 | A Selection from the Works of Frederick Locker |  |
40
OLD LETTERS.
Old letters! wipe away the tear
For vows and hopes so vainly worded?
A pilgrim finds his journal here
Since first his youthful loins were girded.
For vows and hopes so vainly worded?
A pilgrim finds his journal here
Since first his youthful loins were girded.
Yes, here are wails from Clapham Grove,
How could philosophy expect us
To live with Dr. Wise, and love
Rice pudding and the Greek Delectus?
How could philosophy expect us
41
Rice pudding and the Greek Delectus?
Explain why childhood's path is sown
With moral and scholastic tin-tacks;
Ere sin original was known,
Did Adam groan beneath the syntax?
With moral and scholastic tin-tacks;
Ere sin original was known,
Did Adam groan beneath the syntax?
How strange to parley with the dead!
Keep ye your green, wan leaves? How many
From Friendship's tree untimely shed!
And here is one as sad as any;
Keep ye your green, wan leaves? How many
From Friendship's tree untimely shed!
And here is one as sad as any;
A ghastly bill! “I disapprove,”
And yet She help'd me to defray it—
What tokens of a Mother's love!
O, bitter thought! I can't repay it.
And yet She help'd me to defray it—
What tokens of a Mother's love!
O, bitter thought! I can't repay it.
And here's the offer that I wrote
In '33 to Lucy Diver;
And here John Wylie's begging note,—
He never paid me back a stiver.
In '33 to Lucy Diver;
And here John Wylie's begging note,—
He never paid me back a stiver.
And here my feud with Major Spike,
Our bet about the French Invasion;
I must confess I acted like
A donkey upon that occasion.
Our bet about the French Invasion;
42
A donkey upon that occasion.
Here's news from Paternoster Row!
How mad I was when first I learnt it:
They would not take my Book, and now
I'd give a trifle to have burnt it.
How mad I was when first I learnt it:
They would not take my Book, and now
I'd give a trifle to have burnt it.
And here a pile of notes, at last,
With “love,” and “dove,” and “sever,” “never,”—
Though hope, though passion may be past,
Their perfume is as sweet as ever.
With “love,” and “dove,” and “sever,” “never,”—
Though hope, though passion may be past,
Their perfume is as sweet as ever.
A human heart should beat for two,
Despite the scoffs of single scorners;
And all the hearths I ever knew
Had got a pair of chimney corners.
Despite the scoffs of single scorners;
And all the hearths I ever knew
Had got a pair of chimney corners.
See here a double violet—
Two locks of hair—a deal of scandal;
I'll burn what only brings regret—
Go, Betty, fetch a lighted candle.
Two locks of hair—a deal of scandal;
I'll burn what only brings regret—
Go, Betty, fetch a lighted candle.
56
[“O DOMINE DEUS]
“O DOMINE DEUS,
SPERAVI IN TE,
O CARE MI JESU,
NUNC LIBERA ME.”
SPERAVI IN TE,
O CARE MI JESU,
NUNC LIBERA ME.”
Her quiet resting-place is far away,
None dwelling there can tell you her sad story:
The stones are mute. The stones could only say,
“A humble spirit passed away to glory.”
None dwelling there can tell you her sad story:
The stones are mute. The stones could only say,
“A humble spirit passed away to glory.”
She loved the murmur of this mighty town,
The lark rejoiced her from its lattice prison;
A streamlet soothes her now,—the bird has flown,—
Some dust is waiting there—a soul has risen.
The lark rejoiced her from its lattice prison;
A streamlet soothes her now,—the bird has flown,—
Some dust is waiting there—a soul has risen.
No city smoke to stain the heather bells,—
Sigh, gentle winds, around my lone love sleeping,—
She bore her burthen here, but now she dwells
Where scorner never came, and none are weeping.
Sigh, gentle winds, around my lone love sleeping,—
She bore her burthen here, but now she dwells
Where scorner never came, and none are weeping.
57
O cough! O cruel cough! O gasping breath!
These arms were round my darling at the latest:
All scenes of death are woe—but painful death
In those we dearly love is surely greatest!
These arms were round my darling at the latest:
All scenes of death are woe—but painful death
In those we dearly love is surely greatest!
I could not die. He willed it otherwise;
My lot is here, and sorrow, wearing older,
Weighs down the heart, but does not fill the eyes,
And even friends may think that I am colder.
My lot is here, and sorrow, wearing older,
Weighs down the heart, but does not fill the eyes,
And even friends may think that I am colder.
I might have been more kind, more tender; now
Repining wrings my bosom. I am grateful
No eye can see this mark upon my brow,
Yet even gay companionship is hateful.
Repining wrings my bosom. I am grateful
No eye can see this mark upon my brow,
Yet even gay companionship is hateful.
But when at times I steal away from these,
And find her grave, and pray to be forgiven,
And when I watch beside her on my knees,
I think I am a little nearer heaven.
And find her grave, and pray to be forgiven,
And when I watch beside her on my knees,
I think I am a little nearer heaven.
64
A WISH.
To the south of the church, and beneath yonder yew,
A pair of child-lovers I've seen;
More than once were they there, and the years of the two,
When added, might number thirteen.
A pair of child-lovers I've seen;
More than once were they there, and the years of the two,
When added, might number thirteen.
They sat on the grave that has never a stone
The name of the dead to determine,
It was Life paying Death a brief visit—alone
A notable text for a sermon.
The name of the dead to determine,
65
A notable text for a sermon.
They tenderly prattled; what was it they said?
The turf on that hillock was new;
Dear Little Ones, did ye know aught of the Dead,
Or could he be heedful of you?
The turf on that hillock was new;
Dear Little Ones, did ye know aught of the Dead,
Or could he be heedful of you?
I wish to believe, and believe it I must,
Her father beneath them was laid:
I wish to believe,—I will take it on trust,
That father knew all that they said.
Her father beneath them was laid:
I wish to believe,—I will take it on trust,
That father knew all that they said.
My own, you are five, very nearly the age
Of that poor little fatherless child:
And some day a true-love your heart will engage,
When on earth I my last may have smiled.
Of that poor little fatherless child:
And some day a true-love your heart will engage,
When on earth I my last may have smiled.
Then visit my grave, like a good little lass,
Where'er it may happen to be,
And if any daisies should peer through the grass,
Be sure they are kisses from me.
Where'er it may happen to be,
And if any daisies should peer through the grass,
Be sure they are kisses from me.
And place not a stone to distinguish my name,
For strangers to see and discuss:
But come with your lover, as these lovers came,
And talk to him sweetly of us.
For strangers to see and discuss:
66
And talk to him sweetly of us.
And while you are smiling, your father will smile
Such a dear little daughter to have,
But mind,—O yes, mind you are happy the while—
I wish you to visit my Grave.
Such a dear little daughter to have,
But mind,—O yes, mind you are happy the while—
I wish you to visit my Grave.
67
THE JESTER'S PLEA.
[_]
These verses published in 1862, in a volume of Poems (by several hands), entitled “An Offering to Lancashire.”
The World! Was jester ever in
A viler than the present?
Yet if it ugly be—as sin,
It almost is—as pleasant!
It is a merry world (pro tem.)
And some are gay, and therefore
It pleases them—but some condemn
The fun they do not care for.
A viler than the present?
Yet if it ugly be—as sin,
It almost is—as pleasant!
It is a merry world (pro tem.)
And some are gay, and therefore
It pleases them—but some condemn
The fun they do not care for.
It is an ugly world. Offend
Good people—how they wrangle!
The manners that they never mend!
The characters they mangle!
They eat, and drink, and scheme, and plod,
And go to church on Sunday—
And many are afraid of God—
And more of Mrs. Grundy.
Good people—how they wrangle!
The manners that they never mend!
The characters they mangle!
They eat, and drink, and scheme, and plod,
And go to church on Sunday—
And many are afraid of God—
And more of Mrs. Grundy.
68
The time for Pen and Sword was when
“My ladye fayre,” for pity
Could tend her wounded knight, and then
Grow tender at his ditty!
Some ladies now make pretty songs,—
And some make pretty nurses:—
Some men are good for righting wrongs,—
And some for writing verses.
“My ladye fayre,” for pity
Could tend her wounded knight, and then
Grow tender at his ditty!
Some ladies now make pretty songs,—
And some make pretty nurses:—
Some men are good for righting wrongs,—
And some for writing verses.
I wish We better understood
The tax that poets levy!—
I know the Muse is very good—
I think she's rather heavy:
She now compounds for winning ways
By morals of the sternest—
Methinks the lays of now-a-days
Are painfully in earnest.
The tax that poets levy!—
I know the Muse is very good—
I think she's rather heavy:
She now compounds for winning ways
By morals of the sternest—
Methinks the lays of now-a-days
Are painfully in earnest.
When Wisdom halts, I humbly try
To make the most of Folly:
If Pallas be unwilling, I
Prefer to flirt with Polly,—
To quit the goddess for the maid
Seems low in lofty musers—
But Pallas is a haughty jade—
And beggars can't be choosers.
To make the most of Folly:
If Pallas be unwilling, I
Prefer to flirt with Polly,—
To quit the goddess for the maid
Seems low in lofty musers—
But Pallas is a haughty jade—
And beggars can't be choosers.
69
I do not wish to see the slaves
Of party, stirring passion,
Or psalms quite superseding staves,
Or piety “the fashion.”
I bless the Hearts where pity glows,
Who, here together banded,
Are holding out a hand to those
That wait so empty-handed!
Of party, stirring passion,
Or psalms quite superseding staves,
Or piety “the fashion.”
I bless the Hearts where pity glows,
Who, here together banded,
Are holding out a hand to those
That wait so empty-handed!
A righteous Work!—My Masters, may
A Jester by confession,
Scarce noticed join, half sad, half gay,
The close of your procession?
The motley here seems out of place
With graver robes to mingle,
But if one tear bedews his face,
Forgive the bells their jingle.
A Jester by confession,
Scarce noticed join, half sad, half gay,
The close of your procession?
The motley here seems out of place
With graver robes to mingle,
But if one tear bedews his face,
Forgive the bells their jingle.
82
RUSSET PITCHER.
“The pot goeth so long to the water til at length it commeth broken home.”
Away, ye simple ones, away!
Bring no vain fancies hither;
The brightest dreams of youth decay,
The fairest roses wither.
Bring no vain fancies hither;
The brightest dreams of youth decay,
The fairest roses wither.
83
Ay, since this fountain first was planned,
And Dryad learnt to drink,
Have lovers held, knit hand in hand,
Sweet parley at its brink.
And Dryad learnt to drink,
Have lovers held, knit hand in hand,
Sweet parley at its brink.
From youth to age this waterfall
Most tunefully flows on,
But where, ay, tell me where are all
The constant lovers gone?
Most tunefully flows on,
But where, ay, tell me where are all
The constant lovers gone?
The falcon on the turtle preys,
And beardless vows are brittle;
The brightest dream of youth decays,—
Ah, love is good for little.
And beardless vows are brittle;
The brightest dream of youth decays,—
Ah, love is good for little.
“Sweet maiden, set thy pitcher down,
And heed a Truth neglected:—
The more this sorry world is known,
The less it is respected.
And heed a Truth neglected:—
The more this sorry world is known,
The less it is respected.
“Though youth is ardent, gay, and bold,
It flatters and beguiles;
Though Giles is young, and I am old,
Ne'er trust thy heart to Giles.
It flatters and beguiles;
Though Giles is young, and I am old,
Ne'er trust thy heart to Giles.
84
“Thy pitcher may some luckless day
Be broken coming hither;
Thy doting slave may prove a knave,—
The fairest roses wither.”
Be broken coming hither;
Thy doting slave may prove a knave,—
The fairest roses wither.”
She laughed outright, she scorned him quite,
She deftly filled her pitcher;
For that dear sight an anchorite
Might deem himself the richer.
She deftly filled her pitcher;
For that dear sight an anchorite
Might deem himself the richer.
Ill-fated damsel! go thy ways,
Thy lover's vows are lither;
The brightest dream of youth decays,
The fairest roses wither.
Thy lover's vows are lither;
The brightest dream of youth decays,
The fairest roses wither.
These days were soon the days of yore;
Six summers pass, and then
That musing man would see once more
The fountain in the glen.
Six summers pass, and then
That musing man would see once more
The fountain in the glen.
Again to stray where once he strayed,
Through copse and quiet dell,
Half hoping to espy the maid
Pass tripping to the well.
Through copse and quiet dell,
Half hoping to espy the maid
Pass tripping to the well.
85
No light step comes, but, evil-starred,
He finds a mournful token,—
There lies a russet pitcher marred,—
The damsel's pitcher broken!
He finds a mournful token,—
There lies a russet pitcher marred,—
The damsel's pitcher broken!
Profoundly moved, that muser cried,
“The spoiler has been hither;
O would the maiden first had died,—
The fairest rose must wither!”
“The spoiler has been hither;
O would the maiden first had died,—
The fairest rose must wither!”
He turned from that accursèd ground,
His world-worn bosom throbbing;
A bow-shot thence a child he found,
The little man was sobbing.
His world-worn bosom throbbing;
A bow-shot thence a child he found,
The little man was sobbing.
He gently stroked that curly head,—
“My child, what brings thee hither?
Weep not, my simple one,” he said,
“Or let us weep together.
“My child, what brings thee hither?
Weep not, my simple one,” he said,
“Or let us weep together.
“Thy world, I ween, is gay and green
As Eden undefiled;
Thy thoughts should run on mirth and fun,—
Where dwellest thou, my child?”
As Eden undefiled;
Thy thoughts should run on mirth and fun,—
Where dwellest thou, my child?”
86
'Twas then the rueful urchin spoke:—
“My daddy's Giles the ditcher,
I fetch the water,—and I've broke . . .
I've broke my mammy's pitcher!”
“My daddy's Giles the ditcher,
I fetch the water,—and I've broke . . .
I've broke my mammy's pitcher!”
87
THE FAIRY ROSE.
“There are plenty of roses,” (the patriarch speaks)
“Alas! not for me, on your lips, and your cheeks;
Sweet maiden, rose-laden—enough and to spare,—
Spare, oh spare me the Rose that you wear in your hair.”
“Alas! not for me, on your lips, and your cheeks;
Sweet maiden, rose-laden—enough and to spare,—
Spare, oh spare me the Rose that you wear in your hair.”
“O raise not thy hand,” cries the maid, “nor suppose
That I ever can part with this beautiful Rose:
The bloom is a gift of the Fays, who declare, it
Will shield me from sorrow as long as I wear it.
That I ever can part with this beautiful Rose:
The bloom is a gift of the Fays, who declare, it
Will shield me from sorrow as long as I wear it.
“‘Entwine it,’ said they, ‘with your curls in a braid,
It will blossom in winter—it never will fade;
And, when tempted to rove, recollect, ere you hie,
Where you're dying to go—'twill be going to die.’
It will blossom in winter—it never will fade;
And, when tempted to rove, recollect, ere you hie,
Where you're dying to go—'twill be going to die.’
“And sigh not, old man, such a doleful ‘heighho,’
Dost think I possess not the will to say ‘No?’
And shake not thy head, I could pitiless be
Should supplicants come more persuasive than thee.”
Dost think I possess not the will to say ‘No?’
And shake not thy head, I could pitiless be
Should supplicants come more persuasive than thee.”
88
The damsel passed on with a confident smile,
The old man extended his walk for awhile;
His musings were trite, and their burden, forsooth,
The wisdom of age, and the folly of youth.
The old man extended his walk for awhile;
His musings were trite, and their burden, forsooth,
The wisdom of age, and the folly of youth.
Noon comes, and noon goes, paler twilight is there,
Rosy day dons the garb of a penitent fair;
The patriarch strolls in the path of the maid,
Where cornfields are ripe, and awaiting the blade.
Rosy day dons the garb of a penitent fair;
The patriarch strolls in the path of the maid,
Where cornfields are ripe, and awaiting the blade.
And Echo was mute to his leisurely tread,—
“How tranquil is nature reposing,” he said;
He onward advances, where boughs overshade,
“How lonely,” quoth he—and his footsteps he stayed!
“How tranquil is nature reposing,” he said;
He onward advances, where boughs overshade,
“How lonely,” quoth he—and his footsteps he stayed!
He gazes around, not a creature is there,
No sound on the ground, and no voice in the air;
But fading there lies a poor Bloom that he knows,
—Bad luck to the Fairies that gave her the Rose.
No sound on the ground, and no voice in the air;
But fading there lies a poor Bloom that he knows,
—Bad luck to the Fairies that gave her the Rose.
89
1863.
The town despises modern lays:
The foolish town is frantic
For story-books which tell of days
That time has made romantic:
Those days whose chiefest lore lies chill
And dead in crypt and barrow;
When soldiers were—as Love is still—
Content with bow and arrow.
The foolish town is frantic
For story-books which tell of days
That time has made romantic:
Those days whose chiefest lore lies chill
And dead in crypt and barrow;
When soldiers were—as Love is still—
Content with bow and arrow.
But why should we the fancy chide?
The world will always hunger
To know how people lived and died
When all the world was younger.
We like to read of knightly parts
In maidenhood's distresses:
Of trysts with sunshine in light hearts,
And moonbeams on dark tresses;
The world will always hunger
To know how people lived and died
When all the world was younger.
We like to read of knightly parts
In maidenhood's distresses:
Of trysts with sunshine in light hearts,
And moonbeams on dark tresses;
90
And how, when errant-knyghte or erl
Proved well the love he gave her,
She sent him scarf or silken curl,
As earnest of her favour;
And how (the Fair at times were rude!)
Her knight, ere homeward riding,
Would take—and, ay, with gratitude—
His lady's silver chiding.
Proved well the love he gave her,
She sent him scarf or silken curl,
As earnest of her favour;
And how (the Fair at times were rude!)
Her knight, ere homeward riding,
Would take—and, ay, with gratitude—
His lady's silver chiding.
We love the “rare old days and rich”
That poesy has painted;
We mourn the “good old times” with which
We never were acquainted.
Last night a lady tried to prove
(And not a lady youthful):
“Ah, once it was no crime to love,
Nor folly to be truthful!”
That poesy has painted;
We mourn the “good old times” with which
We never were acquainted.
Last night a lady tried to prove
(And not a lady youthful):
“Ah, once it was no crime to love,
Nor folly to be truthful!”
Absurd! Then dames in castles dwelt,
Nor dared to show their noses:
Then passion that could not be spelt,
Was hinted at in posies.
Such shifts make modern Cupid laugh:
For sweethearts, in love's tremor,
Now tell their vows by telegraph—
And go off in the steamer!
Nor dared to show their noses:
Then passion that could not be spelt,
Was hinted at in posies.
Such shifts make modern Cupid laugh:
For sweethearts, in love's tremor,
Now tell their vows by telegraph—
And go off in the steamer!
91
The earth is still our Mother Earth—
Young shepherds still fling capers
In flowery groves that ring with mirth—
Where old ones read the papers.
Romance, as tender and as true,
Our Isle has never quitted:
So lads and lasses when they woo
Are hardly to be pitied!
Young shepherds still fling capers
In flowery groves that ring with mirth—
Where old ones read the papers.
Romance, as tender and as true,
Our Isle has never quitted:
So lads and lasses when they woo
Are hardly to be pitied!
Oh, yes! young love is lovely yet—
With faith and honour plighted:
I love to see a pair so met—
Youth—Beauty—all united.
Such dear ones may they ever wear
The roses Fortune gave them:
Ah, know we such a Blessed Pair?
I think we do! God save them!
With faith and honour plighted:
I love to see a pair so met—
Youth—Beauty—all united.
Such dear ones may they ever wear
The roses Fortune gave them:
Ah, know we such a Blessed Pair?
I think we do! God save them!
Our lot is cast on pleasant days,
In not unpleasant places—
Young ladies now have pretty ways,
As well as pretty faces;
So never sigh for what has been,
And let us cease complaining
That we have loved when Our Dear Queen
Victoria was reigning!
In not unpleasant places—
Young ladies now have pretty ways,
As well as pretty faces;
So never sigh for what has been,
And let us cease complaining
That we have loved when Our Dear Queen
Victoria was reigning!
100
When Beauty smiles, when Sorrow weeps,
When sunbeams play, when shadows darken,
One inmate of our dwelling keeps
A ghastly carnival—but hearken!
How dry the rattle of those bones!—
The sound was not to make you start meant,—
Stand by! Your humble servant owns
The Tenant of this Dark Apartment.
When sunbeams play, when shadows darken,
One inmate of our dwelling keeps
A ghastly carnival—but hearken!
How dry the rattle of those bones!—
The sound was not to make you start meant,—
Stand by! Your humble servant owns
The Tenant of this Dark Apartment.
101
THE VICTORIA CROSS.
A LEGEND OF TUNBRIDGE WELLS.
She gave him a draught freshly drawn from the springlet,—
O Tunbridge, thy waters are bitter, alas!
But Love finds an ambush in dimple and ringlet,—
“Thy health, pretty maiden!”—he emptied the glass.
O Tunbridge, thy waters are bitter, alas!
But Love finds an ambush in dimple and ringlet,—
“Thy health, pretty maiden!”—he emptied the glass.
He saw, and he loved her, nor cared he to quit her,
The oftener he came, why the longer he stayed;
Indeed, though the spring was exceedingly bitter,
We found him eternally pledging the maid.
The oftener he came, why the longer he stayed;
Indeed, though the spring was exceedingly bitter,
We found him eternally pledging the maid.
A preux chevalier, and but lately a cripple,
He met with his hurt where a regiment fell,
But worse was he wounded when staying to tipple
A bumper to “Phœbe, the Nymph of the Well.”
He met with his hurt where a regiment fell,
But worse was he wounded when staying to tipple
A bumper to “Phœbe, the Nymph of the Well.”
102
Some swore he was old, that his laurels were faded,
All vowed she was vastly too nice for a nurse;
But Love never looked on such matters as they did,—
She took the brave soldier for better or worse.
All vowed she was vastly too nice for a nurse;
But Love never looked on such matters as they did,—
She took the brave soldier for better or worse.
And here is the home of her fondest election,—
The walls may be worn but the ivy is green;
And here has she tenderly twined her affection
Around a true soldier who bled for his Queen.
The walls may be worn but the ivy is green;
And here has she tenderly twined her affection
Around a true soldier who bled for his Queen.
See, yonder he sits, where the church flings its shadows;
What child is that spelling the epitaphs there?
To that imp its devout and devoted old dad owes
New zest in thanksgiving—fresh fervour in prayer.
What child is that spelling the epitaphs there?
To that imp its devout and devoted old dad owes
New zest in thanksgiving—fresh fervour in prayer.
Ere long, ay, too soon, a sad concourse will darken
The doors of that church, and that tranquil abode;
His place then no longer will know him—but, hearken,
The widow and orphan appeal to their God.
The doors of that church, and that tranquil abode;
His place then no longer will know him—but, hearken,
The widow and orphan appeal to their God.
Much peace will be hers! “If our lot must be lowly,
Resemble thy father, though with us no more;”
And only on days that are high or are holy,
She will show him the cross that her warrior wore.
Resemble thy father, though with us no more;”
And only on days that are high or are holy,
She will show him the cross that her warrior wore.
103
So taught, he will rather take after his father,
And wear a long sword to our enemies' loss;
Till some day or other he'll bring to his mother
Victoria's gift—the Victoria Cross!
And wear a long sword to our enemies' loss;
Till some day or other he'll bring to his mother
Victoria's gift—the Victoria Cross!
And still she'll be charming, though ringlet and dimple
Perchance may have lost their peculiar spell;
And at times she will quote, with complacency simple,
The compliments paid to the Nymph of the Well.
Perchance may have lost their peculiar spell;
And at times she will quote, with complacency simple,
The compliments paid to the Nymph of the Well.
And then will her darling, like all good and true ones,
Console and sustain her,—the weak and the strong;—
And some day or other two black eyes or blue ones
Will smile on his path as he journeys along.
Console and sustain her,—the weak and the strong;—
And some day or other two black eyes or blue ones
Will smile on his path as he journeys along.
Wherever they win him, whoever his Phœbe,
Of course of all beauties she must be the belle,
If at Tunbridge he chance to fall in with a Hebe,
He will not fall out with a draught from the Well.
Of course of all beauties she must be the belle,
If at Tunbridge he chance to fall in with a Hebe,
He will not fall out with a draught from the Well.
104
ST. GEORGE'S, HANOVER SQUARE.
Dans le bonheur de nos meilleurs amis nous trouvons souvent quelque
chose qui ne nous plaît pas entièrement.
She passed up the aisle on the arm of her sire,
A delicate lady in bridal attire,—
Fair emblem of virgin simplicity;—
Half London was there, and, my word, there were few,
Who stood by the altar, or hid in a pew,
But envied Lord Nigel's felicity.
A delicate lady in bridal attire,—
Fair emblem of virgin simplicity;—
Half London was there, and, my word, there were few,
Who stood by the altar, or hid in a pew,
But envied Lord Nigel's felicity.
O beautiful Bride, still so meek in thy splendour,
So frank in thy love, and its trusting surrender,
Departing you leave us the town dim!
May happiness wing to thy bosom, unsought,
And Nigel, esteeming his bliss as he ought,
Prove worthy thy worship,—confound him!
So frank in thy love, and its trusting surrender,
Departing you leave us the town dim!
May happiness wing to thy bosom, unsought,
And Nigel, esteeming his bliss as he ought,
Prove worthy thy worship,—confound him!
105
SORRENTO.
Sorrento, stella d'amore.
—Vincenzo da Filicaia.
Sorrento! Love's Star! Land
Of myrtle and vine,
I come from a far land
To kneel at thy shrine;
Thy brows wear a garland,
Oh, weave one for mine!
Of myrtle and vine,
I come from a far land
To kneel at thy shrine;
Thy brows wear a garland,
Oh, weave one for mine!
Thine image, fair city,
Smiles fair in the sea,—
A youth sings a pretty
Song, tempered with glee,—
The mirth and the ditty
Are mournful to me.
Smiles fair in the sea,—
A youth sings a pretty
Song, tempered with glee,—
The mirth and the ditty
Are mournful to me.
Ah, sea boy, how strange is
The carol you sing!
Let Psyche, who ranges
The gardens of Spring,
Remember the changes
December will bring.
The carol you sing!
Let Psyche, who ranges
The gardens of Spring,
Remember the changes
December will bring.
March, 1862.
106
JANET.
I see her portrait hanging there,
Her face, but only half as fair,
And while I scan it,
Old thoughts come back, by new thoughts met—
She smiles. I never can forget
The smile of Janet.
Her face, but only half as fair,
And while I scan it,
Old thoughts come back, by new thoughts met—
She smiles. I never can forget
The smile of Janet.
A matchless grace of head and hand,
Can Art pourtray an air more grand?
It cannot—can it?
And then the brow, the lips, the eyes—
You look as if you could despise
Devotion, Janet.
Can Art pourtray an air more grand?
It cannot—can it?
And then the brow, the lips, the eyes—
You look as if you could despise
Devotion, Janet.
I knew her as a child, and said
She ought to have inhabited
A brighter planet:
Some seem more meet for angel wings
Than Mother Nature's apron strings,—
And so did Janet.
She ought to have inhabited
A brighter planet:
Some seem more meet for angel wings
Than Mother Nature's apron strings,—
And so did Janet.
107
She grew in beauty, and in pride,
Her waist was slim, and once I tried,
In sport, to span it,
At Church, with only this result,
They threatened with quicunque vult
Both me and Janet.
Her waist was slim, and once I tried,
In sport, to span it,
At Church, with only this result,
They threatened with quicunque vult
Both me and Janet.
She fairer grew, till Love became
In me a very ardent flame,
With Faith to fan it:
Alas, I played the fool, and she . . .
The fault of both lay much with me,
But more with Janet.
In me a very ardent flame,
With Faith to fan it:
Alas, I played the fool, and she . . .
The fault of both lay much with me,
But more with Janet.
For Janet chose a cruel part,—
How many win a tender heart
And then trepan it!
She left my bark to swim or sink,
Nor seemed to care—and yet, I think,
You liked me, Janet.
How many win a tender heart
And then trepan it!
She left my bark to swim or sink,
Nor seemed to care—and yet, I think,
You liked me, Janet.
The old old tale! you know the rest—
The heart that slumbered in her breast
Was soft as granite:
Who breaks a heart, and then omits
To gather up its broken bits,
Is heartless, Janet.
The heart that slumbered in her breast
Was soft as granite:
Who breaks a heart, and then omits
To gather up its broken bits,
Is heartless, Janet.
108
I'm wiser now—for when I curse
My Fate, a voice cries, “Bad or worse
You must not ban it:
Take comfort, you are quits, for if
You mourn a Love, stark dead and stiff,
Why so does Janet.”
My Fate, a voice cries, “Bad or worse
You must not ban it:
Take comfort, you are quits, for if
You mourn a Love, stark dead and stiff,
Why so does Janet.”
109
BÉRANGER.
Cast adrift on this sphere
Where my fellows were born,
None gave me a tear,
I was weakly—forlorn.
Where my fellows were born,
None gave me a tear,
I was weakly—forlorn.
My plaint for their spurning
To heaven took wing,—
Sweet voices said, yearning,
“Sing, Little One, sing!”
To heaven took wing,—
Sweet voices said, yearning,
“Sing, Little One, sing!”
My lot, as I rove,
Is to sing for the throng;—
And will not they love
The poor Child for his song?
Is to sing for the throng;—
And will not they love
The poor Child for his song?
112
THE CASTLE IN THE AIR.
You shake your curls, and wonder why
I build no Castle in the Sky;
You smile, and you are thinking too,
He's nothing else on earth to do.
It needs Romance, my Lady Fair,
To raise such fabrics in the air—
Ethereal brick, and rainbow beam,
The gossamer of Fancy's dream,
And much the architect may lack
Who labours in the Zodiac
To rear what I, from chime to chime,
Attempted once upon a time.
I build no Castle in the Sky;
You smile, and you are thinking too,
He's nothing else on earth to do.
It needs Romance, my Lady Fair,
To raise such fabrics in the air—
Ethereal brick, and rainbow beam,
The gossamer of Fancy's dream,
113
Who labours in the Zodiac
To rear what I, from chime to chime,
Attempted once upon a time.
My Castle was a gay retreat
In Air, that somewhat gusty shire,
A cherub's model country seat,—
Could model cherub such require.
Nor twinge nor tax existence tortured,
The cherubs even spared my orchard!
No worm destroyed the gourd I planted,
And showers arrived when rain was wanted.
I owned a range of purple mountain—
A sweet, mysterious, haunted fountain—
A terraced lawn—a summer lake,
By sun- or moon-beam always burnished;
And then my cot, by some mistake,
Unlike most cots, was neatly furnished.
A trellised porch—a pictured hall—
A Hebe laughing from the wall.
Frail vases, Attic and Cathay.
While under arms and armour wreathed
In trophied guise, the marble breathed,
A peering faun—a startled fay.
And flowers that Love's own language spoke,
Than these less eloquent of smoke,
And not so dear. The price in town
Is half a rose-bud—half-a-crown!
And cabinets and chandeliers,
The legacy of courtly years;
And missals wrought by hooded monks,
Who snored in cells the size of trunks,
And tolled a bell, and told a bead,
(Indebted to the hood indeed!)
Stained windows dark, and pillowed light,
Soft sofas, where the Sybarite
In bliss reclining, might devour
The best last novel of the hour.
On silken cushion, happy starred,
A shaggy Skye kept wistfull guard:
While drowsy-eyed, would dozing swing
A parrot in his golden ring.
In Air, that somewhat gusty shire,
A cherub's model country seat,—
Could model cherub such require.
Nor twinge nor tax existence tortured,
The cherubs even spared my orchard!
No worm destroyed the gourd I planted,
And showers arrived when rain was wanted.
I owned a range of purple mountain—
A sweet, mysterious, haunted fountain—
A terraced lawn—a summer lake,
By sun- or moon-beam always burnished;
And then my cot, by some mistake,
Unlike most cots, was neatly furnished.
A trellised porch—a pictured hall—
A Hebe laughing from the wall.
Frail vases, Attic and Cathay.
While under arms and armour wreathed
In trophied guise, the marble breathed,
A peering faun—a startled fay.
And flowers that Love's own language spoke,
114
And not so dear. The price in town
Is half a rose-bud—half-a-crown!
And cabinets and chandeliers,
The legacy of courtly years;
And missals wrought by hooded monks,
Who snored in cells the size of trunks,
And tolled a bell, and told a bead,
(Indebted to the hood indeed!)
Stained windows dark, and pillowed light,
Soft sofas, where the Sybarite
In bliss reclining, might devour
The best last novel of the hour.
On silken cushion, happy starred,
A shaggy Skye kept wistfull guard:
While drowsy-eyed, would dozing swing
A parrot in his golden ring.
All these I saw one blissful day,
And more than now I care to name;
Here, lately shut, that work-box lay,
There, stood your own embroidery frame.
And over this piano bent
A Form from some pure region sent.
Despair, some lively trope devise
To prove the splendour of her eyes!
Her mouth had all the rose-bud's hue—
A most delicious rose-bud too.
Her auburn tresses lustrous shone,
In massy clusters, like your own;
And as her fingers pressed the keys,
How strangely they resembled these!
And more than now I care to name;
Here, lately shut, that work-box lay,
There, stood your own embroidery frame.
And over this piano bent
A Form from some pure region sent.
Despair, some lively trope devise
To prove the splendour of her eyes!
115
A most delicious rose-bud too.
Her auburn tresses lustrous shone,
In massy clusters, like your own;
And as her fingers pressed the keys,
How strangely they resembled these!
Yes, you, you only, Lady Fair,
Adorned a Castle in the Air,
Where life, without the least foundation,
Became a charming occupation.
We heard, with much sublime disdain,
The far-off thunder of Cockaigne;
And saw, through rifts of silver cloud,
The rolling smoke that hid the crowd.
With souls released from earthly tether,
We hymned the tender moon together.
Our sympathy from night to noon
Rose crescent with that crescent moon;
The night was shorter than the song,
And happy as the day was long.
We lived and loved in cloudless climes,
And even died (in verse) sometimes.
Adorned a Castle in the Air,
Where life, without the least foundation,
Became a charming occupation.
We heard, with much sublime disdain,
The far-off thunder of Cockaigne;
And saw, through rifts of silver cloud,
The rolling smoke that hid the crowd.
With souls released from earthly tether,
We hymned the tender moon together.
Our sympathy from night to noon
Rose crescent with that crescent moon;
The night was shorter than the song,
And happy as the day was long.
We lived and loved in cloudless climes,
And even died (in verse) sometimes.
Yes, you, you only, Lady Fair,
Adorned my Castle in the Air.
Now, tell me, could you dwell content
In such a baseless tenement?
Or could so delicate a flower
Exist in such a breezy bower?
Because, if you would settle in it,
'Twere built for love, in half a minute.
Adorned my Castle in the Air.
116
In such a baseless tenement?
Or could so delicate a flower
Exist in such a breezy bower?
Because, if you would settle in it,
'Twere built for love, in half a minute.
What's love? Why love (for two) at best,
Is only a delightful jest;
But sad indeed for one or three,
—I wish you'd come and jest with me.
Is only a delightful jest;
But sad indeed for one or three,
—I wish you'd come and jest with me.
You shake your head and wonder why
The cynosure of dear Mayfair
Should lend me even half a sigh
Towards building Castles in the Air.
“I've music, books, and all you say,
To make the gravest lady gay.
I'm told my essays show research,
My sketches have endowed a church;
I've partners who have brilliant parts,
I've lovers who have broken hearts.
Poor Polly has not nerves to fly,
And why should Mop return to Skye?
To realize your tête-à-tête
Might jeopardize a giddy pate;
As grief is not akin to guilt,
I'm sorry if your Castle's built.”
The cynosure of dear Mayfair
Should lend me even half a sigh
Towards building Castles in the Air.
“I've music, books, and all you say,
To make the gravest lady gay.
I'm told my essays show research,
My sketches have endowed a church;
I've partners who have brilliant parts,
I've lovers who have broken hearts.
Poor Polly has not nerves to fly,
And why should Mop return to Skye?
To realize your tête-à-tête
Might jeopardize a giddy pate;
117
I'm sorry if your Castle's built.”
Ah me—alas for Fancy's flights
In noonday dreams and waking nights!
The pranks that brought poor souls mishap
When baby Time was fond of pap;
And still will cheat with feigning joys,
While ladies smile, and men are boys.
The blooming rose conceals an asp,
And bliss, coquetting, flies the grasp.
How vain the prize that pleased at first!
But myrtles fade, and bubbles burst.
The cord has snapt that held my kite;—
My friends neglect the books I write,
And wonder why the author's spleeny!
I dance, but dancing's not the thing;
They will not listen though I sing
“Fra poco,” almost like Rubini!
The poet's harp beyond my reach is,
The Senate will not stand my speeches,
I risk a jest,—its point of course
Is marred by some disturbing force;
I doubt the friends that Fortune gave me;
But have I friends from whom to save me?
Farewell,—can aught for her be willed
Whose every wish is all fulfilled?
Farewell,—could wishing weave a spell,
There's promise in the word “farewell.”
In noonday dreams and waking nights!
The pranks that brought poor souls mishap
When baby Time was fond of pap;
And still will cheat with feigning joys,
While ladies smile, and men are boys.
The blooming rose conceals an asp,
And bliss, coquetting, flies the grasp.
How vain the prize that pleased at first!
But myrtles fade, and bubbles burst.
The cord has snapt that held my kite;—
My friends neglect the books I write,
And wonder why the author's spleeny!
I dance, but dancing's not the thing;
They will not listen though I sing
“Fra poco,” almost like Rubini!
The poet's harp beyond my reach is,
The Senate will not stand my speeches,
I risk a jest,—its point of course
Is marred by some disturbing force;
I doubt the friends that Fortune gave me;
But have I friends from whom to save me?
118
Whose every wish is all fulfilled?
Farewell,—could wishing weave a spell,
There's promise in the word “farewell.”
The lady's smile showed no remorse,—
“My worthless toy hath lost its gilding,”
I murmured with pathetic force,
“And here's an end of castle building;”
Then strode away in mood morose,
To blame the Sage of Careless Close,
He trifled with my tale of sorrow,—
“What's marred to-day is made to-morrow;
Romance can roam not far from home,
Knock gently, she must answer soon;
I'm sixty-five, and yet I strive
To hang my garland on the moon.”
“My worthless toy hath lost its gilding,”
I murmured with pathetic force,
“And here's an end of castle building;”
Then strode away in mood morose,
To blame the Sage of Careless Close,
He trifled with my tale of sorrow,—
“What's marred to-day is made to-morrow;
Romance can roam not far from home,
Knock gently, she must answer soon;
I'm sixty-five, and yet I strive
To hang my garland on the moon.”
119
GLYCERE.
OLD MAN.In gala dress, and smiling! Sweet,
What seek you in my green retreat?
YOUNG GIRL.
I gather flowers to deck my hair,—
The village yonder claims the best,
For lad and lass are thronging there
To dance the sober sun to rest.
Hark! hark! the rebec calls,—Glycere
Again may foot it on the green;
Her rivalry I need not fear,
These flowers shall crown the Village Queen.
OLD MAN.
You long have known this tranquil ground?
YOUNG GIRL.
It all seems strangely marred to me.
120
Light heart! there sleeps beneath this mound
The brightest of yon company.
The flowers that should eclipse Glycere
Are hers, poor child,—her grave is here!
121
VÆ VICTIS.
“My Kate, at the Waterloo Column,
To-morrow, precisely at eight;
Remember, thy promise was solemn,
And—thine till to-morrow, my Kate!”
To-morrow, precisely at eight;
Remember, thy promise was solemn,
And—thine till to-morrow, my Kate!”
That evening seemed strangely to linger,—
The licence and luggage were packed;
And Time, with a long and short finger,
Approvingly marked me exact.
The licence and luggage were packed;
And Time, with a long and short finger,
Approvingly marked me exact.
Arrived, woman's constancy blessing,
No end of nice people I see;
Some hither, some thitherwards pressing,—
But none of them waiting for me.
No end of nice people I see;
Some hither, some thitherwards pressing,—
But none of them waiting for me.
Time passes, my watch how I con it!
I see her—she's coming—no, stuff!
Instead of Kate's smart little bonnet,
It is aunt, and her wonderful muff!
I see her—she's coming—no, stuff!
Instead of Kate's smart little bonnet,
It is aunt, and her wonderful muff!
122
(Yes, Fortune deserves to be chidden,
It is a coincidence queer,
Whenever one wants to be hidden,
One's relatives always appear.)
It is a coincidence queer,
Whenever one wants to be hidden,
One's relatives always appear.)
Near nine! how the passers despise me,
They smile at my anguish, I think;
And even the sentinel eyes me,
And tips that policeman the wink.
They smile at my anguish, I think;
And even the sentinel eyes me,
And tips that policeman the wink.
Ah! Kate made me promises solemn,
At eight she had vowed to be mine;—
While waiting for one at this column,
I find I've been waiting for nine.
At eight she had vowed to be mine;—
While waiting for one at this column,
I find I've been waiting for nine.
O Fame! on thy pillar so steady,
Some dupes watch beneath thee in vain:—
How many have done it already!
How many will do it again!
Some dupes watch beneath thee in vain:—
How many have done it already!
How many will do it again!
123
IMPLORA PACE.
(ONE HUNDRED YEARS HENCE.)
One hundred years! a long, long scroll
Of dust to dust, and woe,
How soon my passing knell will toll!
Is Death a friend or foe?
My days are often sad—and vain
Is much that tempts me to remain
—And yet I'm loth to go.
Oh, must I tread yon sunless shore—
Go hence, and then be seen no more?
Of dust to dust, and woe,
How soon my passing knell will toll!
Is Death a friend or foe?
My days are often sad—and vain
Is much that tempts me to remain
—And yet I'm loth to go.
Oh, must I tread yon sunless shore—
Go hence, and then be seen no more?
I love to think that those I loved
May gather round the bier
Of him, who, whilst he erring proved,
Still held them more than dear.
My friends wax fewer day by day,
Yes, one by one, they drop away,
And if I shed no tear,
Dear parted Shades, whilst life endures,
This poor heart yearns for love—and yours!
May gather round the bier
Of him, who, whilst he erring proved,
Still held them more than dear.
My friends wax fewer day by day,
Yes, one by one, they drop away,
And if I shed no tear,
124
This poor heart yearns for love—and yours!
Will some who knew me, when I die,
Shed tears behind the hearse?
Will any one survivor cry,
“I could have spared a worse—
We never spoke: we never met:
I never heard his voice—and yet
I loved him for his verse?”
Such love would make the flowers wave
In rapture on their poet's grave.
Shed tears behind the hearse?
Will any one survivor cry,
“I could have spared a worse—
We never spoke: we never met:
I never heard his voice—and yet
I loved him for his verse?”
Such love would make the flowers wave
In rapture on their poet's grave.
One hundred years! They soon will leak
Away—and leave behind
A stone mossgrown, that none will seek,
And none would care to find.
Then I shall sleep, and find release
In perfect rest—the perfect peace
For which my soul has pined;
Although the grave is dark and deep
I know the Shepherd loves his sheep.
Away—and leave behind
A stone mossgrown, that none will seek,
And none would care to find.
Then I shall sleep, and find release
In perfect rest—the perfect peace
For which my soul has pined;
Although the grave is dark and deep
I know the Shepherd loves his sheep.
125
VANITY FAIR.
“
Vanitas
vanitatum” has rung in the ears
Of gentle and simple for thousands of years;
The wail is still heard, yet its notes never scare
Or simple or gentle from Vanity Fair.
Of gentle and simple for thousands of years;
The wail is still heard, yet its notes never scare
Or simple or gentle from Vanity Fair.
I hear people busy abusing it—yet
There the young go to learn and the old to forget;
The mirth may be feigning, the sheen may be glare,
But the gingerbread's gilded in Vanity Fair.
There the young go to learn and the old to forget;
The mirth may be feigning, the sheen may be glare,
But the gingerbread's gilded in Vanity Fair.
Old Dives there rolls in his chariot, but mind
Atra Cura is up with the lacqueys behind;
Joan trudges with Jack,—is his sweetheart aware
What troubles await them in Vanity Fair?
Atra Cura is up with the lacqueys behind;
Joan trudges with Jack,—is his sweetheart aware
What troubles await them in Vanity Fair?
We saw them all go, and we something may learn
Of the harvest they reap when we see them return;
The tree was enticing,—its branches are bare,—
Heigh-ho, for the promise of Vanity Fair!
Of the harvest they reap when we see them return;
The tree was enticing,—its branches are bare,—
Heigh-ho, for the promise of Vanity Fair!
126
That stupid old Dives! forsooth, he must barter
His time-honoured name for a wonderful garter;
And Joan's pretty face has been clouded with care
Since Jack bought her ribbons at Vanity Fair.
His time-honoured name for a wonderful garter;
And Joan's pretty face has been clouded with care
Since Jack bought her ribbons at Vanity Fair.
Contemptible Dives! too credulous Joan!
Yet we all have a Vanity Fair of our own;—
My son, you have yours, but you need not despair,
Myself I've a weakness for Vanity Fair.
Yet we all have a Vanity Fair of our own;—
My son, you have yours, but you need not despair,
Myself I've a weakness for Vanity Fair.
Philosophy halts, wisest counsels are vain,—
We go—we repent—we return there again;
To-night you will certainly meet with us there—
Exceedingly merry in Vanity Fair.
We go—we repent—we return there again;
To-night you will certainly meet with us there—
Exceedingly merry in Vanity Fair.
127
THE LEGENDE OF SIR GYLES GYLES.
Notissimum illud Phædri, Gallus quum tauro.
Uppe, lazie loon! 'tis mornynge prime,
The cockke of redde redde combe
This thrice hath crowed—'tis past the time
To drive the olde bulle home.
The cockke of redde redde combe
This thrice hath crowed—'tis past the time
To drive the olde bulle home.
128
Goe fling a rope about his hornnes,
And lead him safelie here:
Long since Sir Gyles, who slumber scornes,
Doth angle in the weir.
And lead him safelie here:
Long since Sir Gyles, who slumber scornes,
Doth angle in the weir.
And, knaves and wenches, stay your din,
Our Ladye is astir:
For hark and hear her mandolin
Behynde the silver fir.
Our Ladye is astir:
For hark and hear her mandolin
Behynde the silver fir.
His Spanish hat he bravelie weares,
With feathere droopynge wide,
In doublet fyne, Sir Valentyne
Is seated by her side.
With feathere droopynge wide,
In doublet fyne, Sir Valentyne
Is seated by her side.
Small care they share, that blissfulle pair;
She dons her kindest smyles;
His songes invite and quite delighte
The wyfe of old Sir Gyles.
She dons her kindest smyles;
His songes invite and quite delighte
The wyfe of old Sir Gyles.
But pert young pages point their thumbes,
Her maids look glumme, in shorte
All wondere how the good Knyghte comes
To tarrie at his sporte.
Her maids look glumme, in shorte
All wondere how the good Knyghte comes
To tarrie at his sporte.
129
There is a sudden stir at last;
Men run—and then, with dread,
They vowe Sir Gyles is dying fast!
And then—Sir Gyles is dead!
Men run—and then, with dread,
They vowe Sir Gyles is dying fast!
And then—Sir Gyles is dead!
The bulle hath caughte him near the thornes
They call the Parsonne's Plotte;
The bulle hath tossed him on his hornnes,
Before the brute is shotte.
They call the Parsonne's Plotte;
The bulle hath tossed him on his hornnes,
Before the brute is shotte.
Now Ladye Gyles is sorelie tryd,
And sinks beneath the shockke:
She weeps from morn to eventyd,
And then till crowe of cockke.
And sinks beneath the shockke:
She weeps from morn to eventyd,
And then till crowe of cockke.
Again the sun returns, but though
The merrie morninge smiles,
No cockke will crow, no bulle will low
Agen for pore Sir Gyles.
The merrie morninge smiles,
No cockke will crow, no bulle will low
Agen for pore Sir Gyles.
And now the knyghte, as seemeth beste,
Is layd in hallowed mould;
All in the mynstere crypt, where rest
His gallant sires and old.
Is layd in hallowed mould;
All in the mynstere crypt, where rest
His gallant sires and old.
130
But first they take the olde bulle's skin
And crest, to form a shroud:
And when Sir Gyles is wrapped therein
His people wepe aloud.
And crest, to form a shroud:
And when Sir Gyles is wrapped therein
His people wepe aloud.
Sir Valentyne doth well incline
To soothe my lady's woe;
And soon she'll slepe, nor ever wepe,
An all the cockkes sholde crowe.
To soothe my lady's woe;
And soon she'll slepe, nor ever wepe,
An all the cockkes sholde crowe.
Ay soone they are in wedlock tied,
Full soon; and all, in fyne,
That spouse can say to chere his bride,
That sayth Sir Valentyne.
Full soon; and all, in fyne,
That spouse can say to chere his bride,
That sayth Sir Valentyne.
And gay agen are maids and men,
Nor knyghte nor ladye mournes,
Though Valentyne may trembel when
He sees a bulle with hornnes.
Nor knyghte nor ladye mournes,
Though Valentyne may trembel when
He sees a bulle with hornnes.
My wife and I once visited
The scene of all this woe,
Which fell out (so the curate said)
Four hundred years ago.
The scene of all this woe,
Which fell out (so the curate said)
Four hundred years ago.
131
It needs no search to find a church
Which all the land adorns,
We passed the weir, I thought with fear
About the olde bulle's hornnes.
Which all the land adorns,
We passed the weir, I thought with fear
About the olde bulle's hornnes.
No cock then crowed, no bull there lowed,
But, while we paced the aisles,
The curate told his tale, and showed
A tablet to Sir Giles.
But, while we paced the aisles,
The curate told his tale, and showed
A tablet to Sir Giles.
“'Twas raised by Lady Giles,” he said,
And when I bent the knee I
Made out his name, and arms, and read,
Hic jacet servvs dei.
And when I bent the knee I
Made out his name, and arms, and read,
Hic jacet servvs dei.
Says I, “And so he sleeps below,
His wrongs all left behind him.”
My wife cried, “Oh!” the clerk said, “No,
At least we could not find him.
His wrongs all left behind him.”
My wife cried, “Oh!” the clerk said, “No,
At least we could not find him.
“Last spring, repairing some defect,
We raised the carven stones,
Designing to again collect
And hide Sir Giles's bones.
We raised the carven stones,
Designing to again collect
And hide Sir Giles's bones.
132
“We delvèd down, and up, and round,
For many weary morns,
Through all this ground; but only found
An ancient pair of horns.”
For many weary morns,
Through all this ground; but only found
An ancient pair of horns.”
133
MY FIRST-BORN.
“He shan't be their namesake, the rather
That both are such opulent men:
His name shall be that of his father,—
My Benjamin—shortened to Ben.
That both are such opulent men:
His name shall be that of his father,—
My Benjamin—shortened to Ben.
“Yes, Ben, though it cost him a portion
In each of my relative's wills,
I scorn such baptismal extortion—
(That creaking of boots must be Squills).
In each of my relative's wills,
I scorn such baptismal extortion—
(That creaking of boots must be Squills).
“It is clear, though his means may be narrow,
This infant his age will adorn;
I shall send him to Oxford from Harrow,—
I wonder how soon he'll be born!”
This infant his age will adorn;
I shall send him to Oxford from Harrow,—
I wonder how soon he'll be born!”
A spouse thus was airing his fancies
Below—'twas a labour of love,—
And calmly reflecting on Nancy's
More practical labour above;
Below—'twas a labour of love,—
And calmly reflecting on Nancy's
More practical labour above;
134
Yet while it so pleased him to ponder,
Elated, at ease, and alone;
That pale, patient victim up yonder
Had budding delights of her own;
Elated, at ease, and alone;
That pale, patient victim up yonder
Had budding delights of her own;
Sweet thoughts, in their essence diviner
Than paltry ambition and pelf;
A cherub, no babe will be finer,
Invented and nursed by herself.
Than paltry ambition and pelf;
A cherub, no babe will be finer,
Invented and nursed by herself.
One breakfasting, dining, and teaing,
With appetite nought can appease,
And quite a young Reasoning Being
When called on to yawn and to sneeze.
With appetite nought can appease,
And quite a young Reasoning Being
When called on to yawn and to sneeze.
What cares that heart, trusting and tender,
For fame or avuncular wills!
Except for the name and the gender,
She is almost as tranquil as Squills.
For fame or avuncular wills!
Except for the name and the gender,
She is almost as tranquil as Squills.
That father, in reverie centered,
Dumbfoundered, his thoughts in a whirl,
Heard Squills, as the creaking boots entered,
Announce that his Boy was—a Girl.
Dumbfoundered, his thoughts in a whirl,
Heard Squills, as the creaking boots entered,
Announce that his Boy was—a Girl.
135
SUSANNAH.
I. THE ELDER TREES.
At Susan's name the fancy plays
With chiming thoughts of early days,
And hearts unwrung;
When all too fair our future smiled,
When she was Mirth's adopted child,
And I was young.
With chiming thoughts of early days,
And hearts unwrung;
When all too fair our future smiled,
When she was Mirth's adopted child,
And I was young.
I see the cot with spreading eaves,
The sun shines bright through summer leaves,
But does not scorch,—
The dial stone, the pansy bed;—
Old Robin trained the roses red
About the porch.
The sun shines bright through summer leaves,
But does not scorch,—
The dial stone, the pansy bed;—
Old Robin trained the roses red
About the porch.
'Twixt elders twain a rustic seat
Was merriest Susan's pet retreat
To merry make;
Good Robin's handiwork again,—
Oh, must we say his toil was vain,
For Susan's sake?
Was merriest Susan's pet retreat
To merry make;
136
Oh, must we say his toil was vain,
For Susan's sake?
Her gleeful tones and laughter gay
Were sunshine for the darkest day;
And yet, some said
That when her mirth was passing wild,
Though still the faithful Robin smiled,
He shook his head.
Were sunshine for the darkest day;
And yet, some said
That when her mirth was passing wild,
Though still the faithful Robin smiled,
He shook his head.
Perchance the old man harboured fears
That happiness is wed with tears
On this poor earth;
Or else, may be, his fancies were
That youth and beauty are a snare
If linked with mirth.
That happiness is wed with tears
On this poor earth;
Or else, may be, his fancies were
That youth and beauty are a snare
If linked with mirth.
And now how altered is that scene!
For mark old Robin's mournful mien,
And feeble tread.
His toil has ceased to be his pride,
At Susan's name he turns aside,
And shakes his head.
For mark old Robin's mournful mien,
And feeble tread.
His toil has ceased to be his pride,
At Susan's name he turns aside,
And shakes his head.
137
And summer smiles, but summer spells
Can never charm where sorrow dwells;—
No maiden fair,
Or gay, or sad, the passer sees,—
And still the much-loved Elder-trees
Throw shadows there.
Can never charm where sorrow dwells;—
No maiden fair,
Or gay, or sad, the passer sees,—
And still the much-loved Elder-trees
Throw shadows there.
The homely-fashioned seat is gone,
And where it stood is set a stone,
A simple square:
The worldling, or the man severe,
May pass the name recorded here;
But we will stay to shed a tear,
And breathe a prayer.
And where it stood is set a stone,
A simple square:
The worldling, or the man severe,
May pass the name recorded here;
But we will stay to shed a tear,
And breathe a prayer.
II. A KIND PROVIDENCE.
He dropt a tear on Susan's bier,
He seemed a most despairing swain;
But bluer sky brought newer tie,
And—would he wish her back again?
He seemed a most despairing swain;
But bluer sky brought newer tie,
And—would he wish her back again?
138
The moments fly, and, when we die,
Will Philly Thistletop complain?
She'll cry and sigh, and—dry her eye,
And let herself be wooed again.
Will Philly Thistletop complain?
She'll cry and sigh, and—dry her eye,
And let herself be wooed again.
140
ARCADIA.
The healthy-wealthy-wise affirm
That early birds secure the worm,
(The worm rose early too!)
Who scorns his couch should glean by rights
A world of pleasant sounds and sights
That vanish with the dew:
That early birds secure the worm,
(The worm rose early too!)
Who scorns his couch should glean by rights
A world of pleasant sounds and sights
That vanish with the dew:
141
One planet from his watch released
Fast fading from the purple east,
As morning waxes stronger;
The comely cock that vainly strives
To crow from sleep his drowsy wives,
Who would be dozing longer.
Fast fading from the purple east,
As morning waxes stronger;
The comely cock that vainly strives
To crow from sleep his drowsy wives,
Who would be dozing longer.
Uxorious Chanticleer! and hark!
Upraise thine eyes, and find the lark,—
The matutine musician
Who heavenward soars on rapture's wings,
Though sought, unseen,—who mounts and sings
In musical derision.
Upraise thine eyes, and find the lark,—
The matutine musician
Who heavenward soars on rapture's wings,
Though sought, unseen,—who mounts and sings
In musical derision.
From sea-girt pile, where nobles dwell,
A daughter waves her sire “farewell,”
Across the sunlit water:
All these I heard, or saw—for fun
I stole a march upon that sun,
And then upon that daughter.
A daughter waves her sire “farewell,”
Across the sunlit water:
All these I heard, or saw—for fun
I stole a march upon that sun,
And then upon that daughter.
This Lady Fair, the county's pride,
A white lamb trotting at her side,
Had hied her through the park;
A fond and gentle foster-dam—
May be she slumbered with her lamb,
Thus rising with the lark!
A white lamb trotting at her side,
Had hied her through the park;
A fond and gentle foster-dam—
May be she slumbered with her lamb,
Thus rising with the lark!
142
The lambkin frisked, the lady fain
Would coax him back, she called in vain,
The rebel proved unruly;
I followed for the maiden's sake,
A pilgrim in an angel's wake,
A happy pilgrim truly!
Would coax him back, she called in vain,
The rebel proved unruly;
I followed for the maiden's sake,
A pilgrim in an angel's wake,
A happy pilgrim truly!
The maid gave chase, the lambkin ran
As only woolly truant can
Who never felt a crook;
But stayed at length, as if disposed
To drink, where tawny sands disclosed
The margin of a brook.
As only woolly truant can
Who never felt a crook;
But stayed at length, as if disposed
To drink, where tawny sands disclosed
The margin of a brook.
His mistress, who had followed fast,
Cried, “Little rogue, you're caught at last;
I'm cleverer than you.”
Then straight the wanderer conveyed
Where wayward shrubs, in tangled shade,
Protected her from view.
Cried, “Little rogue, you're caught at last;
I'm cleverer than you.”
Then straight the wanderer conveyed
Where wayward shrubs, in tangled shade,
Protected her from view.
And timidly she glanced around,
All fearful lest the slightest sound
Might mortal footfall be;
Then shrinkingly she stepped aside
One moment—and her garter tied
The truant to a tree.
All fearful lest the slightest sound
Might mortal footfall be;
Then shrinkingly she stepped aside
One moment—and her garter tied
The truant to a tree.
143
Perhaps the World may wish to know
The hue of this enchanting bow,
And if 'twere silk or lace;
No, not from me, be pleased to think
It might be either—blue or pink,
'Twas tied—with maiden grace.
The hue of this enchanting bow,
And if 'twere silk or lace;
No, not from me, be pleased to think
It might be either—blue or pink,
'Twas tied—with maiden grace.
Suffice it that the child was fair,
As Una sweet, with golden hair,
And come of high degree;
And though her feet were pure from stain,
She turned her to the brook again,
And laved them dreamingly.
As Una sweet, with golden hair,
And come of high degree;
And though her feet were pure from stain,
She turned her to the brook again,
And laved them dreamingly.
Awhile she sat in maiden mood,
And watched the shadows in the flood,
That varied with the stream;
And as each pretty foot she dips,
The ripples ope their crystal lips
In welcome, as 'twould seem.
And watched the shadows in the flood,
That varied with the stream;
And as each pretty foot she dips,
The ripples ope their crystal lips
In welcome, as 'twould seem.
Such reveries are fleeting things,
Which come and go on whimsy wings,—
As kindly Fancy taught her
The Fair her tender day-dream nurst;
But when the light-blown bubble burst,
She wearied of the water;
Which come and go on whimsy wings,—
As kindly Fancy taught her
The Fair her tender day-dream nurst;
But when the light-blown bubble burst,
She wearied of the water;
144
Betook her to the spot where yet
Safe tethered lay her captured pet,
But lifting, with a start, her
Astonished gaze, she spied a change,
And screamed—it seemed so very strange! . .
Cried Echo,—“Where's my garter?”
Safe tethered lay her captured pet,
But lifting, with a start, her
Astonished gaze, she spied a change,
And screamed—it seemed so very strange! . .
Cried Echo,—“Where's my garter?”
The blushing girl her lamb led home,
Perhaps resolved no more to roam
At peep of day together;
If chance so takes them, it is plain
She will not venture forth again
Without an extra tether!
Perhaps resolved no more to roam
At peep of day together;
If chance so takes them, it is plain
She will not venture forth again
Without an extra tether!
A fair white stone will mark this morn,
I wear a prize, one lightly worn,
Love's gage—though not intended—
Of course I'll guard it near my heart,
Till suns and even stars depart,
And chivalry has ended.
I wear a prize, one lightly worn,
Love's gage—though not intended—
Of course I'll guard it near my heart,
Till suns and even stars depart,
And chivalry has ended.
Dull World! I now resign to you
Those crosses, stars, and ribbons blue,
With which you deck your martyrs:
I'll bear my cross amid your jars,
My ribbon prize, and thank my stars
I do not crave your garters.
Those crosses, stars, and ribbons blue,
With which you deck your martyrs:
I'll bear my cross amid your jars,
My ribbon prize, and thank my stars
I do not crave your garters.
145
THE CROSSING-SWEEPER.
AZLA AND EMMA.
A crossing-sweeper
, black and tan,
Tells how he came from Hindostan,
And why he wears a hat, and shunned
The fatherland of Pugree Bund.
Tells how he came from Hindostan,
And why he wears a hat, and shunned
The fatherland of Pugree Bund.
My wife had charms, she worshipped me,—
Her father was a Caradee,
His deity was aquatile,
A rough and tough old Crocodile.
Her father was a Caradee,
His deity was aquatile,
A rough and tough old Crocodile.
To gratify this monster's maw
He sacrificed his sons-in-law;
We married, tho' the neighbours said he
Had lost five sons-in-law already.
He sacrificed his sons-in-law;
We married, tho' the neighbours said he
Had lost five sons-in-law already.
146
Her father, when he played these pranks,
Proposed “a turn” on Jumna's banks;
He spoke so kind, she seemed so glum,
I knew at once that mine had come.
Proposed “a turn” on Jumna's banks;
He spoke so kind, she seemed so glum,
I knew at once that mine had come.
I fled before this artful ruse
To cook my too-confiding goose,
And now I sweep, in chill despair,
This crossing in St. James's Square;
To cook my too-confiding goose,
And now I sweep, in chill despair,
This crossing in St. James's Square;
Some old Qui-hy, some rural flat
May drop a sixpence in my hat;
Yet still I mourn the mango-tree
Where Azla first grew fond of me.
May drop a sixpence in my hat;
Yet still I mourn the mango-tree
Where Azla first grew fond of me.
These rogues, who swear my skin is tawny,
Would pawn their own for brandy-pawnee;
What matters it if theirs are snowy,
As Chloe fair! They're drunk as Chloe!
Would pawn their own for brandy-pawnee;
What matters it if theirs are snowy,
As Chloe fair! They're drunk as Chloe!
Your town is vile. In Thames's stream
The crocodiles get up the steam!
Your juggernauts their victims bump
From Camberwell to Aldgate pump!
The crocodiles get up the steam!
Your juggernauts their victims bump
From Camberwell to Aldgate pump!
147
A year ago, come Candlemas,
I wooed a plump Feringhee lass;
United at her idol fane,
I furnished rooms in Idol Lane.
I wooed a plump Feringhee lass;
United at her idol fane,
I furnished rooms in Idol Lane.
A moon had waned when virtuous Emma
Involved me in a new dilemma:
The Brahma faith that Emma scorns
Impaled me tight on both its horns:
Involved me in a new dilemma:
The Brahma faith that Emma scorns
Impaled me tight on both its horns:
She vowed to die if she survived me;
Of this sweet fancy she deprived me,
She ran from all her obligations,
And went to stay with her relations.
Of this sweet fancy she deprived me,
She ran from all her obligations,
And went to stay with her relations.
My Azla weeps by Jumna's deeps,
But Emma mocks my trials,—
She pokes her jokes in Seven Oaks,
At me in Seven Dials,—
She'd see me farther still, than be,
Though Veeshnu wills it—my Suttee!
But Emma mocks my trials,—
She pokes her jokes in Seven Oaks,
At me in Seven Dials,—
She'd see me farther still, than be,
Though Veeshnu wills it—my Suttee!
148
A SONG THAT WAS NEVER SUNG.
Thou sayest our friends are only dead
To idle mirth and sorrow,
Regretful tears for what is fled,
And yearnings for to-morrow.
Alas, that love should know alloy—
How frail the cup that holds our joy!
To idle mirth and sorrow,
Regretful tears for what is fled,
And yearnings for to-morrow.
Alas, that love should know alloy—
How frail the cup that holds our joy!
Thou sighest, “How sweet it were to rove
Those paths of asphodel;
Where all we prize, and all who love,
Rejoice!” Ah, who can tell?
Yet sweet it were, knit hand in hand,
To lead thee through a better land.
Those paths of asphodel;
Where all we prize, and all who love,
Rejoice!” Ah, who can tell?
Yet sweet it were, knit hand in hand,
To lead thee through a better land.
Why wish the fleeting years to stay?—
When time for us is flown,
There is this garden,—far away,
An Eden all our own:
And there I'll whisper in thine ear
—Ah! what I may not tell thee here!
When time for us is flown,
There is this garden,—far away,
An Eden all our own:
And there I'll whisper in thine ear
—Ah! what I may not tell thee here!
154
TO PARENTS AND GUARDIANS.
Papa was deep in weekly bills,
Mama was doing Fanny's frills,
Her gentle face full
Of woe; said she, “I do declare
He can't go back in such a Pair,
They're too disgraceful!”
Mama was doing Fanny's frills,
Her gentle face full
Of woe; said she, “I do declare
He can't go back in such a Pair,
They're too disgraceful!”
“Confound it,” quoth Papa—perhaps
The ban was deeper, but the lapse
Of time has drowned it:
Besides, 'tis badness to suppose
A worse, when goodness only knows
He meant Confound it.
The ban was deeper, but the lapse
Of time has drowned it:
Besides, 'tis badness to suppose
A worse, when goodness only knows
He meant Confound it.
The butchers book—that unctuous diary—
Had made my Parent's temper fiery,
And bubble over:
So quite in spite he flung it down,
And spilt the ink, and spoilt his own
Fine table-cover
Had made my Parent's temper fiery,
And bubble over:
So quite in spite he flung it down,
And spilt the ink, and spoilt his own
Fine table-cover
155
Of scarlet cloth! Papa cried “pish!”
Which did not mean he did not wish
He'd been more heedful:
“Good luck,” said he, “this cloth will dip,
And make a famous pair—get Snip
To do the needful.”
Which did not mean he did not wish
He'd been more heedful:
“Good luck,” said he, “this cloth will dip,
And make a famous pair—get Snip
To do the needful.”
'Twas thus that I went back to school
In garb no boy could ridicule,
And eft becoming
A jolly child—I plunged in debt
For tarts—and promised fair to get
The prize for summing.
In garb no boy could ridicule,
And eft becoming
A jolly child—I plunged in debt
For tarts—and promised fair to get
The prize for summing.
But, no! my schoolmates soon began
Again to mock my outward man,
And make me hate 'em!
Long sitting will broadcloth abrade,
The dye wore off—and so displayed
A red substratum!
Again to mock my outward man,
And make me hate 'em!
Long sitting will broadcloth abrade,
The dye wore off—and so displayed
A red substratum!
To both my Parents then I flew—
Mama shed tears, Papa cried “Pooh,
Come, stop this racket:”
He'd still some cloth, so Snip was bid
To stitch me on two tails; he did,
And spoilt my jacket!
Mama shed tears, Papa cried “Pooh,
Come, stop this racket:”
He'd still some cloth, so Snip was bid
To stitch me on two tails; he did,
And spoilt my jacket!
156
And then the boys, despite my wails,
Would slily come and lift my tails,
And smack me soundly.
O, weak Mama! O, wrathful Dad!
Although your exploits drove me mad,
Ye loved me fondly.
Would slily come and lift my tails,
And smack me soundly.
O, weak Mama! O, wrathful Dad!
Although your exploits drove me mad,
Ye loved me fondly.
Good Friends, our little ones (who feel
Such bitter wounds, which only heal
As wisdom mellows)
Need sympathy in deed and word;
So never let them look absurd
Beside their fellows.
Such bitter wounds, which only heal
As wisdom mellows)
Need sympathy in deed and word;
So never let them look absurd
Beside their fellows.
My wife, who likes the Things I've doft,
Sublimes her sentiments, for oft,
She'll take, and . . . air them!
—You little Puss, you love this pair,
And yet you never seem to care
To let me wear them.
Sublimes her sentiments, for oft,
She'll take, and . . . air them!
—You little Puss, you love this pair,
And yet you never seem to care
To let me wear them.
160
The Angora Cat.
Good pastry is vended
In Cité Fadette,—
Madame Pons constructs splendid
Brioche and galette!
In Cité Fadette,—
Madame Pons constructs splendid
Brioche and galette!
Monsieur Pons is so fat that
He's laid on the shelf,—
Madame Pons had a cat that
Was fat as herself.
He's laid on the shelf,—
Madame Pons had a cat that
Was fat as herself.
161
Long hair—soft as satin,—
A musical purr—
'Gainst the window she'd flatten
Her delicate fur.
A musical purr—
'Gainst the window she'd flatten
Her delicate fur.
Once I drove Lou to see what
Our neighbours were at,
When, in rapture, cried she, “What
An exquisite cat!
Our neighbours were at,
When, in rapture, cried she, “What
An exquisite cat!
“What whiskers! She's purring
All over. A gale
Of contentment is stirring
Her feathery tail.
All over. A gale
Of contentment is stirring
Her feathery tail.
“Monsieur Pons, will you sell her?”—
“Ma femme est sortie,
Your offer I'll tell her,
But—will she?” says he.
“Ma femme est sortie,
Your offer I'll tell her,
But—will she?” says he.
Yet Pons was persuaded
To part with the prize!
(Our bargain was aided,
My Lou, by your eyes!)
To part with the prize!
(Our bargain was aided,
My Lou, by your eyes!)
162
From his légitime save him—
My fate I prefer!
For I warrant she gave him
Un mauvais quart d' heure.
My fate I prefer!
For I warrant she gave him
Un mauvais quart d' heure.
I'm giving a pleasant
Grimalkin to Lou,
—Ah, Puss, what a present
I'm giving to you!
Grimalkin to Lou,
—Ah, Puss, what a present
I'm giving to you!
163
ON A PORTRAIT OF DR. LAURENCE STERNE,
BY SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.
When Punch gives friend and foe their due,
Can unwashed mirth grow riper?
Yet when the curtain falls, how few
Remain to pay the piper!
Can unwashed mirth grow riper?
Yet when the curtain falls, how few
Remain to pay the piper!
If pathos should thy bosom stir
To tears, more sweet than laughter,
Oh, bless its kind interpreter,
And love him ever after!
To tears, more sweet than laughter,
Oh, bless its kind interpreter,
And love him ever after!
Dear Parson of the roguish eye!
Thy face has grown historic,
Since saint and sinner flocked to buy
The homilies of Yorick.
Thy face has grown historic,
Since saint and sinner flocked to buy
The homilies of Yorick.
164
I fain would add one blossom to
The chaplet Fame has wreathed thee.
My friends, the crew that Yorick drew
Accept, as friends bequeathed thee.
The chaplet Fame has wreathed thee.
My friends, the crew that Yorick drew
Accept, as friends bequeathed thee.
At Shandy Hall I like to stop
And see my ancient crony,
Or in the lane meet Dr. Slop
Astride a slender pony.
And see my ancient crony,
Or in the lane meet Dr. Slop
Astride a slender pony.
Mine uncle, on his bowling-green,
Still storms a breach in Flanders;
And faithful Trim, starch, tall, and lean,
With Bridget still philanders.
Still storms a breach in Flanders;
And faithful Trim, starch, tall, and lean,
With Bridget still philanders.
And here again they visit us
By happy inspiration,
The “fortunes of Pisistratus,”
A tale of fascination.
By happy inspiration,
The “fortunes of Pisistratus,”
A tale of fascination.
But lay his magic volume by,
And thank the Great Enchanter;—
Our loins are girded, let us try
A sentimental canter. . . .
And thank the Great Enchanter;—
Our loins are girded, let us try
A sentimental canter. . . .
165
A Temple quaint of latest growth
Expands, where Art and Science
Astounded by our lack of both,
Have founded an alliance.
Expands, where Art and Science
Astounded by our lack of both,
Have founded an alliance.
One picture there all passers scan,
It rivets friend and stranger:
Come, gaze on yonder guileless man,
And tremble for his danger.
It rivets friend and stranger:
Come, gaze on yonder guileless man,
And tremble for his danger.
Mine uncle's bluff—his waistcoat's buff,—
The heart beneath is tender,—
Bewitching widow! Hold! Enough!
Thou fairest of thy gender.
The heart beneath is tender,—
Bewitching widow! Hold! Enough!
Thou fairest of thy gender.
The limner's art!—the poet's pen!—
Posterity the story
Shall tell how these three gifted men
Have wrought for Yorick's glory.
Posterity the story
Shall tell how these three gifted men
Have wrought for Yorick's glory.
O name not easily forgot!
Our love, dear Shade, we show thee,
Regretting thy misdeeds, but not
Forgetting what we owe thee.
Our love, dear Shade, we show thee,
Regretting thy misdeeds, but not
Forgetting what we owe thee.
166
A SKETCH IN SEVEN DIALS.
Minnie, in her hand a sixpence,
Toddled off to buy some butter;
(Minnie's pinafore was spotless)
Back she brought it to the gutter,
Gleeful, radiant, as she thus did,
Proud to be so largely trusted.
Toddled off to buy some butter;
(Minnie's pinafore was spotless)
Back she brought it to the gutter,
Gleeful, radiant, as she thus did,
Proud to be so largely trusted.
One, two, three small steps she'd taken,
Blissfully came little Minnie,
When, poor darling! down she tumbled,
Daubed her hands and face and pinny!
Dropping too, the little slut, her
Pat of butter in the gutter.
Blissfully came little Minnie,
When, poor darling! down she tumbled,
Daubed her hands and face and pinny!
Dropping too, the little slut, her
Pat of butter in the gutter.
Never creep back so despairing—
Dry those eyes, my little fairy:
All of us start off in high glee,
Many come back quite contrairy.
I've mourned sixpences in scores too,
Damaged hopes and pinafores too.
Dry those eyes, my little fairy:
All of us start off in high glee,
Many come back quite contrairy.
I've mourned sixpences in scores too,
Damaged hopes and pinafores too.
167
LITTLE PITCHER.
(A BIRTHDAY ODE.)
The Muses, those painstaking Mentors of mine,
Observe that to-day Little Pitcher is nine!
'Tis her fête—so, although retrospection is pleasant,
While we muse on her Past, we must think of her Present.
Observe that to-day Little Pitcher is nine!
'Tis her fête—so, although retrospection is pleasant,
While we muse on her Past, we must think of her Present.
168
A Gift!—In their praise she has raved, sung, and written,
Still, I don't seem to care for pup, pony, or kitten;
Though their virtues I've heard Little Pitcher extol:
She's too old for a watch, and too young for a doll!
Still, I don't seem to care for pup, pony, or kitten;
Though their virtues I've heard Little Pitcher extol:
She's too old for a watch, and too young for a doll!
Of a worthless old Block she's the dearest of Chips,
For what nonsense she talks when she opens her lips.
Then her mouth—when she's happy—indeed, it appears
To laugh at the tips of her comical ears.
For what nonsense she talks when she opens her lips.
Then her mouth—when she's happy—indeed, it appears
To laugh at the tips of her comical ears.
Her Ears,—Ah, her Ears!—I remember the squallings
That greeted my own ears, when Rambert and Lawlings
Were boring (as I do) her Organs of Hearing—
Come, I'll give her for each of those Organs an Earring.
That greeted my own ears, when Rambert and Lawlings
Were boring (as I do) her Organs of Hearing—
Come, I'll give her for each of those Organs an Earring.
Here they are! They are formed of the two scarabæi
That I bought of the old contadino at Veii.
They cost me some pauls, but, as history shows,
For what runs through the Ears, we must pay through the Nose.
That I bought of the old contadino at Veii.
They cost me some pauls, but, as history shows,
For what runs through the Ears, we must pay through the Nose.
And now, Little Pitcher, give ear to my rede,
And guard these two gems with a scrupulous heed,
For think of the woeful mishap that befel
The damsel who dropt her pair into a well.
And guard these two gems with a scrupulous heed,
169
The damsel who dropt her pair into a well.
That poor Little Pitcher would gladly have flown,
Or given her Ears to have let well alone;
For when she got home her Instructress severe
Dismissed her to bed with a Flea in her Ear.
Or given her Ears to have let well alone;
For when she got home her Instructress severe
Dismissed her to bed with a Flea in her Ear.
What? Tell you that tale? Come, a tale with a sting
Would be rather too much of an excellent thing!
I can't point a moral—or sing you the song—
My Years are too short—and your Ears are too long.
Would be rather too much of an excellent thing!
I can't point a moral—or sing you the song—
My Years are too short—and your Ears are too long.
170
UNFORTUNATE MISS BAILEY.
(AN EXPERIMENT.)
When he whispers, “O Miss Bailey,
Thou art brightest of the throng”—
She makes murmur, softly-gaily—
“Alfred, I have loved thee long.”
Thou art brightest of the throng”—
She makes murmur, softly-gaily—
“Alfred, I have loved thee long.”
Then he drops upon his knees, a
Proof his heart is soft as wax:
She's—I don't know who, but he's a
Captain bold from Halifax.
Proof his heart is soft as wax:
She's—I don't know who, but he's a
Captain bold from Halifax.
Though so loving, such another
Artless bride was never seen,
Coachee thinks that she's his mother
—Till they get to Gretna Green.
Artless bride was never seen,
Coachee thinks that she's his mother
—Till they get to Gretna Green.
171
There they stand, by him attended,
Hear the sable smith rehearse
That which links them, when 'tis ended,
Tight for better—or for worse.
Hear the sable smith rehearse
That which links them, when 'tis ended,
Tight for better—or for worse.
Now her heart rejoices—ugly
Troubles need disturb her less—
Now the Happy Pair are snugly
Seated in the night express.
Troubles need disturb her less—
Now the Happy Pair are snugly
Seated in the night express.
So they go with fond emotion,
So they journey through the night—
London is their land of Goshen—
See, its suburbs are in sight!
So they journey through the night—
London is their land of Goshen—
See, its suburbs are in sight!
Hark! the sound of life is swelling,
Pacing up, and racing down,
Soon they reach her simple dwelling—
Burley Street, by Somers Town.
Pacing up, and racing down,
Soon they reach her simple dwelling—
Burley Street, by Somers Town.
What is there to so astound them?
She cries “Oh!” for he cries “Hah!”
When five brats emerge, confound them!
Shouting out, “Mama!—Papa!”
She cries “Oh!” for he cries “Hah!”
When five brats emerge, confound them!
Shouting out, “Mama!—Papa!”
172
While at this he wonders blindly,
Nor their meaning can divine,
Proud she turns them round, and kindly,
“All of these are mine and thine!”
Nor their meaning can divine,
Proud she turns them round, and kindly,
“All of these are mine and thine!”
Here he pines, and grows dyspeptic,
Losing heart he loses pith—
Hints that Bishop Tait's a sceptic—
Swears that Moses was a myth.
Losing heart he loses pith—
Hints that Bishop Tait's a sceptic—
Swears that Moses was a myth.
Sees no evidence in Paley—
Takes to drinking ratifia:
Shies the muffins at Miss Bailey
While she's pouring out the tea.
Takes to drinking ratifia:
Shies the muffins at Miss Bailey
While she's pouring out the tea.
One day, knocking up his quarters,
Poor Miss Bailey found him dead,
Hanging in his knotted garters,
Which she knitted ere they wed.
Poor Miss Bailey found him dead,
Hanging in his knotted garters,
Which she knitted ere they wed.
| A Selection from the Works of Frederick Locker | |