Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems

by the late Thomas Haynes Bayly; Edited by his Widow. With A Memoir of the Author. In Two Volumes

Bayly, Thomas Haynes (1797-1839)

II.

FASHIONABLE ECLOGUES.

SONGS OF THE DAYS OF CHIVALRY.

THE WREATH.

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BOOK I.

CANTO I.

The lady's boudoir! who shall dare
To paint that scene of her seclusion,
Where chosen treasures, rich and rare,
Deliberately placed with care,
Are meant to imitate confusion.
The rosewood tables to excess
With porcelain and chrystal strew'd,
(As if to hint that awkwardness
Must never venture to intrude).
The escrutoire, the pen of gold,
The scented wax, the tinted paper,
The silver Cupid doom'd to hold
The little pink transparent taper.
The sun-flower clock—(whose dial well
May represent the golden flower,
Mechanically made to tell,
In poetry, the passing hour)
Some volumes too, in bindings such
As fairest fingers love to touch,
The Annuals in silken sets,
Lightest of literary pets.
The flowers, that seem as if they were
Thrown idly, negligently, there;

But all so tastefully arranged,
That were one little blossom changed,
The fragrant group at once would lose
Its charm, the harmony of hues.
Say, can a mortal maid presume
To venture here with mop and broom?
No, surely while the menials sleep,
Good fairies nightly vigils keep;
They dust each fragile ornament,
Replenish ev'ry vase with scent,
Wind up the clock, fold scented paper
In forms of spells to light the taper.
They lave each precious China dish,
And feed the gold and silver fish.
The lady's boudoir! Who shall trace
The tout ensemble of the place?

And there the Lady sits upon
The easiest of easy chairs,
And murmurs in a pensive tone
One of last season's opera airs.
She starts, as if the melody
Had roused her from her reverie:
She rises, to the window goes,
And pulls aside the muslin curtain.
And sighs, for very well she knows
That day's imprisonment is certain:
She nothing sees but leafless trees,
And snow flakes borne upon the breeze,
No ride, no walk; the thought was vain,
The muslin curtain fails again.
She stirs the fire, yet who can doubt
She is unconscious of the action?
She very nearly puts it out,
In her intenseness of abstraction!
And now she sits again, and leans
Upon her hand her beauteous brow,
And meditates on distant scenes,
And friendly faces absent now.

At length the feelings that were pent
So long in silence find a vent;
With no one in her solitude
To answer what she may advance,
She leaves her meditative mood
And thus her thoughts find utterance:
“I'll ask him—why should I defer
One moment making the proposal?
And should he stingily demur,
Uncourteously refusing her,
To whom in point of fact he owes all,
I am not worse off than before.
I'll ask; though asking is a bore:
And I an heiress! there's the sting!
I should have paus'd, had I conjectured
That I could ask for any thing,
With such a dread of being lectured:
I'm sure I thought that heiresses
When married, always were looked up to,
And treated as divinities,
Whom it was man's first thought to please,
And kneeling—hold out pleasure's cup to.
Heigho! I'll ask him.”

And she goes
To the study of Sir Hampton Rose.
I've breath'd his name! and so already
The reader knows this lonely lady;
The Lady Hampton Rose—so well
Remember'd as a reigning belle,
Who married, twenty years ago,
A Baronet whose purse was low.
And time who frequently displaces
The tints that females fain would fix,
Has left her full of bloom and graces,
Fat, very fair, and thirty-six.
But let us follow to the door,
Where now reluctantly she lingers,
Half leaving it; and now once more
Touching the lock with trembling fingers,

She knocks and gently cries “My dear
Sir Hampton—answer—are you here?”

And may we pause to ask the cause
Why Time that should make fond ties stronger,
Thus oft a chilling barrier draws
'Twixt hearts that beat like one, when younger?
Alas! what seeming trifles lead
To such a mutual change of feeling,
So unimportant, that indeed
We scarcely miss the links they're stealing:
And yet those several links combined
Form the light fetters of affection,
Uniting lovers, heart and mind,
But which in married life we find,
Oft only live in recollection!
The confidence unlimited,
The eyes that seem by intuition,
Before a single word is said,
To guess, and answer each petition:
Ah! why do such things pass, and why
The heart's exclusive fond devotion?
And leave the inattentive eye,
The cold, or querulous reply,
The longing after locomotion!

There have been mortals, and there are
Less changeable and happier far,
Who share the summer days of life
As lovers still, though man and wife:
And when misfortune's frowning form
Comes near them with her wintry weather,
They cling, like children in a storm,
More closely, lovingly, together.
These boast a bliss (oh well I know
The truth of what I say)
Which fortune never can bestow,
And never take away.
But I digress, and I confess
This habit carried to excess

Is very wrong, and we return
The Lady's cause of care to learn.

'Tis evident we are too late
To hear her open the debate.
The lady leans back in her chair,
By her own eloquence exhausted,
Yet looks with a triumphant air
At him so fluently accosted;
As if she meant to say: “Now answer,
Yes, and refuse me if you can, Sir!”
Sir Hampton Rose was one of those
Provoking men, of looks so mild,
That any body would suppose
They might be manag'd by a child.
And when they say an angry word,
A voice all gentleness is heard;
And while the calm eyes acquiesce,
And with the placid cheeks say “yes,”
The tongue is very apt to give
A most decided negative.
He had a tantalizing way
Of listening to all you say,
Or rather seeming so to do,
And looking calmly up at you
With such a smile, that your success is
Apparently beyond a doubt;
Yet when you finish, he confesses
He is not able to make out
What your long speeches are about!

E'en now he heard his lady speak,
With that tranquillity of cheek,
Which made his words the more provoking.
“Are you in earnest, love, or joking?”

But Lady Rose's glance possest
No indication of a jest,
When thus Sir Hampton she addrest:

“You know I am in earnest, (pray
Don't smile in that unmeaning way)
My wishes very well you know.
(I'm sure my temper is a miracle!)
I've told you where I wish to go—
(Don't look so hideously satirical.)
For eighteen months we have been here,
And really at this time of year,
This mansion is so very triste,
So very sombre!”

“Not the least.
It is a very charming spot;
And you were born here, were you not?
Pray don't apologize, my love,
I find no fault with Granby Grove.
'Twas mine the day I married you,
Your maiden name was Granby too.
Trifles seem therefore precious here;
Don't call it sombre, don't, my dear.”

“‘My dear,’ indeed! that's too absurd!”

“My Lady, then: is that the word?
Or may I use your christian name?
Laura! I'm surely not to blame
For checking you when you disparage
Your own estate, love—mine by marriage.”

“'Tis yours,” her Ladyship replied,
“'Tis yours, it cannot be denied;
'Tis yours, and yet I dearly love
Each little twig of Granby Grove.
Those twigs were mine, oaks, beeches, firs,
All planted by my ancestors.
But when you thought it worth your while
To take me and my twigs—(don't smile),
I little thought that I should be
Myself as rooted as a tree,
With no amusement, nothing new;
My daily walk the avenue;

My most exciting avocation
To watch the course of vegetation;
Upon the little twigs to see
The spring buds in their infancy,
And watch them still, till each receives
Its summer modicum of leaves.
My autumn pastime to discern
How very yellow leaves can turn;
My winter—misery!—to fix
My eyes on trees transform'd to sticks!”

But a matrimonial duet
In an awkward key is sometimes set;
And though the two performers may
Be quite in earnest with their airs,
Let a third person steal away
And go and mind his own affairs.
They often touch discordant chords,
Make use of inharmonious words,
With voices rais'd too high to be
Compatible with melody.
We may remark the female voice
Is always highest reckon'd;
And in the duos of her choice
The man sings always second.
And thus it is when man and wife
Step on the boundaries of strife;
The moral or satiric pen
Should touch the paper lightly then;
And though it may be well to state
The aim, and end of the debate,
(Just as at distance, we might get
A note or two of the duet,
And know to what tune it is set).
Yet if the argument—or song
Grows very loud as well as long,
We, knowing what 'tis all about,
Should leave the parties, right or wrong,
To sing it—or to talk it out.

What arguments the lady us'd,
How long the gentleman refus'd,
The many tears the former shed,
The many words the latter said,
The pros enforced with so much skill,
The ready cons that met them still,
These to my muse are things occult,
She hastens on to the result.
A spring in town was what she wanted;
A spring in town at length is granted!
Sir Hampton has a wicked way
Of saying “no” for the sake of saying it,
Though all the time perhaps he may
Mean to say “yes.”—Yet half the day
He'll shake his head at what you say,
And spoil concession by delaying it.
When Lady Rose had work'd herself
Into an unbecoming rage,
He took a volume from a shelf,
Deliberately read a page,
And then look'd up with that calm smile
Which ne'er had left him all the while,
And said: “perhaps you'll like to know
“I always meant that we should go.”

A man may sneer at female reasons
For longing after London seasons,
But happy Lady Rose, thy Lord
Turns thither of his own accord;
Thou mightst have argued all day long,
Until exhaustion made thee stop,
Urging that parents must be wrong
Who let their old connexions drop;
Thou mightst have said thy son and heir
Was old enough to see society,
Or that thy daughter young and fair
Might be presented with propriety.
Or secretly thou mightst have had
Visions of thine own beauty clad

In robe de bal (of Carson bought;)
At Almack's too—too flattering thought!
Or smiling forth with braided locks
From a best circle opera box.—
This never would have done; amusement
Offers Sir Hampton no inducement,
Unless the amusement chance to be
One of his own selection;
And then indeed assuredly
He could see no objection.
And long he furtively hath eyed
The hobby that he means to ride,
(And pleasing is that hobby's pace
To those who never tried her,
Though in the amble or the race
She's apt to throw her rider).
Ambition! (understand me, pray),
Ambition in a quiet way,
Not of that very lofty kind
Which sighs for reputation's “bubble,”
Till to his keeping are consign'd
Responsibilities, that grind
The powers of body and of mind
With “double, double toil and trouble.”
Not so: Sir Hampton had, in short,
(Or thought he had) a friend at court,
A cousin in the Cabinet;
And though twas long since they had met,
And though not very clearly knowing
What recompense he hoped to get,
He thought he should be right in going
At once, and to the courtier shewing
His relative the Baronet.
He was aware that the relations
Of men in public situations,
Instead of pocketing vast sums,
Can scarcely pick up paltry crumbs,
Since unenlighten'd eyes persist
In peering at the pension list.
And Ladies Jane no longer young,
From Peers right honourably sprung,

Must now give up, oh sad reverse!
Their income from the public purse;
A stinted pittance to receive
Wrung from some noble relative,
Who thinks the public ought to grant
A pretty income to his aunt;
Not much—sufficient to enable
The dame to keep a social table,
Champagne, and customary courses,
A house in town, landau and horses.

And sinecure (which when translated,
Without a cure once seem'd to mean)
Is now an evil so abated,
That those who for snug things have waited
With lengthen'd visages are seen:
And those who really used to hug
Things most inestimably snug,
And to their annual thousands add
Another—perhaps two, to add,
The gift of some most noble cousin,
Who thus hath delicately chosen
His own relations to assist,
And sop their daily bread with honey,
By putting them upon the list
Of those who drain the public money.
They know the cure is nearly finished,
And talk, with incomes much diminished,
About “the good old times,” and sigh,
Relinquishing a luxury!

Oh! who would bear the degradation
Of being pension'd on the nation?
Who, that already has enough
To buy an independent loaf,
Such stipend would consent to take,
To turn the loaf into a cake?
Or who that goes on foot to-day,
Erect upon the King's highway,

So meanly, despicably feels
A gilded carriage he'd prefer,
If he must be a pensioner,
E'er he can buy the toy on wheels!

Mistake me not, it would be hard
If those who struggle through the strife,
The ceaseless toil of public life
Were grudg'd their well deserv'd reward.
Not so—the pensioners I mean
Are useless beings I have seen,
Without one talent that can claim
For them publicity of name,
Yet who have thus been public debtors;
And yet a look of pride they wear,
A high, aristocratic air!
As if their independent neighbours,
Who earn their incomes by their labours,
The apothecary and the lawyer,
Who must bow down to their employer,
Were not beyond compare their betters!

But I digress, and I confess
This habit carried to excess
Is very, very wrong, and so
I said at least an hour ago.
Sir Hampton has with Granby Grove
Five thousand pounds a year,
Means adequate for those who love
In a provincial scene to move,
But not enough, I fear,
For such as fain would shine in this
Luxurious metropolis;
But then, Sir Hampton Rose expected
That, being very well connected,
He might engage a residence,
From rents exorbitant refraining,
And live at moderate expense.
More entertain'd than entertaining.
In fact, he thought if he could meet
A small abode in Baker Street,

Or Gloucester Place, or any where
Contiguous to Portman Square,
Or in another distant quarter,
Now strew'd all over brick and mortar,
Cadogan Place, or Eaton Crescent,
Or Sloane Street, more remote than pleasant;
Where'er in fact his home might be,
He thought that he should daily see
The cards of the nobility;
And an engagement book o'erflowing
With all the very best things going.

This was a secondary thought;
What higher things Sir Hampton sought,
He nam'd to none; and Lady Rose
Now to her boudoir gaily goes.
And whilst her own maid Jane, displaying
Her skill, adjusts her evening gown,
She half distracts the girl by saying:
“Next Monday week we go to town.”

CANTO II.

Sweet is the earliest breath of spring, the unexpected ray,
That peeping out throws warmth upon a February day;
We hail the lengthen'd hours of light, the softness of the breeze,
And almost wonder why we see no leaves upon the trees.
And here and there upon the earth the crocuses are seen,
The golden buds that nestle in their cradles of light green,
And snowdrops delicate and pale, that droop, as if in fear
Of coming from their warm repose so early in the year.

And there's a path at Granby Grove, where the earliest spring day
Shines forth, as if March meant to steal the livery of May;
The first of birds assembled there rehearse their summer song.
And a rivulet flows murmuring melodiously along.

Oh! rivulets, bright rivulets, ye are the gentle friends
Of him upon whose lonely walk no human form attends;
And as he sits beside ye, with a soft and soothing tone,
Your voices seem to speak to him of joys for ever gone.
Ye call up other voices too, unheard for many years,
And ye give to him who mourns the dead—the luxury of tears.
How often have we heard it said, that in December days
The lonely being loves his hearth's companionable blaze!
But rivulets, bright rivulets, when social hearths are dim,
The mourner seeks your mossy banks, ye are the friends for him.
Upon the path that I have nam'd, two youthful lovers stood
And seem'd to watch the rivulet in meditative mood.
But I must pause to sketch them both: the girl was seventeen;
A form and face so beautiful but seldom has been seen.
Her name was Mary, and there was a something when she smil'd
About her lips, that told you she was Lady Rose's child.
A lurking laughter-loving look; but in her nobler face
A high expression dwelt, of which her mother had no trace,
A touch of sentiment and thought: you read as in a book
Whatever mischief might betide that laughter-loving look,
That still, within her secret soul lay principles so pure,
That in temptation Mary Rose could ne'er be insecure.
Her lips were red, her eyes were blue, her skin extremely fair,
In ringlets o'er her snowy brow she wore her light brown hair;
In ringlets, art's most pleasing style, for ringlets oft run wild
Round nature's sweetest dwelling place, the features of a child,
Not coiffée'd by a cruel hand—not strain'd into a load
Of hard and heavy looking bows, perhaps the latest mode,
Invented surely by some fiend, who fain would thus displace
(No very practicable task) the charm of woman's face.
Slight was her fairy figure, as her mother's might have been,
When first she knew Sir Hampton Rose, a bride at scarce sixteen.
And Mary by her lover stands, and seems as if in dread
That she had hurt his feelings by some rash word she had said.
This lover was her cousin—a distant one of course,
But cousin is a weighty word—few people know its force.
A first, perhaps a second cousin, Ladies need not dread—
But if you have one more remov'd—remember what I've said.
He'll talk of his relationship—but 'tis a ship he'll sink,
The moment it occurs to him love forms a better link.

Each day he'll walk, each day he'll talk, and every day you'll see
A hundred little things that prove how pleasant he can be;
When trifles try to win a smile, he'll step before a dozen,
And whisper, while you laugh and say: “He only is my cousin;”
And at a pic-nic party, when prudent parents seek
To keep all gay adventurers and younger sons in check,
They always have this ready mode of ending the quandary:
“Oh let us send for cousin Edward, he'll take care of Mary.”

And Mary's cousin Edward was a cousin of this kind;
Unlimited companionship their hearts had closely twin'd.
In all the sorrows of her youth—ten minutes would suffice
To take her to the Rectory for comfort and advice.
In all her little charities, the same judicious voice
Would name to her the pensioners most worthy of her choice.
Her chamber too at Granby Grove was chosen for its view,
Though other chambers had a more extensive one, 'tis true;
But as she sat there, she could see the tower of the church
With the gable of the Rectory, and its ivy-mantled porch.
But Edward was no Rector; the reader must be told
That he was left an orphan boy, at only six years old.
His father was a younger son, his mother poor as fair,
To virtue and good looks in fact their only child was heir,
And heir, alas! to little else. But in our early years
A kind hand seldom tries in vain to wipe away our tears,
And poverty is then unfelt; we cannot have been taught
How many worldly smiles by worldly riches must be bought.
At Granby Edward found a home, and Mary and her brother
In striving to amuse him seem'd to rival one another.
Mary was then three years of age, and little Edward tried
To teach her how to run about, protecting her with pride;
And as they older grew, their task, their sports were still the same,
For Mary left her governess, and to the boys she came
To help her brother wend his kite, or look at Edward's boat
Which down the little rivulet in gallant trim would float.
And when the lads to college went, Miss Mary used to think
That writing to her brother John was wicked waste of ink;
He was a correspondent so abominably dull.
But Edward always answered her, and his letters were so full

Of kind remarks and pleasant news, no trifle was forgotten,
She read them over every night, and put them by in cotton.

Oh what a beauteous thing is love! how happy and how pure,
Thus springing up in two young hearts, from present ills secure,
Assuming Friendship's name, it quite forgets that friends must sever,
As if young cousins thro' the world walk'd hand in hand for ever.
A fountain in a lonely vale resembles such a dream:
Now nothing but the clear blue sky is mirror'd in the stream,
Beside the valley's loveliest path its infancy is led,
Its bank is lined with violets, with softest moss its bed.
But the stream must leave the lonely vale, the violets and the moss,
And struggle on into the world, where restless billows toss.
Its purity reflects no more the bright expanse above,
And the calmness of its course is lost.—Oh! is't not so with Love?

By the Curate's side stood Mary Rose, unwilling to discuss
Some painful subject—suddenly he broke the silence thus:—
“Forgive me, Mary, oh! forgive the selfishness of heart
That would detain you longer here, 'tis time that we should part.
I might have known it could not last, I might have known that bliss
So pure, so perfect, n'er was meant for such a world as this.
And Mary, I will own to thee, that in some pensive mood
The thought of being torn from thee unbidden would intrude;
But I have hush'd the warning voice, I drove the thought away,
I knew that we must part, but still put off the evil day;
And in thy presence soon forgot that such a day must come.
But why do I distress thee thus? my anguish should be dumb;
It shall be so; yes—though I break my heart by the endeavour,
Henceforth I'll utter no complaint. Farewell! farewell for ever!”

“For ever! Edward, 'tis unkind. For ever!” Mary said,
“Oh think when first you went from home, what bitter tears I shed;

But I never breathed such cruel words: I plac'd implicit trust
Upon a friend's fidelity—shall Edward be less just?
You said you would remember me, and did I not believe?
I promised I would write to you, and did I then deceive?
No, Edward, no, we met again as happy as before,
And, dearest cousin, even now we've happy days in store.”

“Say, Cousin, yes, that word they will not bid thee to forget—
Say Cousin, but we never more shall meet as we have met.
Ay, call me Cousin in the world, it surely will be hard
If thou mayst not bestow on me a cousin's cold regard.
But I renounce the chilling word.”

“Oh, Edward, say not so;
Thou'rt angry, Edward; let me hear kind words before I go.”

“Kind words! I know not what I say; but novice as thou art
In worldly ways, consider, is it thus that cousins part?
Were I thy cousin only, at the altar I could stand
And calmly breathe a blessing while a husband press'd thy hand.
But is it so? no, Mary, no—thou canst not be my wife,
And the loneliness of blighted hope is Edward's lot for life.
Alas! I never loved thee with the common love of earth,
The love that vaunts its proud success in revelry and mirth.
My love was nurs'd in secret, like a blossom that has furl'd
All its sweet leaves from the notice and the sunshine of the world.”

Mary was weeping while he spoke; at length she rais'd her head,
And looking in his face, almost inaudibly she said:

“Edward, you never spoke of this—and have we not been wrong?
Yes, both of us, to close our eyes against the truth so long.
And now that you address me thus, perhaps I should rely
On some more tranquil prompter than my heart for a reply;
But no, if you have been to blame, at least that blame I share,
And I cannot listen calmly to those accents of despair.

If you are wretched, I am so; hereafter be more kind,
And think that Mary shares the grief of him she leaves behind.”
There was a pause—a blissful pause; but the poet drops his pen;
There are no words that can describe the lover's rapture then;
And the painter would be fortunate who faithfully could trace
The beautiful expression of his fair though manly face,
As his arms supported her who had been lov'd so many years,
Who with her head upon his heart, was smiling thro' her tears.

Who is there that cannot remember moments when he cast
From his bosom every feeling for the future and the past,
And in the present wholly lost, beholding all most dear,
Forgot to hope—forgetting there was such a thing as fear.

But Mary's sweet lips broke the spell: “Oh, hasten,” she exclaim'd,
“To my parents—to my parents, love, this meeting must be named.”

“It has been named,” said Edward, and his cheek grew pale and cold,
“It has been named; to both of them my passion has been told,
By both that passion has been spurn'd, and this brief meeting o'er,
My Mary will be torn from me: we part to meet no more!”

But we must leave the lovers now—too long we have intruded,
And prying eyes from parting scenes should always be excluded.

CANTO III.

Were I a country villa to select
Like Granby Grove in every respect,
Park like, and pretty; one of those estates
With two approaches, and with two lodge gates;

I never would be tempted, for the sake
Of glen and mountain, cataract and lake,
To choose a dwelling in its summer dress,
Six hundred miles from London, (more or less)
Without one human habitation near,
And roads impassable one half the year.
The summer choice of such a tenement
Leads to “the winter of our discontent.”
And oh! as little would I like to own
One situated near a country town;
So near that Mistress this, or Mistress that,
Could drop in of an afternoon to chat;
So very near, that e'en old maids could take
The walk to gossip over wine and cake;
And yet so far, 'twere cruel, when they come
To send them back again with “not at home.”
Place me the town precisely five miles off,
For all my wants and wishes near enough;
The mail will leave my letters at the gate;
And though perhaps pedestrians must wait,
And yearly club together, and approach
In a landau—(the Angel's old glass coach),
Between these visits months must intervene,
Not angel ones—tho' few and far between.
And o'er the luncheon tray we then shall hear
Provincial politics just once a year;
The sly remark, that certain people deem
That certain people are not what they seem,
Adding, that certain other people know
They are, or were, or will be so and so.
The confidential whispers of the day,
Still whisper'd in a confidential way,
Till confidants the whispers wide diffuse,
And all the smiling circle shares the news.

But Granby Grove is only two short miles
From Granby Town; and those who don't mind stiles
May walk across the fields, a shorter way;
Call late, and then judiciously delay,
And stay and dine—if they are ask'd to stay.

The Grove is therefore often throng'd with visitors,
The favour'd haunt of feminine inquisitors.

Think not from this the vile opinion mine,
That the word gossip must be feminine;
For I have seen the male, and frankly state
The coat and waistcoat gossip most I hate.
For “trifles light as air” may well engage
The single lady of a certain age,
Who lives alone, with eyes too dim to find,
With book or needle, pastime for the mind.
To her it would be cruelty to grudge
The observatory where she loves to lodge,
In the High Street, just opposite the shop
Where customers continually stop;
With a bay window, where from her snug seat,
She has a prospect up and down the street;
Picks up the latest rumours, one by one,
Hears more than ever was or will be done,
And nightly takes her tea chest from the shelf,
And tells to others what she heard herself.

But look without abhorrence, if you can,
Upon a gossip in the shape of man;
Man, in whose avocations you expect
Some trace of energy or intellect:
The book, the pen; or else, with those who shun
These home pursuits, the courser and the gun.

We turn to Lady Rose, who blithe and gay
Holds her last levee at the Grove to-day.
We find her seated by a portly dame
In silk and swan's down; Plimpton is her name,
Wife of a banker, proud to represent
One half of Granby town in Parliament.
“What, off to-morrow!” she exclaims, “my Lady,
And here you sits! you never will be ready;
I keeps you from your packing, I'm afraid.
But law! you leaves all them things to your maid!
I does all that myself—safe bind, safe find—
I sorts the articles of every kind,

The heavy things at bottom—light at top;
I puts my hand upon 'em when we stop,
Like a phenolemon, in fact you see,
I always does it all for Mister P.
We goes to town next week, the House of Commons
Has sent my poor dear man some sort of summons.
If he sits up all night to hear them speak
It will anniliate him in a week,
But I suppose, if he don't go there now,
The king will miss him, and there'll be a row.
Great men, my Lady, leads most shocking lives,
And so I'm very sure do great men's wives!
I sha'nt know know no one up in town, I fear,
But as we lives contagious like, down here,
I hopes to meet you in a friendly way,
I'll let you know our house, good day, good day!”

Off waddles the great man's great wife; and now
Comes a young Clergyman with simp'ring bow,
(Not Mary's cousin and acknowledged Love,
The Curate of the village near the Grove)
The Curate of the Town, and prouder far,
A Preacher aiming to be popular.
And pulpit popularity is not
His only aim, far from it, he has got
A longing after notoriety,
Whatever the pursuit may chance to be.
None dress so well as the Reverend Mr. Flinn,
And then how black his hair! how white his skin!
The last new cut in coats, if you would own,
The Reverend Mr. Flinn's is new from town.
To see him rising is a perfect treat,
The Reverend Mr. Flinn has such a seat!
No Granby ball without his aid can answer;
The Reverend Mr. Flinn is such a dancer!
First at the list of concerts he is reckon'd,
The Reverend Mr. Flinn sings such a second!
Dames who at whist love partners who can win,
Look kindly on the Reverend Mr. Flinn.

At water parties he is always present,
The Reverend Mr. Flinn can be so pleasant.
At archeries, the arrow is put in
The bull's eye by the Reverend Mr. Flinn!
Some mothers, and daughters too, assert
The Reverend Mr. Flinn is apt to flirt;
Yet marriage surely were a greater sin
In one so poor as the Reverend Mr. Flinn!

A “Ladyship” is always sure to win
Attention from the Reverend Mr. Flinn.
And though more flattering compliments are heard
When speaking to the lady of a “Lord,”
The bow and smile he never can forget
Due to the lady of a “Baronet.”
And doubly interesting she appears,
When in the rural coterie he hears
That she will have that eligible thing,
A house in town, in the ensuing spring.

At Mrs. Plimpton's exit, John came in,
And next announced “The Reverend Mr. Flinn.”
“You'll be in Baker Street to-morrow night!
A charming change! Your Ladyship is right:
There's nothing after all like town, my Lady,
I'm dying for the opera already!
I must leave poor dear Granby in the lurch,
And get some worthy man to serve my church.
Town is my element, I never can be
Appreciated in a place like Granby.
I am not vain; far from it, but I seek
Some chapel near the squares, when once a week
I may, unbored by burials and marriages,
Preach to a well dress'd crowd who come in carriages.
One's lost at Granby—positively lost;
I'm sick of the eternal tea and toast.
'Two'nt do to say: ‘regret you cannot go;’
They know you cannot be engag'd, they know
Where every body breakfasts, dines and sups,
And when at tea they fill their china cups,

Look out for every creature they invite,
Deem a refusal vastly impolite.
The town boasts but one party in one night!”

Now Lady Rose was very well aware
The Reverend Mr. Flinn's incessant care
Was by these very persons to be petted,
And when unasked, she knew how much he fretted!
Their daily flatterer, though it was his rule,
Absent to turn them into ridicule!

“Dear me! you quite surprise me!” she exclaim'd.
“The Reverend Mr. Flinn is always nam'd
At Granby with delight; I own I thought
You were as glad to seek, as to be sought!”

“Oh, no, my Lady, I am sadly teazed;
And if at times I manage to seem pleased,
It is an amiable weakness, thus
To smile on those who inconvenience us.”

“A moral maxim that,” said Lady Rose;
“You practice what you preach, Sir, I suppose.
But, Mr. Flinn, I really understood
You meant to settle in the neighbourhood.”

“Settle,” exclaimed the Reverend Mr. Flinn,
“A charming country this to settle in!
But I'm not one who, in a country town,
Could, as the vulgar phrase is, ‘settle down.’
Of course your Ladyship alludes, I know,
To the rumour of my marriage with Miss Snow.—
She's prettyish, and rich—but you must own
She is deficient both in taste and ton.
I must be less attentive—'tis a sin
To let her think she will be Mistress Flinn.”

“How fortunate! you may commence to-day
Your system of reserve without delay;
See all the Snows, the parents and your love,
A perfect snow storm, driving to the Grove!”

The Reverend Mr. Flinn seem'd rather flurried,
Rose to depart—and then his words were hurried.
The Snows were usher'd in ere he retreated,
He could not leave the room, he soon was seated
Next the Miss Snow whose hopes were to be chill'd,
And by a slighted passion prematurely kill'd!
Unfortunate young man! to thaw that snow,
How he hath labour'd nobody can know!
And how that snow hath frozen by delay
All his advances, nobody can say!
And now she seems much more inclined to chat
Than usual! He fidgets with his hat,
Ashamed that Lady Rose the chat should see
Yet loth to lose the opportunity.
He fears to lose, yet is ashamed to win!
Oh! most embarrass'd Reverend Mr. Flinn!

Pity the man who, rising once a year
A little way above his proper sphere,
Strives—(vain endeavour!) to appear to be
Indigenous to such society.
Then, to appear recherché, he disclaims
All knowledge of the old familiar names;
The man whose hand in fellowship he takes,
Whose roof has shelter'd him, whose bread he breaks;
The woman he has woo'd with all the strength
Dissimulation boasts, who loves at length,
Who mourns his absence, and will smiling stand
To welcome his return with lip and hand;
These he disowns, or if he deems it right
To say he knows them before ears polite,
Insults them by acknowledgment so slight.

Such is the Reverend Mr. Flinn, and now
Having forsworn his friends, he knows not how
To act reserve before my Lady Rose,
Yet slily smile as usual on the Snows.
Disastrous destiny of trifling fools,
Who wish to sit, yet tamper with two stools!

The Snows prepare to go, and they begin
To wonder at the Reverend Mr. Flinn!
“I fear you're poorly, Sir, you've walk'd too far,
We'll take you back to Granby, if you are;
So says Mamma—says Miss: “You know there'll be
A vacant seat upon the box with me.”
“Sick!” says old Snow, “Come with us, stay and dine,
And I will cure you, Flinn, with old port wine!”

The gentlemanly man whom you prefer,
Will know you for a year, and call you “Sir;”
The vulgar being whom you never seek,
Will slap your back and “Flinn” you in a week!

The Reverend Mr. Flinn though quite unused
To saying “No, I thank you,” twice refused!
Then looking with the corner of his eye
At Lady Rose's face, he heav'd a sigh;
And glancing at the delicate Miss Snow,
He could not have the heart to utter “No.”
Soon from the window Lady Rose espied
The lovers on the dicky, side by side!

The carriage drove away, and ere the bell
Rings for the meal that most men love so well,
Two dozen more across the lawn have flitted,
And (most unusual thing) have been admitted!

But now the last is gone, the levee done,
The lady sits complacently alone,
And murmurs to herself in accents sweet,
“To-morrow I shall dine in Baker Street!”

CANTO IV.

The excellent Housekeeper, Mistress Magee,
Is wild as weak women can possibly be:
She fumes and she frets, and examines, and mends,
And she orders about her, and superintends;
Arranging and managing, early and late,
Now sorting the linen, now packing the plate,
Now scolding the butler for doing it wrong;
Upbraiding the footman for lingering long,
And speaking her mind (though a little afraid
Of a saucy reply) to my lady's own maid.
And all confidentially seem to agree
That the journey has bothered poor Mrs. Magee.

“They're going to Lunnon,” she says to herself,
As she takes a large pickle jar down from a shelf,
“To Lunnon!—I never knows any good come
Of people's desarting their comforts at home.
To Lunnon! I takes it exceeding unkind
They should leave me alone in the country behind:
Unless into matters my lady looks deeper,
When she sees the housekeeping—she'll miss the housekeeper!
You go with them, Jane—deary me! I forget
That all the folks call you now Mistress Rosette;
Humph—Mistress Rosette! how you used to complain,
As a housemaid, at my never calling you ‘Jane;’
But how could I help it? now don't take it ill,
I can't forget Jenny, the drudge at the mill.”

Cries Mistress Rosette: “I despises your words;
We all knows your temper would turn cream to curds.
I'd answer—but anger destroys the complexion:
Your age and your 'firmities is your protection!
You envies my going to Lunnon, I see.
These trips are agreeable Mistress Magee.”

“Don't talk about trips,” says the keeper of keys,
“Don't talk about trips, Ma'am, to me if you please;

For your trips I suspect that you need not go far:
You've had plenty of trips in your time, Mistress R.”
Says Mistress Rosette, and she doubles her fist;
“I advises you, Mistress Magee, to desist;
To answer such obsequies only degrades
To a level with you, Madam—us lady's maids.”

“Lady's maids!” with a sneer says the elderly dame;
“The gentlemen's maids were a much better name.”

And dreading a most pugilistic response,
The housekeeper quitted the chamber at once.

Oh sad is the housekeeper, ordered to air
The old family seat with no family there!
To open the windows, to let in the light
Upon furniture only, and shut them at night;
To hear the wind whistling thro' the spring leaves,
No man in the mansion, and dreaming of thieves!
No talk with my lady, no orders to take,
No dinners to manage, no pastry to make,
No housemaid to scold for not using a broom,
No gossip and tea in the housekeeper's room;
No quality company coming to stay,
No little donation on going away,
No pleasant civilities: “Happy to see
You are looking so charmingly, Mistress Magee!
I hope I shall find you as blooming next year,
Without you, I scarcely should know myself here.”
Oh! nothing of this! she must fold up once more
The things that were very well folded before,
Or trying to think herself busy, bestow
New papers and brandy to jams on the go.

The morn of departure, poor Mrs. Magee
Is ready at six, with toast, coffee and tea;
The carriage is pack'd, and Sir Hampton, his lady,
And Mary, are seated within it already;
And Mistress Rosette, scorning weather and wind,
Is seated with John in the rumble behind:

The wheels are in motion—and standing alone,
Poor Mistress Magee's occupation is gone.

And fast flies the travelling carriage, so fast
That the Granby Grove boundaries quickly are past.
And now to the Rectory lawn they are close—
Poor Mary leans forward to gaze at the house;
Her eyes on one casement are fix'd, but so dim
Is the grey light of morning, she cannot see him.
But onward they go, and a turn in the road
Soon veils from her view the poor curate's abode;
With that—from her bosom all hope disappears—
She leans back in the carriage, and bursts into tears.
But one at the Rectory casement hath been,
Looking forth as they pass'd, tho' by Mary unseen.
His night has been sleepless, ah! who hath not known,
What it is in the darkness to stand all alone
By the window, and eagerly watch for the least
Ray of morning that colours the clouds in the east!
Yes, who has not gazed, when the daylight appear'd
For an early departure, expected, yet fear'd;
Now wondering what can have caused a delay
Now certain that something induced them to stay.
Looking out at each noise, with so eager an eye,
As if 'twould be pleasure to see them pass by!
Oh! who has not known what the weary one feels,
Who at length in reality hears the swift wheels,
And traces, or rather believes he can trace,
In the gloom of the carriage, one upturning face,
As if seeking for him, where he oft has been sought;
And then ere quite sure of the glimpse he has caught,
The wheels indistinctly are heard!—they are past.
Can it be she is gone—could that look be the last!
He ought to have spoken; why did he not stand
To acknowledge that look with a wave of the hand?
She will think he was sleeping—how cold and remiss,
To be able to sleep on a morning like this!
What would he not give, to behold her go by
Once again—though the vision as swiftly would fly!

In the instant, she might have beheld on his cheek
The sorrow which plainer than language can speak.
She might have remember'd that agonised glance
In the radiant assembly, the banquet, the dance;
She might have remember'd that look, when the voice
Of a lover more noble proclaims her his choice,
And her lips might have murmur'd: “No, constant I'll be,
I will ne'er forget him, he will ne'er forget me.”