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

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!

137

THE HEART THAT I GAVE TO THEE.

I

The heart that I gave to thee
Has never come back to me,
For though you may spurn it,
You cannot return it,
Once chained it can never go free.
When beauty I chance to see,
Then fain would I bend the knee;
But listlessly kneeling,
My vow wants true feeling;
Ah! where can my poor heart be?

II

You say that my heart is free
To rove like the summer bee,
Who when a chill shower
Kills one pretty flower,
Flies off to a fresh rose tree?
But chill'd by a frown from Thee,
Ah! what are new charms to me?
I lack when I view them
The heart to pursue them;
Then where can my poor heart be?

THE TREASURE.

I

What doth her precious casket hold?
What is her hidden treasure?
Can sparkling gems, or burnish'd gold
Afford this secret pleasure?
She leaves her sisters in the day,
From the banquet-board she rises,
And from her couch she steals away,
To weep o'er what she prizes.

138

II

Not gold or jewels doth she keep,
Within her secret bower,
Bright eyes have seldom learn'd to weep
O'er these at any hour.
If strangers come—she shuts the lid—
Her prize in haste concealing;
But sad looks, when the chest is hid,
Betray the depth of feeling.

III

What is this source of secret grief?—
Alas! a fatal token!
The relic of a foreign chief,
An arrow, stain'd and broken!
Yes, still a blood-mark stains its tip,
Although so oft wept over!
And still she presses to her lip
The shaft that slew her lover!

THE WIDOW.

I

I cannot love another,
I cannot cast aside
The dark weeds of a widow,
For white robes of a bride.
I never more may listen
To Love's beguiling voice;
The sad heart of the mourner
Can make no second choice.

139

II

Oh! offer nought but friendship,
And I will be your friend;
Speak only of the lost one,
And mark how I'll attend.
His portrait hangs above us—
Dare not to breathe love's name;
Those dark eyes, could I listen,
Would frown upon my shame.

III

And see my child clings to me,
And looks up in my face,—
He has no other parent
To fondle and embrace.
Unconsciously, his finger
My wedding-ring hath press'd,
As if it were to chide me
For smiling on my guest.

THERE WAS A BARD IN FEUDAL TIMES.

I

There was a bard in feudal times,
A peasant's only child;
And, like his native hills, his rhymes
Were beautiful and wild.
His harp was made of English oak.
And simple where its chords,
But what of that—its music spoke
The meaning of his words.

140

II

Soon noble lords and ladies came
To hear the minstrel's lay;
Sage, knight, and damsel breath'd his name,
The idol of the day.
He left his home, and threw aside
The harp so dear of old;
Within the halls of pomp and pride,
He freedom lost for gold.

III

Now forc'd and feeble was his song,
Unsteady was his hand;
His spirit had been free too long
To bow to stern command.
Oh! nature's true simplicity,
Seek not the glare of art;
'Tis only when she copies thee,
That she can touch the heart!

WHAT SHALL BE MY THEME?

I

What shall be my theme,
When I sing to thee,
Sitting by the village stream,
Under the chesnut tree?
Tell me, wilt thou choose
A gay or mournful string,
Shall love or war inspire my muse,
Say what shall I sing?

141

II

I'll not sing of war,
Such a theme would be
Much too sad—a gentle star
Watches over thee.
Let me hear thy voice,
And touch thy own lute's string,
And whate'er shall be thy choice,
That song will I sing!

TAKE YOUR POLITICS HENCE.

I

Take your politics hence, for one evening at least,
Drive that demon of discord away from the feast;
To my party the men of all parties may come,
If they'll only just leave party feeling at home.
The speechless in public are ever, I see,
Like orator puffs in a snug coterie;
If you name your vile House you will give me offence,
Oh, let my house be neutral—take politics hence.

II

These politics now are become quite a pest;
What a fuss ere we venture to ask a new guest!
“Mr. E., do you see, would be welcome to me,
But then—do you think he'd chime in with Lord G?”
So the pleasantest men you must sort and divide,
When you find that their politics don't coincide.
If you name your vile House you will give me offence,
Oh, let my house be neutral—take politics hence.

142

III

The ladies are now a political race;
They think of their canvass much more than their lace.
And instead of soft whispers in private, they each
Wish to hear a young man's parliamentary speech!
A reforming old Tory, you now may look big,
And I'll call myself a Conservative Whig;
And we'll tell the fair creatures to talk common sense,
For that my house is neutral—take politics hence.

THE SONG OF THE DYING BARD.

I.

My harp! I still hold thee!
My feeble hand clings
Around thee, to waken
The voice of thy strings.
That voice was my glory,
And now that the skill
Of the minstrel must leave me,
'Tis dear to me still.
Oh! dearer than ever!
My harp, if thou hast
One note, I invoke it;
The sweetest, the last!

II.

Ah! well I remember
How proudly I nurst
My powers in secret,
When feeling them first!
Now throwing thee from me,
Dejected, deprest!
Yet dearer than ever!
My harp, if thou hast
One note, I invoke it,
The sweetest, the last!

143

III.

'Tis early to leave thee,
'Tis early to lose
The young bard's ambition
The wreath of the muse:
And feeling within me
Fresh fountains of thought,
To die—leaving others
The triumph I sought.
Oh! dearer than ever!
My harp, if thou hast
One note, I invoke it,
The sweetest, the last!

THE PILGRIM.

I

Where is the daring Rover,
The brigand of the deep?
Can such a restless spirit lie
Lull'd into peaceful sleep!
His name was a word of terror;
His deeds were a theme for song!
Where is he now? oh! the Rover's prow
Was never at rest so long!

II

Where is the graceful lover
So daintily array'd?
So famed above all other youths,
For dance and serenade!
None question'd the nameless stranger,
Beguil'd by his voice and lute;
Where doth he stray? oh! the lover's lay
Hath never so long been mute!

144

III

Behold yon lonely pilgrim
In penitential prayer;
His hands are folded on his breast,
His cheek is pale with care.
You look on the graceful lover!
You look on the rover chief!
'Tis thus remorse brings a change far worse
Than is wrought by time or grief.

SHALL WE EVER BE HAPPY AGAIN?

I

Shall we ever be happy again?
Shall we ever wake in the morning,
Without the ominous gloom,
Which seems the heart's sure warning
Of something sad to come?
Shall we ever lie down to slumber,
Without that thought of care,
To-morrow will add to the number
Of ills that we must bear?
Shall we ever be happy again?

II

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

II

I will call upon thee in prosperity's day,
Lest the pride of this world lead my spirit astray;
I will call upon thee in distress, that my tears
May atone for the faults and the follies of years;
That purer and brighter the future may be,
From the ends of the earth I will call upon thee!

III

I will call upon thee, as I did when I knelt
In the home on the hills, where in boyhood I dwelt;
I will call upon thee, if now fated to roam,
And the land of the stranger will offer a home,
Affection's sweet solace I gratefully see,—
From the ends of the earth will I call upon thee!

CUPID AND PSYCHE.

I

Nightly to Psyche's fairy bower,
The god of Love in darkness came;
But left her, e'er the sunrise hour
Betray'd his features and his name;
Said Cupid “Oh! remember this,
Thy lover's form thou ne'er must see.”
Then fondly whisper'd with a kiss—
“Beware of curiosity!”

II

But mortal woman never yet
From such a sentence warning took;
And more and more, each time they met,
She long'd upon his face to look:
And once on tip-toe, while he slept,
To fetch her lamp she lightly trod,
Then back again the trembler crept,
And hung enamour'd o'er the god.

151

III

A spark fell on his breast! he stirr'd—
Ah! what could little Psyche say?
Young Love, without one parting word,
Waved his light wings, and flew away!
The moral, ladies, pray remark,—
Whate'er the mystery may be,
If love would keep you in the dark,
Beware of curiosity.

THEY HAVE SEEN BETTER DAYS.

I

They have seen better days, you say,
Oh, tell me when and where;
Give me the clue to steal away
The memory of their care.
There is deep feeling in the tone
Of that most touching phrase;
And sympathy has tears for one
Who has seen better days.

II

But they, in their small dwelling-place,
Give no complainings vent;
Their features wear no sullen trace
Of gloomy discontent.
Most cheerful when alone, they seek
For no external rays;
And though of past days oft they speak,
Scarce call them better days.

152

III

Have they endur'd neglect or wrong,
And known diminish'd wealth?
Light evils; if to them belong
Love, competence, and health.
They who hang hopeless o'er the couch,
Where beauty's bloom decays,
May feel despairing thoughts approach,
And weep for better days.

HE KNEW SHE NEVER BLAMED HIM.

I

He knew she never blamed him,
He knew she seldom nam'd him.
He saw her mild forgiving look,
A look that half reclaim'd him.
But from his victim flying,
He basely left her dying,
Without a friend, to kneel beside
The couch where she was lying.

II

And does he now regret her?
Yes—striving to forget her,
His truant thoughts fly back again
To scenes where first he met her.
In dreams, as in a mirror,
He trembling sees with terror
A pure heart led to grief and shame,
The penalty of error.

153

III

None know the thoughts that grieve him;
The fairest maids receive him,
And listen to his flattering voice;
Alas! will they believe him?
Yes! though his guilt be greater,
Though shame and death await her,
Who feels a lover's treachery,
Oh! who will shun the traitor?

NO, NO, LEAVE ME NOT TO MY SORROW.

I

No, no, leave me not to my sorrow,
With silence the nurse of despair,
Oh! come to me still, let me borrow
From thee an oblivion of care.
Oh! come with thy light-hearted laughter,
For there's such a charm in its tone,
Like music, 'twill haunt me long after
Thy form from my dwelling is gone.

II

Oh! come with thy memory's treasures,
Thy stories and snatches of song,
Oh! tell of thy innocent pleasures,
I never can listen too long.
Oh! come, though desponding thou'lt find me,
I'll smile e'er I see thee go forth,
I want thy gay voice to remind me
There's happiness still upon earth.

154

III

Alas! there's a time when dejection
Would breathe the wild words of despair,
Were it not for the veil which affection
Throws over the records of care.
Then come with thy light-hearted laughter,
For there's such a charm in its tone,
Like music 'twill haunt me long after
Thy form from my dwelling is gone.

THE FASHION OF THIS WORLD PASSETH AWAY.

I

The fashion of this world passeth away,
The things that are fairest are first to decay;
The bell of the lily, the leaf of the rose;
The moss on the bank where the violet grows;
All these are too sweet and too fragile to stay:
For the fashion of this world passeth away.

II

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

Oh, youth is the treasure, gay youth is the treasure,
That gives the true lustre to silver and gold;
When young, the mere feeling of life is a pleasure,
A feeling that turns to a sorrow when old!
If youth in his path should encounter a dolour,
He'll pass it by briskly, and bid it adieu;
He'll gaze thro' a glass of a beautiful colour,
And all the wide world will look beautiful too!

157

II

Is this then the lesson philosophy gives us?
Is youth to be coupled with pleasure alone?
Ah no—let us think that when one season leaves us,
The other will boast some calm joys of its own.
If wandering youth his foot now and then places
On stepping stones, prudence will lay in his track,
Of his journey, when over, there still will be traces,
On which age will often look tranquilly back.

I'LL NOT BELIEVE IT.

I

I'll not believe love's wreath will pain
The hands that weave it;
That when no summer flow'rs remain,
Love's wreath becomes a galling chain:
I'll not believe it!

II

I'll not believe man wins a heart,
To pain and grieve it;
That when sad tears unbidden start,
The once fond lover will depart:
I'll not believe it!

III

I'll not believe a hope he'll raise,
But to deceive it;
That in the wane of wedded days,
He'll slight the smile love used to praise:
I'll not believe it!

158

THE EXHIBITED DWARF.

I

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!

WIT AND FOLLY.

I

Once Folly tried to cheat the world,
Assuming Wit's demeanour,
And thought (poor fool!) the dart she hurl'd
Than Wit's own darts were keener!
While those of Wit were used in sport,
And dipp'd in Pleasure's chalice;
Young Folly us'd another sort,
Whose only point was malice.

II

A sly and secret aim she took,
But ere one heart was wounded,
Upon herself, by some ill luck,
Each venom'd shaft rebounded.
So wisdom ventured to express
This gentle hint to guide her:
“When Wit takes aim with most success,
Good nature stands beside her.”

163

I HAVE NOT KNOWN THEE LONG.

I

I have not known thee long, Sir Knight,
Yet oft I've heard thy name;
For in our village we delight
To trace a hero's fame.
I've thought of thee, I'll not deny,
Until I seem'd to know
The very glance of that dark eye
Which awed my country's foe.

II

Yet never lightly prize the heart
That seems so lightly won;
'Tis surely a dissembler's part,
That which we love, to shun!
And I'd dissemble, if I'd thought
Such guile thou wouldst approve;
But no!—the maid, that you have sought,
Must glory in your love.

III

I'll follow you throughout the world,
To danger or to death;
But should we see the banner furl'd,
The weapon in its sheath,
We'll rove as fondly to the last,
And hand in hand we'll roam,
As if our days had all been past
Within a peaceful home.

164

SIR HUGH IS GONE TO PALESTINE.

I

Sir Hugh is gone to Palestine, to fight the Paynim foe,
Oh! Ladies should have fortitude, when Lords are forc'd to go;
And Lady Kate well knows this truth, a beauteous dame is she,
And smiling in her solitude, if solitude it be.
Her casement overlooks the sea, and there she sits all day—
Oh! is it not to sorrow o'er her plighted Lord's delay?
And nightly burns a taper there; oh! is it not to guide
The vessel of her plighted Lord across the stormy tide?

II

Sir Hugh is gone to Palestine, and there he must remain:
Oh, Lady fair! thy watchful days, thy beacon light, are vain;
And yet they say, within the bay, another light is seen,
Borne nightly by a stranger bark—what can such signal mean?
Conceal'd beneath the battlement, there is a secret gate,
Known only to the castle's Lord, and to his plighted mate;
Until her own dear Lord's return, shall other hands be taught
To touch the secret spring?—Away—we spurn the hateful thought!

III

Again she lights her taper, and looks forth upon the deep—
No answer from the stranger bark!—why, Lady, dost thou weep?
That signal at the secret gate!—she throws it open wide—
And instantly a knight in arms is standing at her side:
“Oh, Edgar, art thou come at last! nay, speak to me”—she cries—
His helm is rais'd!—she shrinks before those dark indignant eyes!
Sir Hugh is come from Palestine! he spurns his plighted bride,
And Edgar's life-blood mingles with the ocean's ebbing tide.

165

COME, WE'LL HAVE NO FROWNS TO DAY.

I

Come, we'll have no frowns to-day,
If you'll listen I will play;
I will sing love's lightest lay,
I will chase your gloom away.
Come we'll have no frowns, &c.

II

I will twine a dewy wreath,
Buds of rose, and bells of heath,
Where the violets repose,
Where the fragrant lily grows.
Come we'll have no frowns, &c.

III

I will rifle ev'ry bower,
I will gather ev'ry flower;
At your feet my store I'll shower:
Come we'll have no frowns, &c.

I LOVED HIM, BUT I LEFT HIM.

I

I loved him, but I left him! 'twas a cruel day for me,
They said he had another bride who dwelt far o'er the sea;
They said I was no wife to him, altho' I bore his name;
And I left him, tho' I loved him; oh! was I then to blame?
I heard him spurn the rumour, how happy was my heart;
I bade him prove his innocence, and urged him to depart;
And as he went, I smiling said: “I have not been deceiv'd;
“Oh, say thou hast no other wife!”—He said—and I believ'd!

166

II

He kiss'd me when he left me, and his tears fell on my cheek.
I bade him call me “Wife” again—he wept—and could not speak;
I saw him go without a tear, tears would have look'd like dread,
And if misgivings chill'd my heart, still not one tear I shed!
I smiling wav'd my hand to him, as on the beach I knelt,
I veil'd from ev'ry friendly eye the agony I felt;
'Twas in the solitude of home that secretly I griev'd,
For one whose truth I would have given worlds to have believ'd.

III

He came not—and he comes not—and I look not for him now;
I am no bride—altho' I heard him breathe a bridal vow;
I am not guilty, yet I shun the eyes of all I meet,
And feel like a deceiver, tho' the victim of deceit!
He has another happy home—my story, whisper'd there,
Might teach a fond confiding heart to doubt,—and to despair!
Oh, may she never hear my name! may he be still believ'd;
And never see the grave of her, who loved—and was deceiv'd!

LEA'S BRIDAL DAY.

I

“To-morrow is my bridal day,” the lovely Lea cries,
And gazes from her casement on the calm and starry skies;
“To-morrow is my bridal day, and I shall bid farewell,
“To the home so very dear to me, where my little sisters dwell.
“Oh! bring my bridal garments here, such thoughts will make me weep;
“The showy robe—the jewell'd chain—I'll see them ere I sleep;
“And come, my little sisters, kneel beside me while I pray;
“Why are my spirits thus depress'd, so near my bridal day?”

167

II

The night is past—and Lea stands before the casement now,
Her hands press back the raven curls from off her marble brow.
She gazes like a trembling child, by midnight visions scared,
For some inevitable ill, some coming grief, prepared!
Her sisters bring her bridal robe, her jewels, and her wreath,
She heeds them not, but watches still the path across the heath:
They tell her it is time to dress, she motions them away,
And whispers: “Let me have my will upon my bridal day.”

III

It is the bridal hour, and the guests are at the gate;
What gloom pervades the festival? the bridegroom is too late!
The bridemaids in their gayest robes are all assembled there;
But the bride is pale and unadorned—the statue of despair!
“He comes! he comes!” at length she cries, “I have not watch'd in vain!”
They bear a lifeless bridegroom in, and by his rival slain:
A bride scarce living waits for him—“The rites no more delay,
“I dying plight my troth to him—'tis still my bridal day!”

'TWAS THIS—'TWAS THIS.

I

It was a recollection
Of a brighter time than this;
Of a season when affection
Gave to me her fondest kiss.
'Twas thinking of the changes,
Doom'd to all beneath the sun;
Of the coldness that estranges
Hearts that seem'd to beat like one.

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

A gentleman in difficulties, what is he to do?
His wife has sought the English shore, he fain would seek it too.
But there, alas! he's liable to writ, arrest, and dun,
So he assumes a servant's suit, all other suits to shun.
A gentleman in difficulties, what is he to do?
A gent. in diffs, a gent. in diffs! what, what's he to do?

II

And is it not a difficulty, when he fain would eat,
To stand behind a chair, and take the covers off the meat!
To hand the soup, to hand the wine, to long in vain for both,
And find, tho' poor, his way of life is not from hand to mouth.
A gentleman in difficulties, &c.

III

And can there be a difficulty, as you walk along,
To know the man who dreads to meet his tailor in the throng?
In cloak so closely muffled up, his flitting form you view;
These wraps betray his malady is tic, tic-douloureux!
A gentleman in difficultics, &c.

IV

And would you sooth his difficulties, sing in accents sweet,
“The sea, the sea, the open sea,” but never name the Fleet.
A rest in vain you offer him on this side Dover Cliffs;
Arrest (especially the Bench) dismays the gent. in diffs.
A gentleman in difficulties, &c.

176

INCONSTANCY.

I

The fickle rays of April days
An early rose-bud nourish'd;
Soon chill'd by frost, its leaves it lost,
And faded—ere it flourish'd.
In vain the noon of sultry June
Each kindred bud uncloses;
Its withered bough, neglected now,
Is left for other roses.

II

How like the rose, alas! are those,
Who nourish thoughts that grieve them;
Who pledge their truth, in early youth,
To lovers who deceive them.
How like the blights of April nights
Is he, who, truth professing,
Inconstant proves to one who loves,
A faithful heart distressing.

III

How like the days, when brightest rays
Conceal the storms that gather,
Are smiling eyes, where falsehood lies,
Love's fondest hopes to wither.
The wounded heart, its keenest smart,
In solitude may smother;
It may regret the wrongs it met,
But cannot love another.

177

THE FATHERLESS.

I

“Come hither, 'tis thy father, boy!
Receive him with a kiss.”
“Oh, mother, mother! do not jest
On such a theme as this:
Though I was but a little child,
How bitterly I cried,
And clung to thee in agony,
When my poor father died.”

II

“Come, child, this is no time to weep,
Partake thy mother's joy!
The husband of my choice will prove
A parent to my boy.”
“Oh, mother, mother! say not so,
I cast no blame on thee,
But yon gay stranger cannot feel
A father's love for me.”

III

“Come, boy, 'tis for thy sake I wed.”
“No, mother, not for mine,
I do not ask, in all the world,
One smile of love save thine:
Oh, say why is the widow's veil
So early thrown aside:
The hateful rumour is not true:
Thou wilt not be a bride?”

178

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.

197

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

And if, in their features, my eye faintly traces
A likeness of one I still fondly prefer,
How vainly I seek in their loveliest graces
The mind which gave value the beauty in her.

Unmov'd I view, &c.

209

OH THOSE ARE THE ELOQUENT LIPS.

I

Oh! those are the eloquent lips that can say
The tenderest things in the tenderest way;
For those are the lips that a poet would choose
To warble his songs, and give wings to his muse.
It is not the tone or the cadence alone,
For others may rival a cadence or tone;
Ye gay youths who listen, beware of her spell,
For oft in your slumbers you'll hear Isabel.

II

Oh! how is it then you all others excel?
By blending the sense and the music so well,
Expression and science in thee are combin'd,
The magic of voice with the magic of mind.
To each note of the music new charms you impart,
While each word of the poetry touches the heart.
Ye gay youths who listen beware of her spell,
For oft in your slumbers you'll hear Isabel.

III

Too often the sound throws a veil o'er the words,
Unmeaningly sweet like the wild notes of birds,
But hearing thee sing ev'ry verse is distinct,
And yet with such exquisite melody link'd;
The bard of his song half enamour'd might be,
But remembers the charm was all given by thee.
Ye gay youths who listen beware of her spell,
For oft in your slumbers you'll hear Isabel.

210

WHERE IS MY LOVER.

I

Where is my lover, can any one tell?
Where is he gone, where is he gone?
He flirts with another, I know very well,
And I am all alone!
I own that I frown'd when I sent him away,
And order'd him not to come near me to-day;
But then I'd no notion that he would obey;
Where is he gone, where is he gone?
I'm sure we girls don't mean half that we say;
Oh! I am all alone!

II

Where is my lover? oh! bring him to me!
Where is he gone, where is he gone?
I was not aware how distressing 'twould be,
Thus to be alone!
They tell me to Mary gay presents he brings;
They say that he smiles when fair Isabel sings;
'Tis plain that his cupid has two pair of wings;
Where is he gone, where is he gone?
Oh! his love and mine are two different things,
For I am all alone!

III

Bid him come back to me like a good man;
Where is he gone, where is he gone?
I will receive him with smiles, if I can,
Though I am all alone!
Do not permit him to think that I pine;
Tell him that many men call me divine;
You cannot mistake him, his form is so fine,
Where is he gone, where is he gone?
They say that his eyes are the image of mine;
Oh! I am all alone!

211

THEY DEEM IT A SORROW GONE BY.

I

They deem it a sorrow gone by,
A passion effaced from my heart,
But rankling, the poison may lie,
When time has extracted the dart.
Again, to the dance I have gone,
They think that my spirits are high,
They see not my tears when alone,
They deem it a sorrow gone by.

II

The smile is again on my cheek,
The jest is again on my tongue,
I see them exult when I seek
The haunts of the gay and the young.
They think a new love will atone,
For one that but blossom'd to die,
They see not my tears when alone,
They deem it a sorrow gone by.

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

III

'Twould pain her, did she note my deep dejection,
To know that she had crush'd such fond affection;
And not for all the world, shall my distresses
Chase from her heart the joy it still possesses!
Oh! tell her not that grief could thus o'erthrow me,
But let her pass me by, she will not know me!

THE OLD HOUSE AT HOME.

I

Oh! the old house at home where my forefathers dwelt,
Where a child at the feet of my mother I knelt,
Where she taught me the pray'r, where she read me the page,
Which, if infancy lisps, is the solace of age;
My heart, 'mid all changes, wherever I roam,
Ne'er loses its love for the old house at home!

II

Twas not for its splendour, that dwelling was dear!
'Twas not that the gay or the noble were near;
O'er the porch the wild rose and woodbine entwin'd,
And the sweet scented jessamine wav'd in the wind;
Yet dearer to me than proud turret or dome
Were the halls of my fathers, the old house at home!

III

But now the old house is no dwelling for me,
The home of the stranger henceforth it shall be;
And ne'er will I view it, nor rove as a guest,
O'er the ever green fields which my father possessed;
Yet still, in my slumbers, sweet visions will come
Of the days that are pass'd, and the old house at home!

219

LONG, LONG AGO.

I

Tell me the tales, that to me were so dear,
Long, long ago, long, long ago:
Sing me the songs I delighted to hear,
Long, long ago, long ago.
Now you are come, all my grief is removed,
Let me forget that so long you have roved,
Let me believe that you love as you loved,
Long, long ago, long ago!

II

Do you remember the path where we met,
Long, long ago, long, long ago?
Ah! yes you told me you ne'er would forget,
Long, long ago, long ago.
Then to all others my smile you preferred,
Love, when you spoke, gave a charm to each word,
Still my heart treasures the praises I heard,
Long, long ago, long ago!

III

Though, by your kindness, my fond hopes were raised,
Long, long ago, long, long ago!
You by more eloquent lips have been praised,
Long, long ago, long ago.
But, by long absence, your truth has been tried,
Still to your accents I listen with pride,
Blest as I was, when I sat by your side,
Long, long ago, long ago!

220

THE LOVER'S LAY.

I

Hark! 'tis the lover's lay,
What doth the fond one say?
Oh, full of youthful beauty
Is the face on which he gazes,
And passive is the small white hand
That to his lip he raises.
He says, “My life shall prove
How fond, how pure, my love!”

II

Hark! 'tis the maiden's wail!
What is her plaintive tale?
Though young, her cheek is faded,
And her long hair hangs neglected;
Her hand is press'd upon her brow,
Her dark eyes are dejected:
She says, “One year has prov'd
How lightly I was lov'd!”

III

Hark! 'tis her lover's voice.
Hark! he can still rejoice!
Where all are gay, the gayest,
In bright array, he dances,
And with the fairest lady there
He hand-in-hand advances,
And says—what once he said
To that forsaken maid!

221

LOVE IS THE THEME OF THE MINSTREL.

I

Love is the theme!
Love is the theme of the minstrel, all over the earth.
List to the light hearted Chanson of France,
Trace the burthen of German romance.
Hear the guitar in the sweet orange grove;
Of what sings the Spaniard?
Oh, is it not love?—yes, yes, love is the theme!
Love is the theme of the minstrel, all over the earth.

II

Love is the theme!
Love is the theme of the minstrel, all over the earth.
List to the song in the camp of the brave,
Hear the sailor the sport of the wave.
In court, or in cottage, wherever you rove,
Of what sings the minstrel?
Oh, is not love?—yes, yes, love is the theme!
Love is the theme of the minstrel, all over the earth.

THE WEDDING AT ST. AGNES.

I

Ever may we hear the bells
From Saint Agnes' cloistered cells;
May her vot'ries murmur there
Matin hymn and vesper prayer.

II

Ever may a blessing rest
On Saint Agnes's holy fane;
Never shall a weary guest
Ask a blessing there in vain.

222

III

Holy father, aid we need,
Holy father intercede!
We are lovers pale with care,
We are lovers in despair.

IV

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.