Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Poems

By John Moultrie. New ed

Moultrie, John (1799-1874)

[VOLUME I]

PART I.

POEMS OF YOUTH AND EARLY MANHOOD.

OCCASIONAL POEMS.

METRICAL ROMANCES.

THE WITCH OF THE NORTH.

II.

II.

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MAIMOUNE,—A POEM.

CANTO I.

I

In those fantastic days, when elves and fairies
Held high command o'er sublunary things,
And teased us mortals with as mad vagaries
As ever sprung from bard's imaginings,
Playing strange pranks in cellars and in dairies,
Riding the Nightmare o'er the breasts of kings;
Souring good beer, cow-milking, and cream-skimming,
And thumping clowns by night, and pinching women:

II

When madcap Oberon reign'd in all his glory,
Now holding Kinglike quarrels with his Queen;
And now with Puck upon the promontory,
Seeing such sights as since were never seen;
There lived, renown'd in Oriental story,
A mighty King—we'll call him Fadladeen,
Because his name's not mention'd by the Lady
Whose tale I borrow, Queen Scheherazadé.

III

Fame says he reign'd with wondrous approbation,
(Especially of courtiers and bashaws;)
In times of peace was mild in his taxation,
And made some very creditable laws;

Indeed, in their invidious situation,
Few Monarchs ever gain'd so much applause;
In private life, a truth I can't evade is,
He was a perfect devil with the Ladies.

IV

He had a most inveterate aversion
To matrimonial fetters; and he swore,
In oaths befitting so sublime a person,
That 't was unworthy of the crown he wore,
And inconsistent with the State's exertion,
To wed a number that exceeded four;
And so, to give his royal conscience ease,
He had four Wives, and sixty Mistresses.

V

It seems that this arrangement was ill-made, for
He had no issue, save an only son,
Whom twelve long years he had devoutly pray'd for,
To all his country's Gods;—when all was done
This single boy would have been cheaply paid for
By the oblation of his Father's throne;
For in all lands, from Araby to Aragon,
The Sun ne'er saw so wonderful a paragon.

VI

I don't intend to give a long narration
Of his surpassing beauty, for I hate
Your cursed, detail'd, minute enumeration
Of cheeks, eyes, noses, lips, hair, shape, and gait.
It is enough that he became his station,
He look'd, and walk'd, and spoke, and drank, and ate,
As for a Hero of Romance 't is meet
To look, and walk, and speak, and drink, and eat.

VII

You may suppose the youngster was a pet,
E'en from his cradle, a spoil'd child indeed;

The self-will'd tyrant of the Haram; yet
It seem'd no spoiling could with him succeed.
'Twas very rarely he was known to fret,
And very quickly did he learn to read;
At four years old, I've heard, he wrote some verses
To a lame, humpback'd daughter of his Nurse's.

VIII

And years pass'd swiftly o'er him, and he grew
In stature and in strength; his Tutors swore
(And I believe that it was strictly true)
His Royal Highness knew a vast deal more
Than the most erudite of all their crew;
In fact, they found it an exceeding bore,
Whether for pleasure or for pride he task'd them,
To answer half the questions that he ask'd them.

IX

He was a great proficient in Astrology;
The best Accomptant in his sire's dominions;
Had dipp'd in Mathematics; in Theology
'Twas thought he held heretical opinions;
But this was doubtful:—in all sorts of knowledge he
Was an adept, but on the Muse's pinions
'Twas his delight to soar; when mounted on 'em, he
Cared little for political economy.

X

An earnest lover of the Muse was he,
And did her bidding for her own sweet sake;
Nor Fame he sigh'd for, nor aspired to be
A star among the great; but in the lake
Which flows around the dome of Poesy
He long'd the fever of his thirst to slake;
And drink the Music in his soul, which springs
From her deep, holy, lone imaginings.

XI

No proud intents, no purposes sublime
Had he, nor care for glory not to die;
No aspirations over Fate and Time,
Nor longings after Immortality.
He was no builder of the lofty rhyme,
His own glad thoughts were all his Poesy;
He call'd his Album, in quaint terms of praise,
His “register of comfortable days.”

XII

And thus, from all his bosom's best affections,
And sweet emotions, not unmix'd with pain,
From childhood's hopes, and boyhood's recollections,
And many a roving thought that cross'd his brain,
Season'd with here and there some grave reflections,
He framed a sort of desultory strain.
Of course at Court his rhyming gain'd much credit
From all who had, and some who hadn't read it.

XIII

And thus his boyhood slid in smiles away,
And he was nigh upon his sixteenth year,
When, as it fell upon a certain day,
He had a summons straightway to appear
Before his Father; as he went, they say,
His young limbs shook with an unusual fear;
He had a strange presentiment, no doubt,
That some infernal mischief was about.

XIV

His gracious Father had it seems discern'd
(He was a Prince of infinite sagacity;)
Or it may be, by long experience learn'd,
(Which much confirm'd him in his pertinacity,)
That youthful blood with headstrong passion burn'd,
And play'd the deuce with Princes; so, to dash it, he

Forgot his own antipathies, and swore
His son should marry, and run wild no more.

XV

He had moreover, as his subjects thought,
Some more conclusive reasons of his own;
The King of China would have dearly bought
Just then a close alliance with his Throne;
And had a most enchanting daughter, sought
By the East's proudest, yet the Maiden shone
Unmated still, and fancy-free, enshrined
In the pure brightness of her vestal mind.

XVI

She had seen fifteen summers; Youth had wrapp'd her
In its most radiant loveliness; no glance
Of her wild eyes ere shone without a capture,
E'en through her veil; and oh! to see her dance!
Why 'twould have kill'd our British beaux with rapture,
And caused a “great sensation” e'en in France.
Her voice of Music wander'd through men's ears,
And, when most mirthful, fill'd their eyes with tears.

XVII

Badoura! fair Badoura! would thy charms
Might float before my bliss-bewilder'd vision!
Would I might once enfold thee in my arms,
And fancy thou wert mine in dreams Elysian!
I think I then could laugh at Care's alarms,
And hold the bluest devils in derision;
For ever could we live (my Muse and I)
On the remembrance of that ecstacy.

XVIII

I own it has not been my boyhood's lot
To fall in love so often as is common;
My early flames were speedily forgot,
Replaced but slowly; though the name of woman

Has always occupied a decent spot
In my affections, and I'm sure that no man
Can write more highly than I wrote of late
Of the enjoyments of the married state.

XIX

But, though I grieve extremely to declare it, I
Feel bound to tell what I esteem the truth;
That female beauty is, in fact, a rarity
E'en in the gay, unwrinkled cheeks of youth.
In number, as in charms, there's a disparity
Between the plain and pretty, and in sooth
I meet, at present, with few female eyes
Whose smiles remind me much of Paradise.

XX

Yet have I dwelt, for many a pleasant week, in
A land whose women are the boast of fame;
Hail to the peerless belles around the Wrekin!
Hail to each wedded and unwedded dame!
Though really (unpoetically speaking)
With three exceptions, whom I dare not name,
I wouldn't give the value of a gooseberry
For all the beauty that I've found in S---

XXI

Oh! gentle Lady, with the dark-brown hair
Braided above thy melancholy eyes,
And pale thin cheek so delicately fair,
And voice so full of woman's sympathies;
Woe for thy beauty! the fell demon, Care,
Too soon hath made thy tender heart his prize;
Too soon those smiles, which ever and anon
Threw sunshine o'er thy loveliness, are gone.

XXII

Lonely art thou amid the fluttering crowd
That throngs the gay and gilded drawing-room;
For aye enwrapp'd and darken'd in a cloud
Of cheerless and impenetrable gloom.
The heartless glances of the gay and proud,
Which dwelt so rudely on thy beauty's bloom,
Pass thy pale cheek unheeding, and despise
The dimness of thy sorrow-speaking eyes.

XXIII

Yet when perchance a happier maid hath woken
The sweetness of some old-remember'd air,
Whose touching music to thy heart hath spoken
Of the old days that were so passing fair:
I've seen the spell that hangs around thee broken
By rising visions of the things that were;
And thy faint blush and gushing tears have told
That crush'd affections have not yet grown cold.

XXIV

But oh! to me most lovely and most loved,
In thy calm hour of dreaming solitude;
When I have track'd thy footsteps as they roved
Through the thick mazes of the tangled wood;
Or to sweet sadness by the story moved,
By thy fair side, in mute attention, stood,
Still in thine eyes my lovesick bosom sunning—
But where the devil is my fancy running?

XV

The fair Badoura had conceived a whim in
Her lovely head, of wisdom most profound;
Her brain in wild fantastic dreams was swimming,
Such as with maidens now and then abound,
But rarely vex the pates of married women—
She fancied she might search the world around,

And find no husband in its dreary waste,
To suit her very reasonable taste.

XXVI

And she had sworn by every good Divinity
That ever on Olympus had a throne,
That, should her days be lengthen'd to infinity,
No husband ever should unloose her zone,
Nor steal the jewel of her bright virginity;
That treasure should, at least, remain her own.
'Twas a strange whim, but what the stranger fact is,
She seem'd resolved to put the whim in practice.

XXVII

She knelt before her sire, that gentle maid,
Like young Diana at the feet of Jove,
(As mentioned by Callimachus) and pray'd
By all her peace on earth, and hopes above,
That if she ever had his will obey'd,
If he did ever his dear daughter love,
He would permit her still to live and die
In calm, unsullied, sinless chastity.

XXIII

And much she argued on the wiles of men,
Their base deceit, their gross dissimulation,
Their falsehood and their cruelty; and then
She praised the virtues of a single station:
And “if she should be married, when, oh! when
Could she enjoy such mirth and recreation,
Such joyous freedom, such unbounded sport,
As she was used to at her father's court?”

XXIX

Ah! poor Badoura! in a luckless hour
Thou com'st to urge thine innocent intreaty;
No, though thy bright and eloquent eyes should shower
A sea of tears upon thy father's feet, he

Will never yield to their persuasive pow'r!—
He had, in fact, just ratified a treaty
By which his daughter was declared the Queen
Of the young hopeful heir of Fadladeen.

XXX

For six whole months the mischief had been brewing
With such sagacious secrecy, that few
Suspected half the plans that were pursuing,
And not a soul in all the kingdom knew
That his respected Monarch had been doing
What none but Monarchs have the face to do;
And sign'd the contract which he felt would sever
His child from hope and happiness for ever.

XXXI

Alas! poor Royalty! how far removed
Art thou from all the blessedness of earth!
Is't not enough that thou hast never proved
The bliss of friendship, nor enjoy'd the mirth
Of happy spirits, loving and beloved?
Is't not enough that thou must feel the dearth
Of cheering looks, and languidly repress
The hollow smiles of palace heartlessness?

XXXII

Is't not enough that tranquil sleep is driven
From thy uneasy pillow?—that thy brain
Must throb for ever, and thy heart be riven
With weariness and care, and scarce retain
A dream obscure, a wandering ray of heav'n,
So closely fetter'd by the earth's dull chain?
It's not enough that Fancy's self hath left
Thy broken slumber of her joys bereft?

XXXII

Oh! is not this enough? but must thou link
Thy care-worn heart to an unloving mate;

And for the bliss of chaste affection, drink
The bitter cup of carelessness or hate,
Unsolaced and unpitied?—Canst thou think
There is on earth a thing so desolate
As thou, who yieldest for thy tinsel prize
Love's self, our last faint ray from Paradise?

XXXIV

So felt perchance Badoura, as she knelt
Before her father with her strange petition:
Oh! in her voice what sweet persuasion dwelt!
How moving was her look of meek submission!
I don't know how her gracious father felt,
But he was far too great a politician
To let absurd, intrusive feelings glance
Through his profound and passionless countenance.

XV

He simply answer'd, that “he quite agreed
In every single syllable she'd said;
Such notions were most amiable indeed,
And did much credit to her heart and head.
He only grieved that there was urgent need
That she should set off instantly to wed
The heir apparent of a distant State—
Her resolution had been form'd too late.”

XXXVI

This was not what Badoura had expected,
And a distracting scene of course ensued;
The Maid declared the match must be rejected,
The King swore roundly, “d---n him if it should:
She ought to jump to be so well connected;”—
She still persisted that she never would:
He swore that she must do as she was bid,
And should be lock'd up closely till she did.

XXXVII

Poor girl, they shut her in a lonely tower,
(O! subject meet for melancholy verse;)
Nor would the old hard-hearted brute allow her
One poor companion, save her kind old Nurse.
'Twas a sad stretch of arbitrary power,
For the convenience of his privy purse:
(I own to me it seems extremely funny
How money matters mix with matrimony.)

XXXVIII

In the mean time, while all the Chinese court
Was in confusion with this pleasant scene,
Another, quite as pleasant of the sort,
Was acting by the Prince and Fadladeen.
But 'twould be indecorous to report
Such angry squabbles as should ne'er have been.
The Youth, in short, was of the Lady's mind,
And like the Lady was the Youth confined.

XXXIX

Judge not, fair dames, too harshly of his heart,
Nor deem it quite to your attractions blind,
Insensible and dead to Cupid's dart,
And careless of the eyes of womankind,
Perhaps some luckier beauties had the start
Of poor Badoura in his wayward mind;
Perhaps some young Court-Siren's fascination
Within his breast had caused a palpitation.

XL

Perhaps—but no—the truth must be confess'd;
No woman had dominion o'er his soul;
His eyes had wander'd o'er earth's loveliest,
And still his heart was free from their control:
Yet did he madly love, and o'er his rest
Dreams of such bright and passionate beauty stole,

As oft in slumber to the Poet's eyes
Disclose the long-lost joys of Paradise.

XLI

He was, I said, a Poet from his birth,
And fairyland around his boyhood shone;
His soul drank in the beauty of the earth
With fervent joy, but near his Father's throne
How did he feel of kindred souls the dearth!
How sigh for some beloved and loving one,
To whom he might in solitude reveal
Bliss which the hearts around him could not feel!

XLII

So he grew pensive, and at times would wander
Through lonely dell, and unfrequented wood;
And on his fate in deep abstraction ponder,
And in his more imaginative mood
Would picture to himself a dream of wonder,
A lot he would have chosen if he could;
And shadow out a creature who would be
The gentle sharer of his sympathy.

XLIII

And then he search'd the tomes of old romance,
(I don't know how he got romances) there
He cull'd from many a heroine's countenance
The traits he thought most exquisitely fair;
From one he stole her eyes' o'erwhelming glance,
And from another clipp'd her auburn hair:
From this her lips, from that her blushes stole,
And from five hundred form'd one lovely whole.

XLIV

And then for taste and feeling, sense and wit,
With which this dainty creature must abound;
Again he search'd all Tales that e'er were writ,
And chose the brightest models that he found;

Which blending with his dreamings, in a fit
Of joy he swore that all the world around
No living beauty could be found so bright
As that which swam in his Quixottic sight.

XLV

'Twas ever with him, this imagined form;
And as the wayward fancy stronger grew,
The bright creation shone in hues so warm,
So palpably apparent to his view,
That he grew quite enraptured, and a storm
Of such wild passion on his bosom blew,
That in his fits he deem'd the vision real,
And fell in love with this bright shape ideal.

XLVI

It was a silly fancy—never mind;
It made him happy, if it made him mad:
The worst on't was he couldn't feel resign'd
To execute the orders of his Dad.
But when he was, in consequence, confined,
Wrapp'd in this vision, he was seldom sad.
The King imagined that the boy was frantic,
Though the fact was he only was romantic.

XLVII

The good old Monarch loved his headstrong son,
(Though 't was a cruel measure, I must say,
A thing which no wise Father would have done,
To lock him up in that outrageous way;)
And, fearing sorely that his wits were gone,
He bled and dosed him every other day.
'Twas all in vain,—no physic could remove
His wild, ideal, solitary love.

XLVIII

Affairs bore now a most forlorn appearance,
Both Monarchs were confoundedly afraid,

That, spite of their parental interference,
The marriage would be grievously delay'd.
Though both had hopes, they said, “that in a year hence
They might perhaps contrive to be obey'd.”
So in this state we'll leave them for the present,
And turn to prospects rather less unpleasant.

XLIX

I don't know how, for many a weary line
I've prosed of courtship, wedlock, love, and fighting,
Till I've arrived at Stanza forty-nine,
And grown half-weary of the stuff I'm writing;
And yet (confound this stupied head of mine)
Ne'er thought, one single moment, of inditing
A strain of soft and eulogistic flummery,
On your approaching nuptials, Miss Montgomery.

L

A little while—a few short weeks—and thou
Shalt go forth gaily in thy bridal dress;
Serene, yet bearing on thy modest brow
The timid blush of virgin bashfulness.
And thou shalt pledge the irrevocable vow,
And utter (if thou canst) the fatal “Yes”
At which most ladies' lips are apt to falter,
When they come fairly to the marriage altar.

LI

Thou hast done wisely—thy young eloquent eyes
Long might with gentle victories have shone;
Well dost thou choose, for many a fleeting prize,
The better triumph of securing one.
Well dost thou choose, for many a lover's sighs,
A husband's smile; and since we can't but own
That you were form'd for doing execution,
The more praiseworthy is your resolution.

LII

But we shall miss, beside our quiet hearth,
The delicate form, the sunshine of thine eye,
The frankness of thy laughter-loving mirth,
Thy voice so rich in sweetest melody;
And when I seek this dearest spot of Earth,
From my world-weary rovings, I shall sigh
To meet no longer in my Father's hall
The fairest face, the lightest step of all.

LIII

I'll write a fine description in the papers
Of the proceedings of your wedding-day;
And give old maids and bachelors the vapours,
Telling how bright your looks, your dress how gay;
And then Ill praise your milliners and drapers,
Beginning somewhat in the following way:
“Married last week, at --- in this Shire,
Miss H. Montgomery to T. S---, Esquire.”

LIV

Fie on my giggling Muse, who can't be serious
For half a stanza on so grave a theme;
But 'tis in vain for me to be imperious,
When she's determined to rebel; I deem,
Most courteous readers, that this strain will weary us,
And I shall sadly sink in your esteem
If I pursue it longer; if you please
I'll breathe awhile, and give your Worships ease.

LV

Yet, ere I close my Canto, I must mention
What should have been declared some stanzas back—
That 'twas not my original intention
To follow so irregular a track;
And I must own I merit reprehension
And punishment for having been so slack

To introduce you to the sportive Dame,
From whom this wondrous story takes its name.

LVI

I must implore your pardon, and will try
(If you get through this Canto) in my next
To check the rovings of my Phantasy,
And stick a little closer to my text.
“I've wandered from my theme, yet scarce know why,”
As sings a friend of mine,—for I'm perplex'd
For time; could I but polish as I would,
I'd make my Poem wonderfully good.

CANTO II.

I

My ink is mix'd with tears of deep vexation
To know what Mr. Courtenay has decreed;
That here no more our King shall fill his station,
That Club and Punchbowl all to fate must cede!
What! can't we have another Coronation
In the Fusticular Kingdom? I, indeed,
Have half a mind—if it were not so late—
For this same Crown to be a candidate.

II

Ah! Gerard! Gerard! what wouldst thou be doing?
(Quoth my astonish'd Muse) is this thine high
Commiseration of the cares pursuing
The unbless'd course of wretched Royalty?
Why didst thou prate, last Canto, of the ruin
Of Royal spirits?—was it all a lie?
And did you talk in that high-sounding way
Only because you'd nothing else to say?

III

Gerard, I'm quite ashamed of you—take care—
I'll not be treated (trust me) in this sort;
How can you hope to breathe poetic air
In the unhealthy climate of a court?
Do you suppose you'll ever find me there?
Pray have the voters promised you support?
Poetic air, said I?—your chance is small,
Just now, of breathing any air at all.

IV

Haven't you had an asthma all the spring?
Ar'n't you, this moment, wheezing like a kettle?
And yet, forsooth, you want to be a King;
And, though you scarce can fetch your breath, to settle
Affairs of State?—'twould be a pretty thing—
I thought you'd been a man of different metal.
Reign if you will—but when by me forsaken,
You'll find that you're confoundedly mistaken.

V

Sweet Muse, have patience—trust me, I ne'er meant
In earnest to petition for the throne;
Though thou dost smile but seldom, I'm content
With thy uncertain humours; but I own
'Tis a sad bore to have thy fancies pent
Within my brain—all joys of printing flown—
No praise my dear anonymous state to sweeten,
And all because some folks are leaving Eton.

VI

But come once more, and kindly condescend
To lend thine inspiration, dearest Muse;
Look not so grave,—I ask you as a friend,
For, if you don't assist me, I shall lose
My way in long digressions without end,
And not a single reader will peruse

My tedious rhymes—I scarce could get a man to
Wade through my last interminable Canto.

VII

I said, just now, I'd introduce my reader
To the fair Sprite who gives my Tale a name;
And since, in a few stanzas, I shall need her
For special purposes, 'twould be a shame,
Should I delay into your view to lead her;
So forth she steps, this visionary dame,
Maimouné, a mad Fairy, gay and bright
As any elf that e'er play'd pranks by night.

VIII

She came on Earth soon after the creation,
And was akin to Oberon, 'tis said;
In Faeryland received her education,
But never yet had been induced to wed,
Though she was woo'd by half the Elfin nation—
But still a free and roving life she led;
And sought diversion for her gentle mind
Chiefly among the haunts of humankind.

IX

There was a deep and solitary well in
The palace where the Prince was now confined,
Which served this lovely Fairy for a dwelling,
A spot just suited to a Fairy's mind;
Much like the fountain where Narcissus fell in
Love with her own fair face, and pined, and pined
To death (the passion 's not at all uncommon
In Man, and very prevalent in Woman).

X

Beneath this fountain's fresh and bubbling water,
Unfathomably deep, the livelong day,
This wondrous Fairy, Time's most radiant daughter,
In unimaginable visions lay;

Where never earthly care or sorrow sought her,
But o'er her head did the wild waters play,
And flitting spirits of the Earth and Air,
Scatter'd sweet dreams and lulling music there.

XI

For she was well beloved by all th' immortal
Beings that roam through Ocean, Earth, or Sky;
And oft would blessed spirits pass the portal
Of the vast Eden of Eternity
To be her slaves, and to her did resort all
Angelic thoughts, each heavenly phantasy,
That mortals may not know—all came to bless
This gentle Being's dreams of happiness.

XII

And all around that fountain, the pure air
Breathed of her presence; every leaf was hung
With music, and each flow'r that blossom'd there
A fine and supernatural fragrance flung
On the glad sense; and thither did repair
Garlanded maids, and lovers fond and young;
And by the side of the low-murmuring stream
Would youthful Poets lay them down to dream.

XIII

And ever on that spot the rays of Morning
Fell thickest, and the Sun's meridian light
Sparkled and danced amid the waves, adorning
The crystal chamber of the sleeping Sprite.
But when proud Dian walk'd, with maiden scorn, in
The Eastern skies, and the sweet dews of Night
Lay heavy on the Earth, that Sprite arose
Fresh from the visions of the day's repose.

XIV

And then, she gaily wander'd through the world,
Where'er her fancy led her, and would stray

(The sails of her bright meteor-wings unfurl'd)
Through many a populous city, and survey
The chambers of the sleeping; oft she curl'd
The locks of young chaste maidens, as they lay,
And lit new lustre in their sleeping eyes,
And breathed upon their cheeks the bloom of Paradise.

V

And she would scatter o'er the Poet's brain
(As he lay smiling through swift-springing tears)
A strange and unintelligible train
Of fancies, and ring loud into his ears
A long, mysterious, and perplexing strain
Of music, or combine the joy of years
In half an hour of slumber; till he started
From such sweet visions, weeping and wild-hearted.

XVI

And, in her mirthful moments, would she seek
The bachelor's room, and spoil his lonely rest;
Or with old maids play many a wicked freak;
Or rattle loudly at the miser's chest,
Till he woke trembling; she would often wreak
Her vengeance on stern fathers who repress'd
Their children's young and innocent loves, and sold
(Like our two Kings) their happiness for gold.

XVII

I can't tell half the merry tricks she play'd
On earth, nor half the clamour and the fuss
Old women made about her.—I'm afraid
No Sprite was ever half so mischievous.
But so it happen'd that one night she stray'd
Into the Prince's chamber—(prying Puss!
I wonder what the deuce she wanted there
With a young man a-bed, so fresh and fair.)

VIII

Tranquil and happy in his sleep he lay,
For he was dreaming of that vision bright;
And o'er his flush'd cheek stole a wandering ray
Of silent but most passionate delight,
As he was gazing his soul's eyes away
On some imagined form—he was a sight
Of wondrous beauty, and Maimoune stood
Gazing upon him long in solitude.

XIX

Oh! how she long'd to peep beneath the lid
That veil'd his eyes' dark azure, and espy
The sweet imaginations that it hid
Wandering beneath its fringed canopy.
Yet would she not awake him; all she did
Was but one instant on his breast to lie,
And kiss the lips which tremulously moved
As if to meet the lips of her he loved.

XX

Hark! a dull sound swings through the troubled air!
She hears the flapping of unholy wings—
Awhile she listens, mute, with finger fair
Raised to her delicate lips; then swiftly springs
Into the infinite sky—what meets she there?
Ha! a bad spirit in its wanderings
Darkens the face of the full moon, and mars
The pale-eyed beauty of the silent stars.

XXI

Up sprang Maimoune—winds are not so fleet—
Through the spell-troubled atmosphere,—and soon
You might behold those hostile Spirits meet
Within the circle of the full-orb'd moon.
Well knew the Fiend that battle or retreat
To him was hopeless—so he craved a boon;

That as her anger he was loath to stir,
She'd let him pass in peace—and he'd let her.

XXII

“Ho!” quoth the Fairy (and she laugh'd aloud);
“Kind Sir Rebellious, courteous terms are these:
But mine must first be thought on—Spirit proud,
Now whether thy sweet Spritehood doth it please,
That I should dash thee from thy murky cloud
Into yon deep uncomfortable seas;
Or shut those fair and dainty limbs of thine
In the dark trunk of that wind-shaken pine?

XXIII

“Or wilt thou shiver in the realm of Frost,
Ten thousand years fast fetter'd to the Pole?
Or, to the centre of the deep earth toss'd,
There tumble, free from Gravity's control,
In many an antic gambol?—to thy cost
Curst Spirit, thou hast dared me—for a soul
More dark than thou, more mischievously wicked,
Roams not the earth—at least with such a thick head.

XXIV

“I've some old scores to pay you off, Sir, now:—
Didn't I see you tap Tom Goddard's ale?
Didn't you pull down Pocock's barley-mow?
Didn't you nick the parson's pony's tail?
Didn't you milk John Squizzle's spotted cow?
And thump his sister with the milking pail?
Didn't I see you through the keyhole creep,
And give Miss Bab the fidgets in her sleep?

XV

“Can you say anything in your defence?
Whate'er you will I'm ready, Sir, to hear—
What! silent!—have you lost your little sense?
Have you no means of making it appear

That you possess a shadow of pretence
To mercy?—are you quite struck dumb with fear?
Come, I'll not wait—you stupid Spirit, speak—
What mischief have you done, this many a week?”

XXVI

The Spirit trembled as he made reply:
“Most beautiful Maimouné, I confess
That I must owe, henceforth, my liberty
(Which I deserve not) to your gentleness.
Much mischief surely have I done, yet I
May, with some reason, venture to express
A hope that I've, for once, refrain'd from doing
My poor endeavour to engender ruin.

XXVII

“There is a high and solitary tower
Near China's proud Metropolis, and there
As I pass'd o'er it at the midnight hour,
Suspended in the vast and moon-lit air,—
Lying in soft Sleep's poppy-breathing bower,
I saw a maiden exquisitely fair!—
You may conceive what charms must be her lot,
When I assure you that I pinch'd her not!

XXVIII

“She quite disarm'd me of my old propensities;
I had no thought of doing any harm
To her—I would not for the wealth of ten cities
Have thrill'd that bosom with the least alarm.
‘What beauty!’ I exclaim'd, ‘oh! how intense it is!
How exquisite her neck—her hand—her arm!
Her lips!—oh! might I with a kiss surprise
The slumbers hanging on those shrouded eyes.’

XXIX

“But I breathed o'er her a profounder sleep,
And drove away all images of fear

From her repose; then softly did I creep,
And whisper dreams of wonder in her ear.
Thus, many a night, did I my vigils keep
Beside her pillow, till she grew most dear
E'en to my nature—by her eyes I swear
The world holds not another thing so fair!”

XXX

“Now,” quoth the nettled Fay, “mine own I'd wager
(Might I hold commerce with such things as thou,
And wouldst thou dare in such a strife to gage her)
That this thy beauty bears not such a brow
Of loveliness (I don't mean to enrage her)
As a young wonder whom I saw just now:
And (what would more her female nature vex)
My brighter beauty's of the other sex.

XXXI

“Nay, since you look incredulous, Sir Fiend,
I must your senses by strong proof convince;
So beg that you'll this instant condescend
To lay your sleeping Princess by my Prince
In yon lone turret—back to China wend—
Bring hither this fair paragon—and since
You dare to stake your judgment against mine,
We'll see which beauty is the more divine.”

XXXII

She spoke—upon the word his raven pinions
The dark-brow'd Spirit for the voyage spread,
And to the Chinese Monarch's far dominions,
Swift, straight, and fearless, through mid air he sped;
Where (still unshaken in his old opinions)
He bore Badoura, sleeping from her bed,
And lodged her safely in the Prince's tower,
Close by his side, in less than half an hour.

XXXIII

Had I but time I'd tell you how enchanting
She look'd, when waving in the midnight breeze,
As the strong Spirit bore her onward, panting
With haste, o'er towns, and continents, and seas.
In raiment her fair limbs were sadly wanting,
For she wore nothing but a thin chemise;
And, as the moonbeams bathed her in their light,
She seem'd some wandering meteor of the night,

XXXIV

Or star dropp'd from the firmament; but when
She lay still sleeping, by the Prince's side—
The fairest she of women—he of men—
Both Spirits own'd, it could not be denied
That Earth ne'er saw such beauty. Ne'er again
Will such a bridegroom sleep by such a bride,
And ne'er again, while we live—I'm afraid,
Will pranks so pleasant be by Fairies play'd.

XXXV

Awhile the Fairies bent in silence o'er them,
Comparing lip with lip, and nose with nose;
And for their beauty could almost adore them;
But soon the old dispute again arose;
And to such lengths their angry passion bore them,
That they had nearly come from words to blows,
But that the evil Spirit fear'd to fight
With so confounded passionate a Sprite.

XXXVI

At length 'twas settled, with the full consent
Of both, that the dispute should be referr'd
(Since neither to resign the contest meant)
To the unbiass'd judgment of a third:
And they both swore that they would be content,
When this their quarrel should be fairly heard,

With his decision. So Maimoune call'd
A Spirit whom her beauty had enthrall'd

XXXVII

For fifteen hundred years. The Spirit came—
A creature form'd by nature for a lover;
Blear-eyed, and bow-legg'd, hump-back'd, horn'd, and lame;
I wonder how such beauty fail'd to move her:
But she had never yet confess'd a flame,
Though she had made this dainty Knight a rover,
Since he first woo'd her, over seas and lands,
Ten times a-day, to do her mild commands.

XXXVIII

In this behaviour did my Sprite resemble
All mortal women whom I ever knew;
Good Lord! I'm now, while writing, in a tremble,
To think of all the labour I went through
When I was courting Miss Jemima Kemble;
Never had galley-slave so much to do:
Never poor husband of a wife who chided
Could lead, in this world, such a life as I did.

XXXIX

Well! I'm still single!—but I can't forget
How oft I've trudged for many a dusty mile
On some ridiculous errand,—or got wet
In expectation of at least a smile;
And then, returning, found her in a pet
Because “I'd kept her waiting such a while.”
And then the shawls and tippets that I carried;
The scrapes she led me into—till she married.

XL

Up rose the Spirit thus so deeply smitten,
And most politely fell upon his knees;
(His name can't be pronounced, and scarcely written,
And so we'll call him Cupid if you please:)

His mistress told him of the plan she'd hit on,
And begg'd his judgment would the strife appease:
And Cupid grinn'd, and look'd extremely proud,
To have his taste in beauty thus allow'd.

XLI

But when he very carefully had eyed,
With spectacles on nose, the sleeping pair,
He gravely said it could not be denied—
That they were both superlatively fair.
He was extremely puzzled to decide
Which was the more so, and could not declare
To which his judgment would award the prize,
Unless he was allow'd to see their eyes.

XLII

So said, so done;—the magic spell was broken
Which hung upon the slumber-sealed eyes
Of the young Prince, and he was fairly woken
From his sweet dreams; then, oh! with what surprise
He saw the form beside him, a bright token
Of the Gods' favour, sent to realize
(As he supposed), the loveliest dreams that stole
Across the enchanted vision of his soul.

XLIII

How came she there?—he knew not, and cared less,
That she was there was quite enough for him;—
Bewilder'd in her dazzling loveliness,
How did his eyes in giddy rapture swim!
As she lay by him still and motionless,
“The cup of love was running o'er the brim
Within him” (as I heard a speaker say
At a Salopian dinner yesterday.)

XLIV

I can't think how he took the joke so coolly,
As if the Gods had chosen to provide

And send him, as they ought, at midnight duly,
A beautiful young lady for a bride.
He never ask'd who brought her thither. Truly,
Had I found such a treasure by my side,
Nor of the trick been previously admonish'd,
I should have felt prodigiously astonish'd.

XLV

Long did he gaze in silence and deep joy,
And thoughts came o'er him which he ne'er had known;
The dream which he had worshipp'd from a boy,
In one short instant from his brain had flown;
And a new love which knew of no alloy,
Within his bosom had built up a throne.
The lady slept, he gazed, and gazed upon her,
But harbour'd not a thought against her honour.

XLVI

She slept on most amazingly—he thought
(And I'm not sure he wasn't in the right)
That she slept rather sounder than she ought,
It being, he supposed, her bridal night.
But though he deem'd it strange, he never sought.
To force the slumbers from those orbs of light
He almost fear'd to view—he could not bear
To use such rudeness to a thing so fair.

XLVII

Yet did he print a most bewildering kiss
On her fair cheek—another on her brow—
(I should expatiate on that moment's bliss,
But haven't time to dwell upon it now,)
They would have waken'd any living Miss,
Whose sleep was not enchanted; but somehow
This lady felt them not; or, if she did,
Sleep still weigh'd down each persevering lid.

XLVIII

'Twas all in vain; he found he couldn't wake her
By-any gentle means; so, having sworn
That she was his, and he would ne'er forsake her—
That she should never from his arms be torn,
Even though Hell itself should yawn to take her,—
He thought it would be best to doze till morn;
And, having kiss'd her lovely cheek once more,
Soon fell asleep more soundly than before.

XLIX

Forthwith, released from the strong spell that bound her
In deepest slumber, fair Badoura sprung
From her enchanted visions, and around her
A glance of momentary wonder flung.
Much did the aspect of the place confound her—
Where are the pictures round her chamber hung?
Is this her bed?—and ah!—what heavenly face
Lies on the pillow, in her Nurse's place?

L

She screams aloud!—is this a man beside her?
A Husband?—Gracious! is her Father mad?
She is resolved, whatever may betide her,
To fly—and yet the face is not so bad.—
She has seen worse complexions,—mouths much wider,—
In fact the fellow is a pretty lad.
She thought she'd take one peep at him, and bent
Silently o'er his face in wonderment.

LI

Upon her delicate brow the dark hair braided,
Cloudlike hung o'er the starbeams of her eyes;
Which, by that darkness soften'd and o'ershaded
Fell in a gleam of tenderest ecstacies
Upon the sleeping boy; that gleam pervaded
His cheek still glowing from his late surprise;

And touch'd his brow, which in that radiance shone
With loveliness far brighter than its own.

LII

Thus (as 't is said,) Italian Beauty hung
Over the sleeping Milton, as at noon
Reclined he lay the forest trees among,
His thoughts to some unutterable tune
Of Heavenly Music wandering, till they sprung
Into his deep-flush'd countenance, and soon
Kindled within that gazer's breast the flame
Which Woman, who best feels it, dares not name.

LIII

But there's one trifling difference between
My Princess and the Dame who seem'd to ape her;
That Milton's Beauty chose not to be seen,
And scarce declared her passion e'en on paper:
Whereas Badoura thought it would be mean
To let so delicate a Youth escape her;
All her objections to a ring were over,
Since Fate had sent her such a handsome lover.

LIV

And she began to find it poor employment
To gaze so long upon a sleeping spouse,
And long'd for the more rational enjoyment
Of—conversation—and—exchanging vows
Of love—and—chaste caresses—ne'er to cloy meant;—
And so she strove the sleeper to arouse,
At first by gentle kisses, and fond taps
With her small fingers,—then by ruder slaps.

LV

He only slept the sounder, so she tried
At last the sweet allurement of her tongue;
“Sweet Prince!—Dear Husband!—am I not thy Bride?
Am I not chaste, and beautiful, and young?

Have I not air, and shape, and grace beside?
Is not my voice the sweetest that e'er sung?
Why Husband! Husband! Husband!—Sir! Sir! Sir!
Good Lord! will nothing make this Blockhead stir?

LVI

“Now by mine eyes, fair Bridegroom, 'tis not right
To sleep so sound at such an hour as this;
Pray tell me, is it not our bridal night,
Sacred to love, and harmony, and bliss?
I've a great mind to quarrel with you quite,
Discourteous Sir—now by this rapturous kiss,
(Which I must steal, since you will not bestow,)
I never could have borne to slight you so.

LVII

“Aid me, ye Gods, this odious sleep to drive hence;
Sir, you've caroused too freely at the wine—
No, no; I now perceive the whole contrivance,
'Tis all a trick, my kind papa, of thine.
I wonder at my Nurse's base connivance;
But oh! he looks so radiantly divine,
And smiles, in slumber with a smile so sweet,
I can't believe him guilty of deceit.

LVIII

“Still sleep'st thou, dearest? some malignant Demon
Hath o'er thy spirit cast his baneful spell;
Else never couldst thou in this fashion dream on,
Nor against Love and Hymen so rebel,
As not to let those eyes of beauty beam on
The gentle Lady who loves thee so well:
By Heav'n thou smil'st—I know it's all a sham;
Love grant me patience!—what a wretch I am!

LIX

“Thou lov'st me not; dost thou suspect my fame?
My parents, Sir, are noble as thine own;

My aunt Haiatelnefous was a Dame
As chaste, and coy, as ever wore a gown:
Ne'er have I felt,—till now, Love's pleasing flame;
My Father shall defend his Child's renown.
Do as you please, Sir—you shall shortly know
That I'll have vengeance if you use me so.

LX

“By the hot tears which I am shedding o'er thee;
By my poor heart which doth so fondly ache;
By these most chaste embraces; I implore thee,
My Husband, if thou sleepest, to awake.
Oh! didst thou know how madly I adore thee,
Thou wouldst not thus persist my heart to break.
Oh! hear the plaint my wounded Spirit pours,
And heal my sorrow!—Lord, how loud he snores!”

LXI

She spoke; the tears fell fast, as she was speaking,
Yet did they yield her anguish small relief;
And (what was shocking), in her flight from Pekin,
She'd dropp'd her muslin pocket-handkerchief,
So that she couldn't stop her eyes from leaking;
Maimoune felt much pity for her grief,
And soon, in order to assuage her pain,
Sent Magic slumber to those eyes again.

LXII

By this the silver Moon had drawn her horn in,
While Cupid still more undecided grew;
And puzzled on, unmindful of the warning,
Till, while he pored and doubted, the cock grew,
And at the sound, before the breath of Morning,
Back to their haunts, the three mad Spirits flew,
Leaving, in rather an unusual place,
The Prince and Princess lying face to face.

LXIII

The spells fell from their eyelids, and together
These two fond lovers from their dreams awoke,
And met each other's eyes—'twas long ere either
(Lost as they were in love and wonder) spoke.
I don't know (and it matters not a feather),
Which of the two the blissful silence broke—
'Twas a strange introduction—I'm afraid
The breakfast hour that morning was delay'd.

LXIV

Of course the thing in matrimony ended;
The Kings were much astonish'd at the way
In which the Fairies had their schemes befriended,
For how it happen'd not a soul could say.
Maimoune and her Lover both attended,
In high good-humour on the wedding-day;
And brought fine gifts from Fairyland, and shed
All sorts of blessings on the Nuptial Bed.

LXV

“Now strike your sails, ye jolly Mariners,”
For I have come unto my story's end,
With a few alterations, worthy Sirs—
To make it aptly to my purpose bend.
I've used some freedom with the characters,
But hope the Reader 'll kindly condescend
To recollect my hurry—and excuse
The rambling nonsense of a heedless Muse.

Godiva, stanza xlii.