The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed With a Memoir by the Rev. Derwent Coleridge. Fourth Edition. In Two Volumes |
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A LETTER FROM ETON. |
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 | The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed |  |
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.
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!
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!
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
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,
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!
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!
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
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 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.
| The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed | |