Comic Tales and Lyrical Fancies including The Chessiad, a Mock-Heroic, in Five Cantos; and The Wreath of Love, in Four Cantos. By C. Dibdin, the Younger |
 |
 |
|
|
| LYRICAL FANCIES. |
 | Comic Tales and Lyrical Fancies |  |
227
LYRICAL FANCIES.
229
SAILOR'S SONG.
I've thought of it over and over,
The mistress best suiting a tar
Is his country; and no truer lover
You'll find, if near sailing or far.
For her, braving peril's worst waters,
With life, O, how freely he 'll part;
And then, too, her sweet smiling daughters,
Why, somehow they all have his heart.
The mistress best suiting a tar
Is his country; and no truer lover
You'll find, if near sailing or far.
For her, braving peril's worst waters,
With life, O, how freely he 'll part;
And then, too, her sweet smiling daughters,
Why, somehow they all have his heart.
The laurel he gains for her glory;
What triumph such honour bestows!
But wouldn't it wither in story
If 'twin'd not with beauty's sweet rose?
For what can such grace and such splendour
As dear British beauty impart?
Each tar, sink or swim, its defender;
For, somehow, they all have his heart.
What triumph such honour bestows!
But wouldn't it wither in story
If 'twin'd not with beauty's sweet rose?
For what can such grace and such splendour
As dear British beauty impart?
Each tar, sink or swim, its defender;
For, somehow, they all have his heart.
230
THE RINGLET AND WREATH.
Lovely maid, thy locks when braiding
Set one little ringlet free;
Smiling then at my persuading,
Kiss that curl and send it me.
Let some odorous zephyr bear it,
Perfum'd by thy breath alone;
As a charm of love I'll wear it
Near a heart that's all thine own.
O, set one little ringlet free,
Kiss that curl and send it me.
Set one little ringlet free;
Smiling then at my persuading,
Kiss that curl and send it me.
Let some odorous zephyr bear it,
Perfum'd by thy breath alone;
As a charm of love I'll wear it
Near a heart that's all thine own.
O, set one little ringlet free,
Kiss that curl and send it me.
Lovely maid, through Hope's beguiling,
I a wreath have twin'd for thee;
Wilt thou, like an angel smiling,
Kiss it when it comes from me?
If too bold appear my bearing,
Think, to frown ere thou incline,
Love too meek for tender daring
Is not worthy charms like thine,
O, set one little ringlet free:
Kiss the wreath that comes from me.
I a wreath have twin'd for thee;
Wilt thou, like an angel smiling,
Kiss it when it comes from me?
231
Think, to frown ere thou incline,
Love too meek for tender daring
Is not worthy charms like thine,
O, set one little ringlet free:
Kiss the wreath that comes from me.
232
CONTEMPT OF PITY.
O, why should I sing with the accent of sorrow,
Or let my heart whisper its anguish in sighs?
Careless Levity, rather thy smile let me borrow,
Lest, Pity awaking, my blushes should rise.
Though proud was the Spartan recorded in story,
Who boldly expir'd while concealing his pain;
The pride which can stifle its sorrow is glory,
And he's the true hero who scorns to complain.
Or let my heart whisper its anguish in sighs?
Careless Levity, rather thy smile let me borrow,
Lest, Pity awaking, my blushes should rise.
Though proud was the Spartan recorded in story,
Who boldly expir'd while concealing his pain;
The pride which can stifle its sorrow is glory,
And he's the true hero who scorns to complain.
Then bring me my lyre, let me sweep the strings over,
With touch energetic and chords of full sound;
The song let me sing which proclaims the free rover,
And friends, to applaud, will throng eagerly round.
But few are the hearts, when the spirits are sinking,
That seek the lone mourner, his hope to sustain;
Yet 'tis trifling with manhood from trouble when shrinking,
And he's the true hero who scorns to complain.
With touch energetic and chords of full sound;
The song let me sing which proclaims the free rover,
And friends, to applaud, will throng eagerly round.
But few are the hearts, when the spirits are sinking,
That seek the lone mourner, his hope to sustain;
Yet 'tis trifling with manhood from trouble when shrinking,
And he's the true hero who scorns to complain.
233
Were Pity the creature divine Heaven made her,
In secret, with silence, to raise the sad heart,
Then Grief might with honour call Pity to aid her;
But Pity, once humble, from Pride copied art;
And now, self-enamoured, when visiting sadness,
She whispers to reeds, if no ear she obtain;
Then spurn the coquet, dress your manners in gladness,
And be the true hero who scorns to complain.
In secret, with silence, to raise the sad heart,
Then Grief might with honour call Pity to aid her;
But Pity, once humble, from Pride copied art;
And now, self-enamoured, when visiting sadness,
She whispers to reeds, if no ear she obtain;
Then spurn the coquet, dress your manners in gladness,
And be the true hero who scorns to complain.
234
SYMPATHY.
The screech owl I hate who is ever complaining,
Too selfish his part of life's troubles to bear;
But the soft subdued mourner 'twere cruel arraigning,
Who looks for compassion, to banish despair;
Whose sigh never heaves to give pain to another,
But ease to the poor breaking heart to ensure;
And 'tis but a duty, from brother to brother,
To hear sorrow with kindness, tho' failing to cure.
Too selfish his part of life's troubles to bear;
But the soft subdued mourner 'twere cruel arraigning,
Who looks for compassion, to banish despair;
Whose sigh never heaves to give pain to another,
But ease to the poor breaking heart to ensure;
And 'tis but a duty, from brother to brother,
To hear sorrow with kindness, tho' failing to cure.
Who suffers in silence the pang that destroys him
Best copies the hero, that fondling of fame;
But he who confesses the pang that annoys him
To a title more noble than hero lays claim:
To the social name man—'twere ungen'rous to smother
His sorrow, and fancy compassion is coy;
For sure 'tis a duty, from brother to brother,
Tolet those share our grief who have claims on our joy.
Best copies the hero, that fondling of fame;
But he who confesses the pang that annoys him
To a title more noble than hero lays claim:
To the social name man—'twere ungen'rous to smother
His sorrow, and fancy compassion is coy;
For sure 'tis a duty, from brother to brother,
Tolet those share our grief who have claims on our joy.
235
LOVE SECRETS.
I'd carol of Love and the sweet maiden blush,
Of heart-thrilling glances, but prudence cries “hush!”
For, amorous ditties so numerous prove,
Taste frowns, and cries, sighing, “I'm weary of Love!”
Only fools make of delicate mysteries pother;
Soft feelings are sacred and not to be sung,
Only tenderly whisper'd from one heart to t' other,
While blushes reproach the least slip of the tongue.
Of heart-thrilling glances, but prudence cries “hush!”
For, amorous ditties so numerous prove,
Taste frowns, and cries, sighing, “I'm weary of Love!”
Only fools make of delicate mysteries pother;
Soft feelings are sacred and not to be sung,
Only tenderly whisper'd from one heart to t' other,
While blushes reproach the least slip of the tongue.
Love's eye should but answer the beam that invites it;
The glance that tells secrets true heart never won;
The delicate mind veils the hope that requites it,
Lest it die, like the fire when expos'd to the sun.
O, list'ning for ever to amorous ditty
True fondness destroys and makes bashfulness bold;
'Tis, alone, maudlin passion goes whining for pity;
Love, cherish'd by modesty, never grows cold.
The glance that tells secrets true heart never won;
The delicate mind veils the hope that requites it,
Lest it die, like the fire when expos'd to the sun.
O, list'ning for ever to amorous ditty
True fondness destroys and makes bashfulness bold;
'Tis, alone, maudlin passion goes whining for pity;
Love, cherish'd by modesty, never grows cold.
236
Dear woman's the exquisite magnet of nature,
And love is the heart-thrilling homage we pay,
But Beauty has not a more delicate feature
Than the caution that Love should, if grateful, display.
That name to the heart which sweet transport discloses
Too sacred should be for a toast or a tale;
And the breathings of Love, like the perfume of roses,
Are exquisite death, when surcharging the gale.
And love is the heart-thrilling homage we pay,
But Beauty has not a more delicate feature
Than the caution that Love should, if grateful, display.
That name to the heart which sweet transport discloses
Too sacred should be for a toast or a tale;
And the breathings of Love, like the perfume of roses,
Are exquisite death, when surcharging the gale.
237
CURIOSITY AND CUPID.
Curiosity, simple and young,
Went carelessly singing one day;
A boy from a myrtle grove sprung,
Who look'd like the brother of May.
“Ah! where, pretty urchin,” said she,
“With arch-looking eyes, do you rove?”
“O, dear, pretty miss,” replied he,
“'Tis a secret as pleasing as Love.”
Went carelessly singing one day;
A boy from a myrtle grove sprung,
Who look'd like the brother of May.
“Ah! where, pretty urchin,” said she,
“With arch-looking eyes, do you rove?”
“O, dear, pretty miss,” replied he,
“'Tis a secret as pleasing as Love.”
Curiosity would with him hie,
His secret to win by the way;
A small golden toy caught her eye,
Conceal'd in his bosom that lay.
She said, “What is that, like a dart,
You fear from your bosom to move?”
Said he, “'Tis a charm for the heart—
A secret as pleasing as Love.”
His secret to win by the way;
A small golden toy caught her eye,
Conceal'd in his bosom that lay.
She said, “What is that, like a dart,
You fear from your bosom to move?”
Said he, “'Tis a charm for the heart—
A secret as pleasing as Love.”
238
Curiosity came, as they went,
To where a fair youth lay asleep;
Said the boy, “To this bower I was sent”—
Of course the nymph would have a peep:
That instant her guide drew the dart,
“My secrets,” he cried, “you would prove;
And (while laughing, he aim'd at her heart,)
You'll find them as teasing as Love.”
To where a fair youth lay asleep;
Said the boy, “To this bower I was sent”—
Of course the nymph would have a peep:
That instant her guide drew the dart,
“My secrets,” he cried, “you would prove;
And (while laughing, he aim'd at her heart,)
You'll find them as teasing as Love.”
239
HEALTH,
AN ODE, FROM THE GREEK OF ARIPHRON.
Health, most ancient gift of Heaven,
Gift coeval with the soul;
Life and thou, together given,
Never, never, should be riven,
Till nature reach her mortal goal.
Gift coeval with the soul;
Life and thou, together given,
Never, never, should be riven,
Till nature reach her mortal goal.
Yet from Life thou oft wilt flee,
Leaving pensive Life to moan;
As lately thou hast flown from me,
And, pining, still I watch for thee,
With wearied longing eyes—alone!
Leaving pensive Life to moan;
As lately thou hast flown from me,
And, pining, still I watch for thee,
With wearied longing eyes—alone!
Oh! heavenly Health, to me return,
For we were twins—bethink thee, Health;
A claim so tender never spurn;
Canst thou, by nature kind, be stern?
Thy friendship was my only wealth.
For we were twins—bethink thee, Health;
A claim so tender never spurn;
Canst thou, by nature kind, be stern?
Thy friendship was my only wealth.
240
With thee let Life's remainder pass;
To bless my cot, ah! ne'er refuse;
For what in worth with thee can class?
All pomp can show, or wealth amass,
Is worthless, if thy smiles I lose.
To bless my cot, ah! ne'er refuse;
For what in worth with thee can class?
All pomp can show, or wealth amass,
Is worthless, if thy smiles I lose.
To wealth, to pleasure, sov'reign sway,
The pride of ancestry, or heirs;
To all that splendour gives the day,
To all that gives the spirits play,
Or gives repose to soothe our cares,
The pride of ancestry, or heirs;
To all that splendour gives the day,
To all that gives the spirits play,
Or gives repose to soothe our cares,
Thou giv'st to bless—the soft desires
That into Love's sweet toil we chase;
The balmy hopes, and holy fires,
And all that sympathy requires,
From thee, alone, derive their grace.
That into Love's sweet toil we chase;
The balmy hopes, and holy fires,
And all that sympathy requires,
From thee, alone, derive their grace.
Parent of happiness! with thee
The dearest joys alone are bless'd;
Only where thou art bloom can be;
Thou spring of sweetness! live with me,
Or vainly must I hope for rest.
The dearest joys alone are bless'd;
Only where thou art bloom can be;
Thou spring of sweetness! live with me,
Or vainly must I hope for rest.
241
THE BROKEN HEART.
Mark yon blighted flower,
Yonder wither'd tree;
Mark yon mouldering tower,
Yonder wreck at sea:
What the picture these impart?
Pity sighs,
And sadly cries,
“'Tis, alas! the broken heart.”
Yonder wither'd tree;
Mark yon mouldering tower,
Yonder wreck at sea:
What the picture these impart?
Pity sighs,
And sadly cries,
“'Tis, alas! the broken heart.”
If the basis moulder,
Can the dome endure?
Props but vainly shoulder;
Razing is the cure.
Death the emblem will impart:
Pity sighs,
And “Death,” she cries,
“Only heals the broken heart.”
Can the dome endure?
Props but vainly shoulder;
Razing is the cure.
Death the emblem will impart:
Pity sighs,
And “Death,” she cries,
“Only heals the broken heart.”
242
A RUSTIC BALLAD.
A bee, while lay sleeping young Dolly,
Mistook her red lips for the rose;
There honey to seek were no folly,
No flower so sweet ever blows.
It tickled, and wak'd her; when, clapping
Her hand on the impudent bee,
It stung her; and Dolly, caught napping,
Came pouting and crying to me.
Mistook her red lips for the rose;
There honey to seek were no folly,
No flower so sweet ever blows.
It tickled, and wak'd her; when, clapping
Her hand on the impudent bee,
It stung her; and Dolly, caught napping,
Came pouting and crying to me.
Said she, “Take the sting out, I pray you;”
What way I was puzzled to try,
And a trifling wager I'd lay you
You'd have been as much puzzled as I.
I'd heard about sucking out poison—
A sting is a poisonous dart—
So I kiss'd her—the act was no wise one;
The sting found its way to my heart.
What way I was puzzled to try,
And a trifling wager I'd lay you
You'd have been as much puzzled as I.
I'd heard about sucking out poison—
A sting is a poisonous dart—
So I kiss'd her—the act was no wise one;
The sting found its way to my heart.
243
ODE TO MY CAT.
Pussy, mock-innocent, for thou art white,
And look'st of innocence the very type;
But, dearest Pussy, thou'rt a hypocrite,
For many a mouse expires within thy gripe;
Yet dost thou look demure their blood while spilling,
Like devotees when reputations killing.
And look'st of innocence the very type;
But, dearest Pussy, thou'rt a hypocrite,
For many a mouse expires within thy gripe;
Yet dost thou look demure their blood while spilling,
Like devotees when reputations killing.
Pussy, thou seemest like a happy wight,
For thou, for muse who carest not a souse,
Having no brains to think, nor tact to write,
Carest far less for madrigal than mouse.
Critics ne'er thee maul, Puss, as me they do:
A mouse am I to them, to me they're you.
For thou, for muse who carest not a souse,
Having no brains to think, nor tact to write,
Carest far less for madrigal than mouse.
Critics ne'er thee maul, Puss, as me they do:
A mouse am I to them, to me they're you.
Pussy, thine eyes like Tasso's cat's don't shine;
Half clos'd, small speculation do they show;
Would of crabb'd Care so reckless close could mine!
But Care and I forgather'd long ago:
Care that doth teach man Virtue's trinity,
Self-knowledge, Patience, and Humility.
Half clos'd, small speculation do they show;
Would of crabb'd Care so reckless close could mine!
But Care and I forgather'd long ago:
Care that doth teach man Virtue's trinity,
Self-knowledge, Patience, and Humility.
244
ON A PRETTY COQUETTE.
Delia has eyes, and uses them;
Prenez garde, m'amie!
No one power refuses 'em,
But pow'r o'erpow'r'd may be;
And Delia, list: who bend the bow
And arrows shoot at random,
A silly bird may hit or so,
But sly ones understand 'em;
And, as they fly, the archer mock,
And—as the cuckoo in the clock
Reminds us of Time's flying—
A hint to folly—Delia, so,
The birds, secure, off chirping go,
The archer's skill defying:
Some silly bird, perhaps, is caught,
And silly bird's not worth a thought.
Prenez garde, m'amie!
No one power refuses 'em,
But pow'r o'erpow'r'd may be;
And Delia, list: who bend the bow
And arrows shoot at random,
A silly bird may hit or so,
But sly ones understand 'em;
And, as they fly, the archer mock,
And—as the cuckoo in the clock
Reminds us of Time's flying—
A hint to folly—Delia, so,
The birds, secure, off chirping go,
The archer's skill defying:
Some silly bird, perhaps, is caught,
And silly bird's not worth a thought.
245
Delia has eyes, and uses them—
Prenez garde, m'amie!—
Eyes as his books Love chooses them:
Should they light reading be?
For he who reads not generously
Some casual expression
May find whose meaning he may see
At variance with discretion.
Some roguish eye may catch the beam
Which Delia darts (per chance, 'twould seem)—
And haply may see through it:
That roguish eye may own, mayhap,
A roguish heart; in her own trap
Poor Delia caught may rue it—
Herself, the silly bird, be caught;
And silly bird's not worth a thought.
Prenez garde, m'amie!—
Eyes as his books Love chooses them:
Should they light reading be?
For he who reads not generously
Some casual expression
May find whose meaning he may see
At variance with discretion.
Some roguish eye may catch the beam
Which Delia darts (per chance, 'twould seem)—
And haply may see through it:
That roguish eye may own, mayhap,
A roguish heart; in her own trap
Poor Delia caught may rue it—
Herself, the silly bird, be caught;
And silly bird's not worth a thought.
246
INVITATION.
O, hie thee to these peaceful shades
Where ne'er ambition treads;
Sweet meditation haunts these glades,
Where art no trammel spreads.
Where ne'er ambition treads;
Sweet meditation haunts these glades,
Where art no trammel spreads.
Unscar'd the linnet sits and sings,
Uncull'd the flow'rets blow;
The timid hare her brood here brings,
Where untrac'd streamlets flow.
Uncull'd the flow'rets blow;
The timid hare her brood here brings,
Where untrac'd streamlets flow.
Then, hither to these shades away
To pure affection dear;
What modest tenderness may say
Shall reach no busy ear.
To pure affection dear;
What modest tenderness may say
Shall reach no busy ear.
And I will whisper how I love,
And when you answer me,
With words that shall my fears remove,
Your blushes none will see.
And when you answer me,
With words that shall my fears remove,
Your blushes none will see.
247
And while enraptur'd here I sit,
Where wild flow'rs scent the air,
And linnets sing, and gold-birds flit,
And, by me plac'd my fair,
Where wild flow'rs scent the air,
And linnets sing, and gold-birds flit,
And, by me plac'd my fair,
While lilacs solar heat assuage,
And beams o'erpow'ring screen—
O, I shall think it Time's first age
And Paradise the scene.
And beams o'erpow'ring screen—
O, I shall think it Time's first age
And Paradise the scene.
248
THE LOVER'S CALL.
Up, my maiden, and bind your hair,
Up, and inhale the morning air;
Over the meadow, and brush the dew,
And the odours of morning shall breathe for you.
Up, and inhale the morning air;
Over the meadow, and brush the dew,
And the odours of morning shall breathe for you.
Up, and welcome the freshful morn;
Instead of the beetle to wind his horn,
Hark! where the hum of the golden bee
Directs to the flowers I'll cull for thee.
Instead of the beetle to wind his horn,
Hark! where the hum of the golden bee
Directs to the flowers I'll cull for thee.
Up, and away where the May-bud blooms,
Where the glittering glow-worm at night illumes;
But now the dew sparkles, with diamond sheen,
On the blossom that shall on your breast be seen.
Where the glittering glow-worm at night illumes;
But now the dew sparkles, with diamond sheen,
On the blossom that shall on your breast be seen.
Up, for the lark has commenc'd his song;
Up, for morn's loveliness beams not long;
Your own chaste emblems arise and see,
For yours are morn's sweetness and purity.
Up, for morn's loveliness beams not long;
Your own chaste emblems arise and see,
For yours are morn's sweetness and purity.
249
LINES, On seeing a young Lady, who was blind, playing on the Lute.
And thou, in darkness wrapt, dost wake
The lute, and smile with tranquil joy;
While me thy strains so pensive make
I sigh, while watching thy employ;
Wondering that thou canst feel such calm delight,
Whose every day is but a sleepless night!
The lute, and smile with tranquil joy;
While me thy strains so pensive make
I sigh, while watching thy employ;
Wondering that thou canst feel such calm delight,
Whose every day is but a sleepless night!
Yet, one bright gift if Heaven resume,
Some sense retain'd more vigorous grows;
New splendour may the mind illume
When vision's orbs in darkness close;
Some meteor thus on midnight pours its ray;
So the dark seer through night saw clearest day.
Some sense retain'd more vigorous grows;
New splendour may the mind illume
When vision's orbs in darkness close;
Some meteor thus on midnight pours its ray;
So the dark seer through night saw clearest day.
250
Great Handel, in the ebon shade,
Imagin'd such a soul of sound,
As if a giant had been made
Of cloud, yet all-substantial found.
Mind's radiance lit him to explore
Regions of harmony unknown before.
Imagin'd such a soul of sound,
As if a giant had been made
Of cloud, yet all-substantial found.
Mind's radiance lit him to explore
Regions of harmony unknown before.
And awful Milton, vision-seal'd,
Soar'd nearer Heaven than before;
Diviner attributes reveal'd,
And, like his Samson, when no more
He saw, a prodigy display'd
That cast his former wond'rous deeds in shade!
Soar'd nearer Heaven than before;
Diviner attributes reveal'd,
And, like his Samson, when no more
He saw, a prodigy display'd
That cast his former wond'rous deeds in shade!
251
THE MANIAC'S FUNERAL, Written upon seeing at Bethlem Hospital what the Poem describes.
The portal open'd wide—where madness sits,“Bays to the moon,” or churns, in moody fits:—
A coffin came; age made the bearers slow;
One weeping woman all the train of woe!
Her pace and port like somewhat without breath;
Life's shadow walking in the vale of death.
The widow's weeds, all neat, though scant and poor,
Girt her thin, tottering, frame; her face, obscure,
Close-curtain'd by a hood; a 'kerchief old,
But white, of modest decency that told,
Clench'd in her hand, oft hast'ning to her eyes,
Publish'd her tears; her labouring breast with sighs
252
And seem'd half dying, while she mourn'd the dead!
Mourn'd?—'twas a maniac to the grave they bore;
And, sure, 'twas blessing that his life was o'er;
Joy should have hail'd it—joy?—the widow's tear
Gush'd for past days, when every hour was dear;
For their first love, and joys for ever flown—
And then, with horror, to his mind o'erthrown
Quick flew her thoughts, and half-o'erturn'd her own.
She saw him wooing her consenting smile;
Then heard him raving with demoniac bile—
Saw him a corpse, his madness all forgot,
Felt all her loss, and shudder'd at her lot:
A widow, desolate!—while life was his,
Hope to returning reason look'd, and bliss;
Each false remission of his mental strife
Rous'd fear to fortitude, gave hope new life;
And scarce a starting tear—for tears would start—
Could gush, ere check'd by Hope's officious art.
253
No kindly care her sinking heart sustains;
Dank, frigid, certainty has hope revers'd,
And fear has flown, and death has done his worst:
Herself, alone! her tears, entreating, fall
To Death, to take herself, and finish all!
| Comic Tales and Lyrical Fancies | |