University of Virginia Library

I. PART I.

STANZAS TO A BROKEN LUTE.

SONG

[When the blaze of thy beauty was beaming]

TO------

When time hath bereft thee
Of charms now enchanting;
When youth shall have left thee,
And beauty be wanting;
In the hour of thy sadness
Then think upon me,
And that thought shall be madness,
Deceiver, to thee!
Think on him who adored thee,
And still had adored;
Think on him who implored thee,
And vainly implored—
On the vows thou hast spoken,
But laughed at to be;
On the heart thou hast broken,
Devoted to thee.
When the roses shall vanish
That circle thee now,
And the thorn thou wouldst banish
Shall press on thy brow—
In the hour of thy sadness
Then think upon me,
And that thought shall be madness,
Deceiver, to thee!
A gloom shall come o'er thee
Thou canst not dispel;
Around thee—before thee—
It ever shall dwell;
All joy shall forsake it,
All pity shall flee,
Or beam but to make it
More hateful to thee.
When he who could turn thee
From virtue and fame,
Shall leave thee, and spurn thee,
To sorrow and shame;
When the arm that caressed thee
Shall deal thee the blow,
And the lips that once blessed thee
But smile on thy woe;—
When like him thou hast slighted,
Thy brain shall be stung,
Thy hope shall be blighted,
Thy bosom be wrung;—
In the depths of thy sadness,
Then think upon me;
And that thought shall be madness,
Deceiver, to thee!

TO------

Yes, I have loved and I have known
What 'tis to sigh and sigh in vain,
And feel when every hope was flown
That still my heart must bear its chain,
That still my soul must hold as dear
The form that taught it first to sigh,
Whose smile but mocked my falling tear,
And jested with my agony;
And still though many a rolling year
Hath shed its change of sun and snow,
No ray of hope hath beamed to cheer
The winter of my bosom's woe.
My heart is like a dreary tomb,
Neglected love lies buried there,
And mournful 'midst the rayless gloom
Sits the wan shade of mute despair.
The shafts of fate that, frequent dealt,
Had humbled others in the dust,
Glance off from me unfeared, unfelt,
Like arrows from a marble bust.
True to one cherished apathy
Is this devoted heart and brain;
This silent breast has ceased to sigh,
These eyes shall never weep again.

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

TO------

ON HEARING OF HER INTENDED MARRIAGE.

TO------, WITH A RING.

Yes, take the ring—love's promised ring,
By love which seemed as true requested.
Alas! I deemed not it could bring
To ruin—hopes, which on it rested.
That night—oh! never can that night
From memory's page be wiped away,
When thine eyes beamed beneath a light
Less brilliant, but less false, than they.
That night when Love lent Time his wings,
Who, all too fast, unhelped could flee,
Thou said'st the softest, sweetest things—
More soft, more sweet, when said by thee.
Why didst thou say them? wherefore wake
To joy a heart thou leav'st uncherished?
Why bid the light of Heaven to break
On hopes which else had pangless perished?
I could have borne thy cold neglect—
Nay, Lady, I have borne it long.
It needed not thou shouldst affect
A passion—but to edge the wrong,
Like those whose cruelty refined
Prompts them the tortured wretch to heal,
That, when again his limbs they bind,
More keenly he the rack may feel.
Take, take the ring—that hoop of gold—
Emblem of both our loves may be;
Like thine, 'tis hollow, heartless, cold;
Like mine, 'tis endless—and for thee!

TO------

When first I beheld thee, thou dear little sprite,
I found there was something about thee
Which shed round thy presence so cheering a light,
Even day appeared darkness without thee.
'Twas a magic that mastered the soul by surprise,
Where archness was mixed with-good nature;
It sparkled and spoke in thy laughing dark eyes,
And heightened each eloquent feature.
There was nothing coquettish or prudishly coy,
But a spirit of affable gladness,
Which threw round my heart such a holiday joy,
It bade a defiance to sadness.
And from the first moment it beamed upon me
The smile which all bosoms engages,
I felt as much friendship and fondness for thee
As if I had known thee for ages.
And Time has but made those emotions more sweet;
Still lovely, still gay, I perceive thee;
And feel more delight when I know we shall meet,
More pain when I find I must leave thee.
Thy mind—does an epithet strike it?
What now can be called the sensation, I prove
It cannot, no surely it can not, be Love,
But really it's very much like it.

TO THOMAS MOORE, ESQ.

TO------

SONG.

[Believe me, thou dear little girl of my soul]

TO------

PARTING.

SCOTCH MELODY.

VENETIAN MELODY.

FRENCH MELODY.

LINES ON PASSING THROUGH FRANCE.

TO------

ELLEN.

SILENTLY.

VULCAN AND HYMEN.

IRISH MELODY. No. 1.

IRISH MELODY. No. 2.

IRISH MELODY. No. 3.

IRISH MELODY. No. 4.

IRISH MELODY. No. 5.

TO------

Thou didst not think, then, I had loved?—
Ah! lady! were I but to tell
The pangs this breast hath vainly proved
For her I loved—alas! too well;
For her who ne'er by word or look,
Although she knew the secret woe
My cheek that blanched, my frame that shook,
Would even coldest pity show;
But, borne on youth and beauty's tide,
Looked down with scornful eye on one
Who withered in its glance of pride,
Yet wanted heart that glance to shun.
Thy wonder, lady, then would be
That I should e'er have smiled again,
And on my brow that thou shouldst see
No token of those hours of pain:
Ah! deeper than my cheek and brow
Are sunk the signs of sorrow's smart—
The scar, that marks affliction's blow,
Is where the wound was—in my heart.
That couldst thou see, then mightst thou trace
The path of passion through its core,
Thoughts which long years can ne'er efface,
Hopes blighted—ne'er to blossom more!
Why, at the banquet and the ball,
Should sadness o'er me seem to reign?—
Weep thou who will, I'll smile with all,
As if I ne'er had tasted pain.
Not mine the ostentatious woes
That claim from all the tribute-tear;
I would not cast a cloud o'er those
Whose spirits are like sunshine clear;
I would not wake in friendship's breast
A sigh, for what mine own hath proved;
Nor could I bear the heartless jest
Of the cold few who never loved.
Not mine the childish griefs that flow
Brawling, like brooks, o'er ev'ry stone:
It is the deep, full tide of woe
That smoothly, silently, glides on.
Still cheerful is each look and tone,
As erst they were ere love had birth;
And e'en my harp, to mourning prone,
I sometimes wake to notes of mirth:
But ah! not less the water's force,
When lilies on its surface beam;
As rapid is the river's course,
Though roses overhang its stream.
Pass round the bowl, raise high the song—
As lightly will I sing and quaff;
Bound merrily the dance along—
I'll join alike the group, the laugh;
But when the song is heard no more,
The bowl is drained, the dancers fled—
Then comes the gloom my spirit o'er;
Then, lady, would that I were dead!

ON THE DEATH OF MRS. ---

I stood beside the grave of one whose love
To me was like a mother's, and my heart
Sunk cold and sick within me as I looked
Upon the flat grey stone which covered her;—
Whose smile was like the morning's earliest beam,
Dispensing joy to all it shone upon.
Death had been busy with me: I had followed
A father to his narrow house—my tears
Still glistened on his grave—but I had watched
Beside his bed of sickness; slow decay
Had whispered warning, and each fainter sigh
Sounded a note of preparation. But
The bloom of health was on her cheek when last
I parted from her, and her eloquent eye
Spoke volumes to the heart. That eye was closed,
That cheek was colourless. It was a change
Instant and awful, like a summer sky
By darkness suddenly defaced. I came,
And she had passed away; all that remained,
Her image in her offspring, and her name—
Her hallowed name upon that flat grey stone.

SONG.

[Fair as the morn's light o'er heaven stealing]

RONDEAU.

Oh, how sweet the heart reposes
On the hopes of future hours!
Thus before the bud uncloses
We prize it for its promised flowers.
'Midst the gloomy shades of night
How we long for morning's light!
So, ere yet it loves—the breast
Sighs for love to make it blest.
Oh, how sweet, &c.

OLD ENGLISH MELODY.

TO J--- H---, ESQ., ON HIS MARRIAGE.

A SONG.

[To dream by day more than by night—]

A SONG.

[The dear old haunts once more I've seen]

TO MY WIFE AFTER AN ILLNESS.

Oh dear as thou wert, when of health the red rose
O'er thy cheek all its loveliness shed,
Believe me, this bosom more tenderness knows,
For thee, now that its bright hues have fled.
Enchanting as then was the task to adore
The beauty that played round thy brow,
The feeling is sweeter that bids me watch o'er
And cheer thee and cherish thee now.

I LOVE THEE.

I'M IN LOVE.

A SONG

[Again, again to the mountain's crest]

“THERE WAS A TIME.”

A SONG.

[Fear not to love me, if thou only fearest]

A SONG.

[What though no more their emerald rings]

A SONG.

[Have you marked the silver mist]

TO LIZZIE.

OH! NOT BY THE RIVER.

FROM THE FRENCH.

FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF CACCEORUS.

ASK YE WHERE MY HOME?

GIOVANNA.

SOUVENIR OF MOUNT EDGECUMBE.

All hope abandon ye who enter here,
If any hope ye entertain to find,
Elsewhere, upon this sublunary sphere,
A place more lovely, or a host more kind.

ON HEARING A LADY SING “LOVE IS PASSING.”

“Love is passing,” say'st thou? Nay,
Dost thou Love so little know?
Where thou singest he must stay,
Even should'st thou bid him go!
Without the will or power to flee,
Drinking in the silver tone
Of a voice, which seems to be
A tender echo of his own.

AN ACROSTIC.

WEARY.

A SONG.

[What is it makes me tremble]

ACROSTIC

TO THE RIVER CAMEL.

PURSUE thy course, thou richly storied stream,
Ever of British bards the darling theme;
Nor merlins' art, nor fay Morganna's spell,
Camalan need'st thou more thy fame to swell!
Arthur will live as long as thou shall flow,
Romance beside thy waters dream. What though
Rock-throned Tintagel sink into the sand,
One matchless scene round which thy silver band
Winds lovingly, will aye be Fairy Land.

ON LEAVING PENCARROW.

A PROLOGUE.

When threatened England's honour or repose,
The British soldier well his duty knows—
To mount, to march, to fight, to fall, to die,
But never weakly yield or basely fly!
We boast not this,—all who deserve to bear
The name of soldier, so would do or dare
But claim with honourable pride we may
The courage to endure and to obey.
Need you the proof? 'tis not in battles won,
The shattered colours or the captured gun;
Not in the charge, though Balaclava's vale
Of hopeless valour, saw the sanguine trail;
Nor in the shock—though Inkerman's dark hill
Could tell of iron nerve and iron will!
'Tis in the frozen trench, the fevered camp,
The famished fort, the pestilential swamp,
Where war is stripped of all its pomp and pride,
The metal of the manly heart is tried.
Who can forget—sure, none of British strain—
The ship that foundered in the Indian main?
Upon whose deck, steady as on parade,
Their last command, the noble band obeyed;
And to the grave, of all but their renown,
Shoulder to shoulder, in their ranks went down.
If we as soldiers glory in such deed,
Must we not honour those in bitter need,
Who, with like courage, face their fearful doom,
The humble heroes of the mill and loom?
No frenzied outbreak of despairing men,
Scares the dull town, disturbs the quiet glen;
No wail of suffering woman renders less
Their brave endurance of prolonged distress;
Of all that to privation adds a smart,
Of hope deferred that maketh sick the heart;
No trumpet cheers them in their struggle hard,
No cross, no clasp—their valour will reward,
Their only prayer, throughout this trial dread,
Again to labour for their daily bread.
Patient and pale around the factory door,
Which opens to the moving stream no more,
In groups they stand, or wandering o'er the plain,
Cull herbs, which yield no medicine for their pain;
Brave fellow-warriors! honour ye we do,
And muster here to-night to help you too!
Receive it as the soldier's tribute paid
To gallant conduct, not as arms, but aid!
Would we could more, but what we can we will,
Friends for our cause, forgive our want of skill.
It is a cause, if e'er one was, demands
The best support of English hearts and hands!

AN EXCHANGE.

AN ANSWER.

TO MY WIFE.

“POVERTY PARTS GOOD COMPANY.”

THE FLOWERS OF TOWTON FIELD.

A BALLAD OF BATTLE ACRE.

PROLOGUE TO THE “FORTY THIEVES.”

Two or three sentences, with your good leaves,
Ere you pass one upon the “Forty Thieves.”
Who, in a winding-up act, now propose
To bring this “joint-stock” business to a close.
The rumour runs, and each of us believes in it—
A joint-stock company with forty thieves in it,
Who may all act with more or less rascality,
Cannot lay claim to much originality.
And this deponent positively swears,
That every one who has in ours ta'en shares
Paid for them but in joke—and yet feels certain
He can't be called on—save before the curtain.
An after-clap he has no cause to dread,
Our liability is limited.
Too limited, I fear, you may reply,
Is our ability—without a lie.
No matter, in this desperate speculation
We did not seek the “bubble reputation;”
Nor our own nests to feather do we aim,
To succour others is our “little game;”
And should we find we've played it well to-night,
We can but be transported—with delight.
Atrocious punsters! villanous jest breakers!
We laugh the dull old dictionary makers'
Abuse to scorn. Admit the fact, and mock it!
The men who made these puns would pick your pocket,
And don't mind getting two months with hard labour,
Like this again, to help a needy neighbour.
Boldly we say, friends, countrymen, and lovers,
Lend us your hands. Though pledged to Gallic glovers,
You'll grant, we're sure, as patriotism bids
Some small protection to poor English kids,
By you, we trow, sirs, will the boys be breeched.
The ladies for the girls shall be beseeched,
Petticoat influence was always great,
And, judging by the petticoats of late,
We may presume, without being offensive,
Such influence was never more extensive.
Hear us, ye beauties, then, in box and stall,
Come with a hoop, and kindly, at our call;
From your vast superfluity let fall
Some drapery for those who've none at all;
Though, iron-bound, your garments may not yield,
Your hearts by fashion never can be steeled,
And you can aid us, without impropriety,
In the wide circles of your sweet society.
Don't frown, for we are serious, we protest,
There's many a true word may be spoken in jest;
We've double meaning, but no double dealings,
And though we play on words, we don't on feelings.
The charity which smooths misfortune's pillow
We hope will cover every peccadillo,
And save the thieves who shall in crambo-verses,
Cry “Open sesame” to cram-full purses.
When we can screen one shorn lamb from sharp weather,
Hang us if we don't always hang together!

PROLOGUE TO “VALENTINE AND ORSON.”

From a gay woodcut—no dull tract with trees on,
Behold me here! “The Lion of the Season,”
Mr. Gorilla! I announce myself,
For the stage-door keeper, poor timid elf,
Soon as he saw me in the distance dim,
Bolted!—no doubt for fear I should bolt him.
His fear was groundless. Really I am not
The great gorilla Monsieur Chaillu shot.
That monster, about whom there's so much jaw,
Must be the perfect one the world ne'er saw;
Nor am I e'en like those whose bones you see,
But débonnaire, and full of bonhommie.
In short, of Mr. Punch's own creation,
Proof of his power of investigation;
Cut off on wood myself, to aid I came
The orphans of a woodcutter of fame.
Stern fate has left them few sticks and small stock,
We trust to save some chips of the old block!
A strange wild set of harum-scarum savages,
Of whom the town before have felt the ravages,
Have formed a club, with which they take great pains,
For their poor friends to cudgel their own brains!
From this you might suppose, no brains they've got,
But you'd be wrong, for they've dashed out a lot,
On paper, which is now from duty free,
In hopes to pay the widow's tax on tea,
The times and their intents are savage, wild,
They've seized upon the story of a child;
Torn it piecemeal, mangled its mother's tongue,
Excruciating puns from out it wrung;
And are exulting in the hope soon after
To feast upon your groans and shrieks of laughter.
Well, what from savages can you expect?
Yet glimmerings of sense you may detect.
There's method in their madness, much barbarity
Is oft enacted in the name of Charity;
While, on the other hand, we sometimes find,
We “must be cruel only to be kind.”
And now, perhaps, you may begin to see,
To speak the prologue, why they fixed on me;
I'm thought a link, though some the fact dispute,
Between the “genus homo” and the brute,
Something that was, ere peg-tops made the man,
Or “wild in woods the lordly savage ran.”
Now granting that in war all weapons are fair,
Particularly in gorilla warfare;
And without weighing of each fact the value,
Or standing on the matter shilly-Chaillu,
Whether I'm both at once, or one, or t'other,
Say, “Am not I a savage and a brother?”
Do not I bear in this especial case
A stròng resemblance to the human race?
Then let me hope, with pardonable vanity,
To prove a link 'twixt our and your humanity.
In brief—for sure I need no longer pause—
In your good-will let me insert my claws;
Spare not, I pray, your purses or your palms,
The actors crave your hands, the fatherless your alms.

SONG FROM “BABIL AND BIJOU.”

LOVE'S GIFTS.

WOMAN.

LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT.

“WITH WOMAN AS WITH OTHER GAME.”

With woman as with other game the pleasure's in the chase—
Once caught the interest ceases, yet to blame us they've the face;
If they would not be hunted why so chary of their charms?
Can't they fling themselves at once into the nearest lover's arms?
'Tis wicked, 'tis immoral, to run after them, they say,
When it's very clear we couldn't if they did not run away.

“WHEREFORE NOT BEING SAD.”

OH! YE LORDS OF THE CREATION!

LINES ON THE DEATH OF CARL MARIA VON WEBER.