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diff --git a/38463.txt b/38463.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..03c5571 --- /dev/null +++ b/38463.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4634 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Selection from the Works of Frederick +Locker, by Frederick Locker + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: A Selection from the Works of Frederick Locker + +Author: Frederick Locker + +Illustrator: Richard Doyle + +Release Date: January 1, 2012 [EBook #38463] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WORKS OF FREDERICK LOCKER *** + + + + +Produced by Chris Curnow, Matthew Wheaton and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive) + + + + + + + + London. Edward Moxon & Co. Dover Street. + + _MOXON'S MINIATURE POETS._ + + + + + A SELECTION FROM THE WORKS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. + + + WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY RICHARD DOYLE. + + + LONDON: + EDWARD MOXON & CO., DOVER STREET. + + 1865. + + PRINTED BY BRADBURY AND EVANS, WHITEFRIARS. + + THE ILLUSTRATIONS BY J. E. MILLAIS, R.A., AND RICHARD DOYLE + + THE COVER FROM A DESIGN BY JOHN LEIGHTON, F.S.A. + + THE SERIES PROJECTED AND SUPERINTENDED BY + + +Some of these pieces appeared in a volume called "London Lyrics," of +which there have been two editions, the first in 1857, and the second +in 1862; a few of the pieces have been restored to the reading of the +First Edition. + + + + +TO C. C. L. + + + I pause upon the threshold, Charlotte dear, + To write thy name; so may my book acquire + One golden leaf. For Some yet sojourn here + Who come and go in homeliest attire, + Unknown, or only by the few who see + The cross they bear, the good that they have wrought: + Of such art thou, and I have found in thee + The love and truth that HE, the MASTER, taught; + Thou likest thy humble poet, canst thou say + With truth, dear Charlotte?--"And I like his lay." + + ROME, _May_, 1862. + + + + + CONTENTS. + + + THE JESTER'S MORAL + BRAMBLE-RISE + THE WIDOW'S MITE + ON AN OLD MUFF + A HUMAN SKULL + TO MY GRANDMOTHER + O TEMPORA MUTANTUR! + REPLY TO A LETTER ENCLOSING A LOCK OF HAIR + THE OLD OAK-TREE AT HATFIELD BROADOAK + AN INVITATION TO ROME, AND THE REPLY:-- + THE INVITATION + THE REPLY + OLD LETTERS + MY NEIGHBOUR ROSE + PICCADILLY + THE PILGRIMS OF PALL MALL + GERALDINE + "O DOMINE DEUS" + THE HOUSEMAID + THE OLD GOVERNMENT CLERK + A WISH + THE JESTER'S PLEA + THE OLD CRADLE + TO MY MISTRESS + TO MY MISTRESS'S BOOTS + THE ROSE AND THE RING + TO MY OLD FRIEND POSTUMUS + THE RUSSET PITCHER + THE FAIRY ROSE + 1863 + GERALDINE GREEN:-- + I. THE SERENADE + II. MY LIFE IS A---- + MRS. SMITH + THE SKELETON IN THE CUPBOARD + THE VICTORIA CROSS + ST. GEORGE'S, HANOVER SQUARE + SORRENTO + JANET + BERANGER + THE BEAR PIT + THE CASTLE IN THE AIR + GLYCERE + VAE VICTIS + IMPLORA PACE + VANITY FAIR + THE LEGENDE OF SIR GYLES GYLES + MY FIRST-BORN + SUSANNAH:-- + I. THE ELDER TREES + II. A KIND PROVIDENCE + CIRCUMSTANCE + ARCADIA + THE CROSSING-SWEEPER + A SONG THAT WAS NEVER SUNG + MR. PLACID'S FLIRTATION + TO PARENTS AND GUARDIANS + BEGGARS + THE ANGORA CAT + ON A PORTRAIT OF DR. LAURENCE STERNE + A SKETCH IN SEVEN DIALS + LITTLE PITCHER + UNFORTUNATE MISS BAILEY + ADVICE TO A POET + NOTES + + + + +The Jesters Moral + + I wish that I could run away + From House, and Court, and Levee: + Where bearded men appear to-day, + Just Eton boys grown heavy.--W. M. PRAED. + + + Is human life a pleasant game + That gives a palm to all? + A fight for fortune, or for fame? + A struggle, and a fall? + Who views the Past, and all he prized, + With tranquil exultation? + And who can say, I've realised + My fondest aspiration? + + Alas, not one! for rest assured + That all are prone to quarrel + With Fate, when worms destroy their gourd, + Or mildew spoils their laurel: + The prize may come to cheer our lot, + But all too late--and granted + 'Tis even better--still 'tis not + Exactly what we wanted. + + My school-boy time! I wish to praise + That bud of brief existence, + The vision of my youthful days + Now trembles in the distance. + An envious vapour lingers here, + And there I find a chasm; + But much remains, distinct and clear, + To sink enthusiasm. + + Such thoughts just now disturb my soul + With reason good--for lately + I took the train to Marley-knoll, + And crossed the fields to Mately. + I found old Wheeler at his gate, + Who used rare sport to show me: + My Mentor once on snares and bait-- + But Wheeler did not know me. + + "Goodlord!" at last exclaimed the churl, + "Are you the little chap, sir, + What used to train his hair in curl, + And wore a scarlet cap, sir?" + And then he fell to fill in blanks, + And conjure up old faces; + And talk of well-remembered pranks, + In half forgotten places. + + It pleased the man to tell his brief + And somewhat mournful story, + Old Bliss's school had come to grief-- + And Bliss had "gone to glory." + His trees were felled, his house was razed-- + And what less keenly pained me, + A venerable donkey grazed + Exactly where he caned me. + + And where have all my playmates sped, + Whose ranks were once so serried? + Why some are wed, and some are dead, + And some are only buried; + Frank Petre, erst so full of fun, + Is now St. Blaise's prior-- + And Travers, the attorney's son, + Is member for the shire. + + Dame Fortune, that inconstant jade, + Can smile when least expected, + And those who languish in the shade, + Need never be dejected. + Poor Pat, who once did nothing right, + Has proved a famous writer; + While Mat "shirked prayers" (with all his might!) + And wears, withal, his mitre. + + Dull maskers we! Life's festival + Enchants the blithe new-comer; + But seasons change, and where are all + These friendships of our summer? + Wan pilgrims flit athwart our track-- + Cold looks attend the meeting-- + We only greet them, glancing back, + Or pass without a greeting! + + I owe old Bliss some rubs, but pride + Constrains me to postpone 'em, + He taught me something, 'ere he died, + About _nil nisi bonum_. + I've met with wiser, better men, + But I forgive him wholly; + Perhaps his jokes were sad--but then + He used to storm so drolly. + + I still can laugh, is still my boast, + But mirth has sounded gayer; + And which provokes my laughter most-- + The preacher, or the player? + Alack, I cannot laugh at what + Once made us laugh so freely, + For Nestroy and Grassot are not-- + And where is Mr. Keeley? + + O, shall I run away from hence, + And dress and shave like Crusoe? + Or join St. Blaise? No, Common Sense, + Forbid that I should do so. + I'd sooner dress your Little Miss + As Paulet shaves his poodles! + As soon propose for Betsy Bliss-- + Or get proposed for Boodle's. + + We prate of Life's illusive dyes, + Yet still fond Hope enchants us; + We all believe we near the prize, + Till some fresh dupe supplants us! + A bright reward, forsooth! And though + No mortal has attained it, + I still can hope, for well I know + That Love has so ordained it. + + PARIS, _November, 1864_. + + + +BRAMBLE-RISE. + + + What changes greet my wistful eyes + In quiet little Bramble-Rise, + Once smallest of its shire? + How altered is each pleasant nook! + The dumpy church used not to look + So dumpy in the spire. + + This village is no longer mine; + And though the Inn has changed its sign, + The beer may not be stronger: + The river, dwindled by degrees, + Is now a brook,--the cottages + Are cottages no longer. + + The thatch is slate, the plaster bricks, + The trees have cut their ancient sticks, + Or else the sticks are stunted: + I'm sure these thistles once grew figs, + These geese were swans, and once these pigs + More musically grunted. + + Where early reapers whistled, shrill + A whistle may be noted still,-- + The locomotive's ravings. + New custom newer want begets,-- + My bank of early violets + Is now a bank for savings! + + That voice I have not heard for long! + So Patty still can sing the song + A merry playmate taught her; + I know the strain, but much suspect + 'Tis not the child I recollect, + But Patty,--Patty's daughter; + + And has she too outlived the spells + Of breezy hills and silent dells + Where childhood loved to ramble? + Then Life was thornless to our ken, + And, Bramble-Rise, thy hills were then + A rise without a bramble. + + Whence comes the change? 'Twere easy told + That some grow wise, and some grow cold, + And all feel time and trouble: + If Life an empty bubble be, + How sad are those who will not see + A rainbow in the bubble! + + And senseless too, for mistress Fate + Is not the gloomy reprobate + That mouldy sages thought her; + My heart leaps up, and I rejoice + As falls upon my ear thy voice, + My frisky little daughter. + + Come hither, Pussy, perch on these + Thy most unworthy father's knees, + And tell him all about it: + Are dolls but bran? Can men be base? + When gazing on thy blessed face + I'm quite prepared to doubt it. + + O, mayst thou own, my winsome elf, + Some day a pet just like thyself, + Her sanguine thoughts to borrow; + Content to use her brighter eyes,-- + Accept her childish ecstacies,-- + If need be, share her sorrow! + + The wisdom of thy prattle cheers + This heart; and when outworn in years + And homeward I am starting, + My Darling, lead me gently down + To Life's dim strand: the dark waves frown, + But weep not for our parting. + + Though Life is called a doleful jaunt, + In sorrow rife, in sunshine scant, + Though earthly joys, the wisest grant, + Have no enduring basis; + 'Tis something in a desert sere, + For her so fresh--for me so drear, + To find in Puss, my daughter dear, + A little cool oasis! + + APRIL, 1857. + + + + +THE WIDOW'S MITE. + + + The Widow had but only one, + A puny and decrepit son; + Yet, day and night, + Though fretful oft, and weak, and small, + A loving child, he was her all-- + The Widow's Mite. + + The Widow's might,--yes! so sustained, + She battled onward, nor complained + When friends were fewer: + And, cheerful at her daily care, + A little crutch upon the stair + Was music to her. + + I saw her then,--and now I see, + Though cheerful and resigned, still she + Has sorrowed much: + She has--HE gave it tenderly-- + Much faith--and, carefully laid by, + A little crutch. + + + + +ON AN OLD MUFF + + + Time has a magic wand! + What is this meets my hand, + Moth-eaten, mouldy, and + Covered with fluff? + Faded, and stiff, and scant; + Can it be? no, it can't-- + Yes,--I declare 'tis Aunt + Prudence's Muff! + + Years ago--twenty-three! + Old Uncle Barnaby + Gave it to Aunty P.-- + Laughing and teasing-- + "Pru., of the breezy curls, + Whisper these solemn churls, + _What holds a pretty girl's + Hand without squeezing?_" + + Uncle was then a lad + Gay, but, I grieve to add, + Sinful: if smoking bad + _Baccy's_ a vice: + Glossy was then this mink + Muff, lined with pretty pink + Satin, which maidens think + "Awfully nice!" + + I see, in retrospect, + Aunt, in her best bedecked, + Gliding, with mien erect, + Gravely to Meeting: + Psalm-book, and kerchief new, + Peeped from the muff of Pru.-- + Young men--and pious too-- + Giving her greeting. + + Pure was the life she led + Then--from this Muff, 'tis said, + Tracts she distributed:-- + Scapegraces many, + Seeing the grace they lacked, + Followed her--one, in fact, + Asked for--and got his tract + Oftener than any. + + Love has a potent spell! + Soon this bold Ne'er-do-well, + Aunt's sweet susceptible + Heart undermining, + Slipped, so the scandal runs, + Notes in the pretty nun's + Muff--triple-cornered ones-- + Pink as its lining! + + Worse even, soon the jade + Fled (to oblige her blade!) + Whilst her friends thought that they'd + Locked her up tightly: + After such shocking games + Aunt is of wedded dames + Gayest--and now her name's + Mrs. Golightly. + + In female conduct flaw + Sadder I never saw, + Still I've faith in the law + Of compensation. + Once Uncle went astray-- + Smoked, joked, and swore away-- + Sworn by, he's now, by a + Large congregation! + + Changed is the Child of Sin, + Now he's (he once was thin) + Grave, with a double chin,-- + Blest be his fat form! + Changed is the garb he wore,-- + Preacher was never more + Prized than is Uncle for + Pulpit or platform. + + If all's as best befits + Mortals of slender wits, + Then beg this Muff, and its + Fair Owner pardon: + _All's for the best_,--indeed + Such is _my_ simple creed-- + Still I must go and weed + Hard in my garden. + + + + +A HUMAN SKULL. + + + A human skull! I bought it passing cheap,-- + It might be dearer to its first employer; + I thought mortality did well to keep + Some mute memento of the Old Destroyer. + + Time was, some may have prized its blooming skin, + Here lips were wooed perchance in transport tender;-- + Some may have chucked what was a dimpled chin, + And never had my doubt about its gender! + + Did she live yesterday or ages back? + What colour were the eyes when bright and waking? + And were your ringlets fair, or brown, or black, + Poor little head! that long has done with aching? + + It may have held (to shoot some random shots) + Thy brains, Eliza Fry,--or Baron Byron's, + The wits of Nelly Gwynn, or Doctor Watts,-- + Two quoted bards! two philanthropic sirens! + + But this I surely knew before I closed + The bargain on the morning that I bought it; + It was not half so bad as some supposed, + Nor quite as good as many may have thought it. + + Who love, can need no special type of death; + He bares his awful face too soon, too often; + "Immortelles" bloom in Beauty's bridal wreath, + And does not yon green elm contain a coffin? + + O, _cara_ mine, what lines of care are these? + The heart still lingers with the golden hours, + An Autumn tint is on the chestnut trees, + And where is all that boasted wealth of flowers? + + If life no more can yield us what it gave, + It still is linked with much that calls for praises; + A very worthless rogue may dig the grave, + But hands unseen will dress the turf with daisies. + + + + +TO MY GRANDMOTHER. + +(SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE BY MR. ROMNEY.) + + + This relative of mine + Was she seventy and nine + When she died? + By the canvas may be seen + How she looked at seventeen,-- + As a bride. + + Beneath a summer tree + As she sits, her reverie + Has a charm; + Her ringlets are in taste,-- + What an arm! and what a waist + For an arm! + + In bridal coronet, + Lace, ribbons, and _coquette + Falbala_; + Were Romney's limning true, + What a lucky dog were you, + Grandpapa! + + Her lips are sweet as love,-- + They are parting! Do they move? + Are they dumb?-- + Her eyes are blue, and beam + Beseechingly, and seem + To say, "Come." + + What funny fancy slips + From atween these cherry lips? + Whisper me, + Sweet deity, in paint, + What canon says I mayn't + Marry thee? + + That good-for-nothing Time + Has a confidence sublime! + When I first + Saw this lady, in my youth, + Her winters had, forsooth, + Done their worst. + + Her locks (as white as snow) + Once shamed the swarthy crow. + By-and-by, + That fowl's avenging sprite, + Set his cloven foot for spite + In her eye. + + Her rounded form was lean, + And her silk was bombazine:-- + Well I wot, + With her needles would she sit, + And for hours would she knit,-- + Would she not? + + Ah, perishable clay! + Her charms had dropt away + One by one. + But if she heaved a sigh + With a burthen, it was, "Thy + Will be done." + + In travail, as in tears, + With the fardel of her years + Overprest,-- + In mercy was she borne + Where the weary ones and worn + Are at rest. + + I'm fain to meet you there,-- + If as witching as you were, + Grandmamma! + This nether world agrees + That the better it must please + Grandpapa. + + + + +O TEMPORA MUTANTUR! + + + Yes, here, once more, a traveller, + I find the Angel Inn, + Where landlord, maids, and serving-men + Receive me with a grin: + They surely can't remember _me_, + My hair is grey and scanter; + I'm changed, so changed since I was here-- + "O tempora mutantur!" + + The Angel's not much altered since + That sunny month of June, + Which brought me here with Pamela + To spend our honeymoon! + I recollect it down to e'en + The shape of this decanter,-- + We've since been both much put about-- + "O tempora mutantur!" + + Ay, there's the clock, and looking-glass + Reflecting me again; + She vowed her Love was very fair-- + I see I'm very plain. + And there's that daub of Prince Leeboo: + 'Twas Pamela's fond banter + To fancy it resembled me-- + "O tempora mutantur!" + + The curtains have been dyed; but there, + Unbroken, is the same, + The very same cracked pane of glass + On which I scratched her name. + Yes, there's her tiny flourish still, + It used to so enchant her + To link two happy names in one-- + "O tempora mutantur!" + + * * * * * + + What brought this wanderer here, and why + Was Pamela away? + It might be she had found her grave, + Or he had found her gay. + The fairest fade; the best of men + May meet with a supplanter;-- + I wish the times would change their cry + Of "tempora mutantur." + + + + +REPLY TO A LETTER ENCLOSING A LOCK OF HAIR. + + + "My darling wants to see you soon,"-- + I bless the little maid, and thank her; + To do her bidding, night and noon + I draw on Hope--Love's kindest banker! + + _Old MSS._ + + If you were false, and if I'm free, + I still would be the slave of yore, + Then joined our years were thirty-three, + And now,--yes now, I'm thirty-four! + And though you were not learned--well, + I was not anxious you should grow so,-- + I trembled once beneath her spell + Whose spelling was extremely so-so! + + Bright season! why will Memory + Still haunt the path our rambles took; + The sparrow's nest that made you cry,-- + The lilies captured in the brook. + I lifted you from side to side, + You seemed as light as that poor sparrow; + I know who wished it twice as wide, + I think you thought it rather narrow. + + Time was,--indeed, a little while! + My pony did your heart compel; + But once, beside the meadow-stile, + I thought you loved me just as well; + I kissed your cheek; in sweet surprise + Your troubled gaze said plainly, "Should he?" + But doubt soon fled those daisy eyes,-- + "He could not wish to vex me, could he?" + + As year succeeds to year, the more + Imperfect life's fruition seems, + Our dreams, as baseless as of yore, + Are not the same enchanting dreams. + The girls I love now vote me slow-- + How dull the boys who once seemed witty! + Perhaps I'm getting old--I know + I'm still romantic--more's the pity! + + Ah, vain regret! to few, perchance, + Unknown--and profitless to all: + The wisely-gay, as years advance, + Are gaily-wise. Whate'er befall + We'll laugh--at folly, whether seen + Beneath a chimney or a steeple, + At yours, at mine--our own, I mean, + As well as that of other people. + + They cannot be complete in aught, + Who are not humorously prone, + A man without a merry thought + Can hardly have a funny-bone! + To say I hate your gloomy men + Might be esteemed a strong assertion, + If I've blue devils, now and then, + I make them dance for my diversion. + + And here's your letter _debonnaire_! + "_My friend, my dear old friend of yore_," + And is this curl your daughter's hair? + I've seen the Titian tint before. + Are we that pair who used to pass + Long days beneath the chesnuts shady? + You then were such a pretty lass!-- + I'm told you're now as fair a lady. + + I've laughed to hide the tear I shed, + As when the Jester's bosom swells, + And mournfully he shakes his head, + We hear the jingle of his bells. + A jesting vein your poet vexed, + And this poor rhyme, the Fates determine, + Without a parson, or a text, + Has proved a somewhat prosy sermon. + + + + +THE OLD OAK-TREE AT HATFIELD BROADOAK. + + + A mighty growth! The county side + Lamented when the Giant died, + For England loves her trees: + What misty legends round him cling! + How lavishly he once did fling + His acorns to the breeze! + + To strike a thousand roots in fame, + To give the district half its name, + The fiat could not hinder; + Last spring he put forth one green bough,-- + The red leaves hang there still,--but now + His very props are tinder. + + Elate, the thunderbolt he braved, + Long centuries his branches waved + A welcome to the blast; + An oak of broadest girth he grew, + And woodman never dared to do + What Time has done at last. + + The monarch wore a leafy crown, + And wolves, ere wolves were hunted down, + Found shelter at his foot; + Unnumbered squirrels gambolled free, + Glad music filled the gallant tree + From stem to topmost shoot. + + And it were hard to fix the tale + Of when he first peered forth a frail + Petitioner for dew; + No Saxon spade disturbed his root, + The rabbit spared the tender shoot, + And valiantly he grew, + + And showed some inches from the ground + When Saint Augustine came and found + Us very proper Vandals: + When nymphs owned bluer eyes than hose, + When England measured men by blows, + And measured time by candles. + + Worn pilgrims blessed his grateful shade + Ere Richard led the first crusade, + And maidens led the dance + Where, boy and man, in summer-time, + Sweet Chaucer pondered o'er his rhyme; + And Robin Hood, perchance, + + Stole hither to maid Marian, + (And if they did not come, one can + At any rate suppose it); + They met beneath the mistletoe,-- + We did the same, and ought to know + The reason why they chose it. + + And this was called the traitor's branch,-- + Stern Warwick hung six yeomen stanch + Along its mighty fork; + Uncivil wars for them! The fair + Red rose and white still bloom,--but where + Are Lancaster and York? + + Right mournfully his leaves he shed + To shroud the graves of England's dead, + By English falchion slain; + And cheerfully, for England's sake, + He sent his kin to sea with Drake, + When Tudor humbled Spain. + + A time-worn tree, he could not bring + His heart to screen the merry king, + Or countenance his scandals;-- + Then men were measured by their wit,-- + And then the mimic statesmen lit + At either end their candles! + + While Blake was busy with the Dutch + They gave his poor old arms a crutch: + And thrice four maids and men ate + A meal within his rugged bark, + When Coventry bewitched the park, + And Chatham swayed the senate. + + His few remaining boughs were green, + And dappled sunbeams danced between, + Upon the dappled deer, + When, clad in black, a pair were met + To read the Waterloo Gazette,-- + They mourned their darling here. + + They joined their boy. The tree at last + Lies prone--discoursing of the past, + Some fancy-dreams awaking; + Resigned, though headlong changes come,-- + Though nations arm to tuck of drum, + And dynasties are quaking. + + Romantic spot! By honest pride + Of eld tradition sanctified; + My pensive vigil keeping, + I feel thy beauty like a spell, + And thoughts, and tender thoughts, upwell, + That fill my heart to weeping. + + * * * * * + + The Squire affirms, with gravest look, + His oak goes up to Domesday Book!-- + And some say even higher! + We rode last week to see the ruin, + We love the fair domain it grew in, + And well we love the Squire. + + A nature loyally controlled, + And fashioned in that righteous mould + Of English gentleman;-- + My child may some day read these rhymes,-- + She loved her "godpapa" betimes,-- + The little Christian! + + I love the Past, its ripe pleasance, + Its lusty thought, and dim romance, + And heart-compelling ditties; + But more, these ties, in mercy sent, + With faith and true affection blent, + And, wanting them, I were content + To murmur, "_Nunc dimittis_." + + HALLINGBURY, _April, 1859_. + + + + +AN INVITATION TO ROME, AND THE REPLY. + + + + +THE INVITATION. + + + O, come to Rome, it is a pleasant place, + Your London sun is here seen shining brightly: + The Briton too puts on a cheery face, + And Mrs. Bull is _suave_ and even sprightly. + The Romans are a kind and cordial race, + The women charming, if one takes them rightly; + I see them at their doors, as day is closing, + More proud than duchesses--and more imposing. + + A "_far niente_" life promotes the graces;-- + They pass from dreamy bliss to wakeful glee, + And in their bearing, and their speech, one traces + A breadth of grace and depth of courtesy + That are not found in more inclement places; + Their clime and tongue seem much in harmony; + The Cockney met in Middlesex, or Surrey, + Is often cold--and always in a hurry. + + Though "_far niente_" is their passion, they + Seem here most eloquent in things most slight; + No matter what it is they have to say, + The manner always sets the matter right. + And when they've plagued or pleased you all the day + They sweetly wish you "a most happy night." + Then, if they fib, and if their stories tease you, + 'Tis always something that they've wished to please you. + + O, come to Rome, nor be content to read + Alone of stately palaces and streets + Whose fountains ever run with joyous speed, + And never-ceasing murmur. Here one meets + Great Memnon's monoliths--or, gay with weed, + Rich capitals, as corner stones, or seats-- + The sites of vanished temples, where now moulder + Old ruins, hiding ruin even older. + + Ay, come, and see the pictures, statues, churches, + Although the last are commonplace, or florid. + Some say 'tis here that superstition perches,-- + Myself I'm glad the marbles have been quarried. + The sombre streets are worthy your researches: + The ways are foul, the lava pavement's horrid, + But pleasant sights, which squeamishness disparages, + Are missed by all who roll about in carriages. + + About one fane I deprecate all sneering, + For during Christmas-time I went there daily, + Amused, or edified--or both--by hearing + The little preachers of the _Ara Coeli_. + Conceive a four-year-old _bambina_ rearing + Her small form on a rostrum, tricked out gaily, + And lisping, what for doctrine may be frightful, + With action quite dramatic and delightful. + + O come! We'll charter such a pair of nags! + The country's better seen when one is riding: + We'll roam where yellow Tiber speeds or lags + At will. The aqueducts are yet bestriding + With giant march (now whole, now broken crags + With flowers plumed) the swelling and subsiding + Campagna, girt by purple hills, afar-- + That melt in light beneath the evening star. + + A drive to Palestrina will be pleasant-- + The wild fig grows where erst her turrets stood; + There oft, in goat-skins clad, a sun-burnt peasant + Like Pan comes frisking from his ilex wood, + And seems to wake the past time in the present. + Fair _contadina_, mark his mirthful mood, + No antique satyr he. The nimble fellow + Can join with jollity your _Salterello_. + + Old sylvan peace and liberty! The breath + Of life to unsophisticated man. + Here Mirth may pipe, here Love may weave his wreath, + "_Per dar' al mio bene_." When you can, + Come share their leafy solitudes. Grim Death + And Time are grudging of Life's little span: + Wan Time speeds swiftly o'er the waving corn, + Death grins from yonder cynical old thorn. + + I dare not speak of Michael Angelo-- + Such theme were all too splendid for my pen. + And if I breathe the name of Sanzio + (The brightest of Italian gentlemen), + It is that love casts out my fear--and so + I claim with him a kindredship. Ah! when + We love, the name is on our hearts engraven, + As is thy name, my own dear Bard of Avon! + + Nor is the Colosseum theme of mine, + 'Twas built for poet of a larger daring; + The world goes there with torches--I decline + Thus to affront the moonbeams with their flaring. + Some time in May our forces we'll combine + (Just you and I) and try a midnight airing, + And then I'll quote this rhyme to you--and then + You'll muse upon the vanity of men. + + O come--I send a leaf of tender fern, + 'Twas plucked where Beauty lingers round decay: + The ashes buried in a sculptured urn + Are not more dead than Rome--so dead to-day! + That better time, for which the patriots yearn, + Enchants the gaze, again to fade away. + They wait and pine for what is long denied, + And thus I wait till thou art by my side. + + Thou'rt far away! Yet, while I write, I still + Seem gently, Sweet, to press thy hand in mine; + I cannot bring myself to drop the quill, + I cannot yet thy little hand resign! + The plain is fading into darkness chill, + The Sabine peaks are flushed with light divine, + I watch alone, my fond thought wings to thee, + O come to Rome--O come, O come to me! + + + + +THE REPLY. + + + Dear Exile, I was pleased to get + Your rhymes, I laid them up in cotton; + You know that you are all to "Pet," + I feared that I was quite forgotten: + Mama, who scolds me when I mope, + Insists--and she is wise as gentle-- + That I am still in love--I hope + That you are rather sentimental. + + Perhaps you think a child should not + Be gay unless her slave is with her; + Of course you love old Rome, and, what + Is more, would like to coax me thither: + What! quit this dear delightful maze + Of calls and balls, to be intensely + Discomfited in fifty ways-- + I like your confidence immensely! + + Some girls who love to ride and race, + And live for dancing--like the Bruens, + Confess that Rome's a charming place, + In spite of all the stupid ruins: + I think it might be sweet to pitch + One's tent beside those banks of Tiber, + And all that sort of thing--of which + Dear Hawthorne's "quite" the best describer. + + To see stone pines, and marble gods, + In garden alleys--red with roses-- + The Perch where Pio Nono nods; + The Church where Raphael reposes. + Make pleasant _giros_--when we may; + Jump _stagionate_--where they're easy; + And play croquet--the Bruens say + There's turf behind the _Ludovisi_. + + I'll bring my books, though Mrs. Mee + Says packing books is such a worry; + I'll bring my "Golden Treasury," + Manzoni--and, of course, a "Murray;" + A TUPPER, whom you men despise; + A Dante--Auntie owns a quarto-- + I'll try and buy a smaller size, + And read him on the _muro torto_. + + But can I go? _La Madre_ thinks + It would be such an undertaking:-- + I wish we could consult a sphynx;-- + The thought alone has set her quaking. + Papa--we do not mind Papa-- + Has got some "notice" of some "motion," + And could not stay; but, why not,--Ah, + I've not the very slightest notion. + + The Browns have come to stay a week, + They've brought the boys, I haven't thanked 'em, + For Baby _Grand_, and Baby _Pic_, + Are playing cricket in my sanctum: + Your Rover too affects my den, + And when I pat the dear old whelp, it ... + It makes me think of you, and then ... + And then I cry--I cannot help it. + + Ah, yes--before you left me, ere + Our separation was impending, + These eyes had seldom shed a tear-- + For mine was joy that knew no ending; + Yes, soon there came a change, too soon: + The first faint cloud that rose to grieve me + Was knowledge I possessed the boon, + And then a fear such bliss might leave me. + + This strain is sad: yet, understand, + Your words have made my spirit better: + And when I first took pen in hand, + I meant to write a cheery letter; + But skies were dull,--Rome sounded hot, + I fancied I could live without it: + I thought I'd go--I thought I'd not, + And then I thought I'd think about it. + + The sun now glances o'er the Park, + If tears are on my cheek, they glitter; + I think I've kissed your rhymes, for--hark! + My "bulley" gives a saucy twitter. + Your blessed words extinguish doubt, + A sudden breeze is gaily blowing, + And, hark! The minster bells ring out-- + "She ought to go! Of course she's going." + + + + +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. + + 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? + + Explain why childhood's path is sown + 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; + + 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 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. + + And here my feud with Major Spike, + Our bet about the French Invasion; + I must confess I acted like + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + + + +MY NEIGHBOUR ROSE. + + + Though slender walls our hearths divide, + No word has passed from either side, + Your days, red-lettered all, must glide + Unvexed by labour: + I've seen you weep, and could have wept; + I've heard you sing, and may have slept; + Sometimes I hear your chimneys swept, + My charming neighbour! + + Your pets are mine. Pray what may ail + The pup, once eloquent of tail? + I wonder why your nightingale + Is mute at sunset! + Your puss, demure and pensive, seems + Too fat to mouse. She much esteems + Yon sunny wall--and sleeps and dreams + Of mice she once ate. + + Our tastes agree. I doat upon + Frail jars, turquoise and celadon, + The "Wedding March" of Mendelssohn, + And _Penseroso_. + When sorely tempted to purloin + Your _pieta_ of Marc Antoine, + Fair Virtue doth fair play enjoin, + Fair Virtuoso! + + At times an Ariel, cruel-kind, + Will kiss my lips, and stir your blind, + And whisper low, "She hides behind; + Thou art not lonely." + The tricksy sprite did erst assist + At hushed Verona's moonlight tryst; + Sweet Capulet! thou wert not kissed + By light winds only. + + I miss the simple days of yore, + When two long braids of hair you wore, + And _chat botte_ was wondered o'er, + In corner cosy. + But gaze not back for tales like those: + 'Tis all in order, I suppose, + The Bud is now a blooming ROSE,-- + A rosy posy! + + Indeed, farewell to bygone years; + How wonderful the change appears-- + For curates now and cavaliers + In turn perplex you: + The last are birds of feather gay, + Who swear the first are birds of prey; + I'd scare them all had I my way, + But that might vex you. + + At times I've envied, it is true, + That joyous hero, twenty-two, + Who sent _bouquets_ and _billets-doux_, + And wore a sabre. + The rogue! how tenderly he wound + His arm round one who never frowned; + He loves you well. Now, is he bound + To love _my_ neighbour? + + The bells are ringing. As is meet, + White favours fascinate the street, + Sweet faces greet me, rueful-sweet + 'Twixt tears and laughter: + They crowd the door to see her go-- + The bliss of one brings many woe-- + Oh! kiss the bride, and I will throw + The old shoe after. + + What change in one short afternoon,-- + My Charming Neighbour gone,--so soon! + Is yon pale orb her honey-moon + Slow rising hither? + O lady, wan and marvellous, + How often have we communed thus; + Sweet memories shall dwell with us, + And joy go with her! + + + + +PICCADILLY. + + + Piccadilly!--shops, palaces, bustle, and breeze, + The whirring of wheels, and the murmur of trees, + By daylight, or nightlight,--or noisy, or stilly,-- + Whatever my mood is--I love Piccadilly. + + Wet nights, when the gas on the pavement is streaming, + And young Love is watching, and old Love is dreaming, + And Beauty is whirled off to conquest, where shrilly + Cremona makes nimble thy toes, Piccadilly! + + Bright days, when we leisurely pace to and fro, + And meet all the people we do or don't know,-- + Here is jolly old Brown, and his fair daughter Lillie; + --No wonder, young pilgrim, you like Piccadilly! + + See yonder pair riding, how fondly they saunter! + She smiles on her poet, whose heart's in a canter: + Some envy her spouse, and some covet her filly, + He envies them both,--he's an ass, Piccadilly! + + Now were I that gay bride, with a slave at my feet, + I would choose me a house in my favourite street; + Yes or no--I would carry my point, willy, nilly, + If "no,"--pick a quarrel, if "yes,"--Piccadilly! + + From Primrose balcony, long ages ago, + "Old Q" sat at gaze,--who now passes below? + A frolicsome Statesman, the Man of the Day, + A laughing philosopher, gallant and gay; + No hero of story more manfully trod, + Full of years, full of fame, and the world at his nod, + _Heu, anni fugaces_! The wise and the silly,-- + Old P or old Q,--we must quit Piccadilly. + + Life is chequered,--a patchwork of smiles and of frowns; + We value its ups, let us muse on its downs; + + There's a side that is bright, it will then turn us t'other,-- + One turn, if a good one, deserves such another. + _These_ downs are delightful, _these_ ups are not hilly,-- + Let us turn one more turn ere we quit Piccadilly. + + + + +THE PILGRIMS OF PALL MALL. + + + My little friend, so small and neat, + Whom years ago I used to meet + In Pall Mall daily; + How cheerily you tripped away + To work, it might have been to play, + You tripped so gaily. + + And Time trips too. This moral means + You then were midway in the teens + That I was crowning; + We never spoke, but when I smiled + At morn or eve, I know, dear Child, + You were not frowning. + + Each morning when we met, I think + Some sentiment did us two link-- + Nor joy, nor sorrow; + And then at eve, experience-taught, + Our hearts returned upon the thought,-- + _We meet to-morrow_! + + And you were poor; and how?--and why? + How kind to come! it was for my + Especial grace meant! + Had you a chamber near the stars, + A bird,--some treasured plants in jars, + About your casement? + + I often wander up and down, + When morning bathes the silent town + In golden glory: + Perchance, unwittingly, I've heard + Your thrilling-toned canary-bird + From some third story. + + I've seen great changes since we met;-- + A patient little seamstress yet, + With small means striving, + Have you a Lilliputian spouse? + And do you dwell in some doll's house? + --Is baby thriving? + + Can bloom like thine--my heart grows chill-- + Have sought that bourne unwelcome still + To bosom smarting? + The most forlorn--what worms we are!-- + Would wish to finish this cigar + Before departing. + + Sometimes I to Pall Mall repair, + And see the damsels passing there; + But if I try to + Obtain one glance, they look discreet, + As though they'd some one else to meet;-- + As have not _I_ too? + + Yet still I often think upon + Our many meetings, come and gone! + July--December! + Now let us make a tryst, and when, + Dear little soul, we meet again,-- + The mansion is preparing--then + Thy Friend remember! + + + + +GERALDINE. + + + This simple child has claims + On your sentiment--her name's + Geraldine. + Be tender--but beware, + For she's frolicsome as fair, + And fifteen. + + She has gifts that have not cloyed, + For these gifts she has employed, + And improved: + She has bliss which lives and leans + Upon loving--and that means + She is loved. + + She has grace. A grace refined + By sweet harmony of mind: + And the Art, + And the blessed Nature, too, + Of a tender, and a true + Little heart. + + And yet I must not vault + Over any little fault + That she owns: + Or others might rebel, + And might enviously swell + In their zones. + + She is tricksy as the fays, + Or her pussy when it plays + With a string: + She's a goose about her cat, + And her ribbons--and all that + Sort of thing. + + These foibles are a blot, + Still she never can do what + Is not nice, + Such as quarrel, and give slaps-- + As I've known her get, perhaps, + Once or twice. + + The spells that move her soul + Are subtle--sad or droll-- + She can show + That virtuoso whim + Which consecrates our dim + Long-ago. + + A love that is not sham + For Stothard, Blake, and Lamb; + And I've known + Cordelia's sad eyes + Cause angel-tears to rise + In her own. + + Her gentle spirit yearns + When she reads of Robin Burns-- + Luckless Bard! + Had she blossomed in thy time, + How rare had been the rhyme + --And reward! + + Thrice happy then is he + Who, planting such a Tree, + Sees it bloom + To shelter him--indeed + We have sorrow as we speed + To our doom! + + I am happy having grown + Such a Sapling of my own; + And I crave + No garland for my brows, + But peace beneath its boughs + Till the grave. + + + + +"O DOMINE DEUS, + + + "O DOMINE DEUS, + 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." + + 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. + + 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. + + 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! + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + + + +THE HOUSEMAID. + + "Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide." + + + Alone she sits, with air resigned + She watches by the window-blind: + Poor girl! No doubt + The pilgrims here despise thy lot: + Thou canst not stir--because 'tis not + Thy _Sunday out_. + + To play a game of hide and seek + With dust and cobwebs all the week, + Small pleasure yields: + O dear, how nice it is to drop + One's scrubbing-brush, one's pail and mop-- + And scour the fields! + + Poor Bodies some such Sundays know; + They seldom come. How soon they go! + But Souls can roam. + And, lapt in visions airy-sweet, + She sees in this too doleful street + Her own loved Home! + + The road is now no road. She pranks + A brawling stream with thymy banks; + In Fancy's realm + This post sustains no lamp--aloof + It spreads above her parents' roof + A gracious elm. + + How often has she valued there + A father's aid--a mother's care:-- + She now has neither: + And yet--such work in dreams is done, + She still may sit and smile with one + More dear than either. + + The poor can love through woe and pain, + Although their homely speech is fain + To halt in fetters: + They feel as much, and do far more + Than those, at times of meaner ore, + Miscalled _their Betters_. + + Sometimes, on summer afternoons + Of sundry sunny Mays and Junes-- + Meet Sunday weather, + I pass her window by design, + And wish her _Sunday out_ and mine + Might fall together. + + For sweet it were my lot to dower + With one brief joy, one white-robed flower; + And prude, or preacher, + Could hardly deem it much amiss + To lay one on the path of this + Forlorn young creature. + + Yet if her thought on wooing runs-- + And if her swain and she are ones + Who fancy strolling, + She'd like my nonsense less than his, + And so it's better as it is-- + And that's consoling. + + Her dwelling is unknown to fame-- + Perchance she's fair--perchance her name + Is _Car_, or _Kitty_; + She may be _Jane_--she might be plain-- + For need the object of one's strain + Be always pretty? + + + + +THE OLD GOVERNMENT CLERK. + + + We knew an old Scribe, it was "once on a time,"-- + An era to set sober datists despairing;-- + Then let them despair! Darby sat in a chair + Near the Cross that gave name to the village of Charing. + + Though silent and lean, Darby was not malign,-- + What hair he had left was more silver than sable;-- + He had also contracted a curve in his spine + From bending too constantly over a table. + + His pay and expenditure, quite in accord, + Were both on the strictest economy founded; + His masters were known as the Sealing-wax Board, + Who ruled where red tape and snug places abounded. + + In his heart he looked down on this dignified knot,-- + For why, the forefather of one of these senators, + A rascal concerned in the Gunpowder Plot, + Had been barber-surgeon to Darby's progenitors. + + Poor fool! Life is all a vagary of Luck,-- + Still, for thirty long years of genteel destitution + He'd been writing State Papers, which means he had stuck + Some heads and some tails to much circumlocution. + + This sounds rather weary and dreary; but, no! + Though strictly inglorious, his days were quiescent, + His red-tape was tied in a true-lover's bow + Each night when returning to Rosemary Crescent. + + There Joan meets him smiling, the young ones are there, + His coming is bliss to the half-dozen wee things; + Of his advent the dog and the cat are aware, + And Phyllis, neat-handed, is laying the tea-things. + + East wind! sob eerily! sing, kettle! cheerily! + Baby's abed,--but its father will rock it; + Little ones boast your permission to toast + The cake that good fellow brought home in his pocket. + + This greeting the silent old Clerk understands,-- + His friends he can love, had he foes, he could mock them; + So met, so surrounded, his bosom expands,-- + Some tongues have more need of such scenes to unlock them. + + And Darby, at least, is resigned to his lot, + And Joan, rather proud of the sphere he's adorning, + Has well-nigh forgotten that Gunpowder Plot, + And _he_ won't recall it till ten the next morning. + + A kindly good man, quite a stranger to fame, + His heart still is green, though his head shows a hoar lock; + Perhaps his particular star is to blame,-- + It may be, he never took time by the forelock. + + A day must arrive when, in pitiful case, + He will drop from his Branch, like a fruit more than mellow; + Is he yet to be found in his usual place? + Or is he already forgotten, poor fellow? + + If still at his duty he soon will arrive,-- + He passes this turning because it is shorter,-- + If not within sight as the clock's striking five, + We shall see him before it is chiming the quarter. + + + + +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. + + 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. + + 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? + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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_. + + 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_. + + + + +THE JESTER'S PLEA. + + These verses were 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. + + 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_. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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! + + 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. + + + + +THE OLD CRADLE. + + + And this was your Cradle? why, surely, my Jenny, + Such slender dimensions go somewhat to show + You were a delightfully small Pic-a-ninny + Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago. + + Your baby-days flowed in a much-troubled channel; + I see you as then in your impotent strife, + A tight little bundle of wailing and flannel, + Perplexed with that newly-found fardel called Life. + + To hint at an infantine frailty is scandal; + Let bygones be bygones--and somebody knows + It was bliss such a Baby to dance and to dandle, + Your cheeks were so velvet--so rosy your toes. + + Ay, here is your Cradle, and Hope, a bright spirit, + With Love now is watching beside it, I know. + They guard the small nest you yourself did inherit + Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago. + + It is Hope gilds the future,--Love welcomes it smiling; + Thus wags this old world, therefore stay not to ask-- + "My future bids fair, is my future beguiling?" + If masked, still it pleases--then raise not the mask. + + Is Life a poor coil some would gladly be doffing? + He is riding post-haste who their wrongs will adjust; + For at most 'tis a footstep from cradle to coffin-- + From a spoonful of pap to a mouthful of dust. + + Then smile as your future is smiling, my Jenny! + Though blossoms of promise are lost in the rose, + I still see the face of my small Pic-a-ninny + Unchanged, for these cheeks are as blooming as those. + + Ay, here is your Cradle! much, much to my liking, + Though nineteen or twenty long winters have sped; + But, hark! as I'm talking there's six o'clock striking, + It is time JENNY'S BABY should be in its bed! + + + + +TO MY MISTRESS. + + + O Countess, each succeeding year + Reveals that Time is wasting here: + He soon will do his worst by you, + And garner all your roses too! + + It pleases Time to fold his wings + Around our best and brightest things; + He'll mar your damask cheek, as now + He stamps his mark upon my brow. + + The same mute planets rise and shine + To rule your days and nights as mine, + I once was young as you,--and see...! + You some day will be old as me. + + And yet I bear a mighty charm + Which shields me from your worst alarm; + And bids me gaze, with front sublime, + On all these ravages of Time. + + You boast a charm that all would prize, + This gift of mine, which you despise, + May, like enough, still hold its sway + When all your boast has passed away. + + My charm may long embalm the lures + Of eyes, as sweet to me as yours: + And ages hence the great and good + Will judge you as I choose they should. + + In days to come the count or clown, + With whom I still shall win renown, + Will only know that you were fair + Because I chanced to say you were. + + Fair Countess--I wax grey--awhile + Your youthful swains will sigh or smile; + But should you scorn, for smile or sigh, + A grey old Bard--as great as I? + + KENWOOD, _July 21, 1864_. + + + + +TO MY MISTRESS'S BOOTS + + + They nearly strike me dumb, + And I tremble when they come + Pit-a-pat: + This palpitation means + That these boots are Geraldine's-- + Think of that! + + Oh, where did hunter win + So delicate a skin + For her feet? + You lucky little kid, + You perished, so you did, + For my sweet. + + The faery stitching gleams + On the toes, and in the seams, + And reveals + That Pixies were the wags + Who tipped these funny tags, + And these heels. + + What soles! so little worn! + Had Crusoe--soul forlorn!-- + Chanced to view + _One_ printed near the tide, + How hard he would have tried + For the two! + + For Gerry's debonair, + And innocent, and fair + As a rose: + She's an angel in a frock, + With a fascinating cock + To her nose. + + Those simpletons who squeeze + Their extremities to please + Mandarins, + Would positively flinch + From venturing to pinch + Geraldine's. + + Cinderella's _lefts and rights_ + To Geraldine's were frights: + And, in truth, + The damsel, deftly shod, + Has dutifully trod + From her youth. + + The mansion--ay, and more, + The cottage of the poor, + Where there's grief, + Or sickness, are her choice-- + And the music of her voice + Brings relief. + + Come, Gerry, since it suits + Such a pretty Puss-in-Boots + These to don, + Set your little hand awhile + On my shoulder, dear, and I'll + Put them on. + + ALBURY, _June 29, 1864_. + + + + +THE ROSE AND THE RING. + + (Christmas 1854, and Christmas 1863.) + + + She smiles--but her heart is in sable, + And sad as her Christmas is chill: + She reads, and her book is the fable + He penned for her while she was ill. + It is nine years ago since he wrought it + Where reedy old Tiber is king, + And chapter by chapter he brought it-- + And read her the Rose and the Ring. + + And when it was printed, and gaining + Renown with all lovers of glee, + He sent her this copy containing + His comical little _croquis_; + A sketch of a rather droll couple-- + She's pretty--he's quite t'other thing! + He begs (with a spine vastly supple) + She will study the Rose and the Ring. + + It pleased the kind Wizard to send her + The last and the best of his toys, + His heart had a sentiment tender + For innocent women and boys: + And though he was great as a scorner, + The guileless were safe from his sting,-- + How sad is past mirth to the mourner!-- + A tear on the Rose and the Ring! + + She reads--I may vainly endeavour + Her mirth-chequered grief to pursue; + For she hears she has lost--and for ever-- + A Heart that was known by so few; + But I wish on the shrine of his glory + One fair little blossom to fling; + And you see there's a nice little story + Attached to the Rose and the Ring! + + + + +TO MY OLD FRIEND POSTUMUS. + +(J. G.) + + + My Friend, our few remaining years + Are hasting to an end, + They glide away, and lines are here + That time will never mend; + Thy blameless life avails thee not,-- + Alas, my dear old Friend! + + From mother Earth's green orchard trees + The fairest fruit is blown, + The lad was gay who slumbers near, + The lass he loved is gone; + Death lifts the burthen from the poor, + And will not spare the throne. + + And vainly are we fenced about + From peril, day and night, + The awful rapids must be shot, + Our shallop is but slight; + So pray, when parting, we descry + A cheering beacon-light. + + O pleasant Earth! This happy home! + The darling at my knee! + My own dear wife! Thyself, old Friend! + And must it come to me + That any face shall fill my place + Unknown to them and thee? + + + + +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. + + Ay, since this fountain first was planned, + 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? + + The falcon on the turtle preys, + 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_. + + "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. + + "Thy pitcher may some luckless day + 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. + + Ill-fated damsel! go thy ways, + 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. + + Again to stray where once he strayed, + Through copse and quiet dell, + Half hoping to espy the maid + Pass tripping to the well. + + No light step comes, but, evil-starred, + 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!" + + He turned from that accursed ground, + 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. + + "Thy world, I ween, is gay and green + As Eden undefiled; + Thy thoughts should run on mirth and fun,-- + Where dwellest thou, my child?" + + '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!" + + + + +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." + + "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. + + "'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.' + + "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." + + 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. + + 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. + + 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! + + 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. + + + + +1863. + + These verses were published in 1863, in "A Welcome," dedicated + to the Princess of Wales. + + + 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. + + 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; + + 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. + + 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!" + + 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! + + 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! + + 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! + + 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! + + + + +GERALDINE GREEN. + + + + +I. THE SERENADE. + + Light slumber is quitting + The eyelids it pressed, + The fairies are flitting, + Who charmed thee to rest: + Where night-dews were falling + Now feeds the wild bee, + The starling is calling, + My Darling, for thee. + + The wavelets are crisper + That sway the shy fern, + The leaves fondly whisper, + "We wait thy return." + Arise then, and hazy + Distrust from thee fling, + For sorrows that crazy + To-morrows may bring. + + A vague yearning smote us-- + But wake not to weep, + My bark, love, shall float us + Across the still deep, + To isles where the lotos, + Erst lulled thee to sleep. + + + + +II. MY LIFE IS A + + + At Worthing an exile from Geraldine G----, + How aimless, how wretched an exile is he! + Promenades are not even prunella and leather + To lovers, if lovers can't foot them together. + + He flies the parade, sad by ocean he stands, + He traces a "Geraldine G." on the sands, + Only "G!" though her loved patronymic is "Green,"-- + I will not betray thee, my own Geraldine. + + The fortunes of men have a time and a tide, + And Fate, the old Fury, will not be denied; + That name was, of course, soon wiped out by the sea,-- + She jilted the exile, did Geraldine G. + + They meet, but they never have spoken since that,-- + He hopes she is happy--he knows she is fat; + _She_ woo'd on the shore, now is wed in the Strand,-- + And _I_--it was I wrote her name on the sand! + + + + +MRS. SMITH. + + + Last year I trod these fields with Di, + And that's the simple reason why + They now seem arid: + Then Di was fair and single--how + Unfair it seems on me--for now + Di's fair, and married. + + In bliss we roved. I scorned the song + Which says that though young Love is strong + The Fates are stronger: + Then breezes blew a boon to men-- + Then buttercups were bright--and then + This grass was longer. + + That day I saw, and much esteemed + Di's ankles--which the clover seemed + Inclined to smother: + It twitched, and soon untied (for fun) + The ribbons of her shoes--first one, + And then the other. + + 'Tis said that virgins augur some + Misfortune if their shoestrings come + To grief on Friday: + And so did Di--and so her pride + Decreed that shoestrings so untied, + "Are so untidy!" + + Of course I knelt--with fingers deft + I tied the right, and then the left: + Says Di--"This stubble + Is very stupid--as I live + I'm shocked--I'm quite ashamed to give + You so much trouble." + + For answer I was fain to sink + To what most swains would say and think + Were Beauty present: + "Don't mention such a simple act-- + A trouble? not the least. In fact + It's rather pleasant." + + I trust that love will never tease + Poor little Di, or prove that he's + A graceless rover. + She's happy now as _Mrs. Smith_-- + But less polite when walking with + Her chosen lover. + + Heigh-ho! Although no moral clings + To Di's soft eyes, and sandal strings, + We've had our quarrels!-- + I think that Smith is thought an ass, + I know that when they walk in grass + She wears balmorals. + + + + +THE SKELETON IN THE CUPBOARD. + + + The characters of great and small + Come ready made, we can't bespeak one; + Their sides are many, too,--and all + (Except ourselves) have got a weak one. + Some sanguine people love for life-- + Some love their hobby till it flings them.-- + And many love a pretty wife + For love of the _eclat_ she brings them! + + We all have secrets--you have one + Which may not be your charming spouse's,-- + We all lock up a skeleton + In some grim chamber of our houses; + Familiars who exhaust their days + And nights in probing where our smart is, + And who, excepting spiteful ways, + Are quiet, confidential "parties." + + We hug the phantom we detest, + We rarely let it cross our portals: + It is a most exacting guest,-- + Now are we not afflicted mortals? + Your neighbour Gay, that joyous wight, + As Dives rich, and bold as Hector, + Poor Gay steals twenty times a-night, + On shaking knees, to see his spectre. + + Old Dives fears a pauper fate, + And hoarding is his thriving passion; + Some piteous souls anticipate + A waistcoat straiter than the fashion. + She, childless, pines,--that lonely wife, + And hidden tears are bitter shedding; + And he may tremble all his life, + And die,--but not of that he's dreading. + + Ah me, the World! how fast it spins! + The beldams shriek, the caldron bubbles; + They dance, and stir it for our sins, + And we must drain it for our troubles. + We toil, we groan,--the cry for love + Mounts upward from this seething city, + And yet I know we have above + A FATHER, infinite in pity. + + 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. + + + + +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. + + 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. + + 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 "Phoebe, the Nymph of the Well." + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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 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. + + 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. + + Wherever they win him, whoever his Phoebe, + 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. + + + + +ST. GEORGE'S, HANOVER SQUARE. + + Dans le bonheur de nos meilleurs amis nous trouvons souvent + quelque chose qui ne nous plait pris entierement. + + + 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. + + 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! + + + + +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! + + 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. + + Ah, sea boy, how strange is + The carol you sing! + Let Psyche, who ranges + The gardens of Spring, + Remember the changes + December will bring. + + MARCH, 1862. + + + + +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. + + 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. + + 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 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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." + + + + +BERANGER. + + + Cast adrift on this sphere + 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!" + + My lot, as I rove, + Is to sing for the throng;-- + And will not they love + The poor Child for his song? + + + + +THE BEAR PIT. + + AT THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS. + + + We liked the bear's serio-comical face, + As he lolled with a lazy, a lumbering grace; + Said Slyboots to me--(just as if _she_ had none), + "Papa, let's give Bruin a bit of your bun." + + Says I, "A plum bun might please wistful old Bruin, + For he can't eat the stone that the cruel boy threw in; + Stick _yours_ on the point of mama's parasol, + And then he will climb to the top of the pole. + + "Some bears have got two legs, some bears have got more,-- + Be good to old bears if they've no legs or four: + Of duty to age you should never be careless, + My dear, I am bald--and I soon shall be hairless! + + "The gravest aversion exists amongst bears + For rude forward persons who give themselves airs, + We know how some graceless young people were mauled + For plaguing a prophet, and calling him bald. + + "Strange ursine devotion! Their dancing-days ended, + Bears die to 'remove' what, in life, they defended: + They succoured the Prophet, and since that affair + The bald have a painful regard for the bear." + + My Moral--Small People may read it, and run, + (The child has my moral, the bear has my bun),-- + Forbear to give pain, if it's only in jest, + And care to think pleasure a phantom at best. + A paradox too--none can hope to attach it, + Yet if you pursue it you'll certainly catch it. + + + + +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. + + 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 wistful 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! + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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 _tete-a-tete_ + Might jeopardize a giddy pate; + As grief is not akin to guilt, + 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." + + 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." + + + + +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. + + + OLD MAN. + + 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! + + + + +VAE VICTIS. + + + "My Kate, at the Waterloo Column, + 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. + + Arrived, woman's constancy blessing, + 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! + + (Yes, Fortune deserves to be chidden, + 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. + + 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. + + 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! + + + + +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? + + 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! + + 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. + + 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. + + + + +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. + + 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. + + 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? + + 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! + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + + + +THE LEGENDE OF SIR GYLES GYLES. + + Notissimum illud Phaedri, _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. + + 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, knaves and wenches, stay your din, + 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. + + Small care they share, that blissfulle pair; + 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. + + 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! + + 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. + + Now Ladye Gyles is sorelie tryd, + 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. + + And now the knyghte, as seemeth beste, + Is layd in hallowed mould; + All in the mynstere crypt, where rest + His gallant sires and old. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + And gay agen are maids and men, + 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. + + 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_. + + 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. + + "'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. + + 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. + + "Last spring, repairing some defect, + We raised the carven stones, + Designing to again collect + And hide Sir Giles's bones. + + "We delved down, and up, and round, + For many weary morns, + Through all this ground; but only found + An ancient pair of horns." + + + + +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. + + "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). + + "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!" + + A spouse thus was airing his fancies + Below--'twas a labour of love,-- + And calmly reflecting on Nancy's + More practical labour above; + + 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; + + Sweet thoughts, in their essence diviner + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + + + +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. + + 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. + + '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? + + 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. + + 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. + + * * * * * + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + + + +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? + + 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. + + + + +CIRCUMSTANCE. + + THE ORANGE. + + + It ripened by the river banks, + Where, mask and moonlight aiding, + Dons Blas' and Juans play sad pranks, + Dark Donnas serenading. + + By Moorish maiden it was plucked, + Who broke some hearts they say then: + By Saxon sweetheart it was sucked, + --Who flung the peel away then. + + How should she know in Pimlico + Or t'other girl in Seville, + That _I_ should reel upon that peel, + And wish them at the Devil! + + + + +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: + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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! + + 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! + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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; + + 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?" + + 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! + + 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. + + 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. + + + + +THE CROSSING-SWEEPER. + + AZLA AND EMMA. + + + _A crossing-sweeper, black and tan, + Tells how he came from Hindustan, + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + 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; + + 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. + + 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! + + Your town is vile. In Thames's stream + The crocodiles get up the steam! + Your juggernauts their victims bump + From Camberwell to Aldgate pump! + + A year ago, come Candlemas, + 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: + + _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. + + 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_! + + + + +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! + + 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. + + 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! + + + + +MR. PLACID'S FLIRTATION. + + "Jemima was cross, and I lost my umbrella + That day at the tomb of Cecilia Metella." + + _Letters from Rome._ + + + Miss Tristram's _poulet_ ended thus: "Nota bene, + We meet for croquet in the Aldobrandini." + Says my wife, "Then I'll drive, and you'll ride with Selina," + (The fair spouse of Jones, of the Via Sistina). + + We started--I'll own that my family deem + That I'm soft--but I'm not quite so soft as I seem; + As we crossed the stones gently the nursemaids said "La! + There goes Mrs. Jones with Miss Placid's papa." + + Our friends, some of whom may be mentioned anon, + Had made _rendezvous_ at the Gate of St. John: + That passed, off we spun over turf that's not green there, + And soon were all met at the villa--you've been there? + + I will try and describe, or I won't, if you please, + The cheer that was set for us under the trees: + You have read the _menu_, may you read it again, + Champagne, perigord, galantine, and--champagne. + + Suffice it to say that, by chance, I was thrust + 'Twixt Selina and Brown--to the latter's disgust. + Poor Brown, who believes in himself--and, another thing, + Whose talk is so bald, but whose cheeks are so--t'other thing. + + She sang, her sweet voice filled the gay garden alleys; + I jested, but Brown would not smile at my sallies; + And Selina remarked that a swell met at Rome, + Is not always a swell when one meets him at home. + + The luncheon despatched, we adjourned to croquet, + A dainty, but difficult sport, in its way. + Thus I counsel the Sage, who to play at it stoops,-- + _Belabour thy neighbour, and spoon through thy hoops_. + + Then we strolled, and discourse found its softest of tones: + "How charming were solitude and--Mrs. Jones." + "Indeed, Mr. Placid, I doat on these sheeny + And shadowy paths of the Aldobrandini." + + A girl came with violet posies--and two + Soft eyes, like her violets, laden with dew; + And a kind of an indolent, fine-lady air, + As if she by accident found herself there. + + I bought one. Selina was pleased to accept it; + She gave me a rose-bud to keep--and I've kept it. + Thus the moments flew by, and I think, in my heart, + When one vowed one must go, two were loth to depart. + + The twilight is near, we no longer can stay; + The steeds are remounted, and wheels roll away. + The ladies _condemn_ Mrs. Jones, as the phrase is, + But vie with each other in chanting my praises. + + "He has so much to say," cries the fair Mrs. Legge; + "How amusing he was about missing the peg!" + "What a beautiful smile!" says the plainest Miss Gunn. + All echo, "He's charming! Delightful! What fun!" + + This sounds rather nice, and it's perfectly clear it + Would have sounded more nice if I'd happened to hear it; + The men were less civil, and gave me a rub, + So I happened to hear when I went to the Club. + + Says Brown, "I shall drop Mr. Placid's society;" + But Brown is a prig of improper propriety. + "Confound him," says Smith (who from cant's not exempt), + "Why, he'll bring immorality into contempt." + + Says I (to myself), when I found me alone, + "My wife has my heart, is it wholly her own?" + And further, says I (to myself), "I'll be shot + If I know if Selina adores me or not." + + Says Jones, "I've just come from the _scavi_, at Veii, + And I've bought some remarkably fine scarabaei." + + + + +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!" + + "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 butcher's 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 + + 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." + + '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. + + 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! + + 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! + + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + + + +BEGGARS. + + + I am pacing Pall Mall in a wrapt reverie,-- + I am thinking if Sophy is thinking of me,-- + When up creeps a ragged and shivering wretch, + Who seems to be well on his way to Jack Ketch. + + He has got a bad face, and a shocking bad hat, + A comb in his fist, and he sees I'm a flat; + For he says, "Buy a comb, it's a fine un to wear; + Just try it, my Lord, through your whiskers and 'air." + + He eyes my gold chain, as if anxious to crib it; + He looks just as if he'd been blown from a gibbet. + I pause ... and pass on--and beside the club fire + I settle that Sophy is all I desire. + + As I walk from the club, and am deep in a strophe, + Which rolls upon all that's delicious in Sophy, + I half tumble over an "object" unnerving-- + So frightful a hag must be "highly deserving." + + She begs--my heart's moved--but I've much circumspection; + I stifle remorse with the soothing reflection + That cases of vice are by no means a rarity-- + The worst vice of all's indiscriminate charity. + + Am I right? How I wish that our clerical guides + Would settle this question--and others besides! + For always to harden one's fiddlestrings thus, + If it's wholesome for beggars, is hurtful for us. + + A few minutes later--how pleasant for me!-- + I am seated by Sophy at five-o'clock tea: + Her table is loaded, for when a girl marries, + What cartloads of rubbish they send her from _Barry's_! + + "There's a present for you!" Yes, my sweet Sophy's thrift + Has enabled the darling to buy me a gift. + And she slips in my hand--the delightfully sly Thing-- + A paper-weight formed of a bronze lizard writhing. + + "What a charming _cadeau_! and," says I, "so well made; + But are you aware, you extravagant jade, + That in casting this metal a live, harmless lizard + Was cruelly tortured in ghost and in gizzard?" + + "Pooh, pooh," says my lady (I ought to defend her, + Her head is too giddy, her heart's much too tender), + "Hopgarten protests they've no feeling--and so + It was nothing but muscular movement, you know." + + Thinks I--when I've said _au revoir_, and depart-- + (A Comb in my pocket, a Weight at my heart),-- + And when wretched mendicants writhe, we've a notion + That begging is only a muscular motion. + + + +The Angora Cat + + + Good pastry is vended + In Cite 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. + + Long hair--soft as satin,-- + 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! + + "What whiskers! She's purring + 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. + + Yet Pons was persuaded + To part with the prize! + (Our bargain was aided, + My Lou, by your eyes!) + + From his _legitime_ save him-- + 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! + + + + +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! + + If pathos should thy bosom stir + 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. + + 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. + + At Shandy Hall I like to stop + 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. + + And here again they visit us + 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.... + + A Temple quaint of latest growth + 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. + + Mine uncle's bluff--his waistcoat's buff,-- + 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. + + O name not easily forgot! + Our love, dear Shade, we show thee, + Regretting thy misdeeds, but not + Forgetting what we owe thee. + + + + +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. + + 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. + + 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. + + + + +LITTLE PITCHER. + + (A BIRTHDAY ODE.) + + + The Muses, those painstaking Mentors of mine, + Observe that to-day Little Pitcher is nine! + 'Tis her _fete_--so, although retrospection is pleasant, + While we muse on her Past, we must think of her Present. + + 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! + + 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. + + 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. + + Here they are! They are formed of the two scarabaei + 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. + + 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. + + 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. + + + + +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." + + 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. + + Though so loving, such another + Artless bride was never seen, + Coachee thinks that she's his mother + --Till they get to Gretna Green. + + There they stand, by him attended, + 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. + + So they go with fond emotion, + 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. + + What is there to so astound them? + She cries "Oh!" for he cries "Hah!" + When five brats emerge, confound them! + Shouting out, "Mama!--PAPA!" + + 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!" + + * * * * * + + Here he pines, and grows dyspeptic, + 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. + + One day, knocking up his quarters, + Poor Miss Bailey found him dead, + Hanging in his knotted garters, + Which she knitted ere they wed. + + + + +ADVICE TO A POET. + + + Dear Poet, never rhyme at all!-- + But if you must, don't tell your neighbours; + Or five in six, who cannot scrawl, + Will dub you donkey for your labours. + This epithet may seem unjust + To you--or any verse-begetter: + Oh, must we own--I fear we must!-- + That nine in ten deserve no better. + + Then let them bray with leathern lungs, + And match you with the beast that grazes,-- + Or wag their heads, and hold their tongues, + Or damn you with the faintest praises. + Be patient--you will get your due + Of honours, or humiliations: + So look for sympathy--but do + Not look to find it from relations. + + When strangers first approved my books + My kindred marvelled what the praise meant, + They now wear more respectful looks, + But can't get over their amazement. + Indeed, they've power to wound, beyond + That wielded by the fiercest hater, + For all the time they are so fond-- + Which makes the aggravation greater. + + Most warblers now but half express + The threadbare thoughts they feebly utter: + If they attempted nought--or less! + They would not sink, and gasp, and flutter. + Fly low, my friend, then mount, and win + The niche, for which the town's contesting; + And never mind your kith and kin-- + But never give them cause for jesting. + + A bard on entering the lists + Should form his plan, and, having conn'd it, + Should know wherein his strength consists, + And never, never go beyond it. + Great Dryden all pretence discards, + Does Cowper ever strain his tether? + And Praed--(Watteau of English Bards)-- + How well he keeps his team together! + + Hold Pegasus in hand--control + A vein for ornament ensnaring, + Simplicity is still the soul + Of all that Time deems worth the sparing. + Long lays are not a lively sport, + Reduce your own to half a quarter, + Unless your Public thinks them short, + Posterity will cut them shorter. + + I look on Bards who whine for praise, + With feelings of profoundest pity: + They hunger for the Poets' bays + And swear one's spiteful when one's witty. + The critic's lot is passing hard-- + Between ourselves, I think reviewers, + When called to truss a crowing bard, + Should not be sparing of the skewers. + + We all--the foolish and the wise-- + Regard our verse with fascination, + Through asinine paternal eyes, + And hues of Fancy's own creation; + Then pray, Sir, pray, excuse a queer + And sadly self-deluded rhymer, + Who thinks his beer (the smallest beer!) + Has all the gust of _alt hochheimer_. + + Dear Bard, the Muse is such a minx, + So tricksy, it were wrong to let her + Rest satisfied with what she thinks + Is perfect: try and teach her better. + And if you only use, perchance, + One half the pains to learn that we, Sir, + Still use to hide our ignorance-- + How very clever you will be, Sir! + + + + +NOTES. + + +NOTE TO "A HUMAN SKULL." + +"In our last month's Magazine you may remember there were some verses +about a portion of a skeleton. Did you remark how the poet and present +proprietor of the human skull at once settled the sex of it, and +determined off-hand that it must have belonged to a woman? Such skulls +are locked up in many gentlemen's hearts and memories. Bluebeard, you +know, had a whole museum of them--as that imprudent little last wife +of his found out to her cost. And, on the other hand, a lady, we +suppose, would select hers of the sort which had carried beards when +in the flesh."--_The Adventures of Philip on his Way through the +World. Cornhill Magazine, January, 1861._ + + +NOTE TO "AN INVITATION TO ROME." + +"He never sends a letter to her, but he begins a new one on the same +day. He can't bear to let go her kind little hand as it were. He knows +that she is thinking of him, and longing for him far away in Dublin +yonder."--_English Humourists of the Eighteenth Century._ + + +NOTE TO "TO MY MISTRESS." + +"M. Deschanel quotes the following charming little poem, by Corneille, +addressed to a young lady who had not been quite civil to him. He says +with truth--'Le sujet est leger, le rhythme court, mais on y retrouve +la fierte de l'homme, et aussi l'ampleur du tragique.' The verses are +probably new to our readers. They are well worth reading:-- + + Marquise, si mon visage + A quelques traits un peu vieux, + Souvenez-vous, qu'a mon age + Vous ne vaudrez guere mieux. + + Le temps aux plus belles choses + Se plait a faire un affront, + Et saura faner vos roses + Comme il a ride mon front. + + Le meme cours des planetes + Regle nos jours et nos nuits; + On m'a vu ce que vous etes, + Vous serez ce que je suis. + + Cependant j'ai quelques charmes + Qui sont assez eclatants + Pour n'avoir pas trop d'alarmes + De ces ravages du temps. + + Vous en avez qu'on adore, + Mais ceux que vous meprisez + Pourraient bien durer encore + Quand ceux-la seront uses. + + Ils pourront sauver la gloire + Des yeux qui me semblent doux, + Et dans mille ans faire croire + Ce qu'il me plaira de vous. + + Chez cette race nouvelle + Ou j'aurai quelque credit, + Vous ne passerez pour belle + Qu'autant que je l'aurai dit. + + Pensez-y, belle Marquise, + Quoiqu'un grison fasse effroi, + Il vaut qu'on le courtise + Quand il est fait comme moi. + +The last four stanzas in particular are brimful of spirit, and the +mixture of pride and vanity which they display is so remarkable that +it seems impossible that it should have ever occurred in more than one +person."--_Saturday Review, July 23rd, 1864._ + + +NOTE TO "THE ROSE AND THE RING." + +Mr. Thackeray spent a portion of the winter of 1854 in Rome, and while +there he wrote his little Christmas story called "The Rose and the +Ring." He was a great friend of the distinguished American sculptor, +Mr. Story, and was a frequent visitor at his house. I have heard Mr. +Story speak with emotion of the kindness of Mr. Thackeray to his +little daughter, then recovering from a severe illness, and he told me +that Mr. Thackeray used to come nearly every day to read to Miss +Story, often bringing portions of his manuscript with him. + +Five or six years afterwards Miss Story showed me a very pretty copy +of "The Rose and the Ring," which Mr. Thackeray had sent her, with a +facetious sketch of himself in the act of presenting her with the +work. + + +NOTE TO "BERANGER." + + Jete sur cette boule, + Laid, chetif, et souffrant; + Etouffe dans la foule, + Faute d'etre assez grand; + + Une plainte touchante + De ma bouche sortit; + Le bon Dieu me dit: Chante, + Chante, pauvre petit! + + Chanter, ou je m'abuse, + Est ma tache ici-bas. + Tous ceux qu'ainsi j'amuse, + Ne m'aimeront-ils pas? + + +NOTE TO "GLYCERE." + + _Un Vieillard._ Jeune fille au riant visage, + Que cherches-tu sous cet ombrage? + _La Jeune Fille._ Des fleurs pour orner mes cheveux. + Je me rends au prochain village. + Avec le printemps et ses feux, + Bergeres, bergers amoureux + Vont danser sur l'herbe nouvelle. + Deja le sistre les appelle: + Glycere est sans doute avec eux. + De ces hameaux c'est la plus belle; + Je veux l'effacer a leurs yeux: + Voyez ces fleurs, c'est un presage. + + _Le Vieillard._ Sais-tu quel est ce lieu sauvage? + + _La Jeune Fille._ Non, et tout m'y semble nouveau. + + _Le Vieillard._ La repose, jeune etrangere, + La plus belle de ce hameau. + Ces fleurs pour effacer Glycere + Tu les cueilles sur son tombeau! + + BERANGER. + + + BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Selection from the Works of +Frederick Locker, by Frederick Locker + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WORKS OF FREDERICK LOCKER *** + +***** This file should be named 38463.txt or 38463.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/8/4/6/38463/ + +Produced by Chris Curnow, Matthew Wheaton and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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