University of Virginia Library

7. VOLUME SEVEN POEMS AND PLAYS


1

RHODODAPHNE:

OR THE THESSALIAN SPELL.

A POEM.


7

Rogo vos, oportet, credatis, sunt mulieres plus sciæ, sunt nocturnæ, et quod sursum est deorsum faciunt. Petronius.


8

The bards and sages of departed Greece
Yet live, for mind survives material doom;
Still, as of yore, beneath the myrtle bloom
They strike their golden lyres, in sylvan peace.
Wisdom and Liberty may never cease,
Once having been, to be: but from the tomb
Their mighty radiance streams along the gloom
Of ages evermore without decrease.
Among those gifted bards and sages old,
Shunning the living world, I dwell, and hear,
Reverent, the creeds they held, the tales they told:
And from the songs that charmed their latest ear,
A yet ungathered wreath, with fingers bold,
I weave, of bleeding love and magic mysteries drear.


9

Canto I

The rose and myrtle blend in beauty
Round Thespian Love's hypæthric fane;
And there alone, with festal duty
Of joyous song and choral train,
From many a mountain, stream, and vale,
And many a city fair and free,
The sons of Greece commingling hail
Love's primogenial deity.
Central amid the myrtle grove
That venerable temple stands:
Three statues, raised by gifted hands,
Distinct with sculptured emblems fair,
His threefold influence imaged bear,
Creative, Heavenly, Earthly Love.

Primogenial, or Creative Love, in the Orphic mythology, is the first-born of Night and Chaos, the most ancient of the gods, and the parent of all things. According to Aristophanes, Night produced an egg in the bosom of Erebus, and golden-winged Love burst in due season from the shell. The Egyptians, as Plutarch informs us in his Erotic dialogue, recognised three distinct powers of Love: the Uranian, or Heavenly; the Pandemian, Vulgar or Earthly; and the Sun. That the identity of the Sun and Primogenial Love was recognised also by the Greeks, appears from the community of their epithets in mythological poetry, as in this Orphic line: Πρωτογονος Φαεθων περιμηκεος ηερος υιος. Lactantius observes that Love was called Πρωτογονος, which signifies both first-produced and first-producing, because nothing was born before him, but all things have proceeded from him. Primogenial Love is represented in antiques mounted on the back of a lion, and, being of Egyptian origin, is traced by the modern astronomical interpreters of mythology to the Leo of the Zodiac. Uranian Love, in the mythological philosophy of Plato, is the deity or genius of pure mental passion for the good and the beautiful; and Pandemian Love, of ordinary sexual attachment.


The first, of stone and sculpture rude,
From immemorial time has stood;
Not even in vague tradition known
The hand that raised that ancient stone.
Of brass the next, with holiest thought,
The skill of Sicyon's artist

Lysippus.

wrought.

The third, a marble form divine,
That seems to move, and breathe, and smile,
Fair Phryne to this holy shrine

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Conveyed, when her propitious wile
Had forced her lover to impart
The choicest treasure of his art.

Phryne was the mistress of Praxiteles. She requested him to give her his most beautiful work, which he promised to do, but refused to tell which of his works was in his own estimation the best. One day when he was with Phryne, her servant running in announced to him that his house was on fire. Praxiteles started up in great agitation, declaring that all the fruit of his labour would be lost, if his Love should be injured by the flames. His mistress dispelled his alarm, by telling him that the report of the fire was merely a stratagem, by which she had obtained the information she desired. Phryne thus became possessed of the masterpiece of Praxiteles, and bestowed it on her native Thespia. Strabo names, instead of Phryne, Glycera, who was also a Thespian; but in addition to the testimony of Pausanias and Athenæus, Casaubon cites a Greek epigram on Phryne, which mentions her dedication of the Thespian Love.


Her, too, in sculptured beauty's pride,
His skill has placed by Venus' side;
Nor well the enraptured gaze descries
Which best might claim the Hesperian prize.
Fairest youths and maids assembling
Dance the myrtle bowers among:
Harps to softest numbers trembling
Pour the impassioned strain along,
Where the poet's gifted song
Holds the intensely listening throng.
Matrons grave and sages grey
Lead the youthful train to pay
Homage on the opening day
Of Love's returning festival:
Every fruit and every flower
Sacred to his gentler power,
Twined in garlands bright and sweet,
They place before his sculptured feet,
And on his name they call:
From thousand lips, with glad acclaim,
Is breathed at once that sacred name;
And music, kindling at the sound,
Wafts holier, tenderer strains around:
The rose a richer sweet exhales;
The myrtle waves in softer gales;
Through every breast one influence flies;
All hate, all evil passion dies;
The heart of man, in that blest spell,

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Becomes at once a sacred cell,
Where Love, and only Love, can dwell.

Sacrifices were offered at this festival for the appeasing of all public and private dissensions. Autobulus,in the beginning of Plutarch's Erotic dialogue, says, that his father and mother, when first married, went to the Thespian festival, to sacrifice to Love, on account of a quarrel between their parents.


From Ladon's shores Anthemion came,
Arcadian Ladon, loveliest tide
Of all the streams of Grecian name
Through rocks and sylvan hills that glide.
The flower of all Arcadia's youth
Was he: such form and face, in truth,
As thoughts of gentlest maidens seek
In their day-dreams: soft glossy hair
Shadowed his forehead, snowy-fair,
With many a hyacinthine cluster:
Lips, that in silence seemed to speak,
Were his, and eyes of mild blue lustre:
And even the paleness of his cheek,
The passing trace of tender care,
Still shewed how beautiful it were
If its own natural bloom were there.
His native vale, whose mountains high
The barriers of his world had been,
His cottage home, and each dear scene
His haunt from earliest infancy,
He left, to Love's fair fane to bring
His simple wild-flower offering.
She with whose life his life was twined,
His own Calliroë, long had pined
With some strange ill, and none could find
What secret cause did thus consume
That peerless maiden's roseate bloom:
The Asclepian sage's skill was vain;
And vainly have their vows been paid

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To Pan, beneath the odorous shade
Of his tall pine; and other aid
Must needs be sought to save the maid:
And hence Anthemion came, to try
In Thespia's old solemnity,
If such a lover's prayers may gain
From Love in his primæval fane.
He mingled in the votive train,
That moved around the altar's base.
Every statue's beauteous face
Was turned towards that central altar.
Why did Anthemion's footsteps falter?
Why paused he, like a tale-struck child,
Whom darkness fills with fancies wild?
A vision strange his sense had bound:
It seemed the brazen statue frowned—
The marble statue smiled.
A moment, and the semblance fled:
And when again he lifts his head,
Each sculptured face alone presents
Its fixed and placid lineaments.
He bore a simple wild-flower wreath:
Narcissus, and the sweet-briar rose;
Vervain, and flexile thyme, that breathe
Rich fragrance; modest heath, that glows
With purple bells; the amaranth bright,
That no decay nor fading knows,
Like true love's holiest, rarest light;
And every purest flower, that blows
In that sweet time, which Love most blesses,
When spring on summer's confines presses.

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Beside the altar's foot he stands,
And murmurs low his suppliant vow,
And now uplifts with duteous hands
The votive wild-flower wreath, and now—
At once, as when in vernal night
Comes pale frost or eastern blight,
Sweeping with destructive wing
Banks untimely blossoming,
Droops the wreath, the wild-flowers die;
One by one on earth they lie,
Blighted strangely, suddenly.
His brain swims round; portentous fear
Across his wildered fancy flies:
Shall death thus seize his maiden dear?
Does Love reject his sacrifice?
He caught the arm of a damsel near,
And soft sweet accents smote his ear:
—“What ails thee, stranger? Leaves are sear,
And flowers are dead, and fields are drear,
And streams are wild, and skies are bleak,
And white with snow each mountain's peak,
When winter rules the year;
And children grieve, as if for aye
Leaves, flowers, and birds were past away:
But buds and blooms again are seen,
And fields are gay, and hills are green,
And streams are bright, and sweet birds sing;
And where is the infant's sorrowing?”—
Dimly he heard the words she said,
Nor well their latent meaning drew;
But languidly he raised his head,

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And on the damsel fixed his view.
Was it a form of mortal mould
That did his dazzled sense impress?
Even painful from its loveliness!
Her bright hair, in the noonbeams glowing,
A rose-bud wreath above confined,
From whence, as from a fountain, flowing,
Long ringlets round her temples twined,
And fell in many a graceful fold,
Streaming in curls of feathery lightness
Around her neck's marmoreal whiteness.
Love, in the smile that round her lips,
Twin roses of persuasion, played,
—Nectaries of balmier sweets than sips
The Hymettian bee,—his ambush laid;
And his own shafts of liquid fire
Came on the soul with sweet surprise,
Through the soft dews of young desire
That trembled in her large dark eyes;
But in those eyes there seemed to move
A flame, almost too bright for love,
That shone, with intermitting flashes,
Beneath their long deep-shadowy lashes.
—“What ails thee, youth?”—her lips repeat,
In tones more musically sweet
Than breath of shepherd's twilight reed,
From far to woodland echo borne,
That floats like dew o'er stream and mead,
And whispers peace to souls that mourn.
—“What ails thee, youth?”—“A fearful sign
For one whose dear sake led me hither:

15

Love repels me from his shrine,
And seems to say: That maid divine
Like these ill-omened flowers shall wither.”—
—“Flowers may die on many a stem;
Fruits may fall from many a tree;
Not the more for loss of them
Shall this fair world a desert be:
Thou in every grove wilt see
Fruits and flowers enough for thee.
Stranger! I with thee will share
The votive fruits and flowers I bear,
Rich in fragrance, fresh in bloom;
These may find a happier doom:
If they change not, fade not now,
Deem that Love accepts thy vow.”—
The youth, mistrustless, from the maid
Received, and on the altar laid
The votive wreath: it did not fade;
And she on his her offering threw.
Did fancy cloud Anthemion's view?
Or did those sister garlands fair
Indeed entwine and blend again,
Wreathed into one, even as they were,
Ere she, their brilliant sweets to share,
Unwove their flowery chain?
She fixed on him her radiant eyes,
And—“Love's propitious power,”—she said,—
“Accepts thy second sacrifice.
The sun descends tow'rds ocean's bed.
Day by day the sun doth set,
And day by day the sun doth rise,

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And grass with evening dew-drops wet
The morning radiance dries:
And what if beauty slept, where peers
That mossy grass? and lover's tears
Were mingled with that evening dew?
The morning sun would dry them too.
Many a loving heart is near,
That shall its plighted love forsake:
Many lips are breathing here
Vows a few short days will break:
Many, lone amidst mankind,
Claim from Love's unpitying power
The kindred heart they ne'er shall find:
Many, at this festal hour,
Joyless in the joyous scene,
Pass, with idle glance unmoved,
Even those whom they could best have loved,
Had means of mutual knowledge been:
Some meet for once and part for aye,
Like thee and me, and scarce a day
Shall each by each remembered be:
But take the flower I give to thee,
And till it fades remember me.”—
Anthemion answered not: his brain
Was troubled with conflicting thought:
A dim and dizzy sense of pain
That maid's surpassing beauty brought;
And strangely on his fancy wrought
Her mystic moralisings, fraught
With half-prophetic sense, and breathed
In tones so sweetly wild.

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Unconsciously the flower he took,
And with absorbed admiring look
Gazed, as with fascinated eye
The lone bard gazes on the sky,
Who, in the bright clouds rolled and wreathed
Around the sun's descending car,
Sees shadowy rocks sublimely piled,
And phantom standards wide unfurled,
And towers of an aërial world
Embattled for unearthly war.
So stood Anthemion, till among
The mazes of the festal throng
The damsel from his sight had past:
Yet well he marked that once she cast
A backward look, perchance to see
If he watched her still so fixedly.

19

Canto II

Does Love so weave his subtle spell,
So closely bind his golden chain,
That only one fair form may dwell
In dear remembrance, and in vain
May other beauty seek to gain
A place that idol form beside
In feelings all pre-occupied?
Or does one radiant image, shrined
Within the inmost soul's recess,
Exalt, expand, and make the mind
A temple, to receive and bless
All forms of kindred loveliness?
Howbeit, as from those myrtle bowers,
And that bright altar crowned with flowers,
Anthemion turned, as thought's wild stream
Its interrupted course resumed,
Still, like the phantom of a dream,
Before his dazzled memory bloomed
The image of that maiden strange:
Yet not a passing thought of change
He knew, nor once his fancy strayed
From his long-loved Arcadian maid.
Vaguely his mind the scene retraced,

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Image on image wildly driven,
As in his bosom's fold he placed
The flower that radiant nymph had given.
With idle steps, at random bent,
Through Thespia's crowded ways he went;
And on his troubled ear the strains
Of choral music idly smote;
And with vacant eye he saw the trains
Of youthful dancers round him float,
As the musing bard from his sylvan seat
Looks on the dance of the noontide heat,
Or the play of the watery flowers, that quiver
In the eddies of a lowland river.
Around, beside him, to and fro,
The assembled thousands hurrying go.
These the palæstric sports invite,
Where courage, strength, and skill contend;
The gentler Muses those delight,
Where throngs of silent listeners bend,
While rival bards, with lips of fire,
Attune to love the impassioned lyre;
Or where the mimic scene displays
Some solemn tale of elder days,
Despairing Phædra's vengeful doom,
Alcestis' love too dearly tried,
Or Hæmon dying on the tomb
That closes o'er his living bride.

The allusions are to the Hippolytus and Alcestis of Euripides, and to the Antigone of Sophocles.


But choral dance, and bardic strain,
Palæstric sport, and scenic tale,
Around Anthemion spread in vain
Their mixed attractions: sad and pale

21

He moved along, in musing sadness,
Amid all sights and sounds of gladness.
A sudden voice his musings broke.
He looked; an aged man was near,
Of rugged brow, and eye severe.
—“What evil,”—thus the stranger spoke,—
“Has this our city done to thee,
Ill-omened boy, that thou should'st be
A blot on our solemnity?
Or what Alastor bade thee wear
That laurel-rose, to Love profane,
Whose leaves, in semblance falsely fair
Of Love's maternal flower, contain
For purest fragrance deadliest bane?

Τα δε ροδα εκεινα ουκ ην ροδα αληθινα: τα δ'ην εκ της αγριας δαφνης φυομενα: ροδοδαφνην αυτην καλουσιν ανθ ρωποι: κακον αριστον ονω τουτο παντι, και ιππω: φασι γαρ τον φαγοντα αποθνησκειν αυτικα. Lucianus in Asino. —“These roses were not true roses: they were flowers of the wild laurel, which men call rhododaphne, or rose-laurel. It is a bad dinner for either horse or ass, the eating of it being attended by immediate death.” Apuleius has amplified this passage: “I observed from afar the deep shades of a leafy grove, through whose diversified and abundant verdure shone the snowy colour of refulgent roses. As my perceptions and feelings were not asinine like my shape, I judged it to be a sacred grove of Venus and the Graces, where the celestial splendor of their genial flower glittered through the dark-green shades. I invoked the propitious power of joyful Event, and sprang forward with such velocity, as if I were not indeed an ass, but the horse of an Olympic charioteer. But this splendid effort of energy could not enable me to outrun the cruelty of my fortune. For on approaching the spot, I saw, not those tender and delicate roses, the offspring of auspicious bushes, whose fragrant leaves make nectar of the morning-dew; nor yet the deep wood I had seemed to see from afar; but only a thick line of trees skirting the edge of a river. These trees, clothed with an abundant and laurel-like foliage, from which they stretch forth the cups of their pale and inodorous flowers, are called, among the unlearned rustics, by the far from rustic appellation of laurel-roses: the eating of which is mortal to all quadrupeds. Thus entangled by evil fate, and despairing of safety, I was on the point of swallowing the poison of those fictitious roses, &c.” Pliny says, that this plant, though poison to quadrupeds, is an antidote to men against the venom of serpents.


Art thou a scorner? dost thou throw
Defiance at his power? Beware!
Full soon thy impious youth may know
What pangs his shafts of anger bear;
For not the sun's descending dart,
Nor yet the lightning-brand of Jove,
Fall like the shaft that strikes the heart
Thrown by the mightier hand of Love.”—
—“Oh stranger! not with impious thought
My steps this holy rite have sought.
With pious heart and offerings due
I mingled in the votive train;
Nor did I deem this flower profane;
Nor she, I ween, its evil knew,
That radiant girl, who bade me cherish
Her memory till its bloom should perish.”—
—“Who, and what, and whence was she?”—

22

—“A stranger till this hour to me.”—
—“Oh youth, beware! that laurel-rose
Around Larissa's evil walls
In tufts of rank luxuriance grows,
Mid dreary valleys, by the falls
Of haunted streams; and magic knows
No herb or plant of deadlier might,
When impious footsteps wake by night
The echoes of those dismal dells,
What time the murky midnight dew
Trembles on many a leaf and blossom,
That draws from earth's polluted bosom
Mysterious virtue, to imbue
The chalice of unnatural spells.
Oft, those dreary rocks among,
The murmurs of unholy song,
Breathed by lips as fair as hers
By whose false hands that flower was given,
The solid earth's firm breast have riven,
And burst the silent sepulchres,
And called strange shapes of ghastly fear,
To hold, beneath the sickening moon,
Portentous parle, at night's deep noon,
With beauty skilled in mysteries drear.
Oh, youth! Larissa's maids are fair;
But the dæmons of the earth and air
Their spells obey, their councils share,
And wide o'er earth and ocean bear
Their mandates to the storms that tear
The rock-enrooted oak, and sweep
With whirlwind wings the labouring deep.

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Their words of power can make the streams
Roll refluent on their mountain-springs,
Can torture sleep with direful dreams,
And on the shapes of earthly things,
Man, beast, bird, fish, with influence strange,
Breathe foul and fearful interchange,
And fix in marble bonds the form
Erewhile with natural being warm,
And give to senseless stones and stocks
Motion, and breath, and shape that mocks,
As far as nicest eye can scan,
The action and the life of man.
Beware! yet once again beware!
Ere round thy inexperienced mind,
With voice and semblance falsely fair,
A chain Thessalian magic bind,
Which never more, oh youth! believe,
Shall either earth or heaven unweave.”—
While yet he spoke, the morning scene,
In more portentous hues arrayed,
Dwelt on Anthemion's mind: a shade
Of deeper mystery veiled the mien
And words of that refulgent maid.
The frown, that, ere he breathed his vow,
Dwelt on the brazen statue's brow;
His votive flowers, so strangely blighted;
The wreath her beauteous hands untwined
To share with him, that, self-combined,
Its sister tendrils reunited,
Strange sympathy! as in his mind
These forms of troubled memory blended

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With dreams of evil undefined,
Of magic and Thessalian guile,
Now by the warning voice portended
Of that mysterious man, awhile,
Even when the stranger's speech had ended,
He stood as if he listened still.
At length he said:—“Oh, reverend stranger!
Thy solemn words are words of fear.
Not for myself I shrink from danger;
But there is one to me more dear
Than all within this earthly sphere,
And many are the omens ill
That threaten her: to Jove's high will
We bow; but if in human skill
Be ought of aid or expiation
That may this peril turn away,
For old Experience holds his station
On that grave brow, oh stranger! say.”—
—“Oh youth! experience sad indeed
Is mine; and should I tell my tale,
Therein thou might'st too clearly read
How little may all aid avail
To him, whose hapless steps around
Thessalian spells their chains have bound:
And yet such counsel as I may
I give to thee. Ere close of day
Seek thou the planes, whose broad shades fall
On the stream that laves yon mountain's base:
There on thy Natal Genius call

The plane was sacred to the Genius, as the oak to Jupiter, the olive to Minerva, the palm to the Muses, the myrtle and rose to Venus, the laurel to Apollo, the ash to Mars, the beech to Hercules, the pine to Pan, the fir and ivy to Bacchus, the cypress to Sylvanus, the cedar to the Eumenides, the yew and poppy to Ceres, &c. “I swear to you,” says Socrates in the Phædrus of Plato, “by any one of the gods, if you will, by this plane.”


For aid, and with averted face
Give to the stream that flower, nor look

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Upon the running wave again;
For, if thou should'st, the sacred plane
Has heard thy suppliant vows in vain;
Nor then thy Natal Genius can,
Nor Phœbus, nor Arcadian Pan,
Dissolve thy tenfold chain.”—
The stranger said, and turned away.
Anthemion sought the plane-grove's shade.
'Twas near the closing hour of day.
The slanting sunbeam's golden ray,
That through the massy foliage made
Scarce here and there a passage, played
Upon the silver-eddying stream,
Even on the rocky channel throwing
Through the clear flood its golden gleam.
The bright waves danced beneath the beam
To the music of their own sweet flowing.
The flowering sallows on the bank,
Beneath the o'ershadowing plane-trees wreathing
In sweet association, drank
The grateful moisture, round them breathing
Soft fragrance through the lonely wood.
There, where the mingling foliage wove
Its closest bower, two altars stood,
This to the Genius of the Grove,
That to the Naiad of the Flood.
So light a breath was on the trees,
That rather like a spirit's sigh
Than motion of an earthly breeze,
Among the summits broad and high
Of those tall planes its whispers stirred;

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And save that gentlest symphony
Of air and stream, no sound was heard,
But of the solitary bird,
That aye, at summer's evening hour,
When music save her own is none,
Attunes, from her invisible bower,
Her hymn to the descending sun.
Anthemion paused upon the shore:
All thought of magic's impious lore,
All dread of evil powers, combined
Against his peace, attempered ill
With that sweet scene; and on his mind,
Fair, graceful, gentle, radiant still,
The form of that strange damsel came;
And something like a sense of shame
He felt, as if his coward thought
Foul wrong to guileless beauty wrought.
At length—“Oh radiant girl!”—he said,—
“If in the cause that bids me tread
These banks, be mixed injurious dread
Of thy fair thoughts, the fears of love
Must with thy injured kindness plead
My pardon for the wrongful deed.
Ye Nymphs and Sylvan Gods, that rove
The precincts of this sacred wood!
Thou, Achelöus' gentle daughter,
Bright Naiad of this beauteous water!
And thou, my Natal Genius good!
Lo! with pure hands the crystal flood
Collecting, on these altars blest,
Libation holiest, brightest, best,

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I pour. If round my footsteps dwell
Unholy sign or evil spell,
Receive me in your guardian sway;
And thou, oh gentle Naiad! bear
With this false flower those spells away,
If such be lingering there.”—
Then from the stream he turned his view,
And o'er his back the flower he threw.
Hark! from the wave a sudden cry,
Of one in last extremity,
A voice as of a drowning maid!
The echoes of the sylvan shade
Gave response long and drear.
He starts: he does not turn. Again!
It is Calliroë's cry! In vain
Could that dear maiden's cry of pain
Strike on Anthemion's ear?
At once, forgetting all beside,
He turned to plunge into the tide,
But all again was still:
The sun upon the surface bright
Poured his last line of crimson light,
Half-sunk behind the hill:
But through the solemn plane-trees past
The pinions of a mightier blast,
And in its many-sounding sweep,
Among the foliage broad and deep,
Aërial voices seemed to sigh,
As if the spirits of the grove
Mourned, in prophetic sympathy
With some disastrous love.
 

This is spoken in the character of Lucius, who has been changed to an ass by a Thessalian ointment, and can be restored to his true shape only by the eating of roses.


29

Canto III

By living streams, in sylvan shades,
Where winds and waves symphonious make
Sweet melody, the youths and maids
No more with choral music wake
Lone Echo from her tangled brake,
On Pan, or Sylvan Genius, calling,
Naiad or Nymph, in suppliant song:
No more by living fountain, falling
The poplar's circling bower among,
Where pious hands have carved of yore
Rude bason for its lucid store
And reared the grassy altar nigh,
The traveller, when the sun rides high,
For cool refreshment lingering there,
Pours to the Sister Nymphs his prayer.
Yet still the green vales smile: the springs
Gush forth in light: the forest weaves
Its own wild bowers; the breeze's wings
Make music in their rustling leaves;
But 'tis no spirit's breath that sighs
Among their tangled canopies:
In ocean's caves no Nereid dwells:
No Oread walks the mountain-dells:

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The streams no sedge-crowned Genii roll
From bounteous urn: great Pan is dead:
The life, the intellectual soul
Of vale, and grove, and stream, has fled
For ever with the creed sublime
That nursed the Muse of earlier time.
The broad moon rose o'er Thespia's walls
And on the light wind's swells and falls
Came to Anthemion's ear the sounds
Of dance, and song, and festal pleasure,
As slowly tow'rds the city's bounds
He turned, his backward steps to measure.
But with such sounds his heart confessed
No sympathy: his mind was pressed
With thoughts too heavy to endure
The contrast of a scene so gay;
And from the walls he turned away,
To where, in distant moonlight pure,
Mount Helicon's conspicuous height
Rose in the dark-blue vault of night.
Along the solitary road
Alone he went; for who but he
On that fair night would absent be
From Thespia's joyous revelry?
The sounds that on the soft air flowed
By slow degrees in distance died:
And now he climbed the rock's steep side,
Where frowned o'er sterile regions wide
Neptunian Ascra's

Ascra derived its name from a nymph, of whom Neptune was enamoured. She bore him a son named Œoclus, who built Ascra in conjunction with the giants Ophus and Ephialtes, who were also sons of Neptune, by Iphimedia, the wife of Alœus. Pausanias mentions, that nothing but a solitary tower of Ascra was remaining in his time. Strabo describes it as having a lofty and rugged site. It was the birth-place of Hesiod, who gives a dismal picture of it.

ruined tower:

Memorial of gigantic power:

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But thoughts more dear and more refined
Awakening, in the pensive mind,
Of him, the Muses' gentlest son,
The shepherd-bard of Helicon,
Whose song, to peace and wisdom dear,
The Aonian Dryads loved to hear.
By Aganippe's fountain-wave
Anthemion passed: the moonbeams fell
Pale on the darkness of the cave,
Within whose mossy rock-hewn cell
The sculptured form of Linus stood,
Primæval bard. The Nymphs for him
Through every spring, and mountain flood,
Green vale, and twilight woodland dim,
Long wept: all living nature wept
For Linus; when, in minstrel strife,
Apollo's wrath from love and life
The child of music swept.
The Muses' grove is nigh. He treads
Its sacred precincts. O'er him spreads
The palm's aërial canopy,
That, nurtured by perennial springs,
Around its summit broad and high
Its light and branchy foliage flings,
Arching in graceful symmetry.
Among the tall stems jagg'd and bare
Luxuriant laurel interweaves
An undershade of myriad leaves,
Here black in rayless masses, there
In partial moonlight glittering fair;
And wheresoe'er the barren rock

32

Peers through the grassy soil, its roots
The sweet andrachne

“The andrachne,” says Pausanias, “grows abundantly in Helicon, and bears fruit of incomparable sweetness.”—Pliny says, “It is the same plant which is called in Latin illecebra: it grows on rocks, and is gathered for food.”

strikes, to mock

Sterility, and profusely shoots
Its light boughs, rich with ripening fruits.
The moonbeams, through the chequering shade,
Upon the silent temple played,
The Muses' fane. The nightingale,
Those consecrated bowers among,
Poured on the air a warbled tale,
So sweet, that scarcely from her nest,
Where Orpheus' hallowed relics rest,
She breathes a sweeter song.

It was said by the Thracians, that those nightingales which had their nests about the tomb of Orpheus, sang more sweetly and powerfully than any others. Pausanias, L. IX.


A scene, whose power the maniac sense
Of passion's wildest mood might own!
Anthemion felt its influence:
His fancy drank the soothing tone
Of all that tranquil loveliness;
And health and bloom returned to bless
His dear Calliroë, and the groves
And rocks where pastoral Ladon roves
Bore record of their blissful loves.
List! there is music on the wind!
Sweet music! seldom mortal ear
On sounds so tender, so refined,
Has dwelt. Perchance some Muse is near,
Euterpe, or Polymnia bright,
Or Erato, whose gentle lyre
Responds to love and young desire!
It is the central hour of night:
The time is holy, lone, severe,
And mortals may not linger here!

33

Still on the air those wild notes fling
Their airy spells of voice and string,
In sweet accordance, sweeter made
By response soft from caverned shade.
He turns to where a lovely glade
Sleeps in the open moonlight's smile,
A natural fane, whose ample bound
The palm's columnar stems surround,
A wild and stately peristyle;
Save where their interrupted ring
Bends on the consecrated cave,
From whose dark arch, with tuneful wave,
Libethrus issues, sacred spring.
Beside its gentle murmuring,
A maiden, on a mossy stone,
Full in the moonlight, sits alone:
Her eyes, with humid radiance bright,
As if a tear had dimmed their light,
Are fixed upon the moon; her hair
Flows long and loose in the light soft air;
A golden lyre her white hands bear;
Its chords, beneath her fingers fleet,
To such wild symphonies awake,
Her sweet lips breathe a song so sweet,
That the echoes of the cave repeat
Its closes with as soft a sigh,
As if they almost feared to break
The magic of its harmony.
Oh! there was passion in the sound,
Intensest passion, strange and deep;
Wild breathings of a soul, around

34

Whose every pulse one hope had bound,
One burning hope, which might not sleep.
But hark! that wild and solemn swell!
And was there in those tones a spell,
Which none may disobey? For lo!
Anthemion from the sylvan shade
Moves with reluctant steps and slow,
And in the lonely moonlight glade
He stands before the radiant maid.
She ceased her song, and with a smile
She welcomed him, but nothing said:
And silently he stood the while,
And tow'rds the ground he drooped his head,
As if he shrunk beneath the light
Of those dark eyes so dazzling bright.
At length she spoke:—“The flower was fair
I bade thee till its fading wear:
And didst thou scorn the boon,
Or died the flower so soon?”—
—“It did not fade,
Oh radiant maid!
But Thespia's rites its use forbade,
To Love's vindictive power profane:
If soothly spoke the reverend seer,
Whose voice rebuked, with words severe,
Its beauty's secret bane.”—
—“The world, oh youth! deems many wise,
Who dream at noon with waking eyes,
While spectral fancy round them flings
Phantoms of unexisting things;
Whose truth is lies, whose paths are error,

35

Whose gods are fiends, whose heaven is terror;
And such a slave has been with thee,
And thou, in thy simplicity,
Hast deemed his idle sayings truth.
The flower I gave thee, thankless youth!
The harmless flower thy hand rejected,
Was fair: my native river sees
Its verdure and its bloom reflected
Wave in the eddies and the breeze.
My mother felt its beauty's claim,
And gave, in sportive fondness wild,
Its name to me, her only child.”—
—“Then Rhododaphne is thy name?”—
Anthemion said: the maiden bent
Her head in token of assent.
—“Say once again, if sooth I deem,
Penëus is thy native stream?”—
—“Down Pindus' steep Penëus falls,
And swift and clear through hill and dale
It flows, and by Larissa's walls,
And through wild Tempe, loveliest vale;
And on its banks the cypress gloom
Waves round my father's lonely tomb.
My mother's only child am I:
Mid Tempe's sylvan rocks we dwell;
And from my earliest infancy,
The darling of our cottage-dell
For its bright leaves and clusters fair,
My namesake flower has bound my hair.
With costly gift and flattering song,
Youths, rich and valiant, sought my love.

36

They moved me not. I shunned the throng
Of suitors, for the mountain-grove
Where Sylvan Gods and Oreads rove.
The Muses, whom I worship here,
Had breathed their influence on my being,
Keeping my youthful spirit clear
From all corrupting thoughts, and freeing
My footsteps from the crowd, to tread
Beside the torrent's echoing bed,
Mid wind-tost pines, on steeps aërial,
Where elemental Genii throw
Effluence of natures more ethereal
Than vulgar minds can feel or know.
Oft on those steeps, at earliest dawn,
The world in mist beneath me lay,
Whose vapory curtains, half withdrawn,
Revealed the flow of Therma's bay,
Red with the nascent light of day;
Till full from Athos' distant height
The sun poured down his golden beams
Scattering the mists like morning dreams,
And rocks and lakes and isles and streams
Burst, like creation, into light.
In noontide bowers the bubbling springs,
In evening vales the winds that sigh
To eddying rivers murmuring by,
Have heard to these symphonious strings
The rocks and caverned glens reply.
Spirits that love the moonlight hour
Have met me on the shadowy hill:
Dream'st thou of Magic? of the power

37

That makes the blood of life run chill,
And shakes the world with dæmon skill?
Beauty is Magic; grace and song;
Fair form, light motion, airy sound:
Frail webs! and yet a chain more strong
They weave the strongest hearts around,
Then e'er Alcides' arm unbound:
And such a chain I weave round thee,
Though but with mortal witchery.”—
His eyes and ears had drank the charm.
The damsel rose, and on his arm
She laid her hand. Through all his frame
The soft touch thrilled like liquid flame;
But on his mind Calliroë came
All pale and sad, her sweet eyes dim
With tears which for herself and him
Fell: by that modest image mild
Recalled, inspired, Anthemion strove
Against the charm that now beguiled
His sense, and cried, in accents wild,
—“Oh maid! I have another love!”—
But still she held his arm, and spoke
Again in accents thrilling sweet:
—“In Tempe's vale a lonely oak
Has felt the storms of ages beat:
Blasted by the lightning-stroke,
A hollow, leafless, branchless trunk
It stands; but in its giant cell
A mighty sylvan power doth dwell,
An old and holy oracle.
Kneeling by that ancient tree,

38

I sought the voice of destiny,
And in my ear these accents sunk:
‘Waste not in loneliness thy bloom:
With flowers the Thespian altar dress:
The youth whom Love's mysterious doom
Assigns to thee, thy sight shall bless
With no ambiguous loveliness;
And thou, amid the joyous scene,
Shalt know him, by his mournful mien,
And by the paleness of his cheek,
And by the sadness of his eye,
And by his withered flowers, and by
The language thy own heart shall speak.’
And I did know thee, youth! and thou
Art mine, and I thy bride must be.
Another love! the gods allow
No other love to thee or me!”—
She gathered up her glittering hair,
And round his neck its tresses threw,
And twined her arms of beauty rare
Around him, and the light curls drew
In closer bands: ethereal dew
Of love and young desire was swimming
In her bright eyes, albeit not dimming
Their starry radiance, rather brightning
Their beams with passion's liquid lightning.
She clasped him to her throbbing breast,
And on his lips her lips she prest,
And cried the while
With joyous smile:
—“These lips are mine; the spells have won them,

39

Which round and round thy soul I twine;
And be the kiss I print upon them
Poison to all lips but mine!”—
Dizzy awhile Anthemion stood,
With thirst-parched lips and fevered blood,
In those enchanting ringlets twined:
The fane, the cave, the moonlight wood,
The world, and all the world enshrined,
Seemed melting from his troubled mind:
But those last words the thought recalled
Of his Calliroë, and appalled
His mind with many a nameless fear
For her, so good, so mild, so dear.
With sudden start of gentle force
From Rhododaphne's arms he sprung,
And swifter than the torrent's course
From rock to rock in tumult flung,
Adown the steeps of Helicon,
By spring, and cave, and tower, he fled,
But turned from Thespia's walls, and on
Along the rocky way, that led
Tow'rds the Corinthian Isthmus, sped,
Impatient to behold again
His cottage-home by Ladon's side,
And her, for whose dear sake his brain
Was giddy with foreboding pain,
Fairest of Ladon's virgin train,
His own long-destined bride.

41

Canto IV

Magic and mystery, spells Circæan,
The Siren voice, that calmed the sea,
And steeped the soul in dews Lethæan;
The enchanted chalice, sparkling free
With wine, amid whose ruby glow
Love couched, with madness linked and woe;
Mantle and zone, whose woof beneath
Lurked wily grace, in subtle wreath
With blandishment and young desire
And soft persuasion intertwined,
Whose touch, with sympathetic fire,
Could melt at once the sternest mind;
Have passed away: for vestal Truth
Young Fancy's foe, and Reason chill,
Have chased the dreams that charmed the youth
Of nature and the world, which still,
Amid that vestal light severe,
Our colder spirits leap to hear
Like echoes from a fairy hill.
Yet deem not so. The Power of Spells
Still lingers on the earth, but dwells
In deeper folds of close disguise,
That baffle Reason's searching eyes:

42

Nor shall that mystic Power resign
To Truth's cold sway his webs of guile,
Till woman's eyes have ceased to shine,
And woman's lips have ceased to smile,
And woman's voice has ceased to be
The earthly soul of melody.
A night and day had passed away:
A second night. A second day
Had risen. The noon on vale and hill
Was glowing, and the pensive herds
In rocky pool and sylvan rill
The shadowy coolness sought. The birds
Among their leafy bowers were still,
Save where the red-breast on the pine,
In thickest ivy's sheltering nest,
Attuned a lonely song divine,
To soothe old Pan's meridian rest.

It was the custom of Pan to repose from the chace at noon. Theocritus, Id. I.


The stream's eternal eddies played
In light and music; on its edge
The soft light air scarce moved the sedge:
The bees a pleasant murmuring made
On thymy bank and flowery hedge:
From field to field the grasshopper
Kept up his joyous descant shrill;
When once again the wanderer,
With arduous travel faint and pale,
Beheld his own Arcadian vale.
From Oryx, down the sylvan way,
With hurried pace the youth proceeds.
Sweet Ladon's waves beside him stray

43

In dear companionship: the reeds
Seem, whispering on the margin clear,
The doom of Syrinx to rehearse,
Ladonian Syrinx, name most dear
To music and Mænalian verse.
It is the Aphrodisian grove.
Anthemion's home is near. He sees
The light smoke rising from the trees
That shade the dwelling of his love.
Sad bodings, shadowy fears of ill,
Pressed heavier on him, in wild strife
With many-wandering hope, that still
Leaves on the darkest clouds of life
Some vestige of her radiant way:
But soon those torturing struggles end;
For where the poplar silver-grey
And dark associate cedar blend
Their hospitable shade, before
One human dwelling's well-known door,
Old Pheidon sits, and by his side
His only child, his age's pride,
Herself, Anthemion's destined bride.
She hears his coming tread. She flies
To meet him. Health is on her cheeks,
And pleasure sparkles in her eyes,
And their soft light a welcome speaks
More eloquent than words. Oh, joy!
The maid he left so fast consuming,
Whom death, impatient to destroy,
Had marked his prey, now rosy-blooming,
And beaming like the morning star

44

With loveliness and love, has flown
To welcome him: his cares fly far,
Like clouds when storms are overblown;
For where such perfect transports reign
Even memory has no place for pain.
The poet's task were passing sweet,
If, when he tells how lovers meet,
One half the flow of joy, that flings
Its magic on that blissful hour,
Could touch, with sympathetic power,
His lyre's accordant strings.
It may not be. The lyre is mute,
When venturous minstrelsy would suit
Its numbers to so dear a theme:
But many a gentle maid, I deem,
Whose heart has known and felt the like,
Can hear, in fancy's kinder dream,
The chords I dare not strike.
They spread a banquet in the shade
Of those old trees. The friendly board
Calliroë's beauteous hands arrayed,
With self-requiting toil, and poured
In fair-carved bowl the sparkling wine.
In order due Anthemion made
Libation, to Olympian Jove,
Arcadian Pan, and Thespian Love,
And Bacchus, giver of the vine.
The generous draught dispelled the sense
Of weariness. His limbs were light:
His heart was free: Love banished thence
All forms but one most dear, most bright:
And ever with insatiate sight

45

He gazed upon the maid, and listened,
Absorbed in ever new delight,
To that dear voice, whose balmy sighing
To his full joy blest response gave,
Like music doubly-sweet replying
From twilight echo's sylvan cave;
And her mild eyes with soft rays glistened,
Imparting and reflecting pleasure;
For this is Love's terrestrial treasure,
That in participation lives,
And evermore, the more it gives,
Itself abounds in fuller measure.
Old Pheidon felt his heart expand
With joy that from their joy had birth,
And said:—“Anthemion! Love's own hand
Is here, and mighty on the earth
Is he, the primogenial power,
Whose sacred grove and antique fane
Thy prompted footsteps, not in vain,
Have sought; for, on the day and hour
Of his incipient rite, most strange
And sudden was Calliroë's change.
The sickness under which she bowed,
Swiftly, as though it ne'er had been,
Passed, like the shadow of a cloud
From April's hills of green.
And bliss once more is yours; and mine
In seeing yours, and more than this;
For ever, in our children's bliss,
The sun of our past youth doth shine
Upon our age anew. Divine

46

No less than our own Pan must be
To us Love's bounteous deity;
And round our old and hallowed pine
The myrtle and the rose must twine,
Memorial of the Thespian shrine.”—
'Twas strange indeed, Anthemion thought,
That, in the hour when omens dread
Most tortured him, such change was wrought;
But love and hope their lustre shed
On all his visions now, and led
His memory from the mystic train
Of fears which that strange damsel wove
Around him in the Thespian fane
And in the Heliconian grove.
Eve came, and twilight's balmy hour:
Alone, beneath the cedar bower,
The lovers sate, in converse dear
Retracing many a backward year,
Their infant sports in field and grove,
Their mutual tasks, their dawning love,
Their mingled tears of past distress,
Now all absorbed in happiness;
And oft would Fancy intervene,
To throw, on many a pictured scene
Of life's untrodden path, such gleams
Of golden light, such blissful dreams,
As in young Love's enraptured eye
Hope almost made reality.
So in that dear accustomed shade,
With Ladon flowing at their feet,
Together sate the youth and maid,

47

In that uncertain shadowy light
When day and darkness mingling meet.
Her bright eyes ne'er had seemed so bright,
Her sweet voice ne'er had seemed so sweet,
As then they seemed. Upon his neck
Her head was resting, and her eyes
Were raised to his, for no disguise
Her feelings knew; untaught to check,
As in these days more worldly wise,
The heart's best purest sympathies.
Fond youth! her lips are near to thine:
The ringlets of her temples twine
Against thy cheek: oh! more or less
Than mortal wert thou not to press
Those ruby lips! Or does it dwell
Upon thy mind, that fervid spell
Which Rhododaphne breathed upon
Thy lips erewhile in Helicon?
Ah! pause, rash boy! bethink thee yet:
And canst thou then the charm forget?
Or dost thou scorn its import vain
As vision of a fevered brain?
Oh! he has kissed Calliroë's lips!
And with the touch the maid grew pale,
And sudden shade of strange eclipse
Drew o'er her eyes its dusky veil.
As droops the meadow-pink its head,
By the rude scythe in summer's prime
Cleft from its parent stem, and spread
On earth to wither ere its time,
Even so the flower of Ladon faded,

48

Swifter than, when the sun hath shaded
In the young storm his setting ray,
The western radiance dies away.
He pressed her heart: no pulse was there.
Before her lips his hand he placed:
No breath was in them. Wild despair
Came on him, as, with sudden waste,
When snows dissolve in vernal rain,
The mountain-torrent on the plain
Descends; and with that fearful swell
Of passionate grief, the midnight spell
Of the Thessalian maid recurred,
Distinct in every fatal word:
—“These lips are mine; the spells have won them,
Which round and round thy soul I twine;
And be the kiss I print upon them
Poison to all lips but mine!”—
—“Oh, thou art dead, my love!”—he cried—
“Art dead, and I have murdered thee!”—
He started up in agony.
The beauteous maiden from his side
Sunk down on earth. Like one who slept
She lay, still, cold, and pale of hue;
And her long hair all loosely swept
The thin grass, wet with evening dew.
He could not weep; but anguish burned
Within him like consuming flame.
He shrieked: the distant rocks returned
The voice of woe. Old Pheidon came
In terror forth: he saw; and wild
With misery fell upon his child,

49

And cried aloud, and rent his hair.
Stung by the voice of his despair,
And by the intolerable thought
That he, how innocent soe'er,
Had all this grief and ruin wrought,
And urged perchance by secret might
Of magic spells, that drew their chain
More closely round his phrensied brain,
Beneath the swiftly-closing night
Anthemion sprang away, and fled
O'er plain and steep, with frantic tread,
As Passion's aimless impulse led.

51

Canto V

Though Pity's self has made thy breast
Its earthly shrine, oh gentle maid!
Shed not thy tears, where Love's last rest
Is sweet beneath the cypress shade;
Whence never voice of tyrant power,
Nor trumpet-blast from rending skies,
Nor winds that howl, nor storms that lower,
Shall bid the sleeping sufferer rise.
But mourn for them, who live to keep
Sad strife with fortune's tempests rude;
For them, who live to toil and weep
In loveless, joyless solitude;
Whose days consume in hope, that flies
Like clouds of gold that fading float,
Still watched with fondlier lingering eyes
As still more dim and more remote.
Oh! wisely, truly, sadly sung
The bard by old Cephisus' side,

—Sophocles, Œd. Col. Μη φυναι τον απαντα νικα λογον: Το δ', επει φανη, Βηναι κειθεν οθεν περ ηκει, Πολυ δευτερον, ως ταχιστα. This was a very favorite sentiment among the Greeks. The same thought occurs in Ecclesiastes, iv. 2, 3.


(While not with sadder, sweeter tongue,
His own loved nightingale replied:)
—“Man's happiest lot is not to be;
And when we tread life's thorny steep,
Most blest are they, who, earliest free,
Descend to death's eternal sleep.”—

52

Long, wide, and far, the youth has strayed,
Forlorn, and pale, and wild with woe,
And found no rest. His loved, lost maid,
A beauteous, sadly-smiling shade,
Is ever in his thoughts, and slow
Roll on the hopeless, aimless hours.
Sunshine, and grass, and woods, and flowers,
Rivers, and vales, and glittering homes
Of busy men, where'er he roams,
Torment his sense with contrast keen,
Of that which is, and might have been.
The mist that on the mountains high
Its transient wreath light-hovering flings,
The clouds and changes of the sky,
The forms of unsubstantial things,
The voice of the tempestuous gale,
The rain-swoln torrent's turbid moan,
And every sound that seems to wail
For beauty past and hope o'erthrown,
Attemper with his wild despair;
But scarce his restless eye can bear
The hills, and rocks, and summer streams,
The things that still are what they were
When life and love were more than dreams.
It chanced, along the rugged shore,
Where giant Pelion's piny steep
O'erlooks the wide Ægean deep,
He shunned the steps of humankind,
Soothed by the multitudinous roar
Of ocean, and the ceaseless shock
Of spray, high-scattering from the rock

53

In the wail of the many-wandering wind.
A crew, on lawless venture bound,
Such men as roam the seas around,
Hearts to fear and pity strangers,
Seeking gold through crimes and dangers,
Sailing near, the wanderer spied.
Sudden, through the foaming tide,
They drove to land, and on the shore
Springing, they seized the youth, and bore
To their black ship, and spread again
Their sails, and ploughed the billowy main.
Dark Ossa on their watery way
Looks from his robe of mist; and, grey
With many a deep and shadowy fold,
The sacred mount, Olympus old,
Appears: but where with Therma's sea
Penëus mingles tranquilly,
They anchor with the closing light
Of day, and through the moonless night
Propitious to their lawless toil,
In silent bands they prowl for spoil.
Ere morning dawns, they crowd on board,
And to their vessel's secret hoard
With many a costly robe they pass,
And vase of silver, gold, and brass.
A young maid too their hands have torn
From her maternal home, to mourn
Afar, to some rude master sold,
The crimes and woes that spring from gold.
—“There sit!”—cried one in rugged tone,—
“Beside that boy. A well-matched pair

54

Ye seem, and will, I doubt not, bear,
In our good port, a value rare.
There sit, but not to wail and moan:
The lyre, which in those fingers fair
We leave, whose sound through night's thick shade
To unwished ears thy haunt bewrayed,
Strike; for the lyre, by beauty played,
To glad the hearts of men was made.”—
The damsel by Anthemion's side
Sate down upon the deck. The tide
Blushed with the deepening light of morn.
A pitying look the youth forlorn
Turned on the maiden. Can it be?
Or does his sense play false? Too well
He knows that radiant form. 'Tis she,
The magic maid of Thessaly,
'Tis Rhododaphne! By the spell,
That ever round him dwelt, opprest,
He bowed his head upon his breast,
And o'er his eyes his hand he drew,
That fatal beauty's sight to shun.
Now from the orient heaven the sun
Had clothed the eastward waves with fire:
Right from the west the fair breeze blew:
The full sails swelled, and sparkling through
The sounding sea the vessel flew:
With wine and copious cheer the crew
Caroused: the damsel o'er the lyre
Her rapid fingers lightly flung,
And thus, with feigned obedience, sung.
—“The Nereid's home is calm and bright,

55

The ocean-depths below,
Where liquid streams of emerald light
Through caves of coral flow.
She has a lyre of silver strings
Framed on a pearly shell,
And sweetly to that lyre she sings
The shipwrecked seaman's knell.
The ocean-snake in sleep she binds;
The dolphins round her play:
His purple conch the Triton winds
Responsive to the lay:
Proteus and Phorcys, sea-gods old,
Watch by her coral cell,
To hear, on watery echoes rolled,
The shipwrecked seaman's knell.”—
—“Cease!”—cried the chief in accents rude—
“From songs like these mishap may rise.
Thus far have we our course pursued
With smiling seas and cloudless skies.
From wreck and tempest, omens ill,
Forbear; and sing, for well I deem
Those pretty lips possess the skill,
Some ancient tale of happier theme;
Some legend of imperial Jove,
In uncouth shapes disguised by love;
Or Hercules, and his hard toils;
Or Mercury, friend of craft and spoils;
Or Jove-born Bacchus, whom we prize
O'er all the Olympian deities.”—
He said, and drained the bowl. The crew
With long coarse laugh applauded. Fast

56

With sparkling keel the vessel flew,
For there was magic in the breeze
That urged her through the sounding seas.
By Chanastræum's point they past,
And Ampelos. Grey Athos, vast
With woods far-stretching to the sea,
Was full before them, while the maid
Again her lyre's wild strings assayed,
In notes of bolder melody:
—“Bacchus by the lonely ocean
Stood in youthful semblance fair:
Summer winds, with gentle motion,
Waved his black and curling hair.
Streaming from his manly shoulders
Robes of gold and purple dye
Told of spoil to fierce beholders
In their black ship sailing by.
On the vessel's deck they placed him
Strongly bound in triple bands;
But the iron rings that braced him
Melted, wax-like, from his hands.
Then the pilot spake in terror:
—‘'Tis a god in mortal form!
Seek the land; repair your error
Ere his wrath invoke the storm.’—
—‘Silence!’—cried the frowning master,—
Mind the helm: the breeze is fair:
Coward! cease to bode disaster:
Leave to men the captive's care.’—
While he speaks and fiercely tightens

57

In the full free breeze the sail,
From the deck wine bubbling lightens,
Winy fragrance fills the gale.
Gurgling in ambrosial lustre
Flows the purple-eddying wine:
O'er the yard-arms trail and cluster
Tendrils of the mantling vine:
Grapes, beneath the broad leaves springing,
Blushing as in vintage-hours,
Droop, while round the tall mast clinging
Ivy twines its buds and flowers,
Fast with graceful berries blackening:—
Garlands hang on every oar:
Then in fear the cordage slackening,
One and all they cry,—‘To shore!’—
Bacchus changed his shape, and glaring
With a lion's eyeballs wide,
Roared: the pirate-crew, despairing,
Plunged amid the foaming tide.
Through the azure depths they flitted
Dolphins by transforming fate:
But the god the pilot pitied,
Saved, and made him rich and great.”—
The crew laid by their cups, and frowned.
A stern rebuke the leader gave.
With arrowy speed the ship went round
Nymphæum. To the ocean-wave
The mountain-forest sloped, and cast
O'er the white surf its massy shade.
They heard, so near the shore they past,

58

The hollow sound the sea-breeze made,
As those primæval trees it swayed.
—“Curse on thy songs!”—the leader cried,—
“False tales of evil augury!”—
—“Well hast thou said,”—the maid replied,—
“They augur ill to thine and thee.”—
She rose, and loosed her radiant hair,
And raised her golden lyre in air.
The lyre, beneath the breeze's wings,
As if a spirit swept the strings,
Breathed airy music, sweet and strange,
In many a wild phantastic change.
Most like a daughter of the Sun

The children of the Sun were known by the splendor of their eyes and hair. Πασα γαρ ηελιου γενεη αριδηλος ιδεσθαι Ηεν: επει βλεφαρων αποτηλοθι, μαρμαρυγησιν Οιον εκ χρυσεων αντωπιον ιεσαν αιγλην. Apollonius, IV. 727. And in the Orphic Argonautics Circe is thus described:—εκ δ'αρα παντες Θαμβεον εισοροωντες: απο κρατος γαρ εθειραι Πυρσαις ακτινεσσιν αλιγκιοι ηωρηντο: Στιλβε δε καλα προσωπα, φλογος δ'απελαμπεν αυτμη.


She stood: her eyes all radiant shone
With beams unutterably bright;
And her long tresses, loose and light,
As on the playful breeze they rolled,
Flamed with rays of burning gold.
His wondering eyes Anthemion raised
Upon the maid: the seamen gazed
In fear and strange suspense, amazed.
From the forest-depths profound
Breathes a low and sullen sound:
'Tis the woodland spirit's sigh,
Ever heard when storms are nigh.
On the shore the surf that breaks
With the rising breezes makes
More tumultuous harmony.
Louder yet the breezes sing:
Round and round, in dizzy ring,
Sea-birds scream on restless wing:

59

Pine and cedar creak and swing
To the sea-blast's murmuring.
Far and wide on sand and shingle
Eddying breakers boil and mingle:
Beetling cliff and caverned rock
Roll around the echoing shock,
Where the spray, like snow-dust whirled,
High in vapory wreaths is hurled.
Clouds on clouds, in volumes driven,
Curtain round the vault of heaven.
—“To shore! to shore!”—the seamen cry.
The damsel waved her lyre on high,
And to the powers that rule the sea
It whispered notes of witchery.
Swifter than the lightning-flame
The sudden breath of the whirlwind came.
Round at once in its mighty sweep
The vessel whirled on the whirling deep.
Right from shore the driving gale
Bends the mast and swells the sail:
Loud the foaming ocean raves:
Through the mighty waste of waves
Speeds the vessel swift and free,
Like a meteor of the sea.
Day is ended. Darkness shrouds
The shoreless seas and lowering clouds.
Northward now the tempest blows:
Fast and far the vessel goes:
Crouched on deck the seamen lie;
One and all, with charmed eye,
On the magic maid they gaze:

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Nor the youth with less amaze
Looks upon her radiant form
Shining by the golden beams
Of her refulgent hair, that streams
Like waving star-light on the storm;
And hears the vocal blast that rings
Among her lyre's enchanted strings.
Onward, onward flies the bark,
Through the billows wild and dark.
From her prow the spray she hurls;
O'er her stern the big wave curls;
Fast before the impetuous wind
She flies—the wave bursts far behind.
Onward, onward flies the bark,
Through the raging billows:—Hark!
'Tis the stormy surge's roar
On the Ægean's northern shore.
Tow'rds the rocks, through surf and surge,
The destined ship the wild winds urge.
High on one gigantic wave
She swings in air. From rock and cave
A long loud wail of fate and fear
Rings in the hopeless seaman's ear.
Forward, with the breaker's dash,
She plunges on the rock. The crash
Of the dividing bark, the roar
Of waters bursting on the deck,
Are in Anthemion's ear: no more
He hears or sees: but round his neck
Are closely twined the silken rings
Of Rhododaphne's glittering hair,

61

And round him her bright arms she flings,
And cinctured thus in loveliest bands
The charmed waves in safety bear
The youth and the enchantress fair,
And leave them on the golden sands.

63

Canto VI

Hast thou, in some safe retreat,
Waked and watched, to hear the roar
Of breakers on the wind-swept shore?
Go forth at morn. The waves, that beat
Still rough and white when blasts are o'er,
May wash, all ghastly, to thy feet
Some victim of the midnight storm.
From that drenched garb and pallid form
Shrink not: but fix thy gaze, and see
Thy own congenial destiny.
For him, perhaps, an anxious wife
On some far coast o'erlooks the wave:
A child, unknowing of the strife
Of elements, to whom he gave
His last fond kiss, is at her breast:
The skies are clear, the seas at rest
Before her, and the hour is nigh
Of his return: but black the sky
To him, and fierce the hostile main,
Have been. He will not come again.
But yesterday, and life, and health,
And hope, and love, and power, and wealth,
Were his: to-day, in one brief hour,

64

Of all his wealth, of all his power,
He saved not, on his shattered deck,
A plank, to waft him from the wreck.
Now turn away, and dry thy tears,
And build long schemes for distant years!
Wreck is not only on the sea.
The warrior dies in victory:
The ruin of his natal roof
O'erwhelms the sleeping man: the hoof
Of his prized steed has struck with fate
The horseman in his own home gate:
The feast and mantling bowl destroy
The sensual in the hour of joy.
The bride from her paternal porch
Comes forth among her maids: the torch,
That led at morn the nuptial choir,
Kindles at night her funeral pyre.
Now turn away, indulge thy dreams,
And build for distant years thy schemes!
On Thracia's coast the morn was grey.
Anthemion, with the opening day,
From deep entrancement on the sands
Stood up. The magic maid was there
Beside him on the shore. Her hands
Still held the golden lyre: her hair
In all its long luxuriance hung
Unringleted, and glittering bright
With briny drops of diamond light:
Her thin wet garments lightly clung
Around her form's rare symmetry.

65

Like Venus risen from the sea
She seemed: so beautiful: and who
With mortal sight such form could view,
And deem that evil lurked beneath?
Who could approach those starry eyes,
Those dewy coral lips, that breathe
Ambrosial fragrance, and that smile
In which all Love's Elysium lies,
Who this could see, and dream of guile,
And brood on wrong and wrath the while?
If there be one, who ne'er has felt
Resolve, and doubt, and anger melt,
Like vernal night-frosts, in one beam
Of Beauty's sun, 'twere vain to deem,
Between the Muse and him could be
A link of human sympathy.
Fain would the youth his lips unclose
In keen reproach for all his woes
And his Calliroë's doom. In vain:
For closer now the magic chain
Of the inextricable spell
Involved him, and his accents fell
Perplexed, confused, inaudible.
And so awhile he stood. At length,
In painful tones, that gathered strength
With feeling's faster flow, he said:
—“What would'st thou with me, fatal maid?
That ever thus, by land and sea,
Thy dangerous beauty follows me?”—
She speaks in gentle accents low,
While dim through tears her bright eyes move:

66

—“Thou askest what thou well dost know;
I love thee, and I seek thy love.”—
—“My love! It sleeps in dust for ever
Within my lost Calliroë's tomb:
The smiles of living beauty never
May my soul's darkness re-illume.
We grew together, like twin flowers,
Whose opening buds the same dews cherish;
And one is reft, ere noon-tide hours,
Violently; one remains, to perish
By slow decay; as I remain
Even now, to move and breathe in vain.
The late, false love, that worldlings learn,
When hearts are hard, and thoughts are stern,
And feelings dull, and Custom's rule
Omnipotent, that love may cool,
And waste, and change: but this—which flings
Round the young soul its tendril rings,
Strengthening their growth and grasp with years,
Till habits, pleasures, hopes, smiles, tears,
All modes of thinking, feeling, seeing,
Of two congenial spirits, blend
In one inseparable being,—
Deem'st thou this love can change or end?
There is no eddy on the stream,
No bough that light winds bend and toss,
No chequering of the sunny beam
Upon the woodland moss,
No star in evening's sky, no flower
Whose beauty odorous breezes stir,
No sweet bird singing in the bower,

67

Nay, not the rustling of a leaf,
That does not nurse and feed my grief
By wakening thoughts of her.
All lovely things a place possessed
Of love in my Calliroë's breast:
And from her purer, gentler spirit,
Did mine the love and joy inherit,
Which that blest maid around her threw.
With all I saw, and felt, and knew,
The image of Calliroë grew,
Till all the beauty of the earth
Seemed as to her it owed its birth,
And did but many forms express
Of her reflected loveliness.
The sunshine and the air seemed less
The sources of my life: and how
Was she torn from me? Earth is now
A waste, where many echoes tell
Only of her I loved—how well
Words have no power to speak:—and thou—
Gather the rose-leaves from the plain
Where faded and defiled they lie,
And close them in their bud again,
And bid them to the morning sky
Spread lovely as at first they were:
Or from the oak the ivy tear,
And wreathe it round another tree
In vital growth: then turn to me,
And bid my spirit cling on thee,
As on my lost Calliroë!”—
—“The Genii of the earth, and sea,

68

And air, and fire, my mandates hear.
Even the dread Power, thy Ladon's fear,
Arcadian Dæmogorgon,

“The dreaded name of Dæmogorgon” is familiar to every reader, in Milton's enumeration of the Powers of Chaos. Mythological writers in general afford but little information concerning this terrible Divinity. He is incidentally mentioned in several places by Natalis Comes, who says, in treating of Pan, that Pronapides, in his Protocosmus, makes Pan and the three sister Fates the offspring of Dæmogorgon. Boccaccio, in a Latin treatise on the Genealogy of the Gods, gives some account of him on the authority of Theodotion and Pronapides. He was the Genius of the Earth, and the Sovereign Power of the Terrestrial Dæmons. He dwelt originally with Eternity and Chaos, till, becoming weary of inaction, he organised the chaotic elements, and surrounded the earth with the heavens. In addition to Pan and the Fates, his children were Uranus, Titæa, Pytho, Eris, and Erebus. This awful Power was so sacred among the Arcadians, that it was held impious to pronounce his name. The impious, however, who made less scruple about pronouncing it, are said to have found it of great virtue in magical incantations. He has been supposed to be a philosophical emblem of the principle of vegetable life. The silence of mythologists concerning him, can only be attributed to their veneration for his “dreaded name”; a proof of genuine piety which must be pleasing to our contemporary Pagans, for some such there are.

knows

My voice: the ivy or the rose,
Though torn and trampled on the plain,
May rise, unite, and bloom again,
If on his aid I call: thy heart
Alone resists and mocks my art.”—
—“Why lov'st thou me, Thessalian maid?
Why hast thou, cruel beauty, torn
Asunder two young hearts, that played
In kindred unison so blest,
As they had filled one single breast
From life's first opening morn?
Why lov'st thou me? The kings of earth
Might kneel to charms and power like thine:
But I, a youth of shepherd birth—
As well the stately mountain-pine
Might coil around the eglantine,
As thou thy radiant being twine
Round one so low, so lost as mine.”—
—“Sceptres and crowns, vain signs that move
The souls of slaves, to me are toys.
I need but love: I seek but love:
And long, amid the heartless noise
Of cities, and the woodland peace
Of vales, through all the scenes of Greece
I sought the fondest and the fairest
Of Grecian youths, my love to be:
And such a heart and form thou bearest,
And my soul sprang at once to thee,

69

Like an arrow to its destiny.
Yet shall my lips no spell repeat,
To bid thy heart responsive beat
To mine: thy love's spontaneous smile,
Nor forced by power, nor won by guile,
I claim: but yet a little while,
And we no more may meet.
For I must find a dreary home,
And thou, where'er thou wilt, shalt roam:
But should one tender thought awake
Of Rhododaphne, seek the cell,
Where she dissolved in tears doth dwell
Of blighted hope, and she will take
The wanderer to her breast, and make
Such flowers of bliss around him blow,
As kings would yield their thrones to know.”—
—“It must not be. The air is laden
With sweetness from thy presence born:
Music and light are round thee, maiden,
As round the Virgin Power of Morn:
I feel, I shrink beneath, thy beauty:
But love, truth, woe, remembrance, duty,
All point against thee, though arrayed
In charms whose power no heart could shun
That ne'er had loved another maid
Or any but that loveliest one,
Who now, within my bosom's void,
A sad pale shade, by thee destroyed,
Forbids all other love to bind
My soul: thine least of womankind.”—
Faltering and faint his accents broke,

70

As those concluding words he spoke.
No more she said, but sadly smiled,
And took his hand; and like a child
He followed her. All waste and wild,
A pathless moor before them lies.
Beyond, long chains of mountains rise:
Their summits with eternal snow
Are crowned: vast forests wave below,
And stretch, with ample slope and sweep,
Down to the moorlands and the deep.
Human dwelling see they none,
Save one cottage, only one,
Mossy, mildewed, frail, and poor,
Even as human home can be,
Where the forest skirts the moor,
By the inhospitable sea.
There, in tones of melody,
Sweet and clear as Dian's voice
When the rocks and woods rejoice
In her steps the chace impelling,
Rhododaphne, pausing, calls.
Echo answers from the walls:
Mournful response, vaguely telling
Of a long-deserted dwelling.
Twice her lips the call repeat,
Tuneful summons, thrilling sweet.
Still the same sad accents follow,
Cheerless echo, faint and hollow.
Nearer now, with curious gaze,
The youth that lonely cot surveys.
Long grass chokes the path before it,

71

Twining ivy mantles o'er it,
On the low roof blend together
Beds of moss and stains of weather,
Flowering weeds that trail and cluster,
Scaly lichen, stone-crop's lustre,
All confused in radiance mellow,
Red, grey, green, and golden yellow.
Idle splendor! gleaming only
Over ruins rude and lonely,
When the cold hearth-stone is shattered,
When the ember-dust is scattered,
When the grass that chokes the portal
Bends not to the tread of mortal.
The maiden dropped Anthemion's hand,
And forward, with a sudden bound,
She sprung. He saw the door expand,
And close, and all was silence round,
And loneliness: and forth again
She came not. But within this hour,
A burthen to him, and a chain,
Had been her beauty and her power:
But now, thus suddenly forsaken,
In those drear solitudes, though yet
His early love remained unshaken,
He felt within his breast awaken
A sense of something like regret.
But he pursued her not: his love,
His murdered love, such step forbade.
He turned his doubtful feet, to rove
Amid that forest's maze of shade.
Beneath the matted boughs, that made

72

A noonday twilight, he espied
No trace of man; and far and wide
Through fern and tangling briar he strayed,
Till toil, and thirst, and hunger weighed
His nature down, and cold and drear
Night came, and no relief was near.
But now at once his steps emerge
Upon the forest's moorland verge,
Beside the white and sounding surge.
For in one long self-circling track,
His mazy path had led him back,
To where that cottage old and lone
Had stood: but now to him unknown
Was all the scene. Mid gardens, fair
With trees and flowers of fragrance rare,
A rich and ample pile was there,
Glittering with myriad lights, that shone
Far-streaming through the dusky air.
With hunger, toil, and weariness,
Outworn, he cannot choose but pass
Tow'rds that fair pile. With gentle stress
He strikes the gate of polished brass.
Loud and long the portal rings,
As back with swift recoil it swings,
Disclosing wide a vaulted hall,
With many columns bright and tall
Encircled. Throned in order round,
Statues of dæmons and of kings
Between the marble columns frowned
With seeming life: each throne beside,
Two humbler statues stood, and raised

73

Each one a silver lamp, that wide
With many-mingling radiance blazed.
High-reared on one surpassing throne,
A brazen image sate alone,
A dwarfish shape, of wrinkled brow,
With sceptred hand and crowned head.
No sooner did Anthemion's tread
The echoes of the hall awake,
Than up that image rose, and spake,
As from a trumpet:—“What would'st thou?”—
Anthemion, in amaze and dread,
Replied:—“With toil and hunger worn,
I seek but food, and rest till morn.”—
The image spake again, and said:
—“Enter: fear not: thou art free
To my best hospitality.”—
Spontaneously, an inner door
Unclosed. Anthemion from the hall
Passed to a room of state, that wore
Aspect of destined festival.
Of fragrant cedar was the floor,
And round the light-pilastered wall
Curtains of crimson and of gold
Hung down in many a gorgeous fold.
Bright lamps, through that apartment gay
Adorned like Cytherëa's bowers
With vases filled with odorous flowers,
Diffused an artificial day.
A banquet's sumptuous order there,
In long array of viands rare,
Fruits, and ambrosial wine, was spread.

74

A golden boy, in semblance fair
Of actual life, came forth, and led
Anthemion to a couch, beside
That festal table, canopied
With cloth by subtlest Tyrian dyed,
And ministered the feast: the while,
Invisible harps symphonious wreathed
Wild webs of soul-dissolving sound,
And voices, alternating round,
Songs, as of choral maidens, breathed.
Now to the brim the boy filled up
With sparkling wine a crystal cup.
Anthemion took the cup, and quaffed,
With reckless thirst, the enchanted draught.
That instant came a voice divine,
A maiden voice:—“Now art thou mine!”—
The golden boy is gone. The song
And the symphonious harps no more
Their Siren minstrelsy prolong.
One crimson curtain waves before
His sight, and opens. From its screen,
The nymph of more than earthly mien,
The magic maid of Thessaly,
Came forth, her tresses loosely streaming,
Her eyes with dewy radiance beaming,
Her form all grace and symmetry,
In silken vesture light and free
As if the woof were air, she came,
And took his hand, and called his name.
—“Now art thou mine!”—again she cried,—
“My love's indissoluble chain

75

Has found thee in that goblet's tide,
And thou shalt wear my flower again.”—
She said, and in Anthemion's breast
She placed the laurel-rose: her arms
She twined around him, and imprest
Her lips on his, and fixed on him
Fond looks of passionate love: her charms
With tenfold radiance on his sense
Shone through the studied negligence
Of her light vesture. His eyes swim
With dizziness. The lamps grow dim,
And tremble, and expire. No more.
Darkness is there, and Mystery:
And Silence keeps the golden key
Of Beauty's bridal door.

77

Canto VII

First, fairest, best, of powers supernal,
Love waved in heaven his wings of gold,
And from the depths of Night eternal,
Black Erebus, and Chaos old,
Bade light, and life, and beauty rise
Harmonious from the dark disguise
Of elemental discord wild,
Which he had charmed and reconciled.
Love first in social bonds combined
The scattered tribes of humankind,
And bade the wild race cease to roam,
And learn the endearing name of home.
From Love the sister arts began,
That charm, adorn, and soften man.
To Love the feast, the dance, belong,
The temple-rite, the choral song;
All feelings that refine and bless,
All kindness, sweetness, gentleness.
Him men adore, and gods admire,
Of delicacy, grace, desire,
Persuasion, bliss, the bounteous sire;
In hopes, and toils, and pains, and fears,
Sole dryer of our human tears;

78

Chief ornament of heaven, and king
Of earth, to whom the world doth sing
One chorus of accordant pleasure,
Of which he taught and leads the measure.
He kindles in the inmost mind
One lonely flame—for once—for one—
A vestal fire, which, there enshrined,
Lives on, till life itself be done.
All other fires are of the earth,
And transient: but of heavenly birth
Is Love's first flame, which howsoever
Fraud, power, woe, chance, or fate, may sever
From its congenial source, must burn
Unquenched, but in the funeral urn.
And thus Anthemion knew and felt,
As in that palace on the wild,
By dæmon art adorned, he dwelt
With that bright nymph, who ever smiled
Refulgent as the summer morn
On eastern ocean newly born.
Though oft, in Rhododaphne's sight,
A phrensied feeling of delight,
With painful admiration mixed
Of her surpassing beauty, came
Upon him, yet of earthly flame
That passion was. Even as betwixt
The night-clouds transient lightnings play,
Those feelings came and passed away,
And left him lorn. Calliroë ever
Pursued him like a bleeding shade,

79

Nor all the magic nymph's endeavour
Could from his constant memory sever
The image of that dearer maid.
Yet all that love and art could do
The enchantress did. The pirate-crew
Her power had snatched from death, and pent
Awhile in ocean's bordering caves,
To be her ministers and slaves:
And there, by murmured spells, she sent
On all their shapes phantastic change.
In many an uncouth form and strange,
Grim dwarf, or bony Æthiop tall,
They plied, throughout the enchanted hall,
Their servile ministries, or sate
Gigantic mastiffs in the gate,
Or stalked around the garden-dells
In lion-guise, gaunt centinels.
And many blooming youths and maids,
A joyous Bacchanalian train,
(That mid the rocks and piny shades
Of mountains, through whose wild domain
Œagrian Hebrus, swift and cold,
Impels his waves o'er sands of gold,
Their orgies led) by secret force
Of her far-scattered spells compelled,
With song, and dance, and shout, their course
Tow'rds that enchanted dwelling held.
Oft, mid those palace-gardens fair,
The beauteous nymph (her radiant hair
With mingled oak and vine-leaves crowned)
Would grasp the thyrsus ivy-bound,

80

And fold, her festal vest around,
The Bacchic nebris, leading thus
The swift and dizzy thiasus:
And as she moves, in all her charms,
With springing feet and flowing arms,
'Tis strange in one fair shape to see
How many forms of grace can be.
The youths and maids, her beauteous train,
Follow fast in sportive ring,
Some the torch and mystic cane,
Some the vine-bough, brandishing;
Some, in giddy circlets fleeting,
The Corybantic timbrel beating:
Maids, with silver flasks advancing,
Pour the wine's red-sparkling tide,
Which youths, with heads recumbent dancing,
Catch in goblets as they glide:
All upon the odorous air
Lightly toss their leafy hair,
Ever singing, as they move,
—“Io Bacchus! son of Jove!”—
And oft, the Bacchic fervors ending,
Among those garden-bowers they stray,
Dispersed, where fragrant branches blending
Exclude the sun's meridian ray,
Or on some thymy bank repose,
By which a tinkling rivulet flows,
Where birds, on each o'ershadowing spray,
Make music through the live-long day.
The while, in one sequestered cave,
Where roses round the entrance wave,

81

And jasmin sweet and clustering vine
With flowers and grapes the arch o'ertwine,
Anthemion and the nymph recline,
While in the sunny space, before
The cave, a fountain's lucid store
Its crystal column shoots on high,
And bursts, like showery diamonds flashing,
So falls, and with melodious dashing
Shakes the small pool. A youth stands by,
A tuneful rhapsodist, and sings,
Accordant to his changeful strings,
High strains of ancient poesy.
And oft her golden lyre she takes,
And such transcendent strains awakes,
Such floods of melody, as steep
Anthemion's sense in bondage deep
Of passionate admiration: still
Combining with intenser skill
The charm that holds him now, whose bands
May ne'er be loosed by mortal hands.
And oft they rouse with clamorous chace
The forest, urging wide and far
Through glades and dells the sylvan war.
Satyrs and Fauns would start around,
And through their ferny dingles bound,
To see that nymph, all life and grace
And radiance, like the huntress-queen,
With sandaled feet and vest of green,
In her soft fingers grasp the spear,
Hang on the track of flying deer,
Shout to the dogs as fast they sweep

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Tumultuous down the woodland steep,
And hurl, along the tainted air,
The javelin from her streaming hair.
The bath, the dance, the feast's array,
And sweetest rest, conclude the day.
And 'twere most witching to disclose,
Were there such power in mortal numbers,
How she would charm him to repose,
And gaze upon his troubled slumbers,
With looks of fonder love, than ever
Pale Cynthia on Endymion cast,
While her forsaken chariot passed
O'er Caria's many-winding river.
The love she bore him was a flame
So strong, so total, so intense,
That no desire beside might claim
Dominion in her thought or sense.
The world had nothing to bestow
On her: for wealth and power were hers:
The dæmons of the earth (that know
The beds of gems and fountain-springs
Of undiscovered gold, and where,
In subterranean sepulchres
The memory of whose place doth bear
No vestige, long-forgotten kings
Sit gaunt on monumental thrones,
With massy pearls and costly stones
Hanging on their half-mouldered bones)
Were slaves to her. The fears and cares
Of feebler mortals—Want, and Woe
His daughter, and their mutual child

83

Remorseless Crime,—keen Wrath, that tears
The breast of Hate unreconciled,—
Ambition's spectral goad,—Revenge,
That finds in consummation food
To nurse anew her hydra brood,—
Shame, Misery's sister,—dread of change,
The bane of wealth and worldly might,—
She knew not: Love alone, like ocean,
Filled up with one unshared emotion
Her soul's capacity: but right
And wrong she recked not of, nor owned
A law beyond her soul's desire;
And from the hour that first enthroned
Anthemion in her heart, the fire,
That burned within her, like the force
Of floods swept with it in its course
All feelings that might barriers prove
To her illimitable love.
Thus, wreathed with ever-varying flowers,
Went by the purple-pinioned hours;
Till once, returning from the wood
And woodland chace, at evening-fall,
Anthemion and the enchantress stood
Within the many-columned hall,
Alone. They looked around them. Where
Are all those youths and maidens fair,
Who followed them but now? On high
She waves her lyre. Its murmurs die
Tremulous. They come not whom she calls.
Why starts she? Wherefore does she throw
Around the youth her arms of snow,

84

With passion so intense, and weep?
What mean those murmurs, sad and low,
That like sepulchral echoes creep
Along the marble walls?
Her breath is short and quick; and, dim
With tears, her eyes are fixed on him:
Her lips are quivering and apart:
He feels the fluttering of her heart:
Her face is pale. He cannot shun
Her fear's contagion. Tenderly
He kissed her lips in sympathy,
And said:—“What ails thee, lovely one?”—
Low, trembling, faint, her accents fall:
—“Look round: what seest thou in the hall?”—
Anthemion looked, and made return:
—“The statues, and the lamps that burn:
No more.”—“Yet look again, where late
The solitary image sate,
The monarch-dwarf. Dost thou not see
An image there which should not be?”—
Even as she bade he looked again:
From his high throne the dwarf was gone.
Lo! there, as in the Thespian fane,
Uranian Love! His bow was bent:
The arrow to its head was drawn:
His frowning brow was fixed intent
On Rhododaphne. Scarce did rest
Upon that form Anthemion's view,
When, sounding shrill, the arrow flew,
And lodged in Rhododaphne's breast.
It was not Love's own shaft, the giver

85

Of life and joy and tender flame;
But, borrowed from Apollo's quiver,
The death-directed arrow came.
Long, slow, distinct in each stern word,
A sweet deep-thrilling voice was heard:
—“With impious spells hast thou profaned
My altars; and all-ruling Jove,
Though late, yet certain, has unchained
The vengeance of Uranian Love!

The late but certain vengeance of the gods, occurs in many forms as a sentence among the classical writers; and is the subject of an interesting dialogue, among the moral works of Plutarch, which concludes with the fable of Thespesius, a very remarkable prototype of the Inferno of Dante.

”—

The marble palace burst asunder,
Riven by subterranean thunder.
Sudden clouds around them rolled,
Lucid vapour, fold on fold.
Then Rhododaphne closer prest
Anthemion to her bleeding breast,
As, in his arms upheld, her head
All languid on his neck reclined;
And in the curls, that overspread
His cheek, her temple-ringlets twined:
Her dim eyes drew, with fading sight,
From his their last reflected light,
And on his lips, as nature failed,
Her lips their last sweet sighs exhaled.
—“Farewell!”—she said—“another bride
The partner of thy days must be:
But do not hate my memory:
And build a tomb, by Ladon's tide,
To her, who, false in all beside,
Was but too true in loving thee!”—
The quivering earth beneath them stirred.
In dizzy trance upon her bosom

86

He fell, as falls a wounded bird
Upon a broken rose's blossom.
What sounds are in Anthemion's ear?
It is the lark that carols clear,
And gentle waters murmuring near.
He lifts his head: the new-born day
Is round him, and the sun-beams play
On silver eddies. Can it be?
The stream he loved in infancy?
The hills? the Aphrodisian grove?
The fields that knew Calliroë's love?
And those two sister trees, are they
The cedar and the poplar grey,
That shade old Pheidon's door? Alas!
Sad vision now! Does Phantasy
Play with his troubled sense, made dull
By many griefs? He does not dream:
It is his own Arcadian stream,
The fields, the hills: and on the grass,
The dewy grass of Ladon's vale,
Lies Rhododaphne, cold and pale,
But even in death most beautiful;
And there, in mournful silence by her,
Lies on the ground her golden lyre.
He knelt beside her on the ground:
On her pale face and radiant hair
He fixed his eyes, in sorrow drowned.
That one so gifted and so fair,
All light and music, thus should be

87

Quenched like a night-star suddenly,
Might move a stranger's tears; but he
Had known her love; such love, as yet
Never could heart that knew forget!
He thought not of his wrongs. Alone
Her love and loveliness possest
His memory, and her fond cares, shewn
In seeking, nature's empire through,
Devices ever rare and new,
To make him calm and blest.
Two maids had loved him; one, the light
Of his young soul, the morning star
Of life and love; the other, bright
As are the noon-tide skies, when far
The vertic sun's fierce radiance burns:
The world had been too brief to prove
The measure of each single love:
Yet, from this hour, forlorn, bereft,
Companionless, where'er he turns,
Of all that love on earth is left
No trace but their cinereal urns.
But Pheidon's door unfolds; and who
Comes forth in beauty? Oh! 'tis she,
Herself, his own Calliroë!
And in that burst of blest surprise,
Like Lethe's self upon his brain
Oblivion of all grief and pain
Descends, and tow'rds her path he flies.
The maiden knew
Her love, and flew
To meet him, and her dear arms threw

88

Around his neck, and wept for bliss,
And on his lips impressed a kiss
He had not dared to give. The spell
Was broken now, that gave before
Not death, but magic slumber. More
The closing measure needs not tell.
Love, wonder, transport wild and high,
Question that waited not reply,
And answer unrequired, and smiles
Through such sweet tears as bliss beguiles,
Fixed, mutual looks of long delight,
Soft chiding for o'erhasty flight,
And promise never more to roam,
Were theirs. Old Pheidon from his home
Came forth, to share their joy, and bless
Their love, and all was happiness.
But when the maid Anthemion led
To where her beauteous rival slept
The long last sleep, on earth dispread,
And told her tale, Calliroë wept
Sweet tears for Rhododaphne's doom;
For in her heart a voice was heard:
—“'Twas for Anthemion's love she erred!”—
They built by Ladon's banks a tomb;
And, when the funeral pyre had burned,
With seemly rites they there inurned
The ashes of the enchantress fair;
And sad sweet verse they traced, to show
That youth, love, beauty, slept below;
And bade the votive marble bear
The name of Rhododaphne. There

89

The laurel-rose luxuriant sprung,
And in its boughs her lyre they hung,
And often, when, at evening hours,
They decked the tomb with mournful flowers,
The lyre upon the twilight breeze
Would pour mysterious symphonies.

95

PAPER MONEY LYRICS, AND OTHER POEMS.


97

Falstaff.
Master Shallow, I owe you a thousand pound.

Shallow.
Ay, marry, Sir John, which I beseech you to let me have home with me.

Shakspeare.

Perez.
Who's that is cheated? Speak again, thou vision.

Cacafogo.
I'll let thee know I am cheated, cheated damnably.

Beaumont and Fletcher.


101

PAN IN TOWN

[_]

(Metrum Ithyphallicum cum anacrusi.)

Falstaff.
If any man will caper with me for a thousand marks, let him lend me the money, and have at him.

Pan and Chorus of Citizens.
Pan.
The Country banks are breaking:
The London banks are shaking:
Suspicion is awaking:
E'en quakers now are quaking:
Experience seems to settle,
That paper is not metal,
And promises of payment
Are neither food nor raiment;
Then, since that, one and all, you
Are fellows of no value

102

For genius, learning, spirit,
Or any kind of merit
That mortals call substantial,
Excepting the financial,
(Which means the art of robbing
By huckstering and jobbing,
And sharing gulls and gudgeons
Among muckworms and curmudgeons)
Being each a flimsy funny
On the stream of paper money,
All riding by sheet anchors,
Of balances at Bankers;
Look out! for squalls are coming,
That if you stand hum-drumming,
Will burst with vengeance speedy,
And leave you like the needy
Who have felt your clutches greedy,
All beggarly and seedy
And not worth a maravedi.

Chorus.
Our balances, our balances,
Our balances, our balances:
Our balances we crave for:
Our balances we rave for:
Our balances we rush for:
Our balances we crush for:
Our balances we call for:
Our balances we bawl for:
Our balances we run for:
Our balances we dun for:

103

Our balances we pour for:
Our balances we roar for:
Our balances we shout for:
Our balances we rout for:
Our balances, our balances,
We bellow all about for.

Obadiah Nine-eyes.
The mighty men of Gad, yea,
Are all upon the pad, yea,
Bellowing with lungs all brazen,
Even like the bulls of Basan;
With carnal noise and shout, yea,
They compass me about, yea;
I am full of tribulation
For the sinful generation;
I shrink from the abiding
Of the wrath of their back-sliding;
Lest my feet should be up-tripp-ed,
And my outward man be stripp-ed,
And my pockets be out-clean-ed
Of the fruits which I have glean-ed.

Chorus.
Our balances, our balances,
Our balances, our balances,
Pay—pay—pay—pay—
Without delay—
Our balances, our balances.


104

Mac Fungus.
A weel sirs, what's the matter?
An' hegh sirs, what's the clatter?
Ye dinna ken,
Ye seely men,
Y'ur fortunes ne'er were batter.
There's too much population,
An' too much cultivation,
An' too much circulation,
That's a' that ails the nation.
Ye're only out o' halth, sirs,
Wi' a plathora o' walth, sirs,
Instead of glourin' hither,
Ye'd batter, I conjacture,
Just hoot awa' thegither,
To hear our braw chiel lacture:
His ecoonoomic science
Wad silence a' your clanking,
An' teach you some reliance,
On the preenciples o' banking.

Chorus.
Our balances, our balances,
Our balances, our balances.

Sir Roger Rednose (Banker).
Be quiet, lads, and steady,
Suspend this idle racket,
Your balances are ready,
Each wrapped in separate packet,

105

All ticketed and docketed,
And ready to be pocketed.

First Citizen.
As of cash you've such a heap, sir,
My balance you may keep, sir;
Have troubled you I shouldn't,
Except in the belief
That you couldn't pay or wouldn't.

[Exit.
Sir Roger Rednose.
Now there's a pretty thief.
(A scroll appears over a door.)
“Tick, Nick, Tick, Trick, and Company,
Are deeply grieved to say,
They are under the necessity
Of suspending for the day.”

Second Citizen.
This evil I portended.

Third Citizen.
Now all my hopes are ended.

Fourth Citizen.
I'm quite aground.

Fifth Citizen.
I'm all astound.

Sixth Citizen.
Would they were all suspended.


106

Chorus.
Our balances, our balances,
Our balances, our balances,
Pay, pay, pay, pay,
Without delay,
Lest ere to-morrow morning
To pot you go;
Tick, Nick, and Co.
Have given us all a warning.

Sir Flimsy Kite.
Sirs, we must stop;
We shut up shop,
Though assets here are plenty.
When up we're wound,
For every pound
We'll pay you shillings twenty.

Seventh Citizen.
What assets, sir, I pray you?

Sir Flimsy Kite.
Sir, quite enough to pay you.

Eighth Citizen.
May it please you to say what, sir?

Sir Flimsy Kite.
Good bills a monstrous lot, sir;
And Spanish Bonds a store, sir;
And Mining Shares still more, sir;

107

Columbian Scrip, and Chilian;
And Poyais half a million:
And what will make you sleek, sir,
Fine picking from the Greek, sir.

Ninth Citizen.
I think it will appear, sir,
The greatest Greek is here, sir.

Sentimental Cockney.
Oh how can Plutus deal so
By his devout adorer?

Nervous Cockney.
This hubbub makes me feel so.

Fancy Cockney.
Now this I call a floorer.

Newspaper Man.
The respectable old firm,
(We have much concern in saying,)
Kite, Grubbings, and Muckworm,
Have been forced to leave off paying.

Bystander.
The loser and the winner,
The dupe and the impostor,
May now both go to dinner
With Humphrey, Duke of Glo'ster.


108

Lawyer.
That we the fruits may pocket,
Let's go and strike a docket.

Chorus.
Da Capo.
Our balances, our balances,
Our balances, our balances.

Sir Roger Rednose.
Some are gone to-day,
More will go to-morrow:
But I will stay and pay,
And neither beg nor borrow,
Tick and Kite,
That looked so bright,
Like champagne froth have flown, sirs;
But I can tell
They both worked well
While well was let alone, sirs.

 

Pan, it may be necessary to tell the citizens, is the author of “Panic Terrors.” The Cockney poet, who entitled a poem The Universal Pan, which began with “Not in the town am I”; a most original demonstration of his universality; has had a good opportunity, since he wrote that poem, of seeing that Pan can be in town sometimes. Perhaps, according to his Mythology, the Pan in town was the Sylvan Pan; a fashionable arrival for the season.

The Nine-eyes or Lamprey is distinguished for its power of suction.

THE THREE LITTLE MEN

“Base is the slave that pays.” —Pistol.

There were Three Little Men,
And they made a Little Pen,
And they said, “Little Pen, you must flow, flow, flow,
And write our names away
Under promises to pay,
Which how we are to keep we do not know.”

109

Then said the Little Pen:—
“My pretty Little Men,
If you wish your pretty promises to pass, pass, pass,
You must make a little flash,
And parade a little cash,
And you're sure of every neighbour that's an ass, ass, ass.”
Then said the Little Three,
“If wiseacres there be,
They are not the sort of folks for me, me, me.
Let us have but all the fools,
And the wise ones and their rules
May just go to the devil and be d---, d---, d---.”
Then the Little Men so gay,
Wrote their promises to pay,
And lived for many moons royally, ly, ly,
Till there came a stormy day,
And they vanished all away,
Leaving many shoals of gudgeons high and dry, dry, dry.
They who sought the Little Men,
Only found the Little Pen,
Which they instantly proceeded to condemn, demn, demn;
“But,” said the Little Pen,
“Use me like the Little Men,
And I'll make you as good money as I made for them.”
The seekers with long faces,
Returned upon their traces,

110

They carried in the van the Little Pen, Pen, Pen;
And they hung it on the wall
Of their reverend Town-hall,
As an eloquent memorial of the Little Men.

PROŒMIUM OF AN EPIC

WHICH WILL SHORTLY APPEAR IN QUARTO, UNDER THE TITLE OF “FLY-BY-NIGHT,” By R--- S---, Esq., Poet Laureate.

“His promises were, as he once was, mighty;
And his performance, as he is now, nothing.”
Hen. VIII.

How troublesome is day!
It calls us from our sleep away;
It bids us from our pleasant dreams awake,
And sends us forth to keep or break
Our promises to pay.
How troublesome is day!
Now listen to my lay;
Much have I said,
Which few have heard or read,
And much have I to say,
Which hear ye while ye may.
Come listen to my lay,
Come, for ye know me, as a man
Who always praises, as he can,
All promisers to pay.

111

So they and I on terms agree,
And they but keep their faith with me,
Whate'er their deeds to others be,
They may to the minutest particle
Command my fingers for an ode or article.
Come listen while I strike the Epic string,
And, as a changeful song I sing,
Before my eyes
Bid changeful Proteus rise,
Turning his coat and skin in countless forms and dyes.
Come listen to my lay,
While I the wild and wondrous tale array,
How Fly-by-Night went down,
And set a bank up in a country town;
How like a king his head he reared;
And how the Coast of Cash he cleared;
And how one night he disappeared,
When many a scoffer jibed and jeered;
And many an old man rent his beard;
And many a young man cursed and railed;
And many a woman wept and wailed;
And many a mighty heart was quailed;
And many a wretch was caged and gaoled:
Because great Fly-by-Night had failed.
And many a miserable sinner
Went without his Sunday dinner,
Because he had not metal bright,
And waved in vain before the butcher's sight,
The promises of Fly-by-Night.

112

And little Jackey Horner
Sate sulking in the corner,
And in default of Christmas pie
Whereon his little thumb to try,
He put his finger in his eye,
And blubbered long and lustily.
Come listen to my lay,
And ye shall say,
That never tale of errant knight,
Or captive damsel bright,
Demon, or elf, or goblin sprite,
Fierce crusade, or feudal fight,
Or cloistral phantom all in white,
Or castle on accessless height,
Upreared by necromantic might,
Was half so full of rare delight,
As this whereof I now prolong,
The memory in immortal song—
The wild and wondrous tale of Fly-by-Night.

113

A MOOD OF MY OWN MIND,

OCCURRING DURING A GALE OF WIND AT MIDNIGHT, WHILE I WAS WRITING A PAPER ON THE CURRENCY, BY THE LIGHT OF TWO MOULD CANDLES.

By W. W., Esq., Distributor of Stamps.
“Quid distent æra lupinis?” —Hor.
Much grieved am I in spirit by the news of this day's post,
Which tells me of the devil to pay with the paper money host:
'Tis feared that out of all their mass of promises to pay,
The devil alone will get his due: he'll take them at his day.
I have a pleasant little nook secured from colds and damps,
From whence to paper money men I serve out many stamps;
From thence a fair percentage gilds my dwelling in the glen;
And therefore do I sympathise with the paper money men.
I muse, I muse, for much this news my spirit doth perplex,
But whilst I muse I can't refuse a pint of double X,

114

Which Mrs. W. brings to me, which she herself did brew,
Oh! doubly sweet is double X from Mistress double U.
The storm is on the mountain side, the wind is all around;
It sweeps across the lake and vale, it makes a mighty sound:
A rushing sound, that makes me think of what I've heard at sea,
“The devil in a gale of wind is as busy as a bee.”
I fear the devil is busy now with the paper money men:
I listen to the tempest's roar through mountain pass and glen;
I hear amid the eddying blast a sound among the hills,
Which to my fancy seems the sound of bursting paper mills.
A money-grinding paper mill blows up with such a sound,
As shakes the green geese from their nests for many miles around;
Oh woe to him who seeks the mill pronouncing sternly “Pay!”
A spell like “open sesame” which evil sprites obey.

115

The word of power up-blows the mill, the miller disappears:
The shattered fragments fall in showers about the intruder's ears;
And leave no trace to mark the place of what appeared so great,
But shreds of rags, and ends of quills, and bits of copper-plate.
I love the paper money, and the paper money men;
My hundred, if they go to pot, I fear would sink to ten;
The country squires would cry “Retrench!” and then I might no doubt,
Be sent about my business; yea, even right about.
I hold the paper money men say truly, when they say
They ought to pay their promises, with promises to pay;
And he is an unrighteous judge, who says they shall or may,
Be made to keep their promises in any other way.
The paper money goes about, by one, and two, and five,
A circulation like the blood, that keeps the land alive:
It pays the rent of country squires, and makes them think they thrive,
When else they might be lighting fires to smoke the loyal hive.

116

The paper money goes about: it works extremely well:
I find it buys me every thing that people have to sell:
Bread, beef, and breeches, coals and wine, and all good things in store,
The paper money buys for me: and what could gold do more?
The promise works extremely well, so that it be but broken:
'Tis not a promise to be kept, but a solemn type and token,
A type of value gone abroad on travel long ago;
And how it's to come back again, God knows, I do not know.
If ignorant impatience makes the people run for gold,
Whatever's left that paper bought must be put up and sold;
If so, perhaps they'll put up me as a purchase of the Crown;
I fear I shan't fetch sixpence, but I'm sure to be knock'd down.
The promise is not to be kept, that point is very clear;
'Twas proved so by a Scotch adept who dined with me last year,
I wish instead of viands rare, which were but thrown away,
I had dined him on a bill of fare, to be eaten at Doomsday.

117

God save the paper money and the paper money men!
God save them all from those who call to have their gold again;
God send they may be always safe against a reckoning day;
And then, God send me plenty of their promises to pay!

LOVE AND THE FLIMSIES

By T. M., Esq.

Ο δ' Ερως, χιτωνα δησας
Ψ(περ αυχενος ΠΑΠΨΡΩι.
—Anacr.

Little Cupid one day on a sunbeam was floating,
Above a green vale where a paper-mill played;
And he hovered in ether, delightedly noting
The whirl and the splash that the water-wheel made.
The air was all filled with the scent of the roses,
Round the miller's viranda that clustered and twined;
And he thought if the sky were all made up of noses,
This spot of the earth would be most to its mind.
And forth came the miller, a quaker in verity,
Rigid of limb and complacent of face,
And behind him a Scotchman was singing “Prosperity,”
And picking his pocket with infinite grace.

118

And “Walth and prosparity,” “Walth and prosparity,”
His bonny Scotch burthen arose on the air,
To a song all in praise of that primitive charity,
Which begins with sweet home and which terminates there.
But sudden a tumult arose from a distance,
And in rushed a rabble with steel and with stone,
And ere the scared miller could call for assistance,
The mill to a million of atoms was blown.
Scarce mounted the fragments in ether to hurtle,
When the quaker was vanished no eye had seen where;
And the Scotchman thrown flat on his back like a turtle,
Was sprawling and bawling with heels in the air.
Little Cupid continued to hover and flutter,
Pursuing the fragments that floated on high,
As light as the fly that is christened from butter,
Till he gathered his handsfull and flew to the sky.
“Oh mother,” he cried, as he shewed them to Venus,
“What are these little talismans cyphered—One—One?
If you think them worth having we'll share them between us,
Though their smell is like, none of the newest, poor John.”

119

“My darling,” says Venus, “away from you throw them,
They're a sort of fool's gold among mortals 'tis true;
But we want them not here, though I think you might know them,
Since on earth they so often have bought and sold you.”

THE WISE MEN OF GOTHAM

By S. T. C., Esq., Professor of Mysticism.
ΣΚΙΑΣ ΟΝΑΡ.
—Pindar.
In a bowl to sea went wise men three,
On a brilliant night of June:
They carried a net, and their hearts were set
On fishing up the moon.
The sea was calm, the air was balm,
Not a breath stirred low or high,
And the moon, I trow, lay as bright below,
And as round as in the sky.
The wise men with the current went,
Nor paddle nor oar had they,
And still as the grave they went on the wave,
That they might not disturb their prey.
Far, far at sea, were the wise men three,
When their fishing net they threw;

120

And at the throw, the moon below
In a thousand fragments flew.
The sea was bright with the dancing light
Of a million million gleams,
Which the broken moon shot forth as soon
As the net disturbed her beams.
They drew in their net: it was empty and wet,
And they had lost their pain,
Soon ceased the play of each dancing ray,
And the image was round again.
Three times they threw, three times they drew,
And all the while were mute;
And ever anew their wonder grew,
Till they could not but dispute.
Their silence they broke, and each one spoke
Full long, and loud, and clear;
A man at sea their voices three
Full three leagues off might hear.
The three wise men got home again
To their children and their wives:
But touching their trip, and their net's vain dip,
They disputed all their lives.
The wise men three could never agree,
Why they missed the promised boon;
They agreed alone that their net they had thrown,
And they had not caught the moon.

121

I have thought myself pale o'er this ancient tale,
And its sense I could not ken;
But now I see that the wise men three
Were paper-money men.
“Rub a dub dub, three men in a tub,”
Is a mystic burthen old,
Which I've pondered about till my fire went out,
And I could not sleep for cold.
I now divine each mystic sign,
Which robbed me oft of sleep,
Three men in a bowl, who went to troll,
For the moon in the midnight deep.
Three men were they who science drank
From Scottish fountains free;
The cash they sank in the Gotham bank,
Was the moon beneath the sea.
The breaking of the imaged moon,
At the fishing-net's first splash,
Was the breaking of the bank as soon
As the wise men claimed their cash.
The dispute which lasted all their lives,
Was the economic strife,
Which the son's son's son of every one
Will maintain through all his life.
The son's son's sons will baffled be,
As were their sires of old;

122

But they'll only agree, like the wise men three,
That they could not get their gold.
And they'll build systems dark and deep,
And systems broad and high;
But two of three will never agree
About the reason why.
And he who at this day will seek
The Economic Club,
Will find at least three sages there,
As ready as any that ever were
To go to sea in a tub.

CHORUS OF BUBBLE BUYERS

“When these practisers come to the last decoction, blow, blow, puff, puff, and all flies in fumo. Poor wretches! I rather pity their folly and indiscretion, than their loss of time and money: for these may be restored by industry: but to be a fool born is a disease incurable.” Ben Jonson's Volpone.

Oh! where are the hopes we have met in a morning,
As we hustled and bustled around Capel Court?
When we laughed at the croakers that bade us take warning,
Who once were our scorn and now make us their sport.
Oh! where are the regions where well-paid inspectors
Found metals omnigenous streaked and emboss'd?

123

So kindly bought for us by honest directors,
Who charged us but three times as much as they cost.
Oh! where are the riches that bubbled like fountains,
In places we neither could utter nor spell,
A thousand miles inland mid untrodden mountains,
Where silver and gold grew like heath and blue-bell?
Oh! where are the lakes overflowing with treasure?
The gold-dust that rolled in each torrent and stream?
The mines that held water by cubic-mile measure,
So easily pumped up by portable steam?
That water our prospects a damp could not throw on;
We had only a million-horse power to prepare,
Make a thousand-mile road for the engine to go on,
And send coals from Newcastle to boil it when there.
Oh! where are the bridges to span the Atlantic?
Oh! where is the gas to illumine the poles?
They came to our visions; that makes us half frantic:
They came to our pockets; that touches our souls.

124

Oh! there is the seat of most exquisite feeling:
The first pair of nerves to the pocket doth dive:
A wound in our hearts would be no time in healing,
But a wound in our pockets how can we survive?
Now curst be the projects, and curst the projectors,
And curst be the bubbles before us that rolled,
Which, bursting, have left us like desolate spectres,
Bewailing our bodies of paper and gold.
For what is a man but his coat and his breeches,
His plate and his linen, his land and his house?
Oh! we had been men had we won our mock riches,
But now we are ghosts, each as poor as a mouse.
But shades as we are, we, with shadowy bubbles,
When the midnight bell tolls will through Capel Court glide,
And the dream of the Jew shall be turmoils and troubles,
When he sees each pale ghost on its bubble astride.
And the lecturing Scots that upheld the delusion,
By prating of paper, and wealth, and free trade,
Shall see us by night to their awe and confusion,
Grim phantoms of wrath that shall never be laid.

125

A BORDER BALLAD

BY AN ENCHANTER UNKNOWN

“The Scot, to rival realms a mighty bar,
Here fixed his mountain home: a wide domain,
And rich the soil, had purple heath been grain:
But what the niggard ground of wealth denied,
From fields more blest his fearless arm supplied.”
Leyden.

The Scotts, Kerrs, and Murrays, and Deloraines all,
The Hughies o' Hawdon, and Wills-o'-the-Wall,
The Willimondswicks, and the hard-riding Dicks,
Are stanch to the last to their old border tricks;
Wine flows not from heath, and bread grinds not from stone,
They must reeve for their living, or life they'll have none.
When the Southron's strong arm, with the steel and the law,
Had tamed the Moss-troopers, so bonny and braw;
Though spiders wove webs in the rusty sword-hilt,
In the niche of the hall which their forefathers built;
Yet with sly paper credit and promise to pay,
They still drove the trade which the wise call convey.
They whitewashed the front of their old border fort;
They widened its loop-holes, and opened its court;

126

They put in sash-windows where none were before,
And they wrote the word “Bank” o'er the new-painted door;
The cross-bow and matchlock aside they did lay,
And they shot the stout Southron with promise to pay.
They shot him from far and they shot him from near,
And they laid him as flat as their fathers laid deer:
Their fathers were heroes, though some called them thieves
When they ransacked their dwellings and drove off their beeves;
But craft undermined what force battered in vain,
And the pride of the Southron was stretched on the plain.
Now joy to the Hughies and Willies so bold!
The Southron, like Dickon, is bought and is sold;
To his goods and his chattels, his house and his land,
Their promise to pay is as Harlequin's wand:
A touch and a word, and pass, presto, begone,
The Southron has lost and the Willies have won.
The Hughies and Willies may lead a glad life:
They reap without sowing, they win without strife:
The Bruce and the Wallace were sturdy and fierce,
But where Scotch steel was broken Scotch paper can pierce;
And the true meed of conquest our minstrels shall fix,
On the promise to pay of our Willimondswicks.
 

Steal! odious is the word—convey the wise it call. Pistol.


127

ST. PETER OF SCOTLAND

“Si bene calculum ponas, ubique naufragium est.” Petronius Arbiter.

St. Peter of Scotland set sail with a crew
Of philosophers picked from the Bluecap Review:
His boat was of paper, old rags were her freight,
And her bottom was sheathed with a spruce copperplate.
Her mast was a quill, and to catch the fair gale
The broad grey goose feather was spread for a sail;
So he ploughed his blithe way through the surge and the spray,
And the name of his boat was the Promise-to-Pay.
And swiftly and gaily she went on her track,
As if she could never be taken a-back,
As if in her progress there never could be
A chop of the wind or a swell of the sea.
She was but a fair-weather vessel, in sooth,
For winds that were gentle, and waves that were smooth;
She was built not for storm, she was armed not for strife,
But in her St. Peter risked fortune and life.
His fortune, 'tis true, was but bundles of rag,
That no pedlar, not Scotch, would have put in his bag;

128

The worth of his life none could know but the few
Who insured it on sailing from sweet Edinbroo'.
St. Peter seemed daft, and he laughed and he quaffed;
But an ill-boding wave struck his vessel right aft:
It stove in his quarters and swamped his frail boat,
Which sunk with an eddy and left him afloat.
He clung to his goose-quill and floated all night,
And he landed at daybreak in pitiful plight;
And he preached a discourse when he reached the good town,
To prove that his vessel should not have gone down.
The nautical science he took for his guide
Allowed no such force as the wind or the tide:
None but blockheads could think such a science o'erthrown,
By the breath of a gale which ought not to have blown.

LAMENT OF SCOTCH ECONOMISTS ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE ONE-POUND NOTES

“Do not halloo before you are out of the wood.” Castlereagh, of blessed memory.

Oh hone-a-rie! Oh hone-a-rie!
The pride of paper's reign is o'er,
And fall'n the flower of credit's tree:
We ne'er shall see a flimsy more.

129

Oh! sprung from great I-will-not-pay,
The chief that never feared a dun,
How hopeful was thy ne'er-come-day,
How comely thy symbolic One!
The country loons with wonder saw
The magic type perform its rounds,
Transforming many a man of straw
To men of many thousand pounds.
For northern lads blithe days were those;
They wanted neither beef nor ale,
Surprised their toes with shoes and hose,
And made Scotch broo' of English cail.
Oh! Johnny Groat, we little thought,
Tow'rds thee our noses e'er would point;
But flimsies burned, and cash returned,
Will put said noses out of joint.
Improvements vast will then be past:
The march of mind will backward lead;
For how can mind be left behind,
When we march back across the Tweed?
Scotch logic floats on one-pound notes:
When rags are cash our shirts are ore:
What else would go to scare the crow,
Becomes a myriad pounds and more.
A scarecrow's suit would furnish forth
A good Scotch bank's whole stock in trade:
The wig, for coinage nothing worth,
Might “surplus capital” be made.

130

Oh! happy land, by Scotchmen taught!
Thy fate was then indeed divine,
When every scarecrow's pole was thought
A true Real del Monte mine.
Oh mystic One, that turned out None,
When senseless panic pressed thee hard!
Who thee could hold and call out “Gold!”
Would he had feathered been and tarred.
Thy little fly-wheel kept in play
The mighty money-grinding mill;
When thou art rashly torn away,
The whole machine will stand stock still.
The host of promisers to pay
That fill their jugs on credit's hill,
Will each roll down and crack his crown,
As certainly as Jack and Jill.
And we, God knows, may doff our hose
And sell our shoes for what they're worth,
And trudge again with naked toes
Back to our land of Nod, the north.
For, should we strain our lecturing throats,
We might to walls and doors discuss:
When John Bull sees through one-pound notes,
'Tis very clear he'll see through us.
That rare hotch-potch, the College Scotch,
Reared by our art in London town,
Will be at best a standing jest,
At least until it tumbles down.

131

Of those day-dreams, our free-trade schemes,
That laid in sippets goslings green,
The world will think less brain than drink
In skulls that hatched them must have been.
Then farewell shirts, and breeks, and coats,
Cloth, linen, cambric, silk, and lawn!
Farewell! with you, dear one-pound notes,
Mac Banquo's occupation's gone.
The man who thrives with tens and fives
Must have some coin, and none have we!
Roast beef adieu! come barley broo'!
Oh hone-a-rie! Oh hone-a-rie!

CALEDONIAN WAR WHOOP

“By the Coat of our House, which is an ass rampant,
I am ready to fight under this banner.”
Shadwell's Humourists.

Chorus of Writers to The Signet.

I

Eh laird! Eh laird! an' ha' ye haird,
That we're to hae nae ae poond nots?
Ye weel may say the Hooses tway
Wad play the de'il wi' a' the Scots.
Ha' they nae fears when Scotland's tears
Flow fast as ony burnie, oh!
But they shall find we've a' one mind,
The mind of one attorney, oh!

132

II

De'il take us a' if we can ca'
To mind the day wherein we got
The idle croons o' seely loons
In ony medium but a not.
De'il take us as we hop to be
Wi' spoils o' clients bonny, oh!
If e'er we look to touch a fee
When there's nae paper money, oh!

Solo—Sir Malachi Malagrowther.

III

Quoth Hudibras—Friend Ralph, thou hast
(Hunt's blacking shines on Hyde park wall)
Outrun the Constable at last,
For gold will still be lord of all.
The ups and downs of paper poun's
Have made the English weary, oh!
And 'tis their will old Scotland's mill
Shall e'en gae Tapsalteerie, oh!

IV

Old Scotland brags, she kens of rags
Far more than all the world beside:
Her ancient mint with naught else in't,
Is all her wealth, and power, and pride.
Her ancient flag is all a rag,
So oft in battle bloody, oh!
Now well I think her blood is ink,
And rags her soul and body, oh!

133

V

Beneath that rag, our ancient flag,
We'll draw for rags our old claymore:
Our arrows still, with gray goose quill
Well fledged and tipped, in showers we'll pour:
Our ink we'll shed, both black and red,
In strokes, and points, and dashes, oh!
Ere laws purloin our native coin,
And turn it all to ashes, oh!

VI

The poorest rats of all the earth,
Were ragged Scots in days of yore,
Till paper coining's happy birth,
Made cash of all the rags they wore;
Though but the shade of smoke, 'tis plain,
Said cash is Scotland's glory, oh!
To make it real rags again
Would be a tragic story, oh!

VII

What Scot would tack in herring smack,
His living from the deep to snatch,
Without a ragman at his back
To take percentage on his catch?
Who thinks that gold a place would hold
On Scotland's soil a minute, oh!
Unless of rag we make a bag
That's full with nothing in it, oh!

134

VIII

Our Charley lad we bought and sold,
But we've no Charley now to sell:
Unless the De'il should rain up gold,
Where Scots can get it, who can tell?
The English loons have silver spoons,
And golden watches bonnie, oh!
But we'll have nought that's worth a groat,
Without our paper money, oh!

Grand Chorus of Scotchmen.
Then up claymore and down with gun,
And up with promises to pay,
And down with every Saxon's son,
That threatens us with reckoning day.
To promise aye, and never pay,
We've sworn by Scotland's fiddle, oh!
Who calls a Scot “to cash his not”
We'll cut him through the middle, oh!


135

CHORUS OF SCOTCH ECONOMISTS, ON A PROSPECT OF SCOTCH BANKS IN ENGLAND.

[_]

To the air of The Campbells are coming.

Quickly.
He pay? Alack! he is poor.

Falstaff.
Look on his face. What call you rich? Let him coin his face.

The braw lads are coming—Oho! Oho!
The braw lads are coming—Oho! Oho!
The highways they're treadin'
From bonny Dun-Edin,
With cousins by dozens—Oho! Oho!
No shoon have the braw lads—Oh no! Oh no!
No hose have the braw lads—Oh no! Oh no!
No breeks for the wearing,
No shirts for the airing,
No coin for the bearing—Oh no! Oh no!
Each leaves a braw lassie—Oho! Oho!
Each face is all brassy—Oho! Oho!
They are bound for soft places,
Where coining their faces
Will mend their lean cases—Oho! Oho!
The English they'll settle—Oho! Oho!
They'll harry their metal—Oho! Oho!
They'll coin muckle paper,
They'll make a great vapour,
To their fiddle we'll caper—Oho! Oho!

136

Come riddle my riddle—Oho! Oho!
The cat and the fiddle—Oho! Oho!
Sing high diddle diddle,
It is the Scotch fiddle,
Then lead down the middle—Oho! Oho!
The cat is the miller—Oho! Oho!
Grinds paper to siller—Oho! Oho!
He plays the Scotch fiddle,
Sing high diddle diddle,
We've riddled the riddle—Oho! Oho!
The English we'll saddle—Oho! Oho!
We'll ride them a-straddle—Oho! Oho!
They beat us in battle,
When money would rattle,
But now they're our cattle—Oho! Oho!
In parley metallic—Oho! Oho!
They bothered our Gaelic—Oho! Oho!
But with sly disputation,
And rag circulation,
We've mastered their nation—Oho! Oho!
Come, Johnny Bull, hither—Oho! Oho!
We'll make you quite lither—Oho! Oho!
Come dance for your betters
A hornpipe in fetters,
We'll teach you your letters—Oho! Oho!
Come, sing as we've said it—Oho! Oho!
Sing “Free trade and credit”—Oho! Oho!

137

Sing “Scotch education,”
And “O'er-population,”
And “Wealth of the nation,”—Oho! Oho!
Then scrape the Scotch fiddle—Oho! Oho!
Here's John in the middle—Oho! Oho!
There's nothing so bonny
As Scotch paper money,
Now dance away, Johnny—Oho! Oho!

YE KITE-FLYERS OF SCOTLAND

By T. C.
“Quel ch'io vi debbo posso di parole
Pagare in parte, e d'opera d'inchiostro.”
Ariosto.
Ye kite-flyers of Scotland,
Who live from home at ease;
Who raise the wind, from year to year,
In a long and strong trade breeze:
Your paper-kites let loose again
On all the winds that blow;
Though the shout of the rout
Lay the English ragmen low;
Though the shout for gold be fierce and bold,
And the English ragmen low.
The spirits of your fathers
Shall peep from every leaf;
For the midnight was their noon of fame,
And their prize was living beef.

138

Where Deloraine on Musgrave fell,
Your paper kites shall show,
That a way to convey
Better far than theirs you know,
When you launch your kites upon the wind
And raise the wind to blow.
Caledonia needs no bullion,
No coin in iron case;
Her treasure is a bunch of rags
And the brass upon her face;
With pellets from her paper mills
She makes the Southrons trow,
That to pay her sole way
Is by promising to owe,
By making promises to pay
When she only means to owe.
The meteor rag of Scotland
Shall float aloft like scum,
Till credit's o'erstrained line shall crack,
And the day of reckoning come:
Then, then, ye Scottish kite-flyers,
Your hone-a-rie must flow,
While you drink your own ink
With your old friend Nick below,
While you burn your bills and singe your quills
In his bonny fire below.

139

CHORUS OF NORTHUMBRIANS ON THE PROHIBITION OF SCOTCH ONE-POUND NOTES IN ENGLAND.

March, March, Make-rags of Borrowdale,
Whether ye promise to bearer or order;
March, march, Take-rag and Bawbee-tail,
All the Scotch flimsies must over the border:
Vainly you snarl anent
New Act of Parliament,
Bidding you vanish from dairy and “laurder;”
Dogs, you have had your day,
Down tail and slink away;
You'll pick no more bones on this side of the border.
Hence to the hills where your fathers stole cattle;
Hence to the glens where they skulked from the law;
Hence to the moors where they vanished from battle,
Crying, “De'il tak the hindmost,” and “Charlie's awa'.”

140

Metal is clanking here;
Off with your banking gear;
Off, ere you're paid “to Old Harry or order:”
England shall many a day
Wish you'd been far away,
Long ere your kite's-wings flew over the border.
March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale,
Pay-the word, lads, and gold is the law,
March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale;
Tagdale, and Ragdale, and Bobdale, and a':
Person or purse, they say;
Purse you have none to pay;
Your persons who'll deal with, except the Recorder?
Yet, to retrieve your freaks,
You can just leave your breeks;
You'll want them no more when you're over the border.
High on a pole in the vernal sun's baskings,
When April has summoned your ragships away,
We'll hoist up a pair of your best galligaskins,
Entwined with young thistles to usher in May;
Types of Scotch “copital,”
They shall o'ertop-it-all,
Stripped off from bearer and brushed into order;
Then if you tarry, rogues,
Nettles you'll get for brogues,
And to the Rogue's March be drummed o'er the border.
 

Not the Cumberland Borrodaile, but the genuine ancient name of that district of Scotland, whatever it be called now, from which was issued the first promise-to-pay, that was made with the express purpose of being broken.

Scoticé for Tag-rag and Bob-tail: “a highly respectable old firm.” A paper kite with a bawbee at its tail is perhaps a better emblem of the safe and economical currency of Scotland than Mr. Canning's mountain of paper irrigated by a rivulet of gold.

Scoticé for larder.


141

MARGERY DAW

“Agite: inspicite: aurum est. Profecto, spectatores, Comicum.
Verum ad hanc rem agundam Philippum est.”
Plautus in Pœnulo.

Chorus of Paper Money Makers.
See-saw, Margery Daw,
Spent all her gold and made money of straw.

Margery Daw was our prototype fair:
She built the first bank ever heard of:
Her treasury ripened and dried in the air,
And governments hung on the word of
Margery Daw, Margery Daw,
Who spent all her gold and made money of straw.
Mother Goose was a blue of exceeding éclat,
She wielded a pen, not a thimble:
She made a fine ode about Margery Daw,
Which was but a mystical symbol:
“See-saw, Margery Daw,
Sold her bed and lay upon straw.”
Margery borrowed the little folks' gold,
And lent it the great folks to fight with:
They shot it abroad over woodland and wold,
Till things began not to go right with
Margery Daw, Margery Daw,
Who spent all her gold and made money of straw.

142

The little folks roared for their gold back again,
And Margery trembled with terror;
She called for relief to the land's mighty men,
And they said she must pay for her error;
“See-saw, look to your straw:
We've nothing to say to you, Margery Daw.”
Margery Daw was alarmed for her straw:
Her wishes this speech didn't suit with,
“Oho! mighty men!” said Margery then,
“You'll get no more money to shoot with;
See-saw, pile up the straw;
Bring me a flambeau,” said Margery Daw.
They looked very bold, but they very soon saw
That their coffers began to look drossy;
So they made it a law that fair Margery's straw,
Should be gold both in esse and posse.
“See-saw, Margery's straw,
Is golden by nature, and gold by the law.”
Margery Daw struck the sky with her head,
And strode o'er the earth like a goddess;
And the sword of the conqueror yielded like lead,
When it smote upon Margery's bodice.
See-saw, plenty of straw
Will make us all glorious as Margery Daw.
The conqueror fell, and the mighty men saw
That they seemed to be safer and stronger;
And then they turned round upon Margery Daw,
Saying “Straw shall be metal no longer.

143

See-saw, Margery Daw,
Get your gold back again, chop up your straw.”
Margery wearied her eloquent lips:
They had never received her so coldly:
A-kimbo they stood, with their hands on their hips,
And their right feet put forward most boldly:
“See-saw, Margery Daw,
Get your gold back again, chop up your straw.”
Margery put forth her powerful hand,
She seized on the straw all around her;
And up rose a flame at her word of command
Like the furnace of any brass-founder.
“See-saw, Margery Daw
Wants her gold back again: flames to the straw.”
The omnipotent straw, that had been the world's law,
Was soon only cinder and ember:
Such a blaze was ne'er seen round Guy Faux on a green,
On the night of the fifth of November.
“See-saw, pile up the straw,
There's a brave bonfire,” said Margery Daw.
Down fell, as beneath mighty Juggernaut's car,
The small fry of straw-money makers,
The tumult of ruin, from near and from far,
Once more made the mighty men quakers:
“See-saw, Margery Daw,
Off with the gold again: give us more straw.”

144

The Jews made a project for Margery Daw,
She thought it too ticklish for trying;
But they sent her a Scotchman exceedingly braw,
To prove 'twas as easy as lying:
“See-saw, Margery Daw,
A wee bit o' gold and a mickle of straw.”
Margery heard the Mac Puzzlehead preach,
And she was no whit a logician,
She knew little more than the eight parts of speech,
Though she wrote with amazing precision
“Margery Daw,” “Margery Daw,”
The prettiest writing the world ever saw.
Margery scattered her treasures abroad,
And who was so glorious as she then?
He who was backward in Margery's laud,
Mac Puzzlehead proved, was a heathen.
See-saw, gold in the straw,
Who was so glorious as Margery Daw?
Up started the small fry of straw-money men,
Who seemed to have fallen for ever;
They scattered their straw o'er the nation again,
And chorused as yet they had never:
“See-saw, plenty of straw,
Will make us all glorious as Margery Daw.”
Margery's glory was darkened afresh,
The great men again stood a-kimbo;
She feared she was caught in Mac Puzzlehead's mesh,
Who had argued her gold out of limbo.

145

“See-saw, pile up the straw,
Bring me a flambeau,” said Margery Daw.
Again in her anger she darkened the air
With the smoke of a vast conflagration,
And again to the earth in dismay and despair,
Fell the heroes of straw circulation.
“See-saw, Margery Daw
Owes you no courtesy: burn your own straw.”
Around and about came a glad rabble rout,
The flames from a distance discerning;
And shouting they saw, in the midst of the straw,
Mac Puzzlehead's effigy burning.
“See-saw, pile up the straw,
Roast the Mac Puzzlehead, Margery Daw.”
But then to the sky rose a terrible cry,
A long and a loud lamentation;
And Margery's halls rang with wailings and calls
That filled her with deep consternation:
“Straw, straw, give us some straw;
Straw, or we perish, sweet Margery Daw.”
And what happened then? Oh what happened then?
Oh! where is the rest of the story?
And what was devised by the land's mighty men,
To renovate Margery's glory?
Oh, there is a flaw in the volume of straw,
That tells the true story of Margery Daw.

146

But we find if we pore ancient manuscripts o'er
With deep antiquarian endeavour,
That Margery's straw became metal once more,
And she was as glorious as ever.
See-saw, plenty of straw
Will make us all glorious as Margery Daw.
 

“If it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all.” —Hamlet.


147

RICH AND POOR; OR SAINT AND SINNER

[_]

[This is a correct copy of a little poem which has been often printed, and not quite accurately. It first appeared, many years ago, in the Globe and Traveller, and was suggested by a speech in which Mr. Wilberforce, replying to an observation of Dr. Lushington, that “the Society for the Suppression of Vice meddled with the poor alone,” said that “offences of the poor came more under observation than those of the rich.”]

The poor man's sins are glaring;
In the face of ghostly warning
He is caught in the fact
Of an overt act—
Buying greens on Sunday morning.
The rich man's sins are hidden
In the pomp of wealth and station;
And escape the sight
Of the children of light,
Who are wise in their generation.
The rich man has a kitchen,
And cooks to dress his dinner;
The poor who would roast
To the baker's must post,
And thus becomes a sinner.

148

The rich man has a cellar,
And a ready butler by him;
The poor must steer
For his pint of beer
Where the saint can't choose but spy him.
The rich man's painted windows
Hide the concerts of the quality;
The poor can but share
A crack'd fiddle in the air,
Which offends all sound morality.
The rich man is invisible
In the crowd of his gay society;
But the poor man's delight
Is a sore in the sight,
And a stench in the nose of piety.

149

THE FATE OF A BROOM

AN ANTICIPATION

[_]

[These lines were published in the Examiner of August, 1831. They were then called an anticipation. They may now be fairly entitled a prophecy fulfilled.]

Lo! in Corruption's lumber-room,
The remnants of a wondrous broom,
That walking, talking, oft was seen,
Making stout promise to sweep clean,
But evermore, at every push,
Proved but a stump without a brush.
Upon its handle-top, a sconce,
Like Brahma's, looked four ways at once:
Pouring on king, lords, church, and rabble,
Long floods of favour-currying gabble;
From four-fold mouth-piece always spinning
Projects of plausible beginning,
Whereof said sconce did ne'er intend
That any one should have an end;
Yet still, by shifts and quaint inventions,
Got credit for its good intentions,
Adding no trifle to the store
Wherewith the Devil paves his floor.
Found out at last, worn bare and scrubbish,
And thrown aside with other rubbish,
We'll e'en hand o'er the enchanted stick,
As a choice present for Old Nick,
To sweep, beyond the Stygian lake,
The pavement it has helped to make.

150

BYP AND NOP

Promotion BY Purchase and by NO Purchase; or a Dialogue between Captain A. and Colonel Q.

Quoth Byp to Nop, “I made my hop
By paying for promotion:”—
Quoth Nop to Byp, “I made my skip
By aid of petticoatian.”
Quoth Nop to Byp, “You'll never trip
Ascending steps of Gold by:”—
Quoth Byp to Nop, “You'll never drop
With such a tail to hold by.”
 

[N.B.—Byp, for by purchase, and Nop, for no purchase, are the common official abbreviations in all returns of promotions, and ring the changes through long columns of Parliamentary papers.]


151

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS


153

LETTER TO HIS MOTHER 14 FEBRUARY 1795

Dear Mother, I attempt to write you a letter
In verse, tho' in prose, I could do it much better:
The Muse, this cold weather sleeps up at Parnassus,
And leaves us, poor poets, as stupid as asses:
She'll tarry still longer, if she has a warm chamber,
A store of old Massic, Ambrosia, and Amber.
Dear Mother, don't laugh, you may think she is tipsy,
And I, if a poet, must drink like a gipsy:
Suppose, I should borrow, the horse of Jack Stenton;
A finer ridden beast, no Muse ever went on;
Pegasus's fleet wings, perhaps, are now frozen;
I'll send her old Stenton's, I know, I've well chosen;
Be it frost, be it thaw, the horse can well canter;
The sight of the beast, cannot help, to enchant her.
All the boys at our school, are well, tho', yet, many
Are suffer'd at home, to suck eggs with their Granny.
“To-morrow” says daddy, “you must go my dear Billy,
To Englefield House; do not cry, you are silly.”
Says the Mother, all dress'd in silk, and in sattin;
“Don't cram the poor boy, with your Greek, and your Latin;

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I'll have him a little longer, before mine own eyes;
To nurse him, and feed him, with tarts, and minc'd pies;
We'll send him to school, when the weather is warmer:
Come, kiss me, my pretty, my sweet little charmer.”
But now I must banish all fun, and all folly;
So doleful's the news, I am going to tell ye:
Poor Wade! my schoolfellow, lies low in the gravel;
One month ere fifteen, put an end to his travel:
Harmless, and mild, and remark'd for goodnature:
The cause of his death, was his overgrown stature:
His epitaph I wrote, as inserted below;
What tribute more friendly, could I on him bestow.
The bard craves one shilling, of his own dear Mother;
And if you think proper, add to it another.

EPITAPH

Here lies interr'd, in silent shade,
The frail remains of Hamlet Wade;
A youth more prom'sing, ne'er took breath;
But ere fifteen, laid cold in death.
Ye young! ye old! and ye of middle age!
Act well your part, for quit the stage
Of mortal life one day you must;
And like him moulder into dust.

155

LETTER TO ROBERT WALROND 25 SEPTEMBER 1795

Dear Cousin,

While distant from your native land,
Among the Dons a ruffian band,
Forget not him, your little friend
Who promis'd you some lines to send.
That friendship, which to you I bore
Ere you had left Britannia's shore,
Still gathers strength, nor can decay,
Though marble rocks should wear away.
With pleasure Cousin I can tell,
That all my friends around are well;
I would transfer some little news,
Could I prevail upon my muse.
My Uncle's ship did meet a foe,
Which instantly she brought in tow,
Whose value, very soon he found,
Was nearly thirty thousand pound!
One third I think, should be his share—
A wealthy Uncle I declare!
To touch the cash his finger itches,
I dread 'twill stop in other clutches.
I hope a moment you can spare,
To let me know how well you fare;
How you like the Spanish nation,
Men and Women, and their fashion:
Say are they handsome stout and tall,

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Or are they meagre thin and small:
Thus send me ev'ry kind of news
'Twill give me pleasure to peruse!
Need I inform my Cousin dear,
How much I long to see him here;
On British ground, of yore an Isle
Which Freedom favor'd with a smile;
Forsake Madrid, soon leave proud Spain,
Then homewards cross the azure main;
Calm when you sail may Neptune keep
The surgy billows of the deep.
Ah! should old Davi ope his jaw
And lodge you in his hungry maw;
Sorrow pale would fill my breast,
To lose my friend would lose my rest.
Let not Æolus vex the waves,
Lock'd be the winds in roaring caves.
Smooth be the sea from shore to shore,
Your voyage safe and speedy o'er.
How glad your English friends will be,
On your return, your face to see;
And I how happy when you call,
At Chertsey, and at Gogmoor Hall.
I am your Servant and your friend,
Adieu—farewell, my verses end.
 

The name given to his Grandfather's Cottage.


157

ANSWER TO THE QUESTION “Is History or Biography the more improving Study?

With bright examples the young mind to fire,
And Emulation's gen'rous flame inspire,
Biography her modest page displays,
And follows one alone thro' life's uncertain ways.
'Tis hers, alike, with faithful pen t' impart
The virtues, or the failings, of his heart;
She tells of all the talents he possesst,
She makes us Virtue love, or Vice detest;
She makes our hearts espouse the former's cause,
And 'twixt the two a glowing contrast draws.
Thus does Biography: but Hist'ry too
Oft holds out bright examples to the view,
And to abhorrence oft, in colours bright,
Brings Vice's black deformity to light.
But more than this: Time's wasting hand she braves,
And former days from dark Oblivion saves;
She can recal full many a long past age,
Can fill with great events th' instructive page;
Can “deeds of days of other years” unfold,
And tell the actions of “the times of old”;
Can make, in pleasing characters, appear,
What now we are, and our forefathers were.
She oft, in glowing accents, tells how War
“Yokes the red dragons of his iron car,”

158

When, with his train of mis'ries at his hand,
He comes to waste and desolate the land,
Then, as she shifts the gloomy scene with ease,
She tells the blessings of returning Peace.
Without her aid, how many a mighty name
Would now be totally unknown to Fame!
E'en Philip's son, who once so bravely fought,
The Prince of Vict'ries, would be quite forgot!
Titus' good deeds were in Oblivion thrown,
And Cæsar's great ones now no longer known!
Hail then to thee, fair Hist'ry! 'tis for thee
To wear the golden crown of Victory!
Like as the morning star, with humble ray,
Throws a faint glimmer at the dawn of day,
Soon as the sun begins his beams to shed,
He shrinks away to nought, and hides his head:
'Tis thus Biography, whose humble pace
Pursues one only through life's eager race;
Before bright Hist'ry's open, daring ray,
She dwindles into nought, and shrinks away!
Hail then to thee, fair Hist'ry! 'tis for thee
To wear the golden crown of Victory!

EPIGRAMS

[Says John Bull, “tho' to aid this vile War I am loth]

Says John Bull, “tho' to aid this vile War I am loth,
They say 'tis my int'rest and principle both;
But of all I was worth by some fellows bereft
I have got neither Int'rest nor Principal left.”

159

His Country, some would make't appear,
To every Englishman is dear,—
All to this truth must surely give in,
For 'tis indeed too dear to live in.

LIBERTY

PART OF A LETTER TO A FRIEND

There was a time when Freedom's seraph smile
With heav'nly radiance, bless'd this prosp'rous Isle,
When Peace and Plenty led their joyful band
And pour'd down bliss and pleasure on the land,
When Truth and Justice in the realm were found,
And British bosoms dwelt on British ground.
There was a time (but ah! that time is fled)
When crown'd with honors Virtue rais'd her head:
When, never failing rev'rence to inspire,
Was heard the manly voice of Patriot fire:
Heard now no more—no more is Virtue found
With joy regarded and with glory crown'd:
He who but prays to Heav'n the realm to save,
Receives from power—a dungeon and a grave.
Long, long alas! “to gath'ring ills a prey”
Has British Freedom mourn'd her quick decay!
Long, long alas! the iron hand of power
Has aim'd its fury at her rock-built Tower,
That Tow'r which, led by Truth's and Justice' fires,
Rais'd to her blest domain our fame-crown'd sires

160

And piece by piece, has hurl'd its ruins wide
To the black gulph of Tyranny and Pride!
Who shall restore, (just Heav'n!) her hallow'd reign
And rear the sacred edifice again?
Who shall to Virtue Liberty restore,
And give us all the rights we held before?
Alas, our fire is with that Freedom fled,
In whose dear cause our great forefathers bled.
This was the land where, dear to age and youth,
Reign'd Virtue, Freedom, Innocence, and Truth,
Where Britons saw, whoe'er in pow'r appear'd,
Their rights respected and their laws revered!
This is the land where War's destructive train
With blood-stain'd sceptre hold their iron reign,
Where Persecution's ever hated sway
Stamps with black mis'ry each revolving day,
Where, while all ties of Justice are contemn'd,
To be suspected is to be condemn'd,
Where Innocence in dreary dungeons thrown
Is left unpitied and unheard to groan,
And where sweet Liberty's unfeeling foes
Exult and riot in a Nation's woes.
O ye, who whilst sweet Concord's flag is furled,
Let War's red Demons loose upon the World!
Ye, who have sent full many a Hero brave
An early victim to a distant grave!
By whom [confin'd] in many a dreary cell,
Truth, Virtue, Justice, bid the world farewell!
Yet know, that Heaven which rules above the sky,
Views all your actions with impartial eye,

161

The Widow's pray'rs that Heaven with pity hears
And beams compassion on the Orphan's tears,
Yes, and that Heaven to which all pow'r belongs,
That Heav'n which pities can avenge their wrongs.

PEACE

When War's infernal banners wide unfurl'd
Pour'd their dark wreaths throughout the bleeding world,
When o'er the field of death his Harpies flew,
And bath'd in blood, a wild insatiate crew,
Then, from the groaning Earth reluctant driv'n,
Thou fledst, sweet Peace, to seek thy native Heav'n!
But now, once more, with thy propitious hand
Thou pour'st down pleasure on this gladd'ning land,
Once more thou com'st, a “rising beam of light,”
And Want's pale cheek smiles feebly at the sight.
Welcome, thrice welcome! to our sea-girt shore!
O may Britannia mourn thy loss no more!
At thy approach may Want and Sorrow fly,
And heart-felt gladness beam from ev'ry eye,
May ev'ry British breast with rapture burn,
And joyful thousands hail thy bless'd return.
Celestial Peace! to angels ever given,
Who dwell'st serene in yon empyreal Heaven,
Where countless Suns their dazzling orbs display
And shed around an everlasting day!

162

Now when thou com'st to chace dark Sorrow's shade
And heal the wounds War's iron hand has made,
May Liberty and Plenty join thy train
And smile on Albion's chalky cliffs again!
Benignant Power! may thy long-wish'd-for smile
Preserve from further woes this suffering Isle,
May gentle Concord dwell in ev'ry breast,
And Party-Prejudice be lull'd to rest,
And all the angry storms of faction cease
In the sweet sunshine of returning Peace!

THE MAN OF FASHION

A Chap whose modish pucker'd shoulders
Create a laugh in all beholders,
Whose full-stuff'd Cape may well be said
To look more knowing than his head;
With Boots rais'd far above his knee,
And toes as square as square can be;—
One who in gaming takes delight,
Was last night cheated—cheats to-night,
Who'll seldom lend but often borrow,
A fool to-day—a knave to-morrow,—
To grace a Gala only fit,
Much better stock'd with cash than wit,
In Folly's temple early bred,
With a full purse and empty head,
Well skill'd in drinking, flirting, dashing,—
Such is a modern Man of Fashion.

163

LETTER TO HIS GRANDMOTHER 16 JULY 1801

Dear Grandmother,

From this town where Pride, Fashion, and Business rule,
Where mingle the honest, the knave and the fool,
Where Vice with success far too often is crown'd,
And Virtue as often is penniless found,
Where the devil with riches his votaries blesses,
Where forestallers live by the people's distresses,
Where flourish knaves, pickpockets, beggars and peers,
Where much-courted Folly her asses-head rears,
Where ladies (but this you will scarcely believe)
Go naked,—just like our great-grandmother Eve;
(For the sweet reign of Modesty seems to be quite gone,
And each dashing young belle goes about in her night-gown)
Where juggling and cheating are well understood,
And where meet the extremes both of bad and of good—
From this town now to write you I take up my pen,
And, after long silence, address you again.
Here Fashion exerts her all-powerful sway,
And oftentimes leads the most cautious astray;
An instance of which you full plainly may see
In the case of the dashing Sir Peter Bohea.

164

Though Sir Peter denies it, 'tis known very well,
He was both born and bred within sound of Bowbell;
At twelve years of age so improv'd his friends found him
To a worshipful grocer apprentice they bound him,
And, to use his own words, “no one up to him comes
In selling the Cockneys two-penn'orth of plumbs!”
—“Two-pence farthing's the sum, mem, can take nothing off it.
If we take off the farthing we lose all our profit!”
When out of his time, this experienc'd young elf
Thought proper to set up in bus'ness himself,
And all things before him he valiantly carried,
Till he very unluckily chose to be married.
His deary's fam'd dad, one as proud as a lord,
Was a great tallow-chandler in Candlewick ward,
Who had brought up his daughter by method and rule,
To spend like a princess, and act like a fool!
He determin'd the charmer should blaze with great spirit,
And that nought should extinguish the flame of her merit,
And, thinking 'twould only be doing his duty,
Resolv'd he would nourish the wick of her beauty,
For he said 'twas unjust and ungen'rous to crush light,
And she never should gleam like a “damn'd farthing rush-light!

165

On the cymbals, those instruments now grown so dashing,
She could play like a black, or a lady of fashion;
And surely no beggar-girl ever was seen,
That could strike with such grace on the sweet tambourine!
At Change-alley hops she could charmingly dance,
She could manage the skipping-rope, read a romance;
To set off her charms she made ev'ry endeavour,
And in this one respect she was “cursedly clever.”
On the heart of poor Peter she seiz'd in a trice,
For he thought her far sweeter than sugar or spice!
He courted the lady with wonderful glee,
And soon of Miss Wick he made Mrs. Bohea!
He continued however to thrive in his trade,
And in a few months was an Alderman made;
Our newly-made Alderman soon was appointed
To present an address to the great Lord's Anointed;
And his loyal behaviour was there well requited,
He gave the address; then knelt down, and was—knighted!!!
By this time Sir Peter had realis'd clear
The moderate sum of three thousand a year!
His lady began her old friends to despise,
And look'd on the Cockneys with scorn in her eyes;
She teas'd poor Sir Peter without the least pity,
No longer to stay in the villainous city;
She declar'd she should always be sadly distrest,
Unless he would figure away in the West,

166

And now poor Sir Peter his shop has forsaken,
And in sweet Grosvenor Square a fine mansion has taken;
He's no longer the grocer so frugal and steady,
Who once with such care sav'd and hoarded the ready;
He now never looks on the bills he's to pay,
But only on bills of the op'ra or play;
Each ev'ning is spent in some gala or rout,
And when creditors call—he is sure to be out.
As far as “Gad's curse” or “Gad demme” can go,
He can swear like a thief—I beg pardon, a beau;
Indeed, he appears quite a different man,
And is spending his money as fast as he can,
He shines like a star in the scenes of high life,
And all for the sake of his “dear, pretty wife”;
Whilst, his love to repay, his affectionate spouse
Has fix'd two neat horns on his elegant brows!
Of this life-loving knight we may certainly say,
Like a true dashing hero he “figures away”
But he'll soon be unable “to make both ends meet
And then he must “figure away”—in the Fleet!

LETTER TO HIS GRANDFATHER 11 AUGUST 1801

Dear Grandfather,

I have long been in hopes once more Chertsey to view,
Which at present, indeed, we can't very well do;

167

Therefore, being this morning a little at leisure,
I take up the pen to address you with pleasure.
When of late Spanish batt'ries a vict'ry obtain'd,
Which the French proudly boasted their squadron had gain'd,
They spread over France a most wonderful story,
Declaring their Navy was “cover'd with glory!
“To the Temple of Fame they should quickly advance,
Through the valorous deeds of the sailors of France!”
But when gallant Saumarez once more drew nigh,
These laurel-crown'd heroes thought proper to fly
They spread all their canvass (magnanimous elves!)
To let the poor Dons fight it out by themselves!
And like true Gallic tars, to whom fear was a stranger,
They—fled from their friends at the moment of danger!
“Vhat! fight de Jack Tar vhen no batt'ries are near,
Dey vould send us avay vid de flea in our ear!”—
How mad and how vain is their boasting opinion,
They could wrest from old England her naval dominion!
The standards of Britain o'er Ocean unfurl'd,
At once the dismay and delight of the world,
Of the darlings of Neptune the triumphs proclaim,
And fill Gallia's proud thousands with terror and shame.
There is one thing indeed, it has always been held,
In which British sailors by French are excell'd;
Their skill in this instance their valorous fleet
Never fail to display when our squadrons they meet;

168

And Justice must surely compell us to say,
They are far our superiors in—running away!!!
This art the Great Nation takes so much delight in,
Their vessels seem built more for sailing than fighting;
And amongst their fam'd heroes 'tis always confest,
Those ships which fly fastest are reckon'd the best!
In old women and nurses alarm to occasion,
They have started again the old bug-bear Invasion;
But the folly of this our brave Nelson has shewn,
By his glorious attack on the port of Boulogne:
Invade us, indeed! All their threats are in vain
Whilst the sons of Britannia are Kings of the Main:
From these soup-maigre boasters we've little to dread,
Whilst our tars by such heroes as Nelson are led;
Whilst those truly-brave tars scorn from Frenchmen to fly,
And nobly determine to conquer or die!

THE STORM

The patt'ring rain in torrents pour'd,
The echoing thunder loudly roar'd
And shook the vaulted sky,
The lightning flash'd with vivid glare,
And Danger mid the lurid air
Sate darkly thron'd on high.
Secure within his humble cell,
Where Contemplation lov'd to dwell

169

An Hermit view'd the storm;
He mark'd the Whirlwind's eddying course
And saw with tears its wasteful force
The face of day deform.
On fiery pinions through the sky
He saw the blue-fork'd lightning fly,
And spread destruction round;
He saw the lofty tree o'erthrown
And, all its former beauty flown,
Lie with'ring on the ground.
“Thus 'tis with Man,” the Hermit cried,
“Thus tower his hopes in youthful pride,
And thus his wishes soar;
But ere he gain the wish'd for Goal
Misfortune's tempests round him roll,
He falls—to rise no more!”
The storm was past, the sky was clear'd:
Bright in the West the Sun appear'd
And pour'd his golden ray.
The flowers with sparkling rain-drops crown'd
Diffus'd unusual fragrance round
To bless the closing day.
“How all is chang'd,” the Hermit cries
Whilst pleasure glitters in his eyes,
“How beautiful the scene!
The fields at morn were parch'd and dry
But now beneath the evening sky
Display luxuriant green.

170

“And hence I learn, tho' Sorrow's storm
Awhile our prospects may deform
And hold its dread career,
Yet pleasure's Sun returns at last
And by the sense of dangers past
Is render'd doubly dear.”

FROM THE REVELATIONS

A FRAGMENT

Arise! arise, to thee 'tis given
To view the wonders of the Skies:
The dark mysterious ways of Heaven
Are open to thine eyes:
Thrice-favor'd Mortal, rise!
By mystic signs th' eternal God
To thee his fix'd intents displays:
Behold the woes his chast'ning rod
Prepares for future days.”
Thus on the lov'd disciple's ears
Sweet as the music of the spheres
Inspiring sounds from lips celestial fell:
Heaven's brazen doors wide open flew:
He turned those bright abodes to view
Where Saints and Angels dwell.
With awe his eyes the Prophet rais'd
To where Almighty glory blaz'd,
Where cloth'd in never-dying lustre shone
The pure ethereal fire, the sapphire-burning throne!
Cetera desunt.

171

ON THE DEATH OF SIR RALPH ABERCROMBY

Lamented Chief! whom cruel Fate
Has doom'd to fall in foreign climes,
Bright Glory's shining Angels wait
To give thy name to distant times.
Each British heart, each noble mind,
Shall mourn o'er thy untimely bier,
And Gratitude and Pity kind
Shall drop the tributary tear!
No more thy courage shall inspire
Admiring bands with martial heat;
Thine eyes have lost their kindling fire,
Thy valiant heart has ceas'd to beat!
But future times shall sound thy praise,
When crown'd with Fame thy name appears;
When Hist'ry's splendid page displays
“The deeds of days of other years!”

172

THE ALARMISTS

PART OF A LETTER TO A FRIEND

The Alarmists are all in a great consternation
Concerning old England's most sad situation;
Their woful lamentings they daily increase
And rail at this “shameful, iniquitous, Peace”;
In Clubs and in parties they often assemble
To drink, to harangue, to lament and to tremble.
Now let us suppose, on some mighty affair
A Club had convened, it is no matter where,
And consider what now I'm about to relate
A faithful report of their learned debate.
The discussion to open in language most clear
With a smirk, and a grin, rose a fam'd Auctioneer:
“Hem, hem, Mr. Chairman, I fear we have got
In this new-fangled Peace a most villainous lot;
Tho' so much 'tis approv'd both in country and town,
I fear that the Nation will soon be knock'd down;
No concern for our wrongs are the Ministry showing,
And we all are a going! a going! a going!!!”
Next rose a stout Cobler with visage demure:
“This Peace, sir, d'ye see me, I cannot endure.
The wax of my heart melts away at the story;
I fear we are come to the end of our glory.

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Our national goodness is tapp'd on the heel,
And we soon, very soon shall French pegging awls feel.
The Leather of England will soon be in holes,
And we cannot last long, poor unfortunate soles.
Thus ended the polish'd and erudite railer,
And after him rose a magnanimous Tailor:
The ninth part of a man, from his dignified station,
Amaz'd the whole club, with this flaming oration:
“Whatever the friends of this Peace may declare,
They have worn all their arguments perfectly bare;
With ready cut promises sweeter than honey
They have nipp'd off our honor and cabbaged our money;
The Peace they've patched up, is they say worth a treasure;
But I say they have taken a very bad measure.
The shreds of their power, I speak it with wrath,
Have reduc'd to a shred all the kingdom's best cloth.
Altho' they're as sharp as a needle for wit,
I don't value their speeches the crack of a nit.
I'm quite in a pucker, my choler is great,
Since the threads of our fortune are clipp'd off by fate.”
“I could duck them all well,” said a Poulterer so spruce,
“Surely treatment so foul, none would bear but a goose!”

174

An Oilman rose next: “Sir, I say on my verity
From the flask is ooz'd out all the oil of prosperity.
Tho' I love not with power to quarrel and stickle
I think we are all in a terrible pickle.”
“Zounds!” bawl'd a stout Cook, “In a pickle indeed!
In a pickle from which we shall never be freed!
Here's a very fine mess; smoke my wig, Mr. Chairman,
That there Bony part is a devilish rare man!
We must soon go to pot, spite of all we can do;
When I think of his sauce, I am quite in a stew;
This is no time to trifle; I quake like a jelly;
Mounseer will soon stow our roast beef in his belly.
Our sop of a Premier has suck'd up our treasures,
I'm not such a cake as to puff off his measures;
The sweets of his Peace we poor Devils shall taste
When Frenchmen come over our country to baste.
John Bull once was fat, once he lived upon clover,
But he's now overdone and completely done over;
He's roasted, he's dish'd—Zounds! I broil with vexation!
Not one drop of gravy is left in the Nation.
A very fine Peace have our Ministers plann'd,
We must starve whilst they feed on the fat of the land!
Of the good they have done they may constantly speak,
But, curse me, 'tis nothing but bubble and squeak!”

175

“Time, my friends,” said the Chairman, “forbids me to push on
To any great length, this important discussion.
In a fortnight's time hence to this point we'll return,
But at present I think 'twill be best to adjourn.
'Tis prov'd that our Ministers plans are pursuing
Which only can end in confusion and ruin;
That in all their vile minds no good principle rules;
That one half are knaves and the other half fools;
That for England's misfortunes they care not a feather—
So, my friends, let us all be unhappy together!”

PARAPHRASE FROM THE SEVENTEENTH CHAPTER OF ISAIAH

Woe to thy numbers fierce and rude,
Thou madly rushing multitude,
Loud as the Tempest which o'er Ocean raves!
Woe to the Nations proud and strong
Which pour tumultuously along,
As rolls the foaming stream its long resounding waves!
As the noise of mighty seas,
As the loudly eddying breeze,
Shall gath'ring nations rush, a powerful band;
But Israel's God, in burning wrath unfurl'd
Shall stretch to sweep them from the World
His thunder-grasping hand.

176

As, when adverse winds engage,
Far and wide the chaff is blown,
As, before the whirlwind's rage,
Flies the rolling thistle down,
So, at the avenging nod
Of a great Eternal God,
Shall fly, to endless ruin driven
Th' oppressors of the weak—the enemies of Heav'n.

THE COMPARISON

As Jove t'other day was in nectar regaling,
When Juno for once put a stop to her railing
Of Hermes he asked, having grown rather mellow,
“What d'ye think of Lucretia, my comical fellow?”
“Is't the Roman Lucretia,” quoth Hermes, “you mean,
Or Lucretia, the beauty of Shacklewell Green?”
“Why, I mean her of old,” answer'd Jove with an oath,
“But prythee let's hear what you think of them both.”
“Lucretia of Rome,” Hermes quickly replied,
“Had plenty of beauty and plenty of pride;
I would not be thought at her virtues to scoff,
Yet I think she did wrong when she kill'd herself off.
But the modern Lucretia, to say't is my duty,
Has twice as much virtue and twice as much beauty,

177

And may safely defy envy's venemous railings,
As with all the first's charms she has none of her failings.”
“Indeed,” cried the Thunderer, “a creature so charming
Must cause in the envious sensations alarming;
She's a toast for immortals, 'tis plain to be seen,
So here's to the beauty of Shacklewell Green!”

178

ON THE DEATH OF A LAP DOG CALL'D LADY

Oh could I wake the sounding Lyre
To dithyrambic strains sublime;
Or would the gentle Muse inspire
One single spark of Pindar's fire,
To aid my feeble rhyme:
Then, Lady, then thy praise to tell
Would I full many a stanza fill,
Long on thy talents would I dwell,
Thy charming bark, thy piteous yell
Most musically shrill!
Though to record thy humble fate
No pompous monument arise,
Yet on thy lowly dust shall wait
(Denied how often to the great)
A tear from beauty's eyes!
Poor Lady! To thy humble urn
Far better strains than these are due;
None surely can thy memory spurn;
If beauty for thy loss can mourn
The Muse must mourn thee too.

179

TO MRS. SEWELL

ON READING HER POEMS

Of old, when Freedom's sacred fire
Bless'd Grecia's favor'd clime,
The infant Muse first tuned the lyre,
And rais'd her voice sublime.
Then taught by Fancy, Nature's child
In numbers regularly wild,
The nodding woods and rocks among,
The Lesbian nymph oppress'd with care
Pour'd all her sorrows to the air,
In unaffected song.
But when the Muse on Latian plains
Diffus'd her gen'rous fire,
No female woke to deathless strains
The many sounding lyre;—
How far more bless'd the British fair!
With them the Muse delights to share
Her softest smile, her brightest flame;
She loves their artless lays to trace,
And in the most exalted place
Enrolls her Sewell's name.
For not the boast of earthly power,
The pomp of earthly joy,
The transient blessings of an hour,
Thy nobler lyre employ;

180

To teach fair Virtue's spotless laws,
To aid Religion's sacred cause
To thee the glorious task was given;
The strain of triumph to prolong,
And swell the rapture-breathing song
Which lifts the mind to Heaven!

IMITATED FROM OSSIAN

(BARRATHAN)

The shades of night are gath'ring fast,
And coldly blows the ev'ning blast;
Unshelter'd on the rocky shore
I sit, whilst foaming billows roar
Around in wild commotion;
But colder is my fate severe
For ever doom'd to linger here,
Doom'd here to waste my morn of life
And mark your never-ending strife,
Blue tumbling waves of ocean!
Not always by the roaring wave,
Where sullen blasts are yelling,
Not always in the dreary cave
Was Nina-thoma's dwelling.
Once in the echoing hall of Kings
Oft as the shades of ev'ning fell
I struck my Harp's responsive strings
And bade the song of pleasure swell.

181

Then, Uthal, with insidious art,
Then didst thou gain my Virgin heart,
For thee Torthoma's halls I fled,
With thee each happy day I led
Unthinking of to-morrow:
What love was e'er more true than mine?
False as thou art, it still is thine;
Then wherefore leave me here to pine
In never-ceasing sorrow?

REBUS

Take three-quarters of fortune connected with chance
And one-half of a sprightly agreeable dance,
To these add two-thirds of what serves to restrain,
And a General who brings twenty-five in his train;
In all three united at once may be seen
The glory of Rome and of Shacklewell Green.

ON A LAP DOG OF MISS --- NAM'D QUISI

(SIGNIFIES IN CHINESE, SON OF THE DEVIL)

Of little crop-ear'd Pug to write
In lofty notes heroic,
Might sure the patience put to flight
Of pleasure-hating stoic.

182

But since ------ gives command,
'Tis nothing more than duty;
What youthful bard could e'er withstand
The sacred will of beauty?
Oh wondrous Quisi! Who can see
And seeing, not admire?
Rightly to praise a Dog like thee
Demands a Pindar's Lyre.
“Son of the Devil,” enchanting Qui,
Should I extol thee to the sky
Pray where would be the wonder?
Much greater puppies than thyself
Have oft by many a rhyming elf
Been sung in notes of thunder.
Though some to all thy beauties blind
Thy praise may take no share in,
I'll call thee loveliest of thy kind
And charming past comparing.
Yes! all who call thee “ugly beast”
More blind than any stone are;
Thou hast reflected charms at least
Thanks to thy lovely owner.
How to the Sunflower's gaudy leaves
Is so much brightness given?
Reflected splendor it receives,
Drawn from the Sun of Heaven.
E'en so L---'s smiles divine
On whatsoe'er they deign to shine,
Than morning rays more tender,

183

Reflected beauty can bestow—
Thence all thy charms, Oh Quisi, flow—
'Tis hers to make e'en darkness glow
With Heaven's meridian splendor.

“WITH TRUEST REPENTANCE”

With truest repentance, sincerest submission,
On my knees I present this most humble petition
Entreating that you will a pardon confer.
Then let not your frowns a poor Devil dispirit
Who owns that he scarcely a pardon can merit
For presumptuously thinking an Angel could err.

PADDY'S LAMENTATION

Sweet Molly O'Bog! Oh! my shoul's dearest treasure,
Now you're gone, my dear joy, I shall never know pleasure.
Your loss, my dear Molly, long, long shall I cry for;
Then, arrah! my Jewel, ah! what did ye die for?
Oh! my beautiful Molly, so wild and so frisky!
You had plenty of beef, and potatoes and whiskey!
You had all you could wish and nothing to cry for;
Then, arrah! my Jewel, ah! what did you die for?

184

Ah! why did you die now and leave me behind here?
Your equal, sweet Molly, I never shall find here!
Such another dear creature in vain should I try for:
Then, arrah! my Jewel, ah! what did you die for?

ACROSTIC

[Long to her name I've struck the Lyre]

Long to her name I've struck the Lyre;
Unblest, alas! with Pindar's fire,
Can my weak muse one stanza raise
Rightly transcendent charms to praise?
Endowed with ev'ry grace refin'd
That decks the person or the mind,
In vain the Muse might strive to swell
A song that half her praise should tell.
Oh! blest with graces rarely found
Like morning rays her smiles around
Delight and life can shower;
Her every charm might win a heart,
And when combin'd they aim the dart
Must gain unbounded power.

185

ON THE FIRST LEAF OF THE BOOK OF THE AUTHOR'S POEMS WRITTEN AND PRESENTED TO L.O.

A youth, who by the sacred fount
On fam'd Parnassus' ancient Mount
Pass'd his unprofitable hours
In gathering weeds instead of flowers,
Lays, at the feet of wit and beauty,
This humble offering of his duty.
Oh! then with smiles his nothings cherish!
Without them they are sure to perish:
Thy smile can make e'en darkness glow,
Can e'en on Quisi charms bestow,
And may, perhaps, to strains like these
Impart some little power to please.

GLEE

Quickly pass the social glass,
Hence with idle sorrow!
No delay—enjoy to-day,
Think not of to-morrow!
Life at best is but a span,
Let us taste it whilst we can;
Let us still with smiles confess,
All our aim is happiness!

186

Childish fears, and sighs and tears
Still to us are strangers;
Why destroy the bud of joy
With ideal dangers?
Let the song of pleasure swell;
Care with us shall never dwell;
Let us still with smiles confess
All our aim is happiness!

TO A FRIEND AT GUERNSEY

Again a few dull lines I send,
To greet my absent silent friend—
Tho' seldom with unworthy rhyme
I thus intrude upon your time,
I take these means to prove it true
I ever shall remember you,
Tho' with regret I plainly see
That you have quite forgotten me.
What can this strange neglect betoken?
Will your long silence ne'er be broken?
And must I daily hope in vain
To trace your characters again?
Now in the name of all that's kind
Can you no leisure minute find,
Just half a line or so to pop in,
If nothing more than “This comes hopping”?

187

'Tis now the time when Turkies bleed,
And children play, and cocknies feed;
Therefore in rhyme it stands to reason,
I ought, as usual at this Season,
My wishes for your health expressing
To send you o'er the Bellman's blessing:
Thro' all the coming year, my friend,
May mirth and joy your steps attend!
May you a merry Christmas share
Untroubled by old sulky Care,
And banish far his Demons murky,
With Aldermanic pie and Turkey!
No longer shall my Muse intrude,
My time is short, I must conclude;
More of this scrawl is not required,
For, I'm in haste—and you are tired.
Farewell—and prythee if you can, Sir,
Let me have something like an Answer.
So till your welcome hand I see,
“Adieu! Adieu! remember me!”

TO MATILDA

The wind howls around and the swift rain is pouring,
The storm beaten billows tumultuously roll;
But though fiercely the tempests of winter are roaring,
More fierce is the tempest that wars in my soul!

188

Though duty commands it, love mocks the endeavour,
To forget thee, Matilda! to leave thee for ever!
The bonds of affection can int'rest dissever,
Or prudence the noblest of passions controul?
Dear, dear to the sailor, long toss'd on the ocean,
Again his lov'd home, friends and country to see;
To me, long the slave of each ardent emotion,
More dear is the transport of gazing on thee.
Though pride may the beauties of nature be scorning,
The peasant with joy hails the breath of the morning,
Sweet to him are the smiles Spring's dominion adorning,
But the smiles of Matilda are sweeter to me.
And must we then part to be no more united?
And must I, Matilda, each hope then resign,
Each hope which my too sanguine fancy delighted,
When I thought that thy heart beat responsive to mine?
Farewell! thou dear source of my pain and my pleasure!
May thy joys, like thy virtues be still without measure!
But where shall I meet with so matchless a treasure;
Oh! where find a heart I could value like thine?

189

THE MONKS OF ST. MARK

'Tis midnight: the sky is with clouds overcast;
The forest-trees bend in the loud-rushing blast;
The rain strongly beats on these time-hallow'd spires;
The lightning pours swiftly its blue-pointed fires;
Triumphant the tempest-fiend rides in the dark,
And howls round the old abbey-walls of St. Mark!
The thunder, whose roaring the trav'ller appals,
Seems as if with the ground it would level the walls:
But in vain pours the storm-king this horrible rout;
The uproar within drowns the uproar without;
For the friars, with Bacchus, not Satan, to grapple,
The refect'ry have met in, instead of the chapel.
'Stead of singing Te Deums, on ground-pressing knees,
They were piously bawling songs, catches, and glees:
Or, all speakers, no hearers, unceasing, untir'd,
Each stoutly held forth, by the spirit inspir'd,
Till the Abbot, who only the flock could controul,
Exclaim'd: “Augustine! pr'ythee push round the bowl!”
The good brother obey'd; but, oh direful mishap!
Threw its scalding contents in Jeronimo's lap!
And o'er his bare feet as the boiling tide stream'd,
Poor Augustine fretted, Jeronimo scream'd,

190

While Pedro protested, it vex'd him infernally,
To see such good beverage taken “externally!
The Abbot, Francisco, then feelingly said:
“Let that poor wounded devil be carried to bed:
And let Augustine, who, I boldly advance,
Is the whole and sole cause of this fatal mischance,
If e'er to forgiveness he dare to aspire,
Now bear to his cell the unfortunate friar.”
He rose to obey, than a snail rather quicker,
But, finding his strength much diminish'd by liquor,
Declar'd, with a hiccup, he scarcely could stand,
And begged brother Pedro to lend him a hand.
Brother Pedro consented, but all was not right,
Till Nicholas offer'd to carry a light.
By the head and the feet then their victim they held,
Who with pain and with fear most tremendously yell'd;
And with one little lamp that scarce shone through the gloom,
In path curvilinear march'd out of the room,
And, unheeding the sound of the rain and the blast,
Through the long dismal corridor fearlessly pass'd.
From the right to the left, from the left to the right,
Brother Nicholas reel'd, inconsiderate wight!
For not seeing the stairs to the hall-floor that led,
Instead of his heels he soon stood on his head:
He rolls to the bottom, the lamp-flame expires,
And darkness envelopes the wondering friars!

191

He squall'd, for the burning oil pour'd on his hand;
Bewilder'd did Pedro and Augustine stand:
Then loud roar'd the thunder, and Pedro, in dread,
Abandon'd his hold of Jeronimo's head,
And prone on the floor fell this son of the cowl,
And howl'd, deeply-smarting, a terrible howl!
Poor Augustine's bosom with terror was cold,
On finding his burthen thus slide from his hold:
Then, cautiously stealing, and groping around,
He felt himself suddenly struck to the ground;
Yells, groans, and strange noises, were heard in the dark,
And, trembling and sweating, he pray'd to St. Mark!
Meanwhile, the good Abbot was boosing about;
When, a little alarm'd by the tumult without,
Occasion'd by poor Brother Nich'las's fall
From the corridor-stairs to the floor of the hall,
Like a true jolly friend of good orderly laws,
He serpentin'd out to discover the cause.
Bewilder'd by liquor, by haste, and by fright,
He forgot that he stood in great need of a light;
When hiccuping, reeling, and curving along,
And humming a stave of a jolly old song,
He receiv'd a rude shock from an object unseen,
For he came in full contact with Saint Augustine!
By Jeronimo's carcase tripp'd up unawares,
He was instantly hurl'd down the corridor-stairs;

192

Brother Nicholas there, from the floor cold and damp,
Was rising with what yet remain'd of his lamp;
And, the worthy superior's good supper to spoil,
Regal'd his strange guest with a mouthful of oil!
Thence sprung the dire tumult, which, rising so near,
Had fill'd Augustine with confusion and fear:
But the sons of St. Mark, now appearing with tapers,
At once put an end to his pray'rs and his vapors;
They reel'd back to their bowls, laugh'd at care and foul weather,
And were shortly all under the table together.

“WHEN HOPE HER WARM TINTS ON THE FUTURE SHALL CAST”

When Hope her warm tints on the future shall cast,
And Memory illumine the days that are past,
May their mystical colours, by fancy combined,
Be as bright as thy thoughts, and as pure as thy mind.
May Hope's fairy radiance in clouds never set,
Nor Memory look dark with the mists of regret;
For thee may their visions unchangeable shine,
And prove a more brilliant reality thine.

193

TO MRS. DE ST. CROIX

ON HER RECOVERY

When wintry storms, with envious pow'r,
The glorious orb of day o'ercast;
When black and deep the snow-clouds low'r,
And coldly blows th' ungenial blast;
The feather'd race, no longer gay,
Who joy'd in summer's glowing reign,
Sit drooping on the leafless spray,
And mourn the desolated plain.
But when, at spring's celestial call,
Subsides the elemental strife,
When drifting snows no longer fall,
And nature kindles into life,
Each little tenant of the grove
Makes hill and dale with song resound,
And pleasure, gratitude, and love,
From thousand echoes ring around.
And thus, when thou wast doom'd to pain,
On sickness' cheerless couch reclin'd,
Love, duty, friendship, sigh'd in vain,
And at thy transient loss repin'd.
But grief and pain no more assail,
And all with smiles thy steps attend;
With renovated bliss they hail
Their guide, their parent, and their friend.

194

LETTER TO HARRY SEDGWICK 26 DECEMBER 1805

Your friendly verse was quite a treat
To me who love the short and sweet;
Alike of rhyme and wit observant
It vastly pleas'd your humble servant.
The bellman now his blessing sends
To all his customers and friends,
In dismal sonnets nightly crying
Because the poor old year is dying;
And shall not I, a brother poet,
Who prize true friendship when I know it,
The bellman's bright example follow,
That tuneful offering of Apollo?
While he a merry Christmas wishes
To all the friends of pans and dishes
(Announcing with portentous face
Destruction to the Turkey race)
My feeble muse her voice prolongs,
And joins with his sublimer songs
To thank in accents kind and free
The few, few friends that care for me,
In rhyme to friends alone addressed,
And you among the first and best.

195

TIME

Passan vostri trionfi e vostre pompe;
Passan le signorie, passano i regni.—
Cosi 'l tempo trionfa i nomi e'l mondo.
Petrarca.

Whence is the stream of Time? What source supplies
Its everlasting flow? What gifted hand
Shall raise the veil by dark Oblivion spread,
And trace it to its spring? What searching eye
Shall pierce the mists that veil its onward course,
And read the future destinies of man?
The past is dimly seen: the coming hour
Is dark, inscrutable to human sight:
The present is our own; but, while we speak,
We cease from its possession, and resign
The stage we tread on, to another race,
As vain, and gay, and mortal as ourselves.
And why should man be vain? He breathes to-day,
To-morrow he is not: the labored stone
Preserves awhile the name of him that was:
Time strikes the marble column to the ground,
And sinks in dust the sculptured monument.
Yet man is vain, and, with exulting thought,
Rears the proud dome and spacious colonnade,
Plants the wide forest, bids the garden bloom
Where frowned the desert, excavates the earth,
And, gathering up the treasures of her springs,
Rolls the full stream through flow'r-enamelled banks,

196

Where once the heather struck its roots in sand.
With joy he hails, with transitory joy,
His new creations: his insatiate pride
Exults in splendor which he calls his own.
As if possessions could be called our own,
Which, in a point of ever-varying time,
By force, by fraud, by purchase, or by death,
Will change their lords, and pass to other hands.
Then since to none perpetual use is given,
And heir to heir, as wave to wave, succeeds,
How vain the pride of wealth! how vain the boast
Of fields, plantations, parks, and palaces,
If Death invades alike, with ruthless arm,
The peasant's cottage, and the regal tower,
Unawed by pomp, inflexible by gold!
Death comes to all. His cold and sapless hand
Waves o'er the world, and beckons us away.
Who shall resist the summons? Child of earth!
While yet the blood runs dancing through thy veins,
Impelled by joy and youth's meridian heat,
'Twere wise, at times, to change the crowded haunts
Of human splendor, for the woodland realms
Of solitude, and mark, with heedful ear,
The hollow voice of the autumnal wind,
That warns thee of thy own mortality.
Death comes to all. Not earth's collected wealth,
Golcondian diamonds and Peruvian gold,
Can gain from him the respite of an hour.
He wrests his treasure from the miser's grasp,

197

Dims the pale rose on beauty's fading cheek,
Tears the proud diadem from kingly brows,
And breaks the warrior's adamantine shield.
Man yields to Death; and man's sublimest works
Must yield at length to Time. The proud one thinks
Of life's uncertain tenure, and laments
His transitory greatness. While he boasts
His noble blood, from ancient kings derived,
And views with careless and disdainful eye
The humble and the poor, he shrinks in vain
From anxious thoughts, that teach his sickening heart,
That he is like the beings he contemns,
The creature of an hour; that when a few,
Few years have past, that little spot of earth,
That dark and narrow bed, which all must press,
Will level all distinction. Then he bids
The marble structure rise, to guard awhile,
A little while, his fading memory.
Thou lord of thousands! Time is lord of thee:
Thy wealth, thy glory, and thy name, are his.
Art may protract the blow, but cannot bar
His certain course, nor shield his destined prey.
The wind and rain assail thy sumptuous domes:
They sink, and are forgotten. All that is
Must one day cease to be. The chiefs and kings,
That awe the nations with their pomp and power,
Shall slumber with the chiefs and kings of old:
And Time shall leave no monumental stone,
To tell the spot of their eternal rest.

198

THE VIGILS OF FANCY

NO. I

The wind is high, and mortals sleep;
And through the woods, resounding deep,
The wasting winds of Autumn sweep,
While waves remurmur hollowly.
Beside this lake's sequester'd shore,
Where foam-crown'd billows heave and roar,
And pines, that shelter'd bards of yore,
Wave their primeval canopy,
At midnight hour I rove alone,
And think on days for ever flown,
When not a trace of care was known,
To break my soul's serenity.
To me, when day's loud cares are past,
And coldly blows th' autumnal blast,
And yellow leaves around are cast
In melancholy revelry,
While Cynthia rolls through fields of blue,
'Tis sweet these fading groves to view,
With ev'ry rich and varied hue
Of foliage smiling solemnly.
Matur'd by Time's revolving wing,
These fading groves more beauties bring
Than all the budding flow'rs of Spring,
Or Summer's glowing pageantry.

199

All hail! ye breezes wild and drear,
That peal the death song of the year,
And with the waters thund'ring near
Combine in awful harmony!
Methinks, as round your murmurs sail,
I hear a spirit in the gale,
That seems to whisper many a tale
Of dark and ancient mystery.
Ye bards, that in these sacred shades,
These tufted woods, and sloping glades,
Awoke, to charm the sylvan maids,
Your soul-entrancing minstrelsy!
Say, do your spirits yet delight
To rove, beneath the starry night,
Along this water's margin bright,
Or mid the woodland scenery,
And strike, to notes of tender fire,
With viewless hands the shadowy lyre,
Till all the wand'ring winds respire
A more than mortal symphony?
Come, Fancy, come, romantic maid!
No more in rainbow vest array'd,
But robed to suit the sacred shade
Of midnight's deep sublimity.
By thee inspir'd, I seem to hold
High converse with the good and bold,
Who fought and fell, in days of old,
To guard their country's liberty.

200

Roused from Oblivion's mould'ring urn,
The chiefs of ancient times return;
Again the battle seems to burn,
And rings the sounding panoply!
And while the war-storm rages loud,
In yonder darkly rolling cloud
Their forms departed minstrels shroud,
And wake the hymns of victory.
Far hence all earthly thoughts be hurl'd!
Thy regions, Fancy, shine unfurl'd,
Amid the visionary world
I lose the sad reality.
Led by thy magic pow'r sublime,
From shore to shore, from clime to clime,
Uncheck'd by distance or by time,
My steps shall wander rapidly.
Thy pow'r can all the past restore,
Bid present ills afflict no more,
And teach the spirit to explore
The volume of futurity.

MIDNIGHT

Oh, clear are thy waters, thou beautiful stream!
And sweet is the sound of thy flowing;
And bright are thy banks in the silver moon-beam,
While the zephyrs of midnight are blowing.

201

The hawthorn is blooming thy channel along,
And breezes are waving the willow,
And no sound of life but the nightingale's song
Floats over thy murmuring billow.
Oh sweet scene of solitude! dearer to me
Than the city's fantastical splendor!
From the haunts of the crowd I have hasten'd to thee,
Nor sigh for the joys I surrender.
From the noise of the throng, from the mirth of the dance,
What solace can misery borrow?
Can riot the care-wounded bosom entrance,
Or still the pulsations of sorrow?

‘I DUG, BENEATH THE CYPRESS SHADE”

I dug, beneath the cypress shade,
What well might seem an elfin's grave;
And every pledge in earth I laid,
That erst thy false affection gave.
I pressed them down the sod beneath;
I placed one mossy stone above;
And twined the rose's fading wreath
Around the sepulchre of love.
Frail as thy love, the flowers were dead,
Ere yet the evening sun was set:
But years shall see the cypress spread,
Immutable as my regret.

202

REMEMBER ME

E tu, chi sa se mai
Ti sovverrai di me?
Metastasio.

And what are Hope's enchanting dreams,
That melt, like morning mists, away?
And what are Fancy's golden beams,
That glow with transitory day?
While adverse stars my steps impel,
To climes remote, my love, from thee,
Will that dear breast with pity swell,
And wilt thou still remember me?
Alas! I hoped, from Britain's shore
My wayward feet would never rove:
I hoped to share my little store,
With thee, my first, my only love!
No more those hopes my breast elate:
No more thy lovely form I see:
But thou wilt mourn thy wanderer's fate,
And thou wilt still remember me.
When twilight-shades the world o'erhung,
Oft hast thou loved with me to stray,
While Philomela sweetly sung
The dirge of the departing day.
But when our cherished meads and bowers
Thy solitary haunts shall be,
Oh! then recall those blissful hours;
Oh! then, my love, remember me!

203

When Spring shall bid the forest live,
And clothe the hills and vales with green;
Or Summer's ripening hand shall give
New beauties to the sylvan scene;
Reflect, that thus my prospects smiled,
Till changed by Fortune's stern decree:
And wintry storms, severe and wild,
Shall bid thee still remember me.
For wintry storms have overcast
And blighted all my hopes of joy:
Vain joys of life, so quickly past!
Vain hopes, that clouds so soon destroy!
Around us cares and dangers grow:
Between us rolls the restless sea:
Yet this one thought shall sooth my woe,
That thou wilt still remember me.
And when, thy natal shades among,
While noon-tide rays their fervors shower,
The poet's sadly-pleasing song
Shall charm thy melancholy hour;
When Zephyr, rustling in the grove,
Sighs feebly through the spreading tree,
Think 'tis the whispering voice of love,
And pity, and remember me!
Remember me, when morning's call
Shall bid thee leave thy lonely bed:
Remember me, when evening-fall
Shall tinge the skies with blushing red:

204

Remember me, when midnight sleep
Shall set excursive Fancy free;
And should'st thou wake, and wake to weep,
Still, in thy tears, remember me.
Farewell, my love! the paths of truth,
The paths of happiness pursue:
But ever mindful of the youth,
Who loved thee with a flame so true.
And though to thy transcendent form
Admiring courts should bow the knee,
Still be thy breast with pity warm,
Still, still, my love, remember me!

ROMANCE

Death! the mourner's surest aid!
Mark my sad devotion:
Hear a lost, forsaken maid,
Mourn with wild emotion!
I my griefs unpitied pour
To the winds that round me roar,
On the billow-beaten shore
Of the lonely ocean.
Where the sea's extremest line
Seems with ether blended,
Still I see the white sails shine
To the breeze extended.

205

False one! still I mark thy sail
Spread to catch the favoring gale,
Soon shall storms thy bark assail,
And thy crimes be ended!
By the mighty tempests tost,
Death-flames round thee burning,
On a bleak and desert coast,
Whence is no returning;—
Thou o'er all thy friends shalt weep,
Buried in th' unpitying deep;
Thou thy watch of woe shalt keep,
Vainly, deeply, mourning.
Unattended shalt thou rove,
O'er the mountain dreary,
Through the haunted, pathless grove,
Through the desert eerie:
Unassuaged thy tears shall flow;
None shall sooth or share thy woe,
When thy blood runs cold and slow,
And thy limbs are weary!
Far from haunts of humankind,
Vengeful Heaven impelling,
Thou thy dying bed shalt find,
Where cold blasts are yelling.
None shall hear thee, none shall save,
In thy monumental cave,
None shall weep, where tempests rave
Round thy narrow dwelling!

206

ADDRESS SPOKEN BY LIEUTENANT LASCELLES,

PREVIOUS TO THE COMEDY OF JOHN BULL, OR AN ENGLISHMAN'S FIRESIDE;

PERFORMED BY THE OFFICERS OF H.M.S. VENERABLE

Good friends! kind spectators! and countrymen brave!
Who guard Britons' rights on the foam-crested wave!
Our endeavors to-night your attention require
To a tale of John Bull and his family fire.
John Bull is a compound of firmness and wildness
Blending courage with feeling, and spirit with mildness;
To those who embrace him he gives a good greeting;
To those who insult him he gives a good beating;
And proves that John Bull, wheresoever he goes,
Has a hand for his friends and a fist for his foes.
Again for our scenes we those ensigns display,
Which triumph'd with Duncan on Camperdown's day:
And should the proud foe, on the wide-rolling main,
Bid the Ven'rable wave them in battle again,
Victorious again o'er the deep she shall ride,
And bring one trophy more to John Bull's fireside.

207

ADDRESS WRITTEN BY MR. PEACOCK AND SPOKEN BY LT. HAVERFIELD

Friends! Countrymen! judges! who, ranged in your stations,
Look with critical eye on our stage decorations—
Attend to a manager's humble petition,
Who your favor demands for this night's exhibition.
We dazzle your eyes with no changes of scenery,
Triumphal processions, or magic machinery;
No thunderstorm rattles, no witch intervenes;
A flag is our curtain, and flags are our scenes.
Those flags long the storm and the battle have braved,
Those flags in the breezes of triumph oft waved,
When the Ven'rable, ever illustrious in story,
On Camperdown's billows bore Duncan to glory!
And now, if your fancy such influence carries,
As to place you with us in the centre of Paris,
Your amusement perhaps this reflection may sweeten,
That you laugh at those fops you so often have beaten.

208

OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE TO THE COMEDY OF WILD OATS,

FOR THE INTENDED PERFORMANCE OF THAT COMEDY BY THE OFFICERS OF H.M.S. VENERABLE

O'er wintry wastes while blasts ungenial freeze,
And clouds and darkness veil the raging seas,
What magic pow'r can Nature's gloom controul,
And charm the hours that linger as they roll?
Mirth, social Mirth, that sportive trips along,
With cheerful jest and care-consuming song:
Her playful arts the frowns of Fortune chace,
With pleasure deck stern Winter's wrinkled face,
Wake the light laugh, the mutual smile inspire,
And gild with joy John Bull's domestic fire.
At her command again our stage we rear,
To greet the friends we oft have welcomed here;
And now Wild Oats on this fair field we sow,
Where Duncan bade immortal laurels grow.
Kind friends! brave countrymen! who guard in fight
Britannia's glory and her sov'reign's right!
Oh may you still, as o'er the deep you ride,
Conquest your crown, and Liberty your guide,
Mid wars and storms that noblest harvest raise,
Your grateful country's everlasting praise.

209

EPILOGUE

Though grave were our judges, their office, 'tis certain,
Was dissolved and annulled by the fall of the curtain;
Unless your warm plaudits command repetition,
And affix your great seal to their lasting commission.
From the bench of their judgment now humbly descending,
From your higher tribunal their sentence attending,
Oh! if justly they judge, discompose not their gravity!
Let them still reward virtue, and punish depravity:
And let not your keen and impartial discernment
Pronounce on their court sine die adjournment.
From our more modern courts a wise practice to borrow,
Whose word is to-morrow, to-morrow, to-morrow,
To avoid all the dangers of precipitation,
May we move that this cause have rē-cōnsideration?
Alas! our poor bard fears his chance is precarious,
So numerous his judges, with fancies so various!
When the long-besieged turrets of Ilion were burning,
And the storm-beaten Greeks in confusion returning,
Meneläus, whom fate had long tost like a feather,
Was in Pharos detained by the force of bad weather,

210

Where his comrades, for want of more delicate dishes,
Were forced to subsist on the raw little fishes.
The nymph Halosydne, old Proteus's daughter,
Who heard him lament by the side of the water,
Assured him, his fortunes would never be better,
Unless his bold cunning old Proteus could fetter.
It called forth the whole of his skill and his vigor,
To bind the wild god of the changeable figure:
For he danced, flounced, and bounded, in ceaseless mutation,
And filled Meneläus with strange consternation;
Now a bubble, a doctor, a cabbage, a tailor,
A jackall, a courtier, a lion, a sailor;
Now a lord, all perfume, protestation, and paper;
Now a talkative patriot, that vanished in vapor.
In his own shape at last, he addressed him adagio,
And wished him fair breezes, and buono viaggio.
Now taste is a Proteus, you critics well know it,
And to bind him oft baffles the strength of a poet.
Here smiling, there frowning, here blighting, there blooming,
I see him at once all his figures assuming.
Then well may the prospect of failure dismay us,
For our author feels sure, he is no Meneläus.
Yet since strenuous his aim, in reflection to render
A ray of our ancient theatrical splendor,
On his humble attempt be such fortune attendant,
As to-night o'er this Proteus to gain the ascendant,
That the gales of your favor, with generous commotion,
May waft his glad bark through the critical ocean!

211

THE ART OF THE MODERN DRAMA

Let trick and mirth nonsensically loud
Catch the perched rabble in its greasy cloud,
Whirled o'er the stage while humorous tables fly
And witty punch-bowls strike the canvas sky.
Let canting patriots prove their lungs are good
And oft be heard though seldom understood;
Confound in chaos all terrestrial things,
Pugs, lovers, horses, charioteers and kings:
The bellowing pit shall hail thy rash endeavour,
And stage-box Jacky say: “Gad's curse, that's clever!”

FAREWELL TO MEIRION

Meirion, farewell! thy sylvan shades,
Thy mossy rocks and bright cascades,
Thy tangled glens and dingles wild,
Might well detain the Muses' child.
But can the son of science find,
In thy fair realm, one kindred mind,
One soul sublime, by feeling taught,
To wake the genuine pulse of thought,
One heart by nature formed to prove
True friendship and unvarying love?
No—Bacchus reels through all thy fields,
Her brand fanatic frenzy wields,

212

And ignorance with falsehood dwells,
And folly shakes her jingling bells.
Meirion, farewell—and ne'er again
My steps shall press thy mountain reign,
Nor long on thee my memory rest,
Fair as thou art—unloved, unblessed.
And ne'er may parting stranger's hand
Wave a fond blessing on thy land,
Long as disgusted virtue flies
From folly, drunkenness, and lies;
Long as insulted science shuns
The steps of thy degraded sons;
Long as the northern tempest roars
Round their inhospitable doors.

NECESSITY

Εγω και δια Μουσας. Euripides: Alcestis.

Strophe

My steps have pressed the flowers,
That to the Muses' bowers
The eternal dews of Helicon have given:
And trod the mountain height,
Where Science, young and bright,
Scans with poetic gaze the midnight-heaven;
Yet have I found no power to vie
With thine, severe Necessity!
No counteracting spell sublime,
By Orpheus, breathed in elder time,

213

The tablets of initiate Thrace contain:
No drug imbued with strength divine,
To sons of Æsculapian line,
By pitying Phœbus taught, to soothe the stings of pain.

Antistrophe

Thee, goddess, thee alone
None seek with suppliant moan:
No votive wreaths thine iron altars dress:
Immutably severe,
The song thou dost not hear,
That speaks the plaint of mortal wretchedness.
Oh, may I ne'er more keenly feel
Thy power, that breaks the strength of steel,
With whose dread course concordant still
Jove executes his sovereign will:
Vain were his might, unseconded by thee.
Regret or shame thou canst not know;
Nor pity for terrestrial woe
Can check thy onward course, or change thy stern decree.

Epode

And thou, in patience bear thy doom,
Beneath her heaviest bonds opprest:
Tears cannot burst the marble tomb,
Where e'en the sons of gods must rest.
In life, in death, most loved, most blest,
Was she for whom our fruitless tears are shed;
And round her cold sepulchral bed,

214

Unlike the tombs of the promiscuous dead,
Wreaths of eternal fame shall spread,
By matchless virtue merited.
There oft the traveller from his path shall turn,
To grace with holy rites her funeral urn,
And muse beneath the lonely cypress shade,
That waves, in silent gloom, where her remains are laid.

YOUTH AND AGE

Α νεοτης μοι φιλον: αχθος δε το γηρας, κ. τ. λ. Euripides: Hercules Furens.

To me the hours of youth are dear,
In transient light that flow:
But age is heavy, cold, and drear,
As winter's rocks of snow.
Already on my brows I feel
His grasp of ice and fangs of steel,
Dimming the visual radiance pale,
That soon eternal night shall veil.
Oh! not for all the gold that flings,
Through domes of oriental kings,
Its mingled splendour, falsely bright,
Would I resign youth's lovelier light.
For whether wealth its path illume,
Or toil and poverty depress,
The days of youth are days of bloom,
And health, and hope, and loveliness.
Oh! were the ruthless demon, Age,
Involved by Jove's tempestuous rage,

215

And fast and far to ruin driven,
Beyond the flaming bounds of heaven,
Or whelmed where arctic winter broods
O'er Ocean's frozen solitudes,
So never more to haunt again
The cities and the homes of men.
Yet, were the gods the friends of worth,
Of justice, and of truth,
The virtuous and the wise on earth
Should find a second youth.
Then would true glory shine unfurled,
A light to guide and guard the world,
If, not in vain with time at strife,
The good twice ran the race of life,
While vice, to one brief course confined,
Should wake no more to curse mankind.
Experience then might rightly trace
The lines that part the good and base,
As sailors read the stars of night,
Where shoreless billows murmuring roll,
And guide by their unerring light
The vessel to its distant goal.
But, since no signs from Jove declare
That earthly virtue claims his care;
Since folly, vice, and falsehood prove
As many marks of heavenly love;
The life of man in darkness flies;
The thirst of truth and wisdom dies;
And love and beauty bow the knee
To gold's supreme divinity.

216

PHÆDRA AND NURSE.

Ω κακα θνητων στυγεραι τε νοσοι. Euripides: Hippolytus.

Nurse
Oh ills of life! relentless train
Of sickness, tears, and wasting pain!
Where shall I turn? what succour claim
To warm with health thy failing frame?
Thy couch, by which so long we mourn,
Forth from the palace doors is borne:
Turn on these scenes thy languid sight,
That breathe of life, and smile in light.
But now thy every wish was given
To draw the ethereal breeze of heaven:
Soon will thy fancy's wandering train
Recall the chamber's gloom again.
Charmless all present objects seem:
The absent fill thy feverish dream:
Thy half-formed thoughts new thoughts destroy,
Nor leave one transient pause of joy.
Yet better feel the sharpest pains,
That rend the nerves and scorch the veins,
Than the long watch of misery prove
By the sick couch of those we love.
In the worst pangs to sickness known
Corporeal sufferance reigns alone;
The double pangs our vigils share
Of manual toil and mental care.

217

The days of man in misery flow:
No rest from toils and tears we know:
The happier slumbers of the tomb
Are wrapped in clouds, and veiled in gloom.
And hence our abject spirits shrink
From pressing that oblivious brink,
Still fondly lingering to survey
The radiance of terrestrial day,
Through fear that fate's unpitying breath
May burst the deep repose of death,
And ignorance of those paths of dread
Which no returning step may tread.
We trace the mystic legends old
That many a dreaming bard has told,
And hear, half-doubting, half-deceived,
The songs our simpler sires believed.

Phædra
Give me your hands. My strength has fled.
Uplift my frame. Support my head.
Unclasp the bands that bind my hair,
A weight I have not power to bear,
And let my loosened tresses flow
Freely on all the winds that blow.

Nurse
My child, let hope thy bosom warm:
Convulse not thus thy sickly form:
Thy mind let tranquil virtue steel
To bear the ills that all must feel,
Since human wisdom shuns in vain
The sad necessity of pain.


218

Phædra
Oh place me in some flowery glade,
Beneath the poplar's murmuring shade,
Where many a dewy fountain flings
The treasures of its crystal springs:
There let me draw, in transient rest,
A draught to cool my burning breast.

Nurse
Alas! what words are these, my child?
Oh breathe not strains so sadly wild,
That seem with phrensy's tints imbued,
Before the listening multitude.

Phædra
Oh! bear me to those heights divine,
Where wild winds bend the mountain-pine,
Where to the dog's melodious cry
The rocks and caverned glens reply.
By heaven, I long to grasp the spear,
Hang on the track of flying deer,
Shout to the dogs, as fast we sweep
Tumultuous down the sylvan steep,
And hurl along the tainted air
The javelin from my streaming hair.

Nurse
Alas! what may these visions be?
What are the dogs and woods to thee?
Why is it thus thy fancy roves
To lonely springs and cypress groves,

219

When here the hanging rock distills
Its everlasting crystal rills?

Phædra
Goddess of Limna's sandy bounds,
Where many a courser's hoof resounds!
Would I were on thy field of fame,
Conspicuous in the equestrian game.

Nurse
Still from thy lips such strains depart,
As thrill with pain my aged heart.
Now on the mountain-heights afar
You long to urge the sylvan war;
Now on the billow-bordering sand
To guide the rein with desperate hand.
What gifted mind's mysterious skill
Shall say whence springs thy secret ill?
For sure some god's malignant sway
Turns thee from reason's paths away.

Phædra
Where has my darkened fancy strayed?
What has my rash delirium said?
How lost, alas! how fallen am I
Beneath some adverse deity!
Nurse, veil my head. The dream is past.
My mournful eyes on earth I cast:
The thoughts I breathed my memory rend,
And tears of grief and shame descend.

220

Sad is the change when reason's light
Bursts on the waste of mental night.
Severe the pangs of phrensy's hour:
But, when we feel its scorpion power,
Oh might the illusion never fly!
For 'twere some blessing so to die,
Ere yet returning sense could shew
The dire reality of woe.

Nurse
I veil thee.. When shall death so spread
His veil around my weary head?
Truths, oft by sages sought in vain,
Long life and sad experience gain.
Let not the children of mankind
Affection's bonds too closely bind,
But let the heart unshackled prove
The links of dissoluble love.
Loose be those links, and lightly held;
With ease compressed, with ease repelled;
More tender ties the health destroy,
And bring long grief for transient joy.
Ill may one feeble spirit bear,
When double feelings claim its care,
The pangs that in the heart concur,
Such pangs, as now I feel for her.
For love, like riches, in excess,
Has more the power to curse than bless:
And wisdom turns from passion's strife,
To seek the golden mean of life.


221

CHORAL ODE TO LOVE.

Ερως Ερως ο κατ' ομματων. Euripides: Hippolytus.

Strophe I

Oh Love! oh Love! whose shafts of fire
Invade the soul with sweet surprise,
Through the soft dews of young desire
Trembling in beauty's azure eyes!
Condemn not me the pangs to share
Thy too impassioned votaries bear,
That on the mind their stamp impress
Indelible and measureless.
For not the sun's descending dart,
Nor yet the lightning-brand of Jove,
Fall like the shaft that strikes the heart,
Thrown by the mightier hand of love.

Antistrophe I

Oh! vainly, where, by Letrian plains,
Tow'rd Dian's dome Alphëus bends,
And from Apollo's Pythian fanes,
The steam of hecatombs ascends:
While not to love our altars blaze:
To love, whose tyrant power arrays
Against mankind each form of woe
That hopeless anguish bleeds to know:
To love, who keeps the golden key,
That, when more favored lips implore,

222

Unlocks the sacred mystery
Of youthful beauty's bridal door.

Strophe II

Alas! round love's despotic power
Their brands what forms of terror wave!
The Œchalian maid, in evil hour,
Venus to great Alcides gave.
As yet in passion's lore unread,
Unconscious of connubial ties,
She saw around her bridal bed
Her native city's flames arise.
Ah hapless maid! mid kindred gore
Whose nuptial torch the Furies bore:
To him consigned, an ill-starred bride,
By whom her sire and brethren died.

Antistrophe II

Oh towers of Thebes! oh sacred flow
Of mystic Dirce's fountain-tides!
Say, in what shapes of fear and woe
Love through his victim's bosom glides!
She, who to heaven's imperial sire
The care-dispelling Bacchus bore,
Mid thunder and celestial fire
Embraced, and slept to wake no more.
Too powerful love, inspiring still
The dangerous wish, the frantic will,
Bears, like the bee's mellifluous wing,
A transient sweet, a lasting sting.

223

CONNUBIAL EQUALITY

Η σοφος, η σοφος ην. Æschylus: Prometheus.

Oh! wise was he, the first who taught
This lesson of observant thought,
That equal fates alone may dress
The bowers of nuptial happiness;
That never, where ancestral pride
Inflames, or affluence rolls its tide,
Should love's ill-omened bonds entwine
The offspring of an humbler line.

224

CHORAL ODE ON THE EVILS OF LIFE

Οστις του πλεονος μερους. Sophocles: Œdipus at Colonos.

Alas! that thirst of wealth and power
Should pass the bounds by wisdom laid,
And shun Contentment's mountain-bower,
To chase a false and fleeting shade!

225

The torrid orb of summer shrouds
Its head in darker, stormier clouds,
Than quenched its vernal glow:
And streams, that meet the expanding sea,
Resign the peace and purity,
That marked their infant flow.
Go, seek what joys, serene and deep,
The paths of wealth and power supply!
The eyes no balmy slumbers steep,
The lips own no satiety,
Till, where unpitying Pluto dwells,
And where the turbid Styx impels
Its circling waves along,
The pale ghost treads the flowerless shore,
And hears the unblest sisters pour
Their loveless, lyreless song.
Man's happiest lot is not to be:
And, when we tread life's thorny steep,
Most blest are they, who, earliest free,
Descend to death's eternal sleep.
From wisdom far, and peace, and truth,
Imprudence leads the steps of youth,
Where ceaseless evils spring:
Toil, frantic passion, deadly strife,
Revenge, and murder's secret knife,
And envy's scorpion sting.
Age comes—unloved, unsocial age,—
Exposed to fate's severest shock,

226

As to the ocean-tempest's rage
The bleak and billow-beaten rock.
There ills on ills commingling press:
Morose, unjoying helplessness,
And pain, and slow disease:
As, when the storm of winter raves,
The wild winds rush from all their caves
To swell the northern seas.

228

“OH BLEST ARE THEY, AND THEY ALONE”

Oh blest are they, and they alone,
To fame to wealth to power unknown;
Whose lives in one perpetual tenor glide,
Nor feel one influence of malignant fate:

229

For when the gods on mortals frown
They pour no single vengeance down,
But scatter ruin vast and wide
On all the race they hate.
Then ill on ill succeeding still,
With unrelaxing fury pours,
As wave on wave the breakers rave
Tumultuous on the wreck-strown shores,
When northern tempests sweep
The wild and wintry deep,
Uprending from its depths the sable sand,
Which blackening eddies whirl,
And crested surges hurl
Against the rocky bulwarks of the land,
While to the tumult, deepening round,
The repercussive caves resound.

LAW OF NECESSITY

In solitary pride,
By Dirce's murmuring side,
The giant oak has stretched its ample shade,
And waved its tresses of imperial might;
Now low in dust its blackened boughs are laid,
Its dark root withers in the depth of night.
Nor hoarded gold, nor pomp of martial power
Can check necessity's supreme control,
That cleaves unerringly the rock-built tower,
And whelms the flying bark where shoreless oceans roll.

230

AL MIO PRIMIERO AMORE

To many a shrine my steps have strayed,
Ne'er from their earliest fetters free:
And I have sighed to many a maid,
Though I have never loved but thee.
Youth's visioned scenes, too bright to last,
Have vanished to return no more:
Yet memory loves to trace the past,
Which only memory can restore.
The confidence, no heart has felt
But when with first illusions warm,
The hope, on one alone that dwelt,
The thought, that knew no second form,—
All these were ours: and can it be
That their return may charm us yet?
Can aught remain to thee and me,
Beyond remembrance and regret?
For now thy sweetest smiles appear
Like shades of joys for ever flown,
As music in an exile's ear
Recalls the strains his home has known.
No more can bloom the faded flower:
No more the extinguished fire can burn:
Nor hope nor fancy's mightiest power
Can burst young love's sepulchral urn.

231

LINES TO A FAVOURITE LAUREL

IN THE GARDEN AT ANKERWYKE COTTAGE

How changed this lonely scene! the rank weed chokes
The garden flowers: the thistle's towering growth
Waves o'er the untrodden paths: the rose that breathed
Diffusive fragrance from its christening bed,
Scarce by a single bud denotes the spot
Where glowed its countless bloom: the woodbine droops
And trails along the ground, and wreathes no more
Around the light verandah's pillared shade
The tendrils of its sweetness: the green shrubs,
That made even winter gay, have felt themselves
The power of change, and mournful is the sound
Of evening's twilight gale, that shrilly sweeps
Their brown and sapless leaves.
But thou remain'st
Unaltered save in beauty: thou alone,
Amid neglect and desolation, spread'st
The rich luxuriance of thy foliage still,
More rich and more luxuriant now, than when,
Mid all the gay parterre, I called thee first
My favourite laurel: and 'tis something yet,
Even in this world where Ahrimanes reigns
To think that thou, my favourite, hast been left

232

Unharmed amid the inclemency of time,
While all around thee withered.
Lovely tree!
There is a solemn aspect in thy shade,
A mystic whisper in the evening gale,
That murmurs through thy boughs; it breathes of peace,
Of rest, to one, who, having trodden long
The thorny paths of this malignant world,
Full fain would make the moss that tufts thy root
The pillow of his slumber.
Many a bard,
Beneath some favourite tree, oak, beech, or pine,
Has by the pensive music of the breeze,
Been soothed to transient rest: but thou canst shed
A mightier spell: the murmur of thy leaves
Is full of meaning; and their influence,
Accessible to resolution, yields
No evanescent balm, but pours at once
Through all the sufferer's frame, the sweetest sleep
The weary pilgrim of the earth can know:
The long, oblivious, everlasting sleep
Of that last night on which no morn shall rise.

233

PROLOGUE TO MR. TOBIN'S COMEDY OF THE GUARDIANS, PERFORMED AT THE THEATRE ROYAL, DRURY LANE, NOVEMBER, 1816

Spoken by Mr. ---

Beyond the hopes and fears of earlier days,
The frowns of censure and the smiles of praise,
Is he, the bard, on whose untimely tomb,
Your favour bade the Thespian laurel bloom;
Though late the meed that crowned his minstrel strain,
It has not died, and was not given in vain.
If now our hopes one more memorial rear,
To blend with those that live unwithering here;
If on that tomb where genius sleeps in night,
One flower expands to bloom in lingering light,
Flower of a stem which no returning spring
Shall clothe anew with buds and blossoming;
Oh! yet again the votive wreath allow
To grace his name which cannot bind his brow;
And, while our tale the scenic maze pursues,
Still prove kind Guardians to his orphan muse.

234

EPILOGUE TO THE COMEDY OF THE GUARDIANS

Spoken by Mr. Harley in the character of Hint

At home, abroad, in gossip, or in print,
Who has not felt the magic power of Hint?
Say, lovely maid, what earthly power can move
That gentle bosom like a hint of love?
Say, thou spruce beau, oppressed with loads of raiment,
What half so shocking as a hint for payment?
A hint of need, drawn forth with sad concessions,
Stops the full flow of friendship's loud professions:
A hint of Hyde Park Ring from testy humours,
Stops Hint itself, when most agog for rumours.
Where'er I go, beaux, belles of all degrees,
Come buzzing round me like a swarm of bees:
My crafty hook of sly insinuation
I bait with hints, and fish for information.
“What news, dear Hint? it does us good to see
Your pleasant face: we're dying with ennui.”
“Me! bless you! I know nothing.” “You're so sly;
You've something in your head:” “Indeed not I.
'Tis true, at Lady Rook's, just now I heard
A whisper pass. . . . I don't believe a word
A certain lady is not over blameless,
Touching a certain lord that shall be nameless.”
“Who? who? pray tell.” “Excuse me.” “Nay, you shall.”

235

(In different voices)
“You mean my Lady Plume and Lord Fal-lal,”
“Lord Smirk and Mrs. Sparkle,” “Lady Simple,
And young Lord Froth,” “Lord Whip and Mrs. Dimple.” (In an Irish accent)

“D'ye mean my wife, sir? give me leave to mention
There's no ill meaning in Lord Sly's attention:
Sir, there's my card: command me: I'll attend,
And talk the matter over with a friend.”
“Dear Major! no such thing: you're right in scorning
Such idle tales: I wish you a good-morning.”
Away I speed: from lounge to lounge I run,
With five tales loaded where I fished for one;
And, entre nous, take care the town shall know,
The Major's wife is not quite comme il faut.
But Hyde Park Ring my cunning shuns in vain,
If by your frowns I die in Drury Lane.
If die I must, think not I'll tamely fall:
Pit, boxes, gallery, thus I challenge all.
Ye critics near me, and ye gods afar!
Fair maid, spruce beau, plump cit, and jovial tar!
Come one and all, roused by my valorous greeting,
To-morrow night to give bold Hint the meeting:
Bring all your friends—a host—I'll fit them nicely,
Place—Drury Lane—time, half-past-six precisely.

236

“FROM TEN TO ELEVEN”

From ten to eleven, ate a breakfast for seven:
From eleven to noon, to begin 'twas too soon;
From twelve to one, asked, “What's to be done?”
From one to two, found nothing to do;
From two to three began to foresee
That from three to four would be a damned bore.

A BILL FOR THE BETTER PROMOTION OF OPPRESSION ON THE SABBATH DAY

Forasmuch as the Canter's and Fanatic's Lord
Sayeth peace and joy are by me abhorred;
And would fill each Sunday with gloom and pain
For all too poor his regard to obtain;
And forasmuch as the laws heretofore
Have not sufficiently squeezed the poor;
Be it therefore enacted by Commons, King
And Lords, a crime for any thing
To be done on the Sabbath by any rank
Excepting the rich. No beer may be drank,
Food eaten, rest taken, away from home,
And each House shall a Sunday prison become;
And spies and jailers must carefully see,
Under severest penalty,

237

None stirs but to conventicle,
Thrice a day at toll of bell.
And each sickly cit who dare engage
His place by steamer, fly or stage,
With owner thereof shall by this said bill,
Be punished with fine, imprisonment or treadmill.
But nothing herein is designed to discourage
Priest, noble or squire from the use of his carriage.
No ship shall move however it blow,
The Devil a bit shall said ship go
Whether the winds will let it or no;
And, as winds and weather we cannot imprison,
Owners, Captain and sailors we therefore shall seize on,
And whereas oxen, lambs and sheep
About the roads and lanes will creep,
And cocks and hens and ducks and geese
Will not on Sunday hold their peace,
Be it enacted that foresaid beasts,
If not belonging to gentry or priests,
Be caught and whipped and pounded on Sunday,
And sold to pay expences on Monday.
The drunkard, who paid five shillings before,
Shall now pay twenty shillings more,
And mine host, if on Sabbath he dare unloose
A bolt, shall be fined and his license lose.
All oranges, cakes & lollypop
Shall be seized; & every open shop
Shall be fined a pound an hour till it stop.
Till nine the milkman may ply his trade,
For pious breakfasts must be made

238

At the risk of his soul. And the Bakers at last,
When the poor man's dinner is clearly past,
Must set to work, the godly scorning
Stale rolls and bread on a Monday morning.
That Justices may have less to do,
'Tis enacted they may convict on view,
And shall, if they think the course more drastic,
Transfer to Courts Ecclesiastic.
All informers shall pass scot free,
However false their averments may be;
And witnesses who have no mind
To convict shall be imprisoned and fined.
And whereas from this act's operation
Are exempted the following ranks in this nation:
The rich man's servants; they cannot be spared
(In spite of the Scripture) from working hard;
Milkmen in the morning; at evening the bakers,
With Constables, Doctors, thieves, parsons, toll-takers;
And parties for music, gambling or dinners
Are hereby exempt, when the rich are the sinners;
For no party whatever has aught to fear
From said act who has more than £500 a year.

239

MARGARET LOVE PEACOCK

Long night succeeds thy little day;
Oh blighted blossom! can it be,
That this grey stone, and grassy clay,
Have clos'd our anxious care of thee?
The half-form'd speech of artless thought,
That spoke a mind beyond thy years;
The song, the dance, by nature taught;
The sunny smiles, the transient tears;
The symmetry of face and form,
The eye with light and life replete;
The little heart so fondly warm,
The voice so musically sweet;
These, lost to hope, in memory yet
Around the hearts that lov'd thee cling,
Shadowing, with long and vain regret,
The too fair promise of thy spring.

241

TRANSLATION OF AN INSCRIPTION PLACED UNDER THE FIRST STONE OF THE LONDON-UNIVERSITY

By the favor of God, the great builder of earth,
(Which favor we hope may be found of some worth,)
This stone, in the ground with due mystery laid,
By a Prince of the Masons' original trade,
A Prince whom the provident bounty of God
Expressly cut out for a Knight of the hod,
Midst citizens, noisy with hand and with voice,
Who, we clearly foresee, will be there to rejoice,
Begins, at length, somehow, at some time or other,
A good job for this town, and each lecturing brother,
And makes record more lasting than pencil or pen
Of us twenty five most illustrious men,
Including our builder, who stands in his place
As just one of us, in the Nominative Case.

242

“OH NOSE OF WAX! TRUE SYMBOL OF THE MIND”

Oh nose of wax! true symbol of the mind
Which fate and fortune mould in all mankind
(Even as the hand moulds thee) to foul or fair:—
Thee good John Bull for his device shall bear,
While Sawney Scot the ductile mass shall mould,
Bestowing paper and receiving gold.
Thy image, shrined in studious state severe,
Shall grace the pile which Brougham and Campbell rear:
Thy name to those scholastic bowers shall pass,
And rival Oxford's ancient nose of brass.

TOUCHANDGO

Hoho! hoho! pray who can show
Whither has fled great Touchandgo?
He's gone off in a chaise and pair,
And not a man on earth knows where.
In his own chariot off he ran,
And there was not a turnpike man,
'Twixt London and the Western Channel,
Could see his arms upon the pannel.
Some say he took the road to Bristol,
Equipped with sixpence and a pistol;

243

Some say with gold he's well apparelled,
And blunderbusses double-barrelled:
Others affirm, he strove to pop
His brains out in my uncle's shop,
And, missing fire, set off to Milford,
With lots of sovereigns which he pilfered:
Some say he beat about all Sunday,
I' th' wind's eye, off the Isle of Lundy,
Showered on the Pilots gold, like manna,
And then was shipped off for Savannah.
Others aver he still doth dwell
Deep in a fishing-vessel's well,
And there, chin-deep, in Milford Haven,
Takes cold, and croaks like any raven;
They add, his Assignees' Attorney
Has waited on Sir Richard Birnie,
With a request that Mr. Bishop
Him, from said fishing-smack, may fish up.
Some say a fleet has just weighed anchor,
To chace the flying Clerk and Banker,
With picked men, guns and carronades,
To take, or sink, or burn the blades.
Well done! Britannia rules the waves!
A fleet to catch one brace of knaves!
Thus paper-coinage sets in motion
All England and the Atlantic Ocean.

244

Now, hark! away, ye Bow-street runners;
Whistle, ye boatswains—swear, ye gunners;
Spread all your canvas, seamen loyal,
Gib, studd'n sail, and top-gallant-royal.
Jack Tar has found a worthy foe
To chace in mighty Touchandgo—
Who'll back the “Victory” 'gainst the “Funny?”
Huzza! St. George and Paper-money!

A SPEECH IN EMBRYO

My Lords, as I'm a man veracious,
I had a word or two to say
Which were exceedingly sagacious;
But, I protest, they've flown away.
'Tis sure the greatest of all hardships,
And proves some spell is round me spread,
That barely looking at your Lordships
Drives all ideas from my head.
My ‘winged words,’ in regions airy,
Just now are hovering out of reach;
I'll catch my stray vocabulary,
And then, my Lords, I'll make a speech.

245

“WHEN JOHN OF ZISCA WENT TO KINGDOM COME”

When John of Zisca went to Kingdom come
He left his skin to make his Church a drum,
To sound a rub-a-dub for Reformation,
To beat a general muster to Salvation.
So Winchelsea, who soon will be no more,
Between two fires, Guy Fawkes and Scarlet Whore,
To Bigots of all ages and Conditions
Shall leave his noble Sheep-skin for Petitions.

THE LEGEND OF MANOR HALL

Old Farmer Wall, of Manor Hall,
To market drove his wain:
Along the road it went well stowed
With sacks of golden grain.
His station he took, but in vain did he look
For a customer all the morn;
Though the farmers all, save Farmer Wall,
They sold off all their corn.
Then home he went, sore discontent,
And many an oath he swore,
And he kicked up rows with his children and spouse,
When they met him at the door.
Next market-day, he drove away
To the town his loaded wain:

246

The farmers all, save Farmer Wall,
They sold off their grain.
No bidder he found, and he stood astound
At the close of the market-day,
When the market was done, and the chapmen were gone
Each man his several way.
He stalked by his load along the road;
His face with wrath was red:
His arms he tossed, like a goodman crossed
In seeking his daily bread.
His face was red, and fierce was his tread,
And with lusty voice cried he:
“My corn I'll sell to the devil of hell,
If he'll my chapman be.”
These words he spoke just under an oak
Seven hundred winters old;
And he straight was aware of a man sitting there
On the roots and grassy mould.
The roots rose high o'er the green-sward dry,
And the grass around was green,
Save just the space of the stranger's place,
Where it seemed as fire had been.
All scorched was the spot, as gipsy-pot
Had swung and bubbled there:
The grass was marred, the roots were charred,
And the ivy stems were bare.

247

The stranger up-sprung: to the farmer he flung
A loud and friendly hail,
And he said, “I see well, thou hast corn to sell,
And I'll buy it on the nail.”
The twain in a trice agreed on the price;
The stranger his earnest paid,
And with horses and wain to come for the grain
His own appointment made.
The farmer cracked his whip, and tracked
His way right merrily on:
He struck up a song, as he trudged along,
For joy that his job was done.
His children fair he danced in the air;
His heart with joy was big;
He kissed his wife; he seized a knife,
He slew a sucking pig.
The faggots burned, the porkling turned
And crackled before the fire;
And an odour arose, that was sweet in the nose
Of a passing ghostly friar.
He tirled at the pin, he entered in,
He sate down at the board;
The pig he blessed, when he saw it well dressed,
And the humming ale out-poured.
The friar laughed, the friar quaffed,
He chirped like a bird in May;
The farmer told how his corn he had sold
As he journeyed home that day.

248

The friar he quaffed, but no longer he laughed,
He changed from red to pale:
“Oh, hapless elf! 'tis the fiend himself
To whom thou hast made thy sale!”
The friar he quaffed, he took a deep draught;
He crossed himself amain:
“Oh, slave of pelf! 'tis the devil himself
To whom thou hast sold thy grain!
And sure as the day, he'll fetch thee away,
With the corn which thou hast sold,
If thou let him pay o'er one tester more
Than thy settled price in gold.”
The farmer gave vent to a loud lament,
The wife to a long outcry;
Their relish for pig and ale was flown;
The friar alone picked every bone,
And drained the flagon dry.
The friar was gone: the morning dawn
Appeared, and the stranger's wain
Came to the hour, with six-horse power,
To fetch the purchased grain.
The horses were black: on their dewy track
Light steam from the ground up-curled;
Long wreaths of smoke from their nostrils broke,
And their tails like torches whirled.
More dark and grim, in face and limb,
Seemed the stranger than before,

249

As his empty wain, with steeds thrice twain,
Drew up to the farmer's door.
On the stranger's face was a sly grimace,
As he seized the sacks of grain;
And, one by one, till left were none,
He tossed them on the wain.
And slily he leered, as his hand up-reared
A purse of costly mould,
Where, bright and fresh, through a silver mesh,
Shone forth the glistering gold.
The farmer held out his right hand stout,
And drew it back with dread;
For in fancy he heard each warning word
The supping friar had said.
His eye was set on the silver net;
His thoughts were in fearful strife;
When, sudden as fate, the glittering bait
Was snatched by his loving wife.
And, swift as thought, the stranger caught
The farmer his waist around,
And at once the twain and the loaded wain
Sank through the rifted ground.
The gable-end wall of Manor Hall
Fell in ruins on the place:
That stone-heap old the tale has told
To each succeeding race.

250

The wife gave a cry that rent the sky
At her goodman's downward flight:
But she held the purse fast, and a glance she cast
To see that all was right.
'Twas the fiend's full pay for her goodman grey,
And the gold was good and true;
Which made her declare, that “his dealings were fair,
To give the devil his due.”
She wore the black pall for Farmer Wall,
From her fond embraces riven:
But she won the vows of a younger spouse
With the gold which the fiend had given.
Now, farmers, beware what oaths you swear
When you cannot sell your corn;
Lest, to bid and buy, a stranger be nigh,
With hidden tail and horn.
And, with good heed, the moral a-read,
Which is of this tale the pith,
If your corn you sell to the fiend of hell,
You may sell yourself therewith.
And if by mishap you fall in the trap,—
Would you bring the fiend to shame,
Lest the tempting prize should dazzle her eyes,
Lock up your frugal dame.

251

THE NEW YEAR

LINES ON GEORGE CRUIKSHANK'S ILLUSTRATION OF JANUARY, IN THE COMIC ALMANACK FOR 1838

A great philosopher art thou, George Cruikshank,
In thy unmatched grotesqueness! Antic dance,
Wine, mirth, and music, welcome thy New Year,
Who makes her entry as a radiant child,
With smiling face, in holiday apparel,
Bearing a cornucopiæ, crowned and clustered
With all the elements of festal joy:
All smiles and promises. But looking closely
Upon that smiling face, 'tis but a mask;
Fitted so well, it almost seems a face;
But still a mask. What features lurk beneath,
The rolling months will show. Thy Old Year passes,—
Danced out in mockery by the festive band,—
A faded form, with thin and pallid face,
In spectral weeds; her mask upon the ground,
Her Amalthæa's horn reversed, and emptied
Of all good things,—not even hope remaining.
Such will the New Year be: that smiling mask
Will fall; to some how soon: to many later:
At last to all! The same transparent shade
Of wasted means and broken promises
Will make its exit: and another Year
Will enter masked and smiling, and be welcomed
With minstrelsy and revelry, as this is.

252

NEWARK ABBEY

AUGUST, 1842 WITH A REMINISCENCE OF AUGUST, 1807

I gaze, where August's sunbeam falls
Along these gray and lonely walls,
Till in its light absorbed appears
The lapse of five-and-thirty years.
If change there be, I trace it not
In all this consecrated spot:
No new imprint of Ruin's march
On roofless wall and frameless arch:
The hills, the woods, the fields, the stream,
Are basking in the self-same beam:
The fall, that turns the unseen mill,
As then it murmured, murmurs still:
It seems, as if in one were cast
The present and the imaged past,
Spanning, as with a bridge sublime,
That awful lapse of human time,
That gulph, unfathomably spread
Between the living and the dead.
For all too well my spirit feels
The only change this scene reveals:
The sunbeams play, the breezes stir,
Unseen, unfelt, unheard by her,
Who, on that long-past August day,
First saw with me these ruins gray.

253

Whatever span the Fates allow,
Ere I shall be as she is now,
Still in my bosom's inmost cell
Shall that deep-treasured memory dwell:
That, more than language can express,
Pure miracle of loveliness,
Whose voice so sweet, whose eyes so bright,
Were my soul's music, and its light,
In those blest days, when life was new,
And hope was false, but love was true.

LINES ON THE DEATH OF JULIA

LORD BROUGHTON'S ELDEST DAUGHTER, 1849

Accept, bright spirit, reft in life's best bloom,
This votive wreath to thy untimely tomb.
Formed to adorn all scenes, and charm in all,
The fire-side circle, and the courtly hall;
Thy friends to gladden, and thy home to bless;—
Fair form thou hadst, and grace, and graciousness;
A mind that sought, a tongue that spoke, the truth,
And thought mature beneath the smiles of youth.
Dear, dear young friend! ingenuous, cordial heart!
And can it be, that thou shouldst first depart?
That age should sorrow o'er thy youthful shrine?
It owns more near, more sacred griefs than mine;
Yet, midst the many who thy loss deplore,
Few loved thee better, and few mourn thee more.

254

A GOODLYE BALLADE OF LITTLE JOHN

SHEWINGE HOW HE RAYSED A DYVELL, AND HOW HE COULDE NOTTE LAYE HYMME

Fytte the First

Little John he sat in a lordly hall,
Mid spoils of the Church of old:
And he saw a shadowing on the wall,
That made his blood run cold.
He saw the dawn of a coming day,
Dim-glimmering through the gloom:
He saw the coronet pass away
From the ancient halls where it then held sway,
And the mitre its place resume.
He saw, the while, through the holy pile
The incense vapour spread;
He saw the poor, at the Abbey door,
Receiving their daily bread.
He saw on the wall the shadows cast
Of sacred sisters three:
He blessed them not, as they flitted past:
But above them all he hated the last,
For that was Charitie.
Now down from its shelf a book he bore,
And characters he drew,
And a spell he muttered o'er and o'er,

255

Till before him cleft was the marble floor,
And a murky fiend came through.
“Now take thee a torch in thy red right hand,”
Little John to the fiend he saith:
“And let it serve as a signal brand,
To raise the rabble, throughout the land,
Against the Catholic Faith.”
Straight through the porch, with brandished torch,
The fiend went joyously out:
And a posse of parsons, established by law,
Sprang up, when the lurid flame they saw,
To head the rabble rout.
And braw Scots Presbyters nimbly sped
In the train of the muckle black de'il;
And, as the wild infection spread,
The Protestant Hydra's every head
Sent forth a yell of zeal.
And pell-mell went all forms of dissent,
Each beating its scriptural drum;
Wesleyans and Whitfieldites followed as friends,
And whatever in 'onian and 'arian ends,
Et omne quod exit in hum.
And in bonfires burned ten thousand Guys,
With caricatures of the pious and wise,
Mid shouts of goblin glee,
And such a clamour rent the skies,
That all buried lunatics seemed to rise,
And hold a Jubilee.

256

Fytte the Second

The devil gave the rabble scope
And they left him not in the lurch:
But they went beyond the summoner's hope;
For they quickly got tired of bawling “No Pope!”
And bellowed, “No State Church!”
“Ho!” quoth Little John, “this must not be:
The devil leads all amiss:
He works for himself, and not for me:
And straightway back I'll bid him flee
To the bottomless abyss.”
Again he took down his book from the wall,
And pondered words of might:
He muttered a speech, and he scribbled a scrawl:
But the only answer to his call
Was a glimpse, at the uttermost end of the hall,
Of the devil taking a sight.
And louder and louder grew the clang
As the rabble raged without:
The door was beaten with many a bang;
And the vaulted roof re-echoing rang
To the tumult and the shout.
The fiendish shade, on the wall portrayed,
Threw somersaults fast and free,
And flourished his tail like a brandished flail,
As busy as if it were blowing a gale,
And his task were on the sea.

257

And up he toss't his huge pitchfork,
As visioned shrines uprose;
And right and left he went to work,
Till full over Durham, and Oxford, and York,
He stood with a menacing pose.
The rabble roar was hushed awhile,
As the hurricane rests in its sweep;
And all throughout the ample pile
Reigned silence dread and deep.
Then a thrilling voice cried: “Little John,
A little spell will do,
When there is mischief to be done,
To raise me up and set me on;
For I, of my own free will, am won
To carry such spiritings through.
“But when I am riding the tempest's wing,
And towers and spires have blazed,
'Tis no small conjuror's art to sing,
Or say, a spell to check the swing
Of the demons he has raised.”

IN REMEMBRANCE OF FORTY-FOUR YEARS AGO

The convolvulus twines round the stems of its bower,
And spreads its young blossoms to morning's first ray:
But the noon has scarce past, when it folds up its flower,
Which opens no more to the splendour of day.
So twine round the heart, in the light of life's morning,
Love's coils of green promise and bright purple bloom:
The noontide goes by, and the colours, adorning
Its unfulfilled dreamings, are wrapt up in gloom.
But press the fresh flower, while its charms are yet glowing,
Its colour and form through long years will remain:
And treasured in memory, thus love is still showing
The outlines of hope, which else blossomed in vain.

261

“THE BRIEFEST PART OF LIFE'S UNCERTAIN DAY”

The briefest part of life's uncertain day,
Youth's lovely blossom, hastes to swift decay:
While love, wine, song, enhance our gayest mood,
Old Age creeps on, nor thought, nor understood.

LETTER TO LORD BROUGHTON

Old friend, whose rhymes so kindly mix
Thoughts grave and gay with seventy-six,
I hope it may to you be given
To do the same at seventy-seven;
Whence your still living friends may date
A new good wish for seventy-eight;
And thence again extend the line,
Until it passes seventy-nine;
And yet again, and yet again,
While health and cheerfulness remain.
Long be they yours, for, blest with these,
Life's latest years have power to please,
And round them spread the genial glow
Which sunset casts on Alpine snow.

262

“INSTEAD OF SITTING WRAPPED UP IN FLANNEL”

Instead of sitting wrapped up in flannel
With rheumatism in every joint,
I wish I was in the English Channel,
Just going round the Lizard Point,
All southward bound, with the seas before me,
I should not care whether smooth or rough,
For then no visitors would call to bore me,
Of whose “good-mornings” I have had enough.

CASTLES IN THE AIR

My thoughts by night are often filled
With visions false as fair:
For in the past alone I build
My castles in the air.
I dwell not now on what may be:
Night shadows o'er the scene:
But still my fancy wanders free
Through that which might have been.

263

AHRIMANES AND Other Verse Fragments


265

AHRIMANES

Canto the First The devil is come upon the earth with great power.

ΜΗ ΦΨΝΑΙ τον απαντα νικα λογον:
το δ' επει φανη,
βηναι κειθεν οθεν περ ηκει,
πολυ δευτερον, ως ταχιστα.
ΣΟΦΟΚΛΗΣ.

Man's happiest lot is not to be:
And when we tread life's thorny steep,
Most blest are they, who, earliest free,
Descend to death's eternal sleep.

I

In silver eddies glittering to the moon,
Araxes rolls his many-sounding tide.
Fair as the dreams of hope, and past as soon,
But in succession infinite supplied,
The rapid waters musically glide.
Now, where the cliff's phantastic shadow laves,
Silent and dark, they roll their volumed pride:
Now, by embowering woods and solemn caves,
Around some jutting rock the struggling torrent raves.

266

II

Darassah stands beside the lonely shore,
Intently gazing on the imaged beam,
As one whose steps each lonely haunt explore
Of nymph or naiad,—grove, or rock, or stream—
Nature his guide, his object, and his theme.
Ah no—Darassah's eyes these forms survey
As phantoms of a half-remembered dream:
His eyes are on the water's glittering play:
Their mental sense is closed—his thoughts are far away.

III

But central in the flood of liquid light,
A sudden spot its widening orb revealed,
Jet-black amid the mirrored beams of night,
Jet-black, and round as Celtic warrior's shield,
A sable circle in a silver field.
With sense recalled and motionless surprise,
Deeming some fearful mystery there concealed,
He marked that shadowy orb's expanding size,
Till slowly from its breast a form began to rise—

IV

A female form: and even as marble pale
Her cheeks: her eyes unearthly fire illumed:
Far o'er her shoulders streamed a sable veil,
Where flowers of living flame inwoven bloomed;
No mortal robe might bear them unconsumed:
A crown her temples bound: on such ne'er gazed
Eyes that had seen primeval kings entombed:

267

Twelve points it bore: on every point upraised
A star—a heavenly star—with dazzling radiance blazed.

V

Lovely she was—not loveliness that might
In mortal heart enkindle light desire—
But such as decked the form of youthful Night,
When, on the bosom of her anarch sire,
With gentler passion she did first inspire
The gloomy soul of Erebus severe;
Ere from her breast, on wings of golden fire,
Primordial love sprang o'er the infant sphere,
And bade young Time arise and lead the vernal year.

VI

Her right hand held a wand, whose potent sway
Her liquid path, the buoyant waves, obeyed.
Still as she moved, the moon-beams died away,
And shade around her fell—a circling shade—
That gave no outline of the wondrous maid.
Her form—soft-gliding as the summer gale—
In that portentous darkness shone arrayed,
Shone by her starry crown, her fiery veil,
And those refulgent eyes that made their radiance pale.

VII

“Why—simple dweller of the Araxian isle—”
Thus, as she pressed the shore, the genius said—
“Seek'st thou this spot, to muse and mourn the while,

268

Beside this river's ever-murmuring bed,
When gentle sleep has her dominion spread
On every living thing around, but thee?
The silent stars, that twinkle o'er thy head,
Shed rest and peace on hill, and flower, and tree;
All but the eternal stream, that flows melodiously.”

VIII

Solemn her voice, as music's vesper peal
From distant choir to cloistered echo borne,
Where the deep notes through pillared twilight steal,
Breathing tranquillity to souls that mourn.
The awe-struck youth replied: “Of one so lorn
Canst thou, empyreal spirit, deign require
The secret woes by which his soul is torn?
Sure from the fountain of eternal fire
Thy wondrous birth began, great Mithra's self thy sire.

IX

“Through many an age amid these island-bowers
The simple fathers of our race have dwelt:
To them spontaneous nature fruits and flowers,
By toil unsought, with partial bounty dealt:
At Oromazes' sylvan shrine they knelt:
And morn and eve did choral suppliance flow
From hearts that love and mingled reverence felt,
To him who gave them every bliss to know
That simple hearts can wish, or heavenly love bestow.

269

X

“But years passed on, and strange perversion ran
Among the dwellers of the peaceful isle:
And one, more daring than the rest, began
To fell the grove, and point the massy pile;
And raised the circling fence, with evil wile,
And to his brethren said: These bounds are mine:
And did with living victims first defile
The verdant turf of Oromazes' shrine;
Sad offering sure, and strange, to mercy's source divine.

XI

“And ill example evil followers drew;
Till common good and common right were made
The fraudful tenure of a powerful few:
The many murmured, trembled, and obeyed.
Then peace and freedom fled the sylvan shade,
And care arose, and toil, unknown before:
And some the hallowed alder's trunk essayed,
And left, with tearful eyes, their natal shore.
Swift down the stream they went, and they returned no more.

XII

“And I too, oft, beyond that barrier rock,
That hides from view the river's onward way—
Where, eddying round its base with ceaseless shock,
The waves, that flash, and disappear for aye,
Their parting murmurs to my ear convey—

270

In fancy turn my meditative gaze,
And trace, encircled by their powerful sway,
Some blooming isle, where love unfettered strays,
And peace and freedom dwell, as here in earlier days.

XIII

“But one there is, for whom my tears are shed;
A maid of wealthier lot and prouder line:
With her my happy infant hours I led;
And sweet our mutual task, at morn to twine
The votive wreath round Oromazes' shrine.—
She mourns, a captive in her father's home—
Alone I rove, to murmur and repine—
Alone, where sparkling waves symphonious foam,
I breathe my secret pangs to heaven's empyreal dome.—”

XIV

“Leave tears to slaves”—the genius answering said—
“Adventurous deed the noble mind beseems.
Oh shame to manhood! thus, with listless tread,
In tears and sighs and inconclusive dreams
To waste thy hours by groves and murmuring streams.
I bring thee power for weakness, joy for woe,
And certain bliss for hope's fallacious schemes,
Unless thou lightly thy own weal forego,
And scorn the splendid lot thy bounteous fates bestow.

271

XV

“This gifted ring shall every barrier break:
The maid thou lovest thy wandering steps shall share:
When night returns, with her this isle forsake,
From this my favored haunt: my guardian care
To waft ye hence, the vessel shall prepare.
The monarch of the world hath chosen thee
High trust, and power, and dignity to bear.
I come, obedient to his high decree,
To set from error's spell thy captive senses free.

XVI

“Deem'st thou, when blood of living victims flows,
Mid incense smoke, in denser volumes curled,
That Oromazes there a glance bestows,
A glance of joy, to see the death-blow hurled?
No—far remote, in orient clouds enfurled,
Nor prayer nor sacrificial rite he heeds.
His reign is past: his rival rules the world.
From Ahrimanes now all power proceeds:
For him the altar burns: for him the victim bleeds.

XVII

“Parent of being, mistress of the spheres,
Supreme Necessity o'er all doth reign:
She guides the course of the revolving years,
With power no prayers can change, no force restrain;
Binding all nature in her golden chain,
Whose infinite connection links afar
The smallest atom of the sandy plain

272

And the last ray of heaven's remotest star,
That round the verge of space wheels its refulgent car.

XVIII

“She to two gods, sole agents of her will,
By turns has given her delegated sway:
Her sovereign laws obedient they fulfil:
Inferior powers their high behests obey.
First Oromazes—lord of peace and day—
Dominion held o'er nature and mankind.
Now Ahrimanes rules, and holds his way
In storms: for such his task by her assigned,
To shake the world with war, and rouse the powers of mind.

XIX

“She first on chaos poured the streams of light,
And bade from that mysterious union rise
Primordial love: the heavenly lion's might
Bore him rejoicing through the new-born skies.
Then glowed the infant world with countless dyes
Of fruits and flowers; and virgin nature smiled,
Emerging first from ancient night's disguise
And elemental discord, vast and wild,
Which primogenial love had charmed and reconciled.

XX

“Then man arose: to him the world was given,
Unknowing then disease, or storm, or dearth:
The eternal balance, in the central heaven,
Marked the free tenure of his equal birth,

273

And equal right to all the bounteous earth
Of fruit or flower, his pristine food, might yield.
Nor private roof he knew, nor blazing hearth,
Nor marked with barrier-lines the fruitful field,
Nor learned in martial strife the uprooted oak to wield.

XXI

“Then Oromazes reigned.—Profoundly calm
His empire, as the lake's unruffled breast,
When evening twilight melts in dews of balm,
And rocks and woods in calm reflection rest,
As if for aye indelibly imprest
Were those fair forms, in waveless light arrayed.—
No sigh, no wish, the peaceful heart confest;
Save when the youth, beneath the myrtle shade,
Wooed to his fond embrace the easy-yielding maid.

XXII

“No pillared fanes to Oromazes rose:
For him no priest the destined victim led.
The choral hymn, in swelling sound that flows,
Where round the marble altar streaming red
The slow procession moves with solemn tread,
His empire owned not:—but his bounty grew,
By prayer or hymn nor sought nor merited:
No altar but the peaceful heart he knew—
His only temple-vault, the heaven's ethereal blue.

XXIII

“Such was the infant world, and such the reign
Of cloudless sunshine and oblivious joy;

274

Till rose the scorpion in the empyreal plain,
In fated hour, their empire to destroy,
And with unwonted cares the course alloy
Of mortal being and terrestrial time;
That man might all his god-like powers employ
The toilsome steep of wealth and fame to climb,
To rugged labor trained and glory's thirst sublime.

XXIV

“To Ahrimanes thus devolved the power,
Which still he holds through all the realms of space.
He bade the sea to swell—the storm to lower—
And taught mankind the pliant bow to brace,
And point the shaft, and urge the sounding chace,
And force from veins of flint the seeds of fire;
Till, as more daring thought found gradual place,
He bade the mind to nobler prey aspire,
Of war and martial fame kindling the high desire.

XXV

“For him on earth unnumbered temples rise,
And altars burn, and bleeding victims die:
Albeit the sons of men his name disguise
In other names, that choice or chance supply,
To him alone their incense soars on high.
The god of armies—the avenging god—
Seeva or Allah—Jove or Mars—they cry:
'Tis Ahrimanes still that wields the rod;
To him all nature bends, and trembles at his nod.

275

XXVI

“Yea, even on Oromazes' self they call,
But Ahrimanes hears their secret prayer.
Not in the name that from the lips may fall,
But in the thought the heart's recesses bear,
The sons of earth the power they serve declare.
Wherever priests awake the battle-strain,
And bid the torch of persecution glare,
And curses ring along the vaulted fane—
Call on what name they may—their god is Ahrimane.

XXVII

“Favor to few, to many wrath he shews:
None with impunity his power may brave.
Two classes only of mankind he knows,
The lord and serf—the tyrant and the slave.
Some hermit-sage, where lonely torrents rave,
May muse and dream of Oromazes still:
Despised he lives, and finds a nameless grave.
The chiefs and monarchs of the world fulfil
Great Ahrimane's behests—the creatures of his will.

XXVIII

“Say—hadst thou rather grovel with the crowd,
The wretched thing and tool of lordly might,
Or, where the battle-clarion brays aloud,
Blaze forth conspicuous in the fields of fight,
And bind thy brow with victory's chaplet bright,
And be the king of men?—Thy choice is free.—
Receive this ring.—Observe the coming night.—

276

The monarch of the world hath chosen thee
To spread his name on earth, in power and majesty.—”

XXIX

She said, and gave the ring. The youth received
The glittering spell, in awe and mute amaze;
Standing like one almost of sense bereaved,
That fixes on the vacant air his gaze,
Where wildered fancy's troubled eye surveys
Dim-flitting forms, obscure and undefined,
That doubtful thoughts and shadowy feelings raise,
Leaving no settled image on the mind:
Like cloud-built rocks and towers, dissolved ere half-combined.

XXX

Nor stayed she longer parle: but round her form
A sable vapor, thickly-mantling, drew
Its volumed folds, dark as the summer storm.
It wrapped her round, and in an instant flew,
Scattered like mist, though not a zephyr blew,
And left no vestige that she there had been.
The river rolled in light. The moonbeams threw
Their purest radiance on the lonely scene;
And hill, and grove, and rock, slept in the ray serene.

277

Canto the Second

Αλλαλαις λαλεουσι τεον γαμον αι κυπαρισσοι. ΘΕΟΚΡΙΤΟΣ.

Tempestates, venteique sequuntur,
Altitonans Volturnus, et Auster flumine pollens.
Lucretius.

I

Spake the dark genius truly, when she said,
That Ahrimanes rules this mundane ball?
That man, in toil and darkness doomed to tread,
Ambition's slave and superstition's thrall,
Doth only on the power of evil call,
With hymn, and prayer, and votive altar's blaze?
Alas! wherever guiltless victims fall,
Wherever priest the sword of strife displays,
Small trace remains, I ween, of ancient Oromaze.

278

II

Yet if on earth a single spot there be,
Where fraud, corruption, selfishness and pride
Wear not the specious robes of sanctity,
With hypocritic malice to divide
The bonds of love and peace by nature tied
'Twixt man and man, far as the billows roll,—
Where idle tales, that truth and sense deride,
Claim no dominion o'er the subject soul;—
There Oromazes still exerts his mild control.

III

But not in fanes where priestly curses ring,—
Not in the venal court,—the servile camp,—
Not where the slaves of a voluptuous king
Would fain o'erwhelm, in flattery's poison-damp,
Truth's vestal torch and love's Promethean lamp—
Not where the tools of tyrants bite the ground,
Mid broken swords, and steed's ensanguined tramp,
To add one gem to those that now surround
Some pampered baby's brow—may trace of him be found.

IV

The star of day rolled on the radiant hours,
And sunk again behind the western steep.
The dew of twilight bathed the closing flowers.
The full-orbed moon, amid the empyreal deep,
Restored the reign of silence and of sleep.
Again Darassah seeks the moonlight shore,
But comes not now in solitude to weep:

279

He leads the maid his inmost thoughts adore,
To tempt with him the stream, and unknown scenes explore.

V

A bark is on the shore: the rippling wave
With gentle murmur chafes against its sides.
Shrinks not the maid that barrier-rock to brave,
Whose jutting base the eddying river chides?
Fear finds no place, where mightier love presides.
They press the bark: the waters gently flow:
The light sail swells: the steady vessel glides:
The favoring breeze still follows as they go:
They pass the barrier-rock: they haste to weal or woe.

VI

He holds the helm: beside him sits the maid:
Her arms around her lover's form are twined:
Her head upon her lover's breast is laid:
Pressed to his heart, in tenderest rest reclined,
Lulled by the symphony of wave and wind,
To lonely isles and citron-groves she flies
(By fancy's spell in fondest dreams enshrined),
Where love, and health, and peaceful thoughts suffice,
To renovate the bowers of earthly paradise.

VII

Less pure Darassah's thoughts: ambition's spell
Had touched his soul, and dreams of power and fame;

280

But feeble yet, and vague: nor knew he well,
Whence those disturbed imaginations came,
That touched his breast with no benignant flame.
No state too proud, no destiny too high,
For her he loved his wildest thought could frame.
What might not that mysterious ring supply,
That now had given her love, and life, and liberty?

VIII

But the calm elements—the placid moon—
The stars, that round her rolled in still array—
The plaintive breeze—the stream's responsive tune—
The rapid water's silver-eddying play,
That tracked in lines of light their onward way—
The solemn rocks, in massy shade that frowned—
The groves where light and darkness chequering lay—
Breathed on his mind the peace that reigned around,
And checked each turbid thought that erst had entrance found.

IX

The nightingale sang sweetly in the shade:
The dewy rose breathed fragrance on the air.
Who now more blest than that fond youth and maid,
Whom the swift waters of Araxes bear,
One common lot, or good or ill, to share?
If ill—light falls the shaft of adverse fate,
When mutual love assuages mutual care:
If good—can bliss the feeling mind await,
Unless one tender heart its joys participate?

281

X

So thought Kelasris, wrapped in dreams of hope;
Nor deemed how soon, in time's delusive reign,
The brightest tints of youthful fancy's scope
Fade in the vast reality of pain,
That speaks the omnipotence of Ahrimane.
But while the light bark glided fast and free,
And not a cloud obscured the ethereal plain,
The gale—the stream—the night-bird's melody—
Touched in her soul the chords of tenderer harmony.

XI

The stars grow pale, and o'er the western verge
Of heaven the moon her parting orb suspends.
She sinks behind the hill. The eddying surge
Reflects the deepening blush that morning lends
To eastern mountain's top, where softly blends
Its misty outline with the reddening sky.
Tow'rd heaven's high arch the lark exulting tends:
Lost in the depth, invisible on high,
He makes the rocks resound with his sweet minstrelsy.

XII

The sun comes forth upon the mountain-top:
The wide earth feels his vivifying sway:
The dewy flowers unclose, and every drop
Light-trembling on the leaf—the moss—the spray—
Beams like a diamond in the streams of day:
All nature glitters like an orient bride,
Whom countless gems and purest flowers array.

282

The scattered mountain-mist flies fast and wide,
Like incense to the shrine of morning's radiant pride.

XIII

The bark glides swiftly on: new scenes expand,
In day's full splendor now distinctly seen.
The light acacia blooms along the strand.
Deep groves of pine, where laurels wave between,
Rear their dark tufts of everlasting green:
The sun-beams on the glossy laurel play,
A trembling flood of silver radiance sheen.
Now the vast oak o'ercanopies their way;
And now the beetling crag, with sapless lichens gray.

XIV

Far on the left the lessening rocks recede:
A plain extends, a wide luxuriant plain;
One fair expanse of grove and flowery mead,
And field, wide-waving with unripened grain;
Of industry and peace the blest domain!
The tinkling sheep-bell gave a pleasant sound;
And youths and maids were there, a cheerful train;
And rosy children gambolled on the ground,
Where peeped the cottage forth from many a sylvan mound.
 

It is possible to sacrifice victims—human victims— without cutting their throats or shedding a drop of their blood, and that too under the name and with the specious forms of justice. It is possible to display the sword of strife and be a very effective member of the church militant without the visible employment of temporal weapons.


287

VERSE FRAGMENTS

“FAREWELL, MY SON”

Farewell, my son”: the Prior said:
“'Twas slighted love for a mortal maid,
That brought thee to this holy shrine;
And not the love of Saint Katharine.”
The youth in silence turned away,
Long arid vales before him lay
Vast level tracts of burning sand
Deep sunk 'twixt rocks on either hand
Gigantic rocks of granite red
Each rearing high its crested head
Summit to summit following nigh
Like waves about to burst on high
Resembling ocean's stormy tide
Suddenly checked and petrified
[MS. ends here.]

288

“WELL, WE HAVE LOVED”

Well, we have loved, and that is past;
'Tis certain we shall love no more:
The light which youth around us cast
Time's colder hand will ne'er restore:
Joys have we known—but they are o'er—
They never can be ours again;
Yet better so than to deplore
Youth's power to bless possessed in vain.
We have been happy: that at least
Was something, though 'tis nothing now
[MS. ends here.]

“OH WOULD THAT TRUTH”

Oh would that truth and common sense
Might chace congenial quackery hence,
That so all forms of false pretence
Might vanish from our isle:
But every day before our eyes
New forms of mountebankery rise,
And as one folly flies or dies
Another fills the void.