 | The Poetical Works of Laman Blanchard |  |
326
ORIGINAL POETRY.
By the late Sir Fretful Plagiary, Knight, Member of the Dramatic Authors' Association, Fellow of the Parnassian Society, &c.
[_]
Now first printed from the Original Copies in the handwriting of that popular Author. Edited by Laman Blanchard.
ODE TO THE HUMAN HEART.
Blind Thamyris, and blind Mæonides,
Pursue the triumph and partake the gale!
Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees,
To point a moral or adorn a tale.
Pursue the triumph and partake the gale!
Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees,
To point a moral or adorn a tale.
327
Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears,
Like angels' visits, few and far between,
Deck the long vista of departed years.
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears,
Like angels' visits, few and far between,
Deck the long vista of departed years.
Man never is, but always to be bless'd;
The tenth transmitter of a foolish face,
Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest,
And makes a sunshine in the shady place.
The tenth transmitter of a foolish face,
Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest,
And makes a sunshine in the shady place.
For man the hermit sigh'd, till woman smiled,
To waft a feather or to drown a fly,
(In wit a man, simplicity a child),
With silent finger pointing to the sky.
To waft a feather or to drown a fly,
(In wit a man, simplicity a child),
With silent finger pointing to the sky.
But fools rush in where angels fear to tread,
Far out amid the melancholy main;
As when a vulture on Imaus bred,
Dies of a rose in aromatic pain.
Far out amid the melancholy main;
As when a vulture on Imaus bred,
Dies of a rose in aromatic pain.
Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast,
Look on her face, and you'll forget them all;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
A hero perish, or a sparrow fall.
Look on her face, and you'll forget them all;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
A hero perish, or a sparrow fall.
My way of life is fall'n into the sere;
I stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs,
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear,
Who sees through all things with his half-shut eyes.
I stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs,
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear,
Who sees through all things with his half-shut eyes.
328
Oh! for a lodge in some vast wilderness!
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
Fine by degrees and beautifully less,
And die ere man can say ‘Long live the Queen!’
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
Fine by degrees and beautifully less,
And die ere man can say ‘Long live the Queen!’
Lives there a man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself has said,
‘Shoot folly as it flies?’
Oh! more than tears of blood can tell,
Are in that word farewell, farewell!
'Tis folly to be wise.
Who never to himself has said,
‘Shoot folly as it flies?’
Oh! more than tears of blood can tell,
Are in that word farewell, farewell!
'Tis folly to be wise.
And what is friendship but a name,
That boils on Etna's breast of flame?
Thus runs the world away;
Sweet is the ship that's under sail
To where yon taper cheers the vale,
With hospitable ray!
That boils on Etna's breast of flame?
Thus runs the world away;
Sweet is the ship that's under sail
To where yon taper cheers the vale,
With hospitable ray!
Drink to me only with thine eyes
Through cloudless climes and starry skies!
My native land, good night!
Adieu, adieu, my native shore;
'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more—
Whatever is is right!
Through cloudless climes and starry skies!
My native land, good night!
Adieu, adieu, my native shore;
'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more—
Whatever is is right!
The printer's devil has taken upon himself to make the following addition to these lines:—
Blind Thamyris, and blind Mæonides (Something like Milton.)
Pursue their triumph and partake the gale! (Rather like Pope.)
Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees (Why, this is Shakspeare!)
To point a moral or adorn a tale. (Oh, it's Dr. Johnson.)
Pursue their triumph and partake the gale! (Rather like Pope.)
Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees (Why, this is Shakspeare!)
To point a moral or adorn a tale. (Oh, it's Dr. Johnson.)
To the succeeding lines the same authority has added in succession the names of Gray, Wordsworth, Campbell, and so on throughout. What does he mean? Does he mean to say he has ever met with any of these lines before?
329
ON LIFE, ET CETERA.
Know then this truth, enough for man to know:
Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow.
Who would be free themselves must strike the blow.
Retreating lightly with a lovely fear
From grave to gay, from lively to severe.
Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow.
Who would be free themselves must strike the blow.
Retreating lightly with a lovely fear
From grave to gay, from lively to severe.
To err is human, to forgive divine,
And wretches hang that jurymen may dine
Like quills upon the fretful porcupine.
All are but parts of one stupendous whole,
The feast of reason and the flow of soul.
And wretches hang that jurymen may dine
Like quills upon the fretful porcupine.
All are but parts of one stupendous whole,
The feast of reason and the flow of soul.
We shall not look upon his like again,
For panting Time toils after him in vain,
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain;
Allures to brighter worlds, and leads the way
With sweet, reluctant, amorous delay!
For panting Time toils after him in vain,
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain;
Allures to brighter worlds, and leads the way
With sweet, reluctant, amorous delay!
1842.
330
PHOTOGRAPHIC PHENOMENA,
OR THE NEW SCHOOL OF PORTRAIT-PAINTING.
‘Sit, Cousin Percy; sit, good Cousin Hotspur.’—Henry IV.
‘My lords, be seated.’ —Speech from the Throne.
I
INVITATION TO SIT.
Now sit, if ye have courage, cousins all!
Sit, all ye grandmammas, wives, aunts, and mothers
Daughters and sisters, widows, brides, and nieces;
In bonnets, braids, caps, tippets, or pelisses,
The muff, mantilla, boa, scarf, or shawl!
Sit, all ye uncles, godpapas, and brothers,
Fathers, and nephews, sons, and next of kin,
Husbands, half-brother's cousin's sires, and others;
Be you as Science young, or old as Sin:
Turn, Persian-like, your faces to the sun!
And have each one
His portrait done,
Finished, one may say, before it's begun.
331
O slight acquaintances! or blood relations!
But sit, oh! public Benefactors,
Whose portraits are hung up by Corporations.
Ye Rulers of the likeness-loving nations,
Ascend you now the Photographic throne,
And snatch from Time the precious mornings claimed
By artists famed
(In the Court Circular you'll find them named!)
Sit too, ye laurelled Heroes, whom detractors
Would rank below the statesman and the bard!
Sit also, all ye Actors,
Whose fame would else die with you, which is hard;
Whose Falstaffs here will never
Slenders prove,
So true the art is!
M.P.'s for one brief moment cease to move;
And you who stand as leaders of great Parties
Be sitting Members!
Ye intellectual Marchers, sit resigned!
And oh! ye Authors, men of dazzling mind,
Perchance with faces foggy as November's,
Pray sit!
Apollo turned R.A.
The other day,
Making a most decided hit,
They say.
Phœbus himself—he has become a Shee!
(Morning will rank among the Knights full soon)
And while the Moon,
332
The stars are all astonishment to see
Earth—sitting for her portrait—to the Sun!
II
THE PROCESS OF THE PORTRAITURE.
It's all very fine, is it not, oh! ye Nine?
To tell us this planet is going too fast,
On a comet-like track through the wilderness vast:
Instead of collision and chances of splitting
In contact with stars rushing down the wrong line,
The world at this moment can't get on—for sitting;
And Earth, like the Lady enchanted in Comus,
Fixed fast to her chair
With a dignified air,
Is expecting to sit for a century there;
Much wondering, possibly, half in despair,
How the deuce she's to find her way back to her domus.
To tell us this planet is going too fast,
On a comet-like track through the wilderness vast:
Instead of collision and chances of splitting
In contact with stars rushing down the wrong line,
The world at this moment can't get on—for sitting;
And Earth, like the Lady enchanted in Comus,
Fixed fast to her chair
With a dignified air,
Is expecting to sit for a century there;
Much wondering, possibly, half in despair,
How the deuce she's to find her way back to her domus.
‘Keep moving,’ we know, was the cry long ago;
But now, never hare was ‘found sitting,’ I swear,
Like the crowds who repair
To old Cavendish Square,
And mount up a mile and a quarter of stair,
In procession that beggars the Lord Mayor's show!
And are all on tiptoe, the high and the low,
To sit in that glass-cover'd blue studio;
In front of those boxes wherein when you look,
Your image reversed will minutely appear,
So delicate, forcible, brilliant, and clear,
So small, full, and round, with a life so profound,
As none ever wore
In a mirror before—
Or the depths of a glassy and branch-sheltered brook,
That glides amidst moss o'er a smooth-pebbled ground.
Apollo, whom Drummond of Hawthornden styled
‘Apelles of flowers,’
Now mixes his showers
Of sunshine, with colours by clouds undefiled;
Apelles indeed to man, woman, and child.
His agent on earth, when your altitude's right,
Your collar adjusted, your locks in their place.
Just seizes one moment of favouring light,
And utters three sentences—‘Now it's begun,’—
‘It's going on now, Sir,’—and ‘Now it is done:’
And lo! as I live, there's the cut of your face
On a silvery plate
Unerring as fate,
Worked off in celestial and strange mezzotint,
A little resembling an elderly print.
‘Well, I never!’ all cry; ‘it is cruelly like you!’
But Truth is unpleasant
To prince and to peasant.
You recollect Lawrence, and think of the graces
That Chalon and Company give to their faces;
The face you have worn fifty years doesn't strike you!
But now, never hare was ‘found sitting,’ I swear,
Like the crowds who repair
To old Cavendish Square,
And mount up a mile and a quarter of stair,
In procession that beggars the Lord Mayor's show!
And are all on tiptoe, the high and the low,
333
In front of those boxes wherein when you look,
Your image reversed will minutely appear,
So delicate, forcible, brilliant, and clear,
So small, full, and round, with a life so profound,
As none ever wore
In a mirror before—
Or the depths of a glassy and branch-sheltered brook,
That glides amidst moss o'er a smooth-pebbled ground.
Apollo, whom Drummond of Hawthornden styled
‘Apelles of flowers,’
Now mixes his showers
Of sunshine, with colours by clouds undefiled;
Apelles indeed to man, woman, and child.
His agent on earth, when your altitude's right,
Your collar adjusted, your locks in their place.
Just seizes one moment of favouring light,
And utters three sentences—‘Now it's begun,’—
‘It's going on now, Sir,’—and ‘Now it is done:’
And lo! as I live, there's the cut of your face
On a silvery plate
Unerring as fate,
Worked off in celestial and strange mezzotint,
A little resembling an elderly print.
‘Well, I never!’ all cry; ‘it is cruelly like you!’
But Truth is unpleasant
To prince and to peasant.
You recollect Lawrence, and think of the graces
That Chalon and Company give to their faces;
The face you have worn fifty years doesn't strike you!
334
III
THE CRITICISMS OF THE SITTERS—THE MORAL.
‘Can this be me! do look, mamma!’
Poor Jane begins to whimper;
‘I have a smile, 'tis true;—but, pa!
This gives me quite a simper.’
Poor Jane begins to whimper;
‘I have a smile, 'tis true;—but, pa!
This gives me quite a simper.’
Says Tibb, whose plays are worse than bad,
‘It makes my forehead flat:’
And being classical, he'll add,
‘I'm blowed if I'm like that,’
‘It makes my forehead flat:’
And being classical, he'll add,
‘I'm blowed if I'm like that,’
Courtly, all candour, owns his portrait true;
'Oh, yes, it's like; yes, very; it will do.
Extremely like me—every feature—but
That plain pug-nose; now mine's the Grecian cut!
'Oh, yes, it's like; yes, very; it will do.
Extremely like me—every feature—but
That plain pug-nose; now mine's the Grecian cut!
Her Grace surveys her face with drooping lid;
Prefers the portrait which Sir Thomas did;
Owns that o'er this some traits of truth are sprinkled;
But views the brow with anger-‘Why, it's wrinkled!’
‘Like me!’ cries Sir Turtle; ‘I'll lay two to one
It would only be guessed by my foes;
No, no, it is plain there are spots in the sun,
Which accounts for these spots on my nose.’
‘A likeness!’ cries Crosslook, the lawyer, and sneers;
‘Yes, the wig, throat, and forehead I spy,
And the mouth, chin, and cheeks, and the nose and the ears,
But it gives me a cast in the eye!’
Prefers the portrait which Sir Thomas did;
Owns that o'er this some traits of truth are sprinkled;
But views the brow with anger-‘Why, it's wrinkled!’
‘Like me!’ cries Sir Turtle; ‘I'll lay two to one
It would only be guessed by my foes;
No, no, it is plain there are spots in the sun,
Which accounts for these spots on my nose.’
335
‘Yes, the wig, throat, and forehead I spy,
And the mouth, chin, and cheeks, and the nose and the ears,
But it gives me a cast in the eye!’
Thus needs it the courage of old Cousin Hotspur,
To sit to an artist who flatters no sitter;
Yet self-love will urge us to seek him, for what spur
So potent as that, though it make the truth bitter!
And thus are all flocking, to see Phœbus mocking,
Or making queer faces, a visage per minute;
And truly 'tis shocking, if winds should be rocking,
The building, or clouds darken all that's within it,
To witness the frights
Which shadows and lights
Manufacture, as like as an owl to a linnet.
For there, while you sit up,
Your countenance lit up,
The mists fly across, a magnificent rack;
And your portrait's a patch with its bright and its black,
Out-Rembrandting Rembrandt, in ludicrous woe,
Like a chimney-sweep caught in a shower of snow.
Yet nothing can keep the crowd below,
And still they mount up stair by stair;
And every morn, by the hurry and hum,
Each seeking a prize in the lottery there
You fancy the ‘last day of drawing’ has come.
To sit to an artist who flatters no sitter;
Yet self-love will urge us to seek him, for what spur
So potent as that, though it make the truth bitter!
And thus are all flocking, to see Phœbus mocking,
Or making queer faces, a visage per minute;
And truly 'tis shocking, if winds should be rocking,
The building, or clouds darken all that's within it,
To witness the frights
Which shadows and lights
Manufacture, as like as an owl to a linnet.
For there, while you sit up,
Your countenance lit up,
The mists fly across, a magnificent rack;
And your portrait's a patch with its bright and its black,
Out-Rembrandting Rembrandt, in ludicrous woe,
Like a chimney-sweep caught in a shower of snow.
Yet nothing can keep the crowd below,
And still they mount up stair by stair;
And every morn, by the hurry and hum,
Each seeking a prize in the lottery there
You fancy the ‘last day of drawing’ has come.
1842.
336
TO NELL GWYNNE'S LOOKING-GLASS.
Glass antique,'twixt thee and Nell
Draw we here a parallel.
She, like thee, was forced to bear
All reflections, foul or fair.
Thou art deep and bright within,
Depths as bright belonged to Gwynne;
Thou art very frail as well,
Frail as flesh is,—so was Nell.
Draw we here a parallel.
She, like thee, was forced to bear
All reflections, foul or fair.
Thou art deep and bright within,
Depths as bright belonged to Gwynne;
Thou art very frail as well,
Frail as flesh is,—so was Nell.
Thou, her glass, art silver-lined,
She too, had a silver mind:
Thine is fresh till this far day,
Hers till death ne'er wore away:
Thou dost to thy surface win
Wandering glances, so did Gwynne;
Eyes on thee long love to dwell,
So men's eyes would do on Nell.
She too, had a silver mind:
Thine is fresh till this far day,
Hers till death ne'er wore away:
Thou dost to thy surface win
Wandering glances, so did Gwynne;
Eyes on thee long love to dwell,
So men's eyes would do on Nell.
Life-like forms in thee are sought,
Such the forms the actress wrought;
Truth unfailing rests in you,
Nell, whate'er she was, was true.
Clear as virtue, dull as sin,
Thou art oft, as oft was Gwynne;
Breathe on thee, and drops will swell—
Bright tears dimmed the eyes of Nell.
Such the forms the actress wrought;
Truth unfailing rests in you,
Nell, whate'er she was, was true.
337
Thou art oft, as oft was Gwynne;
Breathe on thee, and drops will swell—
Bright tears dimmed the eyes of Nell.
Thine's a frame to charm the sight,
Framed was she to give delight,
Waxen forms here truly show
Charles above and Nell below;
But between them, chin with chin,
Stuart stands as low as Gwynne,—
Paired, yet parted,—meant to tell
Charles was opposite to Nell.
Framed was she to give delight,
Waxen forms here truly show
Charles above and Nell below;
But between them, chin with chin,
Stuart stands as low as Gwynne,—
Paired, yet parted,—meant to tell
Charles was opposite to Nell.
Round the glass wherein her face
Smiled so oft, her ‘arms’ we trace;
Thou, her mirror, hast the pair,
Lion here, and leopard there.
She had part in these,—akin
To the lion-heart was Gwynne;
And the leopard's beauty fell
With its spots to bounding Nell.
Smiled so oft, her ‘arms’ we trace;
Thou, her mirror, hast the pair,
Lion here, and leopard there.
She had part in these,—akin
To the lion-heart was Gwynne;
And the leopard's beauty fell
With its spots to bounding Nell.
Oft inspected, ne'er seen through,
Thou art firm, if brittle too;
So her will, on good intent,
Might be broken, never bent.
What the glass was when therein
Beamed the face of glad Nell Gwynne,
Was that face by beauty's spell
To the honest soul of Nell.
Thou art firm, if brittle too;
So her will, on good intent,
Might be broken, never bent.
What the glass was when therein
Beamed the face of glad Nell Gwynne,
Was that face by beauty's spell
To the honest soul of Nell.
1842.
LOVE SEEKING A LODGING.
At Leila's heart from day to day
Love, boy-like, knocked, and ran away;
But Love, grown older, seeking then,
‘Lodgings for single gentlemen,’
Returned unto his former ground,
And knocked, but no admittance found—
With his rat, tat, tat.
Love, boy-like, knocked, and ran away;
But Love, grown older, seeking then,
‘Lodgings for single gentlemen,’
Returned unto his former ground,
And knocked, but no admittance found—
With his rat, tat, tat.
His false alarms remembered still,
Love, now in earnest, fared but ill;
For Leila in her heart could swear,
As still he knocked, ‘There's no one there,’
A single god, he then essayed
With single knocks to lure the maid—
With his single knock.
Love, now in earnest, fared but ill;
For Leila in her heart could swear,
As still he knocked, ‘There's no one there,’
A single god, he then essayed
With single knocks to lure the maid—
With his single knock.
Each passer-by who watched the wight,
Cried, ‘Love, you won't lodge there to-night!’
And Love, while listening half confessed
That all was dead in Leila's breast.
Yet lest that light heart only slept,
Bold Love up to the casement crept—
With his tip, tap, tap.
Cried, ‘Love, you won't lodge there to-night!’
And Love, while listening half confessed
That all was dead in Leila's breast.
Yet lest that light heart only slept,
Bold Love up to the casement crept—
With his tip, tap, tap.
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No answer;—‘Well,’ cried Love, ‘I'll wait,
And keep off Envy, Fear, and Hate;
No other passion there shall dwell
If I'm shut out—why, here's a bell!’
He rang; the ring made Leila start,
And Love found lodgings in her heart,
With his magic ring.
And keep off Envy, Fear, and Hate;
No other passion there shall dwell
If I'm shut out—why, here's a bell!’
He rang; the ring made Leila start,
And Love found lodgings in her heart,
With his magic ring.
1842.
340
THE TOUR OF LOVE AND TIME.
Long since, as tradition unravels,
Love, weary of Venus's eyes,
With Time started off on his travels,
To make the grand tour of the skies;
But, though they departed together,
To keep side by side was in vain;
Love basked in the fine sunny weather,
While Time was seen trudging through rain.
Love, weary of Venus's eyes,
With Time started off on his travels,
To make the grand tour of the skies;
But, though they departed together,
To keep side by side was in vain;
Love basked in the fine sunny weather,
While Time was seen trudging through rain.
Love, calling and panting, long after
Came up with him, ready to drop;
And pleaded, with song and sweet laughter,
But could not persuade Time to stop.
Old Obstinate paused not a minute,
Though round him there grew in his march
A cloud with Jove's thunderbolt in it,
Or Iris threw o'er him her arch.
Came up with him, ready to drop;
And pleaded, with song and sweet laughter,
But could not persuade Time to stop.
Old Obstinate paused not a minute,
Though round him there grew in his march
A cloud with Jove's thunderbolt in it,
Or Iris threw o'er him her arch.
‘Come skip me a twelvemonth, old fellow,
And call it a leap-year, you know!
Look round us—blue, red, green, and yellow—
I must have some sport as we go.
Why travel while noon burns above there?
Now let us wait here till it's dark,—
Just stop while I aim at yon dove there,—
If not,—well, I must have a lark.’
And call it a leap-year, you know!
Look round us—blue, red, green, and yellow—
I must have some sport as we go.
341
Now let us wait here till it's dark,—
Just stop while I aim at yon dove there,—
If not,—well, I must have a lark.’
Now swift as the thought that comes o'er him,
Love snatched Time's scythe as he mows;
He crops not one blossom before him,
But cuts all the thorns from the rose.
Still Time plodded on up the mountain,
Ne'er raising his eyes from the dust;
While Love stays to drink at a fountain,
And drops the scythe in it—to rust.
Love snatched Time's scythe as he mows;
He crops not one blossom before him,
But cuts all the thorns from the rose.
Still Time plodded on up the mountain,
Ne'er raising his eyes from the dust;
While Love stays to drink at a fountain,
And drops the scythe in it—to rust.
But Time, in due course, nothing reaping,
Again to the fountain came round;
The scythe is once more in his keeping,
For Love lay asleep on the ground.
He woke, and but two moments reckoned,
To seize on Time's glass and escape;
Love poured out its sand in a second,
And filled it with juice from the grape.
Again to the fountain came round;
The scythe is once more in his keeping,
For Love lay asleep on the ground.
He woke, and but two moments reckoned,
To seize on Time's glass and escape;
Love poured out its sand in a second,
And filled it with juice from the grape.
Time now, o'er the hills and the levels,
Guessed minutes by mere grains of sand,
Till, when the thief dropped 'mid his revels,
The glass was restored to his hand.
Then Love to the Fairies flew frantic,
Possessed with a project sublime;
Brought scissors, and, desperate antic!
Cut off the white beard of old Time.
Guessed minutes by mere grains of sand,
Till, when the thief dropped 'mid his revels,
The glass was restored to his hand.
Then Love to the Fairies flew frantic,
Possessed with a project sublime;
Brought scissors, and, desperate antic!
Cut off the white beard of old Time.
342
Day and Night saw the woeful disaster,—
Time stood, from astonishment, still;
The Hours didn't know their own master,
But frolicked about at their will.
Eight and Nine were at Sixes and Sevens,
Twelve struck before Three had begun;
Five changed her old post for Eleven's,
While Love kissed Eleven for One.
Time stood, from astonishment, still;
The Hours didn't know their own master,
But frolicked about at their will.
Eight and Nine were at Sixes and Sevens,
Twelve struck before Three had begun;
Five changed her old post for Eleven's,
While Love kissed Eleven for One.
In turn all disclaimed their old father,
Though some said they thought he was like;
And none were for striking—the rather.
Because 'twas a general strike.
Jove, now, looking down on these gambols,
Saw Chaos resuming his state,—
And so put an end to Love's rambles,
While waltzing intensely with Eight.
Though some said they thought he was like;
And none were for striking—the rather.
Because 'twas a general strike.
Jove, now, looking down on these gambols,
Saw Chaos resuming his state,—
And so put an end to Love's rambles,
While waltzing intensely with Eight.
‘Your tour, crazy Love, has its dangers,
And here it must end,’ said the god;
‘Henceforth, you and Time must be strangers,
Or, meeting, pass on with a nod.
Time, ev'ry brief instant is dying,
While you have a life without end;
Your visits to him must be flying—
Eternity claims you—ascend!’
And here it must end,’ said the god;
‘Henceforth, you and Time must be strangers,
Or, meeting, pass on with a nod.
Time, ev'ry brief instant is dying,
While you have a life without end;
Your visits to him must be flying—
Eternity claims you—ascend!’
1843.
343
NEW YEAR'S ODE.
TO THE WINNER OF THE ST. NISBETT—SEASON 1844.
‘Trumpet tongued against
The deep damnation of her taking—off.’
—Macbeth.
The deep damnation of her taking—off.’
—Macbeth.
‘Robbing the stage was, in those days, a practice common enough.’Roderick Random.
Give back—‘give us back the wild freshness of morning,’
Ere light orange-blossoms weighed widowhood down!
And pause, oh, Sir William, ere one house adorning,
You cast in deep shadow our houses in town.
Why veil from the public its gayest of brides?
The miser alone buries gold in a box;
What artist, triumphant, his masterpiece hides?
We leave to the stage its duennas and locks.
Ere light orange-blossoms weighed widowhood down!
And pause, oh, Sir William, ere one house adorning,
You cast in deep shadow our houses in town.
Why veil from the public its gayest of brides?
The miser alone buries gold in a box;
What artist, triumphant, his masterpiece hides?
We leave to the stage its duennas and locks.
Bound fast, yet again let the Favourite run!
Both thine and our own!—a petition not visible;
For though it is true man and wife are but one,
She, single or wedded, is two, and divisible.
While owning thee winner, the town has its rights;
The ‘wife’ is all thine—'tis the ‘madcap’ we ask!
Hold captive the Woman, most conqu'ring of Knights,
But give back the Spirit with Comedy's mask.
Both thine and our own!—a petition not visible;
For though it is true man and wife are but one,
She, single or wedded, is two, and divisible.
344
The ‘wife’ is all thine—'tis the ‘madcap’ we ask!
Hold captive the Woman, most conqu'ring of Knights,
But give back the Spirit with Comedy's mask.
For brave Widow Nisbett no more may we burn;
As blithe Widow Nisbett she flies from the scene;
But let, Sir, —oh, let Widow Cheerly return,
And her who contrasted with ripe Widow Green!
Enclose not the orchard while gathering its fruits;
The garden's your own, Sir, yet spare us some flowers.
Let marriage ne'er pluck up wild mirth by the roots:
The widow is thine—but the actress is ours.
As blithe Widow Nisbett she flies from the scene;
But let, Sir, —oh, let Widow Cheerly return,
And her who contrasted with ripe Widow Green!
Enclose not the orchard while gathering its fruits;
The garden's your own, Sir, yet spare us some flowers.
Let marriage ne'er pluck up wild mirth by the roots:
The widow is thine—but the actress is ours.
Giving up to dull parties (though Wedlock's the teacher)
What's meant for mankind, causes patience to reel:
And why should a Boothby thus follow a Becher!
The other Sir William, who snapped up O'Neill!
In favour of privacy, prejudice ran:
It carried off Kembles, the Stephens, the Tree;
'Twas doubtful if safe from some desperate man,
Was quiet Miss Tidswell, or old Mrs. D.
What's meant for mankind, causes patience to reel:
And why should a Boothby thus follow a Becher!
The other Sir William, who snapped up O'Neill!
In favour of privacy, prejudice ran:
It carried off Kembles, the Stephens, the Tree;
'Twas doubtful if safe from some desperate man,
Was quiet Miss Tidswell, or old Mrs. D.
But deeper the sorrow that Nisbett has cost;
More stern thy resentment, susceptible town;
She wedded, returned;—weds again, and we're lost;
From Scylla escaped, in Charybdis we drown!
Blest winner, but cruel! most cruel to Art!
Yet more to Young London who stood by her throne;
Who now shall report how she toppeth her part?—
Who rush for a seat?—she resides at her own!
More stern thy resentment, susceptible town;
She wedded, returned;—weds again, and we're lost;
From Scylla escaped, in Charybdis we drown!
Blest winner, but cruel! most cruel to Art!
Yet more to Young London who stood by her throne;
Who now shall report how she toppeth her part?—
Who rush for a seat?—she resides at her own!
345
Who weds a mere beauty, dooms dozens to grieve;
Who marries an heiress, leaves hundreds undone;
Who bears off an actress (she never took leave),
Deprives a whole city of rational fun.
But farewell the glances and nods of St. Nisbett;
We list for her short ringing laughter in vain,
And yet—bereaved London!—what think you of this bet? —
‘A hundred to one we shall see her again!’
Who marries an heiress, leaves hundreds undone;
Who bears off an actress (she never took leave),
Deprives a whole city of rational fun.
But farewell the glances and nods of St. Nisbett;
We list for her short ringing laughter in vain,
And yet—bereaved London!—what think you of this bet? —
‘A hundred to one we shall see her again!’
346
CHRISTMAS CHIT-CHAT,
IN A LARGE FAMILY CIRCLE.
‘The day of all days we have seenIs Christmas,’ said Sue to Eugene;
‘More welcome in village and city
Than Mayday, ’said Andrew to Kitty.
‘Why “Mistletoe's” twenty times sweeter
Than “May,”’ said Matilda to Peter;
‘And so you will find it, if I'm a
True prophet,’ said James to Jemima.
‘I'll stay up to supper, no bed,’
Then lisped little Laura to Ned.
‘The girls all good-natured and dressy,
And bright-cheeked,’ said Arthur to Jessie;
‘Yes, hoping ere next year to marry,
The madcaps!’ said Charlotte to Harry.
‘So steaming, so savoury, so juicy,
The feast,’ said fat Charley to Lucy.
‘Quadrilles and Charades might come on
Before dinner,’ said Martha to John.
‘You'll find the roast beef when you're dizzy,
A settler,’ said Walter to Lizzy.
347
With a pea,’ said Belinda to Ben.
‘Sublime!’ said—displaying his leg—
George Frederick Augustus to Peg.
‘At Christmas refinement is all fuss
And nonsense,’ said Fan to Adolphus.
‘Would romps—or a tale of a fairy—
Best suit you,’ said Robert to Mary.
‘At stories that work ghost and witch hard,
I tremble,’ said Rosa to Richard.
‘A ghostly hari-standing dilemma
Needs “bishop,”’ said Alfred to Emma;
‘What fun when with fear a stout crony
Turns pale,’ said Maria to Tony;
‘And Hector, unable to rally,
Runs screaming,’ said Jacob to Sally.
‘While you and I dance in the dark
The polka,’ said Ruth unto Mark:
‘Each catching, according to fancy,
His neighbour,’ said wild Tom to Nancy;
‘Till candles, to show what we can do,
Are brought in,’ said Ann to Orlando;
‘And then we all laugh what is truly a
Heart's laugh,’ said William to Julia.
‘Then sofas and chairs are put even,
And carpets,’ said Helen to Stephen;
‘And so we all sit down again,
Supping twice,’ said sly Joseph to Jane.
‘Now bring me my clogs and my spaniel,
And light me,’ said Dinah to Daniel.
348
Six times,’ said fond Edmund to Alice.
‘We are going home tealess and coffeeless,
Shabby!’ said Soph to Theophilus;
‘To meet again under the holly,
Et cetera,’ said Paul to fair Polly.
‘Dear Uncle has ordered his chariot,
All's over,’ said Matthew to Harriet.
‘And pray now be all going to bedward,’
Said kind Aunt Rebecca to Edward!
1845.
349
LINES WRITTEN ON THE FIRST PAGE OF MULBERRY LEAVES.
A book which the Members of ‘The Mulberries,’ A Club of Shakspearians— Contributed.
Like one who stands
On the bright verge of some enchanted shore,
Where notes from airy harps, and hidden hands,
Are, from the green grass and the golden sands,
Far echoed, o'er and o'er,
As if the trancèd listener to invite
Into that world of light;
On the bright verge of some enchanted shore,
Where notes from airy harps, and hidden hands,
Are, from the green grass and the golden sands,
Far echoed, o'er and o'er,
As if the trancèd listener to invite
Into that world of light;
Thus stood I here,
Musing awhile on these unblotted leaves,
Till the blank pages brighten'd, and mine ear
Found music in their rustling, sweet and clear,
And wreaths that Fancy weaves
Entwin'd the volume—fill'd with grateful lays
And songs of rapturous praise.
Musing awhile on these unblotted leaves,
Till the blank pages brighten'd, and mine ear
Found music in their rustling, sweet and clear,
And wreaths that Fancy weaves
Entwin'd the volume—fill'd with grateful lays
And songs of rapturous praise.
350
No sound I heard,
But echoed o'er and o'er our Shakespeare's name,
One lingering note of love, link'd word to word,
Till every leaf was as a fairy bird
Whose song is still the same:
Or each was as a flower, with folded cells
For Pucks and Ariels!
But echoed o'er and o'er our Shakespeare's name,
One lingering note of love, link'd word to word,
Till every leaf was as a fairy bird
Whose song is still the same:
Or each was as a flower, with folded cells
For Pucks and Ariels!
And visions grew—
Visions not brief, though bright, which frosted age
Hath fail'd to rob of one diviner hue,
Making them more familiar, yet more new—
These flash'd into the page;
A group of crownèd things—the radiant themes
Of Shakespeare's Avon dreams!
Visions not brief, though bright, which frosted age
Hath fail'd to rob of one diviner hue,
Making them more familiar, yet more new—
These flash'd into the page;
A group of crownèd things—the radiant themes
Of Shakespeare's Avon dreams!
Of crownèd things—
(Rare crowns of living gems and lasting flowers)
Some in the human likeness, some with wings
Dyed in the beauty of ethereal springs—
Some shedding piteous showers
Of natural tears, and some in smiles that fell
Like sunshine on a dell.
(Rare crowns of living gems and lasting flowers)
Some in the human likeness, some with wings
Dyed in the beauty of ethereal springs—
Some shedding piteous showers
Of natural tears, and some in smiles that fell
Like sunshine on a dell.
Here Art had caught
The perfect mould of Hamlet's princely form,
The frantic Thane, fiend-cheated, lived, methought;
Here Timon howl'd: anon, sublimely wrought,
Stood Lear, amid the storm;
There Romeo droop'd, or soar'd—while Jacques here,
Still watched the weeping deer.
The perfect mould of Hamlet's princely form,
The frantic Thane, fiend-cheated, lived, methought;
Here Timon howl'd: anon, sublimely wrought,
Stood Lear, amid the storm;
There Romeo droop'd, or soar'd—while Jacques here,
Still watched the weeping deer.
351
And then a throng
Of heavenly natures, clad in earthly vest,
Like angel-apparitions, pass'd along;
The rich-lipp'd Rosalind all light and song;
And Imogen's white breast:
Low-voiced Cordelia with her stifled sighs,
And Juliet's shrouded eyes.
Of heavenly natures, clad in earthly vest,
Like angel-apparitions, pass'd along;
The rich-lipp'd Rosalind all light and song;
And Imogen's white breast:
Low-voiced Cordelia with her stifled sighs,
And Juliet's shrouded eyes.
The page, turn'd o'er,
Shew'd Kate—or Viola—my ‘Lady Tongue’—
The lost Venetian with her loving Moor;
The Maiden-wonder on the haunted shore,
Happy, and fair, and young:
Till on a poor, love-martyr'd mind I look—
Ophelia, at the brook.
Shew'd Kate—or Viola—my ‘Lady Tongue’—
The lost Venetian with her loving Moor;
The Maiden-wonder on the haunted shore,
Happy, and fair, and young:
Till on a poor, love-martyr'd mind I look—
Ophelia, at the brook.
With sweet Ann Page
The bright thing ended; for, untouch'd by time,
Came Falstaff, laughter-laurell'd, young in age,
With many a ripe and sack-devoted sage!
And deathless clowns sublime
Crowded the leaf, to vanish at a swoop,
Like Oberon and his troop.
The bright thing ended; for, untouch'd by time,
Came Falstaff, laughter-laurell'd, young in age,
With many a ripe and sack-devoted sage!
And deathless clowns sublime
Crowded the leaf, to vanish at a swoop,
Like Oberon and his troop.
Here sat, entranced,
Malvolio, leg—trapp'd:—he who served the Jew
Still with the fiend seem'd running;—then advanced
Messina's pretty piece of flesh, and danced
With Bottom and his crew;
Mercutio, Benedick, press'd points of wit,
And Osrick made his hit.
Malvolio, leg—trapp'd:—he who served the Jew
Still with the fiend seem'd running;—then advanced
Messina's pretty piece of flesh, and danced
With Bottom and his crew;
Mercutio, Benedick, press'd points of wit,
And Osrick made his hit.
352
At these, e'er long,
Awoke my laughter, and the spell was past:
Of the gay multitude, a marvellous throng,
No trace is here,— no tints, no word, no song.
On these bare leaves are cast—
The altar has been rear'd, an offering fit—
The flame is still unlit.
Awoke my laughter, and the spell was past:
Of the gay multitude, a marvellous throng,
No trace is here,— no tints, no word, no song.
On these bare leaves are cast—
The altar has been rear'd, an offering fit—
The flame is still unlit.
Oh! who now bent
In humble reverence, hopes one wreath to bind
Worthy of him, whose genius, strangely blent,
Could kindle ‘wonder and astonishment’
In Milton's starry mind?
Who stood alone, but not as one apart,
And saw Man's inmost heart!
In humble reverence, hopes one wreath to bind
Worthy of him, whose genius, strangely blent,
Could kindle ‘wonder and astonishment’
In Milton's starry mind?
Who stood alone, but not as one apart,
And saw Man's inmost heart!
353
TRUTH AND RUMOUR.
As Truth once passed on her pilgrim way,
To rest by a hedge-side, thorny and sere,
Few wanderers there she charmed to stay,
Though hers were the tidings that all should hear.
She whispering sang, and her deep rich voice,
Yet richer, deeper, each moment grew;
And still though it bade the crowd rejoice,
Her strain but a scanty audience drew.
To rest by a hedge-side, thorny and sere,
Few wanderers there she charmed to stay,
Though hers were the tidings that all should hear.
She whispering sang, and her deep rich voice,
Yet richer, deeper, each moment grew;
And still though it bade the crowd rejoice,
Her strain but a scanty audience drew.
But Rumour close by as she plucked a reed
From a babbling brook, detained the throng;
With a hundred tongues that never agreed
She gave to the winds a mocking song.
The crowd with delight its echoes caught,
And closer around her yet they drew;
So wondrous and wild the lore she taught,
They listened, entranced, the long day through.
From a babbling brook, detained the throng;
With a hundred tongues that never agreed
She gave to the winds a mocking song.
The crowd with delight its echoes caught,
And closer around her yet they drew;
So wondrous and wild the lore she taught,
They listened, entranced, the long day through.
The sun went down: when he rose again,
And sleep had becalmed each listener's mind,
The voice of Rumour had rung in vain,
No echo had left a charm behind.
But Truth's pure note, ever whispering clear,
Wandering in air, fresh sweeetness caught;
Then all unnotic'd it touched the ear,
And filled with music the cells of thought.
And sleep had becalmed each listener's mind,
The voice of Rumour had rung in vain,
No echo had left a charm behind.
354
Wandering in air, fresh sweeetness caught;
Then all unnotic'd it touched the ear,
And filled with music the cells of thought.
355
SCIENCE AND GOOD-HUMOUR.
A Feast of old was spread;
The guests sat down, sings rumour,
With Science at their head,
And at the foot Good-humour.
But soon, though rich the fare,
One half the group sat pining,
While all the others there
Were diligently dining.
The guests sat down, sings rumour,
With Science at their head,
And at the foot Good-humour.
But soon, though rich the fare,
One half the group sat pining,
While all the others there
Were diligently dining.
'Twas Science, so 'twas sung,
Who checked his hearers' wishes
By learned descants, rung
On countless cooling dishes.
Good-humour fared with those
Who not one moment wasted,
But asked for what they chose,
And relish'd all they tasted.
Who checked his hearers' wishes
By learned descants, rung
On countless cooling dishes.
Good-humour fared with those
Who not one moment wasted,
But asked for what they chose,
And relish'd all they tasted.
No chicken Science carved,
Without a lecture sterile,
To prove, where one man starved,
A thousand ate in peril.
His Vice with laughter shook,
As there the board grew thinner;
He thought not of the cook,
But only of the dinner.
Without a lecture sterile,
To prove, where one man starved,
A thousand ate in peril.
356
As there the board grew thinner;
He thought not of the cook,
But only of the dinner.
On wines would Science chat,
On alcohol and acid,
On vintage this and that,
In accents slow and placid.
But while these maxims dropt,
They set each listener thinking;
And there the wine had stopped,
Had Humour not been drinking.
On alcohol and acid,
On vintage this and that,
In accents slow and placid.
But while these maxims dropt,
They set each listener thinking;
And there the wine had stopped,
Had Humour not been drinking.
While Science, glass in hand,
Show'd how'twas manufactured;
Good-humour's jovial band
A score of bottles fractured.
As Science proved, past doubt,
That mirth we should not care for;
Good-humour laugh'd, without
Inquiring why or wherefore.
Show'd how'twas manufactured;
Good-humour's jovial band
A score of bottles fractured.
As Science proved, past doubt,
That mirth we should not care for;
Good-humour laugh'd, without
Inquiring why or wherefore.
Then rose a cry for song.
As Science led the table,
The call was loud and long
On vocalist so able.
But Science had—of course—
A cold, destroying music;
And fear'd that tones so hoarse
Would make both me and you sick.
As Science led the table,
The call was loud and long
On vocalist so able.
But Science had—of course—
A cold, destroying music;
And fear'd that tones so hoarse
Would make both me and you sick.
357
At length, much breath and time
Consumed in sweet persuading;
In Dutch or German rhyme
Hear Science serenading.
The cadences though pure,
Are rather soporific;
The strain is quite obscure,
But then—'tis scientific.
Consumed in sweet persuading;
In Dutch or German rhyme
Hear Science serenading.
The cadences though pure,
Are rather soporific;
The strain is quite obscure,
But then—'tis scientific.
His flourishings are vain,
Though each he twice rehearses;
To sing the song again,
He stops at fifteen verses.
Apollo has a hunch,
A gap is in the ballad;
No brandy's in the punch,
No lobster in the salad.
Though each he twice rehearses;
To sing the song again,
He stops at fifteen verses.
Apollo has a hunch,
A gap is in the ballad;
No brandy's in the punch,
No lobster in the salad.
Good-humour now essays,
A careless, easy measure;
He sings, not he, for praise,
He only sings for pleasure.
His tones are not so clear,
And clouds the sparkles smother;
Yet though you stop one ear,
You open wide the other.
A careless, easy measure;
He sings, not he, for praise,
He only sings for pleasure.
His tones are not so clear,
And clouds the sparkles smother;
Yet though you stop one ear,
You open wide the other.
His slips in time and tune,
Had nigh set Science swearing;
But nightingales in June
Such censures might be sharing.
Right simple was the song,
He sang it like a linnet;
'Twas not so very long,
But something deep was in it.
Had nigh set Science swearing;
But nightingales in June
Such censures might be sharing.
358
He sang it like a linnet;
'Twas not so very long,
But something deep was in it.
Now forth at eventide
They saunter,—some are rushing;
Through garden-walks they glide,
A maze of blossoms blushing.
Here Science grew distressed,
The flow'rs were not in order;
Good-humour liked them best
When bursting through the border.
They saunter,—some are rushing;
Through garden-walks they glide,
A maze of blossoms blushing.
Here Science grew distressed,
The flow'rs were not in order;
Good-humour liked them best
When bursting through the border.
Then Science spoke, deep-learn'd,
Of petals, lobes, and anthers;
On tiger-lilies turn'd
His talk—and then on panthers.
The roses he despised
As common, vulgar, vagrant;
But these Good-humour prized,
So rich were they, and fragrant.
Of petals, lobes, and anthers;
On tiger-lilies turn'd
His talk—and then on panthers.
The roses he despised
As common, vulgar, vagrant;
But these Good-humour prized,
So rich were they, and fragrant.
No beauty Science pleased,
Of plants he sought the rarest;
Good-humour beauty seized—
Of plants he loved the fairest.
O'er buds, with heart of ice,
One pored, with eyesight failing;
While airs from Paradise
The other was inhaling.
Of plants he sought the rarest;
Good-humour beauty seized—
Of plants he loved the fairest.
O'er buds, with heart of ice,
One pored, with eyesight failing;
While airs from Paradise
The other was inhaling.
359
Good-humour stopped to mark
The glowworm's light, enchanted;
When Science—but 'twas dark—
To read an essay panted.
Anon the beetle hums,
Good-humour hearkens to it;
But Science, when it comes,
Will thrust a sharp pin through it.
The glowworm's light, enchanted;
When Science—but 'twas dark—
To read an essay panted.
Anon the beetle hums,
Good-humour hearkens to it;
But Science, when it comes,
Will thrust a sharp pin through it.
The thronging stars steal forth,
Yet Science views no wonder;
He speaks of east and north,
Of meteors, belts, and thunder.
Of distance, shown by miles,
But scarce his eye upraises;
His mute companion smiles,
And blesses while he gazes.
Yet Science views no wonder;
He speaks of east and north,
Of meteors, belts, and thunder.
Of distance, shown by miles,
But scarce his eye upraises;
His mute companion smiles,
And blesses while he gazes.
As homeward now they stroll,
The mind of Science stranded,
Good-humour feels his soul
With rich delight expanded.
While Science, sleepy drone,
His chamber seeks—the upper—
Good-humour, not alone,
Is sitting down to supper.
The mind of Science stranded,
Good-humour feels his soul
With rich delight expanded.
While Science, sleepy drone,
His chamber seeks—the upper—
Good-humour, not alone,
Is sitting down to supper.
| The Poetical Works of Laman Blanchard | |