Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems

by the late Thomas Haynes Bayly; Edited by his Widow. With A Memoir of the Author. In Two Volumes

Bayly, Thomas Haynes (1797-1839)

VOL I.

II.

[VOLUME TWO]

POEMS.

FASHIONABLE ECLOGUES.

SONGS OF THE DAYS OF CHIVALRY.

THE WREATH.

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301

II. [VOLUME TWO]

POEMS.

THE ABSENTEE.

If England's isle is favour'd; if her plains
Are sown and reaped by happy, healthful swains;
If in her streets and palaces, the light
Of wealth and splendour sparkles day and night;
If in her capital profusion smiles,
She sends the overplus to other isles;
If her white rustic cottages retain
A beauteous neatness, sought elsewhere in vain;
Her boundless charity a joy imparts
To humbler dwellings, and less cheerful hearts.

When in her halls the young and lovely meet,
When nought but tuneful sounds, and dancing feet,
Are heard and seen;—when costly jewels blaze,
Reflecting the unnumbered lamps, whose rays
Beam like the noon-day sun;—then charity
May animate each bosom, and may be
The leader of the sports: and when at last
The revellers are gone, the splendour past,
It may cause joy elsewhere, and keep aloof
The shades of sorrow from a peasant's roof.

Much has been done; but while some ills remain,
Let not the wretched cry for help in vain;
Send forth the willing tribute, every deed
Of charity is blessed, and it shall lead
To a more perfect union. Erin feels
The kindness of the friendly hand which heals
Her present wounds.—Oh! may dissension cease;
May perfect confidence, and perfect peace
Unite the sister kingdoms—ne'er to part,
Cemented by a union of the heart.

But oh, ye Renegades! ye Absentees!
Who fly from home for luxury and ease,
Draining the country of its produce; taking
Each shilling you can grasp, and then forsaking
Your native land, and the poor slaves whose toil
Drew forth your wealth from the luxuriant soil;
Say, is it just to draw your riches thence,
And leave behind no trifling recompense?
To fill your purse, and then with lavish hands
To scatter its contents in foreign lands?
Lands, where each patriot heart your course should shun,
And scorn Hibernia's cold degenerate son.

Extensive and superb is your estate,
Your grounds magnificent—your income great;
Your mansion noble. Has affliction's breath
Fann'd it, and changed it to the house of death?
Why are the windows shut—the portals closed?
Why is the weary traveller opposed?
Why does no smoke from chimney-tops ascend,
Showing good cheer within?—Is there no friend—
No welcome guest in yonder ancient hall?
No—nor a host to welcome! dark are all
Those once gay chambers; and no more we see
Erin's proverbial hospitality.

Oh! far beyond a proverb was their warm—
Their hospitable welcome; it could charm
The saddest stranger from his silent mood,
Imparting sweetness to the coarsest food:

But thus deserted by their nobles; left
Drained of their opulence; almost bereft
Of quiet dwellings, while the same good will,
The same kind warmth of heart pervades them still;
We mourn for them, and with disgust we see
The cause of all—the heartless Absentee.

Why is his mansion closed? Alas! that gate
Has seldom moved upon its hinge of late;
The Lord is absent seeking purer air,
In Piccadilly, or in Grosvenor Square.
Does public business call on him? if so,
It may be unavoidable.—Oh, no!
Many have good excuses, go they must
When business calls; and we sincerely trust
Their counsels in the state may make amends
For their long absence:—but my blame extends
To those who go uncalled, and only go
To find a wider field for pomp and show;
Drowning all patriot thoughts in baser joys,
And spending Irish coin on English toys:
And when the mischief they have caused breaks forth,
They look amazed, and wonder that the earth
Should so uncivilly refuse to give
Its produce;—or that Irishmen should live
In discontent and pain, while agents pay
To each his wages—some few pence a day!

Go fashion—to the house of mourning go!
With that warm cheek of fire—that heart of snow,
There will that flushing cheek be pale with dread,
When thy glance rests on the unconscious dead;
There will that heart's unthinking coldness melt,
Subdued by better feelings—now unfelt.
Thy lively spirit shrinks from sorrow's breath;
What has that glowing form to do with death?
Disease may rage—thy fellow-men may be
Hurled to their graves; but, what is that to thee?
Gaze on the dead—restrain thy heart's disgust—
What he is, thou shalt be—mere lifeless dust!

The spring is spent in London's gay career,
And in the warmer season of the year,
An English cottage-villa near the sea
Is the retreat of Erin's Absentee!
The winter finds him in the streets of Bath;
Spring reconducts him to the London path;
His road is circular, its course pursuing,
It leads to nothing—but his country's ruin.
Yet has not nature, with a liberal hand,
Scattered her beauties o'er his native land?
Killarney's lakes, and rocks, and Wicklow's glens
Are lovely, and unrivalled; pencils—pens—
Can ne'er describe, or paint them. Then survey
Dublin—still smiling o'er her beauteous bay,
And own that Erin is too fair for thee,
Deserter! Renegade! and Absentee!

FASHIONABLE ECLOGUES.

I. Scene—Junior United Service Club.

CAPTAIN BIGGS AND LIEUTENANT WILKINS.
CAPTAIN.

Come, Charles! another glass, my boy!
I've gained my end, my point is carried;
One bumper more to wish me joy—
When next we meet I shall be married.
I knew you'd stare—but can you guess
Who is the object of my passion?
Oh! she's the pink of loveliness,
The very paragon of fashion!

Nay, do not try—you'll guess in vain—
And yet, upon consideration,
I own the case is pretty plain,
You must have noticed the flirtation.
'Tis Fanny Miles! the reigning belle!
The all-accomplished, pretty Fanny!
You must confess I've managed well
To win a prize sought by so many.

LIEUTENANT.
I am surprised, I must allow,
I thought the girl was too capricious.

CAPTAIN.
Nay, nay, she never loved till now.

LIEUTENANT.
Well, but the mother's so ambitious,
She will make up to Earls and Dukes,
And now and then is disconcerted
By chilling slights, and such rebukes
As glasses raised, or eyes averted.

CAPTAIN.

That may be over-anxious zeal,
To elevate her only daughter;
You cannot feel as mothers feel.

LIEUTENANT.
No—but the girl—you're sure you've caught her?
You think she loves you?

CAPTAIN.
Think she loves!
How can you ask so cold a question.
Her pallid cheek her passion proves—

LIEUTENANT.
Pooh! that may all be indigestion!

CAPTAIN.

Oh! do not jest; she doats on me:
There ne'er was woman so devoted.

LIEUTENANT.
Since she came out—stop—let me see,—
On one—two—three—four—five she's doated.
Her dotage may pass off.

CAPTAIN.

You wrong
The kindest of all earthly creatures!
Did frailty ever yet belong
To such a set of faultless features?

Don't smile, for I'll convince you yet,
A patient listener entreating;
I'll say, how, when, and where we met,
And all that happened at the meeting.
It was at Almack's; she had got
One ticket, and she begg'd another;
But Lady C. declared she'd not
For worlds admit the humdrum mother.

LIEUTENANT.
And yet the daughter went?

CAPTAIN.

Oh yes!—
You know—that is—what should prevent her?

LIEUTENANT.
If 'gainst my parent, I confess,
A door were shut, I'd scorn to enter.

CAPTAIN.

One ticket came—how could it please
Maternal feelings not to use it?
A ticket for the Duke of D's,—
Or even Almack's—who'd refuse it?

LIEUTENANT.

Are girls so mean! Well, well, proceed.
She went, it seems—and there you met her?

CAPTAIN.

We met—we waltzed—and we agreed
To meet again—could I forget her?
I called next day, and Mr. Miles,
And Mrs. Miles seem'd charm'd to know me,
Contributing with many smiles
Each kind attention they could show me.
And I was ask'd to dine and sup,
And cards for balls were never wanting.
The carriage came and took me up—
We went together, t'was enchanting!

I saw at once it was their aim
That she and I should be united,
For every morning, when I came,
To something gay I was invited.

In purchases, she sought my taste;
Where'er we went, 'twas I escorted;
In gallopades, I held her waist;
In morning walks, my arm supported.
I saw the time was come, in fact,
When honour bade me to disclose all,
So in the Opera's last act
Last night—I whisper'd a proposal!

LIEUTENANT.
And what said Fanny?

CAPTAIN.

Oh! she sigh'd—
And raised her fan a blush to smother.
I gently breathed, “Oh! with what pride
Shall I present you to my brother.”
She started—(timid pet!) the word
Was premature—the thought a bad one.
“Brother!” she said; “I never heard—
You never mention'd that you had one.”

“My elder brother!” I exclaim'd.
She turn'd away—(sweet bashful creature!
To hear her future brother named
No doubt had crimson'd ev'ry feature.)
Then pleading earnestly I stood,
With half-averted face she heard me,
And answer'd “Sir—you're—very—good—”
But to her “dear mamma” referred me.

I hurried home, and quickly wrote,
As 'twere with wand of necromancer;
To Mrs. Miles I sent the note,
And now I'm waiting for the answer.

LIEUTENANT.

Sit down, my friend—don't fidget so—
Those men at breakfast will observe us—
Sit down, I beg of you—

CAPTAIN.

Oh! no,
I really can't, I am so nervous.
Ha! what is this!—a note for me!
'Tis it!—“No answer” did the man say?—
Now then my longing eyes will see
All that sincere affection can say!

(reads)

“Sir—your obliging note—high sense—
My daughter has—of the great honour—
Of good opinion—preference—”
There, my boy!—there—'tis plain I've won her!

(reads again)

“But—you're a younger brother, Sir!
And I must say—you will excuse it—
You were to blame to think of her;
And your proposal—must refuse it.
“I think it best to add at once,
That in declining your acquaintance—”
I'll read no more!—Oh, idiot! dunce!
How shall I bear this cruel sentence?

LIEUTENANT.
Be calm, my friend.

CAPTAIN.

Alas! till now,
I never knew what blighted hope meant.

LIEUTENANT.
Be pacified.

CAPTAIN.

Ah! tell me how
I best may manage an elopement.

I'll seek a druggist—happy plan!
And I will ask him—

LIEUTENANT.
Pray be placid!

CAPTAIN.

For Epsom crystals; but the man
I'll bribe to give oxalic acid!

LIEUTENANT.
Nay, seek amusement—it is right.

CAPTAIN.
I'll tell my man to load my pistols.

LIEUTENANT.
Come to the opera to-night.

CAPTAIN.
I'll go and buy the fatal crystals.

LIEUTENANT.

I've got two tickets—'tis a sin
To die despairing. Come, my crony!

CAPTAIN.

Well—to please you—I'll just drop in
And take one peep at Taglioni.

II. Scene—The Governor's Study.

SQUIRE LONG AND LONG JUNIOR.
SQUIRE LONG.
George, why don't you marry?—at your time of life
'Tis a man's bounden duty to look for a wife.

LONG, JUNr.
Your will is my law, Sir; but what can I do?
The ladies I fix upon never please you!

SQUIRE LONG.
No, George, but your father your interest watches.
I've pointed out three or four excellent matches.

LONG, JUNr.
Your will is my law, Sir; but then, do you see,
The ladies you fix upon never please me.

SQUIRE LONG.
Why zounds! George, you don't go the right way to work,
Make up to the Fox-hunting Heiress from York.

LONG, JUNr.
The steeple chase lady!—If after that spec
There's less danger of breaking my heart than my neck;
A brilliant her eye, but a ruby her nose is,
Horse laughter her smile, and her bloom cabbage roses!

SQUIRE LONG.
Oh! George, you provoke me; but say, have you seen
The rich and rare private theatrical Queen?
Who gets up the plays down at Splashington Hall,
First Manager—Dramatist—Actress—and all!

LONG, JUNr.
No! not the Blue Lady who rules the Green-room,
Artificial in attitude, simper, and bloom;
Who looks up so loving in Romeo's face,
Returning with gusto each sigh and embrace.
To make a proscenium she'd split my saloon,
And darken it all for rehearsals at noon.
'Twould ruffle me, Sir—why, 'twould ruffle a saint
To live amid canvass, gilt paper and paint.

SQUIRE LONG.
What think you then, George, of the Baronet's widow,
The lady of arable, pasture, and meadow?

LONG, JUNr.
Sir Acre's relict? No, no, my good Sir,
For ruin lurks under rich widows like her.
The crops that she cuts, and the beasts that she kills
Are all melted down in her milliner's bills!
Don't talk of her produce—its merit must stop,
If I cannot prevent her from wearing a crop!
Her hey-day is endless; she'll add to my trouble,
And into straw bonnets she'd turn all my stubble!

SQUIRE LONG.
Miss Blonda, the beauty—what think you of her
The beauty, par excellence—can you demur?

LONG, JUNr.
The belle of the public? Ah! no, Sir, I seek
For one with the first bloom of youth on her cheek;
The belle of my own individual choice,
Not hawk'd about yearly by Fashion's shrill voice:
Exhibited here, and exhibited there,
Until, so long used to vulgarity's stare,
So petted by connoisseur, sculptor and painter,
My home-admiration could never content her!
If I praised her, she'd say, “Oh! I've heard that before;
Indeed, my Lord So and So used to say more!”

SQUIRE LONG.
Well, George, you shan't marry a beauty; you shan't;
There's plain Miss Golightly, who wants a gallant.
Besides, she writes novels—

LONG, JUNr.
Ay, when I'm in haste
To make love to a gorgon, she'll be to my taste.
But worse—oh! a thousand times worse than her looks,
Is the thought of her putting me into her books!

When wanting a chapter, how pleasant to catch
Some foible of mine, just to fill up a sketch!
How very convenient, when other themes flag
To have me, just like a wild fox in a bag,
And then hunt me out, giving all but my name,
While those who peruse the three volumes exclaim:
“Oh! dear me, how like him; how very absurd!
That's meant for her husband, I give you my word!
How wrong of her, though—the resemblance must strike!
How very improper! Good gracious, how like!”

SQUIRE LONG.
Well, George, there's Miss Wilkins; the lady they laud
For graces acquired whilst living abroad.
Her singing; her playing!

LONG, JUNr.
Why no, I confess
She's too foreign in manner—too foreign in dress;
In all that she utters and does, I detect
A something that tells me she aims at effect,
And copying Frenchified airs; after all
She wears the French fashions that suit a French doll;
Her singing is squall, and her laughter is giggle!
Her figure all bustle, her dancing all wriggle!

SQUIRE LONG.
But, zounds, you must marry! At your time of life
'Tis a man's bounden duty to look for a wife.

LONG, JUNr.
Your will is my law, Sir—but what can I do?
The ladies I fix upon never please you.

SQUIRE LONG.
No, George; but your father your interest watches:
I've pointed out several excellent matches!

LONG, JUNr.
Your will is my law, Sir, but then do you see,
The ladies you fix upon never please me!

III. Scene—Mrs. Long's Boudoir.

MRS. AND MISS LONG.
MRS. LONG.
My darling daughter, come to me;
Why is your cheek so pale?
To fond maternal ears reveal
Your first-love's faltering tale.
You love young Lord Fitzlackstiver—
(Incomparable youth!
What fascinating eyes he has!)—
You love him?—speak the truth.

MISS LONG.
No—no—I do not love him—no—
That word is far too tame;
A faintness comes all over me
When others breathe his name.
I doat upon him! oh, Mamma,
Don't tell me I am wrong;
You know he comes here every day,
And stays here all day long.

MRS. LONG.
He does, my pet, I know he does,
(Most excellent young man!)
But, dearest, long ere you came out
His daily calls began.

MISS LONG.
What mean you, Madam!

MRS. LONG.
Miss, I mean
His Lordship is my friend—
My Cicisbeo—my— in short,
Your fancies, child, must end.

MISS LONG.
Madam! Mamma! what can you mean?
He's not in love with you?
I'll go and speak to my Papa—

MRS. LONG.
Do—if you dare, love, do!
Your father's age, and gout, and bile,
And half a hundred ills
Keep him at home; I cannot stay
To make him take his pills.
And then in public, you must know,
A man is indispensable.
(Now listen, child, and dry your eyes—
I always thought you sensible!)
As for a ball—your father's far
More fit for hearse and hatchment;
And who can blame Platonic love
And innocent attachment?

MISS LONG.
My heart will break! oh, 'tis enough
To plunge me in despair,
To give up such a nobleman!
With such a head of hair!
Besides, now don't be angry, Ma—
When Pa to bed is carried,
You've never time to talk to me—
I should like to be married!

MRS. LONG.
Like to be married! so you shall;
Yes, darling, to be sure—
But not to Lord Fitzlackstiver,
The amiable—but poor!
Your husband shall have golden coin
As countless as sea-sand;
Yes, child, the Duke Filchesterton
Has offer'd you his hand!

MISS LONG.
What do you say?—The Duke!—His Grace!
A Duchess!—can it be!
(He's sixty-five) how very odd
That he should fix on me!
The Duke!—(he can't have long to live)
His Grace! when will he call?
How lucky Lord Fitzlackstiver
Meant nothing after all!
The Duke!—he's very, very old;
But what's that to his wife!
You do not care three straws about
My father's time of life.
His Grace!—what gorgeous wedding clothes!
What jewels I shall get!
The diamonds of the family,
(I'll have them all new set.)
The Duke!—he can't live very long,
His husky cough is chronic,
And doubtless I shall find a friend
Exceedingly platonic.
You'll tell the Duke I'm flatter'd—pleased:—
Oh! stop, Mamma—you'll see,
Of course, that all his worldly goods
Are settled upon me.
A Duchess!—only think, Mamma,
I shall be call'd your Grace!
What had I best be married in,
White satin or blond lace?
Bless me! how very strange 'twill seem
To have a spouse on crutches!
I long to tell Fitzlackstiver
That I'm to be a Duchess.
Poor Fitz! It's well I'm not his wife;
It would have made me ill,
To go and make a fuss about
Some odious butcher's bill.
It never would have suited me
To hash the boil'd and roast!
And ascertain what eggs, and beer,
And soap, and candles cost!

Poor Fitz! don't let him marry, Ma—
Oh, apropos of marriage!
I must consult him when he calls,
About my travelling carriage.
The gout, they say, is apt to kill
When vital parts it touches;
Make haste, Mamma, and tell the Duke,
That I will be his Duchess!

IV. Scene—Hogsnorton House.

MR. MRS. AND MISS HUM.
MISS HUM.
Oh, winter in Brighton, in Regency Square,
Oh, winter in Brighton, the Court will be there!
'Tis not for myself that I ask it—oh! no,
'Tis for dear papa's health that I'm anxious to go.

MRS. HUM.
My dear, she is right, you should really arrange
Some party of pleasure; you do want a change;
For you just at present this place is too dull,
Do winter at Brighton, for Brighton is full.

MR. HUM.
Oh, don't think of moving for my sake, my dear,
You're really too anxious—I'm very well here.

MISS HUM.
Well! oh, my dear father! excuse me, you're wrong
To sport with my feelings—go look at your tongue.

MRS. HUM.
Well! oh, my dear husband, you cannot disguise
That terrible yellowness under your eyes!

MR. HUM.
Begone, ye two birds of ill omen! I see
Through this sensitive, anxious, attention to me.
If I am so delicate, why should I hear
The noise that the sea makes at this time of year?
You, Miss, and you, Madam, are trying by stealth
To coax me to Brighton, by talking of health.
I know what you want, Miss! and you, Madam, too—
You want a gay season—yes, both of you do!

MISS HUM.
Papa, you're unkind; but I scorn to complain,
In Hogsnorton House I'm content to remain.
I did think the moving might do you some good;
No matter—my motives are misunderstood;
But even suppose that I did want a change,
From stupid Hogsnorton, I'm sure it's not strange;
You don't want to see me establish'd in life!
Who'd come to Hogsnorton to look for a wife?

MRS. HUM.
Don't talk to your father—sweet girl, it's no use,
He deems my solicitude all an excuse!
I've nursed him, and watch'd him, and now he imputes—
No matter—I'm silent, but all men are brutes!
He deems me deceitful; you heard what he said—
He'll be sorry enough perhaps when I'm dead!

MR. HUM.
Maria, don't cry! Leonora, for shame!—
Ask any soul breathing if I am to blame!
At Hogsnorton House there's my leather arm-chair,
So cosey and snug—(only look at it there!)
And then there's my cellar, my genuine wine,
Without my old sherry I really can't dine.

This house, too, is snug—and, pray, why should I lighten
My purse for a gingerbread mansion at Brighton?
Where, sleepless, you hear the perpetual din
Of the tide going out, or the tide coming in.

MRS. HUM.
Nay, dearest, don't say so; the lodging shan't be
In one of the terraces facing the sea;
You'll sleep undisturb'd, love, in Regency Square;
And how could you think I'd forget the arm-chair?
I plann'd that all nicely, my dear; if we went,
It was by the van to be carefully sent.
And then too the wine, love, (how odd you and I
Should think of the very same things, by the by!)
Your genuine sherry I meant to have placed
In hampers. You see, dear, I study your taste!

MISS HUM.
And, dearest papa, you and I will walk out,
(You'll lean on my arm, and a fig for the gout;)
You'll go to the library every day,
And read all the papers in such a snug way.
And don't you remember the shop on the Steyne?
The pastrycook's shop kept by Phillips! I mean,
The shop where you used to eat soup?

MR. HUM.
Very true,
I almost can fancy I smell it—can't you?

MRS. HUM.
Yes, love, so delicious! And then, too, the chat
And the whist at Sir Robert's—you don't forget that?

MR. HUM.
The whist? oh, that was very pleasant!

MRS. HUM.
Yes, very!—
Shall Simpson have orders to pack up the sherry?

MR. HUM.
Egad!—but you're certain Sir Robert is there?

MISS HUM.
Oh, positive! When shall we pack the arm-chair?

MR. HUM.
I went there last year by the doctor's advice.
That mulligatawny is certainly nice.
The sherry may travel, 'tis true—and the chair—
But Simpson must pack it with very great care.
I think it may do me some good—so I'll write
To Parsons to take me a lodging to-night.

(Exit Mr. Hum.)
MRS. HUM.
There! did I not manage him well? I declare,
Whilst I live, I shall doat on that darling arm-chair;
A lucky idea, was it not?—and the wine?

MISS HUM.
Yes, mamma; and the soup was a good hit of mine.

MRS. HUM.
And the whist at Sir Robert's! The whist and the chat!

MISS HUM.
Sir Robert's in France, mamma—

MRS. HUM.
Never mind that!
We'll vow we expected to meet him, and then
We'll soon find out two or three humdrum old men.

MISS HUM.
And now, dear mamma, you're aware that I want
A bonnet and gown.

MRS. HUM.
No, Maria, you can't—

You really can't have a new bonnet, my dear;
You've worn that so little I gave you last year;
Your gowns too must serve for the present.

MISS HUM.
Ah! no—
You cannot help sending to Carson.

MRS. HUM.
Why so?

MISS HUM.
Oh, really, mamma, though you do not want dress
To set off your figure and face, I confess,
Yet still I did see such a hat and pelisse!
They'd suit you exactly, I never shall cease
To wish that you had them! Cerulean blue!
Send for them to please your Maria, pray do.

MRS. HUM.
My amiable daughter! I cannot refuse
To send up to Carson. What gown will you choose?
I'll order the blue for myself; and I think
Your bonnet, my darling, had better be pink.

LUNATIC LAYS.

I. I MUST AND WILL AN ACTRESS WED.

I must and will an actress wed,
She'll smile away all shadows;
The voice of Love is eloquent
In green-rooms—not green meadows:
Talk not of rural hills and vales,
They suit my optic sense ill,
The only scenery I prize
Is that of Stanfield's pencil!

The Earl, my father, storms at me,
And says it is a queer age,
When comic first appearances
At last lead to the peerage.
And my maternal Countess vows
That nothing can console her,
If I disgrace the family
By marrying a stroller!

But, oh! I'd scorn such prejudice,
Although 'twere universal;
For I have been behind the scenes
At night, and at rehearsal.
No titled heiress will I ask
To be my benefactress;
I'd rather elevate my wife,
So I will wed an actress.

Oh, first I burnt for tragic queens,
My passion scarce is cool yet;
I teased each Mrs. Beverley,
Euphrasia, and Juliet;
And if by Belvidera's frowns
A little disconcerted,
I flew to Mrs. Haller's side,
And at the wings I flirted.

But Colonel Rant, (the gentleman
Who's always amateuring,)
Behind the scenes came every night
With language most alluring.
And he had such a way with him,
He won their hearts by magic,
So I resign'd Melpomene,
And Rant reigned o'er the tragic!

To Lady Bells and Teazles next
I turn'd—and Lady Rackets,
Who put their rouge and spirits on
(As boys put on their jackets);
Whose smiles, professionally sweet,
Appear when prompters summon;
Who keep, in fact, their bloom for best,
While sallow serves for common.

And then I sigh'd for the soubrettes
In aprons made with pockets,
Who frisk about the stage like squibs,
And then go off like rockets.
But at their beck I always found
Some beauteous Bob or Billy,
With whom they lightly tript away,
And left me looking silly.

To prima donnas then I turn'd,
The Pollys and Mandanes;
Made love to she Don Carloses,
And female Don Giovannis!

But soon came one with higher notes—
They left me—allegretto!
They sought him—volti subito,
Forsaking me—falsetto!

But now a love for figurantes
Within my bosom rankles,
I doat upon extended arms,
And sigh for well-turn'd ankles
Enchanting girls! how dark their hair!
How white and red their skin is!
I love them all—though wicked wits
May call them “spinning Jennies.”

In Peter Wilkins I have sigh'd
For sylph-like forms, whose trade is
To hang suspended by the waist,
And act high-flying ladies.
The country curate may abuse
My loves, because they lack dress,
He'll choose a wife from private life;—
But I will wed an actress.

II. I WANT TO GO UPON THE STAGE.

I want to go upon the stage
And wear a wig and feathers;
I envy each tragedian
The laurels that he gathers.
I'm sure that I could give effect
To Richard's ruthful menace;
Oh, would that I might black my face,
And act the Moor of Venice!

My father talks of what he calls
Respectable employments.
Condemning as Tom-fooleries
My Thespian enjoyments.

He calls me mouthing mountebank,
And ranting rogue, and stroller;
And not a servant in the house
Compassionate my dolor!

One day I stole a pot of rouge,
And Aunt Jane's Sunday spencer;
(She left me nothing in her will—
How could I so incense her!)
I flew to Cowes, where in a barn
I found some kindred spirits.
And soon I made the manager
Appreciate my merits.

He did announce me as a star:
(He well knew what a star meant—)
And I enacted Romeo
In Aunt Jane's pink silk garment.
My Juliet was a charming girl,
A most delicious creature!
With eyes—such eyes! and oh! her nose—
I idolised the feature!

Pink silk, with frogs was my costume,
And her's was muslin spangled;
And when the Nurse call'd her away,
I wish'd she had been strangled.
When we lay corpses side by side,
A gentle squeeze she gave me,
And whisper'd, “Wilt thou be my love?”
I sigh'd, “Ay, if thou'lt have me!”

But fathers they have flinty hearts,
My angry father found me;
Oh horrid night! methinks I see
Scene shifters grinning around me!
Alas! the scene they shifted not;
The very pit seems full yet;
I cannot tell the tragedy—
He tore me from my Juliet!

And since that inauspicious night,
The stage I've never entered;
In life's obscure realities
My father's thoughts are centred.
Misguided man! beneath his roof
Now pines a slighted Roscius,
Whose manhood pants to realise
Youth's promises precocious.

In tragic moods, I push my wig
High up upon my forehead;
I cork my eye-brows, and assume
A stare that's very horrid.
I roar a word or two, and then
Speak low, you scarce can hear me;
And then I thump my breast, ye gods,
At Drury, how you'd cheer me!

Genteelly comic I can be,
And farcically sprightly;
I'm excellent in pantomime,
In ballet parts dance lightly.
Were Mr. Lee, the new lessee,
Aware of such a treasure,
If I ask'd fifty pounds a-night,
He'd give them me with pleasure.

III. I MUST HAVE MUSIC.

I must have music in my soul,
Though envious tongues deny it.
I'm very certain I've a voice,
And spite of fate I'll try it.
I'll practice morning, noon, and night,
I'll buy the best instruction,
I will abjure all solid food,
If singers live by suction.

I'll hold a note—'till you shall think
That, very like a miser,
I never mean to change that note,
But you shall find I'm wiser:
For you may fix on any key,
Then name of notes one dozen,
My spendthrift chest shall soon pour forth
The treasure you have chosen.

At present, up and down the scale,
I run with zeal unwearied,
Nor deviate into an air
Till minor points are carried.
When morning dawns, my task begins,
At midnight hour it endeth,
(Except those tasty intervals
That man in eating spendeth.)

But genius and the world are foes!—
I have a hateful neighbour,
A scientific man, forsooth!
I scorn his plodding labour!
He sends me messages, and says
My noise distracts his study.
My singing, noise! poor wretch, he knows
Nought about taste—how should he?

Two other neighbours, invalids,
Who live on slops and dozing,
Complain my singing wakes them up
Just when their eyes are closing!
I never sing till five o'clock,
As if that could disturb them!
I'll let my talents take their course,
And scorn those who would curb them.

One, (much too cold to estimate
My talents in their true sense,)
Did—oh it cuts me to the soul!—
Indict me as a nuisance!

I shook—but 'twas a vocal shake,
Not one from terror springing,
No judge could venture to assert
I'm no great shakes at singing.

Once came a crowd, a menial crowd,
Crying: “There must be murder!
We heard a female's horrid screams.
Yes, hereabouts we heard her!”
They climb'd the wall—they forced the door!—
The ragamuffin sorte!
They found me sitting all alone,
And singing rather forte!

I'll sing the air that Sontag sings,
Rode's air with variations.
My throat shall be the thoroughfare
For all the new inflations.
All styles I'll master—I'll outgrowl
The trombone when I go low!
And when in alt, Velluti's self
Shan't sing so high a solo!

IV. ADIEU, MY MOUSTACHIOS!

Adieu, my moustachios! farewell to my tip!
Lost, lost is the pride of my chin and my lip!
His Majesty wills it, like Samson I'm cropt,
And the killing career of Adonis is stopt!
The razors are ruthless, my honours they nip!
Adieu, my moustachios! farewell to my tip!

Alas! what avails the loud clank of my spurs,
What signify tassels, and feathers, and furs!

The padding above, that the waist may look slim;
The trowsers compress'd to exhibit the limb!
My form I no longer exulting equip.
Adieu, my moustachios! farewell to my tip!

I know they deride a Commander who stoops
To cull foreign fashions to deck British troops;
But surely the biggest look rather more big
In moustachios and tip—like a judge in his wig!
I know I look small with my sword on my hip.
Adieu, my moustachios! farewell to my tip!

When Laura last saw me, she own'd that the world
Contain'd no moustachios so charmingly curl'd;
She thought my head foreign, and unlike the skull
Of the money-bag mercantile fellow, John Bull.
But now she will call me “contemptible rip!”
Adieu, my moustachios! farewell to my tip!

I went to the levee both pensive and pale—
I felt like a puppy-dog robb'd of his tail!
The Duke eyed me coldly, when notice I craved.
Ah! would he had seen me before I was shaved!
And as I kiss'd hands, I'm afraid I let slip,
“Adieu, my moustachios! farewell to my tip!”

Ah! at a mess dinner, how graceful to dip
My napkin, and wipe off the mess from my lip!
The hair that grew on it was steep'd in each dish,
And nourished by gravy—soup—sauces of fish.
They are gone—and my claret I pensively sip.
Adieu, my moustachios! farewell to my tip!

They were red—and I died them—and now at the stain
Which remains on the skin I scrub daily—in vain;
The hair is shaved off, but a something is seen
Which I fear may be thought to look rather unclean,
I hope it don't look like a chimney-sweep's lip—
Adieu, my moustachios! farewell to my tip!

My principal reason, I frankly confess,
For being a soldier at all—was the dress.

The line on my lip, and the dot on my chin,
Became me. The change is a horrid take in;
I might just as well now have gone on board ship.
Adieu, my moustachios! farewell to my tip!

I know that they deem it unmanly to weep,
So into half-pay I'll despondingly creep!
The star of my beauty is lost in eclipse,
I'll sit in reclusion and sigh for hair-lips!
The tears down my nose now incessantly drip.
Adieu, my moustachios! farewell to my tip!

V. THE LAST WOMAN!

I see him not, the man is gone!
The man who watched my carriage;
Oh! while I linger'd last but one,
There still seem'd hopes of marriage.
He too is off! alone I pine,
A sad condition mine is,
'Tis very odd that one so fine,
Should now prove fashion's finis.

The desert Park! there is no show
Of dames in silks that rustle;
I look upon no titled beau,
No beauty, and no bustle!
Yet madly still that Park I seek,
('Twere far more wise to shun it.)
Deep rouge upon my maiden cheek,
Deep blonde upon my bonnet.

My foot attracts not as I go
One glance unto my liking;
Though on my stockings, white as snow,
The coloured clocks are striking.

Spring flow'rs are gone, and autumn leaves
Will strew my path hereafter,
I laugh not—even in my sleeves,
Though they seem made for laughter.

The streets are thin, the squares are dull,
The crowded hubbub ceases,
And nothing now can be made full,
But dresses and pelisses.
Oh, Art! thine adventitious aid
Is vain,—I ne'er approach man;
I'm seen by no one but my maid,
My pretty page, and coachman.

And there's another bore! my page
Is growing out of season;
He's such a gawky for his age,
I can't think what's the reason.
I knew 'twas comme il faut in green
The stripling to accoutre;
But now, though he's but just fifteen,
He looks like a sharpshooter.

For scenes, where others rove, I fret,
And then to cheer my own eye,
A private box of mignonette
I place on my balcony.
Macadam frustrates these pursuits,
The noise without he trebles;
He tears the street up by the roots,
And pounds it into pebbles.

To be kept here so late, I vow,
In tears of sorrow steeps me;
The shopkeepers who see me now
Are wondering what keeps me!
I must contrive some moving plan,
Or life I cannot drag on;
I'll send my hat by Pickford's van,
My bonnet by the waggon.

Winged wardrobes every lady wants
To waft her dresses neatly.
My vapeur crape with séduisantes
Will fill the boot completely.

The imperial will hold my slip,
(My maid shall pack it, poor thing!)
The Morning Post shall print my trip,
“Miss Crawl, from Batts' to Worthing.”

VI. BIOGRAPHY.

So mother Hubbard's dog's deceas'd,
That spaniel of repute.
Be mine the mournful task to write
The memoirs of the brute.
O'er all the authors of the day,
Biographers prevail,
I'll “point a moral” and adorn
That little dead dog's tale.

I'll sift the Hubbard family
For anecdotes canine;
The most minute particulars
Shall very soon be mine.
I'll bore the mournful dame herself
With questions most abrupt,
And first I'll learn, how, when, and where,
His canine mother pupp'd.

His puppyism I will trace,
On Hubbard's apron rock'd,
Describing when his tongue was worm'd,
And how his ears were dock'd.
His placid temper I will paint,
And his distemper too,
And all his little snappish tricks
The public eye shall view.

The dame and he were friends; 'tis thought
She gave him bones and milk;
And pattingly her hand smooth'd down
His coat as soft as silk.
But what of that?—The world shall know
That he hath snarl'd at her;
And that the dame hath kick'd the dog,
And call'd him “nasty cur!”

His love for her was cupboard love;
The fawning which proclaims
An instinct partiality
For dog's meat—more than Dames.
Alas! 'twas not l'affaire du cæur,
An ingrate was the pup,
Though oft his mistress for his meals
Hath cut her liver up.

And oft she did instruct the dog
Upon his tail to sit,
And elevate his two fore paws
And beg a tiny bit.
She plac'd the dainty on his nose,
And counted “one”—“two”—“three!”
And when he leapt and caught the prize,
A happy dame was she!

But I must tell of stolen joys,
Of milk that hath been miss'd;
Of hunted cats, and worried birds,
I have a grievous list.
Of rambles too with female dogs;
Yet, hearing the old scratch,
The dame to let the rover in
Would rise, and lift the latch.

In truth he was a naughty dog,
Of habits very wild;
He never yet was known to care
One jot for wife or child.

His wives were countless, each produced
Nine bantlings at a birth;
And some were drown'd, and some were left
To rot upon the earth.

But hold! is this my dead dog's tale?
And can I not produce
For naughtiness a friendly veil,
For folly an excuse?
And must the sage biographer
Of little dogs and dames,
Recall forgotten injuries,
Snarls, kicks, and ugly names?

The dog was a sagacious dog,
That's all the world need know;
The failings of the quadruped
'Tis not my task to show.
His quarrels with his kith and kin,
His puppy tricks when young,
If these I tell, he'll seem far worse
Than if I held my tongue.

It shall be so: my tongue I'll hold,
And not my grey goose quill;
His death is recent—for a while
Biographers be still.
Contemporaries point at specks,
But pause awhile, and then
We may be sure posterity
Will calmly hold the pen.

But now to take away a life
Each man of letters strives;
The undertakers thrive by deaths,
Biographers by Lives.
O'er new made graves, thro' murky mists
Of prejudice he jogs;
And so it seems biography
Is going—to the dogs!

VII. THE FIRST WHITE HAT!

I met a man in Regent Street,
A daring man was he;
He had a hat upon his head
As white as white could be!
'Twas but the first of March!—away
Three hundred yards I ran;
Then cast a retrospective glance
At that misguided man.

I thought it might be possible
To do so foul a deed,
Yet not commit the murd'rous acts
Of which too oft we read.
I thought he might have felt distress:
Have lov'd—and lov'd in vain—
And wore that pallid thing, to cool
The fever of his brain!

Perchance he had no relative,
No confidential friend,
To say when summer months begin,
And those of winter end.
Perchance he had a wife, who was
Unto his side a thorn,
And who had basely thrust him forth
To brave decorum's scorn!

But no!—a smile was on his cheek;
He thought himself the thing!
And all unblushingly he wore
The garniture of spring!
'Twas evident the man could not
Distinguish wrong from right;
And cheerfully he walk'd along,
Unseasonably white!

Then unperceiv'd I follow'd him,
Clandestinely I tried
To ascertain in what strange spot
So queer a man could hide:
Where he could pass his days and nights,
And breakfast, dine, and sup;
And where the peg could be, on which
He hung that white hat up!

He paused at White's—the white capotte
Made all the members stare;
He pass'd the Athenæum Club,
He had no footing there!
He stood a ballot once (alas!
There sure was pique in that)
Though they admit light-headed men,
They blackball'd the white hat!

And on he went self satisfied,
And now and then did stop
And look into the looking glass
That lines some trinket shop;
And smilingly adjusted it!
'Twas that that made me vext—
“If this is borne,” said I, “he'll wear
“His nankeen trowsers next!”

The wretched being I at length
Compassionately stopt,
And us'd the most persuasive words
Entreaty could adopt.
I said his head was premature;
I never left his side,
Until he swore most solemnly
The white hat should be dyed.

VIII. MY SINECURE PLACE.

How's this, my Lord Grey, can you mean what you say?
Abolish all sinecures: pause, my Lord, pray!
Oh, hear me, my Lord: is this really the case?
Nay, do not take from me my Sinecure Place!

Consider, my income is small for a peer.
I'm poor, if you take my odd thousands a-year.
Consider, I pray you, how ancient my race,
Its dignity sinks with my Sinecure Place.

My mansion in town has been lately rebuilt,
Adorn'd with superb scagliola, and gilt.
Pray, how shall I look Mr. Nash in the face,
If you now put an end to my Sinecure Place?

My castle must also be kept in repair;
One month out of twelve I contrive to be there;
One month I devote to the joys of the chase.
My castle would go with my Sinecure Place!

My cottage ornée, on the Devonshire coast,
Must also be sold, if my place should be lost.
Now, pray, my Lord, do reconsider my case,
And let me retain my snug Sinecure Place.

My lady her opera-box must discard!
My lady, the beauty—you'll own 'twould be hard.
My fortune won't pay for her feathers and lace;
Then leave me, oh, leave me, my Sinecure Place!

Economy may be discreet, I dare say,
Retrenchment is all very well in its way;
But there's no occasion for setting your face
'Gainst my individual Sinecure Place.

You must, my Lord Grey, (it is time to be frank,)
Uphold the importance of persons of rank!
The aristocratic look up to your race,
Support them, and leave me my Sinecure Place.

If beggarly vagabonds will make a row,
Be firm, and intimidate, no matter how.
E'en flourish a sword in each vagabond's face;
I'll do it myself for my Sinecure Place.

I'll stipulate always to give you my vote—
Whatever you dictate I'll utter by rote;
Your notions—whate'er they may be—I'll embrace,
And I'll do any job for my Sinecure Place.

IX. JUNO'S SOIREE.

Once Juno sent out cards, “at home,” to her own exclusive circle,
She knew the leaders of high ton were sure to come at her call;
She heav'd a sigh for Weippert's band, but checking her vexation,
Engaged the music of the spheres as next in estimation.

The Queen received the kindest gifts from ev'ry friendly neighbour:
First Bacchus sent a pipe of wine, then Pan a pipe and tabor,
Diana sent her fullest moon to light the upper regions,
And Venus sent a brace of birds—(a pair of doves or pigeons.)

The evening came, and Juno shone a blaze of regal beauty;
Field Marshal Mars was pre-engaged on military duty;
Three muses came—Mnemosyne, the very best of mothers,
Ne'er took nine daughters out at once, so left at home the others.

The sister Furies, boa clad, who thought themselves delightful,
Declared they were quite grieved to see poor Venus look so frightful;
The Graces danced a Saraband—Minerva thought them shocking,
And Momus quizz'd her style of dress, and call'd her a blue stocking.

Though not a son of Erin's Isle, yet Jupiter thought proper
To make a Bull that day! ('twas while conversing with Europa);
And Echo having caught the tale, did word for word reveal it,
And Juno, tho' she bit her lips, pretended not to feel it.

Supper was laid—as Gunter lays it where the most select are,
And Jupiter bade Ganymede hand round the oldest nectar;
Aurora was the first to hint that morning was not far off;
And all the party said “Good day,” as Phœbus drove his car off.

WEEDS OF WITCHERY.

THE SEA PINK.

I

I've a yacht in the Island, the Sea Pink, of Ryde,
Not a craft in the Club can be better;
I own, when she goes very much on one side,
I'm afraid that the wind will upset her.
I belong to the Club, which is very genteel—
We ne'er let a Scamp or a Shab in;
But though it's the fashion, I own that I feel
More at ease in my Cab than my Cabin!

II

'Tis true, I know little of nautical ways,
And less about charts of the ocean;
And what's rather odd, on the quietest days
I always grow queer with the motion!
I've sunk a large sum on the toy, and 'tis well
If the toy and I don't sink together:
Oh! talking of sinking—nobody can tell
What I suffer in very bad weather!

III

When I sigh for the land, Sailors talk of “sea room,”
All sense of propriety lacking;
And they gave me a knock-me-down blow with the boom.
T'other day, in the hurry of tacking.

I sported one morning a water-proof cap,
And a Mackintosh—all India rubber;
And a Sailor cried, “Jack, look at that 'ere queer chap,
Did you ever see such a land-lubber?”

IV

What a bother the wind is! one day we were caught
In a bit of a breeze in the offing;
And we tack'd, and we tack'd, till I verily thought
Every tack was a nail in my coffin!
Cried one, “Never fear, we shall soon reach the shore,”
(To me that word reach is pathetic!)
I've heard of perpetual Blisters before,
But I've an eternal emetic!

V

The Captain and Crew are of course in my pay,
I expect them to pay me attention;
But they push me about, and they now and then say
Little words it would shock me to mention!
The smell of the tar I detest, and I think
That the sea-breeze quite spoils the complexion,
But the ladies all say, when they've seen the Sea Pink,
That her Owner's the Pink of Perfection.

THE POPPY.

I

“Oh proud am I, exceeding proud, I've mustered the Elite!
I'll read them my new Tragedy—no ordinary treat;
It has a deeply-stirring plot—the moment I commence,
They'll feel for my sweet heroine an interest intense;
It never lags, it never flags, it cannot fail to touch,
Indeed, I fear the sensitive may feel it over much.
But still a dash of pathos with my terrors I combine,
The bright reward of tragic Bard—the laurel will be mine!

II

“Place chairs for all the company, and, Ma'am, I really think
If you don't send that child to bed, he will not sleep a wink;
I know he'll screech like anything before I've read a page.
My second act would terrify a creature of that age:
And should the darling, scared by me, become an imbecile,
Though flatter'd at the circumstance—how sorry I should feel!
What! won't you send the child to bed? well, Madam, we shall see;—
Pray take a chair, and now prepare the laurel crown for me.

III

“Have all got pocket-handkerchiefs? your tears will fall in streams;
Place water near to sprinkle over any one who screams.
And pray, good people, recollect, when what I've said controls
Your sympathies, and actually harrows up your souls;
Remember, (it may save you all from suicide, or from fits,)
'Tis but a mortal man who opes the flood-gates of his wits!
Retain your intellects to trace my brightest gem, (my moral)
And, when I've done, I'm very sure you'll wreathe my brow with laurel.

IV

“Hem—Act the first, and scene the first—a wood—Bumrumptienters—
Bumrumpti speaks, ‘And have I then escaped from my tormentors?
Revenge! revenge! oh, were they dead, and I a carrion crow,
I'd pick the flesh from off their bones, I'd sever toe from toe!
Shall fair Fryfritta, pledged to me, her plighted vow recall,
And wed with hated Snookums, or with any man at all!
No—rather perish earth and sea, the sky and—all the rest of it—
For wife to me she swore she'd be, and she must make the best of it.’”

V

Through five long acts—ay, very long, the happy Bard proceeds;
Without a pause, without applause, scene after scene he reads!

That silent homage glads his heart! it silent well may be:
Not one of all his slumbering friends can either hear or see!
The anxious Chaperon is asleep! the Beau beside the fair!
The dog is sleeping on the rug! the cat upon the chair!
Old men and babes—the footman, too! oh, if we crown the Bard,
We'll twine for him the Poppy wreath—his only fit reward.

FORGET MY KNOT.

I

Forget my knot? forget my knot!
Oh, that I may defy!
Where'er you are, I'll haunt the spot,
Still pointing to the tie.

II

All other ties may loosen'd be,
But mine must last till death!
And you I'll taunt incessantly,
Until I'm out of breath.

III

Each day delay on some pretence
Was artfully extended;
And so, to finish my suspense,
Myself I have suspended.

IV

At Hymen's altar, altered Fair,
You were a false defaulter;
And so, to end my deep despair,
I add an H to alter!

V

I could not live to hear you scoff,
Too fascinating elf;
So, when I found you turned me off,
I did turn off myself!

VI

No scissors will avail; we part—
On human aid I frown;
And though you cut me to the heart,
You shall not cut me down.

VII

I strive your inmost soul to grind,
And, if I strive in vain,
Hang me, if I for womankind
E'er do the like again.

VIII

They'll call me suicidal,
Because this knot I tied;
When Jack is dead, let Sue recall
How for his Sue he sigh'd!

IX

To do this melancholy thing,
Your garters I have got.
Adieu, false Sue, you'll have your swing;
And then—Forget my knot!

WATER LILIES.

I

A boat, a boat, an open boat,
On “the sea, the sea, the open sea!”
If e'er ye have been thus afloat,
There's nought could match your misery.

II

Pale Water Lilies, you'd suppose
Poor ladies, when such boats they enter;
The cheek, the pallid leaf; the nose,
The spot of yellow in the centre!

III

Such Lilies, “pining on the stem,”
Or on the stern, are more or less ill;
The smell of tar is bad to them,
And worse the pitching of the vessel.

IV

The spray, alas! no jasmine spray!
Is weighing down each best new bonnet;
The hair is out of curl; to-day,
The sea has all the curl upon it.

V

Old Ocean! thou art much too old,
To be so rough and so unsteady;
Is this now—may I make so bold—
A fit reception for a lady?

VI

Shallow thou'rt not; then recollect,
All this may seem more deep than clever.
Be calm awhile, and thou'lt reflect;
Don't play at pitch and toss for ever.

WALLFLOWERS.

“They call us Wall-flowers, my dear!
Because we spend the evening here,
All in a row against the wall,
Ne'er noticed by the men at all!”

“I'm sure it is no fault of ours,
We do not wish to be Wallflowers;
Not one of us that has not wanted
To be by somebody transplanted:
It never was our choice at all
To sit here ranged against the wall;
But, if the men, devoid of taste,
Will leave us here our sweets to waste,
Selecting silly pinks and roses,
To make their hymeneal posies,
'Tis very fit that here we sit,
And innocently chat a bit.”

“Look at Miss Rose, she's just come in,
Some people rave about her skin!
Her clear complexion! (how absurd!)
You know I never say a word,
But this I will say—(how she's scented!)
I always thought the Roses painted.”

“And here I vow's Miss Violet;
I ne'er could find her beauty yet.
And how they praise her! what a fuss!
Think of preferring her to us!
A little, dingy, paltry fright!
And what a gown for candlelight!”

“Do see the Miss Carnations, there—
Not two alike, I do declare—
They're showy, but my sister thinks
They are so like those little Pinks;
You see the likeness? to be sure;
The Pinks we never could endure.”

“See, from the valley comes Miss Lily!
Another beauty,—oh, how silly!
White as a sheet, and so petite,
No wonder we are obsolete!
For Wallflowers truly she's no fellow—
Men once were fond of brown and yellow!”

CHICK WEEDS.

I

III

At Dover they rumpled my best coat,
And swore, like unmannerly brutes,
I had contraband lace in my waistcoat,
And Eau de Cologne in my boots!
In vain I cried, “Why will you doubt me?
I've nought unsubstantial about be.”

IV

My bootmaker yearly enlarges
His bill, with the growth of my calf;
And my tailor increases his charges
And books me “a coat and a half!”
He can't raise my small-clothes, how can he?
Small clothes! why I never wear any!

V

My friend Doctor Camomile offered
To cure my rheumatic attack;
But he laughed when I said that I suffered
A pain in the small of my back!
Ah me! he did nothing but quiz it:
“The small of your back! pray where is it?”

VI

If ever they put me in fetters,
My bondage eternal must be;
For if they enlarge other debtors,
I'm sure they will not enlarge me!
They'll make light of my claims if they will,
Yet I shall look big at them still.

VII

Young Cupid will never o'ertake me,
No, no, I must pine on the shelf;
If ever I'm match'd, he must make me
A Fatima fat as myself.
But never again will I roam,
I'm content with my Hearts-ease at home.

VIII

I'm sure I don't envy the lovers
Of sport, though inactive and lame;
I've not far to go for the covers,
Under which the Cook places my game;
Three courses I manage myself,
And I've got my preserves on a shelf!

IX

In France, for this exquisite dinner,
A nap. they would charge me at least;
But here, after all, I'm a winner,
A nap I secure by the feast.
And of the past dreaming, at last,
Recollection becomes a repast!

X

My dogs either beg a tit-bit,
Or curl themselves up on the rug;
And I in my easy chair sit,
Luxurious, silken, and snug:
And my HEARTS-EASE I trust is secure,
For I have not forgotten the poor.

THE RECTORY.

BOOK I.

CANTO I.

The lady's boudoir! who shall dare
To paint that scene of her seclusion,
Where chosen treasures, rich and rare,
Deliberately placed with care,
Are meant to imitate confusion.
The rosewood tables to excess
With porcelain and chrystal strew'd,
(As if to hint that awkwardness
Must never venture to intrude).
The escrutoire, the pen of gold,
The scented wax, the tinted paper,
The silver Cupid doom'd to hold
The little pink transparent taper.
The sun-flower clock—(whose dial well
May represent the golden flower,
Mechanically made to tell,
In poetry, the passing hour)
Some volumes too, in bindings such
As fairest fingers love to touch,
The Annuals in silken sets,
Lightest of literary pets.
The flowers, that seem as if they were
Thrown idly, negligently, there;

But all so tastefully arranged,
That were one little blossom changed,
The fragrant group at once would lose
Its charm, the harmony of hues.
Say, can a mortal maid presume
To venture here with mop and broom?
No, surely while the menials sleep,
Good fairies nightly vigils keep;
They dust each fragile ornament,
Replenish ev'ry vase with scent,
Wind up the clock, fold scented paper
In forms of spells to light the taper.
They lave each precious China dish,
And feed the gold and silver fish.
The lady's boudoir! Who shall trace
The tout ensemble of the place?

And there the Lady sits upon
The easiest of easy chairs,
And murmurs in a pensive tone
One of last season's opera airs.
She starts, as if the melody
Had roused her from her reverie:
She rises, to the window goes,
And pulls aside the muslin curtain.
And sighs, for very well she knows
That day's imprisonment is certain:
She nothing sees but leafless trees,
And snow flakes borne upon the breeze,
No ride, no walk; the thought was vain,
The muslin curtain fails again.
She stirs the fire, yet who can doubt
She is unconscious of the action?
She very nearly puts it out,
In her intenseness of abstraction!
And now she sits again, and leans
Upon her hand her beauteous brow,
And meditates on distant scenes,
And friendly faces absent now.

At length the feelings that were pent
So long in silence find a vent;
With no one in her solitude
To answer what she may advance,
She leaves her meditative mood
And thus her thoughts find utterance:
“I'll ask him—why should I defer
One moment making the proposal?
And should he stingily demur,
Uncourteously refusing her,
To whom in point of fact he owes all,
I am not worse off than before.
I'll ask; though asking is a bore:
And I an heiress! there's the sting!
I should have paus'd, had I conjectured
That I could ask for any thing,
With such a dread of being lectured:
I'm sure I thought that heiresses
When married, always were looked up to,
And treated as divinities,
Whom it was man's first thought to please,
And kneeling—hold out pleasure's cup to.
Heigho! I'll ask him.”

And she goes
To the study of Sir Hampton Rose.
I've breath'd his name! and so already
The reader knows this lonely lady;
The Lady Hampton Rose—so well
Remember'd as a reigning belle,
Who married, twenty years ago,
A Baronet whose purse was low.
And time who frequently displaces
The tints that females fain would fix,
Has left her full of bloom and graces,
Fat, very fair, and thirty-six.
But let us follow to the door,
Where now reluctantly she lingers,
Half leaving it; and now once more
Touching the lock with trembling fingers,

She knocks and gently cries “My dear
Sir Hampton—answer—are you here?”

And may we pause to ask the cause
Why Time that should make fond ties stronger,
Thus oft a chilling barrier draws
'Twixt hearts that beat like one, when younger?
Alas! what seeming trifles lead
To such a mutual change of feeling,
So unimportant, that indeed
We scarcely miss the links they're stealing:
And yet those several links combined
Form the light fetters of affection,
Uniting lovers, heart and mind,
But which in married life we find,
Oft only live in recollection!
The confidence unlimited,
The eyes that seem by intuition,
Before a single word is said,
To guess, and answer each petition:
Ah! why do such things pass, and why
The heart's exclusive fond devotion?
And leave the inattentive eye,
The cold, or querulous reply,
The longing after locomotion!

There have been mortals, and there are
Less changeable and happier far,
Who share the summer days of life
As lovers still, though man and wife:
And when misfortune's frowning form
Comes near them with her wintry weather,
They cling, like children in a storm,
More closely, lovingly, together.
These boast a bliss (oh well I know
The truth of what I say)
Which fortune never can bestow,
And never take away.
But I digress, and I confess
This habit carried to excess

Is very wrong, and we return
The Lady's cause of care to learn.

'Tis evident we are too late
To hear her open the debate.
The lady leans back in her chair,
By her own eloquence exhausted,
Yet looks with a triumphant air
At him so fluently accosted;
As if she meant to say: “Now answer,
Yes, and refuse me if you can, Sir!”
Sir Hampton Rose was one of those
Provoking men, of looks so mild,
That any body would suppose
They might be manag'd by a child.
And when they say an angry word,
A voice all gentleness is heard;
And while the calm eyes acquiesce,
And with the placid cheeks say “yes,”
The tongue is very apt to give
A most decided negative.
He had a tantalizing way
Of listening to all you say,
Or rather seeming so to do,
And looking calmly up at you
With such a smile, that your success is
Apparently beyond a doubt;
Yet when you finish, he confesses
He is not able to make out
What your long speeches are about!

E'en now he heard his lady speak,
With that tranquillity of cheek,
Which made his words the more provoking.
“Are you in earnest, love, or joking?”

But Lady Rose's glance possest
No indication of a jest,
When thus Sir Hampton she addrest:

“You know I am in earnest, (pray
Don't smile in that unmeaning way)
My wishes very well you know.
(I'm sure my temper is a miracle!)
I've told you where I wish to go—
(Don't look so hideously satirical.)
For eighteen months we have been here,
And really at this time of year,
This mansion is so very triste,
So very sombre!”

“Not the least.
It is a very charming spot;
And you were born here, were you not?
Pray don't apologize, my love,
I find no fault with Granby Grove.
'Twas mine the day I married you,
Your maiden name was Granby too.
Trifles seem therefore precious here;
Don't call it sombre, don't, my dear.”

“‘My dear,’ indeed! that's too absurd!”

“My Lady, then: is that the word?
Or may I use your christian name?
Laura! I'm surely not to blame
For checking you when you disparage
Your own estate, love—mine by marriage.”

“'Tis yours,” her Ladyship replied,
“'Tis yours, it cannot be denied;
'Tis yours, and yet I dearly love
Each little twig of Granby Grove.
Those twigs were mine, oaks, beeches, firs,
All planted by my ancestors.
But when you thought it worth your while
To take me and my twigs—(don't smile),
I little thought that I should be
Myself as rooted as a tree,
With no amusement, nothing new;
My daily walk the avenue;

My most exciting avocation
To watch the course of vegetation;
Upon the little twigs to see
The spring buds in their infancy,
And watch them still, till each receives
Its summer modicum of leaves.
My autumn pastime to discern
How very yellow leaves can turn;
My winter—misery!—to fix
My eyes on trees transform'd to sticks!”

But a matrimonial duet
In an awkward key is sometimes set;
And though the two performers may
Be quite in earnest with their airs,
Let a third person steal away
And go and mind his own affairs.
They often touch discordant chords,
Make use of inharmonious words,
With voices rais'd too high to be
Compatible with melody.
We may remark the female voice
Is always highest reckon'd;
And in the duos of her choice
The man sings always second.
And thus it is when man and wife
Step on the boundaries of strife;
The moral or satiric pen
Should touch the paper lightly then;
And though it may be well to state
The aim, and end of the debate,
(Just as at distance, we might get
A note or two of the duet,
And know to what tune it is set).
Yet if the argument—or song
Grows very loud as well as long,
We, knowing what 'tis all about,
Should leave the parties, right or wrong,
To sing it—or to talk it out.

What arguments the lady us'd,
How long the gentleman refus'd,
The many tears the former shed,
The many words the latter said,
The pros enforced with so much skill,
The ready cons that met them still,
These to my muse are things occult,
She hastens on to the result.
A spring in town was what she wanted;
A spring in town at length is granted!
Sir Hampton has a wicked way
Of saying “no” for the sake of saying it,
Though all the time perhaps he may
Mean to say “yes.”—Yet half the day
He'll shake his head at what you say,
And spoil concession by delaying it.
When Lady Rose had work'd herself
Into an unbecoming rage,
He took a volume from a shelf,
Deliberately read a page,
And then look'd up with that calm smile
Which ne'er had left him all the while,
And said: “perhaps you'll like to know
“I always meant that we should go.”

A man may sneer at female reasons
For longing after London seasons,
But happy Lady Rose, thy Lord
Turns thither of his own accord;
Thou mightst have argued all day long,
Until exhaustion made thee stop,
Urging that parents must be wrong
Who let their old connexions drop;
Thou mightst have said thy son and heir
Was old enough to see society,
Or that thy daughter young and fair
Might be presented with propriety.
Or secretly thou mightst have had
Visions of thine own beauty clad

In robe de bal (of Carson bought;)
At Almack's too—too flattering thought!
Or smiling forth with braided locks
From a best circle opera box.—
This never would have done; amusement
Offers Sir Hampton no inducement,
Unless the amusement chance to be
One of his own selection;
And then indeed assuredly
He could see no objection.
And long he furtively hath eyed
The hobby that he means to ride,
(And pleasing is that hobby's pace
To those who never tried her,
Though in the amble or the race
She's apt to throw her rider).
Ambition! (understand me, pray),
Ambition in a quiet way,
Not of that very lofty kind
Which sighs for reputation's “bubble,”
Till to his keeping are consign'd
Responsibilities, that grind
The powers of body and of mind
With “double, double toil and trouble.”
Not so: Sir Hampton had, in short,
(Or thought he had) a friend at court,
A cousin in the Cabinet;
And though twas long since they had met,
And though not very clearly knowing
What recompense he hoped to get,
He thought he should be right in going
At once, and to the courtier shewing
His relative the Baronet.
He was aware that the relations
Of men in public situations,
Instead of pocketing vast sums,
Can scarcely pick up paltry crumbs,
Since unenlighten'd eyes persist
In peering at the pension list.
And Ladies Jane no longer young,
From Peers right honourably sprung,

Must now give up, oh sad reverse!
Their income from the public purse;
A stinted pittance to receive
Wrung from some noble relative,
Who thinks the public ought to grant
A pretty income to his aunt;
Not much—sufficient to enable
The dame to keep a social table,
Champagne, and customary courses,
A house in town, landau and horses.

And sinecure (which when translated,
Without a cure once seem'd to mean)
Is now an evil so abated,
That those who for snug things have waited
With lengthen'd visages are seen:
And those who really used to hug
Things most inestimably snug,
And to their annual thousands add
Another—perhaps two, to add,
The gift of some most noble cousin,
Who thus hath delicately chosen
His own relations to assist,
And sop their daily bread with honey,
By putting them upon the list
Of those who drain the public money.
They know the cure is nearly finished,
And talk, with incomes much diminished,
About “the good old times,” and sigh,
Relinquishing a luxury!

Oh! who would bear the degradation
Of being pension'd on the nation?
Who, that already has enough
To buy an independent loaf,
Such stipend would consent to take,
To turn the loaf into a cake?
Or who that goes on foot to-day,
Erect upon the King's highway,

So meanly, despicably feels
A gilded carriage he'd prefer,
If he must be a pensioner,
E'er he can buy the toy on wheels!

Mistake me not, it would be hard
If those who struggle through the strife,
The ceaseless toil of public life
Were grudg'd their well deserv'd reward.
Not so—the pensioners I mean
Are useless beings I have seen,
Without one talent that can claim
For them publicity of name,
Yet who have thus been public debtors;
And yet a look of pride they wear,
A high, aristocratic air!
As if their independent neighbours,
Who earn their incomes by their labours,
The apothecary and the lawyer,
Who must bow down to their employer,
Were not beyond compare their betters!

But I digress, and I confess
This habit carried to excess
Is very, very wrong, and so
I said at least an hour ago.
Sir Hampton has with Granby Grove
Five thousand pounds a year,
Means adequate for those who love
In a provincial scene to move,
But not enough, I fear,
For such as fain would shine in this
Luxurious metropolis;
But then, Sir Hampton Rose expected
That, being very well connected,
He might engage a residence,
From rents exorbitant refraining,
And live at moderate expense.
More entertain'd than entertaining.
In fact, he thought if he could meet
A small abode in Baker Street,

Or Gloucester Place, or any where
Contiguous to Portman Square,
Or in another distant quarter,
Now strew'd all over brick and mortar,
Cadogan Place, or Eaton Crescent,
Or Sloane Street, more remote than pleasant;
Where'er in fact his home might be,
He thought that he should daily see
The cards of the nobility;
And an engagement book o'erflowing
With all the very best things going.

This was a secondary thought;
What higher things Sir Hampton sought,
He nam'd to none; and Lady Rose
Now to her boudoir gaily goes.
And whilst her own maid Jane, displaying
Her skill, adjusts her evening gown,
She half distracts the girl by saying:
“Next Monday week we go to town.”

CANTO II.

Sweet is the earliest breath of spring, the unexpected ray,
That peeping out throws warmth upon a February day;
We hail the lengthen'd hours of light, the softness of the breeze,
And almost wonder why we see no leaves upon the trees.
And here and there upon the earth the crocuses are seen,
The golden buds that nestle in their cradles of light green,
And snowdrops delicate and pale, that droop, as if in fear
Of coming from their warm repose so early in the year.

And there's a path at Granby Grove, where the earliest spring day
Shines forth, as if March meant to steal the livery of May;
The first of birds assembled there rehearse their summer song.
And a rivulet flows murmuring melodiously along.

Oh! rivulets, bright rivulets, ye are the gentle friends
Of him upon whose lonely walk no human form attends;
And as he sits beside ye, with a soft and soothing tone,
Your voices seem to speak to him of joys for ever gone.
Ye call up other voices too, unheard for many years,
And ye give to him who mourns the dead—the luxury of tears.
How often have we heard it said, that in December days
The lonely being loves his hearth's companionable blaze!
But rivulets, bright rivulets, when social hearths are dim,
The mourner seeks your mossy banks, ye are the friends for him.
Upon the path that I have nam'd, two youthful lovers stood
And seem'd to watch the rivulet in meditative mood.
But I must pause to sketch them both: the girl was seventeen;
A form and face so beautiful but seldom has been seen.
Her name was Mary, and there was a something when she smil'd
About her lips, that told you she was Lady Rose's child.
A lurking laughter-loving look; but in her nobler face
A high expression dwelt, of which her mother had no trace,
A touch of sentiment and thought: you read as in a book
Whatever mischief might betide that laughter-loving look,
That still, within her secret soul lay principles so pure,
That in temptation Mary Rose could ne'er be insecure.
Her lips were red, her eyes were blue, her skin extremely fair,
In ringlets o'er her snowy brow she wore her light brown hair;
In ringlets, art's most pleasing style, for ringlets oft run wild
Round nature's sweetest dwelling place, the features of a child,
Not coiffée'd by a cruel hand—not strain'd into a load
Of hard and heavy looking bows, perhaps the latest mode,
Invented surely by some fiend, who fain would thus displace
(No very practicable task) the charm of woman's face.
Slight was her fairy figure, as her mother's might have been,
When first she knew Sir Hampton Rose, a bride at scarce sixteen.
And Mary by her lover stands, and seems as if in dread
That she had hurt his feelings by some rash word she had said.
This lover was her cousin—a distant one of course,
But cousin is a weighty word—few people know its force.
A first, perhaps a second cousin, Ladies need not dread—
But if you have one more remov'd—remember what I've said.
He'll talk of his relationship—but 'tis a ship he'll sink,
The moment it occurs to him love forms a better link.

Each day he'll walk, each day he'll talk, and every day you'll see
A hundred little things that prove how pleasant he can be;
When trifles try to win a smile, he'll step before a dozen,
And whisper, while you laugh and say: “He only is my cousin;”
And at a pic-nic party, when prudent parents seek
To keep all gay adventurers and younger sons in check,
They always have this ready mode of ending the quandary:
“Oh let us send for cousin Edward, he'll take care of Mary.”

And Mary's cousin Edward was a cousin of this kind;
Unlimited companionship their hearts had closely twin'd.
In all the sorrows of her youth—ten minutes would suffice
To take her to the Rectory for comfort and advice.
In all her little charities, the same judicious voice
Would name to her the pensioners most worthy of her choice.
Her chamber too at Granby Grove was chosen for its view,
Though other chambers had a more extensive one, 'tis true;
But as she sat there, she could see the tower of the church
With the gable of the Rectory, and its ivy-mantled porch.
But Edward was no Rector; the reader must be told
That he was left an orphan boy, at only six years old.
His father was a younger son, his mother poor as fair,
To virtue and good looks in fact their only child was heir,
And heir, alas! to little else. But in our early years
A kind hand seldom tries in vain to wipe away our tears,
And poverty is then unfelt; we cannot have been taught
How many worldly smiles by worldly riches must be bought.
At Granby Edward found a home, and Mary and her brother
In striving to amuse him seem'd to rival one another.
Mary was then three years of age, and little Edward tried
To teach her how to run about, protecting her with pride;
And as they older grew, their task, their sports were still the same,
For Mary left her governess, and to the boys she came
To help her brother wend his kite, or look at Edward's boat
Which down the little rivulet in gallant trim would float.
And when the lads to college went, Miss Mary used to think
That writing to her brother John was wicked waste of ink;
He was a correspondent so abominably dull.
But Edward always answered her, and his letters were so full

Of kind remarks and pleasant news, no trifle was forgotten,
She read them over every night, and put them by in cotton.

Oh what a beauteous thing is love! how happy and how pure,
Thus springing up in two young hearts, from present ills secure,
Assuming Friendship's name, it quite forgets that friends must sever,
As if young cousins thro' the world walk'd hand in hand for ever.
A fountain in a lonely vale resembles such a dream:
Now nothing but the clear blue sky is mirror'd in the stream,
Beside the valley's loveliest path its infancy is led,
Its bank is lined with violets, with softest moss its bed.
But the stream must leave the lonely vale, the violets and the moss,
And struggle on into the world, where restless billows toss.
Its purity reflects no more the bright expanse above,
And the calmness of its course is lost.—Oh! is't not so with Love?

By the Curate's side stood Mary Rose, unwilling to discuss
Some painful subject—suddenly he broke the silence thus:—
“Forgive me, Mary, oh! forgive the selfishness of heart
That would detain you longer here, 'tis time that we should part.
I might have known it could not last, I might have known that bliss
So pure, so perfect, n'er was meant for such a world as this.
And Mary, I will own to thee, that in some pensive mood
The thought of being torn from thee unbidden would intrude;
But I have hush'd the warning voice, I drove the thought away,
I knew that we must part, but still put off the evil day;
And in thy presence soon forgot that such a day must come.
But why do I distress thee thus? my anguish should be dumb;
It shall be so; yes—though I break my heart by the endeavour,
Henceforth I'll utter no complaint. Farewell! farewell for ever!”

“For ever! Edward, 'tis unkind. For ever!” Mary said,
“Oh think when first you went from home, what bitter tears I shed;

But I never breathed such cruel words: I plac'd implicit trust
Upon a friend's fidelity—shall Edward be less just?
You said you would remember me, and did I not believe?
I promised I would write to you, and did I then deceive?
No, Edward, no, we met again as happy as before,
And, dearest cousin, even now we've happy days in store.”

“Say, Cousin, yes, that word they will not bid thee to forget—
Say Cousin, but we never more shall meet as we have met.
Ay, call me Cousin in the world, it surely will be hard
If thou mayst not bestow on me a cousin's cold regard.
But I renounce the chilling word.”

“Oh, Edward, say not so;
Thou'rt angry, Edward; let me hear kind words before I go.”

“Kind words! I know not what I say; but novice as thou art
In worldly ways, consider, is it thus that cousins part?
Were I thy cousin only, at the altar I could stand
And calmly breathe a blessing while a husband press'd thy hand.
But is it so? no, Mary, no—thou canst not be my wife,
And the loneliness of blighted hope is Edward's lot for life.
Alas! I never loved thee with the common love of earth,
The love that vaunts its proud success in revelry and mirth.
My love was nurs'd in secret, like a blossom that has furl'd
All its sweet leaves from the notice and the sunshine of the world.”

Mary was weeping while he spoke; at length she rais'd her head,
And looking in his face, almost inaudibly she said:

“Edward, you never spoke of this—and have we not been wrong?
Yes, both of us, to close our eyes against the truth so long.
And now that you address me thus, perhaps I should rely
On some more tranquil prompter than my heart for a reply;
But no, if you have been to blame, at least that blame I share,
And I cannot listen calmly to those accents of despair.

If you are wretched, I am so; hereafter be more kind,
And think that Mary shares the grief of him she leaves behind.”
There was a pause—a blissful pause; but the poet drops his pen;
There are no words that can describe the lover's rapture then;
And the painter would be fortunate who faithfully could trace
The beautiful expression of his fair though manly face,
As his arms supported her who had been lov'd so many years,
Who with her head upon his heart, was smiling thro' her tears.

Who is there that cannot remember moments when he cast
From his bosom every feeling for the future and the past,
And in the present wholly lost, beholding all most dear,
Forgot to hope—forgetting there was such a thing as fear.

But Mary's sweet lips broke the spell: “Oh, hasten,” she exclaim'd,
“To my parents—to my parents, love, this meeting must be named.”

“It has been named,” said Edward, and his cheek grew pale and cold,
“It has been named; to both of them my passion has been told,
By both that passion has been spurn'd, and this brief meeting o'er,
My Mary will be torn from me: we part to meet no more!”

But we must leave the lovers now—too long we have intruded,
And prying eyes from parting scenes should always be excluded.

CANTO III.

Were I a country villa to select
Like Granby Grove in every respect,
Park like, and pretty; one of those estates
With two approaches, and with two lodge gates;

I never would be tempted, for the sake
Of glen and mountain, cataract and lake,
To choose a dwelling in its summer dress,
Six hundred miles from London, (more or less)
Without one human habitation near,
And roads impassable one half the year.
The summer choice of such a tenement
Leads to “the winter of our discontent.”
And oh! as little would I like to own
One situated near a country town;
So near that Mistress this, or Mistress that,
Could drop in of an afternoon to chat;
So very near, that e'en old maids could take
The walk to gossip over wine and cake;
And yet so far, 'twere cruel, when they come
To send them back again with “not at home.”
Place me the town precisely five miles off,
For all my wants and wishes near enough;
The mail will leave my letters at the gate;
And though perhaps pedestrians must wait,
And yearly club together, and approach
In a landau—(the Angel's old glass coach),
Between these visits months must intervene,
Not angel ones—tho' few and far between.
And o'er the luncheon tray we then shall hear
Provincial politics just once a year;
The sly remark, that certain people deem
That certain people are not what they seem,
Adding, that certain other people know
They are, or were, or will be so and so.
The confidential whispers of the day,
Still whisper'd in a confidential way,
Till confidants the whispers wide diffuse,
And all the smiling circle shares the news.

But Granby Grove is only two short miles
From Granby Town; and those who don't mind stiles
May walk across the fields, a shorter way;
Call late, and then judiciously delay,
And stay and dine—if they are ask'd to stay.

The Grove is therefore often throng'd with visitors,
The favour'd haunt of feminine inquisitors.

Think not from this the vile opinion mine,
That the word gossip must be feminine;
For I have seen the male, and frankly state
The coat and waistcoat gossip most I hate.
For “trifles light as air” may well engage
The single lady of a certain age,
Who lives alone, with eyes too dim to find,
With book or needle, pastime for the mind.
To her it would be cruelty to grudge
The observatory where she loves to lodge,
In the High Street, just opposite the shop
Where customers continually stop;
With a bay window, where from her snug seat,
She has a prospect up and down the street;
Picks up the latest rumours, one by one,
Hears more than ever was or will be done,
And nightly takes her tea chest from the shelf,
And tells to others what she heard herself.

But look without abhorrence, if you can,
Upon a gossip in the shape of man;
Man, in whose avocations you expect
Some trace of energy or intellect:
The book, the pen; or else, with those who shun
These home pursuits, the courser and the gun.

We turn to Lady Rose, who blithe and gay
Holds her last levee at the Grove to-day.
We find her seated by a portly dame
In silk and swan's down; Plimpton is her name,
Wife of a banker, proud to represent
One half of Granby town in Parliament.
“What, off to-morrow!” she exclaims, “my Lady,
And here you sits! you never will be ready;
I keeps you from your packing, I'm afraid.
But law! you leaves all them things to your maid!
I does all that myself—safe bind, safe find—
I sorts the articles of every kind,

The heavy things at bottom—light at top;
I puts my hand upon 'em when we stop,
Like a phenolemon, in fact you see,
I always does it all for Mister P.
We goes to town next week, the House of Commons
Has sent my poor dear man some sort of summons.
If he sits up all night to hear them speak
It will anniliate him in a week,
But I suppose, if he don't go there now,
The king will miss him, and there'll be a row.
Great men, my Lady, leads most shocking lives,
And so I'm very sure do great men's wives!
I sha'nt know know no one up in town, I fear,
But as we lives contagious like, down here,
I hopes to meet you in a friendly way,
I'll let you know our house, good day, good day!”

Off waddles the great man's great wife; and now
Comes a young Clergyman with simp'ring bow,
(Not Mary's cousin and acknowledged Love,
The Curate of the village near the Grove)
The Curate of the Town, and prouder far,
A Preacher aiming to be popular.
And pulpit popularity is not
His only aim, far from it, he has got
A longing after notoriety,
Whatever the pursuit may chance to be.
None dress so well as the Reverend Mr. Flinn,
And then how black his hair! how white his skin!
The last new cut in coats, if you would own,
The Reverend Mr. Flinn's is new from town.
To see him rising is a perfect treat,
The Reverend Mr. Flinn has such a seat!
No Granby ball without his aid can answer;
The Reverend Mr. Flinn is such a dancer!
First at the list of concerts he is reckon'd,
The Reverend Mr. Flinn sings such a second!
Dames who at whist love partners who can win,
Look kindly on the Reverend Mr. Flinn.

At water parties he is always present,
The Reverend Mr. Flinn can be so pleasant.
At archeries, the arrow is put in
The bull's eye by the Reverend Mr. Flinn!
Some mothers, and daughters too, assert
The Reverend Mr. Flinn is apt to flirt;
Yet marriage surely were a greater sin
In one so poor as the Reverend Mr. Flinn!

A “Ladyship” is always sure to win
Attention from the Reverend Mr. Flinn.
And though more flattering compliments are heard
When speaking to the lady of a “Lord,”
The bow and smile he never can forget
Due to the lady of a “Baronet.”
And doubly interesting she appears,
When in the rural coterie he hears
That she will have that eligible thing,
A house in town, in the ensuing spring.

At Mrs. Plimpton's exit, John came in,
And next announced “The Reverend Mr. Flinn.”
“You'll be in Baker Street to-morrow night!
A charming change! Your Ladyship is right:
There's nothing after all like town, my Lady,
I'm dying for the opera already!
I must leave poor dear Granby in the lurch,
And get some worthy man to serve my church.
Town is my element, I never can be
Appreciated in a place like Granby.
I am not vain; far from it, but I seek
Some chapel near the squares, when once a week
I may, unbored by burials and marriages,
Preach to a well dress'd crowd who come in carriages.
One's lost at Granby—positively lost;
I'm sick of the eternal tea and toast.
'Two'nt do to say: ‘regret you cannot go;’
They know you cannot be engag'd, they know
Where every body breakfasts, dines and sups,
And when at tea they fill their china cups,

Look out for every creature they invite,
Deem a refusal vastly impolite.
The town boasts but one party in one night!”

Now Lady Rose was very well aware
The Reverend Mr. Flinn's incessant care
Was by these very persons to be petted,
And when unasked, she knew how much he fretted!
Their daily flatterer, though it was his rule,
Absent to turn them into ridicule!

“Dear me! you quite surprise me!” she exclaim'd.
“The Reverend Mr. Flinn is always nam'd
At Granby with delight; I own I thought
You were as glad to seek, as to be sought!”

“Oh, no, my Lady, I am sadly teazed;
And if at times I manage to seem pleased,
It is an amiable weakness, thus
To smile on those who inconvenience us.”

“A moral maxim that,” said Lady Rose;
“You practice what you preach, Sir, I suppose.
But, Mr. Flinn, I really understood
You meant to settle in the neighbourhood.”

“Settle,” exclaimed the Reverend Mr. Flinn,
“A charming country this to settle in!
But I'm not one who, in a country town,
Could, as the vulgar phrase is, ‘settle down.’
Of course your Ladyship alludes, I know,
To the rumour of my marriage with Miss Snow.—
She's prettyish, and rich—but you must own
She is deficient both in taste and ton.
I must be less attentive—'tis a sin
To let her think she will be Mistress Flinn.”

“How fortunate! you may commence to-day
Your system of reserve without delay;
See all the Snows, the parents and your love,
A perfect snow storm, driving to the Grove!”

The Reverend Mr. Flinn seem'd rather flurried,
Rose to depart—and then his words were hurried.
The Snows were usher'd in ere he retreated,
He could not leave the room, he soon was seated
Next the Miss Snow whose hopes were to be chill'd,
And by a slighted passion prematurely kill'd!
Unfortunate young man! to thaw that snow,
How he hath labour'd nobody can know!
And how that snow hath frozen by delay
All his advances, nobody can say!
And now she seems much more inclined to chat
Than usual! He fidgets with his hat,
Ashamed that Lady Rose the chat should see
Yet loth to lose the opportunity.
He fears to lose, yet is ashamed to win!
Oh! most embarrass'd Reverend Mr. Flinn!

Pity the man who, rising once a year
A little way above his proper sphere,
Strives—(vain endeavour!) to appear to be
Indigenous to such society.
Then, to appear recherché, he disclaims
All knowledge of the old familiar names;
The man whose hand in fellowship he takes,
Whose roof has shelter'd him, whose bread he breaks;
The woman he has woo'd with all the strength
Dissimulation boasts, who loves at length,
Who mourns his absence, and will smiling stand
To welcome his return with lip and hand;
These he disowns, or if he deems it right
To say he knows them before ears polite,
Insults them by acknowledgment so slight.

Such is the Reverend Mr. Flinn, and now
Having forsworn his friends, he knows not how
To act reserve before my Lady Rose,
Yet slily smile as usual on the Snows.
Disastrous destiny of trifling fools,
Who wish to sit, yet tamper with two stools!

The Snows prepare to go, and they begin
To wonder at the Reverend Mr. Flinn!
“I fear you're poorly, Sir, you've walk'd too far,
We'll take you back to Granby, if you are;
So says Mamma—says Miss: “You know there'll be
A vacant seat upon the box with me.”
“Sick!” says old Snow, “Come with us, stay and dine,
And I will cure you, Flinn, with old port wine!”

The gentlemanly man whom you prefer,
Will know you for a year, and call you “Sir;”
The vulgar being whom you never seek,
Will slap your back and “Flinn” you in a week!

The Reverend Mr. Flinn though quite unused
To saying “No, I thank you,” twice refused!
Then looking with the corner of his eye
At Lady Rose's face, he heav'd a sigh;
And glancing at the delicate Miss Snow,
He could not have the heart to utter “No.”
Soon from the window Lady Rose espied
The lovers on the dicky, side by side!

The carriage drove away, and ere the bell
Rings for the meal that most men love so well,
Two dozen more across the lawn have flitted,
And (most unusual thing) have been admitted!

But now the last is gone, the levee done,
The lady sits complacently alone,
And murmurs to herself in accents sweet,
“To-morrow I shall dine in Baker Street!”

CANTO IV.

The excellent Housekeeper, Mistress Magee,
Is wild as weak women can possibly be:
She fumes and she frets, and examines, and mends,
And she orders about her, and superintends;
Arranging and managing, early and late,
Now sorting the linen, now packing the plate,
Now scolding the butler for doing it wrong;
Upbraiding the footman for lingering long,
And speaking her mind (though a little afraid
Of a saucy reply) to my lady's own maid.
And all confidentially seem to agree
That the journey has bothered poor Mrs. Magee.

“They're going to Lunnon,” she says to herself,
As she takes a large pickle jar down from a shelf,
“To Lunnon!—I never knows any good come
Of people's desarting their comforts at home.
To Lunnon! I takes it exceeding unkind
They should leave me alone in the country behind:
Unless into matters my lady looks deeper,
When she sees the housekeeping—she'll miss the housekeeper!
You go with them, Jane—deary me! I forget
That all the folks call you now Mistress Rosette;
Humph—Mistress Rosette! how you used to complain,
As a housemaid, at my never calling you ‘Jane;’
But how could I help it? now don't take it ill,
I can't forget Jenny, the drudge at the mill.”

Cries Mistress Rosette: “I despises your words;
We all knows your temper would turn cream to curds.
I'd answer—but anger destroys the complexion:
Your age and your 'firmities is your protection!
You envies my going to Lunnon, I see.
These trips are agreeable Mistress Magee.”

“Don't talk about trips,” says the keeper of keys,
“Don't talk about trips, Ma'am, to me if you please;

For your trips I suspect that you need not go far:
You've had plenty of trips in your time, Mistress R.”
Says Mistress Rosette, and she doubles her fist;
“I advises you, Mistress Magee, to desist;
To answer such obsequies only degrades
To a level with you, Madam—us lady's maids.”

“Lady's maids!” with a sneer says the elderly dame;
“The gentlemen's maids were a much better name.”

And dreading a most pugilistic response,
The housekeeper quitted the chamber at once.

Oh sad is the housekeeper, ordered to air
The old family seat with no family there!
To open the windows, to let in the light
Upon furniture only, and shut them at night;
To hear the wind whistling thro' the spring leaves,
No man in the mansion, and dreaming of thieves!
No talk with my lady, no orders to take,
No dinners to manage, no pastry to make,
No housemaid to scold for not using a broom,
No gossip and tea in the housekeeper's room;
No quality company coming to stay,
No little donation on going away,
No pleasant civilities: “Happy to see
You are looking so charmingly, Mistress Magee!
I hope I shall find you as blooming next year,
Without you, I scarcely should know myself here.”
Oh! nothing of this! she must fold up once more
The things that were very well folded before,
Or trying to think herself busy, bestow
New papers and brandy to jams on the go.

The morn of departure, poor Mrs. Magee
Is ready at six, with toast, coffee and tea;
The carriage is pack'd, and Sir Hampton, his lady,
And Mary, are seated within it already;
And Mistress Rosette, scorning weather and wind,
Is seated with John in the rumble behind:

The wheels are in motion—and standing alone,
Poor Mistress Magee's occupation is gone.

And fast flies the travelling carriage, so fast
That the Granby Grove boundaries quickly are past.
And now to the Rectory lawn they are close—
Poor Mary leans forward to gaze at the house;
Her eyes on one casement are fix'd, but so dim
Is the grey light of morning, she cannot see him.
But onward they go, and a turn in the road
Soon veils from her view the poor curate's abode;
With that—from her bosom all hope disappears—
She leans back in the carriage, and bursts into tears.
But one at the Rectory casement hath been,
Looking forth as they pass'd, tho' by Mary unseen.
His night has been sleepless, ah! who hath not known,
What it is in the darkness to stand all alone
By the window, and eagerly watch for the least
Ray of morning that colours the clouds in the east!
Yes, who has not gazed, when the daylight appear'd
For an early departure, expected, yet fear'd;
Now wondering what can have caused a delay
Now certain that something induced them to stay.
Looking out at each noise, with so eager an eye,
As if 'twould be pleasure to see them pass by!
Oh! who has not known what the weary one feels,
Who at length in reality hears the swift wheels,
And traces, or rather believes he can trace,
In the gloom of the carriage, one upturning face,
As if seeking for him, where he oft has been sought;
And then ere quite sure of the glimpse he has caught,
The wheels indistinctly are heard!—they are past.
Can it be she is gone—could that look be the last!
He ought to have spoken; why did he not stand
To acknowledge that look with a wave of the hand?
She will think he was sleeping—how cold and remiss,
To be able to sleep on a morning like this!
What would he not give, to behold her go by
Once again—though the vision as swiftly would fly!

In the instant, she might have beheld on his cheek
The sorrow which plainer than language can speak.
She might have remember'd that agonised glance
In the radiant assembly, the banquet, the dance;
She might have remember'd that look, when the voice
Of a lover more noble proclaims her his choice,
And her lips might have murmur'd: “No, constant I'll be,
I will ne'er forget him, he will ne'er forget me.”

SEASONABLE DITTIES.

DON'T TALK OF SEPTEMBER!

I

III

Though dreary November
Has darken'd the sky,
You still must remember
That day in July,
When after much roaming,
To Carson's we went,
For something becoming
To take into Kent.

IV

You, long undecided
What bonnet to choose,
At length chose, as I did,
The sweetest of blues.
Yours now serves to show, dear,
How fairest things fade;
And I long ago, dear,
Gave mine to my maid.

V

Oh, pause for a minute,
Ere yours is resign'd;
Philosophy in it
A moral may find.
To past scenes I'm hurried,
That relic revives
The beaux we worried
Half out of their lives.

VI

'Twas worn at all places
Of public resort;
At Hogsnorton races,
So famous for sport.
That day, when the Captain
Would after us jog,
And thought us entrapt in
His basket of prog!

VII

He gave me a sandwich,
And not being check'd,
He offered a hand—which
I chose to reject!
And then you were teased with
The gentleman's heart,
Because you seem'd pleased with
His gooseberry tart!

VIII

'Twas worn at the ladies'
Toxopholite fête,
(That sharp-shooting trade is
A thing that I hate;
Their market they mar, who
Attempt, for a prize,
To shoot with an arrow,
Instead of their eyes.)

IX

And don't that excursion
By water forget;
Sure, summer diversion
Was never so wet!
To sit there and shiver,
And hear the wind blow,
The rain, and the river,
Above, and below!

X

But hang the last bonnet,
What is it to us,
That we should muse on it,
And moralise thus?
A truce to reflecting;
To Carson's we'll go,
Intent on selecting
A winter chapeau.

XI

Then let Betty take it,
For Betty likes blue;
And Betty can make it
Look better than new.
In taste Betty's fellow
Was never yet seen;
She'll line it with yellow,
And trim it with green!

ALL HAIL TO THEE, HOARY DECEMBER!

A DECEMBER PASTORAL.

I

All hail to thee, hoary December!
All hail! (except mizzle and sleet)—
Dark month, if one half I remember,
A list of thy charms I'll repeat:
Though roses are faded, and mute is
The nightingale's song in the grove,
Thou art, among candlelight beauties,
The one of all others I love.

II

Now mulligatawny is chosen
For luncheons, both wholesome and nice;
And, Grange, thy brisk trade is quite frozen,
For nobody purchases ice!
There's ice on the Serpentine river,
Where ladies and gentlemen skate,
And whilst on the margin I shiver,
They flourish a figure of eight!

III

Oh come with thy thousand ingredients
For making an exquisite feast;
Oh come with thy countless expedients
For fattening up a prize beast!
Thy cooks, whose perpetual work is
To mince meat, shall hail thy approach;
And oh, what uncommon fine turkeys
From Norwich fly up by the coach!

IV

Oh! all love December with reason;—
For while Hospitality feeds
Her guests, she well knows 'tis the season
For charity's holier deeds.
And thus rich and poor have to thank it,
For gifts which impartially flow;
The pauper, when wrapp'd in his blanket,
Sighs not for a blanquette de veau.

V

Oh, come with thy Christmas vagaries,
Thy harlequin pantomime jumps,
Grim ogres, and beautiful fairies,
In gossamer trousers and pumps!
Oh come with thy clownish grimaces,
Thy pantaloon practical wit;
And, tier above tier, merry faces
In gallery, boxes, and pit!

VI

Oh come with George Barnwell and Millwood,
A drama of practical force,
Which, were we disposed to do ill, would
Soon make us good people of course.
Young Barnwell—the author alleges—
Got rid of his money too fast;
And, bothered with pawnbroker's pledges,
He murdered his uncle at last!

VII

Come hither with fun and with folly,
Bring icicle gems on thy brow,
The bright coral beads of the holly,
And pearls from the mistletoe bough.
Oh come with thy shining apparel,
Thy robe like the snow on the hill;
And come above all, with a barrel
Of something to take off the chill!

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

FRIAR LAURENCE AND JULIET.

FRIAR.

Who is calling Friar Laurence?
Madam Juliet! how d'ye do?
Dear me—talk of the—beg pardon—
I've been talking about you.
Mistress Montague, they tell me
You on Thursday mean to wed!
It is strange you never told me
That poor Mister M. was dead!

JULIET.

M.'s alive! yet County Paris
I'm to marry, people say!
(I shall marry the whole county
If I go on in this way:)
Once you've wedded me already,
If I wed again, you see,
Though in you a little error,
'Twill be very big o' me.

FRIAR.

'Pon my life, it's very awkward!
I'll on some expedient hit.
If you'll find me ready money,
I will find you ready wit:
I can't let you wed a second,
Ere I know the first has died;
Think of faggots! for such deeds, ma'am,
Holy friars have been fried!

JULIET.

'Tan't my wish, sir, nor intention,—
Any scheme of yours I'll hail;
To escape from County Paris,
Put me in the county jail.
Kill me dead! and make me food for
Earthworm, viper, toad or rat;
Make a widower of Ro-me-
-O,—('twill hurt me to do that!)

FRIAR.

If you've really resolution
That your life-blood should be spilt,
I will save you, for I'll have you
Not quite killed, but merely kilt.
Could you in a vault be buried—
Horizontal—in a niche?
And of death so good a copy,
None could find out which is which?

JULIET.

I would vault into a vault, sir,
With a dead man in his shroud;
I'd do any dirty work, sir,
Though my family's so proud!
I'll do whatsoe'er you bid me,
'Till you say I've done enough:
Nay, sir, much as I dislike it,
I'll take 'poticary's stuff!

FRIAR.

Then go home, ma'am, and be merry;
Say that Paris you will wed;
Tell your nurse you've got a headache,
And go quietly to bed.
Ask for something warm,—some negus,
Grog, or gruel, or egg-flip,
Put in this, and then drink quickly,—
'Tis so nauseous if you sip.

JULIET.

Give, oh! give me quick that phial,
From the trial I'll not shrink;
Is it shaken when it's taken?
Gracious me! it's black as ink!
There's no fear, I trust, of failure?
No, I doubt not its effect;
From your conversation's tenor
No base phial I expect.

FRIAR.

You will have the bridegroom follow
Where he generally leads;
'Stead of hymeneal flowers,
He will wear sepulchral weeds:
I to Romeo will quickly
Write a letter by the post;
He will wake you, and should Paris
Meet you,—say you are your ghost!

JULIET.

'Tis an excellent arrangement,
As you bid me I will act;
But within the tomb, dear friar,
Place a basket nicely pack'd;—
Just a loaf, a tongue, a chicken,
Port and sherry, and some plums;
'Twill really be a comfort,
Should I wake e'er Romeo comes!

THE ABBESS AND THE DUCHESS.

ABBESS.

Who is knocking for admission,
At the convent's outer gate?
Is it possible a lady
Can be wandering so late?
Let me see her through the lattice,
And her story let me hear.
Oh! your most obedient madam;
May I ask what brings you here?

DUCHESS.

You will very much applaud me,
When you hear what I have done;
I've been naughty,—I'm a penitent,
and want to be a nun.
I've been treated most unfairly,
Though 'tis said I am most fair;
I am rich, ma'am, and a duchess,
And my name's La Vallière.

ABBESS.

Get along, you naughty woman,
You'll contaminate us all;
When you touch'd the gate, I wonder
That the convent did not fall!
Stop! I think you mention'd money,
That is—penitence, I mean.
Let her in—I'm too indulgent;
Pray how are the King and Queen?

DUCHESS.

Lady Abbess, you delight me;
Oh! had Louis been as kind!
But he used me ungenteelly,
To my fondness deaf and blind.

Oh! methinks that now I view him,
With his feathers in his hat!
Hem!—beg pardon—I'm aware, ma'am,
That I mustn't speak of that.

ABBESS.

Not by no means, madam, never;
No—you mustn't even think;
Put your feet upon the fender
And here's something warm to drink.
Is it strong enough?—pray stir it.
What on earth could make you go
From a palace to a convent?
Come, I'm curious to know.

DUCHESS.

Can you wonder, Lady Abbess,
At the change I should rejoice;
I of vanities was weary,
And a convent was my choice.
I have had a troubled conscience,
And court manners did condemn,
Ever since I saw King Louis
Making eyes at Madame M.

ABBESS.

Oh! I think I comprehend you;
But take care what you're about;
Though 'tis easy to get in here,
'Tan't so easy to get out.
You'll for beads resign your jewels,
And your robes for garments plain;
Ere you cut the world, remember—
'Tis not cut and come again.

DUCHESS.

I am willing in a cloister
That my days and nights should pass;
This is very nice indeed, ma'am,
If you please, another glass)

As for courtiers, I'll hereafter
Lay the odious topic by;
Oh! their crooked ways enough are
For to turn a nun awry.

ABBESS.

Very proper. To the sisters
'Twould be wrong to chatter thus;
Now and then, when snug and cosey,
'Twill do very well for us.
It is strange how tittle-tattle
All about the convent spreads,
When the barber from the village
Comes to shave the sisters' heads.

DUCHESS.

Do you really mean to tell me
I must lose my raven locks?
Then I'll tie 'em up with ribbon,
And I'll keep 'em in my box.
Oh! how Louis used to praise 'em!
Hem! I think I'll go to bed.
Not another drop, I thank you,
It would get into my head.

ABBESS.

Benedicte! my daughter,
You'll be soon used to the place;
Though at meals our only duchess,
You will have to say your grace.
And when none can interrupt us,
You of courtly scenes shall tell,
When I bring a drop of comfort
From my cellar to my cell!

THE FEMALE CONVICT-SHIP.

I

The tide is in, the breeze is fair,
The vessel under weigh;
The gallant prow glides swiftly on,
And throws aside the spray.
The tranquil ocean, mirror-like,
Reflects the deep blue skies;
And, pointing to the destin'd course,
The straighten'd pennon flies.

II

Oh! none of those heart-cradled prayers
That never reach the lip,
No benedictions wait upon
That fast-receding ship.
No tearful eyes are strain'd to watch
Its progress from the land;
And there are none to wave the scarf,
And none to kiss the hand.

III

Yet women throng that vessel's deck,
The haggard and the fair,
The young in guilt, and the depraved
Are intermingled there!
The girl, who from her mother's arms
Was early lured away;
The harden'd hag, whose trade hath been
To lead the pure astray.

IV

A young and sickly mother kneels
Apart from all the rest;
And with a song of home she lulls
The babe upon her breast.

She falters—for her tears must flow,
She cannot end the verse;
And nought is heard among the crowd
But laughter, shout, or curse!

V

'Tis sunset. Hark! the signal gun;—
All from the deck are sent,
The young, the old, the best, the worst,
In one dark dungeon pent!
Their wailings, and their horrid mirth
Alike are hush'd in sleep;
And now the female convict-ship
In silence ploughs the deep.

VI

But long the lurid tempest-cloud
Hath brooded o'er the waves;
And suddenly the winds are roused,
And leave their secret caves.
And up aloft the ship is borne,
And down again as fast,
And every mighty billow seems
More dreadful than the last.

VII

Oh! who that loves the pleasure-barque
By summer breezes fann'd,
Shall dare to paint the ocean-storm,
Terrifically grand?
When helplessly the vessel drifts,
Each torn sail closely furl'd,
When not a man of all the crew
Knows whither she is hurl'd!

IX

And who shall tell the agony
Of those confined beneath,
Who in the darkness dread to die—
How unprepared for death!

100

Who, loathing, to each other cling,
When every hope hath ceased,
And beat against their prison door,
And shriek to be released!

X

Three times the ship hath struck. Again!
She never more will float.
Oh! wait not for the rising tide;
Be steady—man the boat!
And see, assembled on the shore
The merciful, the brave:
Quick, set the female convicts free,
There still is time to save!

XI

It is in vain! what demon blinds
The captain and the crew?
The rapid rising of the tide
With mad delight they view.
They hope the coming waves will waft
The convict ship away!
The foaming monster hurries on,
Impatient for his prey!

XII

And he is come! the rushing flood
In thunder sweeps the deck;
The groaning timbers fly apart,
The vessel is a wreck!
One moment, from the female crowd
There comes a fearful cry;
The next, they're hurl'd into the deep,
To struggle, and to die!

XIII

Their corses strew a foreign shore,
Left by the ebbing tide;
And sixty in a ghastly row
Lie number'd, side by side!

101

The lifeless mother's bleeding form
Comes floating from the wreck;
And lifeless is the babe she bound
So fondly round her neck!

XIV

'Tis morn; the anxious eye can trace
No vessel on the deep;
But gather'd timber on the shore
Lies in a gloomy heap.
In winter time those brands will blaze,
Our tranquil homes to warm,
Though torn from that poor convict ship
That perish'd in the storm!

TWENTY YEARS!

I

They tell me twenty years are past,
Since I have look'd upon thee last,
And thought thee fairest of the fair,
With thy sylph-like form and light-brown hair!
I can remember every word
That from those smiling lips I heard.
Oh! how little it appears
Like the lapse of twenty years!

II

Thou art changed! in thee I find
Beauty of another kind;
Those rich curls lie on thy brow
In a darker cluster now;
And the sylph hath given place
To the matron's form of grace.
Yet, how little it appears
Like the lapse of twenty years!

102

III

Still thy cheek is round and fair;
'Mid thy curls not one grey hair;
Not one lurking sorrow lies
In the lustre of those eyes.
Thou hast felt, since last we met,
No affliction, no regret!
Wonderful! to shed no tears
In the lapse of twenty years!

IV

But what means that changing brow?
Tears are in those dark eyes now!
Have my rash, incautious, words
Waken'd feeling's slumbering chords?
Wherefore dost thou bid me look
At yon dark-bound journal-book?
There the register appears
Of the lapse of twenty years!

V

Thou hast been a happy bride,
Kneeling by a lover's side;
And unclouded was thy life,
As his loved and loving wife.
Thou hast worn the garb of gloom,
Kneeling by that husband's tomb;
Thou hast wept a widow's tears
In the lapse of twenty years!

VI

Oh! I see my error now,
To suppose, in cheek and brow,
Strangers may presume to find
Treasured secrets of the mind.
There fond Memory still will keep
Her vigil, when she seems to sleep;
Though composure re-appears
In the lapse of twenty years!

103

VII

Where's the hope that can abate
The grief of hearts thus desolate?
That can youth's keenest pangs assuage,
And mitigate the gloom of age?
Religion bids the tempest cease,
And leads her to a port of peace;
And on, the lonely pilot steers
Through the lapse of future years!

A PARTY OF PLEASURE.

BEING A PAINFUL RETROSPECT OF A TRIP.

I

A party of pleasure! a party of four,
Too few if one less, too many if more;
A man and his wife, a beau and a belle
Set out on a journey from—whence I shan't tell.

II

One sketch'd upon paper a plan of the tour,
A peep at all places of note to ensure:
Oh! think how divine, when the weather is fine,
To go via Brussels as far as the Rhine!

III

The Rhine is a river all tourists should see;
That any can miss it astonishes me!
No place of repute on the road we'll let slip,
But we look to the Rhine as the pride of our trip.

104

IV

The bachelor beau, when we landed in France,
Was judiciously placed at the head of finance;
And ere we set out, as a matter of course,
He put in his pocket a very big purse.

V

I hate English money; I own that I doat
On the high-sounding name of a hundred-franc note;
Four pounds may sound paltry, but tell it in francs,
And we fear not a check to our travelling pranks.

VI

But when four times four English pounds we can count,
(Which, changed into francs, to four hundred amount,)
To Constantinople away we may dash,
Without the least fear of exhausting our cash.

VII

We changed it to dollars before we set out;
We like solid coin, and a purse that is stout;
So the bachelor beau bought a sort of a sack,
And he totter'd away with his load on his back.

VIII

We travell'd by day, and we rested by night;
Our purse it was heavy, our hearts they were light;
We feasted like princes, but, sipping our wine,
Said we, “We'll drink Hock, when we get to the Rhine.”

IX

At Brussels, delighted, we rose with the lark,
The play-bill we read ere we walk'd in the park:
“'Tis Robert le Diable! how very divine!
And to-morrow, of course, we set out for the Rhine!”

105

X

Gods! what has befallen the man of finance?
How pallid his cheek! how distracted his glance!
Can the bachelor beau wear that visage of gloom?
Sure 'tis Robert le Diable just fresh from the tomb!

XI

“We're lost! we're undone!” cried the man of finance,
“Sure never had mortal so sad a mischance!
What demon possess'd us? Ah! why did we come?
We havn't got money to carry us home!”

XII

“No money!” exclaimed Mr. Dee, in despair;
“No money!” cried Mrs. Dee, tearing her hair;
“No money!” said frantic Elizabeth Roe;
“No money!” responded the bachelor beau.

XIII

“I've only got money to take us half-way.”
“What! none for a dinner? what! none for the play?”
“What! none!” said Elizabeth Roe, turning pale,
“I wanted to purchase the sweetest lace veil!”

XIV

No dinner! no coffee! no supper! no lace!
And though we were each of us book'd for a place,
'Twas no place at the play;—no, we started at nine,
By a coach that did not go the road to the Rhine.

XV

Oh! had you but seen us at Lisle the next day!
How could we have breakfast with nothing to pay?
And the man of finance just awoke from a nap,
With the purse on his head for a travelling cap!

106

XVI

Cried poor Mr. Dee, “Let our watches be sold;
“And here,” said his wife, “is my chain of pure gold;”
“And here are my ear-rings,” Elizabeth mutter'd;
“Oh! get me some coffee, and toast that is buttered.”

XVII

But oh! in that moment of panic and grief
An elderly gentleman gave us relief;
When he heard of our wants, he unbutton'd his coat,
And obligingly lent us a hundred-franc note.

MORAL.

Ye tourists, attend, and my moral discern;
Wherever you go, bear in mind your return;
And, in some little pocket, be sure that you pack
Just money sufficient to carry you back!

MY PENSION.

I

What, take away my Pension! a word with you, Lord Grey;
You cannot be so barbarous! you mean not what you say;
I have enjoyed, for seven years, twelve hundred pounds a-year,
'Twas granted me by George the Fourth, how can you interfere?
I really hoped you'd think it right to grant me an extension;
It never once occurr'd to me you'd take away my Pension!

II

The thing's so inconvenient, you'll force me to retrench—
Indeed, retrenchment will not do, you'll send me to the bench!

107

How can you serve a lady so! oh! if I were a man,
I'd call you out, my noble lord, and end you with your plan.
You might retrench in many little ways that I could mention,
But what on earth possesses you to take away my Pension!

III

You ask about my services; but surely to intrude,
And ask a lady such a thing, is little less than rude.
Of course I could explain to you—My Lord, I say again,
If 'twas my pleasure so to do, of course I could explain;
I'm sure I've many female friends of vastly less pretension,
Who've met with greater recompense—then don't disturb my Pension!

IV

Reform may all be very proper, in a certain line,
I never can object to it, it's no affair of mine.
Reform the House of Commons, and correct abuses there,
But don't reform my little house in Green-street Grosvenor-square.
Don't seize my jewels, to allay the popular dissension—
You can't appease the radicals with my poor little Pension.

V

The revolutionists abroad have stirr'd up all this fuss:
But can your lordship tell me, what are Paris mobs to us?
Because the papers bore one so about the row at Brussels;
Must English ladies interfere with foreign people's bustles?
Now be assured, my noble lord, 'twas folly set the French on;
You really are not call'd upon to take away my Pension.

VI

Propriety might prompt your economical design,
In many cases doubtless,—but believe me not in mine;
Were I alone, I now might make a sacrifice, 'tis true,
But all my family, you know, have little pensions too;
My brothers and my cousins would go mad, were I to mention
The revolutionary scheme of giving up a pension!

108

VII

I think it would be setting an extremely bad example
In times like these, when people are endeavouring to trample
On all our ancient usages, and raising such a storm
About the place and pension list, and radical reform.
I say, my Lord, that I should feel deserving reprehension,
If I—by these intimidated—threw away my pension.

VIII

I'm quite convinced the only way of setting matters right,
And making common people see things in a proper light,
Is keeping up the ancient aristocracy of course,
And keeping down plebeians with a military force;
The lower orders really are so dull of comprehension,
They can't see the utility of granting me a pension.

IX

The truth is this—(you must not deem these few remarks intrusive)—
The aristocracy are not sufficiently exclusive.
They call on mistress this and that, and curtsey at a ball
To people who, in point of fact, are nobodies at all!
I never could perceive the use of smiling condescension—
It makes the upstarts insolent, they cavil at a pension.

X

When I am at my country seat, I shun this growing evil,
No member of the middling ranks presumes to call me civil.
I never call on them, and if one dares pay me a visit,
She comes in some old-fashion'd gown, and I and Laura quiz it;
And at the race-ball once a year, I set the upper bench on,
In high unbending dignity,—so I deserve my pension.

XI

Now pray, my lord, consider this, you're ruined if you grant
Concessions of this sweeping kind the common people want.
The aristocracy must not be interfered with thus:
Pray tell me what are starving individuals to us?
To pacify the radicals, and end all this contention,
We'll call my little income by some other name than pension.

109

XII

Of course, my lord, you can retrench in ev'ry other way,
The clerks in public offices may scribble on half-pay;
The captains and the cornets, and the curates may be fleeced,
(The incomes of the bishops, by the by, should be increased).
I see you are convinced, my lord, and through your intervention,
I trust, in spite of Mr. Hume, you'll let me keep my pension!

A PROLOGUE TO AN AMATEUR PLAY,

PERFORMED AT BATH, IN AID OF A CHARITY.

Another prologue?—zounds! let others speak,
I spoke a prologue, Sirs, last Friday week.
Besides, I'm Romeo, feathers, frills and all,
Equipt for Lady Sykes's fancy ball!
Well, if it must be so, I'll e'en commence,
And speak of motives and benevolence,
Of first attempts, and fears, and arduous parts,
And debutants with palpitating hearts;
And I'll just hint, before the play begins,
Charity hides a multitude of sins.
Blame not the novice for his want of skill,
Ye critics, say not he is acting ill;
May those relieved by this night's profit tell
That we, at least for once, have acted well.
Then wherefore should I labour to excite
A charitable feeling here to-night?
It is in charity we face you thus:
Then pray look down with charity on us.
Who would not take a part in such a cause,
Then take our parts and give us your applause.

110

Your plaudits give me confidence, and yet
'Tis strange, I almost hear them with regret.
This season—which in radiant pride appears,
After the twinkling lights of former years—
This brilliant season, so supremely graced
With rank, wealth, worth, with beauty, talent, taste,
Is drawing to a close, and those I fear
Who linger still to aid our efforts here,
Will soon be packing trunks and ordering chaises,
And seeking rival scenes, and gathering daisies.
Yet ere you seek sea breezes, deign to cast
One hearty glance on mirthful moments past.
Confess that pleasure reigns despotic here,
And promise to come back again next year.

Farewell—but let me offer, ere we part,
Earnest good wishes, spoken from the heart.
Some during the past season have it seems,
Arranged some little matrimonial schemes,
And now dream every night of turtle doves,
Of wedding favours, cake and white kid gloves.
Oh, may they all be happy, and possess
Bliss far beyond their single blessedness.
Reside in Bath from January to June,
And find in every month a honeymoon.
May the town prosper, may the wealthy aid
With liberal hand her charities and trade;
And whilst her leading stars combine to plot
New sports to animate this favoured spot—
Oh! may the counter-plot be just as pleasant,
And the Town Hall be merry as the Crescent.
May fashion still strew roses in our path,
And each year add prosperity to Bath.

111

IS THERE AN UNBELIEVER?

I

Is there an unbeliever!
One man who walks the earth,
And madly doubts that providence
Watch'd o'er him at his birth?
He robs mankind for ever
Of hope beyond the tomb;
What gives he as a recompense?—
The brute's unhallow'd doom!

II

In manhood's loftiest hour,
In health, and strength, and pride,
Oh! lead his steps through alleys green,
Where rills 'mid cowslips glide.
Climb nature's granite tower,
Where man hath rarely trod;
And will he then, in such a scene,
Deny there is a God?

III

Yes,—the proud heart will ever
Prompt the false tongue's reply!
An Omnipotent providence
Still madly he'll deny.
But see the unbeliever
Sinking in death's decay;
And hear the cry of penitence!
He never learnt to pray!

112

LINES OCCASIONED BY A VISIT TO MR. JOHN BANIM, IN HIS LAST ILLNESS.

I

I saw him on his couch of pain,
And when I heard him speak,
It was of Hope long nurs'd in vain,
And tears stole down his cheek.
He spoke of honours early won,
Which youth could rarely boast;
Of high endeavours well begun,
But prematurely lost.

II

I saw him on a brighter day,
Among the first spring flow'rs;
Despairing thoughts had pass'd away,
He spoke of future hours;
He spoke of health, of spirits freed
To take a noble aim;
Of efforts that were sure to lead
To fortune and to fame!

III

They bear him to a genial land
The cradle of the weak;
Oh! may it nerve the feeble hand,
And animate the cheek!
Oh! may he, when we meet again,
Those flattering hopes recall,
And smiling say,—“They were not vain,
I've realised them all!”

113

SONGS AND BALLADS.

SHOW ME THE RUINED MAN.

I

Show me the ruined man
Who never hopes to rise,
Who on the earth where he is hurl'd,
Without an effort lies.
Oh! bid him come to me
And tell his secret care;
Whate'er it be, he yet must learn
Man never should despair.

II

This is not said by one,
Who no reverse has known;
The chances are, his lot hath been
Less gloomy than my own.
But God will give us strength
For the burthen we must bear;
Adversity hath taught me this—
Man never should despair.

III

The gloom of blighted hopes
None better know than I,
And wrong'd by those I loved, I've pray'd
To lay me down and die!
But blessings still remain'd,
And 'twas an impious prayer;
Hope will not leave a guiltless mind,
Man never should despair.

114

UPON THY TRUTH RELYING.

I

They say we are too young to love,
Too wild to be united;
In scorn, they bid us both renounce
The fond vows we have plighted.
They send thee forth to see the world,
Thy love by absence trying;
Then go! for I can smile farewell—
Upon thy truth relying.

II

I know that pleasure's hand will throw
Her silken nets about thee:
I know how lonesome I shall find
The long—long days without thee.
But in thy letters there'll be joy:
The reading—the replying;
I'll kiss each word that's traced by thee—
Upon thy truth relying.

III

When friends applaud thee, I'll sit by,
In silent rapture gazing;
And oh! how proud of being loved,
By her they have been praising!
But should detraction breathe thy name,
The world's reproofs defying:
I'd love thee—laud thee—trust thee still—
Upon thy truth relying.

115

IV

E'en those who smile to see us part
Shall see us meet with wonder:
Such trials only make the heart
That truly loves grow fonder.
Our sorrows past shall be our pride,
When with each other vying:
Thou wilt confide in him who lives
Upon thy truth relying.

THE GIPSIES' HAUNT.

I

Why curls the blue smoke o'er the trees?
What words are borne upon the breeze?
Some cottage in yon lonely glen
Lies nestled from the eyes of men.
Unconsciously we've wandered near
Some rural play-place, for I hear
The sound in which my heart rejoices;
The melody of infant voices.

II

Alas! in that green nook we see,
No dwelling-place of industry;
No dame, intent on household cares,
The neat, but frugal meal prepares;
No sire his labour o'er, will come
To brighten and to share her home;
No children from their mother learn
An honest way their bread to earn.

III

The gipsies, wild and wandering race,
Are masters of the sylvan chase;

116

Beneath the boughs their tents they raise.
Upon the turf their faggots blaze:
In coarse profusion they prepare
The feast, obtain'd,—how, when, and where?
While swarthy forms, with clamour loud,
Around the smoking cauldron crowd.

IV

Forth trips a laughing dark-eyed lass
To interrupt us as we pass;
Upon your right hand let her look,
And there she will read, as in a book,
Your future fortune, and reveal
The joy or woe you're doom'd to feel.
Your course of love she will unfold,
If you the picture dare behold!

THE FIRST GREY HAIR.

I

The matron at her mirror, with her hand upon her brow,
Sits gazing on her lovely face—ay, lovely even now!
Why doth she lean upon her hand, with such a look of care?
Why steals that tear across her cheeks? She sees her first grey hair.

II

Time from her form hath taken away but little of its grace;
His touch of thought hath dignified the beauty of her face:
Yet she might mingle in the dance, where maidens gaily trip,
So bright is still her hazel eye, so beautiful her lip.

117

III

The faded form is often marked by sorrow more than years,
The wrinkle on the cheeks may be the course of secret tears.
The mournful lip may murmur of a love it ne'er confest,
And the dimness of the eye betray a heart that cannot rest.

IV

But she hath been a happy wife; the lover of her youth
May proudly claim the smile that pays the trial of his truth.
A sense of slight,—of loneliness,—hath never banished sleep:
Her life hath been a cloudless one: then wherefore doth she weep!

V

She looked upon her raven locks: what thoughts did they recall?
Oh! not of nights, when they were decked for banquet or for ball:
They brought back thoughts of early youth, e'er she had learnt to check
With artificial wreaths, the curls that sported o'er her neck.

VI

She seemed to feel her mother's hand pass lightly through her hair,
And draw it from her brow to leave a kiss of kindness there;
She seemed to view her father's smile, and feel the playful touch
That sometimes feigned to steal away the curls she prized so much.

VII

And now she sees her first grey hair! oh! deem it not a crime,
For her to weep, when she beholds the first foot-mark of time!
She knows that, one by one, those mute mementos will increase,
And steal youth, beauty, strength away, till life itself shall cease.

118

VIII

'Tis not the tree of vanity for beauty on the wane,
Yet though the blossom may not sigh to bud and bloom again,
It cannot but remember, with a feeling of regret,
The spring for ever gone—the summer sun so nearly set.

IX

Ah! lady! heed the monitor! thy mirror tells thee truth,
Assume the matron's folded veil, resign the wreath of youth.
Go! bind it on thy daughter's brow, in her thou'lt still look fair;
'Twere well would all learn wisdom, who behold the first grey hair.

THE BANISHED.

I

Oh give me back my heavy chain;
I ask not to be free;
I pray'd for life, but now the boon
Has lost its charms for me:
The blameless life of former years,
I know thou canst not give,
And banish'd from the friends of youth,
I cannot wish to live.

II

It is a doom far worse than death,
To join yon guilty band,—
The banish'd ones, who never more
Shall view their own loved land.
The felon in his grave hears not
The curse that brands his name,—
More happy than the criminal,
Whose living lot—is shame.

119

HE RODE BY AT MORN.

I

He rode by at morn on his courser so black,
And he said that at noon we should see him ride back;
Like a bridegroom, who speeds to his bride, he was drest,
A plume in his cap, and arose at his breast.
Look forth from the casement—look over the plam,
We shall see him ride by on his courser again.

II

I hear the steed coming, his form I discern,
No—'tis not the rider who pass'd me at morn!
'Tis his rival, whose right arm encircles the waist
Of a lady, whose light form before him is placed!
So swiftly they pass, that pursuit will be vain—
Oh, when will the poor lover pass us again?

III

Another steed comes, but so tardy his pace,
He seems like a jaded one last in a race!
His rider looks down with vexation and gloom,
His rosebud is faded, and broken his plume:
He gaily rode by us at morn—but 'tis plain,
Displeased with his journey, he rides back again.

HERE'S A BUMPER TO HER.

I

Here's a bumper to her, the brunette,
With her glances of luminous jet;
She is come from the clime,
Where the dancer keeps time,
To the sound of the gay castanet.
Fill high—here's a bumper to her!

120

II

Here's a bumper to her, who is fair
As the fancy-form'd sylphs of the air;
Her blue eye is mild
As the glance of a child,
Yet love's habitation is there.
Fill high—here's a bumper to her!

III

Here's a bumper to her, if not blind,
Charms in all you may easily find,
Should your eyes chance to trace
Not one charm in the face,
Be content with the charms of the mind.
Fill high—here's bumper to her!

HE CAME AT MORN.

I

He came at morn to the lady's bower—
He sang, and play'd till the noontide hour;—
He sang of war—he sang of love,
Of battle-field, and peaceful grove:
The lady could have stay'd all day
To hear that gentle Minstrel play!
And when she saw the Minstrel go
The lady's tears began to flow.

II

At mid-day, with her page she went
To grace a splendid tournament;
And there she saw an armed knight,
With golden helm and plumage white;
With grace he rode his sable steed,
And after many a martial deed,
He knelt to her with words most sweet,
And laid his trophies at her feet.

121

III

At night, in robes both rich and rare,
With jewels sparkling in her hair,
She sought the dance; and smiling came
A youthful prince, who breathed her name.
He sang—it was the minstrel's strain!
He knelt—she saw the knight again!
With lovers three—how blest to find
The charms of all in one combined

I THOUGHT OF THEE.

I

I thought of thee, when o'er the sea
My vessel flew before the wind,
Though mem'ry brought no trace of aught,
Save chilling frowns and words unkind!
Too well, I knew my last adieu
Had caused no sad regret for me;
Yet when the shore was seen no more,
I thought of thee—I thought of thee!

II

I thought of thee, when over me
Unheeded blew the wintry blast,
My fancy roved to scenes I loved,
In happy years for ever past.
While others slept, I often wept,
And gazed upon the dreary sea;
And all the night, till dawning light,
I thought of thee—I thought of thee!

122

I CANNOT CALL THEE FAIR.

I

I cannot call thee fair, my child,
I cannot call thee fair,
Unless a perfect form and face
Be joined to gifts more rare;
If to thy features blameless thoughts
The boasted charm impart,
I'll own that thou art beautiful,
And press thee to my heart!

II

I cannot call thee eloquent,
Nor listen with delight,
Like some, who deem that ruby lips
Are always in the right;
But if from truth's integrity
Thy accents ne'er depart,
I'll own that thou art eloquent,
And press thee to my heart!

III

I cannot call thee fortunate,
E'en should I see thee count
Thy worldly treasures o'er and o'er,
And boast of their amount;
But if the friendless, of thy store,
May claim an ample part,
I'll own that thou art fortunate,
And press thee to my heart!

123

I HAVE KNOWN THEE IN THE SUNSHINE.

I

I have known thee in the sunshine
Of thy beauty and thy bloom,
I have known thee in the shadow
Of thy sickness and thy gloom;
I have lov'd thee for thy sweet smile,
When thy heart was light and gay;
But, alas! I lov'd thee better,
When the smile had pass'd away.

II

When we first met, thou wert sporting
With the proud ones of the earth,
And I thought thee only made for
Night of music and of mirth.
But thy virtue dwelt in secret,
Like a blossom that has furl'd
All its sweet leaves, from the notice
And the sunshine of the world.

I WILL NOT SAY THAT THE WORLD IS GAY.

I

I will not say that the world is gay,
As your youthful fancy paints it;
Nor will I snatch the veil away
From the hateful stain that taints it:
To throw a gloom o'er duty's track,
Might make young feet forsake it;
While sorrow sleeps, in truth I lack
The cruelty to wake it.

124

II

Two summer leaves on the stream we'll throw,
And watch them stem the current,
One floats where tranquil waters flow,
One struggles with the torrent:
Like this, life's varied tide thou'lt find!
But may thy bark float o'er it,
Impell'd by fortune's fav'ring wind,
And a port of peace before it.

I HAVE ROAMED THE WORLD OVER.

I

I have roam'd the world over, to moisten my lip
With the Lethe that banishes care,
I have sought Pleasure's banquet halls, eager to sip
The draught that invited me there.
But I could not forget thee! my features were flush'd
By the cup I so madly had drain'd,
Yet still though the voice of my sorrow was hush'd,
Its feeling acutely remain'd.

II

So I flew from the mansions of mirth in disgust,
And to Learning's dim cloister I turn'd,
Unwearied I drew, from oblivion's dark dust,
Her stores while my midnight lamp burn'd.
But I could not forget thee! tho' wildly I rush'd
To each volume my dark cell contain'd,
For still though the voice of my sorrow was hush'd,
Its feeling acutely remain'd.

125

I'LL ONLY HEAR THE WORD—FAREWELL!

I

I'll only hear the word farewell,
I will not now be told
That when you come again, you'll bring
A store of gems and gold.
To other friends, who love you less,
That promise you may tell;
At such a moment, let me hear
That one sad word—“Farewell!”

II

Yes, breathe no other word but that,
Unless it be the vow,
That promises a safe return,
With love as fond as now.
Say, you'll be true, though in the halls
Of splendour you may dwell,
Oh! let me hear you tell me this—
Or only say—“Farewell.”

IT IS NOT ON THE BATTLE FIELD.

I

It is not on the battle field
That I would wish to die;
It is not on a broken shield
I'd breathe my latest sigh:
And though a soldier knows not how
To dread a soldier's doom;
I ask no laurel for my brow,
No trophy for my tomb.

126

II

It is not that I scorn the wreath
A soldier proudly wears,
It is not that I fear the death
A soldier proudly dares.
When slaughter'd comrades round me lie,
I'd be the last to yield;
But yet I would not wish to die
Upon the battle field.

III

When faint and bleeding in the fray,
Oh! still let me retain
Enough of life to crawl away
To this sweet vale again;
For like the wounded weary dove,
That flutters to its nest,
I fain would reach my own dear love,
And die upon her breast.

NO LOVER COMES TO ME.

I

Oh! since the rising of the sun,
Upon the shore I've stood,
To be the first to welcome home
A lover, brave and good:
But o'er the troubled sea, alas!
No lover comes to me.

II

The waves in thunder lash the strand,
The rough wind chills my cheek,
And oh, I almost dread to view
The vessel that I seek!
But o'er the troubled sea, alas!
No lover comes to me.

127

III

And now the day is almost past,
The distant tide grows dark,
Yet indistinctly I behold
A storm-struck helpless bark!
Now o'er the troubled sea, alas!
A lover comes to me.

IV

Is there no hope? will none go forth
A fellow man to save?
The ocean was his battle-field,
The ocean is his grave!
And o'er the troubled sea, alas!
No lover comes to me.

OH! NOT WHEN YOUTH AND JOY ARE THINE.

I

Oh! not when youth and joy are thine
Thou'lt know my love for thee;
Others, when sunbeams round thee shine,
As loving seem to be:
But darker days must come to prove
All the deep fervour of my love.

II

How often, when the vain and gay
Have thy attendants been,
I shunn'd their smiles and stole away
To gaze on thee unseen:
In darker days they'll disappear,
Then call on me;—I shall be near.

128

OH, LETHE'S STREAM!

I

Oh, Lethe's stream! too tempting fable,
I sigh in vain thy sweets to sip;
I yet might smile, were I but able,
In thy dark wave to bathe my lip.
Oblivion come! each relic stealing,
That mem'ry shrines from thy chill breath—
Say—where shall grief forget the feeling
That wounds her heart?—in death! in death!

II

Oh, Lethe's stream! thy torrent flows not,
To charm the bowl where pleasure dwells;
Oh, Lethe's stream! sad monks repose not
Beside thy brink, in convent cells;
Lift sable cowl—or blooming flowers,
Thou'lt find that mem'ry sighs beneath;
Say—where shall grief forget the bowers
Where she was blest?—in death! in death!

ONCE 'TWAS MY HOPE.

I

Once 'twas my hope, upon this spot,
A tender flower to raise,
I thought its bloom would be my pride,
Through many happy days;
But ere the sunbeam's smile had lured
Its perfect fragrance forth,
Its soft leaves sever'd from the stem
Lay trampled on the earth.
I sorrow'd all the winter time,
And bitter tears I shed,
When spring return'd, it found me still
A mourner o'er the dead.

129

II

But soon I saw the plant arise,
And spurn its earthly tomb,
More beautiful than when I nurs'd
Its infancy of bloom!
That holy lesson in my heart
I'll treasure up with care,
I will not sorrow for the dead
With hopeless wild despair;
For well I know they will shake off
This perishable earth,
And boast an immortality
Of beauty, joy, and worth.

POETS BEWARE.

I

Poets beware! never compare
Woman with ought on earth or in air;
Earth may be bright, air may be light,
But brightness and lightness in woman unite.
Can you suppose eyes are like sloes,
Or that her blushes resemble the rose?
Where shall we seek for sloes that can speak,
Or roses that rival an eloquent cheek?

II

Surely you ne'er saw lilies so fair
As the forehead that peeps thro' the curls of her hair!
Surely her lips red rubies eclipse,
The coral she wears and the nectar she sips!
Birds, in the spring, sweetly may sing,
But woman sings better than birds on the wing.
Then, poets, beware! never compare
Woman with ought on earth or in air.

130

SAY—WHERE IS THE NIGHTINGALE?

I

Say, where is the nightingale I gave you in the spring?
Sweetly in unclouded nights the captive used to sing;
Oh! it had the wildest notes that ever yet were heard;
Tell me not you've changed it for yon green and scarlet bird!

II

Better is a gentle voice than a painted cheek;
I will have the wood notes wild, you the golden beak;
Take discordant beauty hence, I'm for plainer sweets,
I will have the nightingale's, you the paroquet's.

SONG OF GERALDINE.

I

Why tell me of my Lover's throne,
It hath no charms for me,
But say his heart is all my own,
And then his Bride I'll be.
Though proudly soaring to the sun,
The birds behold their king,
The eagle, in his mountain nest,
In softness folds his wing.

II

Some love the torrent as it leaps
O'er rocks, in wild career,
But oh! give me the stream that sleeps
In sunshine calm and clear.
Let me in solitude receive
The smiles that love evince,
And to the gazing world I leave
The splendour of the prince.

131

SHE WATCHED FOR HIM.

I

She watch'd for him at dawn, and she watch'd for him at noon,
Though well she knew she could not hope to see him come so soon;
She could not rest,—but peeping thro' her casement's leafy screen,
She watch'd the spot where she was told his form would first be seen.

II

He came not with the dawn, and he came not with the noon,
Nor came he when the sun went down, and rose the silver moon;
She could not rest,—but wearily sought her casement still,
And watch'd—and listen'd for the sound of horsemen on the hill.

III

Night pass'd—and morn, — the sun in noontide radiance shone,
Far off she saw his waving plume,—he came—but not alone;
A smiling bride was by his side,—she heard the bridal strain!
Her weary eyes were dim with tears,—she could not look again.

THE DAHLIA.

I

I've heard there once was a terrible fight,
For precedence in Flora's bowers;
From sprigs of quality turning their back
Upon what they deem'd commoner flowers;

132

Oh great was the struggle! exotics toss'd
Their aristocratic heads,
And many who had been inclined to shoot
Were obliged to keep their beds.

II

The lily had beauty and fashion too,
'Twas own'd that she bore the bell,
And the roses are a recherché race,
As all by their cuttings may tell;
But when the fair dahlia came, she heard
A London-pride thus say—
“We nobles of botany scorn to herd
With the blossoms of Botany Bay!”

III

But when worth and modesty chance to rise,
It matters not whence they came,
For 'tis upstart folly himself who points
To his former humble name.
The dahlia family now we meet
In the most select of bowers;
Permitted to carry their heads as high
As some of the older flowers.

THE HEIRESS.

I

I loved thee for thyself alone,
The world reproved my choice;
Yet well thou know'st I claimed thee still,
With no unsteady voice.
They call'd thee fickle;—Oh, how blind
Fond woman's love may be!
I blamed thee not for broken vows,
Rejoicing thou wert free.

133

II

My father told me thou wert poor,
Improvident, and wild;
He said that want and penury
Would kill his gentle child.
I answer'd not—but secretly
I scorn'd the tale he told;
And then stole forth to offer thee
The heiress and her gold.

III

My mother said—“I do not heed
Thy lover's want of wealth;—
But will he fondly cherish thee
In sickness and in health?
He has the restless eye of one
Who leads a roving life;
He loves not as thou should'st be loved—
Oh! do not be his wife!”

IV

My father's anger moved me not,
Nor yet my mother's tears;
Thy fascination wean'd my heart
From love—the growth of years!
With few and fleeting tears I left
The haunts of early youth,
And placing this weak hand in thine,
I trusted to thy truth.

V

My chosen dwelling would have been
Some undisturb'd retreat;
But led by thee, I trod the halls
Where pleasure's votaries meet.
And if with joy I heard them praise
The beauty of thy bride,
'Twas but because I dearly prized
My husband's glance of pride.

134

VI

But then a dreary time came on—
I often wept alone;—
And when we met, thy voice had lost
Its former gentle tone.
I utter'd no complaint—thou knowest
I never did repine;—
And if my pale cheek chided thee,
It was no fault of mine.

VII

I heard my boasted wealth was spent:
I smiled at such a loss;
My husband's love was more to me,
Far more than hoarded dross.
And was it only this that caused
The frowns upon his brow?
“That wealth has been his bane,”—I cried,
“We shall be happy now!”

VIII

Vain hope! for thou dost shun the home
Thy folly rendered poor;
I know not how to win thee back,—
My cheek has lost its lure.
I have no mother now to soothe
My sorrows on her breast;
And he, whose counsel I despised,—
My father—is at rest!

IX

I do not say I love thee not;
No, false one, come what will,
Return, and be but kind to me,
And I should love thee still!
A broken mirror still reflects
In every shatter'd part;
'Tis thus love seems but multiplied,
In this poor broken heart.

135

I'LL NOT WED A BARON.

I

I'll not wed a baron, I'll not wed a knight,
So let them not woo me, with phrases polite;
I know they'd soon think me untutor'd and shy,
I covet not splendour: no, trust me, not I.

II

I'll not wed a soldier, he'll leave me for fame;
I'll not wed a sailor, for he'll do the same.
On land—under water, they'll perish; but why
Should I be a widow, why? no, trust me, not I.

III

Oh! I will love Henry, for Henry loves me;
His rose cover'd cottage my dwelling shall be;
He's gone to the city a gold ring to buy,
And shall I prove fickle? no, trust me, not I.

WE'VE SAIL'D UPON THE WINTRY WAVE.

I

We've sail'd upon the wintry wave,
When out of sight of land;
And was our trust the steersman's strength,
A mortal's feeble hand?
No! hopelessly our bark would drift
Before the troubled sea,
If, mid the tempest's strife, oh God,
We did not trust in Thee!

136

II

We've suffer'd grief, yet hope's bright wing
Has never yet been furl'd;
And was our refuge from despair
The friendship of the world?
No! hopelessly our bark would drift
Before the troubled sea,
If, 'mid the tempest's strife, oh God,
We did not trust in Thee!

TO HELENA, ON HER BIRTHDAY.

I.

My own true love, my true love! here's health and joy to you, love!
A happy year, without a tear, and sweet smiles not a few, love!
Of all my anniversaries, I prize your birthday best,
And well I may, for 'twas the day that brighten'd all the rest;
To this I owe my bliss below—oh, more than that, the love
Whose purity my guide may be to happiness above.

II.

My wedding-day is welcome, but it shines in borrow'd bliss,
That day owes all its value to the dear one born on this.
In doubt, you are the monitor I scorn not to obey,
You are the friend I turn to, when a joy is torn away.
In sorrow, I have often feign'd hope's softly soothing tone,
Till, striving to subdue your grief, I half forgot my own.
And then in bliss—oh! what is bliss, I ask—unless it be
To look upon your happiness!—ay, that's the bliss for me!

Shall we ever be happy again?
Shall we ever in summer hours
Walk under the trees near home,
And gather the fragrant flow'rs,
And talk of bright days to come?
Unseen, shall I know I am near thee,
By hearing thy cheerful voice?
Oh! sing as I used to hear thee,
And I shall again rejoice;
Shall we ever be happy again?

145

THE DRAWING ROOM.

I

I must be presented to-day, Lady Susan!
I must be presented to-day;
I must be presented, or what will my cousin,
The Bride, Lady Mackintosh, say?
She married a man who was knighted last season,
For carrying up an address;
If she's a great lady, there can be no reason,
My Lady, why I should be less.

II

Now pray, Lady Susan, don't say that you're poorly,
'Tis plain that you want to withdraw;
You've married my brother, and I've a right, surely,
To go with my sister-in-law;
And though you consider us vulgar relations,
Some proper repayment there'll be
For Brother Bob's Diamond and Pearl presentations,
In this presentation of me.

III

Look at me, my Lady; 'tis folly to quarrel,
You'll own that I'm fit to be seen:
My yellow silk petticoat loop'd up with laurel,
So elegant—yellow and green!
My train of red satin (so very well chosen—
'Twill make a pelisse in the spring);
And then my blue feathers! I'm sure, Lady Susan,
I must be remark'd by the King.

IV

A train may look very magnificent, flowing
Behind one in folds, I dare say;
But as for a hoop! oh! I could not bear going
To court in that round about way!

146

My lappet's so useless, I cannot bear buying
Three yards—it is quite a take-in;
And why did you laugh, when you saw I was tying
Them gracefully under my chin?

V

And what must be done when I stand in the presence?
Pray tell—I rely upon you:
Must I civilly say, as I make my obeisance:
“Your Majesty—how do you do?”
To be kiss'd by the King! Lady Susan, assist me,
I shall not be fit to be seen!
What, kiss me in public! oh, when he has kiss'd me,
I sha'nt dare to look at the Queen!

THE UNWILLING BRIDE.

I

The joy-bells are ringing—oh! come to the church:
We shall see the bride pass, if we stand in the porch.
The bridegroom is wealthy: how brightly arrayed
Are the menials who wait on the gay cavalcade;
The steeds with the chariots prancing along,
And the peasants advancing with music and song!

II

Now comes the procession: the bridemaids are there,
With white robes, and ribbons, and wreaths in their hair.
Yon feeble old knight the bride's father must be,
And now, walking proudly, her mother we see;
A pale girl in tears slowly moves by her side:
But where is the bridegroom, and where is the bride?

147

III

They kneel round the altar—the organ has ceased,
The hands of the lovers are joined by the priest;—
That bond, which death only can sever again,
Which proves ever after life's blessing or bane!
A bridal like this is a sorrowful sight:
See! the pale girl is bride to the feeble old knight.

IV

Her hand on her husband's arm passively lies,
And closely she draws her rich veil o'er her eyes;
Her friends throng around her with accents of love:
She speaks not—her pale lips inaudibly move.
Her equipage waits—she is placed by the side
Of her aged companion—a sorrowing bride!

V

Again the bells ring, and the moment is come
For the young heart's worst trial, the last look of home!
They pass from the village—how eagerly still,
She turns and looks back from the brow of the hill!
She sees the white cottage—the garden she made—
And she thinks of her lover, abandoned—betrayed!

VI

But who, with arms folded, hath lingered so long
To watch the procession, apart from the throng?
'Tis he, the forsaken! The false one is gone—
He turns to his desolate dwelling alone;
But happier there than the doom that awaits
The bride, who must smile on a being she hates!

148

APOLLO AND DAPHNE.

I

Apollo from Olympus stray'd,
Enchanted by a mortal maid,
Who fled from the intruder.
Her coyness, as is oft the case,
But gave new ardour to the chase,
And so he still pursued her!

II

One year he followed, and she flew!
(A life of misery, she knew,
An ill assorted match meant.)
Jove changed her to a laurel tree;
And so Apollo's proved to be
An evergreen attachment!

III

Too deeply rooted may be thought
Poor Daphne's dread of being caught,
But do not miss the moral:
She seems to say, “Receive, young bard,
“From woman's praise your best reward,
From woman's smile your laurel.”

MY HEART IS NOT YET BROKEN!

I

My heart is not yet broken,
The harp not yet unstrung!
“Despair!” hath not been spoken,
Though trembling on my tongue!

149

Though fate hath now bereft me
Of blessings—past recall;
I mourn not, she hath left me
Thy love, more dear than all!

II

My heart too well remembers
My boyhood's home of mirth,
Methinks I see the embers
Still blazing on the hearth!
My song of youth—I hear it
Still echo thro' the hall!
'Tis gone—but I can bear it!
Thy love atones for all.

III

A stranger owns the meadow.
The scene of sportive plays,
The trees, beneath whose shadow
I pass'd bright summer days:
O'er fond hopes crush'd, so early,
Some secret tears must fall—
But loving thee so dearly,
Thy love atones for all.

FROM THE ENDS OF THE EARTH WILL I CALL UPON THEE.

I

From the ends of the earth will I call upon thee!
From the mountain, the valley, the forest the sea;
Where the foot of the wanderer never yet trod,
The heart of the christian may commune with God!
Where ignorance bends the idolatrous knee,—
From the ends of the earth will I call upon thee!

150

But mourn not the doom of inanimate things;
See thy favourite bird with its beautiful wings;
Thy dog full of instinct that courts a caress,
And scarcely wants language his love to express;
The steed thou art proud of—all—all must decay:
For the fashion of this world passeth away.

III

And were we not born for a worthier end,
Than to love him, and lose him; oh! what were a friend!
The fond heart looks forth from its pilgrimage here,
To a meeting more blest in a happier sphere.
For this we must watch, and for this we must pray:
Since the fashion of this world passeth away.

155

I'LL NAME THE PLACE.

I

I'll name the place, I'll name the hour,
Then come—for 'tis a last farewell;
The place shall be the myrtle bower,
The time, when sounds the vesper bell.
We will not meet as oft we've met,
Nor part, as oft we've parted there,
Endearing words may breathe regret,
But silent tears express despair.

II

I know that some to soothe thy pain
Would say that we again shall meet;
But no, my eyes, that cannot feign,
Would soon betray my tougue's deceit.
Thou shalt be hopeless—I am so,
And rather would I know my doom,
Than smile, when friends for ever go,
And watch—tho' they will never come.

III

And some, to give thy heart relief,
A parting interview would shun.
As if it could be a less grief,
To ask for me when I am gone!
Oh no, I've nam'd the place, the hour,
Then come, for 'tis a last farewell;
The place shall be the myrtle bower,
The time, when sounds the vesper bell.

156

THOU SHALT LAUGH ALL THE HEATHEN TO SCORN.

I

Thou shalt laugh all the heathen to scorn,
Thou shalt baffle the hopes of the proud;
Thou shalt tear from the worldly the mask he has worn
To dazzle the eyes of the crowd.
Not a refuge exists in the world,
Where guile from thy vengeance can turn,
From his strong-hold, the wretch at thy bidding is hurl'd:
Thou wilt laugh all the heathen to scorn.

II

If thou sendest thy pestilence forth,
It will fly on the wings of the wind;
It will pass to the uttermost parts of the Earth,
And level whole hosts of mankind!
If in terror he seek thee at length,
Thou wilt not from the penitent turn,
But woe to the mortal who trusts his own strength:
Thou wilt laugh all the heathen to scorn.

OH! YOUTH IS THE TREASURE.

I lay without my father's door, a wretched dwarfish boy;
I did not dare to lift the latch, I heard the voice of joy.
Too well I knew, when I was near, my father never smiled;
And she who bore me turn'd away, abhorring her poor child.

II

A stranger saw me, and he bribed my parents with his gold!
Oh! deeper shame awaited me—the dwarfish boy was sold!
They never loved me, never claim'd the love I could have felt!
And yet, with bitter tears, I left the cottage where they dwelt.

III

The stranger seem'd more kind to me, he spoke of brighter days;
He lured each slumb'ring talent forth, and gave unwonted praise;
Unused to smiles, how ardently I panted for applause!
And daily he instructed me—too soon I learned the cause.

IV

I stood upon his native shore; the secret was explain'd;
I was a vile, degraded slave, in mind and body chain'd!
Condemn'd to face, day after day, the rabble's ruffian gaze;
To shrink before their merriment, or blush before their praise!

V

In anguish I must still perform the oft-repeated task;
And courteously reply to all frivolity may ask.
And bear inhuman scrutiny, and hear the hateful jest!
And sing the song—then crawl away to tears instead of rest.

159

VI

I know I am diminutive, ay, loathsome, if you will;
But say, ye hard hearts! am I not a human being still?
With feelings, sensitive as yours perhaps, I have been born!
I could not wound a fellow man, in mockery, or scorn!

VII

But some there are, who seem to shrink away from me at first,
And then speak kindly; to my heart that trial is the worst!
Oh, then I long to kneel to them, imploring them to save
A hopeless wretch, who only asks an honourable grave!

WE MUST FOLLOW TO THE TOMB.

I

We must follow where they lead,
We must follow them with speed;
Upon that unknown path
From which, once enter'd, none recede.
We must follow those who now repose,
Too early snatched away;
And some who saw life's ling'ring close
In age and in decay.

We must follow, we must follow,
For the ground we tread is hollow;
We must follow on the unknown path,
How early,—who can say?

II

We must follow to the tomb,
We must follow thro' the gloom
That veils the dread futurity
Of man's immortal doom!

160

We must follow all we'd fain recal—
Yet ne'er on earth shall see;
For mortal ties shall ne'er enthral
The spirit once set free.

We must follow, we must follow, &c.

THE FIRST CREATED MORTAL.

I

The first created mortal
In Eden's beauteous garden stood;
He raised his eyes,
To the cloudless skies,
And then around;
And nought he found
That did not prove
How boundless his Creator's love.
To him the earth was paradise,
Without a grief, without a vice.
By one so pure, no care was known,
And all things that he looked upon
Were beautiful and good.

II

Can earth have been his Eden?
Can man have been so pure, so blest?
Oh marvel not
At his alter'd lot.
But probe within
The secret sin,
And then thou'lt see
The source of all his misery.
Yet earth might still seem paradise,
Could man forsake the path of vice;
Content, awhile, to linger here,
Though panting for a brighter sphere,
The Christian's place of rest.

161

THE FORSAKEN TO THE FALSE ONE.

I

I dare thee to forget me! go, wander where thou wilt,
Thy hand upon the vessel's helm, or on the sabre's hilt;
Away! thou'rt free! o'er land and sea go rush to danger's brink!
But oh, thou canst not fly from thought! thy curse shall be—to think!

II

Remember me! remember all my long-enduring love
That link'd itself to perfidy; the vulture and the dove!
Remember in thy utmost need I never once did shrink,
But clung to thee confidingly; thy curse shall be—to think!

III

Then go! that thought would render thee a dastard in the fight,
That thought, when thou art tempest-tost, will fill thee with affright!
In some vile dungeon may'st thou lie, and, counting each cold link
That binds thee to captivity, thy curse shall be—to think!

IV

Go! seek the merry banquet hall, where younger maidens bloom,
The thought of me shall make thee there endure a deeper gloom;
That thought shall turn the festive cup to poison while you drink,
And while false smiles are on thy cheek, thy curse will be—to think!

162

V

Forget me! false one, hope it not! when minstrels touch the string,
The memory of other days will gall thee while they sing;
The air I us'd to love will make thy coward conscience shrink—
Ay, ev'ry note will have its sting, thy curse will be—to think!

VI

Forget me! no, that shall not be! I'll haunt thee in thy sleep,
In dreams thou'lt cling to slimy rocks that overhang the deep;
Thou'lt shriek for aid! my feeble arm shall hurl thee from the brink,
And when thou wak'st in wild dismay, thy curse will be—to think!

168

'Twas this, 'twas this, believe me,
Made me turn away from you,
Lest the chilling thoughts that grieve me
Should bring grief to others too.

II

I know you will reprove me;
You will say, as oft you've said,
The friends who truly love me,
Love me most when tears are shed!
But no,—I must conceal them,
For my sorrows lie too deep;
And the kindness meant to heal them
Is so sure to make me weep!
'Tis this, 'tis this, believe me,
Made me turn away from you,
Lest the chilling thoughts that grieve me
Should bring grief to others too.

NEW FACES.

I

Oh give me new faces, new faces, new faces!
I've seen those around me a fortnight or more;
Some people grow weary of things or of places,
But persons to me are a much greater bore.
I care not for features—I'm sure to discover
Some exquisite trait in the first that you send,
My fondness falls off when the novelty's over—
I want a new face for an intimate friend.

II

My heart is as genial as Italy's summers,
Attachments take root, and grow green in a day;
Like bloom on the plum, there's on all the newcomers
A charm, that must sooner or later decay.

169

The latest arrival seem'd really perfection,
But now, for some reason I can't comprehend,
She wearies me so, I must cut the connexion;
I want a new face for an intimate friend.

III

To-day, I may utter a tender expression,
To one I to-morrow may probably drop;
But friendships should come “hot and hot,” in succession,
Just like mutton-pies at a pastrycook's shop;
The gardener, too, with new crops is provided,
When one crop of marrowfats comes to an end;
And why should my new crop of friends be derided?
I want a new face for an intimate friend.

IV

Mamma would persuade me my friends do not vary,
But that I have fickle vagaries forsooth!
Discernment ought not to be called a vagary,
I deem it a virtue precocious in youth.
“Be civil,” she says, “to a common acquaintance;
Rash friendships are sure prematurely to end.”
Oh, cold hearts may credit so frigid a sentence!
I want a new face for an intimate friend.

V

I am not to blame, if I seize the most striking,
And very best points about people at first;
I am not to blame, if they outlive my liking,
And leave me at leisure to point out the worst.
I am not to blame, if I'm somewhat less gracious
To some I so fluently used to commend;
To feel that they bore me is really vexatious!
I want a new face for an intimate friend.

VI

When Mrs. A. came here, my joy was uncommon,
I never was happy when not by her side;
“Oh! what an agreeable, sweet little woman!
She will be a great acquisition,” I cried.

170

I called there so often, so fondly I sought her,
My calling so seldom I fear must offend;
But, dear me, she's not half so nice as I thought her!
I want a new face for an intimate friend.

VII

When Mrs. B. came, I forgot her completely,
For we became just like two leaves on one stalk.
She looked and she spoke so uncommonly sweetly,
Unless we met daily, how dull was my walk!
I thought that her manners were simply enchanting,
But now—what false colours can novelty lend!
A slight indescribable something is wanting;
I want a new face for an intimate friend.

VIII

Miss D. was delightful, till Mrs. E. prov'd her,
By force of comparison, flaunting and free;
Then came Lady F.—Oh, how fondly I lov'd her,
Until I was dazzled by dear Mrs. G.!
Oh give me new faces, new faces, new faces!
Let novelty sweeten each sample you send;
A fortnight would rub off all grace from the Graces;
I want a new face for an intimate friend.

NEW YEAR'S DAY.

I

Another year is passed away,
Blithe sounds I hear, gay forms I see;
To some this is a joyful day;
It brings no joy to me.

171

II

Whilst others hope that future years
May be unclouded as the last,
I dread the future, and with tears
Look back upon the past.

III

To them the dawning year may give
A scene of joy, a place of rest;
Whilst all for whom they wish to live
Are living, and are blest.

IV

But I possess no cheering thought
Of present or of future bliss;
The former year that sorrow brought
Which cast a gloom on this.

V

The festive scene which Christmas brings,
When music, mirth, and dance combine,
Must all be melancholy things
To hearts oppressed like mine.

VI

They call to mind the festive scene,
The pleasures of a former year;
They tell us too what might have been,
Had one we loved been here.

VII

And when around us we remark
Each gaudy dress, each gay pursuit;
Our mournful garb appears more dark,
Our sorrows more acute.

172

ASK NOT THE COLOUR OF MY ROSA'S EYES.

Ask not the colour of my Rosa's eyes;
Who can describe the tints of evening skies,
When the mind soars beyond each outward hue,
To something purer which it loves to view?
Ask not the shade of Rosa's curling hair—
It is a nameless grace that triumphs there.
The shape of Rosa's mouth you may not trace,
That source of half the beauty of her face;
Those lips of coral, where expression lies,
And rivals e'en the magic of her eyes;
Her smile more gentle than the dimpling deep,
When the wind whispers ere it falls asleep.
'Mid summer's buds, and autumn's fruits, you'll seek
In vain, for blooms to match her blushing cheek.

LOVE HAS BEEN THERE.

I

Love has been there; those dark eyes speak
Of sad and hopeless hours;
On that young cheek,
In vain we seek
The bloom of youthful flowers.
Though o'er thy form gay robes may flow,
Though gems adorn thy hair,
They hide not woe;
Too well we know
Love has been there.

173

II

Can one so young—so very young,
Have lost the smiles of youth?
Hath falsehood sung,
With artful tongue,
Too well dissembling truth?
Have blissful thoughts allured thee on,
And faded when most fair?
The look, the tone
Of bliss are gone;—
Love has been there.

III

I met thee first one happy night,
With him who smil'd on thee;
Thy step was light,
Those eyes were bright,
And gay and kind was he.
The youth is gone—he left behind
The step, the glance of care;
How changed I find
Thy form, thy mind!
Love has been there.

IV

They say that men have never died,
When love's first dream they lost.
That woman's pride
Can turn aside
The shaft that wounds her most:
That love ne'er kills—it may be so,
And death may shun despair;
But tears will flow,
And well we know
Love has been there.

174

THE DARGLE.

I

Forget not the dargle, forget not the shade,
Where we varied the day with dance, music, and song;
Where the trees o'er our heads a green canopy made,
And the sun never shone on us all the day long.

II

Look forth from our shady retreat, on the hills
Sloping down to the rivulet gushing below;
And own, that such valleys, green alleys, and rills,
Will be worth recollecting wherever you go.

III

The leaves seem to slumber, and nothing is heard
Save the murmurs delightfully breathing around;
The bleatings of sheep, and the songs of a bird,
And the river's perpetual lullaby sound.

IV

And see the Gilt Spear in the sun-beams is bright,
The mists from its summit have melted away;
It soars, like an eagle, to bask in the light
Of evening's last tint, and morn's earliest ray.

V

Look down on the waters, how brightly they run
From their beautiful cradle, the depths of Loch Bray;
Now lost in the copse-wood, and now in the sun
Shining forth with a ripple, and gliding away.

175

A GENT. IN DIFFS.

I

IV

“Oh, mother, canst thou quite forget
How hand in hand we crept
To my own honour'd father's bed,
To watch him as he slept.
And do you not remember still
His fond but feeble kiss?”
“Alas! such thoughts but little suit
A day—of joy—like this.”

V

“Of joy! oh, mother, we must part,
This is no home for me;
I cannot bear to breathe one word
Of bitterness to thee.
My father placed my hand in thine,
And bade me love thee well,
And how I love, these tears of shame
May eloquently tell.

VI

“Thou say'st yon stranger loves thy child;
I see he strives to please;
But, mother, do not be his bride,
I ask it on my knees.
I used to listen to his voice
With pleasure, I confess;
But call him husband! and I shrink,
Ashamed of his caress.

VII

“Had I been younger when he died,
Scarce conscious of his death,
I might perhaps have smiled to see
Thy gems and bridal wreath;
My memory would have lost a tie,
So very lightly link'd,
Resigning that dear form, which now
Is vividly distinct.

179

VIII

“Had I been older,—more inured
To this world's cold career,
I might have sought a festival
To check a filial tear.
Gay banners find gay followers—
But, from their station hurl'd,
The gay forget them, and pursue
The next that is unfurl'd.

IX

“But I am of an age to prize
The being, in whom blend
The love and the solicitude
Of monitor and friend.
He plann'd my boyish sports, and shared
Each joy and care I felt,
And taught my infant lips to pray,
As by his side I knelt.

X

“Yet deem not mine an impious grief;
No, mother, thou wilt own
With cheerfulness I spoke of him
When we have been alone.
But bring no other father here;
No, mother, we must part!
The feeling, that I'm fatherless,
Weighs heavy on my heart.”

180

WISHES.

I

Say, what should be thy first wish, if a fairy said to thee:
“Now ask a boon—I'll grant it—whatever it may be;”
The first wish of thy heart, I think, may easily be told;
Confide in me, deny it not—thy wish would be for gold.

II

Oh, no! thou art mistaken; that should not be the boon,
My thirst for this world's lucre is ever sated soon;
The only gold I prize is such as industry hath bought,
And gold like that, from fairy hands, would fruitlessly be sought.

III

Then say, what would thy first wish be? Ambition's laurell'd name?
The pride of popularity, the pinnacle of fame?
The pamper'd board of luxury, where crowds of menials wait?
Thy second wish will still be gold, to furnish forth thy state.

IV

Ah, no!—the days are long gone by, when such had been my choice;
I ask not fame—far more I prize the self-approving voice:
My first wish should not be for fame, my second not for gold,
But, listen to me patiently, my wishes shall be told.

V

Oh, give me but a happy home, to share with her I love,
Oh, let me from her path of life each anxious care remove
And like the sweet days of the past, “may we have days in store,”
Oh, give me this, and only this, I'll never ask for more!

181

THE FORSAKEN TO HER FATHER.

I

Oh! name him not, unless it be
In terms I shall not blush to hear:
Oh! name him not, though false to me,
Forget not he was once so dear.
Oh! think of former happy days,
When none could breathe a dearer name;
And if you can no longer praise,
Be silent and forbear to blame!

II

He may be all that you have heard;
If prov'd, 'twere folly to defend:
Yet pause, ere you believe one word
Breathed 'gainst the honour of a friend.
How many seem in haste to tell
What friends can never wish to know!
I answer—once I knew him well,
And then, at least, it was not so.

III

You say, when all condemn him thus,
To praise him leads to disrepute:
But, had the world censured us,
Father, he would not have been mute!
He may be changed, and he may learn
To slander friends, as others do:
But if we blame him, we in turn
Have learnt that hateful lesson too!

IV

Desertion of myself, his worst,
His only crime perhaps may prove!
Shall he of all men be the first
Condemned, for being false in love?

182

The world has never yet denied
Its favour to the falsest heart;
Its sanction rather seems to guide
The hand again to aim the dart!

V

You hate him, father, for you know
That he was cruel to your child.
Alas! I strove to hide my woe,
And when you look'd on me, I smil'd.
But on my faded cheek appears
An evidence of all I've felt:
I pray'd for strength, but falling tears
Betray'd my weakness as I knelt.

VI

Oh! hate him not: he must have seen
Some error, that was never meant!
And love, you know, hath ever been
Prone to complain, and to resent!
Hate him not, father! nor believe
Imputed crimes, till they are proved;
And proof should rather make us grieve
For one who once was so beloved.

THE NEGLECTED CHILD.

I

I never was a favourite,
My mother never smiled
On me, with half the tenderness
That bless'd her fairer child.
I've seen her kiss my sister's cheek,
While fondled on her knee;
I've turn'd away to hide my tears—
There was no kiss for me!

183

II

And yet I strove to please, with all
My little store of sense;
I strove to please, and infancy
Can rarely give offence;
But when my artless efforts met
A cold, ungentle check,
I did not dare to throw myself
In tears upon her neck.

III

How blessed are the beautiful!
Love watches o'er their birth;
Oh, beauty! in my nursery
I learn'd to know thy worth;
For even there, I often felt
Forsaken and forlorn,
And wish'd—for others wish'd it too—
I never had been born!

IV

I'm sure I was affectionate—
But in my sister's face
There was a look of love, that claim'd
A smile or an embrace!
But when I raised my lip, to meet
The pressure children prize,
None knew the feelings of my heart—
They spoke not in my eyes.

V

But, oh! that heart too keenly felt
The anguish of neglect;
I saw my sister's lovely form
With gems and roses deck'd;
I did not covet them—but oft,
When wantonly reproved,
I envied her the privilege
Of being so beloved.

184

VI

But soon a time of triumph came,
A time of sorrow too;
For sickness o'er my sister's form
Her venom'd mantle threw;
The features, once so beautiful,
Now wore the hue of death,
And former friends shrank fearfully
From her infectious breath.

VII

'Twas then, unwearied, day and night,
I watch'd beside her bed,
And fearlessly upon my breast
I pillow'd her poor head.
She lived—she loved me for my care!
My grief was at an end;
I was a lonely being once,
But now I have a friend!

A COUNTRY BALL ON THE ALMACK'S PLAN.

I

Oh! joy to her, who first began
A country ball on the Almack's plan!
Hogsnorton's queen she walks erect;
The ball exclusive and select:
Four Ladies Patronesses sit,
From morn to-night arranging it;
And when you hear the names of all,
You'll guess the merits of the ball.
Plebeian persons they reject,
Hogsnorton balls are so select!

185

II

The squire's own lady, Mistress Pearl,
Her sister (quite a stylish girl),
And then the wife of Mr. Flaw,
(Churchwarden, and a man of law,)
And Mistress Pitts, the Doctor's bride,
Related on the mother's side
To Mr. Biggs (who was you know,
Lord Mayor of London long ago!)
By these, all upstart claims are check'd,
Hogsnorton balls are so select!

III

They've quite excluded Mr. Squills,
Who makes the antibilious pills;
Not 'cause he makes 'em, but they say
He sells 'em in a retail way;
But Mr. Squills declares his wife
Has seen a deal of stylish life,
And votes Hogsnorton people low,
So if she could, she wouldn't go—
A strange remark, when you reflect
Hogsnorton balls are so select!

IV

And then you know there's Mr. Flinn,
The rich old mercer can't get in;
And Sweet the grocer has applied!
But Sweet the grocer was denied;
And both appear to think it hard
That Slush the brewer has a card;
And say, “Why should a brewer be
One bit more fit for hops than we?”
But Slush of course is quite correct,
Hogsnorton balls are so select!

186

V

Of course, all those they won't admit
Discuss the ball, and censure it;
And strange opinions they express
About each Lady Patroness;
Says Mrs. Flinn to Mrs. Sweet,
“I wash my hands of the élite;”
Says Mrs. Sweet to Mrs. Flinn,
“For all the world I'd not go in!”
Here envious feelings we detect;
Hogsnorton balls are so select!

VI

Says Mrs. Squills, “There's Mrs. Pearl,
You'd think her father was an earl!
So high and mighty! bless your heart,
I recollect her much less smart,
Before she married; and I knew
That people said—('tis entre nous)
She was a leetle indiscreet—
So much, my dear, for the élite!”
“Dear me! don't say she's incorrect,
Hogsnorton balls are so select!”

VII

Woe, woe to her who first began
A country ball on the Almack's plan!
Grim war is raging in the town,
The men are raving up and down;
And, what may lead to worse mishaps,
The ladies all are pulling caps;
Indeed we hear, from one and all,
As much of bullets as the ball!
Why was Hogsnorton's comfort wreck'd?
Because her balls were so select!

187

SEEING'S NOT BELIEVING.

I

I saw her as I fancied fair,
Yes, fairest of earth's creatures;
I saw the purest red and white
O'erspread her lovely features;
She fainted, and I sprinkled her,
Her malady relieving;
I wash'd both rose and lily off!
Oh, seeing's not believing!

II

I look'd again, again I long'd
To breathe love's fond confession;
I saw her eyebrows form'd to give
Her face its arch expression;
But gum is very apt to crack,
And whilst my breast was heaving,
It so fell out that one fell off!
Oh! seeing's not believing!

III

I saw the tresses on her brow,
So beautifully braided;
I never saw, in all my life,
Locks look so well as they did.
She walk'd with me one windy day—
Ye zephyrs, why so thieving?
The lady lost her flaxen wig!
Oh! seeing's not believing!

IV

I saw her form, by Nature's hand
So prodigally finished,
She were less perfect if enlarged,
Less perfect if diminished;

188

Her toilet I surprised—the worst
Of wonders then achieving:
None know the bustle I perceived!
Oh! seeing's not believing!

V

I saw, when costly gems I gave,
The smile with which she took them;
And if she said no tender things,
I've often seen her look them.
I saw her my affianced bride,
And then my mansion leaving,
She ran away with Colonel Jones—
Oh! seeing's not believing!

VI

I saw another maiden soon,
And struggled to detain her;
I saw her plain enough—in fact,
Few women could be plainer.
'Twas said, that at her father's death,
A plum she'd be receiving,
I saw that father's house and grounds!
Oh! seeing's not believing!

VII

I saw her mother—she was deck'd
With furbelows and feathers;
I saw distinctly that she wore
Silk stockings in all weathers;
I saw, beneath a load of gems,
The matron's bosom heaving;
I saw a thousand signs of wealth:
Oh! seeing's not believing!

VIII

I saw her father, and I spoke
Of marriage in his study;
But would he let her marry me?
Alas! alas! how could he?

189

I saw him smile a glad consent,
My anxious heart relieving,
And then I saw the settlements;
Oh! seeing's not believing!

IX

I saw the daughter, and I named
My moderate finances;
She spurn'd me not, she gave me one
Of her most tender glances.
I saw her father's bank—thought I,
There cash is safe from thieving;
I saw my money safely lodged;
Oh! seeing's not believing!

X

I saw the bank, the shutters up,
I could not think what they meant;
The old infirmity of firms,
The bank had just stopt payment!
I saw my future father then
Was ruined past retrieving,
Like me, without a single sous:
Oh! seeing's not believing!

XI

I saw the banker's wife had got
The fortune settled on her;
What cared he, when the creditors
Talk'd loudly of dishonour?
I saw his name in the Gazette,
But soon I stared, perceiving
He bought another house and grounds!
Oh! seeing's not believing!

XII

I saw,—yes, plain as plain could be,
I saw the banker's daughter;
She saw me too, and called for sal-
Volatile and water.

190

She said that she had just espoused
A rich old man, conceiving,
That I was dead or gone to jail!
Oh! seeing's not believing!

XIII

I saw a friend, and freely spoke
My mind of the transaction;
Her brother heard it, and he call'd,
Demanding satisfaction.
We met—I fell!—that brother's ball
In my left leg receiving;
I have two legs—true—one is cork!
Oh! seeing's not believing!

MY DEJEUNER A LA FOURCHETTE.

I

What a beautiful day! Had the weather been wet,
What a damp on my déjeûner à la fourchette.
There is but one drawback, I own, to my bliss—
'Tis late in the year for a party like this;
So I've stuck paper roses on every bush,
And my garden has got quite a midsummer blush;
And I've calico lilies, judiciously set,
To embellish my déjeûner à la fourchette.

II

I've order'd the people to water the road
All the way from the town to my rural abode.
Till three, I suppose, not a soul will arrive;
Bless me! there's a chaise at the end of the drive!
'Tis old Mrs. Smith!—what can bring her so soon?
She thinks herself late, too—a breakfast at noon!
And dress'd, I protest, in her best tabinet;
What a blot on my déjeûner à la fourchette!

191

III

Here's a three-corner'd note (how excited I feel!)
What an elegant hand! and a coronet seal!
From the Duchess, confined to her room with a cough;
Had I known, I'd have put my sweet déjeûner off.
An excuse from Sir Thomas—“A touch of the gout!”
And one from Lord Harry—“Too ill to go out!”
I declare I have lost all the cream of the set,
That I asked to my déjeûner à la fourchette.

IV

But the guests are arriving. My villa has got
Quite a park-like appearance—a beautiful spot!
The singers, equipp'd in a foreign costume,
The horns in that arbour, too loud for a room;
The band on the lawn in the pretty marquee,
This tent for the dinner, and that for the tea;
(Though breakfast they call it, no dinner they'll get,
Except at my déjeûner à la fourchette).

V

What's Harris, my butler, attempting to say?
Champagne! why we gave out ten dozen to-day!
All gone! and the officers calling for more!
Go, open the tent for quadrilles, I implore;
Go, Harris, and hint we're expecting them soon,
And tell Mr. Tweedle to strike up a tune.
I'm certain my husband will never forget
The cost of my déjeûner à la fourchette.

VI

'Tis getting quite dark! that unfortunate breeze
Blows out all the lamps that we placed in the trees.
The dew is so heavy, my rockets won't go,
And my Catherine-wheels are exceedingly slow.
But I heed not the darkness; if people are lost,
What accounts there will be in the Herald and Post!
And 'twill give me éclat, if a Lord is upset
On his way from my déjeûner à la fourchette.

192

WHY DON'T THE MEN PROPOSE?

I

Why don't the men propose, mamma,
Why don't the men propose?
Each seems just coming to the point,
And then away he goes!
It is no fault of yours, mamma,
That ev'ry body knows;
You fête the finest men in town,
Yet, oh, they won't propose!

II

I'm sure I've done my best, mamma,
To make a proper match;
For coronets and eldest sons
I'm ever on the watch:
I've hopes when some distingué beau
A glance upon me throws;
But though he'll dance, and smile, and flirt,
Alas, he won't propose!

III

I've tried to win by languishing,
And dressing like a blue;
I've bought big books, and talk'd of them,
As if I'd read them through!
With hair cropp'd like a man, I've felt
The heads of all the beaux;
But Spurzheim could not touch their hearts,
And oh, they won't propose!

IV

I threw aside the books, and thought
That ignorance was bliss;
I felt convinced that men preferred
A simple sort of Miss;

193

And so I lisp'd out naught beyond
Plain “yeses” or plain “noes,”
And wore a sweet unmeaning smile;
Yet, oh, they won't propose!

V

Last night, at Lady Ramble's rout,
I heard Sir Harry Gale
Exclaim, “Now I propose again—”
I started, turning pale;
I really thought my time was come,
I blush'd like any rose;
But oh! I found 'twas only at
Ecarté he'd propose!

VI

And what is to be done, mamma?
Oh, what is to be done?
I really have no time to lose,
For I am thirty-one:
At balls, I am too often left
Where spinsters sit in rows;
Why won't the men propose, mamma?
Why won't the men propose?

A PIC-NIC.

I

“A pic-nic, a pic-nic! so happy together!
Intelligent women, agreeable men!
The middle of June, so we must have fine weather;
We'll go upon donkeys to Bogglemy Glen.
There has not been rain for six weeks, and, at present,
There is not the slightest appearance of change;
No pic-nic, I'm sure, ever yet was so pleasant—
Few people can realize all they arrange!”

194

II

Oh! these words at night were the very last spoken,
The first in the morning were equally gay;
There was a great mist, which we knew was a token
At noon we should have a most exquisite day.
The donkeys arrive, and the sociable meant for
The matrons unfitted for sidesaddle feats;
The baskets of prog and the hampers are sent for,
And pack'd in the rumbles, or under the seats.

III

And now we set off—all the carriages quite full:
Do look at Miss Symons, how oddly she sits!
No sun to annoy us, it's really delightful!
Don't mind Mrs. Wilkins, she says that it spits!
Some people take pleasure in throwing cold water
On parties of pleasure, and talking of damp;
She's just the ill-natured old woman I thought her,
We'll laugh at her presently when we encamp.

IV

My donkey, in stooping to gather a thistle,
Was very near pitching me over his head;
Dear me! I do think it's beginning to drizzle,
Oh, let us take shelter in yonder old shed!
How foolish to put on my pink satin bonnet!
I envy Miss Martin, she's snug in the straw;
My lilac pelisse, too! the water drips on it,
The loveliest lilac that ever I saw!

V

For my part, I own I like this sort of morning,
With sun perpendicular what could we do?
So pleasant to find the dust laid when returning;
'Twill clear up at twelve, or at latest at two.
And now we're at Bogglemy, dear, how unlucky!
I'm sure I heard something like thunder just then:
The place is so gloomy—the path is so mucky—
I scarce can believe I'm at Bogglemy Glen!

195

VI

We cannot dine under the trees—it would chill us;
We'll try to take shelter in yonder retreat:
Oh, dear! it's a dirty old cowhouse, 'twill kill us;
If all must crowd into it, think of the heat!
A soup-plate inverted Miss Millington uses
To keep her thin slippers above the wet clay!
Oh! see through the roof how the rain-water oozes—
The dinner will all taste of dripping to-day!

VII

A pic-nic, a pic-nic! so wretched together!
All draggle-tail women, and cross-looking men!
The middle of June, yet this terrible weather
Has made a morass of poor Bogglemy Glen!
It rains just like buckets of water; at present,
There is not the slightest appearance of change:
'Twas very absurd to leave Waterloo Crescent—
Few people can realise all they arrange.

MY MARRIED DAUGHTER COULD YOU SEE.

I

My married daughter could you see,
I'm sure you would be struck;—
My daughters all are charming girls,
Few mothers have such luck.
My married one—my eldest child—
All hearts by magic wins;
And my second so resembles her,
Most people think them twins!

196

II

My married daughter spoils her spouse,—
She's quite a pattern-wife;
And he adores her—well he may—
Few men lead such a life!
She ne'er had married mortal man
Till he had won her heart;
And my second darling's just the same,—
They are seldom known apart.

III

Her husband oft has press'd my hand,
While tears were in his eyes
And said, “You brought my Susan up—
With you the credit lies.”
To make her a domestic wife,
I own was all my aim;
And my second is domestic too,—
My system was the same.

IV

Now, do you know, I've often thought
The eldest of the two
(She's married, so I may speak out)
Would just have suited you!
You never saw her?—how shall I
My eldest girl portray!
Oh! my second is her counterpart,
And her you'll meet to-day.

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MY CREAM-COLOUR'D PONIES.

I

Go order my ponies; so brilliant a Sunday
Is certain to summon forth all the élite;
And cits who work six days, and revel but one day,
Will trudge to the West End from Bishopsgate-street:
See! two lines of carriages almost extending
The whole way from Grosvenor to Cumberland Gate;
The Duchess has bow'd to me! how condescending!
I came opportunely—I thought I was late.

II

I'm certain my ponies, my cream-colour'd ponies,
Will cause a sensation wherever I go;
My page, in his little green jacket, alone is
The wonder of all! Oh, I hope he won't grow!
How young Sir Charles looks, with his hat so well fitted
To shew on the left side the curls of his wig!
I wonder that yellow post-chaise was admitted;
And there's an enormity—three in a gig!

III

Dear me! Lady Emily bow'd to me coolly;
Oh, look at that crazy old family-coach!
That cab is a mercantile person's—'tis truly
Amazing how those sort of people encroach!
Good gracious! the pole of that carriage behind us
Is going to enter my phaeton's back!
Do call to them, Robert! Oh! why won't they mind us?
I hear it! I feel it! bless me, what a crack!

198

IV

Don't glance at the crowd of pedestrians yonder,
There's vulgar Miss Middleton looking this way.
Let's drive down to Kensington Gardens; I wonder
We hav'nt met Stanmore this beautiful day.
They've upset the Countess's carriage, how frightful!
Do look at Sir David—he'll drive here till dark;
Let's go where the crowd is the thickest; delightful!
My cream-colour'd ponies, the pride of the Park!

MY OPERA BOX!

I

My opera-box, my opera box!
You must engage one, Mr. Coxe.
What led the daughter of an Earl
To link herself to such a churl?
The Duke, my uncle, always said
Your father had made mints in trade;
And that, I thought, ensured your wife
The necessary things of life,—
And one among them, Mr. Coxe,
I always count my opera-box.

II

My opera-box, my opera-box!
'Tis said sweet music softens rocks:
But that to me is not the charm,
It is to show my well turn'd arm,
As in the front I smiling sit,
The admiration of the pit.
I nod—I smile—I kiss my hand,—
My voice far louder than the band;—
Admitting every beau that knocks
At thy closed door, my opera-box!

199

III

My opera box, my opera box!
My sense of right and wrong it shocks,
To think that one of birth so low,
When I intreat, should answer “No!”
Would none but “Lady Betty” do?
“Mistress John Coxe” might serve for you!
But 'twas your proudest hope to stride
With “Lady Betty” at your side;
And mine to ope your coffer's locks,
And with strong-box buy opera-box.

IV

My opera-box, my opera-box!
Don't talk to me about the stocks,
And rents reduced, and in arrear,
And money scarce, and all things dear!
I'll have my way; her Grace (my aunt)
Declares I'm not extravagant;
And says we nobles condescend,
When thus plebeian coin we spend;—
Then be obedient, Mr. Coxe,
And go engage my opera-box!

THE MAN WITH THE TUFT.

I

I ever at college
From commoners shrank,
Still craving the knowledge
Of people of rank:
In my glass, my lord's ticket
I eagerly stuffed;
And all call'd me “Riquet,”
The man with the Tuft.

200

II

My patron—most noble—
Of highest degree!
Thou never canst probe all
My homage for thee!
Thy hand—oh! I'd lick it,
Though often rebuff'd;
And still I am “Riquet,”
The man with the Tuft!

III

Too oft the great, shutting
Their doors on the bold,
Do deeds that are cutting,
Say words that are cold!
Through flattery's wicket
My body I've stuff'd,
And so I am “Riquet,”
The man with the Tuft!

IV

His lordship's a poet,
Enraptured I sit;
He's dull—(and I know it)—
I call him a wit!
His fancy, I nick it,
By me he is puff'd,
And still I am “Riquet,”
The man with the Tuft!

201

THE FEMALE OPIUM-EATER.

I

There was a noble lady, as fair as fair could be,
And when she did whate'er she pleased, a gentle dame was she!
But when controll'd, her dark eye told of rage within restrain'd,
And she ceased to be a gentle dame, until her point was gain'd.
Her lover in the city dwelt, full three long leagues away;
Her uncle bade her spurn the youth—oh! how could she obey!
She nightly wept, she never slept; at length she thought she'd try
Anopium draught, which ev'ry morn her page went forth to buy.

II

“Why daily goes thy page to town?” her noble uncle cries;
“To seek the doctor's shop,” says she, “where opium draughts he buys.”
“What need hast thou of opium draughts?”—“I'd fain forget the past,
And all my foolishness is fading from me fast.”
The uncle smiled, well pleased at this, and walk'd away content;
And unmolested to the town the page was daily sent;
And daily from the town he brought a bottle of small size;
His lady snatch'd it from his hand and bore away the prize.

III

She bore it to her secret bower, and then she turn'd the key,
And there were none her words to hear, and none her acts to see;
She daily round the bottle found a short sweet sentence traced,
She broke the seal, and then began unfolding it in haste,
And then she read with throbbing heart, (love's ardour never stops!)
Till she devoured the contents (the writing, not the drops):
And daily from her casement high the opium draughts did flow,
Till on a shelf stood fifty empty bottles in a row!

202

IV

Upon that grim and ghastly row the lady's maid did gaze:
The footman to their hollowness a wondering glance did raise;
The page who saw them, simpering, said, “Alas! 'tis pretty clear,
If she takes so much doctor's stuff, she will not long be here!”
Her uncle saw the bottles, too, and saw them with affright;
He counted them—he scarcely could believe he counted right!
“The dose too strong—thoul't dose too long; at counsel do not scoff;
Some night, my dear, a drop too much may chance to take thee off!”

V

Next morn the page went early forth along the well-known track,
And soon with the composing draught composedly rode back;
A doctor, (it was rumour'd,) muffled up, was by his side,
But one beneath the doctor's cloak a soldier's garb espied!
That night (by medical advice) the dame tried change of air!
This bulletin her uncle read next morning in despair:
“The dear departed owns your warning words were true enough,
By bottle number fifty-one your niece was taken off!”

WHAT, THOUGH WE WERE RIVALS OF YORE.

I

“What, though we were rivals of yore,
It seems you the victor have proved,
Henceforth we are rivals no more,
For I must forget I have loved.
You tell me you wed her to-day,
I thank you for telling the worst;
Adieu then! to horse, and away!—
But, hold—let us drink her health first!

203

II

“Alas! I confess I was wrong
To cope with so charming a knight;
Excelling in dance, and in song,
Well-dressed, debonnaire, and polite!
So, putting all envy aside,
I take a new flask from the shelf;
Another full glass to the bride,
And now a full glass to yourself!

III

“You'll drink a full bumper to me,
So well I have borne my defeat?
To the nymphs who the bridemaids will be,
And to each of the friends you will meet
You are weary?—one glass to renew;
You are dozing?—one glass to restore;
You are sleeping?—proud rival, adieu!
Excuse me for locking the door.

IV

There's a fee in the hand of the priest;
There's a kiss on the cheek of the bride!
And the guest she expected the least
Is he who now sits by her side!
Oh, well may the loiterer fail,
His love is the grape of the Rhine;
And the spirit most sure to prevail
Was never the spirit of wine!

204

OLD AGE AND YOUTH.

I

Old Age sits bent on his iron-grey steed;
Youth rides erect on his courser black;
And little he thinks in his reckless speed,
Old age comes on in the very same track.

II

And on Youth goes, with his cheek like the rose,
And his radiant eyes, and his raven hair;
And his laugh betrays how little he knows
Of Age, and his sure companion Care.

III

The courser black is put to his speed,
And Age plods on, in a quieter way,
And little Youth thinks that the iron-grey steed
Approaches him nearer every day.

IV

Though one seems strong as the forest tree,
The other infirm, and wanting breath;
If ever Youth baffles Old Age, 'twill be
By rushing into the arms of Death!

V

On his courser black, away Youth goes;
The prosing sage may rest at home;
He'll laugh and quaff, for well he knows
That years must pass ere Age can come.

VI

And since too brief are the daylight hours,
For those who would laugh their lives away,
With beaming lamps, and mimic flowers,
He'll teach the night to mock the day!

205

VII

Again he'll laugh, again he'll feast,
His lagging foe he'll still deride,
Until—when he expects him least—
Old Age and he stand side by side!

VIII

He then looks into his toilet-glass,
And sees Old Age reflected there;
He cries, “Alas! how quickly pass
Bright eyes, and bloom, and raven hair!”

IX

The lord of the courser black must ride
On the iron-grey steed, sedate and slow;
And thus to him who his power defied,
Old Age must come like a conquering foe.

X

Had the prosing sage not preach'd in vain,
Had Youth not written his words on sand,
Had he early paused, and given the rein
Of his courser black to a steadier hand.

XI

Oh! just as gay might his days have been,
Though mirth with graver thoughts might blend;
And when at his side Old Age was seen,
He had been hail'd as a timely friend.

206

DEAR HARP OF OLD ERIN.

I

Dear Harp of old Erin! let loyalty waken
Thy liveliest strain on this festival day:
Oh! ne'er may the warmth of our duty be shaken,
Oh! ne'er may our patriot feelings decay.
Whilst faction is basely or blindly employ'd
'Gainst the laws, which our fathers in honour enjoy'd,
Let the loyal exert ev'ry voice, ev'ry nerve,
For the land they adore, and the monarch they serve.
George the IVth, George the IVth! fill each glass to the brim,
This roof shall resound with good wishes to him.

II

He came to the brightest and greenest of isles,
Where the hearts that are warmest exult in his sway;
Where if errors exist, hospitality's smiles
Have a charm to chase trivial errors away.
Yes, he came, where no monarch for ages had stood,
Save when arm'd with the terrors of warfare and blood!
He landed, without the proud pomp of a court,
With the love of his people his shield and support.
George the IVth, George the IVth! &c.

III

Yes, Erin has bless'd him, though cynics may sneer
At a zeal and a loyalty foreign to them;
Tho' a trace of their national warmth may appear
In their welcome, the coldest alone will condemn.
Her voice has not bless'd him in vain, she has shown
That a bulwark of loyalty circles the throne;
And in England, she'll find kindred spirits to share
In the union of hearts that bids treason despair.
George the IVth, George the IVth! &c.

207

IV

Then hail to our sov'reign, we'll show him, with pride,
His adherents are now neither feeble nor few,
And would rather maintain a dominion long tried
Than raise a new system, because it is new.
In the cause be all hearts energetic and warm,
And the ship may triumphantly weather the storm;
In calm or in tempest we'll stand on the deck,
And fight for its safety, or sink with the wreck!
George the IVth, George the IVth! &c.

V

When he, who had liv'd in the love of the nation,
In solitude pass'd his life's darken'd decline,
And to thee had devolv'd his responsible station,
His course, and the friends he had chosen, were thine.
Thou hast prov'd that a father's designs were more dear
Than the sycophants painting thy early career,
Those baffled deluders that choice may condemn,
The successes it caused have been hateful to them.
George the IVth, George the IVth! &c.

I BLAME THEE NOT.

I

Perhaps my tongue but faintly told
The tale it scarcely dared to tell.
Perhaps you thought my manner cold,
Too cold for one who lov'd thee well.
I blame thee not, though false thou art,
I mourn thy faults, but never blam'd;
And though your follies break my heart,
I will not hear those follies nam'd.

208

II

Why is it, when young hearts adore
One faultless mind, one form, one face,
If love is cross'd, they love no more,
Another ne'er can fill the place?
It is because, in after years,
We seek its counterpart in vain,
Youth quits his dream of love with tears,
And trembles ere he trusts again.

I MOURN FOR HER I'VE LOST.

I

Believe me not cold, tho' my bosom refuses
One sigh or one thought for the beauties I see,
For love cannot visit my heart till it loses
All trace of that one that was dearest to me.

Unmov'd I view the charms they boast,
For midst the forms that dazzle most,
I think of her I've lov'd,
I mourn for her I've lost.

II

WRITE ON THE SAND.

I

Write on the sand when the tide is low,
Seek the spot when the waters flow;
Whisper a name when the storm is heard,
Pause, that echo may breathe the word.
If what you wrote on the sand should last,
And echo is heard 'mid the tempests blast,
Then believe, and not till them,
That there's truth in the vows of men.

212

II

Throw a rose on the stream at morn,
Watch at eve for the flow'rs return,
Drop in the ocean a golden grain,
Hope 'twill shine on the shore again.
If the rose you again behold,
If you gaze on your grain of gold,
Then believe, and not till then,
That there's truth in the vows of men.

OF WHAT IS THE OLD MAN THINKING?

I

Of what is the old man thinking,
As he leans on his oaken staff?
From the mid-day pastime shrinking,
He shares not the merry laugh.
But the tears of the old man flow,
As he looks on the young and gay:
And his grey head, moving slow,
Keeps time to the air they play:
The elder around are drinking,
But not one cup will he quaff,
Oh! of what is the old man thinking,
As he leans on his oaken staff?

II

'Tis not with a vain repining,
That the old man sheds a tear;
'Tis not for his strength declining,
He sighs not to linger here.
There's a spell in the air they play,
And the old man's eyes are dim,
For it calls up a past May-day,
And the dear friends lost to him.

213

From the scene before him shrinking,
From the dance and the merry laugh,
Of their calm repose he is thinking,
As he leans on his oaken staff.

SHE WORE A WREATH OF ROSES.

I

She wore a wreath of roses,
The night that first we met,
Her lovely face was smiling,
Beneath her curls of jet.
Her footstep had the lightness,
Her voice the joyous tone;
The tokens of a youthful heart,
Where sorrow is unknown.
I saw her but a moment,
Yet methinks I see her now,
With the wreath of summer flowers,
Upon her snowy brow.

II

A wreath of orange blossoms,
When next we met, she wore;
The expression of her features
Was more thoughtful than before.
And standing by her side was one,
Who strove, and not in vain,
To sooth her, leaving that dear home
She ne'er might view again.
I saw her but a moment,
Yet methinks I see her now,
With the wreath of orange blossoms,
Upon her snowy brow.

214

III

And once again I see that brow,
No bridal wreath is there,
The widow's sombre cap conceals
Her once luxuriant hair.
She weeps in silent solitude,
And there is no one near
To press her hand within his own,
And wipe away the tear.
I see her broken hearted,
Yet methinks I see her now,
In the pride of youth and beauty,
With a garland on her brow.

SOMETHING TO LOVE.

I

Something to love, some tree or flow'r,
Something to nurse in my lonely bow'r,
Some dog to follow, where'er I roam,
Some bird to warble my welcome home,
Some tame gazelle, or some gentle dove:
Something to love. Oh, something to love!

II

Something to love. Oh, let me see!
Something that's filled with a love for me;
Beloved by none, it is sad to live,
And 'tis sad to die and leave none to grieve;
And fond and true let the lov'd one prove,
Something to love. Oh, something to love!

215

OH! WHEN IT IS TOO LATE.

I

Oh! when it is too late thou wilt regret me,
In vain thou'lt strive to hate, or to forget me;
Thy love for me, in vain, thou'lt strive to smother,
Yet ne'er wilt thou again so love another.
Ah! when it is too late, thou wilt regret me,
In vain thou'lt strive to hate, or to forget me.

II

Ah! when it is too late, and I'm forsaken,
Affection, once so great, will reawaken,
And then thou wilt renounce the spells around thee,
And sigh for ties that once so fondly bound thee.
Oh! when it is too late, thou'lt regret me,
In vain thou'lt strive to hate, or to forget me.

'TIS MIDNIGHT.

I

'Tis midnight, and sweet melodies
Are wafted o'er the tide,
From one of those bright pleasure barques,
That on the waters glide.
Gay lords are there
And ladies fair,
Along the ship
They lightly trip;
I envy not their revelry
While roving by thy side.

216

II

Behold the moonbeams darting through
The green transparent tree;
And hear the light leaves answering
The whispers of the breeze.
When winter throws
Her chilling snows,
O'er all the earth,
Then give me mirth,
But oh! the dance was never meant
For summer nights like these.

WHEN YOU AND I WERE BOYS TOGETHER.

I

When you and I were boys together,
'Ere care's first cloud o'ershadow'd either;
When, to the young and joyous spirit,
The gayest friend had highest merit:
Oh! life seem'd made of sunny weather,
When you and I were boys together!

II

Then, if we heard of war and glory,
Our young hearts panted at the story;
We paus'd not gravely to consider
What cause was right, or who was leader;
We sigh'd for sword, and helm, and feather,
When you and I were boys together!

217

III

We felt the dull restraint that bound us,
We saw free manhood busy round us;
And dazzled by his hoarded treasure,
And tempted by the song of pleasure,
Oh! how we long'd to break our tether;
When you and I were boys together!

IV

How false the view by fancy painted,
When we and life are first acquainted;
How oft, alas! by storms surrounded,
The weary spirit has desponded,
And sighed for that more sunny weather,
When you and I were boys together!

SHE WOULD NOT KNOW ME.

I

She would not know me, were she now to view me;
My heart was gay, when long ago she knew me;
My songs were daily tun'd to some gay measure,
And all my visions were of future pleasure.
Oh! tell her not that grief could thus o'erthrow me,
But let her pass me by, she will not know me!

II

In these sad accents, she will ne'er discover
The cheerful voice of him who was her lover;
Nor will these features, in their gloom, remind her
Of the gay smile they wore, when she was kinder.
Oh! tell her not that grief could thus o'erthrow me,
But let her pass me by, she will not know me!

218

Parents have refused consent,
And they never will relent!
But kind priest to thee we kneel,
And our anguish thou wilt heal.

V

Disobedient daughter, no!
'Tis my task to bid thee go;
Never yet were hopes like thine
Blest at holy Agnes' shrine.

VI

Father, at thy feet we kneel,
Father, we applaud thy zeal,
But when frowning age is dead,
Smiling youth at last may wed.

VII

When we dwell in yonder tow'rs,
When the wide domain is ours,
Wonder not if then you wait,
Holy monk, outside the gate.

VIII

From the park we shall bestow
Neither pheasant, buck, nor doe;
Herbs for you are fit repast,
Lords shall feast, and monks shall fast!

223

IX

I'm content with coarsest bread,
But if you're resolved to wed,
Wherefore seek another shrine?
Let the holy task be mine.

THE OLD BACHELOR.

I

When I was a school-boy, aged ten,
Oh, mighty little Greek I knew;
With my short strip'd trowsers, and now and then
With stripes upon my jacket too!
When I saw other boys to the play-ground run,
I threw my old Gradus by,
And I left the task I had scarce begun,
There'll be time enough for that, said I.

II

When I was at college, my pride was dress,
And my groom and my bit of blood;
But as for my study, I must confess,
That I was content with my stud.
I was deep in my Tradesmen's books, I'm afraid,
Tho' not in my own by the bye;
And when rascally tailors came to be paid,
There'll be time enough for that, said I.

III

I was just nineteen when I first fell in love,
And I scribbled a deal of rhyme;
And I talk'd to myself in a shady grove,
And I thought I was quite sublime;

224

I was torn from my love! 'twas a dreadful blow,
And the lady she wip'd her eye;
But I didn't die of grief, oh, dear me, no!
There'll be time enough for that, said I.

IV

The next was a lady of rank, a dame
With blood in her veins you see;
With the leaves of the Peerage, she fann'd the flame
That was now consuming me.
But tho' of her great descent she spoke,
I found she was still very high,
And I thought looking up to a wife no joke,
There'll be time enough for that, said I.

V

My next penchant was for one whose face
Was her fortune, she was so fair!
Oh, she spoke with an air of enchanting grace,
But a man cannot live upon air;
And when poverty enters the door, young love
Will out of the casement fly;
The truth of the proverb I'd no wish to prove,
There'll be time enough for that, said I.

VI

My next was a lady who loved romance,
And wrote very splendid things;
And she said with a sneer, when I ask'd her to dance,
“Sir, I ride upon a horse with wings.”
There was ink on her thumb when I kissed her hand,
And she whisper'd “If you should die,
I will write you an epitaph, gloomy, and grand,”
There'll be time enough for that, said I.

VII

I left her, and sported my figure and face,
At opera, party, and ball;
I met pretty girls at ev'ry place,
But I found a defect in all!

225

The first did not suit me, I cannot tell how,
The second I cannot say why;
And the third, bless me, I will not marry now,
There'll be time enough for that, said I.

VIII

I look'd in the glass, and I thought I could trace
A sort of a wrinkle or two;
So I made up my mind, that I'd make up my face,
And come out as good as new.
To my hair I imparted a little more jet,
And I scarce could suppress a sigh;
But I cannot be quite an old Bachelor yet—
No, there's time enough for that, said I.

IX

I was now fifty one, yet I still did adopt
All the airs of a juvenile beau;
But, somehow, whenever a question I popp'd,
The girls with a laugh said “No!”
I am sixty to-day, not a very young man,
And a bachelor doom'd to die;
So youths be advised, and marry while you can,
There's no time to be lost, say I.

OUT.

I

Out, John! out, John! what are you about John?
If you don't say out at once, you make the fellow doubt, John!
Say I'm out, whoever calls, and hide my hat and cane, John!
Say you've not the least idea when I shall come again, John!
Let the people leave their bills, but tell them not to call, John!
Say I'm courting Miss Rupee, and mean to pay them all, John!
Out, John! out, John! what are you about, John!
If you don't say out at once, you make the fellow doubt, John!

226

II

Run, John, run, John! there's another dun, John!
If it's Prodger, bid him call to-morrow week at one, John!
If he says he saw me at the window, as he knock'd, John!
Make a face, and shake your head, and tell him you are shock'd, John!
Take your pocket handkerchief, and put it to your eye, John!
Say your master's not the man to bid you tell a lie, John!
Out, John! out, John! &c.

III

Oh, John, go, John! there's Noodle's knock, I know, John!
Tell him that all yesterday you sought him high and low, John!
Tell him just before he came, you saw me mount the hill, John!
Say you think I'm only gone to pay his little bill, John!
Then I think you better add, that if I miss to-day, John!
You're sure I mean to call when next I pass his way, John!
Out, John! out, John! &c.

IV

Hie, John, fly, John! I will tell you why, John!
If there is not Grimshawe at the corner, let me die, John!
He will hear of no excuse, I'm sure he'll search the house, John!
Peeping into corners hardly fit to hold a mouse, John!
Beg he'll take a chair and wait, I know he won't refuse, John!
I'll pop thro' the little door that opens to the mews, John!
Out, John! out, John! &c.

227

THE MAN THAT HAS BEEN YOUNGER.

I

'Tis he! 'tis he! how well he wears,
No change since last we met him,
I think Old Time, with all his cares,
Has managed to forget him;
His age, but no! be that forgot,
For dates we do not hunger,
He merely is (and who is not),
The man that has been younger.

II

His hair has ne'er betrayed a fall,
It still is dark and curly.
Be wise, if you wear wigs at all,
Like him adopt one early.
He still retains the jaunty air,
His limbs look even stronger,
And yet he is, we're all aware,
The man that has been younger.

III

When first I met him in the park,
With joy unfeign'd and real,
I paused five minutes to remark
The toilet's beau ideal.
That's five and thirty years ago;
Indeed it may be longer!
And he's unchang'd, though well we know
A man that has been younger.

228

IV

And still the glass is raised to scan
The fairest nymph that passes,
And still the figure of the man
Attracts all other glasses.
For female admiration, still,
His spirit seems to hunger,
And yet he is, do what he will,
The man that has been younger.

DON'T SING ENGLISH BALLADS.

I

I hate English ballads, don't sing them,
I wish Cousin John wouldn't bring them,
In the fire I beg you to fling them,
And sing in a loftier key.
I've bought you a new grand piano,
Your voice is a charming soprano,
Then don't sing such trumpery, ah, no,
Don't sing English ballads to me!

II

“We met,” from your memory drive it,
“The Soldier's Tear,” shall I survive it?
Do wipe it away love, for private
The tear of a private should be;
What ditty is this you've your hand on?
“Isle of Beauty!” that ballad abandon,
It's an isle I have no wish to land on;
Don't sing English ballads to me!

229

III

The English words seem so phlegmatic,
Italian is aristocratic,
I know that the sound is ecstatic,
Whatever the meaning may be;
I don't mean to say that I know it,
As for learning, I'd not undergo it!
If ignorant why should we show it;
Don't sing English ballads to me!

IV

I've now got the music book ready,
Do sit up and sing like a lady,
A recitative from Tancredi,
And something about “Palpiti,”
Sing forte when first you begin it,
Piano the very next minute,
They'll cry “what expression there's in it;”
Don't sing English ballads to me!

THERE DWELT A LADY VERY YOUNG.

I

There dwelt a lady very young
In a castle very old,
One lover came with store of love,
And one with store of gold;
And both with bow and arrow shot,
And both the mark could strike,
And each could play his own guitar,
And each could charm alike.
Then which to choose and which refuse,
The lady well might ask,
Decision with such perfect men
Was not an easy task.

230

II

At length, she said, “Come both with me,
To-morrow I'll decide,
And he who plays and shoots the best,
Shall claim me as his bride.”
The poor one had no trust except
His oft exerted skill,
The rich one was resolv'd to trust
To something better still.
“Henceforth, I'll play with golden strings,
With gold I'll tip my dart;
Yes, yes!” said he, “I know the way,
To win the lady's heart.”

III

Oh, he was first to school, but see,
His dart's no longer fleet,
And he was first to play,
But hark his harp's no longer sweet.
The poor one's dart is tip'd with steel,
His strings are simple wire,
Guitar and dart have won her heart,
What change can he desire?
The lady's voice has nam'd her choice,
And yonder knight is told:
He wins who trusts to zeal and worth,
He fails, who trusts to gold.

GRENADIER.

I

Cries William, when just come from sea,
“Does any one know my Annette?
Oh, say, is she faithful to me,
Alas, it is long since we met!”

231

“Yes, yes,” an old gossip replies,
“We all know her very well here,
She has red lips and bonny black eyes;
And she lives with her own Granny dear,”
“Grenadier! did you say? did you say Grenadier?”
“Yes, yes,” the old gossip replies,
“She lives with her old Granny dear, O dear!”

II

Annette flew to welcome him home,
But he turn'd from the maid with disdain:
“False girl, I suppose you are come
To jeer me, and laugh at my pain;
Since scandal hath blotted your name,
I deem you unworthy a tear,
I've been told by an elderly dame,
That you live with your own Grenadier.”
“Grenadier! did you say Grenadier?”
“Yes, I'm told by an elderly dame,
That you live with your own Grenadier, O dear!”

III

Quoth pretty Annette, “Do you dare,
To call me inconstant and frail?
Beware, Master William, beware,
How you trump up an old woman's tale!
'Tis true, when such stories are told,
We should not believe half that we hear,
Yet I own that my Granny is old,
So I live with my own Granny dear.”
“Granny dear! did you say? did you say Granny dear?”
“Yes, I own that my Granny is old,
So I live with my old Granny dear, my dear!

232

MY DAUGHTER'S AN ACCOMPLISHED GIRL.

I

My daughter's an accomplished girl,
(Now, Mary, that's absurd)—
'Tis thus she always runs away,
From one applauding word,
But since she thus has left us, Sir,
I'll promise you a treat,
And prove that such a gifted girl
You'll very rarely meet!

II

Her drawings, Sir, all Poonah work,
(The fashionable kind;)
Her Poonah drawings! surely, Sir,
That girl's a deal of mind!
Excuse a partial mother, Sir,
But think how she will please
Her husband, should she ever wed,
With Poonah works like these!

III

And look, Sir, here is her guitar,
Dear me, it wants a string!
You're fond of music, after tea,
Prevail on her to sing.
She has not got much voice you know,
But take the nearest chair,
And stoop your head, and you will then
Distinctly hear the air!

233

IV

And here is all her worsted work,
And pair of slippers, Sir!
(I'm sure he'll be a happy man
Who wins that gift from her!)
She made that rug—now do observe
How natural the cat!
She work'd that screen—you must allow
There's intellect in that!

V

And here's her album, bound in blue,
With clasp, and lock, and key;
Oh! such sweet lines about “How doth
The little busy bee!”
I see you're struck! in truth, she is
A sweet accomplished girl!
Go, woo her, Sir; unless she loves,
She will not wed an Earl!

EXPERIENCE, OR THE WAY OF THE WORLD.

I

Once the Sage Experience
Whispered to me,
“I will teach thee common sense;
“Listen,” quoth he.
So I put on a serious look,
Tho' I laugh'd in my sleeve at his lecture book.
And this is the way of the world.

234

II

“Covet not,” my mentor cried,
“Any man's lot;”
Most demurely, I replied,
“Certainly not.”
And so next day I went to law,
With my neighbour about a stick or straw,
And this is the way of the world.

III

“Chuse your friends for sterling worth;
“Wit will not do.”
“Oh!” I answer'd “nought on earth
“Can be more true.”
But worth was much too dull for me,
So I chose my friend, for a repartee,
And this is the way of the world.

IV

“Rather chuse a meal of herbs,
“If Love's a guest,
“Than eat of gold, if Hate disturbs
“The splendid feast.”
“Most true,” said I, “love sweetens life,”
So for money I married a cross old wife,
And this is the way of the world.

V

Soon Experience cried out,
“Listen to me!
“Words and deeds, beyond a doubt,
“Ought to agree!”
Said I, “Good words you are welcome to,
“But my deeds are to please myself, not you,”
And this is the way of the world.

235

TEA AND TURN OUT.

LADY.

“The neighbours, oh! let me invite them,
Dear husband we must give a ball;
The neighbours will think that we slight them,
Unless we send cards to them all.”

GENTLEMAN.

“The neighbours, pooh, fiddle-de-dee,
What is all this turmoil about?
Pray, why can't you ask them to tea, ma'am?
There's nothing like tea and turn-out.”

BOTH.

“Yes, I will,/Yes, I must, have a ball, not a rout,
To-morrow I'll send the cards out,
A Ball but no tea and turn out
There's nothing like tea and turn out.”

LADY.

“In what a strange light you must see things,
To talk of a tea-party thus;
How folks will look down on our tea things
Who spread supper tables for us.”

GENTLEMAN.

“Get wafers, and negus, and ices,
There's nought so genteel as a rout.”
“Go cut up a pound cake in slices,
They can't call that tea and turn out.”

BOTH.

We must have a ball, not a rout, &c.

236

LADY.
“My dear, you are talking in riddles;
You're late my procedings to stop,
I've order'd the lights and the fiddles,
And ask'd Captain Flute to my hop.”

GENTLEMAN.
“If you are in earnest, you must, ma'am,
Pay dearly for what you're about,
In my house if you raise a dust, ma'am,
Pray leave T T L, and turn out!”

BOTH.
We must have a ball, not a rout, &c.

MY SON TOM.

I

My son's a youth of talents rare,
You really ought to know him;
But he blushes so, when people stare,
That he seldom lets me show him.
To school he never yet was sent,
Nor yet to Oxford College;
So all are in astonishment
Where Tom pick'd up his knowledge.

My Tom's a youth of talents rare,
You really ought to know him,
But he blushes so, when people stare,
That he seldom lets me show him.

237

II

But Tom's a minor, recollect,
But nineteen next November!
And so, of course, one can't expect
Big books he should remember;
With clever boys, if people force
Their minds, 'tis ruination;
So I let nature take her course,
A fig for education!

My Tom's a youth of talents rare, &c.

III

By instinct, Tom picks up at once
The things that others study.
My husband storms, and calls him dunce,
He should not do so, should he?
Some talk about the books they've read,
And each is thought a wise one,
Tom makes, all out of his own head,
Remarks that quite surprise one.

My Tom's a youth of talents rare, &c.

IV

Tom wears no stock, no long-tail'd coat,
Unfit for boys of his age.
A jacket and an open throat
Best suits his form and visage:
Hereafter when the fair, and gay,
My darling is pursuing,
I'm sure he will not fail to say,
“'Twas all my mother's doing!”

My Tom's a youth of talents rare, &c.

238

MY DAUGHTER FAN.

I

My daughter Fan, oh, look at her face,
You'll own she's quite uncommon;
A girl in years, but in beauty and grace,
My daughter Fan's a woman.
And well indeed may her mother be proud
When she makes such a great sensation,
'Tis nature all—she was never allow'd
To be bother'd with education.

II

My daughter Fan has never been shown
Her steps by a dancing master,
But she skips about in a way of her own,
And nobody gallops faster.
She never was taught to sing a bit!
And that's what makes me prouder;
For when she sings, you'll all admit
That nobody can sing louder.

III

My daughter Fan had her miniature done,
I look'd upon that as a duty,
Next year, no doubt, her face will be one
Of the gems of the Book of Beauty.
When Chantry sees her, I think he'll faint,
So very superb her bust is,
But, after all, neither chisel nor paint
Can do my daughter justice.

239

IV

The eyes of my daughter seem to me
Divine, as I've often told her,
While one looks straight, the other, you see,
Seems peeping over her shoulder!
And that, with her nose (in the turn-up style),
I give you my word and honour,
Has such a charm, that it wins a smile
From all who look upon her!

V

My daughter Fan will come out in the spring,
She begs—and I can't refuse her!
But oh dear me 'tis a terrible thing,
To think that I soon must lose her!
For when she's out she'll marry 'tis clear,
And that my bosom touches;
My daughter Fan, this time next year,
Is sure to be a duchess!

THO' FIFTY, I AM STILL A BEAU!

I

Tho' fifty, I am still a beau,
My face is smooth and fair;
No dandy in his teens can show
A finer head of hair.
My wig suspicion has defied,
I take observers in,
For when the curls are comb'd aside,
You'd swear you saw the skin!

240

II

My sight may fail, but you will ne'er
Behold a beau in specs;
We've double glasses, which we wear
Suspended round our necks;
Those spectacles proclaim decay,
And make one look four score,
But double glasses seem to say,
“Near sighted—nothing more.”

III

To modern vocalists, alone,
I give my word of praise,
But never own to having known
The stars of other days.
Though Mara sang delightfully
When I was in my prime;
When she is named I say “Dear me!
She was before my time.”

IV

My nephews say, (I'm well aware)
That I shall never wed,
They hope his worldly goods to share,
When Uncle John is dead.
But ladies smile on Uncle John,
He knows what he's about,
And when he weds, his eldest son
Will cut his cousins out.

V

For some sweet girl I daily seek,
Not more than twenty-one;
A perfect figure, and a cheek
Like roses in the sun;
Good fortune and good family,
Good temper too I want;
When all these charms combined I see,
Then, nephews, hail your aunt!

241

DRESS'D FOR THE LEVEE!

I

Dress'd for the levee! come, mother, and see!
I must put on my sword,—stop! which side should it be?
I'll look at the mirror once more if you please;
I wonder they make us wear dresses like these!
Is it becoming?—delighted at that!
But why in the world must I wear a cock'd hat?

II

Sister Maria does nothing but laugh,
She says that my legs havn't got any calf!
And then her maid presuming to say,
“La! Master's dress'd up like a man in the play!”
Is it becoming? Indeed, I'm so glad!
I don't think my legs are by any means bad!

III

Oh! how I envy the men who can sport
Some sort of a uniform going to Court!
There is my uncle! we do look, my dear,
Rather like Noodle and Doodle I fear.
Is it becoming? well you should know best,
The bag's rather funny, it must be confest.

IV

What must I say to the King, Uncle John?
Bow and kiss hands, and then merely pass on.
It's well that you told me my speech would have been,
“Fine weather your Majesty; how is the Queen?”
Is it becoming? I'm glad if it is,
But I fear, after all, I look rather a quiz!

242

THE ROSE THAT ALL ARE PRAISING.

I

The rose that all are praising
Is not the rose for me;
Too many eyes are gazing
Upon the costly tree.
But there's a rose in yonder glen,
That shuns the gaze of other men,
For me its blossom raising;
Oh, that's the rose for me!

II

The gem a King might covet
Is not the gem for me;
From darkness they would move it,
Save that the world may see.
But I've a gem that shuns display,
And next my heart worn ev'ry day,
So dearly do I love it;
Oh, that's the gem for me!

III

Gay birds in cages pining
Are not the birds for me;
Those plumes so brightly shining
Would fain fly off from thee:
But I've a bird that gaily sings,
Tho' free to rove, she folds her wings,
For me her flight resigning;
Oh, that's the bird for me!

243

I KNOW HE DOTH NOT LOVE ME.

I

I know he doth not love me, as I was lov'd at first,
I cannot tell the reason, I'd ask him if I durst,
But that might drive him from me, and tho' it breaks my heart
To see him frown upon me, 'twere worse, far worse to part.

II

Perhaps he knows my sadness, yet should he not reflect
I never knew a sorrow 'till chill'd by his neglect;
And still with smiles I'd meet him, if I could only see
The glance of fond affection that used to beam on me.

BEFORE THE BALL.

I

I'm delighted, I've invited
All my neighbours to the ball;
How diverting! oh, I'm certain
That the house won't hold 'em all!
Go, and take the carpets up,
Wash the rooms, they won't be dry.
In my bed-room we must sup,
Take the bed down, by the bye.
I must sleep out at the inn;
Mind you send my sac de nuit.
Hang the lamps up, pray begin;
Who'll have time to make the tea?
Send for Sophy, tea and coffee
Must be handed round to all;
How it's blowing! how it's snowing!
What a night to give a ball!

244

II

Is my dress got? oh, Miss Prescott!
Just in time, I do declare!
“Eight o'clock, ma'am.” “There's a knock, ma'am.”
Oh! the man to do my hair.
What are all these little notes?
All excuses—oh dear me!
All the Seymores got sore throats!
Lady Sykes, and Lord Nugee!
All my tiptop folks unwell,
E'en a saint it would provoke;
What a smother! what a smell!
Colour'd lamps are sure to smoke.
More excuses! what the deuce is
Come to people? poorly all!
How it's blowing! how it's snowing!
What a night to give a ball!

III

There's a lady come already!
Not a thing is comme il faut;
See the waiters in their gaiters,
Oh! it won't go right, I know.
Mrs. Stubbs! well, let her wait;
Go and say I'm quite concern'd.
A'nt the music very late?
Oh, I hope 'tant overturn'd!
Hark—a knock! they'll think I'm lost,
There's the music come at last,
What a ball! the Morning Post
Shall describe it when it's past.
Oh, how pleasing! what a squeezing!
See them thronging, great and small.
How it's blowing! how it's snowing!
What a night to give a ball!

245

AFTER THE BALL.

I

Come, let us talk the evening over,
I'm sure I'm glad we're under cover,
The wind so high, the night so dark,
I wish my guests well thro' the park;
But vastly snug ourselves we'll render,
We'll put our feet upon the fender,
And o'er a cosey cup of tea,
We'll chat, for none can hear or see,
About the ball and the company.

II

All said my ball was to their liking,
The tout ensemble grand and striking;
The paper roses sweetly plac'd,
The colour'd lamps arrang'd with taste;
And tho' I own it was provoking,
To see the lamps persist in smoking,
Yet many people said to me,
They liked the smoke exceedingly—
It did not annoy the company.

III

At supper time, 'twas unexampled,
How people o'er their neighbours trampled,
Afraid of being left behind—
I half suspect they had not dined!
I bade Lord John take Lady Susan,
And lead the way; at least a dozen
Already had unask'd made free!
I really thought there would not be
Food enough for the company.

246

IV

Then, one by one, the good things vanish'd,
The table was again replenish'd,
And still they cut and came again,
And naught but drumsticks now remain.
I thought the men would drink for ever!
I made the fiddlers thrice endeavour
To lure the truants back to me;
For 'twas a dreary sight to see
The female part of the company.

V

But now, my dear, I see you're dozing,
I scarce can keep my eyes from closing;
We've kept it up, as people say,
Till Phœbus ushered in the day.
Oh dear! oh dear! I think with sorrow
The state the house will be in to-morrow;
No comfort here for you or me;
Oh! my dear, I dread to see
The ghost of the ball and the company.

247

POEMS AND SONGS.

LOVE AND A COTTAGE.

Once on a time (no matter when or where)
There liv'd in Britain's Isle a youthful pair;
In boyish days no pleasure Edward knew,
Unless the sport was shared by Ellen too;
Her chosen games he always would prefer,
And learnt those lessons best—he learnt with her;
Fair Ellen, too, her early playmate loved,
And often wore the sash that he approved,—
Pursued her evening walk with feigned alarm,
To gain the fond protection of his arm;
His gifts and tokens she preserved with care,
And wore a ring composed of Edward's hair.
But girls will grow, and as their years increase,
The world decrees these gay delights should cease.

Ellen was just eighteen: that happy time,
When youth's gay spirit revels in its prime;
When love's first tremor to the bosom steals,
And woman wonders at the glow she feels;
In form and manners changed, she now appears
In all the loveliness of riper years;
And Edward, too, was changed, for he began
To be not quite a boy, nor quite a man;
But, from his looks and manners you might deem
He was not boyish in his own esteem.

His neckcloth now in graceful folds was placed,
And gave a sample of the wearer's taste:
And, every inch a beau, he stoutly said
That none henceforth should call him Master Ned.
But, though the charms of bats and balls were fled,
And other sports engross'd him in their stead;

248

Though taw and tennis not a thought could claim,
And nobler billiards was his only game;
Though gay and unconfined he loved to range
For new delights;—his heart had known no change;
And though transformed with fashionable skill,
His youth's companion was remembered still.

Returned from school, with wonder and delight
He saw the change in Ellen's form and height;
And scarcely could he believe the blooming belle
Was she whose hoyden tricks he loved so well.
They were at first reserved, and knew not how
To get beyond a curtsey and a bow:
Each suffered a restraint unfelt before.
Little was said—but then they thought the more;
And soon their tell-tale eyes revealed to each
Much more than could be told by parts of speech:
Their silence quickly ceased—reserve was lost.
And both seemed striving which could talk the most.

Daily they met—and failed not to produce,
For meetings yet to come, some new excuse;
They both found out that early rising serves
To give elastic vigour to the nerves;
Discovered next the needful good that lies
In morning air and constant exercise.
And Ellen often ventured out, by stealth,
To walk with Edward, and improve her health;
And then, whatever walk she chose to name,
He always chanced to fix upon the same;
And morning, noon, or night, where'er they went,
The couple always met—by accident.

A sudden love of reading offered next
For frequent interviews a good pretext;
But Edward's eye oft wandered from his books,
To read expressive things in Ellen's looks;
And long she listened—for the voice she heard
Imparted melody to every word:
Reading has charms—and they perceived the charm
Was much increased by reading arm in arm;

249

And found their scientific walk so sweet,
The more they met, the more they wish'd to meet.

Their love of learning none could disapprove,
Until, by some mischance, they learnt to love!
Then mothers went into fits, and fathers swore,
And all declared that they should meet no more;
Said days of joy would end in years of pain,
And talk'd of prudent schemes—but talk'd in vain:
They argued well that Cupid is averse
To scanty larders, and an empty purse;
That wedded paupers often mourn their lot,
And find affection will not boil the pot;
And said (whatever boys and girls may think)
Lovers, though vastly warm, must eat and drink.

But all their arguments had little force,
For Edward only thought them words of course.
“Shall we,” he said, “who love as much—or more
Than ever two young people loved before,
Shall we be pent in lucre's paltry bounds,
And part because our shillings are not pounds?
Shall I look out for wealth, and strive to catch
Some advantageous mercenary match?
No! to my charming Ellen still I turn:
Love's rosy links are easy to be borne;
Let sordid souls repent, and mourn in vain
The heavy splendour of their golden chain.”

“Although we boast no riches,” Ellen cried,
“What can I want with Edward at my side?
Without wax lights our cot shall ne'er be dim,
For even tallow must burn bright with him:
Love and a Cottage is the lot I prize,
And lucre, filthy lucre, I despise.”

The day was fix'd, and Edward flew to buy
A charming cottage just two stories high;
And one was found which, though extremely small,
Was large enough to hold their little all.

250

Some months the bride, with fortitude unshaken,
Endured the dull routine of beans and bacon;
Preserved each precious morsel on the shelf,
And eat the puddings that she made herself;
By daily repetition well she knew
How to provide but just enough for two;
Learnt to economise in every way,
And hash the mutton of a former day.
Before her spouse she laboured to conceal
Her secret horror of the vulgar meal;
Boldly contended with domestic ills,
And studied the amount of baker's bills.

Her bridal garments soil'd, with wondrous skill,
She turn'd, and wash'd, and made them useful still;
Corrected and revised her old array,
And neatly darn'd each symptom of decay;
Contrived to make the last year's bonnet do,
And said it look'd almost as good as new;
Dyed her old gown, its splendour to recall;
And sigh'd in secret—if she sigh'd at all.

The bridegroom gazed upon his lovely wife,
Talk'd of domestic joys, and rural life;
Genteelly acquiesced in all she said,
And drank her currant wine both white and red.

So far 'twas well—but ere two years were past,
Their matrimonial sky was overcast;
And Ellen then, in tone not very sweet,
Complain'd their mansion was not quite complete.
“'Tis such a bore,” said she, “in rainy weather,
In this small room to sit all day together,
Which serves for drawing-room and parlour too:
And there's no study set apart for you;
You're never out of hearing—and it feels
So strange to have you always at my heels;
We're very loving—but it is too much
To sit so close—our elbows almost touch.

251

And then our maid (alas! we have but one)
Does only half of all that should be done,
For Nelly acts as cook and butler both,
And she who scrubs the kitchen lays the cloth;
With arms all crimson, and a flaming face,
She bustles on, sole handmaid of the place;
And frequent must my occupations be,
Since all she fails to do—is done by me:
Oft am I plagued with closet, drawer and shelf—
In fact, I'm maid of all work to myself.
My dear, before I married you, I vow
I wish I'd been as wise as I am now.”

These Edward heard, and he at times gave vent
To equal murmurings and discontent.
“What you assert, my love,” he cried, “is true,
I think our cottage quite as small as you;
But then, my charmer, what can you expect,
Your portion brought me nothing, recollect;
‘Nothing can come of nothing,’ pounds and pence
In calculations make a difference,
I hate our paltry dinners, where the meat
Is only just as much as we can eat;
If sick of mutton roasted, we arrange
To have it boil'd next day, by way of change;
And boil'd or roasted, it might do, I own,
Had I some good old port to wash it down;
But as for currant wine, say what you will,
That home-made stuff is apt to make one ill.
In tedious tête-à-tête our time is past—
Each day a repetition of the last;
And in this nutshell, as we sit alone,
I hear no human voice except your own.
We used to read—but who can pass his life
In reading doleful ditties to his wife?”

This was his constant theme: thus months were spent
In bitter matrimonial argument.

“Love and a Cottage” was their former boast—
The Cottage still remains, but Love is lost;

252

And when for man and wife it proved too small,
No wonder Love could find no room at all.
Thus wise at length—though haply wise too late,
By mutual consent they separate:
And by a written paper we are told—
“This Cottage either to be let or sold.”

NIGHT THOUGHTS.

I

When mortals repose on the pillow of night,
When nought except fancy's dominion is bright,
When the day-dreams of man for a moment are crush'd,
And the wailings of childhood in slumbers are hush'd,
Through the maze of the past our steps we retread,
And the form of the future before us is spread;
All the sorrows and fears of the present are flown,
And the fancy exists in a world of its own.

II

Then the forms of the absent distinctly appear,
And the voice of affection seems whispering near;
All painful realities fade from the view,
While friends seem all constant, and lovers all true.
Though the eye-lid is closed, with precision we trace
Each well beloved feature, each good humour'd face;
Though silence surrounds us, their accents remain,
And in vision they speak, and we listen again.

III

Though the sun-shine of Hope and of Fortune may set,
In slumbers and dreams it may visit us yet;
Though our moments of pleasure so soon pass away,
We retrace in the night all the joys of the day;
Our mirth would be short if we could not prolong
The fond recollection of dance and of song;
And our youthful adventures would vanish too fast,
If we could not dream over the bliss of the past.

253

BE SILENT, MY LUTE!

I

Be silent, for ever, be silent, my lute!
For the voice that has echoed your numbers is mute;
The spirit, the life of my music is o'er,
For the ear that has listen'd can listen no more:
There has been a time, when my eye has survey'd
The theme and the song of my soul as I play'd,—
But her features are clouded, her accents are mute,
Then be silent, for ever, be silent, my lute!

II

The garden she planted its blossoms may boast,
But the flower is faded which gladden'd it most;
Her bowers may bloom with clematis and vine,
But where is the hand that once taught them to twine?
Thus, the landscape at midnight is beautiful still,
And freshness remains upon valley and hill;
But then the eye rests upon darkness alone,
For the beams that illumine each object are gone.

III

'Tis long since we parted, I seek thee in vain;
My Ellen! I never can meet thee again!
Yet still there are ties which time cannot remove,
When we mourn o'er the relics of those that we love:
Like rocks which the whirlwind asunder has thrown,
Though sever'd for ever in years that are gone,
Though the flood of the valley flows darkly between,
The trace of their union on each may be seen.

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IV

There once was a time when my muse could assuage
The blots and the sorrows that darken life's page;
But now every verse unavailing must prove,
For tears damp the strings of the lyre of love.
Yet still I can look on the lute that she loved,
And hear from another the song she approved;
But the words and the notes cannot charm me alone,
For the spirit, the life, of my music is gone.

V

Oh! tell me no more of the hopes that you see,
For a cloud hovers still 'twixt their radiance and me;
I trusted them once—but they left me to mourn;
I may view them in thought—but they cannot return.
To a sailor whose bark on the billows is tost,
When tempests o'erwhelm him, and succour is lost,
'Tis cruel to point to the meadows and groves,
And the roses that bloom round the home that he loves.

OH, DO NOT SUPPOSE THAT MY HOURS ARE GAY!

I

Oh! do not suppose that my hours
Are always unclouded and gay;
Or that thorns never mix with the flowers
That fortune has strew'd in my way:
When seen by the cold and unfeeling,
We smile through the sorrows we feel;
But smiles are deceitful—concealing
The wounds which they never can heal.

255

II

The world is a changeable ocean,
And sunbeams and shadows abound;
Where the surface seems least in commotion,
The rocks of misfortune are found:—
And man is the pilot, who steering,
Of every billow the sport,
Sees the gale of prosperity veering,
Which promised to waft him to port.

III

Our hopes are the gales that serenely
Waft onward our sails as we float;
Our tears are the whirlwinds that keenly
O'erwhelm our poor perishing boat;
And reason's the beacon that gives us
It's light through life's perilous way,
But folly's the ray that deceives us,
And leads us too often astray.

IV

Our moments of mirth may be many,
And hope half our sorrow beguiles;
But, believe me, there cannot be any
Whose features are always in smiles.
The heart may be sad and repining,
Though cheerfulness brightens the scene,
As a goblet with gems may be shining,
Though bitter the potion within.

V

A glittering volume may cover
A story of sorrow and woe;
And night's gayest meteors may hover
Where dangers lie lurking below;
Thus oft, in the sunshine of gladness,
The cheek and the eye may be drest,
Whilst the clouds of dejection and sadness
In secret o'ershadow the breast.

256

YOU TELL ME THAT MY SMILES ARE LOST.

I

You tell me I no longer boast
The sprightly language once my own;
That all my former smiles are lost,
And all my cheerful spirits flown.

II

You say my songs, in former days,
Were fraught with love and hope united;
But now the subjects of my lays
Are, hope deceived, and passion slighted.

III

It may be so—for fleeting years
The spell from boyhood's dream will sever;
And in a world of smiles and tears
No song of joy can last for ever.

IV

And when I sung of love and hope,
They were the visions of a boy:
Then fancy gives us ample scope
For forming plans of future joy.

V

But riper years too often blight
The opening buds that youth had nourish'd;
Some cold neglect, some cruel slight,
May wound the heart where friendship flourish'd.

VI

When those we long have loved deceive,
We view our loss with vain regret;
Our feelings prompt us to forgive,
Our wound forbids us to forget.

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VII

And then, though each may meet again,
Though no reproving word be spoken,
Yet every effort will be vain
To join the links by folly broken.

VIII

But sudden wrath cannot remove
The memory of former ties;
And though deceit must weaken love,
It feels acutely ere it dies.

THE HEROES OF WATERLOO.

I

Weep for the heroes who nobly have perish'd,
Whilst planting the olive of freedom on earth;
Long shall their names, by their countrymen cherish'd,
Ennoble the island that gave them their birth.
History, painting their triumph in story,
Checks for awhile her victorious strain,
And pensively turns to encircle in glory
The heroes who fell upon Waterloo's plain.

II

Yet mourn not for them! for in future tradition
Their fame shall exist as our tutelar star;
To instil, by example, the noble ambition
Of falling, like them, in a glorious war.
Posterity long shall remember with pleasure
They perish'd for freedom, nor perish'd in vain;
And minstrels shall choose for their favourite measure
The tale of the battle on Waterloo's plain.

258

III

Surviving affection must ever lament them,
Mothers and wives for their treasures must mourn;
Had they but lived, oh! how sweet to present them
The wreaths that must now deck their funeral urn.
Though tears may be seen in the bright eye of beauty,
One consolation must ever remain—
Undaunted they trod in the pathway of duty,
Which led them to glory on Waterloo's plain.

HINTS TO LOVERS.

I

How oft by mankind is it spoken
That love is the source of all ill;
That many fond hearts he has broken,
And blights all our happiness still.
But I cannot tell how they contrive it,
Though lovers complain of their lot,
They commonly seem to survive it,
If hearts have been broken or not.

II

Though there's always a portion of sighing,
You'll find no disease in a sigh;
And until men and women love dying,
Love never will cause them to die.
If men would get rid of their anguish,
I'll cure their disquietude thus—
Let us all resolve never to languish
For girls that won't languish for us.

259

III

No hard-hearted beauty can move me,
Who answers my smiles with a frown;
But if one should e'er deign to love me,
That instant my heart is her own.
Through Cupid's wild labyrinth roving,
Who is there that never has proved,
Though there's something delightful in loving,
There's heaven in being beloved?

IV

When love is o'erwhelm'd with distresses,
They flow from our folly alone;
But all of the joys he possesses
Are tender delights of his own.
When vainly our vows have been plighted,
No more protestations we'll waste;
But slighting—as we have been slighted,
We'll leave them, and pity their taste.

V

When two hearts are govern'd by Cupid,
All sorrowful feelings are flown,
But truly that love must be stupid,
Which only is cherish'd by one.
All those who are sad and forsaken
From former disasters may learn,
Ere they love, proper care should be taken
That somebody loves in return.

260

ELLEN.

I

“Farewell!” exclaim'd Ellen, with furious spite—
“From your presence with joy I'll remove;
Your detestable name I will never unite
With the visions of friendship and love.”
“Pretty Ellen,” I cried, “where's the use of this fuss?
Do endeavour your anger to stifle;
Separation possesses no terrors for us,
And appears to my mind a mere trifle.

II

“You accuse me of falsehood, and call me unkind,—
But my errors may sure be forgiven;
I call you an angel,—and, therefore, you find
I am loth to detain you from heaven.
Since first I beheld you, I'm sure you must know
That to please you has been my endeavour;
And now that you say, 'tis your pleasure to go,
I'm more anxious to please you than ever.”

LINES ON READING MOORE'S FAREWELL TO HIS HARP, IN THE SIXTH NUMBER OF THE IRISH MELODIES.

I

Heed not the poet's parting words,
Nor think you hear his closing strain;
For love still lingers on the chords,
And wooes him to his lyre again.

261

II

His hand its office may refuse,
But genius cannot slumber long;
And soon again shall Erin's muse
Give life and strength to Erin's song.

III

Again his music shall bestow
A charm to make our moments gay;
Again the lover's heart shall glow,
While beauty's lip repeats the lay.

IV

Yes, often shall his voice receive
The patriot's praise, the fair one's smile;
And Albion's sons again shall give
The tribute of a sister isle.

V

Then do not hear him with regret,
Or at his farewell notes repine;
Our favourite bard shall charm us yet
With many a gay and sportive line.

VI

When lovers breathe a last adieu
To maids who treat them with disdain;
A glance their passion can renew,
A smile can lure them back again.

VII

Thus though the bard may now rebel,
Though now his hand the lyre may spurn;
The echoes of his own farewell
Shall tempt the rover to return.

262

“THREE WORDS” TO A LADY

FROM WHOM THE AUTHOR HAD RECEIVED A PURSE OF THREE COLOURS.

I.

Three days you labour'd to unite
Three colours, beautiful and bright;
Three times you raised my hopes, and said
For me the triple web was made;
Three times it seem'd before you gave it,
'Twas three to one I ne'er should have it;
Three doubts, three fears, were quickly past;
Thrice welcome came the purse at last.

II.

Three thanks I give, which can't reveal
One third of what I ought to feel:
Yet wanting some more strong device,
In three short words, “I thank you,” thrice.
I own I'm at (in lines like these)
Sixes and sevens, more than threes;
And you may think their folly such,
Three of them would be three too much;
Yet credit this, my joy shall be
To drink your health in—three times three.

I

He will be there!
On his white Arab steed, in his bright suit of mail,
He will poise the good lance, never yet known to fail.
He will be there!
Oh, the gauntlet he'll seize that the proudest throw down,
And on conquerors conquer'd he'll raise his renown.
He will be there!

266

II

I will be there!
The gem that I gave on his helmet will shine,
And the name that he breathes in the fight will be mine.
I will be there!
A thousand bright eyes my love's triumph will see,
My love 'mid ten thousand would single out me.
I will be there!

I

Come, my child! a crowd rejoices,
To the casement quickly come.
Hark! that shout of many voices,
'Tis the victor's welcome home!
Age forsakes the blazing hearth,
Youth exulting hurries forth,
Eager to be first to say:
“See, the warriors on their way!”
Hail thy brother; turn and see
Yon bright multitude with me.
Silent still, with eyes so wild!
What can be thy grief, my child?

II

Oh, look forth! the hill ascending,
Now they quit the leafy glen;
And the trumpet's note is blending
With the tramp of armed men!
I can see thy brother lead
Some lamented comrade's steed.
Start not, child! I say again
That thy brother is not slain!
Think how deep had been our gloom,
Had he shared that comrade's doom—
Silent still! with eyes so wild—
Oh! I guess thy grief, my child!

270

ROSE OF AILEEN.

I

It is not long since last we met, and you are still the same,
Yet, oh! I saw you knew me not, until I told my name;
You mourn the change, and well you know how deep my grief has been,
For you were with me when I won the love of Rose Aileen.

II

I grieve to think my looks betray the anguish of my heart,
In death I'd proudly still deny that I had felt the dart:
Assuming smiles, amid the gay I fain would still be seen,
I would not have the world believe I sigh for Rose Aileen.

III

Yet do not heed my selfish boast, a motive far more pure
Would make me struggle to conceal the anguish I endure;
I'd rather mourn in solitude, unpitied and unseen,
Than that my gloom should seem to chide the smiles of Rose Aileen.

THE TIDE IS EBBING FAST, MY CHILD.

I

“The tide is ebbing fast, my child,
Come hither to the shore,
And where the waves recede, we'll keep
Our weary watch once more.
They say thy father's boat was wreck'd—
Nay, child, look not so pale,
As yet no fragments on the sand
Confirm the dreadful tale.

271

II

“I dare not move those dark sea weeds,
To see what lies beneath;
At ev'ry step I dread to meet
Some harbinger of death.
But cheer thee, child—the storm abates!
We have no cause to mourn,
For with the morning's flowing tide,
Thy father will return.”

III

The night is gone,—and calmly comes
The ripple of the tide.
The fisher's wife is there—her child
Stands weeping at her side.
“Behold!” the mother cries, “a form
Is floating on the wave!
'Tis he! droop not, for 'tis our task
To bear him to his grave.”

THE SELF-DEVOTED NUN.

I

When I hear the vesper bell,
And the sisters bend the knee,
Breathing prayers for all the world,
In my heart I pray for thee.
Yes—for thee alone I pray;
But the novice they would blame,
Did they know that in her cell
She had dared to breathe thy name.

II

I have spurned thy proffer'd love,
And thy presence still I shun;
I am blameless—what art thou
To the self-devoted nun!

272

Oh! it is thy boast to dwell
With the gay—the false—the free—
And 'tis therefore on my knee
That I still must pray for thee.

III

We shall meet no more on earth,
Thou wilt think of me no more;
But I'll pray that we may meet
When this transient life is o'er.
When this world has lost its charm,
May it sooth thy soul's despair,
To remember that thy name
Has been hallow'd by my prayer.

TELL ME NOT OF HOARDED GOLD.

I

Tell me not of hoarded gold
From rich Peru;
Rather let me first be told
That thou art true;
Tell me not of honours won,
For I shall fear,
One so honour'd soon will shun
My humbler sphere.

II

Tell me not of happy Isles
Where thou hast been;
Tell me not of lovely smiles
That thou hast seen:
For I fear again thoul't seek
A foreign shore;
And the smile on Ellen's cheek
Will charm no more.

273

WITHER AWAY.

I

Wither away, green leaves,
Wither away, sweet flowers!
For me in vain young Spring has thrown
Her mantle o'er the bowers.
Sing not to me, gay birds,
Borne in bright plumage hither;
The heart recoils from pleasure's voice
When all its fond hopes wither!
Wither away! Wither away!

II

Wither away, my friends,
Whom I have loved sincerely:
'Tis hard to sigh for the silent tomb,
As a place of rest, so early!
While others prize the rose,
The cypress wreath I'll gather;
The heart recoils from pleasure's voice,
When all its fond hopes wither!
Wither away! Wither away!

OH! REST MY DUENNA.

I

“Oh, rest, my Duenna, thou'rt weary I see;
Oh, rest, for 'tis my turn to watch over thee!
We've wander'd too long in the heat of the sun,
But now it is night, and thy labour is done;
Thy cushions I'll place, and thy casement I'll close,
And the voice of Sybella shall soothe thy repose.
Oh rest, my Duenna, 'tis time to sleep,
If you fear danger, strict watch I will keep!”

274

II

The cushions were soft, and the casement was closed,
The lady Duenna soon nodded and dozed;
Sybella, still singing her lullaby strain,
Ran from her, and open'd the casement again.
The slumberer moved when she felt the night air,
In terror Sybella flew back to her chair:
“Oh, rest, my Duenna, 'tis time to sleep,
“If you fear danger, strict watch I will keep!”

III

She saw that she slept, and she stole from her side—
She heard a low signal, and softly replied;
Her lover appeared, and with treacherous care,
The sleeping Duenna they tied to her chair.
She woke in dismay, but she struggled in vain;
They laughingly varied the lullaby strain:
“Oh, wake my Duenna, 'tis wrong to sleep,
“For if you fear danger, strict watch you should keep!”

THE SONG OF GULNARE.

I

Far from my own land, the land of my fathers,
The ship of the stranger now bears me away;
Darkly around me the ocean mist gathers,
I hear not a sound, save the dash of the spray.
Now, near me, night-watch the forecastle paces,
Striving to banish the exile's despair,
He praises the Isles that we seek, but all places
Are cheerless without the sweet song of Gulnare.

275

II

Oh! my own country, thy fruits and thy flowers
Would fade 'neath the islander's temperate sky,
Let me return to the orange-tree bowers,
And there with my own love contented I'll die.
They say that they lead me where woman possesses
A soft eye of azure, and light golden hair;
But give me the land of the long ebon tresses,
The glance of dark lustre, the song of Gulnare.

OH! REMEMBER THOSE SWEET HOURS.

I

Oh! remember those sweet hours
Pass'd amid Italia's bowers,
Or on Como's tranquil waters,
Singing with her dark-eyed daughters.
Oh! forget not the melodies stealing
From the shore full of sweetness and feeling!
Those indeed were happy times,
When we rov'd in southern climes.

II

Oh! remember the rich lustre
Of the ripe grape's purple cluster,
And the dance and song of pleasure,
When they cull'd the vintage treasure.
Oh! forget not the melodies stealing
From the shore full of sweetness and feeling!
Those indeed were happy times
When we rov'd in southern climes!

276

MY OWN CHILD, MY DEAR CHILD.

I

My own child, my dear child, oh, smile on me again!
And let me have one cheerful word; alas! I ask in vain:
As well might I expect new bloom from blossoms I have crush'd;
Or listen for the nightingale, whose melody I've hush'd:
My own child, my dear child, forgive me ere we part,
That look of anguish seems to say, “My mother broke my heart!”

II

My own child, my dear child, your early love was poor,
And poverty hath many griefs, that you could ill endure;
Too oft you met in former days, I feel my error now,
But never think you were to blame, to break so rash a vow.
My own child, my dear child, forgive me ere we part,
That look of anguish seems to say, “My mother broke my heart!”

III

My own child, my dear child, a noble bride you'll be,
The lover of your early days is gone far o'er the sea:
He doubtless long hath ceas'd to prize the love of youthful years;
Nay, do not weep, I meant my words to check these fruitless tears.
My own child, my dear child, forgive me, ere we part,
That look of anguish seems to say, “My mother broke my heart!”

277

ROUGH SKETCHES OF BATH.

Whilst Laureate Southey dedicates his lays
To males and females born in other days;
Whilst Byron writes, and leaves the world to guess
Whether he's more than mortal man—or less;
Whilst gentle Moore in love's own language speaks
The charms of smiling eyes and dimpled cheeks;
And nameless scribblers labour to instil
A goose's wisdom with a goose's quill:
I seize my pen, determined to rehearse
The sports of Bladud in heroic verse;
To sing of those who walk in fashion's path,
And thus immortalize the charms of Bath!
Spread your light wings, my Muse, and never heed
The rules of those who write or those who read;
Shall Genius be confined, or shall my rhyme
Be circumscribed within the bounds of time?
Can earthly bounds poetic heroes bind,
Or paltry space enclose “the chainless mind?”
No! modern poets think it no disgrace
To spurn the unities of time and place;
'Tis fit they should the laws of time contemn,
For future times will never hear of them.

Sweet Bath! the liveliest city of the land,
Where health and pleasure ramble hand in hand,
Where smiling belles their earliest visit pay,
And faded maids their lingering blooms delay;

278

Delightful scenes of elegance and ease,
Realms of the gay, where every sport can please!
How often have I loitered through the street,
Where Bond Street loungers at each step you meet;
How often have I paused on all the joys,
Boys who ape manhood, men transformed to boys;
The never failing pump, the busy scene,
Where doting sixty copies gay sixteen:
The crowded room with seats beneath the clock,
Where talking dames and politicians flock.

I check my Pegasus—and post-chaise too,
And pause, of Bath to take a distant view;
And first—the Abbey Church its splendour rears,
The sacred monument of former years;
Behold its sculpture—and mark, whilst you view it,
The pretty little houses sticking to it;
The citizens of Bath, with vast delight,
To hide their noble church from vulgar sight,
Surround its venerable sides with shops,
And decorate its walls with chimney tops!
Surely from these designs, so pure, so chaste,
Bath has been called emporium of taste:
Oh! men of classic judgment! bear them hence
To Grecian relics of magnificence;
There let them deck (to prove their polished minds)
Athenian temples with Venetian blinds!
And, to perpetuate their own renown,
Improve the Venus—with a satin gown!
I cast my eyes around, and next observe
The Royal Crescent with its graceful curve,
And then above where other crescents grow,
That seem to emulate the curve below;
And there's the Circus, elegant no doubt,
That bellows of which Brook Street is the snout;
And mark where many a handsome building mounts,
Streets, squares, and terraces, with freestone fronts;
Whilst other edifices built for show,
Mere lath and plaster, glitter in a row.

279

But hold! enough of this perspective scene,
I now proceed to show what moves within.
'Tis twelve at noon, or rather I should say,
To fashionable folks 'tis break of day;
Still on their downy pillows they repose,
And Bath itself seems half inclined to doze.
Here beaux and belles, to pass their hours away,
Sport half the night, and slumber half the day;
Whose nerves can scarce the load of life sustain,
'Till charming candlelight returns again,
And thus the vulgar beams of daylight shun;
While close drawn curtains quite exclude the sun.
The constant youth, amid his slumbers, still
Dreams of his partner in last night's quadrille;
And though in sheets and blankets tuck'd up tight,
Seems, in his sleep, to chasser to the right.
With eyes but half unclosed, the rising fair
Takes out the useful papers from her hair,
Gives to each curl its most attractive grace,
And puts her folding drapery in place;
Upon her head arranged in varied dyes,
Bows upon bows, and plumes on plumes arise;
Where'er she goes, a crowd around her gathers,
To view her charms as countless as her feathers;
And for each conquest, and each beau's mishap
She seems to add a feather in her cap.
By day all languor—stretch'd upon the bed,
With feeble body, and with aching head;
Her limbs, extended motionless and faint,
Seem chain'd and stiffen'd by some sad complaint;
And her pale cheek, apparently, reveals
A complication of all earthly ills.
But night comes on; then friendly rouge supplies
Health to her cheek, and brightness to her eyes;
Her invalid envelopments give place
To airy muslin, and transparent lace;
And, drest for conquest, lovely dimples play
Around those lips that scarcely moved all day.
That tongue, which lately clothed in sickly white,
Exposed its symptoms to the Doctor's sight,

280

Now nimbly moves, from languor's bondage free,
And charms the crowd with jest and repartee.
Ladies, no longer young, but who in truth
Retain the folly and conceit of youth,
Are toiling to remove each wrinkled taint,
By laying on another coat of paint,
Are watering the buds that time has blighted,
In fact are labouring to be delighted.
The Lords of the Creation, half awake,
Adorn themselves, their daily lounge to take;
Each lordly man his taper waist displays,
Combs his sweet locks, and laces on his stays,
Ties on his starch'd cravat with nicest care,
And then steps forth to petrify the fair.
The streets begin to fill, the motley throng,
To see and to be seen, now trip along;
Some lounge in the Bazaars, whilst others meet
To take a turn or two in Milsom Street;
Some eight or ten round Mirvan's shop remain
To stare at those who gladly stare again.
All who are musical then call at White's,
To buy the dances played on Thursday nights;
Whilst he, to prove the value of his airs,
And willing to exchange his notes for theirs,
Bids his young man awake the trembling chords,
To play the music set to Byron's words;
And fur-clad dandies disregard each tone,
Prizing no airs and graces but their own;
Orpheus charmed stocks and stones—and he may claim,
At times, an audience very much the same.
Walking the streets, a stranger would suppose
That half the tradesmen were about to close;
Ranged in the windows, tempting bills are seen,
Mentioning bargains to be found within;
But “selling off” seems frequently alone
A ruse de guerre to carry business on;
And from its frequent use, it would appear
They sell off regularly once a-year!
Time flies! the ambulating throng grows less,
The gay ones hasten home to dine and dress;

281

The beaux in Milsom-Street, who sought renown
By walking up, in order to walk down,
All, all are gone, each well-drest form retreats,
And scarce a dangler lingers in the streets.
By day, the ladies constantly are seen
In cloth or fur enveloped to the chin;
But now 'tis evening, and the air grows colder,
They strip, judiciously, the neck and shoulder;
The chairs are ordered, and the moment comes
When all the world assemble at the Rooms;
For higher powers have decreed of late,
That dancing shall commence at half-past eight!
And should the dancers dare to disobey,
And by their non-appearance cause delay,
To throw at once perdition on their hopes,
The new committee threaten them with ropes.
Ranged on the benches sit the lookers on,
Who criticise their neighbours one by one;
Each thinks herself in word and deed so bless'd
That she's a bright example for the rest;
Numerous tales and anecdotes they hatch,
And prophecy the dawn of many a match,
And many a matrimonial scheme declare,
Unknown to either of the happy pair.
Much delicate discussion they advance
About the dress and gait of those who dance:
“This gown is made too short—and that too long,
That lady's petticoats are pinn'd all wrong;
One stoops too much, and one is so upright,
He'll never see his partner all the night;
One is too lazy, and the next too rough;
This jumps too high, and that not high enough.”
Thus each receives a pointed observation,
Not that it's scandal! merely conversation.
There politic mammas are always found
Whose cash is scanty, but whose girls abound;

282

They eye the danglers, calculate their pelf,
And hope one daughter more will leave the shelf.
Their sidelong glances and their smiles disclose
Many steel traps to catch unwary beaux;
But modern beaux, whose constant thoughts alone
Are permanently fix'd on number one,
In choosing partners—dream not of a wife,
And love duets that do not last for life.
The evening glides away in recreation,
In whisper'd tête-à-tête, and sweet flirtation:
(Report declares the youth is fairly caught,
The day is fix'd, the bridal clothes are bought,
Favours and cakes are order'd, without doubt—
But then report at times is rather out);
They each regale on ice and converse sweet,
He kindly makès an offer—of his seat,
The thing is talk'd of and declared by all;
He makes proposals—to procure her shawl,
And hands her off with gay and gallant air,
Not to the altar—only to her chair!

In this distinguish'd circle you will find
Many degrees of man, and womankind;
All but old women; saucy muse, for shame!
In Bath 'tis wrong to mention such a name;
Here, salutary rules exclude all those
Whom no one hears of, and whom no one knows;
That no plebeian breathings may infect
An atmosphere at all times so select;
No banker's clerks these splendid realms invade,
No folks who carry on a retail trade,
No actors by profession must appear,
To act their parts or speak their speeches here;
Yet even here, amid the crowds you view,
'Tis sometimes difficult to tell who's who.
Subscription balls are also carried on
By those who love to part with one pound one;
“Elegant Extracts,” where they keep it up
Till five or six, and sumptuously sup.

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A time there was, in gothic days, when all
Were quite contented with a public ball;
None issued invitations, I've been told,
For more than rooms conveniently could hold.
They, ignorantly, would have thought it airs
To ask their friends and leave them on the stairs;
But customs alter: folks, in times like these,
Who give a party, call it what they please.
The cards once out, it matters not at all
Whether the drawing-room is large or small;
They get a harp, the pleasure to enhance,
And then the thing becomes a private dance.
Whilst these select abodes their charms display,
The young poussetting, as the old survey;
Many at home remain, and treat their friends
With cakes, cards, coffee, and wax candle ends.
How wise are they, who thus, whilst others roam,
Prefer sequestered joys, and stay at home.
“At home!” what numberless delights are found,
What sweet emotions mingle with the sound!
'Tis said, that far from cities, there are those
Who daily in domestic scenes repose;
To them their native home appears most dear,
When doors are closed and none but friends are near.
But here, to be “at home,” is to invite
Half of the world to crowd your house at night,
That all the other half may lie awake,
Scared by the noise your doors and chairmen make.
Here too, it seems, domestic joys consist
In scandal, crowded rooms, ice creams, and whist;
Candles and ladies' eyes here shine most bright,
When both should be extinguished for the night.
Inventions multiply, white-lies abound,
Sometimes a solitary truth goes round,
For those who talk all morning and all night,
Must, inadvertently, at times be right.
Oh! blest retreat; where beauteous dames impart
The mingled charms of nature and of art;
Art puts all faded objects out of sight,
Whilst nature kindly brings all things to light.

284

Ye favour'd beaux! these specimens behold,
Catching your hearts, who thinks of catching cold?
Their gowns they shorten too, and each reveals
A proper quantity of neck and heels.
But fashions change, and soon we may prepare
To see the beaux as beautifully bare;
Nor should the change surprise us, for the men
Expose themselves a little now and then.
Here you will find (the rites of Bacchus done)
Men of all characters, and men of none.
Here ancient bucks their wither'd limbs display,
Vainly endeavouring to hide decay;
Though still the form of symmetry is seen,
And cork supplies the place where flesh has been.
Though stays may compensate for vigour gone;
Though white of eggs cement his whiskers on;
Though artificial curls are neatly spread
To hide the sad hiatus on his head:
Can cork, or borrow'd curls Time's progress stop?
Can age be strengthen'd by a whalebone prop?
Do what he will—the number of his years
Through all his boyish mummery appears;
And age, from all the worth of age exempt,
Can only be an object of contempt.
Of gamesters too the motley throng consists,
Of married debauchees and duellists:
Bladud's hot water has been long renown'd,
Which flows in ancient courses under ground;
Apparently the tepid fluid runs
Within the veins of some of Bladud's sons;
Yet though these youths are often in hot water,
It often ends in smoke, but not in slaughter.
In this auspicious region all mankind
(Whate'er their taste) congenial joys may find;
Here monied men may pass for men of worth;
And wealthy cits may hide plebeian birth.
Here men devoid of cash may live with ease,
Appear genteel, and pass for what they please;
Here single men their better half may claim,
And flirting spinsters lose that doleful name;

285

Here husbands, weary of domestic strife,
May please themselves, and live a single life;
And married ladies, in their husband's view,
May freely flirt, and boast their conquests too;
Here boys and girls may marry in their teens,
And live on visionary ways and means;
Here fortune-hunting beaux delude the fair
With large estates and castles in the air;
Here lovely belles so sensitive appear,
They fall in love at least four times a year;
And dames, who well the board of green cloth know,
Sit—where they sat near sixty years ago.
Here busy Scandal's ever ready tongue
Will interfere to regulate the young,
Brings every hidden mystery to light,
Corrects the weak, and sets the erring right,
Declares what actions they should choose or shun,
What they may do, and what must not be done.
Here doctors conscientiously contrive,
By daily calls, to keep their friends alive;
Who, though declining, many days may see,
Whilst daily calls produce a daily fee.
All systems change, and physic, like the rest,
When newly fashion'd operates the best;
Thus each practitioner his system draws
From some internal, ever-ruling cause,
And laying former doctrines on the shelf,
Cures by a mode peculiar to himself.
One feels your pulse and potently observes—
All your complaints originate in nerves.
If still unsatisfied, the next you call
Will vow that people have no nerves at all.
One says the stomach is the tainted part,
One says the head's in fault, and one the heart;
One undertakes to set you up with ease,
And swears that bile occasions your disease,
Says bile affects you if you glow or shiver,
And throws new lights upon his patient's liver.
A time there was, ere modern ills were known,
When matrons had a system of their own;

286

Each wife possess'd a closet amply fill'd
With drugs well mix'd, and waters well distill'd;
Alternate food and physic stored her book,
With precepts for the doctress and the cook;
There sage prescriptions follow'd rich receipts,
And nauseous bitters counteracted sweets.
If sickness pain'd her spouse, her ready skill
Possess'd a remedy for every ill;
Each season'd dish, each potent draught she knew:
She made him sick, and cured his sickness too.
But this is past,—no spouse now risks his life,
Trusting his constitution to his wife.
Let London boast her stage, and still retain
Her Covent-Garden and her Drury-Lane,
So elegantly big, that scarce a word
Of what is going forward can be heard,
And perch'd aloft, it is in vain you hope
To see the stage without a telescope;
Here Bath presents a tempting bill of fare,
At the new theatre, in Beaufort Square.
Our theatre is neat, though there are seen
No gas without, or gay saloons within;
'Tis small, I own, but whilst its size we scan—
“These little things are great to little man.”
What though our stage some few recruits may own,
As senseless as the boards they tread upon;
Though here at times some heroes may be found,
Who bid defiance both to sense and sound,—
Confounding every passage they rehearse,
Bad by degrees and miserably worse;
Yet in this soil, by favour's sunshine rear'd,
Some buds of real talent have appear'd;
And splendid stars now grace the London sphere,
Whose earliest rays were nursed and kindled here.

These are thy follies, Bath,—yet even here
Some qualifying virtues oft appear;
And having sketch'd the errors that pervade,
'Tis fair some light should mingle with the shade.

287

All seem aware of what the proverb means,
“Charity hides a multitude of sins;”
And therefore keep their consciences secure,
By many benefactions to the poor.
Thus Mistress Whist this golden rule regards,
And gives the poor the cash she wins at cards:
Thus he who hears a worthy preacher speak
Against his actions in the former week,
Buys absolution at an easy rate,
By placing his donation in the plate.
At circulating libraries we view
No tempting raffles, or delightful loo;
No fair adventurers can there advance
To try their luck at morning games of chance;
No winners seize the spoils, or proudly share
“Trifles from Brighton,” or gay Tonbridge ware.
In these resorts the loungers take their stations,
And ask to see the last new publications:
Monthly Reviews, and Poems neatly stitch'd,
Novels that tend to prove the world's bewitch'd,
And Ladies' Magazines just come from town,
With “Lines on Love,” and patterns for a gown;
These Laura views, as if a hasty look
Could estimate the value of a book;
And if some touch of scandal she perceives,
Some tale initialed, 'twixt the uncut leaves,
She gladly pays the shopman the amount,
Or begs he'll put it down to her account.
Here maiden ladies constantly pursue
Something they have not read, or “something new;”
Some seek the reading-room, and there peruse,
According to their tastes, the London news;
The politician reads, with looks sedate,
Letters from Paris, and last night's debate;
The female is not happy till she sees
The daily list of deaths and marriages.
One, with uncommon thirst of knowledge blest,
Thinks of herself unmindful of the rest,
Seizes the Times, and not content with one,
Grasps at the Globe, and sits upon the Sun!

288

And now my task is o'er, my grey goose quill!
Will others say we've acted well or ill?
Methinks I hear the critic tribe discuss
The merit of our lines, and argue thus—
“What have we here, shall striplings seize the pen,
And scan the faults of older, abler men?
Is all this meant for wit?—or does he hope
To lash with Churchill, ridicule with Pope?
Shall any dare to tread in Anstey's path,
And write satiric verses upon Bath?”
I answer, I have imitated none,
Such as they are, my thoughts have been my own;
If none must tread where others trod before,
Let no one dare compose a stanza more;
Let no man deem it worth his while to think,
Or idly waste his paper, pens, and ink;
For if he writes, a footing he must get
In some Parnassus undiscover'd yet.
If in my lines no point of wit they view,
It lacks the venom'd point of malice too;
No individuals are here abused;
No private characters are roughly used;
No shafts are aim'd to injure worth or merit—
I make the cap—but not the heads to wear it.

304

THE END.