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1
THE UNREALIZED IDEAL
My only Love is always near,—
In country or in town
I see her twinkling feet, I hear
The whisper of her gown.
In country or in town
I see her twinkling feet, I hear
The whisper of her gown.
She foots it ever fair and young,
Her locks are tied in haste,
And one is o'er her shoulder flung,
And hangs below her waist.
Her locks are tied in haste,
And one is o'er her shoulder flung,
And hangs below her waist.
She ran before me in the meads;
And down this world-worn track
She leads me on; but while she leads
She never gazes back.
And down this world-worn track
She leads me on; but while she leads
She never gazes back.
And yet her voice is in my dreams,
To witch me more and more;
That wooing voice! Ah me, it seems
Less near me than of yore.
To witch me more and more;
That wooing voice! Ah me, it seems
Less near me than of yore.
Lightly I sped when hope was high,
And youth beguiled the chase;
I follow—follow still; but I
Shall never see her Face.
And youth beguiled the chase;
I follow—follow still; but I
Shall never see her Face.
2
TO MY GRANDMOTHER
(SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE BY MR. ROMNEY)
Under the elm a rustic seat
Was merriest Susan's pet retreat
To merry-make.
Was merriest Susan's pet retreat
To merry-make.
This Relative of mine
Was she seventy-and-nine
When she died?
By the canvas may be seen
How she look'd at seventeen,
As a Bride.
Was she seventy-and-nine
When she died?
By the canvas may be seen
How she look'd at seventeen,
As a Bride.
Beneath a summer tree
Her maiden reverie
Has a charm;
Her ringlets are in taste;
What an arm! and what a waist
For an arm!
Her maiden reverie
Has a charm;
Her ringlets are in taste;
What an arm! and what a waist
For an arm!
3
With her bridal-wreath, bouquet,
Lace farthingale, and gay
Falbala,—
If Romney's touch be true,
What a lucky dog were you,
Grandpapa!
Lace farthingale, and gay
Falbala,—
If Romney's touch be true,
What a lucky dog were you,
Grandpapa!
Her lips are sweet as love;
They are parting! Do they move?
Are they dumb?
Her eyes are blue, and beam
Beseechingly, and seem
To say, “Come!”
They are parting! Do they move?
Are they dumb?
Her eyes are blue, and beam
Beseechingly, and seem
To say, “Come!”
What funny fancy slips
From atween these cherry lips?
Whisper me,
Fair Sorceress in paint,
What canon says I mayn't
Marry thee?
From atween these cherry lips?
Whisper me,
Fair Sorceress in paint,
What canon says I mayn't
Marry thee?
That good-for-nothing Time
Has a confidence sublime!
When I first
Saw this Lady, in my youth,
Her winters had, forsooth,
Done their worst.
Has a confidence sublime!
When I first
4
Her winters had, forsooth,
Done their worst.
Her locks, as white as snow,
Once shamed the swarthy crow;
By-and-by
That fowl's avenging sprite
Set his cruel foot for spite
Near her eye.
Once shamed the swarthy crow;
By-and-by
That fowl's avenging sprite
Set his cruel foot for spite
Near her eye.
Her rounded form was lean,
And her silk was bombazine:
Well I wot
With her needles would she sit,
And for hours would she knit,—
Would she not?
And her silk was bombazine:
Well I wot
With her needles would she sit,
And for hours would she knit,—
Would she not?
Ah perishable clay!
Her charms had dropt away
One by one:
But if she heaved a sigh
With a burthen, it was, “Thy
Will be done.”
Her charms had dropt away
One by one:
But if she heaved a sigh
With a burthen, it was, “Thy
Will be done.”
5
In travail, as in tears,
With the fardel of her years
Overprest,
In mercy she was borne
Where the weary and the worn
Are at rest.
With the fardel of her years
Overprest,
In mercy she was borne
Where the weary and the worn
Are at rest.
Oh if you now are there,
And sweet as once you were,
Grandmamma,
This nether world agrees
You'll all the better please
Grandpapa.
And sweet as once you were,
Grandmamma,
This nether world agrees
You'll all the better please
Grandpapa.
6
A HUMAN SKULL
A human Skull! I bought it passing cheap,
No doubt 'twas dearer to its first employer!
I thought mortality did well to keep
Some mute memento of the Old Destroyer.
No doubt 'twas dearer to its first employer!
I thought mortality did well to keep
Some mute memento of the Old Destroyer.
Time was, some may have prized its blooming skin;
Here lips were woo'd, perhaps, in transport tender;
Some may have chuck'd what was a dimpled chin,
And never had my doubt about its gender.
Here lips were woo'd, perhaps, in transport tender;
Some may have chuck'd what was a dimpled chin,
And never had my doubt about its gender.
Did She live yesterday or ages back?
What colour were the eyes when bright and waking?
And were your ringlets fair, or brown, or black,
Poor little Head! that long has done with aching?
What colour were the eyes when bright and waking?
And were your ringlets fair, or brown, or black,
Poor little Head! that long has done with aching?
7
It may have held (to shoot some random shots)
Thy brains, Eliza Fry! or Baron Byron's;
The wits of Nelly Gwynne, or Doctor Watts,—
Two quoted bards. Two philanthropic sirens.
Thy brains, Eliza Fry! or Baron Byron's;
The wits of Nelly Gwynne, or Doctor Watts,—
Two quoted bards. Two philanthropic sirens.
But this I trust is clearly understood;
If man or woman,—if adored or hated—
Whoever own'd this Skull was not so good,
Nor quite so bad as many may have stated.
If man or woman,—if adored or hated—
Whoever own'd this Skull was not so good,
Nor quite so bad as many may have stated.
Who love can need no special type of Death;
He bares his awful face too soon, too often;
Immortelles bloom in Beauty's bridal wreath,
And does not yon green elm contain a coffin?
He bares his awful face too soon, too often;
Immortelles bloom in Beauty's bridal wreath,
And does not yon green elm contain a coffin?
O True-Love mine, what lines of care are these?
The heart still lingers with its golden hours,
But fading tints are on the chestnut-trees,
And where is all that lavish wealth of flowers?
The heart still lingers with its golden hours,
But fading tints are on the chestnut-trees,
And where is all that lavish wealth of flowers?
8
The end is near. Life lacks what once it gave,
Yet Death hath promises that call for praises;
A very worthless rogue may dig the grave,
But Hands unseen will dress the turf with daisies.
Yet Death hath promises that call for praises;
A very worthless rogue may dig the grave,
But Hands unseen will dress the turf with daisies.
1860.
9
MY NEIGHBOUR ROSE
Though walls but thin our hearths divide,
We're strangers, dwelling side by side;—
How gaily all your days must glide
Unvex'd by labour!
I've seen you weep, and could have wept;
I've heard you sing (and might have slept!)
Sometimes I hear your chimney swept,
My Charming Neighbour!
We're strangers, dwelling side by side;—
How gaily all your days must glide
Unvex'd by labour!
I've seen you weep, and could have wept;
I've heard you sing (and might have slept!)
Sometimes I hear your chimney swept,
My Charming Neighbour!
Your pets are mine. Pray what may ail
The pup, once eloquent of tail?
I wonder why your nightingale
Is mute at sunset.
Your puss, demure and pensive, seems
Too fat to mouse. Much she esteems
Yon sunny wall, and, dozing, dreams
Of mice she once ate.
The pup, once eloquent of tail?
I wonder why your nightingale
Is mute at sunset.
Your puss, demure and pensive, seems
Too fat to mouse. Much she esteems
Yon sunny wall, and, dozing, dreams
Of mice she once ate.
10
Our tastes agree. I dote upon
Frail jars, turquoise and celadon,
The Wedding March of Mendelssohn,
And Penseroso.
When sorely tempted to purloin
Your Pietà of Marc Antoine,
Fair virtue doth fair-play enjoin,
Fair Virtuoso!
Frail jars, turquoise and celadon,
The Wedding March of Mendelssohn,
And Penseroso.
When sorely tempted to purloin
Your Pietà of Marc Antoine,
Fair virtue doth fair-play enjoin,
Fair Virtuoso!
At times an Ariel, cruel-kind,
Will kiss my lips, and stir your blind,
And whisper low, “She hides behind;
Thou art not lonely.”
The tricksy sprite would erst assist
At hush'd Verona's moonlight tryst;—
Sweet Capulet, thou wert not kiss'd
By light winds only.
Will kiss my lips, and stir your blind,
And whisper low, “She hides behind;
Thou art not lonely.”
The tricksy sprite would erst assist
At hush'd Verona's moonlight tryst;—
Sweet Capulet, thou wert not kiss'd
By light winds only.
I miss the simple days of yore,
When two long braids of hair you wore,
And Chat Botté was wonder'd o'er,
In corner cosy.
But gaze not back for tales like those:
It's all in order, I suppose;
The bud is now a blooming Rose,—
A rosy-posy!
When two long braids of hair you wore,
And Chat Botté was wonder'd o'er,
In corner cosy.
But gaze not back for tales like those:
It's all in order, I suppose;
The bud is now a blooming Rose,—
A rosy-posy!
11
Indeed, farewell to bygone years;
How wonderful the change appears;
For curates now, and cavaliers,
In turn perplex you:
The last are birds of feather gay,
Who swear the first are birds of prey;—
I'd scare them all had I my way,
But that might vex you.
How wonderful the change appears;
For curates now, and cavaliers,
In turn perplex you:
The last are birds of feather gay,
Who swear the first are birds of prey;—
I'd scare them all had I my way,
But that might vex you.
Sometimes I've envied, it is true,
That Hero, joyous twenty-two,
Who sent bouquets and billets doux,
And wore a sabre.
The Rogue! how close his arm he wound
About Her waist, who never frown'd.
He loves you, Child. Now, is he bound
To love my Neighbour?
That Hero, joyous twenty-two,
Who sent bouquets and billets doux,
And wore a sabre.
The Rogue! how close his arm he wound
About Her waist, who never frown'd.
He loves you, Child. Now, is he bound
To love my Neighbour?
The bells are ringing. As is meet,
White favours fascinate the street,
Sweet faces greet me, rueful-sweet
'Twixt tears and laughter:
They crowd the door to see her go,
The bliss of one brings many woe;—
Ay, kiss the Bride, and I will throw
The old shoe after.
White favours fascinate the street,
Sweet faces greet me, rueful-sweet
'Twixt tears and laughter:
They crowd the door to see her go,
The bliss of one brings many woe;—
Ay, kiss the Bride, and I will throw
The old shoe after.
12
What change in one short afternoon,
My own dear Neighbour gone,—so soon!
Is yon pale orb her honey-moon
Slow rising hither?
O lady, wan and marvellous!
How often have we communed thus!
Sweet memory shall dwell with us,
And joy go with her.
My own dear Neighbour gone,—so soon!
Is yon pale orb her honey-moon
Slow rising hither?
O lady, wan and marvellous!
How often have we communed thus!
Sweet memory shall dwell with us,
And joy go with her.
1861.
13
THE WIDOW'S MITE
A Widow—she had only one!
A puny and decrepit Son;
But, day and night,
Though fretful oft, and weak and small,
A loving Child, he was her all—
The Widow's Mite.
A puny and decrepit Son;
But, day and night,
Though fretful oft, and weak and small,
A loving Child, he was her all—
The Widow's Mite.
The Widow's Mite! ay, so sustain'd,
She battled onward, nor complain'd
That friends were fewer:
And while she toil'd for daily fare,
A little crutch upon the stair
Was music to her.
She battled onward, nor complain'd
That friends were fewer:
And while she toil'd for daily fare,
A little crutch upon the stair
Was music to her.
I saw her then,—and now I see
That, though resign'd and cheerful, she
Has sorrow'd much:
She has, He gave it tenderly,
Much faith; and, carefully laid by,
A little Crutch.
That, though resign'd and cheerful, she
Has sorrow'd much:
She has, He gave it tenderly,
Much faith; and, carefully laid by,
A little Crutch.
1856.
14
ST. JAMES'S STREET
St. James's Street, of classic fame,
For Fashion still is seen there:
St. James's Street? I know the name,
I almost think I've been there!
Why, that's where Sacharissa sigh'd
When Waller read his ditty;
Where Byron lived, and Gibbon died,
And Alvanley was witty.
For Fashion still is seen there:
St. James's Street? I know the name,
I almost think I've been there!
Why, that's where Sacharissa sigh'd
When Waller read his ditty;
Where Byron lived, and Gibbon died,
And Alvanley was witty.
A famous Street! To yonder Park
Young Churchill stole in class-time;
Come, gaze on fifty men of mark,
And then recall the past time.
The plats at White's, the play at Crock's,
The bumpers to Miss Gunning;
The bonhomie of Charley Fox,
And Selwyn's ghastly funning.
Young Churchill stole in class-time;
Come, gaze on fifty men of mark,
And then recall the past time.
The plats at White's, the play at Crock's,
The bumpers to Miss Gunning;
The bonhomie of Charley Fox,
And Selwyn's ghastly funning.
15
The dear old Street of clubs and cribs,
As north and south it stretches,
Still seems to smack of Rolliad squibs,
And Gillray's fiercer sketches;
The quaint old dress, the grand old style,
The mots, the racy stories;
The wine, the dice, the wit, the bile—
The hate of Whigs and Tories.
As north and south it stretches,
Still seems to smack of Rolliad squibs,
And Gillray's fiercer sketches;
The quaint old dress, the grand old style,
The mots, the racy stories;
The wine, the dice, the wit, the bile—
The hate of Whigs and Tories.
At dusk, when I am strolling there,
Dim forms will rise around me;
Lepel flits past me in her chair,
And Congreve's airs astound me!
And once Nell Gwynne, a frail young Sprite,
Look'd kindly when I met her;
I shook my head, perhaps,—but quite
Forgot to quite forget her.
Dim forms will rise around me;
Lepel flits past me in her chair,
And Congreve's airs astound me!
And once Nell Gwynne, a frail young Sprite,
Look'd kindly when I met her;
I shook my head, perhaps,—but quite
Forgot to quite forget her.
The Street is still a lively tomb
For rich, and gay, and clever;
The crops of dandies bud and bloom,
And die as fast as ever.
Now gilded youth loves cutty pipes,
And slang that's rather scaring;
It can't approach its prototypes
In taste, or tone, or bearing.
For rich, and gay, and clever;
The crops of dandies bud and bloom,
And die as fast as ever.
Now gilded youth loves cutty pipes,
And slang that's rather scaring;
It can't approach its prototypes
In taste, or tone, or bearing.
16
In Brummell's day of buckle shoes,
Lawn cravats, and roll collars,
They'd fight, and woo, and bet—and lose
Like gentlemen and scholars:
I'm glad young men should go the pace,
I half forgive Old Rapid;
These louts disgrace their name and race—
So vicious and so vapid!
Lawn cravats, and roll collars,
They'd fight, and woo, and bet—and lose
Like gentlemen and scholars:
I'm glad young men should go the pace,
I half forgive Old Rapid;
These louts disgrace their name and race—
So vicious and so vapid!
Worse times may come. Bon ton, indeed,
Will then be quite forgotten,
And all we much revere will speed
From ripe to worse than rotten:
Let grass then sprout between yon stones,
And owls then roost at Boodle's,
For Echo will hurl back the tones
Of screaming Yankee Doodles.
Will then be quite forgotten,
And all we much revere will speed
From ripe to worse than rotten:
Let grass then sprout between yon stones,
And owls then roost at Boodle's,
For Echo will hurl back the tones
Of screaming Yankee Doodles.
I love the haunts of old Cockaigne,
Where wit and wealth were squander'd;
The halls that tell of hoop and train,
Where grace and rank have wander'd;
Those halls where ladies fair and leal
First ventured to adore me!
Something of that old love I feel
For this old Street before me.
Where wit and wealth were squander'd;
The halls that tell of hoop and train,
Where grace and rank have wander'd;
Those halls where ladies fair and leal
First ventured to adore me!
Something of that old love I feel
For this old Street before me.
1867.
17
BEGGARS
They eat, and drink, and scheme, and plod,—
They go to church on Sunday;
And many are afraid of God—
And more of Mrs. Grundy.
They go to church on Sunday;
And many are afraid of God—
And more of Mrs. Grundy.
I am pacing the Mall in a rapt reverie,
I am thinking if Sophy is thinking of me,
When I'm roused by a ragged and shivering wretch,
Who seems to be well on his way to Jack Ketch.
I am thinking if Sophy is thinking of me,
When I'm roused by a ragged and shivering wretch,
Who seems to be well on his way to Jack Ketch.
He has got a bad face, and a shocking bad hat;
A comb in his fist, and he sees I'm a flat,
For he says, “Buy a comb, it's a fine un to wear;
On'y try it, my Lord, through your whiskers and 'air.”
A comb in his fist, and he sees I'm a flat,
For he says, “Buy a comb, it's a fine un to wear;
On'y try it, my Lord, through your whiskers and 'air.”
18
He eyes my gold chain, as if greedy to crib it;
He looks just as if he'd been blown from a gibbet.
I pause . . . ! I pass on, and beside the club fire
I settle that Sophy is all I desire.
He looks just as if he'd been blown from a gibbet.
I pause . . . ! I pass on, and beside the club fire
I settle that Sophy is all I desire.
As I stroll from the club, and am deep in a strophè
That rolls upon all that's delightful in Sophy,
I'm humbly addressed by an “object” unnerving,
So tatter'd a wretch must be “highly deserving.”
That rolls upon all that's delightful in Sophy,
I'm humbly addressed by an “object” unnerving,
So tatter'd a wretch must be “highly deserving.”
She begs,—I am touch'd, but I've great circumspection;
I stifle remorse with the soothing reflection
That cases of vice are by no means a rarity—
The worst vice of all's indiscriminate charity.
I stifle remorse with the soothing reflection
That cases of vice are by no means a rarity—
The worst vice of all's indiscriminate charity.
Am I right? How I wish that my clerical guide
Would settle this question—and others beside.
For always one's heart to be hardening thus,
If wholesome for Beggars, is hurtful for us.
Would settle this question—and others beside.
19
If wholesome for Beggars, is hurtful for us.
A few minutes later I'm happy and free
To sip “Its own Sophykins'” five-o'clock tea:
Her table is loaded, for when a girl marries,
What bushels of rubbish they send her from Barry's!
To sip “Its own Sophykins'” five-o'clock tea:
Her table is loaded, for when a girl marries,
What bushels of rubbish they send her from Barry's!
“There's a present for you, Sir!” Yes, thanks to her thrift,
My Pet has been able to buy me a gift;
And she slips in my hand, the delightfully sly Thing,
A paper-weight form'd of a bronze lizard writhing.
My Pet has been able to buy me a gift;
And she slips in my hand, the delightfully sly Thing,
A paper-weight form'd of a bronze lizard writhing.
“What a charming cadeau! and so truthfully moulded;
But perhaps you don't know, or deserve to be scolded,
That in casting this metal a live, harmless lizard
Was cruelly tortured in ghost and in gizzard?”
But perhaps you don't know, or deserve to be scolded,
That in casting this metal a live, harmless lizard
Was cruelly tortured in ghost and in gizzard?”
20
“Po-oh!”—says my Lady (she always says “Pooh”
When she's wilful, and does what she oughtn't to do!)
“Hopgarten protests they've no feeling, and so
It was only their muscular movement you know!”
When she's wilful, and does what she oughtn't to do!)
“Hopgarten protests they've no feeling, and so
It was only their muscular movement you know!”
Thinks I (when I've said au revoir, and depart—
A Comb in my pocket, a Weight—at my heart),
And when wretched Mendicants writhe, there's a notion
That begging is only their “muscular motion.”
A Comb in my pocket, a Weight—at my heart),
And when wretched Mendicants writhe, there's a notion
That begging is only their “muscular motion.”
21
BRAMBLE-RISE
What changes greet my wistful eyes
In quiet little Bramble-Rise,
The pride of all the shire;
How alter'd is each pleasant nook;—
And used our dumpy church to look
So dumpy in the spire?
In quiet little Bramble-Rise,
The pride of all the shire;
How alter'd is each pleasant nook;—
And used our dumpy church to look
So dumpy in the spire?
This Village is no longer mine;
And though the inn has changed its sign,
The beer may not be stronger;
The haunt of butterflies and bees
Is now a street, the cottages
Are cottages no longer.
And though the inn has changed its sign,
The beer may not be stronger;
The haunt of butterflies and bees
Is now a street, the cottages
Are cottages no longer.
The mud is brick, the thatch is slate,
The pound has tumbled out of date,
And all the trees are stunted:
Surely these thistles once grew figs,
These geese were swans, and once the pigs
More musically grunted.
The pound has tumbled out of date,
And all the trees are stunted:
Surely these thistles once grew figs,
These geese were swans, and once the pigs
More musically grunted.
22
Where boys and girls pursued their sports
A locomotive puffs and snorts,
And gets my malediction;
The turf is dust—the elves are fled—
The ponds have shrunk—and tastes have spread
To photograph and fiction.
A locomotive puffs and snorts,
And gets my malediction;
The turf is dust—the elves are fled—
The ponds have shrunk—and tastes have spread
To photograph and fiction.
Ah, there's a face I know again,
There's Patty trotting down the lane
To fill her pail with water;
Yes, Patty! but I fear she's not
The tricksy Pat that used to trot,
But Patty,—Patty's daughter!
There's Patty trotting down the lane
To fill her pail with water;
Yes, Patty! but I fear she's not
The tricksy Pat that used to trot,
But Patty,—Patty's daughter!
And has she, too, outlived the spells
Of breezy hills and silent dells
Where childhood loved to ramble?
Life then was thornless to our ken,
And, Bramble-Rise, thy hills were then
A rise without a bramble.
Of breezy hills and silent dells
Where childhood loved to ramble?
Life then was thornless to our ken,
And, Bramble-Rise, thy hills were then
A rise without a bramble.
Whence comes the change? 'Twere simply told;
For some grow wise, and some grow cold,
And all feel time and trouble:
If Life an empty bubble be,
How sad for those who cannot see
The rainbow in the bubble!
For some grow wise, and some grow cold,
And all feel time and trouble:
23
How sad for those who cannot see
The rainbow in the bubble!
And senseless too, for Madam Fate
Is not the fickle reprobate
That moody folk have thought her;
My heart leaps up, and I rejoice
As falls upon my ear thy voice,
My little friskful Daughter.
Is not the fickle reprobate
That moody folk have thought her;
My heart leaps up, and I rejoice
As falls upon my ear thy voice,
My little friskful Daughter.
Come hither, Fairy, perch on these
Thy most unworthy father's knees,
And tell him all about it.
Are dolls a sham? Can men be base?
When gazing on thy blessed face
I'm quite prepared to doubt it.
Thy most unworthy father's knees,
And tell him all about it.
Are dolls a sham? Can men be base?
When gazing on thy blessed face
I'm quite prepared to doubt it.
Though life is call'd a weary jaunt,
Though earthly joys, the wisest grant,
Have no enduring basis;
It's pleasant (if I must be here!)
To find with Puss, my daughter dear,
A little cool oasis!
Though earthly joys, the wisest grant,
Have no enduring basis;
It's pleasant (if I must be here!)
To find with Puss, my daughter dear,
A little cool oasis!
24
Oh, may'st thou some day own, sweet Elf,
A Pet just like thy winsome self,
Her sanguine thoughts to borrow;
Content to use her brighter eyes,
Accept her childish ecstasies,—
If need be, share her sorrow.
A Pet just like thy winsome self,
Her sanguine thoughts to borrow;
Content to use her brighter eyes,
Accept her childish ecstasies,—
If need be, share her sorrow.
The wisdom of thy prattle cheers
My heart; and when, outworn in years,—
When homeward I am starting,
My Darling, lead me gently down
To life's dim strand: the skies may frown,
—But weep not for our parting.
My heart; and when, outworn in years,—
When homeward I am starting,
My Darling, lead me gently down
To life's dim strand: the skies may frown,
—But weep not for our parting.
April 1857.
25
A GARDEN LYRIC
GERALDINE AND I
Di te, Damasippe, deaeque
Verum ob consilium donent tonsore.
Verum ob consilium donent tonsore.
We have loiter'd and laugh'd in the flowery croft,
We have met under wintry skies;
Her voice is the dearest voice, and soft
Is the light in her wistful eyes;
It is bliss in the silent woods, among
Gay crowds, or in any place,
To mould her mind, to gaze in her young
Confiding face.
We have met under wintry skies;
Her voice is the dearest voice, and soft
Is the light in her wistful eyes;
It is bliss in the silent woods, among
Gay crowds, or in any place,
To mould her mind, to gaze in her young
Confiding face.
For ever may roses divinely blow,
And wine-dark pansies charm
By that prim box path where I felt the glow,
Of her dimpled, trusting arm,
And the sweep of her silk as she turn'd and smiled
A smile as pure as her pearls;
The breeze was in love with the darling Child,
And coax'd her curls.
And wine-dark pansies charm
By that prim box path where I felt the glow,
Of her dimpled, trusting arm,
26
A smile as pure as her pearls;
The breeze was in love with the darling Child,
And coax'd her curls.
She show'd me her ferns and woodbine sprays,
Foxglove and jasmine stars,
A mist of blue in the beds, a blaze
Of red in the celadon jars:
And velvety bees in convolvulus bells,
And roses of bountiful Spring.
But I said—“Though roses and bees have spells,
They have thorn, and sting.”
Foxglove and jasmine stars,
A mist of blue in the beds, a blaze
Of red in the celadon jars:
And velvety bees in convolvulus bells,
And roses of bountiful Spring.
But I said—“Though roses and bees have spells,
They have thorn, and sting.”
She show'd me ripe peaches behind a net
As fine as her veil, and fat
Goldfish a-gape, who lazily met
For her crumbs—I grudged them that!
A squirrel, some rabbits with long lop ears,
And guinea-pigs, tortoise-shell—wee;
And I told her that eloquent truth inheres
In all we see.
As fine as her veil, and fat
Goldfish a-gape, who lazily met
For her crumbs—I grudged them that!
A squirrel, some rabbits with long lop ears,
And guinea-pigs, tortoise-shell—wee;
And I told her that eloquent truth inheres
In all we see.
27
I lifted her doe by its lops, quoth I,
“Even here deep meaning lies,—
Why have squirrels these ample tails, and why
Have rabbits these prominent eyes?”
She smiled and said, as she twirl'd her veil,
“For some nice little cause, no doubt—
If you lift a guinea-pig up by the tail
His eyes drop out!”
“Even here deep meaning lies,—
Why have squirrels these ample tails, and why
Have rabbits these prominent eyes?”
She smiled and said, as she twirl'd her veil,
“For some nice little cause, no doubt—
If you lift a guinea-pig up by the tail
His eyes drop out!”
1868.
28
GERTRUDE'S NECKLACE
As Gertrude skipt from babe to girl,
Her Necklace lengthen'd, pearl by pearl;
Year after year it grew, and grew,
For every birthday gave her two.
Her neck is lovely,—soft and fair,
And now her Necklace glimmers there.
Her Necklace lengthen'd, pearl by pearl;
Year after year it grew, and grew,
For every birthday gave her two.
Her neck is lovely,—soft and fair,
And now her Necklace glimmers there.
So cradled, let it fall and rise,
And all her graces symbolize.
Perchance this pearl, without a speck,
Once was as warm on Sappho's neck;
Where are the happy, twilight pearls
That braided Beatrice's curls?
And all her graces symbolize.
Perchance this pearl, without a speck,
Once was as warm on Sappho's neck;
Where are the happy, twilight pearls
That braided Beatrice's curls?
Is Gerty loved? Is Gerty loth?
Or, if she's either, is she both?
She's fancy free, but sweeter far
Than many plighted maidens are:
Will Gerty smile us all away,
And still be Gerty? Who can say?
Or, if she's either, is she both?
She's fancy free, but sweeter far
Than many plighted maidens are:
Will Gerty smile us all away,
And still be Gerty? Who can say?
29
But let her wear her Precious Toy,
And I'll rejoice to see her joy:
Her bauble's only one degree
Less frail, less fugitive than we,
For time, ere long, will snap the skein,
And scatter all her Pearls again.
And I'll rejoice to see her joy:
Her bauble's only one degree
Less frail, less fugitive than we,
For time, ere long, will snap the skein,
And scatter all her Pearls again.
30
GERTRUDE'S GLOVE
Elle avait au bout des ses manches
Une paire de mains si blanches!
Une paire de mains si blanches!
Slips of a kid-skin deftly sewn,
A scent as through her garden blown,
The tender hue that clothes her dove,
All these, and this is Gerty's Glove.
A scent as through her garden blown,
The tender hue that clothes her dove,
All these, and this is Gerty's Glove.
A Glove but lately dofft, for look—
It keeps the happy shape it took
Warm from her touch! What gave the glow?
And where's the Mould that shaped it so?
It keeps the happy shape it took
Warm from her touch! What gave the glow?
And where's the Mould that shaped it so?
It clasp'd the hand, so pure, so sleek,
Where Gerty rests a pensive cheek;
The hand that when the light wind stirs,
Reproves those laughing locks of hers.
Where Gerty rests a pensive cheek;
The hand that when the light wind stirs,
Reproves those laughing locks of hers.
You Fingers four, you little Thumb!
Were I but you, in days to come
I'd clasp, and kiss,—I'd keep her. Go
And tell her that I told you so.
Were I but you, in days to come
I'd clasp, and kiss,—I'd keep her. Go
And tell her that I told you so.
Kissingen, September 1871.
31
THE OLD OAK-TREE AT HATFIELD BROADOAK
A mighty growth! The county side
Lamented when the Giant died,
For England loves her trees:
What misty legends round him cling;
How lavishly he once could fling
His acorns to the breeze!
Lamented when the Giant died,
For England loves her trees:
What misty legends round him cling;
How lavishly he once could fling
His acorns to the breeze!
Who struck a thousand roots in fame,
Who gave the district half its name,
Will not be soon forgotten:
Last spring he show'd but one green bough,
The red leaves hang there yet,—and now
His very props are rotten!
Who gave the district half its name,
Will not be soon forgotten:
Last spring he show'd but one green bough,
The red leaves hang there yet,—and now
His very props are rotten!
Elate, the thunderbolt he braved,
For centuries his branches waved
A welcome to the blast;
From reign to reign he bore a spell;
No forester had dared to fell
What time has fell'd at last.
For centuries his branches waved
A welcome to the blast;
From reign to reign he bore a spell;
No forester had dared to fell
What time has fell'd at last.
32
The Monarch wore a leafy crown,
And wolves, ere wolves were hunted down,
Found shelter in his gloom;
Unnumber'd squirrels frolick'd free,
Glad music fill'd the gallant Tree
From stem to topmost bloom.
And wolves, ere wolves were hunted down,
Found shelter in his gloom;
Unnumber'd squirrels frolick'd free,
Glad music fill'd the gallant Tree
From stem to topmost bloom.
It's hard to say, 'twere vain to seek
When first he ventured forth, a meek
Petitioner for dew;
No Saxon spade disturb'd his root,
The rabbit spared the tender shoot,
And valiantly he grew,
When first he ventured forth, a meek
Petitioner for dew;
No Saxon spade disturb'd his root,
The rabbit spared the tender shoot,
And valiantly he grew,
And show'd some inches from the ground
When St. Augustine came and found
Us very proper Vandals:
Then nymphs had bluer eyes than hose;
England then measured men by blows,
And measured time by candles.
When St. Augustine came and found
Us very proper Vandals:
Then nymphs had bluer eyes than hose;
England then measured men by blows,
And measured time by candles.
The pilgrim bless'd his grateful shade
Ere Richard led the first crusade;
And maidens loved to dance
Where, boy and man, in summer-time,
Chaucer had ponder'd o'er his rhyme;
And Robin Hood, perchance,
Ere Richard led the first crusade;
And maidens loved to dance
Where, boy and man, in summer-time,
Chaucer had ponder'd o'er his rhyme;
And Robin Hood, perchance,
33
Stole hither to Maid Marian;
(Well, if they did not come, one can
At any rate suppose it);
They met beneath the mistletoe,—
We've done the same, and ought to know
The reason why they chose it!
(Well, if they did not come, one can
At any rate suppose it);
They met beneath the mistletoe,—
We've done the same, and ought to know
The reason why they chose it!
And this was call'd the Traitor's Branch,
Stern Warwick hung six yeomen stanch
Along its mighty fork;
Uncivil wars for them! The fair
Red rose and white still bloom, but where
Are Lancaster and York?
Stern Warwick hung six yeomen stanch
Along its mighty fork;
Uncivil wars for them! The fair
Red rose and white still bloom, but where
Are Lancaster and York?
Right mournfully his leaves he shed
To shroud the graves of England's dead,
By English falchion slain;
And cheerfully, for England's sake,
He sent his kin to sea with Drake,
When Tudor humbled Spain.
To shroud the graves of England's dead,
By English falchion slain;
And cheerfully, for England's sake,
He sent his kin to sea with Drake,
When Tudor humbled Spain.
While Blake was fighting with the Dutch
They gave his poor old arms a crutch;
And thrice-four maids and men ate
A meal within his rugged bark,
When Coventry bewitch'd the Park,
And Chatham ruled the Senate.
They gave his poor old arms a crutch;
And thrice-four maids and men ate
A meal within his rugged bark,
When Coventry bewitch'd the Park,
And Chatham ruled the Senate.
34
His few remaining boughs were green,
And dappled sunbeams danced between
Upon the dappled deer,
When, clad in black, two mourners met
To read the Waterloo Gazette,—
They mourn'd their darling here.
And dappled sunbeams danced between
Upon the dappled deer,
When, clad in black, two mourners met
To read the Waterloo Gazette,—
They mourn'd their darling here.
They join'd their Boy. The Tree at last
Lies prone, discoursing of the past,
Some fancy-dreams awaking;
At rest, though headlong changes come,
Though nations arm to roll of drum,
And dynasties are quaking.
Lies prone, discoursing of the past,
Some fancy-dreams awaking;
At rest, though headlong changes come,
Though nations arm to roll of drum,
And dynasties are quaking.
Romantic Spot! By honest pride
Of old tradition sanctified;
My pensive vigil keeping,
Thy beauty moves me like a spell,
And thoughts, and tender thoughts, upwell,
That fill my heart to weeping.
Of old tradition sanctified;
My pensive vigil keeping,
Thy beauty moves me like a spell,
And thoughts, and tender thoughts, upwell,
That fill my heart to weeping.
The Squire affirms, with gravest look,
His Oak goes back to Domesday Book:
And some say even higher!
We rode last week to see the Ruin,
We love the fair domain it grew in,
And well we love the Squire.
His Oak goes back to Domesday Book:
And some say even higher!
35
We love the fair domain it grew in,
And well we love the Squire.
A nature loyally controll'd,
And fashion'd in that righteous mould
Of English gentleman;
My child some day will read these rhymes,
She loved her “godpapa” betimes,—
The little Christian!
And fashion'd in that righteous mould
Of English gentleman;
My child some day will read these rhymes,
She loved her “godpapa” betimes,—
The little Christian!
I love the Past, its ripe pleasànce,
And lusty thought, and dim romance,—
Its heart-compelling ditties;
But more, these ties, in mercy sent,
With faith and true affection blent,
And, wanting them, I were content
To murmur, “Nunc dimittis.”
And lusty thought, and dim romance,—
Its heart-compelling ditties;
But more, these ties, in mercy sent,
With faith and true affection blent,
And, wanting them, I were content
To murmur, “Nunc dimittis.”
Hallingbury, April 1859.
36
A TERRIBLE INFANT
I recollect a nurse call'd Ann,Who carried me about the grass,
And one fine day a fine young man
Came up, and kiss'd the pretty lass:
She did not make the least objection!
Thinks I, “Aha!
When I can talk I'll tell Mamma.”
—And that's my earliest recollection.
37
AT HURLINGHAM
This was dear Willy's brief despatch,
A curt and yet a cordial summons;—
“Do come! I'm in to-morrow's match,
And see us whip the Faithful Commons.”
We trundled out behind the bays,
Through miles and miles of brick and garden;
Mamma was drest in mauve and maize,—
She let me wear my Dolly Varden.
A curt and yet a cordial summons;—
“Do come! I'm in to-morrow's match,
And see us whip the Faithful Commons.”
We trundled out behind the bays,
Through miles and miles of brick and garden;
Mamma was drest in mauve and maize,—
She let me wear my Dolly Varden.
A charming scene, and lively too;
The paddock's full, the band is playing
Boulotte's song in Barbe bleue;
And what are all these people saying?
They flirt! they bet! There's Linda Reeves
Too lovely! I'd give worlds to borrow
Her yellow rose with russet leaves!—
I'll wear a yellow rose to-morrow!
The paddock's full, the band is playing
Boulotte's song in Barbe bleue;
And what are all these people saying?
They flirt! they bet! There's Linda Reeves
Too lovely! I'd give worlds to borrow
Her yellow rose with russet leaves!—
I'll wear a yellow rose to-morrow!
38
And there are May and Algy Meade;
How proud she looks on her promotion!
The ring must be amused indeed,
And edified by such devotion!
I wonder if she ever guessed!—
I wonder if he'll call on Friday!—
I often wonder which is best!—
I only hope my hair is tidy!
How proud she looks on her promotion!
The ring must be amused indeed,
And edified by such devotion!
I wonder if she ever guessed!—
I wonder if he'll call on Friday!—
I often wonder which is best!—
I only hope my hair is tidy!
Some girls repine, and some rejoice,
And some get bored, but I'm contented
To make my destiny my choice,
I'll never dream that I've repented.
There's something sad in loved and cross'd,
For all the fond, fond hope that rings it:
There's something sweet in “Loved and Lost”;
And oh, how sweetly Alfred sings it!
And some get bored, but I'm contented
To make my destiny my choice,
I'll never dream that I've repented.
There's something sad in loved and cross'd,
For all the fond, fond hope that rings it:
There's something sweet in “Loved and Lost”;
And oh, how sweetly Alfred sings it!
I'll own I'm bored with handicaps!
Bluerocks! (they always are “bluerock”-ing!)—
With May, a little bit, perhaps,—
And yon Faust's teufelshund is shocking!
Bang . . bang . . ! That's Willy! There's his bird,
Blithely it cleaves the skies above me!
He's miss'd all ten! He's too absurd!—
I hope he'll always, always love me!
Bluerocks! (they always are “bluerock”-ing!)—
With May, a little bit, perhaps,—
And yon Faust's teufelshund is shocking!
Bang . . bang . . ! That's Willy! There's his bird,
Blithely it cleaves the skies above me!
39
I hope he'll always, always love me!
We've lost! To tea, then back to town;
The crowd is laughing, eating, drinking:
The Moon's eternal eyes look down,—
Of what can yon pale Moon be thinking?
Oh, but for some good fairy's wand!
This Pigeoncide is worse than silly,
But still I'm very, very fond
Of Hurlingham, and tea,—and Willy.
The crowd is laughing, eating, drinking:
The Moon's eternal eyes look down,—
Of what can yon pale Moon be thinking?
Oh, but for some good fairy's wand!
This Pigeoncide is worse than silly,
But still I'm very, very fond
Of Hurlingham, and tea,—and Willy.
40
THE PILGRIMS OF PALL MALL
My little Friend, so small, so neat,
Whom years ago I used to meet
In Pall Mall daily,
How cheerily you tript away
To work, it might have been to play,
You tript so gaily.
Whom years ago I used to meet
In Pall Mall daily,
How cheerily you tript away
To work, it might have been to play,
You tript so gaily.
And Time trips too! This moral means
You then were midway in the teens
That I was crowning;
We never spoke, but when I smiled
At morn or eve, I know, dear Child,
You were not frowning.
You then were midway in the teens
That I was crowning;
We never spoke, but when I smiled
At morn or eve, I know, dear Child,
You were not frowning.
Each morning that we met, I think
One sentiment us two did link,
Not joy—not sorrow;
And then at eve, experience-taught,
Our hearts were lighter for the thought,—
We meet to-morrow!
One sentiment us two did link,
Not joy—not sorrow;
And then at eve, experience-taught,
Our hearts were lighter for the thought,—
We meet to-morrow!
41
And you were poor, so poor! and why?
How kind to come, it was for my
Especial grace meant!
Had you a chamber near the stars,—
A bird,—some treasured plants in jars,
About your casement?
How kind to come, it was for my
Especial grace meant!
Had you a chamber near the stars,—
A bird,—some treasured plants in jars,
About your casement?
I often wander up and down,
When morning bathes the silent town
In dewy glory;
Perhaps, unwitting I have heard
Your thrilling-toned canary-bird
From that third story.
When morning bathes the silent town
In dewy glory;
Perhaps, unwitting I have heard
Your thrilling-toned canary-bird
From that third story.
I've seen some change since last we met—
A patient little Seamstress yet,
On small wage striving,
Are you, if Love such luck allows,
Some little fellow's lucky spouse?—
Is Baby thriving?
A patient little Seamstress yet,
On small wage striving,
Are you, if Love such luck allows,
Some little fellow's lucky spouse?—
Is Baby thriving?
My heart grows chill! Can Soul like thine,
Weary of this dear world of mine,
Have loosed its fetter,
To find a world, whose promised bliss
Is better than the best of this?—
And is it better?
Weary of this dear world of mine,
Have loosed its fetter,
To find a world, whose promised bliss
Is better than the best of this?—
And is it better?
42
Sometimes to Pall Mall I repair,
And see the damsels passing there;
But if I try to . . .
To get one glance, they look discreet
As though they'd some one else to meet;—
As have not I too?
And see the damsels passing there;
But if I try to . . .
To get one glance, they look discreet
As though they'd some one else to meet;—
As have not I too?
Yet still I often think upon
Our many meetings, come and gone,
July—December!
Now let us make a tryst, and when,
Dear little Soul, we meet again,
In some more kindly sphere, why then
Thy friend remember.
Our many meetings, come and gone,
July—December!
Now let us make a tryst, and when,
Dear little Soul, we meet again,
In some more kindly sphere, why then
Thy friend remember.
1856.
43
AN OLD MUFF
He cannot be complete in aught
Who is not humorously prone,—
A man without a merry thought
Can hardly have a funny bone.
Who is not humorously prone,—
A man without a merry thought
Can hardly have a funny bone.
Time has a magic wand!
What is this meets my hand,
Moth-eaten, mouldy, and
Cover'd with fluff?
Faded, and stiff, and scant;
Can it be? no, it can't—
Yes, I declare, it's Aunt
Prudence's Muff!
What is this meets my hand,
Moth-eaten, mouldy, and
Cover'd with fluff?
Faded, and stiff, and scant;
Can it be? no, it can't—
Yes, I declare, it's Aunt
Prudence's Muff!
Years ago, twenty-three,
Old Uncle Doubledee
Gave it to Aunty P.
Laughing and teasing—
“Pru., of the breezy curls,
Question those solemn churls,—
What holds a pretty girl's
Hand without squeezing?”
Old Uncle Doubledee
Gave it to Aunty P.
Laughing and teasing—
“Pru., of the breezy curls,
Question those solemn churls,—
What holds a pretty girl's
Hand without squeezing?”
44
Uncle was then a lad
Gay, but, I grieve to add,
Sinful, if smoking bad
Baccy's a vice:
Glossy was then this mink
Muff, lined with pretty pink
Satin, which maidens think
“Awfully nice!”
Gay, but, I grieve to add,
Sinful, if smoking bad
Baccy's a vice:
Glossy was then this mink
Muff, lined with pretty pink
Satin, which maidens think
“Awfully nice!”
I seem to see again
Aunt in her hood and train,
Glide, with a sweet disdain,
Gravely to Meeting:
Psalm-book and kerchief new,
Peep'd from the Muff of Pru.;
Young men, and pious too,
Giving her greeting.
Aunt in her hood and train,
Glide, with a sweet disdain,
Gravely to Meeting:
Psalm-book and kerchief new,
Peep'd from the Muff of Pru.;
Young men, and pious too,
Giving her greeting.
Sweetly her Sabbath sped
Then; from this Muff, it's said,
Tracts she distributed:—
Converts (till Monday!)
Lured by the grace they lack'd,
Follow'd her. One, in fact,
Ask'd for—and got his tract
Twice of a Sunday!
Then; from this Muff, it's said,
Tracts she distributed:—
Converts (till Monday!)
Lured by the grace they lack'd,
Follow'd her. One, in fact,
Ask'd for—and got his tract
Twice of a Sunday!
45
Love has a potent spell;
Soon this bold Ne'er-do-well,
Aunt's too susceptible
Heart undermining,
Slipt, so the scandal runs,
Notes in the pretty nun's
Muff, triple-corner'd ones,
Pink as its lining.
Soon this bold Ne'er-do-well,
Aunt's too susceptible
Heart undermining,
Slipt, so the scandal runs,
Notes in the pretty nun's
Muff, triple-corner'd ones,
Pink as its lining.
Worse follow'd—soon the jade
Fled (to oblige her blade!)
Whilst her friends thought that they'd
Lock'd her up tightly:
After such shocking games
Aunt is of wedded dames
Gayest, and now her name's
Mrs. Golightly.
Fled (to oblige her blade!)
Whilst her friends thought that they'd
Lock'd her up tightly:
After such shocking games
Aunt is of wedded dames
Gayest, and now her name's
Mrs. Golightly.
In female conduct flaw
Sadder I never saw,
Faith still I've in the law
Of compensation.
Once Uncle went astray,
Smoked, joked, and swore away,
Sworn by he's now, by a
Large congregation.
Sadder I never saw,
Faith still I've in the law
Of compensation.
Once Uncle went astray,
Smoked, joked, and swore away,
Sworn by he's now, by a
Large congregation.
46
Changed is the Child of Sin,
Now he's (he once was thin)
Grave, with a double chin,—
Blest be his fat form!
Changed is the garb he wore,
Preacher was never more
Prized than is Uncle for
Pulpit or platform.
Now he's (he once was thin)
Grave, with a double chin,—
Blest be his fat form!
Changed is the garb he wore,
Preacher was never more
Prized than is Uncle for
Pulpit or platform.
If all's as best befits
Mortals of slender wits,
Then beg this Muff and its
Fair owner pardon:
All's for the best, indeed
Such is my simple creed;
Still I must go and weed
Hard in my garden.
Mortals of slender wits,
Then beg this Muff and its
Fair owner pardon:
All's for the best, indeed
Such is my simple creed;
Still I must go and weed
Hard in my garden.
1863.
47
GERALDINE
A simple Child has claims
On your sentiment, her name's
Geraldine.
Be tender, but beware,—
She's frolicsome as fair,
And fifteen.
On your sentiment, her name's
Geraldine.
Be tender, but beware,—
She's frolicsome as fair,
And fifteen.
She has gifts to grace allied,
And each she has applied,
And improved:
She has bliss that lives and leans
On loving, and that means
She is loved.
And each she has applied,
And improved:
She has bliss that lives and leans
On loving, and that means
She is loved.
Her beauty is refined
By harmony of mind,
And the art,
And the blessed nature, too,
Of a tender, and a true
Little heart.
By harmony of mind,
And the art,
And the blessed nature, too,
Of a tender, and a true
Little heart.
48
And yet I mustn't vault
Over any foolish fault
That she owns,
Or others might rebel
And enviously swell
In their zones.
Over any foolish fault
That she owns,
Or others might rebel
And enviously swell
In their zones.
For she's tricksy as the fays,
Or her pussy when it plays
With a string:
She's a goose about her cat,
Her ribbons, and all that
Sort of thing.
Or her pussy when it plays
With a string:
She's a goose about her cat,
Her ribbons, and all that
Sort of thing.
These foibles are a blot,
Still she never can do what
Isn't nice;
Such as quarrel, and give slaps—
As I've known her get perhaps
Once or twice.
Still she never can do what
Isn't nice;
Such as quarrel, and give slaps—
As I've known her get perhaps
Once or twice.
The spells that draw her soul
Are subtle—sad or droll:
She can show
That virtuoso whim
Which consecrates our dim
Long-ago.
Are subtle—sad or droll:
She can show
That virtuoso whim
Which consecrates our dim
Long-ago.
49
A love that is not sham
For Stothard, Blake, and Lamb;
And I've known
Cordelia's sad eyes
Cause angel-tears to rise
In her own.
For Stothard, Blake, and Lamb;
And I've known
Cordelia's sad eyes
Cause angel-tears to rise
In her own.
Her gentle spirit yearns
When she reads of Robin Burns:
Luckless bard!
Had she blossom'd in thy time,
Oh, how rare had been the rhyme
—And reward!
When she reads of Robin Burns:
Luckless bard!
Had she blossom'd in thy time,
Oh, how rare had been the rhyme
—And reward!
Thrice happy then is he
Who, planting such a Tree,
Sees it bloom
To shelter him; indeed
We have joyance as we speed
To our doom!
Who, planting such a Tree,
Sees it bloom
To shelter him; indeed
We have joyance as we speed
To our doom!
I'm happy, having grown
Such a Sapling of my own;
And I crave
No garland for my brows,
But rest beneath its boughs
To the grave.
Such a Sapling of my own;
And I crave
No garland for my brows,
But rest beneath its boughs
To the grave.
1864.
50
AT HER WINDOW
Ah, Minstrel, how strange is
The carol you sing!
Let Psyche, who ranges
The garden of spring,
Remember the changes
December will bring.
The carol you sing!
Let Psyche, who ranges
The garden of spring,
Remember the changes
December will bring.
Beating Heart! we come again
Where my Love reposes:
This is Mabel's window-pane;
These are Mabel's roses.
Where my Love reposes:
This is Mabel's window-pane;
These are Mabel's roses.
Is she nested? Does she kneel
In the twilight stilly,
Lily clad from throat to heel,
She, my virgin Lily?
In the twilight stilly,
Lily clad from throat to heel,
She, my virgin Lily?
Soon the wan, the wistful stars,
Fading, will forsake her;
Elves of light, on beamy bars,
Whisper then, and wake her.
Fading, will forsake her;
Elves of light, on beamy bars,
Whisper then, and wake her.
51
Let this friendly pebble plead
At her flowery grating;
If she hear me will she heed?
Mabel, I am waiting.
At her flowery grating;
If she hear me will she heed?
Mabel, I am waiting.
Mabel will be deck'd anon,
Zoned in bride's apparel;
Happy zone! Oh hark to yon
Passion-shaken carol!
Zoned in bride's apparel;
Happy zone! Oh hark to yon
Passion-shaken carol!
Sing thy song, thou trancèd thrush
Pipe thy best, thy clearest;—
Hush, her lattice moves, oh hush,
Dearest Mabel!—dearest.
Pipe thy best, thy clearest;—
Hush, her lattice moves, oh hush,
Dearest Mabel!—dearest.
52
ROTTEN ROW.
I hope I'm fond of much that's good,
As well as much that's gay;
I'd like the country if I could;
I love the Park in May:
And when I ride in Rotten Row,
I wonder why they call'd it so.
As well as much that's gay;
I'd like the country if I could;
I love the Park in May:
And when I ride in Rotten Row,
I wonder why they call'd it so.
A lively scene on turf and road;
The crowd is bravely drest:
The Ladies' Mile has overflow'd,
The chairs are in request:
The nimble air, so soft, so clear,
Can hardly stir a ringlet here.
The crowd is bravely drest:
The Ladies' Mile has overflow'd,
The chairs are in request:
The nimble air, so soft, so clear,
Can hardly stir a ringlet here.
I'll halt beneath those pleasant trees,—
And drop my bridle-rein,
And, quite alone, indulge at ease
The philosophic vein:
I'll moralise on all I see—
Yes, it was all arranged for me!
And drop my bridle-rein,
And, quite alone, indulge at ease
The philosophic vein:
I'll moralise on all I see—
Yes, it was all arranged for me!
53
Forsooth, and on a livelier spot
The sunbeam never shines.
Fair ladies here can talk and trot
With statesmen and divines:
Could I have chosen, I'd have been
A Duke, a Beauty, or a Dean.
The sunbeam never shines.
Fair ladies here can talk and trot
With statesmen and divines:
Could I have chosen, I'd have been
A Duke, a Beauty, or a Dean.
What grooms! What gallant gentlemen!
What well-appointed hacks!
What glory in their pace, and then
What Beauty on their backs!
My Pegasus would never flag
If weighted as my Lady's nag.
What well-appointed hacks!
What glory in their pace, and then
What Beauty on their backs!
My Pegasus would never flag
If weighted as my Lady's nag.
But where is now the courtly troop
That once rode laughing by?
I miss the curls of Cantelupe,
The laugh of Lady Di:
They all could laugh from night to morn,
And Time has laugh'd them all to scorn.
That once rode laughing by?
I miss the curls of Cantelupe,
The laugh of Lady Di:
They all could laugh from night to morn,
And Time has laugh'd them all to scorn.
I then could frolic in the van
With dukes and dandy earls;
Then I was thought a nice young man
By rather nice young girls!
I've half a mind to join Miss Browne,
And try one canter up and down.
With dukes and dandy earls;
Then I was thought a nice young man
By rather nice young girls!
I've half a mind to join Miss Browne,
And try one canter up and down.
54
Ah, no—I'll linger here awhile,
And dream of days of yore;
For me bright eyes have lost the smile,
The sunny smile they wore:—
Perhaps they say, what I'll allow,
That I'm not quite so handsome now.
And dream of days of yore;
For me bright eyes have lost the smile,
The sunny smile they wore:—
Perhaps they say, what I'll allow,
That I'm not quite so handsome now.
1867.
55
A KIND PROVIDENCE
He dropt a tear on Susan's bier,He seemed a most despairing Swain;
But bluer sky brought newer tie,
And—would he wish her back again?
The moments fly, and when we die,
Will Philly Thistletop complain?
She'll cry and sigh, and—dry her eye,
And let herself be woo'd again.
56
THE SKELETON IN THE CUPBOARD
The characters of great and small
Come ready made, we can't bespeak one;
Their sides are many, too, and all
(Except ourselves) have got a weak one.
Some sanguine people love for life,
Some love their hobby till it flings them.
How many love a pretty wife
For love of the éclat she brings them!
Come ready made, we can't bespeak one;
Their sides are many, too, and all
(Except ourselves) have got a weak one.
Some sanguine people love for life,
Some love their hobby till it flings them.
How many love a pretty wife
For love of the éclat she brings them!
A little to relieve my mind
I've thrown off this disjointed chatter,
But more because I'm disinclined
To enter on a painful matter:
Once I was bashful; I'll allow
I've blush'd for words untimely spoken;
I still am rather shy, and now . . .
And now the ice is fairly broken.
I've thrown off this disjointed chatter,
But more because I'm disinclined
To enter on a painful matter:
Once I was bashful; I'll allow
I've blush'd for words untimely spoken;
I still am rather shy, and now . . .
And now the ice is fairly broken.
59
We all have secrets: you have one
Which mayn't be quite your charming spouse's;
We all lock up a Skeleton
In some grim chamber of our houses;
Familiars who exhaust their days
And nights in probing where our smart is,
And who, for all their spiteful ways,
Are “silent, unassuming Parties.”
Which mayn't be quite your charming spouse's;
We all lock up a Skeleton
In some grim chamber of our houses;
Familiars who exhaust their days
And nights in probing where our smart is,
And who, for all their spiteful ways,
Are “silent, unassuming Parties.”
We hug this Phantom we detest,
Rarely we let it cross our portals:
It is a most exacting guest,
And we are much afflicted mortals.
Your neighbour Gay, that jovial wight,
As Dives rich, and brave as Hector,
Poor Gay steals twenty times a night,
On shaking knees, to see his Spectre.
Rarely we let it cross our portals:
It is a most exacting guest,
And we are much afflicted mortals.
Your neighbour Gay, that jovial wight,
As Dives rich, and brave as Hector,
Poor Gay steals twenty times a night,
On shaking knees, to see his Spectre.
Old Dives fears a pauper fate,
So hoarding is his ruling passion;—
Some gloomy souls anticipate
A waistcoat, straiter than the fashion!
She childless pines, that lonely wife,
And secret tears are bitter shedding;
Hector may tremble all his life,
And die,—but not of that he's dreading.
So hoarding is his ruling passion;—
Some gloomy souls anticipate
A waistcoat, straiter than the fashion!
She childless pines, that lonely wife,
And secret tears are bitter shedding;
Hector may tremble all his life,
And die,—but not of that he's dreading.
60
Ah me, the World! How fast it spins!
The beldams dance, the caldron bubbles;
They shriek, they stir it for our sins,
And we must drain it for our troubles.
We toil, we groan; the cry for love
Mounts up from this poor seething city,
And yet I know we have above
A Father, infinite in pity.
The beldams dance, the caldron bubbles;
They shriek, they stir it for our sins,
And we must drain it for our troubles.
We toil, we groan; the cry for love
Mounts up from this poor seething city,
And yet I know we have above
A Father, infinite in pity.
When Beauty smiles, when Sorrow weeps,
Where sunbeams play, where shadows darken,
One inmate of our dwelling keeps
Its ghastly carnival; but hearken!
How dry the rattle of the bones!
That sound was not to make you start meant:
Stand by! Your humble servant owns
The Tenant of this Dark Apartment.
Where sunbeams play, where shadows darken,
One inmate of our dwelling keeps
Its ghastly carnival; but hearken!
How dry the rattle of the bones!
That sound was not to make you start meant:
Stand by! Your humble servant owns
The Tenant of this Dark Apartment.
61
AN INVITATION TO ROME, AND THE REPLY
THE INVITATION
Oh, come to Rome, it is a pleasant place,
Your London sun is here, and smiling brightly;
The Briton, too, puts on his cheery face,
And Mrs. Bull acquits herself politely.
The Romans are an easy-going race,
With simple wives, more dignified than sprightly;
I see them at their doors, as day is closing,
Prouder than duchesses, and more imposing.
Your London sun is here, and smiling brightly;
The Briton, too, puts on his cheery face,
And Mrs. Bull acquits herself politely.
The Romans are an easy-going race,
With simple wives, more dignified than sprightly;
I see them at their doors, as day is closing,
Prouder than duchesses, and more imposing.
A sweet far niente life promotes the graces;
They pass from dreamy bliss to wakeful glee,
And in their bearing and their speech, one traces
A breadth, a depth—a grace of courtesy
Not found in busy or inclement places;
Their clime and tongue are much in harmony:
The Cockney met in Middlesex, or Surrey,
Is often cold, and always in a hurry.
They pass from dreamy bliss to wakeful glee,
And in their bearing and their speech, one traces
A breadth, a depth—a grace of courtesy
62
Their clime and tongue are much in harmony:
The Cockney met in Middlesex, or Surrey,
Is often cold, and always in a hurry.
Oh, come to Rome, nor be content to read
Of famous palace and of stately street
Whose fountains ever run with joyful speed,
And never-ceasing murmur. Here we greet
Memnon's vast monolith; or, gay with weed,
Rich capitals, as corner stone or seat,
The site of vanish'd temples, where now moulder
Old ruins, masking ruin even older.
Of famous palace and of stately street
Whose fountains ever run with joyful speed,
And never-ceasing murmur. Here we greet
Memnon's vast monolith; or, gay with weed,
Rich capitals, as corner stone or seat,
The site of vanish'd temples, where now moulder
Old ruins, masking ruin even older.
Ay, come, and see the statues, pictures, churches,
Although the last are commonplace, or florid.—
Who say 'tis here that superstition perches?
Myself I'm glad the marbles have been quarried.
The sombre streets are worthy your researches
Tho' ways are foul, and lava pavement's horrid.
The pleasant sights, that squeamishness disparages,
Are miss'd by all who roll along in carriages.
Although the last are commonplace, or florid.—
Who say 'tis here that superstition perches?
Myself I'm glad the marbles have been quarried.
The sombre streets are worthy your researches
Tho' ways are foul, and lava pavement's horrid.
63
Are miss'd by all who roll along in carriages.
I dare not speak of Michael Angelo,
Such theme were all too splendid for my pen:
And if I breathe the name of Sanzio
(The first of painters and of gentlemen),
Is it that love casts out my fear, and so
I claim with him a kindredship? Ah, when
We love, the name is on our hearts engraven,
As is thy name, my own dear Bard of Avon.
Such theme were all too splendid for my pen:
And if I breathe the name of Sanzio
(The first of painters and of gentlemen),
Is it that love casts out my fear, and so
I claim with him a kindredship? Ah, when
We love, the name is on our hearts engraven,
As is thy name, my own dear Bard of Avon.
Nor is the Coliseum theme of mine,
'Twas built for poet of a larger daring;
The world goes there with torches; I decline
Thus to affront the moonbeams with their flaring.
Some day in May our forces we'll combine
(Just you and I), and try a midnight airing.
And then I'll quote this rhyme to you—and then
You'll muse upon the vanity of men!
'Twas built for poet of a larger daring;
The world goes there with torches; I decline
Thus to affront the moonbeams with their flaring.
Some day in May our forces we'll combine
(Just you and I), and try a midnight airing.
And then I'll quote this rhyme to you—and then
You'll muse upon the vanity of men!
64
Come! We will charter such a pair of nags!
The country's better seen when one is riding:
We'll roam where yellow Tiber speeds or lags
At will. The aqueducts are yet bestriding
With giant march (now whole, now broken crags
With flowers plumed) the swelling and subsiding
Campagna, girt by purple hills afar,
That melt in light beneath the evening star.
The country's better seen when one is riding:
We'll roam where yellow Tiber speeds or lags
At will. The aqueducts are yet bestriding
With giant march (now whole, now broken crags
With flowers plumed) the swelling and subsiding
Campagna, girt by purple hills afar,
That melt in light beneath the evening star.
A drive to Palestrina will be pleasant;
The wild fig grows where erst her rampart stood;
There oft, in goat-skin clad, a sunburnt peasant
Like Pan comes frisking from his ilex wood,
And seems to wake the past time in the present.
Fair contadina, mark his mirthful mood;
No antique satyr he. The nimble fellow
Can join with jollity your saltarello.
The wild fig grows where erst her rampart stood;
There oft, in goat-skin clad, a sunburnt peasant
Like Pan comes frisking from his ilex wood,
And seems to wake the past time in the present.
Fair contadina, mark his mirthful mood;
No antique satyr he. The nimble fellow
Can join with jollity your saltarello.
Old sylvan peace and liberty! The breath
Of life to unsophisticated man,
Here Mirth may pipe, Love here may weave his wreath,
“Per dar' al mio bene.” When you can,
Come share their leafy solitudes. Pale Death
And time are grudging of our little span:
Wan Time speeds lightly o'er the changing corn,
Death grins from yonder cynical old thorn.
Of life to unsophisticated man,
65
“Per dar' al mio bene.” When you can,
Come share their leafy solitudes. Pale Death
And time are grudging of our little span:
Wan Time speeds lightly o'er the changing corn,
Death grins from yonder cynical old thorn.
Oh, come! I send a leaf of April fern,
It grew where beauty lingers round decay:
Ashes long buried in a sculptured urn
Are not more dead than Rome—so dead to-day!
That better time, for which the patriots yearn,
Delights the gaze, again to fade away.
They wait, they pine for what is long denied,
And thus wait I till thou art by my side.
It grew where beauty lingers round decay:
Ashes long buried in a sculptured urn
Are not more dead than Rome—so dead to-day!
That better time, for which the patriots yearn,
Delights the gaze, again to fade away.
They wait, they pine for what is long denied,
And thus wait I till thou art by my side.
Thou'rt far away! Yet, while I write, I still
Seem gently, Sweet, to clasp thy hand in mine;
I cannot bring myself to drop the quill,
I cannot yet thy little hand resign!
The plain is fading into darkness chill,
The Sabine peaks are flush'd with light divine,
I watch alone, my fond thought wings to thee;
Oh, come to Rome. Oh come,—oh come to me!
Seem gently, Sweet, to clasp thy hand in mine;
I cannot bring myself to drop the quill,
I cannot yet thy little hand resign!
The plain is fading into darkness chill,
66
I watch alone, my fond thought wings to thee;
Oh, come to Rome. Oh come,—oh come to me!
1863.
THE REPLY
Dear Exile, I was proud to get
Your rhyme, I've “laid it up in cotton”;
You know that you are all to “Pet,”—
I fear'd that I was quite forgotten!
Mamma, who scolds me when I mope,
Insists, and she is wise as gentle,
That I am still in love! I hope
That you feel rather sentimental!
Your rhyme, I've “laid it up in cotton”;
You know that you are all to “Pet,”—
I fear'd that I was quite forgotten!
Mamma, who scolds me when I mope,
Insists, and she is wise as gentle,
That I am still in love! I hope
That you feel rather sentimental!
Perhaps you think your Love forlore
Should pine unless her slave be with her;
Of course you're fond of Rome, and more—
Of course you'd like to coax me thither!
Che! quit this dear delightful maze
Of calls and balls, to be intensely
Discomfited in fifty ways—
I like your confidence, immensely!
Should pine unless her slave be with her;
Of course you're fond of Rome, and more—
Of course you'd like to coax me thither!
67
Of calls and balls, to be intensely
Discomfited in fifty ways—
I like your confidence, immensely!
Some girls who love to ride and race,
And live for dancing, like the Bruens,
Confess that Rome's a charming place—
In spite of all the stupid ruins!
I think it might be sweet to pitch
One's tent beside those reeds of Tiber,
And all that sort of thing, of which
Dear Hawthorne's “quite” the best describer.
And live for dancing, like the Bruens,
Confess that Rome's a charming place—
In spite of all the stupid ruins!
I think it might be sweet to pitch
One's tent beside those reeds of Tiber,
And all that sort of thing, of which
Dear Hawthorne's “quite” the best describer.
To see stone pines and marble gods
In garden alleys red with roses;
The Perch where Pio Nono nods;
The Church where Raphael reposes.
Make pleasant giros—when we may;
Jump stagionate (where they're easy!)
And play croquet; the Bruens say
There's turf behind the Ludovisi!
In garden alleys red with roses;
The Perch where Pio Nono nods;
The Church where Raphael reposes.
Make pleasant giros—when we may;
Jump stagionate (where they're easy!)
And play croquet; the Bruens say
There's turf behind the Ludovisi!
I'll bring my books, though Mrs. Mee
Says packing books is such a worry;
I'll bring my Golden Treasury,
Manzoni, and, of course a “Murray”!
Your verses (if you so advise!)
A Dante—Auntie owns a quarto;
I'll try and buy a smaller size,
And read him on the Muro Torto.
Says packing books is such a worry;
I'll bring my Golden Treasury,
Manzoni, and, of course a “Murray”!
68
A Dante—Auntie owns a quarto;
I'll try and buy a smaller size,
And read him on the Muro Torto.
But can I go? La Madre thinks
It would be such an undertaking!
(I wish we could consult a sphinx!)
The very thought has left her quaking!
Papa (we do not mind papa)
Has got some “notice” of some “motion,”
And could not stay; but, why not,—ah,
I've not the very slightest notion!
It would be such an undertaking!
(I wish we could consult a sphinx!)
The very thought has left her quaking!
Papa (we do not mind papa)
Has got some “notice” of some “motion,”
And could not stay; but, why not,—ah,
I've not the very slightest notion!
The Browns have come to stay a week,
They've brought the boys—I haven't thank'd 'em;
For Baby Grand, and Baby Pic,
Are playing cricket in my sanctum!
Your Rover, too, affects my den,
And when I pat the dear old whelp, it . . .
It makes me think of You, and then . . .
And then I cry—I cannot help it.
They've brought the boys—I haven't thank'd 'em;
For Baby Grand, and Baby Pic,
Are playing cricket in my sanctum!
Your Rover, too, affects my den,
And when I pat the dear old whelp, it . . .
It makes me think of You, and then . . .
And then I cry—I cannot help it.
Ah yes, before you left me, ere
The cloud that cleft us was impending,
These eyes had seldom shed a tear,
I thought my joy could have no ending!
But cloudlets gather'd soon, and this—
This was the first that rose to grieve me;—
To know that I possess'd the bliss,—
For then I knew such bliss might leave me!
The cloud that cleft us was impending,
69
I thought my joy could have no ending!
But cloudlets gather'd soon, and this—
This was the first that rose to grieve me;—
To know that I possess'd the bliss,—
For then I knew such bliss might leave me!
My strain is sad, yet, oh, believe
Your words have made my spirit better;
And if, perhaps, at times I grieve,
I'd meant to write a cheery letter;
But skies were dull; Rome sounded hot,
I fancied I could live without it:
I thought I'd go, I thought I'd not,
And then I thought I'd think about it.
Your words have made my spirit better;
And if, perhaps, at times I grieve,
I'd meant to write a cheery letter;
But skies were dull; Rome sounded hot,
I fancied I could live without it:
I thought I'd go, I thought I'd not,
And then I thought I'd think about it.
The sun now glances o'er the park,
If tears are on my cheek, they glitter;
I think I've kiss'd your rhyme, for hark,
My bulley gives a saucy twitter!
Your blessed words extinguish doubt,
A sudden breeze is gaily blowing;
And hark! The Minster bells ring out—
She ought to go. Of course she's going!
If tears are on my cheek, they glitter;
I think I've kiss'd your rhyme, for hark,
My bulley gives a saucy twitter!
Your blessed words extinguish doubt,
A sudden breeze is gaily blowing;
And hark! The Minster bells ring out—
She ought to go. Of course she's going!
1863.
70
TO MY MISTRESS
His musings were trite, and their burthen, forsooth,
The wisdom of age and the folly of youth.
The wisdom of age and the folly of youth.
Marquise
, I see the flying year,
And feel how Time is wasting here:
Ay more, he soon his worst will do,
And garner all your roses too.
And feel how Time is wasting here:
Ay more, he soon his worst will do,
And garner all your roses too.
It pleases Time to fold his wings
Around our best and fairest things;
He'll mar your blooming cheek, as now
He stamps his mark upon my brow.
Around our best and fairest things;
He'll mar your blooming cheek, as now
He stamps his mark upon my brow.
The same mute planets rise and shine
To rule your days and nights as mine:
Once I was young and gay, and see! . . .
What I am now you soon will be.
To rule your days and nights as mine:
Once I was young and gay, and see! . . .
What I am now you soon will be.
And yet I vaunt a certain charm
That shields me from your worst alarm,
And bids me gaze, with front sublime,
On all these ravages of Time.
That shields me from your worst alarm,
And bids me gaze, with front sublime,
On all these ravages of Time.
71
You boast a gift that blooms and dies,
I boast a gift that change defies:
For mine will still be mine, and last
When all your pride of beauty's past.
I boast a gift that change defies:
For mine will still be mine, and last
When all your pride of beauty's past.
My gift will long embalm the lures
Of eyes—ah, sweet to me as yours:
For ages hence the great and good
Will judge you as I choose they should.
Of eyes—ah, sweet to me as yours:
For ages hence the great and good
Will judge you as I choose they should.
In days to come the peer or clown,
With whom I still shall win renown,
Will only know that you were fair
Because I chanced to say you were.
With whom I still shall win renown,
Will only know that you were fair
Because I chanced to say you were.
Proud Lady! Scornful beauty mocks
At aged heads and silver locks;
But think awhile before you fly
Or spurn a Poet such as I.
At aged heads and silver locks;
But think awhile before you fly
Or spurn a Poet such as I.
Kenwood, July 21, 1864.
72
CIRCUMSTANCE
THE ORANGE
It ripen'd by the river banks,
Where, mask and moonlight aiding,
Dons Blas and Juan play their pranks,
Dark Donnas serenading.
Where, mask and moonlight aiding,
Dons Blas and Juan play their pranks,
Dark Donnas serenading.
By Moorish damsel it was pluck'd,
Beneath the golden day there;
By swain 'twas then in London suck'd,
Who flung the peel away there.
Beneath the golden day there;
By swain 'twas then in London suck'd,
Who flung the peel away there.
He could not know in Pimlico,
As little she in Seville,
That I should reel upon that peel,
And—wish them at the devil.
As little she in Seville,
That I should reel upon that peel,
And—wish them at the devil.
1856.
73
YORICK'S FUNERAL
[OMITTED]
That day, will there be one to shed
A tear behind the hearse?
Or cry, “Poor Yorick, are you dead?
I could have spared a worse:
We never spoke; we never met;
I never heard your voice, and yet
I loved you for your verse”?
Such love would make the flowers wave
In gladness on their Poet's Grave.
A tear behind the hearse?
Or cry, “Poor Yorick, are you dead?
I could have spared a worse:
We never spoke; we never met;
I never heard your voice, and yet
I loved you for your verse”?
Such love would make the flowers wave
In gladness on their Poet's Grave.
A few, few years, like one short week,
Will pass, and leave behind
A Stone moss-grown, that none will seek,
And none would care to find.
Then I shall sleep, and gain release
In perfect rest—the perfect peace
For which my soul has pined;
And still some Fool will laugh and weep—
A weary Fool who sues for sleep.
Will pass, and leave behind
A Stone moss-grown, that none will seek,
And none would care to find.
Then I shall sleep, and gain release
In perfect rest—the perfect peace
For which my soul has pined;
And still some Fool will laugh and weep—
A weary Fool who sues for sleep.
74
CUPID ON THE CROSSING
Her eyes and her hairAre superb;
She stands in despair
On the kerb.
Quick, Stranger, advance
To her aid:
She's across, with a glance
You're repaid.
She's fair, and you're tall,
Fal-lal-la!—
What will come of it all?
Chi lo sa!
75
PICCADILLY
Piccadilly! Shops, palaces, bustle, and breeze,
The whirring of wheels, and the murmur of trees;
By night or by day, whether noisy or stilly,
Whatever my mood is, I love Piccadilly.
The whirring of wheels, and the murmur of trees;
By night or by day, whether noisy or stilly,
Whatever my mood is, I love Piccadilly.
Wet nights, when the gas on the pavement is streaming,
And young Love is watching, and old Love is dreaming,
And Beauty is whirling to conquest, where shrilly
Cremona makes nimble thy toes, Piccadilly!
And young Love is watching, and old Love is dreaming,
And Beauty is whirling to conquest, where shrilly
Cremona makes nimble thy toes, Piccadilly!
Bright days, when a stroll is my afternoon wont
And I meet all the people I do know, or don't:
Here is jolly old Brown, and his fair daughter Lillie—
No wonder, young Pilgrim, you like Piccadilly!
And I meet all the people I do know, or don't:
76
No wonder, young Pilgrim, you like Piccadilly!
See yonder pair riding, how fondly they saunter,
She smiles on her Poet, whose heart's in a canter!
Some envy her spouse, and some covet her filly,
He envies them both,—he's an ass, Piccadilly!
She smiles on her Poet, whose heart's in a canter!
Some envy her spouse, and some covet her filly,
He envies them both,—he's an ass, Piccadilly!
Now were I such a bride, with a slave at my feet,
I would choose me a house in my favourite street;
Yes or no—I would carry my point, willy-nilly:
If “no,”—pick a quarrel; if “yes”—Piccadilly!
I would choose me a house in my favourite street;
Yes or no—I would carry my point, willy-nilly:
If “no,”—pick a quarrel; if “yes”—Piccadilly!
From Primrose balcony, long ages ago,
“Old Q.” sat at gaze,—who now passes below?
A frolicsome statesman, the Man of the Day;
A laughing philosopher, gallant and gay;
“Old Q.” sat at gaze,—who now passes below?
77
A laughing philosopher, gallant and gay;
Never darling of fortune more manfully trod,
Full of years, full of fame, and the world at his nod,
Can the thought reach his heart, and then leave it more chilly—
Old P. or old Q.,—“I must quit Piccadilly”?
Full of years, full of fame, and the world at his nod,
Can the thought reach his heart, and then leave it more chilly—
Old P. or old Q.,—“I must quit Piccadilly”?
Life is chequer'd; a patchwork of smiles and of frowns;
We value its ups, let us muse on its downs;
There's a side that is bright, it will then turn us t'other,
One turn, if a good one, deserves yet another.
These downs are delightful, these ups are not hilly,—
Let us try one more turn ere we quit Piccadilly.
We value its ups, let us muse on its downs;
There's a side that is bright, it will then turn us t'other,
One turn, if a good one, deserves yet another.
These downs are delightful, these ups are not hilly,—
Let us try one more turn ere we quit Piccadilly.
78
A NICE CORRESPONDENT
“There are plenty of roses” (the patriarch speaks)
“Alas not for me, on your lips and your cheeks;
Fair maiden rose-laden enough and to spare,
Spare, spare me that rose that you wear in your hair.
“Alas not for me, on your lips and your cheeks;
Fair maiden rose-laden enough and to spare,
Spare, spare me that rose that you wear in your hair.
The glow and the glory are plighted
To darkness, for evening is come;
The lamp in Glebe Cottage is lighted,
The birds and the sheep-bells are dumb.
I'm alone, for the others have flitted
To dine with a neighbour at Kew:
Alone, but I'm not to be pitied—
I'm thinking of you!
To darkness, for evening is come;
The lamp in Glebe Cottage is lighted,
The birds and the sheep-bells are dumb.
I'm alone, for the others have flitted
To dine with a neighbour at Kew:
Alone, but I'm not to be pitied—
I'm thinking of you!
I wish you were here! Were I duller
Than dull, you'd be dearer than dear;
I am drest in your favourite colour—
Dear Fred, how I wish you were here!
I am wearing my lazuli necklace,
The necklace you fasten'd askew!
Was there ever so rude or so reckless
A Darling as you?
Than dull, you'd be dearer than dear;
I am drest in your favourite colour—
Dear Fred, how I wish you were here!
I am wearing my lazuli necklace,
The necklace you fasten'd askew!
Was there ever so rude or so reckless
A Darling as you?
79
I want you to come and pass sentence
On two or three books with a plot;
Of course you know “Janet's Repentance”?
I am reading Sir Waverley Scott.
That story of Edgar and Lucy,
How thrilling, romantic, and true!
The Master (his bride was a goosey!)
Reminds me of you.
On two or three books with a plot;
Of course you know “Janet's Repentance”?
I am reading Sir Waverley Scott.
That story of Edgar and Lucy,
How thrilling, romantic, and true!
The Master (his bride was a goosey!)
Reminds me of you.
They tell me Cockaigne has been crowning
A Poet whose garland endures;—
It was you that first told me of Browning,—
That stupid old Browning of yours!
His vogue and his verve are alarming,
I'm anxious to give him his due,
But, Fred, he's not nearly so charming
A Poet as you!
A Poet whose garland endures;—
It was you that first told me of Browning,—
That stupid old Browning of yours!
His vogue and his verve are alarming,
I'm anxious to give him his due,
But, Fred, he's not nearly so charming
A Poet as you!
I heard how you shot at The Beeches,
I saw how you rode Chanticleer,
I have read the report of your speeches,
And echo'd the echoing cheer:
There's a whisper of hearts you are breaking,
Dear Fred, I believe it, I do!
Small marvel that Folly is making
Her Idol of you!
I saw how you rode Chanticleer,
I have read the report of your speeches,
And echo'd the echoing cheer:
There's a whisper of hearts you are breaking,
Dear Fred, I believe it, I do!
Small marvel that Folly is making
Her Idol of you!
80
Alas for the World, and its dearly
Bought triumph,—its fugitive bliss;
Sometimes I half wish I were merely
A plain or a penniless Miss;
But, perhaps, one is best with “a measure
Of pelf,” and I'm not sorry, too,
That I'm pretty, because it's a pleasure,
My Darling, to you!
Bought triumph,—its fugitive bliss;
Sometimes I half wish I were merely
A plain or a penniless Miss;
But, perhaps, one is best with “a measure
Of pelf,” and I'm not sorry, too,
That I'm pretty, because it's a pleasure,
My Darling, to you!
Your whim is for frolic and fashion,
Your taste is for letters and art;—
This rhyme is the commonplace passion
That glows in a fond woman's heart:
Lay it by in some sacred deposit
For relics—we all have a few!
Love, some day they'll print it, because it
Was written to You.
Your taste is for letters and art;—
This rhyme is the commonplace passion
That glows in a fond woman's heart:
Lay it by in some sacred deposit
For relics—we all have a few!
Love, some day they'll print it, because it
Was written to You.
1868.
81
MY SONG
You ask a Song,
Such as of yore, an autumn's eventide,
Some blest Boy-Poet caroll'd,—and then died.
Nay, I have sung too long.
Such as of yore, an autumn's eventide,
Some blest Boy-Poet caroll'd,—and then died.
Nay, I have sung too long.
Say, shall I fling
A sigh to Beauty at her window-pane?
I sang there once, may not I once again?
Or tell me whom to sing.
A sigh to Beauty at her window-pane?
I sang there once, may not I once again?
Or tell me whom to sing.
—The peer of Peers?
Lord of the wealth that gives his time employ:
Time to possess, but hardly to enjoy—
He cannot need my tears.
Lord of the wealth that gives his time employ:
Time to possess, but hardly to enjoy—
He cannot need my tears.
—The man of Mind
Or Priest who darken what was never day?
I cannot sing them, yet I will not say
Such guides are wholly blind.
Or Priest who darken what was never day?
I cannot sing them, yet I will not say
Such guides are wholly blind.
82
—The Orator?
He quiet lies where yon fresh hillock heaves:
'Twere well to sprinkle there those laurel-leaves
He won, but never wore.
He quiet lies where yon fresh hillock heaves:
'Twere well to sprinkle there those laurel-leaves
He won, but never wore.
Or shall I twine
The Cypress? Wreath of glory and of gloom.—
To march a gallant Soldier to his doom
Needs fuller voice than mine.
The Cypress? Wreath of glory and of gloom.—
To march a gallant Soldier to his doom
Needs fuller voice than mine.
No Lay have I,
No murmur'd measure meet for your delight,
No Song of Love and Death, to make you quite
Forget that we must die.
No murmur'd measure meet for your delight,
No Song of Love and Death, to make you quite
Forget that we must die.
Something is wrong;
The World is over-wise; or, more's the pity,
These days are far too serious for a Ditty,
Yet take it,—take My Song.
The World is over-wise; or, more's the pity,
These days are far too serious for a Ditty,
Yet take it,—take My Song.
1876.
83
REPLY TO A LETTER ENCLOSING A LOCK OF HAIR
She laugh'd—she climb'd the giddy height;
I held that climber small;
I even held her rather tight,
For fear that she should fall.
A dozen girls were chirping round,
Like five-and-twenty linnets;—
I must have held her, I'll be bound,
Some five-and-twenty minutes.
I held that climber small;
I even held her rather tight,
For fear that she should fall.
A dozen girls were chirping round,
Like five-and-twenty linnets;—
I must have held her, I'll be bound,
Some five-and-twenty minutes.
Yes, you were false, and, though I'm free,
I still would be that slave of yore;
Then, join'd, our years were thirty-three,
And now,—yes now I'm thirty-four.
And though you were not learnèd . . . well,
I was not anxious you should grow so;—
I trembled once beneath her spell
Whose spelling was extremely so-so.
I still would be that slave of yore;
Then, join'd, our years were thirty-three,
And now,—yes now I'm thirty-four.
And though you were not learnèd . . . well,
I was not anxious you should grow so;—
I trembled once beneath her spell
Whose spelling was extremely so-so.
Bright season! why will Memory
Still haunt the path our rambles took;
The sparrow's nest that made you cry,
The lilies captured in the brook?
I'd lifted you from side to side,
You seem'd as light as that poor sparrow;
I know who wish'd it twice as wide,—
I think you thought it rather narrow.
Still haunt the path our rambles took;
84
The lilies captured in the brook?
I'd lifted you from side to side,
You seem'd as light as that poor sparrow;
I know who wish'd it twice as wide,—
I think you thought it rather narrow.
Time was, indeed a little while,
My pony could your heart compel;
And once, beside the meadow-stile,
I thought you loved me just as well;
I'd kiss'd your cheek; in sweet surprise
Your troubled gaze said plainly, “Should he?”
But doubt soon fled those daisy eyes,—
“He could not mean to vex me, could he?”
My pony could your heart compel;
And once, beside the meadow-stile,
I thought you loved me just as well;
I'd kiss'd your cheek; in sweet surprise
Your troubled gaze said plainly, “Should he?”
But doubt soon fled those daisy eyes,—
“He could not mean to vex me, could he?”
The brightest eyes are soonest sad,
But your rose cheek, so lightly sway'd,
Could ripple into dimples glad;
For oh, fair Friend, what mirth we made!
The brightest tears are soonest dried,
But your young love and dole were stable;
You wept when dear old Rover died,
You wept—and dress'd your dolls in sable.
But your rose cheek, so lightly sway'd,
Could ripple into dimples glad;
For oh, fair Friend, what mirth we made!
The brightest tears are soonest dried,
But your young love and dole were stable;
You wept when dear old Rover died,
You wept—and dress'd your dolls in sable.
85
As year succeeds to year, the more
Imperfect life's fruition seems;
Our dreams, as baseless as of yore,
Are not the same enchanting dreams.
The girls I love now vote me slow,
How dull the boys who once seem'd witty!
Perhaps I'm growing old, I know
I'm still romantic, more's the pity.
Imperfect life's fruition seems;
Our dreams, as baseless as of yore,
Are not the same enchanting dreams.
The girls I love now vote me slow,
How dull the boys who once seem'd witty!
Perhaps I'm growing old, I know
I'm still romantic, more's the pity.
Vain the regret! To few, perchance,
Unknown, and profitless to all:
The wisely-gay, as years advance,
Are gaily-wise. Whate'er befall,
We'll laugh at folly, whether seen
Beneath a chimney or a steeple;
At yours, at mine—our own, I mean,
As well as that of other people.
Unknown, and profitless to all:
The wisely-gay, as years advance,
Are gaily-wise. Whate'er befall,
We'll laugh at folly, whether seen
Beneath a chimney or a steeple;
At yours, at mine—our own, I mean,
As well as that of other people.
I'm fond of fun, the mental dew
Where wit, and truth, and ruth are blent;
And yet I've known a prig or two,
Who, wanting all, were all content!
To say I hate such dismal men
Might be esteem'd a strong assertion;
If I've blue devils, now and then,
I make them dance for my diversion.
Where wit, and truth, and ruth are blent;
And yet I've known a prig or two,
Who, wanting all, were all content!
To say I hate such dismal men
Might be esteem'd a strong assertion;
If I've blue devils, now and then,
I make them dance for my diversion.
86
And here's your letter debonair—
“My Friend, my dear old Friend of yore,”
And is this curl your daughter's hair?
I've seen the Titian tint before.
Are we the pair that used to pass
Long days beneath the chestnut shady?
You then were such a pretty lass;
I'm told you're now as fair a lady.
“My Friend, my dear old Friend of yore,”
And is this curl your daughter's hair?
I've seen the Titian tint before.
Are we the pair that used to pass
Long days beneath the chestnut shady?
You then were such a pretty lass;
I'm told you're now as fair a lady.
I've laugh'd to hide the tear I shed,
As when the jester's bosom swells,
And mournfully he shakes his head,
We hear the jingle of his bells.
A jesting vein your poet vex'd,
And this poor rhyme, the Fates determine,
Without a parson or a text,
Has proved a rather prosy sermon.
As when the jester's bosom swells,
And mournfully he shakes his head,
We hear the jingle of his bells.
A jesting vein your poet vex'd,
And this poor rhyme, the Fates determine,
Without a parson or a text,
Has proved a rather prosy sermon.
1859.
87
FROM THE CRADLE
They tell me I was born a long
Three months ago,
But whether they be right or wrong
I hardly know.
I sleep, I smile, I cannot crawl,
But I can cry:
At present I am rather small—
A Babe am I.
Three months ago,
But whether they be right or wrong
I hardly know.
I sleep, I smile, I cannot crawl,
But I can cry:
At present I am rather small—
A Babe am I.
The changing lights of sun and shade
Are baby toys;
The flowers and birds are not afraid
Of baby-boys.
Some day I'll wish that I could be
A bird, and fly;
At present I can't wish—you see
A Babe am I.
Are baby toys;
The flowers and birds are not afraid
Of baby-boys.
Some day I'll wish that I could be
A bird, and fly;
At present I can't wish—you see
A Babe am I.
88
A RHYME OF ONE
You sleep upon your mother's breast,
Your race begun,
A welcome, long a wish'd-for Guest,
Whose age is one.
Your race begun,
A welcome, long a wish'd-for Guest,
Whose age is one.
A Baby-Boy, you wonder why
You cannot run;
You try to talk—how hard you try!
You're only One.
You cannot run;
You try to talk—how hard you try!
You're only One.
Ere long you won't be such a dunce;
You'll eat your bun,
And fly your kite, like folk, who once
Were only One.
You'll eat your bun,
And fly your kite, like folk, who once
Were only One.
You'll rhyme and woo, and fight and joke,
Perhaps you'll pun!
Such feats are never done by folk
Before they're One.
Perhaps you'll pun!
Such feats are never done by folk
Before they're One.
89
Some day, too, you may have your joy,
And envy none;
Yes, you, yourself, may own a Boy,
Who isn't One.
And envy none;
Yes, you, yourself, may own a Boy,
Who isn't One.
He'll dance, and laugh, and crow; he'll do
As you have done:
(You crown a happy home, though you
Are only One).
As you have done:
(You crown a happy home, though you
Are only One).
But when he's grown shall you be here
To share his fun,
And talk of times when he (the Dear!)
Was hardly One?
To share his fun,
And talk of times when he (the Dear!)
Was hardly One?
Dear Child, 'tis your poor lot to be
My little Son;
I'm glad, though I am old, you see,—
While you are One.
My little Son;
I'm glad, though I am old, you see,—
While you are One.
1876.
90
THE TWINS
Yes, there they lie, so small, so quaint,Two mouths, two noses, and two chins;
What Painter shall we get to paint
And glorify the Twins,
To give us all the charm that dwells
In tiny cloaks and coral-bells,
And all those other pleasant spells
Of Babyhood? and not forget
The silver mug for either Pet—
No babe should be without it.
Come, Limner Kate! for you can thrill
Our hearts with pink and daffodil,
And white rosette, and dimpled frill;
Come, paint our little Jack and Jill,
And don't be long about it.
91
LITTLE DINKY
(A RHYME OF LESS THAN ONE)
The hair she means to have is gold,
Her eyes are blue, she's twelve weeks old,
Plump are her fists and pinky.
She flutter'd down in lucky hour
From some blue deep in yon sky bower—
I call her Little Dinky.
Her eyes are blue, she's twelve weeks old,
Plump are her fists and pinky.
She flutter'd down in lucky hour
From some blue deep in yon sky bower—
I call her Little Dinky.
A Tiny now, ere long she'll please
To totter at my parent-knees,
And crow, and try to chatter:
And then she'll come to fair white frocks,
And frisk about in shoes and socks,—
Her totter changed to patter.
To totter at my parent-knees,
And crow, and try to chatter:
And then she'll come to fair white frocks,
And frisk about in shoes and socks,—
Her totter changed to patter.
And soon she'll play, ay, soon enough,
At cowslip-ball and blindman's buff;
And, some day, we shall find her
Grow weary of her toys, indeed
She'll fling them all aside to heed
A footstep close behind her!
At cowslip-ball and blindman's buff;
And, some day, we shall find her
Grow weary of her toys, indeed
92
A footstep close behind her!
So be it: may They both be rich
In all that's best—the joys with which
True-love can aye supply them—
Then, hand in hand, they'll sit them down
Right cheerfully, and let the Town,
This foolish Town, go by them.
In all that's best—the joys with which
True-love can aye supply them—
Then, hand in hand, they'll sit them down
Right cheerfully, and let the Town,
This foolish Town, go by them.
Dinky, I soon must pass the toys,
I've loved so well, to younger boys—
For I have had my warning.
Farewell to all the dear delight!
Content am I to say Goodnight,
And hope for better morning.
I've loved so well, to younger boys—
For I have had my warning.
Farewell to all the dear delight!
Content am I to say Goodnight,
And hope for better morning.
As I was climbing Ludgate Hill
I met a goose who dropt a quill,
You see my thumb is inky;
I fell to scribble there and then,
And this is how I came to pen,
This rhyme on Little Dinky.
I met a goose who dropt a quill,
You see my thumb is inky;
I fell to scribble there and then,
And this is how I came to pen,
This rhyme on Little Dinky.
1878.
93
ANY POET TO HIS LOVE
Immortal Verse! Is mine the strain
To last and live? As ages wane
Will one be found to twine the bays,
Or praise me then as now you praise?
To last and live? As ages wane
Will one be found to twine the bays,
Or praise me then as now you praise?
Will there be one to praise? Ah no!
My laurel leaf may never grow;
My bust is in the quarry yet,
Oblivion weaves my coronet.
My laurel leaf may never grow;
My bust is in the quarry yet,
Oblivion weaves my coronet.
Immortal for a month—a week!
The garlands wither as I speak;
The song will die, the harp's unstrung,
But, singing, have I vainly sung?
The garlands wither as I speak;
The song will die, the harp's unstrung,
But, singing, have I vainly sung?
You deign'd to lend an ear the while
I trill'd my lay. I won your smile.
Now, let it die, or let it live,—
My verse was all I had to give.
I trill'd my lay. I won your smile.
Now, let it die, or let it live,—
My verse was all I had to give.
The linnet flies on wistful wings,
And finds a bower, and lights and sings;
Enough if my poor verse endures
To light and live—to die in yours.
And finds a bower, and lights and sings;
Enough if my poor verse endures
To light and live—to die in yours.
1875.
94
IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN
A friendly bird with bosom red
Is fluting near my garden seat;
Your sky is fair above my head,
And Tweed rejoices at my feet.
Is fluting near my garden seat;
Your sky is fair above my head,
And Tweed rejoices at my feet.
The squirrels gambol in the oak,
Here all is glad, but you prefer
To linger on amid the smoke
Of stony-hearted Westminster.
Here all is glad, but you prefer
To linger on amid the smoke
Of stony-hearted Westminster.
Again I read your letter through,—
“How wonderful is fate's decree,
How sweet is all your life to you,
And oh, how sad is mine to me.”
“How wonderful is fate's decree,
How sweet is all your life to you,
And oh, how sad is mine to me.”
I know your wail, who knows it not?—
He gave,—He taketh that He gave.
Yours is the lot, the common lot,
To go down weeping to the grave.
He gave,—He taketh that He gave.
Yours is the lot, the common lot,
To go down weeping to the grave.
95
Sad journey to a dark abyss,
Meet ending of your sorrow keen,—
The burden of my dirge is this,
And this my woe,—It might have been!
Meet ending of your sorrow keen,—
The burden of my dirge is this,
And this my woe,—It might have been!
Dear bird! Blithe bird that singst in frost,
Forgive my friend if he is sad;
He mourns what he has only lost,—
I weep what I have never had.
Forgive my friend if he is sad;
He mourns what he has only lost,—
I weep what I have never had.
Lees, September 27, 1873.
96
THE CUCKOO
We heard it calling, clear and low,
That tender April morn; we stood
And listened in the quiet wood,
We heard it, ay, long years ago.
That tender April morn; we stood
And listened in the quiet wood,
We heard it, ay, long years ago.
It came, and with a strange, sweet cry,
A friend, but from a far-off land;
We stood and listened, hand in hand,
And heart to heart, my Love and I.
A friend, but from a far-off land;
We stood and listened, hand in hand,
And heart to heart, my Love and I.
In dreamland then we found our joy,
And so it seem'd as 'twere the Bird
That Helen in old times had heard
At noon beneath the oaks of Troy.
And so it seem'd as 'twere the Bird
That Helen in old times had heard
At noon beneath the oaks of Troy.
O time far off, and yet so near!
It came to her in that hush'd grove,
It warbled while the wooing throve,
It sang the song she loved to hear.
It came to her in that hush'd grove,
It warbled while the wooing throve,
It sang the song she loved to hear.
And now I hear its voice again,
And still its message is of peace,
It sings of love that will not cease—
For me it never sings in vain.
And still its message is of peace,
It sings of love that will not cease—
For me it never sings in vain.
97
TO LINA OSWALD
(AGED FIVE YEARS)
I tumble out of bed betimes
To make my love these toddling rhymes;
And meet the hour, and meet the place
To bless her blithe good-morning face.
I send her all this heart can store;
I seem to see her as before,
An angel-child, divinely fair,
With meek blue eyes, and golden hair,
Curls tipt with changing light, that shed
A little glory round her head.
To make my love these toddling rhymes;
And meet the hour, and meet the place
To bless her blithe good-morning face.
I send her all this heart can store;
I seem to see her as before,
An angel-child, divinely fair,
With meek blue eyes, and golden hair,
Curls tipt with changing light, that shed
A little glory round her head.
Has poet ever sung or seen a
Sweeter, wiser child than Lina?
Blue are her sash and snood, and blue's
The hue of her bewitching shoes;
But, saving these, she's virgin dight,
A happy creature clad in white.
Sweeter, wiser child than Lina?
Blue are her sash and snood, and blue's
The hue of her bewitching shoes;
But, saving these, she's virgin dight,
A happy creature clad in white.
98
Again she stands beneath the boughs,
Reproves the pup, and feeds the cows;
Unvexed by rule, unscared by ill,
She wanders at her own sweet will
For what grave fiat could confine
My little charter'd libertine,
Yet free from feeling or from seeing
The burthen of her moral being?
Reproves the pup, and feeds the cows;
Unvexed by rule, unscared by ill,
She wanders at her own sweet will
For what grave fiat could confine
My little charter'd libertine,
Yet free from feeling or from seeing
The burthen of her moral being?
But change must come, and forms and dyes
Will change before her changing eyes;
She'll learn to blush, and hope, and fear—
And where shall I be then, my dear?
Will change before her changing eyes;
She'll learn to blush, and hope, and fear—
And where shall I be then, my dear?
Little gossip, set apart
But one small corner of thy heart;
There still is one not quite employ'd,
So let me find and fill that void;
Run then, and jump, and laugh, and play,
But love me though I'm far away.
But one small corner of thy heart;
There still is one not quite employ'd,
So let me find and fill that void;
Run then, and jump, and laugh, and play,
But love me though I'm far away.
Broomhall, September, 1868.
99
MY MISTRESS'S BOOTS
She has dancing eyes and ruby lips,
Delightful boots—and away she skips.
Delightful boots—and away she skips.
They nearly strike me dumb,—
I tremble when they come
Pit-a-pat:
This palpitation means
These Boots are Geraldine's—
Think of that!
I tremble when they come
Pit-a-pat:
This palpitation means
These Boots are Geraldine's—
Think of that!
O, where did hunter win
So delicate a skin
For her feet?
You lucky little kid,
You perish'd, so you did,
For my Sweet.
So delicate a skin
For her feet?
You lucky little kid,
You perish'd, so you did,
For my Sweet.
The faery stitching gleams
On the sides, and in the seams,
And reveals
That the Pixies were the wags
Who tipt these funny tags,
And these heels.
On the sides, and in the seams,
And reveals
100
Who tipt these funny tags,
And these heels.
What soles to charm an elf!—
Had Crusoe, sick of self,
Chanced to view
One printed near the tide,
O, how hard he would have tried
For the two!
Had Crusoe, sick of self,
Chanced to view
One printed near the tide,
O, how hard he would have tried
For the two!
For Gerry's debonair,
And innocent and fair
As a rose;
She's an Angel in a frock,—
She's an Angel with a clock
To her hose!
And innocent and fair
As a rose;
She's an Angel in a frock,—
She's an Angel with a clock
To her hose!
The simpletons who squeeze
Their pretty toes to please
Mandarins,
Would positively flinch
From venturing to pinch
Geraldine's!
Their pretty toes to please
Mandarins,
Would positively flinch
From venturing to pinch
Geraldine's!
101
Cinderella's lefts and rights
To Geraldine's were frights:
And I trow
The Damsel, deftly shod,
Has dutifully trod
Until now.
To Geraldine's were frights:
And I trow
The Damsel, deftly shod,
Has dutifully trod
Until now.
Come, Gerry, since it suits
Such a pretty Puss (in Boots)
These to don,
Set your dainty hand awhile
On my shoulder, Dear, and I'll
Put them on.
Such a pretty Puss (in Boots)
These to don,
Set your dainty hand awhile
On my shoulder, Dear, and I'll
Put them on.
Albury, June 29, 1864.
102
THE REASON WHY
Ask why I love the roses fair,
And whence they come and whose they were;
They come from her, and not alone,—
They bring her sweetness with their own.
And whence they come and whose they were;
They come from her, and not alone,—
They bring her sweetness with their own.
Or ask me why I love her so;
I know not: this is all I know,
These roses bud and bloom, and twine
As she round this fond heart of mine.
I know not: this is all I know,
These roses bud and bloom, and twine
As she round this fond heart of mine.
And this is why I love the flowers,
Once they were hers, they're mine—they're ours!
I love her, and they soon will die,
And now you know the Reason Why.
Once they were hers, they're mine—they're ours!
I love her, and they soon will die,
And now you know the Reason Why.
103
A WINTER FANTASY
Your veil is thick, and none would know
The pretty face it quite obscures;
But if you foot it through the snow,
Distrust those little boots of yours.
The pretty face it quite obscures;
But if you foot it through the snow,
Distrust those little boots of yours.
The tell-tale snow, a sparkling mould,
Says where they go and whence they came,
Lightly they touch its carpet cold,
And where they touch they sign your name.
Says where they go and whence they came,
Lightly they touch its carpet cold,
And where they touch they sign your name.
She pass'd beneath yon branches bare:
How fair her face, and how content!
I only know her face was fair,—
I only know she came and went.
How fair her face, and how content!
I only know her face was fair,—
I only know she came and went.
Pipe, robins, pipe; though boughs be bleak
Ye are her winter choristers;
Whose cheek will press that rose-cold cheek?
What lips those fresh young lips of hers?
Ye are her winter choristers;
Whose cheek will press that rose-cold cheek?
What lips those fresh young lips of hers?
104
THE HOUSEMAID
Wistful she stands—and yet resign'd,
She watches by the window-blind
Poor Girl. No doubt
The folk that pass despise thy lot:
Thou canst not stir, because 'tis not
Thy Sunday out.
She watches by the window-blind
Poor Girl. No doubt
The folk that pass despise thy lot:
Thou canst not stir, because 'tis not
Thy Sunday out.
To play a game of hide and seek
With dust and cobweb all the week
Small pleasure yields:
Oh dear, how nice it were to drop
One's pen and ink—one's pail and mop;
And scour the fields.
With dust and cobweb all the week
Small pleasure yields:
Oh dear, how nice it were to drop
One's pen and ink—one's pail and mop;
And scour the fields.
Poor Bodies few such pleasures know;
Seldom they come. How soon they go!
But Souls can roam;
For, lapt in visions airy-sweet,
She sees in this unlovely street
Her far-off home.
Seldom they come. How soon they go!
But Souls can roam;
For, lapt in visions airy-sweet,
She sees in this unlovely street
Her far-off home.
105
The street is now no street! She pranks
A purling brook with thymy banks.
In Fancy's realm
Yon post supports no lamp, aloof
It spreads above her parents' roof,—
A gracious elm.
A purling brook with thymy banks.
In Fancy's realm
Yon post supports no lamp, aloof
It spreads above her parents' roof,—
A gracious elm.
A father's aid, a mother's care,
And life for her was happy there:
But here, in thrall
She waits, and dreams, and fondly dreams,
And fondly smiles on One who seems
More dear than all.
And life for her was happy there:
But here, in thrall
She waits, and dreams, and fondly dreams,
And fondly smiles on One who seems
More dear than all.
Her dwelling-place I can't disclose!
Suppose her fair, her name suppose
Is Car, or Kitty;
She may be Jane—she might be plain—
For must the Subject of my strain
Be always pretty?
Suppose her fair, her name suppose
Is Car, or Kitty;
She may be Jane—she might be plain—
For must the Subject of my strain
Be always pretty?
Oft on a cloudless afternoon
Of budding May and leafy June,
Fit Sunday weather,
I pass thy window by design,
And wish thy Sunday out and mine
Might fall together.
Of budding May and leafy June,
Fit Sunday weather,
106
And wish thy Sunday out and mine
Might fall together.
For sweet it were thy lot to dower
With one brief joy: a white-robed flower
That prude or preacher
Hardly could deem it were unmeet
To lay on thy poor path, thou sweet,
Forlorn young Creature.
With one brief joy: a white-robed flower
That prude or preacher
Hardly could deem it were unmeet
To lay on thy poor path, thou sweet,
Forlorn young Creature.
But if her thought on wooing run
And if her Sunday-Swain is one
Who's fond of strolling,
She'd like my nonsense less than his,
And so it's better as it is—
And that's consoling.
And if her Sunday-Swain is one
Who's fond of strolling,
She'd like my nonsense less than his,
And so it's better as it is—
And that's consoling.
1864.
107
HEINE TO HIS MISTRESS
What do the violets ail,
So wan, so shy?
Why are the roses pale?
Oh why? Oh why?
So wan, so shy?
Why are the roses pale?
Oh why? Oh why?
The lark sad music makes
To sullen skies;
From yonder flowery brakes
Dead odours rise.
To sullen skies;
From yonder flowery brakes
Dead odours rise.
Why is the sun's new birth
A dawn of gloom?
Oh why is this fair earth
My joyless tomb?
A dawn of gloom?
Oh why is this fair earth
My joyless tomb?
I wait apart and sigh,
I call to thee;
Why, Heart's-belovèd, why
Didst thou leave me?
I call to thee;
Why, Heart's-belovèd, why
Didst thou leave me?
1876.
108
THE BEAR PIT
IN THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS
It seems that poor Bruin has never had peace
'Twixt bald men in Bethel, and wise men in grease.
Old Adage.
'Twixt bald men in Bethel, and wise men in grease.
Old Adage.
We liked the Bear's serio-comical face,
As he loll'd with a lazy, a lumbering grace;
Said Slyboots to me (as if she had got none),
“Papa, let's give Bruin a bit of your bun.”
As he loll'd with a lazy, a lumbering grace;
Said Slyboots to me (as if she had got none),
“Papa, let's give Bruin a bit of your bun.”
Says I, “A plum bun might please wistful old Bruin,
He can't eat the stone that the cruel boy threw in;
Stick yours on the point of mamma's parasol,
And then he will climb to the top of the pole.
He can't eat the stone that the cruel boy threw in;
Stick yours on the point of mamma's parasol,
And then he will climb to the top of the pole.
“Some Bears have got two legs, and some have got more,
Be good to old Bears if they've no legs or four;
Of duty to age you should never be careless,—
My dear, I am bald, and I soon shall be hairless!
Be good to old Bears if they've no legs or four;
109
My dear, I am bald, and I soon shall be hairless!
“The gravest aversion exists among Bears
From rude forward persons who give themselves airs,
We know how some graceless young people were maul'd
For plaguing a Prophet, and calling him bald.
From rude forward persons who give themselves airs,
We know how some graceless young people were maul'd
For plaguing a Prophet, and calling him bald.
“Strange ursine devotion! Their dancing-days ended,
Bears die to ‘remove’ what, in life, they defended:
They succour'd the Prophet, and, since that affair,
The bald have a painful regard for the bear.”
Bears die to ‘remove’ what, in life, they defended:
They succour'd the Prophet, and, since that affair,
The bald have a painful regard for the bear.”
My Moral! Small people may read it, and run.
(The Child has my moral—the Bear has my bun.)
(The Child has my moral—the Bear has my bun.)
110
THE OLD STONEMASON
A showery day in early spring,
An Old Man and a Child
Are seated near a scaffolding,
Where marble blocks are piled.
An Old Man and a Child
Are seated near a scaffolding,
Where marble blocks are piled.
His clothes are stain'd by age and soil,
As hers by rain and sun;
He looks as if his days of toil
Were very nearly done.
As hers by rain and sun;
He looks as if his days of toil
Were very nearly done.
To eat his dinner he had sought
A staircase proud and vast,
And here the duteous Child had brought
His scanty noon repast.
A staircase proud and vast,
And here the duteous Child had brought
His scanty noon repast.
A worn-out Workman needing aid:
A blooming Child of Light;
The stately palace steps;—all made
A most pathetic sight.
A blooming Child of Light;
The stately palace steps;—all made
A most pathetic sight.
We had sought shelter from the storm,
And saw this lowly Pair,—
But none could see a Shining Form
That watch'd beside them there.
And saw this lowly Pair,—
But none could see a Shining Form
That watch'd beside them there.
1874.
111
THE MUSIC PALACE
Shall you go? I don't ask you to seek it or shun it;
I went on an impulse: I've been and I've done it.
I went on an impulse: I've been and I've done it.
So this is a Music-hall, easy and free,
A temple for singing, and dancing, and spree;
The band is at Faust, and the benches are filling,
And all that I have can be had for a shilling.
A temple for singing, and dancing, and spree;
The band is at Faust, and the benches are filling,
And all that I have can be had for a shilling.
The senses are charm'd by the sights and the sounds;
A spirit of affable gladness abounds:
With zest we applaud, and as madly recall
The singer, the cellar-flap-dancer, and all.
A spirit of affable gladness abounds:
With zest we applaud, and as madly recall
The singer, the cellar-flap-dancer, and all.
A clown sings a song, and a fay cuts a caper,
And soon disappears in a rose-colour'd vapour:
Then an imp on a rope is a painfully-pleasant
Sensation for all the mammas that are present.
And soon disappears in a rose-colour'd vapour:
112
Sensation for all the mammas that are present.
But who is the Damsel that smiles to me there
With so reckless, indeed, so defiant an air?
She is bright—that she's pretty is more than I'll say.
Is she happy? At least she's exceedingly gay.
With so reckless, indeed, so defiant an air?
She is bright—that she's pretty is more than I'll say.
Is she happy? At least she's exceedingly gay.
It seems to me now, as we pass up the street,
Is Nell worse than I, or the worthies we meet?
She is reckless, her conduct's exceedingly sad—
A coin may be light, but it need not be bad.
Is Nell worse than I, or the worthies we meet?
She is reckless, her conduct's exceedingly sad—
A coin may be light, but it need not be bad.
Heaven help thee, poor Child: now a graceless and gay Thing,
You once were your Mother's, her pet and her plaything:
Where was your home? Are the stars that look down
On that home, the cold stars of this pitiless Town?
You once were your Mother's, her pet and her plaything:
113
On that home, the cold stars of this pitiless Town?
The stars are a riddle we never may read,
I prest her poor hand, and I bade her Godspeed!
She left me a heart overladen with sorrow—
You may hear Nelly's laugh at the palace tomorrow!
I prest her poor hand, and I bade her Godspeed!
She left me a heart overladen with sorrow—
You may hear Nelly's laugh at the palace tomorrow!
Ah! some go to revel, and some go to rue,
For some go to ruin. There's Paul's tolling two.
For some go to ruin. There's Paul's tolling two.
114
MRS. SMITH
Heigh-ho! they're wed. The cards are dealt,
Our frolic games are o'er;
I've laugh'd, and fool'd, and loved. I've felt—
As I shall feel no more!
Yon little thatch is where she lives,
Yon spire is where she met me;—
I think that if she quite forgives,
She cannot quite forget me.
Our frolic games are o'er;
I've laugh'd, and fool'd, and loved. I've felt—
As I shall feel no more!
Yon little thatch is where she lives,
Yon spire is where she met me;—
I think that if she quite forgives,
She cannot quite forget me.
Last year I trod these fields with Di,—
Fields fresh with clover and with rye;
They now seem arid:
Then Di was fair and single; how
Unfair it seems on me, for now
Di's fair—and married!
Fields fresh with clover and with rye;
They now seem arid:
Then Di was fair and single; how
Unfair it seems on me, for now
Di's fair—and married!
A blissful swain—I scorn'd the song
Which tells us though young Love is strong,
The Fates are stronger:
Then breezes blew a boon to men,
The buttercups were bright, and then
This grass was longer.
Which tells us though young Love is strong,
The Fates are stronger:
Then breezes blew a boon to men,
The buttercups were bright, and then
This grass was longer.
115
That day I saw and much esteem'd
Di's ankles, that the clover seem'd
Inclined to smother:
It twitch'd, and soon untied (for fun)
The ribbons of her shoes, first one,
And then the other.
Di's ankles, that the clover seem'd
Inclined to smother:
It twitch'd, and soon untied (for fun)
The ribbons of her shoes, first one,
And then the other.
I'm told that virgins augur some
Misfortune if their shoe-strings come
To grief on Friday:
And so did Di,—and then her pride
Decreed that shoe-strings so untied
Are “so untidy!”
Misfortune if their shoe-strings come
To grief on Friday:
And so did Di,—and then her pride
Decreed that shoe-strings so untied
Are “so untidy!”
Of course I knelt; with fingers deft
I tied the right, and tied the left:
Says Di, “This stubble
Is very stupid!—as I live
I'm quite ashamed! . . . I'm shock'd to give
You so much trouble!”
I tied the right, and tied the left:
Says Di, “This stubble
Is very stupid!—as I live
I'm quite ashamed! . . . I'm shock'd to give
You so much trouble!”
For answer I was fain to sink
To what we all would say and think
Were Beauty present:
“Don't mention such a simple act—
A trouble? not the least! In fact
It's rather pleasant!”
To what we all would say and think
Were Beauty present:
116
A trouble? not the least! In fact
It's rather pleasant!”
I trust that Love will never tease
Poor little Di, or prove that he's
A graceless rover.
She's happy now as Mrs. Smith—
And less polite when walking with
Her chosen lover!
Poor little Di, or prove that he's
A graceless rover.
She's happy now as Mrs. Smith—
And less polite when walking with
Her chosen lover!
Heigh-ho! Although no moral clings
To Di's blue eyes, and sandal strings,
We had our quarrels.
I think that Smith is thought an ass,—
I know that when they walk in grass
She wears balmorals.
To Di's blue eyes, and sandal strings,
We had our quarrels.
I think that Smith is thought an ass,—
I know that when they walk in grass
She wears balmorals.
1864.
117
THE OLD GOVERNMENT CLERK
(OLD STYLE)
We knew an old Scribe, it was “once on a time,”
An era to set sober datists despairing:
Then let them despair! Darby sat in a chair
Near the Cross that took name from the Village of Charing.
An era to set sober datists despairing:
Then let them despair! Darby sat in a chair
Near the Cross that took name from the Village of Charing.
Though silent and lean, Darby was not malign,
What hair he had left was more silver than sable;
He had also contracted a curve in the spine,
From bending too constantly over a table.
What hair he had left was more silver than sable;
He had also contracted a curve in the spine,
From bending too constantly over a table.
His pay and expenditure, quite in accord,
Were both on the strictest economy founded;
His rulers were known as the Sealing-wax Board,—
They ruled where red-tape and snug places abounded.
Were both on the strictest economy founded;
118
They ruled where red-tape and snug places abounded.
In his heart he look'd down on this dignified Knot;
And why? The forefather of one of these senators—
A rascal concern'd in the Gunpowder Plot—
Had been barber-surgeon to Darby's progenitors.
And why? The forefather of one of these senators—
A rascal concern'd in the Gunpowder Plot—
Had been barber-surgeon to Darby's progenitors.
Poor fool! is not life a vagary of luck?
For thirty long years of genteel destitution
He'd been writing despatches; which means he had stuck
Some heads and some tails to much circumlocution.
For thirty long years of genteel destitution
He'd been writing despatches; which means he had stuck
Some heads and some tails to much circumlocution.
This sounds rather weary and dreary; but, no!
Though strictly inglorious, his days were quiescent;
His red-tape was tied in a true-lover's bow
Every night when returning to Rosemary Crescent.
Though strictly inglorious, his days were quiescent;
His red-tape was tied in a true-lover's bow
Every night when returning to Rosemary Crescent.
119
There Joan meets him smiling, the Young Ones are there;
His coming is bliss to the half-dozen wee Things;
The dog and the cat have a greeting to spare,
And Phyllis, neat-handed, is laying the tea-things.
His coming is bliss to the half-dozen wee Things;
The dog and the cat have a greeting to spare,
And Phyllis, neat-handed, is laying the tea-things.
East wind, sob eerily! Sing, kettle, cheerily
Baby's abed, but its Father will rock it;—
His little ones boast their permission to toast
The cake that good fellow brings home in his pocket.
Baby's abed, but its Father will rock it;—
His little ones boast their permission to toast
The cake that good fellow brings home in his pocket.
This greeting the silent Old Clerk understands,
Now his friends he can love, had he foes he could mock them;
So met, so surrounded, his bosom expands,—
Some hearts have more need of such homes to unlock them.
Now his friends he can love, had he foes he could mock them;
So met, so surrounded, his bosom expands,—
Some hearts have more need of such homes to unlock them.
And Darby at least is resign'd to his lot;
And Joan, rather proud of the sphere he's adorning,
Has well-nigh forgotten that Gunpowder Plot,—
And he won't recall it till ten the next morning.
And Joan, rather proud of the sphere he's adorning,
120
And he won't recall it till ten the next morning.
A day must be near when, in pitiful case,
He will drop from his Branch, like a fruit more than mellow;
Is he yet to be found in his usual place?
Or is he already forgotten? Poor Fellow!
If still at his duty he soon will arrive;
He passes this turning because it is shorter;
He always is here as the clock's going five!—
Where is He? . . Ah, it is chiming the quarter!
He will drop from his Branch, like a fruit more than mellow;
Is he yet to be found in his usual place?
Or is he already forgotten? Poor Fellow!
If still at his duty he soon will arrive;
He passes this turning because it is shorter;
He always is here as the clock's going five!—
Where is He? . . Ah, it is chiming the quarter!
1856.
121
GERALDINE GREEN
I. THE SERENADE
Light slumber is quitting
The eyelids it prest;
The fairies are flitting,
That lull'd thee to rest.
Where night dews were falling,
Now feeds the wild bee;
The starling is calling,
My Darling, for thee.
The eyelids it prest;
The fairies are flitting,
That lull'd thee to rest.
Where night dews were falling,
Now feeds the wild bee;
The starling is calling,
My Darling, for thee.
The wavelets are crisper
That thrill the shy fern;
The leaves fondly whisper,
“We wait thy return.”
Arise then, and hazy
Regrets from thee fling,
For sorrows that crazy
To-morrows may bring.
That thrill the shy fern;
The leaves fondly whisper,
“We wait thy return.”
Arise then, and hazy
Regrets from thee fling,
For sorrows that crazy
To-morrows may bring.
122
A vague yearning smote us,
But wake not to weep;
My bark, Love, shall float us,
Across the still deep,
To isles where the lotus
Erst lull'd thee to sleep.
But wake not to weep;
My bark, Love, shall float us,
Across the still deep,
To isles where the lotus
Erst lull'd thee to sleep.
1861.
II. MY LIFE IS A ------
At Worthing, an exile from Geraldine G---,
How aimless, how wretched an Exile is he!
Promenades are not even prunella and leather
To lovers, if lovers can't foot them together.
How aimless, how wretched an Exile is he!
Promenades are not even prunella and leather
To lovers, if lovers can't foot them together.
He flies the parade, by the ocean he stands;
He traces a “Geraldine G.” on the sands;
Only “G.!” though her loved patronymic is “Green,”—
“I will not betray thee, my own Geraldine.”
He traces a “Geraldine G.” on the sands;
Only “G.!” though her loved patronymic is “Green,”—
“I will not betray thee, my own Geraldine.”
The fortunes of men have a time and a tide,
And Fate, the old Fury, will not be denied;
That name was, of course, soon wiped out by the sea,—
She jilted the Exile, did Geraldine G.
And Fate, the old Fury, will not be denied;
123
She jilted the Exile, did Geraldine G.
They meet, but they never have spoken since that;
He hopes she is happy,—he knows she is fat;
She woo'd on the shore, now is wed in the Strand;
And I—it was I wrote her name on the sand.
He hopes she is happy,—he knows she is fat;
She woo'd on the shore, now is wed in the Strand;
And I—it was I wrote her name on the sand.
1854.
124
DU RYS DE MADAME D'ALLEBRET
How fair those locks which now the light wind stirs!What eyes she has, and what a perfect arm!
And yet methinks that little Laugh of hers—
That little Laugh is still her crowning charm.
Where'er she passes, countryside or town,
The streets make festa, and the fields rejoice.
Should sorrow come, as 't will, to cast me down,
Or Death, as come he must, to hush my voice,
Her Laugh would wake me, just as now it thrills me—
That little giddy Laugh wherewith she kills me.
125
THE LADY I LOVE
The Lady I sing is as charming as Spring,
I own that I love the dear Lady I sing:
She is gay, she is sad, she is good, she is fair,
She lives at a Number in O--- Square.
I own that I love the dear Lady I sing:
She is gay, she is sad, she is good, she is fair,
She lives at a Number in O--- Square.
It is not 21, it is not 23—
You never shall get at her Number from me;
If you did, very soon you'd be mounting the stair
Of Number (no matter what!) O--- Square.
You never shall get at her Number from me;
If you did, very soon you'd be mounting the stair
Of Number (no matter what!) O--- Square.
They say she is clever. Indeed it is said
She is making a Novel right out of her Head!
That poor little Head! If her Heart were to spare
I'd break, and I'd mend it in O--- Square.
She is making a Novel right out of her Head!
That poor little Head! If her Heart were to spare
I'd break, and I'd mend it in O--- Square.
126
I've a heart of my own, and, in prose as in rhymes,
This heart has been fractured a good many times;
An excellent heart, tho' in sorry repair—
Little Friend, may I mend it in O--- Square?
This heart has been fractured a good many times;
An excellent heart, tho' in sorry repair—
Little Friend, may I mend it in O--- Square?
“What nonsense you talk.” Yes, but still I am one
Who feels pretty grave when he seems full of fun;
Some people are pretty, and yet full of care—
And Some One is pretty in O--- Square.
Who feels pretty grave when he seems full of fun;
Some people are pretty, and yet full of care—
And Some One is pretty in O--- Square.
I know I am singing in old-fashioned phrase
The music that pleased in the old-fashion'd days;
Alas, I know, too, I've an old-fashion'd air—
Oh, why did I ever see O--- Square!
The music that pleased in the old-fashion'd days;
Alas, I know, too, I've an old-fashion'd air—
Oh, why did I ever see O--- Square!
Postscript
The writer of prose, by intelligence taught,Says the thing that will please, in the way that he ought,
But your poor despised Bard, who by Nature is blest,
(In the scope of a couplet, or guise of a jest),
Says the thing that he pleases as pleases him best.
127
TEMPORA MUTANTUR!
Yes, here, once more a traveller,
I find the Angel Inn,
Where landlord, maids, and serving-men
Receive me with a grin:
Surely they can't remember Me,
My hair is grey and scanter;
I'm changed, so changed since I was here—
O tempora mutantur!
I find the Angel Inn,
Where landlord, maids, and serving-men
Receive me with a grin:
Surely they can't remember Me,
My hair is grey and scanter;
I'm changed, so changed since I was here—
O tempora mutantur!
The Angel's not much altered since
That happy month of June,
Which brought me here with Pamela
To spend our honeymoon:
Ah me, I even recollect
The shape of this decanter!
We've since been both much put about!—
O tempora mutantur!
That happy month of June,
Which brought me here with Pamela
To spend our honeymoon:
Ah me, I even recollect
The shape of this decanter!
We've since been both much put about!—
O tempora mutantur!
Ay, there's the clock, and looking-glass
Reflecting me again;
She vow'd her Love was very fair,
I see I'm very plain:
And there's that daub of Prince Leeboo;
'Twas Pamela's fond banter
To fancy it resembled me—
O tempora mutantur!
Reflecting me again;
128
I see I'm very plain:
And there's that daub of Prince Leeboo;
'Twas Pamela's fond banter
To fancy it resembled me—
O tempora mutantur!
The curtains have been dyed, but there,
Unbroken, is the same,
The very same, crack'd pane of glass
On which I scratch'd her name.
Yes, there's her tiny flourish still;
It used to so enchant her
To link two happy names in one—
O tempora mutantur!
Unbroken, is the same,
The very same, crack'd pane of glass
On which I scratch'd her name.
Yes, there's her tiny flourish still;
It used to so enchant her
To link two happy names in one—
O tempora mutantur!
The pilgrim sees an empty chair
Where Pamela once sat;
It may be she had found her grave,
It might be worse than that.
The fairest fade, the best of men
Have met with a supplanter;—
I wish that I could like this cry
Of tempora mutantur.
Where Pamela once sat;
It may be she had found her grave,
It might be worse than that.
The fairest fade, the best of men
Have met with a supplanter;—
I wish that I could like this cry
Of tempora mutantur.
1856.
129
TO MY OLD FRIEND POSTUMUS
(J. G.)
And, like yon clocke, when twelve shalle sound
To call our soules away,
Together may our hands be found,
An earnest that we praie.
To call our soules away,
Together may our hands be found,
An earnest that we praie.
My Friend, our few remaining years
Are hasting to an end,
They glide away, and lines are here
That time can never mend;
Thy blameless life avails thee not,—
Alas, my dear old Friend!
Are hasting to an end,
They glide away, and lines are here
That time can never mend;
Thy blameless life avails thee not,—
Alas, my dear old Friend!
Death lifts a burthen from the poor,
And brings the weary rest;
Yon lad was gay, and now he mourns
The lass he loved the best;
But you and I, we still are here,
And still can share the jest!
And brings the weary rest;
Yon lad was gay, and now he mourns
The lass he loved the best;
But you and I, we still are here,
And still can share the jest!
130
O pleasant Earth! This peaceful home!
The darling at my knee!
My own dear wife! Thyself, old Friend!
And must it come to me,
That any face shall fill my place
Unknown to them and thee?
The darling at my knee!
My own dear wife! Thyself, old Friend!
And must it come to me,
That any face shall fill my place
Unknown to them and thee?
All vainly are we fenced about
From peril, day and night;
The awful rapids must be shot
Our shallop will be slight;
O, pray that then we may descry
A cheering beacon-light.
From peril, day and night;
The awful rapids must be shot
Our shallop will be slight;
O, pray that then we may descry
A cheering beacon-light.
131
ON “A PORTRAIT OF A LADY”
BY THE PAINTER
She is good, for she must have a guileless mind
With that noble, trusting air;
A rose with a passionate heart is twined
In her crown of golden hair.
Some envy the cross that bewitchingly dips
To her bosom, and some have sighed
For the promise of May on her red, red lips,
And her thousand charms beside.
With that noble, trusting air;
A rose with a passionate heart is twined
In her crown of golden hair.
Some envy the cross that bewitchingly dips
To her bosom, and some have sighed
For the promise of May on her red, red lips,
And her thousand charms beside.
She is lovely and good; she has frank blue eyes;
A haunting shape. She stands
In a blossoming croft, under kindling skies,—
The weirdest of faery lands;
There are sapphire hills by the far-off seas,—
Grave laurels, and tender limes;
They tremble and glow in the morning breeze,—
My Beauty is up betimes.
A haunting shape. She stands
In a blossoming croft, under kindling skies,—
The weirdest of faery lands;
There are sapphire hills by the far-off seas,—
Grave laurels, and tender limes;
132
My Beauty is up betimes.
A bevy of idlers press around,
To wonder, and wish, and loll;
“Now who is the painter, and where has he found
This Woman we all extol,
With her wistful mouth, and her candid brow,
And a bloom as of bygone days?”—
How natural sounds their worship, how
Impertinent seems their praise!
To wonder, and wish, and loll;
“Now who is the painter, and where has he found
This Woman we all extol,
With her wistful mouth, and her candid brow,
And a bloom as of bygone days?”—
How natural sounds their worship, how
Impertinent seems their praise!
I stand aloof; I can well afford
To pardon the babble and crush
As they praise a work (do I need reward?)
That has grown beneath my brush:
Aloof—and in fancy again I hear
The music rise and fall,
As they crown her Queen of their dance and cheer,
She is mine, and Queen of All!
To pardon the babble and crush
As they praise a work (do I need reward?)
That has grown beneath my brush:
Aloof—and in fancy again I hear
The music rise and fall,
As they crown her Queen of their dance and cheer,
She is mine, and Queen of All!
133
My thoughts are away to that happy day,
A few short months agone,
When we left the games, and the dance, to stray
Through the shadowy croft, alone.
My feet are again where the daisies shine,
Away from the noise and glare,
When I kiss'd her mouth, and her cheek press'd mine,
And I fasten'd that rose in her hair.
A few short months agone,
When we left the games, and the dance, to stray
Through the shadowy croft, alone.
My feet are again where the daisies shine,
Away from the noise and glare,
When I kiss'd her mouth, and her cheek press'd mine,
And I fasten'd that rose in her hair.
1868.
134
INCHBAE
The flow of life is yet a rill
That laughs, and leaps, and glistens;
And still the woodland rings, and still
The old Damœtas listens.
That laughs, and leaps, and glistens;
And still the woodland rings, and still
The old Damœtas listens.
Anon he shuts a Poet's book
To heed the falling of the brook,
He cares but little why it flows,
Or whence it comes, or where it goes.
To heed the falling of the brook,
He cares but little why it flows,
Or whence it comes, or where it goes.
For here, on this bright heather bank,
His past—his future are a blank;
Enough for him the bloom, the cheer,
They all are his to-day, and here.
His past—his future are a blank;
Enough for him the bloom, the cheer,
They all are his to-day, and here.
But hark! a voice that carols free,
And fills the strath with melody!
She comes! a Creature clad in grace,
And joyful promise in her face.
And fills the strath with melody!
She comes! a Creature clad in grace,
And joyful promise in her face.
So let her fearlessly intrude
On this his much-loved solitude;
Is she a lovely phantom, or
That Love he long has waited for?
On this his much-loved solitude;
135
That Love he long has waited for?
O welcome as the morning dew;
Long, long have I expected you;
Come, share my seat, and, late or soon,
All else that's mine beneath the moon.
Long, long have I expected you;
Come, share my seat, and, late or soon,
All else that's mine beneath the moon.
And sing your happy roundelay
While Nature listens. Till to-day
This giddy stream has never known
A cadence gladder than its own:
While Nature listens. Till to-day
This giddy stream has never known
A cadence gladder than its own:
Forgive if I too fondly gaze,
Or praise the eyes that others praise:
I watch'd my Star, I've wander'd far—
Are you my Joy? You know you are!
Or praise the eyes that others praise:
I watch'd my Star, I've wander'd far—
Are you my Joy? You know you are!
Let others praise, as others prize,
The dearness of your frank blue eyes—
I cannot praise where I adore,
And that is praise—and something more.
The dearness of your frank blue eyes—
I cannot praise where I adore,
And that is praise—and something more.
136
AN OLD BUFFER
[_]
Buffer.—A cushion or apparatus, with strong springs, to deaden the buff or concussion between a moving body and one on which it strikes. —Webster's English Dictionary.
“If Blossom's a sceptic, or saucy, I'll search
And I'll find her a wholesome corrective—in church!”
Mamma loquitur.
And I'll find her a wholesome corrective—in church!”
Mamma loquitur.
“A knock-me-down sermon, and worthy of Birch,”
Says I to my wife, as we toddle from church;
“Convincing indeed!” is the lady's remark;
“How logical, too, on the size of the Ark!”
Then Blossom cut in, without begging our pardons,
“Pa, was it as big as the 'Logical Gardens?”
Says I to my wife, as we toddle from church;
“Convincing indeed!” is the lady's remark;
“How logical, too, on the size of the Ark!”
Then Blossom cut in, without begging our pardons,
“Pa, was it as big as the 'Logical Gardens?”
“Miss Blossom,” says I to my dearest of Dearies,
“Papa disapproves of nonsensical queries;
The Ark was an Ark, and had people to build it,
Enough that we're told Noah built it and fill'd it:
Mamma doesn't ask how he caught his opossums.”
—Said mamma, “That remark is as foolish as Blossom's!”
“Papa disapproves of nonsensical queries;
The Ark was an Ark, and had people to build it,
137
Mamma doesn't ask how he caught his opossums.”
—Said mamma, “That remark is as foolish as Blossom's!”
Thus talking and walking, the time is beguiled
By my orthodox Wife and my sceptical Child;
I act as their buffer, whenever I can,
And you see I'm of use as a family man.
I parry their blows, and I've plenty to do—
I think that the Child's are the worst of the two!
By my orthodox Wife and my sceptical Child;
I act as their buffer, whenever I can,
And you see I'm of use as a family man.
I parry their blows, and I've plenty to do—
I think that the Child's are the worst of the two!
My Wife has a healthy aversion for sceptics,
She vows they are bad—why, they're only dyspeptics!
May Blossom prove neither the one nor the other,
But do as she's bid by her excellent mother.
She think's I'm a Solon; perhaps, if I huff her,
She'll think I'm a . . . . something that's denser and tougher.
She vows they are bad—why, they're only dyspeptics!
May Blossom prove neither the one nor the other,
But do as she's bid by her excellent mother.
She think's I'm a Solon; perhaps, if I huff her,
She'll think I'm a . . . . something that's denser and tougher.
138
MY NEIGHBOUR'S WIFE!
Hark! Hark to my neighbour's flute!
Yon powder'd slave, that ox, that ass are his:
Hark to his wheezy pipe; my neighbour is
A worthy sort of brute.
Yon powder'd slave, that ox, that ass are his:
Hark to his wheezy pipe; my neighbour is
A worthy sort of brute.
My tuneful neighbour's rich—has houses, lands,
A wife (confound his flute)—a handsome wife!
Her love must give a gusto to his life.
See yonder—there she stands.
A wife (confound his flute)—a handsome wife!
Her love must give a gusto to his life.
See yonder—there she stands.
She turns, she gazes, she has lustrous eyes,
A throat like Juno, and Aurora's arms—
Per Bacco, what an affluence of charms!
My neighbour's drawn a prize.
A throat like Juno, and Aurora's arms—
Per Bacco, what an affluence of charms!
My neighbour's drawn a prize.
Yet, with all these, he too may have his woes,
His dreary doubts, and that eternal preaching;
Suffers he still from early pious teaching
As I do? Goodness knows!
His dreary doubts, and that eternal preaching;
139
As I do? Goodness knows!
How vain the wealth that breeds its own vexation!
Yet few of us would care to quite forego it:
Then weariness of soul—and many know it—
Is not a glad sensation:
Yet few of us would care to quite forego it:
Then weariness of soul—and many know it—
Is not a glad sensation:
And, therefore, neighbour mine, without a sting
I contemplate thy fields, thy house, thy flocks,
I covet not thy man, thine ass, thine ox,
Thy flute, thy—anything.
I contemplate thy fields, thy house, thy flocks,
I covet not thy man, thine ass, thine ox,
Thy flute, thy—anything.
140
BABY MINE
Baby mine, with the grave, grave face,
Where did you get that royal calm,
Too staid for joy, too still for grace?
I bend as I kiss your pink, soft palm;
Are you the first of a nobler race,
Baby mine?
Where did you get that royal calm,
Too staid for joy, too still for grace?
I bend as I kiss your pink, soft palm;
Are you the first of a nobler race,
Baby mine?
You come from the region of long ago,
And gazing awhile where the seraphs dwell
Has given your face a glory and glow—
Of that brighter land have you aught to tell?
I seem to have known it—I more would know,
Baby mine.
And gazing awhile where the seraphs dwell
Has given your face a glory and glow—
Of that brighter land have you aught to tell?
I seem to have known it—I more would know,
Baby mine.
Your rapt, blue eyes have a far-off reach,
Look at me now with those wondrous eyes,
Why are we doom'd to the gift of speech
While you are silent, and sweet, and wise?
You have much to learn—you have more to teach,
Baby mine.
Look at me now with those wondrous eyes,
Why are we doom'd to the gift of speech
While you are silent, and sweet, and wise?
You have much to learn—you have more to teach,
Baby mine.
141
WRITTEN UNDER AN ENGRAVING OF MISS THOUGHTFUL, WITH A LITTLE DOG IN HER ARMS, BY CARRINGTON BOWLES
Love me, love my Tray,
That is what these lips would say,
Did the lips but know the way.
That is what these lips would say,
Did the lips but know the way.
Praise my curls or eyes, mayhap,
My scarf, or, if you will, my cap,
But take my darling on your lap!
My scarf, or, if you will, my cap,
But take my darling on your lap!
Tray commands and Tray obeys,
Each of us the other sways—
Tray is mine, and I am Tray's.
Each of us the other sways—
Tray is mine, and I am Tray's.
142
WRITTEN UNDER AN ENGRAVING OF THE HONORABLE MRS. SHERARD, BY SMITH, AFTER KNELLER
She looks at me from arching brows,This winsome, some one else's spouse;
This woman to be grave or gay with—
To call and see, to wish to stay with.
Such eyes are blue. Such cheeks are rosy!
Who gave, or who will get, her posy?
Ah, who can tell? but this I see—
She's framed and glazed to smile on me,
She never speaks, she will not sing,
She always does the wiser thing.
143
WRITTEN UNDER A MEZZOTINT ENGRAVING OF WHICH THE TITLE HAD BEEN CUT OFF
Dear
Gadabout, your skirts reveal
A little, peeping, scarlet heel,
Your scarf would make a perfect sonnet,
I wonder who composed your bonnet?
Fond wife are you, or faithful maid?
Or meek-eyed nun in masquerade?
A little, peeping, scarlet heel,
Your scarf would make a perfect sonnet,
I wonder who composed your bonnet?
Fond wife are you, or faithful maid?
Or meek-eyed nun in masquerade?
But while I gaze there comes a doubt,
Conjecture to conjecture linking,
Of what I wonder are you thinking?
And what's that book (Vol. I) about?
Are you Honoria—learned—witty?
Or only commonplace and Kitty?
Conjecture makes me critical,
Are you so perfect, after all?
Conjecture to conjecture linking,
Of what I wonder are you thinking?
And what's that book (Vol. I) about?
Are you Honoria—learned—witty?
Or only commonplace and Kitty?
Conjecture makes me critical,
Are you so perfect, after all?
Some booby, of a byegone day,
Has cut this Fair One's name away,
And so I've written down, d'ye see,
My nonsense, where it used to be.
Has cut this Fair One's name away,
And so I've written down, d'ye see,
My nonsense, where it used to be.
144
A WORD THAT MAKES US LINGER
(Written in the Visitor's Book at Gopsall)
Kind hostess mine, who raised the latch
And welcomed me beneath your thatch,
Who make me here forget the pain,
And all the pleasures of Cockaigne,
Now, pen in hand, and pierced with woe,
I write one word before I go—
A word that dies upon my lips
While thus you kiss your finger-tips.
And welcomed me beneath your thatch,
Who make me here forget the pain,
And all the pleasures of Cockaigne,
Now, pen in hand, and pierced with woe,
I write one word before I go—
A word that dies upon my lips
While thus you kiss your finger-tips.
When Black-eyed Sue was rowed to land
That word she cried, and waved her hand—
Her lily hand!
It seems absurd,
But I can't write that dreadful word.
That word she cried, and waved her hand—
Her lily hand!
It seems absurd,
But I can't write that dreadful word.
145
ON THE FIRST PAGE OF THE ROWFANT VISITOR'S BOOK
Dear “What's-your-name,” who lift the latch,And make your stay beneath my thatch,
To no brief hour confine it,
But rest you here, and share our crust,
And when you go—if go you must—
Dear, what's your name? Pray sign it.
146
THE ROSE AND THE RING
(Christmas, 1854, and Christmas, 1863.)
She smiles, but her heart is in sable,
Ay, sad as her Christmas is chill;
She reads, and her book is the Fable
He penn'd for her while she was ill.
It is nine years ago since he wrought it,
Where reedy old Tiber is king;
And chapter by chapter he brought it,—
He read her The Rose and the Ring.
Ay, sad as her Christmas is chill;
She reads, and her book is the Fable
He penn'd for her while she was ill.
It is nine years ago since he wrought it,
Where reedy old Tiber is king;
And chapter by chapter he brought it,—
He read her The Rose and the Ring.
And when it was printed, and gaining
Renown with all lovers of glee,
He sent her this copy containing
His comical little croquis;
A sketch of a rather droll couple,
She's pretty, he's quite t'other thing!
He begs (with a spine vastly supple)
She will study The Rose and the Ring.
Renown with all lovers of glee,
He sent her this copy containing
His comical little croquis;
A sketch of a rather droll couple,
She's pretty, he's quite t'other thing!
He begs (with a spine vastly supple)
She will study The Rose and the Ring.
147
It pleased the kind Wizard to send her
The last and the best of his Toys;
He aye had a sentiment tender
For innocent maidens and boys:
And though he was great as a scorner,
The guileless were safe from his sting:
How sad is past mirth to the mourner—
A tear on The Rose and the Ring.
The last and the best of his Toys;
He aye had a sentiment tender
For innocent maidens and boys:
And though he was great as a scorner,
The guileless were safe from his sting:
How sad is past mirth to the mourner—
A tear on The Rose and the Ring.
She reads; I may vainly endeavour
Her mirth-chequer'd grief to pursue;
For she knows she has lost, and for ever,
The Heart that was bared to so few;
But here, on the shrine of his glory,
One poor little blossom I fling;—
And You see there's a nice little story
Attach'd to The Rose and the Ring.
Her mirth-chequer'd grief to pursue;
For she knows she has lost, and for ever,
The Heart that was bared to so few;
But here, on the shrine of his glory,
One poor little blossom I fling;—
And You see there's a nice little story
Attach'd to The Rose and the Ring.
1864.
148
MR. PLACID'S FLIRTATION
Jemima was cross, and I lost my umbrella
That day at the tomb of Cecilia Metella.
Letters from Rome.
That day at the tomb of Cecilia Metella.
Letters from Rome.
Miss Tristram's poulet ended thus: “Nota bene,
We meet for croquet in the Aldobrandini.”
Says my wife, “Then I'll drive, and you'll ride with Selina”
(Jones's fair spouse, of the Via Sistina).
We meet for croquet in the Aldobrandini.”
Says my wife, “Then I'll drive, and you'll ride with Selina”
(Jones's fair spouse, of the Via Sistina).
We started: I'll own that my family deem
I'm an ass, but I'm not such an ass as I seem;
As we cross'd the stones gently a nursemaid said “La—
There goes Mrs. Jones with Miss Placid's papa!”
I'm an ass, but I'm not such an ass as I seem;
As we cross'd the stones gently a nursemaid said “La—
There goes Mrs. Jones with Miss Placid's papa!”
Our friends, one or two may be mention'd anon,
Had arranged rendezvous at the Gate of St. John:
That pass'd, off we spun over turf that's not green there,
And soon were all met at the villa. You've been there?
Had arranged rendezvous at the Gate of St. John:
149
And soon were all met at the villa. You've been there?
I'll try and describe, or I won't, if you please,
The cheer that was set for us under the trees:
You have read the menu, may you read it again;
Champagne, perigord, galantine, and—champagne.
The cheer that was set for us under the trees:
You have read the menu, may you read it again;
Champagne, perigord, galantine, and—champagne.
The luncheon despatch'd, we adjourn'd to croquet,
A dainty, but difficult sport in its way.
Thus I counsel the sage, who to play at it stoops,
Belabour thy neighbour, and spoon through thy hoops.
A dainty, but difficult sport in its way.
Thus I counsel the sage, who to play at it stoops,
Belabour thy neighbour, and spoon through thy hoops.
Then we stroll'd, and discourse found its kindest of tones:
“How charming were solitude and—Mrs. Jones!”
“Indeed, Mr. Placid, I dote on the sheeny
And shadowy paths of this Aldobrandini!”
“How charming were solitude and—Mrs. Jones!”
“Indeed, Mr. Placid, I dote on the sheeny
And shadowy paths of this Aldobrandini!”
150
A girl came with violet posies, and two
Soft eyes, like her violets, freshen'd with dew,
And a kind of an indolent, fine-lady air,—
As if she by accident found herself there.
Soft eyes, like her violets, freshen'd with dew,
And a kind of an indolent, fine-lady air,—
As if she by accident found herself there.
I bought one. Selina was pleased to accept it;
She gave me a rosebud to keep—and I've kept it.
Then twilight was near, and I think, in my heart,
When she vow'd she must go, she was loth to depart.
She gave me a rosebud to keep—and I've kept it.
Then twilight was near, and I think, in my heart,
When she vow'd she must go, she was loth to depart.
Cattivo momento! we dare not delay:
The steeds are remounted, and wheels roll away:
The ladies condemn Mrs. Jones, as the phrase is,
But vie with each other in chanting my praises.
The steeds are remounted, and wheels roll away:
The ladies condemn Mrs. Jones, as the phrase is,
But vie with each other in chanting my praises.
“He has so much to say!” cries the fair Mrs. Legge;
“How amusing he was about missing the peg!”
“What a beautiful smile!” says the plainest Miss Gunn.
All echo, “He's charming! delightful!—What fun!”
“How amusing he was about missing the peg!”
151
All echo, “He's charming! delightful!—What fun!”
This sounds rather nice, and it's perfectly clear it
Had sounded more nice had I happen'd to hear it;
The men were less civil, and gave me a rub,
So I afterwards heard when I went to the Club.
Had sounded more nice had I happen'd to hear it;
The men were less civil, and gave me a rub,
So I afterwards heard when I went to the Club.
Says Brown, “I shall drop Mr. Placid's society;”
(Brown is a prig of improper propriety;)
“Hang him,” said Smith (who from cant's not exempt)
“Why he'll bring immorality into contempt.”
(Brown is a prig of improper propriety;)
“Hang him,” said Smith (who from cant's not exempt)
“Why he'll bring immorality into contempt.”
Says I (to myself) when I found me alone,
“My wife has my heart, is it always her own?”
And further, says I (to myself) “I'll be shot
If I know if Selina adores me or not.”
“My wife has my heart, is it always her own?”
And further, says I (to myself) “I'll be shot
If I know if Selina adores me or not.”
152
Says Jones, “I've just come from the scarvi, at Veii,
And I've bought some remarkably fine scarabæi!”
And I've bought some remarkably fine scarabæi!”
153
OUR PHOTOGRAPHS
She play'd me false, but that's not why
I haven't quite forgiven Di,
Although I've tried:
This curl was hers, so brown, so bright,
She gave it me one blissful night,
And—more beside!
I haven't quite forgiven Di,
Although I've tried:
This curl was hers, so brown, so bright,
She gave it me one blissful night,
And—more beside!
In photo we were group'd together;
She wore the darling hat and feather
That I adore;
In profile by her side I sat
Reading my poetry—but that
She'd heard before.
She wore the darling hat and feather
That I adore;
In profile by her side I sat
Reading my poetry—but that
She'd heard before.
Why, after all, Di threw me over
I never knew, and can't discover,
Or even guess;
May be Smith's lyrics she decided
Were sweeter than the sweetest I did—
I acquiesce.
I never knew, and can't discover,
Or even guess;
May be Smith's lyrics she decided
Were sweeter than the sweetest I did—
I acquiesce.
154
A week before their wedding day,
When Smith was call'd in haste away
To join the Staff,
Di gave to him, with tearful mien,
Our only photograph. I've seen
That photograph.
When Smith was call'd in haste away
To join the Staff,
Di gave to him, with tearful mien,
Our only photograph. I've seen
That photograph.
I've seen it in Smith's album-book!
Just think! her hat—her tender look,
Are now that brute's!
Before she gave it, off she cut
My body, head, and lyrics, but
She was obliged, the little slut,
To leave my Boots.
Just think! her hat—her tender look,
Are now that brute's!
Before she gave it, off she cut
My body, head, and lyrics, but
She was obliged, the little slut,
To leave my Boots.
155
ADVICE TO A POET
Dear Poet, do not rhyme at all!
But if you must, don't tell your neighbours,
Or five in six, who cannot scrawl,
Will dub you “donkey” for your labours.
This epithet may seem unjust
To you, or any Verse-begetter:—
Must we admit, I fear we must,
That nine in ten deserve no better?
But if you must, don't tell your neighbours,
Or five in six, who cannot scrawl,
Will dub you “donkey” for your labours.
This epithet may seem unjust
To you, or any Verse-begetter:—
Must we admit, I fear we must,
That nine in ten deserve no better?
Then let them bray with leathern lungs,
And match you with the beast that grazes;
Or wag their heads and hold their tongues,
Or damn you with the faintest praises.
Be patient, for be sure you won't
Win vogue without extreme vexation:
And hope for sympathy,—but don't
Expect it from a near relation.
And match you with the beast that grazes;
Or wag their heads and hold their tongues,
Or damn you with the faintest praises.
Be patient, for be sure you won't
Win vogue without extreme vexation:
And hope for sympathy,—but don't
Expect it from a near relation.
156
When strangers first approved my books,
My kindred marvell'd what the praise meant;
They now wear more respectful looks,
But can't get over their amazement.
Indeed, they've power to wound beyond
That wielded by the fiercest hater,
For all the time they are so fond—
Which makes the aggravation greater.
My kindred marvell'd what the praise meant;
They now wear more respectful looks,
But can't get over their amazement.
Indeed, they've power to wound beyond
That wielded by the fiercest hater,
For all the time they are so fond—
Which makes the aggravation greater.
Most warblers only half express
The threadbare thoughts they feebly utter:
Now if they tried for something less,
They might not sink, and gasp, and flutter.
Fly low at first,—then mount and win
The niche for which the town's contesting;
And never mind your kith and kin,—
But never give them cause for jesting.
The threadbare thoughts they feebly utter:
Now if they tried for something less,
They might not sink, and gasp, and flutter.
Fly low at first,—then mount and win
The niche for which the town's contesting;
And never mind your kith and kin,—
But never give them cause for jesting.
Hold Pegasus in hand, control
A taste for ornament ensnaring:
Simplicity is yet the soul
Of all that Time deems worth the sparing.
Long lays are not a lively sport,
So clip your own to half a quarter;
If readers now don't think them short,
Posterity will cut them shorter.
A taste for ornament ensnaring:
Simplicity is yet the soul
Of all that Time deems worth the sparing.
157
So clip your own to half a quarter;
If readers now don't think them short,
Posterity will cut them shorter.
I look on bards who whine for praise
With feelings of profoundest pity:
They hunger for the Poet's bays,
And swear one's waspish when one's witty.
The Critic's lot is passing hard,—
Between ourselves, I think reviewers,
When call'd to truss a crowing bard,
Should not be sparing of the skewers.
With feelings of profoundest pity:
They hunger for the Poet's bays,
And swear one's waspish when one's witty.
The Critic's lot is passing hard,—
Between ourselves, I think reviewers,
When call'd to truss a crowing bard,
Should not be sparing of the skewers.
We all, the foolish and the wise,
Regard our verse with fascination,
Through asinine-paternal eyes,
And hues of Fancy's own creation;
Prythee, then, check that passing sneer
At any self-deluded rhymer
Who thinks his beer (the smallest beer!)
Has all the gust of alt Hochheimer.
Regard our verse with fascination,
Through asinine-paternal eyes,
And hues of Fancy's own creation;
Prythee, then, check that passing sneer
At any self-deluded rhymer
Who thinks his beer (the smallest beer!)
Has all the gust of alt Hochheimer.
158
Oh, for the Poet-Voice that swells
To lofty truths, or noble curses—
I only wear the cap and bells,
And yet some Tears are in my verses.
I softly trill my sparrow reed,
Pleased if but One should like the twitter;
Humbly I lay it down to heed
A music or a minstrel fitter.
To lofty truths, or noble curses—
I only wear the cap and bells,
And yet some Tears are in my verses.
I softly trill my sparrow reed,
Pleased if but One should like the twitter;
Humbly I lay it down to heed
A music or a minstrel fitter.
159
THE JESTER'S MORAL
Is Human Life a pleasant game
That gives the palm to all?
A fight for fortune, or for fame,
A struggle, and a fall?
Who views the Past, and all he prized,
With tranquil exultation?
And who can say—I've realised
My fondest aspiration?
That gives the palm to all?
A fight for fortune, or for fame,
A struggle, and a fall?
Who views the Past, and all he prized,
With tranquil exultation?
And who can say—I've realised
My fondest aspiration?
Alack, not one. No, rest assured
That all are prone to quarrel
With Fate, when worms destroy their gourd,
Or mildew spoils their laurel:
The prize may come to cheer our lot,
But all too late; and granted
If even better, still it's not
Exactly what we wanted.
That all are prone to quarrel
With Fate, when worms destroy their gourd,
Or mildew spoils their laurel:
The prize may come to cheer our lot,
But all too late; and granted
If even better, still it's not
Exactly what we wanted.
My schoolboy time! I wish to praise
That bud of brief existence;
The vision of my younger days
Now trembles in the distance.
An envious vapour lingers here,
And there I find a chasm;
But much remains, distinct and clear,
To sink enthusiasm.
That bud of brief existence;
The vision of my younger days
Now trembles in the distance.
160
And there I find a chasm;
But much remains, distinct and clear,
To sink enthusiasm.
Such thoughts just now disturb my soul
With reason good, for lately
I took the train to Marley-knoll,
And cross'd the fields to Mately.
I found old Wheeler at his gate,
Who once rare sport could show me,
My Mentor wise on springe and bait—
But Wheeler did not know me.
With reason good, for lately
I took the train to Marley-knoll,
And cross'd the fields to Mately.
I found old Wheeler at his gate,
Who once rare sport could show me,
My Mentor wise on springe and bait—
But Wheeler did not know me.
“Good lord!” at last exclaimed the churl,
“Are you the little chap, sir,
What used to train his hair in curl,
And wore a scarlet cap, sir?”
And then he took to fill in blanks,
And conjure up old faces;
And talk of well-remember'd pranks
In half-forgotten places.
“Are you the little chap, sir,
What used to train his hair in curl,
And wore a scarlet cap, sir?”
And then he took to fill in blanks,
And conjure up old faces;
And talk of well-remember'd pranks
In half-forgotten places.
It pleased the man to tell his brief
And rather mournful story,—
Old Bliss's school had come to grief,
And Bliss had “gone to glory.”
Fell'd were his trees, his house was razed,
And what less keenly pain'd me,
A venerable Donkey grazed
Exactly where he caned me.
And rather mournful story,—
Old Bliss's school had come to grief,
And Bliss had “gone to glory.”
161
And what less keenly pain'd me,
A venerable Donkey grazed
Exactly where he caned me.
And where have school and playmate sped,
Whose ranks were once so serried?
Why some are wed, and some are dead,
And some are only buried;
Frank Petre, erst so full of fun,
Is now St. Blaise's Prior,
And Travers, the attorney's son,
Is Member for the shire.
Whose ranks were once so serried?
Why some are wed, and some are dead,
And some are only buried;
Frank Petre, erst so full of fun,
Is now St. Blaise's Prior,
And Travers, the attorney's son,
Is Member for the shire.
Dull maskers we. Life's festival
Enchants the blithe new-comer;
But seasons change;—then where are all
Those friendships of our summer?
Wan pilgrims flit athwart our track,
Cold looks attend the meeting;
We only greet them, glancing back,
Or pass without a greeting.
Enchants the blithe new-comer;
But seasons change;—then where are all
Those friendships of our summer?
Wan pilgrims flit athwart our track,
Cold looks attend the meeting;
We only greet them, glancing back,
Or pass without a greeting.
Old Bliss I owe some rubs, but pride
Constrains me to postpone 'em,—
Something he taught me, ere he died,
About nil nisi bonum.
I've met with wiser, better men,
But I forgive him wholly;
Perhaps his jokes were sad, but then
He used to storm so drolly.
Constrains me to postpone 'em,—
Something he taught me, ere he died,
About nil nisi bonum.
162
But I forgive him wholly;
Perhaps his jokes were sad, but then
He used to storm so drolly.
“I still can laugh” is still my boast,
But mirth has sounded gayer;
And which provokes my laughter most,
The preacher or the player?
Alack, I cannot laugh at what
Once made us laugh so freely;
For Nestroy and Grassot are not;
And where is Mr. Keeley?
But mirth has sounded gayer;
And which provokes my laughter most,
The preacher or the player?
Alack, I cannot laugh at what
Once made us laugh so freely;
For Nestroy and Grassot are not;
And where is Mr. Keeley?
I'll join St. Blaise (a verseman fit,
More fit than I, once did it)
—I shave my crown? No, Common-Wit,
And Common-Sense forbid it.
I'd sooner dress your Little Miss
As Paulet shaves his poodles!
As soon propose for Betsy Bliss,
Or get proposed for Boodle's.
More fit than I, once did it)
—I shave my crown? No, Common-Wit,
And Common-Sense forbid it.
I'd sooner dress your Little Miss
As Paulet shaves his poodles!
As soon propose for Betsy Bliss,
Or get proposed for Boodle's.
We prate of Life's illusive dyes,
And yet fond Hope misleads us;
We all believe we near the prize,
Till some fresh dupe succeeds us!
And yet, though Life's a riddle, though
No Clerk has yet explain'd it,
I still can hope; for well I know
That Love has thus ordain'd it.
And yet fond Hope misleads us;
We all believe we near the prize,
Till some fresh dupe succeeds us!
163
No Clerk has yet explain'd it,
I still can hope; for well I know
That Love has thus ordain'd it.
Paris, November, 1864.
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