governess go, Here is the master's small domain, Imperiiun in iviperio. MY LADY SINGING. 131 MY LADY SINGING. The curtains for the night are drawn ; Long since the last birds went a-winging Their nestward flight, and o'er the lawn Come tender notes with moonlight's dawn — I hear my lady singing. I see her not, nor know for whom Those notes are struck; yet Fancy, swinging Her censer o'er me, through the gloom Wafts a fair form into my room — It is my lady singing. A thing of loveliness and joy, Dark curls from whitest brow she 's flinging, 132 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. Wherewith the moonbeams love to toy; — And nought can trouble or annoy What time my lady's singing. Old songs she sings, and each recalls Old memories in the strain upspringing ; Old ballad-songs of barons' halls, Of maiden tryst and magic thralls, Hark to my lady singing ! Songs of the golden harvest-time, The scent of cornfields round them clinging, While far the village church bells chime, And seem to somid a solemn rhyme Unto my lady 's singing. * Italia's songs wherein I hear All bird-choirs under heaven ringing; — Then falls a dirge upon the ear. And lo ! a funeral is near. And still my lady's singing. AfV LADY SINGING. 133 On floats the music, such a throng Of quamt associations bringing. The lamp is burning low — and long The shadows fall — and ends the song. No more my lady's singing. 134 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. THE LAND OF LOVE. In the world of Fancy there lies a land Unknown as yet to geographers j If a man has a love this realm he has scanned In many a glance of hers. It 's a land where the women's eyes are bright, Lips ruby-red and teeth pearl-w^hite, And where kisses are borne with echo light On every breeze that stirs ; — Where the evening skies are gemmed with stars, And somewhere about is a crescent moon, And Venus ever is smiling at Mars, And the year remains at June. At every window 's a Juliet face, White shoulders gleam through mantillas of lace, Love-songs are sung with serenest grace To harps that are ever in tune ; — THE LAND OF LOVE, 135 Where by ripplets of silver are constantly laved The golden sands of a fairy isle; Where fans are fluttered and hands are waved, Soft bosoms heaving the while ; Where language flows in a natural rhyme, And where on ladder of roses may climb The lover to heights which appear sublime For the boon of a lady's smile. The fruit's ever ripe and the flowers in bloom In the land whereof we are drawing the chart; The air is heavy with rich perfume, Undreamed of perfumer's art. And the dames and the gallants who therein dwell Sweet tales in a sweet-voiced language tell, And the men of all nations speak it well — The languaofe of the heart. 136 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. THE PROFESSOR EXPLAINS. * *'You young ladies take it queerly — ladies often think me queer — I 've not married, though I 'm nearly now upon my seventieth year." "Never been in love, Professor?" "I'm not made of ice nor snow : There was some one was possessor of my heart a while ago. 'Tis a tale I've ne'er repeated to the comrades tried and true. Near whom, night by night, I 'm seated in the common-room at New. Here are influences mystic make me think a little less Of the creed misogynistic that I love there to pro- fess. THE PROFESSOR EXPLAINS. 137 Has this hospitable mansion at this season played a part In such unforeseen expansion of a shrunk and withered heart? Have those eyes 'neath silken lashes of Miss Lil's — nay, do not stir — Seen by firelight's fitful flashes made me think of one like her? I was but her brother's tutor. She would just as soon, no doubt, Have regarded as a suitor valet, groom, or college scout. But it chanced that I could serve her as no other could just then ; And I — went with fatuous fervour to my fall, like other men. She was convent-taught, and Latin was a little in her line; 138 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. So she 'd come in sheeny satin to the study known as mine, With her jewels brightly glancing, and her eyes more bright than they, And a rhythmic walk like dancing, and a winning, gracious way. Now she 'd come for explanation of a tense, or term, or phrase, Now with tidbits for translation from an old love- poet's lays : Slender, supple, almost elfin, looked her dainty finger-tips. As she 'd hold the dog's-eared Delphin, seem to hang upon my lips With the heroines I 'd compare her, who yet live in classic song — Beings younger, fresher, fairer, than to modern times belong; THE PROFESSOR EXPLAINS. 139 *Pure and true as was ^none, and like Nausicaa kind '— Who has had the fit alone he knows how lovers can be blind. Disappointment ? Disillusion ? Yes, in course of time they came ; With them self-contempt, confusion, and a sense of wrong and shame. Wealthiest of all the neighbours was a young and learned lord ; Hence my lady's classic labours, and the tale I've to record. In those parts they viewed his lordship as a social pioneer ; Half his days were passed aboard ship ; it so chanced the previous year I40 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. To the States and the Dommion he had strayed, and the result Was a certain fixed opinion as to woman's higher cult. Way to make a titled marriage soon herein my lady saw, Ride in coroneted carriage, to the country-side give law ; So she plied me with her questions when we too were quite alone, And my comments and suggestions reached his lordship as her own. Thus I helped to win my rival for the girl I 'd fain have won. From love-sickness my survival left me bitter days to run. Sad I sought dear Alma Mater; but, within her fostering arms, I, become a woman-hater, ne'er forgot one woman's charms. THE PROFESSOR EXPLAINS. 141 Eagerly I conned each libel that old poets per- petrate On the sex (no diatribe '11 turn a true love into hate) ; Found the food for which one hungers, when the spirit's turned to gall, In those acrid scandaUnongers, Terence, Horace, Juvenal. In the Mantuan's tale of Dido I would revel at my ease; To my faithful collie Fido would recite Euripides." " And the lady, Mr. Hermit ? " " Diamonded, no doubt, and pearled, Rank and wealth give her the ' permit ' through the fashionable world." " Her of whom you speak with^ scorning, let your tongue no more assault. For they laid her yestermorning in the dim ances tral vault." 142 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. " Eh ? I'm off, girls ! Dead and buried ? It is getting rather late." TP ^ W 'vv W "TT And that night old Charon ferried the Professor to his fate. A HELPING HAND. 143 A HELPING HAND. Onward we struggle with eager paces, On through the burden and heat of the day, Most with haggard and haunting faces, Eagerly onward as best we may. Some of us pause by a cross and pray ; Some have a curse at their quick command ; Some of us faint and fall by the way. All for the want of a helping hand. Maiden of manifold airs and graces, The world your stage and your life a play, Beautiful, blessed, no doubt, your case is — Won't you a mite for such happiness pay? Think, when the revel of life is gay, 144 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. Of sisters who at your portal stand ; Show yourself a beneficent fay, And stretch to the helpless a helpmg hand. Names of some the Recorder traces, Fighters themselves in the fevered fray, Who find for fallen forms an oasis Midmost the desert wherein they're astray- The kindly word that's so easy to say, The blessing shed o'er the life that 's banned. The rift of light when the clouds are grey, The whispered hope and the helping hand. ENVOI. The needs of the sinning poor to allay Were duty meet for the good and grand;— Lest viler be deemed than the pauper clay The holder-back of the helping hand. STOLEN FRUIT, 145 STOLEN FRUIT. Of proverbs all may read who run, Wisdom of many, wit of one, This hath, methinks, the rest outdone, In truth by far completest : — Or sex or dispositions scan. It 's true of woman and of man, Deny it, masters, if you can, That stolen fruit is sweetest. Those truant hours away from school. That Sunday morning game at pool — Who has not loved to play the fool In days of young existence ? If folly 'tis to snatch the prize That seems most tempting to our eyes, Nor heed the Future where it lies Beyond us in the distance. L 146 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. Does money earned by sweat of brow Give satisfaction, tell me now, Like what is won, but when or how 'Twere best to ask no questions ? I 've heard that thieves lead jovial lives, That forgers seldom beat their wives. And happy 's he whose wit connives At wickedest suggestions. The youth Mamma brings home to tea. Whose fortune 's safely in the Three Per Cents., who fiddles " Doo-dum-dee," And goes to Church on Sunday, Is scorned for that Bohemian friend Who's met where thick the branches bend, And who, 'twere safe to swear, will wend His road to ruin one day. A hand too high in place of pride, Or else a hand, as will betide, STOLEN FRUIT. 147 Too low to dangle by our side, We seek, full sure to rue it. Who 'd kiss a mouth with gems though pearled. Or nurse a head though auburn-curled, When all the world was there, the world Expecting him to do it? What hunting men are pleased like those, Who, wheresoever Reynard goes, Permit no fences to oppose Their headlong rush for glory. But, knowing every road and lane, Trot easily a point to gain Whence fruitful matter they obtain For after-dinner story? Men win a classic race or cup Who own good horses, and have up The best of jocks — but fail to sup The sweetest cream of racing 148 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. That 's left for little people who Can " keep " a daisy-cutting screw, And sneak a handicap or two By dint of clever "placing." It 's human nature — very sad We 're all so desperately bad — It 's nature in the king or cad His neighbour's goods to covet. We all are envious each of each : Prigged sermons parsons love to preach ; Tom's apple 's better than my peach- Tom's apple — so I love it. NOTHING IN THE PAPER, 149 NOTHING IN THE PAPER. My modest morning meal is spread, Tea, coffee, rolls, and butter; My pious better-half has said Her grace without a stutter. A true-born Englishman, I curse The truly English weather, And stab a steak I vow is worse Than if 'twere cut from leather. I scowl across at Dame Margot, A scowl that can't escape her; — ■ She reads it right, and answers, "No, There's nothing in the Paper." Our planet's round the sun revolved, And nothing been invented? I50 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. Old marriages not been dissolved, Nor new ones been cemented? Did not Egyptians rise or fall? Did none complete life's journey? Are there no failures to recall Poor "Overend and Gurney"? Can neither hall nor hovel show Some little new-born gaper? There's surely something happened — "No, There 's nothing in the Paper." Hath naught occurred that could supply The empty page with leaders? For journalistic ink is dry Without continual feeders. Have we struck from our lives a day, And naught the lesson teaches? Has Libel not a fine to pay ? Made Politics no speeches? NOTHING IN THE PAPER, ' 151 -. - . . -■ ^ . ■ ■ -- - . ■ - - - . ■■ Has not Von Bismarck tried a throw, Nor Bernhardt cut a caper ? Tichborne unseated Bradlaugh? — "No, There's nothing in the Paper." No record that the crowd can please Whose pleasure on the Turf is? No tale of murder or disease Among the Irish Murphies? No news to guarantee or guide The too despondent trader? No Christian telling how to hide The possible invader? No revelations from F. O. ? No bankrupt Dean or draper ? No burglaries nor burnings ? — " No, There's nothing in the paper." No caustic cuts about Crim. Con., No details of divorces? 152 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. No frantic Russia falling on The Turk with all her forces? No critic who has found a slip In some one's work on Science? No prophet with a weather tip On which to place reliance? Does Brush resign the Tally-ho, Because an ankle taper Seen on a certain door-step? — "No, There's nothing in the Paper." Nothing ! And is it but for this, While w^e're in slumber's keeping, A staff of men forego the bliss Attendant upon sleeping, Before us on a sheet to lay, Revealed as if by magic, Life-dramas all the world doth play. The comic and the tragic? NOTHING IN THE PAPER, 153 We look on scenes of weal and woe As through a filmy vapour; And each to each we simper — "No, There's nothing in the Paper." 154 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. A SONNET OF MARCH. Fresh as sea-maiden, freshly come from seas That smiled at her reflected in her eyes, Where they imprinted their cerulean dyes. Bounding she comes across the hills and leas ; Her russet robes are outspread in the breeze, And from their folds there drops a floral prize, Primrose and violet, as in speed she flies. And, flying, decks with leaflets all the trees. True child of Nature, rough and rude at times. Her smile is smooth as any poet's rhymes. And, though the morning strength of her young arm Is oft upraised as though intending harm, In peace she leaves us with the evening chimes. And for all ill she wrought she leaves a charm. A SONNET OF APRIL. 155 A SONNET OF APRIL. A GIRL upon the brink of maidenhood, Her eyes assume a clearer, softer sheen, Her step becomes more stately and serene, And flowers upspring on whate'er spot she stood. The cuckoo's voice that woos her to the wood, Adown the aisles those hoary trunks between, Tells her of something, dreamed, but not yet seen ; — She blushes, and she knows not why she should. The tear that dims the azure of her eye By Love's sweet smile is very swiftly dried; The storm that drifts across the tranquil sky Of her young life, ere scarce 'tis born, halh died ; Blessings she pours upon us, passing by, And ushers in fair May, the summer's bride. 156 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. A DANCING GIRL. Her form is instinct with the grace That marks an ancient Eastern race, Suggesting or the panther's spring Or serpent's gHde. She seems a thing Of beauty, where the eye can trace Nature's own handiwork, nor bring To memory aught that Art's embrace Has folded for its perfecting — Fresh as the sea, free as the sky, Some nomad nation's progeny. Mark you the carriage of her head ! Have ever women, northern bred, Thougli sweet as honey and as mild, The witchery of this Southern child? A DANCING GIRL. 157 Didst note that wave of richest red Beneath her dark cheek when she smiled? Though motionless as one that's dead, Her eyes have something startled, wild Within them when a step draws near, That's half defiance and half fear. But see ! She starts. Her ears have caught A strain from out some source unseen ; Although by no preceptor taught, There's music in her soul, I ween. • A subtle essence of romance Steals o'er me with the rhythmic dance. Now a low melodious measure Speaks of afternoon and leisure Ha ! we 're in the gorgeous East ; I 'm a Rajah at the least. Cross-legged in a golden chair, At my back of chiefs a pair, I behold my hthe-limbed pets 158 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. Step in time to castanets. One — nay, houris half a score Traverse my shawl-softened floor ; Pass, repass, thread in and out. Till the eye is left in doubt, Gazing on the jewels shining. On the figures intertwining, If but lo ! the dance is done, And the figures are but one. With a wild tumultuous rush Comes the music. Then a hush And I know the moment now is Ere two armies test their prowess. Now I see the dusky faces Of my foes in strengthened places Which are destined to give way To my skill ere fall of day. Now Mistaken ! A DANCING GIRL. ' 159 I am not In a blood-stained battle-spot ! But with some one by my side, Some one soon to be my bride, As the shadows slow are creeping O'er the plain, as stars are peeping Past the far line of the sea, Riding, riding, I and she, Through the mystic sacred land Where the Master used to stand Teaching all who 'd hear Him then Gracious ways of God to men. From surroundings, sweet and holy, Something chastened, soft and lowly, Seems to hold my love ; — her eyes From their looks of bright suprise Dimmed are Oh ! ten thousand devils, Shrieks and pandemonian revels, Hell let loose, inhuman dances, i6o MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. Blistering grips and burning glances, Sparks of fire from Vulcan's forges Echoes of Olympian orgies — Dance like this, provoking slaughter, Danced was by Herodias' daughter, And The requiem, soft and low, End of all things bids us know; And the dancer bobs serenely, Quits us with a gesture queenly ; And the poet bids you note, Ere assuming hat and coat, That his medley so was made By the dance-tunes which were played. LIFE''S A CHASE. t6i LIFE'S A CHASE. Here, in my cosy corner-place, Mine elbow near the spirit-case, I sit and vow that life 's a chase Like that to-day I 've been through — A stern, hard chase, as they will find Who in tlie run are left behind. While all the country round's so blind It really can't be seen through. How cheery was the morning's start ! How many comrades, true of heart, Were by my side to take my part Against all opposition ! How bright the sunshine o'er my head ! How gaily seemed my horse to tread M i62 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. Beneath me, as if thoroughbred, And in the best condition ! Then came the sudden brilhant burst, When all were forward, I was first, A broken neck my lot at worst, A death made sweet by glory. The irremediable mistake Occurred when pride the pace would make So hot as rivals to forsake — The old familiar story. The gateway where there came a hitch — The broken ground that was my " pitch " — My horse's hind-legs in a ditch. While all the field swept by us — No one to lend a helping hand — Gay gibes to greet me where I stand, Unhorsed, but having great command Of aspirations pious. LIFE'S A CHASE. 163 The tedious galloping to points With dizzy head and aching joints, While perspiration's dew anoints The manly brow and whisker — The interviews with yokels who 've Seen objects that some sheep-dogs prove — The wish that Pegasus could move His limbs a httle brisker. Some artful dodging down the lanes, Which skilled manoeuvre nothing gains On hounds that, spite of pace and pains, Are always from me turning — Some dalliance, maybe too long, With yon farm-maid, fair, tall and strong. From whom some facts (of course all wrong) Took many minutes learning. Thus, when pursuing fame or fox, In style correct or heterodox, 1 64 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. 'T is vainly we 'd the compass box, If once astray our course is. Who at the start of nothing recl<, Now hunt an ever distant speck, And oh ! how they desire a check To help them join their horses. Then darkness gaining, hope gone out, Homeward 's the solitary route, With little left to talk about Except defeat and folly — The promise of the morning gone, The sun long set so bright that shone, No happy pages left to con Of life's book erst so jolly. Yes, yes, my comrades, life's a chase, Where 'tis not theirs who force the pace To finish in the foremost place — The rule is, '' Straight and Steady." LIFE'S A CHASE. 165 He 's happy who heard "Tally-ho," And tried through life at speed to go, If he a fearless face can show- To hear the " Whoo-whoop " ready. 1 66 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. A CATULLIAN RIDDLE. Quaeris quot mihi basiationes. — C. vii. A RIDDLE ! How many embraces Of yours, dear, would satisfy me ? Do you mark the sand-line that one traces, As far as the vision can see, From here where I con my love-story, On the steps of the Royal Hotel, To where yonder monument hoary Is raised to some pious old swell ? Can you count all the grains in that desert of sand ? So many embraces, my love, I 'd command. Do you mark at the firmament's portals The sentries that silently shine- A CATULLIAN RIDDLE. 167 O'er the little intrigues of us mortals ? So many embraces be mine. Mad, mad, with love-madness your poet Would thus to your riddle reply : — A man must have counted — to know it — The sand and the stars in the sky. Such riddles, sweet sphynx, will all questioners vex — The answer 's a number. That number is — X ! i68 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES, TWO ROSES. I. Behind an ancient garden-wall, Two buds to beauty blowing ; Within an old ancestral hall, Two graceful maidens growing To womanhood's more perfect grace; Then soon their life-paths parted ; 'Mid wealth and pomp one takes her place, One dies here broken-hearted. II. One maiden leaves the parent home In the first glow of summer, Through pleasure's mazy haunts to roam ; All welcome the new-comer ! See round her swarm the butterflies Of Folly and of Fashion ! TM^O J^OSES. 169 She smiles on all, for none she sighs — Her heart 's unmoved by passion. III. One bud is severed from the bough, Scarce blossomed to a flower; The butterflies flit o'er it now Within my lady's bower. My lady's bosom 's warm and white ; The heart it veils is frozen ; Her eyes are bright, but 'neath their light Fade roses by the dozen. IV. Afar in yon old-fashioned hall One maiden 's still abiding ; The well-beloved is she of all. The love that kills she 's hiding. Her path seems one of pleasantness. By sorrow's cloud unshaded ; Fond lips may bless, fond hands caress, But ere the rose she 's faded. I70 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. V. Faded ! while yet upon the tree Her favourite rose was clinging — A flower she oft would come to see, Low love-songs to it singing. They bore it gently from repose One midnight, dark and stilly. To where she lay — the living rose Must mourn the dying lily. VI. Those flowers are dead that sought to smil 'Mid Fashion's lurid glories \ These flowers may live a little while Where she whom they adore is. Draw down the curtains noiselessly ; — 'T is thus the drama closes — On one fair form the roses die, One dies beneath the roses. URBAN A IN RURE, 171 URBANA IN RURE. Municipem rigidi quis te, Marcella, Salonis ? — Martial xii. 21. By a British stream you live, There were born? No credit Unto such a tale we give, Whosoever said it. Such an accent, voice, and air ! Nothing you 've to shame you. Paris courtiers, everywhere Hearing you, would claim you. 'Mid near districts of ill-fame, Or far regions hilly. Find your demoiselles the same As my Gallic lily? Long 't will be ere shall be shown In Parisian places 1/2 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. One who, foreign-born, can ovm Such Parisian graces. Where he be he hath no care, Who this maiden marries : — By her side, her presence rare Makes for him his Paris. ROMANCE OF AN OLD GARDEN. 173 ROMANCE OF AN OLD GARDEN. Modern culture there is none In the calm and lovely scene ; Herbs and flowers spring, every one, As if in spontaneous sheen, Red and green, Lavish fruit for loving labour Yielding to their lord and neighbour, By whose ancestors they cherished long have been. Looking o'er the parapet On the garden, primly laid Out in fashion Dutchmen set, Quaintly stiff, antiquely staid, I 'm afraid 174 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. That my wayward fancies wander From my book, and pause to ponder Upon dramas that these pleasances saw played. Here her lover she would meet — She whose portrait in the hall Face and figure hath complete With a charm that must enthral Eyes of all — Face that might be modelled after Hers around whom Love and Laughter* Flit — and figure, like Diana's, lithe and tall. I can see her standing now, Locks uplifted by the breeze, While she listens to the vow Hughie whispers on his knees, 'Neath the trees ; * C^uam jocus circum volat et Cupido. ROMANCE OF AN OLD GARDEN. 175 Then, ere yet she reaUzes That he's gone, his shout arises — " To my lady, and the King across the seas ! " For Dutch WilHam held the crown, Taken from the Stuart line, But, the country up and down, There were men in '89 Who 'd combine, 'Cross the seas and 'cross the border, To restore the ancient order; And thy lover's cause, fair Eleanor, was thine. Then through all the length of days That Dutch William ruled the land. Suitors, so the record says. Only earned her reprimand, Though her hand Many courtiers, gay and sprightly 176 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES, Many nobles, brave and knightly, Sought with offers that few women would with- stand. But when old Sir Geoffrey died Came his title to an end, And Dutch William let his pride To the haughty heiress bend. Would she lend Kindly ear? Would she consider Claim of one who was a bidder For her favour, and who 'd been the monarch's friend? Let the baronetcy in This bold German be renewed. Could she better hope to win? Was she but a heartless prude To obtrude Whim of hers against the wishes ROMANCE OF AN OLD GARDEN. 177 Of the King, in scorn of riches, And a lover with all goodly gifts endued ? All in vain. Time onward flew. Laid were both the Kings to rest. Fame spoke high of one, Sir Hugh, Who was fighting with the best — Ah ! she guessed That her lover, loyal-hearted, Now the dogs of war were started. Steel was baring under Marlborough's behest. Once again the garden- walk She is pacing to and fro, Pausing here to pluck a stalk, There a leaf aside to throw. Would you know From her steadfast mien and stately. And her lips that smile sedately, That the heart within her bosom 's all aglow ? N 178 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. Very comely is the dame ; Very buxom 's she withal ; Can she really be the same As that maiden in the hall, Lithe and tall ? See her hair — what soft abundance 1 See her figure's full redundance, Half-concealed and half-revealed beneath her shawl ! As of old, her waist is slim, And her eyes have power to slay Any unsuspecting " him " Who the lover's part would play, And a stray Love-lock from beneath her whimple Nestles near a rougish dimple, As she listens — lifts her head — and looks away. Horses' hoofs are coming near, Coming swiftly up the ride ; ROMANCE OF AN OLD GARDEN. 179 (Can that be a happy tear On her dainty cheek undried?) All her pride She must call to aid her quickly, Lest the accents come too thickly, As she welcomes him to whom her Hfe is tied. To the Royal grace restored By his deeds in desperate fight, He may lay aside his sword In his lovely lady's sight — 'T is his right ! — Now no more his heart to harden, Nor to hurry from the garden Where she prayed for his returning day and night. i8o MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. CARMEN NUPTIALE. * Hymen o Hymenaee, Hymen ades o Hymenaee." — Catullus. Say, is the lyric goddess dead? Have we no hands to cull us Such flowers as living fragrance shed O'er love-songs of Catullus ? A fairer dream, a sweeter theme, No ancient inspiration E'er had than this — a song of bliss For loved ones of our nation. She 's well-beloved, though lately come Our sea-girt home to dwell in, For whom to-day the lyre we thrum — A fair Teutonic Helen — Fair as the name which ancient fame For beauty's type selected — CARMEN NUPTIALE. i8i With charm and grace of form and face Immortally connected. And he — may he before him hold, So shall his worth be heightened, His name-sire, Belgium's Leopold, The manly and enlightened. Though Royal born, he will not scorn On this, a lifetime's crisis, A garland strung by one among His fellows on the Isis. The year is at its joyous Spring ; All Nature seems to gaily In chorus with our voices sing The " Carmen Nuptiale." "Who ne'er have loved, let them be moved To thoughts of love to-morrow : Who 've loved, again a loving strain From sweet surroundings borrow.'' 1 82 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. The Bride uplifts a Spring-like face ; Beholders thereon printed The season's ripening beauties trace, Not indistinctly hinted. Rose blossoms there blush on a fair Groundwork of whitest liHes — For blooms to vie with these, go try The flower- famed far Antilles. A theme that 's old yet ever new, This oft-sung theme of Beauty, The which to sing, where'er 't is due, Is but the singer's duty ! As German maid, her way was laid Through flowery paths and painless : As English wife,* may be her life From sorrow's touch as stainless ! C. C. -R. * The writer of these lines little thought how soon his pen would have to chronicle the greatest sorrow that could touch the ''English wife." MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. PART II. THE DUKE OF ALBANY. 185 3In ilHcmorfam; THE DUKE OF ALBANY. From yon most fair resort of the health-seeker Comes a dark message on funereal wings, All hearts to pierce and make all pulses weaker With tidings that it brings. Gay sparkling Cannes ! whose air 's elastic lightness From invalids can lift their sickness' band, Now have you cast a shadow from your brightness Upon our northern land. He was so young whom to your care we trusted, Scarce entering the meridian of life's day ; Yet must he fall before old travellers, rusted With wearying of the way. i86 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. Shall we rebel that he has left so early, Smiles on his lips, no wrinkles on his brow. Nor waited till Old Age, sad-eyed and surly. Had said the flital "Now"? He was all good. But of the heartfelt praises, That with fresh honour heaped an honoured name, Greatest is this — no tongue, the world o'er, raises For him one word of blame. And from his life whoever lifts the valance Sees how laborious was his daily round : Zealous and kind, was he weighed in the balance Ever, and wanting found ? Midmost the crowd, the ruder souls and rougher Hoard words of his upon their memory's shelf: " Surely I 've pity for the sick that suffer, Who 've suffered so myself." Through all the world of books, as one who needed No guide, he wandered carelessly at will : THE DUKE OF ALBANY. 187 His books look down, reproachful and unheeded — Why are their pages still? Pure as a Bayard, chivalrous and loyal, " Without reproach " the motto on his shield, Laurels are his green as e'er Princes Royal Gathered from tented field. Bright beam above us stars in each direction : Yet moisture from them seems our eyes to steep. Can the stars mourn our Prmce ? Nay, on reflec- tion, It is ourselves who weep. 1 88 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. PRINCE EUGENE LOUIS NAPOLEON. The hope and pride of beauteous France, Our own adopted son, His life has been one brief romance, And lo ! the tale is done. How few short years have passed away Since she we all admire Heard how her son 'd received that day His baptism of fire ! And now she hears in distant land. And quarrel not his own, A weapon from a savage hand Has struck her darling down. A hero's doom, a soldier's death, All honour to the brave ! PRINCE EUGENE LOUIS NAPOLEON. 189 Mix laurel with the cypress wreath You lay upon his grave ! No words that can bestow relief On loss like hers we bring; Two mighty nations share her grief, Two tongues his requiem sing. I90 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. Hushed is the voice that o'er the wide Atlantic Oft reached our ears in rhythmic waves of song, Now gently wise, now tenderly romantic, Now practical and strong. Hushed is the voice ! In silence now the singer Sinks, full of years and honour, to his rest ; Blow swiftly, winds, from Britain's shores, and wing her Condolence to the West. He was half ours. From veins of Yorkshire yeomen Sprang the brave blood that made his song so bravej Albeit so tender, piercing freedom's foemen, And striking for the slave. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 191 'Mid that new world of trade and loss and profit, Where time and men and money all go fast, Slowly he moved — was in it, yet not of it, But rather of the Past. Old song, old legend, wove their charm around him ; Chimes from old belfries in his ear were rung; And modern manners mediaeval found him, As were the men he sung. Yet not alone the Scandinavian Viking, Or Norman baron, claimed the poet's pen. Weeps fair Evangeline ! See Standish striking Down hosts of dusky men ! 'Mid present scenes still by past memories haunted, Cambridge God's Acre loved he passing well ; Thence would he turn to grapple with, undaunted. Legends the Rabbins tell. 192 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES, So hence he passes, broken scarce nor bended By weight of years Time laid upon his head, Rocking him softly to his rest, and tended By hands his hands had led. Even as the Rhine, whose grape in youth he tasted, Richer in fame becomes from ruins round, And, with no ripple of its waters wasted, At last in ocean's drowned, So was the poet's life. Through old tradition Passing, and plucking thence its fruits subhme, Walked he full-handed until lost to vision In shoreless seas of Time. A BOUQUET FROM CANNES. 193 A BOUQUET FROxM CANNES. In its wooden case packed so securely, It lies nestling there, And though faded is fair, And breathes yet a fragrance that purely Contrasts with this nicotined air. By the breath of the flowers am I wafted To the place where they grew Near the tideless sea's blue. And the fair winter town where was grafted A colony most of us knew. A lithe form from the portico sallies. With its draperies, lace-bound, Lightly raised from the ground, And strolls down the rose-trellised alleys That the Villa l^lont Fleuri surround. o 194 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. With interest by time unabated Two pair of eyes strain Themselves, good view to gain Of St. Marguerite's fort, consecrated To the " Iron Mask " and to Bazaine. Here narcissus and cyclamen mingled Recall a gay night Of the dance, and delight Wherewith some one's body all tingled At the touch of a hand gloved in white. Lying lowly 'mid blossoms more splendid, Mignon, here 's mignonette — . 'T is your favourite yet, So I 'm told, when by other hands tended Than his who danced with you that set. This violet recalls my complaisance. Violette ! the steep street How she 'd toil up to meet A BOUQUET FROM' CANNES. 195 Me beneath the big, bare, old Renaissance Church, where was seclusion complete ! I turn from my window rain-blotted To find all the room Is with summer abloom, And the brightness that 's been in Cannes potted Disinfecting my chambers from gloom. Yes, all the gay scenes of Cannes' season, The costumes' varied hues. Greys and crimsons and blues. All the lights falling water or trees on, This bouquet would seem to diffuse. 196 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. LE JOUR DES MORTS. (all saints' day, NOVEMBER I ST.) From pleasures as vain as they 're evanescent We 've one day's leisure . to turn aside, While we close the doors of our hearts to the Present, And ope to the Past — to the friends who Ve died. At Pere-Lachaise upon All Saints' morning, I watched the figures that came and went With wreaths and bouquets the tombs adorning, Till the air was heavy and rich with scent. Far-off, on a bench up a by-path seated, I slept — and, in sleep, I beheld a stone That stood o'er a grave not long completed, And the name that I thereon read was my own. LE JOUR DBS MORTS. 197 O'er the stone a face, like a white, white rose's, V/as bent, and a white hand doffed its glove, As it traced these words on a ground of posies — ".4 mon fimidy It was she — my Love! ])ehind her, a form, grief-bowed, bare-lieaded ; 'T was my chosen comrade in work or play, The friend who my life-course oft had steadied, Whose nod or frown was my "Yea" or "Nay." w :)f ^ ^ ^ Changes my dream. For the weeping willows, The weeping women, the dull green ground, Gems flash like stars, lace floats in billows, And the gay waltz-music 's wafted around. 'Twixt dance and dance to an alcove, thickly Curtained, their way two dancers wend. My love has found consolation quickly In the loving arms of my faithful friend ! 198 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. EAUX DE VICHY. Mirrored fair and clear, If you '11 trust the speaker, Scenes are that appear In my modest beaker. Wisdom's silvery tone, Beauty's colour peachy, Brilliance not their own Lend these Eaux de Vichy Dull they are, you say — Dull not less than bitter ? Nay ; they 've life and play. And incessant glitter. Here before mine eyes Bubbles leap and tumble EAUX DE VICHY 199 That may well surprise In a draught so humble Comes to AUier's banks, Straight from banks of I sis, Mingling with the ranks, Health-thirst here entices, One whom Wisdom's word Tells of work, position — Whence springs this absurb Bubble called Ambition? Swift, he thinks, to soar When therewith inflated- Hopes to evermore Be with great ones mated — Scorning idle talk, Silks and the Casino, Seeks her side, who '11 walk Sadly in merino. 200 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. Them may Vichy style Wisdom and her double, Until Beauty's smile Strikes the bumptious bubble. Lo ! it 's blown away By a puff of powder — Lost 'mid Madame's gay Airy stuffs that " cloud " her. Madame — who is she? Ask me not — a picture Wherein Art can see Never cause for stricture. Pastel from the past Dropped upon the scene — yea, Just a slightly fast Madame de Sevigne. On the Allier's banks A mysterious chalet EAUX DE VICHY. 201 Is discovered, thanks To the botine or valet. Monsieur throws his glove — Famed his lunge in tierce is : And the bubble Love Soon a sword-point pierces. Love, Ambition fled, Other bubbles flitting, Vanish in their tread — And I, lonely sitting, See from North and South Folks 'mid sickness troubles At the glass's mouth Seeking still their bubbles. In this hunt for health. While the water 's swallowed. Fashion, fame, or wealth Oft 's the quarry followed. 202 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. Malades imaginah-es^ Imaginary M'ladies, Find that douche or air To impostors aid is. Ah ! no bubbles rise Now within my beaker ; — Doctors' tales are lies, And I 'm daily weaker. Beauty 's not for me ; Wisdom's voice is screechy ; Better Eau de Vie Suits than Eau de Vichy. KING CARNIVAL. 20' KING CARNIVAL. King Pantalon, since you attracted Me first, a boy seamless of face, Old Time and myself have contracted Full many a line-cutting case. My life then, O King, was as bright as The sunlit Italian clime, And my step on the pavement fell light as On the air falls a girl-spoken rhyme. Black-robed, in red shirt, with three-cornered Hat, throned a high platform upon, In thy city of Venice no scorner 'd Fail of duty to Re Pantalor. !04 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. Shouts and laughter, and rattles and racket, And whistles and scraping of feet — Confetti poured forth by the packet — Was fairyland ever so sweet ? So childhood believed. And for later Youth Pantalon's orgy had charm, As I watched it, fresh from Alma Mater, A tiny white hand on my arm. Ah me, to be coughless and goutless ! That season once more to recall, When the bouquet du Carnaval, doubtless, Was the Englishmen's Mardi Gras ball 1 Matique de poUtesses^ or 7na?ique de mollets. Cause of cloth-covered legs we 'd assume In the men ; and not found in Le Follet Was many a lady's costume. KING CARNIVAL. 20: But now even their Carnivals sadly Our slow-hearted sons seem to take ; Not to live, love, or liquor so madly. Not to play for so heavy a stake. Is it only our carcasses moulder, Our eyesight is dimmed ? or, in truth, Has the world become older and colder, Since Pantalon reigned in our youth? It may be that we loved too devoutly The fleshpots we cannot retain ; It may be we should gamble less stoutly, Could the cards be dealt over again. Who knows? When the last dish, untasted, Is sent from the invalid's bed, If his time he 's done well with or wasted. His last word of ' Carnival ' 's said. 2o6 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. ON THE BOULEVARDS. The metropolis of pleasure, Where the joy-bells never rest, Full of life and yet of leisure. Would you see her at her best ? Follow where her crowds come daily, Crowds you do not meet elsewhere, Taking all things lightly, gaily. Flinging calembours at care. See, the sun in all his splendour Shines on boulevard and on street, Peeps through gardens at scenes tender To which moonlight were more meet : On art-treasures which the ages Have collected pours his light, — ON THE BOULEVARDS. loy 'lints with gold the city's pages, Making all her pictures bright. Strolling down this path elm-shaded, We can see among the crowd Faces that long since have faded, Heads that long since have been bowed. Thronging all around us thickly Come the memories of the past ; But they vanish all too quickly : — Here is one — the best and last. Here she comes, the proud and peerless Heroine of our boyish dream, Smiling, as of yore, in fearless Consciousness of charms supreme. Chic she is from dainty bonnet To the finger, gloved and spare, Which no longer has upon it That old ring she vowed to wear. 2o8 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. Will she see us as she passes? Will she care to recognise An old fogey sporting glasses? Yes — though somewhat with surprise. Time with her has dealt more kindly Than with those she caused such woe When her white hands bound them blindly Ah ! but that was long ago. Long ago ! Begun and ended Seems a lifetime since we gazed On the face that now is bended Towards us with a veil upraised. And we mark a worn and wasted Look in those great orbs of grey Telling of some sweets that tasted Bitter and were thrown away ; And we miss in the maturer Noontide of her beauty's rays ON THE BOULEVARDS. 209 A soft something that was purer In the girl of other days ; And we seem to see reflected In the mirror of her eyes Youthful chances we neglected, And an unattained prize. Scarce one swiftly passing minute Did she pause upon our view, But a world of thought was in it Of the old times and the new. Now she's gone — no backward glancing Of the eyes, no kerchief's wave — When a voice in tones entrancins: Whispers, "Mouton 1^ qui reve." What is this ? No sham ideal Formed of boyhood's fevered thought, But a substance, round and real, That our circling arms have caught. p 2IO MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. First a sound of girlish laughter, — Then a muttered " Oh, M'sieu ! " Then some stifled words thereafter — Reader, what were they to you ? 'T was the Boulevards' cherished queenie ; Soft her tresses, and so sleek, And the rosy Amorini Hung in dimples on her cheek ; In her eye a brightness, blending With a subtle langour, shone. Which we mused upon while wending Our way homeward — not alone. Al/X DAMES. 211 AUX DA^^IES. "Nous causerons de quelque jeune fiUe Dont la levre sour it, dont la piimelle brille" — Gautiek. To AVomen in these modern days The bard is all politeness ; Her inspiration lends his lays At least one half their brightness For, ladies never dare we write As Chian wine and Massic Impelled the ancient poets dight By commentators classic. 'Tis true the old Egyptians showed How women could enamour Men's hearts by compliments bestowed Upon them e'en in grammar. MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. But downward from Euripides The tale is sadly altered ; Catullus, Horace, none of these To rail at you have faltered. One dame in Roman play we read Once wished to show compassion, And pardon straightway had to plead For acting out of fashion. We now refrain from such abuse : — For one such diatribe '11 Your recent rhymster introduce Unto the law of libel. Your eyes and lips and finger-tips, What staves we chant about them I Such props support a Muse that slips, A poor old Muse without them ! A NORMAN PEASANT GIRL. 213 A NORMAN PEASANT GIRL. "Turn we a while, a little while, aside From garish scenes of passion, pomp, and pride, To where, across the Channel's waters wide, A golden sand 's washed by a silver tide. There we may watch the sadden sea-gulls glide, Wing-wafted o'er the waves they lightly skim, Then skyward mount again ; may hear the dim, Mysterious music of the slumb'rous waves. Echoed through hollows of wide-throated caves ; As laden they tack home, may see the boats Of Norman fishers ; may descry where floats, Just within range of sight, a ship of war, T^ike some huge phantom seen through mists afar. Before us all is smiling; but behind, The beetling cliff, old foeman of the wind, 214 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. E'en in repose seems on his brow to wear The frown long years of strife have printed there. And in his stern, impassive grandeur mocks The baby wavelets rippling round his rocks. The scene is scarcely beautiful ? Oh, no ! It lacks the purple shades, the crimson glow That mark Italian landscapes ; all too faint, Too weak its colouring for your hand to paint ; But painted for me by the magic brush Which memory wields, I own without a blush The scene an Eden seems. You don't believe — No, sir, nor I — in Eden without Eve. "Rightwards a little— there — she's coming now." "A simple peasant!" "Mark her regal brow, Set round with snowy coif that might have been A queenly crown, nor crowned a queenlier queen. Her eyes give back your glances, frank and free, Yet without boldness ; gazing on the sea So long they 've caught its ever-changing hue, A NORMAN PEASANT GIRL. 21 Now grey, now almost black, now deepest blue. Her mouth, perhaps too large— her lips too thin — But those fair rows of ivory within, Who could wish to conceal ? 'T is true she smiles On very few, and at infrequent whiles. But when that rare, sweet smile her lips doth part, It flows from the fresh fountain of her heart — True smile of Nature, all untaught by Art. She speaks " "A patois none can understand." " Her voice would grace the highest in the land." "Tis somewhat rough." "But with a hidden chord Of music that vibrates through every word. She moves ; your artist-eye must love the sight Of that fine form, so rounded yet so light, Arrayed in kirtle short and bodice tight." "But Eve — excuse me — has a hand and foot You'd scarce call undersxzt^ ; and, then, her boot " " Is fitted less for fashion than for use ; And ill-timed is your critical abuse 2i6 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. Of hands that since the earliest break of morn The toil and labour of the day have borne. 'Small sixes' do not rise at six, to make The dried-wood fire, the breakfast rolls to bake, The poultry-yard to tend, to milk the cows, To brew sour cider for the night's carouse Of thirsty yokels ; gather fruit and flowers, — The one to store, the other wreathe in bowers That all the farmhouse windows may be sweet To sight and smell. Yet always she looks neat ; Simplex 7/iunditiis, as now you see, A living sample of good housewifery. Nor is this all ! " " Nay, patience' self resents The whole long list of Eve's accomplishments." 'Back, worldHng, to the world, its brittle toys. Its vain amusements, and its vicious joys ; Leave me a little while, where I may scan Nature, as Nature is, and man as man; Where customs and costumes e'en yet retain Some faint aroma of old Saturn's reign, A NORMAN PEASANT GIRL. 217 Before the Jove of fashionable life Came with his hell-wrought thunderbolts, at strife With all traditions of the former days, The old fidelity, the pleasant ways, Old songs and saws of fays, fiends, and the foam. And that old love our fathers felt for home. Where none now stay, for ' all roads lead to Rome.' Farewell, my friend. You to the cities flee ; Leave me my Norman lass, and liberty." Thus, thus, and thus ray artist friend and I, In old art-student day, now long gone by. My Norman lassie 's well enough to do ; Married the innkeeper, and quickly grew Quite coarse and fat. Nay, nay, the lass I knew Is dead — died with the visions of my youth. My faith in manly honour, woman's truth ; And that love-light which shone on sea and shore May shine for others still— for me no more. 2i8 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. A FAIR TOXOPHILITE. Sprung from lords of lineage mighty Is the heiress of the Hall; Artemis than Aphrodite Rather does her form recall ; Not an sesthete thin and utter, Not a schoolroom bread-and-butter Miss, nor hoyden fast and flighty ; But a stately maid and tall. Tall and statuesque and stately, Walking with uplifted head Delicately and sedately — Mark the goddess in her tread ! Hers no academic varnish Time or circumstance can tarnish, A FAIR rOXOPHILITE. 219 But the gracious ease innately With our high-born damsels bred. Ne'er, in marble, purer features Could the sculptors eye entrance ; Looks more rich ne'er graced the creatures Of the poet-mind's romance ; 'Neath its veil of silken lashes IMelts the violet eye, or flashes, When upraised it is to meet yours With a full and fearless glance. Watching her, her figure's graces Lightly clad in Lincoln green, Swift its course the memory traces Back to days that erst have been ; When to vie with archers' revel On the sward, smooth-swept and level, Dusky dames of Eastern races By the Caliph's eyes were seen. 220 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. Back to Tasso's courtly pages, Where we read Clorinda's name — Shootress who in fray engages Many a man of martial fame — WhOj with lethal darts and gory, Hath her record writ in story, Slaying nobles, knights, and sages, Scorning all the meaner game. Back to days when, busked with leather, That bold outlaw, Robin Hood, Vv'ith the "band he'd brought together, Stoutly held the good greenwode ; When he wooed and won that sweetest Maiden, Marion, the meetest Helpmeet that, through stormy weather, E'er at archer's elbow stood. Never houri that hath haunted Trellised glades of Teheran ; A FAIR rOXOPIIILlTE. 221 Never huntress Tasso chaunted As the poet only can ; Not Maid Marion in Sherwood Was more witching than in her wood Seems the lady here I 've vaunted, Paramount of all our clan. Dull the landscape grows, and hateful, O most fair toxophilite, When you leave me ; yet I 'm grateful To be out of range and sight. Let the targe attest your daring, But, in mercy's sake, be sparing Of the darts, by far more fateful, From your eyes so deadly bright ! 222 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. A TRANSATLANTIC COUSIN. "T WAS very v/ell a bard should sing, And very true his song who sung, " A cousin is a dangerous thing ; " — I thought so once when I was young, I know it now I 'm older. But never knew it till the days When, wandering with some western men, I studied lovely woman's ways Where, far beyond our British ken, Atlantic waves are bolder. A year has passed — or three — or four? Love takes but litde heed of time : The joy I felt, the grief I bore, Both came when June was at its prime, One perished ere September. A TRANSATLANTIC COUSIN. 22 --J A season at a seaside town — Fate destined it was so to be — Has crowned my head with sorrow's crown, For all the life now left to me Is what I can remember. I met her 'mid a ball-room's din ; — A form whose arms and neck were bare And jeweliess, but roses twin Were blushing on her dusky hair, And happy roses nestled On bosom whiter than the white Soft filmy fabric that around Her floated in a cloud so light It hardly seemed to touch the ground — My heart, in vain we wrestled ! Outworks of wisdom soon were lost, Barriers of prudence broken through. 224 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. Reserve was out of window tost, And straight, my heart, I offered you Into her tender keeping. Not then and there — for not a dance Unclaimed her tiny tablets showed, But from her eyes I stole a glance To light me on my homeward road. And quite prevent me sleeping. The morrow came but to complete The task that night had well begun. Beneath the cliff I 'd sought a seat To think of those at home with one Wide ocean spread between us. The morning's mails were in my hand, When as I read a shadow fell Upon the page, and lo ! to land The sea had cast — I knew it well — Another sea-born Venus. A TRANSATLANTIC COUSIN. zz^ My beauty of last night, but oh ! The morning breeze had fanned her cheek Into a deeper, richer glow, The sun had seen her eyes, and eke A kiss thereon had printed Her creamy draperies clung unto Her every curve without a crease, Suggesting to my dazzled view A marble goddess of old Greece Most delicately tinted. A canopy was spread on high Of mystic, tender, violet blue, Such colour as I thought the sky Not elsewhere than at Naples knew No wonder as we wandered On such a day, through such a scene, The old, old tale was told again : — Q 226 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. Heart-treasures at her feet, I ween, Were freely poured, but poured iu vain — She laughed to see them squandered. No, put the album out of sight. And make the poems into spills, Romance and I are parted quite ; — Louisas, Lotties, Lauras, Lils, I Ve sung them by the dozen, But — ah ! here 's Baby for a kiss. And Ma to make of me a toff. Clean shirt — white tie — what means all this? " You dine, sir, with the husband of Your Transatlantic Cousin/' KITTY. 227 KITTY. **It was a comical little name, he thouglitj when spoken sentimentally. " — Julian Sturgis. A GRACIOUS air, a winning smile, A walk and presence queenly — Pray bear with me a little while — My pen performs it meanly; And yet the portrait would essay Of her whose footstep's light fall I hear trip past my door by day, Come in my dreams at nightfall. In every mood she's to be wooed, Gay, tender, wise, or witty. But don't — this counsel I 'd intrude- Try sentiment with Kitty. 228 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. " Come, deftest of life-painting men," * Sang Beauty's old-world singer, When on papyrus sought his pen, And sought in vain to bring her. "Come, paint for me that visage rare, Like which on earth here none beams ; Those soft dark tresses, gold-shot where They 've caught and kept the sunbeams. Show how the merry dimples climb From chin to brow — banditti In ambush for your heart each time You win a smile from Kitty. " And 'neath the halo of her hair, A polished ivory forehead Pray paint me, where not grief nor care Has traced its lines abhorred. And let her eyebrows neither meet, Nor far away be parted : * *"'A7e, ^(jypicpuv Apia-re, \'.r.X." — AnaCREON. KITTY. 229 Twin bridges from beneath which fleet Eye-arrows forth are darted. With Aphrodite Artemis Came here from Love's own city, To kindle those star-lamps, I wis, That light the face of Kitty. " A bouquet best her colouring shows Where rose and lily mingle : — The whitest lily, reddest rose. From all Art's treasures single. The region of her lips must be A land of pleasant places ; Men in her figure's grace must see The trinity of graces. An angel-woman at her prime ? Just so. And more 's the pity No sentimental rhyme will chime In due accord with Kitty." 230 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. Yon ancient Greek, I fear me much, My Muse hath much misquoted : — Mine ears Apollo ne'er did touch, Lips ne'er to sing devoted. My spirit-case contains no wine That 's Chian called or Massic ; And Nathan of the triple sign Holds all my volumes classic. But ah ! that dream can radiance throw O'er chambers, grim and gritty, And — Pardon, I 'm forgetting. No, No sentiment with Kitty 1 A ''FEW OF them:' 231 A *'FEAV OF THEM." A FEW of them — ^just three or four — That most of my friends must have met with, And some — no offence, I implore — - Are possibly in the same set with. The end of the season comes on; We 're counting our gains and our losses, And betting-books eagerly con With curses, or blessings, for "bosses.'' Then pardon the poet who sings In most impoetical places, For he knows some peculiar things About people one meets at the races. My Lord— yes, I doff him my hat In respect for his wealth and his title ; — 232 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. A nod — perhaps not even that — Is all that I get in requital. Not yet nine-and-tvventy— or so The stud-book contains declaration- He ^s weary of life, and, I know, Seeks sport for a novel sensation ; Maybe some distraction it brings Denied him by knaves and by aces, For he 's learned some peculiar things That never were taught at the races. Flace mix dames ! Will the Countess descend ? What a treat such a darling to hand down From the coach, as I saw you, my friend, And envied you greatly, at Sandown ! A face that to painters might be Their brightest ideal's reflection ; A form such as sculptors may see, And worship, in dreams of perfection ; A ''FEW OF them:' 233 Soft hair in profusion of rings And curls, surely twined by the Graces ; You may count 'mid peculiar things This assortment to-day at the races. But as I am pressing more near This beauty, " ail eyes " to behold her, A mellow voice sounds in my ear, A glove's lightly laid on my shoulder. The Major, that model of men, Of half our young sportsmen the mentor, V/ho knows a good thing now and then, And of scandal 's a skilful inventor ! There 's a certain aroma that clings To the man from malodorous cases He was mixed in ; but these are the things One forgets all about at the races. "Me daughter" — and here the old rogue Introduces a charming new-comer. 234 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. With the sh'ghtest suspicion of brogue, And eyes like the Shannon in summer. Of accomplishments, all that prevail, A convent in Paris has taught her. And private theatricals fail ** Without Major What's-a-name's daughter. To-night a young peer at the wings, O'er a paper-bound booklet of Lacy's, May whisper some wonderful things He 'd ne'er have revealed at the races. In my smoke-wreaths I now can see all The past season, a pale panorama, And in front of the curtain I call The personages of the drama, From the runners who 'd sell us a card To the noble (or otherwise) owners. From the girls who won gloves from the bard To the betting-rnen, mighty intoners. A "F£IV OF THEM." 235 From the tout to the plunger who flings His coin till it spatters our faces — They come, and I think of the things I 've heard of them all at the races. 236 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. THE SUSSEX FORTNIGHT. "Goodwood the glorious!" — so 'tis we speak of it, When our selections have been the right sort ; — When, as too often, we've made a bad week of it — " Pshaw — garden-party — destructive to sport." Lunch on the drag of the Royal Sussexicans, Lounge on the Lawn with Miss Chicky de Wing, Good wine galore, and of bad language lexicons Hurled at our heads as we drew on the Ring. Brighton the brave, with its breezes so tonic — Oh, Don't they bring freshness to crew of the Ship ? — Mutton's where Brebant combines with Delmonico, Hungry to satisfy, sated to flip — Grand Stand, where Flora her loveliest lavishes — Private enclosure the Upper Ten fill — Bar, whereat nor the O'Turk nor McTavish is Left to pine long for his national still. THE SUSSEX FORTNIGHT. 237 Lewes, the "last train," as somebody's christened it, Since by it backers have oft to get home, Pleasantest of the three places, now isn't it ? — If lucky stars for us lighten the dome. First day may frown — you can hope on the latter day Fortune will burst into bounteous smiles. So, to fresh fields railway-faring on Saturday, Gaily we whist '11, with naps between whiles. Farewell the Fortnight ! Move on we, multivious, "Routed" for Scotland, the Bads, or Bengal, Certain, though cares and though creditors chivy us, Sussex will see us at next bugle-call. Thick in the gills I'm, and you're somewhat yellow. Sis! Well — we've ate, drunken, and bet with the best. Memory, that of good horses, good fellows, is, Leaves no fortnightmare to trouble our rest. 23S MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. DOWN THE ROAD. I. — To THE Derby. Are glasses all empty? Are weeds all a-light? Old chappies, fall into your places. Fall out of them, doubtless, you may before night But tumble to this — you have now to sit tight Till Jehu has landed his cargo all right On the hill for a view of the races. The ship is well buoyed with the usual crew : " Tom 's home from a tropical chmate \ Dick has turned up from Oxford, and looks rather " blue," For Greats are at hand, and he Jiopes to pull through — There's a family living, and, 'twixt me and you. He's expected one day to be Primate. rO THE DERBY. 239 And Capel 's ceased thinking of " bulls " and of " bears," To give his great mind up to horses ; Fog's laid down the weight of his family cares, To burden his back with more sporting affairs : Farmer Bob 's busy sorting the wheat from the tares In the tips sent from different sources. Though the road has been shorn of its glory, no doubt, Since the days older bards celebrated, Some amusement will keep us alive on the route, If our eyes on the vehicles look round about, From cart of the coster to slashing turn-out Of his Grace with its team neatly mated. I' faith there is life, there is fun, in the scene, As the houses give way to the hedges. While, like pretty pictures in framework of green, Fair faces are peeping the branches between 240 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES, Upon us who sail a free course and serene, Or are packed in the tightest of wedges. As a school- house's portals are speedily past, Come the youngsters hurrahing and hooting ! A roguish-eyed governess follows the last, And Tweedledum wakes up his horn with a blast That shows, if at Epsom he 's out of his cast, He's a wonderful fellow at Tooting. Look left and look right. Growl the pessimists may That down the hill England's descending — By the spectacle that is before us to-day Of peers, peasants, peris of opera and play. Lords, ladies, and louts, a good part, one would say, Of England is up the hill wending. For* aid on ! For' ard on ! with an infinite trust In fortune — and frequent revivers. TO ASCOT. 241 Foul weather or fair, winning, losing, we must Not ever lose heart, or let merriment rust, With a laugh for the rain that is laying the dust, And the men who are laying the fivers. II. — To Ascot. Mid-season now is at its height, And spirits should be at their highest. None under proof upon our roof Thou 'It find, my friend, where'er thou tryest. Our men and horses both are right ; Our ladies quite the Road's delight. South Western, we will not essay Thy long campaign, so oft repented ; Nor struggle through, O Waterloo, Thy crowds, well coated, ill-contented. A better, jollier, livelier way Our fathers went. We go as they. R 242 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. A " change " team forward on the road ; A well-hung coach, well-victualled villa; A winning book, a skilful cook ; Stores from Havannah and Manilla; Wines that from vineyards choice have flowed; — 'T is thus White Monday's menu ^s showed. Then going down there's lots of fun. Soon silver tongues begin to tinkle— The clothes they've brought — with ne'er a thought Of rain — or, maybe, "just a sprinkle." Our bets you 'd think already won, And still unreared the race of dun. Now up a hill, now down a dale— Now thundering through a straggling village, Where children shout, and ''whirlabout," And pilgrims of their coppers pillage. Anon some friendly crew we hail — "To-morrow — lunch — you will not fail." TO ASCOT. 243 'Mid coimtr}' scents that fill the air, Of lilacs', hawthorns', roses' giving, This quiet tool past meadows cool, A bit of life is worth the living ; While dresses' frou-frou proves our fair Companions near our joy to share. High over yon dark belt of wood The grey and weather-beaten Castle Uprears its head, as though it said A welcome to each loyal vassal, Whose sires in line, true men and good. To guard the flag it flies have stood. Tree-bosomed in a woodland street, 'Mid tall-trunked elms, wide-spreading beeches. Ancestral oaks, a chimney smokes — Its harbour there our cargo reaches. A cosy nook, and, omen meet ! Its owners call it "The Retreat." ****** 244 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. O Royal Ascot ! thou hast tried The strength of many a bard's composure- Procession, band, pavilion, stand, The beauties penned in thine enclosure, The wagers pencilled — they deride The bard whose desk's a coach-inside. JO. 245 JO. He lives among you ; day by day You see his wan and pallid face, His naked feet that wend their way With aches and pain in every pace. You pass, on daily business bound. The crossing where his trade he plies, And with indifference profound You read starvation in his eyes. A life-existence passing strange Is his — to see the world go by, And sweep a path for those who range From grave to gay, from low to high ; For Dr. Trimman's reverend toes His task it is to save from soil, 246 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. And eke Miss Lightfoot's silken hose When hastening to dramatic toil. The tale that Dickens told in prose Outsoars a feeble singer's rhyme ; Yet think you that we have not Jo's Successor in this present time ? "The poor ye have"— you know the rest — And they who loudest pray and preach Will show more apostolic zest When boys like this their aid shall reach. All faith and all belief without, This starveling neither knows nor fears, Or God or Devil; — though, no doubt, The latter's name he often hears. No memories past, no future trust, Relieve his life's dull monotone; The winter's mud, the summer's dust, Are all the seasons he has known. JO. 247 The trees and flowers, the trelUsed bowers, To him are names — not even that. Alike the cold and sunny hours Beat fierce on one without a hat. The green of spring, or autumn's brown, In him no sentiments arouse. His dream of fortune 's half a crown, Of Heaven — perhaps a public-house. The evening-tide, that brings the dew To renovate the herbs and grass, To him brings nothing sweet or new. But ah ! such scenes — we'll let them pass. And he is here — and in our midst — He — aye, and many thousand such. Mercy, as in old days thou didst, Extend a hand that he may touch ! But stay, my pen. And, readers kind, Who deem this moralizing long. 248 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. ■ Forgive the singer if you find A sermon where you sought a song. * * * * . * * And is it all a fleeting dream, Creation of an artist's brain ? Jo 's dead long since. Yet did he seem, Methought, to-night to live again — Live doubly. In the novelist's page His death drew tears from you, from me, From all. And here upon the stage He comes to life in Jennie Lee. AT THE PANTOMIME. 249 AT THE PANTOMIME. As I 'm slowly descending the valley of years, And pleasure 's beginning to cloy, There's one entertainment which evermore cheers Me the same as it did when a boy. I care not for tragedy's stiltified ways; There are heights an old man cannot climb ; — But the Clown can amuse and the exquisite Fays Still charm me in thee, Pantomime ! While decade on decade rolls lazily by, I am true to my post in the stalls, With the smile on my lip and the tear in my eye That the song or the sentiment calls ; — For pathos will often lie under the fun ; From ridiculous unto subhme 250 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. Is but a short space — I can clear it in one Little leap when I watch Pantomime. " Old Driuy " hath charms for us elderly folks That the youngsters can scarce understand, For, while scanning the quaint evolutions of Yokes, We stray into Memory's land. Comes the maiden with eyes that are blue as her sash, Comes the comrade beloved of our prime, But the music dismisses them both with a crash^ And we 're lost in thy maze, Pantomime ! With Sinbad the Sailor I traverse the seas; Little Williams and Leslie and Rose Bring me down, metaphorically, on to my knees, No doubt an undignified pose. In the Diamond Valley I wander galore, Forgetful that thieving 's a crime; And if any one whispers that life is a bore, I yell in his ears — Pantomime ! AT THE PANTOMIME, 251 And then there 's Red Riding Hood, alway my first, As she was my earliest, pet ; With emotion my heart-strings are likely to burst When I watch her adventures e'en yet. And Litde Boy Blue, as he blows up his horn, Blows away all the dust and the grime From my uppermost story; — in fact, I am born Afresh when I see Pantomime. Then over the water Aladdin hath woo'd Me to follow his Wonderful Lamp; His career to the eye and the mind affords food — I' faith 't was a lucky young scamp. Cinderella I 've seen, " Beauty " seen and " The Beast," And much that I 've seen will not rhyme, But I really have had a most excellent feast At the board where presides Pantomime. I like the whole thing, the fuss, flurry and noise. Harlequin and the fair Columbine, 252 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. The baker, the butcher, the newspaper boys, The publican spilling the wine. "Vanitas Vanitatum"'s the song that, forsooth, Sings the sage, but it may be that I 'm Not the only old fool who 's renewing his youth With a taste of thy sweets, Pantomime. CHAMPAGNE. 253 PICTURES IN WINE-COLOURS. I. Champagne. So, my golden-capped friend, you have found me Where the lamp, trimmed and bright, Makes an island of light 'Mid the ocean of darkness around me. Extending to left and to right. Scarce seen are the portraits ancestral Through the shadow that palls Dame and knight on the walls — My lady caressing her kestrel, My lord to his falcon who calls. But the pictures are plain in this amber, Clear mirror of mine, Where two brightest eyes shine, 254 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. While laugh Amorini that clamber Round lips that are luscious as wine. A free lance intent upon plunder? A saucy soubrette In a comedy set? Or is it Veuve Clicquot, I wonder, In the old days, unwidowed as yet? Ha ! that bubble — it flew like an arrow. 'Twas a ball upward shied. And myself I descried On a drag at the Eton and Harrow With my love (of a day) by my side. Now that clink of the glass my composure Has spoiled, for it brought — So wine-wonders are wrought — Sound of saddling-bell, heard in enclosure At Ascot, to ears of my thought. CHAMPAGNE. 255 Changed the scene. In the diamond-sprayed eddies That whirl in the glass, Waltzing forms seem to pass, And mine 's the arm surely that steadies The steps of that light-footed lass. O wines of Champagne, pure and mellow, Grace let me implore From Carte Blanche and Carte d'Or, While from Monopole and Montebello Libations to Bacchus I pour ! « Nor shall shades of oblivion darkle O'er his name, to whose ghost Viveurs all would play host — Who first taught the grape's eye to sparkle — Dom Perignon,*" champagne-drinkers' toast. * It may not be generally known that Dora Perignon, who presided over the Benedictine vineyards in 1670, was the first producer on record of effervescing wines. 2S6 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. You've charmed me from out my seclusion, My golden-capped friend, By those pictures you blend In my glass of fun, folly, profusion, Whereat pensive quiet must end. II. Sherry. *' Club close by — a glass of sherry " — "Hotel handy — wet your lips" — Strange how mingle memories, very Precious, with the glass one sips — Precious, yet in some part ruthful, Of the days when we were youthful, Like the vintage that Divine Deemed we as, O friend of mine. Ne'er since seemed maturer wine. Comes the comrade, tried and trusted- Though the sharp blade of his wit SHERRY. 257 Long in mouldy sheath hath rusted; Oh, the flash, the play of it ! Tlien we chest nor papers padded, Nor to wine wished bitters added Ere the feast, Lucullus' awe, Wherein lawless sons of law Nectar and ambrosia saw. Now that health 's a leading question, Lore of liquids we amass — Keep one eye upon digestion, While the other 's on the glass — Hold to light the INIanzanillas, 'Montillados and Montillas — View alike with critic frown Samples pale from Cadiz town, And the smooth East India brown. Once 't was otherwise. Those merry Days we wandered in the South 258 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. Come back with the kiss of sherry- Lightly laid upon the mouth. Nice's joys — near Cap Mont Boro Drank we not true vino d'oro In that auberge, grey and old, Vowing that each drop of gold Worthier was than v/ealth untold ? Sunny Spain ! Tower, vineyard, altar, Forms mantilla'd in the street ! From Irun unto Gibraltar Wondrous churches, wine, and feet ! From sunrise to shadow-falling, Sights that history seemed recalling — Cities where stout siege hath been, Sunk armadas, closed een, All in magic wineglass seen. Fade too soon the shapes wine-bidden When the glass stands empty there ; BURGUNDY. 259 Now the picture 's once more hidden By a prosy London square, And I dwell ^mid "slow-pate thinkers, Sad, marsh-dwelling, porter-drinkers,' As the Spanish don defines (Since on us no clear sun shines) Buyers of his choicest wines. III. Burgundy. " Halt ! " And for that sudden stand What excuse had been invented, Marvelled the Rhine-seeking band, Who, obedient to command. Halted there and arms presented. Little did those warriors know Thoughts their colonel's fancy feeding, 26o MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. When he bade them halt and show To the vineyard, Clos Vougeot, Outward homage ere proceeding. Home, where grew his favourite wine, Strangely turned that Marshal stoic From the fighting on the Rhine, And the cross he 'd hoped would shine On his breast for deed heroic, Clos Vougeot ! Regrets are vain ! Yet there 's something here entices Thought from plunder and campaign To the city on the Seine, All her charms and all her vices. Not to merry Lycee times. Times of cafe and casino, When life moved to natural rhymes, And he heard the midnight chimes, With Mathilde in rough merino. BURGUNDY. 261 Not to hours when sharp ping-pang Spoke of gun-shots — hits or misses ; When the bugle blew '''' au ra?ig^' And the fierce oath, '"''feu et sajigj" Rose to lips yet moist with kisses. But to stately day and night, And the dark eyes of the Duchess, Than this wine more softly bright, And her velvet lips as light On his own as Volnay's touches. En avant I The dream is o'er : — INIonsieur I'Amant, cease to dally With love-raptures, left a score Years behind you, while before. One day's distance, foemen rally. Do not all of us who 've sung Our '•/>//;;? vivivius zivamus''^ 262 MISCELLANEOUS VERSES. Feel from out our memories wrung Scenes and sounds by some among Wines that make the Cote d'Or famous ? Bourgogne ! Subtle, suave, refined Bouquet and finesse and flavour ! Where, O Wisdom, are combined Trinity like this, the kind Crowning grace of Bacchus' favour? RIVERSIDE RHYMES. THE RIVERSIDE SEASON. By signs and by tokens a hundred — a thousand — Who runneth may read in the riverside reahns ; By boats shooting past us with Youth at their prows, and With Pleasure's fair fingers directing their hehns ; By business more busy, more leisurely leisure, More pace in the stroke and more point in the pun; By shedding of vine's blood and visitors' trea-sure ; — We know that the riverside season 's begun. By skiffs, and by gigs, and by punts, and by launches, That are puffed, or are poled, or, compelled of oar, glide, 065 266 RIVERSIDE RHYMES. Their cargo consisting of sirloins and haunches, And hampers, fit freight for a gay Whitsun tide ; By the sun shining in the soft blue, while the distant Low hills catch the shadows that fall, one by one; By the voices of girls on aquatics insistent ; — We know that the riverside season 's begun. By couples discovered in shady recesses (It 's strange how they came there — the boat knew the way) ; By glimpses through leaves of the latest lawn dresses ; By echoes through lace of the last boudoir lay; By flowers on the bank in their summer apparel — The lilacs and lilies that sewed not nor spun ; By the beer every night running short in the barrel ; — We know that the riverside season 's begun. THE RIVERSIDE SEASON. 267 Up and down — up at Oxford by eights on the Isis, The gloom of bumpees and of bumpers the glow; Down below Molesey Lock, where the verdure entices, By the ices on aits, quite as varied a show ; By picnics where " two " quote from Suckling and Sedley, Till Mamma says the "joint" affair 's quite overdone ; By things and by thoughts whereof here is a med- ley ;— We know that the riverside season 's begun. 268 RIVERSIDE RHYMES. A SONG OF YESTERDAY. " Hier j'etais a table avec ma chere belle." — Gautier, Was it yesterday ? Well, if we like we shall say so. 'T is better by far to be merry than wise ; And when the heart's young the year's always in May, so Why carefully count every moment that flies? That dainty repast was my portion but lately, I know, for I hear still the chansonette gay She sang with the delicate charm that innately Belonged to ma belle by the river in May. O my lovely beloved — but I feel an intruder, When on Gautier's rights I presume to intrench, For what sounds in English than compliment ruder Has quite a society flavour in French. A SONG OF YESTERDAY. 269 1 11 therefore refrain from all spoony addresses, The knife and the fork with more freedom to play, For the lightest of girls cannot live on caresses, And the hunger-weed grows by the river in May. You know the old inn by all lovers frequented, Of homely and old-fashioned riverside cheer ; With lilac and hawthorn the air sweetly scented. And vocal with oaths of bargees over beer : And the snug private room where with hand in your IMabel's (Or Milly's or Maud's) you can gaze far away On the wide-spanning bridge, the red tiles, and the gables — A picturesque group by the river in May. But, if yours, O my comrade, to mine a like case w^as. You 'd have tired of a far-away prospect, though fair, 270 RIVERSIDE RHYMES. And turned to where close by your elbow a face was — And wondered, of course, how the deuce it got there. Soft lace falling back from an arm fully rounded, Soft eyes looking all that the lips dare not say — It's funny that curious things are confounded With a iete-cL'tete feast by the river in May. Then a bright ray of sunshine, the first of the Springtime (Time was Spring existed elsewhere than in verse And live lovers prattled of love-knots and ring-time, Instead of bronchitis — hers better, his worse), Shot gleams of pure gold in the glossy and crowded Brown ripples of hair on her forehead that lay. And drove off the shadows her brow that had clouded — She 'd feared it might rain by the river in May. A SONG OF YESTERDAY. 271 From Life's business an interlude this that 's abided, While events of more moment have melted to nought : — I thank thee, O Theophile, that thou hast guided My mind up those pleasant backwaters of thought. Though heartache, and trouble, and toil may await us In yonder black city at no distant day, What matter so long as the gods compensate us With warmth, wine, and love by the river in May. 272 RIVERSIDE RHYMES. A BANK HOLIDAY. When St. Lubbock's fete-day festive Dawns, and Cockney minds are restive To roam forth, decked in their best (if Such they boast), by file and rank ; Then I leave my N.'s or M.'s side For an older love, fair Thames'-side, And I stretch me, till they fetch me, on the bank. At its brightest in young summer, Smiles the stream on every comer, From the City — minstrel, mummer, Noble Marquis, Mr. Blank — As along that mighty roadway, Pulled by oars, by ponies towed, way Are they making, echoes waking on the bank. A BANK HOLIDAY. - 273 Down the stream a launch here charges, Screaming scorn at laggard barges ; On the deck bright eyes from Clarges Street stare in amazement frank At that wonderful and fearful Get-ups 'board the boats that steer, full Of East-enders, towards drink-vendors on the bank. Here 's the parson (where 's his choker ?) Who last night was such a croker > Here the lawyer, banker, broker ; Here their clerks, in craft more crank ! All the scene, so swift it changes, And from pride to meanness ranges, Seems a sham, a panorama, from the bank. Skim the skiffs along like swallows; These the state-barge swan-like follows — Mark-lane Plutos, Mart ApoUos, Stepped this morn across her plank. T 274 RIVERSIDE RHYMES. Venuses from Clapham Common, Phrynes (ask me not where from), on Thames's ample breast you sample from the bank. Sinks the sun — the scene 's scarce duller. Here's a snowy-flannelled sculler; Quite a charming bit of colour Full against the foliage dank, Where they Ve landed, shows a crew of Sweet girl-athletes we've a view of. As we 're dreaming, sleepful seeming, on the bank. Idealized yon bridge's stonework Till it seems the fairies' own work — For light touches they alone work We have evening shades to thank. O'er our closed eyes Memory 's stealing, Past riparian scenes revealing, Plid whose vistas Time's white mist has from the bank. UP A BACKWATER, 275 UP A BACKWATER. The picnic, at length it was over, Fizz' and questions were popped, Hints and handkerchiefs dropped, With some hnes about " clover " and " Dover " Which somebody's chaperon stopped. We most of us surely remember Some similar scene, As occurring between The months, say, of March and September, When we, like the salad, were green. The tablecloth held down by pebbles ; The exquisite fare, And fair exquisites there ; The chorus of hassi and trebles Which frightened the birds in the air ! 276 RIVERSIDE RHYMES. But now, as I said, it was over, And nobody knew That a damsel in blue, Not quite by herself, was a rover In a craft to accommodate two. Smooth, dreamy, delicious the motion As they glided along, With a rhythm-like song (And neither, of course, had a notion That either meant anything wrong), To a backwater sun ne'er invaded — An aquatic side-street, Over which the boughs meet; Where others have loitered, as they did, And found the seclusion was sweet. From clouds that curl round his manilla An aerial estate Can his fancy create — UP A BACKWATER. 2yy A lawn, and a riverside villa, And a damsel in blue for his fate. O, the villa his vision discloses, Wide-porched, creeper-clad ! Many such can be had On the Thames in the season of roses, At rentals to make a man sad. He laughs as if joy were immortal ; And who 'd prophesy How a change in the sky, Making Poverty peep through the portal, Makes Love through the window to fly? The dream was so sweet ! 'T was a pity Both forgot for the day, In their innocent way, Belle 'd accepted a " Bull " in the City Fred hadn't a franc but his pay. / 278 RIVERSIDE RHYMES. But I know when I nursed him througli fever Up at drear Dusty pore, How he'd rave, and implore One word from his "darhng deceiver," And pray to behold her once more. And I know 'neath her silks and her laces. And "cloud" of soft wool, On a heart, of love full. Lies a locket in which there a face is That bears no resemblance to Bull THE OLD RIVERSIDER. 279 THE OLD RIVERSIDER. The stream, broad and brown, floweth lazily here; Like laggards creep past us the barges ; And the public hard by with most excellent beer To man its whole duty discharges. Here you've met him a dozen times, doubtless, or more, A Law, Church, and tap-room abider; And you '11 own there 's scarce need to apologise for This rhyme of an old riversider. His voice has a tone of dogmatic command, Like the axe and tongue wielder's at Hawarden : Ne'er parson supported with lips and with hand More firmly a faithful churchwarden : The Conservative party has not in its ranks Of changes more steadfast a chider, 28o RIVERSIDE RHYMES. "As you were" both in Parliament and on the banks Being creed of the old riversider. He's an oracle ripe of riparian lore, Though his facts are based sometimes on fiction; As to points of dispute from the Springs to the Nore He scarcely will brook contradiction. Be the craft what she may, whencesoever she hail, He'll tell you, the moment he's eyed her, Who built and who owns her, and not often fail To find fault will the old riversider. Each weir and backwater he knows and each ait, All the currents and eddies and surges. If out of his depth he appear, only wait, And see how to land he emerges. He '11 show how in seventeen seventy-five, What occurred proves his knowledge the wider; THE OLD RIVERSIDER. 281 And, since to gainsay him there 's no one alive, Victory rests with the old riversider. You surmise that he's dwelt always where he now dwells ? The line of his lips he'll unravel, And smile a slow smile of contempt as he tells You he's seen in his time foreign travel. From the Thames sixteen years since he went to the Seine, Where they showed him the " Grand Duchesse " Schneider, — And to talk of more recent stage-beauties is vain — She captured that old riversider. He's affable though he's so wondrously wise, Your tap he's aye ready to sample; For in face of the temperance ranters he flies On wings less of words than example. 282 RIVERSIDE RHYMES. Though a bit of a humbug, of course, in Jiis way, And of common sense oft a derider, He's a type that we're fond of, and few but will say Something kind of the old riversider. A RIVERSIDE ROSE. 283 A RIVERSIDE ROSE. The first of the month, when of posies Poets, nurses and nurserymen croon — A turned-down page of life it discloses, \Vhere pictured (to fade away soon?) Amid memories of walks and of rows is A Rose by the river in June. Behind her, the house weather-fretted To softest and deepest of greys, Doors, casements, and balconies netted With ivy and evergreen sprays, Wherein she 'd been trained and been petted Through her bud time of earlier days — Before her, the stream, lightly fluttered By kiss of perfume-bearing breeze, 284 RIVERSIDE RHYMES. Or by messages song-birds have muttered As sent by the sentinel trees, Wherethrough, as through window half-shuttered, I watched my June-Rose at mine ease — In beauty's full consciousness queenly. Her loose flowing garments of white Gathered up in one hand, she serenely Stood there within range of my sight. And I gazed — you perhaps will say meanly, But gazing was surely my right ? Of no headgear's or sunshade's protection There was need in my Rose's behoof; — An open-air flower, her perfection Owed nothing to stove or to roof; — And she boasted a heart and complexion Against weathier or compliments proof. Then followed the rows and the rambles — For love social barriers scorns — A RIVERSIDE ROSE. 285 And the picnics that often were scrambles, The dilemmas with ludicrous horns — How she laughed when she caught in the brambles, Saying '' Roses were ne'er without thorns." 'T was in vain that I vowed and endeavoured To coax, to cajole, or to scold, Since she laughingly swore that she never 'd Be under the market-price sold — From the parent-tree when she was severed The knife must be purest of gold. So I turn o'er the pages with quickness Of this "leafy" month; — as a boon I regard the trees' gathering thickness, Whereby hid is my face from the noon, Lest you read there my cause of heart-sickness Arose by the river in June. 286 RIVERSIDE RHYMES. OLD HENLEY DAYS. L Old anniversaries come round. Fewer each year in flesh are found Old friends, whose memory we 'd keep green In sylvan or riparian scene. Old names give back no answering sound Where once their echoes would have been. Old bats have left their wonted ground, Old oars been laid elm boards between, And quavering are the notes we raise To sing of dear old Henley days. The little house that stood alone, Built part of wood and part of stone, Half hidden by a wealth of leaves. Quaint with its overhanging eaves. OLD HENLEY DAYS. 287 And unexpected gables thrown Out as by chance, to-day receives New guests in rooms we called our own ; — And still the creeping foliage weaves Its crown of blossoms, buds and sprays As in the dear old Henley days. II. Henley? You laugh. The name can brmg You scarce a thought, save of the swing Of rival crews — the show of dress — The chaff with gipsy sorceress — Girls, birds and niggers that would sing- Suns that would warm a golden tress — And life and Hght o'er everything. And words that only joy express, While whispering breezes seem to phrase Delights of dear old Henley days. 288 RIVERSIDE RHYMES. But, with a pluvial Jove on high, With bodies wet while throats were dry, Both girls and birds forgot their mirth, And niggers wished were 'neath the earth. And gipsy sorceress in a lie Was caught ere scarce her tale had birth. While spoiled was dress that you 'd to buy Or from La Ferriere or from Worth, And ill luck took the tune from "lays" You wrote on dear old Henley days. III. Away from race and dance and song My memory wanders, lingering long Where, near the humble house my care 's Described, a girlish figure fares 'Mid quaint-cut beds that blossoms throng, Minute triangles, tiny squares. OLD HENLEY DAYS. 289 And diamond shapes that seem gone wrong Till each the other's fault repairs. The figure vanishes — a haze Steals o'er the dear old Henley days. They 're artificial roses now That grace that damsel's cheek and brow, What time her clear contralto thrills An audience far from Chiltern hills ; And, when yon garden heard my vow. Thence sprung my source of many ills. Your tale ? Ah, yes. We none somehow Can light our pipes without our spills. 'Twas Pater (that's the man who pays) Who dubbed as ''dear" old Henley days. J5 290 RIVERSIDE RHYMES. MY LADY COQUETTE. A TRUE daughter of Thames-land, a British Undine, Oh, how rhythmic the flow of her garments of green, As she stood on the bank — was it ages ago, Or only of weeks half a dozen or so ? — And welcomed the crew she had summoned to land, Obedient slaves of her slightest command ; — And the look in her eyes I can never forget — Oh, those marvellous eyes of my Lady Coquette ! Then the house with its furniture, quaintly select— Such surroundings as for such a queen you'd expect — « The blossoms, without and within, that made gay With colour and perfume the casements each day — MY LADY COQUETTE. 291 The ancient oak screen that so nearly was tall Enough quite to hide from us the old panelled wall, And the deep rugs whereon her feet often were set — Oh, those tiny arched feet of my Lady Coquette ! And the fan which she lightly would wave o'er my brow — I perceive its soft sandal-wood essences now — And the Cupids that flew o'er its surface of blue, I can now see the wing between me, sir, and you — And the scent of wood violets round us I trace, That came from her cobwebby kerchief of lace — And I hear her call some one — the pug or me? — " pet "— Oh, those myriad wiles of my Lady Coquette ! Hark, the lilt of the skylark is clear on the air. As the day when I wooed her up river to fare — And never I make for that alder-arched creek. But I see her — the delicate bloom on her cheek, 292 RIVERSIDE RHYMES. And the blue depths of unfathomed lakes in her eyes, And her Hps half apart with a smile of surprise, And her ivory teeth and her eyebrows of jet — Oh, those eyebrows and teeth of my Lady Coquette ! Those, who spread them, at last may be caught in a net; — And, the last time I met with my Lady Coquette, There were tears in her eyes not of anger alone, Which showed Venus victrix her victor must own : — For the tones of his voice when he handed her cloak Were as cool as were hers when my conge she spoke, And, since through her life she'd made otliers to fret— Oh, the bitter heart-pangs of my Lady Coquette ! UNDER HURLINGHAM TREES. 293 UNDER HURLINGHAM TREES. Here always a cool, shady place is, Whatever the glare and the heat; And here, in a welcome oasis 'Mid the social Sahara, we'd meet, Once in ten days at first — then, fortnightly. Your engagements were many, and so Other ties made you, wrongly or rightly, Drop a riverside beau. Here you'd come in your silk or your satin, " A goddess one knew from her gait " (Pray forgive the old verse-tag of Latin), With lips and with eyelids sedate — Or sometimes in ingenue linen, With the scarf, lighdy tossed by the breeze, 294 RIVERSIDE RHYMES. 'Twas my fortune to once fix a pin in Under Hurlingham trees. Will your form from my mind e'er be blotted, As you sat by the bank's verdant edge, And prattled of fields primrose-dotted. Bloom of orchards, and buds on the hedge? Once more near a maiden I dangled (In thought), youth and freshness her charm, Who for minnows and compliments angled Up at Sweetwater Farm. Thus to be with me, sola aim solo, You, sweet hypocrite, swore you preferred To the field all a-frolic with polo, Whence voices and laughter were heard. From the shouts as a couple collided. Or a pony said prayers on its knees, We by curtains of leaves were divided Under Hurlingham trees. UNDER HURLINGHAM TREES. 295 From Ascot, the crown of its glory, To Goodwood, the fringe of its robe, Sank the season : — and one day my story I told, so your heart I might probe. As bends on its stalk a fair lily, Your fair head for a minute was bent. While you whispered: "We both have been silly But nothing was meant." A gentle ''Good-bye" — no heart-burning. My furlough is up, and your spouse, From a tour round the world just returning. Has wired you must meet him at Cowes. But, since the place cool is and shady, Next season, if seek me you please, I '11 be found with some new married lady Under Hurlingham trees. 296 RIVERSIDE RHYMES. AUGUST UP THE RIVER. Bright Summer's at her evening now A rich deep brown 's upon her brow, Of hly whiteness scarce a trace Remaining, that was seen to grace Her May of maiden beauties. The corn-fields, spread on either hand, Ripe almost to the harvest stand ; Of boughs, that in the orchard bend Across the path, from end to end Each shadow hung with fruit is. Bright Summer's eve — eve of the day. Soft breezes round the mansion play — House mellowed with the year's slow growth That Time's touched tenderly, as loth One ruddy brick to wither. AUGUST UP THE RIVER. 297 The moon her altar-cloth of white Outspreads, as mortals she'd invite To sacrament ; — and stars, Annette, Like lamps in highest Heaven are set, As though to light us thither. Pshaw — solemn thoughts ! And scarce the thing Made you refuse to play or sing. And with some fluffy wrapper round Your head, so punctually be found At tryst in place secluded. From ankle, trim and taut, you raise Your skirt, like maid of Dibdin's lays, Who'd scarce have run so fast and far To meet a mere freshwater tar As, naughty darling, you did. Your hand — from 'neath the boughs we glide. What memories rise on every side Of gloves you won at rowing match, 298 RIVERSIDE RHYMES, Of fish you caught, or hope to catch, Of steam launch jubilations ! Would we through life could journey, dear. Thus, I to work and you to steer, Sole tenants of our common mind Thoughts of a pleasant Past combined With sweet anticipations. A FRAGMENT. 299 A FRAGMENT. {Fouftd Jloaltftg on the sf?-eam.) '' Women all are flirts you say, sir : 'T is their nature to be so. Who are you to point the way, sir, That we women ought to go ? Think you that we hold so cheaply All to womankind most dear? 'Tis but that we see too deeply Much you would n't have appear. "Do we seem to hover gaily Now o'er frond and now o'er fruit? Well you know, sir, that you daily Are engaged in our pursuit. 300 RIVERSIDE RHYMES. In supreme conceit you reckon That, so potent are your charms, You have but to smile and beckon — Lo, we flutter to your arms ! " You can calculate concisely Just how far the game to play May be safe : — and then so nicely Make your bow and go your way. Girlhood is a bright and gay thing, Striving all your tastes to please : — Think you, therefore, it's a plaything You can toy with at your ease ? « " Girlhood has its aspirations ; And they soar, sir, far above All your puny protestations, And your poor pretence of love. Girls have read in tale and poem How true hearts are truly earned. A FRAGMENT. 301 Let man prove his worth ; they '11 show him All he gives can be returned. "Women all are flirts you say, sir, J/^«-flirts may exist as well ; And in woman's eyes they 're baser Things than tongue has words to tell. Though you come with vows most fervent, Speeches fair and offerings fine, Still I say : ' Kind sir, your servant Begs — most humbly — to decline.'" ***** Hem — not strange he should have tossed it From him like a bitter weed. Here it lies — she hasn't crossed it, And the check is plain to read. It may be that such-like dashers On cream-laid in violet ink, Would mash up the breed of mashers, Taken often — what d' you think ? 302 RIVERSIDE RHYMES. ANDANTE PASTORALE. Bw/coXtdcrSeo, La4>VL' ri) d^(^8d5 ^PX^^ Trparos, 'Oioas cipx^o TTpdros, ((pexj/dadu 5e MevaXKas. Scene — A Meadow near Henley. Daphnis. O, SWEET the scent of summer ripe, the taste of cheese and salad ! O, sweet the puffing of my pipe, the burden of my ballad ! In house-boat here no more about the tropic heat diurnal I reck, than Sal, on "Sunday out" recks warning grandmaternal. Menalcas. London 's the parent that I own. My cell 's in Piccadilly. ANDANTE PASTORALE. 303 My wallet holds a devilled bone. My staff's a chestnut filly. With air-proof rooms, of winter's rime the advent, cold and ruthless. Concerns me much as nutting-time does persons who are toothless. Daphnis. I 've seen my love but once, and happier I not to have seen her. She came and let the river lap her feet, with shy demeanour, Uncourting gaze of curious men, nor dreamed where I was hidden. O, surely, had I spoken then, speech had not been forbidden ! Menalcas. I've known my love for years, and I am poorer for the knowing. Last night I called and thought I 'd try indifference, care bestowing 304 RIVERSIDE RHYMES. On other folk out of her ken, until she called me closer. O, surely, had I spoken then, the answer 'd not been "No, sir!" Daphnis. I'll buy my lass a milking-pail to silvern brightness burnished, A cottage somewhere in the vale that's papered, tiled, and furnished; A gown of silk that's simply neat with crimson flowers and green stalks ; — And then, mayhap, one morn, we'll meet with Love among the beanstalks. Menalcas. I'll buy my queen gems to outshine those of the haute cocotiene, A rope of pearls, a silver-mine, shares in the Frank- fort lottery; And then between a waltz and ice, at one of next week's crushes, ANDANTE PASTORALE. 305 She may say, "Yes, it would be nice," with no pretence of blushes. Daphnis. 'Tvvas early morn. Above the stream she bent with charming gesture, So close the water touched the cream- white edging of her vesture. A flower from out her bosom's fold fell — floated towards me slowly. I grasped it, and henceforth shall hold it as a treasure holy. Menalcas. 'Twas late at night. She lay at ease on couch she seldom quitted. Enter a maid : *' If madame please, her costume to be fitted.' She rose in haste. A slipper slipped she paused not to recover. Ere she returned, away had tripped her botti7ie and her lover 3o6 RIVERSIDE RHYMES. Daphnis. I placed my flower within the cup I won at last year's races. Methinks its golden eye lights up with unaccus- tomed graces My cabin, and upon the shelf, among the pipes and trophies, I seem to see my Lyda's selt. In love man such an oaf is, Menalcas, My slipper's fixed upon the wall, hung round with lace discreetly — Not for the vulgar gaze of ail its outline's shaped so sweetly; And there it holds my cigarettes — your shepherd's pipe I blow not. New sweetness have my perfumed pets ; but Avhence my cornrades know not. ANDANTE PASTORALE. 307 Daphnis. O innocence ! O blushing dawn ! You 're Lyda to the letter! Menalcas. O lamplight, with the curtains drawn ! You suit Euneica better ! Daphnis. See, Lyda comes, whose gentle head light fall my flowers of verse on. Menalcas. Hark to Euneica's high-heeled tread — Ambo. Great Pan! they're both one person. 3o8 RIVERSIDE RHYMES. THE LAST PULL. The butterflies all have departed who settled awhile on these shores ; The shopmen all day, dismal-hearted, stand aproned and capped at their doors ; The business trains, which w^ere about full a month or two back, start for town Half-empty ; and Deuceace is doubtful of a rubber to smooth the way down. "Take her out, sir?" No, wait a bit, Johnny. Nor weather nor water are clear; But the barmaids at Lockleigh are bonnie — I mean, they draw excellent beer. The scenes of much innocent pastime— not innocent always ? Ah, well, I'll just paddle o'er for the last time before you swathe up the Bluebell. THE LAST PULL. 309 There's something that's friendly and homelike about the familiar stream, Though most men to ramble and roam like — one sickens of smoke and of steam, Of restaurant grills, and the grizzled old saints up the gallery stairs, And the knee-bones of martyrs that frizzled for new fangled action at prayers. I Ve been borne upon streams celebrated in history, story, and song — Up the Rhine, where abodes castellated and ruins and vineyards belong ; Down the Danube, where good sportsmen reign, where each chateau has sport that is new ; Past Meudon's coy wood on the Seine, where '' les canotiers sont bien vus." Add the Tigris, the Tiber, the Rhone, the great streams rolling floods to the seas ; 3IO RIVERSIDE RHYMES. The Thames is an Englishman's own — the best proof it 's superior to these. 'T is the boating man's river. Are flooded in winter the lawns on its bank, And its shore most consumedly mudded ? Such things among trifles we rank. A charm hath the Thames in October, when autumn- tints vary the scene, Nor needs one ces triplex nor 7-obnr to adventure its waters, I ween, In a skift'" of old Messenger's building, clean, shapely, and true in her lines, Undefaced by the gingerbread gilding whereto modern splendour inclines. For last midsummer's music and madness the dull day seems to sombrely grieve ; liut for me not an echo of sadness that season's soft symphonies leave, THE LAST PULL. 311 As I swing past the bend that was witness of spots where we tea'd and we tear'd, One selecting for love-vows with fitness where the sound of our voices was weir'd. Here's the place of our picnic; the cherry-pie, sprinkled with pepper, was nice ; With excellent forethought, the sherry had poured itself over the ice. At luncheon, by signs without words, I described her a tall leafy screen, Where a man with a pipe had a bird's-eye view round, and two couldn't be seen. Here's the battle-ground of the regatta, where once they assigned me a part — No spectator's. I, staked and bound, sat, a fixed form, in a boat like a dart. 'Mid yonder old piles lurked the barbel, each even- ing expected to bite ; 312 RIVERSIDE RHYMES. But did they ? For fishermen garble the record so sadly at night. Flirtation, athletics, and languorous sport, and long draughts at the Crown, Farewell ! I 'm away to the clangour and clients that wait me in town. When closing time comes, and when anchored the ship is, and shut the hotel. The last pull at the sculls, or the tankard, has sweet- ness that's sorrow as well. A PRESENT DAY PYRRHA. 313 A PRESENT DAY PYRRHA. " Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa." There's the cottage, pranked by posies, And by perfumed breezes fanned; There 's the chatelaine, blush-red roses Gathered in each white-rose hand; There's the river bordering hard on Shrubberied limits of the garden : — There a youth, as daylight closes. Comes upon the lawn to land. She's so chic^ and yet so simple — Cotton frock and golden hair. Lurking loves in every dimple Laugh to see men seek her lair. Who could spy, though prescience-gifted Though the future's veil were lifted — 314 RIVERSIDE RHYMES. 'Neath that neat coquettish wimple, Half the mischief hidden there? Who 'd o'er ocean's blue expanses, Knowing them deceitful, sail? Who 'd believe a bright eye's glances Thinking aught so fair could fail? As the sailor, so the lover Finds there 's nothing to recover, Risked his all on woman's fancies, Fickler far than any gale. See, lads, on the shelf collected Gloves and flowers and billets-doux, Salvage with a past connected When I set my sails like you ! There I keep them to remind me, Should a passing passion find me By youth's fever still affected. Of the danger I 've been through, LAST WORDS. TWO BOOKS. Bright as the crimson glow when love First sends a missive to a maiden, Keen as the miser's glance above A bag with golden moneys laden, So bright upon the author's cheek, So keen beneath the author's brow, The glow and glance that plainly speak His book in print has reached him now. His book — his first-born — (who does not Some little paper thing remember That formed a young life's beauty spot From January to December?). How tenderly he turns the leaves That have for him a nameless charm, 317 3i8 LAST WORDS. And reads from them on summer eves To some one hanging on his arm ! How Nature seems to share his joy ! How every breeze to whisper presage Of future fame to glad the boy, As boy-Uke he receives the message ! Mind like a fountain overflows With wisdom, fancy, wealth of thought, Ere yet the world with all its woes The lesson of his life has taught. # * * * The lesson of his life he 's learned ; Well-worn is now that writing table ; The visions of his youth have turned (As visions will) into a fable. He's very old. His head is white, His hand is weary, heart is sore. He 's very old. Yet must he write ; The printer's devil's at the door. TJVO BOOKS. 319 He thinks this book must be his last ; — 'Twill pay his funeral expenses; — His energy for work is past, A numbness stiffens all his senses. When suddenly all pain has gone ! J, At sight of some few flowers of spring A kindly hand has laid upon His table — they such memories bring. He writes. A flower of faded breath Falls where the last uncertain line is And lo ! it is the pen of Death That on the page has written " Finis." The lamp is out. Poor slave, farewell ! You and your work have had their day. No published line your end shall tell; — That printer's boy can go his way.) Butler & TauncT, The Selwood Fiiiitiug Works, Froine, and London. k