Metrical Tales and other poems by Samuel Lover Illustrated by W. Harvey, Hablot K. Browne, Kenny Meadows, F. Skill, and P. Skelton |
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| MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. |
 | Metrical Tales and other poems by Samuel Lover |  |
91
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
93
THE CROOKED STICK.
Julia was lovely and winning—
And Julia had lovers in plenty,
They outnumber'd her years
More than twice, it appears—
She killed fifty before she was twenty.
Young Harry
Had asked her to marry;
But Julia could never decide,
Thus early, on being a bride;
With such ample choice,
She would not give her voice,
In wedlock so soon to be tied;
And though she liked Hal, thought it better to wait,
Before she would finally fix on her fate;
For though “Harry was every way worthy” to get her,
Perhaps she might see some one else she liked better.
And Julia had lovers in plenty,
They outnumber'd her years
More than twice, it appears—
She killed fifty before she was twenty.
Young Harry
Had asked her to marry;
But Julia could never decide,
Thus early, on being a bride;
With such ample choice,
She would not give her voice,
In wedlock so soon to be tied;
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Before she would finally fix on her fate;
For though “Harry was every way worthy” to get her,
Perhaps she might see some one else she liked better.
Hal, discarded by Venus, went over to Mars;
And set off to the war in a troop of hussars;
To sabres and bullets exposing a life
Made wretched to him by the want of a wife;
But Death would not take what fair Julia refused;
And, in fact, Harry thought himself very ill used
By “Death and the Lady”—till Time's precious ointment,
Cured the wound Julia made,
And the soldier's bold blade
Soon won him a colonel's appointment;
And then he went home, by hard service made sager,
And found Julia had married a yellow old major.
For the sake of old times, Harry called on the lady,
Who was now on that side of this life they call “shady;”
Which, though pleasant in streets, in the summer's bright sun,
On life's path is not pleasant—when summer's all done.
He took her hand kindly—and hoped she was well—
And looked with a tender regret on his belle!
“Ah! Julia! how's this?—I would not give you pain,
But I think I may ask, without being thought vain,
How the girl who refused to let Harry encage her,
Could consent to be trapped by a yellow old major?”
And set off to the war in a troop of hussars;
To sabres and bullets exposing a life
Made wretched to him by the want of a wife;
But Death would not take what fair Julia refused;
And, in fact, Harry thought himself very ill used
By “Death and the Lady”—till Time's precious ointment,
Cured the wound Julia made,
And the soldier's bold blade
Soon won him a colonel's appointment;
And then he went home, by hard service made sager,
And found Julia had married a yellow old major.
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Who was now on that side of this life they call “shady;”
Which, though pleasant in streets, in the summer's bright sun,
On life's path is not pleasant—when summer's all done.
He took her hand kindly—and hoped she was well—
And looked with a tender regret on his belle!
“Ah! Julia! how's this?—I would not give you pain,
But I think I may ask, without being thought vain,
How the girl who refused to let Harry encage her,
Could consent to be trapped by a yellow old major?”
“Come dine here,” said she—“and at evening we'll take,
On horseback a ride through the hazlewood brake;
And as I've lost my whip—you must go to the wood,
And cut me a riding switch handsome and good,
Something nice—such a one as I'll keep for your sake,
As a token of friendship; but pray do not make
Your absence too long—for we dine, sharp, at six;
But you'll see, before then, many beautiful sticks.”
On horseback a ride through the hazlewood brake;
And as I've lost my whip—you must go to the wood,
And cut me a riding switch handsome and good,
Something nice—such a one as I'll keep for your sake,
As a token of friendship; but pray do not make
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But you'll see, before then, many beautiful sticks.”
Harry went on this mission, to rifle the riches
Of the hazlewood brake—and saw such lovely switches,
But none good enough to present, as a token,
To her who, “lang syne,” had his burning heart broken;
The wood was passed through—and no switch yet selected,
When “six o'clock,” suddenly, Hal recollected,
And took out his watch:—but ten minutes to spare—
He employed those ten minutes with scrupulous care,
But, spite of his pains—the best switch he selected
Did not equal, by much, many first he rejected;
He eye'd it askance—and he bent it—and shook it—
And owned, with a shrug, 'twas a leetle bit crooked.
He returned, and told Julia the state of the case,
When she—(a faint smile lighting up a sad face)—
Said, “Harry, your walk through the hazlewood brake
Is my history—a lesson that many might take;
At first, you saw beautiful sticks by the score,
And hoped to get better, with such ‘plenty more,’
But at the last moment—no time left to pick—
You were forced to put up with a crooked stick.”
Of the hazlewood brake—and saw such lovely switches,
But none good enough to present, as a token,
To her who, “lang syne,” had his burning heart broken;
The wood was passed through—and no switch yet selected,
When “six o'clock,” suddenly, Hal recollected,
And took out his watch:—but ten minutes to spare—
He employed those ten minutes with scrupulous care,
But, spite of his pains—the best switch he selected
Did not equal, by much, many first he rejected;
He eye'd it askance—and he bent it—and shook it—
And owned, with a shrug, 'twas a leetle bit crooked.
He returned, and told Julia the state of the case,
When she—(a faint smile lighting up a sad face)—
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Is my history—a lesson that many might take;
At first, you saw beautiful sticks by the score,
And hoped to get better, with such ‘plenty more,’
But at the last moment—no time left to pick—
You were forced to put up with a crooked stick.”
Oh Woman!—designed for the conquest of hearts,
To your own native charms add not too many arts;
If a poet's quaint rhyme might dare offer advice,
You should be nice all over—but not over-nice.
I don't wish a lady so wondrously quick
As to sharpen her knife for the very first stick;
But—for one good enough—it were best not o'erlook it,
Lest, in seeking too straight ones—you get but the crooked.
To your own native charms add not too many arts;
If a poet's quaint rhyme might dare offer advice,
You should be nice all over—but not over-nice.
I don't wish a lady so wondrously quick
As to sharpen her knife for the very first stick;
But—for one good enough—it were best not o'erlook it,
Lest, in seeking too straight ones—you get but the crooked.
98
TO MARY.
As in the calmest day the pine-tree gives
A soft low murmur to the wooing wind,
When other trees are silent—so love lives
In the close covert of the loftier mind,
Responding to the gentlest sigh would wake
Love's answer, and his magic music make.
A soft low murmur to the wooing wind,
When other trees are silent—so love lives
In the close covert of the loftier mind,
Responding to the gentlest sigh would wake
Love's answer, and his magic music make.
'Twas thus I woo'd thee—softly and afraid:
For no rude breath could win response from thee,
Mine own retiring, timid, bashful maid;
And hence I dedicate the slender tree
To dearest memories of the tenting fine
I woo'd thee with—as Zephyr woos the pine.
For no rude breath could win response from thee,
Mine own retiring, timid, bashful maid;
And hence I dedicate the slender tree
99
I woo'd thee with—as Zephyr woos the pine.
And hence I love with thee through woods to wander,
Whose fairy flowers thy slight foot scarcely bends,
Growing, as time steals o'er us, only fonder,
Following, mayhap, some streamlet as it tends
To a lone lake—full as our hearts, and calm,
O'er which the op'ning summer sheds its balm.
Whose fairy flowers thy slight foot scarcely bends,
Growing, as time steals o'er us, only fonder,
Following, mayhap, some streamlet as it tends
To a lone lake—full as our hearts, and calm,
O'er which the op'ning summer sheds its balm.
Soft is the breeze;—so soft—the very lake
Hath not a ripple on its mirror face;
And hence, a double beauty doth it make,
Another forest in its depths we trace,
The sky's repeated in reflected kiss:—
So loving hearts can double ev'ry bliss.
Hath not a ripple on its mirror face;
And hence, a double beauty doth it make,
Another forest in its depths we trace,
The sky's repeated in reflected kiss:—
So loving hearts can double ev'ry bliss.
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The sun is high—we seek refreshing shade,
Beneath the pines we choose a flowery seat;
And, while a whisper in their boughs is made,
Couching, with fondness, at thy tiny feet,
I'll whisper thee, while sheltering from the sun—
“Sweet Mary, thus I woo'd thee, thus I won.”
Beneath the pines we choose a flowery seat;
And, while a whisper in their boughs is made,
Couching, with fondness, at thy tiny feet,
I'll whisper thee, while sheltering from the sun—
“Sweet Mary, thus I woo'd thee, thus I won.”
101
THE FLOODED HUT OF THE MISSISSIPPI.
On the wide-rolling river, at eve, set the sun,
And the long-toiling day of the woodman was done,
And he flung down the axe that had felled the huge tree,
And his own little daughter he placed on his knee;
She looked up, with smiles, at a dovecot o'er head—
Where, circling around, flew the pigeons she fed,
And more fondly the sire clasp'd his child to his breast—
As he kiss'd her—and called her the bird of his nest.
And the long-toiling day of the woodman was done,
And he flung down the axe that had felled the huge tree,
And his own little daughter he placed on his knee;
102
Where, circling around, flew the pigeons she fed,
And more fondly the sire clasp'd his child to his breast—
As he kiss'd her—and called her the bird of his nest.
The wide-rolling river rose high in the night,
The wide-rolling river, at morn, show'd its might,
For it leap'd o'er its bounds, and invaded the wood
Where the humble abode of the wood-cutter stood.
All was danger around, and no aid was in view,
And higher and higher the wild waters grew,
And the child—looking up at the dovecot in air,
Cried, “Father—oh father, I wish we were there!”
The wide-rolling river, at morn, show'd its might,
For it leap'd o'er its bounds, and invaded the wood
Where the humble abode of the wood-cutter stood.
All was danger around, and no aid was in view,
And higher and higher the wild waters grew,
And the child—looking up at the dovecot in air,
Cried, “Father—oh father, I wish we were there!”
“My child,” said the father, “that dovecot of thine
Should enliven our faith in the Mercy Divine;
'Twas a dove that brought Noah the sweet branch of peace,
To show him the anger of Heaven did cease:
Then kneel, my lov'd child, by thy fond father's side,
And pray that our hut may in safety abide,
And then, from all fear may our bosoms be proof—
While the dove of the deluge is over our roof.”
Should enliven our faith in the Mercy Divine;
103
To show him the anger of Heaven did cease:
Then kneel, my lov'd child, by thy fond father's side,
And pray that our hut may in safety abide,
And then, from all fear may our bosoms be proof—
While the dove of the deluge is over our roof.”
The banks of the Mississippi are for the greater part singularly low, in consequence of which, floodings of a fearful nature often take place throughout the forests along its margin. The lines to which this note refers were suggested by my witnessing such an inroad where two or three log-huts, in the midst of the flooded wilderness, hundreds of miles away from any town, awakened a sense of imminent danger and desolate helplessness, that was absolutely painful. The vast sweep of the waters was sufficient to remind one of the days of Noah, and there was, in fact, a dovecot perched on the stump of a water-willow close by the gable of one of the houses, to complete the association of ideas.
104
NYMPH OF NIAGARA,
WRITTEN ON LAKE ONTARIO, IMMEDIATELY AFTER LEAVING THE FALLS.
Nymph of Niagara! Sprite of the mist!
With a wild magic my brow thou hast kiss'd;
I am thy slave, and my mistress art thou,
For thy wild kiss of magic is yet on my brow.
With a wild magic my brow thou hast kiss'd;
I am thy slave, and my mistress art thou,
For thy wild kiss of magic is yet on my brow.
I feel it, as first when I knelt before thee,
With thy emerald robe flowing brightly and free,
Fringed with the spray-pearls, and floating in mist—
Thus 'twas my brow with wild magic you kiss'd.
With thy emerald robe flowing brightly and free,
Fringed with the spray-pearls, and floating in mist—
Thus 'twas my brow with wild magic you kiss'd.
Thine am I still;—and I'll never forget
The moment the spell on my spirit was set;—
Thy chain but a foam-wreath—yet stronger by far
Than the manacle, steel-wrought, for captive of war;
The moment the spell on my spirit was set;—
105
Than the manacle, steel-wrought, for captive of war;
For the steel it will rust, and the war will be o'er,
And the manacled captive be free as before;
While the foam-wreath will bind me for ever to thee!—
I love the enslavement—and would not be free!
And the manacled captive be free as before;
While the foam-wreath will bind me for ever to thee!—
I love the enslavement—and would not be free!
Nymph of Niagara, play with the breeze,
Sport with the fawns 'mid the old forest trees;
Blush into rainbows at kiss of the sun,
From the gleam of his dawn till his bright course be run;
Sport with the fawns 'mid the old forest trees;
Blush into rainbows at kiss of the sun,
From the gleam of his dawn till his bright course be run;
I'll not be jealous—for pure is thy sporting,
Heaven-born is all that around thee is courting—
Still will I love thee, sweet Sprite of the mist,
As first when my brow with wild magic you kiss'd!
Heaven-born is all that around thee is courting—
Still will I love thee, sweet Sprite of the mist,
As first when my brow with wild magic you kiss'd!
106
THE FLOWER OF NIGHT.
There is an Indian tree, they say,
Whose timid flow'r avoids the light,
Concealing thus from tell-tale day
The beauties it unfolds at night.
So many a thought may hidden lie,
So sighs unbreath'd by day may be,
Which, freely, 'neath the starry sky
In secret faith I give to thee:—
The love that strays
Thro' pleasure's ways,
Is like the flow'rs that love the light;
But love that's deep,
And faith will keep,
Is like the flow'r that blooms at night.
Whose timid flow'r avoids the light,
Concealing thus from tell-tale day
The beauties it unfolds at night.
So many a thought may hidden lie,
So sighs unbreath'd by day may be,
Which, freely, 'neath the starry sky
In secret faith I give to thee:—
The love that strays
Thro' pleasure's ways,
Is like the flow'rs that love the light;
But love that's deep,
And faith will keep,
Is like the flow'r that blooms at night.
107
Then do not blame my careless mien
Amid this world of maskers gay,
I would not let my heart be seen—
I wear a mask as well as they.
Ah, who would wish the gay should smile
At passion too refined for them:—
And therefore I with blameless guile
Conceal within my heart the gem:—
The love that strays
Thro' pleasure's ways,
Is like the flow'rs that love the light;
But love that's deep,
And faith will keep,
Is like the flow'r that blooms at night.
Amid this world of maskers gay,
I would not let my heart be seen—
I wear a mask as well as they.
Ah, who would wish the gay should smile
At passion too refined for them:—
And therefore I with blameless guile
Conceal within my heart the gem:—
The love that strays
Thro' pleasure's ways,
Is like the flow'rs that love the light;
But love that's deep,
And faith will keep,
Is like the flow'r that blooms at night.
108
THE FORSAKEN.
Let us talk of grief no more
Till the bat is flying;
Fitter mem'ry's sadd'ning lore
When the day is dying,
When the joyous sun hath fled,
And weeping dews around are shed:
Sad things are most fitly said,
When the night wind's sighing.
Till the bat is flying;
Fitter mem'ry's sadd'ning lore
When the day is dying,
When the joyous sun hath fled,
And weeping dews around are shed:
Sad things are most fitly said,
When the night wind's sighing.
Sighing round some lonely tow'r
Where, within, is mourning;
And on the hearth, at midnight hour,
Low the brands are burning.
There the embers, fading fast,
(Relics of a glowing past)
Tell of fires too fierce to last:—
Love knows no returning.
Where, within, is mourning;
And on the hearth, at midnight hour,
Low the brands are burning.
There the embers, fading fast,
(Relics of a glowing past)
Tell of fires too fierce to last:—
Love knows no returning.
109
YEARNING.
Far shore, far shore—how far
O'er the tide of Time you seem;—
Where is the mystic star
To guide o'er the waters far—
To that shore of my fancy's dream?
O'er the tide of Time you seem;—
Where is the mystic star
To guide o'er the waters far—
To that shore of my fancy's dream?
Far shore, far shore, on thee
Are the flowers in endless bloom?
Or there may the desert be,
With the deadly Upas tree,
Where the seeker but finds a tomb?
Are the flowers in endless bloom?
Or there may the desert be,
With the deadly Upas tree,
Where the seeker but finds a tomb?
110
A voice from the deep replied—
“Ask not what lies before—
(Vain wish, by Heaven denied;)
Thy bark a resistless tide
Will bear, as it others bore.
“Ask not what lies before—
(Vain wish, by Heaven denied;)
Thy bark a resistless tide
Will bear, as it others bore.
“Dream not of shores so far,
Heed not a siren's song,
Seek not for mystic star—
Trust to the means that are—
Be thy voyage or short, or long.”
Heed not a siren's song,
Seek not for mystic star—
Trust to the means that are—
Be thy voyage or short, or long.”
111
LOVE AND DEATH,
A FABLE FROM ÆSOP. VERSIFIED AND DI-VERSIFIED.
Cupid, one day, was surprised in a shower of rain,
(He's a delicate fellow);
So, for shelter, he ran to a shadowy grotto hard by,
For he had no umbrella.
He thought he might rest while the storm was in action, so he
Lapp'd one wing o'er his head,
The other he folded so nicely beneath him, and slept
On his own feather bed.
Oh Cupid! you stupid, what were you about
To lie down in that cave?—
'Twas as good as a grave—
As he soon found out.
(He's a delicate fellow);
112
For he had no umbrella.
He thought he might rest while the storm was in action, so he
Lapp'd one wing o'er his head,
The other he folded so nicely beneath him, and slept
On his own feather bed.
Oh Cupid! you stupid, what were you about
To lie down in that cave?—
'Twas as good as a grave—
As he soon found out.
For the arch where the Archer reposed was the cavern of Death,
Who had stol'n out, unknown,
To unfasten the portals of life with his skeleton keys,
In St. Mary-le-bone.
Soon he returned, and Love, waking, to see the grim king
With terror did shiver,
And, in a hurry arising, his arrows he dropt
In a quake from his quiver.
Oh Cupid! you stupid, 'twas silly to fly;
Death could not hurt you:—
For love, when 'tis true,
It never can die!
Who had stol'n out, unknown,
To unfasten the portals of life with his skeleton keys,
In St. Mary-le-bone.
Soon he returned, and Love, waking, to see the grim king
With terror did shiver,
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In a quake from his quiver.
Oh Cupid! you stupid, 'twas silly to fly;
Death could not hurt you:—
For love, when 'tis true,
It never can die!
Now the arrows of Death were all lying about on the ground,
And with Cupid's did mix,
And, ever since, Cupid and Death are unconsciously playing
Most unlucky tricks;
For Love, having gather'd some arrows of Death with his own,
Sometimes makes a hit
At the “gallery of beauty,” but finds that his mistaken shaft
Drives some belle to “the pit.”
Oh! Cupid, you stupid, why spoil thus your quiver,
And send to the heart
Some poisonous dart,
That was meant for the liver?
And with Cupid's did mix,
And, ever since, Cupid and Death are unconsciously playing
Most unlucky tricks;
For Love, having gather'd some arrows of Death with his own,
Sometimes makes a hit
At the “gallery of beauty,” but finds that his mistaken shaft
Drives some belle to “the pit.”
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And send to the heart
Some poisonous dart,
That was meant for the liver?
And Death, as unconsciously shooting Love's arrows around,
To bring down the old ones,
Sees grandads and dowagers wondrously warm'd into love,
That he meant to be cold ones.
Oh! mischievous medley of Love and of Death:—which is worse—
('T is a question perplexing;—)
To be too young to die, or be too old to love?—both perverse,
Are confoundedly vexing.
Oh Cupid!—how sadly grotesque is the view
Of white gloves and favours
To Death, for his labours,
And hat-bands to you!
To bring down the old ones,
Sees grandads and dowagers wondrously warm'd into love,
That he meant to be cold ones.
Oh! mischievous medley of Love and of Death:—which is worse—
('T is a question perplexing;—)
To be too young to die, or be too old to love?—both perverse,
Are confoundedly vexing.
Oh Cupid!—how sadly grotesque is the view
Of white gloves and favours
To Death, for his labours,
And hat-bands to you!
| Metrical Tales and other poems by Samuel Lover | |