Poems, Epigrams and Sonnets :: :: University of Virginia Library

Poems, Epigrams and Sonnets

By R. E. Egerton-Warburton

Egerton-Warburton, R. E. (1804-1891)

POEMS

EPIGRAMS.

SONNETS.

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POEMS

BALLAD.

[_]

The occurrence here related took place near the village of Gressenig, about a league from Stolberg, during the retreat of the French army, under Dumouriez.

I

Back to the river so lately pass'd o'er,
Fast as that river flows,
France takes flight to the Rhine once more
From the might of her Austrian foes.

II

There was a young and lovely bride
'Mid the ranks of those that fled;
She follow'd the steps and she fought by the side
Of him she had lately wed.

III

She had left her home in that fertile soil
Where the vine and the olive grow,
For fields of blood, and to share in the toil
That her lover must undergo.

IV

Alas! that love which had nerved her heart
To war and its daring deeds,
Could not to her tender frame impart
The strength a soldier needs.

V

Now linger'd that youth with his bride in the rear,
For her limbs began to fail,
And the hue of her cheek, tho' unchanged by fear,
With weariness grew pale.

VI

He look'd on her features in fond despair,
As he held her to his breast;
And her drooping head as they tarried there,
Sunk in his arms to rest.

VII

From that hurried sleep when she woke again,
Far from her anxious sight
The distant bands of her countrymen
Had vanish'd in their flight.

VIII

Then together they left the beaten track,
And sought the forest shade:
She wish'd from that host not a soldier back,
While her own stood by to aid.

IX

Hid from the search of pursuers there,
For days and nights they sped;
The fruits of the forest their only fare,
The leaves their only bed.

X

Fondly they thought that those paths might guide
Once more to their native land;
Vain hope! what sees that startled bride?
Why grasps she her lover's hand?

XI

'Tis the levell'd gun of a foeman near,
Half hid by the copsewood screen;—
She clung, as a shield, to that breast so dear,
And the fatal flash was seen!

XII

They fell—their heart's blood stain'd the spot
Where yon lonely cypress grows;
Their bodies, pierced by that single shot,
In a single grave repose.

SONG OF ODIN.

I.

When Odin his buckler had girded on,
Many a mother might weep for her son;
Woe to the foeman who ventured nigh
That unsheath'd sword or that angry eye;
That club, when uplifted, ne'er fell to the ground
But the brains of a victim were scatter'd around.

II.

When he led his bold band to the battle-plain,
Who could e'er number the foes that were slain?
Heap upon heap they were backwards cast,
As drifted snow by the whirlwind's blast;
In accents of thunder, he cheer'd to the slaughter,
And his white lips foam'd like the ocean's water.

III.

Vainly the shrieks of the dying implore;
His wrath was unquench'd, tho' he waded in gore;
There was but one sound that could sink on his breast,
Like a charm on the ocean, and lull it to rest;
Still reek'd his red sword, still flash'd his fierce eye,
Till the shout of his comrades was “Victory!”

IV.

Such was fierce Odin, and such must he be
Who would banquet with him in the halls of the free;
In the halls of the blest, where each warrior-guest
Shall sit by the side of the maid he loves best;
While sweetly her song shall his deeds declare,
And her music shall charm with its witching strain,
She shall smooth from his forehead the bloodclotted hair,
That a chaplet of triumph his temples may bear
As he drinks from the skull of a foeman slain.

TRANSLATION.

[The sea! unfathom'd in it depth, unbounded in its flow]

I

The sea! unfathom'd in it depth, unbounded in its flow;
The sea! whereon the brave of heart may wander to and fro;
The sea! within whose mighty arms the earth a captive lies,
Whose depth is intermingled with the depth of distant skies.

II

The sea! how calm and smiling when with azure hue it gleams;
The sea! how like a cradled child in playfulness it seems;
The sea! which was my birth-place when the tempest shook its wave;
The sea! within whose bosom I await a sailor's grave.

III

O sea! be mine no burial-place beyond thy rolling surge;—
When the seamew, wildly screaming, shall have sung my funeral dirge,

The billow, as a winding sheet enwrapp'd me, never more'
Cast back my limbs to lie and rot upon the hated shore.

IV

It would pain and break my slumber were I laid below the sward;
O'er the ashes of thy lover keeping fond and jealous ward,
Yield not thy charge till summon'd by the trumpet loud and dread,
Restore them not till doomsday shall awake and claim the dead.

ON THE BOWMEETING AND FANCY FAIR

[_]

Held at Hawarden Castle, August 25, 1835.

The tents are pitch'd in Hawarden's peaceful vale,
And harmless shafts the platted targe assail;
While now the bow (by archers more intent
On making love than making war) is bent,
Beneath those towers, where erst their fathers drew,

In deadly conflict, bows of tougher yew.
The canvas stretch'd beneath th' o'erhanging wall,
Now Beauty lures us to her glittering stall;
While wares new fangled, shreds of motley hue,
Profusely spread, the chequer'd counter strew.

Beneath the magic of her touch, behold
Transform'd at once the warlike arms of old!
The mighty falchion to a pen-knife shrinks,
Mail armour's meshes form the purse's links;
The sturdy lance a bodkin now appears,
A bunch of tooth-picks once a hundred spears!
A painted toy behold the keen-edged axe!
See men of iron turn'd to dolls of wax!
The once broad shield, contracted now in span,
Raised as a screen or flutter'd as a fan;
The gleaming helm a hollow thimble proves,
And weighty gauntlets dwindle into gloves;
The plumes that wing'd the arrow through the sky,
Waft to and fro the shuttlecock on high;
Two trusty swords are into scissors cross'd,
And dinted breastplates are in corsets lost;
While dungeon chains, to gentler use consign'd,
Now silken laces, tighten stays behind.

Approach! nor weapons more destructive fear,
Where'er ye turn, than pins and needles here.
While hobbling Age along the pathway crawls,
By aid of crutch, to scale the Castle walls,
With eager step advance, ye generous youths!

Draw the long purse, and strip the loaded booths!
Bear each away some trophy from the steep!
Take each a keepsake ere ye quit the keep!
Come! every stranger, every guest draw nigh!
No peril waits you save from Beauty's eye.

THE PAPER KNIFE.

Belinda! deem not this, my shining blade,
A useless toy, alone for show display'd,
But let this verse instruct thee how to prize
A wand wherein such various magic lies.

Peer'd at aslant, without my kindly aid,
The light of learning were but half display'd;
The Poet's song, pour'd forth in numbers sweet,
Would waste its rhythm in the folded sheet;
The march of intellect would lag behind,
And science fail to benefit mankind.
See 'neath my touch the sever'd leaves expand,
Diffusing knowledge o'er th' enlighten'd land;
I sweep the quarto with majestic stride,
Through duodecimos with ease I glide;
Hold in derision punctuation's laws,
Nor stop at colons, nor at commas pause;
While one bent figure questions, “Why so fast?”
And one with admiration stands aghast!

To suit the action to the word my care,
Though oft “a passion into rags I tear!”
When hosts conflicting desperate warfare wage,
I cut and slash with all a hero's rage;
When heroines pine in sentimental grief,
With listless languor part the yielding leaf;
With ruthless step the lovers' bower invade,
And to rude eyes betray the blushing maid;
The course of true love cannot smoothly run
Through volumes three till my consent be won;
By mine the point in epigram is shown,
The edge of satire sharpen'd by my own;
'Tis mine to smooth the ruffled critic's spleen,
When authors quarrel mine to intervene.
Or true or false I let the secret out,
Give wings to wit, and scatter jokes about!

Hard drudgery mine, the everlasting scrub
Of village news-room, and of London club;
Think through what columns, each succeeding day,
Both morn and eve, I pioneer the way;
Sun, Star, Globe, Herald, Chronicle, and Post,
My ivory baton marshals all the host;
To vulgar eyes reveals affairs of state,
Unfolds a tale or opens a debate.
Ye quidnuncs, patience! though the Times be due,
Ye needs must wait till I have skimm'd it through;
What though its pen the universe control,
It bides my pleasure ere its thunders roll.
Advertisements uncirculated lie,

Shows unannounced escape the public eye,
Puffs, like the winds in Æolus' cave, are pent
In hidden corners, till I give them vent.
All sides alike my pliant labours fit,
'Twixt Whig and Tory I the difference split;
On every argument lay equal stress,
Promoting still the freedom of the press.

Now with the swain through pastoral meads I stray,
Now through dull epics plod my weary way,
Now ghost-like glide before some tragic queen,
Now, ever varying, shift the comic scene;
Nor tear-drop falls, nor sides with laughter shake,
Till I my entrance and my exit make.

ON AN ARTIFICIAL ROSE.

I

As fairy like, thy bounding feet
The joyful ground to music beat,
Fair dancer! from thy garment fell
This mimic rose I love so well.

II

I snatch'd it up—I kiss'd—I prest
The fallen treasure to my breast;
Nor all the sweets of Eden's bower
Should tempt me to resign this flower.

III

Now let old Anacreon sing
His darling rose, the pride of spring;
To me more dear,—to me more sweet,
Than nature's flower, this counterfeit.

IV

Say'st thou that its leaves are dry?
At night I'll fill the goblet high;
And as the bowl to thee I drain,
I'll sprinkle them with ruby rain.

V

Tell me not the garden's rose
With bloom inimitable glows;
Rough winter comes with withering blast;
Transient charm! behold it past.

VI

Time shall ne'er these leaves invade;
They ne'er shall fall—they ne'er shall fade;
But, like the love I bear to thee,
This rose shall bloom eternally!

ON PRESENTING A MIRROR

[_]

to be placed in the Ladies' Cloak Room at Knutsford, Jan. 14, 1857.

Fair dancers, since the privilege is mine,
A gift to place in that forbidden shrine,
Take, with the gift, the giver's caution too,
Gaze on yourselves as we shall gaze on you!

While on your neck the circling jewels lie,
Dimm'd by the smile that sparkles in your eye,
While the fresh bouquet in your fingers held
Sees its own roses by your lips excell'd,
Ere with rash step ye mingle in the dance,
Fix on that mirror your observant glance;
May future ages see, reflected there,
Forms half so graceful, features half so fair!

Let the prest glove cling closely to the hand,
Snap the gold clasp, the ivory fan expand,
Smooth the full skirt, adjust the pliant shoe,
Each point, each fold, fastidiously review.
So shall no rent the Brussels lace impair,
Though jealous pangs the inward bosom tear;
So shall the gown, through galop and quadrille,
Though hearts be crush'd, remain unruffled still.

Go! partners wait impatient for the ball,
Go! smiling go! and bliss attend you all.

THE DEATH OF GEOFFREY RUDEL
[_]

the Troubadour, versified from La Gaule Poétique.

“Geoffroi Rudel était devenu tout-à-coup amoureux de la princesse Mélinsende, alors en Palestine, sur ce qu'il avait entendu raconter à des pélerins de ses vertus et de ses grâces. Durant la nuit, durant le jour, en tout temps, en tout lieu, Geoffroi Rudel ne rêve plus qu'à cette femme, dont, au gré de son imagination, il se figure les traits angéliques et le parler plein de douceur. Ne pouvant vivre plus longtemps éloigné de cet objet parfait, il monte sur un vaisseau qui cinglait vers l'Orient. Pendant le trajet, assis à l'ombre des voiles frémissantes, il composait les romances les plus tendres en l'honneur de Mélinsende, qu'il compare à la divinité qu'on adore, bien qu'elle n'ait pas encore frappé les yeux. A cette mélodie, à ces vers mêlés de soupirs, les matelots ravis oubliaient en l'écoutant la rame et les signaux; et les dauphins, aux écailles argentées, suivaient le long sillon de lumière que le soleil ou l'astre des nuits tracait derrière le navire.

“Mais dans le trouble qui l'agite sans relàche, une fièvre brûlante attise encore les feux d'un amour déréglé. Sans repos, sans nourriture, et ne cherchant, au milieu de sa vague contemplation, qu'à repaître son âme d'illusions et de chimères, il se consume, il va mourir. Déjà sa voix expire; mais le nom de Mélinsende est sans cesse errant sur ses lèvres décolorées. Cette image idéale qui le tient en extase, lui dérobe, comme par enchantement, et la vue de son danger, et même l'impression du mal qui le dévore. Le navire aborde, mais Rudel n'a plus qu'un instant à vivre. L'ami qui l'accompagne vole au palais de Mélinsende, et l'instruit de sa passion, du voyage et du péril de Geoffroi Rudel. Oh! second miracle de l'amour! A cet exemple de tendresse et de dévouement, cette princesse elle-même ressent pour celui qu'elle ne connait pas encore un sentiment impérieux qui l'entraîne au rivage; elle soulève dans ses bras l'harmonieux troubadour, dont les regards semblent verser sur elle la langueur et la volupté. Il la reconnait. Oui, la voilà! telle et plus belle encore que tant de fois il la vit dans ses rêves, qui n'étaient que des pressentiments; la voilà! . . . . et cependant ses yeux presqu'éteints vont se fermer pour toujours. O joie trop voisine d'un regret amer, c'est donc vous s'écrie-t-il? A ce mot il baise la main de la princesse, et rend le dernier soupir. On dit qu'à cet instant se rompit une corde de sa lyre, et qu'un lugubre murmure circula entre les sycomores de la rive orientale. Mèlinsende, inconsolable, quitte la cour de son père, abjure les grandeurs; et dans un monastère, près duquel elle élève à Rudel un superbe mausolée, elle veut consacrer le reste de sa vie à regretter er à pleurer son cher troubadour.”—La Gaule Poëtique, vol. vii. page 72.

“Pétrarch, en parlant de cet infortuné troubadour, dit qu'il alla chercher la mort à force de rames et de voiles.”

Her wandering pilgrims, from the Syrian shore,
Provence has welcomed to their home once more;
And gathering crowds, with eager voice, demand
What tidings bring they from the Holy Land?

They tell of battles by the Christian won,
And deeds of daring by Crusaders done;
They tell of perils and of toils past through,
Till tears of pity every eye bedew;
But worthier still of praise and wonder deem
One gentle name, their still unceasing theme.

In Tripoli dwells, endow'd with beauty rare,
A virgin princess, Melinsende the fair;
They tell how never on this earth as yet
Such various gifts in one fair mortal met;
How gentleness and dignity combine,
How wit and wisdom in her converse shine;
Romance ne'er pictured to the dreamer's sight
A form so graceful or an eye so bright!

As though enchain'd by some strange magic spell,
Still lingering, listens to the tale they tell,
With beating heart, the Troubadour Rudel.
Fly! ere too late, unhappy Troubadour;
Fly! ere those words to thy destruction lure.
Alas! already that encrimson'd cheek
And throbbing pulse love's influence bespeak!
That name by day his song's untiring theme,
That form by night the phantom of his dream.
Amid the armèd chivalry of France,
Rudel no more shall to the lists advance,
Nor urge the steed, nor wield the knightly lance;
Bright eyes, the glory of his native clime,
Shall win no more the homage of his rhyme.
Let other minstrels now their charms recite,
He views them only as the stars of night;
A fancied sun, in regions far away,
O'erpowers their light and lures him to its ray.

O'er fame and glory conquering love prevails,
His parting speeds, and still with favouring gales
Wafts on the vessel as it eastward sails;
Yet oft the deck with restless step he paced,
The winds outstripp'd by his impatient haste;
Now silent, would he gaze with longing eye,
Intent the haven of his hope to spy;
Now when the winds were hush'd, and, in their stead,
By stroke of oar the lab'ring galley sped,

Beneath the shrouds reclining, would he string
His plaintive lyre, and thus in sadness sing:

Song.

How bright with bliss, love-favouring night,
When eyes, which I adore, with light
Of seraph-sweetness beam;
Sad day, how dark! when envious morn,
From my fond sight that image torn,
Dispels the dream!

O blissful night, when whisper'd near
Those accents charm my listening ear,
And all my senses thrill!
Linger, night, linger yet awhile,
And bid that harmony beguile
My slumber still!

The morning sun disturbs a dream
More beauteous than his midday beam—
Strains which from Heaven fall!
Strains which by day my ceaseless lyre,
Still baffled in the vain desire,
Would fain recall!

To catch the echo of the words he sung,
On their poised oars the listening sailors hung;
The vessel's track, in glistening scales array'd,
The dolphins follow'd as the minstrel play'd.
Alas! already flush'd with fever's dye,
The sunken cheek and the enfeebled sigh

Tell how that flame, devouring night and day,
With pain unceasing, wastes his heart away.
Ah! fond delusion, she, unseen, unknown,
That voice inspiring may not hear its tone,
Save in the utterance of life's parting moan.

In sight at length the wish'd-for shore appears,
And now the port the straining vessel nears;
Ere from the mast the fluttering sails they lower,
The pitying sailors bear Rudel to shore.
Swift speeds his page, the wondering Princess seeks,
Kneels at her feet, and thus love's errand speaks:

“Fair Melinsenda! from his distant home
Fame of thy beauty lured Rudel to roam.
From far my master, those bright charms to see,
Has cross'd the waves that sever'd him from thee.
Alas! that love which led him o'er the wave,
In mockery guided only to his grave!
E'en now, his pallet stretch'd upon the beach,
Thy whifper'd name employs his feeble speech.
Haste, gentle Princess! though the charms which gave
Th' unconscious wound have now no power to save,
In pity, haste! though Heaven his life deny,
Bless with one look thy victim ere he die!”

Urg'd by a secret sympathy, she flies,
With eager steps, to where her votary lies;
Though death now 'gan his closing sight to dim,
He saw those eyes, and saw them fix'd on him.

How far the bright reality excell'd
Whate'er fond fancy had in dreams beheld!
“'Tis thou! 'tis thou!” with struggling voice he cried,
Press'd on her hand one fervent kiss and died.

Faintly his falling lyre was heard to fling
One plaintive echo from its broken string;
The gale that swept it through the eastern grove
Bore his chaste spirit to the realms above.

LORELEI.

[_]

Translated from the German.

I

Where the Rhine pursues its track
By the walls of Bacharach,
There a bright-eyed sorceress dwells,
Hearts bewitching with her spells.

II

By her magic charms perplext,
Bravest men are sorely vext,
Knight nor peasant rescue find
Whom her love-enchantments bind.

III

Her the Bishop bade appear,
Judgment from the Church to hear;

But could not her doom decree,
Of so fair a form was she!

IV

Movingly to her he said,
“Lorelei, misguided maid!
What hath tempted thee to ply
Damnèd craft of sorcery?”

V

“Holy Bishop! let me die,
Weary of my life am I;
In my glance there lurketh death,
Whom I look on perisheth!

VI

“Stars of flaming light these eyne!
Magic wand this arm of mine!
Bind me to the burning stake,
This my wand of magic break.”

VII

“Thy sad sentence must be stay'd
Till thou hast confession made;
Why, e'en now those flaming eyne
Burn into this heart of mine.

VIII

“Lorelei! this powerless hand
Dare not break thy magic wand,
Or, with pity for thy sake,
Truly my own heart would break.”

IX

“Why those bitter words to me,
Sporting with my misery?
Bishop! more I need thy prayer
That God's mercy I may share;

X

“Let me die, since nought can move
My sad heart again to love;
Let thy lips my doom decree:
Death no terror has for me!

XI

“Me my lover has betray'd,
Left me a forsaken maid,
Wandering on some foreign shore,
To return again no more.

XII

“Eyes by nature soft and bright,
Cheeks where blended hues unite,
Voice of sweet and sorrowing tone,
My enchantments—these alone!

XIII

“Nor can I their influence fly.
Anguish stricken, I must die;
When my features I survey,
Sorrow wastes my heart away.

XIV

“Ere I die thy blessing give,
That with Jesu I may live;
Why must I on earth abide,
Sever'd from my lover's side?”

XV

Three knights at his bidding wait:
“Bear her to the cloister straight.”
“Lorelei! God's mercy still
Guard thy brain from further ill!

XVI

“Thou, in garb of nun bedight,
Robe of black, and veil of white,
There to prayer and penance given,
Win thy way from earth to Heaven!”

XVII

Now the mounted knights, all three,
Ride forth to the nunnery;
Sadly on, with tearful eye,
In the midst rode Lorelei.

XVIII

“Let me now, I pray thee, knight,
Stand upon yon rocky height,
Once again my sight would fall
On my lover's castle wall;

XIX

“Once again my longing eyne
Look into the depth of Rhine;
Then, within the cloister gate,
I on God will ever wait.”

XX

Where that rock from out the deep
Like a wall rose straight and steep,
Climbing up from stone to stone,
On the top she stood alone.

XXI

Said the maid, “A bark I spy,
On the Rhine-stream floating by;
He whom I, returning, see
Must, I trow, my lover be!

XXII

“Now my heart is light and free,
My lost lover, it is he!”
From the mountain's rocky bank
Plunging—in the Rhine she sank!

CHIMONANTHUS FRAGRANS.

These blossoms of empurpled hue,
They drink not of the vernal dew;
They bloom not in the summer sheen,
When flowers are gay, and leaves are green;
When Autumn gilds the bright parterre,
They mix not with the fragrance there;
But when, the sky with clouds o'ercast,
Rough winter chills the sweeping blast,
Then, peering forth, each purple gem
Shines bright upon the leafless stem.
True friendship thus its presence hides;
When all is bright aloof it bides;
Shuns to intrude amid the throng
When mirth and joy the hours prolong;
But comes when flattering crowds depart,
And sheds a balm into the heart;
Then only, in affliction, known
Its worth, when all the rest are flown!

THE SCATTERED ROSE.

A rose from the flowers in her garden she offer'd,
But aggrieved was that rose to be sever'd from them,
Ere press'd to my lips was the gift that she proffer'd
The leaves at my touch fell away from the stem.

Thus oft a fond wish by the chance of a minute
Is crush'd—nor in joy when attain'd can we trust,
Hope leads us on, but alas! when we win it
And grasp it, the treasure oft crumbles to dust.

Did the rose leaves thus scatter'd a warning betoken
And shedding their fragrance my passion reprove?
The green stalk, a symbol of friendship, unbroken,
Stript of the leaves which embalm'd it with love.

The thorn,—for still left on that stem may a thorn be,
To the hand which bestow'd it no wound shall impart,

Alone by mine own shall it patiently borne be,
Nor touch with one sorrow the truth of her heart.

I have but one fear—lest such love be resented,
I have but one trial—its warmth to suppress,
Evermore striving, with friendship contented,
To merit that blessing by loving her less.

SONG.

Slumber on! while I watch o'er thee,
Slumber in unbroken rest!
Fittest guard to stand before thee
Is the friend who loves thee best!

Slumber on! and should'st thou, dreaming
Of the starry realms above,
See an angel spirit, beaming
With a smile of heaven-born love;

One with golden hair down flowing,
One whom spotless robes invest,
With a seraph's radiance glowing,
Tranquil, pure, and bright, and blest;—

Such the beauteous form which, waking,
Gazing on thy peaceful brow,
Such the form, sweet slumber taking,
Which I see before me now.

MODERN CHIVALRY.

I

Time was, with sword and battle-axe,
All clad in armour bright,
When cleaving skulls asunder
Was the business of a knight.

II

Now chivalry means surgery,
And spurs are won by him
Who can mend a skull when broken,
Or piece a fractured limb.

III

Our knights of old couch'd lances,
Drew long swords from the sheath,
Now knighthood couches eye-balls,
And chivalry draws teeth.

IV

See! rescued from confinement,
To charm our ravish'd sight,
Fair ladies are deliver'd
By the arm of a true knight.

V

Behold! the knight chirurgeon
To deeds of blood advance,
A bandage for a banner!
And a lancet for a lance!

VI

To heroes of the hospital
The “bloody hand” is due,
But ye heralds bend the fingers,
Or the fee may tumble through.

AN ETON ELEGY.

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers,
What means that voice of moaning?
“That voice,” the Tutors cry, “is ours,
O'er food and fuel groaning.

“With Greek and Latin we can store
And cram the empty head,
The stomach still with something more
Substantial must be fed.

“Once ‘Kings and Montem’ to obtain
Our Eton bucks contended,
Our Fatted Calves, sent home by train,
Are highly now commended.

“O, blissful days, when crown'd with bays,
The Musæ Etonenses,
Inspired by Keate, of butcher's meat
Could laugh at the expenses.

“For fuel though we spare at need
A Virgil or a Horace,
On books like worms we cannot feed,
But else, what is there for us?

“Thou, Gladstone, whose Homeric soul
Was kindled by our Gradus,
Full well know'st thou the price of coal,
Why com'st thou not to aid us?

“Trojan heads and helmets hacking
Made blunt the swords of Greece;
The egg-shells we are daily cracking
Now twopence cost apiece.

“'Twould time employ of every boy
The cost to calculate
Of all we buy at avoirdupois,
Or purchase at Troy weight.

“Etona! flourish long may she!
But ruin will await her,
If starved should we and brosier'd be,
By our own Alma Mater.”

December 29, 1873.

THE PARROT.

[_]

Translated from Florian.

Uncag'd one day,
A Parrot grey
The neighbouring woods allure;
From prison free,
“I now,” quoth he,
“Will act the Connoisseur.”

He found in wail
Of Nightingale
Deficiency of skill;
The plaintive song
Drawn out too long,
Too tremulous the thrill.

The Linnet's throat
Had scarce a note
Worth listening to; although,
If early taught
By him, he thought,
She might have sung so-so.

No bird that sung
The woods among
True vocalist esteeming;

Still something wrong
In every song,
He silenced them by screaming.

One day they came,
With ceaseless blame
Provok'd to such excess;
“Good sir,” they say,
“Will you display
The talent you possess?

“Your taste so fine,
No doubt, divine
Your voice; we pray you, clear it;
For doubtless we
Much melody
Might learn, if we could hear it.”

Abash'd, his head
Poll scratch'd, and said,
“Incomparably good
The judges deem
My Parrot scream,
But sing I never could.”

THE BOAR AND THE SINGINGBIRD.

[_]

From Florian.

A millionaire of much pretence,
Of great conceit, and little sense—
For ignorance, as oft we see,
Walks hand in hand with vanity—
A savant in his own esteem,
In every art a judge supreme,
Of genius gold he thought the test,
And wealth with taste and talent blest.

Assembled round his table sit
Men fam'd for science and for wit.
No artist could his sketch complete
Till he had laid it at his feet;
No sculptor could a Venus cast
Till compass he had o'er it pass'd;
The architect his plans outspread;
The author there his poem read.

Their voices they in chorus raise
His judgment and his taste to praise;
And while he feasts them, one and all
Their patron a Mæcenas call.

One noon, as, 'neath the forest spray,
He rambled in the month of May,
A Woodman his attendant guide,
Whose head with brains was well supplied;
Behold! a boar, who now with toil
Of snout upturn'd the forest soil,
Now deep in earth was seen to wedge
His tusk, to give it keener edge;
Around him, fluttering as he plough'd,
The wood-birds carroll'd sweet and loud;
From forest-tree, from hawthorn-bush,
Came linnet, nightingale, and thrush;
Where'er he roam'd the tuneful throng
Pursued him with unceasing song.
The brute, a connoisseur profound
In music, listen'd to the sound,
Now raised his head, as if to tell
The birds he liked their voices well,
Now shook it in disapprobation
While he resumed his occupation.
“They choose,” said Dives, “much amiss,
An animal so gross as this;
Their music and themselves they wrong
To make this brute a judge of song.”
“Excuse me,” said the Woodman, “they
But show the tact which men display;
The soil upturn'd, his grovelling snout
Brings many a dainty morsel out;
'Tis that which tunes their hungry throats,
And prompts the music of their notes;

The labour of his tusk they need
Fresh worms to find on which they feed,
The brute, with much self-satisfaction
Deems his own merit the attraction.”

THE SQUIRE OF DAMES; OR, A TOUR IN SPAIN.

Polite Frenchman in the train, addressing the ladies with a low bow:—

“Nous autres, nos femmes ne veulent jamais nous accompagner; mais voyager comme ca avec quatre dames, cela doit être pour monsieur un bonheur suprême.”

How happy who travels from London to Cadiz,
Sole protector and guide of four sight-seeking ladies!
No bachelor, selfishly taking his fling,
But with four pretty birds underneath his own wing.
He from morning till night pleasant duty must do;
He must count all their boxes, and pay for them too;
He must number his troop too, as well as their bags;
He must check the front rank when the hindermost lags;

He the wild ones must watch lest they wander astray,
And implore them when walking to walk the same way.

He must wake them ere dawn from the depth of repose,
And have breakfast prepared ere the omnibus goes,
he must order a “plat” that each palate will please,
Or biftek, or cutlet, potatoes or pease;
He must seek the lost glove, the strapp'd mantle unroll;
He must run to recover the lost parasol.

Where'er fancy leads, he must shop them about,
And produce the small change they are always without;
His gauntlet must down on each counter be thrown,
He must wage wordy war in a language unknown;
Each purchase a matter of life or of death,
He must talk till exhausted from sheer want of breath,
Whether gloves for the fingers, or boots for the feet,
He must fight and fight on till the bargain's complete.

A retreat from the heat of the eventide sun,
The cathedral comes next when the battle is done;

Single file down the aisle, where throng'd worshippers kneel,
Till we face the High Altar, then right about wheel,
While each worshipper turns from the Virgin her eye,
To stare as the strangers in bonnets pass by.
He each shrine must unlock with a silver-wrought key—
From the touch of fair finger no relic is free—

Know each martyr whose name the side chapels assume,
And what bones are enclosed in each canopied tomb;
He must scan the whole plan with an architect's eye
From the marble-paved floor to the vaulting on high;
He must make to their female capacity clear
The date of each window, the style of each pier,
What was built by the Moor, what rebuilt by the Goth,
What has since been despoil'd by the Gaul in his wrath.

Then away to the gallery, guide-book in hand,
He must tell what to look at, and show where to stand;

In the annals of Spain be unerringly versed,
And know Philip the Second from Philip the First;
Point out with what vigour Velasquez could paint,
How sweetly Murillo could picture a saint.

'Bove all, he their zeal in due bounds must restrain;
Behold them dropp'd down from the Seville night train.
Which, think you, they stand most in need of, that group
At the Malaga station-house, slumber or soup?
Some had slept a small sleep, some had slept not at all,
Kept awake by that plague which “the fidgets” they call;

One dry roll apiece for their breakfast and lunch,
With an orange to suck at, a sausage to munch;
Their hair all dishevell'd, their hats all awry,
Four ghosts in appearance: but never say die;
All keen for the Dilly next morning at four,
En route to Grenada for twenty hours more.

He must teach them to spell “Inglaterra” aright,
He their letters must stamp when they've finished them quite,
With the dates of their progress must ne'er be perplext,

That dear sisters may know where to write to them next;
Hunt out the poste-restante, and patiently bear
Their abuse, his own fault if no letters are there.
With these and a thousand such pleasures repaid is
That man highly favour'd, the Squire of four ladies.

THE SPANISH BARBER.

What sights abound the world around, let tourists live and learn;
And Brown and Jones and Robinson go visit each in turn:
The battle-field at Waterloo, the bull-fight at Madrid,
While some delight their names to write on Cheops' pyramid.

Some tour to Tours, some roam to Rome, some trip to Tripoli;
Still something strange, where'er they range, for travellers to see.
To me no sight gave such delight as I at Seville felt
When I stood before the very door where Figaro had dwelt.

A fencing foil the Frenchman with dexterity can twist;
Pre-eminent is England in the science of the fist;
But with Spain no other nation in the universe can cope
In expert manipulation of the shaving-brush and soap.

My beard, when I reach'd Alicant, was like a currycomb,
Or, “like a stubble-land new reap'd, it show'd at harvest-home;”
With anxious step I wander'd till, suspended high in air,
A brazen basin told me that the spot I sought was there.

I thrust aside the curtain-veil that screens it from the street;
The Barber bows, and beckons to a softly-cushion'd seat;
Enfolds me in a napkin, white as snow on mountain top,
And to and fro the blade revers'd glides glibly o'er the strop.

A bungling British shaver would have seized me by the nose,
Would have brush'd my lip with lather where no hair upon it grows,

With shrug and screw and sacre-bleu at beard so overgrown,
A Frenchman would have held my jaw, and not have held his own.

My parch'd and thirsty beard an irrigation over flows,
A saponaceous liquid sweetly perfum'd by the rose;
His blade, as still he pass'd it and repass'd it o'er my chin,
I felt as if a lightning-flash were playing on the skin!

So skill'd within due limits still its keenness to confine,
He touch'd not there a single hair beyond the shaving-line.
How I wish'd it, when completed, how I wish'd it just begun,
A work of art so delicately, exquisitely done!

I felt as if my chin were iced when, penetrating through,
The balmy air of morning on the shaven surface blew;
He powder'd it, unnapkin'd it, and then he look'd me o'er;
And, conscious of a triumph, said, Servito, Señor.