The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed :: :: University of Virginia Library

This is a night of pleasure! Care,
I shake thee from me! do not dare
To stir from out thy murky cell,
Where in their dark recesses dwell
Thy kindred gnomes, who love to nip
The rose on Beauty's cheek and lip,
Until beneath their venomed breath
Life wears the pallid hue of death.
Avaunt! I shake thee from me, Care!
The gay, the youthful, and the fair,
From Lodge, and Court, and House, and Hall.
Are hurrying to the County Ball.
Avaunt! I tread on haunted ground;
And giddy Pleasure draws around
To shield us from thine envious spite
Her magic circle! nought to-night

Over that guarded barrier flies
But laughing lips and smiling eyes;
My look shall gaze around me free,
And like my look my line shall be;
While fancy leaps in every vein,
While love is life, and thought is pain,
I will not rule that look and line
By any word or will of thine.

The Moon hath risen. Still and pale
Thou movest in thy silver veil,
Queen of the night! the filmy shroud
Of many a mild transparent cloud
Hides, yet adorns thee; meet disguise
To shield thy blush from mortal eyes.
Full many a maid hath loved to gaze
Upon thy melancholy rays;
And many a fond despairing youth
Hath breathed to thee his tale of truth;
And many a luckless rhyming wight
Hath looked upon thy tender light,
And spilt his precious ink upon it,
In ode, or elegy, or sonnet.
Alas! at this inspiring hour,
I feel not, I, thy boasted power,
Nor seek to gain thine approbation
By vow, or prayer, or invocation;

I ask not what the vapours are
That veil thee like a white cymar,
Nor do I care a single straw
For all the stars I ever saw!
I fly from thee, I fly from these,
To bow to earthly goddesses,
Whose forms in mortal beauty shine
As fair, but not so cold, as thine.

But this is foolish! Stars and Moon,
You look quite beautiful in June;
But when a bard sits down to sing,
Your beauty is a dangerous thing;
To muse upon your placid beam
One wanders sadly from one's theme,
And when weak poets go astray,
“The stars are more in fault than they.”
The moon is charming; so, perhaps,
Are pretty maidens in mob-caps;
But, when a ball is in the case,
They're both a little out of place.

I love a ball! there's such an air
Of magic in the lustres' glare,
And such a spell of witchery
In all I hear and all I see,
That I can read in every dance
Some relic sweet of old romance:

As fancy wills I laugh and smile,
And talk such nonsense all the while
That when Dame Reason rules again,
And morning cools my heated brain,
Reality itself doth seem
Nought but the pageant of a dream;
In raptures deep I gaze, as now,
On smiling lip and tranquil brow,
While merry voices echo round,
And music's most inviting sound
Swells on mine ear; the glances fly,
And love and folly flutter high,
And many a fair romantic cheek,
Reddened with pleasure or with pique,
Glows with a sentimental flush
That seems a bright unfading blush;
And slender arms before my face
Are rounded with a statue's grace;
And ringlets wave, and beauteous feet,
Swifter than lightning, part and meet;
Frowns come and go; white hands are pressed,
And sighs are heard, and secrets guessed,
And looks are kind, and eyes are bright,
And tongues are free, and hearts are light.

Sometimes upon the crowd I look,
Secure in some sequestered nook;

And while from thence I look and listen,
Though ladies' eyes so gaily glisten,
Though ladies' locks so lightly float,
Though music pours her mellowed note,
Some little spite will oft intrude
Upon my merry solitude.

By turns the ever-varying scene
Awakes within me mirth and spleen;
By turns the gay and vain appear;
By turns I love to smile and sneer,
Mixing my malice with my glee,
Good humour with misanthropy;
And while my raptured eyes adore
Half the bright forms that flit before,
I notice with a little laugh
The follies of the other half.
That little laugh will oft call down,
From matron sage, rebuke and frown;
Little, in truth, for these I care:
By Momus and his mirth I swear,—
For all the dishes Rowley tastes,
For all the paper Courtenay wastes,
For all the punch his subjects quaff,
I would not change that little laugh!

Shall I not laugh, when every fool
Comes hither for my ridicule,—
When ev'ry face that flits to-night
In long review before my sight
Shows off, unasked, its airs and graces,
Unconscious of the mirth it raises?

Skilled to deceive our ears and eyes
By civil looks and civil lies,
Skilled from the search of men to hide
His narrow bosom's inward pride,
And charm the blockheads he beguiles
By uniformity of smiles,
The County Member, bright Sir Paul,
Is Primo Buffo at the Ball.

Since first he longed to represent
His fellow-men in Parliament,
Courted the cobblers and their spouses,
And sought his honours in mud houses,
Full thirty springs have come and fled;
And though from off his shining head
The twin destroyers, Time and Care,
Begin to pluck its fading hair,
Yet where it grew, and where it grows,
Lie powder's never-varying snows,
And hide the havoc years have made
In kind monotony of shade.

Sir Paul is young in all but years;
And, when his courteous face appears,
The maiden wall-flowers of the room
Admire the freshness of his bloom,
Hint that his face has made him vain,
And vow “he grows a boy again,”
And giddy girls of gay fifteen
Mimic his manner and his mien;
And when the supple politician
Bestows his bow of recognition,
Or forces on th' averted ear
The flattery it affects to fear,
They look, and laugh behind the fan,
And dub Sir Paul “the young old man.”

Look! as he paces round, he greets
With nod and simper all he meets:—
“Ah, ha! your Lordship! is it you?
Still slave to beauty and beaux yeux?
Well, well! and how's the gout, my Lord?—
My dear Sir Charles, upon my word,
L'air de Paris, since last I knew you,
Has been Medea's cauldron to you.—
William, my boy! how fast you grow!
Yours is a light fantastic toe,
Winged with the wings of Mercury!
I was a scholar once, you see!

And how's the mare you used to ride?
And who's the Hebe by your side?—
Doctor! I thought I heard you sneeze!
How is my dear Hippocrates?
What have you done for old John Oates,
The gouty merchant with five votes?
What, dead? well, well! no fault of yours!
There is no drug that always cures!
Ah doctor! I begin to break;
And I'm glad of it, for your sake!”

As thus the spruce M.P. runs on,
Some quiet dame, who dotes upon
His speeches, buckles, and grimace,
Grows very eloquent in praise.
“How can they say Sir Paul is proud?
I'm sure, in all the evening's crowd,
There's not a man that bows so low;
His words come out so soft and slow,
And when he begged me keep my seat,
He looked so civil and so sweet:”
“Ma'am,” says her spouse, in harsher tone,
“He only wants to keep his own.”
Her Ladyship is in a huff;
And Miss, enraged at Ma's rebuff,
Rings the alarm in t'other ear:
“Lord! now Papa, you're too severe;

Where in the country will you see
Manners so taking and so free?”
“His manners free? I only know
Our votes have made his letters so!”—
“And then he talks with so much ease,
And then he gives such promises!”
“Gives promises! and well he may,
You know they're all he gives away!”
“How folks misrepresent Sir Paul!”
“'Tis he misrepresents us all!’
“How very stale!—but you'll confess
He has a charming taste in dress,
And uses such delightful scent!
And when he pays a compliment”—
“Eh! and what then, my pretty pet!
What then?—he never pays a debt!”

Sir Paul is skilled in all the tricks
Of politesse and politics;
Long hath he learned to wear a mien
So still, so open, so serene,
That strangers in those features grave
Would strive in vain to read a knave.
Alas! it is believed by all
There is more “Sir” than “Saint” in Paul;
He knows the value of a place;
Can give a promise with a grace;

Is quite an adept at excuse;
Sees when a vote will be of use;
And, if the Independents flinch,
Can help his Lordship at a pinch.
Acutely doth he read the fate
Of deep intrigues and plans of state,
And if perchance some powdered peer
Hath gained or lost the Monarch's ear,
Foretells, without a shade of doubt,
The comings in and goings out.
When placemen of distinguished note
Mistake, mislead, misname, misquote,
Confound the Papist and the Turk,
Or murder Sheridan and Burke,
Or make a riddle of the laws,
Sir Paul grows hoarse in his applause:
And when in words of equal size
Some Oppositionist replies,
And talks of taxes and starvation
And Catholic Emancipation,
The Knight, in indolent repose,
Looks only to the Ayes and Noes.
Let youth say “Grand!”—Sir Paul says “Stuff!”
Let youth take fire!—Sir Paul takes snuff.

Methinks amid the crowded room
I see one countenance of gloom;

Whence is young Edmund's pain or pique?
Whence is the paleness of his cheek?
And whence the wrathful eye, that now
Lowers, like Kean's, beneath the brow,
And now again on earth is bent,
'Twixt anger and embarrassment?
Is he poetical, or sad?—
Really—or fashionably—mad?
Are his young spirits colder grown
At Ellen's—or the Muse's frown?
He did not love in other days
To wear the sullens on his face
When merry sights and sounds were near:
Nor on his unregarding ear
Unheeded thus was wont to fall
The music of the County Ball.

I pity all whom Fate unites
To vulgar belles on gala nights;
But chiefly him who haply sees
The day-star of his destinies—
The Beauty of his fondest dreaming—
Sitting in solitude, and seeming
To lift her dark capricious eye
Beneath its fringe reproachingly
Alas! my luckless friend is tied
To the fair hoyden by his side,

Who opens, without law or rule,
The treasures of the boarding-school.
And she is prating learnedly
Of logic and of chemistry,
Describing chart and definition
With geographical precision,
Culling her words, as bid by chance,
From England, Italy, or France,
Until, like many a clever dunce,
She murders all the three at once.
Sometimes she mixes by the ounce
Discussions deep on frill and flounce;
Points out the stains, that stick like ours
To ladies' gowns—or characters;
Talks of the fiddles and the weather,
Of Laura's wreath, and Fannia's feather;
All which obedient Edmund hears
With passive look, and open ears,
And understands about as much
As if the lady spoke in Dutch;
Until, in indignation high,
She finds the youth makes no reply,
And thinks he's grown as deaf a stock
As Dido—or Marpesian rock.

Ellen, the lady of his love,
Is doomed the like distress to prove,
Chained to a Captain of the wars,
Like Venus by the side of Mars.
Hark! Valour talks of conquered towns;
See! silent Beauty frets and frowns;
The man of fights is wondering now
That girls won't speak when dandies bow;
And Ellen finds, with much surprise,
That beaux will speak when belles despise.
“Ma'am,” says the Captain, “I protest
I come to ye a stranger guest,
Fresh from the dismal, dangerous land
Where men are blinded by the sand,
Where undiscovered things are hid
In owl-frequented pyramid,
And mummies with their silent looks
Appear like memorandum books
Giving a hint of death, for fear
We men should be too happy here.
But if upon my native land
Fair ones as still as mummies stand,
By Jove,—I had as lief be there!'—
(The Lady looks—“I wish you were.”)
“I fear I'm very dull to-night”—
(The Lady looks—“You're very right.”)
“But if one smile—one cheering ray”—
(The Lady looks another way—)

“Alas! from some more happy man”—
(The Lady stoops and bites her fan.)
“Flattery, perhaps, is not a crime,”—
(The Lady dances out of time;)
“Perhaps e'en now within your heart,
Cruel! you wish us leagues apart,
And banish me from Beauty's presence!”
The Lady bows in acquiescence,
With steady brow, and studied face,
As if she thought, in such a case,
A contradiction to her Beau
Neither polite—nor à propos.

Unawed by scandal or by sneer,
Is Reuben Nott the blunderer here?
What! is he willing to expose
His erring brain to friends and foes?
And does he venturously dare,
'Midst grinning fop and spiteful fair.
In spite of all their ancient slips,
To open those unhappy lips?

Poor Reuben! o'er his infant head
Her choicest bounties Nature shed;
She gave him talent, humour, sense,
A decent face, and competence,
And then, to mar the beauteous plan,
She bade him be—an absent man.

Ever offending, ever fretting,
Ever explaining and forgetting,
He blunders on from day to day,
And drives his nearest friends away.
Do farces meet with flat damnation?—
He's ready with “congratulation.”
Are friends in office not quite pure?—
He “owns he hates a sinecure.”
Was Major — in foreign strife
Not over prodigal of life?—
He talks about “the coward's grave:”
And “who so base as be a slave?”
Is some fair cousin made a wife,
In the full autumn of her life?—
He's sure to shock the youthful bride
With “forty years, come Whitsuntide!”

He wanders round. I'll act the spy
Upon his fatal courtesy,
Which always gives the greatest pain,
Where most it strives to entertain:—
“Edward, my boy! an age has passed
Methinks, since Reuben saw you last;
How fares the Abbey? and the rooks?
Your tenants? and your sister's looks?
Lovely and fascinating still,
With lips that wound and eyes that kill?

When last I saw her dangerous face,
There was a lover in the case—
A pretty pair of epaulettes!—
But then, there were some ugly debts!—
A match?—nay! why so gloomy, boy?
Upon my life I wish 'em joy!”

With arms enfolded o'er his breast,
And fingers clenched, and lips compressed,
And eye, whose every glance appears
To speak a threat in Reuben's ears,
That youth hath heard; 'tis brief and stern,
The answer that he deigns return:
Then silent on his homeward way,
Like Ossian's ghosts, he strides away.

Astonished at his indignation,
Reuben breaks out in exclamation.
“Edward! I mean—I really meant—
Upon my word!—a compliment;
You look so stern!—nay, why is this?
Angry because I flattered Miss?
What! gone?—the deuce is in the man!
Explain, Sir Robert, if you can.”—
“Eh! what? perhaps you haven't heard,—
Excuse my laughing—how absurd!
A slight faux pas!—a trifle merely!
Ha! ha!—egad, you touched him nearly!”

All blunderers, when they chance to make
In colloquy some small mistake,
Make haste to make a hundred more
To mend the one they made before.
'Tis thus with Reuben; through the throng
With hurried steps he hastes along;
Thins, like a pest, the crowded seats,
And runs a muck at all he meets,
Rich in his unintended satire,
And killing where he meant to flatter.
He makes a College Fellow wild
By asking for his wife and child;
Puts a haught Blue in awful passion
By disquisitions on the fashion;
Refers a knotty case in whist
To Morley the philanthropist;
Quotes to a sportsman from St. Luke;
Bawls out plain “Bobby” to a Duke;
And while a barrister invites
Our notice to the Bill of Rights,
And fat Sir John begins to launch
Into the praises of a haunch,
He bids the man of quibbles pause
By eulogizing “Spartan Laws,”
And makes the epicure quite wroth
By eulogising “Spartan broth.”
Error on error grows and swells;—
For, as a certain proverb tells,

“When once a man has lost his way,”—
But you have read it,—or you may.

Girt with a crowd of listening Graces,
With expectation on their faces,
Chattering, and looking all the while
As if he strove to hide a smile
That fain would burst Decorum's bands,
Alfred Duval, the hoaxer, stands.
Alfred! the eldest born of Mirth;
There is not on this nether earth
So light a spirit, nor a soul
So little used to all control.
Frolic and fun and jest and glee
Burst round him unremittingly,
And in the glances of his eyes
Ever his heart's good humour flies,
Mild as the breezes of the South;
And while from many a wiser mouth
We drink the fruits of education,
The solid Port of conversation,
From Alfred's lips we seem to drain
A ceaseless flow of bright Champagne.
In various shapes his wit is found;
But most it loves to send around
O'er half the town, on Rumour's gale,
Some marvellously fashioned tale,

And cheat the unsuspecting ear
With groundless hope, or groundless fear.
To speak in civil words, his bent
Lies sadly to—embellishment.
“Sir,” says Morality, “you know
You shouldn't flatter Falsehood so:
The nurse that rocked you in your crib
Taught you to loathe and scorn a fib;
And Shakspeare warns you of the evil,
Saying—‘Tell truth, and shame the devil!’
I like, as well as you, the glances
Where gay good humour brightly dances;
But when a man tells horrid lies,—
You shouldn't talk about his eyes.”
Madam! you'll think it rather odd,
That, while I bow me to the rod,
And make no shadow of defence,
I still persist in my offence:
And great and small may join to blame
The echo of the hoaxer's fame;
But, be it known to great and small,—
I can't write sermons at a ball.

'Tis Alfred fills the public prints
With all the sly ingenious hints
That fly about, begirt with cares,
And terrify the Bulls and Bears.

Unrivalled statesman! war and peace
He makes and breaks with perfect ease;
Skilful to crown and to depose,
He sets up kings, and overthrows;
As if apprenticed to the work,
He ties the bowstring round the Turk,
Or makes the Algerine devout,
Or plagues his Holiness with gout,
Or drives the Spaniard from Madrid
As quick as Bonapartè did.
Sometimes at home his plots he lays,
And wildly still his fancy plays;
He pulls the Speaker from the chair,
Murders the Sheriffs, or the Mayor,
Or drags a Bishop through the mire,
Or sets the theatres on fire,
Or brings the weavers to subjection,
Or prates of mobs and insurrection.
One dash of his creative pen
Can raise a hundred thousand men:
They march! he wills, and myriads fall;—
One dash annihilates them all!

And now, amid that female rout,
What scandal doth he buzz about?
What grand affair or mighty name
Entrusts he to the gossip Fame?

Unchecked, unstayed, he hurries on
With wondrous stories of the Ton;
Describes how London ladies lose
Their heads in helmets—like the Blues,
And how the highest circles meet
To dance with pattens on their feet!
And all the while he tells his lie
With such a solemn gravity,
That many a Miss parades the room
Dreaming about a casque and plume,
And vows it grievously must tire one
To waltz upon a pump of iron.

Jacques, the Cantab! I see him brood,
Wrapt in his mental solitude,
On thoughts that lie too deep, I wis,
For such a scene and hour as this.
Now shall the rivers freeze in May,
Coquettes be silent at the play;
Old men shall dine without a story,
And mobs be civil to a Tory!
All miracles shall well befall,
When Youth is thoughtful at a ball.

From thoughts that grieve, and words that vex,
And names invented to perplex;
From latent findings, never found,
And mystic figures, square and round;

Shapes, from whose labyrinthine toil
A Dædalus might well recoil,
He steals one night—one single night—
And gives its moments to delight.
Yet still upon his struggling soul
The muddy wave of Cam will roll,
And all the monsters grim, that float
Upon that dark and murky moat,
Come jabbering round him,—dark equation,
Subtle distinction, disputation;
Notion, idea, mystic schism,
Assumption, proof, and syllogism,
And many an old and awful name
Of optic or mechanic fame.
Look! in the van stern Euclid shows
The Asses'-Bridge upon his nose;
Bacon comes forward, sage austere,
And Locke and Paley both are there;
And Newton, with a spiteful hiss,
Points to his “De Principiis.”
Yet often with his magic wand
Doth Mirth dispel that hideous band;
And then in strange confusion lost
The mind of Jacques is tempest-tossed;
By turns around it come and flee
The dulce and the utile;
By turns, as Thought or Pleasure wills,
Quadratics struggle with quadrilles;

And figures sour and figures sweet,
Of problems—and of dances—meet;
Bisections fight with “down the middle”s,
And chords of arcs with chords of fiddles;
Vain are the poor musician's graces;
His bass gives way to given bases—
His studied trill to shapely trine—
His mellowed shake to puzzling sine:
Each forming set recals a vision
Of some enchanting proposition,
And merry “Chassez-croisès huit”
Is little more than Q. E. D.
Ah Stoic youth! before his eye
Bright beauties walk unheeded by;
And, while his distant fancy strays
Remote through Algebraic maze,
He sees in whatsoe'er he views
The very object he pursues;
And fairest forms, from heel to head,
Seem crooked as his x and z.
Peace to the man of marble!—

Hush!
Whence is the universal rush?
Why doth confusion thus affright
The peaceful order of the night,
Thwart the musicians in their task,
And check the schoolboy's pas de basque?

The Lady Clare hath lost a comb!—
If old Queen Bess from out her tomb
Had burst, with royal indignation,
Upon our scandalous flirtation,
Darted a glance immensely chilling
Upon our waltzing and quadrilling,
Flown at the fiddlers in a pet,
And bade them play her minuet;
Her stately step and angry eye,
Her waist so low, her neck so high,
Her habit of inspiring fear,
Her knack of boxing on the ear,
Could ne'er have made the people stare
Like the lost comb of Lady Clare!
The tresses it was wont to bind
Joy in their freedom! unconfined
They float around her, and bedeck
The marble whiteness of her neck
With veil of more resplendent hue
Than ever Aphrodite threw
Around her, when unseen she trod
Before the sight of man or god.
Look, how a blush of burning red
O'er bosom and o'er forehead spread
Glances like lightning! and aside
The Lady Clare hath turned her head,
As if she strove in vain to hide
That countenance of modest pride,

Whose colour many an envying fair
Would give a monarch's crown to wear.
Persuasion lurks on woman's tongue:
In woman's smile, oh! raptures throng;
And woman's tears compassion move,—
But, oh! 'tis woman's blush we love!

Now gallantry is busy round:
All eyes are bent upon the ground;
And dancers leave the cheerful measure
To seek the Lady's missing treasure.
Meanwhile, some charitable Miss,
Quite ignorant what envy is,
Sends slowly forth her censures grave.
“How oddly beauties will behave!
Oh! quite an accident!—last year
I think she sprained her ankle here;
And then there were such sudden halts,
And such a bringing out of salts.”—
“You think her vain?”—“Oh gracious, no!
She has a charming foot, you know;
And it's so pretty to be lame;—
I don't impute the slightest blame,—
Only, that very careless braid!—
The fault is with the waiting-maid:
I merely mean, since Lady Clare
Was flattered so about her hair,

Her comb is always dropping out—
Oh! quite an accident!—no doubt!”

The sun hath risen o'er the deep,
And fathers, more than half asleep,
Begin to shake the drowsy head,
And hint—“It's time to be in bed.”
Then comes chagrin on faces fair;
Soft hands are clasped in mimic prayer:
And then the warning watch is shown,
And answers in a harsher tone
Reply to look of lamentation,
And argument, and supplication:
In vain sweet voices tell their grief,
In speeches long, for respite brief;
Bootless are all their “Lord!”s and “La!”s,
Their “Pray, Papa!”s and “Do, Papa!”s;
“Ladies,” quoth Gout, “I love my rest;”
The carriage waits!—eundum est.”
This is the hour for parting bow,
This is the hour for secret vow;
For weighty shawl, and hooded cloak,
Half-uttered tale, and whispered joke:
This is the hour when ladies bright
Relate the adventures of the night,
And fly by turns from truth to fiction,
From retrospection to prediction:

They regulate with unbought bounty
The destinies of half the county;
With gipsy talent they foretell
How Miss Duquesne will marry well,
And how 'tis certain that the Squire
Will be more stupid than his sire,
And how the girl they cried up so,
Only two little months ago,
Falls off already, and will be
Really quite plain at twenty-three.

Now Scandal hovers, laughing, o'er them,
While pass in long review before them,
“The lady that my lord admires”—
“The gentleman that moves on wires”—
The youth “with such a frightful frown!”—
And “that extraordinary gown!”
Now characters are much debated,
And witty speeches are narrated;
And Criticism delights to dwell
On conquests won by many a belle,
On compliments that ne'er were paid,
On offers that were never made,
Refusals—Lord knows when refused,
Deductions—Lord knows how deduced;
Alas! how sweetly scandal falls
From lips of beauties—after balls!

The music stops—the lights expire—
The dance is o'er—the crowds retire,
And all those smiling cheeks have flown!
Away!—the Rhymer is alone.
Thou too, the fairest and the best,
Hast fleeted from him with the rest;
Thy name he will not, love! unite
To the rude strain he pours to-night;
Yet often hath he turned away
Amidst his harsh and wandering lay,
And often hath his earnest eye
Looked into thine delightedly,
And often hath his listening ear—

But thou art gone!—what doth he here?