Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Poems

By John Moultrie. New ed

Moultrie, John (1799-1874)

[VOLUME I]

PART I.

POEMS OF YOUTH AND EARLY MANHOOD.

MY BROTHER'S GRAVE.

TO ------

THE HALL OF MY FATHERS.

GODIVA, — A TALE.

MAIMOUNE,—A POEM.

DAY DREAMS.

SONG TO THE SPRING BREEZE.

II.

II.

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POEMS OF YOUTH AND EARLY MANHOOD.

MY BROTHER'S GRAVE.

Beneath the chancel's hallow'd stone,
Exposed to every rustic tread,
To few, save rustic mourners, known,
My brother, is thy lowly bed.
Few words, upon the rough stone graven,
Thy name—thy birth—thy youth declare—
Thy innocence—thy hopes of Heaven—
In simplest phrase recorded there.
No 'scutcheons shine, no banners wave,
In mockery, o'er my brother's grave.

The place is silent—rarely sound
Is heard those ancient walls around;
Nor mirthful voice of friends that meet
Discoursing in the public street,
Nor hum of business dull and loud,
Nor murmur of the passing crowd,
Nor soldier's drum, nor trumpet's swell
From neighbouring fort or citadel,—
No sound of human toil or strife
To death's lone dwelling speaks of life;
Nor breaks the silence, still and deep,
Where thou, beneath thy burial stone,
Art laid “in that unstartled sleep
The living eye hath never known.”
The lonely sexton's footstep falls
In dismal echoes on the walls,
As, slowly pacing through the aisle,
He sweeps the unholy dust away,

And cobwebs, which must not defile
Those windows on the Sabbath day;
And, passing through the central nave,
Treads lightly on my brother's grave.

But when the sweet-toned Sabbath chime,
Pouring its music on the breeze,
Proclaims the well-known holy time
Of prayer, and thanks, and bended knees;
When rustic crowds devoutly meet,
And lips and hearts to God are given,
And souls enjoy oblivion sweet
Of earthly ills, in thoughts of Heaven;
What voice of calm and solemn tone
Is heard above thy burial stone?
What form, in priestly meek array,
Beside the altar kneels to pray?
What holy hands are lifted up
To bless the sacramental cup?
Full well I know that reverend form,
And if a voice could reach the dead,
Those tones would reach thee, though the worm,
My brother, makes thy heart his bed;
That Sire, who thy existence gave,
Now stands beside thy lowly grave.

It is not long since thou wert wont
Within these sacred walls to kneel;
This altar, that baptismal font,
These stones which now thy dust conceal,
The sweet tones of the Sabbath bell,
Were holiest objects to thy soul;
On these thy spirit loved to dwell,
Untainted by the world's control.
My brother, those were happy days,
When thou and I were children yet;
How fondly memory still surveys
Those scenes the heart can ne'er forget!

My soul was then, as thine is now,
Unstain'd by sin, unstung by pain;
Peace smiled on each unclouded brow—
Mine ne'er will be so calm again.
How blithely then we hail'd the ray
Which usher'd in the Sabbath day!
How lightly then our footsteps trod
Yon pathway to the house of God!
For souls, in which no dark offence
Hath sullied childhood's innocence,
Best meet the pure and hallow'd shrine,
Which guiltier bosoms own divine.
I feel not now as then I felt,
The sunshine of my heart is o'er;
The spirit now is changed which dwelt
Within me, in the days before.
But thou wert snatch'd, my brother, hence,
In all thy guileless innocence;
One Sabbath saw thee bend the knee
In reverential piety—
For childish faults forgiveness crave—
The next beam'd brightly on thy grave.
The crowd, of which thou late wert one,
Now throng'd across thy burial stone;
Rude footsteps trampled on the spot
Where thou lay'st mould'ring and forgot;
And some few gentler bosoms wept
In silence, where my brother slept.

I stood not by thy fev'rish bed,
I look'd not on thy glazing eye,
Nor gently lull'd thy aching head,
Nor view'd thy dying agony:
I felt not what my parents felt,
The doubt—the terror—the distress—
Nor vainly for my brother knelt—
My soul was spared that wretchedness,
One sentence told me, in a breath,
My brother's illness—and his death!

And days of mourning glided by,
And brought me back my gaiety;
For soon in childhood's wayward heart
Doth crush'd affection cease to smart.
Again I join'd the sportive crowd
Of boyish playmates, wild and loud;
I learnt to view with careless eye
My sable garb of misery;
No more I wept my brother's lot,
His image was almost forgot;
And ev'ry deeper shade of pain
Had vanish'd from my soul again.

The well-known morn I used to greet
With boyhood's joy at length was beaming,
And thoughts of home and raptures sweet,
In every eye but mine, were gleaming;
But I, amidst that youthful band
Of beating hearts and beaming eyes,
Nor smiled nor spoke at joy's command,
Nor felt those wonted ecstasies:
I loved my home, but trembled now
To view my father's alter'd brow;
I fear'd to meet my mother's eye,
And hear her voice of agony;
I fear'd to view my native spot,
Where he who loved it—now was not.
The pleasures of my home were fled—
My brother slumber'd with the dead.

I drew near to my father's gate—
No smiling faces met me now—
I enter'd—all was desolate—
Grief sat upon my mother's brow:
I heard her as she kiss'd me, sigh,
A tear stood in my father's eye;
My little brothers round me press'd,
In gay unthinking childhood bless'd.

Long, long that hour has pass'd, but when
Shall I forget its mournful scene?

The Sabbath came—with mournful pace
I sought my brother's burial place—
That shrine, which when I last had view'd,
In vigour by my side he stood.
I gazed around with fearful eye—
All things reposed in sanctity.
I reach'd the chancel—nought was changed—
The altar decently arranged—
The pure white cloth above the shrine—
The consecrated bread and wine—
All was the same—I found no trace
Of sorrow in that holy place.
One hurried glance I downward gave—
My foot was on my brother's grave!

And years have pass'd and thou art now
Forgotten in thy silent tomb;
And cheerful is my mother's brow,
My father's eye has lost its gloom;
And years have pass'd, and death has laid
Another victim by thy side;
With thee he roams, an infant shade,
But not more pure than thou he died.
Blest are ye both! your ashes rest
Beside the spot ye loved the best;
And that dear home, which saw your birth,
O'erlooks you in your bed of earth.
But who can tell what blissful shore
Your angel spirits wander o'er?
And who can tell what raptures high
Now bless your immortality?

My boyish days are nearly gone,
My breast is not unsullied now;

And worldly cares and woes will soon
Cut their deep furrows on my brow—
And life will take a darker hue
From ills my brother never knew.
And I have made me bosom friends,
And loved and link'd my heart with others;
But who with mine his spirit blends,
As mine was blended with my brother's?
When years of rapture glided by,
The spring of life's unclouded weather,
Our souls were knit, and thou and I,
My brother, grew in love together.
The chain is broke which bound us then—
When shall I find its like again?

1816.

TO ------

In many a strain of grief and joy,
My youthful spirit sung to thee;
But I am now no more a boy,
And there's a gulf 'twixt thee and me.
Time on my brow has set his seal—
I start to find myself a man,
And know that I no more shall feel
As only boyhood's spirit can.
And now I bid a long adieu
To thoughts that held my heart in thrall,
To cherish'd dreams of brightest hue,
And thee—the brightest dream of all.
My footsteps rove not where they roved,
My home is changed, and, one by one,
The “old, familiar” forms I loved
Are faded from my path—and gone.
I launch into life's stormy main,
And 'tis with tears—but not of sorrow,
That, pouring thus my parting strain,
I bid thee, as a Bride, good-morrow.
Full well thou know'st I envy not
The heart it is thy choice to share:
My soul dwells on thee, as a thought
With which no earthly wishes are.
I love thee as I love the star,
The gentle star that smiles at Even,
That melts into my heart from far,
And leads my wandering thoughts to Heaven.

'Twould break my soul's divinest dream
With meaner love to mingle thee;
'Twould dim the most unearthly beam
Thy form sheds o'er my memory.
It is my joy, it is my pride
To picture thee in bliss divine;
A happy and an honour'd bride,
Blest by a fonder love than mine.
Be thou to one a holy spell,
A bliss by day—a dream by night,—
A thought on which his soul shall dwell,—
A cheering and a guiding light.
His be thy heart,—but while no other
Disturbs his image at its core,
Still think of me as of a brother,
I'd not be loved, nor love thee, more.
For thee each feeling of my breast
So holy—so serene shall be,
That when thy heart to his is prest,
'Twill be no crime to think of me.
I shall not wander forth at night,
To breathe thy name—as lovers would;
Thy form, in visions of delight,
Not oft shall break my solitude.
But when my bosom-friends are near,
And happy faces round me press,
The goblet to my lips I'll rear,
And drain it to thy happiness.
And when, at morn or midnight hour,
I commune with my God, alone,
Before the throne of Peace and Power
I'll blend thy welfare with my own.
And if, with pure and fervent sighs,
I bend before some loved one's shrine,
When gazing on her gentle eyes,
I shall not blush to think of thine.
Thou, when thou meet'st thy love's caress,
And when thy children climb thy knee,

In thy calm hour of happiness,
Then sometimes—sometimes think of me.
In pain or health—in grief or mirth,
Oh, may it to my prayer be given
That we may sometimes meet on earth,
And meet, to part no more, in Heaven.

THE HALL OF MY FATHERS.

“I went to the place of my birth, and I said—The friends of my childhood, where are they?—and an echo answered, Where are they?” Arabic MS.—from Lord Byron.

I.

The spirit of my soul is changed,
My thoughts have ta'en a sadder hue,
Since last thy verdant lawns I ranged,
And bade them, with a tear, adieu!
And adverse fortune hath pursued
With gloomiest hatred thine and thee,
Forsaken mansion, since I stood
With them, where they no more shall be.
And they who smiled have learn'd to weep,
And they who loved are rent asunder;
Between them roars the angry deep—
Above them fate is black with thunder:
And moss and weeds grow on thy wall;
Deserted is my Father's Hall.

II.

Oh! my young heart danced to liveliest measures,
And my ardent pulse beat high;
And boyish joys, and hopes, and pleasures,
Flash'd merrily in my eye:
And smiling faces beam'd around me,
And all was mirth and glee,

And friendship's golden fetters bound me,
When last I look'd on thee.
But the dream of bliss is for ever fled,
And the friends of my childhood are absent or dead.

III.

Yet oft, in solitary hours,
Thine image floats across my brain,
And all thy beauteous woods and bowers
Rush on my soul again:
And I roam on the banks of thy old canal,
And I hear the roar of thy waterfall,
And well-known forms to my eyes appear,
And the voice of friends is in my ear;
And I view, by the light of the trembling moon,
The painted glass of thy old saloon,
On which, in childhood's artless days,
My wond'ring eyes were wont to gaze;
While oft, with fond and pious care,
My mother traced each semblance there,
And bade me mark the red drops flow,
In holy stains on my Saviour's brow,
And the crown of thorns that encircled his head,
And the cross that bore the Deathless Dead.
Long shall these hours my thoughts control,
So deep they sunk into my soul.

IV.

And oft I roved, with ardour young,
Through gothic arch and gallery long;
And view'd, emboss'd in panels high,
The 'scutcheons of my ancestry;
And portraits, ranged in order grave,
Of statesmen proud and warriors brave;
And dames who graced the festive sport
Of good King Charles's gallant court.
How reverend in my eyes appear'd
Each hoary head and flowing beard!

And how would fancy frame a tale
For ev'ry antique coat of mail,
And ev'ry scarf of lady bright,
Guerdon most meet for gallant knight,
Which painters' art had handed down
From distant ages of renown!

V.

But proudest was my bosom's swell,
And most my boyish soul was fired,
When gaily would my grandame tell,
How thither, with his court, retired
From realms by civil discord rent,
And fury of the Parliament,
That Prince of heart misled, but good,
Who stain'd the scaffold with his blood;
And how, from that old gothic door,
He heard the hostile cannon roar,
And caught afar the foeman's tramp,
And view'd the smoke of the rebel camp,
And sigh'd at each cannon that threaten'd the town,
And wept for his people, though not for his crown.
How oft I gazed, with anxious care,
On good King Charles's oaken chair;
And proudly laid my humble head
On good King Charles's royal bed;
And joy'd to see the nook reveal'd,
Where good King Charles had lain conceal'd
And tasted calm and safe repose
Surrounded by a thousand foes!

VI.

It soothes me now to think on days
When grief and I were strangers yet,
And feed, in thought, a frequent gaze
On scenes the heart can ne'er forget.
The friends who made those scenes so bright
Are torn for ever from my sight;

Their halls are falling to decay,
Or own an unknown master's sway:
But still upon my pensive soul,
The feelings of my younger day,
The hour of mirth, the party gay,
In blissful visions roll.
Oh! welcome, then, was December's blast,
As it drove on the snow-storm thick and fast,
And welcome the gloom of December's sky,
For they told of approaching revelry;
And gave the signal old and sweet,
For dearest friends in one Hall to meet,
Where jest, and song, and gallant cheer,
Proclaim'd the Christmas of the year.

VII.

Oh! then was many a mirthful scene,
And many a smiling face;
And many a meeting glad was seen,
And many a warm embrace;
And oft around the blazing hearth
Flew happy sounds of joy and mirth;
And laughter loud and sprightly joke,
Shook fretted roof and wall of oak:
And gaily flow'd each prattling tongue,
And all were merry—old and young;
And souls were knit in union blest
And every bosom was at rest.

VIII.

I may not view that Hall again,
I may not hear those sounds of gladness,
But their echoes linger in my brain—
A secret source of pleasing sadness.
Friends of my young and sinless years,
The long long ocean's waves divide us,
But memory still your names endears—
Still glows, whatever ills betide us.

Oh! oft on India's burning shore,
Ye will think on the home ye shall see no more,
And wish your heated limbs were laid
Beneath your own dear forest shade,
Where murmurs, in its cool retreat,
The well at which we used to meet,
When the setting sun of autumn stood
On the verge of the hill of Robin Hood,
And shed the mellow tints of even
O'er the dewy Earth and the silent Heaven.
Oh! when shall eve return again,
So sweet as those which bless'd us then?

IX.

But I must wake from this sweet dream,
Whose spells, perchance, too long have found me;
For manhood's prospects dimly gleam,
And manhood's cares are gathering round me.
I've made me new and cherish'd friends,
I've bound congenial bosoms to me;
But o'er the waves remembrance sends
A prayer for those who ne'er shall view me.
And oft I breathe a silent sigh
For hours and pleasures long gone by:
And each familiar face recall,
That smiled within that ancient Hall.

Fanuary, 1819.

The subject of these lines is not a fictitious one. The “Hall” was the residence of a relation, now dead; and many of my happiest hours were spent under its roof.

GODIVA, — A TALE.

I

Whoe'er has been at Coventry must know
(Unless he's quite devoid of curiosity,)
That once a year it has a sort of show,
Conducted with much splendor and pomposity.
I'll just describe it, if I can—but no,
It would exhaust the humour of a Fawcett, I
Am a vile jester—though I once was vain
Of acting Fawcett's parts at Datchet-lane.

II

Ah! those were pleasant days, when you and I,
Dear Fred Golightly, trod those boards of yore;
I often grieve to think that they're past by,
As you must—on a rainy after-four:
Though, now it's fairly quash'd, you won't deny
That that same stage was frequently a bore;
It spoilt our cricket, which we're all so proud on,
Nor let us beat the Kingsmen—as we've now done.

III

Oh! sweet is praise to youthful poet's ear,
When gently warbled by the lips he loves:
'Tis sweet one's exercise read o'er to hear,
(Especially the week before Removes);
But sweeter far, when actors first appear,
The loud collision of applauding gloves,

The gleam of happy faces o'er them cast—
Moments of triumph not to be surpass'd!

IV

Oh! stolen joys, far sweeter for the stealing,
Oh! doubts, and fears, and hopes of Eton all,
Ye are departed; but a lingering feeling
Of your enchantments holds my heart in thrall.
My eyes just now are fixed upon the ceiling—
I feel my cheek flush—hear my inkstand fall;
My soul is wandering through the distant groves
Of that dear schoolboy-dwelling which it loves.

V

But to my tale—I'm somewhat given to prating,
I can't but own it, but my theme was fine,
And all the feelings which I've been narrating
Are worth enjoying—and they've all been mine!
But I'll no longer keep the reader waiting,
So, without wasting now another line,
My Poem I'll begin, as Poets use,
With a short invocation to my Muse.

VI

Spirit which art within me, if in truth
Thou dost exist in my soul's depths, and I
Have not mistaken the hot pulse of youth,
And wandering thoughts, for dreams of poesy,
Rise from thy lone recesses, rise and soothe
Each meaner thought to aspirations high,
Whelm me in musings of deep joy, and roll
Thy radiant visions on my kindling soul.

VII

If, when at morn I view the bright blue Heaven,
Thoughts are around me which not all have felt;
If, in the dim and fading light of Even,
A Poet's rapture on my soul hath dwelt;

If to my wayward nature have been given
Dreams that absorb, and phantasies that melt,
Sweet tears, and wild attachments—lend thy wings,
Spirit, to bear me in my wanderings.

VIII

But these are boyish dreams.—Away, away,
Ye fond enchantments of my foolish brain;—
And yet, methinks, I would a while delay,
Ere my frail vessel tempt Life's dangerous main.
Still, dear delusions of my boyhood, stay,
Still let me pour my weak, but harmless strain!
In fancied draughts my thirst poetic slake,
And never, never from that dream awake!

IX

This is a very pretty invocation,
Though scarce adapted to my present style;
I wrote it in a fit of inspiration,
The finest I've enjoy'd a monstrous while;
For most uncertain 's my imagination,
And 'tis but seldom that my Muse will smile.
Come, reader, we'll her present humour try;
Draw up the curtain—the scene's Coventry.

X

It is an ancient and a gallant town,
Nor all unknown to loftier lays than mine;
It has of old seen deeds of high renown—
Its situation 's not extremely fine.
Its name it wishes to be handed down,
And still in England's annals longs to shine;
And Mr. Cobbett wants to represent
This self-same Coventry in Parliament.

XI

But at the period when my tale commences
There were no Cobbetts—'twas a barb'rous age;
The “Sovereign People” scarce were in their senses,
For Radical Reform was not the rage:
Though then Sir Francis might have found pretences
Just war against the Government to wage;
For King and Nobles thought it no great crime
To be confounded tyrants at that time.

XII

There was of yore an Earl of Coventry,
Famous for wine and war—one Leofric;
A genuine Saxon—he'd a light blue eye,
His stature tall—his frame well-built and thick:
His flaxen locks fell down luxuriantly
On his fine shoulders—and his glance was quick.
But though he really was a handsome Earl,
He was at times a most uncommon churl.

XIII

He had fought well and often—miles around
Chieftain and vassal trembled at his name;
He held some thousand acres of good ground,
To which his weapon form'd his strongest claim:
His legal title was sometimes unsound—
And he was wedded to a matchless dame,
The fair and chaste Godiva—whom alone
He seem'd to love, of all that was his own.

XIV

Well might he love her;—in that shape of lightness
All woman's choicest beauties were combined;
Her long dark locks set off her bosom's whiteness
In its calm heavings, warm, and chaste, and kind.

Her deep blue eyes shone with peculiar brightness,
When through them flash'd the sunbeams of her mind;
When swiftly sparkled joys, or hopes, or fears,
Or sorrow bathed them in delicious tears.

XV

Hers was the face we look on once and love,
Her voice was Music's echo—like the strain
Of our own land, heard, when afar we rove,
With a deep sense of pleasure mix'd with pain:
And those who once had heard it vainly strove
To lose its echoes lingering in the brain:
As for her figure—if you once had met it,
Believe me, Sirs, you never could forget it.

XVI

She was the idol of her native land,
The comforter and friend of its distress;
Herself, unchasten'd by Affliction's hand,
Felt for the woes of others not the less.
The serfs, who trembled at her Lord's command,
Forbore to curse him for her loveliness.
They were a pair one often meets in life,—
A churlish husband with a charming wife.

XVII

It chanced, A.D. Eight Hundred and Eighteen,
(I love to be correct in my chronology,
And all the tables which by chance I've seen
Concur in this date. When I was in College I
Conducted once the famous Magazine,
Th' Etonian's predecessor. This apology
Will serve, I hope, among all folks discerning,
For my correctness—both in taste and learning.)

XVIII

It chanced, A.D. Eight Hundred and Eighteen,
'Twas a bad season: rain, and blight, and frost

Destroy'd the harvest, while the crops were green,—
Wheat—barley—oats—and turnips, all were crost.
The ruin'd peasants grew extremely lean,
There's no computing what that year they lost:
They look'd just like so many half-starved weasels,
The sheep all died—the pigs had got the measles.

XIX

Leofric's table suffer'd: he was ever
(As Earls are sometimes) an enormous glutton;
Venison he loved, but, though a dainty liver,
He was a perfect Colleger at mutton.
He now discover'd that his table never
A decent leg or shoulder could be put on;
Dry was each wither'd joint, where fat was not,
And sometimes tasted strongly of the rot.

XX

There was a sad deficiency in greens;
Parsnips and carrots nowhere could be found,
The very horses scorn'd to eat the beans,
The turnips were frost-bitten and unsound.
In fact the hungry peasants had no means
To pay their rents:—the Earl look'd grim and frown'd;
And wisely judged it would be saving trouble,
Like Harrow cricketers, to tax them double.

XXI

Whether this plan was likely to succeed,
Is more than I can possibly divine;
Physicians seldom think it right to bleed
A patient dying of a deep decline.
The poor petition'd in this utmost need;
Alas! they found it was in vain to whine;

The hungry Earl refused to hear a word;
(We know petitions are sometimes absurd.)

XXII

“He grieved,” he said, “but 't wasn't his look-out,
If all his serfs and vassals starved together;
The year had been a rainy one, no doubt,
But what of that?—he didn't make the weather.
They should have minded what they were about,
And not have sent such mutton—'twas like leather.
In short, unless they paid in their arrears,
He'd beat their houses down about their ears.”

XXIII

Then fell despair upon them:—home they went
With wild and gloomy aspects, and sat down
Each by his desolate hearth; some, weeping, leant
Their heads on their clasp'd hands; throughout the town
Went female shrieks and wailings; all content,
Domestic joy, and peace, and hope were flown;
And each look'd round upon his family,
And said that nought was left them—but to die.

XXIV

One had been lately wedded,—his young bride
Gazed, as he enter'd, on his frenzied eye,
And read her fate, yet she essay'd to hide
Her own forebodings of deep misery;
And strove to smile, and, seated by his side,
Used all her loved caresses cheeringly;
And said those sorrows soon would be forgot,
And fondly whisper'd hope—where hope was not.

XXV

And then she spoke of their long mutual love,
Their youthful vows, and lately plighted troth,—

And then she said that there was One above
Who had protected—would protect them both.
Remorse might yet the Earl's stern nature move,—
“Herself,” she added, “to despair was loath.”
But when she found her arts were vain, she crept
Into his bosom—hid her face—and wept.

XXVI

It was a night of horror and despair!
Mothers were shrieking in distraction wild,
And Fathers, with a fix'd unconscious glare,
Gazed on the wan cheeks of each starving child!
A few were kneeling, wrapt in fervent pray'r,
And these alone, in their devotion, smiled;
While he, the author of an earldom's woe—
Slept upon fair Godiva's breast of snow.

XXVII

Alas! Godiva, that a heart like thine
Should by so stern a tyrant's head be press'd!—
Short were his dreams, he woke at half-past nine,
Feeling a strange oppression at his chest;
And yet that day he'd drank five quarts of wine,
Which one would fancy would have made him rest.
Whether 'twas conscience or an indigestion
Produced this nightmare, still remains a question.

XXVIII

Godiva was awake—she had not slept
For sad reflections on her country's woes,
And bitter floods of anguish had she wept,
Her grief was far too burning for repose.

As down her cheeks the tears in silence crept,
At last they trickled to her husband's nose,
Who in plain terms (he seldom used to flatter)
Demanded “What the Devil was the matter.”

XXIX

Her tears fell faster, but she answer'd not;
In vain at first she strove her voice to find;
The courteous Saxon thought his wife had got
The tooth-ache, and grew wonderfully kind.
But when Godiva gently told him what
So much afflicted not her teeth—but mind,
He scratch'd his head, and stared like one confounded—
Never was man so perfectly astounded.

XXX

He could not form, for his part, the least notion
Of what appear'd so singular a whim,
He'd always fancied that his wife's devotion,
Thoughts, passions, wishes, centred all in him.
Much was he puzzled by this strange emotion,—
How was it possible a dame so slim,
So elegant and tasty as his wife,
Could feel for wretches quite in humble life?

XXXI

It was a problem which he could not solve,
'Twas just what mathematics are to me,
A science which the longer I revolve,
The surer am I we shall ne'er agree:
And so I very prudently resolve
To give it up, and stick to poetry,
Which is, in fact, extremely pretty sport,
And I'm inclined to fancy quite my forte.

XXXII

My Simpson's Euclid, you're a cursed bore,
Although, no doubt, a treasure in your way,

And those who doat on science may explore
Your problems—with what appetite they may.
I have no head for mathematic lore,
Therefore, my Simpson's Euclid, I must say
(Though I'm desirous not to be uncivil)
I most devoutly wish you at the Devil.

XXXIII

But oh! the thousand joys of versifying!
One writes, and blots, and reads 'em o'er and o'er,
And, every time one reads 'em, can't help spying
A thousand beauties unobserved before;
And then one fancies all the ladies crying—
Reviewers make some rhymesters rather sore;
I for my own part am a careless dog,
And love to hear mine criticised—incog.

XXIV

But poor Godiva—in her tears she lay,
'Twas a sad pity that t'was in the night,
Because, had it but happen'd in the day,
Her weeping beauty had prevail'd outright:
E'en then she charm'd her husband's rage away,
And nearly gain'd her purpose—though not quite;
For, after all her eloquent persuasion,
He tried to cheat her by a mean evasion.

XXXV

“My dear,” said he, “you've argued wondrous well,
I'm quite delighted with your long oration,
On all its beauties I forbear to dwell,
Enough that it hath met my approbation;
So much so, that to-morrow you may tell
Fair Coventry, it's free from all taxation,
If but these terms your approbation meet—
That you ride naked through the public street.”

XXXVI

Godiva started—well indeed she might,
She almost doubted her own ears' veracity;
My modest pen can scarce endure to write
A speech of such unparallel'd audacity.
Leofric thought he had perplex'd her quite,
And grinn'd immensely at his own sagacity;
For which I hold him a consummate beast,
Deserving of the pillory at least.

XXXVII

Shame on the heartless churl!—could he repose
On that so lovely bosom, which, he knew,
For him, albeit the author of its woes,
Throbb'd with affection, warm, and chaste, and true?
And could he thus its holy charms expose
Unveil'd and blushing to the public view?
Ay, bid slaves gaze on beauties, which alone
(Though Kings had sigh'd for) he might call his own!

XXXVIII

And yet I can't but own that modern spouses
In his opinion seem to acquiesce;
I've seen, in many fashionable houses,
The ladies waltzing in complete undress;
A custom which no sort of feeling rouses
Amongst their husbands—and I must confess,
(Being unmarried) that I see no faults in
Ladies, young, lovely, and half-naked, waltzing.

XXXIX

I must say I enjoy it—'t is a pleasure
Good-natured fair ones grant to amorous swains;
I like to whirl to that bewildering measure,
Which, “just like love”—or brandy, turns one's brains;
I like to view my partner's charms at leisure,
Till scarce a secret for the bride remains;
While round her waist each wanton finger strays,
And counts the whalebones in her panting stays.

XL

Let jealous husbands (if such still there be
In this improving age) cry out “For shame!”
Let Quakers say our manners are too free,
And gouty folks quadrilles and waltzes blame;
I here protest I never will agree
In such reproaches—till I'm blind and lame.
Let maids of fifty prate of immorality,
I'm for the sexes' rational equality.

XLI

These are new doctrines: in Godiva's age
Husbands alone were privileged to kiss;
I said before, Reform was not the rage,
So that such nonsense was not then amiss;
And, though I've ransack'd many an ancient page,
I find but one case similar to this,—
That of Candaules—handed down to us
By Barry Cornwall, and Herodotus.

XLII

Oh! matrimonial love, which I so long
Have fondly painted to my fancy's eye,
In vain would I embody now in song
My young conceptions of thy purity.
Thou should'st be chaste, tho' ardent; mild, tho' strong;
Thou should'st be—hang it, it's in vain to try,—
Thou should'st be—all that in my heart's recess
I long have worshipp'd, but can ne'er express.

XLIII

And thou, fair image, whatsoe'er thou art,
The loved creation of my boyish brain,
The destined partner of my cares and heart,
To share my pleasures, and to soothe my pain;

Still of my dearest visions be a part,
In many a midnight dream appear again;
Still let me clasp thee to my glowing breast,
Enjoy thy converse, and in sleep be blest.

XLIV

And if not all a phantom of my thought,
And thou indeed hast being, may thy young
And sinless years be happy, and may nought
That tastes of sorrow in thy path be flung:
May purest lessons thy young heart be taught,
And each expanding thought to virtue strung;
May'st thou have some accomplishments—much grace,
And lovely as thy spirit be—thy face.

XLV

I shall be quite enraptured if you sing,
So but your taste is pure as was the Attics';
I only beg you'll take care not to fling
Your time away in learning mathematics;
Nor to my arms a heavy portion bring
Of chemistry—and Greek—and hydrostatics;
You may nurse pinks and tulips, if you've got any,
But be no florist, love,—nor deal in botany.

XLVI

I mention this, because I know some ladies
Whose conversation is almost a bore;
But I should laud them, as the Poet's trade is,
So won't pursue this topic any more.
Return we to our tale, which, I'm afraid is
Too long in telling—but it's nearly o'er:
Godiva turn'd at last, with looks imploring,
And found her husband (like my reader) snoring.

XLVII

Too well she knew to wake him would be vain;
She thought 'twas best to let him slumber on,

Or else his humour might relapse again,
And all she had effected be undone.
She lay, and communed with her heart and brain,—
Her thoughts I know not, but when morning shone,
She told her husband, with a steadfast eye,
She had revolved the matter—and would try.

XLVIII

Her speech on this occasion I'd recorded
In my foul copy, and we all agreed
That it was most astonishingly worded,
For one who never learnt to write or read;
Yet scope for mirth it might have well afforded
To modern misses of our British breed;
And grave blue-stockings would, no dould, have said
“Godiva's heart was better than her head.”

XLIX

Had she at some snug boarding-school been placed
Of modern growth for female education,
She would have had a most uncommon taste,
And I might now have printed her oration.
Her native genius she would then have graced
With stores of every sort of information,
And had, at twelve years old, more general knowledge
Than boys of fifteen gain at Eton College.

L

She turn'd and left his Lordship sore perplex'd,
He almost question'd if he was awake,
And knew not whether to feel pleased or vex'd;
Still less, what step it would be right to take.
He “wonder'd what the Devil she'd do next
Who could so bold a resolution make:”
And felt a sort of shame that he'd consented,
And, for the first time in his life, repented.

LI

But then he felt he never could retract,
(At least he would not—which was much the same)
And if his wife thought proper thus to act,
He couldn't help it—he was not to blame!
So that day, after breakfast, off he pack'd
A trumpeter (I quite forget his name)
To tell the people, in the market-place,
His wife's intention—and his own disgrace.

LII

It was an idle morn in Coventry,
The people wander'd through the gloomy mart;
Labour with hope was o'er, and listlessly
Their footsteps traversed each unheeded part;
Despair was yielding fast to apathy—
They were prepared to die,—and every heart
Its weight of woe had half forgot to feel,—
When in their ears shrill rung a trumpet-peal.

LIII

There was a sudden crowding round the space
Whence the sound came—and then from man to man,
Throughout the full and spacious market-place,
A sudden, cold, electric shudder ran;
And each glanced quickly on his neighbour's face,
As if the working of his thought to scan,—
And then in every countenance were blent
Joy, love, and anger, and astonishment.

LIV

A breathless pause succeeded,—then arose
A low and gathering murmur in the crowd,
Like the far peal that breaks the dread repose
Cast by the shadow of a thunder-cloud:
And fast and far that thrilling murmur flows
On through the multitude—yet grows not loud—

Slowly it died,—and nought but trampling feet
Of crowds dispersing sounded in the street.

LV

Noon came, yet ne'er in Coventry had reign'd
At deepest midnight silence so profound;
In the wide streets no human form remain'd,
It seem'd as Death had swallow'd all around:
It was like that enchanted city, feign'd
In Oriental Tales, where all were bound
In magic slumbers, and transform'd to stone—
A story pretty generally known.

LVI

What were Godiva's thoughts at that dread hour
In her lone chamber? Silent did she kneel,
Her deep blue eyes raised meekly to the Power
Of Heaven, in dumb, yet eloquent appeal.
Thus pray'd the gentle lady in her bower,
Till o'er her sorrows peace began to steal,
And the calm rapture of the silent skies
Had sunk into her spirit through her eyes.

LVII

The lady rose from prayer, with cheek o'erflush'd,
And eyes all radiant with celestial fire,
The anguish'd beatings of her heart were hush'd,
So calmly heavenward did her thoughts aspire.
A moment's pause—and then she deeply blush'd,
As, trembling, she unclasp'd her rich attire,
And shrinking from the sunlight, shone confest
The ripe and dazzling beauties of her breast.

LVIII

And when her white and radiant limbs lay bare,
The fillet from her brow the dame unbound,
And let the traces of her raven hair
Flow down in wavy lightness to the ground,

Till half they veil'd her limbs and bosom fair,
In dark and shadowy beauty floating round,
As clouds, in the still firmament of June,
Shade the pale splendors of the midnight Moon.

LIX

But then her spirit fell when thus alone
She stood in the deep silence of her bower,
And felt that there she was beheld by none
Save One unknown, supreme, eternal Power.
She dared not raise her meek eyes, trembling one,
Again from earth; she could have wish'd that hour
Rather in view of thousands to have stood,
Than in that still and awful solitude.

LX

Away—away, with wild and hurried pace,
Through many a long and echoing room she stole;
No voice arrests her ear, no human face
Bursts on the dreamy wildness of her soul.
All silent now is that proud dwelling-place,—
On—on she presses till she reach the goal;
The portal's pass'd—she sees her palfrey stand,
Held by a weak and weeping maiden's hand.

LXI

Away, away!—the Lady hath departed;
The freedom of the land will soon be won:
Rejoice, ye wrong'd, and spurn'd, and broken-hearted,
Rejoice!—for your deliverance is begun.
It's full five minutes since Godiva started,
She'll be among you before half-past one;
Therefore, take care, both bachelors and spouses,
All but the blind, to keep within your houses.

LXII

Godiva pass'd, but all had disappear'd,
Each in his dwelling's innermost recess:

One would have thought all mortal eyes had fear'd
To gaze upon her dazzling loveliness.
Sudden her palfrey stopp'd, and neigh'd, and rear'd,
And prick'd his ears—as if he would express
That there was something wicked in the wind;
Godiva trembled and held fast behind.

LXIII

And here I also must remark that this is
With ladies very frequently the case,
And beg to hint to all Equestrian Misses,
That horses' backs are not their proper place.
A woman's forte is music—love—or kisses,
Not leaping gates, or galloping a race;
I used sometimes to ride with them of yore,
And always found them an infernal bore.

LXIV

The steed grew quiet, and a piercing cry
Burst on Godiva's ear;—she started, and
Beheld a man, who, in a window high,
Shaded his dim eyes with his trembling hand.
He had been led by curiosity
To see her pass, and there had ta'en his stand;
And as he gazed ('tis thus the story's read),
His eyeballs sunk and shrivell'd in his head.

LXV

I know not, gentles, whether this be true;
If so, you'll own the punishment was just;
Poor wretch!—full dearly had he cause to rue
His prying temper, or unbridled lust.
No more could he his daily toil pursue—
He was a tinker—but his tools might rust,
He might dispose of all his stock of metal,
For ne'er, thenceforward, could he mend a kettle.

LXVI

Alas! poor Peeping Tom! Godiva kept
And fed him.—Reader, now my tale is told;
I need not state how all the peasants wept,
And laugh'd, and bless'd their Countess—young and old.
That night Godiva very soundly slept—
I grieve to add she caught a trifling cold;
Leofric's heart was so extremely full,
He roasted for the populace a bull.

LXVII

There stood an ancient cross at Coventry,
Pull'd down, of late, by order of the Mayor,
Because 'twas clear its downfall must be nigh,
And 'twould be too expensive to repair;
It bore two figures carved—and you might spy
Beneath them graved, in letters large and fair,
Godiva, Leofric, for love of thee,
Doth make henceforth fair Coventry toll free.

LXVIII

The tale's believed by all the population,
And still a sham Godiva, every year,
Is carried by the Mayor and Corporation
In grand procession—and the mob get beer.
Gentles, I've spent my fit of inspiration,
Which being over, I must leave you here;
And for Godiva—hope you'll decent think her,
Laugh at her husband, and forgive the tinker.

1820.

Wentworth—not Burdett.

Very possibly—in the ninth century.

“If any member refuse to pay a fine imposed by the Club, the fine shall be doubled.”—Rules of the Harrow Cricket Club, 1818.

A great achievement, no doubt, but not equal to that of the celebrated Moore, of Moore-hall, who, immediately before his combat With the Dragon of Wantley, is said to have swallowed,

—“To make him strong and mighty,
Six quarts of ale, and one of aquavitæ.”

My eulogies on Waltzing are ironical.

MAIMOUNE,—A POEM.

CANTO I.

I

In those fantastic days, when elves and fairies
Held high command o'er sublunary things,
And teased us mortals with as mad vagaries
As ever sprung from bard's imaginings,
Playing strange pranks in cellars and in dairies,
Riding the Nightmare o'er the breasts of kings;
Souring good beer, cow-milking, and cream-skimming,
And thumping clowns by night, and pinching women:

II

When madcap Oberon reign'd in all his glory,
Now holding Kinglike quarrels with his Queen;
And now with Puck upon the promontory,
Seeing such sights as since were never seen;
There lived, renown'd in Oriental story,
A mighty King—we'll call him Fadladeen,
Because his name's not mention'd by the Lady
Whose tale I borrow, Queen Scheherazadé.

III

Fame says he reign'd with wondrous approbation,
(Especially of courtiers and bashaws;)
In times of peace was mild in his taxation,
And made some very creditable laws;

Indeed, in their invidious situation,
Few Monarchs ever gain'd so much applause;
In private life, a truth I can't evade is,
He was a perfect devil with the Ladies.

IV

He had a most inveterate aversion
To matrimonial fetters; and he swore,
In oaths befitting so sublime a person,
That 't was unworthy of the crown he wore,
And inconsistent with the State's exertion,
To wed a number that exceeded four;
And so, to give his royal conscience ease,
He had four Wives, and sixty Mistresses.

V

It seems that this arrangement was ill-made, for
He had no issue, save an only son,
Whom twelve long years he had devoutly pray'd for,
To all his country's Gods;—when all was done
This single boy would have been cheaply paid for
By the oblation of his Father's throne;
For in all lands, from Araby to Aragon,
The Sun ne'er saw so wonderful a paragon.

VI

I don't intend to give a long narration
Of his surpassing beauty, for I hate
Your cursed, detail'd, minute enumeration
Of cheeks, eyes, noses, lips, hair, shape, and gait.
It is enough that he became his station,
He look'd, and walk'd, and spoke, and drank, and ate,
As for a Hero of Romance 't is meet
To look, and walk, and speak, and drink, and eat.

VII

You may suppose the youngster was a pet,
E'en from his cradle, a spoil'd child indeed;

The self-will'd tyrant of the Haram; yet
It seem'd no spoiling could with him succeed.
'Twas very rarely he was known to fret,
And very quickly did he learn to read;
At four years old, I've heard, he wrote some verses
To a lame, humpback'd daughter of his Nurse's.

VIII

And years pass'd swiftly o'er him, and he grew
In stature and in strength; his Tutors swore
(And I believe that it was strictly true)
His Royal Highness knew a vast deal more
Than the most erudite of all their crew;
In fact, they found it an exceeding bore,
Whether for pleasure or for pride he task'd them,
To answer half the questions that he ask'd them.

IX

He was a great proficient in Astrology;
The best Accomptant in his sire's dominions;
Had dipp'd in Mathematics; in Theology
'Twas thought he held heretical opinions;
But this was doubtful:—in all sorts of knowledge he
Was an adept, but on the Muse's pinions
'Twas his delight to soar; when mounted on 'em, he
Cared little for political economy.

X

An earnest lover of the Muse was he,
And did her bidding for her own sweet sake;
Nor Fame he sigh'd for, nor aspired to be
A star among the great; but in the lake
Which flows around the dome of Poesy
He long'd the fever of his thirst to slake;
And drink the Music in his soul, which springs
From her deep, holy, lone imaginings.

XI

No proud intents, no purposes sublime
Had he, nor care for glory not to die;
No aspirations over Fate and Time,
Nor longings after Immortality.
He was no builder of the lofty rhyme,
His own glad thoughts were all his Poesy;
He call'd his Album, in quaint terms of praise,
His “register of comfortable days.”

XII

And thus, from all his bosom's best affections,
And sweet emotions, not unmix'd with pain,
From childhood's hopes, and boyhood's recollections,
And many a roving thought that cross'd his brain,
Season'd with here and there some grave reflections,
He framed a sort of desultory strain.
Of course at Court his rhyming gain'd much credit
From all who had, and some who hadn't read it.

XIII

And thus his boyhood slid in smiles away,
And he was nigh upon his sixteenth year,
When, as it fell upon a certain day,
He had a summons straightway to appear
Before his Father; as he went, they say,
His young limbs shook with an unusual fear;
He had a strange presentiment, no doubt,
That some infernal mischief was about.

XIV

His gracious Father had it seems discern'd
(He was a Prince of infinite sagacity;)
Or it may be, by long experience learn'd,
(Which much confirm'd him in his pertinacity,)
That youthful blood with headstrong passion burn'd,
And play'd the deuce with Princes; so, to dash it, he

Forgot his own antipathies, and swore
His son should marry, and run wild no more.

XV

He had moreover, as his subjects thought,
Some more conclusive reasons of his own;
The King of China would have dearly bought
Just then a close alliance with his Throne;
And had a most enchanting daughter, sought
By the East's proudest, yet the Maiden shone
Unmated still, and fancy-free, enshrined
In the pure brightness of her vestal mind.

XVI

She had seen fifteen summers; Youth had wrapp'd her
In its most radiant loveliness; no glance
Of her wild eyes ere shone without a capture,
E'en through her veil; and oh! to see her dance!
Why 'twould have kill'd our British beaux with rapture,
And caused a “great sensation” e'en in France.
Her voice of Music wander'd through men's ears,
And, when most mirthful, fill'd their eyes with tears.

XVII

Badoura! fair Badoura! would thy charms
Might float before my bliss-bewilder'd vision!
Would I might once enfold thee in my arms,
And fancy thou wert mine in dreams Elysian!
I think I then could laugh at Care's alarms,
And hold the bluest devils in derision;
For ever could we live (my Muse and I)
On the remembrance of that ecstacy.

XVIII

I own it has not been my boyhood's lot
To fall in love so often as is common;
My early flames were speedily forgot,
Replaced but slowly; though the name of woman

Has always occupied a decent spot
In my affections, and I'm sure that no man
Can write more highly than I wrote of late
Of the enjoyments of the married state.

XIX

But, though I grieve extremely to declare it, I
Feel bound to tell what I esteem the truth;
That female beauty is, in fact, a rarity
E'en in the gay, unwrinkled cheeks of youth.
In number, as in charms, there's a disparity
Between the plain and pretty, and in sooth
I meet, at present, with few female eyes
Whose smiles remind me much of Paradise.

XX

Yet have I dwelt, for many a pleasant week, in
A land whose women are the boast of fame;
Hail to the peerless belles around the Wrekin!
Hail to each wedded and unwedded dame!
Though really (unpoetically speaking)
With three exceptions, whom I dare not name,
I wouldn't give the value of a gooseberry
For all the beauty that I've found in S---

XXI

Oh! gentle Lady, with the dark-brown hair
Braided above thy melancholy eyes,
And pale thin cheek so delicately fair,
And voice so full of woman's sympathies;
Woe for thy beauty! the fell demon, Care,
Too soon hath made thy tender heart his prize;
Too soon those smiles, which ever and anon
Threw sunshine o'er thy loveliness, are gone.

XXII

Lonely art thou amid the fluttering crowd
That throngs the gay and gilded drawing-room;
For aye enwrapp'd and darken'd in a cloud
Of cheerless and impenetrable gloom.
The heartless glances of the gay and proud,
Which dwelt so rudely on thy beauty's bloom,
Pass thy pale cheek unheeding, and despise
The dimness of thy sorrow-speaking eyes.

XXIII

Yet when perchance a happier maid hath woken
The sweetness of some old-remember'd air,
Whose touching music to thy heart hath spoken
Of the old days that were so passing fair:
I've seen the spell that hangs around thee broken
By rising visions of the things that were;
And thy faint blush and gushing tears have told
That crush'd affections have not yet grown cold.

XXIV

But oh! to me most lovely and most loved,
In thy calm hour of dreaming solitude;
When I have track'd thy footsteps as they roved
Through the thick mazes of the tangled wood;
Or to sweet sadness by the story moved,
By thy fair side, in mute attention, stood,
Still in thine eyes my lovesick bosom sunning—
But where the devil is my fancy running?

XV

The fair Badoura had conceived a whim in
Her lovely head, of wisdom most profound;
Her brain in wild fantastic dreams was swimming,
Such as with maidens now and then abound,
But rarely vex the pates of married women—
She fancied she might search the world around,

And find no husband in its dreary waste,
To suit her very reasonable taste.

XXVI

And she had sworn by every good Divinity
That ever on Olympus had a throne,
That, should her days be lengthen'd to infinity,
No husband ever should unloose her zone,
Nor steal the jewel of her bright virginity;
That treasure should, at least, remain her own.
'Twas a strange whim, but what the stranger fact is,
She seem'd resolved to put the whim in practice.

XXVII

She knelt before her sire, that gentle maid,
Like young Diana at the feet of Jove,
(As mentioned by Callimachus) and pray'd
By all her peace on earth, and hopes above,
That if she ever had his will obey'd,
If he did ever his dear daughter love,
He would permit her still to live and die
In calm, unsullied, sinless chastity.

XXIII

And much she argued on the wiles of men,
Their base deceit, their gross dissimulation,
Their falsehood and their cruelty; and then
She praised the virtues of a single station:
And “if she should be married, when, oh! when
Could she enjoy such mirth and recreation,
Such joyous freedom, such unbounded sport,
As she was used to at her father's court?”

XXIX

Ah! poor Badoura! in a luckless hour
Thou com'st to urge thine innocent intreaty;
No, though thy bright and eloquent eyes should shower
A sea of tears upon thy father's feet, he

Will never yield to their persuasive pow'r!—
He had, in fact, just ratified a treaty
By which his daughter was declared the Queen
Of the young hopeful heir of Fadladeen.

XXX

For six whole months the mischief had been brewing
With such sagacious secrecy, that few
Suspected half the plans that were pursuing,
And not a soul in all the kingdom knew
That his respected Monarch had been doing
What none but Monarchs have the face to do;
And sign'd the contract which he felt would sever
His child from hope and happiness for ever.

XXXI

Alas! poor Royalty! how far removed
Art thou from all the blessedness of earth!
Is't not enough that thou hast never proved
The bliss of friendship, nor enjoy'd the mirth
Of happy spirits, loving and beloved?
Is't not enough that thou must feel the dearth
Of cheering looks, and languidly repress
The hollow smiles of palace heartlessness?

XXXII

Is't not enough that tranquil sleep is driven
From thy uneasy pillow?—that thy brain
Must throb for ever, and thy heart be riven
With weariness and care, and scarce retain
A dream obscure, a wandering ray of heav'n,
So closely fetter'd by the earth's dull chain?
It's not enough that Fancy's self hath left
Thy broken slumber of her joys bereft?

XXXII

Oh! is not this enough? but must thou link
Thy care-worn heart to an unloving mate;

And for the bliss of chaste affection, drink
The bitter cup of carelessness or hate,
Unsolaced and unpitied?—Canst thou think
There is on earth a thing so desolate
As thou, who yieldest for thy tinsel prize
Love's self, our last faint ray from Paradise?

XXXIV

So felt perchance Badoura, as she knelt
Before her father with her strange petition:
Oh! in her voice what sweet persuasion dwelt!
How moving was her look of meek submission!
I don't know how her gracious father felt,
But he was far too great a politician
To let absurd, intrusive feelings glance
Through his profound and passionless countenance.

XV

He simply answer'd, that “he quite agreed
In every single syllable she'd said;
Such notions were most amiable indeed,
And did much credit to her heart and head.
He only grieved that there was urgent need
That she should set off instantly to wed
The heir apparent of a distant State—
Her resolution had been form'd too late.”

XXXVI

This was not what Badoura had expected,
And a distracting scene of course ensued;
The Maid declared the match must be rejected,
The King swore roundly, “d---n him if it should:
She ought to jump to be so well connected;”—
She still persisted that she never would:
He swore that she must do as she was bid,
And should be lock'd up closely till she did.

XXXVII

Poor girl, they shut her in a lonely tower,
(O! subject meet for melancholy verse;)
Nor would the old hard-hearted brute allow her
One poor companion, save her kind old Nurse.
'Twas a sad stretch of arbitrary power,
For the convenience of his privy purse:
(I own to me it seems extremely funny
How money matters mix with matrimony.)

XXXVIII

In the mean time, while all the Chinese court
Was in confusion with this pleasant scene,
Another, quite as pleasant of the sort,
Was acting by the Prince and Fadladeen.
But 'twould be indecorous to report
Such angry squabbles as should ne'er have been.
The Youth, in short, was of the Lady's mind,
And like the Lady was the Youth confined.

XXXIX

Judge not, fair dames, too harshly of his heart,
Nor deem it quite to your attractions blind,
Insensible and dead to Cupid's dart,
And careless of the eyes of womankind,
Perhaps some luckier beauties had the start
Of poor Badoura in his wayward mind;
Perhaps some young Court-Siren's fascination
Within his breast had caused a palpitation.

XL

Perhaps—but no—the truth must be confess'd;
No woman had dominion o'er his soul;
His eyes had wander'd o'er earth's loveliest,
And still his heart was free from their control:
Yet did he madly love, and o'er his rest
Dreams of such bright and passionate beauty stole,

As oft in slumber to the Poet's eyes
Disclose the long-lost joys of Paradise.

XLI

He was, I said, a Poet from his birth,
And fairyland around his boyhood shone;
His soul drank in the beauty of the earth
With fervent joy, but near his Father's throne
How did he feel of kindred souls the dearth!
How sigh for some beloved and loving one,
To whom he might in solitude reveal
Bliss which the hearts around him could not feel!

XLII

So he grew pensive, and at times would wander
Through lonely dell, and unfrequented wood;
And on his fate in deep abstraction ponder,
And in his more imaginative mood
Would picture to himself a dream of wonder,
A lot he would have chosen if he could;
And shadow out a creature who would be
The gentle sharer of his sympathy.

XLIII

And then he search'd the tomes of old romance,
(I don't know how he got romances) there
He cull'd from many a heroine's countenance
The traits he thought most exquisitely fair;
From one he stole her eyes' o'erwhelming glance,
And from another clipp'd her auburn hair:
From this her lips, from that her blushes stole,
And from five hundred form'd one lovely whole.

XLIV

And then for taste and feeling, sense and wit,
With which this dainty creature must abound;
Again he search'd all Tales that e'er were writ,
And chose the brightest models that he found;

Which blending with his dreamings, in a fit
Of joy he swore that all the world around
No living beauty could be found so bright
As that which swam in his Quixottic sight.

XLV

'Twas ever with him, this imagined form;
And as the wayward fancy stronger grew,
The bright creation shone in hues so warm,
So palpably apparent to his view,
That he grew quite enraptured, and a storm
Of such wild passion on his bosom blew,
That in his fits he deem'd the vision real,
And fell in love with this bright shape ideal.

XLVI

It was a silly fancy—never mind;
It made him happy, if it made him mad:
The worst on't was he couldn't feel resign'd
To execute the orders of his Dad.
But when he was, in consequence, confined,
Wrapp'd in this vision, he was seldom sad.
The King imagined that the boy was frantic,
Though the fact was he only was romantic.

XLVII

The good old Monarch loved his headstrong son,
(Though 't was a cruel measure, I must say,
A thing which no wise Father would have done,
To lock him up in that outrageous way;)
And, fearing sorely that his wits were gone,
He bled and dosed him every other day.
'Twas all in vain,—no physic could remove
His wild, ideal, solitary love.

XLVIII

Affairs bore now a most forlorn appearance,
Both Monarchs were confoundedly afraid,

That, spite of their parental interference,
The marriage would be grievously delay'd.
Though both had hopes, they said, “that in a year hence
They might perhaps contrive to be obey'd.”
So in this state we'll leave them for the present,
And turn to prospects rather less unpleasant.

XLIX

I don't know how, for many a weary line
I've prosed of courtship, wedlock, love, and fighting,
Till I've arrived at Stanza forty-nine,
And grown half-weary of the stuff I'm writing;
And yet (confound this stupied head of mine)
Ne'er thought, one single moment, of inditing
A strain of soft and eulogistic flummery,
On your approaching nuptials, Miss Montgomery.

L

A little while—a few short weeks—and thou
Shalt go forth gaily in thy bridal dress;
Serene, yet bearing on thy modest brow
The timid blush of virgin bashfulness.
And thou shalt pledge the irrevocable vow,
And utter (if thou canst) the fatal “Yes”
At which most ladies' lips are apt to falter,
When they come fairly to the marriage altar.

LI

Thou hast done wisely—thy young eloquent eyes
Long might with gentle victories have shone;
Well dost thou choose, for many a fleeting prize,
The better triumph of securing one.
Well dost thou choose, for many a lover's sighs,
A husband's smile; and since we can't but own
That you were form'd for doing execution,
The more praiseworthy is your resolution.

LII

But we shall miss, beside our quiet hearth,
The delicate form, the sunshine of thine eye,
The frankness of thy laughter-loving mirth,
Thy voice so rich in sweetest melody;
And when I seek this dearest spot of Earth,
From my world-weary rovings, I shall sigh
To meet no longer in my Father's hall
The fairest face, the lightest step of all.

LIII

I'll write a fine description in the papers
Of the proceedings of your wedding-day;
And give old maids and bachelors the vapours,
Telling how bright your looks, your dress how gay;
And then Ill praise your milliners and drapers,
Beginning somewhat in the following way:
“Married last week, at --- in this Shire,
Miss H. Montgomery to T. S---, Esquire.”

LIV

Fie on my giggling Muse, who can't be serious
For half a stanza on so grave a theme;
But 'tis in vain for me to be imperious,
When she's determined to rebel; I deem,
Most courteous readers, that this strain will weary us,
And I shall sadly sink in your esteem
If I pursue it longer; if you please
I'll breathe awhile, and give your Worships ease.

LV

Yet, ere I close my Canto, I must mention
What should have been declared some stanzas back—
That 'twas not my original intention
To follow so irregular a track;
And I must own I merit reprehension
And punishment for having been so slack

To introduce you to the sportive Dame,
From whom this wondrous story takes its name.

LVI

I must implore your pardon, and will try
(If you get through this Canto) in my next
To check the rovings of my Phantasy,
And stick a little closer to my text.
“I've wandered from my theme, yet scarce know why,”
As sings a friend of mine,—for I'm perplex'd
For time; could I but polish as I would,
I'd make my Poem wonderfully good.

CANTO II.

I

My ink is mix'd with tears of deep vexation
To know what Mr. Courtenay has decreed;
That here no more our King shall fill his station,
That Club and Punchbowl all to fate must cede!
What! can't we have another Coronation
In the Fusticular Kingdom? I, indeed,
Have half a mind—if it were not so late—
For this same Crown to be a candidate.

II

Ah! Gerard! Gerard! what wouldst thou be doing?
(Quoth my astonish'd Muse) is this thine high
Commiseration of the cares pursuing
The unbless'd course of wretched Royalty?
Why didst thou prate, last Canto, of the ruin
Of Royal spirits?—was it all a lie?
And did you talk in that high-sounding way
Only because you'd nothing else to say?

III

Gerard, I'm quite ashamed of you—take care—
I'll not be treated (trust me) in this sort;
How can you hope to breathe poetic air
In the unhealthy climate of a court?
Do you suppose you'll ever find me there?
Pray have the voters promised you support?
Poetic air, said I?—your chance is small,
Just now, of breathing any air at all.

IV

Haven't you had an asthma all the spring?
Ar'n't you, this moment, wheezing like a kettle?
And yet, forsooth, you want to be a King;
And, though you scarce can fetch your breath, to settle
Affairs of State?—'twould be a pretty thing—
I thought you'd been a man of different metal.
Reign if you will—but when by me forsaken,
You'll find that you're confoundedly mistaken.

V

Sweet Muse, have patience—trust me, I ne'er meant
In earnest to petition for the throne;
Though thou dost smile but seldom, I'm content
With thy uncertain humours; but I own
'Tis a sad bore to have thy fancies pent
Within my brain—all joys of printing flown—
No praise my dear anonymous state to sweeten,
And all because some folks are leaving Eton.

VI

But come once more, and kindly condescend
To lend thine inspiration, dearest Muse;
Look not so grave,—I ask you as a friend,
For, if you don't assist me, I shall lose
My way in long digressions without end,
And not a single reader will peruse

My tedious rhymes—I scarce could get a man to
Wade through my last interminable Canto.

VII

I said, just now, I'd introduce my reader
To the fair Sprite who gives my Tale a name;
And since, in a few stanzas, I shall need her
For special purposes, 'twould be a shame,
Should I delay into your view to lead her;
So forth she steps, this visionary dame,
Maimouné, a mad Fairy, gay and bright
As any elf that e'er play'd pranks by night.

VIII

She came on Earth soon after the creation,
And was akin to Oberon, 'tis said;
In Faeryland received her education,
But never yet had been induced to wed,
Though she was woo'd by half the Elfin nation—
But still a free and roving life she led;
And sought diversion for her gentle mind
Chiefly among the haunts of humankind.

IX

There was a deep and solitary well in
The palace where the Prince was now confined,
Which served this lovely Fairy for a dwelling,
A spot just suited to a Fairy's mind;
Much like the fountain where Narcissus fell in
Love with her own fair face, and pined, and pined
To death (the passion 's not at all uncommon
In Man, and very prevalent in Woman).

X

Beneath this fountain's fresh and bubbling water,
Unfathomably deep, the livelong day,
This wondrous Fairy, Time's most radiant daughter,
In unimaginable visions lay;

Where never earthly care or sorrow sought her,
But o'er her head did the wild waters play,
And flitting spirits of the Earth and Air,
Scatter'd sweet dreams and lulling music there.

XI

For she was well beloved by all th' immortal
Beings that roam through Ocean, Earth, or Sky;
And oft would blessed spirits pass the portal
Of the vast Eden of Eternity
To be her slaves, and to her did resort all
Angelic thoughts, each heavenly phantasy,
That mortals may not know—all came to bless
This gentle Being's dreams of happiness.

XII

And all around that fountain, the pure air
Breathed of her presence; every leaf was hung
With music, and each flow'r that blossom'd there
A fine and supernatural fragrance flung
On the glad sense; and thither did repair
Garlanded maids, and lovers fond and young;
And by the side of the low-murmuring stream
Would youthful Poets lay them down to dream.

XIII

And ever on that spot the rays of Morning
Fell thickest, and the Sun's meridian light
Sparkled and danced amid the waves, adorning
The crystal chamber of the sleeping Sprite.
But when proud Dian walk'd, with maiden scorn, in
The Eastern skies, and the sweet dews of Night
Lay heavy on the Earth, that Sprite arose
Fresh from the visions of the day's repose.

XIV

And then, she gaily wander'd through the world,
Where'er her fancy led her, and would stray

(The sails of her bright meteor-wings unfurl'd)
Through many a populous city, and survey
The chambers of the sleeping; oft she curl'd
The locks of young chaste maidens, as they lay,
And lit new lustre in their sleeping eyes,
And breathed upon their cheeks the bloom of Paradise.

V

And she would scatter o'er the Poet's brain
(As he lay smiling through swift-springing tears)
A strange and unintelligible train
Of fancies, and ring loud into his ears
A long, mysterious, and perplexing strain
Of music, or combine the joy of years
In half an hour of slumber; till he started
From such sweet visions, weeping and wild-hearted.

XVI

And, in her mirthful moments, would she seek
The bachelor's room, and spoil his lonely rest;
Or with old maids play many a wicked freak;
Or rattle loudly at the miser's chest,
Till he woke trembling; she would often wreak
Her vengeance on stern fathers who repress'd
Their children's young and innocent loves, and sold
(Like our two Kings) their happiness for gold.

XVII

I can't tell half the merry tricks she play'd
On earth, nor half the clamour and the fuss
Old women made about her.—I'm afraid
No Sprite was ever half so mischievous.
But so it happen'd that one night she stray'd
Into the Prince's chamber—(prying Puss!
I wonder what the deuce she wanted there
With a young man a-bed, so fresh and fair.)

VIII

Tranquil and happy in his sleep he lay,
For he was dreaming of that vision bright;
And o'er his flush'd cheek stole a wandering ray
Of silent but most passionate delight,
As he was gazing his soul's eyes away
On some imagined form—he was a sight
Of wondrous beauty, and Maimoune stood
Gazing upon him long in solitude.

XIX

Oh! how she long'd to peep beneath the lid
That veil'd his eyes' dark azure, and espy
The sweet imaginations that it hid
Wandering beneath its fringed canopy.
Yet would she not awake him; all she did
Was but one instant on his breast to lie,
And kiss the lips which tremulously moved
As if to meet the lips of her he loved.

XX

Hark! a dull sound swings through the troubled air!
She hears the flapping of unholy wings—
Awhile she listens, mute, with finger fair
Raised to her delicate lips; then swiftly springs
Into the infinite sky—what meets she there?
Ha! a bad spirit in its wanderings
Darkens the face of the full moon, and mars
The pale-eyed beauty of the silent stars.

XXI

Up sprang Maimoune—winds are not so fleet—
Through the spell-troubled atmosphere,—and soon
You might behold those hostile Spirits meet
Within the circle of the full-orb'd moon.
Well knew the Fiend that battle or retreat
To him was hopeless—so he craved a boon;

That as her anger he was loath to stir,
She'd let him pass in peace—and he'd let her.

XXII

“Ho!” quoth the Fairy (and she laugh'd aloud);
“Kind Sir Rebellious, courteous terms are these:
But mine must first be thought on—Spirit proud,
Now whether thy sweet Spritehood doth it please,
That I should dash thee from thy murky cloud
Into yon deep uncomfortable seas;
Or shut those fair and dainty limbs of thine
In the dark trunk of that wind-shaken pine?

XXIII

“Or wilt thou shiver in the realm of Frost,
Ten thousand years fast fetter'd to the Pole?
Or, to the centre of the deep earth toss'd,
There tumble, free from Gravity's control,
In many an antic gambol?—to thy cost
Curst Spirit, thou hast dared me—for a soul
More dark than thou, more mischievously wicked,
Roams not the earth—at least with such a thick head.

XXIV

“I've some old scores to pay you off, Sir, now:—
Didn't I see you tap Tom Goddard's ale?
Didn't you pull down Pocock's barley-mow?
Didn't you nick the parson's pony's tail?
Didn't you milk John Squizzle's spotted cow?
And thump his sister with the milking pail?
Didn't I see you through the keyhole creep,
And give Miss Bab the fidgets in her sleep?

XV

“Can you say anything in your defence?
Whate'er you will I'm ready, Sir, to hear—
What! silent!—have you lost your little sense?
Have you no means of making it appear

That you possess a shadow of pretence
To mercy?—are you quite struck dumb with fear?
Come, I'll not wait—you stupid Spirit, speak—
What mischief have you done, this many a week?”

XXVI

The Spirit trembled as he made reply:
“Most beautiful Maimouné, I confess
That I must owe, henceforth, my liberty
(Which I deserve not) to your gentleness.
Much mischief surely have I done, yet I
May, with some reason, venture to express
A hope that I've, for once, refrain'd from doing
My poor endeavour to engender ruin.

XXVII

“There is a high and solitary tower
Near China's proud Metropolis, and there
As I pass'd o'er it at the midnight hour,
Suspended in the vast and moon-lit air,—
Lying in soft Sleep's poppy-breathing bower,
I saw a maiden exquisitely fair!—
You may conceive what charms must be her lot,
When I assure you that I pinch'd her not!

XXVIII

“She quite disarm'd me of my old propensities;
I had no thought of doing any harm
To her—I would not for the wealth of ten cities
Have thrill'd that bosom with the least alarm.
‘What beauty!’ I exclaim'd, ‘oh! how intense it is!
How exquisite her neck—her hand—her arm!
Her lips!—oh! might I with a kiss surprise
The slumbers hanging on those shrouded eyes.’

XXIX

“But I breathed o'er her a profounder sleep,
And drove away all images of fear

From her repose; then softly did I creep,
And whisper dreams of wonder in her ear.
Thus, many a night, did I my vigils keep
Beside her pillow, till she grew most dear
E'en to my nature—by her eyes I swear
The world holds not another thing so fair!”

XXX

“Now,” quoth the nettled Fay, “mine own I'd wager
(Might I hold commerce with such things as thou,
And wouldst thou dare in such a strife to gage her)
That this thy beauty bears not such a brow
Of loveliness (I don't mean to enrage her)
As a young wonder whom I saw just now:
And (what would more her female nature vex)
My brighter beauty's of the other sex.

XXXI

“Nay, since you look incredulous, Sir Fiend,
I must your senses by strong proof convince;
So beg that you'll this instant condescend
To lay your sleeping Princess by my Prince
In yon lone turret—back to China wend—
Bring hither this fair paragon—and since
You dare to stake your judgment against mine,
We'll see which beauty is the more divine.”

XXXII

She spoke—upon the word his raven pinions
The dark-brow'd Spirit for the voyage spread,
And to the Chinese Monarch's far dominions,
Swift, straight, and fearless, through mid air he sped;
Where (still unshaken in his old opinions)
He bore Badoura, sleeping from her bed,
And lodged her safely in the Prince's tower,
Close by his side, in less than half an hour.

XXXIII

Had I but time I'd tell you how enchanting
She look'd, when waving in the midnight breeze,
As the strong Spirit bore her onward, panting
With haste, o'er towns, and continents, and seas.
In raiment her fair limbs were sadly wanting,
For she wore nothing but a thin chemise;
And, as the moonbeams bathed her in their light,
She seem'd some wandering meteor of the night,

XXXIV

Or star dropp'd from the firmament; but when
She lay still sleeping, by the Prince's side—
The fairest she of women—he of men—
Both Spirits own'd, it could not be denied
That Earth ne'er saw such beauty. Ne'er again
Will such a bridegroom sleep by such a bride,
And ne'er again, while we live—I'm afraid,
Will pranks so pleasant be by Fairies play'd.

XXXV

Awhile the Fairies bent in silence o'er them,
Comparing lip with lip, and nose with nose;
And for their beauty could almost adore them;
But soon the old dispute again arose;
And to such lengths their angry passion bore them,
That they had nearly come from words to blows,
But that the evil Spirit fear'd to fight
With so confounded passionate a Sprite.

XXXVI

At length 'twas settled, with the full consent
Of both, that the dispute should be referr'd
(Since neither to resign the contest meant)
To the unbiass'd judgment of a third:
And they both swore that they would be content,
When this their quarrel should be fairly heard,

With his decision. So Maimoune call'd
A Spirit whom her beauty had enthrall'd

XXXVII

For fifteen hundred years. The Spirit came—
A creature form'd by nature for a lover;
Blear-eyed, and bow-legg'd, hump-back'd, horn'd, and lame;
I wonder how such beauty fail'd to move her:
But she had never yet confess'd a flame,
Though she had made this dainty Knight a rover,
Since he first woo'd her, over seas and lands,
Ten times a-day, to do her mild commands.

XXXVIII

In this behaviour did my Sprite resemble
All mortal women whom I ever knew;
Good Lord! I'm now, while writing, in a tremble,
To think of all the labour I went through
When I was courting Miss Jemima Kemble;
Never had galley-slave so much to do:
Never poor husband of a wife who chided
Could lead, in this world, such a life as I did.

XXXIX

Well! I'm still single!—but I can't forget
How oft I've trudged for many a dusty mile
On some ridiculous errand,—or got wet
In expectation of at least a smile;
And then, returning, found her in a pet
Because “I'd kept her waiting such a while.”
And then the shawls and tippets that I carried;
The scrapes she led me into—till she married.

XL

Up rose the Spirit thus so deeply smitten,
And most politely fell upon his knees;
(His name can't be pronounced, and scarcely written,
And so we'll call him Cupid if you please:)

His mistress told him of the plan she'd hit on,
And begg'd his judgment would the strife appease:
And Cupid grinn'd, and look'd extremely proud,
To have his taste in beauty thus allow'd.

XLI

But when he very carefully had eyed,
With spectacles on nose, the sleeping pair,
He gravely said it could not be denied—
That they were both superlatively fair.
He was extremely puzzled to decide
Which was the more so, and could not declare
To which his judgment would award the prize,
Unless he was allow'd to see their eyes.

XLII

So said, so done;—the magic spell was broken
Which hung upon the slumber-sealed eyes
Of the young Prince, and he was fairly woken
From his sweet dreams; then, oh! with what surprise
He saw the form beside him, a bright token
Of the Gods' favour, sent to realize
(As he supposed), the loveliest dreams that stole
Across the enchanted vision of his soul.

XLIII

How came she there?—he knew not, and cared less,
That she was there was quite enough for him;—
Bewilder'd in her dazzling loveliness,
How did his eyes in giddy rapture swim!
As she lay by him still and motionless,
“The cup of love was running o'er the brim
Within him” (as I heard a speaker say
At a Salopian dinner yesterday.)

XLIV

I can't think how he took the joke so coolly,
As if the Gods had chosen to provide

And send him, as they ought, at midnight duly,
A beautiful young lady for a bride.
He never ask'd who brought her thither. Truly,
Had I found such a treasure by my side,
Nor of the trick been previously admonish'd,
I should have felt prodigiously astonish'd.

XLV

Long did he gaze in silence and deep joy,
And thoughts came o'er him which he ne'er had known;
The dream which he had worshipp'd from a boy,
In one short instant from his brain had flown;
And a new love which knew of no alloy,
Within his bosom had built up a throne.
The lady slept, he gazed, and gazed upon her,
But harbour'd not a thought against her honour.

XLVI

She slept on most amazingly—he thought
(And I'm not sure he wasn't in the right)
That she slept rather sounder than she ought,
It being, he supposed, her bridal night.
But though he deem'd it strange, he never sought.
To force the slumbers from those orbs of light
He almost fear'd to view—he could not bear
To use such rudeness to a thing so fair.

XLVII

Yet did he print a most bewildering kiss
On her fair cheek—another on her brow—
(I should expatiate on that moment's bliss,
But haven't time to dwell upon it now,)
They would have waken'd any living Miss,
Whose sleep was not enchanted; but somehow
This lady felt them not; or, if she did,
Sleep still weigh'd down each persevering lid.

XLVIII

'Twas all in vain; he found he couldn't wake her
By-any gentle means; so, having sworn
That she was his, and he would ne'er forsake her—
That she should never from his arms be torn,
Even though Hell itself should yawn to take her,—
He thought it would be best to doze till morn;
And, having kiss'd her lovely cheek once more,
Soon fell asleep more soundly than before.

XLIX

Forthwith, released from the strong spell that bound her
In deepest slumber, fair Badoura sprung
From her enchanted visions, and around her
A glance of momentary wonder flung.
Much did the aspect of the place confound her—
Where are the pictures round her chamber hung?
Is this her bed?—and ah!—what heavenly face
Lies on the pillow, in her Nurse's place?

L

She screams aloud!—is this a man beside her?
A Husband?—Gracious! is her Father mad?
She is resolved, whatever may betide her,
To fly—and yet the face is not so bad.—
She has seen worse complexions,—mouths much wider,—
In fact the fellow is a pretty lad.
She thought she'd take one peep at him, and bent
Silently o'er his face in wonderment.

LI

Upon her delicate brow the dark hair braided,
Cloudlike hung o'er the starbeams of her eyes;
Which, by that darkness soften'd and o'ershaded
Fell in a gleam of tenderest ecstacies
Upon the sleeping boy; that gleam pervaded
His cheek still glowing from his late surprise;

And touch'd his brow, which in that radiance shone
With loveliness far brighter than its own.

LII

Thus (as 't is said,) Italian Beauty hung
Over the sleeping Milton, as at noon
Reclined he lay the forest trees among,
His thoughts to some unutterable tune
Of Heavenly Music wandering, till they sprung
Into his deep-flush'd countenance, and soon
Kindled within that gazer's breast the flame
Which Woman, who best feels it, dares not name.

LIII

But there's one trifling difference between
My Princess and the Dame who seem'd to ape her;
That Milton's Beauty chose not to be seen,
And scarce declared her passion e'en on paper:
Whereas Badoura thought it would be mean
To let so delicate a Youth escape her;
All her objections to a ring were over,
Since Fate had sent her such a handsome lover.

LIV

And she began to find it poor employment
To gaze so long upon a sleeping spouse,
And long'd for the more rational enjoyment
Of—conversation—and—exchanging vows
Of love—and—chaste caresses—ne'er to cloy meant;—
And so she strove the sleeper to arouse,
At first by gentle kisses, and fond taps
With her small fingers,—then by ruder slaps.

LV

He only slept the sounder, so she tried
At last the sweet allurement of her tongue;
“Sweet Prince!—Dear Husband!—am I not thy Bride?
Am I not chaste, and beautiful, and young?

Have I not air, and shape, and grace beside?
Is not my voice the sweetest that e'er sung?
Why Husband! Husband! Husband!—Sir! Sir! Sir!
Good Lord! will nothing make this Blockhead stir?

LVI

“Now by mine eyes, fair Bridegroom, 'tis not right
To sleep so sound at such an hour as this;
Pray tell me, is it not our bridal night,
Sacred to love, and harmony, and bliss?
I've a great mind to quarrel with you quite,
Discourteous Sir—now by this rapturous kiss,
(Which I must steal, since you will not bestow,)
I never could have borne to slight you so.

LVII

“Aid me, ye Gods, this odious sleep to drive hence;
Sir, you've caroused too freely at the wine—
No, no; I now perceive the whole contrivance,
'Tis all a trick, my kind papa, of thine.
I wonder at my Nurse's base connivance;
But oh! he looks so radiantly divine,
And smiles, in slumber with a smile so sweet,
I can't believe him guilty of deceit.

LVIII

“Still sleep'st thou, dearest? some malignant Demon
Hath o'er thy spirit cast his baneful spell;
Else never couldst thou in this fashion dream on,
Nor against Love and Hymen so rebel,
As not to let those eyes of beauty beam on
The gentle Lady who loves thee so well:
By Heav'n thou smil'st—I know it's all a sham;
Love grant me patience!—what a wretch I am!

LIX

“Thou lov'st me not; dost thou suspect my fame?
My parents, Sir, are noble as thine own;

My aunt Haiatelnefous was a Dame
As chaste, and coy, as ever wore a gown:
Ne'er have I felt,—till now, Love's pleasing flame;
My Father shall defend his Child's renown.
Do as you please, Sir—you shall shortly know
That I'll have vengeance if you use me so.

LX

“By the hot tears which I am shedding o'er thee;
By my poor heart which doth so fondly ache;
By these most chaste embraces; I implore thee,
My Husband, if thou sleepest, to awake.
Oh! didst thou know how madly I adore thee,
Thou wouldst not thus persist my heart to break.
Oh! hear the plaint my wounded Spirit pours,
And heal my sorrow!—Lord, how loud he snores!”

LXI

She spoke; the tears fell fast, as she was speaking,
Yet did they yield her anguish small relief;
And (what was shocking), in her flight from Pekin,
She'd dropp'd her muslin pocket-handkerchief,
So that she couldn't stop her eyes from leaking;
Maimoune felt much pity for her grief,
And soon, in order to assuage her pain,
Sent Magic slumber to those eyes again.

LXII

By this the silver Moon had drawn her horn in,
While Cupid still more undecided grew;
And puzzled on, unmindful of the warning,
Till, while he pored and doubted, the cock grew,
And at the sound, before the breath of Morning,
Back to their haunts, the three mad Spirits flew,
Leaving, in rather an unusual place,
The Prince and Princess lying face to face.

LXIII

The spells fell from their eyelids, and together
These two fond lovers from their dreams awoke,
And met each other's eyes—'twas long ere either
(Lost as they were in love and wonder) spoke.
I don't know (and it matters not a feather),
Which of the two the blissful silence broke—
'Twas a strange introduction—I'm afraid
The breakfast hour that morning was delay'd.

LXIV

Of course the thing in matrimony ended;
The Kings were much astonish'd at the way
In which the Fairies had their schemes befriended,
For how it happen'd not a soul could say.
Maimoune and her Lover both attended,
In high good-humour on the wedding-day;
And brought fine gifts from Fairyland, and shed
All sorts of blessings on the Nuptial Bed.

LXV

“Now strike your sails, ye jolly Mariners,”
For I have come unto my story's end,
With a few alterations, worthy Sirs—
To make it aptly to my purpose bend.
I've used some freedom with the characters,
But hope the Reader 'll kindly condescend
To recollect my hurry—and excuse
The rambling nonsense of a heedless Muse.

Godiva, stanza xlii.

DAY DREAMS.

NO. I. TO ------

I.

I knew that Death was stern and strong,
That sceptred hand and helmed head,
The fear'd on earth, the famed in song,
Must sink beneath his silent tread;
That Poet's brain, and Warrior's heart,
And Beauty's most resplendent form,
Glory and pride, and strength, must part,
To grace the banquet of the worm.
But tell not me—it cannot be,
That Death, my love, may alter thee.

II.

Oh! hast thou ne'er in fancy view'd
The shadows dark of days to come—
Their toils and cares, a hideous brood,
Strife with the world's fierce multitude,—
Pain, sickness, agony, distress,
When yearns the heart in weariness
Tow'rd absent friends, the dead, the lost,
And those by fortune tempest-toss'd
To some far-distant home?

Though many an hour of love and mirth
May cheer man's spirit here on earth,
And friends may meet in moments gay,
And the dancing heart keep holiday;
Yet oh! far oftener must it bear
Its solitary load of care,
Aching in anguish deep and lone,
For many a loved and loving one,—
I'll not believe that at his birth
To man such sympathies are given,
But that their joys, so few on earth,
Might be renew'd in Heaven.
Then tell not me—it cannot be,
That Death, my love, may alter thee.

III.

And hast thou ne'er, at fall of Even,
When moans the breeze in sounds of woe,
And stars begin to wink in Heaven,
And earth in twilight melts below,
And, in the stillness of the hour,
The voice of waters solemn seems—
Felt some unknown mysterious Power
Breathe o'er thee, from the woods and streams,
Steeping thy soul in tearful dreams;
Till wandering thoughts spring up on high,
As the soul would roam through the starry sky,
And the realms of the sainted dead explore,
Whom the living eye shall view no more,
In the crystal light of their calm retreat,
The look of Earth's affection bearing,
And still their radiant faces wearing
The smile we used to think so sweet?
Thou must have felt that witching hour,
Its deep, and calm, and silent power;
Thou must have felt that tearful gushing
From the heart's fresh and lonely springs,

And the charmed soul through the blue sky rushing
On the Spirit of Twilight's wings.
Then rise, each sense to rapture hushing,
Visions of unforgotten things,
And they who loved, whose spirits love us,
Float in the deep blue sky above us,
In dreamlike wanderings.
On every passing breeze float by
Voices we loved in infancy;—
They tell of some untroubled land,
Where souls that love repose together,
And many a white and radiant hand
With gentlest motion waves us thither.
And oh! 'tis sweet to rove on high
With that celestial company,
And feel, while yet we breathe beneath,
That hearts remain unchanged in Death.

IV.

In sleep I dream of happy days,
That smile beyond the tomb;
And fond imagination roves
Through wondrous valleys, fields, and groves,
Where gentle brooks that gush between,
And skies eternally serene,
Make one perpetual bloom.
And ever, in those dreams divine,
Thy gentle spirit stands by mine;
Thy voice of music wanders by,
Thy form is floating in my view;
And still thy soft and earnest eye
Smiles on me, as 'tis wont to do.
Then tell not me—it cannot be,
That Death, my love, can alter thee.

NO. II.

I had a wondrous dream;—methought I stood
Within the threshold of an ancient house,
Which I had loved in childhood;—forms well known,
And old, familiar voices were around me,
And happy thoughts, and half-forgotten feelings,
And tearful recollections rose within me,
Bathing each sense in ecstasy. I felt
A gushing at the fountains of my spirit;
My heart dissolved—I was a child again.
Yet as I gazed on each remember'd face,
A freezing pang shot o'er me—a chill sense,
Of longing separation, and I knew
That woe was deeply blended with my dream.

I gazed upon the forms around me. One
(A matron) had methought been beautiful
In other days, but now upon her cheek
Sickness had set his seal, and wasting years
And sorrow, worst of all;—yet still her mien
Held its original sweetness. Piety,
And gentleness and charity, and faith,
Shone there, and from her soften'd eyes beam'd forth,
Serenity which was not of the earth.
And all around that venerable form
Beautiful creatures floated—cheeks of bloom,
And eyes of watery light, on her alone
Fixed with such fond and beaming earnestness,
That I might know their owners had no thought
Beyond that gentle lady's happiness.

My dream was darkened; in that ancient house
There was a deathlike silence;—one alone
Of all those young and lovely forms remain'd,
And she was traversing the silent hall,

With wild and hurried footsteps. Very pale
She look'd, and in her tremulous voice was sorrow
Mingled with dread—and yet she shed no tears.
There seem'd a settled spirit at her heart,
Triumphant o'er calamity,—a firm
And holy strength; yet ever and anon
Her lips, compressed convulsively, betrayed
The struggle of her soul with agony.
Methought one told me that o'er that old house
Disease had spread his pinions, and that she,
That gentle mother, and her youngest child,
Were fading in Death's shadowy arms. Alone
That maid, the ruling image of my dream,
Tended their feverish beds, and sleeplessly
Was comforting the agonies of each.
Oh! 'twas most piteous to see that pale form
Gliding from room to room, and when with faint
And tremulous accent either sufferer ask'd
How fared the other, forcing painful smiles,
And striving with deceitful hope to win
Each soul from half its suffering. And then
Methought the tramp of horses, and the whirl
Of chariot-wheels kept sounding in my ear;
And, one by one, familiar forms pass'd by me,
In sad succession, in that house of woe.
They were my friends in childhood, and I sighed
To see how thus with pallid looks they came
To weep upon that lady's sepulchre.

My dream pass'd darkly on. Methought I stood
With her, the ruling image of the Vision, Beneath the waning twilight—[OMITTED]

Again my dream grew dark. We stood by night,
(I and that maiden) near the old abode,

But a new woe was on us. Doubt, and fear,
And thoughts of death, and undefined forebodings,
Hung heavy on our hearts. Then on a sudden
She had departed, and her wild farewell
Was ringing like a death-knell in my ear,
Which my heart echoed back.—I felt, that hour,
As she were gone for ever. My brain reel'd
Giddily, and dim shadows of dark thought
Throng'd through its bursting cells tumultuously.
I look'd up to the Heavens;—their face was dark
With gathering tempest, and the silent moon,
In pale and melancholy loveliness,
Peep'd dimly through the clouds, whose shadowy forms
The winds, in rapid and tumultuous flight,
Hurl'd o'er Night's blue and starry firmament.[OMITTED]

My dream was brightened. Sounds of love and joy,
And hymeneal songs, and rustic mirth,
Mix'd with music of the village bells,
Broke gaily on my ear. From that old house
There pass'd a merry wedding rout;—the bride
Was that young maiden whom I late beheld
Pining in hopeless sickness; holy love
And chaste connubial raptures, filled her eyes,
Smiling through silent tears. And then I saw
That maid, the ruling image of my dream,
And she was leaning on a young man's arm
Whom I knew not; but in their eyes I read
That each was to the other all in all.

My Vision changed its aspect. Youth's bright hues
Had pass'd from all the faces which I lov'd,
And the calm pulses of maturity
Throughout my being throbb'd. I stood begirt
By beaming faces of time-honour'd friends,
Whose children played around us,—happy creatures,

With cheeks and eyes of brightness,—some in youth's
More ripen'd bloom, maidens with downcast looks,
And boys of gallant bearing;—peace and joy
Dwelt with us; the bright soul of other days
Stole, like an exquisite dream, into our hearts,
And childhood's scenes lay round us. And, methought,
There leaned a radiant form upon my bosom,
Dearer than all, from whose mild eyes I drank
Intoxicating bliss; all pleasant thoughts
Rose up within me, and each giddy sense
Reel'd in its own deep raptures; till, at last,
E'en with the beating of my heart, I woke.

SONG TO THE SPRING BREEZE.

I

Oh! Spirit of the breeze,
Who singest in the trees,
Making low music, while the young leaves dance;
Unveil, unveil to me
Thy beauty silently,
Let me thy bright eyes view, and dovelike countenance.

II

Oft doth my Fancy's eye
The Naiads fair espy,
Silently floating down some gentle stream;
And glisten as it sees
The green-rob'd Dryades,
Or Oreads dancing nightly by their Queen's pale beam.

III

And I, on nights of June,
Have watch'd, beneath the Moon,
The gambols quaint of many a gamesome Fay,
Around the tiny throne
Of mirthful Oberon,
And his capricious Queen, proud-eyed Titania.

IV

But, Spirit of the Breeze,
Whose noonday melodies,
And fragrant breath, soothe me so tenderly;
In vain I strive to view
Thy form's celestial hue,
Too shadowy a dream art thou to flit o'er Fancy's eye.

V

Or art thou but a sound,
In fragrance floating round,
The whisper of some rural Deity,
Who, stretch'd in grotto calm,
With breath of purest balm,
Is warbling to the Nymphs' delicious minstrelsy?

VI

Oh! happy wandering thing,
Thus bearing on thy wing
Refreshing coolness, fragrance, and sweet sound;
How calmly dost thou stray
Through groves and meadows gay,
Still catching, as thou glidest on, new freshness from the ground!

VII

Thou breathest on my brow,—
I feel thy kisses now,—
Thy cooling kisses:—but what charm was this?
For oh! those kisses bore
A joy unfelt before,
A momentary, strange, imaginative bliss.

VIII

For my distemper'd brain
Thou didst call up a train

Of recollections sweet, which long had slept;
Almost before my eyes
I saw dear forms arise,
And cherish'd thoughts and feelings from their deep cells crept.

IX

Whence was this wondrous spell?
Thou sweet-voiced Spirit, tell;—
Oh! com'st thou from mine own Salopian hills?
Their freshness dost thou bring,
Thou blessed gale of Spring,
With soothing charms to win me from my dream of ills?

X

Oh! there did lurk beneath
The fragrance of thy breath
A dim emotion of remember'd joy;
And in thy voice I heard
Tones that my spirit stirr'd,
The kindly tones that spoke to me, and cheer'd me when a boy.

XI

Hast thou not wandering been
Amid those valleys green,
Which bear the light print of my lov'd one's feet;
And as thou glidedst by,
Caught her most holy sigh?
I felt, I felt its fragrance in thy kiss so sweet.

XII

And hast thou not stray'd o'er
Sabrina's grassy shore,
Sweetening thy cool breath with her springing flowers;
And pass'd the cot where dwell
They whom I love so well,
Beneath their arching trees, and honeysuckle bowers?

XIII

Bear'st thou not thence along
My dark-brow'd sister's song,—
Her song so potent gentle hearts to move;
Whose sweet and maiden tone,
Perchance hath sweeter grown,
Now blended with the quiet sighs and tender notes of love?

XIV

Or she, the mild-ey'd maid,
Perchance by moonlight stray'd,
Quietly gazing at the silent sky;
When thou didst catch her thought,
With such calm rapture fraught,
To breathe it o'er my weary soul, deliciously.

XV

Oh! thou hast nought to do
Upon the ocean blue,
Filling with busy breath the mariner's sails;
No worldly, dull employment,
Thou bodiless enjoyment,
Is thine, nor aught hast thou to do with wild and warring gales.

XVI

But peacefully thou roamest,
And wheresoe'er thou comest,
Breathest around the freshness of the skies;
And on our hearts dost fling,
From thy enchanted wing,
Remembrances of absent love, calm thoughts, and happy sighs.

XVII

I know that thou art come
From my far-distant home,

And thy calm breathings tell what peace is there;
But, gentle fay, returning,
Say not my soul is burning
With disappointment's bitter sting and comfortless despair.

XVIII

Say that my spirit knows
Sweet moments of repose;
That dear and happy musings still are mine;
That Hope's bright dreams are flown,
But many a lingering tone
Of Memory's music lulls me yet to ecstasies divine.