Miscellaneous writings of the late Dr. Maginn edited by Dr. Shelton Mackenzie |
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| MEMOIR OF WILLIAM MAGINN, LL. D.
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 | Miscellaneous writings of the late Dr. Maginn |  |
xxiii
MEMOIR OF WILLIAM MAGINN, LL. D.
xxv
“TO HELEN R.
“Within the shade of yonder grove,
Fair Helen reared her woodbine bower,
And fondly hoped unscared by Love
Would flit away each tranquil hour;
Her moments flew unchased by care,
And calm she dwelt in peace and pleasure,
While still that Love could not stray there,
Was Helen's bosom's cherished treasure.
Fair Helen reared her woodbine bower,
And fondly hoped unscared by Love
Would flit away each tranquil hour;
Her moments flew unchased by care,
And calm she dwelt in peace and pleasure,
While still that Love could not stray there,
Was Helen's bosom's cherished treasure.
“One day the god, within the wood,
Had roved, with Nature's sweets enchanted,
To where fair Helen's bower stood,
By fancy sketched, and beauty planted.
He gazed entranced, as light the latch
He slily raised to beg admission,
Waited her dark blue glance to catch,
Then lowly proffered his petition.
Had roved, with Nature's sweets enchanted,
To where fair Helen's bower stood,
By fancy sketched, and beauty planted.
He gazed entranced, as light the latch
He slily raised to beg admission,
Waited her dark blue glance to catch,
Then lowly proffered his petition.
“‘A feeble boy, alas! am I,
No parents' tender care is mine,
I've missed the wood-path here hard by,
I've lost my home, and strayed to thine;
I'm weary, too, think on my lot,
Without thine aid, alas! I'll perish;
Then, oh! receive me in thy cot,
And a forlorn poor baby cherish.’
No parents' tender care is mine,
I've missed the wood-path here hard by,
I've lost my home, and strayed to thine;
I'm weary, too, think on my lot,
Without thine aid, alas! I'll perish;
Then, oh! receive me in thy cot,
And a forlorn poor baby cherish.’
xxvi
“She heard his prayer, she wept, she smiled,
Then kindly bade the boy good morrow;
And, oh! the urchin soon beguiled
The heart that strove to soothe his sorrow.
While, simple maid! too late she found,
Go where she may, there Love would wander;
And not a spot, though fairy ground,
Could keep her soul and his asunder.”
Then kindly bade the boy good morrow;
And, oh! the urchin soon beguiled
The heart that strove to soothe his sorrow.
While, simple maid! too late she found,
Go where she may, there Love would wander;
And not a spot, though fairy ground,
Could keep her soul and his asunder.”
lxxix
“THE MOCKINGS OF THE SOLDIERS.
“‘Plant a crown upon his head,
Royal robe around him spread;
See that his imperial hand
Grasps, as fit, the sceptral wand:
Then before him bending low,
As becomes his subjects, bow;
Fenced within our armed ring,
Hail him, hail him, as our King!’
Royal robe around him spread;
See that his imperial hand
Grasps, as fit, the sceptral wand:
Then before him bending low,
As becomes his subjects, bow;
Fenced within our armed ring,
Hail him, hail him, as our King!’
“Platted was of thorns the crown,
Trooper's cloak was royal gown;
If his passive hand, indeed,
Grasped a sceptre, 't was a reed;
He was bound to feel and hear
Deeds of shame, and words of jeer;
For he whom king in jest they call
Was a doomed captive scoffed by all.
Trooper's cloak was royal gown;
If his passive hand, indeed,
Grasped a sceptre, 't was a reed;
He was bound to feel and hear
Deeds of shame, and words of jeer;
For he whom king in jest they call
Was a doomed captive scoffed by all.
“But the brightest crown of gold,
Or the robe of rarest fold,
Or the sceptre which the mine
Of Golconda makes to shine,
Or the lowliest homage given
By all mankind under heaven,
Were prized by him no more than scorn,
Sceptre of reed, or crown of thorn.
Or the robe of rarest fold,
Or the sceptre which the mine
Of Golconda makes to shine,
Or the lowliest homage given
By all mankind under heaven,
Were prized by him no more than scorn,
Sceptre of reed, or crown of thorn.
“Of the stars his crown is made,
In the sun he is arrayed,
He the lightning of the spheres
As a flaming sceptre bears:
Bend in rapture before him
Ranks of glowing seraphim;
And we, who spurned him, trembling stay
The judgment of his coming day.”
In the sun he is arrayed,
He the lightning of the spheres
As a flaming sceptre bears:
Bend in rapture before him
Ranks of glowing seraphim;
And we, who spurned him, trembling stay
The judgment of his coming day.”
lxxx
“I GIVE MY SOLDIER-BOY A BLADE.
“I give my soldier-boy a blade,
In fair Damascus fashioned well;
Who first the glittering falchion swayed,
Who first beneath its fury fell,
I know not, but I hope to know
That for no mean or hireling trade,
To guard no feeling base or low,
I give my soldier-boy a blade.
In fair Damascus fashioned well;
Who first the glittering falchion swayed,
Who first beneath its fury fell,
I know not, but I hope to know
That for no mean or hireling trade,
To guard no feeling base or low,
I give my soldier-boy a blade.
“Cool, calm, and clear, the lucid flood
In which its tempering work was done,
As calm, as clear, as cool of mood,
Be thou whene'er it sees the sun;
For country's claim, at honor's call,
For outraged friend, insulted maid,
At mercy's voice to bid it fall,
I give my soldier-boy a blade.
In which its tempering work was done,
As calm, as clear, as cool of mood,
Be thou whene'er it sees the sun;
For country's claim, at honor's call,
For outraged friend, insulted maid,
At mercy's voice to bid it fall,
I give my soldier-boy a blade.
“The eye which marked its peerless edge,
The hand that weighed its balanced poise,
Anvil and pincers, forge, and wedge,
Are gone with all their flame and noise—
And still the gleaming sword remains;
So, when in dust I low am laid,
Remember by those heart-felt strains,
I gave my soldier-boy a blade.”
The hand that weighed its balanced poise,
Anvil and pincers, forge, and wedge,
Are gone with all their flame and noise—
And still the gleaming sword remains;
So, when in dust I low am laid,
Remember by those heart-felt strains,
I gave my soldier-boy a blade.”
cvii
“TO MY DAUGHTERS.
“O my darling little daughters—
O, my daughters loved so well—
Who by Brighton's breezy waters
For a time have gone to dwell.
Here I come with spirit yearning
With your sight my eyes to cheer,
When this sunny day returning,
Brings my forty-second year.
O, my daughters loved so well—
Who by Brighton's breezy waters
For a time have gone to dwell.
Here I come with spirit yearning
With your sight my eyes to cheer,
When this sunny day returning,
Brings my forty-second year.
“Knit to me in love and duty,
Have you been, sweet pets of mine,
Long in health, and joy, and beauty
May it be your lot to shine:
And at last, when God commanding,
I shall leave you good and kind
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
Have you been, sweet pets of mine,
Long in health, and joy, and beauty
May it be your lot to shine:
And at last, when God commanding,
I shall leave you good and kind
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
“May I leave my ‘Nan’ and ‘Pigeon,’
Mild of faith, of purpose true—
Full of faith and meek religion—
With many joys and sorrows few.
Now I part, with fond caressing,
Part you now, my daughters dear—
Take, then, take a father's blessing,
In his forty-second year.”
Mild of faith, of purpose true—
Full of faith and meek religion—
With many joys and sorrows few.
Now I part, with fond caressing,
Part you now, my daughters dear—
Take, then, take a father's blessing,
In his forty-second year.”
cviii
[“Here, early to bed, lies kind William Maginn]
“Walton-on-Thames, Aug. 1842.
“Here, early to bed, lies kind William Maginn,
Who, with genius, wit, learning, Life's trophies to win,
Had neither great Lord nor rich cit of his kin,
Nor discretion to set himself up as to tin;
So, his portion soon spent (like the poor heir of Lynn),
He turned author, ere yet there was beard on his chin—
And, whoever was out, or whoever was in,
For your Tories his fine Irish brains he would spin,
Who received prose and rhyme with a promising grin—
‘Go ahead, you queer fish, and more power to your fin!’
But to save from starvation stirred never a pin.
Light for long was his heart, though his breeches were thin,
Else his acting, for certain, was equal to Quinn;
But at last he was beat, and sought help of the bin
(All the same to the Doctor, from claret to gin),
Which led swiftly to jail, with consumption therein.
It was much, when the bones rattled loose in the skin,
He got leave to die here, out of Babylon's din.
Barring drink and the girls, I ne'er heard of a sin—
Many worse, better few, than bright, broken Maginn.”
| Miscellaneous writings of the late Dr. Maginn | |