The poetical works of Leigh Hunt Now finally collected, revised by himself, and edited by his son, Thornton Hunt. With illustrations by Corbould |
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Miscellaneous Poems.
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 | The poetical works of Leigh Hunt |  |
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Miscellaneous Poems.
POWER AND GENTLENESS.
1817.
I've thought at gentle and ungentle hour,
Of many an act and giant shape of power;
Of the old kings with high exacting looks,
Sceptred and globed; of eagles on their rocks,
With straining feet, and that fierce mouth and drear,
Answering the strain with downward drag austere;
Of the rich-headed lion, whose huge frown
All his great nature, gathering, seems to crown;
Of towers on hills, with foreheads out of sight
In clouds, or shown us by the thunder's light,
Or ghastly prison, that eternally
Holds its blind visage out to the lone sea;
And of all sunless, subterranean deeps
The creature makes, who listens while he sleeps,
Avarice; and then of those old earthly cones,
That stride, they say, over heroic bones;
And those stone heaps Egyptian, whose small doors
Look like low dens under precipitous shores;
And him, great Memnon, that long sitting by
In seeming idleness, with stony eye,
Sang at the morning's touch, like poetry;
And then, of all the fierce and bitter fruit
Of the proud planting of a tyrannous foot,—
Of bruised rights, and flourishing bad men,
And virtue wasting heavenwards from a den;
Brute force and fury; and the devilish drouth
Of the fool cannon's ever-gaping mouth;
And the bride-widowing sword; and the harsh bray
The sneering trumpet sends across the fray;
And all which lights the people-thinning star,
That selfishness invokes,—the horsed war,
Panting along with many a bloody mane.
Of many an act and giant shape of power;
Of the old kings with high exacting looks,
Sceptred and globed; of eagles on their rocks,
With straining feet, and that fierce mouth and drear,
Answering the strain with downward drag austere;
Of the rich-headed lion, whose huge frown
All his great nature, gathering, seems to crown;
Of towers on hills, with foreheads out of sight
In clouds, or shown us by the thunder's light,
Or ghastly prison, that eternally
Holds its blind visage out to the lone sea;
And of all sunless, subterranean deeps
The creature makes, who listens while he sleeps,
Avarice; and then of those old earthly cones,
That stride, they say, over heroic bones;
And those stone heaps Egyptian, whose small doors
Look like low dens under precipitous shores;
And him, great Memnon, that long sitting by
In seeming idleness, with stony eye,
Sang at the morning's touch, like poetry;
And then, of all the fierce and bitter fruit
Of the proud planting of a tyrannous foot,—
Of bruised rights, and flourishing bad men,
And virtue wasting heavenwards from a den;
Brute force and fury; and the devilish drouth
Of the fool cannon's ever-gaping mouth;
And the bride-widowing sword; and the harsh bray
The sneering trumpet sends across the fray;
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That selfishness invokes,—the horsed war,
Panting along with many a bloody mane.
I've thought of all this pride, and all this pain,
And all the insolent plenitudes of power,
And I declare, by this most quiet hour,
Which holds in different tasks by the fire-light
Me and my friends here, this delightful night,
That Power itself has not one half the might
Of Gentleness. 'Tis want to all true wealth;
The uneasy madman's force, to the wise health;
Blind downward beating, to the eyes that see;
Noise to persuasion, doubt to certainty;
The consciousness of strength in enemies,
Who must be strain'd upon, or else they rise;
The battle to the moon, who all the while,
High out of hearing, passes with her smile;
The tempest, trampling in his scanty run,
To the whole globe, that basks about the sun;
Or as all shrieks and clangs, with which a sphere,
Undone and fired, could rake the midnight ear,
Compared with that vast dumbness nature keeps
Throughout her starry deeps,
Most old, and mild, and awful, and unbroken,
Which tells a tale of peace beyond whate'er was spoken.
And all the insolent plenitudes of power,
And I declare, by this most quiet hour,
Which holds in different tasks by the fire-light
Me and my friends here, this delightful night,
That Power itself has not one half the might
Of Gentleness. 'Tis want to all true wealth;
The uneasy madman's force, to the wise health;
Blind downward beating, to the eyes that see;
Noise to persuasion, doubt to certainty;
The consciousness of strength in enemies,
Who must be strain'd upon, or else they rise;
The battle to the moon, who all the while,
High out of hearing, passes with her smile;
The tempest, trampling in his scanty run,
To the whole globe, that basks about the sun;
Or as all shrieks and clangs, with which a sphere,
Undone and fired, could rake the midnight ear,
Compared with that vast dumbness nature keeps
Throughout her starry deeps,
Most old, and mild, and awful, and unbroken,
Which tells a tale of peace beyond whate'er was spoken.
THOUGHTS OF THE AVON.
ON THE 28TH OF SEPTEMBER, 1817.
It is the loveliest day that we have had
This lovely month, sparkling and full of cheer;
The sun has a sharp eye, yet kind and glad;
Colours are doubly bright: all things appear
Strong outlined in the spacious atmosphere;
And through the lofty air the white clouds go,
As on their way to some celestial show.
This lovely month, sparkling and full of cheer;
The sun has a sharp eye, yet kind and glad;
Colours are doubly bright: all things appear
Strong outlined in the spacious atmosphere;
And through the lofty air the white clouds go,
As on their way to some celestial show.
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The banks of Avon must look well to-day;
Autumn is there in all his glory and treasure;
The river must run bright; the ripples play
Their crispest tunes to boats that rock at leisure;
The ladies are abroad with cheeks of pleasure;
And the rich orchards in their sunniest robes
Are pouting thick with all their winy globes.
Autumn is there in all his glory and treasure;
The river must run bright; the ripples play
Their crispest tunes to boats that rock at leisure;
The ladies are abroad with cheeks of pleasure;
And the rich orchards in their sunniest robes
Are pouting thick with all their winy globes.
And why must I be thinking of the pride
Of distant bowers, as if I had no nest
To sing in here, though by the houses' side?
As if I could not in a minute rest
In leafy fields, quiet, and self-possest,
Having, on one side, Hampstead for my looks,
On t'other, London, with its wealth of books?
Of distant bowers, as if I had no nest
To sing in here, though by the houses' side?
As if I could not in a minute rest
In leafy fields, quiet, and self-possest,
Having, on one side, Hampstead for my looks,
On t'other, London, with its wealth of books?
It is not that I envy autumn there,
Nor the sweet river, though my fields have none;
Nor yet that in its all-productive air
Was born Humanity's divinest son,
That sprightliest, gravest, wisest, kindest one—
Shakespeare; nor yet, oh no—that here I miss
Souls not unworthy to be named with his.
Nor the sweet river, though my fields have none;
Nor yet that in its all-productive air
Was born Humanity's divinest son,
That sprightliest, gravest, wisest, kindest one—
Shakespeare; nor yet, oh no—that here I miss
Souls not unworthy to be named with his.
No; but it is, that on this very day,
And upon Shakespeare's stream, a little lower,
Where, drunk with Delphic air, it comes away
Dancing in perfume by the Peary Shore,
Was born the lass that I love more and more:
A fruit as fine as in the Hesperian store,
Smooth, roundly smiling, noble to the core;
An eye for art: a nature, that of yore
Mothers and daughters, wives and sisters wore,
When in the golden age one tune they bore;
Marian,—who makes my heart and very rhymes run o'er.
And upon Shakespeare's stream, a little lower,
Where, drunk with Delphic air, it comes away
Dancing in perfume by the Peary Shore,
Was born the lass that I love more and more:
A fruit as fine as in the Hesperian store,
Smooth, roundly smiling, noble to the core;
An eye for art: a nature, that of yore
Mothers and daughters, wives and sisters wore,
When in the golden age one tune they bore;
Marian,—who makes my heart and very rhymes run o'er.
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TO T. L. H.
SIX YEARS OLD, DURING A SICKNESS.
1817.
Sleep breathes at last from out thee,
My little, patient boy;
And balmy rest about thee
Smooths off the day's annoy.
I sit me down, and think
Of all thy winning ways;
Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink,
That I had less to praise.
My little, patient boy;
And balmy rest about thee
Smooths off the day's annoy.
I sit me down, and think
Of all thy winning ways;
Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink,
That I had less to praise.
Thy sidelong pillowed meekness,
Thy thanks to all that aid,
Thy heart, in pain and weakness,
Of fancied faults afraid;
The little trembling hand
That wipes thy quiet tears,
These, these are things that may demand
Dread memories for years.
Thy thanks to all that aid,
Thy heart, in pain and weakness,
Of fancied faults afraid;
The little trembling hand
That wipes thy quiet tears,
These, these are things that may demand
Dread memories for years.
Sorrows I've had, severe ones,
I will not think of now;
And calmly 'midst my dear ones
Have wasted with dry brow;
But when thy fingers press
And pat my stooping head,
I cannot bear the gentleness,—
The tears are in their bed.
I will not think of now;
And calmly 'midst my dear ones
Have wasted with dry brow;
But when thy fingers press
And pat my stooping head,
I cannot bear the gentleness,—
The tears are in their bed.
Ah, first-born of thy mother,
When life and hope were new,
Kind playmate of thy brother,
Thy sister, father too;
My light, where'er I go,
My bird, when prison-bound,
My hand in hand companion,—no,
My prayers shall hold thee round.
When life and hope were new,
Kind playmate of thy brother,
Thy sister, father too;
My light, where'er I go,
My bird, when prison-bound,
My hand in hand companion,—no,
My prayers shall hold thee round.
259
To say “He has departed”—
“His voice”—“his face”—is gone;
To feel impatient-hearted,
Yet feel we must bear on;
Ah, I could not endure
To whisper of such woe,
Unless I felt this sleep ensure
That it will not be so.
“His voice”—“his face”—is gone;
To feel impatient-hearted,
Yet feel we must bear on;
Ah, I could not endure
To whisper of such woe,
Unless I felt this sleep ensure
That it will not be so.
Yes, still he's fixed, and sleeping!
This silence too the while—
Its very hush and creeping
Seem whispering us a smile:
Something divine and dim
Seems going by one's ear,
Like parting wings of Seraphim,
Who say, “We've finished here.”
This silence too the while—
Its very hush and creeping
Seem whispering us a smile:
Something divine and dim
Seems going by one's ear,
Like parting wings of Seraphim,
Who say, “We've finished here.”
TO J. H.
FOUR YEARS OLD:—A NURSERY SONG.
1816.
------ Pien d' amori,
Pien di canti, e pien di fiori.
Frugoni.
Pien di canti, e pien di fiori.
Frugoni.
Full of little loves for ours,
Full of songs, and full of flowers.
Full of songs, and full of flowers.
Ah little ranting Johnny,
Forever blithe and bonny,
And singing nonny, nonny,
With hat just thrown upon ye;
Or whistling like the thrushes
With voice in silver gushes;
Or twisting random posies
With daisies, weeds, and roses;
And strutting in and out so,
Or dancing all about so,
With cock-up nose so lightsome,
And sidelong eyes so brightsome,
And cheeks as ripe as apples,
And head as rough as Dapple's,
And arms as sunny shining
As if their veins they'd wine in;
And mouth that smiles so truly,
Heav'n seems to have made it newly,
It breaks into such sweetness
With merry-lipp'd completeness;—
Ah Jack, ah Gianni mio,
As blithe as Laughing Trio,
—Sir Richard, too, you rattler,
So christened from the Tatler,—
My Bacchus in his glory,
My little Cor-di-fiori.
My tricksome Puck, my Robin,
Who in and out come bobbing,
As full of feints and frolic as
That fibbing rogue Autolycus,
And play the graceless robber on
Your grave-eyed brother Oberon,—
Ah! Dick, ah Dolce-riso,
How can you, can you be so?
Forever blithe and bonny,
And singing nonny, nonny,
With hat just thrown upon ye;
Or whistling like the thrushes
With voice in silver gushes;
Or twisting random posies
With daisies, weeds, and roses;
And strutting in and out so,
Or dancing all about so,
With cock-up nose so lightsome,
And sidelong eyes so brightsome,
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And head as rough as Dapple's,
And arms as sunny shining
As if their veins they'd wine in;
And mouth that smiles so truly,
Heav'n seems to have made it newly,
It breaks into such sweetness
With merry-lipp'd completeness;—
Ah Jack, ah Gianni mio,
As blithe as Laughing Trio,
—Sir Richard, too, you rattler,
So christened from the Tatler,—
My Bacchus in his glory,
My little Cor-di-fiori.
My tricksome Puck, my Robin,
Who in and out come bobbing,
As full of feints and frolic as
That fibbing rogue Autolycus,
And play the graceless robber on
Your grave-eyed brother Oberon,—
Ah! Dick, ah Dolce-riso,
How can you, can you be so?
One cannot turn a minute,
But mischief—there you're in it,
A getting at my books, John,
With mighty bustling looks, John;
Or poking at the roses,
In midst of which your nose is;
Or climbing on a table,
No matter how unstable,
And turning up your quaint eye
And half-shut teeth with “Mayn't I?”
Or else you're off at play, John,
Just as you'd be all day, John,
With hat or not, as happens,
And there you dance, and clap hands,
Or on the grass go rolling,
Or plucking flow'rs, or bowling,
And getting me expenses
With losing balls o'er fences;
Or, as the constant trade is,
Are fondled by the ladies
With “What a young rogue this is!”
Reforming him with kisses;
Till suddenly you cry out,
As if you had an eye out,
So desperately tearful,
The sound is really fearful;
When lo! directly after,
It bubbles into laughter.
But mischief—there you're in it,
A getting at my books, John,
With mighty bustling looks, John;
Or poking at the roses,
In midst of which your nose is;
Or climbing on a table,
No matter how unstable,
And turning up your quaint eye
And half-shut teeth with “Mayn't I?”
Or else you're off at play, John,
Just as you'd be all day, John,
With hat or not, as happens,
And there you dance, and clap hands,
Or on the grass go rolling,
Or plucking flow'rs, or bowling,
And getting me expenses
With losing balls o'er fences;
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Are fondled by the ladies
With “What a young rogue this is!”
Reforming him with kisses;
Till suddenly you cry out,
As if you had an eye out,
So desperately tearful,
The sound is really fearful;
When lo! directly after,
It bubbles into laughter.
Ah rogue! and do you know, John,
Why 'tis we love you so, John?
And how it is they let ye
Do what you like and pet ye,
Though all who look upon ye,
Exclaim, “Ah Johnny, Johnny!”
It is because you please 'em
Still more, John, than you tease 'em;
Because, too, when not present,
The thought of you is pleasant;
Because, though such an elf, John,
They think that if yourself, John,
Had something to condemn too,
You'd be as kind to them too;
In short, because you're very
Good-temper'd, Jack, and merry;
And are as quick at giving,
As easy at receiving;
And in the midst of pleasure
Are certain to find leisure
To think, my boy, of ours,
And bring us lumps of flowers.
Why 'tis we love you so, John?
And how it is they let ye
Do what you like and pet ye,
Though all who look upon ye,
Exclaim, “Ah Johnny, Johnny!”
It is because you please 'em
Still more, John, than you tease 'em;
Because, too, when not present,
The thought of you is pleasant;
Because, though such an elf, John,
They think that if yourself, John,
Had something to condemn too,
You'd be as kind to them too;
In short, because you're very
Good-temper'd, Jack, and merry;
And are as quick at giving,
As easy at receiving;
And in the midst of pleasure
Are certain to find leisure
To think, my boy, of ours,
And bring us lumps of flowers.
But see, the sun shines brightly;
Come, put your hat on rightly,
And we'll among the bushes,
And hear your friends the thrushes;
And see what flow'rs the weather
Has render'd fit to gather;
And, when we home must jog, you
Shall ride my back, you rogue you,
Your hat adorn'd with fine leaves,
Horse-chestnut, oak, and vine-leaves;
And so, with green o'erhead, John,
Shall whistle home to bed, John.
Come, put your hat on rightly,
And we'll among the bushes,
And hear your friends the thrushes;
And see what flow'rs the weather
Has render'd fit to gather;
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Shall ride my back, you rogue you,
Your hat adorn'd with fine leaves,
Horse-chestnut, oak, and vine-leaves;
And so, with green o'erhead, John,
Shall whistle home to bed, John.
TO CHARLES LAMB.
O thou, whom old Homer would call, were he living,
Home-lover, thought-feeder, abundant-joke-giving;
Whose charity springs from deep knowledge, nor swerves
Into mere self-reflections, or scornful reserves;
In short, who were made for two centuries ago,
When Shakespeare drew men, and to write was to know;—
Home-lover, thought-feeder, abundant-joke-giving;
Whose charity springs from deep knowledge, nor swerves
Into mere self-reflections, or scornful reserves;
In short, who were made for two centuries ago,
When Shakespeare drew men, and to write was to know;—
You'll guess why I can't see the snow-covered streets,
Without thinking of you and your visiting feats,
When you call to remembrance how you and one more,
When I wanted it most, used to knock at my door.
For when the sad winds told us rain would come down,
Or snow upon snow fairly clogged up the town,
And dun yellow fogs brooded over its white,
So that scarcely a being was seen towards night,
Then, then said the lady yclept near and dear,
“Now mind what I tell you, the Lambs will be here.”
So I poked up the flame, and she got out the tea,
And down we both sat, as prepared as could be;
And there, sure as fate, came the knock of you two.
Then the lantern, the laugh, and the “Well, how d'ye do?”
Then your palm tow'rds the fire, and your face turn'd to me,
And shawls and great-coats being—where they should be,—
And due “never saw's” being paid to the weather,
We cherished our knees, and sat sipping together,
And leaving the world to the fogs and the fighters,
Discussed the pretensions of all sorts of writers;
Of Shakespeare's coëvals, all spirits divine;
Of Chapman, whose Homer's a fine rough old wine;
Of Marvell, wit, patriot, and poet, who knew
How to give, both at once, Charles and Cromwell their due.
Of Spenser, who wraps you, wherever you are,
In a bow'r of seclusion beneath a sweet star;
Of Richardson, too, who afflicts us so long,
We begin to suspect him of nerves over strong;
In short, of all those who give full-measur'd page,
Not forgetting Sir Thomas, my ancestor sage,
Who delighted (so happy were all his digestions)
In puzzling his head with impossible questions.
Without thinking of you and your visiting feats,
When you call to remembrance how you and one more,
When I wanted it most, used to knock at my door.
For when the sad winds told us rain would come down,
Or snow upon snow fairly clogged up the town,
And dun yellow fogs brooded over its white,
So that scarcely a being was seen towards night,
Then, then said the lady yclept near and dear,
“Now mind what I tell you, the Lambs will be here.”
So I poked up the flame, and she got out the tea,
And down we both sat, as prepared as could be;
And there, sure as fate, came the knock of you two.
Then the lantern, the laugh, and the “Well, how d'ye do?”
Then your palm tow'rds the fire, and your face turn'd to me,
And shawls and great-coats being—where they should be,—
And due “never saw's” being paid to the weather,
We cherished our knees, and sat sipping together,
And leaving the world to the fogs and the fighters,
Discussed the pretensions of all sorts of writers;
Of Shakespeare's coëvals, all spirits divine;
Of Chapman, whose Homer's a fine rough old wine;
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How to give, both at once, Charles and Cromwell their due.
Of Spenser, who wraps you, wherever you are,
In a bow'r of seclusion beneath a sweet star;
Of Richardson, too, who afflicts us so long,
We begin to suspect him of nerves over strong;
In short, of all those who give full-measur'd page,
Not forgetting Sir Thomas, my ancestor sage,
Who delighted (so happy were all his digestions)
In puzzling his head with impossible questions.
But now, Charles—you never (so blissful you deem me)
Come lounging, with twirl of umbrella to see me.
In vain have we hoped to be set at our ease
By the rains which you know used to bring Lamb and pease;
In vain we look out like the children in Thomson,
And say, in our innocence, “Surely he'll come soon.”
'Tis true, I do live in a vale, at my will,
With sward to my gateway, and trees on the hill:
My health too gets on: and now autumn is nigh,
The sun has come back, and there's really blue sky;
But then, the late weather, I think, had its merits,
And might have induc'd you to look at one's spirits;
We hadn't much thunder and lightning, I own:
But the rains might have led you to walk out of town;
And what made us think your desertion still stranger,
The roads were so bad, there was really some danger.
Come lounging, with twirl of umbrella to see me.
In vain have we hoped to be set at our ease
By the rains which you know used to bring Lamb and pease;
In vain we look out like the children in Thomson,
And say, in our innocence, “Surely he'll come soon.”
'Tis true, I do live in a vale, at my will,
With sward to my gateway, and trees on the hill:
My health too gets on: and now autumn is nigh,
The sun has come back, and there's really blue sky;
But then, the late weather, I think, had its merits,
And might have induc'd you to look at one's spirits;
We hadn't much thunder and lightning, I own:
But the rains might have led you to walk out of town;
And what made us think your desertion still stranger,
The roads were so bad, there was really some danger.
EPISTLE TO WILLIAM HAZLITT.
Et modo qua nostri spatiantur in urbe quirites,
Et modo villarum proxima rura placent.
—Milton, Eleg. 7.
Et modo villarum proxima rura placent.
—Milton, Eleg. 7.
Enjoying now the range of town at ease,
And now the neighbouring rural villages.
And now the neighbouring rural villages.
Dear Hazlitt, whose tact intellectual is such,
That it seems to feel truth, as pure matter of touch,—
Who in politics, arts, metaphysics, poetics,
To critics in these times, are health to cosmetics,
And, nevertheless, or I rather should say,
For that very reason,—can relish boy's play,
And turning on all sides, through pleasures and cares,
Find nothing more precious than laughs and fresh airs,—
That it seems to feel truth, as pure matter of touch,—
Who in politics, arts, metaphysics, poetics,
To critics in these times, are health to cosmetics,
And, nevertheless, or I rather should say,
For that very reason,—can relish boy's play,
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Find nothing more precious than laughs and fresh airs,—
One's life, I conceive, might go prettily down,
In a due easy mixture of country and town;—
Not after the fashion of most with two houses,
Who gossip, and gape, and just follow their spouses,
And let their abode be wherever it will,
Are the same vacant, house-keeping animals still;—
But with due sense of each, and of all that it yields,—
In the town, of the town,—in the fields, of the fields;—
In the one, for example, to feel as we go on,
That streets are about us, arts, people, and so on;
In t'other, to value the stillness, the breeze,
And love to see farms, and to get among trees.
In a due easy mixture of country and town;—
Not after the fashion of most with two houses,
Who gossip, and gape, and just follow their spouses,
And let their abode be wherever it will,
Are the same vacant, house-keeping animals still;—
But with due sense of each, and of all that it yields,—
In the town, of the town,—in the fields, of the fields;—
In the one, for example, to feel as we go on,
That streets are about us, arts, people, and so on;
In t'other, to value the stillness, the breeze,
And love to see farms, and to get among trees.
Each his liking, of course,—so that this be the rule.—
For my part, who went in the city to school,
And whenever I got in a field, felt my soul in it
—Spring so, that like a young horse I could roll in it,—
My inclinations are much what they were,
And cannot dispense, in the first place, with air;
But then I would have the most rural of nooks
Just near enough town to make use of its books,
And to walk there, whenever I chose to make calls,
To look at the ladies, and lounge at the stalls.
For my part, who went in the city to school,
And whenever I got in a field, felt my soul in it
—Spring so, that like a young horse I could roll in it,—
My inclinations are much what they were,
And cannot dispense, in the first place, with air;
But then I would have the most rural of nooks
Just near enough town to make use of its books,
And to walk there, whenever I chose to make calls,
To look at the ladies, and lounge at the stalls.
To tell you the truth, I could spend very well
Whole mornings in this way 'twixt here and Pall Mall,
And make my gloves' fingers as black as my hat,
In pulling the books up from this stall and that:—
Then turning home gently through field and o'er style,
Partly reading a purchase, or rhyming the while,
Take my dinner (to make a long evening) at two,
With a few droppers-in, like my Cousin and you,
Who can season the talk with the right-flavour'd Attic,
Too witty, for tattling,—too wise, for dogmatic;—
Then take down an author, whom one of us mentions,
And doat, for a while, on his jokes or inventions;
Then have Mozart touch'd, on our bottle's completion,
Or one of your fav'rite trim ballads Venetian:—
Then up for a walk before tea down a valley,
And so to come back through a leafy-wall'd alley,
In which the sun peeping, as into a chamber,
Looks gold on the leaves, turning some to sheer amber:
Then tea made by one, who (although my wife she be,)
If Jove were to drink it, would soon be his Hebe;
Then silence a little,—a creeping twilight,—
Then an egg for your supper, with lettuces white,
And a moon and friend's arm to go home with at night.
Whole mornings in this way 'twixt here and Pall Mall,
And make my gloves' fingers as black as my hat,
In pulling the books up from this stall and that:—
Then turning home gently through field and o'er style,
Partly reading a purchase, or rhyming the while,
Take my dinner (to make a long evening) at two,
With a few droppers-in, like my Cousin and you,
Who can season the talk with the right-flavour'd Attic,
Too witty, for tattling,—too wise, for dogmatic;—
Then take down an author, whom one of us mentions,
And doat, for a while, on his jokes or inventions;
Then have Mozart touch'd, on our bottle's completion,
Or one of your fav'rite trim ballads Venetian:—
265
And so to come back through a leafy-wall'd alley,
In which the sun peeping, as into a chamber,
Looks gold on the leaves, turning some to sheer amber:
Then tea made by one, who (although my wife she be,)
If Jove were to drink it, would soon be his Hebe;
Then silence a little,—a creeping twilight,—
Then an egg for your supper, with lettuces white,
And a moon and friend's arm to go home with at night.
Now this I call passing a few devout hours
Becoming a world that has friendships and flowers;
That has lips also, made for still more than to chat to;
And if it has rain, has a rainbow for that too.
“Lord bless us!” exclaims some old hunks in a shop,
“What useless young dogs!” and falls combing a crop.
“How idle!” another cries—“really a sin!”
And starting up, takes his first customer in.
“At least,” cries another, “it's nothing but pleasure;”
Then longs for the Monday, quite sick of his leisure.
“What toys!” cries the sage haggard statesman,—“what stuff!”
Then fillips his ribbon, to shake off the snuff.
“How profane!” cries the preacher, proclaiming his message;
Then calls God's creation a vile dirty passage.
“Lips too!” cries a vixen,—and fidgets, and stirs,
And concludes (which is true) that I didn't mean hers.
Becoming a world that has friendships and flowers;
That has lips also, made for still more than to chat to;
And if it has rain, has a rainbow for that too.
“Lord bless us!” exclaims some old hunks in a shop,
“What useless young dogs!” and falls combing a crop.
“How idle!” another cries—“really a sin!”
And starting up, takes his first customer in.
“At least,” cries another, “it's nothing but pleasure;”
Then longs for the Monday, quite sick of his leisure.
“What toys!” cries the sage haggard statesman,—“what stuff!”
Then fillips his ribbon, to shake off the snuff.
“How profane!” cries the preacher, proclaiming his message;
Then calls God's creation a vile dirty passage.
“Lips too!” cries a vixen,—and fidgets, and stirs,
And concludes (which is true) that I didn't mean hers.
TO BARRON FIELD.
Dear Field, my old friend, who love straightforward verse,
And will take it, like marriage, for better, for worse,—
Who cheered my fire-side, when we grew up together,
And still warm my heart in these times and this weather;
I know you'll be glad to see, under my hand,
That I'm still, as the phrase is, alive in the land,
When you hear, that since meeting the bright-eyed and witty,
I've been asked to an absolute feast in the city!
Yes, Barron, no more of the Nelsons and Jervises:—
Dinner's the place for the hottest of services;—
There's the array, and the ardour to win,
The clashing, and splashing, and crashing, and din;
With fierce intercepting of convoys of butter,
And phrases and outcries tremendous to utter,—
Blood, devils, and drum-sticks,—now cut it—the jowl there—
Brains, bones, head and shoulders, and into the sole there!
The veterans too, round you—how obviously brave!
What wounds and what swellings they bear to their grave!
Some red as a fever, some pallid as death,
Some balustrade-legg'd, others panting for breath,
Some jaundiced, some jaded, some almost a jelly,
And numbers with horrid contusion of belly.
And will take it, like marriage, for better, for worse,—
Who cheered my fire-side, when we grew up together,
And still warm my heart in these times and this weather;
I know you'll be glad to see, under my hand,
That I'm still, as the phrase is, alive in the land,
When you hear, that since meeting the bright-eyed and witty,
I've been asked to an absolute feast in the city!
266
Dinner's the place for the hottest of services;—
There's the array, and the ardour to win,
The clashing, and splashing, and crashing, and din;
With fierce intercepting of convoys of butter,
And phrases and outcries tremendous to utter,—
Blood, devils, and drum-sticks,—now cut it—the jowl there—
Brains, bones, head and shoulders, and into the sole there!
The veterans too, round you—how obviously brave!
What wounds and what swellings they bear to their grave!
Some red as a fever, some pallid as death,
Some balustrade-legg'd, others panting for breath,
Some jaundiced, some jaded, some almost a jelly,
And numbers with horrid contusion of belly.
No wonder the wise look on dinners like these,
As so much sheer warfare with pain and disease.
Indeed, you may see by the gestures and grins
Which some dishes make, how they wait for one's sins;—
The gape of a cod-fish, and round staring eye,
The claws that threat up from a fierce pigeon pie,—
Don't they warn us, with signs at which heroes might shiver.
Of wounds in the midriff, and scars in the liver?
Even hares become bold in so desperate a case,
And with hollow defiance look full in one's face.
As so much sheer warfare with pain and disease.
Indeed, you may see by the gestures and grins
Which some dishes make, how they wait for one's sins;—
The gape of a cod-fish, and round staring eye,
The claws that threat up from a fierce pigeon pie,—
Don't they warn us, with signs at which heroes might shiver.
Of wounds in the midriff, and scars in the liver?
Even hares become bold in so desperate a case,
And with hollow defiance look full in one's face.
This made, t'other day, a physician declare,
That disease, bonâ fide, was part of our fare.
For example, he held that a plate of green fruit
Was not only substance, but colic to boot;
That veal, besides making an exquisite dish,
Was a fine indigestion, and so was salt-fish;
That a tongue was most truly a thing to provoke,
Hasty-pudding slow poison, and trifle no joke.
Had you asked him accordingly, what was the fare,
When he dined t'other day with the vicar or may'r,
He'd have said, “Oh, of course, everything of the best,
Gout, headache, and fever, and pain in the chest.”
'Twas thus too at table, when helping the meat,
He'd have had you encourage the people to eat,—
As “Pray, Sir, allow me,—a slice of this gout;
I could get no St. Anthony's fire—it's quite out.
Mr. P. there,—more nightmare? my hand's quite at leisure;
A glass of slow fever? I'm sure with great pleasure.
My dear Mrs. H., why your plate's always empty!
Now can't a small piece of this agony tempt ye?
And then leaning over, with spoon and with smile,
Do let me, Miss Betsy,—a little more bile?—
Have I no more persuasion with you too, Miss Virtue?
A little, I'm sure, of this cough couldn't hurt you.”
That disease, bonâ fide, was part of our fare.
For example, he held that a plate of green fruit
Was not only substance, but colic to boot;
That veal, besides making an exquisite dish,
Was a fine indigestion, and so was salt-fish;
That a tongue was most truly a thing to provoke,
Hasty-pudding slow poison, and trifle no joke.
Had you asked him accordingly, what was the fare,
When he dined t'other day with the vicar or may'r,
He'd have said, “Oh, of course, everything of the best,
Gout, headache, and fever, and pain in the chest.”
'Twas thus too at table, when helping the meat,
He'd have had you encourage the people to eat,—
267
I could get no St. Anthony's fire—it's quite out.
Mr. P. there,—more nightmare? my hand's quite at leisure;
A glass of slow fever? I'm sure with great pleasure.
My dear Mrs. H., why your plate's always empty!
Now can't a small piece of this agony tempt ye?
And then leaning over, with spoon and with smile,
Do let me, Miss Betsy,—a little more bile?—
Have I no more persuasion with you too, Miss Virtue?
A little, I'm sure, of this cough couldn't hurt you.”
Now all this is good, and didactic enough
For those who'd make bodies mere cushions to stuff:
Excess is bad always;—but there's a relation
Of this same Excess, sometimes called Moderation,
Who wonders, and smiles, and concludes you a glutton,
If helped more than he is to turnips and mutton;—
A Southey in soups, who though changing his whim,
Would still have your living take pattern by him;—
In short, a Procrustes, who'd measure one's dishes,
As t'other did beds, to his own size or wishes.
For those who'd make bodies mere cushions to stuff:
Excess is bad always;—but there's a relation
Of this same Excess, sometimes called Moderation,
Who wonders, and smiles, and concludes you a glutton,
If helped more than he is to turnips and mutton;—
A Southey in soups, who though changing his whim,
Would still have your living take pattern by him;—
In short, a Procrustes, who'd measure one's dishes,
As t'other did beds, to his own size or wishes.
Alas, we might ask every person we meet
To talk just as we do, as well as to eat,—
Enjoin the same rest to the brisk and tir'd out,
One repair to all tenements, shatter'd or stout,
One pay for all earnings, contents for all cases,
Nay, quarrel with people for difference of faces,
And turning beside us, with angry surprise,
Say, “Why a'n't you like me, Sir,—nose, mouth, and eyes?”
To talk just as we do, as well as to eat,—
Enjoin the same rest to the brisk and tir'd out,
One repair to all tenements, shatter'd or stout,
One pay for all earnings, contents for all cases,
Nay, quarrel with people for difference of faces,
And turning beside us, with angry surprise,
Say, “Why a'n't you like me, Sir,—nose, mouth, and eyes?”
Each his ways, each his wants; and then taking our food,
'Tis exercise turns it to glad-flowing blood.
We must shun, it is true, what we find doesn't suit
With our special digestions,—wine, water, or fruit;
But from all kinds of action one thing we may learn,—
That nature'll indulge us, provided we earn.
We study her fields, and find “books in the brooks;”
We range them, ride, walk, and come safe from the cooks.
'Tis exercise turns it to glad-flowing blood.
We must shun, it is true, what we find doesn't suit
With our special digestions,—wine, water, or fruit;
But from all kinds of action one thing we may learn,—
That nature'll indulge us, provided we earn.
We study her fields, and find “books in the brooks;”
We range them, ride, walk, and come safe from the cooks.
Thus I look upon shoes whiten'd thickly with dust,
As entitling the bearer to double pie-crust;
A mere turnpike ticket's a passport to lamb;
But a row up the Thames lands you safely at Ham.
As entitling the bearer to double pie-crust;
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But a row up the Thames lands you safely at Ham.
And now, after all, why this subject to you,
To whom I am bidding a long, long adieu?
Why, because not content with two dinners, you see,
To take my leave of you, I needs must have three;
And so have insidiously got you to be a
True guest of a poet, and dine in idea.
To whom I am bidding a long, long adieu?
Why, because not content with two dinners, you see,
To take my leave of you, I needs must have three;
And so have insidiously got you to be a
True guest of a poet, and dine in idea.
So here, in your old friend the Barmecide's glass,
Is to you, dear Field, and your new-married lass.
May a breath from blue heaven your vessel attend,
As true to the last, as you've been to your friend;
And may all meet again to grow young in our joys,
And you and I, Barron, be happy old boys.
Is to you, dear Field, and your new-married lass.
May a breath from blue heaven your vessel attend,
As true to the last, as you've been to your friend;
And may all meet again to grow young in our joys,
And you and I, Barron, be happy old boys.
ON HEARING A LITTLE MUSICAL BOX.
Dilettevol' suoni
Faceano intorno l' aria tintinnire
D' armonia dolce, e di concenti buoni.
Ariosto.
Faceano intorno l' aria tintinnire
D' armonia dolce, e di concenti buoni.
Ariosto.
Hallo!—what?—where, what can it be
That strikes up so deliciously?
I never in my life—what no!
That little tin-box playing so?
It really seemed as if a sprite
Had struck among us, swift and light,
And come from some minuter star
To treat us with his pearl guitar.
That strikes up so deliciously?
I never in my life—what no!
That little tin-box playing so?
It really seemed as if a sprite
Had struck among us, swift and light,
And come from some minuter star
To treat us with his pearl guitar.
Hark! it scarcely ends the strain,
But it gives it o'er again,
Lovely thing!—and runs along,
Just as if it knew the song,
Touching out, smooth, clear and small,
Harmony, and shake, and all,
Now upon the treble lingering,
Dancing now as if 'twere fingering,
And at last upon the close,
Coming with serene repose.
But it gives it o'er again,
Lovely thing!—and runs along,
Just as if it knew the song,
Touching out, smooth, clear and small,
Harmony, and shake, and all,
Now upon the treble lingering,
Dancing now as if 'twere fingering,
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Coming with serene repose.
O full of sweetness, crispness, ease,
Compound of lovely smallnesses,
Accomplished trifle,—tell us what
To call thee, and disgrace thee not.
Worlds of fancies come about us,
Thrill within and glance without us.
Now we think that there must be
In thee some humanity,
Such a taste composed and fine
Smiles along that touch of thine.
Compound of lovely smallnesses,
Accomplished trifle,—tell us what
To call thee, and disgrace thee not.
Worlds of fancies come about us,
Thrill within and glance without us.
Now we think that there must be
In thee some humanity,
Such a taste composed and fine
Smiles along that touch of thine.
Now we call thee heavenly rain,
For thy fresh, continued strain;
Now a hail, that on the ground
Splits into light leaps of sound;
Now the concert, neat and nice,
Of a pigmy paradise;
Sprinkles then from singing fountains;
Fairies heard on tops of mountains;
Nightingales endued with art,
Caught in listening to Mozart:
Stars that make a distant tinkling,
While their happy eyes are twinkling;
Sounds for scattered rills to flow to;
Music, for the flowers to blow to.
For thy fresh, continued strain;
Now a hail, that on the ground
Splits into light leaps of sound;
Now the concert, neat and nice,
Of a pigmy paradise;
Sprinkles then from singing fountains;
Fairies heard on tops of mountains;
Nightingales endued with art,
Caught in listening to Mozart:
Stars that make a distant tinkling,
While their happy eyes are twinkling;
Sounds for scattered rills to flow to;
Music, for the flowers to blow to.
HEARING MUSIC.
When lovely sounds about my ears
Like winds in Eden's tree-tops rise,
And make me, though my spirit hears,
For very luxury close my eyes,
Let none but friends be round about
Who love the smoothing joy like me,
That so the charm be felt throughout,
And all be harmony.
Like winds in Eden's tree-tops rise,
And make me, though my spirit hears,
For very luxury close my eyes,
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Who love the smoothing joy like me,
That so the charm be felt throughout,
And all be harmony.
And when we reach the close divine,
Then let the hand of her I love
Come with its gentle palm on mine,
As soft as snow or lighting dove;
And let, by stealth, that more than friend
Look sweetness in my opening eyes,
For only so such dreams should end,
Or wake in Paradise.
Then let the hand of her I love
Come with its gentle palm on mine,
As soft as snow or lighting dove;
And let, by stealth, that more than friend
Look sweetness in my opening eyes,
For only so such dreams should end,
Or wake in Paradise.
THE LOVER OF MUSIC TO HIS PIANO-FORTE.
Oh friend, whom glad or grave we seek,
Heav'n-holding shrine!
I ope thee, touch thee, hear thee speak,
And peace is mine.
No fairy casket full of bliss,
Out-values thee:
Love only, waken'd with a kiss,
More sweet may be.
Heav'n-holding shrine!
I ope thee, touch thee, hear thee speak,
And peace is mine.
No fairy casket full of bliss,
Out-values thee:
Love only, waken'd with a kiss,
More sweet may be.
To thee, when our full hearts o'erflow
In griefs or joys,
Unspeakable emotions owe
A fitting voice:
Mirth flies to thee, and Love's unrest,
And Memory dear.
And Sorrow, with his tighten'd breast,
Comes for a tear.
In griefs or joys,
Unspeakable emotions owe
A fitting voice:
Mirth flies to thee, and Love's unrest,
And Memory dear.
And Sorrow, with his tighten'd breast,
Comes for a tear.
Oh since few joys of human mould
Thus wait us still,
Thrice bless'd be thine, thou gentle fold
Of peace at will.
No change, no sullenness, no cheat,
In thee we find;
Thy saddest voice is ever sweet,—
Thine answer, kind.
Thus wait us still,
Thrice bless'd be thine, thou gentle fold
Of peace at will.
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In thee we find;
Thy saddest voice is ever sweet,—
Thine answer, kind.
A THOUGHT OR TWO ON READING POMFRET'S “CHOICE.”
1823.
I have been reading Pomfret's “Choice” this spring,
A pretty kind of—sort of—kind of thing,
Not much a verse, and poem none at all,
Yet, as they say, extremely natural.
And yet I know not. There's an art in pies,
In raising crusts as well as galleries;
And he's the poet, more or less, who knows
The charm that hallows the least truth from prose,
And dresses it in its mild singing clothes.
Not oaks alone are trees, nor roses flowers;
Much humble wealth makes rich this world of ours.
Nature from some sweet energy throws up
Alike the pine-mount and the buttercup;
And truth she makes so precious, that to paint
Either, shall shrine an artist like a saint,
And bring him in his turn the crowds that press
Round Guido's saints or Titian's goddesses.
A pretty kind of—sort of—kind of thing,
Not much a verse, and poem none at all,
Yet, as they say, extremely natural.
And yet I know not. There's an art in pies,
In raising crusts as well as galleries;
And he's the poet, more or less, who knows
The charm that hallows the least truth from prose,
And dresses it in its mild singing clothes.
Not oaks alone are trees, nor roses flowers;
Much humble wealth makes rich this world of ours.
Nature from some sweet energy throws up
Alike the pine-mount and the buttercup;
And truth she makes so precious, that to paint
Either, shall shrine an artist like a saint,
And bring him in his turn the crowds that press
Round Guido's saints or Titian's goddesses.
Our trivial poet hit upon a theme
Which all men love, an old, sweet household dream:—
Pray, reader, what is yours?—I know full well
What sort of home should grace my garden-bell,—
No tall, half-furnish'd, gloomy, shivering house,
That worst of mountains labouring with a mouse;
Nor should I choose to fill a tawdry niche in
A Grecian temple, opening to a kitchen.
The frogs in Homer should have had such boxes,
Or Æsop's frog, whose heart was like the ox's.
Such puff about high roads, so grand, so small,
With wings and what not, portico and all,
And poor drench'd pillars, which it seems a sin
Not to mat up at night-time, or take in.
I'd live in none of those. Nor would I have
Veranda'd windows to forestall my grave;
Veranda'd truly, from the northern heat!
And cut down to the floor to comfort one's cold feet!
My house should be of brick, more wide than high,
With sward up to the path, and elm-trees nigh;
A good old country lodge, half hid with blooms
Of honied green, and quaint with straggling rooms,
A few of which, white-bedded and well swept,
For friends, whose name endear'd them, should be kept.
The tip-toe traveller, peeping through the boughs
O'er my low wall, should bless the pleasant house:
And that my luck might not seem ill-bestow'd,
A bench and spring should greet him on the road.
Which all men love, an old, sweet household dream:—
Pray, reader, what is yours?—I know full well
What sort of home should grace my garden-bell,—
No tall, half-furnish'd, gloomy, shivering house,
That worst of mountains labouring with a mouse;
Nor should I choose to fill a tawdry niche in
A Grecian temple, opening to a kitchen.
The frogs in Homer should have had such boxes,
Or Æsop's frog, whose heart was like the ox's.
Such puff about high roads, so grand, so small,
With wings and what not, portico and all,
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Not to mat up at night-time, or take in.
I'd live in none of those. Nor would I have
Veranda'd windows to forestall my grave;
Veranda'd truly, from the northern heat!
And cut down to the floor to comfort one's cold feet!
My house should be of brick, more wide than high,
With sward up to the path, and elm-trees nigh;
A good old country lodge, half hid with blooms
Of honied green, and quaint with straggling rooms,
A few of which, white-bedded and well swept,
For friends, whose name endear'd them, should be kept.
The tip-toe traveller, peeping through the boughs
O'er my low wall, should bless the pleasant house:
And that my luck might not seem ill-bestow'd,
A bench and spring should greet him on the road.
My grounds should not be large. I like to go
To Nature for a range, and prospect too,
And cannot fancy she'd comprise for me,
Even in a park, her all-sufficiency.
Besides, my thoughts, fly far; and when at rest,
Love, not a watch-tow'r, but a lulling nest.
A Chiswick or a Chatsworth might, I grant,
Visit my dreams with an ambitious want;
But then I should be forced to know the weight
Of splendid cares, new to my former state;
And these 'twould far more fit me to admire,
Borne by the graceful ease of noblest Devonshire.
Such grounds, however, as I had, should look
Like “something” still; have seats, and walks, and brook;
One spot for flowers, the rest all turf and trees;
For I'd not grow my own bad lettuces.
I'd build a cover'd path too against rain,
Long, peradventure, as my whole domain,
And so be sure of generous exercise,
The youth of age and med'cine of the wise.
And this reminds me, that behind some screen
About my grounds, I'd have a bowling-green;
Such as in wits' and merry women's days
Suckling preferr'd before his walk of bays.
You may still see them, dead as haunts of fairies,
By the old seats of Killigrews and Careys,
Where all, alas! is vanish'd from the ring,
Wits and black eyes, the skittles and the king!
Fishing I hate, because I think about it,
Which makes it right that I should do without it.
A dinner, or a death, might not be much,
But cruelty's a rod I dare not touch.
I own I cannot see my right to feel
For my own jaws, and tear a trout's with steel;
To troll him here and there, and spike, and strain,
And let him loose to jerk him back again.
Fancy a preacher at this sort of work,
Not with his trout or gudgeon, but his clerk:
The clerk leaps gaping at a tempting bit,
And, hah! an ear-ache with a knife in it!
That there is pain and evil, is no rule
That I should make it greater, like a fool;
Or rid me of my rust so vile a way,
As long as there's a single manly play.
Nay, fool's a word my pen unjustly writes,
Knowing what hearts and brains have dozed o'er “bites;”
But the next inference to be drawn might be,
That higher beings made a trout of me;
Which I would rather should not be the case,
Though “Izaak” were the saint to tear my face,
And, stooping from his heaven with rod and line,
Made the fell sport, with his old dreams divine,
As pleasant to his taste, as rough to mine.
Such sophistry, no doubt, saves half the hell,
But fish would have preferr'd his reasoning well,
And, if my gills concern'd him, so should I.
The dog, I grant, is in that “equal sky;”
But, heav'n be prais'd, he's not my deity.
All manly games I'd play at,—golf and quoits,
And cricket, to set lungs and limbs to rights,
And make me conscious, with a due respect,
Of muscles one forgets by long neglect.
To Nature for a range, and prospect too,
And cannot fancy she'd comprise for me,
Even in a park, her all-sufficiency.
Besides, my thoughts, fly far; and when at rest,
Love, not a watch-tow'r, but a lulling nest.
A Chiswick or a Chatsworth might, I grant,
Visit my dreams with an ambitious want;
But then I should be forced to know the weight
Of splendid cares, new to my former state;
And these 'twould far more fit me to admire,
Borne by the graceful ease of noblest Devonshire.
Such grounds, however, as I had, should look
Like “something” still; have seats, and walks, and brook;
One spot for flowers, the rest all turf and trees;
For I'd not grow my own bad lettuces.
I'd build a cover'd path too against rain,
Long, peradventure, as my whole domain,
And so be sure of generous exercise,
The youth of age and med'cine of the wise.
And this reminds me, that behind some screen
About my grounds, I'd have a bowling-green;
273
Suckling preferr'd before his walk of bays.
You may still see them, dead as haunts of fairies,
By the old seats of Killigrews and Careys,
Where all, alas! is vanish'd from the ring,
Wits and black eyes, the skittles and the king!
Fishing I hate, because I think about it,
Which makes it right that I should do without it.
A dinner, or a death, might not be much,
But cruelty's a rod I dare not touch.
I own I cannot see my right to feel
For my own jaws, and tear a trout's with steel;
To troll him here and there, and spike, and strain,
And let him loose to jerk him back again.
Fancy a preacher at this sort of work,
Not with his trout or gudgeon, but his clerk:
The clerk leaps gaping at a tempting bit,
And, hah! an ear-ache with a knife in it!
That there is pain and evil, is no rule
That I should make it greater, like a fool;
Or rid me of my rust so vile a way,
As long as there's a single manly play.
Nay, fool's a word my pen unjustly writes,
Knowing what hearts and brains have dozed o'er “bites;”
But the next inference to be drawn might be,
That higher beings made a trout of me;
Which I would rather should not be the case,
Though “Izaak” were the saint to tear my face,
And, stooping from his heaven with rod and line,
Made the fell sport, with his old dreams divine,
As pleasant to his taste, as rough to mine.
Such sophistry, no doubt, saves half the hell,
But fish would have preferr'd his reasoning well,
And, if my gills concern'd him, so should I.
The dog, I grant, is in that “equal sky;”
But, heav'n be prais'd, he's not my deity.
All manly games I'd play at,—golf and quoits,
And cricket, to set lungs and limbs to rights,
And make me conscious, with a due respect,
Of muscles one forgets by long neglect.
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With these, or bowls aforesaid, and a ride,
Books, music, friends, the day would I divide,
Most with my family, but when alone,
Absorb'd in some new poem of my own;
A task which makes my time so richly pass,
So like a sunshine cast through painted glass.
(Save where poor Captain Sword crashes the panes,)
That could my friends live too, and were the gains
Of toiling men but freed from sordid fears,
Well could I walk this earth a thousand years.
Books, music, friends, the day would I divide,
Most with my family, but when alone,
Absorb'd in some new poem of my own;
A task which makes my time so richly pass,
So like a sunshine cast through painted glass.
(Save where poor Captain Sword crashes the panes,)
That could my friends live too, and were the gains
Of toiling men but freed from sordid fears,
Well could I walk this earth a thousand years.
SUDDEN FINE WEATHER.
Reader! what soul that loves a verse, can see
The spring return, nor glow like you and me?
Hear the quick birds, and see the landscape fill,
Nor long to utter his melodious will?
The spring return, nor glow like you and me?
Hear the quick birds, and see the landscape fill,
Nor long to utter his melodious will?
This more than ever leaps into the veins,
When spring has been delay'd by winds and rains,
And coming with a burst, comes like a show,
Blue all above, and basking green below,
And all the people culling the sweet prime:
Then issues forth the bee to clutch the thyme,
And the bee poet rushes into rhyme.
When spring has been delay'd by winds and rains,
And coming with a burst, comes like a show,
Blue all above, and basking green below,
And all the people culling the sweet prime:
Then issues forth the bee to clutch the thyme,
And the bee poet rushes into rhyme.
For lo! no sooner has the cold withdrawn,
Than the bright elm is tufted on the lawn;
The merry sap has run up in the bowers,
And bursts the windows of the buds in flowers;
With song the bosoms of the birds run o'er,
The cuckoo calls, the swallow's at the door,
And apple-trees at noon, with bees alive,
Burn with the golden chorus of the hive.
Now all these sweets, these sounds, this vernal blaze,
Is but one joy, express'd a thousand ways:
And honey from the flowers, and song from birds,
Are from the poet's pen his overflowing words.
Than the bright elm is tufted on the lawn;
The merry sap has run up in the bowers,
And bursts the windows of the buds in flowers;
With song the bosoms of the birds run o'er,
The cuckoo calls, the swallow's at the door,
And apple-trees at noon, with bees alive,
Burn with the golden chorus of the hive.
Now all these sweets, these sounds, this vernal blaze,
Is but one joy, express'd a thousand ways:
And honey from the flowers, and song from birds,
Are from the poet's pen his overflowing words.
275
Ah friends! methinks it were a pleasant sphere,
If, like the trees, we blossom'd every year;
If locks grew thick again, and rosy dyes
Return'd in cheeks, and raciness in eyes,
And all around us, vital to the tips,
The human orchard laugh'd with cherry lips!
If, like the trees, we blossom'd every year;
If locks grew thick again, and rosy dyes
Return'd in cheeks, and raciness in eyes,
And all around us, vital to the tips,
The human orchard laugh'd with cherry lips!
Lord! what a burst of merriment and play,
Fair dames, were that! and what a first of May!
So natural is the wish, that bards gone by
Have left it, all, in some immortal sigh!
Fair dames, were that! and what a first of May!
So natural is the wish, that bards gone by
Have left it, all, in some immortal sigh!
And yet the winter months were not so well:
Who would like changing, as the seasons fell?
Fade every year; and stare, midst ghastly friends,
With falling hairs, and stuck-out fingers' ends?
Besides, this tale of youth that comes again,
Is no more true of apple-trees than men.
The Swedish sage, the Newton of the flow'rs,
Who first found out those worlds of paramours,
Tells us, that every blossom that we see
Boasts in its walls a separate family;
So that a tree is but a sort of stand,
That holds those filial fairies in its hand;
Just as Swift's giant might have held a bevy
Of Lilliputian ladies, or a levee.
It is not he that blooms: it is his race,
Who honour his old arms, and hide his rugged face.
Who would like changing, as the seasons fell?
Fade every year; and stare, midst ghastly friends,
With falling hairs, and stuck-out fingers' ends?
Besides, this tale of youth that comes again,
Is no more true of apple-trees than men.
The Swedish sage, the Newton of the flow'rs,
Who first found out those worlds of paramours,
Tells us, that every blossom that we see
Boasts in its walls a separate family;
So that a tree is but a sort of stand,
That holds those filial fairies in its hand;
Just as Swift's giant might have held a bevy
Of Lilliputian ladies, or a levee.
It is not he that blooms: it is his race,
Who honour his old arms, and hide his rugged face.
Ye wits and bards then, pray discern your duty,
And learn the lastingness of human beauty.
Your finest fruit to some two months may reach:
I've known a cheek at forty like a peach.
And learn the lastingness of human beauty.
Your finest fruit to some two months may reach:
I've known a cheek at forty like a peach.
But see! the weather calls me. Here's a bee
Comes bounding in my room imperiously,
And talking to himself, hastily burns
About mine ear, and so in heat returns.
O little brethren of the fervid soul,
Kissers of flowers, lords of the golden bowl,
I follow to your fields and tusted brooks:
Winter's the time to which the poet looks
For hiving his sweet thoughts, and making honied books.
Comes bounding in my room imperiously,
And talking to himself, hastily burns
About mine ear, and so in heat returns.
O little brethren of the fervid soul,
Kissers of flowers, lords of the golden bowl,
276
Winter's the time to which the poet looks
For hiving his sweet thoughts, and making honied books.
ALTER ET IDEM.
A CHEMICO-POETICAL THOUGHT.
O Lovers, ye that poorly love, and ye
That think ye love beyond sobriety,
Twine me a wreath, if but for only this,—
I'll prove the roses in the poet's kiss.
Not metaphors alone are lips and roses,
Whate'er the gallant or the churl supposes:
Ask what compounds them both, and science tells
Of marvellous results in crucibles,—
Of common elements,—say two in five,—
By which their touch is soft, their bloom's alive;
So that the lip and leaf do really, both,
Hold a shrewd cut of the same velvet cloth.
The maxim holds, where'er the compounds fall,—
In birds, in brooks, in wall-flowers and the wall:
The beauty shares them with her very shawl.
That think ye love beyond sobriety,
Twine me a wreath, if but for only this,—
I'll prove the roses in the poet's kiss.
Not metaphors alone are lips and roses,
Whate'er the gallant or the churl supposes:
Ask what compounds them both, and science tells
Of marvellous results in crucibles,—
Of common elements,—say two in five,—
By which their touch is soft, their bloom's alive;
So that the lip and leaf do really, both,
Hold a shrewd cut of the same velvet cloth.
The maxim holds, where'er the compounds fall,—
In birds, in brooks, in wall-flowers and the wall:
The beauty shares them with her very shawl.
'Tis true, the same things go to harden rocks;
There's iron in the shade of Julia's locks;
And when we kiss Jacintha's tears away,
A briny pity melts in what we say:
But read these common properties aright,
And shame in love is quench'd, and wise delight.
The very coarsest clay, the meanest shard
That hides the beetle in the public yard,
Shares with the stars, and all that rolls them on,
Much more the face we love to look upon;
And be the drops compounded as they may,
That bring sweet sorrows from sweet eyes away,
Where's the mean soul shall honour not the tears
Shed for a lover's hopes, a mother's fears?
Rise, truth and love, and vindicate my rhyme!
The crabbed Scot, that once upon a time
Ask'd what a poem prov'd, and just had wit
To prove himself a fool, by asking it,
E'en he had blood, as Burns or Wallace had,
Or as the lip that makes a painter mad.
There's iron in the shade of Julia's locks;
And when we kiss Jacintha's tears away,
A briny pity melts in what we say:
But read these common properties aright,
And shame in love is quench'd, and wise delight.
The very coarsest clay, the meanest shard
That hides the beetle in the public yard,
Shares with the stars, and all that rolls them on,
Much more the face we love to look upon;
And be the drops compounded as they may,
That bring sweet sorrows from sweet eyes away,
Where's the mean soul shall honour not the tears
Shed for a lover's hopes, a mother's fears?
277
The crabbed Scot, that once upon a time
Ask'd what a poem prov'd, and just had wit
To prove himself a fool, by asking it,
E'en he had blood, as Burns or Wallace had,
Or as the lip that makes a painter mad.
AN ANGEL IN THE HOUSE.
How sweet it were, if without feeble fright,Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight,
An angel came to us, and we could bear
To see him issue from the silent air
At evening in our room, and bend on ours
His divine eyes, and bring us from his bowers
News of dear friends, and children who have never
Been dead indeed,—as we shall know forever.
Alas! we think not what we daily see
About our hearths,—angels, that are to be,
Or may be if they will, and we prepare
Their souls and ours to meet in happy air;—
A child, a friend, a wife whose soft heart sings
In unison with ours, breeding its future wings.
WEALTH AND WOMANHOOD.
Have you seen an heiress
In her jewels mounted,
Till her wealth and she seem'd one,
And she might be counted?
In her jewels mounted,
Till her wealth and she seem'd one,
And she might be counted?
Have you seen a bosom
With one rose betwixt it?
And did you mark the grateful blush,
While the bridegroom fix'd it?
With one rose betwixt it?
And did you mark the grateful blush,
While the bridegroom fix'd it?
278
A HYMN TO BISHOP ST. VALENTINE.
The day, the only day returns,
The true redde letter day returns,
When summer time in winter burns;
When a February dawn
Is open'd by two sleeves in lawn
Fairer than Aurora's fingers,
And a burst of all bird singers,
And a shower of billet-doux,
Tinging cheeks with rosy hues,
And over all a face divine,
Face good-natured, face most fine,
Face most anti-saturnine,
Even thine, yea, even thine,
Saint of sweethearts, Valentine!
The true redde letter day returns,
When summer time in winter burns;
When a February dawn
Is open'd by two sleeves in lawn
Fairer than Aurora's fingers,
And a burst of all bird singers,
And a shower of billet-doux,
Tinging cheeks with rosy hues,
And over all a face divine,
Face good-natured, face most fine,
Face most anti-saturnine,
Even thine, yea, even thine,
Saint of sweethearts, Valentine!
See, he's dawning! See, he comes
With the jewels on his thumbs
Glancing us a ruby ray
(For he's sun and all to-day)!
See his lily sleeves! and now
See the mitre on his brow!
See his truly pastoral crook,
And beneath his arm his book
(Some sweet tome De Arte Amandi):
And his hair, 'twixt saint and dandy,
Lovelocks touching either cheek,
And black, though with a silver streak,
As though for age both young and old,
And his look, 'twixt meek and bold,
Bowing round on either side,
Sweetly lipp'd and earnest eyed,
And lifting still, to bless the land,
His very gentlemanly hand.
With the jewels on his thumbs
Glancing us a ruby ray
(For he's sun and all to-day)!
See his lily sleeves! and now
See the mitre on his brow!
See his truly pastoral crook,
And beneath his arm his book
(Some sweet tome De Arte Amandi):
And his hair, 'twixt saint and dandy,
Lovelocks touching either cheek,
And black, though with a silver streak,
As though for age both young and old,
And his look, 'twixt meek and bold,
Bowing round on either side,
Sweetly lipp'd and earnest eyed,
And lifting still, to bless the land,
His very gentlemanly hand.
Hail! oh hail! and thrice again
Hail, thou clerk of sweetest pen!
Connubialest of clergymen!
Exquisite bishop!—not at all
Like Bishop Bonner; no, nor Hall,
That gibing priest; nor Atterbury,
Although he was ingenious, very,
And wrote the verses on the “Fan;”
But then he swore,—unreverend man!
But very like good Bishop Berkeley,
Equally benign and clerkly;
Very like Rundle, Shipley, Hoadley,
And all the genial of the godly;
Like De Sales, and like De Paul;
But most, I really think, of all,
Like Bishop Mant, whose sweet theology
Includeth verse and ornithology,
And like a proper rubric star,
Hath given us a new “Calendar,”
So full of flowers and birdly talking,
'Tis like an Eden bower to walk in.
Such another See is thine,
O thou Bishop Valentine;
Such another, but as big
To that, as Eden to a fig;
For all the world's thy diocese,
All the towns and all the trees,
And all the barns and villages:
The whole rising generation
Is thy loving congregation:
Enviable's indeed thy station;
Tithes cause thee no reprobation,
Dean and chapter's no vexation,
Heresy no spoliation.
Begg'd is thy participation;
No one wishes thee translation,
Except for some sweet explanation.
All decree thee consecration!
Beatification!
Canonization!
All cry out, with heart-prostration,
Sweet's thy text-elucidation,
Sweet, oh sweet's thy visitation,
And Paradise thy confirmation.
Hail, thou clerk of sweetest pen!
Connubialest of clergymen!
279
Like Bishop Bonner; no, nor Hall,
That gibing priest; nor Atterbury,
Although he was ingenious, very,
And wrote the verses on the “Fan;”
But then he swore,—unreverend man!
But very like good Bishop Berkeley,
Equally benign and clerkly;
Very like Rundle, Shipley, Hoadley,
And all the genial of the godly;
Like De Sales, and like De Paul;
But most, I really think, of all,
Like Bishop Mant, whose sweet theology
Includeth verse and ornithology,
And like a proper rubric star,
Hath given us a new “Calendar,”
So full of flowers and birdly talking,
'Tis like an Eden bower to walk in.
Such another See is thine,
O thou Bishop Valentine;
Such another, but as big
To that, as Eden to a fig;
For all the world's thy diocese,
All the towns and all the trees,
And all the barns and villages:
The whole rising generation
Is thy loving congregation:
Enviable's indeed thy station;
Tithes cause thee no reprobation,
Dean and chapter's no vexation,
Heresy no spoliation.
Begg'd is thy participation;
No one wishes thee translation,
Except for some sweet explanation.
All decree thee consecration!
Beatification!
Canonization!
All cry out, with heart-prostration,
Sweet's thy text-elucidation,
Sweet, oh sweet's thy visitation,
And Paradise thy confirmation.
280
TO MAY.
May, thou month of rosy beauty,
Month, when pleasure is a duty;
Month of maids that milk the kine,
Bosom rich, and breath divine;
Month of bees, and month of flowers,
Month of blossom-laden bowers;
Month of little hands with daisies,
Lovers' love, and poets' praises;
O thou merry month complete,
May, thy very name is sweet!
May was maid in olden times,
And is still in Scottish rhymes;
May's the blooming hawthorn bough;
May's the month that's laughing now.
I no sooner write the word,
Than it seems as though it heard,
And looks up, and laughs at me,
Like a sweet face rosily,—
Like an actual colour bright,
Flushing from the paper's white;
Like a bride that knows her power,
Started in a summer bower.
Month, when pleasure is a duty;
Month of maids that milk the kine,
Bosom rich, and breath divine;
Month of bees, and month of flowers,
Month of blossom-laden bowers;
Month of little hands with daisies,
Lovers' love, and poets' praises;
O thou merry month complete,
May, thy very name is sweet!
May was maid in olden times,
And is still in Scottish rhymes;
May's the blooming hawthorn bough;
May's the month that's laughing now.
I no sooner write the word,
Than it seems as though it heard,
And looks up, and laughs at me,
Like a sweet face rosily,—
Like an actual colour bright,
Flushing from the paper's white;
Like a bride that knows her power,
Started in a summer bower.
If the rains that do us wrong
Come to keep the winter long,
And deny us thy sweet looks,
I can love thee, sweet, in books,
Love thee in the poets' pages,
Where they keep thee green for ages;
Love and read thee, as a lover
Reads his lady's letters over,
Breathing blessings on the art,
Which commingles those that part.
Come to keep the winter long,
And deny us thy sweet looks,
I can love thee, sweet, in books,
Love thee in the poets' pages,
Where they keep thee green for ages;
Love and read thee, as a lover
Reads his lady's letters over,
Breathing blessings on the art,
Which commingles those that part.
There is May in books forever;
May will part from Spenser never;
May's in Milton, May's in Prior,
May's in Chaucer, Thomson, Dyer;
May's in all the Italian books;
She has old and modern nooks,
Where she sleeps with nymphs and elves
In happy places they call shelves,
And will rise, and dress your rooms
With a drapery thick with blooms.
May will part from Spenser never;
May's in Milton, May's in Prior,
May's in Chaucer, Thomson, Dyer;
281
She has old and modern nooks,
Where she sleeps with nymphs and elves
In happy places they call shelves,
And will rise, and dress your rooms
With a drapery thick with blooms.
Come, ye rains then, if ye will,
May's at home, and with me still:
But come rather, thou, good weather,
And find us in the fields together.
May's at home, and with me still:
But come rather, thou, good weather,
And find us in the fields together.
TO JUNE.
May's a word 'tis sweet to hear,
Laughter of the budding year;
Sweet it is to start, and say
On May-morning, “This is May!”
But there also breathes a tune—
Hear it—in the sound of “June.”
June's a month, and June's a name,
Never yet hath had its fame.
Summer's in the sound of June,
Summer, and a deepen'd tune
Of the bees and of the birds,—
And of loitering lover's words,—
And the brooks that, as they go,
Seem to think aloud, yet low;
And the voice of early heat,
Where the mirth-spun insects meet;
And the very colour's tone
Russet now, and fervid grown;
All a voice, as if it spoke
Of the brown wood's cottage smoke,
And the sun, and bright green oak.
O come quickly, show thee soon,
Come at once with all thy noon,
Manly, joyous, gipsy June.
May, the jade, with her fresh cheek
And the love the bards bespeak,
May, by coming first in sight,
Half defrauds thee of thy right,
For her best is shared by thee
With a wealthier potency,
So that thou dost bring us in
A sort of May-time masculine,
Fit for action or for rest,
As the luxury seems the best,
Bearding now the morning breeze,
Or in love with paths of trees,
Or dispos'd, full length, to lie
With a hand-enshaded eye
On thy warm and golden slopes,
Basker in the buttercups,
Listening with nice distant ears
To the shepherd's clapping shears,
Or the next field's laughing play
In the happy wars of hay,
While its perfume breathes all over,
Or the bean comes fine or clover.
Laughter of the budding year;
Sweet it is to start, and say
On May-morning, “This is May!”
But there also breathes a tune—
Hear it—in the sound of “June.”
June's a month, and June's a name,
Never yet hath had its fame.
Summer's in the sound of June,
Summer, and a deepen'd tune
Of the bees and of the birds,—
And of loitering lover's words,—
And the brooks that, as they go,
Seem to think aloud, yet low;
And the voice of early heat,
Where the mirth-spun insects meet;
And the very colour's tone
Russet now, and fervid grown;
All a voice, as if it spoke
Of the brown wood's cottage smoke,
And the sun, and bright green oak.
O come quickly, show thee soon,
Come at once with all thy noon,
Manly, joyous, gipsy June.
282
And the love the bards bespeak,
May, by coming first in sight,
Half defrauds thee of thy right,
For her best is shared by thee
With a wealthier potency,
So that thou dost bring us in
A sort of May-time masculine,
Fit for action or for rest,
As the luxury seems the best,
Bearding now the morning breeze,
Or in love with paths of trees,
Or dispos'd, full length, to lie
With a hand-enshaded eye
On thy warm and golden slopes,
Basker in the buttercups,
Listening with nice distant ears
To the shepherd's clapping shears,
Or the next field's laughing play
In the happy wars of hay,
While its perfume breathes all over,
Or the bean comes fine or clover.
O could I walk round the earth,
With a heart to share my mirth,
With a look to love me ever,
Thoughtful much, but sullen never,
I could be content to see
June and no variety;
Loitering here, and living there,
With a book and frugal fare,
With a finer gipsy time,
And a cuckoo in the clime,
Work at morn, and mirth at noon,
And sleep beneath the sacred moon.
With a heart to share my mirth,
With a look to love me ever,
Thoughtful much, but sullen never,
I could be content to see
June and no variety;
Loitering here, and living there,
With a book and frugal fare,
With a finer gipsy time,
And a cuckoo in the clime,
Work at morn, and mirth at noon,
And sleep beneath the sacred moon.
CHRISTMAS.
A SONG FOR THE YOUNG AND THE WISE.
Christmas comes! He comes, he comes,
Usher'd with a rain of plums;
Hollies in the windows greet him;
Schools come driving post to meet him;
Gifts precede him, bells proclaim him,
Every mouth delights to name him;
Wet, and cold, and wind, and dark,
Make him but the warmer mark;
And yet he comes not one-embodied,
Universal 's the blithe godhead,
And in every festal house
Presence hath ubiquitous.
Curtains, those snug room-enfolders,
Hang upon his million shoulders.
And he has a million eyes
Of fire, and eats a million pies,
And is very merry and wise;
Very wise and very merry,
And loves a kiss beneath the berry.
Usher'd with a rain of plums;
283
Schools come driving post to meet him;
Gifts precede him, bells proclaim him,
Every mouth delights to name him;
Wet, and cold, and wind, and dark,
Make him but the warmer mark;
And yet he comes not one-embodied,
Universal 's the blithe godhead,
And in every festal house
Presence hath ubiquitous.
Curtains, those snug room-enfolders,
Hang upon his million shoulders.
And he has a million eyes
Of fire, and eats a million pies,
And is very merry and wise;
Very wise and very merry,
And loves a kiss beneath the berry.
Then full many a shape hath he,
All in said ubiquity:
Now is he a green array,
And now an “eve,” and now a “day;”
Now he's town gone out of town,
And now a feast in civic gown,
And now the pantomime and clown
With a crack upon the crown,
And all sorts of tumbles down;
And then he's music in the night,
And the money gotten by't:
He's a man that can't write verses,
Bringing some to ope your purses;
He's a turkey, he's a goose,
He's oranges unfit for use;
He's a kiss that loves to grow
Underneath the mistletoe;
And he's forfeits, cards, and wassails,
And a king and queen with vassals,
All the “quizzes” of the time
Drawn and quarter'd with a rhyme;
And then, for their revival's sake,
Lo! he's an enormous cake,
With a sugar on the top
Seen before in many a shop,
Where the boys could gaze forever,
They think the cake so very clever.
Then, some morning, in the lurch
Leaving romps, he goes to church,
Looking very grave and thankful,
After which he's just as prankful,
Now a saint, and now a sinner,
But, above all, he's a dinner;
He's a dinner, where you see
Everybody's family;
Beef, and pudding, and mince-pies,
And little boys with laughing eyes,
Whom their seniors ask arch questions,
Feigning fears of indigestions
(As if they, forsooth, the old ones,
Hadn't privately, tenfold ones):
He's a dinner and a fire,
Heap'd beyond your hearts' desire—
Heap'd with log, and bak'd with coals,
Till it roasts your very souls,
And your cheek the fire outstares,
And you all push back your chairs,
And the mirth becomes too great,
And you all sit up too late,
Nodding all with too much head,
And so go off to too much bed.
All in said ubiquity:
Now is he a green array,
And now an “eve,” and now a “day;”
Now he's town gone out of town,
And now a feast in civic gown,
And now the pantomime and clown
With a crack upon the crown,
And all sorts of tumbles down;
And then he's music in the night,
And the money gotten by't:
He's a man that can't write verses,
Bringing some to ope your purses;
He's a turkey, he's a goose,
He's oranges unfit for use;
He's a kiss that loves to grow
Underneath the mistletoe;
And he's forfeits, cards, and wassails,
And a king and queen with vassals,
All the “quizzes” of the time
Drawn and quarter'd with a rhyme;
And then, for their revival's sake,
Lo! he's an enormous cake,
284
Seen before in many a shop,
Where the boys could gaze forever,
They think the cake so very clever.
Then, some morning, in the lurch
Leaving romps, he goes to church,
Looking very grave and thankful,
After which he's just as prankful,
Now a saint, and now a sinner,
But, above all, he's a dinner;
He's a dinner, where you see
Everybody's family;
Beef, and pudding, and mince-pies,
And little boys with laughing eyes,
Whom their seniors ask arch questions,
Feigning fears of indigestions
(As if they, forsooth, the old ones,
Hadn't privately, tenfold ones):
He's a dinner and a fire,
Heap'd beyond your hearts' desire—
Heap'd with log, and bak'd with coals,
Till it roasts your very souls,
And your cheek the fire outstares,
And you all push back your chairs,
And the mirth becomes too great,
And you all sit up too late,
Nodding all with too much head,
And so go off to too much bed.
O plethora of beef and bliss!
Monkish feaster, sly of kiss!
Southern soul in body Dutch!
Glorious time of great Too-Much!
Too much heat, and too much noise,
Too much babblement of boys;
Too much eating, too much drinking,
Too much ev'rything but thinking;
Solely bent to laugh and stuff,
And trample upon base Enough;
Oh, right is thy instinctive praise
Of the wealth of Nature's ways.
Right thy most unthrifty glee,
And pious thy mince-piety!
For behold! great Nature's self
Builds her no abstemious shelf,
But provides (her love is such
For all) her own great, good Too-Much,—
Too much grass, and too much tree,
Too much air, and land, and sea,
Too much seed of fruit and flower,
And fish, an unimagin'd dower!
(In whose single roe shall be
Life enough to stock the sea—
Endless ichthyophagy!)
Ev'ry instant through the day
Worlds of life are thrown away;
Worlds of life, and worlds of pleasure,
Not for lavishment of treasure,
But because she's so immensely
Rich, and loves us so intensely,
She would have us, once for all,
Wake at her benignant call,
And all grow wise, and all lay down
Strife, and jealousy, and frown,
And, like the sons of one great mother,
Share, and be blest, with one another.
Monkish feaster, sly of kiss!
Southern soul in body Dutch!
Glorious time of great Too-Much!
Too much heat, and too much noise,
Too much babblement of boys;
Too much eating, too much drinking,
Too much ev'rything but thinking;
Solely bent to laugh and stuff,
And trample upon base Enough;
Oh, right is thy instinctive praise
Of the wealth of Nature's ways.
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And pious thy mince-piety!
For behold! great Nature's self
Builds her no abstemious shelf,
But provides (her love is such
For all) her own great, good Too-Much,—
Too much grass, and too much tree,
Too much air, and land, and sea,
Too much seed of fruit and flower,
And fish, an unimagin'd dower!
(In whose single roe shall be
Life enough to stock the sea—
Endless ichthyophagy!)
Ev'ry instant through the day
Worlds of life are thrown away;
Worlds of life, and worlds of pleasure,
Not for lavishment of treasure,
But because she's so immensely
Rich, and loves us so intensely,
She would have us, once for all,
Wake at her benignant call,
And all grow wise, and all lay down
Strife, and jealousy, and frown,
And, like the sons of one great mother,
Share, and be blest, with one another.
RONDEAU.
Jenny kiss'd me when we met,Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in:
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,
Say that health and wealth have miss'd me,
Say I'm growing old, but add,
Jenny kiss'd me.
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BURNS AND TULLOCHGORUM.
Come, let us have a dance, and make
The mirth complete for Burns's sake,
For how can feet not long to take
The steps he took before 'em?
Who, who, can keep them ever still,
Who can keep them, who can keep them,
Who can keep them ever still,
When strong the will comes o'er 'em?
Who can keep them ever still,
When song itself shall urge the will,
And music grind, like any mill,
The reel of Tullochgorum?
The mirth complete for Burns's sake,
For how can feet not long to take
The steps he took before 'em?
Who, who, can keep them ever still,
Who can keep them, who can keep them,
Who can keep them ever still,
When strong the will comes o'er 'em?
Who can keep them ever still,
When song itself shall urge the will,
And music grind, like any mill,
The reel of Tullochgorum?
“O, Tullochgorum's my delight,”
Said Burns's fine old herald, hight
The Reverend Mr. Skinner, wight
That hated false decorum:
It was his, and Burns's too,
His and Burns's, his and Burns's,
It was his, and Burns's too,
And all such true virorum:
It was his, and Burns's too,
And doubly thus becomes his due
From all that ever shake a shoe
At sound of Tullochgorum.
Said Burns's fine old herald, hight
The Reverend Mr. Skinner, wight
That hated false decorum:
It was his, and Burns's too,
His and Burns's, his and Burns's,
It was his, and Burns's too,
And all such true virorum:
It was his, and Burns's too,
And doubly thus becomes his due
From all that ever shake a shoe
At sound of Tullochgorum.
For Tullochgorum's such a dance,
As never yet was found in France,
Though some French dames, whose sons could prance,
To Scottish husbands bore 'em:
Mirth it has and muscle both,
Mirth and muscle, mirth and muscle,
Mirth it has, and muscle both,
And graces angelorum:
Mirth it has and muscle both,
And makes all friends, as Skinner show'th:
Quakers themselves would take an oath,
There's nought like Tullochgorum.
As never yet was found in France,
Though some French dames, whose sons could prance,
To Scottish husbands bore 'em:
Mirth it has and muscle both,
Mirth and muscle, mirth and muscle,
Mirth it has, and muscle both,
And graces angelorum:
Mirth it has and muscle both,
And makes all friends, as Skinner show'th:
Quakers themselves would take an oath,
There's nought like Tullochgorum.
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'Twas in this dance, there's not a doubt,
The poet's Jane first twined about
His heart, when footing in and out,
Her charms made eyes adore 'em:
She was a singing, dancing jade,
Singing, dancing, singing, dancing,
She was a singing, dancing jade,
And full of grace flexorum:
She was a singing, dancing jade,
And nought beside; so Envy said;
But capital good wife she made,
Inspired by Tullochgorum.
The poet's Jane first twined about
His heart, when footing in and out,
Her charms made eyes adore 'em:
She was a singing, dancing jade,
Singing, dancing, singing, dancing,
She was a singing, dancing jade,
And full of grace flexorum:
She was a singing, dancing jade,
And nought beside; so Envy said;
But capital good wife she made,
Inspired by Tullochgorum.
Who better could have played his part,
In such a dance, than he whose art
Of pleasing was all life and heart,
And no fatigue could floor 'em?
Think, lads and lasses, how he bad
Lads and lasses, lads and lasses,
Think, lads and lasses, how he bad
Your loves all truthward soar 'em:
Think how he made kind natures glad,
And only brutes and bigots sad,
Then, if you can, don't dance like mad
The reel of Tullochgorum.
In such a dance, than he whose art
Of pleasing was all life and heart,
And no fatigue could floor 'em?
Think, lads and lasses, how he bad
Lads and lasses, lads and lasses,
Think, lads and lasses, how he bad
Your loves all truthward soar 'em:
Think how he made kind natures glad,
And only brutes and bigots sad,
Then, if you can, don't dance like mad
The reel of Tullochgorum.
LOVE-LETTERS MADE OF FLOWERS.
ON A PRINT OF ONE OF THEM IN A BOOK.
An exquisite invention this,
Worthy of Love's most honied kiss,
This art of writing billet-doux
In buds, and odours, and bright hues!
In saying all one feels and thinks
In clever daffodils and pinks;
In puns of tulips; and in phrases,
Charming for their truth, of daisies;
Uttering, as well as silence may,
The sweetest words the sweetest way.
How fit too for the lady's bosom!
The place where billet-doux repose 'em.
Worthy of Love's most honied kiss,
This art of writing billet-doux
In buds, and odours, and bright hues!
In saying all one feels and thinks
In clever daffodils and pinks;
In puns of tulips; and in phrases,
Charming for their truth, of daisies;
Uttering, as well as silence may,
The sweetest words the sweetest way.
288
The place where billet-doux repose 'em.
What delight, in some sweet spot
Combining love with garden plot,
At once to cultivate one's flowers
And one's epistolary powers!
Growing one's own choice words and fancies
In orange tubs, and beds of pansies;
One's sighs and passionate declarations
In odorous rhetoric of carnations;
Seeing how far one's stocks will reach;
Taking due care one's flowers of speech
To guard from blight as well as bathos,
And watering, every day, one's pathos!
Combining love with garden plot,
At once to cultivate one's flowers
And one's epistolary powers!
Growing one's own choice words and fancies
In orange tubs, and beds of pansies;
One's sighs and passionate declarations
In odorous rhetoric of carnations;
Seeing how far one's stocks will reach;
Taking due care one's flowers of speech
To guard from blight as well as bathos,
And watering, every day, one's pathos!
A letter comes, just gather'd. We
Dote on its tender brilliancy;
Inhale its delicate expressions
Of balm and pea, and its confessions
Made with as sweet a Maiden's Blush
As ever morn bedew'd on bush,
('Tis in reply to one of ours,
Made of the most convincing flowers,)
Then after we have kiss'd its wit
And heart, in water putting it,
(To keep its remarks fresh,) go round
Our little eloquent plot of ground,
And with enchanted hands compose
Our answer all of lily and rose,
Of tuberose and of violet,
And Little Darling (Mignonette)
Of Look at me and Call me to you,
(Words that while they greet, go through you),
Of Thoughts, of Flames, Forget-me-not,
Bridewort,—in short, the whole blest lot
Of vouchers for a life-long kiss,
And literally, breathing bliss.
Dote on its tender brilliancy;
Inhale its delicate expressions
Of balm and pea, and its confessions
Made with as sweet a Maiden's Blush
As ever morn bedew'd on bush,
('Tis in reply to one of ours,
Made of the most convincing flowers,)
Then after we have kiss'd its wit
And heart, in water putting it,
(To keep its remarks fresh,) go round
Our little eloquent plot of ground,
And with enchanted hands compose
Our answer all of lily and rose,
Of tuberose and of violet,
And Little Darling (Mignonette)
Of Look at me and Call me to you,
(Words that while they greet, go through you),
Of Thoughts, of Flames, Forget-me-not,
Bridewort,—in short, the whole blest lot
Of vouchers for a life-long kiss,
And literally, breathing bliss.
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SONGS AND CHORUS OF THE FLOWERS.
ROSES.
We are blushing Roses,
Bending with our fulness,
'Midst our close-capp'd sister buds,
Warming the green coolness.
Bending with our fulness,
'Midst our close-capp'd sister buds,
Warming the green coolness.
Whatsoe'er of beauty
Yearns and yet reposes,
Blush, and bosom, and sweet breath,
Took a shape in roses.
Yearns and yet reposes,
Blush, and bosom, and sweet breath,
Took a shape in roses.
Hold one of us lightly,—
See from what a slender
Stalk we bow'r in heavy blooms,
And roundness rich and tender.
See from what a slender
Stalk we bow'r in heavy blooms,
And roundness rich and tender.
Know you not our only
Rival flow'r—the human?
Loveliest weight on lightest foot,
Joy-abundant woman?
Rival flow'r—the human?
Loveliest weight on lightest foot,
Joy-abundant woman?
LILIES.
We are Lilies fair,
The flower of virgin light;
Nature held us forth, and said,
“Lo! my thoughts of white.”
The flower of virgin light;
Nature held us forth, and said,
“Lo! my thoughts of white.”
Ever since then, angels
Hold us in their hands;
You may see them where they take
In pictures their sweet stands.
Hold us in their hands;
You may see them where they take
In pictures their sweet stands.
Like the garden's angels
Also do we seem,
And not the less for being crown'd
With a golden dream.
Also do we seem,
And not the less for being crown'd
With a golden dream.
Could you see around us
The enamour'd air,
You would see it pale with bliss
To hold a thing so fair.
The enamour'd air,
You would see it pale with bliss
To hold a thing so fair.
290
VIOLETS.
We are violets blue,
For our sweetness found
Careless in the mossy shades,
Looking on the ground.
Love's dropp'd eyelids and a kiss,—
Such our breath and blueness is.
For our sweetness found
Careless in the mossy shades,
Looking on the ground.
Love's dropp'd eyelids and a kiss,—
Such our breath and blueness is.
Io, the mild shape
Hidden by Jove's fears,
Found us first i' the sward, when she
For hunger stoop'd in tears.
“Wheresoe'er her lip she sets,”
Jove said, “be breaths call'd Violets.”
Hidden by Jove's fears,
Found us first i' the sward, when she
For hunger stoop'd in tears.
“Wheresoe'er her lip she sets,”
Jove said, “be breaths call'd Violets.”
SWEET-BRIAR.
Wild-rose, Sweet-briar, Eglantine,
All these pretty names are mine,
And scent in every leaf is mine,
And a leaf for all is mine,
And the scent—oh, that's divine!
Happy-sweet and pungent-fine,
Pure as dew, and pick'd as wine.
All these pretty names are mine,
And scent in every leaf is mine,
And a leaf for all is mine,
And the scent—oh, that's divine!
Happy-sweet and pungent-fine,
Pure as dew, and pick'd as wine.
As the rose in gardens dress'd
Is the lady self-possess'd,
I'm the lass in simple vest,
The country lass whose blood's the best.
Were the beams that thread the briar
In the morn with golden fire
Scented too, they'd smell like me,
All Elysian pungency.
Is the lady self-possess'd,
I'm the lass in simple vest,
The country lass whose blood's the best.
Were the beams that thread the briar
In the morn with golden fire
Scented too, they'd smell like me,
All Elysian pungency.
POPPIES.
We are slumberous poppies,
Lords of Lethe downs,
Some awake, and some asleep,
Sleeping in our crowns.
What perchance our dreams may know,
Let our serious beauty show.
Lords of Lethe downs,
Some awake, and some asleep,
Sleeping in our crowns.
What perchance our dreams may know,
Let our serious beauty show.
291
Central depth of purple,
Leaves more bright than rose,
Who shall tell what brightest thought
Out of darkest grows?
Who, through what funereal pain
Souls to love and peace attain?
Leaves more bright than rose,
Who shall tell what brightest thought
Out of darkest grows?
Who, through what funereal pain
Souls to love and peace attain?
Visions aye are on us,
Unto eyes of power,
Pluto's always setting sun,
And Proserpine's bower:
There, like bees, the pale souls come
For our drink with drowsy hum.
Unto eyes of power,
Pluto's always setting sun,
And Proserpine's bower:
There, like bees, the pale souls come
For our drink with drowsy hum.
Taste, ye mortals, also;
Milky-hearted, we;
Taste, but with a reverent care;
Active-patient be.
Too much gladness brings to gloom
Those who on the gods presume.
Milky-hearted, we;
Taste, but with a reverent care;
Active-patient be.
Too much gladness brings to gloom
Those who on the gods presume.
SONGS OF THE FLOWERS.
We are the sweet Flowers,
Born of sunny showers,
Think, whene'er you see us, what our beauty saith:
Utterance mute and bright
Of some unknown delight,
We fill the air with pleasure, by our simple breath:
All who see us, love us;
We befit all places;
Unto sorrow we give smiles; and unto graces, graces.
Born of sunny showers,
Think, whene'er you see us, what our beauty saith:
Utterance mute and bright
Of some unknown delight,
We fill the air with pleasure, by our simple breath:
All who see us, love us;
We befit all places;
Unto sorrow we give smiles; and unto graces, graces.
Mark our ways, how noiseless
All, and sweetly voiceless,
Though the March winds pipe to make our passage clear;
Not a whisper tells
Where our small seed dwells,
Nor is known the moment green, when our tips appear.
We thread the earth in silence,
In silence build our bowers,
And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we laugh atop, sweet Flowers!
All, and sweetly voiceless,
Though the March winds pipe to make our passage clear;
Not a whisper tells
Where our small seed dwells,
Nor is known the moment green, when our tips appear.
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In silence build our bowers,
And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we laugh atop, sweet Flowers!
The dear lumpish baby,
Humming with the May-bee,
Hails us with his bright stare, stumbling through the grass;
The honey-dropping moon,
On a night in June,
Kisses our pale pathway leaves, that felt the bridegroom pass.
Age, the wither'd clinger,
On us mutely gazes,
And wraps the thought of his last bed in his childhood's daisies.
Humming with the May-bee,
Hails us with his bright stare, stumbling through the grass;
The honey-dropping moon,
On a night in June,
Kisses our pale pathway leaves, that felt the bridegroom pass.
Age, the wither'd clinger,
On us mutely gazes,
And wraps the thought of his last bed in his childhood's daisies.
See, and scorn all duller
Taste, how heav'n loves colour,
How great Nature, clearly, joys in red and green;
What sweet thoughts she thinks
Of violets and pinks,
And a thousand flushing hues, made solely to be seen;
See her whitest lilies
Chill the silver showers,
And what a red mouth has her rose, the woman of the flowers!
Taste, how heav'n loves colour,
How great Nature, clearly, joys in red and green;
What sweet thoughts she thinks
Of violets and pinks,
And a thousand flushing hues, made solely to be seen;
See her whitest lilies
Chill the silver showers,
And what a red mouth has her rose, the woman of the flowers!
Uselessness divinest
Of a use the finest
Painteth us, the teachers of the end of use;
Travellers weary-eyed
Bless us far and wide;
Unto sick and prison'd thoughts we give sudden truce;
Not a poor town window
Loves its sickliest planting,
But its wall speaks loftier truth than Babylon's whole vaunting.
Of a use the finest
Painteth us, the teachers of the end of use;
Travellers weary-eyed
Bless us far and wide;
Unto sick and prison'd thoughts we give sudden truce;
Not a poor town window
Loves its sickliest planting,
But its wall speaks loftier truth than Babylon's whole vaunting.
Sage are yet the uses
Mix'd with our sweet juices
Whether man or may-fly profit of the balm;
As fair fingers heal'd
Knights from the olden field,
We hold cups of mightiest force to give the wildest calm.
E'en the terror Poison
Hath its plea for blooming;
Life it gives to reverent lips, though death to the presuming.
Mix'd with our sweet juices
293
As fair fingers heal'd
Knights from the olden field,
We hold cups of mightiest force to give the wildest calm.
E'en the terror Poison
Hath its plea for blooming;
Life it gives to reverent lips, though death to the presuming.
And oh! our sweet soul-taker,
That thief the honey-maker,
What a house hath he, by the thymy glen!
In his talking rooms
How the feasting fumes,
Till his gold cups overflow to the mouths of men!
The butterflies come aping
Those fine thieves of ours,
And flutter round our rifled tops, like tickled flowers with flowers.
That thief the honey-maker,
What a house hath he, by the thymy glen!
In his talking rooms
How the feasting fumes,
Till his gold cups overflow to the mouths of men!
The butterflies come aping
Those fine thieves of ours,
And flutter round our rifled tops, like tickled flowers with flowers.
See those tops, how beauteous!
What fair service duteous
Round some idol waits, as on their lord the Nine?
Elfin court 'twould seem;
And taught perchance that dream,
Which the old Greek mountain dreamt upon nights divine.
To expound such wonder
Human speech avails not:
Yet there dies no poorest weed, that such a glory exhales not.
What fair service duteous
Round some idol waits, as on their lord the Nine?
Elfin court 'twould seem;
And taught perchance that dream,
Which the old Greek mountain dreamt upon nights divine.
To expound such wonder
Human speech avails not:
Yet there dies no poorest weed, that such a glory exhales not.
Think of all these treasures,
Matchless works and pleasures,
Every one a marvel, more than thought can say;
Then think in what bright show'rs
We thicken fields and bowers,
And with what heaps of sweetness half stifle wanton May:
Think of the mossy forests
By the bee-birds haunted,
And all those Amazonian plains, lone lying as enchanted.
Matchless works and pleasures,
Every one a marvel, more than thought can say;
Then think in what bright show'rs
We thicken fields and bowers,
And with what heaps of sweetness half stifle wanton May:
Think of the mossy forests
By the bee-birds haunted,
And all those Amazonian plains, lone lying as enchanted.
Trees themselves are ours;
Fruits are born of flowers;
Peach and roughest nut were blossoms in the spring;
The lusty bee knows well
The news, and comes pell-mell,
And dances in the bloomy thicks with darksome antheming.
Beneath the very burthen
Of planet-pressing ocean
We wash our smiling cheeks in peace, a thought for meek devotion.
Fruits are born of flowers;
294
The lusty bee knows well
The news, and comes pell-mell,
And dances in the bloomy thicks with darksome antheming.
Beneath the very burthen
Of planet-pressing ocean
We wash our smiling cheeks in peace, a thought for meek devotion.
Tears of Phœbus,—missings
Of Cytherea's kissings,
Have in us been found, and wise men find them still;
Drooping grace unfurls
Still Hyacinthus' curls,
And Narcissus loves himself in the selfish rill;
Thy red lip, Adonis,
Still is wet with morning;
And the step that bled for thee, the rosy briar adorning.
Of Cytherea's kissings,
Have in us been found, and wise men find them still;
Drooping grace unfurls
Still Hyacinthus' curls,
And Narcissus loves himself in the selfish rill;
Thy red lip, Adonis,
Still is wet with morning;
And the step that bled for thee, the rosy briar adorning.
Oh, true things are fables,
Fit for sagest tables,
And the flowers are true things, yet no fables they;
Fables were not more
Bright, nor lov'd of yore,
Yet they grew not, like the flow'rs, by every old pathway.
Grossest hand can test us;
Fools may prize us never;
Yet we rise, and rise, and rise, marvels sweet for ever.
Fit for sagest tables,
And the flowers are true things, yet no fables they;
Fables were not more
Bright, nor lov'd of yore,
Yet they grew not, like the flow'rs, by every old pathway.
Grossest hand can test us;
Fools may prize us never;
Yet we rise, and rise, and rise, marvels sweet for ever.
Who shall say that flowers
Dress not heav'n's own bowers?
Who its love, without them, can fancy,—or sweet floor?
Who shall even dare
To say we sprang not there,
And came not down that Love might bring one piece of heav'n the more?
Oh pray believe that angels
From those blue dominions
Brought us in their white laps down, 'twixt their golden pinions.
Dress not heav'n's own bowers?
Who its love, without them, can fancy,—or sweet floor?
Who shall even dare
To say we sprang not there,
And came not down that Love might bring one piece of heav'n the more?
Oh pray believe that angels
From those blue dominions
Brought us in their white laps down, 'twixt their golden pinions.
295
ALBUMS.
LINES WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM OF ROTHA QUILLINAN.
An Album! This! Why, 'tis for aught I see,
Sheer wit, and verse, and downright poetry;
A priceless book incipient; a treasure
Of growing pearl; a hoard for pride and pleasure;
A golden begging-box, which pretty Miss
Goes round with, like a gipsy as she is,
From bard to bard, to stock her father's shelf,
Perhaps for cunning dowry to herself.
Sheer wit, and verse, and downright poetry;
A priceless book incipient; a treasure
Of growing pearl; a hoard for pride and pleasure;
A golden begging-box, which pretty Miss
Goes round with, like a gipsy as she is,
From bard to bard, to stock her father's shelf,
Perhaps for cunning dowry to herself.
Albums are records, kept by gentle dames,
To show us that their friends can write their names;
That Miss can draw, or brother John can write
“Sweet lines,” or that they know a Mr. White.
The lady comes, with lowly grace upon her,
“'Twill be so kind,” and “do her book such honour;”
We bow, smile, deprecate, protest, read o'er
The names to see what has been done before,
Wish to say something wonderful, but can't,
And write, with modest glory, “William Grant.”
Johnson succeeds, and Thomson, Jones, and Clarke,
And Cox with an original remark
Out of the Speaker;—then come John's “sweet lines,”
Fanny's “sweet airs,” and Jenny's “sweet designs:”
Then Hobbs, Cobbs, Dobbs, Lord Strut, and Lady Brisk,
And, with a flourish underneath him, Fisk.
To show us that their friends can write their names;
That Miss can draw, or brother John can write
“Sweet lines,” or that they know a Mr. White.
The lady comes, with lowly grace upon her,
“'Twill be so kind,” and “do her book such honour;”
We bow, smile, deprecate, protest, read o'er
The names to see what has been done before,
Wish to say something wonderful, but can't,
And write, with modest glory, “William Grant.”
Johnson succeeds, and Thomson, Jones, and Clarke,
And Cox with an original remark
Out of the Speaker;—then come John's “sweet lines,”
Fanny's “sweet airs,” and Jenny's “sweet designs:”
Then Hobbs, Cobbs, Dobbs, Lord Strut, and Lady Brisk,
And, with a flourish underneath him, Fisk.
Alas! why sit I here, committing jokes
On social pleasures and good-humour'd folks,
That see far better with their trusting eyes,
Than all the blinkings of the would-be wise?
Albums are, after all, pleasant inventions,
Make friends more friendly, grace one's good intentions,
Brighten dull names, give great ones kinder looks,
Nay, now and then produce right curious books,
And make the scoffer (as it now does me)
Blush to look round on deathless company.
On social pleasures and good-humour'd folks,
That see far better with their trusting eyes,
Than all the blinkings of the would-be wise?
Albums are, after all, pleasant inventions,
Make friends more friendly, grace one's good intentions,
Brighten dull names, give great ones kinder looks,
Nay, now and then produce right curious books,
And make the scoffer (as it now does me)
Blush to look round on deathless company.
296
ULTRA-GERMANO-CRITICASTERISM.
1846.
Would you make blazes
Of ultra-reflectiveness,
Get a few phrases
Of ob and sub-jectiveness.
Of ultra-reflectiveness,
Get a few phrases
Of ob and sub-jectiveness.
Take for your subject
The art of some poet,
And be your whole object
To show that you know it.
The art of some poet,
And be your whole object
To show that you know it.
Make all you read on him
Seem what you thought of it:
Palm your own creed on him,
Though he knew nought of it.
Seem what you thought of it:
Palm your own creed on him,
Though he knew nought of it.
Rave on “æsthetics,”
“Profundity,” “purity;”
Damn the dull critics,
And die of obscurity.
“Profundity,” “purity;”
Damn the dull critics,
And die of obscurity.
BODRYDDAN.
TO THE MEMORY OF B. Y. AND A. M. D.
1836.
Our fairest dreams are made of truths,
Nymphs are sweet women, angels youths,
And Eden was an earthly bower:
Not that the heavens are false;—oh no!
But that the sweetest thoughts that grow
In earth, must have an earthly flower:
Blest, if they know how sweet they are,
And that earth also is a star.
Nymphs are sweet women, angels youths,
And Eden was an earthly bower:
Not that the heavens are false;—oh no!
But that the sweetest thoughts that grow
In earth, must have an earthly flower:
Blest, if they know how sweet they are,
And that earth also is a star.
I met a lady by the sea,
A heart long known, a face desir'd,
Who led me with sweet breathful glee
To one that sat retir'd;—
That sat retir'd in reverend chair,
That younger lady's pride and care,
Fading heav'nward beauteously
In a long-drawn life of love,
With smiles below and thoughts above:
And round her play'd that fairy she,
Like Impulse by Tranquillity.
A heart long known, a face desir'd,
Who led me with sweet breathful glee
To one that sat retir'd;—
That sat retir'd in reverend chair,
That younger lady's pride and care,
297
In a long-drawn life of love,
With smiles below and thoughts above:
And round her play'd that fairy she,
Like Impulse by Tranquillity.
And truly might they, in times old,
Have deem'd her one of fairy mould
Keeping some ancestral queen
Deathless, in a bow'r serene;
For oft she might be noticed walking
Where the seas at night were talking;
Or extracting with deep look
Power from out some learned book;
Or with pencil or with pen
Charming the rapt thoughts of men:
And her eyes! they were so bright,
They seemed to dance with elfin light,
Playmates of pearly smiles, and yet
So often and so sadly wet,
That Pity wonder'd to conceive
How lady so belov'd could grieve.
And oft would both those ladies rare,
Like enchantments out of air,
In a sudden show'r descend
Of balm on want, or flow'rs on friend;
No matter how remote the place,
For fairies laugh at time and space.
From their hearts the gifts were given,
As the light leaps out of heaven.
Have deem'd her one of fairy mould
Keeping some ancestral queen
Deathless, in a bow'r serene;
For oft she might be noticed walking
Where the seas at night were talking;
Or extracting with deep look
Power from out some learned book;
Or with pencil or with pen
Charming the rapt thoughts of men:
And her eyes! they were so bright,
They seemed to dance with elfin light,
Playmates of pearly smiles, and yet
So often and so sadly wet,
That Pity wonder'd to conceive
How lady so belov'd could grieve.
And oft would both those ladies rare,
Like enchantments out of air,
In a sudden show'r descend
Of balm on want, or flow'rs on friend;
No matter how remote the place,
For fairies laugh at time and space.
From their hearts the gifts were given,
As the light leaps out of heaven.
Their very house was fairy:—none
Might find it without favour won
For some great zeal, like errant-knight,
Or want and sorrow's holy right;
And then they reach'd it by long rounds
Of lanes between thick pastoral grounds
Nest-like, and alleys of old trees,
Until at last, in lawny ease,
Down by a garden and its fountains,
In the ken of mild blue mountains,
Rose, as if exempt from death,
Its many-centuried household breath.
The stone-cut arms above the door
Were such as earliest chieftains bore,
Of simple gear, long laid aside;
And low it was, and warm and wide,—
A home to love, from sire to son,
By white-grown servants waited on.
Here a door opening breath'd of bowers
Of ladies, who lead lives of flowers;
There, walls were books; and the sweet witch,
Painting, had there the rooms made rich
With knights, and dames, and loving eyes
Of heav'n-gone kindred, sweet and wise;
Of bishops, gentle as their lawn,
And sires, whose talk was one May-dawn.
Last, on the roof, a clock's old grace
Look'd forth, like some enchanted face
That never slept, but in the night
Dinted the air with thoughtful might
Of sudden tongue which seem'd to say,
“The stars are firm, and hold their way.”
Might find it without favour won
For some great zeal, like errant-knight,
Or want and sorrow's holy right;
And then they reach'd it by long rounds
Of lanes between thick pastoral grounds
Nest-like, and alleys of old trees,
Until at last, in lawny ease,
Down by a garden and its fountains,
In the ken of mild blue mountains,
298
Its many-centuried household breath.
The stone-cut arms above the door
Were such as earliest chieftains bore,
Of simple gear, long laid aside;
And low it was, and warm and wide,—
A home to love, from sire to son,
By white-grown servants waited on.
Here a door opening breath'd of bowers
Of ladies, who lead lives of flowers;
There, walls were books; and the sweet witch,
Painting, had there the rooms made rich
With knights, and dames, and loving eyes
Of heav'n-gone kindred, sweet and wise;
Of bishops, gentle as their lawn,
And sires, whose talk was one May-dawn.
Last, on the roof, a clock's old grace
Look'd forth, like some enchanted face
That never slept, but in the night
Dinted the air with thoughtful might
Of sudden tongue which seem'd to say,
“The stars are firm, and hold their way.”
Behold me now, like knight indeed,
Whose balmed wound had ceas'd to bleed,
Behold me in this green domain
Leading a palfrey by the rein,
On which the fairy lady sat
In magic talk, which men call “chat,”
Over mead, up hill, down dale,
While the sweet thoughts never fail,
Bright as what we pluck'd 'twixt whiles,
The mountain-ash's thick red smiles;
And aye she laugh'd, and talk'd, and rode,
And to blest eyes her visions show'd
Of nook, and tow'r, and mountain rare,
Like bosom, making mild the air;
And seats, endear'd by friend and sire,
Facing sunset's thoughtful fire.
And then, to make romances true,
Before this lady open flew
A garden gate; and lo! right in,
Where horse's foot had never been,
Rode she! the gard'ner with a stare
To see her threat his lilies fair,
Uncapp'd his bent old silver hair,
And seem'd to say, “My lady good
Makes all things right in her sweet mood.”
Whose balmed wound had ceas'd to bleed,
Behold me in this green domain
Leading a palfrey by the rein,
On which the fairy lady sat
In magic talk, which men call “chat,”
Over mead, up hill, down dale,
While the sweet thoughts never fail,
Bright as what we pluck'd 'twixt whiles,
The mountain-ash's thick red smiles;
And aye she laugh'd, and talk'd, and rode,
And to blest eyes her visions show'd
Of nook, and tow'r, and mountain rare,
Like bosom, making mild the air;
And seats, endear'd by friend and sire,
Facing sunset's thoughtful fire.
299
Before this lady open flew
A garden gate; and lo! right in,
Where horse's foot had never been,
Rode she! the gard'ner with a stare
To see her threat his lilies fair,
Uncapp'd his bent old silver hair,
And seem'd to say, “My lady good
Makes all things right in her sweet mood.”
O land of Druid and of Bard,
Worthy of bearded Time's regard,
Quick-blooded, light-voiced, lyric Wales,
Proud with mountains, rich with vales,
And of such valour that in thee
Was born a third of chivalry.
(And is to come again, they say,
Blowing its trumpets into day,
With sudden earthquake from the ground,
And in the midst, great Arthur crown'd,)
I used to think of thee and thine
As one of an old faded line
Living in his hills apart,
Whose pride I knew, but not his heart:
But now that I have seen thy face,
Thy fields, and ever youthful race,
And women's lips of rosiest word
(So rich they open), and have heard
The harp still leaping in thy halls,
Quenchless as the waterfalls,
I know thee full of pulse as strong
As the sea's more ancient song,
And of a sympathy as wide;
And all this truth, and more beside,
I should have known, had I but seen,
O Flint, thy little shore; and been
Where Truth and Dream walk, hand-in-hand,
Bodryddan's living Fairy-land.
Worthy of bearded Time's regard,
Quick-blooded, light-voiced, lyric Wales,
Proud with mountains, rich with vales,
And of such valour that in thee
Was born a third of chivalry.
(And is to come again, they say,
Blowing its trumpets into day,
With sudden earthquake from the ground,
And in the midst, great Arthur crown'd,)
I used to think of thee and thine
As one of an old faded line
Living in his hills apart,
Whose pride I knew, but not his heart:
But now that I have seen thy face,
Thy fields, and ever youthful race,
And women's lips of rosiest word
(So rich they open), and have heard
The harp still leaping in thy halls,
Quenchless as the waterfalls,
I know thee full of pulse as strong
As the sea's more ancient song,
And of a sympathy as wide;
And all this truth, and more beside,
I should have known, had I but seen,
O Flint, thy little shore; and been
Where Truth and Dream walk, hand-in-hand,
Bodryddan's living Fairy-land.
300
A NIGHT-RAIN IN SUMMER.
June 28, 1834.
Open the window, and let the air
Freshly blow upon face and hair,
And fill the room, as it fills the night,
With the breath of the rain's sweet might.
Hark! the burthen, swift and prone!
And how the odorous limes are blown!
Stormy Love's abroad, and keeps
Hopeful coil for gentle sleeps.
Freshly blow upon face and hair,
And fill the room, as it fills the night,
With the breath of the rain's sweet might.
Hark! the burthen, swift and prone!
And how the odorous limes are blown!
Stormy Love's abroad, and keeps
Hopeful coil for gentle sleeps.
Not a blink shall burn to-night
In my chamber, of sordid light;
Nought will I have, not a window-pane,
'Twixt me and the air and the great good rain,
Which ever shall sing me sharp lullabies;
And God's own darkness shall close mine eyes;
And I will sleep, with all things blest,
In the pure earth-shadow of natural rest.
In my chamber, of sordid light;
Nought will I have, not a window-pane,
'Twixt me and the air and the great good rain,
Which ever shall sing me sharp lullabies;
And God's own darkness shall close mine eyes;
And I will sleep, with all things blest,
In the pure earth-shadow of natural rest.
CALVIULTOR.
WRITTEN IN THE PERSON OF A BALD MAN.
I've got my wig:—and now, thou rash Hirsutus,
Crinitus, Whiskerandos, Ogre, Bear,
Or whatsoever title please thine hair,
Why vex the bald? Why loveless thus repute us?
Sweet Shakspeare, omni nectare imbutus,
Was bald; and he, the wise beyond compare,
Socrates, teacher of the young and fair;
And Cæsar, victim of a natural Brutus!
Crinitus, Whiskerandos, Ogre, Bear,
Or whatsoever title please thine hair,
Why vex the bald? Why loveless thus repute us?
Sweet Shakspeare, omni nectare imbutus,
Was bald; and he, the wise beyond compare,
Socrates, teacher of the young and fair;
And Cæsar, victim of a natural Brutus!
Fresh is the bald man's head; for love so apt,
That England's gallants, in her wittiest time,
In voluntary baldness, velvet-capp'd,
Through reams of letters urg'd their amorous rhyme:
Then issued forth, peruk'd: and o'er their shoulders
From every curl shook loves at all their fair beholders.
That England's gallants, in her wittiest time,
In voluntary baldness, velvet-capp'd,
Through reams of letters urg'd their amorous rhyme:
Then issued forth, peruk'd: and o'er their shoulders
From every curl shook loves at all their fair beholders.
301
TO THE QUEEN.
AN OFFERING OF GRATITUDE ON HER MAJESTY'S BIRTHDAY.
The lark dwells lowly, Madam,—on the ground,—
And yet his song within the heavens is found:
The basest heel may wound him ere he rise,
But soar he must, for love exalts his eyes.
Though poor, his heart must loftily be spent,
And he sings free, crown'd with the firmament.
And yet his song within the heavens is found:
The basest heel may wound him ere he rise,
But soar he must, for love exalts his eyes.
Though poor, his heart must loftily be spent,
And he sings free, crown'd with the firmament.
A poet thus (if love and later fame
May warrant him to wear that sacred name)
Hoped, in some pause of birth-day pomp and power,
His carol might have reach'd the Sovereign's bower;
Voice of a heart twice touch'd; once in its need,
Once by a kind word, exquisite indeed:
But Care, ungrateful to a host that long
Had borne him kindly, came and marr'd his song,
Marr'd it, and stopp'd, and in his envious soul
Dreamt it had ceas'd outright, and perish'd whole.
Dull god! to know not, after all he knew,
What the best gods, Patience and Love, can do.
The song was lamed, was lated, yet the bird
High by the lady's bower has still been heard,
Thanking that balm in need, and that delightful word.
Blest be the queen! Blest when the sun goes down;
When rises, blest. May love line soft her crown.
May music's self not more harmonious be,
Than the mild manhood by her side and she.
May she be young forever—ride, dance, sing,
'Twixt cares of state carelessly carolling,
And set all fashions healthy, blithe, and wise,
From whence good mothers and glad offspring rise.
May everybody love her. May she be
As brave as will, yet soft as charity;
And on her coins be never laurel seen,
But only those fair peaceful locks serene,
Beneath whose waving grace first mingle now
The ripe Guelph cheek and good straight Coburgh brow,
Pleasure and reason! May she, every day,
See some new good winning its gentle way
By means of mild and unforbidden men!
And when the sword hath bow'd beneath the pen,
May her own line a patriarch scene unfold,
As far surpassing what these days behold
E'en in the thunderous gods, iron and steam,
As they the sceptic's doubt, or wild man's dream!
And to this end—oh! to this Christian end,
And the sure coming of its next great friend,
May her own soul, this instant, while I sing,
Be smiling, as beneath some angel's wing,
O'er the dear life in life, the small, sweet, new,
Unselfish self, the filial self of two,
Bliss of her future eyes, her pillow'd gaze,
On whom a mother's heart thinks close, and prays.
May warrant him to wear that sacred name)
Hoped, in some pause of birth-day pomp and power,
His carol might have reach'd the Sovereign's bower;
Voice of a heart twice touch'd; once in its need,
Once by a kind word, exquisite indeed:
But Care, ungrateful to a host that long
Had borne him kindly, came and marr'd his song,
Marr'd it, and stopp'd, and in his envious soul
Dreamt it had ceas'd outright, and perish'd whole.
Dull god! to know not, after all he knew,
What the best gods, Patience and Love, can do.
The song was lamed, was lated, yet the bird
High by the lady's bower has still been heard,
Thanking that balm in need, and that delightful word.
Blest be the queen! Blest when the sun goes down;
When rises, blest. May love line soft her crown.
May music's self not more harmonious be,
Than the mild manhood by her side and she.
May she be young forever—ride, dance, sing,
'Twixt cares of state carelessly carolling,
And set all fashions healthy, blithe, and wise,
From whence good mothers and glad offspring rise.
May everybody love her. May she be
As brave as will, yet soft as charity;
And on her coins be never laurel seen,
But only those fair peaceful locks serene,
Beneath whose waving grace first mingle now
The ripe Guelph cheek and good straight Coburgh brow,
302
See some new good winning its gentle way
By means of mild and unforbidden men!
And when the sword hath bow'd beneath the pen,
May her own line a patriarch scene unfold,
As far surpassing what these days behold
E'en in the thunderous gods, iron and steam,
As they the sceptic's doubt, or wild man's dream!
And to this end—oh! to this Christian end,
And the sure coming of its next great friend,
May her own soul, this instant, while I sing,
Be smiling, as beneath some angel's wing,
O'er the dear life in life, the small, sweet, new,
Unselfish self, the filial self of two,
Bliss of her future eyes, her pillow'd gaze,
On whom a mother's heart thinks close, and prays.
Your beadsman, Madam, thus, “in spite of sorrow,”
Bids at your window, like the lark, good morrow.
Bids at your window, like the lark, good morrow.
TO THE INFANT PRINCESS ROYAL.
Welcome, bud beside the rose,
On whose stem our safety grows;
Welcome, little Saxon Guelph;
Welcome for thine own small self;
Welcome for thy father, mother,
Proud the one and safe the other;
Welcome to three kingdoms; nay,
Such is thy potential day,
Welcome, little mighty birth,
To our human star the earth.
On whose stem our safety grows;
Welcome, little Saxon Guelph;
Welcome for thine own small self;
Welcome for thy father, mother,
Proud the one and safe the other;
Welcome to three kingdoms; nay,
Such is thy potential day,
Welcome, little mighty birth,
To our human star the earth.
Some have wish'd thee boy; and some
Gladly wait till boy shall come,
Counting it a genial sign
When a lady leads the line.
What imports it, girl or boy?
England's old historic joy
Well might be content to see
Queens alone come after thee,—
Twenty visions of thy mother
Following sceptred, each the other,
Linking with their roses white
Ages of unborn delight.
What imports it who shall lead,
So that the good line succeed?
So that love and peace feel sure
Of old hate's discomfiture?
Thee appearing by the rose
Safety comes, and peril goes;
Thee appearing, earth's new spring
Fears no winter's “grisly king;”
Hope anew leaps up, and dances
In the hearts of human chances:
France, the brave, but too quick-blooded,
Wisely has her threat re-studied;
England now, as safe as she
From the strifes that need not be,
And the realms thus hush'd and still,
Earth with fragrant thought may fill,
Growing harvests of all good,
Day by day, as planet should,
Till it clap its hands, and cry,
Hail, matur'd humanity!
Earth has outgrown want and war;
Earth is now no childish star.
Gladly wait till boy shall come,
Counting it a genial sign
When a lady leads the line.
What imports it, girl or boy?
England's old historic joy
303
Queens alone come after thee,—
Twenty visions of thy mother
Following sceptred, each the other,
Linking with their roses white
Ages of unborn delight.
What imports it who shall lead,
So that the good line succeed?
So that love and peace feel sure
Of old hate's discomfiture?
Thee appearing by the rose
Safety comes, and peril goes;
Thee appearing, earth's new spring
Fears no winter's “grisly king;”
Hope anew leaps up, and dances
In the hearts of human chances:
France, the brave, but too quick-blooded,
Wisely has her threat re-studied;
England now, as safe as she
From the strifes that need not be,
And the realms thus hush'd and still,
Earth with fragrant thought may fill,
Growing harvests of all good,
Day by day, as planet should,
Till it clap its hands, and cry,
Hail, matur'd humanity!
Earth has outgrown want and war;
Earth is now no childish star.
But behold, where thou dost lie,
Heeding nought, remote or nigh!
Nought of all the news we sing
Dost thou know, sweet ignorant thing;
Nought of planet's love, nor people's:
Nor dost hear the giddy steeples
Carolling of thee and thine,
As if heav'n had rain'd them wine;
Nor dost care for all the pains
Of ushers and of chamberlains,
Nor the doctor's learned looks,
Nor the very bishop's books,
Nor the lace that wraps thy chin,
No, nor for thy rank, a pin.
E'en thy father's loving hand
Nowise dost thou understand,
When he makes thee feebly grasp
His finger with a tiny clasp;
Nor dost know thy very mother's
Balmy bosom from another's,
Though thy small blind lips pursue it,
Nor the arms that draw thee to it,
Nor the eyes, that, while they fold thee,
Never can enough behold thee.
Mother true and good has she,
Little strong one, been to thee,
Nor with listless in-door ways
Weaken'd thee for future days;
But has done her strenuous duty
To thy brain and to thy beauty,
Till thou cam'st, a blossom bright,
Worth the kiss of air and light;
To thy healthy self a pleasure;
To the world a balm and treasure.
Heeding nought, remote or nigh!
Nought of all the news we sing
Dost thou know, sweet ignorant thing;
Nought of planet's love, nor people's:
Nor dost hear the giddy steeples
Carolling of thee and thine,
As if heav'n had rain'd them wine;
Nor dost care for all the pains
Of ushers and of chamberlains,
304
Nor the very bishop's books,
Nor the lace that wraps thy chin,
No, nor for thy rank, a pin.
E'en thy father's loving hand
Nowise dost thou understand,
When he makes thee feebly grasp
His finger with a tiny clasp;
Nor dost know thy very mother's
Balmy bosom from another's,
Though thy small blind lips pursue it,
Nor the arms that draw thee to it,
Nor the eyes, that, while they fold thee,
Never can enough behold thee.
Mother true and good has she,
Little strong one, been to thee,
Nor with listless in-door ways
Weaken'd thee for future days;
But has done her strenuous duty
To thy brain and to thy beauty,
Till thou cam'st, a blossom bright,
Worth the kiss of air and light;
To thy healthy self a pleasure;
To the world a balm and treasure.
THREE VISIONS, OCCASIONED BY THE BIRTH AND CHRISTENING OF THE PRINCE OF WALES.
O love of thanks for gentle deeds,
O sympathy with lowly needs,
O claims of care, and balms of song,
I fear'd ye meant to do me wrong,
And let me fade with stifled heart,
Ere time and I had leave to part;
But waking lately in the morn,
Just as a golden day was born,
Lo the dull clouds, by sickness wrought,
Began to break on heights of thought,
And fresh from out the Muse's sky
Three visions of a Queen had I;
Three in auspicious link benign;
One dear, one gorgeous, one divine!
The first—(and let no spirit dare
That vision with my soul to share,
But such as know that angels spread
Their wings above a mother's bed)—
The first disclos'd her where she lay
In pillow'd ease, that blessed day,
Which just had made her pale with joy
Of the wish'd-for, princely boy,
Come to complete, and stamp with man,
The line which gentler grace began.
See, how they smooth her brows to rest,
Faint, meek, yet proud, and wholly blest;
And how she may not speak the while
But only sigh, and only smile,
And press his pressing hand who vies
In bliss with her beloved eyes.
O sympathy with lowly needs,
O claims of care, and balms of song,
I fear'd ye meant to do me wrong,
And let me fade with stifled heart,
Ere time and I had leave to part;
But waking lately in the morn,
Just as a golden day was born,
Lo the dull clouds, by sickness wrought,
Began to break on heights of thought,
305
Three visions of a Queen had I;
Three in auspicious link benign;
One dear, one gorgeous, one divine!
The first—(and let no spirit dare
That vision with my soul to share,
But such as know that angels spread
Their wings above a mother's bed)—
The first disclos'd her where she lay
In pillow'd ease, that blessed day,
Which just had made her pale with joy
Of the wish'd-for, princely boy,
Come to complete, and stamp with man,
The line which gentler grace began.
See, how they smooth her brows to rest,
Faint, meek, yet proud, and wholly blest;
And how she may not speak the while
But only sigh, and only smile,
And press his pressing hand who vies
In bliss with her beloved eyes.
Vanish'd that still and sacred room;
And round me, like a pomp in bloom,
Was a proud chapel, heavenly bright
With lucid glooms of painted light
Hushing the thought with holy story,
And flags that hung asleep in glory,
And scutcheons of emblazon bold,
The flowers of trees of memories old.
And living human flowers were there,
New colouring the angelic air;
Young beauties mix'd with warriors gray,
And choristers in lily array,
And princes, and the genial king
With the wise companioning,
And the mild manhood, by whose side
Walks daily forth his two years' bride,
And she herself, the rose of all,
Who wears the world's first coronal,—
She, lately in that bower of bliss,
How simple and how still to this!
Forever and anon there roll'd
The gusty organ manifold,
Like a golden gate of heaven
On its hinges angel-driven
To let through a storm and weight
Of its throne's consenting's state;
Till the dreadful grace withdrew
Into breath serene as dew,
Comforting the ascending hymn
With notes of softest seraphim.
Then was call on Jesus mild;
And in the midst that new-born child
Was laid within the lap of faith,
While his prayer the churchman saith,
And gifted with two loving names—
One the heir of warlike fames,
And one befitting sage new line
Against the world grow more benign.
And round me, like a pomp in bloom,
Was a proud chapel, heavenly bright
With lucid glooms of painted light
Hushing the thought with holy story,
And flags that hung asleep in glory,
And scutcheons of emblazon bold,
The flowers of trees of memories old.
And living human flowers were there,
New colouring the angelic air;
Young beauties mix'd with warriors gray,
And choristers in lily array,
And princes, and the genial king
With the wise companioning,
And the mild manhood, by whose side
Walks daily forth his two years' bride,
And she herself, the rose of all,
Who wears the world's first coronal,—
306
How simple and how still to this!
Forever and anon there roll'd
The gusty organ manifold,
Like a golden gate of heaven
On its hinges angel-driven
To let through a storm and weight
Of its throne's consenting's state;
Till the dreadful grace withdrew
Into breath serene as dew,
Comforting the ascending hymn
With notes of softest seraphim.
Then was call on Jesus mild;
And in the midst that new-born child
Was laid within the lap of faith,
While his prayer the churchman saith,
And gifted with two loving names—
One the heir of warlike fames,
And one befitting sage new line
Against the world grow more benign.
Like a bubble, children-blown,
Then was all that splendour flown;
And in a window by the light
Of the gentle moon at night,
Talking with her love apart
And her own o'erflowing heart,
That queen and mother did I see
Too happy for tranquillity;
Too generous-happy to endure
The thought of all the woful poor
Who that same night laid down their heads
In mockeries of starving beds,
In cold, in wet, disease, despair,
In madness that will say no prayer;
With wailing infants, some; and some
By whom the little clay lies dumb;
And some, whom feeble love's excess,
Through terror, tempts to murderousness.
And at that thought the big drops rose
In pity for her people's woes;
And this glad mother and great queen
Weeping for the poor was seen,
And vowing in her princely will
That they should thrive and bless her still.
Then was all that splendour flown;
And in a window by the light
Of the gentle moon at night,
Talking with her love apart
And her own o'erflowing heart,
That queen and mother did I see
Too happy for tranquillity;
Too generous-happy to endure
The thought of all the woful poor
Who that same night laid down their heads
In mockeries of starving beds,
In cold, in wet, disease, despair,
In madness that will say no prayer;
With wailing infants, some; and some
By whom the little clay lies dumb;
And some, whom feeble love's excess,
Through terror, tempts to murderousness.
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In pity for her people's woes;
And this glad mother and great queen
Weeping for the poor was seen,
And vowing in her princely will
That they should thrive and bless her still.
And of these three fair sights of mine,
That was the vision most divine.
That was the vision most divine.
LINES ON THE BIRTH OF THE PRINCESS ALICE.
Though the laurel's courtly bough
Boast again its poet now,
One with verse, too, calm and stately,
Fit to sing of greatness greatly,
Granted yet be one last rhyme
To the muse that sang meantime,
If for nought but to make known
That she sang for love alone;
That she sang from out a heart
Used to play no sordid part;
That howe'er a hope might rise,
Strange to her unprosperous eyes,
Ere the cloud came in between
All sweet harvests and their queen,
Still the faith was not the fee
Nor gratitude expectancy.
Oh! the soul that never thought
Meanly, when a throne it fought,
Was it not as far above
All that's mean, with one to love?
Boast again its poet now,
One with verse, too, calm and stately,
Fit to sing of greatness greatly,
Granted yet be one last rhyme
To the muse that sang meantime,
If for nought but to make known
That she sang for love alone;
That she sang from out a heart
Used to play no sordid part;
That howe'er a hope might rise,
Strange to her unprosperous eyes,
Ere the cloud came in between
All sweet harvests and their queen,
Still the faith was not the fee
Nor gratitude expectancy.
Oh! the soul that never thought
Meanly, when a throne it fought,
Was it not as far above
All that's mean, with one to love?
Welcome then, fair new delight,
Welcome to thy fathers sight,
Welcome to thy sister, brother,
And thy sweet strong-hearted mothe,
(Faithful to all duties she
That could prosper them and thee;)
Welcome, playmate of them all,
Future grace of bower and hall,
Queen perchance of some great land
Whose kisses wait thy little hand.
Thou art come in right good time,
With the sweetest of the prime,
With the green trees and the flowers,
Orchard blooms and sunny showers,
And the cuckoo and the bee,
And lark's angelic ecstasy,
And the bird that speaks delight
Into the close ear of night.
Welcome to thy fathers sight,
Welcome to thy sister, brother,
And thy sweet strong-hearted mothe,
308
That could prosper them and thee;)
Welcome, playmate of them all,
Future grace of bower and hall,
Queen perchance of some great land
Whose kisses wait thy little hand.
Thou art come in right good time,
With the sweetest of the prime,
With the green trees and the flowers,
Orchard blooms and sunny showers,
And the cuckoo and the bee,
And lark's angelic ecstasy,
And the bird that speaks delight
Into the close ear of night.
What a world, were human kind
All of one instructed mind!
What a world to rule, to please,
To share 'twixt enterprise and ease!
Graceful manners flowing round
From the court's enchanted ground,
Comfort keeping all secure,
None too rich, and none too poor.
All of one instructed mind!
What a world to rule, to please,
To share 'twixt enterprise and ease!
Graceful manners flowing round
From the court's enchanted ground,
Comfort keeping all secure,
None too rich, and none too poor.
Thee, meantime, fair child of one,
Fit to see that golden sun,
Thee may no worse lot befall
Than a long life, April all;
Fuller, much, of hopes than fears,
Kind in smiles and kind in tears,
Graceful, cheerful, ever new,
Heaven and earth both kept in view,
While the poor look up and bless
Thy celestial bounteousness.
And, when all thy days are done,
And sadness views thy setting sun,
Mayst thou greet thy mother's eyes,
And endless May in Paradise.
Fit to see that golden sun,
Thee may no worse lot befall
Than a long life, April all;
Fuller, much, of hopes than fears,
Kind in smiles and kind in tears,
Graceful, cheerful, ever new,
Heaven and earth both kept in view,
While the poor look up and bless
Thy celestial bounteousness.
And, when all thy days are done,
And sadness views thy setting sun,
Mayst thou greet thy mother's eyes,
And endless May in Paradise.
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RIGHT AND MIGHT.
ON BEING ASKED WHETHER I THOUGHT THAT MIGHT WAS RIGHT.
Thus far I do:—that Right of Might
Springs but from something per se right,—
Some health, strength, knowledge. To beat might,
You must fight might with righter right.
Springs but from something per se right,—
Some health, strength, knowledge. To beat might,
You must fight might with righter right.
But suppose might an infant smite,
Would you call that a right of might?
Yes; of the madman's teeth to bite.
'Tis you, O world, must set that right
With the great Might of Love and Light.
Would you call that a right of might?
Yes; of the madman's teeth to bite.
'Tis you, O world, must set that right
With the great Might of Love and Light.
DREAM WITHIN DREAM;
OR, A DREAM IN HEAVEN; OR, EVIL MINIMIZED.
What evil would be, could it be, the BlestAre sometimes fain to know. They sink to rest,
Dream for a moment's space of care and strife,
Wake, stare, and smile, and that was human Life.
MORGIANA IN ENGLAND. 1815.
Oh, one that I know is a knavish lass,
Though she looks so sweet and simple,
Her eyes there are none can safely pass,
And it's wrong to trust her dimple.
So taking the jade was by Nature made,
So finish'd in all fine thieving,
She'll e'en look away what you wanted to say,
And smile you out of your grieving.
To see her, for instance, go down a dance,
You'd think you sat securely,
Although she forewarns by no bold advance,
And by nothing done over demurely:
But Lord! she goes with so blithe a repose,
And comes so shapely about you,
That ere you're aware, with a glance and an air
She whisks your heart from out you.
Though she looks so sweet and simple,
Her eyes there are none can safely pass,
And it's wrong to trust her dimple.
So taking the jade was by Nature made,
So finish'd in all fine thieving,
She'll e'en look away what you wanted to say,
And smile you out of your grieving.
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You'd think you sat securely,
Although she forewarns by no bold advance,
And by nothing done over demurely:
But Lord! she goes with so blithe a repose,
And comes so shapely about you,
That ere you're aware, with a glance and an air
She whisks your heart from out you.
ODE TO THE SUN.
[_]
The main object of this poem is to impress the beautiful and animating fact, that the greatest visible agent in our universe, the Sun, is also one of the most beneficent; and thus to lead to the inference, that spiritual greatness and goodness are in like proportion, and its Maker beneficence itself, through whatever apparent inconsistencies he may work. The Sun is at once the greatest Might and Right that we behold.
A secondary intention of the poem is to admonish the carelessness with which people in general regard the divinest wonders of the creation, in consequence of being used to their society—this great and glorious mystery, the Sun, not excepted. “Familiarity,” it is said, “breeds contempt.” To which somebody emphatically added—“With the contemptible.” I am far from meaning to say that all who behold the Sun with too little thought are contemptible. Habit does strange things, even with the most reflecting. But of this I am sure, that in proportion as anybody wishes to prove himself worthy of his familiarity with great objects, he will not be sorry to be reminded of their greatness, especially as reverence need not diminish delight; for a heavenly “Father” can no more desire the admiration of him to be oppressive to us, than an earthly one; else fatherliness would be unfatherly, and sunshine itself a gloom.
When the Florentines crowded to some lectures of Galileo, because they were on a comet which had just made its appearance, the philosopher was bold enough to rebuke them for showing such a childish desire to hear him on this particular subject, when they were in the habit of neglecting the marvels of creation which daily presented themselves to their eyes.
Presence divine! Great lord of this our sphere!
Bringer of light, and life, and joy, and beauty,—
God midst a million gods, that far and near
Hold each his orbs in rounds of rapturous duty;
Oh never may I, while I lift this brow,
Believe in any god less like a god than thou.
Bringer of light, and life, and joy, and beauty,—
God midst a million gods, that far and near
Hold each his orbs in rounds of rapturous duty;
Oh never may I, while I lift this brow,
Believe in any god less like a god than thou.
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Thou art the mightiest of all things we see,
And thou, the mightiest, art amongst the kindest;
The planets, dreadfully and easily,
About thee, as in sacred sport, thou windest;
And thine illustrious hands, for all that power,
Light soft on the babe's cheek, and nurse the budding flower.
And thou, the mightiest, art amongst the kindest;
The planets, dreadfully and easily,
About thee, as in sacred sport, thou windest;
And thine illustrious hands, for all that power,
Light soft on the babe's cheek, and nurse the budding flower.
They say that in thine orb is movement dire,
Tempest and flame, as on a million oceans:
Well may it be, thou heart of heavenly fire;
Such looks and smiles befit a god's emotions;
We know thee gentle in the midst of all,
By those smooth orbs in heaven, this sweet fruit on the wall.
Tempest and flame, as on a million oceans:
Well may it be, thou heart of heavenly fire;
Such looks and smiles befit a god's emotions;
We know thee gentle in the midst of all,
By those smooth orbs in heaven, this sweet fruit on the wall.
I feel thee here, myself, soft on my hand;
Around me is thy mute, celestial presence;
Reverence and awe would make me fear to stand
Within thy beam, were not all Good its essence:
Were not all Good its essence, and from thence
All good, glad heart deriv'd, and child-like confidence.
Around me is thy mute, celestial presence;
Reverence and awe would make me fear to stand
Within thy beam, were not all Good its essence:
Were not all Good its essence, and from thence
All good, glad heart deriv'd, and child-like confidence.
I know that there is Fear, and Grief, and Pain,
Strange foes, though stranger guardian friends, of Pleasure:
I know that poor men lose, and rich men gain,
Though oft th' unseen adjusts the seeming measure:
I know that Guile may teach, while Truth must bow,
Or bear contempt and shame on his benignant brow.
Strange foes, though stranger guardian friends, of Pleasure:
I know that poor men lose, and rich men gain,
Though oft th' unseen adjusts the seeming measure:
I know that Guile may teach, while Truth must bow,
Or bear contempt and shame on his benignant brow.
But while thou sitt'st, mightier than all, O Sun,
And e'en when sharpest felt, still throned in kindness,
I see that greatest and that best are one,
And that all else works tow'rds it, though in blindness
Evil I see, and Fear, and Grief, and Pain,
Work under Good their lord, embodied in thy reign.
And e'en when sharpest felt, still throned in kindness,
I see that greatest and that best are one,
And that all else works tow'rds it, though in blindness
Evil I see, and Fear, and Grief, and Pain,
Work under Good their lord, embodied in thy reign.
I see the molten gold darkly refine
O'er the great sea of human joy and sorrow;
I hear the deep voice of a grief divine
Calling sweet notes to some diviner morrow;
And though I know not how the two may part,
I feel thy rays, O Sun, write it upon my heart.
O'er the great sea of human joy and sorrow;
I hear the deep voice of a grief divine
Calling sweet notes to some diviner morrow;
And though I know not how the two may part,
I feel thy rays, O Sun, write it upon my heart.
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Upon my heart thou writest it, as thou,
Heart of these worlds, art writ on by a greater:
Beam'd on with love from some still mightier brow,
Perhaps by that which waits some new relator;
Some amaz'd man, who sees new splendours driven
Thick round a Sun of suns, and fears he looks at heaven.
Heart of these worlds, art writ on by a greater:
Beam'd on with love from some still mightier brow,
Perhaps by that which waits some new relator;
Some amaz'd man, who sees new splendours driven
Thick round a Sun of suns, and fears he looks at heaven.
'Tis easy for vain man, Time's growing child,
To dare pronounce on thy material seeming:
Heav'n, for its own good ends, is mute and mild
To many a wrong of man's presumptuous dreaming.
Matter, or mind, of either what knows he?
Or how with more than both thine orb divine may be?
To dare pronounce on thy material seeming:
Heav'n, for its own good ends, is mute and mild
To many a wrong of man's presumptuous dreaming.
Matter, or mind, of either what knows he?
Or how with more than both thine orb divine may be?
Art thou a god indeed? or thyself heaven?
And do we taste thee here in light and flowers?
Art thou the first sweet place, where hearts, made even,
Sing tender songs in earth-remembering bowers?
Enough, my soul. Enough through thee, O Sun,
To learn the sure good song,—Greatest and Best are one.
And do we taste thee here in light and flowers?
Art thou the first sweet place, where hearts, made even,
Sing tender songs in earth-remembering bowers?
Enough, my soul. Enough through thee, O Sun,
To learn the sure good song,—Greatest and Best are one.
Enough for man to work, to hope, to love,
Copying thy zeal untir'd, thy smile unscorning:
Glad to see gods thick as the stars above,
Bright with the God of gods' eternal morning;
Round about whom perchance endless they go,
Ripening their earths to heavens, as love and wisdom grow.
Copying thy zeal untir'd, thy smile unscorning:
Glad to see gods thick as the stars above,
Bright with the God of gods' eternal morning;
Round about whom perchance endless they go,
Ripening their earths to heavens, as love and wisdom grow.
A BLESSED SPOT.
FROM AN EPIGRAM OF ABOUFADHEL AHMED, SURNAMED AL HAMADAIN, RECORDED IN D'HERBELOT.
Hamadan is my native place;
And I must say, in praise of it,
It merits, for its ugly face,
What everybody says of it.
And I must say, in praise of it,
It merits, for its ugly face,
What everybody says of it.
Its children equal its old men
In vices and avidity,
And they reflect the babes again
In exquisite stupidity.
In vices and avidity,
And they reflect the babes again
In exquisite stupidity.
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VERSES ON A FULL FLOWING PERUKE, BY RICHARD HONEYCOMB, ESQ.
1673.
Did ever laurel, famed in story,
Cover a man with so much glory,
Or warrant him to look so big,
As that great modern boast, a wig?
Some Roman ladies wore a front
With hyperbolic friz upon't;
And we are told of Goths and Scythians
With wigs; but their's were short and pithy ones.
None of the ancients, as I see,
Laid claim to our crinosity,
Or took the breath of the beholders
With hairy torrents down the shoulders,
Melting a dozen scalps in one,
Enough to make a lion run.
Cover a man with so much glory,
Or warrant him to look so big,
As that great modern boast, a wig?
Some Roman ladies wore a front
With hyperbolic friz upon't;
And we are told of Goths and Scythians
With wigs; but their's were short and pithy ones.
None of the ancients, as I see,
Laid claim to our crinosity,
Or took the breath of the beholders
With hairy torrents down the shoulders,
Melting a dozen scalps in one,
Enough to make a lion run.
The monarch, whose inglorious look
(Having a natural-born peruke)
Gave rise to this great capillation,
Ill treateth sure his gallant nation,
And takes too many pains by far
In seeking such renown in war,
Picking for 's head superfluous laurels
In shape of Dutch and Spanish quarrels,
When he must know, that he who claps
Two yards of goat's-hair at his chaps,
Succeeds at once to all the rights
And privileges o' the greatest knights,
Reaping such honours from the dead
As never yet invested head,
And may dispense with wit and parts
In vanquishing the ladies' hearts.
To have a little reading, once
Might mark a gallant from a dunce;
Some grammar did not come amiss,
And wit could much exalt a kiss:
But now your man is he who saddles
His head with the great'st hairy straddles,
And all that sep'rates wits from ninnies,
Is, “Did your wig cost fifty guineas?”
(Having a natural-born peruke)
Gave rise to this great capillation,
Ill treateth sure his gallant nation,
And takes too many pains by far
In seeking such renown in war,
Picking for 's head superfluous laurels
In shape of Dutch and Spanish quarrels,
When he must know, that he who claps
Two yards of goat's-hair at his chaps,
Succeeds at once to all the rights
And privileges o' the greatest knights,
Reaping such honours from the dead
As never yet invested head,
And may dispense with wit and parts
In vanquishing the ladies' hearts.
To have a little reading, once
Might mark a gallant from a dunce;
Some grammar did not come amiss,
And wit could much exalt a kiss:
314
His head with the great'st hairy straddles,
And all that sep'rates wits from ninnies,
Is, “Did your wig cost fifty guineas?”
Hail, two-tail'd comet of this age,
Portending bills, and amorous rage!
Hail, brains of beaux turn'd inside out
Tossing your scented froth about,
And turning brisk on the beholders
With copied airs across the shoulders!
Through thee we come at beauty's blushes,
Like Jove through clouds, or Pan through bushes
To thee I owe (besides, I fear,
Some hundreds to my perruquier;)
To thee I owe my Chloe's passion,
Her fears, and fond incarceration;
And more than all, I owe to thee
That Jack Hall's wig has set me free.
Portending bills, and amorous rage!
Hail, brains of beaux turn'd inside out
Tossing your scented froth about,
And turning brisk on the beholders
With copied airs across the shoulders!
Through thee we come at beauty's blushes,
Like Jove through clouds, or Pan through bushes
To thee I owe (besides, I fear,
Some hundreds to my perruquier;)
To thee I owe my Chloe's passion,
Her fears, and fond incarceration;
And more than all, I owe to thee
That Jack Hall's wig has set me free.
DOGGREL ON DOUBLE COLUMNS AND LARGE TYPE.
Be present, ye home Truths and Graces,
That throw a charm on commonplaces,
And make a street or an old door
Look as it never look'd before,
Nay, doggrel's very self refine
Into a bark not quite canine
(Rather, a voice that once those fairies
Took delight in, call'd the Lares;
Fire-side gods, that used to sit
Loving jolly dogs and wit;)
For with a truth on our own part,
Which, though it frisketh, is at heart
The solemnest of all the solemns,
We sing, imprimis, Double Columns;
And secondly, our noble Type,
Beauteous as Raphael, clear as Cuyp.
That throw a charm on commonplaces,
And make a street or an old door
Look as it never look'd before,
Nay, doggrel's very self refine
Into a bark not quite canine
(Rather, a voice that once those fairies
Took delight in, call'd the Lares;
Fire-side gods, that used to sit
Loving jolly dogs and wit;)
For with a truth on our own part,
Which, though it frisketh, is at heart
The solemnest of all the solemns,
We sing, imprimis, Double Columns;
And secondly, our noble Type,
Beauteous as Raphael, clear as Cuyp.
315
Double Columns, in all places,
Are always cause of double graces;
They grace one's front, and grace one's wings,
And do all sorts of graceful things,
Making a welcome fit for queens;
But most of all in magazines.
Are always cause of double graces;
They grace one's front, and grace one's wings,
And do all sorts of graceful things,
Making a welcome fit for queens;
But most of all in magazines.
Look at the fact. All monthly publi-
Cations that have been column'd doubly,
Have always hit the public fancy
Better, and with more poignàncy
Than your platter-fac'd, broad pages;
Witness things that liv'd for ages,—
London Magazines, and Towns
And Countrys, of charade renowns;
The old Monthly, still surviving
Though with single life now striving;
And the old Gentleman's (why also
Should he change, and risk a fall so?)
Truly old gentleman was he,
And liv'd to hail the century,
Although his diet was no better
Than an old tombstone or dead letter.
Then look at Blackwood, look at Fraser;
To them and their sales what d'ye say, Sir?
Tories, I own; the more's the pity;
But double-column'd, and therefore witty:
For columns (quoth th' Horatian fiddling)
Don't permit people to be middling.
The Dublin University
Might also spell his name with g,—
With o and g, and call himself
The Doubling,—therefore fit for shelf;
A clever dog; though he, too, beats
His Dublin drum with Toryous heats.
Tait, lastly, hath his columns double,
Though he began (which gave him trouble)
With single ones. I warn'd him of it,
And now, you see, he owns me prophet.
Lucky for Tait;—because I prophesied
Also, that wealth would thus be of-his-side.
I only wish his columns were of
Narrower edifice; since thereof
Greater snugness comes, and easiness
Of reading, which is half the business.
Cations that have been column'd doubly,
Have always hit the public fancy
Better, and with more poignàncy
Than your platter-fac'd, broad pages;
Witness things that liv'd for ages,—
London Magazines, and Towns
And Countrys, of charade renowns;
The old Monthly, still surviving
Though with single life now striving;
And the old Gentleman's (why also
Should he change, and risk a fall so?)
Truly old gentleman was he,
And liv'd to hail the century,
Although his diet was no better
Than an old tombstone or dead letter.
Then look at Blackwood, look at Fraser;
To them and their sales what d'ye say, Sir?
Tories, I own; the more's the pity;
But double-column'd, and therefore witty:
For columns (quoth th' Horatian fiddling)
Don't permit people to be middling.
The Dublin University
Might also spell his name with g,—
With o and g, and call himself
The Doubling,—therefore fit for shelf;
A clever dog; though he, too, beats
His Dublin drum with Toryous heats.
Tait, lastly, hath his columns double,
Though he began (which gave him trouble)
With single ones. I warn'd him of it,
And now, you see, he owns me prophet.
316
Also, that wealth would thus be of-his-side.
I only wish his columns were of
Narrower edifice; since thereof
Greater snugness comes, and easiness
Of reading, which is half the business.
Oh, nothing like your double columns!
Notions of single ones are all hums.
Compare a single one with any
Two that you see, how like a zany
It looks; how poor, inept, inhuman!
Oh, ever while you live, have two, man;
Two, like two legs; and don't be branding
With love of one your understanding.
Fancy a door with one provided!
How ludicrous! one-legged! lop-sided;
Whereas with two, like tit for tat,
Pediment, cornice, and all that,
It stands like something worth looking at,
Or a stout fellow in a cock'd hat.
See our own door-way, at page one;
There's fitness for a Parthenon!
Two columns, bearing that first story
Of strong and sweet Repository.
Will any man who hates a flat style,
Or a forc'd, object to that style?
Will Mr. Gwilt, or Mr. Barry,
Or Mr. What's-his-name? No, marry.
Our front demands them to be stout;
So no pun, pray, on the word gout.
Turn but the corner, and look there;
There see our columns mount in air,
So smooth, and sweet, and with a smile,
Air seems itself to feel the style.
No one will say, with wondering brows,
As the man did to Carlton House,
“Care colonne, che fate quà?”
Nor will the columns, with hum and ha,
Say “Non sappiamo, in verità.”
A pretty jest, 'faith, and a queer,
To ask our columns how they came here!
Egad, they'd say to such suggestion,
“How came you here, that ask the question?”
Notions of single ones are all hums.
Compare a single one with any
Two that you see, how like a zany
It looks; how poor, inept, inhuman!
Oh, ever while you live, have two, man;
Two, like two legs; and don't be branding
With love of one your understanding.
Fancy a door with one provided!
How ludicrous! one-legged! lop-sided;
Whereas with two, like tit for tat,
Pediment, cornice, and all that,
It stands like something worth looking at,
Or a stout fellow in a cock'd hat.
See our own door-way, at page one;
There's fitness for a Parthenon!
Two columns, bearing that first story
Of strong and sweet Repository.
Will any man who hates a flat style,
Or a forc'd, object to that style?
Will Mr. Gwilt, or Mr. Barry,
Or Mr. What's-his-name? No, marry.
Our front demands them to be stout;
So no pun, pray, on the word gout.
Turn but the corner, and look there;
There see our columns mount in air,
So smooth, and sweet, and with a smile,
Air seems itself to feel the style.
No one will say, with wondering brows,
As the man did to Carlton House,
“Care colonne, che fate quà?”
Nor will the columns, with hum and ha,
Say “Non sappiamo, in verità.”
A pretty jest, 'faith, and a queer,
317
Egad, they'd say to such suggestion,
“How came you here, that ask the question?”
Double then be your columns, ever:
Were single ones in Nature? Never.
(There's nothing like a round assertion)
And history holds them in aversion.
Were single ones in Nature? Never.
(There's nothing like a round assertion)
And history holds them in aversion.
All her best columns go by twos;—
Witness those pillars of the Jews,
Jachin and Boaz, which implied
That Love and Pow'r go side by side;
And those which Hercules set up,
When he sat down in Spain to sup
On fame and gratitude (no dull tray)
And carv'd upon them Ne plus ultra;
Meaning, “You can't surpass my columns;”
Words in our favour that speak volumes.
Upon the like, deny who can,
Goes that most wondrous fabric, man,
And on two legs walks noble and steady;
But this we have touch'd upon already.
Thus emperors walk; yea, poets; yea,
My lady B. and lady A.;
Yea (not to speak it lightly) queens;
And so must wits in magazines.
Witness those pillars of the Jews,
Jachin and Boaz, which implied
That Love and Pow'r go side by side;
And those which Hercules set up,
When he sat down in Spain to sup
On fame and gratitude (no dull tray)
And carv'd upon them Ne plus ultra;
Meaning, “You can't surpass my columns;”
Words in our favour that speak volumes.
Upon the like, deny who can,
Goes that most wondrous fabric, man,
And on two legs walks noble and steady;
But this we have touch'd upon already.
Thus emperors walk; yea, poets; yea,
My lady B. and lady A.;
Yea (not to speak it lightly) queens;
And so must wits in magazines.
In short, look at the common sense
O' the case, and frame your judgment thence.
So wide are single-column'd pages,
The eyes grow tir'd with the long stages;
At each line's end you feel perplex'd
For the beginning of the next,
And have to run back all the way
To find it, and keep saying “Eh?”
Now double ones require but glances;
From line to line the sweet eye dances,
Without a strain, or the least trouble,
And thus th' enjoyment's truly double,
Taking your meaning and your thinking,
As easily as lovers, winking.
Besides, meanwhile it has an eye to
The other column it runs nigh to;
Which doubly doubles the enjoyment,
By certainty of more employment;
Just like that terrible Greek, who reckon'd,
While courting one love, on a second;
Or as your gourmand, dining pleasantly,
Says, “I'll attack that pigeon presently.”
O' the case, and frame your judgment thence.
So wide are single-column'd pages,
The eyes grow tir'd with the long stages;
At each line's end you feel perplex'd
For the beginning of the next,
And have to run back all the way
To find it, and keep saying “Eh?”
Now double ones require but glances;
From line to line the sweet eye dances,
Without a strain, or the least trouble,
And thus th' enjoyment's truly double,
318
As easily as lovers, winking.
Besides, meanwhile it has an eye to
The other column it runs nigh to;
Which doubly doubles the enjoyment,
By certainty of more employment;
Just like that terrible Greek, who reckon'd,
While courting one love, on a second;
Or as your gourmand, dining pleasantly,
Says, “I'll attack that pigeon presently.”
So much for columns. Now for type.
What soul, of any judgment ripe,
Or wise by dint of good intentions,
But must exult in its dimensions?
What good heart swell not at a size
So very good for good old eyes?
Nay, good for eyes too not grown old,
But tried by labours manifold,
And glad not to be forc'd to take
To spectacles and vision-ache?
Young eyes, of course, can find no fault with it;
And babes that learn to spell, won't halt with it:
So that, in fact, the only pages
To suit all eyes and suit all ages,
And fill the whole earth's visual powers
With tears of transport, will be ours!
Good heav'ns! what an amazing glory!
Unknown in periodic story!
What soul, of any judgment ripe,
Or wise by dint of good intentions,
But must exult in its dimensions?
What good heart swell not at a size
So very good for good old eyes?
Nay, good for eyes too not grown old,
But tried by labours manifold,
And glad not to be forc'd to take
To spectacles and vision-ache?
Young eyes, of course, can find no fault with it;
And babes that learn to spell, won't halt with it:
So that, in fact, the only pages
To suit all eyes and suit all ages,
And fill the whole earth's visual powers
With tears of transport, will be ours!
Good heav'ns! what an amazing glory!
Unknown in periodic story!
We knew once a shrewd speculator,
Young withal, and fond of pater,
Who in the course of a right breeding
Had got such filial views of reading,
That he projected an old men's
Newspaper, to be call'd—The Lens;
That is to say, a glass to read it;
Because the print was not to need it!
(We think we see old Munden kneading
The word, in his intensest reading,
And counting it a gain, exceeding).
Well, here's a Lens in all its glory,
The type of the Repository;—
A glass, without a glass's need;—
A print, that cries to all “Come, read!”
How pleasant to reverse, for once,
The cares that patronise good sons,
And give good sons occasion rather
To filiatronize their father.
Young withal, and fond of pater,
Who in the course of a right breeding
Had got such filial views of reading,
That he projected an old men's
Newspaper, to be call'd—The Lens;
That is to say, a glass to read it;
Because the print was not to need it!
(We think we see old Munden kneading
319
And counting it a gain, exceeding).
Well, here's a Lens in all its glory,
The type of the Repository;—
A glass, without a glass's need;—
A print, that cries to all “Come, read!”
How pleasant to reverse, for once,
The cares that patronise good sons,
And give good sons occasion rather
To filiatronize their father.
There's a strange tale of an old sire,
Who screaming every moment higher,
Came running from a house, or rather
Hobbling, and follow'd by his father,
Who was belabouring him, because
Forgetful of all filial laws,
“Th' ungracious boy,” like a drawcansir,
Had laid a stick upon his grandsire!!
Who screaming every moment higher,
Came running from a house, or rather
Hobbling, and follow'd by his father,
Who was belabouring him, because
Forgetful of all filial laws,
“Th' ungracious boy,” like a drawcansir,
Had laid a stick upon his grandsire!!
Observe our sweet Repository,
How 'twill reverse this horrid story.
For sure as we see future ages
Rise, like May-mornings, o'er our pages,
We see full many a grateful sire,
Old as that grandson, but all fire,
Come smiling from his home, and telling
The neighbours round about the dwelling,
How he had left, with eyes all glistening,
His father to his grandsire listening,
Who taking up our magazine,
And putting his white locks serene
Pleasantly back, and looking proud,
Read it, upon the spot, out loud
How 'twill reverse this horrid story.
For sure as we see future ages
Rise, like May-mornings, o'er our pages,
We see full many a grateful sire,
Old as that grandson, but all fire,
Come smiling from his home, and telling
The neighbours round about the dwelling,
How he had left, with eyes all glistening,
His father to his grandsire listening,
Who taking up our magazine,
And putting his white locks serene
Pleasantly back, and looking proud,
Read it, upon the spot, out loud
What need to add another syllable?
Hearts, that could stand this, are unkillable.
Hearts, that could stand this, are unkillable.
320
THE ROYAL LINE.
[1836?]
William I. The sturdy Conq'ror, politic, severe;
William II. Light-minded Rufus, dying like the deer;
Henry I. Beau-clerc, who everything but virtue knew;
Stephen. Stephen, who graced the lawless sword he drew;
Henry II. Fine Henry, hapless in his sons and priest;
Richard I. Richard, the glorious trifler in the East;
John. John, the mean wretch, tyrant and slave, a liar;
Henry III. Imbecile Henry, worthy of his sire;
Edward I. Long-shanks, well nam'd, a great encroacher he;
Edward II. Edward the minion dying dreadfully;
Edward III. The splendid veteran, weak in his decline;
Richard II. Another minion, sure untimely sign;
Henry IV. Usurping Lancaster, whom wrongs advance;
Henry V. Harry the Fifth, the tennis-boy of France;
Henry VI. The beadsman, praying while his Margaret fought;
Edward IV. Edward, too sensual for a kindly thought;
Edward V. The little head, that never wore the crown;
Richard III. Crookback, to nature giving frown for frown;
Henry VII. Close-hearted Henry, the shrewd carking sire;
Henry VIII. The British Bluebeard, fat, and full of ire;
Edward VI. The sickly boy, endowing and endow'd;
Mary. III Mary, lighting many a living shroud;
Elizabeth. The lion-queen, with her stiff muslin mane;
James I. The shambling pedant, and his minion train;
Charles I. Weak Charles, the victim of the dawn of right;
Cromwell. Cromwell, misuser of his home-spun might;
Charles II. The swarthy scape-grace, all for ease and wit;
James II. The bigot out of season, forc'd to quit;
William III. The Dutchman, call'd to see our vessel through;
Anne. Anna made great by conquering Marlborough;
George I. George, vulgar soul, a woman-hated name;
George II. Another, fonder of his fee than fame;
George III. A third, too weak, instead of strong, to swerve;
George IV. And fourth, whom Canning and Sir Will preserve.
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