Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Four months are past, since I've put pen to paper;
Four months of mingled sun, and wind, and rain,
Fog, thunder, morning frost, and evening vapour;
These soaking summers spoil one's rhyming vein;
But now I'll mend my pen, and trim my taper,
And sit down steadily to work again;
Because the public will be glad, I'm sure,
To hear at last some news of Tryamour.

153

II

We left King Arthur and his lovely bride
Safe at Carlisle—the honey-moon was over,
The happy pair had now grown sober-eyed,
Yet still, for several months, they lived in clover;
She seem'd a guardian-angel at his side,
And he was less a husband than a lover;
So one year pass'd, but ere a third had shone,
Love—virtue—comfort—confidence were gone.

III

But here, at starting, I must just premise
(Lest any reader should look grave and cold)
That 'tis not my intention to disguise
A tale immoral in decorous mould.
Approach not me, ye cockneys, good and wise,
And other great philosophers, who hold
That Epicurus is Man's best physician,
And chastity a “monkish superstition.”

IV

Think not to gain, in me, a new recruit—
You'll find yourselves mistaken, I assure you;
I hate your doctrines, and your rhymes to boot,
And tell you, in plain terms, I can't endure you;
I'd thresh you soundly, if I'd time to do't,
And thought a canto's horse-whipping would cure you,—
Though, I confess, 'twould grieve me to affront
That cleverest coxcomb in the world, Leigh Hunt.

V

I'll spare thy weaker brethren for thy sake—
I love thee, when I laugh at thee, sweet Leigh;
But do, my gentle Indicator, take
A friend's advice, and soon recross the sea.

154

How canst thou tarry with the jaded rake,
The heartless bard, the hoary debauchee,
The impotent reviler, who's unfurl'd
His Atheist banner to reform the world?

VI

With all thy follies, thou wast still sincere,
And gentle (save in politics) though blind,
And very often silly, and, I fear,
Hast done some harm among the cockney kind;
But what in that same misanthropic peer,
What, in the name of wonder, couldst thou find,
Which could induce thee to suppose that he
Would make a good enthusiast, simple Leigh?

VII

Thou wast a faithful and a fit Achates,
Once, to a great Æneas, Percy Shelley—
A vast, though erring spirit, whose sad fate is
A thing which I deplore—but let me tell ye,
You made yourself a monstrous ninny gratis
With that same funeral pile—he might as well lie
Methinks, beneath the turf o'ergrown with flowers,
As dance among the winds and thunder-showers.

VIII

However, he and you of course knew best;
His life, at least, was suited to his end,—
His obsequies to both—so let them rest;
But how Achates could at once descend
From his to Byron's friendship, I protest,
Is what it puzzles me to comprehend;
Take care, sweet Leigh, or you'll afford the Tories
A handle to invent ill-natured stories.

IX

They'll say—I shan't believe 'em—but they'll say
That Leigh's become what once he most abhorr'd;

155

Has thrown his independence all away,
And dubb'd himself toad-eater to a Lord;
And though, of course, you'll hit as hard as they,
I fear you'll find it difficult to ward
Their poison'd arrows off—you'd best come back,
Before the Cockney kingdom goes to wrack.

X

The Examiner's grown dull as well as dirty,
The Indicator's sick, the Liberal dead;—
I hear its readers were some six-and-thirty,
But really 'twas too stupid to be read.
'Tis plain your present partnership has hurt ye:
Poor brother John “looks up and is not fed;”
For scarce a soul will purchase or get through one
E'en of his shilling budgets of Don Juan.

XI

Poor brother John!—poor Cockneys!—but I've spent
More time upon you now than you deserve,
Because your King for better things was meant,
And shows, on most occasions, pluck and nerve;
I hope, sincerely, he may yet repent;
For you, sweet Cockneys, these few hints must serve—
Perhaps I may expand them, by and by,
But have, at present, other fish to fry.

XII

Buz on poor drones, too stingless to be fear'd,
Obscurity and dullness will protect you all;
I only wish your notions ne'er had sear'd
Far nobler hearts and heads more intellectual,—
Some whom to me deep feelings have endear'd,—
Whom—but regret's absurd and ineffectual;
Oh! that such souls should quit their flights divine,
To herd with Epicurus and his swine!

156

XIII

I hope I don't offend;—but oh! sweet Fortune,
If thou hast eyes where I may favour find,
Or ears to hear my prayers—grant now this short one;
Oh! bore me with the dullest of mankind—
With fools most grave, and puppies most importune,
With talkative old women deaf and blind;
Kill me with pedants, dandies, dolts, and oafs,
But save—oh! save me from all philosophes.

XIV

They'll say I'm foolish—prejudiced—absurd—
Unphilosophical—the slave of custom;
And I acknowledge that I've still preferr'd
The old worn paths—for I can safely trust 'em;
To love one's country, and to keep one's word,
Are good old maxims, nor will time e'er rust 'em—
Our modern creeds are wiser, I dare say,
But sometimes lead us wofully astray.

XV

'Tis hard, to find the souls long used to blend
With yours, infected by Hell's deadly leaven;
'Tis hard, to find your “own familiar friend,”
The foe of all your hopes in Earth and Heaven;
'Tis hard—but hush! these thoughts must not be penn'd—
Kind reader, let my folly be forgiven—
'Tis over—and we'll now trangress no farther,
But travel back to Britain and King Arthur.

XVI

It was a merry time in Old Carlisle;
The royal pair had closed their wedding tour,
And all the first and fairest of the isle,
Knight, squire, and lady, page and paramour,
Came to do homage there in proper style,
And feast, for several months, both rich and poor;

157

You may conceive the bustle and the row,
Which I've no time to paint minutely now.

XVII

The entertainments were of different kinds,
Adapted to each colour and capacity
Both of patrician and plebeian minds—
Balls, masks, and plays for tempers of vivacity,
Bear-baits and singlestick for boors and hinds,
And feasts for every species of edacity,
With butts of ale and hogsheads of metheglin,
And sportive songs to set the ladies giggling.

XVIII

I wish I could depict, in colours glowing,
The knights who figured in King Arthur's train;
Sir Persevall, Sir Tristram, and Sir Gawain,
Sir Eglamour, Sir Guy, Sir Agrafayn,
Sir Launcelot of the Lake, Sir Kay, Sir Owen,
Sir Hugh, Sir Lanval—each of whom I'd fain
Immortalize in numbers ne'er surpast,
But must restrict that honour to the last.

XXIX

Sir Lanval, or Sir Lonval—which you please,
(Sir Launfal, I believe, 's the genuine reading)
Except Sir Launcelot, was by some degrees,
The noblest knight alive for grace and breeding;
A finer face than his one seldom sees;
A nobler form hath seldom ta'en the lead in
Battle or ball; a heart more deep and free
Ne'er graced the good old days of chivalry.

XX

His birth was princely, and his fortune large—
At least, had been so, for his liberality

158

Was boundless, shrinking from no cost or charge;
In fact, profusion seem'd his leading quality;
Had he been “heir of Calydon and Arge,”
His coffers would have dwindled to a nullity,
Beneath the constant round of princely presents,
He lavish'd daily upon slaves and peasants.

XXI

Silver, and gold, and garments rich and rare,
He sent, with courteous words, to squire and knight;—
Jewels and gauds to ladies brown and fair,—
Gave tournaments by day and balls at night,
With dinners fit to surfeit a Lord Mayor;
In short, so bounteous was this worthy knight,
That Arthur, with his princely conduct smitten,
Had made him Lord High Steward of Great Britain.

XXII

Sir Launfal bore his blushing honours well,
Without the smallest pride or ostentation,
So that he never for a moment fell
In popular regard and estimation;
Still was he courteous, kind, and affable,
Behaving as became his rank and station,—
His manners never alter'd for the worse,
His heart was not less open,—nor his purse.

XXIII

For full twelve months Sir Launfal's presence graced
King Arthur's court, although 'twas clearly seen
Its morals were ill suited to his taste,
And he was sorely hated by the queen,
Whose favourites people thought were rarely chaste,
While you might read in good Sir Launfal's mien,
That he (although his virtue made no fuss)
Was most unfashionably virtuous.

159

XXIV

The festival had now attain'd its height;
Carlisle was throng'd with fashion; every day
The court was treated with some new delight;
And, ere the sports were done, old authors say
Queen Guenever bestow'd on every knight
Some token of her love to bear away;
Sir Launcelot had a ring, Sir Guy a jewel,
Sir Launfal nothing, which he thought was cruel.

XXV

He could not brook this palpable neglect—
He thought the queen had shown a want of taste;
And, as his fortune now was nearly wreck'd
By his long habits of expense and waste,
He told his majesty, with due respect,
That “he was forced to leave the court in haste;—
He wish'd he could have seen the approaching tourney,
But couldn't for a day defer his journey.

XXVI

“His father now in years, his letters told him,
Was sick and like to die, and wish'd once more,
Before his grave was ready, to behold him;
In fact, his horse was saddled at the door,
And he, unless his monarch's will controll'd him,
Quite ready to depart.” The King was sore
At heart to lose him, but gave free permission,
Entreating him to use all expedition.

XXVII

So forth Sir Launfal rode one autumn morning,
With a light pocket and a heavy heart;
Hopeless and nearly pennyless, but scorning
To play at court a base dependent's part,
And thinking, since, in spite of every warning,
He'd wasted thus his wealth, he'd bear the smart

160

In silence, as became him, without troubling
His friends in London, Aberdeen, or Dublin.

XXVIII

There's something in a solitary ride
Most cheering to one's spirits—though I own
'Tis better with a lady at one's side,
Pretty and witty—but when left alone
And hippish, I advise you to bestride
Your favourite chesnut, sorrel, bay, or roan,
And o'er the nearest common take a canter
As if you were pursued like Tam o'Shanter.

XXIX

But, gentle lover, if 'tis love indeed,
And not the fall of stocks, or rise of beef,
Which gives you the blue-devils, pray take heed
How you walk out alone, or seek relief
In lonely vale or daisy-dappled mead—
You'll find new objects there to feed your grief;
In each green grove, by every purling stream,
You'll be for lying down, to weep and dream.

XXX

You'll stop and gather cowslips—you'll sit down,
And pick them all to pieces—then you'll sigh
For their untimely fate—so like your own—
And then your tears will gush from either eye,
As if yourself, as well as woes, they'd drown—
And then will sad and sleepless memory
Summon a host of absent looks and tones,
Enough to break the heart of stocks and stones.

XXXI

No, no, touch not the earth, but mount and scurry
O'er hill and dale, o'er rugged ground and even;

161

Leap turnpike-gates—swim rivers in your hurry;
Shoot, like a whirlwind, between earth and heaven,—
And thus, amidst the fever and the flurry,
In which your senses all are toss'd and driven,
Sunshine above, and thy good steed beneath thee,
Thou may'st contrive to drain a draught of Lethe.

XXXII

I say this from experience, and address it
To lovers without hope, and under age,
Whose flame's at best a bright but wavering cresset,
A heartburn which prompt medicines may assuage.
My skill's not universal, (I confess it,)
I can't prescribe for fools more grave and sage;—
Love at sixteen, and love at twenty-three
Differ no less in nature than degree.

XXXIII

Love at sixteen's a sort of mental measles—
A thing you must have once, but soon get over;
Not grave and steady, like Sir Peter Teazle's,
But fierce and soon burnt out;—your school-boy lover
Eats, drinks, and sleeps on love, but little sees else
Than dim and shapeless dreams which round him hover;
He seldom dreams of marriage, (the fond elf,)
At least if I may judge him from myself:

XXXIV

Or if he does, 'tis as bards dream of turtle,
A dream of other worlds, remote, ideal—
A vision of green dells, and groves of myrtle,
And lonely cots, where two fond hearts must be all
In all to one another—'twould subvert all
His air-built fabric, should you make it real
By introducing marriage-deeds, and rings,
And parsons, and such gross material things.

162

XXXV

And yet his passion is sincere and fervent,
And blind of course, (that's not his case alone—
'Tis true, for instance, of myself and Derwent,
Whose years are riper, and whose hearts full-grown:)
Six weeks he lives the fair one's humblest servant,
Sees all her faults as clearly as his own,
Lives on her smiles till he returns to school,
And then a fortnight makes his passion cool.

XXXVI

Now love at twenty-three 's a graver madness,
For at those years the heart hath ceased to dream;
You're wide awake, in calm and sober sadness,
Where all things are as real as they seem;
And if young hope should turn your sighs to gladness,
E'en in your spring of bliss, 'tis still a theme
For grave considerations, hopes and fears,
And cool provision for the after years.

XXXVII

And Reason wakes, and Love's no longer blind,
And Hymen his true face doth now discover;
And you must look into the fair one's mind,
And fathom well her heart before you love her;
But when the heart and head are once combined,
And Reason sanctions Passion—it's all over—
You're dish'd—and if she's cruel, (this bright she)—
Alas! poor gentleman of twenty-three!

XXXVIII

For you're too young to bear your fate discreetly
And coolly, as you ought; and you're too old
To rend and break your twisted chains completely,
Cast your crush'd passion in some other mould,
And, with new hopes, at more propitious feet lie—
Alas! when that fit's o'er, your heart grows cold,

163

And if you ever wed, you wed for money—
Which is the usual end of matrimony.

XXXIX

Not being in love, Sir Launfal travell'd solwly;
He had no sad remembrances to shun;
It was the future which perplex'd him solely,—
The thought of what was fittest to be done—
Which made his pace more grave and melancholy;
And thus he journey'd, till the setting sun
Forewarn'd him of the near approach of night,
And he began to feel an appetite.

XL

The dew rose dankly as the sun went down,
And the autumnal breeze grew damp and chill,
While poor Sir Launfal, and his courser brown,
Were unprovided with a lodging still;
At last, as evening fell, his native town
Lay right before his eyes, and made them fill
With memory's sweetest tears. Ten years had pass'd
Since he beheld that much-loved steeple last.

XLI

And up rose many a dormant recollection
In the most lone recesses of his mind,
And many a dream gone by and crush'd affection
Came o'er him; but Sir Launfal had not dined,
And was too hungry for profound reflection;
Besides, his horse had feelings less refined,
And gave strong symptoms of a disposition
To sink from sheer fatigue and inanition.

XLII

So on they fared, (Sir Launfal and his horse,)
And through the twilight city took their way;

164

The former thinking of old times, of course,
The latter wrapt in dreams of oats and hay;
How hunger freezes feeling at its source!
Poor courser! after fasting a whole day,
With what emotions dost thou now behold
The very stable where thy dam was foal'd?

XLIII

Say, know'st thou not yon green and stagnant pool?
'Twas there that thou didst quench thy youngling thirst,
When first maternal tenderness grew cool;
In yonder paddock wast thou halter'd first,—
There thy first hay was munch'd, poor hairy fool,
Is not thy soft heart swelling fit to burst?
Alas! I might as well address thy crupper—
Thou think'st of nothing but thy stall and supper.

XLIV

As through the market-place Sir Launfal rode,
The gossips all came out to peep and stare;
And many a young cheek at his aspect glow'd,—
And many an unforgotten face was there!
At last the charger, with his handsome load,
Stopp'd right before the mansion of the Mayor;—
He was the old Sir Launfal's groom of yore,
Which made the wise steed fix upon his door.

XLV

And forth he came (this corpulent old man)
In a prodigious hurry, and knelt down
And kiss'd Sir Launfal's stirrup, and began
In good set terms to welcome him to town,
“Which was unworthy” (thus the oration ran)
“To entertain a knight of such renown—
But bonfires should be lit, and bells should ring—
And pray how fared his Sovereign Lord the King?”

165

XLVI

More had he spoken, but the knight cut short
His courteous greeting with, “My good Lord Mayor,
His Majesty was well when I left court—
And that he long may be so is my prayer;
Though I no more his favour and his sport
(Such is my wayward destiny) must share;
Nor rain on thee and thine, with liberal hand,
The honours and the fatness of the land.

XLVII

“My race is run; henceforth let men no more
Love poor Sir Launfal for his Sovereign's sake;
The splendour of my life is past and o'er,
My dreams dispersed, my senses wide awake;
I've kept my virtue, but I've spent my store;
And now my solitary way I take,
Here, in my native town, to mend my ways,
And waste the frugal remnant of my days.

XLVIII

“Here, my old faithful servant, in thy house
Fain would I, for a while, find rest and ease.”—
The Mayor (a man remarkable for nouse),
During Sir Launfal's speech had, by degrees,
Much changed his mind, and silent as a mouse,
First let the stirrup drop, then from his knees
Recovering, stood before his patron's eyes,
The gaping picture of chagrin'd surprise.

XLIX

Three times his faltering lips essay'd to speak;
Three times the imperfect sounds were lost in air;
Three times he clear'd his throat, and seem'd to seek
Words to express the depth of his despair:
At last they came—“Sir Knight, for the last week,
Seven of your order I've expected there;

166

My house is all bespoke—you're come too late—
Good lack! 'tis really most unfortunate.—

L

“Had you but sent to let me know, or written, I
Would have procured you lodgings—at least tried—
If not put off these knights from little Britany;
But now each house is taken far and wide—
Yet stop—” (he scratch'd his head) “this plan I've hit on, I
Have a small cottage by my orchard side,
Where if with moderate room you'll be content,
You can reside—I sha'n't charge much for rent.

LI

“The house, though small, is dry—the situation
Extremely pleasant, healthy, light and airy;
And, if you're fond of cows, for recreation
Your honour may, at will, look through my dairy,
Which forms the chief delight and occupation
Of Blanch, my daughter, whom men call ‘the Fairy,’
Whom—but, profoundly as I dote upon her,
I know that I may trust Sir Launfal's honour.”

LII

Sir Launfal's cheek grew red,—his eyes shot fire,
He felt inclined to spurn the ungrateful proffer;
But soon, on cooler thoughts, he check'd his ire,
Feeling that nothing else so fit might offer
As this lone cottage of his quondam squire,
To one who'd nearly wasted his last coffer;
And so, to cut a tedious story short—
Sir Launfal hired the place—and paid him for't.

LIII

Sir Launfal, when a boy, had learnt to read,
And (what was still more wonderful) to write;

167

And his old studies, in his time of need,
Prove now a source of comfort and delight.
He grew a most amazing clerk indeed,
Was very often at his books all night;
He then turn'd author, wrote some sheets of rhymes,
And “Memoirs of King Arthur's Court and Times.”

LIV

The country people took him for a wizard—
It seem'd they all misconstrued the word “spell;”
In those days not a soul knew A from Izzard,
As now we all do, thanks to Doctor Bell;
So this book-learning stuck in every gizzard,
And if they met him after evening fell,
Poor wretches, how they quaked!—though all conceded
That no hobgoblin could behave as he did.

LV

When the spring came, Sir Launfal took to fishing,
And, though he never fish'd without his book,
Contrived sometimes to bring a handsome dish in,
Which little Blanch with ready smiles would cook,
For she presided o'er Sir Launfal's kitchen;
Poor little Blanch; beware how thou dost look
On that fine face, or thine will soon be pale,
And I shall have to tell a piteous tale.

LVI

She was a young and most enchanting creature,
This “Fairy” Blanch, then scarcely turn'd sixteen;
As some one sings “with gay and delicate feature,”
And her heart flashing through her guileless mien;
For Nature still had been her only teacher,
And taught her nought but happiness—I've seen
But one face, that I know of, to compare
With her's for radiant smiles, and few so fair.

168

LVII

The face that I allude to—but I'll not
Digress when I can help it—I'll but say,
En passant, that it ne'er can be forgot,
While my soul lingers in its home of clay;
And, whatsoe'er may be its owner's lot,
Her goodness, which I never can repay,
Among my holiest thoughts shall still be shrined,
Yea, near Ione, in my inmost mind.

LVIII

But to my task. This happy creature's song
Each morning, in his dreams, Sir Launfal heard,
Beneath his lattice as she tripp'd along,—
Sweet as the hymn of morn's full-hearted bird,
And no less joyous;—for she thought no wrong,
Nor ever had the breeze of passion stirr'd
Her heart's clear waters—so her voice was free
In its full gush of natural melody.

LIX

And through her garden, with the morn's first light,
With fawn-like footsteps would the maiden roam,
To pluck fresh garlands for the stranger knight,
Which in her lap she laughingly brought home,
And flung them o'er him with a girl's delight,
If by such playful wiles she might o'ercome
His melancholy mood;—the good knight smiled—
And gladden'd with kind looks that loveliest child.

LX

Even as a father or some tender friend,
To her at times full gently would he speak,
Smooth her fair clustering locks, and mildly bend
To kiss her ivory forehead or soft cheek,
For greeting or good night.—I don't pretend
To know how he contrived, for many a week,

169

To keep his heart untouch'd—Alas! poor Blanch,
Thy gentle bosom was not half so stanch.

LXI

Poor bird! thou art infected—'tis too late
To fly; Love's net has tangled thy sweet wings.
Alas! 'tis vain to struggle with thy fate;
Thou hast beheld thy last of happy springs.
Sweet Blanch, too surely art thou desolate—
Oh! for some finer hand to touch my strings!
Oh! for the strains of him who sung so well
Of slain Lorenzo and his Isabel!

LXII

But for sweet Blanch—Sir Launfal's tone and look
Unwittingly had pierced her artless breast;
And soon their wonted bloom her cheeks forsook,
And her pale eye-lids were deprived of rest;
Beneath his glance her gentle spirit shook
With love, though scarcely to herself confest;
And still his absent voice was in her ears,
And her lone pillow still was bathed in tears.

LXIII

Poor little girl! alas, she had no sister
To whom her secret grief she might reveal,
No mother, whose mild counsel might assist her—
Her pangs in secret was she doom'd to feel;
And now Sir Launfal's looks, whene'er he kiss'd her,
(Which was but seldom) pierced her heart like steel,
They were so cold—for he was not so stupid
As to o'erlook this handy-work of Cupid.

LXIV

Therefore from dangerous talk did he refrain,
And hid the tears which to his eyes would start

170

For pity of the love-sick maiden's pain;
For good Sir Launfal had a tender heart;
Though, as I said before, and say again,
I can't imagine where he found the art
To keep it as he did—unless some spell
Lay on his nature—which seems probable.

LXV

O Reader! was it e'er thy sad mischance
To be beloved, when thou no more wast free—
To shrink and quail at Beauty's brightest glance,
Because 'twas brightest when it beam'd on thee—
To check each kinder look, each meek advance
Of timorous love, with coldest courtesy—
Yet feel how deep that barbed coldness went?
And she so youthful and so innocent;

LXVI

If such should ever be thy hapless lot,
I charge thee from her presence quickly fly;
Begone, while yet there's time, and linger not
To feed the passion of her ear and eye:
Haply, when absent, thou shalt be forgot;
But if to glut thy heartless vanity,
Thou triflest with her happiness—I vow,
There's not on earth a wretch more curs'd than thou.

LXVII

'Tis hard, no doubt, to say farewell for ever,
To one who loves you, though you love not her,—
'Tis hard your wandering eyes from her's to sever;
But curb your inclinations, or you'll err.
The following couplet is profound and clever,
(Your Poet's still the best Philosopher)
Και μη δοκωμεν δρωντες α'ν ηδωμεθα
Ουκ αντιτισειν αυθις α'ν λυπωμεθα.

171

LXVIII

These lines are taken out of Sophocles,
Be not alarm'd, fair ladies; all that's meant
Is, that if once you do whate'er you please,
You're sure to have good reason to repent.
I think it right to state such facts as these,
For fear some honest Grecian should invent
A meaning for the lines that's false or strain'd,
When ladies come to have the Greek explain'd.

LXIX

But to proceed. When Blanch's father knew
The love his daughter to Sir Launfal bore,
(Though sore her strife to hide from outward view
The wound that rankled at her young heart's core)
Pale, on a sudden, and enraged he grew,
And angrily he bade her seek no more
The orchard cottage, and in secret curst
Sir Launfal and the hour he came there first.

LXX

So, the poor maiden, to her thoughts confined,
And to the grief that on her heart did press,
In a perpetual sadness droop'd and pined,
Wasting in tears her youthful loveliness;
Stricken she seem'd in body and in mind,
And those who look'd into her eyes might guess
Her days on earth were number'd;—thus she waned
To death, yet never, save with tears, complain'd.

LXXI

And every day her wasted cheek grew paler,
And dimmer, every day, her eye became;
And the sweet music of her voice did fail her,
And her light footstep was no more the same.

172

The neighbours deem'd no natural grief could ail her,
And swore Sir Launfal had bewitch'd her frame;
'Twas true Sir Launfal had bewitch'd her,—not
Her body, but her soul,—which they forgot.

LXXII

As for Sir Launfal, he was glad to see
That she return'd no more—he felt 'twas wise;
Though he oft miss'd her gentle company,
And now would sometimes think of her with sighs,
Recalling to his wakeful memory
Her voice so touching and her love-sick eyes;
And yet Sir Launfal still was fancy-free,
Which really is most wonderful to me!

LXXIII

Meanwhile, Sir Launfal's purse began to dwindle
To very small dimensions; yet, the more
It shrank, the more his heart appear'd to kindle
With pity for each beggar at his door;
The Fates for him had turn'd their darkest spindle;
He gave, and gave, until his scanty store
Was spent, and he was fairly in distress,
Without a sixpence,—lone and comfortless.

LXXIV

The country-people, when his bounties ceas'd
To flow as they were wont, and they could hope
No longer at his cost to drink and feast,
Gave to their fancies and their tongues full scope;
'Twas said, that all his demons were released
By a new bull just issued by the Pope;
And next, 'twas clearly proved, beyond denial,
Others were come to take him off to trial.

LXXV

'Twas thought a shame that he'd been thus permitted
To deal, as he'd long dealt, in charms and spells,

173

By which so many tradesmen he'd outwitted,—
Enough to doom him to ten thousand hells;
Then poor Miss Blanch was sadly to be pitied;
You know she was the pink of country belles,
Till he bewitch'd her with his hateful magic;
'Twas fear'd her end would be extremely tragic.

LXXVI

The rumour of Sir Launfal's ruin spread,
Like wildfire, through the town, and young and old
Supp'd upon scandal till they surfeited;
But when to Blanch the heavy news was told
By some kind gossip, she uprais'd her head,
As if despair, at length, had made her bold;
She felt that sorrow must kill her,—but He,
Oh! must he die for very poverty?

LXXVII

And she, as she well knew, had gold, and land,
And flocks and herds, and jewels rich and gay,
(Her mother's legacy,) which, with her hand,
Should be bestow'd upon her wedding-day.
But she—as any fool might understand—
To Death in marriage now was given away;
So why should not her store relieve the dearth
Of the one creature whom she loved on earth?

LXXVIII

'Twas the heart's logic:—but the point, alas!
Was her stern father of the gold to rid,
Who kept it closely, and was no such ass
As to yield up, or tell her where 'twas hid.
At last, one day when he was gone to mass,
Love lent her instinct, and she found the lid
Which cover'd all her treasures, and her eye
Gleam'd, as she seized the gold triumphantly.

174

LXXIX

Forgive her, reader; love's a bad logician,
But mostly honest; and if now the tie
Of duty she broke through, her lone condition
Must be poor Blanch's sad apology;
True, she forgot parental admonition,
In seizing thus her own—but who'll deny
That when young Love rebels, papa may go
(As the song says) and preach at Jericho.

LXXX

This chanced one morn of merry Whitsuntide,
When the whole city and its Corporation,
Sheriffs, and Mayor, and Aldermen beside,
Were in a state of festal preparation;
And company pour'd in from far and wide,
Of every age and sex, and rank and station,
To the grand banquet held in the Town-hall,
Which was to be succeeded by a ball.

LXXXI

The noblest knight that ever couch'd a lance
Graced not that banquet—for his wealth was gone;
The loveliest maid that e'er adorn'd a dance
Grac'd not that banquet—for her cheek was wan;
The former was reduced to trust to chance
For turnips or a crust to dine upon;
The latter was, just then, upon her way
Her whole possessions at his feet to lay.

LXXXII

Indulgent reader, we'll omit the meeting,
Because I couldn't paint it, if I would;
You must conceive Sir Launfal's courteous greeting,
His mild refusal, and his gratitude—
The pale-faced girl her earnest suit repeating—
His tears dried often and again renew'd—

175

This, and much more, kind reader, understand,
Because this Canto's longer than I'd plann'd.

LXXXIII

Meekly she gazeth on his faded cheek—
His cheek with hunger pale, as her's with love;
And with sad speech and piteous tears doth seek
The stubborn purpose of his heart to move;
Alas! she finds her best persuasion weak
With his unyielding spirit—so she strove
No longer of that boon to be a winner,
But only ask'd him if he'd come to dinner.

LXXXIV

“Alas! thy cheek is thin and pale with want,
Famine stares wildly through thy keen wan eye,
And thou art lean, and spectre-like, and gaunt,
Who wast bred up in tenderest luxury;
Thou, of whom Britain did so lately vaunt,
The gentlest knight of all her chivalry;
Thou, still the first in battle and at board—
The bravest champion and the noblest lord.

LXXXV

“I am unworthy that a prince like thee
Should in my father's house such shelter find;
Yet, gentle knight, do me this courtesy
Once, ere I die, (for thou wast ever kind,
And still hast been the noblest friend to me)
And—when we part, leave but one kiss behind,
Such as thou gav'st of yore,—which I will keep
For ever—till these eyes have ceased to weep.”

LXXXVI

Thus, the poor girl, with meek submissive eyes
And earnest supplication, wept and knelt,

176

Till in Sir Launfal did such ruth arise,
As half enforced his spell-bound heart to melt—
But the charm held him—so, in courteous guise,
Once more did he dissemble what he felt,
And, in mild phrase, declined her gentle proffer—
But thank'd her, very kindly, for the offer.

LXXXVII

Yet, lest his words should add one sorrow more
To that sad bosom's pain, did he request
“That she would lend him from her father's store,
A saddle and a bridle of the best;”
(His own were seized for debt some time before)
“With which he would set out upon his quest
Of great adventures, and redeem by strife
His ruin'd fortunes, or else lose his life.”

LXXXVIII

They came: but, ere that mournful knight departed,
The maiden's lips once gently did he press,
Striving in vain to stem the tears which started
At the sad prospect of her loneliness;
He saw the girl for him was broken-hearted,
And why he loved her not, he could not guess;
But was prevented, by some charm or other,
From feeling more than as a friend or brother.

LXXXIX

So he departed;—and, when next he came
To that old town, the gentle girl was dead;
Love was too mighty for her tender frame,
Which sunk beneath his shafts—and yet, 'tis said,
She ne'er was heard to breathe Sir Launfal's name
Till just before her guiltless spirit fled;
And then, she bless'd him with her parting breath,
And said she died for him, and welcomed death.

177

XC

Sir Launfal visited her grave, and wept
Above it a long gush of silent tears;—
And, in his noon of fortune, when he slept
On an immortal breast, in after years,
Still in his heart her lovely image kept,
A thought distinct from earthly hopes and fears,
But mix'd with yearnings for some after-home,
And cherish'd hopes of endless bliss to come.

XCI

Amen! this Canto's no more like the last
Than copper's like pure gold, or crockery delf;—
I shan't be angry, reader, if it's cast
Behind the fire, or left upon the shelf;—
But by the next it shall be far surpast,
(At least in what depends upon myself;)—
In fact, the present Canto's whole demerit's
Occasioned by my utter want of spirits.

XCII

Two more are yet to come; and then I quit
The octave rhyme—perhaps the Muse—for ever;
So I must try, in these to shew my wit,
And make my final exit grand and clever;—
I hope that Canto III. may prove a hit,
Nor shall it fail for want of due endeavour;—
Meanwhile I furl my sails and drop my oar,
To soothe tired fancy with a stroll on shore.

CANTO III.

I

Are you a poet, reader?—if you are,
And under twenty, be advised by me;—
Give up the trade in time—you'd better far
Endure disgrace, chains, exile, poverty,—

178

You'd better die at once, than live to mar
This world's best hopes, in thankless slavery
Grinding your soul, that, ere your bones are rotten,
You may be mock'd, belied, reviled, forgotten.

II

Why I give this advice is not the question;
Perhaps I've private reasons—never mind;
I charge you nothing for my bare suggestion,
And though my words are coarse, my meaning's kind;—
Perhaps I'm rather hipp'd from indigestion,
Which proves, at least, that (though a bard) I've dined—
But to return—do any thing you will
But dream of reaching the Castalian rill.

III

That is, unless you've blood, and wind, and mettle,
And constant training, and five feeds a day—
“Books, leisure, perfect freedom,” and can settle,
In rhyme as a profession:—I dare say,
On terms like these, a bard of proper metal
May snap his fingers at the dense array
Of stupid heads, cold hearts, and adverse fortune,
Which mostly make the poet's life a short one.

IV

Go—if you can, for poesy's sweet sake
Renounce all social comforts;—live and die,
A lone enthusiast near some northern lake,
With your thick-coming thoughts for company;
And if contempt and slander fail to break
Your heart—e'en earn your immortality;
But then the hope of posthumous renown
Is all you'll have to wash life's bitters down.

V

Make up your mind to be traduced—to quarrel
With your best friends—to be misunderstood—

179

Pronounced unfeeling, and of course “immoral,”
Because you've felt more deeply than you should—
Bear this—and more—and you may wear the laurel;
And may it do you, for your pains much good.—
No doubt true fame's an ample compensation
For a life's anguish and a soul's prostration.

VI

Only don't half and half it—be a poet
Complete, or not at all—the Muse is chary
To mortals of her love, and won't bestow it
On wooers scarce lukewarm, or prone to vary.
If you've another hobby, you must throw it
Away—in this she's downright arbitrary;
And if to her you must devote your heart,
Devote it whole—she won't accept a part.

VII

For my part, I can't do it, and I couldn't
Were I ten poets—neither heart nor head
Have I to make a true Parnassian student,
For I must be loved, petted, praised, well-fed,
Or else—good night; without these aids I shouldn't
Writes verses fit to be review'd or read;
And, therefore, I'm determined to retire
Before the public ceases to admire.

VIII

This is of small importance; but I know
Some real poets, whom I grieve to see
Wasting, alas! their fancy's summer glow
In cold half-courtship of Calliope.
Oh! for some less asthmatic lungs to blow
A trumpet to their slumbering vanity,
And make them feel (the blockheads) that they're doing
Precisely what must cause their utter ruin.

180

IX

Up! Walker, where on earth have you been dozing
These six years?
Is your Muse effete, or dead,
That you persist in idling, punning, prosing,
Spinning fine cobwebs from your heart and head,
And miscellaneous monthly trash composing
For journals never fated to be read?
For shame—for shame,—if you'd preserve your credit,
Make haste and use some nobler means to spread it.

X

The world imagines, (but the world's an ass)
That I, not you, am Mr. Knight's Apollo:
Macaulay's fame doth far your fame surpass,
Praed's Troubadour beats your Gustavus hollow.
You'll hardly save your distance,—though, alas!
'Tis you who ought to lead, and we to follow:
We're clever fellows, (and, I think, we've shown it,)
But far from first-rate poets,—I must own it.

XI

But you—you must be perfectly aware
That you've been long profaning sacred powers,
And playing tricks with genius rich and rare,
In its true worth as far transcending ours
As the best China the worst crockery-ware.
Now, by Parnassus, and its laurel bowers,
Could I but half your inspiration borrow,
I'd try my hand at Æschylus to-morrow.

XII

I've done—now where's Sir Launfal? who's the bore—
Plague—torment—burthen—bane of my existence;
A tertian fever, a perpetual sore,
A fool who can't be taught to keep his distance,

181

But raps, most importunely, at my door
Ten times a day, to ask for my assistance,
(Such as it is) to serve his private ends,
When I'm for chatting with my public friends.

XIII

Reader—I hope you've read the Faerie Queene—
If not, don't stop to ask me why or wherefore,
But shut at once this peerless magazine,
Though it should be the only book you care for,
And not to be resign'd without chagrin—
The fact is that I'm press'd for time, and therefore,
Must e'en refer you, without more apology,
To the said poem for my own mythology.

XIV

I can't point out the very place, nor will I
At threading Spencer's mazes try my skill;
As if a man should walk from Piccadilly,
To find a sovereign dropt on Ludgate-Hill;
Which project would, at best, be worse than silly;
But if you've time which you're inclined to kill,
Read the whole poem, my dear Sir, and I'll
Engage you'll find it fully worth your while.

XV

Well, but suppose you won't,—which I dare say
Is not unlikely; for what soul will pore
On bards like Spencer at this time of day
When Clare's alive, and Rogers, and Tom Moore?
Why then I must, as briefly as I may,
Concenter all I know of fairy lore
In a few stanzas, just to let you see
My heroine's noble birth and pedigree.

XVI

Once on a time there lived a certain man,
By name Prometheus, who was shrewd and clever;

182

Indeed, so much so, that he soon began
To fancy it would cost him small endeavour
To beat Apollo, Jupiter, or Pan
At their own trades (take notice, if you've never
Heard of these names, and don't know who they were,
You'll find their histories in Lemprière.)

XVII

Well, what d'you think he did to show his wit?
He made a human figure all of clay,
Proportion'd and arranged it, bit by bit,
And gave it life and motion, with a ray
Filch'd from the sun—when all was right and fit,
Up jump'd this hopeful imp, and ran away;
Leaving Prometheus in desponding attitude,
Shock'd and astonish'd at such gross ingratitude.

XVIII

I think it served him right, I must confess,
For following so absurd an occupation;
Whereas it was his duty to repress
The geometric growth of population
By all due means—I can't pretend to guess
Why he devised new modes of propagation;
When 'tis well known the earth yields far too little
E'en to supply her natural stock with victual.

XIX

The course that he pursued was clearly wrong;
He might as well have studied to invent
Some means to make men's appetites more strong,
Or cause a general dearth of nutriment;
However, as such topics don't belong
To verse by right, it is not my intent
To speculate at present—only I
Don't think man wants new means to multiply.

183

XX

In spite of all Leigh Hunt may choose to say,
In spite of all that Godwin e'er has written,
I'm strongly for the old established sway
Of Hymen in the kingdom of Great Britain,
As the laws fix it at the present day—
So till some new economist shall hit on
A likelier plan to make the nation thrive,
A fig for Malthus—let good subjects wive.

XXI

I'm very far from wishing to improve
Our marriage code, like some wise friends of mine;
I'm quite against the reign of lawless love,
Though all that sort of thing's extremely fine;
But since such speculations are above
An understanding so confined as mine,
I hope I may declare, without impiety,
I'm for the present system of society.

XXII

I've dipp'd into some writers on equality—
Condorcèt, Wallace, Godwin, and Rousseau;
And trust there's no extreme illiberality
In owning that conviction comes but slow:
I'd not subvert court, crown, and principality,
Nor quash all penal statues at a blow;
Because, in spite of Human Nature's purity,
I think they'd always add to my security.

XXIII

Indeed, I never like that state of things
Which puling poets call the age of gold;
I don't think Saturn was the best of kings;
Nor George the Third the worst—and I'll make bold
To say, in spite of all that Hesiod sings,
That if mankind's opinions should be poll'd,

184

A vast majority of votes would be
In favour of the nineteenth century.

XXIV

Folks hadn't then a notion of good breeding,
Were quite unfashion'd, both in words and looks,
And never dreamt of writing or of reading,
Because, in fact, they'd neither pens nor books;
Were absolute barbarians in their feeding,
Had no French wines, French dishes, or French cooks,
French plays, or French philosophy, in which
Old England has of late become so rich.

XXV

Then just conceive their vegetable diet
(Raw acorns, I suspect, are indigestible,)
A year ago I took a whim to try it,
And found it inexpressibly detestable.
Fresh water from the spring (I can't deny it)
Is most salubrious—yet 'tis incontestable
That most men find it tasteless to a fault,
Unless impreghated with grapes or malt.

XXVI

No doubt, it's very pleasant, after dining,
(As poets seldom dine) on fish, fowl, flesh,
Before a blazing fire and wine reclining,
To dream of fruits and streamlets fine and fresh—
Feasts of the golden age—and thus refining
On fancy and repletion, weave a mesh
Of most convincing argument, to prove
How men might thrive on lettuces and love.

XXVII

Again I say—such theories are fine.
But when one comes to practice, I confess

185

I'd still continue on roast beef to dine,
Nor drink one single glass of port the less,
No, not an oyster nor a shrimp resign:—
I'm not at all particular in dress;
But to dispense with it appears to me
Wrong as regards both health and decency.

XXVIII

Sweet Muses! what a merciless digression!
Prometheus, Hymen, and the golden age—
Upon my word, my folly's past expression,
When I've as much to do as might engage
The House of Commons for at least a session;
But I'll turn over a new leaf—next page;—
This graceless cub Prometheus christen'd ‘Elfe,’
Or ‘Quick’—and shortly found him so himself.

XXIX

Away ran Elfe, rejoicing in his vigour,
O'er hill and dale, through river, lake, and sea.
An active sprite, and of a handsome figure,
And wild, but winning, countenance was he;
Shaped like a mortal,—neither less nor bigger—
A goodly work of human fantasy,
When fantasy as yet was in her prime—
Not the weak dreamer of the present time.

XXX

Away ran Elfe—through village, town, and city,
Made close acquaintance with the sons of men,
And on their follies was severely witty,
Though things occurr'd, that pleased him, now and then.
He thought some men sincere, some women pretty—
But if he loved, was ne'er beloved again:
There was a sort of wildness in his eye,
Of which young ladies were extremely shy.

186

XXXI

For, not to mention his absurd creation,
(Which form'd one grand objection, not ill grounded,)
And strange ingredients, of whose combination
His extra-human nature was compounded—
The source whence he derived his animation
Was a sufficient cause to have confounded
All hopes of love—for from the sun it came,
And so was mingled with poetic flame.

XXXII

Therefore no woman loved him—nor could love;
'Twas not his fault nor theirs—'tis the condition
Of genius, which nought human can remove;
If you've a spark, in all your composition,
Of poetry, remember you may rove
From East to West, and light on no physician,
Who can enable you, with charms or philtres,
To gain the affections of these pretty jilters.

XXXIII

Not but they'll all caress you, and admire,
Dote on your rhymes, request you to transcribe
In gilt morocco, till your fingers tire,
With sweetest smiles and speeches for a bribe:
And cold the Muse such prizes can't inspire—
For my part, I avow, without a gibe,
That to my mind no critic's praise can vie
With one bright twinkle in a female eye.

XXXIV

And there are noble creatures (though uncommon)
Who'll give you noble friendship—such as far
Transcends the love of any meaner woman,
And may be worshipp'd as the polar star
To your world-weary bark—but further no man
Must hope to pass that dim mysterious bar

187

Between the woman's and the poet's heart,
Which keeps them (more's the pity) miles apart.

XXXV

That is, when once the woman's turn'd of twenty;
Till then, from warm sixteen, I doubt not you
May find full-hearted little things in plenty,
Who'll love you—or at least believe they do;
But when her head's once ripe, and heart half spent, I
Fear 'tis in vain for any bard to woo
A fair one, whether talented or stupid,
Or bid Calliope shake hands with Cupid.

XXXVI

Woman—I grieve to say it—is a creature—
A heavenly one, no doubt—but ne'ertheless
Extremely unpoetical by nature,
As those, who form exceptions, all confess.
I can't tell why this is—indeed I hate your
Reasons in rhyme—perhaps they don't possess
The organs (as Gall says) of ideality—
They never dream their lives are all reality.

XXXVII

They—but I won't philosophize—in short
Terpsichore's the female's only Muse;
A bard can have no chance who comes to court
Against some whisker'd bully of the blues,
Who piques himself on dancing as his forte,
And stands full six feet six without his shoes.
Or should the bard find favour, yet in sooth
The course of his love never does run smooth.

XXXVIII

Shakspere and Spenser, Petrarch, Tasso—others
Of note—some dead and buried, some alive—
The tunefullest of all the tuneful brothers,
Are proofs how badly love-sick poets thrive.

188

Few Lauras ever become
wives and mothers;
Few Petrarchs stock their Hymeneal hive
With offspring fruitful of poetic honey,
Begot and born in lawful matrimony.

XXXIX

There were three Mrs. Miltons, to be sure—
But I suspect they shortly saw their blunder;
The first soon found her place no sinecure,
So took French leave, at which I don't much wonder:
He must have been (besides that he was poor)
A terrible old fellow to live under;
And I conceive it must be hard to find
A handsome wife who'd have her husband blind.

XL

But they've all motives, foolisher or fitter.
I've heard a woman of true genius say
She thought that poets were too apt to fritter
Their hearts on light and worthless things away:
The observation was correct, though bitter—
There is no doubt we're apt to go astray;
Falling in love head foremost, as we do,
It's seldom that our hearts sink deeply too.

XLI

But when they do—oh! then we love indeed—
With true devotion both of heart and brain,
Nor wholly from that thraldom can be freed,
While life and thought and fantasy remain;
Or if we are, according to my creed,
“Love's flower, once blighted, never blooms again.”
The last line's from Glenarvon, slightly alter'd,—
I heard it sung once by a voice that falter'd;

189

XLII

And, ever since, its melody hath haunted
Mine ear, although I really scarce know why—
Bur it does haunt me like some voice enchanted,
As if the phantom of young hopes gone by—
Wail'd at my side—and yet no ghost seems wanted
To tell one that such hopes are born to die:
Such bubbles are as stale as melted vapours,
Or lists of bankrupts in the London papers.

XLIII

Therefore I count myself a lucky fellow,
To find my feelings, with my hopes, decay;
My heart, which once was as a medlar mellow,
Is crusting like a walnut day by day;
So that I never shall look green and yellow
With melancholy thoughts, but cast away
Care for the future, sorrow for the past,
And die a good old bachelor at last.

XLIV

Reader, I hope you're not much out of breath;
This last, I own, has been a long excursion;
We've frisk'd and scamper'd over hill and heath,
Forest and fen, in search of new diversion;
Fatiguing poor old Pegasus to death—
Now let's be sober as the Turk or Persian;
We mustn't leave sweet Tryamour forlorn—
Poor thing! she's quite impatient to be born.

XLV

Elfe, as I said, could find no paramour
Among Earth's daughters. (I assign'd a reason,
And hope no lady took offence, I'm sure;
Upon my word, I meant no sort of treason)—
—He did his best, poor fellow, to endure
Their coldness—and endured it for a season;

190

And then he wander'd from his ancient cronies,
And reach'd, at last, the gardens of Adonis;

XLVI

And there, amidst all shapes and shapeless things,
The embryos of realities to be,—
The unembodied souls of slaves and kings,—
The forms that people earth and air and sea—
And pre-existences of rocks and springs,—
And many another nameless mystery,—
Elfe roaming on without an aim or guide,
Found suddenly a Lady at his side.

XLVII

A Lady!—pray, Sir, was she young or old?—
Old, Sir,—extremely old—at least five hundred;
And yet, if you expect, Sir, to behold
A wrinkled wither'd crone, you've grossly blunder'd.
The sky, you know, with all its studs of gold,
Is very old indeed—and yet you've wonder'd,
I dare say, fifty times, at the excess
Of its imperishable loveliness.

XLVIII

Therefore you mustn't think that I've mis-stated
Or falsified the truth, when I declare
That this same Lady (though so long she'd waited
For wedlock) was superlatively fair;
Though how she was begotten or created,
Whence she derived her face and shape and air,
The author, whom I follow, does not say—
But she was lovely, and her name was Fay.

XLIX

Not to be tedious, Elfe and she consented,
After brief courtship, to be man and wife;

191

Nor either, I believe, the choice repented,
Theirs was a pattern of connubial life;
So smooth you might suppose they had invented
Some charm to keep away domestic strife.
And they were blest with such a swarm of children
As to mere mortals would have been bewildering.

L

Their offspring was the race of Sprites and Fairies,
Sylphs, Goblins, all the preter-natural tribe,
Whose whims and pranks, opinions and vagaries.
'Twould take me forty volumes to describe;
So much their nature and employment varies:—
Hence, though I wish young people to imbibe
Instruction from my rhymes, 'tis not my plan to
Touch on this subject in the present Canto.

LI

But of all Powers, whom old Romance and Fable
Employ to people sea and air and earth,
Were Elfe and Fay the parents—I'm not able
To classify the species, though 'twere worth
One's while, and would be highly commendable
To do so, and to trace them, from the birth
Of the first-born, up to the present day,
Through Europe, Asia, and America.

LII

Goblin and Genius, Demigod and Peri,
Vampyre and Brownie, Incubus and Goule,
Witch, Warlock, Wizard, Ghost, and Nightmare dreary,
Satyr and Nymph, (of whom we read at school;)
All these I might describe till I were weary,
Were I at liberty to play the fool.
But Fate obliges me to waste my wit on
Those tribes alone which settled in Great Britain.

192

LIII

Some most erroneous notions have been cherish'd,
By sceptics, on this subject—some suppose
That the whole Fairy race has long since perish'd,
Extirpated by its relentless foes,
Philosophy and Science, who've so flourish'd
Of late, that one can scarcely wear a nose,
But they'll deny or doubt of its existence,
Unless one proves the fact by their assistance.

LIV

I wonder where Philosophy will stop!
I wonder what will next be disbelieved!
'Tis really time for Bards to shut up shop,
Thus of their lawful property bereaved.
In the Castalian spring there's scarce a drop
Of water left, which has not yet received
Some taint or other from the analytical
Muddlings of science, natural or political.

LV

But 'tis sufficient to observe, at present,
The race of whom I now propose to treat
Are not dwarf'd goblins, mischievous though pleasant,
Who roam about at night to pinch and beat
Poor housemaids, and awake the toil-worn peasant
With the near music of their echoing feet;
Or thresh the corn, with swift though shadowy flail,
Or mar the beauty of the grey mare's tail.

LVI

Neither (which is material to my story,)
Are Fairies immaterial—shadowy things
Invested with an unsubstantial glory,
Trick'd out in sunshine robes and rainbow wings;
Bright forms, impalpable and transitory,
Whose fingers shun the weight of wedding rings;

193

But bright realities of flesh and blood—
A fact Sir Launfal shortly understood.

LVII

'Tis true they can throw off their fleshly dross,
And roam, unshackled spirits—then, at pleasure
Resume the same, when weary of its loss—
A privilege convenient beyond measure,
Which forms their chief distinction from the gross
Terrestrial race—when I've six months of leisure
I'll write a learned treatise to explain
How these strange beings form a sort of chain

LVIII

Between mankind and pure ethereal natures,
Sharing the pleasures and the pains of both;
I only hope that no ill-natured creatures
Will doubt 'tis so—I own 'twould make me wroth.
One of this poem's most peculiar features
Is, that I'm ready to attest on oath
The truth of every fact therein recorded,
Although, of course, poetically worded.

LIX

But to proceed—the Anglo-Fairy kings
From Elfe to Oberon, and their horde's migrations,
And how they did a thousand wondrous things,
And reign'd in peace for many generations,
Built Windsor Castle, (all except the wings)
And London Bridge, the Tower, and other stations—
In short, their actions, whether great or mean,
Are they not written in the Faerie Queen?

LX

King Oberon, last upon the list, was reckon'd
The wittiest Faery monarch ever known,

194

A sort of supernatural Charles the Second,
Who loved mad frolic better than his throne;
And, following just wherever Cupid beckon'd,
Was not content with one fair face alone;
But still from Fay to Fay kept lightly roving,
As if the object of his life were loving.

LXI

Many a curtain lecture, long and moral,
From Queen Titania was he doom'd to hear;
Many a fairylike fantastic quarrel
Their Majesties enjoy'd from year to year,
Sung by the mightiest Bard who wears the laurel;
I should, perhaps, apprise the reader here,
That laws of human wedlock loosely bind
The airier fancies of the Elfin kind.

LXII

Of all King Oberon's manifold connexions,
(The loveliest daughters both of Elves and Men)
She who the most took hold of his affections
Was the young blue-eyed Fairy Guendolen;
Through whose dark story, as I hate reflections
On such sad subjects I shall draw my pen;
Just stating that Titania soon discover'd
Around what charms the King's attention hover'd.

LXIII

And Guendolen's dread fate was never known,
Nor could e'en Oberon's self presume to guess
Whether she was condemn'd for aye to moan
Within the dark earth's innermost recess;
Or bound with ice chains to the frigid zone,
In her most white and tender nakedness;
Or—but in short Titania was a Tartar,
And so 'tis sure her rival proved a martyr.

195

LXIV

She left one daughter, lovelier than the Hours,
The infant pledge of her unhappy love;
Whom Oberon convey'd to distant bowers,
And nurtured in a deep, enchanted grove,
Beyond the reach of fierce Titania's powers—
Kind reader, when tow'rd Westmoreland you rove,
You'll find it (if still extant) somewhere near
The classic margin of Winandermere.

LXV

Sweet Tryamour!—she grew apace and flourish'd
In the fresh vigour of her infant years,
By gentlest sprites, with food ambrosial, nourish'd
And filling oft her Father's eyes with tears,
Swift gushing at the thought of her who perish'd
For his ill-omen'd love.—Beyond her peers
Shone this sweet child in beauty, and became
The loveliest thing that bore the Faery name.

LXVI

And to that charmed forest, day by day,
Came crowds of Faery suitors—wondrous forms
Dashing the lightning from their wings away,
And riding on the necks of winds and storms,
From distant Ind and desart Africa,
And the fair Western regions—countless swarms
Of unimaginable beings, all
Of glorious shape and mien majestical.

LXVII

In vain they came:—the coy retiring maiden
Received them coldly and deferred to wed;
Whether her Mother's dreadful story weigh'd on
Her mind, and made her shun a Fairy's bed,
Or whether some strange spell her heart was laid on,
I know not—but a single life she led;

196

Choosing, in perfect freedom, still to rove
Amongst her maidens in the charmed grove.

LXVIII

Viewless alike to mortal and immortal,
Within that grove her crystal palace stood:
Not e'en could Faery footsteps pass its portal
To interrupt her virgin solitude;
But thither, at her summons, did resort all
Beautiful dreams, and visions bright and good,
And Powers at whose strong bidding is unfurl'd
The deep and secret beauty of the world.

LXIX

The elements obey'd her—she had power
O'er frost and blight and thunder and eclipse,
Could raise the wind, and bid the welkin lower,
And founder, in their harbours, mightiest ships:
But oftener fell the cooling summer shower
At the mild bidding of her gentle lips;
And flowers sprang forth, and hawthorn buds appear'd—
For she chose rather to be loved than fear'd.

LXX

She loved mankind, and all mankind loved her;
For, though no eye had seen her, maidens felt
Her presence in the green leaves' rustling stir,
And in the vernal breeze which seem'd to melt
Into their hearts; the humble cottager,
Who in that old mysterious forest dwelt,
Knew she was near him, and ne'er fail'd to bless
The Fairy for the season's fruitfulness.

LXXI

All kindly deeds were hers.—The hopes and fears
Of love—the bridal bed—the first-born's sleep

197

On his young mother's bosom, bathed in tears
Which that first fondness cannot choose but weep—
The young bard's dreams—the sports of childish years,
By her were blest; and often would she keep
Her moonlight watch beside the maiden's grave,
And bid fresh flow'rets o'er its verdure wave.

LXXII

This brings me back to Blanch, whose fate I'd nearly
Forgotten, and Sir Launfal soon forgot,
Though, when he heard it he was shock'd severely—
Poor thing!—you recollect he loved her not,
Which broke her heart, for which I grieve sincerely;
Her's was indeed a melancholy lot;
And I'm extremely sorry to confess
'Twas Tryamour that caused it—more or less.

LXXIII

Nor let the reader deem this inconsistent—
For my sweet Fairy was a female too,
And females, when they've love for an assistant,
And a young handsome gentleman in view,
Assume a harshness from their nature distant,
And use a luckless rival like a Jew.
When once a woman's heart's in palpitation,
She's neither conscience nor consideration.

LXXIV

It chanced that at the time when England's court
Was at its height of frolic, show, and revel,
To do the new Queen honour, in such sort
As in those days was judged correct and civil,
The Fairy left her wood, to view the sport,
Not wishing or designing any evil;
But merely meditating an excursion,
To see, and haply share, the court's diversion.

198

LXXV

Invisibly she roam'd (this gamesome Fairy)
Through hall, state-chamber, and superb saloon;
Peep'd e'en into the kitchen and the dairy;
Saw all the humours of the Honey-Moon;
Laugh'd loud, and sometimes, in a mad vagary,
At balls put flutes and fiddles out of tune;
Or suddenly extinguish'd all the tapers,
Or tripp'd up hapless dandies in their capers.

LXXVI

But on one luckless morn, as it befell,
She went to see a tournament, wherein
The brave Sir Launfal bore himself so well,
And look'd so handsome when he chanced to win,
That, over head and ears, in love she fell,
And vow'd 'twould be a burning shame and sin,
If such a noble Knight should waste his worth
On any daughter of the sons of Earth.

LXXVII

And from that day Sir Launfal's wealth declined,
And ladies look'd upon him with cold eyes;
It seem'd as if some spell had struck them blind,
Though you may guess the reason, if you're wise.
These two misfortunes mostly are combined—
As soon as wealth deserts you, girls despise;
And when you've ceased to be a “speculation,”
You lose, at once, all claim to toleration.

LXXVIII

So by these means the Fairy strove to stem
Sir Launfal's tide of favour, and to wean
The ladies' hearts from him, and his from them,
And make him weary of the court's gay scene.
It was a method which I don't condemn,
At least it fully answer'd with the Queen;

199

But with poor Blanch it had a bad effect,—
She loved him better for the world's neglect.

LXXIX

And so she broke her heart, for which I'm sorry,
And would undo the mischief, if I could;
But mustn't alter this authentic story—
Perhaps it pleased the Fairy's wayward mood
To hurl Sir Launfal from his height of glory,
And prove him, in misfortune, wise and good:
But that Sir Launfal with poor Blanch should fall
In love, she couldn't tolerate at all.

LXXX

Therefore she hung a spell around his heart,
And lull'd his earthly sympathies to sleep,
With the strong magic of her wondrous art;
And underneath his eyelids would she creep
(Of course I mean her spiritual part)
At night, and in her charms his senses steep;
Till he awoke, with thoughts perplex'd and dim
Of the strange beauty which so haunted him.

LXXXI

And thus she train'd him for her paramour—
Wiling his fancy from the world away;
A scheme which prosper'd better, to be sure,
In her hands than in those of Mr. Day;
Whose pair of breaking tits would not endure
The strictness of his pre-connubial sway;
But married persons of inferior fortunes,
Because they liked long sleeves instead of short ones.

LXXXII

'Twas summer—the enchanted forest lay,
Rich with the teeming leafiness of June,

200

In the still silence of meridian day,
Save when, at times, a low and fitful tune
Some wandering Zephyr on the leaves did play,
Or the unseen cicada hail'd the noon
With his shrill chirp, or, with a deep-fetch'd note,
Some meditative blackbird clear'd his throat.

LXXXIII

There were some children, playing in the shade,
In one place, on their earnest sports intent;
When a new sound did suddenly invade
Their gambols, and anon their eyes were bent
On an unusual object—through the glade
A handsome Knight, upon a steed sore-spent
With travel and starvation, took his way—
The Knight was young, but pale—the steed a bay.

LXXXIV

His eyes were sunk and dim—his head was bare;
His arms hung idly at his saddle-bow;
There was a pensive sadness in his air,
Which told that he had made fast friends with woe;
And yet a gentle patience linger'd there,
Softening his haggard eyes—his pace was slow;
Listlessly on his way he seem'd to wend,
He knew not whither—without aim or end.

LXXXV

The little children look'd upon his face
With awe, and turn'd not to their sports again
When he had past; his melancholy grace
Sank on their spirits with such tender pain:
The Knight soon reach'd the forest's loneliest place,
Dismounted, and took off his charger's rein;
Then throwing his worn frame beneath a tree,
Began to gather daisies tristfully.

201

LXXXVI

'Twas poor Sir Launfal, who had lately bidden
Farewell to Blanch, and all the world beside;
And thus far, on his lonely journey, ridden,
Seeking some savage place, wherein to hide—
What every body wishes to have hidden—
His poverty—and so to spare his pride,
Not dreaming (lucky dog) of what was brewing
To raise him to the height of bliss from ruin.

LXXXVII

While thus he lay, dejected and forlorn,
Under the shadow of the old oak tree,
Lamenting that he ever had been born
To such a doom of abject penury,—
Behold two damsels, brighter than the morn,
Came tow'rd him through the green-wood suddenly,
Array'd in garments of ethereal splendour,
Which dimm'd their beauties to a gleam more tender.

LXXXVIII

Of an immortal loveliness were they,
And yet seem'd mortal women—I've not time
To speak minutely of their dress to-day,
But you may find it in the ancient rhyme;
Which names each article of their array
In terms no less exact than they're sublime—
Poets, they say, have got into distresses
Ere now, for meddling with young ladies' dresses.

LXXXIX

Short greeting pass'd between the dames and Knight,—
Then thus the lovelier spake, with smile demure—
“Will't please you, Sir, to meet the presence bright
Of our fair mistress, royal Tryamour?
Who hopes you'll dine and take a bed to-night
At her near palace, and (the more to ensure

202

Your friendship) begs you to accept this gem—
No brighter shines in England's diadem.”

XC

With that, she knelt and placed a charmed ring
Upon Sir Launfal's finger, who, while raising
The damsel, with the grace of any king,
Felt, in himself, a change the most amazing:
At once his mounting spirit seem'd to spring
Into ethereal worlds, and wildly gazing
Into the wood, he fed his wondering eyes
On sights that mock'd his dreams of Paradise.

XCI

I've known a ring, placed on a maiden's finger,
Produce a like effect—and mark'd with pleasure,
To what new thoughts and feelings it could bring her,
Unlocking, in her bosom, many a treasure,
Which, but for that, might have been doom'd to linger
For years unsunn'd and waste away at leisure,
Like gold deep buried in a virgin mine—
But oh! Sir Launfal, what surprise was thine!

XCII

For all that forest-space, where late uprear'd
Thick, gnarled oaks, tall elms and beeches stood,
To his cleansed vision suddenly appear'd
Peopled with an ethereal multitude
Of bright and wondrous beings—some career'd,
Chasing each other, as in playful mood,
Through air and earth and water; others bent
Their eyes upon him in mute wonderment.

XCIII

He stood amidst a region fair and proud,
Round whose horizon, lost in viewless space,

203

Mountain on mountain rose, like cloud on cloud
In the bright sunset sky, and at their base
Fair valleys spread, and mighty forests bow'd,
And gentle rivers ran a pleasant race,
And giant lakes lay scatter'd here and there,
And sweetest scents and sounds were floating everywhere.

XCIV

And scarce a bow-shot off stood the pavilion
Of crystal, where the Fairy held her court,
Flooded with rays of azure, and vermilion,
And purple, and bright hues of every sort.
Had I the pencil of the Bard of Lillian—
Could I suppose description was my forte—
I'd try to paint the place as it deserves;
But such an effort now would shake my nerves.

XCV

But let no reader deem what's writ a fiction,
Vowing that no such place can now be found—
A mere bravado of poetic diction,
Existing really nowhere above ground.
Know that, beneath the Muse's jurisdiction,
Such Faery regions every where abound;
Yea, e'en in crowded cities, or in gaols—
Surpassing all the beauty of North Wales.

XCVI

Over the portal of the Fay's abode
There stood a mighty eagle, of pure gold,
Whose diamond eyes with such resplendence glow'd
As no rash gaze of mortal might behold
Unblinded; but on Launfal was bestow'd
Strange power of vision:—through the thickest fold
Of midnight darkness pierced the bird's keen eyes,
And served for gas-lights to this Paradise.

204

XCVII

And round the gate, in Spenser's words, there “lay
Great sorts of lovers, piteously complaining”—
The Elfin suitors of the wayward Fay,
Who proved an arch Penelope, not deigning
To let them know 'twas time to go away—
But when they saw Sir Launfal, the whole train, in
An instant, knew their fate, and clear'd the portal
For the admission of the favour'd mortal.

XCVIII

Anon, from that strange company, arose
A sound of tumult wild and lamentation,
Till, in mid air, from cries they came to blows—
The general disappointment and vexation
Ruffled their rival tempers, I suppose,
Which threaten'd the whole race with extirpation:
But soon those thunder-clouds dispersed, and then
The sky was silent and serene again.

XCIX

Sir Launfal stood beneath the dome alone,
(For his two guides had left him,) and survey'd
The walls that gleam'd with many a precious stone,
The emerald ceilings, with pure gold inlaid,
The windows arch'd, through which pale light was thrown
On many a pillar'd cloister's long arcade;
And, of all else forgetful, paused a space,
To view the splendours of that wondrous place.

C

Through many a long saloon and echoing hall,
Fair court and spacious vestibule, he pass'd:
Unutterably glorious seem'd they all,
And yet each seem'd more glorious than the last;
And now reflected from the crystal wall,
On his own passing form a glance he cast,

205

And started—for his dress, and face, and air
Proclaim'd that strange enchantment had been there.

CI

His robes, when he set out, I grieve to say,
(You recollect he'd been in sad distress)
Were neither very new, nor very gay,
Nor at all singular for cleanliness:
In fact, he hadn't wherewithal to pay
For washing or for mending; so you'll guess
That, though he strove his tatter'd plight to hide, he
Was the reverse of any thing that's tidy.

CII

His cloak and pantaloons were sadly torn,
His boots and hose as bad as bad could be;
And his thin cheeks, so pale and famine-worn,
Told tales of long and abject poverty.
He look'd indeed an object most forlorn,
And his gaunt steed look'd more forlorn than he:
They seem'd (though both their frames were strong and thick-set)
The ghosts of Rosinante and Don Quixote.

CIII

But now so perfect was his transformation,
That scarcely could the Knight believe his eyes,
But doubted if so strange an alteration
Was to be class'd with grave realities,
Or dreams of a deranged imagination;
He almost fancied that his miseries
Had turn'd his brain; for now from top to toe
He was bedizen'd like a finish'd beau.

CIV

And his late haggard eyes were now grown brighter
Than ever they had been in days of yore;

206

His cheeks were plumper, and his teeth were whiter
Than when, at Arthur's court, the palm he bore
No less for his good looks than as a fighter—
Besides, so costly were the robes he wore,
That, gazing on his mien and his attire,
He sigh'd that none were near him to admire.

CV

But now before two folding doors he stood
Of soft and pearly lustre, and within
That hidden room's mysterious solitude
Heard, as of waters, a low murmurous din,
Inviting noon-day sleep; in anxious mood
He paused, as if he thought 'twould be a sin,
With step irreverent and o'er-curious eye,
To interrupt that deep tranquillity.

CVI

Thus while he stood, with restless feelings burning,
A low sweet music suddenly arose,
To which the doors on noiseless hinges turning,
Reveal their hidden secrets, and disclose
A hall whose light just served him for discerning
That 'twas constructed chiefly for repose;
And through that tender and voluptuous gloom,
Unconscious Launfal view'd his nuptial room.

CVII

No window into that enchanted place
Pour'd the full light of sun or stars or moon:
Mother-of-pearl wall'd round the sacred space,
Drinking in mellow'd floods the fiery noon,
And starr'd with gems that did the darkness chase,
Like those that peep through fleecy clouds in June;
Whence a still gleam on all the chamber lay,
Brighter than moonlight, softer far than day.

207

CVIII

And in the midst, with low and slumberous sound,
By night and day a bubbling fountain play'd,
Whose voice alone the silentness profound
Of that delicious chamber did invade;
And at one end, as if in slumber bound,
On a bright couch the beauteous Fay was laid;
Tow'rd whom Sir Launfal did on tiptoe creep,
While still she soundly slept, or feign'd to sleep.

CIX

Her shape was perfect symmetry, though less
In stature than most forms of woman-kind;
But who shall paint the perfect loveliness
Of her resplendent features, which combined
All that of Heavenly Beauty poets guess,
With all that painters upon Earth can find?
And who shall paint the light, not yet reveal'd,
Which those long silken eyelashes conceal'd?

CX

Description, as I've said, is not my forte;
So we'll give o'er describing—Launfal knelt
Some time—he knew not if 'twas long or short—
Beside her, and his heart began to melt
And leap and throb in such tumultuous sort
As he had never, till that moment, felt.
He knew at once his dream's mysterious beauty,
And saw that love was now become a duty.

CXI

And so he fell in love without delay,
And soon, by dint of gazing, grown more bold,
Press'd to his lips the fingers of the Fay—
A mode of courtship, in such cases, old.
It woke her—yet the story does not say
That she thought fit to look displeased, or scold;

208

But fix'd her eyes, that seem'd with love to swim,
Full on his face, and fondly welcomed him.

CXII

When will this canto end?—the situation
Of these two lovers would be quite a prize
To any bard who'd time for the narration
Of melting tones, fond looks, and burning sighs.
They sat some time, in mutual agitation,
Gazing devoutly on each other's eyes;
And then the Fairy sank on Launfal's breast,
And the whole story of her love confess'd.

CXIII

She “fear'd that he would think her very bold,
For having dared to love him—she should seem
Indelicate to beings of his mould—
—Women would call her forwardness extreme—
And, she confess'd, her heart was not so cold
As she could wish”—and then a brighter gleam,
As she gazed on him, through her fond eyes rush'd—
And then she look'd upon the ground and blush'd.

CXIV

“He had strange power of witch-craft, she was sure,
Who thus could charm a hapless Fairy's heart—
A Fairy's, too, who never could endure
A Faery suitor, and had mock'd the dart
Of Cupid, till she fell into his lure—
—She scarcely dared to hope that he would part
With Earth's most radiant Beauties for her sake,—
She had few offers for such love to make.

CXV

“Yet if he would be true to her, and live
Content with her poor beauty, he should be

209

Endow'd with all that Faery-land could give
Of wealth and power and bliss and dignity;
And she would roam (she hoped he would forgive
Her freedom) at his side o'er land and sea;
And make him still victorious in the fight,
And love him ever truly, day and night.

CXVI

You may conceive (if you have ever been
Engaged in courtship that resembled this,
Thus basking in young eyes of tenderest sheen
In the full glow of love's acknowledged bliss)—
Sir Launfal's answer to the Faery queen;
So that I need not tell you 'twas a kiss,
“A long, long kiss” in Byron's phrase, which I,
On this occasion, deign to ratify.

CXVII

And when that first and holiest rapture past,
Ere yet their severed lips had ceased to tingle,
(Pity such kisses can't for ever last
When love and duty, as in wedlock, mingle)—
Tryamour—since it's not the thing to fast,
For married people any more than single—
Summon'd her Fays, and bade them serve in haste
marriage banquet in the Fairy taste.

CXVIII

And when that dainty feast at length was o'er,
The Queen a goblet to her lips did raise,
And pledged Sir Launfal as her spouse, before
The assembled company of Elves and Fays;
And gave him full possession of her store,
And vow'd to love him truly all her days;
He pledg'd the draught, and thus, with mutual passion,
The pair were wedded in the Faery fashion.

210

CXIX

And here I once intended to describe,
In the sublimest verses I could write,
The feasts and frolics of the Elfin tribe
In celebration of that nuptial night;
The dance, the song, the gambol, and the gibe,
The illuminations, and the bonfires bright;
And how the groves were sprinkled with pavilions
Of sprites, who came to join the sport by millions.

CXX

And how, at midnight, the full moon and stars
Their brightest beams on those wild revels shed,
Gaily careering on their fiery cars,
As if they too were dancing over-head;
And how Jove laugh'd and Venus wink'd at Mars,
And Mars, beneath her glance, turn'd doubly red;
And sly old Saturn, from his mystic ring,
Appropriate lustre on the scene did fling.

CXXI

I meant to have described Sir Launfal's sleep,
Dream-haunted, and the sights his inward eye
Saw, while his bride a loving watch did keep,
Kissing, full oft, his eyelids tenderly,
And giving his wrapt spirit power to peep
Into the secrets of earth, sea, and sky;
All which, for want of room, must be omitted,
Although the tasteful reader's to be pitied.

CXXII

I'm really quite alarm'd when I survey
The quantity of work that's to be done
In the remaining canto of this lay—
(For I'm resolved to finish it in one,
Whatever Mr. Knight may choose to say)—
Indeed, I half regret that I've begun

211

An undertaking which, I see, will double
The estimate I'd form'd of ink and trouble.

CXXIII

Canto the fourth will tell you how the Knight
Return'd in triumph, to the court of Britain;
And how he was admired by ladies bright,
And how Queen Guenever herself was smitten,
And suffer'd for her crimes, what served her right;
All which, before next April, shall be written:
But, for the present, here my toils I close,
Leaving the lovers to their late repose.

CONCLUSION.

“Before next April!”—Thirteen years ago
Thus spake I; but or ere that April shone,
My fancy's frozen stream had ceased to flow,
My dreaming time of life was past and gone.
And now when summer flowers no longer blow,
And the near autumn stealthily creeps on,
I must not with my primrose wreath of spring
Mix scentless buds of later blossoming.

So if there be who would the tale pursue
Of my sweet fairy and my gentle Knight,—
(An old quaint tale of passion fond and true,
Which did the taste of simpler days delight)—
Even to the fount from which my fancy drew
Let me such readers, ere we part, invite.
There, unrestricted, let them, if they will,
Of pure and tender beauty quaff their fill.

212

To them—to all who shall my page peruse,
Adieu!—a long—perchance a last adieu!—
Friends of my youth, who cheer'd my early muse,
In whose warm smile my budding fancy grew,
Yours be these lays—nor ye a gift refuse,
Poor though it be, which haply shall renew
In your ripe hearts, as now it doth in mine,
The long lost feelings of the Auld lang syne.

That of 1823.

Shelley—notes to Queen Mab.

Keats.

Ajax, 1085-6.

Now, alas! nineteen! Jan. 21, 1837.

A statement hardly borne out by facts, if exemplified by the case of this particular Laura. Petrarch's Laura, during the whole period of his adoration, was a married woman, and is described by Gibbon (“Decline and Fall,” vol. vii., chap. 70) as “a matron so prolific that she was delivered of eleven legitimate children while her amorous swain sighed and sung at the fountain of Vaucluse.”—Ed.

Author of Sandford and Merton. See Mr. Edgeworth's autobiography.

“Forest on forest hung around his head,
Like cloud on cloud.”—

Keats' Hyperion.

Praed.—Ed.

The Romance upon which this poem was founded is contained in the first volume of Ritson's selections.