The Poetical Works of Laman Blanchard With a Memoir by Blanchard Jerrold |
 | I. |
 | II. | PART II.POEMS OF HUMOUR. |
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 | The Poetical Works of Laman Blanchard |  |
231
II. PART II.POEMS OF HUMOUR.
233
THE ART OF BOOK-KEEPING.
How hard, when those who do not wish
To lend, that's lose, their books,
Are snared by anglers—folks that fish
With literary hooks;
To lend, that's lose, their books,
Are snared by anglers—folks that fish
With literary hooks;
Who call and take some favourite tome,
But never read it through;
They thus complete their set at home,
By making one at you.
But never read it through;
They thus complete their set at home,
By making one at you.
Behold the bookshelf of a dunce
Who borrows—never lends;
Yon work, in twenty volumes, once
Belonged to twenty friends.
Who borrows—never lends;
Yon work, in twenty volumes, once
Belonged to twenty friends.
New tales and novels you may shut
From view—'tis all in vain;
They're gone—and though the leaves are ‘cut’
They never ‘come again.’
From view—'tis all in vain;
They're gone—and though the leaves are ‘cut’
They never ‘come again.’
For pamphlets lent I look around,
For tracts my tears are spilt;
But when they take a book that's bound,
'Tis surely extra-guilt.
For tracts my tears are spilt;
But when they take a book that's bound,
'Tis surely extra-guilt.
234
A circulating library
Is mine—my birds are flown;
There's one odd volume left, to be
Like all the rest, a-lone.
Is mine—my birds are flown;
There's one odd volume left, to be
Like all the rest, a-lone.
I, of my ‘Spenser’ quite bereft,
Last winter sore was shaken;
Of ‘Lamb’ I've but a quarter left,
Nor could I save my ‘Bacon.’
Last winter sore was shaken;
Of ‘Lamb’ I've but a quarter left,
Nor could I save my ‘Bacon.’
My ‘Hall’ and ‘Hill’ were levelled flat,
But ‘Moore’ was still the cry;
And then, although I threw them ‘Sprat,’
They swallowed up my ‘Pye.’
But ‘Moore’ was still the cry;
And then, although I threw them ‘Sprat,’
They swallowed up my ‘Pye.’
O'er everything, however slight,
They seized some airy trammel;
They snatched my ‘Hogg’ and ‘Fox’ one night,
And pocketed my ‘Campbell.’
They seized some airy trammel;
They snatched my ‘Hogg’ and ‘Fox’ one night,
And pocketed my ‘Campbell.’
And then I saw my ‘Crabbe’ at last,
Like Hamlet's, backward go;
And as my tide was ebbing fast,
Of course I lost my ‘Rowe.’
Like Hamlet's, backward go;
And as my tide was ebbing fast,
Of course I lost my ‘Rowe.’
I wondered into what balloon
My books their course had bent;
And yet, with all my marvelling, soon
I found my ‘Marvell’ went.
My books their course had bent;
And yet, with all my marvelling, soon
I found my ‘Marvell’ went.
235
My ‘Mallet’ served to knock me down,
Which makes me thus a talker;
And once, while I was out of town,
My ‘Johnson’ proved a ‘Walker.’
Which makes me thus a talker;
And once, while I was out of town,
My ‘Johnson’ proved a ‘Walker.’
While studying o'er the fire one day
My ‘Hobbes’ amidst the smoke;
They bore my ‘Colman’ clean away,
And carried off my ‘Coke.’
My ‘Hobbes’ amidst the smoke;
They bore my ‘Colman’ clean away,
And carried off my ‘Coke.’
They picked my ‘Locke,’ to me far more
Than Bramah's patent's worth;
And now my losses I deplore,
Without a ‘Home’ on earth.
Than Bramah's patent's worth;
And now my losses I deplore,
Without a ‘Home’ on earth.
If once a book you let them lift,
Another they conceal,
For though I caught them stealing ‘Swift,’
As swiftly went my ‘Steele.’
Another they conceal,
For though I caught them stealing ‘Swift,’
As swiftly went my ‘Steele.’
‘Hope’ is not now upon my shelf,
Where late he stood elated;
But, what is strange, my ‘Pope’ himself
Is excommunicated.
Where late he stood elated;
But, what is strange, my ‘Pope’ himself
Is excommunicated.
My little ‘Suckling’ in the grave
Is sunk, to swell the ravage;
And what 'twas Crusoe's fate to save
'Twas mine to lose—a ‘Savage.’
Is sunk, to swell the ravage;
And what 'twas Crusoe's fate to save
'Twas mine to lose—a ‘Savage.’
236
Even ‘Glover's’ works I cannot put
My frozen hands upon;
Though ever since I lost my ‘Foote,’
My ‘Bunyan’ has been gone.
My frozen hands upon;
Though ever since I lost my ‘Foote,’
My ‘Bunyan’ has been gone.
My ‘Hoyle’ with ‘Cotton’ went; oppressed,
My ‘Taylor’ too must fail;
To save my ‘Goldsmith’ from arrest,
In vain I offered ‘Bayle.’
My ‘Taylor’ too must fail;
To save my ‘Goldsmith’ from arrest,
In vain I offered ‘Bayle.’
I ‘Prior’ sought, but could not see
The ‘Hood’ so late in front;
And when I turned to hunt for ‘Lee,’
Oh! where was my ‘Leigh Hunt’!
The ‘Hood’ so late in front;
And when I turned to hunt for ‘Lee,’
Oh! where was my ‘Leigh Hunt’!
I tried to laugh, old care to tickle,
Yet could not ‘Tickell’ touch ;
And then, alas! I missed my ‘Mickle,’
And surely mickle's much.
Yet could not ‘Tickell’ touch ;
And then, alas! I missed my ‘Mickle,’
And surely mickle's much.
'Tis quite enough my griefs to feed,
My sorrows to excuse,
To think I cannot read my ‘Reid’
Nor even use my ‘Hughes.’
My sorrows to excuse,
To think I cannot read my ‘Reid’
Nor even use my ‘Hughes.’
To ‘West,’ to ‘South,’ I turn my head,
Exposed alike to odd jeers;
For since my ‘Roger Ascham's’ fled,
I ask 'em for my ‘Rogers.’
Exposed alike to odd jeers;
For since my ‘Roger Ascham's’ fled,
I ask 'em for my ‘Rogers.’
237
They took my ‘Horne’—and ‘Horne Tooke’ too,
And thus my treasures flit;
I feel when I would ‘Hazlitt’ view,
The flames that it has lit.
And thus my treasures flit;
I feel when I would ‘Hazlitt’ view,
The flames that it has lit.
My word's worth little, ‘Wordsworth’ gone,
If I survive its doom;
How many a bard I doated on
Was swept off—with my ‘Broome.’
If I survive its doom;
How many a bard I doated on
Was swept off—with my ‘Broome.’
My classics would not quiet lie,
A thing so fondly hoped;
Like Dr. Primrose, I may cry,
‘My“Livy” has eloped!’
A thing so fondly hoped;
Like Dr. Primrose, I may cry,
‘My“Livy” has eloped!’
My life is wasting fast away—
I suffer from these shocks;
And though I've fixed a lock on ‘Gray,’
There's grey upon my locks.
I suffer from these shocks;
And though I've fixed a lock on ‘Gray,’
There's grey upon my locks.
I'm far from young—am growing pale—
I see my ‘Butter’ fly;
And when they ask about my ail,
'Tis ‘Burton!’ I reply.
I see my ‘Butter’ fly;
And when they ask about my ail,
'Tis ‘Burton!’ I reply.
They still have made me slight returns,
And thus my griefs divide;
For oh! they've cured me of my ‘Burns,’
And eased my ‘Akenside.’
And thus my griefs divide;
For oh! they've cured me of my ‘Burns,’
And eased my ‘Akenside.’
But all I think I shall not say,
Nor let my anger burn;
For as they never found me ‘Gay,’
They have not left me ‘Sterne.’
Nor let my anger burn;
For as they never found me ‘Gay,’
They have not left me ‘Sterne.’
1830.
238
THE EPITAPH OF 1830.
Here lie, although shorn of their rays,
In the family vault of old Time,
Three hundred and sixty-five days
Of folly, pride, glory, and crime.
You may mourn o'er their miseries still,
You may dance o'er their desolate bier;
You may laugh, you may weep, as you will—
Eighteen Hundred and Thirty lies here.
In the family vault of old Time,
Three hundred and sixty-five days
Of folly, pride, glory, and crime.
You may mourn o'er their miseries still,
You may dance o'er their desolate bier;
You may laugh, you may weep, as you will—
Eighteen Hundred and Thirty lies here.
It brought us some good on its wings,
Much ill has it taken away;
For it gave us the best of sea-kings,
And darkened the conqueror's day.
It narrowed Corruption's dominion,
And crushed Aristocracy's starch,
Gave nerve to that giant, Opinion,
And spurred up old Mind on his march.
Much ill has it taken away;
For it gave us the best of sea-kings,
And darkened the conqueror's day.
It narrowed Corruption's dominion,
And crushed Aristocracy's starch,
Gave nerve to that giant, Opinion,
And spurred up old Mind on his march.
It drew a new line for Court morals,
Laid hands on the Pensioner's treasure,
And told us—we'll crown it with laurels—
Reform is a Cabinet-measure.
It brought, to the joy of each varlet,
Both sides of a coat into play;
For it stripped off the faded old Scarlett,
And turned the Court-livery Grey!
Laid hands on the Pensioner's treasure,
And told us—we'll crown it with laurels—
Reform is a Cabinet-measure.
239
Both sides of a coat into play;
For it stripped off the faded old Scarlett,
And turned the Court-livery Grey!
It set all the sycophants sighing,
And taught them to blush and look shy;
It made, though unfitted for flying,
Proh pudor! a Marchioness fly.
How many it found looking big,
Till it plucked out the feathers they wore,
On the Woolsack it placed such a Whig
As had ne'er graced the Woolsack before.
And taught them to blush and look shy;
It made, though unfitted for flying,
Proh pudor! a Marchioness fly.
How many it found looking big,
Till it plucked out the feathers they wore,
On the Woolsack it placed such a Whig
As had ne'er graced the Woolsack before.
It brought Captain Swing in a flame,
With his wild game of fright to our cost;
While, skilled in a different game,
Surgeon Long played a rubber—and lost.
It gratified Hunt in his thirst
To sit as a patriot member;
And it brought us back April the first,
When we thought it the ninth of November.
With his wild game of fright to our cost;
While, skilled in a different game,
Surgeon Long played a rubber—and lost.
It gratified Hunt in his thirst
To sit as a patriot member;
And it brought us back April the first,
When we thought it the ninth of November.
And oh! it made Freedom the fashion
In France—who can ne'er have too much,
And who put all the rest in a passion—
The Russians, Poles, Belgians, and Dutch!
Let this be the end of its story;
May the Year that now breaks o'er its tomb,
Have a gleam or two more of its glory,
A shade or two less of its gloom.
In France—who can ne'er have too much,
And who put all the rest in a passion—
The Russians, Poles, Belgians, and Dutch!
Let this be the end of its story;
May the Year that now breaks o'er its tomb,
Have a gleam or two more of its glory,
A shade or two less of its gloom.
240
ON FIRST SEEING THE PORTRAIT OF L.E.L.
Is this the face that fired a thousand ships,
And burned the topless towers of Illium!
Sweet Helen!—
Marlowe.
And burned the topless towers of Illium!
Sweet Helen!—
Marlowe.
‘Ah no! not Helen, Hel-e-n
Of old—but L.E.L.;
Those letters which the spell-bound pen
Have vainly sought to spell.
Of old—but L.E.L.;
Those letters which the spell-bound pen
Have vainly sought to spell.
‘Not Helen, who so long ago
Set Paris in a blaze;
But one who laid proud London low,
And lit up later days.
Set Paris in a blaze;
But one who laid proud London low,
And lit up later days.
‘Is this your meaning mystic Three!
Hand-writing on Fame's wall!
Ye thrice fair letters, can ye be
A lady, after all?
Hand-writing on Fame's wall!
Ye thrice fair letters, can ye be
A lady, after all?
‘How have I wondered what ye meant,
Ye alphabetic Graces!
And so you really represent
One of dear Nature's faces!
Ye alphabetic Graces!
And so you really represent
One of dear Nature's faces!
241
‘How, how I've guessed! Your meaning rare
No guessing seemed to touch;
Ye riddles! the weird sisters ne'er
Bewitched me half so much.
No guessing seemed to touch;
Ye riddles! the weird sisters ne'er
Bewitched me half so much.
‘One knows the power of D.C.L.;
The grandeur of K.G.;
And F.R.S. will science spell,
And valour G.C.B.
The grandeur of K.G.;
And F.R.S. will science spell,
And valour G.C.B.
‘The sage, the schoolboy, both can tell
The worth of L.S.D.;
But then the worth of L.E.L.!
All letters told in three!
The worth of L.S.D.;
But then the worth of L.E.L.!
All letters told in three!
‘In vain I've sought to illustrate
Each letter with a word;
'Twas only trying to translate
The language of a bird.
Each letter with a word;
'Twas only trying to translate
The language of a bird.
‘I've read ye, L.E.L., quite bare;
Thus—Logic, Ethics, Lays;
Lives, Episodes, and Lyrics fair—.
I've guessed away my days.
Thus—Logic, Ethics, Lays;
Lives, Episodes, and Lyrics fair—.
I've guessed away my days.
‘One wild young fancy was the sire
Of fifty following after;
Like these—Love, Eden, and the Lyre.
Light, Elegance, and Laughter.
Of fifty following after;
Like these—Love, Eden, and the Lyre.
Light, Elegance, and Laughter.
242
‘I've drawn from all the stars that shine
Interpretations silly;
From flowers—the Lily, Eglantine,
And then another Lily.
Interpretations silly;
From flowers—the Lily, Eglantine,
And then another Lily.
‘Now fancy's dead; no thought can strike,
No guess, solution, stricture;
And L.E.L. is—simply like
This dainty little picture.
No guess, solution, stricture;
And L.E.L. is—simply like
This dainty little picture.
‘Life to her lays! However Fame
'Mongst brightest names may set hers,
These three initials—nameless name—
Shall never be dead letters!’
'Mongst brightest names may set hers,
These three initials—nameless name—
Shall never be dead letters!’
1832.
243
APOSTROPHE TO THE APPROACHING COMET.
‘It may be considered as tolerably certain that the comet will
become visible in every part of Europe about the latter end of
August, or beginning of September next. . . . Will cross the
meridian near the zenith of London about sunrise.’—Edinburgh Review.
The end of August! Potentate august,
Is that the period settled for your visit?
Is that indeed the time when life's short crust
Must be consumed—baked—burnt to cinders? Is
Is that the period settled for your visit?
Is that indeed the time when life's short crust
Must be consumed—baked—burnt to cinders? Is
Then August's ‘latter end’ is ours I think,
If as your advent you've resolved to fix it;
Oh! for a Mediterranean of ink,
To blot out the reviewer's ipse dixit!
If as your advent you've resolved to fix it;
Oh! for a Mediterranean of ink,
To blot out the reviewer's ipse dixit!
Mediterranean! or blue, or black,
Or green, each deep ere long will be a Red-sea;
Atlantic, Euxine, Baltic,—nay, alack!
The very tide of life will a Dead-sea.
Or green, each deep ere long will be a Red-sea;
Atlantic, Euxine, Baltic,—nay, alack!
The very tide of life will a Dead-sea.
For have not several ‘pages’ brough us here
A piece of news too heavy for a porter,—
That thou, within a quarter, wilt appear—
One quarter more, and show us no more quarter!
A piece of news too heavy for a porter,—
That thou, within a quarter, wilt appear—
One quarter more, and show us no more quarter!
244
Is it not stated, to astound all earth
(And be it fact or falsehood, I've no share in't),
That men shall see a strange and fearful Birth—
That thou, O Comet, wilt become a-parent?
(And be it fact or falsehood, I've no share in't),
That men shall see a strange and fearful Birth—
That thou, O Comet, wilt become a-parent?
Terrible tidings—wonder full of woe!
Do these astronomers proclaim it rightly,
That thou'lt become a mother? Is it so?
And will the prodigy be witnessed nightly?
Do these astronomers proclaim it rightly,
That thou'lt become a mother? Is it so?
And will the prodigy be witnessed nightly?
A litter of young comets! Literature
At once grows convert to the creed Malthusian,
And though unable to prescribe a cure,
Deems the new birth a case of clear intrusion.
At once grows convert to the creed Malthusian,
And though unable to prescribe a cure,
Deems the new birth a case of clear intrusion.
But stay, a letter from Vienna:—what?
'Tis said by Herschel—see the public papers—
The comet seeks a more sequestered lot,
And all our fierce volcanoes are mere vapours.
'Tis said by Herschel—see the public papers—
The comet seeks a more sequestered lot,
And all our fierce volcanoes are mere vapours.
Its course quite changed—its orbit not the same—
That's something yet to make one's horror visible;
Yet, ah! not much; we still shall feel its flame—
Danger's not safe because it is invisible.
That's something yet to make one's horror visible;
Yet, ah! not much; we still shall feel its flame—
Danger's not safe because it is invisible.
Ah, no! thy tidings, Herschel, even at first,
Had been for comfort wholly unavailing;
Of two bad tales men always trust the worst—
'Tis human nature's virtue, not its failing.
Had been for comfort wholly unavailing;
Of two bad tales men always trust the worst—
'Tis human nature's virtue, not its failing.
245
So! we're to feel no fright, to make no fuss,
Because the foe we're not to have a sight of;
Accomplished ignorance may reason thus,
But comets are not creatures to make light of.
Because the foe we're not to have a sight of;
Accomplished ignorance may reason thus,
But comets are not creatures to make light of.
Let us be miserable; yes, let us leave
To idle boys and philosophic codgers
The joys of hope; let us despond and grieve—
‘I would not, if I could, be gay,’ writes Rogers.
To idle boys and philosophic codgers
The joys of hope; let us despond and grieve—
‘I would not, if I could, be gay,’ writes Rogers.
Anguish is easier when past all cure;
Check not your sorrow—call it uncontrollable;
Grief may be disagreeable; yet endure—
It grows more pleasant when it's inconsolable.
Check not your sorrow—call it uncontrollable;
Grief may be disagreeable; yet endure—
It grows more pleasant when it's inconsolable.
Mine be sweet wretchedness and drear despair;
Long for this weight of woe I've been a waiter;
Troubles we've had, 'tis true, and ‘tails’ to spare—
But none like thine, Celestial Agitator!
Long for this weight of woe I've been a waiter;
Troubles we've had, 'tis true, and ‘tails’ to spare—
But none like thine, Celestial Agitator!
Talk not of fierce Lord Durham, hot-brained Hume,
Give each his tail, and Fate may save us from it;
What jack-o'-lanterns make us mortals fume,
Of Cobbett think not—think upon comet!
Give each his tail, and Fate may save us from it;
What jack-o'-lanterns make us mortals fume,
Of Cobbett think not—think upon comet!
Why what's O'Connell? Him we may defy,
With all his ‘joints,’ to shake us in our beds;
For Ireland's self may now in candour cry,
‘Ye little tails, hide your diminished heads!’
With all his ‘joints,’ to shake us in our beds;
For Ireland's self may now in candour cry,
‘Ye little tails, hide your diminished heads!’
246
A great enlightner, bidding others cease,
Will wag a tail of fire ere summer ceases,
Then will the House divide—then England's peace
Will end, in England split into two pieces!
Will wag a tail of fire ere summer ceases,
Then will the House divide—then England's peace
Will end, in England split into two pieces!
I care not what the Tories now endure;
Nor what the Whigs have got, nor who have bought'em;
Nor when the Radicals will come in sure;
Who will, I ask, insure the Thames next autumn?
Nor what the Whigs have got, nor who have bought'em;
Nor when the Radicals will come in sure;
Who will, I ask, insure the Thames next autumn?
O Press, prodigious ‘organ,’ cease to blow
Your bellows, while the fiery foe's about;
But rather, as a mighty ‘engine,’ show,
How we're to put the coming comet out.
Your bellows, while the fiery foe's about;
But rather, as a mighty ‘engine,’ show,
How we're to put the coming comet out.
No more about the ‘March,’ on August preach;
I feel its heat—its glare is on my eye,
So ends ‘my tale’—another's within reach;
My pen is shrivelled—and my ink is dry!
I feel its heat—its glare is on my eye,
So ends ‘my tale’—another's within reach;
My pen is shrivelled—and my ink is dry!
1834.
247
ODE TO THE LITTLE LORD MAYOR.
Born November 28.
The court of Common Councilmen have appointed a committee to ascertain the most advisable course of testifying their satisfaction at the birth of a son to the Lord Mayor.
Oh, infant heir to the new Lord Mayor
Thou small edition of Gog,
Did ever a son in dark London
So shine through November's fog?
Thou small edition of Gog,
Did ever a son in dark London
So shine through November's fog?
So rare thy fate, that the City's state
No parallel shows to thee;
But not more rare than bright and fair—
To be born in the Mayoralty!
No parallel shows to thee;
But not more rare than bright and fair—
To be born in the Mayoralty!
Now those who can, and those who can't,
Thy praises strive to sing—
In speech or chorus, chime or chant,
To the new-born Mayorling.
Thy praises strive to sing—
In speech or chorus, chime or chant,
To the new-born Mayorling.
Clerks in the banks deal out with thanks
Their notes—of congratulation;
And filled with joys are the grateful boys
Who are out of situation.
Their notes—of congratulation;
And filled with joys are the grateful boys
Who are out of situation.
248
But every Alderman past the chair
With envy looks on you;
And piously prays for another heir,
And another election too.
With envy looks on you;
And piously prays for another heir,
And another election too.
And those not passed with their babes are vexed,
As they count the family sum;
And would fain postpone the birth of the next,
For four or five years to come.
As they count the family sum;
And would fain postpone the birth of the next,
For four or five years to come.
And every Deputy, checking his joy,
And changing his gladsome tune,
Goes home and chides his undutiful boy
For being born so soon.
And changing his gladsome tune,
Goes home and chides his undutiful boy
For being born so soon.
Yet Mayors that have been, are to be,
And Deputies afar,
And Common Councilmen, all agree
To hail thee as a star!
And Deputies afar,
And Common Councilmen, all agree
To hail thee as a star!
While all aspire, lo, Mr. Wire
Electrifies the City,
By moving the court to appoint a sort
Of Wir-drawn committee.
Electrifies the City,
By moving the court to appoint a sort
Of Wir-drawn committee.
‘All the Aldermen,’ ‘all the Deps.,’
And ‘a member from each ward,’
Are chosen instanter for taking steps
To honour their little Lord.
And ‘a member from each ward,’
Are chosen instanter for taking steps
To honour their little Lord.
249
And Alderman Scholey deigns to rehearse
(Lest you in a cot be laid ill),
The custom, and thinks that the City's purse
Can afford you a ‘silver cradle.’
(Lest you in a cot be laid ill),
The custom, and thinks that the City's purse
Can afford you a ‘silver cradle.’
Of solid silver! No plated ware,
To make a shabby show;
Real cloth of gold shall above thee glare,
And silver tissue below.
To make a shabby show;
Real cloth of gold shall above thee glare,
And silver tissue below.
The sword, the mace, shall be thy toys;
And all thy infant charms
Shall be—oh, greatest of little boys!—
Wrapped in the City's arms.
And all thy infant charms
Shall be—oh, greatest of little boys!—
Wrapped in the City's arms.
And at Guildhall a splendid ball
Shall be given when the days are mild;
Where all shall fly to hear you cry,
Just like a common child.
Shall be given when the days are mild;
Where all shall fly to hear you cry,
Just like a common child.
At last, when, after such a spring,
You fill the civic chair,
London shall choose her Mayorling
Perpetual Lord Mayor!
You fill the civic chair,
London shall choose her Mayorling
Perpetual Lord Mayor!
1835.
250
A BRAHAM-ESE BALLAD
Look, London, but a moment o'er
Thy various haunts for rich and poor,
In west or east, from shore to shore
Of Thamis, rolling muddily!
Thy various haunts for rich and poor,
In west or east, from shore to shore
Of Thamis, rolling muddily!
What meets the eye, 'mid shabbier homes
But Temples, finer far than Rome's,
With gilded words beneath their domes,
Of Boxes, Pit, and Gallery!
But Temples, finer far than Rome's,
With gilded words beneath their domes,
Of Boxes, Pit, and Gallery!
To number them in verse were vain—
The closed up ‘Garden,’ dreary ‘Lane,’
The King's, the Queen's, Victoria's fane,
And Astley's Amphitheatre;
The closed up ‘Garden,’ dreary ‘Lane,’
The King's, the Queen's, Victoria's fane,
And Astley's Amphitheatre;
Olympic, where the siren dwells,
Adelphi, Surrey, Sadler's Wells,
Haymarket—and the foreign spells,
Of Arnold's English Opera.
Adelphi, Surrey, Sadler's Wells,
Haymarket—and the foreign spells,
Of Arnold's English Opera.
251
A countless host behind! Who stirs
To build another, blindly errs;
We rear up penny theatres,
Instead of penitentiaries.
To build another, blindly errs;
We rear up penny theatres,
Instead of penitentiaries.
Yet one who wears more laurels than
Lieutenant-General Evans can,
Now scorns the ‘stage’ and seeks the ‘van,’
Commander of a Company.
Lieutenant-General Evans can,
Now scorns the ‘stage’ and seeks the ‘van,’
Commander of a Company.
Lo, London, he, you crowned with song,
Who charmed your ear and heart so long,
Who seemed for time too stout and strong—
The man is turning—Manager!
Who charmed your ear and heart so long,
Who seemed for time too stout and strong—
The man is turning—Manager!
Another and another still
Succeeds—Oh! no—still fails to fill;
No fault of thine; yet let no ill
Light on your veteran-vocalist.
Succeeds—Oh! no—still fails to fill;
No fault of thine; yet let no ill
Light on your veteran-vocalist.
Let no dull shadow dim his doom;
Whether thine own he would illumine,
In Feignwould, Rover, Captain Plume—
Or haply act in Tragedy:—
Whether thine own he would illumine,
In Feignwould, Rover, Captain Plume—
Or haply act in Tragedy:—
Whether he comes to make his own,
The Drama's, or sweet Music's throne;
Whether he means to reign alone,
Or make his stage an omnibus.
The Drama's, or sweet Music's throne;
Whether he means to reign alone,
Or make his stage an omnibus.
252
Ah, Braham, we will rail no more
'Gainst paying money at the door;
Just issue orders—by the score—
The Public's sure to patronise,
'Gainst paying money at the door;
Just issue orders—by the score—
The Public's sure to patronise,
If not—if still they prove untrue
To orders, give refreshments, too;
Not ice—no, hit on something new—
Give Coffee, Wine, and Sandwiches!
To orders, give refreshments, too;
Not ice—no, hit on something new—
Give Coffee, Wine, and Sandwiches!
1835.
253
SOUR GRAPES.
I have frequently observed that resignation is never so perfect as
when the object of our desire begins to lose its attraction in our
eyes.—
Mr. Collins, in Pride and Prejudice.
Those tempting grapes! how rich their hue
Amidst the green on which they rest!
Their purple blood seems bursting through,
As eager to be prest.
Amidst the green on which they rest!
Their purple blood seems bursting through,
As eager to be prest.
A bunch of beauty—hue and shape—
Combined to form their fair design—
A group of fairy globes, each grape
A little world of wine.
Combined to form their fair design—
A group of fairy globes, each grape
A little world of wine.
Most beautiful to every sense;
The heart drinks pleasure through the eyes;
And now its longing grows intense—
The hand would seize the prize.
The heart drinks pleasure through the eyes;
And now its longing grows intense—
The hand would seize the prize.
It seizes—no! but try again,
Another catch, on tiptoe try—
One effort more—the hope is vain,
They hang so very high.
Another catch, on tiptoe try—
One effort more—the hope is vain,
They hang so very high.
254
A dreary change—a chilling shade—
A sudden breath of blighting power
Falls on the grapes—their colours fade;
The fruit, in fact, is sour.
A sudden breath of blighting power
Falls on the grapes—their colours fade;
The fruit, in fact, is sour.
So it is with us, hour by hour,
Age after age: and this were meet,
If calling sweets beyond us sour
Could make our sours more sweet.
Age after age: and this were meet,
If calling sweets beyond us sour
Could make our sours more sweet.
It may be wise to scorn the prize
For which in vain we read or wrote;
But wiser far to deem the star
Still radiant though remote.
For which in vain we read or wrote;
But wiser far to deem the star
Still radiant though remote.
If happy he, who, should he miss
The fruit, can pass it as pernicious,
More blessed his lot, who, losing bliss,
Still thinks the grapes delicious;
The fruit, can pass it as pernicious,
More blessed his lot, who, losing bliss,
Still thinks the grapes delicious;
Who sees the crowning cluster, where
His hand may reach in two more summers,
And laughs, and leaves its sweetness there,
A feast for after-comers.
His hand may reach in two more summers,
And laughs, and leaves its sweetness there,
A feast for after-comers.
1835.
255
THE LADIES AND THE PARLIAMENT.
(Notes of a Rejected Report.)
Question: The admission of ladies into the House of Commons.
Sir, I rise under feelings which fathers, and brothers,
Sons, lovers, and cousins, and uncles, and others:
The Benedict loving, the bachelor lonely,
Will treat with no scoffing but sympathy only.
I move that the ladies—the source of our joys,
Promoters of harmony— (Uproar and noise)
—
I move, Sir, that these, men's enchanters and wizards,
Who, daily extracting laced footmen from lizards,
May haply convert our debates into wit
Oh! oh! and loud cheers)
—we among us admit!
I move the provision of seats for the Fair
The motion, when seconded, put from the chair).
Sons, lovers, and cousins, and uncles, and others:
The Benedict loving, the bachelor lonely,
Will treat with no scoffing but sympathy only.
I move that the ladies—the source of our joys,
Promoters of harmony— (Uproar and noise)
—
I move, Sir, that these, men's enchanters and wizards,
Who, daily extracting laced footmen from lizards,
May haply convert our debates into wit
Oh! oh! and loud cheers)
—we among us admit!
I move the provision of seats for the Fair
Lord J--- R---ll
He feared it might lead to impressions, that great
Alterations were made in the frame-work of State;
The country, he thought, would be apt to surmise
That ladies had taken the House by surprise,
And also their seats in it—though he could quote
The Reform Act to show they had no right to vote.
The ladies besides—he would here take his stand—
Were chiefly Conservative all through the land.
Much influence doubtless belonged to bright eyes,
And many dark mischiefs were sure to arise.
Alterations were made in the frame-work of State;
256
That ladies had taken the House by surprise,
And also their seats in it—though he could quote
The Reform Act to show they had no right to vote.
The ladies besides—he would here take his stand—
Were chiefly Conservative all through the land.
Much influence doubtless belonged to bright eyes,
And many dark mischiefs were sure to arise.
Mr. H---e
Unaccustomed to speaking, he begged leave to say,
That women were excellent things in their way;
Some, rather expensive—some, just the reverse—
He meant, where their husbands had charge of the purse.
He wished, ere the motion was carried or lost,
To know what the new female benches would cost.
The house might cry ‘oh!’ but the other word ‘pay,’
Was just as important at this time of day!
In making the seats, if a ‘deal’ could be saved,
The country would see they were not quite depraved.
He thought it but right that the ladies should bear
The expense; —well, they couldn't object to a share.
It were well could the House at an estimate peep;
Though he held women dear, yet he liked their seats cheap.
That women were excellent things in their way;
Some, rather expensive—some, just the reverse—
He meant, where their husbands had charge of the purse.
He wished, ere the motion was carried or lost,
To know what the new female benches would cost.
The house might cry ‘oh!’ but the other word ‘pay,’
Was just as important at this time of day!
In making the seats, if a ‘deal’ could be saved,
The country would see they were not quite depraved.
He thought it but right that the ladies should bear
The expense; —well, they couldn't object to a share.
It were well could the House at an estimate peep;
Though he held women dear, yet he liked their seats cheap.
Sir A---w A---w
With pain he had listened to this proposition;
He dreaded, should deeply deplore the admission;
He felt that the morals of ladies—
(Hear, hear)
—
Would be blighted yet more in that masculine sphere.
Already their minds were familiar with sin;
If tainted when out, how corrupt when within!
The churches were open; and as for the fair—
He wished he could meet a few more of them there.
He dreaded, should deeply deplore the admission;
257
—
Would be blighted yet more in that masculine sphere.
Already their minds were familiar with sin;
If tainted when out, how corrupt when within!
The churches were open; and as for the fair—
He wished he could meet a few more of them there.
Mr. R---k
He rose to relieve the last speakers distress
About ladies' loose morals; the cause was, the Press.
The Press was the witch—from his soul he abhorred her—
That poisoned society— (Noise and disorder)
.
The Press was a demon with fiends in collusion;
Now he had a press—
(Laughter, ‘oh!’ and confusion)
—
If Canada— (Groaning)
—'twas one of his cares
That ladies should know our colonial affairs;
When they were admitted he'd certainly show
That Canada— (Question!)
—the Press was his foe;
He intended to move an address to the Crown-
For Canada—
(Question! the speaker sat down).
About ladies' loose morals; the cause was, the Press.
The Press was the witch—from his soul he abhorred her—
That poisoned society— (Noise and disorder)
.
The Press was a demon with fiends in collusion;
Now he had a press—
(Laughter, ‘oh!’ and confusion)
—
If Canada— (Groaning)
—'twas one of his cares
That ladies should know our colonial affairs;
When they were admitted he'd certainly show
That Canada— (Question!)
—the Press was his foe;
He intended to move an address to the Crown-
For Canada—
Mr. P--- T---n
He rose with no wish to prolong the debate,
But just to remark that he'd nothing to state;
To prove his assertion, he poured out a shower
Of nothings that occupied more than an hour.
But just to remark that he'd nothing to state;
To prove his assertion, he poured out a shower
Of nothings that occupied more than an hour.
Mr. O'C---ll
Sir, loving the sex, and beloved, I have lent
To this motion a welcome and cordial assent;
Though it seems, when we know what the orator's trade is,
A project for ‘boring the ears’ of the ladies.
I ask but for this in no tone disaffected,
That Catholic females be never rejected.
Dear women of Erin—oh! much to be pitied
Are they who can't hear me—they must be admitted.
Oh! their smiles! —and their eyes, that out-glitter the gem—
And their hearts that throb wildly as mine does for them.
Concede but this point and I give with devotion,
The powers of my poor feeble mind to the motion.
To this motion a welcome and cordial assent;
258
A project for ‘boring the ears’ of the ladies.
I ask but for this in no tone disaffected,
That Catholic females be never rejected.
Dear women of Erin—oh! much to be pitied
Are they who can't hear me—they must be admitted.
Oh! their smiles! —and their eyes, that out-glitter the gem—
And their hearts that throb wildly as mine does for them.
Concede but this point and I give with devotion,
The powers of my poor feeble mind to the motion.
Sir R---t I---s
He could not concede; and he thought the Dissenter,
Though pious, should not be permitted to enter.
The ladies once in, they might creep on too far,
Were the portals of Parliament once left ajar;
Whole hosts of white hands in a month or two after
Might knock at the two Universities—
(Laughter).
Though pious, should not be permitted to enter.
The ladies once in, they might creep on too far,
Were the portals of Parliament once left ajar;
Whole hosts of white hands in a month or two after
Might knock at the two Universities—
Mr. T. D---e
Not one single member had cause for dissent;
The married ones might—yet he could not relent.
‘I am off to the House; I must be at my post,’
Was the green-room or club lounger's evening boast;
But when his wife, now as meek as a mouse,
Should steal down—
(Alarm on all sides of the House).
The married ones might—yet he could not relent.
‘I am off to the House; I must be at my post,’
Was the green-room or club lounger's evening boast;
But when his wife, now as meek as a mouse,
Should steal down—
259
Sir, with joy I concede all the motion can ask!
If solemn our functions, if trying our task;
Still woman-ward more should our sympathies flow;
And learn how to feel—which will teach us to know.
The greenest oak-wreath that Philosophy weaves
Were dreary without a few flowers in its leaves.
We paint Fame as woman; what exquisite tone
Could tell of great triumph, sweet truth, but her own!
Receive then the ladies, those haters of wrong,
Whose lips make our language but laughter and song;
Those soothers of trouble and quellers of strife,
Mortality's May-queens, the lustres of life;
Who flirt with a grief as they would with a fan,
And smile away all the vain vapours of man;
Whose fondness, or favour, to sages delectable,
Makes the mere ‘exquisite’ almost respectable;
Who, in our sickness are abler than Halford,
In counsel more earnest and subtle than Talfourd;
Whose faces make home so bewitching—who pout
More bewitchingly still when we rise to go out;
Who will, until three in the morning, sit up for us;
Tea ready-made—when they pour out a cup for us;
Angels, who only dwell here among things
Such as mortals, by virtue of not having wings!
This motion is merely a movement of love
To open the door of the ark— to the dove;
Its patience shall calm us, its faithfulness guide,
Its meekness read lessons to rancour and pride;
Its beauty shall light the dark orbs of the blind,
The tame shall be kindled, the vulgar refined. (Divide, and great cheering; —the plan on division
Adopted, 'midst mingled delight and derision.)If solemn our functions, if trying our task;
Still woman-ward more should our sympathies flow;
And learn how to feel—which will teach us to know.
The greenest oak-wreath that Philosophy weaves
Were dreary without a few flowers in its leaves.
We paint Fame as woman; what exquisite tone
Could tell of great triumph, sweet truth, but her own!
Receive then the ladies, those haters of wrong,
Whose lips make our language but laughter and song;
Those soothers of trouble and quellers of strife,
Mortality's May-queens, the lustres of life;
Who flirt with a grief as they would with a fan,
And smile away all the vain vapours of man;
Whose fondness, or favour, to sages delectable,
Makes the mere ‘exquisite’ almost respectable;
Who, in our sickness are abler than Halford,
In counsel more earnest and subtle than Talfourd;
Whose faces make home so bewitching—who pout
More bewitchingly still when we rise to go out;
Who will, until three in the morning, sit up for us;
Tea ready-made—when they pour out a cup for us;
Angels, who only dwell here among things
Such as mortals, by virtue of not having wings!
This motion is merely a movement of love
To open the door of the ark— to the dove;
Its patience shall calm us, its faithfulness guide,
Its meekness read lessons to rancour and pride;
260
The tame shall be kindled, the vulgar refined. (Divide, and great cheering; —the plan on division
1836.
261
ON MACLISE'S PORTRAIT OF MACREADY IN MACBETH.
Maclise's ‘Macready's MacbethAs a picture defies all attacks;
Yet, uniting these three in a breath,
It is only a view of Al-macks.
1836.
262
ON THE DESTRUCTION OF SIR JOHN SOANE'S PORTRAIT BELONGING TO THE LITERARY FUND SOCIETY.
‘Dear Friend,’ says Mr. J---, with truth's own grace,
‘Your knight I've slaughtered with my penknife's lance;
But then, if I had not destroyed his face
You would have surely lost his countenance.’
‘Your knight I've slaughtered with my penknife's lance;
But then, if I had not destroyed his face
You would have surely lost his countenance.’
A logical defence! Let none deride,
Or doubt that this each graver charge rebuts;
Our friend may boast he has not multiplied
A single picture into several cuts!
Or doubt that this each graver charge rebuts;
Our friend may boast he has not multiplied
A single picture into several cuts!
But is the face destroyed? Is hope, then, vain?
No! Cæsar stabbed by Brutus doubtless ceases,
But what was Soane may yet be sewn again—
Although to give us peace, 'tis cut in pieces!
No! Cæsar stabbed by Brutus doubtless ceases,
But what was Soane may yet be sewn again—
Although to give us peace, 'tis cut in pieces!
1836
263
FALSE LOVE AND TRUE LOGIC.
THE DISCONSOLATE
My heart will break—I'm sure it will:
My lover, yes, my favourite—he
Who seemed my own through good and ill—
Has basely turned his back on me.
My lover, yes, my favourite—he
Who seemed my own through good and ill—
Has basely turned his back on me.
THE COMFORTER
Ah! silly sorrower, weep no more;
Your lover's turned his back we see,
But you had turned his head before
And now he's as he ought to be.
Your lover's turned his back we see,
But you had turned his head before
And now he's as he ought to be.
1836.
264
CONGRATULATORY VERSES TO MISS ELLEN TREE.
‘This amiable lady has been in a very perilous situation. A packet, in which she had taken her passage from Cork to Liverpool, was driven about in rough weather for two days and nights on that dangerous coast.’—Daily Paper.
Ellen, who shinest up aloft,
Sweet star—oh! Ellen Tree,
Whom I have gone to see so oft,
Why did you go to sea?
Sweet star—oh! Ellen Tree,
Whom I have gone to see so oft,
Why did you go to sea?
Not crocodile are these two eyes,
Thus weeping without stint;
Such blows might e'en macadamise
One's heart, though flesh were flint.
Thus weeping without stint;
Such blows might e'en macadamise
One's heart, though flesh were flint.
Now mine is soft, and I must sob
For Nature, thus at strife—
To think that she had sought to rob
Her fairest Tree, of Life.
For Nature, thus at strife—
To think that she had sought to rob
Her fairest Tree, of Life.
You dreamt not, when resolved to go,
Of risks in coming back;
Yet might you not expect a blow,
When taking such a smack?
Of risks in coming back;
Yet might you not expect a blow,
When taking such a smack?
265
You might have feared the lightning's fork;
Had known when thunders roared,
That, in a packet boat of Cork,
You were not safe on board!
Had known when thunders roared,
That, in a packet boat of Cork,
You were not safe on board!
Two year-like days were you at sea,
Two nights like centuries dark;
While surges night and day, O Tree!
Were beating 'gainst your ‘bark.’
Two nights like centuries dark;
While surges night and day, O Tree!
Were beating 'gainst your ‘bark.’
Yet howsoe'er the winds might chafe,
Your vessel crack and quiver,
You have arrived, thank fortune, safe,
In Liverpool—a liver.
Your vessel crack and quiver,
You have arrived, thank fortune, safe,
In Liverpool—a liver.
Oh, Ellen, it is sweet to know,
When some that wore the crown,
Some actresses have sunk so low,
That you have not gone down!
When some that wore the crown,
Some actresses have sunk so low,
That you have not gone down!
Since you old Ocean's ire survive,
Oh tempt no more his rage;
But when you travel, still contrive
To be—upon the stage.
Oh tempt no more his rage;
But when you travel, still contrive
To be—upon the stage.
1835.
266
TO ELLEN TREE IN ‘ION.’
In Woman's garb, howe'er you're dressed—
In Man's, whate'er you try on—
Oh! Ellen, you look always best—
And so you do in Ion.
In Man's, whate'er you try on—
Oh! Ellen, you look always best—
And so you do in Ion.
To wear the male suit is, I know,
A thing that some cry fie on!
But foolish folks like these should go
To see you play in Ion.
A thing that some cry fie on!
But foolish folks like these should go
To see you play in Ion.
In comic or in tragic parts
You still look chaste as Dian,
But Ellen! you hunt hearts (not harts),
Yes, though you're dressed for Ion.
You still look chaste as Dian,
But Ellen! you hunt hearts (not harts),
Yes, though you're dressed for Ion.
Your lovers, lady, still must sue,
Must still adore and sigh on,
Although perplexed to see in you
The gentle Greek youth Ion.
Must still adore and sigh on,
Although perplexed to see in you
The gentle Greek youth Ion.
Oh! could I write his praise and thine
In Greek as good as Bion's,
I'd dedicate a lasting line
To link your fame with Ion's.
In Greek as good as Bion's,
I'd dedicate a lasting line
To link your fame with Ion's.
267
I like your acting in Pauline,
A theme I oft shall cry on;
I love you in the Youthful Queen—
But don't I love your Ion.
A theme I oft shall cry on;
I love you in the Youthful Queen—
But don't I love your Ion.
Your Wife (she is so like my own)
Was quite a lovely lion;
But never love like that was known
Which binds my heart to Ion.
Was quite a lovely lion;
But never love like that was known
Which binds my heart to Ion.
Your Viola was sweetly pure,
A point one need not lie on;
But yet methinks— I'm not quite sure—
Your leg looked best in Ion.
A point one need not lie on;
But yet methinks— I'm not quite sure—
Your leg looked best in Ion.
Your brow, and fair Clemanthe's brow,
I here one chaplet tie on;
Yes, you're Clemanthe's self, for now
You're married fast to Ion!
I here one chaplet tie on;
Yes, you're Clemanthe's self, for now
You're married fast to Ion!
‘United States!’ Ah! me, that word
A rock has thrown me nigh on;
You will not go—the tale's absurd—
What will become of Ion!
A rock has thrown me nigh on;
You will not go—the tale's absurd—
What will become of Ion!
If I were Serjeant Talfourd—if! —
While ocean waves you fly on,
I'd sing on Albion's highest cliff
An Io unto Ion.
While ocean waves you fly on,
I'd sing on Albion's highest cliff
An Io unto Ion.
268
You'd charm along your watery way,
The dolphins like Arion—
I'm sure you will, if you but play
The charming part of Ion.
The dolphins like Arion—
I'm sure you will, if you but play
The charming part of Ion.
But if you go—a subject this
My eyes will not be dry on—
I wish you years of fame and bliss,
A long, long age of Ion.
My eyes will not be dry on—
I wish you years of fame and bliss,
A long, long age of Ion.
Yes, fame is yours! for if she cast
Her wreaths, we know not why, on
Some ladies' heads, 'tis you at last
She'll fondly fix her eye on.
Her wreaths, we know not why, on
Some ladies' heads, 'tis you at last
She'll fondly fix her eye on.
No wonder you're called Ellen Tree
(Some truth the jest you'll spy on)
Since you are covered, as we see,
With laurels gained in Ion.
(Some truth the jest you'll spy on)
Since you are covered, as we see,
With laurels gained in Ion.
1836.
269
THE BREAKFAST PARTY.
Cato's Soliloquy.
On a proposal to subject all dogs that draw carriages to a payment of ‘Double Duty.’
Cato, who strains his nerves beneath the truck
Of Smith & Co.
Down Piccadilly, lectured thus on luck
An hour ago-
His bark I know.
Of Smith & Co.
Down Piccadilly, lectured thus on luck
An hour ago-
His bark I know.
‘Sad days for dogs, these dog-days! sad for those,
The few who lead
Like me a stoic's life, despising woes,
Howe'er, indeed,
One's heart may bleed.
The few who lead
Like me a stoic's life, despising woes,
Howe'er, indeed,
One's heart may bleed.
‘Sad days, and sadder are in store, no doubt,
To dim our lot;
The Comet sure is floundering about,
It's tail has got
Into a knot!
To dim our lot;
The Comet sure is floundering about,
It's tail has got
Into a knot!
270
‘Entangled with the dog-star, and may be
Our fate to ban!
Or have those bipeds passed their new decree!
One never can
Put faith in man.
Our fate to ban!
Or have those bipeds passed their new decree!
One never can
Put faith in man.
‘A stoic's soul can scarce the blow defy;
It makes one wish,
Like Man himself, “to be a butterfly,”
Or that gold fish
In yonder dish.
It makes one wish,
Like Man himself, “to be a butterfly,”
Or that gold fish
In yonder dish.
‘Was there not tyranny enough before,
And contrasts drawn
'Twixt fat sleek puppies, bull-dogs brave and poor,
'Twixt rags and lawn,
Bare bones and brawn?
And contrasts drawn
'Twixt fat sleek puppies, bull-dogs brave and poor,
'Twixt rags and lawn,
Bare bones and brawn?
‘Happy the dogs who form a breakfast group
Around the feet
Of some fair girl, dispensing milk or soup,
Or scraps of meat,
With smiles more sweet!
Around the feet
Of some fair girl, dispensing milk or soup,
Or scraps of meat,
With smiles more sweet!
‘How many now are basking in such smiles,
Who, breakfast o'er,
May gambol in the fields, and leap the stiles,
And then at four
Return for more.
Who, breakfast o'er,
May gambol in the fields, and leap the stiles,
And then at four
Return for more.
271
‘But I! must I, for lack of gloss or beauty,
Be quite undone,
In being sentenced thus to “double duty?”
Is not a ton
Enough for one?
Be quite undone,
In being sentenced thus to “double duty?”
Is not a ton
Enough for one?
‘I had escaped this heaviest of dooms,
Were I, sad wight,
Used, not in drawing trucks, but drawing-rooms;
Or prone to bite,
And fond of fight!
Were I, sad wight,
Used, not in drawing trucks, but drawing-rooms;
Or prone to bite,
And fond of fight!
‘Or were I bred among the sporting race,
To make a stir
In pits, or in preserves, or in the chase,
And live a cur
Of character!
To make a stir
In pits, or in preserves, or in the chase,
And live a cur
Of character!
‘Alas! my lot is merely usefulness;
I toil along,
Too plain to love, too rugged to caress;
I do no wrong,
But, ah, I'm strong!
I toil along,
Too plain to love, too rugged to caress;
I do no wrong,
But, ah, I'm strong!
‘My duty doubled! Well, I'd toil six days,
And, bless the mark!
Drag on the seventh, in a little chaise,
Five Smiths, till dark,
All round the Park!’
And, bless the mark!
Drag on the seventh, in a little chaise,
Five Smiths, till dark,
All round the Park!’
1836.
272
ACUTE DEDUCTION.
‘He takes his hat, and why I would be knowing.’‘Learn,’ cries that subtle devil, Paul,—‘he's going!’
PHILOSOPHY OF GAMES.
‘Life,’ said Tabby, taking snuff,‘Life's a game at Blindman's Buff.’
‘True,’ said Tabby, ‘very true;
Death's a game of Forfeits too.’
1836.
273
A POETICAL COLUMN.
In Honour of Mr. Simpson, M.C.
‘We are sorry to learn that our old friend Simpson, the Master of the Ceremonies at Vauxhall Gardens for so many years, whose eccentricities have caused so much merriment to the public, and whose harmless habits and character have acquired for him, through a long life, the esteem of many, and, we believe, the dislike of none, died on Christmas Day. We have so often noticed his peculiarities in light paragraphs that we feel it but justice, in taking leave of him for ever, to add that his peculiarities were only such as good-nature and urbanity carried to an extreme might commit; and that, though they might have exposed him, as they often did expose him, to laughter, they did not, and could not, produce any worse feeling with respect to him than those which arose from a mixture of hilarity and kindness. But the joke has passed away, and the last impression made by poor Simpson is one of regret.’—Morning Herald.
And he is gone! Then grieve Vauxhall!
For o'er thy brightness, like a pall,
The clouds of black misfortune fall;
Weep, oh! ye singers,
Weep, waiters, lamplighters, and all—
And call bell-ringers.
For o'er thy brightness, like a pall,
The clouds of black misfortune fall;
Weep, oh! ye singers,
Weep, waiters, lamplighters, and all—
And call bell-ringers.
274
Mourn, ye musicians, grave and gay;
Be mute, or but a requiem play;
Ye vaulters, in your postures stay—
Ye firework-makers,
Put out the light; let no one pay,
Ye money-takers!
Be mute, or but a requiem play;
Ye vaulters, in your postures stay—
Ye firework-makers,
Put out the light; let no one pay,
Ye money-takers!
And oh! lament, good Mr. Gye;
And you, good Co., in union cry!
You hear the wintry breezes sigh
Through each bare tree—
Thus mourn the ‘Royal property’
Its lost M.C.
And you, good Co., in union cry!
You hear the wintry breezes sigh
Through each bare tree—
Thus mourn the ‘Royal property’
Its lost M.C.
Your brightest lamp's gone out to-night,
Your proudest rocket will not light,
Your comic singer takes his flight,
Your fowls are tough,
Your hock is hot, your port is white,
Your rack sad stuff.
Your proudest rocket will not light,
Your comic singer takes his flight,
Your fowls are tough,
Your hock is hot, your port is white,
Your rack sad stuff.
Your horns are cracked, your fiddles squeak,
Your dancer had a sprain last week,
Your gallery-floor begins to creak,
Your tight-rope loosens;
Your fete's proclaimed in each critique
A bore, a nuisance.
Your dancer had a sprain last week,
Your gallery-floor begins to creak,
Your tight-rope loosens;
Your fete's proclaimed in each critique
A bore, a nuisance.
Your gayest path is chill and drear,
Your covered walks are wet, I fear;
Ev'n summer's self is winter here—
The leaves are dead,
And every dewdrop seems a tear,
By Pity shed.
Your covered walks are wet, I fear;
Ev'n summer's self is winter here—
The leaves are dead,
And every dewdrop seems a tear,
By Pity shed.
275
So he is mourned, the X-M.C.
Politeness! Ah, it ceased to be
With him, who was Urbanity
In air, voice, feature!
The prince of pure Politeness he,
That simple creature.
Politeness! Ah, it ceased to be
With him, who was Urbanity
In air, voice, feature!
The prince of pure Politeness he,
That simple creature.
Poor Simpson! though the fetes were flat,
Or people rude, he smiled at that;
And still he only touched his hat
Through all the crowd;
He understood not ‘tit for tat’—
To boors he bowed!
Or people rude, he smiled at that;
And still he only touched his hat
Through all the crowd;
He understood not ‘tit for tat’—
To boors he bowed!
Filled with good-nature to the brim,
His hand upon his beaver's rim,
In every look, in every limb,
Sweet approbation,
Folks thought a reprimand from him
An obligation.
His hand upon his beaver's rim,
In every look, in every limb,
Sweet approbation,
Folks thought a reprimand from him
An obligation.
If vulgar brawlers in the throng
Annoyed the guests or spoiled the song,
His hint that ‘they indeed were wrong’
Was so polite,
They muttered, as they moved along,
‘Who would be right?’
Annoyed the guests or spoiled the song,
His hint that ‘they indeed were wrong’
Was so polite,
They muttered, as they moved along,
‘Who would be right?’
Alas! when Death, the common foe,
Knocks at the door of Man & Co.,
Coolly inviting us to go—
Though void of use,
How apt we are to answer ‘No,’
And make excuse.
Knocks at the door of Man & Co.,
Coolly inviting us to go—
Though void of use,
How apt we are to answer ‘No,’
And make excuse.
276
But Simpson—not of such was he;
When Death approached the kind M.C.,
And summoned him, 'midst Christmas glee,
To yield his treasure,
He answered—‘ Eminent Sir, great D.,
I come, with pleasure.’
When Death approached the kind M.C.,
And summoned him, 'midst Christmas glee,
To yield his treasure,
He answered—‘ Eminent Sir, great D.,
I come, with pleasure.’
Now to a Vauxhall grander far,
Where every lamp's a shining star—
The Elysian field, whose gate's ajar—
There sails this minute
Across the Styx a boat, a car—
And Simpson's in it.
Where every lamp's a shining star—
The Elysian field, whose gate's ajar—
There sails this minute
Across the Styx a boat, a car—
And Simpson's in it.
He lands—and is elected there
M.C. of all that region fair;
And ghosts illustrious, spectres rare,
Are in a fuss,
The smile, the bow, the glance to share
Which ravished us.
M.C. of all that region fair;
And ghosts illustrious, spectres rare,
Are in a fuss,
The smile, the bow, the glance to share
Which ravished us.
The shadow of a cane bears he,
His ghost-hat touched eternally!
There walks he ever, fresh and free,
Through ceaseless summers;
And welcomes to the Property
King Death's new comers.
His ghost-hat touched eternally!
There walks he ever, fresh and free,
Through ceaseless summers;
And welcomes to the Property
King Death's new comers.
1836.
277
THE PROPER USE OF THE EYES.
Certes, the eyes were not to see with,No more than wives were meant to be with,
Or milk was sent us to drink tea with.
Some sages hint they're meant to weep with,
Others to cast a glance, like sheep, with;
'Tis my belief they're meant to sleep with.
1837.
278
MINERVA AT THE PORTICO OF THE ATHENÆUM TO THE DUKE OF YORK AT THE HEAD OF HIS COLUMN.
Lo! Wisdom from the house-top crieth out!
The house-top! No!
From this less lofty perch she sends her shout,
The Portico.
The house-top! No!
From this less lofty perch she sends her shout,
The Portico.
When I from chimneys preached, men deemed, in mirth,
My breath mere smoke,
Now hearken they, though now I'm nearer earth—
Well, owls don't croak.
My breath mere smoke,
Now hearken they, though now I'm nearer earth—
Well, owls don't croak.
Oh! royal statue, whose back I view
Still turned in shyness,
Hear you my voice up there? How justly you
Are styled ‘Your Highness’:
Still turned in shyness,
Hear you my voice up there? How justly you
Are styled ‘Your Highness’:
Deaf! rather deaf! I thought so ; never mind;
I'd just as soon
Sing without hearers—I am quite resigned.
Proceed my tune!
I'd just as soon
Sing without hearers—I am quite resigned.
Proceed my tune!
279
A tune I term it; 'tis a screech, perhaps;
But Wisdom, Statue,
Consist in doubling all your charms, when chaps
Are looking at you.
But Wisdom, Statue,
Consist in doubling all your charms, when chaps
Are looking at you.
Your ears are quick as flesh ones; quite as meet
To catch my tone;
Who cares for others' voices?—'tis so sweet
To hear one's own.
To catch my tone;
Who cares for others' voices?—'tis so sweet
To hear one's own.
Men deem, of marble as my limbs they mould,
Minerva mute!
They say that I'm hard—hearted, stiff, and cold;—
Homo's a brute!
Minerva mute!
They say that I'm hard—hearted, stiff, and cold;—
Homo's a brute!
My very patrons—here, this club of fame—
The Athenæum—
Pass me, as though they never heard my name—
I daily see 'em.
The Athenæum—
Pass me, as though they never heard my name—
I daily see 'em.
As in they flock, all eager to receive
That meat for Mind,
The mile-wide morning paper—lo! they leave
Wisdom behind!
That meat for Mind,
The mile-wide morning paper—lo! they leave
Wisdom behind!
Me, who look down on them, they bought for show;
And thus bequeath me
Honour, they think!—as in and out they go.
They're quite beneath me.
And thus bequeath me
Honour, they think!—as in and out they go.
They're quite beneath me.
280
‘Buy Wisdom!’—Ah, a favourite phrase with men,
Jove, how you quizz'd 'em!
When duped, defamed, tricked, ruined—they have then
Been—‘buying Wisdom.’
Jove, how you quizz'd 'em!
When duped, defamed, tricked, ruined—they have then
Been—‘buying Wisdom.’
Character, fortune, lost—the broken trust,
The base excuse;
And then, what's gained? Oh, Wisdom, when it's just
Too late for use.
The base excuse;
And then, what's gained? Oh, Wisdom, when it's just
Too late for use.
Man thinks him wise, when wealth and wife (life's links)
Away have run;
Plutus and Venus lost, the poor wretch thinks
Minerva's won.
Away have run;
Plutus and Venus lost, the poor wretch thinks
Minerva's won.
Who would be a mortal if he might be marble,
Or bronze, great neighbour;
Life only lives its history to garble,
And all's vain labour.
Or bronze, great neighbour;
Life only lives its history to garble,
And all's vain labour.
What are these moving images about?
Dining and cheering!
Yes, dinner over, how they love to shout,
And shirk the hearing.
Dining and cheering!
Yes, dinner over, how they love to shout,
And shirk the hearing.
Here genius cuts (on paper) a new road;
Here's one who pens a
‘Sonnet to Fog in London,’ or an ‘Ode
To Influenza.’
Here's one who pens a
‘Sonnet to Fog in London,’ or an ‘Ode
To Influenza.’
281
This schemer pens away the Debt; and here
Sits one displaying,
‘How to Live well on Fifty Pounds a Year’—
By never paying.
Sits one displaying,
‘How to Live well on Fifty Pounds a Year’—
By never paying.
Here sleepless Science seeks another Moon;
There dwells a dab
At a new turnpike, or a new balloon,
Perhaps a cab.
There dwells a dab
At a new turnpike, or a new balloon,
Perhaps a cab.
But look all around you see this folly still
(Folly or vice),
If cheated once, the man will—yes, he will
Be cheated twice.
(Folly or vice),
If cheated once, the man will—yes, he will
Be cheated twice.
Then Bronze and Marble versus Clay and Ashes;
Let them insure;
We from West-end collisions, City crashes,
Are quite secure.
Let them insure;
We from West-end collisions, City crashes,
Are quite secure.
So is your Sire close by, who sits a steed
That, strongly sinewed,
Commands a tail as strong—a tail, indeed,
‘To be continued.’
That, strongly sinewed,
Commands a tail as strong—a tail, indeed,
‘To be continued.’
My compliments to both—the same to you,
This love-led morn;
But as for these clay creatures whom I view,
Be theirs my scorn.
This love-led morn;
But as for these clay creatures whom I view,
Be theirs my scorn.
282
All-speakers, spouters, schemers, losers, winners,
Sages, and fighters,
Compose two classes of atrocious sinners—
Readers and writers.
Sages, and fighters,
Compose two classes of atrocious sinners—
Readers and writers.
The first are Folly's children, or they'd never
Sigh for such whistles;
The second must be Fools, or would they ever
Seek figs on thistles.
Sigh for such whistles;
The second must be Fools, or would they ever
Seek figs on thistles.
1837.
283
THE RACES.
The Races, the Races, the Races!
Wherever we turn in this life,
What still stares us all in our faces?
A race of ridiculous strife.
We all start against one another,
Unnoticed or backed by a dozen;
Each man runs a race with his brother,
Each dame with her sister or cousin.
The world is a race-course, we're told,
And mortals still keep up their paces;
Either middle-aged, youthful, or old—
So the Races, the Races, the Races!
Wherever we turn in this life,
What still stares us all in our faces?
A race of ridiculous strife.
We all start against one another,
Unnoticed or backed by a dozen;
Each man runs a race with his brother,
Each dame with her sister or cousin.
The world is a race-course, we're told,
And mortals still keep up their paces;
Either middle-aged, youthful, or old—
So the Races, the Races, the Races!
Lay odds on the Ladies! 'Tis said
You may find it a capital spec.;
Thought man may have won by a head,
'Tis woman who wins by a neck.
Back those who, in virtues so ample,
Would forfeit the winner's renown,
Much rather than heedlessly trample
On rivals knocked up or knocked down.
But still hurry on through the crowd,
Whatever your gout, or your graces,
For Time is still crying aloud,
Oh! the Races, the Races, the Races!
You may find it a capital spec.;
Thought man may have won by a head,
'Tis woman who wins by a neck.
Back those who, in virtues so ample,
Would forfeit the winner's renown,
Much rather than heedlessly trample
On rivals knocked up or knocked down.
284
Whatever your gout, or your graces,
For Time is still crying aloud,
Oh! the Races, the Races, the Races!
What candidates take up their stand,
All panting and eager to start;
Some outwardly, linked hand in hand—
Some inwardly, linked heart in heart.
Some pairs seem to ride on for ever,
Some break with the very first bound;
Some smooth as the course of a river,
Some rough as macadamised ground.
Some dash on a track of their own,
And some take their ancestor's places;
Oh! who would be left quite alone,
In the Races, the Races, the Races!
All panting and eager to start;
Some outwardly, linked hand in hand—
Some inwardly, linked heart in heart.
Some pairs seem to ride on for ever,
Some break with the very first bound;
Some smooth as the course of a river,
Some rough as macadamised ground.
Some dash on a track of their own,
And some take their ancestor's places;
Oh! who would be left quite alone,
In the Races, the Races, the Races!
See the Houses of Parliament run!
How equal—uneven—the race!
The Lower all fierceness and fun,
The Upper with gravity's pace.
This now seems to shoot far ahead,
Now that seems to suffer a check;
Which wins? Which is first? ‘Go it, Ned!’
The Houses now seem neck and neck.
Whigs, Tories, and Rads are alive,
Rare gamesters, all eager for aces;
And all three resolving to thrive
In the Races, the Races, the Races!
How equal—uneven—the race!
The Lower all fierceness and fun,
The Upper with gravity's pace.
This now seems to shoot far ahead,
Now that seems to suffer a check;
Which wins? Which is first? ‘Go it, Ned!’
The Houses now seem neck and neck.
Whigs, Tories, and Rads are alive,
Rare gamesters, all eager for aces;
And all three resolving to thrive
In the Races, the Races, the Races!
285
In the publishing world what a start!
The ink flows from infinite springs;
Each pen is a fast-flying dart,
And books spread their covers for wings.
A library leaps into life
At each turn of the press every day;
And there's no time to read, in the strife,
To write history, novel and play.
One treads on the other; the song,
The sermon or treatise displaces;
Prose rubs against Rhyme, in the throng
To the Races, the Races, the Races!
The ink flows from infinite springs;
Each pen is a fast-flying dart,
And books spread their covers for wings.
A library leaps into life
At each turn of the press every day;
And there's no time to read, in the strife,
To write history, novel and play.
One treads on the other; the song,
The sermon or treatise displaces;
Prose rubs against Rhyme, in the throng
To the Races, the Races, the Races!
And ‘rapid’ is ever the word
In this life throughout all its conditions;
Death flies with the speed of a bird
From the College of Surgeons, Physicians.
The doctors and surgeons all drive
Through the town, as each day were their last,
And yet, while themselves are alive,
Their patients go off rather fast.
The lawyers are hastening meanwhile,
They run on through all sorts of cases,
And arguments spun by the mile,
To the Races, the Races, the Races!
In this life throughout all its conditions;
Death flies with the speed of a bird
From the College of Surgeons, Physicians.
The doctors and surgeons all drive
Through the town, as each day were their last,
And yet, while themselves are alive,
Their patients go off rather fast.
The lawyers are hastening meanwhile,
They run on through all sorts of cases,
And arguments spun by the mile,
To the Races, the Races, the Races!
The Theatre! say, will the rule
Apply, as it once did, to them?
Each seems to be turned to a school
For teaching what scholars condemn.
Yet the rule will apply; for each one
Is a true ‘moving spectacle’ still;
Though the dramas performed do not run
Quite so fast as a racer or rill.
The Church and the Chapel compete,
And each one security's basis
Presents for our wandering feet
In the Races, the Races, the Races.
Apply, as it once did, to them?
Each seems to be turned to a school
For teaching what scholars condemn.
286
Is a true ‘moving spectacle’ still;
Though the dramas performed do not run
Quite so fast as a racer or rill.
The Church and the Chapel compete,
And each one security's basis
Presents for our wandering feet
In the Races, the Races, the Races.
But what, in the week that has fled,
Was the scene of Life's liveliest race?
Was it Epsom? Oh, no! 'twill be read
That Kensington bore off the grace.
Who started? the names—‘Caravan?’
Was it ‘Phosphorus?’ No. ‘Dardanelles!’
Or ‘Rat-trap,’ or ‘Wisdom’—which man
Had not when he backed ‘Mickle Fell's?’
Was it ‘Triolus,’ ‘Pegasus,’ ‘Critic,’
‘Hybiscus,’ ‘Mahometan’—graces
That never were yet paralytic
In Races, the Races, the Races!
Was the scene of Life's liveliest race?
Was it Epsom? Oh, no! 'twill be read
That Kensington bore off the grace.
Who started? the names—‘Caravan?’
Was it ‘Phosphorus?’ No. ‘Dardanelles!’
Or ‘Rat-trap,’ or ‘Wisdom’—which man
Had not when he backed ‘Mickle Fell's?’
Was it ‘Triolus,’ ‘Pegasus,’ ‘Critic,’
‘Hybiscus,’ ‘Mahometan’—graces
That never were yet paralytic
In Races, the Races, the Races!
Was it ‘Benedict,’ ‘Norgrove,’ or ‘Mango,’
Or, ‘Hercules (Pocket)’—Why ask?
The guess goes as far as it can go,
The fact is the easier task.
The Race was the race of three nations,
A contest of city and town,
To wreathe with the heart's aspirations
The brow that may yet bear a crown.
The Princess!—oh, be it impressed
On her heart, which is Britons' oasis,
That the old English race is the best,
Of the Races, the Races, the Races.
Or, ‘Hercules (Pocket)’—Why ask?
The guess goes as far as it can go,
The fact is the easier task.
The Race was the race of three nations,
A contest of city and town,
To wreathe with the heart's aspirations
The brow that may yet bear a crown.
287
On her heart, which is Britons' oasis,
That the old English race is the best,
Of the Races, the Races, the Races.
1837.
288
“THE VIXEN.”
A Case of ‘Seizure.’
‘She was a phantom of delight’—
(To borrow Wordsworth's lovely line),
‘That seen became a part of sight’
(As Byron says, in praise divine).
(To borrow Wordsworth's lovely line),
‘That seen became a part of sight’
(As Byron says, in praise divine).
Is she not still a phantom? No;
‘A perfect woman nobly planned’
(So Wordsworth's numbers nobly flow),
‘To warm, to comfort, and command.’
‘A perfect woman nobly planned’
(So Wordsworth's numbers nobly flow),
‘To warm, to comfort, and command.’
Ay, that's the word; so runs the song;
‘An angel, but a woman still,’
I own she is, and hath been long:—
An angel's heart, a woman's will.
‘An angel, but a woman still,’
I own she is, and hath been long:—
An angel's heart, a woman's will.
O Love, thou grossly libelled god,
With falsehood charged by maid and youth,
My sole complaint is—sounds it odd?—
Thy fervour, constancy, and truth.
With falsehood charged by maid and youth,
My sole complaint is—sounds it odd?—
Thy fervour, constancy, and truth.
289
Ah, better were it for this heart,
For reasons I shall shortly show,
If—not as straight as is thy dart—
Thy course were crooked as thy bow.
For reasons I shall shortly show,
If—not as straight as is thy dart—
Thy course were crooked as thy bow.
Each hour but proves, while Fate's reproved,
How oddly we in life are mated;
Some folks would die to be beloved,
While I could live, if I were hated.
How oddly we in life are mated;
Some folks would die to be beloved,
While I could live, if I were hated.
Yes, Love, if thou wert false and base—
If thou wert fickle, wayward, cold;
In short, if thou wert Hate—thy face
'Twould then be rapture to behold.
If thou wert fickle, wayward, cold;
In short, if thou wert Hate—thy face
'Twould then be rapture to behold.
But now—she loves me! loves so well,
That each embrace becomes a blow;
So deep my bliss, I seem to dwell
For ever on the brink of woe.
That each embrace becomes a blow;
So deep my bliss, I seem to dwell
For ever on the brink of woe.
‘A perfect woman!’ Wordsworth's right;
There's not a shade of fault about her;
I cannot speak, sing, think, indite,
Read, walk, dine, sleep, or dream without her.
There's not a shade of fault about her;
I cannot speak, sing, think, indite,
Read, walk, dine, sleep, or dream without her.
She treasures every word I say,
She watches all my idle glances;
And then, I'm sure to find, next day,
My nothings bred into romances.
She watches all my idle glances;
And then, I'm sure to find, next day,
My nothings bred into romances.
290
If haply I look grave, or sigh,
She's shocked, and wonders what's the matter;
What should she do were I to die!
She fears—she fears—I'm growing fatter!
She's shocked, and wonders what's the matter;
What should she do were I to die!
She fears—she fears—I'm growing fatter!
I'll take a walk. ‘Ha! she'll take a walk too;
There's quite a change come o'er the weather;’
Well, never mind, this book will do—
I'll read!—‘Ha! yes, we'll read together.’
There's quite a change come o'er the weather;’
Well, never mind, this book will do—
I'll read!—‘Ha! yes, we'll read together.’
‘Pray put the book down—leave off here;
'Tis too exciting—makes you sad!’
‘Oh, dinner's ready;—ah, I fear,
That fish for you is very bad.’
'Tis too exciting—makes you sad!’
‘Oh, dinner's ready;—ah, I fear,
That fish for you is very bad.’
‘Wine! and would you take wine! You can't;
I've ordered James to lose the key;
For once, I'll say—yes, say—you shan't,
There—let me order in—the tea.’
I've ordered James to lose the key;
For once, I'll say—yes, say—you shan't,
There—let me order in—the tea.’
Music, she thinks, disturbs my mind,
.So hides my flute and light guitar;
Dare, dare I smoke, alas, though blind,
Love's nose detects the vile cigar.
.So hides my flute and light guitar;
Dare, dare I smoke, alas, though blind,
Love's nose detects the vile cigar.
My snuff-box—that's gone long ago;
She begged it for her crying brother;
And then her love's too pure, you know,
To buy, or let me buy, another.
She begged it for her crying brother;
And then her love's too pure, you know,
To buy, or let me buy, another.
291
My favourite book's locked up—and why?
I pored upon it till I'm double;
My favourite horse was found too shy;
He's sold, to save me pain and trouble.
I pored upon it till I'm double;
My favourite horse was found too shy;
He's sold, to save me pain and trouble.
What care she takes for all my wants—
Except for those, to me most pressing;
How lovingly her fond heart grants
The kindness that is so distressing.
Except for those, to me most pressing;
How lovingly her fond heart grants
The kindness that is so distressing.
Whate'er I wish for must be bad,
For health or comfort, time or place;
Whate'er she wishes, men stark mad
Alone would scruple to embrace.
For health or comfort, time or place;
Whate'er she wishes, men stark mad
Alone would scruple to embrace.
In her no self-willed force you find,
No frowning, raving, or defiance;
Her love's so gentle, calm, and kind,
It only asks—a frank compliance.
No frowning, raving, or defiance;
Her love's so gentle, calm, and kind,
It only asks—a frank compliance.
She does not scoff, she does not scold,
Drown you with tears, or wound with wit,
Call you a wretch, and hint you're old—
She but expects you—to submit.
Drown you with tears, or wound with wit,
Call you a wretch, and hint you're old—
She but expects you—to submit.
Each comfort, solace, or delight,
Each recreation, one by one,
The lounge at noon, the play at night,
The laugh with Wit, the romp with Fun:
Each recreation, one by one,
The lounge at noon, the play at night,
The laugh with Wit, the romp with Fun:
292
The table's wine, its joys, its jest,
The study's solitary hour,
She seizes all—she, she knows best
What best will suit me, sweet or sour.
The study's solitary hour,
She seizes all—she, she knows best
What best will suit me, sweet or sour.
Who could resist?—'tis not in men
To meet such love with resolution;
Such zeal, such care, such truth—and then
She understands my constitution.
To meet such love with resolution;
Such zeal, such care, such truth—and then
She understands my constitution.
Yet why thus born to fascinate!
Why play the fond physician's part!
Why was it her victorious fate
To make a seizure of my heart!
Why play the fond physician's part!
Why was it her victorious fate
To make a seizure of my heart!
Give me, oh Love—since love intense
My life's best charm has dissipated—
The joy of cold indifference,
The conscious bliss of being hated.
My life's best charm has dissipated—
The joy of cold indifference,
The conscious bliss of being hated.
1837.
293
CONGRATULATORY ADDRESS TO MADAME VESTRIS ON HER RECENT JOURNEY TO BRIGHTON.
Of all the gay and graceful themes
The Muses may alight on,
The one that most with fancy teems
Is—your exploit at Brighton.
The Muses may alight on,
The one that most with fancy teems
Is—your exploit at Brighton.
In you all beauties ever blent,
Your eyes would flash and lighten,
Your voice worked spells—before you went
Three weeks ago to Brighton.
Your eyes would flash and lighten,
Your voice worked spells—before you went
Three weeks ago to Brighton.
From childhood up to—(what's your age?)
You've been a female Crichton,
And charmed the silly and the sage
In many towns like Brighton.
You've been a female Crichton,
And charmed the silly and the sage
In many towns like Brighton.
But each of all your triumphs past
A minnow to a Triton
Appears, compared with this your last
Triumphal trip to Brighton.
A minnow to a Triton
Appears, compared with this your last
Triumphal trip to Brighton.
294
'Twould puzzle Bidder's self to count
The rivals you affrighten;
But where's the rival that can mount
Your hill of fame at Brighton?
The rivals you affrighten;
But where's the rival that can mount
Your hill of fame at Brighton?
They claim and fascinate, when they
On Subjects fix their sight on;
But you have taught a King to say
‘I can't refuse’—at Brighton.
On Subjects fix their sight on;
But you have taught a King to say
‘I can't refuse’—at Brighton.
You had but to denounce the laws,
Unduly framed to tighten
The art you love, to win your cause,
And crown your hopes at Brighton.
Unduly framed to tighten
The art you love, to win your cause,
And crown your hopes at Brighton.
In vain might actors, authors, plead,
And editors might write on;
Ay, write and read, but not succeed
Though all should rush to Brighton.
And editors might write on;
Ay, write and read, but not succeed
Though all should rush to Brighton.
Another voice had lost its tone,
Another lip would whiten,
Another heart had timid grown,
When not half-way to Brighton.
Another lip would whiten,
Another heart had timid grown,
When not half-way to Brighton.
Let meaner spirits shrink, but you
Are formed to travel right on;
Your eye and voice more splendid grew,
When called to plead at Brighton.
Are formed to travel right on;
Your eye and voice more splendid grew,
When called to plead at Brighton.
295
I wish you'd seek another stage
Than that you sing at night on
In politics you'd fill a page
With victories won at Brighton.
Than that you sing at night on
In politics you'd fill a page
With victories won at Brighton.
A great physician you must prove,
A state Sir William Knighton;
And heal all wounds, all strife remove,
By taking trips to Brighton.
A state Sir William Knighton;
And heal all wounds, all strife remove,
By taking trips to Brighton.
You ask and have, you kneel and win,
Misfortune throws no blight on
The fruits you grasp at—'tis a sin
To stay away from Brighton.
Misfortune throws no blight on
The fruits you grasp at—'tis a sin
To stay away from Brighton.
Why plot, project, resist?—and why
Should parties storm and fight on,
When you may make air, voice, and eye,
Petitioners at Brighton.
Should parties storm and fight on,
When you may make air, voice, and eye,
Petitioners at Brighton.
1837.
296
QUEEN ELIZABETH'S STOCKINGS.
‘Sarah Row was indicted for stealing a pair of silk hose, value 10s.
‘Common Serjeant: I see, Madame, by the deposition, that you state the stockings are more than 300 years old?
‘Witness: My Lord, they were once the property of Elizabeth, Queen of England. When that monarch died, her will directed that her wardrobe should be divided between her maids of honour, and these stockings have been handed down as heirlooms from generation to generation.
‘The hose were now produced, and excited great curiosity. They were of scarlet silk, with white clocks, surmounted by a Papal crown.’—
Daily Paper.
‘Ah! sure a pair was never seen,
So justly formed,’&c.
So justly formed,’&c.
Oh, stockings illustrious, marvellous hose,
Who on earth such a pair could expect to behold?
Whatsoever the witness above may depose,
Is it true that you're more than three hundred years old?
Who on earth such a pair could expect to behold?
Whatsoever the witness above may depose,
Is it true that you're more than three hundred years old?
Like the handkerchief cribbed by Iago, the varlet,
The worms were all hallowed that bred your fine silk;
Why, poppies when brightest are pale to your scarlet,
Your clocks shame the whiteness of snow or of milk.
The worms were all hallowed that bred your fine silk;
Why, poppies when brightest are pale to your scarlet,
Your clocks shame the whiteness of snow or of milk.
297
How strange! that such fragile productions may stay,
When queens and their subjects pass off with celerity;
How odd, when the ankles they covered are clay,
That stockings are thus handed down to posterity.
When queens and their subjects pass off with celerity;
How odd, when the ankles they covered are clay,
That stockings are thus handed down to posterity.
Ah! when did she wear ye? Why, as I'm alive,
You're as red to this day as the fires of old Bonner;
Supernatural stockings, how did you survive?
Say, magical silk, were you ever drawn on her?
You're as red to this day as the fires of old Bonner;
Supernatural stockings, how did you survive?
Say, magical silk, were you ever drawn on her?
Well! when did she wear ye? Were ye on her feet
When the gallant Lord Essex first flung himself there?
Did you peep, as that virgin heart tenderly beat,
From under the petticoat, exquisite pair?
When the gallant Lord Essex first flung himself there?
Did you peep, as that virgin heart tenderly beat,
From under the petticoat, exquisite pair?
Were ye worn, scarlet hose, on the day when she found
The statesman and swain lost to love and to reason?
Your silk was perchance 'twixt her foot and the ground
When stamped in a fury at Essex's treason.
The statesman and swain lost to love and to reason?
Your silk was perchance 'twixt her foot and the ground
When stamped in a fury at Essex's treason.
Who can say you're not the identical pair
In which her fair ankles were blushingly seen,
As she stepped on the cloak that young Raleigh threw there
To save from a spot e'en the shoe of his queen.
In which her fair ankles were blushingly seen,
As she stepped on the cloak that young Raleigh threw there
To save from a spot e'en the shoe of his queen.
What marvel, bright hose, you are thus handed down!
‘Maids of honour’ alone can be worthy of you;
The wonder is, seeing that each clock bears a ‘crown,’
(Id est, four) that yourselves should be valued at two.
‘Maids of honour’ alone can be worthy of you;
The wonder is, seeing that each clock bears a ‘crown,’
(Id est, four) that yourselves should be valued at two.
298
Yet e'en at this low rate your worth may be seen;
And to you as an heirloom, all heirlooms must bow,
For being but part of a dress of a queen,
You are equal to just‘Half a Sovereign’ now.
And to you as an heirloom, all heirlooms must bow,
For being but part of a dress of a queen,
You are equal to just‘Half a Sovereign’ now.
'Twas natural to steal ye; ah! who could resist!
Common gallantry bids one lay hands on the gear;
But as stockings like these are so apt to be missed,
A watch should be kept on each ‘clock’it is clear.
Common gallantry bids one lay hands on the gear;
But as stockings like these are so apt to be missed,
A watch should be kept on each ‘clock’it is clear.
Be still handed down!—But my Muse, ere she's dizzy,
Would sing of a living queen—(sing her, sweet Muse).
Who, though she may ne'er wear the stockings of Lizzy,
For England's proud glory, may ‘tread in her shoes.’
Would sing of a living queen—(sing her, sweet Muse).
Who, though she may ne'er wear the stockings of Lizzy,
For England's proud glory, may ‘tread in her shoes.’
1837.
299
HER MAJESTY'S EXCURSION TO BRIGHTON.
Though to London I come not again,
Though I ne'er should to Windsor repair;
To Brighton I go on my pen,
(As a witch on her stick) through the air.
So away, and away, and away!
A certain most beautiful pair,
Are visible, each like a ray,
In fancy before I get there.
Though I ne'er should to Windsor repair;
To Brighton I go on my pen,
(As a witch on her stick) through the air.
So away, and away, and away!
A certain most beautiful pair,
Are visible, each like a ray,
In fancy before I get there.
A beautiful, beautiful pair!
Aha! shall I mention their names!
Why that might plunge into despair
Some millions of damsels and dames.
Oh, no! what a fib have I sung;
It would rather compel me to mention
Some millions of belles old and young,
Which somewhat exceeds my intention.
Aha! shall I mention their names!
Why that might plunge into despair
Some millions of damsels and dames.
Oh, no! what a fib have I sung;
It would rather compel me to mention
Some millions of belles old and young,
Which somewhat exceeds my intention.
‘A beautiful pair!’ why, the phrase
May describe any feminine twain
That one anywhere meets in these days,
For I swear that they're none of'em plain.
The words may describe any two,
Stout, slender, elongate, or short,
That the eye of a lover may view
Within five hundred miles of the Court.
May describe any feminine twain
That one anywhere meets in these days,
For I swear that they're none of'em plain.
300
Stout, slender, elongate, or short,
That the eye of a lover may view
Within five hundred miles of the Court.
The pair that I mean—shall I print
Their titles at length, with their claims?
Oh, no—and the reason I hint;
Hem! I never once heard of their names.
No matter; to Brighton we'll go on—
The prospect grows dazzlingly near,
And surely the stars never shone
So bright as the eyes that are here.
Their titles at length, with their claims?
Oh, no—and the reason I hint;
Hem! I never once heard of their names.
No matter; to Brighton we'll go on—
The prospect grows dazzlingly near,
And surely the stars never shone
So bright as the eyes that are here.
To Brighton!—let Margate bewail,
And Harrowgate give up the ghost;
And the chalk cliffs of Dover turn pale,
And Ramsgate retire from the coast;
Let Cheltenham deepen her springs
With the flood of salt tears she must shed;
And Worthing and Tunbridge take wings,
And Hastings bow down its green head.
And Harrowgate give up the ghost;
And the chalk cliffs of Dover turn pale,
And Ramsgate retire from the coast;
Let Cheltenham deepen her springs
With the flood of salt tears she must shed;
And Worthing and Tunbridge take wings,
And Hastings bow down its green head.
Yes, Brighton eclipses them all;
For look on this vision outspread;
Can fancy such colours recall,
From the splendor of dreams that are fled!
The fairies have dropt upon earth
And fashioned this exquisite scene,
To welcome with music and mirth
The approach of Old England's young Queen!
For look on this vision outspread;
Can fancy such colours recall,
From the splendor of dreams that are fled!
The fairies have dropt upon earth
And fashioned this exquisite scene,
To welcome with music and mirth
The approach of Old England's young Queen!
301
Do you hear—do you hear how they shout?
Their souls spoke aloud in that burst—
Do you see how they're running about,
Each striving to outstrip the first?
See here, too, how patient they stand;
That loyal old man how he limps—
This urchin with flow'rs in his hand—
All glad if they get but a glimpse.
Their souls spoke aloud in that burst—
Do you see how they're running about,
Each striving to outstrip the first?
See here, too, how patient they stand;
That loyal old man how he limps—
This urchin with flow'rs in his hand—
All glad if they get but a glimpse.
Just glance at the road: what a line
Of light is drawn out to the eye!
How tasteful, how brilliant, how fine,
Are the rainbow-like tints we descry.
That path is the path for a queen;
That arch is triumphal indeed;
Love breathes from each flower of the scene,
And kindles with beauty each weed.
Of light is drawn out to the eye!
How tasteful, how brilliant, how fine,
Are the rainbow-like tints we descry.
That path is the path for a queen;
That arch is triumphal indeed;
Love breathes from each flower of the scene,
And kindles with beauty each weed.
From hundreds and hundreds of nooks
You may see eager eyes shining out,
Old faces with youth in their looks,
Young lips that will smile as they pout.
Not an eye will know slumber serene,
Not a lip will reward the caresser,
If the eye get no view of the Queen,
And the lips may not breathe a ‘God bless her!’
You may see eager eyes shining out,
Old faces with youth in their looks,
Young lips that will smile as they pout.
Not an eye will know slumber serene,
Not a lip will reward the caresser,
If the eye get no view of the Queen,
And the lips may not breathe a ‘God bless her!’
She comes—yes, her Majesty comes!
Hark now to the shouts that arise;
Though all the musicians beat drums,
Those shouts would soar up to the skies.
Ah! now what a feeling of pride
Swells high in each hope-beating heart;
The people stand fast side by side,
As though of each other a part.
Hark now to the shouts that arise;
Though all the musicians beat drums,
Those shouts would soar up to the skies.
302
Swells high in each hope-beating heart;
The people stand fast side by side,
As though of each other a part.
Yes—each to the other is bound
By a sympathy subtle and vast;
And they felt love is not a mere sound
As the Queen of their Love slowly passed.
For then had the splendour no spell
Like the bright hue of health on that cheek,
And no shout could to them speak so well
As the silent lips seeming to speak.
By a sympathy subtle and vast;
And they felt love is not a mere sound
As the Queen of their Love slowly passed.
For then had the splendour no spell
Like the bright hue of health on that cheek,
And no shout could to them speak so well
As the silent lips seeming to speak.
They see where fine carriages throng,
The archways with dahlias entwined,
The horsemen careering along,
The platforms with fair ladies lined;
They view the magnificent stir,
The mingling of simple and wise—
But the Queen! they have eyes but for her,
And their hearts now look out of their eyes.
The archways with dahlias entwined,
The horsemen careering along,
The platforms with fair ladies lined;
They view the magnificent stir,
The mingling of simple and wise—
But the Queen! they have eyes but for her,
And their hearts now look out of their eyes.
They hear the all rapturous roar
That drowns the hoarse cry on the strand,
And they hear a gay air, which is more,
From good Admiral D.'s private band.
Back, bands, to your camps or your ships!
In vain on your spirits you call,
For they fancy the Queen's smiling lips
Are breathing a greeting to all.
That drowns the hoarse cry on the strand,
And they hear a gay air, which is more,
From good Admiral D.'s private band.
Back, bands, to your camps or your ships!
In vain on your spirits you call,
For they fancy the Queen's smiling lips
Are breathing a greeting to all.
303
And the ladies—Ha! where are the two
Whom I came here on purpose to find;
So spellbound was I with the view,
They have vanished ‘slick’ out of my mind.
Ye twain, will ye tell where you sit?
What window, what carriage, what stand?
Or the gay amphitheatre, fit
For such fairies to grace hand in hand!
Whom I came here on purpose to find;
So spellbound was I with the view,
They have vanished ‘slick’ out of my mind.
Ye twain, will ye tell where you sit?
What window, what carriage, what stand?
Or the gay amphitheatre, fit
For such fairies to grace hand in hand!
Ye pair of ‘young ladies,’ I mean,
With faces lit up in sweet smiles,
Who travelled, to look on your Queen,
Just a hundred and thirty long miles!
Oh with you to have one minute's talk—
In love's as in loyalty's wiles
To be tangled—I'd travel, nay, walk—
Yes, double the number of miles.
With faces lit up in sweet smiles,
Who travelled, to look on your Queen,
Just a hundred and thirty long miles!
Oh with you to have one minute's talk—
In love's as in loyalty's wiles
To be tangled—I'd travel, nay, walk—
Yes, double the number of miles.
1837.
304
MY DREAM.
By an ex-Premier.
Whilst reading the ‘Standard's’ Irish news,
And tracing amidst its mingled hues,
The colour and cut of the last new lie—
(A Protestant fact) asleep fell I.
And methought for my sins—even saints have sins—
That I and the Outs were again the Ins.
That again the hurried Hudson came
As of old and called aloud on my name—
And a crowd of hungry eager things,
Colleagues, and cousins, and underlings,
Were urging me on with hastening feet,
Onwards, on, towards Downing Street—
Where still, however, the Cabinet door
To us was shut and fast as before.
When lo! from the midst of the crowd an arm,
O'erreaching stretched with a wondrous charm—
And the door that seemed set firm as a rock,
Opened—Lord Brougham had picked the lock:
And bowing us in with a whisper small,
Declared that the Queen had done it all!
In first rushed I, as Premier again,
And hopes ran high for a long, long reign;
But lightning-swift was the change that shot
O'er my apparently Pitt-like lot.
Louder than thunder came a note
From the multitudinous Tory throat-
A note of advice, remonstrance, prayer.
Following, stunning me everywhere!
Millions of candidates spoke at a time,
On the selfsame theme with a different rhyme;
A peerage, a pension, a see, a place,
A ribbon, a lift was the a different rhyme;
Thought and language seemed as I live
Condensed into one monosyllable—‘Give!’
And tracing amidst its mingled hues,
The colour and cut of the last new lie—
(A Protestant fact) asleep fell I.
And methought for my sins—even saints have sins—
That I and the Outs were again the Ins.
That again the hurried Hudson came
As of old and called aloud on my name—
And a crowd of hungry eager things,
Colleagues, and cousins, and underlings,
Were urging me on with hastening feet,
Onwards, on, towards Downing Street—
Where still, however, the Cabinet door
To us was shut and fast as before.
When lo! from the midst of the crowd an arm,
O'erreaching stretched with a wondrous charm—
And the door that seemed set firm as a rock,
Opened—Lord Brougham had picked the lock:
And bowing us in with a whisper small,
Declared that the Queen had done it all!
305
And hopes ran high for a long, long reign;
But lightning-swift was the change that shot
O'er my apparently Pitt-like lot.
Louder than thunder came a note
From the multitudinous Tory throat-
A note of advice, remonstrance, prayer.
Following, stunning me everywhere!
Millions of candidates spoke at a time,
On the selfsame theme with a different rhyme;
A peerage, a pension, a see, a place,
A ribbon, a lift was the a different rhyme;
Thought and language seemed as I live
Condensed into one monosyllable—‘Give!’
In I was nor could I get out,
So thronged was the place with that ravenous rout—.
Countless relations, troops of friends,
Each with his small, snug family ends—
I couldn't go down to Windsor to dine,
The swarm of petitioners blocked the line.
No ghastlier crew were there if the ghosts
Of all the Pittites came back for posts.
Methought while stretched on this Cabinet rack,
Lord Hill and the Guards might keep them back;
And his Lordship (he said) would have been most proud,
But all his friends were among the crowd!
In the midst of it all Archdeacon Magee
Denounced us as things of ‘expediency:’
Perfidious place-lovers, men who'd betray
Both Church and State in the broad noonday.
And the people laughed as our arch-fiend swore,
So well did they know that fact before.
Then others as arch proclaimed our creed
Specious in word, but dirty in deed;
And, deeming me treacherous, wondered still
When I meant to repeal the Poor-Law Bill—
Or the Bill, said the Bishops (kind friends of mine),
Passed in the fatal year '29!
So thronged was the place with that ravenous rout—.
Countless relations, troops of friends,
Each with his small, snug family ends—
I couldn't go down to Windsor to dine,
The swarm of petitioners blocked the line.
No ghastlier crew were there if the ghosts
Of all the Pittites came back for posts.
Methought while stretched on this Cabinet rack,
Lord Hill and the Guards might keep them back;
And his Lordship (he said) would have been most proud,
But all his friends were among the crowd!
In the midst of it all Archdeacon Magee
Denounced us as things of ‘expediency:’
Perfidious place-lovers, men who'd betray
Both Church and State in the broad noonday.
306
So well did they know that fact before.
Then others as arch proclaimed our creed
Specious in word, but dirty in deed;
And, deeming me treacherous, wondered still
When I meant to repeal the Poor-Law Bill—
Or the Bill, said the Bishops (kind friends of mine),
Passed in the fatal year '29!
But Exeter's prelate of all the host,
With three-hour speeches plagued me most,
To make with a mitre or some such matter—
The Rev. Mr. Stephens fatter,
And Oastler, he thought, would expect to get
A seat in the poor man's Cabinet;
While great O'Connor would bow his neck
For the scanty pay of Irish Sec.
But worse than this, and worse than all,
That holding me up foredoomed my fall—
That bade me do what I, when out,
Had factiously worried the Whigs about—
That dragged me a thousand different ways,
The press to fetter, the Church to raise,
To crush Dissent, bid Freedom cease,
And levy the costs of war in peace—
Oh, worse than all was the threat that hung
On a certain noble and learned tongue—
The threat of his ‘friendship’ proffered pat,
The friendship of—let me not think of that!
He savagely promised his fine support,
And offered to take me at once to Court!
With three-hour speeches plagued me most,
To make with a mitre or some such matter—
The Rev. Mr. Stephens fatter,
And Oastler, he thought, would expect to get
A seat in the poor man's Cabinet;
While great O'Connor would bow his neck
For the scanty pay of Irish Sec.
But worse than this, and worse than all,
That holding me up foredoomed my fall—
That bade me do what I, when out,
Had factiously worried the Whigs about—
That dragged me a thousand different ways,
The press to fetter, the Church to raise,
To crush Dissent, bid Freedom cease,
And levy the costs of war in peace—
Oh, worse than all was the threat that hung
On a certain noble and learned tongue—
The threat of his ‘friendship’ proffered pat,
The friendship of—let me not think of that!
He savagely promised his fine support,
And offered to take me at once to Court!
307
And he vowed to write by that night's post
To the Queen, whose favour was ever his boast,
A letter of truths now first revealed,
With his Lordship's crest (a whole hog) sealed!
Nay more, he was willing—he scorned repose—
To sit as Chancellor if we chose;
To agitate for us six times a week
In Sanscrit, Irish, Dutch, or Greek;
Or turn with his pen Old Buff and Blue
(To oblige us) into an Orange review!
. . . . The threat was fatal, the vision fled—
Horrors were heaped upon horror's head,
Ladies, and Lords, and lacqueys, the race
Eager for plunder, pay, and place—
Red-tape Radicals, prelates proud,
All that composed the insatiate crowd
Were nothing to this; their yellings yet
Seem music compared with that horrible threat.
To suffer the sting of his support,
To bear the badge of his praise to Court,
To incur his ‘friendship’—whilst he spoke
With a gentleman's instinct, I awoke!
To the Queen, whose favour was ever his boast,
A letter of truths now first revealed,
With his Lordship's crest (a whole hog) sealed!
Nay more, he was willing—he scorned repose—
To sit as Chancellor if we chose;
To agitate for us six times a week
In Sanscrit, Irish, Dutch, or Greek;
Or turn with his pen Old Buff and Blue
(To oblige us) into an Orange review!
. . . . The threat was fatal, the vision fled—
Horrors were heaped upon horror's head,
Ladies, and Lords, and lacqueys, the race
Eager for plunder, pay, and place—
Red-tape Radicals, prelates proud,
All that composed the insatiate crowd
Were nothing to this; their yellings yet
Seem music compared with that horrible threat.
To suffer the sting of his support,
To bear the badge of his praise to Court,
To incur his ‘friendship’—whilst he spoke
With a gentleman's instinct, I awoke!
‘The Courier.’1838.
308
HELEN FAUCIT IN ‘THE LADY OF LYONS.’
What need I, O Helen, comparisons draw
'Twixt thee and the belles of Circassia or Cadiz;
Since first the sweet Lady of Lyons I saw,
I swear I have deemed thee the Lion of Ladies.
'Twixt thee and the belles of Circassia or Cadiz;
Since first the sweet Lady of Lyons I saw,
I swear I have deemed thee the Lion of Ladies.
Start not, I would give thee no terrible shape,
A lion dove-voiced like the poet's I mean,
But such are my chains I might sooner escape
From the leonine paw than from you as Pauline.
A lion dove-voiced like the poet's I mean,
But such are my chains I might sooner escape
From the leonine paw than from you as Pauline.
Sweet Lady of Lyons! what lions of his,
Van Amburgh's, could move us like thee to applaud?
While he is avoiding a scratch on the phiz,
We, seeing you, wish—yes, we wish to be Claude.
Van Amburgh's, could move us like thee to applaud?
While he is avoiding a scratch on the phiz,
We, seeing you, wish—yes, we wish to be Claude.
Yes, Lady, the pride and the rapture of Claude,
Though at first his love-garden was wofully weedy,
In winning by faith what he'd captured by fraud,
Oh! it does make one long to be Mr. Macready.
Though at first his love-garden was wofully weedy,
In winning by faith what he'd captured by fraud,
Oh! it does make one long to be Mr. Macready.
309
The love, the disdain, the relenting, the bliss
Of being well cheated—that natural passion—
You feel it all keenly! but we too feel this,
Oh! Helen, you've brought heart and soul into fashion.
Of being well cheated—that natural passion—
You feel it all keenly! but we too feel this,
Oh! Helen, you've brought heart and soul into fashion.
While hearing from your lips the truths he has written,
While watching the thoughts your deep eyes are revealing,
I'm sure there must often steal over Sir Lytton,
A pleasant Pygmalionish sort of a feeling.
While watching the thoughts your deep eyes are revealing,
I'm sure there must often steal over Sir Lytton,
A pleasant Pygmalionish sort of a feeling.
Oh! Helen of Lyons! not she of old Troy
(The Helen of Paris) is Helen to me;
Nor Helen, the brave—minded rib of Rob Roy,
Nor Helen—Miss Edgeworth's—the best of the three;
(The Helen of Paris) is Helen to me;
Nor Helen, the brave—minded rib of Rob Roy,
Nor Helen—Miss Edgeworth's—the best of the three;
Nor Shakspeare's fond Helen, who felt 'twas affliction
To love, and not wed, some ‘particular star,’
Though stars they may be, shining sweetly in fiction,
You glisten, in fact, more enchantingly far.
To love, and not wed, some ‘particular star,’
Though stars they may be, shining sweetly in fiction,
You glisten, in fact, more enchantingly far.
1838.
310
TO WILLIAM CHARLES MACREADY.
On his becoming the Lessee of Old Drury.
I
Macready, master of the Art supreme,That shows to dazzled and else guideless eyes
(As doth Astronomy the starry skies)
The airy wonders of our Shakspeare's dream;
Com'st thou again to shed a wakening gleam
Of morals, taste, and learning, where the gloom
Most darkens, as around the Drama's tomb!
Oh! come, and show us yet the true extreme;
Transcendent art, for coarse and low desire;
The generous purpose, for the sordid aim;
For noise and smoke, the music and the fire
Of time-crown'd poets; for librettos tame,
The emulous flashings of the modern lyre—
Come, and put scowling Calumny to shame!
II
What though with thee come Lear, himself a stormOf wilder'd passion, and the musing Dane,
The gallant Harry and his warrior train,
311
Lowering; not therefore only that we warm
With hope and praise; but that thy glorious part
Is now to raise the Actor's trampled Art,
And drive from out its temple a loose swarm
Of things vice-nurtured—from the Porch and Shrine!
And know, Macready, 'midst the desert there,
That soon shall bloom a garden, swells a mine
Of wealth no less than honour—both most bare
To meaner enterprise. Let that be thine—
Who knowest how to risk, and how to share.
1842.
312
LOVE HAS LEGS.
Strolling about from bower to hall,
Love paid Lavinia a morning call.
An hour soon went—she chatted and sang—
He stayed, till at last the dinner-bell rang.
He stayed, still charm'd; and rather alarmed,
Lavinia felt she must ask him to stay.
‘To tell you the truth,’ cried the radiant youth,
‘I'm here for life, I shall ne'er go away.’
Love paid Lavinia a morning call.
An hour soon went—she chatted and sang—
He stayed, till at last the dinner-bell rang.
He stayed, still charm'd; and rather alarmed,
Lavinia felt she must ask him to stay.
‘To tell you the truth,’ cried the radiant youth,
‘I'm here for life, I shall ne'er go away.’
Love's fire shot through her in one wild flush,
Till her heart itself might be seen to blush;
Love saw, and finding it faithful and kind,
Exclaimed, O Beauty, how long I've been blind!
More grateful grew he, more fervent she,
More watchful, sensitive, warm, and fond;
So much like light was he to her sight,
She could not trust him a step beyond.
Till her heart itself might be seen to blush;
Love saw, and finding it faithful and kind,
Exclaimed, O Beauty, how long I've been blind!
More grateful grew he, more fervent she,
More watchful, sensitive, warm, and fond;
So much like light was he to her sight,
She could not trust him a step beyond.
Still more she cherish'd him year by year,
Till at last each joy came tinged with fear;
She fear'd, if he stroll'd where wild flowers meet,
Lest thorns might pierce his delicate feet;
Or a reptile's sting beneath his wing
She fear'd if he lay in the greenwood asleep;
Or walk'd he awake by the moonlit lake—
In dread of an ague how would she weep!
Till at last each joy came tinged with fear;
She fear'd, if he stroll'd where wild flowers meet,
Lest thorns might pierce his delicate feet;
313
She fear'd if he lay in the greenwood asleep;
Or walk'd he awake by the moonlit lake—
In dread of an ague how would she weep!
She chatted and sang to Love no more,
Lest music and chat should prove ‘a bore!’
But she hung on his steps where'er he went,
And shut from the chamber the rose's scent.
She slept not a wink, for fear he should think
She dreamed not of Love—so her eyes grew dim;
She took no care of her beautiful hair,
For she could not spare one moment from him.
Lest music and chat should prove ‘a bore!’
But she hung on his steps where'er he went,
And shut from the chamber the rose's scent.
She slept not a wink, for fear he should think
She dreamed not of Love—so her eyes grew dim;
She took no care of her beautiful hair,
For she could not spare one moment from him.
Love's bright fireside grew dark with doubt,
Yet home was a desert if Love went out;
In vain were his vows, caresses, and sighs;
‘O Love,’ cried the Lady, ‘I've given you eyes!
And ah! should some face of a livelier grace
Than mine ever meet them! Ah, should you stay!’
Love wearied at last, was in slumber locked fast:
‘Those wings!’ said the watcher, ‘he might fly away!’
Yet home was a desert if Love went out;
In vain were his vows, caresses, and sighs;
‘O Love,’ cried the Lady, ‘I've given you eyes!
And ah! should some face of a livelier grace
Than mine ever meet them! Ah, should you stay!’
Love wearied at last, was in slumber locked fast:
‘Those wings!’ said the watcher, ‘he might fly away!’
One awful moment! Oh! could she sever
Those wings from Love, he is hers for ever!
With trembling hand she gathers the wings—
She clips—they are off! and up Love springs.
‘Adieu!’ he cried, as he leapt from her side,
‘Of Folly's cup you have drunk the dregs:
My home was here; it is now with the deer;
Thank Venus, though wingless, Love has legs!
Those wings from Love, he is hers for ever!
With trembling hand she gathers the wings—
She clips—they are off! and up Love springs.
‘Adieu!’ he cried, as he leapt from her side,
‘Of Folly's cup you have drunk the dregs:
My home was here; it is now with the deer;
Thank Venus, though wingless, Love has legs!
1842.
314
LOVE'S MASQUERADINGS.
Love never less surprises
Than when his tricks are tried;
In vain are all disguises,
Himself he cannot hide.
He came, the Masquerader,
To conscious Kate one day,
Attempting to persuade her
He then was—far away!
‘Ah, Love!’ she cried, unfearing,
‘Take any shape you will,
Strange, distant, or endearing,
This heart would know you still.’
Than when his tricks are tried;
In vain are all disguises,
Himself he cannot hide.
He came, the Masquerader,
To conscious Kate one day,
Attempting to persuade her
He then was—far away!
‘Ah, Love!’ she cried, unfearing,
‘Take any shape you will,
Strange, distant, or endearing,
This heart would know you still.’
Then Love came clad like sorrow;
His robe was dark as night;
But like a golden morrow,
Flash'd forth his forehead's light;
She knew him, as with languor
He played the wounded dove:
Then fierce he frowned—'twas anger!
But still she knew 'twas Love!
His robe was dark as night;
But like a golden morrow,
Flash'd forth his forehead's light;
She knew him, as with languor
He played the wounded dove:
Then fierce he frowned—'twas anger!
But still she knew 'twas Love!
315
Then came he wreathed like Pleasure;
In vain he cried, ‘Rejoice!’
And sang a laughing measure—
She knew him by his voice.
He turned his tongue to railing,
Performing Envy's task;
His scowl was unavailing,
She saw him—through his mask.
In vain he cried, ‘Rejoice!’
And sang a laughing measure—
She knew him by his voice.
He turned his tongue to railing,
Performing Envy's task;
His scowl was unavailing,
She saw him—through his mask.
Like cloak'd Revenge then stealing,
With poniard bare he came,
His limbs, his looks, concealing—
Yet still he seem'd the same.
Then he, his thoughts dissembling,
With Jealousy's wild air
Stood raging, watching, trembling—
Yet Love alone stood there.
With poniard bare he came,
His limbs, his looks, concealing—
Yet still he seem'd the same.
Then he, his thoughts dissembling,
With Jealousy's wild air
Stood raging, watching, trembling—
Yet Love alone stood there.
Next came he garbed like Malice;
Yet wore his cheek the rose,
No poison crowns his chalice,
With wine it overflows.
And then as Joy, arrayed in
Rare colours from above!
He failed again—the maiden
In Joy saw only Love!
Yet wore his cheek the rose,
No poison crowns his chalice,
With wine it overflows.
And then as Joy, arrayed in
Rare colours from above!
He failed again—the maiden
In Joy saw only Love!
Then casting off his splendour,
He took black Hatred's guise;
But all his tones were tender,
She knew him—by his eyes.
In all he fail'd; when glancing
Like Fear, afraid to stir;
And when like Hope, half dancing—
For Hope was Love to her.
‘In vain,’ she cried, ‘your powers,
Take any shape you may;
Are hearts less wise than flowers,
That know the night from day?’
He took black Hatred's guise;
But all his tones were tender,
She knew him—by his eyes.
316
Like Fear, afraid to stir;
And when like Hope, half dancing—
For Hope was Love to her.
‘In vain,’ she cried, ‘your powers,
Take any shape you may;
Are hearts less wise than flowers,
That know the night from day?’
1842.
317
TWO OF A TRADE.
‘With such a dear companion at my side.’—Wordsworth.
Oh! marvellous Boy, what marvel when
I met thy Dog and thee,
I marvell'd if to dogs or men
You traced your ancestry!
I met thy Dog and thee,
I marvell'd if to dogs or men
You traced your ancestry!
If changed from what you once were known,
As sorrow turns to joy,
The Boy more like the Dog had grown,
The Dog more like the Boy.
As sorrow turns to joy,
The Boy more like the Dog had grown,
The Dog more like the Boy.
It would a prophet's eyesight baulk,
To see through time's dark fog,
If on four legs the Boy will walk,
Or if on two the Dog.
To see through time's dark fog,
If on four legs the Boy will walk,
Or if on two the Dog.
O pair! what were ye both at first?
The one a feeble pup;
A babe the other, fondly nursed—
How have ye been brought up?
The one a feeble pup;
A babe the other, fondly nursed—
How have ye been brought up?
318
O Boy! and wert thou once a child,
A cherub small and soft,
On whom two human beings smiled,
And prayed for, oft and oft?
A cherub small and soft,
On whom two human beings smiled,
And prayed for, oft and oft?
A creature rosy, plump, and fair,
Half meekness and half joy;
A wingless angel with light hair!
Oh! wert thou, Butcher-boy?
Half meekness and half joy;
A wingless angel with light hair!
Oh! wert thou, Butcher-boy?
A thing more gentle, laughing, light,
More blithe, more full of play,
Than e'er he was—that luckless wight!
The lamb you stuck to-day?
More blithe, more full of play,
Than e'er he was—that luckless wight!
The lamb you stuck to-day?
And thou, O Dog, with deep-set eyes,
Wert thou, like Love, once blind:
With helpless limbs of pigmy size,
And voice that scarcely whined?
Wert thou, like Love, once blind:
With helpless limbs of pigmy size,
And voice that scarcely whined?
How grew your legs so like to his,
Your growl so like his tone?
And when did he first see your phiz
Reflected in his own?
Your growl so like his tone?
And when did he first see your phiz
Reflected in his own?
Bravely have both your likeness worn;
Alike, without, within;
Brethren ye are, and each was born,
Like Happiness, ‘a twin!’
Alike, without, within;
Brethren ye are, and each was born,
Like Happiness, ‘a twin!’
319
Yet can it be, oh, Butcher-boy,
Thou com'st of Adam's race?
Then Adam's gold has much alloy,
Was this his form and face?
Thou com'st of Adam's race?
Then Adam's gold has much alloy,
Was this his form and face?
Art thou descended from the pair
From whom the Cæsars came?
Wore Alexander such an air?
Look'd Cheops much the same?
From whom the Cæsars came?
Wore Alexander such an air?
Look'd Cheops much the same?
And thou, oh, Butcher's cur, is't true
That thy first parents e'er
From Eden's garden lapped the dew,
And breathed in rapture there?
That thy first parents e'er
From Eden's garden lapped the dew,
And breathed in rapture there?
Yes! those from whom you spring, no doubt,
Who lived like dogs and died,
Must once have followed Eve about,
And walked by Adam's side.
Who lived like dogs and died,
Must once have followed Eve about,
And walked by Adam's side.
1842.
320
SUCH A DUCK.
Once Venus, deeming Love too fat,
Stopped all his rich ambrosial dishes,
Dooming the boy to live on chat,
To sup on songs, and dine on wishes.
Love, lean and lank, flew off to prowl—
The starvelling now no beauty boasted—
He could have munched Minerva's owl,
Or Juno's peacock, boiled or roasted.
Stopped all his rich ambrosial dishes,
Dooming the boy to live on chat,
To sup on songs, and dine on wishes.
Love, lean and lank, flew off to prowl—
The starvelling now no beauty boasted—
He could have munched Minerva's owl,
Or Juno's peacock, boiled or roasted.
At last, half famished, almost dead,
He shot his Mother's Doves for dinner;
Young Lilla, passing, shook her head—
Cried Love, ‘A shot at you, young sinner!’
‘Oh, not at me!’—she urged her flight—
‘I'm neither dove, nor lark, nor starling!’
‘No,’—fainting Cupid cried—‘not quite;
But then—you're such a—duck—my darling!’
He shot his Mother's Doves for dinner;
Young Lilla, passing, shook her head—
Cried Love, ‘A shot at you, young sinner!’
‘Oh, not at me!’—she urged her flight—
‘I'm neither dove, nor lark, nor starling!’
‘No,’—fainting Cupid cried—‘not quite;
But then—you're such a—duck—my darling!’
1842.
321
A SONG OF CONTRADICTIONS.
‘I am not what I am.’ —Iago.
The Passions, in festival meeting,
I saw seated round, in a dream;
And vow, by my hatred of cheating,
The Passions are not what they seem.
There's mirth under faces the gravest,
There's woe under visages droll;
There's fear in the breast of the bravest,
And light in the desolate soul.
I saw seated round, in a dream;
And vow, by my hatred of cheating,
The Passions are not what they seem.
There's mirth under faces the gravest,
There's woe under visages droll;
There's fear in the breast of the bravest,
And light in the desolate soul.
Thus Joy, in my singular vision,
Sat sobbing and gnashing his teeth;
While Gentleness scoffed in derision,
And Hope picked the buds from his wreath.
Despair, her tight bodice unlacing,
With Laughter seemed ready to die;
And Hate, her companions embracing,
Won each with a smile or a sigh.
Sat sobbing and gnashing his teeth;
While Gentleness scoffed in derision,
And Hope picked the buds from his wreath.
Despair, her tight bodice unlacing,
With Laughter seemed ready to die;
And Hate, her companions embracing,
Won each with a smile or a sigh.
There Peace bellowed louder and louder,
For Freedom, sent off to the hulks;
Fear sat on a barrel of powder,
And Pleasure stood by in the sulks.
Here Dignity shoots like a rocket
Past Grace, who is rolling in fat;
There Probity's picking a pocket,
Here Pity sits skinning a cat.
For Freedom, sent off to the hulks;
Fear sat on a barrel of powder,
And Pleasure stood by in the sulks.
322
Past Grace, who is rolling in fat;
There Probity's picking a pocket,
Here Pity sits skinning a cat.
Then Temperance reeling off, quite full,
Charged Friendship with drugging her draught;
She vowed it was Love that was spiteful,
While Charity, blaming all, laughted;
When Rage, with the blandest expression,
And Vengeance, low-voiced like a child,
Cried, ‘Mercy, forgive the transgression!’
But Mercy look'd horribly wild.
Charged Friendship with drugging her draught;
She vowed it was Love that was spiteful,
While Charity, blaming all, laughted;
When Rage, with the blandest expression,
And Vengeance, low-voiced like a child,
Cried, ‘Mercy, forgive the transgression!’
But Mercy look'd horribly wild.
Old Wisdom was worshipping Fashion,
And Jollity dozing in gloom;
While Meekness was foaming with passion,
And Misery danced round the room.
Sweet Envy tripped off to her garret,
Bright Malice smiled worthy of trust,
Gay Want was enjoying his claret,
And Luxury gnawed a dry crust.
And Jollity dozing in gloom;
While Meekness was foaming with passion,
And Misery danced round the room.
Sweet Envy tripped off to her garret,
Bright Malice smiled worthy of trust,
Gay Want was enjoying his claret,
And Luxury gnawed a dry crust.
At Pride, as she served up the dinner,
Humility turned up her nose;
Suspicion shook hands with each sinner,
While Candour shunned all as her foes.
There's mirth under faces the gravest,
There's woe under visages droll,
There's fear in the breast of the bravest,
And light in the desolate soul!
Humility turned up her nose;
Suspicion shook hands with each sinner,
While Candour shunned all as her foes.
There's mirth under faces the gravest,
There's woe under visages droll,
There's fear in the breast of the bravest,
And light in the desolate soul!
1842.
323
LINES BY A Y---G L---Y OF F*SH---N.
‘Who never told her love, but let concealment,’ &c.
‘She speaks, yet she says n*th---g.’—
R---o and J---t.
‘She speaks, yet she says n*th---g.’—
R---o and J---t.
Go, bid the st*rs forget to shine,
The o---n-tides to ebb and flow,
Bid fl---rs forget to blush and pine,
But bid not me to b*n*sh w*e!
The o---n-tides to ebb and flow,
Bid fl---rs forget to blush and pine,
But bid not me to b*n*sh w*e!
Thou can'st not guess my s*rr*w's source,
My pass---n's spring thou can'st not see;
Thou knowest not its depth and force,—
Thou dreamest not 'tis l*ve for th---!
My pass---n's spring thou can'st not see;
Thou knowest not its depth and force,—
Thou dreamest not 'tis l*ve for th---!
Fiercer than fires in Æ---a's breast
My s---cr---t burns in this lone h---t;
D---y brings no light, sl---p yields no rest,
And h---v---n no air, but where th---art.
My s---cr---t burns in this lone h---t;
D---y brings no light, sl---p yields no rest,
And h---v---n no air, but where th---art.
I listen to the w---nds at night,
They speak of th---in whispers fine;
In D---n's or Au---ra's light,
I see no beauty, none but th---!
They speak of th---in whispers fine;
In D---n's or Au---ra's light,
I see no beauty, none but th---!
324
All l---ve save mine's an idle tale
Of Hy---n's torch and C---d's bow;
I envy Cl---p---ra's wail,
Or S---pho leaping, wild, below.
Of Hy---n's torch and C---d's bow;
I envy Cl---p---ra's wail,
Or S---pho leaping, wild, below.
For V---ry's pate holds for me---
Or G---nt---r's soup---no poison rare;
And leaping from a b---lc---y,
Were quite absurd---in Belg---ve Square.
Or G---nt---r's soup---no poison rare;
And leaping from a b---lc---y,
Were quite absurd---in Belg---ve Square.
My s---st---r raves of H---w---ll, Ja---s,
And thinks with dr---ss to ease my thrall;
She dreams not of d---vour---g flames
Beneath one's f---ty g---nea sh---wl!
And thinks with dr---ss to ease my thrall;
She dreams not of d---vour---g flames
Beneath one's f---ty g---nea sh---wl!
M---Ma to M---rt---r and St---rr,
Drags me with sweet maternal haste;
My p---rls of s---l they can't restore,
Nor l---fe's bright d---m---ds, turned to paste
Drags me with sweet maternal haste;
My p---rls of s---l they can't restore,
Nor l---fe's bright d---m---ds, turned to paste
P---pa and br---th---r N---d would win
My spirit forth to ball and rout;
They think of course to t---ke me in---
Alas! they only t---ke me out!
My spirit forth to ball and rout;
They think of course to t---ke me in---
Alas! they only t---ke me out!
In vain R---b---ni's sweetness now,
In vain Lab---che's boldest air;
In vain M---cr---dy plays---if th---,
Th---, the Ad---r'd one, art not there!
In vain Lab---che's boldest air;
In vain M---cr---dy plays---if th---,
Th---, the Ad---r'd one, art not there!
325
Whilst thou, unbless'd with st---ck or l---nd,
Hast not one cr---wn per annum clear,
Thou knowest not that---‘here's my h---nd,
With f---ft---n th---s---d p---ds a year.’
Hast not one cr---wn per annum clear,
Thou knowest not that---‘here's my h---nd,
With f---ft---n th---s---d p---ds a year.’
And were it known, this pass---n wild,
Then d---th would at my h---rt---st---gs tug!
No, none shall know that th---art styled,
The H---n---r---ble Fr---nk F---tz M---gg!
Then d---th would at my h---rt---st---gs tug!
No, none shall know that th---art styled,
The H---n---r---ble Fr---nk F---tz M---gg!
1842.
326
ORIGINAL POETRY.
By the late Sir Fretful Plagiary, Knight, Member of the Dramatic Authors' Association, Fellow of the Parnassian Society, &c.
[_]
Now first printed from the Original Copies in the handwriting of that popular Author. Edited by Laman Blanchard.
ODE TO THE HUMAN HEART.
Blind Thamyris, and blind Mæonides,
Pursue the triumph and partake the gale!
Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees,
To point a moral or adorn a tale.
Pursue the triumph and partake the gale!
Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees,
To point a moral or adorn a tale.
327
Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears,
Like angels' visits, few and far between,
Deck the long vista of departed years.
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears,
Like angels' visits, few and far between,
Deck the long vista of departed years.
Man never is, but always to be bless'd;
The tenth transmitter of a foolish face,
Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest,
And makes a sunshine in the shady place.
The tenth transmitter of a foolish face,
Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest,
And makes a sunshine in the shady place.
For man the hermit sigh'd, till woman smiled,
To waft a feather or to drown a fly,
(In wit a man, simplicity a child),
With silent finger pointing to the sky.
To waft a feather or to drown a fly,
(In wit a man, simplicity a child),
With silent finger pointing to the sky.
But fools rush in where angels fear to tread,
Far out amid the melancholy main;
As when a vulture on Imaus bred,
Dies of a rose in aromatic pain.
Far out amid the melancholy main;
As when a vulture on Imaus bred,
Dies of a rose in aromatic pain.
Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast,
Look on her face, and you'll forget them all;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
A hero perish, or a sparrow fall.
Look on her face, and you'll forget them all;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
A hero perish, or a sparrow fall.
My way of life is fall'n into the sere;
I stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs,
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear,
Who sees through all things with his half-shut eyes.
I stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs,
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear,
Who sees through all things with his half-shut eyes.
328
Oh! for a lodge in some vast wilderness!
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
Fine by degrees and beautifully less,
And die ere man can say ‘Long live the Queen!’
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
Fine by degrees and beautifully less,
And die ere man can say ‘Long live the Queen!’
Lives there a man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself has said,
‘Shoot folly as it flies?’
Oh! more than tears of blood can tell,
Are in that word farewell, farewell!
'Tis folly to be wise.
Who never to himself has said,
‘Shoot folly as it flies?’
Oh! more than tears of blood can tell,
Are in that word farewell, farewell!
'Tis folly to be wise.
And what is friendship but a name,
That boils on Etna's breast of flame?
Thus runs the world away;
Sweet is the ship that's under sail
To where yon taper cheers the vale,
With hospitable ray!
That boils on Etna's breast of flame?
Thus runs the world away;
Sweet is the ship that's under sail
To where yon taper cheers the vale,
With hospitable ray!
Drink to me only with thine eyes
Through cloudless climes and starry skies!
My native land, good night!
Adieu, adieu, my native shore;
'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more—
Whatever is is right!
Through cloudless climes and starry skies!
My native land, good night!
Adieu, adieu, my native shore;
'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more—
Whatever is is right!
The printer's devil has taken upon himself to make the following addition to these lines:—
Blind Thamyris, and blind Mæonides (Something like Milton.)
Pursue their triumph and partake the gale! (Rather like Pope.)
Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees (Why, this is Shakspeare!)
To point a moral or adorn a tale. (Oh, it's Dr. Johnson.)
Pursue their triumph and partake the gale! (Rather like Pope.)
Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees (Why, this is Shakspeare!)
To point a moral or adorn a tale. (Oh, it's Dr. Johnson.)
To the succeeding lines the same authority has added in succession the names of Gray, Wordsworth, Campbell, and so on throughout. What does he mean? Does he mean to say he has ever met with any of these lines before?
329
ON LIFE, ET CETERA.
Know then this truth, enough for man to know:
Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow.
Who would be free themselves must strike the blow.
Retreating lightly with a lovely fear
From grave to gay, from lively to severe.
Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow.
Who would be free themselves must strike the blow.
Retreating lightly with a lovely fear
From grave to gay, from lively to severe.
To err is human, to forgive divine,
And wretches hang that jurymen may dine
Like quills upon the fretful porcupine.
All are but parts of one stupendous whole,
The feast of reason and the flow of soul.
And wretches hang that jurymen may dine
Like quills upon the fretful porcupine.
All are but parts of one stupendous whole,
The feast of reason and the flow of soul.
We shall not look upon his like again,
For panting Time toils after him in vain,
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain;
Allures to brighter worlds, and leads the way
With sweet, reluctant, amorous delay!
For panting Time toils after him in vain,
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain;
Allures to brighter worlds, and leads the way
With sweet, reluctant, amorous delay!
1842.
330
PHOTOGRAPHIC PHENOMENA,
OR THE NEW SCHOOL OF PORTRAIT-PAINTING.
‘Sit, Cousin Percy; sit, good Cousin Hotspur.’—Henry IV.
‘My lords, be seated.’ —Speech from the Throne.
I
INVITATION TO SIT.
Now sit, if ye have courage, cousins all!
Sit, all ye grandmammas, wives, aunts, and mothers
Daughters and sisters, widows, brides, and nieces;
In bonnets, braids, caps, tippets, or pelisses,
The muff, mantilla, boa, scarf, or shawl!
Sit, all ye uncles, godpapas, and brothers,
Fathers, and nephews, sons, and next of kin,
Husbands, half-brother's cousin's sires, and others;
Be you as Science young, or old as Sin:
Turn, Persian-like, your faces to the sun!
And have each one
His portrait done,
Finished, one may say, before it's begun.
331
O slight acquaintances! or blood relations!
But sit, oh! public Benefactors,
Whose portraits are hung up by Corporations.
Ye Rulers of the likeness-loving nations,
Ascend you now the Photographic throne,
And snatch from Time the precious mornings claimed
By artists famed
(In the Court Circular you'll find them named!)
Sit too, ye laurelled Heroes, whom detractors
Would rank below the statesman and the bard!
Sit also, all ye Actors,
Whose fame would else die with you, which is hard;
Whose Falstaffs here will never
Slenders prove,
So true the art is!
M.P.'s for one brief moment cease to move;
And you who stand as leaders of great Parties
Be sitting Members!
Ye intellectual Marchers, sit resigned!
And oh! ye Authors, men of dazzling mind,
Perchance with faces foggy as November's,
Pray sit!
Apollo turned R.A.
The other day,
Making a most decided hit,
They say.
Phœbus himself—he has become a Shee!
(Morning will rank among the Knights full soon)
And while the Moon,
332
The stars are all astonishment to see
Earth—sitting for her portrait—to the Sun!
II
THE PROCESS OF THE PORTRAITURE.
It's all very fine, is it not, oh! ye Nine?
To tell us this planet is going too fast,
On a comet-like track through the wilderness vast:
Instead of collision and chances of splitting
In contact with stars rushing down the wrong line,
The world at this moment can't get on—for sitting;
And Earth, like the Lady enchanted in Comus,
Fixed fast to her chair
With a dignified air,
Is expecting to sit for a century there;
Much wondering, possibly, half in despair,
How the deuce she's to find her way back to her domus.
To tell us this planet is going too fast,
On a comet-like track through the wilderness vast:
Instead of collision and chances of splitting
In contact with stars rushing down the wrong line,
The world at this moment can't get on—for sitting;
And Earth, like the Lady enchanted in Comus,
Fixed fast to her chair
With a dignified air,
Is expecting to sit for a century there;
Much wondering, possibly, half in despair,
How the deuce she's to find her way back to her domus.
‘Keep moving,’ we know, was the cry long ago;
But now, never hare was ‘found sitting,’ I swear,
Like the crowds who repair
To old Cavendish Square,
And mount up a mile and a quarter of stair,
In procession that beggars the Lord Mayor's show!
And are all on tiptoe, the high and the low,
To sit in that glass-cover'd blue studio;
In front of those boxes wherein when you look,
Your image reversed will minutely appear,
So delicate, forcible, brilliant, and clear,
So small, full, and round, with a life so profound,
As none ever wore
In a mirror before—
Or the depths of a glassy and branch-sheltered brook,
That glides amidst moss o'er a smooth-pebbled ground.
Apollo, whom Drummond of Hawthornden styled
‘Apelles of flowers,’
Now mixes his showers
Of sunshine, with colours by clouds undefiled;
Apelles indeed to man, woman, and child.
His agent on earth, when your altitude's right,
Your collar adjusted, your locks in their place.
Just seizes one moment of favouring light,
And utters three sentences—‘Now it's begun,’—
‘It's going on now, Sir,’—and ‘Now it is done:’
And lo! as I live, there's the cut of your face
On a silvery plate
Unerring as fate,
Worked off in celestial and strange mezzotint,
A little resembling an elderly print.
‘Well, I never!’ all cry; ‘it is cruelly like you!’
But Truth is unpleasant
To prince and to peasant.
You recollect Lawrence, and think of the graces
That Chalon and Company give to their faces;
The face you have worn fifty years doesn't strike you!
But now, never hare was ‘found sitting,’ I swear,
Like the crowds who repair
To old Cavendish Square,
And mount up a mile and a quarter of stair,
In procession that beggars the Lord Mayor's show!
And are all on tiptoe, the high and the low,
333
In front of those boxes wherein when you look,
Your image reversed will minutely appear,
So delicate, forcible, brilliant, and clear,
So small, full, and round, with a life so profound,
As none ever wore
In a mirror before—
Or the depths of a glassy and branch-sheltered brook,
That glides amidst moss o'er a smooth-pebbled ground.
Apollo, whom Drummond of Hawthornden styled
‘Apelles of flowers,’
Now mixes his showers
Of sunshine, with colours by clouds undefiled;
Apelles indeed to man, woman, and child.
His agent on earth, when your altitude's right,
Your collar adjusted, your locks in their place.
Just seizes one moment of favouring light,
And utters three sentences—‘Now it's begun,’—
‘It's going on now, Sir,’—and ‘Now it is done:’
And lo! as I live, there's the cut of your face
On a silvery plate
Unerring as fate,
Worked off in celestial and strange mezzotint,
A little resembling an elderly print.
‘Well, I never!’ all cry; ‘it is cruelly like you!’
But Truth is unpleasant
To prince and to peasant.
You recollect Lawrence, and think of the graces
That Chalon and Company give to their faces;
The face you have worn fifty years doesn't strike you!
334
III
THE CRITICISMS OF THE SITTERS—THE MORAL.
‘Can this be me! do look, mamma!’
Poor Jane begins to whimper;
‘I have a smile, 'tis true;—but, pa!
This gives me quite a simper.’
Poor Jane begins to whimper;
‘I have a smile, 'tis true;—but, pa!
This gives me quite a simper.’
Says Tibb, whose plays are worse than bad,
‘It makes my forehead flat:’
And being classical, he'll add,
‘I'm blowed if I'm like that,’
‘It makes my forehead flat:’
And being classical, he'll add,
‘I'm blowed if I'm like that,’
Courtly, all candour, owns his portrait true;
'Oh, yes, it's like; yes, very; it will do.
Extremely like me—every feature—but
That plain pug-nose; now mine's the Grecian cut!
'Oh, yes, it's like; yes, very; it will do.
Extremely like me—every feature—but
That plain pug-nose; now mine's the Grecian cut!
Her Grace surveys her face with drooping lid;
Prefers the portrait which Sir Thomas did;
Owns that o'er this some traits of truth are sprinkled;
But views the brow with anger-‘Why, it's wrinkled!’
‘Like me!’ cries Sir Turtle; ‘I'll lay two to one
It would only be guessed by my foes;
No, no, it is plain there are spots in the sun,
Which accounts for these spots on my nose.’
‘A likeness!’ cries Crosslook, the lawyer, and sneers;
‘Yes, the wig, throat, and forehead I spy,
And the mouth, chin, and cheeks, and the nose and the ears,
But it gives me a cast in the eye!’
Prefers the portrait which Sir Thomas did;
Owns that o'er this some traits of truth are sprinkled;
But views the brow with anger-‘Why, it's wrinkled!’
‘Like me!’ cries Sir Turtle; ‘I'll lay two to one
It would only be guessed by my foes;
No, no, it is plain there are spots in the sun,
Which accounts for these spots on my nose.’
335
‘Yes, the wig, throat, and forehead I spy,
And the mouth, chin, and cheeks, and the nose and the ears,
But it gives me a cast in the eye!’
Thus needs it the courage of old Cousin Hotspur,
To sit to an artist who flatters no sitter;
Yet self-love will urge us to seek him, for what spur
So potent as that, though it make the truth bitter!
And thus are all flocking, to see Phœbus mocking,
Or making queer faces, a visage per minute;
And truly 'tis shocking, if winds should be rocking,
The building, or clouds darken all that's within it,
To witness the frights
Which shadows and lights
Manufacture, as like as an owl to a linnet.
For there, while you sit up,
Your countenance lit up,
The mists fly across, a magnificent rack;
And your portrait's a patch with its bright and its black,
Out-Rembrandting Rembrandt, in ludicrous woe,
Like a chimney-sweep caught in a shower of snow.
Yet nothing can keep the crowd below,
And still they mount up stair by stair;
And every morn, by the hurry and hum,
Each seeking a prize in the lottery there
You fancy the ‘last day of drawing’ has come.
To sit to an artist who flatters no sitter;
Yet self-love will urge us to seek him, for what spur
So potent as that, though it make the truth bitter!
And thus are all flocking, to see Phœbus mocking,
Or making queer faces, a visage per minute;
And truly 'tis shocking, if winds should be rocking,
The building, or clouds darken all that's within it,
To witness the frights
Which shadows and lights
Manufacture, as like as an owl to a linnet.
For there, while you sit up,
Your countenance lit up,
The mists fly across, a magnificent rack;
And your portrait's a patch with its bright and its black,
Out-Rembrandting Rembrandt, in ludicrous woe,
Like a chimney-sweep caught in a shower of snow.
Yet nothing can keep the crowd below,
And still they mount up stair by stair;
And every morn, by the hurry and hum,
Each seeking a prize in the lottery there
You fancy the ‘last day of drawing’ has come.
1842.
336
TO NELL GWYNNE'S LOOKING-GLASS.
Glass antique,'twixt thee and Nell
Draw we here a parallel.
She, like thee, was forced to bear
All reflections, foul or fair.
Thou art deep and bright within,
Depths as bright belonged to Gwynne;
Thou art very frail as well,
Frail as flesh is,—so was Nell.
Draw we here a parallel.
She, like thee, was forced to bear
All reflections, foul or fair.
Thou art deep and bright within,
Depths as bright belonged to Gwynne;
Thou art very frail as well,
Frail as flesh is,—so was Nell.
Thou, her glass, art silver-lined,
She too, had a silver mind:
Thine is fresh till this far day,
Hers till death ne'er wore away:
Thou dost to thy surface win
Wandering glances, so did Gwynne;
Eyes on thee long love to dwell,
So men's eyes would do on Nell.
She too, had a silver mind:
Thine is fresh till this far day,
Hers till death ne'er wore away:
Thou dost to thy surface win
Wandering glances, so did Gwynne;
Eyes on thee long love to dwell,
So men's eyes would do on Nell.
Life-like forms in thee are sought,
Such the forms the actress wrought;
Truth unfailing rests in you,
Nell, whate'er she was, was true.
Clear as virtue, dull as sin,
Thou art oft, as oft was Gwynne;
Breathe on thee, and drops will swell—
Bright tears dimmed the eyes of Nell.
Such the forms the actress wrought;
Truth unfailing rests in you,
Nell, whate'er she was, was true.
337
Thou art oft, as oft was Gwynne;
Breathe on thee, and drops will swell—
Bright tears dimmed the eyes of Nell.
Thine's a frame to charm the sight,
Framed was she to give delight,
Waxen forms here truly show
Charles above and Nell below;
But between them, chin with chin,
Stuart stands as low as Gwynne,—
Paired, yet parted,—meant to tell
Charles was opposite to Nell.
Framed was she to give delight,
Waxen forms here truly show
Charles above and Nell below;
But between them, chin with chin,
Stuart stands as low as Gwynne,—
Paired, yet parted,—meant to tell
Charles was opposite to Nell.
Round the glass wherein her face
Smiled so oft, her ‘arms’ we trace;
Thou, her mirror, hast the pair,
Lion here, and leopard there.
She had part in these,—akin
To the lion-heart was Gwynne;
And the leopard's beauty fell
With its spots to bounding Nell.
Smiled so oft, her ‘arms’ we trace;
Thou, her mirror, hast the pair,
Lion here, and leopard there.
She had part in these,—akin
To the lion-heart was Gwynne;
And the leopard's beauty fell
With its spots to bounding Nell.
Oft inspected, ne'er seen through,
Thou art firm, if brittle too;
So her will, on good intent,
Might be broken, never bent.
What the glass was when therein
Beamed the face of glad Nell Gwynne,
Was that face by beauty's spell
To the honest soul of Nell.
Thou art firm, if brittle too;
So her will, on good intent,
Might be broken, never bent.
What the glass was when therein
Beamed the face of glad Nell Gwynne,
Was that face by beauty's spell
To the honest soul of Nell.
1842.
LOVE SEEKING A LODGING.
At Leila's heart from day to day
Love, boy-like, knocked, and ran away;
But Love, grown older, seeking then,
‘Lodgings for single gentlemen,’
Returned unto his former ground,
And knocked, but no admittance found—
With his rat, tat, tat.
Love, boy-like, knocked, and ran away;
But Love, grown older, seeking then,
‘Lodgings for single gentlemen,’
Returned unto his former ground,
And knocked, but no admittance found—
With his rat, tat, tat.
His false alarms remembered still,
Love, now in earnest, fared but ill;
For Leila in her heart could swear,
As still he knocked, ‘There's no one there,’
A single god, he then essayed
With single knocks to lure the maid—
With his single knock.
Love, now in earnest, fared but ill;
For Leila in her heart could swear,
As still he knocked, ‘There's no one there,’
A single god, he then essayed
With single knocks to lure the maid—
With his single knock.
Each passer-by who watched the wight,
Cried, ‘Love, you won't lodge there to-night!’
And Love, while listening half confessed
That all was dead in Leila's breast.
Yet lest that light heart only slept,
Bold Love up to the casement crept—
With his tip, tap, tap.
Cried, ‘Love, you won't lodge there to-night!’
And Love, while listening half confessed
That all was dead in Leila's breast.
Yet lest that light heart only slept,
Bold Love up to the casement crept—
With his tip, tap, tap.
339
No answer;—‘Well,’ cried Love, ‘I'll wait,
And keep off Envy, Fear, and Hate;
No other passion there shall dwell
If I'm shut out—why, here's a bell!’
He rang; the ring made Leila start,
And Love found lodgings in her heart,
With his magic ring.
And keep off Envy, Fear, and Hate;
No other passion there shall dwell
If I'm shut out—why, here's a bell!’
He rang; the ring made Leila start,
And Love found lodgings in her heart,
With his magic ring.
1842.
340
THE TOUR OF LOVE AND TIME.
Long since, as tradition unravels,
Love, weary of Venus's eyes,
With Time started off on his travels,
To make the grand tour of the skies;
But, though they departed together,
To keep side by side was in vain;
Love basked in the fine sunny weather,
While Time was seen trudging through rain.
Love, weary of Venus's eyes,
With Time started off on his travels,
To make the grand tour of the skies;
But, though they departed together,
To keep side by side was in vain;
Love basked in the fine sunny weather,
While Time was seen trudging through rain.
Love, calling and panting, long after
Came up with him, ready to drop;
And pleaded, with song and sweet laughter,
But could not persuade Time to stop.
Old Obstinate paused not a minute,
Though round him there grew in his march
A cloud with Jove's thunderbolt in it,
Or Iris threw o'er him her arch.
Came up with him, ready to drop;
And pleaded, with song and sweet laughter,
But could not persuade Time to stop.
Old Obstinate paused not a minute,
Though round him there grew in his march
A cloud with Jove's thunderbolt in it,
Or Iris threw o'er him her arch.
‘Come skip me a twelvemonth, old fellow,
And call it a leap-year, you know!
Look round us—blue, red, green, and yellow—
I must have some sport as we go.
Why travel while noon burns above there?
Now let us wait here till it's dark,—
Just stop while I aim at yon dove there,—
If not,—well, I must have a lark.’
And call it a leap-year, you know!
Look round us—blue, red, green, and yellow—
I must have some sport as we go.
341
Now let us wait here till it's dark,—
Just stop while I aim at yon dove there,—
If not,—well, I must have a lark.’
Now swift as the thought that comes o'er him,
Love snatched Time's scythe as he mows;
He crops not one blossom before him,
But cuts all the thorns from the rose.
Still Time plodded on up the mountain,
Ne'er raising his eyes from the dust;
While Love stays to drink at a fountain,
And drops the scythe in it—to rust.
Love snatched Time's scythe as he mows;
He crops not one blossom before him,
But cuts all the thorns from the rose.
Still Time plodded on up the mountain,
Ne'er raising his eyes from the dust;
While Love stays to drink at a fountain,
And drops the scythe in it—to rust.
But Time, in due course, nothing reaping,
Again to the fountain came round;
The scythe is once more in his keeping,
For Love lay asleep on the ground.
He woke, and but two moments reckoned,
To seize on Time's glass and escape;
Love poured out its sand in a second,
And filled it with juice from the grape.
Again to the fountain came round;
The scythe is once more in his keeping,
For Love lay asleep on the ground.
He woke, and but two moments reckoned,
To seize on Time's glass and escape;
Love poured out its sand in a second,
And filled it with juice from the grape.
Time now, o'er the hills and the levels,
Guessed minutes by mere grains of sand,
Till, when the thief dropped 'mid his revels,
The glass was restored to his hand.
Then Love to the Fairies flew frantic,
Possessed with a project sublime;
Brought scissors, and, desperate antic!
Cut off the white beard of old Time.
Guessed minutes by mere grains of sand,
Till, when the thief dropped 'mid his revels,
The glass was restored to his hand.
Then Love to the Fairies flew frantic,
Possessed with a project sublime;
Brought scissors, and, desperate antic!
Cut off the white beard of old Time.
342
Day and Night saw the woeful disaster,—
Time stood, from astonishment, still;
The Hours didn't know their own master,
But frolicked about at their will.
Eight and Nine were at Sixes and Sevens,
Twelve struck before Three had begun;
Five changed her old post for Eleven's,
While Love kissed Eleven for One.
Time stood, from astonishment, still;
The Hours didn't know their own master,
But frolicked about at their will.
Eight and Nine were at Sixes and Sevens,
Twelve struck before Three had begun;
Five changed her old post for Eleven's,
While Love kissed Eleven for One.
In turn all disclaimed their old father,
Though some said they thought he was like;
And none were for striking—the rather.
Because 'twas a general strike.
Jove, now, looking down on these gambols,
Saw Chaos resuming his state,—
And so put an end to Love's rambles,
While waltzing intensely with Eight.
Though some said they thought he was like;
And none were for striking—the rather.
Because 'twas a general strike.
Jove, now, looking down on these gambols,
Saw Chaos resuming his state,—
And so put an end to Love's rambles,
While waltzing intensely with Eight.
‘Your tour, crazy Love, has its dangers,
And here it must end,’ said the god;
‘Henceforth, you and Time must be strangers,
Or, meeting, pass on with a nod.
Time, ev'ry brief instant is dying,
While you have a life without end;
Your visits to him must be flying—
Eternity claims you—ascend!’
And here it must end,’ said the god;
‘Henceforth, you and Time must be strangers,
Or, meeting, pass on with a nod.
Time, ev'ry brief instant is dying,
While you have a life without end;
Your visits to him must be flying—
Eternity claims you—ascend!’
1843.
343
NEW YEAR'S ODE.
TO THE WINNER OF THE ST. NISBETT—SEASON 1844.
‘Trumpet tongued against
The deep damnation of her taking—off.’
—Macbeth.
The deep damnation of her taking—off.’
—Macbeth.
‘Robbing the stage was, in those days, a practice common enough.’Roderick Random.
Give back—‘give us back the wild freshness of morning,’
Ere light orange-blossoms weighed widowhood down!
And pause, oh, Sir William, ere one house adorning,
You cast in deep shadow our houses in town.
Why veil from the public its gayest of brides?
The miser alone buries gold in a box;
What artist, triumphant, his masterpiece hides?
We leave to the stage its duennas and locks.
Ere light orange-blossoms weighed widowhood down!
And pause, oh, Sir William, ere one house adorning,
You cast in deep shadow our houses in town.
Why veil from the public its gayest of brides?
The miser alone buries gold in a box;
What artist, triumphant, his masterpiece hides?
We leave to the stage its duennas and locks.
Bound fast, yet again let the Favourite run!
Both thine and our own!—a petition not visible;
For though it is true man and wife are but one,
She, single or wedded, is two, and divisible.
While owning thee winner, the town has its rights;
The ‘wife’ is all thine—'tis the ‘madcap’ we ask!
Hold captive the Woman, most conqu'ring of Knights,
But give back the Spirit with Comedy's mask.
Both thine and our own!—a petition not visible;
For though it is true man and wife are but one,
She, single or wedded, is two, and divisible.
344
The ‘wife’ is all thine—'tis the ‘madcap’ we ask!
Hold captive the Woman, most conqu'ring of Knights,
But give back the Spirit with Comedy's mask.
For brave Widow Nisbett no more may we burn;
As blithe Widow Nisbett she flies from the scene;
But let, Sir, —oh, let Widow Cheerly return,
And her who contrasted with ripe Widow Green!
Enclose not the orchard while gathering its fruits;
The garden's your own, Sir, yet spare us some flowers.
Let marriage ne'er pluck up wild mirth by the roots:
The widow is thine—but the actress is ours.
As blithe Widow Nisbett she flies from the scene;
But let, Sir, —oh, let Widow Cheerly return,
And her who contrasted with ripe Widow Green!
Enclose not the orchard while gathering its fruits;
The garden's your own, Sir, yet spare us some flowers.
Let marriage ne'er pluck up wild mirth by the roots:
The widow is thine—but the actress is ours.
Giving up to dull parties (though Wedlock's the teacher)
What's meant for mankind, causes patience to reel:
And why should a Boothby thus follow a Becher!
The other Sir William, who snapped up O'Neill!
In favour of privacy, prejudice ran:
It carried off Kembles, the Stephens, the Tree;
'Twas doubtful if safe from some desperate man,
Was quiet Miss Tidswell, or old Mrs. D.
What's meant for mankind, causes patience to reel:
And why should a Boothby thus follow a Becher!
The other Sir William, who snapped up O'Neill!
In favour of privacy, prejudice ran:
It carried off Kembles, the Stephens, the Tree;
'Twas doubtful if safe from some desperate man,
Was quiet Miss Tidswell, or old Mrs. D.
But deeper the sorrow that Nisbett has cost;
More stern thy resentment, susceptible town;
She wedded, returned;—weds again, and we're lost;
From Scylla escaped, in Charybdis we drown!
Blest winner, but cruel! most cruel to Art!
Yet more to Young London who stood by her throne;
Who now shall report how she toppeth her part?—
Who rush for a seat?—she resides at her own!
More stern thy resentment, susceptible town;
She wedded, returned;—weds again, and we're lost;
From Scylla escaped, in Charybdis we drown!
Blest winner, but cruel! most cruel to Art!
Yet more to Young London who stood by her throne;
Who now shall report how she toppeth her part?—
Who rush for a seat?—she resides at her own!
345
Who weds a mere beauty, dooms dozens to grieve;
Who marries an heiress, leaves hundreds undone;
Who bears off an actress (she never took leave),
Deprives a whole city of rational fun.
But farewell the glances and nods of St. Nisbett;
We list for her short ringing laughter in vain,
And yet—bereaved London!—what think you of this bet? —
‘A hundred to one we shall see her again!’
Who marries an heiress, leaves hundreds undone;
Who bears off an actress (she never took leave),
Deprives a whole city of rational fun.
But farewell the glances and nods of St. Nisbett;
We list for her short ringing laughter in vain,
And yet—bereaved London!—what think you of this bet? —
‘A hundred to one we shall see her again!’
346
CHRISTMAS CHIT-CHAT,
IN A LARGE FAMILY CIRCLE.
‘The day of all days we have seenIs Christmas,’ said Sue to Eugene;
‘More welcome in village and city
Than Mayday, ’said Andrew to Kitty.
‘Why “Mistletoe's” twenty times sweeter
Than “May,”’ said Matilda to Peter;
‘And so you will find it, if I'm a
True prophet,’ said James to Jemima.
‘I'll stay up to supper, no bed,’
Then lisped little Laura to Ned.
‘The girls all good-natured and dressy,
And bright-cheeked,’ said Arthur to Jessie;
‘Yes, hoping ere next year to marry,
The madcaps!’ said Charlotte to Harry.
‘So steaming, so savoury, so juicy,
The feast,’ said fat Charley to Lucy.
‘Quadrilles and Charades might come on
Before dinner,’ said Martha to John.
‘You'll find the roast beef when you're dizzy,
A settler,’ said Walter to Lizzy.
347
With a pea,’ said Belinda to Ben.
‘Sublime!’ said—displaying his leg—
George Frederick Augustus to Peg.
‘At Christmas refinement is all fuss
And nonsense,’ said Fan to Adolphus.
‘Would romps—or a tale of a fairy—
Best suit you,’ said Robert to Mary.
‘At stories that work ghost and witch hard,
I tremble,’ said Rosa to Richard.
‘A ghostly hari-standing dilemma
Needs “bishop,”’ said Alfred to Emma;
‘What fun when with fear a stout crony
Turns pale,’ said Maria to Tony;
‘And Hector, unable to rally,
Runs screaming,’ said Jacob to Sally.
‘While you and I dance in the dark
The polka,’ said Ruth unto Mark:
‘Each catching, according to fancy,
His neighbour,’ said wild Tom to Nancy;
‘Till candles, to show what we can do,
Are brought in,’ said Ann to Orlando;
‘And then we all laugh what is truly a
Heart's laugh,’ said William to Julia.
‘Then sofas and chairs are put even,
And carpets,’ said Helen to Stephen;
‘And so we all sit down again,
Supping twice,’ said sly Joseph to Jane.
‘Now bring me my clogs and my spaniel,
And light me,’ said Dinah to Daniel.
348
Six times,’ said fond Edmund to Alice.
‘We are going home tealess and coffeeless,
Shabby!’ said Soph to Theophilus;
‘To meet again under the holly,
Et cetera,’ said Paul to fair Polly.
‘Dear Uncle has ordered his chariot,
All's over,’ said Matthew to Harriet.
‘And pray now be all going to bedward,’
Said kind Aunt Rebecca to Edward!
1845.
349
LINES WRITTEN ON THE FIRST PAGE OF MULBERRY LEAVES.
A book which the Members of ‘The Mulberries,’ A Club of Shakspearians— Contributed.
Like one who stands
On the bright verge of some enchanted shore,
Where notes from airy harps, and hidden hands,
Are, from the green grass and the golden sands,
Far echoed, o'er and o'er,
As if the trancèd listener to invite
Into that world of light;
On the bright verge of some enchanted shore,
Where notes from airy harps, and hidden hands,
Are, from the green grass and the golden sands,
Far echoed, o'er and o'er,
As if the trancèd listener to invite
Into that world of light;
Thus stood I here,
Musing awhile on these unblotted leaves,
Till the blank pages brighten'd, and mine ear
Found music in their rustling, sweet and clear,
And wreaths that Fancy weaves
Entwin'd the volume—fill'd with grateful lays
And songs of rapturous praise.
Musing awhile on these unblotted leaves,
Till the blank pages brighten'd, and mine ear
Found music in their rustling, sweet and clear,
And wreaths that Fancy weaves
Entwin'd the volume—fill'd with grateful lays
And songs of rapturous praise.
350
No sound I heard,
But echoed o'er and o'er our Shakespeare's name,
One lingering note of love, link'd word to word,
Till every leaf was as a fairy bird
Whose song is still the same:
Or each was as a flower, with folded cells
For Pucks and Ariels!
But echoed o'er and o'er our Shakespeare's name,
One lingering note of love, link'd word to word,
Till every leaf was as a fairy bird
Whose song is still the same:
Or each was as a flower, with folded cells
For Pucks and Ariels!
And visions grew—
Visions not brief, though bright, which frosted age
Hath fail'd to rob of one diviner hue,
Making them more familiar, yet more new—
These flash'd into the page;
A group of crownèd things—the radiant themes
Of Shakespeare's Avon dreams!
Visions not brief, though bright, which frosted age
Hath fail'd to rob of one diviner hue,
Making them more familiar, yet more new—
These flash'd into the page;
A group of crownèd things—the radiant themes
Of Shakespeare's Avon dreams!
Of crownèd things—
(Rare crowns of living gems and lasting flowers)
Some in the human likeness, some with wings
Dyed in the beauty of ethereal springs—
Some shedding piteous showers
Of natural tears, and some in smiles that fell
Like sunshine on a dell.
(Rare crowns of living gems and lasting flowers)
Some in the human likeness, some with wings
Dyed in the beauty of ethereal springs—
Some shedding piteous showers
Of natural tears, and some in smiles that fell
Like sunshine on a dell.
Here Art had caught
The perfect mould of Hamlet's princely form,
The frantic Thane, fiend-cheated, lived, methought;
Here Timon howl'd: anon, sublimely wrought,
Stood Lear, amid the storm;
There Romeo droop'd, or soar'd—while Jacques here,
Still watched the weeping deer.
The perfect mould of Hamlet's princely form,
The frantic Thane, fiend-cheated, lived, methought;
Here Timon howl'd: anon, sublimely wrought,
Stood Lear, amid the storm;
There Romeo droop'd, or soar'd—while Jacques here,
Still watched the weeping deer.
351
And then a throng
Of heavenly natures, clad in earthly vest,
Like angel-apparitions, pass'd along;
The rich-lipp'd Rosalind all light and song;
And Imogen's white breast:
Low-voiced Cordelia with her stifled sighs,
And Juliet's shrouded eyes.
Of heavenly natures, clad in earthly vest,
Like angel-apparitions, pass'd along;
The rich-lipp'd Rosalind all light and song;
And Imogen's white breast:
Low-voiced Cordelia with her stifled sighs,
And Juliet's shrouded eyes.
The page, turn'd o'er,
Shew'd Kate—or Viola—my ‘Lady Tongue’—
The lost Venetian with her loving Moor;
The Maiden-wonder on the haunted shore,
Happy, and fair, and young:
Till on a poor, love-martyr'd mind I look—
Ophelia, at the brook.
Shew'd Kate—or Viola—my ‘Lady Tongue’—
The lost Venetian with her loving Moor;
The Maiden-wonder on the haunted shore,
Happy, and fair, and young:
Till on a poor, love-martyr'd mind I look—
Ophelia, at the brook.
With sweet Ann Page
The bright thing ended; for, untouch'd by time,
Came Falstaff, laughter-laurell'd, young in age,
With many a ripe and sack-devoted sage!
And deathless clowns sublime
Crowded the leaf, to vanish at a swoop,
Like Oberon and his troop.
The bright thing ended; for, untouch'd by time,
Came Falstaff, laughter-laurell'd, young in age,
With many a ripe and sack-devoted sage!
And deathless clowns sublime
Crowded the leaf, to vanish at a swoop,
Like Oberon and his troop.
Here sat, entranced,
Malvolio, leg—trapp'd:—he who served the Jew
Still with the fiend seem'd running;—then advanced
Messina's pretty piece of flesh, and danced
With Bottom and his crew;
Mercutio, Benedick, press'd points of wit,
And Osrick made his hit.
Malvolio, leg—trapp'd:—he who served the Jew
Still with the fiend seem'd running;—then advanced
Messina's pretty piece of flesh, and danced
With Bottom and his crew;
Mercutio, Benedick, press'd points of wit,
And Osrick made his hit.
352
At these, e'er long,
Awoke my laughter, and the spell was past:
Of the gay multitude, a marvellous throng,
No trace is here,— no tints, no word, no song.
On these bare leaves are cast—
The altar has been rear'd, an offering fit—
The flame is still unlit.
Awoke my laughter, and the spell was past:
Of the gay multitude, a marvellous throng,
No trace is here,— no tints, no word, no song.
On these bare leaves are cast—
The altar has been rear'd, an offering fit—
The flame is still unlit.
Oh! who now bent
In humble reverence, hopes one wreath to bind
Worthy of him, whose genius, strangely blent,
Could kindle ‘wonder and astonishment’
In Milton's starry mind?
Who stood alone, but not as one apart,
And saw Man's inmost heart!
In humble reverence, hopes one wreath to bind
Worthy of him, whose genius, strangely blent,
Could kindle ‘wonder and astonishment’
In Milton's starry mind?
Who stood alone, but not as one apart,
And saw Man's inmost heart!
353
TRUTH AND RUMOUR.
As Truth once passed on her pilgrim way,
To rest by a hedge-side, thorny and sere,
Few wanderers there she charmed to stay,
Though hers were the tidings that all should hear.
She whispering sang, and her deep rich voice,
Yet richer, deeper, each moment grew;
And still though it bade the crowd rejoice,
Her strain but a scanty audience drew.
To rest by a hedge-side, thorny and sere,
Few wanderers there she charmed to stay,
Though hers were the tidings that all should hear.
She whispering sang, and her deep rich voice,
Yet richer, deeper, each moment grew;
And still though it bade the crowd rejoice,
Her strain but a scanty audience drew.
But Rumour close by as she plucked a reed
From a babbling brook, detained the throng;
With a hundred tongues that never agreed
She gave to the winds a mocking song.
The crowd with delight its echoes caught,
And closer around her yet they drew;
So wondrous and wild the lore she taught,
They listened, entranced, the long day through.
From a babbling brook, detained the throng;
With a hundred tongues that never agreed
She gave to the winds a mocking song.
The crowd with delight its echoes caught,
And closer around her yet they drew;
So wondrous and wild the lore she taught,
They listened, entranced, the long day through.
The sun went down: when he rose again,
And sleep had becalmed each listener's mind,
The voice of Rumour had rung in vain,
No echo had left a charm behind.
But Truth's pure note, ever whispering clear,
Wandering in air, fresh sweeetness caught;
Then all unnotic'd it touched the ear,
And filled with music the cells of thought.
And sleep had becalmed each listener's mind,
The voice of Rumour had rung in vain,
No echo had left a charm behind.
354
Wandering in air, fresh sweeetness caught;
Then all unnotic'd it touched the ear,
And filled with music the cells of thought.
355
SCIENCE AND GOOD-HUMOUR.
A Feast of old was spread;
The guests sat down, sings rumour,
With Science at their head,
And at the foot Good-humour.
But soon, though rich the fare,
One half the group sat pining,
While all the others there
Were diligently dining.
The guests sat down, sings rumour,
With Science at their head,
And at the foot Good-humour.
But soon, though rich the fare,
One half the group sat pining,
While all the others there
Were diligently dining.
'Twas Science, so 'twas sung,
Who checked his hearers' wishes
By learned descants, rung
On countless cooling dishes.
Good-humour fared with those
Who not one moment wasted,
But asked for what they chose,
And relish'd all they tasted.
Who checked his hearers' wishes
By learned descants, rung
On countless cooling dishes.
Good-humour fared with those
Who not one moment wasted,
But asked for what they chose,
And relish'd all they tasted.
No chicken Science carved,
Without a lecture sterile,
To prove, where one man starved,
A thousand ate in peril.
His Vice with laughter shook,
As there the board grew thinner;
He thought not of the cook,
But only of the dinner.
Without a lecture sterile,
To prove, where one man starved,
A thousand ate in peril.
356
As there the board grew thinner;
He thought not of the cook,
But only of the dinner.
On wines would Science chat,
On alcohol and acid,
On vintage this and that,
In accents slow and placid.
But while these maxims dropt,
They set each listener thinking;
And there the wine had stopped,
Had Humour not been drinking.
On alcohol and acid,
On vintage this and that,
In accents slow and placid.
But while these maxims dropt,
They set each listener thinking;
And there the wine had stopped,
Had Humour not been drinking.
While Science, glass in hand,
Show'd how'twas manufactured;
Good-humour's jovial band
A score of bottles fractured.
As Science proved, past doubt,
That mirth we should not care for;
Good-humour laugh'd, without
Inquiring why or wherefore.
Show'd how'twas manufactured;
Good-humour's jovial band
A score of bottles fractured.
As Science proved, past doubt,
That mirth we should not care for;
Good-humour laugh'd, without
Inquiring why or wherefore.
Then rose a cry for song.
As Science led the table,
The call was loud and long
On vocalist so able.
But Science had—of course—
A cold, destroying music;
And fear'd that tones so hoarse
Would make both me and you sick.
As Science led the table,
The call was loud and long
On vocalist so able.
But Science had—of course—
A cold, destroying music;
And fear'd that tones so hoarse
Would make both me and you sick.
357
At length, much breath and time
Consumed in sweet persuading;
In Dutch or German rhyme
Hear Science serenading.
The cadences though pure,
Are rather soporific;
The strain is quite obscure,
But then—'tis scientific.
Consumed in sweet persuading;
In Dutch or German rhyme
Hear Science serenading.
The cadences though pure,
Are rather soporific;
The strain is quite obscure,
But then—'tis scientific.
His flourishings are vain,
Though each he twice rehearses;
To sing the song again,
He stops at fifteen verses.
Apollo has a hunch,
A gap is in the ballad;
No brandy's in the punch,
No lobster in the salad.
Though each he twice rehearses;
To sing the song again,
He stops at fifteen verses.
Apollo has a hunch,
A gap is in the ballad;
No brandy's in the punch,
No lobster in the salad.
Good-humour now essays,
A careless, easy measure;
He sings, not he, for praise,
He only sings for pleasure.
His tones are not so clear,
And clouds the sparkles smother;
Yet though you stop one ear,
You open wide the other.
A careless, easy measure;
He sings, not he, for praise,
He only sings for pleasure.
His tones are not so clear,
And clouds the sparkles smother;
Yet though you stop one ear,
You open wide the other.
His slips in time and tune,
Had nigh set Science swearing;
But nightingales in June
Such censures might be sharing.
Right simple was the song,
He sang it like a linnet;
'Twas not so very long,
But something deep was in it.
Had nigh set Science swearing;
But nightingales in June
Such censures might be sharing.
358
He sang it like a linnet;
'Twas not so very long,
But something deep was in it.
Now forth at eventide
They saunter,—some are rushing;
Through garden-walks they glide,
A maze of blossoms blushing.
Here Science grew distressed,
The flow'rs were not in order;
Good-humour liked them best
When bursting through the border.
They saunter,—some are rushing;
Through garden-walks they glide,
A maze of blossoms blushing.
Here Science grew distressed,
The flow'rs were not in order;
Good-humour liked them best
When bursting through the border.
Then Science spoke, deep-learn'd,
Of petals, lobes, and anthers;
On tiger-lilies turn'd
His talk—and then on panthers.
The roses he despised
As common, vulgar, vagrant;
But these Good-humour prized,
So rich were they, and fragrant.
Of petals, lobes, and anthers;
On tiger-lilies turn'd
His talk—and then on panthers.
The roses he despised
As common, vulgar, vagrant;
But these Good-humour prized,
So rich were they, and fragrant.
No beauty Science pleased,
Of plants he sought the rarest;
Good-humour beauty seized—
Of plants he loved the fairest.
O'er buds, with heart of ice,
One pored, with eyesight failing;
While airs from Paradise
The other was inhaling.
Of plants he sought the rarest;
Good-humour beauty seized—
Of plants he loved the fairest.
O'er buds, with heart of ice,
One pored, with eyesight failing;
While airs from Paradise
The other was inhaling.
359
Good-humour stopped to mark
The glowworm's light, enchanted;
When Science—but 'twas dark—
To read an essay panted.
Anon the beetle hums,
Good-humour hearkens to it;
But Science, when it comes,
Will thrust a sharp pin through it.
The glowworm's light, enchanted;
When Science—but 'twas dark—
To read an essay panted.
Anon the beetle hums,
Good-humour hearkens to it;
But Science, when it comes,
Will thrust a sharp pin through it.
The thronging stars steal forth,
Yet Science views no wonder;
He speaks of east and north,
Of meteors, belts, and thunder.
Of distance, shown by miles,
But scarce his eye upraises;
His mute companion smiles,
And blesses while he gazes.
Yet Science views no wonder;
He speaks of east and north,
Of meteors, belts, and thunder.
Of distance, shown by miles,
But scarce his eye upraises;
His mute companion smiles,
And blesses while he gazes.
As homeward now they stroll,
The mind of Science stranded,
Good-humour feels his soul
With rich delight expanded.
While Science, sleepy drone,
His chamber seeks—the upper—
Good-humour, not alone,
Is sitting down to supper.
The mind of Science stranded,
Good-humour feels his soul
With rich delight expanded.
While Science, sleepy drone,
His chamber seeks—the upper—
Good-humour, not alone,
Is sitting down to supper.
| The Poetical Works of Laman Blanchard | |