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

Sweet is it to the warrior's ear
To mark the clamorous battle cry,
But sweeter far the crystal tear
That falls from Pity's moistened eye
And savage is the cruel beast
That prowls round Gondar's lofty tower,
But harder far that human breast
That ne'er has felt soft Pity's power.

But see, with ostentatious sneer
Will Laura precious gifts bestow;
Emilia often sheds the tear,
But Affectation bids it flow.
These do not own compassion's reign;
True pity acts not such a part;
It flies the rich, it flies the vain,—
It dwells in kind Sophia's heart

Whene'er the poor, worn out with woe,
Oppressed with trouble, years, and grief,
From breasts which feel compassion's glow
Solicit mild the kind relief,—

242

Then Laura opes her ready hand,
The tear bedews Emilia's eye;
Sophia quits the selfish band
To soothe the pangs of poverty.

Gold can but present help afford;
Emilia's tear is wiped away;
Sophia feels her just reward,
A bliss which never will decay,
This, the reward of virtue, this
Th' unfeeling heart will never know:
It is the only earthly bliss
Which is not mixed with earthly woe.

1815.

243

ON THE DEPARTURE OF AN OLD HOUSEKEEPER.

'Tis past; and since she is for ever fled,
With all her by-gone blunders on her head,
Let not the laugh, the sneer, pursue her still,
Nor mark her failings, where she meant no ill.
Cease now her foibles, Ridicule, to tell;
Let Gratitude declare—she loved us well.

Can we forget, now when for aye we part,
Her charity, the goodness of her heart,
Her wish to please, her readiness to lend
(Although unasked) assistance to a friend?
Can we forget all these? and yet retain
The few—the puny errors of her brain?
You who are blind to what her heart could do,
Be just at least, dismiss her failings too:
Grant—while an inmate, her mistakes could tease,
Her look amuse us, or her faults displease,—
Yet now—her fancies and her follies past—
Her failings vanish, while her love will last.

244

Still, when she calls to mind her happiest days,
She'll load her former friends with well meant praise;
Still will regret that, forced at length to roam,
She leaves the spot she called so long her home.

Let us our ridicule, our mocking, end;
Quit the companion, yet retain the friend:
Forgive her faults, for there no malice low'rs;
Forget those faults, for she was blind to ours.

1816.

245

VALENTINES.

I. IMITATION OF METASTASIO'S “PARTENZA.”

Sister, far from thee I'm gone;
And often, silent and alone,
Sudden starts a willing tear
Which would not fall if thou wert here;
But thou, my Susan, who can tell
If thy least thought on me shall dwell?

How quick our meeting days have passed!
But human pleasures will not last;
And Learning's all-consuming power
Hastened on our parting hour.
But thou, my Susan, who can tell
If thy least thought on me shall dwell?

But quickly still from day to day
Flies the hasty time away;
Fraught with hope and sportive glee,
I'll soon revisit home and thee;
Whilst thou, my Susan, who can tell
If thy least thought on me shall dwell?

246

But stay, I wrong thee, gentle dove,
I know I wrong thy tender love;
Oft thine eye will shed a tear,
Which would not fall if I were near;
Yes, yes, my Susan, I can tell,
Oft thy thoughts on me will dwell.

February 14, 1816.

II. A MADRIGAL

When weeping friends are parting,
Oh then their hearts are smarting!
But when they're just returning,
Oh then their hearts are burning!
They're merry all,
Nor once recall
The tear they shed at parting.

February 14, 1817.

247

III. THE DOVE.

Tell me, little darling Dove,
Whence and whither dost thou rove?

I am in haste; a brother tied
This doggrel greeting to my side;
May every good my Sister bless,—
Life, virtue, health, and happiness;
Not vulgar mirth, but modest sense;
Not mines of gold, but competence;
With these her bark may peaceful glide,
Uninjured, down life's swelling tide.
May soft Content's all-healing power
Stand ready for each suffering hour,
Enhance the good the Fates bestow,
And mitigate the pangs of woe.
Each year may an adoring crew
New Valentines around her strew;
Be every page, be every line,
As ardent, as sincere, as mine!

February 14, 1817.

248

IV. THE DEITIES.

Each god has left his heavenly seat,
Olympus, for a while;
And animates a mortal shape
In Britain's favoured isle:
Ye Deities, no thin disguise
Conceals ye from a poet's eyes!

Jove thunders as Britannia's King,
And Bacchus is his son;
And Byron strikes Apollo's lyre;
And Mars is Wellington.
Like Neptune, Exmouth rules the sea,—
But lovely Venus smiles in thee.

Yet not alone does Venus smile;
For there are joined in thee
The Muses' verse, Minerva's sense,
And Juno's majesty:
The Graces o'er thy figure rove,
And every feature beams with Love.

1817.

249

A FABLE.

TO HIS ELDEST SISTER ON HER BIRTHDAY.

Virtue, (a nymph you well must know,)
Met gently warbling Erato:
And after bows, and “how d'ye do” s,
She thus addressed the smiling Muse:
“How is it,—tell me, Erato,—
That you and I such strangers grow?
If at your Mount my foot I set,
Flat ‘Not at home’ is all I get:
When first you called a meeting there,
And Phœbus deigned to take the chair,
The sire of men, of gods the king,
Your patron, Jove,—he bade you sing
Not those who in false glory shine,
But those who bow to Virtue's shrine;
And scorn you Jove? For now I deem
That Virtue is your rarest theme!
Calliope, when war she sings,
Forgets the truth to flatter kings;
Euterpe thinks me low and mean,
Thalia drives me from her scene,

250

Melpomene like Folly rants,
Dishonest Clio scrawls romance;
E'en your own soft enticing measure
Has left poor me, and flows for Pleasure.”

“Cease your upbraidings,” cries the Muse:
“An ear at least you can't refuse:
I'll answer you for all the Nine;
The few who bow at Virtue's shrine
Are better pleased with artless praise
Than all the force of studied lays.
The page of silver flowing rhyme
May hide a fault, or gild a crime;
But you, and those who choose your part,
Require the language of the heart;
And such will smile and read with pleasure,
If 'tis sincere, a doggrel measure;
Though only on the page they view
Congratulation—and Adieu!

1817.

251

LINES ON LEAVING OTTERTON.

Sweet spot, whose real joy excels
What Fancy's pencil ever drew,
Where Innocence with Pleasure dwells.
And Peace with Poverty—adieu!
If perfect bliss resides on earth,
Here lies the spot that gives it birth.

And you, whose presence throws a gleam
Of pleasure o'er the poor man's lot,
Who well to Fancy's eye might seem
The Genii of the peaceful spot,—
Fond Memory oft will bring to view
The welcome that we found with you.

It is not yours in hall or bower
The semblance of a smile to wear;
But yours it is, in sorrow's hour,
To stop the sufferer's falling tear:
Nor yours the fleeting vain reward
That earthly pow'r and pomp award.

252

From pomp and power men are riven
At every change of Fortune's will;
One purer bliss to you is given,
A heart that acts not, thinks not, ill.
The tyrant well for such a gem
Might quit his blood-bought diadem

But we must part at length; 'tis sad
Upon such scenes as these to dwell,
Since scenes like these can only add
New sorrow to our long farewell:
Pure was our happiness—no more!
We part; that happiness is o'er.

We go; but we shall not forget
Those symptoms of a friendly heart,
The smile you wore because we met,
The tear you shed because we part;
And Hope already paints how sweet
The hour when we again shall meet.

1817

253

FORGET ME NOT.

When thy sad master's far away,
Go, happier far than he,—
Go, little flower, with her to stay
With whom he may not be;
There bid her mourn his wayward lot,
And whisper still “Forget me not!”

Sweet as the gale of fate, that blew
To waft me to a spot like this,—
Frail as the hours, that quickly flew
To tear me from the transient bliss,—
Thy humble blossoms long shall prove
An emblem fit for parted love.

1817

254

WOMAN.

A FRAGMENT.

Woman! thou loveliest gift that here below
Man can receive, or Providence bestow!
To thee the earliest offerings belong
Of opening eloquence, or youthful song;
Lovely partaker of our dearest joys!
Thyself a gift whose pleasure never cloys,—
Whose wished-for presence gently can appease
The wounds of penury, or slow disease,—
Whose loss is such, as through life's tedious way
No rank can compensate, no wealth repay;
Thy figure beams a ray of heavenly light
To cheer the darkness of our earthly night:
Hail, fair Enslaver! at thy changing glance
Boldness recedes, and timid hearts advance,
Monarchs forget their sceptre and their sway,
And sages melt in tenderness away.

1818.

255

MUNITO.

FROM A POEM ON DOGS.

Though great Spadille, or that famed Prince of Loo
All conqu'ring Pam, turn backward from his view,—
Swift in the noble chase, Munito tracks
The Royal guests amid Plebeian packs;
And though the cards in mixed confusion lie,
And mock the vigour of a human eye,
Munito still, with more than human art,
Knows Kings from Knaves, the Diamond from the Heart:
Happy were men, if thus in graver things
Our Knaves were always parted from our Kings;
Happy the maid, who in Love's maze can part
The miser's Diamond from the lover's Heart!

1818.

256

LINES WRITTEN IN THE FIRST LEAF OF VOLTAIRE'S “HISTOIRE DE CHARLES XII.”

Thou little Book, thy leaves unfold
A tale of wonder and of glory,
And warring kings and barons bold
Adorn the pages of thy story.

Thy vein is noble; meet and fit
To catch and charm a youthful eye;
Thou teem'st with wonder and with wit;
And yet I look on thee, and sigh:

Thy tales are sweet, but they renew
Visions how sad, yet ah, how dear!
Vain fancies mock my wandering view,
And recollection wakes a tear.

Thou bid'st me think upon the hours
When giddy Tizy round me ran;
When glad I left Etona's bowers,
To laugh with laughing Mary Anne:

257

When Susan's voice of tenderness
My darkest sorrows could beguile;
When study wore its fairest dress,
Adorned by good Eliza's smile.

Alas! too soon before mine eye
Was spread the page of ancient lore;
Too soon that meeting fleeted by,
Too soon those dreams of bliss were o'er.

I look on thee, and think again
Upon those halcyon days of gladness,
While Memory mingles joy and pain,
A mournful bliss, a pleasing sadness.

Ye friends with whom I may not be,
Ye forms that I have loved and left,
What pleasure now shall beam on me,
Of home and of your smiles bereft?

My lot and yours are parted now;
And oh! I should not thus repine,
If Fortune would on you bestow
The happiness—which is not mine.

Long weeks must pass, ere I may greet
The glad return of former bliss,—
Ere I may fly again to meet
A cousin's smile, a sister's kiss.

Eton, 1820.

258

TO FLORENCE.

Long years have passed with silent pace,
Florence! since thou and I have met;
Yet, when that meeting I retrace,
My cheek is pale, my eye is wet;
For I was doomed from thence to rove
O'er distant tracts of earth and sea,
Unaided, Florence!—save by love;
And unremembered—save by thee!
We met, and hope beguiled our fears—
Hope, ever bright, and ever vain;
We parted thence in silent tears,
Never to meet in life again.
The myrtle that I gaze upon,
Sad token by thy love devised,
Is all the record left of one
So long bewailed, so dearly prized.
You gave it in an hour of grief,
When gifts of love are doubly dear;
You gave it, and one tender leaf
Glistened the while with beauty's tear.
A tear-oh! lovelier far to me,
Shed for me in my saddest hour,
Than bright and flattering smiles could be,
In courtly hall or summer bower.

259

You strove my anguish to beguile
With distant hopes of future weal;
You strove—alas! you could not smile,
Nor speak the hope you did not feel.
I bore the gift affection gave
O'er desert sand and thorny brake,
O'er rugged rock and stormy wave,—
I loved it for the giver's sake;
And often in my happiest day,
In scenes of bliss and hours of pride,
When all around was glad and gay,
I looked upon the gift, and sighed:
And when on ocean or on clift
Forth strode the Spirit of the storm,
I gazed upon thy fading gift,
I thought upon thy fading form;
Forgot the lightning's vivid dart,
Forgot the rage of sky and sea,
Forgot the doom that bade us part,
And only lived to love and thee.
Florence!—thy myrtle blooms! but thou,
Beneath thy cold and lowly stone,
Forgetful of our mutual vow,
And of a heart—still all thine own,
Art laid in that unconscious sleep
Which he that wails thee soon must know,
Where none may smile, and none may weep,
None dream of bliss, nor wake to woe.

260

If e'er, as fancy oft will feign,
To that dear spot which gave thee birth
Thy fleeting shade returns again
To look on him thou lov'dst on earth,
It may a moment's joy impart,
To know that this, thy favourite tree,
Is to my desolated heart
Almost as dear as thou couldst be.
My Florence! soon—the thought is sweet!—
The turf that wraps thee I shall press;
Again, my Florence! we shall meet,
In bliss—or in forgetfulness.
With thee in death's oblivion laid,
I will not have the cypress gloom
To throw its sickly sullen shade
Over the stillness of my tomb;
And there the scutcheon shall not shine,
And there the banner shall not wave;
The treasures of the glittering mine
Would ill become a lover's grave;
But when from this abode of strife
My liberated shade shall roam,
Thy myrtle, that has cheered my life,
Shall decorate my narrow home;
And it shall bloom in beauty there,
Like Florence in her early day;
Or, nipped by cold December's air,
Wither—like hope and thee—away.

261

MARIUS AMIDST THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE.

Carthage, I love thee! thou hast run—
As I—a warlike race;
And now thy glory's radiant sun
Hath veiled in clouds his face:
Thy days of pride—as mine—depart;
Thy gods desert thee, and thou art
A thing as nobly base
As he whose sullen footstep falls
To-night around thy crumbling walls.

And Rome hath heaped her woes and pains
Alike on me and thee;
And thou dost sit in servile chains,—
But mine they shall not be!
Though fiercely o'er this aged head
The wrath of angry Jove is shed,
Marius shall still be free—
Free in the pride that scorns his foe,
And bares the head to meet the blow.

262

I wear not yet thy slavery's vest,
As desolate I roam;
And though the sword were at my breast,
The torches in my home,
Still—still, for orison and vow,
I'd fling them back my curse—as now;
I scorn, I hate thee—Rome!
My voice is weak to word and threat,
My arm is strong to battle yet!

263

EDWARD MORTON.

“November 26.—Heard of the death of poor Morton. If ever man died of love, it was Edward Morton. Since his death a small collection of poems, written by him at different periods of his life, has been put into my hands; which I shall insert from time to time, with the signature ‘E. M.’”—The Etonian, vol. i. pp. 313, 374.

I.

There was a voice—a foolish voice—
In my heart's summer echoing through me;
It bade me hope, it bade rejoice,
And still its sounds were precious to me;
But thou hast plighted that deep vow,
And it were sin to love thee now!

I will not love thee! I am taught
To shun the dream on which I doated,
And tear my soul from every thought
On which its dearest vision floated;
And I have prayed to look on thee
As coldly as thou dost on me.

Alas! the love indeed is gone,
But still I feel its melancholy;
And the deep struggle, long and lone,
That stifled all my youthful folly.
Took but away the guilt of sin,
And left me all its pain within.

264

Adieu! if thou hadst seen the heart—
The silly heart thou wert beguiling,
Thou wouldst not have inflamed the smart
With all thy bright unconscious smiling;
Thou wouldst not so have fanned the blaze
That grew beneath those quiet rays!

Nay, it was well!—for smiles like this
Delayed at least my bosom's fever!
Nay, it was well, since hope and bliss
Were fleeting quickly, and for ever,
To snatch them as they passed away,
And meet the anguish all to-day!

II.

I do not weep; the grief I feel
Is not the grief that dims the eye;
No accents speak, no tears reveal
The inward pain that cannot die.

Mary! thou know'st not—none can know
The silent woe that still must live;
I would not change that silent woe
For all the joy the world can give.

265

Yet, by thine hair so lightly flowing,
And by thy smiling lips, I vow,
And by thy cheek so brightly glowing,
And by the meekness of thy brow,

And by those eyes, whose tranquil beam
So joyfully is wont to shine,
As if thy bosom could not dream
Of half the woe that preys on mine,

I do not murmur that another
Hath gained the love I could not wake;
I look on him as on a brother,
And do not hate him—for thy sake.

And, Mary, when I gaze on thee,
I think not on my own distress;
Serene—in thy serenity,
And happy—in thine happiness.

III.

A flower in nature's fairest dress
Bloomed on its parent tree;
Brightly it blushed in loveliness—
That blush was not for me!

266

Oh! not for me, right well I knew;
And yet I watched it where it grew,
Fondly and fearfully;
And often from my heart I prayed
That gentle Flower might never fade.

I could have borne to see it bloom
By other hands caressed,
Giving its blossoms and perfume
To deck another's breast;
And when that Flower, in future days,
Had met my melancholy gaze,
Still living and still blest,
I should have spoke a calmer tone,
And made its happiness my own.

But thus to find it hurled away
By him to whom it clung,
To watch it withering day by day,
So beautiful and young!
To see it dying, yet repress
The agony of tenderness
That lingers on the tongue!—
Alas! and doth it come to this,
Mary, thy cherished dream of bliss!

Gone is the colour from thy cheek,
The lustre from thine eye;

267

Thy brow is cold, thy step is weak,
Thy beauty passeth by!
In ignorance supremely blest
Thy child is slumbering on thy breast,
And feels not “she will die!”
Alas! alas!—I know not how
I speak of this so coldly now!

I love to muse on thee by night!
And, while my bosom aches,
There is a something of delight
In thinking why it breaks;
Therefore doth Reason come in vain;—
I doat on this consuming pain;
Cling to the wounds it makes;
Talk—dream of it, and find relief
E'en in the bitterness of grief.

Where are ye now, ye coldly wise,
Who bid the passions sleep,
Who scorn the mourner when he sighs,
And call it crime to weep?
Yours is the lifelessness of life!—
I will not change this inward strife
For all your precepts deep,
Nor lose, in my departing years,
The pain—the bliss—the throb of tears!

268

IV.

I saw thee wedded—thou didst go
Within the sacred aisle,
Thy young cheek in a blushing glow
Betwixt a tear and smile.
Thy heart was glad in maiden glee,
But he it loved so fervently
Was faithless all the while;
I hate him for the vow he spoke—
I hate him for the vow he broke.

I hid the love that could not die,
Its doubts, and hopes, and fears,
And buried all my misery
In secrecy and tears;
And days passed on, and thou didst prove
The pang of unrequited love
E'en in thine early years;
And thou didst die—so fair and good—
In silence, and in solitude!

While thou wert living, I did hide
Affection's secret pains:
I'd not have shocked thy modest pride
For all the world contains;

269

But thou hast perished, and the fire
That, often checked, could ne'er expire,
Again unhidden reigns:
It is no crime to speak my vow,
For ah! thou canst not hear it now.

Thou sleepest 'neath thy lowly stone
That dark and dreamless sleep;
And he, thy loved and chosen one—
Why goes he not to weep?
He does not kneel where I have knelt
He cannot feel what I have felt,
The anguish still and deep,
The painful thoughts of what has been,
The canker-worm that is not seen!

But I—as o'er the dark blue wave
Unconsciously I ride,
My thoughts are hovering o'er thy grave
My soul is by thy side.
There is one voice that wails thee yet,
One heart that cannot e'er forget
The visions that have died;
And aye thy form is buried there—
A doubt—an anguish—a despair!

270

A CHILD'S GRAVE.

O'er yon churchyard the storm may lower;
But, heedless of the wintry air,
One little bud shall linger there,
A still and trembling flower.

Unscathed by long revolving years
Its tender leaves shall flourish yet,
And sparkle in the moonlight, wet
With the pale dew of tears.

And where thine humble ashes lie,
Instead of scutcheon or of stone.
It rises o'er thee, lonely one,
Child of obscurity!

Mild was thy voice as zephyr's breath,
Thy cheek with flowing locks was shaded;
But the voice hath died, the cheek hath faded,
In the cold breeze of Death!

271

Brightly thine eye was smiling, Sweet!
But now decay hath stilled its glancing;
Warmly thy little heart was dancing,
But it hath ceased to beat!

A few short months—and thou wert here!
Hope sat upon thy youthful brow;
And what is thy memorial now?
A flower—and a tear!

272

A LETTER FROM ETON.

My dearest Cynthia,—if you knew
Half of the toil P. C. goes through,
You'd never dip your spiteful pen
In anger's bitter ink again,
Because the hapless author woos
No correspondent—save the Muse.

Was ever such a wretched elf?
I ha'n't a minute to myself!
My own and other people's cares
Are dinned incessant in my ears
I can't get rid of Mr. “Vapour,”
With all his silly “midnight taper;”
Nor Mr. Musgrave's learned paper
“Diseases of the Hoof;”
E'en now, as thus I sit me down,
Scared by your thunder and your frown,
Two Fiends are hid aloof;
Two Fiends in dark Cocytus dipt;
A Blockhead with a Manuscript,
A Devil with a Proof!

273

Alas, alas! I seem to find
Some torment for my weary mind
In every thing I see!
My duck is old, my mutton tough,
To some they may be good enough,
They smell of “Press” to me;
And when I stoop my lips to drink,
I often shudder as I think
I taste the taste of printer's ink
In chocolate and tea.
And what with friends, and foes, and hits
Sent slyly out by little wits,
A fulminating breed;
And what with critics, queries, quarrels,
Fame and fair faces, loves and laurels,
Sermons and sonnets, good and bad,
I'm getting—not a little mad,
But very mad indeed!

But you, who in your home of ease
Are far from sorrows such as these,—
Maid of the archly-smiling brow—
What folly are you following now?
With you, amid the mazy dance
That came to us from clever France,
Does he, that bright and brilliant star,
The future Tully of the Bar,

274

Its present Vestris, glide?
Or does he quibble, stride, look big,
Assume the face of legal prig,
And charm you with his embryo wig
In all its powdered pride?
Is he the Coryphæus still
Of winding Waltz, and gay Quadrille?
And is he talking fooleries
Of Ladies' love, and looks, and eyes,
And flirting with your fan?
Or does he prate of whens and whys,
Cross questions, queries, and replies,
Cro. Car.—Cro. Jac.—and Cro. Eliz.
To puzzle all he can?
Is he the favourite of to-day?
Or do you smile with kinder ray
On him, the grave Divine?
Whose periods sure were formed alike
In pulpit to amaze and strike,
In drawing-room to shine?
Alas, alas! Methinks I see,
Amid those walks of revelry,
A dignitary's fall;
For, lingering long in Fashion's scene,
He'll die a dancer, not a Dean,
And find it hard to choose between
Preferment—and a Ball!

275

I do not bid thee weep, my dear;
I would not see a single tear
In eyes so bright as those;
Nor dim the ray that Love hath lit,
Nor check the stream of mirth and wit
That sparkles as it flows.
Be still the Fairy of the dance,
And keep that light and merry glance;
Yet do not, in your pride of place,
Forget your parted Lover's face,
A poor one though it be!
Among the thousands that adore
Believe not one can love you more;
And when, retired from ball or rout.
You've nothing else to think about—
Why, waste a thought on me!

June 25, 1821.

278

SONNET.

[If when with thee I feel and speak]

If when with thee I feel and speak
What not with others I have felt and spoken.
It is not for the beauty of thy cheek,
Nor for thy forehead fair,
Nor for the dark locks quietly sleeping there,
Nor for thy words of kindness, Friendship's token;
But rather, that I trace
Passion and purity in that meaning face;
And that thy brow is stamped with feeling
Such as mocks the tongue's revealing,
And that I see in thy young soul
A breathing part of that celestial Whole,
And that thou art a Poet, and the son
Of an Immortal one!

Cambridge, December. 1821.