The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed

With a Memoir by the Rev. Derwent Coleridge. Fourth Edition. In Two Volumes

Praed, Winthrop Mackworth (1802-1839)

[section]

VOL. I

II.

VOL. II.

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

lxi

I. VOL. I

lxix

TALES.

lxxi

TO THE MEMORY OF HELEN PRAED, THIS COLLECTION OF HER LAMENTED HUSBAND'S POEMS, PUBLISHED IN FULFILMENT OF HER LONG-CHERISHED WISH AND INTENTION IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED BY HER DAUGHTERS.

LILLIAN.

A FAIRY TALE.

The reader is requested to believe that the following statement is literally true; because the writer is well aware that the circumstances under which Lillian was composed are the only source of its merits, and the only apology for its faults.

At a small party at Cambridge some malicious belles endeavoured to confound their sonnetteering friends, by setting unintelligible and inexplicable subjects for the exercise of their poetical talents. Among many others, the thesis was given out which is the motto of Lillian—

“A dragon's tail is flayed to warm
A headless maiden's heart,”

and the following poem was an attempt to explain the riddle.

The partiality with which it has been honoured in manuscript, and the frequent applications which have been made to the author for copies, must be his excuse for sending it to the press.

It was written, however, with the sole view of amusing the friends in whose circle the idea originated; and to them, with all due humility and devotion, it is inscribed.

Trinity College, Cambridge, October 26, 1822.

“A dragon's tail is flayed to warm
A headless maiden's heart.”
Miss ---

“And he's cleckit this great muckle bird out o' this wee egg! he could wile the very flounders out o' the Frith!”—Mr. Saddletree.

CANTO I.

There was a Dragon in Arthur's time,
(When dragons and griffins were voted prime,)
Of monstrous reputation:
Up and down, and far and wide,
He roamed about in his scaly pride;
And ever, at morn and even-tide,
He made such rivers of blood to run
As shocked the sight of the blushing sun.
And deluged half the nation.

It was a pretty monster too,
With a crimson head, and a body blue,

And wings of a warm and delicate hue,
Like the glow of a deep carnation;
And the terrible tail that lay behind,
Reached out so far as it twisted and twined,
That a couple of dwarfs, of wondrous strength,
Bore, when he travelled, its horrible length,
Like a Duke's at the Coronation.
His mouth had lost one ivory tooth,
Or the Dragon had been, in very sooth,
No insignificant charmer;
And that—alas! he had ruined it,
When on new-year's day, in a hungry fit,
He swallowed a tough and a terrible bit—
Sir Lob, in his brazen armour.
Swift and light were his steps on the ground.
Strong and smooth was his hide around,
For the weapons which the peasants flung
Ever unfelt or unheeded rung,
Arrow and stone and spear,
As snow o'er Cynthia's window flits,
Or raillery of twenty wits
On a fool's unshrinking ear.

In many a battle the beast had been,
Many a blow he had felt and given:
Sir Digorè came with a menacing mien,
But he sent Sir Digorè straight to Heaven;

Stiff and stour were the arms he wore,
Huge the sword he was wont to clasp;
But the sword was little, the armour brittle,
Locked in the coil of the Dragon's grasp.

He came on Sir Florice of Sesseny Land,
Pretty Sir Florice from over the sea,
And smashed him all as he stepped on the sand,
Cracking his head like a nut from the tree.
No one till now had found, I trow,
Any thing good in the scented youth,
Who had taken much pains to be rid of his brains,
Before they were sought by the Dragon's tooth.

He came on the Sheriff of Hereford,
As he sat him down to his Sunday dinner;
And the Sheriff he spoke but this brief word,
“St. Francis be good to a corpulent sinner!”
Fat was he, as a Sheriff might be,
From the crown of his head to the tip of his toe;
But the Sheriff was small, or nothing at all,
When put in the jaws of the Dragon foe.

He came on the Abbot of Arnondale,
As he kneeled him down to his morning devotion;
But the Dragon he shuddered, and turned his tail
About, “with a short uneasy motion.”

Iron and steel, for an early meal,
He stomached with ease, or the Muse is a liar;
But out of all question, he failed in digestion,
If ever he ventured to swallow a friar!

Monstrous brute!—his dread renown
Made whispers and terrors in country and town;
Nothing was babbled by boor or knight
But tales of his civic appetite.
At last, as after dinner he lay,
Hid from the heat of the solar ray
By boughs that had woven an arbour shady,
He chanced to fall in with the Headless Lady.
Headless? alas! 'twas a piteous gibe;
I'll drink Aganippe, and then describe.

Her father had been a stout yeoman,
Fond of his jest and fond of his can,
But never over-wise;
And once, when his cups had been many and deep,
He met with a dragon fast asleep,—
'Twas a Fairy in disguise.
In a dragon's form she had ridden the storm,
The realm of the sky invading;
Sir Grahame's ship was stout and fast,
But the Fairy came on the rushing blast,
And shivered the sails, and shivered the mast,

And down went the gallant ship at last,
With all the crew and lading.
And the Fay laughed out to see the rout,
As the last dim hope was fading;
And this she had done in a love of fun,
And a love of masquerading.
She lay that night in a sunny vale,
And the yeoman found her sleeping;
Fiercely he smote her glittering tail,
But oh! his courage began to fail,
When the Fairy rose all weeping.
“Thou hast lopped,” she said, “beshrew thine nand!
The fairest foot in Fairy-land!

“Thou hast an infant in thine home!—
Never to her shall reason come,
For weeping or for wail,
Till she shall ride with a fearless face
On a living dragon's scale.
And fondly clasp to her heart's embrace
A living dragon's tail.”
The Fairy's form form his shuddering signt
Flowed away in a stream of light.

Disconsolate that youth departed,
Disconsolate and poor;
And wended, chill and broken-hearted,
To his cottage on the moor;

Sadly and silently he knelt
His lonely hearth beside;
Alas! how desolate he felt,
As he hid his face, and cried.
The cradle where the babe was laid
Stood in its own dear nook,
But long—how long!—he knelt, and prayed,
And did not dare to look.
He looked at last; his joy was there.
And slumbering with that placid air
Which only babes and angels wear.
Over the cradle he leaned his head:
The cheek was warm, and the lip was red;
And he felt, he felt, as he saw her lie,
A hope—which was a mockery.
The babe unclosed her eye's pale lid:—
Why doth he start from the sight it hid?
He hath seen in the dim and fitful ray,
That the light of the soul hath gone away!
Sigh nor prayer he uttered there,
In mute and motionless despair,
But he laid him down beside his child,
And Lillian saw him die—and smiled.
The mother? she had gone before;
And in the cottage on the moor,
With none to watch her and caress,
No arm to clasp, no voice to bless,

The witless child grew up alone,
And made all Nature's book her own

If, in the warm and passionate hour
When Reason sleeps in Fancy's bower,
If thou hast ever, ever felt
A dream of delicate beauty melt
Into the heart's recess,
Seen by the soul, and seen by the mind,
But indistinct in its loveliness,
Adored, and not defined;
A bright creation, a shadowy ray,
Fading and flitting in mist away,
Nothing to gaze on, and nothing to hear,
But something to cheat the eye and ear
With a fond conception and joy of both,
So that you might, that hour, be loth
To change for Some one's sweetest kiss
Thy vision of unenduring bliss,
Or lose for Some one's sweetest tone
The murmur thou drinkest all alone—
If such a vision hath ever been thine,
Thou hast a heart that may look on mine!

For oh! the light of my saddened theme
Was like to nought but a poet's dream,

Or the forms that come on the twilight's wing,
Shaped by the soul's imagining.
Beautiful shade, with her tranquil air,
And her thin white arm, and her flowing hair,
And the light of her eye so coldly obscure,
And the hue of her cheek so pale and pure!
Reason and thought she had never known,
Her heart was as cold as a heart of stone;
So you might guess from her eyes' dim rays,
And her idiot laugh, and her vacant gaze.
She wandered about all lone on the heather,
She and the wild heath-birds together;
For Lillian seldom spoke or smiled,
But she sang as sweet as a little child.
Into her song her dreams would throng,
Silly, and wild, and out of place;
And yet that wild and roving song
Entranced the soul in its desolate grace.
And hence the story had ever run
That the fairest of dames was a Headless One.

The pilgrim in his foreign weeds
Would falter in his prayer;
And the monk would pause with his half-told beads
To breathe a blessing there;
The knight would loose his vizor-clasp,
And drop the rein from his nerveless grasp,

And pass his hand across his brow
With a sudden sigh, and a whispered vow,
And marvel Flattery's tale was told,
From a lip so young, to an ear so cold.

She had seen her sixteenth winter out,
When she met with the beast I was singing about:
The Dragon, I told you, had dined that day;
So he gazed upon her as he lay,
Earnestly looking, and looking long,
With his appetite weak, and his wonder strong.
Silent he lay in his motionless coil;
And the song of the Lady was sweet the while:—

“Nonny nonny!—I hear it float,
Innocent bird, thy tremulous note:
It comes from thy home in the eglantine,
And I stay this idle song of mine,
Nonny nonny!—to listen to thine!

“Nonny nonny!—‘Lillian sings
The sweetest of all living things!’
So Sir Launcelot averred;
But surely Sir Launcelot never heard
Nonny nonny!—the natural bird!”

The Dragon he lay in mute amaze,
Till something of kindness crept into his gaze;

He drew the flames of his nostrils in,
He veiled his claws with their speckled skin,
He curled his fangs in a hideous smile;
And the song of the Lady was sweet the while:—

“Nonny nonny!—who shall tell
Where the summer breezes dwell?
Lightly and brightly they breathe and blow,
But whence they come and whither they go,
Nonny nonny!—who shall know?

“Nonny nonny!—I hear your tone,
Put I feel ye cannot read mine own;
And I lift my neck to your fond embraces,
But who hath seen in your resting places
Nonny nonny!—your beautiful faces?”

A moment! and the Dragon came
Crouching down to the peerless dame,
With his fierce red eye so fondly shining,
And his terrible tail so meekly twining,
And the scales on his huge limbs gleaming o'er,
Gayer than ever they gleamed before.
She had won his heart, while she charmed his ear,
And Lillian smiled, and knew no fear.
And see, she mounts between his wings;
(Never a queen had a gaudier throne),

And fairy-like she sits and sings,
Guiding the steed with a touch and a tone.
Aloft, aloft in the clear blue ether,
The dame and the Dragon they soared together;
He bore her away on the breath of the gale—
The two little dwarfs held fast by the tail.

Fanny! a pretty group for drawing;
My dragon like a war-horse pawing,
My dwarfs in a fright, and my girl in an attitude,
Patting the beast in her soulless gratitude.
There; you may try it if you will,
While I drink my coffee, and nib my quill.

END OF CANTO I.

CANTO II.

The sun shone out on hill and grove;
It was a glorious day:
The lords and the ladies were making love,
And the clowns were making hay;
But the Town of Brentford marked with wonder
A lightning in the sky, and thunder,
And thinking ('twas a thinking town)
Some prodigy was coming down,
A mighty mob to Merlin went
To learn the cause of this portent;
And he, a wizard sage, but comical,
Looked through his glasses astronomical,
And puzzled every foolish sconce
By this oracular response:—

“Now the Slayer doth not slay,
Weakness flings her fear away,
Power bears the Powerless,
Pity rides the Pitiless;
Are ye Lovers? are ye brave?
Hear ye this, and seek, and save!
He that would wed the loveliest maid,
Must don the stoutest mail,

For the Rider shall never be sound in the head,
Till the Ridden be maimed in the tail.
Hey, diddle diddle! the cat and the fiddle!
None but a Lover can read me my riddle.”

How kind art thou, and oh! how mighty,
Cupid! thou son of Aphrodite!
By thy sole aid, in old romance,
Heroes and heroines sing and dance;
Of cane and rod there's little need;
They never learn to write or read;
Yet often, by thy sudden light,
Enamoured dames contrive to write;
And often, in the hour of need,
Enamoured youths contrive to read.—
I make a small digression here:
I merely mean to make it clear,
That if Sir Eglamour had wit
To read and construe, bit by bit,
All that the wizard had expressed,
And start conjectures on the rest,
Cupid had sharpened his discerning,
The little god of love,—and learning.
He revolved in his bed what Merlin had said,
Though Merlin had laboured to scatter a veil on't;
And found out the sense of the tail and the head,
Though none of his neighbours could make head or tail on't.

Sir Eglamour was one o' the best
Of Arthur's table round;
He never set his spear in rest,
But a dozen went to the ground.
Clear and warm as the lightning flame,
His valour from his father came,
His cheek was like his mother's;
And his hazel eye more clearly shone
Than any I ever have looked upon,
Save Fanny's,—and two others!

With his spur so bright, and his rein so light,
And his steed so swift and ready,
And his skilful sword, to wound or ward,
And his spear so sure and steady,
He bore him like a British knight
From London to Penzance,
Avenged all weeping women's slight,
And made all giants dance.
And he had travelled far from home,
Had worn a mask at Venice,
Had kissed the Bishop's toe at Rome,
And beat the French at tennis:
Hence he had many a courtly play,
And jeerings and gibes in plenty,
And he wrote more rhymes in a single day
Than Byron or Bowles in twenty.

He clasped to his side his sword of pride,
His sword, whose native polish vied
With many a gory stain;
Keen and bright as a meteor-light;
But not so keen, and not so bright,
As Moultrie's jesting vein.
And his shield he bound his arm around,
His shield, where glowing saffron wound
About a field of blue;
Heavy and thick as a wall of brick,
But not so heavy and not so thick
As the Edinburgh Review.
With a smile and a jest he set out on the quest,
Clad in his stoutest mail,
With his helm of the best, and his spear in the rest,
To flay the Dragon's tail.

The warrior travelled wearily,
Many a league and many a mile;
And the Dragon sailed in the clear blue sky;
And the song of the Lady was sweet the while:—
“My steed and I, my steed and I,
On in the path of the winds we fly,
And I chase the planets that wander at even,
And bathe my hair in the dews of heaven!
Beautiful stars, so thin and bright,
Exquisite visions of vapour and light,
I love ye all with a sister's love,

And I rove with ye wherever ye rove,
And I drink your changeless, endless song,
The music ye make as ye wander along!
Oh! let me be, as one of ye,
Floating for aye on your liquid sea;
And I'll feast with you on the purest rain
To cool my weak and wildered brain,
And I'll give you the loveliest lock of my hair
For a little spot in your realm of air!”

The Dragon came down when the morn shone bright,
And slept in the beam of the sun;
Fatigued, no doubt, with his airy flight,
As I with my jingling one.
With such a monstrous adversary
Sir Eglamour was far too wary
To think of bandying knocks;
He came on his foe as still as death,
Walking on tiptoe, and holding his breath,
And instead of drawing his sword from his sheath,
He drew a pepper-box!
The pepper was as hot as flame,
The box of wondrous size;
He gazed one moment on the dame,
Then, with a sure and a steady aim,
Full in the Dragon's truculent phiz
He flung the scorching powder—whiz!
And darkened both his eyes!

Have you not seen a little kite
Rushing away on its paper wing
To mix with the wild winds' quarrelling?
Up it soars with an arrowy flight,
Till, weak and unsteady,
Torn by the eddy,
It dashes to earth from its hideous height.
Such was the rise of the beast in his pain,
Such was his falling to earth again;
Upward he shot, but he saw not his path,
Blinded with pepper, and blinded with wrath;
One struggle—one vain one—of pain and emotion,
And he shot back again, “like a bird of the ocean!”
Long he lay in a trance that day,
And alas! he did not wake before
The cruel Knight, with skill and might,
Had lopped and flayed the tail he wore.

Twelve hours by the chime he lay in his slime,
More utterly blind, I trow,
Than a Polypheme in the olden time,
Or a politician now.
He sped, as soon as he could see,
To the Paynim bowers of Rosalie;
For there the Dragon had hope to cure,
By the tinkling rivulets ever pure,
By the glowing sun, and fragrant gale,
His wounded honour,—and wounded tail!

He hied him away to the perfumed spot;
The little dwarfs clung—where the tail was not!

The damsel gazed on that young Knight,
With something of terror, but more of delight;
Much she admired the gauntlets he wore,
Much the device that his buckler bore,
Much the feathers that danced on his crest,
But most the baldric that shone on his breast.
She thought the Dragon's pilfered scale
Was fairer far than the warrior's mail,
And she lifted it up with her weak white arm,
Unconscious of its hidden charm,
And round her throbbing bosom tied,
In mimicry of warlike pride.

Gone is the spell that bound her!
The talisman hath touched her heart,
And she leaps with a fearful and fawn-like start
As the shades of glamoury depart;
Strange thoughts are glimmering round her;
Deeper and deeper her cheek is glowing,
Quicker and quicker her breath is flowing,
And her eye gleams out from its long dark lashes
Fast and full, unnatural flashes;
For hurriedly and wild
Doth Reason pour her hidden treasures,

Of human griefs, and human pleasures,
Upon her new-found child.
And “Oh!” she saith, “my spirit doth seem
To have risen to-day from a pleasant dream;
A long, long dream! but I feel it breaking;
Painfully sweet is the throb of waking:”
And then she laughed, and wept again;
While, gazing on her heart's first rain,
Bound in his turn by a magic chain,
The silent youth stood there:
Never had either been so blest;—
You that are young may picture the rest,
You that are young and fair.
Never before, on this warm land,
am e Love and Reason hand in hand.

When you were blest, in childhood's years,
With the brightest hopes, and the lightest fears,
Have you not wandered, in your dream,
Where a greener glow was on the ground,
And a clearer breath in the air around,
And a purer life in the gay sunbeam,
And a tremulous murmur in every tree,
And a motionless sleep on the quiet sea?
And have you not lingered, lingered still,
All unfettered in thought and will,
A fair and cherished boy;

Until you felt it pain to part
From the wild creations of your art,
Until your young and innocent heart
Seemed bursting with its joy?
And then, oh then, hath your waking eye
Opened in all its ecstacy,
And seen your mother leaning o'er you,
The loved and loving one that bore you,
Giving her own, her fond caress,
And looking her eloquent tenderness?—
Was it not Heaven to fly from the scene
Where the heart in the vision of night had been,
And drink, in one o'erflowing kiss,
Your deep reality of bliss?
Such was Lillian's passionate madness,
Such the calm of her waking gladness.

Enough! my Tale is all too long:
Fair Children, if the trifling song,
That flows for you to-night,
Hath stolen from you one gay laugh,
Or given your quiet hearts to quaff
One cup of young delight,
Pay ye the Rhymer for his toils
In the coinage of your golden smiles,
And treasure up his idle verse
With the stories ye loved from the lips of your nurse.

GOG.

“A most delicate monster!”—The Tempest.

CANTO I.

King Arthur, as the legends sing,
Was a right brave and merry king,
And had a wondrous reputation
Through this right brave and merry nation.
His ancient face, and ancient clothes,
His tables round, and rounder oaths,
His crown and cup, his feasts and fights,
His pretty Queen and valiant knights,
Would make me up the raciest scene
That is, or will be, or has been.
These points, and others not a few,
Of great importance to the view,
As, how King Arthur valued woman,
And how King Arthur threshed the Roman,
And how King Arthur built a hall,
And how King Arthur played at ball,
I'll have the prudence to omit,
Since brevity's the soul of wit.
Oh! Arthur's days were blessed days,
When all was wit, and worth, and praise,

And planting thrusts, and planting oaks,
And cracking nuts, and cracking jokes,
And turning out the toes, and tiltings,
And jousts, and journeyings, and jiltings.
Lord! what a stern and stunning rout,
As tall Adventure strode about,
Rang through the land! for there were duels
For love of dames, and love of jewels;
And steeds, that carried knight and prince
As never steeds have carried since;
And heavy lords and heavy lances;
And strange unfashionable dances;
And endless bustle and turmoil
In vain disputes for fame or spoil.
Manners and roads were very rough;
Armour and beeves were very tough;
And then,—the brightest figures far
In din or dinner, peace or war,—
Dwarfs sang to ladies in their teens,
And giants grew as thick as beans!

One of these worthies, in my verse,
I mean, O Clio! to rehearse:
He was much talked of in his time,
And sung of too in monkish rhyme;
So, lest my pen should chance to err,
I'll quote his ancient chronicler.
Thus Friar Joseph paints my hero:

“Addictus cædibus et mero,
Impavidus, luxuriosus,
Preces, jejuniaque perosus,
Metum ubique vultu jactans,
Boves ubique manu mactans,
Tauros pro cœna vorans, post hos
Libenter edens pueros tostos,
Anglorum, et (ni fallit error)
Ipsius Regis sæpe terror,
Equorum equitumque captor,
Incola rupis, ingens raptor
Episcopalium honorum,
Damnatus hostis Monachorum!”

Such was his eulogy! The fact is,
He had a most outrageous practice
Of running riot, bullying, beating,
Behaving rudely, killing, eating;
He wore a black beard, like a jew's,
And stood twelve feet without his shoes;
He used to sleep through half the day,
And then went out to kill and slay;
At night he drank a deal of grog,
And slept again;—his name was Gog.

He was the son of Gorboduc,
And was a boy of monstrous pluck;

For once, when in a morning early
He happened to be bruising barley,
A knight came by with sword and spear,
And halted in his mid-career:
The youngster looked so short and pliant,
He never dreamed he was a giant,
And so he pulled up with a jerk,
And called young bruiser from his work:—
“Friend, can you lead me by the rein
To Master Gorboduc's domain?—
I mean to stop the country's fears,
And knock his house about his ears!”
The urchin chuckled at the joke,
And grinned acutely as he spoke:
“Sir Knight, I'll do it if I can;
Just get behind me in my pan;
I'm off,—I stop but once to bait,
I'll set you down before the gate.”
Sir Lolly swallowed all the twang,
He leaped into the mortar—bang!
And when he saw him in the vessel,
Gog beat his brains out with the pestle.

This was esteemed a clever hit,
And showed the stripling had a wit;
Therefore his father spared no arts
To cultivate such brilliant parts.

No giant ever went before
Beyond his “two and two make four,”
But Gog possessed a mind gigantic,
And grasped a learning quite romantic.
'Tis certain that he used to sport
The language that they spoke at court;
Had something of a jaunty air,
That men so tall can seldom wear;
Unless he chanced to need some victuals,
He was a pleasant match at skittles;
And if he could have found a horse
To bear him through a single course,
I think he might have brought the weight
'Gainst all that Britain counted great.
In physic he was sage indeed,
He used to blister and to bleed,
Made up strange plasters—had been known
To amputate or set a bone,
And had a notable device
For curing colic in a trice
By making patients jump a wall,
And get a most salubrious fall.
Then in philosophy, 'twas said,
He got new fancies in his head;
Had reckonings of the sea's profundity,
And dreams about the earth's rotundity;
In argument was quite a Grecian,
And taught the doctrine of cohesion.

This knowledge, as one often sees,
Softened his manners by degrees;
He came to have a nicer maw,
And seldom ate his mutton raw;
And if he had upon his board
At once a peasant and a lord,
He called the lord his dainty meat,
And had him devilled for a treat.

Old Gorboduc, the legends say,
Happened to go to pot one day;
The how and why remains a question;
Some say he died of indigestion
From swallowing a little boat
In drinking dry Sir Toby's moat.
Others assert that Dame Ulrica
(Whom he confined beneath a beaker,
Having removed her from her cottage
To stew her in a mess of pottage)
Upset her prison in the night,
And played Ulysses out of spite,
So that he woke in great surprise
With two sharp needles in his eyes.
Perhaps Ulrica may have lied;
At all events—the giant died,
Bequeathing to his son and heir,
Illustrious Gog, the pious care

To lord it o'er his goods and chattels,
And wield his club and fight his battles.

'Twould take an Iliad, Sirs, to tell
The numerous feats on flood and fell,
At which my hero tried his hand;
He was the terror of the land,
And did a thousand humorous things,
Fit to delight the ear of kings;
I cull what I consider best,
And pass in silence o'er the rest.

There was a Lady sent from Wales,
With quiet sea, and favouring gales,
To land upon the English shore,
And marry with Sir Paladore.
It seems she sailed from Milford Haven,
On board the Bittern, Captain Craven,
And smiles, and nods, and gratulation,
Attended on her embarkation.
But when the ship got out from land,
The Captain took her by the hand,
And with a brace of shocking oaths,
He led her to her chest of clothes.
They paused!—he scratching at his chin,
As if much puzzled to begin:
She o'er the box in stupor leaning,
As if she couldn't guess his meaning.

Then thus the rogue the silence broke—
His whiskers wriggled as he spoke:—
“Look out an extra gown and shift;
You're going to be turned adrift;
As many gewgaws as you please,
Only don't bounce upon your knees;
It's very fine, but don't amuse,
And isn't of the smallest use.
Ho there! above! put down the boat!—
In half an hour you'll be afloat;
I wouldn't have you lose a minute;—
There—put a little victuals in it;—
You think I'm playing off a sham,
But—split my vitals if I am!”

Struggling and tears in vain were tried,
He hauled her to the vessel's side,
And still the horrid brute ran on,
Exclaiming in ferocious tone—
“You needn't hollow to the crew,
Be quiet, it will never do;—
Pray spare your breath;—come wind and weather,
We all are sworn to this together!
Don't talk us round! 'cause why? you can't!—
Oh! sink my timbers if we an't!
So—gently!—mind your footing—there!
You'll find the weather very fair;

You'd better keep a sharp look-out,
There are some ugly reefs about;
Stay!—what provision have they made ye?
I wouldn't have ye famished, Lady!
Dick! lend a hand, ye staring oaf,
And heave us down another loaf;
Here are two bustards—take 'em both;
You've got a famous pot of broth;
You'd better use the sculls—you'll find
You've got a deuced little wind;
Now!—don't stand blubbering at me,
But trim the boat and put to sea.”—
He spoke! regardless of her moan,
They left her in the boat, alone!
According to our modern creed,
It was a cruel thing, indeed;
Unless some villain bribed them to it,
I can't conceive what made them do it.

It was a very cruel thing!—
She was the daughter of a king;
Though it appears that kings were then
But little more than common men.
She was a handsome girl withal,
Well formed, majestic, rather tall;
She had dark eyes (I like them dark),
And in them was an angry spark,

That came, and went, and came again,
Like lightning in the pause of rain;
Her robe adorned, but not concealed,
The shape it shrouded, yet revealed;
It chanced her ivory neck was bare,
But clusters rich of jetty hair
Lay like a garment scattered there;
She had upon her pale white brow
A look of pride, that, even now
Gazed round upon her solitude,
Hopeless perhaps, but unsubdued,
As if she thought the dashing wave,
That swelled beneath, was born her slave.

She felt not yet a touch of fear,
But didn't know which way to steer;
She thought it prudent to get back:
The wind due east!—she said she'd tack;
And, though she had a tinge of doubt,
She laughed, and put the helm about.

The wind went down—a plaguy calm;
The Princess felt a rising qualm;
The boat lay sleeping on the sea,
The sky looked blue,—and so did she!
The night came on, and still the gale
Breathed vainly on her leather sail;

It scarcely would have stirred a feather:
Heaven and her hopes grew dark together;
She slept!—I don't know how she dined,—
And light returned, and brought no wind;
She seized her oars at break of day,
And thought she made a little way;
The skin was rubbed from off her thumb,
And she had no Diaculum;
(Diaculum, my story says,
Was not invented in those days;)
At last, not being used to pull,
She lost her temper—and her scull.

A long long time becalmed she lay;
And still untired, from day to day
She formed a thousand anxious wishes,
And bit her nails, and watched the fishes;
To give it up she still was loth;—
She ate the bustards and the broth;
And when they failed, she sighed and said,
“I'll make my dinner on the bread!”
She ate the bread, and thought with sorrow
“There's nothing left me for to-morrow!”

She pulled her lover's letter out,
And turned its vellum leaves about;
It was a billet-doux of fire,
Scarce thicker than a modern quire;

And thus it ran—“I never suppe
Because mine heatte dothe eatte me uppe:
And eke, dear Loue, I never dine,
Nor drinke atte Courte a cuppe of wine:
For daye and nighte, I telle you true,
I feede uponne my Loue for you.”
Alas! that Lady fair, who long
Had felt her hunger rather strong,
Said (and her eye with tears was dim),
“I've no such solid love for him!
And so she thought it might be better
To sup upon her lover's letter.

She ate the treasure quite or nearly,
From “Beauteous Queen!” to “yours sincerely;
She thought upon her father's crown.
And then despair came o'er her!—down
Upon the bottom-boards she lay,
And veiled her from the look of day;
The sea-birds flapped their wings, and she
Looked out upon the tumbling sea;
And there was nothing on its face
But wide, interminable space,
And so she gave a piteous cry—
The murmuring waters made reply!

Alas! another morning came,
And brought no food!—the hapless dame

Thought, as she watched the lifeless sail,
That she should die “withouten fail;”
Another morn—and not a whiff!
The Lady grew so weak and stiff
That she could hardly move her stumps;
At last she fed upon her pumps!
And called upon her absent Lord,
And thought of going overboard:
As the dusk evening veiled the sky
She said, “I'm ready now to die!”
She saw the dim light fade away,
And fainted, as she kneeled to pray.

I sing not where and how the boat
With its pale load contrived to float,
Nor how it struck off Hartland Point,
And 'gan to leak at every joint;
'Twill be enough, I think, to tell ye
Linda was shaken to a jelly,
And when she woke from her long sleep,
Was lying in the Giant's keep,
While at a distance, like a log,
Her captor snored,—prodigious Gog!

He spared as yet his captive's life;
She wasn't ready for the knife,
For toil, and famine, and the sun
Had worn her to a skeleton;

He kept her carefully in view,
And fed her for a week or two;
Then, in a sudden hungry freak,
He felt her arm, and neck, and cheek,
And being rather short of meat,
Cried out that she was fit to eat.
The Monster saw the bright dark eye
That met his purpose fearlessly;
He saw the form that did not quail,
He saw the look that did not fail,
And the white arm that tranquil lay,
And never stirred to stop or stay;
He changed his mind,—threw down the kmfe,
And swore that she should be his wife.

Linda, like many a modern Miss,
Began to veer about at this;
She feared not roasting! but a ring!—
O Lord! 'twas quite another thing;
She'd rather far be fried, than tied,
And make a sausage, than a bride;
She had no hand at argument,
And so she tried to circumvent.

“My Lord,” said she, “I know a plaster,
The which before my sad disaster
I kept most carefully in store
For my own knight, Sir Paladore;
It is a mixture mild and thin;
But, when 'tis spread upon the skin,
It makes a surface white as snow
Sword-proof thenceforth from top to toe,
I've sworn to wed with none, my Lord,
Who can be harmed by human sword.
The ointment shall be yours! I'll make it,
Mash it and mix it, rub and bake it;
You look astonished!—you shall see,
And try its power upon me.”

She bruised some herbs; to make them hot
She put them in the Giant's pot;
Some mystic words she uttered there,
But whether they were charm or prayer
The convent legend hath not said;
A little of the salve she spread
Upon her neck, and then she stood
In reverential attitude,
With head bent down, and lips compressed,
And hands enfolded on her breast;
“Strike!” and the stroke in thunder fell
Full on the neck that met it well;

“Strike!” the red blood started out,
Like water from a water-spout;
A moment's space—and down it sunk,
That headless, pale, and quivering trunk,
And the small head with its gory wave
Flew in wild eddies round the cave.

You think I shouldn't laugh at this;
You know not that a scene of bliss
To close my song is yet in store;
For Merlin to Sir Paladore
The head and trunk in air conveyed,
And spoke some magic words, and made.
By one brief fillip of his wand,
The happiest pair in all the land.

The Giant—but I think I've done
Enough of him for Canto One.

END OF CANTO I.

The latter part of Linda's history
In Ariosto's work is an ingredient;
I can't imagine how my monks and he
Happened to hit upon the same expedient;
You'll find it in ‘Orlando Furioso;’
But Mr. Hoole's translation is but so so.

CANTO II.

The morn is laughing in the sky,
The sun hath risen jocundly,
Brightly the dancing beam hath shone
On the cottage of clay and the abbey of stone;
As on the redolent air they float,
The songs of the birds have a gayer note,
And the fall of the waters hath breathed around
A purer breath and a sweeter sound;
And why is Nature so richly drest
In the flowery garb she loveth best?
Peasant and monk will tell you the tale!
There is a wedding in Nithys-dale.

With his green vest around him flung,
His bugle o'er his shoulders hung
And roses blushing in his hair,
The Minstrel-Boy is waiting there!
O'er his young cheek and earnest brow
Pleasure hath spread a warmer glow,
And love his fervid look hath dight
In something of ethereal light:
And still the Minstrel's pale blue eye
Is looking out impatiently

To see his glad and tender bride
Come dancing o'er the hillock's side:
For look! the sun's all-cheering ray
Shines proudly on a joyous day;
And, ere his setting, young Le Fraile
Shall wed the Lily of Nithys-dale.

A moment, and he saw her come,
That maiden, from her latticed home,
With eyes all love, and lips apart,
And faltering step, and beating heart.
She came, and joined her cheek to his
In one prolonged and rapturous kiss,
And while it thrilled through heart and limb
The world was nought to her or him!
Fair was the boy; a woman's grace
Beamed o'er his figure and his face;
His red lips had a maiden's pout,
And his light eyes looked sweetly out,
Scattering a thousand vivid flashes
Beneath their long and jetty lashes;—
And she, the still and timid bride
That clung so fondly to his side,
Might well have seemed, to Fancy's sight,
Some slender thing of air or light!
So white an arm, so pale a cheek,
A look so eloquently meek,

A neck of such a marble hue,
An eye of such transparent blue,
Could never, never, take their birth
From parentage of solid earth!
He that had searched fair England round
A lovelier pair had never found
Than that Minstrel-Boy, the young Le Fraile,
And Alice, the Lily of Nithys-dale!

Hark! hark! a sound!—it flies along,
How fearfully!—a trembling throng
Come round the bride in wild amaze,
All ear and eye to hear and gaze;
Again it came, that sound of wonder,
Rolling along like distant thunder;
“That barbarous growl, that horrid noise—
Was it indeed a human voice?
The man must have a thousand tongues,
And bellows of brass by way of lungs!”
Each to his friend, in monstrous fuss,
The staring peasants whispered thus:
“Hark! hark! another echoing shout!”
And, as the boobies stared about,
Just leaping o'er a mountain's brow,
They saw the Brute that made the row;
Two meadows and a little bog
Divided them from cruel Gog!

Maiden and matron, boy and man,
You can't conceive how fast they ran!
And as they scampered, you might hear
A thousand sounds of pain and fear.
“I get so tired.”—“Where's my son?”—
“How fast the horrid beast comes on!”—
“What plaguy teeth!”—“You heard him roar?
I never puffed so much before!”
“I can't imagine what to do!”—
“Whom has he caught?”—“I've lost my shoe!”—
“Oh! I'm a sinful”—“Father Joe
Do just absolve me as we go!”
“Absolve you here? pray hold your pother:
I wouldn't do it for my mother!
A pretty time to stop and shrive,
Zounds! we shall all be broiled alive!
I feel the spit!”—“Nay, Father, nay,
Don't talk in such a horrid way!”—
“O mighty Love, to thee I bow!
Oh! give me wings, and save me now!”—
“A fig for Love!”—“Don't talk of figs!
He'll stick us all like sucking-pigs,
Or skin us like a dish of eels”—
“Run—run—he's just upon your heels!”—
“I promise the Abbey a silver cup.
Holy St. Jerome, trip him up!”—
“I promise the Abbey a silver crown!
Holy St. Jerome, knock him down!”—

The Monster came, and singled out
The tenderest bit in all the rout;
Spite of her weeping and her charms,
He tore her from her lover's arms:
Woe for that hapless Minstrel-Boy!
Where is his pride—his hope—his joy?
His eye is wet, his cheek is pale;
He hath lost the Lily of Nithys-dale!

It chanced that day two travelling folk
Had spread their cloth beneath an oak,
And sat them gaily down to dine
On good fat buck and ruddy wine.
One was a Friar, fat and sleek,
With pimpled nose and rosy cheek,
And belly, whose capacious paunch
Told tales of many a buried haunch.
He was no Stoic!—In his eye
Frolic fought hard with gravity;
And though he strove in conversation
To talk as best beseemed his station,
Yet did he make some little slips;
And in the corners of his lips
There were some sly officious dimples,
Which spake no love for roots and simples.
The other was a hardy Knight,
Caparisoned for instant fight;

You might have deemed him framed of stone
So huge he was of limb and bone;
His short black hair, unmixed with grey,
Curled closely on his forehead lay;
His brow was swarthy, and a scar,
Not planted there in recent war,
Had drawn one long and blushing streak
Over the darkness of his cheek;
The warrior's voice was full and bold,
His gorgeous arms were rich with gold;
But weaker shoulders soon would fail
Beneath that cumbrous mass of mail;
Yet from his bearing you might guess
He oft had worn a softer dress,
And laid aside that nodding crest
To lap his head on lady's breast.

The meal of course was short and hasty,
And they had half got through the pasty,
When hark!—a shriek rung loud and shrill;
The churchman jumped, and dropped the gill;
The soldier started from the board,
And twined his hand around his sword.
While they stood wondering at the din,
The Minstrel-Boy came running in;
With trembling frame and rueful face
He bent his knee, and told his case:—

“The Monster's might away hath riven
My bliss on earth, my hope in Heaven;
And there is nothing left me now
But doubt above, and grief below!
My heart and hers together fly,
And she must live, or I must die!
Look at the caitiff's face of pride,
Look at his long and haughty stride;
Look how he bears her o'er hill and vale,
My Beauty, the Lily of Nithys-dale!”

They gazed around them;—Monk and Knight
Were startled at that awful sight!
They never had the smallest notion
How vast twelve feet would look in motion.
Dark as the midnight's deepest gloom,
Swift as the breath of the Simoom,
That hill of flesh was moving on;
And oh! the sight of horror won
A shriek from all our three beholders,—
He bore the maid upon his shoulders!
“Now,” said the Knight, “by all the fame
That ever clung to Arthur's name,
I'll do it,—or I'll try, at least,
To win her from that monstrous Beast.”
“Sir,” said the Friar to the Knight,
“Success will wait upon the right;

I feel much pity for the youth,
And though, to tell the honest truth,
I'm rather used to drink than slay,
I'll aid you here as best I may!”
They bade the minstrel blow a blast,
To stop the monster as he passed;
Gog was quite puzzled!—“Zounds—I'feg!
My friend—piano!—let me beg!”
Then in a rage towards the place
He strode along a rattling pace;
Firm on the ground his foot he planted,
And “wondered what the deuce they wanted!”

No blockhead was that holy man,
He cleared his throat, and thus began:—
“O pessime!—that is, I pray,
Discede—signifying, stay!
Damno—that is, before you go,
Sis comes in convivio:
Abi—that is, set down the lass;
Monstrum—that is, you'll take a glass?
Oh, holy Church!—that is, I swear
You never looked on nicer fare;
Informe—horridum—immane!
That is, the wine's as good as any;
Apage!—exorcizo te!
That is, it came from Burgundy;

We both are anxious—execrande!
To drink your health—abominande!
And then my comrade means to put
His falchion through your occiput!”
The Giant stared (and who would not?)
To find a monk so wondrous hot;
So fierce a stare you never saw;
At last the brute's portentous jaw
Swung like a massy creaking hinge,
And then, beneath its shaggy fringe
Rolling about each wondrous eye,
He scratched his beard and made reply:—
“Bold is the Monk, and bold the Knight,
That wishes with Gog to drink, or fight,
For I have been from east to west,
And battled with King Arthur's best,
And never found I friend or foe
To stand my cup—or bear my blow!”
“Most puissant Gog! although I burst,”
Exclaimed the Monk, “I'll do the first;”
And ere a moment could be reckoned,
The Knight chimed in—“I'll try the second.”

The Giant, ere he did the job,
Took a huge chain from out his fob:
He bound his captive to a tree;
And young Le Fraile came silently,

And marked how all her senses slept,
And leaned upon her brow, and wept;
He kissed her lip, but her lip was grown
As coldly white as a marble stone;
He met her eye, but its vacant gaze
Had not the light of its living rays;
Yet still that trembling lover pressed
The maiden to his throbbing breast,
Till consciousness returned again,
And the tears flowed out like summer rain;
There was the bliss of a hundred years
In the rush of those delicious tears!

The helm from off the Warrior's head
Is doffed to bear the liquor red:
That casque, I trow, is deep and high,
But the Monk and the Giant shall drain it dry;
And which of the two, when the feat is done,
Shall keep his legs at set of sun?

They filled to the brim that helm of gold,
And the Monk hath drained its ample hold;
Silent and slow the liquor fell,
As into some capacious well:
Tranquilly flowing down it went,
And made no noise in its long descent;
And it leaves no trace of its passage now,
But the stain on his lip, and the flush on his brow.

They filled to the brim that helm of gold,
And the Giant hath drained its ample hold;
Through his dark jaws the purple ocean
Ran with a swift and restless motion,
And the roar that heralded on its track
Seemed like the burst of a cataract.
Twice for each was the fountain filled,
Twice by each was the red flood swilled;
The Monk is as straight as a poplar tree,
Gog is as giddy as Gog may be!

“Now try we a buffet!” exclaimed the Knight,
And rose collected in his might,
Crossing his arms, and clenching his hand,
And fixing his feet on their firmest stand.
The Giant struck a terrible stroke,
But it lighted on the forest-oak;
And bough and branch of the ancient tree
Shook, as he smote it, wondrously:
His gauntleted hand the Warrior tried;
Full it fell on the Giant's side;
He sank to earth with a hideous shock,
Like the ruin of a crumbling rock,
And that quivering mass was senseless laid
In the pit its sudden fall had made.

That stranger Knight hath gone to the tree
To set the trembling captive free;

Thrice hath he smitten with might and main,
And burst the lock, and shivered the chain;
But the knotty trunk, as the warrior strove,
Wrenched from his hand the iron glove,
And they saw the gem on his finger's ring,
And they bent the knee to England's King.
“Up! up!” he said, “for the sun hath passed,
The shadows of night are falling fast,
And still the wedding shall be to-day,
And a King shall give the bride away!”

The abbey bells are ringing
With a merry, merry tone;
And the happy boors are singing
With a music all their own;
Joy came in the morning, and fled at noon;
But he smiles again by the light of the moon:
That Minstrel-Boy, the young Le Fraile,
Hath wedded the Lily of Nithys-dale!

THE TROUBADOUR.

“Le Troubadour
Brulant d'amour.”
French Ballad.

CANTO I.

In sooth it was a glorious day
For vassal and for lord,
When Cœur de Lion had the sway
In battle and at board.
He was indeed a royal one,
A Prince of Paladins;
Hero of triumph and of tun,
Of noisy fray and noisy fun,
Broad shoulders and broad grins.
You might have looked from east to west,
And then from north to south,
And never found an ampler breast,
Never an ampler mouth,
A softer tone for lady's ear,
A daintier lip for syrup,
Or a ruder grasp for axe and spear,
Or a firmer foot in stirrup.
A ponderous thing was Richard's can,
And so was Richard's boot;

And Saracens and liquor ran,
Where'er he set his foot.
So fiddling here, and fighting there,
And murdering time and tune,
With sturdy limb, and listless air,
And gauntleted hand, and jewelled hair,
Half monarch, half buffon,
He turned away from feast to fray,
From quarrelling to quaffing,
So great in prowess and in pranks,
So fierce and funny in the ranks,
That Saladin the Soldan said,
Whene'er that mad-cap Richard led,
Alla! he held his breath for dread,
And burst his sides for laughing!

At court, the humour of a king
Is always voted “quite the thing;”
Morals and cloaks are loose or laced
According to the Sovereign's taste,
And belles and banquets both are drest
Just as his majesty thinks best.
Of course in that delightful age,
When Richard ruled the roast,
Cracking of craniums was the rage,
And beauty was the toast.
Ay! all was laugh, and life, and love;
And lips and shrines were kissed;

And vows were ventured in the grove,
And lances in the list;
And boys roamed out in sunny weather
To weave a wreath and rhyme together,
While dames in silence, and in satin,
Lay listening to the soft French-Latin,
And flung their sashes and their sighs
From odour-breathing balconies.

From those bright days of love and glory
I take the hero of my story.
A wandering Troubadour was he;
He bore a name of high degree,
And learned betimes to slay and sue,
As knights of high degree should do.
While vigour nerved his buoyant arm,
And youth was his to cheat and charm,
Being immensely fond of dancing,
And somewhat given to romancing,
He roamed about through towers and towns,
Apostrophizing smiles and frowns,
Singing sweet staves to beads and bonnets,
And dying, day by day, in sonnets.
Flippant and fair, and fool enough,
And careless where he met rebuff.
Poco-curante in all cases
Of furious foes, or pretty faces,
With laughing lip, and jocund eye,

And studied tear, and practised sigh,
And ready sword, and ready verse,
And store of ducats in his purse,
He sinned few crimes, loved many times,
And wrote a hundred thousand rhymes!

Summers twice eight had passed away
Since in his nurse's arms he lay,
A rosy, roaring child,
While all around was noisy mirth,
And logs blazed up upon the hearth,
And bonfires on the wild;
And vassals drank the brown bowl dry,
And cousins knew “the mother's eye,”
And wrinkled crones spoke prophecy,
And his brave father smiled.
Summers twice eight had passed away;
His sire's thin locks grew very gray;
He lost his song, and then his shout,
And seldom saw his bottle out.
Then all the menials straight began
To sorrow for “the poor old man,”
Took thought about his shirts and shoe-ties,
And pestered him with loves and duties.
Young Roger laced a crimson row
Of cushions on his saddle-bow;
Red Wyke at Christmas mingled up
More sugar in the wassail-cup;

Fair Margaret laid finer sheets;
Fat Catharine served richer sweets;
And all, from scullion up to squire,
Who stirred his cup or kitchen fire,
Seemed by their doings to determine
The knight should ne'er be food for vermin.
All would not do; the knight grew thinner,
And loved his bed, and loathed his dinner;
And when he muttered—“Becket—beast,
Bring me the posset—and a priest,”
Becket looked grave, and said “good lack!”
And went to ask the price of black.

Masses and medicines both were bought,
Masses and medicines both were naught;
Sir Hubert's race was run;
As best beseemed a warrior tall,
He died within his ancient hall:
And he was blest by Father Paul,
And buried by his son.
'Twere long to tell the motley gear
That waited on Sir Hubert's bier;
For twenty good miles round
Maiden and matron, knave and knight,
All rode or ran to see the sight;
Yeomen with horse and hound,
Gossips in grief and grogram clad,
Young warriors galloping like mad,

Priors and pedlars, pigs and pyxes,
Cooks, choristers, and crucifixes,
Wild urchins cutting jokes and capers,
And taper shapes, and shapely tapers.
The mighty barons of the land
Brought pain in heart, and four-in-hand;
And village maids, with looks of woe,
Turned out their mourning, and their toe.
The bell was rung, the hymn was sung,
On the oak chest the dust was flung;
And then, beneath the chapel-stones,
With a gilt scutcheon o'er his bones,
Escaped from feather-beds and fidget,
Sir Hubert slept with Lady Bridget.

The mob departed: cold and cloud
Shed on the vault their icy shroud,
And night came dark and dreary;
But there young Vidal lingered still,
And kept his fast, and wept his fill,
Though the wind in the chapel was very chill,
And Vidal very weary.
Low moaned the bell; the torch-light fell
In fitful and faint flashes;
And he lay on the stones, where his father's bones
Were mouldering now to ashes;
And vowed to be, on earth and sea,
Whatever stars shone o'er him,

A trusty knight, in love and fight
As his father had been before him
Then in the silence of the night
Passionate grief was his delight;
He thought of all the brave and fair
Who slept their shadowy slumber there;
And that sweet dotage held him long.
Ere sorrow found her voice in song.

It was an ancient thing; a song
His heart had sung in other years,
When boyhood had its idle throng
Of guiltless smiles, and guileless tears;
But never had its music seemed
So sweet to him, as when to-night
All lorn and lone, he kneeled and dreamed,
Before the taper's holy light,
Of many and mysterious things,
His cradle's early visitings,
The melancholy tones, that blest
The pillow of his sinless rest,
The melody, whose magic numbers
Broke in by snatches on his slumbers,
When earth appeared so brightly dim,
And all was bliss, and all for him,
And every sight and every sound
Had heaven's own day-light flowing round.

“My mother's grave, my mother's grave!
Oh! dreamless is her slumber there,
And drowsily the banners wave
O'er her that was so chaste and fair;
Yea! love is dead, and memory faded!
But when the dew is on the brake,
And silence sleeps on earth and sea.
And mourners weep, and ghosts awake,
Oh! then she cometh back to me,
In her cold beauty darkly shaded!

“I cannot guess her face or form;
But what to me is form or face?
I do not ask the weary worm
To give me back each buried grace
Of glistening eyes, or trailing tresses!
I only feel that she is here,
And that we meet, and that we part;
And that I drink within mine ear,
And that I clasp around my heart,
Her sweet still voice, and soft caresses:

“Not in the waking thought by day,
Not in the sightless dream by night,
Do the mild tones and glances play,
Of her who was my cradle's light!
But in some twilight of calm weather

She glides, by fancy dimly wrought,
A glittering cloud, a darkling beam,
With all the quiet of a thought,
And all the passion of a dream,
Linked in a golden spell together!”

Oh! Vidal's very soul did weep
Whene'er that music, like a charm,
Brought back from their unlistening sleep
The kissing lip and clasping arm.
But quiet tears are worth, to some,
The richest smiles in Christendom;
And Vidal, though in folly's ring
He seemed so weak and wild a thing,
Had yet an hour, when none were by,
For reason's thought, and passion's sigh,
And knew and felt, in heart and brain,
The Paradise of buried pain!

And Vidal rose at break of day,
And found his heart unbroken;
And told his beads, and went away,
On a steed he had bespoken;
His bonnet he drew his eyelids o'er,
For tears were like to blind him;
And he spurred Sir Guy o'er mount and moor,
With a long dull journey all before,
And a short gay squire behind him.

And the neighbourhood much marvel had;
And all who saw did say,
The weather and the roads were bad,
And either Vidal had run mad,
Or Guy had run away!
Oh! when a cheek is to be dried,
All pharmacy is folly;
And Vidal knew, for he had tried,
There's nothing like a rattling ride
For curing melancholy!

Three days he rode all mad and mute;
And when the sun did pass,
Three nights he supped upon dry fruit,
And slept upon wet grass.
Beneath an oak, whose hundred years
Had formed fit shade for talk or tears,
On the fourth day he lay at noon,
And put his gilt guitar in tune;
When suddenly swept by,
In gold and silver all arrayed,
A most resplendent cavalcade;
Baron and Beauty, Knave and Knight,
And lips of love, and eyes of light,
All blended dazzlingly.
Ah! all the world that day came out,
With horse and horn, and song and shout;
And belles and bouquets gaily bloomed,

And all were proud, and all perfumed,
And gallants, as the humour rose,
Talked any nonsense that they chose,
And damsels gave the reins for fun
Alike to palfrey and to pun.
It chanced no lady had been thrown,
No heir had cracked his collar-bone,
So pleasure laughed on every cheek,
And nought, save saddles, dreamed of pique.
And brightest of that brilliant train,
With jewelled bit, and gilded rein,
And pommel clothed in gorgeous netting,
And courser daintily curvetting,
Girt round with gallant Cavaliers,
Some deep in love, and some in years,
Half exquisites and half absurds,
All babbling of their beasts and birds,
Quite tired of trumpeting and talking,
The Baroness returned from hawking.

The Lady halted; well she might;
For Vidal was so fair,
You would have thought some god of light
Had walked to take the air;
Bare were both his delicate hands,
And the hue on his cheek was high,
As woman's when she understands
Her first fond lover's sigh;

And desolate very, and very dumb,
And rolling his eyes of blue,
And rubbing his forehead, and biting his thumb,
As lyrists and lovers do.
Like Queen Titania's darling pet,
Or Oberon's wickedest elf,
He lay beside a rivulet,
And looked beside himself;
And belles full blown, and beaux full drest,
Stood there with smirk and smile,
And many a finger, and many a jest,
Were pointed all the while.

Then Vidal came, and bent his knees
Before the Lady there,
And raised his bonnet, that the breeze
Might trifle with his hair;
And said, he was a nameless youth,
Had learned betimes to tell the truth,
Could greet a friend, and grasp a foe,
Could take a jest, and give a blow,
Had no idea of false pretences,
Had lost his father, and his senses,
Was travelling over land and sea,
Armed with guitar and gallantry;
And if her will found aught of pleasure
In trifling soul, and tinkling measure,

He prayed that she would call her own
His every thought, and every tone.

“Bonne grace, good Mary, and sweet St. John!”
That haughty dame did say;
“A goodly quarry I have won,
In this our sport to-day!
A precious page is this of mine,
To carve my meat and pour my wine,
To loose my greyhound's ringing chain,
And hold my palfrey's gaudy rein,
And tell strange tales of moody sprites,
Around the hearth, on winter nights.
Marry! a wilful look, and wild!
But we shall tame the wayward child,
And dress his roving locks demurely,
And tie his jesses on securely.”

She took from out her garment's fold
A dazzling gaud of twisted gold;
She raised him from his knee;
The diamond cross she gravely kissed,
And twined the links around his wrist
With such fine witchery,
That there he kneeled, and met her glance
In silence and a moveless trance,
And saw no sight, and heard no sound,
And knew himself more firmly bound

Than if a hundred weight of steel
Had fettered him from head to heel!

And from that moment Vidal gave
His childish fancy up,
Became her most peculiar slave,
And wore her scarf, and whipped her knave
And filled her silver cup.
She was a widow: on this earth
It seemed her only task was mirth;
She had no nerves and no sensations,
No troubling friends nor poor relations;
No gnawing grief to feel a care for,
No living soul to breathe a prayer for.
Ten years ago her lord and master
Had chanced upon a sad disaster;
One night his servants found him lying
Speechless or senseless, dead or dying,
With shivered sword and dabbled crest,
And a small poniard in his breast,
And nothing further to supply
The slightest hint of how or why.
As usual, in such horrid cases,
The men made oath, the maids made faces:
All thought it most immensely funny
The murderer should have left the money,
And showed suspicions in dumb crambo,
And buried him with fear and flambeau.

Clotilda shrieked and swooned, of course,
Grew very ill, and very hoarse,
Put on a veil, put off a rout,
Turned all her cooks and courtiers out,
And lived two years on water-gruel,
And drank no wine, and used no fuel.
At last, when all the world had seen
How very virtuous she had been,
She left her chamber, dried her tears,
Kept open house for Cavaliers,
New furnished all the cobwebbed rooms,
And burned a fortune in perfumes.
She had seen six-and-thirty springs,
And still her blood's warm wanderings
Told tales in every throbbing vein
Of youth's high hope, and passion's reign,
And dreams from which that lady's heart
Had parted, or had seemed to part.
She had no wiles from cunning France,
Too cold to sing, too tall to dance;
But yet, where'er her footsteps went.
She was the Queen of Merriment:
She called the quickest at the table,
For Courcy's song, or Comine's fable,
Bade Barons quarrel for her glove,
And talked with Squires of ladie-love,
And hawked and hunted in all weathers,
And stood six feet—including feathers.

Her suitors, men of swords and banners,
Were very guarded in their manners,
And e'en when heated by the jorum
Knew the strict limits of decorum.
Well had Clotilda learned the glance
That checks a lover's first advance;
That brow to her was given
That chills presumption in its birth,
And mars the madness of our mirth,
And wakes the reptile of the earth
From the vision he hath of Heaven.
And yet for Vidal she could find
No word or look that was not kind:
With him she walked in shine or shower,
And quite forgot the dinner hour,
And gazed upon him, till he smiled,
As doth a mother on a child.
Oh! when was dream so purely dreamed!
A mother and a child they seemed:
In warmer guise he loved her not;—
And if, beneath the stars and moon,
He lingered in some lonely spot
To play her fond and favourite tune,
And if he fed her petted mare,
And made acquaintance with her bear,
And kissed her hand whene'er she gave it,
And kneeled him down, sometimes, to crave it,

'Twas partly pride, and partly jest,
And partly 'twas a boyish whim,
And that he liked to see the rest
Look angrily on her and him.
And that—in short, he was a boy,
And doted on his last new toy.

It chanced that late, one summer's gloaming,
The Lady and the youth were roaming,
In converse close of those and these,
Beneath a long arcade of trees;
Tall trunks stood up on left and right,
Like columns in the gloom of night,
Breezeless and voiceless; and on high,
Where those eternal pillars ended,
The silent boughs so closely blended
Their mirk, unstirring majesty,
That Superstition well might run
To wander there from twelve to one,
And call strange shapes from heaven or hell
Of cowl and candle, book and bell,
And kneel as in the vaulted aisle
Of some time-honoured Gothic pile
To pay her weary worship there
Of counted beads, and pattered prayer.

Clotilda had, for once, the vapours,
And when the stars lit up their tapers,

She said that she was very weary,—
She liked the place, it was so dreary.—
The dew was down on grass and flower,
'Twas very wet—'twas very wrong—
But she must rest for half an hour,
And listen to another song.

Then many a tale did Vidal tell
Of warrior's spear, and wizard's spell;
How that Sir Brian le Bleu had been
Cup-bearer to a fairy queen;
And how that a hundred years did pass,
And left his brow as smooth as glass;
Time on his form marked no decay,
He stole not a single charm away,
He could not blight
That eye of light,
Nor turn those raven ringlets gray.

But Brian's love for a mortal maid,
Was written and read in a magic sign,
When Brian slipped on the moonlight glade,
And spilled the fairy's odorous wine;
And she dipped her fingers in the can,
And sprinkled him with seven sprinkles,
And he went from her presence a weary man,
A withering lump of rheum and wrinkles.

And how that Satan made a bond
With Armonell of Trebizond—
A bond that was written at first in tears,
And torn at last in laughter—
To be his slave for a thousand years,
And his sovereign ever after.

And oh! those years, they fleeted fast,
And a single year remained at last,
A year for crouching and for crying,
Between his frolic and his frying.

“Toil yet another toil,” quoth he,
“Or else thy prey I will not be;
Come hither, come hither, servant mine,
And call me back
The faded track
Of years nine hundred and ninety-nine!”
And Satan hied to his home again
On the wings of a blasting hurricane,
And left old Armonell to die,
And sleep in the odour of sanctity.

In mockery of the Minstrel's skill
The Lady's brow grew darker still;
She trembled as she lay,
And o'er her face, like fitful flame,
The feverish colour went and came.

And, in the pauses of the tune,
Her black eyes stared upon the moon
With an unearthly ray.

“Good Vidal,”—as she spoke she leant
So wildly o'er the instrument
That wondering Vidal started back,
For fear the strings should go to wrack,—
“Good Vidal, I have read and heard
Of many a haunted heath and dell,
Where potency of wand or word,
Or chanted rhyme, or written spell,
Hath burst, in such an hour as this,
The cerements of the rotting tomb,
And waked from woe, or torn from bliss,
The heritors of chill and gloom,
Until they walked upon the earth,
Unshrouded, in a ghastly mirth,
And frightened men with soundless cries,
And hueless cheeks, and rayless eyes.
Such power there is!—if such be thine,
Why, make to-night that sound or sign;
And while the vapoury sky looks mirk
In horror at our midnight work,
We two will sit on two green knolis,
And jest with unembodied souls,
And mock at every moody sprite
That wanders from his bed to-night.”

The boy jumped up in vast surprise,
And rubbed his forehead and his eyes,
And, quite unable to reflect,
Made answer much to this effect:
“Lady!—the saints befriend a sinner!—
Lady!—she drank too much at dinner!—
I know a rhyme, and—ghosts forsooth!—
I used to sing it in my youth;
'Twas taught me—curse my foolish vanity!—
By an old wizard—stark insanity!—
Who came from Tunis—'tis the hock!—
At a great age and—twelve o'clock!—
He wore—O Lord!—a painted girdle,
For which they burnt him on a hurdle;
He had a charm, but—what the deuce!
It wasn't of the slightest use;
There's not a single ghost that cares
For—mercy on me! how she stares!”
And then again he sate him down,
For fiercer fell Clotilda's frown,
And played, abominably ill,
And horribly against his will.

“Spirits, that walk and wail to-night,
I feel, I feel that ye are near;
There is a mist upon my sight,
There is a murmur in mine ear,

And a dark dark dread
Of the lonely dead,
Creeps through the whispering atmosphere!

“Ye hover o'er the hoary trees,
And the old oaks stand bereft and bare;
Ye hover o'er the moonlight seas,
And the tall masts rot in the poisoned air;
Ye gaze on the gate
Of earthly state,
And the ban-dog shivers in silence there.

“Come hither to me upon your cloud,
And tell me of your bliss or pain,
And let me see your shadowy shroud,
And colourless lip, and bloodless vein;
Where do ye dwell,
In heaven or hell?
And why do ye wander on earth again?

“Tell to me where and how ye died,
Fell ye in darkness, or fell ye in day,
On lorn hill-side, or roaring tide,
In gorgeous feast, or rushing fray?
By bowl or blow,
From friend or foe,
Hurried your angry souls away?

“Mute ye come, and mute ye pass,
Your tale untold, your shrift unshriven;
But ye have blighted the pale grass,
And scared the ghastly stars from heaven;
And guilt hath known
Your voiceless moan,
And felt that the blood is unforgiven!”

He paused; for silently and slow
The Lady left his side;
It seemed her blood had ceased to flow,
For her cheek was as white as the morning snow,
And the light of her eyes had died.
She gazed upon some form of fright,—
But it was not seen of Vidal's sight;
She drank some sound of hate or fear,—
But it was not heard of Vidal's ear;
“Look! look!” she said; and Vidal spoke:
“Why! zounds! it's nothing but an oak!”

“Valence!” she muttered, “I will rise;
Ay! turn not those dead orbs on mine;
Fearless to-night are these worn eyes,
And nerveless is that arm of thine.
Thrice hast thou fleeted o'er my path;
And I would hear thy dull lips say,
Is it in sorrow, or in wrath,
That thou dost haunt my lonely way?

Ay! frown not! heaven may blast me now,
In this dark hour, in this cold spot;
And then—I can but be as thou,
And hate thee still, and fear thee not!”
She strode two steps, and stretched her hand
In attitude of stern command;
The tremor of her voice and tread
Had more of passion than of dread,
The net had parted from her hair,
The locks fell down in the powerless air,
Her frame with strange convulsion rocked—
And Vidal was intensely shocked.

The Lady drew a long low sigh,
As if some voice had made reply,
Though Vidal could not catch a word
And thought it horribly absurd.
“Remember it?—avenging power!
I ask no word, I need no sign,
To teach me of that withering hour
That linked this wasted hand in thine!
He was not there!—I deemed him slain:—
And thine the guilt,—and mine the pain!
There are memorials of that day
Which time shall never blot away,
Unheeded prayer, unpardoned sin,
And smiles without, and flames within.

And broken heart, and ruined fame,
And glutted hate, and dreaded shame,
And late remorse, and dreams, and fears
And bitter and enduring tears!”

She listened there another space,
And stirred no feature of her face,
Though big drops, ere she spoke again,
Fell from her clammy brow like rain:
At last she glanced a wilder stare,
And stamped her foot, and tore her hair.
“False fiend! thou liest, thou hast lied!
He was, what thou couldst never be—
In anguish true, in danger tried—
Their friend to all—my god to me!
He loved—as thou couldst never love—
Long years—and not, till then, in guilt;
Nay! point not to the wailing grove,
I know by whom the blood was spilt,
I saw the tomb, and heard the knell,
And life to me was lorn and blighted,—
He died—and vengeance watches well!
He died—and thou wert well requited!”

Again she listened:—full five score
You might have counted duly o'er—
And then she laughed; so fierce and shrill
That laughter echoed o'er the hill,

That Vidal deemed the very ground
Did shake at its unearthly sound.
“I do not tremble! be it so!—
Or here or there! in bliss or woe!—
Yea! let it be! and we will meet,
Where never—” and at Vidal's feet
She sank, as senseless and as cold
As if her death were two days old;
And Vidal, who an hour before
Had voted it a horrid bore,
His silken sash with speed unlaced,
And bound it round her neck and waist,
And bore her to her castle-gate,
And never stopped to rest or bait,
Speeding as swiftly on his track
As if nine fiends were at his back.

Then rose from fifty furious lungs
A Babel of discordant tongues:
“Jesu! the Baroness is dead!”—
“Shouldn't her Ladyship be bled?”—
“Her fingers are as cold as stone!”—
“And look how white her lips are grown!
A dreadful thing for all who love her
'Tis ten to one she won't recover!”—
“Ten?”—“did you ever, Mrs. Anne?
Ten rogues against one honest man!”—
“How master Vidal must have fought!

It's what I never should have thought;
He seems the sickliest thing alive;”—
“They say he killed and wounded five!”—
“Is master Vidal killed and wounded?
I trust the story is unfounded!”—
“I saw him on his legs just now,”—
“What! sawed his legs off? well, I vow”—
“Peace, babbler, peace! you see you've shocked her!
Help! ho!”—“cold water for the Doctor!
Her eyes are open!”—“how they blink!
Why, Doctor, do you really think,”—
“My Lord, we never think at all;
I'll trouble you to clear the hall,
And check all tendency to riot,
And keep the Castle very quiet;
Let none but little Bertha stay;
And—try to keep the Friar away!”
Poor Vidal, who amid the rout
Had crept in cautious silence out,
Reeled to his chamber in the staggers,
And thought of home, and dreamed of daggers

Day dawned: the Baroness was able
To beam upon the breakfast table,
As well as could be well expected,
Before the guests were half collected.
“A fainting fit;—a thing of course;—
In sooth it might have ended worse;

Exceedingly obliged to Vidal;—
Pray, had the groom repaired her bridle?
She walked too late;—it was a warning;
And—who was for the chase this morning?”

Days past, and weeks: Clotilda's mien
Was gay as it before had been,
And only once or twice her glance
Fell darkly on his countenance,
And gazed into his eyes of blue,
As if she read his young heart through:
At length she mildly hinted—“Surely
Vidal was looking very poorly,—
He never talked,—had parted quite
With spirits, and with appetite;
She thought he wanted change of air;—
It was a shame to keep him there
She had remarked the change with sorrow,
And—well, he should set out to-morrow.”

The morrow came, 'twas glorious weather,
And all the household flocked together
To hold his stirrup and his rein,
And say, “Heaven speed!” with might and mam
Clotilda only said “Farewell!”
And gave her hand to kiss and clasp;
He thought it trembled, as it fell
In silence from his lip and grasp,

And yet upon her cheek and brow
There dwelt no flush of passion now;
Only the kind regret was there
Which severed friends at parting wear,
And the sad smile and glistening eye
Seemed nought to shun, and nought defy.

“Farewell!” she said, and so departed;
And Vidal from his reverie started,
And blessed his soul, and cleared his throat,
And crossed his forehead—and the moat.

END OF CANTO I.

CANTO II.

All milliners who start from bed
To gaze upon a coat of red,
Or listen to a drum,
Know very well the Paphian Queen
Was never yet at Paphos seen,
That Cupid's all a hum,
That minstrels forge confounded lies
About the Deities and skies,
That torches all go out sometimes,
That flowers all fade except in rhymes,
That maids are seldom shot with arrows,
And coaches never drawn by sparrows.

And yet, fair cousin, do not deem
That all is false which poets tell,
Of Passion's first and dearest dream,
Of haunted spot, and silent spell,
Of long low musing, such as suits
The terrace on your own dark hill,
Of whispers which are sweet as lutes,
And silence which is sweeter still;
Believe, believe,—for May shall pass,
And summer sun and winter shower

Shall dim the freshness of the grass,
And mar the fragrance of the flower,—
Believe it all, whate'er you hear
Of plighted vow, and treasured token,
And hues which only once appear,
And words which only once are spoken,
And prayers whose natural voice is song,
And schemes that die in wild endeavour,
And tears so pleasant, you will long
To weep such pleasant tears for ever:
Believe it all, believe it all!
Oh! Virtue's frown is all divine;
And Folly hides his happy thrall
In sneers as cold and false as mine;
And Reason prates of wrong and right,
And marvels hearts can break or bleed,
And flings on all that's warm and bright
The winter of his icy creed;
But when the soul has ceased to glow,
And years and cares are coming fast,
There's nothing like young love! no, no!
There's nothing like young love at last!

The Convent of St. Ursula
Has been in a marvellous fright to-day;
The nuns are all in a terrible pother,
Scolding and screaming at one another;
Two or three pale, and two or three red;

Two or three frightened to death in bed;
Two or three waging a wordy war
With the wide-eared saints of the calendar.
Beads and lies have both been told,
Tempers are hot, and dishes are cold;
Celandine rends her last new veil,
Leonore babbles of horns and tail;
Celandine proses of songs and slips,
Violette blushes and bites her lips:
Oh! what is the matter, the matter to-day,
With the Convent of St. Ursula?

But the Abbess has made the chiefest din,
And cried the loudest cry;
She has pinned her cap with a crooked pin,
And talked of Satan and of sin,
And set her coif awry;
And she can never quiet be;
But ever since the matins,
In gallery and scullery,
And kitchen and refectory,
She tramps it in her pattens;
Oh! what is the matter, the matter to-day,
With the Abbess of St. Ursula?

Thrice in the silence of eventime
A desperate foot has dared to climb
Over the Convent gate;

Thrice a venturous voice and lute
Have dared to wake their amorous suit,
Among the Convent flowers and fruit,
Abominably late;
And thrice, the beldames know it well,
From out the lattice of her cell,
To listen to that murmured measure
Of life, and love, and hope, and pleasure,
With throbbing heart and eyelid wet,
Hath leaned the novice Violette;
And oh! you may tell from her mournful gaze,
Her vision hath been of those dear days,
When happily o'er the quiet lawn,
Bright with the dew's most heavenly sprinkles,
She scared the pheasant, and chased the fawn,
Till a smile came o'er her father's wrinkles;
Or stood beside that water fair,
Where moonlight slept with a ray so tender,
That every star which glistened there,
Glistened, she thought, with a double splendour;
And oh! she loved the ripples' play,
As to her feet the truant rovers
Wandered and went with a laugh away,
Kissing but once, like wayward lovers.
And oh! she loved the night-wind's moan,
And the dreary watch-dog's lonely yelling,
And the sentinel's unchanging tone,
And the chapel chime so sadly knelling,

And the echoes from the Castle hall
Of circling song and noisy gladness,
And, in some silent interval,
The nightingale's deep voice of sadness.
Alas! there comes a winter bleak
On the lightest joy, and the loveliest flower;
And the smiles have faded on Violette's cheek,
And the roses have withered in Violette's bower;
But now by the beautiful turf and tide
Poor Violette's heart in silence lingers,
And the thrilling tears of memory glide
Thro' the trembling veil and the quivering fingers.
Yet not for these—for these alone—
That innocent heart beats high to-day;
And not for these the stifled moan
Is breathed in such thick passionate tone,
That—not the lips appear to pray,—
But you may deem those murmurs start
Forth from the life-strings of the heart,
So wild and strange is that long sigh,
So full of bliss and agony!

She thinks of him, the lovely boy,
Sweet Vidal, with his face of joy,
The careless mate of all the glee
That shone upon her infancy,
The baby-lover, who had been
The sceptred King, where she was Queen,

On Childhood's dream-encircled strand,
The undisputed Fairy-land!
She thinks of him, she thinks of him,
The lord of every wicked whim,
Who dared Sir Prinsamour to battle,
And drove away De Clifford's cattle,
And sang an Ave at the feast,
And made wry faces at the Priest,
And ducked the Duchess in the sea,
And tore Sir Roland's pedigree.

She thinks of him,—the forehead fair,
The ruddy lip, and glossy hair,—
The mountains, where they roved together
In life's most bright and witching weather,—
The wreck they watched upon the coast,—
The ruin where they saw the ghost,—
The fairy tale he loved to tell,—
The serenade he sang so well;
And then she turns and sees again
The naked wall, and grated pane,
And frequent winks and frequent frowns,
And 'broidered books, and 'broidered gowns,
And plaster saints and plaster patrons,
And three impracticable matrons.

She was a very pretty nun:
Sad, delicate, and five feet one;

Her face was oval, and her eye
Looked like the heaven in Italy,
Serenely blue, and softly bright,
Made up of languish and of light!
And her neck, except where the locks of brown,
Like a sweet summer mist, fell droopingly down,
Was as chill and as white as the snow, ere the earth
Has sullied the hue of its heavenly birth;
And through the blue veins you might see
The pure blood wander silently,
Like noiseless eddies, that far below
In the glistening depths of a calm lake flow:
Her cold hands on her bosom lay;
And her ivory crucifix, cold as they,
Was clasped in a fearful and fond caress,
As if she shrank from its holiness,
And felt that hers was the only guilt
For which no healing blood was spilt:
And tears were bursting all the while;
Yet now and then a vacant smile
Over her lips would come and go,—
A very mockery of woe,—
A brief, wan smile,—a piteous token
Of a warm love crushed, and a young heart broken!

“Marry come up!” said Celandine,
Whose nose was ruby red,—

“From venomous cates and wicked wine
A deadly sin is bred.
Darkness and anti-phlogistic diet,
These will keep the pulses quiet;
Silence and solitude, bread and water,—
So must we cure our erring daughter!”
I have dined at an Alderman's board,
I have drunk with a German lord,
But richer was Celandine's own paté
Than Sir William's soup on Christmas day,
And sweeter the flavour of Celandine's flask
Than the loveliest cup from a Rhenish cask!

“Saints keep us!” said old Winifrede,
“Saints keep and cure us all!
And let us hie to our book and bead,
Or sure the skies will fall!
Is she a Heathen, or is she a Hindoo,
To talk with a silly boy out of the window?
Was ever such profaneness seen?
Pert minx!—and only just sixteen!”
I have talked with a fop who has fought twelve duels,
Six for an heiress, and six for her jewels;
I have prosed with a reckless bard, who rehearses
Every day a thousand verses;
But oh! more marvellous twenty times
Than the bully's lies, or the blockhead's rhymes,

Were the scurrilous tales, which Scandal told
Of Winifrede's loves in the days of old!

The Abbess lifted up her eye,
And laid her rosary down,
And sighed a melancholy sigh,
And frowned an angry frown.
“There is a cell in the dark cold ground,
Where sinful passions wither:
Vapoury dews lie damp around,
And merriment of sight or sound
Can work no passage thither:
Other scene is there, I trow,
Than suits a love-sick maiden's vow;
For a death-watch makes a weary tune,
And a glimmering lamp is a joyiess moon,
And a couch of stone is a dismal rest,
And an aching heart is a bitter guest!
Maiden of the bosom light,
There shall thy dwelling be to-night;
Mourn and meditate, fast and pray,
And drive the evil one away.
Axe and cord were fitter doom,
Desolate grave and mouldering tomb;
But the merciful faith, that speaks the sentence,
Joys in the dawn of a soul's repentance,
And the eyes may shed sweet tears for them,
Whom the hands chastise, and the lips condemn!’

I have set my foot on the hallowed spot
Where the dungeon of trampled France is not;
I have heard men talk of Mr. Peel;
I have seen men walk on the Brixton wheel;
And 'twere better to feed on frogs and fears,
Guarded by griefs and grenadiers,
And 'twere better to tread all day and night,
With a rogue on the left, and a rogue on the right,
Than lend our persons or our purses
To that old lady's tender mercies!

“Ay! work your will!” the young girl said;
And as she spoke she raised her head,
And for a moment turned aside
To check the tear she could not hide;—
“Ay! work your will!—I know you all,
Your holy aims and pious arts.
And how you love to fling a pall
On fading joys, and blighted hearts;
And if these quivering lips could tell
The story of our bliss and woe,
And how we loved—oh! loved, as well
As ever mortals loved below,—
And how in purity and truth
The flower of early joy was nurst,
Till sadness nipped its blushing youth,
And holy mummery called it curst,—

You would but watch my sobs and sighs
With shaking head, and silent sneers,
And deck with smiles those soulless eyes,
When mine should swell with bitter tears!
But work your will! Oh! life and limb
May wither in that house of dread,
Where horrid shapes and shadows dim
Walk nightly round the slumberer's head;
The sight may sink, the tongue may fail,
The shuddering spirit long for day,
And fear may make these features pale,
And turn these boasted ringlets gray;
But not for this, oh! not for this,
The heart will lose its dream of gladness;
And the fond thought of that last kiss
Will live in torture—yea! in madness!
And look! I will not fear or feel
The all your hate may dare or do;
And, if I ever pray and kneel,
I will not kneel and pray to you!”

If you had seen that tender cheek,
Those eyes of melting blue,
You would not have thought in a thing so weak
Such a fiery spirit grew.
But the trees which summer's breezes shake
Are shivered in winter's gale;

And a meek girl's heart will bear to break,
When a proud man's truth would fail.

Never a word she uttered more;
They have led her down the stair,
And left her on the dungeon floor
To find repentance there;
And nought have they set beside her bed,
Within that chamber dull,
But a lonely lamp, and a loaf of bread,
A rosary and skull.
The breast is bold that grows not cold,
With a strong convulsive twinge,
As the slow door creeps to its sullen hold
Upon its mouldering hinge.
That door was made by the cunning hand
Of an artist from a foreign land;
Human skill and heavenly thunder
Shall not win its wards asunder.
The chain is fixed, and the bolt is fast,
And the kind old Abbess lingers last,
To mutter a prayer on her bended knee,
And clasp to her girdle the iron key.

But then, oh! then began to run
Horrible whispers from nun to nun:
“Sister Amelia,”—“Sister Anne,”—
“Do tell us how it all began;”

“The youth was a handsome youth, that's certain,
For Bertha peeped from behind the curtain:”—
“As sure as I have human eyes,
It was the Devil in disguise;
His hair hanging down like threads of wire,
And his mouth breathing smoke, like a haystack on fire.
And the ground beneath his footstep rocking!”—
“Lord! Isabel! how very shocking!”
“Poor Violette! she was so merry!
I'm very sorry for her!—very!”
“Well! it was worth a silver tester,
To see how she frowned when the Abbess blessed her;”—
“Was Father Anselm there to shrive?
For I'm sure she'll never come out alive!”—
“Dear Elgitha, don't frighten us so!”—
“It's just a hundred years ago
Since Father Peter was put in the cell
For forgetting to ring the vesper bell;
Let us keep ourselves from mortal sin!
He went not out as he went in!”—
“No! and he lives there still, they say,
In his cloak of black, and his cowl of gray,
Weeping, and wailing, and walking about,
With an endless grief, and an endless gout,
And wiping his eyes with a kerchief of lawn,
And ringing his bell from dusk to dawn!”—
“Let us pray to be saved from love and spectres!”—
“From the haunted cell!”—“and the Abbess's lectures!”

The garish sun has gone away,
And taken with him the toils of day;
Foul ambition's hollow schemes,
Busy labour's golden dreams,
Angry strife, and cold debate,
Plodding care, and plotting hate.
But in the nunnery sleep is fled
From many a vigilant hand and head;
A watch is set of friars tall,
Jerome and Joseph and Peter and Paul;
And the chattering girls are all locked up;
And the wrinkled old Abbess is gone to sup
On mushrooms and sweet muscadel,
In the fallen one's deserted cell.

And now 'tis love's most lovely hour,
And silence sits on earth and sky,
And moonlight flings on turf and tower
A spell of deeper witchery;
And in the stillness and the shade
All things and colours seem to fade;
And the garden queen, the blushing rose,
Has bowed her head in a soft repose;
And weary Zephyr has gone to rest
In the flowery grove he loves the best.
Nothing is heard but the long, long snore,
Solemn and sad, of the watchmen four,

And the voice of the rivulet rippling by,
And the nightingale's evening melody,
And the drowsy wing of the sleepless bat,
And the mew of the gardener's tortoise-shell cat

Dear cousin! a harp like yours has power
Over the soul in every hour;
And after breakfast, when Sir G.
Has been discussing news and tea,
And eulogised his coals and logs,
And told the breeding of his dogs,
And hurled anathemas of pith
Against the sect of Adam Smith,
And handed o'er to endless shame
The voters for the sale of game,
'Tis sweet to fly from him and vapours,
And those interminable papers,
And waste an idle hour or two
With dear Rossini, and with you.

But those sweet sounds are doubly sweet
In the still nights of June,
When song and silence seem to meet
Beneath the quiet moon;
When not a single leaf is stirred
By playful breeze or joyous bird,
And Echo shrinks, as if afraid
Of the faint murmur she has made.

Oh then the Spirit of music roves
With a delicate step through the myrtle groves,
And still, wherever he flits, he flings
A thousand charms from his purple wings.
And where is that discourteous wight,
Who would not linger through the night,
Listening ever, lone and mute,
To the murmur of his mistress' lute,
And courting those bright phantasies,
Which haunt the dreams of waking eyes?

He came that night, the Troubadour,
While the four fat friars slept secure,
And gazed on the lamp that sweetly glistened,
Where he thought his mistress listened;
Low and clear the silver note
On the thrilled air seemed to float;
Such might be an angel's moan,
Half a whisper, half a tone.

“So glad a life was never, love,
As that which childhood leads,
Before it learns to sever, love,
The roses from the weeds;
When to be very duteous, love,
Is all it has to do;
And every flower is beauteous, love,
And every folly true.

“And you can still remember, love,
The buds that decked our play,
Though Destiny's December, love,
Has whirled those buds away:
And you can smile through tears, love,
And feel a joy in pain,
To think upon those years, love,
You may not see again.

“When we mimicked the Friar's howls, love,
Cared nothing for his creeds,
Made bonnets of his cowls, love,
And bracelets of his beads;
And gray-beards looked not awful, love,
And grandames made no din,
And vows were not unlawful, love,
And kisses were no sin.

“And do you never dream, love,
Of that enchanted well,
Where under the moon-beam, love,
The Fairies wove their spell?
How oft we saw them greeting, love,
Beneath the blasted tree,
And heard their pale feet beating, love,
To their own minstrelsy!

“And do you never think, love,
Of the shallop, and the wave,
And the willow on the brink, love,
Over the poacher's grave?
Where always in the dark, love,
We heard a heavy sigh,
And the dogs were wont to bark, love,
Whenever they went by?

“Then gaily shone the heaven, love,
On life's untroubled sea,
And Vidal's heart was given, love,
In happiness to thee;
The sea is all benighted, love,
The heaven has ceased to shine;
The heart is seared and blighted, love,
But still the heart is thine!”

He paused and looked; he paused and sighed;
None appeared, and none replied:
All was still but the waters' wail,
And the tremulous voice of the nightingale,
And the insects buzzing among the briars,
And the nasal note of the four fat friars.

100

“Oh fly with me! 'tis Passion's hour;
The world is gone to sleep;
And nothing wakes in brake or bower,
But those who love and weep:
This is the golden time and weather,
When songs and sighs go out together,
And minstrels pledge the rosy wine
To lutes like this, and lips like thine!

“Oh fly with me! my courser's flight
Is like the rushing breeze,
And the kind moon has said ‘Good night!
And sunk behind the trees:
The lover's voice—the loved one's ear—
There's nothing else to speak and hear;
And we will say, as on we glide,
That nothing lives on earth beside!

“Oh fly with me! and we will wing
Our white skiff o'er the waves,
And hear the Tritons revelling,
Among their coral caves;
The envious Mermaid, when we pass,
Shall cease her song, and drop her glass;
For it will break her very heart,
To see how fair and dear thou art.

101

“Oh fly with me! and we will dwell
Far over the green seas,
Where sadness rings no parting knell
For moments such as these!
Where Italy's unclouded skies
Look brightly down on brighter eyes,
Or where the wave-wed City smiles,
Enthroned upon her hundred isles.

“Oh fly with me! by these sweet strings
Swept o'er by Passion's fingers,
By all the rocks, and vales, and springs
Where Memory lives and lingers,
By all the tongue can never tell,
By all the heart has told so well,
By all that has been or may be,
And by Love's self—Oh fly with me!”

He paused again—no sight or sound!
The still air rested all around;
He looked to the tower, and he looked to the tree,
Night was as still as night could be;
Something he muttered of Prelate and Pope,
And took from his mantle a silken rope;
Love dares much, and Love climbs well!
He stands by the Abbess in Violette's cell.

102

He put on a mask, and he put out the light;
The Abbess was dressed in a veil of white;
Not a look he gave, not a word he said;
The pages are ready, the blanket is spread;
He has clasped his arm her waist about,
And lifted the screaming Abbess out:
“My horse is fleet, and my hand is true,
And my Squire has a bow of deadly yew;
Away, and away, over mountain and moor!
Good luck to the love of the gay Troubadour!”

“What! rode away with the Abbess behind!
Lord! sister! is the Devil blind?”—
“Full fourscore winters!”—“Fast and pray!
For the powers of darkness fight to-day!”—
“I shan't get over the shock for a week!”—
“Did any one hear our Mother shriek?”—
“Do shut your mouth!”—“do shut the cell!”—
“What a villanous, odious, sulphury smell!”—
“Has the Evil One taken the Mass-book too?”—
“Ah me! what will poor little Violette do?
She has but one loaf since seven o'clock;
And no one can open that horrible lock;
And Satan will grin with a fiendish glee,
When he finds the Abbess has kept the key!”—
“How shall we manage to sleep to-night?”—
“I wouldn't for worlds put out my light!”—

103

“I'm sure I shall die if I hear but a mole stir!”—
“I'll clap St. Ursula under my bolster!”

But oh! the pranks that Vidal played,
When he found what a bargain his blindness had made!
Wilful and wild,—half in fun, half on fire,
He stared at the Abbess, and stormed at the Squire!
Consigned to perdition all silly romancers,
Asked twenty strange questions, and stayed for no answers,
Raving, and roaring, and laughing by fits,
And driving the old woman out of her wits.

There was a jousting at Chichester;
It had made in the country a mighty stir,
And all that was brave, and all that was fair,
And all that was neither, came trooping there;
Scarfs and scars, and frays and frowns,
And flowery speeches, and flowery crowns.
A hundred knights set spear in rest
For the lady they deemed the loveliest,
And Vidal broke a lance that day
For the Abbess of St. Ursula.

There was a feast at Arundel;
The town-clerk tolled a ponderous bell,
And nothing was there but row and rout,
And toil to get in, and toil to get out,

104

And Sheriffs fatter than their venison,
And belles that never stayed for benison.
The red red wine was mantling there
To the health of the fairest of the fair,
And Vidal drained the cup that day
To the Abbess of St. Ursula.

There was a wedding done at Bramber;
The town was full of myrrh and amber;
And the boors were roasting valorous beeves,
And the boys were gathering myrtle leaves,
And the bride was choosing her finest flounces,
And the bridegroom was scattering coin by ounces;
And every stripling danced on the green
With the girl he had made his idol queen,
And Vidal led the dance that day
With the Abbess of St. Ursula.

Three days had passed when the Abbess came back;
Her voice was out of tune,
And her new white veil was gone to wrack,
And so were her sandal shoon.
No word she said; they put her to bed,
With a pain in her heels, and a pain in her head,
And she talked in her delirious fever
Of a high-trotting horse, and a black deceiver;
Of music and merriment, love and lances,
Bridles and blasphemy, dishes and dances.

105

They went with speed to the dungeon door;
The air was chill and damp;
And the pale girl lay on the marble floor,
Beside the dying lamp.
They kissed her lips, they called her name,
No kiss returned, no answer came;
Motionless, lifeless, there she lay,
Like a statue rent from its base away!
They said by famine she had died;
Yet the bread untasted lay beside;
And her cheek was as full, and fresh, and fair,
As it had been when warmth was there,
And her eyes were unclosed, and their glassy rays
Were fixed in a desolate, dreamy gaze,
As if before their orbs had gone
Some sight they could not close upon;
And her bright brown locks all gray were grown;
And her hands were clenched, and cold as stone;
And the veins upon her neck and brow—
But she was dead!—what boots it how?

In holy ground she was not laid;
For she had died in sin,
And good St. Ursula forbade
That such should enter in;
But in a calm and cold retreat
They made her place of rest,

106

And laid her in her winding-sheet,
And left her there unblessed;
And set a small stone at her head,
Under a spreading tree;
“Orate”—that was all it said—
“Orate hic pro me!”

And Vidal came at night, alone,
And tore his shining hair,
And laid him down beside the stone,
And wept till day-break there.

“Fare thee well, fare thee well,
Most beautiful of earthly things!
I will not bid thy spirit stay,
Nor link to earth those glittering wings,
That burst like light away!
I know that thou art gone to dwell
In the sunny home of the fresh day-beam,
Before decay's unpitying tread
Hath crept upon the dearest dream
That ever came and fled;
Fare thee well, fare thee well;
And go thy way, all pure and fair,
Into the starry firmament;
And wander there with the spirits of air,
As bright and innocent!

107

“Fare thee well, fare thee well!
Strange feet will be upon thy clay,
And never stop to sigh or sorrow;
Yet many wept for thee to-day,
And one will weep to-morrow:
Alas! that melancholy knell
Shall often wake my wondering ear,
And thou shalt greet me, for a while,
Too beautiful to make me fear,
Too sad to let me smile!
Fare thee well, fare thee well!
I know that heaven for thee is won;
And yet I feel I would resign
Whole ages of my life, for one—
One little hour, of thine!

“Fare thee well, fare thee well!
See, I have been to the sweetest bowers,
And culled from garden and from heath
The tenderest of all tender flowers,
And blended in my wreath
The violet and the blue harebell,
And one frail rose in its earliest bloom;
Alas! I meant it for thy hair,
And now I fling it on thy tomb,
To weep and wither there!
Fare ye well, fare ye well!

108

Sleep, sleep, my love, in fragrant shade,
Droop, droop to-night, thou blushing token;
A fairer flower shall never fade,
Nor a fonder heart be broken!”

END OF CANTO II

109

CANTO III.
[_]

The Troubadour was never finished. Fragments only of the third Canto have been found, written upon stray leaves of paper.

It is the hour, the lonely hour,
Which desolate rhymers love to praise,
When listless they lie in brake or bower,
In dread of their duns, or in dreams of their bays;
The glowing sun has gone away
To cool his face in the ocean spray,
And the stars shine out in the liquid blue,
And the beams of the moon in silence fall
On rock and river, wood and wall,
Flinging alike on each and all
A silver ray and a sober hue.
The village casements all are dark,
The chase is done in the princely park,
The scholar has closed the volume old,
And the miser has counted the buried gold;
There is not a foot and there is not a gale
To shake the roses in Ringmore Vale;
There is not a bird, the groves along,
To wake the night with his gushing song;
Nothing is heard but sounds that render
The rest which they disturb more tender;

110

The glassy river wanders still
Making low music round the hill;
And the last faint drops of the shower that fell
While the monks were ringing the vesper bell
Are trickling yet from leaf to leaf,
Like the big slow drops of an untold grief.

At that late hour a little boat
Came dancing down the wave;
There were none but the Moon to see it float;
And she, so very grave,
Looked down upon the quiet spot
As if she heard and heeded not
The eloquent vows which passion drew
From lips of beauty's tenderest hue,
And saw without the least surprise
The glances of the youthful eyes,
Which, in the warm and perilous weather,
Were gazing by night on the stream together.
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]

Sometimes, upon a gala night,
Beneath the torches' festal light,
When I have seen your footsteps glance,
Sweet sister, through the merry dance,
Light as the wind that scarcely heaves

111

The softest of the soft roseleaves
In summer's sunniest hour,—
Sometimes, upon the level shore
Washed by the sea wave just before,
When I have seen your palfrey glide
Along the margin of the tide,
As fleet as some imagined form
That smiles in calm, or frowns in storm,
Before the minstrel's bower,—
One moment I have ceased to doubt
The tales which poets pass about,
Of Fairies and their golden wings,
Their earthward whims and wanderings,
The mummeries in which they traded,
The houses where they masqueraded,
The half unearthly tone they spoke,
The half unearthly thought they woke,
The rich they plagued, the poor they righted,
The heads they posed, the hearts they blighted!

So fancied Vidal, when he gazed
Upon a hundred glancing eyes,
While high in hall the torches blazed,
And all the blended witcheries
That clothe the revel of the night,
The dance's most voluptuous rounds,
And Beauty's most enthralling light,
And music's most entrancing sounds,

112

And many a tale, and many a song,
Which only passion sings and tells,
And dreams, most dazzling when most wrong,
Wove o'er him their delicious spells.
It was a long and spacious hall;
The limner's hand had wandered there,
And peopled half the lofty wall
With wondrous forms of great and fair;
And in small niches shapes of stone
Looked soft and white, like winter snow,
Queen Venus with her haunted zone,
Prince Cupid with his bended bow;
And there were brooks of essenced waters;
And mighty mirrors half a score
To tell the Baron's lovely daughters
What all their maids had told before;
And here an amorous lord was singing
Of honour's reign, or battle's rout;
And there a giggling page was flinging
Handfuls of odorous flowers about;
And wine and wit were poured together
From many a lip, from many a can;
And barons bowed beneath a feather,
And beauties blushed behind a fan;
And all were listening, laughing, chattering,
Playing the fiddle and the fool,
And metaphorically flattering,
According to established rule.

113

“If that bright glance did gleam on me,
How scarred and scorched my soul would be!
For even as the golden sun”—
“My Lord of Courcy, pray have done!”—
“I would I were a little bird,
That I might evermore be heard
Discoursing love, when morning's air”—
“Bonne grace, Sir Knight, I would you were!”—
“Mort de ma vie! the sea is deep,
And Dover cliffs are very steep,
And if I spring into the main,”—
“Sir Knight, you'll scarce spring out again!”
“This breast of mine is all a book;
And if her beauteous eyes would look
Upon the pale transparent leaves,
And mark how all the volume grieves,”—
“Sweet Count, who cares what tales it tells?
The title's all your mistress spells.”—
“My faithful shield, my faithful heart!
Oh! both are pierced with many a dart;
And, Lady, both, through flood and flame,
Bear uneffaced thy beauteous name;
And both are stainless as a lake,”—
“And both are very hard to break!”

Thus deftly all did play their part,
The valiant and the fair,

114

And Vidal's was the lightest heart,
Of all that trifled there.
Some six-and-twenty springs had past
In more of smiles than tears;
And boyhood's dreams had fleeted fast
With boyhood's fleeting years!
His voice was sweet, but deeper now
Than when its songs were new;
And o'er his cheek, and o'er his brow,
There fell a darker hue;
His eye had learned a calmer ray,
By browner ringlets shaded;
And from his lips the sunny play
Of their warm smile had faded:
And, out alas! the perished thrill
Of feeling's careless flashes,
The glistening flames, that now were chill
In darkness, dust, and ashes,
The joys that wound, the pains that bless,
Were all, were all departed;
And he was wise and passionless,
And happy and cold-hearted.
It was not that the brand of sin
Had stamped its deadly blot within;
That riches had been basely won,
Or midnight murder darkly done;
That Valour's ardent glow had died,
Or Honour lost its truth and pride:

115

Oh no! but Vidal's joy and grief
Had been too common, and too brief!
The weariness of human things
Had dried affection's silent springs,
And round his very heart had curled
The poisons of the drowsy world.
And he had conned the bitter lie
Of Fashion's dull philosophy;
How friendship is a schoolboy's theme,
And constancy a madman's dream,
And majesty a mouldering bust,
And loveliness a pinch of dust.
And so,—for when the wicked jest
The renegade blasphemes the best,—
He crushed the hopes which once he felt,
And mocked the shrines where once he knelt,
And taught that only fools endure
To find aught human good and pure.

And yet his heart was very light,
His taste was very fine;
His rapier and his wit were bright,
His attitudes divine:
He taught how snowy arms should rise,
How snowy plumes should droop;
And published rhapsodies on sighs,
And lectures upon soup;

116

He was the arbiter of bets,
The fashioner of phrases;
And harpers sang his canzonets,
And peeresses his praises.
And when, at some high dame's command,
Upon the lyre he laid his hand,
As now to-night, and flung aside
His silken mantle's crimson pride,
And o'er the strings so idly leant,
That you might think the instrument
Unwaked by any touch replied
To all its master said or sighed,
All other occupations ceased;
The revellers rose from cup and feast,
Young pages paused from scattering posies,
Old knights forgot to blow their noses,
And daughters smiled, and mothers frowned,
And peers beat time upon the ground;
And beauty bowed her silent praise,
Which is so dear to minstrel lays;
And envy dropped her whispered gall,
Which is the dearest praise of all.

That night, amid the motley crowd,
In graver than his wonted mood,
When other lips were gay and loud,
The Troubadour had silent stood:

117

Perhaps some dreams of those young hours
Whose light was now all cold and dim,
Some visions of the faded flowers
Whose buds had bloomed their last for him,
Came in their secret beauty back,
Like fairy elves, whose footsteps steal
Unseen, unheard, upon their track,
Except to those they harm or heal.
Oh! often will a look or sigh,
Unmarked by other eyes or ears,
Recall, we know not whence or why,
Sad thoughts that have been dead for years:
For sunset leaves the river warm
Through evening's most benumbing chill;
And when the present cannot charm,
The past can live and torture still!

Yet now, as if the secret spell
That bound his inmost soul were broken,
He taught his harp a lighter swell
Than ever yet its strings had spoken;
And those who saw, and watched the while,
The smile that came, the frown that faded,
Could hardly tell if frown, or smile,
Or both, or neither, masqueraded.

“Clotilda! many hearts are light,
And many lips dissemble;

118

But I am thine till priests shall fight,
Or Cœur de Lion tremble!—
Hath Jerome burned his rosary,
Or Richard shrunk from slaughter?
Oh! no, no,
Dream not so!
But till you mean your hopes to die,
Engrave them not in water!

“Sweet Ida, on my lonely way
Those tears I will remember,
Till icicles shall cling to May,
Or roses to December!—
Are snow-wreaths bound on Summer's brow?
Is drowsy Winter waking?
Oh! no, no,
Dream not so!
But lances, and a lover's vow,
Were only made for breaking.

“Lenora, I am faithful still,
By all the saints that listen,
Till this warm heart shall cease to thrill,
Or these wild veins to glisten!—
This bosom,—is its pulse less high?
Or sleeps the stream within it?
Oh! no, no,
Dream not so!

119

But lovers find eternity
In less than half a minute.

“And thus to thee I swear to-night,
By thine own lips and tresses,
That I will take no further flight,
Nor break again my jesses:
And wilt thou trust the faith I vowed,
And dream in spite of warning?
Oh! no, no,
Dream not so!
But go and lure the midnight cloud,
Or chain the mist of morning.

“These words of mine, so false and bland,
Forget that they were spoken!
The ring is on thy radiant hand,—
Dash down the faithless token!
And will they say that Beauty sinned,
That Woman turned a rover?
Oh! no, no,
Dream not so!
But lover's vows are like the wind.
And Vidal is a Lover!”

Ere the last echo of the words
Died on the lip and on the chords,

120

The Baron's jester, who was clever
At blighting characters for ever,
And whom all people thought delightful,
Because he was so very spiteful,
Stooped down to tie his sandal's string,
And found by chance a lady's ring;
So small and slight, it scarce had spanned
The finger of a fairy's hand,—
Or thine, sweet Rose, whose hand and wrist
Are much the least I ever kissed:—
Upon the ruby it enclosed
A bleeding heart in peace reposed,
And round was graved in letters clear:
“Let by the month, or by the year.”
Young Pacolet, from ring and song,
Thought something might be somewhere wrong,
And round the room in transport flitted
To find whose hand the bauble fitted.

He was an ugly dwarfish knave,
Most gravely wild, most wildly grave;
It seemed that Nature, in a whim,
Had mixed a dozen shapes in him;
One arm was longer than the other,
One leg was running from his brother,
And one dark eye, with fondest labour,
Coquetted with his fairer neighbour:

121

His colour ever came and went,
Like clouds upon the firmament,
And yet his cheeks, in any weather,
Were never known to blush together:
To-day his voice was shrill and harsh,
Like homilies from Doctor Marsh;
To-morrow from his rosy lip
The sweetest of sweet sounds would trip;
Far sweeter than the song of birds,
Or the first lisp of Childhood's words,
Or Zephyrs soft, or waters clear,
Or Love's own vow to Love's own ear.
Such were the tones he murmured now,
As, wreathing lip and cheek and brow
Into a smile of wicked glee,
He begged upon his bended knee
That maid and matron, young and old,
Would try the glittering hoop of gold.

But then, as usual in such cases,
All sorts of pretty airs and graces
Were played by nymphs, whose hands and arms
Had, or had not, a host of charms:
And there were frowns, as wrists were bared,
And wonderings “how some people dared,”
And much reluctance and disdain,
Which some might feel, and all could feign,

122

And witty looks, and whispered guesses,
And running into dark recesses,
And pointless gibes, and toothless chuckles,
And pinching disobedient knuckles,
And cunning thefts by watchful lovers,
Which filled the pockets of the glovers.
'Twas very vain; it seemed that all,
Except the mistress of the Hall,
Had done the utmost they could do,
And made their fingers black and blue,
And there they were, the gem and donor,
Without a mistress, or an owner.

But while the toy was vainly tried,
The ugly Baron's handsome bride
Had sate apart from that rude game
And listened to the sighs of flame,
Which followed her from night to morning,
In spite of frowning and of scorning.
Bred up from youth with nought before her
But humble slave and fond adorer,
Ill could that haughty Lady brook
A bantering phrase or brazen look;
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]

123

Day passed, and Night came hurrying down
With her heaviest step, and her darkest frown;
Not witchingly mild, as when she hushes
The first warm thrill of woman's blushes,
Or mellows the eloquent murmur made
By some mad minstrel's serenade;
But robed in the clouds her anger flings
O'er the murderer's midnight wanderings,
The stealthy step, and the naked knife,
The sudden blow, and the parting life!—
On the snow that was sleeping its frozen sleep
Round cabin and castle, white and deep,
The love-stricken boy might have wandered far
Ere he found for his sonnet a single star;
And over the copse, and over the dell,
The mantle of mist so drearily fell,
That the fondest and bravest could hardly know
The smile of his queen from the sneer of his foe.
In the lonely cot on the lorn hill-side
The serf grew pale as he looked on his bride;
And oft, as the Baron's courtly throng
Were loud in the revel of wine and song,
The blast at the gate made such a din
As changed to horror the mirth within! [OMITTED]

124

THE LEGEND OF THE HAUNTED TREE.

“Deep is the bliss of the belted knight,
When he kisses at dawn the silken glove,
And goes, in his glittering armour dight,
To shiver a lance for his lady-love!

“Lightly he couches the beaming spear;
His mistress sits with her maidens by,
Watching the speed of his swift career,
With a whispered prayer and a murmured sigh.

“Far from me is the gazing throng,
The blazoned shield, and the nodding plume;
Nothing is mine but a worthless song,
A joyless life, and a nameless tomb.’

“Nay, dearest Wilfrid, lay like this,
On such an eve, is much amiss:
Our mirth beneath the new May moon
Should echoed be by livelier tune.

125

What need to thee of mail and crest,
Of foot in stirrup, spear in rest?
Over far mountains and deep seas,
Earth hath no fairer fields than these;
And who, in Beauty's gaudiest bowers,
Can love thee with more love than ours?”
The Minstrel turned with a moody look
From that sweet scene of guiltless glee;
From the old who talked beside the brook,
And the young who danced beneath the tree.
Coldly he shrank from the gentle maid,
From the chiding look and the pleading tone;
And he passed from the old elm's hoary shade,
And followed the forest path alone.
One little sigh, one pettish glance,—
And the girl comes back to her playmates now,
And takes her place in the merry dance,
With a slower step, and a sadder brow.
“My soul is sick,” saith the wayward boy,
“Of the peasant's grief, and the peasant's joy.
I cannot breathe on from day to day,
Like the insects, which our wise men say
In the crevice of the cold rock dwell,
Till their shape is the shape of their dungeon's cell,
In the dull repose of our changeless life,
I long for passion, I long for strife,

126

As in the calm the mariner sighs
For rushing waves and groaning skies.
Oh for the lists, the lists of fame!
Oh for the herald's glad acclaim!
For floating pennon, and prancing steed,
And Beauty's wonder at Manhood's deed!”
Beneath an ancient oak he lay;
More years than man can count, they say,
On the verge of the dim and solemn wood,
Through sunshine and storm, that oak had stood.
Yet were it hard to trace a sign
On trunk or bough of that oak's decline:
Many a loving, laughing sprite,
Tended the branches by day and by night,
Fettered the winds that would invade
The quiet of its sacred shade,
And drove in a serried phalanx back
The red-eyed lightning's fierce attack:
So the leaves of its age were as fresh and as green
As the leaves of its early youth had been.
Fretful brain and turbid breast
Under its canopy ill would rest;
For she that ruled the revels therein
Loved not the taint of human sin:
Moody brow with an evil eye
Would the Queen of the Fairy people spy;

127

Sullen tone with an angry ear
Would the Queen of the Fairy people hear.
Oft would she mock the worldling's care
E'en in the grant of his unwise prayer,
Scattering wealth that was not gain,
Lavishing joy that turned to pain.
Pure of thought should the mortal be
That would sleep beneath the Haunted Tree.
That night the Minstrel laid him down
Ere his brow relaxed its peevish frown;
And slumber had bound his eyelids fast,
Ere the evil wish from his soul had passed.
A song on the sleeper's ear descended,
A song it was pain to hear, and pleasure,
So strangely wrath and love were blended
In cvery note of the mystic measure.

“I know thee, child of earth;
The morning of thy birth,
In through the lattice did my chariot glide;
I saw thy father weep
Over thy first wild sleep,
I rocked thy cradle when thy mother died.

“And I have seen thee gaze
Upon these birks and braes,
Which are my kingdoms, with irreverent scorn;

128

And heard thee pour reproof
Upon the vine-clad roof,
Beneath whose peaceful shelter thou wert born.

“I bind thee in the snare
Of thine unholy prayer;
I seal thy forehead with a viewless seal:
I give into thine hand
The buckler and the brand,
And clasp the golden spur upon thy heel.

“When thou hast made thee wise
In the sad lore of sighs,
When the world's visions fail thee and forsake,
Return, return to me,
And to my haunted tree;—
The charm hath bound thee now; Sir Knight, awake!”

Sir Isumbras, in doubt and dread,
From his feverish sleep awoke,
And started up from his grassy bed
Under the ancient oak.
And he called the page who held his spear,
And, “Tell me, boy,” quoth he,
“How long have I been slumbering here,
Beneath the greenwood tree?”—

129

“Ere thou didst sleep, I chanced to throw
A stone into the rill;
And the ripple that disturbed its flow
Is on its surface still.
Ere thou didst sleep, thou bad'st me sing
King Arthur's favourite lay;
And the first echo of the string
Has hardly died away.”
“How strange is sleep!” the young Knight said,
As he clasped the helm upon his head,
And, mounting again his courser black,
To his gloomy tower rode slowly back:
“How strange is sleep! when his dark spell lies
On the drowsy lids of human eyes,
The years of a life will float along
In the compass of a page's song.
Methought I lived in a pleasant vale,
The haunt of the lark and the nightingale.
Where the summer rose had a brighter hue,
And the noon-day sky a clearer blue,
And the spirit of man in age and youth
A fonder love, and a firmer truth.
And I lived on, a fair-haired boy,
In that sweet vale of tranquil joy;
Until at last my vain caprice
Grew weary of its bliss and peace.

130

And one there was, most dear and fair
Of all that smiled around me there,
A gentle maid, with a cloudless face,
And a form so full of fairy grace,
Who, when I turned with scornful spleen
From the feast in the bower, or the dance on the green.
Would humour all my wayward will,
And love me, and forgive me still.
Even now, methinks, her smile of light
Is there before me, mild and bright;
And I hear her voice of fond reproof
Between the beats of my palfrey's hoof.
'Tis idle all: but I could weep;—
Alas!” said the Knight, “how strange is sleep!”
He struck with his spear the brazen plate
That gleamed before the castle gate;
The torch threw high its waves of flame
As forth the watchful menials came;
They lighted the way to the banquet hall,
They hung the shield upon the wall,
They spread the board, and they filled the bowl,
And the phantoms passed from his troubled soul.
For all the ailments which infest
A solitary Briton's breast,
The peccant humours which defile
The thoughts in this fog-haunted isle,

131

Whatever name or style they bear—
Reflection, study, nerves, or care,
There's nought of such Lethean power
As dinner at the dinner-hour.
Sefton! the Premier, o'er thy plate,
Thinks little of last night's debate;
Cowan! the merchant, in thy hall,
Grows careless what may rise or fall;
The wit who feeds can puff away
His unsold tale, his unheard play;
And Mr. Wellesley Pole forgets,
At eight o'clock, his duns and debts.
The Knight approved the roasted boar,
And mused upon his dream no more:
The Knight enjoyed the bright champagne,
And deemed himself himself again.
Sir Isumbras was ever found
Where blows were struck for glory;
There sate not at the Table Round
A knight more famed in story:
The King on his throne would turn about
To see his courser prancing;
And when Sir Launcelot had gout
The Queen would praise his dancing;
He quite wore out his father's spurs
Performing valour's duties,

132

Destroying mighty sorcerers,
Avenging injured beauties,
And crossing many a trackless sand,
And rescuing people's daughters
From dragons that infest the land,
And whales that walk the waters.
He throttled lions by the score,
And giants by the dozen;
And, for his skill in lettered lore,
They called him “Merlin's Cousin.”
A troop of steeds with bit and rein
Stood ready in his stable;
An ox was every morning slain
And roasted for his table:
And he had friends, all brave and tall,
And crowned with praise and laurel,
Who kindly feasted in his hall,
And jousted in his quarrel;
And minstrels came and sang his fame
In very rugged verses;
And they were paid with wine, and game,
And rings, and cups, and purses.
And he loved a Lady of high degree,
Faith's fortress, Beauty's flower;
A countess for her maid had she,
And a kingdom for her dower;

133

And a brow whose frowns were vastly grand,
And an eye of sunlit brightness,
And a swan-like neck, and an arm and hand
Of most bewitching whiteness;
And a voice of music, whose sweet tones
Could most divinely prattle
Of battered casques, and broken bones,
And all the bliss of battle.
He wore her scarf in many a fray,
He trained her hawks and ponies,
And filled her kitchen every day
With leverets and conies;
He loved, and he was loved again:—
I won't waste time in proving,
There is no pleasure like the pain
Of being loved, and loving.
Dame Fortune is a fickle gipsy,
And always blind, and often tipsy;
Sometimes, for years and years together,
She'll bless you with the sunniest weather,
Bestowing honour, pudding, pence,
You can't imagine why or whence;—
Then in a moment—Presto, pass!—
Your joys are withered like the grass;
You find your constitution vanish,
Almost as quickly as the Spanish;

134

The murrain spoils your flocks and fleeces;
The dry-rot pulls your house to pieces;
Your garden raises only weeds;
Your agent steals your title-deeds;
Your banker's failure stuns the city;
Your father's will makes Sugden witty;
Your daughter, in her beauty's bloom,
Goes off to Gretna with the groom;
And you, good man, are left alone,
To battle with the gout and stone.
Ere long, Sir Isumbras began
To be a sad and thoughtful man:
They said the glance of an evil eye
Had been on the Knight's prosperity:
Less swift on the quarry his falcon went,
Less true was his hound on the wild deer's scent,
And thrice in the list he came to the earth
By the luckless chance of a broken girth.
And Poverty soon in her rage was seen
At the board where Plenty erst had been;
And the guests smiled not as they smiled before,
And the song of the minstrel was heard no more;
And a base ingrate, who was his foe,
Because, a little month ago,
He had cut him down, with friendly ardour,
From a rusty hook in an ogre's larder,

135

Invented an atrocious fable,
And ruined him quite at the royal table:
And she at last, the worshipped one,
For whom his valorous deeds were done,
The star of all his soul's reflections,
The rose of all his heart's affections,
Who had heard his vows, and worn his jewels,
And made him fight so many duels,—
She too, when Fate's relentless wheel
Deprived him of the Privy Seal,
Bestowed her smiles upon another,
And gave his letters to her mother.
'Tis the last drop, as all men know,
That makes the bucket overflow,
And the last parcel of the pack
That bends in two the camel's back.
Fortune and fame—he had seen them depart,
With a silent pride of a valiant heart:
Traitorous friends—he had passed them by,
With a haughty brow and a stifled sigh.
Boundless and black might roll the sea,
O'er which the course of his bark must be;
But he saw, through the storms that frowned above,
One guiding light, and the light was Love.
Now all was dark; the doom was spoken!
His wealth all spent, and his heart half-broken;

136

Poor youth! he had no earthly hope,
Except in laudanum, or a rope.
If e'er you happened, by a twist
Of Destiny's provoking wrist,
To find yourself one morning hurled
From all you had in all the world,—
Seeing your pretty limes and beeches
Supply the auction-mart with speeches.—
By base ingratitude disgusted
In him you most esteemed and trusted,
And cut, without the slightest reason,
By her who was so kind last season,—
You know how often meditation
Assures you, for your consolation,
That, if you had but been contented
To rent the house your father rented,
If, in Sir Paul you'd been inclined to
Suspect what no one else was blind to,
If, for that false girl, you had chosen
Either her sister, or her cousin,
If anything you had been doing
But just the very thing you're rueing,
You might have lived your day in clover,
Gay, rich, prized friend, and favoured lover,
Thus was it with my Knight of knights;
While vanished all his vain delights,

137

The thought of being dupe and ass
Most galled the sick Sir Isumbras.
He ordered out his horse, and tried,
As the leech advised, a gentle ride;
A pleasant path he took,
Where the turf, all bright with the April showers,
Was spangled with a thousand flowers,
Beside a murmuring brook.
Never before had he ridden that way;
And now, on a sunny first of May,
He chose the turning, you may guess,
Not for the laughing loveliness
Of turf, or flower, or stream; but only
Because it looked extremely lonely.
Yet but that Megrim hovering here
Had dimmed the eye and dulled the ear,
Jocund and joyous all around
Were every sight and every sound.
The ancient forest, whose calm rest
No axe did ever yet molest,
Stretched far upon the right;
Here, deepening into trackless shades,
There, opening long and verdant glades,
Unto the cheerful light:
Wide on the left, whene'er the screen
Of hedgerows left a space between

138

To stand and gaze awhile,
O'er varied scenes the eye might rove,
Orchard and garden, mead and grove,
Spread out for many a mile.
Around, in all the joy of spring,
The sinless birds were carolling;
Low hummed the studious bees;
And softly, sadly, rose and fell
The echo of the ocean swell,
In the capricious breeze.
But truly Sir Isumbras cared as much
For all that a happier heart might touch,
As Cottenham cares for a Highland reel,
When counsel opens a Scotch Appeal,
Or Hume for Pasta's glorious scenes,
When the House is voting the Ways and Means.
He had wandered, musing, scarce a mile,
In his melancholy mood,
When, peeping o'er a rustic stile,
He saw a little village smile,
Embowered in thick wood.
There were small cottages, arrayed
In the delicate jasmine's fragrant shade;
And gardens, whence the rose's bloom
Loaded the gale with rich perfume;
And there were happy hearts; for all
In that bright nook kept festival,

139

And welcomed in the merry May
With banquet and with roundelay.
Sir Isumbras sate gazing there,
With folded arms and mournful air;
He fancied—'twas an idle whim—
That the village looked like a home to him.
And now a gentle maiden came,
Leaving her sisters and their game,
And wandered up the vale;
Beauty so bright he had never seen,—
Saving her Majesty the Queen;—
But out on ugly doubts and fears!
Her eyes were very full of tears,
Her cheeks were very pale.
None courted her stay of the joyous throng,
As she passed from the group alone;
And he listened,—which was vastly wrong,—
And heard her singing a lively song,
In a very dismal tone:
“Deep is the bliss of the belted knight,
When he kisses at dawn the silken glove,
And goes, in his glittering armour dight,
To shiver a lance for his lady-love!”
That thrilling tone, so soft and clear,
Was it familiar to his ear?

140

And those delicious drooping eyes,
As blue and as pure as the summer skies,
Had he, indeed, in other days,
Been blessed in the light of their holy rays?
He knew not; but his knee he bent
Before her in most knightly fashion,
And grew superbly eloquent
About her beauty, and his passion.
He said that she was very fair,
And that she warbled like a linnet,
And that he loved her, though he ne'er
Had looked upon her till that minute:
He said, that all the Court possessed
Of gay or grave, of fat or slender,
Poor things! were only fit at best,
To hold a candle to her splendour:
He vowed that when she once should take
A little proper state upon her,
All lutes for her delight would wake,
All lances shiver in her honour:
He grieved to mention that a Jew
Had seized for debt his grand pavilion,
And he had little now, 'twas true,
To offer, but a heart and pillion;
But what of that? In many a fight,
Though he who shouldn't say it said it,

141

He still had borne him like a knight,
And had his share of blows and credit;
And if she would but condescend
To meet him at the priest's to-morrow,
And be henceforth his guide, his friend,
In every toil, in every sorrow,
They'd sail instanter from the Downs;
His hands just now were quite at leisure;
And, if she fancied foreign crowns,
He'd win them,—with the greatest pleasure.
“A year is gone,”—the damsel sighed,
But blushed not, as she so replied,—
“Since one I loved,—alas! how well
He knew not, knows not,—left our dell.
Time brings to his deserted cot
No tidings of his after lot;
But his weal or woe is still the theme
Of my daily thought, and my nightly dream.
Poor Alice is not proud or coy;
But her heart is with her minstrel boy.”
Away from his arms the damsel bounded,
And left him more and more confounded.
He mused of the present, he mused of the past,
And he felt that a spell was o'er him cast;
He shed hot tears, he knew not why,
And talked to himself and made reply;

142

Till a calm o'er his troubled senses crept,
And, as the daylight waned, he slept.
Poor gentleman!—I need not say,
Beneath an ancient oak he lay.

“He is welcome,”—o'er his bed,
Thus the bounteous Fairy said:

“He has conned the lesson now;
He has read the book of pain:
There are furrows on his brow,
I must make it smooth again.

“Lo, I knock the spurs away;
Lo, I loosen belt and brand;
Hark! I hear the courser neigh
For his stall in Fairy-land.

“Bring the cap, and bring the vest;
Buckle on his sandal shoon;
Fetch his memory from the chest
In the treasury of the moon.

“I have taught him to be wise,
For a little maiden's sake;—
Lo! he opens his glad eyes,
Softly, slowly:—Minstrel, wake!”

143

The sun has risen, and Wilfrid is come
To his early friends, and his cottage home.
His hazel eyes and his locks of gold
Are just as they were in the time of old:
But a blessing has been on the soul within,
For that is won from its secret sin,
More loving now, and worthier love
Of men below, and of saints above.
He reins a steed with a lordly air,
Which makes his country cousins stare;
And he speaks in a strange and courtly phrase,
Though his voice is the voice of other days:
But where he has learned to talk and ride,
He will tell to none but his bonny Bride.

144

THE LEGEND OF THE DRACHENFELS.

“Death be her doom! we must not spare,
Though the voice be sweet, though the face be fair,
When the looks deride and the lips blaspheme
The Serpent-God of our hallowed stream.

“Death be her doom! that the fearful King
May joy in the gift his votaries bring;
And smile on the valley, and smile on the rock,
To freshen the vine, and to fatten the flock.

“Death be her doom! ere the pitiless One
Leap from his rest at set of sun;
Seek from his crag his wonted prey,
And punish in wrath our long delay!”

It was a gray-haired Chief that said
The words of fate, the words of fear;

145

A battered casque was on his head,
And in his grasp a broken spear:
It was a captive maid that met,
Sedate, serene, the stern command;
Around her neck her beads were set,
An ivory cross was in her hand.

“Lead me away! I am weak and young,
Captive the fierce and the proud among;
But I will pray a humble prayer,
That the feeble to strike may be firm to bear.

“Lead me away! the voice may fail,
And the lips grow white, and the cheeks turn pale;
Yet will ye know that nought but sin
Chafes or changes the soul within.

“Lead me away! oh, dear to mine eyes
Are the flowery fields and the sunny skies;
But I cannot turn from the Cross divine,
To bend my knee at an idol's shrine.”

They clothe her in such rich array
As a bride prepares for her bridal day;
Around her forehead, that shines so bright,
They wreathe a wreath of roses white,
And set on her neck a golden chain,
Spoil of her sire in combat slain.

146

Over her head her doom is said;
And with folded arms, and measured tread,
In long procession, dark and slow,
Up the terrible hill they go,
Hymning their hymn, and crying their cry,
To him, their Demon Deity.—
Mary, Mother, sain and save!
The maiden kneels at the Dragon's cave!

Alas! 'tis frightful to behold
That thing of Nature's softest mould,
In whose slight shape and delicate hue
Life's loveliness beams fresh and new,
Bound on the bleak hill's topmost height,
To die, and by such death, to-night!
But yester-eve, when the red sun
His race of grateful toil had run,
And over earth the moon's soft rays
Lit up the hour of prayer and praise,
She bowed within the pleasant shade
By her own fragrant jasmine made;
And, while her clear and thrilling tone
Asked blessing from her Maker's throne,
Heard the notes echoed to her ear
From lips that were to her most dear.
Her sire, her kindred, round her knelt;
And the young Priestess knew and felt

147

That deeper love than that of men
Was in their natural temple then.
That love,—is now its radiance chill?
Fear not; it guides, it guards her, still!

The temper of our stoutest mail
In battle's fiery shock may fail;
The trustiest anchor may betray
Our vessel in the treacherous spray;
The dearest friend we ever knew
In our worst need may prove untrue:
But come what may of doubt or dread
About our lonely path or bed,
On tented field, or stormy wave,
In dungeon cell, or mountain cave,
In want, in pain, in death,—where'er
One meek heart prays, God's love is there!

The crowd departed: her wandering eye
Followed their steps, as they left her to die.
Down the steep and stern descent,
Strangely mingled, the Heathen went,
Palsied dotard, and beardless boy,
Sharers to-night in their savage joy,
Hoary priest, and warrior grim,
Shaking the lance, and chaunting the hymn;
And ever and anxiously looking back
To watch if yet on his slimy track

148

He rolled him forth, that ghastly guest,
To taste of the banquet he loved the best.

The crowd departed; and alone
She kneeled upon the rugged stone.
Alas! it was a dismal pause,
When the wild rabble's fierce applause
Died slowly on the answering air;
And, in the still and mute profound,
She started even at the sound
Of the half-thought half-spoken prayer
Her heart and lip had scarcely power
To feel or frame in that dark hour.
Fearful, yet blameless!—for her birth
Had been of Nature's common earth,
And she was nurst, in happier hours,
By Nature's common suns and showers;
And when one moment whirls away
Whate'er we know or trust to-day,
And opens that eternal book,
On which we long, and dread, to look,—
In that quick change of sphere and scope,
That rushing of the spirit's wings
From all we have to all we hope,
From mortal to immortal things,—
Though madly on the giddy brink
Despair may jest, and Guilt dissemble,

149

White Innocence awhile will shrink,
And Piety be proud to tremble!

But quickly from her brow and cheek
The flush of human terror faded,
And she aroused, the maiden meek,
Her fainting spirit, self-upbraided,
And felt her secret soul renewed
In that her solemn solitude.
Unwonted strength to her was given
To bear the rod and drink the cup;
Her pulse beat calmer, and to Heaven
Her voice in firmer tone went up:
And as upon her gentle heart
The dew of holy peace descended,
She saw her last sunlight depart
With awe and hope so sweetly blended
Into a deep and tranquil sense
Of unpresuming confidence,
That if the blinded tribes, whose breath
Had doomed her to such dole and death,
Could but have caught one bright brief glance
Of that ungrieving countenance,
And marked the light of glory shed
Already o'er her sinless head,
The tears with which her eyes were full,—
Tears not of anguish,—and the smile
Of new-born rapture, which the while

150

As with a lustrous veil arrayed
Her brow, her cheek, her lip, and made
Her beauty more than beautiful,—
Oh, would they not have longed to share
Her torture,—yea! her transport, there?

“Father, my sins are very great;
Thou readest them, whate'er they be:
But penitence is all too late;
And unprepared I come to thee,
Uncleansed, unblessed, unshriven!

“Yet thou, in whose all-searching sight
No human thing is undefiled,—
Thou, who art merciful in might,
Father, thou wilt forgive thy child,—
Father, thou hast forgiven!

“Thy will, not hers, be done to-day!
If in this hour, and on this spot,
Her soul indeed must pass away
Among fierce men who know thee not,—
Thine is the breath thou gavest!

“Or if thou wilt put forth thine hand
And shield her from the jaws of flame,
That she may live to teach the land
Whose people hath not heard thy name,—
Thine be the life thou savest!”

151

So spoke the blessed maid, and now,
Crossing her hands upon her breast,
With quiet eye and placid brow
Awaited the destroying pest;
Not like a thing of sense and life
Soul-harassed in such bitter strife,
But tranquil, as a shape of stone
Upraised in ages long bygone
To mark where, closed her toilsome race,
Some sainted sister sleeps in grace.
Such might she seem: about her grew
Sweet wild-flowers, sweet of scent and hue;
And she had placed with pious care
Her crucifix before her there,
That her last look and thought might be
Of Christ and of the Holy Tree.

And now, methinks, at what my lay
Of this poor maid hath yet to say,
Will Wit assume a scornful look,
And Wisdom con a grave rebuke.
I heed them not; full oft there lies
In such time-honoured histories,
Hived through long ages in the store
Of the rude peasant's nursery lore,
A pathos of a deeper ruth.
A moral of a purer truth,

152

Than aught we study in the page
Of lofty bard or learned sage;
Therefore, my gentle Muse, prolong
In faith thy legendary song.

The day was gone, but it was not night:—
Whither so suddenly fled the light?
Nature seemed sick with a sore disease;
Over her hills and streams and trees
Unnatural darkness fell;
The earth and the heaven, the river and shore,
In the lurid mist were seen no more;
And the voice of the mountain monster rose,
As he lifted him up from his noontide repose,
First in a hiss, and then in a cry,
And then in a yell that shook the sky;—
The eagle from high fell down to die
At the sound of that mighty yell:
From his wide jaws broke, as in wrath he woke,
Scalding torrents of sulphurous smoke,
And crackling coals in mad ascent
As from a red volcano went,
And flames, like the flames of hell.
But his scream of fury waxed more shrill,
When on the peak of the blasted hill
He saw his victim bound:
Forth the Devourer, scale by scale,

153

Unveiled the folds of his steel-proof mail,
Stretching his throat, and stretching his tail,
And hither and thither rolling him o'er,
Till he covered fourscore feet and four
Of the wearied and wailing ground:
And at last he raised from his stony bed
The horrors of his speckled head;
Up like a comet the meteor went,
And seemed to shake the firmament,
And batter heaven's own walls!
For many a long mile, well I ween,
The fires that shot from those eyes were seen;
The Burschen of Bonn, if Bonn had been,
Would have shuddered in their halls.
Woe for the Virgin!—bootless here
Were glistening shield and whistling spear
Such battle to abide;
The mightiest engines that ever the trade
Of human homicide hath made,
Warwolf, balist, and catapult,
Would like a stripling's wand insult
That adamantine hide.
Woe for the Virgin!—

Lo! what spell
Hath scattered the darkness, and silenced the yell,
And quenched those fiery showers?—
Why turns the serpent from his prey?—

154

The Cross hath barred his terrible way,
The Cross among the flowers.
As an eagle pierced on his cloudy throne,
As a column sent from its base of stone,
Backward the stricken monster dropped;
Never he stayed, and never he stopped,
Till deep in the gushing tide he sank,
And buried lay beneath the stream,
Passing away like a loathsome dream.
Well may you guess how either bank
As with an earthquake shook;
The mountains rocked from brow to base;
The river boiled with a hideous din
As the burning mass fell heavily in;
And the wide wide Rhine, for a moment's space,
Was scorched into a brook.

Night passed, ere the multitude dared to creep,
Huddled together, up the steep;
They came to the stone; in speechless awe
They fell on their face at the sight they saw:
The maiden was free from hurt or harm,
But the iron had passed from her neck and arm,
And the glittering links of the broken chain
Lay scattered about like drops of rain.

And deem ye that the rescued child
To her father-land would come,—

155

That the remnant of her kindred smiled
Around her in her home,
And that she lived in love of earth,
Among earth's hopes and fears,
And gave God thanks for the daily birth
Of blessings in after years?—
Holy and happy, she turned not away
From the task her Saviour set that day;—
What was her kindred, her home, to her?
She had been Heaven's own messenger!

Short time went by from that dread hour
Of manifested wrath and power,
Ere from the cliff a rising shrine
Looked down upon the rolling Rhine.
Duly the virgin Priestess there
Led day by day the hymn and prayer;
And the dark Heathen round her pressed
To know their Maker, and be blessed.

L'ENVOI.

TO THE COUNTESS VON C---, BONN.

I

This is the Legend of the Drachenfels,—
Sweet theme, most feebly sung; and yet to me
My feeble song is grateful; for it tells
Of far-off smiles and voices. Though it be

156

Unmeet, fair Lady, for thy breast or bower,
Yet thou wilt wear, for thou didst plant, the flower

II

It had been worthier of such birth and death
If it had bloomed where thou hadst watched its rise
Fanned by the zephyr of thy fragrant breath,
Warmed by the sunshine of thy gentle eyes,
And cherished by the love, in whose pure shade
No evil thing can live, no good thing fade.

III

It will be long ere thou wilt shed again
Thy praise or censure on my childish lays,—
Thy praise, which makes me happy more than vain,
Thy censure, kinder than another's praise.
Huge mountains frown between us, and the swell
Of the hoarse sea is mocking my farewell.

IV

Yet not the less, dear Friend. thy guiding light
Shines through the secret chambers of my thought;
Or when I waken, with revived delight,
The lute young Fancy to my cradle brought,
Or when I visit with a studious brow
The less-loved task, to which I turn me now.

157

THE BRIDAL OF BELMONT.

A LEGEND OF THE RHINE.

Where foams and flows the glorious Rhine,
Many a ruin, wan and gray,
O'erlooks the corn-field and the vine,
Majestic in its dark decay.
Among their dim clouds, long ago,
They mocked the battles that raged below,
And greeted the guests in arms that came,
With hissing arrow and scalding flame.
But there is not one of the homes of pride
That frown on the breast of the peaceful tide,
Whose leafy walls more proudly tower
Than these, the walls of Belmont Tower.

Where foams and flows the glorious Rhine,
Many a fierce and fiery lord
Did carve the meat, and pour the wine,
For all that revelled at his board.

158

Father and son, they were all alike,
Firm to endure, and fast to strike;
Little they loved but a Frau or a feast,
Nothing they feared but a prayer or a priest;
But there was not one in all the land
More trusty of heart, more stout of hand,
More valiant in field, or more courteous in bower
Than Otto, the Lord of Belmont Tower.

His eyes were bright, his eyes were blue,
As summer's sun, as summer's heaven;
His age was barely twenty-two;
His height was just five feet eleven:
His hounds were of the purest strain,
His hawks the best from every nation;
His courser's tail, his courser's mane,
Was all the country's admiration:
His frowns were lightnings, charged with fate;
His smiles were shafts from Cupid's quiver;
He had a very old estate,
And the best vineyards on the river.
So ancient dames, you need not doubt,
Would wink and nod their pride and pleasare,
Whene'er the youthful Count led out
Their eldest or their youngest treasure,
Take notes of what his Lordship said
On shapes and colours, songs and dances,

159

And make their maidens white or red,
According to his Lordship's fancies.
They whispered, too, from time to time,
What might escape the Count's inspection;
That Linda's soul was all sublime;
That Gertrude's taste was quite perfection:
Or blamed some people's forward tricks,
And very charitably hinted,
Their neighbour's niece was twenty-six,
Their cousin's clever daughter squinted.

Are you rich, single, and “your Grace”?
I pity your unhappy case.
Before you launch your first new carriage,
The women have arranged your marriage;
Where'er your weary wit may lead you,
They pet you, praise you, fret you, feed you;
Consult your taste in wreaths and laces,
And make you make their books at races:
Your little pony, Tam O'Shanter,
Is found to have the sweetest canter;
Your curricle is quite reviving,
And Jane's so bold when you are driving!
One recollects your father's habits,
And knows the warren, and the rabbits!
The place is really princely-only
They're sure you'll find it vastly lonely:

160

Another, in more tender phrases,
Records your sainted mother's praises;
Pronounces her the best of creatures,
And finds in you her tones and features.
You go to Cheltenham for the waters,
And meet the Countess and her daughters;
You take a cottage at Geneva—
Lo! Lady Anne and Lady Eva.
After a struggle of a session,
You just surrender at discretion,
And live to curse the frauds of mothers,
And envy all your younger brothers.

Count Otto bowed, Count Otto smiled,
When my Lady praised her darling child;
Count Otto smiled, Count Otto bowed,
When the child those praises disavowed;
But out on the cold one! he cared not a rush
For the motherly pride, or the maidenly blush.
As a knight should gaze, Count Otto gazed,
Where Bertha in all her beauty blazed;
As a knight should hear, Count Otto heard,
When Liba sang like a forest bird;
But he thought, I trow, about as long
Of Bertha's beauty and Liba's song,
As the sun may think of the clouds that play
O'er his radiant path on a summer day.

161

Many a maid had dreams of state,
As the Count rode up to her father's gate;
Many a maid shed tears of pain,
As the Count rode back to his tower again;
But little he cared, as it should seem,
For the sad, sad tear, or the fond, fond dream;
Alone he lived—alone and free
As the owl that dwells in the hollow tree;
And belles and barons said and swore,
That never was knight so shy before!

It was almost the first of May:
The sun all smiles had passed away;
The moon was beautifully bright;
Earth, heaven, as usual in such cases,
Looked up and down with happy faces;—
In short, it was a charming night.
And all alone, at twelve o'clock,
The young Count clambered down the rock,
Unfurled the sail, unchained the oar,
And pushed the shallop from the shore.
The holiness that sweet time flings
Upon all human thoughts and things,
When Sorrow checks her idle sighs,
And Care shuts fast her wearied eyes,—
The splendour of the hues that played
Fantastical o'er hill and glade,

162

As verdant slope and barren cliff
Seemed darting by the tiny skiff,—
The flowers, whose faint tips, here and there,
Breathed out such fragrance, you might swear
That every soundless gale that fanned
The tide came fresh from fairy-land,—
The music of the mountain rill,
Leaping in glee from hill to hill,
To which some wild bird, now and then,
Made answer from her darksome glen,—
All this to him had rarer pleasure
Than jester's wit or minstrel's measure;
And, if you ever loved romancing,
Or felt extremely tired of dancing,
You'll hardly wonder that Count Otto
Left, for the scene my muse is painting,
The Lady Hildebrand's ridotto,
Where all the Rhenish world was fainting.

What melody glides o'er the star-lit stream?
“Lurley!—Lurley!”
Angels of grace! does the young Count dream?
“Lurley!—Lurley!”
Or is the scene indeed so fair
That a nymph of the sea or a nymph of the air
Has left the home of her own delight,
To sing to our roses and rocks to-night?
“Lurley!—Lurley!”

163

Words there are none; but the waves prolong
The notes of that mysterious song:
He listens, he listens; and all around
Ripples the echo of that sweet sound,
“Lurley!—Lurley!”
No form appears on the river side;
No boat is borne on the wandering tide;
And the tones ring on, with nought to show
Or whence they come or whither they go;—
“Lurley!—Lurley!”
As fades one murmur on the ear,
There comes another, just as clear;
And the present is like to the parted strain,
As link to link of a golden chain:
“Lurley!—Lurley!”
Whether the voice be sad or gay,
'Twere very hard for the Count to say;
But pale are his cheeks, and pained his brow,
And the boat drifts on, he recks not how;
His pulse is quick, and his heart is wild,
And he weeps, he weeps, like a little child.

O mighty music! they who know
The witchery of thy wondrous bow,
Forget, when thy strange spells have bound them,
The visible world that lies around them.
When Lady Mary sings Rossini,
Or stares at spectral Paganini,

164

To Lady Mary does it matter
Who laugh, who love, who frown, who flatter?
Oh no! she cannot heed or hear
Reason or rhyme from prince or peer:
In vain for her Sir Charles denounces
The horror of the last new flounces;
In vain her friend the Member raves
Of ballot, bullion, sugars, slaves;
Predicts the nation's future glories,
And chants the requiem of the Tories;
And if some fond and foolish lisper
Recites, in passion's softest whisper,
The raptures which young love imparts
To mutual minds and kindred hearts,—
Poor boy,—she minds him just as much
As if'twere logic, or High Dutch.

As little did the young Knight care,—
While still he listened to the air
Breathed by some melodist unseen,
Much wondering what it all might mean,—
For those odd changes of the sky,
To dark from bright, to moist from dry,
Which furnish to the British nation
Three quarters of its conversation.
Meantime a gust, a drop, a flash
Had warned, perhaps, a youth less rash,

165

To shun a storm of fiercer fury,
Than ever stunned the gods of Drury.

Hid was the bright heaven's loveliness
Beneath a sudden cloud,
As a bride might doff her bridal dress
To don her funeral shroud;
And over flood and over fell,
With a wild and wicked shout,
From the secret cell where in chains they dwell,
The joyous winds rushed out;
And, the tall hills through, the thunder flew,
And down the fierce hail came;
And from peak to peak the lightning threw
Its shafts of liquid flame.
The boat went down; without delay,
The luckless boatman swooned away:
And when, as a clear spring morning rose,
He woke in wonder from repose,
The river was calm as the river could be,
And the thrush was awake on the gladsome tree,
And there he lay, in a sunny cave,
On the margin of the tranquil wave,
Half deaf with that infernal din,
And wet, poor fellow, to the skin.

He looked to the left and he looked to the right:
Why hastened he not, the noble Knight,

166

To dry his aged nurse's tears,
To calm the hoary butler's fears.
To listen to the prudent speeches
Of half a dozen loquacious leeches,
To swallow cordials circumspectly,
And change his dripping cloak directly?
With foot outstretched, with hand upraised.
In vast surprise he gazed and gazed.
Within a deep and damp recess
A maiden lay in her loveliness!
Lived she?—in sooth 'twere hard to tell,
Sleep counterfeited Death so well.
A shelf of the rock was all her bed;
A ceiling of crystal was o'er her head;
Silken veil, nor satin vest,
Shrouded her form in its silent rest;
Only her long long golden hair
About her lay like a thin robe there.
Up to her couch the young Knight crept:
How very sound the maiden slept!
Fearful and faint the young Knight sighed:
The echoes of the cave replied.
He leaned to look upon her face;
He clasped her hand in a wild embrace;
Never was form of such fine mould;
But the hands and the face were as white and cold
As they of the Parian stone were made,
To which, in great Minerva's shade,

167

The Athenian sculptor's toilsome knife
Gave all of loveliness but life.
On her fair neck there seemed no stain
Where the pure blood coursed through the delicate vein;
And her breath, if breath indeed it were,
Flowed in a current so soft and rare,
It would scarcely have stirred the young moth's wing
On the path of his noonday wandering—
Never on earth a creature trod,
Half so lovely, or half so odd.

Count Otto stares till his eyelids ache,
And wonders when she'll please to wake;
While fancy whispers strange suggestions,
And wonder prompts a score of questions.
Is she a nymph of another sphere?
How came she hither? what doth she here?
Or if the morning of her birth
Be registered on this our earth,
Why hath she fled from her father's halls?
And where hath she left her cloaks and shawls?
There was no time for reason's lectures,
There was no time for wit's conjectures;
He threw his arm with timid haste
Around the maiden's slender waist,
And raised her up, in a modest way,
From the cold bare rock on which she lay:

168

He was but a mile from his castle gate,
And the lady was scarcely five stone weight;
He stopped in less than half an hour,
With his beauteous burden, at Belmont Tower.

Gaily, I ween, was the chamber drest,
As the Count gave order, for his guest;
But scarcely on the couch, 'tis said,
That gentle guest was fairly laid,
When she opened at once her great blue eyes,
And, after a glance of brief surprise,
Ere she had spoken, and ere she had heard
Of wisdom or wit a single word,
She laughed so long, and laughed so loud,
That Dame Ulrica often vowed
A dirge is a merrier thing by half
Than such a senseless soulless laugh.
Around the tower the elfin crew
Seemed shouting in mirthful concert too;
And echoed roof, and trembled rafter,
With that unsentimental laughter.

As soon as that droll tumult passed,
The maiden's tongue, unchained at last,
Asserted all its female right,
And talked and talked with all its might.
Oh, how her low and liquid voice
Made the rapt hearer's soul rejoice!

169

'Twas full of those clear tones that start
From innocent childhood's happy heart,
Ere passion and sin disturb the well
In which their mirth and music dwell.
But man nor master could make out
What the eloquent maiden talked about;
The things she uttered like did seem
To the babbling waves of a limpid stream;
For the words of her speech, if words they might be,
Were the words of a speech of a far countrie;
And when she had said them o'er and o'er,
Count Otto understood no more
Than you or I of the slang that falls
From dukes and dupes at Tattersall's,
Of Hebrew from a bearded Jew,
Or metaphysics from a Blue.

Count Otto swore,—Count Otto's reading
Might well have taught him better breeding,—
That, whether the maiden should fume or fret,
The maiden should not leave him yet;
And so he took prodigious pains
To make her happy in her chains.
From Paris came a pair of cooks,
From Gottingen a load of books,
From Venice stores of gorgeous suits,
From Florence minstrels and their lutes:

170

The youth himself had special pride
In breaking horses for his bride;
And his old tutor, Dr. Hermann,
Was brought from Bonn to teach her German.

He who with curious step hath strayed
Alone through some suburban shade,
To rural Chelsea sauntering down,
Or wandering over Camden Town,
The sacred mansions oft has seen,
Whose walls are white, whose gates are green,
Where ladies with respected names,
Miss Black, Miss Brown, Miss Jenks, Miss James,
For fifty pounds a year or so
Teach beauty all it ought to know,—
How long have been the reigns and lives
Of British monarchs and their wives,—
How fast the twinkling planets run,
From age to age, about the sun,—
The depths of lakes, the heights of hills,
The rule of three, the last quadrilles,
Italian airs, Parisian phrases,
The class and sex of shells and daisies,
The rules of grammar and of grace,
Right sentiments, and thorough-bass.
There quick the young idea shoots,
And bears its blossoms and its fruits.

171

The rosy nymph, who nothing knows
But just to scream a noisy ballad
To mend her little brother's hose.
To make a cake, or mix a salad,
Tormented for a year or two,
(So fast the female wit advances)
Shall grow superlatively blue,
And print a volume of romances.

But ne'er did any forward child,
In any such sequestered college,
Trip faster than my maiden wild
Through every path of useful knowledge.
In May o'er grassy hill and vale
Like some young fawn's her footsteps bounded;
In May upon the morning gale
Like some blithe bird's her carols sounded:
June came;—she practised pirouettes
That might have puzzled Bigottini,
And decked her simple canzonets
With shakes that would have charmed Rossini.
In spring to her the A. B. C.
Appeared a mystery quite as murky
As galvanism to Owhyhee,
Or annual Parliaments to Turkey;
But when upon the flood and fell
Brown autumn's earliest storms were low'ring.

172

She was quite competent to spell
Through all the books of Doctor Bowring.

No cheerful friend, no quiet guest,
Doth Wisdom come to human breast;
She brings the day-beam, but in sooth
She brings its trouble with its truth.
With every cloud that flits and flies
Some dear delusion fades and dies;
With every flash of perfect light
Some loveless prospect blasts the sight.
Shut up the page; for in its lore
Are fears and doubts unfelt before:
Fling down the wreath; for sorrow weaves
Amid the laurel cypress leaves.

Moons waxed and waned; and you might trace
In the captive maiden gradual change;
Ever and ever of form and face
Some charm seemed fresh and new and strange:
Over her cold and colourless cheek
The blush of the rose began to glow,
And her quickened pulse began to speak
Of human bliss and human woe;
Her features kept their beauty still,
But a graver shade was o'er them thrown;
Her voice had yet its clear soft thrill,
But its echo took a sadder tone.

173

Oft, till the Count came up from wine,
She sat alone by the lattice high,
Tracing the course of the rolling Rhine
With a moody brow and a wistful eye;
Still, as the menials oft averred,
Talking and talking, low and long,
In that droll language which they heard,
At her first coming, from her tongue.
None but the Pope of Rome, they deemed,
Could construe what the damsel said;
But this they knew, by turns she seemed
To soothe, to threaten, to upbraid.
And oft on a crag at dawn she stood,
Her golden harp in her pretty hand,
And sang such songs to the gurgling flood
As an exile sings to his native land;
Till, if a listener dared intrude,
She hastened back to the postern-gate,
Blushing, as if her solitude
Were as dear and as wrong as a tête-à-tête.

'Twas wondrous all; but most of all,
That, held in strict though gentle thrall,
She seemed so slow to take upon her
The style and state of threatened honour.
For often, when on bended knee
Count Otto pressed his amorous plea,

174

And begged, before his heart should break,
She'd be a Countess for his sake,
Without the slightest show of flurry,
She chid his heat, and checked his hurry:
He might allow her time, she said,
To learn the life his Lordship led;
Such hawking, hunting, dining, drinking,—
At times she felt her poor heart sinking!
At home, in bed the livelong day,
She lived in such a different way;
So calm, so cool,—her father's daughter
Was ne'er a minute in hot water.
Then their acquaintance, she must state,
Was of a very recent date;
They met in May, he should remember,
And now were hardly in December;
Such eyes as hers, she had a notion,
Were worth at least a year's devotion.
Her kindred had their fancies too
Of what young ladies ought to do:
All sorts of mischief might befall,
If rashly in her father's hall
Before twelve months of courtship ended
She showed her face with her intended.—
But where that father's hall?—vain, vain;
She turned her eyes in silence down;
And if you dared to ask again,
Her only answer was a frown.

175

Some people have a knack, we know,
Of saying things mal-à-propos,
And making all the world reflect
On what it hates to recollect.
They talk to misers of their heir,
To women of the days that were,
To ruined gamblers of the box,
To thin defaulters of the stocks,
To poets of the wrong Review,
And to the French of Waterloo.
The Count was not of these; he never
Was half so clumsy, half so clever;
And when he found the girl would rather
Say nothing more about her father,
He changed the subject—told a fable—
Believed that dinner was on table—
Or hinted, with an air of sorrow,
The certainty of rain to-morrow.

Meantime the world began to prate
Of young Count Otto's purposed marriage;
Discussed the jewels and the plate,
Described the dresses and the carriage.
The lady's rank, the lady's name,
As usual in such curious cases,
Were asked by many a noble dame,
With most expressive tones and faces;

176

The grave and gay, the old and young,
Looked very arch, or very serious;
Some whispered something that was wrong,
Some murmured much that was mysterious.
One aunt, a strict old maiden, thought,—
And could not bear the thought to smother,—
Young persons positively ought
To have a father and a mother;
And wondered, with becoming scorn,
How far presumption might be carried,
When hussies who had ne'er been born
Began to think of being married:
Another, fair, and kind as fair,
Was heard by many to protest
It was her daily wish and prayer
That she might see her nephew blest;
And though, as matters stood, of course
'Twas quite impossible to call
On somebody, whom she perforce
Considered nobody at all,
When once the Church had done its part.
And ratified the Count's selection,
She'd clasp the Countess to her heart,
Impromptu, with profound affection.

The winter storms went darkly by,
And, from a blue and cloudless sky,

177

Again the sun looked cheerfully
Upon the rolling Rhine;
And spring brought back to the budding flowers
Its genial light and freshening showers,
And music to the shady bowers,
And verdure to the vine.
And now it is the first of May;
For twenty miles round all is gay;
Cottage and castle keep holiday;
For how should sorrow lower
On brow of rustic or of knight,
When heaven itself looks all so bright,
Where Otto's wedding feast is dight
In the hall of Belmont Tower?
For the maiden's hair the wreath is wrought;
For the maiden's hand the ring is bought;
Be she a Fiend, or be she a Fay,
She shall be Otto's bride to-day.
And he,—for he at last discovers
That “no” is a word unfit for lovers,—
Has promised, as soon as the priest has done
The terrible rite that makes them one,
To step with her to the carriage and four
That waits e'en now at the castle-door,
And post to visit, “although,” saith she,
“A very odd road our road may be,”
Her father, her mother, and two or three dozens
Of highly respectable aunts and cousins:

178

And he has sanctioned his consent,
Lest he should happen to repent,
By a score or more of the oaths that slip,
As matters of course, from a bridegroom's lip

Stately matron and warrior tall
Come to the joyous festival;
Gladly Otto welcomes all,
As through the gate they throng;
He fills to the brim the wassail cup;
In the bright wine pleasure sparkles up,
And draughts and tales grow long;
But grizzly knights are still and mute,
And dames set down the untasted fruit,
When the bride awakes her golden lute,
And charms them all with song.

“The dawn is past, the dusk comes fast,
No longer may I roam;
Full soon, full soon, the young May moon
Will guide the truant home:
Hasten we, hasten, groom and bride;
How merry we shall be!
Now open, father, open wide.
Let in my lord with me.

“Though treasures old of silver and gold
Lie in thy secret store,

179

I bring thee to-night, to charm thy sight,
Gifts thou wilt value more;
Knightly valour, and lordly pride,
Leal heart, and spirit free;—
Now open, father, open wide,
Let in my lord with me.

“I hear, I hear, with joy and fear,
The old familiar tone;
I hear him call to his ancient hall
His favourite, his own:
How will he chafe and how will he chide!
For a fretful mood hath he;—
Now open, father, open wide,
Let in my lord with me!”

The nurses to the children say
That, as the maiden sang that day,
The Rhine to the heights of the beetling tower
Sent up a cry of fiercer power,
And again the maiden's cheek was grown
As white as ever was marble stone,
And the bridesmaid her hand could hardly hold,
Its fingers were so icy cold.

Rose Count Otto from the feast,
As entered the hall the hoary Priest.

180

A stalwart warrior, well I ween,
That hoary Priest in his youth had been;
But the might of his manhood he had given
To penance and prayer, the Church and Heaven.
For he had travelled o'er land and wave;
He had kneeled on many a martyr's grave;
He had prayed in the meek St. Jerome's cell,
And had tasted St. Anthony's blessed well;
And reliques round his neck had he,
Each worth a haughty kingdom's fee;
Scrapings of bones, and points of spears,
And vials of authentic tears,
From a prophet's coffin a hallowed nail,
And a precious shred of our Lady's veil.
And therefore at his awful tread
The powers of darkness shrank with dread;
And Satan felt that no disguise
Could hide him from those chastened eyes.
He looked on the bridegroom, he looked on the bride,
The young Count smiled, but the old Priest sighed.

“Fields with the father I have won;
I am come in my cowl to bless the son.
Count Otto, ere thou bend thy knee,
What shall the hire of my service be?”

“Greedy hawk must gorge his prey;
Pious priest must grasp his pay.

181

Name the guerdon, and so to the task;
Thine it is, ere thy lips can ask!”

He frowned as he answered—“Gold and gem,
Count Otto, little I reck of them;
But your bride has skill of the lute, they say.
Let her sing me the song I shall name to-day.”

Loud laughed the Count: “And if she refuse
The ditty, Sir Priest, thy whim shall choose,
Row back to the house of old St. Goar;
I never bid priest to a bridal more.”

Beside the maiden he took his stand;
He gave the lute to her trembling hand;
She gazed around with a troubled eye;
The guests all shuddered, and knew not why;
It seemed to them as if a gloom
Had shrouded all the banquet-room,
Though over its boards and over its beams
Sunlight was glowing in merry streams.

The stern Priest throws an angry glance
On that pale creature's countenance;
Unconsciously her white hand flings
Its soft touch o'er the answering strings;
The good man starts with a sudden thrill,
And half relents from his purposed will;

182

But he signs the Cross on his aching brow,
And arms his soul for its warfare now.

“Mortal maid or goblin fairy,
Sing me, I pray thee, an Ave Mary!”

Suddenly the maiden bent
O'er the gorgeous instrument;
But of song the listeners heard
Only one wild mournful word—
“Lurley,—Lurley!”
And when the sound in the liquid air
Of that brief hymn had faded,
Nothing was left of the nymph who there
For a year had masqueraded,
But the harp in the midst of the wide hall set
Where her last strange word was spoken;—
The golden frame with tears was wet,
And all the strings were broken.

184

THE LEGEND OF THE TEUFEL-HAUS.

The way was lone, and the hour was late,
And Sir Rudolph was far from his castle gate.
The night came down by slow degrees
On the river stream, and the forest-trees;
And by the heat of the heavy air,
And by the lightning's distant glare,
And by the rustling of the woods,
And by the roaring of the floods,
In half an hour, a man might say,
The Spirit of Storm would ride that way.
But little he cared, that stripling pale,
For the sinking sun, or the rising gale;
For he, as he rode, was dreaming now,
Poor youth, of a woman's broken vow,
Of the cup dashed down, ere the wine was tasted,
Of eloquent speeches sadly wasted,
Of a gallant heart all burnt to ashes,
And the Baron of Katzberg's long mustaches.
So the earth below, and the heaven above,
He saw them not;—those dreams of love,
As some have found, and some will find,
Make men extremely deaf and blind.

185

At last he opened his great blue eyes,
And looking about in vast surprise,
Found that his hunter had turned his back
An hour ago on the beaten track,
And now was threading a forest hoar,
Where steed had never stepped before.

“By Cæsar's head,” Sir Rudolph said,
“It were a sorry joke,
If I to-night should make my bed
On the turf, beneath an oak!
Poor Roland reeks from head to hoof;—
Now, for thy sake, good roan,
I would we were beneath a roof,
Were it the foul fiend's own!”

Ere the tongue could rest, ere the lips could close,
The sound of a listener's laughter rose.
It was not the scream of a merry boy
When Harlequin waves his wand of joy;
Nor the shout from a serious curate, won
By a bending bishop's annual pun;
Nor the roar of a Yorkshire clown;—oh, no!
It was a gentle laugh, and low;
Half uttered, perhaps, and stifled half,
A good old-gentlemanly laugh;
Such as my uncle Peter's are,
When he tells you his tales of Dr. Parr.

186

The rider looked to the left and the right,
With something of marvel, and more of fright:
But brighter gleamed his anxious eye,
When a light shone out from a hill hard by.
Thither he spurred, as gay and glad
As Mrs. Macquill's delighted lad,
When he turns away from the Pleas of the Crown
Or flings, with a yawn, old Saunders down,
And flies, at last, from all the mysteries
Of Plaintiffs' and Defendants' histories,
To make himself sublimely neat,
For Mrs. Camac's in Mansfield Street.

At a lofty gate Sir Rudolph halted;
Down from his seat Sir Rudolph vaulted:
And he blew a blast with might and main,
On the bugle that hung by an iron chain.
The sound called up a score of sounds;—
The screeching of owls, and the baying of hounds
The hollow toll of the turret bell,
The call of the watchful sentinel,
And a groan at last, like a peal of thunder
As the huge old portals rolled asunder
And gravely from the castle hall
Paced forth the white-robed seneschal.
He stayed not to ask of what degree
So fair and famished a knight might be;

187

But knowing that all untimely question
Ruffles the temper, and mars the digestion,
He laid his hand upon the crupper,
And said,—“You're just in time for supper!”

They led him to the smoking board,
And placed him next to the castle's Lord.
He looked around with a hurried glance:
You may ride from the border to fair Penzance
And nowhere, but at Epsom Races,
Find such a group of ruffian faces
As thronged that chamber: some were talking
Of feats of hunting and of hawking,
And some were drunk, and some were dreaming,
And some found pleasure in blaspheming.
He thought, as he gazed on the fearful crew,
That the lamps that burned on the walls burned blue.
They brought him a pasty of mighty size,
To cheer his heart, and to charm his eyes;
They brought the wine, so rich and old,
And filled to the brim the cup of gold;
The Knight looked down, and the Knight looked up,
But he carved not the meat, and he drained not the cup.

“Ho, ho,” said his host with angry brow,
“I wot our guest is fine;
Our fare is far too coarse, I trow,
For such nice taste as thine:

188

Yet trust me I have cooked the food,
And I have filled the can,
Since I have lived in this old wood,
For many a nobler man.”—
“The savoury buck and the ancient cask
To a weary man are sweet;
But ere he taste, it is fit he ask
For a blessing on bowl and meat.
Let me but pray for a minute's space,
And bid me pledge ye then;
I swear to ye, by our Lady's grace,
I shall eat and drink like ten!”

The Lord of the castle in wrath arose,
He frowned like a fiery dragon;
Indignantly he blew his nose,
And overturned a flagon.
And “Away,” quoth he, “with the canting priest,
Who comes uncalled to a midnight feast,
And breathes through a helmet his holy benison,
To sour my hock, and spoil my venison!”

That moment all the lights went out;
And they dragged him forth, that rabble rout,
With oath, and threat, and foul scurrility,
And every sort of incivility.
They barred the gates; and the peal of laughter,
Sudden and shrill, that followed after,

189

Died off into a dismal tone,
Like a parting spirit's painful moan.
“I wish,” said Rudolph, as he stood
On foot in the deep and silent wood;
“I wish, good Roland, rack and stable
May be kinder to-night than their master's table!”

By this the storm had fleeted by;
And the moon with a quiet smile looked out
From the glowing arch of a cloudless sky,
Flinging her silvery beams about
On rock, tree, wave, and gladdening all
With just as miscellaneous bounty,
As Isabel's, whose sweet smiles fall
In half an hour on half the county.
Less wild Sir Rudolph's pathway seemed,
As he turned from that discourteous tower
Small spots of verdure gaily gleamed
On either side; and many a flower,
Lily, and violet, and heart's-ease,
Grew by the way, a fragrant border;
And the tangled boughs of the hoary trees
Were twined in picturesque disorder:
And there came from the grove, and there came from the hill
The loveliest sounds he had ever heard,
The checrful voice of the dancing rill,
And the sad sad song of the lonely bird.

190

And at last he stared with wondering eyes,
As well he might, on a huge pavilion:
'Twas clothed with stuffs of a hundred dyes,
Blue, purple, orange, pink, vermilion;
And there were quaint devices traced
All round in the Saracenic manner;
And the top, which gleamed like gold, was graced
With the drooping folds of a silken banner;
And on the poles, in silent pride,
There sat small doves of white enamel;
And the veil from the entrance was drawn aside,
And flung on the humps of a silver camel.
In short, it was the sweetest thing
For a weary youth in a wood to light on;
And finer far than what a King
Built up, to prove his taste, at Brighton.

The gilded gate was all unbarred;
And, close beside it, for a guard,
There lay two dwarfs with monstrous noses,
Both fast asleep upon some roses.
Sir Rudolph entered; rich and bright
Was all that met his ravished sight;
Soft tapestries from far countries brought,
Rare cabinets with gems inwrought,
White vases of the finest mould,
And mirrors set in burnished gold.
Upon a couch a greyhound slumbered;

191

And a small table was encumbered
With paintings, and an ivory lute,
And sweetmeats, and delicious fruit.
Sir Rudolph lost no time in praising;
For he, I should have said, was gazing,
In attitude extremely tragic,
Upon a sight of stranger magic;
A sight, which, seen at such a season,
Might well astonish Mistress Reason,
And scare Dame Wisdom from her fences
Of rules and maxims, moods and tenses.

Beneath a crimson canopy,
A lady, passing fair, was lying;
Deep sleep was on her gentle eye,
And in her slumber she was sighing
Bewitching sighs, such sighs as say
Beneath the moonlight, to a lover,
Things which the coward tongue by day
Would not, for all the world, discover:
She lay like a shape of sculptured stone,
So pale, so tranquil:—she had thrown,
For the warm evening's sultriness,
The broidered coverlet aside;
And nothing was there to deck or hide
The glory of her loveliness,
But a scarf of gauze so light and thin
You might see beneath the dazzling skin,

192

And watch the purple streamlets go
Through the valleys of white and stainless snow,
Or here and there a wayward tress,
Which wandered out with vast assurance
From the pearls that kept the rest in durance,
And fluttered about, as if 'twould try
To lure a zephyr from the sky.

“Bertha!”—large drops of anguish came
On Rudolph's brow, as he breathed that name,—
“O fair and false one, wake, and fear!
I, the betrayed, the scorned, am here.”
The eye moved not from its dull eclipse,
The voice came not from the fast-shut lips;
No matter! well that gazer knew
The tone of bliss, and the eyes of blue.

Sir Rudolph hid his burning face
With both his hands, for a minute's space,
And all his frame, in awful fashion,
Was shaken by some sudden passion.
What guilty fancies o'er him ran?—
Oh! Pity will be slow to guess them;
And never, save to the holy man,
Did good Sir Rudolph e'er confess them.
But soon his spirit you might deem
Came forth from the shade of the fearful dream;

193

His cheek, though pale, was calm again,
And he spoke in peace, though he spoke in pain:

“Not mine! not mine! now Mary, mother,
Aid me the sinful hope to smother!
Not mine, not mine!—I have loved thee long,
Thou hast quitted me with grief and wrong;
But pure the heart of a knight should be,—
Sleep on, sleep on! thou art safe for me.
Yet shalt thou know by a certain sign
Whose lips have been so near to thine,
Whose eyes have looked upon thy sleep,
And turned away, and longed to weep,
Whose heart,—mourn—madden as it will,—
Has spared thee, and adored thee still!”

His purple mantle, rich and wide,
From his neck the trembling youth untied,
And flung it o'er those dangerous charms,
The swelling neck, and the rounded arms.
Once more he looked, once more he sighed;
And away, away from the perilous tent,
Swift as the rush of an eagle's wing
Or the flight of a shaft from Tartar string,
Into the wood Sir Rudolph went:
Not with more joy the schoolboys run
To the gay green fields, when their task is done;—

194

Not with more haste the members fly,
When Hume has caught the Speaker's eye

At last the daylight came; and then
A score or two of serving men,
Supposing that some sad disaster
Had happened to their lord and master,
Went out into the wood, and found him
Unhorsed, and with no mantle round him.
Ere he could tell his tale romantic,
The leech pronounced him clearly frantic,
So ordered him at once to bed,
And clapped a blister on his head.

Within the sound of the castle clock
There stands a huge and rugged rock;
And I have heard the peasants say,
That the grieving groom at noon that day
Found gallant Roland, cold and stiff,
At the base of the black and beetling cliff.

Beside the rock there is an oak,
Tall, blasted by the thunder-stroke;
And I have heard the peasants say,
That there Sir Rudolph's mantle lay,
And coiled in many a deadly wreath
A venomous serpent slept beneath.

195

THE RED FISHERMAN,

OR THE DEVIL'S DECOY.

“Oh flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified!”
Romeo and Juliet

The Abbot arose, and closed his book,
And donned his sandal shoon,
And wandered forth, alone, to look
Upon the summer moon:
A starlight sky was o'er his head,
A quiet breeze around;
And the flowers a thrilling fragrance shed
And the waves a soothing sound:
It was not an hour, nor a scene, for aught
But love and calm delight;
Yet the holy man had a cloud of thought
On his wrinkled brow that night.
He gazed on the river that gurgled by,
But he thought not of the reeds;
He clasped his gilded rosary,
But he did not tell the beads;
If he looked to the heaven, 'twas not to invoke
The Spirit that dwelleth there;
If he opened his lips, the words they spoke
Had never the tone of prayer.

196

A pious priest might the Abbot seem,
He had swayed the crozier well;
But what was the theme of the Abbot's dream,
The Abbot were loth to tell.

Companionless, for a mile or more,
He traced the windings of the shore.
Oh, beauteous is that river still,
As it winds by many a sloping hill,
And many a dim o'erarching grove,
And many a flat and sunny cove,
And terraced lawns, whose bright arcades
The honeysuckle sweetly shades,
And rocks, whose very crags seem bowers,
So gay they are with grass and flowers!
But the Abbot was thinking of scenery
About as much, in sooth,
As a lover thinks of constancy,
Or an advocate of truth.
He did not mark how the skies in wrath
Grew dark above his head;
He did not mark how the mossy path
Grew damp beneath his tread;
And nearer he came, and still more near,
To a pool, in whose recess
The water had slept for many a year,
Unchanged and motionless;

197

From the river stream it spread away
The space of half a rood;
The surface had the hue of clay
And the scent of human blood;
The trees and the herbs that round it grew
Were venomous and foul,
And the birds that through the bushes flew
Were the vulture and the owl;
The water was as dark and rank
As ever a Company pumped,
And the perch, that was netted and laid on the bank,
Grew rotten while it jumped;
And bold was he who thither came
At midnight, man or boy,
For the place was cursed with an evil name,
And that name was “The Devil's Decoy!”

The Abbot was weary as abbot could be,
And he sat down to rest on the stump of a tree:
When suddenly rose a dismal tone,—
Was it a song, or was it a moan?—
“O ho! O ho!
Above,—below,—
Lightly and brightly they glide and go!
The hungry and keen on the top are leaping,
The lazy and fat in the depths are sleeping;
Fishing is fine when the pool is muddy,
Broiling is rich when the coals are ruddy! ’—

198

In a monstrous fright, by the murky light,
He looked to the left and he looked to the right,
And what was the vision close before him,
That flung such a sudden stupor o'er him?
'Twas a sight to make the hair uprise,
And the life-blood colder run:
The startled Priest struck both his thighs,
And the abbey clock struck one!

All alone, by the side of the pool,
A tall man sat on a three-legged stool,
Kicking his heels on the dewy sod,
And putting in order his reel and rod;
Red were the rags his shoulders wore,
And a high red cap on his head he bore;
His arms and his legs were long and bare;
And two or three locks of long red hair
Were tossing about his scraggy neck,
Like a tattered flag o'er a splitting wreck.
It might be time, or it might be trouble,
Had bent that stout back nearly double,
Sunk in their deep and hollow sockets
That blazing couple of Congreve rockets,
And shrunk and shrivelled that tawny skin,
Till it hardly covered the bones within.
The line the Abbot saw him throw
Had been fashioned and formed long ages ago,
And the hands that worked his foreign vest

199

Long ages ago had gone to their rest:
You would have sworn, as you looked on them,
He had fished in the flood with Ham and Shem!

There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks,
As he took forth a bait from his iron box.
Minnow or gentle, worm or fly,—
It seemed not such to the Abbot's eye;
Gaily it glittered with jewel and gem,
And its shape was the shape of a diadem.
It was fastened a gleaming hook about
By a chain within and a chain without;
The Fisherman gave it a kick and a spin,
And the water fizzed as it tumbled in!

From the bowels of the earth,
Strange and varied sounds had birth;
Now the battle's bursting peal,
Neigh of steed, and clang of steel;
Now an old man's hollow groan
Echoed from the dungeon stone;
Now the weak and wailing cry
Of a stripling's agony!—
Cold by this was the midnight air;
But the Abbot's blood ran colder.
When he saw a gasping Knight lie there,
With a gash beneath his clotted hair,
And a hump upon his shoulder.

200

And the loyal churchman strove in vain
To mutter a Pater Noster;
For he who writhed in mortal pain
Was camped that night on Bosworth plain—
The cruel Duke of Gloster!

There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks,
As he took forth a bait from his iron box.
It was a haunch of princely size,
Filling with fragrance earth and skies.
The corpulent Abbot knew full well
The swelling form, and the steaming smell;
Never a monk that wore a hood
Could better have guessed the very wood
Where the noble hart had stood at bay,
Weary and wounded, at close of day.

Sounded then the noisy glee
Of a revelling company,—
Sprightly story, wicked jest,
Rated servant, greeted guest,
Flow of wine, and flight of cork,
Stroke of knife, and thrust of fork:
But, where'er the board was spread,
Grace, I ween, was never said!—
Pulling and tugging the Fisherman sat;
And the Priest was ready to vomit,

201

When he hauled out a gentleman, fine and fat,
With a belly as big as a brimming vat,
And a nose as red as a comet.
“A capital stew,” the Fisherman said,
“With cinnamon and sherry!”
And the Abbot turned away his head,
For his brother was lying before him dead,
The Mayor of St. Edmund's Bury!

There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks,
As he took forth a bait from his iron box.
It was a bundle of beautiful things,—
A peacock's tail, and a butterfly's wings,
A scarlet slipper, an auburn curl,
A mantle of silk, and a bracelet of pearl,
And a packet of letters, from whose sweet fold
Such a stream of delicate odours rolled,
That the Abbot fell on his face, and fainted,
And deemed his spirit was half-way sainted.

Sounds seemed dropping from the skies,
Stifled whispers, smothered sighs,
And the breath of vernal gales,
And the voice of nightingales:
But the nightingales were mute,
Envious, when an unseen lute
Shaped the music of its chords
Into passion's thrilling words:

202

“Smile, Lady, smile!—I will not set
Upon my brow the coronet,
Till thou wilt gather roses white
To wear around its gems of light.
Smile, Lady, smile!—I will not see
Rivers and Hastings bend the knee,
Till those bewitching lips of thine
Will bid me rise in bliss from mine.
Smile, Lady, smile!—for who would win
A loveless throne through guilt and sin?
Or who would reign o'er vale and hill,
If woman's heart were rebel still?”

One jerk, and there a lady lay,
A lady wondrous fair;
But the rose of her lip had faded away,
And her cheek was as white and as cold as clay,
And torn was her raven hair.
“Ah ha!” said the Fisher, in merry guise,
“Her gallant was hooked before;”
And the Abbot heaved some piteous sighs,
For oft he had blessed those deep blue eyes,
The eyes of Mistress Shore!

There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks,
As he took forth a bait from his iron box.
Many the cunning sportsman tried,
Many he flung with a frown aside;

203

A minstrel's harp, and a miser's chest.
A hermit's cowl, and a baron's crest,
Jewels of lustre, robes of price,
Tomes of heresy, loaded dice,
And golden cups of the brightest wine
That ever was pressed from the Burgundy vine.
There was a perfume of sulphur and nitre.
As he came at last to a bishop's mitre!

From top to toe the Abbot shook,
As the Fisherman armed his golden hook
And awfully were his features wrought
By some dark dream or wakened thought.
Look how the fearful felon gazes
On the scaffold his country's vengeance raises,
When the lips are cracked and the jaws are dry
With the thirst which only in death shall die:
Mark the mariner's frenzied frown
As the swaling wherry settles down,
When peril has numbed the sense and will,
Though the hand and the foot may struggle still:
Wilder far was the Abbot's glance,
Deeper far was the Abbot's trance:
Fixed as a monument, still as air,
He bent no knee, and he breathed no prayer;
But he signed—he knew not why or how,—
The sign of the Cross on his clammy brow.

204

There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks,
As he stalked away with his iron box.
“O ho! O ho!
The cock doth crow;
It is time for the Fisher to rise and go.
Fair luck to the Abbot, fair luck to the shrine!
He hath gnawed in twain my choicest line;
Let him swim to the north, let him swim to the south
The Abbot will carry my hook in his mouth!”

The Abbot had preached for many years
With as clear articulation
As ever was heard in the House of Peers
Against Emancipation;
His words had made battalions quake,
Had roused the zeal of martyrs,
Had kept the Court an hour awake,
And the King himself three quarters:
But ever from that hour, 'tis said,
He stammered and he stuttered,
As if an axe went through his head
With every word he uttered.
He stuttered o'er blessing, he stuttered o'er ban,
He stuttered, drunk or dry;
And none but he and the Fisherman
Could tell the reason why!

205

POEMS OF LOVE AND FANCY.

206

LIDIAN'S LOVE.

The gayest gallants of the Court
Oft fell in love, on mere report,
With eyes they had not seen;
And knelt, and rhymed, and sighed, and frowned,
In talismanic fetters bound,
With flowers and sunshine all around—
And five-score leagues between.
—MS. Poem.

I

Sir Lidian had attained-his sixteenth year;
The golden age of life, wherein are met
Boyhood's last hope and Manhood's earliest fear
In mingled bliss and beauty;—you forget
Your cradle's laughter, and your school-room's tear,
Your maiden medal, and your first gazette;
But never, never, the bright dreams that blind you
When sixteen years are newly left behind you.

II

The daily longings to be very great,
The nightly studies to be very killing,
The blessed recklessness of human hate,
The sonnet-singing, and the sigh-distilling,
The chase of folly, and the scorn of fate,
Friendship's fresh throb, and Passion's April thrilling
For some high lady, whom your elder brother
Declares is old enough to be your mother.

208

III

Sir Lidian had attained his sixteenth year,
And was the loveliest stripling in the land;
His small soft features and his colour clear
Were like a budding girl's; his delicate hand
Seemed fitter for the distaff than the spear;
Locks of bright brown his spotless forehead fanned;
And he had eyes as blue as summer's heaven,
And stood a little more than five feet seven.

IV

No gallant flung a lance so fleet and true
From the trained courser through the golden ring;
No joyous harper at the banquet threw
A lighter touch across the sounding string;
Yet on his cheek there was the hectic hue
And in his eye the fitful wandering
Which chill our praise to pity, that a bloom
So fresh and fair is destined to the tomb!

V

And though he danced and played, as I have hinted,
In dance and song he took but little pleasure;
He looked contented, though his partner squinted,
And seldom frowned when minstrels marred the measure;
When the rich sky by evening's glow was tinted,
More glad was he to wander at his leisure,
Despising fogs, apostrophizing fountains,
Wasting the time, and worshipping the mountains.

209

VI

And yet he had not loved!—his early fancies
Of love, first love, the transport and the pain,
Had been extracted from the best romances,
And were, perhaps, of too sublime a strain;
So when he woke from those delicious trances,
He shut his eyes and chose to sleep again,
Shunning realities for shades, and fleeing
From all he saw to all he dreamt of seeing.

VII

In starlit dells and zephyr-haunted bowers,
Moistened by rivulets whose milky foam
Murmured the sweetest music, where warm showers
That trickled fresh from Heaven's eternal dome
Watered bright jewels that sprung up like flowers,—
In such a scene his fancy found a home,
A Paradise of Fancy's fabrication,
Peopled by Houris of the heart's creation;

VIII

Who never thrummed upon the virginals,
Nor tripped by rule, nor fortunately fainted,
Nor practised paying compliments and calls,
Looking satirical, or looking sainted,
Nor shrieked at tournaments, nor blushed at balls,
Nor lisped, nor sighed, nor drooped, nor punned, nor painted;
Nor wrote a book, nor traded in caresses,
Nor made remarks on other people's dresses.

210

IX

These were his raptures;—these have all been mine;
I could have worshipped once a constellation,
Filled the fine air with habitants divine,
Found in the sea all sorts of inspiration;
Gone out at noon-day with a Nymph to dine,
Held with an Echo charming conversation,
Commenced intriguing with a star, and kissed,
Like old Ixion, a coquettish mist.

X

Now all is over! passion is congealing,
The glory of the soul is pale and dim;
I gaze all night upon a whitewashed ceiling,
And get no glimpses of the seraphim;
Nothing is left of high and bright revealing
But a weak longing and a wayward whim;
And when Imagination takes the air,
She never wanders beyond Grosvenor-square.

XI

Not that I've been more wicked in my day
Than some, perhaps, who call themselves my betters;
I liked to prattle better than to pray,
And thought that freedom was as sweet as fetters;
Yet when my lip and lute are turned to clay,
The honest friend who prints my Life and Letters
Will find few stories of satanic arts,
Of broken promises or broken hearts.

211

XII

But I have moved too long in cold society,
Where it's the fashion not to care a rush;
Where girls are always thinking of propriety,
And men are laughed at if they chance to blush;
And thus I've caught the sickness of sobriety,
Forbidden sighs to sound, and tears to gush;
Become a great philosopher, and curled
Around my heart the poisons of the world.

XIII

And I have learnt at last the hideous trick
Of laughing at whate'er is great or holy;
At horrid tales that turn a soldier sick,
At griefs that make a Cynic melancholy;
At Mr. Lawless, and at Mr. Bric,
At Mr. Milman, and at Mr. Croly;
At Talma and at Young, Macbeth and Cinna,—
Even at you, adorable Corinna!

XIV

To me all light is darkness;—love is lust,
Painting soiled canvas, poetry so led paper;
The fairest loveliness a pinch of dust,
The proudest majesty a breath of vapour;
I have no sympathy, no tear, no trust,
No morning musing and no midnight taper
For daring manhood, or for dreaming youth,
Or maiden purity, or matron truth.

212

XV

But sweet Sir Lidian was far more refined;
He shrank betimes from life and life's defiling;
His step was on the earth, but oh! his mind
Made for itself a heaven! the fool's reviling
He did not seek, or shun; and thus, enshrined
In glad and innocent thoughts, he went on smiling,
Alone in crowds, unhearing and unheeding,
Fond of the fields, and very fond of reading.

XVI

When lords and ladies went to hunt together,
The milkmaid, as he passed, kicked down her pan;
When witty courtiers criticised the weather,
The Countess swore he was a learned man;
For him the proudest bowed beneath a feather,
For him the coldest blushed behind a fan;
And titled dames gave fêtes upon the water,
To introduce him to their angel daughter.

XVII

But happy, happy Lidian! for he never
Watched the caprices of a pretty face;
Nor longed, as I have longed, with vain endeavour
To tear that plaguy wall of Mechlin lace;
His apathy seemed like to last for ever;
When suddenly an incident took place
Which broke the talisman, and burst the bubble,
And gave his friends considerable trouble.

213

XVIII

He laid a bet upon his falcon's flight,
Rode home, as usually he did, a winner;
And sent a dozen pages to invite
Ten dozen Barons to a peacock dinner:
They came, they ate, they talked through half the night;
And the gay crowd grew naturally thinner,
As old Sir Guy, a story-teller staunch,
Began the story of the Lady Blanch.

XIX

How she was born just twenty years before;
And how her father was a Maltese Knight,
Sir Raymond styled, and skilled in knightly lore,
And true in love, and terrible in fight;
And how her mother, Lady Leonore,
Had perished when her offspring saw the light;
And how, because there was no other heir,
She was brought up with most uncommon care;

XX

How she was never, when she was a child,
Restrained in any innocent vagary;
And how she grew up beautiful and wild,
And sang as sweetly as a caged canary;
And how all artlessly she wept and smiled;
And how she danced cotillons like a fairy;
And how she proved what metal she was made of,
By mounting mares her groom was quite afraid of.

214

XXI

How Bishop Bembo mended her cacology,
And gave her all the graces of the Attics;
How Father Joseph taught her physiology,
And Father Jerome taught her mathematics;
And how she picked up something of astrology
From two white-haired long-bearded Asiatics;
And how she had a genius for gastronomy,
And private—not political—economy;

XXII

And how, as soon as she dismissed her tutor,
And sat at tiltings for the men's inspection,
She was besieged by many an anxious suitor
With sighs and sonnets, rhetoric and affection;
And how Sir Raymond stood completely neuter;
And how she gave to all the same rejection,
For being serious, or for being funny,
For want of genius, or for want of money;

XXIII

And how the father of this matchless daughter,
Who for long years had been a great dragooner,
Found Fate as fickle as old Horace thought her,
Which many soldiers find a great deal sooner;
How he was grounded in some shallow water,
And taken prisoner by a pirate schooner;
And how the Bey of Tunis made a slave of him,
And swore one day the sea should be the grave of him.

215

XXIV

And how poor Blanch, when that sad tale was told her,
Speechless and senseless, fell upon her face;
And how 'twas all two knights could do to hold her;
And how, at last, she took her writing-case,
And wrote, before she was a minute older,
To pray that she might fill her father's place,
Suggesting that a maiden, young and handsome,
Was more than worth an ugly old man's ransom;

XXV

And how the Bey behaved himself correctly,
Knowing such beauty was not for a Bey;
And how he shipped her, very circumspectly,
A present for the Sultan's own serai;
And how the Sultan fell in love directly;
And how he begged her, one fine summer's day,
To calm her passion, and assuage her grief,
And share his throne, his bed, and his belief.

XXVI

And how she told him his proposals shocked her,
Crescent and crown heroically spurning;
And how she reasoned with a Turkish doctor;
And how the Muftis marvelled at her learning;
And how the Vizier in a dungeon locked her;
And how three Pachas recommended burning;
And how, in spite of all their inhumanity,
She kept her character, and Christianity.

216

XXVII

How she escaped by preaching to her gaoler;
How Selim tore his beard and wore his willow;
How she put on the trousers of a sailor;
How Zephyr kindly helped her o'er the billow;
How all her friends were very glad to hail her;
How she was married now to Don Pedrillo;
And how she showed, by every look and action,
She loved her lord and master to distraction.

XXVIII

Such was the tale;—a tale to make men weep,
Yet half the guests were laughing in their sleeve;
Some fell a fighting, others fell asleep,
The wild took bumpers, and the wise took leave
But oh, the trance, so passionate and deep,
In which Sir Lidian sate!—you might believe
From his short breathing, and his gushing tears,
His very soul was listening, not his ears.

XXIX

Oh, what a treasure all such listeners are!
He longed to praise, but held his tongue to wonder,
Rapt as a cornet ere his maiden war,
Dumb as a schoolboy when he doubts a blunder,
Pale as a culprit at the fatal bar,
Faint as a lady in a storm of thunder,
And wild of heart, as I sometimes have been,
When you were singing, silver-toned Adine!—

217

XXX

Queen of enchanting sounds, at whose sweet will
The spirit sinks and rises, glows and shivers,
Your voice is now for dearer friends; but still
In my lone heart its every echo quivers,
A viewless melody!—no purer thrill
Do fairies wake from their own groves and rivers,
When they would fling on minstrels' dreams by night
Some bounteous vision of intense delight.

XXXI

You've very often asked me for a song;
I've very often promised to bestow it;
But when my admiration is most strong,
I'm frequently the least disposed to show it;
However, here I swear that I have long
Sighed to be styled your four-and-twentieth poet,
And that your voice is richer far to me,
Than a fat client's, five years hence, will be.—

XXXII

But all this time Sir Guy was in his glory;
He was not used to be respected so;
For though he once was matchless at a story,
Age chills the tongue, and checks the humour's flow;
His talk grew tedious as his hairs grew hoary;
And coxcombs stopt his—“Fifty years ago”—
With questions of their hawking, hunting, baiting,
Or—“Fair Sir Guy, the hypocras is waiting.”

218

XXXIII

Hence, when he saw in what a mute abstraction
His youthful host to his romance attended,
He took unusual pains with every fraction,
Kept his dénouement artfully suspended,
Grew quite theatrical in tone and action,
And went away as soon as he had ended,
Supported to his palfrey by a vassal,
Half drunk with vanity, and half with wassail.

XXXIV

The guests are gone! within that lofty hall
No boastful baron curls his wet mustaches;
The wreaths of flowers are withered on the wall,
The logs upon the earth are dust and ashes;
Where late some lover pledged his amorous thrall,
The wine-cup stands inverted; and the flashes
From torch and taper o'er the bright floor thrown
Fall faint and rare!—Sir Lidian is alone.

XXXV

Alone?—Oh no! the Lady and her grieving
Too truly, deeply, on his soul are wrought;
She has become to him his heart's conceiving,
The very essence of the love he sought,
A present hope, a passionate believing,
A sleepless vision, an embodied thought;
Not fancy quite, nor quite materiality,
Too clear for dream, too lovely for reality.

219

XXXVI

Hark! the wind whistles through the grove of firs;—
The Lady Blanch beneath their shade reposes:
Lo! the dark tapestry in the torch-light stirs;—
The Lady Blanch beneath the curtain dozes:
He gazes on his pictured ancestors,
And even there, the ancient lips and noses
Recall, with most astonishing activity,
The Lady Blanch, her charms and her captivity.

XXXVII

And now she looks into his slumb'rous eyes,
And now she trifles with his flowing tresses;
He speaks to her,—anon her lip replies;
He kneels to her,—she shrinks from his caresses;
Coining all eloquence of smiles and sighs,
Wearing by turns a thousand forms and dresses,
Beauteous in all!—alone?—in bliss or pain,
Sir Lidian ne'er will be alone again!

XXXVIII

Poor youth! the chamber now was wrapt in gloom,
The servants all had gone to rest; but still he
Wandered in silence up and down the room,
Forgetting that the morning would be chilly,
Tossing about his mantle and his plume,
And looking very sad, and very silly;
At last he snatched his harp, and stopped his tread,
And warbled thus before he went to bed.—

220

“O Love! O beauteous Love!
Thy home is made for all sweet things,
A dwelling for thine own soft dove
And souls as spotless as her wings;
There summer ceases never:
The trees are rich with luscious fruits,
The bowers are full of joyous throngs,
And gales that come from Heaven's own lutes
And rivulets whose streams are songs
Go murmuring on for ever!

O Love! O wretched Love!
Thy home is made for bitter care;
And sounds are in thy myrtle grove
Of late repentance, long despair,
Of feigning and forsaking:
Thy banquet is the doubt and fear
That come, we know not whence or why,
The smile that hardly masks a tear,
The laughter that is half a sigh,
The heart that jests in breaking!

O Love! O faithless Love!
Thy home is like the roving star
Which seems so fair, so far above
The world where woes and sorrows are;
But could we wander thither,

221

There's nothing but another earth,
As dark and restless as our own,
Where misery is child of mirth,
And every heart is born to groan,
And every Hower to wither!”

222

MY FIRST FOLLY

STANZAS WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT.

Pretty Coquette, the ceaseless play
Of thine unstudied wit,
And thy dark eye's remembered ray
By buoyant fancy lit,
And thy young forehead's clear expanse,
Where the locks slept, as through the dance,
Dreamlike, I saw thee flit,
Are far too warm and far too fair
To mix with aught of earthly care;
But the vision shall come when my day is done,
A frail and a fair and a fleeting one!

And if the many boldly gaze
On that bright brow of thine,
And if thine eye's undying rays
On countless coxcombs shine,
And if thy wit flings out its mirth,
Which echoes more of air than earth,
For other ears than mine,

223

I heed not this; ye are fickle things,
And I like your very wanderings;
I gaze, and if thousands share the bliss,
Pretty capricious! I heed not this.

In sooth I am a wayward youth,
As fickle as the sea,
And very apt to speak the truth,
Unpleasing though it be;
I am no lover; yet as long
As I have heart for jest or song,
An image, Sweet, of thee,
Locked in my heart's remotest treasures,
Shall ever be one of its hoarded pleasures;—
This from the scoffer thou hast won,
And more than this he gives to none.

December 20, 1821.

224

A SHOOTING STAR.

“An ignis fatuus gleam of love.”—Byron.

A shooting Star!—the dim blue night
Gleamed where the wanderer went,
For it flung a stream of gushing light
Around its bright ascent.
I saw it fade!—in cold and cloud
The young light fleeted by,
And the shrill night-wind whistled loud,
As darkness spread her solemn shroud
Over the midnight sky.

Thou Maiden of the secret spell,
Star of the soul, farewell, farewell!
E'en such has been thy lovely light,
So calmly keen, so coldly bright;
A meteor, seen and worshipped only
To leave a lonely heart more lonely.
The Star hath set!—the spell is broken;
And thou hast left behind no token—
No token, lovely one, to me,
Of what thou art, or art to be;
Except one dear and cherished thought
In Memory's sunless caverns wrought,

225

One moonlight vision, one sweet shade,
Quick to appear, and slow to fade,
A warm and silent recollection,
The fancy's dream, the heart's affection.

Bright be thy lot in other years!—
Fill high the cup of wine;
In all the pain of hopes and fears
I will not bathe with any tears
That laughing love of thine.
Yet often in my waking slumbers
Thy voice shall speak its magic numbers,
And I shall think on that dark brow
On which my fancy gazes now,
And sit in reverie lone and long
To muse on that Italian song.

And thou, perhaps, in happier times,
And fairer scenes, and warmer climes,
Wilt think of one who would not dim
With aught of care that wit and whim,—
Of one who oft, in other years,
Fills high the cup of wine,
Because, in all his hopes and fears,
He will not bathe with any tears
That laughing love of thine!

March 15, 1822.

226

STANZAS

WRITTEN FOR A FRIEND.

Bliss to those that love thee!
Bliss to those thou lovest!
May Heaven smile above thee
Wheresoe'er thou rovest!
May no storm come nigh thee
On the tumbling ocean!
May the green wave ripple by thee
With a lulling motion!

The wild voice of thy laughter
Hath fleeted from before me,
But an echo lingers after,
Flinging magic o'er me!
Thy fair smile is not beaming
Its young mirth around me,
But I doat upon it, dreaming,
When the spell hath bound me.

227

I cannot see or hear thee,
Dearest of Earth's daughters;
But my soul is ever near thee,
On the quiet waters.
Bliss to those that love thee!
Bliss to those thou lovest!
And mav Heaven smile above thee
Wheresoe'er thou rovest!

228

L'INCONNUE.

Many a beaming brow I've known,
And many a dazzling eye,
And I've listened to many a melting tone
In magic fleeting by;
And mine was never a heart of stone,
And yet my heart hath given to none
The tribute of a sigh;
For Fancy's wild and witching mirth
Was dearer than aught I found on earth,
And the fairest forms I ever knew
Were far less fair than—L'Inconnue!

Many an eye that once was bright
Is dark to-day in gloom;
Many a voice that once was light
Is silent in the tomb;
Many a flower that once was dight
In beauty's most entrancing might
Hath faded in its bloom;

229

But she is still as fair and gay
As if she had sprung to life to-day;
A ceaseless tone and a deathless hue
Wild Fancy hath given to—L'Inconnue.

Many an eye of piercing jet
Hath only gleamed to grieve me;
Many a fairy form I've met,
But none have wept to leave me;
When all forsake, and all forget,
One pleasant dream shall haunt me yet,
One hope shall not deceive me;
For oh! when all beside is past,
Fancy is found our friend at last,
And the faith is firm and the love is true
Which are vowed by the lips of—L'Inconnue!

230

PEACE BE THINE.

When Sorrow moves with silent tread
Around some mortal's buried dust,
And muses on the mouldering dead
Who sleep beneath their crumbling bust,
Though all unheard and all unknown
The name on that sepulchral stone,
She looks on its recording line,
And whispers kindly, “Peace be thine!”

O Lady! me thou knowest not,
And what I am, or am to be;
The pain and pleasure of my lot
Are nought, and must be nought, to thee;
Thou seest not my hopes and fears;
Yet thou perhaps, in other years,
Wilt look on this recording line,
And whisper kindly, “Peace be thine!”

231

TO ------.

I.

I

We met but in one giddy dance,
Good-night joined hands with greeting;
And twenty thousand things may chance
Before our second meeting:
For oh! I have been often told
That all the world grows older,
And hearts and hopes, to-day so cold,
To-morrow must be colder.

II

If I have never touched the string
Beneath your chamber, dear one,
And never said one civil thing
When you were by to hear one,—
If I have made no rhymes about
Those looks which conquer Stoics,
And heard those angel tones, without
One fit of fair heroics,—

232

III

Yet do not, though the world's cold school
Some bitter truths has taught me,
O do not deem me quite the fool
Which wiser friends have thought me!
There is one charm I still could feel,
If no one laughed at feeling;
One dream my lute could still reveal,—
If it were worth revealing.

IV

But Folly little cares what name
Of friend or foe she handles,
When merriment directs the game,
And midnight dims the candles;
I know that Folly's breath is weak
And would not stir a feather;
But yet I would not have her speak
Your name and mine together.

V

Oh no! this life is dark and bright,
Half rapture and half sorrow;
My heart is very full to-night,
My cup shall be to-morrow:
But they shall never know from me,
On any one condition,
Whose health made bright my Burgundy,
Whose beauty was my vision!

233

TO ------.

II.

I

As o'er the deep the seaman roves
With cloud and storm above him,
Far, far from all the smiles he loves,
And all the hearts that love him.
'Tis sweet to find some friendly mast
O'er that same ocean sailing,
And listen in the hollow blast
To hear the pilot's hailing.

II

On rolls the sea! and brief the bliss,
And farewell follows greeting;
On rolls the sea! one hour is his
For parting and for meeting;
And who shall tell, on sea or shore.
In sorrow or in laughter,
If he shall see that vessel more,
Or hear that voice hereafter?

234

III

And thus, as on through shine and shower
My fickle shallop dances,
And trembles at all storms that lower,
And courts all summer glances,
'Tis very sweet, when thoughts oppress
And follies fail to cheer me,
To find some looks of loveliness,
Some tones of kindness, near me.

IV

And yet I feel, while hearts are gay
And smiles are bright around me,
That those who greet me on my way
Must leave me as they found me,
To rove again, as erst I roved,
Through winter and rough weather,
And think of all the friends I loved,
But loved and lost together:

V

And scenes and smiles, so pure and glad,
Are found and worshipped only
To make our sadness seem more sad,
Our loneliness more lonely;—
It matters not! a pleasant dream
At best can be but dreaming;
And if the true may never beam,
Oh! who would slight the seeming?

235

VI

And o'er the world my foot may roam,
Through foreign griefs and pleasures,
And other climes may be my home,
And other hearts my treasures;
But in the mist of memory
Shall time and space be cheated,
And those kind looks revived shall be,
And those soft tones repeated!

VII

Believe,—if e'er this rhyme recall
One thought of him who frames it,—
Believe him one who brings his all
Where Love or Friendship claims it;
Though cold the surface of his heart,
There's warmth beneath the embers;
For all it hopes, it would not part
With aught that it remembers!

236

TO ------.

III.

“Bientôt je vis rassembler autour de moi tous les objets qui m'avoient donné de l'émotion dans ma jeunesse.”—Rousseau.

I

O Lady, when I mutely gaze
On eyes, whose chastened splendour
Forbids the flatterer's wanton praise,
And makes the Cynic tender,
Believe not that my gaze that night
Has nothing, Lady, in it,
Beyond one vision of delight,
The rapture of one minute.

II

And, Lady, when my ear has heard
That voice, whose natural gladness
Has caught from Heaven, like some sweet bird,
Its tone of sainted sadness,
Believe not that those uttered words
In the far winds have fleeted,
Like echoes from my own poor chords,
Uncherished, unrepeated.

237

III

Within the soul, where Memory shrouds
Whate'er has bloomed and faded,
And consecrates the very clouds
By which her cells are shaded,
Re-echoed from unnoticed strings,
Traced by an unseen finger,
Amid all holy thoughts and things
Those smiles, those words, will linger!

IV

The present is a narrow cave
With gloomy walls to bound it;
The future is a pathless wave
With darkness all around it;
But I did fill the shadowy past,
As Life was loitering through it.
With many a shape, which beams at last
As bright as Boyhood knew it.

V

Those shapes are viewless to the eye,
But still the heart enjoys them;
And Fancy can their hues supply
As fast as Time destroys them;
Until the past, with all its dreams
Of love, and light, and glory,
Is fairer than the future seems
In fabling Mecca's story.

238

VI

And though I weep, as I repair
Some bitter recollection
Of bootless labour, baffled prayer,
Scorned passion, crushed affection,
Yet I would never give away
One tear of such rare sorrow
For all I have of bliss to-day,
Or all I hope to-morrow.

VII

Lady, if I would e'er renew,
When Care's cold night has bound me,
The brightest morn that ever threw
Its youthful radiance round me,
Or deck with bloom, when Hope is bare,
And Pleasure's wreaths are serest,
Of all dead flowers, so dear and fair,
The fairest, and the dearest,—

VIII

If, when my lute in other days
Is silent or unheeded,
I would revive one voice, whose praise
Was all the fame it needed,—
If, when false Friendship has betrayed
Or fickle Love deceived me,
My heart would cling to one soft shade
Which could not so have grieved me,—

239

IX

In bower or banquet, heath or hill,
The form I seek will glisten;
Again the liquid voice will thrill,
The fair face bend to listen:
But whatsoe'er the hour or place,
No bribe or prayer shall win me
To say whose voice, or form, or face,
That spell awoke within me!

240

THE PORTRAIT.

Oh yes! these lips are very fair,
Half lifted to the sky,
As if they breathed an angel's prayer
Mixed with a mortal's sigh;
But theirs is not the song that flings
O'er evening's still imaginings
Its cherished witchery;
No, these are not the lips whose tone
Sad Memory has made her own.

And these long curls of dazzling brown
In many a fairy wreath
Float brightly, beautifully, down
Upon the brow beneath;
But these are not the locks of jet
For which I sought the violet
On that remembered heath;
No, these are not the locks that gleam
Around me in my moonlight dream.

241

And these blue eyes—a very saint
Might envy their pure rays—
Are such as limners learn to paint,
And poets long to praise;
But theirs is not the speaking glance
On which, in all its young romance,
My spirit loves to gaze;
No, these are not the eyes that shine,
Like never-setting stars, on mine.

By those sweet songs I hear to-night,
Those black locks on the brow,
And those dark eyes, whose living light
Is beaming o'er me now,
I worship nought but what thou art!
Let all that was—decay—depart,
I care not when or how;
And fairer far these hues may be,—
They seem not half so fair to me!

242

TO ------.

I

Still is the earth, and still the sky;
The midnight moon is fleeting by;
And all the world is wrapt in sleep,
But the hearts that love, and the eyes that weep.

II

And now is the time to kiss the flowers
Which shun the sunbeam's busy hours;
For the book is shut, and the mind is free
To gaze on them, and to think of thee.

III

Withered they are and pale in sooth;
So are the radiant hopes of youth;
But Love can give with a single breath
Bloom to languor, and life to death.

243

IV

Though I must greet thee with a tone
As calm to-morrow as thine own,
Oh! Fancy's vision, Passion's vow,
May be told in stillness and darkness now!

V

For the veil from the soul is rent away
Which it wore in the glare of gaudy day;
And more, much more, the heart may feel
Than the pen may write or the lip reveal.

VI

Why can I not forego—forget
That ever I loved thee—that ever we met?
There is not a single link or sign
To blend my lot in the world with thine;

VII

I know not the scenes where thou hast roved,
I see not the faces which thou hast loved,—
Thou art to me as a pleasant dream
Of a boat that sails on a distant stream.

VIII

Thou smilest! I am glad the while,
But I share not the joy that bids thee smile;
Thou grievest! when thy grief is deepest,
I weep, but I know not for whom thou weepest.

244

IX

I would change life's spring for his roughest weather
If we might bear the storm together;
And give my hopes for half thy fears,
And sell my smiles for half thy tears.

X

Give me one common bliss or woe,
One common friend, one common foe,
On the earth below, or the clouds above
One thing we both may loathe, or love.

XI

It may not be; but yet—but yet
O deem not I can e'er forget!
For fondness such as mine supplies
The sympathy which Fate denies:

XII

And all my feelings, well thou knowest,
Go with thee, Lady, where'er thou goest;
And my wayward spirit bows to thee,
Its first and last idolatry!

245

TO ------.

I

In such a time as this, when every heart is light,
And greetings sound more welcome, and faces smile more bright,
Oh how wearily—how wearily my spirit wanders back
Among the faded joys that lie on Memory's ruined track!
Where art thou, best and fairest? I call to thee in vain;
And thou art lone and distant far, in sickness and in pain!

II

Beloved one, if anguish would fall where fall it may,
If sorrow could be won by gifts to barter prey for prey,
There is an arm would wither, so thine revived might be,
A lip which would be still and mute, to make thy music free,

246

An eye which would forget to wake, to bid thy morning shine,
A heart whose very strings would break, to steal one pang from thine.

III

If this be all too wild a wish, it were a humbler prayer
That I might sit beside thy couch, watching and weeping there;
Alas, that grief should sever the hearts it most endears,—
That friends who have been joined in smiles, are parted in their tears,—
That when there's danger in the path, or poison in the bowl,
Unloving hands must minister, unloving lips console!

IV

Yet in the twilight hour, when all our hopes seem true,
And Fancy's wild imaginings take living form and hue,
I linger, and thou chidest not, beside thy lonely bed,
And do thy biddings, dearest, with slow and noiseless tread,
And tremble all the while at the feeblest wind that blows,
As if indeed its idle breath were breaking thy repose.

247

V

To kiss thine eyelids, when they droop with heaviness and pain,
To pour sad tears upon thy hand, the heart's most precious rain,
To mark the changing colour as it flits across thy cheek,
To feel thy very wishes ere the feverish lip can speak,
To listen for the weakest word, watch for the lightest token,
Oh bliss that such a dream should be! Oh pain that it is broken!

VI

Farewell, my best beloved; beloved, fare thee well!
I may not mourn where thou dost weep, nor be where thou dost dwell;
But when the friend I trusted all coldly turns away,
When the warmest feelings wither, and the dearest hopes decay,
To thee—to thee—thou knowest, whate'er my lot may be,
For comfort and for happiness, my spirit turns to thee.

248

THE PARTING.

“Alla prigione antica
Quell' augellin ritorna
Ancorchè mano amica
Gli abbia disciolto il piè.”
Metastasio.

I

Farewell;—I will not now
The wasted theme renew;
No cloud upon my cheek or brow
Shall wake one pang for you;
But here, unseen, unheard,
Ere evening's shadows fly,
I will but say that one weak word,
And pass unwelcomed by.

II

Farewell;—but it is strange,
As round your towers I roam,
To think how desolate a change
Has come o'er heart and home;
Where stranger minstrels throng,
Where harsher harps are cherished,
The very memory of my song
Is, like its echo, perished.

249

III

The bird your gold has brought
From its own orient bowers,
Where every wandering wind is fraught
With the sweet breath of flowers,
Will never murmur more
A note so clear and high
As that which he was wont to pour
Beneath his native sky.

IV

Yet 'twere a cruel thing,
If Pity's tears and sighs
Could give the breezes to his wing,
The daylight to his eyes;
His vision is the night,
His home the prison, now,
He could not look upon the light,
Nor sleep upon the bough.

V

Lady, when first your mirth
Flung magic o'er my way,
Mine was the gayest soul on earth
When all the earth was gay;
My songs were full of joy,—
You might have let them flow;
My heart was every woman's toy,—
You might have left it so!

250

VI

But now to send me back
To faded hopes and fears,
To bid me seek again the track
My foot has left for years,
To cancel what must be,
To alter what has been,—
Ah! this indeed is mockery
Fit for a Fairy Queen!

VII

The lip that was so gay
More dark and still hath grown;
The listless lute of yesterday
Hath learnt a sadder tone;
And uttered is the thought,
And written is the vow;—
You might have left this charm unwrought,—
You must not rend it now!

VIII

When first upon my lance
I saw the fair sun shine,
I courted not that fairer glance,—
And yet it turned to mine;
When music's rich delight
From lips so lovely came,
I looked not on those lips that night,—
And yet they breathed my name!

251

IX

When our last words were broken
By passion's bitter tears,
I asked not the recording token
Which I must love for years;
And when between us lay
Long tracks of sand and sea,
The carrier pigeon went his way
Unbegged, unbought, by me.

X

Farewell!—when I was bound
In every Beauty's thrall,
I could have lightly whispered round
That little word to all;
And now that I am cold,
And deemed the slave of none,
I marvel how my lips have told
That little word to one.

XI

Farewell!—since bliss so rare
Hath beamed but to betray,
It will be long ere I shall wear
The smile I wore to-day;
And since I weep not here
To call you false and vain,
I think I shall not shed one tear
For all this world again!

252

THE LAST.

Πανυστατον δη, κ'ουποτ' α θις υστερον. Soph. Ajax.

I

It is the lute, the same poor lute;—
Why do you turn away?
To-morrow let its chords be mute,
But they must sound to-day.
The bark is manned, the seamen throng
Around the creaking mast:
Lady, you heard my first love song,—
Hear now my last!

II

Sigh not!—I knew the star must set,
I knew the rose must fade;
And if I never can forget,
I never will upbraid;
I would not have you aught but glad,
Where'er my lot is cast;
And if my sad words make you sad,
They are the last!

253

III

No more, no more, oh! never more
Will look or tone of mine
Bring clouds that ivory forehead o'er,
Or dim that dark eye's shine;
Look out, dear Lady, from your tower;
The wave rolls deep and vast:
Oh, would to God this bitter hour
Might be my last!

IV

I think that you will love me still,
Though far our fates may be;
And that your heart will fondly thrill
When strangers ask of me;
My praise will be your proudest theme
When these dark days are past;
If this be all an idle dream,
It is my last!

V

And now let one kind look be mine,
And clasp this slender chain;
Fill up once more the cup of wine,
Put on my ring again;
And wreathe this wreath around your head,
(Alas, it withers fast!)
And whisper, when its flowers are dead,
It was the last!

254

VI

Thus from your presence forth I go,
A lost and lonely man;
Reckless alike of weal or woe,
Heaven's benison or ban:
He who has known the tempest's worst
May bare him to the blast;—
Blame not these tears; they are the first,—
Are they the last?

April 2, 1829.

255

A FAREWELL.

λιπουσα δ' Ευρωπης πεδον,
Ηπειρον ηξεις Ασιδ'. αρ υμιν δοκει
ο των θεων τυραννος εις τα πανθ' ομως
βιαιος ειναι;
Æsch. Prom Vinct.

They told me thou wilt pass again
Across the echoing wave;
And, though thou canst not break the chain,
Thou wilt forget the slave.
Farewell, farewell!—thou wilt not know
My hopes or fears, my weal or woe,
My home—perhaps my grave!
Nor think nor dream of the sad heart
Whose only thought and dream thou art.

The goblet went untasted by
Which other lips caressed;
And joyless seemed the revelry,
And impotent the jest:
And why? for it was very long
Since thou didst prize my love or song,
My lot was all unblest:
I cannot now be more forlorn,
Nor bear aught that I have not borne.

256

We might not meet; for me no more
Arose that melting tone;
The eyes which colder crowds adore
Were veiled to me alone:
The coxcomb's prate, the ruffian's lies,
The censures of the sternly wise,
Between our hearts were thrown;
Deeper and wider barriers far,
Than any waves or deserts are.

But it was something still to know
Thy dawn and dusk were mine,
And that we felt the same breeze blow
And saw the same star shine;
And still the shadowy hope was rife
That once in this waste weary life
My path might cross with thine,
And one brief gleam of beauty bless
My spirit's utter loneliness.

And oft in crowds I might rejoice
To hear thy uttered name,
Though haply from an unknown voice
The welcome echo came:
How coldly would I shape reply,
With lingering lip, and listless eye,
That none might doubt or blame,
Or guess that idle theme could be
A mine of after-thought to me.

257

Oh ne'er again!—thou wilt abide
Where brighter skies are found,
One whom thou lovest by thy side,
Many who love thee round;
And those sweet fairies, with their wiles
Of mimic frowns and happy smiles,
Around thy steps will bound:
I would not cloud such scene and lot
For all my aching breast hath not.

Yet, if thou wilt remember one
Who never can forget,
Whose lonely life is not so lone
As if we had not met,
Believe that in the frosty sky
Whereon is writ his destiny
Thy light is lingering yet,
A star before the darkened soul,
To guide, and gladden, and control.

Be mine the talk of men, though thou
Wilt never hear my praise;
Be mine the wreath, though for my brow
Thou wilt not twine the bays;
Be mine ambition's proudest scope,
Though fewer smiles than were my hope
Will meet my longing gaze,
Though in my triumph's sunniest thrill
One welcome will be wanting still.

258

Perchance, when long long years are o'er—
I care not how they flow—
Some note of me to that far shore
Across the deep may go;
And thou wilt read, and turn to hide
The conscious blush of woman's pride;
For thou alone wilt know
What spell inspired the silent toil
Of mid-day sun, and midnight oil.

And this is little, to atone
For much of grief and wrong;
For doubts within the bosom sown.
Cares checked and cherished long.—
But it is past! thy bliss or pain
I shall not mar or make again;
And, Lady, this poor song
Is echoing, like a stranger s knell,
Sad, but unheeded!—so farewell!

259

AN EXCUSE.

Blame not the Minstrel's wayward will:
His soul has slumbered all too long;
He has no pulse for passion's thrill,
No lute for passion's song.
O frown not, though he turns away
Unloved, unloving, even from thee,
And mars with idle jests the lay
Where Beauty's praise should be.

If he should bid the golden string
Be vocal to a loftier theme,
Sad Memory from her cell would bring
The fond forbidden dream;
The dream of her, whose broken chain
Than new forged bonds is far more dear;
Whose name he may not speak again,
And shudders but to hear.

260

And if he breathes Love's hopes and fears
In many a soulless idol's shrine,
The falsehoods fit for vulgar ears
Were never fit for thine.
Take back, take back the book to-night:
Thou art too brightly—nobly fair,
For hearts so worn as his to write
Their worthless worship there.

February 20, 1830.

261

SECOND LOVE.

“L'on n'aime bien qu'une seule fois: c'est la première. Les amours qui suivent sont moins involontaires!”—La Bruyère.

How shall he woo her?—Let him stand
Beside her as she sings;
And watch that fine and fairy hand
Flit o'er the quivering strings:
And let him tell her he has heard,
Though sweet the music flow,
A voice whose every whispered word
Was sweeter, long ago.

How shall he woo her?—Let him gaze
In sad and silent trance
On those blue eyes, whose liquid rays
Look love in every glance:
And let him tell her, eyes more bright,
Though bright her own may beam,
Will fling a deeper spell to-night
Upon him in his dream.

262

How shall he woo her?—Let him try
The charms of olden time,
And swear by earth and sea and sky,
And rave in prose and rhyme:
And let him tell her, when he bent
His knee in other years,
He was not half so eloquent,—
He could not speak for tears

How shall he woo her?—Let him bow
Before the shrine in prayer;
And bid the priest pronounce the vow
That hallows passion there:
And let him tell her, when she parts
From his unchidden kiss,
That memory to many hearts
Is dearer far than bliss.

Away, away! the chords are mute,
The bond is rent in twain;
You cannot wake that silent lute,
Nor clasp those links again;
Love's toil, I know, is little cost,
Love's perjury is light sin;
But souls that lose what his hath lost,—
Oh what have they to win?

263

A RETROSPECT.

“The Lady o his love, oh, she was changed,
As by the sickness of the soul!”
—Byron.

“Go thou, white in thy soul, to fill a throne
Of innocence and sanctity in Heaven.”
—Ford.

I knew that it must be!
Yea, thou art changed—all worshipped as thou art—
Mourned as thou shalt be! sickness of the heart
Hath done its work on thee!

Thy dim eyes tell a tale—
A piteous tale of vigils; and the trace
Of bitter tears is on thy beauteous face,—
Beauteous, and yet so pale.

Changed Love!—but not alone!
I am not what they think me; though my cheek
Wear but its last year's furrow, though I speak
Thus in my natural tone.

264

The temple of my youth
Was strong in moral purpose; once I felt
The glory of Philosophy, and knelt
In the pure shrine of Truth.

I went into the storm,
And mocked the billows of the tossing sea:
I said to Fate, “What wilt thou do to me?
I have not harmed a worm!”—

Vainly the heart is steeled
In Wisdom's armour; let her burn her books!
I look upon them as the soldier looks
Upon his cloven shield.

Virtue and Virtue's rest—
How have they perished! through my onward course
Repentance dogs my footsteps: black Remorse
Is my familiar guest.

The glory and the glow
Of the world's loveliness have past away;
And Fate hath little to inflict to-day,
And nothing to bestow.

Is not the damning line
Of guilt and grief engraven on me now?
And the fierce passion which hath scathed thy brow—
Hath it not blasted mine?

265

No matter! I will turn
To the straight path of Duty; I have wrought
At last my wayward spirit to be taught
What it hath yet to learn.

Labour shall be my lot:
My kindred shall be joyful in my praise;
And Fame shall twine for me in after days
A wreath I covet not:

And, if I cannot make,
Dearest, thy hope my hope, thy trust my trust,
Yet will I study to be good and just
And blameless, for thy sake.

Thou may'st have comfort yet!
Whate'er the source from which those waters glide,
Thou hast found healing mercy in their tide;—
Be happy, and forget.

Forget me, and farewell;
But say not that in me new hopes and fears,
Or absence, or the lapse of gradual years,
Will break thy memory's spell:

Indelibly, within,
All I have lost is written; and the theme
Which silence whispers to my thought and dream
Is sorrow still,—and sin.

266

A BALLAD TEACHING HOW POETRY IS BEST PAID FOR.

“Non voglio cento scudi.”—Italian Song.

O say not that the minstrel's art,
The glorious gift of verse,
Though his hopes decay, though his friends depart,
Can ever be a curse;
Though sorrow reign within his heart,
And poortith hold his purse.

Say not his toil is profitless;
Though he charm no rich relation,
The Fairies all his labours bless
With such remuneration
As Mr. Hume would soon contess
Beyond his calculation.

Annuities and Three per Cents.,
Little cares he about them;
And Indian bonds, and tithes, and rents,
He rambles on without them;
But love, and noble sentiments,
Oh never bid him doubt them!—

267

Childe Florice rose from his humble bed
And prayed, as a good youth should;
And forth he sped, with a lightsome tread,
Into the neighbouring wood;
He knew where the berries were ripe and red,
And where the old oak stood.

And as he lay at the noon of day
Beneath the ancient tree,
A gray-haired pilgrim passed that way;
A holy man was he,
And he was wending forth to pray
At a shrine in a far countrie.

Oh his was a weary wandering,
And a song or two might cheer him.
The pious Childe began to sing,
As the ancient man drew near him;
The lark was mute as he touched the string,
And the thrush said, “Hear him, hear him!

He sang high tales of the martyred brave,
Of the good, and pure, and just,
Who have gone into the silent grave
In such deep faith and trust,
That the hopes and thoughts which sain and save
Spring from their buried dust:

268

The fair of face, and the stout of limb,
Meek maids and grandsires hoary,
Who have sung on the cross their rapturous hymn,
As they passed to their doom of glory;
Their radiant fame is never dim,
Nor their names erased from story.

Time spares the stone where sleep the dead
With angels watching round them;
The mourner's grief is comforted
As he looks on the chains that bound them;
And peace is shed on the murderer's head,
And he kisses the thorns that crowned them.

Such tales he told; and the pilgrim heard
In a trance of voiceless pleasure;
For the depths of his inmost soul were stirred
By the sad and solemn measure:
“I give thee my blessing,” was his word,
“It is all I have of treasure!”—

A little child came bounding by;
And he, in a fragrant bower,
Had found a gorgeous butterfly,
Rare spoil for a nursery dower,
Which with fierce step and eager eye
He chased from flower to flower.

269

“Come hither, come hither,” 'gan Florice call;
And the urchin left his fun:
So from the hall of poor Sir Paul
Retreats the baffled dun;
So Ellen parts from the village ball,
Where she leaves a heart half won.

Then Florice did the child caress,
And sang his sweetest songs:
Their theme was of the gentleness
Which to the soul belongs,
Ere yet it knows the name or dress
Of human rights and wrongs;

And of the wants which make agree
All parts of this vast plan;
How life is in whate'er we see,
And only life in man;
What matter where the less may be,
And where the longer span?

And how the heart grows cold without
Soft Pity's freshening dews;
And now when any life goes out
Some little pang ensues:—
Facts which great soldiers often doubt,
And wits who write reviews.

270

Oh, song hath power o'er Nature's springs,
Though deep the Nymph has laid them!
The child gazed—gazed on gilded wings
As the next light breeze displayed them;
But he felt the while that the meanest things
Are dear to Him that made them!—

The sun went down behind the hill,
The breeze was growing colder;
But there the Minstrel lingered still,
And amazed the chance beholder,
Musing beside a rippling rill
With a harp upon his shoulder.

And soon, on a graceful steed and tame,
A sleek Arabian mare,
The Lady Juliana came,
Riding to take the air,
With many a lord at whose proud name
A Radical would swear.

The Minstrel touched his lute again;
It was more than a Sultan's crown,
When the Lady checked her bridle rein
And lit from her palfrey down:—
What would you give for such a strain,
Rees, Longman, Orme, and Brown?

271

He sang of Beauty's dazzling eyes,
Of Beauty's melting tone,
And how her praise is a richer prize
Than the gems of Persia's throne,
And her love a bliss which the coldly wise
Have never, never known.

He told how the valiant scoff at fear
When the sob of her grief is heard;
How fiercely they fight for a smile or a tear
How they die for a single word:—
Things which, I own, to me appear
Exceedingly absurd.

The Lady soon had heard enough
She turned to hear Sir Denys
Discourse in language vastly gruff
About his skill at Tennis;
While smooth Sir Guy described the stuff
His mistress wore at Venice.

The Lady smiled one radiant smile,
And the Lady rode away.—
There is not a lady in all our Isle,
I have heard a Poet say,
Who can listen more than a little while
To a poet's sweetest lay.—

272

His mother's voice was fierce and shrill
As she set the milk and fruit:
“Out on thine unrewarded skill,
And on thy vagrant lute;
Let the strings be broken an they will,
And the beggar lips be mute!”

Peace, peace! the Pilgrim as he went
Forgot the Minstrel's song,
But the blessing that his wan lips sent
Will guard the Minstrel long,
And keep his spirit innocent,
And turn his hand from wrong.

Belike the child had little thought
Of the moral the Minstrel drew;
But the dream of a deed of kindness wrought—
Brings it not peace to you?
And doth not a lesson of virtue taught
Teach him that teaches too?

And if the Lady sighed no sigh
For the Minstrel or his hymn,—
Yet when he shall lie 'neath the moonlit sky,
Or lip the goblet's brim,
What a star in the mist of memory
That smile will be to him!

273

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

275

STANZAS WRITTEN IN THE FIRST LEAF OF LILLIAN.

Talk not to me of learned dust,
Of reasoning and renown,
Of withering wreath and crumbling bust,
Torn book and tattered gown;
Oh Wisdom lives in Folly's ring,
And beards, thank Heaven, are not the thing!

Then let me live a long romance,
And learn to trifle well;
And write my motto, “Vive la danse,”
And “Vive la bagatelle!”
And give all honour, as is fit,
To sparkling eyes, and sparkling wit.

And let me deem, when Sophs condemn
And Seniors burn my lays,
That some bright eyes will smile on them,
And some kind hearts will praise;
And thus my little book shall be
A mine of pleasant thoughts to me.

276

And we, perchance, may meet no more,
For other accents sound,
And darker prospects spread before,
And colder hearts come round;
And cloistered walk and grated pane
Must wear their wonted gloom again.

But those who meet, as we have met,
In frolic and in laughter,—
O dream not they can e'er forget
The thoughts that linger after,
That parted friend and faded scene
Can be as if they ne'er had been:

No! I shall miss that merry smile
When thou hast left me lone;
And listen in the silent aisle
For that remembered tone;
And look up to the lattice high
For beckoning hand and beaming eye.

And thou perhaps, when years are gone,
Wilt turn these pages over,
And waste one idle thought upon
A rambling rhyming rover,
And deem the Poet and his line
Both wild, both worthless,—and both thine!

Trin. Coll., Cambridge, July 8, 1823.

277

STANZAS WRITTEN IN A COPY OF LILLIAN,

SENT TO A LADY IN EXCHANGE FOR TWO DRAWINGS ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE POEM.

The gifts the Rhymer begs to-day
Shall long be dear to him,
When Passion's glow shall pass away,
And Fancy's light grow dim,
And nought remain of boyhood's schemes,
But Sorrow's tears, and Memory's dreams.

Yes, dear the gifts shall ever be;
For Humour there hath flung
A spell of magic witchery
On all he thought and sung,
And blended in a living dance
The creatures of his own romance.

E'en he might shudder at the sight
Of his own monster's feast;
E'en he might feel a sweet affright,
As, ruling the rude beast,
His own fair damsel skims the sea
In all her headless ecstacy.

278

These gifts shall be unfading signs
That, in his early days,
Some beaming eyes could read his lines,
Some beauteous lips could praise;
Fair Lady, from the cup of bliss
He wants and wishes only this!

For he was born a wayward boy,
To laugh when hopes deceive him,
To grasp at every fleeting joy,
And jest at all that leave him,
To love a quirk, and loathe a quarrel,
And never care a straw for laurel.

And thus, the creature of a day,
And rather fool than knave,
And either very gravely gay
Or very gaily grave,
He cares for nought but wit and wine,
And flatteries,—such as this of thine!

279

FRAGMENTS OF A DESCRIPTIVE POEM.

[OMITTED] And now
He stood upon the beetling brow
Of a huge cliff, and marked beneath
The sea-foam fling its hoary wreath
Upon the shore, and heard the waves
Run howling through their hollow caves.
Far on the right old Ocean lay;
But he had hushed his storm to-day,
And seemed to murmur a long sigh,
A melancholy melody,
As if his mourning had begun
For what he yesternight had done:
And on the left, in beauteous pride,
The river poured his rushing tide;
Fanned, as he came, by odorous gales
From grassy hills and mossy vales,
And gardens, where young nature set
No mask upon her features yet,

280

And sands which were as smooth as stone,
And woods whose birth no eye had known,
And rocks, whose very crags seemed bowers,
So bright they were with herbs and flowers.

He looked across the river stream;
A little town was there,
O'er which the morning's earliest beam
Was wandering fresh and fair;
No architect of classic school
Had pondered there with line and rule;
And, stranger still, no modern master
Had wasted there his lath and plaster;
The buildings in strange order lay,
As if the streets had lost their way,
Fantastic, puzzling, narrow, muddy,
Excess of toil from lack of study,
Where Fashion's very newest fangles
Had no conception of right angles.
But still about that humble place
There was a look of rustic grace;
'Twas sweet to see the sports and labours
And morning greetings of good neighbours,
The seamen mending sails and oars,
The matrons knitting at the doors,
The invalids enjoying dips,
The children launching tiny ships,

281

The beldames clothed in rags and wrinkles
Investigating periwinkles.

A little further up the tide,
There beamed upon the river side
A shady dwelling place: [OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
Most beautiful! upon that spot,
Beside that echoing wave,
A Fairy might have built her grot,
An Anchorite his grave.
The river, with its constant fall,
Came daily to the garden wall,
As if it longed, but thought it sin,
To look upon the charms within;
Behind, majestic mountains frowned,
And dark rich groves were all around,
And just before the gate there stood
Two trees which were themselves a wood;
Two lovely trees, whose clasping forms
Were blended still in calms and storms;
Like sisters who have lived together
Through every change of Fortune's weather,
United in their bliss or sorrow,
Their yesterday, and their to-morrow,—
So fond, so faithful,—you would wonder
To see them smile or weep asunder.

282

A PREFACE.

I have a tale of Love to tell;—
Lend me thy light lute, L.E.L.

Lend me thy lute! what other strings
Should speak of those delicious things,
Which constitute Love's joys and woes
In pretty duodecimos?
Thou knowest every herb and flower,
Of wondrous name, and wondrous power,
Which, gathered where white wood-doves nestle,
And beat up by poetic pestle,
Bind gallant knights in fancied fetters,
And set young ladies writing letters:
Thou singest songs of floods and fountains,
Of mounted lords and lordly mountains,
Of dazzling shields and dazzling glances,
Of piercing frowns and piercing lances,
Of leaping brands and sweeping willows,
Of dreading seas and dreaming billows,

283

Of sunbeams which are like red wine,
Of odorous lamps of argentine,
Of cheeks that burn, of hearts that freeze,
Of odours that send messages,
Of kingfishers and silver pheasants,
Of gems to which the Sun makes presents,
Of miniver and timeworn walls,
Of clairschachs and of atabals.
Within thy passion-haunted pages
Throng forward girls—and distant ages,
The lifeless learns at once to live,
The dumb grows strangely talkative,
Resemblances begin to strike
In things exceedingly unlike,
All nouns, like statesmen, suit all places,
And verbs, turned lawyers, hunt for cases.

Oh! if it be a crime to languish
Over thy scenes of bliss or anguish,
To float with Raymond o'er the sea,
To sigh with dark-eyed Rosalie,
And sit in reverie luxurious
Till tea grows cold, and aunts grow furious,
I own the soft impeachment true,
And burn the Westminster Review.
Lend me thy lute; I'll be a poet;
All Paternoster Row shall know it!

284

I'll rail in rhyme at cruel Fate
From Temple Bar to Tyburn Gate;
Old Premium's daughter in the City
Shall feel that love is kin to pity,
Hot ensigns shall be glad to borrow
My notes of rapture and of sorrow,
And I shall hear sweet voices sighing
“So young!—and I am told he's dying!”
Yes! I shall wear a wreath eternal,
For full twelve months, in Post and Journal,
Admired by all the Misses Brown
Who go to school at Kentish Town,
And worshipped by the fair Arachne
Who makes my handkerchiefs at Hackney!

Vain, vain!—take back the lute! I see
Its chords were never meant for me.
For thine own song, for thine own hand,
That lute was strung in Fairy-land;
And, if a stranger's thumb should fling
Its rude touch o'er one golden string,—
Good night to all the music in it!
The string would crack in half a minute.
Take back the lute! I make no claim
To inspiration or to fame;
The hopes and fears that bards should cherish,
I care not when they fade and perish;

285

I read political economy,
Voltaire and Cobbett, and gastronomy,
And, when I would indite a story
Of woman's faith or warrior's glory,
I always wear a night-cap sable,
And put my elbows on the table,
And hammer out the tedious toil
By dint of Walker, and lamp-oil.
I never feel poetic mania,
I gnaw no laurel with Urania,
I court no critic's tender mercies,
I count the feet in all my verses,
And own myself a screaming gander
Among the shrill swans of Mæander!

1824.

286

LOVE AT A ROUT.

When some mad bard sits down to muse
About the lilies and the dews,
The grassy vales and sloping lawns,
Fairies and Satyrs, Nymphs and Fawns,
He's apt to think, he's apt to swear,
That Cupid reigns not any where
Except in some sequestered village
Where peasants live on truth and tillage,
That none are fair enough for witches
But maids who frisk through dells and ditches
That dreams are twice as sweet as dances,
That cities never breed romances,
That Beauty always keeps a cottage,
And Purity grows pale on pottage.

Yes! those dear dreams are all divine;
And those dear dreams have all been mine.
I like the stream, the rock, the bay,
I like the smell of new-mown hay,

287

I like the babbling of the brooks,
I like the creaking of the crooks,
I like the peaches, and the posies,—
But chiefly, when the season closes,
And often, in the month of fun,
When every poacher cleans his gun,
And cockneys tell enormous lies,
And stocks are pretty sure to rise,
And e'en the Chancellor, they say,
Goes to a point the nearest way,
I hurry from my drowsy desk
To revel in the picturesque,
To hear beneath those ancient trees
The far-off murmur of the bees,
Or trace yon river's mazy channels
With Petrarch, and a brace of spaniels,
Combining foolish rhymes together,
And killing sorrow, and shoe-leather.

Then, as I see some rural maid
Come dancing up the sunny glade,
Coquetting with her fond adorer
Just as her mother did before her,
“Give me,” I cry, “the quiet bliss
Of souls like these, of scenes like this;
Where ladies eat and sleep in peace,
Where gallants never heard of Greece,

288

Where day is day, and night is night,
Where frocks—and morals—both are white;
Blue eyes below—blue skies above—
These are the homes, the hearts, for Love!

But this is idle; I have been
A sojourner in many a scene,
And picked up wisdom in my way,
And cared not what I had to pay;
Smiling and weeping all the while,
As other people weep and smile;
And I have learnt that Love is not
Confined to any hour or spot;
He lights the smile and fires the frown
Alike in country and in town.
I own fair faces not more fair
In Ettrick, than in Portman Square,
And silly danglers just as silly
In Sherwood, as in Piccadilly.
Soft tones are not the worse, no doubt,
For having harps to help them out;
And smiles are not a ray more bright
By moonbeams, than by candle-light;
I know much magic oft reposes
On wreaths of artificial roses,
And snowy necks,—I never found them
Quite spoilt by having cameos round them

289

In short, I'm very sure that all
Who seek or sigh for Beauty's thrall
May breathe their vows, and feed their passion,
Though whist and waltzing keep in fashion,
And make the most delicious sonnets,
In spite of diamonds, and French bonnets!

290

THE MODERN NECTAR.

One day, as Bacchus wandered out
From his own gay and glorious heaven,
To see what mortals were about
Below, 'twixt six o'clock and seven,
And laugh at all the toils and tears,
The endless hopes, the causeless fears,
The midnight songs, the morning smarts,
The aching heads, the breaking hearts,
Which he and his fair crony Venus
Within the month had sown between us,
He lighted by chance on a fiddling fellow
Who never was known to be less than mellow,
A wandering poet, who thought it his duty
To feed upon nothing but bowls and beauty,
Who worshipped a rhyme, and detested a quarrel,
And cared not a single straw for laurel,
Holding that grief was sobriety's daughter,
And loathing critics, and cold water.

Ere day on the Gog-Magog hills had fainted,
The god and the minstrel were quite acquainted;

291

Beneath a tree, in the sunny weather,
They sate them down, and drank together:
They drank of all fluids that ever were poured
By an English lout, or a German lord,
Rum and shrub and brandy and gin,
One after another, they stowed them in,
Claret of Carbonell, porter of Meux,
Champagne which would waken a wit in dukes,
Humble Port, and proud Tokay,
Persico, and Crême de Thé,
The blundering Irishman's Usquebaugh,
The fiery Welshman's Cwrw da;
And after toasting various names
Of mortal and immortal flames,
And whispering more than I or you know
Of Mistress Poll, and Mistress Juno,
The god departed, scarcely knowing
A zephyr's from a nose's blowing,
A frigate from a pewter flagon,
Or Thespis from his own stage waggon;
And rolling about like a barrel of grog,
He went up to heaven as drunk as a hog!

“Now may I,” he lisped, “for ever sit
In Lethe's darkest and deepest pit,
Where dullness everlasting reigns
O'er the quiet pulse and the drowsy brains,

292

Where ladies jest, and lovers laugh,
And noble lords are bound in calf,
And Zoilus for his sins rehearses
Old Bentham's prose, old Wordsworth's verses,
If I have not found a richer draught
Than ever yet Olympus quaffed,
Better and brighter and dearer far
Than the golden sands of Pactolus are!”

And then he filled in triumph up,
To the highest top-sparkle, Jove's beaming cup,
And pulling up his silver hose,
And turning in his tottering toes,
(While Hebe, as usual, the mischievous gipsy,
Was laughing to see her brother tipsy,)
He said—“May it please your high Divinity.
This nectar is—Milk Punch at Trinity!”

296

TIME'S SONG.

O'er the level plains, where mountains greet me as I go,
O'er the desert waste, where fountains at my bidding flow,
On the boundless beam by day, on the cloud by night,
I am riding hence away: who will chain my flight?

War his weary watch was keeping,—I have crushed his spear;
Grief within her bower was weeping,—I have dried her tear;
Pleasure caught a minute's hold,—then I hurried by,
Leaving all her banquet cold, and her goblet dry.

Power had won a throne of glory: where is now his fame?
Genius said “I live in story:” who hath heard his name?
Love beneath a myrtle bough whispered “Why so fast?”
And the roses on his brow withered as I past.

297

I have heard the heifer lowing o'er the wild wave's bed;
I have seen the billow flowing where the cattle fed;
Where began my wanderings? Memory will not say!
Where will rest my weary wings? Science turns away!

299

LINES WRITTEN ON THE EVE OF A COLLEGE EXAMINATION.

I

St. Mary's tolls her longest chime, and slumber softly falls
On Granta's quiet solitudes, her cloisters and her halls;
But trust me, little rest is theirs, who play in glory's game,
And throw to-morrow their last throw for academic fame;
Whose hearts have panted for this hour, and, while slow months went by,
Beat high to live in story—half a dozen stories high.

II

No; there is no repose for them, the solitary few,
Who muse on all that they have done, and all they meant to do;
And leave the prisoned loveliness of some hope-haunted book,
With many a melancholy sigh, and many an anxious look;
As lovers look their last upon the Lady of their fancies,
When barb or bark is waiting, in the middle of romances.

300

III

And some were born to be the first, and some to be the last:—
I cannot change the future now; I will not mourn the past;
But while the firelight flickers, and the lonely lamp burns dim,
I'll fill one glass of Claret till it sparkles to the brim,
And, like a knight of chivalry first vaulting on his steed,
Commend me to my Patron Saint, for a blessing and good speed!—

IV

O Lady! if my pulse beats quick, and my heart trembles now,
If there is flush upon my cheek, and fever on my brow,
It is not, Lady, that I think, as others think to-night,
Upon the struggle and the prize, the doubt and the delight,
Nor that I feel, as I have felt, ambition's idle thrill,
Nor that defeat, so bitter once, is bitter to me still:

V

I think of thee! I think of thee! It is but for thy sake
That wearied energies arise, and slumbering hopes awake;
For others other smiles might beam, so only one were mine;
For others other praise might sound, so I were worthy thine;

301

On other brows the wreath might bloom, but it were more than bliss
To fling it at thy feet, and say “Thy friendship hath done this.”

VI

Whate'er of chastened pride is mine, whate'er of nurtured power,
Of self restraint when suns invite, of faith when tempests lower,
Whate'er of morning joy I have, whate'er of evening rest,
Whate'er of love I yet deserve from those I love the best,
Whate'er of honest fame upon my after life may be,—
To thee, my best and fairest,—I shall owe it all to thee!

VII

I am alone—I am alone! thou art not by my side
To smile on me, to speak to me, to flatter or to chide;
But oh! if Fortune favour now the effort and the prayer,
My heart will strive, when friends come round, to fancy thou art there;
To hear in every kindly voice an echo of thy tone,
And clasp in every proffered hand the pressure of thy own.

302

VIII

As those who shed in Fairy-land their childhood's happy tears
Have still its trees before their sight, its music in their ears,
Thus, midst the cold realities of this soul-wearying scene,
My heart will shrink from that which is, to that which once hath been;
Till common haunts, where strangers meet to sorrow or rejoice,
Grow radiant with thy loveliness, and vocal with thy voice.

IX

My sister!—for no sister can be dearer than thou art—
My sister!—for thou hadst to me indeed a sister's heart,—
Our paths are all divided now, but believe that I obey,
And tell me thou beholdest what I bid thee not repay:
The star in heaven looks brightest down upon the watery tide:
It may not warm the mariner,—dear Lady, let it guide!

303

ALEXANDER AND DIOGENES.

“Diogenes Alexandro roganti ut diceret si quid opus esset, ‘nunc quidem paullulum,’ inquit, ‘a sole.’”—Cicero, Tusc. Disp.

I

Slowly the monarch turned aside:
But when his glance of youthful pride
Rested upon the warriors gray
Who bore his lance and shield that day,
And the long line of spears, that came
Through the far grove like waves of flame,
His forehead burned, his pulse beat high,
More darkly flashed his shifting eye,
And visions of the battle plain
Came bursting on his soul again.

II

The old man drew his gaze away
Right gladly from that long array,
As if their presence were a blight
Of pain and sickness to his sight;
And slowly folding o'er his breast
The fragments of his tattered vest

304

As was his wont, unasked, unsought,
Gave to the winds his muttered thought,
Naming no name of friend or foe,
And reckless if they heard or no.

III

“Ay, go thy way, thou painted thing,
Puppet, which mortals call a King,
Adorning thee with idle gems,
With drapery and diadems,
And scarcely guessing, that beneath
The purple robe and laurel wreath,
There's nothing but the common slime
Of human clay and human crime!—
My rags are not so rich,—but they
Will serve as well to cloak decay.

IV

“And ever round thy jewelled brow
False slaves and falser friends will bow:
And Flattery,—as varnish flings
A baseness on the brightest things,—
Will make the monarch's deeds appear
All worthless to the monarch's ear,
Till thou wilt turn and think that fame
So vilely drest, is worse than shame!—
The gods be thanked for all their mercies!
Diogenes hears nought but curses.

305

V

“And thou wilt banquet!—air and sea
Will render up their hoards for thee;
And golden cups for thee will hold
Rich nectar, richer than the gold.—
The cunning caterer still must share
The dainties which his toils prepare;
The page's lip must taste the wine
Before he fills the cup for thine:
Wilt feast with me on Hecate's cheer?
I dread no royal hemlock here!

VI

“And night will come; and thou wilt lie
Beneath a purple canopy,
With lutes to lull thee, flowers to shed
Their feverish fragrance round thy bed,
A princess to unclasp thy crest,
A Spartan spear to guard thy rest.—
Dream, happy one!—thy dreams will be
Of danger and of perfidy,—
The Persian lance, the Carian club!—
I shall sleep sounder in my tub.

VII

“And thou wilt pass away, and have
A marble mountain o'er thy grave,

306

With pillars tall, and chambers vast,—
Fit palace for the worm's repast!—
I too shall perish! let them call
The vulture to my funeral;
The Cynic's staff, the Cynic's den,
Are all he leaves his fellow men;
Heedless how this corruption fares,—
Yea, heedless, though it mix with theirs.’

307

ARMINIUS.

“Cernebatur contra minitabundus Arminius, præliumque denuntians.” Tacit. Annal. ii. 10.

I

Back,—back!—he fears not foaming flood
Who fears not steel-clad line!
No offspring this of German blood,—
No brother thou of mine;
Some bastard spawn of menial birth,—
Some bound and bartered slave:
Back,—back!—for thee our native earth
Would be a foreign grave!

II

Away! be mingled with the rest
Of that thy chosen tribe;
And do the tyrant's high behest,
And earn the robber's bribe;
And win the chain to gird the neck,
The gems to hide the hilt,

308

And blazon honour's hapless wreck
With all the gauds of guilt.

III

And would'st thou have me share the prey?
By all that I have done,
By Varus' bones, which day by day
Are whitening in the sun,—
The legion's shattered panoply,
The eagle's broken wing,
I would not be, for earth and sky,
So loathed and scorned a thing!

IV

Ho! bring me here the wizard, boy,
Of most surpassing skill,
To agonize, and not destroy,
To palsy, and not kill:
If there be truth in that dread art.
In song, and spell, and charm,
Now let them torture the base heart,
And wither the false arm!

V

I curse him by our country's gods,
The terrible, the dark,
The scatterers of the Roman rods,
The quellers of the bark!

309

They fill a cup with bitter woe,
They fill it to the brim;
Where shades of warriors feast below,
That cup shall be for him!

VI

I curse him by the gifts our land
Hath owed to him and Rome,—
The riving axe and burning brand,
Rent forests, blazing home;—
O may he shudder at the thought,
Who triumphs in the sight;
And be his waking terrors wrought
Into fierce dreams by night!

VII

I curse him by the hearts that sigh
In cavern, grove, and glen,—
The sobs of orphaned infancy,
The tears of aged men;—
When swords are out, and spear and dart
Leave little space for prayer,
No fetter on man's arm and heart
Hangs half so heavy there.

VIII

Oh misery, that such a vow
On such a head should be!

310

Why comes he not, my brother, now,
To fight or fall with me,—
To be my mate in banquet bowl,
My guard in battle throng,
And worthy of his father's soul
And of his country's song?

IX

But it is past:—where heroes press
And spoilers bend the knee,
Arminius is not brotherless,—
His brethren are the free!
They come around; one hour, and light
Will fade from turf and tide;
Then onward, onward to the fight,
With darkness for our guide!

X

To-night, to-night,—when we shall meet
In combat face to face,—
There only would Arminius greet
The renegade's embrace;
The canker of Rome's guilt shall be
Upon his Roman name,
And as he lives in slavery,
So shall he die in shame!

311

REMEMBER ME.

In Seville, when the feast was long,
And lips and lutes grew free,
At Inez' feet, amid the throng,
A masquer bent his knee;
And still the burthen of his song
Was “Sweet, remember me!

“Remember me in shine and shower,
In sorrow and in glee;
When summer breathes upon the flower,
When winter blasts the tree,
When there are dances in the bower
Or sails upon the sea.

“Remember me beneath far skies,
On foreign lawn or lea;
When others worship those wild eyes
Which I no more may see,
When others wake the melodies
Of which I mar the key.

312

“Remember me! my heart will claim
No love, no trust, from thee;
Remember me, though doubt and blame
Linked with the record be;
Remember me.—with scorn or shame,—
But yet, remember me!”

313

TO THE REV. DERWENT COLERIDGE

ON HIS MARRIAGE.

Who must the beauteous Lady be
That wins that heart of thine?
In a dream, methinks, she comes to me,
Half mortal, half divine,
Robed in a fine and fairy dress
From Fancy's richest store,—
A more becoming garb, I guess,
Than e'er man's mistress wore!
With a step that glides o'er turf and stone
As light as the morning beams,
And a voice whose every whispered tone
Calls up a host of dreams;
And a form which you might safely swear
Young Nature taught to dance,
And dazzling brow and floating hair
Which are themselves romance;

314

And eyes more eloquently bright
Than ether's brightest star,
With much of genius in their light,
And more of fondness far;
And an untainted love of earth
And all earth's lovely things,
And smiles and tears, whose grief and mirth,
Flow forth from kindred springs;
And a calm heart, so wholly given
To him whose love it wakes,
That through all storms of Fate and Heaven
It bends with his—or breaks.

Such must the beauteous Lady be
That wins that heart of thine
And is to thy fair destiny
What none may be to mine!

316

MEMORY.

Nessun maggior dolore
Che ricordarsi del tempo felice
Nella miseria.
Dante.

Stand on a funeral mound,
Far, far from all that love thee;
With a barren heath around,
And a cypress bower above thee:
And think, while the sad wind frets,
And the night in cold gloom closes.
Of spring, and spring's sweet violets,
Of summer, and summer's roses.

Sleep where the thunders fly
Across the tossing billow,
Thy canopy the sky,
And the lonely deck thy pillow;
And dream, while the chill sea foam
In mockery dashes o'er thee,
Of the cheerful hearth, and the quiet home,
And the kiss of her that bore thee.

317

Watch in the deepest cell
Of the foeman's dungeon tower,
Till hope's most cherished spell
Has lost its cheering power;
And sing, while the galling chain
On every stiff limb freezes,
Of the huntsman hurrying o'er the plain,
Of the breath of the mountain breezes.

Talk of the minstrel's lute,
The warrior's high endeavour,
When the honied lips are mute
And the strong arm crushed for ever:
Look back to the summer sun
From the mist of dark December,
Then say to the broken-hearted one—
“'Tis pleasant to remember!”

April 11, 1829.

318

FUIMUS!

Go to the once loved bowers;
Wreathe blushing roses for the lady's hair:
Winter has been upon the leaves and flowers,—
They were!

Look for the domes of kings;
Lo, the owl's fortress, or the tiger's lair!
Oblivion sits beside them; mockery sings
They were!

Waken the minstrel's lute;
Bid the smooth pleader charm the listening air:
The chords are broken, and the lips are mute;—
They were!

Visit the great and brave;
Worship the witcheries of the bright and fair.
Is not thy foot upon a new-made grave?—
They were!

319

Speak to thine own heart; prove
The secrets of thy nature. What is there?
Wild hopes, warm fancies, fervent faith, fond love,—
They were!

We too, we too must fail;
A few brief years to labour and to bear;—
Then comes the sexton, and the old trite tale,
“We were!”

May 21, 1829.

320

LINES SENT IN THANKS FOR A BOTTLE OF VERY FINE OLD BRANDY.

WRITTEN FOR LADY C---.

Spirits there were, in olden time,
Which wrought all sorts of wondrous things
(As we are told in prose and rhyme)
With wands and potions, lamps and rings;
I know not, Lady fair,—do you?—
Whether those tales be false or true.

But in our day—our dismal day
Of sadder song and soberer mirth.
If any spirits ever play
Upon the faded fields of earth,
Whose magic, Lady fair, can fling
O'er winter's frosts the flowers of spring,—

If any spirits haunt our Isle
Whose power can make old age look gay,
Revive the tone, relume the smile,
And chase three score of years away,—
Such spirits, Lady fair, must be
Like those your kindness sends to me!

May 2, 1829.

321

CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS.

I

Once on a time, when sunny May
Was kissing up the April showers,
I saw fair Childhood hard at play
Upon a bank of blushing flowers:
Happy—he knew not whence or how,—
And smiling,—who could choose but love him?
For not more glad than Childhood's brow,
Was the blue heaven that beamed above him.

II

Old Time, in most appalling wrath,
That valley's green repose invaded;
The brooks grew dry upon his path,
The birds were mute, the lilies faded.
But Time so swiftly winged his flight,
In haste a Grecian tomb to batter,
That Childhood watched his paper kite,
And knew just nothing of the matter.

322

III

With curling lip and glancing eye
Guilt gazed upon the scene a minute;
But Childhood's glance of purity
Had such a holy spell within it,
That the dark demon to the air
Spread forth again his baffled pinion,
And hid his envy and despair,
Self-tortured, in his own dominion.

IV

Then stepped a gloomy phantom up,
Pale, cypress-crowned, Night's awful daughter,
And proffered him a fearful cup
Full to the brim of bitter water:
Poor Childhood bade her tell her name;
And when the beldame muttered—“Sorrow,”
He said,—“Don't interrupt my game;
I'll taste it, if I must, to-morrow.”

V

The Muse of Pindus thither came,
And wooed him with the softest numbers
That ever scattered wealth and fame
Upon a youthful poet's slumbers;
Though sweet the music of the lay,
To Childhood it was all a riddle,
And “Oh,” he cried, “do send away
That noisy woman with the fiddle!”

323

VI

Then Wisdom stole his bat and ball,
And taught him, with most sage endeavour,
Why bubbles rise and acorns fall,
And why no toy may last for ever.
She talked of all the wondrous laws
Which Nature's open book discloses,
And Childhood, ere she made a pause,
Was fast asleep among the roses.

VII

Sleep on, sleep on! Oh! Manhood's dreams
Are all of earthly pain or pleasure,
Of Glory's toils, Ambition's schemes,
Of cherished love, or hoarded treasure:
But to the couch where Childhood lies
A more delicious trance is given,
Lit up by rays from seraph eyes,
And glimpses of remembered Heaven!

324

CHILDHOOD'S CRITICISM.

TO MISS K--- S---, ON HER REPEATING THE PRECEDING LINES.

“You've only got to curtsey, whisp—
—er, hold your head up, laugh and lisp,
And then you're sure to take.”
Rejected Addresses.

I

A Poet o'er his tea and toast
Composed a page of verse last winter,
Transcribed it on the best Bath post,
And sent the treasure to a printer.
He thought it an enchanting thing;
And, fancying no one else could doubt it,
Went out, as happy as a king,
To hear what people said about it.

II

Queen Fame was driving out that day;
And, though she scarcely seemed to know him,
He bustled up, and tried to say
Something about his little poem;
But ere from his unhappy lip
Three timid trembling words could falter,
The goddess cracked her noisy whip,
And went to call upon Sir Walter!

325

III

Old Criticism, whose glance observed
The minstrel's blushes and confusion,
Came up and told him he deserved
The rack at least for his intrusion:
The poor youth stared and strove to speak;
His tyrant laughed to see him wincing,
And grumbled out a line of Greek,
Which Dullness said was quite convincing.

IV

Then stepped a gaunt and wrinkled witch,
Hight Avarice, from her filthy hovel;
And “Rhyme,” quoth she, “won't make you rich;
Go home, good youth, and write a novel!
Cut up the follies of the age;
Sauce them with puns and disquisitions;
Let Colburn cook your title-page,
And I'll ensure you six editions.”

V

Ambition met him next;—he sighed
To see those once-loved wreaths of laurel,
And crept into a bower to hide,
For he and she had had a quarrel.
The goddess of the cumbrous crown
Called after him, in tones of pity,
“My son, you've dropped your wig and gown!
And, bless me, how you've torn your Chitty!”

326

VI

'Twas all unheeded or unheard,
For now he knocked at Beauty's portal;
One word from her, one golden word,
He knew, would make his lays immortal.
Alas! he elbowed through a throng
Of danglers, dancers, catgut scrapers,
And found her twisting up his song
Into the sweetest candlepapers.

VII

He turned away with sullen looks
From Beauty, and from Beauty's scorning.
“To-night,” he said, “I'll burn my books;
I'll break my harpstrings in the morning.”—
When lo, a laughing Fay drew near;
And with soft voice, more soft than Circe's,
She whispered in the poet's ear
The sounds the poet loved—his verses!

VIII

He looked, and listened; and it seemed
In Childhood's lips the lines grew sweeter:
Good lack! till now he had not dreamed
How bright the thought, how smooth the metre.
Ere the last stanza was begun,
He managed all his wrath to smother;
And when the little Nymph had done,
Said “Thank you, Love;—I'll write another!’

October 1, 1829

327

BEAUTY AND HER VISITORS.

I

I looked for Beauty:—on a throne,
A dazzling throne of light, I found her;
And Music poured its softest tone
And flowers their sweetest breath around her.
A score or two of idle gods,
Some dressed as peers, and some as peasants
Were watching all her smiles and nods,
And making compliments and presents.

II

And first young Love, the rosy boy,
Exhibited his bow and arrows,
And gave her many a pretty toy,
Torches, and bleeding hearts, and sparrows:
She told him, as he passed, she knew
Her court would scarcely do without him;
But yet—she hoped they were not true—
There were some awkward tales about him.

328

III

Wealth deemed that magic had no charm
More mighty than the gifts he brought her,
And linked around her radiant arm
Bright diamonds of the purest water:
The Goddess, with a scornful touch,
Unclasped the gaudy galling fetter;
And said,—she thanked him very much,—
She liked a wreath of roses better.

IV

Then Genius snatched his golden lute,
And told a tale of love and glory:
The crowd around were hushed and mute
To hear so sad and sweet a story;
And Beauty marked the minstrel's cheek.
So very pale—no bust was paler;
Vowed she could listen for a week;
But really—he should change his tailor!

V

As died the echo of the strings,
A shadowy Phantom kneeled before her,
Looked all unutterable things,
And swore, to see was to adore her;
He called her veil a cruel cloud,
Her cheek a rose, her smile a battery:
She fancied it was Wit that bowed;—
I'm almost certain it was Flattery.

329

VI

There was a beldame finding fault
With every person's every feature;
And by the sneer, and by the halt,
I knew at once the odious creature:
“You see,” quoth Envy, “I am come
To bow—as is my bounden duty;—
They tell me Beauty is at home;—
Impossible! that can't be Beauty!”

VII

I heard a murmur far and wide
Of “Lord! how quick the dotard passes!”
As Time threw down at Beauty's side
The prettiest of his clocks and glasses;
But it was noticed in the throng
How Beauty marred the maker's cunning;
For when she talked, the hands went wrong;
And when she smiled, the sands stopped running.

VIII

Death, in a doctor's wig and gown,
Came, arm in arm with Lethe, thither,
And crowned her with a withered crown,
And hinted, Beauty too must wither!
“Avaunt!” she cried,—“how came he here?
The frightful fiend! he's my abhorrence!”
I went and whispered in her ear,
“He shall not hurt you!—sit to Lawrence!”

330

HOW AM I LIKE HER?

“You are very like her.”—Miss E--- H---.

“Resemblances begin to strike
In things exceedingly unlike.”
—MS. Poem.

How am I like her?—for no trace
Of pain, of passion, or of aught
That stings or stains, is on her face:—
Mild eyes, clear forehead,—ne'er was wrought
A fitter, fairer dwelling-place
For tranquil joy and holy thought.

How am I like her?—for the fawn
Not lighter bounds o'er rock and rill,
Than she, beneath the intruding dawn
Threading, all mirth, our gay quadrille;
Or tripping o'er our level lawn
To those she loves upon the hill.

How am I like her?—for the ear
Thrills with her voice. Its breezy tone
Goes forth, as eloquently clear
As are the lutes at Heaven's high throne;
And makes the hearts of those who hear
As pure and peaceful as her own.

331

How am I like her?—for her ways
Are full of bliss. She never knew
Stern avarice, nor the thirst of praise
Insatiable;—Love never threw
Upon her calm and sunny days
The venom of his deadly dew.

How am I like her?—for her arts
Are blessing. Sorrow owns her thrall;
She dries the tear-drop as it starts,
And checks the murmurs as they fall;
She is the day-star of our hearts,
Consoling, guiding, gladdening all.

How am I like her?—for she steals
All sympathies. Glad Childhood's play
Is left for her; and wild Youth kneels
Obedient to her gentle sway;
And Age beholds her smile, and feels
December brightening into May.

How am I like her?—The rude fir
Is little like the sweet rose-tree:—
Unless perchance, fair flatterer,
In this your fabled likeness be,—
That all who are most dear to her
Are apt to be most dear to me.

October 10, 1829.

332

MY LITTLE COUSINS.

“E voi ridete? Certo ridiamo.” Così fan tutte.

Laugh on, fair Cousins, for to you
All life is joyous yet;
Your hearts have all things to pursue,
And nothing to regret;
And every flower to you is fair,
And every month is May:
You've not been introduced to Care,—
Laugh on, laugh on to-day!

Old Time will fling his clouds ere long
Upon those sunny eyes;
The voice whose every word is song
Will set itself to sighs;
Your quiet slumbers,—hopes and fears
Will chase their rest away:
To-morrow you'll be shedding tears,—
Laugh on, laugh on to-day!

333

Oh yes, if any truth is found
In the dull schoolman's theme,
If friendship is an empty sound,
And love an idle dream,
If mirth, youth's playmate, feels fatigue
Too soon on life's long way,
At least he'll run with you a league;—
Laugh on, laugh on to-day!

Perhaps your eyes may grow more bright
As childhood's hues depart;
You may be lovelier to the sight
And dearer to the heart;
You may be sinless still, and see
This earth still green and gay;
But what you are you will not be;
Laugh on, laugh on to-day!

O'er me have many winters crept
With less of grief than joy;
But I have learned, and toiled, and wept;
I am no more a boy!
I've never had the gout, 'tis true;
My hair is hardly grey;
But now I cannot laugh like you:
Laugh on, laugh on to-day!

334

I used to have as glad a face,
As shadowless a brow;
I once could run as blithe a race
As you are running now;
But never mind how I behave!
Don't interrupt your play;
And though I look so very grave,
Laugh on, laugh on to-day;

March 8, 1830.

335

ON AN INFANT NEPHEW.

The little one—the little one!
'Tis a fearful thing and strange,
That the silent seasons as they run
Should work such mighty change;
The lips that cannot lisp my name
May rule the stern debate;
And the hands too weak for childhood's game
Sport with the falchion's weight!

The beauteous one—the beauteous one!
In the wide world, I wis,
There's many a beauteous thing, but none
Of beauty like to this.
In youth and age, earth's sinful leaven
Where'er we go we trace;
But there is only peace and Heaven
In the smile of an infant's face.

The merry one—the merry one!
He is all wit and whim;
Our life has nought but a cloudless sun
And a waveless sea for him.

336

He knows not sorrow's thorny path,
Nor pleasure's flowery snare,
Nor heeds the bitter glance of wrath,
Nor the haggard cheek of care.

The cherished one—the cherished one!
A mystery is the love
Of parents for their infant son;
It cometh from above.
He is all music to their ear,
All glory to their sight,
By day he is their hope and fear,
Their thought and dream by night.

The guiltless one—the guiltless one!
How blest the earth would be,
If her best and holiest men had done
No more of wrong than he!
If the blot of sin and the doom of pain
On the baby's brow be set,—
O brother!—who shall see the stain
Or read the sentence yet?

337

LINES.

[The hues of life are fading from her wan and wasted cheek]

The hues of life are fading from her wan and wasted cheek;
Her voice is as an infant's voice, a whisper faint and weak;
But still we look and listen, for our hearts have never known
Such sweetness in a countenance, such softness in a tone.

She is passing from the world, from the weary world away,
From the sorrows that afflict us, from the pleasures that betray;
And another Home—a fairer Home—is opened to her sight,
Where the summer shines for ever, where the roses know no blight.

I know that we shall miss her, in the evening and the dawn,
In our converse round the fireside, in our walk upon the lawn;

338

I know that we shall miss her, in our mirth and in our care,
In the breaking of our bread, and in the breathing of our prayer.

And not the ring or brooch alone, but whatsoe'er we see,
The river and the green hill-side, the cottage and the tree,
Will bring her image back to us; there is not in our heart
A single hope—a single fear—in which she has no part.

Yet weep not, if you love her, that her tedious toil is done;
O weep not, if you love her, that her holy rest is won!
There should be gladness in your thought and smiles upon your brow,
For will she not be happy then?—is she not happy now?

And we will learn to talk of her;—and after many years
The tears which we shall shed for her will not be bitter tears,

339

When we shall tell each other, with a fond and thankful pride,
In what purity she lived, and in what peacefulness she died.

May 26, 1830.

340

A FRAGMENT.

Hast thou e'er watched and wept beside the bed
On which some dying friend reposed his head,—
Some loved and reverenced friend, from whom thy youth
Learned its first dream of happiness and truth?
When those fast-fading eyes were closed on earth,
On its vain mourning, and its vainer mirth,
When the strong spirit in the painful strife
Already seemed to live its after-life,
Viewing the homes which are prepared above
With firmer knowledge and with fonder love,—
Oh then with what sad reverence didst thou dwell
On every word that from those wan lips fell!
How didst thou consecrate with grateful care
The half-told message and the half-breathed prayer!
And, when the soul was trembling to depart,
How was the look engraven on thy heart
Which turned to seek thee, ere the spirit past,
And smiled a blessing on thee at the last!

341

HOPE AND LOVE.

I

One day through Fancy's telescope,
Which is my richest treasure,
I saw, dear Susan, Love and Hope
Set out in search of Pleasure:
All mirth and smiles I saw them go;
Each was the other's banker;
For Hope took up her brother's bow,
And Love, his sister's anchor.

II

They rambled on o'er vale and hill,
They passed by cot and tower;
Through summer's glow and winter's chill,
Through sunshine and through shower:
But what did those fond playmates care
For climate, or for weather?
All scenes to them were bright and fair
On which they gazed together.

III

Sometimes they turned aside to bless
Some Muse and her wild numbers,

342

Or breathe a dream of holiness
On Beauty's quiet slumbers:
“Fly on,” said Wisdom, with cold sneers,
“I teach my friends to doubt you:”
“Come back,” said Age, with bitter tears,
“My heart is cold without you.”

IV

When Poverty beset their path
And threatened to divide them,
They coaxed away the beldame's wrath
Ere she had breath to chide them,
By vowing all her rags were silk,
And all her bitters, honey,
And showing taste for bread and milk,
And utter scorn of money.

V

They met stern Danger in their way
Upon a ruin seated;
Before him kings had quaked that day,
And armies had retreated:
But he was robed in such a cloud
As Love and Hope came near him,
That though he thundered long and loud,
They did not see or hear him.

VI

A gray-beard joined them, Time by name;
And Love was nearly crazy

343

To find that he was very lame,
And also very lazy:
Hope, as he listened to her tale,
Tied wings upon his jacket;
And then they far outran the mail,
And far outsailed the packet.

VII

And so, when they had safely passed
O'er many a land and billow,
Before a grave they stopped at last,
Beneath a weeping willow:
The moon upon the humble mound
Her softest light was flinging;
And from the thickets all around
Sad nightingales were singing.

VIII

“I leave you here,” quoth father Time,
As hoarse as any raven;
And Love kneeled down to spell the rhyme
Upon the rude stone graven:
But Hope looked onward, calmly brave,
And whispered “Dearest brother—
We're parted on this side the grave,—
We'll meet upon the other.”

344

SELWORTHY.

WRITTEN UNDER A SKETCH OF SIR THOMAS ACLAND'S COTTAGES FOR THE POOR.

I

A gentle Muse was hovering o'er
The wide wide world, and looking long
For a pleasant spot where a Muse might pour
To the wood or the wave her liquid song;
And “Who,” said she, “of the kind and free—
Who will open his gate for me?”

II

“Come hither,” said Wealth, “to my crowded mart,
Where splendour dazzles the gazer's eye,
Where the sails approach and the sails depart
With every breath of the summer sky:”
“Oh no,” said she; “by the shore of the sea
Wealth has no room in his store for me!”

III

“Come hither,” said War, “to my moated tower;
Danger and Death have walked the plain;
But the arrowy sleet of the iron shower
Beats on these stubborn walls in vain:”

345

“Oh no,” said she,—“there is blood on the key;
War shall not open a lock for me!”

IV

“Come hither,” said Love, “to my rosy dell,
Where nothing of grief or care has birth;
Rest in my bower, where sweet dreams dwell,
Making a Heaven—a Heaven of earth.”
“Oh no,” said she; “at his trysting-tree
Love is too happy to think of me!”

V

And she lifted at last the humble latch
And entered in at a lowly door;
For Charity there had spread the thatch
O'er the peaceful roof of the sick and poor.
And “Here,” said she, “my rest shall be;
Here is a home and a theme for me.”

August 7, 1830.

346

CASSANDRA.

Στενω, στενω σε, δισσα και τριπλα δορος
Αυθις προς αλκην και διαρπαγας δομων
Και πυρ εναυγαζουσαν αιστωτηριον.
Lycophron, Cassandra, 69.

I

They hurried to the feast,
The warrior and the priest,
And the gay maiden with her jewelled brow;
The minstrel's harp and voice
Said “Triumph and rejoice!”—
One only mourned!—many are mourning now!

II

“Peace! startle not the light
With the wild dreams of night!”—
So spake the Princes in their pride and joy,
When I in their dull ears
Shrieked forth my tale of tears,
“Woe to the gorgeous city, woe to Troy!”—

III

Ye watch the dun smoke rise
Up to the lurid skies;
Ye see the red light flickering on the stream:
Ye listen to the fall
Of gate and tower and wall;
Sisters, the time is come!—alas, it is no dream!

347

IV

Through hall and court and porch
Glides on the pitiless torch;
The swift avengers faint not in their toil:
Vain now the matron's sighs,
Vain now the infant's cries;—
Look, sisters, look! who leads them to the spoil?

V

Not Pyrrhus, though his hand
Is on his father's brand;
Not the fell framer of the accursed steed;
Not Nestor's hoary head,
Nor Teucer's rapid tread,
Nor the fierce wrath of impious Diomede.

VI

Visions of deeper fear
To-night are warring here;—
I know them, sisters, the mysterious Three:
Minerva's lightning frown,
And Juno's golden crown,
And him, the mighty Ruler of the sounding sea!

VII

Through wailing and through woe
Silent and stern they go;
So have I ever seen them in my trance:
Exultingly they guide
Destruction's fiery tide,
And lift the dazzling shield, and poise the deadly lance.

348

VIII

Lo, where the old man stands,
Folding his palsied hands,
And muttering, with white lips, his querulous prayer:
“Where is my noble son,
My best, my bravest one—
Troy's hope and Priam's—where is Hector, where?”

IX

Why is thy falchion grasped?
Why is thy helmet clasped?
Fitter the fillet for such brow as thine!
The altar reeks with gore;
O sisters, look no more!
It is our father's blood upon the shrine!

X

And ye, alas! must roam
Far from your desolate home,
Far from lost Ilium, o'er the joyless wave;
Ye may not from these bowers
Gather the trampled flowers
To wreathe sad garlands for your brethren's grave.

XI

Away, away! the gale
Stirs the white-bosomed sail;
Hence! look not back to freedom or to fame
Labour must be your doom,
Night-watchings, days of gloom,
The bitter bread of tears, the bridal couch of shame.

349

XII

Even now some Grecian dame
Beholds the signal flame,
And waits, expectant, the returning fleet;
“Why lingers yet my lord?
Hath he not sheathed his sword?
Will he not bring my handmaid to my feet?”

XIII

Me, too, the dark Fates call:
Their sway is over all,
Captor and captive, prison-house and throne:—
I tell of others' lot;
They hear me, heed me not!
Hide, angry Phœbus, hide from me mine own!

350

SIR NICHOLAS AT MARSTON MOOR.

To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas! the clarion's note is high;
To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas! the huge drum makes reply:
Ere this hath Lucas marched with his gallant cavaliers,
And the bray of Rupert's trumpets grows fainter on our ears.
To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas! White Guy is at the door,
And the vulture whets his beak o'er the field of Marston Moor.

Up rose the Lady Alice from her brief and broken prayer,
And she brought a silken standard down the narrow turret stair.
Oh, many were the tears that those radiant eyes had shed,
As she worked the bright word “Glory” in the gay and glancing thread;

351

And mournful was the smile that o'er those beauteous features ran,
As she said, “It is your lady's gift, unfurl it in the van.”

“It shall flutter, noble wench, where the best and boldest ride,
Through the steel-clad files of Skippon and the black dragoons of Pride;
The recreant soul of Fairfax will feel a sicklier qualm,
And the rebel lips of Oliver give out a louder psalm,
When they see my lady's gew-gaw flaunt bravely on their wing,
And hear her loyal soldiers' shout, for God and for the King!”—

'Tis noon; the ranks are broken along the royal line;
They fly, the braggarts of the Court, the bullies of the Rhine:
Stout Langley's cheer is heard no more, and Astley's helm is down,
And Rupert sheathes his rapier with a curse and with a frown;
And cold Newcastle mutters, as he follows in the flight,
“The German boar had better far have supped in York to-night.”

352

The Knight is all alone, his steel cap cleft in twain,
His good buff jerkin crimsoned o'er with many a gory stain;
But still he waves the standard, and cries amid the rout—
“For Church and King, fair gentlemen, spur on and fight it out!”
And now he wards a Roundhead's pike, and now he hums a stave,
And here he quotes a stage-play, and there he fells a knave.

Good speed to thee, Sir Nicholas! thou hast no thought of fear;
Good speed to thee, Sir Nicholas! but fearful odds are here.
The traitors ring thee round, and with every blow and thrust,
“Down, down,” they cry, “with Belial, down with him to the dust!”
“I would,” quoth grim old Oliver, “that Belial's trusty sword
This day were doing battle for the Saints and for the Lord!”—

The Lady Alice sits with her maidens in her bower;

353

The gray-haired warden watches on the castle's highest tower.—
“What news, what news, old Anthony?”—“The field is lost and won;
The ranks of war are melting as the mists beneath the sun;
And a wounded man speeds hither,—I am old and cannot see,
Or sure I am that sturdy step my master's step should be.”—

“I bring thee back the standard from as rude and rough a fray,
As e'er was proof of soldier's thews, or theme for minstrel's lay.
Bid Hubert fetch the silver bowl, and liquor quantum suff.;
I'll make a shift to drain it, ere I part with boot and buff;
Though Guy through many a gaping wound is breathing out his life,
And I come to thee a landless man, my fond and faithful wife!

‘Sweet, we will fill our money-bags, and freight a ship for France,
And mourn in merry Paris for this poor realm's mischance;

354

Or, if the worst betide me, why, better axe or rope,
Than life with Lenthal for a king, and Peters for a pope!
Alas, alas, my gallant Guy!—out on the crop-eared boor,
That sent me with my standard on foot from Marston Moor!”

355

THE COVENANTER'S LAMENT FOR BOTHWELL BRIGG.

The men of sin prevail!
Once more the prince of this world lifts his horn;
Judah is scattered, as the chaff is borne
Before the stormy gale.

Where are our brethren? where
The good and true, the terrible and fleet?
They whom we loved, with whom we sat at meat,
With whom we kneeled in prayer?

Mangled and marred they lie
Upon the bloody pillow of their rest;
Stern Dalzell smiles, and Clavers with a jest
Spurs his fierce charger by.

So let our foes rejoice;
We to the Lord, who hears their impious boasts,
Will call for comfort; to the God of hosts
We will lift up our voice.

356

Give ear unto our song;
For we are wandering o'er our native land
As sheep that have no shepherd; and the hand
Of wicked men is strong.

Only to thee we bow:
Our lips have drained the fury of thy cup;
And the deep murmurs of our hearts go up
To Heaven for vengeance now.

Avenge,—oh! not our years
Of pain and wrong, the blood of martyrs shed,
The ashes heaped upon the hoary head,
The maiden's silent tears,

The babe's bread torn away,
The harvest blasted by the war steed's hoof,
The red flame wreathing o'er the cottage roof,
Judge not for these to-day!—

Is not thine own dread rod
Mocked by the proud, thy holy book disdained,
Thy name blasphemed, thy temple courts profaned?—
Avenge thyself, O, God!

Break Pharaoh's iron crown;
Bind with new chains their nobles and their kings;
Wash from thine house the blood of unclean things,
And hurl their Dagon down!

357

Come in thine own good time!
We will abide; we have not turned from thee,
Though in a world of grief our portion be,
Of bitter grief, and crime.

Be thou our guard and guide!
Forth from the spoiler's synagogue we go,
That we may worship where the torrents flow
And where the whirlwinds ride.

From lonely rocks and caves
We will pour forth our sacrifice of prayer.—
On, brethren, to the mountains! Seek we there
Safe temples, quiet graves!

358

STANZAS WRITTEN UNDER A PICTURE OF KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE.

Most beautiful! I gaze and gaze
In silence on the glorious pile,
And the glad thoughts of other days
Come thronging back the while.
To me dim memory makes more dear
The perfect grandeur of the shrine;
But if I stood a stranger here,
The ground were still divine.

Some awe the good and wise have felt,
As reverently their feet have trod
On any spot where man hath knelt
To commune with his God;
By sacred spring, or haunted well,
Beneath the ruined temple's gloom,
Beside the feeble hermit's cell,
Or the false Prophet's tomb.

But when was high devotion graced
With lovelier dwelling, loftier throne,
Than here the limner's art hath traced
From the time-honoured stone?

359

The Spirit here of Worship seems
To bind the soul in willing thrall,
And heavenward hopes and holy dreams
Come at her voiceless call;

At midnight, when the lonely moon
Looks from a vapour's silvery fold;
At morning, when the sun of June
Crests the high towers with gold;
For every change of hour and form
Makes that fair scene more deeply fair,
And dusk and daybreak, calm and storm,
Are all Religion there.

360

LINES WRITTEN FOR A BLANK PAGE OF “THE KEEPSAKE.”

Lady, there's fragrance in your sighs,
And sunlight in your glances;
I never saw such lips and eyes
In pictures or romances;
And Love will readily suppose,
To make you quite enslaving,
That you have taste for verse and prose,
Hot pressed, and line engraving.

And then, you waltz so like a Fay,
That round you envy rankles;
Your partner's head is turned, they say,
As surely as his ankles;
And I was taught, in days far gone,
By a most prudent mother,
That in this world of sorrow, one
Good turn deserves another.

361

I may not win you!—that's a bore!
But yet 'tis sweet to woo you;
And for this cause,—and twenty more,
I send this gay book to you.
If its songs please you,—by this light!
I will not hold it treason
To bid you dream of me to-night,
And dance with me next season.

362

ANTICIPATION.

“Oh yes! he is in Parliament;
He's been returning thanks;
You can't conceive the time he's spent
Already on his franks.
He'll think of nothing, night and day,
But place, and the gazette:”—
No matter what the people say,—
You won't believe them yet.

“He filled an album, long ago,
With such delicious rhymes;
Now we shall only see, you know,
His speeches in the ‘Times;’
And liquid tone and beaming brow,
Bright eyes and locks of jet,
He'll care for no such nonsense now:”—
Oh! don't believe them yet!

“I vow he's turned a Goth, a Hun,
By that disgusting Bill;
He'll never make another pun;
He's danced his last quadrille.

363

We shall not see him flirt again
With any fair coquette;
He'll never laugh at Drury Lane.”—
Psha!—don't believe them yet.

“Last week I heard his uncle boast
He's sure to have the seals;
I read it in the ‘Morning Post’
That he has dined at Peel's;
You'll never see him any more,
He's in a different set;
He cannot eat at half-past four:”—
No?—don't believe them yet.

“In short, he'll soon be false and cold,
And infinitely wise;
He'll grow next year extremely old,
He'll tell enormous lies;
He'll learn to flatter and forsake,
To feign and to forget:”—
O whisper—or my heart will break—
You won't believe them yet!

364

STANZAS WRITTEN IN LADY MYRTLE'S “BOCCACCIO.”

In these gay pages there is food
For every mind and every mood,
Fair Lady, if you dare to spell them:
Now merriment—now grief prevails;
But yet the best of all the tales
Is of the young group met to tell them.

Oh was it not a pleasant thought
To set the pestilence at nought,
Chatting among sweet streams and flowers
Of jealous husbands, fickle wives,
Of all the tricks which love contrives
To see through veils, and talk through towers?

Lady, they say the fearful guest
Onward—still onward to the west,
Poised on his sulphurous wings, advances,
Who on the frozen river's banks
Has thinned the Russian despot's ranks,
And marred the might of Warsaw's lances.

365

Another year—a brief brief year—
And lo, the fell destroyer here!
He comes with all his gloomy terrors;
Then Guilt will read the properest books,
And Folly wear the soberest looks,
And Virtue shudder at her errors.

And there'll be sermons in the street;
And every friend and foe we meet
Will wear the dismal garb of sorrow;
And quacks will send their lies about,
And weary Halford will find out
He must have four new bays to-morrow.

But you shall fly from these dark signs,
As did those happy Florentines,
Ere from your cheek one rose is faded;
And hide your youth and loveliness
In some bright garden's green recess,
By walls fenced round, by huge trees shaded.

There brooks shall dance in light along,
And birds shall trill their constant song
Of pleasure, from their leafy dwelling;
You shall have music, novels, toys;
But still the chiefest of your joys
Must be, fair Lady, story-telling.

366

Be cautious how you choose your men:
Don't look for people of the pen,
Scholars who read, or write the papers;
Don't think of wits, who talk to dine,
Who drink their patron's newest wine,
And cure their patron's newest vapours.

Avoid all youths who toil for praise
By quoting Liston's last new phrase,
Or sigh to leave high fame behind them
For swallowing swords, or dancing jigs,
Or imitating ducks and pigs;
Take men of sense,—if you can find them.

Live, laugh, tell stories; ere they're told,
New themes succeed upon the old,
New follies come, new faults, new fashions;
An hour—a minute will supply
To thought a folio history
Of blighted hopes, and thwarted passions.

King Death, when he has snatched away
Drunkards from brandy, Dukes from play,
And Common-councilmen from turtle,
Shall break his dart in Grosvenor Square,
And mutter in his fierce despair
“Why, what's become of Lady Myrtle?”

367

LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM, THE GIFT OF QUEEN ADELAIDE TO LADY MAYO.

A beautiful and bounteous Fay
Beside a cradle sang one day;
The mother heard not, but the child
In her glad dream looked up, and smiled.

“I bring thee a rose—a rose for thee,
The sweetest of my bower;
It is a token thou shalt be
As lovely and loved a flower:
Thou too shalt brightly bloom, and wear
In future years, as now,
Deep beauty in thy sunny hair,
Blue eyes, and tranquil brow.

“I bring thee a lute—an ivory lute;
I bring it for a sign
That Wit shall sue with an anxious suit
For a look or a word of thine.

368

Grave Science at thy feet shall lay
Whate'er the wise have known,
And Music charm thy cares away
With her most delicious tone.

“I bring thee a sceptre! wake and gaze
On the symbol of high command:
A nation's love, in after days,
Shall trust it to thy hand,
When from thy home thou shalt depart
And go o'er the bounding wave
To be the Bride of a Monarch's heart,
The Queen of the free and brave.

“I bring thee a Book—a holy Book:
In all thy grief and mirth
It is a spell to bid thee look
Still up to Heaven from earth,
And turn to Him who alone forgives
With a firm and faithful trust,
And live the life which virtue lives,
And die, as die the just!”

I need not whisper to your thought
For what fair child those gifts were wrought,
Nor tell how true our English eyes
Have found the Fairy's prophecies.

369

LINES WRITTEN IN THE SAME,

UNDER A PICTURE OF THE DUCAL PALACE AT HESSE HOMBURG, THE RESIDENCE OF THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH, DAUGHTER OF GEORGE III.

It is a joyous land, I guess;
The sun shines bright, the breeze roves free;
And Nature flings her fairest dress
On humble herb and lofty tree;
But thou wilt think in those far bowers,
With half a smile, and half a sigh,
Thy childhood wreathed as fragrant flowers,
And laughed beneath as warm a sky.

And proudly o'er those poplars tall
And tapering firs the Palace gleams;
But ah! the time-worn Castle's wall
Is still remembered in thy dreams;
And that broad Terrace still is dear,
Where, when the star of day went down,
Thy good old Sire went forth to hear
Rich blessings, richer than his crown.

370

And other friends are round thee now
Than those that shared thine early mirth;
And thou hast newer slaves to bow,
And foreign lutes to hymn thy worth;
But thou wilt never quite forget
That here, where first thy praise was heard,
Thy virtues are recorded yet,
Thy name is yet a household word.

And if thou ne'er may'st see again
The white cliffs of thy father-land,
And if henceforth we seek in vain
Thy cheering smile, and bounteous hand,—
Thou wilt be what thou wast and art,
Where'er thy bark may chance to roam;
And thou wilt keep thine English heart,
And thou wilt love thine English home!

371

LINES WRITTEN UNDER A PORTRAIT OF LORD MAYO, DRAWN BY THE QUEEN.

A courtier of the nobler sort,
A Christian of the purer school;—
Tory, when Whigs are great at Court,
And Protestant, when Papists rule;

Prompt to support the Monarch's crown,
As prompt to dry the poor man's tears;
Yet fearing not the Premier's frown,
And seeking not the rabble's cheers;

Still ready,—favoured or disgraced,—
To do the right, to speak the true;—
The Artist who these features traced
A better Subject never knew!

November, 1833.

372

LINES WRITTEN UNDER A VIEW OF BERSTED LODGE, BOOKOR.

If e'er again my wayward fate
Should bring me, Lady, to your gate,
The trees and flowers might seem as fair
As in remembered days they were;
But should I in their loved haunts find
The friends that were so bright and kind?

My heart would seek with vain regret
Some tones and looks it dreams of yet;
I could not follow through the dance
The heroine of my first romance
At his own board I could not see
The kind old man that welcomed me.

When round the grape's rich juices pass,
Sir William does not drain his glass;
When music charms the listening throng,
“O Pescator” is not the song;

373

Queen Mab is ageing very fast,
And Cœlebs has a wife at last.

I too am changed, as others are;
I'm graver, wiser, sadder far:
I study reasons more than rhymes,
And leave my Petrarch for the “Times,”
And turn from Laura's auburn locks
To ask my friend the price of stocks.

A wondrous song does Memory sing,
A merry—yet a mournful thing;
When thirteen years have fleeted by,
'Twere hard to say if you or I
Would gain or lose in smiles or tears,—
By just forgetting thirteen years.

374

LATIN HYMN TO THE VIRGIN.

I

Virgin Mother, thou hast known
Joy and sorrow like my own;
In thy arms the bright Babe lay,
As my own in mine to-day;
So he wept and so he smiled;
Ave Mary! guard my child!

II

From the pains and perils spread
Round about our path and bed,
Fierce desires, ambitious schemes,
Moody doubts, fantastic dreams,
Pleasures idle, passions wild,
Ave Mary! guard my child!

III

Make him whatsoe'er may be
Dearest to the saints and thee;
Tell him, from the throne above,
What to loathe and what to love;
To be true and just and mild,
Ave Mary! teach my child!

375

IV

By the wondrous mercy won
For the world by thy blest Son,
By the rest his labours wrought,
By the bliss his tortures bought,
By the Heaven he reconciled,
Ave Mary! bless my child!

V

If about his after fate
Sin and sorrow darkly wait,
Take him rather to thine arms
From the world and the world's harms;
Thus unscathed, thus undefiled,
Ave Mary! take my child!

376

THE SABBATH.

I

For whom was the Sabbath made?—
It brings repose and rest;
It hushes study's aching head,
Ambition's anxious breast:
The slave that digs the mine,
The serf that ploughs the soil,
For them it was ordained to shine;—
It is for all that toil.

II

For whom was the Sabbath made?—
It opens the Book of Peace,
Which tells of flowers that never fade,
Of songs that never cease:
If the hopes you nursed decline,
If the friends you cherished die,
For you it was ordained to shine;—
It is for all that sigh.

377

III

For whom was the Sabbath made?—
It calls the wretch to prayer,
Whose soul the noonday thoughts upbraid
And the midnight visions scare:
It calls thee to the shrine;
Fear'st thou to enter in?
For thee it was ordained to shine—
It is for all that sin.

378

THE NEWLY-WEDDED.

I

Now the rite is duly done;
Now the word is spoken;
And the spell has made us one
Which may ne'er be broken:
Rest we, dearest, in our home,—
Roam we o'er the heather,—
We shall rest, and we shall roam,
Shall we not? together.

II

From this hour the summer rose
Sweeter breathes to charm us;
From this hour the winter snows
Lighter fall to harm us:
Fair or foul—on land or sea—
Come the wind or weather,
Best and worst, whate'er they be,
We shall share together.

379

III

Death, who friend from friend can part,
Brother rend from brother,
Shall but link us, heart and heart,
Closer to each other:
We will call his anger play,
Deem his dart a feather,
When we meet him on our way
Hand in hand together.

380

TO HELEN.

WRITTEN IN THE FIRST LEAF OF KEBLE'S “CHRISTIAN YEAR”, A BIRTHDAY PRESENT.

My Helen, for its golden fraught
Of prayer and praise, of dream and thought,
Where Poesy finds fitting voice
For all who hope, fear, grieve, rejoice,
Long have I loved, and studied long,
The pious minstrel s varied song.

Whence is the volume dearer now?
There gleams a smile upon your brow,
Wherein, methinks, I read how well
You guess the reason, ere I tell,
Which makes to me the simple rhymes
More prized, more conned, a hundred times.

Ere vanished quite the dread and doubt
Affection ne'er was born without,
Found we not here a magic key
Opening thy secret soul to me?
Found we not here a mystic sign
Interpreting thy heart to mine?

381

What sympathies up-springing fast
Through all the future, all the past,
In tenderest links began to bind
Spirit to spirit, mind to mind,
As we, together wandering o'er
The little volume's precious store,

Mused, with alternate smile and tear.
On the high themes awakened here
Of fervent hope, of calm belief,
Of cheering joy, of chastening grief,
The trials borne, the sins forgiven,
The task on earth, the meed in Heaven.

My Own! oh surely from above
Was shed that confidence of love,
Which, in such happy moments nurst
When soul with soul had converse first,
Now through the snares and storms of life
Blesses the husband and the wife!

February 12, 1838.

382

TO HELEN.

When some grim sorceress, whose skill
Had bound a sprite to work her will,
In mirth or malice chose to ask
Of the faint slave the hardest task,

She sent him forth to gather up
Great Ganges in an acorn-cup,
Or heaven's unnumbered stars to bring
In compass of a signet ring.

Thus Helen bids her poet write
The thanks he owes this morning's light;
And “Give me,”—so he hears her say,—
“Four verses, only four, to-day.”

Dearest and best! she knows, if wit
Could ever half love's debt acquit,
Each of her tones and of her looks
Would have its four, not lines, but books.

House of Commons, July 7, 1836.

383

SKETCH OF A YOUNG LADY

FIVE MONTHS OLD.

My pretty, budding, breathing flower,
Methinks, if I to-morrow
Could manage, just for half an hour,
Sir Joshua's brush to borrow,
I might immortalize a few
Of all the myriad graces
Which Time, while yet they all are new,
With newer still replaces.

I'd paint, my child, your deep blue eyes,
Their quick and earnest flashes;
I'd paint the fringe that round them lies,
The fringe of long dark lashes;
I'd draw with most fastidious care
One eyebrow, then the other,
And that fair forehead, broad and fair,
The forehead of your mother.

I'd oft retouch the dimpled cheek
Where health in sunshine dances;
And oft the pouting lips, where speak
A thousand voiceless fancies,

384

And the soft neck would keep me long,
The neck, more smooth and snowy
Than ever yet in schoolboy's song
Had Caroline or Chloe.

Nor less on those twin rounded arms
My new-found skill would linger,
Nor less upon the rosy charms
Of every tiny finger;
Nor slight the small feet, little one,
So prematurely clever
That, though they neither walk nor run,
I think they'd jump for ever.

But then your odd endearing ways—
What study ere could catch them?
Your aimless gestures, endless plays—
What canvass ere could match them?
Your lively leap of merriment,
Your murmur of petition,
Your serious silence of content,
Your laugh of recognition.

Here were a puzzling toil, indeed,
For Art's most fine creations!—
Grow on, sweet baby; we will need,
To note your transformations,

385

No picture of your form or face,
Your waking or your sleeping,
But that which Love shall daily trace,
And trust to Memory's keeping.

Hereafter, when revolving years
Have made you tall and twenty,
And brought you blended hopes and fears,
And sighs and slaves in plenty,
May those who watch our little saint
Among her tasks and duties,
Feel all her virtues hard to paint.
As now we deem her beauties.

October 10, 1836.

386

SONNET TO R. C. HILDYARD.

Profit and praise attend you, wheresoe'er
You charm the country, or amaze the town,
With flow of argument, and flow of gown!
I will not here forget you; but will spare,
Amidst my tranquil joys, a wish and prayer
That you may win quick riches, high renown,—
Hereafter, better gifts—more like my own!
O kindest found, when kindness was most rare!
When I recall the days of hope and fear
In which I first dared call my Helen mine,
Or the sweet hour when first upon my ear
Broke the shrill cry of little Adeline,
The memory of your friendship, Friend sincere,
Among such memories grateful I entwine.

October 15, 1836.

387

SONNET TO B. J. M. P.

A sad return, my Brother, thine must be
To thy void home! loosed is the silver cham,
The golden bowl is broken!—not again
Love's fond caress and Childhood's earnest glee
After dull toil may greet and gladden thee.
How shall we bid the mourner not complain.
Not murmur, not despond?—ah me, most vain
Is sympathy, how soft soe'er the key,
And argument, how grave soe'er the tone!
In our still chambers, on our bended knees.
Pray we for better help! There is but One
Who shall from sorrow, as from sin, release:
God send thee peace, my Brother! God alone
Guideth the fountains of eternal peace.

October 19, 1836.

388

TO HELEN

WITH CRABBE'S POEMS, A BIRTHDAY PRESENT.

Give Crabbe, dear Helen, on your shelf,
A place by Wordsworth's mightier self;
In token that your taste, self wrought
From mines of independent thought,
And shaped by no exclusive rule
Of whim or fashion, sect or school,
Can honour Genius, whatsoe'er
The garb it chance or choose to wear.

Nor deem, dear Helen, unallied
The bards we station side by side;
Different their harps,—to each his own;
But both are true and pure of tone.
Brethren, methinks, in times like ours
Of misused gifts, perverted powers,—
Brethren are they, whose kindred song
Nor hides the Right, nor gilds the Wrong.

February 12, 1837.

389

TO HELEN.

What prayer, dear Helen, shall I pray
On this my brightest holiday
To the great Giver of all good,
By whom our thoughts are understood—
Lowly or lofty, wild or weak—
Long ere the tardy tongue can speak?

For you, my treasure, let me pray
That, as swift Time shall steal away
Year after year, you ne'er may deem
The radiance of this morning's beam
Less happy—holy,—than you know
It dawned for us two years ago.

And for our infants let me pray—
Our little precious babes—that they,
Whate'er their lot in future years,
Sorrow or gladness, smiles or tears,
May own whatever is, is just,
And learn their mother's hope and trust.

390

And for my own heart let me pray
That God may mould me day by day,
By grace descending from above,
More worthy of the joy and love
Which His beneficence divine
On this, my best of days, made mine.

July 7, 1837.

391

SONNET WRITTEN IN THE FIRST LEAF OF LOCKHART'S “LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.”

Lo the magician, whose enchantments lend
To the dim past a fresh and fairy light,
Who makes the absent present to our sight,
And calls the dead to life! Till time shall end,
O'er him the grateful Muses shall extend
Unfading laurels; yet methinks, of right,
With holier glory shall his fame be bright,—
Leal subject, honest patriot, cordial friend.
Of such a spirit, by your cheerful fire
This record, Helen, welcome shall appear;
To which your husband-lover's duteous lyre,
Not tuneless yet, sweet Helen, to your ear,
Adds the warm wish these winter eves inspire,
“A merry Christmas, and a glad New Year!”

December 25, 1837.

392

VERSES WRITTEN IN THE FIRST LEAF OF A CHILD'S BOOK, GIVEN BY ------ TO HER GODSON, AGED FOUR.

My little Freddy, when you look
Into this nice new story-book
Which is my Christmas present,
You'll find it full of verse and prose,
And pictures too, which I suppose
Will make them both more pleasant.

Stories are here of girls and boys,
Of all their tasks, and all their toys,
Their sorrows and their pleasures;
Stories of cuckoos, dogs, and bees,
Of fragrant flowers and beauteous trees,
In short, a hoard of treasures.

When you have spelled the volume through,
One tale will yet remain for you,—
(I hope you'll read it clearly;)
'Tis of a Godmamma, who proves
By such slight token, that she loves
Her God-child very dearly.

December 25, 1837

393

TO HELEN

WITH A SMALL CANDLESTICK, A BIRTHDAY PRESENT.

If, wandering in a wizard's car
Through yon blue ether, I were able
To fashion of a little star
A taper for my Helen's table,—

“What then?” she asks me with a laugh;—
Why then, with all Heaven's lustre glowing
It would not gild her path with half
The light her love o'er mine is throwing!

February 12, 1838.

394

TO HELEN

WITH SOUTHEY'S POEMS.

A happy and a holy day
Is this alike to soul and sight;
With cheerful love and joyful lay
Would I, dear Helen, greet its light.

But vain the purpose—very vain!
I cannot play the minstrel's part,
When recent care and present pain
Untune the lyre, unnerve the heart.

Yet prize these tomes of golden rhyme;
And let them tell you, in far years,
When faint the record traced by Time
Of brightest smiles or saddest tears,

As sunward rose the Persian's prayer,
Though clouds might dim the votary's view,
So still, through doubt and grief and care,
My spirit, Helen, turned to you.

July 7, 1838.

395

THE HOME OF HIS CHILDHOOD.

I

He knows that the paleness still grows on his cheek.
He feels that the fever still burns on his brow,
And what in his thought, in his dream, does he seek
Far, far o'er the ocean that circles him now?
'Tis the Home of his Childhood! the first and the best
O why have you hurried him over the wave,
That the hand of the stranger may tend on his rest,
That the foot of the stranger may tread on his grave?

II

Here the sun may be brighter, the heaven more blue,
But on! to his eyes they are joyless and dim:
Here the flowers may be richer of perfume and hue,—
They are not so fair nor so fragrant to him:
'Tis the Home of his Childhood! O bear him again
To the play-haunted lawn, to the love-lighted room,
That his mother may watch by his pillow of pain,
That his father may whisper a prayer o'er his tomb!

St. Leonard's-on-Sea, December 22, 1838.

396

TO HELEN

WITH A DIARY, A BIRTHDAY PRESENT.

If daily to these tablets fair
My Helen shall entrust a part
Of every thought, dream, wish, and prayer,
Born from her head or from her heart,

Well may I say each little page
More precious records soon will grace.
Than ever yet did bard or sage
From store of truth or fable trace.

Affection—friendship here will glow,
The daughter's and the mother's love.
And charity to man below,
And piety to God above.

Such annals, artless though they be,
Of all that is most pure and bright—
Oh blessed are the eyes that see!
More blessed are the hands that write!

February 12, 1839.

397

TO HELEN.

Dearest, I did not dream, four years ago,
When through your veil I saw your bright tear shine,
Caught your clear whisper, exquisitely low,
And felt your soft hand tremble into mine,
That in so brief—so very brief a space,
He, who in love both clouds and cheers our life,
Would lay on you, so full of light, joy, grace,
The darker, sadder duties of the wife,—
Doubts, fears, and frequent toil, and constant care
For this poor frame, by sickness sore bested;
The daily tendance on the fractious chair,
The nightly vigil by the feverish bed.

Yet not unwelcomed doth this morn arise,
Though with more gladsome beams it might have shone:
Strength of these weak hands, light of these dim eyes,
In sickness, as in health,—bless you, My Own!

Sudbury, July 7, 1839.

END OF VOLUME I.

II. VOL. II.

I. POEMS OF LIFE AND MANNERS.

PART I.

THE EVE OF BATTLE.

“It is not yet near day. Come, go with me;
Under our tents I'll play the eaves-dropper.”
Shakspeare.

The night comes on, and o'er the field
The moon shines bright on helm and shield;
But there are many on that plain
That shall not see her light again;
She looks serene on countless bands
Of mailéd breasts and steel-bound hands,
And shows a thousand faces there
Of courage high, and dark despair.
All mingled as the legions lie,
Wrapt in their dreams of victory,
A lowering sound of doubt and fear
Breaks sudden on the startled ear,
And hands are clenched, and cheeks are pale,
And from bright blade and ringing mail
A thousand hands, with busy toil,
Clean off each ancient stain or soil;

Or spots of blood, where truth may read
For every drop a guilty deed.

Survey the crowds who there await
In various mood the shock of fate,
Who burn to meet or strive to shun
The dangers of to-morrow's sun:
Look on the husband's anxious tears,
The hero's hopes, the coward's fears,
The vices that e'en here are found,
The follies that are hovering round,
And learn that (treat it as you will)
Our life must be a mockery still.
Alas! the same caprices reign
In courtly hall or tented plain;
And the same follies are revealed
In ball-room and in battle-field.

Turn to yon open tent, and see
Where, drunk with youth and Burgundy,
Reclines, his midnight revel o'er,
The beau of battle, Theodore.
Before him on his desk he lays
The billet-doux of other days;
And while he reads, his fancy lingers
On those white hands and witching fingers
That traced the darling signatures,—
The “yours till death” and “truly yours;”

And as by turns they meet his eye
He looks, and laughs, and throws them by,
Until perchance some magic name
Lights up a spark of former flame;
And then he ponders in his trance
On Mary's love-inspiring glance,
On Chloe's eye of glittering fire,
And Laura's look of fond desire:
Poor Theodore! if valiant breast,
And open heart, and song, and jest,
And laughing lip, and auburn hair,
And vow sent up by lady fair,
Can save a youthful warrior's life,
Thou fall'st not in to-morrow's strife.

Look yonder; on the dewy sward
Tom Wittol lies, a brother bard;
He lies, and ponders on the stars,
On virtue, genius, and the wars;
On dark ravines and woody dells,
On mirth and muses, shot and shells;
On black mustachios, and White Surrey,
On rhyme and sabres, death and Murray;
Until at last his fancy glows
As if it felt to-morrow's blows;
Anticipation fires his brain
With fights unfought, unslaughtered slain,

And on the fray that is to be
Comes forth a dirge or elegy;
And if he meets no heavier harm
To-morrow from a foeman's arm
Than cracked cuirass or broken head,
He'll hasten from his fever's bed,
And, just broke loose from salve and lint,
Rush like a hero into print,
Heading his light and harmless prattle,—
“Lines—written on a Field of Battle.”
Thou favoured bard, go boldly on!
The Muse shall guard her darling son;
And, when the musket's steady aim
Is levelled at the pet of fame,
The Muse shall check the impious crime,
And shield thee with a ream of rhyme;
But if 'tis doomed, and fall thou must,
Since bards, like other men, are dust,
Upon the tomb where thou shalt sleep
Phœbus and Mars alike shall weep,
And he that loved, but could not save,
Shall write “Hic jacet” o'er thy grave.

What wight is that, whose distant nose
Gives token loud of deep repose?
What, honest Harry on the ground?
I' faith thy sleep is wondrous sound

For one who looks, upon his waking,
To “sleep the sleep that knows not breaking!”
But rest thee, rest, thou merriest soul
That ever loved the circling bowl!
I look upon his empty cup,
And sudden tears uncalled spring up;
Perchance in this abode of pother
Kind Harry may not drain another;
But still our comrades at the Bell
Of Harry's prowess long shall tell,
And dignify with well-earned praise
The revelry of other days;
And then the merry tale will run
On many a wager lost and won,
On many a jest and many a song,
And many a peal of laughter long
That from our jovial circle broke
At Harry's toast or Harry's joke.
Again, at fancy's touch restored,
Our old sirloin shall grace the board;
Again, at fancy's touch shall flow
The tap we drained an age ago:
And thou, the soul of fun, the life
Of noisy mirth and playful strife,
Mayst sleep in honour's worm-worn bed
The dreamless slumber of the dead;
But oft shall one sad heart at least
Think on the smile, that never ceased

Its catching influence, till the earth
Closed o'er the lips that gave it birth:
I'll pour upon thy tranquil rest
The hallowed bowl of Meux's best,
And recollect, with smile and sigh,
Thy “beer with E, and bier with I.”

Dazzle mine eyes? or do I see
Two glorious suns of Chancery?
The pride of Law appears the first,
And next the pride of Moulsey Hurst.
Faithless and fee-less, from the bar
Tim Quill is come to practise war:
Without a rival in the ring,
Brown Robert “peels” for Church and King.
Thus ever to your country's fights
Together go, ye kindred knights!
Congenial arts ye aye pursued;
Daylight ye studied to exclude;
And both of old were known to Crib,
And both were very apt to fib!
Together go; no foe shall stand
The vengeance of our country's brand,
When on his ranks together spring
Cross-buttocks—and cross-questioning!

Sir Jacob arming! what despair
Has snatched him from his elbow-chair,

And hurried from his good old wine
The bachelor of fifty-nine?
What mighty cause has torn him thus,
Unwilling, from suburban rus,
Bade him desert his one-horse chaise,
His old companions and old ways,
Give up his baccalaurean tattle,
And quit the bottle for the battle?
Has he forgot in martial ardour
His wig, his teapot, and his larder?
Has he forgot—ungrateful sub.—
Champagne, backgammon, and the club?
Has he forgot his native earth,
His sofa, and his decent hearth?
Has he forgot his homely fare,
And her, the maid with yellow hair,
That dressed the meat and spread the board,
Laid fuel on the fire, and poured
In stream as sparkling as her eye
From its green gaol the Burgundy?
That Hebe, in thy native town,
Looks from her latticed window down,
And, when the newsman paces by,
Runs, with a sharp and fearful cry,
And cheek all pale, and eye all wet,
To seek thy name in the Gazette.
What fate has bid her master roam,
In exile from his cheerful home?

What! has his landlord turned him out!
Is he gone mad with love—or gout?
Has death imposed his finger bony
Upon his mistress—or his crony?
Have sober matrons ceased to praise
The lover of their youthful days?
Are belles less eager to command,
With wink and smile, his ready hand?
Fears he the sudden dissolution
Of club-house—or of constitution?
Has the last pipe of hock miscarried?
Has—I forget!—last week he—married.

Thou too thy brilliant helm must don,
Etona's wild and wayward son,
Mad merry Charles. While beardless yet
Thou look'st upon thy plume of jet,
Or smilest, as the clouds of night
Are drifted back by morning's light,
Thy boyish look, thy careless eyes,
Might wake the envy of the wise.
Six months have passed since thou didst
Unwilling through Etona's grove,
Trembling at many an ancient face
That met thee in that holy place;
To speak the plain and honest truth,
Thou wast no scholar in thy youth:

But now, go forth! broke loose from school,
Kill and destroy by classic rule,
Or die in fight, to live in story,
As valiant Hector did before ye.
On, on! take forts and storm positions,
Break Frenchmen's heads instead of Priscian's,
And seek in death and conflagration
A gradus to thy reputation:
Yet when the war is loud and high,
Thine old mistakes will round thee fly;
And still, in spite of all thy care,
False quantities will haunt thee there;
For thou wilt make, amidst the throng,
Or ζωη short, or κλεος long.

Methinks I know that figure bold
And stalwart limbs of giant mould!
'Tis he! I know his ruddy face,
My tried staunch friend, Sir Matthew Chase.
His snore is loud, his slumber deep,
Yet dreams are with him in his sleep,
And fancy's visions oft recall
The merry hunt and jovial hall,
And oft replace before his sight
The bustle of to-morrow's fight.
In swift succession o'er his brain
Come fields of corn, and fields of slain;

And, as the varying image burns,
Blood and blood-horses smoke by turns;
The five-barred gate and muddy ditch,
Smolensko and the spotted bitch,
Parisian puppies—English dogs—
“Begar” and “damme”—beef and frogs,
In strange unmeaning medley fly
Before poor Nimrod's wandering eye.
He speaks! what murmuring stifled sounds
Burst from his throat?—“Why, madam!—zounds!
Who scared me with that Gorgon face?—
I thought I saw my Lady Chase!”

And thou too, Clavering! Humour's son!
Made up of wisdom and of fun!
Medley of all that's dark and clear,
Of all that's foolish, all that's dear,
Tell me, what brings thee here to die,
Thou prince of eccentricity?
Poor Arthur! in his childhood's day
He cared so little for his play,
And wore so grave and prim a look,
And cried so when he missed his book,
That aunts were eager to presage
The glories of his riper age,
And fond mamma in him foresaw
The bulwark of the British law,

And Science from her lofty throne
Looked down and marked him for her own.
Ah! why did flattery come at school
To tinge him with a shade of fool?
Alas, what clever plans were crost!
Alas, how wise a judge was lost!
Without a friend to check or guide
He hurried into fashion's tide;
He aped each folly of the throng,
Was all by turns, and nothing long;
Through varying tastes and modes he flew,
Dress—boxing—racing—dice—virtù;
Now looking blue in sentimentals,
Now looking red in regimentals,
Now impudent, and now demure,
Now blockhead, and now connoisseur,
Now smoking at the Jolly Tar,
Now talking Greek with Dr. Parr;
A friend by turns to saints and sinners,
Attending lectures, plays, and dinners,
The Commons' House and Common Halls,
Chapels of ease and Tattersall's;
Skilful in fencing and in fist,
Blood—critic—jockey—Methodist,
Causeless alike in joy or sorrow,
Tory to-day, and Whig to-morrow,
All habits and all shapes he wore,
And loved, and laughed, and prayed, and swore;

And now some instantaneous freak,
Some peevish whim, or jealous pique,
Has made the battle's iron shower
The hobby of the present hour,
And bade him seek in steel and lead
An opiate for a rambling head:
A cannon ball will prove a pill
To lull what nothing else can still,
And I, that prophesy his doom,
Will give him all I can—a tomb,
And, o'er a pint of half-and-half,
Compose poor Arthur's epitaph:
“Here joined in death the observer sees
Plato—and Alcibiades;
A mixture of the grave and funny,
A famous dish of Salmagundi!”

Allan M`Gregor! from afar
I see him, 'midst the ranks of war
That all around are rising fast
From slumbers that may be their last.
I know him by his Highland plaid,
Long borne in foray and in raid,
His scarf all splashed with dust and gore,
His nodding plume and broad claymore;
I know him by that eagle eye,
Where foemen read their destiny;

I know him by that iron brow,
That frowns not—burns not—quails not now,
Though life and death are with the ray
That redly dawns upon to-day.
Woe to the wretch whose single might
Copes with dark Allan in the fight!
He knows not mercy—knows not fear;
The pibroch has to Allan's ear
A clearer and a sweeter note
Than mellow strains that blithely float
From lyre or lute, in courtly throng,
Where Beauty smiles upon the song.
Of artful wiles against his foe
Nothing he knows, or cares to know;
Far less he recks of polished arts,
The batteries in the siege of hearts;
And hence the minions of the ton,
While fair and foolish dames look on,
Laugh at old Allan's awkward bow,
His stern address, and haughty brow.
Laugh they?—when sounds the hollow drum,
And banded legions onward come,
And life is won by ready sword,
By strength to strike and skill to ward,
Those tongues, so brave in woman's war,
Those cheeks unstained by scratch or scar,
Shall owe their safety in the fight
To hoary Allan's arm of might.

Close to the clansman's side is seen
Dame Fortune's soldier, James M'Lean.
I know him well; no novice he
In warfare's murderous theory;
Amidst the battle's various sound,
While bullets flew like hail around,
M'Lean was born; in scenes like this
He passed his earliest hours of bliss;
Cradled in war, the fearless child
Looked on the scene of blood, and smiled;
Toyed with the sabre of the Blues
Long ere he knew its hellish use:
His little fingers loved to feel
The bayonet's bright point of steel,
Or made his father's helmet ring
With beating up “God save the King.”
Those hours of youthful glee are fled,
The thin grey hairs are on his head,
Of youth's hot current nought remains
Within the ancient warrior's veins;
Yet, when he hears the battle cry,
His spirit beats as wild and high
As on the day that saw him wield
His virgin sword in battle field;—
The eve on which his comrades found him,
With England's colours wrapt around him,
His face turned upwards, and his hand
Still twined around his trusty brand.

As, spent with wounds and weak with toil,
He lay upon the bloody soil.
E'en now, though swift advancing years
Might well decline this life of fears,
Though the deep scars upon his breast
Show claim to honourable rest,
He will not quit what time has made
His joy, his habit, and his trade.
He envies not the peasant's lot,
His cheerful hearth and humble cot;
Encampments have to him become
As constant and as dear a home.

Such are the hearts of steel whom War
Binds in their cradle to his car,
And leaves them in their latter day,
With honour, medals, and half-pay,
Burthened with all the cares of life,
Repentance—asthma—and a wife.

And what am I who thus can choose
Such subject for so light a muse?
Who wake the smile and weave the rhyme,
In such a scene, at such a time?
Mary! whose pure and holy kiss
Is still a cherished dream of bliss,—
When last I saw thy bright blue eye,
And heard thy voice of melody,

And felt thy timid, mild caress,
I was all hope—all joyousness!
We parted,—and the morrow's sun—
Oh God!—my bliss was past and done:
The lover's hope, the husband's vow—
Where were they then?—ah! where wert thou?

Mary! thou vision loved and wept,—
Long years have passed since thou hast slept,
Removed from gaze of mortal eye,
The dreamless sleep of those that die.
Long years!—yet has not passed away
The memory of that fatal day,
When all thy young and faded grace
Before me lay in Death's embrace.

A throb of madness and of pain
Shot through my heart, and through my brain;
I felt it then, I feel it now,
Though time is stamped upon my brow,
Though all my veins grow cold with age,
And o'er my memory's fading page
Oblivion draws her damning line,
And blots all images—save thine.

Thou left'st me—and I did become
An alien from my house and home,

A phantom in life's busy dream,
A bubble on misfortune's stream,
Condemned through varying scenes to rove,
With nought to hope—and nought to love;
No inward motive that can give
Or fear to die, or wish to live.

Away, away! Death rides the breeze!
There is no time for thoughts like these.
Hark! from the foeman's distant camp,
I hear their chargers' sullen tramp:
On, valiant Britons, to the fight!
On, for St. George and England's right!
Green be the laurel, bright the meed,
Of those that shine in martial deed:
Short be the pang, swift pass the breath,
Of those that die a soldier's death!

THE COUNTY BALL.

“Busy people, great and small,
Awkward dancers, short and tall,
Ladies, fighting which shall call,
Loungers, pertly quizzing all.”
Anon.

This is a night of pleasure! Care,
I shake thee from me! do not dare
To stir from out thy murky cell,
Where in their dark recesses dwell
Thy kindred gnomes, who love to nip
The rose on Beauty's cheek and lip,
Until beneath their venomed breath
Life wears the pallid hue of death.
Avaunt! I shake thee from me, Care!
The gay, the youthful, and the fair,
From Lodge, and Court, and House, and Hall.
Are hurrying to the County Ball.
Avaunt! I tread on haunted ground;
And giddy Pleasure draws around
To shield us from thine envious spite
Her magic circle! nought to-night

Over that guarded barrier flies
But laughing lips and smiling eyes;
My look shall gaze around me free,
And like my look my line shall be;
While fancy leaps in every vein,
While love is life, and thought is pain,
I will not rule that look and line
By any word or will of thine.

The Moon hath risen. Still and pale
Thou movest in thy silver veil,
Queen of the night! the filmy shroud
Of many a mild transparent cloud
Hides, yet adorns thee; meet disguise
To shield thy blush from mortal eyes.
Full many a maid hath loved to gaze
Upon thy melancholy rays;
And many a fond despairing youth
Hath breathed to thee his tale of truth;
And many a luckless rhyming wight
Hath looked upon thy tender light,
And spilt his precious ink upon it,
In ode, or elegy, or sonnet.
Alas! at this inspiring hour,
I feel not, I, thy boasted power,
Nor seek to gain thine approbation
By vow, or prayer, or invocation;

I ask not what the vapours are
That veil thee like a white cymar,
Nor do I care a single straw
For all the stars I ever saw!
I fly from thee, I fly from these,
To bow to earthly goddesses,
Whose forms in mortal beauty shine
As fair, but not so cold, as thine.

But this is foolish! Stars and Moon,
You look quite beautiful in June;
But when a bard sits down to sing,
Your beauty is a dangerous thing;
To muse upon your placid beam
One wanders sadly from one's theme,
And when weak poets go astray,
“The stars are more in fault than they.”
The moon is charming; so, perhaps,
Are pretty maidens in mob-caps;
But, when a ball is in the case,
They're both a little out of place.

I love a ball! there's such an air
Of magic in the lustres' glare,
And such a spell of witchery
In all I hear and all I see,
That I can read in every dance
Some relic sweet of old romance:

As fancy wills I laugh and smile,
And talk such nonsense all the while
That when Dame Reason rules again,
And morning cools my heated brain,
Reality itself doth seem
Nought but the pageant of a dream;
In raptures deep I gaze, as now,
On smiling lip and tranquil brow,
While merry voices echo round,
And music's most inviting sound
Swells on mine ear; the glances fly,
And love and folly flutter high,
And many a fair romantic cheek,
Reddened with pleasure or with pique,
Glows with a sentimental flush
That seems a bright unfading blush;
And slender arms before my face
Are rounded with a statue's grace;
And ringlets wave, and beauteous feet,
Swifter than lightning, part and meet;
Frowns come and go; white hands are pressed,
And sighs are heard, and secrets guessed,
And looks are kind, and eyes are bright,
And tongues are free, and hearts are light.

Sometimes upon the crowd I look,
Secure in some sequestered nook;

And while from thence I look and listen,
Though ladies' eyes so gaily glisten,
Though ladies' locks so lightly float,
Though music pours her mellowed note,
Some little spite will oft intrude
Upon my merry solitude.

By turns the ever-varying scene
Awakes within me mirth and spleen;
By turns the gay and vain appear;
By turns I love to smile and sneer,
Mixing my malice with my glee,
Good humour with misanthropy;
And while my raptured eyes adore
Half the bright forms that flit before,
I notice with a little laugh
The follies of the other half.
That little laugh will oft call down,
From matron sage, rebuke and frown;
Little, in truth, for these I care:
By Momus and his mirth I swear,—
For all the dishes Rowley tastes,
For all the paper Courtenay wastes,
For all the punch his subjects quaff,
I would not change that little laugh!

Shall I not laugh, when every fool
Comes hither for my ridicule,—
When ev'ry face that flits to-night
In long review before my sight
Shows off, unasked, its airs and graces,
Unconscious of the mirth it raises?

Skilled to deceive our ears and eyes
By civil looks and civil lies,
Skilled from the search of men to hide
His narrow bosom's inward pride,
And charm the blockheads he beguiles
By uniformity of smiles,
The County Member, bright Sir Paul,
Is Primo Buffo at the Ball.

Since first he longed to represent
His fellow-men in Parliament,
Courted the cobblers and their spouses,
And sought his honours in mud houses,
Full thirty springs have come and fled;
And though from off his shining head
The twin destroyers, Time and Care,
Begin to pluck its fading hair,
Yet where it grew, and where it grows,
Lie powder's never-varying snows,
And hide the havoc years have made
In kind monotony of shade.

Sir Paul is young in all but years;
And, when his courteous face appears,
The maiden wall-flowers of the room
Admire the freshness of his bloom,
Hint that his face has made him vain,
And vow “he grows a boy again,”
And giddy girls of gay fifteen
Mimic his manner and his mien;
And when the supple politician
Bestows his bow of recognition,
Or forces on th' averted ear
The flattery it affects to fear,
They look, and laugh behind the fan,
And dub Sir Paul “the young old man.”

Look! as he paces round, he greets
With nod and simper all he meets:—
“Ah, ha! your Lordship! is it you?
Still slave to beauty and beaux yeux?
Well, well! and how's the gout, my Lord?—
My dear Sir Charles, upon my word,
L'air de Paris, since last I knew you,
Has been Medea's cauldron to you.—
William, my boy! how fast you grow!
Yours is a light fantastic toe,
Winged with the wings of Mercury!
I was a scholar once, you see!

And how's the mare you used to ride?
And who's the Hebe by your side?—
Doctor! I thought I heard you sneeze!
How is my dear Hippocrates?
What have you done for old John Oates,
The gouty merchant with five votes?
What, dead? well, well! no fault of yours!
There is no drug that always cures!
Ah doctor! I begin to break;
And I'm glad of it, for your sake!”

As thus the spruce M.P. runs on,
Some quiet dame, who dotes upon
His speeches, buckles, and grimace,
Grows very eloquent in praise.
“How can they say Sir Paul is proud?
I'm sure, in all the evening's crowd,
There's not a man that bows so low;
His words come out so soft and slow,
And when he begged me keep my seat,
He looked so civil and so sweet:”
“Ma'am,” says her spouse, in harsher tone,
“He only wants to keep his own.”
Her Ladyship is in a huff;
And Miss, enraged at Ma's rebuff,
Rings the alarm in t'other ear:
“Lord! now Papa, you're too severe;

Where in the country will you see
Manners so taking and so free?”
“His manners free? I only know
Our votes have made his letters so!”—
“And then he talks with so much ease,
And then he gives such promises!”
“Gives promises! and well he may,
You know they're all he gives away!”
“How folks misrepresent Sir Paul!”
“'Tis he misrepresents us all!’
“How very stale!—but you'll confess
He has a charming taste in dress,
And uses such delightful scent!
And when he pays a compliment”—
“Eh! and what then, my pretty pet!
What then?—he never pays a debt!”

Sir Paul is skilled in all the tricks
Of politesse and politics;
Long hath he learned to wear a mien
So still, so open, so serene,
That strangers in those features grave
Would strive in vain to read a knave.
Alas! it is believed by all
There is more “Sir” than “Saint” in Paul;
He knows the value of a place;
Can give a promise with a grace;

Is quite an adept at excuse;
Sees when a vote will be of use;
And, if the Independents flinch,
Can help his Lordship at a pinch.
Acutely doth he read the fate
Of deep intrigues and plans of state,
And if perchance some powdered peer
Hath gained or lost the Monarch's ear,
Foretells, without a shade of doubt,
The comings in and goings out.
When placemen of distinguished note
Mistake, mislead, misname, misquote,
Confound the Papist and the Turk,
Or murder Sheridan and Burke,
Or make a riddle of the laws,
Sir Paul grows hoarse in his applause:
And when in words of equal size
Some Oppositionist replies,
And talks of taxes and starvation
And Catholic Emancipation,
The Knight, in indolent repose,
Looks only to the Ayes and Noes.
Let youth say “Grand!”—Sir Paul says “Stuff!”
Let youth take fire!—Sir Paul takes snuff.

Methinks amid the crowded room
I see one countenance of gloom;

Whence is young Edmund's pain or pique?
Whence is the paleness of his cheek?
And whence the wrathful eye, that now
Lowers, like Kean's, beneath the brow,
And now again on earth is bent,
'Twixt anger and embarrassment?
Is he poetical, or sad?—
Really—or fashionably—mad?
Are his young spirits colder grown
At Ellen's—or the Muse's frown?
He did not love in other days
To wear the sullens on his face
When merry sights and sounds were near:
Nor on his unregarding ear
Unheeded thus was wont to fall
The music of the County Ball.

I pity all whom Fate unites
To vulgar belles on gala nights;
But chiefly him who haply sees
The day-star of his destinies—
The Beauty of his fondest dreaming—
Sitting in solitude, and seeming
To lift her dark capricious eye
Beneath its fringe reproachingly
Alas! my luckless friend is tied
To the fair hoyden by his side,

Who opens, without law or rule,
The treasures of the boarding-school.
And she is prating learnedly
Of logic and of chemistry,
Describing chart and definition
With geographical precision,
Culling her words, as bid by chance,
From England, Italy, or France,
Until, like many a clever dunce,
She murders all the three at once.
Sometimes she mixes by the ounce
Discussions deep on frill and flounce;
Points out the stains, that stick like ours
To ladies' gowns—or characters;
Talks of the fiddles and the weather,
Of Laura's wreath, and Fannia's feather;
All which obedient Edmund hears
With passive look, and open ears,
And understands about as much
As if the lady spoke in Dutch;
Until, in indignation high,
She finds the youth makes no reply,
And thinks he's grown as deaf a stock
As Dido—or Marpesian rock.

Ellen, the lady of his love,
Is doomed the like distress to prove,
Chained to a Captain of the wars,
Like Venus by the side of Mars.
Hark! Valour talks of conquered towns;
See! silent Beauty frets and frowns;
The man of fights is wondering now
That girls won't speak when dandies bow;
And Ellen finds, with much surprise,
That beaux will speak when belles despise.
“Ma'am,” says the Captain, “I protest
I come to ye a stranger guest,
Fresh from the dismal, dangerous land
Where men are blinded by the sand,
Where undiscovered things are hid
In owl-frequented pyramid,
And mummies with their silent looks
Appear like memorandum books
Giving a hint of death, for fear
We men should be too happy here.
But if upon my native land
Fair ones as still as mummies stand,
By Jove,—I had as lief be there!'—
(The Lady looks—“I wish you were.”)
“I fear I'm very dull to-night”—
(The Lady looks—“You're very right.”)
“But if one smile—one cheering ray”—
(The Lady looks another way—)

“Alas! from some more happy man”—
(The Lady stoops and bites her fan.)
“Flattery, perhaps, is not a crime,”—
(The Lady dances out of time;)
“Perhaps e'en now within your heart,
Cruel! you wish us leagues apart,
And banish me from Beauty's presence!”
The Lady bows in acquiescence,
With steady brow, and studied face,
As if she thought, in such a case,
A contradiction to her Beau
Neither polite—nor à propos.

Unawed by scandal or by sneer,
Is Reuben Nott the blunderer here?
What! is he willing to expose
His erring brain to friends and foes?
And does he venturously dare,
'Midst grinning fop and spiteful fair.
In spite of all their ancient slips,
To open those unhappy lips?

Poor Reuben! o'er his infant head
Her choicest bounties Nature shed;
She gave him talent, humour, sense,
A decent face, and competence,
And then, to mar the beauteous plan,
She bade him be—an absent man.

Ever offending, ever fretting,
Ever explaining and forgetting,
He blunders on from day to day,
And drives his nearest friends away.
Do farces meet with flat damnation?—
He's ready with “congratulation.”
Are friends in office not quite pure?—
He “owns he hates a sinecure.”
Was Major — in foreign strife
Not over prodigal of life?—
He talks about “the coward's grave:”
And “who so base as be a slave?”
Is some fair cousin made a wife,
In the full autumn of her life?—
He's sure to shock the youthful bride
With “forty years, come Whitsuntide!”

He wanders round. I'll act the spy
Upon his fatal courtesy,
Which always gives the greatest pain,
Where most it strives to entertain:—
“Edward, my boy! an age has passed
Methinks, since Reuben saw you last;
How fares the Abbey? and the rooks?
Your tenants? and your sister's looks?
Lovely and fascinating still,
With lips that wound and eyes that kill?

When last I saw her dangerous face,
There was a lover in the case—
A pretty pair of epaulettes!—
But then, there were some ugly debts!—
A match?—nay! why so gloomy, boy?
Upon my life I wish 'em joy!”

With arms enfolded o'er his breast,
And fingers clenched, and lips compressed,
And eye, whose every glance appears
To speak a threat in Reuben's ears,
That youth hath heard; 'tis brief and stern,
The answer that he deigns return:
Then silent on his homeward way,
Like Ossian's ghosts, he strides away.

Astonished at his indignation,
Reuben breaks out in exclamation.
“Edward! I mean—I really meant—
Upon my word!—a compliment;
You look so stern!—nay, why is this?
Angry because I flattered Miss?
What! gone?—the deuce is in the man!
Explain, Sir Robert, if you can.”—
“Eh! what? perhaps you haven't heard,—
Excuse my laughing—how absurd!
A slight faux pas!—a trifle merely!
Ha! ha!—egad, you touched him nearly!”

All blunderers, when they chance to make
In colloquy some small mistake,
Make haste to make a hundred more
To mend the one they made before.
'Tis thus with Reuben; through the throng
With hurried steps he hastes along;
Thins, like a pest, the crowded seats,
And runs a muck at all he meets,
Rich in his unintended satire,
And killing where he meant to flatter.
He makes a College Fellow wild
By asking for his wife and child;
Puts a haught Blue in awful passion
By disquisitions on the fashion;
Refers a knotty case in whist
To Morley the philanthropist;
Quotes to a sportsman from St. Luke;
Bawls out plain “Bobby” to a Duke;
And while a barrister invites
Our notice to the Bill of Rights,
And fat Sir John begins to launch
Into the praises of a haunch,
He bids the man of quibbles pause
By eulogizing “Spartan Laws,”
And makes the epicure quite wroth
By eulogising “Spartan broth.”
Error on error grows and swells;—
For, as a certain proverb tells,

“When once a man has lost his way,”—
But you have read it,—or you may.

Girt with a crowd of listening Graces,
With expectation on their faces,
Chattering, and looking all the while
As if he strove to hide a smile
That fain would burst Decorum's bands,
Alfred Duval, the hoaxer, stands.
Alfred! the eldest born of Mirth;
There is not on this nether earth
So light a spirit, nor a soul
So little used to all control.
Frolic and fun and jest and glee
Burst round him unremittingly,
And in the glances of his eyes
Ever his heart's good humour flies,
Mild as the breezes of the South;
And while from many a wiser mouth
We drink the fruits of education,
The solid Port of conversation,
From Alfred's lips we seem to drain
A ceaseless flow of bright Champagne.
In various shapes his wit is found;
But most it loves to send around
O'er half the town, on Rumour's gale,
Some marvellously fashioned tale,

And cheat the unsuspecting ear
With groundless hope, or groundless fear.
To speak in civil words, his bent
Lies sadly to—embellishment.
“Sir,” says Morality, “you know
You shouldn't flatter Falsehood so:
The nurse that rocked you in your crib
Taught you to loathe and scorn a fib;
And Shakspeare warns you of the evil,
Saying—‘Tell truth, and shame the devil!’
I like, as well as you, the glances
Where gay good humour brightly dances;
But when a man tells horrid lies,—
You shouldn't talk about his eyes.”
Madam! you'll think it rather odd,
That, while I bow me to the rod,
And make no shadow of defence,
I still persist in my offence:
And great and small may join to blame
The echo of the hoaxer's fame;
But, be it known to great and small,—
I can't write sermons at a ball.

'Tis Alfred fills the public prints
With all the sly ingenious hints
That fly about, begirt with cares,
And terrify the Bulls and Bears.

Unrivalled statesman! war and peace
He makes and breaks with perfect ease;
Skilful to crown and to depose,
He sets up kings, and overthrows;
As if apprenticed to the work,
He ties the bowstring round the Turk,
Or makes the Algerine devout,
Or plagues his Holiness with gout,
Or drives the Spaniard from Madrid
As quick as Bonapartè did.
Sometimes at home his plots he lays,
And wildly still his fancy plays;
He pulls the Speaker from the chair,
Murders the Sheriffs, or the Mayor,
Or drags a Bishop through the mire,
Or sets the theatres on fire,
Or brings the weavers to subjection,
Or prates of mobs and insurrection.
One dash of his creative pen
Can raise a hundred thousand men:
They march! he wills, and myriads fall;—
One dash annihilates them all!

And now, amid that female rout,
What scandal doth he buzz about?
What grand affair or mighty name
Entrusts he to the gossip Fame?

Unchecked, unstayed, he hurries on
With wondrous stories of the Ton;
Describes how London ladies lose
Their heads in helmets—like the Blues,
And how the highest circles meet
To dance with pattens on their feet!
And all the while he tells his lie
With such a solemn gravity,
That many a Miss parades the room
Dreaming about a casque and plume,
And vows it grievously must tire one
To waltz upon a pump of iron.

Jacques, the Cantab! I see him brood,
Wrapt in his mental solitude,
On thoughts that lie too deep, I wis,
For such a scene and hour as this.
Now shall the rivers freeze in May,
Coquettes be silent at the play;
Old men shall dine without a story,
And mobs be civil to a Tory!
All miracles shall well befall,
When Youth is thoughtful at a ball.

From thoughts that grieve, and words that vex,
And names invented to perplex;
From latent findings, never found,
And mystic figures, square and round;

Shapes, from whose labyrinthine toil
A Dædalus might well recoil,
He steals one night—one single night—
And gives its moments to delight.
Yet still upon his struggling soul
The muddy wave of Cam will roll,
And all the monsters grim, that float
Upon that dark and murky moat,
Come jabbering round him,—dark equation,
Subtle distinction, disputation;
Notion, idea, mystic schism,
Assumption, proof, and syllogism,
And many an old and awful name
Of optic or mechanic fame.
Look! in the van stern Euclid shows
The Asses'-Bridge upon his nose;
Bacon comes forward, sage austere,
And Locke and Paley both are there;
And Newton, with a spiteful hiss,
Points to his “De Principiis.”
Yet often with his magic wand
Doth Mirth dispel that hideous band;
And then in strange confusion lost
The mind of Jacques is tempest-tossed;
By turns around it come and flee
The dulce and the utile;
By turns, as Thought or Pleasure wills,
Quadratics struggle with quadrilles;

And figures sour and figures sweet,
Of problems—and of dances—meet;
Bisections fight with “down the middle”s,
And chords of arcs with chords of fiddles;
Vain are the poor musician's graces;
His bass gives way to given bases—
His studied trill to shapely trine—
His mellowed shake to puzzling sine:
Each forming set recals a vision
Of some enchanting proposition,
And merry “Chassez-croisès huit”
Is little more than Q. E. D.
Ah Stoic youth! before his eye
Bright beauties walk unheeded by;
And, while his distant fancy strays
Remote through Algebraic maze,
He sees in whatsoe'er he views
The very object he pursues;
And fairest forms, from heel to head,
Seem crooked as his x and z.
Peace to the man of marble!—

Hush!
Whence is the universal rush?
Why doth confusion thus affright
The peaceful order of the night,
Thwart the musicians in their task,
And check the schoolboy's pas de basque?

The Lady Clare hath lost a comb!—
If old Queen Bess from out her tomb
Had burst, with royal indignation,
Upon our scandalous flirtation,
Darted a glance immensely chilling
Upon our waltzing and quadrilling,
Flown at the fiddlers in a pet,
And bade them play her minuet;
Her stately step and angry eye,
Her waist so low, her neck so high,
Her habit of inspiring fear,
Her knack of boxing on the ear,
Could ne'er have made the people stare
Like the lost comb of Lady Clare!
The tresses it was wont to bind
Joy in their freedom! unconfined
They float around her, and bedeck
The marble whiteness of her neck
With veil of more resplendent hue
Than ever Aphrodite threw
Around her, when unseen she trod
Before the sight of man or god.
Look, how a blush of burning red
O'er bosom and o'er forehead spread
Glances like lightning! and aside
The Lady Clare hath turned her head,
As if she strove in vain to hide
That countenance of modest pride,

Whose colour many an envying fair
Would give a monarch's crown to wear.
Persuasion lurks on woman's tongue:
In woman's smile, oh! raptures throng;
And woman's tears compassion move,—
But, oh! 'tis woman's blush we love!

Now gallantry is busy round:
All eyes are bent upon the ground;
And dancers leave the cheerful measure
To seek the Lady's missing treasure.
Meanwhile, some charitable Miss,
Quite ignorant what envy is,
Sends slowly forth her censures grave.
“How oddly beauties will behave!
Oh! quite an accident!—last year
I think she sprained her ankle here;
And then there were such sudden halts,
And such a bringing out of salts.”—
“You think her vain?”—“Oh gracious, no!
She has a charming foot, you know;
And it's so pretty to be lame;—
I don't impute the slightest blame,—
Only, that very careless braid!—
The fault is with the waiting-maid:
I merely mean, since Lady Clare
Was flattered so about her hair,

Her comb is always dropping out—
Oh! quite an accident!—no doubt!”

The sun hath risen o'er the deep,
And fathers, more than half asleep,
Begin to shake the drowsy head,
And hint—“It's time to be in bed.”
Then comes chagrin on faces fair;
Soft hands are clasped in mimic prayer:
And then the warning watch is shown,
And answers in a harsher tone
Reply to look of lamentation,
And argument, and supplication:
In vain sweet voices tell their grief,
In speeches long, for respite brief;
Bootless are all their “Lord!”s and “La!”s,
Their “Pray, Papa!”s and “Do, Papa!”s;
“Ladies,” quoth Gout, “I love my rest;”
The carriage waits!—eundum est.”
This is the hour for parting bow,
This is the hour for secret vow;
For weighty shawl, and hooded cloak,
Half-uttered tale, and whispered joke:
This is the hour when ladies bright
Relate the adventures of the night,
And fly by turns from truth to fiction,
From retrospection to prediction:

They regulate with unbought bounty
The destinies of half the county;
With gipsy talent they foretell
How Miss Duquesne will marry well,
And how 'tis certain that the Squire
Will be more stupid than his sire,
And how the girl they cried up so,
Only two little months ago,
Falls off already, and will be
Really quite plain at twenty-three.

Now Scandal hovers, laughing, o'er them,
While pass in long review before them,
“The lady that my lord admires”—
“The gentleman that moves on wires”—
The youth “with such a frightful frown!”—
And “that extraordinary gown!”
Now characters are much debated,
And witty speeches are narrated;
And Criticism delights to dwell
On conquests won by many a belle,
On compliments that ne'er were paid,
On offers that were never made,
Refusals—Lord knows when refused,
Deductions—Lord knows how deduced;
Alas! how sweetly scandal falls
From lips of beauties—after balls!

The music stops—the lights expire—
The dance is o'er—the crowds retire,
And all those smiling cheeks have flown!
Away!—the Rhymer is alone.
Thou too, the fairest and the best,
Hast fleeted from him with the rest;
Thy name he will not, love! unite
To the rude strain he pours to-night;
Yet often hath he turned away
Amidst his harsh and wandering lay,
And often hath his earnest eye
Looked into thine delightedly,
And often hath his listening ear—

But thou art gone!—what doth he here?

TO JULIO

ON HIS COMING OF AGE

Julio, while Fancy's tints adorn
The first bright beam of manhood's morn,
The cares of boyhood fleet away
Like clouds before the face of day;
And see, before your ravished eyes
New hopes appear, new duties rise,
Restraint has left his iron throne,
And Freedom smiles on twenty-one.

Count o'er the friends whom erst you knew
When careless boyhood deemed them true,
With whom you wiled the lazy hours
Round fond Etona's classic towers,
Or strayed beside the learned mud
Of ancient Cam's meandering flood;
The follies that in them you view
Shall be a source of good to you.

With mincing gait and foreign air
Sir Philip strays through park and square,

Or yawns in Grange's sweet recess,
In all the studied ease of dress;
Aptly the man-ling's tongue, I deem,
Can argue on a lofty theme,—
Which damsel hath the merrier eye,
Which fop the better-fancied tie,
Which perfume hath the sweetest savour,
Which soup the more inviting flavour;
And Fashion, at Sir Philip's call,
Ordains the collar's rise and fall
And shifts the Brummel's varying hue
From blue to brown, from brown to blue.
And hence the motley crowd, whoe'er
Bear Fashion's badge—or wish to bear
From Hockley-hole to Rotten-row,
Unite to dub Sir Philip—beau.

And, such is Fashion's empty fame,
Squire Robert loathes the very name.—
The rockets hiss, the bonfires blaze,
The peasants gape in still amaze;
The field unploughed, the ox unyoked,
The farmer's mouth with pudding choked,
The sexton's vest of decent brown,
The village maiden's Sunday gown,
In joyful union seem to say—
“Squire Robert is of age to-day.”

The bumpkins hurry to the Bell,
And clam'rous tongues in riot swell;
Anger is hot—and so is liquor;
They drink confusion to the vicar;
And shout and song from lad and lass.
And broken heads, and broken glass,
In concert horrible, declare
Their loyal rev'rence for the heir.

Right justly may the youthful squire
These transports in his slaves inspire;
At every fireside through the place
He's welcome as the curate's grace;
He tells his story, cracks his joke,
And drinks his ale “like other folk;”
Fearless he risks that cranium thick
At cudgelling and singlestick;
And then his stud!—Why, far and wide,
It is the country's chiefest pride!
Ah! had his steed no firmer brains
Than the mere thing that holds the reins,
Grief soon would bid the beer to run,
Because the squire's mad race was done,
Not less than now it froths away,
Because “the squire's of age to-day.”

Far different pomp inspired of old
The youthful Roman's bosom bold.

Soon as a father's honoured hand
Gave to his grasp the casque and brand,
And off the light prætexta threw,
And from his neck the bulla drew,
Bade him the toga's foldings scan,
And glory in the name of Man;
Far different pomp lit ardour high
In the young German's eager eye,
When, bending o'er his offspring's head,
An aged sire, half weeping, said—
“Thy duty to thy father done,
Go forth, and be thy country's son!”
Heav'ns! how his bosom burned to dare
The grim delight of manhood's war,
And brandish in no mimic field
His beaming lance and osier shield!
How his young bosom longed to claim,
In war's wide tumult, manhood's name
And write it, 'midst the battle's foam,
In the best blood of trembling Rome!

Such was the hope, the barbarous joy,
That nerved to arms the German boy;
A flame as ardent, more refined,
Shall brightly glow in Julio's mind;
But yet I'd rather see thee smile
Grimly on war's embattled file,—

I'd rather see thee wield in strife
The German butcher's reckless knife,
Thinking thy claims to manhood grow
From each pale corse that bleeds below,—
I'd rather view thee thus, than see
A modern blockhead rise in thee.

Is it a study for a peer
To breathe soft vows in lady's ear?
To choose a coat—or leap a gate?
To win an heiress—or a plate?

Far nobler studies shall be thine,—
So friendship and the Muse divine:
It shall be thine, in danger's hour,
To guide the helm of British power;
And 'midst thy country's laurelled crown
To mix a garland all thine own.

Julio, from this auspicious day,
New honours gild thine onward way;
In thee posterity shall view
A heart to faith and feeling true,
And Fame her choicest wreaths shall blend
For virtue's and the poor man's friend!

TO JULIA

PREPARING FOR HER FIRST SEASON IN TOWN.

Julia, while London's fancied bliss
Bids you despise a life like this;
While Chiswick and its joys you leave,
For hopes that flatter to deceive;
You will not scornfully refuse,
(Though dull the theme, and weak the Muse,)
To look upon my line, and hear
What friendship sends to Beauty's ear.

Four miles from town, a neat abode
O'erlooks a rose-bush, and a road;
A paling, cleaned with constant care,
Surrounds ten yards of neat parterre,
Where dusty ivy strives to crawl
Five inches up the whitened wall.
The open window, thickly set
With myrtle and with mignonette,
Behind whose cultivated row
A brace of globes peep out for show,

The avenue, the burnished plate
That decks the would-be rustic gate,
Denote the fane where Fashion dwells,—
“Lyce's Academy for Belles.”

'Twas here, in earlier, happier days,
Retired from pleasure's weary maze,
You found, unknown to care or pain,
The peace you will not find again.
Here friendships, far too fond to last,
A bright but fleeting radiance cast
On every sport that mirth devised,
And every scene that childhood prized,
And every bliss that bids you yet
Recall those moments with regret.

Those friends have mingled in the strife
That fills the busy scene of life,
And pride and folly, cares and fears,
Look dark upon their future years;
But by their wrecks may Julia learn
Whither her fragile bark to turn,
And o'er the troubled sea of fate
Avoid the rocks they found too late.

You know Camilla: o'er the plain
She guides the fiery hunter's rein;

First in the chase she sounds the horn,
Trampling to earth the farmer's corn,
That hardly deigned to bend its head
Beneath her namesake's lighter tread.
With Bob the Squire, her polished lover,
She wields the gun, or beats the cover;
And then her steed!—why! every clown
Tells how she rubs Smolensko down,
And combs the mane, and cleans the hoof,
While wondering hostlers stand aloof.

At night, before the Christmas fire,
She plays backgammon with the squire;
Shares in his laugh, and in his liquor,
Mimics her father, and the vicar;
Swears at the grooms without a blush;
Dips in her ale the captured brush;
Until,—her father duly tired—
The parson's wig as duly fired—
The dogs all still—the squire asleep,
And dreaming of his usual leap,—
She leaves the dregs of white and red,
And lounges languidly to bed;
And still, in nightly visions borne,
She gallops o'er the rustic's corn;
Still wields the lash—still shakes the box,
Dreaming of “sixes”—and the fox.

And this is bliss!—the story runs,
Camilla never wept—save once:
Yes! once indeed Camilla cried—
'Twas when her dear Blue-stockings died.

Pretty Cordelia thinks she's ill:
She seeks her medicine at quadrille;—
With hope and fear and envy sick
She gazes on the dubious trick,
As if eternity were laid
Upon a diamond, or a spade.
And I have seen a transient pique
Wake o'er that soft and girlish cheek
A chilly and a feverish hue,
Blighting the soil where beauty grew,
And bidding hate and malice rove
In eyes that ought to beam with love.

Turn we to Fannia: she was fair
As the soft fleeting forms of air
Shaped by the fancy,—fitting theme
For youthful bard's enamoured dream
The neck, on whose transparent glow
The auburn ringlets sweetly flow,
The eye that swims in liquid fire,
The brow that frowns in playful ire,
All these, when Fannia's early youth
Looked lovely in its native truth,

Diffused a bright unconscious grace,
Almost divine, o'er form and face.

Her lip has lost its fragrant dew,
Her cheek has lost its rosy hue,
Her eye the glad enlivening rays
That glittered there in happier days,
Her heart the ignorance of woe
Which Fashion's votaries may not know.
The city's smoke—the noxious air—
The constant crowd—the torch's glare—
The morning sleep—the noonday call—
The late repast—the midnight ball,
Bid faith and beauty die, and taint
Her heart with fraud, her face with paint.

And what the boon, the prize enjoyed,
For fame defaced, and peace destroyed?
Why ask we this? with conscious grace
She criticises silk and lace;
Queen of the modes, she reigns alike
O'er sarsenet, bobbin, net, vandyke,
O'er rouge and ribbons, combs and curls,
Perfumes and patches, pins and pearls;
Feelings and faintings, songs and sighs,
Small-talk and scandal, love and lies.
Circled by beaux behold her sit,
While dandies tremble at her wit;

The captain hates “a woman's gab;”
“A devil!” cries the shy Cantab;
The young Etonian strives to fly
The glance of her sarcastic eye,
For well he knows she looks him o'er,
To stamp him “buck,” or dub him “bore.”

Such is her life—a life of waste,
A life of wretchedness—and taste;
And all the glory Fannia boasts,
And all the price that glory costs,
At once are reckoned up, in one—
One word of bliss and folly—Ton.

Not these the thoughts that could perplex
The fancies of our fickle sex,
When England's favourite, good Queen Bess,
Was queen alike o'er war and dress.
Then ladies gay played chesse—and ballads,
And learnt to dress their hair—and salads;
Sweets, and sweet looks, were studied then,
And both were pleasing to the men;
For cookery was allied to taste,
And girls were taught to blush—and baste,
Dishes were bright,—and so were eyes,
And lords made love,—and ladies, pies.
Then Valour won the wavering field
By dint of hauberk and of shield,

And Beauty won the wavering heart
By dint of pickle and of tart:
The minuet was the favourite dance;
Girls loved the needle, boys the lance;
And Cupid took his constant post
At dinner by the boiled and roast,
Or secretly was wont to lurk
In tournament or needlework.
Oh! 'twas a reign of all delights,
Of hot sirloins—and hot sir knights;
Feasting and fighting, hand in hand,
Fattened and glorified the land;
And noble chiefs had noble cheer,
And knights grew strong upon strong beer;
Honour and oxen both were nourished,
And chivalry—and pudding—flourished.

I'd rather see that magic face,
That look of love, that form of grace,
Circled by whalebone and by ruffs,
Intent on puddings and on puffs,—
I'd rather view thee thus, than see
A Fashionable rise in thee.
If life is dark, 'tis not for you
(If partial friendship's voice is true)
To cure its griefs and drown its cares
By leaping gates and murd'ring hares,

Nor to confine that feeling soul
To winning lovers—or the vole.

If these, and such pursuits, are thine,
Julia! thou art no friend of mine!
I love plain dress, I eat plain joints,
I cannot play ten-guinea points;
I make no study of a pin,
And hate a female whipper-in!

LAURA.

“For she in shape and beauty did excel
All other idols that the heathen do adore:
[OMITTED]
And all about her altar scattered lay
Great sorts of lovers piteously complaining.”
Spenser.

A look as blithe, a step as light,
As fabled nymph or fairy sprite;
A voice, whose every word and tone
Might make a thousand hearts its own;
A brow of fervour, and a mien
Bright with the hopes of gay fifteen;
These, loved and lost one! these were thine,
When first I bowed at Beauty's shrine.
But I have torn my wavering soul
From woman's proud and weak control;
The fane where I so often knelt,
The flame my heart so truly felt,
Are visions of another time,
Themes for my laughter—and my rhyme.

She saw and conquered; in her eye
There was a careless cruelty
That shone destruction, while it seemed
Unconscious of the fire it beamed.

And oh! that negligence of dress,
That wild infantine playfulness,
That archness of the trifling brow
That could command—we knew not how—
Were links of gold, that held me then
In bonds I may not bear again;
For dearer to an honest heart
Is childhood's mirth than woman's art.

Already many an aged dame,
Skilful in scandalizing fame,
Foresaw the reign of Laura's face,
Her sway, her folly, and disgrace:
Minding the beauty of the day
More than her partner, or her play,—
“Laura a beauty?—flippant chit!
I vow I hate her forward wit!”—
(“I lead a club”)—“Why, ma'am, between us,
Her mother thinks her quite a Venus;
But every parent loves, you know,
To make a pigeon of her crow.”—
“Some folks are apt to look too high:
She has a dukedom in her eye.”—
“The girl is straight,”—(“we call the ace”)—
“But that's the merit of her stays.”—
“I'm sure I loathe malicious hints—
But—only look, how Laura squints!”—

“Yet Miss, forsooth,”—(“who played the ten?”)—
“Is quite perfection with the men,—
The flattering fools—they make me sick!”—
(“Well—four by honours, and the trick!”)

While thus the crones hold high debate
On Laura's charms and Laura's fate,
A few short years have rolled along,
And—first in pleasure's idle throng—
Laura, in ripened beauty proud,
Smiles haughty on the flattering crowd;
Her sex's envy, Fashion's boast,
An heiress, and a reigning toast.

The circling waltz and gay quadrille
Are in, or out, at Laura's will;
The tragic bard and comic wit
Heed not the critic in the pit,
If Laura's undisputed sway
Ordains full houses to the play;
And fair ones of a humbler fate,
That envy, while they imitate,
From Laura's whisper strive to guess
The changes of inconstant dress.
Where'er her step in beauty moves,
Around her fly a thousand loves;
A thousand graces go before,
While striplings wonder and adore:

And some are wounded by a sigh,
Some by the lustre of her eye;
And these her studied smiles ensnare,
And these the ringlets of her hair.

The first his fluttering heart to lose
Was Captain Piercy, of the Blues;
He squeezed her hand, he gazed, and swore
He never was in love before:
He entertained his charmer's ear
With tales of wonder and of fear;
Talked much and long of siege and fight,
Marches by day, alarms by night:
And Laura listened to the story,
Whether it spoke of love or glory;
For many an anecdote had he
Of combat, and of gallantry,
Of long blockades and sharp attacks,
Of bullets and of bivouacs,
Of towns o'ercome—and ladies too,—
Of billet—and of billet-doux,
Of nunneries—and escalades,
And damsels—and Damascus blades

Alas! too soon the captain found
How swiftly Fortune's wheel goes round:
Laura at last began to doze
Even in the midst of Badajoz,

And hurried to a game at loo
From Wellington and Waterloo.
The hero, in heroics left,
Of fortune and a wife bereft,
With nought to cheer his close of day
But celibacy and half pay,
Since Laura and his stars were cruel,
Sought his quietus in a duel.

He fought and perished: Laura sighed
To hear how hapless Piercy died,
And wiped her eyes, and thus expressed
The feelings of her tender breast:—
“What? dead!—poor fellow—what a pity!
He was so handsome, and so witty:
Shot in a duel too!—good gracious!
How I did hate that man's mustachios!”

Next came the interesting beau,
The trifling youth, Frivolio;
He came to see and to be seen,
Grace and good breeding in his mien;
Shone all Delcroix upon his head;
The West-end spoke in all he said;
And in his neckcloth's studied fold
Sat Fashion on a throne of gold.
He came, impatient to resign
What heart he had at Laura's shrine:

Though deep in self-conceit encased,
He learnt to bow to Laura's taste;
Consulted her on new quadrilles,
Spot waistcoats, lavender, and gills:
As willed the proud and fickle fair
He tied his cloth and curled his hair;
Varied his manners—or his clothes,
And changed his tailor—or his oaths.

Oh! how did Laura love to vex
The fair one of the other sex!
For him she practised every art
That captivates and plagues the heart.
Did he bring tickets for the play?
No—Laura had the spleen to-day.
Did he escort her to the ball?
No—Laura would not dance at all.
Did he look grave?—“The fool was sad.”
Was he jocose?—“The man was mad.”
E'en when he knelt before her feet,
And there, in accents soft and sweet,
Laid rank and fortune, heart and hand,
At Laura's absolute command,—
Instead of blushing her consent,
She “wondered what the blockhead meant.

Yet still the fashionable fool
Was proud of Laura's ridicule;

Though still despised, he still pursued.
In ostentatious servitude;
Seeming, like lady's lap-dog, vain
Of being led by Beauty's chain.
He knelt, he gazed, he sighed and swore,
While 'twas the fashion to adore;
When years had passed, and Laura's frown
Had ceased to terrify the town,
He hurried from the fallen Grace
To idolize a newer face.
Constant to nothing was the ass,
Save to his follies, and his glass.

The next to gain the beauty's ear
Was William Lisle, the sonnetteer;
Well deemed the prince of rhyme and blank;
For long and deeply had he drank
Of Helicon's poetic tide,
Where nonsense flows, and numbers glide,
And slumbered on the herbage green
That decks the banks of Hippocrene.
In short—his very footmen know it—
William is mad—or else a poet.

He came and rhymed; he talked of fountains,
Of Pindus, and Pierian mountains,
Of wandering lambs, of gurgling rills,

And roses, and Castalian hills;
He thought a lover's vow grew sweeter
When it meandered into metre,
And planted every speech with flowers
Fresh blooming from Aonian bowers.

“Laura, I perish for your sake!”
(Here he digressed about a lake)—
“The charms thy features all disclose”—
(A simile about a rose)—
“Have set my very soul on fire;”
(An episode about his lyre)—
“Though you despise, I still must love;”
(Something about a turtle dove)—
“Alas! in death's unstartled sleep”—
(Just here he did his best to weep)—
“Laura, the willow soon shall wave
Over thy lover's lowly grave.”
Then he began with pathos due
To speak of cypress and of rue:
But fortune's unforeseen award
Parted the beauty from the bard;
For Laura, in that evil hour
When unpropitious stars had power,
Unmindful of the thanks she owed,
Lighted her taper with an ode!
Poor William all his vows forgot,
And hurried from the fatal spot

In all the bitterness of quarrel,
To write lampoons, and dream of laurel.

Years fleeted by, and every grace
Began to fade from Laura's face;
Through every circle whispers ran,
And aged dowagers began
To gratify their secret spite:—
“How shocking Laura looks to-night!
We know her waiting-maid is clever,
But rouge won't make one young for ever;
Laura should think of being sage,
You know she's of a certain age.”

Her wonted wit began to fail,
Her eyes grew dim, her features pale,
Her fame was past, her race was done;
Her lovers left her one by one;
Her slaves diminished by degrees,
They ceased to fawn, as she to please.
Last of the gay deceitful crew
Chremes, the usurer, withdrew;
By many an art he strove to net
The guineas of the rich coquette,
But (so the adverse fates decreed)
Chremes and Laura disagreed;
For Chremes talked too much of stocks
And Laura of her opera-box.

Unhappy Laura! sadness marred
What tints of beauty time had spared;
For all her wide extended sway
Had faded like a dream away,
And they that loved her passed her by
With altered or averted eye.
That silent scorn, that chilling air,
The fallen tyrant could not bear;
She could not live when none admired,
And perished, as her reign expired.

I gazed upon that lifeless form
So late with hope and fancy warm.—
That pallid brow,—that eye of jet
Where lustre seemed to linger yet,
Where sparkled through an auburn tress
The last dim light of loveliness,
Whose trembling ray was only seen
To bid us sigh for what had been.
Alas! I said my wavering soul
Was torn from woman's weak control;
But when, amid the evening's gloom,
I looked on Laura's early tomb,
And thought on her, so bright and fair,
That slumbered in oblivion there,
That calm resolve I could not keep,
And then I wept,—as now I weep.

THE CONFESSION OF DON CARLOS.

[_]

IMITATED FROM THE SPANISH.

O tell not me of broken vow—
I speak a firmer passion now;
O tell not me of shattered chain—
The link shall never burst again!
My soul is fixed as firmly here
As the red sun in his career,
As victory on Mina's crest,
Or tenderness in Rosa's breast;
Then do not tell me, while we part,
Of fickle flame and roving heart;
While youth shall bow at beauty's shrine,
That flame shall glow—that heart be thine.

Then wherefore dost thou bid me tell
The fate thy malice knows so well?
I may not disobey thee!—Yes!
Thou bidst me—and I will confess:
See how adoringly I kneel:
Hear how my folly I reveal:—

My folly!—chide me if thou wilt,
Thou shalt not, canst not, call it guilt:—
And when my faithlessness is told,
Ere thou hast time to play the scold,
I'll haste the fond rebuke to check,
And.lean upon thy snowy neck,
Play with its glossy auburn hair,
And hide the blush of falsehood there.

Inez, the innocent and young,
First shared my heart, and waked my song;
We were both harmless, and untaught
To love as fashionables ought;
With all the modesty of youth
We talked of constancy and truth,
Grew fond of music and the moon,
And wandered on the nights of June
To sit beneath the chesnut tree,
While the lonely stars shone mellowly,
Shedding a pale and dancing beam
On the wave of Guadalquivir's stream.
And aye we talked of faith and feelings,
With no distrustings, no concealings;
And aye we joyed in stolen glances,
And sighed, and blushed, and read romances.
Our love was ardent and sincere,
And lasted, Rosa,—half a year!

And then the maid grew fickle-hearted,—
Married Don Josè—so we parted.
At twenty-one I've often heard
My bashfulness was quite absurd;
For, with a squeamishness uncommon,
I feared to love a married woman.

Fair Leonora's laughing eye
Again awaked my song and sigh:
A gay intriguing dame was she,
And fifty Dons of high degree
That came and went as they were bid
Dubbed her the Beauty of Madrid.
Alas, what constant pains I took
To merit one approving look!
I courted valour and the muse,
Wrote challenges and billets-doux;
Paid for sherbet and serenade,
Fenced with Pegru and Alvarade;
Fought at the bull-fights like a hero,
Studied small talk and the Bolero:
Played the guitar—and played the fool,
This out of tune—that out of rule.
I oft at midnight wandered out,
Wrapt up in love and my capote,
To muse on beauty and the skies,
Cold winds—and Leonora's eyes.

Alas! when all my gains were told,
I'd caught a Tartar,—and a cold.
And yet, perchance, that lovely brow
Had still detained my captive vow,—
That clear blue eye's enchanting roll
Had still enthralled my yielding soul,—
But suddenly a vision bright
Came o'er me in a veil of light,
And burst the bonds whose fetters bound me,
And brake the spell that hung around me,
Recalled the heart that madly roved,
And bade me love, and be beloved.
Who was it broke the chain and spell?
Dark-eyed Castilian! thou canst tell!

And am I faithless!—woe the while!
What vow but melts at Rosa's smile?
For broken vows, and faith betrayed,
The guilt is thine, Castilian maid!
The tale is told, and I am gone:
Think of me, loved and only one,
When none on earth shall care beside
How Carlos lived, or loved, or died!
Thy love on earth shall be to me
A bird upon a leafless tree,
A bark upon a hopeless wave,
A lily on a tombless grave,

A cheering hope, a living ray,
To light me on a weary way.

And thus is love's confession done:
Give me thy parting benison;
And, ere I rise from bended knee
To wander o'er a foreign sea
Alone and friendless,—ere I don
My pilgrim's hat and sandal shoon,
Dark-eyed Castilian! let me win
Forgiveness sweet for venial sin;
Let lonely sighs, and dreams of thee,
Be penance for my perjury!

THE BACHELOR.

T. QUINCE, ESQ, TO THE REV. MATTHEW PRINGLE.

You wonder that your ancient friend
Has come so near his journey's end,
And borne his heavy load of ill
O'er Sorrow's slough, and Labour's hill,
Without a partner to beguile
The toilsome way with constant smile,
To share in happiness and pain,
To guide, to comfort, to sustain,
And cheer the last long weary stage
That leads to Death through gloomy Age!
To drop these metaphoric jokes,
And speak like reasonable folks,
It seems you wonder, Mr. Pringle,
That old Tom Quince is living single!

Since my old crony and myself
Laid crabbed Euclid on the shelf,
And made our congé to the Cam,
Long years have passed; and here I am
With nerves and gout, but yet alive,
A Bachelor, and fifty-five.—

Sir, I'm a Bachelor, and mean
Until the closing of the scene,
Or be it right, or be it wrong,
To play the part I've played so long,
Nor be the rat that others are,
Caught by a ribbon or a star.

“As years increase,” your Worship cries,
“All troubles and anxieties
Come swiftly on: you feel vexation
About your neighbours, or the nation;
The gout in fingers or in toes
Awakes you from your first repose;
You'll want a clever nurse, when life
Begins to fail you—take a wife!
Believe me, from the mind's disease
Her soothing voice might give you ease,
And, when the twinge comes shooting through you,
Her care might be of service to you!”

Sir, I'm not dying, though I know
You charitably think me so;—
Not dying yet, though you, and others,
In augury your learned brothers,
Take pains to prophesy events
Which lie some twenty winters hence.
Some twenty?—look! you shake your head,
As if I were insane or dead,

And tell your children and your wife—
“Old men grow very fond of life!”
Alas! your prescience never ends
As long as it concerns your friends;
But your own fifty-third December
Is what you never can remember!
And when I talk about my health
And future hopes of weal or wealth,
With something 'twixt a grunt and groan
You mutter in an under-tone—
“Hark! how the dotard chatters still!
He'll not believe he's old or ill!
He goes on forming great designs,—
Has just laid in a stock of wines,—
And promises his niece a ball,
As if gray hairs would never fall!
I really think he's all but mad.”
Then, with a wink and sigh, you add
“Tom is a friend I dearly prize,
But—never thought him over wise!’

You—who are clever to foretell
Where ignorance might be as well—
Would marvel how my health has stood:
My pulse is firm, digestion good.
I walk to see my turnips grow,
Manage to ride a mile or so,
Get to the village church to pray,
And drink my pint of wine a day;
And often, in an idle mood,
Emerging from my solitude,
Look at my sheep, and geese, and fowls,
And scare the sparrows and the owls,
Or talk with Dick about my crops,
And learn the price of malt and hops.

You say that when you saw me last
My appetite was going fast,
My eye was dim, my cheek was pale,
My bread—and stories—both were stale,
My wine and wit were growing worse,
And all things else,—except my purse;
In short, the very blind might see
I was not what I used to be.

My glass (which I believe before ye,)
Will teach me quite another story;
My wrinkles are not many yet,
My hair is still as black as jet.

My legs are full, my cheeks are ruddy,
My eyes, though somewhat sunk by study,
Retain a most vivacious ray,
And tell no stories of decay;
And then my waist, unvexed, unstayed,
By fetters of the tailor's trade,
Tells you, as plain as waist can tell,
I'm most unfashionably well.

And yet you think I'm growing thinner!—
You'd stare to see me eat my dinner!
You know that I was held by all
The greatest epicure in Hall,
And that the voice of Granta's sons
Styled me the Gourmand of St. John's:—
I have not yet been found unable
To do my duty to my table,
Though at its head no lady gay
Hath driven British food away,
And made her hapless husband bear
Alike her fury and her fare.
If some kind hearted chum calls in,
An extra dish and older bin
And John in all his finery drest
Do honour to the welcome guest;
And then we talk of other times,
Of parted friends, and distant climes,

And lengthened converse, tale and jest,
Lull every anxious care to rest;
And when unwillingly I rise
With newly wakened sympathies
From conversation—and the bowl,
The feast of stomach—and of soul,
I lay me down, and seem to leap
O'er forty summers in my sleep;
And youth, with all its joy and pain,
Comes rushing on my soul again.
I rove where'er my boyhood roved—
I love whate'er my boyhood loved—
And rocks, and vales, and woods, and streams,
Fleet o'er my pillow in my dreams.

'Tis true some ugly foes arise,
E'en in this earthly paradise,
Which you, good Pringle, may beguile,
By Mrs. P.'s unceasing smile:
I am an independent elf,
And keep my comforts in myself.
If my best sheep have got the rot—
Or if the Parson hits a blot—
Or if young Witless prates of laurel—
Or if my tithe produces quarrel—
Or if my roofing wants repairs—
Or if I'm angry with my heirs—

Or if I've nothing else to do—
I grumble for an hour or two;
Riots or rumours unrepressed,
My niece—or knuckle—over-drest,
The lateness of a wished-for post,
Miss Mackrell's story of the ghost,
New wine, new fashions, or new faces.
New bills, new taxes, or new places,
Or Mr. Hume's enumeration
Of all the troubles of the nation,
Will sometimes wear my patience out!
Then, as I said before, the gout—
Well, well, my heart was never faint!
And yet it might provoke a saint.
A rise of bread, or fall of rain,
Sometimes unite to give me pain;
And oft my lawyer's bag of papers
Gives me a taste of spleen and vapours.

Angry or sad, alone or ill,
I have my senses with me still;
Although my eyes are somewhat weak,
Yet can I dissipate my pique,
By poem, Paper, or Review;
And though I'm dozy in my pew
At Dr. Poundtext's second leaf,
I am not yet so very deaf

As to require the rousing noise
Of screaming girls and roaring boys.
Thrice—thrice accursed be the day
When I shall fling my bliss away,
And, to disturb my quiet life,
Take Discord in the shape of wife!
Time, in his endless muster-roll,
Shall mark the hour with blackest coal,
When old Tom Quince shall cease to see
The Chronicle with toast and tea,
Confine his rambles to his park,
And never dine till after dark,
And change his comfort and his crony
For crowd and conversazione.

If every aiding thought is vain,
And momentary grief and pain
Urge the old man to frown and fret,
He has another comfort yet;
This earth has thorns, as poets sing,
But not for ever can they sting;
Our sand from out its narrow glass
Rapidly passes!—let it pass!
I seek not, I, to check or stay
The progress of a single day,
But rather cheer my hours of pain.
Because so few of them remain.

Care circles every mortal head,—
The dust will be a calmer bed!
From Life's alloy no life is free,
But—Life is not Eternity!

When that unerring day shall come
To call me, from my wandering, home,—
The dark and still and painful day
When breath shall fleet in groans away,
When comfort shall be vainly sought,
And doubt shall be in every thought,
When words shall fail th' unuttered vow
And fever heat the burning brow,
When the dim eye shall gaze, and fear
To close the glance that lingers here,
Snatching the faint departing light
That seems to flicker in its flight,
When the lone heart, in that long strife,
Shall cling unconsciously to life,—
I'll have no shrieking female by
To shed her drops of sympathy;
To listen to each smothered throe,
To feel, or feign, officious woe,
To bring me every useless cup,
And beg “dear Tom” to drink it up;
To turn my oldest servants off,
E'en as she hears my gurgling cough;

And then expectantly to stand.
And chafe my temples with her hand,
And pull a cleaner nightcap o'er 'em
That I may die with due decorum;
And watch the while my ebbing breath,
And count the tardy steps of death;
Grudging the leech his growing bill,
And wrapt in dreams about the will.
I'll have no Furies round my bed!—
They shall not plague me—till I'm dead

Believe me! ill my dust would rest,
If the plain marble o'er my breast
That tells, in letters large and clear,
“The Bones of Thomas Quince lie here!”
Should add a talisman of strife,
“Also the Bones of Jane, his Wife!”
No! while beneath this simple stone
Old Quince shall sleep, and sleep alone.
Some village Oracle, who well
Knows how to speak, and read, and spell,
Shall slowly construe, bit by bit,
My “Natus,” and my “Obiit,”
And then, with sage discourse and long,
Recite my virtues to the throng.

“The Gentleman came straight from College.
A most prodigious man for knowledge!

He used to pay all men their due,
Hated a miser—and a Jew,
But always opened wide his door
To the first knocking of the poor.
None, as the grateful parish knows,
Save the churchwardens, were his foes;
They could not bear the virtuous pride
Which gave the sixpence they denied.
If neighbours had a mind to quarrel,
He used to treat them to a barrel;
And that, I think, was sounder law
Than any book I ever saw.
The ladies never used to flout him;
But this was rather strange about him,
That, gay or thoughtful, young or old,
He took no wife for love or gold;
Woman he called ‘a pretty thing,’—
But never could abide a ring!”

Good Mr. Pringle!—you must see
Your arguments are light with me;
They buzz like feeble flies around me,
But leave me firm, as first they found me.
Silence your logic! burn your pen!
The poet says “We all are men;”
And all “condemned alike to groan”—
You with a wife, and I with none.

Well! yours may be a happier lot,
But it is one I envy not;
And you'll allow me, Sir, to pray
That at some near-approaching day
You may not have to wince and whine,
And find some cause to envy mine!

I must confess that Dr. Swift
Has lent me here a little lift;
For when I steal some trifling hits
From older and from brighter wits,
I have some touch of conscience left,
And seldom like to hide the theft.
This is my plan!—I name no name,
But wish all others did the same.

MARRIAGE.

What, what is Marriage? Harris, Priscian,
Assist me with a definition.—
“Oh!” cries a charming silly fool,
Emerging from her boarding-school—
“Marriage is—love without disguises,
It is a—something that arises
From raptures and from stolen glances,
To be the end of all romances;
Vows—quarrels—moonshine—babes—but hush!
I mustn't have you see me blush.”

“Pshaw!” says a modern modish wife,
“Marriage is splendour, fashion, life;
A house in town, and villa shady,
Balls, diamond bracelets, and ‘my lady;’
Then for finale, angry words,
‘Some people's—‘obstinate’s—‘absurd!’s
And peevish hearts, and silly heads,
And oaths, and ‘bête’s, and separate beds.”

An aged bachelor, whose life
Has just been sweetened with a wife,

Tells out the latent grievance thus:
“Marriage is—odd! for one of us
'Tis worse a mile than rope or tree,
Hemlock, or sword, or slavery;
An end at once to all our ways,
Dismission to the one-horse chaise;
Adieu to Sunday can, and pig,
Adieu to wine, and whist, and wig;
Our friends turn out,—our wife's are clapt in;
'Tis ‘exit Crony,’—‘enter Captain.’
Then hurry in a thousand thorns,—
Quarrels, and compliments,—and horns.
This is the yoke, and I must wear it;
Marriage is—hell, or something near it!”

“Why, marriage,” says an exquisite,
Sick from the supper of last night,
“Marriage is—after one by me!
I promised Tom to ride at three.—
Marriage is—'gad! I'm rather late;
La Fleur!—my stays! and chocolate!—
Marriage is—really, though, 'twas hard
To lose a thousand on a card;
Sink the old Duchess!—three revokes!
'Gad! I must fell the Abbey oaks:
Mary has lost a thousand more!—
Marriage is—'gad! a cursed bore!”

Hymen, who hears the blockheads groan,
Rises indignant from his throne,
And mocks their self-reviling tears,
And whispers thus in Folly's ears:
“O frivolous of heart and head!
If strifes infest your nuptial bed,
Not Hymen's hand, but guilt and sin,
Fashion and folly, force them in;
If on your couch is seated Care,
I did not bring the scoffer there;
If Hymen's torch is feebler grown,
The hand that quenched it was your own;
And what I am, unthinking elves,
Ye all have made me for yourselves!”

HOW TO RHYME FOR LOVE.

At the last hour of Fannia's rout,
When Dukes walked in, and lamps went out,
Fair Chloe sat; a sighing crowd
Of high adorers round her bowed,
And ever flattery's incense rose
To lull the idol to repose.
Sudden some Gnome that stood unseen,
Or lurked disguised in mortal mien,
Whispered in Beauty's trembling ear
The word of bondage and of fear—
“Marriage!”—her lips their silence broke,
And smiled on Vapid as they spoke,—
“I hate a drunkard or a lout,
I hate the sullens and the gout;
If e'er I wed—let danglers know it—
I wed with no one but a poet.”

And who but feels a poet's fire
When Chloe's smiles, as now, inspire?
Who can the bidden verse refuse
When Chloe is his theme and Muse?
Thus Flattery whispered round;

And straight the humorous fancy grew,
That lyres are sweet when hearts are true;
And all who feel a lover's flame
Must rhyme to-night on Chloe's name;
And he's unworthy of the dame
Who silent here is found.
Since head must plead the cause of heart,
Some put their trust in answer smart
Or pointed repartee;
Some joy that they have hoarded up
Those genii of the jovial cup,
Chorus, and catch, and glee;
And for one evening all prepare
To be “Apollo's chiefest care.”

Then Vapid rose—no Stentor this,
And his no Homer's lay;
Meek victim of antithesis,
He sighed and died away:—
“Despair my sorrowing bosom rives,
And anguish on me lies;
Chloe may die, while Vapid lives,
Or live while Vapid dies!
You smile!—the horrid vision flies,
And Hope this promise gives;
I cannot live while Chloe dies,
Nor die while Chloe lives!”

Next Snaffle, foe to tears and sadness,
Drew fire from Chloe's eyes;
And warm with drunkenness and madness,
He started for the prize.
“Let the glad cymbals loudly clash.
Full bumpers let's be quaffing!
No poet I!—Hip, hip!—here goes!
Blow—blow the trumpet, blow the—”
Here he was puzzled for a rhyme,
And Lucy whispered “nose” in time,
And so they fell a-laughing.

“Gods!” cried a minister of State,
“You know not, empress of my fate,
How long my passion would endure,
If passion were a sinecure;
But since, in Love's despotic clime,
Fondness is taxed, and pays in rhyme,
Glad to retire, I shun disgrace,
And make my bow, and quit my place.”

And thus the jest went circling round,
And ladies smiled and sneered,
As smooth fourteen and weak fourscore
Professed they ne'er had rhymed before,
And drunkards blushed, and doctors swore,
And soldiers owned they feared;

Unwonted Muses were invoked
By pugilists and whips,
And many a belle looked half provoked
When favoured swains stood dumb and choked;
And warblers whined, and punsters joked,
And dandies bit their lips.

At last an old Ecclesiastic,
Who looked half kind, and half sarcastic,
And seemed in every transient look
At once to flatter and rebuke,
Cut off the sport with “Psha! enough:”
And then took breath,—and then took snuff:
“Chloe,” he said, “you're like the moon;
You shine as bright, you change as soon;
Your wit is like the moon's fair beam,
In borrowed light 'tis o'er us thrown;
Yet, like the moon's, that sparkling stream
To careless eyes appears your own;
Your cheek by turns is pale and red,
And then, to close the simile,
(From which, methinks, you turn your head,
As half in anger, half in glee,)
Dark would the night appear without you,
And—twenty fools have rhymed about you!”

CHANGING QUARTERS.

A SKETCH.

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress!
[OMITTED]
And there was mounting in hot haste.
Byron.

Fair laughs the morn, and out they come,
At the solemn beat of the rolling drum,
Apparelled for the march;
Many an old and honoured name,
Young warriors, with their eyes of flame,
And aged veterans in the wars,
With little pay, and many scars,
And titled lord, and tottering beau,
Right closely wrapt from top to toe
In vanity and starch.
The rising sun is gleaming bright,
And Britain's flag is waving light,
And widely, where the gales invite,
The charger's mane is flowing:
Around is many a staring face
Of envious boor and wondering Grace,
And Echo shouts through all the place,
“The Soldiers be a-going!”

Beauty and bills are buzzing now
In many a martial ear,
And 'midst the tumult and the row
Is seen the tailor's anxious bow,
And woman's anxious tear.

Alas! the thousand cares that float
To-day around a scarlet coat!
There's Serjeant Cross, in fume and fret,
With little Mopsa, the coquette,
Close clinging to his side;
Who, if fierce Mars and thundering Jove
Had had the least respect for Love,
To-day had been his bride;
And 'midst the trumpet's wild acclaim
She calls upon her lover's name
In beautiful alarm;
Still looking up expectantly
To see the tear-drop in his eye,
Still hanging to his arm;
And he the while—his fallen chop
Most eloquently tells
That much he wishes little Mop
Were waiting for—another drop,
Or hanging—somewhere else.

Poor Captain Mill! what sounds of fear
Break sudden on his startled ear!

On right and left, above, around him,
Tom, the horse-dealer, roars “Confound him!
A pretty conscience his:
To ruin thus my finest bay,
And hurry off, like smoke, to-day!—
If there's no law, some other way,
By Jove, he'll smart for this!”—
Ah fly, unhappy, while you can!
The Captain is a dangerous man,
A right old Jockey's son!
Ah fly, unhappy, while you may!
The Captain first knocks up the bay,
And then—knocks down the dun!

Old Larry is as brave a soul
As ever drained an English bowl;
His head and heart alike are tried;
And when two comrades have applied
Or hand to sword, or lip to pewter,
Old Larry never yet was neuter.
But now the hero (like a fool
Ripe from a milksop boarding-school,
In love or fortune crost,)
Silent and pale and stupid stands,
Scratches his head with both his hands,
And fears the hostile Host.
Oh! can it be? are hearts of stone
So small, and soft, and silky grown,

That Larry fears a lick?
Oh! wrong not thus his closing years,
'Tis not the host of France he fears,
But of the Candlestick.
The Brute is there! in long array,
All clean set down, from day to day,
The dreaded figures stalk;
The veteran, with his honest blows,
Can settle well a score of foes,
But not a score of chalk.
Alas! alas! that warrior hot
Balls from ten-pounders feareth not,
But bills for pennies three;
And if he trembles, well I wot
He would not care for Gallic shot,
So here he were shot-free.

Fat Will the butcher, in a pet,
His furious fang hath sharply set
On luckless Captain Martinette,
And thus the booby cries:
“Don't kick!—As sure as eggs is eggs,
You will not have me off my legs,
Captain, although you tries;
And you must know, good Sir, as how
I mean to ha' my money now,
Or know the whens and whys.”

The little Captain, whom 'twould kill
To be a public scoff,
Shuffles, and whispers—“Honest Will,
For forty shillings is your bill,
Take twenty—and be off!”
The butcher, much a friend to fun,
And somewhat apt to laugh or pun,
Stands grinning like his calves;
Till for his joke his debt he barters:
“Sir!—Gemmen, when they change their quarters,
Shouldn't do things by halves.”

He too, the pride of war, is here,
Victorious Major Ligonier.
A soldier he, from boot to plume,
In tented field or crowded room;
Magnanimous, in martial guise
He eats, and sleeps, and swears, and lies;
Like no poor cit the man behaves,
And when he picks his teeth, or shaves,
He picks his teeth with warlike air,
And mows his beard en militaire
But look!—his son is by his side,
More like a young and blushing bride
Than one in danger's hour
All madly doomed to run and ride,
And stem the battle's whelming tide,
And face its iron shower.

100

In peace too warm, in war too cold,
Although with girls he's very bold,
With men he's somewhat shy!
Nature could not two gifts afford,
And so she did not make his sword
So killing as his eye.

Is there an eye which nothing sees,
In what it views to-day,
To whisper deeper thoughts than these,
And wake a graver lay?
Ah, think not thus! when lovers part,
When weeping eye and trembling heart
Speak more than words can say,
It ill becomes my jesting song
To run so trippingly along,
And on these trifling themes bestow
What ought to be a note of woe.

I see young Edward's courser stand,
The bridle rests upon his hand;
But beauteous Helen lingers yet,
With throbbing heart and eyelid wet;
And as she speaks in that sweet tone
Which makes the listener's soul its own,
And as she heaves that smothered sigh
Which lovers cannot hear and fly,

101

In Edward's face looks up the while,
And longs to weep, yet seems to smile.

“Fair forms may fleet around, my love!
And lighter steps than mine;
And sweeter tones may sound, my love!
And brighter eyes may shine;
But wheresoever thou dost rove,
Thou wilt not find a heart, my love,
So truly, wholly thine,
As that which at thy feet is aching,
As if its very strings were breaking!

“I would not see thee glad, my love,
As erst in happier years;
Yet do not seem so sad, my love,
Because of Helen's fears!
Swiftly the flying minutes move,
And though we weep to-day, my love,
Heavy and bitter tears,
There'll be, for every tear that strays,
A thousand smiles in other days!”

102

REMINISCENCES OF MY YOUTH.

There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away
When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay.
Byron.

Scene of my best and brightest years!
Scene of my childhood's joys and fears!
Again I gaze on thee at last;
And dreams of the forgotten past,
Robed in the visionary hues
That memory flings on all she views,
Come fleeting o'er me! I could look
Unwearied on this babbling brook,
And lie beneath this aged oak,
And listen to its raven's croak,
And bound upon my native plain,
Till fancy made me Boy again!
I could forget the pain and strife
Of Manhood's dark deceitful life;
I could forget the ceaseless toil,
The hum of cities, and the coil
That interest flings upon our hearts
As candour's faded glow departs;

103

I could forget whatever care
It has been mine to see or share,
And be as playful and as wild
As when—a dear and wayward child—
I dwelt upon this fairy spot,
All reckless of a bitterer lot.
Then glee was high, and on my tongue
The happy laugh of folly hung,
And innocence looked bright on youth,
And all was bliss, and all was truth.

There is no change upon the scene,
My native plain is gaily green,
Yon oak still braves the wintry air,
The raven is not silent there;
Beneath my foot the simple rill
Flows on in noisy wildness still.
Nature hath suffered no decay;
Her lordly children!—where are they
Friends of my pure and sinless age,
The good, the jocund, and the sage,
Gone is the light your kindness shed,
In silence have ye changed or fled,
Ye and your dwellings! yet I hear
Your well-known voices in mine ear,
And see your faces beaming round,
Like magic shades on haunted ground

104

Hark! as they murmur down the dell,
A lingering tale those voices tell;
And while they flit in vacant air,
A beauteous smile those faces wear:
Alas! I turn my dreaming eyes,
The lovely vision fades and flies;
The tale is done,
The smile is gone,
I am a stranger,—and alone.

Within yon humble cottage, where
The fragrant woodbine scents the air,
And the neat door looks fair to view
Seen through its leafy avenue,
The matron of the village school
Maintained her ancient state and rule.
The dame was rigid and severe,
With much to love, but more to fear;
She was my nurse in infancy;
And as I sat upon her knee
And listened to her stories, told
In dialect of Doric mould,
While wonders still on wonders grew,
I marvelled if the tale were true;
And all she said of valorous knight,
And beauteous dame, and love, and fight,
Enchanter fierce, and goblin sly,
My childhood heard right greedily.

105

At last the wand of magic broke,
The tale was ended: and she spoke
Of learning's everlasting well,
And said, “I ought to learn to spell;”
And then she talked of sound and sense,
Of verbs and adverbs, mood and tense;
And then she would with care disclose
The treasured primer's lettered rows;
Whereat my froward rage spoke out
In cry and passion, frown and pout,
And, with a sad and loathing look,
I shrunk from that enchanted book.

Oh! sweet were those untutored years,
Their joys and pains, their hopes and fears;
There was a freshness in them all
Which we may taste, but not recall.
No!—Man must never more enjoy
The thoughts—the passions of the Boy;
The aspirations high and bold,
Unseen, unguided, uncontrolled;
The first ambition, and the pride
That youthful bosoms feel and hide;
The longings after manhood's sun,
Which end in clouds—as mine have done.

In yonder neat abode, withdrawn
From strangers by its humble lawn,

106

Which the neat shrubbery enshrouds
From scrutiny of passing crowds,
The Pastor of the village dwelt:
To him with clasping hands I knelt
When first he taught my lips to pray,—
My steps to walk in virtue's way,—
My heart to honour and to love
The God that ruleth from above.
He was a man of sorrows: care
Was seated on his hoary hair;
His cheek was colourless; his brow
Was furrow'd o'er,—as mine is now;
His earliest youth had fled in tears,
And grief was on his closing years.
But still he met with soul resigned
The day of mourning; and his mind
Beneath its load of woe and pain
Might deeply feel, but not complain;
And virtue o'er his forehead's snows
Had thrown an air of meek repose
More lovely than the hues that streak
The bloom of childhood's laughing cheek;
It seemed to tell the holy rest
That will not leave the righteous breast,
The trust in One that died to save,
The hope that looks beyond the grave,
The calm of unpretending worth,
The bliss—that is not of the earth.

107

And he would smile; but in his smile
Sadness would seem to lurk the while;
Child as I was, I could not bear
To look upon that placid air;
I felt the tear-drop in mine eye,
And wished to weep, and knew not why

He had one daughter.—Many years
Have fleeted o'er me, since my tears
Fell on that form of quiet grace,
That humble brow, and beauteous face.
She parted from this world of ill
When I was yet a child; but still,
Until my heart shall cease to beat,
That countenance so mildly sweet,
That kind blue eye and golden hair,
Eternally are graven there.
I see her still, as when she stood
In the ripe bloom of womanhood,
Yet deigning where I led to stray,
And mingle in my childhood's play;
Or sought my father's dwelling-place,
And clasped me in her fond embrace;
A friend—when I had none beside;
A mother—when my mother died.

Poor Ellen! she is now forgot
Upon the hearths of this dear spot:

108

And they to whom her bounty came,
They who would dwell upon her name
With raptured voice, as if they found
Hope—comfort—riches in the sound,
Have ceased to think how Ellen fled;—
Why should they sorrow for the dead?
Perhaps around the festive board
Some aged chroniclers record
Her hopes, her virtues, and her tomb;
And then a sudden silent gloom
Creeps on the lips that smiled before,
And jest is still, and mirth is o'er.
She was so beauteous in her dress
Of unaffected loveliness,
So bright, and so beneficent,
That you might deem some fairy sent
To hush the helpless orphan's fears,
And dry the widow's gushing tears:
She moved in beauty, like the star
That shed its lustre from afar,
To tell the wisest on the earth
The tidings of a Saviour's birth:
So pure, so cheering, was her ray:
So quickly did it die away!

There came a dark infectious pest
To break the hamlet's tranquil rest;

109

It came, it breathed on Ellen's face;
And so she went to death's embrace,
A blooming and a sinless bride;
And how I knew not—but she died.

I was the inmate of her home,
And knew not why she did not come
To cheer my melancholy mood;
Her father wept in solitude;
The servants wore a look of woe,
Their steps were soft, their whispers low;
And when I asked them why they sighed,
They shook their heads, and turned aside.

I entered that forbidden room:
All things were still!—a death-like gloom
Stole on me, as I saw her lie
In her white vest of purity.
She seemed to smile! her lips were wet,
The bloom was on her features yet:
I looked,—at first I thought she slept;
But when her accents did not bless,
And when her arms did not caress,
And when I marked her quiet air
And saw that soul was wanting there,—
I sat me on the ground, and wept!

110

SURLY HALL.

Mercy o' me, what a multitude are here!
They grow still, too, from all parts they are coming,
As if we kept a fair here.”
Shakspeare.

The sun hath shed a mellower beam,
Fair Thames, upon thy silver stream,
And air and water, earth and heaven,
Lie in the calm repose of even.
How silently the breeze moves on,
Flutters, and whispers, and is gone!
How calmly does the quiet sky
Sleep in its cold serenity!
Alas! how sweet a scene were here
For shepherd, or for sonnetteer;
How fit the place, how fit the time,
For making love, or making rhyme!
But though the sun's descending ray
Smiles warmly on the close of day,
'Tis not to gaze upon his light
That Eton's sons are here to-night;
And though the river, calm and clear,
Makes music to the poet's ear,
'Tis not to listen to the sound
That Eton's sons are thronging round:

111

The sun unheeded may decline—
Blue eyes send out a brighter shine;
The wave may cease its gurgling moan—
Glad voices have a sweeter tone;
For in our calendar of bliss
We have no hour so gay as this,
When the kind hearts and brilliant eyes
Of those we know, and love, and prize,
Are come to cheer the captive's thrall,
And smile upon his festival.
Stay, Pegasus!—and let me ask
Ere I go onward in my task,—
Pray, Reader, were you ever here,
Just at this season of the year?
No?—then the end of next July
Should bring you, with admiring eye,
To hear us row, and see us row,
And cry, “How fast them boys does go!”
For Father Thames beholds to-night
A thousand visions of delight;
Tearing and swearing, jeering, cheering,
Lame steeds to right and left careering,
Displays, dismays, disputes, distresses,
Ruffling of temper and of dresses;
Wounds on the heart—and on the knuckles;
Losing of patience—and of buckles.

112

An interdict is laid on Latin,
And scholars smirk in silk and satin,
And Dandies start their thinnest pumps,
And Michael Oakley's in the dumps;
And there is nought beneath the sun
But dash and splash, and falls, and fun.
Lord! what would be the Cynic's mirth,
If Fate would lift him to the earth,
And set his tub, with magic jump,
Squat down beside the Brocas Clump!
What scoffs the sage would utter there
From his unpolished elbow-chair,
To see the sempstress' handiwork,
The Greek confounded with the Turk,
Parisian mixed with Piedmontese,
And Persian joined to Portuguese;
And mantles short, and mantles long,
And mantles right, and mantles wrong,
Mis-shaped, miscoloured, and misplaced
With what the tailor calls a taste!
And then the badges and the boats,
The flags, the drums, the paint, the coats;
But more than these, and more than all,
The puller's intermitted call—
“Easy!”—“Hard all!”—“Now pick her up!”—
“Upon my life, how I shall sup!”—

113

Would be a fine and merry matter
To wake the sage's love of satire.
Kind Readers, at my laughing age
I thank my stars I'm not a sage;
I, an unthinking scribbling elf,
Love to please others—and myself;
Therefore I fly a malo joco,
But like desipere in loco.
Excuse me, that I wander so;
All modern pens digress, you know.
Now to my theme! Thou Being gay,
Houri or goddess, nymph or fay,
Whoe'er—whate'er—where'er thou art—
Who, with thy warm and kindly heart,
Hast made these blest abodes thy care,—
Being of water, earth, or air,—
Beneath the moonbeam hasten hither,
Enjoy thy blessings ere they wither,
And witness with thy gladdest face
The glories of thy dwelling-place!
The boats put off;—throughout the crowd
The tumult thickens; wide and loud
The din re-echoes; man and horse
Plunge onward in their mingled course.
Look at the troop! I love to see
Our real Etonian cavalry

114

They start in such a pretty trim,
And such sweet scorn of life and limb.
I must confess I never found
A horse much worse for being sound;
I wish my nag not wholly blind,
And like to have a tail behind;
And though he certainly may hear
Correctly with a single ear,
I think, to look genteel and neat,
He ought to have his two complete.
But these are trifles!—off they go
Beside the wondering river's flow;
And if, by dint of spur and whip,
They shamble on without a trip,
Well have they done! I make no question
They're shaken into good digestion.
I and my Muse—my Muse and I
Will follow with the company,
And get to Surly Hall in time
To make a supper, and a rhyme.
Yes! while the animating crowd,
The gay, and fair, and kind, and proud,
With eager voice and eager glance
Wait till the pageantry advance,
We'll throw around a hasty view,
And try to get a sketch or two,

115

First in the race is William Tag,
Thalia's most industrious fag;
Whate'er the subject he essays
To dress in never-dying lays,
A chief, a cheese, a dearth, a dinner
A cot, a castle, cards, Corinna,
Hibernia, Baffin's Bay, Parnassus,
Beef, Bonaparte, beer, Bonassus—
Will hath his ordered words and rhymes
For various scenes and various times;
Which suit alike for this or that,
And come, like volunteers, quite pat.
He hath his elegy, or sonnet,
For Lucy's bier, or Lucy's bonnet;
And celebrates with equal ardour
A Monarch's sceptre, or his larder.
Poor William! when he wants a hint,
All other poets are his mint;
He coins his epic or his lyric,
His satire or his panegyric,
From all the gravity and wit
Of what the ancients thought and writ.
Armed with his Ovid and his Flaccus
He comes like thunder to attack us;
In pilfered mail he bursts to view,
The cleverest thief I ever knew.
Thou noble Bard! at any time
Borrow my measure and my rhyme;

116

Borrow (I'll cancel all the debt)
An epigram or epithet;
Borrow my mountains, or my trees,
My paintings, or my similes;
Nay, borrow all my pretty names,
My real or my fancied flames;
Eliza, Alice, Leonora,
Mary, Melissa, and Medora;
And borrow all my “mutual vows,”
My “ruby lips” and “cruel brows,”
And all my stupors, and my startings,
And all my meetings, and my partings;
Thus far, my friend, you'll find me willing;
Borrow all things save one—a shilling!
Drunken, and loud, and mad, and rash,
Joe Tarrell wields his ceaseless lash;
The would-be sportsman; o'er the sides
Of the lank charger he bestrides
The foam lies painfully, and blood
Is trickling in a ruddier flood
Beneath the fury of the steel
Projecting from his armed heel.
E'en from his childhoo' earliest bloom.
All studies that become a groom
Eton's spes gregis, honest Joe,
Or knows, or would be thought to know;

117

He picks a hunter's hoof quite finely,
And spells a horse's teeth divinely.
Prime terror of molesting duns,
Sole judge of greyhounds and of guns,
A skilful whip, a steady shot,
Joe swears he is!—who says he's not?
And then he has such knowing faces
For all the week of Ascot races,
And talks with such a mystic speech,
Untangible to vulgar reach,
Of Sultan, Highflyer, and Ranter,
Potatoes, Quiz, and Tam O'Shanter,
Bay colts and brown colts, sires and dams,
Bribings and bullyings, bets and bams;
And how the favourite should have won,
And how the little Earl was done;
And how the filly failed in strength,
And how some faces grew in length;
And how some people—if they'd show—
Know something more than others know.
Such is his talk; and while we wonder
At that interminable thunder,
The undiscriminating snarler
Astounds the ladies in the parlour,
And broaches at his mother's table
The slang of kennel and of stable.
And when he's drunk, he roars before ye
One excellent unfailing story,

118

About a gun, Lord knows how long,
With a discharge, Lord knows how strong,
Which always needs an oath and frown
To make the monstrous dose go down.
Oh! oft and oft the Muses pray
That wondrous tube may burst one day,
And then the world will ascertain
Whether its master hath a brain!
Then, on the stone that hides his sleep,
These accents shall be graven deep,—
Or “Upton” and “C.B.” between,
Shine in the “Sporting Magazine;”—
“Civil to none, except his brutes;
Polished in nought, except his boots;
Here lie the relics of Joe Tarrell:
Also, Joe Tarrell's double-barrel!”
Ho!—by the muttered sounds that slip
Unwilling from his curling lip;
By the grey glimmer of his eye,
That shines so unrelentingly;
By the stern sneer upon his snout,
I know the critic, Andrew Crout!
The boy-reviler! amply filled
With venomed virulence, and skilled
To look on what is good and fair
And find or make a blemish there.

119

For Fortune to his cradle sent
Self-satisfying discontent,
And he hath caught from cold Reviews
The one great talent, to abuse;
And so he sallies sternly forth,
Like the cold Genius of the North,
To check the heart's exuberant fulness,
And chill good humour into dullness:
Where'er he comes, his fellows shrink
Before his awful nod and wink;
And whensoe'er these features plastic
Assume the savage or sarcastic,
Mirth stands abashed, and Laughter flies,
And Humour faints, and Quibble dies.
How sour he seems!—and hark! he spoke;
We'll stop and listen to the croak;
'Twill charm us, if these happy lays
Are honoured by a fool's dispraise!—
“You think the boats well manned this year!
To you they may perhaps appear!—
I, who have seen those frames of steel,
Tuckfield, and Dixon, and Bulteel,
Can swear—no matter what I swear—
Only things are not as they were!
And then our Cricket!—think of that!
We ha'n't a tolerable Bat;
It's very true that Mr. Tucker,
Who puts the field in such a pucker,

120

Contrives to make his fifty runs;—
What then?—we had a Hardinge once!
As for our talents, where are they?
Griffin and Grildrig had their day;
And who's the star of modern time?
Octosyllabic Peregrine;
Who pirates, puns, and talks sedition,
Without a moment's intermission;
And if he did not get a lift
Sometimes from me—and Doctor Swift,
I can't tell what the deuce he'd do!—
But this, you know, is entre nous!
I've tried to talk him into taste,
But found my labour quite misplaced;
He nibs his pen, and twists his ear,
And says he's deaf, and cannot hear;
And if I mention right or rule,—
Egad! he takes me for a fool!”
Gazing upon this varied scene
With a new artist's absent mien,
I see thee, silent and alone,
My friend, ingenious Hamilton.
I see thee there—(nay, do not blush!)
Knight of the Pallet and the Brush,
Dreaming of straight and crooked lines,
And planning portraits and designs.

121

I like him hugely!—well I wis,
No despicable skill is his,
Whether his sportive canvass shows
Arabia's sands or Zembla's snows,
A lion, or a bed of lilies,
Fair Caroline, or fierce Achilles;
I love to see him taking down
A schoolfellow's unconscious frown,
Describing twist, grimace, contortion,
In most becoming disproportion,
While o'er his merry paper glide
Rivers of wit; and by his side
Caricatura takes her stand,
Inspires the thought and guides the hand;
I love to see his honoured books
Adorned with rivulets and brooks;
Troy frowning with her ancient towers,
Or Ida gay with fruits and flowers;
I love to see fantastic shapes,
Dragons and griffins, birds and apes,
And pigmy forms, and forms gigantic,
Forms natural, and forms romantic,
Of dwarfs and ogres, dames and knights,
Scrawled by the side of Homer's fights,
And portraits daubed on Maro's poems,
And profiles penned to Tully's Proems;
In short, I view with partial eyes
Whate'er my brother painter tries.

122

To each belongs his own utensil;
I sketch with pen, as he with pencil;
And each, with pencil or with pen,
Hits off a likeness now and then.
He drew me once—the spiteful creature!
'Twas voted—“like in every feature;”
It might have been so!—('twas lopsided,
And squinted worse than ever I did:)
However, from that hapless day
I owed the debt, which here I pay;
And now I'll give my friend a hint;—
Unless you want to shine in print,
Paint lords and ladies, nymphs and fairies,
And demigods, and dromedaries;
But never be an author's creditor,
Nor paint the picture of an Editor!
Who is the youth with stare confounded,
And tender arms so neatly rounded,
And moveless eyes, and glowing face,
And attitude of studied grace?
Now Venus, pour your lustre o'er us!
Your would-be servant stands before us!
Hail, Corydon! let others blame
The fury of his fictioned flame;
I love to hear the beardless youth
Talking of constancy and truth,

123

Swearing more darts are in his liver
Than ever gleamed in Cupid's quiver,
And wondering at those hearts of stone
Which never melted like his own.
Ah! when I look on Fashion's moth,
Wrapt in his visions and his cloth,
I would not, for a nation's gold,
Disturb the dream—or spoil the fold!
And who the maid, whose gilded chain
Hath bound the heart of such a swain?
Oh! look on those surrounding Graces!
There is no lack of pretty faces;
M---l, the goddess of the night,
Looks beautiful with all her might;
And M--- in that simple dress,
Enthralls us more by studying less;
D---, in your becoming pride,
Ye march to conquest, side by side;
And A---, thou fleetest by
Bright in thine arch simplicity;
Slight are the links thy power hath wreathed;
Yet, by the tone thy voice hath breathed,
By thy glad smile and ringlets curled,
I would not break them for the world!
But this is idle! Paying court
I know was never yet my forte;

124

And all I say of nymph and queen,
To cut it short, can only mean
That when I throw my gaze around
I see much beauty on the ground.
Hark! hark! a mellowed note
Over the water seemed to float!
Hark! the note repeated!
A sweet and soft and soothing strain
Echoed and died and rose again,
As if the Nymphs of Fairy reign
Were holding to-night their revel rout,
And pouring their fragrant voices out,
On the blue water seated.
Hark to the tremulous tones that flow,
And the voice of the boatmen as they row!
Cheerfully to the heart they go,
And touch a thousand pleasant strings
Of triumph and pride, and hope and joy,
And thoughts that are only known to boy,
And young imaginings!
The note is near, the voice comes clear.
And we catch its echo on the ear
With a feeling of delight;
And, as the gladdening sounds we hear,
There's many an eager listener here,
And many a straining sight.

125

One moment,—and ye see
Where, fluttering quick, as the breezes blow,
Backwards and forwards, to and fro,
Bright with the beam of retiring day,
Old Eton's flag, on its watery way,
Moves on triumphantly!
But what that ancient poets have told
Of Amphitrite's car of gold,
With the Nymphs behind, and the Nymphs before,
And the Nereid's song, and the Triton's roar,
Could equal half the pride
That heralds the Monarch's plashing oar
Over the swelling tide?
And look!—they land, those gallant crews,
With their jackets light, and their bellying trews;
And Ashley walks applauded by,
With a world's talent in his eye;
And Kinglake, dear to poetry,
And dearer to his friends;
Hibernian Roberts, you are there,
With that unthinking merry stare
Which still its influence lends
To make us drown our devils blue,
In laughing at ourselves,—and you!
Still I could lengthen out the tale,
And sing Sir Thomas with his ale
To all that like to read;
Still I could choose to linger long,

126

Where Friendship bids the willing song
Flow out for honest Meade!
Yet e'en on this triumphant day
One thought of grief will rise;
And though I bid my fancy play,
And jest and laugh through all the lay,
Yet sadness still will have its way
And burst the vain disguise!
Yes! when the pageant shall have passed,
I shall have looked upon my last;
I shall not e'er behold again
Our pullers' unremitted strain;
Not listen to the charming cry
Of contest or of victory
That speaks what those young bosoms feel,
As keel is pressing fast on keel;
Oh! bright these glories still shall be,
But they shall never dawn for me!
E'en when a realm's congratulation
Sang Pæans for the Coronation,
Amidst the pleasure that was round me,
A melancholy Spirit found me;
And while all else were singing “Io!”
I couldn't speak a word but “Heigh-ho!”
And so, instead of laughing gaily,
I dropped a tear,—and wrote my “Vale.”

127

VALE!

Eton, the Monarch of thy prayers
E'en now receives his load of cares;
Throned in the consecrated choir
He takes the sceptre of his Sire,
And wears the crown his Father bore,
And swears the oath his Father swore,
And therefore sounds of joy resound,
Fair Eton, on thy classic ground.
A gladder gale is round thee breathed;
And on thy mansions thou hast wreathed
A thousand lamps, whose various hue
Waits but the night to burst to view.
Woe to the poets that refuse
To wake and woo their idle Muse,
When those glad notes, “God save the King,”
From hill and vale and hamlet ring!
Hark, how the loved inspiring tune
Peals forth from every loyal loon
Who loves his country, and excels
In drinking beer or ringing bells!
It is a day of shouts and greeting;
A day of idleness and eating;
And triumph swells in every soul,
And mighty beeves are roasted whole,
And ale, unbought, is set a-running,
And pleasure's hymn grows rather stunning,

128

And children roll upon the green.
And cry “Confusion to the Queen!”
And Sorrow flies, and Labour slumbers,
And Clio pours her loudest numbers;
And hundreds of that joyous throng
With whom my life hath lingered long
Give their gay raptures to the gale,
In one united echoing “Hail!”

I took the harp, I smote the string,
I strove to soar on Fancy's wing,
And murmur in my Sovereign's prarse
The latest of my boyhood's lays.
Alas! the theme was too divine
To suit so weak a Muse as mine:
I saw—I felt it could not be;
No song of triumph flows from me;
The harp from which those sounds ye ask
Is all unfit for such a task;
And the last echo of its tone,
Dear Eton, must be thine alone!

A few short hours, and I am borne
Far from the fetters I have worn;
A few short hours, and I am free!—
And yet I shrink from liberty,
And look, and long to give my soul
Back to thy cherishing control.

129

Control? ah no! thy chain was meant
Far less for bond than ornament;
And though its links be firmly set,
I never found them gall me yet.
Oh still, through many chequered years,
'Mid anxious toils and hopes and fears,
Still I have doted on thy fame,
And only gloried in thy name.
How I have loved thee! Thou hast been
My Hope, my Mistress, and my Queen;
I always found thee kind, and thou
Hast never seen me weep—till now.

I knew that time was fleeting fast,
I knew thy pleasures could not last;
I knew too well that riper age
Must step upon a busier stage;
Yet when around thine ancient towers
I passed secure my tranquil hours,
Or heard beneath thine aged trees
The drowsy humming of the bees,
Or wandered by thy winding stream,
I would not check my fancy's dream;
Glad in my transitory bliss,
I recked not of an hour like this;
And now the truth comes swiftly on,
The truth I would not hink upon,

130

The last sad thought, so oft delayed,—
“These joys are only born to fade.”

Ye Guardians of my earliest days,
Ye Patrons of my earliest lays,
Custom reminds me, that to you
Thanks and farewell to-day are due.
Thanks and farewell I give you,—not
(As some that leave this holy spot)
In laboured phrase and polished lie
Wrought by the forge of flattery,
But with a heart that cannot tell
The half of what it feels so well.
If I am backward to express,
Believe, my love is not the less;
Be kind as you are wont, and view
A thousand thanks in one Adieu.
My future life shall strive to show
I wish to pay the debt I owe;
The labours that ye give to May
September's fruits shall best repay.

And you, my friends, who loved to share
Whate'er was mine of sport or care,
Antagonists at fives or chess,
Friends in the play-ground or the press,
I leave ye now; and all that rests
Of mutual tastes, and loving breasts,

131

Is the lone vision that shall come,
Where'er my studies and my home,
To cheer my labour and my pain,
And make me feel a boy again.

Yes! when at last I sit me down,
A scholar, in my cap and gown,—
When learned doctrines, dark and deep,
Move me to passion or to sleep,—
When Clio yields to logic's wrangles,
And Long and Short give place to angles,—
When stern Mathesis makes it treason
To like a rhyme, or scorn a reason—
With aching head and weary wit
Your parted friend shall often sit,
Till Fancy's magic spell hath bound him,
And lonely musings flit around him;
Then shall ye come, with all your wiles
Of gladdening sounds and warming smiles,
And nought shall meet his eye or ear,—
Yet shall he deem your souls are near.

Others may clothe their valediction
With all the tinsel charms of fiction;
And one may sing of Father Thames,
And Naiads with a hundred names,
And find a Pindus here, and own
The College pump a Helicon,

132

And search for gods about the College,
Of which old Homer had no knowledge;
And one may eloquently tell
The triumphs of the Windsor belle,
And sing of Mira's lips and eyes
In oft-repeated ecstacies;
Oh! he hath much and wondrous skill
To paint the looks that wound and kill,
As the poor maid is doomed to brook,
Unconsciously, her lover's look,
And smiles, and talks, until the poet
Hears the band play, and does not know it.
To speak the plain and simple truth,—
I always was a jesting youth,
A friend to merriment and fun,
No foe to quibble and to pun;
Therefore I cannot feign a tear;
And, now that I have uttered here
A few unrounded accents, bred
More from the heart than from the head,
Honestly felt, and plainly told,—
My lyre is still, my fancy cold.

133

II. POEMS OF LIFE AND MANNERS.

PART II.

135

EVERY DAY CHARACTERS.

I. THE VICAR.

Some years ago, ere time and taste
Had turned our parish topsy-turvy,
When Darnel Park was Darnel Waste,
And roads as little known as scurvy,
The man who lost his way, between
St. Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket,
Was always shown across the green,
And guided to the Parson's wicket.

Back flew the bolt of lissom lath;
Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle,
Led the lorn traveller up the path,
Through clean-clipt rows of box and myrtle;
And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray,
Upon the parlour steps collected,
Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say—
“Our master knows you—you're expected.'

136

Uprose the Reverend Dr. Brown,
Uprose the Doctor's winsome marrow;
The lady laid her knitting down,
Her husband clasped his ponderous Barrow;
Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed,
Pundit or Papist, saint or sinner,
He found a stable for his steed,
And welcome for himself, and dinner.

If, when he reached his journey's end,
And warmed himself in Court or College,
He had not gained an honest friend
And twenty curious scraps of knowledge,—
If he departed as he came,
With no new light on love or liquor,—
Good sooth, the traveller was to blame,
And not the Vicarage, nor the Vicar.

His talk was like a stream, which runs
With rapid change from rocks to roses:
It slipped from politics to puns,
It passed from Mahomet to Moses;
Beginning with the laws which keep
The planets in their radiant courses,
And ending with some precept deep
For dressing eels, or shoeing horses.

137

He was a shrewd and sound Divine,
Of loud Dissent the mortal terror;
And when, by dint of page and line,
He 'stablished Truth, or startled Error,
The Baptist found him far too deep;
The Deist sighed with saving sorrow;
And the lean Levite went to sleep,
And dreamed of tasting pork to-morrow.

His sermon never said or showed
That Earth is foul, that Heaven is gracious,
Without refreshment on the road
From Jerome, or from Athanasius:
And sure a righteous zeal inspired
The hand and head that penned and planned them,
For all who understood admired,
And some who did not understand them.

He wrote, too, in a quiet way,
Small treatises, and smaller verses,
And sage remarks on chalk and clay,
And hints to noble Lords—and nurses;
True histories of last year's ghost,
Lines to a ringlet, or a turban,
And trifles for the Morning Post,
And nothings for Sylvanus Urban.

138

He did not think all mischief fair,
Although he had a knack of joking;
He did not make himself a bear,
Although he had a taste for smoking;
And when religious sects ran mad,
He held, in spite of all his learning,
That if a man's belief is bad,
It will not be improved by burning.

And he was kind, and loved to sit
In the low hut or garnished cottage,
And praise the farmer's homely wit,
And share the widow's homelier pottage:
At his approach complaint grew mild;
And when his hand unbarred the shutter,
The clammy lips of fever smiled
The welcome which they could not utter.

He always had a tale for me
Of Julius Cæsar, or of Venus;
From him I learnt the rule of three,
Cat's cradle, leap-frog, and Quæ genus:
I used to singe his powdered wig.
To steal the staff he put such trust in,
And make the puppy dance a jig,
When he began to quote Augustine.

139

Alack the change! in vain I look
For haunts in which my boyhood trifled,—
The level lawn, the trickling brook,
The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled:
The church is larger than before;
You reach it by a carriage entry;
It holds three hundred people more,
And pews are fitted up for gentry.

Sit in the Vicar's seat: you'll hear
The doctrine of a gentle Johnian,
Whose hand is white, whose tone is clear,
Whose phrase is very Ciceronian.
Where is the old man laid?—look down,
And construe on the slab before you,
“Hic jacet Gvlielmvs Brown ,
Vir nullâ non donandus lauru.

140

II. QUINCE.

“Fallentis semita vitæ.”—Hor.

Near a small village in the West,
Where many very worthy people
Eat, drink, play whist, and do their best
To guard from evil Church and steeple,
There stood—alas! it stands no more!—
A tenement of brick and plaster,
Of which, for forty years and four,
My good friend Quince was lord and master.

Welcome was he in hut and hall
To maids and matrons, peers and peasants;
He won the sympathies of all
By making puns, and making presents.
Though all the parish were at strife,
He kept his counsel, and his carriage,
And laughed, and loved a quiet life,
And shrank from Chancery suits—and marriage.

141

Sound was his claret—and his head;
Warm was his double ale—and feelings;
His partners at the whist club said
That he was faultless in his dealings:
He went to church but once a week;
Yet Dr. Poundtext always found him
An upright man, who studied Greek,
And liked to see his friends around him.

Asylums, hospitals and schools,
He used to swear, were made to cozen;
All who subscribed to them were fools,—
And he subscribed to half-a-dozen:
It was his doctrine, that the poor
Were always able. never willing;
And so the beggar at his door
Had first abuse. and then—a shilling.

Some public principles he had,
But was no flatterer, nor fretter;
He rapped his box when things were bad,
And said “I cannot make them better!”
And much he loathed the patriot's snort,
And much he scorned the placeman's snuffle;
And cut the fiercest quarrels short
With—“Patience, gentlemen—and shuffle!”

142

For full ten years his pointer Speed
Had couched beneath her master's table;
For twice ten years his old white steed
Had fattened in his master's stable;
Old Quince averred, upon his troth,
They were the ugliest beasts in Devon;
And none knew why he fed them both,
With his own hands, six days in seven.

Whene'er they heard his ring or knock,
Quicker than thought, the village slatterns
Flung down the novel, smoothed the frock,
And took up Mrs. Glasse, and patterns;
Adine was studying baker's bills;
Louisa looked the queen of knitters;
Jane happened to be hemming frills;
And Bell, by chance, was making fritters.

But all was vain; and while decay
Came, like a tranquil moonlight, o'er him,
And found him gouty still, and gay,
With no fair nurse to bless or bore him,
His rugged smile and easy chair,
His dread of matrimonial lectures,
His wig, his stick, his powdered hair,
Were themes for very strange conjectures.

143

Some sages thought the stars above
Had crazed him with excess of knowledge;
Some heard he had been crost in love
Before he came away from College;
Some darkly hinted that his Grace
Did nothing, great or small, without him;
Some whispered, with a solemn face,
That there was “something odd about him!”

I found him, at tnreescore and ten,
A single man, but bent quite double;
Sickness was coming on him then
To take him from a world of trouble:
He prosed of slipping down the hill,
Discovered he grew older daily;
One frosty day he made his will,—
The next, he sent for Doctor Bailey.

And so he lived,—and so he died!—
When last I sat beside his pillow
He shook my hand, and “Ah!” he cried,
“Penelope must wear the willow.
Tell her I hugged her rosy chain
While life was flickering in the socket;
And say, that when I call again,
I'll bring a licence in my pocket.

144

“I've left my house and grounds to Fag,—
I hope his master's shoes will suit him;
And I've bequeathed to you my nag,
To feed him for my sake,—or shoot him.
The Vicar's wife will take old Fox,—
She'll find him an uncommon mouser,—
And let her husband have my box,
My Bible, and my Assmanshauser.

“Whether I ought to die or not,
My Doctors cannot quite determine;
It's only clear that I shall rot,
And be, like Priam, food for vermin.
My debts are paid:—but Nature's debt
Almost escaped my recollection:
Tom!—we shall meet again;—and yet
I cannot leave you my direction.

145

III. THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM.

“Il faut juger des femmes depuis la chaussure jusqu'à la coiffure exclusivement, à peu près comme on mesure le poisson entre queue et tête.”—La Bruyere.

Years—years ago,—ere yet my dreams
Had been of being wise or witty,—
Ere I had done with writing themes,
Or yawned o'er this infernal Chitty;—
Years—years ago,—while all my joy
Was in my fowling-piece and filly,—
In short, while I was yet a boy,
I fell in love with Laura Lily.

I saw her at the County Ball:
There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle
Gave signal sweet in that old hall
Of hands across and down the middle,
Hers was the subtlest spell by far
Of all that set young hearts romancing;
She was our queen, our rose, our star;
And then she danced—O Heaven, her dancing!

146

Dark was her hair, her hand was white;
Her voice was exquisitely tender;
Her eyes were full of liquid light;
I never saw a waist so slender!
Her every look, her every smile,
Shot right and left a score of arrows;
I thought 'twas Venus from her isle,
And wondered where she'd left her sparrows.

She talked,—of politics or prayers,—
Of Southey's prose or Wordsworth's sonnets,—
Of danglers—or of dancing bears,
Of battles—or the last new bonnets,
By candlelight, at twelve o'clock,
To me it mattered not a tittle;
If those bright lips had quoted Locke,
I might have thought they murmured Little.

Through sunny May, through sultry June,
I loved her with a love eternal;
I spoke her praises to the moon,
I wrote them to the Sunday Journal:
My mother laughed; I soon found out
That ancient ladies have no feeling:
My father frowned; but how should gout
See any happiness in kneeling?

147

She was the daughter of a Dean,
Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic;
She had one brother, just thirteen,
Whose colour was extremely hectic;
Her grandmother for many a year
Had fed the parish with her bounty;
Her second cousin was a peer,
And Lord Lieutenant of the County.

But titles, and the three per cents.,
And mortgages, and great relations,
And India bonds, and tithes, and rents,
Oh what are they to love's sensations?
Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks—
Such wealth, such honours, Cupid chooses;
He cares as little for the Stocks,
As Baron Rothschild for the Muses.

She sketched; the vale, the wood, the beach,
Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading:
She botanized; I envied each
Young blossom in her boudoir fading:
She warbled Handel; it was grand;
She made the Catalani jealous:
She touched the organ; I could stand
For hours and hours to blow the bellows.

148

She kept an album, too, at home,
Well filled with all an album's glories;
Paintings of butterflies, and Rome,
Patterns for trimmings, Persian stories;
Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo,
Fierce odes to Famine and to Slaughter.
And autographs of Prince Leboo,
And recipes for elder-water.

And she was flattered, worshipped, bored;
Her steps were watched, her dress was noted,
Her poodle dog was quite adored,
Her sayings were extremely quoted;
She laughed, and every heart was glad,
As if the taxes were abolished;
She frowned, and every look was sad,
As if the Opera were demolished.

She smiled on many, just for fun,—
I knew that there was nothing in it:
I was the first—the only one
Her heart had thought of for a minute.—
I knew it, for she told me so,
In phrase which was divinely moulded;
She wrote a charming hand,—and oh!
How sweetly all her notes were folded!

149

Our love was like most other loves;—
A little glow, a little shiver,
A rose-bud, and a pair of gloves,
And “Fly not yet”—upon the river;
Some jealousy of some one's heir,
Some hopes of dying broken-hearted.
A miniature, a lock of hair,
The usual vows,—and then we parted.

We parted; months and years rolled by;
We met again four summers after:
Our parting was all sob and sigh;
Our meeting was all mirth and laughter:
For in my heart's most secret cell
There had been many other lodgers;
And she was not the ball room's Belle,
But only—Mrs. Something Rogers!

150

IV. MY PARTNER.

“There is, perhaps, no subject of more universal interest in the whole range of natural knowledge, than that of the unceasing fluctuations which take place in the atmosphere in which we are immersed.”—British Almanack.

At Cheltenham, where one drinks one's fill
Of folly and cold water,
I danced last year my first quadrille
With old Sir Geoffrey's daughter.
Her cheek with summer's rose might vie,
When summer's rose is newest;
Her eyes were blue as autumn's sky,
When autumn's sky is bluest;
And well my heart might deem her one
Of life's most precious flowers,
For half her thoughts were of its sun,
And half were of its showers.

I spoke of Novels:—“Vivian Grey”
Was positively charming,
And “Almacks” infinitely gay,
And “Frankenstein” alarming;

151

I said “De Vere” was chastely told,
Thought well of “Herbert Lacy,”
Called Mr. Banim's sketches “bold,”
And Lady Morgan's “racy;”
I vowed that last new thing of Hook's
Was vastly entertaining:
And Laura said—“I doat on books,
Because it's always raining!”

I talked of Music's gorgeous fane;
I raved about Rossini,
Hoped Ronzi would come back again,
And criticised Pacini;
I wished the chorus-singers dumb,
The trumpets more pacific,
And eulogised Brocard's à plomb,
And voted Paul “terrific!”
What cared she for Medea's pride,
Or Desdemona's sorrow?
“Alas!” my beauteous listener sighed,
“We must have rain to-morrow!”

I told her tales of other lands;
Of ever-boiling fountains,
Of poisonous lakes and barren sands,
Vast forests, trackless mountains:

152

I painted bright Italian skies,
I lauded Persian roses,
Coined similes for Spanish eyes,
And jests for Indian noses:
I laughed at Lisbon's love of mass,
Vienna's dread of treason:
And Laura asked me—where the glass
Stood, at Madrid, last season.

I broached whate'er had gone its rounds,
The week before, of scandal;
What made Sir Luke lay down his hounds,
And Jane take up her Handel;
Why Julia walked upon the heath,
With the pale moon above her;
Where Flora lost her false front teeth,
And Anne her falser lover;
How Lord de B. and Mrs. L.
Had crossed the sea together:
My shuddering partner cried “O Ciel!
How could they,—in such weather?”

Was she a Blue?—I put my trust
In strata, petals, gases;
A boudoir-pedant? I discussed
The toga and the fasces:

153

A Cockney-Muse? I mouthed a deal
Of folly from Endymion;
A saint? I praised the pious zeal
Of Messrs. Way and Simeon;
A politician?—it was vain
To quote the morning paper;
The horrid phantoms came again,
Rain, Hail, and Snow, and Vapour.

Flat Flattery was my only chance:
I acted deep devotion,
Found magic in her every glance,
Grace in her every motion;
I wasted all a stripling's lore,
Prayer, passion, folly, feeling;
And wildly looked upon the floor,
And wildly on the ceiling.
I envied gloves upon her arm
And shawls upon her shoulder;
And, when my worship was most warm,—
She—“never found it colder.”

I don't object to wealth or land;
And she will have the giving
Of an extremely pretty hand,
Some thousands, and a living.

154

She makes silk purses, broiders stools,
Sings sweetly, dances finely,
Paints screens, subscribes to Sunday-schools,
And sits a horse divinely.
But to be linked for life to her!—
The desperate man who tried it
Might marry a Barometer
And hang himself beside it!

155

PORTRAIT OF A LADY

IN THE EXHIBITION OF THE ROYAL ACADEMY.

What are you, Lady?—nought is here
To tell us of your name or story,
To claim the gazer's smile or tear,
To dub you Whig, or damn you Tory;
It is beyond a poet's skill
To form the slightest notion, whether
We e'er shall walk through one quadrille,
Or look upon one moon together.

You're very pretty!—all the world
Are talking of your bright brow's splendour,
And of your locks, so softly curled,
And of your hands, so white and slender;
Some think you're blooming in Bengal;
Some say you're blowing in the city;
Some know you're nobody at all:
I only feel—you're very pretty.

156

But bless my heart! it's very wrong;
You're making all our belles ferocious;
Anne “never saw a chin so long;”
And Laura thinks your dress “atrocious;”
And Lady Jane, who now and then
Is taken for the village steeple,
Is sure you can't be four feet ten,
And “wonders at the taste of people.”

Soon pass the praises of a face;
Swift fades the very best vermillion;
Fame rides a most prodigious pace;
Oblivion follows on the pillion;
And all who in these sultry rooms
To-day have stared, and pushed, and fainted
Will soon forget your pearls and plumes,
As if they never had been painted.

You'll be forgotten—as old debts
By persons who are used to borrow;
Forgotten—as the sun that sets,
When shines a new one on the morrow;
Forgotten—like the luscious peach
That blessed the schoolboy last September;
Forgotten—like a maiden speech,
Which all men praise, but none remember.

157

Yet, ere you sink into the stream
That whelms alike sage, saint, and martyr,
And soldier's sword, and minstrel's theme,
And Canning's wit, and Gatton's charter,
Here, of the fortunes of your youth,
My fancy weaves her dim conjectures,
Which have, perhaps, as much of truth
As passion's vows, or Cobbett's lectures.

Was't in the north or in the south
That summer breezes rocked your cradle?
And had you in your baby mouth
A wooden or a silver ladle?
And was your first unconscious sleep,
By Brownie banned, or blessed by Fairy?
And did you wake to laugh or weep?
And were you christened Maud or Mary?

And was your father called “your grace”?
And did he bet at Ascot races?
And did he chat of commonplace?
And did he fill a score of places?
And did your lady-mother's charms
Consist in picklings, broilings, bastings?
Or did she prate about the arms
Her brave forefathers wore at Hastings?

158

Where were you finished? tell me where!
Was it at Chelsea, or at Chiswick?
Had you the ordinary share
Of books and backboard, harp and physic?
And did they bid you banish pride,
And mind your Oriental tinting?
And did you learn how Dido died,
And who found out the art of printing?

And are you fond of lanes and brooks—
A votary of the sylvan Muses?
Or do you con the little books
Which Baron Brougham and Vaux diffuses?
Or do you love to knit and sew—
The fashionable world's Arachne?
Or do you canter down the Row
Upon a very long-tailed hackney?

And do you love your brother James?
And do you pet his mares and setters?
And have your friends romantic names?
And do you write them long long letters?
And are you—since the world began
All women are—a little spiteful?
And don't you dote on Malibran?
And don't you think Tom Moore delightful?

159

I see they've brought you flowers to-day;
Delicious food for eyes and noses;
But carelessly you turn away
From all the pinks, and all the roses;
Say, is that fond look sent in search
Of one whose look as fondly answers?
And is he, fairest, in the Church?
Or is he—ain't he—in the Lancers?

And is your love a motley page
Of black and white, half joy, half sorrow?
Are you to wait till you're of age?
Or are you to be his to-morrow?
Or do they bid you, in their scorn,
Your pure and sinless flame to smother?
Is he so very meanly born?
Or are you married to another?

Whate'er you are, at last, adieu!
I think it is your bounden duty
To let the rhymes I coin for you
Be prized by all who prize your beauty.
From you I seek nor gold nor fame;
From you I fear no cruel strictures;
I wish some girls that I could name
Were half as silent as their pictures!

160

THE CHILDE'S DESTINY.

“And none did love him—not his lemans dear.”—Byron.

No mistress of the hidden skill,
No wizard gaunt and grim,
Went up by night to heath or hill
To read the stars for him;
The merriest girl in all the land
Of vine-encircled France
Bestowed upon his brow and hand
Her philosophic glance:
“I bind thee with a spell,” said she,
“I sign thee with a sign;
No woman's love shall light on thee,
No woman's heart be thine!

“And trust me, 'tis not that thy cheek
Is colourless and cold;
Nor that thine eye is slow to speak
What only eyes have told;
For many a cheek of paler white
Hath blushed with passion's kiss,
And many an eye of lesser light
Hath caught its fire from bliss;

161

Yet while the rivers seek the sea,
And while the young stars shine,
No woman's love shall light on thee,—
No woman's heart be thine!

“And 'tis not that thy spirit, awed
By Beauty's numbing spell,
Shrinks from the force or from the fraud
Which Beauty loves so well;
For thou hast learned to watch, and wake,
And swear by earth and sky;
And thou art very bold to take
What we must still deny:
I cannot tell;—the charm was wrought
By other threads than mine;
The lips are lightly begged or bought,—
The heart may not be thine!

“Yet thine the brightest smiles shall be
That ever Beauty wore;
And confidence from two or three,
And compliments from more;
And one shall give—perchance hath given—
What only is not love,—
Friendship,—oh! such as saints in heaven
Rain on us from above:

162

If she shall meet thee in the bower
Or name thee in the shrine,
O wear the ring and guard the flower!
Her heart may not be thine!

“Go, set thy boat before the blast,
Thy breast before the gun;
The haven shall be reached at last,
The battle shall be won:
Or muse upon thy country's laws,
Or strike thy country's lute;
And patriot hands shall sound applause,
And lovely lips be mute.
Go, dig the diamond from the wave,
The treasure from the mine;
Enjoy the wreath, the gold, the grave,—
No woman's heart is thine!

“I charm thee from the agony
Which others feel or feign;
From anger, and from jealousy,
From doubt, and from disdain;
I bid thee wear the scorn of years
Upon the cheek of youth,
And curl the lip at passion's tears,
And shake the head at truth:

163

While there is bliss in revelry,
Forgetfulness in wine,
Be thou from woman's love as free
As woman is from thine!”

164

JOSEPHINE.

We did not meet in courtly hall,
Where birth and beauty throng,
Where Luxury holds festival,
And Wit awakes the song;
We met where darker spirits meet,
In the home of sin and shame,
Where Satan shows his cloven feet
And hides his titled name:
And she knew she could not be, Love,
What once she might have been,
But she was kind to me, Love,
My pretty Josephine.

We did not part beneath the sky,
As warmer lovers part;
Where night conceals the glistening eye,
But not the throbbing heart;
We parted on the spot of ground
Where we first had laughed at love,
And ever the jests were loud around,
And the lamps were bright above:—

165

“The heaven is very dark, Love,
The blast is very keen,
But merrily rides my bark, Love,
Good night, my Josephine!”

She did not speak of ring or vow,
But filled the cup of wine,
And took the roses from her brow
To make a wreath for mine;
And bade me, when the gale should lift
My light skiff o'er the wave,
To think as little of the gift
As of the hand that gave:—
“Go gaily o'er the sea, Love,
And find your own heart's queen;
And look not back to me, Love,
Your humble Josephine!”

That garland breathes and blooms no more;
Past are those idle hours:
I would not, could I choose, restore
The fondness, or the flowers.
Yet oft their withered witchery
Revives its wonted thrill,
Remembered, not with passion's sigh,
But, oh! remembered still;

166

And even from your side, Love,
And even from this scene,
One look is o'er the tide, Love,
One thought with Josephine.

Alas! your lips are rosier,
Your eyes of softer blue,
And I have never felt for her
As I have felt for you;
Our love was like the bright snow-flakes
Which melt before you pass,
Or the bubble on the wine, which breaks
Before you lip the glass;
You saw these eyelids wet, Love,
Which she has never seen;
But bid me not forget, Love,
My poor Josephine!

167

THE CHAUNT OF THE BRAZEN HEAD.

“Brazen companion of my solitary hours! do you, while I recline, pronounce a prologue to those sentiments of wisdom and virtue, which are hereafter to be the oracles of statesmen, and the guides of philosophers. Give me to-night a proem of our essay, an opening of our case, a division of our subject. Speak!”— (Slow music. The Friar falls a sleep. The Head chaunts as follows.)
—The Brazen Head.

I think, whatever mortals crave,
With impotent endeavour,—
A wreath, a rank, a throne, a grave,—
The world goes round for ever:
I think that life is not too long;
And therefore I determine,
That many people read a song
Who will not read a sermon.

I think you've looked through many hearts,
And mused on many actions,
And studied Man's component parts,
And Nature's compound fractions:
I think you've picked up truth by bits
From foreigner and neighbour;
I think the world has lost its wits,
And you have lost your labour.

168

I think the studies of the wise,
The hero's noisy quarrel,
The majesty of Woman's eyes,
The poet's cherished laurel,
And all that makes us lean or fat,
And all that charms or troubles,—
This bubble is more bright than that,
But still they all are bubbles.

I think the thing you call Renown.
The unsubstantial vapour
For which the soldier burns a town,
The sonnetteer a taper,
Is like the mist which, as he flies.
The horseman leaves behind him;
He cannot mark its wreaths arise,
Or if he does they blind him.

I think one nod of Mistress Chance
Makes creditors of debtors,
And shifts the funeral for the dance,
The sceptre for the fetters:
I think that Fortune's favoured guest
May live to gnaw the platters,
And he that wears the purple vest
May wear the rags and tatters.

169

I think the Tories love to buy
“Your Lordship”s and “your Grace”s,
By loathing common honesty,
And lauding commonplaces:
I think that some are very wise,
And some are very funny,
And some grow rich by telling lies.
And some by telling money.

I think the Whigs are wicked knaves—
(And very like the Tories)—
Who doubt that Britain rules the waves,
And ask the price of glories:
I think that many fret and fume
At what their friends are planning,
And Mr. Hume hates Mr. Brougham
As much as Mr. Canning.

I think that friars and their hoods,
Their doctrines and their maggots,
Have lighted up too many feuds,
And far too many faggots:
I think, while zealots fast and frown,
And fight for two or seven,
That there are fifty roads to Town,
And rather more to Heaven.

170

I think that, thanks to Paget's lance,
And thanks to Chester's learning,
The hearts that burned for fame in France
At home are safe from burning:
I think the Pope is on his back;
And, though 'tis fun to shake him,
I think the Devil not so black
As many people make him.

I think that Love is like a play,
Where tears and smiles are blended,
Or like a faithless April day,
Whose shine with shower is ended:
Like Colnbrook pavement, rather rough,
Like trade, exposed to losses,
And like a Highland plaid,—all stuff,
And very full of crosses.

I think the world, though dark it be,
Has aye one rapturous pleasure
Concealed in life's monotony,
For those who seek the treasure;
One planet in a starless night,
One blossom on a briar,
One friend not quite a hypocrite,
One woman not a liar!

171

I think poor beggars court St. Giles,
Rich beggars court St. Stephen;
And Death looks down with nods and smiles,
And makes the odds all even:
I think some die upon the field,
And some upon the billow,
And some are laid beneath a shield,
And some beneath a willow.

I think that very few have sighed
When Fate at last has found them,
Though bitter foes were by their side,
And barren moss around them:
I think that some have died of drought,
And some have died of drinking;
I think that nought is worth a thought,—
And I'm a fool for thinking!

172

TWENTY-EIGHT AND TWENTY-NINE.

“Rien n'est changé, mes amis!”—Charles X.

I heard a sick man's dying sigh,
And an infant's idle laughter;
The Old Year went with mourning by,
The New came dancing after
Let Sorrow shed her lonely tear,
Let Revelry hold her ladle!
Bring boughs of cypress for the bier,
Fling roses on the cradle:
Mutes to wait on the funeral state!
Pages to pour the wine!
A requiem for Twenty-eight,
And a health to Twenty-nine!

Alas for human happiness!
Alas for human sorrow!
Our yesterday is nothingness,—
What else will be our morrow?

173

Still Beauty must be stealing hearts,
And Knavery stealing purses;
Still cooks must live by making tarts,
And wits by making verses:
While sages prate, and courts debate,
The same stars set and shine;
And the world, as it rolled through Twenty-eight,
Must roll through Twenty-nine.

Some king will come, in Heaven's good time,
To the tomb his father came to;
Some thief will wade through blood and crime
To a crown he has no claim to;
Some suffering land will rend in twain
The manacles that bound her,
And gather the links of the broken chain
To fasten them proudly round her:
The grand and great will love and hate,
And combat, and combine;
And much where we were in Twenty-eight
We shall be in Twenty-nine.

O'Connell will toil to raise the rent,
And Kenyon to sink the nation,
And Sheil will abuse the Parliament,
And Peel the Association;

174

And the thought of bayonets and swords
Will make ex-chancellors merry,
And jokes will be cut in the House of Lords,
And throats in the county Kerry;
And writers of weight will speculate
On the Cabinet's design,
And just what it did in Twenty-eight
It will do in Twenty-nine.

John Thomas Mugg, on a lonely hill,
Will do a deed of mystery;
The Morning Chronicle will fill
Five columns with the history;
The jury will be all surprise,
The prisoner quite collected,
And Justice Park will wipe his eyes
And be very much affected;
And folks will relate poor Corder's fate
As they hurry home to dine,
Comparing the hangings of Twenty-eight
With the hangings of Twenty-nine.

And the goddess of love will keep her smiles,
And the god of cups his orgies,
And there'll be riots in St. Giles,
And weddings in St. George's;

175

And mendicants will sup like kings,
And lords will swear like lacqueys,
And black eyes oft will lead to rings,
And rings will lead to black eyes;
And pretty Kate will scold her mate
In a dialect all divine;
Alas! they married in Twenty-eight,—
They will part in Twenty-nine!

And oh! I shall find how, day by day,
All thoughts and things look older;
How the laugh of pleasure grows less gay,
And the heart of friendship colder;
But still I shall be what I have been,
Sworn foe to Lady Reason,
And seldom troubled with the spleen,
And fond of talking treason:
I shall buckle my skait, and leap my gate,
And throw—and write—my line;
And the woman I worshipped in Twenty-eight
I shall worship in Twenty-nine!

176

SONG FOR THE FOURTEENTH OF FEBRUARY

BY A GENERAL LOVER.

“Mille gravem telis, exhaustâ pene pharetrâ.”

Apollo has peeped through the shutter,
And wakened the witty and fair;
The boarding-school belle's in a flutter,
The two-penny post's in despair;
The breath of the morning is flinging
A magic on blossom, on spray,
And cockneys and sparrows are singing
In chorus on Valentine's Day.

Away with ye, dreams of disaster,
Away with ye, visions of law,
Of cases I never shall master,
Of pleadings I never shall draw!
Away with ye, parchments and papers,
Red tapes, unread volumes, away!
It gives a fond lover the vapours
To see you on Valentine's Day.

177

I'll sit in my night-cap, like Hayley,
I'll sit with my arms crost, like Spain,
Till joys, which are vanishing daily,
Come back in their lustre again:
Oh! shall I look over the waters,
Or shall I look over the way,
For the brightest and best of Earth's daughters,
To rhyme to, on Valentine's Day?

Shall I crown with my worship, for fame's sake,
Some goddess whom Fashion has starred,
Make puns on Miss Love and her namesake,
Or pray for a pas with Brocard?
Shall I flirt, in romantic idea,
With Chester's adorable clay,
Or whisper in transport “Si mea
Cum Vestris”—on Valentine's Day?

Shall I kneel to a Sylvia or Celia,
Whom no one e'er saw, or may see,
A fancy-drawn Laura Amelia,
An ad libit. Anna Marie?
Shall I court an initial with stars to it,
Go mad for a G. or a J.,
Get Bishop to put a few bars to it,
And print it on Valentine's Day?

178

I think not of Laura the witty;
For, oh! she is married at York!
I sigh not for Rose of the City,
For, oh! she is buried at Cork!
Adèle has a braver and better
To say—what I never could say;
Louise cannot construe a letter
Of English, on Valentine's Day.

So perish the leaves in the arbour!
The tree is all bare in the blast;
Like a wreck that is drifting to harbour,
I come to thee, Lady, at last:
Where art thou, so lovely and lonely?
Though idle the lute and the lay,
The lute and the lay are thine only,
My fairest, on Valentine's Day.

For thee I have opened my Blackstone,
For thee I have shut up myself;
Exchanged my long curls for a Caxton,
And laid my short whist on the shelf;
For thee I have sold my old sherry,
For thee I have burnt my new play;
And I grow philosophical,—very!
Except upon Valentine's Day!

179

APRIL FOOLS.

—“passim
Palantes error certo de tramite pellit;
Ille sinistrorsum, hic dextrorsum abit.”
Horace.

This day, beyond all contradiction,
This day is all thine own, Queen Fiction!
And thou art building castles boundless
Of groundless joys, and griefs as groundless;
Assuring Beauties that the border
Of their new dress is out of order,
And schoolboys that their shoes want tying,
And babies that their dolls are dying.
Lend me—lend me some disguise;
I will tell prodigious lies;
All who care for what I say
Shall be April Fools to-day!

First I relate how all the nation
Is ruined by Emancipation;
How honest men are sadly thwarted,
How beads and faggots are imported,
How every parish church looks thinner,
How Peel has asked the Pope to dinner;
And how the Duke, who fought the duel,
Keeps good King George on water-gruel.

180

Thus I waken doubts and fears
In the Commons and the Peers;
If they care for what I say,
They are April Fools to-day!

Next I announce to hall and hovel
Lord Asterisk's unwritten novel;
It's full of wit, and full of fashion,
And full of taste, and full of passion;
It tells some very curious histories,
Elucidates some charming mysteries,
And mingles sketches of society
With precepts of the soundest piety.
Thus I babble to the host
Who adore the Morning Post;
If they care for what I say,
They are April Fools to-day!

Then to the artist of my raiment
I hint his bankers have stopped payment;
And just suggest to Lady Locket
That somebody has picked her pocket;
And scare Sir Thomas from the City
By murmuring, in a tone of pity,
That I am sure I saw my Lady
Drive through the Park with Captain Grady.
Off my troubled victims go,
Very pale and very low;

181

If they care for what I say,
They are April Fools to-day!

I've sent the learned Doctor Trepan
To feel Sir Hubert's broken knee-pan
'Twill rout the Doctor's seven senses
To find Sir Hubert charging fences!
I've sent a sallow parchment-scraper
To put Miss Trim's last will on paper;
He'll see her, silent as a mummy,
At whist, with her two maids and dummy.
Man of brief, and man of pill,
They will take it very ill;
If they care for what I say,
They are April Fools to-day!

And then to her, whose smile shed light on
My weary lot last year at Brighton,
I talk of happiness and marriage,
St. George's, and a travelling carriage;
I trifle with my rosy fetters,
I rave about her witching letters,
And swear my heart shall do no treason
Before the closing of the Season.
Thus I whisper in the ear
Of Louisa Windermere;
If she cares for what I say,
She's an April Fool to-day!

182

And to the world I publish gaily
That all things are improving daily;
That suns grow warmer, streamlets clearer,
And faith more warm, and love sincerer;
That children grow extremely clever,
That sin is seldom known, or never;
That gas, and steam, and education,
Are killing sorrow and starvation!
Pleasant visions!—but alas,
How those pleasant visions pass!
If you care for what I say,
You're an April Fool to-day!

Last, to myself, when night comes round me,
And the soft chain of thought has bound me,
I whisper “Sir, your eyes are killing;
You owe no mortal man a shilling;
You never cringe for Star or Garter;
You're much too wise to be a martyr;
And, since you must be food for vermin,
You don't feel much desire for ermine!”
Wisdom is a mine, no doubt,
If one can but find it out;
But, whate'er I think or say,
I'm an April Fool to-day!

183

GOOD NIGHT TO THE SEASON.

“So runs the world away.”—Hamlet.

Good night to the Season! 'Tis over!
Gay dwellings no longer are gay;
The courtier, the gambler, the lover,
Are scattered like swallows away:
There's nobody left to invite one
Except my good uncle and spouse;
My mistress is bathing at Brighton,
My patron is sailing at Cowes:
For want of a better employment,
Till Ponto and Don can get out,
I'll cultivate rural enjoyment,
And angle immensely for trout.

Good night to the Season!—the lobbies,
Their changes, and rumours of change,
Which startled the rustic Sir Bobbies,
And made all the Bishops look strange;

184

The breaches, and battles, and blunders,
Performed by the Commons and Peers;
The Marquis's eloquent blunders,
The Baronet's eloquent ears;
Denouncings of Papists and treasons,
Of foreign dominion and oats;
Misrepresentations of reasons,
And misunderstandings of notes.

Good night to the Season!—the buildings
Enough to make Inigo sick;
The paintings, and plasterings, and gildings
Of stucco, and marble, and brick;
The orders deliciously blended,
From love of effect, into one;
The club-houses only intended,
The palaces only begun;
The hell, where the fiend in his glory
Sits staring at putty and stones,
And scrambles from story to story,
To rattle at midnight his bones.

Good night to the Season!—the dances,
The fillings of hot little rooms,
The glancings of rapturous glances,
The fancyings of fancy costumes;

185

The pleasures which fashion makes duties,
The praisings of fiddles and flutes,
The luxury of looking at Beauties,
The tedium of talking to mutes;
The female diplomatists, planners
Of matches for Laura and Jane;
The ice of her Ladyship's manners,
The ice of his Lordship's champagne.

Good night to the Season!—the rages
Led off by the chiefs of the throng,
The Lady Matilda's new pages,
The Lady Eliza's new song;
Miss Fennel's macaw, which at Boodle's
Was held to have something to say;
Mrs. Splenetic's musical poodles,
Which bark “Batti Batti” all day;
The pony Sir Araby sported,
As hot and as black as a coal,
And the Lion his mother imported,
In bearskins and grease, from the Pole.

Good night to the Season!—the Toso,
So very majestic and tall;
Miss Ayton, whose singing was so-so,
And Pasta, divinest of all;

186

The labour in vain of the ballet,
So sadly deficient in stars;
The foreigners thronging the Alley,
Exhaling the breath of cigars;
The loge where some heiress (how killing!)
Environed with exquisites sits,
The lovely one out of her drilling,
The silly ones out of their wits.

Good night to the Season!—the splendour
That beamed in the Spanish Bazaar;
Where I purchased—my heart was so tender—
A card-case, a pasteboard guitar,
A bottle of perfume, a girdle,
A lithographed Riego, full-grown,
Whom bigotry drew on a hurdle
That artists might draw him on stone;
A small panorama of Seville,
A trap for demolishing flies.
A caricature of the Devil,
And a look from Miss Sheridan's eyes.

Good night to the Season!—the flowers
Of the grand horticultural fête,
When boudoirs were quitted for bowers,
And the fashion was—not to be late:

187

When all who had money and leisure
Grew rural o'er ices and wines,
All pleasantly toiling for pleasure,
All hungrily pining for pines,
And making of beautiful speeches,
And marring of beautiful shows,
And feeding on delicate peaches,
And treading on delicate toes.

Good night to the Season!—Another
Will come, with its trifles and toys,
And hurry away, like its brother,
In sunshine, and odour, and noise.
Will it come with a rose or a briar?
Will it come with a blessing or curse?
Will its bonnets be lower or higher?
Will its morals be better or worse?
Will it find me grown thinner or fatter,
Or fonder of wrong or of right,
Or married—or buried?—no matter:
Good night to the Season—good night!

188

ARRIVALS AT A WATERING-PLACE.

“I play a spade.—Such strange new faces
Are flocking in from near and far;
Such frights!—(Miss Dobbs holds all the aces)—
One can't imagine who they are:
The lodgings at enormous prices,—
New donkeys, and another fly;
And Madame Bonbon out of ices,
Although we're scarcely in July:
We're quite as sociable as any,
But one old horse can scarcely crawl;
And really, where there are so many,
We can't tell where we ought to call.

“Pray who has seen the odd old fellow
Who took the Doctor's house last week?—
A pretty chariot,—livery yellow,
Almost as yellow as his cheek;
A widower, sixty-five, and surly,
And stiffer than a poplar-tree;
Drinks rum and water, gets up early
To dip his carcass in the sea;

189

He's always in a monstrous hurry,
And always talking of Bengal;
They say his cook makes noble curry;—
I think, Louisa, we should call.

“And so Miss Jones, the mantua-maker,
Has let her cottage on the hill!—
The drollest man,—a sugar-baker
Last year imported from the till;
Prates of his 'orses and his 'oney,
Is quite in love with fields and farms;
A horrid Vandal,—but his money
Will buy a glorious coat of arms;
Old Clyster makes him take the waters;
Some say he means to give a ball;
And after all, with thirteen daughters,
I think, Sir Thomas, you might call.

“That poor young man!—I'm sure and certain
Despair is making up his shroud;
He walks all night beneath the curtain
Of the dim sky and murky cloud;
Draws landscapes,—throws such mournful glances;
Writes verses,—has such splendid eyes;
An ugly name,—but Laura fancies
He's some great person in disguise!—

190

And since his dress is all the fashion,
And since he's very dark and tall,
I think that out of pure compassion,
I'll get Papa to go and call.

“So Lord St. Ives is occupying
The whole of Mr. Ford's hotel!
Last Saturday his man was trying
A little nag I want to sell.
He brought a lady in the carriage;
Blue eyes,—eighteen, or thereabouts;—
Of course, you know, we hope it's marriage,
But yet the femme de chambre doubts.
She looked so pensive when we met her,
Poor thing!—and such a charming shawl!
Well! till we understand it better
It's quite impossible to call!

“Old Mr. Fund, the London Banker,
Arrived to-day at Premium Court;
I would not, for the world, cast anchor
In such a horrid dangerous port;
Such dust and rubbish, lath and plaster,—
(Contractors play the meanest tricks)—
The roof's as crazy as its master,
And he was born in fifty-six;

191

Stairs creaking—cracks in every landing,—
The colonnade is sure to fall;
We shan't find post or pillar standing,
Unless we make great haste to call.

“Who was that sweetest of sweet creatures
Last Sunday in the Rector's seat?
The finest shape,—the loveliest features,—
I never saw such tiny feet!
My brother,—(this is quite between us)
Poor Arthur,—'twas a sad affair;
Love at first sight!—she's quite a Venus,
But then she's poorer far than fair;
And so my father and my mother
Agreed it would not do at all;
And so,—I'm sorry for my brother!—
It's settled that we're not to call.

“And there's an author, full of knowledge;
And there's a captain on half-pay;
And there's a baronet from college,
Who keeps a boy and rides a bay;
And sweet Sir Marcus from the Shannon,
Fine specimen of brogue and bone;
And Doctor Calipee, the canon,
Who weighs, I fancy, twenty stone:

192

A maiden lady is adorning
The faded front of Lily Hall:—
Upon my word, the first fine morning,
We'll make a round, my dear, and call.”

Alas! disturb not, maid and matron,
The swallow in my humble thatch;
Your son may find a better patron,
Your niece may meet a richer match:
I can't afford to give a dinner,
I never was on Almack's list;
And, since I seldom rise a winner,
I never like to play at whist:
Unknown to me the stocks are falling,
Unwatched by me the glass may fall:
Let all the world pursue its calling,—
I'm not at home if people call.

193

THE FANCY BALL.

“A visor for a visor! What care I
What curious eye doth quote deformities?”
Romeo and Juliet.

“You used to talk,” said Miss Mac Call,
“Of flowers, and flames, and Cupid;
But now you never talk at all;
You're getting vastly stupid:
You'd better burn your Blackstone, sir,
You never will get through it;
There's a Fancy Ball at Winchester,—
Do let us take you to it!”

I made that night a solemn vow
To startle all beholders;
I wore white muslin on my brow,
Green velvet on my shoulders;
My trousers were supremely wide,
I learnt to swear “by Allah!”
I stuck a poniard by my side,
And called myself “Abdallah.”

194

Oh, a fancy ball's a strange affair!
Made up of silks and leathers,
Light heads, light heels, false hearts, false hair,
Pins, paint, and ostrich feathers:
The dullest duke in all the town,
To-day may shine a droll one;
And rakes, who have not half-a-crown,
Look royal in a whole one.

Go, call the lawyer from his pleas,
The school-boy from his Latin;
Be stoics here in ecstacies,
And savages in satin;
Let young and old forego—forget
Their labour and their sorrow,
And none—except the Cabinet—
Take counsel for the morrow.

Begone, dull care! This life of ours
Is very dark and chilly;
We'll sleep through all its serious hours,
And laugh through all its silly.
Be mine such motley scene as this,
Where, by established usance,
Miss Gravity is quite amiss,
And Madam Sense a nuisance!

195

Hail, blest Confusion! here are met
All tongues and times and faces,
The Lancers flirt with Juliet,
The Brahmin talks of races;
And where's your genius, bright Corinne?
And where's your brogue, Sir Lucius?
And Chinca Ti, you have not seen
One chapter of Confucius.

Lo! dandies from Kamschatka flirt
With Beauties from the Wrekin;
And belles from Berne look very pert
On Mandarins from Pekin;
The Cardinal is here from Rome,
The Commandant from Seville;
And Hamlet's father from the tomb,
And Faustus from the Devil.

O sweet Anne Page!—those dancing eyes
Have peril in their splendour!
“O sweet Anne Page!”—so Slender sighs.
And what am I, but slender?
Alas! when next your spells engage
So fond and starved a sinner,
My pretty Page, be Shakspeare's Page,
And ask the fool to dinner!

196

What mean those laughing Nuns, I pray,
What mean they, nun or fairy?
I guess they told no beads to-day,
And sang no Ave Mary:
From mass and matins, priest and pix,
Barred door, and window grated,
I wish all pretty Catholics
Were thus emancipated!

Four Seasons come to dance quadrilles
With four well-seasoned sailors;
And Raleigh talks of rail-road bills
With Timon, prince of railers;
I find Sir Charles of Aubyn Park
Equipt for a walk to Mecca;
And I run away from Joan of Arc
To romp with sad Rebecca.

Fair Cleopatra's very plain;
Puck halts, and Ariel swaggers;
And Cæsar's murdered o'er again,
Though not by Roman daggers:
Great Charlemagne is four feet high;
Sad stuff has Bacon spoken;
Queen Mary's waist is all awry,
And Psyche's nose is broken.

197

Our happiest bride—how very odd!—
Is the mourning Isabella;
And the heaviest foot that ever trod
Is the foot of Cinderella;
Here sad Calista laughs outright,
There Yorick looks most grave, sir,
And a Templar waves the cross to-night,
Who never crossed the wave, sir!

And what a Babel is the talk!
“The Giraffe”—“plays the fiddle”—
“Macadam's roads”—“I hate this chalk!”—
“Sweet girl”—“a charming riddle”—
“I'm nearly drunk with”—“Epsom salts”—
“Yes, separate beds”—“such cronies!”—
“Good Heaven! who taught that man to waltz?”—
“A pair of Shetland ponies.”

“Lord Nugent”—“an enchanting shape”—
“Will move for”—“Maraschino”—
“Pray, Julia, how's your mother's ape?”—
“He died at Navarino!”
“The gout, by Jove, is”—“apple pie”—
“Don Miguel”—“Tom the tinker”—
“His Lordship's pedigree's as high
As”—“Whipcord, dam by Clinker.”

198

“Love's shafts are weak”—“my chestnut kicks”—
“Heart broken”—“broke the traces”—
“What say you now of politics?”—
“Change sides and to your places.”—
“A five barred-gate”—“a precious pearl”—
“Grave things may all be punned on!”—
“The Whigs, thank Heaven, are”—“out of curl!”—
“Her age is”—“four by London!”

Thus run the giddy hours away,
Till morning's light is beaming,
And we must go to dream by day
All we to-night are dreaming,—
To smile and sigh, to love and change:
Oh, in our heart's recesses,
We dress in fancies quite as strange
As these our fancy dresses!

199

A LETTER OF ADVICE

FROM MISS MEDORA TREVILIAN, AT PADUA, TO MISS ARAMINTA VAVASOUR IN LONDON.

“Enfin, monsieur, un homme aimable;
Voilà pourquoi je ne saurais l'aimer.”
—Scribe.

You tell me you're promised a lover,
My own Araminta, next week;
Why cannot my fancy discover
The hue of his coat and his cheek?
Alas! if he look like another,
A vicar, a banker, a beau,
Be deaf to your father and mother,
My own Araminta, say “No!”

Miss Lane, at her Temple of Fashion,
Taught us both how to sing and to speak,
And we loved one another with passion,
Before we had been there a week:
You gave me a ring for a token;
I wear it wherever I go;
I gave you a chain,—is it broken?
My own Araminta, say “No!”

200

O think of our favourite cottage,
And think of our dear Lalla Rookh!
How we shared with the milkmaids their pottage,
And drank of the stream from the brook;
How fondly our loving lips faltered
“What further can grandeur bestow?”
My heart is the same;—is yours altered?
My own Araminta, say “No!”

Remember the thrilling romances
We read on the bank in the glen;
Remember the suitors our fancies
Would picture for both of us then.
They wore the red cross on their shoulder,
They had vanquished and pardoned their foe—
Sweet friend, are you wiser or colder?
My own Araminta, say “No!”

You know, when Lord Rigmarole's carriage
Drove off with your cousin Justine,
You wept, dearest girl, at the marriage,
And whispered “How base she has been!
You said you were sure it would kill you,
If ever your husband looked so;
And you will not apostatize,—will you?
My own Araminta, say “No!”

201

When I heard I was going abroad, love,
I thought I was going to die;
We walked arm in arm to the road love,
We looked arm in arm to the sky;
And I said “When a foreign postilion
Has hurried me off to the Po,
Forget not Medora Trevilian:
My own Araminta, say ‘No!’”

We parted! but sympathy's fetters
Reach far over valley and hill;
I muse o'er your exquisite letters,
And feel that your heart is mine still;
And he who would share it with me, love,—
The richest of treasures below,—
If he's not what Orlando should be, love,
My own Araminta, say “No!”

If he wears a top-boot in his wooing,
If he comes to you riding a cob,
If he talks of his baking or brewing,
If he puts up his feet on the hob,
If he ever drinks port after dinner,
If his brow or his breeding is low,
If he calls himself “Thompson” or “Skinner,”
My own Araminta, say “No!”

202

If he studies the news in the papers
While you are preparing the tea,
If he talks of the damps or the vapours
While moonlight lies soft on the sea,
If he's sleepy while you are capricious,
If he has not a musical “Oh!”
If he does not call Werther delicious,—
My own Araminta, say “No!”

If he ever sets foot in the City
Among the stockbrokers and Jews,
If he has not a heart full of pity,
If he don't stand six feet in his shoes,
If his lips are not redder than roses,
If his hands are not whiter than snow,
If he has not the model of noses,—
My own Araminta say “No!”

If he speaks of a tax or a duty,
If he does not look grand on his knees,
If he's blind to a landscape of beauty,
Hills, valleys, rocks, waters, and trees,
If he dotes not on desolate towers,
If he likes not to hear the blast blow,
If he knows not the language of flowers,—
My own Araminta, say “No!”

203

He must walk—like a god of old story
Come down from the home of his rest;
He must smile—like the sun in his glory
On the buds he loves ever the best;
And oh! from its ivory portal
Like music his soft speech must flow!—
If he speak, smile, or walk like a mortal,
My own Araminta, say “No!”

Don't listen to tales of his bounty,
Don't hear what they say of his birth,
Don't look at his seat in the county,
Don't calculate what he is worth;
But give him a theme to write verse on,
And see if he turns out his toe;
If he's only an excellent person.—
My own Araminta, say “No!”

204

THE TALENTED MAN.

A LETTER FROM A LADY IN LONDON TO A LADY AT LAUSANNE.

Dear Alice! you'll laugh when you know it,—
Last week, at the Duchess's ball,
I danced with the clever new poet,—
You've heard of him,—Tully St. Paul.
Miss Jonquil was perfectly frantic;
I wish you had seen Lady Anne!
It really was very romantic,
He is such a talented man!

He came up from Brazenose College,
Just caught, as they call it, this spring;
And his head, love, is stuffed full of knowledge
Of every conceivable thing.
Of science and logic he chatters,
As fine and as fast as he can;
Though I am no judge of such matters,
I'm sure he's a talented man.

205

His stories and jests are delightful;—
Not stories or jests, dear, for you;
The jests are exceedingly spiteful,
The stories not always quite true.
Perhaps to be kind and veracious
May do pretty well at Lausanne;
But it never would answer,—good gracious!
Chez nous—in a talented man.

He sneers,—how my Alice would scold him!—
At the bliss of a sigh or a tear;
He laughed—only think!—when I told him
How we cried o'er Trevelyan last year;
I vow I was quite in a passion;
I broke all the sticks of my fan;
But sentiment's quite out of fashion,
It seems, in a talented man.

Lady Bab, who is terribly moral,
Has told me that Tully is vain,
And apt—which is silly—to quarrel,
And fond—which is sad—of champagne.
I listened, and doubted, dear Alice,
For I saw, when my Lady began,
It was only the Dowager's malice;—
She does hate a talented man!

206

He's hideous, I own it. But fame, love,
Is all that these eyes can adore;
He's lame,—but Lord Byron was lame, love,
And dumpy,—but so is Tom Moore.
Then his voice,—such a voice! my sweet creature,
It's like your Aunt Lucy's toucan:
But oh! what's a tone or a feature,
When once one's a talented man?

My mother, you know, all the season,
Has talked of Sir Geoffrey's estate;
And truly, to do the fool reason,
He has been less horrid of late.
But to-day, when we drive in the carriage,
I'll tell her to lay down her plan;—
If ever I venture on marriage,
It must be a talented man!

P. S.—I have found, on reflection,
One fault in my friend,—entre nous;
Without it, he'd just be perfection;—
Poor fellow, he has not a sou!
And so, when he comes in September
To shoot with my uncle, Sir Dan,
I've promised mamma to remember
He's only a talented man!

207

LETTERS FROM TEIGNMOUTH.

I. OUR BALL.

“Comment! c'est lui? que je le regarde encore! C'est que vraiment il est bien changé; n'est ce pas, mon papa?”—Les Premiers Amours.

You'll come to our Ball;—since we parted,
I've thought of you more than I'll say;
Indeed, I was half broken-hearted
For a week, when they took you away.
Fond fancy brought back to my slumbers
Our walks on the Ness and the Den,
And echoed the musical numbers
Which you used to sing to me then.
I know the romance, since it's over,
'T were idle, or worse, to recall;
I know you're a terrible rover;
But Clarence, you'll come to our Ball!

It's only a year, since, at College,
You put on your cap and your gown;
But, Clarence, you're grown out of knowledge,
And changed from the spur to the crown:

208

The voice that was best when it faltered
Is fuller and firmer in tone,
And the smile that should never have altered—
Dear Clarence—it is not your own:
Your cravat was badly selected;
Your coat don't become you at all;
And why is your hair so neglected?
You must have it curled for our Ball.

I've often been out upon Haldon
To look for a covey with pup;
I've often been over to Shaldon,
To see how your boat is laid up:
In spite of the terrors of Aunty,
I've ridden the filly you broke;
And I've studied your sweet little Dante
In the shade of your favourite oak:
When I sat in July to Sir Lawrence,
I sat in your love of a shawl;
And I'll wear what you brought me from Florence,
Perhaps, if you'll come to our Ball.

You'll find us all changed since you vanished;
We've set up a National School;
And waltzing is utterly banished,
And Ellen has married a fool;

209

The Major is going to travel,
Miss Hyacinth threatens a rout,
The walk is laid down with fresh gravel,
Papa is laid up with the gout;
And Jane has gone on with her easels,
And Anne has gone off with Sir Paul,
And Fanny is sick with the measles,—
And I'll tell you the rest at the Ball.

You'll meet all your Beauties; the Lily,
And the Fairy of Willowbrook Farm,
And Lucy, who made me so silly
At Dawlish, by taking your arm;
Miss Manners, who always abused you
For talking so much about Hock,
And her sister, who often amused you
By raving of rebels and Rock;
And something which surely would answer,
An heiress quite fresh from Bengal;
So, though you were seldom a dancer,
You'll dance, just for once, at our Ball.

But out on the World! from the flowers
It shuts out the sunshine of truth:
It blights the green leaves in the bowers,
It makes an old age of our youth;

210

And the flow of our feeling, once in it,
Like a streamlet beginning to freeze,
Though it cannot turn ice in a minute,
Grows harder by sudden degrees:
Time treads o'er the graves of affection;
Sweet honey is turned into gall;
Perhaps you have no recollection
That ever you danced at our Ball!

You once could be pleased with our ballads,—
To-day you have critical ears;
You once could be charmed with our salads—
Alas! you've been dining with Peers;
You trifled and flirted with many,—
You've forgotten the when and the how;
There was one you liked better than any,—
Perhaps you've forgotten her now.
But of those you remember most newly,
Of those who delight or enthrall,
None love you a quarter so truly
As some you will find at our Ball.

They tell me you've many who flatter,
Because of your wit and your song:
They tell me—and what does it matter?—
You like to be praised by the throng:

211

They tell me you're shadowed with laurel:
They tell me you're loved by a Blue:
They tell me you're sadly immoral—
Dear Clarence, that cannot be true!
But to me, you are still what I found you,
Before you grew clever and tall;
And you'll think of the spell that once bound you;
And you'll come—won't you come?—to our Ball!

212

II. PRIVATE THEATRICALS.

—“Sweet, when actors first appear,
The loud collision of applauding gloves.”
—Moultrie.

Your labours, my talented brother,
Are happily over at last:
They tell me—that, somehow or other,
The Bill is rejected,—or past;
And now you'll be coming, I'm certain,
As fast as your posters can crawl,
To help us to draw up our curtain,
As usual, at Fustian Hall.

Arrangements are nearly completed;
But still we've a Lover or two,
Whom Lady Albina entreated
We'd keep, at all hazards, for you:
Sir Arthur makes horrible faces;
Lord John is a trifle too tall;
And yours are the safest embraces
To faint in, at Fustian Hall.

213

Come, Clarence;—it's really enchanting
To listen and look at the rout:
We're all of us puffing and panting,
And raving, and running about;
Here Kitty and Adelaide bustle;
There Andrew and Anthony bawl;
Flutes murmur—chains rattle—robes rustle
In chorus, at Fustian Hall.

By the bye, there are two or three matters
We want you to bring us from Town:
The Inca's white plumes from the hatter's,
A nose and a hump for the Clown;
We want a few harps for our banquet;
We want a few masks for our ball;
And steal from your wise friend Bosanquet
His white wig, for Fustian Hall!

Hunca Munca must have a huge sabre;
Friar Tuck has forgotten his cowl;
And we're quite at a stand still with Weber
For want of a lizard and owl:
And then, for our funeral procession,
Pray get us a love of a pall,—
Or how shall we make an impression
On feelings, at Fustian Hall?

214

And, Clarence, you'll really delight us,
If you'll do your endeavour to bring,
From the Club, a young person to write us
Our prologue, and that sort of thing;
Poor Crotchet, who did them supremely,
Is gone for a Judge to Bengal;
I fear we shall miss him extremely
This season, at Fustian Hall.

Come, Clarence! your idol Albina
Will make a sensation, I feel;
We all think there never was seen a
Performer so like the O'Neill:
At rehearsals, her exquisite fury
Has deeply affected us all;
For one tear that trickles at Drury,
There'll be twenty at Fustian Hall!

Dread objects are scattered before her
On purpose to harrow her soul;
She stares, till a deep spell comes o'er her,
At a knife, or a cross, or a bowl.
The sword never seems to alarm her
That hangs on a peg to the wall;
And she doats on thy rusty old armour.
Lord Fustian, of Fustian Hall.

215

She stabbed a bright mirror this morning,—
(Poor Kitty was quite out of breath!)—
And trampled, in anger and scorning,
A bonnet and feathers to death.
But hark!—I've a part in “The Stranger,”—
There's the Prompter's detestable call!
Come, Clarence—our Romeo and Ranger—
We want you at Fustian Hall!

216

TALES OUT OF SCHOOL.

A DROPT LETTER FROM A LADY.

Your godson, my sweet Lady Bridget,
Was entered at Eton last May;
But really, I'm all in a fidget
Till the dear boy is taken away;
For I feel an alarm which, I'm certain,
A mother to you may confess,
When the newspaper draws up the curtain,
The terrible Windsor Express.

You know I was half broken-hearted
When the poor fellow whispered “Good-bye!”
As soon as the carriage had started
I sat down in comfort to cry.
Sir Thomas looked on while I fainted,
Deriding—the bear!—my distress;
But what were the hardships I painted,
To the tales of the Windsor Express?

217

The planter in sultry Barbadoes
Is a terrible tyrant, no doubt;
In Moscow, a Count carbonadoes
His ignorant serfs with the knout;
Severely men smart for their errors
Who dine at a man-of-war's mess;
But Eton has crueller terrors
Than these,—in the Windsor Express.

I fancied the Doctor at College
Had dipped, now and then, into books;
But, bless me! I find that his knowledge
Is just like my coachman's, or cook's:
He's a dunce—I have heard it with sorrow;—
'Twould puzzle him sadly, I guess,
To put into English to-morrow
A page of the Windsor Express.

All preachers of course should be preaching
That virtue's a very good thing;
All tutors of course should be teaching
To fear God, and honour the King;
But at Eton they've regular classes
For folly, for vice, for excess;
They learn to be villains and asses,
Nothing else—in the Windsor Express.

218

Mrs. Martha, who nursed little Willy,
Believes that she nursed him in vain;
Old John, who takes care of the filly,
Says “He'll ne'er come to mount her again!”
My Juliet runs up to her mother,
And cries, with a mournful caress,
“Oh where have you sent my poor brother?
Look, look at the Windsor Express!”

Ring, darling, and order the carriage;
Whatever Sir Thomas may say,—
Who has been quite a fool since our marriage,—
I'll take him directly away.
For of all their atrocious ill-treating
The end it is easy to guess;—
Some day they'll be killing and eating
My boy—in the Windsor Express!

219

PALINODIA.

“Nec meus hic sermo est, sed quem præcepit—” Horace.

There was a time, when I could feel
All passion's hopes and fears;
And tell what tongues can ne'er reveal
By smiles, and sighs, and tears.
The days are gone! no more—no more
The cruel Fates allow;
And, though I'm hardly twenty-four,—
I'm not a lover now.
Lady, the mist is on my sight,
The chill is on my brow:
My day is night, my bloom is blight;
I'm not a lover now!

I never talk about the clouds,
I laugh at girls and boys,
I'm growing rather fond of crowds,
And very fond of noise;
I never wander forth alone
Upon the mountain's brow;
I weighed, last winter, sixteen stone;—
I'm not a lover now!

220

I never wish to raise a veil,
I never raise a sigh;
I never tell a tender tale,
I never tell a lie:
I cannot kneel, as once I did;
I've quite forgot my bow;
I never do as I am bid;—
I'm not a lover now!

I make strange blunders every day,
If I would be gallant;
Take smiles for wrinkles, black for grey,
And nieces for their aunt:
I fly from folly, though it flows
From lips of loveliest glow;
I don't object to length of nose;—
I'm not a lover now!

I find my Ovid very dry,
My Petrarch quite a pill,
Cut Fancy for Philosophy,
Tom Moore for Mr. Mill.
And belles may read, and beaux may write,—
I care not who or how;
I burnt my Album, Sunday night;—
I'm not a lover now!

221

I don't encourage idle dreams
Of poison or of ropes:
I cannot dine on airy schemes;
I cannot sup on hopes:
New milk, I own, is very fine,
Just foaming from the cow;
But yet, I want my pint of wine;—
I'm not a lover now!

When Laura sings young hearts away.
I'm deafer than the deep;
When Leonora goes to play,
I sometimes go to sleep;
When Mary draws her white gloves out,
I never dance, I vow,—
“Too hot to kick one's heels about!”
I'm not a lover now!

I'm busy, now, with state affairs;
I prate of Pitt and Fox;
I ask the price of rail-road shares,
I watch the turns of stocks
And this is life! no verdure blooms
Upon the withered bough:
I save a fortune in perfumes;—
I'm not a lover now!

222

I may be yet, what others are,
A boudoir's babbling fool,
The flattered star of Bench or Bar,
A party's chief, or tool:—
Come shower or sunshine, hope or fear,
The palace or the plough,—
My heart and lute are broken here;
I'm not a lover now!
Lady, the mist is on my sight,
The chill is on my brow
My day is night, my bloom is blight;
I'm not a lover now!

223

UTOPIA.

—“I can dream, sir,
If I eat well and sleep well.”
—The Mad Lover.

If I could scare the light away,
No sun should ever shine;
If I could bid the clouds obey,
Thick darkness should be mine:
Where'er my weary footsteps roam.
I hate whate'er I see;
And Fancy builds a fairer home
In slumber's hour for me.

I had a vision yesternight
Of a lovelier land than this,
Where heaven was clothed in warmth and light,
Where earth was full of bliss;
And every tree was rich with fruits,
And every field with flowers,
And every zephyr wakened lutes
In passion-haunted bowers.

224

I clambered up a lofty rock,
And did not find it steep;
I read through a page and a half of Locke,
And did not fall asleep;
I said whate'er I may but feel,
I paid whate'er I owe;
And I danced one day an Irish reel,
With the gout in every toe.

And I was more than six feet high,
And fortunate, and wise;
And I had a voice of melody
And beautiful black eyes;
My horses like the lightning went,
My barrels carried true,
And I held my tongue at an argument,
And winning cards at Loo.

I saw an old Italian priest
Who spoke without disguise;
I dined with a judge who swore, like Best,
All libels should be lies:
I bought for a penny a twopenny loaf,
Of wheat, and nothing more;
I danced with a female philosophe,
Who was not quite a bore.

225

The kitchens there had richer roast,
The sheep wore whiter wool;
I read a witty Morning Post,
And an innocent John Bull:
The gaolers had nothing at all to do,
The hangman looked forlorn,
And the Peers had passed a vote or two
For freedom of trade in corn.

There was a crop of wheat, which grew
Where plough was never brought;
There was a noble Lord, who knew
What he was never taught:
A scheme appeared in the Gazette
For a lottery with no blanks;
And a Parliament had lately met,
Without a single Bankes.

And there were kings who never went
To cuffs for half-a-crown;
And lawyers who were eloquent
Without a wig and gown;
And sportsmen who forbore to praise
Their greyhounds and their guns;
And poets who deserved the bays.
And did not dread the duns.

226

And boroughs were bought without a test,
And no man feared the Pope;
And the Irish cabins were all possest
Of liberty and soap;
And the Chancellor, feeling very sick,
Had just resigned the seals;
And a clever little Catholic
Was hearing Scotch appeals.

I went one day to a Court of Law
Where a fee had been refused;
And a Public School I really saw
Where the rod was never used;
And the sugar still was very sweet,
Though all the slaves were free;
And all the folk in Downing Street
Had learnt the rule of three.

There love had never a fear or doubt;
December breathed like June:
The Prima Donna ne'er was out
Of temper—or of tune;
The streets were paved with mutton pies,
Potatoes ate like pine;
Nothing looked black but woman's eyes;
Nothing grew old but wine.

227

It was an idle dream; but thou,
The worshipped one, wert there,
With thy dark clear eyes and beaming brow,
White neck and floating hair;
And oh, I had an honest heart,
And a house of Portland stone;
And thou wert dear, as still thou art,
And more than dear, my own!

Oh bitterness!—the morning broke
Alike for boor and bard;
And thou wert married when I woke,
And all the rest was marred:
And toil and trouble, noise and steam,
Came back with the coming ray;
And, if I thought the dead could dream,
I'd hang myself to-day!

228

MARRIAGE CHIMES.

—“Go together,
You precious winners all.”
—Winter's Tale.

Fair Lady, ere you put to sea,
You and your mate together,
I meant to hail you lovingly,
And wish you pleasant weather.
I took my fiddle from the shelf;
But vain was all my labour;
For still I thought about myself,
And not about my neighbour.

Safe from the perils of the war,
Nor killed, nor hurt, nor missing—
Since many things in common are
Between campaigns and kissing—
Ungrazed by glance, unbound by ring,
Love's carte and tierce I've parried,
While half my friends are marrying,
And half—good lack!—are married.

229

'Tis strange—but I have passed alive
Where darts and deaths were plenty,
Until I find my twenty-five
As lonely as my twenty:
And many lips have sadly sighed—
Which were not made for sighing,
And many hearts have darkly died—
Which never dreamed of dying.

Some victims fluttered like a fly,
Some languished like a lily;
Some told their tale in poetry,
And some in Piccadilly:
Some yielded to a Spanish hat,
Some to a Turkish sandal;
Hosts suffered from an entrechat,
And one or two from Handel.

Good Sterling said no dame should come
To be the queen of his bourn,
But one who only prized her home,
Her spinning wheel, and Gisborne:
And Mrs. Sterling says odd things
With most sublime effront'ry;
Gives lectures on elliptic springs,
And follows hounds 'cross country.

230

Sir Roger had a Briton's pride
In freedom, plough, and furrow;—
No fortune hath Sir Roger's bride,
Except a rotten borough:
Gustavus longed for truth and crumbs,
Contentment and a cottage;—
His Laura brings a pair of plums
To boil the poor man's pottage.

My rural coz., who loves his peace,
And swore at scientifics,
Is flirting with a lecturer's niece,
Who construes hieroglyphies:
And Foppery's fool, who hated Blues
Worse than he hated Holborn,
Is raving of a pensive Muse,
Who does the verse for Colburn.

And Vyvyan, Humour's crazy child,—
Whose worship, whim, or passion,
Was still for something strange and wild,
Wit, wickedness, or fashion,—
Is happy with a little Love,
A parson's pretty daughter,
As tender as a turtle-dove,—
As dull as milk and water.

231

And Gerard hath his Northern Fay—
His nymph of mirth and haggis;
And Courtenay wins a damsel gay
Who figures at Colnaghi's;
And Davenant now has drawn a prize,—
I hope and trust, a Venus,
Because there are some sympathies—
As well as leagues—between us.

Thus north and south, and east and west,
The chimes of Hymen jingle;
But I shall wander on, unblest,
And singularly single;
Light-pursed, light-hearted, addle-brained,
And often captivated,
Yet, save on circuit—unretained,
And, save at chess—unmated.

Yet oh!—if Nemesis with me
Should sport, as with my betters,
And put me on my awkward knee
To prate of flowers and fetters,—
I know not whose the eyes should be
To make this fortress tremble;
But yesternight I dreamt,—ah me!
Whose they should most resemble!

November 20, 1827.

232

SCHOOL AND SCHOOLFELLOWS.

“Floreat Etona.”

Twelve years ago I made a mock
Of filthy trades and traffics:
I wondered what they meant by stock;
I wrote delightful sapphics;
I knew the streets of Rome and Troy,
I supped with Fates and Furies,—
Twelve years ago I was a boy,
A happy boy, at Drury's.

Twelve years ago!—how many a thought
Of faded pains and pleasures
Those whispered syllables have brought
From Memory's hoarded treasures!
The fields, the farms, the bats, the books,
The glories and disgraces,
The voices of dear friends, the looks
Of old familiar faces!

233

Kind Mater smiles again to me,
As bright as when we parted;
I seem again the frank, the free,
Stout-limbed, and simple-hearted!
Pursuing every idle dream,
And shunning every warning;
With no hard work but Bovney stream,
No chill except Long Morning:

Now stopping Harry Vernon's ball
That rattled like a rocket;
Now hearing Wentworth's “Fourteen all!
And striking for the pocket;
Now feasting on a cheese and flitch,—
Now drinking from the pewter;
Now leaping over Chalvey ditch,
Now laughing at my tutor.

Where are my friends? I am alone;
No playmate shares my beaker:
Some lie beneath the churchyard stone,
And some—before the Speaker;
And some compose a tragedy,
And some compose a rondo;
And some draw sword for Liberty,
And some draw pleas for John Doe.

234

Tom Mill was used to blacken eyes
Without the fear of sessions;
Charles Medlar loathed false quantities,
As much as false professions;
Now Mill keeps order in the land,
A magistrate pedantic;
And Medlar's feet repose unscanned
Beneath the wide Atlantic.

Wild Nick, whose oaths made such a din,
Does Dr. Martext's duty;
And Mullion, with that monstrous chin,
Is married to a Beauty;
And Darrell studies, week by week,
His Mant, and not his Manton;
And Ball, who was but poor at Greek,
Is very rich at Canton.

And I am eight-and-twenty now;—
The world's cold chains have bound me;
And darker shades are on my brow,
And sadder scenes around me:
In Parliament I fill my seat,
With many other noodles;
And lay my head in Jermyn Street,
And sip my hock at Boodle's.

235

But often, when the cares of life
Have set my temples aching,
When visions haunt me of a wife,
When duns await my waking.
When Lady Jane is in a pet,
Or Hoby in a hurry,
When Captain Hazard wins a bet,
Or Beaulieu spoils a curry,—

For hours and hours I think and talk
Of each remembered hobby;
I long to lounge in Poets' Walk,
To shiver in the lobby;
I wish that I could run away
From House, and Court, and Levee,
Where bearded men appear to-day
Just Eton boys grown heavy,—

That I could bask in childhood's sun
And dance o'er childhood's roses,
And find huge wealth in one pound one,
Vast wit in broken noses,
And play Sir Giles at Datchet Lane,
And call the milk-maids Houris,—
That I could be a boy again,—
A happy boy,—at Drury's.

236

PROLOGUE FOR AN AMATEUR PERFORMANCE OF “THE HONEYMOON.”

“We want”—the Duchess said to me to-day,—
“We want, fair sir, a prologue for our play.
A charming play to show a charming robe in,
‘The Honeymoon’”—“By Phœbus!”—“No: by Tobin.”
“A prologue!”—I made answer—“if you need one,
In every street and square your Grace may read one.”

“Cruel Papa! don't talk about Sir Harry!”—
So Araminta lisped;—“I'll never marry;
I loathe all men; such unromantic creatures!
The coarsest tastes, and ah! the coarsest features!
Betty!—the salts!—I'm sick with mere vexation,
To hear them called the Lords of the Creation:
They swear fierce oaths, they seldom say their prayers;
And then, they shed no tears,—unfeeling bears!—
I, and the friend I share my sorrows with,
Medora Gertrude Wilhelmina Smith,

237

Will weep together through the world's disasters,
In some green vale, unplagued by Lords and Masters,
And hand in hand repose at last in death,
As chaste and cold as Queen Elizabeth.”
She spoke in May, and people found in June,
This was her Prologue to the Honeymoon!

“Frederic is poor, I own it,” Fanny sighs,
“But then he loves me, and has deep blue eyes.
Since I was nine years old, and he eleven,
We've loved each other,—‘Love is light from Heaven!
And penury with love, I will not doubt it,
Is better far than palaces without it.
We'll have a quiet curacy in Kent;
We'll keep a cow; and we'll be so content.
Forgetting that my father drove fine horses,
And that my mother dined upon three courses,
There I shall sit, perusing Frederic's verses,
Dancing in spring, in winter knitting purses;
Mending the children's pinafores and frills,
Wreathing sweet flowers, and paying butcher's bills.”
Alas, poor Fanny!—she will find too soon
Her Prologue's better than her Honeymoon.

But lo! where Laura, with a frenzied air,
Seeks her kind cousin in her pony chair,
And, in a mournful voice, by thick sobs broke,
Cries “Yes, dear Anne! the favours are bespoke,

238

I am to have him;—so my friends decided;
The stars knew quite as much of it as I did!
You know him, love;—he is so like a mummy:—
I wonder whether diamonds will become me!
He talks of nothing but the price of stocks;
However, I'm to have my opera box.
That pert thing, Ellen, thought she could secure him,—
I wish she had, I'm sure I can't endure him!
The cakes are ordered;—how my lips will falter
When I stand fainting at the marriage altar!
But I'm to have him!—Oh the vile baboon!”
Strange Prologue this for Laura's Honeymoon!

Enough of prologues; surely I should say
One word, before I go, about the play.
Instead of hurrying madly after marriage
To some lord's villa in a travelling carriage,
Instead of seeking earth's remotest ends
To hide their blushes and avoid their friends,
Instead of haunting lonely lanes and brooks
With no companions but the doves and rooks,—
Our Duke and Duchess open wide their Hall,
And bid you warmly welcome, one and all,
Who come with hearts of kindness, eyes of light,
To see, and share, their Honeymoon to-night.

January 19, 1830.

239

POEMS WRITTEN IN EARLY YOUTH.

240

ON PITY.

Sweet is it to the warrior's ear
To mark the clamorous battle cry,
But sweeter far the crystal tear
That falls from Pity's moistened eye
And savage is the cruel beast
That prowls round Gondar's lofty tower,
But harder far that human breast
That ne'er has felt soft Pity's power.

But see, with ostentatious sneer
Will Laura precious gifts bestow;
Emilia often sheds the tear,
But Affectation bids it flow.
These do not own compassion's reign;
True pity acts not such a part;
It flies the rich, it flies the vain,—
It dwells in kind Sophia's heart

Whene'er the poor, worn out with woe,
Oppressed with trouble, years, and grief,
From breasts which feel compassion's glow
Solicit mild the kind relief,—

242

Then Laura opes her ready hand,
The tear bedews Emilia's eye;
Sophia quits the selfish band
To soothe the pangs of poverty.

Gold can but present help afford;
Emilia's tear is wiped away;
Sophia feels her just reward,
A bliss which never will decay,
This, the reward of virtue, this
Th' unfeeling heart will never know:
It is the only earthly bliss
Which is not mixed with earthly woe.

1815.

243

ON THE DEPARTURE OF AN OLD HOUSEKEEPER.

'Tis past; and since she is for ever fled,
With all her by-gone blunders on her head,
Let not the laugh, the sneer, pursue her still,
Nor mark her failings, where she meant no ill.
Cease now her foibles, Ridicule, to tell;
Let Gratitude declare—she loved us well.

Can we forget, now when for aye we part,
Her charity, the goodness of her heart,
Her wish to please, her readiness to lend
(Although unasked) assistance to a friend?
Can we forget all these? and yet retain
The few—the puny errors of her brain?
You who are blind to what her heart could do,
Be just at least, dismiss her failings too:
Grant—while an inmate, her mistakes could tease,
Her look amuse us, or her faults displease,—
Yet now—her fancies and her follies past—
Her failings vanish, while her love will last.

244

Still, when she calls to mind her happiest days,
She'll load her former friends with well meant praise;
Still will regret that, forced at length to roam,
She leaves the spot she called so long her home.

Let us our ridicule, our mocking, end;
Quit the companion, yet retain the friend:
Forgive her faults, for there no malice low'rs;
Forget those faults, for she was blind to ours.

1816.

245

VALENTINES.

I. IMITATION OF METASTASIO'S “PARTENZA.”

Sister, far from thee I'm gone;
And often, silent and alone,
Sudden starts a willing tear
Which would not fall if thou wert here;
But thou, my Susan, who can tell
If thy least thought on me shall dwell?

How quick our meeting days have passed!
But human pleasures will not last;
And Learning's all-consuming power
Hastened on our parting hour.
But thou, my Susan, who can tell
If thy least thought on me shall dwell?

But quickly still from day to day
Flies the hasty time away;
Fraught with hope and sportive glee,
I'll soon revisit home and thee;
Whilst thou, my Susan, who can tell
If thy least thought on me shall dwell?

246

But stay, I wrong thee, gentle dove,
I know I wrong thy tender love;
Oft thine eye will shed a tear,
Which would not fall if I were near;
Yes, yes, my Susan, I can tell,
Oft thy thoughts on me will dwell.

February 14, 1816.

II. A MADRIGAL

When weeping friends are parting,
Oh then their hearts are smarting!
But when they're just returning,
Oh then their hearts are burning!
They're merry all,
Nor once recall
The tear they shed at parting.

February 14, 1817.

247

III. THE DOVE.

Tell me, little darling Dove,
Whence and whither dost thou rove?

I am in haste; a brother tied
This doggrel greeting to my side;
May every good my Sister bless,—
Life, virtue, health, and happiness;
Not vulgar mirth, but modest sense;
Not mines of gold, but competence;
With these her bark may peaceful glide,
Uninjured, down life's swelling tide.
May soft Content's all-healing power
Stand ready for each suffering hour,
Enhance the good the Fates bestow,
And mitigate the pangs of woe.
Each year may an adoring crew
New Valentines around her strew;
Be every page, be every line,
As ardent, as sincere, as mine!

February 14, 1817.

248

IV. THE DEITIES.

Each god has left his heavenly seat,
Olympus, for a while;
And animates a mortal shape
In Britain's favoured isle:
Ye Deities, no thin disguise
Conceals ye from a poet's eyes!

Jove thunders as Britannia's King,
And Bacchus is his son;
And Byron strikes Apollo's lyre;
And Mars is Wellington.
Like Neptune, Exmouth rules the sea,—
But lovely Venus smiles in thee.

Yet not alone does Venus smile;
For there are joined in thee
The Muses' verse, Minerva's sense,
And Juno's majesty:
The Graces o'er thy figure rove,
And every feature beams with Love.

1817.

249

A FABLE.

TO HIS ELDEST SISTER ON HER BIRTHDAY.

Virtue, (a nymph you well must know,)
Met gently warbling Erato:
And after bows, and “how d'ye do” s,
She thus addressed the smiling Muse:
“How is it,—tell me, Erato,—
That you and I such strangers grow?
If at your Mount my foot I set,
Flat ‘Not at home’ is all I get:
When first you called a meeting there,
And Phœbus deigned to take the chair,
The sire of men, of gods the king,
Your patron, Jove,—he bade you sing
Not those who in false glory shine,
But those who bow to Virtue's shrine;
And scorn you Jove? For now I deem
That Virtue is your rarest theme!
Calliope, when war she sings,
Forgets the truth to flatter kings;
Euterpe thinks me low and mean,
Thalia drives me from her scene,

250

Melpomene like Folly rants,
Dishonest Clio scrawls romance;
E'en your own soft enticing measure
Has left poor me, and flows for Pleasure.”

“Cease your upbraidings,” cries the Muse:
“An ear at least you can't refuse:
I'll answer you for all the Nine;
The few who bow at Virtue's shrine
Are better pleased with artless praise
Than all the force of studied lays.
The page of silver flowing rhyme
May hide a fault, or gild a crime;
But you, and those who choose your part,
Require the language of the heart;
And such will smile and read with pleasure,
If 'tis sincere, a doggrel measure;
Though only on the page they view
Congratulation—and Adieu!

1817.

251

LINES ON LEAVING OTTERTON.

Sweet spot, whose real joy excels
What Fancy's pencil ever drew,
Where Innocence with Pleasure dwells.
And Peace with Poverty—adieu!
If perfect bliss resides on earth,
Here lies the spot that gives it birth.

And you, whose presence throws a gleam
Of pleasure o'er the poor man's lot,
Who well to Fancy's eye might seem
The Genii of the peaceful spot,—
Fond Memory oft will bring to view
The welcome that we found with you.

It is not yours in hall or bower
The semblance of a smile to wear;
But yours it is, in sorrow's hour,
To stop the sufferer's falling tear:
Nor yours the fleeting vain reward
That earthly pow'r and pomp award.

252

From pomp and power men are riven
At every change of Fortune's will;
One purer bliss to you is given,
A heart that acts not, thinks not, ill.
The tyrant well for such a gem
Might quit his blood-bought diadem

But we must part at length; 'tis sad
Upon such scenes as these to dwell,
Since scenes like these can only add
New sorrow to our long farewell:
Pure was our happiness—no more!
We part; that happiness is o'er.

We go; but we shall not forget
Those symptoms of a friendly heart,
The smile you wore because we met,
The tear you shed because we part;
And Hope already paints how sweet
The hour when we again shall meet.

1817

253

FORGET ME NOT.

When thy sad master's far away,
Go, happier far than he,—
Go, little flower, with her to stay
With whom he may not be;
There bid her mourn his wayward lot,
And whisper still “Forget me not!”

Sweet as the gale of fate, that blew
To waft me to a spot like this,—
Frail as the hours, that quickly flew
To tear me from the transient bliss,—
Thy humble blossoms long shall prove
An emblem fit for parted love.

1817

254

WOMAN.

A FRAGMENT.

Woman! thou loveliest gift that here below
Man can receive, or Providence bestow!
To thee the earliest offerings belong
Of opening eloquence, or youthful song;
Lovely partaker of our dearest joys!
Thyself a gift whose pleasure never cloys,—
Whose wished-for presence gently can appease
The wounds of penury, or slow disease,—
Whose loss is such, as through life's tedious way
No rank can compensate, no wealth repay;
Thy figure beams a ray of heavenly light
To cheer the darkness of our earthly night:
Hail, fair Enslaver! at thy changing glance
Boldness recedes, and timid hearts advance,
Monarchs forget their sceptre and their sway,
And sages melt in tenderness away.

1818.

255

MUNITO.

FROM A POEM ON DOGS.

Though great Spadille, or that famed Prince of Loo
All conqu'ring Pam, turn backward from his view,—
Swift in the noble chase, Munito tracks
The Royal guests amid Plebeian packs;
And though the cards in mixed confusion lie,
And mock the vigour of a human eye,
Munito still, with more than human art,
Knows Kings from Knaves, the Diamond from the Heart:
Happy were men, if thus in graver things
Our Knaves were always parted from our Kings;
Happy the maid, who in Love's maze can part
The miser's Diamond from the lover's Heart!

1818.

256

LINES WRITTEN IN THE FIRST LEAF OF VOLTAIRE'S “HISTOIRE DE CHARLES XII.”

Thou little Book, thy leaves unfold
A tale of wonder and of glory,
And warring kings and barons bold
Adorn the pages of thy story.

Thy vein is noble; meet and fit
To catch and charm a youthful eye;
Thou teem'st with wonder and with wit;
And yet I look on thee, and sigh:

Thy tales are sweet, but they renew
Visions how sad, yet ah, how dear!
Vain fancies mock my wandering view,
And recollection wakes a tear.

Thou bid'st me think upon the hours
When giddy Tizy round me ran;
When glad I left Etona's bowers,
To laugh with laughing Mary Anne:

257

When Susan's voice of tenderness
My darkest sorrows could beguile;
When study wore its fairest dress,
Adorned by good Eliza's smile.

Alas! too soon before mine eye
Was spread the page of ancient lore;
Too soon that meeting fleeted by,
Too soon those dreams of bliss were o'er.

I look on thee, and think again
Upon those halcyon days of gladness,
While Memory mingles joy and pain,
A mournful bliss, a pleasing sadness.

Ye friends with whom I may not be,
Ye forms that I have loved and left,
What pleasure now shall beam on me,
Of home and of your smiles bereft?

My lot and yours are parted now;
And oh! I should not thus repine,
If Fortune would on you bestow
The happiness—which is not mine.

Long weeks must pass, ere I may greet
The glad return of former bliss,—
Ere I may fly again to meet
A cousin's smile, a sister's kiss.

Eton, 1820.

258

TO FLORENCE.

Long years have passed with silent pace,
Florence! since thou and I have met;
Yet, when that meeting I retrace,
My cheek is pale, my eye is wet;
For I was doomed from thence to rove
O'er distant tracts of earth and sea,
Unaided, Florence!—save by love;
And unremembered—save by thee!
We met, and hope beguiled our fears—
Hope, ever bright, and ever vain;
We parted thence in silent tears,
Never to meet in life again.
The myrtle that I gaze upon,
Sad token by thy love devised,
Is all the record left of one
So long bewailed, so dearly prized.
You gave it in an hour of grief,
When gifts of love are doubly dear;
You gave it, and one tender leaf
Glistened the while with beauty's tear.
A tear-oh! lovelier far to me,
Shed for me in my saddest hour,
Than bright and flattering smiles could be,
In courtly hall or summer bower.

259

You strove my anguish to beguile
With distant hopes of future weal;
You strove—alas! you could not smile,
Nor speak the hope you did not feel.
I bore the gift affection gave
O'er desert sand and thorny brake,
O'er rugged rock and stormy wave,—
I loved it for the giver's sake;
And often in my happiest day,
In scenes of bliss and hours of pride,
When all around was glad and gay,
I looked upon the gift, and sighed:
And when on ocean or on clift
Forth strode the Spirit of the storm,
I gazed upon thy fading gift,
I thought upon thy fading form;
Forgot the lightning's vivid dart,
Forgot the rage of sky and sea,
Forgot the doom that bade us part,
And only lived to love and thee.
Florence!—thy myrtle blooms! but thou,
Beneath thy cold and lowly stone,
Forgetful of our mutual vow,
And of a heart—still all thine own,
Art laid in that unconscious sleep
Which he that wails thee soon must know,
Where none may smile, and none may weep,
None dream of bliss, nor wake to woe.

260

If e'er, as fancy oft will feign,
To that dear spot which gave thee birth
Thy fleeting shade returns again
To look on him thou lov'dst on earth,
It may a moment's joy impart,
To know that this, thy favourite tree,
Is to my desolated heart
Almost as dear as thou couldst be.
My Florence! soon—the thought is sweet!—
The turf that wraps thee I shall press;
Again, my Florence! we shall meet,
In bliss—or in forgetfulness.
With thee in death's oblivion laid,
I will not have the cypress gloom
To throw its sickly sullen shade
Over the stillness of my tomb;
And there the scutcheon shall not shine,
And there the banner shall not wave;
The treasures of the glittering mine
Would ill become a lover's grave;
But when from this abode of strife
My liberated shade shall roam,
Thy myrtle, that has cheered my life,
Shall decorate my narrow home;
And it shall bloom in beauty there,
Like Florence in her early day;
Or, nipped by cold December's air,
Wither—like hope and thee—away.

261

MARIUS AMIDST THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE.

Carthage, I love thee! thou hast run—
As I—a warlike race;
And now thy glory's radiant sun
Hath veiled in clouds his face:
Thy days of pride—as mine—depart;
Thy gods desert thee, and thou art
A thing as nobly base
As he whose sullen footstep falls
To-night around thy crumbling walls.

And Rome hath heaped her woes and pains
Alike on me and thee;
And thou dost sit in servile chains,—
But mine they shall not be!
Though fiercely o'er this aged head
The wrath of angry Jove is shed,
Marius shall still be free—
Free in the pride that scorns his foe,
And bares the head to meet the blow.

262

I wear not yet thy slavery's vest,
As desolate I roam;
And though the sword were at my breast,
The torches in my home,
Still—still, for orison and vow,
I'd fling them back my curse—as now;
I scorn, I hate thee—Rome!
My voice is weak to word and threat,
My arm is strong to battle yet!

263

EDWARD MORTON.

“November 26.—Heard of the death of poor Morton. If ever man died of love, it was Edward Morton. Since his death a small collection of poems, written by him at different periods of his life, has been put into my hands; which I shall insert from time to time, with the signature ‘E. M.’”—The Etonian, vol. i. pp. 313, 374.

I.

There was a voice—a foolish voice—
In my heart's summer echoing through me;
It bade me hope, it bade rejoice,
And still its sounds were precious to me;
But thou hast plighted that deep vow,
And it were sin to love thee now!

I will not love thee! I am taught
To shun the dream on which I doated,
And tear my soul from every thought
On which its dearest vision floated;
And I have prayed to look on thee
As coldly as thou dost on me.

Alas! the love indeed is gone,
But still I feel its melancholy;
And the deep struggle, long and lone,
That stifled all my youthful folly.
Took but away the guilt of sin,
And left me all its pain within.

264

Adieu! if thou hadst seen the heart—
The silly heart thou wert beguiling,
Thou wouldst not have inflamed the smart
With all thy bright unconscious smiling;
Thou wouldst not so have fanned the blaze
That grew beneath those quiet rays!

Nay, it was well!—for smiles like this
Delayed at least my bosom's fever!
Nay, it was well, since hope and bliss
Were fleeting quickly, and for ever,
To snatch them as they passed away,
And meet the anguish all to-day!

II.

I do not weep; the grief I feel
Is not the grief that dims the eye;
No accents speak, no tears reveal
The inward pain that cannot die.

Mary! thou know'st not—none can know
The silent woe that still must live;
I would not change that silent woe
For all the joy the world can give.

265

Yet, by thine hair so lightly flowing,
And by thy smiling lips, I vow,
And by thy cheek so brightly glowing,
And by the meekness of thy brow,

And by those eyes, whose tranquil beam
So joyfully is wont to shine,
As if thy bosom could not dream
Of half the woe that preys on mine,

I do not murmur that another
Hath gained the love I could not wake;
I look on him as on a brother,
And do not hate him—for thy sake.

And, Mary, when I gaze on thee,
I think not on my own distress;
Serene—in thy serenity,
And happy—in thine happiness.

III.

A flower in nature's fairest dress
Bloomed on its parent tree;
Brightly it blushed in loveliness—
That blush was not for me!

266

Oh! not for me, right well I knew;
And yet I watched it where it grew,
Fondly and fearfully;
And often from my heart I prayed
That gentle Flower might never fade.

I could have borne to see it bloom
By other hands caressed,
Giving its blossoms and perfume
To deck another's breast;
And when that Flower, in future days,
Had met my melancholy gaze,
Still living and still blest,
I should have spoke a calmer tone,
And made its happiness my own.

But thus to find it hurled away
By him to whom it clung,
To watch it withering day by day,
So beautiful and young!
To see it dying, yet repress
The agony of tenderness
That lingers on the tongue!—
Alas! and doth it come to this,
Mary, thy cherished dream of bliss!

Gone is the colour from thy cheek,
The lustre from thine eye;

267

Thy brow is cold, thy step is weak,
Thy beauty passeth by!
In ignorance supremely blest
Thy child is slumbering on thy breast,
And feels not “she will die!”
Alas! alas!—I know not how
I speak of this so coldly now!

I love to muse on thee by night!
And, while my bosom aches,
There is a something of delight
In thinking why it breaks;
Therefore doth Reason come in vain;—
I doat on this consuming pain;
Cling to the wounds it makes;
Talk—dream of it, and find relief
E'en in the bitterness of grief.

Where are ye now, ye coldly wise,
Who bid the passions sleep,
Who scorn the mourner when he sighs,
And call it crime to weep?
Yours is the lifelessness of life!—
I will not change this inward strife
For all your precepts deep,
Nor lose, in my departing years,
The pain—the bliss—the throb of tears!

268

IV.

I saw thee wedded—thou didst go
Within the sacred aisle,
Thy young cheek in a blushing glow
Betwixt a tear and smile.
Thy heart was glad in maiden glee,
But he it loved so fervently
Was faithless all the while;
I hate him for the vow he spoke—
I hate him for the vow he broke.

I hid the love that could not die,
Its doubts, and hopes, and fears,
And buried all my misery
In secrecy and tears;
And days passed on, and thou didst prove
The pang of unrequited love
E'en in thine early years;
And thou didst die—so fair and good—
In silence, and in solitude!

While thou wert living, I did hide
Affection's secret pains:
I'd not have shocked thy modest pride
For all the world contains;

269

But thou hast perished, and the fire
That, often checked, could ne'er expire,
Again unhidden reigns:
It is no crime to speak my vow,
For ah! thou canst not hear it now.

Thou sleepest 'neath thy lowly stone
That dark and dreamless sleep;
And he, thy loved and chosen one—
Why goes he not to weep?
He does not kneel where I have knelt
He cannot feel what I have felt,
The anguish still and deep,
The painful thoughts of what has been,
The canker-worm that is not seen!

But I—as o'er the dark blue wave
Unconsciously I ride,
My thoughts are hovering o'er thy grave
My soul is by thy side.
There is one voice that wails thee yet,
One heart that cannot e'er forget
The visions that have died;
And aye thy form is buried there—
A doubt—an anguish—a despair!

270

A CHILD'S GRAVE.

O'er yon churchyard the storm may lower;
But, heedless of the wintry air,
One little bud shall linger there,
A still and trembling flower.

Unscathed by long revolving years
Its tender leaves shall flourish yet,
And sparkle in the moonlight, wet
With the pale dew of tears.

And where thine humble ashes lie,
Instead of scutcheon or of stone.
It rises o'er thee, lonely one,
Child of obscurity!

Mild was thy voice as zephyr's breath,
Thy cheek with flowing locks was shaded;
But the voice hath died, the cheek hath faded,
In the cold breeze of Death!

271

Brightly thine eye was smiling, Sweet!
But now decay hath stilled its glancing;
Warmly thy little heart was dancing,
But it hath ceased to beat!

A few short months—and thou wert here!
Hope sat upon thy youthful brow;
And what is thy memorial now?
A flower—and a tear!

272

A LETTER FROM ETON.

My dearest Cynthia,—if you knew
Half of the toil P. C. goes through,
You'd never dip your spiteful pen
In anger's bitter ink again,
Because the hapless author woos
No correspondent—save the Muse.

Was ever such a wretched elf?
I ha'n't a minute to myself!
My own and other people's cares
Are dinned incessant in my ears
I can't get rid of Mr. “Vapour,”
With all his silly “midnight taper;”
Nor Mr. Musgrave's learned paper
“Diseases of the Hoof;”
E'en now, as thus I sit me down,
Scared by your thunder and your frown,
Two Fiends are hid aloof;
Two Fiends in dark Cocytus dipt;
A Blockhead with a Manuscript,
A Devil with a Proof!

273

Alas, alas! I seem to find
Some torment for my weary mind
In every thing I see!
My duck is old, my mutton tough,
To some they may be good enough,
They smell of “Press” to me;
And when I stoop my lips to drink,
I often shudder as I think
I taste the taste of printer's ink
In chocolate and tea.
And what with friends, and foes, and hits
Sent slyly out by little wits,
A fulminating breed;
And what with critics, queries, quarrels,
Fame and fair faces, loves and laurels,
Sermons and sonnets, good and bad,
I'm getting—not a little mad,
But very mad indeed!

But you, who in your home of ease
Are far from sorrows such as these,—
Maid of the archly-smiling brow—
What folly are you following now?
With you, amid the mazy dance
That came to us from clever France,
Does he, that bright and brilliant star,
The future Tully of the Bar,

274

Its present Vestris, glide?
Or does he quibble, stride, look big,
Assume the face of legal prig,
And charm you with his embryo wig
In all its powdered pride?
Is he the Coryphæus still
Of winding Waltz, and gay Quadrille?
And is he talking fooleries
Of Ladies' love, and looks, and eyes,
And flirting with your fan?
Or does he prate of whens and whys,
Cross questions, queries, and replies,
Cro. Car.—Cro. Jac.—and Cro. Eliz.
To puzzle all he can?
Is he the favourite of to-day?
Or do you smile with kinder ray
On him, the grave Divine?
Whose periods sure were formed alike
In pulpit to amaze and strike,
In drawing-room to shine?
Alas, alas! Methinks I see,
Amid those walks of revelry,
A dignitary's fall;
For, lingering long in Fashion's scene,
He'll die a dancer, not a Dean,
And find it hard to choose between
Preferment—and a Ball!

275

I do not bid thee weep, my dear;
I would not see a single tear
In eyes so bright as those;
Nor dim the ray that Love hath lit,
Nor check the stream of mirth and wit
That sparkles as it flows.
Be still the Fairy of the dance,
And keep that light and merry glance;
Yet do not, in your pride of place,
Forget your parted Lover's face,
A poor one though it be!
Among the thousands that adore
Believe not one can love you more;
And when, retired from ball or rout.
You've nothing else to think about—
Why, waste a thought on me!

June 25, 1821.

278

SONNET.

[If when with thee I feel and speak]

If when with thee I feel and speak
What not with others I have felt and spoken.
It is not for the beauty of thy cheek,
Nor for thy forehead fair,
Nor for the dark locks quietly sleeping there,
Nor for thy words of kindness, Friendship's token;
But rather, that I trace
Passion and purity in that meaning face;
And that thy brow is stamped with feeling
Such as mocks the tongue's revealing,
And that I see in thy young soul
A breathing part of that celestial Whole,
And that thou art a Poet, and the son
Of an Immortal one!

Cambridge, December. 1821.

279

PRIZE POEMS, TRANSLATIONS, AND EPIGRAMS.

281

AUSTRALASIA.

The sun is high in heaven: a favouring breeze
Fills the white sail and sweeps the rippling seas,
And the tall vessel walks her destined way,
And rocks and glitters in the curling spray.
Among the shrouds, all happiness and hope,
The busy seaman coils the rattling rope,
And tells his jest, and carols out his song,
And laughs his laughter, vehement and long;
Or pauses on the deck, to dream awhile
Of his babes' prattle and their mother's smile,
And nods the head, and waves the welcome hand,
To those who weep upon the lessening strand.

His is the roving step and humour dry,
His the light laugh, and his the jocund eye;
And his the feeling which, in guilt or grief,
Makes the sin venial, and the sorrow brief.
But there are hearts, that merry deck below,
Of darker error, and of deeper woe,
Children of wrath and wretchedness, who grieve
Not for the country, but the crimes they leave,
Who, while for them on many a sleepless bed
The prayer is murmured and the tear is shed,

282

In exile and in misery, lock within
Their dread despair—their unrepented sin,
And in their madness dare to gaze on Heaven,
Sullen and cold, unawed and unforgiven!

There the gaunt robber, stern in sin and shame,
Shows his dull features and his iron frame;
And tenderer pilferers creep in silence by,
With quivering lip, flushed brow, and vacant eye.
And some there are who, in their close of day,
With dropping jaw, weak step, and temples gray,
Go tottering forth, to find across the wave
A short sad sojourn, and a foreign grave;
And some, who look their long and last adieu
To the white cliffs that vanish from the view,
While youth still blooms, and vigour nerves the arm,—
The blood flows freely, and the pulse beats warm.
The hapless female stands in silence there,
So weak, so wan, and yet so sadly fair,
That those who gaze, a rude untutored tribe,
Check the coarse question and the wounding gibe,
And look, and long to strike the fetter off,
And stay to pity, though they came to scoff.
Then o'er her cheek there runs a burning blush;
And the hot tears of shame begin to rush
Forth from their swelling orbs;—she turns away,
And her white fingers o'er her eye-lids stray;
And still the tears through those white fingers glide,
Which strive to check them, or at least to hide!

283

And there the stripling, led to plunder's school
Ere Passion slept, or Reason learned to rule,
Clasps his young hands, and beats his throbbing brain,
And looks with marvel on his galling chain.
Oh you may guess, from that unconscious gaze,
His soul hath dreamed of those far-fading days
When, rudely nurtured on the mountain's brow,
He tended day by day his father's plough;
Blest in his day of toil, his night of ease,
His life of purity, his soul of peace.
Oh yes! to-day his soul hath backward been
To many a tender face and beauteous scene;
The verdant valley and the dark brown hill,
The small fair garden and its tinkling rill,
His grandame's tale, believed at twilight hour,
His sister singing in her myrtle bower,
And she, the maid, of every hope bereft,
So fondly loved—alas! so falsely left,—
The winding path, the dwelling in the grove,
The look of welcome, and the kiss of love—
These are his dreams;—but these are dreams of bliss
Why do they blend with such a lot as his?

And is there nought for him but grief and gloom,
A lone existence, and an early tomb?
Is there no hope of comfort and of rest
To the seared conscience and the troubled breast?
O say not so! In some far distant clime,
Where lives no witness of his early crime,

284

Benignant Penitence may haply muse
On purer pleasures and on brighter views,
And slumbering Virtue wake at last to claim
Another being, and a fairer fame.

Beautiful Land, within whose quiet shore
Lost spirits may forget the stain they bore,
Beautiful Land, with all thy blended shades
Of waste and wood, rude rocks, and level glades,
On thee, on thee I gaze, as Moslems look
To the blest Islands of their Prophet's Book,
And oft I deem that, linked by magic spell,
Pardon and Peace upon thy valleys dwell,
Like two sweet Houris beckoning o'er the deep
The souls that tremble and the eyes that weep!
Therefore on thee undying sunbeams throw
Their clearest radiance and their warmest glow,
And tranquil nights, cool gales, and gentle showers
Make bloom eternal in thy sinless bowers.
Green is thy turf; stern Winter doth not dare
To breathe his blast, and leave a ruin there,
And the charmed ocean roams thy rocks around
With softer motion and with sweeter sound:
Among thy blooming flowers and blushing fruit
The whispering of young birds is never mute,
And never doth the streamlet cease to well
Through its old channel in the hidden dell.
Oh! if the Muse of Greece had ever strayed
In solemn twilight through thy forest shade,

285

And swept her lyre, and waked thy meads along
The liquid echo of her ancient song,
Her fabling fancy in that hour had found
Voices of music, shapes of grace, around;
Among thy trees, with merry step and glance,
The Dryad then had wound her wayward dance,
And the cold Naiad in thy waters fair
Bathed her white breast, and wrung her dripping hair.

Beautiful Land! upon so pure a plain
Shall Superstition hold her hated reign?
Must Bigotry build up her cheerless shrine
In such an air, on such an earth as thine?
Alas! Religion from thy placid Isles
Veils the warm splendour of her heavenly smiles,
And the wrapt gazer in the beauteous plan
Sees nothing dark—except the soul of Man.

Sweet are the links that bind us to our kind,
Meek, but unyielding—felt, but undefined;
Sweet is the love of Brethren, sweet the joy
Of a young Mother in her cradled toy,
And sweet is Childhood's deep and earnest glow
Of reverence for a Father's head of snow
Sweeter than all, ere our young hopes depart,
The quickening throb of an impassioned heart,
Beating in silence, eloquently still,
For one loved soul that answers to its thrill.
But where thy smile, Religion, hath not shone,
The chain is riven, and the charm is gone

286

And, unawakened by thy wondrous spell,
The Feelings slumber in their silent cell.

Hushed is the voice of Labour and of Mirth,
The light of day is sinking from the earth,
And Evening mantles in her dewy calm
The couch of one who cannot heed its balm.
Lo, where the Chieftain on his matted bed
Leans the faint form and hangs the feverish head!
There is no lustre in his wandering eye;
His forehead hath no show of majesty;
His gasping lip, too weak for wail or prayer,
Scarce stirs the breeze, and leaves no echo there;
And his strong arm, so nobly wont to rear
The feathered target or the ashen spear,
Drops powerless and cold! The pang of death
Locks the set teeth and chokes the struggling breath,
And the last glimmering of departing day
Lingers around to herald life away.

Is there no duteous youth to sprinkle now
One drop of water on his lip and brow?
No dark-eyed maid to bring with soundless foot
The lulling potion, or the healing root?
No tender look to meet his wandering gaze?
No tone of fondness, heard in happier days,
To sooth the terrors of the spirit's flight,
And speak of mercy and of hope to-night?

All love, all leave him!—terrible and slow
Along the crowd the whispered murmurs grow.

287

“The hand of Heaven is on him! is it ours
“To check the fleeting of his numbered hours?
“Oh not to us—oh not to us is given
“To read the Book, or thwart the will, of Heaven!
“Away, away!” and each familiar face
Recoils in horror from his sad embrace;
The turf on which he lies is hallowed ground,
The sullen Priest stalks gloomily around,
And shuddering friends, that dare not soothe or save,
Hear the last groan, and dig the destined grave.
The frantic Widow folds upon her breast
Her glittering trinkets, and her gorgeous vest,
Circles her neck with many a mystic charm,
Clasps the rich bracelet on her desperate arm,
Binds her black hair, and stains her eye-lid's fringe
With the jet lustre of the Henow's tinge:
Then, on the spot where those dear ashes lie,
In bigot transport sits her down to die.
Her swarthy Brothers mark the wasted cheek,
The straining eye-ball, and the stifled shriek,
And sing the praises of her deathless name,
As the last flutter racks her tortured frame.
They sleep together; o'er the natural tomb
The lichened pine rears up its form of gloom,
And lorn acacias shed their shadow gray
Bloomless and leafless, o'er the buried clay.
And often there, when calmly, coldly bright
The midnight Moon flings down her ghastly light,

288

With solemn murmur and with silent tread
The dance is ordered, and the verse is said,
And sights of wonder, sounds of spectral fear
Scare the quick glance, and chill the startled ear.

Yet direr visions e'en than these remain;
A fiercer guiltiness, a fouler stain!
Oh! who shall sing the scene of savage strife,
Where Hatred glories in the waste of life?
The hurried march, the looks of grim delight,
The yell, the rush, the slaughter and the flight,
The arms unwearied in the cruel toil,
The hoarded vengeance and the rifled spoil,
And last of all, the revel in the wood,
The feast of death, the banqueting of blood,
When the wild warrior gazes on his foe
Convulsed beneath him in his painful throe,
And lifts the knife, and kneels him down to drain
The purple current from the quivering vein?
Cease, cease the tale; and let the Ocean's roll
Shut the dark horror from my wildered soul!

And are there none to succour? none to speed
A fairer feeling and a holier creed?
Alas! for this, upon the Ocean blue,
Lamented Cook, thy pennon hither flew;
For this, undaunted, o'er the raging brine
The venturous Frank upheld his Saviour's sign.
Unhappy Chief! while Fancy thus surveys
The scattered islets, and the sparkling bays,

289

Beneath whose cloudless sky and gorgeous sun
Thy life was ended, and thy voyage done,
In shadowy mist thy form appears to glide,
Haunting the grove or floating on the tide;
Oh! there was grief for thee, and bitter tears,
And racking doubts through long and joyless years;
And tender tongues that babbled of the theme,
And lonely hearts that doated on the dream.
Pale Memory deemed she saw thy cherished form
Snatched from the foe or rescued from the storm
And faithful Love, unfailing and untired,
Clung to each hope, and sighed as each expired.
On the bleak desert, or the tombless sea,
No prayer was said, no requiem sung for thee,
Affection knows not whether o'er thy grave
The Ocean murmur, or the willow wave;
But still the beacon of thy sacred name
Lights ardent souls to Virtue and to Fame,
Still Science mourns thee, and the grateful Muse
Wreathes the green cypress for her own Perouse.

But not thy death shall mar the gracious plan,
Nor check the task thy pious toil began;
O'er the wide waters of the bounding main
The Book of Life must win its way again,
And, in the regions by thy fate endeared,
The Cross be lifted, and the Altar reared.

With furrowed brow and cheek serenely fair,
The calm wind wandering o'er his silver hair,

290

His arm uplifted, and his moistened eye
Fixed in deep rapture on the golden sky,—
Upon the shore, through many a billow driven,
He kneels at last, the Messenger of Heaven!
Long years, that rank the mighty with the weak,
Have dimmed the flush upon his faded cheek,
And many a dew, and many a noxious damp,
The daily labour, and the nightly lamp,
Have reft away—for ever reft—from him
The liquid accent and the buoyant limb:
Yet still within him aspirations swell
Which time corrupts not, sorrow cannot quell,—
The changless Zeal, which on, from land to land,
Speeds the faint foot and nerves the withered hand,
And the mild Charity which day by day
Weeps every wound and every stain away,
Rears the young bud on every blighted stem,
And longs to comfort, where she must condemn.
With these, through storms and bitterness and wrath,
In peace and power he holds his onward path,
Curbs the fierce soul, and sheathes the murderous steel
And calms the passions he hath ceased to feel.

Yes! he hath triumphed !—while his lips relate
The sacred story of his Saviour's fate,
While to the search of that tumultuous horde
He opens wide the Everlasting Word,
And bids the soul drink deep of Wisdom there,
In fond devotion, and in fervent prayer,—

291

In speechless awe the wonder-stricken throng
Check their rude feasting and their barbarous song:
Around his steps the gathering myriads crowd,
The chief, the slave, the timid and the proud;
Of various features, and of various dress,
Like their own forest-leaves, confused and numberless,
Where shall your temples, where your worship be,
Gods of the air, and Rulers of the sea?
In the glad dawning of a kinder light,
Your blind adorer quits your gloomy rite,
And kneels in gladness on his native plain,
A happier votary at a holier fane.

Beautiful Land! farewell !—when toil and strife
And all the sighs and all the sins of life
Shall come about me,—when the light of Truth
Shall scatter the bright mists that dazzled youth,
And Memory muse in sadness on the past,
And mourn for pleasures far too sweet to last,
How often shall I long for some green spot,
Where, not remembering, and remembered not,
With no false verse to deck my lying bust,
With no fond tear to vex my mouldering dust,
This busy brain may find its grassy shrine,
And sleep, untroubled, in a shade like thine!

Note.—The sketch of the death of a New Zealander, and of the Superstition which prevents the offering of any consolation or assistance, is taken from the narrative of the death of Duaterra, a friendly chieftain, recorded by Mr. Nicholas, vol. ii. p. 181.

From the coast of Australasia the last despatches of La Peyrouse were dated. Vide Quarterly Review for February, 1810.

292

ATHENS.

“High towers, faire temples, goodly theaters,
Strong walls, rich porches, princelie pallaces,
Large streetes, brave houses, sacred sepulchers,
Sure gates, sweete gardens, stately galleries,
Wrought with fair pillours and fine imageries,—
All those (O pitie!) now are turnd to dust,
And overgrowne with black oblivion's rust.”
Spenser, The Ruines of Time.

Muse of old Athens! strike thine ancient lute!
Are the strings broken? is the music mute?
Hast thou no tears to gush, no prayers to flow,
Wails for her fate, or curses for her foe?
If still, within some dark and drear recess,
Clothed with sad pomp and spectral loveliness,
Though pale thy cheek, and torn thy flowing hair,
And reft the roses passion worshipped there,
Thou lingerest lone, beneath thy laurel bough,
Glad in the incense of a poet's vow,
Bear me—O bear me to the vine-clad Hill
Where Nature smiles and Beauty blushes still,
And Memory blends her tale of other years
With earnest hopes, deep sighs, and bitter tears!

293

Desolate Athens! though thy gods are fled,
Thy temples silent, and thy glory dead,
Though all thou hadst of beautiful and brave
Sleep in the tomb, or moulder in the wave,
Though power and praise forsake thee, and forget,
Desolate Athens, thou art lovely yet!
Around thy walls, in every wood and vale,
Thine own sweet bird, the lonely nightingale,
Still makes her home; and, when the moonlight hour
Flings its soft magic over brake and bower,
Murmurs her sorrows from her ivy shrine,
Or the thick foliage of the deathless vine.
Where erst Megæra chose her fearful crown,
The bright narcissus hangs his clusters down;
And the gay crocus decks with glittering dew
The yellow radiance of his golden hue.
Still thine own olive haunts its native earth,
Green, as when Pallas smiled upon its birth;
And still Cephisus pours his sleepless tide,
So clear and calm, along the meadow side,
That you may gaze long hours upon the stream,
And dream at last the poet's witching dream,
That the sweet Muses in the neighbouring bowers
Sweep their wild harps, and wreathe their odorous flowers,
And laughing Venus o'er the level plains
Waves her light lash and shakes her gilded reins.

How terrible is Time! his solemn years,
The tombs of all our hopes and all our fears

294

In silent horror roll!—the gorgeous throne,
The pillared arch, the monumental stone,
Melt in swift ruin; and of mighty climes,
Where Fame told tales of virtues and of crimes,
Where Wisdom taught, and Valour woke to strife,
And Art's creations breathed their mimic life,
And the young poet when the stars shone high
Drank the deep rapture of the quiet sky,
Nought now remains but Nature's placid scene,
Heaven's deathless blue and Earth's eternal green,
The showers that fall on palaces and graves,
The suns that shine for freemen and for slaves:
Science may sleep in ruin, man in shame,
But Nature lives, still lovely, still the same!
The rock, the river,—these have no decay!
The City and its masters,—where are they?
Go forth, and wander through the cold remains
Of fallen statues and of tottering fanes,
Seek the loved haunts of poet and of sage,
The gay palæstra and the gaudy stage!
What signs are there? a solitary stone,
A shattered capital with grass o'ergrown,
A mouldering frieze, half-hid in ancient dust,
A thistle springing o'er a nameless bust;
Yet this was Athens! still a holy spell
Breathes in the dome, and wanders in the dell,
And vanished times and wondrous forms appear,
And sudden echoes charm the waking ear:

295

Decay itself is drest in glory's gloom,
For every hillock is a hero's tomb,
And every breeze to Fancy's slumber brings
The mighty rushing of a Spirit's wings.
Oh yes! where glory such as thine hath been,
Wisdom and Sorrow linger round the scene;
And where the hues of faded splendour sleep,
Age kneels to moralize, and Youth to weep!

E'en now, methinks, before the eye of day,
The night of ages rolls its mist away,
And the cold dead, the wise, and fair, and proud.
Start from the urn, and rend the tranquil shroud.
Here the wild Muse hath seized her maddening lyre
With grasp of passion and with glance of fire,
And called the visions of her awful reign
From death and gloom to light and life again.
Hark! the huge Titan on his frozen rock
Scoffs at Heaven's King, and braves the lightning-shock;
The Colchian sorceress drains her last brief bliss,
The thrilling rapture of a mother's kiss,
And the gray Theban raises to the skies
His hueless features and his rayless eyes.
There blue-eyed Pallas guides the willing feet
Of her loved sages to her calm retreat,
And lights the radiance of her glittering torch
In the rich Garden and the quiet Porch:
Lo the thronged arches, and the nodding trees,
Where Truth and Wisdom strayed with Socrates,

296

Where round sweet Xenophon rapt myriads hung,
And liquid honey dropped from Plato's tongue!
Oh, thou wert glorious then! thy sway and sword
On earth and sea were dreaded and adored,
And Satraps knelt, and Sovereigns tribute paid,
And prostrate cities trembled and obeyed:
The grim Laconian when he saw thee sighed,
And frowned the venom of his hate and pride;
And the pale Persian dismal vigils kept,
If Rumour whispered “Athens!” where he slept;
And mighty Ocean, for thy royal sail,
Hushed the loud wave and stilled the stormy gale;
And to thy sons Olympian Jove had given
A brighter ether and a purer heaven.
Those sons of thine were not a mingled host,
From various fathers born, from every coast,
And driven from shore to shore, from toil to toil,
To shun a despot or to seek a spoil;
Oh no! they drew their unpolluted race
Up from the earth which was their dwelling-place;
And the warm blood, whose blushing streams had run
Ceaseless and stainless down from sire to son,
Went clear and brilliant through its hundred rills,
Pure as thy breeze, eternal as thy hills!

Alas! how soon that day of splendour past,
That bright brief day, too beautiful to last!
Let other lips tell o'er the oft-told tale;—
How art succeeds, when spear and falchion fail,

297

How fierce dissension, impotent distrust,
Caprice, that made it treason to be just,
And crime in some, and listlessness in all,
Shook the great City to her fate and fall,
Till gold at last made plain the tyrant's way,
And bent all hearts in bondage and decay!
I loathe the task; let other lyres record
The might and mercy of the Roman sword,
The aimless struggle and the fruitless wile,
The victor's vengeance and the patron's smile.
Yet, in the gloom of that long cheerless night,
There gleams one ray to comfort and delight;
One spot of rapture courts the Muse's eye
In the dull waste of shame and apathy.
Here, where wild Fancy wondrous fictions drew,
And knelt to worship, till she thought them true,—
Here, in the paths which beauteous Error trod,
The great Apostle preached the Unknown God!

Silent the crowd were hushed; for his the eye
Which power controls not, sin cannot defy;
His the tall stature, and the lifted hand,
And the fixed countenance of grave command;
And his the voice which, heard but once, will sink
So deep into the hearts of those that think,
That they may live till years and years are gone,
And never lose one echo of its tone.
Yet, when the voice had ceased, a clamour rose,
And mingled tumult rang from friends and foes;

298

The threat was muttered, and the galling gibe,
By each pale Sophist and his paltry tribe;
The haughty Stoic passed in gloomy state,
The heartless Cynic scowled his grovelling hate,
And the soft Garden's rose-encircled child
Smiled unbelief, and shuddered as he smiled.

Tranquil he stood; for he had heard—could hear
Blame and reproach with an untroubled ear;
O'er his broad forehead visibly were wrought
The dark deep lines of courage and of thought;
And if the colour from his cheek was fled,
Its paleness spoke no passion, and no dread.
The meek endurance and the stedfast will,
The patient nerve, that suffers and is still,
The humble faith, that bends to meet the rod,
And the strong hope, that turns from man to God—
All these were his; and his firm heart was set,
And knew the hour must come,—but was not yet.

Again long years of darkness and of pain,
The Moslem scymetar, the Moslem chain;
Where Phidias toiled, the turbaned spoilers brood,
And the Mosque glitters, where the Temple stood.
Alas! how well the slaves their fetters wear,
Proud in disgrace, and cheerful in despair!
While the glad music of the boatman's song
On the still air floats happily along,
The light Caïque goes bounding on its way
Through the bright ripples of Piræus' bay;

299

And when the stars shine down, and twinkling feet
In the gay measure blithely part and meet,
The dark-eyed maiden scatters through the grove
Her tones of fondness and her looks of love:
Oh sweet the lute—the dance! but bondage flings
Grief on the steps, and discord on the strings.
Yet thus degraded—sunken as thou art,
Still thou art dear to many a boyish heart;
And many a poet, full of fervour, goes
To read deep lessons, Athens, in thy woes.

And such was he, the long-lamented one,
England's fair hope, sad Granta's cherished son,
Ill-fated Tweddell!—if the flush of youth,
The light of genius, and the glow of truth,
If all that fondness honours and adores,
If all that grief remembers and deplores
Could bid the spoiler turn his scythe away
Or snatch one flower from darkness and decay,
Thou hadst not marked, fair City, his decline,
Nor reared the marble in thy silent shrine—
The cold ungrieving marble—to declare
How many hopes lie desolated there.
We will not mourn for him! ere human ill
Could blight one bliss, or make one feeling chill,
In Learning's pure embrace he sunk to rest,
Like a tired child upon his mother's breast:
Peace to his hallowed shade! his ashes dwell
In that sweet spot he loved in life so well,

300

And the sad Nurse who watched his early bloom,
From this his home, points proudly to his tomb.

But oft, when twilight sleeps on earth and sea,
Beautiful Athens, we will weep for thee;
For thee and for thine offspring!—will they bear
The dreary burthen of their own despair
Till nature yields, and sense and life depart
From the torn sinews and the trampled heart?
O! by the mighty shades, that dimly glide
Where Victory beams upon the turf or tide—
By those who sleep at Marathon in bliss—
By those who fell at glorious Salamis—
By every laurelled brow and holy name—
By every thought of freedom and of fame—
By all ye bear—by all that ye have borne,
The blow of anger and the glance of scorn,
The fruitless labour and the broken rest,
The bitter torture, and the bitterer jest—
By your sweet infants' unavailing cry,
Your sister's blush, your mother's stifled sigh—
By all the tears that ye have wept, and weep,—
Break, Sons of Athens, break your weary sleep!

Yea! it is broken!—Hark, the sudden shock
Rolls on from wave to wave, from rock to rock;
“Up, for the Cross and Freedom!” far and near,
Forth starts the sword and gleams the patriot spear,
And bursts the echo of the battle song,
Cheering and swift, the banded hosts along.

301

On, Sons of Athens! let your wrongs and woes
Burnish the blades, and nerve the whistling bows;
Green be the laurel, ever blest the meed
Of him that shines to-day in martial deed,
And sweet his sleep beneath the dewy sod,
Who falls for fame, his country, and his God!

The hoary sire has helmed his locks of gray,
Scorned the safe hearth, and tottered to the fray:
The beardless boy has left his gilt guitar,
And bared his arm for manhood's holiest war.
E'en the weak girl has mailed her bosom there,
Clasped the rude helmet on her auburn hair,
Changed love's own smile for valour's fiery glance,
Mirth for the field, the distaff for the lance.
Yes, she was beauteous—that Athenian maid—
When erst she sate within her myrtle shade,
Without a passion and without a thought
Save those which innocence and childhood wrought,—
Delicious hopes, and dreams of life and love,
Young flowers below, and cloudless skies above.
But oh how fair—how more than doubly fair
Thus, with the laurel twined around her hair,—
While at her feet her country's chiefs assemble,
And those soft tones amid the war-cry tremble,
(As some sweet lute creeps eloquently in,
Breaking the tempest of the trumpet's din)
Her corselet fastened with a golden clasp,
Her falchion buckled to her tender grasp,

302

And quivering lip, flushed cheek, and flashing eye,
All breathing fire, all speaking “Liberty!”

Firm has that struggle been! but is there none
To hymn the triumph, when the fight is won?
O for the harp which once—but through the strings,
Far o'er the sea, the dismal night-wind sings;
Where is the hand that swept it?—cold and mute
The lifeless Master and the voiceless lute!
The crowded hall, the murmur and the gaze,
The look of envy and the voice of praise,
And friendship's smile, and passion's treasured vow,—
All these are nothing,—life is nothing now!
But the hushed triumph, and the garb of gloom,
The sorrow, deep but mute, around the tomb,
The soldier's silence, and the matron's tear,—
These are the trappings of the sable bier
Which Time corrupts not, Falsehood cannot hide,
Nor Folly scorn, nor Calumny deride.
And “what is writ, is writ!”—the guilt and shame—
All eyes have seen them, and all lips may blame;
Where is the record of the wrong that stung,
The charm that tempted, and the grief that wrung?
Let feeble hands, iniquitously just,
Rake up the relics of the sinful dust,
Let Ignorance mock the pang it cannot feel,
And Malice brand, what Mercy would conceal,
It matters not! he died as all would die;
Greece had his earliest song, his latest sigh;

303

And o'er the shrine in which that cold heart sleeps
Glory looks dim, and joyous Conquest weeps.—
The maids of Athens to the spot shall bring
The freshest roses of the new-born spring,
And Spartan boys their first-won wreath shall bear
To bloom round Byron's urn, or droop in sadness there.

Farewell, sweet Athens! thou shalt be again
The sceptred Queen of all thine old domain,
Again be blest in all thy varied charms
Of loveliness and valour, arts and arms.
Forget not then, that, in thine hour of dread,
While the weak battled, and the guiltless bled,
Though Kings and Courts stood gazing on thy fate,
The bad to scoff,—the better to debate,
Here, where the soul of Youth remembers yet
The smiles and tears which Manhood must forget,
In a far land, the honest and the free
Had lips to pray, and hearts to feel, for thee!

Note.—Several images in the early part of the poem are selected from passages in the Greek Tragedians;—particularly from the two well-known Choruses in the Œdipus Coloneus and the Medea.

The death of Lord Byron took place after the day appointed for the sending in of the exercises; and the allusion to it was of course introduced subsequent to the adjudication of the prize.

304

THE ASCENT OF ELIJAH.

“Ille, feris caput inviolabile Parcis,
Liquit Jordanios, turbine raptus, agros.”
Miltoni Lat. Poem

Servant of God, thy fight is fought;
Servant of God, thy crown is wrought:
Lingerest thou yet upon the joyless earth?
Thy place is now in Heaven's high bowers,
Far from this mournful world of ours,
Among the sons of light, that have a different birth.

Go to the calm and cloudless sphere
Where doubt, and passion, and dim fear,
And black remorse, and anguish have no root;
Turn—turn away thy chastened eyes
From sights that make their tears arise,
And shake th' unworthy dust from thy departing foot.

305

Thy human task is ended now;
No more the lightning of thy brow
Shall wake strange terror in the soul of guilt;
As when thou wentest forth to fling
The curse upon the shuddering King,
Yet reeking with the blood—the sinless blood he spilt.

And all that thou hast braved and borne.
The Heathen's hate, the Heathen's scorn,
The wasting famine, and the galling chain,—
Henceforth these things to thee shall seem
The phantoms of a bygone dream;
And rest shall be for toil, and blessedness for pain.—

Such visions of deep joy might roll
Through the rapt Prophet's inmost soul,
As, with his fond disciple by his side,
He passed with dry and stainless tread
O'er the submissive river's bed,
And took his onward way from Jordan's refluent tide.

High converse held those gifted Seers
Of the dark fates of after years,
Of coming judgments, terrible and fast;
The father's crime the children's woe,
The noisome pest, the victor foe,
And mercy sealed, and truth made manifest at last.

306

Thus as they reasoned, hark, on high
Rolled back the portals of the sky;
And from the courts of the empyrean dome
Came forth what seemed a fiery car,
On rushing wheels, each wheel a star,
And bore the Prophet thence,—O whither?—to his home!

With head thrown back, and hand upraised,
Long—long that sad disciple gazed,
As his loved teacher passed for aye away;—
“Alas, my father!” still he cried,
“One look—one word to soothe and guide!—
Chariot and horse are gone from Israel's tents to-day!”

Earth saw the sign;—Earth saw and smiled,
As to her Maker reconciled;
With gladder murmur flowed the streams along
Unstirred by breath of lightest breeze
Trembled the conscious cedar trees,
And all around the birds breathed gratitude in song.

And viewless harpstrings from the skies
Rang forth delicious harmonies;
And strange sweet voices poured their grateful hymn;
And radiant eyes were smiling through
The tranquil ether's boundless blue,
The eyes of Heaven's high host, the joyous Seraphim.

307

And Piety stood musing by,
And Penitence with downcast eye;
Faith heard with raptured heart the solemn cali,
And, pointing with her lustrous hand
To the far shores of that blest land,
Sent forth her voice of praise,—“for him, O God—for all!”

Death frowned far off his icy frown,
The monarch of the iron crown,
First-born of Sin, the universal foe;
Twice had his baffled darts been vain;
Death trembled for his tottering reign,
And poised the harmless shaft, and drew the idle bow.

Sons of the Prophets, do ye still
Look through the wood and o'er the hill,
For him, your lord, whom ye may ne'er behold?—
O dreamers, call not him, when day
Fades in the dewy vale away,
Nor when glad morning crests the lofty rocks with gold!

Peace! call that honoured name no more,
By Jordan's olive girdled shore,

308

By Kedron's brook, or Siloa's holy fount;
Nor where the fragrant breezes rove
Through Bethel's dim and silent grove,
Nor on the rugged top of Carmel's sacred mount.

Henceforth ye never more may meet,
Meek learners, at your master's feet,
To gaze on that high brow, those piercing eyes;
And hear the music of that voice
Whose lessons bade the sad rejoice,
Said to the weak “Be strong,” and to the dead “Arise!”

Go, tell the startled guards that wait
In arms before the palace gate
“The Seer of Thesbe walks no more on earth:”
The king will bid prepare the feast;
And tyrant prince and treacherous priest
Will move with haughtier step, and laugh with louder mirth.

And go to Zarephath, and say
What God's right hand hath wrought to-day
To the pale widow and her twice born son:
Lo, they will weep, and rend their hair,
Upstarting from their broken prayer,—
“Our comforter is gone, our friend, our only one!”

309

Nay, deem not so! for there shall dwell
A Prophet yet in Israel
To tread the path which erst Elijah trod:
He too shall mock th' oppressor's spears,
He too shall dry the mourner's tears;
Elijah's robe is his, and his Elijah's God!—

But he before the throne of grace
Hath his eternal dwelling place;
His head is crowned with an unfading crown;
And in the book, the awful book
On which the Angels fear to look,
The chronicle of Heaven, his name is written down.

Too hard the flight for Passion's wings,
Too high the theme for Fancy's strings;
Inscrutable the wonder of the tale!
Yet the false Sanhedrim will weave
Wild fictions, cunning to deceive,
And hide reluctant Truth in Error's loathly veil.

And some in after years will tell
How on the Prophet's cradle fell
Rays of rich glory, an unearthly stream;
And some how fearful visions came
Of Israel judged by sword and flame,
That wondrous child the judge, upon his father's dream.

310

Elijah in the battle's throng
Shall urge the fiery steeds along,
Hurling the lance, lifting the meteor sword:
Elijah in the day of doom
Shall wave the censer's rich perfume,
To turn the wrath aside, the vengeance of the Lord.

Vain, vain! it is enough to know
That in his pilgrimage below
He wrought Jehovah's will with steadfast zeal;
And that he passed from this our life
Without the sorrow of the strife
Which all our fathers felt, which we must one day feel.

To us between the world and Heaven
A rougher path, alas! is given;
Red glares the torch, dark waves the funeral pall:
The seeptered king, the trampled slave,
Go down into the common grave,
And there is one decay, one nothingness for all.

It is a fearful thing to die!
To watch the cheerful day flit by
With all its myriad shapes of life and love;
To sink into the dreary gloom
That broods for ever o'er the tomb,
Where clouds are all around, though Heaven may shine above!

311

But still a firm and faithful trust
Supports, consoles the pure and just:
Serene, though sad, they feel life's joys expire;
And bitter though the death pang be,
Their spirits through its tortures see
Elijah's car of light, Elijah's steeds of fire.

361

SONGS.

363

LORD ROLAND.

I

Lord Roland rose, and went to mass,
And doffer his mourning weed!
And bade them bring a looking-glass,
And saddle fast a steed;
“I'll deck with gems my bonnet's loop,
And wear a feather fine,
And when lorn lovers sit and droop
Why I will sit and dine!
Sing merrily, sing merrily,
And fill the cup of wine!

II

Though Elgitha be thus untrue,
Adèle is beauteous yet;
And he that's baffled by the blue
May bow before the jet;
So welcome—welcome hall or heath!
So welcome shower or shine!
And wither there, thou willow wreath,
Thou never shalt be mine!
Sing merrily, sing merrily,
And fill the cup of wine!

364

III

Proud Elgitha! a health to thee,—
A health in brimming gold!
And store of lovers after me,
As honest, and less cold:
My hand is on my bugle horn,
My boat is on the brine;
If ever gallant died of scorn,
I shall not die of thine!
Sing merrily, sing merrily!
And fill the cup of wine!

365

YES OR NO.

I

The Baron de Vaux hath a valiant crest,—
My Lady is fair and free;
The Baron is full of mirth and jest,—
My Lady is full of glee;
But their path, we know, is a path of woe,
And many the reason guess,—
The Baron will ever mutter “No,”
When my Lady whispers “Yes.”

II

The Baron will pass the wine-cup round,—
My Lady forth will roam;
The Baron will out with horse and hound,—
My Lady sits at home;
The Baron will go to draw the bow,—
My Lady will go to chess;
And the Baron will ever mutter “No,”
When my Lady whispers “Yes.”

366

III

The Baron hath ears for a lovely lay,
If my Lady sings it not;
The Baron is blind to a beauteous day,
If it beam in my Lady's grot;
The Baron bows low to a furbelow,
If it be not my Lady's dress;
And the Baron will ever mutter “No,”
When my Lady whispers “Yes.”

IV

Now saddle my steed, and helm my head,
Be ready in the porch;
Stout Guy, with a ladder of silken thread,
And trusty Will, with a torch:
The wind may blow, the torrent flow,—
No matter,—on we press;
I never can hear the Baron's “No”
When my Lady whispers “Yes.”

367

TELL HIM I LOVE HIM YET.

I

Tell him I love him yet,
As in that joyous time;
Tell him I ne'er forget,
Though memory now be crime;
Tell him, when sad moonlight
Is over earth and sea,
I dream of him by night,—
He must not dream of me!

II

Tell him to go where Fame
Looks proudly on the brave;
Tell him to win a name
By deeds on land and wave;
Green—green upon his brow
The laurel wreath shall be;
Although the laurel now
May not be shared with me.

368

III

Tell him to smile again
In Pleasure's dazzling throng,
To wear another's chain,
To praise another's song.
Before the loveliest there
I'd have him bend his knee,
And breathe to her the prayer
He used to breathe to me.

IV

And tell him, day by day
Life looks to me more dim;
I falter when I pray,
Although I pray for him.
And bid him, when I die,
Come to our favourite tree:
I shall not hear him sigh.—
Then let him sigh for me!

July 20, 1829.

369

WHERE IS MISS MYRTLE?

[_]

Air—“Sweet Kitty Clover.”

I

Where is Miss Myrtle? can any one tell?
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
She flirts with another, I know very well;
And I—am left all alone!
She flies to the window when Arundel rings,—
She's all over smiles when Lord Archibald sings,—
It's plain that her Cupid has two pair of wings:
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
Her love and my love are different things;
And I—am left all alone!

II

I brought her, one morning, a rose for her brow;
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
She told me such horrors were never worn now:
And I—am left all alone!
But I saw her at night with a rose in her hair,
And I guess who it came from—of course I don't care!

370

We all know that girls are as false as they're fair;
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
Pm sure the lieutenant's a horrible bear:
And I—am left all alone!

III

Whenever we go on the Downs for a ride,
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
She looks for another to trot by her side:
And I—am left all alone!
And whenever I take her downstairs from a ball,
She nods to some puppy to put on her shawl:
I'm a peaceable man, and I don't like a brawl;—
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
But I would give a trifle to horsewhip them all;
And I—am left all alone!

IV

She tells me her mother belongs to the sect,
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
Which holds that all waltzing is quite incorrect:
And I—am left all alone!
But a fire's in my heart, and a fire's in my brain,
When she waltzes away with Sir Phelim O'Shane;
I don't think I ever can ask her again:
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
And, Lord! since the summer she's grown very plain;
And I—am left all alone!

371

V

She said that she liked me a twelvemonth ago;
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
And how should I guess that she'd torture me so?
And I—am left all alone!
Some day she'll find out it was not very wise
To laugh at the breath of a true lover's sighs;
After all, Fanny Myrtle is not such a prize:
Where is she gone, where is she gone?—
Louisa Dalrymple has exquisite eyes;
And I'll be—no longer alone!

1831.

372

THE CONFESSION.

I

Father—Father—I confess—
Here he kneeled and sighed,
When the moon's soft loveliness
Slept on turf and tide.
In my ear the prayer he prayed
Seems to echo yet;
But the answer that I made—
Father—I forget!
Ora pro me!

II

Father—Father—I confess—
Precious gifts he brought;
Satin sandal, silken dress;
Richer ne'er were wrought;
Gems that make the daylight dim,
Plumes in gay gold set;—
But the gaud I gave to him—
Father—I forget!
Ora pro me!

372

III

Father—Father—I confess—
He's my beauty's thrall,
In the lonely wilderness,
In the festive hall;
All his dreams are aye of me,
Since our young hearts met:
What my own may sometimes pe—
Father—I forget:
Ora pro me!

374

LAST WORDS.

I

Fare thee well, love,—fare thee well?
From the world I pass away,
Where the brightest things that dwell
All deceive, and all decay;
Cheerfully I fall asleep,
As by some mysterious spell;
Yet I weep, to see thee weep;
Fare thee well, love,—fare thee well!

II

Tell of me, love, tell of me!
Not amid the heartless throng;
Not where Passion bends the knee,—
Not where Pleasure trills the song;
But when some most cherished one
By your side at eve shall be,
Ere your twilight tales are done,
Tell of me, love,—tell of me!

375

III

Leave me now, love,—leave me now!
Not with sorrow, not with sighs;
Not with clouds, love, on thy brow,
Not with tears, love, in thine eyes;
We shall meet, we know not where,
And be blest. we dream not how;
With a kiss, and with a prayer,
Leave me now, love,—leave me now!

April, 1832

376

THE RUNAWAY.

I

Dark clouds are shading
The day,—the day;
Sunlight is fading
Away,—away;
I've won from the warden
The key,—the key,
And the steed's in the garden
For me,—for me.

II

Locks of my mother
So white,—so white,—
Frowns of my father
Good night,—good night!
From turret and tower
I'm free,—I'm free,
And your rage has no power
O'er me,—o'er me.

377

III

Shriller is grieving
The blast,—the blast;
Lo, the waves heaving
At last,—at last!
'Twas here he, the bold one,
Should be,—should be;
And lingers he, cold one?
Ah me!—ah me!

IV

Vain is thy chiding,
For hark!—for hark!
Hither 'tis gliding
The hark,—the bark!
Joyously over
The sea—the sea
Shell waft my brave lover
With me,—with me!

April, 1832

378

LONG AGO.

I

We were children together! Oh brighter than mine
Are the eyes that are looking their love on you now;
And nobler than I are the maidens that twine
The scarf for your breast, and the wreath for your brow.
Be happy, my brother, wherever you will;
Good speed to your courser, good luck to your bow;
But will you not—will you not think of me still,
As you thought of me once,—long ago—long ago?

II

We were children together! I know you will dream
Of the rock and the valley, the cottage and tree,
Of the bird on the brake, of the boat on the stream,
Of the book and the lute, of my roses and me:
When Pleasure deceives you, and young Hope departs,
And the pulse of Ambition beats weary and low,
My brother—my brother—come back to our hearts;
Let us be what we were,—long ago—long ago!

August, 1832.

379

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.

I

I remember—I remember
How my childhood fleeted by,—
The mirth of its December,
And the warmth of its July;
On my brow, love, on my brow, love,
There are no signs of care;
But my pleasures are not now, love,
What Childhood's pleasures were.

II

Then the bowers—then the bowers
Were blithe as blithe could be;
And all their radiant flowers
Were coronals for me:
Gems to-night, love—gems to-night, love,
Are gleaming in my hair;
But they are not half so bright, love,
As Childhood's roses were.

380

III

I was singing—I was singing,
And my songs were idle words;
But from my heart was springing
Wild music like a bird's:
Now I sing, love—now I sing, love,
A fine Italian air;
But it's not so glad a thing, love,
As Childhood's ballads were!

IV

I was merry—I was merry
When my little lovers came,
With a lily, or a cherry,
Or a new invented game;
Now I've you, love—now I've you, love,
To kneel before me there:
But you know you're not so true, love,
As Childhood's lovers were!

June, 1833.

381

SHADOWS OF SADNESS.

I

Shadows of sadness
Come o'er thy young bride;
They cloud all her giadness,
They calm all her pride;
A bright home I leave, love;
From dear friends I fly;
In bliss I must grieve, love;
In bliss let me sigh!

II

On the green bowers
That echoed my song,—
On all the glad flowers
I cherished so long,—
On yon merry brook, love,
In light gushing by,
I look my last look, love;
For these let me sigh!

382

III

There my gay brother
Less joyous is grown;
And there my fond mother
Sits pensive and lone;
Roam—rest where I will, love,
Beneath a fair sky,
They'll sigh for me still, love;—
For them let me sigh!

IV

Though I forget not
The name I bear now,
And though I regret not
The ring or the vow,
A cloud's on my heart, love,
A tear's in mine eye;
Most dear as thou art, love,
To-day let me sigh!

December 16, 1836.

383

CHARADES AND ENIGMAS.

[_]

Due to an error in binding, the pagination of this section was not sequential. The poems have been keyed in their correct numerical order.

385

I. HEART-FREE

The First is for love and thee, Mary,—
The First is for love and thee;
And so firmly hold
Those links of gold,
That the Second it never shall be—Mary!

The Second is ever free, Mary,—
Free as the foaming brine;
As the fires that fly
From the poet's eye,
Or the laugh that speaks in thine—Mary!

Though the First be a wayward thing, Mary,—
Though a wayward thing it be,
When thought hath power
In the midnight hour,
Be sure it is ever with thee—Mary!

386

II. ENIGMA. THE LETTER A

Through thy short and shadowy span
I am with thee, Child of Man;
With thee still, from first to last,
In pain and pleasure, feast and fast,
At thy cradle and thy death,
Thine earliest wail, and dying breath.
Seek not thou to shun or save,
On the earth, or in the grave;
The worm and I, the worm and I,
In the grave together lie.

November, 1821.

387

III. GOOD-NIGHT

Sir Hilary charged at Agincourt;
Sooth, 'twas an awful day!
And though in that old age of sport
The rufflers of the camp and court
Had little time to pray,
'Tis said Sir Hilary muttered there
Two syllables by way of prayer:

My First to all the brave and proud
Who see to-morrow's sun:
My Next, with her cold and quiet cloud,
To those who find their dewy shroud
Before to-day's be done:
And both together to all blue eyes,
That weep when a warrior nobly dies.

388

IV. ENIGMA. A BOTTLE

A Templar kneeled at a Friar's knee:
He was a comely youth to see,
With curling locks, and forehead high,
And flushing cheek, and flashing eye;
And the Monk was as jolly and large a man
As ever laid lip to a convent can
Or called for a contribution,
As ever read at midnight hour
Confessional in lady's bower,
Ordained for a peasant the penance whip,
Or spoke for a noble's venial slip
A venal absolution.

“O Father! in the dim twilight
I have sinned a grievous sin to-night;
And I feel hot pain e'en now begun
For the fearful murder I have done.

“I rent my victim's coat of green,
I pierced his neck with my dagger keen;
The red stream mantled high:

389

I grasped him, Father, all the while,
With shaking hand, and feverish smile,
And said my jest, and sang my song,
And laughed my laughter, loud and long,
Until his glass was dry!

“Though he was rich, and very old,
I did not touch a grain of gold,
But the blood I drank from the bubbling vein
Hath left on my lip a purple stain!”

“My son! my son! for this thou hast done;
Though the sands of thy life for aye should run,”
The merry Monk did say,
“Though thine eye be bright, and thine heart be light,
Hot spirits shall haunt thee all the night,
Blue devils all the day!”

The thunders of the Church were ended;
Back on his way the Templar wended;
But the name of him the Templar slew
Was more than the Inquisition knew.

390

V. RAINBOW

My First in torrents bleak and black
Was rushing from the sky,
When with my Second at his back
Young Cupid wandered by:
“Now take me in; the moon hath past;
I pray ye, take me in!
The lightnings flash, the hail falls fast,
All Hades rides the thunder-blast;
I'm dripping to the skin!”

“I know thee well, thy songs and sighs;
A wicked god thou art,
And yet most welcome to the eyes,
Most witching to the heart!”
The Wanderer prayed another prayer,
And shook his drooping wing;
The Lover bade him enter there,
And wrung my First from out his hair,
And dried my Second's string.

391

And therefore—(so the urchin swore,
By Styx, the fearful river,
And by the shafts his quiver bore,
And by his shining quiver)
That Lover aye shall see my Whole
In Life's tempestuous Heaven;
And, when the lightnings cease to roll,
Shall fix thereon his dreaming soul
In the deep calm of even.

392

VI. FIREFLY

The Indian lover burst
From his lone cot by night;—
When Love hath lit my First
In hearts by Passion nurst,
Oh who shall quench the light?

The Indian left the shore;
He heard the night-wind sing,
And cursed the tardy oar,
And wished that he could soar
Upon my Second's wing.

The blast came cold and damp;
But all the voyage through
I lent my lingering lamp,
As o'er the marshy swamp
He paddled his canoe.

393

VII. ENIGMA. A CHIME OF BELLS

In other days, when hope was bright,
Ye spake to me of love and light,
Of endless spring, and cloudless weather,
And hearts that doted linked together!

But now ye tell another tale;
That life is brief, and beauty frail,
That joy is dead, and fondness blighted,
And hearts that doted disunited!

Away! ye grieve and ye rejoice
In one unfelt unfeeling voice;
And ye, like every friend below,
Are hollow in your joy and woe!

394

VIII. KNIGHTHOOD

Alas for that forgotten day
When Chivalry was nourished,
When none but friars learned to pray,
And beef and beauty flourished,
And fraud in kings was held accurst,
And falsehood sin was reckoned,
And mighty cnargers bore my First,
And fat monks wore my Second!

Oh then I carried sword and shield,
And casque with flaunting feather
And earned my spurs in battle field,
In winter and rough weather;
And polished many a sonnet up
To ladies' eyes and tresses,
And learned to drain my father's cup,
And loose my falcon's jesses.

How grand was I in olden days!
How gilded o'er with glory!
The happy mark of ladies' praise,
The theme of minstrels' story;

395

Unmoved by fearful accidents,
All hardships stoutly spurning,
I laughed to scorn the elements—
And chiefly those of Learning.

Such things have vanished like a dream;
The mongrel mob grows prouder;
And every thing is done by steam,
And men are killed by powder:
I feel, alas! my fame decay;
I give unheeded orders,
And rot in paltry state away,
With Sheriffs and Recorders.

396

IX. HEART-ACHE

My First's an airy thing.
Joying in flowers,
Evermore wandering
In Fancy's bowers;
Living on beauteous smiles
From eyes that glisten.
And telling of Love's wiles
To ears that listen.

But if, in its first flush
Of warm emotion,
My Second come to crush
Its young devotion,
Oh! then it wastes away,
Weeping and waking,
And, on some sunny day,
Is blest in breaking!

397

X. DEATH-WATCH

On the casement frame the wind beat high;
Never a star was in the sky;
All Kenneth Hold was wrapt in gloom,
And Sir Everard slept in the Haunted Room.

I sat and sang beside his bed;—
Never a single word I said,
Yet did I scare his slumber;
And a fitful light in his eyeball glistened,
And his cheek grew pale as he lay and listened,
For he thought or dreamt that Fiends and Fays
Were reckoning o'er his fleeting days
And telling out their number.
Was it my Second's ceaseless tone?
On my Second's hand he laid his own;
The hand that trembled in his grasp
Was crushed by his convulsive clasp.

Sir Everard did not fear my First;—
He had seen it in shapes that men deem worst,
In many a field and flood;

398

Yet in the darkness of that dread
His tongue was parched and his reason fled,
And he watched, as the lamp burned low and dim,
To see some Phantom, gaunt and grim,
Come dabbled o'er with blood.

Sir Everard kneeled, and strove to pray;
He prayed for light, and he prayed for day,
Till terror checked his prayer;
And ever I muttered clear and well
“Click, click,” like a tolling bell,
Till, bound by Fancy's magic spell,
Sir Everard fainted there.

And oft, from that remembered night,
Around the taper's flickering light
The wrinkled beldames told,
Sir Everard had knowledge won
Of many a murder darkly done,
Of fearful sights, and fearful sounds,
And Ghosts that walk their midnight rounds
In the Tower of Kenneth Hold!

1822.

399

XI. BOWSTRING

The canvas rattled on the mast
As rose the swelling sail,
And gallantly the vessel past
Before the cheering gale;
And on my First Sir Florice stood,
As the far shore faded now,
And looked upon the lengthening flood
With a pale and pensive brow:—
“When shall I bear thy silken glove
Where the proudest Moslem flee,
My lady love, my lady love,—
O waste one thought on me!”

Sir Florice lay in a dungeon cell
With none to soothe or save,
And high above his chamber fell
The echo of the wave;
But still he struck my Second there,
And bade its tones renew
Those hours when every hue was fair
And every hope was true:—

400

“If still your angel footsteps move
Where mine may never be,
My lady love, my lady love,
O dream one dream of me!

Not long the Christian captive pined!—
My Whole was round his neck;
A sadder necklace ne'er was twined
So white a skin to deck:
Queen Folly ne er was yet content
With gems or golden store,
But he who wears this ornament
Will rarely sigh for more:—
“My spirit to the Heaven above,
My body to the sea,
My heart to thee, my lady love,—
O weep one tear for me!”

401

XII. MOONLIGHT

Row on, row on!—The First may light
My shallop o'er the wave to-night,
But she will hide in a little while
The lustre of her silent smile;
For fickle she is, and changeful still,
As a madman's wish, or a woman's will.

Row on, row on!—The Second is high
In my own bright Lady's balcony;
And she beside it, pale and mute,
Untold her beads, untouched her lute,
Is wondering why her lover's skiff
So slowly glides to the lonely cliff.

Row on, row on!—when the Whole is fled,
The song will be hushed and the rapture dead,
And I must go in my grief again
To the toils of day and the haunts of men,—
To a future of fear and a present of care,
And Memory's dream of the things that were.

My Second was born a wayward thing,
Like others of his name,
With a fancy as light as the gossamer's wing
And a spirit as hot as flame;
And apt to trifle time away,
And rather fool than knave,
And either very gravely gay
Or very gaily grave;

403

And far too weak and far too wild
And far too free of thought
To rend what Venus' laughing child
On Vulcan's anvil wrought.

And alas! as he led, that festal night,
His mistress down the stair,
And felt by the flambeau's flickering light
That she was very fair,
He did not guess,—as they paused to hear
How Music's dying tone
Came mournfully to the distant ear
With a magic all its own,—
That the Archer-God to thrall his soul
Was lingering in the porch,
Disguised that evening like my Whole.
With a sooty face and torch!

404

XIV. BELLROPE

When Ralph by holy hands was tied
For life to blooming Cis,
Sir Thrifty too drove home his bride,
A fashionable Miss.
That day my First with jovial sound
Proclaimed the happy tale,
And drunk was all the country round
With pleasure or with ale.

Oh! why should Hymen ever blight
The roses Cupid wore?
Or why should it be ever night
Where it was day before?—
Or why should women have a tongue?
Or why should it be curst
In being, like my Second, long,
And louder than my First?

405

“You blackguard!” cries the rural wench,
My Lady screams—“Ah! bête!”
And Lady Thrifty scolds in French,
And Cis in Billingsgate;
Till both their Lords my Second try
To end connubial strife,
Sir Thrifty has the means to die,
And Ralph, to beat his wife!

406

XV. BUTTRESS

Lord Ronald by the gay torch-light
Held revel in his hall;
He broached my First, that jovial Knight,
And pledged his vassals tall;
The red stream went from wood to can
And then from can to mouth,
And the deuce a man knew how it ran
Nor heeded north or south:
“Let the health go wide,” Lord Ronald cried,
As he saw the river flow;—
“One cup to-night to the noblest bride
And one to the stoutest foe!”

Lord Ronald kneeled, when the morning came,
Low in his mistress' bower;
And she gave him my Second, that beauteous dame,
For a spell in danger's hour;
Her silver shears were not at hand;
And she smiled a playful smile,
As she cleft it with her lover's brand,
And grew not pale the while:

407

And “Ride, and ride!” Lord Ronald cried,
As he kissed its auburn glow;
“For he that woos the noblest bride
Must beard the stoutest foe!”

Lord Ronald stood, when the day shone fair,
In his garb of glittering mail,
And marked how my Whole was crumbling there
With the battle's iron hail:
The bastion and the battlement
On many a craven crown
Like rocks from some huge mountain rent
Were trembling darkly down:
“Whate'er betide,” Lord Ronald cried,
As he bade his trumpets blow:
“I shall win to-day the noblest bride,
Or fall by the stoutest foe!”

408

XVI. PEACOCK

I graced Don Pedro's revelry,
All drest in fire and feather,
When Loveliness and Chivalry
Were met to feast together;
He flung the slave who moved the lid
A purse of maravedis,—
And this that gallant Spaniard did
For me, and for the Ladies.

He vowed a vow, that noble Knight,
Before he went to table,
To make his only sport the fight,
His only couch the stable,
Till he had dragged, as he was bid,
Five score of Turks to Cadiz,—
And this that gallant Spaniard did
For me, and for the Ladies.

409

To ride through mountains, where my First
A banquet would be reckoned,—
Through deserts where, to quench their thirst,
Men vainly turn my Second;—
To leave the gates of fair Madrid,
To dare the gates of Hades,—
And this that gallant Spaniard did,
For me, and for the Ladies.

410

XVII. MOONSHINE

He talked of daggers and of darts.
Of passions and of pains,
Of weeping eyes and wounded hearts,
Of kisses and of chains;
He said though Love was kin to Grief
She was not born to grieve;
He said though many rued belief
She safely might believe.
But still the Lady shook her head,
And swore by yea and nay
My Whole was all that he had said,
And all that he could say.

He said my First, whose silent car
Was slowly wandering by,
Veiled in a vapour, faint and far,
Through the unfathomed sky,
Was like the smile whose rosy light
Across her young lips past,
Yet oh! it was not half so bright,
It changed not half so fast.

411

But still the Lady shook her head,
And swore by yea and nay
My Whole was all that he had said,
And all that he could say.

And then he set a cypress wreath
Upon his raven hair,
And drew his rapier from its sheath,
Which made the Lady stare;
And said, his life-blood's purple flow
My Second there should dim
If she he served and worshipped so
Would weep one tear for him.—
But still the Lady shook her head.
And swore by yea and nay
My Whole was all that he had said,
And all that he could say.

412

XVIII. WODEN

Uncouth was I of face and form,
But strong to blast and blight,
By pestilence and thunderstorm,
By famine and by fight;
I pierced the rivets of the mail,
I maimed the war-steed's hoof,
I bade the yellow harvest fail,
And sent the blast to rend the sail
And the bolt to rend the roof.

Within my Second's dark recess
In silent pomp I dwelt,
Before the mouth in lowliness
My rude adorers knelt;
'Twas a fearful place; a pile of stones
Stood for its stately door;
Its music was of sighs and groans,
And the torch light fell on human bones
Unburied on the floor!

413

The chieftain, ere his band he led,
Came thither with his prayer;
The boatman, ere his sail he spread,
Watched for an omen there;
And ever the shriek rang loud within,
And ever the red blood ran,
And amid the sin and smoke and din
I sate with a changeless, endless grin,
Forging my First for Man!

My priests are rotting in their grave,
My shrine is silent now;
There is no victim in my cave,
No crown upon my brow;
Nothing is left but dust and clay
Of all that was divine;
My name and my memory pass away,
But dawn and dusk of one fair day
Are called by mortals mine.

414

XIX. NECKLACE

My First to-night in young Haidee
Is so surpassing fair,
That though my Second precious be
It shews all faded there;
And let my Whole be never twined
To shame those beaming charms,
A richer one she cannot find
Than fond Affections arms.

1826.

XX. WINDLASS

He who can make my First to roll
When not a breath is blowing.
May very slightly turn my Whole
To set a mountain going:

He who can curb my Second's will
When she's inclined for roving,
May turn my Whole more slightly still
To cure the moon of moving!

XXI. SEASON

Across my First, with flash and roar,
The stately vessel glides alone;
And silent on the crowded shore
There kneels an aged crone,
Watching my Second's parting smile
As he looks farewell to his native isle.

My Whole comes back to other eyes
With beauteous change of fruits and flowers;
But black to her are those bright skies,
And sad those joyous bowers;
Alas! my First is dark and deep,
And my Second cannot hear her weep!

XXII. CROSSBOW

Sir Eustace goes to the far Crusade
In radiant armour drest;
And my First is graven on his blade,
And broidered on his breast.

And a flush is on his cheek and brow.
And a fever in his blood,
As he stands upon my Second now,
And gazes on the flood.

Away, away!—the canvas drives
Like a sea-bird's rustling wing;
My Whole hath a score of Moslem lives
Upon its twanging string.

402

XXIII. DONKEY

My First came forth in booted state
For far Valencia bound,
And smiled to feel my Second's weight
And hear its creaking sound:
And “Here's a gaoler, sweet,” quoth he,
“You cannot bribe or cozen:
To keep one ward in custody
Wise men will forge a dozen.”

But day-break saw a Lady ride
My Whole across the plain,
With a handsome Cavalier beside
To hold her bridle-rein:
And “Blessing on the bonds,” quoth he,
“Which wrinkled Age imposes!
If Woman must your prisoner be
Your chain should be of roses.”

415

XXIV. COURTSHIP

Oh yes! her childhood hath been nurst
In all the follies of my First;
And why doth she turn from the glittering throng,
From the Courtier's jest, and the Minstrel's song?

Why doth she look where the ripples play
Around my Second in yon fair bay,
While the boat in the twilight nears the shore,
With her speechless crew, and her muffled oar?

Hath she not heard in her lonely bower
My Whole's fond tale of magic power?
Softer and sweeter that music flows
Than the Bulbul's hymn to the midnight rose.

416

XXV. GLOW-WORM

My First, that was so fresh and fair
Hath faded—faded from thy face;
And pale Decay hath left no trace
Of bloom and beauty there.

And round that virgin heart of thine
My Second winds his cold caress;
That virgin heart, whose tenderness
Was Passion's purest shrine.

Roses are springing on thy clay;
And there my Whole, obscurely bright,
Still shows his little lamp by night
And hides it still by day.

Aptly it decks that cypress bower,
For even thus thy faith was proved,
Most clearly seen, most fondly loved,
In Sorrow's darkest hour.

417

XXVI. NIGHTSHADE

When my First flings down o'er tower and town
Its sad and solemn veil,
When the tempests sweep o'er the angry deep
And the stars are ghastly pale,
And the gaunt wolves howl to the answering owl
In the pause of the fitful gale,

My Second will come to his ancient home
From his dark and narrow bed;
His warrior heel is cased in steel,
But ye cannot hear its tread;
And the beaming brand is in his hand,
But ye need not fear the dead.

Through battle and blast his bark had past,
O'er many a stormy tide;
He had burst in twain the tyrant's chain,
He had won the beauteous bride;
From the field of fame unscathed he came,
And by my Whole he died.

418

XXVII. WARDEN

Up, up, Lord Raymond, to the fight!
Gird on thy bow of yew!
And see thy javelin's point be brignt,
Thy falchion's temper true;
For over the hill and over the vale
My First is pouring its iron hail.

No craven he! yet beaten back
From the field of death he fled;
My Second yawned upon his track,
The lion's lonely bed;
He smote the Monarch in his lair,
And buried his rage and anguish there.

At dawn and dusk my Whole goes forth
On the ladder's topmost round;
He looks to the south, he looks to the north,
He bids the bugle sound;
But many a cheerless moon must wane,
Ere his exiled lord return again.

419

XXVIII. BRIDEGROOM

Morning is beaming o'er brake and bower;
Hark to the chimes from yonder tower!
Call ye my First from her chamber now,
With her snowy veil, and her jewelled brow.

Lo, where my Second in gallant array
Leads from his stable her beautiful bay,
Looking for her, as he curvets by,
With an arching neck, and a glancing eye.

Spread is the banquet, and studied the song;
Ranged in meet order the menial throng;
Jerome is ready with book and stole;
And the maidens fling flowers:—but where is my Whole?

Look to the hill; is he climbing its side?
Look to the stream; is he crossing its tide?
Out on him, false one; he comes not yet!
Lady, forget him! yea, scorn and forget!

420

XXIX. NIGHTCAP

My First was dark o'er earth and air,
As dark as she could be;
The stars that gemmed her ebon hair
Were only two or three;
King Cole saw twice as many there
As you or I could see.

“Away, King Cole!” mine hostess said;
“Flagon and flask are dry;
Your nag is neighing in the shed,
For he knows a storm is nigh:”
She set my Second on his head,
And she set it all awry.

He stood upright upon his legs;
Long life to good King Cole!
With wine and cinnamon, ale and eggs,
He filled a silver bowl;
He drained the draught to the very dregs,
And he called that draught—my Whole.

421

XXX. CAMPBELL

Come from my First, ay, come;
The battle dawn is nigh;
And the screaming trump and the thundering drum
Are calling thee to die;
Fight, as thy father fought;
Fall, as thy father fell:
Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought;—
So, forward! and farewell!

Toll ye my Second, toll;
Fling high the flambeau's light;
And sing the hymn for a parted soul
Beneath the silent night;
The helm upon his head,
The cross upon his breast,
Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed;
Now take him to his rest!

426

Call ye my Whole, go, call;
The Lord of lute and lay;
And let him greet the sable pall
With a noble song to-day:
Ay, call him by his name;
No fitter hand may crave
To light the flame of a soldier's fame
On the turf of a soldiers grave!

427

XXXI. CAMBRIDGE

My First in its usual quiet way
Was creeping along on a wintry day,
When a minstrel came to its muddy bed,
With a harp on his shoulder, a wreath on his head;
And “How shall I cross,” the poor bard cried,
“To the cloisters and courts on the other side?”

Old Euclid came; he frowned a frown;
He flung the harp and the green wreath down;
And he led the boy with a stately march
To my Second's neat and narrow Arch;
And “See,” quoth the sage, “how every ass
Over the sacred stream must pass.”

428

The youth was mournful, the youth was mute;
He sighed for his laurel, and sobbed for his lute;
The youth took courage, the youth took snuff;
He followed in faith his teacher gruff;
And he sits ever since on my Whole's kind lap
In a silken gown, and a trencher cap.

429

XXXII. HEIRLOOM

An aged man with locks of snow
Sits o'er his glass serenely gay;
Plain Tom the weaver long ago,
Sir Thomas Clover, Knight, to-day:
My First beside his grandsire stands,
A comely stripling, stout and tall,
The future lord of his broad lands
And of his hospitable hall.

“What can it mean, my pretty toy,
With all its wheels, and threads, and springs?”
And as he speaks, the wondering boy
His arms around his grandsire flings:
He's puzzled, puzzled, more and more;
And putting on a look of thought,
He turns my Second o'er and o'er,
A silver model deftly wrought.

430

The good Knight hears with placid smile,
And bids him in the plaything view
A proud memorial of the toil
By which his grandsire's fortunes grew:
And tells him this my Whole shall be;
Still handed down from son to son,
To teach them by what industry
Their titles and their lands were won.

431

XXXIII. FOOTPAD

The Palmer comes from the Holy Land;
Scarce on my First can the Palmer stand:
The Prior will take the air to-day;
In my Second the Prior trots away:
His pleasanter under a summer sun
With robes to ride, than with rags to run.

My Whole leaped out of the road-side ditch,
With “Stand!” to the poor man, and “Stand!” to the rich:
From the Prior he strips his mantie fair;
From the Palmer he wins but pity and prayer:
'Tis safer when crime is prowling wide
With rags to run, than with robes to ride.

432

XXXIV. CUPBOARD

O'Donoghue came to the hermit's cell;
He climbed the ladder, he pulled the bell;
“I have ridden,” said he, with the Saint to dine
On his richest meat, and his reddest wine.”

The Hermit hasted my First to fill
With water from the limpid rill;
And “Drink,” quoth he, “of the juice, brave Knight,
Which breeds no fever, and prompts no fight.”

The Hermit hasted my Second to spread
With stalks of lettuce and crusts of bread;
And “Taste,” quoth he, “of the cates, fair guest,
Which bring no surfeit, and break no rest.”

Hasty and hungry the Chief explored
My Whole with the point of his ready sword,
And found, as yielded the latch and lock,
A pasty of game and a flagon of hock.

433

XXXV. BRIMSTONE

The night was dark, the night was damp:
St. Bruno read by his lonely lamp.
The Fiend dropped in to make a call,
As he posted away to a fancy ball;
And “Can't I find,” said the Father of lies,
“Some present a Saint may not despise?”

Wine he brought him, such as yet
Was ne'er on Pontiff's table set:
Weary and faint was the holy man,
But he crossed with a cross the Tempter's can,
And saw, ere my First to his parched lip came,
That it was red with liquid flame.

Jewels he showed him—many a gem
Fit for a Sultan's diadem:
Dazzled, I trow, was the anchorite:
But he told his beads with all his might;
And instead of my Second, so rich and rare,
A pinch of worthless dust lay there.

434

A Lady at last he handed in,
With a bright black eye and a fair white skin:
The stern ascetic flung, 'tis said,
A ponderous missal at her head:
She vanished away; and what a smell
Of my Whole she left in the hermit's cell!

435

XXXVI RHINEGRAVE

Upon my First's blue stream
The moon's cold light is sleeping,
And Marion in her mournful dream
Is wandering there and weeping.
Where is my Whole?—this hour
His boat should cleave the water;
He is a Knight of pride and power,
But he loves the Huntsman's daughter.

The shroud her marriage vest—
The stone her nuptial pillow—
So, in my Second let her rest,
Beneath the grieving willow.
Where is my Whole?—go Song,
Go solemn Song, to chide him;
His hall lets in a revelling throng,
And a gay bride smiles beside him!

August, 1829.

436

XXXVII. BLOCKHEAD

He hath seen the tempest lower;
He hath dared the foeman's spear;
He hath welcomed death on tide and tower:
How will he greet him here?
My First was set, and in his place
You might see the dark man stand,
With a fearful vizor on his face,
And a bright axe in his hand.

Short shrift, and hurried praver:
Now bid the pale priest go;
And let my Second be bound and bare
To meet the fatal blow.
The dark man grinned in bitter scorn;
And you might hear him say,
“It was black as jet but yestermorn,
Whence is it white to-day?”

437

“Rise!—thou art pardoned!”—vain!
Lift up the lifeless clay;
On the skin no scratch, on the steel no stain,—
But the soul hath past away.
The dark man laid his bright axe by
As he heard the tower clock chime;
And he thought that none but my Whole would die
A minute before the time.

July, 1829.

438

XXXVIII. FOXGLOVE

There hangs a picture in an ancient hall:
A groop of hunters meeting in their joy
On a green lawn; the gladdest of them all
Is old Sir Geoffrey's heir, a bright-eyed boy
A little girl has heard the bugle call,
And she is running from her task or toy
To whisper caution: on the pony bounds,
And see, my First steals off before the hounds.

There is another picture;—that wild youth
Is grown to manhood; by the great salt lake
He clasps his new sword on; and gentle Ruth
Smiles, smiles and sobs, as if her heart would break.
And talks right well of constancy and truth,
And bids him keep my Second for her sake,—
A precious pledge that, wander where he will,
One heart will think and dream about him still.

439

And yet another picture; from far lands
The truant is returned; but ah, his bride,
Sickness hath marred her beauty! mute he stands,
Mute in the darkened chamber by her side;
And brings the medicine, sweetest from those hands,
Still whispering hope which she would check or chide.
Doth the charmed cup recall the fainting soul
E'en from Death's grasp? Oh! blessings on my Whole!

1831.

University of Virginia Library

I. VOL. I

TALES.

LILLIAN.

A FAIRY TALE.

CANTO I.

CANTO II.

GOG.

CANTO I.

CANTO II.

THE TROUBADOUR.

CANTO I.

CANTO II.

CANTO III.[_] The Troubadour was never finished. Fragments only of the third Canto have been found, written upon stray leaves of paper.

THE LEGEND OF THE HAUNTED TREE.

THE LEGEND OF THE DRACHENFELS.

L'ENVOI.

I

II

III

IV

THE BRIDAL OF BELMONT.

A LEGEND OF THE RHINE.

THE LEGEND OF THE TEUFEL-HAUS.

THE RED FISHERMAN,

OR THE DEVIL'S DECOY.

POEMS OF LOVE AND FANCY.

LIDIAN'S LOVE.

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

XX

XXI

XXII

XXIII

XXIV

XXV

XXVI

XXVII

XXVIII

XXIX

XXX

XXXI

XXXII

XXXIII

XXXIV

XXXV

XXXVI

XXXVII

XXXVIII

MY FIRST FOLLY

STANZAS WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT.

A SHOOTING STAR.

STANZAS

WRITTEN FOR A FRIEND.

L'INCONNUE.

PEACE BE THINE.

TO ------.

I.

I

II

III

IV

V

CANTO III.
[_]

The Troubadour was never finished. Fragments only of the third Canto have been found, written upon stray leaves of paper.