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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/8187-8.txt b/8187-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fce4d39 --- /dev/null +++ b/8187-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,64506 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore +by Thomas Moore et al + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore + +Author: Thomas Moore et al + +Release Date: May, 2005 [EBook #8187] +[This file was first posted on June 28, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE COMPLETE POEMS OF SIR THOMAS MOORE *** + + + + +E-text produced by Charles Aldarondo, Tiffany Vergon, Robert Connal, and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + + +THE COMPLETE POEMS OF SIR THOMAS MOORE + +COLLECTED BY HIMSELF + +WITH EXPLANATORY NOTES + + + + +WITH A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH + +BY WILLIAM M. ROSSETTI + + + + + + + +THOMAS MOORE + + +Thomas Moore was born in Dublin on the 28th of May 1780. Both his parents +were Roman-Catholics; and he was, as a matter of course, brought up in the +same religion, and adhered to it--not perhaps with any extreme +zeal--throughout his life. His father was a decent tradesman, a grocer and +spirit-retailer--or "spirit-grocer," as the business is termed in Ireland. +Thomas received his schooling from Mr. Samuel Whyte, who had been +Sheridan's first preceptor, a man of more than average literary culture. +He encouraged a taste for acting among the boys: and Moore, naturally +intelligent and lively, became a favorite with his master, and a leader in +the dramatic recreations. + +His aptitude for verse appeared at an early age. In 1790 he composed an +epilogue to a piece acted at the house of Lady Borrows, in Dublin; and in +his fourteenth year he wrote a sonnet to Mr. Whyte, which was published in +a Dublin magazine. + +Like other Irish Roman-Catholics, galled by the hard and stiff collar of +Protestant ascendancy, the parents of Thomas Moore hailed the French +Revolution, and the prospects which it seemed to offer of some reflex +ameliorations. In 1792 the lad was taken by his father to a dinner in +honor of the Revolution; and he was soon launched upon a current of ideas +and associations which might have conducted a person of more +self-oblivious patriotism to the scaffold on which perished the friend of +his opening manhood, Robert Emmet. Trinity College, Dublin, having been +opened to Catholics by the Irish Parliament in 1793, Moore was entered +there as a student in the succeeding year. He became more proficient in +French and Italian than in the classic languages, and showed no turn for +Latin verses. Eventually, his political proclivities, and intimacy with +many of the chiefs of opposition, drew down upon him (after various +interrogations, in which he honorably refused to implicate his friends) a +severe admonition from the University authorities; but he had not joined +in any distinctly rebellious act and no more formidable results ensued to +him. + +In 1793 Moore published in the _Anthologia Hibernica_ two pieces of verse; +and his budding talents became so far known as to earn him the proud +eminence of Laureate to the Gastronomic Club of Dalkey, near Dublin, in +1794. Through his acquaintance with Emmet, he joined the Oratorical +Society, and afterwards the more important Historical Society; and he +published _An Ode on Nothing, with Notes, by Trismegistus Rustifucius, D. +D._, which won a party success. About the same time he wrote articles for +_The Press_, a paper founded towards the end of 1797 by O'Connor, Addis, +Emmet, and others. He graduated at Trinity College in November, 1799. + +The bar was the career which his parents, and especially his mother, +wished Thomas to pursue; neither of them had much faith in poetry or +literature as a resource for his subsistence. Accordingly, in 1799, he +crossed over into England, and studied in the Middle Temple; and he was +afterwards called to the bar, but literary pursuits withheld him from +practicing. He had brought with him from Ireland his translations from +Anacreon; and published these by subscription in 1800, dedicated to the +Prince Regent (then the illusory hope of political reformers), with no +inconsiderable success. Lord Moira, Lady Donegal, and other leaders of +fashionable society, took him up with friendly warmth, and he soon found +himself a well-accepted guest in the highest circles in London. No clever +young fellow--without any advantage of birth or of person, and with +intellectual attractions which seem to posterity to be of a rather +middling kind--ever won his way more easily or more cheaply into that +paradise of mean ambitions, the _beau monde_. Moore has not escaped +the stigma which attaches to almost all men who thus succeeded under the +like conditions--that of tuft-hunting and lowering compliances. He would +be a bold man who should affirm that there was absolutely no sort of +ground for the charge; or that Moore--fêted at Holland House, and +hovered-round by the fashionable of both sexes, the men picking up his +witticisms, and the women languishing over his songs--was capable of the +same sturdy self-reliance and simple adhesion to principle which might +possibly have been in him, and forthcoming from him, under different +conditions. Who shall touch pitch and not be defiled,--who treacle, and +not be sweetened? At the same time, it is easy to carry charges of this +kind too far, and not always through motives the purest and most exalted. +It may be said without unfairness on either side that the sort of talents +which Moore possessed brought him naturally into the society which he +frequented; that very possibly the world has got quite as much out of him +by that development of his faculties as by any other which they could have +been likely to receive; and that he repaid patronage in the coin of +amusement and of bland lenitives, rather than in that of obsequious +adulation. For we are not required nor permitted to suppose that there was +the stuff of a hero in "little Tom Moore;" or that the lapdog of the +drawing-room would under any circumstances have been the wolf-hound of the +public sheepfold. In the drawing-room he is a sleeker lapdog, and lies +upon more and choicelier-clothed laps than he would in "the two-pair +back;" and that is about all that needs to be said or speculated in such a +case. As a matter of fact, the demeanor of Moore among the socially great +seems to have been that of a man who respected his company, without +failing to respect himself also--any ill-natured caviling or ready-made +imputations to the contrary notwithstanding. + +In 1802 Moore produced his first volume of original verse, the _Poetical +Works of the late Thomas Little_ (an allusion to the author's remarkably +small stature), for which he received £60. There are in this volume some +erotic improprieties, not of a very serious kind either in intention or in +harmfulness, which Moore regretted in later years. Next year Lord Moira +procured him the post of Registrar to the Admiralty Court of Bermuda; he +embarked on the 25th of September, and reached his destination in January +1804. This work did not suit him much better than the business of the bar; +in March he withdrew from personal discharge of the duties: and, leaving a +substitute in his place, he made a tour in the United States and Canada. +He was presented to Jefferson, and felt impressed by his republican +simplicity. Such a quality, however, was not in Moore's line; and nothing +perhaps shows the essential smallness of his nature more clearly than the +fact that his visit to the United States, in their giant infancy, produced +in him no glow of admiration or aspiration, but only a recrudescence of +the commonest prejudices--the itch for picking little holes, the petty joy +of reporting them, and the puny self-pluming upon fancied or factitious +superiorities. If the washy liberal patriotism of Moore's very early years +had any vitality at all, such as would have qualified it for a harder +struggle than jeering at the Holy Alliance, and singing after-dinner songs +of national sentimentalism to the applause of Whig lords and ladies, this +American experience may beheld to have been its death-blow. He now saw +republicans face to face; and found that they were not for him, nor he for +them. He returned to England in 1806; and soon afterwards published his +_Odes and Epistles_, comprising many remarks, faithfully expressive of his +perceptions, on American society and manners. + +The volume was tartly criticised in the _Edinburgh Review_ by Jeffrey, who +made some rather severe comments upon the improprieties chargeable to +Moore's early writings. The consequence was a challenge, and what would +have been a duel at Chalk Farm, but for unloaded pistols and police +interference. This _fiasco_ soon led to an amicable understanding between +Moore and Jeffrey; and a few years later, about the end of 1811, to a +friendship of closer intimacy between the Irish songster and his great +poetic contemporary Lord Byron. His lordship, in his youthful satire of +_English Bards and Scotch Reviewers_, had made fun of the unbloody duel. +This Moore resented, not so much as a mere matter of ridicule as because +it involved an ignoring or a denial of a counter-statement of the matter +put into print by himself. He accordingly wrote a letter to Byron on the +1st of January 1810, calculated to lead to further hostilities. But, as +the noble poet had then already for some months left England for his +prolonged tour on the Continent, the missive did not reach him; and a +little epistolary skirmishing, after his return in the following year, +terminated in a hearty reconciliation, and a very intimate cordiality, +almost deserving of the lofty name of friendship, on both sides. + +Re-settled in London, and re-quartered upon the pleasant places of +fashion, Moore was once more a favorite at Holland House, Lansdowne House, +and Donington House, the residence of Lord Moira. His lordship obtained a +comfortable post to soothe the declining years of Moore's father, and held +out to the poet himself the prospect--which was not however realized--of +another snug berth for his own occupancy. The United Kingdom of Great +Britain and Ireland never received the benefit of the Irish patriot's +services in any public capacity at home--only through the hands of a +defaulting deputy in Bermuda: it did, however, at length give him the +money without the official money's-worth, for in 1835, under Lord +Melbourne's ministry, an annual literary pension of £300 was bestowed upon +the then elderly poet. Nor can it be said that Moore's worth to his party, +whether we regard him as political sharpshooter or as national lyrist, +deserved a less recognition from the Whigs: he had at one time, with +creditable independence, refused to be indebted to the Tories for an +appointment. Some obloquy has at times been cast upon him on account of +his sarcasms against the Prince Regent, which, however well merited on +public grounds, have been held to come with an ill grace from the man +whose first literary effort, the _Anacreon_, had been published under the +auspices of his Royal Highness as dedicatee, no doubt a practical +obligation of some moment to the writer. It does not appear, however, that +the obligation went much beyond this simple acceptance of the dedication: +Moore himself declared that the Regent's further civilities had consisted +simply in asking him twice to dinner, and admitting him, in 1811, to a +fête in honor of the regency. + +The life of Moore for several years ensuing is one of literary success and +social brilliancy, varied by his marrying in 1811, Miss Bessy Dyke, a lady +who made an excellent and devoted wife, and to whom he was very +affectionately attached, although the attractions and amenities of the +fashionable world caused from time to time considerable inroads upon his +domesticity. After a while, he removed from London, with his wife and +young family, to Mayfield Cottage, near Ashbourne, Derbyshire--a somewhat +lonely site. His _Irish Melodies_, the work by which he will continue best +known, had their origin in 1797, when his attention was drawn to a +publication named _Bunting's Irish Melodies_, for which he occasionally +wrote the words. In 1807 he entered into a definite agreement with Mr. +Power on this subject, in combination with Sir J. Stevenson, who undertook +to compose the accompaniments. The work was prolonged up to the year 1834; +and contributed very materially to Moore's comfort in money matters and +his general prominence--as his own singing of the Melodies in good society +kept up his sentimental and patriotic prestige, and his personal +lionizing, in a remarkable degree. He played on the piano, and sang with +taste, though in a style resembling recitative, and not with any great +power of voice: in speaking, his voice had a certain tendency to +hoarseness, but its quality became flute-like in singing. In 1811 he made +another essay in the musical province; writing, at the request of the +manager of the Lyceum Theatre, an operetta named _M.P., or the +Bluestocking_. It was the reverse of a stage-success; and Moore, in +collecting his poems, excluded this work, save as regards some of the +songs comprised in it. In 1808 had appeared anonymously, the poems of +_Intolerance and Corruption_, followed in 1809 by _The Sceptic_. +_Intercepted Letters, or The Twopenny Postbag, by Thomas Brown the +Younger_, came out in 1812: it was a huge success, and very intelligibly +such, going through fourteen editions in one year. In the same year the +project of writing an oriental poem--a class of work greatly in vogue now +that Byron was inventing Giaours and Corsairs--was seriously entertained +by Moore. This project took shape in _Lalla Rookh_, written chiefly at +Mayfield Cottage--a performance for which Mr. Longman the publisher paid +the extremely large sum of £3150 in advance: its publication hung over +till 1817. The poem has been translated into all sorts of languages, +including Persian, and is said to have found many admirers among its +oriental readers. Whatever may be thought of its poetic merits--and I for +one disclaim any scintilla of enthusiasm--or of its power in vitalizing +the _disjecta membra_ of orientalism, the stock-in-trade of the Asiatic +curiosity-shop, there is no doubt that Moore worked very conscientiously +upon this undertaking: he read up to any extent,--wrote, talked, and +perhaps thought, Islamically--and he trips up his reader with some +allusion verse after verse, tumbling him to the bottom of the page, with +its quagmire of explanatory footnotes. In 1815 appeared the _National +Airs_; in 1816, _Sacred Songs, Duets, and Trios_, the music composed and +selected by Stevenson and Moore; in 1818, _The Fudge Family in Paris_, +again a great hit. This work was composed in Paris, which capital Moore +had been visiting in company with his friend Samuel Rogers the poet. + +The easily earned money and easily discharged duties of the appointment in +Bermuda began now to weigh heavy on Moore. Defalcations of his deputy, to +the extent of £6000, were discovered, for which the nominal holder of the +post was liable. Moore declined offers of assistance; and, pending a legal +decision on the matter, he had found it apposite to revisit the Continent. +In France, Lord John (the late Earl) Russell was his travelling companion: +they went on together through Switzerland, and parted at Milan. Moore +then, on the 8th of October 1819, joined in Venice his friend Byron, who +had been absent from England since 1816. The poets met in the best of +humor, and on terms of hearty good-fellowship--Moore staying with Byron +for five or six days. On taking leave of him, Byron presented the Irish +lyrist with the MS. of his autobiographical memoirs stipulating that they +should not be published till after the donor's death: at a later date he +became anxious that they should remain wholly unpublished. Moore sold the +MS. in 1831 to Murray for £2100, after some negotiations with Longman, and +consigned it to the publisher's hands. In 1824 the news arrived of Byron's +death. Mr. (afterwards Sir Wilmot) Horton on the part of Lady Byron, Mr. +Luttrell on that of Moore, Colonel Doyle on that of Mrs. Leigh, Lord +Byron's half-sister, and Mr. Hobhouse (afterwards Lord Broughton) as a +friend and executor of the deceased poet, consulted on the subject. +Hobhouse was strong in urging the suppression of the Memoirs. The result +was that Murray, setting aside considerations of profit, burned the MS. +(some principal portions of which nevertheless exist in print, in other +forms of publication); and Moore immediately afterwards, also in a +disinterested spirit, repaid him the purchase-money of £2100. It was quite +fair that Moore should be reimbursed this large sum by some of the persons +in whose behoof he had made the sacrifice, this was not neglected. + +To resume. Bidding adieu to Byron at Venice, Moore went on to Rome with +the sculptor Chantrey and the portrait-painter Jackson. His tour supplied +the materials for the _Rhymes on the Road_, published, as being extracted +from the journal of a travelling member of the Pococurante Society, in +1820, along with the _Fables for the Holy Alliance_. Lawrence, Turner, and +Eastlake, were also much with Moore in Rome: and here he made acquaintance +with Canova. Hence he returned to Paris, and made that city his home up to +1822, expecting the outcome of the Bermuda affair. He also resided partly +at Butte Goaslin, near Sèvres, with a rich and hospitable Spanish family +named Villamil. The debt of £6000 was eventually reduced to £750: both the +Marquis of Lansdowne and Lord John Russell pressed Moore with their +friendly offers, and the advance which he at last accepted was soon repaid +out of the profits of the _Loves of the Angels_--which poem, chiefly +written in Paris, was published in 1823. The prose tale of _The Epicurean_ +was composed about the same time, but did not issue from the press till +1827: the _Memoirs of Captain Rock_ in 1824. He had been under an +engagement to a bookseller to write a _Life of Sheridan_. During his stay +in France the want of documents withheld him from proceeding with this +work: but he ultimately took it up, and brought it out in 1825. It was not +availed to give Moore any reputation as a biographer, though the reader in +search of amusement will pick out of it something to suit him. George the +Fourth is credited with having made a neat _bon mot_ upon this book. Some +one having remarked to him that "Moore had been murdering Sheridan,"-- +"No," replied his sacred majesty, "but he has certainly attempted his +life." A later biographical performance, published in 1830, and one of +more enduring interest to posterity, was the _Life of Byron_. This is a +very fascinating book; but more--which is indeed a matter of course--in +virtue of the lavish amount of Byron's own writing which it embodies than, +on account of the Memoir-compiler's doings. However, there is a +considerable share of good feeling in the book, as well as matter of +permanent value from the personal knowledge that Moore had of Byron; and +the avoidance of "posing" and of dealing with the subject for purposes of +effect, in the case of a man whose career and genius lent themselves so +insidiously to such a treatment, is highly creditable to the biographer's +good sense and taste. The _Life of Byron_ succeeded, in the list of +Moore's writings, a _History of Ireland_, contributed in 1827 to +_Lardner's Cyclopaedia_, and the _Travels of an Irishman in Search of a +Religion_, published in the same year: and was followed by a _Life of Lord +Edward Fitzgerald_, issued in 1881. This, supplemented by some minor +productions, closes the sufficiently long list of writings of an +industrious literary life. + +In his latter years Moore resided at Sloperton Cottage, near Devizes in +Wiltshire, Where he was near the refined social circle of Lord Lansdowne +at Bowood, as well as the lettered home of the Rev. Mr. Bowles at +Bremhill. Domestic sorrows clouded his otherwise cheerful and comfortable +retirement. One of his sons died in the French military service in +Algeria; another of consumption in 1842. For some years before his own +death, which occurred on the 25th of February 1853, his mental powers had +collapsed. He sleeps in Bromham Cemetery, in the neighborhood of +Sloperton. + +Moore had a very fair share of learning, as well as steady application, +greatly as he sacrificed to the graces of life, and especially of "good +society." His face was not perhaps much more impressive in its contour +than his diminutive figure. His eyes, however, were dark and fine; his +forehead bony, and with what a phrenologist would recognize as large bumps +of wit; the mouth pleasingly dimpled. His manner and talk were bright, +abounding rather in lively anecdote and point than in wit and humor, +strictly so called. To term him amiable according to any standard, and +estimable too as men of an unheroic fibre go, is no more than his due. + +No doubt the world has already seen the most brilliant days of Moore's +poetry. Its fascinations are manifestly of the more temporary sort: partly +through fleetingness of subject-matter and evanescence of allusion (as in +the clever and still readable satirical poems); partly through the aroma +of sentimental patriotism, hardly strong enough in stamina to make the +compositions national, or to maintain their high level of popularity after +the lyrist himself has long been at rest; partly through the essentially +commonplace sources and forms of inspiration which belong to his more +elaborate and ambitious works. No poetical reader of the present day is +the poorer for knowing absolutely nothing of _Lalla Rookh_ or the _Loves +of the Angels_. What then will be the hold or the claim of these writings +upon a reader of the twenty-first century? If we expect the satirical +compositions, choice in a different way, the best things of Moore are to +be sought in the _Irish Melodies_, to which a considerable share of merit, +and of apposite merit, is not to be denied: yet even here what deserts +around the oases, and the oases themselves how soon exhaustible and +forgettable! There are but few thoroughly beautiful and touching lines in +the whole of Moore's poetry. Here is one-- + + "Come rest in this bosom, mine own stricken deer." + +A great deal has been said upon the overpowering "lusciousness" of his +poetry, and the magical "melody" of his verse: most of this is futile. +There is in the former as much of _fadeur_ as of lusciousness; and a +certain tripping or trotting exactitude, not less fully reducible to the +test of scansion than of a well-attuned ear, is but a rudimentary form of +melody--while of harmony or rhythmic volume of sound Moore is as +decisively destitute as any correct versifier can well be. No clearer +proof of the incapacity of the mass of critics and readers to appreciate +the calibre of poetical work in point of musical and general execution +could be given than the fact that Moore has always with them passed, and +still passes, for an eminently melodious poet. What then remains? Chiefly +this. In one class of writing, liveliness of witty banter, along with +neatness; and, in the other and ostensibly more permanent class, elegance, +also along with neatness. Reduce these qualities to one denomination, and +we come to something that may be called "Propriety": a sufficiently +disastrous "raw material" for the purposes of a poet, and by no means +loftily to be praised or admired even when regarded as the outer +investiture of a nobler poetic something within. But let desert of every +kind have its place, and welcome. In the cosmical diapason and august +orchestra of poetry, Tom Moore's little Pan's-pipe can at odd moments be +heard, and interjects an appreciable and rightly-combined twiddle or two. +To be gratified with these at the instant is no more than the instrument +justifies, and the executant claims: to think much about them when the +organ is pealing or the violin plaining (with a Shelley performing on the +first, or a Mrs. Browning on the second), or to be on the watch for their +recurrences, would be equally superfluous and weak-minded. + + + + + + +CONTENTS + +Advertisement. +After the Battle. +Alarming Intelligence. +Alciphron: a Fragment. +Letter I. From Alciphron at Alexandria to Cleon at Athens. + II. From the Same to the Same. + III. From the Same to the Same. + IV. From Orcus, High Priest of Memphis, to Decius, the Praetorian + Prefect. +All in the Family Way. +All that's Bright must Fade. +Almighty God. +Alone in Crowds to wander on. +Amatory Colloquy between Bank and Government. +Anacreon, Odes of. + I. I saw the Smiling Bard of Pleasure. + II. Give me the Harp of Epic Song. + III. Listen to the Muse's Lyre. + IV. Vulcan! hear Your Glorious Task. + V. Sculptor, wouldst Thou glad my Soul. + VI. As Late I sought the Spangled Bowers. + VII. The Women tell Me Every Day. + VIII. I care not for the Idle State. + IX. I pray thee, by the Gods Above. + X. How am I to punish Thee. + XI. "Tell Me, Gentle Youth, I pray Thee". + XII. They tell How Atys, Wild with Love. + XIII. I will, I will, the Conflict's past. + XIV. Count Me, on the Summer Trees. + XV. Tell Me, Why, My Sweetest Dove. + XVI. Thou, Whose Soft and Rosy Hues. + XVII. And Now with All Thy Pencil's Truth. + XVIII. Now the Star of Day is High. + XIX. Here recline You, Gentle Maid. + XX. One Day the Muses twined the Hands. + XXI. Observe When Mother Earth is Dry. + XXII. The Phrygian Rock, That braves the Storm. + XXIII. I Often wish this Languid Lyre. + XXIV. To All That breathe the Air of Heaven. + XXV. Once in Each Revolving Year. + XXVI. Thy Harp may sing of Troy's Alarms. + XXVII. We read the Flying Courser's Name. + XXVIII. As, by His Lemnian Forge's Flame. + XXIX. Yes--Loving is a Painful Thrill. + XXX. 'Twas in a Mocking Dream of Night. + XXXI. Armed with Hyacinthine Rod. + XXXII. Strew Me a Fragrant Bed of Leaves. + XXXIII. 'Twas Noon of Night, When round the Pole. + XXXIV. Oh Thou, of All Creation Blest. + XXXV. Cupid Once upon a Bed. + XXXVI. If Hoarded Gold possest the Power. + XXXVII. 'Twas Night, and Many a Circling Bowl. + XXXVIII. Let Us drain the Nectared Bowl. + XXXIX. How I love the Festive Boy. + XL. I know That Heaven hath sent Me Here. + XLI. When Spring adorns the Dewy Scene. + XLII. Yes, be the Glorious Revel Mine. + XLIII. While Our Rosy Fillets shed. + XLIV. Buds of Roses, Virgin Flowers. + XLV. Within This Goblet Rich and Deep. + XLVI. Behold, the Young, the Rosy Spring. + XLVII. 'Tis True, My Fading Years decline. + XLVIII. When My Thirsty Soul I steep. + XLIX. When Bacchus, Jove's Immortal Boy. + L. When Wine I quaff, before My Eyes. + LI. Fly Not Thus My Brow of Snow. + LII. Away, Away, Ye Men of Rules. + LIII. When I beheld the Festive Train. + LIV. Methinks, the Pictured Bull We see. + LV. While We invoke the Wreathed Spring. + LVI. He, Who instructs the Youthful Crew. + LVII. Whose was the Artist Hand That Spread. + LVIII. When Gold, as Fleet as Zephyr's Pinion. + LIX. Ripened by the Solar Beam. + LX. Awake to Life, My Sleeping Shell. + LXI. Youth's Endearing Charms are fled. + LXII. Fill Me, Boy, as Deep a Draught. + LXIII. To Love, the Soft and Blooming Child. + LXIV. Haste Thee, Nymph, Whose Well-aimed Spear. + LXV. Like Some Wanton Filly sporting. + LXVI. To Thee, the Queen of Nymphs Divine. + LXVII. Rich in Bliss, I proudly scorn. + LXVIII. Now Neptune's Month Our Sky deforms. + LXIX. They wove the Lotus Band to deck. + LXX. A Broken Cake, with Honey Sweet + LXXI. With Twenty Chords My Lyre is hung. + LXXII. Fare Thee Well, Perfidious Maid. + LXXIII. Awhile I bloomed, a Happy Flower. + LXXIV. Monarch Love, Resistless Boy. + LXXV. Spirit of Love, Whose Locks unrolled. + LXXVI. Hither, Gentle Muse of Mine. + LXXVII. Would That I were a Tuneful Lyre. + LXXVIII. When Cupid sees How Thickly Now. + Let Me resign This Wretched Breath. + I know Thou lovest a Brimming Measure. + From Dread Lucadia's Frowning Steep. + Mix Me, Child, a Cup Divine. +Anacreontic. +Anacreontic. +Anacreontic. +Anacreontic. +Anacreontic. +And doth not a Meeting Like This. +Angel of Charity. +Animal Magnetism. +Anne Boleyn. +Announcement of a New Grand Acceleration Company. +Announcement of a New Thalaba. +Annual Pill, The. +Anticipated Meeting of the British Association in the Year 1836. +As a Beam o'er the Face of the Waters may glow. +As down in the Sunless Retreats. +Ask not if Still I Love. +Aspasia. +As Slow our Ship. +As Vanquished Erin. +At Night. +At the Mid Hour of Night. +Avenging and Bright. +Awake, arise, Thy Light is come. +Awful Event. + +Ballad, A. +Ballad for the Cambridge Election. +Ballad Stanzas. +Beauty and Song. +Before the Battle. +Behold the Sun. +Believe Me, if All Those Endearing Young Charms. +Black and Blue Eyes. +Blue Love-Song, A. +Boat Glee. +Boy of the Alps, The. +Boy Statesman, The. +Bright be Thy Dreams. +Bright Moon. +Bring the Bright Garlands Hither. +Brunswick Club, The. +But Who shall see. +By that Lake, Whose Gloomy Shore. + +Calm be Thy Sleep. +Canadian Boat Song, A. +Canonization of Saint Butterworth, The. +Captain Rock in London. +Case of Libel, A. +Catalogue, The. +Cephalus and Procris. +Characterless, A. +Cherries, The. +Child's Song--From a Masque. +Church Extension. +Cloris and Fanny. +Cocker, on Church Reform. +Come, chase that Starting Tear Away. +Come Not, oh Lord. +Come o'er the Sea. +Come, play Me That Simple Air Again. +Come, rest in This Bosom. +Come, send Round the Wine. +Come, Ye Disconsolate. +Common Sense and Genius. +Consultation, The. +Copy of An Intercepted Despatch. +Corn and Catholics. +Corrected Report of Some Late Speeches, A. +Correspondence between a Lady and Gentleman. +Corruption, an Epistle. +Cotton and Corn. +Country Dance and Quadrille. +Crystal-Hunters, The. +Cupid and Psyche. +Cupid Armed. +Cupid's Lottery. +Curious Fact, A. + +Dance of Bishops, The. +Dawn is breaking o'er Us, The. +Day-Dream, The. +Day of Love, The. +Dear Fanny. +Dear Harp of My Country. +Dear? Yes. +Desmond's Song. +Devil among the Scholars, The. +Dialogue between a Sovereign and a One Pound Note. +Dick * * * *. +Did not. +Dog-day Reflections. +Donkey and His Panniers, The. +Do not say That Life is waning. +Dost Thou Remember. +Dream, A. +Dreaming For Ever. +Dream of Antiquity, A. +Dream of Hindostan, A. +Dream of Home, The. +Dream of the Two Sisters, The. +Dream of Those Days, The. +Dream of Turtle, A. +Dreams. +Drink of This Cup. +Drink to Her. +Duke is the Lad, The. +Dying Warrior, The. + +East Indian, The. +Echo. +Elegiac Stanzas. +Elegiac Stanzas. +Enigma. +Epigram.--"I never gave a Kiss" (says Prue). +Epigram.--"I want the Court Guide," said My Lady, "to look". +Epigram.--What News To-day?--"Oh! Worse and Worse". +Epigram.--Said His Highness to Ned, with That Grim Face of His. +Epilogue. +Epistle from Captain Rock to Lord Lyndhurst. +Epistle from Erasmus on Earth to Cicero in the Shades. +Epistle from Henry of Exeter to John of Tuam. +Epistle from Tom Crib to Big Ben. +Epistle of Condolence. +Epitaph on a Tuft-Hunter. +Erin, oh Erin. +Erin! The Tear and the Smile in Thine Eyes. +Euthanasia of Van, The. +Eveleen's Bower. +Evening Gun, The. +Evenings in Greece. +Exile, The. +Expostulation to Lord King, An. +Extract from a Prologue. +Extracts from the Diary of a Politician. + +Fables for the Holy Alliance, + I. The Dissolution of the Holy Alliance. + II. The Looking-Glasses. + III. The Torch of Liberty. + IV. The Fly and the Bullock. + V. Church and State. + VI. The Little Grand Lama. + VII. The Extinguishers. + VIII. Louis Fourteenth's Wig. +Fairest! put on Awhile. +Fallen is Thy Throne. +Fall of Hebe, The. +Fancy. +Fancy Fair, The. +Fanny, Dearest. +Fare Thee Well, Thou Lovely One. +Farewell!--but Whenever You welcome the Hour. +Farewell, Theresa. +Fear not That, While Around Thee. +Fill the Bumper Fair. +Fire-Worshippers, The. +First Angel's Story. +Flow on, Thou Shining River. +Fly not Yet. +Fools' Paradise. +Forget not the Field. +For Thee Alone. +Fortune-Teller, The. +Fragment. +Fragment of a Character. +Fragment of a Mythological Hymn to Love. +Fragments of College Exercises. +From Life without Freedom. +From the Hon. Henry ----, to Lady Emma ----. +From This Hour the Pledge is given. +Fudge Family in Paris, The. + Letter I. From Miss Biddy Fudge to Miss Dorothy ----, of Clonkilty, in + Ireland. + II. From Phil. Fudge, Esq., to the Lord Viscount Castlereagh. + III. From Mr. Bob Fudge to Richard ----, Esq. + IV. From Phelim Connor to ----. + V. From Miss Biddy Fudge to Miss Dorothy ----. + VI. From Phil. Fudge, Esq., to His Brother Tim Fudge, Esq., Barrister + at Law. + VII. From Phelim Connor to ----. + VIII. From Mr. Bob Fudge to Richard ----, Esq. + IX. From Phil. Fudge, Esq., to the Lord Viscount Castlereagh. + X. From Miss Biddy Fudge to Miss Dorothy ----. + XI. From Phelim Connor to ----. + XII. From Miss Biddy Fudge to Miss Dorothy ----. +Fudges in England, The. + Letter I. From Patrick Magan, Esq., to the Rev. Richard ---- Curate of + ---- in Ireland. + II. From Miss Biddy Fudge to Mrs. Elizabeth ---- Extracts from My + Diary. + III. From Miss Fanny Fudge to her Cousin, Kitty ----. + IV. From Patrick Magan, Esq., to the Rev. Richard ----. + V. From Larry O'Branigan In England, to His Wife Judy, at Mullinafad. + VI. From Miss Biddy Fudge, to Mrs. Elizabeth ---- Extracts from My + Diary. + VII. From Miss Fanny Fudge, to her Cousin, Miss Kitty ----. + VIII. From Bob Fudge, Esq., to the Rev. Mortimer O'Mulligan. + IX. From Larry O'Branigan, to his Wife Judy. + X. From the Rev. Mortimer O'Mulligan, to the Rev. ----. + XI. From Patrick Magan, Esq., to the Rev. Richard ----. +Fum and Hum, the two Birds of Royalty. + +Garland I send Thee, The. +Gayly sounds the Castanet. +Gazel. +Gazelle, The. +Genius and Criticism. +Genius of Harmony, The. +Ghost of Miltiades, The. +Ghost Story, A. +Go forth to the Mount. +Go, let Me weep. +Go, Now, and dream. +Go, Then--'tis Vain. +Go Where Glory waits Thee. +Grand Dinner of Type and Co. +Grecian Girl's Dream of the Blessed Islands, The. +Greek of Meleager, From the. +Guess, guess. + +Halcyon hangs o'er Ocean, The. +Hark! the Vesper Hymn is stealing. +Hark! 'Tis the Breeze. +Harp That Once thro' Tara's Halls, The. +Has Sorrow Thy Young Days shaded. +Hat _versus_ Wig. +Hear Me but Once. +Here at Thy Tomb. +Here sleeps the Bard. +Here's the Bower. +Here, take My Heart. +Her Last Words at Parting. +Hero and Leander. +High-Born Ladye, The. +High Priest of Apollo to a Virgin of Delphi, From the. +Hip, Hip, Hurra. +Homeward March, The. +Hope comes Again. +Horace: + Ode I. Lib. III.--I hate Thee, oh, Mob, as My Lady hates Delf. + Ode XI. Lib. II.--Come, Yarmouth, My Boy, Never trouble your Brains. + Ode XXII. Lib. I.--The Man Who keeps a Conscience Pure. + Ode XXXVIII. Lib. I.--Boy, tell the Cook That I hate All Nicknackeries. +How Dear to Me the Hour. +How Happy, Once. +How lightly mounts the Muse's Wing. +How Oft has the Banshee cried. +How Oft, When watching Stars. +How shall I woo. +How to make a Good Politician. +How to make One's Self a Peer. +How to write by Proxy. +Hush, hush. +Hush, Sweet Lute. +Hymn of a Virgin of Delphi. +Hymn of Welcome after the Recess, A. + +I'd mourn the Hopes. +"If" and "Perhaps". +If in Loving, Singing. +If Thou'lt be Mine. +If Thou wouldst have Me sing and play. +Ill Omens. +I love but Thee. +Imitation. +Imitation of Catullus. +Imitation of the Inferno of Dante. +Impromptu. +Impromptu. +Impromptu. +Incantation. +Incantation, An. +Inconstancy. +Indian Boat, The. +In Myrtle Wreaths. +Insurrection of the Papers, The. +Intended Tribute. +Intercepted Letters, etc. + Letter I. From the Princess Charlotte of Wales to the Lady Barbara + Ashley. + II. From Colonel M'Mahon to Gould Francis Leckie, Esq. + III. From George Prince Regent to the Earl of Yarmouth. + IV. From the Right Hon. Patrick Duigenan to the Right Hon. Sir John + Nicol. + V. From the Countess Dowager of Cork to Lady ----. + VI. From Abdallah, in London, to Mohassan, in Ispahan. + VII. From Messrs. Lackington and Co. to Thomas Moore, Esq. + VIII. From Colonel Thomas to ---- Skeffington, Esq. + Appendix. +In the Morning of Life. +Intolerance, a Satire. +Invisible Girl, To the. +Invitation to Dinner. +Irish Antiquities. +Irish Peasant to His Mistress, The. +Irish Slave, The. +I saw from the Beach. +I saw the Moon rise Clear. +I saw Thy Form in Youthful Prime. +Is it not Sweet to think. Hereafter. +It is not the Tear at This Moment shed. +I've a Secret to tell Thee. +I Will, I will, the Conflict's past. +I wish I was by That Dim Lake. + +Joke Versified, A. +Joys of Youth, how fleeting. + +Keep Those Eyes Still Purely Mine. +King Crack and His Idols. +Kiss, The. + +Lalla Rookh. +Lament for the Loss of Lord Bathurst's Tail. +Language of Flowers, The. +Late Scene at Swanage, A. +Latest Accounts from Olympus. +Late Tithe Case. +Leaf and the Fountain, The. +Legacy, The. +Legend of Puck the Fairy, The. +Lesbia hath a Beaming Eye. +Les Hommes Automates. +Let Erin remember the Days of Old. +Let Joy Alone be remembered Now. +Let's take This World as Some Wide Scene. +Letter from Larry O'Branigan to the Rev. Murtagh O'Mulligan. +Light of the Haram, The. +Light sounds the Harp. +Like Morning When Her Early Breeze. +Like One Who, doomed. +Limbo of Lost Reputations, The. +Lines on the Death of Joseph Atkinson, Esq., of Dublin. +Lines on the Death of Mr. Perceval. +Lines on the Death of Sheridan. +Lines on the Departure of Lords Castlereagh and Stewart for the Continent. +Lines on the Entry of the Austrians into Naples. +Lines written at the Cohos, or Falls of the Mohawk River. +Lines written in a Storm at Sea. +Lines written on leaving Philadelphia. +Literary Advertisement. +Little Man and Little Soul. +"Living Dog" and "the Dead Lion," The. +Long Years have past. +Lord Henley and St. Cecilia. +Lord, Who shall bear That Day. +Love Alone. +Love and Hope. +Love and Hymen. +Love and Marriage. +Love and Reason. +Love and the Novice. +Love and the Sun-Dial. +Love and Time. +Love is a Hunter-Boy. +Love's Light Summer-Cloud. +Loves of the Angels, The. +Love's Victory. +Love's Young Dream. +Love Thee. +Love Thee, Dearest? Love Thee. +Love, wandering Thro' the Golden Maze. +Lusitanian War-Song. +Lying. + +Mad Tory and the Comet, The. +Magic Mirror, The. +Meeting of the Ships, The. +Meeting of the Waters, The. +Melologue. +Memorabilia of Last Week. +Merrily Every Bosom boundeth. +Millennium, The. +Mind Not Tho' Daylight. +Minstrel-Boy, The. +Missing. +Morality. +Moral Positions. +Mountain Sprite, The. +Mr. Roger Dodsworth. +Musical Box, The. +Musings of an Unreformed Peer. +Musings, suggested by the Late Promotion of Mrs. Nethercoat. +My Birth-Day. +My Gentle Harp. +My Harp has One Unchanging Theme. +My Heart and Lute. +My Mopsa is Little. + +Natal Genius, The. +Nature's Labels. +Nay, tell Me Not, Dear. +Ne'er ask the Hour. +Ne'er Talk of Wisdom's Gloomy Schools. +Nets and Cages. +New Costume of the Ministers, The. +New Creation of Peers. +New-Fashioned Echoes. +New Grand Exhibition of Models +New Hospital for Sick Literati. +News for Country Cousins. +Night Dance, The. +Nights of Music. +Night Thought, A. +No--leave My Heart to Rest. +Nonsense. +Not from Thee. +Notions on Reform. +Numbering of the Clergy, The. + +Occasional Address for the Opening of the New Theatre of St. Stephen. +Occasional Epilogue. +Odes to Nea. +Ode to a Hat. +Ode to Don Miguel. +Ode to Ferdinand. +Ode to the Goddess Ceres. +Ode to the Sublime Porte. +Ode to the Woods and Forests. +O'Donohue's Mistress. +Oft, in the Stilly Night. +Oh! Arranmore, Loved Arranmore. +Oh Banquet Not. +Oh! Blame Not the Bard. +Oh! Breathe Not His Name. +Oh, call it by Some Better Name. +Oh, come to Me When Daylight sets. +Oh, could We do with This World of Ours. +Oh, Days of Youth. +Oh, do not look so Bright and Blest. +Oh! doubt Me Not. +Oh Fair! oh Purest. +Oh for the Swords of Former Tim. +Oh, guard our Affection. +Ob! had We Some Bright Little Isle of Our Own. +Oh, No--Not--Even. When First We loved. +Oh, Soon return. +Oh, teach Me to love Thee. +Oh the Shamrock. +Oh, the Sight Entrancing. +Oh! think Not My Spirits are Always as Light. +Oh Thou Who dry'st the Mourner's Tear. +Oh, Ye Dead. +On a Squinting Poetess. +One Bumper at Parting. +One Dear Smile. +On Music. +On the Death of a Friend. +On the Death of a Lady. +Origin of the Harp, The. +O say, Thou Best and Brightest. +Our First Young Love. + +Paddy's Metamorphosis. +Paradise and the Peri. +Parallel, The. +Parody of a Celebrated Letter. +Parting before the Battle, The. +Pastoral Ballad, A. +Peace and Glory. +Peace be around Thee. +Peace, Peace to Him That's gone. +Peace to the Slumberers. +Periwinkles and the Locusts, The. +Petition of the Orangemen of Ireland, The. +Philosopher Artistippus to a Lamp, The. +Pilgrim, The. +Poor Broken Flower. +Poor Wounded; Heart. +Pretty Rose-tree. +Prince's Day, The. +Proposals for a Gynsecocracy. + +Quick! We have but a Second. + +Reason, Folly, and Beauty. +Recent Dialogue, A. +Rector and His Curate, The. +Reflection at Sea, A. +Reflections. +Reinforcements for Lord Wellington. +Religion and Trade. +Remember Thee. +Remember the Time. +Remonstrance. +Resemblance, The. +Resolutions passed at a Late Meeting of Reverends and Right Reverends. +Reuben and Rose. +Reverend Pamphleteer, The. +Rhymes on the Road. + Introductory Rhymes. + Extract I. Geneva. + II. Geneva. + III. Geneva. + IV. Milan. + V. Padua. + VI. Venice. + VII. Venice. + VIII. Venice. + IX. Venice. + X. Mantua. + XI. Florence. + XII. Florence. + XIII. Rome. + XIV. Rome. + XV. Rome. + XVI. Les Charmettes. +Rich and Rare were the Gems She wore. +Rings and Seals. +Ring, The. +Ring, The. +Rival Topics. +Rondeau. +Rose of the Desert. +Round the World goes. +Row Gently Here. +Russian Lover, The. + +Sad Case, A. +Sail on, sail on. +Sale of Cupid. +Sale of Loves, The. +Sale of Tools, The. +Say, What shall be Our Sport To-day. +Say, What shall We dance. +Scene from a Play. +Scepticism. +Sceptic, The. +Second Angel's Story. +See the Dawn from Heaven. +Selections. +Shall the Harp Then be Silent. +She is Far from the Land. +She sung of Love. +Shield, The. +Shine Out, Stars. +Should Those Fond Hopes. +Shrine, The. +Silence is in Our Festal Halls. +Since First Thy Word. +Sing--sing--Music was given. +Sing, Sweet Harp. +Sinking Fund cried, The. +Sir Andrew's Dream. +Sketch of the First Act of a New Romantic Drama. +Slumber, oh slumber. +Snake, The. +Snow Spirit, The. +Some Account of the Late Dinner to Dan. +Song.--Ah! Where are They, Who heard, in Former Hours. + Array Thee, Love, Array Thee, Love. + As by the Shore, at Break of Day. + As Love One Summer Eve was straying. + As o'er Her Loom the Lesbian Maid. + As Once a Grecian Maiden wove. + Bring Hither, bring Thy Lute, while Day is dying. + Calm as Beneath its Mother's eyes. + Fly from the World, O Bessy! to Me. + Have You not seen the Timid Tear. + Here, While the Moonlight Dim. + If I swear by That Eye, You'll allow. + If to see Thee be to love Thee. + I saw from Yonder Silent Cave. + March! nor heed Those Anna That hold Thee. + Mary, I believed Thee True. + No Life is Like the Mountaineer's. + Of All My Happiest Hours of Joy. + Oh, Memory, How Coldly. + Oh, Where art Thou dreaming. + Raise the Buckler-poise the Lance. + Smoothly flowing Thro' Verdant Vales. + Some Mortals There may be, so Wise, or so Fine. + Take back the Sigh, Thy Lips of Art. + The Wreath You wove, the Wreath You wove. + Think on that Look Whose Melting Ray. + Thou art not Dead--Thou art not Dead. + "'Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!" said the Cup-loving Boy. + Up and march! the Timbrel's Sound. + Up with the Sparkling Brimmer. + Weeping for Thee, My Love, Thro' the Long Day. + Welcome Sweet Bird, Thro' the Sunny Air winging. + When Evening Shades are falling. + When the Balaika. + When Time Who steals Our Years Away. + Where is the Heart That would not give. + "Who comes so Gracefully,". + Who'll buy?--'tis Folly's Shop, who'll buy. + Why does Azure deck the Sky. + Yes! had I leisure to sigh and mourn. +Song and Trio. +Song and Trio. +Song of a Hyperborean. +Song of Fionnuala, The. +Song of Hercules to his Daughter. +Song of Innisfall. +Song of Old Puck. +Song of O'Ruark, The. +Song of the Battle Eve. +Song of the Box, The. +Song of the Departing Spirit of Tithe. +Song of the Evil Spirit of the Woods. +Song of the Nubian Girl. +Song of the Olden Time, The. +Song of the Poco-Curante Society. +Song of the two Cupbearers. +Songs of the Church. +Sound the Loud Timbrel. +Sovereign Woman. +So Warmly We met. +Spa, The Wellington. +Speculation, A. +Speech on the Umbrella Question. +Spring and Autumn. +Stanzas. +Stanzas from the Banks of the Shannon. +Stanzas written in Anticipation of Defeat. +Steersman's Song, The. +Still, like Dew in Silence falling. +Still Thou fliest. +Still When Daylight. +St. Jerome on Earth. +Stranger, The. +St. Senanus and the Lady. +Study from the Antique, A. +Sublime was the Warning. +Summer Fête, The. +Summer Webs, The. +Sunday Ethics. +Surprise, The. +Sweet Innisfallen. +Sylph's Ball, The. +Sympathy. + +Take Back the Virgin Page. +Take Hence the Bowl. +Tear, The. +Tell Her, oh, tell Her. +Tell-Tale Lyre, The. +Temple to Friendship, A. +The Bird, let Loose. +Thee, Thee, Only Thee. +Then, Fare Thee Well. +Then First from Love. +There are Sounds of Mirth. +There comes a Time. +There is a Bleak Desert. +There's Something Strange. +They know not My Heart. +They may rail at This Life. +They met but Once. +They tell Me Thou'rt the Favored Guest. +Third Angel's Story. +This Life is All checkered with Pleasures and Woes. +This World is All a Fleeting Show.. +Tho, Humble the Banquet. +Tho' Lightly sounds the Song I sing. +Those Evening Bells. +Tho' the Last Glimpse of Erin with Sorrow I see. +Tho' 'tis All but a Dream. +Thou art, O God. +Thou bidst Me sing. +Thoughts on Mischief. +Thoughts on Patrons, Puffs, and Other Matters. +Thoughts on Tar Barrels. +Thoughts on the Late Destructive Propositions of the Tories. +Thoughts on the Present Government of Ireland. +Thou lovest No More. +Three Doctors, The. +Tibullus to Sulpicia. +Time I've lost in wooing, The. +'Tis All for Thee. +'Tis Gone, and For Ever. +'Tis Sweet to think. +'Tis the Last Rose of Summer. +To......: And hast Thou marked the Pensive Shade. +To......: Come, take Thy Harp--'tis vain to muse. +To......: Never mind How the Pedagogue proses. +To......: Put off the Vestal Veil, nor, oh. +To......: Remember Him Thou leavest behind. +To......: Sweet Lady, look not Thus Again. +To......: That Wrinkle, when First I espied it. +To......: The World had just begun to steal. +To......: 'Tis Time, I feel, to leave Thee Now. +To......: To be the Theme of Every Hour. +To......: When I loved You, I can't but allow. +To......: With All My Soul, Then, let us part. +To......'s Picture: Go Then, if She, Whose Shade Thou art. +To a Boy, with a Watch. +To a Lady, with Some Manuscript Poems. +To a Lady, on Her singing. +To Cara, after an Interval of Absence. +To Cara, oh the Dawning of a New Year's Day. +To Caroline, Viscountess Valletort. +To Cloe. +To-Day, Dearest, is Ours. +To George Morgan, Esq. +To His Serene Highness the Duke of Montpensier. +To James Corry, Esq. +To Joseph Atkinson, Esq. +To Julia, in Allusion to Some Illiberal Criticisms. +To Julia: Mock me No More with Love's Beguiling Dream. +To Julia: Though Fate, My Girl, may bid Us part. +To Julia, on Her Birthday. +To Julia: I saw the Peasant's Hand Unkind. +To Julia weeping. +To Ladies' Eyes. +To Lady Heathcote. +To Lady Holland. +To Lady Jersey. +To Lord Viscount Strangford. +To Miss Moore. +To Miss Susan Beckford. +To Miss ---- on Her asking the Author Why She had Sleepless Nights. +To Mrs. Bl----, written in Her Album. +To Mrs. ----, on Some Calumnies against Her Character. +To Mrs. ----: To see Thee Every Day That came. +To Mrs. ----, on Her Beautiful Translation of Voiture's Kiss. +To Mrs. Henry Tighe. +To My Mother. +To Phillis. +To Rosa, written during Illness. +To Rosa: And are You Then a Thing of Art. +To Rosa. Is the Song of Rosa Mute. +To Rosa: Like One Who trusts to Summer Skies. +To Rosa; Say Why should the Girl of My Soul be in Tears. +Tory Pledges. +To Sir Hudson Lowe. +To the Boston Frigate. +To the Fire-Fly. +To the Flying-Fish. +To the Honorable W. R. Spencer. +To the Lady Charlotte Rawdon. +To the Large and Beautiful Miss ----. +To the Lord Viscount Forbes. +To the Marchioness Dowager of Donegall. +To the Rev. Charles Overton. +To the Reverend ----. +To Thomas Hume, Esq., M.D. +To the Ship in Which Lord Castlereagh sailed for the Continent. +Tout pour la Tripe. +To weave a Garland for the Rose. +Translation from the Gull Language. +Translations from Catullus. +Trio. +Triumph of Bigotry. +Triumph of Farce, The. +Turf shall be My Fragrant Shrine, The +'Twas One of Those Dreams. +Two Loves, The. +Twin'st Thou with' Lofty Wreath Thy Brow. + +Unbind Thee, Love. +Up, Sailor Boy, 'tis Day. + +Valley of the Nile, The. +Variety. +Veiled Prophet of Khorassan, The. +Verses to the Poet Crabbe's Inkstand. +Vision, A. +Vision of Philosophy, A. +Voice, The. + +Wake Thee, My Dear. +Wake Up, Sweet Melody. +Waltz Duet. +Wandering Bard, The. +War against Babylon. +Warning, A. +War Song. +Watchman, The. +Weep, Children of Israel. +Weep not for Those. +Weep on, weep on. +Wellington, Lord, and the Ministers. +Wellington Spa, The. +We may roam through This World. +Were not the Sinful Mary's Tears. +What shall I sing Thee. +What's My Thought like. +What the Bee is to the Floweret. +When Abroad in the World. +When Cold in the Earth. +When e'er I see Those Smiling Eyes. +When First I met Thee. +When First That Smile. +When He, Who adores Thee. +When Love was a Child. +When Love, Who ruled. +When Midst the Gay I meet. +When Night brings the Hour. +When on the Lip the Sigh delays. +When the First Summer Bee. +When the Sad Word. +When the Wine-Cup is smiling. +When Thou shalt wander. +When Through the Piazzetta. +When to Sad Music Silent You listen. +When Twilight Dews. +Where are the Visions. +Where is the Slave. +Where is Your Dwelling, Ye Sainted. +Where shall We bury our Shame. +While gazing on the Moon's Light. +While History's Muse. +Who is the Maid. +Who'll buy My Love Knots. +Why does She so Long delay. +Wind Thy Horn, My Hunter Boy. +Wine-Cup is circling, The. +With Moonlight beaming. +Woman. +Wonder, The. +World was husht. +Wo! wo. +Wreath and the Chain, The. +Wreaths for the Ministers. +Wreath the Bowl. +Write on, write on. +Written in a Commonplace Book. +Written in the Blank Leaf of a Lady's Commonplace Book. +Written on passing Deadman's Island. + +Yes, yes, When the Bloom. +Young Indian Maid, The. +Young Jessica. +Young May Moon, The. +Young Muleteers of Grenada, The. +Young Rose, The. +You remember Ellen. +Youth and Age. + + + + + + + + +ODES OF ANACREON + +(1800). + +TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH VERSE. + +WITH NOTES. + + + + +TO + +HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS + +THE PRINCE OF WALES. + + +SIR,--In allowing me to dedicate this Work to Your Royal Highness, you +have conferred upon me an honor which I feel very sensibly: and I have +only to regret that the pages which you have thus distinguished are not +more deserving of such illustrious patronage. + +Believe me, SIR, +With every sentiment of respect, +Your Royal Highness's +Very grateful and devoted Servant, + +THOMAS MOORE. + + + + + + +REMARKS ON ANACREON + + +There is but little known, with certainty of the life of Anacreon. +Chamaeleon Heracleotes, who wrote upon the subject, has been lost in the +general wreck of ancient literature. The editors of the poet have +collected the few trifling anecdotes which are scattered through the +extant authors of antiquity, and, supplying the deficiency of materials by +fictions of their own imagination, have arranged what they call a life of +Anacreon. These specious fabrications are intended to indulge that +interest which we naturally feel in the biography of illustrious men; but +it is rather a dangerous kind of illusion, as it confounds the limits of +history and romance, and is too often supported by unfaithful citation. + +Our poet was born in the city of Teos, in the delicious region of Ionia, +and the time of his birth appears to have been in the sixth century before +Christ. He flourished at that remarkable period when, under the polished +tyrants Hipparchus and Polycrates, Athens and Samos were become the rival +asylums of genius. There is nothing certain known about his family; and +those who pretend to discover in Plato that he was a descendant of the +monarch Codrus, show much more of zeal than of either accuracy or +judgment. + +The disposition and talents of Anacreon recommended him to the monarch of +Samos, and he was formed to be the friend of such a prince as Polycrates. +Susceptible only to the pleasures, he felt not the corruptions, of the +court; and while Pythagoras fled from the tyrant, Anacreon was celebrating +his praises oh the lyre. We are told, too, by Maximus Tyrius, that, by the +influence of his amatory songs, he softened the mind of Polycrates into a +spirit of benevolence towards his subjects. + +The amours of the poet, and the rivalship of the tyrant, I shall pass +over in silence; and there are few, I presume, who will regret the +omission of most of those anecdotes, which the industry of some editors +has not only promulged, but discussed. Whatever is repugnant to modesty +and virtue is considered, in ethical science, by a supposition very +favorable to humanity, as impossible; and this amiable persuasion should +be much more strongly entertained where the transgression wars with nature +as well as virtue. But why are we not allowed to indulge in the +presumption? Why are we officiously reminded that there have been really +such instances of depravity? + +Hipparchus, who now maintained at Athens the power which his father +Pisistratus had usurped, was one of those princes who may be said to have +polished the fetters of their subjects. He was the first, according to +Plato, who edited the poems of Homer, and commanded them to be sung by the +rhapsodists at the celebration of the Panathenaea. From his court, which +was a sort of galaxy of genius, Anacreon could not long be absent. +Hipparchus sent a barge for him; the poet readily embraced the invitation, +and the Muses and the Loves were wafted with him to Athens. + +The manner of Anacreon's death was singular. We are told that in the +eighty-fifth year of his age he was choked by a grape-stone; and however +we may smile at their enthusiastic partiality who see in this easy and +characteristic death a peculiar indulgence of Heaven, we cannot help +admiring that his fate should have been so emblematic of his disposition. +Caelius Calcagninus alludes to this catastrophe in the following epitaph +on our poet:-- + + Those lips, then, hallowed sage, which poured along + A music sweet as any cygnet's song, + The grape hath closed for ever! + Here let the ivy kiss the poet's tomb, + Here let the rose he loved with laurels bloom, + In bands that ne'er shall sever. + But far be thou, oh! far, unholy vine, + By whom the favorite minstrel of the Nine + Lost his sweet vital breath; + Thy God himself now blushes to confess, + Once hallowed vine! he feels he loves thee less, + Since poor Anacreon's death. + +It has been supposed by some writers that Anacreon and Sappho were +contemporaries; and the very thought of an intercourse between persons so +congenial, both in warmth of passion and delicacy of genius, gives such +play to the imagination that the mind loves to indulge in it. But the +vision dissolves before historical truth; and Chamaeleon, and Hermesianax, +who are the source of the supposition, are considered as having merely +indulged in a poetical anachronism. + +To infer the moral dispositions of a poet from the tone of sentiment +which pervades his works, is sometimes a very fallacious analogy; but the +soul of Anacreon speaks so unequivocally through his odes, that we may +safely consult them as the faithful mirrors of his heart. We find him +there the elegant voluptuary, diffusing the seductive charm of sentiment +over passions and propensities at which rigid morality must frown. His +heart, devoted to indolence, seems to have thought that there is wealth +enough in happiness, but seldom happiness in mere wealth. The +cheerfulness, indeed, with which he brightens his old age is interesting +and endearing; like his own rose, he is fragrant even in decay. But the +most peculiar feature of his mind is that love of simplicity, which be +attributes to himself so feelingly, and which breathes characteristically +throughout all that he has sung. In truth, if we omit those few vices in +our estimate which religion, at that time, not only connived at, but +consecrated, we shall be inclined to say that the disposition of our poet +was amiable; that his morality was relaxed, but not abandoned; and that +Virtue, with her zone loosened, may be an apt emblem of the character of +Anacreon. + +Of his person and physiognomy, time has preserved such uncertain +memorials, that it were better, perhaps, to leave the pencil to fancy; and +few can read the Odes of Anacreon without imaging to themselves the form +of the animated old bard, crowned with roses, and singing cheerfully to +his lyre. + +After the very enthusiastic eulogiums bestowed both by ancients and +moderns upon the poems of Anacreon, we need not be diffident in expressing +our raptures at their beauty, nor hesitate to pronounce them the most +polished remains of antiquity. They are indeed, all beauty, all +enchantment. He steals us so insensibly along with him, that we sympathize +even in his excesses. In his amatory odes there is a delicacy of +compliment not to be found in any other ancient poet. Love at that period +was rather an unrefined emotion; and the intercourse of the sexes was +animated more by passion than by sentiment. They knew not those little +tendernesses which form the spiritual part of affection; their expression +of feeling was therefore rude and unvaried, and the poetry of love +deprived it of its most captivating graces. Anacreon, however, attained +some ideas of this purer gallantry; and the same delicacy of mind which +led him to this refinement, prevented him also from yielding to the +freedom of language which has sullied the pages of all the other poets. +His descriptions are warm; but the warmth is in the ideas, not the words. +He is sportive without being wanton, and ardent without being licentious. +His poetic invention is always most brilliantly displayed in those +allegorical fictions which so many have endeavored to imitate, though all +have confessed them to be inimitable. Simplicity is the distinguishing +feature of these odes, and they interest by their innocence, as much as +they fascinate by their beauty. They may be said, indeed, to be the very +infants of the Muses, and to lisp in numbers. + +I shall not be accused of enthusiastic partiality by those who have read +and felt the original; but to others, I am conscious, this should not be +the language of a translator, whose faint reflection of such beauties can +but ill justify his admiration of them. + +In the age of Anacreon music and poetry were inseparable. These kindred +talents were for a long time associated, and the poet always sung his own +compositions to the lyre. It is probable that they were not set to any +regular air, but rather a kind of musical recitation, which was varied +according to the fancy and feelings of the moment. The poems of Anacreon +were sung at banquets as late as the time of Aulus Gellius, who tells us +that he heard one of the odes performed at a birthday entertainment. + +The singular beauty of our poet's style and the apparent facility, +perhaps, of his metre have attracted, as I have already remarked, a crowd +of imitators. Some of these have succeeded with wonderful felicity, as may +be discerned in the few odes which are attributed to writers of a later +period. But none of his emulators have been half so dangerous to his fame +as those Greek ecclesiastics of the early ages, who, being conscious of +their own inferiority to their great prototypes, determined on removing +all possibility of comparison, and, under a semblance of moral zeal, +deprived the world of some of the most exquisite treasures of ancient +times. The works of Sappho and Alcaeus were among those flowers of Grecian +literature which thus fell beneath the rude hand of ecclesiastical +presumption. It is true they pretended that this sacrifice of genius was +hallowed by the interests of religion, but I have already assigned the +most probable motive; and if Gregorius Nazianzenus had not written +Anacreontics, we might now perhaps have the works of the Teian +unmutilated, and be empowered to say exultingly with Horace, + + _Nec si quid olim lusit Anacreon + delevit aetas_. + +The zeal by which these bishops professed to be actuated gave birth more +innocently, indeed, to an absurd species of parody, as repugnant to piety +as it is to taste, where the poet of voluptuousness was made a preacher of +the gospel, and his muse, like the Venus in armor at Lacedaemon, was +arrayed in all the severities of priestly instruction. Such was the +"Anacreon Recantatus," by Carolus de Aquino, a Jesuit, published 1701, +which consisted of a series of palinodes to the several songs of our poet. +Such, too, was the Christian Anacreon of Patrignanus, another Jesuit, who +preposterously transferred to a most sacred subject all that the Graecian +poet had dedicated to festivity and love. + +His metre has frequently been adopted by the modern Latin poets; and +Scaliger, Taubman, Barthius, and others, have shown that it is by no means +uncongenial with that language. The Anacreontics of Scaliger, however, +scarcely deserve the name; as they glitter all over with conceits, and, +though often elegant, are always labored. The beautiful fictions of +Angerianus preserve more happily than any others the delicate turn of +those allegorical fables, which, passing so frequently through the mediums +of version and imitation, have generally lost their finest rays in the +transmission. Many of the Italian poets have indulged their fancies upon +the subjects; and in the manner of Anacreon, Bernardo Tasso first +introduced the metre, which was afterwards polished and enriched by +Chabriera and others. + + + + + + +ODES OF ANACREON + + + + + + +ODE I.[1] + + +I saw the smiling bard of pleasure, +The minstrel of the Teian measure; +'Twas in a vision of the night, +He beamed upon my wondering sight. +I heard his voice, and warmly prest +The dear enthusiast to my breast. +His tresses wore a silvery dye, +But beauty sparkled in his eye; +Sparkled in his eyes of fire, +Through the mist of soft desire. +His lip exhaled, when'er he sighed, +The fragrance of the racy tide; +And, as with weak and reeling feet +He came my cordial kiss to meet, +An infant, of the Cyprian band, +Guided him on with tender hand. +Quick from his glowing brows he drew +His braid, of many a wanton hue; +I took the wreath, whose inmost twine +Breathed of him and blushed with wine. +I hung it o'er my thoughtless brow, +And ah! I feel its magic now: +I feel that even his garland's touch +Can make the bosom love too much. + + +[1] This ode is the first of the series in the Vatican manuscript, which +attributes it to no other poet than Anacreon. They who assert that the +manuscript imputes it to Basilius, have been mislead. Whether it be the +production of Anacreon or not, it has all the features of ancient +simplicity, and is a beautiful imitation of the poet's happiest manner. + + + + + + +ODE II. + + +Give me the harp of epic song, +Which Homer's finger thrilled along; +But tear away the sanguine string, +For war is not the theme I sing. +Proclaim the laws of festal right,[1] +I'm monarch of the board to-night; +And all around shall brim as high, +And quaff the tide as deep as I. +And when the cluster's mellowing dews +Their warm enchanting balm infuse, +Our feet shall catch the elastic bound, +And reel us through the dance's round. +Great Bacchus! we shall sing to thee, +In wild but sweet ebriety; +Flashing around such sparks of thought, +As Bacchus could alone have taught. + +Then, give the harp of epic song, +Which Homer's finger thrilled along; +But tear away the sanguine string, +For war is not the theme I sing. + + +[1] The ancients prescribed certain laws of drinking at their festivals, +for an account of which see the commentators. Anacreon here acts the +symposiarch, or master of the festival. + + + + + + +ODE III.[1] + + +Listen to the Muse's lyre, +Master of the pencil's fire! +Sketched in painting's bold display, +Many a city first portray; +Many a city, revelling free, +Full of loose festivity. +Picture then a rosy train, +Bacchants straying o'er the plain; +Piping, as they roam along, +Roundelay or shepherd-song. +Paint me next, if painting may +Such a theme as this portray, +All the earthly heaven of love +These delighted mortals prove. + + +[1] La Fosse has thought proper to lengthen this poem by considerable +interpolations of his own, which he thinks are indispensably necessary to +the completion of the description. + + + + + + +ODE IV.[1] + + +Vulcan! hear your glorious task; +I did not from your labors ask +In gorgeous panoply to shine, +For war was ne'er a sport of mine. +No--let me have a silver bowl, +Where I may cradle all my soul; +But mind that, o'er its simple frame +No mimic constellations flame; +Nor grave upon the swelling side, +Orion, scowling o'er the tide. + +I care not for the glittering wain, +Nor yet the weeping sister train. +But let the vine luxuriant roll +Its blushing tendrils round the bowl, +While many a rose-lipped bacchant maid +Is culling clusters in their shade. +Let sylvan gods, in antic shapes, +Wildly press the gushing grapes, +And flights of Loves, in wanton play, +Wing through the air their winding way; +While Venus, from her arbor green, +Looks laughing at the joyous scene, +And young Lyaeus by her side +Sits, worthy of so bright a bride. + + +[1] This ode, Aulus Gellius tells us, was performed at an entertainment +where he was present. + + + + + + +ODE V. + + +Sculptor, wouldst thou glad my soul, +Grave for me an ample bowl, +Worthy to shine in hall or bower, +When spring-time brings the reveller's hour. +Grave it with themes of chaste design, +Fit for a simple board like mine. +Display not there the barbarous rites +In which religious zeal delights; +Nor any tale of tragic fate +Which History shudders to relate. +No--cull thy fancies from above, +Themes of heaven and themes of love. +Let Bacchus, Jove's ambrosial boy, +Distil the grape in drops of joy, +And while he smiles at every tear, +Let warm-eyed Venus, dancing near, +With spirits of the genial bed, +The dewy herbage deftly tread. +Let Love be there, without his arms, +In timid nakedness of charms; +And all the Graces, linked with Love, +Stray, laughing, through the shadowy grove; +While rosy boys disporting round, +In circlets trip the velvet ground. +But ah! if there Apollo toys,[1] +I tremble for the rosy boys. + + +[1] An allusion to the fable that Apollo had killed his beloved boy +Hyacinth, while playing with him at quoits. "This" (says M. La Fosse) "is +assuredly the sense of the text, and it cannot admit of any other." + + + + + + +ODE VI.[1] + + +As late I sought the spangled bowers, +To cull a wreath of matin flowers, +Where many an early rose was weeping, +I found the urchin Cupid sleeping, +I caught the boy, a goblet's tide +Was richly mantling by my side, +I caught him by his downy wing, +And whelmed him in the racy spring. +Then drank I down the poisoned bowl, +And love now nestles in my soul. +Oh, yes, my soul is Cupid's nest, +I feel him fluttering in my breast. + + +[1] This beautiful fiction, which the commentators have attributed to +Julian, a royal poet, the Vatican MS. pronounces to be the genuine +offspring of Anacreon. + + + + + + +ODE VII. + + +The women tell me every day +That all my bloom has pas past away. +"Behold," the pretty wantons cry, +"Behold this mirror with a sigh; +The locks upon thy brow are few, +And like the rest, they're withering too!" +Whether decline has thinned my hair, +I'm sure I neither know nor care; +But this I know, and this I feel +As onward to the tomb I steal, +That still as death approaches nearer, +The joys of life are sweeter, dearer; +And had I but an hour to live, +That little hour to bliss I'd give. + + + + + + +ODE VIII.[1] + + +I care not for the idle state +Of Persia's king, the rich, the great. +I envy not the monarch's throne, +Nor wish the treasured gold my own +But oh! be mine the rosy wreath, +Its freshness o'er my brow to breathe; +Be mine the rich perfumes that flow, +To cool and scent my locks of snow. +To-day I'll haste to quaff my wine +As if to-morrow ne'er would shine; +But if to-morrow comes, why then-- +I'll haste to quaff my wine again. +And thus while all our days are bright, +Nor time has dimmed their bloomy light, +Let us the festal hours beguile +With mantling pup and cordial smile; +And shed from each new bowl of wine, +The richest drop on Bacchus' shrine +For death may come, with brow unpleasant, +May come, when least we wish him present, +And beckon to the Sable shore, +And grimly bid us--drink no more! + + +[1] Baxter conjectures that this was written upon the occasion of our +poet's returning the money to Polycrates, according to the anecdote in +Stobaeus. + + + + + + +ODE IX. + + +I pray thee, by the gods above, +Give me the mighty bowl I love, +And let me sing, in wild delight, +"I will--I will be mad to-night!" +Alcmaeon once, as legends tell, +Was frenzied by the fiends of hell; +Orestes, too, with naked tread, +Frantic paced the mountain-head; +And why? a murdered mother's shade +Haunted them still where'er they strayed. +But ne'er could I a murderer be, +The grape alone shall bleed for me; +Yet can I shout, with wild delight, +"I will--I will be mad to-night." + +Alcides' self, in days of yore, +Imbrued his hands in youthful gore, +And brandished, with a maniac joy, +The quiver of the expiring boy: +And Ajax, with tremendous shield, +Infuriate scoured the guiltless field. +But I, whose hands no weapon ask, +No armor but this joyous flask; +The trophy of whose frantic hours +Is but a scattered wreath of flowers, +Ev'n I can sing, with wild delight, +"I will--I will be mad to-night!" + + + + + + +ODE X.[1] + + +How am I to punish thee, +For the wrong thou'st done to me +Silly swallow, prating thing-- +Shall I clip that wheeling wing? +Or, as Tereus did, of old,[2] +(So the fabled tale is told,) +Shall I tear that tongue away, +Tongue that uttered such a lay? +Ah, how thoughtless hast thou been! +Long before the dawn was seen, +When a dream came o'er my mind, +Picturing her I worship, kind, +Just when I was nearly blest, +Loud thy matins broke my rest! + + +[1] This ode is addressed to a swallow. + +[2] Modern poetry has conferred the name of Philomel upon the nightingale; +but many respectable authorities among the ancients assigned this +metamorphose to Progne, and made Philomel the swallow, as Anacreon does +here. + + + + + + +ODE XI.[1] + + +"Tell me, gentle youth, I pray thee, +What in purchase shall I pay thee +For this little waxen toy, +Image of the Paphian boy?" +Thus I said, the other day, +To a youth who past my way: +"Sir," (he answered, and the while +Answered all in Doric style,) +"Take it, for a trifle take it; +'Twas not I who dared to make it; +No, believe me, 'twas not I; +Oh, it has cost me many a sigh, +And I can no longer keep +Little Gods, who murder sleep!" +"Here, then, here," (I said with joy,) +"Here is silver for the boy: +He shall be my bosom guest, +Idol of my pious breast!" + +Now, young Love, I have thee mine, +Warm me with that torch of thine; +Make me feel as I have felt, +Or thy waxen frame shall melt: +I must burn with warm desire, +Or thou, my boy--in yonder fire.[2] + + +[1] It is difficult to preserve with any grace the narrative simplicity of +this ode, and the humor of the turn with which it concludes. I feel, +indeed, that the translation must appear vapid, if not ludicrous, to an +English reader. + +[2] From this Longepierre conjectures, that, whatever Anacreon might say, +he felt sometimes the inconveniences of old age, and here solicits from +the power of Love a warmth which he could no longer expect from Nature. + + + + + + +ODE XII. + + +They tell how Atys, wild with love, +Roams the mount and haunted grove;[1] +Cvbele's name he howls around, +The gloomy blast returns the sound! +Oft too, by Claros' hallowed spring,[2] +The votaries of the laurelled king +Quaff the inspiring, magic stream, +And rave in wild, prophetic dream. +But frenzied dreams are not for me, +Great Bacchus is my deity! +Full of mirth, and full of him, +While floating odors round me swim, +While mantling bowls are full supplied, +And you sit blushing by my side, +I will be mad and raving too-- +Mad, my girl, with love for you! + + +[1] There are many contradictory stories of the loves of Cybele and Atys. +It is certain that he was mutilated, but whether by his own fury, or +Cybele's jealousy, is a point upon which authors are not agreed. + +[2] This fountain was in a grove, consecrated to Apollo, and situated +between Colophon and Lebedos, in Ionia. The god had an oracle there. + + + + + + +ODE XIII. + + +I will, I will, the conflict's past, +And I'll consent to love at last. +Cupid has long, with smiling art, +Invited me to yield my heart; +And I have thought that peace of mind +Should not be for a smile resigned; +And so repelled the tender lure, +And hoped my heart would sleep secure. + +But, slighted in his boasted charms, +The angry infant flew to arms; +He slung his quiver's golden frame, +He took his bow; his shafts of flame, +And proudly summoned me to yield, +Or meet him on the martial field. +And what did I unthinking do? +I took to arms, undaunted, too; +Assumed the corslet, shield, and spear, +And, like Pelides, smiled at fear. + +Then (hear it, All ye powers above!) +I fought with Love! I fought with Love! +And now his arrows all were shed, +And I had just in terror fled-- +When, heaving an indignant sigh, +To see me thus unwounded fly, +And, having now no other dart, +He shot himself into my heart![1] +My heart--alas the luckless day! +Received the God, and died away. +Farewell, farewell, my faithless shield! +Thy lord at length is forced to yield. +Vain, vain, is every outward care, +The foe's within, and triumphs there. + + +[1] Dryden has parodied this thought in the following extravagant lines:-- + ----I'm all o'er Love; + Nay, I am Love, Love shot, and shot so fast, + He shot himself into my breast at last. + + + + + + +ODE XIV.[1] + + +Count me, on the summer trees, +Every leaf that courts the breeze; +Count me, on the foamy deep, +Every wave that sinks to sleep; +Then, when you have numbered these +Billowy tides and leafy trees, +Count me all the flames I prove, +All the gentle nymphs I love. +First, of pure Athenian maids +Sporting in their olive shades, +You may reckon just a score, +Nay, I'll grant you fifteen more. +In the famed Corinthian grove, +Where such countless wantons rove,[2] +Chains of beauties may be found, +Chains, by which my heart is bound; +There, indeed, are nymphs divine, +Dangerous to a soul like mine. +Many bloom in Lesbos' isle; +Many in Ionia smile; +Rhodes a pretty swarm can boast; +Caria too contains a host. +Sum them all--of brown and fair +You may count two thousand there. +What, you stare? I pray you peace! +More I'll find before I cease. +Have I told you all my flames, +'Mong the amorous Syrian dames? +Have I numbered every one, +Glowing under Egypt's sun? +Or the nymphs, who blushing sweet +Deck the shrine of Love in Crete; +Where the God, with festal play, +Holds eternal holiday? +Still in clusters, still remain +Gades' warm, desiring train:[3] +Still there lies a myriad more +On the sable India's shore; +These, and many far removed, +All are loving--all are loved! + + +[1] The poet, in this catalogue of his mistresses, means nothing more, +than, by a lively hyperbole, to inform us, that his heart, unfettered by +any one object, was warm with devotion towards the sex in general. Cowley +is indebted to this ode for the hint of his ballad, called "The +Chronicle." + +[2] Corinth was very famous for the beauty and number of its courtesans. +Venus was the deity principally worshipped by the people, and their +constant prayer was, that the gods should increase the number of her +worshippers. + +[3] The music of the Gaditanian females had all the voluptuous character +of their dancing, as appears from Martial. + + + + + + +ODE XV.[1] + + +Tell me, why, my sweetest dove, +Thus your humid pinions move, +Shedding through the air in showers +Essence of the balmiest flowers? +Tell me whither, whence you rove, +Tell me all, my sweetest dove. + +Curious stranger, I belong +To the bard of Teian song; +With his mandate now I fly +To the nymph of azure eye;-- +She, whose eye has maddened many, +But the poet more than any, +Venus, for a hymn of love, +Warbled in her votive grove,[2] +('Twas, in sooth a gentle lay,) +Gave me to the bard away. +See me now his faithful minion,-- +Thus with softly-gliding pinion, +To his lovely girl I bear +Songs of passion through the air. +Oft he blandly whispers me, +"Soon, my bird, I'll set you free." +But in vain he'll bid me fly, +I shall serve him till I die. +Never could my plumes sustain +Ruffling winds and chilling rain, +O'er the plains, or in the dell, +On the mountain's savage swell, +Seeking in the desert wood +Gloomy shelter, rustic food. +Now I lead a life of ease, +Far from rugged haunts like these. +From Anacreon's hand I eat +Food delicious, viands sweet; +Flutter o'er his goblet's brim, +Sip the foamy wine with him. +Then, when I have wantoned round +To his lyre's beguiling sound; +Or with gently moving-wings +Fanned the minstrel while he sings; +On his harp I sink in slumbers, +Dreaming still of dulcet numbers! + +This is all--away--away-- +You have made me waste the day. +How I've chattered! prating crow +Never yet did chatter so. + + +[1] The dove of Anacreon, bearing a letter from the poet to his mistress, +is met by a stranger, with whom this dialogue, is imagined. + +[2] "This passage is invaluable, and I do not think that anything so +beautiful or so delicate has ever been said. What an idea does it give of +the poetry of the man, from whom Venus herself, the mother of the Graces +and the Pleasures, purchases a little hymn with one of her favorite +doves!"--LONGEPIERRE. + + + + + + +ODE XVI.[1] + + +Thou, whose soft and rosy hues +Mimic form and soul infuse, +Best of painters, come portray +The lovely maid that's far away. +Far away, my soul! thou art, +But I've thy beauties all by heart. +Paint her jetty ringlets playing, +Silky locks, like tendrils straying;[2] +And, if painting hath the skill +To make the spicy balm distil, +Let every little lock exhale +A sigh of perfume on the gale. +Where her tresses' curly flow +Darkles o'er the brow of snow, +Let her forehead beam to light, +Burnished as the ivory bright. +Let her eyebrows smoothly rise +In jetty arches o'er her eyes, +Each, a crescent gently gliding, +Just commingling, just dividing. + +But, hast thou any sparkles warm, +The lightning of her eyes to form? +Let them effuse the azure rays, +That in Minerva's glances blaze, +Mixt with the liquid light that lies +In Cytherea's languid eyes. +O'er her nose and cheek be shed +Flushing white and softened red; +Mingling tints, as when there glows +In snowy milk the bashful rose. +Then her lip, so rich in blisses, +Sweet petitioner for kisses, +Rosy nest, where lurks Persuasion, +Mutely courting Love's invasion. +Next, beneath the velvet chin, +Whose dimple hides a Love within, +Mould her neck with grace descending, +In a heaven of beauty ending; +While countless charms, above, below, +Sport and flutter round its snow. +Now let a floating, lucid veil, +Shadow her form, but not conceal;[3] +A charm may peep, a hue may beam +And leave the rest to Fancy's dream. +Enough--'tis she! 'tis all I seek; +It glows, it lives, it soon will speak! + + +[1] This ode and the next may be called companion-pictures; they are +highly finished, and give us an excellent idea of the taste of the +ancients in beauty. + +[2] The ancients have been very enthusiastic in their praises of the +beauty of hair. Apuleius, in the second book of his Milesiacs, says that +Venus herself, if she were bald, though surrounded by the Graces and the +Loves, could not be pleasing even to her husband Vulcan. + +[3] This delicate art of description, which leaves imagination to complete +the picture, has been seldom adopted in the imitations of this beautiful +poem. Ronsard is exceptionally minute; and Politianus, in his charming +portrait of a girl, full of rich and exquisite diction, has lifted the +veil rather too much. The "_questa che tu m'intendi_" should be always +left to fancy. + + + + + + +ODE XVII. + + +And now with all thy pencil's truth, +Portray Bathyllus, lovely youth! +Let his hair, in masses bright, +Fall like floating rays of light; +And there the raven's die confuse +With the golden sunbeam's hues. +Let no wreath, with artful twine. +The flowing of his locks confine; +But leave them loose to every breeze, +To take what shape and course they please. +Beneath the forehead, fair as snow, +But flushed with manhood's early glow, +And guileless as the dews of dawn, +Let the majestic brows be drawn, +Of ebon hue, enriched by gold, +Such as dark, shining snakes unfold. +Mix in his eyes the power alike, +With love to win, with awe to strike; +Borrow from Mars his look of ire, +From Venus her soft glance of fire; +Blend them in such expression here, +That we by turns may hope and fear! + +Now from the sunny apple seek +The velvet down that spreads his cheek; +And there, if art so far can go, +The ingenuous blush of boyhood show. +While, for his mouth--but no,--in vain +Would words its witching charm explain. +Make it the very seat, the throne, +That Eloquence would claim her own; +And let the lips, though silent, wear +A life-look, as if words were there. + +Next thou his ivory neck must trace, +Moulded with soft but manly grace; +Fair as the neck of Paphia's boy, +Where Paphia's arms have hung in joy. +Give him the wingèd Hermes' hand, +With which he waves his snaky wand; +Let Bacchus the broad chest supply, +And Leda's son the sinewy thigh; +While, through his whole transparent frame, +Thou show'st the stirrings of that flame, +Which kindles, when the first love-sigh +Steals from the heart, unconscious why. + +But sure thy pencil, though so bright, +Is envious of the eye's delight, +Or its enamoured touch would show +The shoulder, fair as sunless snow, +Which now in veiling shadow lies, +Removed from all but Fancy's eyes. +Now, for his feet--but hold--forbear-- +I see the sun-god's portrait there:[1] +Why paint Bathyllus? when in truth, +There, in that god, thou'st sketched the youth. +Enough--let this bright form be mine, +And send the boy to Samos' shrine; +Phoebus shall then Bathyllus be, +Bathyllus then, the deity! + + +[1] The abrupt turn here is spirited, but requires some explanation. While +the artist is pursuing the portrait of Bathyllus, Anacreon, we must +suppose, turns around and sees a picture of Apollo, which was intended for +an altar at Samos. He then instantly tells the painter to cease his work; +that this picture will serve for Bathyllus; and that, when he goes to +Samos, he may make an Apollo of the portrait of the boy which he had +begun. + + + + + + +ODE XVIII. + + +Now the star of day is high, +Fly, my girls, in pity fly. +Bring me wine in brimming urns +Cool my lip, it burns, it burns! +Sunned by the meridian fire, +Panting, languid I expire, +Give me all those humid flowers, +Drop them o'er my brow in showers. +Scarce a breathing chaplet now +Lives upon my feverish brow; +Every dewy rose I wear +Sheds its tears, and withers there.[1] +But to you, my burning heart, +What can now relief impart? +Can brimming bowl, or floweret's dew, +Cool the flame that scorches you? + + +[1] In the poem of Mr. Sheridan's, "Uncouth is this moss-covered grotto of +stone," there is an idea very singularly coincident with this of +Angerianus:-- + + And thou, stony grot, in thy arch may'st preserve + Some lingering drops of the night-fallen dew: + Let them fall on her bosom of snow, and they'll serve + As tears of my sorrow entrusted to you. + + + + + + +ODE XIX.[1] + + +Here recline you, gentle maid, +Sweet is this embowering shade; +Sweet the young, the modest trees, +Ruffled by the kissing breeze; +Sweet the little founts that weep, +Lulling soft the mind to sleep; +Hark! they whisper as they roll, +Calm persuasion to the soul; +Tell me, tell me, is not this +All a stilly scene of bliss? +"Who, my girl, would pass it by? +Surely neither you nor I." + + +[1] The description of this bower is so natural and animated, that we +almost feel a degree of coolness and freshness while we peruse it. + + + + + + +ODE XX.[1] + + +One day the Muses twined the hands +Of infant Love with flowery bands; +And to celestial Beauty gave +The captive infant for her slave. +His mother comes, with many a toy, +To ransom her beloved boy;[2] +His mother sues, but all in vain,-- +He ne'er will leave his chains again. +Even should they take his chains away, +The little captive still would stay. +"If this," he cries, "a bondage be, +Oh, who could wish for liberty?" + + +[1] The poet appears, in this graceful allegory, to describe the softening +influence which poetry holds over the mind, in making it peculiarly +susceptible to the impressions of beauty. + +[2] In the first idyl of Moschus, Venus there proclaims the reward for her +fugitive child:-- + + On him, who the haunts of my Cupid can show, + A kiss of the tenderest stamp I'll bestow; + But he, who can bring back the urchin in chains, + Shall receive even something more sweet for his pains. + + + + + + +ODE XXI.[1] + + +Observe when mother earth is dry, +She drinks the droppings of the sky; +And then the dewy cordial gives +To every thirsty plant that lives. +The vapors, which at evening weep, +Are beverage to the swelling deep; +And when the rosy sun appears, +He drinks the ocean's misty tears. +The moon too quaffs her paly stream +Of lustre, from the solar beam. +Then, hence with all your sober thinking! +Since Nature's holy law is drinking; +I'll make the laws of nature mine, +And pledge the universe in wine. + + +[1] Those critics who have endeavored to throw the chains of precision +over the spirit of this beautiful trifle, require too much from +Anacreontic philosophy. Among others, Gail very sapiently thinks that the +poet uses the epithet [Greek: melainae], because black earth absorbs +moisture more quickly than any other; and accordingly he indulges us with +an experimental disquisition on the subject.--See Gail's Notes. + + + + + + +ODE XXII. + + +The Phrygian rock, that braves the storm, +Was once a weeping matron's form;[1] +And Progne, hapless, frantic maid, +Is now a swallow in the shade. +Oh! that a mirror's form were mine, +That I might catch that smile divine; +And like my own fond fancy be, +Reflecting thee, and only thee; +Or could I be the robe which holds +That graceful form within its folds; +Or, turned into a fountain, lave +Thy beauties in my circling wave. +Would I were perfume for thy hair, +To breathe my soul in fragrance there; +Or, better still, the zone, that lies +Close to thy breast, and feels its sighs![2] +Or even those envious pearls that show +So faintly round that neck of snow-- +Yes, I would be a happy gem, +Like them to hang, to fade like them. +What more would thy Anacreon be? +Oh, any thing that touches thee; +Nay, sandals for those airy feet-- +Even to be trod by them were sweet! + + +[1] The compliment of this ode is exquisitely delicate, and so singular +for the period in which Anacreon lived, when the scale of love had not yet +been graduated Into all its little progressive refinements, that if we +were inclined to question the authenticity of the poem, we should find a +much more plausible argument in the features of modern gallantry which it +bears, than in any of those fastidious conjectures upon which some +commentators have presumed so far. + +[2] The women of Greece not only wore this zone, but condemned themselves +to fasting, and made use of certain drugs and powders for the same +purpose. To these expedients they were compelled, in consequence of their +inelegant fashion of compressing the waist into a very narrow compass, +which necessarily caused an excessive tumidity in the bosom. See +"Dioscorides," lib. v. + + + + + + +ODE XXIII. + + +I often wish this languid lyre, +This warbler of my soul's desire, +Could raise the breath of song sublime, +To men of fame, in former time. +But when the soaring theme I try, +Along the chords my numbers die, +And whisper, with dissolving tone, +"Our sighs are given to love alone!" +Indignant at the feeble lay, +I tore the panting chords away, +Attuned them to a nobler swell, +And struck again the breathing shell; +In all the glow of epic fire, +To Hercules I wake the lyre, +But still its fainting sighs repeat, +"The tale of love alone is sweet!" +Then fare thee well, seductive dream, +That madest me follow Glory's theme; +For thou my lyre, and thou my heart, +Shall never more in spirit part; +And all that one has felt so well +The other shall as sweetly tell! + + + + + + +ODE XXIV. + + +To all that breathe the air of heaven, +Some boon of strength has Nature given. +In forming the majestic bull, +She fenced with wreathed horns his skull; +A hoof of strength she lent the steed, +And winged the timorous hare with speed. +She gave the lion fangs of terror, +And, o'er the ocean's crystal mirror, +Taught the unnumbered scaly throng +To trace their liquid path along; +While for the umbrage of the grove, +She plumed the warbling world of love. + +To man she gave, in that proud hour, +The boon of intellectual power. +Then, what, oh woman, what, for thee, +Was left in Nature's treasury? +She gave thee beauty--mightier far +Than all the pomp and power of war. +Nor steel, nor fire itself hath power +Like woman, in her conquering hour. +Be thou but fair, mankind adore thee, +Smile, and a world is weak before thee![1] + + +[1] Longepierre's remark here is ingenious; "The Romans," says he, "were +so convinced of the power of beauty, that they used a word implying +strength in the place of the epithet beautiful". + + + + + + +ODE XXV. + + +Once in each revolving year, +Gentle bird! we find thee here. +When Nature wears her summer-vest, +Thou comest to weave thy simple nest; +But when the chilling winter lowers. +Again thou seekest the genial bowers +Of Memphis, or the shores of Nile, +Where sunny hours for ever smile. +And thus thy pinion rests and roves,-- +Alas! unlike the swarm of Loves, +That brood within this hapless breast, +And never, never change their nest! +Still every year, and all the year, +They fix their fated dwelling here; +And some their infant plumage try, +And on a tender winglet fly; +While in the shell, impregned with fires, +Still lurk a thousand more desires; +Some from their tiny prisons peeping, +And some in formless embryo sleeping. +Thus peopled, like the vernal groves, +My breast resounds, with warbling Loves; +One urchin imps the other's feather, +Then twin-desires they wing together, +And fast as they thus take their flight, +Still other urchins spring to light. +But is there then no kindly art, +To chase these Cupids from my heart; +Ah, no! I fear, in sadness fear, +They will for ever nestle here! + + + + + + +ODE XXVI. + + +Thy harp may sing of Troy's alarms, +Or tell the tale of Theban arms; +With other wars my song shall burn, +For other wounds my harp shall mourn. +'Twas not the crested warrior's dart, +That drank the current of my heart; +Nor naval arms, nor mailed steed, +Have made this vanquished bosom bleed; +No--'twas from eyes of liquid blue, +A host of quivered Cupids flew;[1] +And now my heart all bleeding lies +Beneath that army of the eyes! + + +[1] The poets abound with conceits on the archery of the eyes, but few +have turned the thought so naturally as Anacreon. Ronsard gives to the +eyes of his mistress _un petit camp d'amours_. + + + + + + +ODE XXVII. + + +We read the flying courser's name +Upon his side, in marks of flame; +And, by their turbaned brows alone, +The warriors of the East are known. +But in the lover's glowing eyes, +The inlet to his bosom lies; +Through them we see the small faint mark, +Where Love has dropt his burning spark! + + + + + + +ODE XXVIII. + + +As, by his Lemnian forge's flame, +The husband of the Paphian dame +Moulded the glowing steel, to form +Arrows for Cupid, thrilling warm; +And Venus, as he plied his art, +Shed honey round each new-made dart, +While Love, at hand, to finish all, +Tipped every arrow's point with gall; +It chanced the Lord of Battles came +To visit that deep cave of flame. +'Twas from the ranks of war he rushed, +His spear with many a life-drop blushed; +He saw the fiery darts, and smiled +Contemptuous at the archer-child. +"What!" said the urchin, "dost thou smile? +Here, hold this little dart awhile, +And thou wilt find, though swift of flight, +My bolts are not so feathery light." + + Mars took the shaft--and, oh, thy look, +Sweet Venus, when the shaft he took!-- +Sighing, he felt the urchin's art, +And cried, in agony of heart, +"It is not light--I sink with pain! +Take--take thy arrow back again." +"No," said the child, "it must not be; +That little dart was made for thee!" + + + + + + +ODE XXIX. + + +Yes--loving is a painful thrill, +And not to love more painful still +But oh, it is the worst of pain, +To love and not be loved again! +Affection now has fled from earth, +Nor fire of genius, noble birth, +Nor heavenly virtue, can beguile, +From beauty's cheek one favoring smile. +Gold is the woman's only theme, +Gold is the woman's only dream. +Oh! never be that wretch forgiven-- +Forgive him not, indignant heaven! +Whose grovelling eyes could first adore, +Whose heart could pant for sordid ore. +Since that devoted thirst began, +Man has forgot to feel for man; +The pulse of social life is dead, +And all its fonder feelings fled! +War too has sullied Nature's charms, +For gold provokes the world to arms; +And oh! the worst of all its arts, +It renders asunder loving hearts. + + + + + + +ODE XXX.[1] + + +'Twas in a mocking dream of night-- +I fancied I had wings as light +As a young birds, and flew as fleet; +While Love, around whose beauteous feet, +I knew not why, hung chains of lead, +Pursued me, as I trembling fled; +And, strange to say, as swift as thought, +Spite of my pinions, I was caught! +What does the wanton Fancy mean +By such a strange, illusive scene? +I fear she whispers to my breast, +That you, sweet maid, have stolen its rest; +That though my fancy, for a while, +Hath hung on many a woman's smile, +I soon dissolved each passing vow, +And ne'er was caught by love till now! + + +[1] Barnes imagines from this allegory, that our poet married very late in +life. But I see nothing in the ode which alludes to matrimony, except it +be the lead upon the feet of Cupid; and I agree in the opinion of Madame +Dacier, in her life of the poet, that he was always too fond of pleasure +to marry. + + + + + + +ODE XXXI.[1] + + +Armed with hyacinthine rod, +(Arms enough for such a god,) +Cupid bade me wing my pace, +And try with him the rapid race. +O'er many a torrent, wild and deep, +By tangled brake and pendent steep. +With weary foot I panting flew, +Till my brow dropt with chilly dew. +And now my soul, exhausted, dying, +To my lip was faintly flying; +And now I thought the spark had fled, +When Cupid hovered o'er my head, +And fanning light his breezy pinion, +Rescued my soul from death's dominion;[2] +Then said, in accents half-reproving. +"Why hast thou been a foe to loving?" + + +[1] The design of this little fiction is to intimate, that much greater +pain attends insensibility than can ever result from the tenderest +impressions of love. + +[2] "The facility with which Cupid recovers him, signifies that the sweets +of love make us easily forget any solicitudes which he may occasion."--LA +FOSSE. + + + + + + +ODE XXXII.[1] + + +Strew me a fragrant bed of leaves, +Where lotus with the myrtle weaves; +And while in luxury's dream I sink, +Let me the balm of Bacchus drink! +In this sweet hour of revelry +Young Love shall my attendant be-- +Drest for the task, with tunic round +His snowy neck and shoulders bound, +Himself shall hover by my side, +And minister the racy tide! + + Oh, swift as wheels that kindling roll, +Our life is hurrying to the goal; +A scanty dust, to feed the wind, +Is all the trace 'twill leave behind. +Then wherefore waste the rose's bloom +Upon the cold, insensate tomb? +Can flowery breeze, or odor's breath, +Affect the still, cold sense of death? +Oh no; I ask no balm to steep +With fragrant tears my bed of sleep: +But now, while every pulse is glowing, +Now let me breathe the balsam flowing; +Now let the rose, with blush of fire, +Upon my brow in sweets expire; +And bring the nymph whose eye hath power +To brighten even death's cold hour. +Yes, Cupid! ere my shade retire, +To join the blest elysian choir; +With wine, and love, and social cheer, +I'll make my own elysium here! + + +[1] We here have the poet, in his true attributes, reclining upon myrtles, +with Cupid for his cup-bearer. Some interpreters have ruined the picture +by making [Greek: Eros] the name of his slave. None but Love should fill +the goblet of Anacreon. Sappho, in one of her fragments, has assigned this +office to Venus. + + Hither, Venus, queen of kisses. + This shall be the night of blisses; + This the night, to friendship dear. + Thou shalt be our Hebe here. + Fill the golden brimmer high, + Let it sparkle like thine eye; + Bid the rosy current gush. + Let it mantle like thy blush. + Goddess, hast thou e'er above + Seen a feast so rich in love? + Not a soul that is not mine! + Not a soul that is not thine! + + + + + + +ODE XXXIII. + + +'Twas noon of night, when round the pole +The sullen Bear is seen to roll; +And mortals, wearied with the day, +Are slumbering all their cares away; +An infant, at that dreary hour, +Came weeping to my silent bower, +And waked me with a piteous prayer, +To shield him from the midnight air. +"And who art thou," I waking cry, +"That bid'st my blissful visions fly?" +"Ah, gentle sire!" the infant said, +"In pity take me to thy shed; +Nor fear deceit; a lonely child +I wander o'er the gloomy wild. +Chill drops the rain, and not a ray +Illumes the drear and misty way!" + + I heard the baby's tale of woe: +I heard the bitter night-winds blow; +And sighing for his piteous fate, +I trimmed my lamp and oped the gate. +'Twas Love! the little wandering sprite, +His pinion sparkled through the night, +I knew him by his bow and dart; +I knew him by my fluttering heart. +Fondly I take him in, and raise +The dying embers' cheering blaze; +Press from his dank and clinging hair +The crystals of the freezing air, +And in my hand and bosom hold +His little fingers thrilling cold. + + And now the embers' genial ray, +Had warmed his anxious fears away; +"I pray thee," said the wanton child, +(My bosom trembled as he smiled,) +"I pray thee let me try my bow, +For through the rain I've wandered so, +That much I fear the midnight shower +Has injured its elastic power." +The fatal bow the urchin drew; +Swift from the string the arrow flew; +As swiftly flew as glancing flame, +And to my inmost spirit came! +"Fare thee well," I heard him say +As laughing wild he winged away, +"Fare thee well, for now I know +The rain has not relaxt my bow; +It still can send a thrilling dart, +As thou shalt own with all thy heart!" + + + + + + +ODE XXXIV.[1] + + +Oh thou, of all creation blest, +Sweet insect, that delight'st to rest +Upon the wild wood's leafy tops, +To drink the dew that morning drops, +And chirp thy song with such a glee, +That happiest kings may envy thee. +Whatever decks the velvet field, +Whate'er the circling seasons yield, +Whatever buds, whatever blows, +For thee it buds, for thee it grows. +Nor yet art thou the peasant's fear, +To him thy friendly notes are dear; +For thou art mild as matin dew; +And still, when summer's flowery hue +Begins to paint the bloomy plain, +We hear thy sweet prophetic strain; +Thy sweet prophetic strain we hear, +And bless the notes and thee revere! +The Muses love thy shrilly tone; +Apollo calls thee all his own; +'Twas he who gave that voice to thee, +'Tis he who tunes thy minstrelsy. + + Unworn by age's dim decline, +The fadeless blooms of youth are thine. +Melodious insect, child of earth, +In wisdom mirthful, wise in mirth; +Exempt from every weak decay, +That withers vulgar frames away; +With not a drop of blood to stain, +The current of thy purer vein; +So blest an age is past by thee, +Thou seem'st--a little deity! + + +[1] In a Latin ode addressed to the grasshopper, Rapin has preserved some +of the thoughts of our author:-- + + Oh thou, that on the grassy bed + Which Nature's vernal hand has spread, + Reclinest soft, and tunest thy song, + The dewy herbs and leaves among! + Whether thou lyest on springing flowers + Drunk with the balmy morning-showers + Or, etc. + + + + + + +ODE XXXV.[1] + + +Cupid once upon a bed +Of roses laid his weary head; +Luckless urchin not to see +Within the leaves a slumbering bee; +The bee awaked--with anger wild +The bee awaked, and stung the child. +Loud and piteous are his cries; +To Venus quick he runs, he flies; +"Oh mother!--I am wounded through-- +I die with pain--in sooth I do! +Stung by some little angry thing, +Some serpent on a tiny wing-- +A bee it was--for once, I know, +I heard a rustic call it so." +Thus he spoke, and she the while, +Heard him with a soothing smile; +Then said, "My infant, if so much +Thou feel the little wild-bee's touch, +How must the heart, ah, Cupid be, +The hapless heart that's stung by thee!" + + +[1] Theocritus has imitated this beautiful ode in his nineteenth idyl; but +is very inferior, I think, to his original, in delicacy of point and +naïveté of expression. Spenser, in one of his smaller compositions, has +sported more diffusely on the same subject. The poem to which I allude +begins thus:-- + + Upon a day, as Love lay sweetly slumbering + All in his mother's lap; + A gentle bee, with his loud trumpet murmuring, + About him flew by hap, etc. + + + + + + +ODE XXXVI.[1] + + +If hoarded gold possest the power +To lengthen life's too fleeting hour, +And purchase from the hand of death +A little span, a moment's breath, +How I would love the precious ore! +And every hour should swell my store; +That when death came, with shadowy pinion, +To waft me to his bleak dominion, +I might, by bribes, my doom delay, +And bid him call some distant day. +But, since not all earth's golden store +Can buy for us one bright hour more, +Why should we vainly mourn our fate, +Or sigh at life's uncertain date? +Nor wealth nor grandeur can illume +The silent midnight of the tomb. +No--give to others hoarded treasures-- +Mine be the brilliant round of pleasures-- +The goblet rich, the board of friends, +Whose social souls the goblet blends;[2] +And mine, while yet I've life to live, +Those joys that love alone can give. + + +[1] Fontenelle has translated this ode, in his dialogue between Anacreon +and Aristotle in the shades, where, on weighing the merits of both these +personages, he bestows the prize of wisdom upon the poet. + +[2] The goblet rich, the board of friends. + Whose social soul the goblet blends. + +This communion Of friendship, which sweetened the bowl of Anacreon, has +not been forgotten by the author of the following scholium, where the +blessings of life are enumerated with proverbial simplicity: + + Of mortal blessing here the first is health, + And next those charms by which the eye we move; + The third is wealth, unwounding guiltless wealth, + And then, sweet intercourse with those we love! + + + + + + +ODE XXXVII. + + +'Twas night, and many a circling bowl +Had deeply warmed my thirsty soul; +As lulled in slumber I was laid, +Bright visions o'er my fancy played. +With maidens, blooming as the dawn, +I seemed to skim the opening lawn; +Light, on tiptoe bathed in dew, +We flew, and sported as we flew! + + Some ruddy striplings, who lookt on-- +With cheeks that like the wine-god's shone, +Saw me chasing, free and wild, +These blooming maids, and slyly smiled; +Smiled indeed with wanton glee, +Though none could doubt they envied me. +And still I flew--and now had caught +The panting nymphs, and fondly thought +To gather from each rosy lip +A kiss that Jove himself might sip-- +When sudden all my dream of joys, +Blushing nymphs and laughing boys, +All were gone!--"Alas!" I said, +Sighing for the illusion fled, +"Again, sweet sleep, that scene restore, +Oh! let me dream it o'er and o'er!"[1] + + +[1] Dr. Johnson, in his preface to Shakespeare, animadverting upon the +commentators of that poet, who pretended, in every little coincidence of +thought, to detect an imitation of some ancient poet, alludes in the +following words to the line of Anacreon before us: "I have been told that +when Caliban, after a pleasing dream says, 'I cried to sleep again,' the +author imitates Anacreon, who had, like any other man, the same wish on +the same occasion." + + + + + + +ODE XXXVIII. + + +Let us drain the nectared bowl, +Let us raise the song of soul +To him, the god who loves so well +The nectared bowl, the choral swell; +The god who taught the sons of earth +To thread the tangled dance of mirth; +Him, who was nurst with infant Love, +And cradled in the Paphian grove; +Him, that the Snowy Queen of Charms +So oft has fondled in her arms. +Oh 'tis from him the transport flows, +Which sweet intoxication knows; +With him, the brow forgets its gloom, +And brilliant graces learn to bloom. + + Behold!--my boys a goblet bear, +Whose sparkling foam lights up the air. +Where are now the tear, the sigh? +To the winds they fly, they fly! +Grasp the bowl; in nectar sinking, +Man of sorrow, drown thy thinking! +Say, can the tears we lend to thought +In life's account avail us aught? +Can we discern with all our lore, +The path we've yet to journey o'er? +Alas, alas, in ways so dark, +'Tis only wine can strike a spark! + +Then let me quaff the foamy tide, +And through the dance meandering glide; +Let me imbibe the spicy breath +Of odors chafed to fragrant death; +Or from the lips of love inhale +A more ambrosial, richer gale! +To hearts that court the phantom Care, +Let him retire and shroud him there; +While we exhaust the nectared bowl, +And swell the choral song of soul +To him, the god who loves so well +The nectared bowl, the choral swell! + + + + + + +ODE XXXIX. + + +How I love the festive boy, +Tripping through the dance of joy! +How I love the mellow sage, +Smiling through the veil of age! +And whene'er this man of years +In the dance of joy appears, +Snows may o'er his head be flung, +But his heart--his heart is young. + + + + + + +ODE XL. + + +I know that Heaven hath sent me here, +To run this mortal life's career; +The scenes which I have journeyed o'er, +Return no more--alas! no more! +And all the path I've yet to go, +I neither know nor ask to know. +Away, then, wizard Care, nor think +Thy fetters round this soul to link; +Never can heart that feels with me +Descend to be a slave to thee! +And oh! before the vital thrill, +Which trembles at my heart is still, +I'll gather Joy's luxuriant flowers, +And gild with bliss my fading hours; +Bacchus shall bid my winter bloom, +And Venus dance me to the tomb! + + + + + + +ODE XLI. + +When Spring adorns the dewy scene, +How sweet to walk the velvet green, +And hear the west wind's gentle sighs, +As o'er the scented mead it flies! +How sweet to mark the pouting vine, +Ready to burst in tears of wine; +And with some maid, who breathes but love, +To walk, at noontide, through the grove, +Or sit in some cool, green recess-- +Oh, is this not true happiness? + + + + + + +ODE XLII.[1] + + +Yes, be the glorious revel mine, +Where humor sparkles from the wine. +Around me, let the youthful choir +Respond to my enlivening lyre; +And while the red cup foams along, +Mingle in soul as well as song. +Then, while I sit, with flowerets crowned, +To regulate the goblets round. +Let but the nymph, our banquet's pride, +Be seated smiling by my side, +And earth has not a gift or power +That I would envy, in that hour. +Envy!--oh never let its blight +Touch the gay hearts met here tonight. +Far hence be slander's sidelong wounds, +Nor harsh dispute, nor discord's sounds +Disturb a scene, where all should be +Attuned to peace and harmony. + + Come, let us hear the harp's gay note +Upon the breeze inspiring float, +While round us, kindling into love, +Young maidens through the light dance move. +Thus blest with mirth, and love, and peace, +Sure such a life should never cease! + + +[1] The character of Anacreon is here very strikingly depicted. His love +of social, harmonized pleasures, is expressed with a warmth, amiable and +endearing. + + + + + + +ODE XLIII. + + +While our rosy fillets shed +Freshness o'er each fervid head, +With many a cup and many a smile +The festal moments we beguile. +And while the harp, impassioned flings +Tuneful rapture from its strings,[1] +Some airy nymph, with graceful bound, +Keeps measure to the music's sound; +Waving, in her snowy hand, +The leafy Bacchanalian wand, +Which, as the tripping wanton flies, +Trembles all over to her sighs. +A youth the while, with loosened hair, +Floating on the listless air, +Sings, to the wild harp's tender tone, +A tale of woe, alas, his own; +And oh, the sadness in his sigh. +As o'er his lips the accents die! +Never sure on earth has been +Half so bright, so blest a scene. +It seems as Love himself had come +To make this spot his chosen home;--[2] +And Venus, too, with all her wiles, +And Bacchus, shedding rosy smiles, +All, all are here, to hail with me +The Genius of Festivity! + + +[1] Respecting the barbiton a host of authorities may be collected, which, +after all, leave us ignorant of the nature of the instrument. There is +scarcely any point upon which we are so totally uninformed as the music of +the ancients. The authors extant upon the subject are, I imagine, little +understood; and certainly if one of their moods was a progression by +quarter-tones, which we are told was the nature of the enharmonic scale, +simplicity was by no means the characteristic of their melody; for this is +a nicety of progression of which modern music is not susceptible. The +invention of the barbiton is, by Athenaeus, attributed to Anacreon. + +[2] The introduction of these deities to the festival is merely +allegorical. Madame Dacier thinks that the poet describes a masquerade, +where these deities were personated by the company in masks. The +translation will conform with either idea. + + + + + + +ODE XLIV.[1] + + +Buds of roses, virgin flowers, +Culled from Cupid's balmy bowers, +In the bowl of Bacchus steep, +Till with crimson drops they weep. +Twine the rose, the garland twine, +Every leaf distilling wine; +Drink and smile, and learn to think +That we were born to smile and drink. +Rose, thou art the sweetest flower +That ever drank the amber shower; +Rose, thou art the fondest child +Of dimpled Spring, the wood-nymph wild. +Even the Gods, who walk the sky, +Are amorous of thy scented sigh. +Cupid, too, in Paphian shades, +His hair with rosy fillets braids, +When with the blushing sister Graces, +The wanton winding dance he traces. +Then bring me, showers of roses bring, +And shed them o'er me while I sing. +Or while, great Bacchus, round thy shrine, +Wreathing my brow with rose and vine, +I lead some bright nymph through the dance, +Commingling soul with every glance! + + +[1] This spirited poem is a eulogy on the rose; and again, in the fifty- +fifth ode, we shall find our author rich in the praises of that flower. In +a fragment of Sappho, in the romance of Achilles Tatius, to which Barnes +refers us, the rose is fancifully styled "the eye of flowers;" and the +same poetess, in another fragment, calls the favors of the Muse "the roses +of the Pleria." + + + + + + +ODE XLV. + + +Within this goblet, rich and deep, +I cradle all my woes to sleep. +Why should we breathe the sigh of fear, +Or pour the unavailing tear? +For death will never heed the sigh, +Nor soften at the tearful eye; +And eyes that sparkle, eyes that weep, +Must all alike be sealed in sleep. +Then let us never vainly stray, +In search of thorns, from pleasure's way; +But wisely quaff the rosy wave, +Which Bacchus loves, which Bacchus gave; +And in the goblet, rich and deep, +Cradle our crying woes to sleep. + + + + + + +ODE XLVI.[1] + + +Behold, the young, the rosy Spring, +Gives to the breeze her scented wing: +While virgin Graces, warm with May; +Fling roses o'er her dewy way. +The murmuring billows of the deep +Have languished into silent sleep; +And mark! the flitting sea-birds lave +Their plumes in the reflecting wave; +While cranes from hoary winter fly +To flutter in a kinder sky. +Now the genial star of day +Dissolves the murky clouds away; +And cultured field, and winding stream, +Are freshly glittering in his beam. + + Now the earth prolific swells +With leafy buds and flowery bells; +Gemming shoots the olive twine, +Clusters ripe festoon the vine; +All along the branches creeping, +Through the velvet foliage peeping, +Little infant fruits we see, +Nursing into luxury. + + +[1] The fastidious affectation of some commentators has denounced this ode +as spurious. Degen pronounces the four last lines to be the patch-work of +some miserable versificator, and Brunck condemns the whole ode. It appears +to me, on the contrary, to be elegantly graphical: full of delicate +expressions and luxuriant imagery. + + + + + + +ODE XLVII. + + +'Tis true, my fading years decline, +Yet can I quaff the brimming wine, +As deep as any stripling fair, +Whose cheeks the flush of morning wear; +And if, amidst the wanton crew, +I'm called to wind the dance's clue, +Then shalt thou see this vigorous hand, +Not faltering on the Bacchant's wand, +But brandishing a rosy flask, +The only thyrsus e'er I'll ask![1] + + Let those, who pant for Glory's charms, +Embrace her in the field of arms; +While my inglorious, placid soul +Breathes not a wish beyond this bowl. +Then fill it high, my ruddy slave, +And bathe me in its brimming wave. +For though my fading years decay, +Though manhood's prime hath past away, +Like old Silenus, sire divine, +With blushes borrowed from my wine. +I'll wanton mid the dancing train, +And live my follies o'er again! + + +[1] Phornutus assigns as a reason for the consecration of the thyrsus to +Bacchus, that inebriety often renders the support of a stick very +necessary. + + + + + + +ODE XLVIII. + + +When my thirsty soul I steep, +Every sorrow's lulled to sleep. +Talk of monarchs! I am then +Richest, happiest, first of men; +Careless o'er my cup I sing, +Fancy makes me more than king; +Gives me wealthy Croesus' store, +Can I, can I wish for more? +On my velvet couch reclining, +Ivy leaves my brow entwining,[1] +While my soul expands with glee, +What are kings and crowns to me? +If before my feet they lay, +I would spurn them all away; +Arm ye, arm ye, men of might, +Hasten to the sanguine fight; +But let _me_, my budding vine! +Spill no other blood than thine. +Yonder brimming goblet see, +That alone shall vanquish me-- +Who think it better, wiser far +To fall in banquet than in war, + + +[1] "The ivy was consecrated to Bacchus [says Montfaucon], because he +formerly lay hid under that tree, or as others will have it, because its +leaves resemble those of the vine." Other reasons for its consecration, +and the use of it in garlands at banquets, may be found in Longepierre, +Barnes, etc. + + + + + + +ODE XLIX. + + +When Bacchus, Jove's immortal boy, +The rosy harbinger of joy, +Who, with the sunshine of the bowl, +Thaws the winter of our soul-- +When to my inmost core he glides, +And bathes it with his ruby tides, +A flow of joy, a lively heat, +Fires my brain, and wings my feet, +Calling up round me visions known +To lovers of the bowl alone. + + Sing, sing of love, let music's sound +In melting cadence float around, +While, my young Venus, thou and I +Responsive to its murmurs sigh. +Then, waking from our blissful trance, +Again we'll sport, again we'll dance. + + + + + + +ODE L.[1] + + +When wine I quaff, before my eyes +Dreams of poetic glory rise;[2] +And freshened by the goblet's dews, +My soul invokes the heavenly Muse, +When wine I drink, all sorrow's o'er; +I think of doubts and fears no more; +But scatter to the railing wind +Each gloomy phantom of the mind. +When I drink wine, the ethereal boy, +Bacchus himself, partakes my joy; +And while we dance through vernal bowers, +Whose every breath comes fresh from flowers, +In wine he makes my senses swim, +Till the gale breathes of naught but him! + + Again I drink,--and, lo, there seems +A calmer light to fill my dreams; +The lately ruffled wreath I spread +With steadier hand around my head; +Then take the lyre, and sing "how blest +The life of him who lives at rest!" +But then comes witching wine again, +With glorious woman in its train; +And, while rich perfumes round me rise, +That seem the breath of woman's sighs, +Bright shapes, of every hue and form. +Upon my kindling fancy swarm, +Till the whole world of beauty seems +To crowd into my dazzled dreams! +When thus I drink, my heart refines, +And rises as the cup declines; +Rises in the genial flow, +That none but social spirits know, +When, with young revellers, round the bowl, +The old themselves grow young in soul! +Oh, when I drink, true joy is mine, +There's bliss in every drop of wine. +All other blessings I have known, +I scarcely dared to call my own; +But this the Fates can ne'er destroy, +Till death o'ershadows all my joy. + + +[1] Faber thinks this ode spurious; but, I believe, he is singular in his +opinion. It has all the spirit of our author. Like the wreath which he +presented in the dream, "it smells of Anacreon." + +[2] Anacreon is not the only one [says Longepierre] whom wine has inspired +with poetry. We find an epigram in the first book of the "Anthologia," +which begins thus:-- + + If with water you fill up your glasses, + You'll never write anything wise; + For wine's the true horse of Parnassus. + Which carries a bard to the skies! + + + + + + +ODE LI. + + +Fly not thus my brow of snow, +Lovely wanton! fly not so. +Though the wane of age is mine, +Though youth's brilliant flush be thine, +Still I'm doomed to sigh for thee, +Blest, if thou couldst sigh for me! +See, in yonder flowery braid, +Culled for thee, my blushing maid,[1] +How the rose, of orient glow, +Mingles with the lily's snow; +Mark, how sweet their tints agree, +Just, my girl, like thee and me! + + +[1] In the same manner that Anacreon pleads for the whiteness of his +locks, from the beauty of the color in garlands, a shepherd, in +Theocritus, endeavors to recommend his black hair. + + + + + + +ODE LII.[1] + + +Away, away, ye men of rules, +What have I do with schools? +They'd make me learn, they'd make me think, +But would they make me love and drink? +Teach me this, and let me swim +My soul upon the goblet's brim; +Teach me this, and let me twine +Some fond, responsive heart to mine, +For, age begins to blanch my brow, +I've time for naught but pleasure now. + + Fly, and cool, my goblet's glow +At yonder fountain's gelid flow; +I'll quaff, my boy, and calmly sink +This soul to slumber as I drink. +Soon, too soon, my jocund slave, +You'll deck your master's grassy grave; +And there's an end--for ah, you know +They drink but little wine below! + + +[1] "This is doubtless the work of a more modern poet than Anacreon; for +at the period when he lived rhetoricians were not known."--DEGEN. + +Though this ode is found in the Vatican manuscript, I am much inclined to +agree in this argument against its authenticity: for though the dawnings +of the art of rhetoric might already have appeared, the first who gave it +any celebrity was. Corax of Syracuse, and he flourished in the century +after Anacreon. + + + + + + +ODE LIII. + + +When I behold the festive train +Of dancing youth, I'm young again! +Memory wakes her magic trance, +And wings me lightly through the dance. +Come, Cybeba, smiling maid! +Cull the flower and twine the braid; +Bid the blush of summer's rose +Burn upon my forehead's snows; +And let me, while the wild and young +Trip the mazy dance along, +Fling my heap of years away, +And be as wild, as young as they. +Hither haste, some cordial, soul! +Help to my lips the brimming bowl; +And you shall see this hoary sage +Forget at once his locks and age. +He still can chant the festive hymn, +He still can kiss the goblet's brim;[1] +As deeply quaff, as largely fill, +And play the fool right nobly still. + + +[1] Wine is prescribed by Galen, as an excellent medicine for old men: +"_Quod frigidos et humbribus expletos calefaciut_," etc.; but Nature was +Anacreon's physician. + +There is a proverb in Eriphus, as quoted by Athenaeus, which says, "that +wine makes an old man dance, whether he will or not." + + + + + + +ODE. LIV.[1] + + +Methinks, the pictured bull we see +Is amorous Jove--it must be he! +How fondly blest he seems to bear +That fairest of Phoenician fair! +How proud he breasts the foamy tide, +And spurns the billowy surge aside! +Could any beast of vulgar vein, +Undaunted thus defy the main? +No: he descends from climes above, +He looks the God, he breathes of Jove! + + +[1] "This ode is written upon., a picture which represented the rape, of +Europa."--MADAME DACIER. + +It may probably have been a description of one of those coins, which the +Sidonians struck off in honor of Europa, representing a woman carried +across the sea by a bull. In the little treatise upon the goddess of +Syria, attributed very' falsely to Lucian, there is mention of this coin, +and of a temple dedicated by the Sidonians to Astarte, whom some, it +appears, confounded with Europa. + + + + + + +ODE LV.[1] + + +While we invoke the wreathed spring, +Resplendent rose! to thee we'll sing; +Resplendent rose, the flower of flowers, +Whose breath perfumes the Olympian bowers; +Whose virgin blush, of chastened dye, +Enchants so much our mortal eye. +When pleasure's spring-tide season glows. +The Graces love to wreathe the rose; +And Venus, in its fresh-blown leaves, +An emblem of herself perceives. +Oft hath the poet's magic tongue +The rose's fair luxuriance sung; +And long the Muses, heavenly maids, +Have reared it in their tuneful shades. +When, at the early glance of morn, +It sleeps upon the glittering thorn, +'Tis sweet to dare the tangled fence +To cull the timid floweret thence, +And wipe with tender hand away +The tear that on its blushes lay! +'Tis sweet to hold the infant stems, +Yet dropping with Aurora's gems, +And fresh inhale the spicy sighs +That from the weeping buds arise. + + When revel reigns, when mirth is high, +And Bacchus beams in every eye, +Our rosy fillets scent exhale, +And fill with balm the fainting gale. +There's naught in nature bright or gay, +Where roses do not shed their ray. +When morning paints the orient skies, +Her fingers burn with roseate dyes;[2] +Young nymphs betray; the Rose's hue, +O'er whitest arms it kindles thro'. +In Cytherea's form it glows, +And mingles with the living snows. + + The rose distils a healing balm, +The beating pulse of pain to calm; +Preserves the cold inurnèd clay,[3] +And mocks the vestige of decay: +And when, at length, in pale decline, +Its florid beauties fade and pine, +Sweet as in youth, its balmy breath +Diffuses odor even in death! +Oh! whence could such a plant have sprung? +Listen,--for thus the tale is sung. +When, humid, from the silvery stream, +Effusing beauty's warmest beam, +Venus appeared, in flushing hues, +Mellowed by ocean's briny dews; +When, in the starry courts above, +The pregnant brain of mighty Jove +Disclosed the nymph of azure glance, +The nymph who shakes the martial lance;-- +Then, then, in strange eventful hour, +The earth produced an infant flower, +Which sprung, in blushing glories drest. +And wantoned o'er its parent breast. +The gods beheld this brilliant birth, +And hailed the Rose, the boon of earth! +With nectar drops, a ruby tide, +The sweetly orient buds they dyed,[4] +And bade them bloom, the flowers divine +Of him who gave the glorious vine; +And bade them on the spangled thorn +Expand their bosoms to the morn. + + +[1] This ode is a brilliant panegyric on the rose. "All antiquity [says +Barnes] has produced nothing more beautiful." + +From the idea of peculiar excellence, which the ancients attached to this +flower, arose a pretty proverbial expression, used by Aristophanes, +according to Suidas "You have spoken roses." + +[2] In the original here, he enumerates the many epithets of beauty, +borrowed from roses, which were used by the poets. We see that poets were +dignified in Greece with the title of sages: even the careless Anacreon, +who lived but for love and voluptuousness, was called by Plato the wise +Anacreon--_fuit haec sapienta quondam_. + +[3] He here alludes to the use of the rose in embalming; and, perhaps (as +Barnes thinks), to the rosy unguent with which Venus anointed the corpse +of Hector. + +[4] The author of the "Pervigilium Veneris" (a poem attributed to +Catullus, the style of which appears to me to have all the labored +luxuriance of a much later period) ascribes the tincture of the rose to +the blood from the wound of Adonis. + + + + + + +ODE LVI. + + +He, who instructs the youthful crew +To bathe them in the brimmer's dew, +And taste, uncloyed by rich excesses, +All the bliss that wine possesses; +He, who inspires the youth to bound +Elastic through the dance's round,-- +Bacchus, the god again is here, +And leads along the blushing year; +The blushing year with vintage teems, +Ready to shed those cordial streams, +Which, sparkling in the cup of mirth, +Illuminate the sons of earth![1] + +Then, when the ripe and vermil wine,-- +Blest infant of the pregnant vine, +Which now in mellow clusters swells,-- +Oh! when it bursts its roseate cells, +Brightly the joyous stream shall flow, +To balsam every mortal woe! +None shall be then cast down or weak, +For health and joy shall light each cheek; +No heart will then desponding sigh, +For wine shall bid despondence fly. +Thus--till another autumn's glow +Shall bid another vintage flow. + + +[1] Madame Dacier thinks that the poet here had the nepenthe of Homer in +his mind. Odyssey, lib. iv. This nepenthe was a something of exquisite +charm, infused by Helen into the wine of her guests, which had the power +of dispelling every anxiety. A French writer, De Mere, conjectures that +this spell, which made the bowl so beguiling, was the charm of Helen's +conversation. See Bayle, art. Helène. + + + + + + +ODE LVII[1] + + +Whose was the artist hand that spread +Upon this disk the ocean's bed? +And, in a flight of fancy, high +As aught on earthly wing can fly, +Depicted thus, in semblance warm, +The Queen of Love's voluptuous form +Floating along the silvery sea +In beauty's naked majesty! +Oh! he hath given the enamoured sight +A witching banquet of delight, +Where, gleaming through the waters clear, +Glimpses of undreamt charms appear, +And all that mystery loves to screen, +Fancy, like Faith, adores unseen.[2] + +Light as a leaf, that on the breeze +Of summer skims the glassy seas, +She floats along the ocean's breast, +Which undulates in sleepy rest; +While stealing on, she gently pillows +Her bosom on the heaving billows. +Her bosom, like the dew-washed rose, +Her neck, like April's sparkling snows, +Illume the liquid path she traces, +And burn within the stream's embraces. +Thus on she moves, in languid pride, +Encircled by the azure tide, +As some fair lily o'er a bed +Of violets bends its graceful head. + +Beneath their queen's inspiring glance, +The dolphins o'er the green sea dance, +Bearing in triumph young Desire, +And infant Love with smiles of fire! +While, glittering through the silver waves, +The tenants of the briny caves +Around the pomp their gambols play, +And gleam along the watery way. + + +[1] This ode is a very animated description of a picture of Venus on a +discus, which represented the goddess in her first emergence from the +waves. About two centuries after our poet wrote, the pencil of the artist +Apelles embellished this subject, in his famous painting of the Venus +Anadyomene, the model of which, as Pliny informs us, was the beautiful +Campaspe, given to him by Alexander; though, according to Natalis Comes, +lib. vii. cap. 16., it was Phryne who sat to Apelles for the face and +breast of this Venus. + +[2] The picture here has all the delicate character of the semi-reducta +Venus, and affords a happy specimen of what the poetry of passion +_ought_ to be--glowing but through a veil, and stealing upon the heart +from concealment. Few of the ancients have attained this modesty of +description, which, like the golden cloud that hung over Jupiter and Juno, +is impervious to every beam but that of fancy. + + + + + + +ODE LVIII. + + +When Gold, as fleet as zephyr's' pinion, +Escapes like any faithless minion,[1] +And flies me (as he flies me ever),[2] +Do I pursue him? never, never! +No, let the false deserter go, +For who would court his direst foe? +But when I feel my lightened mind +No more by grovelling gold confined, +Then loose I all such clinging cares, +And cast them to the vagrant airs. +Then feel I, too, the Muse's spell, +And wake to life the dulcet shell, +Which, roused once more, to beauty sings, +While love dissolves along the strings! + +But, scarcely has my heart been taught +How little Gold deserves a thought, +When, lo! the slave returns once more, +And with him wafts delicious store +Of racy wine, whose genial art +In slumber seals the anxious heart. +Again he tries my soul to sever +From love and song, perhaps forever! + +Away, deceiver! why pursuing +Ceaseless thus my heart's undoing? +Sweet is the song of amorous fire. +Sweet the sighs that thrill the lyre; +Oh! sweeter far than all the gold +Thy wings can waft, thy mines can hold. +Well do I know thy arts, thy wiles-- +They withered Love's young wreathèd smiles; +And o'er his lyre such darkness shed, +I thought its soul of song was fled! +They dashed the wine-cup, that, by him, +Was filled with kisses to the brim.[3] +Go--fly to haunts of sordid men, +But come not near the bard again. +Thy glitter in the Muse's shade, +Scares from her bower the tuneful maid; +And not for worlds would I forego +That moment of poetic glow, +When my full soul, in Fancy's stream, +Pours o'er the lyre, its swelling theme. +Away, away! to worldlings hence, +Who feel not this diviner sense; +Give gold to those who love that pest,-- +But leave the poet poor and blest. + + +[1] There is a kind of pun in these words, as Madame Dacier has already +remarked; for Chrysos, which signifies gold, was also a frequent name for +a slave. In one of Lucian's dialogues, there is, I think, a similar play +upon the word, where the followers of Chrysippus are called golden fishes. +The puns of the ancients are, in general, even more vapid than our own; +some of the best are those recorded of Diogenes. + +[2] This grace of iteration has already been taken notice of. Though +sometimes merely a playful beauty, it is peculiarly expressive of +impassioned sentiment, and we may easily believe that it was one of the +many sources of that energetic sensibility which breathed through the +style of Sappho. + +[3] Horace has _Desiderique temperare poculum_, not figuratively, however, +like Anacreon, but importng the love-philtres of the witches. By "cups of +kisses" our poet may allude to a favorite gallantry among the ancients, of +drinking when the lips of their mistresses had touched the brim;-- + + "Or leave a kiss within the cup And I'll not ask for wine." + +As In Ben Jonson's translation from Philostratus; and Lucian has a conceit +upon the same idea, "that you may at once both drink and kiss." + + + + + + +ODE LIX. + + +Ripened by the solar beam, +Now the ruddy clusters teem, +In osier baskets borne along +By all the festal vintage throng +Of rosy youths and virgins fair, +Ripe as the melting fruits they bear. +Now, now they press the pregnant grapes, +And now the captive stream escapes, +In fervid tide of nectar gushing. +And for its bondage proudly blushing +While, round the vat's impurpled brim, +The choral song, the vintage hymn +Of rosy youths and virgins fair, +Steals on the charmed and echoing air. +Mark, how they drink, with all their eyes, +The orient tide that sparkling flies, +The infant Bacchus, born in mirth, +While Love stands by, to hail the birth. + +When he, whose verging years decline +As deep into the vale as mine, +When he inhales the vintage-cup, +His feet, new-winged, from earth spring up, +And as he dances, the fresh air +Plays whispering through his silvery hair. +Meanwhile young groups whom love invites, +To joys even rivalling wine's delights, +Seek, arm in arm, the shadowy grove, +And there, in words and looks of love, +Such as fond lovers look and say, +Pass the sweet moonlight hours away. + + + + + + +ODE LX.[1] + + +Awake to life, my sleeping shell, +To Phoebus let thy numbers swell; +And though no glorious prize be thine, +No Pythian wreath around thee twine, +Yet every hour is glory's hour +To him who gathers wisdom's flower. +Then wake thee from thy voiceless slumbers, +And to the soft and Phrygian numbers, +Which, tremblingly, my lips repeat, +Send echoes, from thy chord as sweet. +'Tis thus the swan, with fading notes, +Down the Cayster's current floats, +While amorous breezes linger round, +And sigh responsive sound for sound. + +Muse of the Lyre! illume my dream, +Thy Phoebus is my fancy's theme; +And hallowed is the harp I bear, +And hallowed is the wreath I wear, +Hallowed by him, the god of lays, +Who modulates the choral maze. +I sing the love which Daphne twined +Around the godhead's yielding mind; +I sing the blushing Daphne's flight +From this ethereal son of Light; +And how the tender, timid maid +Flew trembling to the kindly shade. +Resigned a form, alas, too fair, +Arid grew a verdant laurel there; +Whose leaves, with sympathetic thrill, +In terror seemed to tremble still! +The god pursued, with winged desire; +And when his hopes were all on fire, +And when to clasp the nymph he thought, +A lifeless tree was all he caught; +And 'stead of sighs that pleasure heaves, +Heard but the west-wind in the leaves! + +But, pause, my soul, no more, no more-- +Enthusiast, whither do I soar? +This sweetly-maddening dream of soul +Hath hurried me beyond the goal. +Why should I sing the mighty darts +Which fly to wound celestial hearts, +When ah, the song, with sweeter tone, +Can tell the darts that wound my own? +Still be Anacreon, still inspire +The descant of the Teian lyre: +Still let the nectared numbers float +Distilling love in every note! +And when some youth, whose glowing soul +Has felt the Paphian star's control, +When he the liquid lays shall hear, +His heart will flutter to his ear, +And drinking there of song divine, +Banquet on intellectual wine![2] + + +[1] This hymn to Apollo is supposed not to have been written by Anacreon; +and it is undoubtedly rather a sublimer flight than the Teian wing is +accustomed to soar. But in a poet of whose works so small a proportion has +reached us, diversity of style is by no means a safe criterion. If we knew +Horace but as a satirist, should we easily believe there could dwell such +animation in his lyre? Suidas says that our poet wrote hymns, and this +perhaps is one of them. We can perceive in what an altered and imperfect +state his works are at present, when we find a scholiast upon Horace +citing an ode from the third book of Anacreon. + +[2] Here ends the last of the odes in the Vatican MS., whose authority +helps to confirm the genuine antiquity of them all, though a few have +stolen among the number, which we may hesitate in attributing to Anacreon. + + + + + + +ODE LXI.[1] + + +Youth's endearing charms are fled; +Hoary locks deform my head; +Bloomy graces, dalliance gay, +All the flowers of life decay.[2] +Withering age begins to trace +Sad memorials o'er my face; +Time has shed its sweetest bloom +All the future must be gloom. +This it is that sets me sighing; +Dreary is the thought of dying![3] +Lone and dismal is the road, +Down to Pluto's dark abode; +And, when once the journey's o'er, +Ah! we can return no more! + + +[1] The intrusion of this melancholy ode, among the careless levities of +our poet, reminds us of the skeletons which the Egyptians used to hang up +in the banquet-rooms, to inculcate a thought of mortality even amidst the +dissipations of mirth. If it were not for the beauty of its numbers, the +Teian Muse should disown this ode. + +[2] Horace often, with feeling and elegance, deplores the fugacity of +human enjoyments. + +[3] Regnier, a libertine French poet, has written some sonnets on the +approach of death, full of gloomy and trembling repentance. Chaulieu, +however, supports more consistently the spirit of the Epicurean +philosopher. See his poem, addressed to the Marquis de Lafare. + + + + + + +ODE LXII.[1] + + +Fill me, boy, as deep a draught, +As e'er was filled, as e'er was quaffed; +But let the water amply flow, +To cool the grape's intemperate glow;[2] +Let not the fiery god be single, +But with the nymphs in union mingle. +For though the bowl's the grave of sadness, +Ne'er let it be the birth of madness. +No, banish from our board tonight +The revelries of rude delight; +To Scythians leave these wild excesses, +Ours be the joy that soothes and blesses! +And while the temperate bowl we wreathe, +In concert let our voices breathe, +Beguiling every hour along +With harmony of soul and song. + + +[1] This ode consists of two fragments, which are to be found in +Athenaeus, book x., and which Barnes, from the similarity of their +tendency, has combined into one. I think this a very justifiable liberty, +and have adopted it in some other fragments of our poet. + +[2] It was Amphictyon who first taught the Greeks to mix water with their +wine; in commemoration of which circumstance they erected altars to +Bacchus and the nymphs. + + + + + + +ODE LXIII.[1] + + +To Love, the soft and blooming child, +I touch the harp in descant wild; +To Love, the babe of Cyprian bowers, +The boy, who breathes and blushes flowers; +To Love, for heaven and earth adore him, +And gods and mortals bow before him! + + +[1] "This fragment is preserved in Clemens Alexandrinus, Storm, lib. vi. +and In Arsenius, Collect. Graec."--BARNES. + +It appears to have been the opening of a hymn in praise of Love. + + + + + + +ODE LXIV.[1] + + +Haste thee, nymph, whose well-aimed spear +Wounds the fleeting mountain-deer! +Dian, Jove's immortal child, +Huntress of the savage wild! +Goddess with the sun-bright hair! +Listen to a people's prayer. +Turn, to Lethe's river turn, +There thy vanquished people mourn![2] +Come to Lethe's wavy shore, +Tell them they shall mourn no more. +Thine their hearts, their altars thine; +Must they, Dian--must they pine? + + +[1] This hymn to Diana is extant in Hephaestion. There is an anecdote of +our poet, which has led some to doubt whether he ever wrote any odes of +this kind. It is related by the Scholiast upon Pindar (Isthmionic. od. ii. +v. 1. as cited by Barnes) that Anaecreon being asked why he addressed all +his hymns to women, and none to the deities? answered, "Because women are +my deities." + +I have assumed, it will be seen, in reporting this anecdote, the same +liberty which I have thought it right to take in translating some of the +odes; and it were to be wished that these little infidelities were always +allowable in interpreting the writings of the ancients. + +[2] Lethe, a river of Iona, according to Strabo, falling into the Meander. +In its neighborhood was the city called Magnesia, in favor of whose +inhabitants our poet is supposed to have addressed this supplication to +Diana. It was written (as Madame Dacier conjectures) on the occasion of +some battle, in which the Magnesians had been defeated. + + + + + + +ODE LXV.[1] + + +Like some wanton filly sporting, +Maid Of Thrace, thou flyest my courting. +Wanton filly! tell me why +Thou trip'st away, with scornful eye, +And seem'st to think my doating heart +Is novice in the bridling art? +Believe me, girl, it is not so; +Thou'lt find this skilful hand can throw +The reins around that tender form, +However wild, however warm. +Yes--trust me I can tame thy force, +And turn and wind thee in the course. +Though, wasting now thy careless hours, +Thou sport amid the herbs and flowers, +Soon shalt thou feel the rein's control, +And tremble at the wished-for goal! + + +[1] This ode, which is addressed to some Thracian girl, exists in +Heraclides, and has been imitated very frequently by Horace, as all the +annotators have remarked. Madame Dacier rejects the allegory, which runs +so obviously through the poem, and supposes it to have been addressed to a +young mare belonging to Polycrates. + +Pierius, in the fourth book of his "Hieroglyphics," cites this ode, and +informs us that the horse was the hieroglyphical emblem of pride. + + + + + + +ODE LXVI.[1] + + +To thee, the Queen of nymphs divine, +Fairest of all that fairest shine; +To thee, who rulest with darts of fire +This world of mortals, young Desire! +And oh! thou nuptial Power, to thee +Who bearest of life the guardian key, +Breathing my soul in fervent praise, +And weaving wild my votive lays, +For thee, O Queen! I wake the lyre, +For thee, thou blushing young Desire, +And oh! for thee, thou nuptial Power, +Come, and illume this genial hour. + + Look on thy bride, too happy boy, +And while thy lambent glance of joy +Plays over all her blushing charms, +Delay not, snatch her to thine arms, +Before the lovely, trembling prey, +Like a young birdling, wing away! +Turn, Stratocles, too happy youth, +Dear to the Queen of amorous truth, +And dear to her, whose yielding zone +Will soon resign her all thine own. +Turn to Myrilla, turn thine eye, +Breathe to Myrilla, breathe thy sigh. +To those bewitching beauties turn; +For thee they blush, for thee they burn. + + Not more the rose, the queen of flowers, +Outblushes all the bloom of bowers +Than she unrivalled grace discloses, +The sweetest rose, where all are roses. +Oh! may the sun, benignant, shed +His blandest influence o'er thy bed; +And foster there an infant tree, +To bloom like her, and tower like thee! + + +[1] This ode is introduced in the Romance of Theodorus Prodromus, and is +that kind of epithalamium which was sung like a scolium at the nuptial +banquet. + + + + + + +ODE LXVII. + + +Rich in bliss, I proudly scorn +The wealth of Amalthea's horn; +Nor should I ask to call the throne +Of the Tartessian prince my own;[1] +To totter through his train of years, +The victim of declining fears. +One little hour of joy to me +Is worth a dull eternity! + + +[1] He here alludes to Arganthonius, who lived, according to Lucian, an +hundred and fifty years; and reigned, according to Herodotus, eighty. + + + + + + +ODE LXVIII. + + +Now Neptune's month our sky deforms, +The angry night-cloud teems with storms; +And savage winds, infuriate driven, +Fly howling in the face of heaven! +Now, now, my friends, the gathering gloom +With roseate rays of wine illume: +And while our wreaths of parsley spread +Their fadeless foliage round our head, +Let's hymn the almighty power of wine, +And shed libations on his shrine! + + + + + + +ODE LXIX. + + +They wove the lotus band to deck +And fan with pensile wreath each neck; +And every guest, to shade his head, +Three little fragrant chaplets spread;[1] +And one was of the Egyptian leaf, +The rest were roses, fair and brief: +While from a golden vase profound, +To all on flowery beds around, +A Hebe, of celestial shape, +Poured the rich droppings of the grape! + + +[1] Longepierre, to give an idea of the luxurious estimation in which +garlands were held by the ancients, relates an anecdote of a courtezan, +who, in order to gratify three lovers, without leaving cause for Jealousy +with any of them, gave a kiss to one, let the other drink after her, and +put a garland on the brow of the third; so that each was satisfied with +his favor, and flattered himself with the preference. + + + + + + +ODE LXX. + + +A broken cake, with honey sweet, +Is all my spare and simple treat: +And while a generous bowl I crown +To float my little banquet down, +I take the soft, the amorous lyre, +And sing of love's delicious fire: +In mirthful measures warm and free, +I sing, dear maid, and sing for thee! + + + + + + +ODE LXXI. + + +With twenty chords my lyre is hung, + And while I wake them all for thee, +Thou, O maiden, wild and young, + Disportest in airy levity. + +The nursling fawn, that in some shade + Its antlered mother leaves behind, +Is not more wantonly afraid, + More timid of the rustling wind! + + + + + + +ODE LXXII. + + +Fare thee well, perfidious maid, +My soul, too long on earth delayed, +Delayed, perfidious girl, by thee, +Is on the wing for liberty. +I fly to seek a kindlier sphere, +Since thou hast ceased to love me here! + + + + + + +ODE LXXIII. + + +Awhile I bloomed, a happy flower, +Till love approached one fatal hour, +And made my tender branches feel +The wounds of his avenging steel. +Then lost I fell, like some poor willow +That falls across the wintry billow! + + + + + + +ODE LXXIV. + + +Monarch Love, resistless boy, +With whom the rosy Queen of Joy, +And nymphs, whose eyes have Heaven's hue, +Disporting tread the mountain-dew; +Propitious, oh! receive my sighs, +Which, glowing with entreaty, rise +That thou wilt whisper to the breast +Of her I love thy soft behest: +And counsel her to learn from thee. +That lesson thou hast taught to me. +Ah! if my heart no flattery tell, +Thou'lt own I've learned that lesson well! + + + + + + +ODE LXXV. + + +Spirit of Love, whose locks unrolled, +Stream on the breeze like floating gold; +Come, within a fragrant cloud +Blushing with light, thy votary shroud; +And, on those wings that sparkling play, +Waft, oh, waft me hence away! +Love! my soul is full of thee, +Alive to all thy luxury. +But she, the nymph for whom I glow +The lovely Lesbian mocks my woe; +Smiles at the chill and hoary hues +That time upon my forehead strews. +Alas! I fear she keeps her charms, +In store for younger, happier arms! + + + + + + +ODE LXXVI. + + +Hither, gentle Muse of mine, + Come and teach thy votary old +Many a golden hymn divine, + For the nymph with vest of gold. + +Pretty nymph, of tender age, + Fair thy silky looks unfold; +Listen to a hoary sage, + Sweetest maid with vest of gold! + + + + + + +ODE LXXVII. + + +Would that I were a tuneful lyre, + Of burnished ivory fair, +Which, in the Dionysian choir, + Some blooming boy should bear! + +Would that I were a golden vase. + That some bright nymph might hold +My spotless frame, with blushing grace, + Herself as pure as gold! + + + + + + +ODE LXXVIII. + + +When Cupid sees how thickly now, +The snows of Time fall o'er my brow, +Upon his wing of golden light. +He passes with an eaglet's flight, +And flitting onward seems to say, +"Fare thee well, thou'st had thy day!" + +Cupid, whose lamp has lent the ray, +That lights our life's meandering way, +That God, within this bosom stealing, +Hath wakened a strange, mingled feeling. +Which pleases, though so sadly teasing, +And teases, though so sweetly pleasing! + + * * * * * + +Let me resign this wretched breath + Since now remains to me +No other balm than kindly death, + To soothe my misery! + + * * * * * + +I know thou lovest a brimming measure, + And art a kindly, cordial host; +But let me fill and drink at pleasure-- + Thus I enjoy the goblet most. + +I fear that love disturbs my rest, + Yet feel not love's impassioned care; +I think there's madness in my breast + Yet cannot find that madness there! + + * * * * * + +From dread Leucadia's frowning steep, +I'll plunge into the whitening deep: +And there lie cold, to death resigned, +Since Love intoxicates my mind! + + * * * * * + +Mix me, child, a cup divine, +Crystal water, ruby wine; +Weave the frontlet, richly flushing +O'er my wintry temples blushing. +Mix the brimmer--Love and I +Shall no more the contest try. +Here--upon this holy bowl, +I surrender all my soul! + + + + + + + + +SONGS FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. + + + + + + +HERE AT THY TOMB. + +BY MELEAGER. + + +Here, at thy tomb, these tears I shed, + Tears, which though vainly now they roll, +Are all love hath to give the dead, + And wept o'er thee with all love's soul;-- + +Wept in remembrance of that light. + Which naught on earth, without thee, gives, +Hope of my heart! now quenched in night, + But dearer, dead, than aught that lives. + +Where is she? where the blooming bough + That once my life's sole lustre made? +Torn off by death, 'tis withering now, + And all its flowers in dust are laid. + +Oh earth! that to thy matron breast + Hast taken all those angel charms, +Gently, I pray thee, let her rest,-- + Gently, as in a mother's arms. + + + + + + +SALE OF CUPID. + +BY MELEAGER. + + +Who'll buy a little boy? Look, yonder is he, +Fast asleep, sly rogue on his mother's knee; +So bold a young imp 'tisn't safe to keep, +So I'll part with him now, while he's sound asleep. +See his arch little nose, how sharp 'tis curled, +His wings, too, even in sleep unfurled; +And those fingers, which still ever ready are found +For mirth or for mischief, to tickle, or wound. + +He'll try with his tears your heart to beguile, +But never you mind--he's laughing all the while; +For little he cares, so he has his own whim, +And weeping or laughing are all one to him. +His eye is as keen as the lightning's flash, +His tongue like the red bolt quick and rash; +And so savage is he, that his own dear mother +Is scarce more safe in his hands than another. + +In short, to sum up this darling's praise, +He's a downright pest in all sorts of ways; +And if any one wants such an imp to employ, +He shall have a dead bargain of this little boy. +But see, the boy wakes--his bright tears flow-- +His eyes seem to ask could I sell him? oh no, +Sweet child no, no--though so naughty you be, +You shall live evermore with my Lesbia and me. + + + + + + +TO WEAVE A GARLAND FOR THE ROSE. + +BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY. + + +To weave a garland for the rose. + And think thus crown'd 'twould lovelier be, +Were far less vain than to suppose + That silks and gems add grace to thee. +Where is the pearl whose orient lustre + Would not, beside thee, look less bright? +What gold could match the glossy cluster + Of those young ringlets full of light? + +Bring from the land, where fresh it gleams, + The bright blue gem of India's mine, +And see how soon, though bright its beams, + 'Twill pale before one glance of thine: +Those lips, too, when their sounds have blest us + With some divine, mellifluous air, +Who would not say that Beauty's cestus + Had let loose all its witcheries there? + +Here, to this conquering host of charms + I now give up my spell-bound heart. +Nor blush to yield even Reason's arms, + When thou her bright-eyed conqueror art. +Thus to the wind all fears are given; + Henceforth those eyes alone I see. +Where Hope, as in her own blue heaven, + Sits beckoning me to bliss and thee! + + + + + + +WHY DOES SHE SO LONG DELAY? + +BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY. + + +Why does she so long delay? + Night is waning fast away; +Thrice have I my lamp renewed, + Watching here in solitude, +Where can she so long delay? + Where, so long delay? + +Vainly now have two lamps shone; + See the third is nearly gone: +Oh that Love would, like the ray + Of that weary lamp, decay! +But no, alas, it burns still on, + Still, still, burns on. + +Gods, how oft the traitress dear + Swore, by Venus, she'd be here! +But to one so false as she + What is man or deity? +Neither doth this proud one fear,-- + No, neither doth she fear. + + + + + + +TWIN'ST THOU WITH LOFTY WREATH THY BROW? + +BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY. + + +Twin'st thou with lofty wreath thy brow? + Such glory then thy beauty sheds, +I almost think, while awed I bow + 'Tis Rhea's self before me treads. +Be what thou wilt,--this heart +Adores whate'er thou art! + +Dost thou thy loosened ringlets leave, + Like sunny waves to wander free? +Then, such a chain of charms they weave, + As draws my inmost soul from me. +Do what thou wilt,--I must +Be charm'd by all thou dost! + +Even when, enwrapt in silvery veils, + Those sunny locks elude the sight,-- +Oh, not even then their glory fails + To haunt me with its unseen light. +Change as thy beauty may, +It charms in every way. + +For, thee the Graces still attend, + Presiding o'er each new attire, +And lending every dart they send + Some new, peculiar touch of fire, +Be what thou wilt,--this heart + Adores what'er thou art! + + + + + + +WHEN THE SAD WORD. + +BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY. + + +When the sad word, "Adieu," from my lip is nigh falling, + And with it, Hope passes away, +Ere the tongue hath half breathed it, my fond heart recalling + That fatal farewell, bids me stay, +For oh! 'tis a penance so weary + One hour from thy presence to be, +That death to this soul were less dreary, + Less dark than long absence from thee. + +Thy beauty, like Day, o'er the dull world breaking. + Brings life to the heart it shines o'er, +And, in mine, a new feeling of happiness waking, + Made light what was darkness before. +But mute is the Day's sunny glory, +While thine hath a voice, on whose breath, + More sweet than the Syren's sweet story, +My hopes hang, through life and through death! + + + + + + +MY MOPSA IS LITTLE. + +BY PHILODEMUS. + + +My Mopsa is little, my Mopsa is brown, +But her cheek is as smooth as the peach's soft down, + And, for blushing, no rose can come near her; +In short, she has woven such nets round my heart, +That I ne'er from my dear little Mopsa can part,-- + Unless I can find one that's dearer. + +Her voice hath a music that dwells on the ear, +And her eye from its orb gives a daylight so clear, + That I'm dazzled whenever I meet her; +Her ringlets, so curly, are Cupid's own net, +And her lips, oh their sweetness I ne'er shall forget-- + Till I light upon lips that are sweeter. + +But 'tis not her beauty that charms me alone, +'Tis her mind, 'tis that language whose eloquent tone + From the depths of the grave could revive one: +In short, here I swear, that if death were her doom, +I would instantly join my dead love in the tomb-- + Unless I could meet with a live + + + + + + +STILL, LIKE DEW IN SILENCE FALLING. + +BY MELEAGER. + + +Still, like dew in silence falling, + Drops for thee the nightly tear +Still that voice the past recalling, + Dwells, like echo, on my ear, + Still, still! + +Day and night the spell hangs o'er me, + Here forever fixt thou art: +As thy form first shone before me, + So 'tis graven on this heart, + Deep, deep! + +Love, oh Love, whose bitter sweetness, + Dooms me to this lasting pain. +Thou who earnest with so much fleetness, +Why so slow to go again? + Why? why? + + + + + + +UP, SAILOR BOY, 'TIS DAY. + + +Up, sailor boy, 'tis day! + The west wind blowing, + The spring tide flowing, +Summon thee hence away. +Didst thou not hear yon soaring swallow sing? +Chirp, chirp,--in every note he seemed to say +'Tis Spring, 'tis Spring. +Up boy, away,-- +Who'd stay on land to-day? + The very flowers + Would from their bowers +Delight to wing away! + +Leave languid youths to pine + On silken pillows; + But be the billows +Of the great deep thine. +Hark, to the sail the breeze sings, "Let us fly;" +While soft the sail, replying to the breeze, +Says, with a yielding sigh, +"Yes, where you; please." +Up, boy, the wind, the ray, + The blue sky o'er thee, + The deep before thee, +All cry aloud, "Away!" + + + + + + +IN MYRTLE WREATHS. + +BY ALCAEUS. + + +In myrtle wreaths my votive sword I'll cover, + Like them of old whose one immortal blow +Struck off the galling fetters that hung over + Their own bright land, and laid her tyrant low. +Yes, loved Harmodius, thou'rt undying; + Still midst the brave and free, +In isles, o'er ocean lying, + Thy home shall ever be. + +In myrtle leaves my sword shall hide its lightning, + Like his, the youth, whose ever-glorious blade +Leapt forth like flame, the midnight banquet brightening;' + And in the dust a despot victim laid. +Blest youths; how bright in Freedom's story + Your wedded names shall be; +A tyrant's death your glory, + Your meed, a nation free! + + + + + + + + +JUVENILE POEMS. + +1801. + + + + +TO JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ. + +MY DEAR SIR, + + +I feel a very sincere pleasure in dedicating to you the Second Edition of +our friend LITTLE'S Poems. I am not unconscious that there are many in the +collection which perhaps it would be prudent to have altered or omitted; +and, to say the truth, I more than once revised them for that purpose; +but, I know not why, I distrusted either my heart or my judgment; and the +consequence is you have them in their original form: + + _non possunt nostros multae, Faustine, liturae + emendare jocos; una litura potest_. + +I am convinced, however, that, though not quite a _casuiste relâché_, you +have charity enough to forgive such inoffensive follies: you know that the +pious Beza was not the less revered for those sportive Juvenilia which he +published under a fictitious name; nor did the levity of Bembo's poems +prevent him from making a very good cardinal. + +Believe me, my dear friend. + +With the truest esteem, + +Yours, + +T. M. + +_April 19, 1802_ + + + + + + +JUVENILE POEMS + + + + + + +FRAGMENTS OF COLLEGE EXERCISES. + + + _Nobilitas sola est atque unica virtus_.--JUV. + + +Mark those proud boasters of a splendid line, +Like gilded ruins, mouldering while they shine, +How heavy sits that weight, of alien show, +Like martial helm upon an infant's brow; +Those borrowed splendors whose contrasting light +Throws back the native shades in deeper night. + +Ask the proud train who glory's train pursue, +Where are the arts by which that glory grew? +The genuine virtues with that eagle-gaze +Sought young Renown in all her orient blaze! +Where is the heart by chymic truth refined, +The exploring soul whose eye had read mankind? +Where are the links that twined, with heavenly art, +His country's interest round the patriot's heart? + + * * * * * + + _Justum bellum quibus necessarium, et pia arma quibus nulla nisi in + armis relinquitur spes_.--LIVY. + + * * * * * + +Is there no call, no consecrating cause +Approved by Heav'n, ordained by nature's laws, +Where justice flies the herald of our way, +And truth's pure beams upon the banners play? + +Yes, there's a call sweet as an angel's breath +To slumbering babes or innocence in death; +And urgent as the tongue of Heaven within, +When the mind's balance trembles upon sin. + +Oh! 'tis our country's voice, whose claim should meet +An echo in the soul's most deep retreat; +Along the heart's responding chords should run, +Nor let a tone there vibrate--but the one! + + + + + + +VARIETY. + + +Ask what prevailing, pleasing power + Allures the sportive, wandering bee +To roam untired, from flower to flower, + He'll tell you, 'tis variety. + +Look Nature round; her features trace, + Her seasons, all her changes see; +And own, upon Creation's face, + The greatest charm's variety. + +For me, ye gracious powers above! + Still let me roam, unfixt and free; +In all things,--but the nymph I love + I'll change, and taste variety. + +But, Patty, not a world of charms + Could e'er estrange my heart from thee;-- +No, let me ever seek those arms. + There still I'll find variety. + + + + + + +TO A BOY, WITH A WATCH, + +WRITTEN FOR A FRIEND + + +Is it not sweet, beloved youth, + To rove through Erudition's bowers, +And cull the golden fruits of truth, + And gather Fancy's brilliant flowers? + +And is it not more sweet than this, + To feel thy parents' hearts approving, +And pay them back in sums of bliss + The dear, the endless debt of loving? + +It must be so to thee, my youth; + With this idea toil is lighter; +This sweetens all the fruits of truth, + And makes the flowers of fancy brighter. + +The little gift we send thee, boy, + May sometimes teach thy soul to ponder, +If indolence or siren joy + Should ever tempt that soul to wander. + +'Twill tell thee that the wingèd day + Can, ne'er be chain'd by man's endeavor; +That life and time shall fade away, + While heaven and virtue bloom forever! + + + + + + +SONG. + + +If I swear by that eye, you'll allow, + Its look is so shifting and new, +That the oath I might take on it now + The very next glance would undo. + +Those babies that nestle so sly + Such thousands of arrows have got, +That an oath, on the glance of an eye + Such as yours, may be off in a shot. + +Should I swear by the dew on your lip, + Though each moment the treasure renews, +If my constancy wishes to trip, + I may kiss off the oath when I choose. + +Or a sigh may disperse from that flower; + Both the dew and the oath that are there; +And I'd make a new vow every hour, + To lose them so sweetly in air. + +But clear up the heaven of your brow, + Nor fancy my faith is a feather; +On my heart I will pledge you my vow, + And they both must be broken together! + + + + + + +TO ....... + + +Remember him thou leavest behind, + Whose heart is warmly bound to thee, +Close as the tenderest links can bind + A heart as warm as heart can be. + +Oh! I had long in freedom roved, + Though many seemed my soul to snare; +'Twas passion when I thought I loved, + 'Twas fancy when I thought them fair. + +Even she, my muse's early theme, + Beguiled me only while she warmed; +Twas young desire that fed the dream, + And reason broke what passion formed. + +But thou-ah! better had it been + If I had still in freedom roved, +If I had ne'er thy beauties seen, + For then I never should have loved. + +Then all the pain which lovers feel + Had never to this heart been known; +But then, the joys that lovers steal, + Should _they_ have ever been my own? + +Oh! trust me, when I swear thee this, + Dearest! the pain of loving thee, +The very pain is sweeter bliss + Than passion's wildest ecstasy. + +That little cage I would not part, + In which my soul is prisoned now, +For the most light and winged heart + That wantons on the passing vow. + +Still, my beloved! still keep in mind, + However far removed from me, +That there is one thou leavest behind, + Whose heart respires for only thee! + +And though ungenial ties have bound + Thy fate unto another's care, +That arm, which clasps thy bosom round, + Cannot confine the heart that's there. + +No, no! that heart is only mine + By ties all other ties above, +For I have wed it at a shrine + Where we have had no priest but Love. + + + + + + +SONG. + + +When Time who steals our years away + Shall steal our pleasures too, +The memory of the past will stay + And half our joys renew, +Then, Julia, when thy beauty's flower + Shall feel the wintry air, +Remembrance will recall the hour + When thou alone wert fair. +Then talk no more of future gloom; + Our joys shall always last; +For Hope shall brighten days to come, + And Memory gild the past. + +Come, Chloe, fill the genial bowl, + I drink to Love and thee: +Thou never canst decay in soul, + Thou'lt still be young for me. +And as thy; lips the tear-drop chase, + Which on my cheek they find, +So hope shall steal away the trace + That sorrow leaves behind. +Then fill the bowl--away with gloom! + Our joys shall always last; +For Hope shall brighten days to come, + And Memory gild the past. + +But mark, at thought of future years + When love shall lose its soul, +My Chloe drops her timid tears, + They mingle with my bowl. +How like this bowl of wine, my fair, + Our loving life shall fleet; +Though tears may sometimes mingle there, + The draught will still be sweet. +Then fill the cup--away with gloom! + Our joys shall always last; +For Hope will brighten days to come, + And Memory gild the past. + + + + + + +SONG. + + +Have you not seen the timid tear, + Steal trembling from mine eye? +Have you not marked the flush of fear, + Or caught the murmured sigh? +And can you think my love is chill, + Nor fixt on you alone? +And can you rend, by doubting still, + A heart so much your own? + +To you my soul's affections move, + Devoutly, warmly true; +My life has been a task of love, + One long, long thought of you. +If all your tender faith be o'er, + If still my truth you'll try; +Alas, _I_ know but _one_ proof more-- + I'll bless your name, and die! + + + + + + +REUBEN AND ROSE. + +A TALE OF ROMANCE. + + +The darkness that hung upon Willumberg's walls + Had long been remembered with awe and dismay; +For years not a sunbeam had played in its halls, + And it seemed as shut out from the regions of day. + +Though the valleys were brightened by many a beam, + Yet none could the woods of that castle illume; +And the lightning which flashed on the neighboring stream + Flew back, as if fearing to enter the gloom! + +"Oh! when shall this horrible darkness disperse!" + Said Willumberg's lord to the Seer of the Cave;-- +"It can never dispel," said the wizard of verse, + "Till the bright star of chivalry sinks in the wave!" + +And who was the bright star of chivalry then? + Who _could_ be but Reuben, the flower of the age? +For Reuben was first in the combat of men, + Though Youth had scarce written his name on her page. + +For Willumberg's daughter his young heart had beat, + For Rose, who was bright as the spirit of dawn, +When with wand dropping diamonds, and silvery feet, + It walks o'er the flowers of the mountain and lawn. + +Must Rose, then, from Reuben so fatally sever? + Sad, sad were the words of the Seer of the Cave, +That darkness should cover that castle forever, + Or Reuben be sunk in the merciless wave! + +To the wizard she flew, saying, "Tell me, oh, tell? + Shall my Reuben no more be restored to my eyes?" +"Yes, yes--when a spirit shall toll the great bell + Of the mouldering abbey, your Reuben shall rise!" + +Twice, thrice he repeated "Your Reuben shall rise!" + And Rose felt a moment's release from her pain; +And wiped, while she listened, the tears from her eyes. + And hoped she might yet see her hero again. + +That hero could smite at the terrors of death, + When he felt that he died for the sire of his Rose; +To the Oder he flew, and there, plunging beneath, + In the depth of the billows soon found his repose.-- + +How strangely the order of destiny falls! + Not long in the waters the warrior lay, +When a sunbeam was seen to glance over the walls, + And the castle of Willumberg basked in the ray! + +All, all but the soul of the maid was in light, + There sorrow and terror lay gloomy and blank: +Two days did she wander, and all the long night, + In quest of her love, on the wide river's bank. + +Oft, oft did she pause for the toll of the bell, + And heard but the breathings of night in the air; +Long, long did she gaze on the watery swell, + And saw but the foam of the white billow there. + +And often as midnight its veil would undraw, + As she looked at the light of the moon in the stream, +She thought 'twas his helmet of silver she saw, + As the curl of the surge glittered high in the beam. + +And now the third night was begemming the sky; + Poor Rose, on the cold dewy margent reclined, +There wept till the tear almost froze in her eye, + When--hark!--'twas the bell that came deep in the wind! + +She startled, and saw, through the glimmering shade, + A form o'er the waters in majesty glide; +She knew 'twas her love, though his cheek was decayed, +And his helmet of silver was washed by the tide. + +Was this what the Seer of the Cave had foretold?-- + Dim, dim through the phantom the moon shot a gleam; +'Twas Reuben, but, ah! he was deathly and cold, + And fleeted away like the spell of a dream! + +Twice, thrice did he rise, and as often she thought + From the bank to embrace him, but vain her endeavor! +Then, plunging beneath, at a billow she caught, + And sunk to repose on its bosom forever! + + + + + + +DID NOT. + + +'Twas a new feeling--something more +Than we had dared to own before. + Which then we hid not; +We saw it in each other's eye, +And wished, in every half-breathed sigh, + To speak, but did not. + +She felt my lips' impassioned touch-- +'Twas the first time I dared so much, + And yet she chid not; +But whispered o'er my burning brow, +"Oh! do you doubt I love you now?" + Sweet soul! I did not. + +Warmly I felt her bosom thrill, +I prest it closer, closer still, + Though gently bid not; +Till--oh! the world hath seldom heard +Of lovers, who so nearly erred, + And yet, who did not. + + + + + + +TO ....... + + +That wrinkle, when first I espied it, + At once put my heart out of pain; +Till the eye, that was glowing beside it, + Disturbed my ideas again. + +Thou art just in the twilight at present, + When woman's declension begins; +When, fading from all that is pleasant, + She bids a good night to her sins. + +Yet thou still art so lovely to me, + I would sooner, my exquisite mother! +Repose in the sunset of thee, + Than bask in the noon of another. + + + + + + +TO MRS. ....... + +ON SOME CALUMNIES AGAINST HER CHARACTER. + + +Is not thy mind a gentle mind? +Is not that heart a heart refined? +Hast thou not every gentle grace, +We love in woman's mind and face? +And, oh! art _thou_ a shrine for Sin +To hold her hateful worship in? + +No, no, be happy--dry that tear-- +Though some thy heart hath harbored near, +May now repay its love with blame; +Though man, who ought to shield thy fame, +Ungenerous man, be first to shun thee; +Though all the world look cold upon thee, +Yet shall thy pureness keep thee still +Unharmed by that surrounding chill; +Like the famed drop, in crystal found,[1] +Floating, while all was frozen round,-- +Unchilled unchanging shalt thou be, +Safe in thy own sweet purity. + + +[1] This alludes to a curious gem, upon which Claudian has left +us some very elaborate epigrams. It was a drop of pure water enclosed +within a piece of crystal. Addison mentions a curiosity of this kind at +Milan; and adds; "It is such a rarity as this that I saw at Vendöme in +France, which they there pretend is a tear that our Saviour shed over +Lazarus, and was gathered up by an angel, who put it into a little crystal +vial, and made a present of it to Mary Magdalen". + + + + + + +ANACREONTIC. + + + --_in lachrymas verterat omne merum_. + TIB. lib. i. eleg. 5. + + +Press the grape, and let it pour +Around the board its purple shower: +And, while the drops my goblet steep, +I'll think in woe the clusters weep. + +Weep on, weep on, my pouting vine! +Heaven grant no tears, but tears of wine. +Weep on; and, as thy sorrows flow, +I'll taste the luxury of woe. + + + + + + +TO ....... + + +When I loved you, I can't but allow + I had many an exquisite minute; +But the scorn that I feel for you now + Hath even more luxury in it. + +Thus, whether we're on or we're off, + Some witchery seems to await you; +To love you was pleasant enough, + And, oh! 'tis delicious hate you! + + + + + + +TO JULIA. + +IN ALLUSION TO SOME ILLIBERAL CRITICISMS. + + +Why, let the stingless critic chide +With all that fume of vacant pride +Which mantles o'er the pendant fool, +Like vapor on a stagnant pool. +Oh! if the song, to feeling true, +Can please the elect, the sacred few, +Whose souls, by Taste and Nature taught, +Thrill with the genuine pulse of thought-- +If some fond feeling maid like thee, +The warm-eyed child of Sympathy, +Shall say, while o'er my simple theme +She languishes in Passion's dream, +"He was, indeed, a tender soul-- + No critic law, no chill control, + Should ever freeze, by timid art, + The flowings of so fond a heart!" +Yes, soul of Nature! soul of Love! +That, hovering like a snow-winged dove, +Breathed o'er my cradle warblings wild, +And hailed me Passion's warmest child,-- +Grant me the tear from Beauty's eye, +From Feeling's breast the votive sigh; +Oh! let my song, my memory find, +A shrine within the tender mind! +And I will smile when critics chide, +And I will scorn the fume of pride +Which mantles o'er the pendant fool, +Like vapor round some stagnant pool! + + + + + + +TO JULIA. + + +Mock me no more with Love's beguiling dream, + A dream, I find, illusory as sweet: +One smile of friendship, nay, of cold esteem, + Far dearer were than passion's bland deceit! + +I've heard you oft eternal truth declare; + Your heart was only mine, I once believed. +Ah! shall I say that all your vows were air? + And _must_ I say, my hopes were all deceived? + +Vow, then, no longer that our souls are twined + That all our joys are felt with mutual zeal; +Julia!--'tis pity, pity makes you kind; + You know I love, and you would _seem_ to feel. + +But shall I still go seek within those arms + A joy in which affection takes no part? +No, no, farewell! you give me but your charms, + When I had fondly thought you gave your heart. + + + + + + +THE SHRINE. + +TO ....... + + +My fates had destined me to rove +A long, long pilgrimage of love; +And many an altar on my way +Has lured my pious steps to stay; +For if the saint was young and fair, +I turned, and sung my vespers there. +This, from a youthful pilgrim's fire, +Is what your pretty saints require: +To pass, nor tell a single bead, +With them would be profane indeed! +But, trust me, all this young devotion +Was but to keep my zeal in motion; +And, every humbler altar past, +I now have reached THE SHRINE at last! + + + + + + +TO A LADY, + +WITH SOME MANUSCRIPT POEMS, + +ON LEAVING THE COUNTRY. + + +When, casting many a look behind, + I leave the friends I cherish here-- +Perchance some other friends to find, + But surely finding none so dear-- + +Haply the little simple page, + Which votive thus I've traced for thee, +May now and then a look engage, + And steal one moment's thought for me. + +But, oh! in pity let not those + Whose hearts are not of gentle mould, +Let not the eye that seldom flows + With feeling's tear, my song behold. + +For, trust me, they who never melt + With pity, never melt with love; +And such will frown at all I've felt, + And all my loving lays reprove. + +But if, perhaps, some gentler mind, + Which rather loves to praise than blame, +Should in my page an interest find. + And linger kindly on my name; + +Tell him--or, oh! if, gentler still, + By female lips my name be blest: +For where do all affections thrill + So sweetly as in woman's breast?-- + +Tell her, that he whose loving themes + Her eye indulgent wanders o'er, +Could sometimes wake from idle dreams, + And bolder flights of fancy soar; + +That Glory oft would claim the lay, + And Friendship oft his numbers move; +But whisper then, that, "sooth to say, + His sweetest song was given to Love!" + + + + + + +TO JULIA. + + +Though Fate, my girl, may bid us part, + Our souls it cannot, shall not sever; +The heart will seek its kindred heart, + And cling to it as close as ever. + +But must we, must we part indeed? + Is all our dream of rapture over? +And does not Julia's bosom bleed + To leave so dear, so fond a lover? + +Does _she_, too, mourn?--Perhaps she may; + Perhaps she mourns our bliss so fleeting; +But why is Julia's eye so gay, + If Julia's heart like mine is beating? + +I oft have loved that sunny glow + Of gladness in her blue eye beaming-- +But can the bosom bleed with woe + While joy is in the glances beaming? + +No, no!--Yet, love, I will not chide; + Although your heart _were_ fond of roving, +Nor that, nor all the world beside + Could keep your faithful boy from loving. + +You'll soon be distant from his eye, + And, with you, all that's worth possessing. +Oh! then it will be sweet to die, + When life has lost its only blessing! + + + + + + +TO ....... + + +Sweet lady, look not thus again: + Those bright, deluding smiles recall +A maid remember'd now with pain, + Who was my love, my life, my all! + +Oh! while this heart bewildered took + Sweet poison from her thrilling eye, +Thus would she smile and lisp and look, + And I would hear and gaze and sigh! + +Yes, I did love her--wildly love-- + She was her sex's best deceiver! +And oft she swore she'd never rove-- + And I was destined to believe her! + +Then, lady, do not wear the smile + Of one whose smile could thus betray; +Alas! I think the lovely wile + Again could steal my heart away. + +For, when those spells that charmed my mind + On lips so pure as thine I see, +I fear the heart which she resigned + Will err again and fly to thee! + + + + + + +NATURE'S LABELS. + +A FRAGMENT. + + +In vain we fondly strive to trace +The soul's reflection in the face; +In vain we dwell on lines and crosses, +Crooked mouth or short proboscis; +Boobies have looked as wise and bright +As Plato or the Stagirite: +And many a sage and learned skull +Has peeped through windows dark and dull. +Since then, though art do all it can, +We ne'er can reach the inward man, +Nor (howsoe'er "learned Thebans" doubt) +The inward woman, from without, +Methinks 'twere well if nature could +(And Nature could, if Nature would) +Some pithy, short descriptions write +On tablets large, in black and white, +Which she might hang about our throttles, +Like labels upon physic-bottles; +And where all men might read--but stay-- +As dialectic sages say, +The argument most apt and ample +For common use is the example. +For instance, then, if Nature's care +Had not portrayed, in lines so fair, +The inward soul of Lucy Lindon. +_This_ is the label she'd have pinned on. + +LABEL FIRST. + +Within this form there lies enshrined +The purest, brightest gem of mind. +Though Feeling's hand may sometimes throw +Upon its charms the shade of woe, +The lustre of the gem, when veiled, +Shall be but mellowed, not concealed. + + * * * * * + +Now, sirs, imagine, if you're able, +That Nature wrote a second label, +They're her own words--at least suppose so-- +And boldly pin it on Pomposo. + +LABEL SECOND. + +When I composed the fustian brain +Of this redoubted Captain Vain. +I had at hand but few ingredients, +And so was forced to use expedients. +I put therein some small discerning, +A grain of sense, a grain of learning; +And when I saw the void behind, +I filled it up with--froth and wind! + + * * * * * + + + + + + +TO JULIA + +ON HER BIRTHDAY. + + +When Time was entwining the garland of years, + Which to crown my beloved was given, +Though some of the leaves might be sullied with tears, + Yet the flowers were all gathered in heaven. + +And long may this garland be sweet to the eye, + May its verdure forever be new; +Young Love shall enrich it with many a sigh, + And Sympathy nurse it with dew. + + + + + + +A REFLECTION AT SEA. + + +See how, beneath the moonbeam's smile, + Yon little billow heaves its breast, +And foams and sparkles for awhile,-- + Then murmuring subsides to rest. + +Thus man, the sport of bliss and care, + Rises on time's eventful sea: +And, having swelled a moment there, + Thus melts into eternity! + + + + + + +CLORIS AND FANNY. + + +Cloris! if I were Persia's king, + I'd make my graceful queen of thee; +While FANNY, wild and artless thing, + Should but thy humble handmaid be. + +There is but _one_ objection in it-- + That, verily, I'm much afraid +I should, in some unlucky minute, + Forsake the mistress for the maid. + + + + + + +THE SHIELD. + + +Say, did you not hear a voice of death! + And did you not mark the paly form +Which rode on the silvery mist of the heath, + And sung a ghostly dirge in the storm? + +Was it the wailing bird of the gloom, + That shrieks on the house of woe all night? +Or a shivering fiend that flew to a tomb, + To howl and to feed till the glance of light? + +'Twas _not_ the death-bird's cry from the wood, + Nor shivering fiend that hung on the blast; +'Twas the shade of Helderic--man of blood-- + It screams for the guilt of days that are past. + +See, how the red, red lightning strays, + And scares the gliding ghosts of the heath! +Now on the leafless yew it plays, + Where hangs the shield of this son of death. + +That shield is blushing with murderous stains; + Long has it hung from the cold yew's spray; +It is blown by storms and washed by rains, + But neither can take the blood away! + +Oft by that yew, on the blasted field, + Demons dance to the red moon's light; +While the damp boughs creak, and the swinging shield + Sings to the raving spirit of night! + + + + + + +TO JULIA WEEPING. + + +Oh! if your tears are given to care, + If real woe disturbs your peace, +Come to my bosom, weeping fair! + And I will bid your weeping cease. + +But if with Fancy's visioned fears, + With dreams of woe your bosom thrill; +You look so lovely in your tears, + That I must bid you drop them still. + + + + + + +DREAMS. + +TO ... .... + + +In slumber, I prithee how is it + That souls are oft taking the air, +And paying each other a visit, + While bodies are heaven knows where? + +Last night, 'tis in vain to deny it, + Your soul took a fancy to roam, +For I heard her, on tiptoe so quiet, + Come ask, whether _mine_ was at home. + +And mine let her in with delight, + And they talked and they laughed the time through; +For, when souls come together at night, + There is no saying what they mayn't do! + +And _your_ little Soul, heaven bless her! + Had much to complain and to say, +Of how sadly you wrong and oppress her + By keeping her prisoned all day. + +"If I happen," said she, "but to steal + "For a peep now and then to her eye, +"Or, to quiet the fever I feel, + "Just venture abroad on a sigh; + +"In an instant she frightens me in + "With some phantom of prudence or terror, +"For fear I should stray into sin, + "Or, what is still worse, into error! + +"So, instead of displaying my graces, + "By daylight, in language and mien, +"I am shut up in corners and places, + "Where truly I blush to be seen!" + +Upon hearing this piteous confession, + _My_ Soul, looking tenderly at her, +Declared, as for grace and discretion, + He did not know much of the matter; + +"But, to-morrow, sweet Spirit!" he said, + "Be at home, after midnight, and then +"I will come when your lady's in bed, + "And we'll talk o'er the subject again." + +So she whispered a word in his ear, + I suppose to her door to direct him, +And, just after midnight, my dear, + Your polite little Soul may expect him. + + + + + + +TO ROSA. + +WRITTEN DURING ILLNESS. + + +The wisest soul, by anguish torn, + Will soon unlearn the lore it knew; +And when the shrining casket's worn, + The gem within will tarnish too. + +But love's an essence of the soul, + Which sinks hot with this chain of clay; +Which throbs beyond the chill control + Of withering pain or pale decay. + +And surely, when the touch of Death + Dissolves the spirit's earthly ties, +Love still attends the immortal breath, + And makes it purer for the skies! + +Oh Rosa, when, to seek its sphere, + My soul shall leave this orb of men, +That love which formed its treasure here, + Shall be its _best_ of treasures then! + +And as, in fabled dreams of old, + Some air-born genius, child of time, +Presided o'er each star that rolled, + And tracked it through its path sublime; + +So thou, fair planet, not unled, + Shalt through thy mortal orbit stray; +Thy lover's shade, to thee still wed, + Shall linger round thy earthly way. + +Let other spirits range the sky, + And play around each starry gem; +I'll bask beneath that lucid eye, + Nor envy worlds of suns to them. + +And when that heart shall cease to beat, + And when that breath at length is free, +Then, Rosa, soul to soul we'll meet, + And mingle to eternity! + + + + + + +SONG. + + +The wreath you wove, the wreath you wove, + Is fair--but oh, how fair, +If Pity's hand had stolen from Love +One leaf, to mingle there! + +If every rose with gold were tied, + Did gems for dewdrops fall, +One faded leaf where Love had sighed + Were sweetly worth them all. + +The wreath you wove,--the wreath you wove + Our emblem well may be; +Its bloom is yours, but hopeless Love + Must keep its tears for me. + + + + + + +THE SALE OF LOVES. + + +I dreamt that, in the Paphian groves, + My nets by moonlight laying, +I caught a flight of wanton Loves, + Among the rose-beds playing. +Some just had left their silvery shell, + While some were full in feather; +So pretty a lot of Loves to sell, + Were never yet strung together. + Come buy my Loves, + Come buy my Loves, +Ye dames and rose-lipped misses!-- + They're new and bright, + The cost is light, +For the coin of this isle is kisses. + +First Cloris came, with looks sedate. + The coin on her lips was ready; +"I buy," quoth she, "my Love by weight, + "Full grown, if you please, and steady." +"Let mine be light," said Fanny, "pray-- + "Such lasting toys undo one; +"A light little Love that will last to-day,-- + "To-morrow I'll sport a new one." + Come buy my Loves, + Come buy my Loves, +Ye dames and rose-lipped misses!-- + There's some will keep, + Some light and cheap +At from ten to twenty kisses. + +The learned Prue took a pert young thing, + To divert her virgin Muse with, +And pluck sometimes a quill from his wing. + To indite her billet-doux with, +Poor Cloe would give for a well-fledged pair + Her only eye, if you'd ask it; +And Tabitha begged, old toothless fair. + For the youngest Love in the basket. + Come buy my Loves, etc. + +But _one_ was left, when Susan came, + One worth them all together; +At sight of her dear looks of shame, + He smiled and pruned his feather. +She wished the boy--'twas more than whim-- + Her looks, her sighs betrayed it; +But kisses were not enough for him, + I asked a heart and she paid it! + Good-by, my Loves, + Good-by, my Loves, +'Twould make you smile to've seen us + First, trade for this + Sweet child of bliss, +And then nurse the boy between us. + + + + + + +TO .... .... + + +The world has just begun to steal + Each hope that led me lightly on; +I felt not, as I used to feel, + And life grew dark and love was gone. + +No eye to mingle sorrow's tear, + No lip to mingle pleasure's breath, +No circling arms to draw me near-- + 'Twas gloomy, and I wished for death. + +But when I saw that gentle eye, + Oh! something seemed to tell me then, +That I was yet too young to die, + And hope and bliss might bloom again. + +With every gentle smile that crost + Your kindling cheek, you lighted home +Some feeling which my heart had lost + And peace which far had learned to roam. + +'Twas then indeed so sweet to live, + Hope looked so new and Love so kind. +That, though I mourn, I yet forgive + The ruin they have left behind. + +I could have loved you--oh, so well!-- + The dream, that wishing boyhood knows, +Is but a bright, beguiling spell, + That only lives while passion glows. + +But, when this early flush declines, + When the heart's sunny morning fleets, +You know not then how close it twines + Round the first kindred soul it meets. + +Yes, yes, I could have loved, as one + Who, while his youth's enchantments fall, +Finds something dear to rest upon, + Which pays him for the loss of all. + + + + + + +TO .... .... + + +Never mind how the pedagogue proses, + You want not antiquity's stamp; +A lip, that such fragrance discloses, + Oh! never should smell of the lamp. + +Old Cloe, whose withering kiss + Hath long set the Loves at defiance, +Now, done with the science of bliss, + May take to the blisses of science. + +But for _you_ to be buried in books-- + Ah, Fanny, they're pitiful sages, +Who could not in _one_ of your looks + Read more than in millions of pages. + +Astronomy finds in those eyes + Better light than she studies above; +And Music would borrow your sighs + As the melody fittest for Love. + +Your Arithmetic only can trip + If to count your own charms you endeavor; +And Eloquence glows on your lip + When you swear that you'll love me for ever. + +Thus you see, what a brilliant alliance + Of arts is assembled in you;-- +A course of more exquisite science + Man never need wish to pursue. + +And, oh!--if a Fellow like me + May confer a diploma of hearts, +With my lip thus I seal your degree, + My divine little Mistress of Arts! + + + + + + +ON THE DEATH OF A LADY, + + +Sweet spirit! if thy airy sleep + Nor sees my tears not hears my sighs, +Then will I weep, in anguish weep, + Till the last heart's drop fills mine eyes. + +But if thy sainted soul can feel, + And mingles in our misery; +Then, then my breaking heart I'll seal-- + Thou shalt not hear one sigh from me. + +The beam of morn was on the stream, + But sullen clouds the day deform; +Like thee was that young, orient beam, + Like death, alas, that sullen storm! + +Thou wert not formed for living here, + So linked thy soul was with the sky; +Yet, ah, we held thee all so dear, + We thought thou wert not formed to die. + + + + + + +INCONSTANCY. + + +And do I then wonder that Julia deceives me, + When surely there's nothing in nature more common? +She vows to be true, and while vowing she leaves me-- + And could I expect any more from a woman? + +Oh, woman! your heart is a pitiful treasure; + And Mahomet's doctrine was not too severe, +When he held that you were but materials of pleasure, + And reason and thinking were out of your sphere. + +By your heart, when the fond sighing lover can win it, + He thinks that an age of anxiety's paid; +But, oh, while he's blest, let him die at the minute-- + If he live but a _day_, he'll be surely betrayed. + + + + + + +THE NATAL GENIUS. + +A DREAM + +TO .... .... + +THE MORNING OF HER BIRTHDAY. + + +In witching slumbers of the night, +I dreamt I was the airy sprite + That on thy natal moment smiled; +And thought I wafted on my wing +Those flowers which in Elysium spring, + To crown my lovely mortal child. + +With olive-branch I bound thy head, +Heart's ease along thy path I shed, + Which was to bloom through all thy years; +Nor yet did I forget to bind +Love's roses, with his myrtle twined, + And dewed by sympathetic tears. + +Such was the wild but precious boon +Which Fancy, at her magic noon, + Bade me to Nona's image pay; +And were it thus my fate to be +Thy little guardian deity, + How blest around thy steps I'd play! + +Thy life should glide in peace along, +Calm as some lonely shepherd's song + That's heard at distance in the grove; +No cloud should ever dim thy sky, +No thorns along thy pathway lie, + But all be beauty, peace and love. + +Indulgent Time should never bring +To thee one blight upon his wing, + So gently o'er thy brow he'd fly; +And death itself should but be felt +Like that of daybeams, when they melt, + Bright to the last, in evening's sky! + + + + + + +ELEGIAC STANZAS. + +SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY JULIA, + +ON THE DEATH OF HER BROTHER. + + +Though sorrow long has worn my heart; + Though every day I've, counted o'er +Hath brought a new and, quickening smart + To wounds that rankled fresh before; + +Though in my earliest life bereft + Of tender links by nature tied; +Though hope deceived, and pleasure left; + Though friends betrayed and foes belied; + +I still had hopes--for hope will stay + After the sunset of delight; +So like the star which ushers day, + We scarce can think it heralds night!-- + +I hoped that, after all its strife, + My weary heart at length should rest. +And, feinting from the waves of life, + Find harbor in a brother's breast. + +That brother's breast was warm with truth, + Was bright with honor's purest ray; +He was the dearest, gentlest youth-- + Ah, why then was he torn away? + +He should have stayed, have lingered here + To soothe his Julia's every woe; +He should have chased each bitter tear, + And not have caused those tears to flow. + +We saw within his soul expand + The fruits of genius, nurst by taste; +While Science, with a fostering hand, + Upon his brow her chaplet placed. + +We saw, by bright degrees, his mind + Grow rich in all that makes men dear; +Enlightened, social, and refined, + In friendship firm, in love sincere. + +Such was the youth we loved so well, + And such the hopes that fate denied;-- +We loved, but ah! could scarcely tell + How deep, how dearly, till he died! + +Close as the fondest links could strain, + Twined with my very heart he grew; +And by that fate which breaks the chain, + The heart is almost broken too. + + + + + + +TO THE LARGE AND BEAUTIFUL MISS......, + +IN ALLUSION TO SOME PARTNERSHIP IN A LOTTERY SHARE + +IMPROMPTU. + + + --_Ego Pars_--VIRG. + + +In wedlock a species of lottery lies, + Where in blanks and in prizes we deal; +But how comes it that you, such a capital prize, + Should so long have remained in the wheel? + +If ever, by Fortune's indulgent decree, + To me such a ticket should roll, +A sixteenth, Heaven knows! were sufficient for me; + For what could _I_ do with the whole? + + + + + + +A DREAM. + + +I thought this heart enkindled lay + On Cupid's burning shrine: +I thought he stole thy heart away, + And placed it near to mine. + +I saw thy heart begin to melt, + Like ice before the sun; +Till both a glow congenial felt, + And mingled into one! + + + + + + +TO ....... + + +With all my soul, then, let us part, + Since both are anxious to be free; +And I will sand you home your heart, + If you will send mine back to me. + +We've had some happy hours together, + But joy must often change its wing; +And spring would be but gloomy weather, + If we had nothing else but spring. + +'Tis not that I expect to find + A more devoted, fond and true one, +With rosier cheek or sweeter mind-- + Enough for me that she's a new one. + +Thus let us leave the bower of love, + Where we have loitered long in bliss; +And you may down _that_ pathway rove, + While I shall take my way through _this_. + + + + + + +ANACREONTIC. + + +"She never looked so kind before-- + "Yet why the wanton's smile recall? +"I've seen this witchery o'er and o'er, + "'Tis hollow, vain, and heartless all!" + +Thus I said and, sighing drained + The cup which she so late had tasted; +Upon whose rim still fresh remained + The breath, so oft in falsehood wasted. + +I took the harp and would have sung + As if 'twere not of her I sang; +But still the notes on Lamia hung-- + On whom but Lamia _could_ they hang? + +Those eyes of hers, that floating shine, + Like diamonds in some eastern river; +That kiss, for which, if worlds were mine, + A world for every kiss I'd give her. + +That frame so delicate, yet warmed + With flushes of love's genial hue; +A mould transparent, as if formed + To let the spirit's light shine through. + +Of these I sung, and notes and words + Were sweet, as if the very air +From Lamia's lip hung o'er the chords, + And Lamia's voice still warbled there! + +But when, alas, I turned the theme, + And when of vows and oaths I spoke, +Of truth and hope's seducing dream-- + The chord beneath my finger broke. + +False harp! false woman! such, oh, such + Are lutes too frail and hearts too willing; +Any hand, whate'er its touch, + Can set their chords or pulses thrilling. + +And when that thrill is most awake, + And when you think Heaven's joys await you, +The nymph will change, the chord will break-- + Oh Love, oh Music, how I hate you! + + + + + + +TO JULIA. + + +I saw the peasant's hand unkind + From yonder oak the ivy sever; +They seemed in very being twined; + Yet now the oak is fresh as ever! + +Not so the widowed ivy shines: + Torn from its dear and only stay, +In drooping widowhood it pines, + And scatters all its bloom away. + +Thus, Julia, did our hearts entwine, + Till Fate disturbed their tender ties: +Thus gay indifference blooms in thine, + While mine, deserted, droops and dies! + + + + + + +HYMN OF A VIRGIN OF DELPHI, + +AT THE TOMB OF HER MOTHER. + + +Oh, lost, forever lost--no more + Shall Vesper light our dewy way +Along the rocks of Crissa's shore, + To hymn the fading fires of day; +No more to Tempe's distant vale + In holy musings shall we roam, +Through summer's glow and winter's gale, + To bear the mystic chaplets home.[1] + +'Twas then my soul's expanding zeal, + By nature warmed and led by thee, +In every breeze was taught to feel + The breathings of a Deity. +Guide of my heart! still hovering round. + Thy looks, thy words are still my own-- +I see thee raising from the ground + Some laurel, by the winds o'er thrown. +And hear thee say, "This humble bough + Was planted for a doom divine; +And, though it droop in languor now, + Shall flourish on the Delphic shrine!" +"Thus, in the vale of earthly sense, + "Though sunk awhile the spirit lies, +"A viewless hand shall cull it thence + "To bloom immortal in the skies!" + +All that the young should feel and know + By thee was taught so sweetly well, +Thy words fell soft as vernal snow, + And all was brightness where they fell! +Fond soother of my infant tear, + Fond sharer of my infant joy, +Is not thy shade still lingering here? + Am I not still thy soul's employ? +Oh yes--and, as in former days, + When, meeting on the sacred mount, +Our nymphs awaked their choral lays, + And danced around Cassotis' fount; +As then, 'twas all thy wish and care, + That mine should be the simplest mien, +My lyre and voice the sweetest there, + My foot the lightest o'er the green: +So still, each look and step to mould, + Thy guardian care is round me spread, +Arranging every snowy fold + And guiding every mazy tread. +And, when I lead the hymning choir, + Thy spirit still, unseen and free, +Hovers between my lip and lyre, + And weds them into harmony. +Flow, Plistus, flow, thy murmuring wave + Shall never drop its silvery tear +Upon so pure, so blest a grave, + To memory so entirely dear! + + +[1] The laurel, for the common uses of the temple, for adorning +the altars and sweeping the pavement, was supplied by a tree near the +fountain of Castalia; but upon all important occasions, they sent to Tempe +for their laurel. We find, in Pausanias; that this valley supplied the +branches, of which the temple was originally constructed; and Plutarch +says, in his Dialogue on Music, "The youth who brings the Tempic laurel to +Delphi is always attended by a player on the flute." + + + + + + +SYMPATHY. + +TO JULIA. + + + --_sine me sit nulla Venus_. + SULPICIA. + + +Our hearts, my love, were formed to be +The genuine twins of Sympathy, + They live with one sensation; +In joy or grief, but most in love, +Like chords in unison they move, + And thrill with like vibration. + +How oft I've beard thee fondly say, +Thy vital pulse shall cease to play + When mine no more is moving; +Since, now, to feel a joy _alone_ +Were worse to thee than feeling none, + So twined are we in loving! + + + + + + +THE TEAR. + + +On beds of snow the moonbeam slept, + And chilly was the midnight gloom, +When by the damp grave Ellen wept-- + Fond maid! it was her Lindor's tomb! + +A warm tear gushed, the wintry air, + Congealed it as it flowed away: +All night it lay an ice-drop there, + At morn it glittered in the ray. + +An angel, wandering from her sphere, + Who saw this bright, this frozen gem, +To dew-eyed Pity brought the tear + And hung it on her diadem! + + + + + + +THE SNAKE. + + +My love and I, the other day, +Within a myrtle arbor lay, +When near us, from a rosy bed, +A little Snake put forth its head. + +"See," said the maid with thoughtful eyes-- +"Yonder the fatal emblem lies! +"Who could expect such hidden harm +"Beneath the rose's smiling charm?" + +Never did grave remark occur +Less _à-propos_ than this from her. + +I rose to kill the snake, but she, +Half-smiling, prayed it might not be. + +"No," said the maiden--and, alas, + Her eyes spoke volumes, while she said it-- +"Long as the snake is in the grass, + "One _may_, perhaps, have cause to dread it: +"But, when its wicked eyes appear, + "And when we know for what they wink so, +"One must be _very_ simple, dear, + "To let it wound one--don't you think so?" + + + + + + +TO ROSA. + + +Is the song of Rosa mute? +Once such lays inspired her lute! +Never doth a sweeter song +Steal the breezy lyre along, +When the wind, in odors dying, +Woos it with enamor'd sighing. + + Is my Rosa's lute unstrung? +Once a tale of peace it sung +To her lover's throbbing breast-- +Then was he divinely blest! +Ah! but Rosa loves no more, +Therefore Rosa's song is o'er; +And her lute neglected lies; +And her boy forgotten sighs. +Silent lute--forgotten lover-- +Rosa's love and song are over! + + + + + + +ELEGIAC STANZAS. + + + _Sic juvat perire_. + + +When wearied wretches sink to sleep, + How heavenly soft their slumbers lie! +How sweet is death to those who weep, +To those who weep and long to die! + +Saw you the soft and grassy bed, + Where flowrets deck the green earth's breast? +'Tis there I wish to lay my head, + 'Tis there I wish to sleep at rest. + +Oh, let not tears embalm my tomb,-- + None but the dews at twilight given! +Oh, let not sighs disturb the gloom,-- + None but the whispering winds of heaven! + + + + + + +LOVE AND MARRIAGE. + + + _Eque brevi verbo ferre perenne malum_. + SECUNDUS, eleg. vii. + + +Still the question I must parry, + Still a wayward truant prove: +Where I love, I must not marry; + Where I marry, can not love. + +Were she fairest of creation, + With the least presuming mind; +Learned without affectation; + Not deceitful, yet refined; + +Wise enough, but never rigid; + Gay, but not too lightly free; +Chaste as snow, and yet not frigid: + Fond, yet satisfied with me: + +Were she all this ten times over, + All that heaven to earth allows. +I should be too much her lover + Ever to become her spouse. + +Love will never bear enslaving; + Summer garments suit him best; +Bliss itself is not worth having, + If we're by compulsion blest. + + + + + + +ANACREONTIC. + + +I filled to thee, to thee I drank, + I nothing did but drink and fill; +The bowl by turns was bright and blank, + 'Twas drinking, filling, drinking still. + +At length I bade an artist paint + Thy image in this ample cup, +That I might see the dimpled saint, + To whom I quaffed my nectar up. + +Behold, how bright that purple lip + Now blushes through the wave at me; +Every roseate drop I sip + Is just like kissing wine from thee. + +And still I drink the more for this; + For, ever when the draught I drain, +Thy lip invites another kiss, + And--in the nectar flows again. + +So, here's to thee, my gentle dear, + And may that eyelid never shine +Beneath a darker, bitterer tear + Than bathes it in this bowl of mine! + + + + + + +THE SURPRISE. + + +Chloris, I swear, by all I ever swore, +That from this hour I shall not love thee more.-- +"What! love no more? Oh! why this altered vow?" +Because I _can not_ love thee _more_ + --than _now_! + + + + + + +TO MISS ....... + +ON HER ASKING THE AUTHOR WHY SHE HAD SLEEPLESS NIGHTS. + + +I'll ask the sylph who round thee flies, + And in thy breath his pinion dips, +Who suns him in thy radiant eyes, + And faints upon thy sighing lips: + +I'll ask him where's the veil of sleep + That used to shade thy looks of light; +And why those eyes their vigil keep + When other suns are sunk in night? + +And I will say--her angel breast + Has never throbbed with guilty sting; +Her bosom is the sweetest nest + Where Slumber could repose his wing! + +And I will say--her cheeks that flush, + Like vernal roses in the sun, +Have ne'er by shame been taught to blush, + Except for what her eyes have done! + +Then tell me, why, thou child of air! + Does slumber from her eyelids rove? +What is her heart's impassioned care? + Perhaps, oh sylph! perhaps, 'tis _love_. + + + + + + +THE WONDER. + + +Come, tell me where the maid is found. + Whose heart can love without deceit, +And I will range the world around, + To sigh one moment at her feet. + +Oh! tell me where's her sainted home, + What air receives her blessed sigh, +A pilgrimage of years I'll roam + To catch one sparkle of her eye! + +And if her cheek be smooth and bright, + While truth within her bosom lies, +I'll gaze upon her morn and night, + Till my heart leave me through my eyes. + +Show me on earth a thing so rare, + I'll own all miracles are true; +To make one maid sincere and fair, + Oh, 'tis the utmost Heaven can do! + + + + + + +LYING. + + + _Che con le lor bugie pajon divini._ + MAURO D'ARCANO. + + +I do confess, in many a sigh, +My lips have breathed you many a lie; +And who, with such delights in view, +Would lose them for a lie or two? + + Nay,--look not thus, with brow reproving; +Lies are, my dear, the soul of loving. +If half we tell the girls were true, +If half we swear to think and do, +Were aught but lying's bright illusion, +This world would be in strange confusion. +If ladies' eyes were, every one, +As lovers swear, a radiant sun, +Astronomy must leave the skies, +To learn her lore in ladies' eyes. +Oh, no--believe me, lovely girl, +When nature turns your teeth to pearl, +Your neck to snow, your eyes to fire, +Your amber locks to golden wire, +Then, only then can Heaven decree, +That you should live for only me, +Or I for you, as night and morn, +We've swearing kist, and kissing sworn. + And now, my gentle hints to clear, +For once I'll tell you truth, my dear. +Whenever you may chance to meet +Some loving youth, whose love is sweet, +Long as you're false and he believes you, +Long as you trust and he deceives you, +So long the blissful bond endures, +And while he lies, his heart is yours: +But, oh! you've wholly lost the youth +The instant that he tells you truth. + + + + + + +ANACREONTIC. + + +Friend of my soul, this goblet sip, + 'Twill chase that pensive tear; +'Tis not so sweet as woman's lip, + But, oh! 'tis more sincere. + + Like her delusive beam, + 'Twill steal away thy mind: + But, truer than love's dream, + It leaves no sting behind. + +Come, twine the wreath, thy brows to shade; + These flowers were culled at noon;-- +Like woman's love the rose will fade, + But, ah! not half so soon. + For though the flower's decayed, + Its fragrance is not o'er; + But once when love's betrayed, + Its sweet life blooms no more. + + + + + + +THE PHILOSOPHER ARISTIPPUS[1] + +TO A LAMP WHICH HAD BEEN GIVEN HIM BY LAIS. + + + _Dulcis conscia lectuli lucerna_. + MARTIAL, _lib. xiv. epig. 89_. + + +"Oh! love the Lamp" (my Mistress said), + "The faithful Lamp that, many a night, +"Beside thy Lais' lonely bed? + "Has kept its little watch of light. + +"Full often has it seen her weep, + "And fix her eye upon its flame. +"Till, weary, she has sunk to sleep, + "Repeating her beloved's name. + +"Then love the Lamp--'twill often lead + "Thy step through learning's sacred way; +"And when those studious eyes shall read, + "At midnight, by its lonely ray, + "Of things sublime, of nature's birth, + "Of all that's bright in heaven or earth, + Oh, think that she, by whom 'twas given, +"Adores thee more than earth or heaven!" + +Yes--dearest Lamp, by every charm + On which thy midnight beam has hung; +The head reclined, the graceful arm + Across the brow of ivory flung; + +The heaving bosom, partly hid, + The severed lips unconscious sighs, +The fringe that from the half-shut lid + Adown the cheek of roses lies; + +By these, by all that bloom untold, + And long as all shall charm my heart, +I'll love my little Lamp of gold-- + My Lamp and I shall never part. + +And often, as she smiling said, + In fancy's hour thy gentle rays +Shall guide my visionary tread + Through poesy's enchanting maze. +Thy flame shall light the page refined, + Where still we catch the Chian's breath, + Where still the bard though cold in death, +Has left his soul unquenched behind. +Or, o'er thy humbler legend shine, + Oh man of Ascra's dreary glades, +To whom the nightly warbling Nine + A wand of inspiration gave, +Plucked from the greenest tree, that shades +The crystal of Castalia's wave. + +Then, turning to a purer lore, +We'll cull the sage's deep-hid store, +From Science steal her golden clue, +And every mystic path pursue, +Where Nature, far from vulgar eyes, +Through labyrinths of wonder flies. +'Tis thus my heart shall learn to know +How fleeting is this world below, +Where all that meets the morning light, +Is changed before the fall of night! + +I'll tell thee, as I trim thy fire, + "Swift, swift the tide of being runs, +"And Time, who bids thy flame expire, + "Will also quench yon heaven of suns." + +Oh, then if earth's united power +Can never chain one feathery hour; +If every print we leave to-day +To-morrow's wave will sweep away; +Who pauses to inquire of heaven +Why were the fleeting treasures given, +The sunny days, the shady nights, +And all their brief but dear delights, +Which heaven has made for man to use, +And man should think it crime to lose? +Who that has culled a fresh-blown rose +Will ask it why it breathes and glows, +Unmindful of the blushing ray, +In which it shines its soul away; +Unmindful of the scented sigh, +With which it dies and loves to die. + +Pleasure, thou only good on earth[2] +One precious moment given to thee-- +Oh! by my Lais' lip, 'tis worth + The sage's immortality. + +Then far be all the wisdom hence, + That would our joys one hour delay! +Alas, the feast of soul and sense + Love calls us to in youth's bright day, + If not soon tasted, fleets away. +Ne'er wert thou formed, my Lamp, to shed + Thy splendor on a lifeless page;-- +Whate'er my blushing Lais said + Of thoughtful lore and studies sage, +'Twas mockery all--her glance of joy +Told me thy dearest, best employ. +And, soon, as night shall close the eye + Of heaven's young wanderer in the west; +When seers are gazing on the sky, + To find their future orbs of rest; +Then shall I take my trembling way, + Unseen but to those worlds above, +And, led by thy mysterious ray, + Steal to the night-bower of my love. + + +[1] It does not appear to have been very difficult to become a +philosopher amongst the ancients. A moderate store of learning, with a +considerable portion of confidence, and just wit enough to produce an +occasional apophthegm, seem to have been all the qualifications necessary +for the purpose. + +[2] Aristippus considered motion as the principle of happiness, +in which idea he differed from the Epicureans, who looked to a state of +repose as the only true voluptuousness, and avoided even the too lively +agitations of pleasure, as a violent and ungraceful derangement of the +senses. + + + + + + +TO MRS,---. + +ON HER BEAUTIFUL TRANSLATION OF VOITURE'S KISS. + + + _Mon ame sur mon lèvre étoit lors toute entière. + Pour savourer le miel qui sur la votre étoit; + Mais en me retirant, elle resta derrière, + Tant de ce doux plaisir l'amorce l'a restoit_. + VOITURE. + + +How heavenly was the poet's doom, + To breathe his spirit through a kiss: +And lose within so sweet a tomb + The trembling messenger of bliss! + +And, sure his soul returned to feel + That it _again_ could ravished be; +For in the kiss that thou didst steal, + His life and soul have fled to thee. + + + + + + +RONDEAU. + + +"Good night! good night!"--And is it so? +And must I from my Rosa go? +Oh Rosa, say "Good night!" once more, +And I'll repeat it o'er and o'er, +Till the first glance of dawning light +Shall find us saying, still, "Good night." + +And still "Good night," my Rosa, say-- +But whisper still, "A minute stay;" +And I will stay, and every minute +Shall have an age of transport in it; +Till Time himself shall stay his flight, +To listen to our sweet "Good night." + +"Good night!" you'll murmur with a sigh, +And tell me it is time to fly: +And I will vow, will swear to go, +While still that sweet voice murmurs "No!" +Till slumber seal our weary sight-- +And then, my love, my soul, "Good night!" + + + + + + +SONG. + + +Why does azure deck the sky? + 'Tis to be like thy looks of blue. +Why is red the rose's dye? + Because it is thy blushes' hue. +All that's fair, by Love's decree, + Has been made resembling thee! + +Why is falling snow so white, + But to be like thy bosom fair! +Why are solar beams so bright? + That they may seem thy golden hair! +All that's bright, by Love's decree, +Has been made resembling thee! + +Why are nature's beauties felt? + Oh! 'tis thine in her we see! +Why has music power to melt? + Oh! because it speaks like thee. +All that's sweet, by Love's decree, +Has been made resembling thee! + + + + + + +TO ROSA. + + +Like one who trusts to summer skies, + And puts his little bark to sea, +Is he who, lured by smiling eyes, + Consigns his simple heart to thee. + +For fickle is the summer wind, + And sadly may the bark be tost; +For thou art sure to change thy mind, + And then the wretched heart is lost! + + + + + + +WRITTEN IN A COMMONPLACE BOOK, CALLED "THE BOOK OF FOLLIES;" +IN WHICH EVERY ONE THAT OPENED IT WAS TO CONTRIBUTE SOMETHING. + +TO THE BOOK OF FOLLIES. + + +This tribute's from a wretched elf, +Who hails thee, emblem of himself. +The book of life, which I have traced, +Has been, like thee, a motley waste +Of follies scribbled o'er and o'er, +One folly bringing hundreds more. +Some have indeed been writ so neat, +In characters so fair, so sweet, +That those who judge not too severely, +Have said they loved such follies dearly! +Yet still, O book! the allusion stands; +For these were penned by _female_ hands: +The rest--alas! I own the truth-- +Have all been scribbled so uncouth +That Prudence, with a withering look, +Disdainful, flings away the book. +Like thine, its pages here and there +Have oft been stained with blots of care; +And sometimes hours of peace, I own, +Upon some fairer leaves have shone, +White as the snowings of that heaven +By which those hours of peace were given; +But now no longer--such, oh, such +The blast of Disappointment's touch!-- +No longer now those hours appear; +Each leaf is sullied by a tear: +Blank, blank is every page with care, +Not even a folly brightens there. +Will they yet brighten?--never, never! +Then _shut the book_, O God, for ever! + + + + + + +TO ROSA. + + +Say, why should the girl of my soul be in tears + At a meeting of rapture like this, +When the glooms of the past and the sorrow of years + Have been paid by one moment of bliss? + +Are they shed for that moment of blissful delight, + Which dwells on her memory yet? +Do they flow, like the dews of the love-breathing night, + From the warmth of the sun that has set? + +Oh! sweet is the tear on that languishing smile, + That smile, which is loveliest then; +And if such are the drops that delight can beguile, + Thou shalt weep them again and again. + + + + + + +LIGHT SOUNDS THE HARP. + + +Light sounds the harp when the combat is over, + When heroes are resting, and joy is in bloom; +When laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover, + And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume. + But, when the foe returns, + Again the hero burns; +High flames the sword in his hand once more: + The clang of mingling arms + Is then the sound that charms, +And brazen notes of war, that stirring trumpets pour;-- +Then, again comes the Harp, when the combat is over-- + When heroes are resting, and Joy is in bloom-- +When laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover, + And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume. +Light went the harp when the War-God, reclining, + Lay lulled on the white arm of Beauty to rest, +When round his rich armor the myrtle hung twining, + And flights of young doves made his helmet their nest. + But, when the battle came, + The hero's eye breathed flame: +Soon from his neck the white arm was flung; + While, to his waking ear, + No other sounds were dear +But brazen notes of war, by thousand trumpets sung. +But then came the light harp, when danger was ended, + And Beauty once more lulled the War-God to rest; +When tresses of gold with his laurels lay blended, + And flights of young doves made his helmet their nest. + + + + + + +FROM THE GREEK OF MELEAGER. + + +Fill high the cup with liquid flame, +And speak my Heliodora's name. +Repeat its magic o'er and o'er, +And let the sound my lips adore, +Live in the breeze, till every tone, +And word, and breath, speaks her alone. + +Give me the wreath that withers there, + It was but last delicious night, +It circled her luxuriant hair, + And caught her eyes' reflected light. +Oh! haste, and twine it round my brow, +'Tis all of her that's left me now. +And see--each rosebud drops a tear, +To find the nymph no longer here-- +No longer, where such heavenly charms +As hers _should_ be--within these arms. + + + + + + +SONG. + + +Fly from the world, O Bessy! to me, + Thou wilt never find any sincerer; +I'll give up the world, O Bessy! for thee, + I can never meet any that's dearer. +Then tell me no more, with a tear and a sigh, + That our loves will be censured by many; +All, all have their follies, and who will deny + That ours is the sweetest of any? + +When your lip has met mine, in communion so sweet, + Have we felt as if virtue forbid it?-- +Have we felt as if heaven denied them to meet?-- + No, rather 'twas heaven that did it. +So innocent, love, is the joy we then sip, + So little of wrong is there in it, +That I wish all my errors were lodged on your lip, + And I'd kiss them away in a minute. + +Then come to your lover, oh! fly to his shed, + From a world which I know thou despisest; +And slumber will hover as light o'er our bed! + As e'er on the couch of the wisest. +And when o'er our pillow the tempest is driven, + And thou, pretty innocent, fearest, +I'll tell thee, it is not the chiding of heaven, + 'Tis only our lullaby, dearest. + +And, oh! while, we lie on our deathbed, my love, + Looking back on the scene of our errors, +A sigh from my Bessy shall plead then above, + And Death be disarmed of his terrors, +And each to the other embracing will say, + "Farewell! let us hope we're forgiven." +Thy last fading glance will illumine the way, + And a kiss be our passport to heaven! + + + + + + +THE RESEMBLANCE. + + + _---- vo cercand' io, + Donna quant' e possibile in altrui + La desiata vostra forma vera_. + PETRARC, _Sonett_. 14. + + +Yes, if 'twere any common love, + That led my pliant heart astray, +I grant, there's not a power above + Could wipe the faithless crime away. + +But 'twas my doom to err with one + In every look so like to thee +That, underneath yon blessed sun + So fair there are but thou and she + +Both born of beauty, at a birth, + She held with thine a kindred sway, +And wore the only shape on earth + That could have lured my soul to stray. + +Then blame me not, if false I be, + 'Twas love that waked the fond excess; +My heart had been more true to thee, + Had mine eye prized thy beauty less. + + + + + + +FANNY, DEAREST. + + +Yes! had I leisure to sigh and mourn, + Fanny, dearest, for thee I'd sigh; +And every smile on my cheek should turn + To tears when thou art nigh. +But, between love, and wine, and sleep, + So busy a life I live, +That even the time it would take to weep + Is more than my heart can give. +Then bid me not to despair and pine, + Fanny, dearest of all the dears! +The Love that's ordered to bathe in wine, + Would be sure to take cold in tears. + +Reflected bright in this heart of mine, + Fanny, dearest, thy image lies; +But, ah, the mirror would cease to shine, + If dimmed too often with sighs. +They lose the half of beauty's light, + Who view it through sorrow's tear; +And 'tis but to see thee truly bright + That I keep my eye-beam clear. +Then wait no longer till tears shall flow, + Fanny, dearest--the hope is vain; +If sunshine cannot dissolve thy snow, + I shall never attempt it with rain. + + + + + + +THE RING. + +TO .... .... + + +No--Lady! Lady! keep the ring: + Oh! think, how many a future year, +Of placid smile and downy wing, + May sleep within its holy sphere. + +Do not disturb their tranquil dream, + Though love hath ne'er the mystery warmed; +Yet heaven will shed a soothing beam, + To bless the bond itself hath formed. + +But then, that eye, that burning eye,-- + Oh! it doth ask, with witching power, +If heaven can ever bless the tie + Where love inwreaths no genial flower? + +Away, away, bewildering look, + Or all the boast of virtue's o'er; +Go--hie thee to the sage's book, + And learn from him to feel no more. + +I cannot warn thee: every touch, + That brings my pulses close to thine, +Tells me I want thy aid as much-- + Even more, alas, than thou dost mine. + +Yet, stay,--one hope, one effort yet-- + A moment turn those eyes a way, +And let me, if I can, forget + The light that leads my soul astray. + +Thou sayest, that we were born to meet, + That our hearts bear one common seal;-- +Think, Lady, think, how man's deceit + Can seem to sigh and feign to feel. + +When, o'er thy face some gleam of thought, + Like daybeams through the morning air, +Hath gradual stole, and I have caught + The feeling ere it kindled there; + +The sympathy I then betrayed, + Perhaps was but the child of art, +The guile of one, who long hath played + With all these wily nets of heart. + +Oh! thine is not my earliest vow; + Though few the years I yet have told, +Canst thou believe I've lived till now, + With loveless heart or senses cold? + +No--other nymphs to joy and pain + This wild and wandering heart hath moved; +With some it sported, wild and vain, + While some it dearly, truly, loved. + +The cheek to thine I fondly lay, + To theirs hath been as fondly laid; +The words to thee I warmly say, + To them have been as warmly said. + +Then, scorn at once a worthless heart, + Worthless alike, or fixt or free; +Think of the pure, bright soul thou art, + And--love not me, oh love not me. + +Enough--now, turn thine eyes again; + What, still that look and still that sigh! +Dost thou not feel my counsel then? + Oh! no, beloved,--nor do I. + + + + + + +TO THE INVISIBLE GIRL. + + +They try to persuade me, my dear little sprite, +That you're not a true daughter of ether and light, +Nor have any concern with those fanciful forms +That dance upon rainbows and ride upon storms; +That, in short, you're a woman; your lip and your eye +As mortal as ever drew gods from the sky. +But I _will_ not believe them--no, Science, to you +I have long bid a last and a careless adieu: +Still flying from Nature to study her laws, +And dulling delight by exploring its cause, +You forget how superior, for mortals below, +Is the fiction they dream to the truth that they know. +Oh! who, that has e'er enjoyed rapture complete, +Would ask _how_ we feel it, or _why_ it is sweet; +How rays are confused, or how particles fly +Through the medium refined of a glance or a sigh; +Is there one, who but once would not rather have known it, +Than written, with Harvey, whole volumes upon it? + + As for you, my sweet-voiced and invisible love, +You must surely be one of those spirits, that rove +By the bank where, at twilight, the poet reclines, +When the star of the west on his solitude shines, +And the magical fingers of fancy have hung +Every breeze with a sigh, every leaf with a tongue. +Oh! hint to him then, 'tis retirement alone +Can hallow his harp or ennoble its tone; +Like you, with a veil of seclusion between, +His song to the world let him utter unseen, +And like you, a legitimate child of the spheres, +Escape from the eye to enrapture the ears. + + Sweet spirit of mystery! how I should love, +In the wearisome ways I am fated to rove, +To have you thus ever invisibly nigh, +Inhaling for ever your song and your sigh! +Mid the crowds of the world and the murmurs of care, +I might sometimes converse with my nymph of the air, +And turn with distaste from the clamorous crew, +To steal in the pauses one whisper from you. +Then, come and be near me, for ever be mine, +We shall hold in the air a communion divine, +As sweet as, of old, was imagined to dwell +In the grotto of Numa, or Socrates' cell. +And oft, at those lingering moments of night, +When the heart's busy thoughts have put slumber to flight, +You shall come to my pillow and tell me of love, +Such as angel to angel might whisper above. +Sweet spirit!--and then, could you borrow the tone +Of that voice, to my ear like some fairy-song known, +The voice of the one upon earth, who has twined +With her being for ever my heart and my mind, +Though lonely and far from the light of her smile, +An exile, and weary and hopeless the while, +Could you shed for a moment her voice on my ear. +I will think, for that moment, that Cara is near; +That she comes with consoling enchantment to speak, +And kisses my eyelid and breathes on my cheek, +And tells me the night shall go rapidly by, +For the dawn of our hope, of our heaven is nigh. + +Fair spirit! if such be your magical power, +It will lighten the lapse of full many an hour; +And, let fortune's realities frown as they will, +Hope, fancy, and Cara may smile for me still. + + + + + + +THE RING[1] + +A TALE + + + _Annulus ille viri._ + OVID. _"Amor." lib. ii. eleg. 15_. + + +The happy day at length arrived + When Rupert was to wed +The fairest maid in Saxony, + And take her to his bed. + +As soon as morn was in the sky, + The feast and sports began; +The men admired the happy maid, + The maids the happy man. + +In many a sweet device of mirth + The day was past along; +And some the featly dance amused, + And some the dulcet song. + +The younger maids with Isabel + Disported through the bowers, +And decked her robe, and crowned her head + With motley bridal flowers. + +The matrons all in rich attire, + Within the castle walls, +Sat listening to the choral strains + That echoed, through the halls. + +Young Rupert and his friends repaired + Unto a spacious court, +To strike the bounding tennis-ball + In feat and manly sport. + +The bridegroom on his finger wore + The wedding-ring so bright, +Which was to grace the lily hand + Of Isabel that night. + +And fearing he might break the gem, + Or lose it in the play, +Hie looked around the court, to see + Where he the ring might lay. + +Now, in the court a statue stood, + Which there full long had been; +It might a Heathen goddess be, + Or else, a Heathen queen. + +Upon its marble finger then + He tried the ring to fit; +And, thinking it was safest there, + Thereon he fastened it. + +And now the tennis sports went on, + Till they were wearied all, +And messengers announced to them + Their dinner in the hall, + +Young Rupert for his wedding-ring + Unto the statue went; +But, oh, how shocked was he to find + The marble finger bent! + +The hand was closed upon the ring + With firm and mighty clasp; +In vain he tried and tried and tried, + He could not loose the grasp! + +Then sore surprised was Rupert's mind-- + As well his mind might be; +"I'll come," quoth he, "at night again, + "When none are here to see." + +He went unto the feast, and much + He thought upon his ring; +And marvelled sorely what could mean + So very strange a thing! + +The feast was o'er, and to the court + He hied without delay, +Resolved to break the marble hand + And force the ring away. + +But, mark a stranger wonder still-- + The ring was there no more +And yet the marble hand ungrasped, + And open as before! + +He searched the base, and all the court, + But nothing could he find; +Then to the castle hied he back + With sore bewildered mind. + +Within he found them all in mirth, + The night in dancing flew: +The youth another ring procured, + And none the adventure knew. + +And now the priest has joined their hands, + The hours of love advance: +Rupert almost forgets to think + Upon the morn's mischance. + +Within the bed fair Isabel + In blushing sweetness lay, +Like flowers, half-opened by the + dawn, + And waiting for the day. + +And Rupert, by her lovely side, + In youthful beauty glows, +Like Phoebus, when he bends to cast + His beams upon a rose. + +And here my song would leave them both, + Nor let the rest be told, +If 'twere not for the horrid tale + It yet has to unfold. + +Soon Rupert, 'twixt his bride and him + A death cold carcass found; +He saw it not, but thought he felt + Its arms embrace him round. + +He started up, and then returned, + But found the phantom still; +In vain he shrunk, it clipt him + round, + With damp and deadly chill! + +And when he bent, the earthy lips + A kiss of horror gave; +'Twas like the smell from charnel vaults, + Or from the mouldering grave! + +Ill-fated Rupert!--wild and loud + Then cried he to his wife, +"Oh! save me from this horrid fiend, + "My Isabel! my life!" + +But Isabel had nothing seen, + She looked around in vain; +And much she mourned the mad conceit + That racked her Rupert's brain. + +At length from this invisible + These words to Rupert came: +(Oh God! while he did hear the words + What terrors shook his frame!) + +"Husband, husband, I've the ring + "Thou gavest to-day to me; +"And thou'rt to me for ever wed, + "As I am wed to thee!" + +And all the night the demon lay + Cold-chilling by his side, +And strained him with such deadly grasp, + He thought he should have died. + +But when the dawn of day was near, + The horrid phantom fled, +And left the affrighted youth to weep + By Isabel in bed. + +And all that day a gloomy cloud + Was seen on Rupert's brows; +Fair Isabel was likewise sad, + But strove to cheer her spouse. + +And, as the day advanced, he thought + Of coming night with fear: +Alas, that he should dread to view + The bed that should be dear! + +At length the second night arrived, + Again their couch they prest; +Poor Rupert hoped that all was o'er, + And looked for love and rest. + +But oh! when midnight came, again + The fiend was at his side, +And, as it strained him in its grasp, + With howl exulting cried:-- + +"Husband, husband, I've the ring, + "The ring thou gavest to me; +"And thou'rt to me for ever wed, + "As I am wed to thee!", + +In agony of wild despair, + He started from the bed; +And thus to his bewildered wife + The trembling Rupert said; + +"Oh Isabel! dost thou not see + "A shape of horrors here, +"That strains me to its deadly kiss, + "And keeps me from my dear?" + +"No, no, my love! my Rupert, I + "No shape of horrors see; +"And much I mourn the fantasy + "That keeps my dear from me." + +This night, just like the night before, + In terrors past away. +Nor did the demon vanish thence + Before the dawn of day. + +Said Rupert then, "My Isabel, + "Dear partner of my woe. +"To Father Austin's holy cave + "This instant will I go." + +Now Austin was a reverend man, + Who acted wonders maint-- +Whom all the country round believed + A devil or a saint! + +To Father Austin's holy cave + Then Rupert straightway went; +And told him all, and asked him how + These horrors to prevent. + +The father heard the youth, and then + Retired awhile to pray: +And, having prayed for half an hour + Thus to the youth did say: + +"There is a place where four roads meet, + "Which I will tell to thee; +"Be there this eve, at fall of night, + "And list what thou shalt see. + +"Thou'lt see a group of figures pass + "In strange disordered crowd, +"Travelling by torchlight through the roads, + "With noises strange and loud. + +"And one that's high above the rest, + "Terrific towering o'er, +"Will make thee know him at a glance, + "So I need say no more. + +"To him from me these tablets give, + "They'll quick be understood; +"Thou need'st not fear, but give them straight, + "I've scrawled them with my blood!" + +The night-fall came, and Rupert all + In pale amazement went +To where the cross-roads met, as he + Was by the Father sent. + +And lo! a group of figures came + In strange disordered crowd. +Travelling by torchlight through the roads, + With noises strange and loud. + +And, as the gloomy train advanced, + Rupert beheld from far +A female form of wanton mien + High seated on a car. + +And Rupert, as he gazed upon + The loosely-vested dame, +Thought of the marble statue's look, + For hers was just the same. + +Behind her walked a hideous form, + With eyeballs flashing death; +Whene'er he breathed, a sulphured smoke + Came burning in his breath. + +He seemed the first of all the crowd, + Terrific towering o'er; +"Yes, yes," said Rupert, "this is he, + "And I need ask no more." + +Then slow he went, and to this fiend + The tablets trembling gave, +Who looked and read them with a yell + That would disturb the grave. + +And when he saw the blood-scrawled name, + His eyes with fury shine; +"I thought," cries he, "his time was out, + "But he must soon be mine!" + +Then darting at the youth a look + Which rent his soul with fear, +He went unto the female fiend, + And whispered in her ear. + +The female fiend no sooner heard + Than, with reluctant look, +The very ring that Rupert lost, + She from her finger took. + +And, giving it unto the youth, + With eyes that breathed of hell, +She said, in that tremendous voice, + Which he remembered well: + +"In Austin's name take back the ring, + "The ring thou gavest to me; +"And thou'rt to me no longer wed, + "Nor longer I to thee." + +He took the ring, the rabble past. + He home returned again; +His wife was then the happiest fair, + The happiest he of men. + + +[1] I should be sorry to think that my friend had any serious intentions +of frightening the nursery by this story; I rather hope--though the manner +of it leads me to doubt--that his design was to ridicule that distempered +taste which prefers those monsters of the fancy to the _"speciosa +miracula"_ of true poetic imagination. + + + + + + +TO .... .... + +ON SEEING HER WITH A WHITE VEIL AND A RICH GIRDLE. + + +Put off the vestal Veil, nor, oh! + Let weeping angels View it; +Your cheeks belie its virgin snow. + And blush repenting through it. + +Put off the fatal zone you wear; + The shining pearls around it +Are tears, that fell from Virtue there, + The hour when Love unbound it. + + + + + + +WRITTEN IN THE BLANK LEAF OF A LADY'S COMMONPLACE BOOK. + + +Here is one leaf reserved for me, +From all thy sweet memorials free; +And here my simple song might tell +The feelings thou must guess so well. +But could I thus, within thy mind, +One little vacant corner find, +Where no impression yet is seen, +Where no memorial yet hath been, +Oh! it should be my sweetest care +To _write my name_ for ever _there_! + + + + + + +TO MRS. BL----. + +WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM. + + +They say that Love had once a book + (The urchin likes to copy you), +Where, all who came, the pencil took, + And wrote, like us, a line or two. + +'Twas Innocence, the maid divine, + Who kept this volume bright and fair. +And saw that no unhallowed line + Or thought profane should enter there; + +And daily did the pages fill + With fond device and loving lore, +And every leaf she turned was still + More bright than that she turned before. + +Beneath the touch of Hope, how soft, + How light the magic pencil ran! +Till Fear would come, alas, as oft, + And trembling close what Hope began. + +A tear or two had dropt from Grief, + And Jealousy would, now and then, +Ruffle in haste some snow-white leaf, + Which Love had still to smooth again. + +But, ah! there came a blooming boy, + Who often turned the pages o'er, +And wrote therein such words of joy, + That all who read them sighed for more. + +And Pleasure was this spirit's name, + And though so soft his voice and look, +Yet Innocence, whene'er he came, + Would tremble for her spotless book. + +For, oft a Bacchant cup he bore, + With earth's sweet nectar sparkling bright; +And much she feared lest, mantling o'er, +Some drops should on the pages light. + +And so it chanced, one luckless night, + The urchin let that goblet fall +O'er the fair book, so pure, so white, + And sullied lines and marge and all! + +In vain now, touched with shame, he tried + To wash those fatal stains away; +Deep, deep had sunk the sullying tide, + The leaves grew darker everyday. + +And Fancy's sketches lost their hue, + And Hope's sweet lines were all effaced, +And Love himself now scarcely knew + What Love himself so lately traced. + +At length the urchin Pleasure fled, + (For how, alas! could Pleasure stay?) +And Love, while many a tear he shed, + Reluctant flung the book away. + +The index now alone remains. + Of all the pages spoiled by Pleasure, +And though it bears some earthly stains, + Yet Memory counts the leaf a treasure. + +And oft, they say, she scans it o'er, + And oft, by this memorial aided, +Brings back the pages now no more, + And thinks of lines that long have faded. + +I know not if this tale be true, + But thus the simple facts are stated; +And I refer their truth to you, + Since Love and you are near related. + + + + + + +TO CARA, + +AFTER AN INTERVAL OF ABSENCE. + + +Concealed within the shady wood + A mother left her sleeping child, +And flew, to cull her rustic food, + The fruitage of the forest wild. + +But storms upon her pathway rise, + The mother roams, astray and weeping; +Far from the weak appealing cries + Of him she left so sweetly sleeping. + +She hopes, she fears; a light is seen, + And gentler blows the night wind's breath; +Yet no--'tis gone--the storms are keen, + The infant may be chilled to death! + +Perhaps, even now, in darkness shrouded, + His little eyes lie cold and still;-- +And yet, perhaps, they are not clouded, + Life and love may light them still. + +Thus, Cara, at our last farewell, + When, fearful even thy hand to touch, +I mutely asked those eyes to tell + If parting pained thee half so much: + +I thought,--and, oh! forgive the thought, + For none was e'er by love inspired +Whom fancy had not also taught + To hope the bliss his soul desired. + +Yes, I _did_ think, in Cara's mind, + Though yet to that sweet mind unknown, +I left one infant wish behind, + One feeling, which I called my own. + +Oh blest! though but in fancy blest, + How did I ask of Pity's care, +To shield and strengthen, in thy breast, + The nursling I had cradled there. + +And, many an hour, beguiled by pleasure, + And many an hour of sorrow numbering, +I ne'er forgot the new-born treasure, + I left within thy bosom slumbering. + +Perhaps, indifference has not chilled it, + Haply, it yet a throb may give-- +Yet, no--perhaps, a doubt has killed it; + Say, dearest--_does_ the feeling live? + + + + + + +TO CARA, + +ON THE DAWNING OF A NEW YEAR'S DAY. + + +When midnight came to close the year, + We sighed to think it thus should take +The hours it gave us--hours as dear + As sympathy and love could make +Their blessed moments,--every sun +Saw us, my love, more closely one. + +But, Cara, when the dawn was nigh + Which came a new year's light to shed, +That smile we caught from eye to eye + Told us, those moments were not fled: +Oh, no,--we felt, some future sun +Should see us still more closely one. + +Thus may we ever, side by side, +From happy years to happier glide; +And still thus may the passing sigh + We give to hours, that vanish o'er us, +Be followed by the smiling eye, + That Hope shall shed on scenes before us! + + + + + + +TO ......., 1801. + + +To be the theme of every hour +The heart devotes to Fancy's power, +When her prompt magic fills the mind +With friends and joys we've left behind, +And joys return and friends are near, +And all are welcomed with a tear:-- +In the mind's purest seat to dwell, +To be remembered oft and well +By one whose heart, though vain and wild, +By passion led, by youth beguiled, +Can proudly still aspire to be +All that may yet win smiles from thee:-- +If thus to live in every part +Of a lone, weary wanderer's heart; +If thus to be its sole employ +Can give thee one faint gleam of joy, +Believe it. Mary,--oh! believe +A tongue that never can deceive, +Though, erring, it too oft betray +Even more than Love should dare to say,-- +In Pleasure's dream or Sorrow's hour, +In crowded hall or lonely bower, +The business of my life shall be, +For ever to remember thee. +And though that heart be dead to mine, +Since Love is life and wakes not thine, +I'll take thy image, as the form +Of one whom Love had failed to warm, +Which, though it yield no answering thrill, +Is not less dear, is worshipt still-- +I'll take it, wheresoe'er I stray, +The bright, cold burden of my way. +To keep this semblance fresh in bloom, +My heart shall be its lasting tomb, +And Memory, with embalming care, +Shall keep it fresh and fadeless there. + + + + + + +THE GENIUS OF HARMONY. + +AN IRREGULAR ODE. + + + _Ad harmoniam canere mundum_. + CICERO _"de Nat. Deor." lib. iii_. + + + There lies a shell beneath the waves, + In many a hollow winding wreathed, + Such as of old +Echoed the breath that warbling sea-maids breathed; + This magic shell, + From the white bosom of a syren fell, +As once she wandered by the tide that laves + Sicilia's sands of gold. + It bears + Upon its shining side the mystic notes + Of those entrancing airs,[1] + The genii of the deep were wont to swell, +When heaven's eternal orbs their midnight music rolled! + Oh! seek it, wheresoe'er it floats; + And, if the power +Of thrilling numbers to thy soul be dear, + + Go, bring the bright shell to my bower, + And I will fold thee in such downy dreams + As lap the Spirit of the Seventh Sphere, +When Luna's distant tone falls faintly on his ear![2] + And thou shalt own, + That, through the circle of creation's zone, + Where matter slumbers or where spirit beams; + From the pellucid tides,[3] that whirl + The planets through their maze of song, + To the small rill, that weeps along + Murmuring o'er beds of pearl; + From the rich sigh +Of the sun's arrow through an evening sky,[4] +To the faint breath the tuneful osier yields + On Afric's burning fields;[5] + Thou'lt wondering own this universe divine + Is mine! + That I respire in all and all in me, +One mighty mingled soul of boundless harmony. + + Welcome, welcome, mystic shell! + Many a star has ceased to burn,[6] + Many a tear has Saturn's urn + O'er the cold bosom of the ocean wept, + Since thy aerial spell + Hath in the waters slept. + Now blest I'll fly + With the bright treasure to my choral sky, + Where she, who waked its early swell, + The Syren of the heavenly choir. +Walks o'er the great string of my Orphic Lyre; + Or guides around the burning pole + The winged chariot of some blissful soul: + While thou-- +Oh son of earth, what dreams shall rise for thee! + Beneath Hispania's sun, + Thou'll see a streamlet run, + Which I've imbued with breathing melody;[7] +And there, when night-winds down the current die, +Thou'lt hear how like a harp its waters sigh: +A liquid chord is every wave that flows, +An airy plectrum every breeze that blows. + + There, by that wondrous stream, + Go, lay thy languid brow, +And I will send thee such a godlike dream, +As never blest the slumbers even of him,[8] +Who, many a night, with his primordial lyre, + Sate on the chill Pangaean mount,[9] + And, looking to the orient dim, +Watched the first flowing of that sacred fount, +From which his soul had drunk its fire. +Oh think what visions, in that lonely hour, + Stole o'er his musing breast; + What pious ecstasy +Wafted his prayer to that eternal Power, +Whose seal upon this new-born world imprest +The various forms of bright divinity! + Or, dost thou know what dreams I wove, + Mid the deep horror of that silent bower,[10] +Where the rapt Samian slept his holy slumber? + When, free + From every earthly chain, +From wreaths of pleasure and from bonds of pain, + His spirit flew through fields above, +Drank at the source of nature's fontal number, +And saw, in mystic choir, around him move +The stars of song, Heaven's burning minstrelsy! + Such dreams, so heavenly bright, + I swear +By the great diadem that twines my hair, +And by the seven gems that sparkle there, + Mingling their beams + In a soft iris of harmonious light, +Oh, mortal! such shall be thy radiant dreams. + + * * * * * + +I found her not--the chamber seemed + Like some divinely haunted place +Where fairy forms had lately beamed, + And left behind their odorous trace! + +It felt as if her lips had shed +A sigh around her, ere she fled, +Which hung, as on a melting lute, +When all the silver chords are mute, +There lingers still a trembling breath +After the note's luxurious death, +A shade of song, a spirit air +Of melodies which had been there. + +I saw the veil, which, all the day, + Had floated o'er her cheek of rose; +I saw the couch, where late she lay + In languor of divine repose; +And I could trace the hallowed print + Her limbs had left, as pure and warm, +As if 'twere done in rapture's mint, + And Love himself had stamped the form. + +Oh my sweet mistress, where wert thou? + In pity fly not thus from me; +Thou art my life, my essence now, + And my soul dies of wanting thee. + + +[1] In the "Histoire Naturelle des Antilles," there is an account of some +curious shells, found at Curaçoa, on the back of which were lines, filled +with musical characters so distinct and perfect, that the writer assures +us a very charming trio was sung from one of them. The author adds, a poet +might imagine that these shells were used by the syrens at their concerts. + +[2] According to Cicero, and his commentator, Macrobius, the lunar tone is +the gravest and faintest on the planetary heptachord. + +[3] Leucippus, the atomist, imagined a kind of vortices in the heavens, +which he borrowed from Anaxagoras, and possibly suggested to Descartes. + +[4] Heraclides, upon the allegories of Homer, conjectures that the idea of +the harmony of the spheres originated with this poet, who, in representing +the solar beams as arrows, supposes them to emit a peculiar sound in the +air. + +[5] In the account of Africa which D'Ablancourt has translated, there is +mention of a tree in that country, whose branches, when shaken by the hand +produce very sweet sounds. + +[6] Alluding to the extinction, or at least the disappearance, of some of +those fixed stars, which we are taught to consider as suns, attended each +by its system. Descartes thought that our earth might formerly have been a +sun, which became obscured by a thick incrustation over its surface. This +probably suggested the idea of a central fire. + +[7] This musical river is mentioned in the romance of Achilles Tatius. + +[8] Orpheus. + +[9] Eratosthenes, in mentioning the extreme veneration of Orpheus for +Apollo, says that he was accustomed to go to the Pangaean mountain at +daybreak, and there wait the rising of the sun, that he might be the first +to hail its beams. + +[10] Alluding to the cave near Samos, where Pythagoras devoted the greater +part of his days and nights to meditation and the mysteries of his +philosophy. + + + + + + +TO MRS. HENRY TIGHE, + +ON READING HER "PSYCHE." + + +Tell me the witching tale again, + For never has my heart or ear +Hung on so sweet, so pure a strain, + So pure to feel, so sweet to hear. + +Say, Love, in all thy prime of fame, + When the high heaven itself was thine; +When piety confest the flame, + And even thy errors were divine; + +Did ever Muse's hand, so fair, + A glory round thy temple spread? +Did ever lip's ambrosial air + Such fragrance o'er thy altars shed? + +One maid there was, who round her lyre + The mystic myrtle wildly wreathed;-- +But all _her_ sighs were sighs of fire, + The myrtle withered as she breathed. + +Oh! you that love's celestial dream, + In all its purity, would know, +Let not the senses' ardent beam + Too strongly through the vision glow. + +Love safest lies, concealed in night, + The night where heaven has bid him lie; +Oh! shed not there unhallowed light, + Or, Psyche knows, the boy will fly. + +Sweet Psyche, many a charmed hour, + Through many a wild and magic waste, +To the fair fount and blissful bower + Have I, in dreams, thy light foot traced! + +Where'er thy joys are numbered now, + Beneath whatever shades of rest, +The Genius of the starry brow + Hath bound thee to thy Cupid's breast; + +Whether above the horizon dim, + Along whose verge our spirits stray,-- +Half sunk beneath the shadowy rim, + Half brightened by the upper ray,[1]-- + +Thou dwellest in a world, all light, + Or, lingering here, doth love to be, +To other souls, the guardian bright + That Love was, through this gloom, to thee; + +Still be the song to Psyche dear, + The song, whose gentle voice was given +To be, on earth, to mortal ear, + An echo of her own, in heaven. + + +[1] By this image the Platonists expressed the middle state of the soul +between sensible and intellectual existence. + + + + + + +FROM THE HIGH PRIEST OF APOLLO TO A VIRGIN OF DELPHI.[1] + + + _Cum digno digna_..... + SULPICIA. + + +"Who is the maid, with golden hair, +"With eye of fire, and foot of air, +"Whose harp around my altar swells, +"The sweetest of a thousand shells?" +'Twas thus the deity, who treads +The arch of heaven, and proudly sheds +Day from his eyelids--thus he spoke, +As through my cell his glories broke. + + Aphelia is the Delphic fair[2] +With eyes of fire and golden hair, +Aphelia's are the airy feet. +And hers the harp divinely sweet; +For foot so light has never trod +The laurelled caverns of the god. +Nor harp so soft hath ever given +A sigh to earth or hymn to heaven. + + "Then tell the virgin to unfold, +"In looser pomp, her locks of gold, +"And bid those eyes more fondly shine +"To welcome down a Spouse Divine; +"Since He, who lights the path of years-- +"Even from the fount of morning's tears +"To where his setting splendors burn +"Upon the western sea-maid's urn-- +"Doth not, in all his course, behold +"Such eyes of fire, such hair of gold. +"Tell her, he comes, in blissful pride, +"His lip yet sparkling with the tide +"That mantles in Olympian bowls,-- +"The nectar of eternal souls! +"For her, for her he quits the skies, +"And to her kiss from nectar flies. +"Oh, he would quit his star-throned height, +"And leave the world to pine for light, +"Might he but pass the hours of shade, +"Beside his peerless Delphic maid, +"She, more than earthly woman blest, +"He, more than god on woman's breast!" + + There is a cave beneath the steep,[3] +Where living rills of crystal weep +O'er herbage of the loveliest hue +That ever spring begemmed with dew: +There oft the greensward's glossy tint +Is brightened by the recent print +Of many a faun and naiad's feet,-- +Scarce touching earth, their step so fleet,-- +That there, by moonlight's ray, had trod, +In light dance, o'er the verdant sod. +"There, there," the god, impassioned, said, +"Soon as the twilight tinge is fled, +"And the dim orb of lunar souls +"Along its shadowy pathway rolls-- +"There shall we meet,--and not even He, +"The God who reigns immortally, +"Where Babel's turrets paint their pride +"Upon the Euphrates' shining tide,[4]-- +"Not even when to his midnight loves +"In mystic majesty he moves, +"Lighted by many an odorous fire, +"And hymned by all Chaldaea's choir,-- +"E'er yet, o'er mortal brow, let shine +"Such effluence of Love Divine, +"As shall to-night, blest maid, o'er thine." + + Happy the maid, whom heaven allows +To break for heaven her virgin vows! +Happy the maid!--her robe of shame +Is whitened by a heavenly flame, +Whose glory, with a lingering trace, +Shines through and deifies her race! + + +[1] This poem, as well as a few others in the following volume, formed +part of a work which I had early projected, and even announced to the +public, but which, luckily, perhaps, for myself, had been interrupted by +my visit to America in the year 1803. + +[2] In the 9th Pythic of Pindar, where Apollo, in the same manner, +requires of Chiron some information respecting the fair Cyrene, the +Centaur, in obeying, very gravely apologizes for telling the God what his +omniscience must know so perfectly already. + +[3] The Corycian Cave, which Pausanias mentions. The inhabitants of +Parnassus held it sacred to the Corycian nymphs, who were children of the +river Plistus. + +[4] The temple of Jupiter Belus, at Babylon; in one of whose towers there +was a large chapel set apart for these celestial assignations. "No man is +allowed to sleep here," says Herodotus; "but the apartment is appropriated +to a female, whom, if we believe the Chaldaean priests, the deity selects +from the women of the country, as his favorite." + + + + + + +FRAGMENT. + + +Pity me, love! I'll pity thee, +If thou indeed hast felt like me. +All, all my bosom's peace is o'er! +At night, which _was_ my hour of calm, +When from the page of classic lore, +From the pure fount of ancient lay +My soul has drawn the placid balm, +Which charmed its every grief away, +Ah! there I find that balm no more. +Those spells, which make us oft forget +The fleeting troubles of the day, +In deeper sorrows only whet +The stings they cannot tear away. +When to my pillow racked I fly, +With weary sense and wakeful eye. +While my brain maddens, where, oh, where +Is that serene consoling prayer, +Which once has harbingered my rest, +When the still soothing voice of Heaven +Hath seemed to whisper in my breast, +"Sleep on, thy errors are forgiven!" +No, though I still in semblance pray, +My thoughts are wandering far away, +And even the name of Deity +Is murmured out in sighs for thee. + + + + + + +A NIGHT THOUGHT. + + +How oft a cloud, with envious veil, + Obscures yon bashful light, +Which seems so modestly to steal + Along the waste of night! + +'Tis thus the world's obtrusive wrongs + Obscure with malice keen +Some timid heart, which only longs + To live and die unseen. + + + + + + +THE KISS. + + +Grow to my lip, thou sacred kiss, +On which my soul's beloved swore +That there should come a time of bliss, +When she would mock my hopes no more. +And fancy shall thy glow renew, +In sighs at morn, and dreams at night, +And none shall steal thy holy dew +Till thou'rt absolved by rapture's rite. +Sweet hours that are to make me blest, +Fly, swift as breezes, to the goal, +And let my love, my more than soul, +Come blushing to this ardent breast. +Then, while in every glance I drink +The rich overflowing of her mind, +Oh! let her all enamored sink +In sweet abandonment resigned, +Blushing for all our struggles past, +And murmuring, "I am thine at last!" + + + + + + +SONG. + + +Think on that look whose melting ray + For one sweet moment mixt with mine, +And for that moment seemed to say, + "I dare not, or I would be thine!" + +Think on thy every smile and glance, + On all thou hast to charm and move; +And then forgive my bosom's trance, + Nor tell me it is sin to love. + +Oh, _not_ to love thee were the sin; + For sure, if Fate's decrees be done, +Thou, thou art destined still to win, + As I am destined to be won! + + + + + + +THE CATALOGUE. + + +"Come, tell me," says Rosa, as kissing and kist, + One day she reclined on my breast; +"Come, tell me the number, repeat me the list + "Of the nymphs you have loved and carest."-- +Oh Rosa! 'twas only my fancy that roved, + My heart at the moment was free; +But I'll tell thee, my girl, how many I've loved, + And the number shall finish with thee. + +My tutor was Kitty; in infancy wild + She taught me the way to be blest; +She taught me to love her, I loved like a child, + But Kitty could fancy the rest. +This lesson of dear and enrapturing lore + I have never forgot, I allow: +I have had it _by rote_ very often before, + But never _by heart_ until now. + +Pretty Martha was next, and my soul was all flame, + But my head was so full of romance +That I fancied her into some chivalry dame, + And I was her knight of the lance. +But Martha was not of this fanciful school, + And she laughed at her poor little knight; +While I thought her a goddess, she thought me a fool, + And I'll swear _she_ was most in the right. + +My soul was now calm, till, by Cloris's looks, + Again I was tempted to rove; +But Cloris, I found, was so learned in books + That she gave me more logic than love. +So I left this young Sappho, and hastened to fly + To those sweeter logicians in bliss, +Who argue the point with a soul-telling eye, + And convince us at once with a kiss. + +Oh! Susan was then all the world unto me, + But Susan was piously given; +And the worst of it was, we could never agree + On the road that was shortest to Heaven. +"Oh, Susan!" I've said, in the moments of mirth, + "What's devotion to thee or to me? +"I devoutly believe there's a heaven on earth, + "And believe that that heaven's in _thee_!" + + + + + + +IMITATION OF CATULLUS. + +TO HIMSELF. + + + _Miser Catulle, desinas ineptire_, etc. + + +Cease the sighing fool to play; +Cease to trifle life away; +Nor vainly think those joys thine own, +Which all, alas, have falsely flown. +What hours, Catullus, once were thine. +How fairly seemed thy day to shine, +When lightly thou didst fly to meet +The girl whose smile was then so sweet-- +The girl thou lovedst with fonder pain +Than e'er thy heart can feel again. + + Ye met--your souls seemed all in one, +Like tapers that commingling shone; +Thy heart was warm enough for both, +And hers, in truth, was nothing loath. + + Such were the hours that once were thine; +But, ah! those hours no longer shine. +For now the nymph delights no more +In what she loved so much before; +And all Catullus now can do, +Is to be proud and frigid too; + +Nor follow where the wanton flies, +Nor sue the bliss that she denies. +False maid! he bids farewell to thee, +To love, and all love's misery; +The heyday of his heart is o'er, +Nor will he court one favor more. + + Fly, perjured girl!--but whither fly? +Who now will praise thy cheek and eye? +Who now will drink the syren tone, +Which tells him thou art all his own? +Oh, none:--and he who loved before +Can never, never love thee more. + + * * * * * + + _"Neither do I condemn thee; go, and sin no more_!" + --ST. JOHN, chap. viii. + +Oh woman, if through sinful wile + Thy soul hath strayed from honor's track, +'Tis mercy only can beguile, + By gentle ways, the wanderer back. + +The stain that on thy virtue lies, + Washed by those tears, not long will stay; +As clouds that sully morning skies + May all be wept in showers away. + +Go, go, be innocent,--and live; + The tongues of men may wound thee sore; +But Heaven in pity can forgive, + And bids thee "go, and sin no more!" + + + + + + +NONSENSE. + + +Good reader! if you e'er have seen, + When Phoebus hastens to his pillow, +The mermaids, with their tresses green, + Dancing upon the western billow: +If you have seen, at twilight dim, +When the lone spirit's vesper hymn + Floats wild along the winding shore, +If you have seen, through mist of eve, +The fairy train their ringlets weave, +Glancing along the spangled green:-- + If you have seen all this, and more, +God bless me, what a deal you've seen! + + + + + + +EPIGRAM. + +FROM THE FRENCH. + + +"I never gave a kiss (says Prue), + "To naughty man, for I abhor it." +She will not _give_ a kiss, 'tis true; + She'll _take_ one though, and thank you for it. + + + + + + +ON A SQUINTING POETESS. + + +To no _one_ Muse does she her glance confine, +But has an eye, at once, to _all the Nine_! + + + + + + +TO .... .... + + + _Maria pur quando vuol, non è bisogna mutar ni faccia ni voce per + esser un Angelo_.[1] + + +Die when you will, you need not wear +At Heaven's Court a form more fair + Than Beauty here on earth has given; +Keep but the lovely looks we see-- +The voice we hear--and you will be + An angel ready-made for Heaven! + + +[1] The words addressed by Lord Herbert of Cherbury to the beautiful Nun +at Murano.--_See his Life_. + + + + + + +TO ROSA. + + + _A far conserva, e cumulo d'amanti. + "Past. Fid_." + + +And are you then a thing of art, + Seducing all, and loving none; +And have I strove to gain a heart + Which every coxcomb thinks his own? + +Tell me at once if this be true, + And I will calm my jealous breast; +Will learn to join the dangling crew, + And share your simpers with the rest. + +But if your heart be _not_ so free,-- + Oh! if another share that heart, +Tell not the hateful tale to me, + But mingle mercy with your art. + +I'd rather think you "false as hell," + Than find you to be all divine,-- +Than know that heart could love so well, + Yet know that heart would not be mine! + + + + + + +TO PHILLIS. + + +Phillis, you little rosy rake, + That heart of yours I long to rifle; +Come, give it me, and do not make + So much ado about a _trifle_! + + + + + + +TO A LADY. + +ON HER SINGING. + + +Thy song has taught my heart to feel + Those soothing thoughts of heavenly love, +Which o'er the sainted spirits steal + When listening to the spheres above! + +When, tired of life and misery, + I wish to sigh my latest breath, +Oh, Emma! I will fly to thee, + And thou shalt sing me into death. + +And if along thy lip and cheek + That smile of heavenly softness play, +Which,--ah! forgive a mind that's weak,-- + So oft has stolen my mind away. + +Thou'lt seem an angel of the sky, + That comes to charm me into bliss: +I'll gaze and die--Who would not die, + If death were half so sweet as this? + + + + + + +SONG. + +ON THE BIRTHDAY OF MRS. ----. + +WRITTEN IN IRELAND. 1799. + + +Of all my happiest hours of joy, + And even I have had my measure, +When hearts were full, and every eye + Hath kindled with the light of pleasure, +An hour like this I ne'er was given, + So full of friendship's purest blisses; +Young Love himself looks down from heaven, + To smile on such a day as this is. + Then come, my friends, this hour improve, + Let's feel as if we ne'er could sever; +And may the birth of her we love +Be thus with joy remembered ever! + +Oh! banish every thought to-night, + Which could disturb our soul's communion; +Abandoned thus to dear delight, + We'll even for once forget the Union! +On that let statesmen try their powers, + And tremble o'er the rights they'd die for; +The union of the soul be ours, + And every union else we sigh for. + Then come, my friends, etc. + +In every eye around I mark + The feelings of the heart o'er-flowing; +From every soul I catch the spark + Of sympathy, in friendship glowing. +Oh! could such moments ever fly; + Oh! that we ne'er were doomed to lose 'em; +And all as bright as Charlotte's eye, + And all as pure as Charlotte's bosom. + Then come, my friends, etc. + +For me, whate'er my span of years, + Whatever sun may light my roving; +Whether I waste my life in tears, + Or live, as now, for mirth and loving; +This day shall come with aspect kind, + Wherever fate may cast your rover; +He'll think of those he left behind, + And drink a health to bliss that's over! + Then come, my friends, etc. + + + + + + +SONG.[1] + + +Mary, I believed thee true, + And I was blest in thus believing +But now I mourn that e'er I knew + A girl so fair and so deceiving. + Fare thee well. + +Few have ever loved like me,-- + Yes, I have loved thee too sincerely! +And few have e'er deceived like thee.-- + Alas! deceived me too severely. + +Fare thee well!--yet think awhile + On one whose bosom bleeds to doubt thee: +Who now would rather trust that smile, + And die with thee than live without thee. + +Fare thee well! I'll think of thee. + Thou leavest me many a bitter token; +For see, distracting woman, see, + My peace is gone, my heart is broken!-- + Fare thee well! + + +[1] These words were written to the pathetic Scotch air "Galla Water." + + + + + + +MORALITY. + +A FAMILIAR EPISTLE. + +ADDRESSED TO J. ATKINSON, ESQ. M. R. I. A. + + +Though long at school and college dozing. +O'er books of verse and books of prosing, +And copying from their moral pages +Fine recipes for making sages; +Though long with' those divines at school, +Who think to make us good by rule; +Who, in methodic forms advancing, +Teaching morality like dancing, +Tell us, for Heaven or money's sake. +What _steps_ we are through life to take: +Though thus, my friend, so long employed, +With so much midnight oil destroyed, +I must confess my searches past, +I've only learned _to doubt_ at last +I find the doctors and the sages +Have differed in all climes and ages, +And two in fifty scarce agree +On what is pure morality. +'Tis like the rainbow's shifting zone, +And every vision makes its own. + + The doctors of the Porch advise, +As modes of being great and wise, +That we should cease to own or know +The luxuries that from feeling flow; +"Reason alone must claim direction, +"And Apathy's the soul's perfection. +"Like a dull lake the heart must lie; +"Nor passion's gale nor pleasure's sigh, +"Though Heaven the breeze, the breath, supplied, +"Must curl the wave or swell the tide!" + + Such was the rigid Zeno's plan +To form his philosophic man; +Such were the modes _he_ taught mankind +To weed the garden of the mind; +They tore from thence some weeds, 'tis true, +But all the flowers were ravaged too! + + Now listen to the wily strains, +Which, on Cyrene's sandy plains, +When Pleasure, nymph with loosened zone, +Usurped the philosophic throne,-- +Hear what the courtly sage's[1] tongue +To his surrounding pupils sung:-- +"Pleasure's the only noble end +"To which all human powers should tend, +"And Virtue gives her heavenly lore, +"But to make Pleasure please us more. +"Wisdom and she were both designed +"To make the senses more refined, +"That man might revel, free from cloying, +"Then most a sage when most enjoying!" + + Is this morality?--Oh, no! +Even I a wiser path could show. +The flower within this vase confined, +The pure, the unfading flower of mind, +Must not throw all its sweets away +Upon a mortal mould of clay; +No, no,--its richest breath should rise +In virtue's incense to the skies. + + But thus it is, all sects we see +Have watchwords of morality: +Some cry out Venus, others Jove; +Here 'tis Religion, there 'tis Love. +But while they thus so widely wander, +While mystics dream and doctors ponder: +And some, in dialectics firm, +Seek virtue in a middle term; +While thus they strive, in Heaven's defiance, +To chain morality with science; +The plain good man, whose action teach +More virtue than a sect can preach +Pursues his course, unsagely blest +His tutor whispering in his breast; +Nor could he act a purer part, +Though he had Tully all by heart. +And when he drops the tear on woe, +He little knows or cares to know +That Epictetus blamed that tear, +By Heaven approved, to virtue dear! + + Oh! when I've seen the morning beam +Floating within the dimpled stream; +While Nature, wakening from the night, +Has just put on her robes of light, +Have I, with cold optician's gaze, +Explored the _doctrine_ of those rays? +No, pedants, I have left to you +Nicely to separate hue from hue. +Go, give that moment up to art, +When Heaven and nature claim the heart; +And, dull to all their best attraction, +Go--measure _angles of refraction_. +While I, in feeling's sweet romance, +Look on each daybeam as a glance +From the great eye of Him above, +Wakening his world with looks of love! + + +[1] Aristippus. + + + + + + +THE TELL-TALE LYRE. + + +I've heard, there was in ancient days + A Lyre of most melodious spell; +'Twas heaven to hear its fairy lays, + If half be true that legends tell. + +'Twas played on by the gentlest sighs, + And to their breath it breathed again +In such entrancing melodies + As ear had never drunk till then! + +Not harmony's serenest touch + So stilly could the notes prolong; +They were not heavenly song so much + As they were dreams of heavenly song! + +If sad the heart, whose murmuring air + Along the chords in languor stole, +The numbers it awakened there + Were eloquence from pity's soul. + +Or if the sigh, serene and light, + Was but the breath of fancied woes, +The string, that felt its airy flight, + Soon whispered it to kind repose. + +And when young lovers talked alone, + If, mid their bliss, that Lyre was near, +It made their accents all its own, + And sent forth notes that heaven might hear. + +There was a nymph, who long had loved, + But dared not tell the world how well: +The shades, where she at evening roved, + Alone could know, alone could tell. + +'Twas there, at twilight time, she stole, + When the first star announced the night,-- +With him who claimed her inmost soul, + To wander by that soothing light. + +It chanced that, in the fairy bower + Where blest they wooed each other's smile, +This Lyre, of strange and magic power, + Hung whispering o'er their head the while. + +And as, with eyes commingling fire, + They listened to each other's vow, +The youth full oft would make the Lyre + A pillow for the maiden's brow! + +And, while the melting words she breathed + Were by its echoes wafted round, +Her locks had with the chords so wreathed, + One knew not which gave forth the sound. + +Alas, their hearts but little thought, + While thus they talked the hours away, +That every sound the Lyre was taught + Would linger long, and long betray. + +So mingled with its tuneful soul + Were all the tender murmurs grown, +That other sighs unanswered stole, + Nor words it breathed but theirs alone. + +Unhappy nymph! thy name was sung + To every breeze that wandered by; +The secrets of thy gentle tongue + Were breathed in song to earth and sky. + +The fatal Lyre, by Envy's hand + Hung high amid the whispering groves, +To every gale by which 'twas fanned, + Proclaimed the mystery of your loves. + +Nor long thus rudely was thy name + To earth's derisive echoes given; +Some pitying spirit downward came. + And took the Lyre and thee to heaven. + +There, freed from earth's unholy wrongs, + Both happy in Love's home shall be; +Thou, uttering naught but seraph songs, + And that sweet Lyre still echoing thee! + + + + + + +PEACE AND GLORY. + +WRITTEN ON THE APPROACH OF WAR. + + +Where is now the smile, that lightened + Every hero's couch of rest? +Where is now the hope, that brightened + Honor's eye and Pity's breast? +Have we lost the wreath we braided + For our weary warrior men? +Is the faithless olive faded? + Must the bay be plucked again? + +Passing hour of sunny weather, + Lovely, in your light awhile, +Peace and Glory, wed together, + Wandered through our blessed isle. +And the eyes of Peace would glisten, + Dewy as a morning sun, +When the timid maid would listen + To the deeds her chief had done. + +Is their hour of dalliance over? + Must the maiden's trembling feet +Waft her from her warlike lover + To the desert's still retreat? +Fare you well! with sighs we banish + Nymph so fair and guests so bright; +Yet the smile, with which you vanish, + Leaves behind a soothing light;-- + +Soothing light, that long shall sparkle + O'er your warrior's sanguined way, +Through the field where horrors darkle, + Shedding hope's consoling ray. +Long the smile his heart will cherish, + To its absent idol true; +While around him myriads perish, + Glory still will sigh for you! + + + + + + +SONG. + + +Take back the sigh, thy lips of art + In passion's moment breathed to me; +Yet, no--it must not, will not part, + 'Tis now the life-breath of my heart, +And has become too pure for thee. + +Take back the kiss, that faithless sigh + With all the warmth of truth imprest; +Yet, no--the fatal kiss may lie, +Upon _thy_ lip its sweets would die, + Or bloom to make a rival blest. + +Take back the vows that, night and day, + My heart received, I thought, from thine; +Yet, no--allow them still to stay, +They might some other heart betray, + As sweetly as they've ruined mine. + + + + + + +LOVE AND REASON. + + + _Quand l'homme commence à raissonner, + il cesse de sentir_.--J. J. ROUSSEAU. + + +'Twas in the summer time so sweet, + When hearts and flowers are both in season, +That--who, of all the world, should meet, + One early dawn, but Love and Reason! + +Love told his dream of yesternight, + While Reason talked about the weather; +The morn, in sooth, was fair and bright, + And on they took their way together. + +The boy in many a gambol flew, + While Reason, like a Juno, stalked, +And from her portly figure threw + A lengthened shadow, as she walked. + +No wonder Love, as on they past, + Should find that sunny morning chill, +For still the shadow Reason cast + Fell o'er the boy, and cooled him still. + +In vain he tried his wings to warm. + Or find a pathway not so dim +For still the maid's gigantic form + Would stalk between the sun and him. + +"This must not be," said little Love-- + "The sun was made for more than you." +So, turning through a myrtle grove, + He bid the portly nymph adieu. + +Now gayly roves the laughing boy + O'er many a mead, by many a stream; +In every breeze inhaling joy, + And drinking bliss in every beam. + +From all the gardens, all the bowers, + He culled the many sweets they shaded, +And ate the fruits and smelled the flowers, + Till taste was gone and odor faded. + +But now the sun, in pomp of noon, + Looked blazing o'er the sultry plains; +Alas! the boy grew languid soon, + And fever thrilled through all his veins. + +The dew forsook his baby brow, + No more with healthy bloom he smiled-- +Oh! where was tranquil Reason now, + To cast her shadow o'er the child? + +Beneath a green and aged palm, + His foot at length for shelter turning, +He saw the nymph reclining calm, + With brow as cool as his was burning. + +"Oh! take me to that bosom cold," + In murmurs at her feet he said; +And Reason oped her garment's fold, + And flung it round his fevered head. + +He felt her bosom's icy touch, + And soon it lulled his pulse to rest; +For, ah! the chill was quite too much, + And Love expired on Reason's breast! + + * * * * * + +Nay, do not weep, my Fanny dear; + While in these arms you lie. +This world hath not a wish, a fear, +That ought to cost that eye a tear. + That heart, one single sigh. + +The world!--ah, Fanny, Love must shun + The paths where many rove; +One bosom to recline upon, +One heart to be his only--one, + Are quite enough for Love. + +What can we wish, that is not here + Between your arms and mine? +Is there, on earth, a space so dear +As that within the happy sphere + Two loving arms entwine? + +For me, there's not a lock of jet + Adown your temples curled, +Within whose glossy, tangling net, +My soul doth not, at once, forget + All, all this worthless world. + +'Tis in those eyes, so full of love, + My only worlds I see; +Let but _their_ orbs in sunshine move, +And earth below and skies above + May frown or smile for me. + + + + + + +ASPASIA. + + +'Twas in the fair Aspasia's bower, +That Love and Learning, many an hour, +In dalliance met; and Learning smiled +With pleasure on the playful child, +Who often stole, to find a nest +Within the folds of Learning's vest. + + There, as the listening statesman hung +In transport on Aspasia's tongue, +The destinies of Athens took +Their color from Aspasia's look. +Oh happy time, when laws of state +When all that ruled the country's fate, +Its glory, quiet, or alarms, +Was planned between two snow-white arms! + + Blest times! they could not always last-- +And yet, even now, they _are_ not past, +Though we have lost the giant mould. +In which their men were cast of old, +Woman, dear woman, still the same, +While beauty breathes through soul or frame, +While man possesses heart or eyes, +Woman's bright empire never dies! + + No, Fanny, love, they ne'er shall say, +That beauty's charm hath past away; +Give but the universe a soul +Attuned to woman's soft control, +And Fanny hath the charm, the skill, +To wield a universe at will. + + + + + + +THE GRECIAN GIRL'S DREAM OF THE BLESSED ISLANDS.[1] + +TO HER LOVER. + + +Was it the moon, or was it morning's ray, +That call'd thee, dearest, from these arms away? +Scarce hadst thou left me, when a dream of night +Came o'er my spirit so distinct and bright, +That, while I yet can vividly recall +Its witching wonders, thou shall hear them all. +Methought I saw, upon the lunar beam, +Two winged boys, such as thy muse might dream, +Descending from above, at that still hour, +And gliding, with smooth step, into my bower. +Fair as the beauteous spirits that, all day. +In Amatha's warm founts imprisoned stay, +But rise at midnight, from the enchanted rill, +To cool their plumes upon some moonlight hill. + + At once I knew their mission:--'twas to bear +My spirit upward, through the paths of air, +To that elysian realm, from whence stray beams +So oft, in sleep, had visited my dreams. +Swift at their touch dissolved the ties, that clung +All earthly round me, and aloft I sprung; +While, heavenward guides, the little genii flew +Thro' paths of light, refreshed by heaven's own dew, +And fanned by airs still fragrant with the breath +Of cloudless climes and worlds that know not death. + + Thou knowest, that, far beyond our nether sky, +And shown but dimly to man's erring eye, +A mighty ocean of blue ether rolls,[2] +Gemmed with bright islands, where the chosen souls, +Who've past in lore and love their earthly hours, +Repose for ever in unfading bowers. +That very moon, whose solitary light +So often guides thee to my bower at night, +Is no chill planet, but an isle of love, +Floating in splendor through those seas above, +And peopled with bright forms, aerial grown, +Nor knowing aught of earth but love alone. +Thither, I thought, we winged our airy way:-- +Mild o'er its valleys streamed a silvery day, +While, all around, on lily beds of rest, +Reclined the spirits of the immortal Blest. +Oh! there I met those few congenial maids, +Whom love hath warmed, in philosophic shades; +There still Leontium,[3] on her sage's breast, +Found lore and love, was tutored and carest; +And there the clasp of Pythia's[4]gentle arms +Repaid the zeal which deified her charms. +The Attic Master,[5] in Aspasia's eyes, +Forgot the yoke of less endearing ties; +While fair Theano,[6] innocently fair, +Wreathed playfully her Samian's flowing hair, +Whose soul now fixt, its transmigrations past, +Found in those arms a resting-place, at last; +And smiling owned, whate'er his dreamy thought +In mystic numbers long had vainly sought, +The One that's formed of Two whom love hath bound, +Is the best number gods or men e'er found. + + But think, my Theon, with what joy I thrilled, +When near a fount, which through the valley rilled, +My fancy's eye beheld a form recline, +Of lunar race, but so resembling thine +That, oh! 'twas but fidelity in me, +To fly, to clasp, and worship it for thee. +No aid of words the unbodied soul requires, +To waft a wish or embassy desires; +But by a power, to spirits only given, +A deep, mute impulse, only felt in heaven, +Swifter than meteor shaft through summer skies, +From soul to soul the glanced idea flies. + + Oh, my beloved, how divinely sweet +Is the pure joy, when kindred spirits meet! +Like him, the river-god,[7]whose waters flow, +With love their only light, through caves below, +Wafting in triumph all the flowery braids, +And festal rings, with which Olympic maids +Have decked his current, as an offering meet +To lay at Arethusa's shining feet. + +Think, when he meets at last his fountain-bride, +What perfect love must thrill the blended tide! +Each lost in each, till, mingling into one, +Their lot the same for shadow or for sun, +A type of true love, to the deep they run. +'Twas thus-- + But, Theon, 'tis an endless theme, +And thou growest weary of my half-told dream. + +Oh would, my love, we were together now. +And I would woo sweet patience to thy brow, +And make thee smile at all the magic tales +Of starlight bowers and planetary vales, +Which my fond soul, inspired by thee and love, +In slumber's loom hath fancifully wove. +But no; no more--soon as tomorrow's ray +O'er soft Ilissus shall have died away, +I'll come, and, while love's planet in the west +Shines o'er our meeting, tell thee all the rest. + + +[1] It was imagined by some of the ancients that there is an +ethereal ocean above us, and that the sun and moon are two floating, +luminous islands, in which the spirits of the blest reside. + +[2] This belief of an ocean in the heavens, or "waters above the +firmament," was one of the many physical errors In which the early fathers +bewildered themselves. + +[3] The pupil and mistress of Epicurus, who called her his "dear +little Leontium" as appears by a fragment of one of his letters in +Laertius. This Leontium was a woman of talent; "she had the impudence +(says Cicero) to write against Theophrastus;" and Cicero, at the same +time, gives her a name which is neither polite nor translatable. + +[4] Pythia was a woman whom Aristotle loved, and to whom after +her death he paid divine honors, solemnizing her memory by the same +sacrifices which the Athenians offered to the Goddess Ceres. + +[5] Socrates, who used to console himself in the society of +Aspasia for those "less endearing ties" which he found at home with +Xantippe. + +[6] There are some sensible letters extant under the name of +this fair Pythagorean. They are addressed to her female friends upon the +education of children, the treatment of servants, etc. + +[7] The river Alpheus, which flowed by Pisa or Olympia, and into +which it was customary to throw offerings of different kinds, during the +celebration of the Olympic games. In the pretty romance of Clitophon and +Leucippe, the river is supposed to carry these offerings as bridal gifts +to the fountain Arethusa. + + + + + + +TO CLOE. + +IMITATED FROM MARTIAL. + + +I could resign that eye of blue. + How e'er its splendor used to thrill me; +And even that cheek of roseate hue,-- + To lose it, Cloe, scarce would kill me. + +That snowy neck I ne'er should miss, + However much I've raved about it; +And sweetly as that lip can kiss, + I _think_ I could exist without it. + +In short, so well I've learned to fast, + That, sooth my love, I know not whether +I might not bring myself at last, + To--do without you altogether. + + + + + + +THE WREATH AND THE CHAIN. + + +I bring thee, love, a golden chain, + I bring thee too a flowery wreath; +The gold shall never wear a stain, + The flowerets long shall sweetly breathe. +Come, tell me which the tie shall be, +To bind thy gentle heart to me. + +The Chain is formed of golden threads, + Bright as Minerva's yellow hair, +When the last beam of evening sheds + Its calm and sober lustre there. +The Wreath's of brightest myrtle wove, + With sunlit drops of bliss among it, +And many a rose-leaf, culled by Love, + To heal his lip when bees have stung it. +Come, tell me which the tie shall be, +To bind thy gentle heart to me. + +Yes, yes, I read that ready eye, + Which answers when the tongue is loath, +Thou likest the form of either tie, + And spreadest thy playful hands for both. +Ah!--if there were not something wrong, + The world would see them blended oft; +The Chain would make the Wreath so strong! + The Wreath would make the Chain so soft! +Then might the gold, the flowerets be +Sweet fetters for my love and me. + +But, Fanny, so unblest they twine, + That (heaven alone can tell the reason) +When mingled thus they cease to shine, + Or shine but for a transient season. +Whether the Chain may press too much, + Or that the Wreath is slightly braided, +Let but the gold the flowerets touch, + And all their bloom, their glow is faded! +Oh! better to be always free. +Than thus to bind my love to me. + + * * * * * + +The timid girl now hung her head, + And, as she turned an upward glance, +I saw a doubt its twilight spread + Across her brow's divine expanse +Just then, the garland's brightest rose + Gave one of its love-breathing sighs-- +Oh! who can ask how Fanny chose, + That ever looked in Fanny's eyes! +"The Wreath, my life, the Wreath shall be +"The tie to bind my soul to thee." + + + + + + +TO .... .... + + +And hast thou marked the pensive shade, + That many a time obscures my brow, +Midst all the joys, beloved maid. + Which thou canst give, and only thou? + +Oh! 'tis not that I then forget + The bright looks that before me shine; +For never throbbed a bosom yet + Could feel their witchery, like mine. + +When bashful on my bosom hid, + And blushing to have felt so blest, +Thou dost but lift thy languid lid + Again to close it on my breast;-- + +Yes,--these are minutes all thine own, + Thine own to give, and mine to feel; +Yet even in them, my heart has known + The sigh to rise, the tear to steal. + +For I have thought of former hours, + When he who first thy soul possest, +Like me awaked its witching powers, + Like me was loved, like me was blest. + +Upon _his_ name thy murmuring tongue + Perhaps hath all as sweetly dwelt; +Upon his words thine ear hath hung, + With transport all as purely felt. + +For him--yet why the past recall, + To damp and wither present bliss? +Thou'rt now my own, heart, spirit, all, + And heaven could grant no more than this! + +Forgive me, dearest, oh! forgive; + I would be first, be sole to thee, +Thou shouldst have but begun to live, + The hour that gave thy heart to me. + +Thy book of life till then effaced, + Love should have kept that leaf alone +On which he first so brightly traced + That thou wert, soul and all, my own. + + + + + + +TO .......'S PICTURE. + + +Go then, if she, whose shade thou art, + No more will let thee soothe my pain; +Yet, tell her, it has cost this heart + Some pangs, to give thee back again. + +Tell her, the smile was not so dear, + With which she made the semblance mine, +As bitter is the burning tear, + With which I now the gift resign. + +Yet go--and could she still restore, + As some exchange for taking thee. +The tranquil look which first I wore, + When her eyes found me calm and free; + +Could she give back the careless flow, + The spirit that my heart then knew-- +Yet, no, 'tis vain--go, picture, go-- + Smile at me once, and then--adieu! + + + + + + +FRAGMENT OF A MYTHOLOGICAL HYMN TO LOVE.[1] + + + Blest infant of eternity! + Before the day-star learned to move, +In pomp of fire, along his grand career, + Glancing the beamy shafts of light + +From his rich quiver to the farthest sphere, + Thou wert alone, oh Love! + Nestling beneath the wings of ancient Night, + Whose horrors seemed to smile in shadowing thee. +No form of beauty soothed thine eye, + As through the dim expanse it wandered wide; +No kindred spirit caught thy sigh, + As o'er the watery waste it lingering died. + +Unfelt the pulse, unknown the power, + That latent in his heart was sleeping,-- +Oh Sympathy! that lonely hour + Saw Love himself thy absence weeping. + +But look, what glory through the darkness beams! +Celestial airs along the water glide:-- +What Spirit art thou, moving o'er the tide + So beautiful? oh, not of earth, + But, in that glowing hour, the birth +Of the young Godhead's own creative dreams. + 'Tis she! +Psyche, the firstborn spirit of the air. + To thee, oh Love, she turns, + + On thee her eyebeam burns: + Blest hour, before all worlds ordained to be! + They meet-- + The blooming god--the spirit fair + Meet in communion sweet. + Now, Sympathy, the hour is thine; + All Nature feels the thrill divine, + The veil of Chaos is withdrawn, +And their first kiss is great Creation's dawn! + + +[1] Love and Psyche are here considered as the active and passive +principles of creation, and the universe is supposed to have received its +first harmonizing impulse from the nuptial sympathy between these two +powers. A marriage is generally the first step in cosmogony. Timaeus held +Form to be the father, and Matter the mother of the World. + + + + + + +TO HIS SERENE HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF MONTPENSIER +ON HIS PORTRAIT OF THE LADY ADELAIDE FORBES. + +_Donington Park, 1802_ + + +To catch the thought, by painting's spell, + Howe'er remote, howe'er refined, +And o'er the kindling canvas tell + The silent story of the mind; + +O'er nature's form to glance the eye, + And fix, by mimic light and shade, +Her morning tinges ere they fly, + Her evening blushes, ere they fade; + +Yes, these are Painting's proudest powers, + The gift, by which her art divine +Above all others proudly towers,-- + And these, oh Prince! are richly thine. + +And yet, when Friendship sees thee trace, + In almost living truth exprest, +This bright memorial of a face + On which her eye delights to rest; + +While o'er the lovely look serene, + The smile of peace, the bloom of youth, +The cheek, that blushes to be seen. + The eye that tells the bosom's truth; + +While o'er each line, so brightly true, + Our eyes with lingering pleasure rove, +Blessing the touch whose various hue + Thus brings to mind the form we love; + +We feel the magic of thy art, + And own it with a zest, a zeal, +A pleasure, nearer to the heart + Than critic taste can _ever_ feel. + + + + + + +THE FALL OF HEBE. + +A DITHYRAMBIC ODE. + + + 'Twas on a day +When the immortals at their banquet lay; + The bowl + Sparkled with starry dew, +The weeping of those myriad urns of light, + Within whose orbs, the Almighty Power, + At nature's dawning hour, +Stored the rich fluid of ethereal soul. + Around, +Soft odorous clouds, that upward wing their flight + From eastern isles +(Where they have bathed them in the orient ray, +And with rich fragrance all their bosoms filled). +In circles flew, and, melting as they flew, +A liquid daybreak o'er the board distilled. + + All, all was luxury! + All _must_ be luxury, where Lyaeus smiles. + His locks divine + Were crowned + With a bright meteor-braid, +Which, like an ever-springing wreath of vine, + Shot into brilliant leafy shapes, +And o'er his brow in lambent tendrils played: + While mid the foliage hung, + Like lucid grapes, +A thousand clustering buds of light, +Culled from the garden of the galaxy. + +Upon his bosom Cytherea's head +Lay lovely, as when first the Syrens sung + Her beauty's dawn, +And all the curtains of the deep, undrawn, +Revealed her sleeping in its azure bed. + The captive deity + Hung lingering on her eyes and lip, + With looks of ecstasy. + Now, on his arm, + In blushes she reposed, + And, while he gazed on each bright charm, +To shade his burning eyes her hand in dalliance stole. + +And now she raised her rosy mouth to sip + The nectared wave + Lyaeus gave, +And from her eyelids, half-way closed, + Sent forth a melting gleam, + Which fell like sun-dew in the bowl: +While her bright hair, in mazy flow + Of gold descending +Adown her cheek's luxurious glow, + Hung o'er the goblet's side, +And was reflected in its crystal tide, + Like a bright crocus flower, + Whose sunny leaves, at evening hour + With roses of Cyrene blending,[1] +Hang o'er the mirror of some silvery stream. + + The Olympian cup + Shone in the hands + Of dimpled Hebe, as she winged her feet + Up + The empyreal mount, +To drain the soul-drops at their stellar fount;[2] + And still + As the resplendent rill + Gushed forth into the cup with mantling heat, + Her watchful care + Was still to cool its liquid fire +With snow-white sprinklings of that feathery air +The children of the Pole respire, + In those enchanted lands.[3] +Where life is all a spring, and + north winds never blow. + + But oh! + Bright Hebe, what a tear, + And what a blush were thine, + When, as the breath of every Grace +Wafted thy feet along the studded sphere, + With a bright cup for Jove himself to drink, + Some star, that shone beneath thy tread, + Raising its amorous head + To kiss those matchless feet, + Checked thy career too fleet, + And all heaven's host of eyes + Entranced, but fearful all, +Saw thee, sweet Hebe, prostrate fall + Upon the bright floor of the azure skies; + Where, mid its stars, thy beauty lay, + As blossom, shaken from the spray + Of a spring thorn, +Lies mid the liquid sparkles of the morn. +Or, as in temples of the Paphian shade, +The worshippers of Beauty's queen behold +An image of their rosy idol, laid + Upon a diamond shrine. + + The wanton wind, + Which had pursued the flying fair, + And sported mid the tresses unconfined + Of her bright hair, +Now, as she fell,--oh wanton breeze! +Ruffled the robe, whose graceful flow +Hung o'er those limbs of unsunned snow, + Purely as the Eleusinian veil + Hangs o'er the Mysteries! + + The brow of Juno flushed-- + Love blest the breeze! + The Muses blushed; +And every cheek was hid behind a lyre, +While every eye looked laughing through the strings. +But the bright cup? the nectared draught +Which Jove himself was to have quaffed? + Alas, alas, upturned it lay + By the fallen Hebe's side; +While, in slow lingering drops, the ethereal tide, +As conscious of its own rich essence, ebbed away. + +Who was the Spirit that remembered Man, + In that blest hour, + And, with a wing of love, + Brushed off the goblet's scattered tears, +As, trembling near the edge of heaven they ran, +And sent them floating to our orb below? + Essence of immortality! + The shower + Fell glowing through the spheres; +While all around new tints of bliss, + New odors and new light, + Enriched its radiant flow. + Now, with a liquid kiss, + It stole along the thrilling wire + Of Heaven's luminous Lyre, + Stealing the soul of music in its flight: + And now, amid the breezes bland, +That whisper from the planets as they roll, + The bright libation, softly fanned + By all their sighs, meandering stole. + They who, from Atlas' height, + Beheld this rosy flame + Descending through the waste of night, +Thought 'twas some planet, whose empyreal frame + Had kindled, as it rapidly revolved +Around its fervid axle, and dissolved + Into a flood so bright! + + The youthful Day, + Within his twilight bower, + Lay sweetly sleeping +On the flushed bosom of a lotos-flower;[4] + When round him, in profusion weeping, + Dropt the celestial shower, + Steeping + The rosy clouds, that curled + About his infant head, +Like myrrh upon the locks of Cupid shed. + But, when the waking boy +Waved his exhaling tresses through the sky, + O morn of joy! + The tide divine, + All glorious with the vermil dye + It drank beneath his orient eye, + Distilled, in dews, upon the world, +And every drop was wine, was heavenly WINE! + Blest be the sod, and blest the flower + On which descended first that shower, +All fresh from Jove's nectareous springs;-- + Oh far less sweet the flower, the sod, + O'er which the Spirit of the Rainbow flings + The magic mantle of her solar God![5] + + +[1] We learn from Theopbrastus, that the roses of Cyrene were particularly +fragrant. + +[2] Heraclitus (Physicus) held the soul to be a spark of the stellar +essence. + +[3] The country of the Hyperboreans. These people were supposed to be +placed so far north that the north wind could not affect them; they lived +longer than any other mortals; passed their whole time in music and +dancing, etc. + +[4] The Egyptians represented the dawn of day by a young boy seated upon a +lotos. Observing that the lotos showed its head above water at sunrise, +and sank again at his setting, they conceived the idea of consecrating +this flower to Osiris, or the sun. + +[5] The ancients esteemed those flowers and trees the sweetest upon which +the rainbow had appeared to rest; and the wood they chiefly burned in +sacrifices, was that which the smile of Iris had consecrated. + + + + + + +RINGS AND SEALS. + + +"Go!" said the angry, weeping maid, +"The charm is broken!--once betrayed, +"Never can this wronged heart rely +"On word or look, on oath or sigh. +"Take back the gifts, so fondly given, +"With promised faith and vows to heaven; +"That little ring which, night and morn, +"With wedded truth my hand hath worn; +"That seal which oft, in moments blest, +"Thou hast upon my lip imprest, +"And sworn its sacred spring should be +"A fountain sealed[1] for only thee: +"Take, take them back, the gift and vow, +"All sullied, lost and hateful now!" + + I took the ring--the seal I took, +While, oh, her every tear and look +Were such as angels look and shed, +When man is by the world misled. +Gently I whispered, "Fanny, dear! +"Not half thy lover's gifts are here: +"Say, where are all the kisses given, +"From morn to noon, from noon to even,-- +"Those signets of true love, worth more +"Than Solomon's own seal of yore,-- +"Where are those gifts, so sweet, so many? +"Come, dearest,--give back all, if any." + While thus I whispered, trembling too, +Lest all the nymph had sworn was true, +I saw a smile relenting rise +Mid the moist azure of her eyes, +Like daylight o'er a sea of blue, +While yet in mid-air hangs the dew +She let her cheek repose on mine, +She let my arms around her twine; +One kiss was half allowed, and then-- +The ring and seal were hers again. + + +[1] "There are gardens, supposed to be those of King Solomon, in the +neighborhood of Bethlehem. The friars show a fountain, which, they say, is +the sealed fountain, to which the holy spouse in the Canticles is +compared; and they pretend a tradition, that Solomon shut up these springs +and put his signet upon the door, to keep them for his own +drinking."--_Maundrell's Travels_. + + + + + + +TO MISS SUSAN BECKFORD.[1] + +ON HER SINGING. + + +I more than once have heard at night + A song like those thy lip hath given, +And it was sung by shapes of light, + Who looked and breathed, like thee, of heaven. + +But this was all a dream of sleep. + And I have said when morning shone:-- +"Why should the night-witch, Fancy, keep + "These wonders for herself alone?" + +I knew not then that fate had lent + Such tones to one of mortal birth; +I knew not then that Heaven had sent + A voice, a form like thine on earth. + +And yet, in all that flowery maze + Through which my path of life has led, +When I have heard the sweetest lays + From lips of rosiest lustre shed; + +When I have felt the warbled word + From Beauty's lip, in sweetness vying +With music's own melodious bird; + When on the rose's bosom lying + +Though form and song at once combined + Their loveliest bloom and softest thrill, +My heart hath sighed, my ear hath pined + For something lovelier, softer still:-- + +Oh, I have found it all, at last, + In thee, thou sweetest living lyre, +Through which the soul of song e'er past, + Or feeling breathed its sacred fire. + +All that I e'er, in wildest flight + Of fancy's dreams could hear or see +Of music's sigh or beauty's light + Is realized, at once, in thee! + + +[1] Afterward Duchess of Hamilton. + + + + + + +IMPROMPTU, + +ON LEAVING SOME FRIENDS. + + + _o dulces comitum valete coetus_! + CATULLUS. + + +No, never shall my soul forget + The friends I found so cordial-hearted; +Dear shall be the day we met, + And dear shall be the night we parted. + +If fond regrets, however sweet, + Must with the lapse of time decay, +Yet stall, when thus in mirth you meet, + Fill high to him that's far away! + +Long be the light of memory found + Alive within your social glass; +Let that be still the magic round. + O'er which Oblivion, dare not pass. + + + + + + +A WARNING. + +TO ....... + + +Oh, fair as heaven and chaste as light! +Did nature mould thee all so bright. +That thou shouldst e'er be brought to weep +O'er languid virtue's fatal sleep, +O'er shame extinguished, honor fled, +Peace lost, heart withered, feeling dead? + +No, no! a star was born with thee, +Which sheds eternal purity. +Thou hast, within those sainted eyes, +So fair a transcript of the skies, +In lines of light such heavenly lore +That men should read them and adore. +Yet have I known a gentle maid +Whose mind and form were both arrayed +In nature's purest light, like thine;-- +Who wore that clear, celestial sign +Which seems to mark the brow that's fair +For destiny's peculiar care; +Whose bosom, too, like Dian's own, +Was guarded by a sacred zone, +Where the bright gem of virtue shone; +Whose eyes had in their light a charm +Against all wrong and guile and harm. +Yet, hapless maid, in one sad hour +These spells have lost their guardian power; +The gem has been beguiled away; +Her eyes have lost their chastening ray; +The modest pride, the guiltless shame, +The smiles that from reflection came, +All, all have fled and left her mind +A faded monument behind; +The ruins of a once pure shrine, +No longer fit for guest divine, +Oh! 'twas a sight I wept to see-- +Heaven keep the lost one's fate from thee! + + + + + + +TO ....... + + +'Tis time, I feel, to leave thee now, + While yet my soul is something free; +While yet those dangerous eyes allow + One minute's thought to stray from thee. + +Oh! thou becom'st each moment dearer; + Every chance that brings me nigh thee +Brings my ruin nearer, nearer,-- + I am lost, unless I fly thee. + +Nay, if thou dost not scorn and hate me, + Doom me not thus so soon to fall +Duties, fame, and hopes await me,-- + But that eye would blast them all! + +For, thou hast heart as false and cold + As ever yet allured and swayed, +And couldst, without a sigh, behold + The ruin which thyself had made. + +Yet,--_could_ I think that, truly fond, + That eye but once would smile on me, +Even as thou art, how far beyond + Fame, duty, wealth, that smile would be! + +Oh! but to win it, night and day, + Inglorious at thy feet reclined, +I'd sigh my dreams of fame away, + The world for thee forgot, resigned. + +But no, 'tis o'er, and--thus we part, + Never to meet again--no, never, +False woman, what a mind and heart + Thy treachery has undone forever. + + + + + + +WOMAN. + + +Away, away--you're all the same, + A smiling, fluttering, jilting throng; +And, wise too late, I burn with shame, + To think I've been your slave so long. + +Slow to be won, and quick to rove, + From folly kind, from cunning loath, +Too cold for bliss, too weak for love, + Yet feigning all that's best in both; + +Still panting o'er a crowd to reign,-- + More joy it gives to woman's breast +To make ten frigid coxcombs vain, + Than one true, manly lover blest. + +Away, away--your smile's a curse-- + Oh! blot me from the race of men, +Kind, pitying Heaven, by death or worse, + If e'er I love such things again. + + + + + + +TO ....... + + +Come, take thy harp--'tis vain to muse + Upon the gathering ills we see; +Oh! take thy harp and let me lose + All thoughts of ill in hearing thee. + +Sing to me, love!--Though death were near, + Thy song could make my soul forget-- +Nay, nay, in pity, dry that tear, + All may be well, be happy yet. + +Let me but see that snowy arm + Once more upon the dear harp lie, +And I will cease to dream of harm, + Will smile at fate, while thou art nigh. + +Give me that strain of mournful touch + We used to love long, long ago, +Before our hearts had known as much + As now, alas! they bleed to know. + +Sweet notes! they tell of former peace, + Of all that looked so smiling then, +Now vanished, lost--oh, pray thee cease, + I cannot bear those sounds again. + +Art _thou_, too, wretched? Yes, thou art; + I see thy tears flow fast with mine-- +Come, come to this devoted heart, + 'Tis breaking, but it still is thine! + + + + + + +A VISION OF PHILOSOPHY. + + +'Twas on the Red Sea coast, at morn, we met +The venerable man;[1] a healthy bloom +Mingled its softness with the vigorous thought +That towered upon his brow; and when he spoke +'Twas language sweetened into song--such holy sounds +As oft, they say, the wise and virtuous hear, +Prelusive to the harmony of heaven, +When death is nigh; and still, as he unclosed[2] +His sacred lips, an odor, all as bland +As ocean-breezes gather from the flowers +That blossom in Elysium, breathed around, +With silent awe we listened, while he told +Of the dark veil which many an age had hung +O'er Nature's form, till, long explored by man, +The mystic shroud grew thin and luminous, +And glimpses of that heavenly form shone through:-- +Of magic wonders, that were known and taught +By him (or Cham or Zoroaster named) +Who mused amid the mighty cataclysm, +O'er his rude tablets of primeval lore; +And gathering round him, in the sacred ark, +The mighty secrets of that former globe, +Let not the living star of science sink +Beneath the waters, which ingulfed a world!-- +Of visions, by Calliope revealed +To him,[3]who traced upon his typic lyre +The diapason of man's mingled frame, +And the grand Doric heptachord of heaven. +With all of pure, of wondrous and arcane, +Which the grave sons of Mochus, many a night, +Told to the young and bright-haired visitant +Of Carmel's sacred mount.--Then, in a flow +Of calmer converse, he beguiled us on +Through many a Maze of Garden and of Porch, +Through many a system, where the scattered light +Of heavenly truth lay, like a broken beam +From the pure sun, which, though refracted all +Into a thousand hues, is sunshine still,[4] +And bright through every change!--he spoke of Him, +The lone, eternal One, who dwells above, +And of the soul's untraceable descent +From that high fount of spirit, through the grades +Of intellectual being, till it mix +With atoms vague, corruptible, and dark; +Nor yet even then, though sunk in earthly dross, +Corrupted all, nor its ethereal touch +Quite lost, but tasting of the fountain still. +As some bright river, which has rolled along +Through meads of flowery light and mines of gold, +When poured at length into the dusky deep, +Disdains to take at once its briny taint, +Or balmy freshness, of the scenes it left. +But keeps unchanged awhile the lustrous tinge, +And here the old man ceased--a winged train +Of nymphs and genii bore him from our eyes. +The fair illusion fled! and, as I waked, +'Twas clear that my rapt soul had roamed, the while, +To that bright realm of dreams, that spirit-world, +Which mortals know by its long track of light +O'er midnight's sky, and call the Galaxy.[5] + + +[1] In Plutarch's Essay on the Decline of the Oracles, Cleombrotus, one of +the interlocutors, describes an extraordinary man whom he had met with, +after long research, upon the banks of the Red Sea. Once in every year +this supernatural personage appeared to mortals and conversed with them; +the rest of his time he passed among the Genii and the Nymphs. + +[2] The celebrated Janus Dousa, a little before his death, imagined that +he heard a strain of music in the air. + +[3] Orpheus.--Paulinus, in his "_Hebdomades_, cap. 2, _lib_. iii, has +endeavored to show, after the Platonists, that man is a diapason, or +octave, made up of a diatesseron, which is his soul, and a dispente, which +is his body. Those frequent allusions to music, by which the ancient +philosophers illustrated their sublime theories, must have tended very +much to elevate the character of the art, and to enrich it with +associations of the grandest and most interesting nature. + +[4] Lactantius asserts that all the truths of Christianity may be found +dispersed through the ancient philosophical sects, and that any one who +would collect these scattered fragments of orthodoxy might form a code in +no respect differing from that of the Christian. + +[5] According to Pythagoras, the people of Dreams are souls collected +together in the Galaxy. + + + + + + +TO MRS. ....... + + +To see thee every day that came, +And find thee still each day the same; +In pleasure's smile or sorrow's tear +To me still ever kind and dear;-- +To meet thee early, leave thee late, +Has been so long my bliss, my fate, +That life, without this cheering ray, +Which came, like sunshine, every day, +And all my pain, my sorrow chased, +Is now a lone, a loveless waste. + +Where are the chords she used to touch? +The airs, the songs she loved so much? +Those songs are hushed, those chords are still, +And so, perhaps, will every thrill +Of feeling soon be lulled to rest, +Which late I waked in Anna's breast. +Yet, no--the simple notes I played +From memory's tablet soon may fade; +The songs, which Anna loved to hear, +May vanish from her heart and ear; +But friendship's voice shall ever find +An echo in that gentle mind, +Nor memory lose nor time impair +The sympathies that tremble there. + + + + + + +TO LADY HEATHCOTE, + +ON AN OLD RING FOUND AT TUNBRIDGE-WELLS. + + + _"Tunnebridge est à la même distance de Londres, que Fontainebleau + l'est de Paris. Ce qu'il y a de beau et de galant dans l'un et dans + l'autre sexe s'y rassemble au terns des eaux. La compagnie,"_ etc. + --See _Memoires de Grammont_, Second Part, chap. iii. + + +_Tunbridge Wells_. + + +When Grammont graced these happy springs, + And Tunbridge saw, upon her Pantiles, +The merriest wight of all the kings + That ever ruled these gay, gallant isles; + +Like us, by day, they rode, they walked, + At eve they did as we may do, +And Grammont just like Spencer talked, + And lovely Stewart smiled like you. + +The only different trait is this, + That woman then, if man beset her, +Was rather given to saying "yes," + Because,--as yet, she knew no better. + +Each night they held a coterie, + Where, every fear to slumber charmed, +Lovers were all they ought to be, + And husbands not the least alarmed. + +Then called they up their school-day pranks, + Nor thought it much their sense beneath +To play at riddles, quips, and cranks, + And lords showed wit, and ladies teeth. + +As--"Why are husbands like the mint?" + Because, forsooth, a husband's duty +Is but to set the name and print + That give a currency to beauty. + +"Why is a rose in nettles hid + Like a young widow, fresh and fair?" +Because 'tis sighing to be rid + Of weeds, that "have no business there!" + +And thus they missed and thus they hit, + And now they struck and now they parried; +And some lay in of full grown wit. + While others of a pun miscarried, + +'Twas one of those facetious nights + That Grammont gave this forfeit ring +For breaking grave conundrumrites, + Or punning ill, or--some such thing;-- + +From whence it can be fairly traced, + Through many a branch and many a bough, +From twig to twig, until it graced + The snowy hand that wears it now. + +All this I'll prove, and then, to you + Oh Tunbridge! and your springs ironical, +I swear by Heathcote's eye of blue + To dedicate the important chronicle. + +Long may your ancient inmates give + Their mantles to your modern lodgers, +And Charles's loves in Heathcote live, + And Charles's bards revive in Rogers. + +Let no pedantic fools be there; + For ever be those fops abolished, +With heads as wooden as thy ware, + And, heaven knows! not half so polished. + +But still receive the young, the gay. + The few who know the rare delight +Of reading Grammont every day, + And acting Grammont every night. + + + + + + +THE DEVIL AMONG THE SCHOLARS, + +A FRAGMENT. + + * * * * * + +But, whither have these gentle ones, +These rosy nymphs and black-eyed nuns, +With all of Cupid's wild romancing, +Led by truant brains a-dancing? +Instead of studying tomes scholastic, +Ecclesiastic, or monastic, +Off I fly, careering far +In chase of Pollys, prettier far +Than any of their namesakes are,-- +The Polymaths and Polyhistors, +Polyglots and all their sisters. + +So have I known a hopeful youth +Sit down in quest of lore and truth, +With tomes sufficient to confound him, +Like Tohu Bohu, heapt around him,-- +Mamurra[1] stuck to Theophrastus, +And Galen tumbling o'er Bombastus.[2] +When lo! while all that's learned and wise +Absorbs the boy, he lifts his eyes, +And through the window of his study +Beholds some damsel fair and ruddy, +With eyes, as brightly turned upon him as +The angel's[3] were on Hieronymus. +Quick fly the folios, widely scattered, +Old Homer's laureled brow is battered, +And Sappho, headlong sent, flies just in +The reverend eye of St. Augustin. +Raptured he quits each dozing sage, +Oh woman, for thy lovelier page: +Sweet book!--unlike the books of art,-- +Whose errors are thy fairest part; +In whom the dear errata column +Is the best page in all the volume![4] +But to begin my subject rhyme-- +'Twas just about this devilish time, +When scarce there happened any frolics +That were not done by Diabolics, +A cold and loveless son of Lucifer, +Who woman scorned, nor saw the use of her, +A branch of Dagon's family, +(Which Dagon, whether He or She, +Is a dispute that vastly better is +Referred to Scaliger[5] _et coeteris_,) +Finding that, in this cage of fools, +The wisest sots adorn the schools, +Took it at once his head Satanic in, +To grow a great scholastic manikin,-- +A doctor, quite as learned and fine as +Scotus John or Tom Aquinas, +Lully, Hales Irrefragabilis, +Or any doctor of the rabble is. +In languages, the Polyglots, +Compared to him, were Babelsots: +He chattered more than ever Jew did;-- +Sanhedrim and Priest included, +Priest and holy Sanhedrim +Were one-and-seventy fools to him. +But chief the learned demon felt a +Zeal so strong for gamma, delta, +That, all for Greek and learning's glory,[6] +He nightly tippled "Graeco more," +And never paid a bill or balance +Except upon the Grecian Kalends:-- +From whence your scholars, when they want tick, +Say, to be Attic's to be _on_ tick. +In logics, he was quite Ho Panu; +Knew as much as ever man knew. +He fought the combat syllogistic +With so much skill and art eristic, +That though you were the learned Stagyrite, +At once upon the hip he had you right. +In music, though he had no ears +Except for that amongst the spheres, +(Which most of all, as he averred it, +He dearly loved, 'cause no one heard it,) +Yet aptly he, at sight, could read +Each tuneful diagram in Bede, +And find, by Euclid's corollaria, +The ratios of a jig or aria. +But, as for all your warbling Delias, +Orpheuses and Saint Cecilias, +He owned he thought them much surpast +By that redoubted Hyaloclast[7] +Who still contrived by dint of throttle, +Where'er he went to crack a bottle. + + Likewise to show his mighty knowledge, he, +On things unknown in physiology, +Wrote many a chapter to divert us, +(Like that great little man Albertus,) +Wherein he showed the reason why, +When children first are heard to cry, +If boy the baby chance to be. +He cries O A!--if girl, O E!-- +Which are, quoth he, exceeding fair hints +Respecting their first sinful parents; +"Oh Eve!" exclaimeth little madam, +While little master cries "Oh Adam!" + + But, 'twas in Optics and Dioptrics, +Our daemon played his first and top tricks. +He held that sunshine passes quicker +Through wine than any other liquor; +And though he saw no great objection +To steady light and clear reflection, +He thought the aberrating rays, +Which play about a bumper's blaze, +Were by the Doctors looked, in common, on, +As a more rare and rich phenomenon. +He wisely said that the sensorium +Is for the eyes a great emporium, +To which these noted picture-stealers +Send all they can and meet with dealers. +In many an optical proceeding +The brain, he said, showed great good breeding; +For instance, when we ogle women +(A trick which Barbara tutored him in), +Although the dears are apt to get in a +Strange position on the retina, +Yet instantly the modest brain +Doth set them on their legs again! + + Our doctor thus, with "stuft sufficiency" +Of all omnigenous omnisciency, +Began (as who would not begin +That had, like him, so much within?) +To let it out in books of all sorts, +Folios, quartos, large and small sorts; +Poems, so very deep and sensible +That they were quite incomprehensible +Prose, which had been at learning's Fair, +And bought up all the trumpery there, +The tattered rags of every vest, +In which the Greeks and Romans drest, +And o'er her figure swollen and antic +Scattered them all with airs so frantic, +That those, who saw what fits she had, +Declared unhappy Prose was mad! +Epics he wrote and scores of rebuses, +All as neat as old Turnebus's; +Eggs and altars, cyclopaedias, +Grammars, prayer-books--oh! 'twere tedious, +Did I but tell thee half, to follow me: +Not the scribbling bard of Ptolemy, +No--nor the hoary Trismegistus, +(Whose writings all, thank heaven! have missed us,) +E'er filled with lumber such a wareroom +As this great "_porcus literarum_!" + + +[1] Mamurra, a dogmatic philosopher, who never doubted about +anything, except who was his father. + +[2] Bombastus was one of the names of that great scholar and +quack Paracelsus. He used to fight the devil every night with a +broadsword, to the no small terror of his pupil Oporinus, who has recorded +the circumstance. + +[3] The angel, who scolded St. Jerome for reading Cicero, as +Gratian tells the story in his "_concordantia discordantium Canonum_," and +says, that for this reason bishops were not allowed to read the Classics. + +[4] The idea of the Rabbins, respecting the origin of woman, is +not a little singular. They think that man was originally formed with a +tail, like a monkey, but that the Deity cut off this appendage, and made +woman of it. + +[5] Scaliger.--Dagon was thought by others to be a certain +sea-monster, who came every day out of the Red Sea to teach the Syrians +husbandry. + +[6] It is much to be regretted that Martin Luther, with all his +talents for reforming, should yet be vulgar enough to laugh at Camerarius +for writing to him in Greek, "Master Joachim (says he) has sent me some +dates and some raisins, and has also written me two letters in Greek. As +soon as I am recovered, I shall answer them in Turkish, that he too may +have the pleasure of reading what he does not understand." + +[7] Or Glass-breaker--Morhofius has given an account of this +extraordinary man, in a work, published 1682. + + * * * * * + + + + + + + + +POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA + + + + +TO FRANCIS, EARL OF MOIRA. + +GENERAL IN HIS MAJESTY'S FORCES, MASTER-GENERAL OF THE ORDNANCE, +CONSTABLE OF THE TOWER, ETC. + +MY LORD, + + +It is impossible to think of addressing a Dedication to your Lordship +without calling to mind the well-known reply of the Spartan to a +rhetorician, who proposed to pronounce an eulogium on Hercules. "Oh +Hercules!" said the honest Spartan, "who ever thought of blaming +Hercules?" In a similar manner the concurrence of public opinion has left +to the panegyrist of your Lordship a very superfluous task. I shall, +therefore, be silent on the subject, and merely entreat your indulgence to +the very humble tribute of gratitude which I have here the honor to +present. + +I am, my Lord, +With every feeling of attachment and respect, +Your Lordship's very devoted Servant, + +THOMAS MOORE. + +_37 Bury Street, St. James's, +April 10, 1806_. + + + + +PREFACE.[1] + + +The principal poems in the following collection were written during an +absence of fourteen months from Europe. Though curiosity was certainly not +the motive of my voyage to America, yet it happened that the gratification +of curiosity was the only advantage which I derived from it. Finding +myself in the country of a new people, whose infancy had promised so much, +and whose progress to maturity has been an object of such interesting +speculation, I determined to employ the short period of time, which my +plan of return to Europe afforded me, in travelling through a few of the +States, and acquiring some knowledge of the inhabitants. + +The impression which my mind received from the character and manners of +these republicans, suggested the Epistles which are written from the city +of Washington and Lake Erie.[2] How far I was right in thus assuming the +tone of a satirist against a people whom I viewed but as a stranger and a +visitor, is a doubt which my feelings did not allow me time to +investigate. All I presume to answer for is the fidelity of the picture +which I have given; and though prudence might have dictated gentler +language, truth, I think, would have justified severer. + +I went to America with prepossessions by no means unfavorable, and indeed +rather indulged in many of those illusive ideas, with respect to the +purity of the government and the primitive happiness of the people, which +I had early imbibed In my native country, where, unfortunately, discontent +at home enhances every distant temptation, and the western world has long +been looked to as a retreat from real or imaginary oppression; as, in +short, the elysian Atlantis, where persecuted patriots might find their +visions realized, and be welcomed by kindred spirits to liberty and +repose. In all these flattering expectations I found myself completely +disappointed, and felt inclined to say to America, as Horace says to his +mistress, "_intentata nites_." Brissot, in the preface to his travels, +observes, that "freedom in that country is carried to so high a degree as +to border upon a state of nature;" and there certainly is a close +approximation to savage life not only in the liberty which they enjoy, but +in the violence of party spirit and of private animosity which results +from it. This illiberal zeal imbitters all social intercourse; and, though +I scarcely could hesitate in selecting the party, whose views appeared to +me the more pure and rational, yet I was sorry to observe that, in +asserting their opinions, they both assume an equal share of intolerance; +the Democrats consistently with their principles, exhibiting a vulgarity +of rancor, which the Federalists too often are so forgetful of their cause +as to imitate. + +The rude familiarity of the lower orders, and indeed the unpolished state +of society in general, would neither surprise nor disgust if they seemed +to flow from that simplicity of character, that honest ignorance of the +gloss of refinement which may be looked for in a new and inexperienced +people. But, when we find them arrived at maturity in most of the vices, +and all the pride of civilization, while they are still so far removed +from its higher and better characteristics, it is impossible not to feel +that this youthful decay, this crude anticipation of the natural period of +corruption, must repress every sanguine hope of the future energy and +greatness of America. + +I am conscious that, in venturing these few remarks, I have said just +enough to offend, and by no means sufficient to convince; for the limits +of a preface prevent me from entering into a justification of my opinions, +and I am committed on the subject as effectually as if I had written +volumes in their defence. My reader, however, is apprised of the very +cursory observation upon which these opinions are founded, and can easily +decide for himself upon the degree of attention or confidence which they +merit. + +With respect to the poems in general, which occupy the following pages, I +know not in what manner to apologize to the public for intruding upon +their notice such a mass of unconnected trifles, such a world of epicurean +atoms as I have here brought in conflict together. To say that I have been +tempted by the liberal offers of my bookseller, is an excuse which can +hope for but little indulgence from the critic; yet I own that, without +this seasonable inducement, these poems very possibly would never have +been submitted to the world. The glare of publication is too strong for +such imperfect productions: they should be shown but to the eye of +friendship, in that dim light of privacy which is as favorable to poetical +as to female beauty, and serves as a veil for faults, while it enhances +every charm which it displays. Besides, this is not a period for the idle +occupations of poetry, and times like the present require talents more +active and more useful. Few have now the leisure to read such trifles, and +I most sincerely regret that I have had the leisure to write them. + + +[1] This Preface, as well as the Dedication which precedes it, were +prefixed originally to the miscellaneous volume entitled "Odes and +Epistles," of which, hitherto, the poems relating to my American tour have +formed a part. + +[2] Epistles VI., VII., and VIII. + + + + + + +POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA. + + + + + + +TO LORD VISCOUNT STRANGFORD. + +ABOARD THE PHAETON FRIGATE, OFF THE AZORES, BY MOONLIGHT. + + +Sweet Moon! if, like Crotona's sage,[1] + By any spell my hand could dare +To make thy disk its ample page, + And write my thoughts, my wishes there; +How many a friend, whose careless eye +Now wanders o'er that starry sky, +Should smile, upon thy orb to meet +The recollection, kind and sweet, +The reveries of fond regret, +The promise, never to forget, +And all my heart and soul would send +To many a dear-loved, distant friend. + +How little, when we parted last, +I thought those pleasant times were past, +For ever past, when brilliant joy +Was all my vacant heart's employ: +When, fresh from mirth to mirth again, + We thought the rapid hours too few; +Our only use for knowledge then + To gather bliss from all we knew. +Delicious days of whim and soul! + When, mingling lore and laugh together, +We leaned the book on Pleasure's bowl, + And turned the leaf with Folly's feather. +Little I thought that all were fled, +That, ere that summer's bloom was shed, +My eye should see the sail unfurled +That wafts me to the western world. + +And yet, 'twas time;--in youth's sweet days, +To cool that season's glowing rays, +The heart awhile, with wanton wing, +May dip and dive in Pleasure's spring; +But, if it wait for winter's breeze, +The spring will chill, the heart will freeze. +And then, that Hope, that fairy Hope,-- + Oh! she awaked such happy dreams, +And gave my soul such tempting scope + For all its dearest, fondest schemes, +_That not Verona's child of song_, + When flying from the Phrygian shore, +With lighter heart could bound along, + Or pant to be a wanderer more! + + Even now delusive hope will steal +Amid the dark regrets I feel, +Soothing, as yonder placid beam + Pursues the murmurers of the deep, +And lights them with consoling gleam, + And smiles them into tranquil sleep. +Oh! such a blessed night as this, + I often think, if friends were near, +How we should feel, and gaze with bliss + Upon the moon-bright scenery here! +The sea is like a silvery lake, + And, o'er its calm the vessel glides +Gently, as if it feared to wake + The slumber of the silent tides. +The only envious cloud that lowers + Hath hung its shade on Pico's height,[2] +Where dimly, mid the dusk, he towers, + And scowling at this heaven of light, +Exults to see the infant storm + Cling darkly round his giant form! + +Now, could I range those verdant isles, + Invisible, at this soft hour, +And see the looks, the beaming smiles, + That brighten many an orange bower; +And could I lift each pious veil, + And see the blushing cheek it shades,-- +Oh! I should have full many a tale, + To tell of young Azorian maids.[3] +Yes, Strangford, at this hour, perhaps, + Some lover (not too idly blest, +Like those, who in their ladies' laps + May cradle every wish to rest,) +Warbles, to touch his dear one's soul, + Those madrigals, of breath divine, +Which Camoens' harp from Rapture stole + And gave, all glowing warm, to thine.[4] +Oh! could the lover learn from thee, + And breathe them with thy graceful tone, +Such sweet, beguiling minstrelsy + Would make the coldest nymph his own. + + But, hark!--the boatswain's pipings tell +'Tis time to bid my dream farewell: +Eight bells:--the middle watch is set; +Good night, my Strangford!--ne'er forget +That far beyond the western sea +Is one whose heart remembers thee. + + +[1] Pythagoras; who was supposed to have a power of writing upon the Moon +by the means of a magic mirror.--See _Boyle_, art. _Pythag_. + +[2] A very high mountain on one of the Azores, from which the island +derives its name. It is said by some to be as high as the Peak of +Teneriffe. + +[3] I believe it is Gutherie who says, that the inhabitants of the Azores +are much addicted to gallantry. This is an assertion in which even +Gutherie may be credited. + +[4] These islands belong to the Portuguese. + + + + + + +STANZAS. + + +A beam of tranquillity smiled in the west, + The storms of the morning pursued us no more; +And the wave, while it welcomed the moment of rest. + Still heaved, as remembering ills that were o'er. + +Serenely my heart took the hue of the hour, + Its passions were sleeping, were mute as the dead; +And the spirit becalmed but remembered their power, + As the billow the force of the gale that was fled. + +I thought of those days, when to pleasure alone + My heart ever granted a wish or a sigh; +When the saddest emotion my bosom had known, + Was pity for those who were wiser than I. + +I reflected, how soon in the cup of Desire + The pearl of the soul may be melted away; +How quickly, alas, the pure sparkle of fire + We inherit from heaven, may be quenched in the clay; + +And I prayed of that Spirit who lighted the flame, + That Pleasure no more might its purity dim; +So that, sullied but little, or brightly the same, + I might give back the boon I had borrowed from Him. + +How blest was the thought! it appeared as if Heaven + Had already an opening to Paradise shown; +As if, passion all chastened and error forgiven, + My heart then began to be purely its own. + +I looked to the west, and the beautiful sky + Which morning had clouded, was clouded no more: +"Oh! thus," I exclaimed, "may a heavenly eye + "Shed light on the soul that was darkened before." + + + + + + +TO THE FLYING-FISH.[1] + + +When I have seen thy snow-white wing +From the blue wave at evening spring, +And show those scales of silvery white, +So gayly to the eye of light, +As if thy frame were formed to rise, +And live amid the glorious skies; +Oh! it has made me proudly feel, +How like thy wing's impatient zeal +Is the pure soul, that rests not, pent +Within this world's gross element, +But takes the wing that God has given, +And rises into light and heaven! + +But, when I see that wing, so bright, +Grow languid with a moment's flight, +Attempt the paths of air in vain, +And sink into the waves again; +Alas! the flattering pride is o'er; +Like thee, awhile, the soul may soar, +But erring man must blush to think, +Like thee, again, the soul may sink. + +Oh Virtue! when thy clime I seek, +Let not my spirit's flight be weak; +Let me not, like this feeble thing, +With brine still dropping from its wing, +Just sparkle in the solar glow +And plunge again to depths below; +But, when I leave the grosser throng +With whom my soul hath dwelt so long, +Let me, in that aspiring day, +Cast every lingering stain away, +And, panting for thy purer air, +Fly up at once and fix me there. + + +[1] It is the opinion of St. Austin upon Genesis, and I believe of nearly +all the Fathers, that birds, like fish, were originally produced from the +waters; in defence of which idea they have collected every fanciful +circumstance which can tend to prove a kindred similitude between them. +With this thought in our minds, when we first see the Flying-Fish, we +could almost fancy, that we are present at the moment of creation, and +witness the birth of the first bird from the waves. + + + + + + +TO MISS MOORE. + +FROM NORFOLK, IN VIRGINIA, NOVEMBER, 1803. + + +In days, my Kate, when life was new, +When, lulled with innocence and you, +I heard, in home's beloved shade, +The din the world at distance made; +When, every night my weary head +Sunk on its own unthorned bed, +And, mild as evening's matron hour, +Looks on the faintly shutting flower, +A mother saw our eyelids close, +And blest them into pure repose; +Then, haply if a week, a day, +I lingered from that home away, +How long the little absence seemed! +How bright the look of welcome beamed, +As mute you heard, with eager smile, +My tales of all that past the while! + +Yet now, my Kate, a gloomy sea +Bolls wide between that home and me; +The moon may thrice be born and die, +Ere even that seal can reach mine eye. +Which used so oft, so quick to come, +Still breathing all the breath of home,-- +As if, still fresh, the cordial air +From lips beloved were lingering there. +But now, alas,--far different fate! +It comes o'er ocean, slow and late, +When the dear hand that filled its fold +With words of sweetness may lie cold. + +But hence that gloomy thought! at last, +Beloved Kate, the waves are past; +I tread on earth securely now, +And the green cedar's living bough +Breathes more refreshment to my eyes +Than could a Claude's divinest dyes. +At length I touch the happy sphere +To liberty and virtue dear, +Where man looks up, and, proud to claim +His rank within the social frame, +Sees a grand system round him roll, +Himself its centre, sun, and soul! +Far from the shocks of Europe--far +From every wild, elliptic star +That, shooting with a devious fire, +Kindled by heaven's avenging ire, +So oft hath into chaos hurled +The systems of the ancient world. + +The warrior here, in arms no more +Thinks of the toil, the conflict o'er, +And glorying in the freedom won +For hearth and shrine, for sire and son, +Smiles on the dusky webs that hide +His sleeping sword's remembered pride. +While Peace, with sunny cheeks of toil, +Walks o'er the free, unlorded soil, +Effacing with her splendid share +The drops that war had sprinkled there. +Thrice happy land! where he who flies +From the dark ills of other skies, +From scorn, or want's unnerving woes. +May shelter him in proud repose; +Hope sings along the yellow sand +His welcome to a patriot land: +The mighty wood, with pomp, receives +The stranger in its world of leaves, +Which soon their barren glory yield +To the warm shed and cultured field; +And he, who came, of all bereft, +To whom malignant fate had left +Nor hope nor friends nor country dear, +Finds home and friends and country here. + +Such is the picture, warmly such, +That Fancy long, with florid touch. +Had painted to my sanguine eye +Of man's new world of liberty. +Oh! ask me not, if Truth have yet +Her seal on Fancy's promise set; +If even a glimpse my eyes behold +Of that imagined age of gold;-- +Alas, not yet one gleaming trace![1] +Never did youth, who loved a face +As sketched by some fond pencil's skill, +And made by fancy lovelier still, +Shrink back with more of sad surprise, +When the live model met his eyes, +Than I have felt, in sorrow felt, +To find a dream on which I've dwelt +From boyhood's hour, thus fade and flee +At touch of stern reality! + +But, courage, yet, my wavering heart! +Blame not the temple's meanest part,[2] +Till thou hast traced the fabric o'er;-- +As yet, we have beheld no more +Than just the porch to Freedom's fame; +And, though a sable spot may stain +The vestibule, 'tis wrong, 'tis sin +To doubt the godhead reigns within! +So here I pause--and now, my Kate, +To you, and those dear friends, whose fate +Touches more near this home-sick soul +Than all the Powers from pole to pole, +One word at parting,--in the tone +Most sweet to you, and most my own, +The simple strain I send you here, +Wild though it be, would charm your ear, +Did you but know the trance of thought +In which my mind its numbers caught. +'Twas one of those half-waking dreams, +That haunt me oft, when music seems +To bear my soul in sound along, +And turn its feelings all to song. +I thought of home, the according lays +Came full of dreams of other days; +Freshly in each succeeding note +I found some young remembrance float, +Till following, as a clue, that strain +I wandered back to home, again. + +Oh! love the song, and let it oft +Live on your lip, in accents soft. +Say that it tells you, simply well, +All I have bid its wild notes tell,-- +Of Memory's dream, of thoughts that yet +Glow with the light of joy that's set, +And all the fond heart keeps in store +Of friends and scenes beheld no more. +And now, adieu!--this artless air, +With a few rhymes, in transcript fair, +Are all the gifts I yet can boast +To send you from Columbia's coast; +But when the sun, with warmer smile. +Shall light me to my destined isle.[3] +You shall have many a cowslip-bell, +Where Ariel slept, and many a shell, +In which that gentle spirit drew +From honey flowers the morning dew. + + +[1] Such romantic works as "The American Farmer's Letters," and the +account of Kentucky by Imlay, would seduce us into a belief, that +innocence, peace, and freedom had deserted the rest of the world for +Martha's Vineyard and the banks of the Ohio. + +[2] Norfolk, it must be owned, presents an unfavorable specimen of +America. The characteristics of Virginia in general are not such as can +delight either the politician or the moralist, and at Norfolk they are +exhibited in their least attractive form. At the time when we arrived the +yellow fever had not yet disappeared, and every odor that assailed us in +the streets very strongly accounted for its visitation. + +[3] Bermuda. + + + + + + +A BALLAD. + +THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP. + +WRITTEN AT NORFOLK, IN VIRGINIA. + + + "They tell of a young man, who lost his mind upon the death of a girl + he loved, and who, suddenly disappearing from his friends, was never + afterwards heard of. As he had frequently said, in his ravings, that + the girl was not dead, but gone to the Dismal Swamp, it is supposed he + had wandered into that dreary wilderness, and had died of hunger, or + been lost in some of its dreadful morasses."--Anon. + + + _"La Poesie a ses monstres comme la nature."_ + D'ALEMBERT. + + +"They made her a grave, too cold and damp + "For a soul so warm and true; +"And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp,[1] + "Where, all night long, by a firefly lamp, +"She paddles her white canoe. + +"And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see, + "And her paddle I soon shall hear; +"Long and loving our life shall be, +"And I'll hide the maid in a cypress tree, + "When the footstep of death is near." + +Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds-- + His path was rugged and sore, +Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds, +Through many a fen, where the serpent feeds, + And man never trod before. + +And, when on the earth he sunk to sleep + If slumber his eyelids knew, +He lay, where the deadly vine doth weep +Its venomous tear and nightly steep + The flesh with blistering dew! + +And near him the she-wolf stirred the brake, + And the copper-snake breathed in his ear, +Till he starting cried, from his dream awake, +"Oh! when shall I see the dusky Lake, + "And the white canoe of my dear?" + +He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright + Quick over its surface played-- +"Welcome," he said, "my dear one's light!" +And the dim shore echoed, for many a night, + The name of the death-cold maid. + +Till he hollowed a boat of the birchen bark, + Which carried him off from shore; +Far, far he followed the meteor spark, +The wind was high and the clouds were dark, + And the boat returned no more. + +But oft, from the Indian hunter's camp + This lover and maid so true +Are seen at the hour of midnight damp +To cross the Lake by a fire-fly lamp, + And paddle their white canoe! + + +[1] The Great Dismal Swamp is ten or twelve miles distant from +Norfolk, and the Lake in the middle of it (about seven miles long) is +called Drummond's Pond. + + + + + + +TO THE MARCHIONESS DOWAGER OF DONEGALL. + +FROM BERMUDA, JANUARY, 1804. + + +Lady! where'er you roam, whatever land +Woos the bright touches of that artist hand; +Whether you sketch the valley's golden meads, +Where mazy Linth his lingering current leads;[1] +Enamored catch the mellow hues that sleep, +At eve, on Meillerie's immortal steep; +Or musing o'er the Lake, at day's decline, +Mark the last shadow on that holy shrine,[2] +Where, many a night, the shade of Tell complains +Of Gallia's triumph and Helvetia's chains; +Oh! lay the pencil for a moment by, +Turn from the canvas that creative eye, +And let its splendor, like the morning ray +Upon a shepherd's harp, illume my lay. + +Yet, Lady, no--for song so rude as mine, +Chase not the wonders of your art divine; +Still, radiant eye, upon the canvas dwell; +Still, magic finger, weave your potent spell; +And, while I sing the animated smiles +Of fairy nature in these sun-born isles, +Oh, might the song awake some bright design, +Inspire a touch, or prompt one happy line, +Proud were my soul, to see its humble thought +On painting's mirror so divinely caught; +While wondering Genius, as he leaned to trace +The faint conception kindling into grace, +Might love my numbers for the spark they threw, +And bless the lay that lent a charm to you. + +Say, have you ne'er, in nightly vision, strayed +To those pure isles of ever-blooming shade, +Which bards of old, with kindly fancy, placed +For happy spirits in the Atlantic waste? +There listening, while, from earth, each breeze that came +Brought echoes of their own undying fame, +In eloquence of eye, and dreams of song, +They charmed their lapse of nightless hours along:-- +Nor yet in song, that mortal ear might suit, +For every spirit was itself a lute, +Where Virtue wakened, with elysian breeze, +Pure tones of thought and mental harmonies. + +Believe me, Lady, when the zephyrs bland +Floated our bark to this enchanted land,-- +These leafy isles upon the ocean thrown, +Like studs of emerald o'er a silver zone,-- +Not all the charm, that ethnic fancy gave +To blessed arbors o'er the western wave, +Could wake a dream, more soothing or sublime, +Of bowers ethereal, and the Spirit's clime. + + Bright rose the morning, every wave was still, +When the first perfume of a cedar hill +Sweetly awaked us, and, with smiling charms, +The fairy harbor woo'd us to its arms.[3] +Gently we stole, before the whispering wind, +Through plaintain shades, that round, like awnings, twined +And kist on either side the wanton sails, +Breathing our welcome to these vernal vales; +While, far reflected o'er the wave serene, +Each wooded island shed so soft a green +That the enamored keel, with whispering play, +Through liquid herbage seemed to steal its way. + + Never did weary bark more gladly glide, +Or rest its anchor in a lovelier tide! +Along the margin, many a shining dome, +White as the palace of a Lapland gnome, +Brightened the wave;--in every myrtle grove +Secluded bashful, like a shrine of love, +Some elfin mansion sparkled through the shade; +And, while the foliage interposing played, +Lending the scene an ever-changing grace, +Fancy would love, in glimpses vague, to trace +The flowery capital, the shaft, the porch,[4] +And dream of temples, till her kindling torch +Lighted me back to all the glorious days +Of Attic genius; and I seemed to gaze +On marble, from the rich Pentelio mount, +Gracing the umbrage of some Naiad's fount. + + Then thought I, too, of thee, most sweet of all +The spirit race that come at poet's call, +Delicate Ariel! who, in brighter hours, +Lived on the perfume of these honied bowers, +In velvet buds, at evening, loved to lie, +And win with music every rose's sigh. +Though weak the magic of my humble strain +To charm your spirit from its orb again, +Yet, oh, for her, beneath whose smile I sing, +For her (whose pencil, if your rainbow wing +Were dimmed or ruffled by a wintry sky. +Could smooth its feather and relume its dye.) +Descend a moment from your starry sphere, +And, if the lime-tree grove that once was dear, +The sunny wave, the bower, the breezy hill, +The sparkling grotto can delight you still, +Oh cull their choicest tints, their softest light, +Weave all these spells into one dream of night, +And, while the lovely artist slumbering lies, +Shed the warm picture o'er her mental eyes; +Take for the task her own creative spells, +And brightly show what song but faintly tells. + + +[1] Lady Donegall, I had reason to suppose, was at this time still in +Switzerland, where the well-known powers of her pencil must have been +frequently awakened. + +[2] The chapel of William Tell on the Lake of Lucerne. + +[3] Nothing can be more romantic than the little harbor of St. George's. +The number of beautiful islets, the singular clearness of the water, and +the animated play of the graceful little boats, gliding for ever between +the islands, and seeming to sail from one cedar-grove into another, formed +altogether as lovely a miniature of nature's beauties as can be imagined. + +[4] This is an illusion which, to the few who are fanciful enough to +indulge in it, renders the scenery of Bermuda particularly interesting. In +the short but beautiful twilight of their spring evenings, the white +cottages, scattered over the islands, and but partially seen through the +trees that surround them, assume often the appearance of little Grecian +temples; and a vivid fancy may embellish the poor fisherman's hut with +columns such as the pencil of a Claude might imitate. I had one favorite +object of this kind in my walks, which the hospitality of its owner robbed +me of, by asking me to visit him. He was a plain good man, and received me +well and warmly, but I could never turn his house into a Grecian temple +again. + + + + + + +TO GEORGE MORGAN, ESQ. OF NORFOLK, VIRGINIA. + +FROM BERMUDA, JANUARY, 1804. + + +Oh, what a sea of storm we've past!-- + High mountain waves and foamy showers, +And battling winds whose savage blast + But ill agrees with one whose hours + Have past in old Anacreon's bowers, +Yet think not poesy's bright charm +Forsook me in this rude alarm;[1]-- +When close they reefed the timid sail, + When, every plank complaining loud, +We labored in the midnight gale; +And even our haughty mainmast bowed, +Even then, in that unlovely hour, +The Muse still brought her soothing power, +And, midst the war of waves and wind, +In song's Elysium lapt my mind. +Nay, when no numbers of my own +Responded to her wakening tone, +She opened, with her golden key, + The casket where my memory lays +Those gems of classic poesy, + Which time has saved from ancient days. +Take one of these, to Lais sung,-- +I wrote it while my hammock swung, +As one might write a dissertation +Upon "Suspended Animation!" + +Sweet is your kiss, my Lais dear, +But, with that kiss I feel a tear +Gush from your eyelids, such as start +When those who've dearly loved must part. +Sadly you lean your head to mine, +And mute those arms around me twine, +Your hair adown my bosom spread, +All glittering with the tears you shed. +In vain I've kist those lids of snow, +For still, like ceaseless founts they flow, +Bathing our cheeks, whene'er they meet. +Why is it thus? Do, tell me, sweet! +Ah, Lais! are my bodings right? +Am I to lose you? Is to-night +Our last--go, false to heaven and me! +Your very tears are treachery. + +Such, while in air I floating hung, + Such was the strain, Morgante mio! +The muse and I together sung, + With Boreas to make out the trio. +But, bless the little fairy isle! + How sweetly after all our ills. +We saw the sunny morning smile + Serenely o'er its fragrant hills; +And felt the pure, delicious flow +Of airs that round this Eden blow +Freshly as even the gales that come +O'er our own healthy hills at home. + +Could you but view the scenery fair, + That now beneath my window lies, +You'd think, that nature lavished there + Her purest wave, her softest skies, +To make a heaven for love to sigh in, +For bards to live and saints to die in. +Close to my wooded bank below, + In grassy calm the waters sleep, +And to the sunbeam proudly show + The coral rocks they love to steep.[2] +The fainting breeze of morning fails; + The drowsy boat moves slowly past, +And I can almost touch its sails + As loose they flap around the mast. +The noontide sun a splendor pours +That lights up all these leafy shores; +While his own heaven, its clouds +and beams, + So pictured in the waters lie, +That each small bark, in passing, seems + To float along a burning sky. + +Oh for the pinnace lent to thee,[3] + Blest dreamer, who in vision bright, +Didst sail o'er heaven's solar sea + And touch at all its isles of light. +Sweet Venus, what a clime he found +Within thy orb's ambrosial round-- +There spring the breezes, rich and warm, + That sigh around thy vesper car; +And angels dwell, so pure of form + That each appears a living star. +These are the sprites, celestial queen! + Thou sendest nightly to the bed +Of her I love, with touch unseen + Thy planet's brightening tints to shed; +To lend that eye a light still clearer, + To give that cheek one rose-blush more. +And bid that blushing lip be dearer, + Which had been all too dear before. + +But, whither means the muse to roam? +'Tis time to call the wanderer home. +Who could have thought the nymph would perch her +Up in the clouds with Father Kircher? +So, health and love to all your mansion! + Long may the bowl that pleasures bloom in, +The flow of heart, the soul's expansion, + Mirth and song, your board illumine. +At all your feasts, remember too, + When cups are sparkling to the brim, +That here is one who drinks to you, + And, oh! as warmly drink to him. + + +[1] We were seven days on our passage from Norfolk to Bermuda, during +three of which we were forced to lay-to in a gale of wind. The Driver +sloop of war, in which I went, was built at Bermuda of cedar, and is +accounted an excellent sea-boat. She was then commanded by my very +regretted friend Captain Compton, who in July last was killed aboard the +Lily in an action with a French privateer. Poor Compton! he fell a victim +to the strange impolicy of allowing such a miserable thing as the Lily to +remain in the service: so small, crank, and unmanageable, that a +well-manned merchantman was at any time a match for her. + +[2] The water is so clear around the island, that the rocks are seen +beneath to a very great depth; and, as we entered the harbor, they +appeared to us so near the surface that it seemed impossible we should not +strike on them. There is no necessity, of course, for having the lead; and +the negro pilot, looking down at the rocks from the bow of the ship, takes +her through this difficult navigation, with a skill and confidence which +seem to astonish some of the oldest sailors. + +[3] In Kircher's "Ecstatic Journey to Heaven." Cosmel, the genius of the +world, gives Theodidacticus a boat of asbestos, with which he embarks into +the regions of the sun. + + + + + + +LINES WRITTEN IN A STORM AT SEA. + + +That sky of clouds is not the sky +To light a lover to the pillow + Of her he loves-- +The swell of yonder foaming billow +Resembles not the happy sigh + That rapture moves. + +Yet do I feel more tranquil far +Amid the gloomy wilds of ocean, + In this dark hour, +Than when, in passion's young emotion, +I've stolen, beneath the evening star, + To Julia's bower. + +Oh! there's a holy calm profound +In awe like this, that ne'er was given + To pleasure's thrill; +'Tis as a solemn voice from heaven, +And the soul, listening to the sound, + Lies mute and still. + +'Tis true, it talks of danger nigh, +Of slumbering with the dead tomorrow + In the cold deep, +Where pleasure's throb or tears of sorrow +No more shall wake the heart or eye, + But all must sleep. + +Well!--there are some, thou stormy bed, +To whom thy sleep would be a treasure; + Oh! most to him, +Whose lip hath drained life's cup of pleasure, +Nor left one honey drop to shed + Round sorrow's brim. + +Yes--_he_ can smile serene at death: +Kind heaven, do thou but chase the weeping + Of friends who love him; +Tell them that he lies calmly sleeping +Where sorrow's sting or envy's breath + No more shall move him. + + + + + + +ODES TO NEA; + +WRITTEN AT BERMUDA. + + + [Greek: NEA turannei] + EURPID. "_Medea_," v. 967. + + +Nay, tempt me not to love again, + There was a time when love was sweet; +Dear Nea! had I known thee then, + Our souls had not been slow to meet. +But, oh, this weary heart hath run, + So many a time, the rounds of pain, +Not even for thee, thou lovely one, + Would I endure such pangs again. + + If there be climes, where never yet +The print of beauty's foot was set, +Where man may pass his loveless nights, +Unfevered by her false delights, +Thither my wounded soul would fly, +Where rosy cheek or radiant eye +Should bring no more their bliss, or pain, +Nor fetter me to earth again. +Dear absent girl! whose eyes of light, + Though little prized when all my own, +Now float before me, soft and bright + As when they first enamoring shone,-- +What hours and days have I seen glide, +While fit, enchanted, by thy side, +Unmindful of the fleeting day, +I've let life's dream dissolve away. +O bloom of youth profusely shed! +O moments I simply, vainly sped, +Yet sweetly too--or Love perfumed +The flame which thus my life consumed; +And brilliant was the chain of flowers, +In which he led my victim-hours. + + Say, Nea, say, couldst thou, like her, +When warm to feel and quick to err, +Of loving fond, of roving fonder, +This thoughtless soul might wish to wander,-- +Couldst thou, like her, the wish reclaim, + Endearing still, reproaching never, +Till even this heart should burn with shame, + And be thy own more fixt than ever, +No, no--on earth there's only one + Could bind such faithless folly fast; +And sure on earth but one alone + Could make such virtue false at last! + +Nea, the heart which she forsook, + For thee were but a worthless shrine-- +Go, lovely girl, that angel look + Must thrill a soul more pure than mine. +Oh! thou shalt be all else to me, +That heart can feel or tongue can feign; +I'll praise, admire, and worship thee, + But must not, dare not, love again. + + * * * * * + + --_tale iter omne cave. _ + PROPERT. _lib. iv. eleg. 8_. + +I pray you, let us roam no more +Along that wild and lonely shore, + Where late we thoughtless strayed; +'Twas not for us, whom heaven intends +To be no more than simple friends, + Such lonely walks were made. + +That little Bay, where turning in +From ocean's rude and angry din, + As lovers steal to bliss, +The billows kiss the shore, and then +Flow back into the deep again, + As though they did not kiss. + +Remember, o'er its circling flood +In what a dangerous dream we stood-- + The silent sea before us, +Around us, all the gloom of grove, +That ever lent its shade to love, + No eye but heaven's o'er us! + +I saw you blush, you felt me tremble, +In vain would formal art dissemble + All we then looked and thought; +'Twas more than tongue could dare reveal, +'Twas every thing that young hearts feel, + By Love and Nature taught. + +I stopped to cull, with faltering hand, +A shell that, on the golden sand, + Before us faintly gleamed; +I trembling raised it, and when you +Had kist the shell, I kist it too-- + How sweet, how wrong it seemed! + +Oh, trust me, 'twas a place, an hour, +The worst that e'er the tempter's power + Could tangle me or you in; +Sweet Nea, let us roam no more +Along that wild and lonely shore. + Such walks may be our ruin. + + * * * * * + +You read it in these spell-bound eyes, + And there alone should love be read; +You hear me say it all in sighs, + And thus alone should love be said. + +Then dread no more; I will not speak; + Although my heart to anguish thrill, +I'll spare the burning of your cheek, + And look it all in silence still. + +Heard you the wish I dared to name, + To murmur on that luckless night, +When passion broke the bonds of shame, + And love grew madness in your sight? + +Divinely through the graceful dance, + You seemed to float in silent song, +Bending to earth that sunny glance, + As if to light your steps along. + +Oh! how could others dare to touch + That hallowed form with hand so free, +When but to look was bliss too much, + Too rare for all but Love and me! + +With smiling eyes, that little thought, +How fatal were the beams they threw, +My trembling hands you lightly caught, + And round me, like a spirit, flew. + +Heedless of all, but you alone,-- + And _you_, at least, should not condemn. +If, when such eyes before me shone, + My soul forgot all eyes but them,-- + +I dared to whisper passion's vow,-- + For love had even of thought bereft me,-- +Nay, half-way bent to kiss that brow, + But, with a bound, you blushing left me. + +Forget, forget that night's offence, + Forgive it, if, alas! you can; +'Twas love, 'twas passion--soul and sense-- + 'Twas all that's best and worst in man. + +That moment, did the assembled eyes +Of heaven and earth my madness view, +I should have seen, thro' earth and skies, + But you alone--but only you. + +Did not a frown from you reprove. + Myriads of eyes to me were none; +Enough for me to win your love, + And die upon the spot, when won. + + + + + + +A DREAM OF ANTIQUITY. + + +I just had turned the classic page. + And traced that happy period over, +When blest alike were youth and age, +And love inspired the wisest sage, + And wisdom graced the tenderest lover. + +Before I laid me down to sleep + Awhile I from the lattice gazed +Upon that still and moonlight deep, + With isles like floating gardens raised, +For Ariel there his sports to keep; +While, gliding 'twixt their leafy shores +The lone night-fisher plied his oars. + +I felt,--so strongly fancy's power +Came o'er me in that witching hour,-- +As if the whole bright scenery there + Were lighted by a Grecian sky, +And I then breathed the blissful air + That late had thrilled to Sappho's sigh. + +Thus, waking, dreamt I,--and when Sleep + Came o'er my sense, the dream went on; +Nor, through her curtain dim and deep, + Hath ever lovelier vision shone. +I thought that, all enrapt, I strayed +Through that serene, luxurious shade, +Where Epicurus taught the Loves + To polish virtue's native brightness,-- +As pearls, we're told, that fondling doves + Have played with, wear a smoother whiteness.[1] +'Twas one of those delicious nights + So common in the climes of Greece, +When day withdraws but half its lights, + And all is moonshine, balm, and peace. +And thou wert there, my own beloved, +And by thy side I fondly roved +Through many a temple's reverend gloom, +And many a bower's seductive bloom, +Where Beauty learned what Wisdom taught. +And sages sighed and lovers thought; +Where schoolmen conned no maxims stern, + But all was formed to soothe or move, +To make the dullest love to learn, + To make the coldest learn to love. + +And now the fairy pathway seemed + To lead us through enchanted ground, +Where all that bard has ever dreamed + Of love or luxury bloomed around. +Oh! 'twas a bright, bewildering scene-- +Along the alley's deepening green +Soft lamps, that hung like burning flowers, +And scented and illumed the bowers, +Seemed, as to him, who darkling roves, +Amid the lone Hercynian groves, +Appear those countless birds of light, +That sparkle in the leaves at night, +And from their wings diffuse a ray +Along the traveller's weary way. + +'Twas light of that mysterious kind. + Through which the soul perchance may roam, +When it has left this world behind, + And gone to seek its heavenly home. +And, Nea, thou wert by my side, +Through all this heavenward path my guide. + +But, lo, as wandering thus we ranged +That upward path, the vision changed; +And now, methought, we stole along + Through halls of more voluptuous glory +Than ever lived in Teian song, + Or wantoned in Milesian story.[2] + +And nymphs were there, whose very eyes +Seemed softened o'er with breath of sighs; +Whose every ringlet, as it wreathed, +A mute appeal to passion breathed. + +Some flew, with amber cups, around, + Pouring the flowery wines of Crete; +And, as they passed with youthful bound, + The onyx shone beneath their feet.[3] +While others, waving arms of snow + Entwined by snakes of burnished gold,[4] +And showing charms, as loth to show, + Through many a thin, Tarentian fold, +Glided among the festal throng +Bearing rich urns of flowers along +Where roses lay, in languor breathing, +And the young beegrape, round them wreathing, +Hung on their blushes warm and meek, +Like curls upon a rosy cheek. + +Oh, Nea! why did morning break + The spell that thus divinely bound me? +Why did I wake? how _could_ I wake + With thee my own and heaven around me! + + * * * * * + +Well--peace to thy heart, though another's it be, +And health to that cheek, though it bloom not for me! +To-morrow I sail for those cinnamon groves, +Where nightly the ghost of the Carribee roves, +And, far from the light of those eyes, I may yet +Their allurements forgive and their splendor forget. + +Farewell to Bermuda,[5] and long may the bloom +Of the lemon and myrtle its valleys perfume; +May spring to eternity hallow the shade, +Where Ariel has warbled and Waller has strayed. + +And thou--when, at dawn, thou shalt happen to roam +Through the lime-covered alley that leads to thy home, +Where oft, when the dance and the revel were done, +And the stars were beginning to fade in the sun, +I have led thee along, and have told by the way +What my heart all the night had been burning to say-- +Oh! think of the past--give a sigh to those times, +And a blessing for me to that alley of limes. + + * * * * * + +If I were yonder wave, my dear, + And thou the isle it clasps around, +I would not let a foot come near + My land of bliss, my fairy ground. + +If I were yonder couch of gold, + And thou the pearl within it placed, +I would not let an eye behold + The sacred gem my arms embraced. + +If I were yonder orange-tree, + And thou the blossom blooming there, +I would not yield a breath of thee + To scent the most imploring air. + +Oh! bend not o'er the water's brink, + Give not the wave that odorous sigh, +Nor let its burning mirror drink + The soft reflection of thine eye. + +That glossy hair, that glowing cheek, + So pictured in the waters seem, +That I could gladly plunge to seek + Thy image in the glassy stream. + +Blest fate! at once my chilly grave + And nuptial bed that stream might be; +I'll wed thee in its mimic wave. + And die upon the shade of thee. + +Behold the leafy mangrove, bending + O'er the waters blue and bright, +Like Nea's silky lashes, lending + Shadow to her eyes of light. + +Oh, my beloved! where'er I turn, + Some trace of thee enchants mine eyes: +In every star thy glances burn; + Thy blush on every floweret lies. + +Nor find I in creation aught + Of bright or beautiful or rare, +Sweet to the sense of pure to thought, + But thou art found reflected there. + + +[1] This method of polishing pearls, by leaving them awhile to be played +with by doves, is mentioned by the fanciful Cardanus. + +[2] The Milesiacs, or Milesian fables, had their origin in Miletus, a +luxurious town of Ionia. Aristides was the most celebrated author of these +licentious fictions. + +[3] It appears that in very splendid mansions the floor or pavement was +frequently of onyx. + +[4] Bracelets of this shape were a favorite ornament among the women of +antiquity. + +[5] The inhabitants pronounce the name as if it were written Bermooda. I +wonder it did not occur to some of those all-reading gentlemen that, +possibly, the discoverer of this "island of hogs and devils" might have +been no less a personage than the great John Bermudez, who, about the same +period (the beginning of the sixteenth century), was sent Patriarch of the +Latin church to Ethiopia, and has left us most wonderful stories of the +Amazons and the Griffins which he encountered.--_Travels of the Jesuits_, +vol. i. + + + + + + +THE SNOW SPIRIT. + + +No, ne'er did the wave in its element steep + An island of lovelier charms; +It blooms in the giant embrace of the deep, + Like Hebe in Hercules' arms. +The blush of your bowers is light to the eye, + And their melody balm to the ear; +But the fiery planet of day is too nigh, + And the Snow Spirit never comes here. + +The down from his wing is as white as the pearl + That shines through thy lips when they part, +And it falls on the green earth as melting, my girl, + As a murmur of thine on the heart. +Oh! fly to the clime, where he pillows the death, + As he cradles the birth of the year; +Bright are your bowers and balmy their breath, + But the Snow Spirit cannot come here. + +How sweet to behold him when borne on the gale, + And brightening the bosom of morn, +He flings, like the priest of Diana, a veil + O'er the brow of each virginal thorn. +Yet think not the veil he so chillingly casts + Is the veil of a vestal severe; +No, no, thou wilt see, what a moment it lasts, + Should the Snow Spirit ever come here. + +But fly to his region--lay open thy zone, + And he'll weep all his brilliancy dim, +To think that a bosom, as white as his own, + Should not melt in the daybeam like him. +Oh! lovely the print of those delicate feet + O'er his luminous path will appear-- +Fly, my beloved! this island is sweet, + But the Snow Spirit cannot come here. + + * * * * * + + I stole along the flowery bank, +While many a bending seagrape[1] drank +The sprinkle of the feathery oar +That winged me round this fairy shore. + + 'Twas noon; and every orange bud +Hung languid o'er the crystal flood, +Faint as the lids of maiden's eyes +When love-thoughts in her bosom rise. +Oh, for a naiad's sparry bower, +To shade me in that glowing hour! + + A little dove, of milky hue, +Before me from a plantain flew, +And, light along the water's brim, +I steered my gentle bark by him; +For fancy told me, Love had sent +This gentle bird with kind intent +To lead my steps, where I should meet-- +I knew not what, but something sweet. + + And--bless the little pilot dove! +He had indeed been sent by Love, +To guide me to a scene so dear +As fate allows but seldom here; +One of those rare and brilliant hours. +That, like the aloe's lingering flowers, +May blossom to the eye of man +But once in all his weary span. + + Just where the margin's opening shade +A vista from the waters made, +My bird reposed his silver plume +Upon a rich banana's bloom. +Oh vision bright! oh spirit fair! +What spell, what magic raised her there? +'Twas Nea! slumbering calm and mild, +And bloomy as the dimpled child, +Whose spirit in elysium keeps +Its playful sabbath, while he sleeps. + + The broad banana's green embrace +Hung shadowy round each tranquil grace; +One little beam alone could win +The leaves to let it wander in. +And, stealing over all her charms, +From lip to cheek, from neck to arms, +New lustre to each beauty lent,-- +Itself all trembling as it went! + + Dark lay her eyelid's jetty fringe +Upon that cheek whose roseate tinge +Mixt with its shade, like evening's light +Just touching on the verge of night. +Her eyes, though thus in slumber hid, +Seemed glowing through the ivory lid, +And, as I thought, a lustre threw +Upon her lip's reflecting dew,-- +Such as a night-lamp, left to shine +Alone on some secluded shrine, +May shed upon the votive wreath, +Which pious hands have hung beneath. + + Was ever vision half so sweet! +Think, think how quick my heart-pulse beat, +As o'er the rustling bank I stole;-- +Oh! ye, that know the lover's soul, +It is for you alone to guess, +That moment's trembling happiness. + + +[1] The seaside or mangrove grape, a native of the West Indies. + + + + + + +A STUDY FROM THE ANTIQUE. + + +Behold, my love, the curious gem + Within this simple ring of gold; +'Tis hallow'd by the touch of them + Who lived in classic hours of old. + +Some fair Athenian girl, perhaps, + Upon her hand this gem displayed, +Nor thought that time's succeeding lapse + Should see it grace a lovelier maid. + +Look, dearest, what a sweet design! + The more we gaze, it charms the more; +Come--closer bring that cheek to mine, + And trace with me its beauties o'er. + +Thou seest, it is a simple youth + By some enamored nymph embraced-- +Look, as she leans, and say in sooth + Is not that hand most fondly placed? + +Upon his curled head behind + It seems in careless play to lie, +Yet presses gently, half inclined + To bring the truant's lip more nigh. + +Oh happy maid! Too happy boy! + The one so fond and little loath, +The other yielding slow to joy-- + Oh rare, indeed, but blissful both. + +Imagine, love, that I am he, + And just as warm as he is chilling; +Imagine, too, that thou art she, + But quite as coy as she is willing: + +So may we try the graceful way + In which their gentle arms are twined, +And thus, like her, my hand I lay + Upon thy wreathed locks behind: + +And thus I feel thee breathing sweet, + As slow to mine thy head I move; +And thus our lips together meet, + And thus,--and thus,--I kiss thee, love. + + * * * * * + +There's not a look, a word of thine, + My soul hath e'er forgot; +Thou ne'er hast bid a ringlet shine, +Nor given thy locks one graceful twine + Which I remember not. + +There never yet a murmur fell + From that beguiling tongue, +Which did not, with a lingering spell, +Upon thy charmed senses dwell, + Like songs from Eden sung. + +Ah! that I could, at once, forget + All, all that haunts me so-- +And yet, thou witching girl,--and yet, +To die were sweeter than to let + The loved remembrance go. + +No; if this slighted heart must see + Its faithful pulse decay, +Oh let it die, remembering thee, +And, like the burnt aroma, be + Consumed in sweets away. + + + + + + +TO JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ. + +FROM BERMUDA.[1] + + +"The daylight is gone--but, before we depart, +"One cup shall go round to the friend of my heart, +"The kindest, the dearest--oh! judge by the tear +"I now shed while I name him, how kind and how dear." + + 'Twas thus in the shade of the Calabash-Tree, +With a few, who could feel and remember like me, +The charm that, to sweeten my goblet, I threw +Was a sigh to the past and a blessing on you. + + Oh! say, is it thus, in the mirth-bringing hour, +When friends are assembled, when wit, in full flower, +Shoots forth from the lip, under Bacchus's dew, +In blossoms of thought ever springing and new-- +Do you sometimes remember, and hallow the brim +Of your cup with a sigh, as you crown it to him +Who is lonely and sad in these valleys so fair, +And would pine in elysium, if friends were not there! + + Last night, when we came from the Calabash-Tree, +When my limbs were at rest and my spirit was free, +The glow of the grape and the dreams of the day +Set the magical springs of my fancy in play, +And oh,--such a vision as haunted me then +I would slumber for ages to witness again. +The many I like, and the few I adore, +The friends who were dear and beloved before. +But never till now so beloved and dear, +At the call of my Fancy, surrounded me here; +And soon,--oh, at once, did the light of their smiles +To a paradise brighten this region of isles; +More lucid the wave, as they looked on it, flowed, +And brighter the rose, as they gathered it, glowed. +Not the valleys Heraean (though watered by rills +Of the pearliest flow, from those pastoral hills.[2] +Where the Song of the Shepherd, primeval and wild, +Was taught to the nymphs by their mystical child,) +Could boast such a lustre o'er land and o'er wave +As the magic of love to this paradise gave. + + Oh magic of love! unembellished by you, +Hath the garden a blush or the landscape a hue? +Or shines there a vista in nature or art, +Like that which Love opes thro' the eye to the heart? + + Alas, that a vision so happy should fade! +That, when morning around me in brilliancy played, +The rose and the stream I had thought of at night +Should still be before me, unfadingly bright; +While the friends, who had seemed to hang over the stream, +And to gather the roses, had fled with my dream. + + But look, where, all ready, in sailing array, +The bark that's to carry these pages away,[3] +Impatiently flutters her wing to the wind, +And will soon leave these islets of Ariel behind. +What billows, what gales is she fated to prove, +Ere she sleep in the lee of the land that I love! +Yet pleasant the swell of the billows would be, +And the roar of those gales would be music to me. +Not the tranquillest air that the winds ever blew, +Not the sunniest tears of the summer-eve dew, +Were as sweet as the storm, or as bright as the foam +Of the surge, that would hurry your wanderer home. + + +[1] Pinkerton has said that "a good history and description of the +Bermudas might afford a pleasing addition to the geographical library;" +but there certainly are not materials for such a work. The island, since +the time of its discovery, has experienced so very few vicissitudes, the +people have been so indolent, and their trade so limited, that there is +but little which the historian could amplify into importance; and, with +respect to the natural productions of the country, the few which the +inhabitants can be induced to cultivate are so common in the West Indies, +that they have been described by every naturalist who has written any +account of those islands. + +[2] Mountains of Sicily, upon which Daphnis, the first Inventor of bucolic +poetry, was nursed by the nymphs. + +[3] A ship, ready to sail for England. + + + + + + +THE STEERMAN'S SONG, + +WRITTEN ABOARD THE BOSTON FRIGATE + +28TH APRIL.[1] + + +When freshly blows the northern gale, + And under courses snug we fly; +Or when light breezes swell the sail, + And royals proudly sweep the sky; +'Longside the wheel, unwearied still + I stand, and, as my watchful eye +Doth mark the needle's faithful thrill, + I think of her I love, and cry, + Port, my boy! port. + +When calms delay, or breezes blow + Right from the point we wish to steer; +When by the wind close-hauled we go. + And strive in vain the port to near; +I think 'tis thus the fates defer + My bliss with one that's far away, +And while remembrance springs to her, + I watch the sails and sighing say, + Thus, my boy! thus. + +But see the wind draws kindly aft, + All hands are up the yards to square, +And now the floating stu'n-sails waft + Our stately ship thro' waves and air. +Oh! then I think that yet for me + Some breeze of fortune thus may spring, +Some breeze to waft me, love, to thee-- + And in that hope I smiling sing, + Steady, boy! so. + + +[1] I left Bermuda in the Boston about the middle of April, in +company with the Cambrian and Leander, aboard the latter of which was the +Admiral Sir Andrew Mitchell, who divides his year between Halifax and +Bermuda, and is the very soul of society and good-fellowship to both. We +separated in a few days, and the Boston after a short cruise proceeded to +New York. + + + + + + +TO THE FIRE-FLY.[1] + + +At morning, when the earth and sky + Are glowing with the light of spring, +We see thee not, thou humble fly! + Nor think upon thy gleaming wing. + +But when the skies have lost their hue, + And sunny lights no longer play, +Oh then we see and bless thee too + For sparkling o'er the dreary way. + +Thus let me hope, when lost to me + The lights that now my life illume, +Some milder joys may come, like thee, + To cheer, if not to warm, the gloom! + + +[1] The lively and varying illumination, with which these fire-flies light +up the woods at night, gives quite an idea of enchantment. + + + + + + +TO THE LORD VISCOUNT FORBES. + +FROM THE CITY OP WASHINGTON. + + +If former times had never left a trace +Of human frailty in their onward race, +Nor o'er their pathway written, as they ran, +One dark memorial of the crimes of man; +If every age, in new unconscious prime, +Rose, like a phenix, from the fires of time, +To wing its way unguided and alone, +The future smiling and the past unknown; +Then ardent man would to himself be new, +Earth at his foot and heaven within his view: +Well might the novice hope, the sanguine scheme +Of full perfection prompt his daring dream, +Ere cold experience, with her veteran lore, +Could tell him, fools had dreamt as much before. +But, tracing as we do, through age and clime, +The plans of virtue midst the deeds of crime, +The thinking follies and the reasoning rage +Of man, at once the idiot and the sage; +When still we see, through every varying frame +Of arts and polity, his course the same, +And know that ancient fools but died, to make +A space on earth for modern fools to take; +'Tis strange, how quickly we the past forget; +That Wisdom's self should not be tutored yet, +Nor tire of watching for the monstrous birth +Of pure perfection midst the sons of earth! + + Oh! nothing but that soul which God has given, +Could lead us thus to look on earth for heaven; +O'er dross without to shed the light within, +And dream of virtue while we see but sin. + + Even here, beside the proud Potowmac's stream, +Might sages still pursue the flattering theme +Of days to come, when man shall conquer fate, +Rise o'er the level of his mortal state, +Belie the monuments of frailty past, +And plant perfection in this world at last! +"Here," might they say, "shall power's divided reign +"Evince that patriots have not bled in vain. +"Here godlike liberty's herculean youth, +"Cradled in peace, and nurtured up by truth +"To full maturity of nerve and mind, +"Shall crush the giants that bestride mankind. +"Here shall religion's pure and balmy draught +"In form no more from cups of state be quaft, +"But flow for all, through nation, rank, and sect, +"Free as that heaven its tranquil waves reflect. +"Around the columns of the public shrine +"Shall growing arts their gradual wreath intwine, +"Nor breathe corruption from the flowering braid, +"Nor mine that fabric which they bloom to shade, +"No longer here shall Justice bound her view, +"Or wrong the many, while she rights the few; +"But take her range through all the social frame, +"Pure and pervading as that vital flame +"Which warms at once our best and meanest part, +"And thrills a hair while it expands a heart!" + + Oh golden dream! what soul that loves to scan +The bright disk rather than the dark of man, +That owns the good, while smarting with the ill, +And loves the world with all its frailty still,-- +What ardent bosom does not spring to meet +The generous hope, with all that heavenly heat, +Which makes the soul unwilling to resign +The thoughts of growing, even on earth, divine! +Yes, dearest friend, I see thee glow to think +The chain of ages yet may boast a link +Of purer texture than the world has known, +And fit to bind us to a Godhead's throne. + + But, is it thus? doth even the glorious dream +Borrow from truth that dim, uncertain gleam, +Which tempts us still to give such fancies scope, +As shock not reason, while they nourish hope? +No, no, believe me, 'tis not so--even now, +While yet upon Columbia's rising brow +The showy smile of young presumption plays, +Her bloom is poisoned and her heart decays. +Even now, in dawn of life, her sickly breath +Burns with the taint of empires near their death; +And, like the nymphs of her own withering clime, +She's old in youth, she's blasted in her prime,[1] + + Already has the child of Gallia's school +The foul Philosophy that sins by rule, +With all her train of reasoning, damning arts, +Begot by brilliant heads on worthless hearts, +Like things that quicken after Nilus' flood, +The venomed birth of sunshine and of mud,-- +Already has she poured her poison here +O'er every charm that makes existence dear; +Already blighted, with her blackening trace, +The opening bloom of every social grace, +And all those courtesies, that love to shoot +Round virtue's stem, the flowerets of her fruit. + + And, were these errors but the wanton tide +Of young luxuriance or unchastened pride; +The fervid follies and the faults of such +As wrongly feel, because they feel too much; +Then might experience make the fever less, +Nay, graft a virtue on each warm excess. +But no; 'tis heartless, speculative ill, +All youth's transgression with all age's chill; +The apathy of wrong, the bosom's ice, +A slow and cold stagnation into vice. + + Long has the love of gold, that meanest rage, +And latest folly of man's sinking age, +Which, rarely venturing in the van of life, +While nobler passions wage their heated strife, +Comes skulking last, with selfishness and fear, +And dies, collecting lumber in the rear,-- +Long has it palsied every grasping hand +And greedy spirit through this bartering land; +Turned life to traffic, set the demon gold +So loose abroad that virtue's self is sold, +And conscience, truth, and honesty are made +To rise and fall, like other wares of trade. + + Already in this free, this virtuous state, +Which, Frenchmen tell us, was ordained by fate, +To show the world, what high perfection springs +From rabble senators, and merchant kings,-- +Even here already patriots learn to steal +Their private perquisites from public weal, +And, guardians of the country's sacred fire, +Like Afric's priests, let out the flame for hire. +Those vaunted demagogues, who nobly rose +From England's debtors to be England's foes, +Who could their monarch in their purse forget, +And break allegiance, but to cancel debt, +Have proved at length, the mineral's tempting hue, +Which makes a patriot, can un-make him too.[2] +Oh! Freedom, Freedom, how I hate thy cant! +Not Eastern bombast, not the savage rant +Of purpled madmen, were they numbered all +From Roman Nero down to Russian Paul, +Could grate upon my ear so mean, so base, +As the rank jargon of that factious race, +Who, poor of heart and prodigal of words, +Formed to be slaves, yet struggling to be lords, +Strut forth, as patriots, from their negro-marts, +And shout for rights, with rapine in their hearts. + Who can, with patience, for a moment see +The medley mass of pride and misery, +Of whips and charters, manacles and rights, +Of slaving blacks and democratic whites, +And all the piebald polity that reigns +In free confusion o'er Columbia's plains? +To think that man, thou just and gentle God! +Should stand before thee with a tyrant's rod +O'er creatures like himself, with souls from thee, +Yet dare to boast of perfect liberty; +Away, away--I'd rather hold my neck +By doubtful tenure from a sultan's beck, +In climes, where liberty has scarce been named, +Nor any right but that of ruling claimed, +Than thus to live, where bastard Freedom waves +Her fustian flag in mockery over slaves; +Where--motley laws admitting no degree +Betwixt the vilely slaved and madly free-- +Alike the bondage and the license suit +The brute made ruler and the man made brute. + + But, while I thus, my friend, in flowerless song, +So feebly paint, what yet I feel so strong, +The ills, the vices of the land, where first +Those rebel fiends, that rack the world, were nurst, +Where treason's arm by royalty was nerved, +And Frenchmen learned to crush the throne they served-- +Thou, calmly lulled in dreams of classic thought, +By bards illumined and by sages taught, +Pant'st to be all, upon this mortal scene, +That bard hath fancied or that sage hath been. +Why should I wake thee? why severely chase +The lovely forms of virtue and of grace, +That dwell before thee, like the pictures spread +By Spartan matrons round the genial bed, +Moulding thy fancy, and with gradual art +Brightening the young conceptions of thy heart. + + Forgive me, Forbes--and should the song destroy +One generous hope, one throb of social joy, +One high pulsation of the zeal for man, +Which few can feel, and bless that few who can,-- +Oh! turn to him, beneath those kindred eyes +Thy talents open and thy virtues rise, +Forget where nature has been dark or dim, +And proudly study all her lights in him. +Yes, yes, in him the erring world forget, +And feel that man _may_ reach perfection yet. + + +[1] "What will be the old age of this government, if it is thus +early decrepit!" Such was the remark of Fauchet, the French minister at +Philadelphia, in that famous despatch to his government, which was +intercepted by one of our cruisers in the year 1794. This curious memorial +may be found in Porcupine's Works, vol. i. p. 279. It remains a striking +monument of republican intrigue on one side and republican profligacy on +the other; and I would recommend the perusal of it to every honest +politician, who may labor under a moment's delusion with respect to the +purity of American patriotism. + +[2] See Porcupine's account of the Pennsylvania Insurrection in +1794. In short, see Porcupine's works throughout, for ample corroboration +of every sentiment which I have ventured to express. In saying this, I +refer less to the comments of that writer than to the occurrences which he +has related and the documents which he has preserved. Opinion may be +suspected of bias, but facts speak for themselves. + + + + + + +TO THOMAS HUME, ESQ., M. D. + +FROM THE CITY OF WASHINGTON. + + +'Tis evening now; beneath the western star +Soft sighs the lover through his sweet cigar, +And fills the ears of some consenting she +With puffs and vows, with smoke and constancy. + +The patriot, fresh from Freedom's councils come, +Now pleased retires to lash his slaves at home; +Or woo, perhaps, some black Aspasia's charms, +And dream of freedom in his bondsmaid's arms. + + In fancy now, beneath the twilight gloom, +Come, let me lead thee o'er this "second Rome!"[1] +Where tribunes rule, where dusky Davi bow, +And what was Goose-Creek once is Tiber now:[2]-- +This embryo capital, where Fancy sees +Squares in morasses, obelisks in trees; +Which second-sighted seers, even now, adorn +With shrines unbuilt and heroes yet unborn, +Though naught but woods[3] and Jefferson they see, +Where streets should run and sages _ought_ to be. + + And look, how calmly in yon radiant wave, +The dying sun prepares his golden grave. +Oh mighty river! oh ye banks of shade! +Ye matchless scenes, in nature's morning made, +While still, in all the exuberance of prime, +She poured her wonders, lavishly sublime, +Nor yet had learned to stoop, with humbler care, +From grand to soft, from wonderful to fair;-- +Say, were your towering hills, your boundless floods, +Your rich savannas and majestic woods, +Where bards should meditate and heroes rove, +And woman charm, and man deserve her love,-- +Oh say, was world so bright, but born to grace +Its own half-organized, half-minded race[4] +Of weak barbarians, swarming o'er its breast, +Like vermin gendered on the lion's crest? +Were none but brutes to call that soil their home, +Where none but demigods should dare to roam? +Or worse, thou wondrous world! oh! doubly worse, +Did heaven design thy lordly land to nurse +The motley dregs of every distant clime, +Each blast of anarchy and taint of crime +Which Europe shakes from her perturbed sphere, +In full malignity to rankle here? + + But hold,--observe yon little mount of pines, +Where the breeze murmurs and the firefly shines. +There let thy fancy raise, in bold relief, +The sculptured image of that veteran chief[5] +Who lost the rebel's in the hero's name, +And climb'd o'er prostrate royalty to fame; +Beneath whose sword Columbia's patriot train +Cast off their monarch that their mob might reign. + + How shall we rank thee upon glory's page? +Thou more than soldier and just less than sage! +Of peace too fond to act the conqueror's part, +Too long in camps to learn a statesman's art, +Nature designed thee for a hero's mould, +But, ere she cast thee, let the stuff grow cold. + + While loftier souls command, nay, make their fate, +Thy fate made thee and forced thee to be great. +Yet Fortune, who so oft, so blindly sheds +Her brightest halo round the weakest heads, +Found _thee_ undazzled, tranquil as before, +Proud to be useful, scorning to be more; +Less moved by glory's than by duty's claim, +Renown the meed, but self-applause the aim; +All that thou _wert_ reflects less fame on thee, +Far less, than all thou didst _forbear to be_. +Nor yet the patriot of one land alone,-- +For, thine's a name all nations claim their own; +And every shore, where breathed the good and brave, +Echoed the plaudits thy own country gave. + + Now look, my friend, where faint the moonlight falls +On yonder dome, and, in those princely halls,-- +If thou canst hate, as sure that soul must hate, +Which loves the virtuous, and reveres the great, +If thou canst loathe and execrate with me +The poisoning drug of French philosophy, +That nauseous slaver of these frantic times, +With which false liberty dilutes her crimes, +If thou has got, within thy free-born breast, +One pulse that beats more proudly than the rest, +With honest scorn for that inglorious soul, +Which creeps and whines beneath a mob's control, +Which courts the rabble's smile, the rabble's nod, +And makes, like Egypt, every beast its god, +There, in those walls--but, burning tongue forbear! +Rank must be reverenced, even the rank that's there: +So here I pause--and now, dear Hume, we part: +But oft again, in frank exchange of heart, +Thus let us meet, and mingle converse dear +By Thames at home, or by Potowmac here. +O'er lake and marsh, through fevers and through fogs, +'Midst bears and yankees, democrats and frogs, +Thy foot shall follow me, thy heart and eyes +With me shall wonder, and with me despise. +While I, as oft, in fancy's dream shall rove, +With thee conversing, through that land I love, +Where, like the air that fans her fields of green, +Her freedom spreads, unfevered and serene; +And sovereign man can condescend to see +The throne and laws more sovereign still than he. + + +[1] "On the original location of the ground now allotted for the seat of +the Federal City [says Mr. Weld] the identical spot on which the capitol +now stands was called Rome. This anecdote is related by many as a certain +prognostic of the future magnificence of this city, which is to be, as it +were, a second Rome."--_Weld's Travels_, letter iv. + +[2] A little stream runs through the city, which, with intolerable +affectation, they have styled the Tiber. It was originally called Goose- +Creek. + +[3] "To be under the necessity of going through a deep wood for one or two +miles, perhaps, in order to see a next-door neighbor, and in the same +city, is a curious and I believe, a novel circumstance."--_Weld_, letter +iv. + +The Federal City (if it, must be called a city), has hot been much +increased since Mr. Weld visited it. + +[4] The picture which Buffon and De Pauw have drawn of the American +Indian, though very humiliating, is, as far as I can judge, much more +correct than the flattering representations which Mr. Jefferson has given +us. See the Notes on Virginia, where this gentleman endeavors to disprove +in general the opinion maintained so strongly by some philosophers that +nature (as Mr. Jefferson expresses it) _belittles_ her productions in +the western world. + +[5] On a small hill near the capital there is to be an equestrian statue +of General Washington. + + + + + + +LINES WRITTEN ON LEAVING PHILADELPHIA. + + +Alone by the Schuylkill a wanderer roved, + And bright were its flowery banks to his eye; +But far, very far were the friends that he loved, + And he gazed on its flowery banks with a sigh. + +Oh Nature, though blessed and bright are thy rays, + O'er the brow of creation enchantingly thrown, +Yet faint are they all to the lustre that plays + In a smile from the heart that is fondly our own. + +Nor long did the soul of the stranger remain + Unblest by the smile he had languished to meet; +Though scarce did he hope it would soothe him again, + Till the threshold of home had been pressed by his feet. + +But the lays of his boyhood had stolen to their ear, +And they loved what they knew of so humble a name; +And they told him, with flattery welcome and dear, +That they found in his heart something better than fame. + +Nor did woman--oh woman! Whose form and whose soul + Are the spell and the life of each path we pursue; +Whether sunned in the tropics or chilled at the pole, + If woman be there, there is happiness too:-- + +Nor did she her enamoring magic deny,-- + That magic his heart had relinquished so long,-- +Like eyes he had loved was _her_ eloquent eye, + Like them did it soften and weep at his song. + +Oh, blest be the tear, and in memory oft + May its sparkle be shed o'er the wanderer's dream; +Thrice blest be that eye, and may passion as soft, + As free from a pang, ever mellow its beam! + +The stranger is gone--but he will not forget, + When at home he shall talk of the toils he has known, +To tell, with a sigh, what endearments he met, + As he strayed by the wave of the Schuylkill alone. + + + + + + +LINES WRITTEN AT THE COHOS, OR FALLS OF THE MOHAWK KIVER.[1] + + + _Gia era in loco ove s'udia l'rimbombo + Dell' acqua_. DANTE. + + +From rise of morn till set of sun +I've seen the mighty Mohawk run; +And as I markt the woods of pine +Along his mirror darkly shine, +Like tall and gloomy forms that pass +Before the wizard's midnight glass: +And as I viewed the hurrying pace +With which he ran his turbid race, +Rushing, alike untried and wild, +Through shades that frowned and flowers that smiled, +Flying by every green recess +That wooed him to its calm caress, +Yet, sometimes turning with the wind, +As if to leave one look behind,-- +Oft have I thought, and thinking sighed, +How like to thee, thou restless tide, +May be the lot, the life of him +Who roams along thy water's brim; +Through what alternate wastes of woe +And flowers of joy my path may go; +How many a sheltered, calm retreat +May woo the while my weary feet, +While still pursuing, still unblest, +I wander on, nor dare to rest; +But, urgent as the doom that calls +Thy water to its destined falls, +I feel the world's bewildering force +Hurry my heart's devoted course +From lapse to lapse, till life be done, +And the spent current cease to run. + + One only prayer I dare to make, +As onward thus my course I take;-- +Oh, be my falls as bright as thine! +May heaven's relenting rainbow shine +Upon the mist that circles me, +As soft as now it hangs o'er thee! + + +[1] There is a dreary and savage character in the country immediately +about these Falls, which is much more in harmony with the wildness of such +a scene than the cultivated lands in the neighborhood of Niagara. + + + + + + +SONG OF THE EVIL SPIRIT OF THE WOODS.[1] + + + _qua via difficilis, quaque est via nulla_ + OVID _Metam. lib_ iii. v. 227. + + +Now the vapor, hot and damp, +Shed by day's expiring lamp, +Through the misty ether spreads +Every ill the white man dreads; +Fiery fever's thirsty thrill, +Fitful ague's shivering chill! + +Hark! I hear the traveller's song, +As he winds the woods along;-- +Christian, 'tis the song of fear; +Wolves are round thee, night is near, +And the wild thou dar'st to roam-- +Think, 'twas once the Indian's home![2] + +Hither, sprites, who love to harm, +Wheresoe'er you work your charm, +By the creeks, or by the brakes, +Where the pale witch feeds her snakes, +And the cayman[3] loves to creep, +Torpid, to his wintry sleep: +Where the bird of carrion flits, +And the shuddering murderer sits,[4] +Lone beneath a roof of blood; +While upon his poisoned food, +From the corpse of him he slew +Drops the chill and gory dew. + +Hither bend ye, turn ye hither, +Eyes that blast and wings that wither +Cross the wandering Christian's way, +Lead him, ere the glimpse of day, +Many a mile of maddening error +Through the maze of night and terror, +Till the morn behold him lying +On the damp earth, pale and dying. +Mock him, when his eager sight +Seeks the cordial cottage-light; +Gleam then, like the lightning-bug, +Tempt him to the den that's dug +For the foul and famished brood +Of the she wolf, gaunt for blood; +Or, unto the dangerous pass +O'er the deep and dark morass, +Where the trembling Indian brings +Belts of porcelain, pipes, and rings, +Tributes, to be hung in air, +To the Fiend presiding there![5] + + Then, when night's long labor past, +Wildered, faint, he falls at last, +Sinking where the causeway's edge +Moulders in the slimy sedge, +There let every noxious thing +Trail its filth and fix its sting; +Let the bull-toad taint him over, +Round him let mosquitoes hover, +In his ears and eyeballs tingling, +With his blood their poison mingling, +Till, beneath the solar fires, +Rankling all, the wretch expires! + + +[1] The idea of this poem occurred to me in passing through the very +dreary wilderness between Batavia, a new settlement in the midst of the +woods, and the little village of Buffalo upon Lake Erie. This is the most +fatiguing part of the route, in travelling through the Genesee country to +Niagara. + +[2] "The Five Confederated Nations (of Indians) were settled along the +banks of the Susquehannah and the adjacent country, until the year 1779, +when General Sullivan, with an army of 4000 men drove them from their +country to Niagara, where, being obliged to live on salted provisions, to +which they were unaccustomed, great numbers of them died. Two hundred of +them, it is said, were buried in one grave, where they had encamped."-- +_Morse's American Geography_. + +[3] The alligator, who is supposed to lie in a torpid state all the +winter, in the bank of some creek or pond, having previously swallowed a +large number of pine-knots, which are his only sustenance during the time. + +[4] This was the mode of punishment for murder (as Charlevoix tells us) +among the Hurons. "They laid the dead body upon poles at the top of a +cabin, and the murderer was obliged to remain several days together, and +to receive all that dropped from the carcass, not only on himself but on +his food." + +[5] "We find also collars of porcelain, tobacco, ears of maize, skins, +etc., by the side of difficult and dangerous ways, on rocks, or by the +side of the falls; and these are so many offerings made to the spirits +which preside in these places."--See _Charlevoix's Letter on the +Traditions and the Religion of the Savages of Canada_. + +Father Hennepin too mentions this ceremony; he also says, "We took notice +of one barbarian, who made a kind of sacrifice upon an oak at the Cascade +of St. Anthony of Padua upon the river Mississippi."--See _Hennepin's +Voyage into North America_. + + + + + + +TO THE HONORABLE W. R. SPENCER. + +FROM BUFFALO, UPON LAKE ERIE. + + + _nec venit ad duros musa vocata Getas_. + OVID. _ex Ponto, lib. 1. ep. 5_. + + +Thou oft hast told me of the happy hours +Enjoyed by thee in fair Italia's bowers, +Where, lingering yet, the ghost of ancient wit +Midst modern monks profanely dares to flit. +And pagan spirits, by the Pope unlaid, +Haunt every stream and sing through every shade. +There still the bard who (if his numbers be +His tongue's light echo) must have talked like thee,-- +The courtly bard, from whom thy mind has caught +Those playful, sunshine holidays of thought, +In which the spirit baskingly reclines, +Bright without effort, resting while it shines,-- +There still he roves, and laughing loves to see +How modern priests with ancient rakes agree: +How, 'neath the cowl, the festal garland shines, +And Love still finds a niche in Christian shrines. + + There still, too, roam those other souls of song, +With whom thy spirit hath communed so long, +That, quick as light, their rarest gems of thought, +By Memory's magic to thy lip are brought. +But here, alas! by Erie's stormy lake, +As, far from such bright haunts my course I take, +No proud remembrance o'er the fancy plays, +No classic dream, no star of other days +Hath left that visionary light behind, +That lingering radiance of immortal mind, +Which gilds and hallows even the rudest scene, +The humblest shed, where Genius once has been! + + All that creation's varying mass assumes +Of grand or lovely, here aspires and blooms; +Bold rise the mountains, rich the gardens glow, +Bright lakes expand, and conquering[1] rivers flow; +But mind, immortal mind, without whose ray, +This world's a wilderness and man but clay, +Mind, mind alone, in barren, still repose, +Nor blooms, nor rises, nor expands, nor flows. +Take Christians, Mohawks, democrats, and all +From the rude wigwam to the congress-hall, +From man the savage, whether slaved or free, +To man the civilized, less tame than he,-- +'Tis one dull chaos, one unfertile strife +Betwixt half-polished and half-barbarous life; +Where every ill the ancient world could brew +Is mixt with every grossness of the new; +Where all corrupts, though little can entice, +And naught is known of luxury but its vice! + + Is this the region then, is this the clime +For soaring fancies? for those dreams sublime, +Which all their miracles of light reveal +To heads that meditate and hearts that feel? +Alas! not so--the Muse of Nature lights +Her glories round; she scales the mountain heights, +And roams the forests; every wondrous spot +Burns with her step, yet man regards it not. +She whispers round, her words are in the air, +But lost, unheard, they linger freezing there,[2] +Without one breath of soul, divinely strong, +One ray of mind to thaw them into song. + + Yet, yet forgive me, oh ye sacred few, +Whom late by Delaware's green banks I knew; +Whom, known and loved through many a social eve, +'Twas bliss to live with, and 'twas pain to leave.[3] +Not with more joy the lonely exile scanned +The writing traced upon the desert's sand, +Where his lone heart but little hoped to find +One trace of life, one stamp of human kind, +Than did I hail the pure, the enlightened zeal, +The strength to reason and the warmth to feel, +The manly polish and the illumined taste, +Which,--mid the melancholy, heartless waste +My foot has traversed,--oh you sacred few! +I found by Delaware's green banks with you. + + Long may you loathe the Gallic dross that runs +Through your fair country and corrupts its sons; +Long love the arts, the glories which adorn +Those fields of freedom, where your sires were born. +Oh! if America can yet be great, +If neither chained by choice, nor doomed by fate +To the mob-mania which imbrutes her now, +She yet can raise the crowned, yet civic brow +Of single majesty,--can add the grace +Of Rank's rich capital to Freedom's base, +Nor fear the mighty shaft will feebler prove +For the fair ornament that flowers above;-- +If yet released from all that pedant throng, +So vain of error and so pledged to wrong, +Who hourly teach her, like themselves, to hide +Weakness in vaunt and barrenness in pride, +She yet can rise, can wreathe the Attic charms +Of soft refinement round the pomp of arms, +And see her poets flash the fires of song, +To light her warriors' thunderbolts along;-- +It is to you, to souls that favoring heaven +Has made like yours, the glorious task is given:-- +Oh! but for _such_, Columbia's days were done; +Rank without ripeness, quickened without sun, +Crude at the surface, rotten at the core, +Her fruits would fall, before her spring were o'er. + + Believe me, Spencer, while I winged the hours +Where Schuylkill winds his way through banks of flowers, +Though few the days, the happy evenings few; +So warm with heart, so rich with mind they flew, +That my charmed soul forgot its wish to roam, +And rested there, as in a dream of home. +And looks I met, like looks I'd loved before, +And voices too, which, as they trembled o'er +The chord of memory, found full many a tone +Of kindness there in concord with their own. +Yes,--we had nights of that communion free, +That flow of heart, which I have known with thee +So oft, so warmly; nights of mirth and mind, + +Of whims that taught, and follies that refined. +When shall we both renew them? when, restored +To the gay feast and intellectual board, +Shall I once more enjoy with thee and thine +Those whims that teach, those follies that refine? +Even now, as, wandering upon Erie's shore, +I hear Niagara's distant cataract roar, +I sigh for home,--alas! these weary feet +Have many a mile to journey, ere we meet. + + +[1] This epithet was suggested by Charlevoix's striking description of the +confluence of the Missouri with the Mississippi. + +[2] Alluding to the fanciful notion of "words congealed in northern air." + +[3] In the society of Mr. Dennie and his friends, at Philadelphia, I +passed the few agreeable moments which my tour through the States afforded +me. Mr. Dennie has succeeded in diffusing through this cultivated little +circle that love for good literature and sound politics which he feels so +zealously himself, and which is so very rarely the characteristic of his +countrymen. They will not, I trust, accuse me of illiberality for the +picture which I have given of the ignorance and corruption that surround +them. If I did not hate, as I ought, the rabble to which they are opposed, +I could not value, as I do, the spirit with which they defy it; and in +learning from them what Americans _can be_, I but see with the more +indignation what Americans _are_. + + + + + + +BALLAD STANZAS. + +I knew by the smoke, that so gracefully curled + Above the green elms, that a cottage was near. +And I said, "If there's peace to be found in the world, + "A heart that was humble might hope for it here!" +It was noon, and on flowers that languished around + In silence reposed the voluptuous bee; +Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound + But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech-tree. + +And, "Here in this lone little wood," I exclaimed, + "With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye, +"Who would blush when I praised her, and weep if I blamed, + How blest could I live, and how calm could I die! + +"By the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry dips + "In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to recline, +"And to know that I sighed upon innocent lips, + "Which had never been sighed on by any but mine!" + + + + + + +A CANADIAN BOAT SONG. + +WRITTEN ON THE RIVER ST. LAWRENCE.[1] + + + _et remigem cantus hortatur_. + QUINTILIAN. + + +Faintly as tolls the evening chime +Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time. +Soon as the woods on shore look dim, +We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn.[2] +Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast, +The Rapids are near and the daylight's past. + + Why should we yet our sail unfurl? +There is not a breath the blue wave to curl, +But, when the wind blows off the shore, +Oh! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar. +Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, +The Rapids are near and the daylight's past. + + Utawas' tide! this trembling moon +Shall see us float over thy surges soon. +Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers, +Oh, grant us cool heavens and favoring airs. +Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, +The Rapids are near and the daylight's past. + + +[1] I wrote these words to an air which our boatmen sung to us frequently. +The wind was so unfavorable that they were obliged to row all the way, and +we were five days in descending the river from Kingston to Montreal, +exposed to an intense sun during the day, and at night forced to take +shelter from the dews in any miserable hut upon the banks that would +receive us. But the magnificent scenery of the St. Lawrence repays all +such difficulties. + +[2] "At the Rapid of St. Ann they are obliged to take out part, if not the +whole, of their lading. It is from this spot Canadians consider they take +their departure, as it possesses the last church on the island, which is +dedicated to the tutelar saint of voyagers."--_Mackenzie, General History +of the Fur Trade_. + + + + + + +TO THE LADY CHARLOTTE RAWDON. + +FROM THE BANKS OF THE ST. LAWRENCE. + + +Not many months have now been dreamed away +Since yonder sun, beneath whose evening ray +Our boat glides swiftly past these wooded shores, +Saw me where Trent his mazy current pours, +And Donington's old oaks, to every breeze, +Whisper the tale of by-gone centuries;-- +Those oaks, to me as sacred as the groves, +Beneath whose shade the pious Persian roves, +And hears the spirit-voice of sire, or chief, +Or loved mistress, sigh in every leaf. +There, oft, dear Lady, while thy lip hath sung +My own unpolished lays, how proud I've hung +On every tuneful accent! proud to feel. +That notes like mine should have the fate to steal, +As o'er thy hallowing lip they sighed along. +Such breath of passion and such soul of song. +Yes,--I have wondered, like some peasant boy +Who sings, on Sabbath-eve, his strains of joy, +And when he hears the wild, untutored note +Back to his ear on softening echoes float, +Believes it still some answering spirit's tone, +And thinks it all too sweet to be his own! + + I dreamt not then that, ere the rolling year +Had filled its circle, I should wander here +In musing awe; should tread this wondrous world, +See all its store of inland waters hurled +In one vast volume down Niagara's steep, +Or calm behold them, in transparent sleep, +Where the blue hills of old Toronto shed +Their evening shadows o'er Ontario's bed; +Should trace the grand Cadaraqui, and glide +Down the white rapids of his lordly tide +Through massy woods, mid islets flowering fair, +And blooming glades, where the first sinful pair +For consolation might have weeping trod, +When banished from the garden of their God, +Oh, Lady! these are miracles, which man, +Caged in the bounds of Europe's pigmy span, +Can scarcely dream of,--which his eye must see +To know how wonderful this world can be! + + But lo,--the last tints of the west decline, +And night falls dewy o'er these banks of pine. +Among the reeds, in which our idle boat +Is rocked to rest, the wind's complaining note +Dies like a half-breathed whispering of flutes; +Along the wave the gleaming porpoise shoots, +And I can trace him, like a watery star,[1] +Down the steep current, till he fades afar +Amid the foaming breakers' silvery light. +Where yon rough rapids sparkle through the night. +Here, as along this shadowy bank I stray, +And the smooth glass-snake,[2] glid-o'er my way, +Shows the dim moonlight through his scaly form, +Fancy, with all the scene's enchantment warm, +Hears in the murmur of the nightly breeze +Some Indian Spirit warble words like these:-- + + From the land beyond the sea, + Whither happy spirits flee; + Where, transformed to sacred doves,[3] + Many a blessed Indian roves + Through the air on wing, as white + As those wondrous stones of light,[4] + Which the eye of morning counts + On the Apalachian mounts,-- + Hither oft my flight I take + Over Huron's lucid lake, + Where the wave, as clear as dew, + Sleeps beneath the light canoe, + Which, reflected, floating there, + Looks as if it hung in air. + + Then, when I have strayed a while +Through the Manataulin isle,[5] +Breathing all its holy bloom, +Swift I mount me on the plume +Of my Wakon-Bird,[6] and fly +Where, beneath a burning sky, +O'er the bed of Erie's lake +Slumbers many a water-snake, +Wrapt within the web of leaves, +Which the water-lily weaves.[7] +Next I chase the floweret-king +Through his rosy realm of spring; +See him now, while diamond hues +Soft his neck and wings suffuse, +In the leafy chalice sink, +Thirsting for his balmy drink; +Now behold him all on fire, +Lovely in his looks of ire, +Breaking every infant stem, +Scattering every velvet gem, +Where his little tyrant lip +Had not found enough to sip. + + Then my playful hand I steep +Where the gold-thread loves to creep, +Cull from thence a tangled wreath, +Words of magic round it breathe, +And the sunny chaplet spread +O'er the sleeping fly-bird's head, +Till, with dreams of honey blest, +Haunted, in his downy nest, +By the garden's fairest spells, +Dewy buds and fragrant bells, +Fancy all his soul embowers +In the fly-bird's heaven of flowers. + + Oft, when hoar and silvery flakes +Melt along the ruffled lakes, +When the gray moose sheds his horns, +When the track, at evening, warns +Weary hunters of the way +To the wigwam's cheering ray, +Then, aloft through freezing air, +With the snow-bird soft and fair +As the fleece that heaven flings +O'er his little pearly wings, +Light above the rocks I play, +Where Niagara's starry spray, +Frozen on the cliff, appears +Like a giant's starting tears. +There, amid the island-sedge, +Just upon the cataract's edge, +Where the foot of living man +Never trod since time began, +Lone I sit, at close of day, +While, beneath the golden ray, +Icy columns gleam below, +Feathered round with falling snow, +And an arch of glory springs, +Sparkling as the chain of rings +Round the neck of virgins hung,-- +Virgins, who have wandered young +O'er the waters of the west +To the land where spirits rest! + +Thus have I charmed, with visionary lay, +The lonely moments of the night away; +And now, fresh daylight o'er the water beams! +Once more, embarked upon the glittering streams, +Our boat flies light along the leafy shore, +Shooting the falls, without a dip of oar +Or breath of zephyr, like the mystic bark +The poet saw, in dreams divinely dark, +Borne, without sails, along the dusky flood, +While on its deck a pilot angel stood, +And, with his wings of living light unfurled, +Coasted the dim shores of another world! + +Yet, oh! believe me, mid this mingled maze +Of Nature's beauties, where the fancy strays +From charm to charm, where every floweret's hue +Hath something strange, and every leaf is new,-- +I never feel a joy so pure and still +So inly felt, as when some brook or hill, +Or veteran oak, like those remembered well, +Some mountain echo or some wild-flower's smell, +(For, who can say by what small fairy ties +The memory clings to pleasure as it flies?) +Reminds my heart of many a silvan dream +I once indulged by Trent's inspiring stream; +Of all my sunny morns and moonlight nights +On Donington's green lawns and breezy heights. + +Whether I trace the tranquil moments o'er +When I have seen thee cull the fruits of lore, +With him, the polished warrior, by thy side, +A sister's idol and a nation's pride! +When thou hast read of heroes, trophied high +In ancient fame, and I have seen thine eye +Turn to the living hero, while it read, +For pure and brightening comments on the dead;-- +Or whether memory to my mind recalls +The festal grandeur of those lordly halls, +When guests have met around the sparkling board, +And welcome warmed the cup that luxury poured; +When the bright future Star of England's throne, +With magic smile, hath o'er the banquet shone, +Winning respect, nor claiming what he won, +But tempering greatness, like an evening sun +Whose light the eye can tranquilly admire, +Radiant, but mild, all softness, yet all fire;-- +Whatever hue my recollections take, +Even the regret, the very pain they wake +Is mixt with happiness;--but, ah! no more-- +Lady! adieu--my heart has lingered o'er +Those vanished times, till all that round me lies, +Stream, banks, and bowers have faded on my eyes! + + +[1] Anburey, in his Travels, has noticed this shooting illumination which +porpoises diffuse at night through the river St. Lawrence,--Vol. i. p. 29. + +[2] The glass-snake is brittle and transparent. + +[3] "The departed spirit goes into the Country of Souls, where, according +to some, it is transformed into a dove."--_Charlevoix upon the +Traditions and the Religion of the Savages of Canada_. + +[4] "The mountains appeared to be sprinkled with white stones, which +glistened in the sun, and were called by the Indians manetoe aseniah, or +spirit-stones."--_Mackenzie's Journal_. + +[5] Manataulin signifies a Place of Spirits, and this island in Lake Huron +is held sacred by the Indians. + +[6] "The Wakon-Bird, which probably is of the same species with the bird +of Paradise, receives its name from the ideas the Indians have of its +superior excellence; the Wakon-Bird being, in their language, the Bird of +the Great Spirit."--_Morse_. + +[7] The islands of Lake Erie are surrounded to a considerable distance by +the large pond-lily, whose leaves spread thickly over the surface of the +lake, and form a kind of bed for the water-snakes in summer. + + + + + + +IMPROMPTU. + +AFTER A VISIT TO MRS. ----, OF MONTREAL. + + +'Twas but for a moment--and yet in that time + She crowded the impressions of many an hour: +Her eye had a glow, like the sun of her clime, + Which waked every feeling at once into flower. + +Oh! could we have borrowed from Time but a day, + To renew such impressions again and again, +The things we should look and imagine and say + Would be worth all the life we had wasted till then. + +What we had not the leisure or language to speak, + We should find some more spiritual mode of revealing, +And, between us, should feel just as much in a week + As others would take a millennium in feeling. + + + + + + +WRITTEN + +ON PASSING DEADMAN'S ISLAND, +IN THE GULF OF ST. LAWRENCE,[1] +LATE IN THE EVENING, SEPTEMBER, 1804. + +See you, beneath yon cloud so dark, +Fast gliding along a gloomy bark? +Her sails are full,--though the wind is still, +And there blows not a breath her sails to fill! + +Say, what doth that vessel of darkness bear? +The silent calm of the grave is there, +Save now and again a death-knell rung, +And the flap of the sails with night-fog hung. + +There lieth a wreck on the dismal shore +Of cold and pitiless Labrador; +Where, under the moon, upon mounts of frost, +Full many a mariner's bones are tost. + +Yon shadowy bark hath been to that wreck, +And the dim blue fire, that lights her deck, +Doth play on as pale and livid a crew, +As ever yet drank the churchyard dew. + +To Deadman's Isle, in the eye of the blast, +To Deadman's Isle, she speeds her fast; +By skeleton shapes her sails are furled, +And the hand that steers is not of this world! + +Oh! hurry thee on-oh! hurry thee on, +Thou terrible bark, ere the night be gone, +Nor let morning look on so foul a sight +As would blanch for ever her rosy light! + +[1] This is one of the Magdalen Islands, and, singularly enough, is the +property of Sir Isaac Coffin. The above lines were suggested by a +superstition very common among sailors, who called this ghost-ship, I +think, "The Flying Dutchman." + + + + + + +TO THE BOSTON FRIGATE, ON LEAVING HALIFAX FOR ENGLAND,[1] + +OCTOBER, 1804. + + +With triumph, this morning, oh Boston! I hail +The stir of thy deck and the spread of thy sail, +For they tell me I soon shall be wafted, in thee, +To the flourishing isle of the brave and the free, +And that chill Nova-Scotia's unpromising strand +Is the last I shall tread of American land. +Well--peace to the land! may her sons know, at length, +That in high-minded honor lies liberty's strength, +That though man be as free as the fetterless wind, +As the wantonest air that the north can unbind, +Yet, if health do not temper and sweeten the blast, +If no harvest of mind ever sprung where it past, +Then unblest is such freedom, and baleful its might,-- +Free only to ruin, and strong but to blight! + +Farewell to the few I have left with regret: +May they sometimes recall, what I cannot forget; +The delight of those evenings,--too brief a delight! +When in converse and song we have stolen on the night; +When they've asked me the manners, the mind, or the mien, +Of some bard I had known or some chief I had seen, +Whose glory, though distant, they long had adored, +Whose name had oft hallowed the wine-cup they poured; +And still as, with sympathy humble but true, +I have told of each bright son of fame all I knew, +They have listened, and sighed that the powerful stream +Of America's empire should pass like a dream, +Without leaving one relic of genius, to say, +How sublime was the tide which had vanished away! +Farewell to the few--though we never may meet +On this planet again, it is soothing and sweet +To think that, whenever my song or my name +Shall recur to their ear, they'll recall me the same +I have been to them now, young, unthoughtful, and blest, +Ere hope had deceived me or sorrow deprest. + +But, Douglas! while thus I recall to my mind +The elect of the land we shall soon leave behind, +I can read in the weather-wise glance of thine eye +As it follows the rack flitting over the sky, +That the faint coming breeze would be fair for our flight, +And shall steal us away, ere the falling of night. +Dear Douglas! thou knowest, with thee by my side, +With thy friendship to soothe me, thy courage to guide, +There is not a bleak isle in those summerless seas, +Where the day comes in darkness, or shines but to freeze, +Not a tract of the line, not a barbarous shore, +That I could not with patience, with pleasure explore! +Oh think then how gladly I follow thee now, +When Hope smooths the billowy path of our prow, +And each prosperous sigh of the west-springing wind +Takes me nearer the home where my heart is inshrined; +Where the smile of a father shall meet me again, +And the tears of a mother turn bliss into pain; +Where the kind voice of sisters shall steal to my heart, +And ask it, in sighs, how we ever could part?-- + +But see!--the bent top sails are ready to swell-- +To the boat--I am with thee--Columbia, farewell! + + +[1] Commanded by Captain J. E. Douglas, with whom I returned to England, +and to whom I am indebted for many, many kindnesses. + + + + + + + + +IRISH MELODIES + + + + +DEDICATION + +TO THE MARCHIONESS DOWAGER OF DONEGAL. + + +It is now many years since, in, a Letter prefixed to the Third Number of +the Irish Melodies, I had the pleasure of inscribing the Poems of that +work to your Ladyship, as to one whose character reflected honor on the +country to which they relate, and whose friendship had long been the pride +and happiness of their Author. With the same feelings of affection and +respect, confirmed if not increased by the experience of every succeeding +year, I now place those Poems in their present new form under your +protection, and am, + +With perfect Sincerity, +Your Ladyship's ever attached friend, + +THOMAS MOORE. + + + + +PREFACE. + + +Though an edition of the Poetry of the Irish Melodies, separate from the +Music, has long been called for, yet, having, for many reasons, a strong +objection to this sort of divorce, I should with difficulty have consented +to a disunion of the words from the airs, had it depended solely upon me +to keep them quietly and indissolubly together. But, besides the various +shapes in which these, as well as my other lyrical writings, have been +published throughout America, they are included, of course, in all the +editions of my works printed on the Continent, and have also appeared, in +a volume full of typographical errors, in Dublin. I have therefore readily +acceded to the wish expressed by the Proprietor of the Irish Melodies, for +a revised and complete edition of the poetry of the Work, though well +aware that my verses must lose even more than the "_animae dimidium_" in +being detached from the beautiful airs to which it was their good fortune +to be associated. + + + + + + +IRISH MELODIES + + + + + + +GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE. + + +Go where glory waits thee, +But while fame elates thee, + Oh! still remember me. +When the praise thou meetest +To thine ear is sweetest, + Oh! then remember me. +Other arms may press thee, +Dearer friends caress thee, +All the joys that bless thee, + Sweeter far may be; +But when friends are nearest, +And when joys are dearest, + Oh! then remember me! + +When, at eve, thou rovest +By the star thou lovest, + Oh! then remember me. +Think, when home returning, +Bright we've seen it burning, + Oh! thus remember me. +Oft as summer closes, +When thine eye reposes +On its lingering roses, + Once so loved by thee, +Think of her who wove them, +Her who made thee love them, + Oh! then, remember me. + +When, around thee dying, +Autumn leaves are lying, + Oh! then remember me. +And, at night, when gazing +On the gay hearth blazing, + Oh! still remember me. +Then should music, stealing +All the soul of feeling, +To thy heart appealing, + Draw one tear from thee; +Then let memory bring thee +Strains I used to sing thee,-- + Oh! then remember me. + + + + + + +WAR SONG. + +REMEMBER THE GLORIES OF BRIEN THE BRAVE.[1] + + +Remember the glories of Brien the brave, + Tho' the days of the hero are o'er; +Tho' lost to Mononia and cold in the grave,[2] + He returns to Kinkora no more.[3] +That star of the field, which so often hath poured + Its beam on the battle, is set; +But enough of its glory remains on each sword, + To light us to victory yet. + +Mononia! when Nature embellished the tint + Of thy fields, and thy mountains so fair, +Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print + The footstep of slavery there? +No! Freedom, whose smile we shall never resign, + Go, tell our invaders, the Danes, +That 'tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine, + Than to sleep but a moment in chains. + +Forget not our wounded companions, who stood[4] + In the day of distress by our side; +While the moss of the valley grew red with their blood, + They stirred not, but conquered and died. +That sun which now blesses our arms with his light, + Saw them fall upon Ossory's plain;-- +Oh! let him not blush, when he leaves us to-night, + To find that they fell there in vain. + + +[1] Brien Boromhe, the great monarch of Ireland, who was killed at the +battle of Clontarf, in the beginning of the 11th century, after having +defeated the Danes in twenty-five engagements. + +[2] Munster. + +[3] The palace of Brien. + +[4] This alludes to an interesting circumstance related of the Dalgais, +the favorite troops of Brien, when they were interrupted in their return +from the battle of Clontarf, by Fitzpatrick, prince of Ossory. The wounded +men entreated that they might be allowed to fight with the rest,--"_Let +stakes_[they said] _be stuck in the ground, and suffer each of us to be +tied to and supported by one of these stakes, to be placed in his rank by +the side of a sound man_." "Between seven and eight hundred men (adds +O'Halloran) pale, emaciated, and supported in this manner, appeared mixed +with the foremost of the troops;--never was such another sight +exhibited."--_"History of Ireland_," book xii. chap i. + + + + + + +ERIN! THE TEAR AND THE SMILE IN THINE EYES. + + +Erin, the tear and the smile in thine eyes, +Blend like the rainbow that hangs in thy skies! + Shining through sorrow's stream, + Saddening through pleasure's beam, + Thy suns with doubtful gleam, + Weep while they rise. + +Erin, thy silent tear never shall cease, +Erin, thy languid smile ne'er shall increase, + Till, like the rainbow's light, + Thy various tints unite, + And form in heaven's sight + One arch of peace! + + + + + + +OH! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME. + + +Oh! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade, +Where cold and unhonored his relics are laid: +Sad, silent, and dark, be the tears that we shed, +As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head. +But the night-dew that falls, tho' in silence it weeps, +Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps; +And the tear that we shed, tho' in secret it rolls, +Shall long keep his memory green in our souls. + + + + + + +WHEN HE, WHO ADORES THEE. + + +When he, who adores thee, has left but the name + Of his fault and his sorrows behind, +Oh! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame + Of a life that for thee was resigned? +Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn, + Thy tears shall efface their decree; +For Heaven can witness, tho' guilty to them, + I have been but too faithful to thee. + +With thee were the dreams of my earliest love; + Every thought of my reason was thine; +In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above, + Thy name shall be mingled with mine. +Oh! blest are the lovers and friend who shall live + The days of thy glory to see; +But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give + Is the pride of thus dying for thee. + + + + + + +THE HARP THAT ONCE THRO' TARA'S HALLS. + + +The harp that once thro' Tara's halls + The soul of music shed, +Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls. + As if that soul were fled.-- +So sleeps the pride of former days, + So glory's thrill is o'er, +And hearts, that once beat high for praise, + Now feel that pulse no more. + +No more to chiefs and ladies bright + The harp of Tara swells; +The chord alone, that breaks at night, + Its tale of ruin tells. +Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, + The only throbs she gives, +Is when some heart indignant breaks. + To show that still she lives. + + + + + + +FLY NOT YET. + + +Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour, +When pleasure, like the midnight flower +That scorns the eye of vulgar light, +Begins to bloom for sons of night, + And maids who love the moon. +'Twas but to bless these hours of shade +That beauty and the moon were made; +'Tis then their soft attractions glowing +Set the tides and goblets flowing. + Oh! stay,--Oh! stay,-- +Joy so seldom weaves a chain +Like this to-night, and oh, 'tis pain + To break its links so soon. + +Fly not yet, the fount that played +In times of old through Ammon's shade, +Though icy cold by day it ran, +Yet still, like souls of mirth, began + To burn when night was near. +And thus, should woman's heart and looks, +At noon be cold as winter brooks, +Nor kindle till the night, returning, +Brings their genial hour for burning. + Oh! stay,--Oh! stay,-- +When did morning ever break, +And find such beaming eyes awake + As those that sparkle here? + + + + + + +OH! THINK NOT MY SPIRITS ARE ALWAYS AS LIGHT. + + +Oh! think not my spirits are always as light, + And as free from a pang as they seem to you now; +Nor expect that the heart-beaming smile of to-night + Will return with to morrow to brighten my brow. +No!--life is a waste of wearisome hours, + Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns; +And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers, + Is always the first to be touched by the thorns. +But send round the bowl, and be happy awhile-- + May we never meet worse, in our pilgrimage here, +Than the tear that enjoyment may gild with a smile, + And the smile that compassion can turn to a tear. + +The thread of our life would be dark, Heaven knows! + If it were not with friendship and love intertwined: +And I care not how soon I may sink to repose, + When these blessings shall cease to be dear to my mind. +But they who have loved the fondest, the purest. + Too often have wept o'er the dream they believed; +And the heart that has slumbered in friendship, securest, + Is happy indeed if 'twas never deceived. +But send round the bowl; while a relic of truth + Is in man or in woman, this prayer shall be mine,-- +That the sunshine of love may illumine our youth, + And the moonlight of friendship console our decline. + + + + + + +THO' THE LAST GLIMPSE OF ERIN WITH SORROW I SEE. + + +Tho' the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see, +Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me; +In exile thy bosom shall still be my home, +And thine eyes make my climate wherever we room. + +To the gloom of some desert or cold rocky shore, +Where the eye of the stranger can haunt us no more, +I will fly with my Coulin, and think the rough wind +Less rude than the foes we leave frowning behind. + +And I'll gaze on thy gold hair as graceful it wreathes; +And hang o'er thy soft harp, as wildly it breathes; +Nor dread that the cold-hearted Saxon will tear +One chord from that harp, or one lock from that hair.[1] + + +[1] "In the twenty-eighth year of the reign of Henry VIII, an Act was made +respecting the habits, and dress in general, of the Irish, whereby all +persons were restrained from being shorn or shaven above the ears, or from +wearing Glibbes, or _Coulins_ (long locks), on their heads, or hair on +their upper lip, called _Crommeal_. On this occasion a song was written by +one of our bards, in which an Irish virgin is made to give the preference +to her dear _Coulin_ (or the youth with the flowing locks) to all +strangers (by which the English were meant), or those who wore their +habits. Of this song, the air alone has reached us, and is universally +admired."--"_Walker's "Historical Memoirs of Irish Bards_," p. 184. Mr. +Walker informs us also, that, about the same period, there were some harsh +measures taken against the Irish Minstrels. + + + + + + +RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE.[1] + + +Rich and rare were the gems she wore, +And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore; +But oh! her beauty was far beyond +Her sparkling gems, or snow-white wand. + +"Lady! dost thou not fear, to stray, +"So lone and lovely through this bleak way? +"Are Erin's sons so good or so cold, +"As not to be tempted by woman or gold?" + +"Sir Knight! I feel not the least alarm, +"No son of Erin will offer me harm:-- +"For though they love woman and golden store, +"Sir Knight! they love honor and virtue more!" + +On she went and her maiden smile +In safety lighted her round the green isle; +And blest for ever is she who relied +Upon Erin's honor, and Erin's pride. + + +[1] This ballad is founded upon the following anecdote:--"The people were +inspired with such a spirit of honor, virtue, and religion, by the great +example of Brien, and by his excellent administration, that, as a proof of +it, we are informed that a young lady of great beauty, adorned with jewels +and a costly dress, undertook a journey alone, from one end of the kingdom +to the other, with a wand only in her hand, at the top of which was a ring +of exceeding great value; and such an impression had the laws and +government of this Monarch made on the minds of all the people, that no +attempt was made upon her honor, nor was she robbed of her clothes or +jewels."--_Warner's "History of Ireland_," vol i, book x. + + + + + + +AS A BEAM O'ER THE FACE OF THE WATERS MAY GLOW. + + +As a beam o'er the face of the waters may glow +While the tide runs in darkness and coldness below, +So the cheek may be tinged with a warm sunny smile, +Though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the while. + +One fatal remembrance, one sorrow that throws +Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes. +To which life nothing darker or brighter can bring +For which joy has no balm and affliction no sting-- + +Oh! this thought in the midst of enjoyment will stay, +Like a dead, leafless branch in the summer's bright ray; +The beams of the warm sun play round it in vain, +It may smile in his light, but it blooms not again. + + + + + + +THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.[1] + + +There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet +As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;[2] +Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart, +Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart. + +Yet it _was_ not that nature had shed o'er the scene +Her purest of crystal and brightest of green; +'Twas _not_ her soft magic of streamlet or hill, +Oh! no,--it was something more exquisite still. + +'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near, +Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, +And who felt how the best charms of nature improve, +When we see them reflected from looks that we love. + +Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest +In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best. +Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease, +And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace. + + +[1] "The Meeting of the Waters" forms a part of that beautiful scenery +which lies between Rathdrum and Arklow, in the county of Wicklow, and +these lines were suggested by a visit to this romantic spot, in the summer +of the year 1807. + +[2] The rivers Avon and Avoca. + + + + + + +HOW DEAR TO ME THE HOUR. + + +How dear to me the hour when daylight dies, + And sunbeams melt along the silent sea, +For then sweet dreams of other days arise, + And memory breathes her vesper sigh to thee. + +And, as I watch the line of light, that plays + Along the smooth wave toward the burning west, +I long to tread that golden path of rays, + And think 'twould lead to some bright isle of rest. + + + + + + +TAKE BACK THE VIRGIN PAGE. + +WRITTEN ON RETURNING A BLANK BOOK. + + +Take back the virgin page, + White and unwritten still; +Some hand, more calm and sage, + The leaf must fill. +Thoughts come, as pure as light + Pure as even _you_ require: +But, oh! each word I write + Love turns to fire. + +Yet let me keep the book: + Oft shall my heart renew, +When on its leaves I look, + Dear thoughts of you. +Like you, 'tis fair and bright; + Like you, too bright and fair +To let wild passion write + One wrong wish there. + +Haply, when from those eyes + Far, far away I roam. +Should calmer thoughts arise + Towards you and home; +Fancy may trace some line, + Worthy those eyes to meet, +Thoughts that not burn, but shine, + Pure, calm, and sweet. + +And as, o'er ocean, far, + Seamen their records keep, +Led by some hidden star + Thro' the cold deep; +So may the words I write + Tell thro' what storms I stray-- + _You_ still the unseen light, + Guiding my way. + + + + + + +THE LEGACY. + + +When in death I shall calmly recline, + O bear my heart to my mistress dear; +Tell her it lived upon smiles and wine + Of the brightest hue, while it lingered here. +Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow + To sully a heart so brilliant and light; +But balmy drops of the red grape borrow, + To bathe the relic from morn till night. + +When the light of my song is o'er, + Then take my harp to your ancient hall; +Hang it up at that friendly door, + Where weary travellers love to call.[1] +Then if some bard, who roams forsaken, + Revive its soft note in passing along, +Oh! let one thought of its master waken + Your warmest smile for the child of song. +Keep this cup, which is now o'er-flowing, + To grace your revel, when I'm at rest; +Never, oh! never its balm bestowing + On lips that beauty has seldom blest. +But when some warm devoted lover + To her he adores shall bathe its brim, +Then, then my spirit around shall hover, + And hallow each drop that foams for him. + + +[1] "In every house was one or two harps, free to all travellers, who were +the more caressed, the more they excelled in music."--_O'Halloran_. + + + + + + +HOW OFT HAS THE BANSHEE CRIED. + + + How oft has the Banshee cried, + How oft has death untied + Bright links that Glory wove, + Sweet bonds entwined by Love! +Peace to each manly soul that sleepeth; +Rest to each faithful eye that weepeth; + Long may the fair and brave + Sigh o'er the hero's grave. + + We're fallen upon gloomy days![1] + Star after star decays, + Every bright name, that shed + Light o'er the land, is fled. +Dark falls the tear of him who mourneth +Lost joy, or hope that ne'er returneth; + But brightly flows the tear, + Wept o'er a hero's bier. + + Quenched are our beacon lights-- + Thou, of the Hundred Fights![2] + Thou, on whose burning tongue + Truth, peace, and freedom hung! +Both mute,--but long as valor shineth, +Or Mercy's soul at war repineth, + So long shall Erin's pride + Tell how they lived and died. + + +[1] I have endeavored here, without losing that Irish character, which it +is my object to preserve throughout this work, to allude to the sad and +ominous fatality, by which England has been deprived of so many great and +good men, at a moment when she most requires all the aids of talent and +integrity. + +[2] This designation, which has been before applied to Lord Nelson, is the +title given to a celebrated Irish Hero, in a Poem by O'Guive, the bard of +O'Niel, which is quoted in the "Philosophical Survey of the South of +Ireland," page 433. "Con, of the hundred Fights, sleep in thy grass-grown +tomb, and upbraid not our defeats with thy victories." + + + + + + +WE MAY ROAM THROUGH THIS WORLD. + + +We may roam thro' this world, like a child at a feast, + Who but sips of a sweet, and then flies to the rest; +And, when pleasure begins to grow dull in the east, + We may order our wings and be off to the west; +But if hearts that feel, and eyes that smile, + Are the dearest gifts that heaven supplies, +We never need leave our own green isle, + For sensitive hearts, and for sun-bright eyes. +Then remember, wherever your goblet is crowned, + Thro' this world, whether eastward or westward you roam, +When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round, + Oh! remember the smile which adorns her at home. + +In England, the garden of Beauty is kept + By a dragon of prudery placed within call; +But so oft this unamiable dragon has slept, + That the garden's but carelessly watched after all. +Oh! they want the wild sweet-briery fence, + Which round the flowers of Erin dwells; +Which warns the touch, while winning the sense, + Nor charms us least when it most repels. +Then remember, wherever your goblet is crowned, + Thro' this world, whether eastward or westward you roam, +When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round, + Oh! remember the smile that adorns her at home. + +In France, when the heart of a woman sets sail, + On the ocean of wedlock its fortune to try, +Love seldom goes far in a vessel so frail, + But just pilots her off, and then bids her good-by. +While the daughters of Erin keep the boy, + Ever smiling beside his faithful oar, +Thro' billows of woe, and beams of joy, + The same as he looked when he left the shore. +Then remember, wherever your goblet is crowned, + Thro' this world, whether eastward or westward you roam, +When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round, + Oh! remember the smile that adorns her at home. + + + + + + +EVELEEN'S BOWER. + + + Oh! weep for the hour, + When to Eveleen's bower +The Lord of the Valley with false vows came; + The moon hid her light + From the heavens that night. +And wept behind her clouds o'er the maiden's shame. + + The clouds past soon + From the chaste cold moon, +And heaven smiled again with her vestal flame: + But none will see the day, + When the clouds shall pass away, +Which that dark hour left upon Eveleen's fame. + + The white snow lay + On the narrow path-way, +When the Lord of the Valley crost over the moor; + And many a deep print + On the white snow's tint +Showed the track of his footstep to Eveleen's door. + + The next sun's ray + Soon melted away +Every trace on the path where the false Lord came; + But there's a light above, + Which alone can remove +That stain upon the snow of fair Eveleen's fame. + + + + + + +LET ERIN REMEMBER THE DAYS OF OLD. + + +Let Erin remember the days of old. + Ere her faithless sons betrayed her; +When Malachi wore the collar of gold,[1] +Which he won from her proud invader. +When her kings, with standard of green unfurled, + Led the Red-Branch Knights to danger;[2] +Ere the emerald gem of the western world + Was set in the crown of a stranger. + +On Lough Neagh's bank as the fisherman strays, + When the clear cold eve's declining, +He sees the round towers of other days + In the wave beneath him shining: +Thus shall memory often, in dreams sublime, + Catch a glimpse of the days that are over; +Thus, sighing, look thro' the waves of time +For the long-faded glories they cover.[3] + + +[1] "This brought on an encounter between Malachi (the Monarch of Ireland +in the tenth century) and the Danes, in which Malachi defeated two of +their champions, whom he encountered successively, hand to hand, taking a +collar of gold from the neck of one, and carrying off the sword of the +other, as trophies of his victory."--_Warner's "History of Ireland,"_ +vol. i. book ix. + +[2] "Military orders of knights were very early established in Ireland; +long before the birth of Christ we find an hereditary order of Chivalry in +Ulster, called _Curaidhe na Craiobhe ruadh_, or the Knights of the +Red Branch, from their chief seat in Emania, adjoining to the palace of +the Ulster kings, called _Teagh na Craiobhe ruadh_, or the Academy of +the Red Branch; and contiguous to which was a large hospital, founded for +the sick knights and soldiers, called _Bronbhearg_, or the House of +the Sorrowful Soldier."--_O'Halloran's Introduction_, etc., part 1, +chap. 5. + +[3] It was an old tradition, in the time of Giraldus, that Lough Neagh had +been originally a fountain, by whose sudden overflowing the country was +inundated, and a whole region, like the Atlantis of Plato, overwhelmed. He +says that the fishermen, in clear weather, used to point out to strangers +the tall ecclesiastical towers under the water. + + + + + + +THE SONG OF FIONNUALA.[1] + + +Silent, oh Moyle, be the roar of thy water, + Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose, +While, murmuring mournfully, Lir's lonely daughter + Tells to the night-star her tale of woes. +When shall the swan, her death-note singing, +Sleep, with wings in darkness furled? +When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing, +Call my spirit from this stormy world? + +Sadly, oh Moyle, to thy winter wave weeping, +Fate bids me languish long ages away; +Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping, +Still doth the pure light its dawning delay. +When will that day-star, mildly springing, +Warm our isle with peace and love? +When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing, +Call my spirit to the fields above? + + +[1] To make this story intelligible in a song would require a much greater +number of verses than any one is authorized to inflict upon an audience at +once; the reader must therefore be content to learn, in a note, that +Fionnuala, the daughter of Lir, was, by some supernatural power, +transformed into a swan, and condemned to wander, for many hundred years, +over certain lakes and rivers in Ireland, till the coming of Christianity, +when the first sound of the mass-bell was to be the signal of her +release,--I found this fanciful fiction among some manuscript translations +from the Irish, which were begun under the direction of that enlightened +friend of Ireland, the late Countess of Moira. + + + + + + +COME, SEND ROUND THE WINE. + + +Come, send round the wine, and leave points of belief +To simpleton sages, and reasoning fools; +This moment's a flower too fair and brief, +To be withered and stained by the dust of the schools. +Your glass may be purple, and mine may be blue, +But, while they are filled from the same bright bowl, +The fool, who would quarrel for difference of hue, +Deserves not the comfort they shed o'er the soul. +Shall I ask the brave soldier, who fights by my side +In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree? +Shall I give up the friend I have valued and tried, +If he kneel not before the same altar with me? +From the heretic girl of my soul should I fly, +To seek somewhere else a more orthodox kiss? +No, perish the hearts, and the laws that try +Truth, valor, or love, by a standard like this! + + + + + + +SUBLIME WAS THE WARNING. + + +Sublime was the warning that Liberty spoke, +And grand was the moment when Spaniards awoke +Into life and revenge from the conqueror's chain. +Oh, Liberty! let not this Spirit have rest, +Till it move, like a breeze, o'er the waves of the west-- +Give the light of your look to each sorrowing spot, +Nor, oh, be the Shamrock of Erin forgot +While you add to your garland the Olive of Spain! + +If the fame of our fathers, bequeathed with their rights, +Give to country its charm, and to home its delights, +If deceit be a wound, and suspicion a stain, +Then, ye men of Iberia; our cause is the same! +And oh! may his tomb want a tear and a name, +Who would ask for a nobler, a holier death, +Than to turn his last sigh into victory's breath, +For the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain! + +Ye Blakes and O'Donnels, whose fathers resigned +The green hills of their youth, among strangers to find +That repose which, at home, they had sighed for in vain, +Join, join in our hope that the flame, which you light, +May be felt yet in Erin, as calm, and as bright, +And forgive even Albion while blushing she draws, +Like a truant, her sword, in the long-slighted cause + Of the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain! + +God prosper the cause!--oh, it cannot but thrive, +While the pulse of one patriot heart is alive. + Its devotion to feel, and its rights to maintain; +Then, how sainted by sorrow, its martyrs will die! +The finger of Glory shall point where they lie; +While, far from the footstep of coward or slave. +The young spirit of Freedom shall shelter their grave + Beneath Shamrocks of Erin and Olives of Spain! + + + + + + +BELIEVE ME IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG CHARMS. + + +Believe me, if all those endearing young charms, + Which I gaze on so fondly today, +Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, + Like fairy-gifts fading away, +Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art. + Let thy loveliness fade as it will. +And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart + Would entwine itself verdantly still. + +It is not while beauty and youth are thine own, + And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear, +That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known, + To which time will but make thee more dear; +No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets, + But as truly loves on to the close, +As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets, + The same look which she turned when he rose. + + + + + + +ERIN, OH ERIN. + + +Like the bright lamp, that shone in Kildare's holy fane,[1] + And burn'd thro' long ages of darkness and storm, +Is the heart that sorrows have frowned on in vain, + Whose spirit outlives them, unfading and warm. +Erin, oh Erin, thus bright thro' the tears +Of a long night of bondage, thy spirit appears. + +The nations have fallen, and thou still art young, + Thy sun is but rising, when others are set; +And tho' slavery's cloud o'er thy morning hath hung, + The full noon of freedom shall beam round thee yet. +Erin, oh Erin, tho' long in the shade, +Thy star will shine out when the proudest shall fade. + +Unchilled by the rain, and unwaked by the wind, + The lily lies sleeping thro' winter's cold hour, +Till Spring's light touch her fetters unbind, + And daylight and liberty bless the young flower. +Thus Erin, oh Erin, _thy_ winter is past, +And the hope that lived thro' it shall blossom at last. + + +[1] The inextinguishable fire of St. Bridget, at Kildare, which Giraldus +mentions. + + + + + + +DRINK TO HER. + + +Drink to her, who long, + Hath waked the poet's sigh. +The girl, who gave to song + What gold could never buy. +Oh! woman's heart was made + For minstrel hands alone; +By other fingers played, + It yields not half the tone. +Then here's to her, who long + Hath waked the poet's sigh, +The girl who gave to song + What gold could never buy. + +At Beauty's door of glass, + When Wealth and Wit once stood, +They asked her '_which_ might pass?" + She answered, "he, who could." +With golden key Wealth thought + To pass--but 'twould not do: +While Wit a diamond brought, + Which cut his bright way through. +So here's to her, who long + Hath waked the poet's sigh, +The girl, who gave to song + What gold could never buy. + +The love that seeks a home + Where wealth or grandeur shines, +Is like the gloomy gnome, + That dwells in dark gold mines. +But oh! the poet's love + Can boast a brighter sphere; +Its native home's above, + Tho' woman keeps it here. +Then drink to her, who long + Hath waked the poet's sigh, +The girl, who gave to song + What gold could never buy. + + + + + + +OH! BLAME NOT THE BARD.[1] + + +Oh! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers, + Where Pleasure lies, carelessly smiling at Fame; +He was born for much more, and in happier hours + His soul might have burned with a holier flame. +The string, that now languishes loose o'er the lyre, + Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart;[2] +And the lip, which now breathes but the song of desire, + Might have poured the full tide of a patriot's heart. + +But alas for his country!--her pride is gone by, + And that spirit is broken, which never would bend; +O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh, + For 'tis treason to love her, and death to defend. +Unprized are her sons, till they've learned to betray; + Undistinguished they live, if they shame not their sires; +And the torch, that would light them thro' dignity's way, + Must be caught from the pile, where their country expires. + +Then blame not the bard, if in pleasure's soft dream, + He should try to forget, what he never can heal: +Oh! give but a hope--let a vista but gleam + Thro' the gloom of his country, and mark how he'll feel! +That instant, his heart at her shrine would lay down + Every passion it nurst, every bliss it adored; +While the myrtle, now idly entwined with his crown, + Like the wreath of Harmodius, should cover his sword. + +But tho' glory be gone, and tho' hope fade away, + Thy name, loved Erin, shall live in his songs; +Not even in the hour, when his heart is most gay, + Will he lose the remembrance of thee and thy wrongs. +The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains; + The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep, +Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains, + Shall pause at the song of their captive, and weep! + + +[1] We may suppose this apology to have been uttered by one of those +wandering bards, whom Spenser so severely, and perhaps, truly, describes +in his State of Ireland, and whose poems, he tells us, "were sprinkled +with some pretty flowers of their natural device, which have good grace +and comeliness unto them, the which it is great pity to see abused to the +gracing of wickedness and vice, which, with good usage, would serve to +adorn and beautify virtue." + +[2] It is conjectured by Wormius, that the name of Ireland is derived from +Yr, the Runic for a _bow_ in the use of which weapon the Irish were once +very expert. This derivation is certainly more creditable to us than the +following: "So that Ireland, called the land of _Ire_, from the constant +broils therein for 400 years, was now become the land of concord." +_Lloyd's "State Worthies_," art. _The Lord Grandison_. + + + + + + +WHILE GAZING ON THE MOON'S LIGHT. + + +While gazing on the moon's light, + A moment from her smile I turned, +To look at orbs, that, more bright, + In lone and distant glory burned. + But _too_ far + Each proud star, + For me to feel its warming flame; + Much more dear + That mild sphere. + Which near our planet smiling came; +Thus, Mary, be but thou my own; + While brighter eyes unheeded play, +I'll love those moonlight looks alone, + That bless my home and guide my way. + +The day had sunk in dim showers, + But midnight now, with lustre meet. +Illumined all the pale flowers, + Like hope upon a mourner's cheek. + I said (while + The moon's smile + Played o'er a stream, in dimpling bliss,) + "The moon looks + "On many brooks, + "The brook can see no moon but this;"[1] +And thus, I thought, our fortunes run, + For many a lover looks to thee, +While oh! I feel there is but _one_, + _One_ Mary in the world for me. + + +[1] This image was suggested by the following thought, which occurs +somewhere In Sir William Jones's works: "The moon looks upon many night- +flowers, the night flower sees but one moon." + + + + + + +ILL OMENS. + + +When daylight was yet sleeping under the billow, + And stars in the heavens still lingering shone. +Young Kitty, all blushing, rose up from her pillow, + The last time she e'er was to press it alone. +For the youth! whom she treasured her heart and her soul in, + Had promised to link the last tie before noon; +And when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen + The maiden herself will steal after it soon. + +As she looked in the glass, which a woman ne'er misses. + Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two, +A butterfly,[1] fresh from the night-flower's kisses. + Flew over the mirror, and shaded her view. +Enraged with the insect for hiding her graces, + She brushed him--he fell, alas; never to rise: +"Ah! such," said the girl, "is the pride of our faces, + "For which the soul's innocence too often dies." + +While she stole thro' the garden, where heart's-ease was growing, + She culled some, and kist off its night-fallen dew; +And a rose, further on, looked so tempting and glowing, + That, spite of her haste, she must gather it too: +But while o'er the roses too carelessly leaning, + Her zone flew in two, and the + heart's-ease was lost: + "Ah! this means," said the girl + (and she sighed at its meaning), + "That love is scarce worth the + repose it will cost!" + + +[1] An emblem of the soul. + + + + + + +BEFORE THE BATTLE. + + +By the hope within us springing, + Herald of to-morrow's strife; +By that sun, whose light is bringing + Chains or freedom, death or life-- + Oh! remember life can be +No charm for him, who lives not free! + Like the day-star in the wave, + Sinks a hero in his grave, +Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears. + + Happy is he o'er whose decline + The smiles of home may soothing shine +And light him down the steep of years:-- + But oh, how blest they sink to rest, + Who close their eyes on victory's breast! + +O'er his watch-fire's fading embers + Now the foeman's cheek turns white, +When his heart that field remembers, + Where we tamed his tyrant might. +Never let him bind again +A chain; like that we broke from then. + Hark! the horn of combat calls-- + Ere the golden evening falls, +May we pledge that horn in triumph round![1] + Many a heart that now beats high, + In slumber cold at night shall lie, +Nor waken even at victory's sound-- + But oh, how blest that hero's sleep, + O'er whom a wondering world shall weep! + + +[1] "The Irish Corna was not entirely devoted to martial purposes. In the +heroic ages, our ancestors quaffed Meadh out of them, as the Danish +hunters do their beverage at this day."--_Walker_. + + + + + + +AFTER THE BATTLE. + + +Night closed around the conqueror's way, + And lightnings showed the distant hill, +Where those who lost that dreadful day, + Stood few and faint, but fearless still. +The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal, + For ever dimmed, for ever crost-- +Oh! who shall say what heroes feel, + When all but life and honor's lost? + +The last sad hour of freedom's dream, + And valor's task, moved slowly by, +While mute they watcht, till morning's beam + Should rise and give them light to die. +There's yet a world, where souls are free, + Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss;-- +If death that world's bright opening be, + Oh! who would live a slave in this? + + + + + + +'TIS SWEET TO THINK. + + +'Tis sweet to think, that, where'er we rove, + We are sure to find something blissful and dear. +And that, when we're far from the lips we love, + We've but to make love to the lips, we are near. +The heart, like a tendril, accustomed to cling, + Let it grow where it will, can not flourish alone, +But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing + It can twine with itself and make closely its own. + +Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove, + To be sure to find something still that is dear, +And to know, when far from the lips we love, + We've but to make love to the lips we are near. + +'Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise. + To make light of the rest, if the rose isn't there; +And the world's so rich in resplendent eyes, + 'Twere a pity to limit one's love to a pair. +Love's wing and the peacock's are nearly alike, + They are both of them bright, but they're changeable too, +And, wherever a new beam of beauty can strike, + It will tincture Love's plume with a different hue. +Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove, + To be sure to find something still that is dear, +And to know, when far from the lips we love, + We've but to make love to the lips we are near. + + + + + + +THE IRISH PEASANT TO HIS MISTRESS.[1] + + +Thro' grief and thro' danger thy smile hath cheered my way, +Till hope seemed to bud from each thorn that round me lay; +The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love burned, +Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turned; +Yes, slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free, +And blest even the sorrows that made me more dear to thee. + +Thy rival was honored, while thou wert wronged and scorned, +Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows adorned; +She wooed me to temples, while thou lay'st hid in caves, +Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas! were slaves; +Yet cold in the earth, at thy feet, I would rather be, +Than wed what I loved not, or turn one thought from thee. + +They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frail-- +Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had looked less pale. +They say, too, so long thou hast worn those lingering chains, +That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile stains-- +Oh! foul is the slander,--no chain could that soul subdue-- +Where shineth _thy_ spirit, there liberty shineth too![2] + + +[1] Meaning, allegorically, the ancient Church of Ireland. + +[2] "Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty"--_St. Paul's +Corinthians_ ii., l7. + + + + + + +ON MUSIC. + + +When thro' life unblest we rove, + Losing all that made life dear, +Should some notes we used to love, + In days of boyhood, meet our ear, +Oh! how welcome breathes the strain! + Wakening thoughts that long have slept; +Kindling former smiles again + In faded eyes that long have wept. + +Like the gale, that sighs along + Beds of oriental flowers, +Is the grateful breath of song, + That once was heard in happier hours; +Filled with balm, the gale sighs on, + Tho' the flowers have sunk in death; +So, when pleasure's dream is gone, + Its memory lives in Music's breath. + +Music, oh how faint, how weak, + Language fades before thy spell! +Why should Feeling ever speak, + When thou canst breathe her soul so well? +Friendship's balmy words may feign, + Love's are even more false than they; +Oh! 'tis only music's strain + Can sweetly soothe, and not betray. + + + + + + +IT IS NOT THE TEAR AT THIS MOMENT SHED.[1] + + +It is not the tear at this moment shed, + When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him, +That can tell how beloved was the friend that's fled, + Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him. +'Tis the tear, thro' many a long day wept, + 'Tis life's whole path o'ershaded; +'Tis the one remembrance, fondly kept, + When all lighter griefs have faded. + +Thus his memory, like some holy light, + Kept alive in our hearts, will improve them, +For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright, + When we think how we lived but to love them. +And, as fresher flowers the sod perfume + Where buried saints are lying, +So our hearts shall borrow a sweetening bloom + From the image he left there in dying! + + +[1] These lines were occasioned by the loss of a very near and +dear relative, who had died lately at Madeira. + + + + + + +THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP. + + +'Tis believed that this Harp, which I wake now for thee, +Was a Siren of old, who sung under the sea; +And who often, at eve, thro' the bright waters roved, +To meet, on the green shore, a youth whom she loved. + +But she loved him in vain, for he left her to weep, +And in tears, all the night, her gold tresses to steep; +Till heaven looked with pity on true-love so warm, +And changed to this soft Harp the sea-maiden's form. + +Still her bosom rose fair--still her cheeks smiled the same-- +While her sea-beauties gracefully formed the light frame; +And her hair, as, let loose, o'er her white arm it fell, +Was changed to bright chords uttering melody's spell. + +Hence it came, that this soft Harp so long hath been known +To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad tone; +Till _thou_ didst divide them, and teach the fond lay +To speak love when I'm near thee, and grief when away. + + + + + + +LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. + + +Oh! the days are gone, when Beauty bright + My heart's chain wove; +When my dream of life, from morn till night, + Was love, still love. + New hope may bloom, + And days may come, + + Of milder, calmer beam, +But there's nothing half so sweet in life + As love's young dream; +No, there's nothing half so sweet in life + As love's young dream. + +Tho' the bard to purer fame may soar, + When wild youth's past; +Tho' he win the wise, who frowned before, + To smile at last; + He'll never meet + A joy so sweet, + In all his noon of fame, +As when first he sung to woman's ear + His soul-felt flame, +And, at every close, she blushed to hear + The one lov'd name. + +No,--that hallowed form is ne'er forgot + Which first love traced; +Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot + On memory's waste. + 'Twas odor fled + As soon as shed; + 'Twas morning's winged dream; +'Twas a light, that ne'er can shine again + On life's dull stream: +Oh! 'twas light that ne'er can shine again + On life's dull stream. + + + + + + +THE PRINCE'S DAY.[1] + + +Tho' dark are our sorrows, to-day we'll forget them, + And smile thro' our tears, like a sunbeam in showers: +There never were hearts, if our rulers would let them, + More formed to be grateful and blest than ours. + But just when the chain + Has ceased to pain, + And hope has enwreathed it round with flowers, + There comes a new link + Our spirits to sink-- +Oh! the joy that we taste, like the light of the poles, + Is a flash amid darkness, too brilliant to stay; +But, tho' 'twere the last little spark in our souls, + We must light it up now, on our Prince's Day. + +Contempt on the minion, who calls you disloyal! + Tho' fierce to your foe, to your friends you are true; +And the tribute most high to a head that is royal, + Is love from a heart that loves liberty too. + While cowards, who blight + Your fame, your right, +Would shrink from the blaze of the battle array, + The Standard of Green + In front would be seen,-- +Oh, my life on your faith! were you summoned this minute, + You'd cast every bitter remembrance away, +And show what the arm of old Erin has in it, + When roused by the foe, on her Prince's Day. + +He loves the Green Isle, and his love is recorded + In hearts, which have suffered too much to forget; +And hope shall be crowned, and attachment rewarded, + And Erin's gay jubilee shine out yet. + The gem may be broke + By many a stroke, + But nothing can cloud its native ray: + Each fragment will cast + A light, to the last,-- +And thus, Erin, my country tho' broken thou art, + There's a lustre within thee that ne'er will decay; +A spirit, which beams thro' each suffering part, + And now smiles at all pain on the Prince's Day. + + +[1] This song was written for a _fête_ in honor of the Prince of +Wales's Birthday, given by my friend, Major Bryan, at his seat in the +county of Kilkenny. + + + + + + +WEEP ON, WEEP ON. + + +Weep on, weep on, your hour is past; + Your dreams of pride are o'er; +The fatal chain is round you cast, + And you are men no more. +In vain the hero's heart hath bled; + The sage's tongue hath warned in vain;-- +Oh, Freedom! once thy flame hath fled, + It never lights again. + +Weep on--perhaps in after days, + They'll learn to love your name; +When many a deed may wake in praise + That long hath slept in blame. +And when they tread the ruined isle, + Where rest, at length, the lord and slave, +They'll wondering ask, how hands so vile + Could conquer hearts so brave? + +"'Twas fate," they'll say, "a wayward fate + "Your web of discord wove; +"And while your tyrants joined in hate, + "You never joined in love. +"But hearts fell off, that ought to twine, + "And man profaned what God had given; +"Till some were heard to curse the shrine, + "Where others knelt to heaven!" + + + + + + +LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE. + + +Lesbia hath a beaming eye, + But no one knows for whom it beameth; +Right and left its arrows fly, + But what they aim at no one dreameth. +Sweeter 'tis to gaze upon + My Nora's lid that seldom rises; +Few its looks, but every one, + Like unexpected light, surprises! + Oh, My Nora Creina, dear, + My gentle, bashful Nora Creina, + Beauty lies + In many eyes, + But love in yours, My Nora Creina. + +Lesbia wears a robe of gold, + But all so close the nymph hath laced it, +Not a charm of beauty's mould + Presumes to stay where nature placed it. +Oh! my Nora's gown for me, + That floats as wild as mountain breezes, +Leaving every beauty free + To sink or swell as Heaven pleases. + Yes, my Nora Creina, dear. + My simple, graceful Nora Creina, + Nature's dress + Is loveliness-- + The dress _you_ wear, my Nora Creina. + +Lesbia hath a wit refined, + But, when its points are gleaming round us, +Who can tell if they're designed + To dazzle merely, or to wound us? +Pillowed on my Nora's heart, + In safer slumber Love reposes-- +Bed of peace! whose roughest part + Is but the crumpling of the roses. + Oh! my Nora Creina dear, + My mild, my artless Nora Creina, + Wit, though bright, + Hath no such light, + As warms your eyes, my Nora Creina. + + + + + + +I SAW THY FORM IN YOUTHFUL PRIME. + + +I saw thy form in youthful prime, + Nor thought that pale decay +Would steal before the steps of Time, + And waste its bloom away, Mary! + +Yet still thy features wore that light, + Which fleets not with the breath; +And life ne'er looked more truly bright + Than in thy smile of death, Mary! + +As streams that run o'er golden mines, + Yet humbly, calmly glide, +Nor seem to know the wealth that shines + Within their gentle tide, Mary! +So veiled beneath the simplest guise, + Thy radiant genius shone, +And that, which charmed all other eyes, + Seemed worthless in thy own, Mary! + +If souls could always dwell above, + Thou ne'er hadst left that sphere; +Or could we keep the souls we love, + We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary! +Though many a gifted mind we meet, + Though fairest forms we see, +To live with them is far less sweet, + Than to remember thee, Mary! + + + + + + +BY THAT LAKE, WHOSE GLOOMY SHORE.[1] + + +By that Lake, whose gloomy shore +Sky-lark never warbles o'er,[2] +Where the cliff hangs high and steep, +Young St. Kevin stole to sleep. +"Here, at least," he calmly said, +"Woman ne'er shall find my bed." +Ah! the good Saint little knew +What that wily sex can do." + +'Twas from Kathleen's eyes he flew,-- +Eyes of most unholy blue! +She had loved him well and long +Wished him hers, nor thought it wrong. +Wheresoe'er the Saint would fly, +Still he heard her light foot nigh; +East or west, where'er he turned, +Still her eyes before him burned. + +On the bold cliff's bosom cast, +Tranquil now, he sleeps at last; +Dreams of heaven, nor thinks that e'er +Woman's smile can haunt him there. +But nor earth nor heaven is free, +From her power, if fond she be: +Even now, while calm he sleeps, +Kathleen o'er him leans and weeps. + +Fearless she had tracked his feet +To this rocky, wild retreat; +And when morning met his view, +Her mild glances met it, too. +Ah, your Saints have cruel hearts! +Sternly from his bed he starts, +And with rude, repulsive shock, +Hurls her from the beetling rock. + +Glendalough, thy gloomy wave +Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave! +Soon the Saint (yet ah! too late,) +Felt her love, and mourned her fate. +When he said, "Heaven rest her soul!" +Round the Lake light music stole; +And her ghost was seen to glide, +Smiling o'er the fatal tide. + + +[1] This ballad is founded upon one of the many stories related of St. +Kevin, whose bed in the rock is to be seen at Glendalough, a most gloomy +and romantic spot in the county of Wicklow. + +[2] There are many other curious traditions concerning this Lake, which +may be found in Giraldus, Colgan, etc. + + + + + + +SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND. + + +She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, + And lovers are round her, sighing: +But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, + For her heart in his grave is lying. + +She sings the wild song of her dear native plains, + Every note which he loved awaking;-- +Ah! little they think who delight in her strains, + How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking. + +He had lived for his love, for his country he died, + They were all that to life had entwined him; +Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, + Nor long will his love stay behind him. + +Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, + When they promise a glorious morrow; +They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West, + From her own loved island of sorrow. + + + + + + +NAY, TELL ME NOT, DEAR. + + +Nay, tell me not, dear, that the goblet drowns + One charm of feeling, one fond regret; +Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns + Are all I've sunk in its bright wave yet. + Ne'er hath a beam + Been lost in the stream + That ever was shed from thy form or soul; + The spell of those eyes, + The balm of thy sighs, + Still float on the surface, and hallow my bowl, +Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal + One blissful dream of the heart from me; +Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal, + The bowl but brightens my love for thee. + +They tell us that love in his fairy bower, + Had two blush-roses of birth divine; +He sprinkled the one with a rainbow shower, + But bathed the other with mantling wine. + Soon did the buds, + That drank of the floods + Distilled by the rainbow, decline and fade; + While those which the tide + Of ruby had dyed + All blushed into beauty, like thee, sweet maid! +Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal + One blissful dream of the heart from me; +Like founts, that awaken the pilgrim's zeal, + The bowl but brightens my love for thee. + + + + + + +AVENGING AND BRIGHT. + + +Avenging and bright fall the swift sword of Erin[1] + On him who the brave sons of Usna betrayed! +For every fond eye he hath wakened a tear in, + A drop from his heart-wounds shall weep o'er her blade. + +By the red cloud that hung over Conor's dark dwelling,[2] + When Ulad's[3] three champions lay sleeping in gore-- +By the billows of war, which so often, high swelling, + Have wafted these heroes to victory's shore-- + +We swear to revenge them!--no joy shall be tasted, + The harp shall be silent, the maiden unwed, +Our halls shall be mute and our fields shall lie wasted, + Till vengeance is wreaked on the murderer's head. + +Yes, monarch! tho' sweet are our home recollections, + Tho' sweet are the tears that from tenderness fall; +Tho' sweet are our friendships, our hopes, our affections, + Revenge on a tyrant is sweetest of all! + + +[1] The words of this song were suggested by the very ancient Irish story +called "Deirdri, or the Lamentable Fate of the Sons of Usnach." The +treachery of Conor, King of Ulster, in putting to death the three sons of +Usna, was the cause of a desolating war against Ulster, which terminated +in the destruction of Eman. + +[2] "Oh Nasi! view that cloud that I here see in the sky! I see over +Eman-green a chilling cloud of blood-tinged red."--_Deirdri's Song_. + +[3] Ulster. + + + + + + +WHAT THE BEE IS TO THE FLOWERET. + + +HE. + +What the bee is to the floweret, + When he looks for honey-dew, +Thro' the leaves that close embower it, + That, my love, I'll be to you. + +SHE. + +What the bank, with verdure glowing, + Is to waves that wander near, +Whispering kisses, while they're going, + That I'll be to you, my dear. + +SHE. + +But they say, the bee's a rover, + Who will fly, when sweets are gone; +And, when once the kiss is over, + Faithless brooks will wander on. + +HE. + +Nay, if flowers _will_ lose their looks, + If sunny banks _will_ wear away, +Tis but right that bees and brooks + Should sip and kiss them while they may. + + + + + + +LOVE AND THE NOVICE. + + +"Here we dwell, in holiest bowers, + "Where angels of light o'er our orisons bend; +"Where sighs of devotion and breathings of flowers + "To heaven in mingled odor ascend. + "Do not disturb our calm, oh Love! + "So like is thy form to the cherubs above, +"It well might deceive such hearts as ours." + +Love stood near the Novice and listened, + And Love is no novice in taking a hint; +His laughing blue eyes soon with piety glistened; + His rosy wing turned to heaven's own tint. + "Who would have thought," the urchin cries, + "That Love could so well, so gravely disguise +"His wandering wings and wounding eyes?" + +Love now warms thee, waking and sleeping, + Young Novice, to him all thy orisons rise. +_He_ tinges the heavenly fount with his weeping, + _He_ brightens the censer's flame with his sighs. + Love is the Saint enshrined in thy breast, + And angels themselves would admit such a guest, +If he came to them clothed in Piety's vest. + + + + + + +THIS LIFE IS ALL CHECKERED WITH PLEASURES AND WOES + + +This life is all checkered with pleasures and woes, + That chase one another like waves of the deep,-- +Each brightly or darkly, as onward it flows, + Reflecting our eyes, as they sparkle or weep. +So closely our whims on our miseries tread, + That the laugh is awaked ere the tear can be dried; +And, as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is shed. + The goose-plumage of Folly can turn it aside. +But pledge me the cup--if existence would cloy, + With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise, +Be ours the light Sorrow, half-sister to Joy, + And the light, brilliant Folly that flashes and dies. +When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount, + Thro' fields full of light, and with heart full of play, +Light rambled the boy, over meadow and mount, + And neglected his task for the flowers on the way. +Thus many, like me, who in youth should have tasted + The fountain that runs by Philosophy's shrine, +Their time with the flowers on the margin have wasted, + And left their light urns all as empty as mine. +But pledge me the goblet;--while Idleness weaves + These flowerets together, should Wisdom but see +One bright drop or two that has fallen on the leaves + From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for me. + + + + + + +OH THE SHAMROCK. + + + Thro' Erin's Isle, + To sport awhile, +As Love and Valor wandered, + With Wit, the sprite, + Whose quiver bright +A thousand arrows squandered. + Where'er they pass, + A triple grass[1] +Shoots up, with dew-drops streaming. + As softly green + As emeralds seen +Thro' purest crystal gleaming. +Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock! + Chosen leaf. + Of Bard and Chief, +Old Erin's native Shamrock! + + Says Valor, "See, + "They spring for me, +"Those leafy gems of morning!"-- + Says Love, "No, no, + "For _me_ they grow, +"My fragrant path adorning." + But Wit perceives + The triple leaves, +And cries, "Oh! do not sever + "A type, that blends + "Three godlike friends, +"Love, Valor, Wit, for ever!" +Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock! + Chosen leaf + Of Bard and Chief, +Old Erin's native Shamrock! + + So firmly fond + May last the bond, +They wove that morn together, + And ne'er may fall + One drop of gall +On Wit's celestial feather. + May Love, as twine + His flowers divine. +Of thorny falsehood weed 'em; + May Valor ne'er + His standard rear +Against the cause of Freedom! +Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock! + Chosen leaf + Of Bard and Chief, +Old Erin's native Shamrock! + + +[1] It is said that St. Patrick, when preaching the Trinity to the Pagan +Irish, used to illustrate his subject by reference to that species of +trefoil called in Ireland by the name of the Shamrock; and hence, perhaps, +the Island of Saints adopted this plant as her national emblem. Hope, +among the ancients, was sometimes represented as a beautiful child, +standing upon tiptoes, and a trefoil or three-colored grass in her hand. + + + + + + +AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT + + +At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly +To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye; +And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air, +To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there, +And tell me our love is remembered, even in the sky. + +Then I sing the wild song 'twas once such pleasure to hear +When our voices commingling breathed, like one, on the ear; +And, as Echo far off thro' the vale my sad orison rolls, +I think, oh my love! 'tis thy voice from the Kingdom of Souls,[1] +Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear. + + +[1] "There are countries." says Montaigne, "where they believe the souls +of the happy live in all manner of liberty, in delightful fields; and +there it is those souls, repeating the words we utter, which we call +Echo." + + + + + + +ONE BUMPER AT PARTING. + + +One bumper at parting!--tho' many + Have circled the board since we met, +The fullest, the saddest of any + Remains to be crowned by us yet. +The sweetness that pleasure hath in it, + Is always so slow to come forth, +That seldom, alas, till the minute + It dies, do we know half its worth. +But come,--may our life's happy measure + Be all of such moments made up; +They're born on the bosom of Pleasure, + They die midst the tears of the cup. + +'Tis onward we journey, how pleasant + To pause and inhabit awhile +Those few sunny spots, like the present, + That mid the dull wilderness smile! +But Time, like a pitiless master, + Cries "Onward!" and spurs the gay hours-- +Ah, never doth Time travel faster, + Than when his way lies among flowers. +But come--may our life's happy measure + Be all of such moments made up; +They're born on the bosom of Pleasure, + They die midst the tears of the cup. + +We saw how the sun looked in sinking, + The waters beneath him how bright; +And now, let our farewell of drinking + Resemble that farewell of light. +You saw how he finished, by darting + His beam o'er a deep billow's brim-- +So, fill up, let's shine at our parting, + In full liquid glory, like him. +And oh! may our life's happy measure + Of moments like this be made up, +'Twas born on the bosom of Pleasure, + It dies mid the tears of the cup. + + + + + + +'TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. + + +'Tis the last rose of summer + Left blooming alone; +All her lovely companions + Are faded and gone; +No flower of her kindred, + No rose-bud is nigh, +To reflect back her blushes, + Or give sigh for sigh. + +I'll not leave thee, thou lone one! + To pine on the stem; +Since the lovely are sleeping. + Go, sleep thou with them. +Thus kindly I scatter + Thy leaves o'er the bed, +Where thy mates of the garden + Lie scentless and dead. + +So soon may _I_ follow, + When friendships decay, +And from Love's shining circle + The gems drop away. +When true hearts lie withered, + And fond ones are flown, +Oh! who would inhabit + This bleak world alone? + + + + + + +THE YOUNG MAY MOON. + + +The young May moon is beaming, love, +The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love, + How sweet to rove + Through Morna's grove, +When the drowsy world is dreaming, love! +Then awake!--the heavens look bright, my dear, +'Tis never too late for delight, my dear, + And the best of all ways + To lengthen our days, +Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear! + +Now all the world is sleeping, love, +But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love, + And I, whose star, + More glorious far, +Is the eye from that casement peeping, love. +Then awake!--till rise of sun, my dear, +The Sage's glass we'll shun, my dear, + Or, in watching the flight + Of bodies of light, +He might happen to take thee for one, my dear. + + + + + + +THE MINSTREL-BOY. + + +The Minstrel-Boy to the war is gone, + In the ranks of death you'll find him; +His father's sword he has girded on. + And his wild harp slung behind him. +"Land of song!" said the warrior-bard, + "Tho' all the world betrays thee, +"_One_ sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, + "_One_ faithful harp shall praise thee!" + +The Minstrel fell!--but the foeman's chain + Could not bring his proud soul under; +The harp he loved ne'er spoke again, + For he tore its chords asunder; +And said, "No chains shall sully thee, + "Thou soul of love and bravery! +"Thy songs were made for the pure and free, + "They shall never sound in slavery." + + + + + + +THE SONG OF O'RUARK, + +PRINCE OF BREFFNI.[1] + + +The valley lay smiling before me, + Where lately I left her behind; +Yet I trembled, and something hung o'er me, + That saddened the joy of my mind. +I looked for the lamp which, she told me, + Should shine, when her Pilgrim returned; +But, tho' darkness began to infold me, + No lamp from the battlements burned! + +I flew to her chamber--'twas lonely, + As if the loved tenant lay dead;-- +Ah, would it were death, and death only! + But no, the young false one had fled. +And there hung the lute that could soften + My very worst pains into bliss; +While the hand, that had waked it so often, + Now throbbed to a proud rival's kiss. + +There _was_ a time, falsest of women, + When Breffni's good sword would have sought +That man, thro' a million of foe-men, + Who dared but to wrong thee _in thought_! +While now--oh degenerate daughter + Of Erin, how fallen is thy fame! +And thro' ages of bondage and slaughter, + Our country shall bleed for thy shame. + +Already, the curse is upon her, + And strangers her valleys profane; +They come to divide, to dishonor, + And tyrants they long will remain. +But onward!--the green banner rearing, + Go, flesh every sword to the hilt; +On _our_ side is Virtue and Erin, + On _theirs_ is the Saxon and Guilt. + + +[1] These stanzas are founded upon an event of most melancholy importance +to Ireland; if, as we are told by our Irish historians, it gave England +the first opportunity of profiting by our divisions and subduing us. The +following are the circumstances, as related by O'Halloran:--"The king of +Leinster had long conceived a violent affection for Dearbhorgil, daughter +to the king of Meath, and though she had been for some time married to +O'Ruark, prince of Breffni, yet it could not restrain his passion. They +carried on a private correspondence, and she informed him that O'Ruark, +intended soon to go on a pilgrimage (an act of piety frequent in those +days), and conjured him to embrace that opportunity of conveying her from +a husband she detested to a lover she adored. MacMurchad too punctually +obeyed the summons, and had the lady conveyed to his capital of Ferns."-- +The monarch Roderick espoused the cause of O'Ruark, while MacMurchad fled +to England, and obtained the assistance of Henry II. + +"Such," adds Giraldus Cambrensis (as I find him in an old translation) +"is the variable and fickle nature of woman, by whom all mischief in the +world (for the most part) do happen and come, as may appear by Marcus +Antonius, and by the destruction of Troy." + + + + + + +OH! HAD WE SOME BRIGHT LITTLE ISLE OF OUR OWN. + + +Oh! had we some bright little isle of our own, +In a blue summer ocean, far off and alone, +Where a leaf never dies in the still blooming bowers, +And the bee banquets on thro' a whole year of flowers; + Where the sun loves to pause + With so fond a delay, + That the night only draws + A thin veil o'er the day; +Where simply to feel that we breathe, that we live, +Is worth the best joy that life elsewhere can give. + +There, with souls ever ardent and pure as the clime, +We should love, as they loved in the first golden time; +The glow of the sunshine, the balm of the air, +Would steal to our hearts, and make all summer there. + With affection as free + From decline as the bowers, + And, with hope, like the bee, + Living always on flowers, +Our life should resemble a long day of light, +And our death come on, holy and calm as the night. + + + + + + +FAREWELL!--BUT WHENEVER YOU WELCOME THE HOUR. + + +Farewell!--but whenever you welcome the hour. +That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower, +Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too, +And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you. +His griefs may return, not a hope may remain +Of the few that have brightened his pathway of pain. +But he ne'er will forget the short vision, that threw +Its enchantment around him, while lingering with you. +And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up +To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup, +Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright, +My soul, happy friends, shall be with you that night; + + +Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles, +And return to me, beaming all o'er with your smiles-- +Too blest, if it tells me that, mid the gay cheer +Some kind voice had murmured, "I wish he were here!" + +Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, +Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy; +Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care, +And bring back the features that joy used to wear. +Long, long be my heart with such memories filled! +Like the vase, in which roses have once been distilled-- +You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will, +But the scent of the roses will hang round it still. + + + + + + +OH! DOUBT ME NOT. + + + Oh! doubt me not--the season + Is o'er, when Folly made me rove, + And now the vestal, Reason, + Shall watch the fire awaked by love. +Altho' this heart was early blown, + And fairest hands disturbed the tree, +They only shook some blossoms down, + Its fruit has all been kept for thee. + Then doubt me not--the season + Is o'er, when Folly made me rove, + And now the vestal, Reason, + Shall watch the fire awaked by Love. + + And tho' my lute no longer + May sing of Passion's ardent spell, + Yet, trust me, all the stronger + I feel the bliss I do not tell. +The bee thro' many a garden roves, + And hums his lay of courtship o'er, +But when he finds the flower he loves, + He settles there, and hums no more. + Then doubt me not--the season + Is o'er, when Folly kept me free, + And now the vestal, Reason, + Shall guard the flame awaked by thee. + + + + + + +YOU REMEMBER ELLEN. + + +You remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride, + How meekly she blest her humble lot, +When the stranger, William, had made her his bride, + And love was the light of their lowly cot. +Together they toiled through winds and rains, + Till William, at length, in sadness said, +"We must seek our fortune on other plains;"-- + Then, sighing, she left her lowly shed. + +They roamed a long and a weary way, + Nor much was the maiden's heart at ease, +When now, at close of one stormy day, + They see a proud castle among the trees. +"To-night," said the youth, "we'll shelter there; + "The wind blows cold, the hour is late:" +So he blew the horn with a chieftain's air, + And the Porter bowed, as they past the gate. + +"Now, welcome, Lady," exclaimed the youth,-- + "This castle is thine, and these dark woods all!" +She believed him crazed, but his words were truth, + For Ellen is Lady of Rosna Hall! +And dearly the Lord of Rosna loves + What William the stranger wooed and wed; +And the light of bliss, in these lordly groves, + Shines pure as it did in the lowly shed. + + + + + + +I'D MOURN THE HOPES. + + +I'd mourn the hopes that leave me, + If thy smiles had left me too; +I'd weep when friends deceive me, + If thou wert, like them, untrue. +But while I've thee before me, + With heart so warm and eyes so bright, +No clouds can linger o'er me, + That smile turns them all to light. + +'Tis not in fate to harm me, + While fate leaves thy love to me; +'Tis not in joy to charm me, + Unless joy be shared with thee. +One minute's dream about thee + Were worth a long, an endless year +Of waking bliss without thee, + My own love, my only dear! + +And tho' the hope be gone, love, + That long sparkled o'er our way, +Oh! we shall journey on, love, + More safely, without its ray. +Far better lights shall win me + Along the path I've yet to roam:-- +The mind that burns within me, + And pure smiles from thee at home. + +Thus, when the lamp that lighted + The traveller at first goes out, +He feels awhile benighted. + And looks round in fear and doubt. +But soon, the prospect clearing, + By cloudless starlight on he treads, +And thinks no lamp so cheering + As that light which Heaven sheds. + + + + + + +COME O'ER THE SEA. + + + Come o'er the sea, + Maiden, with me, + Mine thro' sunshine, storm, and snows; + Seasons may roll, + But the true soul + Burns the same, where'er it goes. +Let fate frown on, so we love and part not; +'Tis life where _thou_ art, 'tis death where thou art not. + Then come o'er the sea, + Maiden, with me, + Come wherever the wild wind blows; + Seasons may roll, + But the true soul + Burns the same, where'er it goes. + + Was not the sea + Made for the Free, + Land for courts and chains alone? + Here we are slaves, + But, on the waves, + Love and Liberty's all our own. +No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us, +All earth forgot, and all heaven around us-- + Then come o'er the sea, + Maiden, with me, + Mine thro' sunshine, storm, and snows; + Seasons may roll, + But the true soul + Burns the same, where'er it goes. + + + + + + +HAS SORROW THY YOUNG DAYS SHADED. + + +Has sorrow thy young days shaded, + As clouds o'er the morning fleet? +Too fast have those young days faded, + That, even in sorrow, were sweet? +Does Time with his cold wing wither + Each feeling that once was dear?-- +Then, child of misfortune, come hither, + I'll weep with thee, tear for tear. + +Has love to that soul, so tender, + Been like our Lagenian mine,[1] +Where sparkles of golden splendor + All over the surface shine-- +But, if in pursuit we go deeper, + Allured by the gleam that shone, +Ah! false as the dream of the sleeper, + Like Love, the bright ore is gone. + +Has Hope, like the bird in the story,[2] + That flitted from tree to tree +With the talisman's glittering glory-- + Has Hope been that bird to thee? +On branch after branch alighting, + The gem did she still display, +And, when nearest and most inviting. + Then waft the fair gem away? + +If thus the young hours have fleeted, + When sorrow itself looked bright; +If thus the fair hope hath cheated, + That led thee along so light; +If thus the cold world now wither + Each feeling that once was dear:-- +Come, child of misfortune, come hither, + I'll weep with thee, tear for tear. + + +[1] Our Wicklow Gold Mines, to which this verse alludes, deserve, I fear, +but too well the character here given of them. + +[2] "The bird, having got its prize, settled not far off, with the +talisman in his mouth. The prince drew near it, hoping it would drop it: +but as he approached, the bird took wing, and settled again," +etc.--"_Arabian Nights_." + + + + + + +NO, NOT MORE WELCOME. + + +No, not more welcome the fairy numbers + Of music fall on the sleeper's ear, +When half-awaking from fearful slumbers, + He thinks the full choir of heaven is near,-- +Than came that voice, when, all forsaken. + This heart long had sleeping lain, +Nor thought its cold pulse would ever waken + To such benign, blessed sounds again. + +Sweet voice of comfort! 'twas like the stealing + Of summer wind thro' some wreathed shell-- +Each secret winding, each inmost feeling + Of my soul echoed to its spell. +'Twas whispered balm--'twas sunshine spoken!-- + I'd live years of grief and pain +To have my long sleep of sorrow broken + By such benign, blessed sounds again. + + + + + + +WHEN FIRST I MET THEE. + + +When first I met thee, warm and young, + There shone such truth about thee. +And on thy lip such promise hung, + I did not dare to doubt thee. +I saw the change, yet still relied, + Still clung with hope the fonder, +And thought, tho' false to all beside, + From me thou couldst not wander. + But go, deceiver! go, + The heart, whose hopes could make it + Trust one so false, so low, + Deserves that thou shouldst break it. + +When every tongue thy follies named, + I fled the unwelcome story; +Or found, in even the faults they blamed, + Some gleams of future glory. +_I_ still was true, when nearer friends + Conspired to wrong, to slight thee; +The heart that now thy falsehood rends, + Would then have bled to right thee, + But go, deceiver! go,-- + Some day, perhaps, thou'lt waken + From pleasure's dream, to know + The grief of hearts forsaken. + +Even now, tho' youth its bloom has shed, + No lights of age adorn thee: +The few, who loved thee once, have fled, + And they who flatter scorn thee. +Thy midnight cup is pledged to slaves, + No genial ties enwreath it; +The smiling there, like light on graves, + Has rank cold hearts beneath it. + Go--go--tho' worlds were thine, + I would not now surrender + One taintless tear of mine + For all thy guilty splendor! + +And days may come, thou false one! yet, + When even those ties shall sever; +When thou wilt call, with vain regret, + On her thou'st lost for ever; +On her who, in thy fortune's fall, + With smiles had still received thee, +And gladly died to prove thee all + Her fancy first believed thee. + Go--go--'tis vain to curse, + 'Tis weakness to upbraid thee; + Hate cannot wish thee worse + Than guilt and shame have made thee. + + + + + + +WHILE HISTORY'S MUSE. + + +While History's Muse the memorial was keeping + Of all that the dark hand of Destiny weaves, +Beside her the Genius of Erin stood weeping, + For hers was the story that blotted the leaves. +But oh! how the tear in her eyelids grew bright, +When, after whole pages of sorrow and shame, + She saw History write, + With a pencil of light +That illumed the whole volume, her Wellington's name. + +"Hail, Star of my Isle!" said the Spirit, all sparkling + With beams, such as break from her own dewy skies-- +"Thro' ages of sorrow, deserted and darkling, + "I've watched for some glory like thine to arise. +"For, tho' heroes I've numbered, unblest was their lot, +"And unhallowed they sleep in the crossways of Fame;-- + "But oh! there is not + "One dishonoring blot +"On the wreath that encircles my Wellington's name. + +"Yet still the last crown of thy toils is remaining, + "The grandest, the purest, even _thou_ hast yet known; +"Tho' proud was thy task, other nations unchaining, + "Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of thy own. +"At the foot of that throne, for whose weal thou hast stood, +"Go, plead for the land that first cradled thy fame, + "And, bright o'er the flood + "Of her tears and her blood, +"Let the rainbow of Hope be her Wellington's name!" + + + + + + +THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING. + + +The time I've lost in wooing, +In watching and pursuing + The light, that lies + In woman's eyes, +Has been my heart's undoing. +Tho' Wisdom oft has sought me, +I scorned the lore she brought me, + My only books + Were woman's looks, +And folly's all they've taught me. + +Her smile when Beauty granted, +I hung with gaze enchanted, + Like him the Sprite,[1] + Whom maids by night +Oft meet in glen that's haunted. +Like him, too, Beauty won me, +But while her eyes were on me, + If once their ray + Was turned away, +O! winds could not outrun me. + +And are those follies going? +And is my proud heart growing + Too cold or wise + For brilliant eyes +Again to set it glowing? +No, vain, alas! the endeavor +From bonds so sweet to sever; + Poor Wisdom's chance + Against a glance +Is now as weak as ever. + + +[1] This alludes to a kind of Irish fairy, which is to be met with, they +say, in the fields at dusk. As long as you keep your eyes upon him, he is +fixed, and in your power;--but the moment you look away (and he is +ingenious in furnishing some inducement) he vanishes. I had thought that +this was the sprite which we call the Leprechaun; but a high authority +upon such subjects, Lady Morgan, (in a note upon her national and +interesting novel, O'Donnel), has given a very different account of that +goblin. + + + + + + +WHERE IS THE SLAVE. + + +Oh, where's the slave so lowly, +Condemned to chains unholy, + Who, could he burst + His bonds at first, +Would pine beneath them slowly? +What soul, whose wrongs degrade it, +Would wait till time decayed it, + When thus its wing + At once may spring +To the throne of Him who made it? + +Farewell, Erin.--farewell, all, +Who live to weep our fall! + +Less dear the laurel growing, +Alive, untouched and blowing, + Than that, whose braid + Is plucked to shade +The brows with victory glowing +We tread the land that bore us, +Her green flag glitters o'er us, + The friends we've tried + Are by our side, +And the foe we hate before us. + +Farewell, Erin,--farewell, all, +Who live to weep our fall! + + + + + + +COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM. + + +Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer, +Tho' the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here; +Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast, +And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last. + +Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same +Thro' joy and thro' torment, thro' glory and shame? +I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart, +I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art. + +Thou hast called me thy Angel in moments of bliss, +And thy Angel I'll be, mid the horrors of this,-- +Thro' the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue, +And shield thee, and save thee,--or perish there too! + + + + + + +'TIS GONE, AND FOR EVER. + + +'Tis gone, and for ever, the light we saw breaking, + Like Heaven's first dawn o'er the sleep of the dead-- +When Man, from the slumber of ages awaking, + Looked upward, and blest the pure ray, ere it fled. +'Tis gone, and the gleams it has left of its burning +But deepen the long night of bondage and mourning, +That dark o'er the kingdoms of earth is returning, + And darkest of all, hapless Erin, o'er thee. + +For high was thy hope, when those glories were darting + Around thee, thro' all the gross clouds of the world; +When Truth, from her fetters indignantly starting, + At once, like a Sun-burst, her banner unfurled.[1] +Oh! never shall earth see a moment so splendid! +Then, then--had one Hymn of Deliverance blended +The tongues of all nations--how sweet had ascended + The first note of Liberty, Erin, from thee! + +But, shame on those tyrants, who envied the blessing! + And shame on the light race, unworthy its good, +Who, at Death's reeking altar, like furies, caressing + The young hope of Freedom, baptized it in blood. +Then vanished for ever that fair, sunny vision, +Which, spite of the slavish, the cold heart's derision, +Shall long be remembered, pure, bright, and elysian, + As first it arose, my lost Erin, on thee. + + +[1] "The Sun-burst" was the fanciful name given by the ancient Irish to +the Royal Banner. + + + + + + +I SAW FROM THE BEACH. + + +I saw from the beach, when the morning was shining, + A bark o'er the waters move gloriously on; +I came when the sun o'er that beach was declining, + The bark was still there, but the waters were gone. + +And such is the fate of our life's early promise, + So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known; +Each wave, that we danced on at morning, ebbs from us, + And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone. + +Ne'er tell me of glories, serenely adorning + The close of our day, the calm eve of our night;-- +Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of Morning, + Her clouds and her tears are worth Evening's best light. + +Oh, who would not welcome that moment's returning, + When passion first waked a new life thro' his frame, +And his soul, like the wood, that grows precious in burning, + Gave out all its sweets to love's exquisite flame. + + + + + + +FILL THE BUMPER FAIR. + + +Fill the bumper fair! + Every drop we sprinkle +O'er the brow of Care + Smooths away a wrinkle. +Wit's electric flame + Ne'er so swiftly passes, +As when thro' the frame + It shoots from brimming glasses. +Fill the bumper fair! + Every drop we sprinkle +O'er the brow of Care + Smooths away a wrinkle. + +Sages can, they say, + Grasp the lightning's pinions, +And bring down its ray + From the starred dominions:-- +So we, Sages, sit, + And, mid bumpers brightening, +From the Heaven of Wit + Draw down all its lightning. + +Wouldst thou know what first + Made our souls inherit +This ennobling thirst + For wine's celestial spirit? +It chanced upon that day, + When, as bards inform us, +Prometheus stole away + The living fires that warm us: + +The careless Youth, when up + To Glory's fount aspiring, +Took nor urn nor cup + To hide the pilfered fire in.-- +But oh his joy, when, round + The halls of Heaven spying, +Among the stars he found + A bowl of Bacchus lying! + +Some drops were in the bowl, + Remains of last night's pleasure, +With which the Sparks of Soul + Mixt their burning treasure. +Hence the goblet's shower + Hath such spells to win us; +Hence its mighty power + O'er that flame within us. +Fill the bumper fair! + Every drop we sprinkle +O'er the brow of Care + Smooths away a wrinkle. + + + + + + +DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY. + + +Dear Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee, + The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long,[1] +When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee, + And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song! +The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness + Have wakened thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill; +But, so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sadness, + That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still. +Dear Harp of my country! farewell to thy numbers, + This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine! +Go, sleep with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers, + Till touched by some hand less unworthy than mine; +If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover, + Have throbbed at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone; +I was _but_ as the wind, passing heedlessly over, + And all the wild sweetness I waked was thy own. + + +[1] The chain of Silence was a sort of practical figure of rhetoric among +the ancient Irish. Walker tells us of "a celebrated contention for +precedence between Finn and Gaul, near Finn's palace at Almhaim, where the +attending Bards anxious, if possible, to produce a cessation of +hostilities, shook the chain of Silence, and flung themselves among the +ranks." + + + + + + +MY GENTLE HARP. + + +My gentle harp, once more I waken + The sweetness of thy slumbering strain; +In tears our last farewell was taken, + And now in tears we meet again. +No light of joy hath o'er thee broken, + But, like those Harps whose heavenly skill +Of slavery, dark as thine, hath spoken, + Thou hang'st upon the willows still. + +And yet, since last thy chord resounded, + An hour of peace and triumph came, +And many an ardent bosom bounded + With hopes--that now art turned to shame. +Yet even then, while Peace was singing + Her halcyon song o'er land and sea, +Tho' joy and hope to others bringing, + She only brought new tears to thee. + +Then, who can ask for notes of pleasure, + My drooping Harp, from chords like thine? +Alas, the lark's gay morning measure + As ill would suit the swan's decline! +Or how shall I, who love, who bless thee, + Invoke thy breath for Freedom's strains, +When even the wreaths in which I dress thee, + Are sadly mixt--half flowers, half chains? + +But come--if yet thy frame can borrow + One breath of joy, oh, breathe for me, +And show the world, in chains and sorrow, + How sweet thy music still can be; +How gaily, even mid gloom surrounding, + Thou yet canst wake at pleasure's thrill-- +Like Memnon's broken image sounding, + Mid desolation tuneful still! + + + + + + +IN THE MORNING OF LIFE. + + +In the morning of life, when its cares are unknown, + And its pleasures in all their new lustre begin, +When we live in a bright-beaming world of our own, + And the light that surrounds us is all from within; +Oh 'tis not, believe me, in that happy time + We can love, as in hours of less transport we may;-- +Of our smiles, of our hopes, 'tis the gay sunny prime, + But affection is truest when these fade away. + +When we see the first glory of youth pass us by, + Like a leaf on the stream that will never return; +When our cup, which had sparkled with pleasure so high, + First tastes of the _other_, the dark-flowing urn; +Then, then is the time when affection holds sway + With a depth and a tenderness joy never knew; +Love, nursed among pleasures, is faithless as they, + But the love born of Sorrow, like Sorrow, is true. + +In climes full of sunshine, tho' splendid the flowers, + Their sighs have no freshness, their odor no worth; +'Tis the cloud and the mist of our own Isle of showers, + That call the rich spirit of fragrancy forth. +So it is not mid splendor, prosperity, mirth, + That the depth of Love's generous spirit appears; +To the sunshine of smiles it may first owe its birth, + But the soul of its sweetness is drawn out by tears. + + + + + + +AS SLOW OUR SHIP. + + +As slow our ship her foamy track + Against the wind was cleaving, +Her trembling pennant still looked back + To that dear isle 'twas leaving. +So loathe we part from all we love. + From all the links that bind us; +So turn our hearts as on we rove, + To those we've left behind us. + +When, round the bowl, of vanished years + We talk, with joyous seeming,-- +With smiles that might as well be tears, + So faint, so sad their beaming; +While memory brings us back again + Each early tie that twined us, +Oh, sweet's the cup that circles then + To those we've left behind us. + +And when, in other climes, we meet + Some isle, or vale enchanting, +Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet, + And naught but love is wanting; +We think how great had been our bliss, + If heaven had but assigned us +To live and die in scenes like this, + With some we've left behind us! + +As travellers oft look back at eve, + When eastward darkly going, +To gaze upon that light they leave + Still faint behind them glowing,-- +So, when the close of pleasure's day + To gloom hath near consigned us, +We turn to catch one fading ray + Of joy that's left behind us. + + + + + + +WHEN COLD IN THE EARTH. + + +When cold in the earth lies the friend thou hast loved, + Be his faults and his follies forgot by thee then; +Or, if from their slumber the veil be removed, + Weep o'er them in silence, and close it again. +And oh! if 'tis pain to remember how far + From the pathways of light he was tempted to roam, +Be it bliss to remember that thou wert the star + That arose on his darkness and guided him home. + +From thee and thy innocent beauty first came + The revealings, that taught him true love to adore, +To feel the bright presence, and turn him with shame + From the idols he blindly had knelt to before. +O'er the waves of a life, long benighted and wild, + Thou camest, like a soft golden calm o'er the sea; +And if happiness purely and glowingly smiled + On his evening horizon, the light was from thee. + +And tho', sometimes, the shades of past folly might rise, + And tho' falsehood again would allure him to stray, +He but turned to the glory that dwelt in those eyes, + And the folly, the falsehood, soon vanished away. +As the Priests of the Sun, when their altar grew dim, + At the day-beam alone could its lustre repair, +So, if virtue a moment grew languid in him, + He but flew to that smile and rekindled it there. + + + + + + +REMEMBER THEE. + + +Remember thee? yes, while there's life in this heart, +It shall never forget thee, all lorn as thou art; +More dear in thy sorrow, thy gloom, and thy showers, +Than the rest of the world in their sunniest hours. + +Wert thou all that I wish thee, great, glorious, and free, +First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea, +I might hail thee with prouder, with happier brow, +But oh! could I love thee more deeply than now? + +No, thy chains as they rankle, thy blood as it runs, +But make thee more painfully dear to thy sons-- +Whose hearts, like the young of the desert-bird's nest, +Drink love in each life-drop that flows from thy breast. + + + + + + +WREATH THE BOWL. + + + Wreath the bowl + With flowers of soul, +The brightest wit can find us; + We'll take a flight + Towards heaven to-night, +And leave dull earth behind us. + Should Love amid + The wreaths be hid, +That joy, the enchanter, brings us, + No danger fear, + While wine is near, +We'll drown him if he stings us, + Then, wreath the bowl + With flowers of soul, +The brightest wit can find us; + We'll take a flight + Towards heaven to-night, +And leave dull earth behind us. + + 'Twas nectar fed + Of old, 'tis said, +Their Junos, Joves, Apollos; + And man may brew + His nectar too, +The rich receipt's as follows: + Take wine like this, + Let looks of bliss +Around it well be blended, + Then bring wit's beam + To warm the stream, +And there's your nectar, splendid! + So wreath the bowl + With flowers of soul, +The brightest wit can find us; + We'll take a flight + Towards heaven to-night, +And leave dull earth behind us. + + Say, why did Time + His glass sublime +Fill up with sands unsightly, + When wine, he knew, + Runs brisker through, +And sparkles far more brightly? + Oh, lend it us, + And, smiling thus, +The glass in two we'll sever, + Make pleasure glide + In double tide, +And fill both ends for ever! + Then wreath the bowl + With flowers of soul +The brightest wit can find us; + We'll take a flight + Towards heaven to-night, +And leave dull earth behind us. + + + + + + +WHENE'ER I SEE THOSE SMILING EYES. + + +Whene'er I see those smiling eyes, + So full of hope, and joy, and light, +As if no cloud could ever rise, + To dim a heaven so purely bright-- +I sigh to think how soon that brow + In grief may lose its every ray, +And that light heart, so joyous now, + Almost forget it once was gay. + +For time will come with all its blights, + The ruined hope, the friend unkind, +And love, that leaves, where'er it lights, + A chilled or burning heart behind:-- +While youth, that now like snow appears, + Ere sullied by the darkening rain, +When once 'tis touched by sorrow's tears + Can ever shine so bright again. + + + + + + +IF THOU'LT BE MINE. + + +If thou'lt be mine, the treasures of air, + Of earth, and sea, shall lie at thy feet; +Whatever in Fancy's eye looks fair, + Or in Hope's sweet music sounds _most_ sweet, +Shall be ours--if thou wilt be mine, love! + +Bright flowers shall bloom wherever we rove, + A voice divine shall talk in each stream; +The stars shall look like worlds of love, + And this earth be all one beautiful dream + In our eyes--if thou wilt be mine, love! + +And thoughts, whose source is hidden and high, + Like streams, that come from heavenward hills, +Shall keep our hearts, like meads, that lie + To be bathed by those eternal rills, + Ever green, if thou wilt be mine, love! + +All this and more the Spirit of Love + Can breathe o'er them, who feel his spells; +That heaven, which forms his home above, + He can make on earth, wherever he dwells, + As thou'lt own.--if thou wilt be mine, love! + + + + + + +TO LADIES' EYES. + + +To Ladies' eyes around, boy, + We can't refuse, we can't refuse, +Tho' bright eyes so abound, boy, + 'Tis hard to choose, 'tis hard to choose. +For thick as stars that lighten + Yon airy bowers, yon airy bowers, +The countless eyes that brighten + This earth of ours, this earth of ours. +But fill the cup--where'er, boy, + Our choice may fall, our choice may fall, +We're sure to find Love there, boy, + So drink them all! so drink them all! + +Some looks there are so holy, + They seem but given, they seem but given, +As shining beacons, solely, + To light to heaven, to light to heaven. +While some--oh! ne'er believe them-- + With tempting ray, with tempting ray, +Would lead us (God forgive them!) + The other way, the other way. +But fill the cup--where'er, boy, + Our choice may fall, our choice may fall, +We're sure to find Love there, boy, + So drink them all! so drink them all! + +In some, as in a mirror, + Love seems portrayed, Love seems portrayed, +But shun the flattering error, + 'Tis but his shade, 'tis but his shade. +Himself has fixt his dwelling + In eyes we know, in eyes we know, +And lips--but this is telling-- + So here they go! so here they go! +Fill up, fill up--where'er, boy, + Our choice may fall, our choice may fall, +We're sure to find Love there, boy, + So drink them all! so drink them all! + + + + + + +FORGET NOT THE FIELD. + + +Forget not the field where they perished, + The truest, the last of the brave, +All gone--and the bright hope we cherished + Gone with them, and quenched in their grave! + +Oh! could we from death but recover + Those hearts as they bounded before, +In the face of high heaven to fight over + That combat for freedom once more;-- + +Could the chain for an instant be riven + Which Tyranny flung round us then, +No, 'tis not in Man, nor in Heaven, + To let Tyranny bind it again! + +But 'tis past--and, tho' blazoned in story + The name of our Victor may be, +Accurst is the march of that glory + Which treads o'er the hearts of the free. + +Far dearer the grave or the prison, + Illumed by one patriot name, +Than the trophies of all, who have risen + On Liberty's ruins to fame. + + + + + + +THEY MAY RAIL AT THIS LIFE. + + +They may rail at this life--from the hour I began it, + I found it a life full of kindness and bliss; +And, until they can show me some happier planet, + More social and bright, I'll content me with this. +As long as the world has such lips and such eyes, + As before me this moment enraptured I see, +They may say what they will of their orbs in the skies, + But this earth is the planet for you, love, and me. + +In Mercury's star, where each moment can bring them + New sunshine and wit from the fountain on high, +Tho' the nymphs may have livelier poets to sing them, + They've none, even there, more enamored than I. +And as long as this harp can be wakened to love, + And that eye its divine inspiration shall be, +They may talk as they will of their Edens above, + But this earth is the planet for you, love, and me. + +In that star of the west, by whose shadowy splendor, + At twilight so often we've roamed thro' the dew, +There are maidens, perhaps, who have bosoms as tender, + And look, in their twilights, as lovely as you. +But tho' they were even more bright than the queen + Of that isle they inhabit in heaven's blue sea, +As I never those fair young celestials have seen, + Why--this earth is the planet for you, love, and me. + +As for those chilly orbs on the verge of creation, + Where sunshine and smiles must be equally rare, +Did they want a supply of cold hearts for that station, + Heaven knows we have plenty on earth we could spare, +Oh! think what a world we should have of it here, + If the haters of peace, of affection and glee, +Were to fly up to Saturn's comfortless sphere, + And leave earth to such spirits as you, love, and me. + + + + + + +OH FOR THE SWORDS OF FORMER TIME! + + +Oh for the swords of former time! + Oh for the men who bore them, +When armed for Right, they stood sublime, + And tyrants crouched before them: +When free yet, ere courts began + With honors to enslave him, +The best honors worn by Man + Were those which Virtue gave him. +Oh for the swords, etc. + +Oh for the kings who flourished then! + Oh for the pomp that crowned them, +When hearts and hands of freeborn men + Were all the ramparts round them. +When, safe built on bosoms true, + The throne was but the centre, +Round which Love a circle drew, + That Treason durst not enter. +Oh for the kings who flourished then! + Oh for the pomp that crowned them, +When hearts and hands of freeborn men + Were all the ramparts round them! + + + + + + +ST. SENANUS AND THE LADY. + + +ST. SENANUS.[1] + +"Oh! haste and leave this sacred isle, +Unholy bark, ere morning smile; +For on thy deck, though dark it be, + A female form I see; +And I have sworn this sainted sod +Shall ne'er by woman's feet be trod." + +THE LADY. + +"Oh! Father, send not hence my bark, +Thro' wintry winds and billows dark: +I come with humble heart to share + Thy morn and evening prayer; +Nor mine the feet, oh! holy Saint, +The brightness of thy sod to taint." + +The Lady's prayer Senanus spurned; +The winds blew fresh, the bark returned; +But legends hint, that had the maid + Till morning's light delayed, +And given the saint one rosy smile, +She ne'er had left his lonely isle. + + +[1] In a metrical life of St. Senanus, which is taken from an old Kilkenny +MS., and may be found among the "_Acta Sanctorum Hiberniae_," we are told +of his flight to the island of Scattery, and his resolution not to admit +any woman of the party; he refused to receive even a sister saint, St. +Cannera, whom an angel had taken to the island for the express purpose of +introducing her to him. + + + + + + +NE'ER ASK THE HOUR. + +Ne'er ask the hour--what is it to us + How Time deals out his treasures? +The golden moments lent us thus, + Are not _his_ coin, but Pleasure's. +If counting them o'er could add to their blisses, + I'd number each glorious second: +But moments of joy are, like Lesbia's kisses, + Too quick and sweet to be reckoned. +Then fill the cup--what is it to us + How time his circle measures? +The fairy hours we call up thus, + Obey no wand but Pleasure's. + +Young Joy ne'er thought of counting hours, + Till Care, one summer's morning, +Set up, among his smiling flowers, + A dial, by way of warning. +But Joy loved better to gaze on the sun, + As long as its light was glowing, +Than to watch with old Care how the shadows stole on, + And how fast that light was going. +So fill the cup--what is it to us + How Time his circle measures? +The fairy hours we call up thus, + Obey no wand but Pleasure's. + + + + + + +SAIL ON, SAIL ON. + + +Sail on, sail on, thou fearless bark-- + Wherever blows the welcome wind, +It cannot lead to scenes more dark, + More sad than those we leave behind. +Each wave that passes seems to say, + "Tho' death beneath our smile may be, + Less cold we are, less false than they, + Whose smiling wrecked thy hopes and thee." +Sail on, sail on,--thro' endless space-- + Thro' calm--thro' tempest--stop no more: +The stormiest sea's a resting place + To him who leaves such hearts on shore. +Or--if some desert land we meet, + Where never yet false-hearted men +Profaned a world, that else were sweet,-- + Then rest thee, bark, but not till then. + + + + + + +THE PARALLEL. + + +Yes, sad one of Sion,[1] if closely resembling, + In shame and in sorrow, thy withered-up heart-- +If drinking deep, deep, of the same "cup of trembling" + Could make us thy children, our parent thou art, + +Like thee doth our nation lie conquered and broken, + And fallen from her head is the once royal crown; +In her streets, in her halls, Desolation hath spoken, + And "while it is day yet, her sun hath gone down."[2] + +Like thine doth her exile, mid dreams of returning, + Die far from the home it were life to behold; +Like thine do her sons, in the day of their mourning, + Remember the bright things that blest them of old. + +Ah, well may we call her, like thee "the Forsaken,"[3] + Her boldest are vanquished, her proudest are slaves; +And the harps of her minstrels, when gayest they waken, + Have tones mid their mirth like the wind over graves! + +Yet hadst thou thy vengeance--yet came there the morrow, + That shines out, at last, on the longest dark night, +When the sceptre, that smote thee with slavery and sorrow, + Was shivered at once, like a reed, in thy sight. + +When that cup, which for others the proud Golden City[4] + Had brimmed full of bitterness, drenched her own lips; +And the world she had trampled on heard, without pity, + The howl in her halls, and the cry from her ships. + +When the curse Heaven keeps for the haughty came over + Her merchants rapacious, her rulers unjust, +And, a ruin, at last, for the earthworm to cover,[5] + The Lady of Kingdoms[6] lay low in the dust. + + +[1] These verses were written after the perusal of a treatise by Mr. +Hamilton, professing to prove that the Irish were originally Jews. + +[2] 1 "Her sun is gone down while it was yet day."--_Jer_. xv. 9. + +[3] "Thou shalt no more be termed Forsaken."--_Isaiah_, lxii. 4. + +[4] "How hath the oppressor ceased! the golden city ceased!"-- +_Isaiah_, xiv. 4. + +[5] "Thy pomp is brought down to the grave . . . and the worms cover +thee."--_Isaiah_, xiv. 11. + +[6] "Thou shalt no more be called the Lady of Kingdoms."--_Isaiah_, +xlvil. 5. + + + + + + +DRINK OF THIS CUP. + + +Drink of this cup;--you'll find there's a spell in + Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality; +Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen! + Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality. +Would you forget the dark world we are in, + Just taste of the bubble that gleams on the top of it; +But would you rise above earth, till akin + To Immortals themselves, you must drain every drop of it; +Send round the cup--for oh there's a spell in + Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality; +Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen! + Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality. + +Never was philter formed with such power + To charm and bewilder as this we are quaffing; +Its magic began when, in Autumn's rich hour, + A harvest of gold in the fields it stood laughing. +There having, by Nature's enchantment, been filled + With the balm and the bloom of her kindliest weather, +This wonderful juice from its core was distilled + To enliven such hearts as are here brought together. +Then drink of the cup--you'll find there's a spell in + Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality; +Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen! + Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality. + +And tho' perhaps--but breathe it to no one-- + Like liquor the witch brews at midnight so awful, +This philter in secret was first taught to flow on, + Yet 'tisn't less potent for being unlawful. +And, even tho' it taste of the smoke of that flame, + Which in silence extracted its virtue forbidden-- +Fill up--there's a fire in some hearts I could name, + Which may work too its charm, tho' as lawless and hidden. +So drink of the cup--for oh there's a spell in + Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality; +Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen! + Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality. + + + + + + +THE FORTUNE-TELLER. + + +Down in the valley come meet me to-night, + And I'll tell you your fortune truly +As ever 'twas told, by the new-moon's light, + To a young maiden, shining as newly. + +But, for the world, let no one be nigh, + Lest haply the stars should deceive me; +Such secrets between you and me and the sky + Should never go farther, believe me. + +If at that hour the heavens be not dim, + My science shall call up before you +A male apparition,--the image of him + Whose destiny 'tis to adore you. + +And if to that phantom you'll be kind, + So fondly around you he'll hover, +You'll hardly, my dear, any difference find + 'Twixt him and a true living lover. + +Down at your feet, in the pale moonlight, + He'll kneel, with a warmth of devotion-- +An ardor, of which such an innocent sprite + You'd scarcely believe had a notion. + +What other thoughts and events may arise, + As in destiny's book I've not seen them, +Must only be left to the stars and your eyes + To settle, ere morning, between them. + + + + + + +OH, YE DEAD! + + +Oh, ye Dead! oh, ye Dead![1] whom we know by the light you give +From your cold gleaming eyes, tho' you move like men who live, + Why leave you thus your graves, + In far off fields and waves, +Where the worm and the sea-bird only know your bed, + To haunt this spot where all + Those eyes that wept your fall, +And the hearts that wailed you, like your own, lie dead? + +It is true, it is true, we are shadows cold and wan; +And the fair and the brave whom we loved on earth are gone; + But still thus even in death, + So sweet the living breath +Of the fields and the flowers in our youth we wander'd o'er, + That ere, condemned, we go + To freeze mid Hecla's snow, +We would taste it awhile, and think we live once more! + + +[1] Paul Zealand mentions that there is a mountain in some part of +Ireland, where the ghosts of persons who have died in foreign lands walk +about and converse with those they meet, like living people. If asked why +they do not return to their homes, they say they are obliged to go to +Mount Hecla, and disappear immediately. + + + + + + +O'DONOHUE'S MISTRESS. + + +Of all the fair months, that round the sun +In light-linked dance their circles run, + Sweet May, shine thou for me; +For still, when thy earliest beams arise, +That youth, who beneath the blue lake lies, + Sweet May, returns to me. + +Of all the bright haunts, where daylight leaves +Its lingering smile on golden eyes, + Fair Lake, thou'rt dearest to me; +For when the last April sun grows dim, +Thy Naïads prepare his steed[1] for him + Who dwells, bright Lake, in thee. + +Of all the proud steeds, that ever bore +Young plumed Chiefs on sea or shore, + White Steed, most joy to thee; +Who still, with the first young glance of spring, +From under that glorious lake dost bring + My love, my chief, to me. + +While, white as the sail some bark unfurls, +When newly launched, thy long mane[2] curls, + Fair Steed, as white and free; +And spirits, from all the lake's deep bowers, +Glide o'er the blue wave scattering flowers, + Around my love and thee. + +Of all the sweet deaths that maidens die, +Whose lovers beneath the cold wave lie, + Most sweet that death will be, +Which, under the next May evening's light, +When thou and thy steed are lost to sight, +Dear love, I'll die for thee. + + +[1] The particulars of the tradition respecting Donohue and his White +Horse, may be found in Mr. Weld's Account of Killarney, or more fully +detailed in Derrick's Letters. For many years after his death, the spirit +of this hero is supposed to have been seen on the morning of Mayday, +gliding over the lake on his favorite white horse to the sound of sweet +unearthly music, and preceded by groups of youths and maidens, who flung +wreaths of delicate spring flowers in his path. + +[2] The boatmen at Killarney call those waves which come on a windy day, +crested with foam, "O'Donohue's White Horses." + + + + + + +ECHO. + + +How sweet the answer Echo makes + To music at night, +When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes, +And far away, o'er lawns and lakes, + Goes answering light. + +Yet Love hath echoes truer far, + And far more sweet, +Than e'er beneath the moonlight star, +Of horn or lute, or soft guitar, + The songs repeat. + +'Tis when the sigh, in youth sincere, + And only then,-- +The sigh that's breath'd for one to hear, +Is by that one, that only dear, + Breathed back again! + + + + + + +OH BANQUET NOT. + + +Oh banquet not in those shining bowers, + Where Youth resorts, but come to me: +For mine's a garden of faded flowers, + More fit for sorrow, for age, and thee. +And there we shall have our feast of tears, + And many a cup in silence pour; +Our guests, the shades of former years, + Our toasts to lips that bloom no more. + +There, while the myrtle's withering boughs + Their lifeless leaves around us shed, +We'll brim the bowl to broken vows, + To friends long lost, the changed, the dead. +Or, while some blighted laurel waves + Its branches o'er the dreary spot, +We'll drink to those neglected graves, + Where valor sleeps, unnamed, forgot. + + + + + + +THEE, THEE, ONLY THEE. + + +The dawning of morn, the daylight's sinking, +The night's long hours still find me thinking + Of thee, thee, only thee. +When friends are met, and goblets crowned, + And smiles are near, that once enchanted, +Unreached by all that sunshine round, + My soul, like some dark spot, is haunted + By thee, thee, only thee. + +Whatever in fame's high path could waken +My spirit once, is now forsaken + For thee, thee, only thee. +Like shores, by which some headlong bark + To the ocean hurries, resting never, +Life's scenes go by me, bright or dark, + I know not, heed not, hastening ever + To thee, thee, only thee. + +I have not a joy but of thy bringing, +And pain itself seems sweet when springing + From thee, thee, only thee. +Like spells, that naught on earth can break, + Till lips, that know the charm, have spoken, +This heart, howe'er the world may wake + Its grief, its scorn, can but be broken + By thee, thee, only thee. + + + + + + +SHALL THE HARP THEN BE SILENT. + + +Shall the Harp then be silent, when he who first gave + To our country a name, is withdrawn from all eyes? +Shall a Minstrel of Erin stand mute by the grave, + Where the first--where the last of her Patriots lies? + +No--faint tho' the death-song may fall from his lips, + Tho' his Harp, like his soul, may with shadows be crost, +Yet, yet shall it sound, mid a nation's eclipse, + And proclaim to the world what a star hath been lost;--[1] + +What a union of all the affections and powers + By which life is exalted, embellished, refined, +Was embraced in that spirit--whose centre was ours, + While its mighty circumference circled mankind. + +Oh, who that loves Erin, or who that can see, + Thro' the waste of her annals, that epoch sublime-- +Like a pyramid raised in the desert--where he + And his glory stand out to the eyes of all time; + +That _one_ lucid interval, snatched from the gloom + And the madness of ages, when filled with his soul, +A Nation o'erleaped the dark bounds of her doom, + And for _one_ sacred instant, touched Liberty's goal? + +Who, that ever hath heard him--hath drank at the source + Of that wonderful eloquence, all Erin's own, +In whose high-thoughted daring, the fire, and the force, + And the yet untamed spring of her spirit are shown? + +An eloquence rich, wheresoever its wave + Wandered free and triumphant, with thoughts that shone thro', +As clear as the brook's "stone of lustre," and gave, + With the flash of the gem, its solidity too. + +Who, that ever approached him, when free from the crowd, + In a home full of love, he delighted to tread +'Mong the trees which a nation had given, and which bowed, + As if each brought a new civic crown for his head-- + +Is there one, who hath thus, thro' his orbit of life + But at distance observed him--thro' glory, thro' blame, +In the calm of retreat, in the grandeur of strife, + Whether shining or clouded, still high and the same,-- + +Oh no, not a heart, that e'er knew him, but mourns + Deep, deep o'er the grave, where such glory is shrined-- +O'er a monument Fame will preserve, 'mong the urns + Of the wisest, the bravest, the best of mankind! + + +[1] These lines were written on the death of our great patriot, Grattan, +in the year 1820. It is only the two first verses that are either intended +or fitted to be sung. + + + + + + +OH, THE SIGHT ENTRANCING. + + +Oh, the sight entrancing, +When morning's beam is glancing, + O'er files arrayed + With helm and blade, +And plumes, in the gay wind dancing! +When hearts are all high beating, +And the trumpet's voice repeating + That song, whose breath + May lead to death, +But never to retreating. +Oh the sight entrancing, +When morning's beam is glancing + O'er files arrayed + With helm and blade, +And plumes, in the gay wind dancing. + +Yet, 'tis not helm or feather-- +For ask yon despot, whether + His plumed bands + Could bring such hands +And hearts as ours together. +Leave pomps to those who need 'em-- +Give man but heart and freedom, + And proud he braves + The gaudiest slaves +That crawl where monarchs lead 'em. +The sword may pierce the beaver, +Stone walls in time may sever, + 'Tis mind alone, + Worth steel and stone, +That keeps men free for ever. +Oh that sight entrancing, +When the morning's beam is glancing, + O'er files arrayed + With helm and blade, +And in Freedom's cause advancing! + + + + + + +SWEET INNISFALLEN. + + +Sweet Innisfallen, fare thee well, + May calm and sunshine long be thine! +How fair thou art let others tell,-- + To _feel_ how fair shall long be mine. + +Sweet Innisfallen, long shall dwell + In memory's dream that sunny smile, +Which o'er thee on that evening fell, + When first I saw thy fairy isle. + +'Twas light, indeed, too blest for one, + Who had to turn to paths of care-- +Through crowded haunts again to run, + And leave thee bright and silent there; + +No more unto thy shores to come, + But, on the world's rude ocean tost, +Dream of thee sometimes, as a home + Of sunshine he had seen and lost. + +Far better in thy weeping hours + To part from thee, as I do now, +When mist is o'er thy blooming bowers, + Like sorrow's veil on beauty's brow. + +For, though unrivalled still thy grace, + Thou dost not look, as then, _too_ blest, +But thus in shadow, seem'st a place + Where erring man might hope to rest-- + +Might hope to rest, and find in thee + A gloom like Eden's on the day +He left its shade, when every tree, + Like thine, hung weeping o'er his way. + +Weeping or smiling, lovely isle! + And all the lovelier for thy tears-- +For tho' but rare thy sunny smile, + 'Tis heaven's own glance when it appears. + +Like feeling hearts, whose joys are few, + But, when _indeed_ they come divine-- +The brightest light the sun e'er threw + Is lifeless to one gleam of thine! + + + + + + +'TWAS ONE OF THOSE DREAMS.[1] + + +'Twas one of those dreams, that by music are brought, +Like a bright summer haze, o'er the poet's warm thought-- +When, lost in the future, his soul wanders on, +And all of this life, but its sweetness, is gone. + +The wild notes he heard o'er the water were those +He had taught to sing Erin's dark bondage and woes, +And the breath of the bugle now wafted them o'er +From Dinis' green isle, to Glenà's wooded shore. + +He listened--while, high o'er the eagle's rude nest, +The lingering sounds on their way loved to rest; +And the echoes sung back from their full mountain choir, +As if loath to let song so enchanting expire. + +It seemed as if every sweet note, that died here, +Was again brought to life in some airier sphere, +Some heaven in those hills, where the soul of the strain +They had ceased upon earth was awaking again! + +Oh forgive, if, while listening to music, whose breath +Seemed to circle his name with a charm against death, +He should feel a proud Spirit within him proclaim, +"Even so shalt thou live in the echoes of Fame: + +"Even so, tho' thy memory should now die away, +'Twill be caught up again in some happier day, +And the hearts and the voices of Erin prolong, +Through the answering Future, thy name and thy song." + + +[1] Written during a visit to Lord Kenmare, at Killarney. + + + + + + +FAIREST! PUT ON AWHILE. + + +Fairest! put on awhile + These pinions of light I bring thee, +And o'er thy own green isle + In fancy let me wing thee. +Never did Ariel's plume, + At golden sunset hover +O'er scenes so full of bloom, + As I shall waft thee over. + +Fields, where the Spring delays + And fearlessly meets the ardor +Of the warm Summer's gaze, + With only her tears to guard her. +Rocks, thro' myrtle boughs + In grace majestic frowning; +Like some bold warrior's brows + That Love hath just been crowning. + +Islets, so freshly fair, + That never hath bird come nigh them, +But from his course thro' air + He hath been won down by them;--[1] +Types, sweet maid, of thee, + Whose look, whose blush inviting, +Never did Love yet see + From Heaven, without alighting. + +Lakes, where the pearl lies hid,[2] + And caves, where the gem is sleeping, +Bright as the tears thy lid + Lets fall in lonely weeping. +Glens,[3] where Ocean comes, + To 'scape the wild wind's rancor, +And harbors, worthiest homes + Where Freedom's fleet can anchor. + +Then, if, while scenes so grand, + So beautiful, shine before thee, +Pride for thy own dear land + Should haply be stealing o'er thee, +Oh, let grief come first, + O'er pride itself victorious-- +Thinking how man hath curst + What Heaven had made so glorious! + + +[1] In describing the Skeligs (islands of the Barony of Forth), Dr. +Keating says, "There is a certain attractive virtue in the soil which +draws down all the birds that attempt to fly over it, and obliges them to +light upon the rock." + +[2] "Nennius, a British writer of the ninth century, mentions the +abundance of pearls in Ireland. Their princes, he says, hung them behind +their ears: and this we find confirmed by a present made A.C. 1094, by +Gilbert, Bishop of Limerick, to Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury, of a +considerable quantity of Irish pearls."--_O'Halloran_. + +[3] Glengariff. + + + + + + +QUICK! WE HAVE BUT A SECOND. + + +Quick! we have but a second, + Fill round the cup, while you may; +For Time, the churl, hath beckoned, + And we must away, away! +Grasp the pleasure that's flying, + For oh, not Orpheus' strain +Could keep sweet hours from dying, + Or charm them to life again. + Then, quick! we have but a second, + Fill round the cup while you may; + For Time, the churl, hath beckoned, + And we must away, away! + +See the glass, how it flushes. + Like some young Hebe's lip, +And half meets thine, and blushes + That thou shouldst delay to sip. +Shame, oh shame unto thee, + If ever thou see'st that day, +When a cup or lip shall woo thee, + And turn untouched away! + Then, quick! we have but a second, + Fill round, fill round, while you may; + For Time, the churl, hath beckoned, + And we must away, away! + + + + + + +AND DOTH NOT A MEETING LIKE THIS. + + +And doth not a meeting like this make amends, + For all the long years I've been wandering away-- +To see thus around me my youth's early friends, + As smiling and kind as in that happy day? +Tho' haply o'er some of your brows, as o'er mine, + The snow-fall of time may be stealing--what then? +Like Alps in the sunset, thus lighted by wine, + We'll wear the gay tinge of youth's roses again. + +What softened remembrances come o'er the heart, + In gazing on those we've been lost to so long! +The sorrows, the joys, of which once they were part, + Still round them, like visions of yesterday, throng, +As letters some hand hath invisibly traced, + When held to the flame will steal out on the sight, +So many a feeling, that long seemed effaced, + The warmth of a moment like this brings to light. + +And thus, as in memory's bark we shall glide, + To visit the scenes of our boyhood anew, +Tho' oft we may see, looking down on the tide, + The wreck of full many a hope shining thro'; +Yet still, as in fancy we point to the flowers, + That once made a garden of all the gay shore, +Deceived for a moment, we'll think them still ours, + And breathe the fresh air of life's morning once more. + +So brief our existence, a glimpse, at the most, + Is all we can have of the few we hold dear; +And oft even joy is unheeded and lost, + For want of some heart, that could echo it, near. +Ah, well may we hope, when this short life is gone, + To meet in some world of more permanent bliss, +For a smile, or a grasp of the hand, hastening on, + Is all we enjoy of each other in this. + +But, come, the more rare such delights to the heart, + The more we should welcome and bless them the more; +They're ours, when we meet,--they are lost when we part, + Like birds that bring summer, and fly when 'tis o'er. +Thus circling the cup, hand in hand, ere we drink, + Let Sympathy pledge us, thro' pleasure, thro' pain, +That, fast as a feeling but touches one link, + Her magic shall send it direct thro' the chain. + + + + + + +THE MOUNTAIN SPRITE. + + +In yonder valley there dwelt, alone, +A youth, whose moments had calmly flown, +Till spells came o'er him, and, day and night, +He was haunted and watched by a Mountain Sprite. + +As once, by moonlight, he wander'd o'er +The golden sands of that island shore, +A foot-print sparkled before his sight-- +'Twas the fairy foot of the Mountain Sprite! + +Beside a fountain, one sunny day, +As bending over the stream he lay, +There peeped down o'er him two eyes of light, +And he saw in that mirror the Mountain Sprite. + +He turned, but, lo, like a startled bird, +That spirit fled!--and the youth but heard +Sweet music, such as marks the flight +Of some bird of song, from the Mountain Sprite. + +One night, still haunted by that bright look, +The boy, bewildered, his pencil took, +And, guided only by memory's light, +Drew the once-seen form of the Mountain Sprite. + +"Oh thou, who lovest the shadow," cried +A voice, low whispering by his side, +"Now turn and see,"--here the youth's delight +Sealed the rosy lips of the Mountain Sprite. + +"Of all the Spirits of land and sea," +Then rapt he murmured, "there's none like thee, +"And oft, oh oft, may thy foot thus light +"In this lonely bower, sweet Mountain Sprite!" + + + + + + +AS VANQUISHED ERIN. + + +As vanquished Erin wept beside + The Boyne's ill-fated river, +She saw where Discord, in the tide, + Had dropt his loaded quiver. +"Lie hid," she cried, "ye venomed darts, + "Where mortal eye may shun you; +"Lie hid--the stain of manly hearts, + "That bled for me, is on you." + +But vain her wish, her weeping vain,-- + As Time too well hath taught her-- +Each year the Fiend returns again, + And dives into that water; +And brings, triumphant, from beneath + His shafts of desolation, +And sends them, winged with worse than death, + Through all her maddening nation. + +Alas for her who sits and mourns, + Even now, beside that river-- +Unwearied still the Fiend returns, + And stored is still his quiver. +"When will this end, ye Powers of Good?" + She weeping asks for ever; +But only hears, from out that flood, + The Demon answer, "Never!" + + + + + + +DESMOND'S SONG.[1] + + +By the Feal's wave benighted, + No star in the skies, +To thy door by Love lighted, + I first saw those eyes. +Some voice whispered o'er me, + As the threshold I crost, +There was ruin before me, + If I loved, I was lost. + +Love came, and brought sorrow + Too soon in his train; +Yet so sweet, that to-morrow + 'Twere welcome again. +Though misery's full measure + My portion should be, +I would drain it with pleasure, + If poured out by thee. + +You, who call it dishonor + To bow to this flame, +If you've eyes, look but on her, + And blush while you blame. +Hath the pearl less whiteness + Because of its birth? +Hath the violet less brightness + For growing near earth? + +No--Man for his glory + To ancestry flies; +But Woman's bright story + Is told in her eyes. + +While the Monarch but traces + Thro' mortals his line, +Beauty, born of the Graces, + Banks next to Divine! + + +[1] "Thomas, the heir of the Desmond family, had accidentally been so +engaged in the chase, that he was benighted near Tralee, and obliged to +take shelter at the Abbey of Feal, in the house of one of his dependents, +called Mac Cormac. Catherine, a beautiful daughter of his host, instantly +inspired the Earl with a violent passion, which he could not subdue. He +married her, and by this inferior alliance alienated his followers, whose +brutal pride regarded this indulgence of his love as an unpardonable +degradation of his family."--_Leland_, vol. ii. + + + + + + +THEY KNOW NOT MY HEART. + + +They know not my heart, who believe there can be +One stain of this earth in its feelings for thee; +Who think, while I see thee in beauty's young hour, +As pure as the morning's first dew on the flower, +I could harm what I love,--as the sun's wanton ray +But smiles on the dew-drop to waste it away. + +No--beaming with light as those young features are, +There's a light round thy heart which is lovelier far: +It is not that cheek--'tis the soul dawning clear +Thro' its innocent blush makes thy beauty so dear: +As the sky we look up to, tho' glorious and fair, +Is looked up to the more, because Heaven lies there! + + + + + + +I WISH I WAS BY THAT DIM LAKE. + + +I wish I was by that dim Lake,[1] +Where sinful souls their farewell take +Of this vain world, and half-way lie +In death's cold shadow, ere they die. +There, there, far from thee, +Deceitful world, my home should be; +Where, come what might of gloom and pain, +False hope should ne'er deceive again. + +The lifeless sky, the mournful sound +Of unseen waters falling round; +The dry leaves, quivering o'er my head, +Like man, unquiet even when dead! +These, ay, these shall wean +My soul from life's deluding scene, +And turn each thought, o'ercharged with gloom, +Like willows, downward towards the tomb. + +As they, who to their couch at night +Would win repose, first quench the light, +So must the hopes, that keep this breast +Awake, be quenched, ere it can rest. +Cold, cold, this heart must grow, +Unmoved by either joy or woe, +Like freezing founts, where all that's thrown +Within their current turns to stone. + + +[1] These verses are meant to allude to that ancient haunt of +superstition, called Patrick's Purgatory. "In the midst of these gloomy +regions of Donegall (says Dr. Campbell) lay a lake, which was to become +the mystic theatre of this fabled and intermediate state. In the lake were +several islands; but one of them was dignified with that called the Mouth +of Purgatory, which, during the dark ages, attracted the notice of all +Christendom, and was the resort of penitents and pilgrims from almost +every country in Europe." + + + + + + +SHE SUNG OF LOVE. + + +She sung of Love, while o'er her lyre + The rosy rays of evening fell, +As if to feed with their soft fire + The soul within that trembling shell. +The same rich light hung o'er her cheek, + And played around those lips that sung +And spoke, as flowers would sing and speak, + If Love could lend their leaves a tongue. + +But soon the West no longer burned, + Each rosy ray from heaven withdrew; +And, when to gaze again I turned, + The minstrel's form seemed fading too. +As if _her_ light and heaven's were one, + The glory all had left that frame; +And from her glimmering lips the tone, + As from a parting spirit, came. + +Who ever loved, but had the thought + That he and all he loved must part? +Filled with this fear, I flew and caught + The fading image to my heart-- +And cried, "Oh Love! is this thy doom? + "Oh light of youth's resplendent day! +"Must ye then lose your golden bloom, + "And thus, like sunshine, die away?" + + + + + + +SING--SING--MUSIC WAS GIVEN. + + +Sing--sing--Music was given, + To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving; +Souls here, like planets in Heaven, + By harmony's laws alone are kept moving. +Beauty may boast of her eyes and her cheeks, + But Love from the lips his true archery wings; +And she, who but feathers the dart when she speaks, + At once sends it home to the heart when she sings. + Then sing--sing--Music was given, + To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving; + Souls here, like planets in Heaven, + By harmony's laws alone are kept moving. + +When Love, rocked by his mother, + Lay sleeping as calm as slumber could make him, +"Hush, hush," said Venus, "no other + "Sweet voice but his own is worthy to wake him." +Dreaming of music he slumbered the while + Till faint from his lip a soft melody broke, +And Venus, enchanted, looked on with a smile, + While Love to his own sweet singing awoke. + Then sing--sing--Music was given, + To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving; + Souls here, like planets in Heaven, + By harmony's laws alone are kept moving. + + + + + + +THO' HUMBLE THE BANQUET. + + +Tho' humble the banquet to which I invite thee, + Thou'lt find there the best a poor bard can command: +Eyes, beaming with welcome, shall throng round, to light thee, + And Love serve the feast with his own willing hand. + +And tho' Fortune may seem to have turned from the dwelling + Of him thou regardest her favoring ray, +Thou wilt find there a gift, all her treasures excelling, + Which, proudly he feels, hath ennobled his way. + +'Tis that freedom of mind, which no vulgar dominion + Can turn from the path a pure conscience approves; +Which, with hope in the heart, and no chain on the pinion, + Holds upwards its course to the light which it loves. + +'Tis this makes the pride of his humble retreat, + And, with this, tho' of all other treasures bereaved, +The breeze of his garden to him is more sweet + Than the costliest incense that Pomp e'er received. + +Then, come,--if a board so untempting hath power + To win thee from grandeur, its best shall be thine; +And there's one, long the light of the bard's happy bower, + Who, smiling, will blend her bright welcome with mine. + + + + + + +SING, SWEET HARP. + + +Sing, sweet Harp, oh sing to me + Some song of ancient days, +Whose sounds, in this sad memory, + Long buried dreams shall raise;-- +Some lay that tells of vanished fame, + Whose light once round us shone; +Of noble pride, now turned to shame, + And hopes for ever gone.-- +Sing, sad Harp, thus sing to me; + Alike our doom is cast, +Both lost to all but memory, + We live but in the past. + +How mournfully the midnight air + Among thy chords doth sigh, +As if it sought some echo there + Of voices long gone by;-- +Of Chieftains, now forgot, who seemed + The foremost then in fame; +Of Bards who, once immortal deemed, + Now sleep without a name.-- +In vain, sad Harp, the midnight air + Among thy chords doth sigh; +In vain it seeks an echo there + Of voices long gone by. + +Couldst thou but call those spirits round. + Who once, in bower and hall, +Sat listening to thy magic sound, + Now mute and mouldering all;-- +But, no; they would but wake to weep + Their children's slavery; +Then leave them in their dreamless sleep, + The dead, at least, are free!-- +Hush, hush, sad Harp, that dreary tone, + That knell of Freedom's day; +Or, listening to its death-like moan, + Let me, too, die away. + + + + + + +SONG OF THE BATTLE EVE. + +TIME--THE NINTH CENTURY. + + +To-morrow, comrade, we +On the battle-plain must be, + There to conquer, or both lie low! +The morning star is up,-- +But there's wine still in the cup, + And we'll take another quaff, ere we go, boy, go; + We'll take another quaff, ere we go. + +'Tis true, in manliest eyes +A passing tear will rise, + When we think of the friends we leave lone; +But what can wailing do? +See, our goblet's weeping too! + With its tears we'll chase away our own, boy, our own; + With its tears we'll chase away our own. + +But daylight's stealing on;-- +The last that o'er us shone + Saw our children around us play; +The next--ah! where shall we +And those rosy urchins be? + But--no matter--grasp thy sword and away, boy, away; + No matter--grasp thy sword and away! + +Let those, who brook the chain +Of Saxon or of Dane, + Ignobly by their firesides stay; +One sigh to home be given, +One heartfelt prayer to heaven, + Then, for Erin and her cause, boy, hurra! hurra! hurra! + Then, for Erin and her cause, hurra! + + + + + + +THE WANDERING BARD. + + +What life like that of the bard can be-- +The wandering bard, who roams as free +As the mountain lark that o'er him sings, +And, like that lark, a music brings +Within him, where'er he comes or goes,-- +A fount that for ever flows! +The world's to him like some playground, +Where fairies dance their moonlight round;-- +If dimmed the turf where late they trod, +The elves but seek some greener sod; +So, when less bright his scene of glee, +To another away flies he! + +Oh, what would have been young Beauty's doom, +Without a bard to fix her bloom? +They tell us, in the moon's bright round, +Things lost in this dark world are found; +So charms, on earth long past and gone, +In the poet's lay live on.-- +Would ye have smiles that ne'er grow dim? +You've only to give them all to him. +Who, with but a touch of Fancy's wand, +Can lend them life, this life beyond, +And fix them high, in Poesy's sky,-- +Young stars that never die! + +Then, welcome the bard where'er he comes,-- +For, tho' he hath countless airy homes, +To which his wing excursive roves, +Yet still, from time to time, he loves +To light upon earth and find such cheer +As brightens our banquet here. +No matter how far, how fleet he flies, +You've only to light up kind young eyes, +Such signal-fires as here are given,-- +And down he'll drop from Fancy's heaven, +The minute such call to love or mirth +Proclaims he's wanting on earth! + + + + + + +ALONE IN CROWDS TO WANDER ON. + + +Alone in crowds to wander on, +And feel that all the charm is gone +Which voices dear and eyes beloved +Shed round us once, where'er we roved-- +This, this the doom must be +Of all who've loved, and lived to see +The few bright things they thought would stay +For ever near them, die away. + +Tho' fairer forms around us throng, +Their smiles to others all belong, +And want that charm which dwells alone +Round those the fond heart calls its own. +Where, where the sunny brow? +The long-known voice--where are they now? +Thus ask I still, nor ask in vain, +The silence answers all too plain. + +Oh, what is Fancy's magic worth, +If all her art can not call forth +One bliss like those we felt of old +From lips now mute, and eyes now cold? +No, no,--her spell is vain,-- +As soon could she bring back again +Those eyes themselves from out the grave, +As wake again one bliss they gave. + + + + + + +I'VE A SECRET TO TELL THEE. + + +I've a secret to tell thee, but hush! not here,-- + Oh! not where the world its vigil keeps: +I'll seek, to whisper it in thine ear, + Some shore where the Spirit of Silence sleeps; +Where summer's wave unmurmuring dies, + Nor fay can hear the fountain's gush; +Where, if but a note her night-bird sighs, + The rose saith, chidingly, "Hush, sweet, hush!" + +There, amid the deep silence of that hour, + When stars can be heard in ocean dip, +Thyself shall, under some rosy bower, + Sit mute, with thy finger on thy lip: +Like him, the boy,[1] who born among + The flowers that on the Nile-stream blush, +Sits ever thus,--his only song + To earth and heaven, "Hush, all, hush!" + + +[1] The God of Silence, thus pictured by the Egyptians. + + + + + + +SONG OF INNISFAIL. + + +They came from a land beyond the sea, + And now o'er the western main +Set sail, in their good ships, gallantly, + From the sunny land of Spain. +"Oh, where's the Isle we've seen in dreams, + Our destined home or grave?"[1] +Thus sung they as, by the morning's beams, + They swept the Atlantic wave. + +And, lo, where afar o'er ocean shines + A sparkle of radiant green, +As tho' in that deep lay emerald mines, + Whose light thro' the wave was seen. +"'Tis Innisfail[2]--'tis Innisfail!" + Rings o'er the echoing sea; +While, bending to heaven, the warriors hail + That home of the brave and free. + +Then turned they unto the Eastern wave, + Where now their Day-God's eye +A look of such sunny-omen gave + As lighted up sea and sky. +Nor frown was seen thro' sky or sea, + Nor tear o'er leaf or sod, +When first on their Isle of Destiny + Our great forefathers trod. + + +[1] Milesius remembered the remarkable prediction of the principal Druid, +who foretold that the posterity of Gadelus should obtain the possession of +a Western Island (which was Ireland), and there inhabit.--_Keating_. + +[2] The Island of Destiny, one of the ancient names of Ireland. + + + + + + +THE NIGHT DANCE. + + +Strike the gay harp! see the moon is on high, + And, as true to her beam as the tides of the ocean, +Young hearts, when they feel the soft light of her eye, + Obey the mute call and heave into motion. +Then, sound notes--the gayest, the lightest, + That ever took wing, when heaven looked brightest! + Again! Again! + +Oh! could such heart-stirring music be heard + In that City of Statues described by romancers, +So wakening its spell, even stone would be stirred, + And statues themselves all start into dancers! + +Why then delay, with such sounds in our ears, + And the flower of Beauty's own garden before us,-- +While stars overhead leave the song of their spheres, + And listening to ours, hang wondering o'er us? +Again, that strain!--to hear it thus sounding + Might set even Death's cold pulses bounding-- + Again! Again! + +Oh, what delight when the youthful and gay, + Each with eye like a sunbeam and foot like a feather, +Thus dance, like the Hours to the music of May, + And mingle sweet song and sunshine together! + + + + + + +THERE ARE SOUNDS OF MIRTH. + + +There are sounds of mirth in the night-air ringing, + And lamps from every casement shown; +While voices blithe within are singing, + That seem to say "Come," in every tone. +Ah! once how light, in Life's young season, + My heart had leapt at that sweet lay; +Nor paused to ask of graybeard Reason + Should I the syren call obey. + +And, see--the lamps still livelier glitter, + The syren lips more fondly sound; +No, seek, ye nymphs, some victim fitter + To sink in your rosy bondage bound. +Shall a bard, whom not the world in arms + Could bend to tyranny's rude control, +Thus quail at sight of woman's charms + And yield to a smile his freeborn soul? + +Thus sung the sage, while, slyly stealing, + The nymphs their fetters around him cast, +And,--their laughing eyes, the while, concealing,-- + Led Freedom's Bard their slave at last. +For the Poet's heart, still prone to loving, +Was like that rack of the Druid race,[1] +Which the gentlest touch at once set moving, + But all earth's power couldn't cast from its base. + + +[1] The Rocking Stones of the Druids, some of which no force is able to +dislodge from their stations. + + + + + + +OH, ARRANMORE, LOVED ARRANMORE. + + +Oh! Arranmore, loved Arranmore, + How oft I dream of thee, +And of those days when, by thy shore, + I wandered young and free. +Full many a path I've tried, since then, + Thro' pleasure's flowery maze, +But ne'er could find the bliss again + I felt in those sweet days. + +How blithe upon thy breezy cliffs, + At sunny morn I've stood, +With heart as bounding as the skiffs + That danced along thy flood; +Or, when the western wave grew bright + With daylight's parting wing, +Have sought that Eden in its light, + Which dreaming poets sing;[1]-- + +That Eden where the immortal brave + Dwell in a land serene,-- +Whose bowers beyond the shining wave, + At sunset, oft are seen. +Ah dream too full of saddening truth! + Those mansions o'er the main +Are like the hopes I built in youth,-- + As sunny and as vain! + + +[1] "The inhabitants of Arranmore are still persuaded that, in a clear +day, they can see from this coast Hy Brysail or the Enchanted Island, the +paradise of the Pagan Irish, and concerning which they relate a number of +romantic stories",--_Beaufort's "Ancient Topography of Ireland_." + + + + + + +LAY HIS SWORD BY HIS SIDE. + + +Lay his sword by his side,[1]--it hath served him too well + Not to rest near his pillow below; +To the last moment true, from his hand ere it fell, + Its point was still turned to a flying foe. +Fellow-laborers in life, let them slumber in death, + Side by side, as becomes the reposing brave,-- +That sword which he loved still unbroke in its sheath, + And himself unsubdued in his grave. + +Yet pause--for, in fancy, a still voice I hear, + As if breathed from his brave heart's remains;-- +Faint echo of that which, in Slavery's ear, + Once sounded the war-word, "Burst your chains!" +And it cries from the grave where the hero lies deep, + "Tho' the day of your Chieftain for ever hath set, +"Oh leave not his sword thus inglorious to sleep,-- + "It hath victory's life in it yet!" + +"Should some alien, unworthy such weapon to wield, + "Dare to touch thee, my own gallant sword, +"Then rest in thy sheath, like a talisman sealed, + Or return to the grave of thy chainless lord. +But, if grasped by a hand that hath learned the proud use + Of a falchion, like thee, on the battle-plain,-- +Then, at Liberty's summons, like lightning let loose, + Leap forth from thy dark sheath again!" + + +[1] It was the custom of the ancient Irish, in the manner of the +Scythians, to bury the favorite swords of their heroes along with them. + + + + + + +OH, COULD WE DO WITH THIS WORLD OF OURS. + + +Oh, could we do with this world of ours +As thou dost with thy garden bowers, +Reject the weeds and keep the flowers, + What a heaven on earth we'd make it! +So bright a dwelling should be our own, +So warranted free from sigh or frown, +That angels soon would be coming down, + By the week or month to take it. + +Like those gay flies that wing thro' air, +And in themselves a lustre bear, +A stock of light, still ready there, + Whenever they wish to use it; +So, in this world I'd make for thee, +Our hearts should all like fire-flies be, +And the flash of wit or poesy + Break forth whenever we choose it. + +While every joy that glads our sphere +Hath still some shadow hovering near, +In this new world of ours, my dear, + Such shadows will all be omitted:-- +Unless they're like that graceful one, +Which, when thou'rt dancing in the sun. +Still near thee, leaves a charm upon + Each spot where it hath flitted. + + + + + + +THE WINE-CUP IS CIRCLING. + + +The wine-cup is circling in Almhin's hall,[1] + And its Chief, mid his heroes reclining, +Looks up with a sigh, to the trophied wall, + Where his sword hangs idly shining. + When, hark! that shout + From the vale without,-- + "Arm ye quick, the Dane, the Dane is nigh!" + Every Chief starts up + From his foaming cup, + And "To battle, to battle!" is the Finian's cry. + +The minstrels have seized their harps of gold, + And they sing such thrilling numbers, +'Tis like the voice of the Brave, of old, + Breaking forth from the place of slumbers! + Spear to buckler rang, + As the minstrels sang, + And the Sun-burst[2] o'er them floated wide; + While remembering the yoke + Which their father's broke, + "On for liberty, for liberty!" the Finians cried. + +Like clouds of the night the Northmen came, + O'er the valley of Almhin lowering; +While onward moved, in the light of its fame, + That banner of Erin, towering. + With the mingling shock + Rung cliff and rock, + While, rank on rank, the invaders die: + And the shout, that last, + O'er the dying past, + Was "victory! victory!"--the Finian's cry. + + +[1] The Palace of Fin Mac-Cumhal (the Fingal of Macpherson) in Leinster. +It was built on the top of the hill, which has retained from thence the +name of the Hill of Allen, in the county of Kildare. The Finians, or +Fenii, were the celebrated National Militia of Ireland, which this chief +commanded. The introduction of the Danes in the above song is an +anachronism common to most of the Finian and Ossianic legends. + +[2] The name given to the banner of the Irish. + + + + + + +THE DREAM OF THOSE DAYS. + + +The dream of those days when first I sung thee is o'er, +Thy triumph hath stained the charm thy sorrows then wore; +And even of the light which Hope once shed o'er thy chains, +Alas, not a gleam to grace thy freedom remains. + +Say, is it that slavery sunk so deep in thy heart, +That still the dark brand is there, though chainless thou art; +And Freedom's sweet fruit, for which thy spirit long burned, +Now, reaching at last thy lip, to ashes hath turned? + +Up Liberty's steep by Truth and Eloquence led, +With eyes on her temple fixt, how proud was thy tread! +Ah, better thou ne'er hadst lived that summit to gain +Or died in the porch than thus dishonor the fane. + + + + + + +FROM THIS HOUR THE PLEDGE IS GIVEN. + + +From this hour the pledge is given, + From this hour my soul is thine: +Come what will, from earth or heaven, + Weal or woe, thy fate be mine. +When the proud and great stood by thee, + None dared thy rights to spurn; +And if now they're false and fly thee, + Shall I, too, basely turn? +No;--whate'er the fires that try thee, + In the same this heart shall burn. + +Tho' the sea, where thou embarkest, + Offers now no friendly shore, +Light may come where all looks darkest, + Hope hath life when life seems o'er. +And, of those past ages dreaming, + When glory decked thy brow, +Oft I fondly think, tho' seeming + So fallen and clouded now, +Thou'lt again break forth, all beaming,-- + None so bright, so blest as thou! + + + + + + +SILENCE IS IN OUR FESTAL HALLS.[1] + + +Silence is in our festal halls,-- + Sweet Son of Song! thy course is o'er; +In vain on thee sad Erin calls, + Her minstrel's voice responds no more;-- +All silent as the Eolian shell + Sleeps at the close of some bright day, +When the sweet breeze that waked its swell + At sunny morn hath died away. + +Yet at our feasts thy spirit long + Awakened by music's spell shall rise; +For, name so linked with deathless song + Partakes its charm and never dies: +And even within the holy fane + When music wafts the soul to heaven, +One thought to him whose earliest strain + Was echoed there shall long be given. + +But, where is now the cheerful day. + The social night when by thy side +He who now weaves this parting lay + His skilless voice with thine allied; +And sung those songs whose every tone, + When bard and minstrel long have past, +Shall still in sweetness all their own + Embalmed by fame, undying last. + +Yes, Erin, thine alone the fame,-- + Or, if thy bard have shared the crown, +From thee the borrowed glory came, + And at thy feet is now laid down. +Enough, if Freedom still inspire + His latest song and still there be. +As evening closes round his lyre, + One ray upon its chords from thee. + + +[1] It is hardly necessary, perhaps, to inform the reader, that these +lines are meant as a tribute of sincere friendship to the memory of an old +and valued colleague in this work, Sir John Stevenson. + + + + + + + + +NATIONAL AIRS + + + + +ADVERTISEMENT. + + +It is Cicero, I believe, who says "_naturâ, ad modes ducimur;_" and the +abundance of wild, indigenous airs, which almost every country, except +England, possesses, sufficiently proves the truth of his assertion. The +lovers of this simple, but interesting kind of music, are here presented +with the first number of a collection, which, I trust, their contributions +will enable us to continue. A pretty air without words resembles one of +those _half_ creatures of Plato, which are described as wandering in +search of the remainder of themselves through the world. To supply this +other half, by uniting with congenial words the many fugitive melodies +which have hitherto had none,--or only such as are unintelligible to the +generality of their hearers,--it is the object and ambition of the present +work. Neither is it our intention to confine ourselves to what are +strictly called National Melodies, but, wherever we meet with any +wandering and beautiful air, to which poetry has not yet assigned a worthy +home, we shall venture to claim it as an _estray_ swan, and enrich our +humble Hippocrene with its song. + + +T.M. + + + + + + +NATIONAL AIRS + + + + + + +A TEMPLE TO FRIENDSHIP. + +(SPANISH AIR.) + + +"A Temple to Friendship;" said Laura, enchanted, + "I'll build in this garden,--the thought is divine!" +Her temple was built and she now only wanted + An image of Friendship to place on the shrine. +She flew to a sculptor, who set down before her + A Friendship, the fairest his art could invent; +But so cold and so dull, that the youthful adorer + Saw plainly this was not the idol she meant. + +"Oh! never," she cried, "could I think of enshrining + "An image whose looks are so joyless and dim;-- +"But yon little god, upon roses reclining, + "We'll make, if you please, Sir, a Friendship of him." +So the bargain was struck; with the little god laden + She joyfully flew to her shrine in the grove: +"Farewell," said the sculptor, "you're not the first maiden + "Who came but for Friendship and took away Love." + + + + + + +FLOW ON, THOU SHINING RIVER. + +(PORTUGUESE AIR.) + + +Flow on, thou shining river; + But ere thou reach the sea +Seek Ella's bower and give her + The wreaths I fling o'er thee +And tell her thus, if she'll be mine + The current of our lives shall be, +With joys along their course to shine, + Like those sweet flowers on thee. + +But if in wandering thither + Thou find'st she mocks my prayer, +Then leave those wreaths to wither + Upon the cold bank there; +And tell her thus, when youth is o'er, + Her lone and loveless Charms shall be +Thrown by upon life's weedy shore. + Like those sweet flowers from thee. + + + + + + +ALL THAT'S BRIGHT MUST FADE. + +(INDIAN AIR.) + + +All that's bright must fade,-- + The brightest still the fleetest; +All that's sweet was made + But to be lost when sweetest. +Stars that shine and fall;-- + The flower that drops in springing;-- +These, alas! are types of all + To which our hearts are clinging. +All that's bright must fade,-- + The brightest still the fleetest; +All that's sweet was made + But to be lost when sweetest? + +Who would seek our prize + Delights that end in aching? +Who would trust to ties + That every hour are breaking? +Better far to be + In utter darkness lying, +Than to be blest with light and see + That light for ever flying. +All that's bright must fade,-- + The brightest still the fleetest; +All that's sweet was made + But to be lost when sweetest! + + + + + + +SO WARMLY WE MET. + +(HUNGARIAN AIR.) + + +So warmly we met and so fondly we parted, + That which was the sweeter even I could not tell,-- +That first look of welcome her sunny eyes darted, + Or that tear of passion, which blest our farewell. +To meet was a heaven and to part thus another,-- + Our joy and our sorrow seemed rivals in bliss; +Oh! Cupid's two eyes are not liker each other + In smiles and in tears than that moment to this. + +The first was like day-break, new, sudden, delicious,-- + The dawn of a pleasure scarce kindled up yet; +The last like the farewell of daylight, more precious, + More glowing and deep, as 'tis nearer its set. +Our meeting, tho' happy, was tinged by a sorrow + To think that such happiness could not remain; +While our parting, tho' sad, gave a hope that to-morrow + Would bring back the blest hour of meeting again. + + + + + + +THOSE EVENING BELLS. + +(AIR.--THE BELLS OF ST. PETERSBURGH.) + + +Those evening bells! those evening bells! +How many a tale their music tells, +Of youth and home and that sweet time +When last I heard their soothing chime. + +Those joyous hours are past away: +And many a heart, that then was gay. +Within the tomb now darkly dwells, +And hears no more those evening bells. + +And so 'twill be when I am gone: +That tuneful peal will still ring on, +While other bards shall walk these dells, +And sing your praise, sweet evening bells! + + + + + + +SHOULD THOSE FOND HOPES. + +(PORTUGUESE AIR.) + + +Should those fond hopes e'er forsake thee, + Which now so sweetly thy heart employ: +Should the cold world come to wake thee + From all thy visions of youth and joy; +Should the gay friends, for whom thou wouldst banish + Him who once thought thy young heart his own, +All, like spring birds, falsely vanish, + And leave thy winter unheeded and lone;-- + +Oh! 'tis then that he thou hast slighted + Would come to cheer thee, when all seem'd o'er; +Then the truant, lost and blighted, + Would to his bosom be taken once more. +Like that dear bird we both can remember, + Who left us while summer shone round, +But, when chilled by bleak December, + On our threshold a welcome still found. + + + + + + +REASON, FOLLY, AND BEAUTY. + +(ITALIAN AIR.) + + +Reason and Folly and Beauty, they say, +Went on a party of pleasure one day: + Folly played + Around the maid, +The bells of his cap rung merrily out; + While Reason took + To his sermon-book-- +Oh! which was the pleasanter no one need doubt, +Which was the pleasanter no one need doubt. + +Beauty, who likes to be thought very sage. +Turned for a moment to Reason's dull page, + Till Folly said, + "Look here, sweet maid!"-- +The sight of his cap brought her back to herself; + While Reason read + His leaves of lead, +With no one to mind him, poor sensible elf! +No,--no one to mind him, poor sensible elf! + +Then Reason grew jealous of Folly's gay cap; +Had he that on, he her heart might entrap-- + "There it is," + Quoth Folly, "old quiz!" +(Folly was always good-natured, 'tis said,) + "Under the sun + There's no such fun, +As Reason with my cap and bells on his head!" +"Reason with my cap and bells on his head!" + +But Reason the head-dress so awkwardly wore, +That Beauty now liked him still less than before; + While Folly took + Old Reason's book, +And twisted the leaves in a cap of such _ton_, + That Beauty vowed + (Tho' not aloud), +She liked him still better in that than his own, +Yes,--liked him still better in that than his own. + + + + + + +FARE THEE WELL, THOU LOVELY ONE! + +(SICILIAN AIR.) + + +Fare thee well, thou lovely one! + Lovely still, but dear no more; +Once his soul of truth is gone, + Love's sweet life is o'er. +Thy words, what e'er their flattering spell, + Could scarce have thus deceived; +But eyes that acted truth so well + Were sure to be believed. +Then, fare thee well, thou lovely one! + Lovely still, but dear no more; +Once his soul of truth is gone, + Love's sweet life is o'er. + +Yet those eyes look constant still, + True as stars they keep their light; +Still those cheeks their pledge fulfil + Of blushing always bright. +'Tis only on thy changeful heart + The blame of falsehood lies; +Love lives in every other part, + But there, alas! he dies. +Then, fare thee well, thou lovely one! + Lovely still, but dear no more; +Once his soul of truth is gone, + Love's sweet life is o'er. + + + + + + +DOST THOU REMEMBER. + +(PORTUGUESE AIR.) + + +Dost thou remember that place so lonely, +A place for lovers and lovers only, + Where first I told thee all my secret sighs? +When, as the moonbeam that trembled o'er thee +Illumed thy blushes, I knelt before thee, + And read my hope's sweet triumph in those eyes? +Then, then, while closely heart was drawn to heart, +Love bound us--never, never more to part! + +And when I called thee by names the dearest[1] +That love could fancy, the fondest, nearest,-- + "My life, my only life!" among the rest; +In those sweet accents that still enthral me, +Thou saidst, "Ah!" wherefore thy life thus call me? + "Thy soul, thy soul's the name I love best; +"For life soon passes,--but how blest to be +"That Soul which never, never parts from thee!" + + +[1] The thought in this verse is borrowed from the original Portuguese +words. + + + + + + +OH, COME TO ME WHEN DAYLIGHT SETS. + +(VENETIAN AIR.) + + +Oh, come to me when daylight sets; + Sweet! then come to me, +When smoothly go our gondolets + O'er the moonlight sea. +When Mirth's awake, and Love begins, + Beneath that glancing ray, +With sound of lutes and mandolins, + To steal young hearts away. +Then, come to me when daylight sets; + Sweet! then come to me, +When smoothly go our gondolets + O'er the moonlight sea. + +Oh, then's the hour for those who love, + Sweet, like thee and me; +When all's so calm below, above, + In Heaven and o'er the sea. +When maiden's sing sweet barcarolles, + And Echo sings again +So sweet, that all with ears and souls + Should love and listen then. +So, come to me when daylight sets; + Sweet! then come to me, +When smoothly go our gondolets + O'er the moonlight sea. + + + + + + +OFT, IN THE STILLY NIGHT. + +(SCOTCH AIR.) + + +Oft in the stilly night, + Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, +Fond Memory brings the light + Of other days around me; + The smiles, the tears, + Of boyhood's years, + The words of love then spoken; + The eyes that shone, + Now dimmed and gone, + The cheerful hearts now broken! +Thus, in the stilly night, + Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, +Sad Memory brings the light + Of other days around me. + +When I remember all + The friends, so linked together, +I've seen around me fall, + Like leaves in wintry weather; + I feel like one, + Who treads alone, + Some banquet-hall deserted, + Whose lights are fled, + Whose garlands dead, + And all but he departed! +Thus, in the stilly night, + Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, +Sad Memory brings the light + Of other days around me. + + + + + + +HARK! THE VESPER HYMN IS STEALING. + +(RUSSIAN AIR.) + + +Hark! the vesper hymn is stealing + O'er the waters soft and clear; +Nearer yet and nearer pealing, + And now bursts upon the ear: + Jubilate, Amen. +Farther now, now farther stealing + Soft it fades upon the ear: + Jubilate, Amen. + +Now, like moonlight waves retreating + To the shore it dies along; +Now, like angry surges meeting, + Breaks the mingled tide of song + Jubilate, Amen. +Hush! again, like waves, retreating + To the shore, it dies along: + Jubilate, Amen. + + + + + + +LOVE AND HOPE. + +(SWISS AIR.) + + +At morn, beside yon summer sea, + Young Hope and Love reclined; +But scarce had noon-tide come, when he +Into his bark leapt smilingly, + And left poor Hope behind. + +"I go," said Love, "to sail awhile + "Across this sunny main;" +And then so sweet, his parting smile, +That Hope, who never dreamt of guile, + Believed he'd come again. + +She lingered there till evening's beam + Along the waters lay; +And o'er the sands, in thoughtful dream, +Oft traced his name, which still the stream + As often washed away. + +At length a sail appears in sight, + And toward the maiden moves! +'Tis Wealth that comes, and gay and bright, +His golden bark reflects the light, + But ah! it is not Love's. + +Another sail--'twas Friendship showed + Her night-lamp o'er the sea; +And calm the light that lamp bestowed; +But Love had lights that warmer glowed, + And where, alas! was he? + +Now fast around the sea and shore + Night threw her darkling chain; +The sunny sails were seen no more, +Hope's morning dreams of bliss were o'er-- + Love never came again! + + + + + + +THERE COMES A TIME. + +(GERMAN AIR.) + + +There comes a time, a dreary time, + To him whose heart hath flown +O'er all the fields of youth's sweet prime, + And made each flow its own. +'Tis when his soul must first renounce + Those dreams so bright, so fond; +Oh! then's the time to die at once. + For life has naught beyond. + +When sets the sun on Afric's shore, + That instant all is night; +And so should life at once be o'er. + When Love withdraws his light;-- +Nor, like our northern day, gleam on + Thro' twilight's dim delay, +The cold remains of lustre gone, + Of fire long past away. + + + + + + +MY HARP HAS ONE UNCHANGING THEME. + +(SWEDISH AIR.) + + +My harp has one unchanging theme, + One strain that still comes o'er +Its languid chord, as 'twere a dream + Of joy that's now no more. +In vain I try, with livelier air, + To wake the breathing string; +That voice of other times is there, + And saddens all I sing. + +Breathe on, breathe on, thou languid strain, + Henceforth be all my own; +Tho' thou art oft so full of pain + Few hearts can bear thy tone. +Yet oft thou'rt sweet, as if the sigh, + The breath that Pleasure's wings +Gave out, when last they wantoned by. + Were still upon thy strings. + + + + + + +OH, NO--NOT EVEN WHEN FIRST WE LOVED. + +(CASHMERIAN AIR.) + + +Oh, no--not even when first we loved, + Wert thou as dear as now thou art; +Thy beauty then my senses moved, + But now thy virtues bind my heart. +What was but Passion's sigh before, + Has since been turned to Reason's vow; +And, though I then might love thee _more_, + Trust me, I love thee _better_ now. + +Altho' my heart in earlier youth + Might kindle with more wild desire, +Believe me, it has gained in truth + Much more than it has lost in fire. +The flame now warms my inmost core, + That then but sparkled o'er my brow, +And, though I seemed to love thee more, + Yet, oh, I love thee better now. + + + + + + +PEACE BE AROUND THEE. + +(SCOTCH AIR.) + + +Peace be around thee, wherever thou rov'st; + May life be for thee one summer's day, +And all that thou wishest and all that thou lov'st + Come smiling around thy sunny way! +If sorrow e'er this calm should break, + May even thy tears pass off so lightly, +Like spring-showers, they'll only make + The smiles, that follow shine more brightly. + +May Time who sheds his blight o'er all + And daily dooms some joy to death +O'er thee let years so gently fall, + They shall not crush one flower beneath. +As half in shade and half in sun + This world along its path advances. +May that side the sun's upon + Be all that e'er shall meet thy glances! + + + + + + +COMMON SENSE AND GENIUS. + +(FRENCH AIR.) + + +While I touch the string, + Wreathe my brows with laurel, +For the tale I sing + Has, for once, a moral. +Common Sense, one night, + Tho' not used to gambols, +Went out by moonlight, + With Genius, on his rambles. + While I touch the string, etc. + +Common Sense went on, + Many wise things saying; +While the light that shone + Soon set Genius straying. +_One_ his eye ne'er raised + From the path before him; +T'_other_ idly gazed + On each night-cloud o'er him. + While I touch the string, etc. + +So they came, at last, + To a shady river; +Common Sense soon past, + Safe, as he doth ever; +While the boy, whose look + Was in Heaven that minute. +Never saw the brook, + But tumbled headlong in it! + While I touch the string, etc. + +How the Wise One smiled, + When safe o'er the torrent, +At that youth, so wild, + Dripping from the current! +Sense went home to bed; + Genius, left to shiver +On the bank, 'tis said, + Died of that cold river! + While I touch the string, etc. + + + + + + +THEN, FARE THEE WELL. + +(OLD ENGLISH AIR.) + + +Then, fare thee well, my own dear love, + This world has now for us +No greater grief, no pain above + The pain of parting thus, + Dear love! + The pain of parting thus. + +Had we but known, since first we met, + Some few short hours of bliss, +We might, in numbering them, forget + The deep, deep pain of this, + Dear love! + The deep, deep pain of this. + +But no, alas, we've never seen + One glimpse of pleasure's ray, +But still there came some cloud between, + And chased it all away, + Dear love! + And chased it all away. + +Yet, even could those sad moments last, + Far dearer to my heart +Were hours of grief, together past, + Than years of mirth apart, + Dear love! + Than years of mirth apart. + +Farewell! our hope was born in fears, + And nurst mid vain regrets: +Like winter suns, it rose in tears, + Like them in tears it sets, + Dear love! + Like them in tears it sets. + + + + + + +GAYLY SOUNDS THE CASTANET. + +(MALTESE AIR.) + + +Gayly sounds the castanet, + Beating time to bounding feet, +When, after daylight's golden set, + Maids and youths by moonlight meet. +Oh, then, how sweet to move + Thro' all that maze of mirth, +Led by light from eyes we love + Beyond all eyes on earth. + +Then, the joyous banquet spread + On the cool and fragrant ground, +With heaven's bright sparklers overhead, + And still brighter sparkling round. +Oh, then, how sweet to say + Into some loved one's ear, +Thoughts reserved thro' many a day + To be thus whispered here. + +When the dance and feast are done, + Arm in arm as home we stray, +How sweet to see the dawning sun + O'er her cheek's warm blushes play! +Then, too, the farewell kiss-- + The words, whose parting tone +Lingers still in dreams of bliss, + That haunt young hearts alone. + + + + + + +LOVE IS A HUNTER-BOY. + +(LANGUEDOCIAN AIR.) + + +Love is a hunter-boy, + Who, makes young hearts his prey, +And in his nets of joy + Ensnares them night and day. +In vain concealed they lie-- + Love tracks them every where; +In vain aloft they fly-- + Love shoots them flying there. + +But 'tis his joy most sweet, + At early dawn to trace +The print of Beauty's feet, + And give the trembler chase. +And if, thro' virgin snow, + He tracks her footsteps fair, +How sweet for Love to know + None went before him there. + + + + + + +COME, CHASE THAT STARTING TEAR AWAY. + +(FRENCH AIR.) + + +Come, chase that starting tear away, + Ere mine to meet it springs; +To-night, at least, to-night be gay, + Whate'er to-morrow brings. +Like sunset gleams, that linger late + When all is darkening fast, +Are hours like these we snatch from Fate-- + The brightest, and the last. + Then, chase that starting tear, etc. + +To gild the deepening gloom, if Heaven + But one bright hour allow, +Oh, think that one bright hour is given, + In all its splendor, now. +Let's live it out--then sink in night, + Like waves that from the shore +One minute swell, are touched with light, + Then lost for evermore! + Come, chase that starting tear, etc. + + + + + + +JOYS OF YOUTH, HOW FLEETING! + +(PORTUGUESE AIR.) + + +Whisperings, heard by wakeful maids, + To whom the night-stars guide us; +Stolen walks thro' moonlight shades, + With those we love beside us, + Hearts beating, + At meeting; + Tears starting, + At parting; +Oh, sweet youth, how soon it fades! + Sweet joys of youth, how fleeting! + +Wanderings far away from home, + With life all new before us; +Greetings warm, when home we come, + From hearts whose prayers watched o'er us. + Tears starting, + At parting; + Hearts beating, + At meeting; +Oh, sweet youth, how lost on some! + To some, how bright and fleeting! + + + + + + +HEAR ME BUT ONCE. + +(FRENCH AIR.) + + +Hear me but once, while o'er the grave, + In which our Love lies cold and dead, +I count each flattering hope he gave + Of joys now lost and charms now fled. + +Who could have thought the smile he wore + When first we met would fade away? +Or that a chill would e'er come o'er + Those eyes so bright thro' many a day? + Hear me but once, etc. + + + + + + +WHEN LOVE WAS A CHILD + +(SWEDISH AIR.) + + +When Love was a child, and went idling round, + 'Mong flowers the whole summer's day, +One morn in the valley a bower he found, + So sweet, it allured him to stay. + +O'erhead, from the trees, hung a garland fair, + A fountain ran darkly beneath;-- +'Twas Pleasure had hung up the flowerets there; + Love knew it, and jumped at the wreath. + +But Love didn't know--and, at _his_ weak years, + What urchin was likely to know?-- +That Sorrow had made of her own salt tears + The fountain that murmured below. + +He caught at the wreath--but with too much haste, + As boys when impatient will do-- +It fell in those waters of briny taste, + And the flowers were all wet through. + +This garland he now wears night and day; + And, tho' it all sunny appears +With Pleasure's own light, each leaf, they say, + Still tastes of the Fountain of Tears. + + + + + + +SAY, WHAT SHALL BE OUR SPORT TO-DAY? + +(SICILIAN AIR.) + + +Say, what shall be our sport today? + There's nothing on earth, in sea, or air, +Too bright, too high, too wild, too gay + For spirits like mine to dare! +'Tis like the returning bloom + Of those days, alas, gone by, +When I loved, each hour--I scarce knew whom-- + And was blest--I scarce knew why. + +Ay--those were days when life had wings, + And flew, oh, flew so wild a height +That, like the lark which sunward springs, + 'Twas giddy with too much light. +And, tho' of some plumes bereft, + With that sun, too, nearly set, +I've enough of light and wing still left + For a few gay soarings yet. + + + + + + +BRIGHT BE THY DREAMS. + +(WELSH AIR.) + + +Bright be thy dreams--may all thy weeping +Turn into smiles while thou art sleeping. + May those by death or seas removed, +The friends, who in thy springtime knew thee, + All thou hast ever prized or loved, +In dreams come smiling to thee! + +There may the child, whose love lay deepest, +Dearest of all, come while thou sleepest; + Still as she was--no charm forgot-- +No lustre lost that life had given; + Or, if changed, but changed to what +Thou'lt find her yet in Heaven! + + + + + + +GO, THEN--'TIS VAIN. + +(SICILIAN AIR.) + + +Go, then--'tis vain to hover + Thus round a hope that's dead; +At length my dream is over; + 'Twas sweet--'twas false--'tis fled! +Farewell! since naught it moves thee, + Such truth as mine to see-- +Some one, who far less loves thee, + Perhaps more blest will be. + +Farewell, sweet eyes, whose brightness + New life around me shed; +Farewell, false heart, whose lightness + Now leaves me death instead. +Go, now, those charms surrender + To some new lover's sigh-- +One who, tho' far less tender, + May be more blest than I. + + + + + + +THE CRYSTAL-HUNTERS. + +(SWISS AIR.) + + + O'er mountains bright + With snow and light, + We Crystal-Hunters speed along; + While rocks and caves, + And icy wares, + Each instant echo to our song; +And, when we meet with store of gems, +We grudge not kings their diadems. + O'er mountains bright + With snow and light, +We Crystal-Hunters speed along; + While grots and caves, + And icy waves, +Each instant echo to our song. + +Not half so oft the lover dreams + Of sparkles from his lady's eyes, +As we of those refreshing gleams + That tell where deep the crystal lies; +Tho', next to crystal, we too grant, +That ladies' eyes may most enchant. + O'er mountains bright, etc. + +Sometimes, when on the Alpine rose + The golden sunset leaves its ray, +So like a gem the floweret glows, + We hither bend our headlong way; +And, tho' we find no treasure there, +We bless the rose that shines so fair. + O'er mountains bright + With snow and light, +We Crystal-Hunters speed along; + While rocks and caves, + And icy waves, +Each instant echo to our song, + + + + + + +ROW GENTLY HERE. + +(VENETIAN AIR.) + + + Row gently here, + My gondolier, + So softly wake the tide, + That not an ear. + On earth, may hear, + But hers to whom we glide. +Had Heaven but tongues to speak, as well + As starry eyes to see, +Oh, think what tales 'twould have to tell + Of wandering youths like me! + + Now rest thee here. + My gondolier; + Hush, hush, for up I go, + To climb yon light + Balcony's height, + While thou keep'st watch below. +Ah! did we take for Heaven above + But half such pains as we +Take, day and night, for woman's love, + What' Angels we should be. + + + + + + +OH, DAYS OF YOUTH. + +(FRENCH AIR.) + + +Oh, days of youth and joy, long clouded, + Why thus for ever haunt my view? +When in the grave your light lay shrouded, + Why did not Memory die there too? +Vainly doth hope her strain now sing me, + Telling of joys that yet remain-- +No, never more can this life bring me + One joy that equals youth's sweet pain. + +Dim lies the way to death before me, + Cold winds of Time blow round my brow; +Sunshine of youth! that once fell o'er me, + Where is your warmth, your glory now? +_'Tis_ not that then no pain could sting me; + 'Tis not that now no joys remain; +Oh, 'tis that life no more can bring me + One joy so sweet as that worst pain. + + + + + + +WHEN FIRST THAT SMILE. + +(VENETIAN AIR.) + + +When first that smile, like sunshine, blest my sight, + Oh what a vision then came o'er me! +Long years of love, of calm and pure delight, + Seemed in that smile to pass before me. +Ne'er did the peasant dream of summer skies, + Of golden fruit and harvests springing, +With fonder hope than I of those sweet eyes, + And of the joy their light was bringing. + +Where now are all those fondly-promised hours? + Ah! woman's faith is like her brightness-- +Fading as fast as rainbows or day-flowers, + Or aught that's known for grace and lightness. +Short as the Persian's prayer, at close of day, + Should be each vow of Love's repeating; +Quick let him worship Beauty's precious ray-- + Even while he kneels, that ray is fleeting! + + + + + + +PEACE TO THE SLUMBERERS! + +(CATALONIAN AIR.) + + +Peace to the slumberers! + They lie on the battle-plain. +With no shroud to cover them; + The dew and the summer rain +Are all that weep over them. + Peace to the slumberers! + +Vain was their bravery!-- + The fallen oak lies where it lay, +Across the wintry river; + But brave hearts, once swept away, +Are gone, alas! forever. + Vain was their bravery! + +Woe to the conqueror! + Our limbs shall lie as cold as theirs +Of whom his sword bereft us. + Ere we forget the deep arrears +Of vengeance they have left us! + Woe to the conqueror! + + + + + + +WHEN THOU SHALT WANDER. + +(SICILIAN AIR.) + + +When thou shalt wander by that sweet light + We used to gaze on so many an eve, +When love was new and hope was bright, + Ere I could doubt or thou deceive-- +Oh, then, remembering how swift went by +Those hours of transport, even _thou_ may'st sigh. + +Yes, proud one! even thy heart may own + That love like ours was far too sweet +To be, like summer garments thrown + Aside, when past the summer's heat; +And wish in vain to know again +Such days, such nights, as blest thee then. + + + + + + +WHO'LL BUY MY LOVE-KNOTS? + +(PORTUGUESE AIR.) + + +Hymen, late, his love-knots selling, +Called at many a maiden's dwelling: +None could doubt, who saw or knew them, +Hymen's call was welcome to them. + "Who'll buy my love-knots? + "Who'll buy my love-knots?" +Soon as that sweet cry resounded +How his baskets were surrounded! + +Maids, who now first dreamt of trying +These gay knots of Hymen's tying; +Dames, who long had sat to watch him +Passing by, but ne'er could catch him;-- + "Who'll buy my love-knots? + "Who'll buy my love-knots?"-- +All at that sweet cry assembled; +Some laughed, some blushed, and some trembled. + +"Here are knots," said Hymen, taking +Some loose flowers, "of Love's own making; +"Here are gold ones--you may trust 'em"-- +(These, of course, found ready custom). + "Come, buy my love-knots! + "Come, buy my love-knots! +"Some are labelled 'Knots to tie men-- +"Love the maker--Bought of Hymen.'" + +Scarce their bargains were completed, +When the nymphs all cried, "We're cheated! +"See these flowers--they're drooping sadly; +"This gold-knot, too, ties but badly-- + "Who'd buy such love-knots? + "Who'd buy such love-knots? +"Even this tie, with Love's name round it-- +"All a sham--He never bound it." + +Love, who saw the whole proceeding, +Would have laughed, but for good breeding; +While Old Hymen, who was used to +Cries like that these dames gave loose to-- + "Take back our love-knots! + "Take back our love-knots!" +Coolly said, "There's no returning +"Wares on Hymen's hands--Good morning!" + + + + + + +SEE, THE DAWN FROM HEAVEN. + +(TO AN AIR SUNG AT ROME, ON CHRISTMAS EVE.) + + +See, the dawn from Heaven is breaking + O'er our sight, +And Earth from sin awaking, + Hails the light! +See those groups of angels, winging + From the realms above, +On their brows, from Eden, bringing + Wreaths of Hope and Love. + +Hark, their hymns of glory pealing + Thro' the air, +To mortal ears revealing + Who lies there! +In that dwelling, dark and lowly, + Sleeps the Heavenly Son, +He, whose home's above,--the Holy, + Ever Holy One! + + + + + + +NETS AND CAGES.[1] + +(SWEDISH AIR.) + + +Come, listen to my story, while + Your needle task you ply: +At what I sing some maids will smile, + While some, perhaps, may sigh. +Though Love's the theme, and Wisdom blames + Such florid songs as ours, + +Yet Truth sometimes, like eastern dames, + Can speak her thoughts by flowers. + Then listen, maids, come listen, while + Your needle's task you ply; + At what I sing there's some may smile, + While some, perhaps, will sigh. + +Young Cloe, bent on catching Loves, + Such nets had learned to frame, +That none, in all our vales and groves, + E'er caught so much small game: +But gentle Sue, less given to roam, + While Cloe's nets were taking +Such lots of Loves, sat still at home, + One little Love-cage making. + Come, listen, maids, etc. + +Much Cloe laughed at Susan's task; + But mark how things went on: +These light-caught Loves, ere you could ask + Their name and age, were gone! +So weak poor Cloe's nets were wove, + That, tho' she charm'd into them +New game each hour, the youngest Love + Was able to break thro' them. + Come, listen, maids, etc. + +Meanwhile, young Sue, whose cage was wrought + Of bars too strong to sever, +One Love with golden pinions caught. + And caged him there for ever; +Instructing, thereby, all coquettes, + Whate'er their looks or ages, +That, tho 'tis pleasant weaving Nets, + 'Tis wiser to make Cages. + +Thus, maidens, thus do I beguile + The task your fingers ply.-- +May all who hear like Susan smile, + And not, like Cloe, sigh! + + +[1] Suggested by the following remark of Swift's;--"The reason why so few +marriages are happy, is, because young ladies spend their time in making +nets, not in making cages." + + + + + + +WHEN THROUGH THE PIAZZETTA. + +(VENETIAN AIR.) + + +When thro' the Piazzetta + Night breathes her cool air, +Then, dearest Ninetta, + I'll come to thee there. +Beneath thy mask shrouded, + I'll know thee afar, +As Love knows tho' clouded + His own Evening Star. + +In garb, then, resembling + Some gay gondolier, +I'll whisper thee, trembling, + "Our bark, love, is near: +"Now, now, while there hover + "Those clouds o'er the moon, +"'Twill waft thee safe over + "Yon silent Lagoon." + + + + + + +GO, NOW, AND DREAM. + +(SICILIAN AIR.) + + +Go, now, and dream o'er that joy in thy slumber-- +Moments so sweet again ne'er shalt thou number. +Of Pain's bitter draught the flavor ne'er flies, +While Pleasure's scarce touches the lip ere it dies. + Go, then, and dream, etc. + +That moon, which hung o'er your parting, so splendid, +Often will shine again, bright as she then did-- +But, never more will the beam she saw burn +In those happy eyes, at your meeting, return. + Go, then, and dream, etc. + + + + + + +TAKE HENCE THE BOWL. + +(NEAPOLITAN AIR.) + + +Take hence the bowl;--tho' beaming + Brightly as bowl e'er shone, +Oh, it but sets me dreaming + Of happy days now gone. +There, in its clear reflection, + As in a wizard's glass, +Lost hopes and dead affection, + Like shades, before me pass. + +Each cup I drain brings hither + Some scene of bliss gone by;-- +Bright lips too bright to wither, + Warm hearts too warm to die. +Till, as the dream comes o'er me + Of those long vanished years, +Alas, the wine before me + Seems turning all to tears! + + + + + + +FAREWELL, THERESA! + +(VENETIAN AIR.) + + +Farewell, Theresa! yon cloud that over + Heaven's pale night-star gathering we see, +Will scarce from that pure orb have past ere thy lover +Swift o'er the wide wave shall wander from thee. + +Long, like that dim cloud, I've hung around thee, + Darkening thy prospects, saddening thy brow; +With gay heart, Theresa, and bright cheek I found thee; + Oh, think how changed, love, how changed art thou now! + +But here I free thee: like one awaking + From fearful slumber, thou break'st the spell; +'Tis over--the moon, too, her bondage is breaking-- +Past are the dark clouds; Theresa, farewell! + + + + + + +HOW OFT, WHEN WATCHING STARS. + +(SAVOYARD AIR.) + + +Oft, when the watching stars grow pale, + And round me sleeps the moonlight scene, +To hear a flute through yonder vale + I from my casement lean. +"Come, come, my love!" each note then seems to say, +"Oh, come, my love! the night wears fast away!" + Never to mortal ear + Could words, tho' warm they be, + Speak Passion's language half so clear + As do those notes to me! + +Then quick my own light lute I seek, + And strike the chords with loudest swell; +And, tho' they naught to others speak, + _He_ knows their language well. +"I come, my love!" each note then seems to say, +"I come, my love!--thine, thine till break of day." + Oh, weak the power of words, + The hues of painting dim + Compared to what those simple chords + Then say and paint to him! + + + + + + +WHEN THE FIRST SUMMER BEE. + +(GERMAN AIR.) + + + When the first summer bee + O'er the young rose shall hover, + Then, like that gay rover, + I'll come to thee. +He to flowers, I to lips, full of sweets to the brim-- +What a meeting, what a meeting for me and for him! + When the first summer bee, etc. + + Then, to every bright tree + In the garden he'll wander; + While I, oh, much fonder, + Will stay with thee. +In search of new sweetness thro' thousands he'll run, +While I find the sweetness of thousands in one. + Then, to every bright tree, etc. + + + + + + +THO' 'TIS ALL BUT A DREAM. + +(FRENCH AIR.) + + +Tho' 'tis all but a dream at the best, + And still, when happiest, soonest o'er, +Yet, even in a dream, to be blest + Is so sweet, that I ask for no more. + The bosom that opes + With earliest hopes, + The soonest finds those hopes untrue: + As flowers that first + In spring-time burst + The earliest wither too! + Ay--'tis all but a dream, etc. + +Tho' by friendship we oft are deceived, + And find love's sunshine soon o'ercast, +Yet friendship will still be believed. + And love trusted on to the last. + The web 'mong the leaves + The spider weaves +Is like the charm Hope hangs o'er men; + Tho' often she sees + 'Tis broke by the breeze, +She spins the bright tissue again. + Ay--'tis all but a dream, etc. + + + + + + +WHEN THE WINE-CUP IS SMILING. + +(ITALIAN AIR.) + + +When the wine-cup is smiling before us, + And we pledge round to hearts that are true, boy, true, +Then the sky of this life opens o'er us, + And Heaven gives a glimpse of its blue. +Talk of Adam in Eden reclining, + We are better, far better off thus, boy, thus; +For _him_ but _two_ bright eyes were shining-- + See, what numbers are sparkling for us! + +When on _one_ side the grape-juice is dancing, + While on t'other a blue eye beams, boy, beams, +'Tis enough, 'twixt the wine and the glancing, + To disturb even a saint from his dreams. +Yet, tho' life like a river is flowing, + I care not how fast it goes on, boy, on, +So the grape on its bank is still growing, + And Love lights the waves as they run. + + + + + + +WHERE SHALL WE BURY OUR SHAME? + +(NEAPOLITAN AIR.) + + +Where shall we bury our shame? + Where, in what desolate place, +Hide the last wreck of a name + Broken and stained by disgrace? +Death may dissever the chain, + Oppression will cease when we're gone; +But the dishonor, the stain, + Die as we may, will live on. + +Was it for this we sent out + Liberty's cry from our shore? +Was it for this that her shout + Thrilled to the world's very core? +Thus to live cowards and slaves!-- + Oh, ye free hearts that lie dead, +Do you not, even in your graves, + Shudder, as o'er you we tread? + + + + + + +NE'ER TALK OF WISDOM'S GLOOMY SCHOOLS. + +(MAHRATTA AIR.) + + +Ne'er talk of Wisdom's gloomy schools; + Give me the sage who's able +To draw his moral thoughts and rules + From the study of the table;-- +Who learns how lightly, fleetly pass + This world and all that's in it. +From the bumper that but crowns his glass, + And is gone again next minute! + +The diamond sleeps within the mine, + The pearl beneath the water; +While Truth, more precious, dwells in wine. + The grape's own rosy daughter. +And none can prize her charms like him, + Oh, none like him obtain her, +Who thus can, like Leander, swim + Thro' sparkling floods to gain her! + + + + + + +HERE SLEEPS THE BARD. + +(HIGHLAND AIR.) + + +Here sleeps the Bard who knew so well +All the sweet windings of Apollo's shell; +Whether its music rolled like torrents near. +Or died, like distant streamlets, on the ear. +Sleep, sleep, mute bard; alike unheeded now +The storm and zephyr sweep thy lifeless brow;-- +That storm, whose rush is like thy martial lay; +That breeze which, like thy love-song, dies away! + + + + + + +DO NOT SAY THAT LIFE IS WANING. + + +Do not say that life is waning, + Or that hope's sweet day is set; +While I've thee and love remaining, + Life is in the horizon yet. + +Do not think those charms are flying, + Tho' thy roses fade and fall; +Beauty hath a grace undying, + Which in thee survives them all. + +Not for charms, the newest, brightest, + That on other cheeks may shine, +Would I change the least, the slightest. + That is lingering now o'er thine. + + + + + + +THE GAZELLE. + + +Dost thou not hear the silver bell, + Thro' yonder lime-trees ringing? +'Tis my lady's light gazelle; + To me her love thoughts bringing,-- +All the while that silver bell + Around his dark neck ringing. + +See, in his mouth he bears a wreath, + My love hath kist in tying; +Oh, what tender thoughts beneath + Those silent flowers are lying,-- +Hid within the mystic wreath, + My love hath kist in trying! + +Welcome, dear gazelle, to thee, + And joy to her, the fairest. +Who thus hath breathed her soul to me. + In every leaf thou bearest; +Welcome, dear gazelle, to thee, + And joy to her the fairest! + +Hail ye living, speaking flowers, + That breathe of her who bound ye; +Oh, 'twas not in fields, or bowers; + 'Twas on her lips, she found ye;-- +Yes, ye blushing, speaking flowers, + 'Twas on her lips she found ye. + + + + + + +NO--LEAVE MY HEART TO REST. + + +No--leave my heart to rest, if rest it may, +When youth, and love, and hope, have past away. +Couldst thou, when summer hours are fled, +To some poor leaf that's fallen and dead, +Bring back the hue it wore, the scent it shed? +No--leave this heart to rest, if rest it may, +When youth, and love, and hope, have past away. + +Oh, had I met thee then, when life was bright, +Thy smile might still have fed its tranquil light; +But now thou comest like sunny skies, +Too late to cheer the seaman's eyes, +When wrecked and lost his bark before him lies! +No--leave this heart to rest, if rest it may, +Since youth, and love, and hope have past away. + + + + + + +WHERE ARE THE VISIONS. + + +"Where are the visions that round me once hovered, + "Forms that shed grace from their shadows alone; +"Looks fresh as light from a star just discovered, + "And voices that Music might take for her own?" +Time, while I spoke, with his wings resting o'er me, + Heard me say, "Where are those visions, oh where?" +And pointing his wand to the sunset before me, + Said, with a voice like the hollow wind, "There." + +Fondly I looked, when the wizard had spoken, + And there, mid the dim-shining ruins of day, +Saw, by their light, like a talisman broken, + The last golden fragments of hope melt away. + + + + + + +WIND THY HORN, MY HUNTER BOY. + + +Wind thy horn, my hunter boy, + And leave thy lute's inglorious sighs; +Hunting is the hero's joy, + Till war his nobler game supplies. +Hark! the hound-bells ringing sweet, +While hunters shout and the, woods repeat, + Hilli-ho! Hilli-ho! + +Wind again thy cheerful horn, + Till echo, faint with answering, dies: +Burn, bright torches, burn till morn, + And lead us where the wild boar lies. +Hark! the cry, "He's found, he's found," +While hill and valley our shouts resound. + Hilli-ho! Hilli-ho! + + + + + + +OH, GUARD OUR AFFECTION. + + +Oh, guard our affection, nor e'er let it feel +The blight that this world o'er the warmest will steal: +While the faith of all round us is fading or past, +Let ours, ever green, keep its bloom to the last. + +Far safer for Love 'tis to wake and to weep, +As he used in his prime, than go smiling to sleep; +For death on his slumber, cold death follows fast, +White the love that is wakeful lives on to the last. + +And tho', as Time gathers his clouds o'er our head, +A shade somewhat darker o'er life they may spread, +Transparent, at least, be the shadow they cast, +So that Love's softened light may shine thro' to the last. + + + + + + +SLUMBER, OH SLUMBER. + + +"Slumber, oh slumber; if sleeping thou mak'st +"My heart beat so wildly, I'm lost if thou wak'st." + Thus sung I to a maiden, + Who slept one summer's day, + And, like a flower overladen + With too much sunshine, lay. + Slumber, oh slumber, etc. + +"Breathe not, oh breathe not, ye winds, o'er her cheeks; +"If mute thus she charm me, I'm lost when she speaks." + Thus sing I, while, awaking, + She murmurs words that seem + As if her lips were taking + Farewell of some sweet dream. + Breathe not, oh breathe not, etc. + + + + + + +BRING THE BRIGHT GARLANDS HITHER. + + +Bring the bright garlands hither, + Ere yet a leaf is dying; +If so soon they must wither. + Ours be their last sweet sighing. +Hark, that low dismal chime! +'Tis the dreary voice of Time. +Oh, bring beauty, bring roses, + Bring all that yet is ours; +Let life's day, as it closes, + Shine to the last thro' flowers. + +Haste, ere the bowl's declining, + Drink of it now or never; +Now, while Beauty is shining, + Love, or she's lost for ever. +Hark! again that dull chime, +'Tis the dreary voice of Time. +Oh, if life be a torrent, + Down to oblivion going, +Like this cup be its current, + Bright to the last drop flowing! + + + + + + +IF IN LOVING, SINGING. + + +If in loving, singing, night and day +We could trifle merrily life away, +Like atoms dancing in the beam, +Like day-flies skimming o'er the stream, +Or summer blossoms, born to sigh +Their sweetness out, and die-- +How brilliant, thoughtless, side by side, +Thou and I could make our minutes glide! +No atoms ever glanced so bright, +No day-flies ever danced so light, +Nor summer blossoms mixt their sigh, +So close, as thou and I! + + + + + + +THOU LOVEST NO MORE. + + +Too plain, alas, my doom is spoken + Nor canst thou veil the sad truth o'er; +Thy heart is changed, thy vow is broken, + Thou lovest no more--thou lovest no more. + +Tho' kindly still those eyes behold me, + The smile is gone, which once they wore; +Tho' fondly still those arms enfold me, + 'Tis not the same--thou lovest no more. + +Too long my dream of bliss believing, + I've thought thee all thou wert before; +But now--alas! there's no deceiving, + 'Tis all too plain, thou lovest no more. + +Oh, thou as soon the dead couldst waken, + As lost affection's life restore, +Give peace to her that is forsaken, + Or bring back him who loves no more. + + + + + + +WHEN ABROAD IN THE WORLD. + + +When abroad in the world thou appearest. + And the young and the lovely are there, +To my heart while of all thou'rt the dearest. + To my eyes thou'rt of all the most fair. + They pass, one by one, + Like waves of the sea, + That say to the Sun, + "See, how fair we can be." + But where's the light like thine, + In sun or shade to shine? +No--no, 'mong them all, there is nothing like thee, + Nothing like thee. + +Oft, of old, without farewell or warning, + Beauty's self used to steal from the skies; +Fling a mist round her head, some fine morning, + And post down to earth in disguise; + But, no matter what shroud + Around her might be, + Men peeped through the cloud, + And whispered, "'Tis She." + So thou, where thousands are, + Shinest forth the only star,-- +Yes, yes, 'mong them all, there is nothing like thee, + Nothing like thee. + + + + + + +KEEP THOSE EYES STILL PURELY MINE. + + +Keep those eyes still purely mine, + Tho' far off I be: +When on others most they shine, + Then think they're turned on me. + +Should those lips as now respond + To sweet minstrelsy, +When their accents seem most fond, + Then think they're breathed for me. + +Make what hearts thou wilt thy own, + If when all on thee +Fix their charmed thoughts alone, + Thou think'st the while on me. + + + + + + +HOPE COMES AGAIN. + + +Hope comes again, to this heart long a stranger, + Once more she sings me her flattering strain; +But hush, gentle syren--for, ah, there's less danger + In still suffering on, than in hoping again. + +Long, long, in sorrow, too deep for repining, + Gloomy, but tranquil, this bosom hath lain: +And joy coming now, like a sudden light shining + O'er eyelids long darkened, would bring me but pain. + +Fly then, ye visions, that Hope would shed o'er me; + Lost to the future, my sole chance of rest +Now lies not in dreaming of bliss that's before me. + But, ah--in forgetting how once I was blest. + + + + + + +O SAY, THOU BEST AND BRIGHTEST. + + +O say, thou best and brightest, + My first love and my last. +When he, whom now thou slightest, + From life's dark scene hath past, +Will kinder thoughts then move thee? + Will pity wake one thrill +For him who lived to love thee, + And dying loved thee still? + +If when, that hour recalling + From which he dates his woes, +Thou feel'st a tear-drop falling, + Ah, blush not while it flows; +But, all the past forgiving, + Bend gently o'er his shrine, +And say, "This heart, when living, + "With all its faults, was mine." + + + + + + +WHEN NIGHT BRINGS THE HOUR. + + +When night brings the hour + Of starlight and joy, +There comes to my bower + A fairy-winged boy; +With eyes so bright, + So full of wild arts, +Like nets of light, + To tangle young hearts; +With lips, in whose keeping + Love's secret may dwell, +Like Zephyr asleep in + Some rosy sea-shell. +Guess who he is, + Name but his name, +And his best kiss + For reward you may claim. + +Where'er o'er the ground + He prints his light feet. +The flowers there are found + Most shining and sweet: +His looks, as soft + As lightning in May, +Tho' dangerous oft, + Ne'er wound but in play: +And oh, when his wings + Have brushed o'er my lyre, +You'd fancy its strings + Were turning to fire. +Guess who he is, + Name but his name, +And his best kiss + For reward you may claim. + + + + + + +LIKE ONE WHO, DOOMED. + + +Like one who, doomed o'er distant seas + His weary path to measure, +When home at length, with favoring breeze, + He brings the far-sought treasure; + +His ship, in sight of shore, goes down, + That shore to which he hasted; +And all the wealth he thought his own + Is o'er the waters wasted! + +Like him, this heart, thro' many a track + Of toil and sorrow straying, +One hope alone brought fondly back, + Its toil and grief repaying. + +Like him, alas, I see that ray + Of hope before me perish, +And one dark minute sweep away + What years were given to cherish. + + + + + + +FEAR NOT THAT, WHILE AROUND THEE. + + +Fear not that, while around thee + Life's varied blessings pour, +One sigh of hers shall wound thee, + Whose smile thou seek'st no more. +No, dead and cold for ever + Let our past love remain; +Once gone, its spirit never + Shall haunt thy rest again. + +May the new ties that bind thee + Far sweeter, happier prove, +Nor e'er of me remind thee, + But by their truth and love. +Think how, asleep or waking, + Thy image haunts me yet; +But, how this heart is breaking + For thy own peace forget. + + + + + + +WHEN LOVE IS KIND. + + +When Love is kind, + Cheerful and free, +Love's sure to find + Welcome from me. + +But when Love brings + Heartache or pang, +Tears, and such things-- + Love may go hang! + +If Love can sigh + For one alone, +Well pleased am I + To be that one, + +But should I see + Love given to rove +To two or three, + Then--good by Love! + +Love must, in short, + Keep fond and true, +Thro' good report, + And evil too. + +Else, here I swear, + Young Love may go. +For aught I care-- + To Jericho. + + + + + + +THE GARLAND I SEND THEE. + + +The Garland I send thee was culled from those bowers +Where thou and I wandered in long vanished hours; +Not a leaf or a blossom its bloom here displays, +But bears some remembrance of those happy days. + +The roses were gathered by that garden gate, +Where our meetings, tho' early, seemed always too late; +Where lingering full oft thro' a summer-night's moon, +Our partings, tho' late, appeared always too soon. + +The rest were all culled from the banks of that glade, +Where, watching the sunset, so often we've strayed, +And mourned, as the time went, that Love had no power +To bind in his chain even one happy hour. + + + + + + +HOW SHALL I WOO? + + +If I speak to thee in friendship's name, + Thou think'st I speak too coldly; +If I mention Love's devoted flame, + Thou say'st I speak too boldly. +Between these two unequal fires, + Why doom me thus to hover? +I'm a friend, if such thy heart requires, + If more thou seek'st, a lover. +Which shall it be? How shall I woo? + Fair one, choose between the two. + +Tho' the wings of Love will brightly play, + When first he comes to woo thee, +There's a chance that he may fly away, + As fast as he flies _to_ thee. +While Friendship, tho' on foot she come, + No flights of fancy trying, +Will, therefore, oft be found at home, + When Love abroad is flying. +Which shall it be? How shall I woo? + Dear one, choose between the two. + +If neither feeling suits thy heart + Let's see, to please thee, whether +We may not learn some precious art + To mix their charms together; +One feeling, still more sweet, to form + From two so sweet already-- +A friendship that like love is warm, + A love like friendship steady. +Thus let it be, thus let me woo, + Dearest, thus we'll join the two. + + + + + + +SPRING AND AUTUMN. + + +Every season hath its pleasures; + Spring may boast her flowery prime, +Yet the vineyard's ruby treasures + Brighten Autumn's soberer time. +So Life's year begins and closes; + Days tho' shortening still can shine; +What tho' youth gave love and roses, + Age still leaves us friends and wine. + +Phillis, when she might have caught me, + All the Spring looked coy and shy, +Yet herself in Autumn sought me, + When the flowers were all gone by. +Ah, too late;--she found her lover + Calm and free beneath his vine, +Drinking to the Spring-time over, + In his best autumnal wine. + +Thus may we, as years are flying, + To their flight our pleasures suit, +Nor regret the blossoms dying, + While we still may taste the fruit, +Oh, while days like this are ours, + Where's the lip that dares repine? +Spring may take our loves and flowers, + So Autumn leaves us friends and wine. + + + + + + +LOVE ALONE. + + +If thou wouldst have thy charms enchant our eyes, +First win our hearts, for there thy empire lies: +Beauty in vain would mount a heartless throne, +Her Right Divine is given by Love alone. + +What would the rose with all her pride be worth, +Were there no sun to call her brightness forth? +Maidens, unloved, like flowers in darkness thrown, +Wait but that light which comes from Love alone. + +Fair as thy charms in yonder glass appear, +Trust not their bloom, they'll fade from year to year: +Wouldst thou they still should shine as first they shone, +Go, fix thy mirror in Love's eyes alone. + + + + + + + + +SACRED SONGS + + + + +TO + +EDWARD TUITE DALTON, ESQ. + +THE FIRST NUMBER + +OF + +SACRED SONGS + +IS INSCRIBED, + +BY HIS SINCERE AND AFFECTIONATE FRIEND, + +THOMAS MOORE. + +_Mayfield Cottage, Ashbourne_, + _May, 1816_ + + + + + + +SACRED SONGS + + + + + + +THOU ART, O GOD. + +(Air.--Unknown.)[1] + + + "The day is thine, the night is also thine: thou hast prepared the + light and the sun. + + "Thou hast set all the borders of the earth: thou hast made summer and + winter." + --_Psalm_ lxxiv. 16, 17. + + +Thou art, O God, the life and light + Of all this wondrous world we see; +Its glow by day, its smile by night, + Are but reflections caught from Thee. +Where'er we turn, thy glories shine, + And all things fair and bright are Thine! + +When Day, with farewell beam, delays + Among the opening clouds of Even, +And we can almost think we gaze + Thro' golden vistas into Heaven-- +Those hues, that make the Sun's decline +So soft, so radiant, LORD! are Thine. + +When Night, with wings of starry gloom, + O'ershadows all the earth and skies, +Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume + Is sparkling with unnumbered eyes-- +That sacred gloom, those fires divine, +So grand, so countless, LORD! are Thine. + +When youthful Spring around us breathes, + Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh; +And every flower the Summer wreaths + Is born beneath that kindling eye. +Where'er we turn, thy glories shine, +And all things fair and bright are Thine. + + +[1] I have heard that this air is by the late Mrs. Sheridan. It is sung to +the beautiful old words, "I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair." + + + + + + +THE BIRD, LET LOOSE. + +(AIR.--BEETHOVEN.) + + +The bird, let loose in eastern skies,[1] + When hastening fondly home, +Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies + Where idle warblers roam. +But high she shoots thro' air and light, + Above all low delay, +Where nothing earthly bounds her flight, + Nor shadow dims her way. + +So grant me, GOD, from every care + And stain of passion free, +Aloft, thro' Virtue's purer air, + To hold my course to Thee! +No sin to cloud, no lure to stay + My Soul, as home she springs;-- + +Thy Sunshine on her joyful way, + Thy Freedom in her wings! + + +[1] The carrier-pigeon, it is well known, flies at an elevated pitch, in +order to surmount every obstacle between her and the place to which she is +destined. + + + + + + +FALLEN IS THY THRONE. + +(AIR.--MARTINI.) + + +Fallen is thy Throne, oh Israel! + Silence is o'er thy plains; +Thy dwellings all lie desolate, + Thy children weep in chains. +Where are the dews that fed thee + On Etham's barren shore? +That fire from Heaven which led thee, + Now lights thy path no more. + +LORD! thou didst love Jerusalem-- + Once she was all thy own; +Her love thy fairest heritage,[1] + Her power thy glory's throne.[2] +Till evil came, and blighted + Thy long-loved olive-tree;[3]-- +And Salem's shrines were lighted + For other gods than Thee. + +Then sunk the star of Solyma-- + Then past her glory's day, +Like heath that, in the wilderness,[4] + The wild wind whirls away. +Silent and waste her bowers, + Where once the mighty trod, +And sunk those guilty towers, + While Baal reign'd as God. + +"Go"--said the LORD--"Ye Conquerors! + "Steep in her blood your swords, +"And raze to earth her battlements,[5] + "For they are not the LORD'S. +"Till Zion's mournful daughter + "O'er kindred bones shall tread, +"And Hinnom's vale of slaughter[6] + "Shall hide but half her dead!" + + +[1] "I have left mine heritage; I have given the clearly beloved of my +soul into the hands of her enemies."--_Jeremiah_, xii. 7. + +[2] "Do not disgrace the throne of thy glory."--_Jer_. xiv. 21. + +[3] "The LORD called by name a green olive-tree; fair, and of goodly +fruit," etc.--_Jer_. xi. 16. + +[4] "For he shall be like the heath in the desert."--_Jer_. xvii, 6. + +[5] "Take away her battlements; for they are not the LORD'S."--_Jer_. v. +10. + +[6] "Therefore, behold, the days come, saith the LORD, that it shall no +more be called Tophet, nor the Valley of the Son of Hinnom, but the Valley +or Slaughter; for they shall bury in Tophet till there be no place."-- +_Jer_. vii. 32. + + + + + + +WHO IS THE MAID? + +ST. JEROME'S LOVE. + +(AIR.--BEETHOVEN.) + + +Who is the Maid my spirit seeks, + Thro' cold reproof and slander's blight? +Has _she_ Love's roses on her cheeks? + Is _hers_ an eye of this world's light? +No--wan and sunk with midnight prayer + Are the pale looks of her I love; +Or if at times a light be there, + Its beam is kindled from above. + +I chose not her, my heart's elect, + From those who seek their Maker's shrine +In gems and garlands proudly decked, + As if themselves were things divine. +No--Heaven but faintly warms the breast + That beats beneath a broidered veil; +And she who comes in glittering vest + To mourn her frailty, still is frail. + +Not so the faded form I prize + And love, because its bloom is gone; +The glory in those sainted eyes + Is all the grace _her_ brow puts on. +And ne'er was Beauty's dawn so bright, + So touching as that form's decay, +Which, like the altar's trembling light, + In holy lustre wastes away. + + + + + + +THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW. + +(AIR.--STEVENSON.) + + +This world is all a fleeting show, + For man's illusion given; +The smiles of joy, the tears of woe, +Deceitful shine, deceitful flow-- + There's nothing true but Heaven! + +And false the light on glory's plume, + As fading hues of even; +And love and hope, and beauty's bloom, +Are blossoms gathered for the tomb-- + There's nothing bright but Heaven! + +Poor wanderers of a stormy day, + From wave to wave we're driven, +And fancy's flash and reason's ray +Serve but to light the troubled way-- + There's nothing calm but Heaven! + + + + + + +OH THOU WHO DRY'ST THE MOURNER'S TEAR. + +(AIR.--HAYDN.) + + + "He healeth the broken in heart and bindeth up their wounds," + --_Psalm_. cxlvii. 3. + + +Oh Thou who dry'st the mourner's tear, + How dark this world would be, +If, when deceived and wounded here, + We could not fly to Thee. +The friends who in our sunshine live, + When winter comes, are flown; +And he who has but tears to give, + Must weep those tears alone. +But Thou wilt heal that broken heart, + Which, like the plants that throw +Their fragrance from the wounded part, + Breathes sweetness out of woe. + +When joy no longer soothes or cheers, + And even the hope that threw +A moment's sparkle o'er our tears + Is dimmed and vanished too, +Oh, who would bear life's stormy doom, + Did not thy Wing of Love +Come, brightly wafting thro' the gloom + Our Peace-branch from above? +Then sorrow, touched by Thee, grows bright + With more than rapture's ray; +As darkness shows us worlds of light + We never saw by day! + + + + + + +WEEP NOT FOR THOSE. + +(AIR.--AVISON.) + + +Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb, + In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes, +Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom, + Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies. +Death chilled the fair fountain, ere sorrow had stained it; + 'Twas frozen in all the pure light of its course, +And but sleeps till the sunshine of Heaven has unchained it, + To water that Eden where first was its source. +Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb, + In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes, +Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom, + Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies. + +Mourn not for her, the young Bride of the Vale,[1] + Our gayest and loveliest, lost to us now, +Ere life's early lustre had time to grow pale, + And the garland of Love was yet fresh on her brow. +Oh, then was her moment, dear spirit, for flying + From this gloomy world, while its gloom was unknown-- +And the wild hymns she warbled so sweetly, in dying, + Were echoed in Heaven by lips like her own. +Weep not for her--in her springtime she flew + To that land where the wings of the soul are unfurled; +And now, like a star beyond evening's cold dew, + Looks radiantly down on the tears of this world. + + +[1] This second verse, which I wrote long after the first, alludes to the +fate of a very lovely and amiable girl, the daughter of the late Colonel +Bainbrigge, who was married in Ashbourne church, October 81, 1815, and +died of a fever in a few weeks after. The sound of her marriage-bells +seemed scarcely out of our ears when we heard of her death. During her +last delirium she sung several hymns, in a voice even clearer and sweeter +than usual, and among them were some from the present collection, +(particularly, "There's nothing bright but Heaven,") which this very +interesting girl had often heard me sing during the summer. + + + + + + +THE TURF SHALL BE MY FRAGRANT SHRINE. + +(AIR.--STEVENSON.) + + +The turf shall be my fragrant shrine; +My temple, LORD! that Arch of thine; +My censer's breath the mountain airs, +And silent thoughts my only prayers. + +My choir shall be the moonlight waves, +When murmuring homeward to their caves, +Or when the stillness of the sea, +Even more than music dreams of Thee! + +I'll seek, by day, some glade unknown, +All light and silence, like thy Throne; +And the pale stars shall be, at night, +The only eyes that watch my rite. + +Thy Heaven, on which 'tis bliss to look, +Shall be my pure and shining book, +Where I shall read, in words of flame, +The glories of thy wondrous name. + +I'll read thy anger in the rack +That clouds awhile the day-beam's track; +Thy mercy in the azure hue +Of sunny brightness, breaking thro'. + +There's nothing bright, above, below, +From flowers that bloom to stars that glow, +But in its light my soul can see +Some feature of thy Deity: + +There's nothing dark, below, above, +But in its gloom I trace thy Love, +And meekly wait that moment, when +Thy touch shall turn all bright again! + + + + + + +SOUND THE LOUD TIMBREL. + +MIRIAM'S SONG. + +(AlR.--AVISON.)[1] + + + "And Miriam, the Prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in + her band; and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with + dances." + --_Exod_. xv. 20. + + +Sound the loud Timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea! +JEHOVAH has triumphed--his people are free. +Sing--for the pride of the Tyrant is broken, + His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and brave-- +How vain was their boast, for the LORD hath but spoken, + And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave. +Sound the loud Timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea; +JEHOVAH has triumphed--his people are free. + +Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the LORD! +His word was our arrow, his breath was our sword-- +Who shall return to tell Egypt the story + Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride? +For the LORD hath looked out from his pillar of glory,[2] + And all her brave thousands are dashed in the tide. +Sound the loud Timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea, +JEHOVAH has triumphed--his people are free! + + +[1] I have so much altered the character of this air, which is from the +beginning of one of Avison's old-fashioned concertos, that, without this +acknowledgment, it could hardly, I think, be recognized. + +[2] "And it came to pass, that, in the morning watch the LORD looked unto +the host of the Egyptians, through the pillar of fire and of the cloud, +and troubled the host of the Egyptians."--_Exod_. xiv. 24. + + + + + + +GO, LET ME WEEP. + +(AIR.--STEVENSON.) + + +Go, let me weep--there's bliss in tears, +When he who sheds them inly feels +Some lingering stain of early years + Effaced by every drop that steals. +The fruitless showers of worldly woe +Fall dark to earth and never rise; +While tears that from repentance flow, + In bright exhalement reach the skies. + Go, let me weep. + +Leave me to sigh o'er hours that flew +More idly than the summer's wind, +And, while they past, a fragrance threw, +But left no trace of sweets behind.-- +The warmest sigh that pleasure heaves +Is cold, is faint to those that swell +The heart where pure repentance grieves + O'er hours of pleasure, loved too well. + Leave me to sigh. + + + + + + +COME NOT, OH LORD. + +(AIR.--HAYDN.) + + +Come not, oh LORD, in the dread robe of splendor + Thou worest on the Mount, in the day of thine ire; +Come veiled in those shadows, deep, awful, but tender, + Which Mercy flings over thy features of fire! + +LORD, thou rememberest the night, when thy Nation[1] + Stood fronting her Foe by the red-rolling stream; +O'er Egypt thy pillar shed dark desolation, + While Israel basked all the night in its beam. + +So, when the dread clouds of anger enfold Thee, + From us, in thy mercy, the dark side remove; +While shrouded in terrors the guilty behold Thee, + Oh, turn upon us the mild light of thy Love! + + +[1] "And it came between the camp of the Egyptians and the camp of Israel; +and it was a cloud and darkness to them, but it gave light by night to +these"--_Exod_. xiv. 20. + + + + + + +WERE NOT THE SINFUL MARY'S TEARS. + +(AIR.--STEVENSON.) + + +Were not the sinful Mary's tears + An offering worthy Heaven, +When, o'er the faults of former years, + She wept--and was forgiven? + +When, bringing every balmy sweet + Her day of luxury stored, +She o'er her Saviour's hallowed feet + The precious odors poured;-- +And wiped them with that golden hair, + Where once the diamond shone; +Tho' now those gems of grief were there + Which shine for GOD alone! + +Were not those sweets, so humbly shed-- + That hair--those weeping eyes-- +And the sunk heart, that inly bled-- + Heaven's noblest sacrifice? + +Thou that hast slept in error's sleep, + Oh, would'st thou wake in Heaven, +Like Mary kneel, like Mary weep, + "Love much" and be forgiven![1] + + +[1] "Her sins, which are many, are forgiven; for she loved much."--St. +Luke, vii.47. + + + + + + +AS DOWN IN THE SUNLESS RETREATS. + +(AIR.--HAYDN.) + + +As down in the sunless retreats of the Ocean, + Sweet flowers are springing no mortal can see, +So, deep in my soul the still prayer of devotion, + Unheard by the world, rises silent to Thee, + My God! silent to Thee-- + Pure, warm, silent, to Thee, + +As still to the star of its worship, tho' clouded, + The needle points faithfully o'er the dim sea, +So, dark as I roam, in this wintry world shrouded, + The hope of my spirit turns trembling to Thee, + My GOD! trembling to Thee-- + True, fond, trembling, to Thee. + + + + + + +BUT WHO SHALL SEE. + +(AIR.--STEVENSON.) + + +But who shall see the glorious day + When, throned on Zion's brow, +The LORD shall rend that veil away + Which hides the nations now?[1] +When earth no more beneath the fear + Of this rebuke shall lie;[2] +When pain shall cease, and every tear + Be wiped from every eye.[3] + +Then, Judah, thou no more shall mourn + Beneath the heathen's chain; +Thy days of splendor shall return, + And all be new again.[4] + +The Fount of Life shall then be quaft + In peace, by all who come;[5] +And every wind that blows shall waft + Some long-lost exile home. + + +[1] "And he will destroy, in this mountain, the face of the covering cast +over all people, and the vail that is spread over all nations."--Isaiah, +xxv. 7. + +[2] "The rebuke of his people shall he take away from off all the +earth."--Isaiah, xxv. 8. + +[3] "And GOD shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; neither shall +there be any more pain."--Rev. xxi:4. + +[4] "And he that sat upon the throne said, Behold, I make all things +new."--Rev. xxi. 5. + +[5] "And whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely."--Rev. +xxii. 17. + + + + + + +ALMIGHTY GOD! + +CHORUS OF PRIESTS. + +(AIR.--MOZART.) + + +Almighty GOD! when round thy shrine +The Palm-tree's heavenly branch we twine,[1] +(Emblem of Life's eternal ray, +And Love that "fadeth not away,") +We bless the flowers, expanded all,[2] +We bless the leaves that never fall, + +And trembling say,--"In Eden thus +"The Tree of Life may flower for us!" +When round thy Cherubs--smiling calm, +Without their flames--we wreathe the Palm. +Oh God! we feel the emblem true-- +Thy Mercy is eternal too, +Those Cherubs, with their smiling eyes, +That crown of Palm which never dies, +Are but the types of Thee above-- +Eternal Life, and Peace, and Love! + + +[1] "The Scriptures having declared that the Temple of Jerusalem was a +type of the Messiah, it is natural to conclude that the Palms, which made +so conspicuous a figure in that structure, represented that Life and +Immortality which were brought to light by the Gospel."--"Observations on +the Palm, as a sacred Emblem," by W. Tighe. + +[2] "And he carved all the walls of the house round about with carved +figures of cherubim, and palm-trees, and _open flowers_."--1 Kings, +VI. 29. + + + + + + +OH FAIR! OH PUREST! + +SAINT AUGUSTINE TO HIS SISTER. + +(AIR.--MOORE) + + +Oh fair! oh purest! be thou the dove +That flies alone to some sunny grove, +And lives unseen, and bathes her wing, +All vestal white, in the limpid spring. +There, if the hovering hawk be near, +That limpid spring in its mirror clear +Reflects him ere he reach his prey +And warns the timorous bird away, + Be thou this dove; +Fairest, purest, be thou this dove, + +The sacred pages of God's own book +Shall be the spring, the eternal brook, +In whose holy mirror, night and day, +Thou'lt study Heaven's reflected ray;-- +And should the foes of virtue dare, +With gloomy wing, to seek thee there, +Thou wilt see how dark their shadows lie +Between Heaven and thee, and trembling fly! + Be thou that dove; +Fairest, purest, be thou that dove. + + + + + + +ANGEL OF CHARITY. + +(AIR.--HANDEL) + + +Angel of Charity, who, from above, + Comest to dwell a pilgrim here, +Thy voice is music, thy smile is love, + And Pity's soul is in thy tear. +When on the shrine of God were laid + First-fruits of all most good and fair, +That ever bloomed in Eden's shade, + Thine was the holiest offering there. + +Hope and her sister, Faith, were given + But as our guides to yonder sky; +Soon as they reach the verge of heaven, + There, lost in perfect bliss, they die. +But, long as Love, Almighty Love, + Shall on his throne of thrones abide, +Thou, Charity, shalt dwell above, + Smiling for ever by His side! + + + + + + +BEHOLD THE SUN. + +(AIR.--LORD MORNINGTON.) + + +Behold the Sun, how bright + From yonder East he springs, +As if the soul of life and light + Were breathing from his wings. + +So bright the Gospel broke + Upon the souls of men; +So fresh the dreaming world awoke + In Truth's full radiance then. + +Before yon Sun arose, + Stars clustered thro' the sky-- +But oh how dim, how pale were those, + To His one burning eye! + +So Truth lent many a ray, + To bless the Pagan's night-- +But, Lord, how weak, how cold were they + To Thy One glorious Light! + + + + + + +LORD, WHO SHALL BEAR THAT DAY. + +(AIR.--DR. BOYCE.) + + +Lord, who shall bear that day, so dread, so splendid, + When we shall see thy Angel hovering o'er +This sinful world with hand to heaven extended, + And hear him swear by Thee that time's no more?[1] +When Earth shall feel thy fast consuming ray-- +Who, Mighty God, oh who shall bear that day? + +When thro' the world thy awful call hath sounded-- + "Wake, all ye Dead, to judgment wake, ye Dead!" +And from the clouds, by seraph eyes surrounded, + The Saviour shall put forth his radiant head;[2] +While Earth and Heaven before Him pass away[3]-- +Who, Mighty God, oh who shall bear that day? + + +When, with a glance, the Eternal Judge shall sever + Earth's evil spirits from the pure and bright, +And say to _those_, "Depart from me for ever!" + To _these_, "Come, dwell with me in endless light!"[4] +When each and all in silence take their way-- +Who, Mighty God, oh who shall bear that day? + + +[1] And the angel which I saw stand upon the sea and upon the earth, +lifted up his hand to heaven, and swear by Him that liveth for ever and +ever...that there should be time no longer."--_Rev_. x. 5, 6. + +[2] "They shall see the Son of Man coming in the clouds of heaven--and all +the angels with him."--_Matt_. xxiv. 90, and xxv. 80. + +[3] "From whose face the earth and the heaven fled away."--_Rev_. xx. ii. + +[4] "And before Him shall be gathered all nations, and He shall separate +them one from another. + +"Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand, Come, ye blessed of +my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you, etc. + +"Then shall He say also unto them on the left hand, Depart from me, ye +cursed, etc. + +"And these shall go away into everlasting punishment; but the righteous +into life eternal." + +--_Matt_ xxv. 32, _et seq_. + + + + + + +OH, TEACH ME TO LOVE THEE. + +(AIR.--HAYDN.) + + +Oh, teach me to love Thee, to feel what thou art, +Till, filled with the one sacred image, my heart + Shall all other passions disown; +Like some pure temple that shines apart, + Reserved for Thy worship alone. + +In joy and in sorrow, thro' praise and thro' blame, +Thus still let me, living and dying the same, + In _Thy_ service bloom and decay-- +Like some lone altar whose votive flame + In holiness wasteth away. + +Tho' born in this desert, and doomed by my birth +To pain and affliction, to darkness and dearth, + On Thee let my spirit rely-- +Like some rude dial, that, fixt on earth, + Still looks for its light from the sky. + + + + + + +WEEP, CHILDREN OF ISRAEL. + +(AIR.--STEVENSON.) + + +Weep, weep for him, the Man of God--[1] + In yonder vale he sunk to rest; +But none of earth can point the sod[2] + That flowers above his sacred breast. + Weep, children of Israel, weep! + +His doctrine fell like Heaven's rain.[3] + His words refreshed like Heaven's dew-- +Oh, ne'er shall Israel see again + A Chief, to GOD and her so true. + Weep, children of Israel, weep! + +Remember ye his parting gaze, + His farewell song by Jordan's tide, +When, full of glory and of days, + He saw the promised land--and died.[4] + Weep, children of Israel, weep! + +Yet died he not as men who sink, + Before our eyes, to soulless clay; +But, changed to spirit, like a wink + Of summer lightning, past away.[5] + Weep, children of Israel, weep! + + +[1] "And the children of Israel wept for Moses in the plains of Moab."-- +_Deut_. xxxiv, 8. + +[2] "And, he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab...but no man +knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day."--_Ibid_. ver. 6. + +[3] "My doctrine shall drop as the rain, my speech shall distil as the +dew."--_Moses' Song_. + +[4] "I have caused thee to see it with thine eyes, but thou shalt not go +over thither."--_Deut_. xxxiv. 4. + +[5] "As he was going to embrace Eleazer and Joshua, and was still +discoursing with them, a cloud stood over him on the sudden, and he +disappeared in a certain valley, although he wrote in the Holy Books that +he died, which was done out of fear, lest they should venture to say that, +because of his extraordinary virtue, he went to GOD."--_Josephus_, +book iv. chap. viii. + + + + + + +LIKE MORNING, WHEN HER EARLY BREEZE. + +(AIR. BEETHOVEN.) + + +Like morning, when her early breeze +Breaks up the surface of the seas, +That, in those furrows, dark with night, +Her hand may sow the seeds of light-- + +Thy Grace can send its breathings o'er +The Spirit, dark and lost before, +And, freshening all its depths, prepare +For Truth divine to enter there. + +Till David touched his sacred lyre. +In silence lay the unbreathing wire; +But when he swept its chords along, +Even Angels stooped to hear that song. + +So sleeps the soul, till Thou, oh LORD, +Shalt deign to touch its lifeless chord-- +Till, waked by Thee, its breath shall rise +In music, worthy of the skies! + + + + + + +COME, YE DISCONSOLATE. + +(AIR.--GERMAN.) + + +Come, ye disconsolate, where'er you languish, + Come, at God's altar fervently kneel; +Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish-- + Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal. + +Joy of the desolate, Light of the straying, + Hope, when all others die, fadeless and pure, +Here speaks the Comforter, in GOD'S name saying-- + "Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot cure." + +Go, ask the infidel, what boon he brings us + What charm for aching hearts _he_ can reveal, +Sweet as that heavenly promise Hope sings us-- + "Earth has no sorrow that GOD cannot heal." + + + + + + +AWAKE, ARISE, THY LIGHT IS COME. + +(AIR.--STEVENSON.) + + +Awake, arise, thy light is come;[1] + The nations, that before outshone thee, +Now at thy feet lie dark and dumb-- + The glory of the Lord is on thee! + +Arise--the Gentiles to thy ray, + From every nook of earth shall cluster; +And kings and princes haste to pay + Their homage to thy rising lustre.[2] + +Lift up thine eyes around, and see + O'er foreign fields, o'er farthest waters, +Thy exiled sons return to thee, + To thee return thy home-sick daughters.[3] + +And camels rich, from Midians' tents, + Shall lay their treasures down before thee; +And Saba bring her gold and scents, + To fill thy air and sparkle o'er thee.[4] + +See, who are these that, like a cloud,[5] + Are gathering from all earth's dominions, +Like doves, long absent, when allowed + Homeward to shoot their trembling pinions. + +Surely the isles shall wait for me,[6] + The ships of Tarshish round will hover, +To bring thy sons across the sea, + And waft their gold and silver over. + +And Lebanon thy pomp shall grace[7]-- + The fir, the pine, the palm victorious +Shall beautify our Holy Place, + And make the ground I tread on glorious. + +No more shall dischord haunt thy ways,[8] + Nor ruin waste thy cheerless nation; +But thou shalt call thy portal Praise, + And thou shalt name thy walls Salvation. + +The sun no more shall make thee bright,[9] + Nor moon shall lend her lustre to thee; +But God, Himself, shall be thy Light, + And flash eternal glory thro' thee. + +Thy sun shall never more go down; + A ray from heaven itself descended +Shall light thy everlasting crown-- + Thy days of mourning all are ended.[10] + +My own, elect, and righteous Land! + The Branch, for ever green and vernal, +Which I have planted with this hand-- + Live thou shalt in Life Eternal.[11] + + +[1] "Arise, shine; for thy light is come, and the glory of the Lord is +risen upon thee."--_Isaiah_, xl. + +[2] "And the Gentiles shall come to thy light, and kings to the brightness +of thy rising."--_Isaiah_, xl. + +[3] "Lift up thine eyes round about, and see; all they gather themselves +together, they come to thee: thy sons shall come from afar, and thy +daughters shall be nursed at thy side."--_Isaiah_, lx. + +[4] "The multitude of camels shall cover thee; the dromedaries of Midian +and Ephah; all they from Sheba shall come; they shall bring gold and +incense."--_Ib_. + +[5] "Who are these that fly as a cloud and as the doves to their +windows?"--_Ib_. + +[6] "Surely the isles shall wait for me, and the ships of Tarshish first, +to bring thy sons from far, their silver and their gold with +them."--_Ib_. + +[7] "The glory of Lebanon shall come unto thee; the fir-tree, the +pine-tree, and the box together, to beautify the place of my sanctuary; +and I will make the place of my feet glorious."--_Ib_. + +[8] "Violence shall no more be heard in thy land, wasting nor destruction +within thy borders; but thou shalt call thy walls, Salvation, and thy +gates, Praise.--_Isaiah_, lx. + +[9] "Thy sun shall be no more thy light by day; neither for brightness +shall the moon give light unto thee: but the Lord shall be unto thee an +everlasting light, and thy God thy glory."--_Ib_. + +[10] "Thy sun shall no more go down...for the Lord shall be thine +everlasting light, and the days of thy mourning shall be +ended."--_Ib_. + +[11] "Thy people also shall be all righteous; they shall inherit the land +for ever, the branch of my planting, the work of my hands."--_Ib_. + + + + + + +THERE IS A BLEAK DESERT. + +(AIR.--CRESCENTINI.) + + +There is a bleak Desert, where daylight grows weary +Of wasting its smile on a region so dreary-- + What may that Desert be? +'Tis Life, cheerless Life, where the few joys that come +Are lost, like that daylight, for 'tis not their home. + +There is a lone Pilgrim, before whose faint eyes +The water he pants for but sparkles and flies-- + Who may that Pilgrim be? +'Tis Man, hapless Man, thro' this life tempted on +By fair shining hopes, that in shining are gone. + +There is a bright Fountain, thro' that Desert stealing +To pure lips alone its refreshment revealing-- + What may that Fountain be? +'Tis Truth, holy Truth, that, like springs under ground, +By the gifted of Heaven alone can be found. + +There is a fair Spirit whose wand hath the spell +To point where those waters in secrecy dwell-- + Who may that Spirit be? +'Tis Faith, humble Faith, who hath learned that where'er +Her wand bends to worship the Truth must be there! + + + + + + +SINCE FIRST THY WORD. + +(AIR.--NICHOLAS FREEMAN.) + + +Since first Thy Word awaked my heart, +Like new life dawning o'er me, +Where'er I turn mine eyes, Thou art, + All light and love before me. +Naught else I feel, or hear or see-- + All bonds of earth I sever-- +Thee, O God, and only Thee + I live for, now and ever. + +Like him whose fetters dropt away + When light shone o'er his prison,[1] +My spirit, touched by Mercy's ray, + Hath from her chains arisen. +And shall a soul Thou bidst be free, + Return to bondage?--never! +Thee, O God, and only Thee + I live for, now and ever. + + +[1] "And, behold, the angel of the Lord came upon him, and a light shined +in the prison...and his chains fell off from his hands."--_Acts_, +xii. 7. + + + + + + +HARK! 'TIS THE BREEZE. + +(AIR.--ROUSSEAU.) + + +Hark! 'tis the breeze of twilight calling; + Earth's weary children to repose; +While, round the couch of Nature falling, + Gently the night's soft curtains close. +Soon o'er a world, in sleep reclining, + Numberless stars, thro' yonder dark, +Shall look, like eyes of Cherubs shining + From out the veils that hid the Ark. + +Guard us, oh Thou, who never sleepest, + Thou who in silence throned above, +Throughout all time, unwearied, keepest + Thy watch of Glory, Power, and Love. +Grant that, beneath thine eye, securely, + Our souls awhile from life withdrawn +May in their darkness stilly, purely, + Like "sealed fountains," rest till dawn. + + + + + + +WHERE IS YOUR DWELLING, YE SAINTED? + +(AIR.--HASSE.) + + +Where is your dwelling, ye Sainted? + Thro' what Elysium more bright +Than fancy or hope ever painted, + Walk ye in glory and light? +Who the same kingdom inherits? + Breathes there a soul that may dare +Look to that world of Spirits, + Or hope to dwell with you there? + +Sages! who even in exploring + Nature thro' all her bright ways, +Went like the Seraphs adoring, + And veiled your eyes in the blaze-- +Martyrs! who left for our reaping + Truths you had sown in your blood-- +Sinners! whom, long years of weeping + Chastened from evil to good-- + +Maidens! who like the young Crescent, + Turning away your pale brows +From earth and the light of the Present, + Looked to your Heavenly Spouse-- +Say, thro' what region enchanted + Walk ye in Heaven's sweet air? +Say, to what spirits 'tis granted, + Bright, souls, to dwell with you there? + + + + + + +HOW LIGHTLY MOUNTS THE MUSE'S WING. + +(AIR--ANONYMOUS.) + + +How lightly mounts the Muse's wing, + Whose theme is in the skies-- +Like morning larks that sweeter sing + The nearer Heaven they rise, + +Tho' love his magic lyre may tune, + Yet ah, the flowers he round it wreathes, +Were plucked beneath pale Passion's moon, + Whose madness in their ode breathes. + +How purer far the sacred lute, + Round which Devotion ties +Sweet flowers that turn to heavenly fruit, + And palm that never dies. + +Tho' War's high-sounding harp may be., + Most welcome to the hero's ears, +Alas, his chords of victory + Are wet, all o'er, with human tears. + +How far more sweet their numbers run, + Who hymn like Saints above, +No victor but the Eternal One, + No trophies but of Love! + + + + + + +GO FORTH TO THE MOUNT, + +(AIR.--STEVENSON.) + + +Go forth to the Mount; bring the olive-branch home,[1] +And rejoice; for the day of our freedom is come! +From that time,[2] when the moon upon Ajalon's vale, + Looking motionless down,[3] saw the kings of the earth, +In the presence of God's mighty champion grow pale-- + Oh, never had Judah an hour of such mirth! +Go forth to the Mount--bring the olive-branch home, +And rejoice, for the day of our freedom is come! + +Bring myrtle and palm--bring the boughs of each tree +That's worthy to wave o'er the tents of the Free.[4] +From that day when the footsteps of Israel shone + With a light not their own, thro' the Jordan's deep tide, +Whose waters shrunk back as the ark glided on[5]-- + Oh, never had Judah an hour of such pride! +Go forth to the Mount--bring the olive-branch home, +And rejoice, for the day of our Freedom is come! + + +[1] And that they should publish and proclaim in all their cities, and in +Jerusalem, saying, "Go forth unto the mount, and fetch olive-branches,'! +etc.--_Neh_. viii. 15. + +[2] "For since the days of Joshua the son of Nun unto that day had not the +children of Israel done so; and there was very great gladness."-- +_Ib_. 17. + +[3] "Sun, stand thou still upon Gibeon and thou Moon, in the valley of +Ajalon."--_Josh_. x. 12. + +[4] "Fetch olive-branches, and pine-branches, and myrtle-branches, and +palm-branches, and branches of thick trees, to make booths." + +--_Neh_. viii. 15. + +[5] "And the priests that bare the ark of the covenant of the Lord stood +firm on dry ground in the midst of Jordan, and all the Israelites passed +over on dry ground."--_Josh_. iii. 17. + + + + + + +IS IT NOT SWEET TO THINK, HEREAFTER. + +(AIR.--HAYDN.) + + +Is it not sweet to think, hereafter, + When the Spirit leaves this sphere. +Love, with deathless wing, shall waft her + To those she long hath mourned for here? + +Hearts from which 'twas death to sever. + Eyes this world can ne'er restore, +There, as warm, as bright as ever, + Shall meet us and be lost no more. + +When wearily we wander, asking + Of earth and heaven, where are they, +Beneath whose smile we once lay basking, + Blest and thinking bliss would stay? + +Hope still lifts her radiant finger + Pointing to the eternal Home, +Upon whose portal yet they linger, + Looking back for us to come. + +Alas, alas--doth Hope deceive us? + Shall friendship--love--shall all those ties +That bind a moment, and then leave us, + Be found again where nothing dies? + +Oh, if no other boon were given, + To keep our hearts from wrong and stain, +Who would not try to win a Heaven + Where all we love shall live again? + + + + + + +WAR AGAINST BABYLON. + +(AIR.--NOVELLO.) + + +"War against Babylon!" shout we around, + Be our banners through earth unfurled; +Rise up, ye nations, ye kings, at the sound-- + "War against Babylon!" shout thro' the world! +Oh thou, that dwellest on many waters,[1] + Thy day of pride is ended now; +And the dark curse of Israel's daughters + Breaks like a thundercloud over thy brow! + War, war, war against Babylon! + +Make bright the arrows, and gather the shields,[2] + Set the standard of God on high; +Swarm we, like locusts, o'er all her fields. + "Zion" our watchword, and "vengeance" our cry! +Woe! woe!--the time of thy visitation[3] + Is come, proud land, thy doom is cast-- +And the black surge of desolation + Sweeps o'er thy guilty head, at last! + War, war, war against Babylon! + + +[1] "Oh thou that dwellest upon many waters...thine end is +come."--_Jer_. li. 13. + +[2] "Make bright the arrows; gather the shields...set up the standard upon +the walls of Babylon"--_Jer_. li. 11, 12. + +[3] "Woe unto them! for their day is come, the time of their +visitation!"--_Jer_. l. 27. + + + + + + + + +A MELOLOGUE UPON NATIONAL MUSIC. + + + + +ADVERTISEMENT. + + +These verses were written for a Benefit at the Dublin Theatre, and were +spoken by Miss Smith, with a degree of success, which they owed solely to +her admirable manner of reciting them. I wrote them in haste; and it very +rarely happens that poetry which has cost but little labor to the writer +is productive of any great pleasure to the reader. Under this impression, +I certainly should not have published them if they had not found their way +into some of the newspapers with such an addition of errors to their own +original stock, that I thought it but fair to limit their responsibility +to those faults alone which really belong to them. + +With respect to the title which I have invented for this Poem, I feel even +more than the scruples of the Emperor Tiberius, when he humbly asked +pardon of the Roman Senate for using "the outlandish term, _monopoly_." +But the truth is, having written the Poem with the sole view of serving a +Benefit, I thought that an unintelligible word of this kind would not be +without its attraction for the multitude, with whom, "If 'tis not sense, +at least 'tis Greek." To some of my readers, however, it may not be +superfluous to say, that by "Melologue," I mean that mixture of recitation +of music, which is frequently adopted in the performance of Collins's Ode +on the Passions, and of which the most striking example I can remember is +the prophetic speech of Joad in the Athalie of Racine. + +T.M. + + + + + + +MELOLOGUE + + + + + + +A SHORT STRAIN OF MUSIC FROM THE ORCHESTRA. + + +_There_ breathes a language known and felt + Far as the pure air spreads its living zone; +Wherever rage can rouse, or pity melt, + That language of the soul is felt and known. + From those meridian plains, + Where oft, of old, on some high tower +The soft Peruvian poured his midnight strains, +And called his distant love with such sweet power, + That, when she heard the lonely lay, +Not worlds could keep her from his arms away,[1] + To the bleak climes of polar night, + Where blithe, beneath a sunless sky, +The Lapland lover bids his reindeer fly, +And sings along the lengthening waste of snow, + Gayly as if the blessed light + Of vernal Phoebus burned upon his brow; + Oh Music! thy celestial claim + Is still resistless, still the same; + And, faithful as the mighty sea + To the pale star that o'er its realm presides, + The spell-bound tides +Of human passion rise and fall for thee! + + +[1] "A certain Spaniard, one night late, met an Indian woman in the +streets of Cozco, and would have taken her to his home, but she cried out, +'For God's sake, Sir, let me go; for that pipe, which you hear in yonder +tower, calls me with great passion, and I cannot refuse the summons; for +love constrains me to go, that I may be his wife, and he my +husband.'"--"_Garcilasso de la Véga_," in Sir Paul Ryeaut's translation. + + + + + + +GREEK AIR + + + List! 'tis a Grecian maid that sings, + While, from Ilissus' silvery springs, + She draws the cool lymph in her graceful urn; +And by her side, in Music's charm dissolving, +Some patriot youth, the glorious past revolving, + Dreams of bright days that never can return; + When Athens nurst her olive bough + With hands by tyrant power unchained; + And braided for the muse's brow + A wreath by tyrant touch unstained. + When heroes trod each classic field + Where coward feet now faintly falter; + When every arm was Freedom's shield, + And every heart was Freedom's altar! + + + + + + +FLOURISH OF TRUMPETS. + + + Hark, 'tis the sound that charms + The war-steed's wakening ears!-- + Oh! many a mother folds her arms +Round her boy-soldier when that call she hears; + And, tho' her fond heart sink with fears, + Is proud to feel his young pulse bound + With valor's fever at the sound. + See, from his native hills afar + The rude Helvetian flies to war; + Careless for what, for whom he fights, + For slave or despot, wrongs or rights: + A conqueror oft--a hero never-- + Yet lavish of his life-blood still, + As if 'twere like his mountain rill, + And gushed forever! + + Yes, Music, here, even here, + Amid this thoughtless, vague career, +Thy soul-felt charm asserts its wondrous power.-- + There's a wild air which oft, among the rocks +Of his own loved land, at evening hour, + Is heard, when shepherds homeward pipe their flocks, +Whose every note hath power to thrill his mind + With tenderest thoughts; to bring around his knees +The rosy children whom he left behind, + And fill each little angel eye + With speaking tears, that ask him why + He wandered from his hut for scenes like these. +Vain, vain is then the trumpet's brazen roar; + Sweet notes of home, of love, are all he hears; +And the stern eyes that looked for blood before + Now melting, mournful, lose themselves in tears. + + + + + + +SWISS AIR.--"RANZ DES VACHES." + + + But wake, the trumpet's blast again, + And rouse the ranks of warrior-men! + Oh War, when Truth thy arm employs, +And Freedom's spirit guides the laboring storm, +'Tis then thy vengeance takes a hallowed form, +And like Heaven's lightning sacredly destroys. +Nor, Music, thro' thy breathing sphere, +Lives there a sound more grateful to the ear + Of Him who made all harmony, + Than the blest sound of fetters breaking, + And the first hymn that man awaking + From Slavery's slumber breathes to Liberty. + + + + + + +SPANISH CHORUS. + + + Hark! from Spain, indignant Spain, + Burst the bold, enthusiast strain, + Like morning's music on the air; + And seems in every note to swear + By Saragossa's ruined streets, + By brave Gerona's deathful story, + That, while _one_ Spaniard's life-blood beats, + That blood shall stain the conqueror's glory. + + + + + + +SPANISH AIR.--"YA DESPERTO." + + But ah! if vain the patriot's zeal, +If neither valor's force nor wisdom's light +Can break or melt that blood-cemented seal +Which shuts so close the books of Europe's right-- + What song shall then in sadness tell + Of broken pride, of prospects shaded, + Of buried hopes, remembered well + Of ardor quenched, and honor faded? + What muse shall mourn the breathless brave, + In sweetest dirge at Memory's shrine? + What harp shall sigh o'er Freedom's grave? + Oh Erin, Thine! + + + + + + + + +SET OF GLEES, + +MUSIC BY MOORE. + + + + + + +THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS. + + +When o'er the silent seas alone, +For days and nights we've cheerless gone, +Oh they who've felt it know how sweet, +Some sunny morn a sail to meet. + +Sparkling at once is every eye, +"Ship ahoy!" our joyful cry; +While answering back the sounds we hear, +"Ship ahoy!" what cheer? what...cheer? + + +Then sails are backed, we nearer come, +Kind words are said of friends and home; +And soon, too soon, we part with pain, +To sail o'er silent seas again. + + + + + + +HIP, HIP, HURRA! + + +Come, fill round a bumper, fill up to the brim, +He who shrinks from a bumper I pledge not to him; +Here's the girl that each loves, be her eye of what hue, +Or lustre, it may, so her heart is but true. + Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra! + +Come charge high, again, boy, nor let the full wine +Leave a space in the brimmer, where daylight may shine; +Here's "the friends of our youth--tho' of some we're bereft, +May the links that are lost but endear what are left!" + Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra! + +Once more fill a bumper--ne'er talk of the hour; +On hearts thus united old Time has no power. +May our lives, tho', alas! like the wine of to-night, +They must soon have an end, to the last flow as bright. + Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra! + +Quick, quick, now, I'll give you, since Time's glass will run +Even faster than ours doth, three bumpers in one; +Here's the poet who sings--here's the warrior who fights-- +Here's the, statesman who speaks, in the cause of men's rights! + Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra! + +Come, once more, a bumper!--then drink as you please, +Tho', _who_ could fill half-way to toast such as these? +Here's our next joyous meeting--and oh when we meet, +May our wine be as bright and our union as sweet! + Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra! + + + + + + +HUSH, HUSH! + + +"Hush, hush!"--how well +That sweet word sounds, +When Love, the little sentinel, + Walks his night-rounds; +Then, if a foot but dare + One rose-leaf crush, +Myriads of voices in the air + Whisper, "Hush, hush!" + +"Hark, hark, 'tis he!" + The night elves cry, +And hush their fairy harmony, + While he steals by; +But if his silvery feet + One dew-drop brush, +Voices are heard in chorus sweet, + Whispering, "Hush, hush!" + + + + + + +THE PARTING BEFORE THE BATTLE. + + +HE. + +On to the field, our doom is sealed, + To conquer or be slaves: +This sun shall see our nation free, + Or set upon our graves. + +SHE. + +Farewell, oh farewell, my love, + May heaven thy guardian be, +And send bright angels from above + To bring thee back to me. + +HE. + +On to the field, the battle-field, + Where freedom's standard waves, +This sun shall see our tyrant yield, + Or shine upon our graves. + + + + + + +THE WATCHMAN. + +A TRIO. + + +WATCHMAN. + +Past twelve o'clock--past twelve. + +Good night, good night, my dearest-- + How fast the moments fly! +'Tis time to part, thou hearest +That hateful watchman's cry. + +WATCHMAN. + +Past one o'clock--past one. + +Yet stay a moment longer-- + Alas! why is it so, +The wish to stay grows stronger, + The more 'tis time to go? + +WATCHMAN. + +Past two o'clock--past two. + +Now wrap thy cloak about thee-- + The hours must sure go wrong, +For when they're past without thee, + They're, oh, ten times as long. + +WATCHMAN. + +Past three o'clock--past three. + +Again that dreadful warning! + Had ever time such flight? +And see the sky, 'tis morning-- + So now, _indeed_, good night. + +WATCHMAN. + +Past three o'clock--past three. + +Goodnight, good night. + + + + + + +SAY, WHAT SHALL WE DANCE? + + + Say, what shall we dance? +Shall we bound along the moonlight plain, +To music of Italy, Greece, or Spain? + Say, what shall we dance? +Shall we, like those who rove +Thro' bright Grenada's grove, +To the light Bolero's measures move? +Or choose the Guaracia's languishing lay, +And thus to its sound die away? + + Strike the gay chords, +Let us hear each strain from every shore +That music haunts, or young feet wander o'er. +Hark! 'tis the light march, to whose measured time, +The Polish lady, by her lover led, +Delights thro' gay saloons with step untried to tread, +Or sweeter still, thro' moonlight walks +Whose shadows serve to hide +The blush that's raised by who talks +Of love the while by her side, +Then comes the smooth waltz, to whose floating sound +Like dreams we go gliding around, +Say, which shall we dance? which shall we dance? + + + + + + +THE EVENING GUN. + + +Remember'st thou that setting sun, + The last I saw with thee, +When loud we heard the evening gun +Peal o'er the twilight sea? +Boom!--the sounds appeared to sweep + Far o'er the verge of day, + +Till, into realms beyond the deep, + They seemed to die away. +Oft, when the toils of day are done, + In pensive dreams of thee, +I sit to hear that evening gun, + Peal o'er the stormy sea. +Boom!--and while, o'er billows curled. + The distant sounds decay, +I weep and wish, from this rough world + Like them to die away. + + + + + + + + +LEGENDARY BALLADS. + + + + +TO + +THE MISS FEILDINGS, + +THIS VOLUME + +IS INSCRIBED + +BY + +THEIR FAITHFUL FRIEND AND SERVANT, + +THOMAS MOORE. + + + + + + +LEGENDARY BALLADS + + + + + + +THE VOICE. + + +It came o'er her sleep, like a voice of those days, +When love, only love was the light of her ways; +And, soft as in moments of bliss long ago, +It whispered her name from the garden below. + +"Alas," sighed the maiden, "how fancy can cheat! +"The world once had lips that could whisper thus sweet; +"But cold now they slumber in yon fatal deep. +"Where, oh that beside them this heart too could sleep!" + +She sunk on her pillow--but no, 'twas in vain +To chase the illusion, that Voice came again! +She flew to the casement--but, husht as the grave, +In moonlight lay slumbering woodland and wave. + +"Oh sleep, come and shield me," in anguish she said, +"From that call of the buried, that cry of the Dead!" +And sleep came around her--but, starting, she woke, +For still from the garden that spirit Voice spoke! + +"I come," she exclaimed, "be thy home where it may, +"On earth or in Heaven, that call I obey;" +Then forth thro' the moonlight, with heart beating fast +And loud as a death-watch, the pale maiden past. + +Still round her the scene all in loneliness shone; +And still, in the distance, that Voice led her on; +But whither she wandered, by wave or by shore, +None ever could tell, for she came back no more. + +No, ne'er came she back,--but the watchman who stood, +That night, in the tower which o'ershadows the flood, +Saw dimly, 'tis said, o'er the moonlighted spray, +A youth on a steed bear the maiden away. + + + + + + +CUPID AND PSYCHE. + + +They told her that he, to whose vows she had listened + Thro' night's fleeting hours, was a spirit unblest;-- +Unholy the eyes, that beside her had glistened, + And evil the lips she in darkness had prest. + +"When next in thy chamber the bridegroom reclineth, + "Bring near him thy lamp, when in slumber he lies; +"And there, as the light, o'er his dark features shineth, + "Thou'lt see what a demon hath won all thy sighs!" + +Too fond to believe them, yet doubting, yet fearing, + When calm lay the sleeper she stole with her light; +And saw--such a vision!--no image, appearing + To bards in their day-dreams, was ever so bright. + +A youth, but just passing from childhood's sweet morning, + While round him still lingered its innocent ray; +Tho' gleams, from beneath his shut eyelids gave warning + Of summer-noon lightnings that under them lay. + +His brow had a grace more than mortal around it, + While, glossy as gold from a fairy-land mine, +His sunny hair hung, and the flowers that crowned it + Seemed fresh from the breeze of some garden divine. + +Entranced stood the bride, on that miracle gazing, + What late was but love is idolatry now; +But, ah--in her tremor the fatal lamp raising-- + A sparkle flew from it and dropt on his brow. + +All's lost--with a start from his rosy sleep waking; + The Spirit flashed o'er her his glances of fire; +Then, slow from the clasp of her snowy arms breaking, + Thus said, in a voice more of sorrow than ire: + +"Farewell--what a dream thy suspicion hath broken! + "Thus ever. Affection's fond vision is crost; +"Dissolved are her spells when a doubt is but spoken, + "And love, once distrusted, for ever is lost!" + + + + + + +HERO AND LEANDER. + + +"The night wind is moaning with mournful sigh, +"There gleameth no moon in the misty sky + "No star over Helle's sea; +"Yet, yet, there is shining one holy light, +"One love-kindled star thro' the deep of night, + "To lead me, sweet Hero, to thee!" + +Thus saying, he plunged in the foamy stream, +Still fixing his gaze on that distant beam + No eye but a lover's could see; +And still, as the surge swept over his head, +"To night," he said tenderly, "living or dead, + "Sweet Hero, I'll rest with thee!" + +But fiercer around him, the wild waves speed; +Oh, Love! in that hour of thy votary's need, + Where, where could thy Spirit be? +He struggles--he sinks--while the hurricane's breath +Bears rudely away his last farewell in death-- + "Sweet Hero, I die for thee!" + + + + + + +THE LEAF AND THE FOUNTAIN. + + +"Tell me, kind Seer, I pray thee, +"So may the stars obey thee + "So may each airy + "Moon-elf and fairy +"Nightly their homage pay thee! +"Say, by what spell, above, below, +"In stars that wink or flowers that blow, + "I may discover, + "Ere night is over, +"Whether my love loves me, or no, +"Whether my love loves me." + +"Maiden, the dark tree nigh thee +"Hath charms no gold could buy thee; + "Its stem enchanted. + "By moon-elves planted, +"Will all thou seek'st supply thee. +"Climb to yon boughs that highest grow, +"Bring thence their fairest leaf below; + "And thou'lt discover, + "Ere night is over, +"Whether thy love loves thee or no, +"Whether thy love loves thee." + +"See, up the dark tree going, +"With blossoms round me blowing, + "From thence, oh Father, + "This leaf I gather, +"Fairest that there is growing. +"Say, by what sign I now shall know +"If in this leaf lie bliss or woe + "And thus discover + "Ere night is over, +"Whether my love loves me or no, +"Whether my love loves me." + +"Fly to yon fount that's welling +"Where moonbeam ne'er had dwelling, + "Dip in its water + "That leaf, oh Daughter, +"And mark the tale 'tis telling;[1] +"Watch thou if pale or bright it glow, +"List thou, the while, that fountain's flow, + "And thou'lt discover + "Whether thy lover, +"Loved as he is, loves thee or no, +"Loved as he is, loves thee." + +Forth flew the nymph, delighted, +To seek that fount benighted; + But, scarce a minute + The leaf lay in it, +When, lo, its bloom was blighted! +And as she asked, with voice of woe-- +Listening, the while, that fountain's flow-- + "Shall I recover + "My truant lover?" +The fountain seemed to answer, "No;" +The fountain answered, "No." + + +[1] The ancients had a mode of divination somewhat similar to this; and we +find the Emperor Adrian, when he went to consult the Fountain of Castalia, +plucking a bay leaf, and dipping it into the sacred water. + + + + + + +CEPHALUS AND PROCRIS. + + +A hunter once in that grove reclined, + To shun the noon's bright eye, +And oft he wooed the wandering wind, + To cool his brow with its sigh, +While mute lay even the wild bee's hum, + Nor breath could stir the aspen's hair, +His song was still "Sweet air, oh come?" + While Echo answered, "Come, sweet Air!" + +But, hark, what sounds from the thicket rise! + What meaneth that rustling spray? +"'Tis the white-horned doe," the Hunter cries, + "I have sought since break of day." +Quick o'er the sunny glade he springs, + The arrow flies from his sounding bow, +"Hilliho-hilliho!" he gayly sings, + While Echo sighs forth "Hilliho!" + +Alas, 'twas not the white-horned doe + He saw in the rustling grove, +But the bridal veil, as pure as snow, + Of his own young wedded love. +And, ah, too sure that arrow sped, + For pale at his feet he sees her lie;-- +"I die, I die," was all she said, + While Echo murmured. "I die, I die!" + + + + + + +YOUTH AND AGE. + + +"Tell me, what's Love?" said Youth, one day, +To drooping Age, who crest his way.-- +"It is a sunny hour of play, +"For which repentance dear doth pay; + "Repentance! Repentance! +"And this is Love, as wise men say." +"Tell me, what's Love?" said Youth once more, +Fearful, yet fond, of Age's lore.-- +"Soft as a passing summer's wind, +"Wouldst know the blight it leaves behind? + "Repentance! Repentance! +"And this is Love--when love is o'er." + +"Tell me, what's Love? "said Youth again, +Trusting the bliss, but not the pain. +"Sweet as a May tree's scented air-- +"Mark ye what bitter fruit 'twill bear, + "Repentance! Repentance! +"This, this is Love--sweet Youth, beware." + +Just then, young Love himself came by, +And cast on Youth a smiling eye; +Who could resist that glance's ray? +In vain did Age his warning say, + "Repentance! Repentance!" +Youth laughing went with Love away. + + + + + + +THE DYING WARRIOR. + + +A wounded Chieftain, lying + By the Danube's leafy side, +Thus faintly said, in dying, + "Oh! bear, thou foaming tide. + "This gift to my lady-bride." + +'Twas then, in life's last quiver, + He flung the scarf he wore +Into the foaming river, + Which, ah too quickly, bore + That pledge of one no more! + +With fond impatience burning, + The Chieftain's lady stood, +To watch her love returning + In triumph down the flood, + From that day's field of blood. + +But, field, alas, ill-fated! + The lady saw, instead +Of the bark whose speed she waited, + Her hero's scarf, all red +With the drops his heart had shed. + +One shriek--and all was over-- + Her life-pulse ceased to beat; +The gloomy waves now cover + That bridal-flower so sweet. + And the scarf is her winding sheet! + + + + + + +THE MAGIC MIRROR. + + +"Come, if thy magic Glass have power + "To call up forms we sigh to see; +"Show me my, love, in that, rosy bower, + "Where last she pledged her truth to me." + +The Wizard showed him his Lady bright, + Where lone and pale in her bower she lay; +"True-hearted maid," said the happy Knight, + "She's thinking of one, who is far away." + +But, lo! a page, with looks of joy, + Brings tidings to the Lady's ear; +"'Tis," said the Knight, "the same bright boy, + "Who used to guide me to my dear." +The Lady now, from her favorite tree, + Hath, smiling, plucked a rosy flower: +"Such," he exclaimed, "was the gift that she + "Each morning sent me from that bower!" + +She gives her page the blooming rose, + With looks that say, "Like lightning, fly!" +"Thus," thought the Knight, "she soothes her woes, + "By fancying, still, her true-love nigh." +But the page returns, and--oh, what a sight, + For trusting lover's eyes to see!-- +Leads to that bower another Knight, + As young and, alas, as loved as he! + +"Such," quoth the Youth, "is Woman's love!" + Then, darting forth, with furious bound, +Dashed at the Mirror his iron glove, + And strewed it all in fragments round. + +MORAL. + +Such ills would never have come to pass, + Had he ne'er sought that fatal view; +The Wizard would still have kept his Glass, + And the Knight still thought his Lady true. + + + + + + +THE PILGRIM. + + +Still thus, when twilight gleamed, +Far off his Castle seemed, + Traced on the sky; +And still, as fancy bore him. +To those dim towers before him, +He gazed, with wishful eye; + And thought his home was nigh. + +"Hall of my Sires!" he said, +"How long, with weary tread, + "Must I toil on? +"Each eve, as thus I wander, +"Thy towers seem rising yonder, +"But, scarce hath daylight shone, + "When, like a dream, thou'rt gone!" + +So went the Pilgrim still, +Down dale and over hill, + Day after day; +That glimpse of home, so cheering, +At twilight still appearing, +But still, with morning's ray, + Melting, like mist, away! + +Where rests the Pilgrim now? +Here, by this cypress bough, + Closed his career; +That dream, of fancy's weaving, +No more his steps deceiving, +Alike past hope and fear, + The Pilgrim's home is here. + + + + + + +THE HIGH-BORN LADYE. + + +In vain all the Knights to the Underwald wooed her, + Tho' brightest of maidens, the proudest was she; +Brave chieftains they sought, and young minstrels they sued her, + But worthy were none of the high-born Ladye. + +"Whosoever I wed," said this maid, so excelling, + "That Knight must the conqueror of conquerors be; +"He must place me in halls fit for monarchs to dwell in:-- + "None else shall be Lord of the high-born Ladye! + +Thus spoke the proud damsel, with scorn looking round her + On Knights and on Nobles of highest degree; +Who humbly and hopelessly left as they found her, + And worshipt at distance the high-born Ladye. + +At length came a Knight, from a far land to woo her, + With plumes on his helm like the foam of the sea; +His visor was down--but, with voice that thrilled thro her, + He whispered his vows to the high-born Ladye. + +"Proud maiden! I come with high spousals to grace thee, + "In me the great conqueror of conquerors see; +"Enthroned in a hall fit for monarchs I'll place thee, + "And mine, thou'rt for ever, thou high-born Ladye!" + +The maiden she smiled, and in jewels arrayed her, + Of thrones and tiaras already dreamt she; +And proud was the step, as her bridegroom conveyed her + In pomp to his home, of that highborn Ladye. + +"But whither," she, starting, exclaims, "have you, led me? + "Here's naught but a tomb and a dark cypress tree; +"Is _this_ the bright palace in which thou wouldst wed me?" + With scorn in her glance said the high-born Ladye. + +"Tis the home," he replied, "of earth's loftiest creatures"-- + Then lifted his helm for the fair one to see; +But she sunk on the ground--'twas a skeleton's features + And Death was the Lord of the high-born Ladye! + + + + + + +THE INDIAN BOAT. + + + 'Twas midnight dark, + The seaman's bark, +Swift o'er the waters bore him, + When, thro' the night, + He spied a light +Shoot o'er the wave before him. +"A sail! a sail!" he cries; + "She comes from the Indian shore +"And to-night shall be our prize, + "With her freight of golden ore; + "Sail on! sail on!" + When morning shone +He saw the gold still clearer; + But, though so fast + The waves he past +That boat seemed never the nearer. + + Bright daylight came, + And still the same +Rich bark before him floated; + While on the prize + His wishful eyes +Like any young lover's doted: +"More sail! more sail!" he cries, + While the waves overtop the mast; +And his bounding galley flies, + Like an arrow before the blast. + Thus on, and on, + Till day was gone, +And the moon thro' heaven did hie her, + He swept the main, + But all in vain, +That boat seemed never the nigher. + + And many a day + To night gave way, +And many a morn succeeded: + While still his flight, + Thro day and night, +That restless mariner speeded. +Who knows--who knows what seas + He is now careering o'er? +Behind, the eternal breeze, + And that mocking bark, before! + For, oh, till sky + And earth shall die, +And their death leave none to rue it, + That boat must flee + O'er the boundless sea, +And that ship in vain pursue it. + + + + + + +THE STRANGER. + + +Come list, while I tell of the heart-wounded Stranger + Who sleeps her last slumber in this haunted ground; +Where often, at midnight, the lonely wood-ranger + Hears soft fairy music re-echo around. + +None e'er knew the name of that heart-stricken lady, + Her language, tho' sweet, none could e'er understand; +But her features so sunned, and her eyelash so shady, + Bespoke her a child of some far Eastern land. + +'Twas one summer night, when the village lay sleeping, + A soft strain of melody came o'er our ears; +So sweet, but so mournful, half song and half weeping, + Like music that Sorrow had steeped in her tears. + +We thought 'twas an anthem some angel had sung us;-- + But, soon as the day-beams had gushed from on high, +With wonder we saw this bright stranger among us, + All lovely and lone, as if strayed from the sky. + +Nor long did her life for this sphere seem intended, + For pale was her cheek, with that spirit-like hue, +Which comes when the day of this world is nigh ended, + And light from another already shines through. + +Then her eyes, when she sung--oh, but once to have seen them-- + Left thoughts in the soul that can never depart; +While her looks and her voice made a language between them, + That spoke more than holiest words to the heart. + +But she past like a day-dream, no skill could restore her-- + Whate'er was her sorrow, its ruin came fast; +She died with the same spell of mystery o'er her. + That song of past days on her lips to the last. + +Not even in the grave is her sad heart reposing-- + Still hovers the spirit of grief round her tomb; +For oft, when the shadows of midnight are closing, + The same strain of music is heard thro' the gloom. + + + + + + + + +BALLADS, SONGS, ETC. + + + + + + +TO-DAY, DEAREST! IS OURS. + + +To-day, dearest! is ours; + Why should Love carelessly lose it? +This life shines or lowers + Just as we, weak mortals, use it. +'Tis time enough, when its flowers decay, + To think of the thorns of Sorrow +And Joy, if left on the stem to-day, + May wither before to-morrow. + +Then why, dearest! so long + Let the sweet moments fly over? +Tho' now, blooming and young + Thou hast me devoutly thy lover; +Yet Time from both, in his silent lapse, + Some treasure may steal or borrow; +Thy charms may be less in bloom, perhaps, + Or I less in love to-morrow. + + + + + + +WHEN ON THE LIP THE SIGH DELAYS. + + +When on the lip the sigh delays, + As if 'twould linger there for ever; +When eyes would give the world to gaze, + Yet still look down and venture never; +When, tho' with fairest nymphs we rove, + There's one we dream of more than any-- +If all this is not real love, + 'Tis something wondrous like it, Fanny! + +To think and ponder, when apart, + On all we've got to say at meeting; +And yet when near, with heart to heart, + Sit mute and listen to their beating: +To see but one bright object move, + The only moon, where stars are many-- +If all this is not downright love, + I prithee say what _is_, my Fanny! + +When Hope foretells the brightest, best, + Tho' Reason on the darkest reckons; +When Passion drives us to the west, + Tho' Prudence to the eastward beckons; +When all turns round, below, above, + And our own heads the most of any-- +If this is not stark, staring love, + Then you and I are sages, Fanny. + + + + + + +HERE, TAKE MY HEART. + + +Here, take my heart--'twill be safe in thy keeping, + While I go wandering o'er land and o'er sea; +Smiling or sorrowing, waking or sleeping, + What need I care, so my heart is with thee? + +If in the race we are destined to run, love, + They who have light hearts the happiest be, +Then happier still must be they who have none, love. + And that will be _my_ case when mine is with thee. + +It matters not where I may now be a rover, + I care not how many bright eyes I may see; +Should Venus herself come and ask me to love her, + I'd tell her I couldn't--my heart is with thee. + +And there let it lie, growing fonder and, fonder-- + For, even should Fortune turn truant to me, +Why, let her go--I've a treasure beyond her, + As long as my heart's out at interest With thee! + + + + + + +OH, CALL IT BY SOME BETTER NAME. + + +Oh, call it by some better name, + For Friendship sounds too cold, +While Love is now a worldly flame, + Whose shrine must be of gold: +And Passion, like the sun at noon, + That burns o'er all he sees, +Awhile as warm will set as soon-- + Then call it none of these. + +Imagine something purer far, + More free from stain of clay +Than Friendship, Love, or Passion are, + Yet human, still as they: +And if thy lip, for love like this, + No mortal word can frame, +Go, ask of angels what it is, + And call it by that name! + + + + + + +POOR WOUNDED HEART + + + Poor wounded heart, farewell! + Thy hour of rest is come; + Thou soon wilt reach thy home, + Poor wounded heart, farewell! +The pain thou'lt feel in breaking + Less bitter far will be, +Than that long, deadly aching, + This life has been to thee. + + There--broken heart, farewell! + The pang is o'er-- + The parting pang is o'er; + Thou now wilt bleed no more. + Poor broken heart, farewell! +No rest for thee but dying-- + Like waves whose strife is past, +On death's cold shore thus lying, + Thou sleepst in peace at last-- + Poor broken heart, farewell! + + + + + + +THE EAST INDIAN. + + +Come, May, with all thy flowers, + Thy sweetly-scented thorn, +Thy cooling evening showers, + The fragrant breath at morn: +When, May-flies haunt the willow, + When May-buds tempt the bee, +Then o'er the shining billow + My love will come to me. + +From Eastern Isles she's winging + Thro' watery wilds her way, +And on her cheek is bringing + The bright sun's orient ray: +Oh, come and court her hither, + Ye breezes mild and warm-- +One winter's gale would wither + So soft, so pure a form. + +The fields where she was straying + Are blest with endless light, +With zephyrs always playing + Thro' gardens always bright. +Then now, sweet May! be sweeter + Than e'er, thou'st been before; +Let sighs from roses meet her + When she comes near our shore. + + + + + + +POOR BROKEN FLOWER. + + +Poor broken flower! what art can now recover thee? + Torn from the stem that fed thy rosy breath-- + In vain the sunbeams seek + To warm that faded cheek; +The dews of heaven, that once like balm fell over thee; + Now are but tears, to weep thy early death. + +So droops the maid whose lover hath forsaken her,-- + Thrown from his arms, as lone and lost as thou; + In vain the smiles of all + Like sunbeams round her fall: +The only smile that could from death awaken her, + That smile, alas! is gone to others now. + + + + + + +THE PRETTY ROSE-TREE. + + + Being weary of love, + I flew to the grove, +And chose me a tree of the fairest; + Saying, "Pretty Rose-tree, + "Thou my mistress shall be, + "And I'll worship each bud thou bearest. + "For the hearts of this world are hollow, + "And fickle the smiles we follow; + "And 'tis sweet, when all + "Their witcheries pall +"To have a pure love to fly to: + "So, my pretty Rose-tree, + "Thou my mistress shalt be, +"And the only one now I shall sigh to." + + When the beautiful hue + Of thy cheek thro' the dew +Of morning is bashfully peeping, + "Sweet tears," I shall say + (As I brush them away), + "At least there's no art in this weeping" + Altho thou shouldst die to-morrow; + 'Twill not be from pain or sorrow; + And the thorns of thy stem + Are not like them +With which men wound each other; + So, my pretty Rose-tree, + Thou my mistress shalt be +And I'll never again sigh to another. + + + + + + +SHINE OUT, STARS! + + +Shine out, Stars! let Heaven assemble + Round us every festal ray, +Lights that move not, lights that tremble, + All to grace this Eve of May. +Let the flower-beds all lie waking, + And the odors shut up there, +From their downy prisons breaking, + Fly abroad thro sea and air. + +And Would Love, too, bring his sweetness, + With our other joys to weave, +Oh what glory, what completeness, + Then would crown this bright May Eve! +Shine out, Stars! let night assemble + Round us every festal ray, +Lights that move not, lights that tremble, + To adorn this Eve of May. + + + + + + +THE YOUNG MULETEERS OF GRENADA. + +Oh, the joys of our evening posada, + Where, resting, at close of day, +We, young Muleteers of Grenada, + Sit and sing the sunshine away; +So merry, that even the slumbers + That round us hung seem gone; +Till the lute's soft drowsy numbers + Again beguile them on. + Oh the joys, etc. + +Then as each to his loved sultana + In sleep still breathes the sigh, +The name of some black-eyed Tirana, + Escapes our lips as we lie. +Till, with morning's rosy twinkle, + Again we're up and gone-- +While the mule-bell's drowsy tinkle + Beguiles the rough way on. +Oh the joys of our merry posada, + Where, resting at close of day, +We, young Muleteers of Grenada, + Thus sing the gay moments away. + + + + + + +TELL HER, OH, TELL HER. + + +Tell her, oh, tell her, the lute she left lying +Beneath the green arbor is still lying there; +And breezes like lovers around it are sighing, +But not a soft whisper replies to their prayer. + +Tell her, oh, tell her, the tree that, in going, +Beside the green arbor she playfully set, +As lovely as, ever is blushing and blowing, +And not a, bright leaflet has fallen from it yet. + +So while away from that arbor forsaken, +The maiden is wandering, still let her be +As true as the lute that no sighing can waken +And blooming for ever, unchanged as the tree! + + + + + + +NIGHTS OF MUSIC. + + +Nights of music, nights of loving, + Lost too soon, remembered long. +When we went by moonlight roving, + Hearts all love and lips all song. +When this faithful lute recorded + All my spirit felt to thee; +And that smile the song rewarded-- + Worth Whole years of fame to me! + +Nights of song, and nights of splendor, +Filled with joys too sweet to last-- +Joys that, like the star-light, tender, +While they shore no shadow cast. +Tho' all other happy hours + From my fading memory fly, +Of, that starlight, of those bowers, + Not a beam, a leaf may die! + + + + + + +OUR FIRST YOUNG LOVE. + + +Our first young love resembles + That short but brilliant ray, +Which smiles and weeps and trembles +Thro' April's earliest day. +And not all life before us, + Howe'er its lights may play, +Can shed a lustre o'er us + Like that first April ray. + +Our summer sun may squander +A blaze serener, grander; + Our autumn beam + May, like a dream + Of heaven, die calm away; +But no--let life before us + Bring all the light it may, +'Twill ne'er shed lustre o'er us + Like that first youthful ray. + + + + + + +BLACK AND BLUE EYES. + + + The brilliant black eye + May in triumph let fly +All its darts without Caring who feels 'em; + But the soft eye of blue, + Tho' it scatter wounds too, +Is much better pleased when it heals 'em-- + Dear Fanny! +Is much better pleased when it heals 'em. + + The black eye may say, + "Come and worship my ray-- +"By adoring, perhaps you may move me!" + But the blue eye, half hid, + Says from under its lid, +"I love and am yours, if you love me!" + Yes, Fanny! + The blue eye, half hid, + Says, from under its lid, +"I love and am yours, if you love me!" + + Come tell me, then, why + In that lovely blue eye +Not a charm of its tint I discover; + Oh why should you wear + The only blue pair +That ever said "No" to a lover? + Dear Fanny! + Oh, why should you wear + The only blue pair +That ever said "No" to a lover? + + + + + + +DEAR FANNY. + + +"She has beauty, but still you must keep your heart cool; + "She has wit, but you mustn't be caught, so;" +Thus Reason advises, but Reason's a fool, + And 'tis not the first time I have thought so, + Dear Fanny. + 'Tis not the first time I have thought so. + +"She is lovely; then love her, nor let the bliss fly; + "'Tis the charm of youth's vanishing season;" +Thus Love has advised me and who will deny + That Love reasons much better than Reason, + Dear Fanny? + Love reasons much better than Reason. + + + + + + +FROM LIFE WITHOUT FREEDOM. + + +From life without freedom, say, who would not fly? +For one day of freedom, oh! who would not die? +Hark!--hark! 'tis the trumpet! the call of the brave, +The death-song of tyrants, the dirge of the slave. +Our country lies bleeding--haste, haste to her aid; +One arm that defends is worth hosts that invade. + +In death's kindly bosom our last hope remains-- +The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has no chains. +On, on to the combat! the heroes that bleed +For virtue and mankind are heroes indeed. +And oh, even if Freedom from _this_ world be driven, +Despair not--at least we shall find her in heaven. + + + + + + +HERE'S THE BOWER. + + +Here's the bower she loved so much, + And the tree she planted; +Here's the harp she used to touch-- + Oh, how that touch enchanted! +Roses now unheeded sigh; + Where's the hand to wreathe them? +Songs around neglected lie; + Where's the lip to breathe them? + Here's the bower, etc. + +Spring may bloom, but she we loved + Ne'er shall feel its sweetness; +Time, that once so fleetly moved, + Now hath lost its fleetness. +Years were days, when here she strayed, + Days were moments near her; +Heaven ne'er formed a brighter maid, + Nor Pity wept a dearer! + Here's the bower, etc. + + + + + + +I SAW THE MOON RISE CLEAR. + +A FINLAND LOVE SONG. + + +I saw the moon rise clear + O'er hills and vales of snow +Nor told my fleet reindeer + The track I wished to go. +Yet quick he bounded forth; + For well my reindeer knew +I've but one path on earth-- + The path which leads to you. + +The gloom that winter cast, + How soon the heart forgets, +When summer brings, at last, + Her sun that never sets! +So dawned my love for you; + So, fixt thro' joy and pain, +Than summer sun more true, + 'Twill never set again. + + + + + + +LOVE AND THE SUN-DIAL. + + +Young Love found a Dial once in a dark shade +Where man ne'er had wandered nor sunbeam played; +"Why thus in darkness lie?" whispered young Love, +"Thou, whose gay hours in sunshine should move." +"I ne'er," said the Dial, "have seen the warm sun, +"So noonday and midnight to me, Love, are one." + +Then Love took the Dial away from the shade, +And placed her where Heaven's beam warmly played. +There she reclined, beneath Love's gazing eye, +While, marked all with sunshine, her hours flew by. +"Oh, how," said the Dial, "can any fair maid +"That's born to be shone upon rest in the shade?" + +But night now comes on and the sunbeam's o'er, +And Love stops to gaze on the Dial no more. +Alone and neglected, while bleak rain and winds +Are storming around her, with sorrow she finds +That Love had but numbered a few sunny hours,-- +Then left the remainder to darkness and showers! + + + + + + +LOVE AND TIME. + + +'Tis said--but whether true or not + Let bards declare who've seen 'em-- +That Love and Time have only got + One pair of wings between 'em. +In Courtship's first delicious hour, + The boy full oft can spare 'em; +So, loitering in his lady's bower, + He lets the gray-beard wear 'em. + Then is Time's hour of play; + Oh, how be flies, flies away! + +But short the moments, short as bright, + When he the wings can borrow; +If Time to-day has had his flight, + Love takes his turn to-morrow. +Ah! Time and Love, your change is then + The saddest and most trying, +When one begins to limp again, + And t'other takes to flying. + Then is Love's hour to stray; + Oh, how he flies, flies away! + +But there's a nymph, whose chains I feel, + And bless the silken fetter, +Who knows, the dear one, how to deal + With Love and Time much better. +So well she checks their wanderings, + So peacefully she pairs 'em, +That Love with her ne'er thinks of wings, + And Time for ever wears 'em. + This is Time's holiday; + Oh, how he flies, flies away! + + + + + + +LOVE'S LIGHT SUMMER-CLOUD. + + +Pain and sorrow shall vanish before us-- + Youth may wither, but feeling will last; +All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er us + Love's light summer-cloud only shall cast. + Oh, if to love thee more + Each hour I number o'er-- + If this a passion be + Worthy of thee, +Then be happy, for thus I adore thee. + Charms may wither, but feeling shall last: +All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er thee, + Love's light summer-cloud sweetly shall cast. +Rest, dear bosom, no sorrows shall pain thee, + Sighs of pleasure alone shalt thou steal; +Beam, bright eyelid, no weeping shall stain thee, + Tears of rapture alone shalt thou feel. + Oh, if there be a charm, + In love, to banish harm-- + If pleasure's truest spell + Be to love well, +Then be happy, for thus I adore thee, + Charms may wither, but feeling shall last; +All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er thee. + Love's light summer-cloud sweetly shall cast. + + + + + + +LOVE, WANDERING THRO' THE GOLDEN MAZE. + + +Love, wandering through the golden maze + Of my beloved's hair, +Traced every lock with fond delays, + And, doting, lingered there. +And soon he found 'twere vain to fly; + His heart was close confined, +For, every ringlet was a tie-- + A chain by beauty twined. + + + + + + +MERRILY EVERY BOSOM BOUNDETH. + +(THE TYROLESE SONG OF LIBERTY.) + + +Merrily every bosom boundeth, + Merrily, oh! +Where the song of Freedom soundeth, + Merrily oh! + There the warrior's arms + Shed more splendor; + There the maiden's charm's + Shine more tender; +Every joy the land surroundeth, + Merrily, oh! merrily, oh! + +Wearily every bosom pineth, + Wearily, oh! +Where the bond of slavery twineth + Wearily, oh + There the warrior's dart + Hath no fleetness; + There the maiden's heart + Hath no sweetness-- +Every flower of life declineth, + Wearily, oh! wearily, oh! + +Cheerily then from hill and valley, + Cheerily, oh! +Like your native fountain sally, + Cheerily, oh! + If a glorious death, + Won by bravery, + Sweeter be than breath + Sighed in slavery, +Round the flag of Freedom rally, + Cheerily, oh! cheerily, oh! + + + + + + +REMEMBER THE TIME. + +(THE CASTILIAN MAID.) + + +Remember the time, in La Mancha's shades, + When our moments so blissfully flew; +When you called me the flower of Castilian maids, + And I blushed to be called so by you; +When I taught you to warble the gay seguadille. + And to dance to the light castanet; +Oh, never, dear youth, let you roam where you will, + The delight of those moments forget. + +They tell me, you lovers from Erin's green isle, + Every hour a new passion can feel; +And that soon, in the light of some lovelier smile. + You'll forget the poor maid of Castile. +But they know not how brave in battle you are, + Or they never could think you would rove; +For 'tis always the spirit most gallant in war + That is fondest and truest in Love. + + + + + + +OH, SOON RETURN. + + +Our white sail caught the evening ray, + The wave beneath us seemed to burn, +When all the weeping maid could say, + Was, "Oh, soon return!" +Thro' many a clime our ship was driven +O'er many a billow rudely thrown; +Now chilled beneath a northern heaven, + Now sunned in summer's zone: +And still, where'er we bent our way, + When evening bid the west wave burn, +I fancied still I heard her say, + "Oh, soon return!" + +If ever yet my bosom found + Its thoughts one moment turned from thee, +'Twas when the combat raged around, + And brave men looked to me. +But tho' the war-field's wild alarm + For gentle love was all unmeet, +He lent to glory's brow the charm, + Which made even danger sweet. +And still, when victory's calm came o'er + The hearts where rage had ceased to burn, +Those parting words I heard once more, + "Oh, soon return!--Oh, soon return!" + + + + + + +LOVE THEE? + + +Love thee?--so well, so tenderly + Thou'rt loved, adored by me, +Fame, fortune, wealth, and liberty, + Were worthless without thee. +Tho' brimmed with blessings, pure and rare, + Life's cup before me lay, +Unless thy love were mingled there, + I'd spurn the draft away. +Love thee?--so well, so tenderly, + Thou'rt loved, adored by me, +Fame, fortune, wealth, and liberty, + Are worthless without thee. + +Without thy smile, the monarch's lot + To me were dark and lone, +While, _with_ it, even the humblest cot + Were brighter than his throne. +Those worlds for which the conqueror sighs + For me would have no charms; +My only world thy gentle eyes-- + My throne thy circling arms! +Oh, yes, so well, so tenderly + Thou'rt loved, adored by me, +Whole realms of light and liberty + Were worthless without thee. + + + + + + +ONE DEAR SMILE. + + +Couldst thou look as dear as when + First I sighed for thee; +Couldst thou make me feel again +Every wish I breathed thee then, + Oh, how blissful life would be! +Hopes that now beguiling leave me, + Joys that lie in slumber cold-- +All would wake, couldst thou but give me + One dear smile like those of old. + +No--there's nothing left us now, + But to mourn the past; +Vain was every ardent vow-- +Never yet did Heaven allow + Love so warm, so wild, to last. +Not even hope could now deceive me-- + Life itself looks dark and cold; +Oh, thou never more canst give me + One dear smile like those of old + + + + + + +YES, YES, WHEN THE BLOOM. + + +Yes, yes, when, the bloom of Love's boyhood is o'er, + He'll turn into friendship that feels no decay; +And, tho' Time may take from him the wings he once wore, +The charms that remain will be bright as before, + And he'll lose but his young trick of flying away. +Then let it console thee, if Love should not stay, + That Friendship our last happy moments will crown: +Like the shadows of morning, Love lessens away, +While Friendship, like those at the closing of day, + Will linger and lengthen as life's sun goes down. + + + + + + +THE DAY OF LOVE. + + + The beam of morning trembling + Stole o'er the mountain brook, + With timid ray resembling + Affection's early look. +Thus love begins--sweet morn of love! + + The noon-tide ray ascended, + And o'er the valley's stream + Diffused a glow as splendid + As passion's riper dream. +Thus love expands--warm noon of love! + + But evening came, o'ershading + The glories of the sky, + Like faith and fondness fading + From passion's altered eye. +Thus love declines--cold eve of love! + + + + + + +LUSITANIAN WAR-SONG. + + +The song of war shall echo thro' our mountains, + Till not one hateful link remains + Of slavery's lingering chains; + Till not one tyrant tread our plains, +Nor traitor lip pollute our fountains. + No! never till that glorious day + Shall Lusitania's sons be gay, + Or hear, oh Peace, thy welcome lay +Resounding thro' her sunny mountains. + +The song of war shall echo thro' our mountains, + Till Victory's self shall, smiling, say, + "Your cloud of foes hath past away, + "And Freedom comes with new-born ray +"To gild your vines and light your fountains." + Oh, never till that glorious day + Shall Lusitania's sons be gay, + Or hear, sweet Peace, thy welcome lay +Resounding thro' her sunny mountains. + + + + + + +THE YOUNG ROSE. + + +The young rose I give thee, so dewy and bright, +Was the floweret most dear to the sweet bird of night, +Who oft, by the moon, o'er her blushes hath hung, +And thrilled every leaf with the wild lay he sung. + +Oh, take thou this young rose, and let her life be +Prolonged by the breath she will borrow from thee; +For, while o'er her bosom thy soft notes shall thrill, +She'll think the sweet night-bird is courting her still. + + + + + + +WHEN MIDST THE GAY I MEET. + + +When midst the gay I meet + That gentle smile of thine, +Tho' still on me it turns most sweet, + I scarce can call it mine: +But when to me alone + Your secret tears you show, +Oh, then I feel those tears my own, + And claim them while they flow. +Then still with bright looks bless + The gay, the cold, the free; +Give smiles to those who love you less, + But keep your tears for me. + +The snow on Jura's steep + Can smile in many a beam, +Yet still in chains of coldness sleep. + How bright soe'er it seem. +But, when some deep-felt ray + Whose touch is fire appears, +Oh, then the smile is warmed away, + And, melting, turns to tears. +Then still with bright looks bless + The gay, the cold, the free; +Give smiles to those who love you less, + But keep your tears for me. + + + + + + +WHEN TWILIGHT DEWS. + + +When twilight dews are falling soft + Upon the rosy sea, love, +I watch the star, whose beam so oft + Has lighted me to thee, love. +And thou too, on that orb so dear, + Dost often gaze at even, +And think, tho' lost for ever here, + Thou'lt yet be mine in heaven. + +There's not a garden walk I tread, + There's not a flower I see, love, +But brings to mind some hope that's fled, + Some joy that's gone with thee, Love. +And still I wish that hour was near, + When, friends and foes forgiven, +The pains, the ills we've wept thro' here + May turn to smiles in heaven. + + + + + + +YOUNG JESSICA. + + +Young Jessica sat all the day, + With heart o'er idle love-thoughts pining; +Her needle bright beside her lay, + So active once!--now idly shining. +Ah, Jessy, 'tis in idle hearts + That love and mischief are most nimble; +The safest shield against the darts + Of Cupid is Minerva's thimble. + +The child who with a magnet plays + Well knowing all its arts, so wily, +The tempter near a needle lays. + And laughing says, "We'll steal it slily." +The needle, having naught to do, + Is pleased to let the magnet wheedle; +Till closer, closer come the two, + And--off, at length, elopes the needle. + +Now, had this needle turned its eye + To some gay reticule's construction, +It ne'er had strayed from duty's tie, + Nor felt the magnet's sly seduction. +Thus, girls, would you keep quiet hearts, + Your snowy fingers must be nimble; +The safest shield against the darts + Of Cupid is Minerva's thimble. + + + + + + +HOW HAPPY, ONCE. + + +_How_ happy, once, tho' winged with sighs, + My moments flew along, +While looking on those smiling eyes, + And listening to thy magic song! +But vanished now, like summer dreams, + Those moments smile no more; +For me that eye no longer beams, + That song for me is o'er. +Mine the cold brow, + That speaks thy altered vow, +While others feel thy sunshine now. + +Oh, could I change my love like thee, + One hope might yet be mine-- +Some other eyes as bright to see, + And hear a voice as sweet as thine: +But never, never can this heart + Be waked to life again; +With thee it lost its vital part, + And withered then! +Cold its pulse lies, +And mute are even its sighs, +All other grief it now defies. + + + + + + +I LOVE BUT THEE. + + +If, after all, you still will doubt and fear me, + And think this heart to other loves will stray, +If I must swear, then, lovely doubter, hear me; + By every dream I have when thou'rt away, +By every throb I feel when thou art near me, + I love but thee--I love but thee! + +By those dark eyes, where light is ever playing, + Where Love in depth of shadow holds his throne, +And by those lips, which give whate'er thou'rt saying, + Or grave or gay, a music of its own, +A music far beyond all minstrel's playing, + I love but thee--I love but thee! + +By that fair brow, where Innocence reposes, + As pure as moonlight sleeping upon snow, +And by that cheek, whose fleeting blush discloses + A hue too bright to bless this world below, +And only fit to dwell on Eden's roses, + I love but thee--I love but thee! + + + + + + +LET JOY ALONE BE REMEMBERED NOW. + + +Let thy joys alone be remembered now, + Let thy sorrows go sleep awhile; +Or if thought's dark cloud come o'er thy brow, + Let Love light it up with his smile, +For thus to meet, and thus to find, + That Time, whose touch can chill +Each flower of form, each grace of mind, + Hath left thee blooming still, +Oh, joy alone should be thought of now, + Let our sorrows go sleep awhile; +Or, should thought's dark cloud come o'er thy brow, + Let Love light it up with his smile. + +When the flowers of life's sweet garden fade, + If but _one_ bright leaf remain, +Of the many that once its glory made, + It is not for us to complain. +But thus to meet and thus to wake + In all Love's early bliss; +Oh, Time all other gifts may take, + So he but leaves us this! +Then let joy alone be remembered now, + Let our sorrows go sleep awhile; +Or if thought's dark cloud come o'er the brow, + Let Love light it up with his smile! + + + + + + +LOVE THEE, DEAREST? LOVE THEE? + + +Love thee, dearest? love thee? + Yes, by yonder star I swear, +Which thro' tears above thee + Shines so sadly fair; +Tho' often dim, +With tears, like him, +Like him my truth will shine, + And--love thee, dearest? love thee? +Yes, till death I'm thine. + +Leave thee, dearest? leave thee? + No, that star is not more true; +When my vows deceive thee, + _He_ will wander too. +A cloud of night +May veil his light, +And death shall darken mine-- + But--leave thee, dearest? leave thee? +No, till death I'm thine. + + + + + + +MY HEART AND LUTE. + + +I give thee all--I can no more-- + Tho' poor the offering be; +My heart and lute are all the store + That I can bring to thee. +A lute whose gentle song reveals + The soul of love full well; +And, better far, a heart that feels + Much more than lute could tell. + +Tho' love and song may fail, alas! + To keep life's clouds away, +At least 'twill make them lighter pass, + Or gild them if they stay. +And even if Care at moments flings + A discord o'er life's happy strain, +Let Love but gently touch the strings, + 'Twill all be sweet again! + + + + + + +PEACE, PEACE TO HIM THAT'S GONE! + + + When I am dead. + Then lay my head +In some lone, distant dell, + Where voices ne'er + Shall stir the air, +Or break its silent spell. + + If any sound + Be heard around, +Let the sweet bird alone, + That weeps in song, + Sing all night long, +"Peace, peace, to him that's gone!" + + Yet, oh, were mine + One sigh of thine, +One pitying word from thee, + Like gleams of heaven, + To sinners given, +Would be that word to me. + + Howe'er unblest, + My shade would rest +While listening to that tone;-- + Enough 'twould be + To hear from thee, +"Peace, peace, to him that gone." + + + + + + +ROSE OF THE DESERT + + +Rose of the Desert! thou, whose blushing ray, +Lonely and lovely, fleets unseen away; +No hand to cull thee, none to woo thy sigh,-- +In vestal silence left to live and die.-- +Rose of the Desert! thus should woman be, +Shining uncourted, lone and safe, like thee. + +Rose of the Garden, how, unlike thy doom! +Destined for others, not thyself, to bloom; +Culled ere thy beauty lives thro' half its day; +A moment cherished, and then cast away; +Rose of the Garden! such is woman's lot,-- +Worshipt while blooming--when she fades, forgot. + + + + + + +'TIS ALL FOR THEE. + + +If life for me hath joy or light, + 'Tis all from thee, +My thoughts by day, my dreams by night, + Are but of thee, of only thee. +Whate'er of hope or peace I know, +My zest in joy, my balm in woe, +To those dear eyes of thine I owe, + 'Tis all from thee. + +My heart, even ere I saw those eyes, + Seemed doomed to thee; +Kept pure till then from other ties, + 'Twas all for thee, for only thee. +Like plants that sleep till sunny May +Calls forth their life my spirit lay, +Till, touched by Love's awakening ray, + It lived for thee, it lived for thee. + +When Fame would call me to her heights, + She speaks by thee; +And dim would shine her proudest lights, + Unshared by thee, unshared by thee. +Whene'er I seek the Muse's shrine, +Where Bards have hung their wreaths divine, +And wish those wreaths of glory mine, + 'Tis all for thee, for only thee. + + + + + + +THE SONG OF THE OLDEN TIME. + + +There's a song of the olden time, + Falling sad o'er the ear, +Like the dream of some village chime, + Which in youth we loved to hear. +And even amidst the grand and gay, + When Music tries her gentlest art +I never hear so sweet a lay, + Or one that hangs so round my heart, +As that song of the olden time, + Falling sad o'er the ear, +Like the dream of some village chime, + Which in youth we loved to hear, + +And when all of this life is gone,-- + Even the hope, lingering now, +Like the last of the leaves left on + Autumn's sere and faded bough,-- +'Twill seem as still those friends were near, + Who loved me in youth's early day, +If in that parting hour I hear + The same sweet notes and die away,-- +To that song of the olden time, + Breathed, like Hope's farewell strain, +To say, in some brighter clime, + Life and youth will shine again! + + + + + + +WAKE THEE, MY DEAR. + + +Wake thee, my dear--thy dreaming + Till darker hours will keep; +While such a moon is beaming, + 'Tis wrong towards Heaven to sleep. + +Moments there are we number, + Moments of pain and care, +Which to oblivious slumber + Gladly the wretch would spare. + +But now,--who'd think of dreaming + When Love his watch should keep? +While such a moon is beaming, + 'Tis wrong towards Heaven to sleep. + +If e'er the fates should sever + My life and hopes from thee, love, +The sleep that lasts for ever + Would then be sweet to me, love; +But now,--away with dreaming! + Till darker hours 'twill keep; +While such a moon is beaming, + 'Tis wrong towards Heaven to sleep. + + + + + + +THE BOY OF THE ALPS. + + +Lightly, Alpine rover, +Tread the mountains over; +Rude is the path thou'st yet to go; + Snow cliffs hanging o'er thee, + Fields of ice before thee, +While the hid torrent moans below. +Hark, the deep thunder, +Thro' the vales yonder! +'Tis the huge avalanche downward cast; + From rock to rock + Rebounds the shock. +But courage, boy! the danger's past. + Onward, youthful rover, + Tread the glacier over, +Safe shalt thou reach thy home at last. +On, ere light forsake thee, +Soon will dusk o'ertake thee: +O'er yon ice-bridge lies thy way! + Now, for the risk prepare thee; + Safe it yet may bear thee, +Tho' 'twill melt in morning's ray. + +Hark, that dread howling! +'Tis the wolf prowling,-- +Scent of thy track the foe hath got; + And cliff and shore + Resound his roar. +But courage, boy,--the danger's past! + + Watching eyes have found thee, + Loving arms are round thee, +Safe hast thou reached thy father's cot. + + + + + + +FOR THEE ALONE. + + +For thee alone I brave the boundless deep, +Those eyes my light through every distant sea; +My waking thoughts, the dream that gilds my sleep, + The noon-tide revery, all are given to thee, + To thee alone, to thee alone. + +Tho' future scenes present to Fancy's eye + Fair forms of light that crowd the distant air, +When nearer viewed, the fairy phantoms fly, + The crowds dissolve, and thou alone art there, + Thou, thou alone. + +To win thy smile, I speed from shore to shore, + While Hope's sweet voice is heard in every blast, +Still whispering on that when some years are o'er, + One bright reward shall crown my toil at last, + Thy smile alone, thy smile alone, + +Oh place beside the transport of that hour + All earth can boast of fair, of rich, and bright, +Wealth's radiant mines, the lofty thrones of power,-- + Then ask where first thy lover's choice would light? + On thee alone, on thee alone. + + + + + + +HER LAST WORDS, AT PARTING. + + +Her last words, at parting, how _can_ I forget? + Deep treasured thro' life, in my heart they shall stay; +Like music, whose charm in the soul lingers yet, + When its sounds from the ear have long melted away. +Let Fortune assail me, her threatenings are vain; + Those still-breathing words shall my talisman be,-- +"Remember, in absence, in sorrow, and pain, + "There's one heart, unchanging, that beats but for thee." + +From the desert's sweet well tho' the pilgrim must hie, + Never more of that fresh-springing fountain to taste, +He hath still of its bright drops a treasured supply, + Whose sweetness lends life to his lips thro' the waste. +So, dark as my fate is still doomed to remain, + These words shall my well in the wilderness be,-- + "Remember, in absence, in sorrow, and pain, + "There's one heart, unchanging, that beats but for thee." + + + + + + +LET'S TAKE THIS WORLD AS SOME WIDE SCENE. + + +Let's take this world as some wide scene. + Thro' which in frail but buoyant boat, +With skies now dark and now serene, + Together thou and I must float; +Beholding oft on either shore + Bright spots where we should love to stay; +But Time plies swift his flying oar, + And away we speed, away, away. + +Should chilling winds and rains come on, + We'll raise our awning 'gainst the shower; +Sit closer till the storm is gone, + And, smiling, wait a sunnier hour. +And if that sunnier hour should shine, + We'll know its brightness cannot stay, +But happy while 'tis thine and mine, + + Complain not when it fades away. +So shall we reach at last that Fall + Down which life's currents all must go,-- +The dark, the brilliant, destined all + To sink into the void below. +Nor even that hour shall want its charms, + If, side by side, still fond we keep, +And calmly, in each other's arms + Together linked, go down the steep. + + + + + + +LOVE'S VICTORY. + + +Sing to Love--for, oh, 'twas he + Who won the glorious day; +Strew the wreaths of victory + Along the conqueror's way. +Yoke the Muses to his car, + Let them sing each trophy won; +While his mother's joyous star + Shall light the triumph on. + +Hail to Love, to mighty Love, + Let spirits sing around; +While the hill, the dale, and grove, + With "mighty Love" resound; +Or, should a sigh of sorrow steal + Amid the sounds thus echoed o'er, +'Twill but teach the god to feel + His victories the more. + +See his wings, like amethyst + Of sunny Ind their hue; +Bright as when, by Psyche kist, + They trembled thro' and thro'. +Flowers spring beneath his feet; + Angel forms beside him run; +While unnumbered lips repeat + "Love's victory is won!" + Hail to Love, to mighty Love, + etc, + + + + + + +SONG OF HERCULES TO HIS DAUGHTER.[1] + + +"I've been, oh, sweet daughter, + "To fountain and sea, +"To seek in their water + "Some bright gem for thee. +"Where diamonds were sleeping, + "Their sparkle I sought, +"Where crystal was weeping, + "Its tears I have caught. + +"The sea-nymph I've courted + "In rich coral halls; +"With Naiads have sported + "By bright waterfalls. +"But sportive or tender, + "Still sought I around +"That gem, with whose splendor + "Thou yet shalt be crowned. + +"And see, while I'm speaking, + "Yon soft light afar;-- +"The pearl I've been seeking + "There floats like a star! +"In the deep Indian Ocean + "I see the gem shine, +"And quick as light's motion + "Its wealth shall be thine." + +Then eastward, like lightning, + The hero-god flew, +His sunny looks brightening + The air he went thro'. +And sweet was the duty, + And hallowed the hour, +Which saw thus young Beauty + Embellished by Power. + + +[1] Founded on the fable reported by Arrian (in Indicis) of Hercules +having searched the Indian Ocean, to find the pearl with which he adorned +his daughter Pandaea. + + + + + + +THE DREAM OF HOME. + + +Who has not felt how sadly sweet + The dream of home, the dream of home, +Steals o'er the heart, too soon to fleet, + When far o'er sea or land we roam? +Sunlight more soft may o'er us fall, + To greener shores our bark may come; +But far more bright, more dear than all, + That dream of home, that dream of home. + +Ask the sailor youth when far + His light bark bounds o'er ocean's foam, +What charms him most, when evening's star + Smiles o'er the wave? to dream of home. +Fond thoughts of absent friends and loves + At that sweet hour around him come; +His heart's best joy where'er he roves, + That dream of home, that dream of home. + + + + + + +THEY TELL ME THOU'RT THE FAVORED GUEST. + + +They tell me thou'rt the favored guest + Of every fair and brilliant throng; +No wit like thine to wake the jest, + No voice like thine to breathe the song; +And none could guess, so gay thou art, +That thou and I are far apart. + +Alas! alas! how different flows + With thee and me the time away! +Not that I wish thee sad--heaven knows-- + Still if thou canst, be light and gay; +I only know, that without thee +The sun himself is dark to me. + +Do I thus haste to hall and bower, + Among the proud and gay to shine? +Or deck my hair with gem and flower, + To flatter other eyes than thine? +Ah, no, with me love's smiles are past +Thou hadst the first, thou hadst the last. + + + + + + +THE YOUNG INDIAN MAID. + + + There came a nymph dancing + Gracefully, gracefully, + Her eye a light glancing + Like the blue sea; + And while all this gladness + Around her steps hung, + Such sweet notes of sadness + Her gentle lips sung, +That ne'er while I live from my memory shall fade +The song or the look of that young Indian maid. + + Her zone of bells ringing + Cheerily, cheerily, + Chimed to her singing + Light echoes of glee; + But in vain did she borrow + Of mirth the gay tone, + Her voice spoke of sorrow, + And sorrow alone. +Nor e'er while I live from my memory shall fade +The song or the look of that young Indian maid. + + + + + + +THE HOMEWARD MARCH. + + +Be still my heart: I hear them come: + Those sounds announce my lover near: +The march that brings our warriors home + Proclaims he'll soon be here. + + Hark, the distant tread, + O'er the mountain's head, +While hills and dales repeat the sound; + And the forest deer + Stand still to hear, +As those echoing steps ring round. + +Be still my heart. I hear them come, + Those sounds that speak my soldier near; +Those joyous steps seem winged fox home.-- + Rest, rest, he'll soon be here. + +But hark, more faint the footsteps grow, + And now they wind to distant glades; +Not here their home,--alas, they go + To gladden happier maids! + + Like sounds in a dream, + The footsteps seem, +As down the hills they die away; + And the march, whose song + So pealed along, +Now fades like a funeral lay. + +'Tis past, 'tis o'er,--hush, heart, thy pain! + And tho' not here, alas, they come, +Rejoice for those, to whom that strain + Brings sons and lovers home. + + + + + + +WAKE UP, SWEET MELODY. + + + Wake up, sweet melody! + Now is the hour + When young and loving hearts + Feel most thy power, +One note of music, by moonlight's soft ray-- +Oh, 'tis worth thousands heard coldly by day. + Then wake up, sweet melody! + Now is the hour + When young and loving hearts + Feel most thy power. + + Ask the fond nightingale, + When his sweet flower + Loves most to hear his song, + In her green bower? +Oh, he will tell thee, thro' summer-nights long, +Fondest she lends her whole soul to his song. + Then wake up, sweet melody! + Now is the hour + When young and loving hearts + Feel most thy power. + + + + + + +CALM BE THY SLEEP. + + +Calm be thy sleep as infant's slumbers! + Pure as angel thoughts thy dreams! +May every joy this bright world numbers + Shed o'er thee their mingled beams! +Or if, where Pleasure's wing hath glided, + There ever must some pang remain, +Still be thy lot with me divided,-- + Thine all the bliss and mine the pain! + +Day and night my thoughts shall hover + Round thy steps where'er they stray; +As, even when clouds his idol cover, + Fondly the Persian tracks its ray. +If this be wrong, if Heaven offended + By worship to its creature be, +Then let my vows to both be blended, + Half breathed to Heaven and half to thee. + + + + + + +THE EXILE. + + +Night waneth fast, the morning star + Saddens with light the glimmering sea, +Whose waves shall soon to realms afar + Waft me from hope, from love, and thee. +Coldly the beam from yonder sky + Looks o'er the waves that onward stray; +But colder still the stranger's eye + To him whose home is far away + +Oh, not at hour so chill and bleak, + Let thoughts of me come o'er thy breast; +But of the lost one think and speak, + When summer suns sink calm to rest. +So, as I wander, Fancy's dream + Shall bring me o'er the sunset seas, +Thy look in every melting beam, + Thy whisper in each dying breeze. + + + + + + +THE FANCY FAIR. + + +Come, maids and youths, for here we sell + All wondrous things of earth and air; +Whatever wild romancers tell, + Or poets sing, or lovers swear, + You'll find at this our Fancy Fair. + +Here eyes are made like stars to shine, + And kept for years in such repair, +That even when turned of thirty-nine, + They'll hardly look the worse for wear, + If bought at this our Fancy Fair. + +We've lots of tears for bards to shower, + And hearts that such ill usage bear, +That, tho' they're broken every hour, + They'll still in rhyme fresh breaking bear, + If purchased at our Fancy Fair. + +As fashions change in every thing, + We've goods to suit each season's air, +Eternal friendships for the spring, + And endless loves for summer wear,-- + All sold at this our Fancy Fair. + +We've reputations white as snow, + That long will last if used with care, +Nay, safe thro' all life's journey go, + If packed and marked as "brittle ware,"-- + Just purchased at the Fancy Fair. + + + + + + +IF THOU WOULDST HAVE ME SING AND PLAY. + + +If thou wouldst have me sing and play, + As once I played and sung, +First take this time-worn lute away, + And bring one freshly strung. +Call back the time when pleasure's sigh +First breathed among the strings; +And Time himself, in flitting by. + Made music with his wings. + +But how is this? tho' new the lute, + And shining fresh the chords, +Beneath this hand they slumber mute, + Or speak but dreamy words. +In vain I seek the soul that dwelt + Within that once sweet shell, +Which told so warmly what it felt, + And felt what naught could tell. + +Oh, ask not then for passion's lay, + From lyre so coldly strung; +With this I ne'er can sing or play, + As once I played and sung. +No, bring that long-loved lute again,-- + Tho' chilled by years it be, +If _thou_ wilt call the slumbering strain, + 'Twill wake again for thee. + +Tho' time have frozen the tuneful stream + Of thoughts that gushed along, +One look from thee, like summer's beam, + Will thaw them into song. +Then give, oh give, that wakening ray, + And once more blithe and young, +Thy bard again will sing and play, + As once he played and sung. + + + + + + +STILL WHEN DAYLIGHT. + + +Still when daylight o'er the wave +Bright and soft its farewell gave, +I used to hear, while light was falling, +O'er the wave a sweet voice calling, + Mournfully at distance calling. + +Ah! once how blest that maid would come, +To meet her sea-boy hastening home; +And thro' the night those sounds repeating, +Hail his bark with joyous greeting, + Joyously his light bark greeting. + +But, one sad night, when winds were high, +Nor earth, nor heaven could hear her cry. +She saw his boat come tossing over +Midnight's wave,--but not her lover! + No, never more her lover. + +And still that sad dream loath to leave, +She comes with wandering mind at eve, +And oft we hear, when night is falling, +Faint her voice thro' twilight calling, + Mournfully at twilight calling. + + + + + + +THE SUMMER WEBS. + + +The summer webs that float and shine, + The summer dews that fall, +Tho' light they be, this heart of mine + Is lighter still than all. +It tells me every cloud is past + Which lately seemed to lour; +That Hope hath wed young Joy at last, + And now's their nuptial hour! + +With light thus round, within, above, + With naught to wake one sigh, +Except the wish that all we love + Were at this moment nigh,-- +It seems as if life's brilliant sun + Had stopt in full career, +To make this hour its brightest one, +And rest in radiance here. + + + + + + +MIND NOT THO' DAYLIGHT. + + +Mind not tho' daylight around us is breaking,-- +Who'd think now of sleeping when morn's but just waking? +Sound the merry viol, and daylight or not, +Be all for one hour in the gay dance forgot. + +See young Aurora up heaven's hill advancing, +Tho' fresh from her pillow, even she too is dancing: +While thus all creation, earth, heaven, and sea. +Are dancing around us, oh, why should not we? + +Who'll say that moments we use thus are wasted? +Such sweet drops of time only flow to be tasted; +While hearts are high beating and harps full in tune, +The fault is all morning's for coming so soon. + + + + + + +THEY MET BUT ONCE. + + +They met but once, in youth's sweet hour, + And never since that day +Hath absence, time, or grief had power + To chase that dream away. +They've seen the suns of other skies, + On other shores have sought delight; +But never more to bless their eyes + Can come a dream so bright! +They met but once,--a day was all + Of Love's young hopes they knew; +And still their hearts that day recall + As fresh as then it flew. + +Sweet dream of youth! oh, ne'er again + Let either meet the brow +They left so smooth and smiling then, + Or see what it is now. +For, Youth, the spell was only thine, + From thee alone the enchantment flows, +That makes the world around thee shine + With light thyself bestows. +They met but once,--oh, ne'er again + Let either meet the brow +They left so smooth and smiling then, + Or see what it is now. + + + + + + +WITH MOONLIGHT BEAMING. + + +With moonlight beaming + Thus o'er the deep, +Who'd linger dreaming + In idle sleep? +Leave joyless souls to live by day,-- +Our life begins with yonder ray; +And while thus brightly + The moments flee, +Our barks skim lightly + The shining sea. + +To halls of splendor + Let great ones hie; +Thro' light more tender + Our pathways lie. +While round, from banks of brook or lake, +Our company blithe echoes make; +And as we lend 'em + Sweet word or strain, +Still back they send 'em + More sweet again. + + + + + + +CHILD'S SONG. + +FROM A MASQUE. + + +I have a garden of my own, + Shining with flowers of every hue; +I loved it dearly while alone, + But I shall love it more with you: +And there the golden bees shall come, + In summer-time at break of morn, +And wake us with their busy hum + Around the Siha's fragrant thorn. + +I have a fawn from Aden's land, + On leafy buds and berries nurst; +And you shall feed him from your hand, + Though he may start with fear at first. +And I will lead you where he lies + For shelter in the noontide heat; +And you may touch his sleeping eyes, + And feel his little silvery feet. + + + + + + +THE HALCYON HANGS O'ER OCEAN. + + +The halcyon hangs o'er ocean, + The sea-lark skims the brine; +This bright world's all in motion, + No heart seems sad but mine. + +To walk thro' sun-bright places, + With heart all cold the while; +To look in smiling faces, + When we no more can smile; + +To feel, while earth and heaven + Around thee shine with bliss, +To thee no light is given,-- + Oh, what a doom is this! + + + + + + +THE WORLD WAS HUSHT. + + +The world was husht, the moon above + Sailed thro' ether slowly, +When near the casement of my love, + Thus I whispered lowly,-- +"Awake, awake, how canst thou sleep? + "The field I seek to-morrow +"Is one where man hath fame to reap, + "And woman gleans but sorrow." + +"Let battle's field be what it may. + Thus spoke a voice replying, +"Think not thy love, while thou'rt away, + "Will sit here idly sighing. +"No--woman's soul, if not for fame, + "For love can brave all danger! +Then forth from out the casement came + A plumed and armed stranger. + +A stranger? No; 'twas she, the maid, + Herself before me beaming, +With casque arrayed and falchion blade + Beneath her girdle gleaming! +Close side by side, in freedom's fight, + That blessed morning found us; +In Victory's light we stood ere night, + And Love the morrow crowned us! + + + + + + +THE TWO LOVES. + + +There are two Loves, the poet sings, + Both born of Beauty at a birth: +The one, akin to heaven, hath wings, + The other, earthly, walks on earth. +With _this_ thro' bowers below we play, + With _that_ thro' clouds above we soar; +With both, perchance, may lose our way:-- + Then, tell me which, + Tell me which shall we adore? + +The one, when tempted down from air, + At Pleasure's fount to lave his lip, +Nor lingers long, nor oft will dare + His wing within the wave to dip. +While plunging deep and long beneath, + The other bathes him o'er and o'er +In that sweet current, even to death:-- + Then, tell me which, + Tell me which shall we adore? + +The boy of heaven, even while he lies + In Beauty's lap, recalls his home; +And when most happy, inly sighs + For something happier still to come. +While he of earth, too fully blest + With this bright world to dream of more, +Sees all his heaven on Beauty's breast:-- + Then, tell me which, + Tell me which shall we adore? + +The maid who heard the poet sing + These twin-desires of earth and sky, +And saw while one inspired his string, + The other glistened in his eye,-- +To name the earthlier boy ashamed, + To chose the other fondly loath, +At length all blushing she exclaimed,-- + "Ask not which, + "Oh, ask not which--we'll worship both. + +"The extremes of each thus taught to shun, + "With hearts and souls between them given, +"When weary of this earth with one, + "We'll with the other wing to heaven." +Thus pledged the maid her vow of bliss; +And while _one_ Love wrote down the oath, +The other sealed it with a kiss; + And Heaven looked on, + Heaven looked on and hallowed both. + + + + + + +THE LEGEND OF PUCK THE FAIRY. + + +Wouldst know what tricks, by the pale moonlight, + Are played by me, the merry little Sprite, +Who wing thro' air from the camp to the court, +From king to clown, and of all make sport; + Singing, I am the Sprite + Of the merry midnight, +Who laugh at weak mortals and love the moonlight. + +To a miser's bed, where he snoring slept +And dreamt of his cash, I slyly crept; +Chink, chink o'er his pillow like money I rang, +And he waked to catch--but away I sprang, + Singing, I am the Sprite, etc. + +I saw thro' the leaves, in a damsel's bower, +She was waiting her love at that starlight hour: +"Hist--hist!" quoth I, with an amorous sigh, +And she flew to the door, but away flew I, + Singing, I am the Sprite, etc. + +While a bard sat inditing an ode to his love, +Like a pair of blue meteors I stared from above, +And he swooned--for he thought 'twas the ghost, poor man! +Of his lady's eyes, while away I ran, + Singing, I am the Sprite, etc. + + + + + + +BEAUTY AND SONG. + + +Down in yon summer vale, + Where the rill flows. +Thus said a Nightingale + To his loved Rose:-- +"Tho' rich the pleasures +"Of song's sweet measures, +"Vain were its melody, +"Rose, without thee." + +Then from the green recess + Of her night-bower, +Beaming with bashfulness, + Spoke the bright flower:-- +"Tho' morn should lend her +"Its sunniest splendor, +"What would the Rose be, +"Unsung by thee?" + +Thus still let Song attend + Woman's bright way; +Thus still let woman lend + Light to the lay. +Like stars thro' heaven's sea +Floating in harmony +Beauty should glide along +Circled by Song. + + + + + + +WHEN THOU ART NIGH. + + +When thou art nigh, it seems + A new creation round; +The sun hath fairer beams, + The lute a softer sound. +Tho' thee alone I see, + And hear alone thy sigh, +'Tis light, 'tis song to me, + Tis all--when thou art nigh. + +When thou art nigh, no thought + Of grief comes o'er my heart; +I only think--could aught + But joy be where thou art? +Life seems a waste of breath, + When far from thee I sigh; +And death--ay, even death + Were sweet, if thou wert nigh. + + + + + + +SONG OF A HYPERBOREAN. + + +I come from a land in the sun bright deep, + Where golden gardens grow; +Where the winds of the north, be calmed in sleep, + Their conch-shells never blow.[1] + Haste to that holy Isle with me, + Haste--haste! + +So near the track of the stars are we, + That oft on night's pale beams +The distant sounds of their harmony + Come to our ear, like dreams. + Then haste to that holy Isle with me, etc. + +The Moon too brings her world so nigh, + That when the night-seer looks +To that shadowless orb, in a vernal sky, + He can number its hills and brooks. + Then, haste, etc. + +To the Sun-god all our hearts and lyres[2] + By day, by night, belong; +And the breath we draw from his living fires, + We give him back in song. + Then, haste, etc. + +From us descends the maid who brings + To Delos gifts divine; +And our wild bees lend their rainbow wings + To glitter on Delphi's shrine. + Then haste to that holy Isle with me, + Haste--haste! + + +[1] On the Tower of the Winds, at Athens, there is a conch shell placed in +the hands of Boreas.--See _Stuart's Antiquities_. "The north wind," says +Herodotus, in speaking of the Hyperboreans, "never blows with them." + +[2] Hecataeus tells us, that this Hyperborean island was dedicated to +Apollo; and most of the inhabitants were either priests or songsters. + + + + + + +THOU BIDST ME SING. + + +Thou bidst me sing the lay I sung to thee + In other days ere joy had left this brow; +But think, tho' still unchanged the notes may be, + How different feels the heart that breathes them now! +The rose thou wearst to-night is still the same + We saw this morning on its stem so gay; +But, ah! that dew of dawn, that breath which came + Like life o'er all its leaves, hath past away. + +Since first that music touched thy heart and mine, + How many a joy and pain o'er both have past,-- +The joy, a light too precious long to shine,-- + The pain, a cloud whose shadows always last. +And tho' that lay would like the voice of home + Breathe o'er our ear, 'twould waken now a sigh-- +Ah! not, as then, for fancied woes to come, + But, sadder far, for real bliss gone by. + + + + + + +CUPID ARMED. + + + Place the helm on thy brow, + In thy hand take the spear;-- + Thou art armed, Cupid, now, + And thy battle-hour is near. +March on! march on! thy shaft and bow + Were weak against such charms; +March on! march on! so proud a foe + Scorns all but martial arms. + + See the darts in her eyes, + Tipt with scorn, how they shine! + Every shaft, as it flies, + Mocking proudly at thine. +March on! march on! thy feathered darts + Soft bosoms soon might move; +But ruder arms to ruder hearts + Must teach what 'tis to love. + Place the helm on thy brow; + In thy hand take the spear,-- + Thou art armed, Cupid, now, + And thy battle-hour is near. + + + + + + +ROUND THE WORLD GOES. + + +Round the world goes, by day and night, + While with it also round go we; +And in the flight of one day's light + An image of all life's course we see. +Round, round, while thus we go round, + The best thing a man can do, +Is to make it, at least, a _merry_-go-round, + By--sending the wine round too. + +Our first gay stage of life is when + Youth in its dawn salutes the eye-- +Season of bliss! Oh, who wouldn't then + Wish to cry, "Stop!" to earth and sky? +But, round, round, both boy and girl + Are whisked thro' that sky of blue; +And much would their hearts enjoy the whirl, +If--their heads didn't whirl round too. + +Next, we enjoy our glorious noon, + Thinking all life a life of light; +But shadows come on, 'tis evening soon, + And ere we can say, "How short!"--'tis night. +Round, round, still all goes round, + Even while I'm thus singing to you; +And the best way to make it a _merry_-go-round, + Is to--chorus my song round too. + + + + + + +OH, DO NOT LOOK SO BRIGHT AND BLEST. + + +Oh, do not look so bright and blest, + For still there comes a fear, +When brow like thine looks happiest, + That grief is then most near. +There lurks a dread in all delight, + A shadow near each ray, +That warns us then to fear their flight, + When most we wish their stay. +Then look not thou so bright and blest, + For ah! there comes a fear, +When brow like thine looks happiest, + That grief is then most near. + +Why is it thus that fairest things + The soonest fleet and die?-- +That when most light is on their wings, + They're then but spread to fly! +And, sadder still, the pain will stay-- + The bliss no more appears; +As rainbows take their light away, + And leave us but the tears! +Then look not thou so bright and blest, + For ah! there comes a fear, +When brow like thine looks happiest, + That grief is then most near. + + + + + + +THE MUSICAL BOX. + + +"Look here," said Rose, with laughing eyes, + "Within this box, by magic hid, +"A tuneful Sprite imprisoned lies, + "Who sings to me whene'er he's bid. +"Tho' roving once his voice and wing, + "He'll now lie still the whole day long; +"Till thus I touch the magic spring-- + "Then hark, how sweet and blithe his song!" + _(A symphony.)_ + +"Ah, Rose," I cried, "the poet's lay + "Must ne'er even Beauty's slave become; +"Thro' earth and air his song may stray, + "If all the while his heart's at home. +"And tho' in freedom's air he dwell, + "Nor bond nor chain his spirit knows, +"Touch but the spring thou knowst so well, + "And--hark, how sweet the love-song flows!" + _(A symphony.)_ + +Thus pleaded I for freedom's right; + But when young Beauty takes the field, +And wise men seek defence in flight, + The doom of poets is to yield. +No more my heart the enchantress braves, + I'm now in Beauty's prison hid; +The Sprite and I are fellow slaves, + And I, too, sing whene'er I'm bid. + + + + + + +WHEN TO SAD MUSIC SILENT YOU LISTEN. + + +When to sad Music silent you listen, + And tears on those eyelids tremble like dew, +Oh, then there dwells in those eyes as they glisten + A sweet holy charm that mirth never knew. +But when some lively strain resounding + Lights up the sunshine of joy on that brow, +Then the young reindeer o'er the hills bounding + Was ne'er in its mirth so graceful as thou. + +When on the skies at midnight thou gazest. + A lustre so pure thy features then wear, +That, when to some star that bright eye thou raisest, + We feel 'tis thy home thou'rt looking for there. +But when the word for the gay dance is given, + So buoyant thy spirit, so heartfelt thy mirth, +Oh then we exclaim, "Ne'er leave earth for heaven, + "But linger still here, to make heaven of earth." + + + + + + +THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. + + +Fly swift, my light gazelle, + To her who now lies waking, +To hear thy silver bell + The midnight silence breaking. +And, when thou com'st, with gladsome feet, + Beneath her lattice springing, +Ah, well she'll know how sweet + The words of love thou'rt bringing. + +Yet, no--not words, for they + But half can tell love's feeling; +Sweet flowers alone can say + What passion fears revealing. +A once bright rose's withered leaf, + A towering lily broken,-- +Oh these may paint a grief + No words could e'er have spoken. + +Not such, my gay gazelle, + The wreath thou speedest over +Yon moonlight dale, to tell + My lady how I love her. +And, what to her will sweeter be + Than gems the richest, rarest,-- +From Truth's immortal tree[1] + One fadeless leaf thou bearest. + + +[1] The tree called in the East, Amrita, or the Immortal. + + + + + + +THE DAWN IS BREAKING O'ER US. + + +The dawn is breaking o'er us, + See, heaven hath caught its hue! +We've day's long light before us, +What sport shall we pursue? +The hunt o'er hill and lea? +The sail o'er summer sea? +Oh let not hour so sweet +Unwinged by pleasure fleet. +The dawn is breaking o'er us, + See, heaven hath caught its hue! +We've days long light before us, + What sport shall we pursue? + +But see, while we're deciding, + What morning sport to play, +The dial's hand is gliding, + And morn hath past away! +Ah, who'd have thought that noon + Would o'er us steal so soon,-- +That morn's sweet hour of prime + Would last so short a time? +But come, we've day before us, + Still heaven looks bright and blue; +Quick, quick, ere eve comes o'er us, + What sport shall we pursue? + +Alas! why thus delaying? + We're now at evening's hour; +Its farewell beam is playing + O'er hill and wave and bower. +That light we thought would last, +Behold, even now 'tis past; +And all our morning dreams +Have vanisht with its beams +But come! 'twere vain to borrow + Sad lessons from this lay, +For man will be to-morrow-- + Just what he's been to-day. + + + + + + + + +UNPUBLISHED SONGS. + +ETC. + + + + + + +ASK NOT IF STILL I LOVE. + + +Ask not if still I love, + Too plain these eyes have told thee; +Too well their tears must prove + How near and dear I hold thee. +If, where the brightest shine, +To see no form but thine, +To feel that earth can show + No bliss above thee,-- +If this be love, then know + That thus, that thus, I love thee. + +'Tis not in pleasure's idle hour +That thou canst know affection's power. +No, try its strength in grief or pain; + Attempt as now its bonds to sever, +Thou'lt find true love's a chain + That binds forever! + + + + + + +DEAR? YES. + + +Dear? yes, tho' mine no more, + Even this but makes thee dearer; +And love, since hope is o'er, + But draws thee nearer. + +Change as thou wilt to me, +The same thy charm must be; +New loves may come to weave + Their witchery o'er thee, +Yet still, tho' false, believe + That I adore thee, yes, still adore thee. +Think'st thou that aught but death could end +A tie not falsehood's self can rend? +No, when alone, far off I die, + No more to see, no more cares thee, +Even then, my life's last sigh + Shall be to bless thee, yes, still to bless thee. + + + + + + +UNBIND THEE, LOVE. + + +Unbind thee, love, unbind thee, love, + From those dark ties unbind thee; +Tho' fairest hand the chain hath wove, + Too long its links have twined thee. +Away from earth!--thy wings were made + In yon mid-sky to hover, +With earth beneath their dove-like shade, + And heaven all radiant over. + +Awake thee, boy, awake thee, boy, + Too long thy soul is sleeping; +And thou mayst from this minute's joy + Wake to eternal weeping. +Oh, think, this world is not for thee; + Tho' hard its links to sever; +Tho' sweet and bright and dear they be, + Break or thou'rt lost for ever. + + + + + + +THERE'S SOMETHING STRANGE. + +A BUFFALO SONG. + + +There's something strange, I know not what, + Come o'er me, +Some phantom I've for ever got + Before me. +I look on high and in the sky + 'Tis shining; +On earth, its light with all things bright + Seems twining. +In vain I try this goblin's spells + To sever; +Go where I will, it round me dwells + For ever. + +And then what tricks by day and night + It plays me; +In every shape the wicked sprite + Waylays me. +Sometimes like two bright eyes of blue + 'Tis glancing; +Sometimes like feet, in slippers neat, + Comes dancing. +By whispers round of every sort + I'm taunted. +Never was mortal man, in short, + So haunted. + + + + + + +NOT FROM THEE. + + +Not from thee the wound should come, + No, not from thee. +Care not what or whence my doom, + So not from thee! +Cold triumph! first to make + This heart thy own; +And then the mirror break + Where fixt thou shin'st alone. +Not from thee the wound should come, + Oh, not from thee. +I care not what, or whence, my doom, + So not from thee. + +Yet no--my lips that wish recall; + From thee, from thee-- +If ruin o'er this head must fall, + 'Twill welcome be. +Here to the blade I bare + This faithful heart; +Wound deep--thou'lt find that there, + In every pulse thou art. +Yes from thee I'll bear it all: + If ruin be +The doom that o'er this heart must fall, + 'Twere sweet from thee. + + + + + + +GUESS, GUESS. + + +I love a maid, a mystic maid, + Whose form no eyes but mine can see; +She comes in light, she comes in shade, + And beautiful in both is she. +Her shape in dreams I oft behold, + And oft she whispers in my ear +Such words as when to others told, + Awake the sigh, or wring the tear; +Then guess, guess, who she, +The lady of my love, may be. + +I find the lustre of her brow, + Come o'er me in my darkest ways; +And feel as if her voice, even now, + Were echoing far off my lays. +There is no scene of joy or woe + But she doth gild with influence bright; +And shed o'er all so rich a glow + As makes even tears seem full of light: +Then guess, guess, who she, +The lady of my love, may be. + + + + + + +WHEN LOVE, WHO RULED. + + +When Love, who ruled as Admiral o'er +Has rosy mother's isles of light, +Was cruising off the Paphian shore, + A sail at sunset hove in sight. +"A chase, a chase! my Cupids all," +Said Love, the little Admiral. + +Aloft the winged sailors sprung, + And, swarming up the mast like bees, +The snow-white sails expanding flung, + Like broad magnolias to the breeze. +"Yo ho, yo ho, my Cupids all!" +Said Love, the little Admiral. + +The chase was o'er--the bark was caught, + The winged crew her freight explored; +And found 'twas just as Love had thought, + For all was contraband aboard. +"A prize, a prize, my Cupids all!" +Said Love, the little Admiral. + +Safe stowed in many a package there, + And labelled slyly o'er, as "Glass," +Were lots of all the illegal ware, + Love's Custom-House forbids to pass. +"O'erhaul, o'erhaul, my Cupids all," +Said Love, the little Admiral. + +False curls they found, of every hue, + With rosy blushes ready made; +And teeth of ivory, good as new, + For veterans in the smiling trade. +"Ho ho, ho ho, my Cupids all," +Said Love, the little Admiral. + +Mock sighs, too,--kept in bags for use, + Like breezes bought of Lapland seers,-- +Lay ready here to be let loose, + When wanted, in young spinsters' ears. +"Ha ha, ha ha, my Cupids all," +Said Love, the little Admiral. + +False papers next on board were found, + Sham invoices of flames and darts, +Professedly for Paphos bound, + But meant for Hymen's golden marts. +"For shame, for shame, my Cupids all!" +Said Love, the little Admiral. + +Nay, still to every fraud awake, + Those pirates all Love's signals knew, +And hoisted oft his flag, to make + Rich wards and heiresses _bring-to_.[1] +"A foe, a foe, my Cupids all!" +Said Love, the little Admiral. + +"This must not be," the boy exclaims, + "In vain I rule the Paphian seas, +"If Love's and Beauty's sovereign names + "Are lent to cover frauds like these. +"Prepare, prepare, my Cupids all!" +Said Love, the little Admiral. + +Each Cupid stood with lighted match-- + A broadside struck the smuggling foe, +And swept the whole unhallowed batch + Of Falsehood to the depths below. +"Huzza, huzza! my Cupids all!" +Said Love the little Admiral. + + +[1] "_To Bring-to_, to check the course of a ship."--_Falconer_. + + + + + + +STILL THOU FLIEST. + + +Still thou fliest, and still I woo thee, + Lovely phantom,--all in vain; +Restless ever, my thoughts pursue thee, + Fleeting ever, thou mock'st their pain. +Such doom, of old, that youth betided, + Who wooed, he thought, some angel's charms, +But found a cloud that from him glided,-- + As thou dost from these outstretched arms. + +Scarce I've said, "How fair thou shinest," + Ere thy light hath vanished by; +And 'tis when thou look'st divinest + Thou art still most sure to fly. +Even as the lightning, that, dividing + The clouds of night, saith, "Look on me," +Then flits again, its splendor hiding.-- + Even such the glimpse I catch of thee. + + + + + + +THEN FIRST FROM LOVE. + + +Then first from Love, in Nature's bowers, + Did Painting learn her fairy skill, +And cull the hues of loveliest flowers, + To picture woman lovelier still. +For vain was every radiant hue, + Till Passion lent a soul to art, +And taught the painter, ere he drew, + To fix the model in his heart. + +Thus smooth his toil awhile went on, + Till, lo, one touch his art defies; +The brow, the lip, the blushes shone, + But who could dare to paint those eyes? +'Twas all in vain the painter strove; + So turning to that boy divine, +"Here take," he said, "the pencil, Love, + "No hand should paint such eyes but thine." + + + + + + +HUSH, SWEET LUTE. + + +Hush, sweet Lute, thy songs remind me + Of past joys, now turned to pain; +Of ties that long have ceased to bind me, + But whose burning marks remain. +In each tone, some echo falleth + On my ear of joys gone by; +Every note some dream recalleth + Of bright hopes but born to die. + +Yet, sweet Lute, though pain it bring me, + Once more let thy numbers thrill; +Tho' death were in the strain they sing me, + I must woo its anguish still. +Since no time can e'er recover + Love's sweet light when once 'tis set,-- +Better to weep such pleasures over, + Than smile o'er any left us yet. + + + + + + +BRIGHT MOON. + + +Bright moon, that high in heaven art shining, + All smiles, as if within thy bower to-night +Thy own Endymion lay reclining, + And thou wouldst wake him with a kiss of light!-- +By all the bliss thy beam discovers, + By all those visions far too bright for day, +Which dreaming bards and waking lovers + Behold, this night, beneath thy lingering ray,-- + +I pray thee, queen of that bright heaven, + Quench not to-night thy love-lamp in the sea, +Till Anthe, in this bower, hath given + Beneath thy beam, her long-vowed kiss to me. +Guide hither, guide her steps benighted, + Ere thou, sweet moon, thy bashful crescent hide; +Let Love but in this bower be lighted, + Then shroud in darkness all the world beside. + + + + + + +LONG YEARS HAVE PAST. + + +Long years have past, old friend, since we + First met in life's young day; +And friends long loved by thee and me, + Since then have dropt away;-- +But enough remain to cheer us on, + And sweeten, when thus we're met, +The glass we fill to the many gone, + And the few who're left us yet. +Our locks, old friend, now thinly grow, + And some hang white and chill; +While some, like flowers mid Autumn's snow, + Retain youth's color still. +And so, in our hearts, tho' one by one, + Youth's sunny hopes have set, +Thank heaven, not all their light is gone,-- + We've some to cheer us yet. + +Then here's to thee, old friend, and long + May thou and I thus meet, +To brighten still with wine and song + This short life, ere it fleet. +And still as death comes stealing on, + Let's never, old friend, forget, +Even while we sigh o'er blessings gone, + How many are left us yet. + + + + + + +DREAMING FOR EVER. + + +Dreaming for ever, vainly dreaming, + Life to the last, pursues its flight; +Day hath its visions fairly beaming, + But false as those of night. +The one illusion, the other real, + But both the same brief dreams at last; +And when we grasp the bliss ideal, + Soon as it shines, 'tis past. + +Here, then, by this dim lake reposing, + Calmly I'll watch, while light and gloom +Flit o'er its face till night is closing-- + Emblem of life's short doom! +But tho', by turns, thus dark and shining, + 'Tis still unlike man's changeful day, +Whose light returns not, once declining, + Whose cloud, once come, will stay. + + + + + + +THO' LIGHTLY SOUNDS THE SONG I SING. + +A SONG OF THE ALPS. + + +Tho' lightly sounds the song I sing to thee, +Tho' like the lark's its soaring music be, +Thou'lt find even here some mournful note that tells +How near such April joy to weeping dwells. +'Tis 'mong the gayest scenes that oftenest steal +Those saddening thoughts we fear, yet love to feel; +And music never half so sweet appears, +As when her mirth forgets itself in tears. + +Then say not thou this Alpine song is gay-- +It comes from hearts that, like their mountain-lay, +Mix joy with pain, and oft when pleasure's breath +Most warms the surface feel most sad beneath. +The very beam in which the snow-wreath wears +Its gayest smile is that which wins its tears,-- +And passion's power can never lend the glow +Which wakens bliss, without some touch of woe. + + + + + + +THE RUSSIAN LOVER. + + +Fleetly o'er the moonlight snows + Speed we to my lady's bower; +Swift our sledge as lightning goes, + Nor shall stop till morning's hour. +Bright, my steed, the northern star + Lights us from yon jewelled skies; +But to greet us, brighter far, + Morn shall bring my lady's eyes. +Lovers, lulled in sunny bowers, + Sleeping out their dream of time, +Know not half the bliss that's ours, + In this snowy, icy clime. +Like yon star that livelier gleams + From the frosty heavens around, +Love himself the keener beams + When with snows of coyness crowned. +Fleet then on, my merry steed, + Bound, my sledge, o'er hill and dale;-- +What can match a lover's speed? + See, 'tis daylight, breaking pale! +Brightly hath the northern star + Lit us from yon radiant Skies; +But, behold, how brighter far + Yonder shine my lady's eyes! + + + + + + + + +A SELECTION FROM THE SONGS IN + +M. P.; OR, THE BLUE-STOCKING: + +A COMIC OPERA IN THREE ACTS. + +1811. + + + + + + +BOAT GLEE. + + +The song that lightens the languid way, + When brows are glowing, + And faint with rowing, +Is like the spell of Hope's airy lay, +To whose sound thro' life we stray; +The beams that flash on the oar awhile, + As we row along thro' the waves so clear, +Illume its spray, like the fleeting smile + That shines o'er sorrow's tear. + +Nothing is lost on him who sees + With an eye that feeling gave;-- +For him there's a story in every breeze, + And a picture in every wave. +Then sing to lighten the languid way; + When brows are glowing, + And faint with rowing, +'Tis like the spell of Hope's airy lay, +To whose sound thro' life we stray. + + * * * * * + +'Tis sweet to behold when the billows are sleeping, + Some gay-colored bark moving gracefully by; +No damp on her deck but the eventide's weeping, + No breath in her sails but the summer wind's sigh. +Yet who would not turn with a fonder emotion, + To gaze on the life-boat, tho' rugged and worn. +Which often hath wafted o'er hills of the ocean + The lost light of hope to the seaman forlorn! + +Oh! grant that of those who in life's sunny slumber + Around us like summer-barks idly have played, +When storms are abroad we may find in the number + One friend, like the life-boat, to fly to our aid. + + * * * * * + +When Lelia touched the lute, + Not _then_ alone 'twas felt, +But when the sounds were mute, + In memory still they dwelt. +Sweet lute! in nightly slumbers +Still we heard thy morning numbers. + +Ah, how could she who stole + Such breath from simple wire, +Be led, in pride of soul, + To string with gold her lyre? +Sweet lute! thy chords she breaketh; +Golden now the strings she waketh! + +But where are all the tales + Her lute so sweetly told? +In lofty themes she fails, + And soft ones suit not gold. +Rich lute! we see thee glisten, +But, alas! no more we listen! + + * * * * * + +Young Love lived once in a humble shed, + Where roses breathing + And woodbines wreathing +Around the lattice their tendrils spread, +As wild and sweet as the life he led. + His garden flourisht, + For young Hope nourisht. +The infant buds with beams and showers; +But lips, tho' blooming, must still be fed, + And not even Love can live on flowers. + +Alas! that Poverty's evil eye + Should e'er come hither, + Such sweets to wither! +The flowers laid down their heads to die, +And Hope fell sick as the witch drew nigh. + She came one morning. + Ere Love had warning, + And raised the latch, where the young god lay; +"Oh ho!" said Love--"is it you? good-by;" + So he oped the window and flew away! + + * * * * * + +Spirit of Joy, thy altar lies + In youthful hearts that hope like mine; +And 'tis the light of laughing eyes + That leads us to thy fairy shrine. + +There if we find the sigh, the tear, + They are not those to sorrow known; +But breathe so soft, and drop so clear, + That bliss may claim them for her own. +Then give me, give me, while I weep, + The sanguine hope that brightens woe, +And teaches even our tears to keep + The tinge of pleasure as they flow. + +The child who sees the dew of night + Upon the spangled hedge at morn, +Attempts to catch the drops of light, + But wounds his finger with the thorn. +Thus oft the brightest joys we seek, + Are lost when touched, and turned to pain; +The flush they kindle leaves the cheek, + The tears they waken long remain. +But give me, give me, etc. + + * * * * * + +To sigh, yet feel no pain. + To weep, yet scarce know why; +To sport an hour with Beauty's chain, + Then throw it idly by; +To kneel at many a shrine, + Yet lay the heart on none; +To think all other charms divine, + But those we just have won; +This is love, careless love, +Such as kindleth hearts that rove. + +To keep one sacred flame, + Thro' life unchilled, unmoved, +To love in wintry age the same + As first in youth we loved; +To feel that we adore + To such refined excess. +That tho' the heart would break with _more_, + We could not live with _less_; +This is love, faithful love, +Such as saints might feel above. + + * * * * * + +Dear aunt, in the olden time of love, + When women like slaves were spurned, +A maid gave her heart, as she would her glove, + To be teased by a fop, and returned! +But women grow wiser as men improve. +And, tho' beaux, like monkeys, amuse us, +Oh! think not we'd give such a delicate gem +As the heart to be played with or sullied by them; + No, dearest aunt, excuse us. + +We may know by the head on Cupid's seal + What impression the heart will take; +If shallow the head, oh! soon we feel + What a poor impression 'twill make! +Tho' plagued, Heaven knows! by the foolish zeal +Of the fondling fop who pursues me, +Oh, think not I'd follow their desperate rule, +Who get rid of the folly by wedding the fool; + No, dearest aunt! excuse me. + + * * * * * + +When Charles was deceived by the maid he loved, + We saw no cloud his brow o'er-casting, +But proudly he smiled as if gay and unmoved, + Tho' the wound in his heart was deep and lasting. +And oft at night when the tempest rolled + He sung as he paced the dark deck over-- +"Blow, wind, blow! thou art not so cold +As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover." + +Yet he lived with the happy and seemed to be gay, + Tho' the wound but sunk more deep for concealing; +And Fortune threw many a thorn in his way, + Which, true to one anguish, he trod without feeling! +And still by the frowning of Fate unsubdued + He sung as if sorrow had placed him above her-- +"Frown, Fate, frown! thou art not so rude + As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover." + +At length his career found a close in death, + The close he long wished to his cheerless roving, +For Victory shone on his latest breath, + And he died in a cause of his heart's approving. +But still he remembered his sorrow,--and still + He sung till the vision of life was over-- +"Come, death, come! thou art not so chill + As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover." + + * * * * * + +When life looks lone and dreary, + What light can dispel the gloom? +When Time's swift wing grows weary, + What charm can refresh his plume? +'Tis woman whose sweetness beameth + O'er all that we feel or see; +And if man of heaven e'er dreameth, + 'Tis when he thinks purely of thee, + O woman! + +Let conquerors fight for glory, + Too dearly the meed they gain; +Let patriots live in story-- + Too often they die in vain; +Give kingdoms to those who choose 'em, + This world can offer to me +No throne like Beauty's bosom, + No freedom like serving thee, + O woman! + + + + + + +CUPID'S LOTTERY. + + +A lottery, a Lottery, +In Cupid's court there used to be; + Two roguish eyes + The highest prize +In Cupid's scheming Lottery; + And kisses, too, + As good as new, +Which weren't very hard to win, + For he who won + The eyes of fun +Was sure to have the kisses in + A Lottery, a Lottery, etc. + +This Lottery, this Lottery, +In Cupid's court went merrily, + And Cupid played + A Jewish trade +In this his scheming Lottery; + For hearts, we're told, + In _shares_ he sold +To many a fond believing drone, + And cut the hearts + In sixteen parts +So well, each thought the whole his own. + _Chor_.--A Lottery, a Lottery, etc. + + * * * * * + +Tho' sacred the tie that our country entwineth, + And dear to the heart her remembrance remains, +Yet dark are the ties where no liberty shineth, + And sad the remembrance that slavery stains. +O thou who wert born in the cot of the peasant, + But diest in languor in luxury's dome, +Our vision when absent--our glory, when present-- + Where thou art, O Liberty! there is my home. + +Farewell to the land where in childhood I've wandered! + In vain is she mighty, in vain, is she brave! +Unblest is the blood that for tyrants is squandered, + And fame has no wreaths for the brow of the slave. +But hail to thee, Albion! who meet'st the commotion. + Of Europe as calm as thy cliffs meet the foam! +With no bonds but the law, and no slave but the ocean, + Hail, Temple of Liberty! thou art my home. + + * * * * * + +Oh think, when a hero is sighing, + What danger in such an adorer! +What woman can dream' of denying + The hand that lays laurels before her? +No heart is so guarded around, + But the smile of the victor will take it; +No bosom can slumber so sound, + But the trumpet of glory will wake it. + +Love sometimes is given to sleeping, + And woe to the heart that allows him; +For oh, neither smiling nor weeping + Has power at those moments to rouse him. +But tho' he was sleeping so fast, + That the life almost seemed to forsake him, +Believe me, one soul-thrilling blast + From the trumpet of glory would wake him. + + * * * * * + +Mr. Orator Puff had two tones in his voice, + The one squeaking thus, and the other down so! +In each sentence he uttered he gave you your choice, + For one was B alt, and the rest G below. +Oh! oh, Orator Puff! +One voice for one orator's surely enough. + +But he still talked away spite of coughs and of frowns, +So distracting all ears with his ups and his downs, +That a wag once on hearing the orator say, +"My voice is for war," asked him, "Which of them, pray?" + Oh! oh! etc. + +Reeling homewards one evening, top-heavy with gin, +And rehearsing his speech on the weight of the crown, +He tript near a sawpit, and tumbled right in, +"Sinking Fund," the last words as his noddle came down. + Oh! oh, etc. + +"Help! help!" he exclaimed, in his he and she tones, +"Help me out! help me out--I have broken my bones!" +"Help you out?" said a Paddy who passed, "what a bother! +Why, there's two of you there, can't you help one another?" + Oh I oh! etc. + + + + + + + + +MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. + + + + + + +OCCASIONAL EPILOGUE. + +SPOKEN BY MR. COBBY, IN THE CHARACTER OF VAPID, AFTER THE PLAY OF THE +DRAMATIST, AT THE KILKENNY THEATRE. + + +(_Entering as if to announce the Play_.) + +Ladies and Gentlemen, on Monday night, +For the ninth time--oh accents of delight +To the poor author's ear, when _three times three_ +With a full bumper crowns, his Comedy! +When, long by money, and the muse, forsaken, +He finds at length his jokes and boxes taken, +And sees his play-bill circulate--alas, +The only bill on which his name will pass! +Thus, Vapid, thus shall Thespian scrolls of fame +Thro' box and gallery waft your well-known name, +While critic eyes the happy cast shall con, +And learned ladies spell your _Dram. Person_. + +'Tis said our worthy Manager[1]intends +To help my night, and _he_, ye know, has friends. +Friends, did I say? for fixing friends, or _parts_, +Engaging actors, or engaging hearts, +There's nothing like him! wits, at his request. +Are turned to fools, and dull dogs learn to jest; +Soldiers, for him, good "trembling cowards" make, +And beaus, turned clowns, look ugly for his sake; +For him even lawyers talk without a fee, +For him (oh friendship) _I_ act tragedy! +In short, like Orpheus, his persuasive tricks +Make _boars_ amusing, and put life in _sticks_. + +With _such_ a manager we can't but please, +Tho' London sent us all her loud O. P.'s,[2] +Let them come on, like snakes, all hiss and rattle, +Armed with a thousand fans, we'd give them battle; +You, on our side, R. P.[3]upon our banners, +Soon should we teach the saucy O. P.'s manners: +And show that, here--howe'er John Bull may doubt-- +In all _our_ plays, the Riot-Act's cut out; +And, while we skim the cream of many a jest, +Your well-timed thunder never sours its zest. + +Oh gently thus, when three short weeks are past, +At Shakespeare's altar,[4] shall we breathe our last; +And, ere this long-loved dome to ruin nods, +Die all, die nobly, die like demigods! + + +[1] The late Mr. Richard Power. + +[2] The brief appellation by which these persons were distinguished who, +at the opening of the new theatre of Convent Garden, clamored for the +continuance of the old prices of admission. + +[3] The initials of our manager's name. + +[4] This alludes to a scenic representation then preparing for the last +night of the performances. + + + + + + +EXTRACT. + +FROM A PROLOGUE WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE AUTHOR, AT THE OPENING OF THE +KILKENNY THEATRE, OCTOBER, 1809. + + * * * * * + +Yet, even here, tho' Fiction rules the hour, +There shine some genuine smiles, beyond her power; +And there are tears, too--tears that Memory sheds +Even o'er the feast that mimic fancy spreads, +When her heart misses one lamented guest,[1] +Whose eye so long threw light o'er all the rest! +There, there, indeed, the Muse forgets her task, +And drooping weeps behind Thalia's mask. + +Forgive this gloom--forgive this joyless strain, +Too sad to welcome pleasure's smiling train. +But, meeting thus, our hearts will part the lighter, +As mist at dawn but makes the setting brighter; +Gay Epilogue will shine where Prologue fails-- +As glow-worms keep their splendor for their tails. + +I know not why--but time, methinks, hath past +More fleet than usual since we parted last. +It seems but like a dream of yesternight. +Whose charm still hangs, with fond, delaying light; +And, ere the memory lose one glowing hue +Of former joy, we come to kindle new. +Thus ever may the flying moments haste +With trackless foot along life's vulgar waste, +But deeply print and lingeringly move, +When thus they reach the sunny spots we love. +Oh yes, whatever be our gay career, +Let this be still the solstice of the year, +Where Pleasure's sun shall at its height remain, +And slowly sink to level life again. + + +[1] The late Mr. John Lyster, one of the oldest members and best actors of +the Kilkenny Theatrical Society. + + + + + + +THE SYLPH'S BALL. + + +A sylph, as bright as ever sported + Her figure thro' the fields of air, +By an old swarthy Gnome was courted. + And, strange to say, he won the fair. + +The annals of the oldest witch + A pair so sorted could not show, +But how refuse?--the Gnome was rich, + The Rothschild of the world below; + +And Sylphs, like other pretty creatures, + Are told, betimes, they must consider +Love as an auctioneer of features, + Who knocks them down to the best bidder. + +Home she was taken to his Mine-- + A Palace paved with diamonds all-- +And, proud as Lady Gnome to shine, + Sent out her tickets for a ball. + +The _lower_ world of course was there, + And all the best; but of the _upper_ +The sprinkling was but shy and rare,-- +A few old Sylphids who loved supper. + +As none yet knew the wondrous Lamp +Of DAVY, that renowned Aladdin, +And the Gnome's Halls exhaled a damp +Which accidents from fire were had in; + +The chambers were supplied with light +By many strange but safe devices; +Large fire-flies, such as shine at night +Among the Orient's flowers and spices;-- + +Musical flint-mills--swiftly played + By elfin hands--that, flashing round, +Like certain fire-eyed minstrel maids, +Gave out at once both light and sound. + +Bologna stones that drink the sun; + And water from that Indian sea, +Whose waves at night like wildfire run-- +Corked up in crystal carefully. + +Glow-worms that round the tiny dishes +Like little light-houses, were set up; +And pretty phosphorescent fishes + That by their own gay light were eat up. + +'Mong the few guests from Ether came +That wicked Sylph whom Love we call-- +My Lady knew him but by name, + My Lord, her husband, not at all. + +Some prudent Gnomes, 'tis said, apprised +That he was coming, and, no doubt +Alarmed about his torch, advised + He should by all means be kept out. + +But others disapproved this plan, + And by his flame tho' somewhat frighted, +Thought Love too much a gentleman +In such a dangerous place to light it. + +However, _there_ he was--and dancing + With the fair Sylph, light as a feather; +They looked like two fresh sunbeams glancing +At daybreak down to earth together. + +And all had gone off safe and well, + But for that plaguy torch whose light, +Though not _yet_ kindled--who could tell +How soon, how devilishly, it _might_? + +And so it chanced--which, in those dark + And fireless halls was quite amazing; +Did we not know how small a spark + Can set the torch of Love a-blazing. + +Whether it came (when close entangled + In the gay waltz) from her bright eyes, +Or from the _lucciole_, that spangled + Her locks of jet--is all surmise; + +But certain 'tis the ethereal girl + _Did_ drop a spark at some odd turning, +Which by the waltz's windy whirl + Was fanned up into actual burning. + +Oh for that Lamp's metallic gauze, + That curtain of protecting wire, +Which DAVY delicately draws + Around illicit, dangerous fire!-- + +The wall he sets 'twixt Flame and Air, + (Like that which barred young Thisbe's bliss,) +Thro' whose small holes this dangerous pair + May see each other but not kiss. + +At first the torch looked rather bluely,-- + A sign, they say, that no good boded-- +Then quick the gas became unruly. + And, crack! the ball-room all exploded. + +Sylphs, gnomes, and fiddlers mixt together, + With all their aunts, sons, cousins, nieces, +Like butterflies in stormy weather, + Were blown--legs, wings, and tails--to pieces! + +While, mid these victims of the torch, + The Sylph, alas, too, bore her part-- +Found lying with a livid scorch + As if from lightning o'er her heart! + + * * * * * + +"Well done"--a laughing Goblin said-- + Escaping from this gaseous strife-- +"'Tis not the _first_ time Love has made + "A _blow-up_ in connubial life!" + + + + + + +REMONSTRANCE. + + +_After a Conversation with Lord John Russell, in which he had intimated +some Idea of giving up all political Pursuits. _ + + +What! _thou_, with thy genius, thy youth, and thy name-- + Thou, born of a Russell--whose instinct to run +The accustomed career of thy sires, is the same + As the eaglet's, to soar with his eyes on the sun! + +Whose nobility comes to thee, stampt with a seal, + Far, far more ennobling than monarch e'er set; +With the blood of thy race, offered up for the weal + Of a nation that swears by that martyrdom yet! + +Shalt _thou_ be faint-hearted and turn from the strife, + From the mighty arena, where all that is grand +And devoted and pure and adorning in life, + 'Tis for high-thoughted spirits like thine to command? + +Oh no, never dream it--while good men despair + Between tyrants and traitors, and timid men bow, +Never think for an instant thy country can spare + Such a light from her darkening horizon as thou. + +With a spirit, as meek as the gentlest of those + Who in life's sunny valley lie sheltered and warm; +Yet bold and heroic as ever yet rose + To the top cliffs of Fortune and breasted her storm; + +With an ardor for liberty fresh as in youth + It first kindles the bard and gives life to his lyre; +Yet mellowed, even now, by that mildness of truth + Which tempers but chills not the patriot fire; + +With an eloquence--not like those rills from a height, + Which sparkle and foam and in vapor are o'er; +But a current that works out its way into light + Thro' the filtering recesses of thought and of lore. + +Thus gifted, thou never canst sleep in the shade; + If the stirrings of Genius, the music of fame, +And the charms of thy cause have not power to persuade, + Yet think how to Freedom thou'rt pledged by thy Name. + +Like the boughs of that laurel by Delphi's decree + Set apart for the Fane and its service divine, +So the branches that spring from the old Russell tree + Are by Liberty _claimed_ for the use of her Shrine. + + + + + + +MY BIRTH-DAY. + + +"My birth-day"--what a different sound + That word had in my youthful ears! +And how, each time the day comes round, + Less and less white its mark appears! + +"When first our scanty years are told, +It seems like pastime to grow old; +And as Youth counts the shining links + That Time around him binds so fast, +Pleased with the task, he little thinks + How hard that chain will press at last. +Vain was the man, and false as vain, + Who said--"were he ordained to run +"His long career of life again, + "He would do all that he _had_ done."-- +Ah, 'tis not thus the voice that dwells + In sober birth-days speaks to me; +Far otherwise--of time it tells, + Lavished unwisely, carelessly: +Of counsel mockt; of talents made + Haply for high and pure designs, +But oft, like Israel's incense, laid + Upon unholy, earthly shrines; +Of nursing many a wrong desire, + Of wandering after Love too far, +And taking every meteor fire + That crost my pathway, for his star.-- +All this it tells, and, could I trace + The imperfect picture o'er again. +With power to add, retouch, efface + The lights and shades, the joy and pain, +How little of the past would stay! +How quickly all should melt away-- +All--but that Freedom of the Mind + Which hath been more than wealth to me; +Those friendships, in my boyhood twined, + And kept till now unchangingly, +And that dear home, that saving ark, + Where Love's true light at last I've found, +Cheering within, when all grows dark + And comfortless and stormy round! + + + + + + +FANCY. + + +The more I've viewed this world, the more I've found, +That filled as 'tis with scenes and creatures rare, +Fancy commands within her own bright round + A world of scenes and creatures far more fair. +Nor is it that her power can call up there + A single charm, that's not from Nature won,-- +No more than rainbows in their pride can wear + A single tint unborrowed from the sun; +But 'tis the mental medium; it shines thro', +That lends to Beauty all its charm and hue; +As the same light that o'er the level lake + One dull monotony of lustre flings, +Will, entering in the rounded raindrop, make +Colors as gay as those on angels' wings! + + + + + + +SONG. + +FANNY, DEAREST. + + +Yes! had I leisure to sigh and mourn, + Fanny dearest, for thee I'd sigh; +And every smile on my cheek should turn + To tears when thou art nigh. +But between love and wine and sleep, + So busy a life I live, +That even the time it would take to weep + Is more than my heart can give. +Then wish me not to despair and pine, + Fanny, dearest of all the dears! +The Love that's ordered to bathe in wine, + Would be sure to take cold in tears. + +Reflected bright in this heart of mine, + Fanny dearest, thy image lies; +But ah! the mirror would cease to shine, + If dimmed too often with sighs. +They lose the half of beauty's light, + Who view it thro' sorrow's tear; +And 'tis but to see thee truly bright + That I keep my eye-beams clear. +Then wait no longer till tears shall flow-- + + Fanny, dearest! the hope is vain; +If sunshine cannot dissolve thy snow, + I shall never attempt it with rain. + + + + + + + + +TRANSLATIONS FROM CATULLUS. + + + + + + +CARM. 70. + + _dicebas quondam, etc_. + +TO LESBIA. + + +Thou told'st me, in our days of love, + That I had all that heart of thine; +That, even to share the couch of Jove, + Thou wouldst not, Lesbia, part from mine. + +How purely wert thou worshipt then! + Not with the vague and vulgar fires +Which Beauty wakes in soulless men,-- + But loved, as children by their sires. + +That flattering dream, alas, is o'er;-- + I know thee now--and tho' these eyes +Doat on thee wildly as before, + Yet, even in doating, I despise. + +Yes, sorceress--mad as it may seem-- + With all thy craft, such spells adorn thee, +That passion even outlives esteem. + And I at once adore--and scorn thee. + + + + + + +CARM. II. + + + _pauca nunciate meae puellae_. + + +Comrades and friends! with whom, where'er + The fates have willed thro' life I've roved, +Now speed ye home, and with you bear + These bitter words to her I've loved. + +Tell her from fool to fool to run, + Where'er her vain caprice may call; +Of all her dupes not loving one, + But ruining and maddening all. + +Bid her forget--what now is past-- + Our once dear love, whose rain lies +Like a fair flower, the meadow's last. + Which feels the ploughshare's edge and dies! + + + + + + +CARM. 29. + + + _peninsularum Sirmio, insularumque ocelle_. + + +Sweet Sirmio! thou, the very eye + Of all peninsulas and isles, +That in our lakes of silver lie, + Or sleep enwreathed by Neptune's smiles-- + +How gladly back to thee I fly! + Still doubting, asking--_can_ it be +That I have left Bithynia's sky, + And gaze in safety upon thee? + +Oh! what is happier than to find + Our hearts at ease, our perils past; +When, anxious long, the lightened mind + Lays down its load of care at last: + +When tired with toil o'er land and deep, + Again we tread the welcome floor +Of our own home, and sink to sleep + On the long-wished-for bed once more. + +This, this it is that pays alone + The ills of all life's former track.-- +Shine out, my beautiful, my own + Sweet Sirmio, greet thy master back. + +And thou, fair Lake, whose water quaffs + The light of heaven like Lydia's sea, +Rejoice, rejoice--let all that laughs + Abroad, at home, laugh out for me! + + + + + + +TIBULLUS TO SULPICIA. + + + _nulla tuum nobis subducet femina lectum, etc., + Lib. iv. Carm. 13_. + + +"Never shall woman's smile have power + "To win me from those gentle charms!"-- +Thus swore I, in that happy hour, + When Love first gave thee to my arms. + +And still alone thou charm'st my sight-- + Still, tho' our city proudly shine +With forms and faces, fair and bright, + I see none fair or bright but thine. + +Would thou wert fair for only me, + And couldst no heart but mine allure!-- +To all men else unpleasing be, + So shall I feel my prize secure. + +Oh, love like mine ne'er wants the zest + Of others' envy, others' praise; +But, in its silence safely blest, + Broods o'er a bliss it ne'er betrays. + +Charm of my life! by whose sweet power + All cares are husht, all ills subdued-- +My light in even the darkest hour, + My crowd in deepest solitude! + +No, not tho' heaven itself sent down + Some maid of more than heavenly charms, +With bliss undreamt thy bard to crown, + Would he for her forsake those arms! + + + + + + +IMITATION. + +FROM THE FRENCH. + + +With women and apples both Paris and Adam + Made mischief enough in their day:-- +God be praised that the fate of mankind, my dear Madam, + Depends not on _us_, the same way. +For, weak as I am with temptation to grapple, + The world would have doubly to rue thee: + +Like Adam, I'd gladly take _from_ thee the apple, + Like Paris, at once give it _to_ thee. + + + + + + +INVITATION TO DINNER. + +ADDRESSED TO LORD LANSDOWNE. + +September, 1818. + + +Some think we bards have nothing real; + That poets live among the stars so, +Their very dinners are ideal,-- + (And, heaven knows, too oft they _are_ so,)-- +For instance, that we have, instead + Of vulgar chops and stews and hashes, +First course--a Phoenix, at the head. + Done in its own celestial ashes; +At foot, a cygnet which kept singing +All the time its neck was wringing. +Side dishes, thus--Minerva's owl, +Or any such like learned fowl: +Doves, such as heaven's poulterer gets, +When Cupid shoots his mother's pets. +Larks stewed in Morning's roseate breath, + Or roasted by a sunbeam's splendor; +And nightingales, berhymed to death-- + Like young pigs whipt to make them tender. + +Such fare may suit those bards, who are able +To banquet at Duke Humphrey's table; +But as for me, who've long been taught + To eat and drink like other people; +And can put up with mutton, bought + Where Bromham[1] rears its ancient steeple-- +If Lansdowne will consent to share +My humble feast, tho' rude the fare, +Yet, seasoned by that salt he brings +From Attica's salinest springs, +'Twill turn to dainties;--while the cup, +Beneath his influence brightening up, +Like that of Baucis, touched by Jove, +Will sparkle fit for gods above! + + +[1] A picturesque village in sight of my cottage, and from which it is +separated out by a small verdant valley. + + + + + + +VERSES TO THE POET CRABBE'S INKSTAND.[1] + +(WRITTEN MAY, 1832.) + + +All, as he left it!--even the pen, + So lately at that mind's command, +Carelessly lying, as if then + Just fallen from his gifted hand. + +Have we then lost him? scarce an hour, + A little hour, seems to have past, +Since Life and Inspiration's power + Around that relic breathed their last. + +Ah, powerless now--like talisman + Found in some vanished wizard's halls, +Whose mighty charm with him began, + Whose charm with him extinguisht falls. + +Yet, tho', alas! the gifts that shone + Around that pen's exploring track, +Be now, with its great master, gone, + Nor living hand can call them back; + +Who does not feel, while thus his eyes + Rest on the enchanter's broken wand, +Each earth-born spell it worked arise + Before him in succession grand? + +Grand, from the Truth that reigns o'er all; + The unshrinking truth that lets her light +Thro' Life's low, dark, interior fall, + Opening the whole, severely bright: + +Yet softening, as she frowns along, + O'er scenes which angels weep to see-- +Where Truth herself half veils the Wrong, + In pity of the Misery. + +True bard!--and simple, as the race + Of true-born poets ever are, +When, stooping from their starry place, + They're children near, tho' gods afar. + +How freshly doth my mind recall, + 'Mong the few days I've known with thee, +One that, most buoyantly of all, + Floats in the wake of memory;[2] + +When he, the poet, doubly graced, + In life, as in his perfect strain, +With that pure, mellowing power of Taste, + Without which Fancy shines in vain; + +Who in his page will leave behind, + Pregnant with genius tho' it be, +But half the treasures of a mind, + Where Sense o'er all holds mastery:-- + +Friend of long years! of friendship tried + Thro' many a bright and dark event; +In doubts, my judge--in taste, my guide-- + In all, my stay and ornament! + +He, too, was of our feast that day, + And all were guests of one whose hand +Hath shed a new and deathless ray + Around the lyre of this great land; + +In whose sea-odes--as in those shells + Where Ocean's voice of majesty +Seems still to sound--immortal dwells + Old Albion's Spirit of the Sea. + +Such was our host; and tho', since then, + Slight clouds have risen 'twixt him and me, +Who would not grasp such hand again, + Stretched forth again in amity? + +Who can, in this short life, afford + To let such mists a moment stay, +When thus one frank, atoning word, + Like sunshine, melts them all away? + +Bright was our board that day--tho' _one_ + Unworthy brother there had place; +As 'mong the horses of the Sun, + One was, they say, of earthly race. + +Yet, _next_ to Genius is the power + Of feeling where true Genius lies; +And there was light around that hour + Such as, in memory, never dies; + +Light which comes o'er me as I gaze, + Thou Relic of the Dead, on thee, +Like all such dreams of vanisht days, + Brightly, indeed--but mournfully! + + +[1] Soon after Mr. Crabbe's death, the sons of that gentleman did me the +honor of presenting to me the inkstand, pencil, etc., which their +distinguished father had long been in the habit of using. + +[2] The lines that follow allude to a day passed in company with Mr. +Crabbe, many years since, when a party, consisting only of Mr. Rogers, Mr. +Crabbe, and the author of these verses, had the pleasure of dining with +Mr. Thomas Campbell, at his house at Sydenham. + + + + + + +TO CAROLINE, VISCOUNTESS VALLETORT. + +WRITTEN AT LACOCK ABBEY, JANUARY, 1832. + + +When I would sing thy beauty's light, +Such various forms, and all so bright, +I've seen thee, from thy childhood, wear, +I know not which to call most fair, +Nor 'mong the countless charms that spring +For ever round thee, _which_ to sing. + + When I would paint thee as thou _art_, +Then all thou _wert_ comes o'er my heart-- +The graceful child in Beauty's dawn +Within the nursery's shade withdrawn, +Or peeping out--like a young moon +Upon a world 'twill brighten soon. +Then next in girlhood's blushing hour, +As from thy own loved Abbey-tower +I've seen thee look, all radiant, down, +With smiles that to the hoary frown +Of centuries round thee lent a ray, +Chasing even Age's gloom away;-- +Or in the world's resplendent throng, +As I have markt thee glide along, +Among the crowds of fair and great +A spirit, pure and separate, +To which even Admiration's eye +Was fearful to approach too nigh;-- +A creature circled by a spell +Within which nothing wrong could dwell; +And fresh and clear as from the source. +Holding through life her limpid course, +Like Arethusa thro' the sea, +Stealing in fountain purity. + + Now, too, another change of light! +As noble bride, still meekly bright +Thou bring'st thy Lord a dower above +All earthly price, pure woman's love; +And showd'st what lustre Rank receives, +When with his proud Corinthian leaves +Her rose this high-bred Beauty weaves. + + Wonder not if, where all's so fair, +To choose were more than bard can dare; +Wonder not if, while every scene +I've watched thee thro' so bright hath been, +The enamored muse should, in her quest +Of beauty, know not where to rest, +But, dazzled, at thy feet thus fall, +Hailing thee beautiful in all! + + + + + + +A SPECULATION. + + +Of all speculations the market holds forth, + The best that I know for a lover of pelf, +Is to buy Marcus up, at the price he is worth, + And then sell him at that which he sets on himself. + + + + + + +TO MY MOTHER. + +WRITTEN IN A POCKET BOOK, 1822. + + +They tell us of an Indian tree, + Which, howsoe'er the sun and sky +May tempt its boughs to wander free, + And shoot and blossom wide and high, +Far better loves to bend its arms + Downward again to that dear earth, +From which the life that, fills and warms + Its grateful being, first had birth. +'Tis thus, tho' wooed by flattering friends, + And fed with fame (_if_ fame it be) +This heart, my own dear mother, bends, + With love's true instinct, back to thee! + + + + + + +LOVE AND HYMEN. + + +Love had a fever--ne'er could close + His little eyes till day was breaking; +And wild and strange enough, Heaven knows, + The things he raved about while waking. + +To let him pine so were a sin;-- + One to whom all the world's a debtor-- +So Doctor Hymen was called in, + And Love that night slept rather better. + +Next day the case gave further hope yet, + Tho' still some ugly fever latent;-- +"Dose, as before"--a gentle opiate. + For which old Hymen has a patent. + +After a month of daily call, + So fast the dose went on restoring, +That Love, who first ne'er slept at all, + Now took, the rogue! to downright snoring. + + + + + + +LINES ON THE ENTRY OF THE AUSTRIANS INTO NAPLES, 1821. + + + _carbone notati_. + + +Ay--down to the dust with them, slaves as they are, + From this hour let the blood in their dastardly veins, +That shrunk at the first touch of Liberty's war, + Be wasted for tyrants, or stagnate in chains. + +On, on like a cloud, thro' their beautiful vales, + Ye locusts of tyranny, blasting them o'er-- +Fill, fill up their wide sunny waters, ye sails + From each slave-mart of Europe and shadow their shore! + +Let their fate be a mock-word--let men of all lands + Laugh out with a scorn that shall ring to the poles, +When each sword that the cowards let fall from their hands + Shall be forged into fetters to enter their souls. + +And deep, and more deep, as the iron is driven, + Base slaves! let the whet of their agony be, +To think--as the Doomed often think of that heaven + They had once within reach--that they _might_ have been free. + +Oh shame! when there was not a bosom whose heat + Ever rose 'bove the _zero_ of Castlereagh's heart. +That did not, like echo, your war-hymn repeat, + And send all its prayers with your Liberty's start; + +When the world stood in hope--when a spirit that breathed + The fresh air of the olden time whispered about; +And the swords of all Italy, halfway unsheathed, + But waited one conquering cry to flash out! + +When around you the shades of your Mighty in fame, + FILICAJAS and PETRARCHS, seemed bursting to view, +And their words and their warnings, like tongues of bright flame + Over Freedom's apostles, fell kindling on you! + +Oh shame! that in such a proud moment of life + Worth the history of ages, when, had you but hurled +One bolt at your tyrant invader, that strife + Between freemen and tyrants had spread thro' the world-- + +That then--oh! disgrace upon manhood--even then, + You should falter, should cling to your pitiful breath; +Cower down into beasts, when you might have stood men, + And prefer the slave's life of prostration to death. + +It is strange, it is dreadful:--shout, Tyranny, shout + Thro' your dungeons and palaces, "Freedom is o'er;"-- +If there lingers one spark of her light, tread it out, + And return to your empire of darkness once more. + +For if _such_ are the braggarts that claim to be free, + Come, Despot of Russia, thy feet let me kiss; +Far nobler to live the brute bondman of thee, + Than to sully even chains by a struggle like this! + + + + + + +SCEPTICISM. + + +Ere Psyche drank the cup that shed + Immortal Life into her soul, +Some evil spirit poured, 'tis said, + One drop of Doubt into the bowl-- + +Which, mingling darkly with the stream, + To Psyche's lips--she knew not why-- +Made even that blessed nectar seem + As tho' its sweetness soon would die. + +Oft, in the very arms of Love, + A chill came o'er her heart--a fear +That Death might, even yet, remove + Her spirit from that happy sphere. + +"Those sunny ringlets," she exclaimed. + Twining them round her snowy fingers; +"That forehead, where a light unnamed, + "Unknown on earth, for ever lingers; + +"Those lips, thro' which I feel the breath + "Of Heaven itself, whene'er they sever-- +"Say, are they mine, beyond all death, + "My own, hereafter, and for ever? + +"Smile not--I know that starry brow, + "Those ringlets, and bright lips of thine, +"Will always shine, as they do now-- + "But shall _I_ live to see them shine?" + +In vain did Love say, "Turn thine eyes + "On all that sparkles round thee here-- +"Thou'rt now in heaven where nothing dies, + "And in these arms--what _canst_ thou fear?" + +In vain--the fatal drop, that stole + Into that cup's immortal treasure, +Had lodged its bitter near her soul. + And gave a tinge to every pleasure. + +And, tho' there ne'er was transport given + Like Psyche's with that radiant boy, +Here is the only face in heaven, + That wears a cloud amid its joy. + + + + + + +A JOKE VERSIFIED. + + +"Come, come," said Tom's father, "at your time of life, + "There's no longer excuse for thus playing the rake-- +"It is time you should think, boy, of taking a wife"-- + "Why, so it is, father--whose wife shall I take?" + + + + + + +ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. + + +Pure as the mantle, which, o'er him who stood + By Jordan's stream, descended from the sky, +Is that remembrance which the wise and good + Leave in the hearts that love them, when they die. + +So pure, so precious shall the memory be, +Bequeathed, in dying, to our souls by thee-- +So shall the love we bore thee, cherisht warm + Within our souls thro' grief and pain and strife, +Be, like Elisha's cruse, a holy charm, + Wherewith to "heal the waters" of this life! + + + + + + +TO JAMES CORRY, ESQ. + +ON HIS MAKING ME A PRESENT OF A WINE STRAINER. + +BRIGHTON, JUNE, 1825. + + +This life, dear Corry, who can doubt?-- + Resembles much friend Ewart's[1] wine, +When _first_ the rosy drops come out, + How beautiful, how clear they shine! +And thus awhile they keep their tint, + So free from even a shade with some, +That they would smile, did you but hint, + That darker drops would _ever_ come. + +But soon the ruby tide runs short, + Each minute makes the sad truth plainer, +Till life, like old and crusty port, + When near its close, requires a strainer. + +_This_ friendship can alone confer, + Alone can teach the drops to pass, +If not as bright as _once_ they were, + At least unclouded, thro' the glass. + +Nor, Corry, could a boon be mine. + Of which this heart were fonder, vainer, +Than thus, if life grow like old wine, + To have _thy_ friendship for its strainer. + + +[1] A wine-merchant. + + + + + + +FRAGMENT OF A CHARACTER. + + +Here lies Factotum Ned at last; + Long as he breathed the vital air, +Nothing throughout all Europe past + In which Ned hadn't some small share. + +Whoe'er was _in_, whoe'er was _out_, + Whatever statesmen did or said, +If not exactly brought about, + 'Twas all, at least, contrived by Ned. + +With Nap, if Russia went to war, + 'Twas owing, under Providence, +To certain hints Ned gave the Tsar-- + (Vide his pamphlet--price, sixpence.) + +If France was beat at Waterloo-- + As all but Frenchmen think she was-- +To Ned, as Wellington well knew, + Was owing half that day's applause. + +Then for his news--no envoy's bag + E'er past so many secrets thro' it; +Scarcely a telegraph could wag + Its wooden finger, but Ned knew it. + +Such tales he had of foreign plots, + With foreign names, one's ear to buzz in! +From Russia, _shefs_ and _ofs_ in lots, + From Poland, _owskis_ by the dozen. + +When George, alarmed for England's creed, + Turned out the last Whig ministry, +And men asked--who advised the deed? + Ned modestly confest 'twas he. + +For tho', by some unlucky miss, + He had not downright _seen_ the King, +He sent such hints thro' Viscount _This_, + To Marquis _That_, as clenched the thing. + +The same it was in science, arts, + The Drama, Books, MS. and printed-- +Kean learned from Ned his cleverest parts, + And Scott's last work by him was hinted. + +Childe Harold in the proofs he read, + And, here and there infused some soul in't-- +Nay, Davy's Lamp, till seen by Ned, + Had--odd enough--an awkward hole in't. + +'Twas thus, all-doing and all-knowing, + Wit, statesman, boxer, chymist, singer, +Whatever was the best pie going, + In _that_ Ned--trust him--had his finger. + + * * * * * + + + + + + +WHAT SHALL I SING THEE? + +TO ----. + + +What shall I sing thee? Shall I tell +Of that bright hour, remembered well +As tho' it shone but yesterday, + +When loitering idly in the ray +Of a spring sun I heard o'er-head, +My name as by some spirit said, +And, looking up, saw two bright eyes + Above me from a casement shine, +Dazzling my mind with such surprise + As they, who sail beyond the Line, +Feel when new stars above them rise;-- +And it was thine, the voice that spoke, + Like Ariel's, in the mid-air then; +And thine the eye whose lustre broke-- + Never to be forgot again! + +What shall I sing thee? Shall I weave +A song of that sweet summer-eve, +(Summer, of which the sunniest part +Was that we, each, had in the heart,) +When thou and I, and one like thee, + In life and beauty, to the sound +Of our own breathless minstrelsy. + Danced till the sunlight faded round, +Ourselves the whole ideal Ball, +Lights, music, company, and all? + +Oh, 'tis not in the languid strain + Of lute like mine, whose day is past, +To call up even a dream again + Of the fresh light those moments cast. + + + + + + +COUNTRY DANCE AND QUADRILLE. + + +One night the nymph called country dance-- + (Whom folks, of late, have used so ill, +Preferring a coquette from France, + That mincing thing, _Mamselle_ quadrille)-- + +Having been chased from London down + To that most humble haunt of all +She used to grace--a Country Town-- + Went smiling to the New-Year's Ball. + +"Here, here, at least," she cried, tho' driven + "From London's gay and shining tracks-- +"Tho', like a Peri cast from heaven, + "I've lost, for ever lost, Almack's-- + +"Tho' not a London Miss alive + "Would now for her acquaintance own me; +"And spinsters, even, of forty-five, + "Upon their honors ne'er have known me; + +"Here, here, at least, I triumph still, + "And--spite of some few dandy Lancers. +"Who vainly try to preach Quadrille-- + "See naught but _true-blue_ Country Dancers, + +"Here still I reign, and, fresh in charms, + "My throne, like Magna Charta, raise +"'Mong sturdy, free-born legs and arms, + "That scorn the threatened _chaine anglaise_." + +'Twas thus she said, as mid the din + Of footmen, and the town sedan, +She lighted at the King's Head Inn, + And up the stairs triumphant ran. + +The Squires and their Squiresses all, + With young Squirinas, just _come out_, +And my Lord's daughters from the Hall, + (Quadrillers in their hearts no doubt,)-- + +All these, as light she tript upstairs, + Were in the cloak-room seen assembling-- +When, hark! some new outlandish airs, + From the First Fiddle, set her trembling. + +She stops--she listens--_can_ it be? + Alas, in vain her ears would 'scape it-- +It _is "Di tanti palpiti"_ + As plain as English bow can scrape it. + +"Courage!" however--in she goes, + With her best, sweeping country grace; +When, ah too true, her worst of foes, + Quadrille, there meets her, face to face. + +Oh for the lyre, or violin, + Or kit of that gay Muse, Terpsichore, +To sing the rage these nymphs were in, + Their looks and language, airs and trickery. + +There stood Quadrille, with cat-like face + (The beau-ideal of French beauty), +A band-box thing, all art and lace + Down from her nose-tip to her shoe-tie. + +Her flounces, fresh from _Victorine_-- + From _Hippolyte_, her rouge and hair-- +Her poetry, from _Lamartine_-- + Her morals, from--the Lord knows where. + +And, when she danced--so slidingly, + So near the ground she plied her art, +You'd swear her mother-earth and she + Had made a compact ne'er to part. + +Her face too, all the while, sedate, + No signs of life or motion showing. +Like a bright _pendule's_ dial-plate-- + So still, you'd hardly think 'twas _going_. + +Full fronting her stood Country Dance-- + A fresh, frank nymph, whom you would know +For English, at a single glance-- + English all o'er, from top to toe. + +A little _gauche_, 'tis fair to own, + And rather given to skips and bounces; +Endangering thereby many a gown, + And playing, oft, the devil with flounces. + +Unlike _Mamselle_--who would prefer + (As morally a lesser ill) +A thousand flaws of character, + To one vile rumple of a frill. + +No rouge did She of Albion wear; + Let her but run that two-heat race +She calls a _Set_, not Dian e'er + Came rosier from the woodland chase. + +Such was the nymph, whose soul had in't + Such anger now--whose eyes of blue +(Eyes of that bright, victorious tint, + Which English maids call "Waterloo")-- + +Like summer lightnings, in the dusk + Of a warm evening, flashing broke. +While--to the tune of "Money Musk,"[1] + Which struck up now--she proudly spoke-- + +"Heard you that strain--that joyous strain? + "'Twas such as England loved to hear, +"Ere thou and all thy frippery train, + "Corrupted both her foot and ear-- + +"Ere Waltz, that rake from foreign lands, + "Presumed, in sight of all beholders, +"To lay his rude, licentious hands + "On virtuous English backs and shoulders-- + +"Ere times and morals both grew bad, + "And, yet unfleeced by funding block-heads, +"Happy John Bull not only _had_, + "But danced to, 'Money in both pockets.' + +"Alas, the change!--Oh, Londonderry, + "Where is the land could 'scape disasters, +"With _such_ a Foreign Secretary, + "Aided by Foreign Dancing Masters? + +"Woe to ye, men of ships and shops! + "Rulers of day-books and of waves! +"Quadrilled, on one side, into fops, + "And drilled, on t'other, into slaves! + +"Ye, too, ye lovely victims, seen, + "Like pigeons, trussed for exhibition, +"With elbows, _à la crapaudine_, + "And feet, in--God knows what position; + +"Hemmed in by watchful chaperons, + "Inspectors of your airs and graces, +"Who intercept all whispered tones, + "And read your telegraphic faces; + +"Unable with the youth adored, + "In that grim _cordon_ of Mammas, +"To interchange one tender word, + "Tho' whispered but in _queue-de-chats_. + +"Ah did you know how blest we ranged, + "Ere vile Quadrille usurpt the fiddle-- +"What looks in _setting_ were exchanged, + "What tender words in _down the middle_; + +"How many a couple, like the wind, + "Which nothing in its course controls, +Left time and chaperons far behind, + "And gave a loose to legs and souls; + +How matrimony throve--ere stopt + "By this cold, silent, foot-coquetting-- +"How charmingly one's partner propt +"The important question in _poussetteing_. + +"While now, alas--no sly advances-- + "No marriage hints--all goes on badly-- +"'Twixt Parson Malthus and French Dances, + "We, girls, are at a discount sadly. + +"Sir William Scott (now Baron Stowell) + "Declares not half so much is made +"By Licences--and he must know well-- + "Since vile Quadrilling spoiled the trade." + +She ceased--tears fell from every Miss-- + She now had touched the true pathetic:-- +One such authentic fact as this, + Is worth whole volumes theoretic. + +Instant the cry was "Country Dance!" + And the maid saw with brightening face, +The Steward of the night advance, + And lead her to her birthright place. + +The fiddles, which awhile had ceased, + Now tuned again their summons sweet, +And, for one happy night, at least, + Old England's triumph was complete. + + +[1] An old English country dance. + + + + + + +GAZEL. + + +Haste, Maami, the spring is nigh; + Already, in the unopened flowers +That sleep around us, Fancy's eye + Can see the blush of future bowers; +And joy it brings to thee and me, +My own beloved Maami! + +The streamlet frozen on its way, + To feed the marble Founts of Kings, +Now, loosened by the vernal ray, + Upon its path exulting springs-- +As doth this bounding heart to thee, +My ever blissful Maami! + +Such bright hours were not made to stay; + Enough if they awhile remain, +Like Irem's bowers, that fade away. + From time to time, and come again. +And life shall all one Irem be +For us, my gentle Maami. + +O haste, for this impatient heart, + Is like the rose in Yemen's vale, +That rends its inmost leaves apart + With passion for the nightingale; +So languishes this soul for thee, +My bright and blushing Maami! + + + + + + +LINES ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ., OF DUBLIN. + + +If ever life was prosperously cast, + If ever life was like the lengthened flow +Of some sweet music, sweetness to the last, + 'Twas his who, mourned by many, sleeps below. + +The sunny temper, bright where all is strife. + The simple heart above all worldly wiles; +Light wit that plays along the calm of life, + And stirs its languid surface into smiles; + +Pure charity that comes not in a shower, + Sudden and loud, oppressing what it feeds, +But, like the dew, with gradual silent power, + Felt in the bloom it leaves along the meads; + +The happy grateful spirit, that improves + And brightens every gift by fortune given; +That, wander where it will with those it loves, + Makes every place a home, and home a heaven: + +All these were his.--Oh, thou who read'st this stone, + When for thyself, thy children, to the sky +Thou humbly prayest, ask this boon alone, + That ye like him may live, like him may die! + + + + + + +GENIUS AND CRITICISM. + + + _scripsit quidem fata, sed sequitur_. + SENECA. + + +Of old, the Sultan Genius reigned, + As Nature meant, supreme alone; +With mind unchekt, and hands unchained, + His views, his conquests were his own. + +But power like his, that digs its grave + With its own sceptre, could not last; +So Genius' self became the slave + Of laws that Genius' self had past. + +As Jove, who forged the chain of Fate, + Was, ever after, doomed to wear it: +His nods, his struggles all too late-- + "_Qui semel jussit, semper paret_." + +To check young Genius' proud career, + The slaves who now his throne invaded, +Made Criticism his prime Vizir, + And from that hour his glories faded. + +Tied down in Legislation's school, + Afraid of even his own ambition, +His very victories were by rule, + And he was great but by permission. + +His most heroic deeds--the same, + That dazzled, when spontaneous actions-- +Now, done by law, seemed cold and tame, + And shorn of all their first attractions. + +If he but stirred to take the air, + Instant, the Vizir's Council sat-- +"Good Lord, your Highness can't go there-- +"Bless me, your Highness can't do that." + +If, loving pomp, he chose to buy + Rich jewels for his diadem, +"The taste was bad, the price was high-- + "A flower were simpler than a gem." + +To please them if he took to flowers-- + "What trifling, what unmeaning things! +"Fit for a woman's toilet hours, + "But not at all the style for Kings." + +If, fond of his domestic sphere, + He played no more the rambling comet-- +"A dull, good sort of man, 'twas clear, + "But, as for great or brave, far from it." + +Did he then look o'er distant oceans, + For realms more worthy to enthrone him?-- +"Saint Aristotle, what wild notions! + "Serve a '_ne exeat regno_' on him." + +At length, their last and worst to do, +They round him placed a guard of watchmen, +Reviewers, knaves in brown, or blue +Turned up with yellow--chiefly Scotchmen; + +To dog his footsteps all about + Like those in Longwood's prison grounds, +Who at Napoleon's heels rode out, + For fear the Conqueror should break bounds. + +Oh for some Champion of his power, + Some _Ultra_ spirit, to set free, +As erst in Shakespeare's sovereign hour, + The thunders of his Royalty!-- + +To vindicate his ancient line, + The first, the true, the only one, +Of Right eternal and divine, + That rules beneath the blessed sun. + + + + + + +TO LADY JERSEY. + +ON BEING ASKED TO WRITE SOMETHING IN HER ALBUM. + +Written at Middleton. + + +Oh albums, albums, how I dread + Your everlasting scrap and scrawl! +How often wish that from the dead +Old Omar would pop forth his head, + And make a bonfire of you all! + +So might I 'scape the spinster band, + The blushless blues, who, day and night, +Like duns in doorways, take their stand, +To waylay bards, with book in hand, + Crying for ever, "Write, sir, write!" + +So might I shun the shame and pain, + That o'er me at this instant come, +When Beauty, seeking Wit in vain, +Knocks at the portal of my brain, + And gets, for answer, "Not at home!" + +_November, 1828_. + + + + + + +TO THE SAME. + +ON LOOKING THROUGH HER ALBUM. + + +No wonder bards, both high and low, + From Byron down to ***** and me, +Should seek the fame which all bestow + On him whose task is praising thee. + +Let but the theme be Jersey's eyes, + At once all errors are forgiven; +As even old Sternhold still we prize, + Because, tho' dull, he sings of heaven. + + + + + + +AT NIGHT.[1] + + +At night, when all is still around. +How sweet to hear the distant sound + Of footstep, coming soft and light! +What pleasure in the anxious beat, +With which the bosom flies to meet + That foot that comes so soft at night! + +And then, at night, how sweet to say +"'Tis late, my love!" and chide delay, + Tho' still the western clouds are bright; +Oh! happy, too, the silent press, +The eloquence of mute caress. + With those we love exchanged at night! + + +[1] These lines allude to a curious lamp, which has for its device a +Cupid, with the words "at night" written over him. + + + + + + +TO LADY HOLLAND. + +ON NAPOLEON'S LEGACY OP A SNUFF-BOX. + + +Gift of the Hero, on his dying day, + To her, whose pity watched, for ever nigh; +Oh! could he see the proud, the happy ray, + This relic lights up on her generous eye, +Sighing, he'd feel how easy 'tis to pay + A friendship all his kingdoms could not buy. + +_Paris, July_, 1821 + + + + + + +EPILOGUE. + +WRITTEN FOR LADY DACRE'S TRAGEDY OF INA. + + +Last night, as lonely o'er my fire I sat, +Thinking of cues, starts, exits, and--all that, +And wondering much what little knavish sprite +Had put it first in women's heads to write:-- +Sudden I saw--as in some witching dream-- +A bright-blue glory round my book-case beam, +From whose quick-opening folds of azure light +Out flew a tiny form, as small and bright +As Puck the Fairy, when he pops his head, +Some sunny morning from a violet bed. +"Bless me!" I starting cried "what imp are you?"-- +"A small he-devil, Ma'am--my name BAS BLEU-- +"A bookish sprite, much given to routs and reading; +"'Tis I who teach your spinsters of good breeding, +"The reigning taste in chemistry and caps, +"The last new bounds of tuckers and of maps, +"And when the waltz has twirled her giddy brain +"With metaphysics twirl it back again!" +I viewed him, as he spoke--his hose were blue, +His wings--the covers of the last Review-- +Cerulean, bordered with a jaundice hue, +And tinselled gayly o'er, for evening wear, +Till the next quarter brings a new-fledged pair. +"Inspired by me--(pursued this waggish Fairy)-- +"That best of wives and Sapphos, Lady Mary, +"Votary alike of Crispin and the Muse, +"Makes her own splay-foot epigrams and shoes. +"For me the eyes of young Camilla shine, +"And mingle Love's blue brilliances with mine; +"For me she sits apart, from coxcombs shrinking, +"Looks wise--the pretty soul!--and _thinks_ she's thinking. +"By my advice Miss Indigo attends +"Lectures on Memory, and assures her friends, +"''Pon honor!--(_mimics_)--nothing can surpass the plan +"'Of that professor--(_trying to recollect_)--psha! that memory-man-- +"'That--what's his name?--him I attended lately-- +"''Pon honor, he improved _my_ memory greatly.'" +Here curtsying low, I asked the blue-legged sprite, +What share he had in this our play to-night. +'Nay, there--(he cried)--there I am guiltless quite-- +"What! choose a heroine from that Gothic time +"When no one waltzed and none but monks could rhyme; +"When lovely woman, all unschooled and wild, +"Blushed without art, and without culture smiled-- +"Simple as flowers, while yet unclassed they shone, +"Ere Science called their brilliant world her own, +"Ranged the wild, rosy things in learned orders, +"And filled with Greek the garden's blushing borders!-- +"No, no--your gentle Inas will not do-- +"To-morrow evening, when the lights burn blue, +"I'll come--(_pointing downwards_)--you understand--till then adieu!" + + And _has_ the sprite been here! No--jests apart-- +Howe'er man rules in science and in art, +The sphere of woman's glories is the heart. +And, if our Muse have sketched with pencil true +The wife--the mother--firm, yet gentle too-- +Whose soul, wrapt up in ties itself hath spun, +Trembles, if touched in the remotest one; +Who loves--yet dares even Love himself disown, +When Honor's broken shaft supports his throne: +If such our Ina, she may scorn the evils, +Dire as they are, of Critics and--Blue Devils. + + + + + + +THE DAY-DREAM.[1] + + +They both were husht, the voice, the chords,-- + I heard but once that witching lay; +And few the notes, and few the words. + My spell-bound memory brought away; + +Traces, remembered here and there, + Like echoes of some broken strain;-- +Links of a sweetness lost in air, + That nothing now could join again. + +Even these, too, ere the morning, fled; + And, tho' the charm still lingered on, +That o'er each sense her song had shed, + The song itself was faded, gone;-- + +Gone, like the thoughts that once were ours, + On summer days, ere youth had set; +Thoughts bright, we know, as summer flowers, + Tho' _what_ they were we now forget. + +In vain with hints from other strains + I wooed this truant air to come-- +As birds are taught on eastern plains + To lure their wilder kindred home. + +In vain:--the song that Sappho gave, + In dying, to the mournful sea, +Not muter slept beneath the wave + Than this within my memory. + +At length, one morning, as I lay + In that half-waking mood when dreams +Unwillingly at last gave way + To the full truth of daylight's beams, + +A face--the very face, methought, + From which had breathed, as from a shrine +Of song and soul, the notes I sought-- + Came with its music close to mine; + +And sung the long-lost measure o'er,-- + Each note and word, with every tone +And look, that lent it life before,-- + All perfect, all again my own! + +Like parted souls, when, mid the Blest + They meet again, each widowed sound +Thro' memory's realm had winged in quest + Of its sweet mate, till all were found. + +Nor even in waking did the clew, + Thus strangely caught, escape again; +For never lark its matins knew + So well as now I knew this strain. + +And oft when memory's wondrous spell + Is talked of in our tranquil bower, +I sing this lady's song, and tell + The vision of that morning hour. + + +[1] In these stanzas I have done little more than relate a fact in verse; +and the lady, whose singing gave rise to this curious instance of the +power of memory in sleep, is Mrs. Robert Arkwright. + + + + + + +SONG. + + +Where is the heart that would not give + Years of drowsy days and nights, +One little hour, like this, to live-- + Full, to the brim, of life's delights? + Look, look around, + This fairy ground, + With love-lights glittering o'er; + While cups that shine + With freight divine + Go coasting round its shore. + +Hope is the dupe of future hours, + Memory lives in those gone by; +Neither can see the moment's flowers + Springing up fresh beneath the eye, + Wouldst thou, or thou, + Forego what's _now_, + For all that Hope may say? + No--Joy's reply, + From every eye, + Is, "Live we while we may," + + + + + + +SONG OF THE POCO-CURANTE SOCIETY. + + + _haud curat Hippoclides_. + ERASM. _Adag_. + + +To those we love we've drank tonight; + But now attend and stare not, +While I the ampler list recite + Of those for whom WE CARE NOT. + +For royal men, howe'er they frown, + If on their fronts they bear not +That noblest gem that decks a crown, + The People's Love--WE CARE NOT. + +For slavish men who bend beneath + A despot yoke, yet dare not +Pronounce the will whose very breath + Would rend its links--WE CARE NOT. + +For priestly men who covet sway + And wealth, tho' they declare not; +Who point, like finger-posts, the way + They never go--WE CARE NOT. + +For martial men who on their sword, + Howe'er it conquers, wear not +The pledges of a soldier's word, + Redeemed and pure--WE CARE NOT. + +For legal men who plead for wrong. + And, tho' to lies they swear not, +Are hardly better than the throng + Of those who do--WE CARE NOT. + +For courtly men who feed upon + The land, like grubs, and spare not +The smallest leaf where they can sun + Their crawling limbs--WE CARE NOT. + +For wealthy men who keep their mines + In darkness hid, and share not +The paltry ore with him who pines + In honest want--WE CARE NOT. + +For prudent men who hold the power + Of Love aloof, and bare not +Their hearts in any guardless hour + To Beauty's shaft--WE CARE NOT. + +For all, in short, on land or sea, + In camp or court, who _are_ not, +Who never _were_, or e'er _will_ be + Good men and true--WE CARE NOT. + + + + + + +ANNE BOLEYN. + +TRANSLATION FROM THE METRICAL + +"_Histoire d'Anne Boleyn."_ + + + _"S'elle estoit belle et de taille élégante, + Estoit des yeulx encor plus attirante, + Lesquelz sçavoit bien conduyre à propos + En les lenant quelquefoys en repos; + Aucune foys envoyant en message + Porter du cueur le secret tesmoignage_." + + +Much as her form seduced the sight, + Her eyes could even more surely woo; +And when and how to shoot their light + Into men's hearts full well she knew. +For sometimes in repose she hid +Their rays beneath a downcast lid; +And then again, with wakening air, + Would send their sunny glances out, +Like heralds of delight, to bear + Her heart's sweet messages about. + + + + + + +THE DREAM OF THE TWO SISTERS. + +FROM DANTE. + + + _Nell ora, credo, che dell'oriente + Prima raggio nel monte Citerea, + Che di fuoco d'amor par sempre dente, + Giovane e bella in sogno mi parea + Donna vedere andar per una landa + Cogliendo flori; e cantando dicea ;-- + Sappia qualunque'l mio nome dimanda, + Ch'io mi son Lia, e vo movendo 'ntorno + Le belle mani a farmi una ghirlanda-- + Per piacermi allo specchio qui m'adorno; + Ma mia suora Rachel mai non si smaga + Dal suo ammiraglio, e siede tutto il giorno_. + + _Ell' è de'suoi begli occhi veder vaga, + Com' io dell'adornarmi con le mani; + Lei lo vodere e me l'ovrare appaga_. + + DANTE, _Purg. Canto xxvii_. + + +'Twas eve's soft hour, and bright, above. + The star of beauty beamed, +While lulled by light so full of love, + In slumber thus I dreamed-- +Methought, at that sweet hour, + A nymph came o'er the lea, +Who, gathering many a flower, + Thus said and sung to me:-- +"Should any ask what Leila loves, + "Say thou, To wreathe her hair +"With flowerets culled from glens and groves, + "Is Leila's only care. + +"While thus in quest of flowers rare, + "O'er hill and dale I roam, +"My sister, Rachel, far more fair, + "Sits lone and mute at home. +"Before her glass untiring, + "With thoughts that never stray, +"Her own bright eyes admiring, + "She sits the live-long day; +"While I!--oh, seldom even a look + "Of self salutes my eye; +"My only glass, the limpid brook, + "That shines and passes by." + + + + + + +SOVEREIGN WOMAN. + +A BALLAD. + + +The dance was o'er, yet still in dreams + That fairy scene went on; +Like clouds still flusht with daylight gleams + Tho' day itself is gone. +And gracefully to music's sound, +The same bright nymphs were gliding round; +While thou, the Queen of all, wert there-- +The Fairest still, where all were fair. +The dream then changed--in halls of state, + I saw thee high enthroned; +While, ranged around, the wise, the great, + In thee their mistress owned; +And still the same, thy gentle sway +O'er willing subjects won its way-- +Till all confest the Right Divine +To rule o'er man was only thine! + +But, lo, the scene now changed again-- + And borne on plumed steed, +I saw thee o'er the battle-plain + Our land's defenders lead: +And stronger in thy beauty's charms, +Than man, with countless hosts in arms, +Thy voice, like music, cheered the Free, +Thy very smile was victory! + +Nor reign such queens on thrones alone-- + In cot and court the same, +Wherever woman's smile is known, + Victoria's still her name. +For tho' she almost blush to reign, +Tho' Love's own flowerets wreath the chain, +Disguise our bondage as we will, +'Tis woman, woman, rules us still. + + + + + + +COME, PLAY ME THAT SIMPLE AIR AGAIN. + +A BALLAD. + + +Come, play me that simple air again, + I used so to love, in life's young day, +And bring, if thou canst, the dreams that then + Were wakened by that sweet lay + The tender gloom its strain + Shed o'er the heart and brow + Grief's shadow without its pain-- + Say where, where is it now? +But play me the well-known air once more, + For thoughts of youth still haunt its strain +Like dreams of some far, fairy shore + We never shall see again. + +Sweet air, how every note brings back + Some sunny hope, some daydream bright, +That, shining o'er life's early track, + Filled even its tears with light. + The new-found life that came + With love's first echoed vow;-- + The fear, the bliss, the shame-- + Ah--where, where are they now? +But, still the same loved notes prolong, + For sweet 'twere thus, to that old lay, +In dreams of youth and love and song, + To breathe life's hour away. + + + + + + + + +POEMS FROM THE EPICUREAN + +(1827.) + + + + + + +THE VALLEY OF THE NILE. + + +Far as the sight can reach, beneath as clear +And blue a heaven as ever blest this sphere, +Gardens and pillared streets and porphyry domes +And high-built temples, fit to be the homes +Of mighty gods, and pyramids whose hour +Outlasts all time, above the waters tower! + +Then, too, the scenes of pomp and joy that make +One theatre of this vast peopled lake, +Where all that Love, Religion, Commerce gives +Of life and motion, ever moves and lives, +Here, up in the steps of temples, from the wave +Ascending, in procession slow and grave, +Priests in white garments go, with sacred wands +And silver cymbals gleaming in their hands: +While there, rich barks--fresh from those sunny tracts +Far off, beyond the sounding cataracts-- +Glide with their precious lading to the sea, +Plumes of bright birds, rhinoceros' ivory, +Gems from the isle of Meroë, and those grains +Of gold, washed down by Abyssinian rains. + +Here, where the waters wind into a bay +Shadowy and cool, some pilgrims on their way +To Saïs or Bubastus, among beds +Of lotos flowers that close above their heads, +Push their light barks, and hid as in a bower +Sing, talk, or sleep away the sultry hour, +While haply, not far off, beneath a bank +Of blossoming acacias, many a prank +Is played in the cool current by a train +Of laughing nymphs, lovely as she whose chain +Around two conquerors of the world was cast; +But, for a third too feeble, broke at last. + + + + + + +SONG OF THE TWO CUPBEARERS. + + +FIRST CUPBEARER. + +Drink of this cup--Osiris sips + The same in his halls below; +And the same he gives, to cool the lips + Of the dead, who downward go. + +Drink of this cup--the water within + Is fresh from Lethe's stream; +'Twill make the past, with all its sin, + And all its pain and sorrows, seem + Like a long forgotten dream; +The pleasure, whose charms + Are steeped in woe; +The knowledge, that harms + The soul to know; + +The hope, that bright + As the lake of the waste, +Allures the sight + And mocks the taste; + +The love, that binds + Its innocent wreath, +Where the serpent winds + In venom beneath!-- + +All that of evil or false, by thee + Hath ever been known or seen, +Shalt melt away in this cup, and be + Forgot as it never had been! + +SECOND CUPBEARER. + +Drink of this cup--when Isis led + Her boy of old to the beaming sky, +She mingled a draught divine and said.-- + "Drink of this cup, thou'lt never die!" + +Thus do I say and sing to thee. + Heir of that boundless heaven on high, +Though frail and fallen and lost thou be, + "Drink of this cup, thou'lt never die!" + + * * * * * + +And Memory, too, with her dreams shall come, + Dreams of a former, happier day, +When heaven was still the spirit's home, + And her wings had not yet fallen away. + +Glimpses of glory ne'er forgot, + That tell, like gleams on a sunset sea, +What once hath been, what now is not. + But oh! what again shall brightly be!" + + + + + + +SONG OF THE NUBIAN GIRL. + + + O Abyssinian tree, + We pray, we pray to thee; +By the glow of thy golden fruit + And the violet hue of the flower, + And the greeting mute + Of thy boughs' salute + To the stranger who seeks thy bow. + + O Abyssinian tree! + How the traveller blesses thee +When the light no moon allows, + And the sunset hour is near, + And thou bend'st thy boughs + To kiss his brows. + Saying, "Come, rest thee here." + O Abyssinian tree! + Thus bow thy head to me! + + + + + + + + +THE SUMMER FÊTE. + + + + +TO THE HONORABLE MRS. NORTON. + + +For the groundwork of the following Poem I am indebted to a memorable +Fête, given some years since, at Boyle Farm, the seat of the late Lord +Henry Fitzgerald. In commemoration of that evening--of which the lady to +whom these pages are inscribed was, I well recollect, one of the most +distinguished ornaments--I was induced at the time to write some verses, +which were afterwards, however, thrown aside unfinished, on my discovering +that the same task had been undertaken by a noble poet,[1] whose playful +and happy _jeu d'esprit_ on the subject has since been published. It was +but lately, that, on finding the fragments of my own sketch among my +papers, I thought of founding on them such a description of an imaginary +Fête as might furnish me with situations for the introduction of music. + +Such is the origin and object of the following Poem, and to MRS. NORTON it +is, with every feeling of admiration and regard, inscribed by her father's +warmly attached friend, + + THOMAS MOORE. + +_Sloperton Cottage_, + +_November 1881_ + + +[1] Lord Francis Egerton. + + + + + + +THE SUMMER FÊTE + + +"Where are ye now, ye summer days, +"That once inspired the poet's lays? +"Blest time! ere England's nymphs and swains, + "For lack of sunbeams, took to coals-- +"Summers of light, undimmed by rains, +"Whose only mocking trace remains + "In watering-pots and parasols." + +Thus spoke a young Patrician maid, + As, on the morning of that Fête + Which bards unborn shall celebrate, +She backward drew her curtain's shade, +And, closing one half-dazzled eye, +Peeped with the other at the sky-- +The important sky, whose light or gloom +Was to decide, this day, the doom +Of some few hundred beauties, wits, +Blues, Dandies, Swains, and Exquisites. + +Faint were her hopes; for June had now + Set in with all his usual rigor! +Young Zephyr yet scarce knowing how +To nurse a bud, or fan a bough, + But Eurus in perpetual vigor; +And, such the biting summer air, +That she, the nymph now nestling there-- +Snug as her own bright gems recline +At night within their cotton shrine-- +Had more than once been caught of late +Kneeling before her blazing grate, +Like a young worshipper of fire, + With hands uplifted to the flame, +Whose glow as if to woo them nigher. + Thro' the white fingers flushing came. + +But oh! the light, the unhoped-for light, + That now illumed this morning's heaven! +Up sprung Iänthe at the sight, + Tho'--hark!--the clocks but strike eleven, +And rarely did the nymph surprise +Mankind so early with her eyes. +Who now will say that England's sun + (Like England's self, these spendthrift days) +His stock of wealth hath near outrun, + And must retrench his golden rays-- +Pay for the pride of sunbeams past, +And to mere moonshine come at last? + +"Calumnious thought!" Iänthe cries, + While coming mirth lit up each glance, +And, prescient of the ball, her eyes + Already had begun to dance: +For brighter sun than that which now + Sparkled o'er London's spires and towers, +Had never bent from heaven his brow + To kiss Firenze's City of Flowers. + +What must it be--if thus so fair. +Mid the smoked groves of Grosvenor Square-- +What must it be where Thames is seen +Gliding between his banks of green, +While rival villas, on each side, +Peep from their bowers to woo his tide, +And, like a Turk between two rows +Of Harem beauties, on he goes-- +A lover, loved for even the grace +With which he slides from their embrace. + +In one of those enchanted domes, + One, the most flowery, cool, and bright +Of all by which that river roams, + The Fête is to be held to-night-- +That Fête already linked to fame, + Whose cards, in many a fair one's sight +(When looked for long, at last they came,) + Seemed circled with a fairy light;-- +That Fête to which the cull, the flower +Of England's beauty, rank and power, +From the young spinster, just come _out_, + To the old Premier, too long _in_-- +From legs of far descended gout, + To the last new-mustachioed chin-- +All were convoked by Fashion's spells +To the small circle where she dwells, +Collecting nightly, to allure us, + Live atoms, which, together hurled, +She, like another Epicurus, + Sets dancing thus, and calls "the World." + +Behold how busy in those bowers +(Like May-flies in and out of flowers.) +The countless menials, swarming run, +To furnish forth ere set of sun +The banquet-table richly laid +Beneath yon awning's lengthened shade, +Where fruits shall tempt and wines entice, + And Luxury's self, at Gunter's call, +Breathe from her summer-throne of ice + A spirit of coolness over all. + +And now the important hour drew nigh, +When, 'neath the flush of evening's sky, +The west-end "world" for mirth let loose, +And moved, as he of Syracuse[1] +Ne'er dreamt of moving worlds, by force + Of four horse power, had all combined +Thro' Grosvenor Gate to speed their course, + Leaving that portion of mankind, + Whom they call "Nobody," behind; +No star for London's feasts to-day, +No moon of beauty, new this May, +To lend the night her crescent ray;-- +Nothing, in short, for ear or eye, +But veteran belles and wits gone by, +The relics of a past beau-monde, +A world like Cuvier's, long dethroned! +Even Parliament this evening nods +Beneath the harangues of minor Gods, + On half its usual opiate's share; +The great dispensers of repose, +The first-rate furnishers of prose + Being all called to--prose elsewhere. + +Soon as thro' Grosvenor's lordly square-- + That last impregnable redoubt, +Where, guarded with Patrician care, + Primeval Error still holds out-- +Where never gleam of gas must dare + 'Gainst ancient Darkness to revolt, +Nor smooth Macadam hope to spare + The dowagers one single jolt;-- +Where, far too stately and sublime +To profit by the lights of time, +Let Intellect march how it will, +They stick to oil and watchman still:-- +Soon as thro' that illustrious square + The first epistolary bell. +Sounding by fits upon the air, + Of parting pennies rung the knell; +Warned by that tell-tale of the hours, + And by the day-light's westering beam, +The young Iänthe, who, with flowers + Half crowned, had sat in idle dream +Before her glass, scarce knowing where +Her fingers roved thro' that bright hair, + While, all capriciously, she now + Dislodged some curl from her white brow, +And now again replaced it there:-- +As tho' her task was meant to be +One endless change of ministry-- +A routing-up of Loves and Graces, +But to plant others in their places. + +Meanwhile--what strain is that which floats +Thro' the small boudoir near--like notes +Of some young bird, its task repeating +For the next linnet music-meeting? +A voice it was, whose gentle sounds +Still kept a modest octave's bounds, +Nor yet had ventured to exalt +Its rash ambition to _B alt_, +That point towards which when ladies rise, +The wise man takes his hat and--flies. +Tones of a harp, too, gently played, + Came with this youthful voice communing; +Tones true, for once, without the aid + Of that inflictive process, tuning-- +A process which must oft have given + Poor Milton's ears a deadly wound; +So pleased, among the joys of Heaven, + He specifies "harps _ever_ tuned." +She who now sung this gentle strain + Was our young nymph's still younger sister-- +Scarce ready yet for Fashion's train + In their light legions to enlist her, +But counted on, as sure to bring +Her force into the field next spring. + +The song she thus, like Jubal's shell, +Gave forth "so sweetly and so well," +Was one in Morning Post much famed, +From a _divine_ collection, named, + "Songs of the Toilet"--every Lay +Taking for subject of its Muse, + Some branch of feminine array, +Some item, with full scope, to choose, +From diamonds down to dancing shoes; +From the last hat that Herbault's hands + Bequeathed to an admiring world, +Down to the latest flounce that stands +Like Jacob's Ladder--or expands + Far forth, tempestuously unfurled. + +Speaking of one of these new Lays, +The Morning Post thus sweetly says:-- +"Not all that breathes from Bishop's lyre, + "That Barnett dreams, or Cooke conceives, +"Can match for sweetness, strength, or fire, + "This fine Cantata upon Sleeves. +"The very notes themselves reveal + "The cut of each new sleeve so well; +"A _flat_ betrays the _Imbécilles_,[2] + "Light fugues the flying lappets tell; +"While rich cathedral chords awake +'Our homage for the _Manches d'Évêque_." + +'Twas the first opening song the Lay + Of all least deep in toilet-lore, +That the young nymph, to while away + The tiring-hour, thus warbled o'er:-- + + +SONG. + + +Array thee, love, array thee, love, + In all thy best array thee; +The sun's below--the moon's above-- + And Night and Bliss obey thee. +Put on thee all that's bright and rare, + The zone, the wreath, the gem, +Not so much gracing charms so fair, + As borrowing grace from them. +Array thee, love, array thee, love, + In all that's bright array thee; +The sun's below--the moon's above-- + And Night and Bliss obey thee. + +Put on the plumes thy lover gave. + The plumes, that, proudly dancing, +Proclaim to all, where'er they wave, + Victorious eyes advancing. +Bring forth the robe whose hue of heaven + From thee derives such light, +That Iris would give all her seven + To boast but _one_ so bright. +Array thee, love, array thee, love, etc. + +Now hie thee, love, now hie thee, love, + Thro' Pleasure's circles hie thee. +And hearts, where'er thy footsteps move, + Will beat when they come nigh thee. +Thy every word shall be a spell, + Thy every look a ray, +And tracks of wondering eyes shall tell + The glory of thy way! +Now hie thee, love, now hie thee, love, + Thro' Pleasure's circles hie thee, +And hearts, where'er thy footsteps move, + Shall beat when they come nigh thee. + + * * * * * + +Now in his Palace of the West, + Sinking to slumber, the bright Day, +Like a tired monarch fanned to rest, + Mid the cool airs of Evening lay; +While round his couch's golden rim + The gaudy clouds, like courtiers, crept-- +Struggling each other's light to dim, + And catch his last smile e'er he slept. +How gay, as o'er the gliding Thames + The golden eve its lustre poured, +Shone out the high-born knights and dames + Now grouped around that festal board; +A living mass of plumes and flowers. +As tho' they'd robbed both birds and bowers-- +A peopled rainbow, swarming thro' +With habitants of every hue; +While, as the sparkling juice of France +High in the crystal brimmers flowed, + Each sunset ray that mixt by chance +With the wine's sparkles, showed + How sunbeams may be taught to dance. +If not in written form exprest, +'Twas known at least to every guest, +That, tho' not bidden to parade +Their scenic powers in masquerade, +(A pastime little found to thrive + In the bleak fog of England's skies, +Where wit's the thing we best contrive, + As masqueraders, to _disguise_,) +It yet was hoped-and well that hope + Was answered by the young and gay-- + That in the toilet's task to-day +Fancy should take her wildest scope;-- +That the rapt milliner should be +Let loose thro fields of poesy, +The tailor, in inventive trance, + Up to the heights of Epic clamber, +And all the regions of Romance + Be ransackt by the _femme de chambre_. + +Accordingly, with gay Sultanas, +Rebeccas, Sapphos, Roxalanas-- +Circassian slaves whom Love would pay + Half his maternal realms to ransom;-- +Young nuns, whose chief religion lay + In looking most profanely handsome;-- +Muses in muslin-pastoral maids +With hats from the _Arcade-ian_ shades, +And fortune-tellers, rich, 'twas plain, +As fortune-_hunters_ formed their train. + +With these and more such female groups, +Were mixt no less fantastic troops +Of male exhibitors--all willing +To look even more than usual killing;-- +Beau tyrants, smock-faced braggadocios, +And brigands, charmingly ferocious:-- +M.P.'s turned Turks, good Moslems then, + Who, last night, voted for the Greeks; +And Friars, stanch No-Popery men, + In close confab with Whig Caciques. + +But where is she--the nymph whom late + We left before her glass delaying +Like Eve, when by the lake she sate, + In the clear wave her charms surveying, +And saw in that first glassy mirror +The first fair face that lured to error. +"Where is she," ask'st thou?--watch all looks + As centring to one point they bear, +Like sun-flowers by the sides of brooks, + Turned to the sun--and she is there. +Even in disguise, oh never doubt +By her own light you'd track her out: +As when the moon, close shawled in fog, +Steals as she thinks, thro' heaven _incog_., +Tho' hid herself, some sidelong ray +At every step, detects her way. + +But not in dark disguise to-night +Hath our young heroine veiled her light;-- +For see, she walks the earth, Love's own. + His wedded bride, by _holiest_ vow +Pledged in Olympus, and made known + To mortals by the type which now + Hangs glittering on her snowy brow, +That butterfly, mysterious trinket, +Which means the Soul (tho' few would think it), +And sparkling thus on brow so white, +Tells us we've Psyche here tonight! +But hark! some song hath caught her ears-- + And, lo, how pleased, as tho' she'd ne'er +Heard the Grand Opera of the Spheres, + Her goddess-ship approves the air; +And to a mere terrestrial strain, +Inspired by naught but pink champagne, + Her butterfly as gayly nods +As tho' she sate with all her train + At some great Concert of the Gods, +With Phoebus, leader--Jove, director, +And half the audience drunk with nectar. + +From the male group the carol came-- + A few gay youths whom round the board +The last-tried flask's superior fame + Had lured to taste the tide it poured; +And one who from his youth and lyre +Seemed grandson to the Teian-sire, +Thus gayly sung, while, to his song, +Replied in chorus the gay throng:-- + + +SONG. + + +Some mortals there may be, so wise, or so fine, + As in evenings like this no enjoyment to see; +But, as I'm not particular--wit, love, and wine, + Are for one night's amusement sufficient for me. +Nay--humble and strange as my tastes may appear-- + If driven to the worst, I could manage, thank Heaven, +To put up with eyes such as beam round me here, + And such wine as we're sipping, six days out of seven. +So pledge me a bumper--your sages profound + May be blest, if they will, on their own patent plan: +But as we are _not_ sages, why--send the cup round-- + We must only be happy the best way we can. + +A reward by some king was once offered, we're told, + To whoe'er could invent a new bliss for mankind; +But talk of _new_ pleasures!--give me but the old, + And I'll leave your inventors all new ones they find. +Or should I, in quest of fresh realms of bliss, + Set sail in the pinnace of Fancy some day, +Let the rich rosy sea I embark on be this, + And such eyes as we've here be the stars of my way! +In the mean time, a bumper--your Angels, on high, + May have pleasures unknown to life's limited span; +But, as we are _not_ Angels, why--let the flask fly-- + We must be happy _all_ ways that we can. + + * * * * * + +Now nearly fled was sunset's light, + Leaving but so much of its beam +As gave to objects, late so blight, + The coloring of a shadowy dream; +And there was still where Day had set + A flush that spoke him loath to die-- +A last link of his glory yet, + Binding together earth and sky. +Say, why is it that twilight best +Becomes even brows the loveliest? +That dimness with its softening Touch + Can bring out grace unfelt before, +And charms we ne'er can see too much, + When seen but half enchant the more? +Alas, it is that every joy +In fulness finds its worst alloy, +And half a bliss, but hoped or guessed, +Is sweeter than the whole possest;-- +That Beauty, when least shone upon, + A creature most ideal grows; +And there's no light from moon or sun + Like that Imagination throws;-- +It is, alas, that Fancy shrinks + Even from a bright reality, +And turning inly, feels and thinks + For heavenlier things than e'er will be. + +Such was the effect of twilight's hour + On the fair groups that, round and round, +From glade to grot, from bank to bower, + Now wandered thro' this fairy ground; +And thus did Fancy--and champagne-- + Work on the sight their dazzling spells, +Till nymphs that looked at noonday plain, + Now brightened in the gloom to belles; +And the brief interval of time, + 'Twixt after dinner and before, +To dowagers brought back their prime, + And shed a halo round two-score. + +Meanwhile, new pastimes for the eye, + The ear, the fancy, quick succeed; +And now along the waters fly + Light gondoles, of Venetian breed, +With knights and dames who, calm reclined, + Lisp out love-sonnets as they glide-- +Astonishing old Thames to find + Such doings on his moral tide. + +So bright was still that tranquil river, +With the last shaft from Daylight's quiver, +That many a group in turn were seen +Embarking on its wave serene; +And 'mong the rest, in chorus gay, + A band of mariners, from the isles + Of sunny Greece, all song and smiles, +As smooth they floated, to the play +Of their oar's cadence, sung this lay:-- + + +TRIO. + + +Our home is on the sea, boy, + Our home is on the sea; + When Nature gave + The ocean-wave, + She markt it for the Free. +Whatever storms befall, boy, + Whatever storms befall, + The island bark + Is Freedom's ark, + And floats her safe thro' all. + +Behold yon sea of isles, boy, + Behold yon sea of isles, + Where every shore + Is sparkling o'er + With Beauty's richest smiles. +For us hath Freedom claimed, boy, + For us hath Freedom claimed + Those ocean-nests + Where Valor rests + His eagle wing untamed. + +And shall the Moslem dare, boy, + And shall the Moslem dare, + While Grecian hand + Can wield a brand, + To plant his Crescent there? +No--by our fathers, no, boy, + No, by the Cross, we show-- + From Maina's rills + To Thracia's hills + All Greece re-echoes "No!" + + * * * * * + +Like pleasant thoughts that o'er the mind + A minute come and go again, +Even so by snatches in the wind, + Was caught and lost that choral strain, +Now full, now faint upon the ear, +As the bark floated far or near. +At length when, lost, the closing note + Had down the waters died along, +Forth from another fairy boat, + Freighted with music, came this song-- + + +SONG. + + +Smoothly flowing thro' verdant vales, + Gentle river, thy current runs, +Sheltered safe from winter gales, + Shaded cool from summer suns. +Thus our Youth's sweet moments glide. + Fenced with flowery shelter round; +No rude tempest wakes the tide, + All its path is fairy ground. + +But, fair river, the day will come, + When, wooed by whispering groves in vain, +Thou'lt leave those banks, thy shaded home, + To mingle with the stormy main. +And thou, sweet Youth, too soon wilt pass + Into the world's unsheltered sea, +Where, once thy wave hath mixt, alas, + All hope of peace is lost for thee. + +Next turn we to the gay saloon, +Resplendent as a summer noon, + Where, 'neath a pendent wreath of lights, +A Zodiac of flowers and tapers-- +(Such as in Russian ball-rooms sheds +Its glory o'er young dancers' heads)-- + Quadrille performs her mazy rites, +And reigns supreme o'er slides and capers;-- + +Working to death each opera strain, + As, with a foot that ne'er reposes, +She jigs thro' sacred and profane, + From "Maid and Magpie" up to "Moses;"--[3] +Wearing out tunes as fast as shoes, + Till fagged Rossini scarce respires; +Till Meyerbeer for mercy sues, + And Weber at her feet expires. + +And now the set hath ceased--the bows +Of fiddlers taste a brief repose, +While light along the painted floor, + Arm within arm, the couples stray, +Talking their stock of nothings o'er, + Till--nothing's left at last to say. +When lo!--most opportunely sent-- + Two Exquisites, a he and she, +Just brought from Dandyland, and meant + For Fashion's grand Menagerie, +Entered the room--and scarce were there +When all flocked round them, glad to stare +At _any_ monsters, _any_ where. +Some thought them perfect, to their tastes; +While others hinted that the waists +(That in particular of the _he_ thing) +Left far too ample room for breathing: +Whereas, to meet these critics' wishes, + The isthmus there should be so small, +That Exquisites, at last, like fishes, + Must manage not to breathe at all. +The female (these same critics said), + Tho' orthodox from toe to chin, +Yet lacked that spacious width of head + To hat of toadstool much akin-- +That build of bonnet, whose extent +Should, like a doctrine of dissent, + Puzzle church-doors to let it in. + +However--sad as 'twas, no doubt, +That nymph so smart should go about, +With head unconscious of the place +It _ought_ to fill in Infinite Space-- +Yet all allowed that, of her kind, +A prettier show 'twas hard to find; +While of that doubtful genus, "dressy men," +The male was thought a first-rate specimen. +Such _Savans_, too, as wisht to trace +The manners, habits, of this race-- +To know what rank (if rank at all) +'Mong reasoning things to them should fall-- +What sort of notions heaven imparts +To high-built heads and tight-laced hearts +And how far Soul, which, Plato says, +Abhors restraint, can act in stays-- +Might now, if gifted with discerning, +Find opportunities of learning: +As these two creatures--from their pout +And frown, 'twas plain--had just fallen out; +And all their little thoughts, of course. +Were stirring in full fret and force;-- +Like mites, through microscope espied, +A world of nothings magnified. + +But mild the vent such beings seek, +The tempest of their souls to speak: +As Opera swains to fiddles sigh, +To fiddles fight, to fiddles die, +Even so this tender couple set +Their well-bred woes to a Duet. + + +WALTZ DUET. + + +HE. +Long as I waltzed with only thee, + Each blissful Wednesday that went by, +Nor stylish Stultz, nor neat Nugee + Adorned a youth so blest as I. + Oh! ah! ah! oh! + Those happy days are gone--heigho! + +SHE. +Long as with thee I skimmed the ground, + Nor yet was scorned for Lady Jane, +No blither nymph tetotumed round + To Collinet's immortal strain. + Oh! ah! etc. + Those happy days are gone--heigho! + +HE. +With Lady Jane now whirled about, + I know no bounds of time or breath; +And, should the charmer's head hold out, + My heart and heels are hers till death. + Oh! ah! etc. + Still round and round thro' life we'll go. + +SHE. +To Lord Fitznoodle's eldest son, + A youth renowned for waistcoats smart, +I now have given (excuse the pun) + A vested interest in my heart. + Oh! ah! etc. + Still round and round with him I'll go. + +HE. +What if by fond remembrance led + Again to wear our mutual chain. +For me thou cut'st Fitznoodle + dead, + And I _levant_ from Lady Jane. + Oh! ah! etc. + Still round and round again we'll go. + +SHE. +Tho' he the Noodle honors give, +And thine, dear youth, are not so high, +With thee in endless waltz I'd live, + With thee, to Weber's Stop-- + Waltz, die! + Oh! ah! etc. + Thus round and round thro' life we'll go. + +[_Exeunt waltzing_. + + * * * * * + +While thus, like motes that dance away +Existence in a summer ray, +These gay things, born but to quadrille, +The circle of their doom fulfil-- +(That dancing doom whose law decrees + That they should live on the alert toe +A life of ups-and-downs, like keys + Of Broadwood's in a long concerto:--) +While thus the fiddle's spell, _within_, + Calls up its realm of restless sprites. +_Without_, as if some Mandarin + Were holding there his Feast of Lights, +Lamps of all hues, from walks and bowers, +Broke on the eye, like kindling flowers, +Till, budding into light, each tree +Bore its full fruit of brilliancy. + +Here shone a garden-lamps all o'er, + As tho' the Spirits of the Air +Had taken it in their heads to pour + A shower of summer meteors there;-- +While here a lighted shrubbery led + To a small lake that sleeping lay, +Cradled in foliage but, o'er-head, + Open to heaven's sweet breath and ray; +While round its rim there burning stood + Lamps, with young flowers beside them bedded, +That shrunk from such warm neighborhood, +And, looking bashful in the flood, + Blushed to behold themselves so wedded. + +Hither, to this embowered retreat, +Fit but for nights so still and sweet; + Nights, such as Eden's calm recall + In its first lonely hour, when all + So silent is, below, on high, + That is a star falls down the sky, + You almost think you hear it fall-- + Hither, to this recess, a few, + To shun the dancers' wildering noise, + And give an hour, ere night-time flew, + To music's more ethereal joys, + Came with their voices-ready all + As Echo waiting for a call-- + In hymn or ballad, dirge or glee, + To weave their mingling ministrelsy, +And first a dark-eyed nymph, arrayed-- +Like her whom Art hath deathless made, +Bright Mona Lisa[4]--with that braid +Of hair across the brow, and one +Small gem that in the centre shone-- +With face, too, in its form resembling +Da Vinci's Beauties-the dark eyes, +Now lucid as thro' crystal trembling, + Now soft as if suffused with sighs-- +Her lute that hung beside her took, +And, bending o'er it with shy look, +More beautiful, in shadow thus, +Than when with life most luminous, +Past her light finger o'er the chords, +And sung to them these mournful words:-- + + +SONG. + + +Bring hither, bring thy lute, while day is dying-- + Here will I lay me and list to thy song; +Should tones of other days mix with its sighing, + Tones of a light heart, now banisht so long, +Chase them away-they bring but pain, +And let thy theme be woe again. + +Sing on thou mournful lute--day is fast going, + Soon will its light from thy chords die away; +One little gleam in the west is still glowing, + When that hath vanisht, farewell to thy lay. +Mark, how it fades!-see, it is fled! +Now, sweet lute, be thou, too, dead. + +The group that late in garb of Greeks + Sung their light chorus o'er the tide-- +Forms, such as up the wooded creeks + Of Helle's shore at noon-day glide, +Or nightly on her glistening sea, +Woo the bright waves with melody-- +Now linked their triple league again +Of voices sweet, and sung a strain, +Such as, had Sappho's tuneful ear + But caught it, on the fatal steep, +She would have paused, entranced, to hear, + And for that day deferred her leap. + + +SONG AND TRIO. + + +On one of those sweet nights that oft + Their lustre o'er the AEgean fling, +Beneath my casement, low and soft, + I heard a Lesbian lover sing; +And, listening both with ear and thought, +These sounds upon the night breeze caught-- + "Oh, happy as the gods is he, + "Who gazes at this hour on thee!" + +The song was one by Sappho sung, + In the first love-dreams of her lyre, +When words of passion from her tongue + Fell like a shower of living fire. +And still, at close of every strain, +I heard these burning words again-- + "Oh, happy as the gods is he, + "Who listens at this hour to thee!" + +Once more to Mona Lisa turned + Each asking eye--nor turned in vain +Tho' the quick, transient blush that burned + Bright o'er her cheek and died again, +Showed with what inly shame and fear +Was uttered what all loved to hear. +Yet not to sorrow's languid lay + Did she her lute-song now devote; +But thus, with voice that like a ray + Of southern sunshine seemed to float-- + So rich with climate was each note-- +Called up in every heart a dream +Of Italy with this soft theme:-- + + +SONG. + + +Oh, where art thou dreaming, + On land, or on sea? +In my lattice is gleaming + The watch-light for thee; + +And this fond heart is glowing + To welcome thee home, +And the night is fast going, + But thou art not come: + No, thou com'st not! + +'Tis the time when night-flowers + Should wake from their rest; +'Tis the hour of all hours, + When the lute singeth best, +But the flowers are half sleeping + Till _thy_ glance they see; +And the husht lute is keeping + Its music for thee. + Yet, thou com'st not! + + * * * * * + +Scarce had the last word left her lip, +When a light, boyish form, with trip +Fantastic, up the green walk came, +Prankt in gay vest to which the flame +Of every lamp he past, or blue +Or green or crimson, lent its hue; +As tho' a live chameleon's skin +He had despoiled, to robe him in. +A zone he wore of clattering shells, + And from his lofty cap, where shone +A peacock's plume, there dangled bells + That rung as he came dancing on. +Close after him, a page--in dress +And shape, his miniature express-- +An ample basket, filled with store +Of toys and trinkets, laughing bore; +Till, having reached this verdant seat, +He laid it at his master's feet, +Who, half in speech and half in song, +Chanted this invoice to the throng:-- + + +SONG. + + +Who'll buy?--'tis Folly's shop, who'll buy?-- + We've toys to suit all ranks and ages; +Besides our usual fools' supply, + We've lots of playthings, too, for sages. +For reasoners here's a juggler's cup + That fullest seems when nothing's in it; +And nine-pins set, like systems, up, + To be knocked down the following minute. + Who'll buy?--'tis Folly's shop, who'll buy? + +Gay caps we here of foolscap make. + For bards to wear in dog-day weather; +Or bards the bells alone may take, + And leave to wits the cap and feather, +Tetotums we've for patriots got, + Who court the mob with antics humble; +Like theirs the patriot's dizzy lot, + A glorious spin, and then--a tumble, + Who'll buy, etc. + +Here, wealthy misers to inter, + We've shrouds of neat post-obit paper; +While, for their heirs, we've _quick_silver, + That, fast as they can wish, will caper. +For aldermen we've dials true, + That tell no hour but that of dinner; +For courtly parsons sermons new, + That suit alike both saint and sinner. + Who'll buy, etc. + +No time we've now to name our terms, + But, whatsoe'er the whims that seize you, + This oldest of all mortal firms, + Folly and Co., will try to please you. +Or, should you wish a darker hue +Of goods than _we_ can recommend you, +Why then (as we with lawyers do) + To Knavery's shop next door we'll send you. + Who'll buy, etc. + +While thus the blissful moments rolled, + Moments of rare and fleeting light, +That show themselves, like grains of gold + In the mine's refuse, few and bright; +Behold where, opening far away, + The long Conservatory's range, +Stript of the flowers it wore all day, + But gaining lovelier in exchange, +Presents, on Dresden's costliest ware, +A supper such as Gods might share. + +Ah much-loved Supper!--blithe repast +Of other times, now dwindling fast, +Since Dinner far into the night +Advanced the march of appetite; +Deployed his never-ending forces +Of various vintage and three courses, +And, like those Goths who played the dickens +With Rome and all her sacred chickens, +Put Supper and her fowls so white, +Legs, wings, and drumsticks, all to flight. +Now waked once more by wine--whose tide +Is the true Hippocrene, where glide +The Muse's swans with happiest wing, +Dipping their bills before they sing-- +The minstrels of the table greet +The listening ear with descant sweet:-- + + +SONG AND TRIO. + +THE LEVÉE AND COUCHÉE. + + + Call the Loves around, + Let the whispering sound + Of their wings be heard alone. + Till soft to rest + My Lady blest + At this bright hour hath gone, + Let Fancy's beams + Play o'er her dreams, + Till, touched with light all through. + Her spirit be + Like a summer sea, + Shining and slumbering too. + And, while thus husht she lies, + Let the whispered chorus rise-- +"Good evening, good evening, to our + Lady's bright eyes." + + But the day-beam breaks, + See, our Lady wakes! + Call the Loves around once more, + Like stars that wait + At Morning's gate, + Her first steps to adore. + Let the veil of night + From her dawning sight + All gently pass away, + Like mists that flee + From a summer sea, + Leaving it full of day. + And, while her last dream flies, + Let the whispered chorus rise-- +"Good morning, good morning, to our + Lady's bright eyes." + + +SONG. + + +If to see thee be to love thee, + If to love thee be to prize +Naught of earth or heaven above thee, + Nor to live but for those eyes: +If such love to mortal given, +Be wrong to earth, be wrong to heaven, +'Tis not for thee the fault to blame, +For from those eyes the madness came. +Forgive but thou the crime of loving + In this heart more pride 'twill raise +To be thus wrong with thee approving, + Than right with all a world to praise! + + * * * * * + +But say, while light these songs resound, +What means that buzz of whispering round, +From lip to lip--as if the Power +Of Mystery, in this gay hour, +Had thrown some secret (as we fling +Nuts among children) to that ring +Of rosy, restless lips, to be +Thus scrambled for so wantonly? +And, mark ye, still as each reveals +The mystic news, her hearer steals +A look towards yon enchanted chair, + Where, like the Lady of the Masque, +A nymph, as exquisitely fair + As Love himself for bride could ask, +Sits blushing deep, as if aware +Of the winged secret circling there. +Who is this nymph? and what, oh Muse, + What, in the name of all odd things +That woman's restless brain pursues, +What mean these mystic whisperings? + +Thus runs the tale:--yon blushing maid, +Who sits in beauty's light arrayed, +While o'er her leans a tall young Dervise, +(Who from her eyes, as all observe, is +Learning by heart the Marriage Service,) +Is the bright heroine of our song,-- +The Love-wed Psyche, whom so long +We've missed among this mortal train, +We thought her winged to heaven again. + +But no--earth still demands her smile; +Her friends, the Gods, must wait awhile. +And if, for maid of heavenly birth, + A young Duke's proffered heart and hand +Be things worth waiting for on earth, + Both are, this hour, at her command. +To-night, in yonder half-lit shade, +For love concerns expressly meant, +The fond proposal first was made, + And love and silence blusht consent +Parents and friends (all here, as Jews, +Enchanters, house-maids, Turks, Hindoos,) +Have heard, approved, and blest the tie; +And now, hadst thou a poet's eye, +Thou might'st behold, in the air, above +That brilliant brow, triumphant Love, +Holding, as if to drop it down +Gently upon her curls, a crown +Of Ducal shape--but, oh, such gems! +Pilfered from Peri diadems, +And set in gold like that which shines +To deck the Fairy of the Mines: +In short, a crown all glorious--such as +Love orders when he makes a Duchess. + +But see, 'tis morn in heaven; the Sun +Up in the bright orient hath begun +To canter his immortal beam; + And, tho' not yet arrived in sight, +His leaders' nostrils send a steam + Of radiance forth, so rosy bright + As makes their onward path all light. +What's to be done? if Sol will be +So deuced early, so must we: +And when the day thus shines outright, +Even dearest friends must bid good night. +So, farewell, scene of mirth and masking, + Now almost a by-gone tale; +Beauties, late in lamp-light basking, + Now, by daylight, dim and pale; +Harpers, yawning o'er your harps, +Scarcely knowing flats from sharps; +Mothers who, while bored you keep +Time by nodding, nod to sleep; +Heads of hair, that stood last night +_Crépé_, crispy, and upright, +But have now, alas, one sees, a +Leaning like the tower of Pisa; +Fare ye will--thus sinks away + All that's mighty, all that's bright: +Tyre and Sidon had their day, +And even a Ball--has but its night! + + +[1] Archimedes. + +[2] The name given to those large sleeves that hang loosely. + +[3] In England the partition of this opera of Rossini was transferred to +the story of Peter the Hermit; by which means the indecorum of giving such +names as "Moyse," "Pharaon," etc., to the dancers selected from it (as was +done in Paris), has been avoided. + +[4] The celebrated portrait by Leonardo da Vinci, which he is said to have +occupied four years in painting,--_Vasari_, vol. vii. + + + + + + + + +EVENINGS IN GREECE + + +In thus connecting together a series of Songs by a thread of poetical +narrative, my chief object has been to combine Recitation with Music, so +as to enable a greater number of persons to join in the performance, by +enlisting as readers those who may not feel willing or competent to take a +part as singers. + +The Island of Zea where the scene is laid was called by the ancients +Ceos, and was the birthplace of Simonides, Bacchylides, and other eminent +persons. An account of its present state may be found in the Travels of +Dr. Clarke, who says, that "it appeared to him to be the best cultivated +of any of the Grecian Isles."--Vol. vi. p. 174. + +T.M. + + + + + + +EVENINGS IN GREECE. + + + + +FIRST EVENING. + + +"The sky is bright--the breeze is fair, + "And the mainsail flowing, full and free-- +"Our farewell word is woman's prayer, + "And the hope before us--Liberty! + "Farewell, farewell. + "To Greece we give our shining blades, + "And our hearts to you, young Zean Maids! + +"The moon is in the heavens above, + "And the wind is on the foaming sea-- +"Thus shines the star of woman's love + "On the glorious strife of Liberty! + "Farewell, farewell. + "To Greece we give our shining blades, + "And our hearts to you, young Zean Maids!" + + Thus sung they from the bark, that now +Turned to the sea its gallant prow, +Bearing within its hearts as brave, +As e'er sought Freedom o'er the wave; +And leaving on that islet's shore, + Where still the farewell beacons burn, +Friends that shall many a day look o'er + The long, dim sea for their return. + +Virgin of Heaven! speed their way-- + Oh, speed their way,--the chosen flower, +Of Zea's youth, the hope and stay + Of parents in their wintry hour, +The love of maidens and the pride +Of the young, happy, blushing bride, +Whose nuptial wreath has not yet died-- +All, all are in that precious bark, + Which now, alas! no more is seen-- +Tho' every eye still turns to mark + The moonlight spot where it had been. + +Vainly you look, ye maidens, sires, + And mothers, your beloved are gone!-- +Now may you quench those signal fires, + Whose light they long looked back upon +From their dark deck--watching the flame + As fast it faded from their view, +With thoughts, that, but for manly shame, + Had made them droop and weep like you. +Home to your chambers! home, and pray +For the bright coming of that day, +When, blest by heaven, the Cross shall sweep +The Crescent from the Aegean deep, +And your brave warriors, hastening back, +Will bring such glories in their track, +As shall, for many an age to come, +Shed light around their name and home. + + There is a Fount on Zea's isle, +Round which, in soft luxuriance, smile +All the sweet flowers, of every kind, + On which the sun of Greece looks down, + Pleased as a lover on the crown +His mistress for her brow hath twined, +When he beholds each floweret there, +Himself had wisht her most to wear; +Here bloomed the laurel-rose,[1] whose wreath +Hangs radiant round the Cypriot shines, +And here those bramble-flowers, that breathe + Their odor into Zante's wines:-- +The splendid woodbine that, as eve, + To grace their floral diadems, +The lovely maids of Patmos weave:--[2] +And that fair plant whose tangled stems +Shine like a Nereid's hair,[3] when spread, +Dishevelled, o'er her azure bed:-- +All these bright children of the clime, +(Each at its own most genial time, +The summer, or the year's sweet prime,) + Like beautiful earth-stars, adorn + The Valley where that Fount is born; +While round, to grace its cradle green +Groups of Velani oaks are seen +Towering on every verdant height-- +Tall, shadowy, in the evening light, +Like Genii set to watch the birth +Of some enchanted child of earth-- +Fair oaks that over Zea's vales, + Stand with their leafy pride unfurled; +While Commerce from her thousand sails + Scatters their fruit throughout the world![4] + + 'Twas here--as soon as prayer and sleep +(Those truest friends to all who weep) +Had lightened every heart; and made +Even sorrow wear a softer shade-- +'Twas here, in this secluded spot, + Amid whose breathings calm and sweet +Grief might be soothed if not forgot, + The Zean nymphs resolved to meet +Each evening now, by the same light +That saw their farewell tears that night: +And try if sound of lute and song, + If wandering mid the moonlight flowers +In various talk, could charm along + With lighter step, the lingering hours, +Till tidings of that Bark should come, +Or Victory waft their warriors home! + + When first they met--the wonted smile +Of greeting having gleamed awhile-- +'Twould touch even Moslem heart to see +The sadness that came suddenly +O'er their young brows, when they looked round +Upon that bright, enchanted ground; +And thought how many a time with those + Who now were gone to the rude wars +They there had met at evening's close, + And danced till morn outshone the stars! + +But seldom long doth hang the eclipse + Of sorrow o'er such youthful breasts-- +The breath from her own blushing lips, + That on the maiden's mirror rests, +Not swifter, lighter from the glass, +Than sadness from her brow doth pass. + +Soon did they now, as round the Well + They sat, beneath the rising moon-- +And some with voice of awe would tell +Of midnight fays and nymphs who dwell + In holy founts--while some would time +Their idle lutes that now had lain +For days without a single strain;-- +And others, from the rest apart, +With laugh that told the lightened heart, +Sat whispering in each other's ear +Secrets that all in turn would hear;-- +Soon did they find this thoughtless play +So swiftly steal their griefs away, + That many a nymph tho' pleased the while, + Reproached her own forgetful smile, +And sighed to think she _could_ be gay. + +Among these maidens there was one + Who to Leucadia[5] late had been-- +Had stood beneath the evening sun + On its white towering cliffs and seen +The very spot where Sappho sung +Her swan-like music, ere she sprung +(Still holding, in that fearful leap, +By her loved lyre,) into the deep, +And dying quenched the fatal fire, +At once, of both her heart and lyre. + + Mutely they listened all--and well +Did the young travelled maiden tell +Of the dread height to which that steep +Beetles above the eddying deep--[6] +Of the lone sea-birds, wheeling round +The dizzy edge with mournful sound-- +And of those scented lilies found +Still blooming on that fearful place-- +As if called up by Love to grace +The immortal spot o'er which the last +Bright footsteps of his martyr past! + + While fresh to every listener's thought +These legends of Leucadia brought +All that of Sappho's hapless flame +Is kept alive, still watcht by Fame-- +The maiden, tuning her soft lute, +While all the rest stood round her, mute, +Thus sketched the languishment of soul, +That o'er the tender Lesbian stole; +And in a voice whose thrilling tone +Fancy might deem the Lesbian's own, +One of those fervid fragments gave, + Which still,--like sparkles of Greek Fire, +Undying, even beneath the wave,-- + Burn on thro' Time and ne'er expire. + + +SONG. + + +As o'er her loom the Lesbian Maid + In love-sick languor hung her head, +Unknowing where her fingers strayed, + She weeping turned away, and said, +"Oh, my sweet Mother--'tis in vain-- + "I cannot weave, as once I wove-- +"So wildered is my heart and brain + "With thinking of that youth I love!" + +Again the web she tried to trace, + But tears fell o'er each tangled thread; +While looking in her mother's face, + Who watchful o'er her leaned, she said, +"Oh, my sweet Mother--'tis in vain-- + "I cannot weave, as once I wove-- +"So wildered is my heart and brain + "With thinking of that youth I love!" + + * * * * * + +A silence followed this sweet air, + As each in tender musing stood, +Thinking, with lips that moved in prayer, + Of Sappho and that fearful flood: +While some who ne'er till now had known + How much their hearts resembled hers, +Felt as they made her griefs their own, + That _they_ too were Love's worshippers. + + At length a murmur, all but mute, +So faint it was, came from the lute +Of a young melancholy maid, +Whose fingers, all uncertain played +From chord to chord, as if in chase + Of some lost melody, some strain +Of other times, whose faded trace + She sought among those chords again. +Slowly the half-forgotten theme + (Tho' born in feelings ne'er forgot) +Came to her memory--as a beam + Falls broken o'er some shaded spot;-- +And while her lute's sad symphony +Filled up each sighing pause between; +And Love himself might weep to see + What ruin comes where he hath been-- +As withered still the grass is found +Where fays have danced their merry round-- +Thus simply to the listening throng +She breathed her melancholy song:-- + + +SONG. + + +Weeping for thee, my love, thro' the long day, +Lonely and wearily life wears away. +Weeping for thee, my love, thro' the long night-- +No rest in darkness, no joy in light! +Naught left but Memory whose dreary tread +Sounds thro' this ruined heart, where all lies dead-- +Wakening the echoes of joy long fled! + + * * * * * + + Of many a stanza, this alone +Had 'scaped oblivion--like the one +Stray fragment of a wreck which thrown +With the lost vessel's name ashore +Tells who they were that live no more. + When thus the heart is in a vein +Of tender thought, the simplest strain +Can touch it with peculiar power-- + As when the air is warm, the scent +Of the most wild and rustic flower + Can fill the whole rich element-- +And in such moods the homeliest tone +That's linked with feelings, once our own-- +With friends or joy gone by--will be +Worth choirs of loftiest harmony! + +But some there were among the group + Of damsels there too light of heart +To let their spirits longer droop, + Even under music's melting art; +And one upspringing with a bound +From a low bank of flowers, looked round +With eyes that tho' so full of light + Had still a trembling tear within; +And, while her fingers in swift flight + Flew o'er a fairy mandolin, +Thus sung the song her lover late + Had sung to her--the eve before + That joyous night, when as of yore +All Zea met to celebrate + The feast of May on the sea-shore. + + +SONG. + + +When the Balaika[7] + Is heard o'er the sea, +I'll dance the Romaika + By moonlight with thee. +If waves then advancing + Should steal on our play, +Thy white feet in dancing + Shall chase them away.[8] +When the Balaika + Is heard o'er the sea, +Thou'lt dance the Romaika + My own love, with me. + +Then at the closing + Of each merry lay, +How sweet 'tis, reposing + Beneath the night ray! +Or if declining + The moon leave the skies, +We'll talk by the shining + Of each other's eyes. + +Oh then how featly + The dance we'll renew, +Treading so fleetly + Its light mazes thro':[9] +Till stars, looking o'er us + From heaven's high bowers, +Would change their bright chorus + For one dance of ours! +When the Balaika + Is heard o'er the sea, +Thou'lt dance the Romaika, + My own love, with me. + + * * * * * + +How changingly for ever veers +The heart of youth 'twixt smiles and tears! +Even as in April the light vane +Now points to sunshine, now to rain. +Instant this lively lay dispelled + The shadow from each blooming brow, +And Dancing, joyous Dancing, held + Full empire o'er each fancy now. + + +But say--_what_ shall the measure be? + "Shall we the old Romaika tread," +(Some eager asked) "as anciently + "'Twas by the maids of Delos led, +"When slow at first, then circling fast, +"As the gay spirits rose--at last, +"With hand in hand like links enlocked, + "Thro' the light air they seemed to flit +"In labyrinthine maze, that mocked + "The dazzled eye that followed it?" +Some called aloud "the Fountain Dance!"-- + While one young, dark-eyed Amazon, +Whose step was air-like and whose glance + Flashed, like a sabre in the sun, +Sportively said, "Shame on these soft + "And languid strains we hear so oft. +"Daughters of Freedom! have not we + "Learned from our lovers and our sires +"The Dance of Greece, while Greece was free-- + "That Dance, where neither flutes nor lyres, +"But sword and shield clash on the ear +"A music tyrants quake to hear? +"Heroines of Zea, arm with me +"And dance the dance of Victory!" + +Thus saying, she, with playful grace, +Loosed the wide hat, that o'er her face +(From Anatolia came the maid) + Hung shadowing each sunny charm; +And with a fair young armorer's aid, + Fixing it on her rounded arm, +A mimic shield with pride displayed; +Then, springing towards a grove that spread + Its canopy of foliage near, +Plucked off a lance-like twig, and said, + "To arms, to arms!" while o'er her head + She waved the light branch, as a spear. + +Promptly the laughing maidens all +Obeyed their Chief's heroic call;-- +Round the shield-arm of each was tied + Hat, turban, shawl, as chance might be; + The grove, their verdant armory, +Falchion and lance[10] alike supplied; + And as their glossy locks, let free, + Fell down their shoulders carelessly, +You might have dreamed you saw a throng + Of youthful Thyads, by the beam +Of a May moon, bounding along + Peneus' silver-eddied stream! + +And now they stept, with measured tread, + Martially o'er the shining field; +Now to the mimic combat led +(A heroine at each squadron's head), + Struck lance to lance and sword to shield: +While still, thro' every varying feat, +Their voices heard in contrast sweet +With some of deep but softened sound +From lips of aged sires around, +Who smiling watched their children's play-- +Thus sung the ancient Pyrrhic lay:-- + + +SONG. + + +"Raise the buckler--poise the lance-- +"Now here--now there--retreat--advance!" + +Such were the sounds to which the warrior boy + Danced in those happy days when Greece was free; +When Sparta's youth, even in the hour of joy, + Thus trained their steps to war and victory. +"Raise the buckler--poise the lance-- +"Now here--now there--retreat--advance!" +Such was the Spartan warriors' dance. + "Grasp the falchion--gird the shield-- +"Attack--defend--do all but yield." + +Thus did thy sons, oh Greece, one glorious night, + Dance by a moon like this, till o'er the sea +That morning dawned by whose immortal light + They nobly died for thee and liberty![11] +"Raise the buckler--poise the lance-- +"Now here--now there--retreat--advance!" +Such was the Spartan heroes' dance. + + * * * * * + +Scarce had they closed this martial lay +When, flinging their light spears away, +The combatants, in broken ranks. + All breathless from the war-field fly; +And down upon the velvet banks + And flowery slopes exhausted lie, +Like rosy huntresses of Thrace, +Resting at sunset from the chase. + +"Fond girls!" an aged Zean said-- +One who himself had fought and bled, +And now with feelings half delight, +Half sadness, watched their mimic fight-- +"Fond maids! who thus with War can jest-- +"Like Love in Mar's helmet drest, +"When, in his childish innocence, + "Pleased with the shade that helmet flings, +"He thinks not of the blood that thence + "Is dropping o'er his snowy wings. +"Ay--true it is, young patriot maids, + "If Honor's arm still won the fray, +"If luck but shone on righteous blades, + "War were a game for gods to play! +"But, no, alas!--hear one, who well + "Hath tracked the fortunes of the brave-- +"Hear _me_, in mournful ditty, tell + "What glory waits the patriot's grave." + + +SONG. + + +As by the shore, at break of day, +A vanquished chief expiring lay. +Upon the sands, with broken sword, + He traced his farewell to the Free; +And, there, the last unfinished word + He dying wrote was "Liberty!" + +At night a Sea-bird shrieked the knell +Of him who thus for Freedom fell; +The words he wrote, ere evening came, + Were covered by the sounding sea;-- +So pass away the cause and name + Of him who dies for Liberty! + + * * * * * + +That tribute of subdued applause + A charmed but timid audience pays, +That murmur which a minstrel draws + From hearts that feel but fear to praise, +Followed this song, and left a pause +Of silence after it, that hung +Like a fixt spell on every tongue. + + At length a low and tremulous sound +Was heard from midst a group that round +A bashful maiden stood to hide +Her blushes while the lute she tried-- +Like roses gathering round to veil +The song of some young nightingale, +Whose trembling notes steal out between +The clustered leaves, herself unseen. +And while that voice in tones that more + Thro' feeling than thro' weakness erred, +Came with a stronger sweetness o'er + The attentive ear, this strain was heard:-- + + +SONG. + + +I saw from yonder silent cave,[12] + Two Fountains running side by side; +The one was Memory's limpid wave, + The other cold Oblivion's tide. +"Oh Love!" said I, in thoughtless mood, + As deep I drank of Lethe's stream, +"Be all my sorrows in this flood + "Forgotten like a vanisht dream!" + +But who could bear that gloomy blank + Where joy was lost as well as pain? +Quickly of Memory's fount I drank. + And brought the past all back again; +And said, "Oh Love! whate'er my lot, + "Still let this soul to thee be true-- +"Rather than have one bliss forgot, + "Be all my pains remembered too!" + + * * * * * + +The group that stood around to shade +The blushes of that bashful maid, +Had by degrees as came the lay +More strongly forth retired away, +Like a fair shell whose valves divide +To show the fairer pearl inside: +For such she was--a creature, bright + And delicate as those day-flowers, +Which while they last make up in light + And sweetness what they want in hours. + + So rich upon the ear had grown +Her voice's melody--its tone +Gathering new courage as it found +An echo in each bosom round-- +That, ere the nymph with downcast eye +Still on the chords, her lute laid by, +"Another song," all lips exclaimed, +And each some matchless favorite named; +while blushing as her fingers ran +O'er the sweet chords she thus began:-- + + +SONG. + + +Oh, Memory, how coldly + Thou paintest joy gone by: +Like rainbows, thy pictures + But mournfully shine and die. +Or if some tints thou keepest + That former days recall, +As o'er each line thou weepest, + Thy tears efface them all. + +But, Memory, too truly + Thou paintest grief that's past; +Joy's colors are fleeting, + But those of Sorrow last. +And, while thou bringst before us + Dark pictures of past ill, +Life's evening closing o'er us + But makes them darker still. + + * * * * * + +So went the moonlight hours along, +In this sweet glade; and so with song +And witching sounds--not such as they, + The cymbalists of Ossa, played, +To chase the moon's eclipse away,[13] + But soft and holy--did each maid +Lighten her heart's eclipse awhile, +And win back Sorrow to a smile. + +Not far from this secluded place, + On the sea-shore a ruin stood;-- +A relic of the extinguisht race, + Who once o'er that foamy flood, + When fair Ioulis[14] by the light + Of golden sunset on the sight + Of mariners who sailed that sea, + Rose like a city of chrysolite + Called from the wave by witchery. + This ruin--now by barbarous hands + Debased into a motley shed, + Where the once splendid column stands + Inverted on its leafy head-- + Formed, as they tell in times of old + The dwelling of that bard whose lay + Could melt to tears the stern and cold, + And sadden mid their mirth the gay-- + Simonides,[15] whose fame thro' years + And ages past still bright appears-- + Like Hesperus, a star of tears! + + 'Twas hither now--to catch a view + Of the white waters as they played + Silently in the light--a few + Of the more restless damsels strayed; + And some would linger mid the scent + Of hanging foliage that perfumed + The ruined walls; while others went + Culling whatever floweret bloomed + +In the lone leafy space between, +Where gilded chambers once had been; +Or, turning sadly to the sea, + Sent o'er the wave a sigh unblest +To some brave champion of the Free-- +Thinking, alas, how cold might be + At that still hour his place of rest! + +Meanwhile there came a sound of song + From the dark ruins--a faint strain, +As if some echo that among +Those minstrel halls had slumbered long + Were murmuring into life again. + +But, no--the nymphs knew well the tone-- + A maiden of their train, who loved +Like the night-bird to sing alone. + Had deep into those ruins roved, +And there, all other thoughts forgot, + Was warbling o'er, in lone delight, +A lay that, on that very spot, + Her lover sung one moonlight night:-- + + +SONG. + + +Ah! where are they, who heard, in former hours, +The voice of Song in these neglected bowers? + They are gone--all gone! + +The youth who told his pain in such sweet tone +That all who heard him wisht his pain their own-- + He is gone--he is gone! + +And she who while he sung sat listening by +And thought to strains like these 'twere sweet to die-- + She is gone--she too is gone! + +'Tis thus in future hours some bard will say +Of her who hears and him who sings this lay-- + They are gone--they both are gone! + + * * * * * + +The moon was now, from heaven's steep, + Bending to dip her silvery urn +Into the bright and silent deep-- + And the young nymphs, on their return +From those romantic ruins, found +Their other playmates ranged around +The sacred Spring, prepared to tune +Their parting hymn,[16] ere sunk the moon, +To that fair Fountain by whose stream +Their hearts had formed so many a dream. + + Who has not read the tales that tell +Of old Eleusis' sacred Well, +Or heard what legend-songs recount +Of Syra and its holy Fount,[17] +Gushing at once from the hard rock + Into the laps of living flowers-- +Where village maidens loved to flock, + On summer-nights and like the Hours +Linked in harmonious dance and song, +Charmed the unconscious night along; +While holy pilgrims on their way + To Delos' isle stood looking on, +Enchanted with a scene so gay, + Nor sought their boats till morning shone. + +Such was the scene this lovely glade +And its fair inmates now displayed. +As round the Fount in linked ring + They went in cadence slow and light +And thus to that enchanted Spring + Warbled their Farewell for the night:-- + + +SONG. + + +Here, while the moonlight dim +Falls on that mossy brim, +Sing we our Fountain Hymn, + Maidens of Zea! +Nothing but Music's strain, +When Lovers part in pain, +Soothes till they meet again, + Oh, Maids of Zea! + +Bright Fount so clear and cold +Round which the nymphs of old +Stood with their locks of gold, + Fountain of Zea! +Not even Castaly, +Famed tho' its streamlet be, +Murmurs or shines like thee, + Oh, Fount of Zea! + +Thou, while our hymn we sing, +Thy silver voice shalt bring, +Answering, answering, + Sweet Fount of Zea! +For of all rills that run +Sparkling by moon or sun +Thou art the fairest one, + Bright Fount of Zea! + +Now, by those stars that glance +Over heaven's still expanse +Weave we our mirthful dance, + Daughters of Zea! +Such as in former days +Danced they by Dian's rays +Where the Eurotas strays, + Oh, Maids of Zea! + +But when to merry feet +Hearts with no echo beat, +Say, can the dance be sweet? + Maidens of Zea! +No, naught but Music's strain, +When lovers part in pain, +Soothes till they meet again, + Oh, Maids of Zea! + + + + +SECOND EVENING. + + +SONG. + + +When evening shades are falling + O'er Ocean's sunny sleep, +To pilgrims' hearts recalling + Their home beyond the deep; +When rest o'er all descending + The shores with gladness smile, +And lutes their echoes blending + Are heard from isle to isle, +Then, Mary, Star of the Sea, +We pray, we pray, to thee! + +The noon-day tempest over, + Now Ocean toils no more, +And wings of halcyons hover + Where all was strife before. +Oh thus may life in closing + Its short tempestuous day +Beneath heaven's smile reposing + Shine all its storms away: +Thus, Mary, Star of the Sea, +We pray, we pray, to thee! + +On Helle's sea the light grew dim +As the last sounds of that sweet hymn + Floated along its azure tide-- +Floated in light as if the lay +Had mixt with sunset's fading ray + And light and song together died. +So soft thro' evening's air had breathed +That choir of youthful voices wreathed +In many-linked harmony, +That boats then hurrying o'er the sea +Paused when they reached this fairy shore, +And lingered till the strain was o'er. + +Of those young maids who've met to fleet +In song and dance this evening's hours, +Far happier now the bosoms beat + Than when they last adorned these bowers; +For tidings of glad sound had come, + At break of day from the far isles-- +Tidings like breath of life to some-- +That Zea's sons would soon wing home, + Crowded with the light of Victory's smiles +To meet that brightest of all meeds +That wait on high, heroic deeds. +When gentle eyes that scarce for tears + Could trace the warrior's parting track, +Shall like a misty morn that clears +When the long-absent sun appears + Shine out all bliss to hail him back. + +How fickle still the youthful breast!-- + More fond of change than a young moon, +No joy so new was e'er possest + But Youth would leave for newer soon. +These Zean nymphs tho' bright the spot + Where first they held their evening play +As ever fell to fairy's lot + To wanton o'er by midnight's ray, +Had now exchanged that sheltered scene + For a wide glade beside the sea-- +A lawn whose soft expanse of green + Turned to the west sun smilingly +As tho' in conscious beauty bright +It joyed to give him light for light. + +And ne'er did evening more serene +Look down from heaven on lovelier scene. +Calm lay the flood around while fleet + O'er the blue shining element +Light barks as if with fairy feet + That stirred not the husht waters went; +Some, that ere rosy eve fell o'er + The blushing wave, with mainsail free, +Had put forth from the Attic shore, + Or the near Isle of Ebony;-- +Some, Hydriot barks that deep in caves + Beneath Colonna's pillared cliffs, +Had all day lurked and o'er the waves + Now shot their long and dart-like skiffs. +Woe to the craft however fleet +These sea-hawks in their course shall meet, +Laden with juice of Lesbian vines, +Or rich from Naxos' emery mines; +For not more sure, when owlets flee +O'er the dark crags of Pendelee, +Doth the night-falcon mark his prey, +Or pounce on it more fleet than they. + +And what a moon now lights the glade + Where these young island nymphs are met! +Full-orbed yet pure as if no shade + Had touched its virgin lustre yet; +And freshly bright as if just made +By Love's own hands of new-born light +Stolen from his mother's star tonight. + + On a bold rock that o'er the flood +Jutted from that soft glade there stood +A Chapel, fronting towards the sea,-- +Built in some by-gone century,-- +Where nightly as the seaman's mark +When waves rose high or clouds were dark, +A lamp bequeathed by some kind Saint +Shed o'er the wave its glimmer faint. +Waking in way-worn men a sigh +And prayer to heaven as they went by. +'Twas there, around that rock-built shrine + A group of maidens and their sires +Had stood to watch the day's decline, + And as the light fell o'er their lyres +Sung to the Queen-Star of the Sea +That soft and holy melody. + +But lighter thoughts and lighter song +Now woo the coming hours along. +For mark, where smooth the herbage lies, + Yon gay pavilion curtained deep +With silken folds thro' which bright eyes + From time to time are seen to peep; +While twinkling lights that to and fro +Beneath those veils like meteors go, + Tell of some spells at work and keep +Young fancies chained in mute suspense, +Watching what next may shine from thence, +Nor long the pause ere hands unseen + That mystic curtain backward drew, +And all that late but shone between + In half-caught gleams now burst to view. + +A picture 'twas of the early days +Of glorious Greece ere yet those rays +Of rich, immortal Mind were hers +That made mankind her worshippers; +While yet unsung her landscapes shone +With glory lent by heaven alone; +Nor temples crowned her nameless hills, +Nor Muse immortalized her rills; +Nor aught but the mute poesy +Of sun and stars and shining sea +Illumed that land of bards to be. +While prescient of the gifted race + That yet would realm so blest adorn, +Nature took pains to deck the place + Where glorious Art was to be born. + +Such was the scene that mimic stage + Of Athens and her hills portrayed +Athens in her first, youthful age, + Ere yet the simple violet braid,[18] +Which then adorned her had shone down +The glory of earth's loftiest crown. +While yet undreamed, her seeds of Art + Lay sleeping in the marble mine-- +Sleeping till Genius bade them start + To all but life in shapes divine; +Till deified the quarry shone +And all Olympus stood in stone! + +There in the foreground of that scene, +On a soft bank of living green +Sate a young nymph with her lap full + Of the newly gathered flowers, o'er which +She graceful leaned intent to cull + All that was there of hue most rich, +To form a wreath such as the eye +Of her young lover who stood by, +With pallet mingled fresh might choose +To fix by Painting's rainbow hues. + +The wreath was formed; the maiden raised + Her speaking eyes to his, while he-- +Oh _not_ upon the flowers now gazed, + But on that bright look's witchery. +While, quick as if but then the thought +Like light had reached his soul, he caught +His pencil up and warm and true +As life itself that love-look drew: +And, as his raptured task went on, +And forth each kindling feature shone, +Sweet voices thro' the moonlight air + From lips as moonlight fresh and pure +Thus hailed the bright dream passing there, + And sung the Birth of Portraiture.[19] + + +SONG. + + +As once a Grecian maiden wove + Her garland mid the summer bowers, +There stood a youth with eyes of love + To watch her while she wreathed the flowers. +The youth was skilled in Painting's art, + But ne'er had studied woman's brow, +Nor knew what magic hues the heart + Can shed o'er Nature's charms till now. + + +CHORUS. + + +Blest be Love to whom we owe +All that's fair and bright below. + +His hand had pictured many a rose + And sketched the rays that light the brook; +But what were these or what were those + To woman's blush, to woman's look? +"Oh, if such magic power there be, + "This, this," he cried, "is all my prayer, +"To paint that living light I see + "And fix the soul that sparkles there." + +His prayer as soon as breathed was heard; + His pallet touched by Love grew warm, +And Painting saw her hues transferred + From lifeless flowers to woman's form. +Still as from tint to tint he stole, + The fair design shone out the more, +And there was now a life, a soul, + Where only colors glowed before. + +Then first carnations learned to speak + And lilies into life were brought; +While mantling on the maiden's cheek + Young roses kindled into thought. +Then hyacinths their darkest dyes + Upon the locks of Beauty threw; +And violets transformed to eyes + Inshrined a soul within their blue. + + +CHORUS. + + +Blest be Love to whom we owe, +All that's fair and bright below. +Song was cold and Painting dim +Till Song and Painting learned from him. + + * * * * * + +Soon as the scene had closed, a cheer + Of gentle voices old and young +Rose from the groups that stood to hear + This tale of yore so aptly sung; +And while some nymphs in haste to tell +The workers of that fairy spell +How crowned with praise their task had been +Stole in behind the curtained scene, +The rest in happy converse strayed-- + Talking that ancient love-tale o'er-- +Some to the groves that skirt the glade, + Some to the chapel by the shore, +To look what lights were on the sea. +And think of the absent silently. + +But soon that summons known so well + Thro' bower and hall in Eastern lands, +Whose sound more sure than gong or bell + Lovers and slaves alike commands,-- + The clapping of young female hands, +Calls back the groups from rock and field +To see some new-formed scene revealed;-- +And fleet and eager down the slopes +Of the green glades like antelopes +When in their thirst they hear the sound +Of distant rills, the light nymphs bound. + +Far different now the scene--a waste + Of Libyan sands, by moonlight's ray; +An ancient well, whereon were traced + The warning words, for such as stray + Unarmed there, "Drink and away!"[20] +While near it from the night-ray screened, + And like his bells in husht repose, +A camel slept--young as if weaned + When last the star Canopus rose.[21] + +Such was the back-ground's silent scene;-- + While nearer lay fast slumbering too +In a rude tent with brow serene + A youth whose cheeks of wayworn hue +And pilgrim-bonnet told the tale +That he had been to Mecca's Vale: +Haply in pleasant dreams, even now + Thinking the long wished hour is come + When o'er the well-known porch at home +His hand shall hang the aloe bough-- +Trophy of his accomplished vow.[22] + +But brief his dream--for now the call + Of the camp-chiefs from rear to van, + "Bind on your burdens,"[23] wakes up all + The widely slumbering caravan; +And thus meanwhile to greet the ear + Of the young pilgrim as he wakes, +The song of one who lingering near + Had watched his slumber, cheerly breaks. + + +SONG. + + +Up and march! the timbrel's sound +Wakes the slumbering camp around; +Fleet thy hour of rest hath gone, +Armed sleeper, up, and on! +Long and weary is our way +O'er the burning sands to-day; +But to pilgrim's homeward feet +Even the desert's path is sweet. + +When we lie at dead of night, +Looking up to heaven's light, +Hearing but the watchman’s tone +Faintly chanting "God is one,"[24] +Oh what thoughts then o'er us come +Of our distant village home, +Where that chant when evening sets +Sounds from all the minarets. + +Cheer thee!--soon shall signal lights, +Kindling o'er the Red Sea heights, +Kindling quick from man to man, +Hail our coming caravan:[25] +Think what bliss that hour will be! +Looks of home again to see, +And our names again to hear +Murmured out by voices dear. + + * * * * * + +So past the desert dream away, +Fleeting as his who heard this lay, +Nor long the pause between, nor moved + The spell-bound audience from that spot; +While still as usual Fancy roved + On to the joy that yet was not;-- +Fancy who hath no present home, +But builds her bower in scenes to come, +Walking for ever in a light +That flows from regions out of sight. + +But see by gradual dawn descried + A mountain realm-rugged as e'er + Upraised to heaven its summits bare, +Or told to earth with frown of pride + That Freedom's falcon nest was there, +Too high for hand of lord or king +To hood her brow, or chain her wing. + +'Tis Maina's land--her ancient hills, +The abode of nymphs--her countless rills +And torrents in their downward dash + Shining like silver thro' the shade +Of the sea-pine and flowering ash-- + All with a truth so fresh portrayed +As wants but touch of life to be +A world of warm reality. + +And now light bounding forth a band + Of mountaineers, all smiles, advance-- +Nymphs with their lovers hand in hand +Linked in the Ariadne dance; +And while, apart from that gay throng, +A minstrel youth in varied song +Tells of the loves, the joys, the ills +Of these wild children of the hills, +The rest by turns or fierce or gay +As war or sport inspires the lay +Follow each change that wakes the strings +And act what thus the lyrist sings:-- + + +SONG. + + +No life is like the mountaineer's, +His home is near the sky, +Where throned above this world he hears + Its strife at distance die, +Or should the sound of hostile drum +Proclaim below, "We come--we come," +Each crag that towers in air +Gives answer, "Come who dare!" +While like bees from dell and dingle, +Swift the swarming warriors mingle, +And their cry "Hurra!" will be, +"Hurra, to victory!" + +Then when battle's hour is over +See the happy mountain lover +With the nymph who'll soon be bride +Seated blushing by his side,-- +Every shadow of his lot +In her sunny smile forgot. +Oh, no life is like the mountaineer's. + His home is near the sky, +Where throned above this world he hears + Its strife at distance die. +Nor only thus thro' summer suns +His blithe existence cheerly runs-- + Even winter bleak and dim + Brings joyous hours to him; +When his rifle behind him flinging +He watches the roe-buck springing, +And away, o'er the hills away +Re-echoes his glad "hurra." + +Then how blest when night is closing, +By the kindled hearth reposing, +To his rebeck's drowsy song, +He beguiles the hour along; +Or provoked by merry glances +To a brisker movement dances, +Till, weary at last, in slumber's chain, +He dreams o'er chase and dance again, + Dreams, dreams them o'er again. + + * * * * * + +As slow that minstrel at the close +Sunk while he sung to feigned repose, +Aptly did they whose mimic art + Followed the changes of his lay +Portray the lull, the nod, the start, + Thro' which as faintly died away +His lute and voice, the minstrel past, +Till voice and lute lay husht at last. + +But now far other song came o'er + Their startled ears--song that at first +As solemnly the night-wind bore + Across the wave its mournful burst, +Seemed to the fancy like a dirge + Of some lone Spirit of the Sea, +Singing o'er Helle's ancient surge + The requiem of her Brave and Free. + +Sudden amid their pastime pause + The wondering nymphs; and as the sound +Of that strange music nearer draws, + With mute inquiring eye look round, +Asking each other what can be +The source of this sad minstrelsy? +Nor longer can they doubt, the song + Comes from some island-bark which now +Courses the bright waves swift along +And soon perhaps beneath the brow +Of the Saint's Bock will shoot its prow. + +Instantly all with hearts that sighed + 'Twixt fear's and fancy's influence, + Flew to the rock and saw from thence +A red-sailed pinnace towards them glide, +Whose shadow as it swept the spray +Scattered the moonlight's smiles away. +Soon as the mariners saw that throng + From the cliff gazing, young and old, +Sudden they slacked their sail and song, + And while their pinnace idly rolled + On the light surge, these tidings told:-- + +'Twas from an isle of mournful name, +From Missolonghi, last they came-- +Sad Missolonghi sorrowing yet +O'er him, the noblest Star of Fame + That e'er in life's young glory set!-- +And now were on their mournful way, + Wafting the news thro' Helle's isles;-- +News that would cloud even Freedom's ray + And sadden Victory mid her smiles. + +Their tale thus told and heard with pain, +Out spread the galliot's wings again; +And as she sped her swift career +Again that Hymn rose on the ear-- +"Thou art not dead--thou art not dead!" + As oft 'twas sung in ages flown +Of him, the Athenian, who to shed + A tyrant's blood poured out his own. + + +SONG. + + +Thou art not dead--thou art not dead! + No, dearest Harmodius, no. +Thy soul to realms above us fled +Tho' like a star it dwells o'er head +Still lights this world below. +Thou art _not_ dead--thou art not dead! + No, dearest Harmodius, no. + +Thro' isles of light where heroes tread + And flowers ethereal blow, +Thy god-like Spirit now is led, +Thy lip with life ambrosial fed +Forgets all taste of woe. +Thou art not dead--thou art not dead! + No, dearest Harmodius, no. + +The myrtle round that falchion spread + Which struck the immortal blow, +Throughout all time with leaves unshed-- +The patriot's hope, the tyrant's dread-- + Round Freedom's shrine shall grow. +Thou art not dead--thou art not dead! + No, dearest Harmodius, no. + +Where hearts like thine have broke or bled, + Tho' quenched the vital glow, +Their memory lights a flame instead, +Which even from out the narrow bed + Of death its beams shall throw. +Thou art not dead--thou art not dead! + No, dearest Harmodius, no. + +Thy name, by myriads sung and said, + From age to age shall go, +Long as the oak and ivy wed, +As bees shall haunt Hymettus' head, + Or Helle's waters flow. +Thou art not dead--thou art not dead! + No, dearest Harmodius, no. + + * * * * * + +'Mong those who lingered listening there,-- + Listening with ear and eye as long +As breath of night could towards them bear + A murmur of that mournful song,-- +A few there were in whom the lay + Had called up feelings far too sad +To pass with the brief strain away, + Or turn at once to theme more glad; +And who in mood untuned to meet + The light laugh of the happie train, +Wandered to seek some moonlight seat +Where they might rest, in converse sweet, + Till vanisht smiles should come again. + +And seldom e'er hath noon of night +To sadness lent more soothing light. +On one side in the dark blue sky +Lonely and radiant was the eye +Of Jove himself, while on the other + 'Mong tiny stars that round her gleamed, +The young moon like the Roman mother + Among her living "jewels" beamed. + +Touched by the lovely scenes around, + A pensive maid--one who, tho' young, +Had known what 'twas to see unwound + The ties by which her heart had clung-- +Wakened her soft tamboura's sound, + And to its faint accords thus sung:-- + + +SONG. + + + Calm as beneath its mother's eyes + In sleep the smiling infant lies, + So watched by all the stars of night + Yon landscape sleeps in light. +And while the night-breeze dies away, + Like relics of some faded strain, +Loved voices, lost for many a day, + Seem whispering round again. +Oh youth! oh love! ye dreams that shed +Such glory once--where are ye fled? + +Pure ray of light that down the sky + Art pointing like an angel's wand, +As if to guide to realms that lie + In that bright sea beyond: +Who knows but in some brighter deep + Than even that tranquil, moonlit main, +Some land may lie where those who weep + Shall wake to smile again! +With cheeks that had regained their power + And play of smiles,--and each bright eye +Like violets after morning's shower + The brighter for the tears gone by, +Back to the scene such smiles should grace +These wandering nymphs their path retrace, +And reach the spot with rapture new +Just as the veils asunder flew +And a fresh vision burst to view. + +There by her own bright Attic flood, +The blue-eyed Queen of Wisdom stood;-- +Not as she haunts the sage's dreams, + With brow unveiled, divine, severe; +But softened as on bards she beams + When fresh from Poesy's high sphere +A music not her own she brings, +And thro' the veil which Fancy flings +O'er her stern features gently sings. + +But who is he--that urchin nigh, + With quiver on the rose-trees hung, +Who seems just dropt from yonder sky, +And stands to watch that maid with eye + So full of thought for one so young?-- +That child--but, silence! lend thine ear, +And thus in song the tale thou'lt hear:-- + + +SONG. + + +As Love one summer eve was straying, + Who should he see at that soft hour +But young Minerva gravely playing +Her flute within an olive bower. +I need not say, 'tis Love's opinion + That grave or merry, good or ill, +The sex all bow to his dominion, + As woman will be woman still. + +Tho' seldom yet the boy hath given + To learned dames his smiles or sighs, +So handsome Pallas looked that even + Love quite forgot the maid was wise. +Besides, a youth of his discerning + Knew well that by a shady rill +At sunset hour whate'er her learning + A woman will be woman still. + +Her flute he praised in terms extatic,-- + Wishing it dumb, nor cared how soon.-- +For Wisdom's notes, howe'er chromatic, + To Love seem always out of tune. +But long as he found face to flatter, + The nymph found breath to shake and thrill; +As, weak or wise--it doesn't matter-- +Woman at heart is woman still. + +Love changed his plan, with warmth exclaiming, + "How rosy was her lips' soft dye!" +And much that flute the flatterer blaming, + For twisting lips so sweet awry. +The nymph looked down, beheld her features + Reflected in the passing rill, +And started, shocked--for, ah, ye creatures! + Even when divine you're women still. + +Quick from the lips it made so odious. + That graceless flute the Goddess took +And while yet filled with breath melodious, + Flung it into the glassy brook; +Where as its vocal life was fleeting + Adown the current, faint and shrill, +'Twas heard in plaintive tone repeating, + "Woman, alas, vain woman still!" + + * * * * * + +An interval of dark repose-- +Such as the summer lightning knows, +Twixt flash and flash, as still more bright + The quick revealment comes and goes, +Opening each time the veils of night, +To show within a world of light-- +Such pause, so brief, now past between +This last gay vision and the scene + Which now its depth of light disclosed. +A bower it seemed, an Indian bower, + Within whose shade a nymph reposed, +Sleeping away noon's sunny hour-- +Lovely as she, the Sprite, who weaves +Her mansion of sweet Durva leaves, +And there, as Indian legends say, +Dreams the long summer hours away. +And mark how charmed this sleeper seems +With some hid fancy--she, too, dreams! +Oh for a wizard's art to tell + The wonders that now bless her sight! +'Tis done--a truer, holier spell +Than e'er from wizard's lip yet fell. + Thus brings her vision all to light:-- + + +SONG. + + +"Who comes so gracefully + "Gliding along +"While the blue rivulet + "Sleeps to her song; +"Song richly vying +"With the faint sighing +"Which swans in dying + "Sweetly prolong?" + +So sung the shepherd-boy + By the stream's side, +Watching that fairy-boat + Down the flood glide, +Like a bird winging, +Thro' the waves bringing +That Syren, singing + To the husht tide. + +"Stay," said the shepherd-boy, +"Fairy-boat, stay, +"Linger, sweet minstrelsy, + "Linger a day." +But vain his pleading, +Past him, unheeding, +Song and boat, speeding, + Glided away. + +So to our youthful eyes + Joy and hope shone; +So while we gazed on them + Fast they flew on;-- +Like flowers declining +Even in the twining, +One moment shining. + And the next gone! + + * * * * * + +Soon as the imagined dream went by, +Uprose the nymph, with anxious eye +Turned to the clouds as tho' some boon +She waited from that sun-bright dome, +And marvelled that it came not soon +As her young thoughts would have it come. + +But joy is in her glance!--the wing + Of a white bird is seen above; +And oh, if round his neck he bring + The long-wished tidings from her love, +Not half so precious in her eyes + Even that high-omened bird[26] would be. +Who dooms the brow o'er which he flies + To wear a crown of royalty. + +She had herself last evening sent + A winged messenger whose flight +Thro' the clear, roseate element, + She watched till lessening out of sight +Far to the golden West it went, +Wafting to him, her distant love, + A missive in that language wrought +Which flowers can speak when aptly wove, + Each hue a word, each leaf a thought. + +And now--oh speed of pinion, known +To Love's light messengers alone I-- +Ere yet another evening takes +Its farewell of the golden lakes, +She sees another envoy fly, +With the wished answer, thro' the sky. + + +SONG. + + +Welcome sweet bird, thro' the sunny air winging, + Swift hast thou come o'er the far-shining sea, +Like Seba's dove on thy snowy neck bringing + Love's written vows from my lover to me. +Oh, in thy absence what hours did I number!-- + Saying oft, "Idle bird, how could he rest?" +But thou art come at last, take now thy slumber, + And lull thee in dreams of all thou lov'st best. + +Yet dost thou droop--even now while I utter + Love's happy welcome, thy pulse dies away; +Cheer thee, my bird--were it life's ebbing flutter. + This fondling bosom should woo it to stay, +But no--thou'rt dying--thy last task is over-- + Farewell, sweet martyr to Love and to me! +The smiles thou hast wakened by news from my lover, + Will now all be turned into weeping for thee. + + * * * * * + +While thus this scene of song (their last +For the sweet summer season) past, +A few presiding nymphs whose care + Watched over all invisibly, +As do those guardian sprites of air + Whose watch we feel but cannot see, +Had from the circle--scarcely missed, + Ere they were sparkling there again-- +Glided like fairies to assist + Their handmaids on the moonlight plain, +Where, hid by intercepting shade + From the stray glance of curious eyes, +A feast of fruits and wines was laid-- + Soon to shine out, a glad surprise! + +And now the moon, her ark of light + Steering thro' Heaven, as tho' she bore +In safety thro' that deep of night +Spirits of earth, the good, the bright, + To some remote immortal shore, +Had half-way sped her glorious way, + When round reclined on hillocks green +In groups beneath that tranquil ray, + The Zeans at their feast were seen. +Gay was the picture--every maid +Whom late the lighted scene displayed, +Still in her fancy garb arrayed;-- +The Arabian pilgrim, smiling here + Beside the nymph of India's sky; +While there the Mainiote mountaineer +Whispered in young Minerva's ear, + And urchin Love stood laughing by. + +Meantime the elders round the board, + By mirth and wit themselves made young, +High cups of juice Zacynthian poured, + And while the flask went round thus sung:-- + + +SONG. + + +Up with the sparkling brimmer, + Up to the crystal rim; +Let not a moonbeam glimmer + 'Twixt the flood and brim. +When hath the world set eyes on + Aught to match this light, +Which o'er our cup's horizon + Dawns in bumpers bright? + +Truth in a deep well lieth-- + So the wise aver; +But Truth the fact denieth-- + Water suits not her. +No, her abode's in brimmers, + Like this mighty cup-- +Waiting till we, good swimmers, + Dive to bring her up. + + * * * * * + +Thus circled round the song of glee, + And all was tuneful mirth the while, + Save on the cheeks of some whose smile +As fixt they gaze upon the sea, +Turns into paleness suddenly! +What see they there? a bright blue light + That like a meteor gliding o'er +The distant wave grows on the sight, +As tho' 'twere winged to Zea's shore. +To some, 'mong those who came to gaze, + It seemed the night-light far away +Of some lone fisher by the blaze + Of pine torch luring on his prey; +While others, as 'twixt awe and mirth + They breathed the blest Panaya's[27] name, +Vowed that such light was not of earth + But of that drear, ill-omen'd flame +Which mariners see on sail or mast +When Death is coming in the blast. +While marvelling thus they stood, a maid + Who sate apart with downcast eye, +Not yet had like the rest surveyed + That coming light which now was nigh, +Soon as it met her sight, with cry + Of pain-like joy, "'Tis he! 'tis he!" +Loud she exclaimed, and hurrying by + The assembled throng, rushed towards the sea. +At burst so wild, alarmed, amazed, +All stood like statues mute and gazed +Into each other's eyes to seek +What meant such mood in maid so meek? + +Till now, the tale was known to few, +But now from lip to lip it flew:-- +A youth, the flower of all the band, + Who late had left this sunny shore, +When last he kist that maiden's hand, + Lingering to kiss it o'er and o'er. +By his sad brow too plainly told + The ill-omened thought which crost him then, +That once those hands should lose their hold, + They ne'er would meet on earth again! +In vain his mistress sad as he, +But with a heart from Self as free +As generous woman's only is, +Veiled her own fears to banish his:-- +With frank rebuke but still more vain, + Did a rough warrior who stood by +Call to his mind this martial strain, + His favorite once, ere Beauty's eye + Had taught his soldier-heart to sigh:-- + + +SONG. + + +March! nor heed those arms that hold thee, + Tho' so fondly close they come; +Closer still will they enfold thee + When thou bring'st fresh laurels home. +Dost thou dote on woman's brow? + Dost thou live but in her breath? +March!--one hour of victory now + Wins thee woman's smile till death. + +Oh what bliss when war is over + Beauty's long-missed smile to meet. +And when wreaths our temples cover + Lay them shining at her feet. +Who would not that hour to reach + Breathe out life's expiring sigh,-- +Proud as waves that on the beach + Lay their war-crests down and die. + +There! I see thy soul is burning-- + She herself who clasps thee so +Paints, even now, thy glad returning, + And while clasping bids thee go. +One deep sigh to passion given, + One last glowing tear and then-- +March!--nor rest thy sword till Heaven + Brings thee to those arms again. + + * * * * * + +Even then ere loath their hands could part + A promise the youth gave which bore +Some balm unto the maiden's heart, + That, soon as the fierce fight was o'er, +To home he'd speed, if safe and free-- + Nay, even if dying, still would come, +So the blest word of "Victory!" + Might be the last he'd breathe at home. +"By day," he cried, "thou'lt know my bark; +"But should I come thro' midnight dark, +"A blue light on the prow shall tell +"That Greece hath won and all is well!" + +Fondly the maiden every night, +Had stolen to seek that promised light; +Nor long her eyes had now been turned +From watching when the signal burned. +Signal of joy--for her, for all-- + Fleetly the boat now nears the land, +While voices from the shore-edge call + For tidings of the long-wished band. + +Oh the blest hour when those who've been + Thro' peril's paths by land or sea +Locked in our arms again are seen + Smiling in glad security; +When heart to heart we fondly strain, + Questioning quickly o'er and o'er-- +Then hold them off to gaze affain + And ask, tho' answered oft before, + If they _indeed_ are ours once more? + +Such is the scene so full of joy +Which welcomes now this warrior-boy, +As fathers, sisters, friends all run +Bounding to meet him--all but one +Who, slowest on his neck to fall, +Is yet the happiest of them all. + +And now behold him circled round + With beaming faces at that board, +While cups with laurel foliage crowned, + Are to the coming warriors poured-- +Coming, as he, their herald, told, +With blades from victory scarce yet cold, +With hearts untouched by Moslem steel +And wounds that home's sweet breath will heal. + +"Ere morn," said he,--and while he spoke + Turned to the east, where clear and pale +The star of dawn already broke-- + "We'll greet on yonder wave their sail!" +Then wherefore part? all, all agree + To wait them here beneath this bower; +And thus, while even amidst their glee, +Each eye is turned to watch the sea, + With song they cheer the anxious hour. + + +SONG. + + +"'Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!" said the cup-loving boy +As he saw it spring bright from the earth, +And called the young Genii of Wit, Love, and Joy, + To witness and hallow its birth. +The fruit was full grown, like a ruby it flamed + Till the sunbeam that kist it looked pale; +"'Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!" every Spirit exclaimed + "Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!" + +First, fleet as a bird to the summons Wit flew, + While a light on the vine-leaves there broke +In flashes so quick and so brilliant all knew + T'was the light from his lips as he spoke. +"Bright tree! let thy nectar but cheer me," he cried, + "And the fount of Wit never can fail:" +"'Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!" hills and valleys reply, + "Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!" + +Next Love as he leaned o'er the plant to admire + Each tendril and cluster it wore, +From his rosy mouth sent such a breath of desire, + As made the tree tremble all o'er. +Oh! never did flower of the earth, sea, or sky, + Such a soul-giving odor inhale: +"'Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!" all re-echo the cry, + "Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!" + +Last, Joy, without whom even Love and Wit die, + Came to crown the bright hour with his ray; +And scarce had that mirth-waking tree met his eye, + When a laugh spoke what Joy could not say;-- +A laugh of the heart which was echoed around + Till like music it swelled on the gale: +"T is the Vine! 'tis the Vine!" laughing myriads resound, +"Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!" + + +[1] "_Nerium Oleander_. In Cyprus it retains its ancient name, +Rhododaphne, and the Cypriots adorn their churches with the flowers on +feast-days."--_Journal of Dr. Sibthorpe, Walpole's, Turkey_. + +[2] _Lonicera caprifolium_, used by the girls of Patmos for garlands. + +[3] _Cuscuta europoea_. "From the twisting and twining of the stems, it is +compared by the Greeks to the dishevelled hair of the Nereids."-- +_Walpole's Turkey_. + +[4] "The produce of the island in these acorns alone amounts annually to +fifteen thousand quintals."--_Clarke's Travels_. + +[5] Now Santa Maura--the island, from whose cliffs Sappho leaped into the +sea. + +[6] "The precipice, which is fearfully dizzy, is about one hundred and +fourteen feet from the water, which is of a profound depth, as appears +from the dark blue color and the eddy that plays round the pointed and +projecting rocks."--_Goodisson's Ionian Isles_. + +[7] This word is defrauded here, I suspect, of a syllable; Dr. Clarke, if +I recollect right, makes it "Balalaika." + +[8] "I saw above thirty parties engaged in dancing the Romaika upon the +sand; in some of these groups, the girl who led them chased the retreating +wave."--Douglas on the Modern Greeks. + +[9] "In dancing the Romaika [says Mr. Douglas] they begin in slow and +solemn step till they have gained the time, but by degrees the air becomes +more sprightly; the conductress of the dance sometimes setting to her +partners, sometimes darting before the rest, and leading them through the +most rapid revolutions: sometimes crossing under the hands, which are held +up to let her pass, and giving as much liveliness and intricacy as she can +to the figures, into which she conducts her companions, while their +business is to follow her in all her movements, without breaking the +chain, or losing the measure," + +[10] The sword was the weapon chiefly used in this dance. + +[11] It is said that Leonidas and his companions employed themselves, on +the eve of the battle, in music and the gymnastic exercises of their +country. + +[12] "This morning we paid our visit to the Cave of Trophonius, and the +Fountains of Memory and Oblivion, just upon the water of Hercyna, which +flows through stupendous rocks."--_Williams's Travels in Greece_. + +[13] This superstitious custom of the Thessalians exists also, as Pietro +dello Valle tells us, among the Persians. + +[14] An ancient city of Zea, the walls of which were of marble. Its +remains (says Clarke) "extend from the shore, quite into a valley watered +by the streams of a fountain, whence Ioulis received its name." + +[15] Zea was the birthplace of this poet, whose verses are by Catullus +called "tears." + +[16] These "Songs of the Well," as they were called among the ancients, +still exist in Greece. _De Guys_ tells us that he has seen "the young +women in Prince's Island, assembled in the evening at a public well, +suddenly strike up a dance, while others sung in concert to them." + +[17] "The inhabitants of Syra, both ancient and modern, may be considered +as the worshippers of water. The old fountain, at which the nymphs of the +island assembled in the earliest ages, exists in its original state; the +same rendezvous as it was formerly, whether of love and gallantry, or of +gossiping and tale-telling. It is near to the town, and the most limpid +water gushes continually from the solid rock. It is regarded by the +inhabitants with a degree of religious veneration; and they p reserve a +tradition, that the pilgrims of old time, in their way to Delos, resorted +hither for purification."_--Clarke_. + +[18] "Violet-crowned Athens."--_Pindar_. + +[19] The whole of this scene was suggested by Pliny's account of the +artist Pausias and his mistress Glycera, _Lib_. 35 c. 40. + +[20] The traveller Shaw mentions a beautiful rill In Barbary, which is +received into a large basin called _Shrub wee krub_, "Drink and away"-- +there being great danger of meeting with thieves and assassins in such +places. + +[21] The Arabian shepherd has a peculiar ceremony in weaning the young +camel; when the proper time arrives, he turns the camel towards the rising +star, Canopus, and says, "Do you see Canopus? from this moment you taste +not another drop of milk."--_Richardson_. + +[22] "Whoever returns from a pilgrimage to Mecca hangs this plant (the +mitre-shaped Aloe) over his street door, as a token of his having +performed this holy journey."--_Hasselquist_. + +[23] This form of notice to the caravans to prepare for marching was +applied by Hafiz to the necessity of relinquishing the pleasures of this +world, and preparing for death:--"For me what room is there for pleasure +in the bower of Beauty, when every moment the bell makes proclamation, +'Bind on your burden'?" + +[24] The watchmen, in the camp of the caravans, go their rounds, crying +one after another, "God is one," etc. + +[25] "It was customary," says Irwin, "to light up fires on the mountains, +within view of Cosseir, to give notice of the approach of the caravans +that came from the Nile." + +[26] the Hume. + +[27] The name which the Greeks give to the Virgin Mary. + + + + + + + + +ALCIPHRON: A FRAGMENT. + + + + + + +LETTER I. + +FROM ALCIPHRON AT ALEXANDRIA TO CLEON AT ATHENS. + + +Well may you wonder at my flight + From those fair Gardens in whose bowers +Lingers whate'er of wise and bright, +Of Beauty's smile or Wisdom's light, + Is left to grace this world of ours. +Well may my comrades as they roam + On such sweet eyes as this inquire +Why I have left that happy home + Where all is found that all desire, + And Time hath wings that never tire: +Where bliss in all the countless shapes + That Fancy's self to bliss hath given +Comes clustering round like roadside grapes + That woo the traveller's lip at even; +Where Wisdom flings not joy away-- +As Pallas in the stream they say +Once flung her flute--but smiling owns +That woman's lip can send forth tones +Worth all the music of those spheres +So many dream of but none hears; +Where Virtue's self puts on so well + Her sister Pleasure's smile that, loath +From either nymph apart to dwell, + We finish by embracing both. +Yes, such the place of bliss, I own +From all whose charms I just have flown; +And even while thus to thee I write, + And by the Nile's dark flood recline, +Fondly, in thought I wing my flight +Back to those groves and gardens bright, +And often think by this sweet light + How lovelily they all must shine; +Can see that graceful temple throw + Down the green slope its lengthened shade, +While on the marble steps below + There sits some fair Athenian maid, +Over some favorite volume bending; + And by her side a youthful sage +Holds back the ringlets that descending + Would else o'ershadow all the page. +But hence such thoughts!--nor let me grieve +O'er scenes of joy that I but leave, +As the bird quits awhile its nest +To come again with livelier zest. + +And now to tell thee--what I fear +Thou'lt gravely smile at--_why_ I'm here +Tho' thro' my life's short, sunny dream, + I've floated without pain or care +Like a light leaf down pleasure's stream, + Caught in each sparkling eddy there; +Tho' never Mirth awaked a strain +That my heart echoed not again; +Yet have I felt, when even most gay, + Sad thoughts--I knew not whence or why-- + Suddenly o'er my spirit fly, +Like clouds that ere we've time to say + "How bright the sky is!" shade the sky. +Sometimes so vague, so undefined +Were these strange darkenings of my mind-- +"While naught but joy around me beamed + So causelessly they've come and flown, +That not of life or earth they seemed, + But shadows from some world unknown. +More oft, however, 'twas the thought + How soon that scene with all its play + Of life and gladness must decay-- +Those lips I prest, the hands I caught-- +Myself--the crowd that mirth had brought +Around me--swept like weeds away! + +This thought it was that came to shed + O'er rapture's hour its worst alloys; +And close as shade with sunshine wed + Its sadness with my happiest joys. +Oh, but for this disheartening voice + Stealing amid our mirth to say +That all in which we most rejoice + Ere night may be the earthworm's prey-- +_But_ for this bitter--only this-- +Full as the world is brimmed with bliss, +And capable as feels my soul +Of draining to its dregs the whole, +I should turn earth to heaven and be, +If bliss made Gods, a Deity? + +Thou know'st that night--the very last +That 'mong my Garden friends I past-- +When the School held its feast of mirth +To celebrate our founder's birth. +And all that He in dreams but saw + When he set Pleasure on the throne +Of this bright world and wrote her law + In human hearts was felt and known-- +_Not_ in unreal dreams but true, +Substantial joy as pulse e'er knew-- +By hearts and bosoms, that each felt +_Itself_ the realm where Pleasure dwelt. + +That night when all our mirth was o'er, + The minstrels silent, and the feet +Of the young maidens heard no more-- + So stilly was the time, so sweet, +And such a calm came o'er that scene, +Where life and revel late had been-- +Lone as the quiet of some bay +From which the sea hath ebbed away-- +That still I lingered, lost in thought, + Gazing upon the stars of night, +Sad and intent as if I sought + Some mournful secret in their light; +And asked them mid that silence why +Man, glorious man, alone must die +While they, less wonderful than he, +Shine on thro' all eternity. + +That night--thou haply may'st forget + Its loveliness--but 'twas a night +To make earth's meanest slave regret + Leaving a world so soft and bright. +On one side in the dark blue sky +Lonely and radiant was the eye +Of Jove himself, while on the other, + 'Mong stars that came out one by one, +The young moon--like the Roman mother + Among her living jewels--shone. +"Oh that from yonder orbs," I thought, + "Pure and eternal as they are, +"There could to earth some power be brought, +"Some charm with their own essence fraught + "To make man deathless as a star, +"And open to his vast desires + "A course, as boundless and sublime +"As that which waits those comet-fires, + "That burn and roam throughout all time!" + +While thoughts like these absorbed my mind, + That weariness which earthly bliss +However sweet still leaves behind, + As if to show how earthly 'tis, +Came lulling o'er me and I laid + My limbs at that fair statue's base-- +That miracle, which Art hath made + Of all the choice of Nature's grace-- +To which so oft I've knelt and sworn. + That could a living maid like her +Unto this wondering world be born, + I would myself turn worshipper. + +Sleep came then o'er me--and I seemed + To be transported far away +To a bleak desert plain where gleamed + One single, melancholy ray. +Throughout that darkness dimly shed + From a small taper in the hand +Of one who pale as are the dead + Before me took his spectral stand, +And said while awfully a smile + Came o'er the wanness of his cheek-- +"Go and beside the sacred Nile + "You'll find the Eternal Life you seek." + +Soon as he spoke these words the hue +Of death o'er all his features grew +Like the pale morning when o'er night +She gains the victory full of light; +While the small torch he held became +A glory in his hand whose flame +Brightened the desert suddenly, + Even to the far horizon's line-- +Along whose level I could see + Gardens and groves that seemed to shine +As if then o'er them freshly played +A vernal rainbow's rich cascade; +And music floated every where, +Circling, as 'twere itself the air, +And spirits on whose wings the hue +Of heaven still lingered round me flew, +Till from all sides such splendors broke, +That with the excess of light I woke! + +Such was my dream;--and I confess + Tho' none of all our creedless school +E'er conned, believed, or reverenced less + The fables of the priest-led fool +Who tells us of a soul, a mind, +Separate and pure within us shrined, +Which is to live--ah, hope too bright!-- +For ever in yon fields of light; +Who fondly thinks the guardian eyes + Of Gods are on him--as if blest +And blooming in their own blue skies +The eternal Gods were not too wise + To let weak man disturb their rest!-- +Tho' thinking of such creeds as thou + And all our Garden sages think, +Yet is there something, I allow, + In dreams like this--a sort of link +With worlds unseen which from the hour + I first could lisp my thoughts till now +Hath mastered me with spell-like power. + +And who can tell, as we're combined +Of various atoms--some refined, +Like those that scintillate and play +In the fixt stars--some gross as they +That frown in clouds or sleep in clay-- +Who can be sure but 'tis the best + And brightest atoms of our frame, + Those most akin to stellar flame, +That shine out thus, when we're at rest;-- +Even as the stars themselves whose light +Comes out but in the silent night. +Or is it that there lurks indeed +Some truth in Man's prevailing creed +And that our Guardians from on high + Come in that pause from toil and sin +To put the senses' curtain by + And on the wakeful soul look in! + +Vain thought!--but yet, howe'er it be, +Dreams more than once have proved to me +Oracles, truer far than Oak +Or Dove or Tripod ever spoke. +And 'twas the words--thou'lt hear and smile-- + The words that phantom seemed to speak-- +"Go and beside the sacred Nile + "You'll find the Eternal Life you seek"-- +That haunting me by night, by day, + At length as with the unseen hand +Of Fate itself urged me away + From Athens to this Holy Land; +Where 'mong the secrets still untaught, + The mysteries that as yet nor sun +Nor eye hath reached--oh, blessed thought!-- + May sleep this everlasting one. + +Farewell--when to our Garden friends +Thou talk'st of the wild dream that sends +The gayest of their school thus far, +Wandering beneath Canopus' star, +Tell them that wander where he will + Or howsoe'er they now condemn +His vague and vain pursuit he still + Is worthy of the School and them;-- +Still all their own--nor e'er forgets + Even while his heart and soul pursue +The Eternal Light which never sets, + The many meteor joys that _do_, +But seeks them, hails them with delight +Where'er they meet his longing sight. +And if his life _must_ wane away +Like other lives at least the day, +The hour it lasts shall like a fire +With incense fed in sweets expire. + + + + + + +LETTER II. + +FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME. + +_Memphis_. + + +'Tis true, alas--the mysteries and the lore +I came to study on this, wondrous shore. +Are all forgotten in the new delights. +The strange, wild joys that fill my days and nights. +Instead of dark, dull oracles that speak +From subterranean temples, those _I_ seek +Come from the breathing shrines where Beauty lives, +And Love, her priest, the soft responses gives. +Instead of honoring Isis in those rites +At Coptos held, I hail her when she lights +Her first young crescent on the holy stream-- +When wandering youths and maidens watch her beam +And number o'er the nights she hath to run, +Ere she again embrace her bridegroom sun. +While o'er some mystic leaf that dimly lends +A clew into past times the student bends, +And by its glimmering guidance learns to tread +Back thro' the shadowy knowledge of the dead-- +The only skill, alas, _I_ yet can claim +Lies in deciphering some new loved-one's name-- +Some gentle missive hinting time and place, +In language soft as Memphian reed can trace. + +And where--oh where's the heart that could withstand +The unnumbered witcheries of this sun-born land, +Where first young Pleasure's banner was unfurled +And Love hath temples ancient as the world! +Where mystery like the veil by Beauty worn +Hides but to win and shades but to adorn; +Where that luxurious melancholy born +Of passion and of genius sheds a gloom +Making joy holy;--where the bower and tomb +Stand side by side and Pleasure learns from Death +The instant value of each moment's breath. +Couldst thou but see how like a poet's dream +This lovely land now looks!--the glorious stream +That late between its banks was seen to glide +'Mong shrines and marble cities on each side +Glittering like jewels strung along a chain +Hath now sent forth its waters, and o'er plain +And valley like a giant from his bed +Rising with outstretched limbs hath grandly spread. +While far as sight can reach beneath as clear +And blue a heaven as ever blest our sphere, +Gardens and pillared streets and porphyry domes +And high-built temples fit to be the homes +Of mighty Gods, and pyramids whose hour +Outlasts all time above the waters tower! + +Then, too, the scenes of pomp and joy that make +One theatre of this vast, peopled lake, +Where all that Love, Religion, Commerce gives +Of life and motion ever moves and lives. +Here, up the steps of temples from the wave +Ascending in procession slow and grave. +Priests in white garments go, with sacred wands +And silver cymbals gleaming in their hands; +While there, rich barks--fresh from those sunny tracts +Far off beyond the sounding cataracts-- +Glide with their precious lading to the sea, +Plumes of bright birds, rhinoceros ivory, +Gems from the Isle of Meroe, and those grains +Of gold washed down by Abyssinian rains. +Here where the waters wind into a bay +Shadowy and cool some pilgrims on their way +To Saïs or Bubastus among beds +Of lotus flowers that close above their heads +Push their light barks, and there as in a bower, +Sing, talk, or sleep away the sultry hour; +Oft dipping in the Nile, when faint with heat, +That leaf from which its waters drink most sweet.-- +While haply not far off beneath a bank +Of blossoming acacias many a prank +Is played in the cool current by a train +Of laughing nymphs, lovely as she,[1] whose chain +Around two conquerors of the world was cast, +But, for a third too feeble, broke at last. + +For oh! believe not them who dare to brand +As poor in charms the women of this land. +Tho' darkened by that sun whose spirit flows +Thro' every vein and tinges as it goes, +'Tis but the embrowning of the fruit that tells +How rich within the soul of ripeness dwells-- +The hue their own dark sanctuaries wear, +Announcing heaven in half-caught glimpses there. +And never yet did tell-tale looks set free +The secret of young hearts more tenderly. +Such eyes!--long, shadowy, with that languid fall +Of the fringed lids which may be seen in all +Who live beneath the sun's too ardent rays-- +Lending such looks as on their marriage days +Young maids cast down before a bridegroom's gaze! +Then for their grace--mark but the nymph-like shapes +Of the young village girls, when carrying grapes +From green Anthylla or light urns of flowers-- +Not our own Sculpture in her happiest hours +E'er imaged forth even at the touch of him[2] +Whose touch was life, more luxury of limb! +Then, canst thou wonder if mid scenes like these +I should forget all graver mysteries, +All lore but Love's, all secrets but that best +In heaven or earth, the art of being blest! +Yet are there times--tho' brief I own their stay, +Like summer-clouds that shine themselves away-- +Moments of gloom, when even these pleasures pall +Upon my saddening heart and I recall +That garden dream--that promise of a power, +Oh, were there such!--to lengthen out life's hour, +On, on, as thro' a vista far away +Opening before us into endless day! +And chiefly o'er my spirit did this thought +Come on that evening--bright as ever brought +Light's golden farewell to the world--when first +The eternal pyramids of Memphis burst +Awfully on my sight-standing sublime +Twixt earth and heaven, the watch-towers of Time, +From whose lone summit when his reign hath past +From earth for ever he will look his last! + +There hung a calm and solemn sunshine round +Those mighty monuments, a hushing sound +In the still air that circled them which stole +Like music of past times into my soul. +I thought what myriads of the wise and brave +And beautiful had sunk into the grave, +Since earth first saw these wonders--and I said +"Are things eternal only for the Dead? +"Hath Man no loftier hope than this which dooms +"His only lasting trophies to be tombs? +"But _'tis_ not so--earth, heaven, all nature shows +"He _may_ become immortal--_may_ unclose +"The wings within him wrapt, and proudly rise +"Redeemed from earth, a creature of the skies! + +"And who can say, among the written spells +"From Hermes' hand that in these shrines and cells +"Have from the Flood lay hid there may not be +"Some secret clew to immortality, +"Some amulet whose spell can keep life's fire +"Awake within us never to expire! +"'Tis known that on the Emerald Table, hid +"For ages in yon loftiest pyramid, +"The Thrice-Great[3] did himself engrave of old +"The chymic mystery that gives endless gold. +"And why may not this mightier secret dwell +"Within the same dark chambers? who can tell +"But that those kings who by the written skill +"Of the Emerald Table called forth gold at will +"And quarries upon quarries heapt and hurled, +"To build them domes that might outstand the world-- +"Who knows, but that the heavenlier art which shares +"The life of Gods with man was also theirs-- +"That they themselves, triumphant o'er the power +"Of fate and death, are living at this hour; +"And these, the giant homes they still possess. +"Not tombs but everlasting palaces +"Within whose depths hid from the world above +"Even now they wander with the few they love, +"Thro' subterranean gardens, by a light +"Unknown on earth which hath nor dawn nor night! +"Else, why those deathless structures? why the grand +"And hidden halls that undermine this land? +"Why else hath none of earth e'er dared to go +"Thro' the dark windings of that realm below, +"Nor aught from heaven itself except the God +"Of Silence thro' those endless labyrinths trod?" +Thus did I dream--wild, wandering dreams, I own, +But such as haunt me ever, if alone, +Or in that pause 'twixt joy and joy I be, +Like a ship husht between two waves at sea. +Then do these spirit whisperings like the sound +Of the Dark Future come appalling round; +Nor can I break the trance that holds me then, +Till high o'er Pleasure's surge I mount again! + +Even now for new adventure, new delight, +My heart is on the wing;--this very night, +The Temple on that island halfway o'er +From Memphis' gardens to the eastern shore +Sends up its annual rite[4] to her whose beams +Bring the sweet time of night-flowers and dreams; +The nymph who dips her urn in silent lakes +And turns to silvery dew each drop it takes;-- +Oh! not our Dian of the North who chains +In vestal ice the current of young veins, +But she who haunts the gay Bubastian[5] grove +And owns she sees from her bright heaven above, +Nothing on earth to match that heaven but Love. +Think then what bliss will be abroad to-night!-- +Besides those sparkling nymphs who meet the sight +Day after day, familiar as the sun, +Coy buds of beauty yet unbreathed upon +And all the hidden loveliness that lies,-- +Shut up as are the beams of sleeping eyes +Within these twilight shrines--tonight shall be +Let loose like birds for this festivity! +And mark, 'tis nigh; already the sun bids +His evening farewell to the Pyramids. +As he hath done age after age till they +Alone on earth seem ancient as his ray; +While their great shadows stretching from the light +Look like the first colossal steps of Night +Stretching across the valley to invade +The distant hills of porphyry with their shade. +Around, as signals of the setting beam, +Gay, gilded flags on every housetop gleam: +While, hark!--from all the temples a rich swell +Of music to the Moon--farewell--farewell. + + +[1] Cleopatra. + +[2] Apellas. + +[3] The Hermes Trismegistus. + +[4] The great Festival of the Moon. + +[5] Bubastis, or Isis, was the Diana of the Egyptian mythology. + + + + + + +LETTER III. + +FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME. + +_Memphis_. + + +There is some star--or may it be + That moon we saw so near last night-- +Which comes athwart my destiny + For ever with misleading light. +If for a moment pure and wise + And calm I feel there quick doth fall +A spark from some disturbing eyes, +That thro' my heart, soul, being flies, + And makes a wildfire of it all. +I've seen--oh, Cleon, that this earth +Should e'er have given such beauty birth!-- +That man--but, hold--hear all that past +Since yester-night from first to last. + +The rising of the Moon, calm, slow, + And beautiful, as if she came +Fresh from the Elysian bowers below, + Was with a loud and sweet acclaim +Welcomed from every breezy height, +Where crowds stood waiting for her light. +And well might they who viewed the scene + Then lit up all around them, say +That never yet had Nature been + Caught sleeping in a lovelier ray +Or rivalled her own noontide face +With purer show of moonlight grace. + +Memphis--still grand, tho' not the same + Unrivalled Memphis that could seize +From ancient Thebes the crown of Fame, + And wear it bright thro' centuries-- +Now, in the moonshine, that came down +Like a last smile upon that crown. +Memphis, still grand among her lakes, + Her pyramids and shrines of fire, +Rose like a vision that half breaks +On one who dreaming still awakes + To music from some midnight choir: +While to the west--where gradual sinks + In the red sands from Libya rolled. +Some mighty column or fair sphynx, + That stood in kingly courts of old-- +It seemed as, mid the pomps that shone +Thus gayly round him Time looked on, +Waiting till all now bright and blest, +Should sink beneath him like the rest. + +No sooner had the setting sun +Proclaimed the festal rite begun, +And mid their idol's fullest beams + The Egyptian world was all afloat, +Than I who live upon these streams +Like a young Nile-bird turned my boat +To the fair island on whose shores +Thro' leafy palms and sycamores +Already shone the moving lights +Of pilgrims hastening to the rites. +While, far around like ruby sparks +Upon the water, lighted barks, +Of every form and kind--from those + That down Syene's cataract shoots, +To the grand, gilded barge that rows + To tambour's beat and breath of flutes, +And wears at night in words of flame +On the rich prow its master's name;-- +All were alive and made this sea + Of cities busy as a hill +Of summer ants caught suddenly + In the overflowing of a rill. + +Landed upon the isle, I soon + Thro' marble alleys and small groves + Of that mysterious palm she loves, +Reached the fair Temple of the Moon; +And there--as slowly thro' the last +Dim-lighted vestibule I past-- +Between the porphyry pillars twined + With palm and ivy, I could see +A band of youthful maidens wind + In measured walk half dancingly, +Round a small shrine on which was placed + That bird[1] whose plumes of black and white +Wear in their hue by Nature traced + A type of the moon's shadowed light. + +In drapery like woven snow +These nymphs were clad; and each below +The rounded bosom loosely wore + A dark blue zone or bandelet, +With little silver stars all o'er + As are the skies at midnight set. +While in their tresses, braided thro', + Sparkled that flower of Egypt's lakes, +The silvery lotus in whose hue + As much delight the young Moon takes +As doth the Day-God to behold +The lofty bean-flower's buds of gold. +And, as they gracefully went round + The worshipt bird, some to the beat +Of castanets, some to the sound + Of the shrill sistrum timed their feet; +While others at each step they took +A tinkling chain of silver shook. + +They seemed all fair--but there was one +On whom the light had not yet shone, +Or shone but partly--so downcast +She held her brow, as slow she past. +And yet to me there seemed to dwell + A charm about that unseen face-- +A something in the shade that fell + Over that brow's imagined grace +Which won me more than all the best +Outshining beauties of the rest. +And _her_ alone my eyes could see +Enchained by this sweet mystery; +And her alone I watched as round +She glided o'er that marble ground, +Stirring not more the unconscious air +Than if a Spirit were moving there. +Till suddenly, wide open flew +The Temple's folding gates and threw +A splendor from within, a flood +Of glory where these maidens stood. +While with that light--as if the same +Rich source gave birth to both--there came +A swell of harmony as grand +As e'er was born of voice and band, +Filling the gorgeous aisles around +With luxury of light and sound. + +Then was it, by the flash that blazed + Full o'er her features--oh 'twas then, +As startingly her eyes she raised, + But quick let fall their lids again, +I saw--not Psyche's self when first + Upon the threshold of the skies +She paused, while heaven's glory burst + Newly upon her downcast eyes, +Could look more beautiful or blush + With holier shame than did this maid, +Whom now I saw in all that gush + Of splendor from the aisles, displayed. +Never--tho' well thou know'st how much + I've felt the sway of Beauty's star-- +Never did her bright influence touch + My soul into its depths so far; +And had that vision lingered there + One minute more I should have flown, +Forgetful _who_ I was and where. + And at her feet in worship thrown + Proffered my soul thro' life her own. + +But scarcely had that burst of light +And music broke on ear and sight, +Than up the aisle the bird took wing + As if on heavenly mission sent, +While after him with graceful spring + Like some unearthly creatures, meant + To live in that mixt element + Of light and song the young maids went; +And she who in my heart had thrown +A spark to burn for life was flown. + +In vain I tried to follow;--bands + Of reverend chanters filled the aisle: +Where'er I sought to pass, their wands + Motioned me back, while many a file +Of sacred nymphs--but ah, not they +Whom my eyes looked for thronged the way. +Perplext, impatient, mid this crowd +Of faces, lights--the o'erwhelming cloud +Of incense round me, and my blood +Full of its new-born fire--I stood, +Nor moved, nor breathed, but when I caught + A glimpse of some blue, spangled zone, +Or wreath of lotus, which I thought + Like those she wore at distance shone. + +But no, 'twas vain--hour after hour, + Till my heart's throbbing turned to pain, +And my strained eyesight lost its power, + I sought her thus, but all in vain. +At length, hot--wildered--in despair, +I rushed into the cool night-air, +And hurrying (tho' with many a look +Back to the busy Temple) took +My way along the moonlight shore, +And sprung into my boat once more. +There is a Lake that to the north +Of Memphis stretches grandly forth, +Upon whose silent shore the Dead + Have a proud city of their own,[2] +With shrines and pyramids o'erspread-- +Where many an ancient kingly head + Slumbers, immortalized in stone; +And where thro' marble grots beneath + The lifeless, ranged like sacred things, +Nor wanting aught of life but breath, + Lie in their painted coverings, +And on each new successive race + That visit their dim haunts below +Look with the same unwithering face + They wore three thousand years ago. + +There. Silence, thoughtful God, who loves +The neighborhood of death in groves +Of asphodel lies hid and weaves +His hushing spell among the leaves-- +Nor ever noise disturbs the air + Save the low, humming, mournful sound +Of priests within their shrines at prayer + For the fresh Dead entombed around. + +'Twas toward this place of death--in mood + Made up of thoughts, half bright, half dark-- +I now across the shining flood + Unconscious turned my light-winged bark. +The form of that young maid in all + Its beauty was before me still; +And oft I thought, if thus to call + Her image to my mind at will, +If but the memory of that one +Bright look of hers for ever gone, +Was to my heart worth all the rest +Of woman-kind, beheld, possest-- +What would it be if wholly mine, +Within these arms as in a shrine, +Hallowed by Love, I saw her shine-- +An idol, worshipt by the light +Of her own beauties, day and night-- +If 'twas a blessing but to see +And lose again, what would _this_ be? + +In thoughts like these--but often crost +By darker threads--my mind was lost, +Till near that City of the Dead, +Waked from my trance, I saw o'erhead-- +As if by some enchanter bid + Suddenly from the wave to rise-- +Pyramid over pyramid + Tower in succession to the skies; +While one, aspiring, as if soon, + 'Twould touch the heavens, rose over all; +And, on its summit, the white moon + Rested as on a pedestal! + +The silence of the lonely tombs + And temples round where naught was heard +But the high palm-tree's tufted plumes, + Shaken at times by breeze or bird, +Formed a deep contrast to the scene +Of revel where I late had been; +To those gay sounds that still came o'er, +Faintly from many a distant shore, +And the unnumbered lights that shone +Far o'er the flood from Memphis on +To the Moon's Isle and Babylon. + +My oars were lifted and my boat + Lay rocked upon the rippling stream; +While my vague thoughts alike afloat, + Drifted thro' many an idle dream. +With all of which, wild and unfixt +As was their aim, that vision mixt, +That bright nymph of the Temple--now, +With the same innocence of brow +She wore within the lighted fane-- +Now kindling thro' each pulse and vein +With passion of such deep-felt fire +As Gods might glory to inspire;-- +And now--oh Darkness of the tomb, + That must eclipse even light like hers! +Cold, dead, and blackening mid the gloom + Of those eternal sepulchres. + +Scarce had I turned my eyes away + From that dark death-place, at the thought, +When by the sound of dashing spray + From a light oar my ear was caught, +While past me, thro' the moonlight, sailed. + A little gilded bark that bore +Two female figures closely veiled + And mantled towards that funeral shore. +They landed--and the boat again +Put off across the watery plain. + +Shall I confess--to _thee_ I may-- + That never yet hath come the chance +Of a new music, a new ray + From woman's voice, from woman's glance, +Which--let it find me how it might, + In joy or grief--I did not bless, +And wander after as a light + Leading to undreamt, happiness. +And chiefly now when hopes so vain +Were stirring in my heart and brain, +When Fancy had allured my soul + Into a chase as vague and far +As would be his who fixt his goal + In the horizon or some star-- +_Any_ bewilderment that brought +More near to earth my high-flown thought-- +The faintest glimpse of joy, less pure, +Less high and heavenly, but more sure, +Came welcome--and was then to me +What the first flowery isle must be +To vagrant birds blown out to sea. + +Quick to the shore I urged my bark, + And by the bursts of moonlight shed +Between the lofty tombs could mark + Those figures as with hasty tread +They glided on--till in the shade + Of a small pyramid, which thro' +Some boughs of palm its peak displayed, + They vanisht instant from my view. + +I hurried to the spot--no trace +Of life was in that lonely place; +And had the creed I hold by taught +Of other worlds I might have thought +Some mocking spirits had from thence +Come in this guise to cheat my sense. + +At length, exploring darkly round +The Pyramid's smooth sides, I found +An iron portal--opening high + 'Twixt peak and base--and, with a prayer +To the bliss-loving Moon whose eye + Alone beheld me sprung in there. +Downward the narrow stairway led +Thro' many a duct obscure and dread, + A labyrinth for mystery made, +With wanderings onward, backward, round, +And gathering still, where'er it wound. + But deeper density of shade. + +Scarce had I asked myself, "Can aught + "That man delights in sojourn here?"-- +When, suddenly, far off, I caught + A glimpse of light, remote, but clear-- +Whose welcome glimmer seemed to pour + From some alcove or cell that ended +The long, steep, marble corridor, + Thro' which I now, all hope, descended. +Never did Spartan to his bride +With warier foot at midnight glide. +It seemed as echo's self were dead +In this dark place, so mute my tread. +Reaching at length that light, I saw-- + Oh! listen to the scene now raised +Before my eyes--then guess the awe, + The still, rapt awe with which I gazed. + +'Twas a small chapel, lined around +With the fair, spangling marble found +In many a ruined shrine that stands +Half seen above the Libyan sands. +The walls were richly sculptured o'er, +And charactered with that dark lore +Of times before the Flood, whose key +Was lost in the "Universal Sea."-- +While on the roof was pictured bright + The Theban beetle as he shines, + When the Nile's mighty flow declines +And forth the creature springs to light, +With life regenerate in his wings:-- +Emblem of vain imaginings! +Of a new world, when this is gone, +In which the spirit still lives on! + +Direct beneath this type, reclined + On a black granite altar, lay +A female form, in crystal shrined, + And looking fresh as if the ray + Of soul had fled but yesterday, +While in relief of silvery hue + Graved on the altar's front were seen +A branch of lotus, broken in two, + As that fair creature's life had been, +And a small bird that from its spray +Was winging like her soul away. + +But brief the glimpse I now could spare + To the wild, mystic wonders round; +For there was yet one wonder there + That held me as by witchery bound. +The lamp that thro' the chamber shed +Its vivid beam was at the head +Of her who on that altar slept; + And near it stood when first I came-- +Bending her brow, as if she kept + Sad watch upon its silent flame-- +A female form as yet so placed + Between the lamp's strong glow and me, +That I but saw, in outline traced, + The shadow of her symmetry. +Yet did my heart--I scarce knew why-- +Even at that shadowed shape beat high. +Nor was it long ere full in sight +The figure turned; and by the light +That touched her features as she bent +Over the crystal monument, +I saw 'twas she--the same--the same-- + That lately stood before me, brightening +The holy spot where she but came + And went again like summer lightning! + +Upon the crystal o'er the breast +Of her who took that silent rest, +There was a cross of silver lying-- + Another type of that blest home, +Which hope and pride and fear of dying + Build for us in a world to come:-- +This silver cross the maiden raised +To her pure lips:--then, having gazed +Some minutes on that tranquil face, +Sleeping in all death's mournful grace, +Upward she turned her brow serene, + As if intent on heaven those eyes +Saw them nor roof nor cloud between + Their own pure orbits and the skies, +And, tho' her lips no motion made, + And that fixt look was all her speech, +I saw that the rapt spirit prayed + Deeper within than words could reach. + +Strange power of Innocence, to turn + To its own hue whate'er comes near, +And make even vagrant Passion burn + With purer warmth within its sphere! +She who but one short hour before +Had come like sudden wild-fire o'er +My heart and brain--whom gladly even + From that bright Temple in the face +Of those proud ministers of heaven, + I would have borne in wild embrace, +And risked all punishment, divine +And human, but to make her mine;-- +She, she was now before me, thrown + By fate itself into my arms-- +There standing, beautiful, alone, + With naught to guard her but her charms. +Yet did I, then--did even a breath + From my parched lips, too parched to move, +Disturb a scene where thus, beneath + Earth's silent covering, Youth and Death + Held converse thro' undying love? +No--smile and taunt me as thou wilt-- + Tho' but to gaze thus was delight, +Yet seemed it like a wrong, a guilt, + To win by stealth so pure a sight: +And rather than a look profane + Should then have met those thoughtful eyes, +Or voice or whisper broke the chain +That linked her spirit with the skies, +I would have gladly in that place +From which I watched her heavenward face, +Let my heart break, without one beat +That could disturb a prayer so sweet. +Gently, as if on every tread. + My life, my more than life depended, +Back thro' the corridor that led + To this blest scene I now ascended, +And with slow seeking and some pain +And many a winding tried in vain +Emerged to upper earth again. + +The sun had freshly risen, and down + The marble hills of Araby, +Scattered as from a conqueror's crown + His beams into that living sea. +There seemed a glory in his light, + Newly put on--as if for pride. +Of the high homage paid this night + To his own Isis, his young bride., +Now fading feminine away +In her proud Lord's superior ray. + +My mind's first impulse was to fly + At once from this entangling net-- +New scenes to range, new loves to try, +Or in mirth, wine and luxury +Of every sense that might forget. +But vain the effort--spell-bound still, +I lingered, without power or will + To turn my eyes from that dark door, +Which now enclosed her 'mong the dead; + Oft fancying, thro' the boughs that o'er +The sunny pile their flickering shed. +'Twas her light form again I saw + Starting to earth--still pure and bright, +But wakening, as I hoped, less awe, + Thus seen by morning's natural light, + Than in that strange, dim cell at night. + +But no, alas--she ne'er returned: + Nor yet--tho' still I watch--nor yet, +Tho' the red sun for hours hath burned, + And now in his mid course hath met +The peak of that eternal pile + He pauses still at noon to bless, +Standing beneath his downward smile, + Like a great Spirit shadowless!-- +Nor yet she comes--while here, alone, + Sauntering thro' this death-peopled place, +Where no heart beats except my own, +Or 'neath a palm-tree's shelter thrown, + By turns I watch and rest and trace +These lines that are to waft to thee +My last night's wondrous history. + +Dost thou remember, in that Isle + Of our own Sea where thou and I +Lingered so long, so happy a while, + Till all the summer flowers went by-- +How gay it was when sunset brought + To the cool Well our favorite maids-- +Some we had won, and some we sought-- + To dance within the fragrant shades, +And till the stars went down attune +Their Fountain Hymns[3] to the young moon? + +That time, too--oh, 'tis like a dream-- + When from Scamander's holy tide +I sprung as Genius of the Stream, + And bore away that blooming bride, +Who thither came, to yield her charms + (As Phrygian maids are wont ere wed) +Into the cold Scamander's arms, + But met and welcomed mine, instead-- +Wondering as on my neck she fell, +How river-gods could love so well! +Who would have thought that he who roved + Like the first bees of summer then, +Rifling each sweet nor ever loved + But the free hearts that loved again, +Readily as the reed replies +To the least breath that round it sighs-- +Is the same dreamer who last night +Stood awed and breathless at the sight +Of one Egyptian girl; and now +Wanders among these tombs with brow +Pale, watchful, sad, as tho' he just, +Himself, had risen from out their dust! + +Yet so it is--and the same thirst + For something high and pure, above +This withering world, which from the first + Made me drink deep of woman's love-- +As the one joy, to heaven most near +Of all our hearts can meet with here-- +Still burns me up, still keeps awake +A fever naught but death can slake. + +Farewell; whatever may befall-- +Or bright, or dark--thou'lt know it all. + + +[1] The Ibis. + +[2] Necropolis, or the City of the Dead, to the south of Memphis. + +[3] These Songs of the Well, as they were called by the ancients, are +still common in the Greek isles. + + + + + + +LETTER IV. + +FROM ORCUS, HIGH PRIEST OF MEMPHIS, TO +DECIUS, THE PRAETORIAN PREFECT. + + +Rejoice, my friend, rejoice;--the youthful Chief +Of that light Sect which mocks at all belief, +And gay and godless makes the present hour +Its only heaven, is now within our power. +Smooth, impious school!--not all the weapons aimed, +At priestly creeds, since first a creed was framed, +E'er struck so deep as that sly dart they wield, +The Bacchant's pointed spear in laughing flowers concealed. +And oh, 'twere victory to this heart, as sweet +As any _thou _canst boast--even when the feet +Of thy proud war-steed wade thro' Christian blood, +To wrap this scoffer in Faith's blinding hood, +And bring him tamed and prostrate to implore +The vilest gods even Egypt's saints adore. +What!--do these sages think, to _them_ alone +The key of this world's happiness is known? +That none but they who make such proud parade +Of Pleasure's smiling favors win the maid, +Or that Religion keeps no secret place, +No niche in her dark fanes for Love to grace? + +Fools!--did they know how keen the zest that's given +To earthly joy when seasoned well with heaven; +How Piety's grave mask improves the hue +Of Pleasure's laughing features, half seen thro', +And how the Priest set aptly within reach +Of two rich worlds, traffics for bliss with each, +Would they not, Decius--thou, whom the ancient tie +'Twixt Sword and Altar makes our best ally-- +Would they not change their creed, their craft, for ours? +Leave the gross daylight joys that in their bowers +Languish with too much sun, like o'er-blown flowers, +For the veiled loves, the blisses undisplayed +That slyly lurk within the Temple's shade? +And, 'stead of haunting the trim Garden's school-- +Where cold Philosophy usurps a rule, +Like the pale moon's, o'er passion's heaving tide, +Till Pleasure's self is chilled by Wisdom's pride-- +Be taught by _us_, quit shadows for the true, +Substantial joys we sager Priests pursue, +Who far too wise to theorize on bliss +Or pleasure's substance for its shade to miss. +Preach _other_ worlds but live for only _this_:- +Thanks to the well-paid Mystery round us flung, +Which, like its type the golden cloud that hung +O'er Jupiter's love-couch its shade benign, +Round human frailty wraps a veil divine. + +Still less should they presume, weak wits, that they +Alone despise the craft of us who pray;-- +Still less their creedless vanity deceive +With the fond thought that we who pray believe. +Believe!--Apis forbid--forbid it, all +Ye monster Gods before whose shrines we fall-- +Deities framed in jest as if to try +How far gross Man can vulgarize the sky; +How far the same low fancy that combines +Into a drove of brutes yon zodiac's signs, +And turns that Heaven itself into a place +Of sainted sin and deified disgrace, +Can bring Olympus even to shame more deep, +Stock it with things that earth itself holds cheap. +Fish, flesh, and fowl, the kitchen's sacred brood, +Which Egypt keeps for worship, not for food-- +All, worthy idols of a Faith that sees +In dogs, cats, owls, and apes, divinities! + +Believe!--oh, Decius, thou, who feel'st no care +For things divine beyond the soldier's share, +Who takes on trust the faith for which he bleeds, +A good, fierce God to swear by, all he needs-- +Little canst thou, whose creed around thee hangs +Loose as thy summer war-cloak guess the pangs +Of loathing and self-scorn with which a heart +Stubborn as mine is acts the zealot's part-- +The deep and dire disgust with which I wade +Thro' the foul juggling of this holy trade-- +This mud profound of mystery where the feet +At every step sink deeper in deceit. +Oh! many a time, when, mid the Temple's blaze, +O'er prostrate fools the sacred cist I raise, +Did I not keep still proudly in my mind +The power this priestcraft gives me o'er mankind-- +A lever, of more might, in skilful hand, +To move this world, than Archimede e'er planned-- +I should in vengeance of the shame I feel +At my own mockery crush the slaves that kneel +Besotted round; and--like that kindred breed +Of reverend, well-drest crocodiles they feed, +At famed Arsinoë[1]--make my keepers bless, +With their last throb, my sharp-fanged Holiness. + +Say, _is_ it to be borne, that scoffers, vain +Of their own freedom from the altar's chain, +Should mock thus all that thou thy blood hast sold. +And I my truth, pride, freedom, to uphold? +It must not be:--think'st thou that Christian sect, +Whose followers quick as broken waves, erect +Their crests anew and swell into a tide, +That threats to sweep away our shrines of pride-- +Think'st thou with all their wondrous spells even they +Would triumph thus, had not the constant play +Of Wit's resistless archery cleared their way?-- +That mocking spirit, worst of all the foes, +Our solemn fraud, our mystic mummery knows, +Whose wounding flash thus ever 'mong the signs +Of a fast-falling creed, prelusive shines, +Threatening such change as do the awful freaks +Of summer lightning ere the tempest breaks. + +But, to my point--a youth of this vain school, +But one, whom Doubt itself hath failed to cool +Down to that freezing point where Priests despair +Of any spark from the altar catching there-- +Hath, some nights since--it was, me thinks, the night +That followed the full Moon's great annual rite-- +Thro' the dark, winding ducts that downward stray +To these earth--hidden temples, tracked his way, +Just at that hour when, round the Shrine, and me, +The choir of blooming nymphs thou long'st to see, +Sing their last night-hymn in the Sanctuary. +The clangor of the marvellous Gate that stands +At the Well's lowest depth--which none but hands +Of new, untaught adventurers, from above, +Who know not the safe path, e'er dare to move-- +Gave signal that a foot profane was nigh:-- +'Twas the Greek youth, who, by that morning's sky, +Had been observed, curiously wandering round +The mighty fanes of our sepulchral ground. + +Instant, the Initiate's Trials were prepared,-- +The Fire, Air, Water; all that Orpheus dared, +That Plato, that the bright-haired Samian[2] past, +With trembling hope, to come to--_what_, at last? +Go, ask the dupes of Priestcraft; question him +Who mid terrific sounds and spectres dim +Walks at Eleusis; ask of those who brave +The dazzling miracles of Mithra's Cave +With its seven starry gates; ask all who keep +Those terrible night-mysteries where they weep +And howl sad dirges to the answering breeze. +O'er their dead Gods, their mortal Deities-- +Amphibious, hybrid things that died as men, +Drowned, hanged, empaled, to rise as gods again;-- +Ask _them_, what mighty secret lurks below +This seven-fold mystery--can they tell thee? No; +Gravely they keep that only secret, well +And fairly kept--that they have none to tell; +And duped themselves console their humbled pride +By duping thenceforth all mankind beside. + +And such the advance in fraud since Orpheus' time-- +That earliest master of our craft sublime-- +So many minor Mysteries, imps of fraud, +From the great Orphic Egg have winged abroad, +That, still to uphold our Temple's ancient boast, +And seem most holy, we must cheat the most; +Work the best miracles, wrap nonsense round +In pomp and darkness till it seems profound; +Play on the hopes, the terrors of mankind, +With changeful skill; and make the human mind +Like our own Sanctuary, where no ray +But by the Priest's permission wins its way-- +Where thro' the gloom as wave our wizard rods. +Monsters at will are conjured into Gods; +While Reason like a grave-faced mummy stands +With her arms swathed in hieroglyphic bands. +But chiefly in that skill with which we use +Man's wildest passions for Religion's views, +Yoking them to her car like fiery steeds, +Lies the main art in which our craft succeeds. +And oh be blest, ye men of yore, whose toil +Hath, for our use, scooped out from Egypt's soil +This hidden Paradise, this mine of fanes, +Gardens and palaces where Pleasure reigns +In a rich, sunless empire of her own, +With all earth's luxuries lighting up her throne:-- +A realm for mystery made, which undermines +The Nile itself and, 'neath the Twelve Great Shrines +That keep Initiation's holy rite, +Spreads its long labyrinths of unearthly light. +A light that knows no change--its brooks that run +Too deep for day, its gardens without sun, +Where soul and sense, by turns, are charmed, surprised. +And all that bard or prophet e'er devised +For man's Elysium, priests have realized. + +Here, at this moment--all his trials past. +And heart and nerve unshrinking to the last-- +Our new Initiate roves--as yet left free +To wander thro' this realm of mystery; +Feeding on such illusions as prepare +The soul, like mist o'er waterfalls, to wear +All shapes and lines at Fancy's varying will, +Thro' every shifting aspect, vapor still;-- +Vague glimpses of the Future, vistas shown. +By scenic skill, into that world unknown. +Which saints and sinners claim alike their own; +And all those other witching, wildering arts, +Illusions, terrors, that make human hearts, +Ay, even the wisest and the hardiest quail +To _any_ goblin throned behind a veil. +Yes--such the spells shall haunt his eye, his ear, +Mix wild his night-dreams, form his atmosphere; +Till, if our Sage be not tamed down, at length, +His wit, his wisdom, shorn of all their strength, +Like Phrygian priests, in honor of the shrine-- +If he become not absolutely mine, +Body and soul and like the tame decoy +Which wary hunters of wild doves employ +Draw converts also, lure his brother wits +To the dark cage where his own spirit flits. +And give us if not saints good hypocrites-- +If I effect not this then be it said +The ancient spirit of our craft hath fled, +Gone with that serpent-god the Cross hath chased +To hiss its soul out in the Theban waste. + + +[1] For the trinkets with which the sacred Crocodiles were ornamented see +the "Epicurean" chap x. + +[2] Pythagoras. + + + + + + + + +LALLA ROOKH + + + + +TO + +SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ. + +THIS EASTERN ROMANCE + +IS INSCRIBED + +BY + +HIS VERY GRATEFUL AND AFFECTIONATE FRIEND, + +THOMAS MOORE. + + + + + + +LALLA ROOKH + + +In the eleventh year of the reign of Aurungzebe, Abdalla, King of the +Lesser Bucharia, a lineal descendant from the Great Zingis, having +abdicated the throne in favor of his son, set out on a pilgrimage to the +Shrine of the Prophet; and, passing into India through the delightful +valley of Cashmere, rested for a short time at Delhi on his way. He was +entertained by Aurungzebe in a style of magnificent hospitality, worthy +alike of the visitor and the host, and was afterwards escorted with the +same splendor to Surat, where he embarked for Arabia.[1] During the stay +of the Royal Pilgrim at Delhi, a marriage was agreed upon between the +Prince, his son, and the youngest daughter of the Emperor, LALLA ROOKH; +[2]--a Princess described by the poets of her time as more beautiful than +Leila,[3] Shirine,[4] Dewildé,[5] or any of those heroines whose names +and loves embellish the songs of Persia and Hindostan. It was intended +that the nuptials should be celebrated at Cashmere; where the young King, +as soon as the cares of the empire would permit, was to meet, for the +first time, his lovely bride, and, after a few months' repose in that +enchanting valley, conduct her over the snowy hills into Bucharia. + +The day of LALLA ROOKH'S departure from Delhi was as splendid as sunshine +and pageantry could make it. The bazaars and baths were all covered with +the richest tapestry; hundreds of gilded barges upon the Jumna floated +with their banners shining in the water; while through the streets groups +of beautiful children went strewing the most delicious flowers around, as +in that Persian festival called the Scattering of the Roses;[6] till +every part of the city was as fragrant as if a caravan of musk from Khoten +had passed through it. The Princess, having taken leave of her kind +father, who at parting hung a cornelian of Yemen round her neck, on which +was inscribed a verse from the Koran, and having sent a considerable +present to the Fakirs, who kept up the Perpetual Lamp in her sister's +tomb, meekly ascended the palankeen prepared for her; and while Aurungzebe +stood to take a last look from his balcony, the procession moved slowly on +the road to Lahore. + +Seldom had the Eastern world seen a cavalcade so superb. From the gardens +in the suburbs to the Imperial palace, it was one unbroken line of +splendor. The gallant appearance of the Rajahs and Mogul lords, +distinguished by those insignia of the Emperor's favor,[7] the feathers +of the egret of Cashmere in their turbans, and the small silver-rimm'd +kettle-drums at the bows of their saddles;--the costly armor of their +cavaliers, who vied, on this occasion, with the guards of the great Keder +Khan,[8] in the brightness of their silver battle-axes and the massiness +of their maces of gold;--the glittering of the gilt pine-apple[9] on the +tops of the palankeens;--the embroidered trappings of the elephants, +bearing on their backs small turrets, in the shape of little antique +temples, within which the Ladies of LALLA ROOKH lay as it were enshrined; +--the rose-colored veils of the Princess's own sumptuous litter,[10] at +the front of which a fair young female slave sat fanning her through the +curtains, with feathers of the Argus pheasant's wing;[11]--and the lovely +troop of Tartarian and Cashmerian maids of honor, whom the young King had +sent to accompany his bride, and who rode on each side of the litter, upon +small Arabian horses;--all was brilliant, tasteful, and magnificent, and +pleased even the critical and fastidious FADLADEEN, Great Nazir or +Chamberlain of the Haram, who was borne in his palankeen immediately after +the Princess, and considered himself not the least important personage of +the pageant. + +FADLADEEN was a judge of everything,--from the pencilling of a +Circassian's eyelids to the deepest questions of science and literature; +from the mixture of a conserve of rose-leaves to the composition of an +epic poem: and such influence had his opinion upon the various tastes of +the day, that all the cooks and poets of Delhi stood in awe of him. His +political conduct and opinions were founded upon that line of Sadi,-- +"Should the Prince at noon-day say, It is night, declare that you behold +the moon and stars."--And his zeal for religion, of which Aurungzebe was a +munificent protector,[12] was about as disinterested as that of the +goldsmith who fell in love with the diamond eyes of the idol of +Jaghernaut.[13] + +During the first days of their journey, LALLA ROOKH, who had passed all +her life within the shadow of the Royal Gardens of Delhi,[14] found +enough in the beauty of the scenery through which they passed to interest +her mind, and delight her imagination; and when at evening or in the heat +of the day they turned off from the high road to those retired and +romantic places which had been selected for her encampments,--sometimes, +on the banks of a small rivulet, as clear as the waters of the Lake of +Pearl;[15] sometimes under the sacred shade of a Banyan tree, from which +the view opened upon a glade covered with antelopes; and often in those +hidden, embowered spots, described by one from the Isles of the West, +[16]as "places of melancholy, delight, and safety, where all the company +around was wild peacocks and turtle-doves;"--she felt a charm in these +scenes, so lovely and so new to her, which, for a time, made her +indifferent to every other amusement. But LALLA ROOKH was young, and the +young love variety; nor could the conversation of her Ladies and the Great +Chamberlain, FADLADEEN,(the only persons, of course, admitted to her +pavilion.) sufficiently enliven those many vacant hours, which were +devoted neither to the pillow nor the palankeen. There was a little +Persian slave who sung sweetly to the Vina, and who, now and then, lulled +the Princess to sleep with the ancient ditties of her country, about the +loves of Wavnak and Ezra,[17] the fair-haired Zal and his mistress +Rodahver,[18] not forgetting the combat of Rustam with the terrible White +Demon.[19] At other times she was amused by those graceful dancing-girls +of Delhi, who had been permitted by the Bramins of the Great Pagoda to +attend her, much to the horror of the good Mussulman FADLADEEN, who could +see nothing graceful or agreeable in idolaters, and to whom the very +tinkling of their golden anklets[20] was an abomination. + +But these and many other diversions were repeated till they lost all their +charm, and the nights and noon-days were beginning to move heavily, when, +at length, it was recollected that, among the attendants sent by the +bridegroom, was a young poet of Cashmere, much celebrated throughout the +Valley for his manner of reciting the Stories of the East, on whom his +Royal Master had conferred the privilege of being admitted to the pavilion +of the Princess, that he might help to beguile the tediousness of the +journey by some of his most agreeable recitals. At the mention of a poet, +FADLADEEN elevated his critical eyebrows, and, having refreshed his +faculties with a dose of that delicious opium which is distilled from the +black poppy of the Thebais, gave orders for the minstrel to be forthwith +introduced into the presence. + +The Princess, who had once in her life seen a poet from behind the screens +of gauze in her father's hall, and had conceived from that specimen no +very favorable ideas of the Caste, expected but little in this new +exhibition to interest her;--she felt inclined, however, to alter her +opinion on the very first appearance of FERAMORZ. He was a youth about +LALLA ROOKH'S own age, and graceful as that idol of women, +Crishna,[21]--such as he appears to their young imaginations, heroic, +beautiful, breathing music from his very eyes, and exalting the religion +of his worshippers into love. His dress was simple, yet not without some +marks of costliness; and the Ladies of the Princess were not long in +discovering that the cloth, which encircled his high Tartarian cap, was of +the most delicate kind that the shawl-goats of Tibet supply.[22] Here and +there, too, over his vest, which was confined by a flowered girdle of +Kashan, hung strings of fine pearl, disposed with an air of studied +negligence;--nor did the exquisite embroidery of his sandals escape the +observation of these fair critics; who, however they might give way to +FADLADEEN upon the unimportant topics of religion and government, had the +spirit of martyrs in everything relating to such momentous matters as +jewels and embroidery. + +For the purpose of relieving the pauses of recitation by music, the young +Cashmerian held in his hand a kitar;--such as, in old times, the Arab +maids of the West used to listen to by moonlight in the gardens of the +Alhambra--and, having premised, with much humility, that the story he was +about to relate was founded on the adventures of that Veiled Prophet of +Khorassan,[23] who, in the year of the Hegira 163, created such alarm +throughout the Eastern Empire, made an obeisance to the Princess, and thus +began:-- + + +THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN.[24] + + +In that delightful Province of the Sun, +The first of Persian lands he shines upon. +Where all the loveliest children of his beam, +Flowerets and fruits, blush over every stream,[25] +And, fairest of all streams, the MURGA roves +Among MEROU'S[26] bright palaces and groves;-- +There on that throne, to which the blind belief +Of millions raised him, sat the Prophet-Chief, +The Great MOKANNA. O'er his features hung +The Veil, the Silver Veil, which he had flung +In mercy there, to hide from mortal sight +His dazzling brow, till man could bear its light. +For, far less luminous, his votaries said, +Were even the gleams, miraculously shed +O'er MOUSSA'S[27] cheek, when down the Mount he trod +All glowing from the presence of his God! + + On either side, with ready hearts and hands, +His chosen guard of bold Believers stands; +Young fire-eyed disputants, who deem their swords, +On points of faith, more eloquent than words; + +And such their zeal, there's not a youth with brand +Uplifted there, but at the Chief's command, +Would make his own devoted heart its sheath, +And bless the lips that doomed so dear a death! +In hatred to the Caliph's hue of night,[28] +Their vesture, helms and all, is snowy white; +Their weapons various--some equipt for speed, +With javelins of the light Kathaian reed;[29] +Or bows of buffalo horn and shining quivers +Filled with the stems[30] +that bloom on IRAN'S rivers;[31] +While some, for war's more terrible attacks, +Wield the huge mace and ponderous battle-axe; +And as they wave aloft in morning's beam +The milk-white plumage of their helms, they seem +Like a chenar-tree grove[32] when winter throws +O'er all its tufted heads his feathery snows. + + Between the porphyry pillars that uphold +The rich moresque-work of the roof of gold, +Aloft the Haram's curtained galleries rise, +Where thro' the silken net-work, glancing eyes, +From time to time, like sudden gleams that glow +Thro' autumn clouds, shine o'er the pomp below.-- +What impious tongue, ye blushing saints, would dare +To hint that aught but Heaven hath placed you there? +Or that the loves of this light world could bind, +In their gross chain, your Prophet's soaring mind? +No--wrongful thought!--commissioned from above +To people Eden's bowers with shapes of love, +(Creatures so bright, that the same lips and eyes +They wear on earth will serve in Paradise,) +There to recline among Heaven's native maids, +And crown the Elect with bliss that never fades-- +Well hath the Prophet-Chief his bidding done; +And every beauteous race beneath the sun, +From those who kneel at BRAHMA'S burning fount,[33] +To the fresh nymphs bounding o'er YEMEN'S mounts; +From PERSIA'S eyes of full and fawnlike ray, +To the small, half-shut glances of KATHAY;[34] +And GEORGIA'S bloom, and AZAB'S darker smiles, +And the gold ringlets of the Western Isles; +All, all are there;--each Land its flower hath given, +To form that fair young Nursery for Heaven! + + But why this pageant now? this armed array? +What triumph crowds the rich Divan to-day +With turbaned heads of every hue and race, +Bowing before that veiled and awful face, +Like tulip-beds,[35] of different shape and dyes, +Bending beneath the invisible West-wind's sighs! +What new-made mystery now for Faith to sign +And blood to seal, as genuine and divine, +What dazzling mimicry of God's own power +Hath the bold Prophet planned to grace this hour? + + Not such the pageant now, tho' not less proud; +Yon warrior youth advancing from the crowd +With silver bow, with belt of broidered crape +And fur-bound bonnet of Bucharian shape.[36] +So fiercely beautiful in form and eye, +Like war's wild planet in a summer sky; +That youth to-day,--a proselyte, worth hordes +Of cooler spirits and less practised swords,-- +Is come to join, all bravery and belief, +The creed and standard of the heaven-sent Chief. + + Tho' few his years, the West already knows +Young AZIM'S fame;--beyond the Olympian snows +Ere manhood darkened o'er his downy cheek, +O'erwhelmed in fight and captive to the Greek,[37] +He lingered there, till peace dissolved his chains;-- +Oh! who could even in bondage tread the plains +Of glorious GREECE nor feel his spirit rise +Kindling within him? who with heart and eyes +Could walk where Liberty had been nor see +The shining foot-prints of her Deity, +Nor feel those god-like breathings in the air +Which mutely told her spirit had been there? +Not he, that youthful warrior,--no, too well +For his soul's quiet worked the awakening spell; +And now, returning to his own dear land, +Full of those dreams of good that, vainly grand, +Haunt the young heart,--proud views of human-kind, +Of men to Gods exalted and refined,-- +False views like that horizon's fair deceit +Where earth and heaven but _seem_, alas, to meet!-- +Soon as he heard an Arm Divine was raised +To right the nations, and beheld, emblazed +On the white flag MOKANNA'S host unfurled, +Those words of sunshine, "Freedom to the World," +At once his faith, his sword, his soul obeyed +The inspiring summons; every chosen blade +That fought beneath that banner's sacred text +Seemed doubly edged for this world and the next; +And ne'er did Faith with her smooth bandage bind +Eyes more devoutly willing to be blind, +In virtue's cause;--never was soul inspired +With livelier trust in what it most desired, +Than his, the enthusiast there, who kneeling, pale +With pious awe before that Silver Veil, +Believes the form to which he bends his knee +Some pure, redeeming angel sent to free +This fettered world from every bond and stain, +And bring its primal glories back again! + +Low as young AZIM knelt, that motley crowd +Of all earth's nations sunk the knee and bowed, +With shouts of "ALLA!" echoing long and loud; +Which high in air, above the Prophet's head, +Hundreds of banners to the sunbeam spread +Waved, like the wings of the white birds that fan +The flying throne of star-taught SOLIMAN.[38] +Then thus he spoke:-"Stranger, tho' new the frame +"Thy soul inhabits now. I've trackt its flame +"For many an age,[39] in every chance and change +"Of that existence, thro' whose varied range,-- +"As thro' a torch-race where from hand to hand +"The flying youths transmit their shining brand, +"From frame to frame the unextinguisht soul +"Rapidly passes till it reach the goal! + +"Nor think 'tis only the gross Spirits warmed +"With duskier fire and for earth's medium formed +"That run this course;--Beings the most divine +"Thus deign thro' dark mortality to shine. +"Such was the Essence that in ADAM dwelt, +"To which all Heaven except the Proud One knelt:[40] +"Such the refined Intelligence that glowed +"In MOUSSA'S[41] frame,--and thence descending flowed +"Thro' many a Prophet's breast;--in ISSA[42] shone +"And in MOHAMMED burned; till hastening on. +"(As a bright river that from fall to fall +"In many a maze descending bright thro' all, +"Finds some fair region where, each labyrinth past, +"In one full lake of light it rests at last) +"That Holy Spirit settling calm and free +"From lapse or shadow centres all in me! + +Again throughout the assembly at these words +Thousands of voices rung: the warrior's swords +Were pointed up at heaven; a sudden wind +In the open banners played, and from behind +Those Persian hangings that but ill could screen +The Harem's loveliness, white hands were seen +Waving embroidered scarves whose motion gave +A perfume forth--like those the Houris wave +When beckoning to their bowers the immortal Brave. + +"But these," pursued the Chief "are truths sublime, +"That claim a holier mood and calmer time +"Than earth allows us now;--this sword must first +"The darkling prison-house of mankind burst. +"Ere Peace can visit them or Truth let in +"Her wakening daylight on a world of sin. +"But then,--celestial warriors, then when all +"Earth's shrines and thrones before our banner fall, +"When the glad Slave shall at these feet lay down +"His broken chain, the tyrant Lord his crown, +"The Priest his book, the Conqueror his wreath, +"And from the lips of Truth one mighty breath +"Shall like a whirlwind scatter in its breeze +"That whole dark pile of human mockeries:-- +"Then shall the reign of mind commence on earth, +"And starting fresh as from a second birth, +"Man in the sunshine of the world's new spring +"Shall walk transparent like some holy thing! +"Then too your Prophet from his angel brow +"Shall cast the Veil that hides its splendors now, +"And gladdened Earth shall thro' her wide expanse +"Bask in the glories of this countenance! + +"For thee, young warrior, welcome!--thou hast yet +"Some tasks to learn, some frailties to forget, +"Ere the white war-plume o'er thy brow can wave;-- +"But, once my own, mine all till in the grave!" + +The pomp is at an end--the crowds are gone-- +Each ear and heart still haunted by the tone +Of that deep voice, which thrilled like ALLA'S own! +The Young all dazzled by the plumes and lances, +The glittering throne and Haram's half-caught glances, +The Old deep pondering on the promised reign +Of peace and truth, and all the female train +Ready to risk their eyes could they but gaze +A moment on that brow's miraculous blaze! + +But there was one among the chosen maids +Who blushed behind the gallery's silken shades, +One, to whose soul the pageant of to-day +Has been like death:--you saw her pale dismay, +Ye wondering sisterhood, and heard the burst +Of exclamation from her lips when first +She saw that youth, too well, too dearly known, +Silently kneeling at the Prophet's throne. + +Ah ZELICA! there was a time when bliss +Shone o'er thy heart from every look of his, +When but to see him, hear him, breathe the air +In which he dwelt was thy soul's fondest prayer; +When round him hung such a perpetual spell, +Whate'er he did, none ever did so well. +Too happy days! when, if he touched a flower +Or gem of thine, 'twas sacred from that hour; +When thou didst study him till every tone +And gesture and dear look became thy own.-- +Thy voice like his, the changes of his face +In thine reflected with still lovelier grace, +Like echo, sending back sweet music, fraught +With twice the aerial sweetness it had brought! +Yet now he comes,--brighter than even he +E'er beamed before,--but, ah! not bright for thee; +No--dread, unlookt for, like a visitant +From the other world he comes as if to haunt +Thy guilty soul with dreams of lost delight, +Long lost to all but memory's aching sight:-- +Sad dreams! as when the Spirit of our Youth +Returns in sleep, sparkling with all the truth +And innocence once ours and leads us back, +In mournful mockery o'er the shining track +Of our young life and points out every ray +Of hope and peace we've lost upon the way! + + Once happy pair!--In proud BOKHARA'S groves, +Who had not heard of their first youthful loves? +Born by that ancient flood,[43]which from its spring +In the dark Mountains swiftly wandering, +Enriched by every pilgrim brook that shines +With relics from BUCHARIA'S ruby mines. +And, lending to the CASPIAN half its strength, +In the cold Lake of Eagles sinks at length;-- +There, on the banks of that bright river born, +The flowers that hung above its wave at morn +Blest not the waters as they murmured by +With holier scent and lustre than the sigh +And virgin-glance of first affection cast +Upon their youth's smooth current as it past! +But war disturbed this vision,--far away +From her fond eyes summoned to join the array +Of PERSIA'S warriors on the hills of THRACE, +The youth exchanged his sylvan dwelling-place +For the rude tent and war-field's deathful clash; +His ZELICA'S sweet glances for the flash +Of Grecian wild-fire, and Love's gentle chains +For bleeding bondage on BYZANTIUM'S plains. + + Month after month in widowhood of soul +Drooping the maiden saw two summers roll +Their suns away--but, ah, how cold and dim +Even summer suns when not beheld with him! +From time to time ill-omened rumors came +Like spirit-tongues muttering the sick man's name +Just ere he dies:--at length those sounds of dread +Fell withering on her soul, "AZIM is dead!" +Oh Grief beyond all other griefs when fate +First leaves the young heart lone and desolate +In the wide world without that only tie +For which it loved to live or feared to die;-- +Lorn as the hung-up lute, that near hath spoken +Since the sad day its master-chord was broken! + +Fond maid, the sorrow of her soul was such, +Even reason sunk,--blighted beneath its touch; +And tho' ere long her sanguine spirit rose +Above the first dead pressure of its woes, +Tho' health and bloom returned, the delicate chain +Of thought once tangled never cleared again. +Warm, lively, soft as in youth's happiest day, +The mind was still all there, but turned astray,-- +A wandering bark upon whose pathway shone +All stars of heaven except the guiding one! +Again she smiled, nay, much and brightly smiled, +But 'twas a lustre, strange, unreal, wild; +And when she sung to her lute's touching strain, +'Twas like the notes, half ecstasy, half pain, +The bulbul[44] utters ere her soul depart, +When, vanquisht by some minstrel's powerful art, +She dies upon the lute whose sweetness broke her heart! + +Such was the mood in which that mission found, +Young ZELICA,--that mission which around +The Eastern world in every region blest +With woman's smile sought out its loveliest +To grace that galaxy of lips and eyes +Which the Veiled Prophet destined for the skies:-- +And such quick welcome as a spark receives +Dropt on a bed of Autumn's withered leaves, +Did every tale of these enthusiasts find +In the wild maiden's sorrow-blighted mind. +All fire at once the maddening zeal she caught:-- +Elect of Paradise! blest, rapturous thought! +Predestined bride, in heaven's eternal dome, +Of some brave youth--ha! durst they say "of _some_?" +No--of the one, one only object traced +In her heart's core too deep to be effaced; +The one whose memory, fresh as life, is twined +With every broken link of her lost mind; +Whose image lives tho' Reason's self be wreckt +Safe mid the ruins of her intellect! + + Alas, poor ZELICA! it needed all +The fantasy which held thy mind in thrall +To see in that gay Haram's glowing maids +A sainted colony for Eden's shades; +Or dream that he,--of whose unholy flame +Thou wert too soon the victim,--shining came +From Paradise to people its pure sphere +With souls like thine which he hath ruined here! +No--had not reason's light totally set, +And left thee dark thou hadst an amulet +In the loved image graven on thy heart +Which would have saved thee from the tempter's art, +And kept alive in all its bloom of breath +That purity whose fading is love's death!-- +But lost, inflamed,--a restless zeal took place +Of the mild virgin's still and feminine grace; +First of the Prophets favorites, proudly first +In zeal and charms, too well the Impostor nurst +Her soul's delirium in whose active flame, +Thus lighting up a young, luxuriant frame, +He saw more potent sorceries to bind +To his dark yoke the spirits of mankind, +More subtle chains than hell itself e'er twined. +No art was spared, no witchery;--all the skill +His demons taught him was employed to fill +Her mind with gloom and ecstasy by turns-- +That gloom, thro' which Frenzy but fiercer burns, +That ecstasy which from the depth of sadness +Glares like the maniac's moon whose light is madness! + + 'Twas from a brilliant banquet where the sound +Of poesy and music breathed around, +Together picturing to her mind and ear +The glories of that heaven, her destined sphere, +Where all was pure, where every stain that lay +Upon the spirit's light should pass away, +And realizing more than youthful love +E'er wisht or dreamed, she should for ever rove +Thro' fields of fragrance by her AZIM'S side, +His own blest, purified, eternal bride!-- +T was from a scene, a witching trance like this, +He hurried her away, yet breathing bliss, +To the dim charnel-house;--thro' all its steams +Of damp and death led only by those gleams +Which foul Corruption lights, as with design +To show the gay and proud _she_ too can shine-- +And passing on thro' upright ranks of Dead +Which to the maiden, doubly crazed by dread, +Seemed, thro' the bluish death-light round them cast, +To move their lips in mutterings as she past-- +There in that awful place, when each had quaft +And pledged in silence such a fearful draught, +Such--oh! the look and taste of that red bowl +Will haunt her till she dies--he bound her soul +By a dark oath, in hell's own language framed, +Never, while earth his mystic presence claimed, +While the blue arch of day hung o'er them both, +Never, by that all-imprecating oath, +In joy or sorrow from his side to sever.-- +She swore and the wide charnel echoed "Never, never!" + + From that dread hour, entirely, wildly given +To him and--she believed, lost maid!--to heaven; +Her brain, her heart, her passions all inflamed, +How proud she stood, when in full Haram named +The Priestess of the Faith!--how flasht her eyes +With light, alas, that was not of the skies, +When round in trances only less than hers +She saw the Haram kneel, her prostrate worshippers. +Well might MOKANNA think that form alone +Had spells enough to make the world his own:-- +Light, lovely limbs to which the spirit's play +Gave motion, airy as the dancing spray, +When from its stem the small bird wings away; +Lips in whose rosy labyrinth when she smiled +The soul was lost, and blushes, swift and wild +As are the momentary meteors sent +Across the uncalm but beauteous firmament. +And then her look--oh! where's the heart so wise +Could unbewildered meet those matchless eyes? +Quick, restless, strange, but exquisite withal, +Like those of angels just before their fall; +Now shadowed with the shames of earth--now crost +By glimpses of the Heaven her heart had lost; +In every glance there broke without control, +The flashes of a bright but troubled soul, +Where sensibility still wildly played +Like lightning round the ruins it had made! + + And such was now young ZELICA--so changed +From her who some years since delighted ranged +The almond groves that shade BOKHARA'S tide +All life and bliss with AZIM by her side! +So altered was she now, this festal day, +When, mid the proud Divan's dazzling array, +The vision of that Youth whom she had loved, +Had wept as dead, before her breathed and moved;-- +When--bright, she thought, as if from Eden's track +But half-way trodden, he had wandered back +Again to earth, glistening with Eden's light-- +Her beauteous AZIM shone before her sight. + + O Reason! who shall say what spells renew, +When least we look for it, thy broken clew! +Thro' what small vistas o'er the darkened brain +Thy intellectual day-beam bursts again; +And how like forts to which beleaguerers win +Unhoped-for entrance thro' some friend within, +One clear idea, wakened in the breast +By memory's magic, lets in all the rest. +Would it were thus, unhappy girl, with thee! +But tho' light came, it came but partially; +Enough to show the maze, in which thy sense +Wandered about,--but not to guide it thence; +Enough to glimmer o'er the yawning wave, +But not to point the harbor which might save. +Hours of delight and peace, long left behind, +With that dear form came rushing o'er her mind; +But, oh! to think how deep her soul had gone +In shame and falsehood since those moments shone; +And then her oath--_there_ madness lay again, +And shuddering, back she sunk into her chain +Of mental darkness, as if blest to flee +From light whose every glimpse was agony! +Yet _one_ relief this glance of former years +Brought mingled with its pain,--tears, floods of tears, +Long frozen at her heart, but now like rills +Let loose in spring-time from the snowy hills, +And gushing warm after a sleep of frost, +Thro' valleys where their flow had long been lost. + + Sad and subdued, for the first time her frame +Trembled with horror when the summons came +(A summons proud and rare, which all but she, +And she, till now, had heard with ecstasy,) +To meet MOKANNA at his place of prayer, +A garden oratory cool and fair +By the stream's side, where still at close of day +The Prophet of the Veil retired to pray, +Sometimes alone--but oftener far with one, +One chosen nymph to share his orison. + + Of late none found such favor in his sight +As the young Priestess; and tho', since that night +When the death-cavorns echoed every tone +Of the dire oath that made her all his own, +The Impostor sure of his infatuate prize +Had more than once thrown off his soul's disguise, +And uttered such unheavenly, monstrous things, +As even across the desperate wanderings +Of a weak intellect, whose lamp was out, +Threw startling shadows of dismay and doubt;-- +Yet zeal, ambition, her tremendous vow, +The thought, still haunting her, of that bright brow, +Whose blaze, as yet from mortal eye concealed, +Would soon, proud triumph! be to her revealed, +To her alone;--and then the hope, most dear, +Most wild of all, that her transgression here +Was but a passage thro' earth's grosser fire, +From which the spirit would at last aspire, +Even purer than before,--as perfumes rise +Thro' flame and smoke, most welcome to the skies-- +And that when AZIM's fond, divine embrace +Should circle her in heaven, no darkening trace +Would on that bosom he once loved remain. +But all be bright, be pure, be _his_ again!-- +These were the wildering dreams, whose curst deceit +Had chained her soul beneath the tempter's feet, +And made her think even damning falsehood sweet. +But now that Shape, which had appalled her view, +That Semblance--oh how terrible, if true! +Which came across her frenzy's full career +With shock of consciousness, cold, deep, severe. +As when in northern seas at midnight dark +An isle of ice encounters some swift bark, +And startling all its wretches from their sleep +By one cold impulse hurls them to the deep;-- +So came that shock not frenzy's self could bear, +And waking up each long-lulled image there, +But checkt her headlong soul to sink it in despair! + + Wan and dejected, thro' the evening dusk, +She now went slowly to that small kiosk, +Where, pondering alone his impious schemes, +MOKANNA waited her--too wrapt in dreams +Of the fair-ripening future's rich success, +To heed the sorrow, pale and spiritless, +That sat upon his victim's downcast brow, +Or mark how slow her step, how altered now +From the quick, ardent Priestess, whose light bound +Came like a spirit's o'er the unechoing ground,-- +From that wild ZELICA whose every glance +Was thrilling fire, whose every thought a trance! + + Upon his couch the Veiled MOKANNA lay, +While lamps around--not such as lend their ray, +Glimmering and cold, to those who nightly pray +In holy KOOM,[45] or MECCA'S dim arcades,-- +But brilliant, soft, such lights as lovely maids. +Look loveliest in, shed their luxurious glow +Upon his mystic Veil's white glittering flow. +Beside him, 'stead of beads and books of prayer, +Which the world fondly thought he mused on there, +Stood Vases, filled with KISIIMEE'S[46] golden wine, +And the red weepings of the SHIRAZ vine; +Of which his curtained lips full many a draught +Took zealously, as if each drop they quaft +Like ZEMZEM'S Spring of Holiness[47] had power +To freshen the soul's virtues into flower! +And still he drank and pondered--nor could see +The approaching maid, so deep his revery; +At length with fiendish laugh like that which broke +From EBLIS at the Fall of Man he spoke:-- +"Yes, ye vile race, for hell's amusement given, +"Too mean for earth, yet claiming kin with heaven; +"God's images, forsooth!--such gods as he +"Whom INDIA serves, the monkey deity;[48] +"Ye creatures of a breath, proud things of clay, +"To whom if LUCIFER, as gran-dams say, +"Refused tho' at the forfeit of heaven's light +"To bend in worship, LUCIFER was right! +"Soon shall I plant this foot upon the neck +"Of your foul race and without fear or check, +"Luxuriating in hate, avenge my shame, +"My deep-felt, long-nurst loathing of man's name!-- +"Soon at the head of myriads, blind and fierce +"As hooded falcons, thro' the universe +"I'll sweep my darkening, desolating way, +"Weak man my instrument, curst man my prey! + + "Ye wise, ye learned, who grope your dull way on +"By the dim twinkling gleams of ages gone, +"Like superstitious thieves who think the light +"From dead men's marrow guides them best at night[49]-- +"Ye shall have honors--wealth--yes, Sages, yes-- +"I know, grave fools, your wisdom's nothingness; +"Undazzled it can track yon starry sphere, +"But a gilt stick, a bauble blinds it here. +"How I shall laugh, when trumpeted along +"In lying speech and still more lying song, +"By these learned slaves, the meanest of the throng; +"Their wits brought up, their wisdom shrunk so small, +"A sceptre's puny point can wield it all! + + "Ye too, believers of incredible creeds, +"Whose faith enshrines the monsters which it breeds; +"Who, bolder even than NEMROD, think to rise +"By nonsense heapt on nonsense to the skies; +"Ye shall have miracles, ay, sound ones too, +"Seen, heard, attested, everything--but true. +"Your preaching zealots too inspired to seek +"One grace of meaning for the things they speak: +"Your martyrs ready to shed out their blood, +"For truths too heavenly to be understood; +"And your State Priests, sole venders of the lore, +"That works salvation;--as, on AVA'S shore, +"Where none _but_ priests are privileged to trade +"In that best marble of which Gods are made[50]; +"They shall have mysteries--ay precious stuff +"For knaves to thrive by--mysteries enough; +"Dark, tangled doctrines, dark as fraud can weave, +"Which simple votaries shall on trust receive, +"While craftier feign belief till they believe. +"A Heaven too ye must have, ye lords of dust,-- +"A splendid Paradise,--pure souls, ye must: +"That Prophet ill sustains his holy call, +"Who finds not heavens to suit the tastes of all; +"Houris for boys, omniscience for sages, +"And wings and glories for all ranks and ages. +"Vain things!--as lust or vanity inspires, +"The heaven of each is but what each desires, +"And, soul or sense, whate'er the object be, +"Man would be man to all eternity! +"So let him--EBLIS! grant this crowning curse, +"But keep him what he is, no Hell were worse." + + "Oh my lost soul!" exclaimed the shuddering maid, +Whose ears had drunk like poison all he said: +MOKANNA started--not abasht, afraid,-- +He knew no more of fear than one who dwells +Beneath the tropics knows of icicles! +But in those dismal words that reached his ear, +"Oh my lost soul!" there was a sound so drear, +So like that voice among the sinful dead +In which the legend o'er Hell's Gate is read, +That, new as 'twas from her whom naught could dim +Or sink till now, it startled even him. + + "Ha, my fair Priestess!"--thus, with ready wile, +The impostor turned to greet her--"thou whose smile +"Hath inspiration in its rosy beam +"Beyond the Enthusiast's hope or Prophet's dream, +"Light of the Faith! who twin'st religion's zeal +"So close with love's, men know not which they feel, +"Nor which to sigh for, in their trance of heart, +"The heaven thou preachest or the heaven thou art! +"What should I be without thee? without thee +"How dull were power, how joyless victory! +"Tho' borne by angels, if that smile of thine +"Blest not my banner 'twere but half divine. +"But--why so mournful, child? those eyes that shone +"All life last night--what!--is their glory gone? +"Come, come--this morn's fatigue hath made them pale, +"They want rekindling--suns themselves would fail +"Did not their comets bring, as I to thee, +"From light's own fount supplies of brilliancy. +"Thou seest this cup--no juice of earth is here, +"But the pure waters of that upper sphere, +"Whose rills o'er ruby beds and topaz flow, +"Catching the gem's bright color as they go. +"Nightly my Genii come and fill these urns-- +"Nay, drink--in every drop life's essence burns; +"'Twill make that soul all fire, those eyes all light-- +"Come, come, I want thy loveliest smiles to-night: +"There is a youth--why start?--thou saw'st him then; +"Lookt he not nobly? such the godlike men, +"Thou'lt have to woo thee in the bowers above;-- +"Tho' _he_, I fear, hath thoughts too stern for love, +"Too ruled by that cold enemy of bliss +"The world calls virtue--we must conquer this; +"Nay, shrink not, pretty sage! 'tis not for thee +"To scan the mazes of Heaven's mystery: +"The steel must pass thro' fire, ere it can yield +"Fit instruments for mighty hands to wield. +"This very night I mean to try the art +"Of powerful beauty on that warrior's heart. +"All that my Haram boasts of bloom and wit, +"Of skill and charms, most rare and exquisite, +"Shall tempt the boy;--young MIRZALA'S blue eyes +"Whose sleepy lid like snow on violets lies; +"AROUYA'S cheeks warm as a spring-day sun +"And lips that like the seal of SOLOMON +"Have magic in their pressure; ZEBA'S lute, +"And LILLA'S dancing feet that gleam and shoot +"Rapid and white as sea-birds o'er the deep-- +"All shall combine their witching powers to steep +"My convert's spirit in that softening trance, +"From which to heaven is but the next advance;-- +"That glowing, yielding fusion of the breast. +"On which Religion stamps her image best. +"But hear me, Priestess!--tho' each nymph of these +"Hath some peculiar, practised power to please, +"Some glance or step which at the mirror tried +"First charms herself, then all the world beside: +"There still wants _one_ to make the victory sure, +"One who in every look joins every lure, +"Thro' whom all beauty's beams concentred pass, +"Dazzling and warm as thro' love's burning glass; +"Whose gentle lips persuade without a word, +"Whose words, even when unmeaning, are adored. +"Like inarticulate breathings from a shrine, +"Which our faith takes for granted are divine! +"Such is the nymph we want, all warmth and light, +"To crown the rich temptations of to-night; +"Such the refined enchantress that must be +"This hero's vanquisher,--and thou art she!" + + With her hands claspt, her lips apart and pale, +The maid had stood gazing upon the Veil +From which these words like south winds thro' a fence +Of Kerzrah flowers, came filled with pestilence;[51] +So boldly uttered too! as if all dread +Of frowns from her, of virtuous frowns, were fled, +And the wretch felt assured that once plunged in, +Her woman's soul would know no pause in sin! + + At first, tho' mute she listened, like a dream +Seemed all he said: nor could her mind whose beam +As yet was weak penetrate half his scheme. +But when at length he uttered, "Thou art she!" +All flasht at once and shrieking piteously, +"Oh not for worlds! "she cried--"Great God! to whom +"I once knelt innocent, is this my doom? +"Are all my dreams, my hopes of heavenly bliss, +"My purity, my pride, then come to this,-- +"To live, the wanton of a fiend! to be +"The pander of his guilt--oh infamy! +"And sunk myself as low as hell can steep +"In its hot flood, drag others down as deep! + +"Others--ha! yes--that youth who came to-day-- +"_Not_ him I loved--not him--oh! do but say, +"But swear to me this moment 'tis not he, +"And I will serve, dark fiend, will worship even thee!" + +"Beware, young raving thing!--in time beware, +"Nor utter what I can not, must not bear, +"Even from _thy_ lips. Go--try thy lute, thy voice, +"The boy must feel their magic;--I rejoice +"To see those fires, no matter whence they rise, +"Once more illuming my fait Priestess' eyes; +"And should the youth whom soon those eyes shall warm, +"Indeed resemble thy dead lover's form, +"So much the happier wilt thou find thy doom, +"As one warm lover full of life and bloom +"Excels ten thousand cold ones in the tomb. +"Nay, nay, no frowning, sweet!--those eyes were made +"For love, not anger--I must be obeyed." + + "Obeyed!--'tis well--yes, I deserve it all-- +"On me, on me Heaven's vengeance can not fall +"Too heavily--but AZIM, brave and true +"And beautiful--must _he_ be ruined too? +"Must _he_ too, glorious as he is, be driven +"A renegade like me from Love and Heaven? +"Like me?--weak wretch, I wrong him--not like me; +"No--he's all truth and strength and purity! +"Fill up your maddening hell-cup to the brim, +"Its witchery, fiends, will have no charm for him. +"Let loose your glowing wantons from their bowers, +"He loves, he loves, and can defy their powers! +"Wretch as I am, in his heart still I reign +"Pure as when first we met, without a stain! +"Tho' ruined--lost--my memory like a charm +"Left by the dead still keeps his soul from harm. +"Oh! never let him know how deep the brow +"He kist at parting is dishonored now;-- +"Ne'er tell him how debased, how sunk is she. +"Whom once he loved--once!--_still_ loves dotingly. +"Thou laugh'st, tormentor,--what!--thou it brand my name? +"Do, do--in vain--he'll not believe my shame-- +"He thinks me true, that naught beneath God's sky +"Could tempt or change me, and--so once thought I. +"But this is past--tho' worse than death my lot, +"Than hell--'tis nothing while _he_ knows it not. +"Far off to some benighted land I'll fly, +"Where sunbeam ne'er shall enter till I die; +"Where none will ask the lost one whence she came, +"But I may fade and fall without a name. +"And thou--curst man or fiend, whate'er thou art, +"Who found'st this burning plague-spot in my heart, +"And spread'st it--oh, so quick!--thro' soul and frame, +"With more than demon's art, till I became +"A loathsome thing, all pestilence, all flame!-- +"If, when I'm gone"--"Hold, fearless maniac, hold, +"Nor tempt my rage--by Heaven, not half so bold +"The puny bird that dares with teasing hum +"Within the crocodile's stretched jaws to come![52] +"And so thou'lt fly, forsooth?--what!--give up all +"Thy chaste dominion in the Haram Hall, +"Where now to Love and now to ALLA given, +"Half mistress and half saint, thou hang'st as even +"As doth MEDINA'S tomb, 'twixt hell and heaven! +"Thou'lt fly?--as easily may reptiles run, +"The gaunt snake once hath fixt his eyes upon; +"As easily, when caught, the prey may be +"Pluckt from his loving folds, as thou from me. +"No, no, 'tis fixt--let good or ill betide, +"Thou'rt mine till death, till death MOKANNA'S bride! +"Hast thou forgot thy oath?"-- + At this dread word, +The Maid whose spirit his rude taunts had stirred +Thro' all its depths and roused an anger there, +That burst and lightened even thro' her despair-- +Shrunk back as if a blight were in the breath +That spoke that word and staggered pale as death. + + "Yes, my sworn bride, let others seek in bowers +"Their bridal place--the charnel vault was ours! +"Instead of scents and balms, for thee and me +"Rose the rich steams of sweet mortality, +"Gay, flickering death-lights shone while we were wed. +"And for our guests a row of goodly Dead, +"(Immortal spirits in their time, no doubt,) +"From reeking shrouds upon the rite looked out! +"That oath thou heard'st more lips than thine repeat-- +"That cup--thou shudderest, Lady,--was it sweet? +"That cup we pledged, the charnel's choicest wine, +"Hath bound thee--ay--body and soul all mine; +"Bound thee by chains that, whether blest or curst +"No matter now, not hell itself shall burst! +"Hence, woman, to the Haram, and look gay, +"Look wild, look--anything but sad; yet stay-- +"One moment more--from what this night hath past, +"I see thou know'st me, know'st me _well_ at last. +"Ha! ha! and so, fond thing, thou thought'st all true, +"And that I love mankind?--I do, I do-- +"As victims, love them; as the sea-dog dotes +"Upon the small, sweet fry that round him floats; +"Or, as the Nile-bird loves the slime that gives +"That rank and venomous food on which she lives!-- + + "And, now thou seest my _soul's_ angelic hue, +"'Tis time these _features_ were uncurtained too;-- +"This brow, whose light--oh rare celestial light! +"Hath been reserved to bless thy favored sight; +"These dazzling eyes before whose shrouded might +"Thou'st seen immortal Man kneel down and quake-- +"Would that they _were_ heaven's lightnings for his sake! +"But turn and look--then wonder, if thou wilt, +"That I should hate, should take revenge, by guilt, +"Upon the hand whose mischief or whose mirth +"Sent me thus mained and monstrous upon earth; +"And on that race who, tho' more vile they be +"Than moving apes, are demigods to me! +"Here--judge if hell, with all its power to damn, +"Can add one curse to the foul thing I am!"-- +He raised his veil--the Maid turned slowly round, +Looked at him--shrieked--and sunk upon the ground! + + +On their arrival next night at the place of encampment they were surprised +and delighted to find the groves all around illuminated; some artists of +Yamtcheou[53] having been sent on previously for the purpose. On each +side of the green alley, which led to the Royal Pavilion, artificial +sceneries of bamboo-work were erected, representing arches, minarets, +towers, from which hung thousands of silken lanterns painted by the most +delicate pencils of Canton.--Nothing could be more beautiful than the +leaves of the mango-trees and acacias shining in the light of the +bamboo-scenery which shed a lustre round as soft as that of the nights of +Peristan. + +LALLA ROOKH, however, who was too much occupied by the sad story of ZELICA +and her lover to give a thought to anything else, except perhaps him who +related it, hurried on through this scene of splendor to her +pavilion,--greatly to the mortification of the poor artists of +Yamtcheou,--and was followed with equal rapidity by the Great Chamberlain, +cursing, as he went, that ancient Mandarin, whose parental anxiety in +lighting up the shores of the lake, where his beloved daughter had +wandered and been lost, was the origin of these fantastic Chinese +illuminations.[54] + +Without a moment's delay, young FERAMORZ was introduced, and FADLADEEN, +who could never make up his mind as to the merits of a poet till he knew +the religious sect to which he belonged, was about to ask him whether he +was a Shia or a Sooni when LALLA KOOKH impatiently clapped her hands for +silence, and the youth being seated upon the musnud near her proceeded:-- + + +Prepare thy soul, young AZIM!--thou hast braved +The bands of GREECE, still mighty tho' enslaved; +Hast faced her phalanx armed with all its fame,-- +Her Macedonian pikes and globes of fame, +All this hast fronted with firm heart and brow, +But a more perilous trial waits thee now,-- +Woman's bright eyes, a dazzling host of eyes +From every land where woman smiles or sighs; +Of every hue, as Love may chance to raise +His black or azure banner in their blaze; +And each sweet mode of warfare, from the flash +That lightens boldly thro' the shadowy lash, +To the sly, stealing splendors almost hid +Like swords half-sheathed beneath the downcast lid;-- +Such, AZIM, is the lovely, luminous host +Now led against thee; and let conquerors boast +Their fields of fame, he who in virtue arms +A young, warm spirit against beauty's charms, +Who feels her brightness, yet defies her thrall, +Is the best, bravest conqueror of them all. + + Now, thro' the Haram chambers, moving lights +And busy shapes proclaim the toilet's rites;-- +From room to room the ready handmaids hie, +Some skilled to wreath the turban tastefully, +Or hang the veil in negligence of shade +O'er the warm blushes of the youthful maid, +Who, if between the folds but one eye shone, +Like SEBA'S Queen could vanquish with that one:[55]-- + +While some bring leaves of Henna to imbue +The fingers' ends with a bright roseate hue,[56] +So bright that in the mirror's depth they seem +Like tips of coral branches in the stream: +And others mix the Kohol's jetty dye, +To give that long, dark languish to the eye,[57] +Which makes the maids whom kings are proud to call +From fair Circassia's vales, so beautiful. +All is in motion; rings and plumes and pearls +Are shining everywhere:--some younger girls +Are gone by moonlight to the garden-beds, +To gather fresh, cool chaplets for their heads;-- +Gay creatures! sweet, tho' mournful, 'tis to see +How each prefers a garland from that tree +Which brings to mind her childhood's innocent day +And the dear fields and friendships far away. +The maid of INDIA, blest again to hold +In her full lap the Champac's leaves of gold,[58] +Thinks of the time when, by the GANGES' flood, +Her little playmates scattered many a bud +Upon her long black hair with glossy gleam +Just dripping from the consecrated stream; +While the young Arab haunted by the smell +Of her own mountain flowers as by a spell,-- +The sweet Alcaya[59] and that courteous tree +Which bows to all who seek its canopy,[60] +Sees called up round her by these magic scents +The well, the camels, and her father's tents; +Sighs for the home she left with little pain, +And wishes even its sorrow back again! + + Meanwhile thro' vast illuminated halls, +Silent and bright, where nothing but the falls +Of fragrant waters gushing with cool sound +From many a jasper fount is heard around, +Young AZIM roams bewildered,--nor can guess +What means this maze of light and loneliness. +Here the way leads o'er tesselated floors +Or mats of CAIRO thro' long corridors, +Where ranged in cassolets and silver urns +Sweet wood of aloe or of sandal burns, +And spicy rods such as illume at night +The bowers of TIBET[61] send forth odorous light, +Like Peris' wands, when pointing out the road +For some pure Spirit to its blest abode:-- +And here at once the glittering saloon +Bursts on his sight, boundless and bright as noon; +Where in the midst reflecting back the rays +In broken rainbows a fresh fountain plays +High as the enamelled cupola which towers +All rich with Arabesques of gold and flowers: +And the mosaic floor beneath shines thro' +The sprinkling of that fountain's silvery dew, +Like the wet, glistening shells of every dye +That on the margin of the Red Sea lie. + + Here too he traces the kind visitings +Of woman's love in those fair, living things +Of land and wave, whose fate--in bondage thrown +For their weak loveliness--is like her own! +On one side gleaming with a sudden grace +Thro' water brilliant as the crystal vase +In which it undulates, small fishes shine +Like golden ingots from a fairy mine;-- +While, on the other, latticed lightly in +With odoriferous woods of COMORIN, +Each brilliant bird that wings the air is seen;-- +Gay, sparkling loories such as gleam between +The crimson blossoms of the coral-tree[62] +In the warm isles of India's sunny sea: +Mecca's blue sacred pigeon,[63] and the thrush +Of Hindostan[64] whose holy warblings gush +At evening from the tall pagoda's top;-- +Those golden birds that in the spice time drop +About the gardens, drunk with that sweet food[65] +Whose scent hath lured them o'er the summer flood;[66] +And those that under Araby's soft sun +Build their high nests of budding cinnamon;[67] +In short, all rare and beauteous things that fly +Thro' the pure element here calmly lie +Sleeping in light, like the green birds[68] that dwell +In Eden's radiant fields of asphodel! + + So on, thro' scenes past all imagining, +More like the luxuries of that impious King,[69] +Whom Death's dark Angel with his lightning torch +Struck down and blasted even in Pleasure's porch, +Than the pure dwelling of a Prophet sent +Armed with Heaven's sword for man's enfranchisement-- +Young AZIM wandered, looking sternly round, +His simple garb and war-boots clanking sound +But ill according with the pomp and grace +And silent lull of that voluptuous place. + + "Is this, then," thought the youth, "is this the way +"To free man's spirit from the deadening sway +"Of worldly sloth,--to teach him while he lives +"To know no bliss but that which virtue gives, +"And when he dies to leave his lofty name +"A light, a landmark on the cliffs of fame? +"It was not so, Land of the generous thought +"And daring deed, thy god-like sages taught; +"It was not thus in bowers of wanton ease +"Thy Freedom nurst her sacred energies; +"Oh! not beneath the enfeebling, withering glow +"Of such dull luxury did those myrtles grow +"With which she wreathed her sword when she would dare +"Immortal deeds; but in the bracing air +"Of toil,--of temperance,--of that high, rare, +"Ethereal virtue, which alone can breathe +"Life, health, and lustre into Freedom's wreath. +"Who that surveys this span of earth we press.-- +"This speck of life in time's great wilderness, +"This narrow isthmus 'twixt two boundless seas, +"The past, the future, two eternities!-- +"Would sully the bright spot, or leave it bare, +"When he might build him a proud temple there, +"A name that long shall hallow all its space, +"And be each purer soul's high resting-place. +"But no--it cannot be, that one whom God +"Has sent to break the wizard Falsehood's rod,-- +"A Prophet of the Truth, whose mission draws +"Its rights from Heaven, should thus profane its cause +"With the world's vulgar pomps;--no, no,--I see-- +"He thinks me weak--this glare of luxury +"Is but to tempt, to try the eaglet gaze +"Of my young soul--shine on, 'twill stand the blaze!" + + So thought the youth;--but even while he defied +This witching scene he felt its witchery glide +Thro' every sense. The perfume breathing round, +Like a pervading spirit;--the still sound +Of falling waters, lulling as the song +Of Indian bees at sunset when they throng +Around the fragrant NILICA, and deep +In its blue blossoms hum themselves to sleep;[70] +And music, too--dear music! that can touch +Beyond all else the soul that loves it much-- +Now heard far off, so far as but to seem +Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream; +All was too much for him, too full of bliss, +The heart could nothing feel, that felt not this; +Softened he sunk upon a couch and gave +His soul up to sweet thoughts like wave on wave +Succeeding in smooth seas when storms are laid; +He thought of ZELICA, his own dear maid, +And of the time when full of blissful sighs +They sat and lookt into each other's eyes, +Silent and happy--as if God had given +Naught else worth looking at on this side heaven. + + "Oh, my loved mistress, thou whose spirit still +"Is with me, round me, wander where I will-- +"It is for thee, for thee alone I seek +"The paths of glory; to light up thy cheek +"With warm approval--in that gentle look +"To read my praise as in an angel's book, +"And think all toils rewarded when from thee +"I gain a smile worth immortality! +"How shall I bear the moment, when restored +"To that young heart where I alone am Lord. +"Tho' of such bliss unworthy,--since the best +"Alone deserve to be the happiest:-- +"When from those lips unbreathed upon for years +"I shall again kiss off the soul-felt tears, +"And find those tears warm as when last they started, +"Those sacred kisses pure as when we parted. +"O my own life!--why should a single day, +"A moment keep me from those arms away?" + +While thus he thinks, still nearer on the breeze +Come those delicious, dream-like harmonies, +Each note of which but adds new, downy links +To the soft chain in which his spirit sinks. +He turns him toward the sound, and far away +Thro' a long vista sparkling with the play +Of countless lamps,--like the rich track which Day +Leaves on the waters, when he sinks from us, +So long the path, its light so tremulous;-- +He sees a group of female forms advance, +Some chained together in the mazy dance +By fetters forged in the green sunny bowers, +As they were captives to the King of Flowers;[71] +And some disporting round, unlinkt and free, +Who seemed to mock their sisters' slavery; +And round and round them still in wheeling flight +Went like gay moths about a lamp at night; +While others waked, as gracefully along +Their feet kept time, the very soul of song +From psaltery, pipe, and lutes of heavenly thrill, +Or their own youthful voices heavenlier still. +And now they come, now pass before his eye, +Forms such as Nature moulds when she would vie +With Fancy's pencil and give birth to things +Lovely beyond its fairest picturings. +Awhile they dance before him, then divide, +Breaking like rosy clouds at eventide +Around the rich pavilion of the sun,-- +Till silently dispersing, one by one, +Thro' many a path that from the chamber leads +To gardens, terraces and moonlight meads, +Their distant laughter comes upon the wind, +And but one trembling nymph remains behind,-- +Beckoning them back in vain--for they are gone +And she is left in all that light alone; +No veil to curtain o'er her beauteous brow, +In its young bashfulness more beauteous now; +But a light golden chain-work round her hair,[72] +Such as the maids of YEZD and SHIRAS wear,[73] +From which on either side gracefully hung +A golden amulet in the Arab tongue, +Engraven o'er with some immortal line +From Holy Writ or bard scarce less divine; +While her left hand, as shrinkingly she stood, +Held a small lute of gold and sandal-wood, +Which once or twice she touched with hurried strain, +Then took her trembling fingers off again. +But when at length a timid glance she stole +At AZIM, the sweet gravity of soul +She saw thro' all his features calmed her fear, +And like a half-tamed antelope more near, +Tho' shrinking still, she came;--then sat her down +Upon a musnud's[74] edge, and, bolder grown. +In the pathetic mode of ISFAHAN[75] +Touched a preluding strain and thus began:-- + +There's a bower of roses by BENDEMEER's[76] stream, + And the nightingale sings round it all the day long; +In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet dream, + To sit in the roses and hear the bird's song. + +That bower and its music, I never forget, + But oft when alone in the bloom of the year +I think--is the nightingale singing there yet? + Are the roses still bright by the calm BENDEMEER? + +No, the roses soon withered that hung o'er the wave, + But some blossoms were gathered while freshly they shone. +And a dew was distilled from their flowers that gave + All the fragrance of summer when summer was gone. + +Thus memory draws from delight ere it dies + An essence that breathes of it many a year; +Thus bright to my soul, as 'twas then to my eyes, + Is that bower on the banks of the calm BENDEMEER! + + "Poor maiden!" thought the youth, "if thou wert sent +"With thy soft lute and beauty's blandishment +"To wake unholy wishes in this heart, +"Or tempt its truth, thou little know'st the art. +"For tho' thy lips should sweetly counsel wrong, +"Those vestal eyes would disavow its song. +"But thou hast breathed such purity, thy lay +"Returns so fondly to youth's virtuous day, +"And leads thy soul--if e'er it wandered thence-- +"So gently back to its first innocence, +"That I would sooner stop the unchained dove, +"When swift returning to its home of love, +"And round its snowy wing new fetters twine. +"Than turn from virtue one pure wish of thine!" + + Scarce had this feeling past, when sparkling thro' +The gently open'd curtains of light blue +That veiled the breezy casement, countless eyes +Peeping like stars thro' the blue evening skies, +Looked laughing in as if to mock the pair +That sat so still and melancholy there:-- +And now the curtains fly apart and in +From the cool air mid showers of jessamine +Which those without fling after them in play, +Two lightsome maidens spring,--lightsome as they +Who live in the air on odors,--and around +The bright saloon, scarce conscious of the ground, +Chase one another in a varying dance +Of mirth and languor, coyness and advance, +Too eloquently like love's warm pursuit:-- +While she who sung so gently to the lute +Her dream of home steals timidly away, +Shrinking as violets do in summer's ray,-- +But takes with her from AZIM'S heart that sigh +We sometimes give to forms that pass us by +In the world's crowd, too lovely to remain, +Creatures of light we never see again! + + Around the white necks of the nymphs who danced +Hung carcanets of orient gems that glanced +More brilliant than the sea-glass glittering o'er +The hills of crystal on the Caspian shore;[77] +While from their long, dark tresses, in a fall +Of curls descending, bells as musical +As those that on the golden-shafted trees +Of EDEN shake in the eternal breeze,[78] +Rung round their steps, at every bound more sweet. +As 'twere the ecstatic language of their feet. +At length the chase was o'er, and they stood wreathed +Within each other's arms; while soft there breathed +Thro' the cool casement, mingled with the sighs +Of moonlight flowers, music that seemed to rise +From some still lake, so liquidly it rose; +And as it swelled again at each faint close +The ear could track thro' all that maze of chords +And young sweet voices these impassioned words:-- + +A SPIRIT there is whose fragrant sigh + Is burning now thro' earth and air; +Where cheeks are blushing the Spirit is nigh, + Where lips are meeting the Spirit is there! + +His breath is the soul of flowers like these, + And his floating eyes--oh! they resemble[79] +Blue water-lilies,[80] when the breeze + Is making the stream around them tremble. + +Hail to thee, hail to thee, kindling power! + Spirit of Love, Spirit of Bliss! +Thy holiest time is the moonlight hour, + And there never was moonlight so sweet as this. + +By the fair and brave + Who blushing unite, +Like the sun and wave, + When they meet at night; + +By the tear that shows + When passion is nigh, +As the rain-drop flows + From the heat of the sky; + +By the first love-beat + Of the youthful heart, +By the bliss to meet, + And the pain to part; + +By all that thou hast + To mortals given, +Which--oh, could it last, + This earth were heaven! + +We call thee thither, entrancing Power! + Spirit of Love! Spirit of Bliss! +Thy holiest time is the moonlight hour, + And there never was moonlight so sweet as this. + +Impatient of a scene whose luxuries stole, +Spite of himself, too deep into his soul, +And where, midst all that the young heart loves most, +Flowers, music, smiles, to yield was to be lost, +The youth had started up and turned away +From the light nymphs and their luxurious lay +To muse upon the pictures that hung round,--[81] +Bright images, that spoke without a sound, +And views like vistas into fairy ground. +But here again new spells came o'er his sense:-- +All that the pencil's mute omnipotence +Could call up into life, of soft and fair, +Of fond and passionate, was glowing there; +Nor yet too warm, but touched with that fine art +Which paints of pleasure but the purer part; +Which knows even Beauty when half-veiled is best,-- +Like her own radiant planet of the west, +Whose orb when half retired looks loveliest.[82] +_There_ hung the history of the Genii-King, +Traced thro' each gay, voluptuous wandering +With her from SABA'S bowers, in whose bright eyes +He read that to be blest is to be wise;-- +_Here_ fond ZULEIKA woos with open arms[83] +The Hebrew boy who flies from her young charms, +Yet flying turns to gaze and half undone +Wishes that Heaven and she could _both_ be won; +And here MOHAMMED born for love and guile +Forgets the Koran in his MARY'S smile;-- +Then beckons some kind angel from above +With a new text to consecrate their love.[84] + +With rapid step, yet pleased and lingering eye, +Did the youth pass these pictured stories by, +And hastened to a casement where the light +Of the calm moon came in and freshly bright +The fields without were seen sleeping as still +As if no life remained in breeze or rill. +Here paused he while the music now less near +Breathed with a holier language on his ear, +As tho' the distance and that heavenly ray +Thro' which the sounds came floating took away +All that had been too earthly in the lay. + +Oh! could he listen to such sounds unmoved, +And by that light--nor dream of her he loved? +Dream on, unconscious boy! while yet thou may'st; +'Tis the last bliss thy soul shall ever taste. +Clasp yet awhile her image to thy heart, +Ere all the light that made it dear depart. +Think of her smiles as when thou saw'st them last, +Clear, beautiful, by naught of earth o'ercast; +Recall her tears to thee at parting given, +Pure as they weep, _if_ angels weep in Heaven. +Think in her own still bower she waits thee now +With the same glow of heart and bloom of brow, +Yet shrined in solitude--thine all, thine only, +Like the one star above thee, bright and lonely. +Oh! that a dream so sweet, so long enjoyed, +Should be so sadly, cruelly destroyed! + +The song is husht, the laughing nymphs are flown, +And he is left musing of bliss alone;-- +Alone?--no, not alone--that heavy sigh, +That sob of grief which broke from some one nigh-- +Whose could it be?--alas! is misery found +Here, even here, on this enchanted ground? +He turns and sees a female form close veiled, +Leaning, as if both heart and strength had failed, +Against a pillar near;--not glittering o'er +With gems and wreaths such as the others wore, +But in that deep-blue, melancholy dress.[85] +BOKHARA'S maidens wear in mindfulness +Of friends or kindred, dead or far away;-- +And such as ZELICA had on that day +He left her--when with heart too full to speak +He took away her last warm tears upon his cheek. + +A strange emotion stirs within him,--more +Than mere compassion ever waked before; +Unconsciously he opes his arms while she +Springs forward as with life's last energy, +But, swooning in that one convulsive bound, +Sinks ere she reach his arms upon the ground;-- +Her veil falls off--her faint hands clasp his knees-- +'Tis she herself!--it is ZELICA he sees! +But, ah, so pale, so changed--none but a lover +Could in that wreck of beauty's shrine discover +The once adorned divinity--even he +Stood for some moments mute, and doubtingly +Put back the ringlets from her brow, and gazed +Upon those lids where once such lustre blazed, +Ere he could think she was _indeed_ his own, +Own darling maid whom he so long had known +In joy and sorrow, beautiful in both; +Who, even when grief was heaviest--when loath +He left her for the wars--in that worst hour +Sat in her sorrow like the sweet night-flower,[86] +When darkness brings its weeping glories out, +And spreads its sighs like frankincense about. + + "Look up, my ZELICA--one moment show +"Those gentle eyes to me that I may know +"Thy life, thy loveliness is not all gone, +"But _there_ at least shines as it ever shone. +"Come, look upon thy AZIM--one dear glance, +"Like those of old, were heaven! whatever chance +"Hath brought thee here, oh, 'twas a blessed one! +"There--my loved lips--they move--that kiss hath run +"Like the first shoot of life thro' every vein, +"And now I clasp her, mine, all mine again. +"Oh the delight--now, in this very hour, +"When had the whole rich world been in my power, +"I should have singled out thee only thee, +"From the whole world's collected treasury-- +"To have thee here--to hang thus fondly o'er +"My own, best, purest ZELICA once more!" + + It was indeed the touch of those fond lips +Upon her eyes that chased their short eclipse. +And gradual as the snow at Heaven's breath +Melts off and shows the azure flowers beneath, +Her lids unclosed and the bright eyes were seen +Gazing on his--not, as they late had been, +Quick, restless, wild, but mournfully serene; +As if to lie even for that tranced minute +So near his heart had consolation in it; +And thus to wake in his beloved caress +Took from her soul one half its wretchedness. +But, when she heard him call her good and pure, +Oh! 'twas too much--too dreadful to endure! +Shuddering she broke away from his embrace. +And hiding with both hands her guilty face +Said in a tone whose anguish would have riven +A heart of very marble, "Pure!--oh Heaven!"-- + + That tone--those looks so changed--the withering blight, +That sin and sorrow leave where'er they light: +The dead despondency of those sunk eyes, +Where once, had he thus met her by surprise, +He would have seen himself, too happy boy, +Reflected in a thousand lights of joy: +And then the place,--that bright, unholy place, +Where vice lay hid beneath each winning grace +And charm of luxury as the viper weaves +Its wily covering of sweet balsam leaves,[87]-- +All struck upon his heart, sudden and cold +As death itself;--it needs not to be told-- +No, no--he sees it all plain as the brand +Of burning shame can mark--whate'er the hand, +That could from Heaven and him such brightness sever, +'Tis done--to Heaven and him she's lost for ever! +It was a dreadful moment; not the tears, +The lingering, lasting misery of years +Could match that minute's anguish--all the worst +Of sorrow's elements in that dark burst +Broke o'er his soul and with one crash of fate +Laid the whole hopes of his life desolate. + + "Oh! curse me not," she cried, as wild he tost +His desperate hand towards Heav'n--"tho' I am lost, +"Think not that guilt, that falsehood made me fall, +"No, no--'twas grief, 'twas madness did it all! +"Nay, doubt me not--tho' all thy love hath ceased-- +"I know it hath--yet, yet believe, at least, +"That every spark of reason's light must be +"Quenched in this brain ere I could stray from thee. +"They told me thou wert dead--why, AZIM, why +"Did we not, both of us, that instant die +"When we were parted? oh! couldst thou but know +"With what a deep devotedness of woe +"I wept thy absence--o'er and o'er again +"Thinking of thee, still thee, till thought grew pain, +"And memory like a drop that night and day +"Falls cold and ceaseless wore my heart away. +"Didst thou but know how pale I sat at home, +"My eyes still turned the way thou wert to come, +"And, all the long, long night of hope and fear, +"Thy voice and step still sounding in my ear-- +"Oh God! thou wouldst not wonder that at last, +"When every hope was all at once o'ercast, +"When I heard frightful voices round me say +"_Azim is dead_!--this wretched brain gave way, +"And I became a wreck, at random driven, +"Without one glimpse of reason or of Heaven-- +"All wild--and even this quenchless love within +"Turned to foul fires to light me into sin!-- +"Thou pitiest me--I knew thou wouldst--that sky +"Hath naught beneath it half so lorn as I. +"The fiend, who lured me hither--hist! come near. +"Or thou too, _thou_ art lost, if he should hear-- +"Told me such things--oh! with such devilish art. +"As would have ruined even a holier heart-- +"Of thee, and of that ever-radiant sphere, +"Where blest at length, if I but served him here, +"I should for ever live in thy dear sight. +"And drink from those pure eyes eternal light. +"Think, think how lost, how maddened I must be, +"To hope that guilt could lead to God or thee! +"Thou weep'st for me--do weep--oh, that I durst +"Kiss off that tear! but, no--these lips are curst, +"They must not touch thee;--one divine caress, +"One blessed moment of forgetfulness +"I've had within those arms and _that_ shall lie +"Shrined in my soul's deep memory till I die; +"The last of joy's last relics here below, +"The one sweet drop, in all this waste of woe, +"My heart has treasured from affection's spring, +"To soothe and cool its deadly withering! +"But thou--yes, thou must go--for ever go; +"This place is not for thee--for thee! oh no, +"Did I but tell thee half, thy tortured brain +"Would burn like mine, and mine go wild again! +"Enough that Guilt reigns here--that hearts once good +"Now tainted, chilled and broken are his food.-- +"Enough that we are parted--that there rolls +"A flood of headlong fate between our souls, +"Whose darkness severs me as wide from thee +"As hell from heaven to all eternity!" + + "ZELICA, ZELICA!" the youth exclaimed. +In all the tortures of a mind inflamed +Almost to madness--"by that sacred Heaven, +"Where yet, if prayers can move, thou'lt be forgiven, +"As thou art here--here, in this writhing heart, +"All sinful, wild, and ruined as thou art! +"By the remembrance of our once pure love, +"Which like a church-yard light still burns above +"The grave of our lost souls--which guilt in thee +"Cannot extinguish nor despair in me! +"I do conjure, implore thee to fly hence-- +"If thou hast yet one spark of innocence, +"Fly with me from this place"-- + "With thee! oh bliss! +"'Tis worth whole years of torment to hear this. +"What! take the lost one with thee?--let her rove +"By thy dear side, as in those days of love, +"When we were both so happy, both so pure-- +"Too heavenly dream! if there's on earth a cure +"For the sunk heart, 'tis this--day after day +"To be the blest companion of thy way; +"To hear thy angel eloquence--to see +"Those virtuous eyes for ever turned on me; +"And in their light re-chastened silently, +"Like the stained web that whitens in the sun, +"Grow pure by being purely shone upon! +"And thou wilt pray for me--I know thou wilt-- +"At the dim vesper hour when thoughts of guilt +"Come heaviest o'er the heart thou'lt lift thine eyes +"Full of sweet tears unto the darkening skies +"And plead for me with Heaven till I can dare +"To fix my own weak, sinful glances there; +"Till the good angels when they see me cling +"For ever near thee, pale and sorrowing, +"Shall for thy sake pronounce my soul forgiven, +"And bid thee take thy weeping slave to Heaven! +"Oh yes, I'll fly with thee"-- + Scarce had she said +These breathless words when a voice deep and dread +As that of MONKER waking up the dead +From their first sleep--so startling 'twas to both-- +Rang thro' the casement near, "Thy oath! thy oath!" +Oh Heaven, the ghastliness of that Maid's look!-- +"'Tis he," faintly she cried, while terror shook +Her inmost core, nor durst she lift her eyes, +Tho' thro' the casement, now naught but the skies +And moonlight fields were seen, calm as before-- +"'Tis he, and I am his--all, all is o'er-- +"Go--fly this instant, or thou'rt ruin'd too-- +"My oath, my oath, oh God! 'tis all too true, +"True as the worm in this cold heart it is-- +"I am MOKANNA'S bride--his, AZIM, his-- +"The Dead stood round us while I spoke that vow, +"Their blue lips echoed it--I hear them now! +"Their eyes glared on me, while I pledged that bowl, +"'Twas burning blood--I feel it in my soul! +"And the Veiled Bridegroom--hist! I've seen to-night +"What angels know not of--so foul a sight. +"So horrible--oh! never may'st thou see +"What _there_ lies hid from all but hell and me! +"But I must hence--off, off--I am not thine, +"Nor Heaven's, nor Love's, nor aught that is divine-- +"Hold me not--ha! think'st thou the fiends that sever +"Hearts cannot sunder hands?--thus, then--for ever!" + +With all that strength which madness lends the weak +She flung away his arm; and with a shriek +Whose sound tho' be should linger out more years +Than wretch e'er told can never leave his ears-- +Flew up thro' that long avenue of light, +Fleetly as some dark, ominous bird of night, +Across the sun; and soon was out of sight! + + +LALLA ROOKH could think of nothing all day but the misery of those two +young lovers. Her gayety was gone, and she looked pensively even upon +FADLAPEEN. She felt, too, without knowing why, a sort of uneasy pleasure +in imagining that AZIM must have been just such a youth as FERAMORZ; just +as worthy to enjoy all the blessings, without any of the pangs, of that +illusive passion, which too often like the sunny apples of Istkahar[88] +is all sweetness on one side and all bitterness on the other. + +As they passed along a sequestered river after sunset they saw a young +Hindoo girl upon the bank, whose employment seemed to them so strange that +they stopped their palankeens to observe her. She had lighted a small lamp +filled with oil of cocoa, and placing it in an earthen dish adorned with a +wreath of flowers, had committed it with a trembling hand to the stream; +and was now anxiously watching its progress down the current, heedless of +the gay cavalcade which had drawn up beside her. LALLA ROOKH was all +curiosity;--when one of her attendants, who had lived upon the banks of +the Ganges, (where this ceremony is so frequent that often in the dusk of +the evening the river is seen glittering all over with lights, like the +Oton-tala or Sea of Stars,)[89] informed the princess that it was the +usual way in which the friends of those who had gone on dangerous voyages +offered up vows for their safe return. If the lamp sunk immediately the +omen was disastrous; but if it went shining down the stream and continued +to burn till entirely out of sight, the return of the beloved object was +considered as certain. + +LALLA ROOKH as they moved on more than once looked back to observe how the +young Hindoo's lamp proceeded; and while she saw with pleasure that it was +still unextinguished she could not help fearing that all the hopes of this +life were no better than that feeble light upon the river. The remainder +of the journey was passed in silence. She now for the first time felt that +shade of melancholy which comes over the youthful maiden's heart as sweet +and transient as her own breath upon a mirror; nor was it till she heard +the lute of FERAMOKZ, touched lightly at the door of her pavilion that she +waked from the revery in which she had been wandering. Instantly her eyes +were lighted up with pleasure; and after a few unheard remarks from +FADLADEEN upon the indecorum of a poet seating himself in presence of a +Princess everything was arranged as on the preceding evening and all +listened with eagerness while the story was thus continued:-- + + +Whose are the gilded tents that crowd the way, +Where all was waste and silent yesterday? +This City of War which, in a few short hours, +Hath sprung up here, as if the magic powers[90] +Of Him who, in the twinkling of a star, +Built the high pillared halls of CHILMINAR,[91] +Had conjur'd up, far as the eye can see, +This world of tents and domes and sunbright armory:-- +Princely pavilions screened by many a fold +Of crimson cloth and topt with balls of gold:-- +Steeds with their housings of rich silver spun, +Their chains and poitrels glittering in the sun; +And camels tufted o'er with Yemen's shells[92] +Shaking in every breeze their light-toned bells! + +But yester-eve, so motionless around, +So mute was this wide plain that not a sound +But the far torrent or the locust bird[93] +Hunting among thickets could be heard;-- +Yet hark! what discords now of every kind, +Shouts, laughs, and screams are revelling in the wind; +The neigh of cavalry;--the tinkling throngs +Of laden camels and their drivers' songs;-- +Ringing of arms, and flapping in the breeze +Of streamers from ten thousand canopies;--[94] +War-music bursting out from time to time +With gong and tymbalon's tremendous chime;-- +Or in the pause when harsher sounds are mute, +The mellow breathings of some horn or flute, +That far off, broken by the eagle note +Of the Abyssinian trumpet, swell and float.[95] + +Who leads this mighty army?--ask ye "who?" +And mark ye not those banners of dark hue, +The Night and Shadow, over yonder tent?--[96] +It is the CALIPH'S glorious armament. +Roused in his Palace by the dread alarms, +That hourly came, of the false Prophet's arms, +And of his host of infidels who hurled +Defiance fierce at Islam and the world,[97] +Tho' worn with Grecian warfare, and behind +The veils of his bright Palace calm reclined, +Yet brooked he not such blasphemy should stain, +Thus unrevenged, the evening of his reign; +But having sworn upon the Holy Grave[98] +To conquer or to perish, once more gave +His shadowy banners proudly to the breeze, +And with an army nurst in victories, +Here stands to crush the rebels that o'errun +His blest and beauteous Province of the Sun. + +Ne'er did the march of MAHADI display +Such pomp before;--not even when on his way +To MECCA'S Temple, when both land and sea +Were spoiled to feed the Pilgrim's luxury;[99] +When round him mid the burning sands he saw +Fruits of the North in icy freshness thaw, +And cooled his thirsty lip beneath the glow +Of MECCA'S sun with urns of Persian snow:-- +Nor e'er did armament more grand than that +Pour from the kingdoms of the Caliphat. +First, in the van, the People of the Rock[100] +On their light mountain steeds of royal stock:[101] +Then chieftains of DAMASCUS proud to see +The flashing of their swords' rich marquetry;--[102] +Men from the regions near the VOLGA'S mouth +Mixt with the rude, black archers of the South; +And Indian lancers in white-turbaned ranks +From the far SINDE or ATTOCK'S sacred banks, +With dusky legions from the Land of Myrrh,[103] +And many a mace-armed Moor and Midsea islander. + +Nor less in number tho' more new and rude +In warfare's school was the vast multitude +That, fired by zeal or by oppression wronged, +Round the white standard of the impostor thronged. +Beside his thousands of Believers--blind, +Burning and headlong as the Samiel wind-- +Many who felt and more who feared to feel +The bloody Islamite's converting steel, +Flockt to his banner;--Chiefs of the UZBEK race, +Waving their heron crests with martial grace;[104] +TURKOMANS, countless as their flocks, led forth +From the aromatic pastures of the North; +Wild warriors of the turquoise hills,--and those[105] +Who dwell beyond the everlasting snows +Of HINDOO KOSH, in stormy freedom bred, +Their fort the rock, their camp the torrent's bed. +But none of all who owned the Chief's command +Rushed to that battle-field with bolder hand +Or sterner hate than IRAN'S outlawed men, +Her Worshippers of Fire--all panting then[106] +For vengeance on the accursed Saracen; +Vengeance at last for their dear country spurned, +Her throne usurpt, and her bright shrines o'erturned. + +From YEZD'S eternal Mansion of the Fire[107] +Where aged saints in dreams of Heaven expire: +From BADKU and those fountains of blue flame +That burn into the CASPIAN, fierce they came,[108] +Careless for what or whom the blow was sped, +So vengeance triumpht and their tyrants bled. + +Such was the wild and miscellaneous host +That high in air their motley banners tost +Around the Prophet-Chief--all eyes still bent +Upon that glittering Veil, where'er it went, +That beacon thro' the battle's stormy flood, +That rainbow of the field whose showers were blood! + +Twice hath the sun upon their conflict set +And risen again and found them grappling yet; +While streams of carnage in his noontide blaze, +Smoke up to Heaven--hot as that crimson haze +By which the prostrate Caravan is awed[109] +In the red Desert when the wind's abroad. +"Oh, Swords of God!" the panting CALIPH calls,-- +"Thrones for the living--Heaven for him who falls!"-- +"On, brave avengers, on," MOKANNA cries, +"And EBLIS blast the recreant slave that flies!" +Now comes the brunt, the crisis of the day-- +They clash--they strive--the CALIPH'S troops give way! +MOKANNA'S self plucks the black Banner down, +And now the Orient World's Imperial crown +Is just within his grasp--when, hark, that shout! +Some hand hath checkt the flying Moslem's rout; +And now they turn, they rally--at their head +A warrior, (like those angel youths who led, +In glorious panoply of Heaven's own mail, +The Champions of the Faith thro BEDER'S vale,)[110] +Bold as if gifted with ten thousand lives, +Turns on the fierce pursuers' blades, and drives +At once the multitudinous torrent back-- +While hope and courage kindle in his track; +And at each step his bloody falchion makes +Terrible vistas thro' which victory breaks! +In vain MOKANNA, midst the general flight, +Stands like the red moon on some stormy night +Among the fugitive clouds that hurrying by +Leave only her unshaken in the sky-- +In vain he yells his desperate curses out, +Deals death promiscuously to all about, +To foes that charge and coward friends that fly, +And seems of _all_ the Great Archenemy. +The panic spreads--"A miracle!" throughout +The Moslem ranks, "a miracle!" they shout, +All gazing on that youth whose coming seems +A light, a glory, such as breaks in dreams; +And every sword, true as o'er billows dim +The needle tracks the lode-star, following him! + +Right towards MOKANNA now he cleaves his path, +Impatient cleaves as tho' the bolt of wrath +He bears from Heaven withheld its awful burst +From weaker heads and souls but half way curst, +To break o'er Him, the mightiest and the worst! +But vain his speed--tho', in that hour of blood, +Had all God's seraphs round MOKANNA stood +With swords o'fire ready like fate to fall, +MOKANNA'S soul would have defied them all; +Yet now, the rush of fugitives, too strong +For human force, hurries even _him_ along; +In vain he struggles mid the wedged array +Of flying thousands--he is borne away; +And the sole joy his baffled spirit knows, +In this forced flight, is--murdering as he goes! +As a grim tiger whom the torrent's might +Surprises in some parched ravine at night, +Turns even in drowning on the wretched flocks +Swept with him in that snow-flood from the rocks, +And, to the last, devouring on his way, +Bloodies the stream lie hath not power to stay. + +"Alla illa Alla!"--the glad shout renew-- +"Alla Akbar"--the Caliph's in MEROU.[111] +Hang out your gilded tapestry in the streets, +And light your shrines and chant your ziraleets.[112] +The swords of God have triumpht--on his throne +Your Caliph sits and the veiled Chief hath flown. +Who does not envy that young warrior now +To whom the Lord of Islam bends his brow, +In all the graceful gratitude of power, +For his throne's safety in that perilous hour? +Who doth not wonder, when, amidst the acclaim +Of thousands heralding to heaven his name-- +Mid all those holier harmonies of fame +Which sound along the path of virtuous souls, +Like music round a planet as it rolls,-- +He turns away--coldly, as if some gloom +Hung o'er his heart no triumphs can illume;-- +Some sightless grief upon whose blasted gaze +Tho' glory's light may play, in vain it plays. +Yes, wretched AZIM! thine is such a grief, +Beyond all hope, all terror, all relief! +A dark, cold calm, which nothing now can break. +Or warm or brighten,--Like that Syrian Lake[113] +Upon whose surface morn and summer shed +Their smiles in vain, for all beneath is dead!-- +Hearts there have been o'er which this weight of woe +Came by long use of suffering, tame and slow; +But thine, lost youth! was sudden--over thee +It broke at once, when all seemed ecstasy; +When Hope lookt up and saw the gloomy Past +Melt into splendor and Bliss dawn at last-- +'Twas then, even then, o'er joys so freshly blown +This mortal blight of misery came down; +Even then, the full, warm gushings of thy heart +Were checkt--like fount-drops, frozen as they start-- +And there like them cold, sunless relics hang, +Each fixt and chilled into a lasting pang. + +One sole desire, one passion now remains +To keep life's fever still within his veins, +Vengeance!--dire vengeance on the wretch who cast +O'er him and all he loved that ruinous blast. +For this, when rumors reached him in his flight +Far, far away, after that fatal night,-- +Rumors of armies thronging to the attack +Of the Veiled Chief,--for this he winged him back, +Fleet as the Vulture speeds to flags unfurled, +And when all hope seemed desperate, wildly hurled +Himself into the scale and saved a world. +For this he still lives on, careless of all +The wreaths that Glory on his path lets fall; +For this alone exists--like lightning-fire, +To speed one bolt of vengeance and expire! + +But safe as yet that Spirit of Evil lives; +With a small band of desperate fugitives, +The last sole stubborn fragment left unriven +Of the proud host that late stood fronting Heaven, +He gained MEROU--breathed a short curse of blood +O'er his lost throne--then past the JIHON'S flood,[114] +And gathering all whose madness of belief +Still saw a Saviour in their down-fallen Chief, +Raised the white banner within NEKSHEB'S gates,[115] +And there, untamed, the approaching conqueror waits. + +Of all his Haram, all that busy hive, +With music and with sweets sparkling alive, +He took but one, the partner of his flight, +One--not for love--not for her beauty's light-- +No, ZELICA stood withering midst the gay. +Wan as the blossom that fell yesterday +From the Alma tree and dies, while overhead +To-day's young flower is springing in its stead.[116] +Oh, not for love--the deepest Damned must be +Touched with Heaven's glory ere such fiends as he +Can feel one glimpse of Love's divinity. +But no, she is his victim; _there_ lie all +Her charms for him-charms that can never pall, +As long as hell within his heart can stir, +Or one faint trace of Heaven is left in her. +To work an angel's ruin,--to behold +As white a page as Virtue e'er unrolled +Blacken beneath his touch into a scroll +Of damning sins, sealed with a burning soul-- +This is his triumph; this the joy accurst, +That ranks him among demons all but first: +This gives the victim that before him lies +Blighted and lost, a glory in his eyes, +A light like that with which hellfire illumes +The ghastly, writhing wretch whom it consumes! + +But other tasks now wait him--tasks that need +All the deep daringness of thought and deed +With which the Divs have gifted him--for mark,[117] +Over yon plains which night had else made dark, +Those lanterns countless as the winged lights +That spangle INDIA'S field on showery nights,--[118] +Far as their formidable gleams they shed, +The mighty tents of the beleaguerer spread, +Glimmering along the horizon's dusky line +And thence in nearer circles till they shine +Among the founts and groves o'er which the town +In all its armed magnificence looks down. +Yet, fearless, from his lofty battlements +MOKANNA views that multitude of tents; +Nay, smiles to think that, tho' entoiled, beset, +Not less than myriads dare to front him yet;-- +That friendless, throneless, he thus stands at bay, +Even thus a match for myriads such as they. +"Oh, for a sweep of that dark Angel's wing, +"Who brushed the thousands of the Assyrian King[119] +"To darkness in a moment that I might +"People Hell's chambers with yon host to-night! +"But come what may, let who will grasp the throne, +"Caliph or Prophet, Man alike shall groan; +"Let who will torture him, Priest--Caliph--King-- +"Alike this loathsome world of his shall ring +"With victims' shrieks and howlings of the slave,-- +"Sounds that shall glad me even within my grave!" +Thus, to himself--but to the scanty train +Still left around him, a far different strain:-- +"Glorious Defenders of the sacred Crown +"I bear from Heaven whose light nor blood shall drown +"Nor shadow of earth eclipse;--before whose gems +"The paly pomp of this world's diadems, +"The crown of GERASHID. the pillared throne +"Of PARVIZ[120] and the heron crest that shone[121] +"Magnificent o'er ALI'S beauteous eyes.[122] +"Fade like the stars when morn is in the skies: +"Warriors, rejoice--the port to which we've past +"O'er Destiny's dark wave beams out at last! +"Victory's our own--'tis written in that Book +"Upon whose leaves none but the angels look, +"That ISLAM'S sceptre shall beneath the power +"Of her great foe fall broken in that hour +"When the moon's mighty orb before all eyes +"From NEKSHEB'S Holy Well portentously shall rise! +"Now turn and see!"--They turned, and, as he spoke, +A sudden splendor all around them broke, +And they beheld an orb, ample and bright, +Rise from the Holy Well and cast its light[123] +Round the rich city and the plain for miles,-- +Flinging such radiance o'er the gilded tiles +Of many a dome and fair-roofed imaret +As autumn suns shed round them when they set. +Instant from all who saw the illusive sign +A murmur broke--"Miraculous! divine!" +The Gheber bowed, thinking his idol star +Had waked, and burst impatient thro' the bar +Of midnight to inflame him to the war; +While he of MOUSSA'S creed saw in that ray +The glorious Light which in his freedom's day +Had rested on the Ark, and now again[124] +Shone out to bless the breaking of his chain. + +"To victory!" is at once the cry of all-- +Nor stands MOKANNA loitering at that call; +But instant the huge gates are flung aside, +And forth like a diminutive mountain-tide +Into the boundless sea they speed their course +Right on into the MOSLEM'S mighty force. +The watchmen of the camp,--who in their rounds +Had paused and even forgot the punctual sounds +Of the small drum with which they count the night,[125] +To gaze upon that supernatural light,-- +Now sink beneath an unexpected arm, +And in a death-groan give their last alarm. +"On for the lamps that light yon lofty screen[126] +"Nor blunt your blades with massacre so mean; +"_There_ rests the CALIPH--speed--one lucky lance +"May now achieve mankind's deliverance." +Desperate the die--such as they only cast +Who venture for a world and stake their last. +But Fate's no longer with him--blade for blade +Springs up to meet them thro' the glimmering shade, +And as the clash is heard new legions soon +Pour to the spot, like bees of KAUZEROON[127] +To the shrill timbrel's summons,--till at length +The mighty camp swarms out in all its strength. +And back to NEKSHEB'S gates covering the plain +With random slaughter drives the adventurous train; +Among the last of whom the Silver Veil +Is seen glittering at times, like the white sail +Of some tost vessel on a stormy night +Catching the tempest's momentary light! + +And hath not this brought the proud spirit low! +Nor dashed his brow nor checkt his daring? No. +Tho' half the wretches whom at night he led +To thrones and victory lie disgraced and dead, +Yet morning hears him with unshrinking crest. +Still vaunt of thrones and victory to the rest;-- +And they believe him!--oh, the lover may +Distrust that look which steals his soul away;-- +The babe may cease to think that it can play +With Heaven's rainbow;--alchymists may doubt +The shining gold their crucible gives out; +But Faith, fanatic Faith, once wedded fast +To some dear falsehood hugs it to the last. + +And well the Impostor knew all lures and arts, +That LUCIFER e'er taught to tangle hearts; +Nor, mid these last bold workings of his plot +Against men's souls, is ZELICA forgot. +Ill-fated ZELICA! had reason been +Awake, thro' half the horrors thou hast seen, +Thou never couldst have borne it--Death had come +At once and taken thy wrung spirit home. +But 'twas not so--a torpor, a suspense +Of thought, almost of life, came o'er the intense +And passionate struggles of that fearful night, +When her last hope of peace and heaven took flight: +And tho' at times a gleam of frenzy broke,-- +As thro' some dull volcano's veil of smoke +Ominous flashings now and then will start, +Which show the fire's still busy at its heart; +Yet was she mostly wrapt in solemn gloom,-- +Not such as AZIM'S, brooding o'er its doom +And calm without as is the brow of death +While busy worms are gnawing underneath-- +But in a blank and pulseless torpor free +From thought or pain, a sealed-up apathy +Which left her oft with scarce one living thrill +The cold, pale victim of her torturer's will. + +Again, as in MEROU, he had her deckt +Gorgeously out, the Priestess of the sect; +And led her glittering forth before the eyes +Of his rude train as to a sacrifice,-- +Pallid as she, the young, devoted Bride +Of the fierce NILE, when, deckt in all the pride +Of nuptial pomp, she sinks into his tide.[128] +And while the wretched maid hung down her head, +And stood as one just risen from the dead +Amid that gazing crowd, the fiend would tell +His credulous slaves it was some charm or spell +Possest her now,--and from that darkened trance +Should dawn ere long their Faith's deliverance. +Or if at times goaded by guilty shame, +Her soul was roused and words of wildness came, +Instant the bold blasphemer would translate +Her ravings into oracles of fate, +Would hail Heaven's signals in her flashing eyes +And call her shrieks the language of the skies! + +But vain at length his arts--despair is seen +Gathering around; and famine comes to glean +All that the sword had left unreaped;--in vain +At morn and eve across the northern plain +He looks impatient for the promised spears +Of the wild Hordes and TARTAR mountaineers; +They come not--while his fierce beleaguerers pour +Engines of havoc in, unknown before,[129] +And horrible as new;--javelins, that fly[130] +Enwreathed with smoky flames thro' the dark sky, +And red-hot globes that opening as they mount +Discharge as from a kindled Naphtha fount[131] +Showers of consuming fire o'er all below; +Looking as thro' the illumined night they go +Like those wild birds that by the Magians oft[132] +At festivals of fire were sent aloft +Into the air with blazing fagots tied +To their huge wings, scattering combustion wide. +All night the groans of wretches who expire +In agony beneath these darts of fire +Ring thro' the city--while descending o'er +Its shrines and domes and streets of sycamore,-- +Its lone bazars, with their bright cloths of gold, +Since the last peaceful pageant left unrolled,-- +Its beauteous marble baths whose idle jets. +Now gush with blood,--and its tall minarets +That late have stood up in the evening glare +Of the red sun, unhallowed by a prayer;-- +O'er each in turn the dreadful flame-bolts fall, +And death and conflagration throughout all +The desolate city hold high festival! + +MOKANNA sees the world is his no more;-- +One sting at parting and his grasp is o'er, +"What! drooping now?"--thus, with unblushing cheek, +He hails the few who yet can hear him speak, +Of all those famished slaves around him lying, +And by the light of blazing temples dying; +"What!--drooping now!--now, when at length we press +"Home o'er the very threshold of success; +"When ALLA from our ranks hath thinned away +"Those grosser branches that kept out his ray +"Of favor from us and we stand at length +"Heirs of his light and children of his strength, +"The chosen few who shall survive the fall +"Of Kings and Thrones, triumphant over all! +"Have you then lost, weak murmurers as you are, +"All faith in him who was your Light, your Star? +"Have you forgot the eye of glory hid +"Beneath this Veil, the flashing of whose lid +"Could like a sun-stroke of the desert wither +"Millions of such as yonder Chief brings hither? +"Long have its lightnings slept--too long--but now +"All earth shall feel the unveiling of this brow! +"To-night--yes, sainted men! this very night, +"I bid you all to a fair festal rite, +"Where--having deep refreshed each weary limb +"With viands such as feast Heaven's cherubim +"And kindled up your souls now sunk and dim +"With that pure wine the Dark-eyed Maids above +"Keep, sealed with precious musk, for those they love,--[133] +"I will myself uncurtain in your sight +"The wonders of this brow's ineffable light; +"Then lead you forth and with a wink disperse +"Yon myriads howling thro' the universe!" + +Eager they listen--while each accent darts +New life into their chilled and hope-sick hearts; +Such treacherous life as the cool draught supplies +To him upon the stake who drinks and dies! +Wildly they point their lances to the light +Of the fast sinking sun, and shout "To-night!"-- +"To-night," their Chief re-echoes in a voice +Of fiend-like mockery that bids hell rejoice. +Deluded victims!--never hath this earth +Seen mourning half so mournful as their mirth. +_Here_, to the few whose iron frames had stood +This racking waste of famine and of blood, +Faint, dying wretches clung, from whom the shout +Of triumph like a maniac's laugh broke out:-- +_There_, others, lighted by the smouldering fire, +Danced like wan ghosts about a funeral pyre +Among the dead and dying strewed around;-- +While some pale wretch lookt on and from his wound +Plucking the fiery dart by which he bled, +In ghastly transport waved it o'er his head! + +'Twas more than midnight now--a fearful pause +Had followed the long shouts, the wild applause, +That lately from those Royal Gardens burst, +Where the veiled demon held his feast accurst, +When ZELICA, alas, poor ruined heart, +In every horror doomed to bear its part!-- +Was bidden to the banquet by a slave, +Who, while his quivering lip the summons gave, +Grew black, as tho' the shadows of the grave +Compast him round and ere he could repeat +His message thro', fell lifeless at her feet! +Shuddering she went--a soul-felt pang of fear +A presage that her own dark doom was near, +Roused every feeling and brought Reason back +Once more to writhe her last upon the rack. +All round seemed tranquil even the foe had ceased +As if aware of that demoniac feast +His fiery bolts; and tho' the heavens looked red, +'Twas but some distant conflagration's spread. +But hark--she stops--she listens--dreadful tone! +'Tis her Tormentor's laugh--and now, a groan, +A long death-groan comes with it--can this be +The place of mirth, the bower of revelry? + +She enters--Holy ALLA, what a sight +Was there before her! By the glimmering light +Of the pale dawn, mixt with the flare of brands +That round lay burning dropt from lifeless hands, +She saw the board in splendid mockery spread, +Rich censers breathing--garlands overhead-- +The urns, the cups, from which they late had quaft +All gold and gems, but--what had been the draught? +Oh! who need ask that saw those livid guests, +With their swollen heads sunk blackening on their breasts, +Or looking pale to Heaven with glassy glare, +As if they sought but saw no mercy there; +As if they felt, tho' poison racked them thro', +Remorse the deadlier torment of the two! +While some, the bravest, hardiest in the train +Of their false Chief, who on the battle-plain +Would have met death with transport by his side, +Here mute and helpless gasped;--but as they died +Lookt horrible vengeance with their eyes' last strain, +And clenched the slackening hand at him in vain. + +Dreadful it was to see the ghastly stare, +The stony look of horror and despair, +Which some of these expiring victims cast +Upon their souls' tormentor to the last; +Upon that mocking Fiend whose Veil now raised, +Showed them as in death's agony they gazed, +Not the long promised light, the brow whose beaming +Was to come forth, all conquering, all redeeming, +But features horribler than Hell e'er traced +On its own brood;--no Demon of the Waste,[134] +No church-yard Ghoul caught lingering in the light +Of the blest sun, e'er blasted human sight +With lineaments so foul, so fierce as those +The Impostor now in grinning mockery shows:-- +"There, ye wise Saints, behold your Light, your Star-- +"Ye _would_ be dupes and victims and ye _are_. +"Is it enough? or must I, while a thrill +"Lives in your sapient bosoms, cheat you still? +"Swear that the burning death ye feel within +"Is but the trance with which Heaven's joys begin: +"That this foul visage, foul as e'er disgraced +"Even monstrous men, is--after God's own taste; +"And that--but see!--ere I have half-way said +"My greetings thro', the uncourteous souls are fled. +"Farewell, sweet spirits! not in vain ye die, +"If EBLIS loves you half so well as I.-- +"Ha, my young bride!--'tis well--take thou thy seat; +"Nay come--no shuddering--didst thou never meet +"The Dead before?--they graced our wedding, sweet; +"And these, my guests to-night, have brimmed so true +"Their parting cups, that _thou_ shalt pledge one too. +"But--how is this?--all empty? all drunk up? +"Hot lips have been before thee in the cup, +"Young bride,--yet stay--one precious drop remains, +"Enough to warm a gentle Priestess' veins;-- +"Here, drink--and should thy lover's conquering arms +"Speed hither ere thy lip lose all its charms, +"Give him but half this venom in thy kiss, +"And I'll forgive my haughty rival's bliss! + +"For, _me_--I too must die--but not like these +"Vile rankling things to fester in the breeze; +"To have this brow in ruffian triumph shown, +"With all death's grimness added to its own, +"And rot to dust beneath the taunting eyes +"Of slaves, exclaiming, 'There his Godship lies!' +"No--cursed race--since first my soul drew breath, +"They've been my dupes and _shall_ be even in death. +"Thou seest yon cistern in the shade--'tis filled +"With burning drugs for this last hour distilled; +"There will I plunge me, in that liquid flame-- +"Fit bath to lave a dying Prophet's frame!-- +"There perish, all--ere pulse of thine shall fail-- +"Nor leave one limb to tell mankind the tale. +"So shall my votaries, wheresoe'er they rave, +"Proclaim that Heaven took back the Saint it gave;-- +"That I've but vanished from this earth awhile, +"To come again with bright, unshrouded smile! +"So shall they build me altars in their zeal, +"Where knaves shall minister and fools shall kneel; +"Where Faith may mutter o'er her mystic spell, +"Written in blood--and Bigotry may swell +"The sail he spreads for Heaven with blasts from hell! +"So shall my banner thro' long ages be +"The rallying sign of fraud and anarchy;-- +"Kings yet unborn shall rue MOKANNA'S name, +"And tho' I die my spirit still the same +"Shall walk abroad in all the stormy strife, +"And guilt and blood that were its bliss in life. +"But hark! their battering engine shakes the wall-- +"Why, _let_ it shake--thus I can brave them all. +"No trace of me shall greet them when they come, +"And I can trust thy faith, for--thou'lt be dumb. +"Now mark how readily a wretch like me +"In one bold plunge commences Deity!" + +He sprung and sunk as the last words were said-- +Quick closed the burning waters o'er his head, +And ZELICA was left--within the ring +Of those wide walls the only living thing; +The only wretched one still curst with breath +In all that frightful wilderness of death! +More like some bloodless ghost--such as they tell, +In the Lone Cities of the Silent dwell,[135] +And there unseen of all but ALLA sit +Each by its own pale carcass watching it. +But morn is up and a fresh warfare stirs +Throughout the camp of the beleaguerers. +Their globes of fire (the dread artillery lent +By GREECE to conquering MAHADI) are spent; +And now the scorpion's shaft, the quarry sent +From high balistas and the shielded throng +Of soldiers swinging the huge ram along, +All speak the impatient Islamite's intent +To try, at length, if tower and battlement +And bastioned wall be not less hard to win, +Less tough to break down than the hearts within. +First he, in impatience and in toil is +The burning AZIM--oh! could he but see +The impostor once alive within his grasp, +Not the gaunt lion's hug nor boa's clasp +Could match thy gripe of vengeance or keep pace +With the fell heartiness of Hate's embrace! + +Loud rings the ponderous ram against the walls; +Now shake the ramparts, now a buttress falls, +But, still no breach--"Once more one mighty swing +"Of all your beams, together thundering!" +There--the wall shakes--the shouting troops exult, +"Quick, quick discharge your weightiest catapult +"Right on that spot and NEKSHEB is our own!" +'Tis done--the battlements come crashing down, +And the huge wall by that stroke riven in two +Yawning like some old crater rent anew, +Shows the dim, desolate city smoking thro'. +But strange! no sign of life--naught living seen +Above, below--what can this stillness mean? +A minute's pause suspends all hearts and eyes-- +"In thro' the breach," impetuous AZIM cries; +But the cool CALIPH fearful of some wile +In this blank stillness checks the troops awhile.-- +Just then a figure with slow step advanced +Forth from the ruined walls and as there glanced +A sunbeam over it all eyes could see +The well-known Silver Veil!--"'Tis He, 'tis He, +"MOKANNA and alone!" they shout around; +Young AZIM from his steed springs to the ground-- +"Mine, Holy Caliph! mine," he cries, "the task +"To crush yon daring wretch--'tis all I ask." +Eager he darts to meet the demon foe +Who still across wide heaps of ruin slow +And falteringly comes, till they are near; +Then with a bound rushes on AZIM'S spear, +And casting off the Veil in falling shows-- +Oh!--'tis his ZELICA'S life-blood that flows! + +"I meant not, AZIM," soothingly she said, +As on his trembling arm she leaned her head, +And looking in his face saw anguish there +Beyond all wounds the quivering flesh can bear-- +"I meant not _thou_ shouldst have the pain of this:-- +"Tho' death with thee thus tasted is a bliss +"Thou wouldst not rob me of, didst thou but know +"How oft I've prayed to God I might die so! +"But the Fiend's venom was too scant and slow;-- +"To linger on were maddening--and I thought +"If once that Veil--nay, look not on it--caught +"The eyes of your fierce soldiery, I should be +"Struck by a thousand death-darts instantly. +"But this is sweeter--oh! believe me, yes-- +"I would not change this sad, but dear caress. +"This death within thy arms I would not give +"For the most smiling life the happiest live! +"All that stood dark and drear before the eye +"Of my strayed soul is passing swiftly by; +"A light comes o'er me from those looks of love, +"Like the first dawn of mercy from above; +"And if thy lips but tell me I'm forgiven, +"Angels will echo the blest words in Heaven! +"But live, my AZIM;--oh! to call thee mine +"Thus once again! _my_ AZIM--dream divine! +"Live, if thou ever lovedst me, if to meet +"Thy ZELICA hereafter would be sweet, +"Oh, live to pray for her--to bend the knee +"Morning and night before that Deity +"To whom pure lips and hearts without a stain, +"As thine are, AZIM, never breathed in vain,-- +"And pray that He may pardon her,--may take +"Compassion on her soul for thy dear sake, +"And naught remembering but her love to thee, +"Make her all thine, all His, eternally! +"Go to those happy fields where first we twined +"Our youthful hearts together--every wind +"That meets thee there fresh from the well-known flowers +"Will bring the sweetness of those innocent hours +"Back to thy soul and thou mayst feel again +"For thy poor ZELICA as thou didst then. +"So shall thy orisons like dew that flies +"To Heaven upon the morning's sunshine rise +"With all love's earliest ardor to the skies! +"And should they--but, alas, my senses fail-- +"Oh for one minute!--should thy prayers prevail-- +"If pardoned souls may from that World of Bliss +"Reveal their joy to those they love in this-- +"I'll come to thee--in some sweet dream--and tell-- +"Oh Heaven--I die--dear love! farewell, farewell." + +Time fleeted--years on years had past away, +And few of those who on that mournful day +Had stood with pity in their eyes to see +The maiden's death and the youth's agony, +Were living still--when, by a rustic grave, +Beside the swift Amoo's transparent wave, +An aged man who had grown aged there +By that lone grave, morning and night in prayer, +For the last time knelt down--and tho' the shade +Of death hung darkening over him there played +A gleam of rapture on his eye and cheek, +That brightened even Death--like the last streak +Of intense glory on the horizon's brim, +When night o'er all the rest hangs chill and dim. +His soul had seen a Vision while he slept; +She for whose spirit he had prayed and wept +So many years had come to him all drest +In angel smiles and told him she was blest! +For this the old man breathed his thanks and died.-- +And there upon the banks of that loved tide, +He and his ZELICA sleep side by side. + + +The story of the Veiled Prophet of Khorassan being ended, they were now +doomed to hear FADLADEEN'S criticisms upon it. A series of disappointments +and accidents had occurred to this learned Chamberlain during the journey. +In the first place, those couriers stationed, as in the reign of Shah +Jehan, between Delhi and the Western coast of India, to secure a constant +supply of mangoes for the Royal Table, had by some cruel irregularity +failed in their duty; and to eat any mangoes but those of Mazagong was of +course impossible.[136] In the next place, the elephant laden with his +fine antique porcelain,[137] had, in an unusual fit of liveliness, +shattered the whole set to pieces:--an irreparable loss, as many of the +vessels were so exquisitely old, as to have been used under the Emperors +Yan and Chun, who reigned many ages before the dynasty of Tang. His Koran +too, supposed to be the identical copy between the leaves of which +Mahomet's favorite pigeon used to nestle, had been mislaid by his +Koran-bearer three whole days; not without much spiritual alarm to +FADLADEEN who though professing to hold with other loyal and orthodox +Mussulmans that salvation could only be found in the Koran was strongly +suspected of believing in his heart that it could only be found in his own +particular copy of it. When to all these grievances is added the obstinacy +of the cooks in putting the pepper of Canara into his dishes instead of +the cinnamon of Serendib, we may easily suppose that he came to the task +of criticism with at least a sufficient degree of irritability for the +purpose. + +"In order," said he, importantly swinging about his chaplet of pearls, "to +convey with clearness my opinion of the story this young man has related, +it is necessary to take a review of all the stories that have ever"---"My +good FADLADEEN!" exclaimed the Princess, interrupting him, "we really do +not deserve that you should give yourself so much trouble. Your opinion of +the poem we have just heard, will I have no doubt be abundantly edifying +without any further waste of your valuable erudition."--"If that be all," +replied the critic,--evidently mortified at not being allowed to show how +much he knew about everything but the subject immediately before him--"if +that be all that is required the matter is easily despatched." He then +proceeded to analyze the poem, in that strain (so well known to the +unfortunate bards of Delhi), whose censures were an infliction from which +few recovered and whose very praises were like the honey extracted from +the bitter flowers of the aloe. The chief personages of the story were, if +he rightly understood them, an ill-favored gentleman with a veil over his +face;--a young lady whose reason went and came according as it suited the +poet's convenience to be sensible or otherwise;--and a youth in one of +those hideous Bokharian bonnets, who took the aforesaid gentleman in a +veil for a Divinity. "From such materials," said he, "what can be +expected?--after rivalling each other in long speeches and absurdities +through some thousands of lines as indigestible as the filberts of Berdaa, +our friend in the veil jumps into a tub of aquafortis; the young lady dies +in a set speech whose only recommendation is that it is her last; and the +lover lives on to a good old age for the laudable purpose of seeing her +ghost which he at last happily accomplishes, and expires. This you will +allow is a fair summary of the story; and if Nasser, the Arabian merchant, +told no better, our Holy Prophet (to whom be all honor and glory!) had no +need to be jealous of his abilities for story-telling." + +With respect to the style, it was worthy of the matter;--it had not even +those politic contrivances of structure which make up for the commonness +of the thoughts by the peculiarity of the manner nor that stately poetical +phraseology by which sentiments mean in themselves, like the blacksmith's +[138] apron converted into a banner, are so easily gilt and embroidered +into consequence. Then as to the versification it was, to say no worse of +it, execrable: it had neither the copious flow of Ferdosi, the sweetness +of Hafez, nor the sententious march of Sadi; but appeared to him in the +uneasy heaviness of its movements to have been modelled upon the gait of a +very tired dromedary. The licenses too in which it indulged were +unpardonable;--for instance this line, and the poem abounded with such;-- + + Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream. + +"What critic that can count," said FADLADEEN, "and has his full complement +of fingers to count withal, would tolerate for an instant such syllabic +superfluities?"--He here looked round, and discovered that most of his +audience were asleep; while the glimmering lamps seemed inclined to follow +their example. It became necessary therefore, however painful to himself, +to put an end to his valuable animadversions for the present and he +accordingly concluded with an air of dignified candor, thus:-- + +"Notwithstanding the observations which I have thought it my duty to make, +it is by no means my wish to discourage the young man:--so far from it +indeed that if he will but totally alter his style of writing and thinking +I have very little doubt that I shall be vastly pleased with him." + +Some days elapsed after this harangue of the Great Chamberlain before +LALLA ROOKH could venture to ask for another story. The youth was still a +welcome guest in the pavilion--to _one_ heart perhaps too dangerously +welcome;--but all mention of poetry was as if by common consent avoided. +Though none of the party had much respect for FADLADEEN, yet his censures +thus magisterially delivered evidently made an impression on them all. The +Poet himself to whom criticism was quite a new operation, (being wholly +unknown in that Paradise of the Indies, Cashmere,) felt the shock as it is +generally felt at first, till use has made it more tolerable to the +patient;--the Ladies began to suspect that they ought not to be pleased +and seemed to conclude that there must have been much good sense in what +FADLADEEN said from its having set them all so soundly to sleep;--while +the self-complacent Chamberlain was left to triumph in the idea of having +for the hundred and fiftieth time in his life extinguished a Poet. LALLA +ROOKH alone--and Love knew why--persisted in being delighted with all she +had heard and in resolving to hear more as speedily as possible. Her +manner however of first returning to the subject was unlucky. It was while +they rested during the heat of noon near a fountain on which some hand had +rudely traced those well-known words from the Garden of Sadi.--"Many like +me have viewed this fountain, but they are gone and their eyes are closed +for ever!"--that she took occasion from the melancholy beauty of this +passage to dwell upon the charms of poetry in general. "It is true," she +said, "few poets can imitate that sublime bird which flies always in the +air and never touches the earth:[139]--it is only once in many ages a +Genius appears whose words, like those on the Written Mountain last for +ever:[140]--but still there are some as delightful perhaps, though not so +wonderful, who if not stars over our head are at least flowers along our +path and whose sweetness of the moment we ought gratefully to inhale +without calling upon them for a brightness and a durability beyond their +nature. In short," continued she, blushing as if conscious of being caught +in an oration, "it is quite cruel that a poet cannot wander through his +regions of enchantment without having a critic for ever, like the old Man +of the Sea, upon his back!"[141]--FADLADEEN, it was plain took this last +luckless allusion to himself and would treasure it up in his mind as a +whetstone for his next criticism. A sudden silence ensued; and the +Princess, glancing a look at FERAMORZ, saw plainly she must wait for a +more courageous moment. + +But the glories of Nature and her wild, fragrant airs playing freshly over +the current of youthful spirits will soon heal even deeper wounds than the +dull Fadladeens of this world can inflict. In an evening or two after, +they came to the small Valley of Gardens which had been planted by order +of the Emperor for his favorite sister Rochinara during their progress to +Cashmere some years before; and never was there a more sparkling +assemblage of sweets since the Gulzar-e-Irem or Rose-bower of Irem. Every +precious flower was there to be found that poetry or love or religion has +ever consecrated; from the dark hyacinth to which Hafez compares his +mistress's hair to be _Cámalatá_ by whose rosy blossoms the heaven of +Indra is scented.[142] As they sat in the cool fragrance of this +delicious spot and LALLA ROOKH remarked that she could fancy it the abode +of that flower-loving Nymph whom they worship in the temples of Kathay, +[143] or of one of those Peris, those beautiful creatures of the air who +live upon perfumes and to whom a place like this might make some amends +for the Paradise they have lost,--the young Poet in whose eyes she +appeared while she spoke to be one of the bright spiritual creatures she +was describing said hesitatingly that he remembered a Story of a Peri, +which if the Princess had no objection he would venture to relate. "It +is," said he, with an appealing look to FADLADEEN, "in a lighter and +humbler strain than the other:" then, striking a few careless but +melancholy chords on his kitar, he thus began:-- + + +PARADISE AND THE PERI. + + +One morn a Peri at the gate +Of Eden stood disconsolate; +And as she listened to the Springs + Of Life within like music flowing +And caught the light upon her wings + Thro' the half-open portal glowing, +She wept to think her recreant race +Should e'er have lost that glorious place! + +"How happy," exclaimed this child of air, +"Are the holy Spirits who wander there + "Mid flowers that never shall fade or fall; +"Tho' mine are the gardens of earth and sea +"And the stars themselves have flowers for me, + "One blossom of Heaven out-blooms them all! + +"Tho' sunny the Lake of cool CASHMERE +"With its plane-tree Isle reflected clear,[144] + "And sweetly the founts of that Valley fall; +"Tho' bright are the waters of SING-SU-HAY +And the golden floods that thitherward stray,[145] +Yet--oh, 'tis only the Blest can say + How the waters of Heaven outshine them all! + +"Go, wing thy flight from star to star, +From world to luminous world as far + As the universe spreads its flaming wall: +Take all the pleasures of all the spheres +And multiply each thro' endless years + One minute of Heaven is worth them all!" + +The glorious Angel who was keeping +The gates of Light beheld her weeping, +And as he nearer drew and listened +To her sad song, a tear-drop glistened +Within his eyelids, like the spray + From Eden's fountain when it lies +On the blue flower which--Bramins say-- + Blooms nowhere but in Paradise.[146] + +"Nymph of a fair but erring line!" +Gently he said--"One hope is thine. +'Tis written in the Book of Fate, + _The Peri yet may be forgiven +Who brings to this Eternal gate + The Gift that is most dear to Heaven_! +Go seek it and redeem thy sin-- +'Tis sweet to let the Pardoned in." + +Rapidly as comets run +To the embraces of the Sun;-- +Fleeter than the starry brands +Flung at night from angel hands[147] +At those dark and daring sprites +Who would climb the empyreal heights, +Down the blue vault the PERI flies, + And lighted earthward by a glance +That just then broke from morning's eyes, + Hung hovering o'er our world's expanse. + +But whither shall the Spirit go +To find this gift for Heaven;--"I know +The wealth," she cries, "of every urn +In which unnumbered rubies burn +Beneath the pillars of CHILMINAR:[148] +I know where the Isles of Perfume are[149] +Many a fathom down in the sea, +To the south of sun-bright ARABY;[150] +I know too where the Genii hid +The jewelled cup of their King JAMSHID,[151] +"With Life's elixir sparkling high-- +"But gifts like these are not for the sky. +"Where was there ever a gem that shone +"Like the steps of ALLA'S wonderful Throne? +"And the Drops of Life--oh! what would they be +"In the boundless Deep of Eternity?" + +While thus she mused her pinions fanned +The air of that sweet Indian land +Whose air is balm, whose ocean spreads +O'er coral rocks and amber beds,[152] +Whose mountains pregnant by the beam +Of the warm sun with diamonds teem, +Whose rivulets are like rich brides, +Lovely, with gold beneath their tides, +Whose sandal groves and bowers of spice +Might be a Peri's Paradise! +But crimson now her rivers ran + With human blood--the smell of death +Came reeking from those spicy bowers, +And man the sacrifice of man + Mingled his taint with every breath +Upwafted from the innocent flowers. +Land of the Sun! what foot invades +Thy Pagods and thy pillared shades-- +Thy cavern shrines and Idol stones, +Thy Monarch and their thousand Thrones?[153] + +'Tis He of GAZNA[154], fierce in wrath + He comes and INDIA'S diadems +Lie scattered in his ruinous path.- + His bloodhounds he adorns with gems, +Torn from the violated necks + Of many a young and loved Sultana;[155] + Maidens within their pure Zenana, + Priests in the very fane he slaughters, +And chokes up with the glittering wrecks + Of golden shrines the sacred waters! +Downward the PERI turns her gaze, +And thro' the war-field's bloody haze +Beholds a youthful warrior stand +Alone beside his native river,-- +The red blade broken in his hand +And the last arrow in his quiver. +"Live," said the Conqueror, "live to share +"The trophies and the crowns I bear!" +Silent that youthful warrior stood-- +Silent he pointed to the flood +All crimson with his country's blood, +Then sent his last remaining dart, +For answer, to the Invader's heart. + +False flew the shaft tho' pointed well; +The Tyrant lived, the Hero fell!-- +Yet marked the PERI where he lay, + And when the rush of war was past +Swiftly descending on a ray + Of morning light she caught the last-- +Last glorious drop his heart had shed +Before its free-born spirit fled! + +"Be this," she cried, as she winged her flight, +"My welcome gift at the Gates of Light. +"Tho' foul are the drops that oft distil + "On the field of warfare, blood like this + "For Liberty shed so holy is, +"It would not stain the purest rill + "That sparkles among the Bowers of Bliss! +"Oh, if there be on this earthly sphere +"A boon, an offering Heaven holds dear, +"'Tis the last libation Liberty draws +"From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause!" +"Sweet," said the Angel, as she gave +The gift into his radiant hand, +"Sweet is our welcome of the Brave + "Who die thus for their native Land.-- +"But see--alas! the crystal bar +"Of Eden moves not--holier far +"Than even this drop the boon must be +"That opes the Gates of Heaven for thee!" + +Her first fond hope of Eden blighted, + Now among AFRIC'S lunar Mountains[156] +Far to the South the PERI lighted + And sleeked her plumage at the fountains +Of that Egyptian tide whose birth +Is hidden from the sons of earth +Deep in those solitary woods +Where oft the Genii of the Floods +Dance round the cradle of their Nile +And hail the new-born Giant's smile.[157] +Thence over EGYPT'S palmy groves + Her grots, and sepulchres of Kings,[158] +The exiled Spirit sighing roves +And now hangs listening to the doves +In warm ROSETTA'S vale;[159] now loves + To watch the moonlight on the wings +Of the white pelicans that break +The azure calm of MOERIS' Lake.[160] +'Twas a fair scene: a Land more bright + Never did mortal eye behold! +Who could have thought that saw this night + Those valleys and their fruits of gold +Basking in Heaven's serenest light, +Those groups of lovely date-trees bending + Languidly their leaf-crowned heads, +Like youthful maids, when sleep descending + Warns them to their silken beds,[161] +Those virgin lilies all the night + Bathing their beauties in the lake +That they may rise more fresh and bright, + When their beloved Sun's awake, +Those ruined shrines and towers that seem +The relics of a splendid dream, + Amid whose fairy loneliness +Naught but the lapwing's cry is heard,-- +Naught seen but (when the shadows flitting, +Fast from the moon unsheath its gleam,) +Some purple-winged Sultana sitting[162] + Upon a column motionless +And glittering like an Idol bird!-- +Who could have thought that there, even there, +Amid those scenes so still and fair, +The Demon of the Plague hath cast +From his hot wing a deadlier blast, +More mortal far than ever came +From the red Desert's sands of flame! +So quick that every living thing +Of human shape touched by his wing, +Like plants, where the Simoom hath past +At once falls black and withering! +The sun went down on many a brow + Which, full of bloom and freshness then, +Is rankling in the pest-house now + And ne'er will feel that sun again, +And, oh! to see the unburied heaps +On which the lonely moonlight sleeps-- +The very vultures turn away, +And sicken at so foul a prey! +Only the fierce hyaena stalks[163] +Throughout the city's desolate walks[164] +At midnight and his carnage plies:-- + Woe to the half-dead wretch who meets +The glaring of those large blue eyes + Amid the darkness of the streets! + +"Poor race of men!" said the pitying Spirit, + "Dearly ye pay for your primal Fall-- +"Some flowerets of Eden ye still inherit, + "But the trail of the Serpent is over them all!" +She wept--the air grew pure and clear + Around her as the bright drops ran, +For there's a magic in each tear + Such kindly Spirits weep for man! + +Just then beneath some orange trees +Whose fruit and blossoms in the breeze +Were wantoning together, free, +Like age at play with infancy-- +Beneath that fresh and springing bower + Close by the Lake she heard the moan +Of one who at this silent hour, + Had thither stolen to die alone. +One who in life where'er he moved, + Drew after him the hearts of many; +Yet now, as tho' he ne'er were loved, + Dies here unseen, unwept by any! +None to watch near him--none to slake + The fire that in his bosom lies, +With even a sprinkle from that lake + Which shines so cool before his eyes. +No voice well known thro' many a day + To speak the last, the parting word +Which when all other sounds decay + Is still like distant music heard;-- +That tender farewell on the shore +Of this rude world when all is o'er, +Which cheers the spirit ere its bark +Puts off into the unknown Dark. + +Deserted youth! one thought alone + Shed joy around his soul in death +That she whom he for years had known, +And loved and might have called his own + Was safe from this foul midnight's breath,-- +Safe in her father's princely halls +Where the cool airs from fountain falls, +Freshly perfumed by many a brand +Of the sweet wood from India's land, +Were pure as she whose brow they fanned. + +But see--who yonder comes by stealth, + This melancholy bower to seek, +Like a young envoy sent by Health + With rosy gifts upon her cheek? +'Tis she--far off, thro' moonlight dim + He knew his own betrothed bride, +She who would rather die with him + Than live to gain the world beside!-- +Her arms are round her lover now, + His livid cheek to hers she presses +And dips to bind his burning brow + In the cool lake her loosened tresses. +Ah! once, how little did he think +An hour would come when he should shrink +With horror from that dear embrace, + Those gentle arms that were to him +Holy as is the cradling place + Of Eden's infant cherubim! +And now he yields--now turns away, +Shuddering as if the venom lay +All in those proffered lips alone-- +Those lips that then so fearless grown +Never until that instant came +Near his unasked or without shame. +"Oh! let me only breathe the air. +"The blessed air, that's breathed by thee, +"And whether on its wings it bear + "Healing or death 'tis sweet to me! +"There--drink my tears while yet they fall-- + "Would that my bosom's blood were balm, +"And, well thou knowst, I'd shed it all + "To give thy brow one minute's calm. +"Nay, turn not from me that dear face-- + "Am I not thine--thy own loved bride-- +"The one, the chosen one, whose place + "In life or death is by thy side? +"Thinkst thou that she whose only light, + "In this dim world from thee hath shone +"Could bear the long, the cheerless night + "That must be hers when thou art gone? +"That I can live and let thee go, +"Who art my life itself?--No, no-- +"When the stem dies the leaf that grew +"Out of its heart must perish too! +"Then turn to me, my own love, turn, +"Before, like thee, I fade and burn; +"Cling to these yet cool lips and share +"The last pure life that lingers there!" +She fails--she sinks--as dies the lamp +In charnel airs or cavern-damp, +So quickly do his baleful sighs +Quench all the sweet light of her eyes, +One struggle--and his pain is past-- + Her lover is no longer living! +One kiss the maiden gives, one last, + Long kiss, which she expires in giving! + +"Sleep," said the PERI, as softly she stole +The farewell sigh of that vanishing soul, +As true as e'er warmed a woman's breast-- +"Sleep on, in visions of odor rest +"In balmier airs than ever yet stirred +"The enchanted pile of that lonely bird +"Who sings at the last his own death-lay[165] +"And in music and perfume dies away!" +Thus saying, from her lips she spread + Unearthly breathings thro' the place +And shook her sparkling wreath and shed + Such lustre o'er each paly face +That like two lovely saints they seemed, + Upon the eve of doomsday taken +From their dim graves in ordor sleeping; + While that benevolent PERI beamed +Like their good angel calmly keeping + Watch o'er them till their souls would waken. + +But morn is blushing in the sky; + Again the PERI soars above, +Bearing to Heaven that precious sigh + Of pure, self-sacrificing love. +High throbbed her heart with hope elate + The Elysian palm she soon shall win. +For the bright Spirit at the gate + Smiled as she gave that offering in; +And she already hears the trees + Of Eden with their crystal bells +Ringing in that ambrosial breeze + That from the throne of ALLA swells; +And she can see the starry bowls + That lie around that lucid lake +Upon whose banks admitted Souls + Their first sweet draught of glory take![166] + +But, ah! even PERIS' hopes are vain-- +Again the Fates forbade, again +The immortal barrier closed--"Not yet," +The Angel said as with regret +He shut from her that glimpse of glory-- +"True was the maiden, and her story +"Written in light o'er ALLA'S head +"By seraph eyes shall long be read. +"But, PERI, see--the crystal bar +"Of Eden moves not--holier far +"Than even this sigh the boon must be +"That opes the Gates of Heaven for thee." + + Now upon SYRIA'S land of roses[167] +Softly the light of Eve reposes, +And like a glory the broad sun +Hangs over sainted LEBANON, +Whose head in wintry grandeur towers + And whitens with eternal sleet, +While summer in a vale of flowers + Is sleeping rosy at his feet. + +To one who looked from upper air +O'er all the enchanted regions there, +How beauteous must have been the glow, +The life, the sparkling from below! +Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranks +Of golden melons on their banks, +More golden where the sunlight falls;-- +Gay lizards, glittering on the walls[168] +Of ruined shrines, busy and bright +As they were all alive with light; +And yet more splendid numerous flocks +Of pigeons settling on the rocks +With their rich restless wings that gleam +Variously in the crimson beam +Of the warm West,--as if inlaid +With brilliants from the mine or made +Of tearless rainbows such as span +The unclouded skies of PERISTAN. +And then the mingling sounds that come, +Of shepherd's ancient reed,[169] with hum +Of the wild bees of PALESTINE,[170] + Banqueting thro' the flowery vales; +And, JORDAN, those sweet banks of thine + And woods so full of nightingales.[171] +But naught can charm the luckless PERI; +Her soul is sad--her wings are weary-- +Joyless she sees the Sun look down +On that great Temple once his own,[172] +Whose lonely columns stand sublime, +Flinging their shadows from on high +Like dials which the Wizard Time +Had raised to count his ages by! + +Yet haply there may lie concealed + Beneath those Chambers of the Sun +Some amulet of gems, annealed +In upper fires, some tablet sealed + With the great name of SOLOMON, + Which spelled by her illumined eyes, +May teach her where beneath the moon, +In earth or ocean, lies the boon, +The charm, that can restore so soon + An erring Spirit to the skies. + +Cheered by this hope she bends her thither;-- + Still laughs the radiant eye of Heaven, + Nor have the golden bowers of Even +In the rich West begun to wither;-- +When o'er the vale of BALBEC winging + Slowly she sees a child at play, +Among the rosy wild flowers singing, + As rosy and as wild as they; +Chasing with eager hands and eyes +The beautiful blue damsel-flies,[173] +That fluttered round the jasmine stems +Like winged flowers or flying gems:-- +And near the boy, who tired with play +Now nestling mid the roses lay. +She saw a wearied man dismount + From his hot steed and on the brink +Of a small imaret's rustic fount + Impatient fling him down to drink. +Then swift his haggard brow he turned + To the fair child who fearless sat, +Tho' never yet hath day-beam burned + Upon a brow more fierce than that,-- +Sullenly fierce--a mixture dire +Like thunder-clouds of gloom and fire; +In which the PERI'S eye could read +Dark tales of many a ruthless deed; +The ruined maid--the shrine profaned-- +Oaths broken--and the threshold stained +With blood of guests!--_there_ written, all, +Black as the damning drops that fall +From the denouncing Angel's pen, +Ere Mercy weeps them out again. +Yet tranquil now that man of crime +(As if the balmy evening time +Softened his spirit) looked and lay, +Watching the rosy infant's play:-- +Tho' still whene'er his eye by chance +Fell on the boy's, its lucid glance + Met that unclouded, joyous gaze, +As torches that have burnt all night +Tho' some impure and godless rite, + Encounter morning's glorious rays. + +But, hark! the vesper call to prayer, + As slow the orb of daylight sets, +Is rising sweetly on the air. + From SYRIA'S thousand minarets! +The boy has started from the bed +Of flowers where he had laid his head. +And down upon the fragrant sod + Kneels[174] with his forehead to the south +Lisping the eternal name of God + From Purity's own cherub mouth, +And looking while his hands and eyes +Are lifted to the glowing skies +Like a stray babe of Paradise +Just lighted on that flowery plain +And seeking for its home again. +Oh! 'twas a sight--that Heaven--that child-- +A scene, which might have well beguiled +Even haughty EBLIS of a sigh +For glories lost and peace gone by! +And how felt _he_, the wretched Man +Reclining there--while memory ran +O'er many a year of guilt and strife, +Flew o'er the dark flood of his life, +Nor found one sunny resting-place. +Nor brought him back one branch of grace. +"There _was_ a time," he said, in mild, +Heart-humbled tones--"thou blessed child! +"When young and haply pure as thou +"I looked and prayed like thee--but now"-- +He hung his head--each nobler aim + And hope and feeling which had slept +From boyhood's hour that instant came + Fresh o'er him and he wept--he wept! + +Blest tears of soul-felt penitence! + In whose benign, redeeming flow +Is felt the first, the only sense + Of guiltless joy that guilt can know. +"There's a drop," said the PERI, "that down from the moon +"Falls thro' the withering airs of June +"Upon EGYPT'S land,[175] of so healing a power, +"So balmy a virtue, that even in the hour +"That drop descends contagion dies +"And health reanimates earth and skies!-- +"Oh, is it not thus, thou man of sin, + "The precious tears of repentance fall? +"Tho' foul thy fiery plagues within + "One heavenly drop hath dispelled them all!" +And now--behold him kneeling there +By the child's side, in humble prayer, +While the same sunbeam shines upon +The guilty and the guiltless one. +And hymns of joy proclaim thro' Heaven +The triumph of a Soul Forgiven! + +'Twas when the golden orb had set, +While on their knees they lingered yet, +There fell a light more lovely far +Than ever came from sun or star, +Upon the tear that, warm and meek, +Dewed that repentant sinner's cheek. +To mortal eye this light might seem +A northern flash or meteor beam-- +But well the enraptured PERI knew +'Twas a bright smile the Angel threw +From Heaven's gate to hail that tear +Her harbinger of glory near! + +"Joy, joy for ever! my task is done-- +"The Gates are past and Heaven is won! +"Oh! am I not happy? I am, I am-- + "To thee, sweet Eden! how dark and sad +"Are the diamond turrets of SHADUKIAM,[176] + "And the fragrant bowers of AMBERABAD! + +"Farewell ye odors of Earth that die +"Passing away like a lover's sigh;-- +"My feast is now of the Tooba Tree[177] +"Whose scent is the breath of Eternity! + +"Farewell, ye vanishing flowers that shone + "In my fairy wreath so bright an' brief;-- +"Oh! what are the brightest that e'er have blown +"To the lote-tree springing by ALLA'S throne[178] + "Whose flowers have a soul in every leaf. +"Joy, joy for ever.--my task is done-- +"The Gates are past and Heaven is won!" + + +"And this," said the Great Chamberlain, "is poetry! this flimsy +manufacture of the brain, which in comparison with the lofty and durable +monuments of genius is as the gold filigree-work of Zamara beside the +eternal architecture of Egypt!" After this gorgeous sentence, which, with +a few more of the same kind, FADLADEEN kept by him for rare and important +occasions, he proceeded to the anatomy of the short poem just recited. The +lax and easy kind of metre in which it was written ought to be denounced, +he said, as one of the leading causes of the alarming growth of poetry in +our times. If some check were not given to this lawless facility we should +soon be overrun by a race of bards as numerous and as shallow as the +hundred and twenty thousand Streams of Basra.[179] They who succeeded in +this style deserved chastisement for their very success;--as warriors have +been punished even after gaining a victory because they had taken the +liberty of gaining it in an irregular or unestablished manner. What then +was to be said to those who failed? to those who presumed as in the +present lamentable instance to imitate the licence and ease of the bolder +sons of song without any of that grace or vigor which gave a dignity even +to negligence;--who like them flung the jereed[180] carelessly, but not, +like them, to the mark;--"and who," said he, raising his voice to excite a +proper degree of wakefulness in his hearers, "contrive to appear heavy and +constrained in the midst of all the latitude they allow themselves, like +one of those young pagans that dance before the Princess, who is ingenious +enough to move as if her limbs were fettered, in a pair of the lightest +and loosest drawers of Masulipatam!" + +It was but little suitable, he continued, to the grave march of criticism +to follow this fantastical Peri of whom they had just heard, through all +her flights and adventures between earth and heaven, but he could not help +adverting to the puerile conceitedness of the Three Gifts which she is +supposed to carry to the skies,--a drop of blood, forsooth, a sigh, and a +tear! How the first of these articles was delivered into the Angel's +"radiant hand" he professed himself at a loss to discover; and as to the +safe carriage of the sigh and the tear, such Peris and such poets were +beings by far too incomprehensible for him even to guess how they managed +such matters. "But, in short," said he, "it is a waste of time and +patience to dwell longer upon a thing so incurably frivolous,--puny even +among its own puny race, and such as only the Banyan Hospital[181] for +Sick Insects should undertake." + +In vain did LALLA ROOKH try to soften this inexorable critic; in vain did +she resort to her most eloquent commonplaces, reminding him that poets +were a timid and sensitive race whose sweetness was not to be drawn forth +like that of the fragrant grass near the Ganges by crushing and trampling +upon them,[182] that severity often extinguished every chance of the +perfection which it demanded, and that after all perfection was like the +Mountain of the Talisman,--no one had ever yet reached its summit.[183] +Neither these gentle axioms nor the still gentler looks with which they +were inculcated could lower for one instant the elevation of FADLADEEN'S +eyebrows or charm him into anything like encouragement or even toleration +of her poet. Toleration, indeed, was not among the weaknesses of +FADLADEEN:--he carried the same spirit into matters of poetry and of +religion, and though little versed in the beauties or sublimities of +either was a perfect master of the art of persecution in both. His zeal +was the same too in either pursuit, whether the game before him was pagans +or poetasters, worshippers of cows, or writers of epics. + +They had now arrived at the splendid city of Lahore whose mausoleums and +shrines, magnificent and numberless where Death appeared to share equal +honors with Heaven would have powerfully affected the heart and +imagination of LALLA ROOKH, if feelings more of this earth had not taken +entire possession of her already. She was here met by messengers +despatched from Cashmere who informed her that the King had arrived in the +Valley and was himself superintending the sumptuous preparations that were +then making in the Saloons of the Shalimar for her reception. The chill +she felt on receiving this intelligence,--which to a bride whose heart was +free and light would have brought only images of affection and +pleasure,--convinced her that her peace was gone for ever and that she was +in love, irretrievably in love, with young FERAMORZ. The veil had fallen +off in which this passion at first disguises itself, and to know that she +loved was now as painful as to love without knowing it had been delicious. +FERAMORZ, too,--what misery would be his, if the sweet hours of +intercourse so imprudently allowed them should have stolen into his heart +the same fatal fascination as into hers;--if, notwithstanding her rank and +the modest homage he always paid to it, even _he_ should have yielded to +the influence of those long and happy interviews where music, poetry, the +delightful scenes of nature,--all had tended to bring their hearts close +together and to waken by every means that too ready passion which often +like the young of the desert-bird is warmed into life by the eyes alone! +[184] She saw but one way to preserve herself from being culpable as well +as unhappy, and this however painful she was resolved to adopt. FERAMORZ +must no more be admitted to her presence. To have strayed so far into the +dangerous labyrinth was wrong, but to linger in it while the clew was yet +in her hand would be criminal. Though the heart she had to offer to the +King of Bucharia might be cold and broken, it should at least be pure, and +she must only endeavor to forget the short dream of happiness she had +enjoyed,--like that Arabian shepherd who in wandering into the wilderness +caught a glimpse of the Gardens of Irim and then lost them again for ever! + +The arrival of the young Bride at Lahore was celebrated in the most +enthusiastic manner. The Rajas and Omras in her train, who had kept at a +certain distance during the journey and never encamped nearer to the +Princess than was strictly necessary for her safeguard here rode in +splendid cavalcade through the city and distributed the most costly +presents to the crowd. Engines were erected in all the squares which cast +forth showers of confectionery among the people, while the artisans in +chariots[185] adorned with tinsel and flying streamers exhibited the +badges of their respective trades through the streets. Such brilliant +displays of life and pageantry among the palaces and domes and gilded +minarets of Lahore made the city altogether like a place of +enchantment;--particularly on the day when LALLA ROOKH set out again upon +her journey, when she was accompanied to the gate by all the fairest and +richest of the nobility and rode along between ranks of beautiful boys and +girls who kept waving over their heads plates of gold and silver +flowers,[186] and then threw them around to be gathered by the populace. + +For many days after their departure from Lahore a considerable degree of +gloom hung over the whole party. LALLA ROOKH, who had intended to make +illness her excuse for not admitting the young minstrel, as usual, to the +pavilion, soon found that to feign indisposition was unnecessary;-- +FADLADEEN felt the loss of the good road they had hitherto travelled and +was very near cursing Jehan-Guire (of blessed memory!) for not having +continued his delectable alley of trees[187] a least as far as the +mountains of Cashmere;--while the Ladies who had nothing now to do all day +but to be fanned by peacocks' feathers and listen to FADLADEEN seemed +heartily weary of the life they led and in spite of all the Great +Chamberlain's criticisms were so tasteless as to wish for the poet again. +One evening as they were proceeding to their place of rest for the night +the Princess who for the freer enjoyment of the air had mounted her +favorite Arabian palfrey, in passing by a small grove heard the notes of a +lute from within its leaves and a voice which she but too well knew +singing the following words:-- + + Tell me not of joys above, + If that world can give no bliss, + Truer, happier than the Love + Which enslaves our souls in this. + + Tell me not of Houris' eyes;-- + Far from me their dangerous glow. + If those looks that light the skies + Wound like some that burn below. + + Who that feels what Love is here, + All its falsehood--all its pain-- + Would, for even Elysium's sphere, + Risk the fatal dream again? + + Who that midst a desert's heat + Sees the waters fade away + Would not rather die than meet + Streams again as false as they? + +The tone of melancholy defiance in which these words were uttered went to +LALLA ROOKH'S heart;--and as she reluctantly rode on she could not help +feeling it to be a sad but still sweet certainty that FERAMORZ was to the +full as enamored and miserable as herself. + +The place where they encamped that evening was the first delightful spot +they had come to since they left Lahore. On one side of them was a grove +full of small Hindoo temples and planted with the most graceful trees of +the East, where the tamarind, the cassia, and the silken plantains of +Ceylon were mingled in rich contrast with the high fan-like foliage of the +Palmyra,--that favorite tree of the luxurious bird that lights up the +chambers of its nest with fire-flies.[188]. In the middle of the lawn +where the pavilion stood there was a tank surrounded by small mango-trees +on the clear cold waters of which floated multitudes of the beautiful red +lotus,[189] while at a distance stood the ruins of a strange and awful- +looking tower which seemed old enough to have been the temple of some +religion no longer known and which spoke the voice of desolation in the +midst of all that bloom and loveliness. This singular ruin excited the +wonder and conjectures of all. LALLA ROOKH guessed in vain, and the all- +pretending FADLADEEN who had never till this journey been beyond the +precincts of Delhi was proceeding most learnedly to show that he knew +nothing whatever about the matter, when one of the Ladies suggested that +perhaps FERAMORZ could satisfy their curiosity. They were now approaching +his native mountains and this tower might perhaps be a relic of some of +those dark superstitions which had prevailed in that country before the +light of Islam dawned upon it. The Chamberlain who usually preferred his +own ignorance to the best knowledge that any one else could give him was +by no means pleased with this officious reference, and the Princess too +was about to interpose a faint word of objection, but before either of +them could speak a slave was despatched for FERAMORZ, who in a very few +minutes made his appearance before them--looking so pale and unhappy in +LALLA ROOKH'S eyes that she repented already of her cruelty in having so +long excluded him. + +That venerable tower he told them was the remains of an ancient Fire- +Temple, built by those Ghebers or Persians of the old religion, who many +hundred years since had fled hither from the Arab conquerors, preferring +liberty and their altars in a foreign land to the alternative of apostasy +or persecution in their own. It was impossible, he added, not to feel +interested in the many glorious but unsuccessful struggles which had been +made by these original natives of Persia to cast off the yoke of their +bigoted conquerors. Like their own Fire in the Burning Field at Bakou when +suppressed in one place they had but broken out with fresh flame in +another; and as a native of Cashmere, of that fair and Holy Valley which +had in the same manner become the prey of strangers[190] and seen her +ancient shrines and native princes swept away before the march of her +intolerant invaders he felt a sympathy, he owned, with the sufferings of +the persecuted Ghebers which every monument like this before them but +tended more powerfully to awaken. + +It was the first time that FERAMORZ had ever ventured upon so much +_prose_ before FADLADEEN and it may easily be conceived what effect such +prose as this must have produced upon that most orthodox and most pagan- +hating personage. He sat for some minutes aghast, ejaculating only at +intervals, "Bigoted conquerors!--sympathy with Fire-worshippers!"[191]-- +while FERAMORZ happy to take advantage of this almost speechless horror of +the Chamberlain proceeded to say that he knew a melancholy story connected +with the events of one of those struggles of the brave Fire-worshippers +against their Arab masters, which if the evening was not too far advanced +he should have much pleasure in being allowed to relate to the Princess. +It was impossible for LALLA ROOKH to refuse;--he had never before looked +half so animated, and when he spoke of the Holy Valley his eyes had +sparkled she thought like the talismanic characters on the scimitar of +Solomon. Her consent was therefore most readily granted; and while +FADLADEEN sat in unspeakable dismay, expecting treason and abomination in +every line, the poet thus began his story of the Fire-worshippers: + + +THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. + + +'Tis moonlight over OMAN'S SEA;[192] + Her banks of pearl and palmy isles +Bask in the night-beam beauteously + And her blue waters sleep in smiles. +'Tis moonlight in HARMOZIA'S[193] walls, +And through her EMIR'S porphyry halls +Where some hours since was heard the swell +Of trumpets and the clash of zel[194] +Bidding the bright-eyed sun farewell;-- +The peaceful sun whom better suits + The music of the bulbul's nest +Or the light touch of lovers' lutes + To sing him to his golden rest. +All husht--there's not a breeze in motion; +The shore is silent as the ocean. +If zephyrs come, so light they come. + Nor leaf is stirred nor wave is driven;-- +The wind-tower on the EMIR'S dome[195] + Can hardly win a breath from heaven. + +Even he, that tyrant Arab, sleeps +Calm, while a nation round him weeps, +While curses load the air he breathes +And falchions from unnumbered sheaths +Are starting to avenge the shame +His race hath brought on IRAN'S[196]name. +Hard, heartless Chief, unmoved alike +Mid eyes that weep and swords that strike; +One of that saintly, murderous brood, + To carnage and the Koran given, +Who think thro' unbelievers' blood + Lies their directest path to heaven,-- +One who will pause and kneel unshod + In the warm blood his hand hath poured, +To mutter o'er some text of God + Engraven on his reeking sword;[197] +Nay, who can coolly note the line, +The letter of those words divine, +To which his blade with searching art +Had sunk into its victim's heart! + +Just ALLA! what must be thy look + When such a wretch before thee stands +Unblushing, with thy Sacred Book,-- + Turning the leaves with bloodstained hands, +And wresting from its page sublime +His creed of lust and hate and crime;-- +Even as those bees of TREBIZOND, + Which from the sunniest flowers that glad +With their pure smile the gardens round, + Draw venom forth that drives men mad.[198] +Never did fierce Arabia send + A satrap forth more direly great; +Never was IRAN doomed to bend + Beneath a yoke of deadlier weight. +Her throne had fallen--her pride was crusht-- +Her sons were willing slaves, nor blusht, +In their own land,--no more their own,-- +To crouch beneath a stranger's throne. +Her towers where MITHRA once had burned. +To Moslem shrines--oh shame!--were turned, +Where slaves converted by the sword, +Their mean, apostate worship poured, +And curst the faith their sires adored. +Yet has she hearts, mid all this ill, +O'er all this wreck high buoyant still +With hope and vengeance;--hearts that yet-- + Like gems, in darkness, issuing rays +They've treasured from the sun that's set,-- + Beam all the light of long-lost days! +And swords she hath, nor weak nor slow + To second all such hearts can dare: +As he shall know, well, dearly know. + Who sleeps in moonlight luxury there, +Tranquil as if his spirit lay +Becalmed in Heaven's approving ray. +Sleep on--for purer eyes than thine +Those waves are husht, those planets shine; +Sleep on and be thy rest unmoved + By the white moonbeam's dazzling power;-- +None but the loving and the loved + Should be awake at this sweet hour. + +And see--where high above those rocks + That o'er the deep their shadows fling. +Yon turret stands;--where ebon locks, + As glossy as the heron's wing + Upon the turban of a king,[199] +Hang from the lattice, long and wild,-- +'Tis she, that EMIR'S blooming child, +All truth and tenderness and grace, +Tho' born of such ungentle race;-- +An image of Youth's radiant Fountain +Springing in a desolate mountain![200] + +Oh what a pure and sacred thing + Is Beauty curtained from the sight +Of the gross world, illumining + One only mansion with her light! +Unseen by man's disturbing eye,-- + The flower that blooms beneath the sea, +Too deep for sunbeams, doth not lie + Hid in more chaste obscurity. +So, HINDA. have thy face and mind, +Like holy mysteries, lain enshrined. +And oh! what transport for a lover + To lift the veil that shades them o'er!-- +Like those who all at once discover + In the lone deep some fairy shore + Where mortal never trod before, +And sleep and wake in scented airs +No lip had ever breathed but theirs. + +Beautiful are the maids that glide + On summer-eves thro' YEMEN'S[201] dales, +And bright the glancing looks they hide + Behind their litters' roseate veils;-- +And brides as delicate and fair +As the white jasmine flowers they wear, +Hath YEMEN in her blissful clime, + Who lulled in cool kiosk or bower,[202] +Before their mirrors count the time[203] + And grow still lovelier every hour. +But never yet hath bride or maid + In ARABY'S gay Haram smiled. +Whose boasted brightness would not fade + Before AL HASSAN'S blooming child. + + Light as the angel shapes that bless +An infant's dream, yet not the less +Rich in all woman's loveliness;-- +With eyes so pure that from their ray +Dark Vice would turn abasht away, +Blinded like serpents when they gaze +Upon the emerald's virgin blaze;[204]-- +Yet filled with all youth's sweet desires, +Mingling the meek and vestal fires +Of other worlds with all the bliss, +The fond, weak tenderness of this: +A soul too more than half divine, + Where, thro' some shades of earthly feeling, +Religion's softened glories shine, + Like light thro' summer foliage stealing, +Shedding a glow of such mild hue, +So warm and yet so shadowy too, +As makes the very darkness there +More beautiful than light elsewhere. + +Such is the maid who at this hour + Hath risen from her restless sleep +And sits alone in that high bower, + Watching the still and shining deep. +Ah! 'twas not thus,--with tearful eyes + And beating heart,--she used to gaze +On the magnificent earth and skies, + In her own land, in happier days. +Why looks she now so anxious down +Among those rocks whose rugged frown + Blackens the mirror of the deep? +Whom waits she all this lonely night? + Too rough the rocks, too bold the steep, +For man to scale that turret's height!-- + +So deemed at least her thoughtful sire, + When high, to catch the cool night-air +After the day-beam's withering fire,[205] + He built her bower of freshness there, +And had it deckt with costliest skill + And fondly thought it safe as fair:-- +Think, reverend dreamer! think so still, + Nor wake to learn what Love can dare;-- +Love, all defying Love, who sees +No charm in trophies won with ease;-- +Whose rarest, dearest fruits of bliss +Are plucked on Danger's precipice! +Bolder than they who dare not dive + For pearls but when the sea's at rest, +Love, in the tempest most alive, + Hath ever held that pearl the best +He finds beneath the stormiest water. +Yes, ARABY'S unrivalled daughter, +Tho' high that tower, that rock-way rude, + There's one who but to kiss thy cheek +Would climb the untrodden solitude +Of ARARAT'S tremendous peak,[206] +And think its steeps, tho' dark and dread, +Heaven's pathways, if to thee they led! +Even now thou seest the flashing spray, +That lights his oar's impatient way;-- +Even now thou hearest the sudden shock +Of his swift bark against the rock, +And stretchest down thy arms of snow +As if to lift him from below! +Like her to whom at dead of night +The bridegroom with his locks of light[207] +Came in the flush of love and pride +And scaled the terrace of his bride;-- +When as she saw him rashly spring, +And midway up in danger cling, +She flung him down her long black hair, +Exclaiming breathless, "There, love, there!" +And scarce did manlier nerve uphold + The hero ZAL in that fond hour, +Than wings the youth who, fleet and bold, + Now climbs the rocks to HINDA'S bower. +See-light as up their granite steeps +The rock-goats of ARABIA clamber,[208] +Fearless from crag to crag he leaps, + And now is in the maiden's chamber. +She loves--but knows not whom she loves, + Nor what his race, nor whence he came;-- +Like one who meets in Indian groves + Some beauteous bird without a name; +Brought by the last ambrosial breeze +From isles in the undiscovered seas, +To show his plumage for a day +To wondering eyes and wing away! +Will he thus fly--her nameless lover? + ALLA forbid! 'twas by a moon +As fair as this, while singing over +Some ditty to her soft Kanoon, +Alone, at this same witching hour, + She first beheld his radiant eyes +Gleam thro' the lattice of the bower, + Where nightly now they mix their sighs; +And thought some spirit of the air +(For what could waft a mortal there?) +Was pausing on his moonlight way +To listen to her lonely lay! +This fancy ne'er hath left her mind: + And--tho', when terror's swoon had past, +She saw a youth of mortal kind + Before her in obeisance cast,-- +Yet often since, when he hath spoken +Strange, awful words,--and gleams have broken +From his dark eyes, too bright to bear, + Oh! she hath feared her soul was given +To some unhallowed child of air, + Some erring spirit cast from heaven, +Like those angelic youths of old +Who burned for maids of mortal mould, +Bewildered left the glorious skies +And lost their heaven for woman's eyes. +Fond girl! nor fiend nor angel he +Who woos thy young simplicity; +But one of earth's impassioned sons, + As warm in love, as fierce in ire +As the best heart whose current runs + Full of the Day-God's living fire. + +But quenched to-night that ardor seems, + And pale his cheek and sunk his brow;-- +Never before but in her dreams + Had she beheld him pale as now: +And those were dreams of troubled sleep +From which 'twas joy to wake and weep; +Visions that will not be forgot, + But sadden every waking scene +Like warning ghosts that leave the spot + All withered where they once have been. + + "How sweetly," said the trembling maid, +Of her own gentle voice afraid, +So long had they in silence stood +Looking upon that tranquil flood-- +"How sweetly does the moonbeam smile +"To-night upon yon leafy isle! +"Oft, in my fancy's wanderings, +"I've wisht that little isle had wings, +"And we within its fairy bowers + "Were wafted off to seas unknown, +"Where not a pulse should beat but ours, + "And we might live, love, die, alone! +"Far from the cruel and the cold,-- + "Where the bright eyes of angels only +"Should come around us to behold + "A paradise so pure and lonely. +"Would this be world enough for thee?"-- +Playful she turned that he might see + The passing smile her cheek put on; +But when she markt how mournfully + His eye met hers, that smile was gone; +And bursting into heart-felt tears, +"Yes, yes," she cried, "my hourly fears, +"My dreams have boded all too right-- +"We part--for ever part--tonight! +"I knew, I knew it _could_ not last-- +"'Twas bright, 'twas heavenly, but 'tis past! +"Oh! ever thus from childhood's hour +"I've seen my fondest hopes decay; +"I never loved a tree or flower, + "But 'twas the first to fade away. +"I never nurst a dear gazelle + "To glad me with its soft black eye +"But when it came to know me well + "And love me it was sure to die I +"Now too--the joy most like divine + "Of all I ever dreamt or knew, +"To see thee, hear thee, call thee mine,-- + "Oh misery! must I lose _that_ too? +"Yet go--on peril's brink we meet;-- + "Those frightful rocks--that treacherous sea-- +"No, never come again--tho' sweet, + "Tho' heaven, it may be death to thee. +"Farewell--and blessings on thy way, + "Where'er thou goest, beloved stranger! +"Better to sit and watch that ray +"And think thee safe, tho' far away, + "Than have thee near me and in danger!" + +"Danger!--oh, tempt me not to boast"-- +The youth exclaimed--"thou little know'st +"What he can brave, who, born and nurst +"In Danger's paths, has dared her worst; +"Upon whose ear the signal-word + "Of strife and death is hourly breaking; +"Who sleeps with head upon the sword + "His fevered hand must grasp in waking. +"Danger!"-- + "Say on--thou fearest not then, +"And we may meet--oft meet again?" + +"Oh! look not so--beneath the skies +"I now fear nothing but those eyes. +"If aught on earth could charm or force +"My spirit from its destined course,-- +"If aught could make this soul forget +"The bond to which its seal is set, +"'Twould be those eyes;--they, only they, +"Could melt that sacred seal away! +"But no--'tis fixt--_my_ awful doom +"Is fixt--on this side of the tomb +"We meet no more;--why, why did Heaven +"Mingle two souls that earth has riven, +"Has rent asunder wide as ours? +"Oh, Arab maid, as soon the Powers +"Of Light and Darkness may combine. +"As I be linkt with thee or thine! +"Thy Father"-- + "Holy ALLA save + "His gray head from that lightning glance! +"Thou knowest him not--he loves the brave; + "Nor lives there under heaven's expanse +"One who would prize, would worship thee +"And thy bold spirit more than he. +"Oft when in childhood I have played + "With the bright falchion by his side, +"I've heard him swear his lisping maid + "In time should be a warrior's bride. +"And still whene'er at Haram hours +"I take him cool sherbets and flowers, +"He tells me when in playful mood + "A hero shall my bridegroom be, +"Since maids are best in battle wooed, + "And won with shouts of victory! +"Nay, turn not from me--thou alone +"Art formed to make both hearts thy own. +"Go--join his sacred ranks--thou knowest + "The unholy strife these Persians wage:-- +"Good Heaven, that frown!--even now thou glowest + "With more than mortal warrior's rage. +"Haste to the camp by morning's light, +"And when that sword is raised in fight, +"Oh still remember, Love and I +"Beneath its shadow trembling lie! +"One victory o'er those Slaves of Fire, +"Those impious Ghebers whom my sire +"Abhors"-- + "Hold, hold--thy words are death"-- + The stranger cried as wild he flung +His mantle back and showed beneath + The Gheber belt that round him clung.[209]-- +"Here, maiden, look--weep--blush to see +"All that thy sire abhors in me! +"Yes--_I_ am of that impious race, + "Those Slaves of Fire who, morn and even, +"Hail their Creator's dwelling-place + "Among the living lights of heaven:[210] +"Yes--_I_ am of that outcast few, +"To IRAN and to vengeance true, +"Who curse the hour your Arabs came +"To desolate our shrines of flame, +"And swear before God's burning eye +"To break our country's chains or die! +"Thy bigot sire,--nay, tremble not,-- + "He who gave birth to those dear eyes +"With me is sacred as the spot + "From which our fires of worship rise! +"But know--'twas he I sought that night, + "When from my watch-boat on the sea +"I caught this turret's glimmering light, + "And up the rude rocks desperately +"Rusht to my prey--thou knowest the rest-- +"I climbed the gory vulture's nest, +"And found a trembling dove within;-- +"Thine, thine the victory--thine the sin-- +"If Love hath made one thought his own, +"That Vengeance claims first--last--alone! +"Oh? had we never, never met, +"Or could this heart even now forget +"How linkt, how blest we might have been, +"Had fate not frowned so dark between! +"Hadst thou been born a Persian maid, + "In neighboring valleys had we dwelt, +"Thro' the same fields in childhood played, + "At the same kindling altar knelt,-- +"Then, then, while all those nameless ties +"In which the charm of Country lies +"Had round our hearts been hourly spun, +"Till IRAN'S cause and thine were one; +"While in thy lute's awakening sigh +"I heard the voice of days gone by, +"And saw in every smile of thine +"Returning hours of glory shine;-- +"While the wronged Spirit of our Land + "Lived, lookt, and spoke her wrongs thro' thee,-- +"God! who could then this sword withstand? + "Its very flash were victory! +"But now--estranged, divorced for ever, +"Far as the grasp of Fate can sever; +"Our only ties what love has wove,-- +"In faith, friends, country, sundered wide; +"And then, then only, true to love, + "When false to all that's dear beside! +"Thy father IKAN'S deadliest foe-- +"Thyself, perhaps, even now--but no-- +"Hate never looked so lovely yet! + No--sacred to thy soul will be +"The land of him who could forget + "All but that bleeding land for thee. +"When other eyes shall see, unmoved, + "Her widows mourn, her warriors fall, +"Thou'lt think how well one Gheber loved. + "And for _his_ sake thou'lt weep for all! +"But look"-- + With sudden start he turned + And pointed to the distant wave +Where lights like charnel meteors burned + Bluely as o'er some seaman's grave; +And fiery darts at intervals[211] + Flew up all sparkling from the main +As if each star that nightly falls +Were shooting back to heaven again. +"My signal lights!--I must away-- +"Both, both are ruined, if I stay. +"Farewell--sweet life! thou clingest in vain-- +"Now, Vengeance, I am thine again!" +Fiercely he broke away, nor stopt, +Nor lookt--but from the lattice dropt +Down mid the pointed crags beneath +As if he fled from love to death. +While pale and mute young HINDA stood, +Nor moved till in the silent flood +A momentary plunge below +Startled her from her trance of woe;-- +Shrieking she to the lattice flew, + "I come--I come--if in that tide +"Thou sleepest to-night, I'll sleep there too + "In death's cold wedlock by thy side. +"Oh! I would ask no happier bed + "Than the chill wave my love lies under:-- +"Sweeter to rest together dead, + "Far sweeter than to live asunder!" +But no--their hour is not yet come-- + Again she sees his pinnace fly, +Wafting him fleetly to his home, + Where'er that ill-starred home may lie; +And calm and smooth it seemed to win + Its moonlight way before the wind +As if it bore all peace within + Nor left one breaking heart behind! + + +The Princess whose heart was sad enough already could have wished that +FERAMORZ had chosen a less melancholy story; as it is only to the happy +that tears are a luxury. Her Ladies however were by no means sorry that +love was once more the Poet's theme; for, whenever he spoke of love, they +said, his voice was as sweet as if he had chewed the leaves of that +enchanted tree, which grows over the tomb of the musician, Tan-Sein.[212] + +Their road all the morning had lain through a very dreary country;-- +through valleys, covered with a low bushy jungle, where in more than one +place the awful signal of the bamboo staff[213] with the white flag at +its top reminded the traveller that in that very spot the tiger had made +some human creature his victim. It was therefore with much pleasure that +they arrived at sunset in a safe and lovely glen and encamped under one of +those holy trees whose smooth columns and spreading roofs seem to destine +them for natural temples of religion. Beneath this spacious shade some +pious hands had erected a row of pillars ornamented with the most +beautiful porcelain[214] which now supplied the use of mirrors to the +young maidens as they adjusted their hair in descending from the +palankeens. Here while as usual the Princess sat listening anxiously with +FADLADEEN in one of his loftiest moods of criticism by her side the young +Poet leaning against a branch of the tree thus continued his story:-- + + +The morn hath risen clear and calm + And o'er the Green Sea[215] palely shines, +Revealing BAHREIN'S groves of palm + And lighting KISHMA'S amber vines. +Fresh smell the shores of ARABY, + While breezes from the Indian sea +Blow round SELAMA'S[216] sainted cape + And curl the shining flood beneath,-- +Whose waves are rich with many a grape + And cocoa-nut and flowery wreath +Which pious seamen as they past +Had toward that holy headland cast-- +Oblations to the Genii there +For gentle skies and breezes fair! +The nightingale now bends her flight[217] +From the high trees where all the night + She sung so sweet with none to listen; +And hides her from the morning star + Where thickets of pomegranate glisten +In the clear dawn,--bespangled o'er + With dew whose night-drops would not stain +The best and brightest scimitar[218] +That ever youthful Sultan wore + On the first morning of his reign. + +And see--the Sun himself!--on wings +Of glory up the East he springs. +Angel of Light! who from the time +Those heavens began their march sublime, +Hath first of all the starry choir +Trod in his Maker's steps of fire! + Where are the days, thou wondrous sphere, +When IRAN, like a sun-flower, turned +To meet that eye where'er it burned?-- + When from the banks of BENDEMEER +To the nut-groves of SAMARCAND +Thy temples flamed o'er all the land? +Where are they? ask the shades of them + Who, on CADESSIA'S[219] bloody plains, +Saw fierce invaders pluck the gem +From IRAN'S broken diadem, + And bind her ancient faith in chains:-- +Ask the poor exile cast alone +On foreign shores, unloved, unknown, +Beyond the Caspian's Iron Gates, + Or on the snowy Mossian mountains, +Far from his beauteous land of dates, + Her jasmine bowers and sunny fountains: +Yet happier so than if he trod +His own beloved but blighted sod +Beneath a despot stranger's nod!-- +Oh, he would rather houseless roam + Where Freedom and his God may lead, +Than be the sleekest slave at home + That crouches to the conqueror's creed! + +Is IRAN'S pride then gone for ever, + Quenched with the flame in MITHRA'S caves? +No--she has sons that never--never-- + Will stoop to be the Moslem's slaves + While heaven has light or earth has graves;-- +Spirits of fire that brood not long +But flash resentment back for wrong; +And hearts where, slow but deep, the seeds +Of vengeance ripen into deeds, +Till in some treacherous hour of calm +They burst like ZEILAN'S giant palm[220] +Whose buds fly open with a sound +That shakes the pigmy forests round! +Yes, EMIR! he, who scaled that tower, + And had he reached thy slumbering breast +Had taught thee in a Gheber's power + How safe even tyrant heads may rest-- +Is one of many, brave as he, +Who loathe thy haughty race and thee; +Who tho' they knew the strife is vain, +Who tho' they know the riven chain +Snaps but to enter in the heart +Of him who rends its links apart, +Yet dare the issue,--blest to be +Even for one bleeding moment free +And die in pangs of liberty! +Thou knowest them well--'tis some moons since + Thy turbaned troops and blood-red flags, +Thou satrap of a bigot Prince, + Have swarmed among these Green Sea crags; +Yet here, even here, a sacred band +Ay, in the portal of that land +Thou, Arab, darest to call thy own, +Their spears across thy path have thrown; +Here--ere the winds half winged thee o'er-- +Rebellion braved thee from the shore. + +Rebellion! foul, dishonoring word, + Whose wrongful blight so oft has stained +The holiest cause that tongue or sword + Of mortal ever lost or gained. +How many a spirit born to bless + Hath sunk beneath that withering name, +Whom but a day's, an hour's success + Had wafted to eternal fame! +As exhalations when they burst +From the warm earth if chilled at first, +If checkt in soaring from the plain +Darken to fogs and sink again;-- +But if they once triumphant spread +Their wings above the mountain-head, +Become enthroned in upper air, +And turn to sun-bright glories there! + +And who is he that wields the might + Of Freedom on the Green Sea brink, +Before whose sabre's dazzling light[221] + The eyes of YEMEN'S warriors wink? +Who comes embowered in the spears +Of KERMAN'S hardy mountaineers? +Those mountaineers that truest, last, + Cling to their country's ancient rites, +As if that God whose eyelids cast + Their closing gleam on IRAN'S heights, +Among her snowy mountains threw +The last light of his worship too! +'Tis HAFED--name of fear, whose sound + Chills like the muttering of a charm!-- +Shout but that awful name around, + And palsy shakes the manliest arm. + +'Tis HAFED, most accurst and dire +(So rankt by Moslem hate and ire) +Of all the rebel Sons of Fire; +Of whose malign, tremendous power +The Arabs at their mid-watch hour +Such tales of fearful wonder tell +That each affrighted sentinel +Pulls down his cowl upon his eyes, +Lest HAFED in the midst should rise! +A man, they say, of monstrous birth, +A mingled race of flame and earth, +Sprung from those old, enchanted kings[222] + Who in their fairy helms of yore +A feather from the mystic wings + Of the Simoorgh resistless wore; +And gifted by the Fiends of Fire, +Who groaned to see their shrines expire +With charms that all in vain withstood +Would drown the Koran's light in blood! + +Such were the tales that won belief, + And such the coloring Fancy gave +To a young, warm, and dauntless Chief,-- + One who, no more than mortal brave, +Fought for the land his soul adored, + For happy homes and altars free,-- +His only talisman, the sword, + His only spell-word, Liberty! +One of that ancient hero line, +Along whose glorious current shine +Names that have sanctified their blood: +As LEBANON'S small mountain-flood +Is rendered holy by the ranks +Of sainted cedars on its banks.[223] +'Twas not for him to crouch the knee +Tamely to Moslem tyranny; +'Twas not for him whose soul was cast +In the bright mould of ages past, +Whose melancholy spirit fed +With all the glories of the dead +Tho' framed for IRAN'S happiest years. +Was born among her chains and tears!-- +'Twas not for him to swell the crowd +Of slavish heads, that shrinking bowed +Before the Moslem as he past +Like shrubs beneath the poison-blast-- +No--far he fled--indignant fled + The pageant of his country's shame; +While every tear her children shed + Fell on his soul like drops of flame; +And as a lover hails the dawn + Of a first smile, so welcomed he +The sparkle of the first sword drawn + For vengeance and for liberty! +But vain was valor--vain the flower +Of KERMAN, in that deathful hour, +Against AL HASSAN'S whelming power.-- +In vain they met him helm to helm +Upon the threshold of that realm +He came in bigot pomp to sway, +And with their corpses blockt his way-- +In vain--for every lance they raised +Thousands around the conqueror blazed; +For every arm that lined their shore +Myriads of slaves were wafted o'er,-- +A bloody, bold, and countless crowd, +Before whose swarm as fast they bowed +As dates beneath the locust cloud. + +There stood--but one short league away +From old HARMOZIA'S sultry bay-- +A rocky mountain o'er the Sea-- +Of OMAN beetling awfully;[224] +A last and solitary link + Of those stupendous chains that reach +From the broad Caspian's reedy brink + Down winding to the Green Sea beach. +Around its base the bare rocks stood +Like naked giants, in the flood + As if to guard the Gulf across; +While on its peak that braved the sky +A ruined Temple towered so high + That oft the sleeping albatross[225] +Struck the wild ruins with her wing, +And from her cloud-rockt slumbering +Started--to find man's dwelling there +In her own silent fields of air! +Beneath, terrific caverns gave +Dark welcome to each stormy wave +That dasht like midnight revellers in;-- +And such the strange, mysterious din +At times throughout those caverns rolled,-- +And such the fearful wonders told +Of restless sprites imprisoned there, +That bold were Moslem who would dare +At twilight hour to steer his skiff +Beneath the Gheber's lonely cliff.[226] +On the land side those towers sublime, +That seemed above the grasp of Time, +Were severed from the haunts of men +By a wide, deep, and wizard glen, +So fathomless, so full of gloom, + No eye could pierce the void between: +It seemed a place where Ghouls might come +With their foul banquets from the tomb + And in its caverns feed unseen. +Like distant thunder, from below + The sound of many torrents came, +Too deep for eye or ear to know +If 'twere the sea's imprisoned flow, + Or floods of ever-restless flame. +For each ravine, each rocky spire +Of that vast mountain stood on fire;[227] +And tho' for ever past the days +When God was worshipt in the blaze-- +That from its lofty altar shone,-- +Tho' fled the priests, the votaries gone, +Still did the mighty flame burn on,[228] +Thro' chance and change, thro' good and ill, +Like its own God's eternal will, +Deep, constant, bright, unquenchable! + +Thither the vanquisht HAFED led + His little army's last remains;-- +"Welcome, terrific glen!" he said, +"Thy gloom, that Eblis' self might dread, + "Is Heaven to him who flies from chains!" +O'er a dark, narrow bridge-way known +To him and to his Chiefs alone +They crost the chasm and gained the towers;-- +"This home," he cried, "at least is ours; +"Here we may bleed, unmockt by hymns + "Of Moslem triumph o'er our head; +"Here we may fall nor leave our limbs + "To quiver to the Moslem's tread. +"Stretched on this rock while vultures' beaks +"Are whetted on our yet warm cheeks, +"Here--happy that no tyrant's eye +"Gloats on our torments--we may die!"-- + +'Twas night when to those towers they came, +And gloomily the fitful flame +That from the ruined altar broke +Glared on his features as he spoke:-- +"'Tis o'er--what men could do, we've done-- +"If IRAN _will_ look tamely on +"And see her priests, her warriors driven + "Before a sensual bigot's nod, +"A wretch who shrines his lusts in heaven + "And makes a pander of his God; +"If her proud sons, her high-born souls, + "Men in whose veins--oh last disgrace! +"The blood of ZAL and RUSTAM[229] rolls.-- + "If they _will_ court this upstart race +"And turn from MITHRA'S ancient ray +"To kneel at shrines of yesterday; +"If they _will_ crouch to IRAN'S foes, + "Why, let them--till the land's despair +"Cries out to Heaven, and bondage grows + "Too vile for even the vile to bear! +"Till shame at last, long hidden, burns +"Their inmost core, and conscience turns +"Each coward tear the slave lets fall +"Back on his heart in drops of gall. +"But here at least are arms unchained +"And souls that thraldom never stained;-- + "This spot at least no foot of slave +"Or satrap ever yet profaned, + "And tho' but few--tho' fast the wave +"Of life is ebbing from our veins, +"Enough for vengeance still remains. +"As panthers after set of sun +"Rush from the roots of LEBANON +"Across the dark sea-robber's way,[230] +"We'll bound upon our startled prey. +"And when some hearts that proudest swell +"Have felt our falchion's last farewell, +"When Hope's expiring throb is o'er +"And even Despair can prompt no more, +"This spot shall be the sacred grave +"Of the last few who vainly brave +"Die for the land they cannot save!" + +His Chiefs stood round--each shining blade +Upon the broken altar laid-- +And tho' so wild and desolate +Those courts where once the Mighty sate: +Nor longer on those mouldering towers +Was seen the feast of fruits and flowers +With which of old the Magi fed +The wandering Spirits of their Dead;[231] +Tho' neither priest nor rites were there, + Nor charmed leaf of pure pomegranate,[232] +Nor hymn, nor censer's fragrant air, + Nor symbol of their worshipt planet;[233] +Yet the same God that heard their sires +Heard _them_ while on that altar's fires +They swore the latest, holiest deed +Of the few hearts, still left to bleed, +Should be in IRAN'S injured name +To die upon that Mount of Flame-- +The last of all her patriot line, +Before her last untrampled Shrine! + +Brave, suffering souls! they little knew +How many a tear their injuries drew +From one meek maid, one gentle foe, +Whom love first touched with others' woe-- +Whose life, as free from thought as sin, +Slept like a lake till Love threw in +His talisman and woke the tide +And spread its trembling circles wide. +Once, EMIR! thy unheeding child +Mid all this havoc bloomed and smiled,-- +Tranquil as on some battle plain + The Persian lily shines and towers[234] +Before the combat's reddening stain + Hath fallen upon her golden flowers. +Light-hearted maid, unawed, unmoved, +While Heaven but spared the sire she loved, +Once at thy evening tales of blood +Unlistening and aloof she stood-- +And oft when thou hast paced along + Thy Haram halls with furious heat, +Hast thou not curst her cheerful song, + That came across thee, calm and sweet, +Like lutes of angels touched so near +Hell's confines that the damned can hear! + +Far other feelings Love hath brought-- + Her soul all flame, her brow all sadness, +She now has but the one dear thought, + And thinks that o'er, almost to madness! +Oft doth her sinking heart recall +His words--"for _my_ sake weep for all;" +And bitterly as day on day + Of rebel carnage fast succeeds, +She weeps a lover snatched away + In every Gheber wretch that bleeds. +There's not a sabre meets her eye + But with his life-blood seems to swim; +There's not an arrow wings the sky + But fancy turns its point to him. +No more she brings with footsteps light +AL HASSAN's falchion for the fight; +And--had he lookt with clearer sight, +Had not the mists that ever rise +From a foul spirit dimmed his eyes-- +He would have markt her shuddering frame, +When from the field of blood he came, +The faltering speech--the look estranged-- +Voice, step and life and beauty changed-- +He would have markt all this, and known +Such change is wrought by Love alone! +Ah! not the Love that should have blest +So young, so innocent a breast; +Not the pure, open, prosperous Love, +That, pledged on earth and sealed above, +Grows in the world's approving eyes, + In friendship's smile and home's caress, +Collecting all the heart's sweet ties + Into one knot of happiness! +No, HINDA, no,--thy fatal flame +Is nurst in silence, sorrow, shame;-- + A passion without hope or pleasure, +In thy soul's darkness buried deep, + It lies like some ill-gotten treasure,-- +Some idol without shrine or name, +O'er which its pale-eyed votaries keep +Unholy watch while others sleep. + +Seven nights have darkened OMAN'S sea, + Since last beneath the moonlight ray +She saw his light oar rapidly + Hurry her Gheber's bark away,-- +And still she goes at midnight hour +To weep alone in that high bower +And watch and look along the deep +For him whose smiles first made her weep;-- +But watching, weeping, all was vain, +She never saw his bark again. +The owlet's solitary cry, +The night-hawk flitting darkly by, + And oft the hateful carrion bird, +Heavily flapping his clogged wing, +Which reeked with that day's banqueting-- + Was all she saw, was all she heard. + +'Tis the eighth morn--AL HASSAN'S brow + Is brightened with unusual joy-- +What mighty mischief glads him now, + Who never smiles but to destroy? +The sparkle upon HERKEND'S Sea, +When tost at midnight furiously,[235] +Tells not of wreck and ruin nigh, +More surely than that smiling eye! +"Up, daughter, up--the KERNA'S[236] breath +"Has blown a blast would waken death, +"And yet thou sleepest--up, child, and see +"This blessed day for heaven and me, +"A day more rich in Pagan blood +"Than ever flasht o'er OMAN'S flood. +"Before another dawn shall shine, +"His head--heart--limbs--will all be mine; +"This very night his blood shall steep +"These hands all over ere I sleep!"-- + +"_His_ blood!" she faintly screamed--her mind +Still singling _one_ from all mankind-- +"Yes--spite of his ravines and towers, +"HAFED, my child, this night is ours. +"Thanks to all-conquering treachery, + "Without whose aid the links accurst, +"That bind these impious slaves, would be + "Too strong for ALLA'S self to burst! +"That rebel fiend whose blade has spread +"My path with piles of Moslem dead, +"Whose baffling spells had almost driven +"Back from their course the Swords of Heaven, +"This night with all his band shall know +"How deep an Arab's steel can go, +"When God and Vengeance speed the blow. +"And--Prophet! by that holy wreath +"Thou worest on OHOD'S field of death,[237] +"I swear, for every sob that parts +"In anguish from these heathen hearts, +"A gem from PERSIA'S plundered mines +"Shall glitter on thy shrine of Shrines. +"But, ha!--she sinks--that look so wild-- +"Those livid lips--my child, my child, +"This life of blood befits not thee, +"And thou must back to ARABY. + "Ne'er had I riskt thy timid sex +"In scenes that man himself might dread, +"Had I not hoped our every tread + "Would be on prostrate Persian necks-- +"Curst race, they offer swords instead! +"But cheer thee, maid,--the wind that now +"Is blowing o'er thy feverish brow +"To-day shall waft thee from the shore; +"And ere a drop of this night's gore +"Have time to chill in yonder towers, +"Thou'lt see thy own sweet Arab bowers!" + +His bloody boast was all too true; +There lurkt one wretch among the few +Whom HAFED'S eagle eye could count +Around him on that Fiery Mount,-- +One miscreant who for gold betrayed +The pathway thro' the valley's shade +To those high towers where Freedom stood +In her last hold of flame and blood. +Left on the field last dreadful night, +When sallying from their sacred height +The Ghebers fought hope's farewell fight, +He lay--but died not with the brave; +That sun which should have gilt his grave +Saw him a traitor and a slave;-- +And while the few who thence returned +To their high rocky fortress mourned +For him among the matchless dead +They left behind on glory's bed, +He lived, and in the face of morn +Laught them and Faith and + Heaven to scorn. + +Oh for a tongue to curse the slave + Whose treason like a deadly blight +Comes o'er the councils of the brave +And blasts them in their hour of might! +May Life's unblessed cup for him +Be drugged with treacheries to the brim.-- +With hopes that but allure to fly, + With joys that vanish while he sips, +Like Dead-Sea fruits that tempt the eye, + But turn to ashes on the lips![238] +His country's curse, his children's shame, +Outcast of virtue, peace and fame, +May he at last with lips of flame +On the parched desert thirsting die,-- +While lakes that shone in mockery nigh,[239] +Are fading off, untouched, untasted, +Like the once glorious hopes he blasted! +And when from earth his spirit flies, + Just Prophet, let the damned-one dwell +Full in the sight of Paradise + Beholding heaven and feeling hell! + + +LALLA ROOKH had the night before been visited by a dream which in spite of +the impending fate of poor HAFED made her heart more than usually cheerful +during the morning and gave her cheeks all the freshened animation of a +flower that the Bidmusk had just passed over.[240] She fancied that she +was sailing on that Eastern Ocean where the sea-gypsies who live for ever +on the water[241] enjoy a perpetual summer in wandering from isle to isle +when she saw a small gilded bark approaching her. It was like one of those +boats which the Maldivian islanders send adrift, at the mercy of winds and +waves, loaded with perfumes, flowers, and odoriferous wood, as an offering +to the Spirit whom they call King of the Sea. At first, this little bark +appeared to be empty but on coming nearer-- + +She had proceeded thus far in relating the dream to her Ladies, when +FERAMORZ appeared at the door of the pavilion. In his presence of course +everything else was forgotten and the continuance of the story was +instantly requested by all. Fresh wood of aloes was set to burn in the +cassolets;--the violet sherbets[242] were hastily handed round, and after +a short prelude on his lute in the pathetic measure of Nava,[243] which is +always used to express the lamentations of absent lovers, the Poet thus +continued:-- + + +The day is lowering--stilly black +Sleeps the grim wave, while heaven's rack, +Disperst and wild, 'twixt earth and sky +Hangs like a shattered canopy. +There's not a cloud in that blue plain + But tells of storm to come or past;-- +Here flying loosely as the mane + Of a young war-horse in the blast;-- +There rolled in masses dark and swelling, +As proud to be the thunder's dwelling! +While some already burst and riven +Seen melting down the verge of heaven; +As tho' the infant storm had rent +The mighty womb that gave him birth, +And having swept the firmament + Was now in fierce career for earth. + +On earth 'twas yet all calm around, +A pulseless silence, dread, profound, +More awful than the tempest's sound. +The diver steered for ORMUS' bowers, +And moored his skiff till calmer hours; +The sea-birds with portentous screech +Flew fast to land;--upon the beach +The pilot oft had paused, with glance +Turned upward to that wild expanse;-- +And all was boding, drear and dark +As her own soul when HINDA'S bark +Went slowly from the Persian shore.-- +No music timed her parting oar,[244] +Nor friends upon the lessening strand +Lingering to wave the unseen hand +Or speak the farewell, heard no more;-- +But lone, unheeded, from the bay +The vessel takes its mournful way, +Like some ill-destined bark that steers +In silence thro' the Gate of Tears.[245] +And where was stern AL HASSAN then? +Could not that saintly scourge of men +From bloodshed and devotion spare +One minute for a farewell there? +No--close within in changeful fits +Of cursing and of prayer he sits +In savage loneliness to brood +Upon the coming night of blood,-- + With that keen, second-scent of death, +By which the vulture snuffs his food + In the still warm and living breath![246] +While o'er the wave his weeping daughter +Is wafted from these scenes of slaughter,-- +As a young bird of BABYLON,[247] +Let loose to tell of victory won, +Flies home, with wing, ah! not unstained +By the red hands that held her chained. + +And does the long-left home she seeks +Light up no gladness on her cheeks? +The flowers she nurst--the well-known groves, +Where oft in dreams her spirit roves-- +Once more to see her dear gazelles +Come bounding with their silver bells; +Her birds' new plumage to behold + And the gay, gleaming fishes count, +She left all filleted with gold + Shooting around their jasper fount;[248] +Her little garden mosque to see, + And once again, at evening hour, +To tell her ruby rosary + In her own sweet acacia bower.-- +Can these delights that wait her now +Call up no sunshine on her brow? +No,--silent, from her train apart,-- +As if even now she felt at heart +The chill of her approaching doom,-- +She sits, all lovely in her gloom +As a pale Angel of the Grave; +And o'er the wide, tempestuous wave +Looks with a shudder to those towers +Where in a few short awful hours +Blood, blood, in streaming tides shall run, +Foul incense for to-morrow's sun! +"Where art thou, glorious stranger! thou, +"So loved, so lost, where art thou now? +"Foe--Gheber--infidel--whate'er +"The unhallowed name thou'rt doomed to bear, +"Still glorious--still to this fond heart +"Dear as its blood, whate'er thou art! +"Yes--ALLA, dreadful ALLA! yes-- +"If there be wrong, be crime in this, +"Let the black waves that round us roll, +"Whelm me this instant ere my soul +"Forgetting faith--home--father--all +"Before its earthly idol fall, +"Nor worship even Thyself above him-- +"For, oh, so wildly do I love him, +"Thy Paradise itself were dim +"And joyless, if not shared with him!" +Her hands were claspt--her eyes upturned, + Dropping their tears like moonlight rain; +And, tho' her lip, fond raver! burned + With words of passion, bold, profane. +Yet was there light around her brow, + A holiness in those dark eyes, +Which showed,--tho' wandering earthward now,-- + Her spirit's home was in the skies. +Yes--for a spirit pure as hers +Is always pure, even while it errs; +As sunshine broken in the rill +Tho' turned astray is sunshine still! + +So wholly had her mind forgot +All thoughts but one she heeded not +The rising storm--the wave that cast +A moment's midnight as it past-- +Nor heard the frequent shout, the tread +Of gathering tumult o'er her head-- +Clasht swords and tongues that seemed to vie +With the rude riot of the sky.-- +But, hark!--that war-whoop on the deck-- + That crash as if each engine there, +Mast, sails and all, were gone to wreck, + Mid yells and stampings of despair! +Merciful Heaven! what _can_ it be? +'Tis not the storm, tho' fearfully +The ship has shuddered as she rode +O'er mountain-waves--"Forgive me, God! +"Forgive me"--shrieked the maid and knelt, +Trembling all over--for she felt +As if her judgment hour was near; +While crouching round half dead with fear, +Her handmaids clung, nor breathed nor stirred-- +When, hark!--a second crash--a third-- +And now as if a bolt of thunder +Had riven the laboring planks asunder, +The deck falls in--what horrors then! +Blood, waves and tackle, swords and men +Come mixt together thro' the chasm,-- +Some wretches in their dying spasm +Still fighting on--and some that call +"For GOD and IRAN!" as they fall! +Whose was the hand that turned away +The perils of the infuriate fray, +And snatcht her breathless from beneath +This wilderment of wreck and death? +She knew not--for a faintness came +Chill o'er her and her sinking frame +Amid the ruins of that hour +Lay like a pale and scorched flower +Beneath the red volcano's shower. +But, oh! the sights and sounds of dread +That shockt her ere her senses fled! +The yawning deck--the crowd that strove +Upon the tottering planks above-- +The sail whose fragments, shivering o'er +The stragglers' heads all dasht with gore +Fluttered like bloody flags--the clash +Of sabres and the lightning's flash +Upon their blades, high tost about +Like meteor brands[249]--as if throughout + The elements one fury ran, +One general rage that left a doubt + Which was the fiercer, Heaven or Man! +Once too--but no--it could not be-- + 'Twas fancy all--yet once she thought, +While yet her fading eyes could see + High on the ruined deck she caught +A glimpse of that unearthly form, + That glory of her soul,--even then, +Amid the whirl of wreck and storm, + Shining above his fellow-men, +As on some black and troublous night +The Star of EGYPT,[250] whose proud light +Never hath beamed on those who rest +In the White Islands of the West, +Burns thro' the storm with looks of flame +That put Heaven's cloudier eyes to shame. +But no--'twas but the minute's dream-- +A fantasy--and ere the scream +Had half-way past her pallid lips, +A death-like swoon, a chill eclipse +Of soul and sense its darkness spread +Around her and she sunk as dead. +How calm, how beautiful comes on +The stilly hour when storms are gone, +When warring winds have died away, +And clouds beneath the glancing ray +Melt off and leave the land and sea +Sleeping in bright tranquillity,-- +Fresh as if Day again were born, +Again upon the lap of Morn!-- +When the light blossoms rudely torn +And scattered at the whirlwind's will, +Hang floating in the pure air still, +Filling it all with precious balm, +In gratitude for this sweet calm;-- +And every drop the thundershowers +Have left upon the grass and flowers +Sparkles, as 'twere that lightning-gem[251] +Whose liquid flame is born of them! +When, 'stead of one unchanging breeze, + There blow a thousand gentle airs + And each a different perfume bears,-- +As if the loveliest plants and trees +Had vassal breezes of their own +To watch and wait on them alone, +And waft no other breath than theirs: +When the blue waters rise and fall, +In sleepy sunshine mantling all; +And even that swell the tempest leaves +Is like the full and silent heaves +Of lovers' hearts when newly blest, +Too newly to be quite at rest. + +Such was the golden hour that broke +Upon the world when HINDA woke +From her long trance and heard around +No motion but the water's sound +Rippling against the vessel's side, +As slow it mounted o'er the tide.-- +But where is she?--her eyes are dark, +Are wilder still--is this the bark, +The same, that from HARMOZIA'S bay +Bore her at morn--whose bloody way +The sea-dog trackt?--no--strange and new +Is all that meets her wondering view. +Upon a galliot's deck she lies, + Beneath no rich pavilion's shade,-- +No plumes to fan her sleeping eyes, + Nor jasmine on her pillow laid. +But the rude litter roughly spread +With war-cloaks is her homely bed, +And shawl and sash on javelins hung +For awning o'er her head are flung. +Shuddering she lookt around--there lay + A group of warriors in the sun, +Resting their limbs, as for that day + Their ministry of death were done. +Some gazing on the drowsy sea +Lost in unconscious revery; +And some who seemed but ill to brook +That sluggish calm with many a look +To the slack sail impatient cast, +As loose it bagged around the mast. + +Blest ALLA! who shall save her now? + There's not in all that warrior band +One Arab sword, one turbaned brow + From her own Faithful Moslem land. +Their garb--the leathern belt that wraps + Each yellow vest[252]--that rebel hue-- +The Tartar fleece upon their caps[253]-- + Yes--yes--her fears are all too true, +And Heaven hath in this dreadful hour +Abandoned her to HAFED'S power;-- +HAFED, the Gheber!--at the thought + Her very heart's blood chills within; +He whom her soul was hourly taught + To loathe as some foul fiend of sin, +Some minister whom Hell had sent +To spread its blast where'er he went +And fling as o'er our earth he trod +His shadow betwixt man and God! +And she is now his captive,--thrown +In his fierce hands, alive, alone; +His the infuriate band she sees, +All infidels--all enemies! +What was the daring hope that then +Crost her like lightning, as again +With boldness that despair had lent + She darted tho' that armed crowd +A look so searching, so intent, + That even the sternest warrior bowed +Abasht, when he her glances caught, +As if he guessed whose form they sought. +But no--she sees him not--'tis gone, +The vision that before her shone +Thro' all the maze of blood and storm, +Is fled--'twas but a phantom form-- +One of those passing, rainbow dreams, +Half light, half shade, which Fancy's beams +Paint on the fleeting mists that roll +In trance or slumber round the soul. + +But now the bark with livelier bound + Scales the blue wave--the crew's in motion. +The oars are out and with light sound + Break the bright mirror of the ocean, +Scattering its brilliant fragments round. +And now she sees--with horror sees, + Their course is toward that mountain-hold,-- +Those towers that make her life-blood freeze, +Where MECCA'S godless enemies + Lie like beleaguered scorpions rolled + In their last deadly, venomous fold! +Amid the illumined land and flood +Sunless that mighty mountain stood; +Save where above its awful head, +There shone a flaming cloud, blood-red, +As 'twere the flag of destiny +Hung out to mark where death would be! + +Had her bewildered mind the power +Of thought in this terrific hour, +She well might marvel where or how +Man's foot could scale that mountain's brow, +Since ne'er had Arab heard or known +Of path but thro' the glen alone.-- +But every thought was lost in fear, +When, as their bounding bark drew near +The craggy base, she felt the waves +Hurry them toward those dismal caves +That from the Deep in windings pass +Beneath that Mount's volcanic mass;-- +And loud a voice on deck commands +To lower the mast and light the brands!-- +Instantly o'er the dashing tide +Within a cavern's mouth they glide, +Gloomy as that eternal Porch + Thro' which departed spirits go:-- +Not even the flare of brand and torch + Its flickering light could further throw + Than the thick flood that boiled below. +Silent they floated--as if each +Sat breathless, and too awed for speech +In that dark chasm where even sound +Seemed dark,--so sullenly around +The goblin echoes of the cave +Muttered it o'er the long black wave +As 'twere some secret of the grave! + +But soft--they pause--the current turns + Beneath them from its onward track;-- +Some mighty, unseen barrier spurns + The vexed tide all foaming back, +And scarce the oar's redoubled force +Can stem the eddy's whirling course; +When, hark!--some desperate foot has sprung +Among the rocks--the chain is flung-- +The oars are up--the grapple clings, +And the tost bark in moorings swings. +Just then, a day-beam thro' the shade +Broke tremulous--but ere the maid +Can see from whence the brightness steals, +Upon her brow she shuddering feels +A viewless hand that promptly ties +A bandage round her burning eyes; +While the rude litter where she lies, +Uplifted by the warrior throng, +O'er the steep rocks is borne along. + +Blest power of sunshine!--genial Day, +What balm, what life is in thy ray! +To feel thee is such real bliss, +That had the world no joy but this +To sit in sunshine calm and sweet.-- +It were a world too exquisite +For man to leave it for the gloom, +The deep, cold shadow of the tomb. +Even HINDA, tho' she saw not where + Or whither wound the perilous road, +Yet knew by that awakening air, + Which suddenly around her glowed, +That they had risen from the darkness there, +And breathed the sunny world again! + +But soon this balmy freshness fled-- +For now the steepy labyrinth led +Thro' damp and gloom--mid crash of boughs, +And fall of loosened crags that rouse +The leopard from his hungry sleep, + Who starting thinks each crag a prey, +And long is heard from steep to steep + Chasing them down their thundering way! +The jackal's cry--the distant moan +Of the hyena, fierce and lone-- +And that eternal saddening sound + Of torrents in the glen beneath, +As 'twere the ever-dark Profound + That rolls beneath the Bridge of Death! +All, all is fearful--even to see, + To gaze on those terrific things +She now but blindly hears, would be + Relief to her imaginings; +Since never yet was shape so dread, + But Fancy thus in darkness thrown +And by such sounds of horror fed + Could frame more dreadful of her own. + +But does she dream? has Fear again +Perplext the workings of her brain, +Or did a voice, all music, then +Come from the gloom, low whispering near-- +"Tremble not, love, thy Gheber's here?" +She _does_ not dream--all sense, all ear, +She drinks the words, "Thy Gheber's here." +'Twas his own voice--she could not err-- + Throughout the breathing world's extent +There was but _one_ such voice for her, + So kind, so soft, so eloquent! +Oh, sooner shall the rose of May + Mistake her own sweet nightingale, +And to some meaner minstrel's lay + Open her bosom's glowing veil,[254] +Than Love shall ever doubt a tone, +A breath of the beloved one! + +Though blest mid all her ills to think + She has that one beloved near, +Whose smile tho' met on ruin's brink + Hath power to make even ruin dear,-- +Yet soon this gleam of rapture crost +By fears for him is chilled and lost. +How shall the ruthless HAFED brook +That one of Gheber blood should look, +With aught but curses in his eye, +On her--a maid of ARABY-- +A Moslem maid--the child of him, + Whose bloody banners' dire success +Hath left their altars cold and dim, + And their fair land a wilderness! +And worse than all that night of blood + Which comes so fast--Oh! who shall stay +The sword, that once hath tasted food + Of Persian hearts or turn its way? +What arm shall then the victim cover, +Or from her father shield her lover? + +"Save him, my God!" she inly cries-- +"Save him this night--and if thine eyes + "Have ever welcomed with delight +"The sinner's tears, the sacrifice + "Of sinners' hearts--guard him this night, +"And here before thy throne I swear +"From my heart's inmost core to tear + "Love, hope, remembrance, tho' they be +"Linkt with each quivering life-string there, + "And give it bleeding all to Thee! +"Let him but live,--the burning tear, +"The sighs, so sinful, yet so dear, +"Which have been all too much his own, +"Shall from this hour be Heaven's alone. +"Youth past in penitence and age +"In long and painful pilgrimage +"Shall leave no traces of the flame +"That wastes me now--nor shall his name +"E'er bless my lips but when I pray +"For his dear spirit, that away +"Casting from its angelic ray +"The eclipse of earth, he too may shine +"Redeemed, all glorious and all Thine! +"Think--think what victory to win +"One radiant soul like his from sin, +"One wandering star of virtue back +"To its own native, heavenward track! +"Let him but live, and both are Thine, + "Together Thine--for blest or crost, +"Living or dead, his doom is mine, + "And if _he_ perish, both are lost!" + + +The next evening LALLA ROOKH was entreated by her Ladies to continue the +relation of her wonderful dream; but the fearful interest that hung round +the fate of HINDA and her lover had completely removed every trace of it +from her mind;--much to the disappointment of a fair seer or two in her +train, who prided themselves on their skill in interpreting visions, and +who had already remarked, as an unlucky omen, that the Princess, on the +very morning after the dream, had worn a silk dyed with the blossoms of +the sorrowful tree, Nilica.[255] + +FADLADEEN, whose indignation had more than once broken out during the +recital of some parts of this heterodox poem, seemed at length to have +made up his mind to the infliction; and took his seat this evening with +all the patience of a martyr while the Poet resumed his profane and +seditious story as follows:-- + + +To tearless eyes and hearts at ease +The leafy shores and sun-bright seas +That lay beneath that mountain's height +Had been a fair enchanting sight. +'Twas one of those ambrosial eyes +A day of storm so often leaves +At its calm setting--when the West +Opens her golden bowers of rest, +And a moist radiance from the skies +Shoots trembling down, as from the eyes +Of some meek penitent whose last +Bright hours atone for dark ones past, +And whose sweet tears o'er wrong forgiven +Shine as they fall with light from heaven! + +'Twas stillness all--the winds that late +Had rushed through KERMAN'S almond groves, +And shaken from her bowers of date +That cooling feast the traveller loves.[256] +Now lulled to languor scarcely curl + The Green Sea wave whose waters gleam +Limpid as if her mines of pearl + Were melted all to form the stream: +And her fair islets small and bright + With their green shores reflected there +Look like those PERI isles of light + That hang by spell-work in the air + +But vainly did those glories burst +On HINDA'S dazzled eyes, when first +The bandage from her brow was taken, +And, pale and awed as those who waken +In their dark tombs--when, scowling near, +The Searchers of the Grave[257] appear.-- +She shuddering turned to read her fate + In the fierce eyes that flasht around; +And saw those towers all desolate, + That o'er her head terrific frowned, +As if defying even the smile +Of that soft heaven to gild their pile. +In vain with mingled hope and fear, +She looks for him whose voice so dear +Had come, like music, to her ear,-- +Strange, mocking dream! again 'tis fled. +And oh, the shoots, the pangs of dread +That thro' her inmost bosom run, + When voices from without proclaim +"HAFED, the Chief"--and, one by one, + The warriors shout that fearful name! +He comes--the rock resounds his tread-- +How shall she dare to lift her head +Or meet those eyes whose scorching glare +Not YEMEN'S boldest sons can bear? +In whose red beam, the Moslem tells, +Such rank and deadly lustre dwells +As in those hellish fires that light +The mandrake's charnel leaves at night.[258] +How shall she bear that voice's tone, +At whose loud battle-cry alone +Whole squadrons oft in panic ran, +Scattered like some vast caravan, +When stretched at evening round the well +They hear the thirsting tiger's yell. + +Breathless she stands with eyes cast down +Shrinking beneath the fiery frown +Which, fancy tells her, from that brow +Is flashing o'er her fiercely now: +And shuddering as she hears the tread + Of his retiring warrior band.-- +Never was pause full of dread; + Till HAFED with a trembling hand +Took hers and leaning o'er her said, +"HINDA;"--that word was all he spoke. +And 'twas enough--the shriek that broke + From her full bosom told the rest.-- +Panting with terror, joy, surprise, +The maid but lifts her wandering eyes, + To hide them on her Gheber's breast! +'Tis he, 'tis he--the man of blood, +The fellest of the Fire-fiend's brood, +HAFED, the demon of the fight, +Whose voice unnerves, whose glances blight,-- +Is her own loved Gheber, mild +And glorious as when first he smiled +In her lone tower and left such beams +Of his pure eye to light her dreams, +That she believed her bower had given +Rest to some wanderer from heaven! + +Moments there are, and this was one, +Snatched like a minute's gleam of sun +Amid the black Simoom's eclipse-- + Or like those verdant spots that bloom +Around the crater's burning lips. + Sweetening the very edge of doom! +The past, the future--all that Fate + Can bring of dark or desperate +Around such hours but makes them cast +Intenser radiance while they last! +Even he, this youth--tho' dimmed and gone +Each Star of Hope that cheered him on-- +His glories lost--his cause betrayed-- +IRAN, his dear-loved country, made +A land of carcasses and slaves, +One dreary waste of chains and graves! +Himself but lingering, dead at heart, + To see the last, long struggling breath +Of Liberty's great soul depart, + Then lay him down and share her death-- +Even he so sunk in wretchedness + With doom still darker gathering o'er him, +Yet, in this moment's pure caress, + In the mild eyes that shone before him, +Beaming that blest assurance worth +All other transports known on earth. +That he was loved-well, warmly loved-- +Oh! in this precious hour he proved +How deep, how thorough-felt the glow +Of rapture kindling out of woe;-- +How exquisite one single drop +Of bliss thus sparkling to the top +Of misery's cup--how keenly quaft, +Tho' death must follow on the draught! + +She too while gazing on those eyes + That sink into her soul so deep, +Forgets all fears, all miseries, + Or feels them like the wretch in sleep, +Whom fancy cheats into a smile. + Who dreams of joy and sobs the while! +The mighty Ruins where they stood + Upon the mount's high, rocky verge +Lay open towards the ocean flood, + Where lightly o'er the illumined surge +Many a fair bark that, all the day, +Had lurkt in sheltering creek or bay +Now bounded on and gave their sails, +Yet dripping to the evening gales; +Like eagles when the storm is done, +Spreading their wet wings in the sun. +The beauteous clouds, tho' daylight's Star +Had sunk behind the hills of LAR, +Were still with lingering glories bright.-- +As if to grace the gorgeous West + The Spirit of departing Light +That eve had left his sunny vest + Behind him ere he winged his flight. +Never was scene so formed for love! +Beneath them waves of crystal move +In silent swell--Heaven glows above +And their pure hearts, to transport given, +Swell like the wave and glow like heaven. + +But ah! too soon that dream is past-- + Again, again her fear returns;-- +Night, dreadful night, is gathering fast, + More faintly the horizon burns, +And every rosy tint that lay +On the smooth sea hath died away +Hastily to the darkening skies +A glance she casts--then wildly cries +"_At night_, he said--and look, 'tis near-- + "Fly, fly--if yet thou lovest me, fly-- +"Soon will his murderous band be here. + "And I shall see thee bleed and die.-- +"Hush! heardest thou not the tramp of men +"Sounding from yonder fearful glen?-- +"Perhaps, even now they climb the wood-- + "Fly, fly--tho' still the West is bright, +"He'll come--oh! yes--he wants thy blood-- + "I know him--he'll not wait for night!" + +In terrors even to agony + She clings around the wondering Chief;-- + "Alas, poor wildered maid! to me + "Thou owest this raving trance of grief. +"Lost as I am, naught ever grew +"Beneath my shade but perisht too-- +"My doom is like the Dead Sea air, +"And nothing lives that enters there! +"Why were our barks together driven +"Beneath this morning's furious heaven? +"Why when I saw the prize that chance + "Had thrown into my desperate arms,-- +"When casting but a single glance +"Upon thy pale and prostrate charms, +"I vowed (tho' watching viewless o'er + "Thy safety thro' that hour's alarms) +"To meet the unmanning sight no more-- +"Why have I broke that heart-wrung vow? +"Why weakly, madly met thee now? +"Start not--that noise is but the shock + "Of torrents thro' yon valley hurled-- +"Dread nothing here--upon this rock + "We stand above the jarring world, +"Alike beyond its hope--its dread-- +"In gloomy safety like the Dead! +"Or could even earth and hell unite +"In league to storm this Sacred Height, +"Fear nothing thou--myself, tonight, +"And each o'erlooking star that dwells +"Near God will be thy sentinels;-- +"And ere to-morrow's dawn shall glow, +"Back to thy sire"-- + "To-morrow!--no"-- +The maiden screamed--"Thou'lt never see +"To-morrow's sun--death, death will be +"The night-cry thro' each reeking tower, +"Unless we fly, ay, fly this hour! +"Thou art betrayed--some wretch who knew +"That dreadful glen's mysterious clew- +"Nay, doubt not--by yon stars, 'tis true-- +"Hath sold thee to my vengeful sire; +"This morning, with that smile so dire +"He wears in joy he told me all +"And stampt in triumph thro' our hall, +"As tho' thy heart already beat +"Its last life-throb beneath his feet! +"Good Heaven, how little dreamed I then + "His victim was my own loved youth!-- +"Fly--send--let some one watch the glen-- + "By all my hopes of heaven 'tis truth!" + +Oh! colder than the wind that freezes + Founts that but now in sunshine played, +Is that congealing pang which seizes + The trusting bosom, when betrayed. +He felt it--deeply felt--and stood, +As if the tale had frozen his blood, + So mazed and motionless was he;-- +Like one whom sudden spells enchant, +Or some mute, marble habitant + Of the still Halls of ISHMONIE![259] +But soon the painful chill was o'er, +And his great soul herself once more +Lookt from his brow in all the rays +Of her best, happiest, grandest days. +Never in moment most elate + Did that high spirit loftier rise:-- +While bright, serene, determinate, + His looks are lifted to the skies, +As if the signal lights of Fate + Were shining in those awful eyes! +'Tis come--his hour of martyrdom +In IRAN'S sacred cause is come; +And tho' his life hath past away +Like lightning on a stormy day, +Yet shall his death-hour leave a track + Of glory permanent and bright +To which the brave of after-times, +The suffering brave, shall long look back + With proud regret,--and by its light + Watch thro' the hours of slavery's night +For vengeance on the oppressor's crimes. +This rock, his monument aloft, + Shall speak the tale to many an age; +And hither bards and heroes oft + Shall come in secret pilgrimage, +And bring their warrior sons and tell +The wondering boys where HAFED fell; +And swear them on those lone remains +Of their lost country's ancient fanes, +Never--while breath of life shall live +Within them--never to forgive +The accursed race whose ruthless chain +Hath left on IRAN'S neck a stain +Blood, blood alone can cleanse again! + +Such are the swelling thoughts that now +Enthrone themselves on HAFED'S brow; +And ne'er did Saint of ISSA [260] gaze + On the red wreath for martyrs twined. +More proudly than the youth surveys + That pile which thro' the gloom behind, +Half lighted by the altar's fire, +Glimmers--his destined funeral pyre! +Heaped by his own, his comrades hands, + Of every wood of odorous breath. +There, by the Fire-God's shrine it stands, + Ready to fold in radiant death +The few still left of those who swore +To perish there when hope was o'er-- +The few to whom that couch of flame, +Which rescues them from bonds and shame, +Is sweet and welcome as the bed +For their own infant Prophet spread, +When pitying Heaven to roses turned +The death-flames that beneath him burned![261] + + With watchfulness the maid attends +His rapid glance where'er it bends-- +Why shoot his eyes such awful beams? +What plans he now? what thinks or dreams? +Alas! why stands he musing here, +When every moment teems with fear? +"HAFED, my own beloved Lord," +She kneeling cries--"first, last adored! +"If in that soul thou'st ever felt + "Half what thy lips impassioned swore, +"Here on my knees that never knelt + "To any but their God before, +"I pray thee, as thou lovest me, fly-- +"Now, now--ere yet their blades are nigh. +"Oh haste--the bark that bore me hither + "Can waft us o'er yon darkening sea +"East--west--alas, I care not whither, + "So thou art safe, and I with thee! +"Go where we will, this hand in thine, + "Those eyes before me smiling thus, +"Thro' good and ill, thro' storm and shine, + "The world's a world of love for us! +"On some calm, blessed shore we'll dwell, +"Where 'tis no crime to love too well; +"Where thus to worship tenderly +"An erring child of light like thee +"Will not be sin--or if it be +"Where we may weep our faults away, +"Together kneeling, night and day, +"Thou, for _my_ sake, at ALLA'S shrine, +"And I--at _any_ God's, for thine!" + +Wildly these passionate words she spoke-- + Then hung her head and wept for shame; +Sobbing as if a heart-string broke + With every deep-heaved sob that came, +While he, young, warm--oh! wonder not + If, for a moment, pride and fame; + His oath--his cause--that shrine of flame, +And IRAN'S self are all forgot +For her, whom at his feet he sees +Kneeling in speechless agonies. +No, blame him not if Hope awhile +Dawned in his soul and threw her smile +O'er hours to come--o'er days and nights, +Winged with those precious, pure delights +Which she who bends all beauteous there +Was born to kindle and to share. +A tear or two which as he bowed + To raise the suppliant, trembling stole, +First warned him of this dangerous cloud + Of softness passing o'er his soul. +Starting he brusht the drops away +Unworthy o'er that cheek to stray;-- +Like one who on the morn of fight +Shakes from his sword the dews of night, +That had but dimmed not stained its light. + +Yet tho' subdued the unnerving thrill, +Its warmth, its weakness lingered still + So touching in each look and tone, +That the fond, fearing, hoping maid +Half counted on the flight she prayed, + Half thought the hero's soul was grown + As soft, as yielding as her own, +And smiled and blest him while he said,-- +"Yes--if there be some happier sphere +"Where fadeless truth like ours is dear.-- +"If there be any land of rest + "For those who love and ne'er forget, +"Oh! comfort thee--for safe and blest + "We'll meet in that calm region yet!" + + Scarce had she time to ask her heart +If good or ill these words impart, +When the roused youth impatient flew +To the tower-wall, where high in view +A ponderous sea-horn[262] hung, and blew +A signal deep and dread as those +The storm-fiend at his rising blows.-- +Full well his Chieftains, sworn and true +Thro' life and death, that signal knew; +For 'twas the appointed warning-blast, +The alarm to tell when hope was past +And the tremendous death-die cast! +And there upon the mouldering tower +Hath hung this sea-horn many an hour, +Ready to sound o'er land and sea +That dirge-note of the brave and free. + +They came--his Chieftains at the call +Came slowly round and with them all-- +Alas, how few!--the worn remains +Of those who late o'er KERMAN'S plains +When gayly prancing to the clash + Of Moorish zel and tymbalon +Catching new hope from every flash + Of their long lances in the sun, +And as their coursers charged the wind +And the white ox-tails streamed behind,[263] +Looking as if the steeds they rode +Were winged and every Chief a God! +How fallen, how altered now! how wan +Each scarred and faded visage shone, +As round the burning shrine they came;-- + How deadly was the glare it cast, +As mute they paused before the flame + To light their torches as they past! +'Twas silence all--the youth hath planned +The duties of his soldier-band; +And each determined brow declares +His faithful Chieftains well know theirs. +But minutes speed--night gems the skies-- +And oh, how soon, ye blessed eyes +That look from heaven ye may behold +Sights that will turn your star-fires cold! +Breathless with awe, impatience, hope, +The maiden sees the veteran group +Her litter silently prepare, + And lay it at her trembling feet;-- +And now the youth with gentle care, + Hath placed her in the sheltered seat +And prest her hand--that lingering press + Of hands that for the last time sever; +Of hearts whose pulse of happiness + When that hold breaks is dead for ever. +And yet to _her_ this sad caress + Gives hope--so fondly hope can err! +'Twas joy, she thought, joy's mute excess-- + Their happy flight's dear harbinger; +'Twas warmth--assurance--tenderness-- + 'Twas any thing but leaving her. + +"Haste, haste!" she cried, "the clouds grow dark, +"But still, ere night, we'll reach the bark; +"And by to-morrow's dawn--oh bliss! + "With thee upon the sun-bright deep, +"Far off, I'll but remember this, + "As some dark vanisht dream of sleep; +"And thou"--but ah!--he answers not-- + Good Heaven!--and does she go alone? +She now has reached that dismal spot, + Where some hours since his voice's tone +Had come to soothe her fears and ills, +Sweet as the angel ISRAFIL'S,[264] +When every leaf on Eden's tree +Is trembling to his minstrelsy-- +Yet now--oh, now, he is not nigh.-- + "HAFED! my HAFED!--if it be +"Thy will, thy doom this night to die + "Let me but stay to die with thee +"And I will bless thy loved name, +"Till the last life-breath leave this frame. +"Oh! let our lips, our cheeks be laid +"But near each other while they fade; +"Let us but mix our parting breaths, +"And I can die ten thousand deaths! +"You too, who hurry me away +"So cruelly, one moment stay-- + "Oh! stay--one moment is not much-- +"He yet may come--for _him_ I pray-- +"HAFED! dear HAFED!"--all the way + In wild lamentings that would touch +A heart of stone she shrieked his name +To the dark woods--no HAFED came:-- +No--hapless pair--you've lookt your last:-- + Your hearts should both have broken then:-- +The dream is o'er--your doom is cast-- + You'll never meet on earth again! + +Alas for him who hears her cries! + Still half-way down the steep he stands, +Watching with fixt and feverish eyes + The glimmer of those burning brands +That down the rocks with mournful ray, +Light all he loves on earth away! +Hopeless as they who far at sea + By the cold moon have just consigned +The corse of one loved tenderly + To the bleak flood they leave behind, +And on the deck still lingering stay, +And long look back with sad delay +To watch the moonlight on the wave +That ripples o'er that cheerless grave. + + But see--he starts--what heard he then? +That dreadful shout!--across the glen +From the land-side it comes and loud +Rings thro' the chasm, as if the crowd +Of fearful things that haunt that dell +Its Ghouls and Divs and shapes of hell, +And all in one dread howl broke out, +So loud, so terrible that shout! +"They come--the Moslems come!"--he cries, +His proud soul mounting to his eyes,-- +"Now, Spirits of the Brave, who roam +"Enfranchised thro' yon starry dome, +"Rejoice--for souls of kindred fire +"Are on the wing to join your choir!" +He said--and, light as bridegrooms bound + To their young loves, reclined the steep +And gained the Shrine--his Chiefs stood round-- + Their swords, as with instinctive leap, +Together at that cry accurst +Had from their sheaths like sunbeams burst. +And hark!--again--again it rings; +Near and more near its echoings +Peal thro' the chasm--oh! who that then +Had seen those listening warrior-men, +With their swords graspt, their eyes of flame +Turned on their Chief--could doubt the shame, +The indignant shame with which they thrill +To hear those shouts and yet stand still? + +He read their thoughts--they were his own-- + "What! while our arms can wield these blades, +"Shall we die tamely? die alone? + "Without one victim to our shades, +"One Moslem heart, where buried deep + "The sabre from its toil may sleep? +"No--God of IRAN'S burning skies! +"Thou scornest the inglorious sacrifice. +"No--tho' of all earth's hope bereft, +"Life, swords, and vengeance still are left. +"We'll make yon valley's reeking caves + "Live in the awe-struck minds of men +"Till tyrants shudder, when their slaves + "Tell of the Gheber's bloody glen, +"Follow, brave hearts!--this pile remains +"Our refuge still from life and chains; +"But his the best, the holiest bed, +"Who sinks entombed in Moslem dead!" + + Down the precipitous rocks they sprung, +While vigor more than human strung +Each arm and heart.--The exulting foe +Still thro' the dark defiles below, +Trackt by his torches' lurid fire, + Wound slow, as thro' GOLCONDA'S vale +The mighty serpent in his ire + Glides on with glittering, deadly trail. +No torch the Ghebers need--so well +They know each mystery of the dell, +So oft have in their wanderings +Crost the wild race that round them dwell, + The very tigers from their delves +Look out and let them pass as things + Untamed and fearless like themselves! + + There was a deep ravine that lay +Yet darkling in the Moslem's way; +Fit spot to make invaders rue +The many fallen before the few. +The torrents from that morning's sky +Had filled the narrow chasm breast-high, +And on each side aloft and wild +Huge cliffs and toppling crags were piled,-- +The guards with which young Freedom lines +The pathways to her mountain-shrines, +Here at this pass the scanty band; +Of IRAN'S last avengers stand; +Here wait in silence like the dead +And listen for the Moslem's tread +So anxiously the carrion-bird +Above them flaps his wing unheard! + + They come--that plunge into the water +Gives signal for the work of slaughter. +Now, Ghebers, now--if e'er your blades + Had point or prowess prove them now-- +Woe to the file that foremost wades! + They come--a falchion greets each brow, +And as they tumble trunk on trunk +Beneath the gory waters sunk, +Still o'er their drowning bodies press +New victims quick and numberless; +Till scarce an arm in HAFED'S band, + So fierce their toil, hath power to stir, +But listless from each crimson hand + The sword hangs clogged with massacre. +Never was horde of tyrants met +With bloodier welcome--never yet +To patriot vengeance hath the sword +More terrible libations poured! + + All up the dreary, long ravine, +By the red, murky glimmer seen +Of half-quenched brands, that o'er the flood +Lie scattered round and burn in blood, +What ruin glares! what carnage swims! +Heads, blazing turbans, quivering limbs, +Lost swords that dropt from many a hand, +In that thick pool of slaughter stand;-- +Wretches who wading, half on fire + From the tost brands that round them fly, +'Twixt flood and flame in shrieks expire;-- + And some who grasp by those that die +Sink woundless with them, smothered o'er +In their dead brethren's gushing gore! + + But vainly hundreds, thousands bleed, +Still hundreds, thousands more succeed; +Countless as toward some flame at night +The North's dark insects wing their flight +And quench or perish in its light, +To this terrific spot they pour-- +Till, bridged with Moslem bodies o'er, +It bears aloft their slippery tread, +And o'er the dying and the dead, +Tremendous causeway! on they pass. +Then, hapless Ghebers, then, alas, +What hope was left for you? for you, +Whose yet warm pile of sacrifice +Is smoking in their vengeful eyes;-- +Whose swords how keen, how fierce they knew. +And burned with shame to find how few. + + Crusht down by that vast multitude +Some found their graves where first they stood; +While some with hardier struggle died, +And still fought on by HAFED'S side, +Who fronting to the foe trod back +Towards the high towers his gory track; +And as a lion swept away + By sudden swell of JORDAN'S pride +From the wild covert where he lay,[265] + Long battles with the o'erwhelming tide, +So fought he back with fierce delay +And kept both foes and fate at bay. + +But whither now? their track is lost, + Their prey escaped--guide, torches gone-- +By torrent-beds and labyrinths crost, + The scattered crowd rush blindly on-- +"Curse on those tardy lights that wind," +They panting cry, "so far behind; +"Oh, for a bloodhound's precious scent, +"To track the way the Ghebers went!" +Vain wish--confusedly along +They rush more desperate as more wrong: +Till wildered by the far-off lights, +Yet glittering up those gloomy heights, +Their footing mazed and lost they miss, +And down the darkling precipice +Are dasht into the deep abyss; +Or midway hang impaled on rocks, +A banquet yet alive for flocks +Of ravening vultures,--while the dell +Re-echoes with each horrible yell. +Those sounds--the last, to vengeance dear. +That e'er shall ring in HAFED'S ear,-- +Now reached him as aloft alone +Upon the steep way breathless thrown, +He lay beside his reeking blade, + Resigned, as if life's task were o'er, +Its last blood-offering amply paid, + And IRAN'S self could claim no more. +One only thought, one lingering beam +Now broke across his dizzy dream +Of pain and weariness--'twas she, + His heart's pure planet shining yet +Above the waste of memory + When all life's other lights were set. +And never to his mind before +Her image such enchantment wore. +It seemed as if each thought that stained, + Each fear that chilled their loves was past, +And not one cloud of earth remained + Between him and her radiance cast;-- +As if to charms, before so bright, + New grace from other worlds was given. +And his soul saw her by the light + Now breaking o'er itself from heaven! + +A voice spoke near him--'twas the tone +Of a loved friend, the only one +Of all his warriors left with life +From that short night's tremendous strife.-- +"And must we then, my chief, die here? +"Foes round us and the Shrine so near!" +These words have roused the last remains + Of life within him:--"What! not yet +"Beyond the reach of Moslem chains!" + + The thought could make even Death forget +His icy bondage:--with a bound +He springs all bleeding from the ground +And grasps his comrade's arm now grown +Even feebler, heavier than his own. +And up the painful pathway leads, +Death gaining on each step he treads. +Speed them, thou God, who heardest their vow! +They mount--they bleed--oh save them now-- +The crags are red they've clambered o'er, +The rock-weed's dripping with their gore;-- +Thy blade too, HAFED, false at length, +How breaks beneath thy tottering strength! +Haste, haste--the voices of the Foe +Come near and nearer from below-- +One effort more--thank Heaven! 'tis past, +They've gained the topmost steep at last. +And now they touch the temple's walls. + Now HAFED sees the Fire divine-- +When, lo!--his weak, worn comrade falls + Dead on the threshold of the shrine. +"Alas, brave soul, too quickly fled! + "And must I leave thee withering here, +"The sport of every ruffian's tread, + "The mark for every coward's spear? +"No, by yon altar's sacred beams!" +He cries and with a strength that seems +Not of this world uplifts the frame +Of the fallen Chief and toward the flame +Bears him along; with death-damp hand + The corpse upon the pyre he lays, +Then lights the consecrated brand + And fires the pile whose sudden blaze +Like lightning bursts o'er OMAN'S Sea.-- +"Now, Freedom's God! I come to Thee," +The youth exclaims and with a smile +Of triumph vaulting on the pile, +In that last effort ere the fires +Have harmed one glorious limb expires! + +What shriek was that on OMAN'S tide? + It came from yonder drifting bark, +That just hath caught upon her side + The death-light--and again is dark. +It is the boat--ah! why delayed?-- +That bears the wretched Moslem maid; +Confided to the watchful care + Of a small veteran band with whom +Their generous Chieftain would not share + The secret of his final doom, +But hoped when HINDA safe and free + Was rendered to her father's eyes, +Their pardon full and prompt would be + The ransom of so dear a prize.-- +Unconscious thus of HAFED'S fate, +And proud to guard their beauteous freight, +Scarce had they cleared the surfy waves +That foam around those frightful caves +When the curst war-whoops known so well +Came echoing from the distant dell-- +Sudden each oar, upheld and still, + Hung dripping o'er the vessel's side, +And driving at the current's will, + They rockt along the whispering tide; +While every eye in mute dismay + Was toward that fatal mountain turned. +Where the dim altar's quivering ray + As yet all lone and tranquil burned. + +Oh! 'tis not, HINDA, in the power + Of Fancy's most terrific touch +To paint thy pangs in that dread hour-- + Thy silent agony--'twas such +As those who feel could paint too well, +But none e'er felt and lived to tell! +'Twas not alone the dreary state +Of a lorn spirit crusht by fate, +When tho' no more remains to dread + The panic chill will not depart;-- +When tho' the inmate Hope be dead, + Her ghost still haunts the mouldering heart; +No--pleasures, hopes, affections gone, +The wretch may bear and yet live on +Like things within the cold rock found +Alive when all's congealed around. +But there's a blank repose in this, +A calm stagnation, that were bliss +To the keen, burning, harrowing pain, +Now felt thro' all thy breast and brain;-- +That spasm of terror, mute, intense, +That breathless, agonized suspense +From whose hot throb whose deadly aching, +The heart hath no relief but breaking! + +Calm is the wave--heaven's brilliant lights + Reflected dance beneath the prow;-- +Time was when on such lovely nights + She who is there so desolate now +Could sit all cheerful tho' alone + And ask no happier joy than seeing +That starlight o'er the waters thrown-- +No joy but that to make her blest, + And the fresh, buoyant sense of Being +Which bounds in youth's yet careless breast,-- +Itself a star not borrowing light +But in its own glad essence bright. +How different now!--but, hark! again +The yell of havoc rings--brave men! +In vain with beating hearts ye stand +On the bark's edge--in vain each hand +Half draws the falchion from its sheath; + All's o'er--in rust your blades may lie:-- +He at whose word they've scattered death + Even now this night himself must die! +Well may ye look to yon dim tower, + And ask and wondering guess what means +The battle-cry at this dead hour-- + Ah! she could tell you--she who leans +Unheeded there, pale, sunk, aghast, +With brow against the dew-cold mast;-- + Too well she knows--her more than life, +Her soul's first idol and its last + Lies bleeding in that murderous strife. +But see--what moves upon the height? +Some signal!--'tis a torch's light + What bodes its solitary glare? +In gasping silence toward the Shrine +All eyes are turned--thine, HINDA, thine + Fix their last fading life-beams there. +'Twas but a moment--fierce and high +The death-pile blazed into the sky +And far-away o'er rock and flood + Its melancholy radiance sent: +While HAFED like a vision stood +Revealed before the burning pyre. +Tall, shadowy, like a Spirit of fire + Shrined in its own grand element! +"'Tis he!"--the shuddering maid exclaims,-- + But while she speaks he's seen no more; +High burst in air the funeral flames, + And IRAN'S hopes and hers are o'er! + +One wild, heart-broken shriek she gave; + Then sprung as if to reach that blaze + Where still she fixt her dying gaze, +And gazing sunk into the wave.-- + Deep, deep,--where never care or pain + Shall reach her innocent heart again! + + * * * * * + +Farewell--farewell to thee. ARABY'S daughter! + (Thus warbled a PERI beneath the dark sea,) +No pearl ever lay under OMAN'S green water + More pure in its shell than thy Spirit in thee. + +Oh! fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing, + How light was thy heart till Love's witchery came, +Like the wind of the south[266] o'er a summer lute blowing, + And husht all its music and withered its frame! + +But long upon ARABY'S green sunny highlands + Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom +Of her who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands + With naught but the sea-star[267] to light up her tomb. + +And still when the merry date-season is burning + And calls to the palm-groves the young and the old, +The happiest there from their pastime returning + At sunset will weep when thy story is told. + +The young village-maid when with flowers she dresses + Her dark flowing hair for some festival day +Will think of thy fate till neglecting her tresses + She mournfully turns from the mirror away. + +Nor shall IRAN, beloved of her Hero! forget thee-- + Tho' tyrants watch over her tears as they start, +Close, close by the side of that Hero she'll set thee, + Embalmed in the innermost shrine of her heart. + +Farewell--be it ours to embellish thy pillow + With everything beauteous that grows in the deep; +Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow + Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep. + +Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber + That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept;[268] +With many a shell in whose hollow-wreathed chamber + We Peris of Ocean by moonlight have slept. + +We'll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling + And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head; +We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian[269] are sparkling + And gather their gold to strew over thy bed. + +Farewell--farewell!--Until Pity's sweet fountain + Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave, +They'll weep for the Chieftain who died on that mountain, + They'll weep for the Maiden who sleeps in this wave. + + +The singular placidity with which FADLADEEN had listened during the latter +part of this obnoxious story surprised the Princess and FERAMORZ +exceedingly; and even inclined towards him the hearts of these +unsuspicious young persons who little knew the source of a complacency so +marvellous. The truth was he had been organizing for the last few days a +most notable plan of persecution against the poet in consequence of some +passages that had fallen from him on the second evening of recital,--which +appeared to this worthy Chamberlain to contain language and principles for +which nothing short of the summary criticism of the Chabuk[270] would be +advisable. It was his intention therefore immediately on their arrival at +Cashmere to give information to the King of Bucharia of the very dangerous +sentiments of his minstrel; and if unfortunately that monarch did not act +with suitable vigor on the occasion, (that is, if he did not give the +Chabuk to FERAMORZ and a place to FADLADEEN.) there would be an end, he +feared, of all legitimate government in Bucharia. He could not help +however auguring better both for himself and the cause of potentates in +general; and it was the pleasure arising from these mingled anticipations +that diffused such unusual satisfaction through his features and made his +eyes shine out like poppies of the desert over the wide and lifeless +wilderness of that countenance. + +Having decided upon the Poet's chastisement in this manner he thought it +but humanity to spare him the minor tortures of criticism. Accordingly +when they assembled the following evening in the pavilion and LALLA ROOKH +was expecting to see all the beauties of her bard melt away one by one in +the acidity of criticism, like pearls in the cup of the Egyptian queen.-- +he agreeably disappointed her by merely saying with an ironical smile that +the merits of such a poem deserved to be tried at a much higher tribunal; +and then suddenly passed off into a panegyric upon all Mussulman +sovereigns, more particularly his august and Imperial master, Aurungzebe, +--the wisest and best of the descendants of Timur,--who among other great +things he had done for mankind had given to him, FADLADEEN, the very +profitable posts of Betel-carrier and Taster of Sherbets to the Emperor, +Chief Holder of the Girdle of Beautiful Forms,[271] and Grand Nazir or +Chamberlain of the Haram. + +They were now not far from that Forbidden River[272] beyond which no pure +Hindoo can pass, and were reposing for a time in the rich valley of Hussun +Abdaul, which had always been a favorite resting-place of the Emperors in +their annual migrations to Cashmere. Here often had the Light of the +Faith, Jehan-Guire, been known to wander with his beloved and beautiful +Nourmahal, and here would LALLA ROOKH have been happy to remain for ever, +giving up the throne of Bucharia and the world for FERAMORZ and love in +this sweet, lonely valley. But the time was now fast approaching when she +must see him no longer,--or, what was still worse, behold him with eyes +whose every look belonged to another, and there was a melancholy +preciousness in these last moments, which made her heart cling to them as +it would to life. During the latter part of the journey, indeed, she had +sunk into a deep sadness from which nothing but the presence of the young +minstrel could awake her. Like those lamps in tombs which only light up +when the air is admitted, it was only at his approach that her eyes became +smiling and animated. But here in this dear valley every moment appeared +an age of pleasure; she saw him all day and was therefore all day happy,-- +resembling, she often thought, that people of Zinge[273] who attribute +the unfading cheerfulness they enjoy to one genial star that rises nightly +over their heads.[274] + +The whole party indeed seemed in their liveliest mood during the few days +they passed in this delightful solitude. The young attendants of the +Princess who were here allowed a much freer range than they could safely +be indulged with in a less sequestered place ran wild among the gardens +and bounded through the meadows lightly as young roes over the aromatic +plains of Tibet. While FADLADEEN, in addition to the spiritual comfort +derived by him from a pilgrimage to the tomb of the Saint from whom the +valley is named, had also opportunities of indulging in a small way his +taste for victims by putting to death some hundreds of those unfortunate +little lizards,[275] which all pious Mussulmans make it a point to kill;-- +taking for granted that the manner in which the creature hangs its head +is meant as a mimicry of the attitude in which the Faithful say their +prayers. + +About two miles from Hussun Abdaul were those Royal Gardens which had +grown beautiful under the care of so many lovely eyes, and were beautiful +still though those eyes could see them no longer. This place, with its +flowers and its holy silence interrupted only by the dipping of the wings +of birds in its marble basins filled with the pure water of those hills, +was to LALLA ROOKH all that her heart could fancy of fragrance, coolness, +and almost heavenly tranquillity. As the Prophet said of Damascus, "it was +too delicious;"[276]--and here in listening to the sweet voice of +FERAMORZ or reading in his eyes what yet he never dared to tell her, the +most exquisite moments of her whole life were passed. One evening when +they had been talking of the Sultana Nourmahal, the Light of the Haram, +[277] who had so often wandered among these flowers, and fed with her own +hands in those marble basins the small shining fishes of which she was so +fond,--the youth in order to delay the moment of separation proposed to +recite a short story or rather rhapsody of which this adored Sultana was +the heroine. It related, he said, to the reconcilement of a sort of +lovers' quarrel which took place between her and the Emperor during a +Feast of Roses at Cashmere; and would remind the Princess of that +difference between Haroun-al-Raschid and his fair mistress Marida, which +was so happily made up by the soft strains of the musician Moussali. As +the story was chiefly to be told in song and FERAMORZ had unluckily +forgotten his own lute in the valley, he borrowed the vina of LALLA +ROOKH'S little Persian slave, and thus began:-- + + +THE LIGHT OF THE HARAM. + + +Who has not heard of the Vale of CASHMERE, + With its roses the brightest that earth ever gave,[278] +Its temples and grottos and fountains as clear + As the love-lighted eyes that hang over their wave? + +Oh! to see it at sunset,--when warm o'er the Lake + Its splendor at parting a summer eve throws, +Like a bride full of blushes when lingering to take + A last look of her mirror at night ere she goes!-- +When the shrines thro' the foliage are gleaming half shown, +And each hallows the hour by some rites of its own. +Here the music of prayer from a minaret swells, + Here the Magian his urn full of perfume is swinging, +And here at the altar a zone of sweet bells + Round the waist of some fair Indian dancer is ringing.[279] +Or to see it by moonlight when mellowly shines +The light o'er its palaces, gardens, and shrines, +When the water-falls gleam like a quick fall of stars +And the nightingale's hymn from the Isle of Chenars +Is broken by laughs and light echoes of feet +From the cool, shining walks where the young people meet.-- +Or at morn when the magic of daylight awakes +A new wonder each minute as slowly it breaks, +Hills, cupolas, fountains, called forth every one +Out of darkness as if but just born of the Sun. +When the Spirit of Fragrance is up with the day +From his Haram of night-flowers stealing away; +And the wind full of wantonness wooes like a lover +The young aspen-trees,[280] +till they tremble all over. +When the East is as warm as the light of first hopes, + And day with his banner of radiance unfurled +Shines in thro' the mountainous portal[281] that opes, + Sublime, from that Valley of bliss to the world! + +But never yet by night or day, +In dew of spring or summer's ray, +Did the sweet Valley shine so gay +As now it shines--all love and light, +Visions by day and feasts by night! +A happier smile illumes each brow; + With quicker spread each heart uncloses, +And all is ecstasy--for now + The Valley holds its Feast of Roses;[282] +The joyous Time when pleasures pour +Profusely round and in their shower +Hearts open like the Season's Rose,-- + The Floweret of a hundred leaves[283] +Expanding while the dew-fall flows + And every leaf its balm receives. + +'Twas when the hour of evening came + Upon the Lake, serene and cool, +When day had hid his sultry flame + Behind the palms of BARAMOULE, +When maids began to lift their heads. +Refresht from their embroidered beds +Where they had slept the sun away, +And waked to moonlight and to play. +All were abroad:--the busiest hive +On BELA'S[284] hills is less alive +When saffron-beds are full in flower, +Than lookt the Valley in that hour. +A thousand restless torches played +Thro' every grove and island shade; +A thousand sparkling lamps were set +On every dome and minaret; +And fields and pathways far and near +Were lighted by a blaze so clear +That you could see in wandering round +The smallest rose-leaf on the ground, +Yet did the maids and matrons leave +Their veils at home, that brilliant eve; +And there were glancing eyes about +And cheeks that would not dare shine out +In open day but thought they might +Look lovely then, because 'twas night. +And all were free and wandering + And all exclaimed to all they met, +That never did the summer bring + So gay a Feast of Roses yet;-- +The moon had never shed a light + So clear as that which blest them there; +The roses ne'er shone half so bright, + Nor they themselves lookt half so fair. + +And what a wilderness of flowers! +It seemed as tho' from all the bowers +And fairest fields of all the year, +The mingled spoil were scattered here. +The lake too like a garden breathes + With the rich buds that o'er it lie,-- +As if a shower of fairy wreaths + Had fallen upon it from the sky! +And then the sounds of joy,--the beat +Of tabors and of dancing feet;-- +The minaret-crier's chant of glee +Sung from his lighted gallery,[285] +And answered by a ziraleet +From neighboring Haram, wild and sweet;-- +The merry laughter echoing +From gardens where the silken swing[286] +Wafts some delighted girl above +The top leaves of the orange-grove; +Or from those infant groups at play +Among the tents[287] that line the way, +Flinging, unawed by slave or mother, +Handfuls of roses at each other.-- +Then the sounds from the Lake,--the low whispering in boats, + As they shoot thro' the moonlight,--the dipping of oars +And the wild, airy warbling that everywhere floats + Thro' the groves, round the islands, as if all the shores +Like those of KATHAY uttered music and gave +An answer in song to the kiss on each wave.[288] +But the gentlest of all are those sounds full of feeling +That soft from the lute of some lover are stealing,-- +Some lover who knows all the heart-touching power +Of a lute and a sigh in this magical hour. +Oh! best of delights as it everywhere is +To be near the loved _One_,--what a rapture is his +Who in moonlight and music thus sweetly may glide +O'er the Lake of CASHMERE with that _One_ by his side! + +If woman can make the worst wilderness dear, +Think, think what a Heaven she must make of CASHMERE! + +So felt the magnificent Son of ACBAR, +When from power and pomp and the trophies of war +He flew to that Valley forgetting them all +With the Light of the HARAM, his young NOURMAHAL. +When free and uncrowned as the Conqueror roved +By the banks of that Lake with his only beloved +He saw in the wreaths she would playfully snatch +From the hedges a glory his crown could not match, +And preferred in his heart the least ringlet that curled +Down her exquisite neck to the throne of the world. + + There's a beauty for ever unchangingly bright, +Like the long, sunny lapse of a summer-day's light, +Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender +Till Love falls asleep in its sameness of splendor. +This _was_ not the beauty--oh, nothing like this +That to young NOURMAHAL gave such magic of bliss! +But that loveliness ever in motion which plays +Like the light upon autumn's soft shadowy days, +Now here and now there, giving warmth as it flies +From the lip to the cheek, from the cheek to the eyes; +Now melting in mist and now breaking in gleams, +Like the glimpses a saint hath of Heaven in his dreams. +When pensive it seemed as if that very grace, +That charm of all others, was born with her face! +And when angry,--for even in the tranquillest climes +Light breezes will ruffle the blossoms sometimes-- +The short, passing anger but seemed to awaken +New beauty like flowers that are sweetest when shaken. +If tenderness touched her, the dark of her eye +At once took a darker, a heavenlier dye, +From the depth of whose shadow like holy revealings +From innermost shrines came the light of her feelings. +Then her mirth--oh! 'twas sportive as ever took wing +From the heart with a burst like the wild-bird in spring; +Illumed by a wit that would fascinate sages, +Yet playful as Peris just loosed from their cages.[289] +While her laugh full of life, without any control +But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her soul; +And where it most sparkled no glance could discover, +In lip, cheek, or eyes, for she brightened all over,-- +Like any fair lake that the breeze is upon +When it breaks into dimples and, laughs in the sun. +Such, such were the peerless enchantments that gave +NOURMAHAL the proud Lord of the East for her slave: +And tho' bright was his Haram,--a living parterre +Of the flowers[290] of this planet--tho' treasures were there, +For which SOLIMAN'S self might have given all the store +That the navy from OPHIR e'er winged to his shore, +Yet dim before _her_ were the smiles of them all +And the Light of his Haram was young NOURMAHAL! + +But where is she now, this night of joy, +When bliss is every heart's employ?-- +When all around her is so bright, +So like the visions of a trance, +That one might think, who came by chance +Into the vale this happy night, +He saw that City of Delight[291] +In Fairy-land, whose streets and towers +Are made of gems and light and flowers! +Where is the loved Sultana? where, +When mirth brings out the young and fair, +Does she, the fairest, hide her brow +In melancholy stillness now? + +Alas!--how light a cause may move +Dissension between hearts that love! +Hearts that the world in vain had tried +And sorrow but more closely tied; +That stood the storm when waves were rough +Yet in a sunny hour fall off, +Like ships that have gone down at sea +When heaven was all tranquillity! +A something light as air--a look, + A word unkind or wrongly taken-- +Oh! love that tempests never shook, + A breath, a touch like this hath shaken. + +And ruder words will soon rush in +To spread the breach that words begin; +And eyes forget the gentle ray +They wore in courtship's smiling day; +And voices lose the tone that shed +A tenderness round all they said; +Till fast declining one by one +The sweetnesses of love are gone, +And hearts so lately mingled seem +Like broken clouds,--or like the stream +That smiling left the mountain's brow + As tho' its waters ne'er could sever, +Yet ere it reach the plain below, + Breaks into floods that part for ever. + +Oh, you that have the charge of Love, + Keep him in rosy bondage bound, +As in the Fields of Bliss above + He sits with flowerets fettered round;-- +Loose not a tie that round him clings. +Nor ever let him use his wings; +For even an hour, a minute's flight +Will rob the plumes of half their light. +Like that celestial bird whose nest + Is found beneath far Eastern skies, +Whose wings tho' radiant when at rest + Lose all their glory when he flies![292] + +Some difference of this dangerous kind,-- +By which, tho' light, the links that bind +The fondest hearts may soon be riven; +Some shadow in Love's summer heaven, +Which, tho' a fleecy speck at first +May yet in awful thunder burst;-- +Such cloud it is that now hangs over +The heart of the Imperial Lover, +And far hath banisht from his sight +His NOURMAHAL, his Haram's Light! +Hence is it on this happy night +When Pleasure thro' the fields and groves +Has let loose all her world of loves +And every heart has found its own +He wanders joyless and alone +And weary as that bird of Thrace +Whose pinion knows no resting place.[293] + +In vain the loveliest cheeks and eyes +This Eden of the Earth supplies + Come crowding round--the cheeks are pale, +The eyes are dim:--tho' rich the spot +With every flower this earth has got + What is it to the nightingale +If there his darling rose is not?[294] +In vain the Valley's smiling throng +Worship him as he moves along; +He heeds them not--one smile of hers +Is worth a world of worshippers. +They but the Star's adorers are, +She is the Heaven that lights the Star! + +Hence is it too that NOURMAHAL, +Amid the luxuries of this hour, +Far from the joyous festival +Sits in her own sequestered bower, +With no one near to soothe or aid, +But that inspired and wondrous maid, +NAMOUNA, the Enchantress;--one +O'er whom his race the golden sun +For unremembered years has run, +Yet never saw her blooming brow +Younger or fairer than 'tis now. +Nay, rather,--as the west wind's sigh +Freshens the flower it passes by,-- +Time's wing but seemed in stealing o'er +To leave her lovelier than before. +Yet on her smiles a sadness hung, +And when as oft she spoke or sung +Of other worlds there came a light +From her dark eyes so strangely bright +That all believed nor man nor earth +Were conscious of NAMOUNA'S birth! +All spells and talismans she knew, +From the great Mantra,[295] which around +The Air's sublimer Spirits drew, +To the gold gems[296] of AFRIC, bound +Upon the wandering Arab's arm +To keep him from the Siltim's[297] harm. +And she had pledged her powerful art,-- +Pledged it with all the zeal and heart +Of one who knew tho' high her sphere, +What 'twas to lose a love so dear,-- +To find some spell that should recall +Her Selim's[298] smile to NOURMAHAL! + + 'Twas midnight--thro' the lattice wreathed +With woodbine many a perfume breathed +From plants that wake when others sleep. +From timid jasmine buds that keep +Their odor to themselves all day +But when the sunlight dies away +Let the delicious secret out +To every breeze that roams about;-- +When thus NAMOUNA:--"'Tis the hour +"That scatters spells on herb and flower, +"And garlands might be gathered now, +"That twined around the sleeper's brow +"Would make him dream of such delights, +"Such miracles and dazzling sights +"As Genii of the Sun behold +"At evening from their tents of gold +"Upon the horizon--where they play +"Till twilight comes and ray by ray +"Their sunny mansions melt away. +"Now too a chaplet might be wreathed +"Of buds o'er which the moon has breathed, +"Which worn by her whose love has strayed + "Might bring some Peri from the skies, +"Some sprite, whose very soul is made + "Of flowerets' breaths and lovers' sighs, +"And who might tell"-- + "For me, for me," +Cried NOURMAHAL impatiently,-- +"Oh! twine that wreath for me to-night." +Then rapidly with foot as light +As the young musk-roe's out she flew +To cull each shining leaf that grew +Beneath the moonlight's hallowing beams +For this enchanted Wreath of Dreams. +Anemones and Seas of Gold,[299] + And new-blown lilies of the river, +And those sweet flowerets that unfold + Their buds on CAMADEVA'S quiver;[300]-- +The tuberose, with her silvery light, + That in the Gardens of Malay +Is called the Mistress of the Night,[301] +So like a bride, scented and bright, + She comes out when the sun's away:-- +Amaranths such as crown the maids +That wander thro' ZAMARA'S shades;[302]-- +And the white moon-flower as it shows, +On SERENDIB'S high crags to those +Who near the isle at evening sail, +Scenting her clove-trees in the gale; +In short all flowerets and all plants, + From the divine Amrita tree[303] +That blesses heaven's habitants + With fruits of immortality, +Down to the basil tuft[304] that waves +Its fragrant blossom over graves, + And to the humble rosemary +Whose sweets so thanklessly are shed +To scent the desert[305]and the dead:-- +All in that garden bloom and all +Are gathered by young NOURMAHAL, +Who heaps her baskets with the flowers + And leaves till they can hold no more; +Then to NAMOUNA flies and showers + Upon her lap the shining store. +With what delight the Enchantress views +So many buds bathed with the dews +And beams of that blest hour!--her glance + Spoke something past all mortal pleasures, +As in a kind of holy trance + She hung above those fragrant treasures, +Bending to drink their balmy airs, +As if she mixt her soul with theirs. +And 'twas indeed the perfume shed +From flowers and scented flame that fed +Her charmed life--for none had e'er +Beheld her taste of mortal fare, +Nor ever in aught earthly dip, +But the morn's dew, her roseate lip. +Filled with the cool, inspiring smell, +The Enchantress now begins her spell, +Thus singing as she winds and weaves +In mystic form the glittering leaves:-- + +I know where the winged visions dwell + That around the night-bed play; +I know each herb and floweret's bell, + Where they hide their wings by day. + Then hasten we, maid, + To twine our braid, +To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. + +The image of love that nightly flies + To visit the bashful maid, +Steals from the jasmine flower that sighs + Its soul like her in the shade. +The dream of a future, happier hour + That alights on misery's brow, +Springs out of the silvery almond-flower + That blooms on a leafless bough.[306] + Then hasten we, maid, + To twine our braid, +To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. + +The visions that oft to worldly eyes + The glitter of mines unfold +Inhabit the mountain-herb[307] that dyes + The tooth of the fawn like gold. +The phantom shapes--oh touch not them-- + That appal the murderer's sight, +Lurk in the fleshly mandrake's stem, + That shrieks when pluckt at night! + Then hasten we, maid, + To twine our braid, +To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. + +The dream of the injured, patient mind + That smiles at the wrongs of men +Is found in the bruised and wounded rind + Of the cinnamon, sweetest then. + Then hasten we, maid, + To twine our braid, +To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. + +No sooner was the flowery crown +Placed on her head than sleep came down, +Gently as nights of summer fall, +Upon the lids of NOURMAHAL;-- +And suddenly a tuneful breeze +As full of small, rich harmonies +As ever wind that o'er the tents +Of AZAB[308] blew was full of scents, +Steals on her ear and floats and swells + Like the first air of morning creeping +Into those wreathy, Red-Sea shells + Where Love himself of old lay sleeping;[309] +And now a Spirit formed, 'twould seem, + Of music and of light,--so fair, +So brilliantly his features beam, + And such a sound is in the air +Of sweetness when he waves his wings,-- +Hovers around her and thus sings: + +From CHINDARA'S[310] warbling fount I come, + Called by that moonlight garland's spell; +From CHINDARA'S fount, my fairy home, + Wherein music, morn and night, I dwell. +Where lutes in the air are heard about + And voices are singing the whole day long, +And every sigh the heart breathes out + Is turned, as it leaves the lips, to song! + Hither I come + From my fairy home, + And if there's a magic in Music's strain + I swear by the breath + Of that moonlight wreath + Thy Lover shall sigh at thy feet again. + +For mine is the lay that lightly floats +And mine are the murmuring, dying notes +That fall as soft as snow on the sea +And melt in the heart as instantly:-- +And the passionate strain that, deeply going, + Refines the bosom it trembles thro' +As the musk-wind over the water blowing + Ruffles the wave but sweetens it too. + +Mine is the charm whose mystic sway +The Spirits of past Delight obey;-- +Let but the tuneful talisman sound, +And they come like Genii hovering round. +And mine is the gentle song that bears + From soul to soul the wishes of love, +As a bird that wafts thro' genial airs + The cinnamon-seed from grove to grove.[311] + +'Tis I that mingle in one sweet measure +The past, the present and future of pleasure; +When Memory links the tone that is gone + With the blissful tone that's still in the ear; +And Hope from a heavenly note flies on + To a note more heavenly still that is near. + +The warrior's heart when touched by me, +Can as downy soft and as yielding be +As his own white plume that high amid death +Thro' the field has shone--yet moves with a breath! +And oh, how the eyes of Beauty glisten. + When Music has reached her inward soul, +Like the silent stars that wink and listen + While Heaven's eternal melodies roll. + So hither I come + From my fairy home, + And if there's a magic in Music's strain, + I swear by the breath + Of that moonlight wreath + Thy Lover shall sigh at thy feet again. + +'Tis dawn--at least that earlier dawn +Whose glimpses are again withdrawn,[312] +As if the morn had waked, and then +Shut close her lids of light again. +And NOURMAHAL is up and trying + The wonders of her lute whose strings-- +Oh, bliss!--now murmur like the sighing + From that ambrosial Spirit's wings. +And then her voice--'tis more than human-- + Never till now had it been given +To lips of any mortal woman + To utter notes so fresh from heaven; +Sweet as the breath of angel sighs + When angel sighs are most divine.-- +"Oh! let it last till night," she cries, + "And he is more than ever mine." + +And hourly she renews the lay, + So fearful lest its heavenly sweetness +Should ere the evening fade away,-- + For things so heavenly have such fleetness! +But far from fading it but grows +Richer, diviner as it flows; +Till rapt she dwells on every string + And pours again each sound along, +Like echo, lost and languishing, + In love with her own wondrous song. + +That evening, (trusting that his soul + Might be from haunting love released +By mirth, by music and the bowl,) + The Imperial SELIM held a feast +In his magnificent Shalimar:[313]-- +In whose Saloons, when the first star +Of evening o'er the waters trembled, +The Valley's loveliest all assembled; +All the bright creatures that like dreams +Glide thro' its foliage and drink beams +Of beauty from its founts and streams;[314] +And all those wandering minstrel-maids, +Who leave--how _can_ they leave?--the shades +Of that dear Valley and are found + Singing in gardens of the South[315] +Those songs that ne'er so sweetly sound + As from a young Cashmerian's mouth. + +There too the Haram's inmates smile;-- + Maids from the West, with sun-bright hair, +And from the Garden of the NILE, + Delicate as the roses there;[316]-- +Daughters of Love from CYPRUS rocks, +With Paphian diamonds in their locks;[317]-- +Light PERI forms such as there are +On the gold Meads of CANDAHAR;[318] +And they before whose sleepy eyes + In their own bright Kathaian bowers +Sparkle such rainbow butterflies + That they might fancy the rich flowers +That round them in the sun lay sighing +Had been by magic all set flying.[319] + +Every thing young, every thing fair +From East and West is blushing there, +Except--except--oh, NOURMAHAL! +Thou loveliest, dearest of them all, +The one whose smile shone out alone, +Amidst a world the only one; +Whose light among so many lights +Was like that star on starry nights, +The seaman singles from the sky, +To steer his bark for ever by! +Thou wert not there--so SELIM thought, + And every thing seemed drear without thee; +But, ah! thou wert, thou wert,--and brought + Thy charm of song all fresh about thee, +Mingling unnoticed with a band +Of lutanists from many a land, +And veiled by such a mask as shades +The features of young Arab maids,[320]-- +A mask that leaves but one eye free, +To do its best in witchery,-- +She roved with beating heart around + And waited trembling for the minute +When she might try if still the sound + Of her loved lute had magic in it. + +The board was spread with fruits and wine, +With grapes of gold, like those that shine +On CASBIN hills;[321]--pomegranates full + Of melting sweetness, and the pears, +And sunniest apples[322] that CAUBUL + In all its thousand gardens[323] bears;-- +Plantains, the golden and the green, +MALAYA'S nectared mangusteen;[324] +Prunes of BOCKHARA, and sweet nuts + From the far groves of SAMARCAND, +And BASRA dates, and apricots, + Seed of the Sun,[325] from IRAN'S land;-- +With rich conserve of Visna cherries,[326] +Of orange flowers, and of those berries +That, wild and fresh, the young gazelles +Feed on in ERAC's rocky dells.[327] +All these in richest vases smile, + In baskets of pure santal-wood, +And urns of porcelain from that isle[328] + Sunk underneath the Indian flood, +Whence oft the lucky diver brings +Vases to grace the halls of kings. +Wines too of every clime and hue +Around their liquid lustre threw; +Amber Rosolli,[329]--the bright dew +From vineyards of the Green-Sea gushing;[330] +And SHIRAZ wine that richly ran + As if that jewel large and rare, +The ruby for which KUBLAI-KHAN +Offered a city's wealth,[331] was blushing + Melted within the goblets there! + +And amply SELIM quaffs of each, +And seems resolved the flood shall reach +His inward heart,--shedding around + A genial deluge, as they run, +That soon shall leave no spot undrowned + For Love to rest his wings upon. +He little knew how well the boy + Can float upon a goblet's streams, +Lighting them with his smile of joy;-- + As bards have seen him in their dreams, +Down the blue GANGES laughing glide + Upon a rosy lotus wreath,[332] +Catching new lustre from the tide + That with his image shone beneath. + +But what are cups without the aid + Of song to speed them as they flow? +And see--a lovely Georgian maid + With all the bloom, the freshened glow +Of her own country maidens' looks, +When warm they rise from Teflis' brooks;[333] +And with an eye whose restless ray + Full, floating, dark--oh, he, who knows +His heart is weak, of Heaven should pray + To guard him from such eyes as those!-- + With a voluptuous wildness flings + Her snowy hand across the strings + Of a syrinda[334] and thus sings:-- + +Come hither, come hither--by night and by day, + We linger in pleasures that never are gone; +Like the waves of the summer as one dies away + Another as sweet and as shining comes on. +And the love that is o'er, in expiring gives birth + To a new one as warm, as unequalled in bliss; +And, oh! if there be an Elysium on earth, + It is this, it is this.[335] + +Here maidens are sighing, and fragrant their sigh + As the flower of the Amra just oped by a bee;[336] +And precious their tears as that rain from the sky,[337] + Which turns into pearls as it falls in the sea. +Oh! think what the kiss and the smile must be worth + When the sigh and the tear are so perfect in bliss, +And own if there be an Elysium on earth, + It is this, it is this. + +Here sparkles the nectar that hallowed by love + Could draw down those angels of old from their sphere, +Who for wine of this earth[338] left the fountains above, + And forgot heaven's stars for the eyes we have here. +And, blest with the odor our goblet gives forth, + What Spirit the sweets of his Eden would miss? +For, oh! if there be an Elysium on earth, + It is this, it is this. + +The Georgian's song was scarcely mute, + When the same measure, sound for sound, +Was caught up by another lute + And so divinely breathed around +That all stood husht and wondering, + And turned and lookt into the air, +As if they thought to see the wing + Of ISRAFIL[339] the Angel there;-- +So powerfully on every soul +That new, enchanted measure stole. +While now a voice sweet as the note +Of the charmed lute was heard to float +Along its chords and so entwine + Its sounds with theirs that none knew whether +The voice or lute was most divine, + So wondrously they went together:-- + +There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told, + When two that are linkt in one heavenly tie, +With heart never changing and brow never cold, + Love on thro' all ills and love on till they die! +One hour of a passion so sacred is worth + Whole ages of heartless and wandering bliss; +And, oh! if there be an Elysium on earth, + It is this, it is this. + +'Twas not the air, 'twas not the words, +But that deep magic in the chords +And in the lips that gave such power +As music knew not till that hour. +At once a hundred voices said, +"It is the maskt Arabian maid!" +While SELIM who had felt the strain +Deepest of any and had lain +Some minutes rapt as in a trance + After the fairy sounds were o'er. +Too inly touched for utterance, + Now motioned with his hand for more:-- + +Fly to the desert, fly with me, +Our Arab's tents are rude for thee; +But oh! the choice what heart can doubt, +Of tents with love or thrones without? +Our rocks are rough, but smiling there +The acacia waves her yellow hair, +Lonely and sweet nor loved the less +For flowering in a wilderness. + +Our sands are bare, but down their slope +The silvery-footed antelope +As gracefully and gayly springs +As o'er the marble courts of kings. + +Then come--thy Arab maid will be +The loved and lone acacia-tree. +The antelope whose feet shall bless +With their light sound thy loneliness. + +Oh! there are looks and tones that dart +An instant sunshine thro' the heart,-- +As if the soul that minute caught +Some treasure it thro' life had sought; + +As if the very lips and eyes, +Predestined to have all our sighs +And never be forgot again, +Sparkled and spoke before us then! + +So came thy every glance and tone, +When first on me they breathed and shone, +New as if brought from other spheres +Yet welcome as if loved for years. + +Then fly with me,--if thou hast known +No other flame nor falsely thrown +A gem away, that thou hadst sworn +Should ever in thy heart be worn. + +Come if the love thou hast for me +Is pure and fresh as mine for thee,-- +Fresh as the fountain under ground, +When first 'tis by the lapwing found.[340] + +But if for me thou dost forsake +Some other maid and rudely break +Her worshipt image from its base, +To give to me the ruined place;-- + +Then fare thee well--I'd rather make +My bower upon some icy lake +When thawing suns begin to shine +Than trust to love so false as thine. + +There was a pathos in this lay, + That, even without enchantment's art, +Would instantly have found its way + Deep in to SELIM'S burning heart; +But breathing as it did a tone +To earthly lutes and lips unknown; +With every chord fresh from the touch +Of Music's Spirit,--'twas too much! +Starting he dasht away the cup,-- +Which all the time of this sweet air +His hand had held, untasted, up, +As if 'twere fixt by magic there-- +And naming her, so long unnamed, +So long unseen, wildly exclaimed, +"Oh NOURMAHAL! oh NOURMAHAL! + "Hadst thou but sung this witching strain, +"I could forget--forgive thee all +"And never leave those eyes again." + +The mask is off--the charm is wrought-- +And SELIM to his heart has caught, +In blushes, more than ever bright, +His NOURMAHAL, his Haram's Light! +And well do vanisht frowns enhance +The charm of every brightened glance; +And dearer seems each dawning smile +For having lost its light awhile: +And happier now for all her sighs +As on his arm her head reposes +She whispers him, with laughing eyes, + "Remember, love, the Feast of Roses!" + + +FADLADEEN, at the conclusion of this light rhapsody, took occasion to sum +up his opinion of the young Cashmerian's poetry,--of which, he trusted, +they had that evening heard the last. Having recapitulated the epithets, +"frivolous"--"inharmonious"--"nonsensical," he proceeded to say that, +viewed in the most favorable light it resembled one of those Maldivian +boats, to which the Princess had alluded in the relation of her dream,-- +a slight, gilded thing, sent adrift without rudder or ballast, and with +nothing but vapid sweets and faded flowers on board. The profusion, +indeed, of flowers and birds, which this poet had ready on all occasions, +--not to mention dews, gems, etc.--was a most oppressive kind of opulence +to his hearers; and had the unlucky effect of giving to his style all the +glitter of the flower garden without its method, and all the flutter of +the aviary without its song. In addition to this, he chose his subjects +badly, and was always most inspired by the worst parts of them. The +charms of paganism, the merits of rebellion,--these were the themes +honored with his particular enthusiasm; and, in the poem just recited, one +of his most palatable passages was in praise of that beverage of the +Unfaithful, wine;--"being, perhaps," said he, relaxing into a smile, as +conscious of his own character in the Haram on this point, "one of those +bards, whose fancy owes all its illumination to the grape, like that +painted porcelain,[341] so curious and so rare, whose images are only +visible when liquor is poured into it." Upon the whole, it was his +opinion, from the specimens which they had heard, and which, he begged to +say, were the most tiresome part of the journey, that--whatever other +merits this well-dressed young gentleman might possess--poetry was by no +means his proper avocation; "and indeed," concluded the critic, "from his +fondness for flowers and for birds, I would venture to suggest that a +florist or a bird-catcher is a much more suitable calling for him than a +poet." + +They had now begun to ascend those barren mountains, which separate +Cashmere from the rest of India; and, as the heats were intolerable, and +the time of their encampments limited to the few hours necessary for +refreshment and repose, there was an end to all their delightful evenings, +and LALLA ROOKH saw no more of FERAMORZ. She now felt that her short dream +of happiness was over, and that she had nothing but the recollection of +its few blissful hours, like the one draught of sweet water that serves +the camel across the wilderness, to be her heart's refreshment during the +dreary waste of life that was before her. The blight that had fallen upon +her spirits soon found its way to her cheek, and her ladies saw with +regret--though not without some suspicion of the cause--that the beauty of +their mistress, of which they were almost as proud as of their own, was +fast vanishing away at the very moment of all when she had most need of +it. What must the King of Bucharia feel, when, instead of the lively and +beautiful LALLA ROOKH, whom the poets of Delhi had described as more +perfect than the divinest images in the house of AZOR,[342] he should +receive a pale and inanimate victim, upon whose cheek neither health nor +pleasure bloomed, and from whose eyes Love had fled,--to hide himself in +her heart? + +If any thing could have charmed away the melancholy of her spirits, it +would have been the fresh airs and enchanting scenery of that Valley, +which the Persians so justly called the Unequalled.[343] But neither the +coolness of its atmosphere, so luxurious after toiling up those bare and +burning mountains,--neither the splendor of the minarets and pagodas, that +shone put from the depth of its woods, nor the grottoes, hermitages, and +miraculous fountains,[344] which make every spot of that region holy +ground,--neither the countless waterfalls, that rush into the Valley from +all those high and romantic mountains that encircle it, nor the fair city +on the Lake, whose houses, roofed with flowers,[345] appeared at a +distance like one vast and variegated parterre;--not all these wonders and +glories of the most lovely country under the sun could steal her heart for +a minute from those sad thoughts which but darkened and grew bitterer +every step she advanced. + +The gay pomps and processions that met her upon her entrance into the +Valley, and the magnificence with which the roads all along were +decorated, did honor to the taste and gallantry of the young King. It was +night when they approached the city, and, for the last two miles, they had +passed under arches, thrown from hedge to hedge, festooned with only those +rarest roses from which the Attar Gul, more precious than gold, is +distilled, and illuminated in rich and fanciful forms with lanterns of the +triple-colored tortoise-shell of Pegu.[346] Sometimes, from a dark wood +by the side of the road, a display of fireworks would break out, so sudden +and so brilliant, that a Brahmin might fancy he beheld that grove, in +whose purple shade the God of Battles was born, bursting into a flame at +the moment of his birth;--while, at other times, a quick and playful +irradiation continued to brighten all the fields and gardens by which they +passed, forming a line of dancing lights along the horizon; like the +meteors of the north as they are seen by those hunters who pursue the +white and blue foxes on the confines of the Icy Sea. + +These arches and fireworks delighted the Ladies of the Princess +exceedingly; and, with their usual good logic, they deduced from his taste +for illuminations, that the King of Bucharia would make the most exemplary +husband imaginable. Nor, indeed, could LALLA ROOKH herself help feeling +the kindness and splendor with which the young bridegroom welcomed +her;--but she also felt how painful is the gratitude which kindness from +those we cannot love excites; and that their best blandishments come over +the heart with all that chilling and deadly sweetness which we can fancy +in the cold, odoriferous wind[347] that is to blow over this earth in the +last days. + +The marriage was fixed for the morning after her arrival, when she was, +for the first time, to be presented to the monarch in that Imperial Palace +beyond the lake, called the Shalimar. Though never before had a night of +more wakeful and anxious thought been passed in the Happy Valley, yet, +when she rose in the morning, and her Ladies came around her, to assist in +the adjustment of the bridal ornaments, they thought they had never seen +her look half so beautiful. What she had lost of the bloom and radiancy +of her charms was more than made up by that intellectual expression, that +soul beaming forth from the eyes, which is worth all the rest of +loveliness. When they had tinged her fingers with the Henna leaf, and +placed upon her brow a small coronet of jewels, of the shape worn by the +ancient Queens of Bucharia, they flung over her head the rose-colored +bridal veil, and she proceeded to the barge that was to convey her across +the lake;--first kissing, with a mournful look, the little amulet of +cornelian, which her father at parting had hung about her neck. + +The morning was as fresh and fair as the maid on whose nuptials it rose, +and the shining lake, all covered with boats, the minstrels playing upon +the shores of the islands, and the crowded summer-houses on the green +hills around, with shawls and banners waving from their roofs, presented +such a picture of animated rejoicing, as only she, who was the object of +it all, did not feel with transport. To LALLA ROOKH alone it was a +melancholy pageant; nor could she have even borne to look upon the scene, +were it not for a hope that among the crowds around, she might once more +perhaps catch a glimpse of FERAMORZ. So much was her imagination haunted +by this thought that there was scarcely an islet or boat she passed on the +way at which her heart did not flutter with the momentary fancy that he +was there. Happy, in her eyes, the humblest slave upon whom the light of +his dear looks fell!--In the barge immediately after the Princess sat +FADLADEEN, with his silken curtains thrown widely apart, that all might +have the benefit of his august presence, and with his head full of the +speech he was to deliver to the King, "concerning FERAMORZ and literature +and the Chabuk as connected therewith." + +They now had entered the canal which leads from the Lake to the splendid +domes and saloons of the Shalimar and went gliding on through the gardens +that ascended from each bank, full of flowering shrubs that made the air +all perfume; while from the middle of the canal rose jets of water, smooth +and unbroken, to such a dazzling height that they stood like tall pillars +of diamond in the sunshine. After sailing under the arches of various +saloons they at length arrived at the last and most magnificent, where the +monarch awaited the coming of his bride; and such was the agitation of her +heart and frame that it was with difficulty she could walk up the marble +steps which were covered with cloth of gold for her ascent from the barge. +At the end of the hall stood two thrones, as precious as the Cerulean +Throne of Koolburga,[348] on one of which sat ALIRIS, the youthful King +of Bucharia, and on the other was in a few minutes to be placed the most +beautiful Princess in the world. Immediately upon the entrance of LALLA +ROOKH into the saloon the monarch descended from his throne to meet her; +but scarcely had he time to take her hand in his when she screamed with +surprise and fainted at his feet. It was FERAMORZ, himself, who stood +before her! FERAMORZ, was, himself, the Sovereign of Bucharia, who in this +disguise had accompanied his young bride from Delhi, and having won her +love as an humble minstrel now amply deserved to enjoy it as a King. + +The consternation of FADLADEEN at this discovery was, for the moment, +almost pitiable. But change of opinion is a resource too convenient in +courts for this experienced courtier not to have learned to avail himself +of it. His criticisms were all, of course, recanted instantly: he was +seized with an admiration of the King's verses, as unbounded as, he begged +him to believe, it was disinterested; and the following week saw him in +possession of an additional place, swearing by all the Saints of Islam +that never had there existed so great a poet as the Monarch ALIRIS, and +moreover ready to prescribe his favorite regimen of the Chabuk for every +man, woman and child that dared to think otherwise. + +Of the happiness of the King and Queen of Bucharia, after such a +beginning, there can be but little doubt; and among the lesser symptoms it +is recorded of LALLA ROOKH that to the day of her death in memory of their +delightful journey she never called the King by any other name than +FERAMORZ. + + +[1] These particulars of the visit of the King of Bucharia to Aurungzebe +are found in _Dow's "History of Hindostan_," vol. iii. p. 392. + +[2] Tulip cheek. + +[3] The mistress of Mejnoun, upon whose story so many Romances in all the +languages of the East are founded. + +[4] For the loves of this celebrated beauty with Khosrou and with Ferhad, +see _D'Herbelot, Gibbon, Oriental Collections_, etc. + +[5] "The history of the loves of Dewildé and Chizer, the son of the +Emperor Alla, is written in an elegant poem, by the noble Chusero."—- +_Ferishta_. + +[6] Gul Reazee. + +[7] "One mark of honor or knighthood bestowed by the Emperor is the +permission to wear a small kettle-drum at the bows of their saddles, which +at first was invented for the training of hawks, and to call them to the +lure, and is worn in the field by all sportsmen to that end."--_Fryer's_ +Travels. "Those on whom the King has conferred the privilege must wear an +ornament of jewels on the right side of the turban, surmounted by a high +plume of the feathers of a kind of egret. This bird is found only in +Cashmere, and the feathers are carefully collected for the King, who +bestows them on his nobles."--_Elphinstone's_ Account of Cabul. + +[8] "Khedar Khan, the Khakan, or King of Turquestan beyond the Gibon (at +the end of the eleventh century), whenever he appeared abroad was preceded +by seven hundred horsemen with silver battle-axes, and was followed by an +equal number bearing maces of gold. He was a great patron of poetry, and +it was he who used to preside at public exercises of genius, with four +basins of gold and silver by him to distribute among the poets who +excelled."--_Richardson's_ Dissertation prefixed to his Dictionary. + +[9] "The kubdeh, a large golden knob, generally in the shape of a pine- +apple, on the top of the canopy over the litter or palanquin."--_Scott's_ +Notes on the Bahardanush. + +[10] In the Poem of Zohair, in the Moallakat, there is the following +lively description of "a company of maidens seated on camels." "They are +mounted in carriages covered with costly awnings, and with rose-colored +veils, the linings of which have the hue of crimson Andem-wood. "When they +ascend from the bosom of the vale, they sit forward on the saddlecloth, +with every mark of a voluptuous gayety. "Now, When they have reached the +brink of yon blue-gushing rivulet, they fix the poles of their tents like +the Arab with a settled mansion." + +[11] See _Bernier's_ description of the attendants on Rauchanara Begum, in +her progress to Cashmere. + +[12] This hypocritical Emperor would have made a worthy associate of +certain Holy Leagues.--"He held the cloak of religion [says Dow] between +his actions and the vulgar; and impiously thanked the Divinity for a +success which he owed to his own wickedness. When he was murdering and +persecuting his brothers and their families, he was building a magnificent +mosque at Delhi, as an offering to God for his assistance to him in the +civil wars. He acted as high priest at the consecration of this temple; +and made a practice of attending divine service there, in the humble dress +of a Fakeer. But when he lifted one hand to the Divinity, he, with the +other, signed warrants for the assassination of his relations."--"_History +of Hindostan_,". vol. iii. p.335. See also the curious letter of +Aurungzebe, given in the _Oriental Collections_, vol. i. p.320. + +[13] "The idol at Jaghernat has two fine diamonds for eyes. No goldsmith +is suffered to enter the Pagoda, one having stole one of these eyes, being +locked up all night with the Idol."--_Tavernier_. + +[14] See a description of these royal Gardens in "An Account of the +present State of Delhi, by Lieut. W. Franklin."--_Asiat. Research_, vol. +iv. p. 417. + +[15] "In the neighborhood is Notte Gill, or the Lake of Pearl, which +receives this name from its pellucid water."--_Pennant's_ "Hindostan." +"Nasir Jung encamped in the vicinity of the Lake of Tonoor, amused himself +with sailing on that clear and beautiful water, and gave it the fanciful +name of Motee Talah, 'the Lake of Pearls,' which it still retains."-- +_Wilks's_ "South of India." + +[16] Sir Thomas Roe, Ambassador from James I. to Jehanguire. + +[17] "The romance Wemakweazra, written in Persian verse, which contains +the loves of Wamak and Ezra, two celebrated lovers who lived before the +time of Mahomet."--_Note on the Oriental Tales_. + +[18] Their amour is recounted in the Shah-Namêh of Ferdousi; and there is +much beauty in the passage which describes the slaves of Rodahver sitting +on the bank of the river and throwing flowers into the stream, in order to +draw the attention of the young Hero who is encamped on the opposite +side.--See _Champion's_ translation. + +[19] Rustam is the Hercules of the Persians. For the particulars of his +victory over the Sepeed Deeve, or White Demon, see _Oriental Collections_, +vol. ii. p. 45.--Near the city of Shiraz is an immense quadrangular +monument, in commemoration of this combat, called the Kelaat-i-Deev +Sepeed, or castle of the White Giant, which Father Angelo, in his +"_Gazophilacium Persicum_," p.127, declares to have been the most +memorable monument of antiquity which he had seen in Persia.--See +_Ouseley's_ "Persian Miscellanies." + +[20] "The women of the Idol, or dancing girls of the Pagoda, have little +golden bells, fastened to their feet, the soft harmonious tinkling of +which vibrates in unison with the exquisite melody of their voices."-- +_Maurice's_ "Indian Antiquities." + +"The Arabian courtesans, like the Indian women, have little golden bells +fastened round their legs, neck, and elbows, to the sound of which they +dance before the King. The Arabian princesses wear golden rings on their +fingers, to which little bells are suspended, as well as in the flowing +tresses of their hair, that their superior rank may be known and they +themselves receive in passing the homage due to them."--See _Calmet's_ +Dictionary, art. "Bells." + +[21] The Indian Apollo.— "He and the three Ramas are described as youths +of perfect beauty, and the princesses of Hindustan were all passionately +in love with Chrishna, who continues to this hour the darling God of the +Indan women."--_Sir W. Jones_, on the Gods of Greece, Italy, and India. + +[22] See _Turner's_ Embassy for a description of this animal, "the most +beautiful among the whole tribe of goats." The material for the shawls +(which is carried to Cashmere) is found next the skin. + +[23] For the real history of this Impostor, whose original name was Hakem +ben Haschem, and who was called Mocanna from the veil of silver gauze (or, +as others say, golden) which he always wore, see _D'Herbelot_. + +[24] Khorassan signifies, in the old Persian language, Province or Region +of the Sun.--_Sir W. Jones_. + +[25] "The fruits of Meru are finer than those of any other place: and one +cannot see in any other city such palaces with groves, and streams, and +gardens."--_Ebn Haukal's_ Geography. + +[26] One of the royal cities of Khorassan. + +[27] Moses. + +[28] Black was the color adopted by the Caliphs of the House of Abbas, in +their garments, turbans, and standards. + +[29] "Our dark javelins, exquisitely wrought of Khathaian reeds, slender +and delicate."--_Poem of Amru_. + +[30] Pichula, used anciently for arrows by the Persians. + +[31] The Persians call this plant Gaz. The celebrated shaft of Isfendiar, +one of their ancient heroes, was made of it.--"Nothing can be more +beautiful than the appearance of this plant in flower during the rains on +the banks of rivers, where it is usually interwoven with a lovely twining +asclepias."--_Sir W. Jones_.. + +[32] The oriental plane. "The chenar is a delightful tree; its bole is of +a fine white and smooth bark; and its foliage, which grows in a tuft at +the summit, is of a bright green."--_Morier's Travels_.. + +[33] The burning fountains of Brahma near Chittogong, esteemed as +holy.--_Turner_. + +[34] China. + +[35] "The name of tulip is said to be of Turkish extraction, and given to +the flower on account of its resembling a turban."--_Beckmann_'s History +of Inventions. + +[36] "The inhabitants of Bucharia wear a round cloth bonnet, shaped much +after the Polish fashion, having a large fur border. They tie their +kaftans about the middle with a girdle of a kind of silk crape, several +times round the body."--_Account of Independent Tartary, in Pinkerton's +Collection_. + +[37] In the war of the Caliph Mahadi against the Empress Irene, for an +account of which _vide Gibbon_, vol. x. + +[38] When Soliman travelled, the eastern writers say, "He had a carpet of +green silk on which his throne was placed, being of a prodigious length +and breadth, and sufficient for all his forces to stand upon, the men +placing themselves on his right hand, and the spirits on his left; and +that when all were in order, the wind, at his command, took up the carpet, +and transported it, with all that were upon it, wherever he pleased; the +army of birds at the same time flying over their heads, and forming a kind +of canopy to shade them from the sun."--Sale's Koran, vol. ii. p. 214, +note. + +[39] The transmigration of souls was one of his doctrines.--_Vide +D'Herbelot_.. + +[40] "And when we said unto the angels. Worship Adam, they all worshipped +him except Eblis (Lucifer), who refused." _The. Koran_, chap. ii. + +[41] Moses. + +[42] Jesus. + +[43] The Amu, which rises in the Belur Tag, or Dark Mountains, and running +nearly from east to west, splits into two branches; one of which falls +into the Caspian Sea, and the other into Aral Nahr, or the Lake of Eagles. + +[44] The nightingale. + +[45] The cities of Com (or Koom) and Cashan are full of mosques, +mausoleums and sepulchres of the descendants of Ali, the Saints of Persia +--_Chardin_.. + +[46] An island in the Persian Gulf, celebrated for its white wine. + +[47] The miraculous well at Mecca: so called, says Sale, from the +murmuring of its waters. + +[48] The god Hannaman.--"Apes are in many parts of India highly venerated, +out of respect to the God Hannaman, a deity partaking of the form of that +race."--_Pennant's_ Hindoostan. See a curious account in _Stephen's +Persia_, of a solemn embassy from some part of the Indies to Goa when the +Portuguese were there, offering vast treasures for the recovery of a +monkey's tooth, which they held in great veneration, and which had been +taken away upon the conquest of the kingdom of Jafanapatan. + +[49] A kind of lantern formerly used by robbers, called the Hand of Glory, +the candle for which was made of the fat of a dead malefactor. This, +however, was rather a western than an eastern superstition. + +[50] The material of which images of Gaudma (the Birman Deity) are made, +is held sacred. "Birmans may not purchase the marble in mass, but are +suffered, and indeed encouraged, to buy figures of the Deity ready made." +--_Sytnes's_ "Ava," vol. ii. p. 876. + +[51] "It is commonly said in Persia, that if a man breathe in the hot +south wind, which in June or July passes over that flower (the Kerzereh), +it will kill him."--_Thevenot_. + +[52] The humming bird is said to run this risk for the purpose of picking +the crocodile's teeth. The same circumstance is related of the lapwing, as +a fact to which he was witness, by _Paul Lucas, "Voyage fait en_ 1714." + +The ancient story concerning the Trochilus, or humming-bird, entering with +impunity into the mouth of the crocodile, is firmly believed at +Java.--_Barrow's "Cochin-China_." + +[53] "The feast of Lanterns celebrated at Yamtcheou with more magnificence +than anywhere else! and the report goes that the illuminations there are +so splendid, that an Emperor once, not daring openly to leave his Court to +go thither, committed himself with the Queen and several Princesses of his +family into the hands of a magician, who promised to transport them +thither in a trice. He made them in the night to ascend magnificent +thrones that were borne up by swans, which in a moment arrived at +Yamtcheou. The Emperor saw at his leisure all the solemnity, being carried +upon a cloud that hovered over the city and descended by degrees; and came +back again with the same speed and equipage, nobody at court perceiving +his absence."--_The Present State of China_," p. 156. + +[54] "The vulgar ascribe it to an accident that happened in the family of +a famous mandarin, whose daughter, walking one evening upon the shore of a +lake, fell in and was drowned: this afflicted father, with his family, ran +thither, and the better to find her, he caused a great company of lanterns +to be lighted. All the inhabitants of the place thronged after him with +torches. The year ensuing they made fires upon the shores the same day; +they continued the ceremony every year, every one lighted his lantern, and +by degrees it commenced into a custom."--_The Present State of China_." + +[55] "Thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes."--_Sol. Song_. + +[56] "They tinged the ends of her fingers scarlet with Henna, so that they +resembled branches of coral."--_Story of Prince Futtun in Bahardanush_. + +[57] "The women blacken the inside of their eyelids with a powder named +the black Kohol."--_Russell_. + +"None of these ladies," says _Shaw_, "take themselves to be completely +dressed, till they have tinged their hair and edges of their eyelids with +the powder of lead ore. Now, as this operation is performed by dipping +first into the powder a small wooden bodkin of the thickness of a quill, +and then drawing it afterwards through the eyelids over the ball of the +eye, we shall have a lively image of what the Prophet (Jer. iv. 30) may be +supposed to mean by _rending the eyes with painting_. This practice is no +doubt of great antiquity; for besides the instance already taken notice +of, we find that where Jezebel is said (2 Kings ix. 30.) _to have painted +her face_, the original words are, _she adjusted her eyes with the powder +of lead-ore_."--_Shaw's_ Travels. + +[58] "The appearance of the blossoms of the gold-colored Campac on the +black hair of the Indian women has supplied the Sanscrit Poets with many +elegant allusions."--See _Asiatic Researches_, vol. iv. + +[59] A tree famous for its perfume, and common on the hills of +Yemen.--_Niebuhr_. + +[60] Of the genus mimosa "which droops its branches whenever any person +approaches it, seeming as if it saluted those who retire under its +shade."--_Niebuhr_. + +[61] Cloves are a principal ingredient in the composition of the perfumed +rods, which men of rank keep constantly burning in their presence.-- +_Turner's_ "Tibet." + +[62] "Thousands of variegated loories visit the coral-trees."--_Barrow_. + +[63] "In Mecca there are quantities of blue pigeons, which none will +affright or abuse, much less kill."--_Pitt's_ Account of the Mahometans. + +[64] "The Pagoda Thrush is esteemed among the first choristers of India. +It sits perched on the sacred pagodas, and from thence delivers its +melodious song."--_Pennant's_ "Hindostan." + +[65] _Tavernier_ adds, that while the Birds of Paradise lie in this +intoxicated state, the emmets come and eat off their legs; and that hence +it is they are said to have no feet. + +[66] Birds of Paradise, which, at the nutmeg season, come in flights from +the southern isles to India; and "the strength of the nutmeg," says +_Tavernier_, "so intoxicates them that they fall dead drunk to the earth." + +[67] "That bird which liveth in Arabia, and buildeth its nest with +cinnamon."--_Brown's_ Vulgar Errors. + +[68] "The spirits of the martyrs will be lodged in the crops of green +birds."--_Gibbon_, vol. ix. p. 421. + +[69] Shedad, who made the delicious gardens of Irim, in imitation of +Paradise, and was destroyed by lightning the first time he attempted to +enter them. + +[70] "My Pandits assure me that the plant before us (the Nilica) is their +Sephalica, thus named because the bees are supposed to sleep on its +blossoms."--_Sir W. Jones_. + +[71] They deterred it till the King of Flowers should ascend his throne of +enamelled foliage."--_The Bahardanush_". + +[72] "One of the head-dresses of the Persian women is composed of a light +golden chain-work, set with small pearls, with a thin gold plate pendant, +about the bigness of a crown-piece, on which is impressed an Arabian +prayer, and which hangs upon the cheek below the ear."--_Hanway's_ +Travels. + +[73] "Certainly the women of Yezd are the handsomest women in Persia. The +proverb is, that to live happy a man must have a wife of Yezd, eat the +bread of Yezdecas, and drink the wine of Shiraz."--_Tavernier_. + +[74] Musnuds are cushioned seats, usually reserved for persons of +distinction. + +[75] The Persians, like the ancient Greeks call their musical modes or +Perdas by the names of different countries or cities, as the mode of +Isfahan, the mode of Irak, etc. + +[76] A river which flows near the ruins of Chilminar. + +[77] "To the north of us (on the coast of the Caspian, near Badku,) was a +mountain, which sparkled like diamonds, arising from the sea-glass and +crystals with which it abounds."--_Journey of the Russian Ambassador to +Persia_, 1746. + +[78] "To which will be added, the sound of the bells, hanging on the +trees, which will be put in motion by the wind proceeding from the throne +of God, as often as the blessed wish for music."--_Sale_. + +[79] "Whose wanton eyes resemble blue water-lilies, agitated by the +breeze."--_Jayadeva_. + +[80] The blue lotos, which grows in Cashmere and in Persia. + +[81] It has been generally supposed that the Mahometans prohibit all +pictures of animals; but _Toderini_ shows that, though the practice is +forbidden by the Koran, they are not more averse to painted figures and +images than other people. From Mr. Murphy's work, too, we find that the +Arabs of Spain had no objection to the introduction of figures into +Painting. + +[82] This is not quite astronomically true. "Dr. Hadley [says Keil] has +shown that Venus is brightest when she is about forty degrees removed from +the sun; and that then but _only a fourth part_ of her lucid disk is to be +seen from the earth." + +[83] The wife of Potiphar, thus named by the Orientals. The passion which +this frail beauty of antiquity conceived for her young Hebrew slave has +given rise to a much esteemed poem in the Persian language, entitled +_Yusef vau Zelikha_, by _Noureddin Jami;_ the manuscript copy of which, in +the Bodleian Library at Oxford, is supposed to be the finest in the whole +world."--_Note upon Nott's Translation of Hafez_." + +[84] The particulars of Mahomet's amour with Mary, the Coptic girl, in +justification of which he added a new chapter to the Koran, may be found +in _Gagnier's Notes upon Abulfeda_, p. 151. + +[85] "Deep blue is their mourning color." _Hanway_. + +[86] The sorrowful nyctanthes, which begins to spread its rich odor after +sunset. + +[87] "Concerning the vipers, which Pliny says were frequent among the +balsam-trees, I made very particular inquiry; several were brought me +alive both to Yambo and Jidda."--_Bruce_. + +[88] In the territory of Istkahar there is a kind of apple, half of which +is sweet and half sour.--_Ebn Haukal_. + +[89] "The place where the Whangho, a river of Tibet, rises, and where +there are more than a hundred springs, which sparkle like stars; whence it +is called Hotun-nor, that is, the Sea of Stars."--_Description of Tibet in +Pinkerton_. + +[90] "The Lescar or Imperial Camp is divided, like a regular town, into +squares, alleys, and streets, and from a rising ground furnishes one of +the most agreeable prospects in the world. Starting up in a few hours in +an uninhabited plain, it raises the idea of a city built by enchantment. +Even those who leave their houses in cities to follow the prince in his +progress are frequently so charmed with the Lescar, when situated in a +beautiful and convenient place, that they cannot prevail with themselves +to remove. To prevent this inconvenience to the court, the Emperor, after +sufficient time is allowed to the tradesmen to follow, orders them to be +burnt out of their tents."--_Dow's Hindostan_. + +[91] The edifices of Chilminar and Balbec are supposed to have been built +by the Genii, acting under the orders of Jan ben Jan, who governed the +world long before the time of Adam. + +[92] "A superb camel, ornamented with strings and tufts of small +shells."--_Ali Bey_. + +[93] A native of Khorassan, and allured southward by means of the water of +a fountain between Shiraz and Ispahan, called the Fountain of Birds, of +which it is so fond that it will follow wherever that water is carried. + +[94] "Some of the camels have bells about their necks, and some about +their legs, like those which our carriers put about their fore-horses' +necks, which together with the servants (who belong to the camels, and +travel on foot), singing all night, make a pleasant noise, and the journey +passes away delightfully."--_Pitt's_ Account of the Mahometans. + +"The camel-driver follows the camels singing, and sometimes playing upon +his pipe; the louder he sings and pipes, the faster the camels go. Nay, +they will stand still when he gives over his music."--_Tavernier_. + +[95] "This trumpet is often called, in Abyssinia, _nesser cano_, which +signifies the Note of the Eagle."--_Note of Bruce's Editor_. + +[96] The two black standards borne before the Caliphs of the House of +Abbas were called, allegorically, The Night and The Shadow.--See _Gibbon_. + +[97] The Mohometan religion. + +[98] "The Persians swear by the Tomb of Shad Besade, who is buried at +Casbin; and when one desires another to asseverate a matter he will ask +him, if he dare swear by the Holy Grave."--_Struy_. + +[99] Mahadi, in a single pilgrimage to Mecca, expended six millions of +dinars of gold. + +[100] The inhabitants of Hejaz or Arabia Petraea, called by an Eastern +writer "The People of the Rock."--_Ebn Haukal_. + +[101] "Those horses, called by the Arabians Kochlani, of whom a written +genealogy has been kept for 2000 years. They are said to derive their +origin from King Solomon's steeds."--_Niebuhr_. + +[102] "Many of the figures on the blades of their swords are wrought in +gold or silver, or in marquetry with small gems."--_Asiat. Misc_. v. i. + +[103] Azab or Saba. + +[104] "The chiefs of the Uzbek Tartars wear a plume of white heron's +feathers in their turbans."--_Account of Independent Tartary_. + +[105] In the mountains of Nishapour and Tous in (Khorassan) they find +turquoises.--_Ebn Huukal_. + +[106] The Ghebers or Guebres, those original natives of Persia, who +adhered to their ancient faith, the religion of Zoroaster, and who, after +the conquest of their country by the Arabs, were either persecuted at +home, or forced to become wanderers abroad. + +[107] "Yezd, the chief residence of those ancient natives who worship the +Sun and the Fire, which latter they have carefully kept lighted, without +being once extinguished for a moment, about 3000 years, on a mountain near +Yezd, called Ater Quedah, signifying the House or Mansion of the Fire. He +is reckoned very unfortunate who dies off that mountain."--_Stephen's +Persia_. + +[108] When the weather is hazy, the springs of Naphtha (on an island near +Baku) boil up the higher, and the Naphtha often takes fire on the surface +of the earth, and runs in a flame into the sea to a distance almost +incredible."--_Hanway on the Everlasting Fire at Baku_. + +[109] _Savary_ says of the south wind, which blows in Egypt from February +to May, "Sometimes it appears only in the shape of an impetuous whirlwind, +which passes rapidly, and is fatal to the traveller, surprised in the +middle of the deserts. Torrents of burning sand roll before it, the +firmament is enveloped in a thick veil, and the sun appears of the color +of blood. Sometimes whole caravans are buried in it." + +[110] In the great victory gained by Mahomed at Beder, he was assisted, +say the Mussulmans, by three thousand angels led by Gabriel mounted on his +horse Hiazum.--See _The Koran and its Commentators_. + +[111] The Techir, or cry of the Arabs. "Alla Acbar!" says Ockley, means, +"God is most mighty." + +[112] The ziraleet is a kind of chorus, which the women of the East sing +upon joyful occasions. + +[113] The Dead Sea, which contains neither animal nor vegetable life. + +[114] The ancient Oxus. + +[115] A city of Transoxiana. + +[116] "You never can cast your eyes on this tree, but you meet there +either blossoms or fruit; and as the blossom drops underneath on the +ground (which is frequently covered with these purple-colored flowers), +others come forth in their stead," etc.--_Nieuhoff_. + +[117] The Demons of the Persian mythology. + +[118] Carreri mentions the fire-flies in India during the rainy +season.--See his Travels. + +[119] Sennacherib, called by the Orientals King of Moussal.--_D'Herbelot_. + +[120] Chosroes. For the description of his Throne or Palace, see _Gibbon +and D'Herbelot_. + +There were said to be under this Throne or Palace of Khosrou Parviz a +hundred vaults filled with "treasures so immense that some Mahometan +writers tell us, their Prophet to encourage his disciples carried them to +a rock which at his command opened and gave them a prospect through it of +the treasures of Khosrou."--_Universal History_. + +[121] "The crown of Gerashid is cloudy and tarnished before the heron tuft +of thy turban."--From one of the elegies or songs in praise of Ali, +written in characters of gold round the gallery of Abbas's tomb.--See +_Chardin_. + +[122] The beauty of Ali's eyes was so remarkable, that whenever the +Persians would describe anything as very lovely, they say it is Ayn Hali, +or the Eyes of Ali.--_Chardin_. + +[123] "Nakshab, the name of a city in Transoxiana, where they say there is +a well, in which the appearance of the moon is to be seen night and day." + +[124] The Shechinah, called Sakfnat in the Koran.--See _Sale's Note_, +chap. ii. + +[125] The parts of the night are made known as well by instruments of +music, as by the rounds of the watchmen with cries and small drums.--See +_Burder's Oriental Customs_, vol. i. p. 119. + +[126] The Serrapurda, high screens of red cloth, stiffened with cane, used +to enclose a considerable space round the royal tents.--_Notes on the +Bakardanush. + +The tents of Princes were generally illuminated. Norden tells us that the +tent of the Bey of Girge was distinguished from the other tents by forty +lanterns being suspended before it.--See _Harmer's Observations on Job_. + +[127] "From the groves of orange trees at Kauzeroon the bees cull a +celebrated honey.--_Morier's Travels_. + +[128] "A custom still subsisting at this day, seems to me to prove that +the Egyptians formerly sacrificed a young virgin to the God of the Nile; +for they now make a statue of earth in shape of a girl, to which they give +the name of the Betrothed Bride, and throw it into the river."--_Savary_. + +[129] That they knew the secret of the Greek fire among the Mussulmans +early in the eleventh century, appears from _Dow's_ account of Mamood I. +"When he at Moultan, finding that the country of the Jits was defended by +great rivers, he ordered fifteen hundred boats to be built, each of which +he armed with six iron spikes, projecting from their prows and sides, to +prevent their being boarded by the enemy, who were very expert in that +kind of war. When he had launched this fleet, he ordered twenty archers +into each boat, and five others with fire-balls, to burn the craft of the +Jits, and naphtha to set the whole river on fire." + +[130] The Greek fire, which was occasionally lent by the emperors to their +allies. "It was," says Gibbon, "either launched in red-hot balls of stone +and iron, or darted in arrows and javelins, twisted round with flax and +tow, which had deeply imbibed the imflammable oil." + +[131] See _Hanway's_ Account of the Springs of Naphtha at Baku (which is +called by _Lieutenant Pottinger_ Joala Mookee, or, the Flaming Mouth), +taking fire and running into the sea. _Dr. Cooke_, in his Journal, +mentions some wells in Circassia, strongly impregnated with this +inflammable oil, from which issues boiling water. "Though the weather," he +adds, "was now very cold, the warmth of these wells of hot water produced +near them the verdure and flowers of spring.' + +[132] "At the great festival of fire, called the Sheb Seze, they used to +set fire to large bunches of dry combustibles, fastened round wild beasts +and birds, which being then let loose, the air and earth appeared one +great illumination; and as these terrified creatures naturally fled to the +woods for shelter, it is easy to conceive the conflagrations they +produced."--_Richardson's Dissertation_. + +[133] "The righteous shall be given to drink of pure wine, sealed: the +seal whereof shall be musk."--_Koran_, chap lxxxiii. + +[134] The Afghans believe each of the numerous solitudes and deserts of +their country to be inhabited by a lonely demon, whom they call The +Ghoolee Beeabau, or Spirit of the Waste. They often illustrate the +wildness of any sequestered tribe, by saying they are wild as the Demon of +the Waste."--_Elphinstone's Caubul_. + +[135] "They have all a great reverence for burial-grounds, which they +sometimes call by the poetical name of Cities of the Silent, and which +they people with the ghosts of the departed, who sit each at the head of +his own grave, invisible to mortal eyes."--_Elphinstone_. + +[136] The celebrity of Mazagong is owing to its mangoes, which are +certainly the best I ever tasted. The parent-tree, from which all those of +this species have been grafted, is honored during the fruit-season by a +guard of sepoys; and, in the reign of Shah Jehan, couriers ware stationed +between Delhi and the Mahratta coast, to secure an abundant and fresh +supply of mangoes for the royal table."--_Mrs. Graham's_ Journal of +Residence in India. + +[137] This old porcelain is found in digging, and "if it is esteemed, it +is not because it has acquired any new degree of beauty in the earth, but +because it has retained its ancient beauty; and this alone is of great +importance in China, where they give large sums for the smallest vessels +which were used under the Emperors Yan and Chun, who reigned many ages +before the dynasty of Tang, at which time porcelain began to be used by +the Emperors" (about the year 442).--_Dunn's_ Collection of curious +Observations, etc. + +[138] The blacksmith Gao, who successfully resisted the tyrant Zohak, and +whose apron became the royal standard of Persia. + +[139] "The Huma, a bird peculiar to the East. It is supposed to fly +constantly in the air, and never touch the ground; it is looked upon as a +bird of happy omen; and that every head it overshades will in time wear a +crown."--_Richardson_. + +In the terms of alliance made by Fuzel Oola Khan with Hyder in 1760, one +of the stipulations was, "that he should have the distinction of two +honorary attendants standing behind him, holding fans composed of the +feathers of the humma, according to the practice of his family."-- +_Wilks's_ South of India. He adds in a note;--"The Humma is a fabulous +bird. The head over which its shadow once passes will assuredly be circled +with a crown. The splendid little bird suspended over the throne of Tippoo +Sultaun, found at Seringapatam in 1799, was intended to represent this +poetical fancy." + +[140] "To the pilgrims to Mount Sinai we must attribute the inscriptions, +figures, etc., on those rocks, which have from thence acquired the name of +the Written Mountain."--_Volney_. + +M. Gebelin and others have been at much pains to attach some mysterious +and important meaning to these inscriptions; but Niebuhr, as well as +Volney, thinks that they must have been executed at idle hours by the +travellers to Mount Sinai, "who were satisfied with cutting the unpolished +rock with any pointed instrument; adding to their names and the date of +their journeys some rude figures, which bespeak the hand of a people but +little skilled in the arts."--_Niebuhr_. + +[141] The Story of Sinbad. + +[142] "The Cámalatá (called by Linnaeus, Ipomaea) is the most beautiful of +its order, both in the color and form of its leaves and flowers; its +elegant blossoms are 'celestial rosy red, Love's proper hue,' and have +justly procured is the name of Cámalatá, or Love's creeper."--_Sir W. +Jones_. + +[143] "According to Father Premare, in his tract on Chinese Mythology, the +mother of Fo-hi was the daughter of heaven, surnamed Flower-loving; and as +the nymph was walking alone on the bank of a river, she found herself +encircled by a rainbow, after which she became pregnant, and, at the end +of twelve years, was delivered of a son radiant as herself."--_Asiat. +Res_. + +[144] "Numerous small islands emerge from the Lake of Cashmere. One is +called Char Chenaur, from the plane trees upon it.--_Foster_. + +[145] "The Altan Kol or Golden River of Tibet, which runs into the Lakes +of Sing-su-hay, has abundance of gold in its sands, which employs the +inhabitants all the summer in gathering it."--_Description of Tibet in +Pinkerton_. + +[146] "The Brahmins of this province insist that the blue campac flowers +only in Paradise."--_Sir W. Jones_. It appears, however, from a curious +letter of the Sultan of Menangeabow, given by Marsden, that one place on +earth may lay claim to the possession of it. "This is the Sultan, who +keeps the flower champaka that is blue, and to be found in no other +country but his, being yellow elsewhere."--_Marsden's_ Sumatra. + +[147] "The Mahometans suppose that falling stars are the firebrands +wherewith the good angels drive away the bad, when they approach too near +the empyrean or verge or the heavens."--_Fryer_. + +[148] The Forty Pillars; so the Persians call the ruins of Persepolis. It +is imagined by them that this palace and the edifices at Balbec were built +by Genii, for the purpose of hiding in their subterraneous caverns immense +treasures, which still remain there.--_D'Herbelot, Volney_. + +[149] _Diodorus_ mentions the Isle of Panchai, to the south of Arabia +Felix, where there was a temple of Jupiter. This island, or rather cluster +of isles, has disappeared, "sunk [says _Grandpré_] in the abyss made by +the fire beneath their foundations."--_Voyage to the Indian Ocean_. + +[150] The Isles of Panchaia. + +[151] "The cup of Jamshid, discovered, they say, when digging for the +foundations of Persepolis."-_Richardson_. + +[152] "It is not like the Sea of India, whose bottom is rich with pearls +and ambergris, whose mountains of the coast are stored with gold and +precious stones, whose gulfs breed creatures that yield ivory, and among +the plants of whose shores are ebony, red wood, and the wood of Hairzan, +aloes, camphor, cloves, sandal-wood, and all other spices and aromatics; +where parrots and peacocks are birds of the forest, and musk and civit are +collected upon the lands."--_Travels of Two Mohammedans_. + +[153] "With this immense treasure Mamood returned to Ghizni and in the +year 400 prepared a magnificent festival, where he displayed to the people +his wealth in golden thrones and in other ornaments, in a great plain +without the city of Ghizni." _Ferishta_. + +[154] "Mahmood of Gazna, or Chizni, who conquered India in the beginning +of the 11th century."--See his History in _Dow_ and Sir _J. Malcolm_. + +[155] "It is reported that the hunting equipage of the Sultan Mahmood was +so magnificent, that he kept 400 greyhounds and bloodhounds each of which +wore a collar set with jewels and a covering edged with gold and +pearls."--_Universal History_, vol. iii. + +[156] "The Mountains of the Moon, or the _Montes Lunae_ of antiquity, at +the foot of which the Nile is supposed to arise."--_Bruce_. + +[157] "The Nile, which the Abyssinians know by the names of Abey and Alawy +or the Giant."--_Asiat. Research_. vol. i. p. 387. + +[158] See Perry's View of the Levant for an account of the sepulchres in +Upper Thebes, and the numberless grots, covered all over with +hieroglyphics in the mountains of Upper Egypt. + +[159] "The orchards of Rosetta are filled with turtle-doves.--_Sonnini_. + +[160] Savary mentions the pelicans upon Lake Moeris. + +[161] "The superb date-tree, whose head languidly reclines, like that of a +handsome woman overcome with sleep."--_Dafard el Hadad_. + +[162] "That beautiful bird, with plumage of the finest shining blue, with +purple beak and legs, the natural and living ornament of the temples and +palaces of the Greeks and Romans, which, from the stateliness of its part, +as well as the brilliancy of its colors, has obtained the title of +Sultana,"--_Sonnini_. + +[163] Jackson, speaking of the plague that occurred in West Barbary, when +he was there, says, "The birds of the air fled away from the abodes of +men. The hyaenas, on the contrary, visited the cemeteries," etc. + +[164] "Gondar was full of hyaenas from the time it turned dark, till the +dawn of day, seeking the different pieces of slaughtered carcasses, which +this cruel and unclean people expose in the streets without burial, and +who firmly believe that these animals are Falashta from the neighboring +mountains, transformed by magic, and come down to eat human flesh in the +dark in safety."--_Bruce_. + +[165] "In the East, they suppose the Phoenix to have fifty orifices in his +bill, which are continued to his tail; and that, after living one thousand +years, he builds himself a funeral pile, sings a melodious air of +different harmonies through his fifty organ pipes, flaps his wings with a +velocity which sets fire to the wood and consumes himself."--_Richardson_. + +[166] "On the shores of a quadrangular lake stand a thousand goblets, made +of stars, out of which souls predestined to enjoy felicity drink the +crystal wave."--From _Chateaubriand's_ Description of the Mahometan +Paradise, in his _"Beauties of Christianity_." + +[167] Richardson thinks that Syria had its name from Suri, a beautiful and +delicate species of rose, for which that country has always been +famous;--hence, Suristan, the Land of Roses. + +[168] "The number of lizards I saw one day in the great court of the +Temple of the Sun at Balbec amounted to many thousands; the ground, the +walls, and stones of the ruined buildings, were covered with +them."--_Bruce_. + +[169] "The Syrinx or Pan's pipes is still a pastoral instrument in +Syria."--_Russel_. + +[170] "Wild bees, frequent in Palestine, in hollow trunks or branches of +trees, and the clefts of rocks. Thus it is said (Psalm lxxxi.), _'honey +out of the stony rock.'_"--_Burder's_ Oriental Customs. + +[171] "The River Jordan is on both sides beset with little, thick, and +pleasant woods, among which thousands of nightingales warble all +together."_--Thevenot_. + +[172] The Temple of the Sun at Balbec. + +[173] "You behold there a considerable number of a remarkable species of +beautiful insects, the elegance of whose appearance and their attire +procured for them the name of Damsels.--_Sonnini_. + +[174] "Such Turks as at the common hours of prayer are on the road, or so +employed as not to find convenience to attend the mosques, are still +obliged to execute that duty; nor are they ever known to fail, whatever +business they are then about, but pray immediately when the hour alarms +them, whatever they are about, in that very place they chance to stand on; +insomuch that when a janissary, whom you have to guard you up and down the +city, hears the notice which is given him from the steeples, he will turn +about, stand still, and beckon with his hand, to tell his charge he must +have patience for awhile; when, taking out his handkerchief, he spreads it +on the ground, sits cross-legged thereupon, and says his prayers, though +in the open market, which, having ended he leaps briskly up, salutes the +person whom he undertook to convey, and renews his journey with the mild +expression of _Ghell yelinnum ghell_, or Come, dear, follow me."--_Aaron +Hill's_ Travels. + +[175] The Nucta, Or Miraculous Drop, which falls in Egypt precisely on St. +John's day in June and is supposed to have the effect of stopping the +plague. + +[176] The Country of Delight--the name of a province in the kingdom of +Jinnistan, or Fairy Land, the capital of which is called the City of +Jewels. Amberabad is another of the cities of Jinnistan. + +[177] The tree Tooba, that stands in Paradise, in the palace of Mahomet. +See _Sale's Prelim. Disc_.--Tooba, says _D'Herbelot_, signifies beatitude, +or eternal happiness. + +[178] Mahomet is described, in the 53d chapter of the Koran, as having +seen the Angel Gabriel "by the lote-tree, beyond which there is no +passing: near it is the Garden of Eternal Abode." This tree, say the +commentators, stands in the seventh Heaven, on the right hand of the +Throne of God. + +[179] "It is said that the rivers or streams of Basra were reckoned in the +time of Peisl ben Abi Bordeh, and amounted to the number of one hundred +and twenty thousand streams."--_Ebn Haukal_. + +[180] The name of the javelin with which the Easterns exercise. See +_Castellan, "Moeurs des Ottomans," tom_. iii. p. 161. + +[181] "This account excited a desire of visiting the Banyan Hospital, as I +had heard much of their benevolence to all kinds of animals that were +either sick, lame, or infirm, through age or accident. On my arrival, +there were presented to my view many horses, cows, and oxen, in one +apartment; in another, dogs, sheep, goats, and monkeys, with clean straw +for them to repose on. Above stairs were depositories for seeds of many +sorts, and flat, broad dishes for water, for the use of birds and +insects."--_Parson_'s Travels. It is said that all animals know the +Banyans, that the most timid approach them, and that birds will fly nearer +to them than to other people.--See _Grandpré_. + +[182] "A very fragrant grass from the banks of the Ganges, near Heridwar, +which in some places covers whole acres, and diffuses, when crushed, a +strong odor."--_Sir W. Jones_ on the Spikenard of the Ancients. + +[183] "Near this is a curious hill, called Koh Talism, the Mountain of the +Talisman, because, according to the traditions of the country, no person +ever succeeded in gaining its summit."--_Kinneir_. + +[184] "The Arabians believe that the ostriches hatch their young by only +looking at them." + +[185] Oriental Tales. + +[186] Ferishta. "Or rather," says _Scott_, upon the passage of Ferishta, +from which this is taken, "small coins, stamped with the figure of a +flower. They are still used in India to distribute in charity and on +occasion thrown by the purse-bearers of the great among the populace." + +[187] The fine road made by the Emperor Jehan-Guire from Agra to Lahore, +planted with trees on each side. This road is 250 leagues in length. It +has "little pyramids or turrets," says _Bernier_, "erected every half +league, to mark the ways, and frequent wells to afford drink to +passengers, and to water the young trees." + +[188] The Baya, or Indian Grosbeak.--_Sir W. Jones_. + +[189] "Here is a large pagoda by a tank, on the water of which float +multitudes of the beautiful red lotus: the flower is larger than that of +the white water-lily, and is the most lovely of the nymphaeas I have +seen."--_Mrs. Graham's_ Journal of a Residence in India. + +[190] "Cashmere (says its historian) had its own princes 4000 years before +its conquest by Akbar in 1585. Akbar would have found some difficulty to +reduce this paradise of the Indies, situated as it is within such a +fortress of mountains, but its monarch, Yusef-Khan, was basely betrayed by +his Omrahs."--_Pennant_. + +[191] Voltaire tells us that in his tragedy, "_Les Guèbres_," he was +generally supposed to have alluded to the Jansenists. I should not be +surprised if this story of the Fire worshippers were found capable of a +similar doubleness of application. + +[192] The Persian Gulf, sometimes so called, which separates the shores of +Persia and Arabia. + +[193] The present Gombaroon, a town on the Persian side of the Gulf. + +[194] A Moorish instrument of music. + +[195] "At Gombaroon and other places in Persia, they have towers for the +purpose of catching the wind and cooling the houses.--_Le Bruyn_. + +[196] "Iran is the true general name for the empire of Persia.--_Asiat. +Res. Disc. 5_. + +[197] "On the blades of their scimitars some verse from the Koran is +usually inscribed.--_Russel_. + +[198] There is a kind of Rhododendros about Trebizond, whose flowers the +bee feeds upon, and the honey thence drives people mad;"--_Tournefort_. + +[199] Their kings wear plumes of black herons' feathers, upon the right +side, as a badge of sovereignty "--_Hanway_. + +[200] "The Fountain of Youth, by a Mahometan tradition, is situated in +some dark region of the East."--_Richardson_. + +[201] Arabia Felix. + +[202] "In the midst of the garden is the chiosk, that is, a large room, +commonly beautified with a fine fountain in the midst of it. It is raised +nine or ten steps, and enclosed with gilded lattices, round which vines, +jessamines, and honeysuckles, make a sort of green wall; large trees are +planted round this place, which is the scene of their greatest +pleasures."--_Lady M. W. Montagu_. + +[203] The women of the East are never without their looking-glasses. "In +Barbary," says _Shaw_, "they are so fond of their looking-glasses, which +they hang upon their breasts, that they will not lay them aside, even when +after the drudgery of the day they are obliged to go two or three miles +with a pitcher or a goat's skin to fetch water."--_Travels_. + +[204] "They say that if a snake or serpent fix his eyes on the lustre of +those stones (emeralds), he immediately becomes blind."--_Ahmed ben +Abdalaziz_, Treatise on Jewels. + +[205] "At Gombaroon and the Isle of Ormus, it is sometimes so hot, that +the people are obliged to lie all day in the water."--_Marco Polo_. + +[206] This mountain is generally supposed to be inaccessible. _Struy_ +says, "I can well assure the reader that their opinion is not true, who +suppose this mount to be inaccessible." He adds, that "the lower part of +the mountain is cloudy, misty, and dark, the middlemost part very cold, +and like clouds of snow, but the upper regions perfectly calm."--It was on +this mountain that the Ark was supposed to have rested after the Deluge, +and part of it, they say, exists there still, which Struy thus gravely +accounts for:--"Whereas none can remember that the air on the top of the +hill did ever change or was subject either to wind or rain, which is +presumed to be the reason that the Ark has endured so long without being +rotten."--See _Carreri's_ Travels, where the Doctor laughs at this whole +account of Mount Ararat. + +[207] In one of the books of the Shâh Nâmeh, when Zal (a celebrated hero +of Persia, remarkable for his white hair,) comes to the terrace of his +mistress Rodahver at night, she lets down her long tresses to assist him +in his ascent;--he, however, manages it in a less romantic way by fixing +his crook in a projecting beam.--See _Champion's_ Ferdosi. + +[208] "On the lofty hills of Arabia Petraea, are rock-goats."--_Niebuhr_. + +[209] "They (the Ghebers) lay so much stress on their cushee or girdle, as +not to dare to be an instant without it."--_Grose's_ Voyage. + +[210] "They suppose the Throne of the Almighty is seated in the sun, and +hence their worship of that luminary."--_Hanway_. + +[211] The Mameluks that were in the other boat, when it was dark used to +shoot up a sort of fiery arrows into the air which in some measure +resembled lightning or falling stars."--_Baumgarten_. + +[212] "Within the enclosure which surrounds his monument (at Gualior) is a +small tomb to the memory of Tan-Sein, a musician of incomparable skill, +who flourished at the court of Akbar. The tomb is overshadowed by a tree, +concerning which a superstitious notion prevails, that the chewing of its +leaves will give an extraordinary melody to the voice."--_Narrative of a +Journey from Agra to Ouzein, by W. Hunter, Esq_. + +[213] "It is usual to place a small white triangular flag, fixed to a +bamboo staff of ten or twelve feet long, at the place where a tiger has +destroyed a man. It is common for the passengers also to throw each a +stone or brick near the spot, so that in the course of a little time a +pile equal to a good wagon-load is collected. The sight of these flags and +piles of stones imparts a certain melancholy, not perhaps altogether void +of apprehension."--_Oriental Field Sports_, vol. ii. + +[214] "The Ficus Indica is called the Pagod Tree of Councils; the first, +from the idols placed under its shade; the second, because meetings were +held under its cool branches. In some places it is believed to be the +haunt of spectres, as the ancient spreading oaks of Wales have been of +fairies; in others are erected beneath the shade pillars of stone, or +posts, elegantly carved, and ornamented with the most beautiful porcelain +to supply the use of mirrors."--_Pennant_. + +[215] The Persian Gulf.--"To dive for pearls in the Green Sea, or Persian +Gulf."--_Sir W. Jones_. + +[216] Or Selemeh, the genuine name of the headland at the entrance of the +Gulf, commonly called Cape Musseldom. "The Indians when they pass the +promontory throw cocoa-nuts, fruits, or flowers into the sea to secure a +propitious voyage."--_Morier_. + +[217] "The nightingale sings from the pomegranate-groves in the daytime +and from the loftiest trees at night."--_Russel's_ "Aleppo." + +[218] In speaking of the climate of Shiraz, Francklin says, "The dew is of +such a pure nature, that if the brightest scimitar should be exposed to it +all night, it would not receive the least rust." + +[219] The place where the Persians were finally defeated by the Arabs, and +their ancient monarchy destroyed. + +[220] The Talpot or Talipot tree. "This beautiful palm-tree, which grows +in the heart of the forests, may be classed among the loftiest trees, and +becomes still higher when on the point of bursting forth from its leafy +summit. The sheath which then envelopes the flower is very large, and, +when it bursts, makes an explosion like the report of a cannon."-- +_Thunberg_. + +[221] "When the bright scimitars make the eyes of our heroes wink."--_The +Moallakat, Poem of Amru_. + +[222] Tahmuras, and other ancient Kings of Persia; whose adventures in +Fairy-land among the Peris and Divs may be found in Richardson's curious +Dissertation. The griffin Simoorgh, they say, took some feathers from her +breast for Tahmuras, with which he adorned his helmet, and transmitted +them afterwards to his descendants. + +[223] This rivulet, says Dandini, is called the Holy River from the +"cedar-saints" among which it rises. + +[224] This mountain is my own creation, as the "stupendous chain," of +which I suppose it a link, does not extend quite so far as the shores of +the Persian Gulf. + +[225] These birds sleep in the air. They are most common about the Cape of +Good Hope. + +[226] "There is an extraordinary hill in this neighborhood, called Kohé +Gubr, or the Guebre's mountain. It rises in the form of a lofty cupola, +and on the summit of it, they say, are the remains of an Atush Kudu or +Fire Temple. It is superstitiously held to be the residence or Deeves or +Sprites, and many marvellous stories are recounted of the injury and +witchcraft suffered by those who essayed in former days to ascend or +explore it."--_Pottinger's_ "Beloochistan." + +[227] The Ghebers generally built their temples over subterraneous fires. + +[228] "At the city of Yezd, in Persia, which is distinguished by the +appellation of the Darub Abadut, or Seat of Religion, the Guebres are +permitted to have an Atush Kudu or Fire Temple (which, they assert, has +had the sacred fire in it since the days of Zoroaster) in their own +compartment of the city; but for this indulgence they are indebted to the +avarice, not the tolerance of the Persian government, which taxes them at +twenty-five rupees each man."--_Pottinger's_ "Beloochistan." + +[229] Ancient heroes of Persia. "Among the Guebres there are some who +boast their descent from Rustam."--_Stephen's Persia_. + +[230] See Russel's account of the panther's attacking travellers in the +night on the sea-shore about the roots of Lebanon. + +[231] "Among other ceremonies the Magi used to place upon the tops of high +towers various kinds of rich viands, upon which it was supposed the Peris +and the spirits of their departed heroes regaled themselves."-- +_Richardson_. + +[232] In the ceremonies of the Ghebers round their Fire, as described by +Lord, "the Daroo," he says, "giveth them water to drink, and a pomegranate +leaf to chew in the mouth, to cleanse them from inward uncleanness." + +[233] "Early in the morning, they (the Parsees or Ghebers at Oulam) go in +crowds to pay their devotions to the Sun, to whom upon all the altars +there are spheres consecrated, made by magic, resembling the circles of +the sun, and when the sun rises, these orbs seem to be inflamed, and to +turn round with a great noise. They have every one a censer in their +hands, and offer incense to the sun.'--_Rabbi Benjamin_. + +[234] A vivid verdure succeeds the autumnal rains, and the ploughed fields +are covered with the Persian lily, of a resplendent yellow color."-- +_Russel's_ "Aleppo." + +[235] It is observed, with respect to the Sea of Herkend, that when it is +tossed by tempestuous winds it sparkles like fire."--_Travels of Two +Mohammedans_. + +[236] A kind of trumpet;--it "was that used by Tamerlane, the sound of +which is described as uncommonly dreadful, and so loud as to be heard at a +distance of several miles."--_Richardson_. + +[237] "Mohammed had two helmets, an interior and exterior one; the latter +of which, called Al Mawashah, the fillet, wreath, or wreathed garland, he +wore at the battle of Ohod."--_Universal History_. + +[238] "They say that there are apple-trees upon the sides of this sea, +which bear very lovely fruit, but within are all full of ashes."-- +_Thevenot_. + +[239] "The Suhrab or Water of the Desert is said to be caused by the +rarefaction of the atmosphere from extreme heat; and, which augments the +delusion, it is most frequent in hollows, where water might be expected to +lodge. I have seen bushes and trees reflected in it, with as much accuracy +is though it had been the face of a clear and still lake."--_Pottinger_. + +[240] "A wind which prevails in February, called Bidmusk, from a small and +odoriferous flower of that name."--"The wind which blows these flowers +commonly lasts till the end of the month."--_Le Bruyn_. + +[241] "The Biajús are of two races: the one is settled on Borneo, and are +a rude but warlike and industrious nation, who reckon themselves the +original possessors of the island of Borneo. The other is a species of +sea-gypsies or itinerant fishermen, who live in small covered boats, and +enjoy a perpetual summer on the eastern ocean, shifting to leeward from +island to island, with the variations of the monsoon. + +[242] "The sweet-scented violet is one of the plants most esteemed, +particularly for its great use in Sorbet, which they make of violet +sugar."--_Hassequist_. + +[243] "Last of all she took a guitar, and sang a pathetic air in the +measure called Nava, which is always used to express the lamentations of +absent lovers."--_Persian Tales_. + +[244] "The Easterns used to set out on their longer voyages with +music."--_Harmer_. + +[245] "The Gate of Tears, the straits or passage into the Red Sea, +commonly called Babelmandel. It received this name from the old Arabians, +on account of the danger of the navigation and the number of shipwrecks by +which it was distinguished; which induced them to consider as dead, and to +wear mourning for all who had the boldness to hazard the passage through +it into the Ethiopic ocean."--_Richardson_. + +[246] "I have been told that whensoever an animal falls down dead, one or +more vultures, unseen before, instantly appears."--_Pennant_. + +[247] "They fasten some writing to the wings of a Bagdat, or Babylonian +pigeon."--_Travels of certain Englishmen_. + +[248] "The Empress of Jehan-Guire used to divert herself with feeding tame +fish in her canals, some of which were many years afterwards known by +fillets of gold, which she caused to be put round them."--_Harris_. + +[249] The meteors that Pliny calls "_faces_." + +[250] "The brilliant Canopus, unseen in European climates."--_Brown_. + +[251] A precious stone of the Indies, called by the ancients, Ceraunium, +because it was supposed to be found in places where thunder had fallen. +Tertullian says it has a glittering appearance, as if there had fire in +it; and the author of the Dissertation of Harris's Voyages, supposes it to +be the opal. + +[252] "The Guebres are known by a dark yellow color, which the men affect +in their clothes."--_Thevenot_. + +[253] "The Kolah, or cap, worn by the Persians, is made of the skin of the +sheep of Tartary."--_Waring_. + +[254] A frequent image among the oriental poets. "The nightingales warbled +their enchanting notes, and rent the thin veils of the rose-bud, and the +rose."--_Jami_. + +[255] "Blossoms of the sorrowful Nyctanthes give a durable color to +silk."--_Remarks on the Husbandry of Bengal_, p. 200. Nilica is one of the +Indian names of this flower.--_Sir W. Jones_. The Persians call it +Gul.--Carreri. + +[256] "In parts of Kerman, whatever dates are shaken from the trees by the +wind they do not touch, but leave them for those who have not any, or for +travellers.--Ebn Haukal. + +[257] The two terrible angels, Monkir and Nakir, who are called "the +Searchers of the Grave" in the "Creed of the orthodox Mahometans" given by +Ockley, vol. ii. + +[258] "The Arabians call the mandrake 'the devil's candle,' on account of +its shining appearance in the night."--_Richardson_. + +[259] For an account of Ishmonie, the petrified city in Upper Egypt, where +it is said there are many statues of men, women, etc., to be seen to this +day, see _Perry's "Views of the Levant_." + +[260] Jesus. + +[261] The Ghebers say that when Abraham, their great Prophet, was thrown +into the fire by order of Nimrod, the flame turned instantly into "a bed +of roses, where the child sweetly reposed."--_Tavernier_. + +[262] "The shell called Siiankos, common to India, Africa, and the +Mediterranean, and still used in many parts as a trumpet for blowing +alarms or giving signals: it sends forth a deep and hollow sound."-- +_Pennant_. + +[263] "The finest ornament for the horses is made of six large flying +tassels of long white hair, taken out of the tails of wild oxen, that are +to be found in some places of the Indies."--_Thevenot_. + +[264] "The angel Israfll, who has the most melodious voice of all God's +creatures."--_Sale_. + +[265] "In this thicket upon the banks of the Jordan several sorts of wild +beasts are wont to harbor themselves, whose being washed out of the covert +by the overflowings of the river, gave occasion to that allusion of +Jeremiah, _he shall come up like a lion from the smelling of +Jordan_."--_Maundrell's "Aleppo."_ + +[266] "This wind (the Samoor) so softens the strings of lutes, that they +can never be tuned while it lasts."--_Stephen's Persia_. + +[267] "One of the greatest curiosities found in the Persian Gulf is a fish +which the English call Star-fish. It is circular, and at night very +luminous, resembling the full moon surrounded by rays."--_Mirza Abu +Taleb_. + +[268] Some naturalists have imagined that amber is a concretion of the +tears of birds.--See _Trevoux, Chambers_. + +[269] "The bay Kieselarke, which is otherwise called the Golden Bay, the +sand whereof shines as fire."--_Struy_. + +[270] "The application of whips or rods."--_Dubois_. + +[271] Kempfer mentions such an officer among the attendants of the King of +Persia, and calls him "_formae corporis estimator_." His business was, at +stated periods, to measure the ladies of the Haram by a sort of +regulation-girdle whose limits it was not thought graceful to exceed. If +any of them outgrew this standard of shape, they were reduced by +abstinence till they came within proper bounds. + +[272] "Akbar on his way ordered a fort to be built upon the Nilab, which +he called Attock, which means in the Indian language Forbidden; for, by +the superstition of the Hindoos, it was held unlawful to cross that +river."--_Dow's_ Hindostan. + +[273] "The inhabitants of this country (Zinge) are never afflicted with +sadness or melancholy; on this subject the Sheikh _Abu-al-Kheir-Azhari_ +has the following distich:-- + +"'Who is the man without care or sorrow, (tell) that I may rub my hand to +him. + +"'(Behold) the Zingians, without care and sorrow, frolicsome with +tipsiness and mirth.'" + +[274] The star Soheil, or Canopus. + +[275] "The lizard Stellio. The Arabs call it Hardun. The Turks kill it, +for they imagine that by declining the head it mimics them when they say +their prayers."--_Hasselquist_. + +[276] "As you enter at that Bazar, without the gate of Damascus, you see +the Green Mosque, so called because it hath a steeple faced with green +glazed bricks, which render it very resplendent: It is covered at top with +a pavilion of the same stuff. The Turks say this mosque was made in that +place, because Mahomet being come so far, would not enter the town, saying +it was too delicious."--_Thevenot_. + +[277] Nourmahal signifies Light of the Haram. She was afterwards called +Nourjehan, or the Light of the World. + +[278] "The rose of Kashmire for its brilliancy and delicacy of odor has +long been proverbial in the East."--Foster. + +[279] "Tied round her waist the zone of bells, that sounded with ravishing +melody."--_Song of Jayadeva_. + +[280] "The little isles in the Lake of Cachemire are set with arbors and +large-leaved aspen-trees, slender and tall."--_Bernier_. + +[281] "The Tuckt Suliman, the name bestowed by the Mahommetans on this +hill, forms one side of a grand portal to the Lake."--_Forster_. + +[282] "The Feast of Roses continues the whole time of their remaining in +bloom."--See _Pietro de la Valle_. + +[283] "Gul sad berk, the Rose of a hundred leaves. I believe a particular +species."--_Ouseley_. + +[284] A place mentioned in the Toozek Jehangeery, or Memoirs of Jehan- +Guire, where there is an account of the beds of saffron-flowers about +Cashmere. + +[285] "It is the custom among the women to employ the Maazeen to chant +from the gallery of the nearest minaret, which on that occasion is +illuminated, and the women assembled at the house respond at intervals +with a ziraleet or joyous chorus."--_Russel_. + +[286] "The swing is a favorite pastime in the East, as promoting a +circulation of air, extremely refreshing in those sultry climates."-- +_Richardson_. + +[287] At the keeping of the Feast of Roses we beheld an infinite number of +tents pitched, with such a crowd of men, women, boys, and girls, with +music, dances, etc."--_Herbert_. + +[288] "An old commentator of the Chou-King says, the ancients having +remarked that a current of water made some of the stones near its banks +send forth a sound, they detached some of them, and being charmed with the +delightful sound they emitted, constructed King or musical instruments of +them,"--_Grosier_. + +[289] In the wars of the Divs with the Peris, whenever the former took the +latter prisoners, "they shut them up in iron cages, and hung them on the +highest trees. Here they were visited by their companions, who brought +them the choicest odors."--_Richardson_. + +[290] In the Malay language the same word signifies women and flowers. + +[291] The capital of Shadukiam. + +[292] "Among the birds of Tonquin is a species of goldfinch, which sings +so melodiously that it is called the Celestial Bird. Its wings, when it is +perched, appear variegated with beautiful colors, but when it flies they +lose all their splendor."--_Grosier_. + +[293] "As these birds on the Bosphorus are never known to rest, they are +called by the French '_les âmes damnées_.'"--_Dalloway_. + +[294] "You may place a hundred handfuls of fragrant herbs and flowers +before the nightingale, yet he wishes not in his constant heart for more +than the sweet breath of his beloved rose."--_Jami_. + +[295] "He is said to have found the great _Mantra_, spell or talisman, +through which he ruled over the elements and spirits of all +denominations."--_Wilford_. + +[296] "The gold jewels of Jinnie, which are called by the Arabs El Herrez, +from the supposed charm they contain."--_Jackson_. + +[297] "A demon, supposed to haunt woods, etc., in a human shape."-- +_Richardson_. + +[298] The name of Jehan-Guire before his accession to the throne. + +[299] "Hemasagara, or the Sea of Gold, with flowers of the brightest gold +color."--_Sir W. Jones_. + +[300] "This tree (the Nagacesara) is one of the most delightful on earth, +and the delicious odor of its blossoms justly gives them a place in the +quiver of Camadeva, or the God of Love."--_Id_. + +[301] "The Malayans style the tuberose (_polianthes tuberosa_) Sandal +Malam, or the Mistress of the Night."--_Pennant_. + +[302] The people of the Batta country in Sumatra (of which Zamara is one +of the ancient names), "when not engaged in war, lead an idle, inactive +life, passing the day in playing on a kind of flute, crowned with garlands +of flowers, among which the globe-amaranthus, a native of the country, +mostly prevails,"--_Marsden_. + +[303] "The largest and richest sort (of the Jambu or rose-apple) is called +Amrita, or immortal, and the mythologists of Tibet apply the same word to +a celestial tree, bearing ambrosial fruit."--_Sir W. Jones_. + +[304] Sweet Basil, called Rayhan in Persia, and generally found in +churchyards. + +[305] "In the Great Desert are found many stalks of lavender and +rosemary."--_Asiat. Res_. + +[306] "The almond-tree, with white flowers, blossoms on the bare +branches."--_Hasselquist_. + +[307] An herb on Mount Libanus, which is said to communicate a yellow +golden hue to the teeth of the goat and other animals that graze upon it. + +[308] The myrrh country. + +[309] "This idea (of deities living in shells) was not unknown to the +Greeks, who represent the young Nerites, one of the Cupids, as living in +shells on the shores of the Red Sea."--_Wilford_. + +[310] "A fabulous fountain, where instruments are said to be constantly +playing."--_Richardson_. + +[311] "The Pompadour pigeon is the species, which, by carrying the fruit +of the cinnamon to different places, is a great disseminator of this +valuable tree."--See _Brown's_ Illustr. Tab. 19. + +[312] "The Persians have two mornings, the Soobhi Kazim and the Soobhi +Sadig, the false and the real daybreak. They account for this phenomenon +in a most whimsical manner. They say that as the sun rises from behind the +Kohi Qaf (Mount Caucasus), it passes a hole perforated through that +mountain, and that darting its rays through it, it is the cause of the +Soobhi Kazim, or this temporary appearance of daybreak. As it ascends, the +earth is again veiled in darkness, until the sun rises above the mountain, +and brings with it the Soobhi Sadig, or real morning."--_Scott Waring_. + +[313] "In the centre of the plain, as it approaches the Lake, one of the +Delhi Emperors, I believe Shan Jehan, constructed a spacious garden called +the Shalimar, which is abundantly stored with fruit-trees and flowering +shrubs. Some of the rivulets which intersect the plain are led into a +canal at the back of the garden, and flowing through its centre, or +occasionally thrown into a variety of water-works, compose the chief +beauty of the Shalimar."--_Forster_. + +[314] "The waters of Cachemir are the more renowned from its being +supposed that the Cachemirians are indebted for their beauty to +them."--_Ali Yezdi_. + +[315] "From him I received the following little Gazzel, or Love Song, the +notes of which he committed to paper from the voice of one of those +singing girls of Cashmere, who wander from that delightful valley over the +various parts of India."--_Persian Miscellanies_. + +[316] "The roses of the Jinan Nile, or Garden of the Nile (attached to the +Emperor of Morocco's palace) are unequalled, and mattresses are made of +their leaves for the men of rank to recline upon."--_Jackson_. + +[317] "On the side of a mountain near Paphos there is a cavern which +produces the most beautiful rock-crystal. On account of its brilliancy it +has been called the Paphian diamond."--_Mariti_. + +[318] "These is a part of Candahar, called Peria, or Fairy Land."-- +_Thevenot_. In some of those countries to the north of India vegetable +gold is supposed to be produced. + +[319] "These are the butterflies which are called in the Chinese language +Flying Leaves. Some of them have such shining colors, and are so +variegated, that they may be called flying flowers; and indeed they are +always produced in the finest flower-gardens."--_Dunn_. + +[320] "The Arabian women wear black masks with little clasps prettily +ordered."--_Carreri_. Niebuhr mentions their showing but one eye in +conversation. + +[321] "The golden grapes of Casbin."--_Description of Persia_. + +[322] "The fruits exported from Caubul are apples, pears, pomegranates," +etc.--_Elphinstone_. + +[323] "We sat down under a tree, listened to the birds, and talked with +the son of our Mehmaundar about our country and Caubul, of which he gave +an enchanting account; that city and its 100,000 gardens," etc.--_Ib_. + +[324] "The mangusteen, the most delicate fruit in the world; the pride of +the Malay islands."--_Marsden_. + +[325] "A delicious kind of apricot, called by the Persians tokmekshems, +signifying sun's seed."--_Description of Persia_. + +[326] "Sweetmeats, in a crystal cup, consisting of rose-leaves in +conserve, with Iemon of Visna cherry, orange flowers," etc.--_Russel_. + +[327] "Antelopes cropping the fresh berries of Erac."--The _Moallakat_, +Poem of Tarafa. + +[328] "Mauri-ga-Sima, an island near Formosa, supposed to have been sunk +in the sea for the crimes of its inhabitants. The vessels which the +fishermen and divers bring up from it are sold at an immense price in +China and Japan."--See _Kempfer_. + +[329] Persian Tales. + +[330] The white wine of Kishma. + +[331] "The King of Zeilan is said to have the very finest ruby that was +ever seen. Kublai-Khan sent and offered the value of a city for It, but +the king answered he would not give it for the treasure of the +world."--_Marco Polo_. + +[332] The Indians feign that Cupid was first seen floating down the Ganges +on the Nymphaea Nelumbo.--See _Pennant_. + +[333] Teflis is celebrated for its natural warm baths.--See _Ebn Haukal_. + +[334] "The Indian Syrinda, or guitar."--_Symez_. + +[335] "Around the exterior of the Dewan Khafs (a building of Shah Allum's) +in the cornice are the following lines in letters of gold upon a ground of +white marble--'_If there be a paradise upon earth, it is this, it is +this.'"--Franklin_. + +[336] "Delightful are the flowers of the Amra trees on the mountain tops +while the murmuring bees pursue their voluptuous toil."--_Song of +Jayadera_. + +[337] "The Nison or drops of spring rain, which they believe to produce +pearls if they fall into shells."--_Richardson_. + +[338] For an account of the share which wine had in the fall of the +angels, see _Mariti_. + +[339] The Angel of Music. + +[340] The Hudhud, or Lapwing, is supposed to have the power of discovering +water under ground. + +[341] "The Chinese had formerly the art of painting on the sides of +porcelain vessels fish and other animals, which were only perceptible when +the vessel was full of some liquor, They call this species Kia-tsin, that +is, _azure is put in press_, on account of the manner in which the azure +is laid on."--"They are every now and then trying to discover the art of +this magical painting, but to no purpose."--_Dunn_. + +[342] An eminent carver of idols, said in the Koran to be father to +Abraham. "I have such a lovely idol as is not to be met with in the house +of Azor."--_Hafiz_. + +[343] Kachmire be Nazeer.--_Forster_. + +[344] Jehan-Guire mentions "a fountain in Cashmere called Tirnagh, which +signifies a snake; probably because some large snake had formerly been +seen there."--"During the lifetime of my father, I went twice to this +fountain, which is about twenty coss from the city of Cashmere. The +vestiges of places of worship and sanctity are to be traced without number +amongst the ruins and the caves which are interspersed in its +neighborhood."--_Toozek Jehangeery_.--v. _Asiat. Misc_. vol. ii. + +[345] "On a standing roof of wood is laid a covering of fine earth, which +shelters the building from the great quantity of snow that falls in the +winter season. This fence communicates an equal warmth in winter, as a +refreshing coolness in the summer season, when the tops of the houses, +which are planted with a variety of flowers, exhibit at a distance the +spacious view of a beautifully checkered parterre."--_Forster_. + +[346] "Two hundred slaves there are, who have no other office than to hunt +the woods and marshes for triple-colored tortoises for the King's Vivary. +Of the shells of these also lanterns are made."--_Vincent le Blanc's_ +Travels. + +[347] This wind, which is to blow from Syria Damascena, is, according to +the Mahometans, one of the signs of the Last Day's approach. + +Another of the signs is, "Great distress in the world, so that a man when +he passes by another's grave shall say, Would to God I were in his +place!"--_Sale's_ Preliminary Discourse. + +[348] "On Mahommed Shaw's return to Koolburga (the capital of Dekkan), he +made a great festival, and mounted this throne with much pomp and +magnificence, calling it Firozeh or Cerulean. I have heard some old +persons, who saw the throne Firozeh in the reign of Sultan Mamood +Bhamenee, describe it. They say that it was in length nine feet, and three +in breadth; made of ebony covered with plates of pure gold, and set with +precious stones of immense value. Every prince of the house of Bhamenee, +who possessed this throne, made a point of adding to it some rich stones; +so that when in the reign of Sultan Mamood it was taken to pieces to +remove some of the jewels to be set in vases and cups, the jewellers +valued it at one corore of oons (nearly four millions sterling). I learned +also that it was called Firozeh from being partly enamelled of a sky-blue +color which was in time totally concealed by the number of jewels."-- +_Ferishta_. + + + + + + + + +THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS. + + + + +PREFACE. + + +The Eastern story of the angels Harut and Marut and the Rabbinical +fictions of the loves of Uzziel and Shámchazai are the only sources to +which I need refer for the origin of the notion on which this Romance is +founded. In addition to the fitness of the subject for poetry, it struck +me also as capable of affording an allegorical medium through which might +be shadowed out (as I have endeavored to do in the following stories) the +fall of the Soul from its original purity[1]--the loss of light and +happiness which it suffers, in the pursuit of this world's perishable +pleasures--and the punishments both from conscience and Divine justice +with which impurity, pride, and presumptuous inquiry into the awful +secrets of Heaven are sure to be visited--The beautiful story of Cupid and +Psyche owes its chief charm to this sort of "veiled meaning," and it has +been my wish (however I may have failed in the attempt) to communicate to +the following pages the same _moral_ interest. + +Among the doctrines or notions derived by Plato from the East, one of the +most natural and sublime is that which inculcates the pre-existence of the +soul and its gradual descent into this dark material world from that +region of spirit and light which it is supposed to have once inhabited and +to which after a long lapse of purification and trial it will return. This +belief under various symbolical forms may be traced through almost all the +Oriental theologies. The Chaldeans represent the Soul as originally +endowed with wings which fall away when it sinks from its native element +and must be re-produced before it can hope to return. Some disciples of +Zoroaster once inquired of him, "How the wings of the Soul might be made +to grow again?" + +"By sprinkling them," he replied, "with the Waters of Life." + +"But where are those Waters to be found?" they asked. + +"In the Garden of God," replied Zoroaster. + +The mythology of the Persians has allegorized the same doctrine, in the +history of those genii of light who strayed from their dwellings in the +stars and obscured their original nature by mixture with this material +sphere; while the Egyptians connecting it with the descent and ascent of +the sun in the zodiac considered Autumn as emblematic of the Soul's +decline toward darkness and the re-appearance of Spring as its return to +life and light. + +Besides the chief spirits of the Mahometan heaven, such as Gabriel the +angel of Revelation, Israfil by whom the last trumpet is to be sounded, +and Azrael the angel of death, there were also a number of subaltern +intelligences of which tradition has preserved the names, appointed to +preside over the different stages of ascents into which the celestial +world was supposed to be divided.[2] Thus Kelail governs the fifth heaven; +while Sadiel, the presiding spirit of the third, is also employed in +steadying the motions of the earth which would be in a constant state of +agitation if this angel did not keep his foot planted upon its orb. + +Among other miraculous interpositions in favor of Mahomet we find +commemorated in the pages of the Koran the appearance of five thousand +angels on his side at the battle of Bedr. + +The ancient Persians supposed that Ormuzd appointed thirty angels to +preside successively over the days of the month and twelve greater ones to +assume the government of the months themselves; among whom Bahman (to whom +Ormuzd committed the custody of all animals, except man) was the greatest. +Mihr, the angel of the 7th month, was also the spirit that watched over +the affairs of friendship and love;--Chûr had the care of the disk of the +sun;--Mah was agent for the concerns of the moon;--Isphandârmaz (whom +Cazvin calls the Spirit of the Earth) was the tutelar genius of good and +virtuous women, etc. For all this the reader may consult the 19th and 20th +chapters of Hyde, "_de Religione Veterum Persarum_," where the names and +attributes of these daily and monthly angels are with much minuteness and +erudition explained. It appears from the Zend-avesta that the Persians had +a certain office or prayer for every day of the month (addressed to the +particular angel who presided over it), which they called the Sirouzé. + +The Celestial Hierarchy of the Syrians, as described by Kircher, appears +to be the most regularly graduated of any of these systems. In the sphere +of the Moon they placed the angels, in that of Mercury the archangels, +Venus and the Sun contained the Principalities and the Powers;--and so on +to the summit of the planetary system, where, in the sphere of Saturn, the +Thrones had their station. Above this was the habitation of the Cherubim +in the sphere of the fixed stars; and still higher, in the region of those +stars which are so distant as to be imperceptible, the Seraphim, we are +told, the most perfect of all celestial creatures, dwelt. + +The Sabeans also (as D'Herbelot tells us) had their classes of angels, to +whom they prayed as mediators, or intercessors; and the Arabians +worshipped _female_ angels, whom they called Benab Hasche, or, Daughters +of God. + + +[1] The account which Macrobius gives of the downward journey of the Soul, +through that gate of the zodiac which opens into the lower spheres, is a +curious specimen of the wild fancies that passed for philosophy in ancient +times. + +[2] "We adorned the lower heaven with lights, and placed therein a guard +of angels."--_Koran, chap. xli_. + + + + + + +THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS + + +'Twas when the world was in its prime, + When the fresh stars had just begun +Their race of glory and young Time + Told his first birth-days by the sun; +When in the light of Nature's dawn + Rejoicing, men and angels met +On the high hill and sunny lawn,-- +Ere sorrow came or Sin had drawn + 'Twixt man and heaven her curtain yet! +When earth lay nearer to the skies + Than in these days of crime and woe, +And mortals saw without surprise +In the mid-air angelic eyes + Gazing upon this world below. + +Alas! that Passion should profane + Even then the morning of the earth! +That, sadder still, the fatal stain + Should fall on hearts of heavenly birth-- +And that from Woman's love should fall +So dark a stain, most sad of all! + +One evening, in that primal hour, + On a hill's side where hung the ray +Of sunset brightening rill and bower, + Three noble youths conversing lay; +And, as they lookt from time to time + To the far sky where Daylight furled +His radiant wing, their brows sublime + Bespoke them of that distant world-- +Spirits who once in brotherhood +Of faith and bliss near ALLA stood, +And o'er whose cheeks full oft had blown +The wind that breathes from ALLA'S throne,[1] +Creatures of light such as _still_ play, + Like motes in sunshine, round the Lord, +And thro' their infinite array +Transmit each moment, night and day, + The echo of His luminous word! + +Of Heaven they spoke and, still more oft, + Of the bright eyes that charmed them thence; +Till yielding gradual to the soft + And balmy evening's influence-- +The silent breathing of the flowers-- + The melting light that beamed above, +As on their first, fond, erring hours,-- + Each told the story of his love, +The history of that hour unblest, +When like a bird from its high nest +Won down by fascinating eyes, +For Woman's smile he lost the skies. + +The First who spoke was one, with look +The least celestial of the three-- +A Spirit of light mould that took + The prints of earth most yieldingly; +Who even in heaven was not of those + Nearest the Throne but held a place +Far off among those shining rows + That circle out thro' endless space, +And o'er whose wings the light from Him +In Heaven's centre falls most dim.[2] + +Still fair and glorious, he but shone +Among those youths the unheavenliest one-- +A creature to whom light remained +From Eden still, but altered, stained, +And o'er whose brow not Love alone + A blight had in his transit cast, +But other, earthlier joys had gone, + And left their foot-prints as they past. +Sighing, as back thro' ages flown, + Like a tomb-searcher, Memory ran, +Lifting each shroud that Time had thrown + O'er buried hopes, he thus began:-- + + +FIRST ANGEL'S STORY. + + +'Twas in a land that far away + Into the golden orient lies, +Where Nature knows not night's delay, +But springs to meet her bridegroom, Day, + Upon the threshold of the skies, +One morn, on earthly mission sent,[3] + And mid-way choosing where to light, +I saw from the blue element-- + Oh beautiful, but fatal sight!-- +One of earth's fairest womankind, +Half veiled from view, or rather shrined +In the clear crystal of a brook; + Which while it hid no single gleam +Of her young beauties made them look + More spirit-like, as they might seem + Thro' the dim shadowing of a dream. +Pausing in wonder I lookt on, + While playfully around her breaking +The waters that like diamonds shone + She moved in light of her own making. + At length as from that airy height + I gently lowered my breathless flight, +The tremble of my wings all o'er + (For thro' each plume I felt the thrill) +Startled her as she reached the shore + Of that small lake--her mirror still-- +Above whose brink she stood, like snow +When rosy with a sunset glow, +Never shall I forget those eyes!-- +The shame, the innocent surprise +Of that bright face when in the air +Uplooking she beheld me there. +It seemed as if each thought and look + And motion were that minute chained +Fast to the spot, such root she took, +And--like a sunflower by a brook, + With face upturned--so still remained! + +In pity to the wondering maid, + Tho' loath from such a vision turning, +Downward I bent, beneath the shade + Of my spread wings to hide the burning +Of glances, which--I well could feel-- + For me, for her, too warmly shone; +But ere I could again unseal +My restless eyes or even steal + One sidelong look the maid was gone-- +Hid from me in the forest leaves, + Sudden as when in all her charms +Of full-blown light some cloud receives + The Moon into his dusky arms. + +'Tis not in words to tell the power, +The despotism that from that hour +Passion held o'er me. Day and night + I sought around each neighboring spot; +And in the chase of this sweet light, + My task and heaven and all forgot;-- +All but the one, sole, haunting dream +Of her I saw in that bright stream. + +Nor was it long ere by her side + I found myself whole happy days +Listening to words whose music vied + With our own Eden's seraph lays, +When seraph lays are warmed by love, +But wanting _that_ far, far above!-- +And looking into eyes where, blue +And beautiful, like skies seen thro' +The sleeping wave, for me there shone +A heaven, more worshipt than my own. +Oh what, while I could hear and see +Such words and looks, was heaven to me? + +Tho' gross the air on earth I drew, +'Twas blessed, while she breathed it too; +Tho' dark the flowers, tho' dim the sky, +Love lent them light while she was nigh. +Throughout creation I but knew +Two separate worlds--the _one_, that small, + Beloved and consecrated spot +Where LEA was--the other, all + The dull, wide waste where she was _not_! + +But vain my suit, my madness vain; +Tho' gladly, from her eyes to gain + One earthly look, one stray desire, +I would have torn the wings that hung + Furled at my back and o'er the Fire +In GEHIM'S[4] pit their fragments flung;-- +'Twas hopeless all--pure and unmoved + She stood as lilies in the light + Of the hot noon but look more white;-- +And tho' she loved me, deeply loved, +'Twas not as man, as mortal--no, +Nothing of earth was in that glow-- +She loved me but as one, of race +Angelic, from that radiant place +She saw so oft in dreams--that Heaven + To which her prayers at morn were sent +And on whose light she gazed at even, +Wishing for wings that she might go +Out of this shadowy world below + To that free, glorious element! + +Well I remember by her side +Sitting at rosy even-tide, +When,--turning to the star whose head +Lookt out as from a bridal bed, +At that mute, blushing hour,--she said, +"Oh! that it were my doom to be + "The Spirit of yon beauteous star, +"Dwelling up there in purity, + "Alone as all such bright things are;-- +"My sole employ to pray and shine, + "To light my censer at the sun, +"And cast its fire towards the shrine + "Of Him in heaven, the Eternal One!" + +So innocent the maid, so free + From mortal taint in soul and frame, +Whom 'twas my crime--my destiny-- + To love, ay, burn for, with a flame + To which earth's wildest fires are tame. +Had you but seen her look when first +From my mad lips the avowal burst; +Not angered--no!--the feeling came +From depths beyond mere anger's flame-- +It was a _sorrow_ calm as deep, +A mournfulness that could not weep, +So filled her heart was to the brink, +So fixt and frozen with grief to think +That angel natures--that even I +Whose love she clung to, as the tie +Between her spirit and the sky-- +Should fall thus headlong from the height +Of all that heaven hath pure and bright! + +That very night--my heart had grown + Impatient of its inward burning; +The term, too, of my stay was flown, +And the bright Watchers near the throne. +Already, if a meteor shone +Between them and this nether zone, + Thought 'twas their herald's wing returning. +Oft did the potent spell-word, given + To Envoys hither from the skies, +To be pronounced when back to heaven + It is their time or wish to rise, +Come to my lips that fatal day; + And once too was so nearly spoken, +That my spread plumage in the ray +And breeze of heaven began to play;-- + When my heart failed--the spell was broken-- +The word unfinisht died away, +And my checkt plumes ready to soar, +Fell slack and lifeless as before. +How could I leave a world which she, +Or lost or won, made all to me? +No matter where my wanderings were, + So there she lookt, breathed, moved about-- +Woe, ruin, death, more sweet with her, + Than Paradise itself, without! + +But to return--that very day + A feast was held, where, full of mirth, +Came--crowding thick as flowers that play +In summer winds--the young and gay + And beautiful of this bright earth. +And she was there and mid the young + And beautiful stood first, alone; +Tho' on her gentle brow still hung + The shadow I that morn had thrown-- +The first that ever shame or woe +Had cast upon its vernal snow. +My heart was maddened;--in the flush + Of the wild revel I gave way +To all that frantic mirth--that rush + Of desperate gayety which they, +Who never felt how pain's excess +Can break out thus, think happiness! +Sad mimicry of mirth and life +Whose flashes come but from the strife +Of inward passions--like the light +Struck out by clashing swords in fight. + +Then too that juice of earth, the bane +And blessing of man's heart and brain-- +That draught of sorcery which brings +Phantoms of fair, forbidden things-- +Whose drops like those of rainbows smile + Upon the mists that circle man, +Brightening not only Earth the while, + But grasping Heaven too in their span!-- +Then first the fatal wine-cup rained + Its dews of darkness thro' my lips, +Casting whate'er of light remained + To my lost soul into eclipse; +And filling it with such wild dreams, + Such fantasies and wrong desires, +As in the absence of heaven's beams + Haunt us for ever--like wildfires + That walk this earth when day retires. + +Now hear the rest;--our banquet done, + I sought her in the accustomed bower, +Where late we oft, when day was gone +And the world husht, had met alone, + At the same silent, moonlight hour. +Her eyes as usual were upturned +To her loved star whose lustre burned + Purer than ever on that night; + While she in looking grew more bright + As tho' she borrowed of its light. + +There was a virtue in that scene, + A spell of holiness around, +Which had my burning brain not been + Thus maddened would have held me bound, + As tho' I trod celestial ground. +Even as it was, with soul all flame + And lips that burned in their own sighs, +I stood to gaze with awe and shame-- +The memory of Eden came + Full o'er me when I saw those eyes; +And tho' too well each glance of mine + To the pale, shrinking maiden proved +How far, alas! from aught divine, +Aught worthy of so pure a shrine, + Was the wild love with which I loved, +Yet must she, too, have seen--oh yes, + 'Tis soothing but to _think_ she saw +The deep, true, soul-felt tenderness, + The homage of an Angel's awe +To her, a mortal, whom pure love +Then placed above him--far above-- +And all that struggle to repress +A sinful spirit's mad excess, +Which workt within me at that hour, + When with a voice where Passion shed +All the deep sadness of her power, + Her melancholy power--I said, +"Then be it so; if back to heaven + "I must unloved, unpitied fly. +"Without one blest memorial given + "To soothe me in that lonely sky; +"One look like those the young and fond + "Give when they're parting--which would be, +"Even in remembrance far beyond + "All heaven hath left of bliss for me! + +"Oh, but to see that head recline + "A minute on this trembling arm, +"And those mild eyes look up to mine, + "Without a dread, a thought of harm! +"To meet but once the thrilling touch + "Of lips too purely fond to fear me-- +"Or if that boon be all too much, + "Even thus to bring their fragrance near me! +"Nay, shrink not so--a look--a word-- + "Give them but kindly and I fly; +"Already, see, my plumes have stirred + "And tremble for their home on high. +"Thus be our parting--cheek to cheek-- + "One minute's lapse will be forgiven, +"And thou, the next, shalt hear me speak + "The spell that plumes my wing for heaven!" + +While thus I spoke, the fearful maid, +Of me and of herself afraid, +Had shrinking stood like flowers beneath +The scorching of the south-wind's breath: +But when I named--alas, too well, + I now recall, tho' wildered then,-- +Instantly, when I named the spell + Her brow, her eyes uprose again; +And with an eagerness that spoke +The sudden light that o'er her broke, +"The spell, the spell!--oh, speak it now. + "And I will bless thee!" she exclaimed-- + Unknowing what I did, inflamed, +And lost already, on her brow + I stampt one burning kiss, and named +The mystic word till then ne'er told +To living creature of earth's mould! +Scarce was it said when quick a thought, +Her lips from mine like echo caught +The holy sound--her hands and eyes +Were instant lifted to the skies, +And thrice to heaven she spoke it out + With that triumphant look Faith wears, +When not a cloud of fear or doubt, + A vapor from this vale of tears. + Between her and her God appears! +That very moment her whole frame +All bright and glorified became, +And at her back I saw unclose +Two wings magnificent as those + That sparkle around ALLA'S Throne, +Whose plumes, as buoyantly she rose + Above me, in the moon-beam shone +With a pure light; which--from its hue, +Unknown upon this earth--I knew +Was light from Eden, glistening thro'! +Most holy vision! ne'er before + Did aught so radiant--since the day +When EBLIS in his downfall, bore + The third of the bright stars away-- +Rise in earth's beauty to repair +That loss of light and glory there! + +But did I tamely view her flight? + Did not I too proclaim out thrice +The powerful words that were that night,-- +Oh even for heaven too much delight!-- + Again to bring us, eyes to eyes + And soul to soul, in Paradise? +I did--I spoke it o'er and o'er-- + I prayed, I wept, but all in vain; +For me the spell had power no more. + There seemed around me some dark chain +Which still as I essayed to soar +Baffled, alas, each wild endeavor; +Dead lay my wings as they have lain +Since that sad hour and will remain-- + So wills the offended God--for ever! + +It was to yonder star I traced +Her journey up the illumined waste-- +That isle in the blue firmament +To which so oft her fancy went + In wishes and in dreams before, +And which was now--such, Purity, +Thy blest reward--ordained to be + Her home of light for evermore! +Once--or did I but fancy so?-- + Even in her flight to that fair sphere, +Mid all her spirit's new-felt glow, +A pitying look she turned below + On him who stood in darkness here; +Him whom perhaps if vain regret +Can dwell in heaven she pities yet; +And oft when looking to this dim +And distant world remembers him. + +But soon that passing dream was gone; +Farther and farther off she shone, +Till lessened to a point as small + As are those specks that yonder burn,-- +Those vivid drops of light that fall + The last from Day's exhausted urn. +And when at length she merged, afar, +Into her own immortal star, +And when at length my straining sight + Had caught her wing's last fading ray, +That minute from my soul the light +Of heaven and love both past away; +And I forgot my home, my birth, + Profaned my spirit, sunk my brow, +And revelled in gross joys of earth +Till I became--what I am now! + +The Spirit bowed his head in shame; + A shame that of itself would tell-- +Were there not even those breaks of flame, +Celestial, thro' his clouded frame-- + How grand the height from which he fell! +That holy Shame which ne'er forgets + The unblenched renown it used to wear; +Whose blush remains when Virtue sets + To show her sunshine _has_ been there. + +Once only while the tale he told +Were his eyes lifted to behold +That happy stainless, star where she +Dwelt in her bower of purity! +One minute did he look and then-- + As tho' he felt some deadly pain + From its sweet light thro' heart and brain-- +Shrunk back and never lookt again. + +Who was the Second Spirit? he + With the proud front and piercing glance-- + Who seemed when viewing heaven's expanse +As tho' his far-sent eye could see +On, on into the Immensity +Behind the veils of that blue sky +Where ALLA'S grandest secrets lie?-- +His wings, the while, tho' day was gone, + Flashing with many a various hue +Of light they from themselves alone, + Instinct with Eden's brightness drew. +'Twas RUBI--once among the prime + And flower of those bright creatures, named +Spirits of Knowledge,[5] who o'er Time + And Space and Thought an empire claimed, +Second alone to Him whose light +Was even to theirs as day to night; +'Twixt whom and them was distance far + And wide as would the journey be +To reach from any island star + To vague shores of Infinity + +'Twas RUBI in whose mournful eye +Slept the dim light of days gone by; +Whose voice tho' sweet fell on the ear + Like echoes in some silent place +When first awaked for many a year; + And when he smiled, if o'er his face + Smile ever shone, 'twas like the grace +Of moonlight rainbows, fair, but wan, +The sunny life, the glory gone. +Even o'er his pride tho' still the same, +A softening shade from sorrow came; +And tho' at times his spirit knew + The kindlings of disdain and ire, +Short was the fitful glare they threw-- +Like the last flashes, fierce but few, + Seen thro' some noble pile on fire! +Such was the Angel who now broke + The silence that had come o'er all, +When he the Spirit that last spoke + Closed the sad history of his fall; +And while a sacred lustre flown + For many a day relumed his cheek-- +Beautiful as in days of old; +And not those eloquent lips alone + But every feature seemed to speak-- +Thus his eventful story told:-- + + +SECOND ANGEL'S STORY. + + +You both remember well the day + When unto Eden's new-made bowers +ALLA convoked the bright array + Of his supreme angelic powers +To witness the one wonder yet, + Beyond man, angel, star, or sun, +He must achieve, ere he could set + His seal upon the world as done-- +To see the last perfection rise, + That crowning of creation's birth, +When mid the worship and surprise +Of circling angels Woman's eyes + First open upon heaven and earth; +And from their lids a thrill was sent, +That thro' each living spirit went +Like first light thro' the firmament! + +Can you forget how gradual stole +The fresh-awakened breath of soul +Throughout her perfect form--which seemed +To grow transparent as there beamed +That dawn of Mind within and caught +New loveliness from each new thought? +Slow as o'er summer seas we trace + The progress of the noontide air, +Dimpling its bright and silent face +Each minute into some new grace, + And varying heaven's reflections there-- +Or like the light of evening stealing + O'er some fair temple which all day +Hath slept in shadow, slow revealing + Its several beauties ray by ray, +Till it shines out, a thing to bless, +All full of light and loveliness. + +Can you forget her blush when round +Thro' Eden's lone, enchanted ground +She lookt, and saw the sea--the skies-- + And heard the rush of many a wing, + On high behests then vanishing; +And saw the last few angel eyes, +Still lingering--mine among the rest,-- +Reluctant leaving scenes so blest? +From that miraculous hour the fate + Of this new, glorious Being dwelt +For ever with a spell-like weight +Upon my spirit--early, late, + Whate'er I did or dreamed or felt, +The thought of what might yet befall +That matchless creature mixt with all.-- +Nor she alone but her whole race + Thro' ages yet to come--whate'er + Of feminine and fond and fair +Should spring from that pure mind and face, + All waked my soul's intensest care; +Their forms, souls, feelings, still to me +Creation's strangest mystery! + +It was my doom--even from the first, +When witnessing the primal burst +Of Nature's wonders, I saw rise +Those bright creations in the skies,-- +Those worlds instinct with life and light, +Which Man, remote, but sees by night,-- +It was my doom still to be haunted + By some new wonder, some sublime + And matchless work, that for the time +Held all my soul enchained, enchanted, +And left me not a thought, a dream, +A word but on that only theme! + +The wish to know--that endless thirst, + Which even by quenching is awaked, +And which becomes or blest or curst + As is the fount whereat 'tis slaked-- +Still urged me onward with desire +Insatiate, to explore, inquire-- +Whate'er the wondrous things might be +That waked each new idolatry-- + Their cause, aim, source, whenever sprung-- +Their inmost powers, as tho' for me + Existence on that knowledge hung. + +Oh what a vision were the stars + When first I saw them born on high, +Rolling along like living cars + Of light for gods to journey by![6] +They were like my heart's first passion--days +And nights unwearied, in their rays +Have I hung floating till each sense +Seemed full of their bright influence. +Innocent joy! alas, how much + Of misery had I shunned below, +Could I have still lived blest with such; + Nor, proud and restless, burned to know + The knowledge that brings guilt and woe. + +Often--so much I loved to trace +The secrets of this starry race-- +Have I at morn and evening run +Along the lines of radiance spun +Like webs between them and the sun, +Untwisting all the tangled ties +Of light into their different dyes-- +The fleetly winged I off in quest +Of those, the farthest, loneliest, +That watch like winking sentinels,[7] +The void, beyond which Chaos dwells; +And there with noiseless plume pursued +Their track thro' that grand solitude, +Asking intently all and each +What soul within their radiance dwelt, +And wishing their sweet light were speech, + That they might tell me all they felt. + +Nay, oft, so passionate my chase, +Of these resplendent heirs of space, +Oft did I follow--lest a ray + Should 'scape me in the farthest night-- +Some pilgrim Comet on his way +To visit distant shrines of light, +And well remember how I sung + Exultingly when on my sight +New worlds of stars all fresh and young +As if just born of darkness sprung! + +Such was my pure ambition then, + My sinless transport night and morn +Ere yet this newer world of men, + And that most fair of stars was born +Which I in fatal hour saw rise +Among the flowers of Paradise! + +Thenceforth my nature all was changed, + My heart, soul, senses turned below; +And he who but so lately ranged + Yon wonderful expanse where glow +Worlds upon worlds,--yet found his mind +Even in that luminous range confined,-- +Now blest the humblest, meanest sod +Of the dark earth where Woman trod! +In vain my former idols glistened + From their far thrones; in vain these ears +To the once-thrilling music listened, + That hymned around my favorite spheres-- +To earth, to earth each thought was given, + That in this half-lost soul had birth; +Like some high mount, whose head's in heaven + While its whole shadow rests on earth! + +Nor was it Love, even yet, that thralled + My spirit in his burning ties; +And less, still less could it be called + That grosser flame, round which Love flies + Nearer and near till he dies-- +No, it was wonder, such as thrilled + At all God's works my dazzled sense; +The same rapt wonder, only filled + With passion, more profound, intense,-- +A vehement, but wandering fire, +Which, tho' nor love, nor yet desire,-- +Tho' thro' all womankind it took + Its range, its lawless lightnings run, +Yet wanted but a touch, a look, + To fix it burning upon _One_. + +Then too the ever-restless zeal, + The insatiate curiosity, +To know how shapes so fair must feel-- +To look but once beneath the seal + Of so much loveliness and see +What souls belonged to such bright eyes-- + Whether as sunbeams find their way +Into the gem that hidden lies, + Those looks could inward turn their ray, + And make the soul as bright as they: +All this impelled my anxious chase. + And still the more I saw and knew +Of Woman's fond, weak, conquering race, + The intenser still my wonder grew. +I had beheld their First, their EVE, + Born in that splendid Paradise, +Which sprung there solely to receive + The first light of her waking eyes. +I had seen purest angels lean + In worship o'er her from above; +And man--oh yes, had envying seen + Proud man possest of all her love. + +I saw their happiness, so brief, + So exquisite,--her error, too, +That easy trust, that prompt belief + In what the warm heart wishes true; +That faith in words, when kindly said. +By which the whole fond sex is led +Mingled with--what I durst not blame, + For 'tis my own--that zeal to _know_, +Sad, fatal zeal, so sure of woe; +Which, tho' from heaven all pure it came, +Yet stained, misused, brought sin and shame + On her, on me, on all below! + +I had seen this; had seen Man, armed + As his soul is with strength and sense, +By her first words to ruin charmed; + His vaunted reason's cold defence, +Like an ice-barrier in the ray +Of melting summer, smiled away. +Nay, stranger yet, spite of all this-- + Tho' by her counsels taught to err, + Tho' driven from Paradise for her, +(And _with_ her--_that_ at least was bliss,) +Had I not heard him ere he crost + The threshold of that earthly heaven, +Which by her bewildering smile he lost-- + So quickly was the wrong forgiven-- +Had I not heard him, as he prest +The frail, fond trembler to a breast +Which she had doomed to sin and strife, +Call her--even then--his Life! his Life![8] +Yes, such a love-taught name, the first, + That ruined Man to Woman gave, +Even in his outcast hour, when curst +By her fond witchery, with that worst + And earliest boon of love, the grave! +She who brought death into the world + There stood before him, with the light + Of their lost Paradise still bright +Upon those sunny locks that curled +Down her white shoulders to her feet-- +So beautiful in form, so sweet +In heart and voice, as to redeem + The loss, the death of all things dear, +Except herself--and make it seem + Life, endless Life, while she was near! +Could I help wondering at a creature, + Thus circled round with spells so strong-- +One to whose every thought, word, feature. + In joy and woe, thro' right and wrong, +Such sweet omnipotence heaven gave, +To bless or ruin, curse or save? + +Nor did the marvel cease with her-- + New Eves in all her daughters came, +As strong to charm, as weak to err, + As sure of man thro' praise and blame, + Whate'er they brought him, pride or shame, +He still the unreasoning worshipper, + And they, throughout all time, the same + Enchantresses of soul and frame, +Into whose hands, from first to last, + This world with all its destinies, +Devotedly by heaven seems cast, + To save or ruin as they please! +Oh! 'tis not to be told how long, + How restlessly I sighed to find +Some _one_ from out that witching throng, + Some abstract of the form and mind +Of the whole matchless sex, from which, + In my own arms beheld, possest, +I might learn all the powers to witch, + To warm, and (if my fate unblest + _Would_ have it) ruin, of the rest! +Into whose inward soul and sense, + I might descend, as doth the bee +Into the flower's deep heart, and thence + Rifle in all its purity +The prime, the quintessence, the whole +Of wondrous Woman's frame and soul! +At length my burning wish, my prayer-- +(For such--oh! what will tongues not dare, +When hearts go wrong?--this lip preferred)-- +At length my ominous prayer was heard-- +But whether heard in heaven or hell, +Listen--and thou wilt know _too_ well. + +There was a maid, of all who move + Like visions o'er this orb most fit. +To be a bright young angel's love-- + Herself so bright, so exquisite! +The pride too of her step, as light + Along the unconscious earth she went, +Seemed that of one born with a right + To walk some heavenlier element, +And tread in places where her feet +A star at every step should meet. +'Twas not alone that loveliness + By which the wildered sense is caught-- +Of lips whose very breath could bless; + Of playful blushes that seemed naught + But luminous escapes of thought; +Of eyes that, when by anger stirred, +Were fire itself, but at a word + Of tenderness, all soft became +As tho' they could, like the sun's bird, + Dissolve away in their own flame-- +Of form, as pliant as the shoots + Of a young tree, in vernal flower; +Yet round and glowing as the fruits, + That drop from it in summer's hour;-- +'Twas not alone this loveliness + That falls to loveliest women's share, + Tho' even here her form could spare +From its own beauty's rich excess + Enough to make even _them_ more fair-- +But 'twas the Mind outshining clear +Thro' her whole frame--the soul, still near, +To light each charm, yet independent + Of what it lighted, as the sun +That shines on flowers would be resplendent + Were there no flowers to shine upon-- +'Twas this, all this, in one combined-- + The unnumbered looks and arts that form +The glory of young womankind, + Taken, in their perfection, warm, + Ere time had chilled a single charm, +And stampt with such a seal of Mind, + As gave to beauties that might be +Too sensual else, too unrefined, + The impress of Divinity! + +'Twas this--a union, which the hand + Of Nature kept for her alone, +Of every thing most playful, bland, +Voluptuous, spiritual, grand, + In angel-natures and her own-- +Oh! this it was that drew me nigh +One, who seemed kin to heaven as I, +A bright twin-sister from on high-- +One in whose love, I felt, were given + The mixt delights of either sphere, +All that the spirit seeks in heaven, + And all the senses burn for here. + +Had we--but hold!--hear every part + Of our sad tale--spite of the pain +Remembrance gives, when the fixt dart + Is stirred thus in the wound again-- +Hear every step, so full of bliss, + And yet so ruinous, that led +Down to the last, dark precipice, + Where perisht both--the fallen, the dead! + +From the first hour she caught my sight, +I never left her--day and night +Hovering unseen around her way, + And mid her loneliest musings near, +I soon could track each thought that lay, + Gleaming within her heart, as clear + As pebbles within brooks appear; +And there among the countless things + That keep young hearts for ever glowing-- +Vague wishes, fond imaginings, + Love-dreams, as yet no object knowing-- +Light, winged hopes that come when bid, + And rainbow joys that end in weeping; +And passions among pure thoughts hid, + Like serpents under flowerets sleeping:-- +'Mong all these feelings--felt where'er +Young hearts are beating--I saw there +Proud thoughts, aspirings high--beyond +Whate'er yet dwelt in soul so fond-- +Glimpses of glory, far away + Into the bright, vague future given; +And fancies, free and grand, whose play, + Like that of eaglets, is near heaven! +With this, too--what a soul and heart +To fall beneath the tempter's art!-- +A zeal for knowledge, such as ne'er +Enshrined itself in form so fair, +Since that first, fatal hour, when Eve, + With every fruit of Eden blest +Save one alone--rather than leave + That _one_ unreached, lost all the rest. + +It was in dreams that first I stole + With gentle mastery o'er her mind-- +In that rich twilight of the soul, + When reason's beam, half hid behind +The clouds of sleep, obscurely gilds +Each shadowy shape that Fancy builds-- +'Twas then by that soft light I brought + Vague, glimmering visions to her view,-- +Catches of radiance lost when caught, +Bright labyrinths that led to naught, + And vistas with no pathway thro';-- +Dwellings of bliss that opening shone, + Then closed, dissolved, and left no trace-- +All that, in short, could tempt Hope on, + But give her wing no resting-place; +Myself the while with brow as yet +Pure as the young moon's coronet, +Thro' every dream _still_ in her sight. + The enchanter of each mocking scene, +Who gave the hope, then brought the blight, +Who said, "Behold yon world of light," + Then sudden dropt a veil between! + +At length when I perceived each thought, +Waking or sleeping, fixt on naught + But these illusive scenes and me-- +The phantom who thus came and went, +In half revealments, only meant + To madden curiosity-- +When by such various arts I found +Her fancy to its utmost wound. +One night--'twas in a holy spot +Which she for prayer had chosen--a grot +Of purest marble built below +Her garden beds, thro' which a glow +From lamps invisible then stole, + Brightly pervading all the place-- +Like that mysterious light the soul, + Itself unseen, sheds thro' the face. +There at her altar while she knelt, +And all that woman ever felt, + When God and man both claimed her sighs-- +Every warm thought, that ever dwelt, + Like summer clouds, 'twixt earth and skies, + Too pure to fall, too gross to rise, + Spoke in her gestures, tones, and eyes-- +Then, as the mystic light's soft ray +Grew softer still, as tho' its ray +Was breathed from her, I heard her say:-- + +"O idol of my dreams! whate'er + "Thy nature be--human, divine, +"Or but half heavenly--still too fair, + "Too heavenly to be ever mine! + +"Wonderful Spirit who dost make + "Slumber so lovely that it seems +"No longer life to live awake, + "Since heaven itself descends in dreams, + +"Why do I ever lose thee? why + "When on thy realms and thee I gaze +"Still drops that veil, which I could die, + "Oh! gladly, but one hour to raise? + +"Long ere such miracles as thou + "And thine came o'er my thoughts, a thirst +"For light was in this soul which now + "Thy looks have into passion burst. + +"There's nothing bright above, below, + "In sky--earth--ocean, that this breast +"Doth not intensely burn to know, + "And thee, thee, thee, o'er all the rest! + +"Then come, oh Spirit, from behind + "The curtains of thy radiant home, +"If thou wouldst be as angel shrined, + "Or loved and claspt as mortal, come! + +"Bring all thy dazzling wonders here, + "That I may, waking, know and see; +"Or waft me hence to thy own sphere, + "Thy heaven or--ay, even _that_ with thee! + +"Demon or God, who hold'st the book + "Of knowledge spread beneath thine eye, +"Give me, with thee, but one bright look + "Into its leaves and let me die! + +"By those ethereal wings whose way + "Lies thro' an element so fraught +"With living Mind that as they play + "Their every movement is a thought! + +"By that bright, wreathed hair, between + "Whose sunny clusters the sweet wind +"Of Paradise so late hath been + "And left its fragrant soul behind! + +"By those impassioned eyes that melt + "Their light into the inmost heart, +"Like sunset in the waters, felt + "As molten fire thro' every part-- + +"I do implore thee, oh most bright + "And worshipt Spirit, shine but o'er +"My waking, wondering eyes this night + "This one blest night--I ask no more!" + +Exhausted, breathless, as she said +These burning words, her languid head +Upon the altar's steps she cast, +As if that brain-throb were its last--- + +Till, startled by the breathing, nigh, +Of lips that echoed back her sigh, +Sudden her brow again she raised; + And there, just lighted on the shrine, +Beheld me--not as I had blazed + Around her, full of light divine, +In her late dreams, but softened down +Into more mortal grace;--my crown +Of flowers, too radiant for this world, + Left hanging on yon starry steep; +My wings shut up, like banners furled, + When Peace hath put their pomp to sleep; + Or like autumnal clouds that keep +Their lightnings sheathed rather than mar +The dawning hour of some young star; +And nothing left but what beseemed + The accessible, tho' glorious mate +Of mortal woman--whose eyes beamed + Back upon hers, as passionate; +Whose ready heart brought flame for flame, +Whose sin, whose madness was the same; +And whose soul lost in that one hour + For her and for her love--oh more +Of heaven's light than even the power + Of heaven itself could now restore! +And yet, that hour!-- + + The Spirit here + Stopt in his utterance as if words +Gave way beneath the wild career + Of his then rushing thoughts--like chords, +Midway in some enthusiast's song, +Breaking beneath a touch too strong; +While the clenched hand upon the brow +Told how remembrance throbbed there now! +But soon 'twas o'er--that casual blaze +From the sunk fire of other days-- +That relic of a flame whose burning + Had been too fierce to be relumed, +Soon passt away, and the youth turning + To his bright listeners thus resumed:-- + +Days, months elapsed, and, tho' what most + On earth I sighed for was mine, all-- +Yet--was I happy? God, thou know'st, +Howe'er they smile and feign and boast, + What happiness is theirs, who fall! +'Twas bitterest anguish--made more keen +Even by the love, the bliss, between +Whose throbs it came, like gleams of hell + In agonizing cross-light given +Athwart the glimpses, they who dwell + In purgatory[9] catch of heaven! +The only feeling that to me + Seemed joy--or rather my sole rest +From aching misery--was to see + My young, proud, blooming LILIS blest. +She, the fair fountain of all ill + To my lost soul--whom yet its thirst +Fervidly panted after still, + And found the charm fresh as at first-- +To see _her_ happy--to reflect + Whatever beams still round me played +Of former pride, of glory wreckt, + On her, my Moon, whose light I made, + And whose soul worshipt even my shade-- +This was, I own, enjoyment--this +My sole, last lingering glimpse of bliss. +And proud she was, fair creature!--proud, + Beyond what even most queenly stirs +In woman's heart, nor would have bowed + That beautiful young brow of hers +To aught beneath the First above, +So high she deemed her Cherub's love! + +Then too that passion hourly growing + Stronger and stronger--to which even +Her love at times gave way--of knowing + Everything strange in earth and heaven; +Not only all that, full revealed, + The eternal ALLA loves to show, +But all that He hath wisely sealed + In darkness for man _not_ to know-- +Even this desire, alas! ill-starred + And fatal as it was, I sought +To feed each minute, and unbarred + Such realms of wonder on her thought +As ne'er till then had let their light +Escape on any mortal's sight! + +In the deep earth--beneath the sea-- + Thro' caves of fire--thro' wilds of air-- +Wherever sleeping Mystery + Had spread her curtain, we were there-- +Love still beside us as we went, +At home in each new element + And sure of worship everywhere! + +Then first was Nature taught to lay + The wealth of all her kingdoms down +At woman's worshipt feet and say + "Bright creature, this is all thine own!" +Then first were diamonds from the night, +Of earth's deep centre brought to light +And made to grace the conquering way +Of proud young beauty with their ray. + +Then too the pearl from out its shell + Unsightly, in the sunless sea, +(As 'twere a spirit, forced to dwell + In form unlovely) was set free, +And round the neck of woman threw +A light it lent and borrowed too. +For never did this maid--whate'er + The ambition of the hour--forget +Her sex's pride in being fair; +Nor that adornment, tasteful, rare, +Which makes the mighty magnet, set +In Woman's form, more mighty yet. +Nor was there aught within the range + Of my swift wing in sea or air, +Of beautiful or grand or strange, +That, quickly as her wish could change, + I did not seek, with such fond care, +That when I've seen her look above + At some bright star admiringly, +I've said, "Nay, look not there, my love,[10] + "Alas, I _can not_ give it thee!" + +But not alone the wonders found + Thro' Nature's realm--the unveiled, material, +Visible glories, that abound +Thro' all her vast, enchanted ground-- + But whatsoe'er unseen, ethereal, +Dwells far away from human sense, +Wrapt in its own intelligence-- +The mystery of that Fountainhead, + From which all vital spirit runs, +All breath of Life, where'er 'tis spread + Thro' men or angels, flowers or suns-- +The workings of the Almighty Mind, +When first o'er Chaos he designed +The outlines of this world, and thro' + That depth of darkness--like the bow, +Called out of rain-clouds hue by hue[11] + Saw the grand, gradual picture grow;-- +The covenant with human kind + By ALLA made--the chains of Fate +He round himself and them hath twined, + Till his high task he consummate;-- + Till good from evil, love from hate, +Shall be workt out thro' sin and pain, +And Fate shall loose her iron chain +And all be free, be bright again! + + +Such were the deep-drawn mysteries, + And some, even more obscure, profound, +And wildering to the mind than these, + Which--far as woman's thought could sound, +Or a fallen, outlawed spirit reach-- +She dared to learn and I to teach. +Till--filled with such unearthly lore, + And mingling the pure light it brings +With much that fancy had before + Shed in false, tinted glimmerings-- +The enthusiast girl spoke out, as one + Inspired, among her own dark race, +Who from their ancient shrines would run, +Leaving their holy rites undone, + To gaze upon her holier face. +And tho' but wild the things she spoke, +Yet mid that play of error's smoke + Into fair shapes by fancy curled, +Some gleams of pure religion broke-- +Glimpses that have not yet awoke, + But startled the still dreaming world! +Oh! many a truth, remote, sublime, + Which Heaven would from the minds of men +Have kept concealed till its own time, + Stole out in these revealments then-- +Revealments dim that have forerun, +By ages, the great, Sealing One![12] +Like that imperfect dawn or light[13] + Escaping from the Zodiac's signs, +Which makes the doubtful east half bright, + Before the real morning shines! + +Thus did some moons of bliss go by-- + Of bliss to her who saw but love +And knowledge throughout earth and sky; +To whose enamored soul and eye +I seemed--as is the sun on high-- + The light of all below, above, +The spirit of sea and land and air, +Whose influence, felt everywhere, +Spread from its centre, her own heart, +Even to the world's extremest part; +While thro' that world her rainless mind + Had now careered so fast and far, +That earth itself seemed left behind +And her proud fancy unconfined + Already saw Heaven's gates ajar! + +Happy enthusiast! still, oh! still +Spite of my own heart's mortal chill, +Spite of that double-fronted sorrow + Which looks at once before and back, +Beholds the yesterday, the morrow, + And sees both comfortless, both black-- +Spite of all this, I could have still +In her delight forgot all ill; +Or if pain _would_ not be forgot, +At least have borne and murmured not. +When thoughts of an offended heaven, + Of sinfulness, which I--even I, +While down its steep most headlong driven-- +Well knew could never be forgiven, + Came o'er me with an agony +Beyond all reach of mortal woe-- +A torture kept for those who know. + +Know _every_ thing, and--worst of all-- +Know and love Virtue while they fall! +Even then her presence had the power + To soothe, to warm--nay, even to bless-- +If ever bliss could graft its flower + On stem so full of bitterness-- +Even then her glorious smile to me + Brought warmth and radiance if not balm; +Like moonlight o'er a troubled sea. + Brightening the storm it cannot calm. + +Oft too when that disheartening fear, + Which all who love, beneath yon sky, +Feel when they gaze on what is dear-- + The dreadful thought that it must die! +That desolating thought which comes +Into men's happiest hours and homes; +Whose melancholy boding flings +Death's shadow o'er the brightest things, +Sicklies the infant's bloom and spreads +The grave beneath young lovers' heads! +This fear, so sad to all--to me + Most full of sadness from the thought +That I most still live on,[14] when she +Would, like the snow that on the sea + Fell yesterday, in vain be sought; +That heaven to me this final seal + Of all earth's sorrow would deny, +And I eternally must feel + The death-pang without power to die! + +Even this, her fond endearments--fond +As ever cherisht the sweet bond +'Twixt heart and heart--could charm away; +Before her looks no clouds would stay, +Or if they did their gloom was gone, +Their darkness put a glory on! +But 'tis not, 'tis not for the wrong, +The guilty, to be happy long; +And she too now had sunk within +The shadow of her tempter's sin, +Too deep for even Omnipotence +To snatch the fated victim thence! +Listen and if a tear there be +Left in your hearts weep it for me. + +'Twas on the evening of a day, +Which we in love had dreamt away; +In that same garden, where--the pride +Of seraph splendor laid aside, +And those wings furled, whose open light +For mortal gaze were else too bright-- +I first had stood before her sight, +And found myself--oh, ecstasy, + Which even in pain I ne'er forget-- +Worshipt as only God should be, + And loved as never man was yet! +In that same garden where we now, + Thoughtfully side by side reclining, +Her eyes turned upward and her brow + With its own silent fancies shining. + +It was an evening bright and still + As ever blusht on wave or bower, +Smiling from heaven as if naught ill + Could happen in so sweet an hour. +Yet I remember both grew sad + In looking at that light--even she, +Of heart so fresh and brow so glad, + Felt the still hour's solemnity, +And thought she saw in that repose + The death-hour not alone of light, +But of this whole fair world--the close + Of all things beautiful and bright-- +The last, grand sunset, in whose ray +Nature herself died calm away! + +At length, as tho' some livelier thought +Had suddenly her fancy caught, +She turned upon me her dark eyes, + Dilated into that full shape +They took in joy, reproach, surprise, + As 'twere to let more soul escape, +And, playfully as on my head +Her white hand rested, smiled and said:-- + +"I had last night a dream of thee, + "Resembling those divine ones, given, +"Like preludes to sweet minstrelsy, + "Before thou camest thyself from heaven. + +"The same rich wreath was on thy brow, + "Dazzling as if of starlight made; +"And these wings, lying darkly now, + "Like meteors round thee flasht and played. + +"Thou stoodest, all bright, as in those dreams, + "As if just wafted from above, +"Mingling earth's warmth with heaven's beams, + "And creature to adore and love. + +"Sudden I felt thee draw me near + "To thy pure heart, where, fondly placed, +"I seemed within the atmosphere + "Of that exhaling light embraced; + +"And felt methought the ethereal flame + "Pass from thy purer soul to mine; +"Till--oh, too blissful--I became, + "Like thee, all spirit, all divine! + +"Say, why did dream so blest come o'er me, + "If, now I wake, 'tis faded, gone? +"When will my Cherub shine before me + "Thus radiant, as in heaven he shone? + +"When shall I, waking, be allowed + "To gaze upon those perfect charms, +"And clasp thee once without a cloud, + "A chill of earth, within these arms? + +"Oh what a pride to say, this, this + "Is my own Angel--all divine, +"And pure and dazzling as he is + "And fresh from heaven--he's mine, he's mine! + +"Thinkest thou, were LILIS in thy place, + "A creature of yon lofty skies, +"She would have hid one single grace, + "One glory from her lover's eyes? + + "No, no--then, if thou lovest like me, + "Shine out, young Spirit in the blaze +"Of thy most proud divinity, + "Nor think thou'lt wound this mortal gaze. + +"Too long and oft I've looked upon + "Those ardent eyes, intense even thus-- +"Too near the stars themselves have gone, + "To fear aught grand or luminous. + +"Then doubt me not--oh! who can say + "But that this dream may yet come true +"And my blest spirit drink thy ray, + "Till it becomes all heavenly too? + +"Let me this once but feel the flame + "Of those spread wings, the very pride +"Will change my nature, and this frame + "By the mere touch be deified!" + +Thus spoke the maid, as one not used +To be by earth or heaven refused-- +As one who knew her influence o'er + All creatures, whatsoe'er they were, +And tho' to heaven she could not soar, + At least would bring down heaven to her. + +Little did she, alas! or I-- + Even I, whose soul, but halfway yet +Immerged in sin's obscurity +Was as the earth whereon we lie, + O'er half whose disk the sun is set-- +Little did we foresee the fate, + The dreadful--how can it be told? +Such pain, such anguish to relate + Is o'er again to feel, behold! +But, charged as 'tis, my heart must speak +Its sorrow out or it will break! +Some dark misgivings _had_, I own, + Past for a moment thro' my breast-- +Fears of some danger, vague, unknown, + To one, or both--something unblest + To happen from this proud request. + +But soon these boding fancies fled; + Nor saw I aught that could forbid +My full revealment save the dread + Of that first dazzle, when, unhid, + Such light should burst upon a lid +Ne'er tried in heaven;--and even this glare +She might, by love's own nursing care, +Be, like young eagles, taught to bear. +For well I knew, the lustre shed +From cherub wings, when proudliest spread, +Was in its nature lambent, pure, + And innocent as is the light +The glow-worm hangs out to allure + Her mate to her green bower at night. +Oft had I in the mid-air swept +Thro' clouds in which the lightning slept, +As in its lair, ready to spring, +Yet waked it not--tho' from my wing +A thousand sparks fell glittering! +Oft too when round me from above + The feathered snow in all its whiteness, +Fell like the moultings of heaven's Dove,[15]-- + So harmless, tho' so full of brightness, +Was my brow's wreath that it would shake +From off its flowers each downy flake +As delicate, unmelted, fair, +And cool as they had lighted there. + +Nay even with LILIS--had I not + Around her sleep all radiant beamed, +Hung o'er her slumbers nor forgot + To kiss her eyelids as she dreamed? +And yet at morn from that repose, + Had she not waked, unscathed and bright, +As doth the pure, unconscious rose + Tho' by the fire-fly kist all night? + +Thus having--as, alas! deceived +By my sin's blindness, I believed-- +No cause for dread and those dark eyes + Now fixt upon me eagerly +As tho' the unlocking of the skies + Then waited but a sign from me-- +How could I pause? how even let fall + A word; a whisper that could stir +In her proud heart a doubt that all + I brought from heaven belonged to her? +Slow from her side I rose, while she +Arose too, mutely, tremblingly, +But not with fear--all hope, and pride, + She waited for the awful boon, +Like priestesses at eventide + Watching the rise of the full moon +Whose light, when once its orb hath shone, +'Twill madden them to look upon! + +Of all my glories, the bright crown +Which when I last from heaven came down +Was left behind me in yon star +That shines from out those clouds afar-- +Where, relic sad, 'tis treasured yet, +The downfallen angel's coronet!-- +Of all my glories, this alone +Was wanting:--but the illumined brow, +The sun-bright locks, the eyes that now +Had love's spell added to their own, +And poured a light till then unknown;-- + The unfolded wings that in their play +Shed sparkles bright as ALLA'S throne; + All I could bring of heaven's array, + Of that rich panoply of charms +A Cherub moves in, on the day +Of his best pomp, I now put on; +And, proud that in her eyes I shone + Thus glorious, glided to her arms; +Which still (tho', at a sight so splendid, + Her dazzled brow had instantly +Sunk on her breast), were wide extended + To clasp the form she durst not see![16] +Great Heaven! how _could_ thy vengeance light +So bitterly on one so bright? +How could the hand that gave such charms, +Blast them again in love's own arms? +Scarce had I touched her shrinking frame, + When--oh most horrible!--I felt +That every spark of that pure flame-- + Pure, while among the stars I dwelt-- +Was now by my transgression turned +Into gross, earthly fire, which burned, +Burned all it touched as fast as eye + Could follow the fierce, ravening flashes; +Till there--oh God, I still ask why +Such doom was hers?--I saw her lie + Blackening within my arms to ashes! +That brow, a glory but to see-- + Those lips whose touch was what the first +Fresh cup of immortality + Is to a new-made angel's thirst! + +Those clasping arms, within whose round-- +My heart's horizon--the whole bound +Of its hope, prospect, heaven was found! +Which, even in this dread moment, fond + As when they first were round me cast, +Loosed not in death the fatal bond, + But, burning, held me to the last! +All, all, that, but that morn, had seemed +As if Love's self there breathed and beamed, +Now parched and black before me lay, +Withering in agony away; +And mine, oh misery! mine the flame +From which this desolation came;-- +I, the curst spirit whose caress +Had blasted all that loveliness! + +'Twas maddening!--but now hear even worse-- +Had death, death only, been the curse +I brought upon her--had the doom +But ended here, when her young bloom +Lay in the dust--and did the spirit +No part of that fell curse inherit, +'Twere not so dreadful--but, come near-- +Too shocking 'tis for earth to hear-- +Just when her eyes in fading took +Their last, keen, agonized farewell, +And looked in mine with--oh, that look! + Great vengeful Power, whate'er the hell +Thou mayst to human souls assign, +The memory of that look is mine!-- + +In her last struggle, on my brow + Her ashy lips a kiss imprest, +So withering!--I feel it now-- + 'Twas fire--but fire, even more unblest +Than was my own, and like that flame, +The angels shudder but to name, +Hell's everlasting element! + Deep, deep it pierced into my brain, +Maddening and torturing as it went; + And here, mark here, the brand, the stain +It left upon my front--burnt in +By that last kiss of love and sin-- +A brand which all the pomp and pride +Of a fallen Spirit cannot hide! + +But is it thus, dread Providence-- + _Can_ it indeed be thus, that she +Who, (but for _one_ proud, fond offence,) + Had honored heaven itself, should be +Now doomed--I cannot speak it--no, +Merciful ALLA! _'tis_ not so-- +Never could lips divine have said +The fiat of a fate so dread. +And yet, that look--so deeply fraught + With more than anguish, with despair-- +That new, fierce fire, resembling naught + In heaven or earth--this scorch I bear!-- +Oh--for the first time that these knees + Have bent before thee since my fall, +Great Power, if ever thy decrees + Thou couldst for prayer like mine recall, +Pardon that spirit, and on me, + On me, who taught her pride to err, +Shed out each drop of agony + Thy burning phial keeps for her! +See too where low beside me kneel + Two other outcasts who, tho' gone +And lost themselves, yet dare to feel + And pray for that poor mortal one. +Alas, too well, too well they know +The pain, the penitence, the woe +That Passion brings upon the best, +The wisest, and the loveliest.-- +Oh! who is to be saved, if such + Bright, erring souls are not forgiven; +So loath they wander, and so much + Their very wanderings lean towards heaven! +Again I cry. Just Power, transfer + That creature's sufferings all to me-- + Mine, mine the guilt, the torment be, +To save one minute's pain to her, + Let mine last all eternity! + +He paused and to the earth bent down + His throbbing head; while they who felt +That agony as 'twere their own, + Those angel youths, beside him knelt, +And in the night's still silence there, +While mournfully each wandering air +Played in those plumes that never more +To their lost home in heaven must soar, +Breathed inwardly the voiceless prayer, +Unheard by all but Mercy's ear-- +And which if Mercy _did not_ hear, +Oh, God would _not_ be what this bright + And glorious universe of His, +This world of beauty, goodness, light + And endless love proclaims He _is_! + +Not long they knelt, when from a wood +That crowned that airy solitude, +They heard a low, uncertain sound, +As from a lute, that just had found +Some happy theme and murmured round +The new-born fancy, with fond tone, +Scarce thinking aught so sweet its own! +Till soon a voice, that matched as well + That gentle instrument, as suits +The sea-air to an ocean-shell, + (So kin its spirit to the lute's), +Tremblingly followed the soft strain, +Interpreting its joy, its pain, + And lending the light wings of words +To many a thought that else had lain + Unfledged and mute among the chords. + +All started at the sound--but chief + The third young Angel in whose face, +Tho' faded like the others, grief + Had left a gentler, holier trace; +As if, even yet, thro' pain and ill, +Hope had not fled him--as if still +Her precious pearl in sorrow's cup + Unmelted at the bottom lay, +To shine again, when, all drunk up, + The bitterness should pass away. +Chiefly did he, tho' in his eyes +There shone more pleasure than surprise, +Turn to the wood from whence that sound + Of solitary sweetness broke; +Then, listening, look delighted round + To his bright peers, while thus it spoke:-- +"Come, pray with me, my seraph love, + "My angel-lord, come pray with me: +"In vain to-night my lips hath strove +"To send one holy prayer above-- +"The knee may bend, the lip may move, + "But pray I cannot, without thee! +"I've fed the altar in my bower + "With droppings from the incense tree; +"I've sheltered it from wind and shower, +"But dim it burns the livelong hour, +"As if, like me, it had no power + "Of life or lustre without thee! + +"A boat at midnight sent alone + "To drift upon the moonless sea, +"A lute, whose leading chord is gone, +"A wounded bird that hath but one +"Imperfect wing to soar upon, + "Are like what I am without thee! + +"Then ne'er, my spirit-love, divide, + "In life or death, thyself from me; +"But when again in sunny pride +"Thou walk'st thro' Eden, let me glide, +"A prostrate shadow, by thy side-- + "Oh happier thus than without thee!" + +The song had ceased when from the wood + Which sweeping down that airy height, +Reached the lone spot whereon they stood-- + There suddenly shone out a light +From a clear lamp, which, as it blazed +Across the brow of one, who raised +Its flame aloft (as if to throw +The light upon that group below), +Displayed two eyes sparkling between +The dusky leaves, such as are seen +By fancy only, in those faces, + That haunt a poet's walk at even, +Looking from out their leafy places + Upon his dreams of love and heaven. +'Twas but a moment--the blush brought +O'er all her features at the thought + Of being seen thus, late, alone, +By any but the eyes she sought, + Had scarcely for an instant shore + Thro' the dark leaves when she was gone-- +Gone, like a meteor that o'erhead +Suddenly shines, and, ere we've said, +"Behold, how beautiful!"--'tis fled, +Yet ere she went the words, "I come, + "I come, my NAMA," reached her ear, + In that kind voice, familiar, dear, +Which tells of confidence, of home,-- + Of habit, that hath drawn hearts near, +Till they grow _one_,--of faith sincere, +And all that Love most loves to hear; +A music breathing of the past, + The present and the time to be, +Where Hope and Memory to the last + Lengthen out life's true harmony! + +Nor long did he whom call so kind +Summoned away remain behind: +Nor did there need much time to tell + What they--alas! more fallen than he +From happiness and heaven--knew well, + His gentler love's short history! + +Thus did it run--_not_ as he told + The tale himself, but as 'tis graved +Upon the tablets that, of old, + By SETH[17] were from the deluge saved, +All written over with sublime + And saddening legends of the unblest +But glorious Spirits of that time, + And this young Angel's 'mong the rest. + + +THIRD ANGEL'S STORY. + + +Among the Spirits, of pure flame, + That in the eternal heavens abide-- +Circles of light that from the same + Unclouded centre sweeping wide, + Carry its beams on every side-- +Like spheres of air that waft around +The undulations of rich sound-- + +Till the far-circling radiance be +Diffused into infinity! +First and immediate near the Throne +Of ALLA, as if most his own, +The Seraphs stand[18] this burning sign +Traced on their banner, "Love Divine!" +Their rank, their honors, far above + Even those to high-browed Cherubs given, +Tho' knowing all;--so much doth Love + Transcend all Knowledge, even in heaven! + +'Mong these was ZARAPH once--and none + E'er felt affection's holy fire, +Or yearned towards the Eternal One, + With half such longing, deep desire. +Love was to his impassioned soul + Not as with others a mere part +Of its existence, but the whole-- + The very life-breath of his heart! + +Oft, when from ALLA'S lifted brow + A lustre came, too bright to bear, +And all the seraph ranks would bow, + To shade their dazzled sight nor dare + To look upon the effulgence there-- +This Spirit's eyes would court the blaze + (Such pride he in adoring took), + +And rather lose in that one gaze + The power of looking than _not_ look! +Then too when angel voices sung +The mercy of their God and strung +Their harps to hail with welcome sweet + That moment, watched for by all eyes, +When some repentant sinner's feet + First touched the threshold of the skies, +Oh! then how clearly did the voice +Of ZARAPH above all rejoice! +Love was in every buoyant tone-- + Such love as only could belong +To the blest angels and alone + Could, even from angels, bring such song! +Alas! that it should e'er have been + In heaven as 'tis too often here, +Where nothing fond or bright is seen, + But it hath pain and peril near;-- +Where right and wrong so close resemble, + That what we take for virtue's thrill +Is often the first downward tremble + Of the heart's balance unto ill; +Where Love hath not a shrine so pure, + So holy, but the serpent, Sin, +In moments, even the most secure, + Beneath his altar may glide in! + +So was it with that Angel--such + The charm, that sloped his fall along, +From good to ill, from loving much, + Too easy lapse, to loving wrong.-- +Even so that amorous Spirit, bound +By beauty's spell where'er 'twas found, +From the bright things above the moon + Down to earth's beaming eyes descended, +Till love for the Creator soon + In passion for the creature ended. + +'Twas first at twilight, on the shore + Of the smooth sea, he heard the lute +And voice of her he loved steal o'er + The silver waters that lay mute, +As loath, by even a breath, to stay +The pilgrimage of that sweet lay; +Whose echoes still went on and on, +Till lost among the light that shone +Far off beyond the ocean's brim-- + There where the rich cascade of day +Had o'er the horizon's golden rim, + Into Elysium rolled away! +Of God she sung and of the mild + Attendant Mercy that beside +His awful throne for ever smiled, + Ready with her white hand to guide +His bolts of vengeance to their prey-- +That she might quench them on the way! +Of Peace--of that Atoning Love, +Upon whose star, shining above +This twilight world of hope and fear, + The weeping eyes of Faith are fixt +So fond that with her every tear + The light of that love-star is mixt!-- +All this she sung, and such a soul + Of piety was in that song +That the charmed Angel as it stole + Tenderly to his ear, along +Those lulling waters where he lay, +Watching the daylight's dying ray, +Thought 'twas a voice from out the wave, +An echo, that some sea-nymph gave +To Eden's distant harmony, +Heard faint and sweet beneath the sea! + +Quickly, however, to its source, +Tracking that music's melting course, +He saw upon the golden sands +Of the sea-shore a maiden stand, +Before whose feet the expiring waves + Flung their last offering with a sigh-- +As, in the East, exhausted slaves + Lay down the far-brought gift and die-- +And while her lute hung by her hushed + As if unequal to the tide +Of song that from her lips still gushed, + She raised, like one beatified, +Those eyes whose light seemed rather given + To be adored than to adore-- +Such eyes as may have lookt _from_ heaven + But ne'er were raised to it before! + +Oh Love, Religion, Music--all + That's left of Eden upon earth-- +The only blessings, since the fall +Of our weak souls, that still recall + A trace of their high, glorious birth-- +How kindred are the dreams you bring! + How Love tho' unto earth so prone, +Delights to take Religion's wing, + When time or grief hath stained his own! +How near to Love's beguiling brink + Too oft entranced Religion lies! +While Music, Music is the link + They _both_ still hold by to the skies, +The language of their native sphere +Which they had else forgotten here. + +How then could ZARAPH fail to feel + That moment's witcheries?--one, so fair, +Breathing out music, that might steal + Heaven from itself, and rapt in prayer + That seraphs might be proud to share! +Oh, he _did_ feel it, all too well-- + With warmth, that far too dearly cost-- +Nor knew he, when at last he fell, +To which attraction, to which spell, +Love, Music, or Devotion, most +His soul in that sweet hour was lost. + +Sweet was the hour, tho' dearly won, + And pure, as aught of earth could be, +For then first did the glorious sun + Before religion's altar see +Two hearts in wedlock's golden tie +Self-pledged, in love to live and die. +Blest union! by that Angel wove, + And worthy from such hands to come; +Safe, sole, asylum, in which Love, +When fallen or exiled from above, + In this dark world can find a home. + +And, tho' the Spirit had transgrest, +Had, from his station 'mong the blest +Won down by woman's smile, allow'd + Terrestrial passion to breathe o'er +The mirror of his heart, and cloud + God's image there so bright before-- +Yet never did that Power look down + On error with a brow so mild; +Never did Justice wear a frown, + Thro' which so gently Mercy smiled. + +For humble was their love--with awe + And trembling like some treasure kept, +That was not theirs by holy law-- +Whose beauty with remorse they saw + And o'er whose preciousness they wept. +Humility, that low, sweet root, +From which all heavenly virtues shoot, +Was in the hearts of both--but most + In NAMA'S heart, by whom alone +Those charms, for which a heaven was lost. + Seemed all unvalued and unknown; +And when her Seraph's eyes she caught, + And hid hers glowing on his breast, +Even bliss was humbled by the thought-- + "What claim have I to be so blest"? +Still less could maid, so meek, have nurst +Desire of knowledge--that vain thirst, +With which the sex hath all been curst +From luckless EVE to her who near +The Tabernacle stole to hear +The secrets of the Angels: no-- + To love as her own Seraph loved, +With Faith, the same thro' bliss and woe-- + Faith that were even its light removed, +Could like the dial fixt remain +And wait till it shone out again;-- +With Patience that tho' often bowed + By the rude storm can rise anew; +And Hope that even from Evil's cloud + See sunny Good half breaking thro'! +This deep, relying Love, worth more +In heaven than all a Cherub's lore-- +This Faith more sure than aught beside +Was the sole joy, ambition, pride +Of her fond heart--the unreasoning scope + Of all its views, above, below-- +So true she felt it that to _hope_, + To _trust_, is happier than to _know_. +And thus in humbleness they trod, +Abasht but pure before their God; +Nor e'er did earth behold a sight + So meekly beautiful as they, +When with the altar's holy light + Full on their brows they knelt to pray, +Hand within hand and side by side, +Two links of love awhile untied +From the great chain above, but fast +Holding together to the last!-- +Two fallen Splendors from that tree[19] +Which buds with such eternally, +Shaken to earth yet keeping all +Their light and freshness in the fall. + +Their only punishment, (as wrong, + However sweet, must bear its brand.) +Their only doom was this--that, long + As the green earth and ocean stand, +They both shall wander here--the same, +Throughout all time, in heart and frame-- +Still looking to that goal sublime, + Whose light remote but sure they see; +Pilgrims of Love whose way is Time, + Whose home is in Eternity! +Subject the while to all the strife +True Love encounters in this life-- +The wishes, hopes, he breathes in vain; + The chill that turns his warmest sighs + To earthly vapor ere they rise; +The doubt he feeds on and the pain + That in his very sweetness lies:-- +Still worse, the illusions that betray + His footsteps to their shining brink; +That tempt him on his desert way + Thro' the bleak world, to bend and drink, +Where nothing meets his lips, alas!-- +But he again must sighing pass +On to that far-off home of peace, +In which alone his thirst will cease. + +All this they bear but not the less +Have moments rich in happiness-- +Blest meetings, after many a day +Of widowhood past far away, +When the loved face again is seen +Close, close, with not a tear between-- +Confidings frank, without control, +Poured mutually from soul to soul; +As free from any fear or doubt + As is that light from chill or strain +The sun into the stars sheds out + To be by them shed back again!-- +That happy minglement of hearts, + Where, changed as chymic compounds are, +Each with its own existence parts + To find a new one, happier far! +Such are their joys--and crowning all + That blessed hope of the bright hour, +When, happy and no more to fall, + Their spirits shall with freshened power +Rise up rewarded for their trust + In Him from whom all goodness springs, +And shaking off earth's soiling dust + From their emancipated wings, +Wander for ever thro' those skies +Of radiance where Love never dies! + +In what lone region of the earth, + These Pilgrims now may roam or dwell, +God and the Angels who look forth + To watch their steps, alone can tell. +But should we in our wanderings + Meet a young pair whose beauty wants +But the adornment of bright wings + To look like heaven's inhabitants-- +Who shine where'er they tread and yet + Are humble in their earthly lot, +As is the way-side violet, + That shines unseen, and were it not + For its sweet breath would be forgot +Whose hearts in every thought are one, + Whose voices utter the same wills-- +Answering, as Echo doth some tone + Of fairy music 'mong the hills, +So like itself we seek in vain +Which is the echo, which the strain-- +Whose piety is love, whose love + Tho' close as 'twere their souls' embrace. +Is not of earth but from above-- + Like two fair mirrors face to face, +Whose light from one to the other thrown, +Is heaven's reflection, not their own-- +Should we e'er meet with aught so pure, +So perfect here, we may be sure + 'Tis ZARAPH and his bride we see; +And call young lovers round to view +The pilgrim pair as they pursue + Their pathway towards eternity. + + +[1] "To which will be joined the sound of the bells hanging on the trees, +which will be put in motion by the wind proceeding from the Throne, so +often as the Blessed wish for music."--See _Sale's Koran, Prelim. +Dissert_. + +[2] The ancient Persians supposed that this Throne was placed in the Sun, +and that through the stars were distributed the various classes of Angels +that encircled it. The Basilidians supposed that there were three hundred +and sixty-five orders of angels. + +[3] It appears that, in most languages, the term employed for an angel +means also a messenger. + +[4] The name given by the Mahometans to the infernal regions, over which, +they say, the angel Tabliek presides. + +[5] The Kerubilna, as the Mussulmans call them, are often joined +indiscriminately with the Asrafil or Seraphim, under one common name of +Azazil, by which all spirits who approach near the throne of Alla are +designated. + +[6] A belief that the stars are either spirits or the vehicles of spirits, +was common to all the religions and heresies of the East. Kircher has +given the names and stations of the seven archangels, who were by the +Cabala of the Jews distributed through the planets. + +[7] According to the cosmogony of the ancient Persians, there were four +stars set as sentinels in the four quarters of the heavens, to watch over +the other fixed stars, and superintend the planets in their course. The +names of these four Sentinel stars are, according to the Boundesh, +Taschter, for the east; Satevis, for the west; Venand, for the south; and +Haftorang. for the north. + +[8] Chavah, or, as it is Arabic, Havah (the name by which Adam called the +woman after their transgression), means "Life". + +[9] Called by the Mussulmans Al Araf--a sort of wall or partition which, +according to the 7th chapter of the Koran, separates hell from paradise, +and where they, who have not merits sufficient to gain them immediate +admittance into heaven, are supposed to stand for a certain period, +alternately tantalized and tormented by the sights that are on either side +presented to them. + +[10] I am aware that this happy saying of Lord Albemarle's loses much of +its grace and playfulness, by being put into the mouth of any but a human +lover. + +[11] According to Whitehurst's theory, the mention of rainbows by an +antediluvian angel is an anachronism; as he says, "There was no rain +before the flood, and consequently no rainbow, which accounts for the +novelty of this sight after the Deluge." + +[12] In acknowledging the authority of the great Prophets who had preceded +him, Mahomet represented his own mission as the final "_Seal_," or +consummation of them all. + +[13] The Zodiacal Light. + +[14] Pococke, however, gives it as the opinion of the Mahometan doctors, +that all souls, not only of men and of animals, living either on land or +in the sea, but of angels also, must necessarily taste of death. + +[15] The Dove, or pigeon which attended Mahomet as his Familiar, and was +frequently seen to whisper into his ear, was, if I recollect right, one of +that select number of animals [including also the ant of Solomon, the dog +of the Seven Sleepers, etc.] which were thought by the Prophet worthy of +admission into Paradise. + +[16] "Mohammed [says Sale], though a prophet, was not able to bear the +sight of Gabriel, when he appeared in his proper form, much less would +others be able to support it." + +[17] Seth is a favorite personage among the Orientals, and acts a +conspicuous part in many of their most extravagant romances. The Syrians +pretended to have a Testament of this Patriarch in their possession, in +which was explained the whole theology of angels, their different orders, +etc. The Curds, too (as Hyde mentions in his Appendix), have a book, which +contains all the rites of their religion, and which they call Sohuph +Sheit, or the Book of Seth. + +[18] The Seraphim, or Spirits of Divine Love. + +[19] An allusion to the Sephiroths or Splendors of the Jewish Cabala, +represented as a tree, of which God is the crown or summit. + + + + + + + + +RHYMES ON THE ROAD. + +EXTRACTED FROM THE JOURNAL OF +A TRAVELLING MEMBER OF +THE POCO-CURANTE SOCIETY, + +1819. + + +The greater part of the following Rhymes were written or composed in an +old _calêche_ for the purpose of beguiling the _ennui_ of solitary +travelling; and as verses made by a gentleman in his sleep, have been +lately called "a _psychological_ curiosity," it is to be hoped that +verses, composed by a gentleman to keep himself awake, may be honored with +some appellation equally Greek. + + + + + + +RHYMES ON THE ROAD + + + + +INTRODUCTORY RHYMES. + + +_Different Attitudes in which Authors compose.--Bayes, Henry Stevens, +Herodotus, etc.--Writing in Bed--in the Fields.--Plato and Sir Richard +Blackmore.--Fiddling with Gloves and Twigs.--Madame de Staël.--Rhyming on +the Road, in an old Calêche_. + + +What various attitudes and ways + And tricks we authors have in writing! +While some write sitting, some like BAYES + Usually stand while they're inditing, +Poets there are who wear the floor out, + Measuring a line at every stride; +While some like HENRY STEPHENS pour out + Rhymes by the dozen while they ride. +HERODOTUS wrote most in bed; + And RICHERAND, a French physician, +Declares the clock-work of the head + Goes best in that reclined position. +If you consult MONTAIGNE and PLINY on +The subject, 'tis their joint opinion +That Thought its richest harvest yields +Abroad among the woods and fields, +That bards who deal in small retail + At home may at their counters stop; +But that the grove, the hill, the vale, + Are Poesy's true wholesale shop. +And verily I think they're right-- + For many a time on summer eves, +Just at that closing hour of light, + When, like an Eastern Prince, who leaves +For distant war his Haram bowers, +The Sun bids farewell to the flowers, +Whose heads are sunk, whose tears are flowing +Mid all the glory of his going!-- +Even _I_ have felt, beneath those beams, + When wandering thro' the fields alone, +Thoughts, fancies, intellectual gleams, + Which, far too bright to be my own, +Seemed lent me by the Sunny Power +That was abroad at that still hour. + +If thus I've felt, how must _they_ feel, + The few whom genuine Genius warms, +Upon whose soul he stamps his seal, + Graven with Beauty's countless forms;-- +The few upon this earth, who seem +Born to give truth to PLATO'S dream, +Since in their thoughts, as in a glass, + Shadows of heavenly things appear. +Reflections of bright shapes that pass + Thro' other worlds, above our sphere! +But this reminds me I digress;-- + For PLATO, too, produced, 'tis said, +(As one indeed might almost guess), + His glorious visions all in bed.[1] +'Twas in his carriage the sublime +Sir RICHARD BLACKMORE used to rhyme; + And (if the wits don’t do him wrong) +Twixt death and epics past his time,[2] + Scribbling and killing all day long-- +Like Phoebus in his car, at ease, + Now warbling forth a lofty song, +Now murdering the young Niobes. + +There was a hero 'mong the Danes, +Who wrote, we're told, mid all the pains + And horrors of exenteration, +Nine charming odes, which, if you'll look, + You'll find preserved with a translation +By BARTHOLINOS in his book. +In short 'twere endless to recite +The various modes in which men write. +Some wits are only in the mind. + When beaus and belles are round them prating; +Some when they dress for dinner find + Their muse and valet both in waiting +And manage at the self-same time +To adjust a neckcloth and a rhyme. + +Some bards there are who cannot scribble +Without a glove to tear or nibble +Or a small twig to whisk about-- + As if the hidden founts of Fancy, +Like wells of old, were thus found out + By mystic trick of rhabdomancy. +Such was the little feathery wand,[3] +That, held for ever in the hand +Of her who won and wore the crown[4] + Of female genius in this age, +Seemed the conductor that drew down + Those words of lightning to her page. + +As for myself--to come, at last, + To the odd way in which _I_ write-- +Having employ'd these few months past + Chiefly in travelling, day and night, +I've got into the easy mode +Of rhyming thus along the road-- +Making a way-bill of my pages, +Counting my stanzas by my stages-- +'Twixt lays and _re_-lays no time lost-- +In short, in two words, _writing post_. + + +[1] The only authority I know for imputing this practice to Plato and +Herodotus, is a Latin poem by M. de Valois on his Bed, in which he says:-- + +_Lucifer Herodotum vidit Vesperque cubantem, desedit totos heic Plato +saepe dies_. + +[2] Sir Richard Blackmore was a physician, as well as a bad poet. + +[3] Made of paper, twisted up like a fan or feather. + +[4] Madame de Staël. + + + + + + +EXTRACT I. + +Geneva. + + +_View of the Lake of Geneva from the Jura.[1]--Anxious to reach it +before the Sun went down.--Obliged to proceed on Foot.--Alps.--Mont +Blanc.--Effect of the Scene_. + + +'Twas late--the sun had almost shone +His last and best when I ran on +Anxious to reach that splendid view +Before the daybeams quite withdrew +And feeling as all feel on first + Approaching scenes where, they are told, +Such glories on their eyes will burst + As youthful bards in dreams behold. + +'Twas distant yet and as I ran + Full often was my wistful gaze +Turned to the sun who now began + To call in all his out-posts rays, +And form a denser march of light, +Such as beseems a hero's flight. +Oh, how I wisht for JOSHUA'S power, +To stay the brightness of that hour? +But no--the sun still less became, + Diminisht to a speck as splendid +And small as were those tongues of flame, + That on the Apostles' heads descended! + +'Twas at this instant--while there glowed + This last, intensest gleam of light-- +Suddenly thro' the opening road + The valley burst upon my sight! +That glorious valley with its Lake + And Alps on Alps in clusters swelling, +Mighty and pure and fit to make + The ramparts of a Godhead's dwelling. + +I stood entranced--as Rabbins say + This whole assembled, gazing world +Will stand, upon that awful day, + When the Ark's Light aloft unfurled +Among the opening clouds shall shine, +Divinity's own radiant sign! + +Mighty MONT BLANC, thou wert to me + That minute, with thy brow in heaven, +As sure a sign of Deity + As e'er to mortal gaze was given. +Nor ever, were I destined yet + To live my life twice o'er again, +Can I the deep-felt awe forget, + The dream, the trance that rapt me then! + +'Twas all that consciousness of power +And life, beyond this mortal hour;-- +Those mountings of the soul within +At thoughts of Heaven--as birds begin +By instinct in the cage to rise, +When near their time for change of skies;-- +That proud assurance of our claim + To rank among the Sons of Light, +Mingled with shame--oh bitter shame!-- + At having riskt that splendid right, +For aught that earth thro' all its range +Of glories offers in exchange! +'Twas all this, at that instant brought +Like breaking sunshine o'er my thought-- +'Twas all this, kindled to a glow + Of sacred zeal which could it shine +Thus purely ever man might grow, + Even upon earth a thing divine, +And be once more the creature made +To walk unstained the Elysian shade! + +No, never shall I lose the trace +Of what I've felt in this bright place. +And should my spirit's hope grow weak, + Should I, oh God! e'er doubt thy power, +This mighty scene again I'll seek, + At the same calm and glowing hour, +And here at the sublimest shrine + That Nature ever reared to Thee +Rekindle all that hope divine + And _feel_ my immortality! + + +[1] Between Vattay and Gex. + + + + + + +EXTRACT II. + +Geneva. + +FATE OF GENEVA IN THE YEAR 1782. + +A FRAGMENT. + + +Yes--if there yet live some of those, +Who, when this small Republic rose, +Quick as a startled hive of bees, +Against her leaguering enemies--[1] +When, as the Royal Satrap shook + His well-known fetters at her gates, +Even wives and mothers armed and took + Their stations by their sons and mates; +And on these walls there stood--yet, no, + Shame to the traitors--_would_ have stood +As firm a band as e'er let flow + At Freedom's base their sacred blood; +If those yet live, who on that night +When all were watching, girt for fight, +Stole like the creeping of a pest +From rank to rank, from breast to breast, +Filling the weak, the old with fears, +Turning the heroine's zeal to tears,-- +Betraying Honor to that brink, +Where, one step more, and he must sink-- +And quenching hopes which tho' the last, +Like meteors on a drowning mast, +Would yet have led to death more bright, +Than life e'er lookt, in all its light! +Till soon, too soon, distrust, alarms + Throughout the embattled thousands ran, +And the high spirit, late in arms, +The zeal that might have workt such charms, + Fell like a broken talisman-- +Their gates, that they had sworn should be + The gates of Death, that very dawn, +Gave passage widely, bloodlessly, + To the proud foe--nor sword was drawn, +Nor even one martyred body cast +To stain their footsteps, as they past; +But of the many sworn at night +To do or die, some fled the sight, +Some stood to look with sullen frown, + While some in impotent despair +Broke their bright armor and lay down, + Weeping, upon the fragments there!-- +If those, I say, who brought that shame, +That blast upon GENEVA'S name +Be living still--tho' crime so dark + Shall hang up, fixt and unforgiven, +In History's page, the eternal mark + For Scorn to pierce--so help me, Heaven, +I wish the traitorous slaves no worse, + No deeper, deadlier disaster +From all earth's ills no fouler curse + Than to have *********** their master! + + +[1] In the year 1782, when the forces of Berne, Sardinia, and France laid +siege to Geneva, and when, after a demonstration of heroism and +self-devotion, which promised to rival the feats of their ancestors in +1602 against Savoy, the Genevans, either panic-struck or betrayed, to the +surprise of all Europe, opened their gates to the besiegers, and submitted +without a struggle to the extinction of their liberties--See an account of +this Revolution in Coxe's Switzerland. + + + + + + +EXTRACT III. + +Geneva. + +_Fancy and Truth--Hippomenes and Atalanta. Mont Blanc.--Clouds_. + + +Even here in this region of wonders I find +That light-footed Fancy leaves Truth far behind; +Or at least like Hippomenes turns her astray +By the golden illusions he flings in her way. + +What a glory it seemed the first evening I gazed! +MONT BLANC like a vision then suddenly raised +On the wreck of the sunset--and all his array + Of high-towering Alps, touched still with a light +Far holier, purer than that of the Day, + As if nearness to Heaven had made them so bright! +Then the dying at last of these splendors away +From peak after peak, till they left but a ray, +One roseate ray, that, too precious to fly, + O'er the Mighty of Mountains still glowingly hung, +Like the last sunny step of ASTRAEA, when high, + From the summit of earth to Elysium she sprung! +And those infinite Alps stretching out from the sight +Till they mingled with Heaven, now shorn of their light, +Stood lofty and lifeless and pale in the sky, +Like the ghosts of a Giant Creation gone by! + +That scene--I have viewed it this evening again, +By the same brilliant light that hung over it then-- +The valley, the lake in their tenderest charms-- + MONT BLANC in his awfullest pomp--and the whole +A bright picture of Beauty, reclined in the arms + Of Sublimity, bridegroom elect of her soul! +But where are the mountains that round me at first +One dazzling horizon of miracles burst? +Those Alps beyond Alps, without end swelling on +Like the waves of eternity--where are _they_ gone? +Clouds--clouds--they were nothing but clouds, after all![1] + That chain of MONT BLANC'S, which my fancy flew o'er, +With a wonder that naught on this earth can recall, + Were but clouds of the evening and now are no more. + +What a picture of Life's young illusions! Oh, Night, +Drop thy curtain at once and hide _all_ from my sight. + + +[1] It is often very difficult to distinguish between clouds and +Alps; and on the evening when I first saw this magnificent scene, the +clouds were so disposed along the whole horizon, as to deceive me into an +idea of the stupendous extent of these mountains, which my subsequent +observation was very far, of course, from confirming. + + + + + + +EXTRACT IV. + +Milan. + + +_The Picture Gallery.--Albano's Rape of Proserpine.--Reflections.-- +Universal Salvation.--Abraham sending away Agar, by Guercino.--Genius_. + + +Went to the _Brera_--saw a Dance of Loves + By smooth ALBANO! him whose pencil teems +With Cupids numerous as in summer groves + The leaflets are or motes in summer beams. + +'Tis for the theft of Enna's flower from earth, +These urchins celebrate their dance of mirth +Round the green tree, like fays upon a heath-- + Those that are nearest linkt in order bright, +Cheek after cheek, like rose-buds in a wreath; +And those more distant showing from beneath + The others' wings their little eyes of light. +While see! among the clouds, their eldest brother + But just flown up tells with a smile of bliss +This prank of Pluto to his charmed mother + Who turns to greet the tidings with a kiss! + +Well might the Loves rejoice--and well did they + Who wove these fables picture in their weaving +That blessed truth, (which in a darker day + ORIGEN lost his saintship for believing,[1])-- +That Love, eternal Love, whose fadeless ray + Nor time nor death nor sin can overcast, +Even to the depths of hell will find his way, + And soothe and heal and triumph there at last! +GUERCINO'S Agar--where the bondmaid hears + From Abram's lips that he and she must part, +And looks at him with eyes all full of tears + That seem the very last drops from her heart. +Exquisite picture!--let me not be told +Of minor faults, of coloring tame and cold-- +If thus to conjure up a face so fair,[2] +So full of sorrow; with the story there +Of all that woman suffers when the stay +Her trusting heart hath leaned on falls away-- +If thus to touch the bosom's tenderest spring, +By calling into life such eyes as bring +Back to our sad remembrance some of those +We've smiled and wept with in their joys and woes, +Thus filling them with tears, like tears we've known, +Till all the pictured grief becomes our own-- +If _this_ be deemed the victory of Art-- + If thus by pen or pencil to lay bare +The deep, fresh, living fountains of the heart + Before all eyes be Genius--it is _there_! + + +[1] The extension of the Divine Love ultimately even to the +regions of the damned. + +[2] It is probable that this fine head is a portrait, as we find +it repeated in a picture by Guercino, which is in the possession of Signor +Carnuccini, the brother of the celebrated painter at Rome. + + + + + + +EXTRACT V. + +Padua. + + +_Fancy and Reality.--Rain-drops and Lakes.--Plan of a Story.--Where to +place the Scene of it.--In some unknown Region.--Psalmanazar's Imposture +with respect to the Island of Formosa_. + + +The more I've viewed this world the more I've found, + That, filled as 'tis with scenes and creatures rare. +Fancy commands within her own bright round + A world of scenes and creatures far more fair. +Nor is it that her power can call up there + A single charm, that's not from Nature won, +No more than rainbows in their pride can wear + A single hue unborrowed from the sun-- +But 'tis the mental medium it shines thro' +That lends to Beauty all its charm and hue; +As the same light that o'er the level lake + One dull monotony of lustre flings, +Will, entering in the rounded raindrop, make + Colors as gay as those on Peris' wings! + + And such, I deem, the difference between real, +Existing Beauty and that form ideal +Which she assumes when seen by poets' eyes, +Like sunshine in the drop--with all those dyes +Which Fancy's variegating prism supples. + +I have a story of two lovers, filled + With all the pure romance, the blissful sadness, +And the sad, doubtful bliss that ever thrilled + Two young and longing hearts in that sweet madness. +But where to choose the region of my vision + In this wide, vulgar world--what real spot +Can be found out sufficiently Elysian + For two such perfect lovers I know not. +Oh for some fair FORMOSA, such as he, +The young Jew fabled of, in the Indian Sea, +By nothing but its name of Beauty known, +And which Queen Fancy might make all her own, +Her fairy kingdom--take its people, lands, +And tenements into her own bright hands, +And make at least one earthly corner fit +For Love to live in, pure and exquisite! + + + + + + +EXTRACT VI. + +Venice. + + +_The Fall of Venice not to be lamented--Former Glory.--Expedition +against Constantinople.--Giustinianis.--Republic.--Characteristics of the +old Government.--Golden Book.--Brazen Mouths.--Spies.--Dungeons.--Present +Desolation_. + + +Mourn not for VENICE--let her rest +In ruin, 'mong those States unblest, +Beneath whose gilded hoofs of pride, +Where'er they trampled, Freedom died. +No--let us keep our tears for them, + Where'er they pine, whose fall hath been +Not from a blood-stained diadem, + Like that which deckt this ocean-queen, +But from high daring in the cause + Of human Rights--the only good +And blessed strife, in which man draws + His mighty sword on land or flood. + +Mourn not for VENICE; tho' her fall + Be awful, as if Ocean's wave +Swept o'er her, she deserves it all, + And Justice triumphs o'er her grave. +Thus perish every King and State + That run the guilty race she ran, +Strong but in ill and only great + By outrage against God and man! + +True, her high spirit is at rest, + And all those days of glory gone, +When the world's waters, east and west, + Beneath her white-winged commerce shone; +When with her countless barks she went + To meet the Orient Empire's might.[1] +And her Giustinianis sent + Their hundred heroes to that fight. + +Vanisht are all her pomps, 'tis true, +But mourn them not--for vanisht too + (Thanks to that Power, who soon or late, + Hurls to the dust the guilty Great,) +Are all the outrage, falsehood, fraud, + The chains, the rapine, and the blood, +That filled each spot, at home, abroad, + Where the Republic's standard stood. +Desolate VENICE! when I track +Thy haughty course thro' centuries back; +Thy ruthless power, obeyed but curst-- + The stern machinery of thy State, +Which hatred would, like steam, have burst, + Had stronger fear not chilled even hate;-- +Thy perfidy, still worse than aught +Thy own unblushing SARPI[2] taught;-- +Thy friendship which, o'er all beneath +Its shadow, rained down dews of death;[3]-- +Thy Oligarchy's Book of Gold, + Closed against humble Virtue's name, +But opened wide for slaves who sold + Their native land to thee and shame;[4]-- +Thy all-pervading host of spies + Watching o'er every glance and breath, +Till men lookt in each others' eyes, + To read their chance of life or death;-- +Thy laws that made a mart of blood, + And legalized the assassin's knife;[5]-- +Thy sunless cells beneath the flood, + And racks and Leads that burnt out life;-- + +When I review all this and see +The doom that now hath fallen on thee; +Thy nobles, towering once so proud, +Themselves beneath the yoke now bowed,-- +A yoke by no one grace redeemed, +Such as of old around thee beamed, +But mean and base as e'er yet galled +Earth's tyrants when themselves enthralled,-- +I feel the moral vengeance sweet. +And smiling o'er the wreck repeat:-- +"Thus perish every King and State + "That tread the steps which VENICE trod, +"Strong but in ill and only great, + "By outrage against man and God!" + + +[1] Under the Doge Michaeli, in 1171. + +[2] The celebrated Fra Paolo. The collections of Maxims which this bold +monk drew up at the request of the Venetian Government, for the guidance +of the Secret Inquisition of State, are so atrocious as to seem rather an +over-charged satire upon despotism, than a system of policy, seriously +inculcated, and but too readily and constantly pursued. + +[3] Conduct of Venice towards her allies and dependencies, particularly to +unfortunate Padua. + +[4] Among those admitted to the honor of being inscribed in the _Libro +d'oro_ were some families of Brescia, Treviso, and other places, whose +only claim to that distinction was the zeal with which they prostrated +themselves and their country at the feet of the republic. + +[5] By the infamous statutes of the State Inquisition, not only was +assassination recognized as a regular mode of punishment, but this secret +power over life was delegated to their minions at a distance, with nearly +as much facility as a licence is given under the game laws of England. The +only restriction seems to have been the necessity of applying for a new +certificate, after every individual exercise of the power. + + + + + + +EXTRACT VII. + +Venice. + + +_Lord Byron's Memoirs, written by himself.--Reflections, when about to +read them_. + + +Let me a moment--ere with fear and hope +Of gloomy, glorious things, these leaves I ope-- +As one in fairy tale to whom the key + Of some enchanter's secret halls is given, +Doubts while he enters slowly, tremblingly, + If he shall meet with shapes from hell or heaven-- +Let me a moment think what thousands live +O'er the wide earth this instant who would give, +Gladly, whole sleepless nights to bend the brow +Over these precious leaves, as I do now. + +How all who know--and where is he unknown? +To what far region have his songs not flown, +Like PSAPHON'S birds[1] speaking their master's name, +In every language syllabled by Fame?-- +How all who've felt the various spells combined +Within the circle of that mastermind,-- +Like spells derived from many a star and met +Together in some wondrous amulet,-- +Would burn to know when first the Light awoke +In his young soul,--and if the gleams that broke +From that Aurora of his genius, raised +Most pain or bliss in those on whom they blazed; +Would love to trace the unfolding of that power, +Which had grown ampler, grander, every hour; +And feel in watching o'er his first advance + As did the Egyptian traveller[2] when he stood +By the young Nile and fathomed with his lance + The first small fountains of that mighty flood. + +They too who mid the scornful thoughts that dwell + In his rich fancy, tingeing all its streams,-- +As if the Star of Bitterness which fell + On earth of old,[3] had touched them with its beams,-- +Can track a spirit which tho' driven to hate, +From Nature's hands came kind, affectionate; +And which even now, struck as it is with blight, +Comes out at times in love's own native light;-- +How gladly all who've watched these struggling rays +Of a bright, ruined spirit thro' his lays, +Would here inquire, as from his own frank lips, + What desolating grief, what wrongs had driven +That noble nature into cold eclipse; + Like some fair orb that, once a sun in heaven. +And born not only to surprise but cheer +With warmth and lustre all within its sphere, +Is now so quenched that of its grandeur lasts +Naught but the wide, cold shadow which it casts. + +Eventful volume! whatsoe'er the change +Of scene and clime--the adventures bold and strange-- +The griefs--the frailties but too frankly told-- +The loves, the feuds thy pages may unfold, +If Truth with half so prompt a hand unlocks + His virtues as his failings, we shall find +The record there of friendships held like rocks, + And enmities like sun-touched snow resigned; +Of fealty, cherisht without change or chill, +In those who served him, young, and serve him still; +Of generous aid given, with that noiseless art +Which wakes not pride, to many a wounded heart; +Of acts--but, no--_not_ from himself must aught +Of the bright features of his life be sought. + +While they who court the world, like Milton's cloud, +"Turn forth their silver lining" on the crowd, +This gifted Being wraps himself in night; + And keeping all that softens and adorns +And gilds his social nature hid from sight, + Turns but its darkness on a world he scorns. + + +[1] Psaphon, in order to attract the attention of the world, taught +multitudes of birds to speak his name, and then let them fly away in +various directions; whence the proverb, "Psaphonis aves." + +[2] Bruce. + +[3] "And the name of the star is called Wormwood, and the third part of +the waters became wormwood."--_Rev_. viii. + + + + + + +EXTRACT VIII. + +Venice. + + +_Female Beauty at Venice.--No longer what it was in the time of Titian.-- +His mistress.--Various Forms in which he has painted her.--Venus.--Divine +and profane Love.--La Fragilita d'Amore--Paul Veronese.--His Women.-- +Marriage of Cana.--Character of Italian Beauty.--Raphael's Fornarina.-- +Modesty_. + + +Thy brave, thy learned have passed away: +Thy beautiful!--ah, where are they? +The forms, the faces that once shone, + Models of grace, in Titian's eye, +Where are they now, while flowers live on + In ruined places, why, oh! why + Must Beauty thus with Glory die? +That maid whose lips would still have moved, + Could art have breathed a spirit through them; +Whose varying charms her artist loved + More fondly every time he drew them, +(So oft beneath his touch they past, +Each semblance fairer than the last); +Wearing each shape that Fancy's range + Offers to Love--yet still the one +Fair idol seen thro' every change, + Like facets of some orient stone,-- + In each the same bright image shown. +Sometimes a Venus, unarrayed + But in her beauty[1]--sometimes deckt +In costly raiment, as a maid + That kings might for a throne select.[2] +Now high and proud, like one who thought +The world should at her feet be brought; +Now with a look reproachful sad,[3]-- +Unwonted look from brow so glad,-- +And telling of a pain too deep +For tongue to speak or eyes to weep. +Sometimes thro' allegory's veil, + In double semblance seemed to shine, +Telling a strange and mystic tale + Of Love Profane and Love Divine[4]-- +Akin in features, but in heart +As far as earth and heaven apart. +Or else (by quaint device to prove +The frailty of all worldly love) +Holding a globe of glass as thin + As air-blown bubbles in her hand, +With a young Love confined therein, + Whose wings seem waiting to expand-- +And telling by her anxious eyes +That if that frail orb break he flies.[5] + +Thou too with touch magnificent, +PAUL of VERONA!--where are they? +The oriental forms[6] that lent +Thy canvas such a bright array? +Noble and gorgeous dames whose dress +Seems part of their own loveliness; +Like the sun's drapery which at eve +The floating clouds around him weave +Of light they from himself receive! +Where is there now the living face + Like those that in thy nuptial throng[7] +By their superb, voluptuous grace, +Make us forget the time, the place, + The holy guests they smile among,-- +Till in that feast of heaven-sent wine +We see no miracles but thine. + +If e'er, except in Painting's dream, +There bloomed such beauty here, 'tis gone,-- +Gone like the face that in the stream + Of Ocean for an instant shone, +When Venus at that mirror gave +A last look ere she left the wave. +And tho', among the crowded ways, +We oft are startled by the blaze + Of eyes that pass with fitful light. +Like fire-flies on the wing at night[8] +'Tis not that nobler beauty given +To show how angels look in heaven. +Even in its shape most pure and fair, +'Tis Beauty with but half her zone, +All that can warm the sense is there, + But the Soul's deeper charm has flown:-- +'Tis RAPHAEL's Fornarina,--warm, + Luxuriant, arch, but unrefined; +A flower round which the noontide swarm + Of young Desires may buzz and wind, +But where true Love no treasure meets +Worth hoarding in his hive of sweets. + +Ah no,--for this and for the hue + Upon the rounded cheek, which tells +How fresh within the heart this dew + Of love's unrifled sweetness dwells, +We must go back to our own Isles, + Where Modesty, which here but gives +A rare and transient grace to smiles, + In the heart's holy centre lives; +And thence as from her throne diffuses + O'er thoughts and looks so bland a reign, +That not a thought or feeling loses + Its freshness in that gentle chain. + + +[1] In the Tribune at Florence. + +[2] In the Palazzo Pitti. + +[3] Alludes particularly to the portrait of her in the Sciarra collection +at Rome, where the look of mournful reproach in those full, shadowy eyes, +as if she had been unjustly accused of something wrong, is exquisite. + +[4] The fine picture in the Palazzo Borghese, called (it is not easy to +say why) "Sacred and Profane Love," in which the two figures, sitting on +the edge of the fountain, are evidently portraits of the same person. + +[5] This fanciful allegory is the subject of a picture by Titian in the +possession of the Marquis Cambian at Turin, whose collection, though +small, contains some beautiful specimens of all the great masters. + +[6] As Paul Veronese gave but little into the _beau idéal_, his women +may be regarded as pretty close imitations of the living models which +Venice afforded in his time. + +[7] The Marriage of Cana. + +[8] "Certain it is [as Arthur Young truly and feelingly says] one now and +then meets with terrible eyes in Italy." + + + + + + +EXTRACT IX. + +Venice. + + +_The English to be met with everywhere.--Alps and Threadneedle +Street.--The Simplon and the Stocks.--Rage for travelling.--Blue Stockings +among the Wahabees.--Parasols and Pyramids.--Mrs. Hopkins and the Wall of +China_. + + +And is there then no earthly place, + Where we can rest in dream Elysian, +Without some curst, round English face, + Popping up near to break the vision? +Mid northern lakes, mid southern vines, + Unholy cits we're doomed to meet; +Nor highest Alps nor Apennines + Are sacred from Threadneedle Street! + +If up the Simplon's path we wind, +Fancying we leave this world behind, +Such pleasant sounds salute one's ear +As--"Baddish news from 'Change, my dear-- +"The funds--(phew I curse this ugly hill)-- +"Are lowering fast--(what, higher still?)-- +"And--(zooks, we're mounting up to heaven!)-- +"Will soon be down to sixty-seven." + +Go where we may--rest where we will. +Eternal London haunts us still. +The trash of Almack's or Fleet Ditch-- +And scarce a pin's head difference _which_-- +Mixes, tho' even to Greece we run, +With every rill from Helicon! +And if this rage for travelling lasts, +If Cockneys of all sects and castes, +Old maidens, aldermen, and squires, +_Will_ leave their puddings and coal fires, +To gape at things in foreign lands +No soul among them understands; +If Blues desert their coteries, +To show off 'mong the Wahabees; +If neither sex nor age controls, + Nor fear of Mamelukes forbids +Young ladies with pink parasols + To glide among the Pyramids-- + +Why, then, farewell all hope to find +A spot that's free from London-kind! +Who knows, if to the West we roam, +But we may find some _Blue_ "at home" + Among the Blacks of Carolina-- +Or flying to the Eastward see +Some Mrs. HOPKINS taking tea + And toast upon the Wall of China! + + + + + + +EXTRACT X. + +Mantua. + + +_Verses of Hippolyta to her Husband_. + + +They tell me thou'rt the favored guest + Of every fair and brilliant throng; +No wit like thine to wake the jest, + No voice like thine to breathe the song. +And none could guess, so gay thou art, +That thou and I are far apart. +Alas, alas! how different flows, + With thee and me the time away! +Not that I wish thee sad, heaven knows-- + Still if thou canst, be light and gay; +I only know that without thee +The sun himself is dark for me. + +Do I put on the jewels rare +Thou'st always loved to see me wear? +Do I perfume the locks that thou +So oft hast braided o'er my brow, +Thus deckt thro' festive crowds to run, + And all the assembled world to see,-- +All but the one, the absent one, + Worth more than present worlds to me! +No, nothing cheers this widowed heart-- +My only joy from thee apart, +From thee thyself, is sitting hours + And days before thy pictured form-- +That dream of thee, which Raphael's powers + Have made with all but life-breath warm! +And as I smile to it, and say +The words I speak to thee in play, +I fancy from their silent frame, +Those eyes and lips give back the same: +And still I gaze, and still they keep +Smiling thus on me--till I weep! +Our little boy too knows it well, + For there I lead him every day +And teach his lisping lips to tell + The name of one that's far away. +Forgive me, love, but thus alone +My time is cheered while thou art gone. + + + + + + +EXTRACT XI. + +Florence. + + +No--'tis not the region where Love's to be found-- + They have bosoms that sigh, they have glances that rove, +They have language a Sappho's own lip might resound, + When she warbled her best--but they've nothing like Love. + +Nor is't that pure _sentiment_ only they want, + Which Heaven for the mild and the tranquil hath made-- +Calm, wedded affection, that home-rooted plant + Which sweetens seclusion and smiles in the shade; + +That feeling which, after long years have gone by, + Remains like a portrait we've sat for in youth, +Where, even tho' the flush of the colors may fly, + The features still live in their first smiling truth; + +That union where all that in Woman is kind, + With all that in Man most ennoblingly towers, +Grow wreathed into one--like the column, combined + Of the _strength_ of the shaft and the capital's _flowers_. + +Of this--bear ye witness, ye wives, everywhere, + By the ARNO, the PO, by all ITALY'S streams-- +Of this heart-wedded love, so delicious to share, + Not a husband hath even one glimpse in his dreams. + +But it _is_ not this only;--born full of the light + Of a sun from whose fount the luxuriant festoons +Of these beautiful valleys drink lustre so bright + That beside him our suns of the north are but moons,-- + +We might fancy at least, like their climate they burned; + And that Love tho' unused in this region of spring +To be thus to a tame Household Deity turned, + Would yet be all soul when abroad on the wing. + +And there _may_ be, there _are_ those explosions of heart + Which burst when the senses have first caught the flame; +Such fits of the blood as those climates impart, + Where Love is a sun-stroke that maddens the frame. + +But that Passion which springs in the depth of the soul; + Whose beginnings are virginly pure as the source +Of some small mountain rivulet destined to roll + As a torrent ere long, losing peace in its course-- + +A course to which Modesty's struggle but lends + A more headlong descent without chance of recall; +But which Modesty even to the last edge attends, + And then throws a halo of tears round its fall! + +This exquisite Passion--ay, exquisite, even + Mid the ruin its madness too often hath made, +As it keeps even then a bright trace of the heaven, + That heaven of Virtue from which it has strayed-- + +This entireness of love which can only be found, +Where Woman like something that's holy, watched over, +And fenced from her childhood with purity round, +Comes body and soul fresh as Spring to a lover! + +Where not an eye answers, where not a hand presses, +Till spirit with spirit in sympathy move; +And the Senses asleep in their sacred recesses +Can only be reached thro' the temple of Love!-- + +This perfection of Passion-how can it be found, +Where the mystery Nature hath hung round the tie +By which souls are together attracted and bound, +Is laid open for ever to heart, +ear and eye;-- + +Where naught of that innocent doubt can exist, +That ignorance even than knowledge more bright, +Which circles the young like the morn's sunny mist, +And curtains them round in their own native light;-- + +Where Experience leaves nothing for Love to reveal, +Or for Fancy in visions to gleam o'er the thought: +But the truths which alone we would die to conceal +From the maiden's young heart are the only ones taught. + +No, no, 'tis not here, howsoever we sigh, +Whether purely to Hymen's one planet we pray, +Or adore, like Sabaeans, each light of Love's sky, +Here is not the region to fix or to stray. + +For faithless in wedlock, in gallantry gross, +Without honor to guard, to reserve, to restrain, +What have they a husband can mourn as a loss? +What have they a lover can prize as a gain? + + + + + + +EXTRACT XII. + +Florence. + + +_Music in Italy.--Disappointed by it.--Recollections or other Times and +Friends.--Dalton.--Sir John Stevenson.--His Daughter.--Musical Evenings +together_. + + +If it be true that Music reigns, + Supreme, in ITALY'S soft shades, +'Tis like that Harmony so famous, +Among the spheres, which He of SAMOS +Declared had such transcendent merit +That not a soul on earth could hear it; +For, far as I have come--from Lakes, +Whose sleep the Tramontana breaks, +Thro' MILAN and that land which gave +The Hero of the rainbow vest[1]-- +By MINCIO'S banks, and by that wave, +Which made VERONA'S bard so blest-- +Places that (like the Attic shore, +Which rung back music when the sea +Struck on its marge) should be all o'er +Thrilling alive with melody-- +I've heard no music--not a note +Of such sweet native airs as float +In my own land among the throng +And speak our nation's soul for song. + +Nay, even in higher walks, where Art +Performs, as 'twere, the gardener's part, +And richer if not sweeter makes +The flowers she from the wild-hedge takes-- +Even there, no voice hath charmed my ear, + No taste hath won my perfect praise, +Like thine, dear friend[2]--long, truly dear-- + Thine, and thy loved OLIVIA'S lays. +She, always beautiful, and growing + Still more so every note she sings-- +Like an inspired young Sibyl,[3] glowing + With her own bright imaginings! +And thou, most worthy to be tied + In music to her, as in love, +Breathing that language by her side, + All other language far above, +Eloquent Song--whose tones and words +In every heart find answering chords! + +How happy once the hours we past, + Singing or listening all daylong, +Till Time itself seemed changed at last + To music, and we lived in song! +Turning the leaves of HAYDN o'er, + As quick beneath her master hand +They opened all their brilliant store, + Like chambers, touched by fairy wand; +Or o'er the page of MOZART bending, + Now by his airy warblings cheered, +Now in his mournful _Requiem_ blending + Voices thro' which the heart was heard. +And still, to lead our evening choir, +Was He invoked, thy loved-one's Sire[4]-- +He who if aught of grace there be + In the wild notes I write or sing, +First smoothed their links of harmony, + And lent them charms they did not bring;-- +He, of the gentlest, simplest heart, +With whom, employed in his sweet art, +(That art which gives this world of ours + A notion how they speak in heaven.) +I've past more bright and charmed hours + Than all earth's wisdom could have given. +Oh happy days, oh early friends, + How Life since then hath lost its flowers! +But yet--tho' Time _some_ foliage rends, + The stem, the Friendship, still is ours; +And long may it endure, as green +And fresh as it hath always been! + +How I have wandered from my theme! + But where is he, that could return +To such cold subjects from a dream, + Thro' which these best of feelings burn?-- +Not all the works of Science, Art, + Or Genius in this world are worth +One genuine sigh that from the heart + Friendship or Love draws freshly forth. + + +[1] Bermago--the birthplace, it is said, of Harlequin. + +[2] Edward Tuite Dalton, the first husband of Sir John Stevenson's +daughter, the late Marchioness of Headfort. + +[3] Such as those of Domenichino in the Palazza Borghese, at the +Capitol, etc. + +[4] Sir John Stevenson. + + + + + + +EXTRACT XIII. + +Rome. + + +_Reflections on reading Du Cerceau's Account of the Conspiracy of +Rienzi, in 1347.--The Meeting of the Conspirators on the Night of the 19th +of May.--Their Procession in the Morning to the Capitol.--Rienzi's +Speech_. + + +'Twas a proud moment--even to hear the words + Of Truth and Freedom mid these temples breathed, +And see once more the Forum shine with swords + In the Republic's sacred name unsheathed-- +That glimpse, that vision of a brighter day + For his dear ROME, must to a Roman be, +Short as it was, worth ages past away + In the dull lapse of hopeless slavery. + +'Twas on a night of May, beneath that moon +Which had thro' many an age seen Time untune +The strings of this Great Empire, till it fell +From his rude hands, a broken, silent shell-- +The sound of the church clock near ADRIAN'S Tomb +Summoned the warriors who had risen for ROME, +To meet unarmed,--with none to watch them there, +But God's own eye,--and pass the night in prayer. +Holy beginning of a holy cause, +When heroes girt for Freedom's combat pause +Before high Heaven, and humble in their might +Call down its blessing on that coming fight. + +At dawn, in arms went forth the patriot band; +And as the breeze, fresh from the TIBER, fanned +Their gilded gonfalons, all eyes could see + The palm-tree there, the sword, the keys of Heaven-- +Types of the justice, peace and liberty, + That were to bless them when their chains were riven. +On to the Capitol the pageant moved, + While many a Shade of other times, that still +Around that grave of grandeur sighing roved, + Hung o'er their footsteps up the Sacred Hill +And heard its mournful echoes as the last +High-minded heirs of the Republic past. +'Twas then that thou, their Tribune,[1] (name which brought +Dreams of lost glory to each patriot's thought,) +Didst, with a spirit Rome in vain shall seek +To wake up in her sons again, thus speak:-- +"ROMANS, look round you--on this sacred place + "There once stood shrines and gods and godlike men. +"What see you now? what solitary trace + "Is left of all that made ROME'S glory then? +"The shrines are sunk, the Sacred Mount bereft + "Even of its name--and nothing now remains +"But the deep memory of that glory, left + "To whet our pangs and aggravate our chains! +"But _shall_ this be?--our sun and sky the same,-- + "Treading the very soil our fathers trod,-- +"What withering curse hath fallen on soul and frame, + "What visitation hath there come from God +"To blast our strength and rot us into slaves, +"_Here_ on our great forefathers' glorious graves? +"It cannot be--rise up, ye Mighty Dead,-- + "If we, the living, are too weak to crush +"These tyrant priests that o'er your empire tread, + "Till all but Romans at Rome's tameness blush! + +"Happy, PALMYRA, in thy desert domes + "Where only date-trees sigh and serpents hiss; +"And thou whose pillars are but silent homes + "For the stork's brood, superb PERSEPOLIS! +"Thrice happy both, that your extinguisht race +"Have left no embers--no half-living trace-- +"No slaves to crawl around the once proud spot, +"Till past renown in present shame's forgot. +"While ROME, the Queen of all, whose very wrecks, + "If lone and lifeless thro' a desert hurled, +"Would wear more true magnificence than decks + "The assembled thrones of all the existing world-- +"ROME, ROME alone, is haunted, stained and curst, + "Thro' every spot her princely TIBER laves, +"By living human things--the deadliest, worst, + "This earth engenders--tyrants and their slaves! +"And we--oh shame!--we who have pondered o'er + "The patriot's lesson and the poet's lay;[2] +"Have mounted up the streams of ancient lore, + "Tracking our country's glories all the way-- +"Even _we_ have tamely, basely kist the ground + "Before that Papal Power,--that Ghost of Her, +"The World's Imperial Mistress--sitting crowned + "And ghastly on her mouldering sepulchre![3] +"But this is past:--too long have lordly priests + "And priestly lords led us, with all our pride +"Withering about us--like devoted beasts, + "Dragged to the shrine, with faded garlands tied. +"'Tis o'er--the dawn of our deliverance breaks! +"Up from his sleep of centuries awakes +"The Genius of the Old Republic, free +"As first he stood, in chainless majesty, +"And sends his voice thro' ages yet to come, +"Proclaiming ROME, ROME, ROME, Eternal ROME!" + + +[1] Rienzi. + +[2] The fine Canzone of Petrarch, beginning _"Spirto gentil,"_ is +supposed, by Voltaire and others, to have been addressed to Rienzi; but +there is much more evidence of its having been written, as Ginguené +asserts, to the young Stephen Colonna, on his being created a Senator of +Rome. + +[3] This image is borrowed from Hobbes, whose words are, as near as I can +recollect:--"For what is the Papacy, but the Ghost of the old Roman +Empire, sitting crowned on the grave thereof?" + + + + +EXTRACT XIV. + +Rome. + + +_Fragment of a Dream.--The great Painters supposed to be Magicians.--The +Beginnings of the Art.--Gildings on the Glories and Draperies.-- +Improvements under Giotto, etc.--The first Dawn of the true Style in +Masaccio.--Studied by all the great Artists who followed him.--Leonardo da +Vinci, with whom commenced the Golden Age of Painting.--His Knowledge of +Mathematics and of Music.--His female heads all like each other.-- +Triangular Faces.--Portraits of Mona Lisa, etc.--Picture of Vanity and +Modesty.--His_ chef-d'oeuvre, _the Last Supper.--Faded and almost +effaced_. + + +Filled with the wonders I had seen + In Rome's stupendous shrines and halls, +I felt the veil of sleep serene +Come o'er the memory of each scene, + As twilight o'er the landscape falls. +Nor was it slumber, sound and deep, + But such as suits a poet's rest-- +That sort of thin, transparent sleep, + Thro' which his day-dreams shine the best. +Methought upon a plain I stood, + Where certain wondrous men, 'twas said, +With strange, miraculous power endued, + Were coming each in turn to shed +His art's illusions o'er the sight +And call up miracles of light. +The sky above this lonely place, + Was of that cold, uncertain hue, +The canvas wears ere, warmed apace, + Its bright creation dawns to view. + +But soon a glimmer from the east + Proclaimed the first enchantments nigh;[1] +And as the feeble light increased, + Strange figures moved across the sky, +With golden glories deckt and streaks + Of gold among their garments' dyes;[2] +And life's resemblance tinged their cheeks, + But naught of life was in their eyes;-- +Like the fresh-painted Dead one meets, +Borne slow along Rome's mournful streets. + +But soon these figures past away; + And forms succeeded to their place +With less of gold in their array, + But shining with more natural grace, +And all could see the charming wands +Had past into more gifted hands. +Among these visions there was one,[3] +Surpassing fair, on which the sun, +That instant risen, a beam let fall, + Which thro' the dusky twilight trembled. +And reached at length the spot where all + Those great magicians stood assembled. +And as they turned their heads to view + The shining lustre, I could trace +The bright varieties it threw + On each uplifted studying face:[4] +While many a voice with loud acclaim +Called forth, "Masaccio" as the name +Of him, the Enchanter, who had raised +This miracle on which all gazed. + +'Twas daylight now--the sun had risen + From out the dungeon of old Night.-- +Like the Apostle from his prison + Led by the Angel's hand of light; +And--as the fetters, when that ray +Of glory reached them, dropt away.[5] +So fled the clouds at touch of day! +Just then a bearded sage came forth,[6] + Who oft in thoughtful dream would stand, +To trace upon the dusky earth + Strange learned figures with his wand; +And oft he took the silver lute + His little page behind him bore, +And waked such music as, when mute, + Left in the soul a thirst for more! + +Meanwhile his potent spells went on, + And forms and faces that from out +A depth of shadow mildly shone + Were in the soft air seen about. +Tho' thick as midnight stars they beamed, +Yet all like living sisters seemed, +So close in every point resembling + Each other's beauties--from the eyes +Lucid as if thro' crystal trembling, + Yet soft as if suffused with sighs, +To the long, fawn-like mouth, and chin, + Lovelily tapering, less and less, + Till by this very charm's excess, +Like virtue on the verge of sin, + It touched the bounds of ugliness. +Here lookt as when they lived the shades +Of some of Arno's dark-eyed maids-- +Such maids as should alone live on +In dreams thus when their charms are gone: +Some Mona Lisa on whose eyes + A painter for whole years might gaze,[7] +Nor find in all his pallet's dyes + One that could even approach their blaze! +Here float two spirit shapes,[8] the one, +With her white fingers to the sun +Outspread as if to ask his ray +Whether it e'er had chanced to play +On lilies half so fair as they! +This self-pleased nymph was Vanity-- +And by her side another smiled, + In form as beautiful as she, +But with that air subdued and mild, + That still reserve of purity, +Which is to beauty like the haze + Of evening to some sunny view, +Softening such charms as it displays + And veiling others in that hue, + Which fancy only can see thro'! +This phantom nymph, who could she be, +But the bright Spirit, Modesty? + +Long did the learned enchanter stay + To weave his spells and still there past, +As in the lantern's shifting play +Group after group in close array, + Each fairer, grander, than the last. +But the great triumph of his power + Was yet to come:--gradual and slow, +(As all that is ordained to tower + Among the works of man must grow,) +The sacred vision stole to view, + In that half light, half shadow shown, +Which gives to even the gayest hue + A sobered, melancholy tone. +It was a vision of that last,[9] +Sorrowful night which Jesus past +With his disciples when he said + Mournfully to them--"I shall be +"Betrayed by one who here hath fed + "This night at the same board with me." +And tho' the Saviour in the dream +Spoke not these words, we saw them beam +Legibly in his eyes (so well +The great magician workt his spell), +And read in every thoughtful line +Imprinted on that brow divine. + +The meek, the tender nature, grieved, +Not angered to be thus deceived-- +Celestial love requited ill +For all its care, yet loving still-- +Deep, deep regret that there should fall + From man's deceit so foul a blight +Upon that parting hour--and all + _His_ Spirit must have felt that night. +Who, soon to die for human-kind, + Thought only, mid his mortal pain, +How many a soul was left behind + For whom he died that death in vain! + +Such was the heavenly scene--alas! +That scene so bright so soon should pass +But pictured on the humid air, +Its tints, ere long, grew languid there;[10] +And storms came on, that, cold and rough, + Scattered its gentlest glories all-- +As when the baffling winds blow off + The hues that hang o'er Terni's fall,-- +Till one by one the vision's beams + Faded away and soon it fled. +To join those other vanisht dreams + That now flit palely 'mong the dead,-- +The shadows of those shades that go. +Around Oblivion's lake below! + + +[1] The paintings of those artists who were introduced into Venice and +Florence from Greece. + +[2] Margaritone of Orezzo, who was a pupil and imitator of the Greeks, is +said to have invented this art of gilding the ornaments of pictures, a +practice which, though it gave way to a purer taste at the beginning of +the 16th century, was still occasionally used by many of the great +masters: as by Raphael in the ornaments of the Fornarina, and by Rubens +not unfrequently in glories and flames. + +[3] The works of Masaccio.--For the character of this powerful and +original genius, see Sir Joshua Reynolds's twelfth discourse. His +celebrated frescoes are in the church of St. Pietro del Carmine, at +Florence. + +[4] All the great artists studies, and many of them borrowed from +Masaccio. Several figures in the Cartoons of Raphael are taken, with but +little alteration, from his frescoes. + +[5] "And a light shined in the prison ... and his chains fell off from his +hands."--_Acts_. + +[6] Leonardo da Vinci. + +[7] He is said to have been four years employed upon the portrait of this +fair Florentine, without being able, after all, to come up to his idea of +her beauty. + +[8] Vanity and Modesty in the collection of Cardinal Fesch, at Rome. The +composition of the four hands here is rather awkward, but the picture, +altogether, is very delightful. There is a repetition of the subject in +the possession of Lucien Bonaparte. + +[9] The Last Supper of Leonardo da Vinci, which is in the Refectory of the +Convent delle Grazie at Milan. + +[10] Leonardo appears to have used a mixture of oil and varnish for this +picture, which alone, without the various other causes of its ruin, would +have prevented any long duration of its beauties. It is now almost +entirely effaced. + + + + + + +EXTRACT XV. + +Rome. + + +_Mary Magdalen.--Her Story.--Numerous Pictures of her.--Correggio--Guido +--Raphael, etc.--Canova's two exquisite Statues.--The Somariva Magdalen. +--Chantrey's Admiration of Canova's Works_. + + +No wonder, MARY, that thy story + Touches all hearts--for there we see thee. +The soul's corruption and its glory, + Its death and life combine in thee. + +From the first moment when we find + Thy spirit haunted by a swarm +Of dark desires,--like demons shrined + Unholily in that fair form,-- +Till when by touch of Heaven set free, + Thou camest, with those bright locks of gold +(So oft the gaze of BETHANY), + And covering in their precious fold +Thy Saviour's feet didst shed such tears +As paid, each drop, the sins of years!-- +Thence on thro' all thy course of love + To Him, thy Heavenly Master,--Him +Whose bitter death-cup from above + Had yet this cordial round the brim, +That woman's faith and love stood fast +And fearless by Him to the last:-- +Till, oh! blest boon for truth like thine! + Thou wert of all the chosen one, +Before whose eyes that Face Divine + When risen from the dead first shone; +That thou might'st see how, like a cloud, +Had past away its mortal shroud, +And make that bright revealment known +To hearts less trusting than thy own. +All is affecting, cheering, grand; + The kindliest record ever given, +Even under God's own kindly hand, + Of what repentance wins from Heaven! + +No wonder, MARY, that thy face, + In all its touching light of tears, +Should meet us in each holy place, + Where Man before his God appears, +Hopeless--were he not taught to see +All hope in Him who pardoned thee! +No wonder that the painter's skill + Should oft have triumpht in the power +Of keeping thee all lovely still + Even in thy sorrow's bitterest hour; +That soft CORREGGIO should diffuse + His melting shadows round thy form; +That GUIDO'S pale, unearthly hues + Should in portraying thee grow warm; +That all--from the ideal, grand, +Inimitable Roman hand, +Down to the small, enameling touch + Of smooth CARLINO--should delight +In picturing her, "who loved so much," + And was, in spite of sin, so bright! + + But MARY, 'mong these bold essays +Of Genius and of Art to raise +A semblance of those weeping eyes-- + A vision worthy of the sphere +Thy faith has earned thee in the skies, + And in the hearts of all men here,-- +None e'er hath matched, in grief or grace, +CANOVA'S day-dream of thy face, +In those bright sculptured forms, more bright +With true expression's breathing light, +Than ever yet beneath the stroke +Of chisel into life awoke. +The one,[1] portraying what thou wert + In thy first grief,--while yet the flower +Of those young beauties was unhurt + By sorrow's slow, consuming power; +And mingling earth's seductive grace + With heaven's subliming thoughts so well, +We doubt, while gazing, in _which_ place + Such beauty was most formed to dwell!-- +The other, as thou look'dst, when years +Of fasting, penitence and tears +Had worn thy frame;--and ne'er did Art + With half such speaking power express +The ruin which a breaking heart + Spreads by degrees o'er loveliness. +Those wasting arms, that keep the trace, +Even still, of all their youthful grace, +That loosened hair of which thy brow +Was once so proud,--neglected now!-- +Those features even in fading worth + The freshest bloom to others given, +And those sunk eyes now lost to earth + But to the last still full of heaven! + +Wonderful artist! praise, like mine-- + Tho' springing from a soul that feels +Deep worship of those works divine + Where Genius all his light reveals-- +How weak 'tis to the words that came +From him, thy peer in art and fame,[2] +Whom I have known, by day, by night, +Hang o'er thy marble with delight; +And while his lingering hand would steal + O'er every grace the taper's rays[3] +Give thee with all the generous zeal +Such master spirits only feel, + That best of fame, a rival's prize! + + +[1] This statue is one of the last works of Canova, and was not yet in +marble when I left Rome. The other, which seems to prove, in contradiction +to very high authority, that expression of the intensest kind is fully +within the sphere of sculpture, was executed many years ago, and is in the +possession of the Count Somariva at Paris. + +[2] Chantrey. + +[3] Canova always shows his fine statue, the Venere Vincitrice, by the +light of a small candle. + + + + + + +EXTRACT XVI. + +Les Charmettes. + + +_A Visit to the house where Rousseau lived with Madame de Warrens.-- +Their Menage.--Its Grossness.--Claude Anet.--Reverence with which the spot +is now visited.--Absurdity of this blind Devotion to Fame.--Feelings +excited by the Beauty and Seclusion of the Scene. Disturbed by its +Associations with Rousseau's History.--Impostures of Men of Genius.--Their +Power of mimicking all the best Feelings, Love, Independence, etc_. + + +Strange power of Genius, that can throw +Round all that's vicious, weak, and low, +Such magic lights, such rainbows dyes +As dazzle even the steadiest eyes. + + * * * * * + +'Tis worse than weak--'tis wrong, 'tis shame, +This mean prostration before Fame; +This casting down beneath the car +Of Idols, whatsoe'er they are, +Life's purest, holiest decencies, +To be careered o'er as they please. +No--give triumphant Genius all +For which his loftiest wish can call: +If he be worshipt, let it be + For attributes, his noblest, first; +Not with that base idolatry + Which sanctifies his last and worst. + + I may be cold;--may want that glow +Of high romance which bards should know; +That holy homage which is felt +In treading where the great have dwelt; +This reverence, whatsoe'er it be, + I fear, I feel, I have it _not_:-- +For here at this still hour, to me + The charms of this delightful spot, +Its calm seclusion from the throng, + From all the heart would fain forget, +This narrow valley and the song + Of its small murmuring rivulet, +The flitting to and fro of birds, +Tranquil and tame as they were once +In Eden ere the startling words + Of man disturbed their orisons, +Those little, shadowy paths that wind +Up the hillside, with fruit-trees lined +And lighted only by the breaks +The gay wind in the foliage makes, +Or vistas here and there that ope + Thro' weeping willows, like the snatches +Of far-off scenes of light, which Hope + Even tho' the shade of sadness catches!-- +All this, which--could I once but lose + The memory of those vulgar ties +Whose grossness all the heavenliest hues + Of Genius can no more disguise +Than the sun's beams can do away +The filth of fens o'er which they play-- +This scene which would have filled my heart + With thoughts of all that happiest is;-- +Of Love where self hath only part, + As echoing back another's bliss; +Of solitude secure and sweet. +Beneath whose shade the Virtues meet. +Which while it shelters never chills + Our sympathies with human woe, +But keeps them like sequestered rills +Purer and fresher in their flow; +Of happy days that share their beams + 'Twixt quiet mirth and wise employ; +Of tranquil nights that give in dreams + The moonlight of the morning's joy!-- +All this my heart could dwell on here, +But for those gross mementoes near; +Those sullying truths that cross the track +Of each sweet thought and drive them back +Full into all the mire and strife +And vanities of that man's life, +Who more than all that e'er have glowed + With fancy's flame (and it was _his_, +In fullest warmth and radiance) showed + What an impostor Genius is; +How with that strong, mimetic art + Which forms its life and soul, it takes +All shapes of thought, all hues of heart, + Nor feels itself one throb it wakes; +How like a gem its light may smile + O'er the dark path by mortals trod, +Itself as mean a worm the while + As crawls at midnight o'er the sod; +What gentle words and thoughts may fall + From its false lip, what zeal to bless, +While home, friends, kindred, country, all, + Lie waste beneath its selfishness; +How with the pencil hardly dry + From coloring up such scenes of love +And beauty as make young hearts sigh + And dream and think thro' heaven they rove, +They who can thus describe and move, + The very workers of these charms, +Nor seek nor know a joy above + Some Maman's or Theresa's arms! + +How all in short that makes the boast +Of their false tongues they want the most; +And while with freedom on their lips, + Sounding their timbrels, to set free +This bright world, laboring in the eclipse + Of priestcraft and of slavery,-- +They may themselves be slaves as low + As ever Lord or Patron made +To blossom in his smile or grow + Like stunted brushwood in his shade. +Out on the craft!--I'd rather be + One of those hinds that round me tread, +With just enough of sense to see + The noonday sun that's o'er his head, +Than thus with high-built genius curst, + That hath no heart for its foundation, +Be all at once that's brightest, worst, + Sublimest, meanest in creation! + + + + + + + + +CORRUPTION, + +AND + +INTOLERANCE. + +TWO POEMS. + +ADDRESSED TO AN ENGLISHMAN BY AN IRISHMAN. + + + + +PREFACE. + + +The practice which has been lately introduced into literature, of writing +very long notes upon very indifferent verses, appears to me a rather happy +invention, as it supplies us with a mode of turning dull poetry to +account; and as horses too heavy for the saddle may yet serve well enough +to draw lumber, so Poems of this kind make excellent beasts of burden and +will bear notes though they may not bear reading. Besides, the comments in +such cases are so little under the necessity of paying any servile +deference to the text, that they may even adopt that Socratic, "_quod +supra nos nihil ad nos."_ + +In the first of the two following Poems, I have ventured to speak of the +Revolution of 1688, in language which has sometimes been employed by Tory +writers and which is therefore neither very new nor popular. But however +an Englishman might be reproached with ingratitude for depreciating the +merits and results of a measure which he is taught to regard as the source +of his liberties--however ungrateful it might appear in Alderman Birch to +question for a moment the purity of that glorious era to which he is +indebted for the seasoning of so many orations--yet an Irishman who has +none of these obligations to acknowledge, to whose country the Revolution +brought nothing but injury and insult, and who recollects that the book of +Molyneux was burned by order of William's Whig Parliament for daring to +extend to unfortunate Ireland those principles on which the Revolution was +professedly founded--an Irishman _may_ be allowed to criticise freely the +measures of that period without exposing himself either to the imputation +of ingratitude or to the suspicion of being influenced by any Popish +remains of Jacobitism. No nation, it is true, was ever blessed with a more +golden opportunity of establishing and securing its liberties for ever +than the conjuncture of Eighty-eight presented to the people of Great +Britain. But the disgraceful reigns of Charles and James had weakened and +degraded the national character. The bold notions of popular right which +had arisen out of the struggles between Charles the First and his +Parliament were gradually supplanted by those slavish doctrines for which +Lord Hawkesbury eulogizes the churchmen of that period, and as the +Reformation had happened too soon for the purity of religion, so the +Revolution came too late for the spirit of liberty. Its advantages +accordingly were for the most part specious and transitory, while the +evils which it entailed are still felt and still increasing. By rendering +unnecessary the frequent exercise of Prerogative,--that unwieldy power +which cannot move a step without alarm,--it diminished the only +interference of the Crown, which is singly and independently exposed +before the people, and whose abuses therefore are obvious to their senses +and capabilities. Like the myrtle over a celebrated statue in Minerva's +temple at Athens, it skilfully veiled from the public eye the only +obtrusive feature of royalty. At the same time, however, that the +Revolution abridged this unpopular attribute, it amply compensated by the +substitution of a new power, as much more potent in its effect as it is +more secret in its operations. In the disposal of an immense revenue and +the extensive patronage annexed to it, the first foundations of this power +of the Crown were laid; the innovation of a standing army at once +increased and strengthened it, and the few slight barriers which the Act +of Settlement opposed to its progress have all been gradually removed +during the Whiggish reigns that succeeded; till at length this spirit of +influence has become the vital principle of the state,--an agency, subtle +and unseen, which pervades every part of the Constitution, lurks under all +its forms and regulates all its movements, and, like the invisible sylph +or grace which presides over the motions of beauty, + + "_illam, quicquid agit, quoquo westigia flectit, + componit furlim subsequiturque."_ + +The cause of Liberty and the Revolution are so habitually associated in +the minds of Englishmen that probably in objecting to the latter I may be +thought hostile or indifferent to the former. But assuredly nothing could +be more unjust than such a suspicion. The very object indeed which my +humble animadversions would attain is that in the crisis to which I think +England is now hastening, and between which and foreign subjugation she +may soon be compelled to choose, the errors and omissions of 1688 should +be remedied; and, as it was then her fate to experience a Revolution +without Reform, so she may now endeavor to accomplish a Reform without +Revolution. + +In speaking of the parties which have so long agitated England, it will be +observed that I lean as little to the Whigs as to their adversaries. Both +factions have been equally cruel to Ireland and perhaps equally insincere +in their efforts for the liberties of England. There is one name indeed +connected with Whiggism, of which I can never think but with veneration +and tenderness. As justly, however, might the light of the sun be claimed +by any particular nation as the sanction of that name be monopolized by +any party whatsoever. Mr. Fox belonged to mankind and they have lost in +him their ablest friend. + +With respect to the few lines upon Intolerance, which I have subjoined, +they are but the imperfect beginning of a long series of Essays with which +I here menace my readers upon the same important subject. I shall look to +no higher merit in the task than that of giving a new form to claims and +remonstrances which have often been much more eloquently urged and which +would long ere now have produced their effect, but that the minds of some +of our statesmen, like the pupil of the human eye, contract themselves the +more, the stronger light is shed upon them. + + + + + + +CORRUPTION, + +AN EPISTLE. + + +Boast on, my friend--tho' stript of all beside, +Thy struggling nation still retains her pride: +That pride which once in genuine glory woke +When Marlborough fought and brilliant St. John spoke; +That pride which still, by time and shame unstung, +Outlives even Whitelocke's sword and Hawkesbury's tongue! +Boast on, my friend, while in this humbled isle[1] +Where Honor mourns and Freedom fears to smile, +Where the bright light of England's fame is known +But by the shadow o'er our fortunes thrown; +Where, doomed ourselves to naught but wrongs and slights,[2] +We hear you boast of Britain's glorious rights, +As wretched slaves that under hatches lie +Hear those on deck extol the sun and sky! +Boast on, while wandering thro' my native haunts, +I coldly listen to thy patriot vaunts; +And feel, tho' close our wedded countries twine, +More sorrow for my own than pride from thine. + + Yet pause a moment--and if truths severe +Can find an inlet to that courtly ear, +Which hears no news but Ward's gazetted lies, +And loves no politics in rhyme but Pye's,-- +If aught can please thee but the good old saws +Of "Church and State," and "William's matchless laws," +And "Acts and Rights of glorious Eighty-eight,"-- +Things which tho' now a century out of date +Still serve to ballast with convenient words, +A few crank arguments for speeching lords,-- +Turn while I tell how England's freedom found, +Where most she lookt for life, her deadliest wound; +How brave she struggled while her foe was seen, +How faint since Influence lent that foe a screen; +How strong o'er James and Popery she prevailed, +How weakly fell when Whigs and gold assailed. + + While kings were poor and all those schemes unknown +Which drain the people to enrich the throne; +Ere yet a yielding Commons had supplied +Those chains of gold by which themselves are tied, +Then proud Prerogative, untaught to creep +With bribery's silent foot on Freedom's sleep, +Frankly avowed his bold enslaving plan +And claimed a right from God to trample man! +But Luther's schism had too much roused mankind +For Hampden's truths to linger long behind; +Nor then, when king-like popes had fallen so low, +Could pope-like kings escape the levelling blow.[3] +That ponderous sceptre (in whose place we bow +To the light talisman of influence now), +Too gross, too visible to work the spell +Which modern power performs, in fragments fell: +In fragments lay, till, patched and painted o'er +With fleurs-de-lis, it shone and scourged once more. + + 'Twas then, my friend, thy kneeling nation quaft +Long, long and deep, the churchman's opiate draught +Of passive, prone obedience--then took flight +All sense of man's true dignity and right; +And Britons slept so sluggish in their chain +That Freedom's watch-voice called almost in vain. +Oh England! England! what a chance was thine, +When the last tyrant of that ill-starred line +Fled from his sullied crown and left thee free +To found thy own eternal liberty! +How nobly high in that propitious hour +Might patriot hands have raised the triple tower[4] +Of British freedom on a rock divine +Which neither force could storm nor treachery mine! +But no--the luminous, the lofty plan, +Like mighty Babel, seemed too bold for man; +The curse of jarring tongues again was given +To thwart a work which raised men nearer heaven. +While Tories marred what Whigs had scarce begun, +While Whigs undid what Whigs themselves had done. +The hour was lost and William with a smile +Saw Freedom weeping o'er the unfinisht pile! + + Hence all the ills you suffer,--hence remain +Such galling fragments of that feudal chain[5] +Whose links, around you by the Norman flung, +Tho' loosed and broke so often, still have clung. +Hence sly Prerogative like Jove of old +Has turned his thunder into showers of gold, +Whose silent courtship wins securer joys, +Taints by degrees, and ruins without noise. +While parliaments, no more those sacred things +Which make and rule the destiny of kings. +Like loaded dice by ministers are thrown, +And each new set of sharpers cog their own. +Hence the rich oil that from the Treasury steals +Drips smooth o'er all the Constitution's wheels, +Giving the old machine such pliant play[6] +That Court and Commons jog one joltless way, +While Wisdom trembles for the crazy car, +So gilt, so rotten, carrying fools so far; +And the duped people, hourly doomed to pay +The sums that bribe their liberties away,[7]-- +Like a young eagle who has lent his plume +To fledge the shaft by which he meets his doom,-- +See their own feathers pluckt, to wing the dart +Which rank corruption destines for their heart! +But soft! methinks I hear thee proudly say, +"What! shall I listen to the impious lay +"That dares with Tory license to profane +"The bright bequests of William's glorious reign? +"Shall the great wisdom of our patriot sires, +"Whom Hawkesbury quotes and savory Birch admires, +"Be slandered thus? shall honest Steele agree +"With virtuous Rose to call us pure and free, +"Yet fail to prove it? Shall our patent pair +"Of wise state-poets waste their words in air, +"And Pye unheeded breathe his prosperous strain, +"And Canning _take the people's sense_ in vain?" + + The people!--ah! that Freedom's form should stay +Where Freedom's spirit long hath past away! +That a false smile should play around the dead +And flush the features when the soul hath fled![8] +When Rome had lost her virtue with her rights, +When her foul tyrant sat on Capreae's heights,[9] +Amid his ruffian spies and doomed to death +Each noble name they blasted with their breath,-- +Even then, (in mockery of that golden time, +When the Republic rose revered, sublime, +And her proud sons, diffused from zone to zone, +Gave kings to every nation but their own,) +Even then the senate and the tribunes stood, +Insulting marks, to show how high the flood +Of Freedom flowed, in glory's bygone day, +And how it ebbed,--for ever ebbed away![10] + + Look but around--tho' yet a tyrant's sword +Nor haunts our sleep nor glitters o'er our board, +Tho' blood be better drawn, by modern quacks, +With Treasury leeches than with sword or axe; +Yet say, could even a prostrate tribune's power +Or a mock senate in Rome's servile hour +Insult so much the claims, the rights of man, +As doth that fettered mob, that free divan, +Of noble tools and honorable knaves, +Of pensioned patriots and privileged slaves;-- +That party-colored mass which naught can warm +But rank corruption's heat--whose quickened swarm +Spread their light wings in Bribery's golden sky, +Buzz for a period, lay their eggs and die;-- +That greedy vampire which from Freedom's tomb +Comes forth with all the mimicry of bloom +Upon its lifeless cheek and sucks and drains +A people's blood to feel its putrid veins! + + Thou start'st, my friend, at picture drawn so dark-- +"Is there no light?"--thou ask'st--"no lingering spark +"Of ancient fire to warm us? Lives there none, +"To act a Marvell's part?"[11]--alas! not one. +_To_ place and power all public spirit tends, +_In_ place and power all public spirit ends; +Like hardy plants that love the air and sky, +When _out_, 'twill thrive--but taken _in_, 'twill die! + + Not bolder truths of sacred Freedom hung +From Sidney's pen or burned on Fox's tongue, +Than upstart Whigs produce each market-night, +While yet their conscience, as their purse, is light; +While debts at home excite their care for those +Which, dire to tell, their much-loved country owes, +And loud and upright, till their prize be known, +They thwart the King's supplies to raise their own. +But bees on flowers alighting cease their hum-- +So, settling upon places, Whigs grow dumb. +And, tho' most base is he who, 'neath the shade +Of Freedom's ensign plies corruption's trade, +And makes the sacred flag he dares to show +His passport to the market of her foe, +Yet, yet, I own, so venerably dear +Are Freedom's grave old anthems to my ear, +That I enjoy them, tho' by traitors sung, +And reverence Scripture even from Satan's tongue. +Nay, when the constitution has expired, +I'll have such men, like Irish wakers, hired +To chant old "_Habeas Corpus_" by its side, +And ask in purchased ditties why it died? + +See yon smooth lord whom nature's plastic pains +Would seem to've fashioned for those Eastern reigns +When eunuchs flourisht, and such nerveless things +As men rejected were the chosen of kings;--[12] +Even _he_, forsooth, (oh fraud, of all the worst!) +Dared to assume the patriot's name at first-- +Thus Pitt began, and thus begin his apes; +Thus devils when _first_ raised take pleasing shapes. +But oh, poor Ireland! if revenge be sweet +For centuries of wrong, for dark deceit +And withering insult--for the Union thrown +Into thy bitter cup when that alone +Of slavery's draught was wanting[13]--if for this +Revenge be sweet, thou _hast_ that daemon's bliss; +For sure 'tis more than hell's revenge to fee +That England trusts the men who've ruined thee:-- +That in these awful days when every hour +Creates some new or blasts some ancient power, +When proud Napoleon like the enchanted shield +Whose light compelled each wondering foe to yield, +With baleful lustre blinds the brave and free +And dazzles Europe into slavery,-- +That in this hour when patriot zeal should guide, +When Mind should rule and--Fox should _not_ have died, +All that devoted England can oppose +To enemies made fiends and friends made foes, +Is the rank refuse, the despised remains +Of that unpitying power, whose whips and chains +Drove Ireland first to turn with harlot glance +Towards other shores and woo the embrace of France;-- +Those hacked and tainted tools, so foully fit +For the grand artisan of mischief, Pitt, +So useless ever but in vile employ, +So weak to save, so vigorous to destroy-- +Such are the men that guard thy threatened shore, +Oh England! sinking England! boast no more. + + +[1] England began very early to feel the effects of cruelty towards her +dependencies. "The severity of her government [says Macpherson] +contributed more to deprive her of the continental dominions of the family +of the Plantagenet than the arms of France."--See his _History_, vol. +i. + +[2] "By the total reduction of the kingdom of Ireland in 1691[says +Burke], the ruin of the native Irish, and in a great measure, too, of the +first races of the English, was completely accomplished. The new English +interested was settled with as solid a stability as anything in human +affairs can look for. All the penal laws of that unparalleled code of +oppression, which were made after the last event, were manifestly the +effects of national hatred and scorn towards a conquered people, whom the +victors delighted to trample upon, and were not at all afraid to provoke." +Yet this is the era to which the wise Common Council of Dublin refer us +for "invaluable blessings," etc. + +[3] The drivelling correspondence between James I and his "dog Steenie" +(the Duke of Buckingham), which we find among the Hardwicke Papers, +sufficiently shows, if we wanted any such illustration, into what doting, +idiotic brains the plan at arbitrary power may enter. + +[4] Tacitus has expressed his opinion, in a passage very frequently +quoted, that such a distribution of power as the theory of the British +constitution exhibits is merely a subject of bright speculation, "a system +more easily praised than practised, and which, even could it happen to +exist, would certainly not prove permanent;" and, in truth, a review of +England's annals would dispose us to agree with the great historian's +remark. For we find that at no period whatever has this balance of the +three estates existed; that the nobles predominated till the policy of +Henry VII, and his successor reduced their weight by breaking up the +feudal system of property; that the power of the Crown became then supreme +and absolute, till the bold encroachments of the Commons subverted the +fabric altogether; that the alternate ascendency of prerogative and +privilege distracted the period which followed the Restoration; and that +lastly, the Acts of 1688, by laying the foundation of an unbounded court- +influence, have secured a preponderance to the Throne, which every +succeeding year increases. So that the vaunted British constitution has +never perhaps existed but in mere theory. + +[5] The last great wound given to the feudal system was the Act of the +12th of Charles II, which abolished the tenure of knight's service _in +capite_, and which Blackstone compares, for its salutary influence upon +property, to the boasted provisions of Magna Charta itself. Yet even in +this act we see the effects of that counteracting spirit which has +contrived to weaken every effort of the English nation towards liberty. + +[6] "They drove so fast [says Wellwood of the ministers of Charles I.], +that it was no wonder that the wheels and chariot broke."--(_Memoirs_ +p. 86.) + +[7] Among those auxiliaries which the Revolution of 1688 marshalled on the +side of the Throne, the bugbear of Popery has not been the least +convenient and serviceable. Those unskilful tyrants, Charles and James, +instead of profiting by that useful subserviency which has always +distinguished the ministers of our religious establishment, were so +infatuated as to plan the ruin of this best bulwark of their power and +moreover connected their designs upon the Church so undisguisedly with +their attacks upon the Constitution that they identified in the minds of +the people the interests of their religion and their liberties. During +those times therefore "No Popery" was the watchword of freedom and served +to keep the public spirit awake against the invasions of bigotry and +prerogative. + +[8] "It is a scandal [said Sir Charles Sedley in William's reign] that a +government so sick at heart as ours is should look so well in the face." + +[9] The senate still continued, during the reign of Tiberius, to manage +all the business of the public: the money was then and long after coined +by their authority, and every other public affair received their sanction. + +[10] There is something very touching in what Tacitus tells us of the +hopes that revived in a few patriot bosoms, when the death of Augustus was +near approaching, and the fond expectation with which they already began +"_bona libertatis incassum disserere_." + +[11] Andrew Marvell, the honest opposer of the court during the reign of +Charles the Second, and the last member of parliament who, according to +the ancient mode, took wages from his constituents. The Commons have, +since then, much changed their pay-masters. + +[12] According to Xenophon, the chief circumstance which recommended these +creatures to the service of Eastern princes was the ignominious station +they held in society, and the probability of their being, upon this +account, more devoted to the will and caprice of a master, from whose +notice alone they derived consideration, and in whose favor they might +seek refuge from the general contempt of mankind. + +[13] Among the many measures, which, since the Revolution, have +contributed to increase the influence of the Throne, and to feed up this +"Aaron's serpent" of the constitution to its present healthy and +respectable magnitude, there have been few more nutritive than the Scotch +and Irish Unions. + + + + + + +INTOLERANCE, + +A SATIRE. + + + "This clamor which pretends to be raised for the safety of religion + has almost worn put the very appearance of it, and rendered us not + only the most divided but the most immoral people upon the face of the + earth." + + ADDISON, _Freeholder_, No. 37. + + +Start not, my friend, nor think the Muse will stain +Her classic fingers with the dust profane +Of Bulls, Decrees and all those thundering scrolls +Which took such freedom once with royal souls,[1] +When heaven was yet the pope's exclusive trade, +And kings were _damned_ as fast as now they're _made_, +No, no--let Duigenan search the papal chair +For fragrant treasures long forgotten there; +And, as the witch of sunless Lapland thinks +That little swarthy gnomes delight in stinks, +Let sallow Perceval snuff up the gale +Which wizard Duigenan's gathered sweets exhale. +Enough for me whose heart has learned to scorn +Bigots alike in Rome or England born, +Who loathe the venom whence-soe'er it springs, +From popes or lawyers,[2] pastrycooks or kings,-- +Enough for me to laugh and weep by turns, +As mirth provokes or indignation burns, +As Canning Vapors or as France succeeds, +As Hawkesbury proses, or as Ireland bleeds! + + And thou, my friend, if, in these headlong days, +When bigot Zeal her drunken antics plays +So near a precipice, that men the while +Look breathless on and shudder while they smile-- +If in such fearful days thou'lt dare to look +To hapless Ireland, to this rankling nook +Which Heaven hath freed from poisonous things in vain, +While Gifford's tongue and Musgrave's pen remain-- +If thou hast yet no golden blinkers got +To shade thine eyes from this devoted spot, +Whose wrongs tho' blazoned o'er the world they be, +Placemen alone are privileged _not_ to see-- +Oh! turn awhile, and tho' the shamrock wreathes +My homely harp, yet shall the song it breathes +Of Ireland's slavery and of Ireland's woes +Live when the memory of her tyrant foes +Shall but exist, all future knaves to warn, +Embalmed in hate and canonized by scorn. +When Castlereagh in sleep still more profound +Than his own opiate tongue now deals around, +Shall wait the impeachment of that awful day +Which even _his_ practised hand can't bribe away. + + Yes, my dear friend, wert thou but near me now, +To see how Spring lights up on Erin's brow +Smiles that shine out unconquerably fair +Even thro' the blood-marks left by Camden there,--[3] +Couldst thou but see what verdure paints the sod +Which none but tyrants and their slaves have trod, +And didst thou know the spirit, kind and brave, +That warms the soul of each insulted slave, +Who tired with struggling sinks beneath his lot +And seems by all but watchful France forgot--[4] +Thy heart would burn--yes, even thy Pittite heart +Would burn to think that such a blooming part +Of the world's garden, rich in nature's charms +And filled with social souls and vigorous arms, +Should be the victim of that canting crew, +So smooth, so godly,--yet so devilish too; +Who, armed at once with prayer-books and with whips, +Blood on their hands and Scripture on their lips, +Tyrants by creed and tortures by text, +Make _this_ life hell in honor of the _next_! +Your Redesdales, Percevals,--great, glorious Heaven, +If I'm presumptuous, be my tongue forgiven, +When here I swear by my soul's hope of rest, +I'd rather have been born ere man was blest +With the pure dawn of Revelation's light, +Yes,--rather plunge me back in Pagan night, +And take my chance with Socrates for bliss,[5] +Than be the Christian of a faith like this, +Which builds on heavenly cant its earthly sway +And in a convert mourns to lose a prey; +Which, grasping human hearts with double hold,-- +Like Danäe's lover mixing god and gold,[6]-- +Corrupts both state and church and makes an oath +The knave and atheist's passport into both; +Which, while it dooms dissenting souls to know +Nor bliss above nor liberty below, +Adds the slave's suffering to the sinner's fear, +And lest he 'scape hereafter racks him here! +But no--far other faith, far milder beams +Of heavenly justice warm the Christian's dreams; +_His_ creed is writ on Mercy's page above, +By the pure hands of all-atoning Love; +_He_ weeps to see abused Religion twine +Round Tyranny's coarse brow her wreath divine; +And _he_, while round him sects and nations raise +To the one God their varying notes of praise, +Blesses each voice, whate'er its tone may be, +That serves to swell the general harmony.[7] + + Such was the spirit, gently, grandly bright, +That filled, oh Fox! thy peaceful soul with light; +While free and spacious as that ambient air +Which folds our planet in its circling care, +The mighty sphere of thy transparent mind +Embraced the world, and breathed for all mankind. +Last of the great, farewell!--yet _not_ the last-- +Tho' Britain's sunshine hour with thee be past, +Ierne still one ray of glory gives +And feels but half thy loss while Grattan lives. + + +[1] The king-deposing doctrine, notwithstanding its many mischievous +absurdities, was of no little service to the cause of political liberty, +by inculcating the right of resistance to tyrants and asserting the will +of the people to be the only true fountain of power. + +[2] When Innocent X. was entreated to decide the controversy between the +Jesuits and the Jansenists, he answered, that "he had been bred a lawyer, +and had therefore nothing to do with divinity." It were to be wished that +some of our English pettifoggers knew their own fit element as well as +Pope Innocent X. + +[3] Not the Camden who speaks thus of Ireland:--"To wind up all, whether +we regard the fruitfulness of the soil, the advantage of the sea, with so +many commodious havens, or the natives themselves, who are warlike, +ingenious, handsome, and well-complexioned, soft-skinned and very nimble, +by reason of the pliantness of their muscles, this Island is in many +respects so happy, that Giraldus might very well say, 'Nature had regarded +with more favorable eyes than ordinary this Kingdom of Zephyr.'" + +[4] The example of toleration, which Bonaparte has held forth, will, I +fear, produce no other effect than that of determining the British +government to persist, from the very spirit of opposition, in their own +old system of intolerance and injustice: just as the Siamese blacken their +teeth, "because," as they say, "the devil has white ones." + +[5] In a singular work, written by one Franciscus Collius, "upon the Souls +of the Pagans," the author discusses, with much coolness and erudition, +all the probable chances of salvation upon which a heathen philosopher +might calculate. Consigning to perdition without much difficulty Plato, +Socrates, etc., the only sage at whose fate he seems to hesitate is +Pythagoras, in consideration of his golden thigh, and the many miracles +which he performed. But having balanced a little his claims and finding +reason to father all these miracles on the devil, he at length, in the +twenty-fifth chapter, decides upon damning him also. + +[6] Mr. Fox, in his Speech on the Repeal of the Test Act (1790), thus +condemns the intermixture of religion with the political constitution of a +state:--"What purpose [he asks] can it serve, except the baleful purpose +of communicating and receiving contamination? Under such an alliance +corruption must alight upon the one, and slavery overwhelm the other." + +[7] Both Bayle and Locke would have treated the subject of Toleration in a +manner much more worthy of themselves and of the cause if they had written +in an age less distracted by religious prejudices. + + + + + + + + +THE SCEPTIC, + +A PHILOSOPHICAL SATIRE. + + + + +PREFACE. + + +The Sceptical Philosophy of the Ancients has been no less misrepresented +than the Epicurean. Pyrrho may perhaps have carried it to rather an +irrational excess;--but we must not believe with Beattie all the +absurdities imputed to this philosopher; and it appears to me that the +doctrines of the school, as explained by Sextus Empiricus, are far more +suited to the wants and infirmities of human reason as well as more +conducive to the mild virtues of humility and patience, than any of those +systems of philosophy which preceded the introduction of Christianity. The +Sceptics may be said to have held a middle path between the Dogmatists and +Academicians; the former of whom boasted that they had attained the truth +while the latter denied that any attainable truth existed. The Sceptics +however, without either asserting or denying its existence, professed to +be modestly and anxiously in search of it; or, as St. Augustine expresses +it, in his liberal tract against the Manichaeans, "_nemo nostrum dicat jam +se invenisse veritatem; sic eam quoeramus quasi ab utrisque nesciatur_." +From this habit of impartial investigation and the necessity which it +imposed upon them of studying not only every system of philosophy but +every art and science which professed to lay its basis in truth, they +necessarily took a wider range of erudition and were far more travelled in +the regions of philosophy than those whom conviction or bigotry had +domesticated in any particular system. It required all the learning of +dogmatism to overthrow the dogmatism of learning; and the Sceptics may be +said to resemble in this respect that ancient incendiary who stole from +the altar the fire with which he destroyed the temple. This advantage over +all the other sects is allowed to them even by Lipsius, whose treatise on +the miracles of the Virgo Hallensis will sufficiently save him from all +suspicion of scepticism. "_labore, ingenio, memoria_," he says, "_supra +omnes pene philosophos fuisse.--quid nonne omnia aliorum secta tenere +debuerunt et inquirere, si poterunt refellere? res dicit nonne orationes +varias, raras, subtiles inveniri ad tam receptas, claras, certas (ut +videbatur) sententias evertendas?" etc.--"Manuduct. ad Philosoph. Stoic." +Dissert_. 4. + +Between the scepticism of the ancients and the moderns the great +difference is that the former doubted for the purpose of investigating, as +may be exemplified by the third book of Aristotle's Metaphysics, while the +latter investigate for the purpose of doubting, as may be seen through +most of the philosophical works of Hume. Indeed the Pyrrhonism of latter +days is not only more subtle than that of antiquity, but, it must be +confessed, more dangerous in its tendency. The happiness of a Christian +depends so essentially upon his belief, that it is but natural he should +feel alarm at the progress of doubt, lest it should steal by degrees into +that region from which he is most interested in excluding it, and poison +at last the very spring of his consolation and hope. Still however the +abuses of doubting ought not to deter a philosophical mind from indulging +mildly and rationally in its use; and there is nothing surely more +consistent with the meek spirit of Christianity than that humble +scepticism which professes not to extend its distrust beyond the circle of +human pursuits and the pretensions of human knowledge. A follower of this +school may be among the readiest to admit the claims of a superintending +Intelligence upon his faith and adoration: it is only to the wisdom of +this weak world that he refuses or at least delays his assent;--it is only +in passing through the shadow of earth that his mind undergoes the eclipse +of scepticism. No follower of Pyrrho has ever spoken more strongly against +the dogmatists than St. Paul himself, in the First Epistle to the +Corinthians; and there are passages in Ecclesiastes and other parts of +Scripture, which justify our utmost diffidence in all that human reason +originates. Even the Sceptics of antiquity refrained carefully from the +mysteries of theology, and in entering the temples of religion laid aside +their philosophy at the porch. Sextus Empiricus declares the acquiescence +of his sect in the general belief of a divine and foreknowing Power:--In +short it appears to me that this rational and well-regulated scepticism is +the only daughter of the Schools that can safely be selected as a handmaid +for Piety. He who distrusts the light of reason will be the first to +follow a more luminous guide; and if with an ardent love for truth he has +sought her in vain through the ways of this life, he will but turn with +the more hope to that better world where all is simple, true and +everlasting: for there is no parallax at the zenith;--it is only near our +troubled horizon that objects deceive us into vague and erroneous +calculations. + + + + + + +THE SCEPTIC + + +As the gay tint that decks the vernal rose[1] +Not in the flower but in our vision glows; +As the ripe flavor of Falernian tides +Not in the wine but in our taste resides; +So when with heartfelt tribute we declare +That Marco's honest and that Susan's fair, +'Tis in our minds and not in Susan's eyes +Or Marco's life the worth or beauty lies: +For she in flat-nosed China would appear +As plain a thing as Lady Anne is here; +And one light joke at rich Loretto's dome +Would rank good Marco with the damned at Rome. + + There's no deformity so vile, so base, +That 'tis not somewhere thought a charm, a grace; +No foul reproach that may not steal a beam +From other suns to bleach it to esteem. +Ask who is wise?--you'll find the self-same man +A sage in France, a madman in Japan; +And _here_ some head beneath a mitre swells, +Which _there_ had tingled to a cap and bells: +Nay, there may yet some monstrous region be, +Unknown to Cook and from Napoleon free, +Where Castlereagh would for a patriot pass +And mouthing Musgrave scarce be deemed an ass! + + "List not to reason (Epicurus cries), +"But trust the senses, _there_ conviction lies:"[2]-- +Alas! _they_ judge not by a purer light, +Nor keep their fountains more untinged and bright: +Habit so mars them that the Russian swain +Will sigh for train-oil while he sips Champagne; +And health so rules them, that a fever's heat +Would make even Sheridan think water sweet. + + Just as the mind the erring sense[3] believes, +The erring mind in turn the sense deceives; +And cold disgust can find but wrinkles there, +Where passion fancies all that's smooth and fair. +P * * * *, who sees, upon his pillow laid, +A face for which ten thousand pounds were paid, +Can tell how quick before a jury flies +The spell that mockt the warm seducer's eyes. + + Self is the medium thro' which Judgment's ray +Can seldom pass without being turned astray. +The smith of Ephesus[4] thought Dian's shrine, +By which his craft most throve, the most divine; +And even the _true_ faith seems not half so true, +When linkt with _one_ good living as with _two_. +Had Wolcot first been pensioned by the throne, +Kings would have suffered by his praise alone; +And Paine perhaps, for something snug _per ann_., +Had laught like Wellesley at all Rights of Man. + + But 'tis not only individual minds,-- +Whole nations too the same delusion blinds. +Thus England, hot from Denmark's smoking meads, +Turns up her eyes at Gallia's guilty deeds; +Thus, self-pleased still, the same dishonoring chain +She binds in Ireland she would break in Spain; +While praised at distance, but at home forbid, +Rebels in Cork are patriots at Madrid. + + If Grotius be thy guide, shut, shut the book,-- +In force alone for Laws of Nations look. +Let shipless Danes and whining Yankees dwell +On naval rights, with Grotius and Vattel. +While Cobbet's pirate code alone appears +Sound moral sense to England and Algiers. + + Woe to the Sceptic in these party days +Who wafts to neither shrine his puffs of praise! +For him no pension pours its annual fruits, +No fertile sinecure spontaneous shoots; +Not _his_ the meed that crowned Don Hookham's rhyme, +Nor sees he e'er in dreams of future time +Those shadowy forms of sleek reversions rise, +So dear to Scotchmen's second-sighted eyes. +Yet who that looks to History's damning leaf, +Where Whig and Tory, thief opposed to thief, +On either side in lofty shame are seen,[5] +While Freedom's form lies crucified between-- +Who, Burdett, who such rival rogues can see, +But flies from _both_ to Honesty and thee? + + If weary of the world's bewildering maze,[6] +Hopeless of finding thro' its weedy ways +One flower of truth, the busy crowd we shun, +And to the shades of tranquil learning run, +How many a doubt pursues! how oft we sigh +When histories charm to think that histories lie! +That all are grave romances, at the best, +And Musgrave's but more clumsy than the rest. +By Tory Hume's seductive page beguiled, +We fancy Charles was just and Strafford mild;[7] +And Fox himself with party pencil draws +Monmouth a hero, "for the good old cause!" + +Then rights are wrongs and victories are defeats, +As French or English pride the tale repeats; +And when they tell Corunna's story o'er, +They'll disagree in all but honoring Moore: +Nay, future pens to flatter future courts +May cite perhaps the Park-guns' gay reports, +To prove that England triumphs on the morn +Which found her Junot's jest and Europe's scorn. + + In science too--how many a system, raised +Like Neva's icy domes, awhile hath blazed +With lights of fancy and with forms of pride, +Then, melting, mingled with the oblivious tide! +_Now_ Earth usurps the centre of the sky, +_Now_ Newton puts the paltry planet by; +_Now_ whims revive beneath Descartes's[8] pen, +Which _now_, assailed by Locke's, expire again. +And when perhaps in pride of chemic powers, +We think the keys of Nature's kingdom ours, +Some Davy's magic touch the dream unsettles, +And turns at once our alkalis to metals. +Or should we roam in metaphysic maze +Thro' fair-built theories of former days, +Some Drummond from the north, more ably skilled, +Like other Goths, to ruin than to build, +Tramples triumphant thro' our fanes o'erthrown, +Nor leaves one grace, one glory of its own. + + Oh! Learning, whatsoe'er thy pomp and boast, +_Un_lettered minds have taught and charmed men most. +The rude, unread Columbus was our guide +To worlds, which learned Lactantius had denied; +And one wild Shakespeare following Nature's lights +Is worth whole planets filled with Stagyrites. + + See grave Theology, when once she strays +From Revelation's path, what tricks she plays; +What various heavens,--all fit for bards to sing,-- +Have churchmen dreamed, from Papias,[9] down to King![10] +While hell itself, in India naught but smoke[11] +In Spain's a furnace and in France--a joke. + + Hail! modest Ignorance, thou goal and prize, +Thou last, best knowledge of the simply wise! +Hail! humble Doubt, when error's waves are past, +How sweet to reach thy sheltered port at last, +And there by changing skies nor lured nor awed. +Smile at the battling winds that roar abroad. +_There_ gentle Charity who knows how frail +The bark of Virtue, even in summer's gale, +Sits by the nightly fire whose beacon glows +For all who wander, whether friends or foes. +_There_ Faith retires and keeps her white sail furled, +Till called to spread it for a better world; +While Patience watching on the weedy shore, +And mutely waiting till the storm be o'er, +Oft turns to Hope who still directs her eye +To some blue spot just breaking in the sky! + + Such are the mild, the blest associates given +To him who doubts,--and trusts in naught but Heaven! + + +[1] "The particular bulk, number, figure, and motion of the parts of fire +or snow are really in them, whether any one perceives them or not, and +therefore they may be called real qualities because they really exist in +those bodies; but light, heat, whiteness or coldness are no more really in +them than sickness or pain is in manna. Take away the sensation of them; +let not the eye see light or colors, nor the ears hear sounds; let the +palate not taste nor the nose smell, and all colors, tastes, odors and +sounds, as they are such particular ideas, vanish and +cease."--_Locke_, book ii. chap 8. + +[2] This was the creed also of those modern Epicureans, whom Ninon de +l'Enclos collected around her in the Rue des Tournelles, and whose object +seems to have been to decry the faculty of reason, as tending only to +embarrass our wholesome use of pleasures, without enabling us, in any +degree, to avoid their abuse. Madame des Houlières, the fair pupil of Des +Barreaux in the arts of poetry and gallantry, has devoted most of her +verses to this laudable purpose, and is even such a determined foe to +reason, that, in one of her pastorals, she congratulates her sheep on the +want of it. + +[3] Socrates and Plato were the grand sources of ancient scepticism. +According to Cicero ("_de Orator_," lib. iii.), they supplied Arcesilas +with the doctrines of the Middle Academy; and how closely these resembled +the tenets of the Sceptics, may be seen even in Sextus Empiricus (lib. i. +cap. 33), who with all his distinctions can scarcely prove any difference. +It appears strange that Epicurus should have been a dogmatist; and his +natural temper would most probably have led him to the repose of +scepticism had not the Stoics by their violent opposition to his doctrines +compelled him to be as obstinate as themselves. + +[4] _Acts_, chap. xix. "For a certain man named Demetrius, a silversmith, +which made silver shrines for Diana, brought no small gain unto the +craftsmen." + +[5] "Those two thieves," says Ralph,” between whom the nation is +crucified."--"_Use and Abuse of Parliaments_." + +[6] The agitation of the ship is one of the chief difficulties which +impede the discovery of the longitude at sea; and the tumult and hurry of +life are equally unfavorable to that calm level of mind which is necessary +to an inquirer after truth. + +[7] He defends Stafford's conduct as "innocent and even laudable." In the +same spirit, speaking of the arbitary sentences of the Star Chamber, he +says,--"The severity of the Star Chamber, which was generally ascribed to +Laud's passionate disposition, was perhaps in itself somewhat blamable." + +[8] Descartes, who is considered as the parent of modern scepticism, says, +that there is nothing in the whole range of philosophy which does not +admit of two opposite opinions, and which is not involved in doubt and +uncertainty. Gassendi is likewise to be added to the list of modern +Sceptics, and Wedderkopff, has denounced Erasmus also as a follower of +Pyrrho, for his opinions upon the Trinity, and some other subjects. To +these if we add the names of Bayle, Malebranche, Dryden, Locke, etc., I +think there is no one who need be ashamed of insulting in such company. + +[9] Papias lived about the time of the apostles, and is supposed to have +given birth to the heresy of the Chiliastae, whose heaven was by no means +of a spiritual nature, but rather an anticipation of the Prophet of Hera's +elysium. + +[10] King, in his "Morsels of Criticisms," vol. i., supposes the sun to be +the receptacle of blessed spirits. + +[11] The Indians call hell "the House of Smoke." + + + + + + + + +TWOPENNY POST-BAG, + +BY + +THOMAS BROWN, THE YOUNGER. + + + _elapsae manibus secidere tabellae_.--OVID. + + + + +DEDICATION. + +TO + +STEPHEN WOOLRICHE, ESQ. + + +MY DEAR WOOLRICHE,-- + +It is now about seven years since I promised (and I grieve to think it is +almost as long since we met) to dedicate to you the very first Book, of +whatever size or kind I should publish. Who could have thought that so +many years would elapse, without my giving the least signs of life upon +the subject of this important promise? Who could have imagined that a +volume of doggerel, after all, would be the first offering that Gratitude +would lay upon the shrine of Friendship? + +If you continue, however, to be as much interested about me and my +pursuits as formerly, you will be happy to hear that doggerel is not my +_only_ occupation; but that I am preparing to throw my name to the Swans +of the Temple of Immortality, leaving it of course to the said Swans to +determine whether they ever will take the trouble of picking it from the +stream. + +In the meantime, my dear Woolriche, like an orthodox Lutheran, you must +judge of me rather by my _faith_ than my _works_; and however trifling the +tribute which I here offer, never doubt the fidelity with which I am and +always shall be + +Your sincere and attached friend, + +THE AUTHOR. + +_March 4, 1813_. + + + + +PREFACE. + + +The Bag, from which the following Letters are selected, was dropped by a +Twopenny Postman about two months since, and picked up by an emissary of +the Society for the Suppression of Vice, who supposing it might materially +assist the private researches of that Institution, immediately took it to +his employers and was rewarded handsomely for his trouble. Such a treasury +of secrets was worth a whole host of informers; and, accordingly, like the +Cupids of the poet (if I may use so profane a simile) who "fell at odds +about the sweet-bag of a bee,"[1] those venerable Suppressors almost +fought with each other for the honor and delight of first ransacking the +Post-Bag. Unluckily, however, it turned out upon examination that the +discoveries of profligacy which it enabled them to make, lay chiefly in +those upper regions of society which their well-bred regulations forbid +them to molest or meddle with.--In consequence they gained but very few +victims by their prize, and after lying for a week or two under Mr. +Hatchard's counter the Bag with its violated contents was sold for a +trifle to a friend of mine. + +It happened that I had been just then seized with an ambition (having +never tried the strength of my wing but in a Newspaper) to publish +something or other in the shape of a Book; and it occurred to me that, the +present being such a letter-writing era, a few of these Twopenny-Post +Epistles turned into easy verse would be as light and popular a task as I +could possibly select for a commencement. I did not, however, think it +prudent to give too many Letters at first and accordingly have been +obliged (in order to eke out a sufficient number of pages) to reprint some +of those trifles, which had already appeared in the public journals. As in +the battles of ancient times, the shades of the departed were sometimes +seen among the combatants, so I thought I might manage to remedy the +thinness of my ranks, by conjuring up a few dead and forgotten ephemerons +to fill them. + +Such are the motives and accidents that led to the present publication; +and as this is the first time my Muse has ever ventured out of the go-cart +of a Newspaper, though I feel all a parent's delight at seeing little Miss +go alone, I am also not without a parent's anxiety lest an unlucky fall +should be the consequence of the experiment; and I need not point out how +many living instances might be found of Muses that have suffered very +severely in their heads from taking rather too early and rashly to their +feet. Besides, a Book is so very different a thing from a Newspaper!--in +the former, your doggerel without either company or shelter must stand +shivering in the middle of a bleak page by itself; whereas in the latter +it is comfortably backed by advertisements and has sometimes even a Speech +of Mr. Stephen's, or something equally warm, for a _chauffe-pieds_--so +that, in general, the very reverse of "_laudatur et alget_" is its +destiny. + +Ambition, however, must run some risks and I shall be very well satisfied +if the reception of these few Letters should have the effect of sending me +to the Post-Bag for more. + + +[1] Herrick. + + + + + + +INTERCEPTED LETTERS, ETC. + + + + + + +LETTER I. + +FROM THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE OF WALES +TO THE LADY BARBARA ASHLER.[1] + + +My dear Lady Bab, you'll be shockt I'm afraid, +When you hear the sad rumpus your Ponies have made; +Since the time of horse-consuls (now long out of date), +No nags ever made such a stir in the state. +Lord Eldon first heard--and as instantly prayed he +To "God and his King"--that a Popish young Lady +(For tho' you've bright eyes and twelve thousand a year, +It is still but too true you're a Papist, my dear,) +Had insidiously sent, by a tall Irish groom, +Two priest-ridden ponies just landed from Rome, +And so full, little rogues, of pontifical tricks +That the dome of St. Paul was scarce safe from their kicks. + +Off at once to Papa in a flurry he flies-- +For Papa always does what these statesmen advise +On condition that they'll be in turn so polite +As in no case whate'er to advise him _too right_-- +"Pretty doings are here, Sir (he angrily cries, +While by dint of dark eyebrows he strives to look wise)-- +"'Tis a scheme of the Romanists, so help me God! +"To ride over your _most_ Royal Highness roughshod-- +"Excuse, Sir, my tears--they're from loyalty's source- +"Bad enough 'twas for Troy to be sackt by a _Horse_, +"But for us to be ruined by _Ponies_ still worse!" +Quick a Council is called--the whole Cabinet sits-- +The Archbishops declare, frightened out of their wits, +That if once Popish Ponies should eat at my manger, +From that awful moment the Church is in danger! +As, give them but stabling and shortly no stalls +Will suit their proud stomachs but those at St. Paul's. + +The Doctor,[2] and he, the devout man of Leather,[3] +Vansittart, now laying their Saint-heads together, +Declare that these skittish young abominations +Are clearly foretold in Chap. vi. Revelations-- +Nay, they verily think they could point out the one +Which the Doctor's friend Death was to canter upon. + + Lord Harrowby hoping that no one imputes +To the Court any fancy to persecute brutes, +Protests on the word of himself and his cronies +That had these said creatures been Asses, not Ponies, +The Court would have started no sort of objection, +As Asses were, _there_, always sure of protection. + + "If the Princess _will_ keep them (says Lord Castlereagh), +"To make them quite harmless, the only true way +"Is (as certain Chief Justices do with their wives) +"To flog them within half an inch of their lives. +"If they've any bad Irish blood lurking about, +"This (he knew by experience) would soon draw it out." +Should this be thought cruel his Lordship proposes +"The new _Veto_ snaffle[4] to bind down their noses-- +"A pretty contrivance made out of old chains, +"Which appears to indulge while it doubly restrains; +"Which, however high-mettled, their gamesomeness checks +"(Adds his Lordship humanely), or else breaks their necks!" + + This proposal received pretty general applause +From the Statesmen around-and the neck-breaking clause +Had a vigor about it, which soon reconciled +Even Eldon himself to a measure so mild. +So the snaffles, my dear, were agreed to _nem. con_., +And my Lord Castlereagh, having so often shone +In the _fettering line_, is to buckle them on. +I shall drive to your door in these _Vetoes_ some day, +But, at present, adieu!-I must hurry away +To go see my Mamma, as I'm suffered to meet her +For just half an hour by the Queen's best repeater. + +CHARLOTTE. + + +[1] This young Lady, who is a Roman Catholic, had lately made a present of +some beautiful Ponies to the Princess. + +[2] Mr. Addington, so nicknamed. + +[3] Alluding to a tax lately laid upon leather. + +[4] The question whether a Veto was to be allowed to the Crown in the +appointment of Irish Catholic Bishops was, at this time, very generally +and actively agitated. + + + + + + +LETTER II. + +FROM COLONEL M'MAHON TO GOULD FRANCIS LECKIE, ESQ. + + +DEAR SIR-- + I've just had time to look +Into your very learned Book, +Wherein--as plain as man can speak. +Whose English is half modern Greek-- +You prove that we can ne'er intrench +Our happy isles against the French, +Till Royalty in England's made +A much more independent trade;-- +In short until the House of Guelph +Lays Lords and Commons on the shelf, +And boldly sets up for itself. + + All that can well be understood +In this said Book is vastly good; +And as to what's incomprehensible, +I dare be sworn 'tis full as sensible. + + But to your work's immortal credit +The Prince, good Sir, the Prince has read it +(The only Book, himself remarks, +Which he has read since Mrs. Clarke's). +Last levee-morn he lookt it thro', +During that awful hour or two +Of grave tonsorial preparation, +Which to a fond, admiring nation +Sends forth, announced by trump and drum, +The best-wigged Prince in Christendom. + + He thinks with you, the imagination +Of _partnership_ in legislation +Could only enter in the noddles +Of dull and ledger-keeping twaddles, +Whose heads on _firms_ are running so, +They even must have a King and Co., +And hence most eloquently show forth +On _checks_ and _balances_ and so forth. + + But now, he trusts, we're coming near a +Far more royal, loyal era; +When England's monarch need but say, +"Whip me those scoundrels, Castlereagh!" +Or, "Hang me up those Papists, Eldon," +And 'twill be done--ay, faith, and well done. + + With view to which I've his command +To beg, Sir, from your travelled hand, +(Round which the foreign graces swarm)[1] +A Plan of radical Reform; +Compiled and chosen as best you can, +In Turkey or at Ispahan, +And quite upturning, branch and root, +Lords, Commons, and Burdett to boot. + + But, pray, whate'er you may impart, write +Somewhat more brief than Major Cartwright: +Else, tho' the Prince be long in rigging, +'Twould take at least a fortnight's wigging,-- +Two wigs to every paragraph-- +Before he well could get thro' half. + + You'll send it also speedily-- +As truth to say 'twixt you and me, +His Highness, heated by your work, +Already thinks himself Grand Turk! +And you'd have laught, had you seen how +He scared the Chancellor just now, +When (on his Lordship's entering puft) he +Slapt his back and called him "Mufti!" + + The tailors too have got commands +To put directly into hands +All sorts of Dulimans and Pouches, +With Sashes, Turbans and Paboutches, +(While Yarmouth's sketching out a plan +Of new _Moustaches à l'Ottomane_) +And all things fitting and expedient +To _turkify_ our gracious Regent! + + You therefore have no time to waste-- +So, send your System.-- + Yours in haste. + +POSTSCRIPT. + +Before I send this scrawl away, +I seize a moment just to say +There's some parts of the Turkish system +So vulgar 'twere as well you missed 'em. +For instance--in _Seraglio_ matters-- +Your Turk whom girlish fondness flatters, +Would fill his Haram (tasteless fool!) +With tittering, red-cheekt things from school. +But _here_ (as in that fairy land, +Where Love and Age went hand in hand;[2] +Where lips, till sixty, shed no honey, +And Grandams were worth any money,) +_Our_ Sultan has much riper notions-- +So, let your list of _she_-promotions +Include those only plump and sage, +Who've reached the _regulation_-age; +That is, (as near as one can fix +From Peerage dates) full fifty-six. + + This rule's for _favorites_--nothing more-- +For, as to _wives_, a Grand Signor, +Tho' not decidedly _without_ them, +Need never care one curse about them. + + +[1] "The truth indeed seems to be, that having lived so long abroad as +evidently to have lost, in a great degree, the use of his native language, +Mr. Leckie has gradually come not only to speak, but to feel, like a +foreigner."--_Edinburgh Review_. + +[2] The learned Colonel must allude here to a description of the +Mysterious Isle, in the History of Abdalla, Son of Hanif, where such +inversions of the order of nature are said to have taken place.--"A score +of old women and the same number of old men played here and there in the +court, some at chuck-farthing, others at tip-cat or at cockles."--And +again, "There is nothing, believe me, more engaging than those lovely +wrinkles."--See "_Tales of the East_," vol. iii. pp. 607, 608. + + + + + + +LETTER III. + +FROM GEORGE PRINCE REGENT TO +THE EARL OF YARMOUTH.[1] + + +We missed you last night at the "hoary old sinner's," +Who gave us as usual the cream of good dinners; +His soups scientific, his fishes quite _prime_-- +His _pâtés_ superb, and his cutlets sublime! +In short, 'twas the snug sort of dinner to stir a +Stomachic orgasm in my Lord Ellenborough, +Who _set to_, to be sure, with miraculous force, +And exclaimed between mouthfuls, "a _He-Cook_, of course!-- +"While you live--(what's there under that cover? pray, look)-- +"While you live--(I'll just taste it)--ne'er keep a She-Cook. +"'Tis a sound Salic Law--(a small bit of that toast)-- +"Which ordains that a female shall ne'er rule the roast; +"For Cookery's a secret--(this turtle's uncommon)-- +"Like Masonry, never found out by a woman!" + + The dinner you know was in gay celebration +Of _my_ brilliant triumph and Hunt's condemnation; +A compliment too to his Lordship the Judge +For his Speech to the Jury--and zounds! who would grudge +Turtle soup tho' it came to five guineas a bowl, +To reward such a loyal and complaisant soul? +We were all in high gig--Roman Punch and Tokay +Travelled round till our heads travelled just the same way; +And we cared not for Juries or Libels--no--damme! nor +Even for the threats of last Sunday's Examiner! + + More good things were eaten than said--but Tom Tyrrhitt +In quoting Joe Miller you know has some merit; +And hearing the sturdy Judiciary Chief +Say--sated with turtle--"I'll now try the beef"-- +Tommy whispered him (giving his Lordship a sly hit) +"I fear 'twill be _hung_-beef, my Lord, if you _try_ it!" + + And Camden was there, who that morning had gone +To fit his new Marquis's coronet on; +And the dish set before him--oh! dish well-devised!-- +Was what old Mother Glasse calls, "a calf's head surprised!" +The _brains_ were near Sherry and _once_ had been fine, +But of late they had lain so long soaking in wine, +That tho' we from courtesy still chose to call +These brains very fine they were no brains at all. + + When the dinner was over, we drank, every one +In a bumper, "the venial delights of Crim. Con.;" +At which Headfort with warm reminiscences gloated, +And Ellenb'rough chuckled to hear himself quoted. + + Our next round of toasts was a fancy quite new, +For we drank--and you'll own 'twas benevolent too-- +To those well-meaning husbands, cits, parsons or peers, +Whom we've any time honored by courting their dears: +This museum of wittols was comical rather; +Old Headfort gave Massey, and _I_ gave your father. +In short, not a soul till this morning would budge-- +We were all fun and frolic, and even the Judge +Laid aside for the time his juridical fashion, +And thro' the whole night wasn't _once_ in a passion! + + I write this in bed while my whiskers are airing, +And Mac[2] has a sly dose of jalap preparing +For poor Tommy Tyrrhitt at breakfast to quaff-- +As I feel I want something to give me a laugh, +And there's nothing so good as old Tommy kept close +To his Cornwall accounts after taking a dose. + + +[1] This letter, as the reader will perceive, was written the day after a +dinner given by the Marquis of Headfort. + +[2] Colonel M'Mahon. + + + + + + +LETTER IV. + +FROM THE RIGHT HON. PATRICK DUIGENAN +TO THE RIGHT HON. SIR JOHN NICHOL. + + +Last week, dear Nichol, making merry +At dinner with our Secretary, +When all were drunk or pretty near +(The time for doing business here), +Says he to me, "Sweet Bully Bottom! +"These Papist dogs--hiccup--'od rot 'em!-- +"Deserve to be bespattered--hiccup-- +"With all the dirt even _you_ can pick up. +"But, as the Prince (here's to him--fill-- +"Hip, hip, hurra!)--is trying still +"To humbug them with kind professions, +"And as _you_ deal in _strong_ expressions-- +"_Rogue"--"traitor_"--hiccup--and all that-- +"You must be muzzled, Doctor Pat!-- +"You must indeed--hiccup--that's flat."-- + +Yes--"muzzled" was the word Sir John-- +These fools have clapt a muzzle on +The boldest mouth that e'er run o'er +With slaver of the times of yore![1]-- +Was it for this that back I went +As far as Lateran and Trent, +To prove that they who damned us then +Ought now in turn be damned again? +The silent victim still to sit +Of Grattan's fire and Canning's wit, +To hear even noisy Mathew gabble on, +Nor mention once the Whore of Babylon! +Oh! 'tis too much--who now will be +The Nightman of No-Popery? +What Courtier, Saint or even Bishop +Such learned filth will ever fish up? +If there among our ranks be one +To take my place, 'tis _thou_, Sir John; +Thou who like me art dubbed Right Hon. +Like me too art a Lawyer Civil +That wishes Papists at the devil. + + To whom then but to thee, my friend, +Should Patrick[2] his Port-folio send? +Take it--'tis thine--his learned Port-folio, +With all its theologic olio +Of Bulls, half Irish and half Roman-- +Of Doctrines now believed by no man-- +Of Councils held for men's salvation, +Yet always ending in damnation-- +(Which shows that since the world's creation +Your Priests, whate'er their gentle shamming, +Have always had a taste for damning,) +And many more such pious scraps, +To prove (what _we've_ long proved, perhaps,) +That mad as Christians used to be +About the Thirteenth Century, +There still are Christians to be had +In this, the Nineteenth, just as mad! + + Farewell--I send with this, dear Nichol, +A rod or two I've had in pickle +Wherewith to trim old Grattan's jacket.-- +The rest shall go by Monday's packet. + +P. D. + +_Among the Enclosures in the foregoing Letter was the following +"Unanswerable Argument against the Papists_." + +We're told the ancient Roman nation +Made use of spittle in lustration; +(_Vide "Lactantium ap. Gallaeum"_[3]-- +_i. e_. you need not _read_ but _see_ 'em;) +Now Irish Papists--fact surprising-- +Make use of spittle in baptizing; +Which proves them all, O'Finns, O'Fagans, +Connors and Tooles all downright Pagans. +This fact's enough; let no one tell us +To free such sad, _salivous_ fellows.-- +No, no--the man, baptized with spittle, +Hath no truth in him--not a tittle! + + +[1] In sending this sheet to the Press, however, I learn that the "muzzle" +has been taken off, and the Right Hon. Doctor again let loose! + +[2] A bad name for poetry; but Duigenan is still worse. + +[3] I have taken the trouble of examining the Doctor's reference here, and +find him for once correct. + + + + + + +LETTER V. + +FROM THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF CORK TO LADY---. + + +My dear Lady---! I've been just sending out +About five hundred cards for a snug little Rout-- +(By the by, you've seen "Rokeby"?--this moment got mine-- +The "Mail-Coach Edition"--prodigiously fine!) +But I can't conceive how in this very cold weather +I'm ever to bring my five hundred together; +As, unless the thermometer's near boiling heat, +One can never get half of one's hundreds to meet. + +(Apropos--you'd have thought to see Townsend last night, +Escort to their chairs, with his staff, so polite, +The "three maiden Miseries," all in a fright; +Poor Townsend, like Mercury, filling two posts, +Supervisor of _thieves_ and chief-usher of _ghosts_!) + + But, my dear Lady----, can't you hit on some notion, +At least for one night to set London in motion?-- +As to having the Regent, _that_ show is gone by-- +Besides, I've remarkt that (between you and I) +The Marchesa and he, inconvenient in more ways, +Have taken much lately to whispering in doorways; +Which--considering, you know, dear, the _size_ of the two-- +Makes a block that one's company _cannot_ get thro'; +And a house such as mine is, with door-ways so small, +Has no room for such cumbersome love-work at all.-- +(Apropos, tho', of love-work--you've heard it, I hope, +That Napoleon's old mother's to marry the Pope,-- +"What a comical pair!)--but, to stick to my Rout, +'Twill be hard if some novelty can't be struck out. +Is there no Algerine, no Kamchatkan arrived? +No Plenipo Pacha, three-tailed and ten-wived? +No Russian whose dissonant consonant name +Almost rattles to fragments the trumpet of fame? + + I remember the time three or four winters back, +When--provided their wigs were but decently black-- +A few Patriot monsters from Spain were a sight +That would people one's house for one, night after night. +But--whether the Ministers _pawed_ them too much-- +(And you--know how they spoil whatsoever they touch) +Or, whether Lord George (the young man about town) +Has by dint of bad poetry written them down. +One has certainly lost one's _peninsular_ rage; +And the only stray Patriot seen for an age +Has been at such places (think, how the fit cools!) +As old Mrs. Vaughan's or Lord Liverpool's. + + But, in short, my dear, names like Wintztschitstopschinzoudhoff +Are the only things now make an evening go smooth off: +So, get me a Russian--till death I'm your debtor-- +If he brings the whole Alphabet, so much the better. +And--Lord! if he would but, _in character_, sup +Off his fish-oil and candles, he'd quite set me up! + + _Au revoir_, my sweet girl--I must leave you in haste-- +Little Gunter has brought me the Liqueurs to taste. + +POSTSCRIPT. + +By the by, have you found any friend that can conster +That Latin account, t'other day, of a Monster?[1] +If we can't get a Russian, and _that think_ in Latin +Be not _too_ improper, I think I'll bring that in. + + +[1] Alluding, I suppose, to the Latin Advertisement of a _lusus +Naturae_ in the Newspapers lately. + + + + + + +LETTER VI. + +FROM ABDALLAH,[1] IN LONDON, TO MOHASSAN, IN ISPAHAN. + + +Whilst thou, Mohassan, (happy thou!) +Dost daily bend thy loyal brow +Before our King--our Asia's treasure! +Nutmeg of Comfort: Rose of Pleasure!-- +And bearest as many kicks and bruises +As the said Rose and Nutmeg chooses; +Thy head still near the bowstring's borders. +And but left on till further orders-- +Thro' London streets with turban fair, +And caftan floating to the air, +I saunter on, the admiration +Of this short-coated population-- +This sewed-up race--this buttoned nation-- +Who while they boast their laws so free +Leave not one limb at liberty, +But live with all their lordly speeches +The slaves of buttons and tight breeches. + + Yet tho' they thus their knee-pans fetter +(They're Christians and they know no better) + In _some_ things they're a thinking nation; +And on Religious Toleration. +I own I like their notions _quite_, +They are so Persian and so right! +You know our Sunnites,[2] hateful dogs! +Whom every pious Shiite flogs +Or longs to flog--'tis true, they pray +To God, but in an ill-bred way; +With neither arms nor legs nor faces +Stuck in their right, canonic places.[3] +'Tis true, they worship Ali's name-- +_Their_ heaven and _ours_ are just the same-- +(A Persian's Heaven is easily made, +'Tis but black eyes and lemonade.) +Yet tho' we've tried for centuries back-- +We can't persuade this stubborn pack, +By bastinadoes, screws or nippers, +To wear the establisht pea-green slippers.[4] +Then, only think, the libertines! +They wash their toes--they comb their chins, +With many more such deadly sins; +And what's the worst, (tho' last I rank it) +Believe the Chapter of the Blanket! + + Yet spite of tenets so flagitious, +(Which _must_ at bottom be seditious; +Since no man living would refuse +Green slippers but from treasonous views; +Nor wash his toes but with intent +To overturn the government,)-- +Such is our mild and tolerant way, +We only curse them twice a day +(According to a Form that's set), +And, far from torturing, only let +All orthodox believers beat 'em, +And twitch their beards where'er they meet 'em. + + As to the rest, they're free to do +Whate'er their fancy prompts them to, +Provided they make nothing of it +Towards rank or honor, power or profit; +Which things we naturally expect, +Belong to US, the Establisht sect, +Who disbelieve (the Lord be thanked!) +The aforesaid Chapter of the Blanket. +The same mild views of Toleration +Inspire, I find, this buttoned nation, +Whose Papists (full as given to rogue, +And only Sunnites with a brogue) +Fare just as well, with all their fuss, +As rascal Sunnites do with us. + + The tender Gazel I enclose +Is for my love, my Syrian Rose-- +Take it when night begins to fall, +And throw it o'er her mother's wall. + +GAZEL. + +Rememberest thou the hour we past,-- +That hour the happiest and the last? +Oh! not so sweet the Siha thorn +To summer bees at break of morn, +Not half so sweet, thro' dale and dell, +To Camels' ears the tinkling bell, +As is the soothing memory +Of that one precious hour to me. + +How can we live, so far apart? +Oh! why not rather, heart to heart, + United live and die-- +Like those sweet birds, that fly together, +With feather always touching feather, + Linkt by a hook and eye![5] + + +[1] I have made many inquiries about this Persian gentleman, but cannot +satisfactorily ascertain who he is. From his notions of Religious Liberty, +however, I conclude that he is an importation of Ministers; and he has +arrived just in time to assist the Prince and Mr. Leckie in their new +Oriental Plan of Reform.--See the second of these letters.--How Abdallah's +epistle to Ispahan found its way into the Twopenny Post-Bag is more than I +can pretend to account for. + +[2] Sunnites and Shiites are the two leading sects into which the +Mahometan world is divided; and they have gone on cursing and persecuting +each other, without any intermission, for about eleven hundred years. The +_Sunni_ is the established sect in Turkey, and the _Shia_ in +Persia; and the differences between them turn chiefly upon those important +points, which our pious friend Abdallah, is the true spirit of Shiite +Ascendency, reprobates in this Letter. + +[3] "In contradistinction to the Sounis, who in their prayers cross their +hands on the lower part of the breasts, the Schiahs drop their arms in +straight lines; and as the Sounis, at certain periods of the prayer, press +their foreheads on the ground or carpet, the Schiahs," etc.--_Forster's +Voyage_. + +[4] "The Shiites wear green slippers, which the Sunnites consider as a +great abomination."--_Mariti_. + +[5] This will appear strange to an English reader, but it is literally +translated from Abdallah's Persian, and the curious bird to which he +alludes is the _Juftak_, of which I find the following account in +Richardson:--"A sort of bird, that is said to have but one wing; on the +opposite side to which the male has a hook and the female a ring, so that, +when they fly, they are fastened together." + + + + + + +LETTER VII. + +FROM MESSRS. LACKINGTON AND CO. TO THOMAS MOORE, ESQ. + + +Per Post, Sir, we send your MS.--look it thro'-- +Very sorry--but can't undertake--'twouldn't do. +Clever work, Sir!--would _get up_ prodigiously well-- +Its only defect is--it never would sell. +And tho' _Statesmen_ may glory in being _unbought_, +In an _Author_ 'tis not so desirable thought. + + Hard times, Sir, most books are too dear to be read-- +Tho' the _gold_ of Good-sense and Wit's _small-change_ are fled, +Yet the paper we Publishers pass, in their stead, +Rises higher each day, and ('tis frightful to think it) +Not even such names as Fitzgerald's can sink it! + + However, Sir--if you're for trying again, +And at somewhat that's vendible--we are your men. + + Since the Chevalier Carr[1] took to marrying lately, +The Trade is in want of a _Traveller_ greatly-- +No job, Sir, more easy--your _Country_ once planned, +A month aboard ship and a fortnight on land +Puts your Quarto of Travels, Sir, clean out of hand. + + An East-India pamphlet's a thing that would tell-- +And a lick at the Papists is _sure_ to sell well. +Or--supposing you've nothing _original_ in you-- +Write Parodies, Sir, and such fame it will win you, +You'll get to the Blue-stocking Routs of Albinia![2] +(Mind--_not_ to her _dinners_--a _second-hand_ Muse +Mustn't think of aspiring to _mess_ with the _Blues_.) +Or--in case nothing else in this world you can do-- +The deuce is in't, Sir, if you can not _review_! + + Should you feel any touch of _poetical_ glow, +We've a Scheme to suggest--Mr. Scott, you must know, +(Who, we're sorry to say it, now works for _the Row_.[3]) +Having quitted the Borders to seek new renown, +Is coming by long Quarto stages to Town; +And beginning with "Rokeby" (the job's sure to pay) +Means to _do_ all the Gentlemen's Seats on the way. +Now, the Scheme is (tho' none of our hackneys can beat him) +To start a fresh Poet thro' Highgate to _meet_ him; +Who by means of quick proofs--no revises--long coaches-- +May do a few Villas before Scott approaches. +Indeed if our Pegasus be not curst shabby, +He'll reach, without foundering, at least Woburn Abbey. +Such, Sir, is our plan--if you're up to the freak, +'Tis a match! and we'll put you _in training_ next week. +At present, no more--in reply to this Letter, +A line will oblige very much + Yours, _et cetera_. + +_Temple of the Muses_. + + +[1] Sir John Carr, the author of "Tours in Ireland, Holland. Sweden," etc. + +[2] This alludes, I believe, to a curious correspondence, which is said to +have passed lately between Albina, Countess of Buckinghamshire, and a +certain ingenious Parodist. + +[3] Paternoster Row. + + + + + + +LETTER VIII. + +FROM COLONEL THOMAS TO ---- SKEFFINGTON, ESQ. + + +Come to our Fête and bring with thee +Thy newest, best embroidery. +Come to our Fête and show again +That pea-green coat, thou pink of men, +Which charmed all eyes that last surveyed it; +When Brummel's self inquired "who made it?"-- +When Cits came wondering from the East +And thought thee Poet Pye _at least_! + + Oh! come, (if haply 'tis thy week +For looking pale,) with paly cheek; +Tho' more we love thy roseate days, +When the rich rouge-pot pours its blaze +Full o'er thy face and amply spread, +Tips even thy whisker-tops with red-- +Like the last tints of dying Day +That o'er some darkling grove delay. + + Bring thy best lace, thou gay Philander, +(That lace, like Harry Alexander, +Too precious to be washt,) thy _rings_, +Thy seals--in short, thy prettiest things! +Put all thy wardrobe's glories on, +And yield in frogs and fringe to none +But the great Regent's self alone; +Who--by particular desire-- +_For that night only_, means to hire +A dress from, Romeo Coates, Esquire.[1] +Hail, first of Actors! best of Regents! +Born for each other's fond allegiance! +_Both_ gay Lotharios--both good dressers-- +Of serious Farce _both_ learned Professors-- +_Both_ circled round, for use or show, +With cock's combs, wheresoe'er they go![2] + + Thou knowest the time, thou man of lore! +It takes to chalk a ball-room floor-- +Thou knowest the time, too, well-a-day! +It takes to dance that chalk away.[3] +The Ball-room opens--far and nigh +Comets and suns beneath us lie; +O'er snow-white moons and stars we walk, +And the floor seems one sky of chalk! +But soon shall fade that bright deceit, +When many a maid, with busy feet +That sparkle in the lustre's ray, +O'er the white path shall bound and play +Like Nymphs along the Milky Way:-- +With every step a star hath fled, +And suns grow dim beneath their tread, +So passeth life--(thus Scott would write, +And spinsters read him with delight,)-- +Hours are not feet, yet hours trip on, +Time is not chalk, yet time's soon gone! + + But, hang this long digressive flight!-- +I meant to say, thou'lt see that night +What falsehood rankles in their hearts, +Who say the Prince neglects the arts-- +Neglects the arts?--no, Strahlweg,[4] no; +_Thy_ Cupids answer "'tis not so;" +And every floor that night shall tell +How quick thou daubest and how well. +Shine as thou mayst in French vermilion, +Thou'rt _best_ beneath a French cotillion; +And still comest off, whate'er thy faults, +With _flying colors_ in a Waltz. +Nor needest thou mourn the transient date +To thy best works assigned by fate. +While _some chef-d'oeuvres_ live to weary one, +_Thine_ boast a short life and a merry one; +Their hour of glory past and gone +With "Molly put the kettle on!"[5] + + But, bless my soul! I've scarce a leaf +Of paper left--so must be brief. + This festive Fête, in fact, will be +The former Fête's _facsimile_;[6] +The same long Masquerade of Rooms, +All trickt up in such odd costumes, +(These, Porter,[7] are thy glorious works!) +You'd swear Egyptians, Moors and Turks, +Bearing Good-Taste some deadly malice, +Had clubbed to raise a Pic-Nic Palace; +And each to make the olio pleasant +Had sent a State-Room as a present. +The same _fauteuils_ and girondoles-- +The same gold Asses,[8]pretty souls! +That in this rich and classic dome +Appear so perfectly at home. +The same bright river 'mong the dishes, +But _not_--ah! not the same dear fishes-- +Late hours and claret killed the old ones-- +So 'stead of silver and of gold ones, +(It being rather hard to raise +Fish of that _specie_ now-a-days) +Some sprats have been by Yarmouth's wish, +Promoted into _Silver_ Fish, +And Gudgeons (so Vansittart told +The Regent) are as good as _Gold_! + + So, prithee, come--our Fête will be +But half a Fête if wanting thee. + + +[1] An amateur actor of much risible renown. + +[2] The crest of Mr. Coates, the very amusing amateur tragedian here +alluded to, was a cock; and most profusely were his liveries, harness, +etc. covered wit this ornament. + +[3] To those who neither go to balls nor read _The Morning Post_, it may +be necessary to mention, that the floors of Ballrooms, in general, are +chalked for safety and for ornament with various fanciful devices. + +[4] A foreign artist much patronized by the Prince Regent. + +[5] The name of a popular country-dance. + +[6] "Carleton House will exhibit a complete _facsimile_ in respect to +interior ornament, to what it did at the last Fête. The same splendid +draperies," etc.--_Morning Post_. + +[7] Mr. Walsh Porter, to whose taste was left the furnishing of the rooms +of Carletone House. + +[8] The salt-cellars on the Prince's _own_ table were in the form of an +Ass with panniers. + + + * * * * * + +APPENDIX. + + + + +LETTER IV. PAGE 584. + + +Among the papers, enclosed in Dr. Duigenan's Letter, was found an Heroic +Epistle in Latin verse, from Pope Joan to her Lover, of which, as it is +rather a curious document, I shall venture to give some account. This +female Pontiff was a native of England, (or, according to others of +Germany,) who at an early age disguised herself in male attire and +followed her lover, a young ecclesiastic, to Athens where she studied with +such effect that upon her arrival at Rome she was thought worthy of being +raised to the Pontificate. This Epistle is addressed to her Lover (whom +she had elevated to the dignity of Cardinal), soon after the fatal +_accouchement_, by which her Fallibility was betrayed. + +She begins by reminding him tenderly of the time, when they were together +at Athens--when, as she says, + + --"by Ilissus' stream + "We whispering walkt along, and learned to speak + "The tenderest feelings in the purest Greek; + "Ah! then how little did we think or hope, + "Dearest of men, that I should e'er be Pope![1] + "That I, the humble Joan, whose housewife art + "Seemed just enough to keep thy house and heart, + "(And those, alas! at sixes and at sevens,) + "Should soon keep all the keys of all the heavens!" + +Still less (she continues to say) could they have foreseen, that such +a catastrophe as had happened in Council would befall them--that she + + "Should thus surprise the Conclave's grave decorum, + "And let a _little Pope_ pop out before 'em-- + "Pope _Innocent_! alas, the only one + "That name could e'er be justly fixt upon." + +She then very pathetically laments the downfall of her greatness, and +enumerates the various treasures to which she is doomed to bid farewell +forever:-- + + "But oh, more dear, more precious ten times over-- + "Farewell my Lord, my Cardinal, my Lover! + "I made _thee_ Cardinal--thou madest _me_--ah! + "Thou madest the Papa of the world Mamma!" + +I have not time at present to translate any more of this Epistle; but I +presume the argument which the Right Hon. Doctor and his friends mean to +deduce from it, is (in their usual convincing strain) that Romanists must +be unworthy of Emancipation _now_, because they had a Petticoat Pope in +the Ninth Century. Nothing can be more logically clear, and I find that +Horace had exactly the same views upon the subject. + + Romanus (_eheu posteri negabitis_!) + emancipatus FOEMINAE + _fert vallum_! + + +[1] Spanheim attributes the unanimity with which Joan was elected to that +innate and irresistible charm by which her sex, though latent, operated +upon the instinct of the Cardinals. + + + + +LETTER VII. PAGE 588. + + +The Manuscript, found enclosed in the Bookseller's Letter, turns out to be +a Melo-Drama, in two Acts, entitled "The Book,"[1] of which the Theatres, +of course, had had the refusal, before it was presented to Messrs. +Lackington and Co. This rejected Drama however possesses considerable +merit and I shall take the liberty of laying a sketch of it before my +Readers. + +The first Act opens in a very awful manner--_Time_, three o'clock in +the morning--_Scene_, the Bourbon Chamber[2] in Carleton House-- +Enter the Prince Regent _solus_--After a few broken sentences, he +thus exclaims:-- + + Away--Away-- + Thou haunt'st my fancy so, thou devilish Book, + I meet thee--trace thee, whereso'er I look. + I see thy damned _ink_ in Eldon's brows-- + I see thy _foolscap_ on my Hertford's Spouse-- + Vansittart's head recalls thy _leathern_ case, + And all thy _blank-leaves_ stare from R--d--r's face! + While, turning here (_laying his hand on his heart_,) + I find, ah wretched elf, + Thy _List_ of dire _Errata_ in myself. + (_Walks the stage in considerable agitation_.) + Oh Roman Punch! oh potent Curaçoa! + Oh Mareschino! Mareschino oh! + Delicious drams! why have you not the art + To kill this gnawing _Book-worm_ in my heart? + +He is here interrupted in his Soliloquy by perceiving on the ground some +scribbled fragments of paper, which he instantly collects, and "by the +light of two magnificent candelabras" discovers the following unconnected +words, "_Wife neglected"--"the Book"--"Wrong Measures"--"the Queen"--"Mr. +Lambert"--"the Regent_." + + Ha! treason in my house!--Curst words, that wither + My princely soul, (_shaking the papers violently_) what Demon + brought you hither? + "My Wife;"--"the Book" too!--stay--a nearer look-- + (_holding the fragments closer to the Candelabras_) + Alas! too plain, B, double O, K, Book-- + Death and destruction! + +He here rings all the bells, and a whole legion of valets enter. A scene +of cursing and swearing (very much in the German style) ensues, in the +course of which messengers are despatched, in different directions, for +the Lord Chancellor, the Duke of Cumberland, etc. The intermediate time is +filled up by another Soliloquy, at the conclusion of which the aforesaid +Personages rush on alarmed; the Duke with his stays only half-laced, and +the Chancellor with his wig thrown hastily over an old red night-cap, "to +maintain the becoming splendor of his office."[3] The Regent produces the +appalling fragments, upon which the Chancellor breaks out into +exclamations of loyalty and tenderness, and relates the following +portentous dream: + + 'Tis scarcely two hours since + I had a fearful dream of thee, my Prince!-- + Methought I heard thee midst a courtly crowd + Say from thy throne of gold, in mandate loud, + "Worship my whiskers!"--(_weeps_) not a knee was there + But bent and worshipt the Illustrious Pair, + Which curled in conscious majesty! (_pulls out his handkerchief_)-- + while cries + Of "Whiskers; whiskers!" shook the echoing skies.-- + Just in that glorious hour, me-thought, there came, + With looks of injured pride, a Princely Dame + And a young maiden, clinging by her side, + As if she feared some tyrant would divide + Two hearts that nature and affection tied! + The Matron came--within her _right_ hand glowed + A radiant torch; while from her _left_ a load + Of Papers hung--(_wipes his eyes_) collected in her veil-- + The venal evidence, the slanderous tale, + The wounding hint, the current lies that pass + From _Post_ to _Courier_, formed the motley mass; + Which with disdain before the Throne she throws, + And lights the Pile beneath thy princely nose. + + (_Weeps_.) + + Heavens, how it blazed!--I'd ask no livelier fire, + (With animation) To roast a Papist by, my gracious Sire!-- + But ah! the Evidence--_(weeps again)_ I mourned to see-- + Cast as it burned, a deadly light on thee: + And Tales and Hints their random sparkles flung, + And hissed and crackled, like an old maid's tongue; + While _Post_ and _Courier_, faithful to their fame, + Made up in stink for what they lackt in flame. + When, lo, ye Gods! the fire ascending brisker, + Now singes _one_ now lights the _other_ whisker. + Ah! where was then the Sylphid that unfurls + Her fairy standard in defence of curls? + Throne, Whiskers, Wig soon vanisht into smoke, + The watchman cried "Past One," and--I awoke. + +Here his Lordship weeps more profusely than ever, and the Regents (who has +been very much agitated during the recital of the Dream) by a movement as +characteristic as that of Charles XII. when he was shot, claps his hands +to his whiskers to feel if all be really safe. A Privy Council is held-- +all the Servants, etc. are examined, and it appears that a Tailor, who had +come to measure the Regent for a Dress (which takes three whole pages of +the best superfine _clinquant_ in describing) was the only person who +had been in the Bourbon Chamber during the day. It is, accordingly, +determined to seize the Tailor, and the Council breaks up with a unanimous +resolution to be vigorous. + +The commencement of the Second Act turns chiefly upon the Trial and +Imprisonment of two Brothers[4]--but as this forms the _under_ plot +of the Drama, I shall content myself with extracting from it the following +speech, which is addressed to the two Brothers, as they "_exeunt_ +severally" to Prison:-- + + Go to your prisons--tho' the air of Spring + No mountain coolness to your cheeks shall bring; + Tho' Summer flowers shall pass unseen away, + And all your portion of the glorious day + May be some solitary beam that falls + At morn or eve upon your dreary walls-- + Some beam that enters, trembling as if awed, + To tell how gay the young world laughs abroad! + Yet go--for thoughts as blessed as the air + Of Spring or Summer flowers await you there; + Thoughts such as He who feasts his courtly crew + In rich conservatories _never_ knew; + Pure self-esteem--the smiles that light within-- + The Zeal, whose circling charities begin + With the few loved-ones Heaven has placed it near, + And spread till all Mankind are in its sphere; + The Pride that suffers without vaunt or plea. + And the fresh Spirit that can warble free + Thro' prison-bars its hymn to Liberty! + +The Scene next changes to a Tailor's Workshop, and a fancifully-arranged +group of these Artists is discovered upon the Shop-board--Their task +evidently of a _royal_ nature, from the profusion of gold-lace, frogs, +etc., that lie about--They all rise and come forward, while one of them +sings the following Stanzas to the tune of "Derry Down." + + My brave brother Tailors, come, straighten your knees, + For a moment, like gentlemen, stand up at ease, + While I sing of our Prince (and a fig for his railers), + The Shop-board's delight! the Maecenas of Tailors! + Derry down, down, down + derry down. + + Some monarchs take roundabout ways into note, + While _His_ short cut to fame is--the cut of his coat; + Philip's Son thought the World was too small for his Soul, + But our Regent's finds room in a laced button-hole. + Derry down, etc. + + Look thro' all Europe's Kings--those, at least, who go loose-- + Not a King of them all's such a friend to the Goose. + So, God keep him increasing in size and renown, + Still the fattest and best fitted Prince about town! + Derry down, etc. + +During the "Derry down" of this last verse, a messenger from the Secretary +of State's Office rushes on, and the singer (who, luckily for the effect +of the scene, is the very Tailor suspected of the mysterious fragments) is +interrupted in the midst of his laudatory exertions and hurried away, to +the no small surprise and consternation of his comrades. The Plot now +hastens rapidly in its development--the management of the Tailor's +examination is highly skilful, and the alarm which he is made to betray is +natural without being ludicrous. The explanation too which he finally +gives is not more simple than satisfactory. It appears that the said +fragments formed part of a self-exculpatory note, which he had intended to +send to Colonel M'Mahon upon subjects purely professional, and the +corresponding bits (which still lie luckily in his pocket) being produced +and skilfully laid beside the others, the following _billet-doux_ is the +satisfactory result of their juxtaposition, + + Honored Colonel--my Wife, who's the Queen of all slatterns, + Neglected to put up the Book of new Patterns. + She sent the wrong Measures too--shamefully wrong-- + They're the same used for poor Mr. Lambert, when young; + But, bless you! they wouldn’t go half round the Regent-- + So, hope you'll excuse yours till death, most obedient. + +This fully explains the whole mystery--the Regent resumes his wonted +smiles, and the Drama terminates as usual to the satisfaction of all +parties. + + +[1] There was, in like manner, a mysterious Book, in the 16th Century, +which employed all the anxious curiosity of the Learned of that time. +Every one spoke of it; many wrote against it; though it does not appear +that anybody had ever seen it; and Grotius is of opinion that no such Book +ever existed. It was entitled, "_Liber de tribus impostoribus_." (See +Morhof. Cap. "_de Libris damnatis_.") + +[2] The same Chamber, doubtless, that was prepared for the reception of +the Bourbons at the first Grand Fête, and which was ornamented (all "for +the Deliverance of Europe") with _fleurs de-lys_. + +[3] "To enable the individual who holds the office of Chancellor to +maintain it in becoming splendor." (_A loud laugh_.)--Lord +CASTLEREAGH'S _Speech upon the Vice Chancellor's Bill_. + +[4] Mr. Leigh Hunt and his brother. + + + + + + + + +SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS. + + + + + + +THE INSURRECTION OF THE PAPERS. + +A DREAM. + + + "It would be impossible for his Royal Highness to disengage his person + from the accumulating pile of papers that encompassed it." + --Lord CASTLEREAGH'S _Speech upon Colonel M Mahon's Appointment, + April 14, 1812_. + + +Last night I tost and turned in bed, +But could not sleep--at length I said, +"I'll think of Viscount Castlereagh, +"And of his speeches--that's the way." +And so it was, for instantly +I slept as sound as sound could be. +And then I dreamt--so dread a dream! +Fuseli has no such theme; +Lewis never wrote or borrowed +Any horror half so horrid! + +Methought the Prince in whiskered state +Before me at his breakfast sate; +On one side lay unread Petitions, +On t'other, Hints from five Physicians! +_Here_ tradesmen's bills,--official papers, +Notes from my Lady, drams for vapors +_There_ plans of Saddles, tea and toast. +Death-warrants and _The Morning Post_. + + When lo! the Papers, one and all. +As if at some magician's call. +Began to flutter of themselves +From desk and table, floor and shelves, +And, cutting each some different capers, +Advanced, oh jacobinic papers! +As tho' they said, "Our sole design is +"To suffocate his Royal Highness!" +The Leader of this vile sedition +Was a huge Catholic Petition, +With grievances so full and heavy, +It threatened worst of all the bevy; +Then Common-Hall Addresses came +In swaggering sheets and took their aim +Right at the Regent's well-drest head, +As if _determined_ to be read. +Next Tradesmen's bills began to fly, +And Tradesmen's bills, we know, mount high; +Nay even Death-warrants thought they'd best +Be lively too and join the rest. + + But, oh the basest of defections! +His letter about "predilections"!-- +His own dear letter, void of grace, +Now flew up in its parent's face! +Shocked with this breach of filial duty, +He just could murmur "_et_ Tu _Brute_?" +Then sunk, subdued upon the floor +At Fox's bust, to rise no more! + +I waked--and prayed, with lifted hand, +"Oh! never may this Dream prove true; +"Tho' paper overwhelms the land, + "Let it not crush the Sovereign, too!" + + + + + + +PARODY OF A CELEBRATED LETTER.[1] + + +At length, dearest Freddy, the moment is night +When, with Perceval's leave, I may throw my chains by; +And, as time now is precious, the first thing I do +Is to sit down and write a wise letter to you. + + * * * * + * * * * + * * * * + * * * * + * * * * + * * * * +I meant before now to have sent you this Letter, +But Yarmouth and I thought perhaps 'twould be better +To wait till the Irish affairs are decided-- +(That is, till both Houses had prosed and divided, +With all due appearance of thought and digestion)-- +For, tho' Hertford House had long settled the question, +I thought it but decent, between me and you, +That the two _other_ Houses should settle it too. + + I need not remind you how cursedly bad +Our affairs were all looking, when Father went mad;[2] +A strait waistcoat on him and restrictions on me, +A more _limited_ Monarchy could not well be. +I was called upon then, in that moment of puzzle. +To choose my own Minister--just as they muzzle +A playful young bear, and then mock his disaster +By bidding him choose out his own dancing-master. + + I thought the best way, as a dutiful son, +Was to do as Old Royalty's self would have done.[3] +So I sent word to say, I would keep the whole batch in, +The same chest of tools, without cleansing or patching: +For tools of this kind, like Martinus's sconce.[4] +Would loose all their beauty if purified once; +And think--only think--if our Father should find. +Upon graciously coming again to his mind,[5] +That improvement had spoiled any favorite adviser-- +That Rose was grown honest, or Westmoreland wiser-- +That R--d--r was, even by one twinkle, the brighter-- +Or Liverpool speeches but half a pound lighter-- +What a shock to his old royal heart it would be! +No!--far were such dreams of improvement from me: +And it pleased me to find, at the House, where, you know,[6] +There's such good mutton cutlets, and strong curaçoa,[7] +That the Marchioness called me a duteous old boy, +And my Yarmouth's red whiskers grew redder for joy. + + You know, my dear Freddy, how oft, if I _would_, +By the law of last sessions I _might_ have done good. +I _might_ have withheld these political noodles +From knocking their heads against hot Yankee Doodles; +I _might_ have told Ireland I pitied her lot, +Might have soothed her with hope--but you know I did not. + +And my wish is, in truth, that the best of old fellows +Should not, on recovering, have cause to be jealous, +But find that while he has been laid on the shelf +We've been all of us nearly as mad as himself. +You smile at my hopes--but the Doctors and I +Are the last that can think the King _ever_ will die.[8] + + A new era's arrived[9]--tho' you'd hardly believe it-- +And all things of course must be new to receive it. +New villas, new fêtes (which even Waithman attends)-- +New saddles, new helmets, and--why not _new friends_? + + * * * * * + +I repeat it, "New Friends"--for I cannot describe +The delight I am in with this Perceval tribe. +Such capering!--Such vaporing!--Such rigor!--Such vigor! +North, South, East, and West, they have cut such a figure, +That soon they will bring the whole world round our ears, +And leave us no friends--but Old Nick and Algiers. + + When I think of the glory they've beamed on my chains, +'Tis enough quite to turn my illustrious brains. +It is true we are bankrupts in commerce and riches, +But think how we find our Allies in new breeches! +We've lost the warm hearts of the Irish, 'tis granted, +But then we've got Java, an island much wanted, +To put the last lingering few who remain, +Of the Walcheren warriors, out of their pain. +Then how Wellington fights! and how squabbles his brother! +_For_ Papists the one and _with_ Papists the other; +_One_ crushing Napoleon by taking a City, +While t'other lays waste a whole Catholic Committee. +Oh deeds of renown!--shall I boggle or flinch, +With such prospects before me? by Jove, not an inch. +No--let _England's_ affairs go to rack, if they will, +We'll look after the affairs of the _Continent_ still; +And with nothing at home but starvation and riot, +Find Lisbon in bread and keep Sicily quiet. + + I am proud to declare I have no predilections,[10] +My heart is a sieve where some scattered affections +Are just danced about for a moment or two, +And the _finer_ they are, the more sure to run thro'; +Neither feel I resentments, nor wish there should come ill +To mortal--except (now I think on't) Beau Brummel, +Who threatened last year, in a superfine passion, +To cut _me_ and bring the old King into fashion. +This is all I can lay to my conscience at present; +When such is my temper, so neutral, so pleasant, +So royally free from all troublesome feelings, +So little encumbered by faith in my dealings +(And that I'm consistent the world will allow, +What I was at Newmarket the same I am now). +When such are my merits (you know I hate cracking), +I hope, like the Vender of Best Patent Blacking, +"To meet with the generous and kind approbation +"Of a candid, enlightened, and liberal nation." + + By the by, ere I close this magnificent Letter, +(No man, except Pole, could have writ you a better,) +'Twould please me if those, whom I've humbugged so long[11] +With the notion (good men!) that I knew right from wrong, +Would a few of them join me--mind, only a few-- +To let _too_ much light in on me never would do; +But even Grey's brightness shan't make me afraid, +While I've Camden and Eldon to fly to for shade; +Nor will Holland's clear intellect do us much harm, +While there's Westmoreland near him to weaken the charm. +As for Moira's high spirit, if aught can subdue it. +Sure joining with Hertford and Yarmouth will do it! +Between R-d-r and Wharton let Sheridan sit, +And the fogs will soon quench even Sheridan's wit: +And against all the pure public feeling that glows +Even in Whitbread himself we've a Host in George Rose! +So in short if they wish to have Places, they may, +And I'll thank you to tell all these matters to Grey.[12] +Who, I doubt not, will write (as there's no time to lose) +By the twopenny post to tell Grenville the news; +And now, dearest Fred (tho' I've no predilection), +Believe me yours always with truest affection. + +P.S. A copy of this is to Perceval going[13] +Good Lord, how St. Stephen's will ring with his crowing! + + +[1] Letter from his Royal Highness the Prince Regent to the Duke of York, +Feb. 13, 1812. + +[2] "I think it hardly necessary to call your recollection to the recent +circumstances under which I assumed the authority delegated to me by +Parliament.--_Prince's Letter_. + +[3] "My sense of duty to our Royal father solely decided that choice."-- +_Ibid_. + +[4] The antique shield of Martinus Scriblerus, which, upon scouring, +turned out to be only an old sconce. + +[5] "I waived any personal gratification, in order that his Majesty might +resume, on his restoration to health, every power and prerogative," etc.-- +_Prince's Letter_. + +[6] "And I have the satisfaction of knowing that such was the opinion of +persons for whose judgment," etc--_Ibid_. + +[7] The letter-writer's favorite luncheon. + +[8] I certainly am the last person in the kingdom to whom it can be +permitted to despair of our royal father's recovery."--_Prince's +Letter_. + +[9] "A new era is now arrived, and I cannot but reflect with +satisfaction," etc.--_Ibid_. + +[10] "I have no predilections to indulge,--no resentments to gratify."-- +_Prince's Letter_. + +[11] "I cannot conclude without expressing the gratification I should feel +if some of those persons with whom the early habits of my public life were +formed would strengthen my hands, and constitute a part of my +government"-- +_Prince's Letter_. + +[12] "You are authorized to communicate these sentiments to Lord Grey, +who, I have no doubt, will make them known to Lord Grenville."-- +_Prince's Letter_. + +[13] "I shall send a copy of this letter immediately to Mr. Perceval."- +_Prince's Letter_. + + + + + + +ANACREONTIC + +TO A PLUMASSIER. + + +Fine and feathery artisan, +Best of Plumists (if you can +With your art so far presume) +Make for me a Prince's Plume-- +Feathers soft and feathers rare, +Such as suits a Prince to wear. + + First thou downiest of men, +Seek me out a fine Pea-hen; +Such a Hen, so tall and grand, +As by Juno's side might stand, +If there were no cocks at hand. +Seek her feathers, soft as down, +Fit to shine on Prince's crown; +If thou canst not find them, stupid! +Ask the way of Prior's Cupid. + +Ranging these in order due, +Pluck me next an old Cuckoo; +Emblem of the happy fates +Of easy, kind, cornuted mates. +Pluck him well--be sure you do-- +_Who_ wouldn’t be an old Cuckoo, +Thus to have his plumage blest, +Beaming on a Royal crest? + + Bravo, Plumist!--now what bird +Shall we find for Plume the third? +You must get a learned Owl, +Bleakest of black-letter fowl-- +Bigot bird that hates the light,[1] +Foe to all that's fair and bright. +Seize his quills, (so formed to pen +Books[2] that shun the search of men; +Books that, far from every eye, +In "sweltered venom sleeping" lie,) +Stick them in between the two, +Proud Pea-hen and Old Cuckoo. +Now you have the triple feather, +Bind the kindred stems together +With a silken tie whose hue +Once was brilliant Buff and Blue; +Sullied now--alas, how much! +Only fit for Yarmouth's touch. + + There--enough--thy task is done; +Present, worthy George's Son; +Now, beneath, in letters neat, +Write "I SERVE," and all's complete. + + +[1] Perceval. + +[2] In allusion to "the Book" which created such a sensation at that +period. + + + + + + +EXTRACTS + +FROM THE DIARY OF A POLITICIAN. + + +_Wednesday_. + +Thro' Manchester Square took a canter just now-- +Met the _old yellow chariot_[1] and made a low bow. +This I did, of course, thinking 'twas loyal and civil, +But got such a look--oh! 'twas black as the devil! +How unlucky!--_incog_. he was travelling about, +And I like a noodle, must go find him out. +_Mem_.--when next by the old yellow chariot I ride, +To remember there _is_ nothing princely inside. + +_Thursday_. + +At Levee to-day made another sad blunder-- +What _can_ be come over me lately, I wonder? +The Prince was as cheerful as if all his life +He had never been troubled with Friends or a Wife-- +"Fine weather," says he--to which I, who _must_ prate, +Answered, "Yes, Sir, but _changeable_ rather, of late." +He took it, I fear, for he lookt somewhat gruff, +And handled his new pair of whiskers so rough, +That before all the courtiers I feared they'd come off, +And then, Lord, how Geramb[2] would triumphantly scoff! + +_Mem_.--to buy for son Dicky some unguent or lotion +To nourish his whiskers--sure road to promotion![3] + +_Saturday_. + +Last night a Concert--vastly gay-- +Given by Lady Castlereagh. +My Lord loves music, and we know +Has "two strings always to his bow."[4] +In choosing songs, the Regent named +"_Had I a heart for falsehood framed_." +While gentle Hertford begged and prayed +For "_Young I am and sore afraid_." + + +[1] The _incog_. vehicle of the Prince. + +[2] Baron Geramb, the rival of his R. H. in whiskers. + +[3] England is not the only country where merit of this kind is noticed +and rewarded. "I remember," says Tavernier, "to have seen one of the King +of Persia's porters, whose mustaches were so long that he could tie them +behind his neck, for which reason he had a double pension." + +[4] A rhetorical figure used by Lord Castlereagh, in one of his speeches. + + + + + + +EPIGRAM. + + +What news to-day?--"Oh! worse and worse-- +"Mac[1] is the Prince's Privy Purse!"-- +The Prince's _Purse_! no, no, you fool, +You mean the Prince's _Ridicule_. + + +[1] Colonel M'Mahon. + + + + + + +KING CRACK[1] AND HIS IDOLS. + +WRITTEN AFTER THE LATE NEGOTIATION FOR A NEW MINISTRY. + + +King Crack was the best of all possible Kings, + (At least, so his Courtiers would swear to you gladly,) +But Crack now and then would do heterodox things, + And at last took to worshipping _Images_ sadly. + +Some broken-down Idols, that long had been placed + In his father's old _Cabinet_, pleased him so much, +That he knelt down and worshipt, tho'--such was his taste!-- + They were monstrous to look at and rotten to touch. + +And these were the beautiful Gods of King Crack!-- + But his People disdaining to worship such things +Cried aloud, one and all, "Come, your Godships must pack-- + "You'll not do for _us_, tho' you _may_ do for _Kings_." + +Then trampling these images under their feet, + They sent Crack a petition, beginning "Great Caesar! +"We're willing to worship; but only entreat + "That you'll find us some _decenter_ godheads than these are." + +"I'll try," says King Crack--so they furnisht him models + Of better shaped Gods but he sent them all back; +Some were chiselled too fine, some had heads stead of noddles, + In short they were all _much_ too godlike for Crack. + +So he took to his darling old Idols again, + And just mending their legs and new bronzing their faces, +In open defiance of Gods and of man, + Set the monsters up grinning once more in their places. + +[1] One of these antediluvian Princes, with whom Manetho and Whiston seem +so intimately acquainted. If we had the Memoirs of Thoth, from which +Manetho compiled his History, we should find, I dare say, that Crack was +only a Regent, and that he, perhaps, succeeded Typhon, who (as Whiston +says) was the last King of the Antediluvian Dynasty. + + + + + + +WHAT'S MY THOUGHT LIKE? + + +_Quest_. Why is a Pump like Viscount Castlereagh? +_Answ_. Because it is a slender thing of wood, + That up and down its awkward arm doth sway, + And coolly spout and spout and spout away, +In one weak, washy, everlasting flood! + + + + + + +EPIGRAM. + +DIALOGUE BETWEEN A CATHOLIC DELEGATE AND +HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF CUMBERLAND. + + +Said his Highness to Ned,[1] with that grim face of his, + "Why refuse us the _Veto_, dear Catholic Neddy?" +"Because, Sir," said Ned, looking full in his phiz, + "You're forbidding enough, in all conscience, already!" + + +[1] Edward Byrne the head of the Delegates of the Irish Catholics. + + + + + + +WREATHS FOR THE MINISTERS. + +AN ANACREONTIC. + + +Hither, Flora, Queen of Flowers! +Haste thee from old Brompton's bowers-- +Or, (if sweeter that abode) +From the King's well-odored Road, +Where each little nursery bud +Breathes the dust and quaffs the mud. +Hither come and gayly twine +Brightest herbs and flowers of thine +Into wreaths for those who rule us, +Those who rule and (some say) fool us-- +Flora, sure, will love to please +England's Household Deities![1] + + First you must then, willy-nilly, +Fetch me many an orange lily-- +Orange of the darkest dye +Irish Gifford can supply;-- +Choose me out the longest sprig, +And stick it in old Eldon's wig. + + Find me next a Poppy posy, +Type of his harangues so dozy, +Garland gaudy, dull and cool, +To crown the head of Liverpool. +'Twill console his brilliant brows +For that loss of laurel boughs, +Which they suffered (what a pity!) +On the road to Paris City. + + Next, our Castlereagh to crown, +Bring me from the County Down, +Withered Shamrocks which have been +Gilded o'er to hide the green-- +(Such as Headfort brought away +From Pall-Mall last Patrick's Day)[2]-- +Stitch the garland thro' and thro' +With shabby threads _of every hue_-- +And as, Goddess!--_entre nous_-- +His Lordship loves (tho' best of men) +A little _torture_ now and then, +Crimp the leaves, thou first of Syrens, +Crimp them with thy curling-irons. + + That's enough--away, away-- +Had I leisure, I could say +How the _oldest rose_ that grows +Must be pluckt to deck Old Rose-- +How the Doctor's[3] brow should smile +Crowned with wreaths of camomile. +But time presses--to thy taste +I leave the rest, so, prithee, haste! + + +[1] The ancients, in like manner, crowned their Lares, or +Household Gods. + +[2] Certain tinsel imitations of the Shamrock which are +distributed by the Servants of Carleton House every Patrick's Day. + +[3] The _sobriquet_ given to Lord Sidmouth. + + + + + + +EPIGRAM. + +DIALOGUE BETWEEN A DOWAGER AND HER MAID ON THE NIGHT OF LORD YARMOUTH'S +FETE. + + +"I want the Court Guide," said my lady, "to look + "If the House, Seymour Place, be at 30. or 20."-- +"We've lost the _Court Guide_, Ma'am, but here's _the Red Book_. + "Where you'll find, I dare say, Seymour _Places_ in plenty!" + + + + + + +HORACE, ODE XI. LIB. II. + +FREELY TRANSLATED BY THE PRINCE REGENT.[1] + + +Come, Yarmouth, my boy, never trouble your brains, + About what your old crony, + The Emperor Boney, +Is doing or brewing on Muscovy's plains; + +Nor tremble, my lad, at the state of our granaries: + Should there come famine, + Still plenty to cram in +You always shall have, my dear Lord of the Stannaries. + +Brisk let us revel, while revel we may; +For the gay bloom of fifty soon passes away, + And then people get fat, + And infirm, and--all that, +And a wig (I confess it) so clumsily sits, +That it frightens the little Loves out of their wits; + +Thy whiskers, too, Yarmouth!--alas, even they, + Tho' so rosy they burn, + Too quickly must turn +(What a heart-breaking change for thy whiskers!) to Grey. + +Then why, my Lord Warden, oh! why should you fidget + Your mind about matters you don’t understand? +Or why should you write yourself down for an idiot, + Because "_you_," forsooth, "_have the pen in your hand_!" + + Think, think how much better + Than scribbling a letter, + (Which both you and I + Should avoid by the by,) +How much pleasanter 'tis to sit under the bust + Of old Charley,[2] my friend here, and drink like a new one; + +While Charley looks sulky and frowns at me, just + As the Ghost in the Pantomime frowns at Don Juan. + To Crown us, Lord Warden, + In Cumberland's garden +Grows plenty of _monk's hood_ in venomous sprigs: + While Otto of Roses + Refreshing all noses +Shall sweetly exhale from our + whiskers and wigs. + +What youth of the Household will cool our Noyau + In that streamlet delicious, + That down midst the dishes, + All full of gold fishes, + Romantic doth flow?-- + Or who will repair +Unto Manchester Square, +And see if the gentle _Marchesa_ be there? + + Go--bid her haste hither, + And let her bring with her +The newest No-Popery Sermon that's going-- +Oh! let her come, with her dark tresses flowing, +All gentle and juvenile, curly and gay, +In the manner of--Ackerman's Dresses for May! + + +[1] This and the following are extracted from a Work, which may, some time +or other, meet the eye of the Public--entitled "Odes of Horace, done into +English by several Persons of Fashion." + +[2] Charles Fox. + + + + + + +HORACE, ODE XXII. LIB. I. + +FREELY TRANSLATED BY LORD ELDON. + + +The man who keeps a conscience pure, + (If not his own, at least his Prince's,) +Thro' toil and danger walks secure, + Looks big and black and never winces. + +No want has he of sword or dagger, + Cockt hat or ringlets of Geramb; +Tho' Peers may laugh and Papists swagger, + He doesn’t care one single damn. + +Whether midst Irish chairmen going. + Or thro' St. Giles's alleys dim, +Mid drunken Sheelahs, blasting, blowing, + No matter, 'tis all one to him. + +For instance, I, one evening late, + Upon a gay vacation sally, +Singing the praise of Church and State, + Got (God knows how) to Cranbourne Alley. + +When lo! an Irish Papist darted + Across my path, gaunt, grim, and big-- +I did but frown and off he started, + Scared at me even without my wig. + +Yet a more fierce and raw-boned dog + Goes not to Mass in Dublin City, +Nor shakes his brogue o'er Allen's Bog, + Nor spouts in Catholic Committee. + +Oh! place me midst O'Rourkes, O'Tooles, + The ragged royal-blood of Tara; +Or place me where Dick Martin rules + The houseless wilds of Connemara;[1] + +Of Church and State I'll warble still, + Though even Dick Martin's self should grumble; +Sweet Church and State, like Jack and Jill, +So lovingly upon a hill-- + Ah! ne'er like Jack and Jill to tumble![2] + + +[1] I must here remark, that the said Dick Martin being a very good +fellow, it was not at all fair to make a "_malus Jupiter_" of him. + +[2] There cannot be imagined a more happy illustration of the +inseparability of Church and State, and their (what is called) "standing +and falling together," than this ancient apologue of Jack and Jill. Jack, +of course, represents the State in this ingenious little Allegory. + + Jack fell down, + And broke his _Crown_, + And Jill came tumbling after. + + + + + + +THE NEW COSTUME OF THE MINISTERS. + + + --_nova monstra creavit_. + OVID. "_Metamorph_." 1. i. v. 417. + + +Having sent off the troops of brave Major Camac, +With a swinging horse-tail at each valorous back. +And such helmets, God bless us! as never deckt any +Male creature before, except Signor Giovanni-- +"Let's see," said the Regent (like Titus, perplext +With the duties of empire,) "whom _shall_ I dress next?" + + He looks in the glass--but perfection is there, +Wig, whiskers, and chin-tufts all right to a hair;[1] +Not a single _ex_-curl on his forehead he traces-- +For curls are like Ministers, strange as the case is, +The _falser_ they are, the more firm in their places. +His coat he next views--but the coat who could doubt? +For his Yarmouth's own Frenchified hand cut it out; +Every pucker and seam were made matters of state, +And a Grand Household Council was held on each plait. + + Then whom shall he dress? shall he new-rig his brother, +Great Cumberland's Duke, with some kickshaw or other? +And kindly invent him more Christianlike shapes +For his feather-bed neckcloths and pillory capes. +Ah! no--here his ardor would meet with delays, +For the Duke had been lately packt up in new Stays, +So complete for the winter, he saw very plain +'Twould be devilish hard work to _un_pack him again. + + So what's to be done?--there's the Ministers, bless 'em!-- +As he _made_ the puppets, why shouldn’t he _dress_ 'em? +"An excellent thought!--call the tailors--be nimble-- +"Let Cum bring his spy-glass, and Hertford her thimble; +"While Yarmouth shall give us, in spite of all quizzers, +"The last Paris cut with his true Gallic scissors." + + So saying, he calls Castlereagh and the rest +Of his heaven-born statesmen, to come and be drest. +While Yarmouth, with snip-like and brisk expedition, +Cuts up all at once a large Catholic Petition +In long tailors' measures, (the Prince crying "Well-done!") +And first _puts in hand_ my Lord Chancellor Eldon. + + +[1] That model of Princes, the Emperor Commodus, was particularly +luxurious in the dressing and ornamenting of his hair. His conscience, +however, would not suffer him to trust himself with a barber, and he used, +accordingly, to burn off his beard. + + + + + + +CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN A LADY AND GENTLEMAN, + +UPON THE ADVANTAGE OF (WHAT IS CALLED) "HAVING LAW[1] ON ONE'S SIDE." + + +_The Gentleman's Proposal_. + + _Legge aurea, + S'ei piace, ei lice_." + +Come fly to these arms nor let beauties so bloomy + To one frigid owner be tied; +Your prudes may revile and your old ones look gloomy, + But, dearest, we've _Law_ on our side. + +Oh! think the delight of two lovers congenial, + Whom no dull decorums divide; +Their error how sweet and their raptures how _venial_, + When once they've got Law on their side. + +'Tis a thing that in every King's reign has been done too: + Then why should it now be decried? +If the Father has done it why shouldn’t the Son too? + For so argues Law on our side. + +And even should our sweet violation of duty + By cold-blooded jurors be tried, +They can _but_ bring it in "misfortune," my beauty, + As long as we've Law on our side. + +_The Lady's Answer_. + +Hold, hold, my good Sir, go a little more slowly; + For grant me so faithless a bride, +Such sinners as we, are a little too _lovely_, + To hope to have Law on our side. + +Had you been a great Prince, to whose star shining o'er 'em + The People should look for their guide, +Then your Highness (and welcome!) might kick down decorum-- + You'd always have Law on your side. + +Were you even an old Marquis, in mischief grown hoary, + Whose heart tho' it long ago died +To the _pleasures_ of vice, is alive to its _glory_-- + You still would have Law on your side. + +But for _you_, Sir, Crim. Con. is a path full of troubles; + By _my_ advice therefore abide, +And leave the pursuit to those Princes and Nobles + Who have _such_ a _Law_ on their side. + + +[1] In allusion to Lord Ellenborough. + + + + + + +OCCASIONAL ADDRESS + +FOR THE OPENING OF THE NEW THEATRE OF ST. STEPHEN, + +INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN BY THE PROPRIETOR IN FULL COSTUME, ON THE +24TH OF NOVEMBER, 1812. + + +This day a New House for your edification +We open, most thinking and right-headed nation! +Excuse the materials--tho' rotten and bad, +They're the best that for money just now could be had; +And if _echo_ the charm of such houses should be, +You will find it shall echo my speech to a T. + + As for actors, we've got the old Company yet, +The same motley, odd, tragicomical set; +And considering they all were but clerks t'other day, +It is truly surprising how well they can play. +Our Manager,[1] (he who in Ulster was nurst, +And sung _Erin go Bragh_ for the galleries first, +But on finding _Pitt_-interest a much better thing, +Changed his note of a sudden to _God save the King_,) +Still wise as he's blooming and fat as he's clever, +Himself and his speeches as _lengthy_ as ever. +Here offers you still the full use of his breath, +Your devoted and long-winded proser till death. + + You remember last season, when things went perverse on. +We had to engage (as a block to rehearse on) +One Mr. Vansittart, a good sort of person, +Who's also employed for this season to play, +In "Raising the Wind," and "the Devil to Pay."[2] +We expect too--at least we've been plotting and planning-- +To get that great actor from Liverpool, Canning; +And, as at the Circus there's nothing attracts +Like a good _single combat_ brought in 'twixt the acts, +If the Manager should, with the help of Sir Popham, +Get up new _diversions_ and Canning should stop 'em, +Who knows but we'll have to announce in the papers, +"Grand fight--second time--with additional capers." + + Be your taste for the ludicrous, humdrum, or sad, +There is plenty of each in this House to be had. +Where our Manager ruleth, there weeping will be, +For a _dead hand at tragedy_ always was he; +And there never was dealer in dagger and cup, +Who so _smilingly_ got all his tragedies up. +His powers poor Ireland will never forget, +And the widows of Walcheren weep o'er them yet. + + So much for the actors;--for secret machinery, +Traps, and deceptions, and shifting of scenery, +Yarmouth and Cum are the best we can find, +To transact all that trickery business behind. +The former's employed too to teach us French jigs, +Keep the whiskers in curl and look after the wigs. + + In taking my leave now, I've only to say, +A few _Seats in the House_, not as yet sold away, +May be had of the Manager, Pat Castlereagh. + + +[1] Lord Castlereagh. + +[2] He had recently been appointed Chancellor of the Exchequer. + + + + + + +THE SALE OF THE TOOLS. + + + _Instrumenta regni_.--TACITUS. + + +Here's a choice set of Tools for you, Ge'mmen and Ladies, +They'll fit you quite handy, whatever your trade is; +(Except it be _Cabinet-making_;--no doubt, +In that delicate service they're rather worn out; +Tho' their owner, bright youth! if he'd had his own will, +Would have bungled away with them joyously still.) +You see they've been pretty well _hackt_--and alack! +What tool is there job after job will not hack? +Their edge is but dullish it must be confest, +And their temper, like Ellenborough's, none of the best; +But you'll find them good hardworking Tools, upon trying, +Were't but for their _brass_ they are well worth the buying; +They're famous for making _blinds_, _sliders_, and _screens_, +And are some of them excellent _turning_ machines. + + The first Tool I'll put up (they call it a _Chancellor_), +Heavy concern to both purchaser _and_ seller. +Tho' made of pig iron yet worthy of note 'tis, +'Tis ready to _melt_ at a half minute's notice.[1] +Who bids? Gentle buyer! 'twill turn as thou shapest; +'Twill make a good thumb-screw to torture a Papist; +Or else a cramp-iron to stick in the wall +Of some church that old women are fearful will fall; +Or better, perhaps, (for I'm guessing at random,) +A heavy _drag-chain_ for some Lawyer's old _Tandem_. +Will nobody bid? It is cheap, I am sure, Sir-- +Once, twice,--going, going,--thrice, gone!--it is yours, Sir. +To pay ready money you sha'n't be distrest, +As a _bill_ at _long date_ suits the Chancellor best. + + Come, where's the next Tool?-- +Oh! 'tis here in a trice-- +This implement, Ge'mmen, at first was a _Vice_; +(A tenacious and close sort of tool that will let +Nothing out of its grasp it once happens to get;) +But it since has received a new coating of _Tin_, +Bright enough for a Prince to behold himself in. +Come, what shall we say for it? briskly! bid on, +We'll the sooner get rid of it--going--quite gone. +God be with it, such tools, if not quickly knockt down, +Might at last cost their owner--how much? why, a _Crown_! + + The next Tool I'll set up has hardly had handsel or +Trial as yet and is _also_ a Chancellor-- +Such dull things as these should be sold by the gross; +Yet, dull as it is, 'twill be found to _shave close_, +And like _other_ close shavers, some courage to gather, +This _blade_ first began by a flourish on _leather_.[2] +You shall have it for nothing--then, marvel with me +At the terrible _tinkering_ work there must be, +Where a Tool such as this is (I'll leave you to judge it) +Is placed by ill luck at the top of _the Budget_! + + +[1] An allusion to Lord Eldon's lachrymose tendencies. + +[2] Of the taxes proposed by Mr. Vansittart, that principally +opposed in Parliament was the additional duty on leather."--_Ann. +Register_. + + + + + + +LITTLE MAN AND LITTLE SOUL. + +A BALLAD. + +_To the tune of "There was a little man, and he wooed a little +maid."_ + +DEDICATED TO THE RT. HON. CHARLES ABBOT. + + + _arcades ambo et cantare pares_ + + +1813. + + +There was a little Man and he had a little Soul, +And he said, "Little Soul, let us try, try, try. + "Whether it's within our reach + "To make up a little Speech, +"Just between little you and little I, I, I, + "Just between little you and little I!" + + Then said his little Soul, + Peeping from her little hole, +"I protest, little Man, you are stout, stout, stout, + "But, if it's not uncivil, + "Pray tell me what the devil, +"Must our little, little speech be about, bout, bout, + "Must our little, little speech be about?" + + The little Man lookt big, + With the assistance of his wig, +And he called his little Soul to order, order, order, + Till she feared he'd make her jog in + To jail, like Thomas Croggan, +(As she wasn't Duke or Earl) to reward her, ward her, ward her, + As she wasn't Duke or Earl, to reward her. + + The little Man then spoke, + "Little Soul, it is no joke, +"For as sure as Jacky Fuller loves a sup, sup, sup, + "I will tell the Prince and People + "What I think of Church and Steeple. +"And my little patent plan to prop them up, up, up, + "And my little patent plan to prop them up." + + Away then, cheek by jowl, + Little Man and little Soul +Went and spoke their little speech to a tittle, tittle, tittle, + And the world all declare + That this priggish little pair +Never yet in all their lives lookt so little, little, little. + Never yet in all their lives lookt so little! + + + + + + +REINFORCEMENTS FOR LORD WELLINGTON. + + + _suosque tibi commendat, Troja Penates hos cape fatorum comites_. + VERGIL. + + +1813. + + +As recruits in these times are not easily got +And the Marshal _must_ have them--pray, why should we not, +As the last and, I grant it, the worst of our loans to him, +Ship off the Ministry, body and bones to him? +There's not in all England, I'd venture to swear, +Any men we could half so conveniently spare; +And tho' they've been helping the French for years past, +We may thus make them useful to England at last. +Castlereagh in our sieges might save some disgraces, +Being used to the _taking_ and _keeping_ of _places_; +And Volunteer Canning, still ready for joining, +Might show off his talent for sly _under-mining_. +Could the Household but spare us its glory and pride, +Old Headfort at _horn-works_ again might be tried, +And as Chief Justice make a _bold charge_ at his side: +While Vansittart could victual the troops _upon tick_, +And the Doctor look after the baggage and sick. + + Nay, I do not see why the great Regent himself +Should in times such as these stay at home on the shelf: +Tho' thro' narrow defiles he's not fitted to pass, +Yet who could resist, if he bore down _en masse_? +And tho' oft of an evening perhaps he might prove, +Like our Spanish confederates, "unable to move,"[1] +Yet there's _one_ thing in war of advantage unbounded, +Which is, that he could not with ease be _surrounded_. + + In my next I shall sing of their arms and equipment: +At present no more, but--good luck to the shipment! + + +[1] The character given to the Spanish soldier, in Sir John +Murray's memorable despatch. + + + + + + +HORACE, ODE I. LIB. III. + +A FRAGMENT. + + + _odi profanum, valgus et arceo; + favete linguis: carmina non prius + audila Musarum sacerdos + virginibus puerisque canto. + regum timendorum in proprios greges, + reges in ipsos imperium est Jovis_. + + +1813. + + +I hate thee, oh, Mob, as my Lady hates delf; + To Sir Francis I'll give up thy claps and thy hisses, +Leave old Magna Charta to shift for itself, + And, like Godwin, write books for young masters and misses. +Oh! it _is_ not high rank that can make the heart merry, + Even monarchs themselves are not free from mishap: +Tho' the Lords of Westphalia must quake before Jerry, + Poor Jerry himself has to quake before Nap. + + + + + + +HORACE, ODE XXXVIII. LIB. I. + +A FRAGMENT. + + + _persico odi, puer, adparatus; + displicent nexae philyra coronae;_ + mitte sectari, _Rosa_ quo locorum + sera moretur. + + +TRANSLATED BY A TREASURY CLERK, WHILE WAITING DINNER FOR THE RIGHT HON. +GEORGE ROBE. + + +Boy, tell the Cook that I hate all nicknackeries. +Fricassees, vol-au-vents, puffs, and gim-crackeries-- +Six by the Horse-Guards!--old Georgy is late-- +But come--lay the table-cloth--zounds! do not wait, +Nor stop to inquire, while the dinner is staying, +At which of his places Old Rose is delaying! + + * * * * * + + + + + + +IMPROMPTU. + +UPON BEING OBLIGED TO LEAVE A PLEASANT PARTY, FROM THE WANT OF A PAIR OF +BREECHES TO DRESS FOR DINNER IN. + +1810. + + +Between Adam and me the great difference is, + Tho' a paradise each has been forced to resign, +That he never wore breeches, till turned out of his, + While for want of my breeches, I'm banisht from mine. + + + + + + +LORD WELLINGTON AND THE MINISTERS. + +1813. + + +So gently in peace Alcibiades smiled, + While in battle he shone forth so terribly grand, +That the emblem they graved on his seal, was a child + With a thunderbolt placed in its innocent hand. + +Oh Wellington, long as such Ministers wield +Your magnificent arm, the same emblem will do; +For while _they_'re in the Council and _you_ in the Field. +We've the _babies_ in _them_, and the _thunder_ in _you_! + + + + +The following trifles, having enjoyed in their circulation through the +newspapers all the celebrity and length of life to which they were +entitled, would have been suffered to pass quietly into oblivion without +pretending to any further distinction, had they not already been +published, in a collective form, both in London and Paris, and, in each +case, been mixed up with a number of other productions, to which, whatever +may be their merit, the author of the following pages has no claim. A +natural desire to separate his own property, worthless as it is, from that +of others, is, he begs to say, the chief motive of the publication of this +volume. + + + + + + +TO SIR HUDSON LOWE. + + + _effare causam nominis, + utrumne mores hoc tui + nomen dedere, an nomen hoc + secuta morum regula_. AUSONIUS. + + +1816. + + + Sir Hudson Lowe, Sir Hudson _Low_, +(By name, and ah! by nature so) + As thou art fond of persecutions, +Perhaps thou'st read, or heard repeated, +How Captain Gulliver was treated, + When thrown among the Lilliputians. + +They tied him down--these little men did-- +And having valiantly ascended + Upon the Mighty Man's protuberance, +They did so strut!--upon my soul, +It must have been extremely droll + To see their pigmy pride's exuberance! + +And how the doughty mannikins +Amused themselves with sticking pins + And needles in the great man's breeches: +And how some _very_ little things, +That past for Lords, on scaffoldings + Got up and worried him with speeches, + +Alas, alas! that it should happen +To mighty men to be caught napping!-- + Tho' different too these persecutions; +For Gulliver, _there_, took the nap, +While, _here_, the _Nap_, oh sad mishap, + Is taken by the Lilliputians! + + + + + + +AMATORY COLLOQUY BETWEEN BANK AND GOVERNMENT. + +1826. + + +BANK. + +Is all then forgotten? those amorous pranks + You and I in our youth, my dear Government, played; +When you called me the fondest, the truest of Banks, + And enjoyed the endearing _advances_ I made! + +When left to ourselves, unmolested and free, + To do all that a dashing young couple should do, +A law against _paying_ was laid upon me, + But none against _owing_, dear helpmate, on you. + +And is it then vanisht?--that "hour (as Othello + So happily calls it) of Love and _Direction_?" +And must we, like other fond doves, my dear fellow, + Grow good in our old age and cut the connection? + +GOVERNMENT. + +Even so, my beloved Mrs. Bank, it must be; + This paying in cash plays the devil with wooing: +We've both had our swing, but I plainly foresee + There must soon be a stop to our _bill_ing and cooing. + +Propagation in reason--a small child or two-- + Even Reverend Malthus himself is a friend to; +The issue of some folks is moderate and few-- + But _ours_, my dear corporate Bank, there's no end to! + +So--hard tho' it be on a pair, who've already + Disposed of so many pounds, shillings and pence; +And in spite of that pink of prosperity, Freddy,[1] + So lavish of cash and so sparing of sense-- + +The day is at hand, my Papyria[2] Venus, + When--high as we once used to carry our capers-- +Those soft _billet-doux_ we're now passing between us, + Will serve but to keep Mrs. Coutts in curl-papers: + +And when--if we _still_ must continue our love, + (After all that has past)--our amour, it is clear, +Like that which Miss Danäe managed with Jove, + Must all be transacted in _bullion_, my dear! + +_February, 1826_. + + +[1] Honorable Fredrick Robinson. + +[2] So called, to distinguish her from the Aure or _Golden_ Venus. + + + + + + +DIALOGUE BETWEEN A SOVEREIGN AND A ONE POUND NOTE. + + + _"o ego non felix, quam tu fugis, ut pavet acres + agna lupos, capreaeque leones."_--HOR. + + + Said a Sovereign to a Note, + In the pocket of his coat, +Where they met in a neat purse of leather, + "How happens it, I prithee, + "That, tho' I'm wedded _with_ thee, +"Fair Pound, we can never live together? + + "Like your sex, fond of _change_ + "With Silver you can range, +"And of lots of young sixpences be mother; + "While with _me_--upon my word, + "Not my Lady and my Lord +"Of Westmouth see so little of each other!" + + The indignant Note replied + (Lying crumpled by his side), +"Shame, shame, it is _yourself_ that roam, Sir-- + "One cannot look askance, + "But, whip! you're off to France, +"Leaving nothing but old rags at home, Sir. + + "Your scampering began + "From the moment Parson Van, +"Poor man, made us _one_ in Love's fetter; + "'For better or for worse' + "Is the usual marriage curse, +"But ours is all 'worse' and no 'better.' + + "In vain are laws past, + "There's nothing holds you fast, +"Tho' you know, sweet Sovereign, I adore you-- + "At the smallest hint in life, + "You forsake your lawful wife, +"As _other_ Sovereigns did before you. + + "I flirt with Silver, true-- + "But what can ladies do, +"When disowned by their natural protectors? + "And as to falsehood, stuff! + "I shall soon be _false_ enough, +"When I get among those wicked Bank Directors." + + The Sovereign, smiling on her, + Now swore upon his honor, +To be henceforth domestic and loyal; + But, within an hour or two, + Why--I sold him to a Jew, +And he's now at No. 10, Palais Royal. + + + + + + +AN EXPOSTULATION TO LORD KING. + + + _"quem das finem, rex magne, laborum?"_ + VERGIL. + + +1826. + + +How _can_ you, my Lord, thus delight to torment all + The Peers of the realm about cheapening their corn,[1] +When you know, if one hasn't a very high rental, + 'Tis hardly worth while being very high born? + +Why bore them so rudely, each night of your life, + On a question, my Lord, there's so much to abhor in? +A question-like asking one, "How is your wife?"-- + At once so confounded _domestic_ and _foreign_. + +As to weavers, no matter how poorly they feast; + But Peers and such animals, fed up for show, +(Like the well-physickt elephant, lately deceased,) + Take a wonderful quantum of cramming, you know. + +You might see, my dear Baron, how bored and distrest + Were their high noble hearts by your merciless tale, +When the force of the agony wrung even a jest + From the frugal Scotch wit of my Lord Lauderdale![2] + +Bright Peer! to whom Nature and Berwickshire gave + A humor endowed with effects so provoking, +That when the whole House looks unusually grave + You may always conclude that Lord Lauderdale's joking! + +And then, those unfortunate weavers of Perth-- + Not to know the vast difference Providence dooms +Between weavers of Perth and Peers of high birth, + 'Twixt those who have _heir_looms, and those who've but looms! + +"To talk _now_ of starving!"--as great Athol said[3]-- + (And the nobles all cheered and the bishops all wondered,) +"When some years ago he and others had fed + "Of these same hungry devils about fifteen hundred!" + +It follows from hence--and the Duke's very words + Should be publisht wherever poor rogues of this craft are-- +That weavers, _once_ rescued from starving by Lords, + Are bound to be starved by said Lords ever after. + +When Rome was uproarious, her knowing patricians + Made "Bread and the Circus" a cure for each _row_; +But not so the plan of _our_ noble physicians, + "No Bread and the Treadmill,"'s the regimen now. + +So cease, my dear Baron of Ockham, your prose, + As I shall my poetry--_neither_ convinces; +And all we have spoken and written but shows, + When you tread on a nobleman's _corn_,[4] +how he winces. + + +[1] See the proceedings of the Lords, Wednesday, March 1, 1826, +when Lord King was severely reproved by several of the noble Peers, for +making so many speeches against the Corn Laws. + +[2] This noble Earl said, that "when he heard the petition came +from ladies' boot and shoe-makers, he thought it must be against the +'corns' which they inflicted on the fair sex." + +[3] The Duke of Athol said, that "at a former period, when these +weavers were in great distress, the landed interest of Perth had supported +1500 of them, it was a poor return for these very men now to petition +against the persons who had fed them." + +[4] An improvement, we flatter ourselves, on Lord L.'s joke. + + + + + + +THE SINKING FUND CRIED. + + + "Now what, we ask, is become of this Sinking Fund--these eight + millions of surplus above expenditure, which were to reduce the + interest of the national debt by the amount of four hundred thousand + pounds annually? Where, indeed, is the Sinking Fund itself?" + --_The Times_. + + + Take your bell, take your bell, + Good Crier, and tell +To the Bulls and the Bears, till their ears are stunned, + That, lost or stolen, + Or fallen thro' a hole in +The Treasury floor, is the Sinking Fund! + + O yes! O yes! + Can anybody guess +What the deuce has become of this Treasury wonder? + It has Pitt's name on't, + All brass, in the front, +And Robinson's scrawled with a goose-quill under. + + Folks well knew what + Would soon be its lot, +When Frederick and Jenky set hob-nobbing,[1] + And said to each other, + "Suppose, dear brother, +"We make this funny old Fund worth robbing." + + We are come, alas! + To a very pretty pass-- +Eight Hundred Millions of score, to pay, + + With but Five in the till, + To discharge the bill, +And even that Five, too, whipt away! + + Stop thief! stop thief!-- + From the Sub to the Chief, +These _Gemmen_ of Finance are plundering cattle-- + Call the watch--call Brougham, + Tell Joseph Hume, +That best of Charleys, to spring his rattle. + + Whoever will bring + This aforesaid thing +To the well-known House of Robinson and Jenkin, + Shall be paid, with thanks, + In the notes of banks, +Whose Funds have all learned "the Art of Sinking." + + O yes! O yes! + Can anybody guess +What the devil has become of this Treasury wonder? + It has Pitt's name on't, + All brass, in the front, +And Robinson's, scrawled with a goose-quill under. + + +[1] In 1824, when the Sinking Fund was raised by the imposition of new +taxes to the sum of five millions. + + + + + + +ODE TO THE GODDESS CERES. + +BY SIR THOMAS LETHBRIDGE. + + + "legiferoe Cereri Phoeboque."--VERGIL. + + +Dear Goddess of Corn whom the ancients, we know, + (Among other odd whims of those comical bodies,) +Adorned with somniferous poppies to show + Thou wert always a true Country-gentleman's Goddess. + +Behold in his best shooting-jacket before thee + An eloquent 'Squire, who most humbly beseeches. +Great Queen of Mark-lane (if the thing doesn’t bore thee), + Thou'lt read o'er the last of his--_never_-last speeches. + +Ah! Ceres, thou knowest not the slander and scorn + Now heapt upon England's 'Squirearchy, so boasted; +Improving on Hunt,[1] 'tis no longer the Corn, + 'Tis the _growers_ of Corn that are now, alas! roasted. + +In speeches, in books, in all shapes they attack us-- + Reviewers, economists--fellows no doubt +That you, my dear Ceres and Venus and Bacchus + And Gods of high fashion, know little about. + +There's Bentham, whose English is all his own making,-- + Who thinks just as little of settling a nation +As he would of smoking his pipe or of taking + (What he himself calls) his "postprandial vibration."[2] + +There are two Mr. Mills to whom those that love reading + Thro' all that's unreadable call very clever;-- +And whereas Mill Senior makes war on _good_ breeding, + Mill Junior makes war on all _breeding_ whatever! + +In short, my dear Goddess, old England's divided + Between _ultra_ blockheads and superfine sages;-- +With _which_ of these classes we landlords have sided + Thou'lt find in my Speech if thou'lt read a few pages. + +For therein I've proved to my own satisfaction + And that of all 'Squires I've the honor of meeting +That 'tis the most senseless and foul-mouthed detraction + To say that poor people are fond of cheap eating. + +On the contrary, such the "_chaste_ notions"[3] of food + That dwell in each pale manufacturer's heart, +They would scorn any law, be it ever so good, + That would make thee, dear Goddess, less dear than thou art! + +And, oh! for Monopoly what a blest day, + Whom the Land and the Silk[4] shall in fond combination +(Like _Sulky_ and _Silky_, that pair in the play,)[5] + Cry out with one voice for High Rents and Starvation! + +Long life to the Minister!--no matter who, + Or how dull he may be, if with dignified spirit he +Keeps the ports shut--and the people's mouths too-- + We shall all have a long run of Freddy's prosperity, + +And, as for myself, who've, like Hannibal, sworn + To hate the whole crew who would take our rents from us, +Had England but _One_ to stand by thee, Dear Corn, + That last, honest Uni-Corn[6] would be Sir Thomas! + + +[1] A sort of "breakfast-power," composed of roasted corn, was +about this time introduced by Mr. Hunt, as a substitute for coffee. + +[2] The venerable Jeremy's phrase for his after-dinner walk. + +[3] A phrase in one of Sir Thomas's last speeches. + +[4] Great efforts were, at that time, making for the exclusion of +foreign silk. + +[5] "Road to Ruin." + +[6] This is meant not so much for a pun, as in allusion to the natural +history of the Unicorn, which is supposed to be, something between the +_Bos_ and the _Asinus_, and, as Rees's Cyclopaedia assures us, +has a particular liking for everything "chaste." + + + + + + +A HYMN OF WELCOME AFTER THE RECESS. + + + _"animas sapientiores fieri quiescendo."_ + + +And now-cross-buns and pancakes o'er-- +Hail, Lords and Gentlemen, once more! + Thrice hail and welcome, Houses Twain! +The short eclipse of April-Day +Having (God grant it!) past away, + Collective Wisdom, shine again! + +Come, Ayes and Noes, thro' thick and thin,-- +With Paddy Holmes for whipper-in,-- + Whate'er the job, prepared to back it; +Come, voters of Supplies--bestowers +Of jackets upon trumpet-blowers, + At eighty mortal pounds the jacket![1] + +Come--free, at length, from Joint-Stock cares-- +Ye Senators of many Shares, + Whose dreams of premium knew no boundary; +So fond of aught like _Company_, +That you would even have taken _tea_ + (Had you been askt) with Mr. Goundry.[2] + +Come, matchless country-gentlemen; +Come, wise Sir Thomas--wisest then + When creeds and corn-lords are debated; +Come, rival even the Harlot Red, +And show how wholly into _bread_ + A 'Squire is _transubstantiated_, + +Come, Lauderdale, and tell the world, +That--surely as thy scratch is curled + As never scratch was curled before-- +Cheap eating does more harm than good, +And working-people spoiled by food, + The less they eat, will work the more. + +Come, Goulburn, with thy glib defence +(Which thou'dst have made for Peter's Pence) + Of Church-rates, worthy of a halter; +Two pipes of port (_old_ port, 'twas said +By honest _New_port)[3] bought and paid + By Papists for the Orange Altar![4] + +Come, Horton, with thy plan so merry +For peopling Canada from Kerry-- + Not so much rendering Ireland quiet, +As grafting on the dull Canadians +That liveliest of earth's contagions, + The _bull_-pock of Hibernian riot! + +Come all, in short, ye wondrous men +Of wit and wisdom, come again; + Tho' short your absence, all deplore it-- +Oh, come and show, whate'er men say, +That you can _after_ April-Day, + Be just as--sapient as _before_ it. + + +[1] An item of expense which Mr. Hume in vain endeavored tog et rid of:-- +trumpeters, it appears like the men of All-Souls, must be "_bene +vestiti_." + +[2] The gentleman, lately before the public, who kept his _Joint_-Stock +Tea Company all to himself, singing "Te _solo adoro_." + +[3] Sir John Newport. + +[4] This charge of two pipes of port for the sacramental wine is a +precious specimen of the sort of rates levied upon their Catholic fellow- +parishioners by the Irish Protestants. "The thirst that from the soul doth +rise Doth ask a drink divine." + + + + + + +MEMORABILIA OF LAST WEEK. + +MONDAY, MARCH 13, 1826. + + +The Budget--quite charming and witty--no hearing, +For plaudits and laughs, the good things that were in it;-- +Great comfort to find, tho' the speech isn't _cheering_, + That all its gay auditors _were_ every minute. + +What, _still_ more prosperity!--mercy upon us, + "This boy'll be the death of me"--oft as, already, +Such smooth Budgeteers have genteelly undone us, + For _Ruin made easy_ there's no one like Freddy. + +TUESDAY. + +Much grave apprehension exprest by the Peers, + Lest--calling to life the old Peachums and Lockitts-- +The large stock of gold we're to have in three years, + Should all find its way into highwaymen's pockets![1] + +WEDNESDAY. + +Little doing--for sacred, oh Wednesday, thou art + To the seven-o'-clock joys of full many a table-- +When _the Members_ all meet, to make much of that part, + With which they so rashly fell out in the Fable. + +It appeared, tho', to-night, that--as church-wardens yearly, + Eat up a small baby--those cormorant sinners. +The Bankrupt Commissioners, _bolt_ very nearly + A moderate-sized bankrupt, _tout chaud_, for their dinners![2] + +_Nota bene_--a rumor to-day, in the city, +"Mr. Robinson just has resigned"--what a pity! + +The Bulls and the Bears all fell a sobbing, +When they heard of the fate of poor Cock _Robin_: +While thus, to the nursery tune, so pretty, +A murmuring _Stock_-dove breathed her ditty:-- + +Alas, poor _Robin_, he crowed as long + And as sweet as a prosperous Cock could crow; +But his _note_ was _small_ and the _gold_-finch's song + Was a pitch too high for Robin to go. + Who'll make his shroud? + +"I," said the Bank, "tho' he played me a prank, + "While I have a rag, poor _Rob_ shall be rolled in't, +"With many a pound I'll paper him round, + "Like a plump rouleau--_without_ the gold in it." + + +[1] "Another objection to a metallic currency was, that it produced a +greater number of highway robberies."--_Debate in the Lords_. + +[2] Mr. Abercromby's statement of the enormous tavern bills of the +Commissioners of Bankrupts. + + + + + + +ALL IN THE FAMILY WAY. + +A NEW PASTORAL BALLAD. + +(SUNG IN THE CHARACTER OF BRITANNIA.) + + + "The Public Debt is due from ourselves to ourselves, and resolves + itself into a Family Account."--_Sir Robert Peel's Letter_. + + +Tune--_My banks are all furnisht with bees_. + + +My banks are all furnisht with rags, + So thick, even Freddy can't thin 'em; +I've torn up my old money-bags, + Having little or nought to put in 'em. +My tradesmen are smashing by dozens, + But this is all nothing, they say; +For bankrupts since Adam are cousins,-- + So, it's all in the family way. + +My Debt not a penny takes from me. + As sages the matter explain;-- +Bob owes it to Tom, and then Tommy + Just owes it to Bob back again. +Since all have thus taken to _owing_, + There's nobody left that can _pay_; +And this is the way to keep going,-- + All quite in the family way. + +My senators vote away millions, + To put in Prosperity's budget; +And tho' it were billions or trillions, + The generous rogues wouldn’t grudge it. +'Tis all but a family _hop_, + 'Twas Pitt began dancing the hay; +Hands round!--why the deuce should we stop? + 'Tis all in the family way. + +My laborers used to eat mutton, + As any great man of the State does; +And now the poor devils are put on + Small rations of tea and potatoes. +But cheer up, John, Sawney, and Paddy, + The King is your father, they say; +So even if you starve for your Daddy, + 'Tis all in the family way. + +My rich manufacturers tumble, + My poor ones have nothing to chew; +And even if themselves do not grumble + Their stomachs undoubtedly do. +But coolly to fast _en famille_, + Is as good for the soul as to pray; +And famine itself is genteel, + When one starves in a family way. + +I have found out a secret for Freddy, + A secret for next Budget day; +Tho' perhaps he may know it already, + As he too's a sage in his way. +When next for the Treasury scene he + Announces "the Devil to pay," +Let him write on the bills, "_nota bene_, + "'Tis all in the family way." + + + + + + +BALLAD FOR THE CAMBRIDGE ELECTION. + + + "I authorized my Committee to take the step which they did, of + proposing a fair comparison of strength, upon the understanding that + _whichever of the two should prove to be the weakest_, should + give way to the other." + --_Extract from Mr. W. J. Bankes's Letter to Mr. Goulbourn_. + + +Bankes is weak, and Goulbourn too, + No one e'er the fact denied;-- +Which is "weakest" of the two, + Cambridge can alone decide. +Choose between them, Cambridge, pray, +Which is weakest, Cambridge, say. + +Goulbourn of the Pope afraid is, + Bankes, as much afraid as he; +Never yet did two old ladies + On this point so well agree. +Choose between them, Cambridge, pray, +Which is weakest. Cambridge, say. + +Each a different mode pursues, + Each the same conclusion reaches; +Bankes is foolish in Reviews, + Goulbourn foolish in his speeches. +Choose between them, Cambridge, pray, +Which is weakest, Cambridge, say. + +Each a different foe doth damn, + When his own affairs have gone ill; +Bankes he damneth Buckingham, + Goulbourn damneth Dan O'Connell. +Choose between them, Cambridge, pray, +Which is weakest, Cambridge, say. +Once we know a horse's neigh + Fixt the election to a throne, +So whichever first shall _bray_ + Choose him, Cambridge, for thy own. +Choose him, choose him by his bray, +Thus elect him, Cambridge, pray. + +_June_, 1826. + + + + + + +MR. ROGER DODSWORTH. + +1826. + + +TO THE EDITOR OF THE TIMES. + +Sir--Having just heard of the wonderful resurrection of Mr. Roger +Dodsworth from under an _avalanche_, where he had remained, _bien +frappe_, it seems, for the last 166 years, I hasten to impart to you a +few reflections on the subject.--Yours, etc. + + _Laudator Temporis Acti_. + + +What a lucky turn-up!--just as Eldon's withdrawing, + To find thus a gentleman, frozen in the year +Sixteen hundred and sixty, who only wants thawing + To serve for _our_ times quite as well as the Peer;-- + +To bring thus to light, not the Wisdom alone + Of our Ancestors, such as 'tis found on our shelves, +But in perfect condition, full-wigged and full-grown, + To shovel up one of those wise bucks themselves! + +Oh thaw Mr. Dodsworth and send him safe home-- + Let him learn nothing useful or new on the way; +With his wisdom kept snug from the light let him come, + And our Tories will hail him with "Hear!" and "Hurrah!" + +What a God-send to _them_!--a good, obsolete man, + Who has never of Locke or Voltaire been a reader;-- +Oh thaw Mr. Dodsworth as fast as you can, + And the Lonsdales and Hertfords shall choose him for leader. + +Yes, Sleeper of Ages, thou _shalt_ be their chosen; + And deeply with thee will they sorrow, good men, +To think that all Europe has, since thou wert frozen, + So altered thou hardly wilt know it again. + +And Eldon will weep o'er each sad innovation + Such oceans of tears, thou wilt fancy that he +Has been also laid up in a long congelation, + And is only now thawing, dear Roger, like thee. + + + + + + +COPY OF AN INTERCEPTED DESPATCH. + +FROM HIS EXCELLENCY DON STREPITOSO DIABOLO, ENVOY EXTRAORDINARY TO HIS +SATANIC MAJESTY. + +St. James's Street, July 1, 1826. + + +Great Sir, having just had the good luck to catch + An official young demon, preparing to go, +Ready booted and spurred, with a black-leg despatch + From the Hell here at Crockford's, to _our_ Hell below-- + +I write these few lines to your Highness Satanic, + To say that first having obeyed your directions +And done all the mischief I could in "the Panic," + My next special care was to help the Elections. + +Well knowing how dear were those times to thy soul, + When every good Christian tormented his brother, +And caused, in thy realm, such a saving of coal, + From all coming down, ready grilled by each other; + +Remembering besides how it pained thee to part + With the old Penal Code--that _chef-d'oeuvre_ of Law, +In which (tho' to own it too modest thou art) + We could plainly perceive the fine touch of thy claw; + +I thought, as we ne'er can those good times revive, + (Tho' Eldon, with help from your Highness would try,) +'Twould still keep a taste for Hell's music alive, + Could we get up a thundering No-Popery cry;-- + +That yell which when chorused by laics and clerics, + So like is to _ours_, in its spirit and tone. +That I often nigh laugh myself into hysterics, + To think that Religion should make it her own. + +So, having sent down for the original notes + Of the chorus as sung by your Majesty's choir +With a few pints of lava to gargle the throats + Of myself and some others who sing it "with fire,"[1] + +Thought I, "if the Marseillais Hymn could command + "Such audience, tho' yelled by a _Sans-culotte_ crew +"What wonders shall _we_ do, who've men in our band, + "That not only wear breeches but petticoats too." + +Such _then_ were my hopes, but with sorrow, your Highness, + I'm forced to confess--be the cause what it will, +Whether fewness of voices or hoarseness or shyness,-- + Our Beelzebub Chorus has gone off but ill. + +The truth is no placeman now knows his right key, + The Treasury pitch-pipe of late is so various; +And certain _base_ voices, that lookt for a fee + At the _York_ music-meeting now think it precarious. + +Even some of our Reverends _might_ have been warmer,-- + Tho' one or two capital roarers we've had; +Doctor Wise[2]is for instance a charming performer, + And _Huntingdon_ Maberley's yell was not bad! + +Altogether however the thing was not hearty;-- + Even Eldon allows we got on but so so; +And when next we attempt a No-Popery party, + We _must_, please your Highness, recruit _from below_. + +But hark! the young Black-leg is cracking his whip-- + Excuse me, Great Sir-there's no time to be civil;-- +The next opportunity shan't be let slip, + But, till then, + I'm, in haste, your most dutiful + DEVIL. + + _July, 1826_ + + +[1] _Con fuoco_--a music-book direction. + +[2] This reverend gentleman distinguished himself at the Reading election. + + + + + + +THE MILLENNIUM. + +SUGGESTED BY THE LATE WORK OF THE REVEREND MR. IRVING "ON PROPHECY." + +1826 + + +A millennium at hand!--I'm delighted to hear it-- + As matters both public and private now go, +With multitudes round us all starving or near it. + A good, rich Millennium will come _à-propos_. + +Only think, Master Fred, what delight to behold, + Instead of thy bankrupt old City of Rags, +A bran-new Jerusalem built all of gold, + Sound bullion throughout from the roof to the flags-- + +A City where wine and cheap corn[1] shall abound-- + A celestial _Cocaigne_ on whose buttery shelves +We may swear the best things of this world will be found, + As your Saints seldom fail to take care of themselves! + +Thanks, reverend expounder of raptures Elysian, + Divine Squintifobus who, placed within reach +Of two opposite worlds, by a twist of your vision + Can cast at the same time a sly look at each;-- + +Thanks, thanks for the hope thou affordest, that we + May even in our own times a Jubilee share. +Which so long has been promist by prophets like thee, + And so often postponed, we began to despair. + +There was Whiston[2] who learnedly took Prince Eugene + For the man who must bring the Millennium about; +There's Faber whose pious productions have been + All belied ere his book's first edition was out;-- + +There was Counsellor Dobbs, too, an Irish M. P., + Who discoursed on the subject with signal _eclat_, +And, each day of his life sat expecting to see + A Millennium break out in the town of Armagh![3] + +There was also--but why should I burden my lay + With your Brotherses, Southcotes, and names less deserving, +When all past Millenniums henceforth must give way + To the last new Millennium of Orator Irving. + +Go on, mighty man,--doom them all to the shelf,-- + And when next thou with Prophecy troublest thy sconce, +Oh forget not, I pray thee, to prove that thyself + Art the Beast (Chapter iv.) that sees nine ways at once. + + +[1] "A measure of wheat for a penny, and three measures of barley +for a penny."--Rev. vi. + +[2] When Whiston presented to Prince Eugene the Essay in which he +attempted to connect his victories over the Turks with Revelation, the +Prince is said to have replied, that "he was not aware he had ever had +ever had honor of being known to St. John". + +[3] Mr. Dobbs was a member of the Irish Parliament, and, on all other +subjects but the Millennium, a very sensible person: he chose Armagh as +the scene of his Millennium on account of the name Armageddon mentioned in +Revelation. + + + + + + +THE THREE DOCTORS. + + + _doctoribus loetamur tribus_. + + +1826. + + +Tho' many great Doctors there be, + There are three that all Doctors out-top, +Doctor Eady, that famous M. D., + Doctor Southey, and dear Doctor Slop.[1] + +The purger, the proser, the bard-- + All quacks in a different style; +Doctor Southey writes books by the yard. + Doctor Eady writes puffs by the mile![2] + +Doctor Slop, in no merit outdone + By his scribbling or physicking brother, +Can dose us with stuff like the one. + Ay, and _doze_ us with stuff like the other. + +Doctor Eady good company keeps + With "No Popery" scribes, on the walls; +Doctor Southey as gloriously sleeps + With "No Popery" scribes on the stalls. + +Doctor Slop, upon subjects divine, + Such bedlamite slaver lets drop, +Taat if Eady should take the _mad_ line, + He'll be sure of a patient in Slop. + +Seven millions of Papists, no less, + Doctor Southey attacks, like a Turk; +Doctor Eady, less bold, I confess, + Attacks but his maid-of-all-work + +Doctor Southey, for _his_ grand attack, + Both a laureate and pensioner is; +While poor Doctor Eady, alack, + Has been _had up_ to Bow-street for his! + +And truly, the law does so blunder, + That tho' little blood has been spilt, he +May probably suffer as, under + The _Chalking_ Act, _known_ to be guilty. + +So much for the merits sublime + (With whose catalogue ne'er should I stop) +Of the three greatest lights of our time, + Doctor Eady and Southey and Slop! + +Should you ask me, to _which_ of the three + Great Doctors the preference should fall, +As a matter of course I agree + Doctor Eady must go to _the wall_. + +But as Southey with laurels is crowned, + And Slop with a wig and a tail is, +Let Eady's bright temples be bound + With a swingeing "Corona _Muralis_!"[3] + + +[1] The editor of the Morning Herald, so nicknamed. + +[2] Alluding to the display of this doctor's name, in chalk, on all the +walls round the metropolis. + +[3] A crown granted as a reward among the Romans to persons who performed +any extraordinary exploits upon wall, such as scaling them, battering +them, etc.--No doubt, writing upon them, to the extent Dr. Eady does, +would equally establish a claim to the honor. + + + + + + +EPITAPH ON A TUFT-HUNTER. + + +Lament, lament, Sir Isaac Heard, + Put mourning round thy page, Debrett, +For here lies one who ne'er preferred + A Viscount to a Marquis yet. + +Beside him place the God of Wit, + Before him Beauty's rosiest girls, +Apollo for a _star_ he'd quit, + And Love's own sister for an Earl's. + +Did niggard fate no peers afford, + He took of course to peers' relations; +And rather than not sport a Lord + Put up with even the last creations; + +Even Irish names could he but tag 'em + With "Lord" and "Duke," were sweet to call; +And at a pinch Lord Ballyraggum + Was better than no Lord at all. + +Heaven grant him now some noble nook, + For rest his soul! he'd rather be +Genteelly damned beside a Duke, + Than saved in vulgar company. + + + + + + +ODE TO A HAT. + + + --_altum aedificat caput_." + JUVENAL + +1826. + + +Hail, reverent Hat!--sublime mid all + The minor felts that round thee grovel;-- +Thou that the Gods "a Delta" call + While meaner mortals call the "shovel." +When on thy shape (like pyramid, + Cut horizontally in two)[1] +I raptured gaze, what dreams unbid + Of stalls and mitres bless my view! + +That brim of brims so sleekly good-- + Not flapt, like dull Wesleyans', down, +But looking (as all churchmen's should) + Devoutly upward--towards the _crown_. + +Gods! when I gaze upon that brim, + So redolent of Church all over, +What swarms of Tithes in vision dim,-- +Some-pig-tailed, some like cherubim, + With ducklings' wings--around it hover! +Tenths of all dead and living things, +That Nature into being brings, +From calves and corn to chitterlings. + +Say, holy Hat, that hast, of cocks, +The very cock most orthodox. +To _which_ of all the well-fed throng +Of Zion,[2] joy'st thou to belong? +Thou'rt _not_ Sir Harcourt Lees's--no- + For hats grow like the heads that wear 'em: +And hats, on heads like his, would grow + Particularly _harum-scarum_. + +Who knows but thou mayst deck the pate +Of that famed Doctor Ad-mth-te, +(The reverend rat, whom we saw stand +On his hind-legs in Westmoreland,) +Who changed so quick from _blue_ to _yellow_, + And would from _yellow_ back to _blue_, +And back again, convenient fellow, + If 'twere his interest so to do. + +Or haply smartest of triangles, + Thou art the hat of Doctor Owen; +The hat that, to his vestry wrangles, + That venerable priest doth go in,-- +And then and there amid the stare +Of all St. Olave's, takes the chair +And quotes with phiz right orthodox + The example of his reverend brothers, +To prove that priests all fleece their flocks + And _he_ must fleece as well as others. + +Blest Hat! (whoe'er thy lord may be) +Thus low I take off mine to thee, +The homage of a layman's _castor_, +To the spruce _delta_ of his pastor. +Oh mayst thou be, as thou proceedest, + Still smarter cockt, still brusht the brighter, +Till, bowing all the way, thou leadest + Thy sleek possessor to a mitre! + + +[1] So described by a Reverend Historian of the Church:--"A Delta hat like +the horizontal section of a pyramid."--GRANT'S "History of the English +Church." + +[2] Archbishop Magee affectionately calls the Church Establishment of +Ireland "the little Zion." + + + + + + +NEWS FOR COUNTRY COUSINS. + + +Dear Coz, as I know neither you nor Miss Draper, +When Parliament's up, ever take in a paper, +But trust for your news to such stray odds and ends +As you chance to pick up from political friends- +Being one of this well-informed class, I sit down +To transmit you the last newest news that's in town. + +As to Greece and Lord Cochrane, things couldn't look better-- +His Lordship (who promises now to fight faster) +Has just taken Rhodes and despatched off a letter +To Daniel O'Connell, to make him Grand Master; +Engaging to change the old name, if he can, +From the Knights of St. John to the Knights of St. Dan;-- +Or if Dan should prefer (as a still better whim) +Being made the Colossus, 'tis all one to him. + +From Russia the last accounts are that the Tsar-- +Most generous and kind as all sovereigns are, +And whose first princely act (as you know, I suppose) +Was to give away all his late brother's old clothes[1]-- +Is now busy collecting with brotherly care +The late Emperor's nightcaps, and thinks, of bestowing +One nightcap apiece (if he has them to spare) +On all the distinguisht old ladies now going. +(While I write, an arrival from Riga--the "Brothers"-- +Having nightcaps on board for Lord Eldon and others.) + +Last advices from India--Sir Archy, 'tis thought, +Was near catching a Tartar (the first ever caught +In N. Lat. 2l.)--and his Highness Burmese, +Being very hard prest to shell out the rupees, +And not having rhino sufficient, they say, meant +To pawn his august Golden Foot[2] for the payment. + +(How lucky for monarchs, that thus when they choose +Can establish a _running_ account with the Jews!) +The security being what Rothschild calls "goot," +A loan will be shortly, of course, set _on foot_; +The parties are Rothschild, A. Baring and Co. +With three other great pawnbrokers: each takes a toe, +And engages (lest Gold-foot should give us _leg_-bail, +As he did once before) to pay down _on the nail_. + + * * * * * + +This is all for the present--what vile pens and paper! +Yours truly, dear Cousin--best love to Miss Draper. + +_September_, 1826. + + +[1] A distribution was made of the Emperor Alexander's military wardrobe +by his successor. + +[2] This potentate styles himself the Monarch of the Golden foot. + + + + + + +A VISION. + +BY THE AUTHOR OF "CHRISTABEL." + + +"Up!" said the Spirit and ere I could pray +One hasty orison, whirled me away +To a Limbo, lying--I wist not where-- +Above or below, in earth or air; +For it glimmered o'er with a _doubtful_ light, +One couldn't say whether 'twas day or night; +And 'twas crost by many a mazy track, +One didn't know how to get on or back; +And I felt like a needle that's going astray +(With its _one_ eye out) thro' a bundle of hay; +When the Spirit he grinned, and whispered me, +"Thou'rt now in the Court of Chancery!" + +Around me flitted unnumbered swarms +Of shapeless, bodiless, tailless forms; +(Like bottled-up babes that grace the room +Of that worthy knight, Sir Everard Home)-- +All of them, things half-killed in rearing; +Some were lame--some wanted _hearing_; +Some had thro' half a century run, +Tho' they hadn't a leg to stand upon. +Others, more merry, as just beginning, +Around on a _point of law_ were spinning; +Or balanced aloft, 'twixt _Bill_ and _Answer_, +Lead at each end, like a tight-rope dancer. +Some were so _cross_ that nothing could please 'em;- +Some gulpt down _affidavits_ to ease 'em-- +All were in motion, yet never a one, +Let it _move_ as it might, could ever move _on_, +"These," said the Spirit, "you plainly see, +"Are what they call suits in Chancery!" + +I heard a loud screaming of old and young, +Like a chorus by fifty Vellutis sung; +Or an Irish Dump ("the words by Moore ") +At an amateur concert screamed in score;-- +So harsh on my ear that wailing fell +Of the wretches who in this Limbo dwell! +It seemed like the dismal symphony +Of the shapes' Aeneas in hell did see; +Or those frogs whose legs a barbarous cook +Cut off and left the frogs in the brook, +To cry all night, till life's last dregs, +"Give us our legs!--give us our legs!" +Touched with the sad and sorrowful scene, +I askt what all this yell might mean, +When the Spirit replied, with a grin of glee, +"'Tis the cry of the Suitors in Chancery!" + +I lookt and I saw a wizard rise,[1] +With a wig like a cloud before men's eyes. +In his aged hand he held a wand, +Wherewith he beckoned his embryo band, +And they moved and moved as he waved it o'er, +But they never get on one inch the more. +And still they kept limping to and fro, +Like Ariels round old Prospero-- +Saying, "Dear Master, let us go," +But still old Prospero answered "No." +And I heard the while that wizard elf +Muttering, muttering spells to himself, +While o'er as many old papers he turned, +As Hume e'er moved for or Omar burned. +He talkt of his virtue--"tho' some, less nice, +(He owned with a sigh) preferred his _Vice_"-- +And he said, "I think"--"I doubt"--"I hope," +Called God to witness, and damned the Pope; +With many more sleights of tongue and hand +I couldn't for the soul of me understand. +Amazed and posed, I was just about +To ask his name, when the screams without, +The merciless clack of the imps within, +And that conjuror's mutterings, made such a din, +That, startled, I woke--leapt up in my bed-- +Found the Spirit, the imps, and the conjuror fled, +And blest my stars, right pleased to see, +That I wasn't as yet in Chancery. + + +[1] The Lord Chancellor Eldon. + + + + + + +THE PETITION OF THE ORANGEMEN OF IRELAND. + +1826. + + +To the people of England, the humble Petition + Of Ireland's disconsolate Orangemen, showing-- +That sad, very sad, is our present condition;-- + Our jobbing all gone and our noble selves going;-- + +That forming one seventh, within a few fractions, + Of Ireland's seven millions of hot heads and hearts, +We hold it the basest of all base transactions + To keep us from murdering the other six parts;-- + +That as to laws made for the good of the many, + We humbly suggest there is nothing less true; +As all human laws (and our own, more than any) + Are made _by_ and _for_ a particular few:-- + +That much it delights every true Orange brother + To see you in England such ardor evince, +In discussing _which_ sect most tormented the other, + And burned with most _gusto_ some hundred years since;-- + +That we love to behold, while old England grows faint, + Messrs. Southey and Butler nigh coming to blows, +To decide whether Dunstan, that strong-bodied Saint, + Ever truly and really pulled the De'il's nose; + +Whether t'other Saint, Dominic, burnt the De'il's paw-- + Whether Edwy intrigued with Elgiva's odd mother-- +And many such points, from which Southey can draw + Conclusions most apt for our hating each other. + +That 'tis very well known this devout Irish nation + Has now for some ages, gone happily on +Believing in two kinds of Substantiation, + One party in _Trans_ and the other in _Con_;[1] + +That we, your petitioning _Cons_, have in right + Of the said monosyllable ravaged the lands +And embezzled the goods and annoyed, day and night, + Both the bodies and souls of the sticklers for _Trans_;-- + +That we trust to Peel, Eldon, and other such sages, + For keeping us still in the same state of mind; +Pretty much as the world used to be in those ages, + When still smaller syllables maddened mankind;-- + +When the words _ex_ and _per_[2] served as well to annoy + One's neighbors and friends with, as _con_ and _trans_ now; +And Christians, like Southey, who stickled for _oi_, + Cut the throats of all Christians who stickled for _ou_.[3] + +That relying on England whose kindness already + So often has helpt us to play this game o'er, +We have got our red coats and our carabines ready, + And wait but the word to show sport as before. + +That as to the expense--the few millions or so, + Which for all such diversions John Bull has to pay-- +'Tis at least a great comfort to John Bull to know + That to Orangemen's pockets 'twill all find its way. +For which your petitioners ever will pray, + Etc., etc., etc., etc., etc. + + +[1] Consubstantiation--the true Reformed belief; at least, the belief of +Luther, and, as Mosheim asserts, of Melancthon also. + +[2] When John of Ragusa went to Constantinople (at the time this dispute +between "_ex_" and "_per_" was going on), he found the Turks, we +are told, "laughing at the Christians for being divided by two such +insignificant particles." + +[3] The Arian controversy.--Before that time, says Hooker, "in order to be +a sound believing Christian, men were not curious what syllables or +particles of speech they used." + + + + + + +COTTON AND CORN. + +A DIALOGUE. + + +Said Cotton to Corn, t'other day, + As they met and exchanged a salute-- +(Squire Corn in his carriage so gay, + Poor Cotton half famished on foot): + +"Great Squire, if it isn't uncivil + "To hint at starvation before you, +"Look down on a poor hungry devil, + "And give him some bread, I implore you!" + +Quoth Corn then in answer to Cotton, + Perceiving he meant to make _free_-- +"Low fellow, you've surely forgotten + "The distance between you and me! + +"To expect that we Peers of high birth + "Should waste our illustrious acres, +"For no other purpose on earth + "Than to fatten curst calico-makers!-- + +"That Bishops to bobbins should bend-- + "Should stoop from their Bench's sublimity, +"Great dealers in _lawn_, to befriend + "Such contemptible dealers in dimity! + +"No--vile Manufacture! ne'er harbor + "A hope to be fed at our boards;-- +"Base offspring of Arkwright the barber, + "What claim canst _thou_ have upon Lords? + +"No--thanks to the taxes and debt, + "And the triumph of paper o'er guineas, +"Our race of Lord Jemmys, as yet, + "May defy your whole rabble of _Jennys_!" + +So saying--whip, crack, and away + Went Corn in his chaise thro' the throng, +So headlong, I heard them all say, + "Squire Corn will be _down_ before long." + + + + + + +THE CANONIZATION OF SAINT BUTTERWORTH. + + + "A Christian of the best edition."--RABELAIS. + + +Canonize him!--yea, verily, we'll canonize him, + Tho' Cant is his hobby and meddling his bliss, +Tho' sages may pity and wits may despise him, + He'll ne'er make a bit the worse Saint for all this. + +Descend, all ye Spirits, that ever yet spread + The dominion of Humbug o'er land and o'er sea, +Descend on our Butterworth's biblical head, + Thrice-Great, Bibliopolist, Saint, and M. P. + +Come, shade of Joanna, come down from thy sphere. + And bring little Shiloh--if 'tisn't too far-- +Such a sight will to Butterworth's bosom be dear, + _His_ conceptions and _thine_ being much on a par. + +Nor blush, Saint Joanna, once more to behold + A world thou hast honored by cheating so many; +Thou'lt find still among us one Personage old, + Who also by tricks and the _Seals_[1] makes a penny. + +Thou, too, of the Shakers, divine Mother Lee![2] + Thy smiles to beatified Butterworth deign; +Two "lights of the Gentiles" are thou, Anne, and he, + _One_ hallowing Fleet Street, and _t'other_ Toad Lane![3] + +The heathen, we know, made their Gods out of wood, + And Saints may be framed of as handy materials;-- +Old women and Butterworths make just as good +As any the Pope ever _bookt_ as Ethereals. + +Stand forth, Man of Bibles!--not Mahomet's pigeon, + When perched on the Koran, he dropt there, they say, +Strong marks of his faith, ever shed o'er religion + Such glory as Butterworth sheds every day. + +Great Galen of souls, with what vigor he crams + Down Erin's idolatrous throats, till they crack again, +Bolus on bolus, good man!--and then damns + Both their stomachs and souls, if they dare cast them back again. + +How well might his shop--as a type representing + The creed of himself and his sanctified clan-- +On its counter exhibit "the Art of Tormenting," + Bound neatly, and lettered "Whole Duty of Man!" + +Canonize him!--by Judas, we _will_ canonize him; + For Cant is his hobby and twaddling his bliss; +And tho' wise men may pity and wits may despise him, + He'll make but the better _shop_-saint for all this. + +Call quickly together the whole tribe of Canters, + Convoke all the _serious_ Tag-rag of the nation; +Bring Shakers and Snufflers and Jumpers and Ranters + To witness their Butterworth's Canonization! + +Yea, humbly I've ventured his merits to paint, + Yea, feebly have tried all his gifts to portray, +And they form a sum-total for making a Saint. + That the Devil's own advocate could not gainsay. + +Jump high, all ye Jumpers, ye Ranters all roar, + While Butterworth's spirit, upraised from your eyes, +Like a kite made of foolscap, in glory shall soar, + With a long tail of rubbish behind, to the skies! + + +[1] A great part of the income of Joanna Southcott arose from the Seals of +the Lord's protection which she sold to her followers. + +[2] Mrs. Anne Lee, the "chosen vessel" of the Shakers, and "Mother of all +the children of regeneration." + +[3] Toad Lane, in Manchester, where Mother Lee was born. In her "Address +to Young Believers," she says, that "it is a matter of no importance with +them from whence the means of their deliverance come, whether from a +stable in Bethlehem, or from Toad Lane, Manchester." + + + + + + +AN INCANTATION. + +SUNG BY THE BUBBLE SPIRIT. + + +Air.--_Come with me, and we will go + Where the rocks of coral grow_. + + +Come with me and we will blow +Lots of bubbles as we go; +Bubbles bright as ever Hope +Drew from fancy--or from soap; +Bright as e'er the South Sea sent +From its frothy element! +Come with me and we will blow +Lots of bubbles as we go. +Mix the lather, Johnny Wilks, +Thou, who rhym'st so well to bilks;[1] +Mix the lather--who can be +Fitter for such tasks than thee, +Great M. P. for _Suds_bury! + +Now the frothy charm is ripe, +Puffing Peter,[2] bring thy pipe,-- +Thou whom ancient Coventry +Once so dearly loved that she +Knew not which to her was sweeter, +Peeping Tom or Puffing Peter;-- +Puff the bubbles high in air, +Puff thy best to keep them there. + +Bravo, bravo, Peter More! +Now the rainbow humbugs[3] soar. +Glittering all with golden hues +Such as haunt the dreams of Jews;-- +Some reflecting mines that lie +Under Chili's glowing sky, +Some, those virgin pearls that sleep +Cloistered in the southern deep; +Others, as if lent a ray +From the streaming Milky Way, +Glistening o'er with curds and whey +From the cows of Alderney. + +Now's the moment--who shall first +Catch the bubbles ere they burst? +Run, ye Squires, ye Viscounts, run, +Brogden, Teynham, Palmerston;-- +John Wilks junior runs beside ye! +Take the good the knaves provide ye! +See, with upturned eyes and hands, +Where the _Share_man, Brogden, stands, +Gaping for the froth to fall +Down his gullet--_lye_ and all. +See!-- + + But, hark, my time is out-- +Now, like some great water-spout, +Scattered by the cannon's thunder, +Burst ye bubbles, all asunder! + +[_Here the stage darkens--a discordant crash is heard from the orchestra +--the broken bubbles descend in a saponaceous but uncleanly mist over the +heads of the_ Dramatis Personae_, and the scene drops, leaving the +bubble-hunters--all in the suds_.] + + +[1] Strong indications of character may be sometimes traced in the rhymes +to names. Marvell thought so when he wrote "Sir Edward Button, The foolish +Knight who rhymes to mutton." + +[2] The member, during a long period, for Coventry. + +[3] An humble imitation of one of our modern poets, who, in a poem against +War, after describing the splendid habiliments of the soldier, thus +apostrophizes him--"thou rainbow ruffian!" + + + + + + +A DREAM OF TURTLE. + +BY SIR W. CURTIS. + +1826. + + +'Twas evening time, in the twilight sweet +I sailed along, when--whom should I meet +But a Turtle journeying o'er the sea, +"On the service of his Majesty."[1] +When spying him first thro' twilight dim, +I didn't know what to make of him; +But said to myself, as slow he plied +His fins and rolled from side to side +Conceitedly o'er the watery path-- +"'Tis my Lord of Stowell taking a bath, +"And I hear him now, among the fishes, +"Quoting Vatel and Burgersdicius!" +But, no--'twas, indeed, a Turtle wide +And plump as ever these eyes descried; +A turtle juicy as ever yet +Glued up the lips of a Baronet! +And much did it grieve my soul to see +That an animal of such dignity, +Like an absentee abroad should roam, +When he _ought_ to stay and be ate at home. + +But now "a change came o'er my dream," + Like the magic lantern's shifting slider; +I lookt and saw by the evening beam + On the back of that Turtle sat a rider-- +A goodly man with an eye so merry, +I knew 'twas our Foreign Secretary,[2] +Who there at his ease did sit and smile, +Like Waterton on his crocodile;[3] +Cracking such jokes, at every motion, + As made the Turtle squeak with glee +And own they gave him a lively notion + Of what his _forced_-meat balls would be. +So, on the Sec. in his glory went. +Over that briny element, +Waving his hand as he took farewell +With graceful air, and bidding me tell +Inquiring friends that the Turtle and he +Were gone on a foreign embassy-- +To soften the heart of a _Diplomat_, +Who is known to dote upon verdant fat, +And to let admiring Europe see, +That _calipash_ and _calipee_ +Are the English forms of Diplomacy. + + +[1] We are told that the passport of this grand diplomatic Turtle (sent by +the Secretary for Foreign Affairs to a certain noble envoy) described him +as "on his majesty's service." + +[2] Mr. Canning. + +[3] _Wanderings in South America_. "It was the first and last time [says +Mr. Waterton] I was ever on a crocodile's back." + + + + + + +THE DONKEY AND HIS PANNIERS. + +A FABLE. + + + --_"fessus jam sudat asellus, + "parce illi; vestrum delicium est asinus."_ + VERGIL. _Copa_. + + +A donkey whose talent for burdens was wondrous, + So much that you'd swear he rejoiced in a load, +One day had to jog under panniers so ponderous, + That--down the poor Donkey fell smack on the road! + +His owners and drivers stood round in amaze + What! Neddy, the patient, the prosperous Neddy, +So easy to drive thro' the dirtiest ways + For every description of job-work so ready! + +One driver (whom Ned might have "hailed" as a "brother")[1] + Had just been proclaiming his Donkey's renown +For vigor, for spirit, for one thing or other-- + When, lo! mid his praises the Donkey came down! +But how to upraise him?--_one_ shouts, _t'other_ whistles, + While Jenky, the Conjuror, wisest of all, +Declared that an "over-production of thistles[2]-- + (Here Ned gave a stare)--was the cause of his fall." + +Another wise Solomon cries as he passes-- + "There, let him alone and the fit will soon cease; +"The beast has been fighting with other jack-asses, + "And this is his mode of '_transition to peace_.'" + +Some lookt at his hoofs, and with learned grimaces + Pronounced that too long without shoes he had gone-- +"Let the blacksmith provide him a _sound metal basis_," + (The wise-acres said), "and he's sure to jog on." + +Meanwhile, the poor Neddy in torture and fear + Lay under his panniers, scarce able to groan; +And--what was still dolefuller--lending an ear + To advisers whose ears were a match for his own. + +At length a plain rustic whose wit went so far + As to see others' folly, roared out, as he past-- +"Quick--off with the panniers, all dolts as ye are, + "Or your prosperous Neddy will soon kick his last!" + +October, 1826. + + +[1] Alluding to an early poem of Mr. Coleridge's, addressed to an Ass, and +beginning, "I hail thee, brother!" + +[2] A certain country gentleman having said in the House, "that we must +return at last to the food of our ancestors," somebody asked Mr. T. "what +food the gentleman meant?"--"Thistles, I suppose," answered Mr. T. + + + + + + +ODE TO THE SUBLIME PORTE. + +1826. + + +Great Sultan, how wise are thy state compositions! + And oh! above all I admire that Decree, +In which thou command'st that all _she_ politicians + Shall forthwith be strangled and cast in the sea. + +'Tis my fortune to know a lean Benthamite spinster-- + A maid who her faith in old Jeremy puts, +Who talks with a lisp of "the last new West_minster_," + And hopes you're delighted with "Mill upon Gluts;" + +Who tells you how clever one Mr. Funblank is, + How charming his Articles 'gainst the Nobility;-- +And assures you that even a gentleman's rank is + In Jeremy's school, of no sort of _utility_. + +To see her, ye Gods, a new Number perusing-- + ART. 1.--"On the _Needle's_ variations," by Pl--ce;[1] + ART. 2.--By her Favorite Funblank[2]--"so amusing! + "Dear man! he makes Poetry quite a _Law_ case." + +ART. 3.--"Upon Fallacies," Jeremy's own-- + (Chief Fallacy being his hope to find readers);- +ART. 4.--"Upon Honesty," author unknown;-- + ART. 5.--(by the young Mr. Mill) "Hints to Breeders." + +Oh, Sultan, oh, Sultan, tho' oft for the bag + And the bowstring, like thee, I am tempted to call-- +Tho' drowning's too good for each blue-stocking hag, + I would bag this _she_ Benthamite first of them all! + +And lest she should ever again lift her head + From the watery bottom, her clack to renew-- +As a clog, as a sinker, far better than lead, + I would hang around her neck her own darling Review. + + +[1] A celebrated political tailor. + +[2] This pains-taking gentleman has been at the trouble of counting, with +the assistance of Cocker, the number of metaphors in Moore's "_Life of +Sheridan_," and has found them to amount, as nearly as possible, to 2235-- +and some _fractions_. + + + + + + +CORN AND CATHOLICS. + + + _utrum horum + dirius_ borun? _Incerti Auctoris_. + + +What! _still_ those two infernal questions, + That with our meals our slumbers mix-- +That spoil our tempers and digestions-- + Eternal Corn and Catholics! + +Gods! were there ever two such bores? + Nothing else talkt of night or morn-- +Nothing _in_ doors or _out_ of doors, + But endless Catholics and Corn! + +Never was such a brace of pests-- + While Ministers, still worse than either, +Skilled but in feathering their nests, + Plague us with both and settle neither. + +So addled in my cranium meet + Popery and Corn that oft I doubt, +Whether, this year, 'twas bonded Wheat, + Or bonded Papists, they let out. + +_Here_, landlords, _here_ polemics nail you, + Armed with all rubbish they can rake up; +_Prices_ and _Texts_ at once assail you-- + From Daniel _these_, and _those_ from Jacob, + +And when you sleep, with head still torn + Between the two, their shapes you mix, +Till sometimes Catholics seem Corn-- + Then Corn again seems Catholics. + +Now Dantsic wheat before you floats-- + Now Jesuits from California-- +Now Ceres linkt with Titus _Oats_, + Comes dancing thro' the "Porta _Corn_ea."[1] + +Oft too the Corn grows animate, + And a whole crop of heads appears, +Like Papists, _bearding_ Church and State-- + Themselves, together _by the ears_! + +In short these torments never cease, + And oft I wish myself transferred off +To some far, lonely land of peace + Where Corn or Papists ne'er were heard of. + +Yes, waft me, Parry, to the Pole; + For--if my fate is to be chosen +'Twixt bores and icebergs--on my soul, + I'd rather, of the two, be frozen! + + +[1] The Horn Gate, through which the ancients supposed all true +dreams (such as those of the Popish Plot, etc.) to pass. + + + + + + +A CASE OF LIBEL. + + + "The greater the truth, the worse the libel." + + +A certain Sprite, who dwells below, + ('Twere a libel perhaps to mention where,) +Came up _incog_. some years ago + To try for a change the London air. + +So well he lookt and drest and talkt, + And hid his tail and horns so handy, +You'd hardly have known him as he walkt + From C----e, or any other Dandy. + +(His horns, it seems, are made to unscrew; + So he has but to take them out of the socket, +And--just as some fine husbands do-- + Conveniently clap them into his pocket.) + +In short, he lookt extremely natty, + And even contrived--to his own great wonder-- +By dint of sundry scents from Gattie, + To keep the sulphurous _hogo_ under. + +And so my gentleman hoofed about, + Unknown to all but a chosen few +At White's and Crockford's, where no doubt + He had many _post-obits_ falling due. + +Alike a gamester and a wit, + At night he was seen with Crockford's crew, +At morn with learned dames would sit-- + So past his time 'twixt _black_ and _blue_. + +Some wisht to make him an M. P., + But, finding Wilks was also one, he +Swore, in a rage, "he'd be damned, if he + "Would ever sit in one house with Johnny." + +At length as secrets travel fast, + And devils, whether he or she, +Are sure to be found out at last, + The affair got wind most rapidly. + +The Press, the impartial Press, that snubs + Alike a fiend's or an angel's capers-- +Miss Paton's soon as Beelzebub's, + Fired off a squib in the morning papers: + +"We warn good men to keep aloof + "From a grim old Dandy seen about +"With a fire-proof wig and a cloven hoof + "Thro' a neat-cut Hoby smoking out." + +Now,--the Devil being gentleman, + Who piques himself on well-bred dealings,-- +You may guess, when o'er these lines he ran, + How much they hurt and shockt his feelings. + +Away he posts to a Man of Law, + And 'twould make you laugh could you have seen 'em, +As paw shook hand, and hand shook paw, + And 'twas "hail, good fellow, well met," between 'em. + +Straight an indictment was preferred-- + And much the Devil enjoyed the jest, +When, asking about the Bench, he heard + That, of all the Judges, his own was _Best_.[1] + +In vain Defendant proffered proof + That Plaintiff's self was the Father of Evil-- +Brought Hoby forth to swear to the hoof + And Stultz to speak to the tail of the Devil. + +The Jury (saints, all snug and rich, + And readers of virtuous Sunday papers) +Found for the Plaintiff--on hearing which + The Devil gave one of his loftiest capers. + +For oh, 'twas nuts to the Father of Lies + (As this wily fiend is named in the Bible) +To find it settled by laws so wise, + That the greater the truth, the worse the libel! + + +[1] A celebrated Judge, so named. + + + + + + +LITERARY ADVERTISEMENT. + + +Wanted--Authors of all-work to job for the season, + No matter which party, so faithful to neither; +Good hacks who, if posed for a rhyme or a reason. + Can manage, like ******, to do without either. + +If in jail, all the better for out-o'-door topics; + Your jail is for travellers a charming retreat; +They can take a day's rule for a trip to the Tropics, + And sail round the world at their ease in the Fleet. + +For a dramatist too the most useful of schools-- + He can study high life in the King's Bench community; +Aristotle could scarce keep him more _within rules_, + And of _place_ he at least must adhere to the _unity_. + +Any lady or gentleman, come to an age + To have good "Reminiscences" (three-score or higher) +Will meet with encouragement--so much, _per_ page, + And the spelling and grammar both found by the buyer. + +No matter with _what_ their remembrance is stockt, + So they'll only remember the _quantum_ desired;-- +Enough to fill handsomely Two Volumes, _oct_., + Price twenty-four shillings, is all that's required. + +They may treat us, like Kelly, with old _jeu-d'esprits_, + Like Dibdin, may tell of each farcical frolic; +Or kindly inform us, like Madame Genlis,[1] + That gingerbread-cakes always give them the colic. + +Wanted also a new stock of Pamphlets on Corn + By "Farmers" and "Landholders"--(worthies whose lands +Enclosed all in bow-pots their attics adorn, + Or whose share of the soil maybe seen on their hands). + +No-Popery Sermons, in ever so dull a vein, + Sure of a market;--should they too who pen 'em +Be renegade Papists, like Murtagh O'Sullivan,[2] + Something _extra_ allowed for the additional venom. + +Funds, Physics, Corn, Poetry, Boxing, Romance, + All excellent subjects for turning a penny;-- +To write upon _all_ is an author's sole chance + For attaining, at last, the least knowledge of _any_. + +Nine times out of ten, if his _title_ is good, + The material _within_ of small consequence is;-- +Let him only write fine, and, if not understood, + Why--that's the concern of the reader, not his. + +_Nota Bene_--an Essay, now printing, to show, + That Horace (as clearly as words could express it) +Was for taxing the Fund-holders, ages ago, + When he wrote thus--"Quodcunque _in Fund is, assess it."_ + + +[1] This lady also favors us, in her Memoirs, with the address of those +apothecaries, who have, from time to time, given her pills that agreed +with her; always desiring that the pills should be ordered "_comme pour +elle_." + +[2] A gentleman, who distinguished himself by his evidence before the +Irish Committees. + + + + + + +THE IRISH SLAVE.[1] + +1827. + + +I heard as I lay, a wailing sound, + "He is dead--he is dead," the rumor flew; +And I raised my chain and turned me round, + And askt, thro' the dungeon-window, "Who?" + +I saw my livid tormentors pass; + Their grief 'twas bliss to hear and see! +For never came joy to them alas! + That didn't bring deadly bane to me. + +Eager I lookt thro' the mist of night, + And askt, "What foe of my race hath died? +"Is it he--that Doubter of law and right, + "Whom nothing but wrong could e'er decide-- + +"Who, long as he sees but wealth to win, + "Hath never yet felt a qualm or doubt +"What suitors for justice he'd keep in, + "Or what suitors for freedom he'd shut out-- + +"Who, a clog for ever on Truth's advance, + "Hangs round her (like the Old Man of the Sea +"Round Sinbad's neck[2]), nor leaves a chance + "Of shaking him off--is't he? is't he?" + +Ghastly my grim tormentors smiled, + And thrusting me back to my den of woe, +With a laughter even more fierce and wild + Than their funeral howling, answered "No." + +But the cry still pierced my prison-gate, + And again I askt, "What scourge is gone? +"Is it he--that Chief, so coldly great, + "Whom Fame unwillingly shines upon-- + +"Whose name is one of the ill-omened words + "They link with hate on his native plains; +"And why?--they lent him hearts and swords, + "And he in return gave scoffs and chains! + +"Is it he? is it he?" I loud inquired, + When, hark!--there sounded a Royal knell; +And I knew what spirit had just expired, + And slave as I was my triumph fell. + +He had pledged a hate unto me and mine, + He had left to the future nor hope nor choice, +But sealed that hate with a Name Divine, + And he now was dead and--I _couldn't_ rejoice! + +He had fanned afresh the burning brands + Of a bigotry waxing cold and dim; +He had armed anew my torturers' hands, + And _them_ did I curse--but sighed for him. + +For, _his_ was the error of head not heart; + And--oh! how beyond the ambushed foe, +Who to enmity adds the traitor's part, + And carries a smile with a curse below! + +If ever a heart made bright amends + For the fatal fault of an erring head-- +Go, learn _his_ fame from the lips of friends, + In the orphan's tear be his glory read. + +A Prince without pride, a man without guile, + To the last unchanging, warm, sincere, +For Worth he had ever a hand and smile, + And for Misery ever his purse and tear. + +Touched to the heart by that solemn toll, + I calmly sunk in my chains again; +While, still as I said, "Heaven rest his soul!" + My mates of the dungeon sighed "Amen!" + +January, 1827. + + +[1] Written on the death of the Duke of York. + +[2] "You fell, said they, into the hands of the Old Man of the Sea, and +are the first who ever escaped strangling by his malicious +tricks."--_Story of Sinbad_. + + + + + + +ODE TO FERDINAND. + +1827. + + +Quit the sword, thou King of men, +Grasp the needle once again; +Making petticoats is far +Safer sport than making war; +Trimming is a better thing, +Than the _being_ trimmed, oh King! +Grasp the needle bright with which +Thou didst for the Virgin stitch +Garment, such as ne'er before +Monarch stitched or Virgin wore, +Not for her, oh semster nimble! +Do I now invoke thy thimble; +Not for her thy wanted aid is, +But for certain grave old ladies, +Who now sit in England's cabinet, +Waiting to be clothed in tabinet, +Or whatever choice _étoffe_ is +Fit for Dowagers in office. +First, thy care, oh King, devote +To Dame Eldon's petticoat. +Make it of that silk whose dye +Shifts for ever to the eye, +Just as if it hardly knew +Whether to be pink or blue. +Or--material fitter yet-- +If thou couldst a remnant get +Of that stuff with which, of old, +Sage Penelope, we're told, +Still by doing and undoing, +Kept her _suitors_ always wooing-- +That's the stuff which I pronounce, is +Fittest for Dame Eldon's flounces. + +After this, we'll try thy hand, +Mantua-making Ferdinand, +For old Goody Westmoreland; +One who loves, like Mother Cole, +Church and State with all her soul; +And has past her life in frolics +Worthy of our Apostolics. +Choose, in dressing this old flirt, +Something that won't show the dirt, +As, from habit, every minute +Goody Westmoreland is in it. + +This is all I now shall ask, +Hie thee, monarch, to thy task; +Finish Eldon's frills and borders, +Then return for further orders. +Oh what progress for our sake, +Kings in millinery make! +Ribands, garters, and such things, +Are supplied by _other_ Kings-- +Ferdinand his rank denotes +By providing petticoats. + + + + + + +HAT _VERSUS_ WIG. + +1827. + + + "At the interment of the Duke of York, Lord Eldon, in order to guard + against the effects of the damp, stood upon his hat during the whole + of the ceremony." + + + --_metus omnes et inexorabile fatum + subjecit pedibus, strepitumque Acherontis + avari_. + + +'Twixt Eldon's Hat and Eldon's Wig + There lately rose an altercation,-- +Each with its own importance big, + Disputing _which_ most serves the nation. + +Quoth Wig, with consequential air, + "Pooh! pooh! you surely can't design, +"My worthy beaver, to compare + "Your station in the state with mine. + +"Who meets the learned legal crew? + "Who fronts the lordly Senate's pride? +"The Wig, the Wig, my friend--while you + "Hang dangling on some peg outside. + +"Oh! 'tis the Wig, that rules, like Love, + "Senate and Court, with like _éclat_-- +"And wards below and lords above, + "For Law is Wig and Wig is Law! + +"Who tried the long, _Long_ WELLESLEY suit, + "Which tried one's patience, in return? +"Not thou, oh Hat!--tho' _couldst_ thou do't, + "Of other _brims_[1] than thine thou'dst learn. + +"'Twas mine our master's toil to share; + "When, like 'Truepenny,' in the play,[2] +"He, every minute, cried out 'Swear,' + "And merrily to swear went they;--[3] + +"When, loath poor WELLESLEY to condemn, he + "With nice discrimination weighed, +"Whether 'twas only 'Hell and Jemmy,' + Or 'Hell and Tommy' that he played. + +"No, no, my worthy beaver, no-- + "Tho' cheapened at the cheapest hatter's, +"And smart enough as beavers go + "Thou ne'er wert made for public matters." + +Here Wig concluded his oration, + Looking, as wigs do, wondrous wise; +While thus, full cockt for declamation, + The veteran Hat enraged replies:-- + +"Ha! dost thou then so soon forget + "What thou, what England owes to me? +"Ungrateful Wig!--when will a debt, + "So deep, so vast, be owed thee? + +"Think of that night, that fearful night, + "When, thro' the steaming vault below, +"Our master dared, in gout's despite, + "To venture his podagric toe! + +"Who was it then, thou boaster, say + "When thou hadst to thy box sneaked off, +"Beneath his feet protecting lay, + "And saved him from a mortal cough? + +"Think, if Catarrh had quenched that sun, + "How blank this world had been to thee! +"Without that head to shine upon, + "Oh Wig, where would thy glory be? + +"You, too, ye Britons,--had this hope + "Of Church and State been ravisht from ye, +"Oh think, how Canning and the Pope + "Would then have played up 'Hell and Tommy'! + +"At sea, there's but a plank, they say, + "'Twixt seamen and annihilation; +"A Hat, that awful moment, lay + "'Twixt England and Emancipation! + +"Oh!!!--" + +At this "Oh!!!" _The Times_ Reporter + Was taken poorly, and retired; +Which made him cut Hat's rhetoric shorter, + Than justice to the case required. + +On his return, he found these shocks + Of eloquence all ended quite; +And Wig lay snoring in his box, + And Hat was--hung up for the night. + + +[1] "_Brim_--a naughty woman."--GROSE. + +[2]"_Ghost_[beneath].--Swear! +"_Hamlet_.--Ha, ha! say'st thou so! +Art thou there, Truepenny? Come on." + +[3] His Lordship's demand for fresh affidavits was incessant. + + + + + + +THE PERIWINKLES AND THE LOCUSTS. + +A SALMAGUNDIAN HYMN. + + + "To Panurge was assigned the Laird-ship of Salmagundi, which was + yearly worth 6,789,106,789 ryals besides the revenue of the + _Locusts_ and _Periwinkles_, amounting one year with another + to the value of 2,485,768," etc.--RABELAIS. + + +"Hurra! hurra!" I heard them say, +And they cheered and shouted all the way, +As the Laird of Salmagundi went. +To open in state his Parliament. + +The Salmagundians once were rich, +Or thought they were--no matter which-- +For, every year, the Revenue +From their Periwinkles larger grew; +And their rulers, skilled in all the trick +And legerdemain of arithmetic, +Knew how to place 1, 2, 3, 4, + 5, 6, 7, 8, and 9 and 10, +Such various ways, behind, before, +That they made a unit seem a score, + And proved themselves most wealthy men! +So, on they went, a prosperous crew, + The people wise, the rulers clever-- +And God help those, like me and you, +Who dared to doubt (as some now do) +That the Periwinkle Revenue + Would thus go flourishing on for ever. + +"Hurra! hurra!" I heard them say, +And they cheered and shouted all the way, +As the Great Panurge in glory went +To open his own dear Parliament. + +But folks at length began to doubt +What all this conjuring was about; +For, every day, more deep in debt +They saw their wealthy rulers get:-- +"Let's look (said they) the items thro' +"And see if what we're told be true +"Of our Periwinkle Revenue," +But, lord! they found there wasn't a tittle + Of truth in aught they heard before; +For they gained by Periwinkles little + And lost by Locusts ten times more! +These Locusts are a lordly breed +Some Salmagundians love to feed. +Of all the beasts that ever were born, +Your Locust most delights in _corn_; +And tho' his body be but small, +To fatten him takes the devil and all! +"Oh fie! oh fie!" was now the cry, +As they saw the gaudy show go by, +As the Laird of Salmagundi went +To open his Locust Parliament! + + + + + + +NEW CREATION OF PEERS. + +BATCH THE FIRST. + + + "His 'prentice han' + He tried on man, + And then he made the lasses." + + +1827. + + +"And now," quoth the Minister, (eased of his panics, + And ripe for each pastime the summer affords,) +"Having had our full swing at destroying mechanics, + "By way of _set-off_, let us make a few Lords. + +"'Tis pleasant--while nothing but mercantile fractures, + "Some simple, some _compound_, is dinned in our ears-- +"To think that, tho' robbed all coarse manufactures, + "We still have our fine manufacture of Peers;-- + +"Those _Gotielin_ productions which Kings take a pride + "In engrossing the whole fabrication and trade of; +"Choice tapestry things very grand on _one_ side, + "But showing, on t'other, what rags they are made of. + +The plan being fixt, raw material was sought,-- + No matter how middling, if Tory the creed be; +And first, to begin with, Squire W---, 'twas thought, + For a Lord was as raw a material as need be. + +Next came with his _penchant_ for painting and pelf + The tasteful Sir Charles,[1] so renowned far and near +For purchasing pictures and selling himself-- + And _both_ (as the public well knows) very dear. + +Beside him Sir John comes, with equal _éclat_, in;-- + Stand forth, chosen pair, while for titles we measure ye; +Both connoisseur baronets, both fond of _drawing_, + Sir John, after nature, Sir Charles, on the Treasury. + +But, bless us!--behold a new candidate come-- + In his hand he upholds a prescription, new written: +He poiseth a pill-box 'twixt finger and thumb, + And he asketh a seat 'mong the Peers of Great Britain! + +"Forbid it," cried Jenky, "ye Viscounts, ye Earls! + "Oh Rank, how thy glories would fall disenchanted, +"If coronets glistend with pills stead of pearls, + "And the strawberry-leaves were by rhubarb supplanted! + +"No--ask it not, ask it not, dear Doctor Holford-- + "If naught but a Peerage can gladden thy life, +"And young Master Holford as yet is too small for't, + "Sweet Doctor, we'll make a _she_ Peer of thy wife. + +"Next to bearing a coronet on our _own_ brows + "Is to bask in its light from the brows of another; +"And grandeur o'er thee shall reflect from thy spouse, + "As o'er Vesey Fitzgerald 'twill shine thro' his mother."[2] + +Thus ended the _First_ Batch--and Jenky, much tired + (It being no joke to make Lords by the heap), +Took a large dram of ether--the same that inspired + His speech 'gainst the Papists--and prosed off to sleep. + + +[1] Created Lord Farnborough. + +[2] Among the persons mentioned as likely to be raised to the +Peerage are the mother of Mr. Vesey Fitzgerald, etc. + + + + + + +SPEECH ON THE UMBRELLA QUESTION.[1] + +BY LORD ELDON. + +1827. + + + "_vos_ inumbrelles _video_."--_Ex Juvenil_. + GEORGII CANNINGII.[2] + + +My Lords, I'm accused of a trick that God knows is + The last into which at my age I could fall-- +Of leading this grave House of Peers by their noses, + Wherever I choose, princes, bishops and all. + +My Lords, on the question before us at present, + No doubt I shall hear, "'Tis that cursed old fellow, +"That bugbear of all that is liberal and pleasant, + "Who won't let the Lords give the man his umbrella!" + +God forbid that your Lordships should knuckle to me; + I am ancient--but were I as old as King Priam, +Not much, I confess, to your credit 'twould be, + To mind such a twaddling old Trojan as I am. + +I own, of our Protestant laws I am jealous, + And long as God spares me will always maintain, +That _once_ having taken men's rights, or umbrellas, + We ne'er should consent to restore them again. + +What security have you, ye Bishops and Peers, + If thus you give back Mr. Bell's _parapluie_, +That he mayn't with its stick, come about all your ears, + And then--_where_ would your Protestant periwigs be? + +No! heaven be my judge, were I dying to-day, + Ere I dropt in the grave, like a medlar that's mellow, +"For God's sake"--at that awful moment I'd say-- + "For God's sake, _don't_ give Mr. Bell his umbrella." + +["This address," says a ministerial journal, "delivered with amazing +emphasis and earnestness, occasioned an extraordinary sensation in the +House. Nothing since the memorable address of the Duke of York has +produced so remarkable an impression."] + + +[1] A case which interested the public very much at this period. A +gentleman, of the name, of Bell, having left his umbrella behind him in +the House of Lords, the doorkeepers (standing, no doubt, on the privileges +of that noble body) refused to restore it to him; and the above speech, +which may be considered as a _pendant_ to that of the Learned Earl on +the Catholic Question, arose out of the transaction. + +[2] From Mr. Canning's translation of Jekyl's-- + + "I say, my good fellows, + As you've no umbrellas." + + + + + + +A PASTORAL BALLAD. + +BY JOHN BULL. + + + _Dublin, March 12, 1827_.--Friday, after the arrival of the + packet bringing the account of the defeat of the Catholic Question, in + the House of Commons, orders were sent to the Pigeon-House to forward + 5,000,000 rounds of musket-ball cartridge to the different garrisons + round the country.--_Freeman's Journal_. + + +I have found out a gift for my Erin, + A gift that will surely content her:-- +Sweet pledge of a love so endearing! + Five millions of bullets I've sent her. + +She askt me for Freedom and Right, + But ill she her wants understood;-- +Ball cartridges, morning and night, + Is a dose that will do her more good. + +There is hardly a day of our lives + But we read, in some amiable trials, +How husbands make love to their wives + Thro' the medium of hemp and of vials. + +_One_ thinks, with his mistress or mate + A good halter is sure to agree-- +That love-knot which, early and late, + I have tried, my dear Erin, on thee. + +While _another_, whom Hymen has blest + With a wife that is not over placid, +Consigns the dear charmer to rest, + With a dose of the best Prussic acid. + +Thus, Erin! my love do I show-- + Thus quiet thee, mate of my bed! +And, as poison and hemp are too slow, + Do thy business with bullets instead. + +Should thy faith in my medicine be shaken, + Ask Roden, that mildest of saints; +He'll tell thee, lead, inwardly taken, + Alone can remove thy complaints;-- + +That, blest as thou art in thy lot, + Nothing's wanted to make it more pleasant +But being hanged, tortured and shot, + Much oftener than thou art at present. + +Even Wellington's self hath averred + Thou art yet but half sabred and hung, +And I loved him the more when I heard + Such tenderness fall from his tongue. + +So take the five millions of pills, + Dear partner, I herewith inclose; +'Tis the cure that all quacks for thy ill, + From Cromwell to Eldon, propose. + +And you, ye brave bullets that go, + How I wish that, before you set out, +The _Devil_ of the Freischütz could know + The good work you are going about. + +For he'd charm ye, in spite of your lead. + Into such supernatural wit. +That you'd all of you know, as you sped, + Where a bullet of sense _ought_ to hit. + + + + + + +A LATE SCENE AT SWANAGE.[1] + + + _regnis_ EX _sul ademptis_.--Verg. 1827. + + +To Swanage--that neat little town in whose bay + Fair Thetis shows off in her best silver slippers-- +Lord Bags[2] took his annual trip t'other day, + To taste the sea breezes and chat with the dippers. + +There--learned as he is in conundrums and laws-- + Quoth he to his dame (whom he oft plays the wag on), + "Why are chancery suitors like bathers?"--"Because + Their _suits_ are _put off_, till they haven't a rag on." + +Thus on he went chatting--but, lo! while he chats, + With a face full of wonder around him he looks; +For he misses his parsons, his dear shovel hats, + Who used to flock round him at Swanage like rooks. + +"How is this, Lady Bags?--to this region aquatic +"Last year they came swarming to make me their bow, +"As thick as Burke's cloud o'er the vales of Carnatic, +"Deans, Rectors, D.D.'s--where the devil are they now?" + +"My dearest Lord Bags!" saith his dame, "_can_ you doubt? + "I am loath to remind you of things so unpleasant; +"But _don't_ you perceive, dear, the Church have found out + "That you're one of the people called _Ex's_, at present?" + +"Ah, true--you have hit it--I _am_, indeed, one + "Of those ill-fated _Ex's_ (his Lordship replies), +"And with tears, I confess--God forgive me the pun!-- + "We X's have proved ourselves _not_ to be Y's." + + +[1] A small bathing-place on the coast of Dorsetshire, long a favorite +summer resort of the ex-nobleman in question and, _till this season_, much +frequented also by gentlemen of the church. + +[2] The Lord Chancellor Eldon. + + + + + + +WO! WO![1] + + +Wo, wo unto him who would check or disturb it-- + That beautiful Light which is now on its way; +Which beaming, at first, o'er the bogs of Belturbet, + Now brightens sweet Ballinafad with its ray! + +Oh Farnham, Saint Farnham, how much do we owe thee! + How formed to all tastes are thy various employs. +The old, as a catcher of Catholics, know thee; + The young, as an amateur scourger of boys. + +Wo, wo to the man who such doings would smother!-- + On, Luther of Bavan! On, Saint of Kilgroggy! +With whip in one hand and with Bible in t'other, + Like Mungo's tormentor, both "preachee and floggee." + +Come, Saints from all quarters, and marshal his way; + Come, Lorton, who, scorning profane erudition, +Popt Shakespeare, they say, in the river one day, + Tho' 'twas only old Bowdler's _Velluti_ edition. + +Come, Roden, who doubtest--so mild are thy views-- + Whether Bibles or bullets are best for the nation; +Who leav'st to poor Paddy no medium to choose + 'Twixt good _old_ Rebellion and _new_ Reformation. + +What more from her Saints can Hibernia require? + St. Bridget of yore like a dutiful daughter +Supplied her, 'tis said, with perpetual fire,[2] + And Saints keep her _now_ in eternal hot water. + +Wo, wo to the man who would check their career, + Or stop the Millennium that's sure to await us, +When blest with an orthodox crop every year, + We shall learn to raise Protestants fast as potatoes. + +In kidnapping Papists, our rulers, we know, + Had been trying their talent for many a day; +Till Farnham, when all had been tried, came to show, + Like the German flea-catcher, "anoder goot way." + +And nothing's more simple than Farnham's receipt;-- + "Catch your Catholic, first--soak him well in _poteen_, +"Add _salary_ sauce,[3] and the thing is complete. + "You may serve up your Protestant smoking and clean." + +"Wo, wo to the wag, who would laugh at such cookery!" + Thus, from his perch, did I hear a black crow[4] +Caw angrily out, while the rest of the rookery + Opened their bills and re-echoed "Wo! wo!" + + +[1] Suggested by a speech of the Bishop of Chester on the subject of the +New Reformation in Ireland, in which his Lordship denounced "Wo! Wo! Wo!" +pretty abundantly on all those who dared to interfere with its progress. + +[2] The inextenguishable fire of St. Bridget, at Kildare. + +[3] "We understand that several applications have lately been made to the +Protestant clergymen of this town by fellows, inquiring 'What are they +giving a head for converts?'"--_Wexford Post_. + +[4] Of the rook species--_Corvus frugilegus_, i.e. a great consumer of +corn. + + + + + + +TOUT POUR LA TRIPE. + + + "If in China or among the natives of India, we claimed civil + advantages which were connected with religious usages, little as + we might value those forms in our hearts, we should think common + decency required us to abstain from treating them with offensive + contumely; and, though unable to consider them sacred, we would not + sneer at the name of _Fot_, or laugh at the imputed divinity + of _Visthnou_."--_Courier, Tuesday. Jan_. 16. + + +1827. + + +Come take my advice, never trouble your cranium, + When "civil advantages" are to be gained, +What god or what goddess may help to obtain you 'em, + Hindoo or Chinese, so they're only obtained. + +In this world (let me hint in your organ auricular) + All the good things to good hypocrites fall; +And he who in swallowing creeds is particular, + Soon will have nothing to swallow at all. + +Oh place me where _Fo_ (or, as some call him, _Fot_) + Is the god from whom "civil advantages" flow, +And you'll find, if there's anything snug to be got, + I shall soon be on excellent terms with old _Fo_. + +Or were I where _Vishnu_, that four-handed god, + Is the quadruple giver of pensions and places, +I own I should feel it unchristian and odd + Not to find myself also in _Vishnu's_ good graces. + +For among all the gods that humanely attend + To our wants in this planet, the gods to _my_ wishes +Are those that, like _Vishnu_ and others, descend + In the form so attractive, of loaves and of fishes![1] + +So take my advice--for if even the devil + Should tempt men again as an idol to try him, +'Twere best for us Tories even then to be civil, + As nobody doubts we should get something by him. + + +[1] Vishnu was (as Sir W. Jones calls him) "a pisciform god,"--his first +Avatar being in the shape of a fish. + + + + + + +ENIGMA. + + + _monstrum nulla virtute_ redemptum. + + +Come, riddle-me-ree, come, riddle-me-ree, + And tell me what my name may be. +I am nearly one hundred and thirty years old, + And therefore no chicken, as you may suppose;-- +Tho' a dwarf in my youth (as my nurses have told), + I have, every year since, been out-growing my clothes: +Till at last such a corpulent giant I stand, + That if folks were to furnish me now with a suit, +It would take every morsel of _scrip_ in the land + But to measure my bulk from the head to the foot. +Hence they who maintain me, grown sick of my stature, + To cover me nothing but _rags_ will supply; +And the doctors declare that in due course of nature + About the year 30 in rags I shall die. +Meanwhile, I stalk hungry and bloated around, + An object of _interest_ most painful to all; +In the warehouse, the cottage, the place I'm found, + Holding citizen, peasant, and king in nay thrall. + Then riddle-me-ree, oh riddle-me-ree, + Come tell me what my name may be. + +When the lord of the counting-house bends o'er his book, + Bright pictures of profit delighting to draw, +O'er his shoulders with large cipher eyeballs I look, + And down drops the pen from his paralyzed paw! +When the Premier lies dreaming of dear Waterloo, + And expects thro' _another_ to caper and prank it, +You'd laugh did you see, when I bellow out "Boo!" + How he hides his brave Waterloo head in the blanket. +When mighty Belshazzar brims high in the hall + His cup, full of gout, to the Gaul's overthrow, +Lo, "_Eight Hundred Millions_" I write on the wall, + And the cup falls to earth and--the gout to his toe! +But the joy of my heart is when largely I cram + My maw with the fruits of the Squirearchy's acres, +And knowing who made me the thing that I am, + Like the monster of Frankenstein, worry my makers. + Then riddle-me-ree, come, riddle-me-ree, + And tell, if thou know'st, who _I_ may be. + + + + + + +DOG-DAY REFLECTIONS. + +BY A DANDY KEPT IN TOWN. + + + _"vox clamantis in deserto."_ + + +1827. + + +Said Malthus one day to a clown + Lying stretched on the beach in the sun,-- +"What's the number of souls in this town?"-- + "The number! Lord bless you, there's none. + +"We have nothing but _dabs_ in this place, + "Of them a great plenty there are;-- +But the _soles_, please your reverence and grace, + "Are all t'other side of the bar." + +And so 'tis in London just now, + Not a soul to be seen up or down;-- +Of _dabs_? a great glut, I allow, + But your _soles_, every one, out of town. + +East or west nothing wondrous or new, + No courtship or scandal worth knowing; +Mrs. B---, and a Mermaid[1] or two, + Are the only loose fish that are going. + +Ah, where is that dear house of Peers + That some weeks ago kept us merry? +Where, Eldon, art thou with thy tears? +And thou with thy sense, Londonderry? + +Wise Marquis, how much the Lord Mayor, + In the dog-days, with _thee_ must be puzzled!-- +It being his task to take care + That such animals shan't go unmuzzled. + +Thou too whose political toils + Are so worthy a captain of horse-- +Whose amendments[2] (like honest Sir Boyle's) + Are "_amendments_, that make matters _worse_;"[3] + +Great Chieftain, who takest such pains + To prove--what is granted, _nem_. _con_.-- +With how moderate a portion of brains + Some heroes contrive to get on. + +And thou too my Redesdale, ah! where + Is the peer with a star at his button, +Whose _quarters_ could ever compare + With Redesdale's five quarters of mutton?[4] + +Why, why have ye taken your flight, + Ye diverting and dignified crew? +How ill do three farces a night, + At the Haymarket, pay us for you! + +For what is Bombastes to thee, + My Ellenbro', when thou look'st big +Or where's the burletta can be + Like Lauderdale's wit and his wig? + +I doubt if even Griffinhoof[5] could + (Tho' Griffin's a comical lad) +Invent any joke half so good + As that precious one, "This is too bad!" + +Then come again, come again Spring! + Oh haste thee, with Fun in thy train; +And--of all things the funniest--bring + These exalted Grimaldis again! + + +[1] One of the shows of London. + +[2] More particularly his Grace's celebrated amendment to the Corn Bill: +for which, and the circumstances connected with it, see Annual Register +for A. D. 1827. + +[3] From a speech of Sir Boyle Roche's, in the Irish House of Commons. + +[4] The learning his Lordship displayed on the subject of the butcher's +"fifth quarter" of mutton will not speedily be forgotten. + +[5] The _nom de guerre_ under which Colman has written some of his +best farces. + + + + + + +THE "LIVING DOG" AND "THE DEAD LION." + +1828. + + +Next week will be published (as "Lives" are the rage) + The whole Reminiscences, wondrous and strange, +Of a small puppy-dog that lived once in the cage + Of the late noble Lion at Exeter 'Change. + +Tho' the dog is a dog of the kind they call "sad," + 'Tis a puppy that much to good breeding pretends; +And few dogs have such opportunities had + Of knowing how Lions behave--among friends; + +How that animal eats, how he snores, how he drinks, + Is all noted down by this Boswell so small; +And 'tis plain from each sentence, the puppy-dog thinks + That the Lion was no such great things after all. + +Tho' he roared pretty well--this the puppy allows-- + It was all, he says, borrowed--all second-hand roar; +And he vastly prefers his own little bow-wows + To the loftiest war-note the Lion could pour. + +'Tis indeed as good fun as a _Cynic_ could ask, + To see how this cockney-bred setter of rabbits +Takes gravely the Lord of the Forest to task, + And judges of lions by puppy-dog habits. + +Nay, fed as he was (and this makes it a dark case) + With sops every day from the Lion's own pan, +He lifts up his leg at the noble beast's carcass. + And does all a dog so diminutive can. + +However, the book's a good book, being rich in + Examples and warnings to lions high-bred, +How they suffer small mongrelly curs in their kitchen, + Who'll feed on them living and foul them when dead. + +T. PIDCOCK + +_Exeter 'Change_, + + + + + + +ODE TO DON MIGUEL. + + + Et tu, _Brute_! + + +1828.[1] + + +What! Miguel, _not_ patriotic! oh, fy! + After so much good teaching 'tis quite a _take-in_, Sir; +First schooled as you were under Metternich's eye, + And then (as young misses say) "finisht" at Windsor![2] + +I ne'er in my life knew a case that was harder;-- + Such feasts as you had when you made us a call! +Three courses each day from his Majesty's larder,-- + And now to turn absolute Don after all!! + +Some authors, like Bayes, to the style and the matter + Of each thing they _write_ suit the way that they _dine_, +Roast sirloin for Epic, broiled devils for Satire, + And hotchpotch and _trifle_ for rhymes such as mine. + +That Rulers should feed the same way, I've no doubt;-- + Great Despots on _bouilli_ served up _à la Russe_,[3] +Your small German Princes on frogs and sour crout, + And your Viceroy of Hanover always on _goose_. + +_Some_ Dons too have fancied (tho' this may be fable) + A dish rather dear, if in cooking they blunder it;-- +Not content with the common _hot_ meat _on_ a table, + They're partial (eh, Mig?) to a dish of _cold under_ it![4] + +No wonder a Don of such appetites found + Even Windsor's collations plebeianly plain; +Where the dishes most _high_ that my Lady sends round + Are here _Maintenon_ cutlets and soup _à la Reine_. + +Alas! that a youth with such charming beginnings, + Should sink all at once to so sad a conclusion, +And what is still worse, throw the losings and winnings + Of worthies on 'Change into so much confusion! + +The Bulls, in hysterics--the Bears just as bad-- + The few men who _have_, and the many who've _not_ tick, +All shockt to find out that that promising lad, + Prince Metternich's pupil, is--_not_ patriotic! + + +[1] At the commencement of this year, the designs of Don Miguel and his +partisans against the constitution established by his brother had begun +more openly to declare themselves. + +[2] Don Miguel had paid a visit to the English court at the close of the +year 1827. + +[3] Dressed with a pint of the strongest spirits--a favorite dish of the +Great Frederick of Prussia, and which he persevered in eating even on his +death-bed, much to the horror of his physician Zimmerman. + +[4] This quiet case of murder, with all its particulars--the hiding the +body under the dinner-table, etc.--is, no doubt, well known to the reader. + + + + + + +THOUGHTS ON THE PRESENT GOVERNMENT OF IRELAND. + +1828. + + +Oft have I seen, in gay, equestrian pride, +Some well-rouged youth round Astley's Circus ride +Two stately steeds--standing, with graceful straddle, +Like him of Rhodes, with foot on either saddle, +While to soft tunes--some jigs and some _andantes_-- +He steers around his light-paced Rosinantes. + +So rides along, with canter smooth and pleasant, +That horseman bold, Lord Anglesea, at present;-- +_Papist_ and _Protestant_ the coursers twain, +That lend their necks to his impartial rein, +And round the ring--each honored, as they go, +With equal pressure from his gracious toe-- + +To the old medley tune, half "Patrick's Day" +And half "Boyne Water," take their cantering way, +While Peel, the showman in the middle, cracks +His long-lasht whip to cheer the doubtful hacks. +Ah, ticklish trial of equestrian art! +How blest, if neither steed would bolt or start;-- +If _Protestant's_ old restive tricks were gone, +And _Papist's_ winkers could be still kept on! +But no, false hopes--not even the great Ducrow +'Twixt two such steeds could 'scape an overthrow: +If _solar_ hacks played Phaëton a trick, +What hope, alas, from hackneys _lunatic_? + +If once my Lord his graceful balance loses, +Or fails to keep each foot where each horse chooses; +If Peel but gives one _extra_ touch of whip +To _Papist's_ tail or _Protestant's_ ear-tip-- +That instant ends their glorious horsmanship! +Off bolt the severed steeds, for mischief free. +And down between them plumps Lord Anglesea! + + + + + + +THE LIMBO OF LOST REPUTATIONS. + +A DREAM. + + + "_Cio che si perde qui, là si raguna_." + ARIOSTO. + + "---a valley, where he sees + Things that on earth were lost." + MILTON. + + +1828. + + +Knowest thou not him[1] the poet sings, + Who flew to the moon's serene domain, +And saw that valley where all the things, + That vanish on earth are found again-- +The hopes of youth, the resolves of age, +The vow of the lover, the dream of the sage, +The golden visions of mining cits, + The promises great men strew about them; +And, packt in compass small, the wits + Of monarchs who rule as well without them!-- +Like him, but diving with wing profound, +I have been to a Limbo underground, +Where characters lost on earth, (and _cried_, +In vain, like Harris's, far and wide,) +In heaps like yesterday's orts, are thrown +And there, so worthless and flyblown +That even the imps would not purloin them, +Lie till their worthy owners join them. + +Curious it was to see this mass + Of lost and torn-up reputations;-- +Some of them female wares, alas! + Mislaid at _innocent_ assignations; +Some, that had sighed their last amen + From the canting lips of saints that would be; +And some once owned by "the best of men," + Who had proved-no better than they should be. +'Mong others, a poet's fame I spied, + Once shining fair, now soakt and black-- +"No wonder" (an imp at my elbow cried), + "For I pickt it out of a butt of sack!" + +Just then a yell was heard o'er head, + Like a chimney-sweeper's lofty summons; +And lo! a devil right downward sped, +Bringing within his claws so red +Two statesmen's characters, found, he said, + Last night, on the floor of the House of Commons; +The which, with black official grin, +He now to the Chief Imp handed in;-- +_Both_ these articles much the worse + For their journey down, as you may suppose; +But _one_ so devilish rank--"Odd's curse!". + Said the Lord Chief Imp, and held his nose. +"Ho, ho!" quoth he, "I know full well + "From whom these two stray matters fell;"-- +Then, casting away, with loathful shrug, +The uncleaner waif (as he would a drug +The Invisible's own dark hand had mixt), +His gaze on the other[2] firm he fixt, +And trying, tho' mischief laught in his eye, +To be moral because of the _young_ imps by, +"What a pity!" he cried--"so fresh its gloss, +"So long preserved--'tis a public loss! +"This comes of a man, the careless blockhead, +"Keeping his character in his pocket; +"And there--without considering whether +"There's room for that and his gains together-- +"Cramming and cramming and cramming away, +"Till--out slips character some fine day! + +"However"--and here he viewed it round-- +"This article still may pass for sound. +"Some flaws, soon patched, some stains are all +"The harm it has had in its luckless fall. +"Here, Puck!" and he called to one of his train-- +"The owner may have this back again. +"Tho' damaged for ever, if used with skill, +"It may serve perhaps to _trade on_ still; +"Tho' the gem can never as once be set, +"It will do for a Tory Cabinet." + + +[1] Astolpho. + +[2] Huskisson. + + + + + + +HOW TO WRITE BY PROXY. + + + _qui facit per alium facit per se_. + + +'Mong our neighbors, the French, in the good olden time + When Nobility flourisht, great Barons and Dukes +Often set up for authors in prose and in rhyme, + But ne'er took the trouble to write their own books. + +Poor devils were found to do this for their betters;-- + And one day a Bishop, addressing a _Blue_, +Said, "Ma'am, have you read my new Pastoral Letters?" + To which the _Blue_ answered--"No, Bishop, have you?" + +The same is now done by _our_ privileged class; + And to show you how simple the process it needs, +If a great Major-General[1] wishes to pass + For an author of History, thus he proceeds:-- + +First, scribbling his own stock of notions as well + As he can, with a _goose_-quill that claims him as _kin_, +He settles his neckcloth--takes snuff--rings the bell, + And yawningly orders a Subaltern in. + +The Subaltern comes--sees his General seated, + In all the self-glory of authorship swelling;-- +"There look," saith his Lordship, "my work is completed,-- +"It wants nothing now but the grammar and spelling." + +Well used to a _breach_, the brave Subaltern dreads + Awkward breaches of syntax a hundred times more; +And tho' often condemned to see breaking of heads, + He had ne'er seen such breaking of Priscian's before. + +However, the job's sure to _pay_--that's enough-- + So, to it he sets with his tinkering hammer, +Convinced that there never was job half so tough +As the mending a great Major-General's grammar. + +But lo! a fresh puzzlement starts up to view-- + New toil for the Sub.--for the Lord new expense: +'Tis discovered that mending his _grammar_ won't do, + As the Subaltern also must find him in _sense_! + +At last--even this is achieved by his aid; + Friend Subaltern pockets the cash and--the story; +Drums beat--the new Grand March of Intellect's played-- + And off struts my Lord, the Historian, in glory! + + +[1] Or Lieutenant-General, as it may happen to be. + + + + + + +IMITATION OF THE INFERNO OF DANTE. + + + _"Cosi quel fiato gli spiriti mali + Di quà, di là, di giu, di su gli mena."_ + + + _Inferno_, canto 5. + + +I turned my steps and lo! a shadowy throng +Of ghosts came fluttering towards me--blown along, +Like cockchafers in high autumnal storms, +By many a fitful gust that thro' their forms +Whistled, as on they came, with wheezy puff, +And puft as--tho' they'd never puff enough. + +"Whence and what are ye?" pitying I inquired +Of these poor ghosts, who, tattered, tost, and tired +With such eternal puffing, scarce could stand +On their lean legs while answering my demand. +"We once were authors"--thus the Sprite, who led +This tag-rag regiment of spectres, said-- +"Authors of every sex, male, female, neuter, +"Who, early smit with love of praise and--_pewter_,[1] +"On C--lb--n's shelves first saw the light of day, +"In ---'s puffs exhaled our lives away-- +"Like summer windmills, doomed to dusty peace, +"When the brisk gales that lent them motion, cease. +"Ah! little knew we then what ills await +"Much-lauded scribblers in their after-state; +"Bepuft on earth--how loudly Str--t can tell-- +"And, dire reward, now doubly puft in hell!" + + Touched with compassion for this ghastly crew, +Whose ribs even now the hollow wind sung thro' +In mournful prose,--such prose as Rosa's[2] ghost +Still, at the accustomed hour of eggs and toast, +Sighs thro' the columns of the _Morning Post_,-- +Pensive I turned to weep, when he who stood +Foremost of all that flatulential brood, +Singling a _she_-ghost from the party, said, +"Allow me to present Miss X. Y. Z.,[3] +"One of our _lettered_ nymphs--excuse the pun-- +"Who gained a name on earth by--having none; +"And whose initials would immortal be, +"Had she but learned those plain ones, A. B. C. + +"Yon smirking ghost, like mummy dry and neat, +"Wrapt in his own dead rhymes--fit winding-sheet-- +"Still marvels much that not a soul should care +"One single pin to know who wrote 'May Fair;'-- +"While this young gentleman," (here forth he drew +A dandy spectre, puft quite thro' and thro', +As tho' his ribs were an AEolian lyre +For the whole Row's soft _trade_winds to inspire,) +"This modest genius breathed one wish alone, +"To have his volume read, himself unknown; +"But different far the course his glory took, +"All knew the author, and--none read the book. + +"Behold, in yonder ancient figure of fun, +"Who rides the blast, Sir Jonah Barrington;-- +"In tricks to raise the wind his life was spent, +"And now the wind returns the compliment. +"This lady here, the Earl of ---'s sister, +"Is a dead novelist; and this is Mister-- +"Beg pardon--_Honorable_ Mister Lister, +"A gentleman who some weeks since came over +"In a smart puff (wind S. S. E.) to Dover. +"Yonder behind us limps young Vivian Grey, +"Whose life, poor youth, was long since blown away-- +"Like a torn paper-kite on which the wind +"No further purchase for a puff can find." + +"And thou, thyself"--here, anxious, I exclaimed-- +"Tell us, good ghost, how thou, thyself, art named." +"Me, Sir!" he blushing cried--"Ah! there's the rub-- +"Know, then--a waiter once at Brooks's Club, +"A waiter still I might have long remained, +"And long the club-room's jokes and glasses drained; +"But ah! in luckless hour, this last December, +"I wrote a book,[4] and Colburn dubbed me 'Member'-- +"'Member of Brooks's!'--oh Promethean puff, +"To what wilt thou exalt even kitchen-stuff! +"With crumbs of gossip, caught from dining wits, +"And half-heard jokes, bequeathed, like half-chewed bits, +"To be, each night, the waiter's perquisites;-- +"With such ingredients served up oft before, +"But with fresh fudge and fiction garnisht o'er, +"I managed for some weeks to dose the town, +"Till fresh reserves of nonsense ran me down; +"And ready still even waiters' souls to damn, +"The Devil but rang his bell, and--here I am;-- +"Yes--'Coming _up_, Sir,' once my favorite cry, +"Exchanged for 'Coming _down_, Sir,' here am I!" + +Scarce had the Spectre's lips these words let drop, +When, lo! a breeze--such as from ---'s shop +Blows in the vernal hour when puffs prevail, +And speeds the _sheets_ and swells the lagging _sale_-- +Took the poor waiter rudely in the poop, +And whirling him and all his grisly group +Of literary ghosts--Miss X. Y. Z.-- +The nameless author, better known than read-- +Sir Jo--the Honorable Mr. Lister, +And last, not least, Lord Nobody's twin-sister-- +Blew them, ye gods, with all their prose and rhymes +And sins about them, far into those climes +"Where Peter pitched his waistcoat"[5] in old times, +Leaving me much in doubt as on I prest, +With my great master, thro' this realm unblest, +Whether Old Nick or Colburn puffs the best. + + +[1] The classical term for money. + +[2] Rosa Matilda, who was for many years the writer of the political +articles in the journal alluded to, and whose spirit still seems to +preside--"_regnat Rosa_"--over its pages. + +[3] _Not_ the charming L. E. L., and still less, Mrs. F. H., whose poetry +is among the most beautiful of the present day. + +[4] "History of the Clubs of London," announced as by "a Member of +Brooks's." + +[5]A _Dantesque_ allusion to the old saying "Nine miles beyond Hell, where +Peter pitched his waistcoat." + + + + + + +LAMENT FOR THE LOSS OF LORD BATHURST'S TAIL.[1] + + +All _in_ again--unlookt for bliss! +Yet, ah! _one_ adjunct still we miss;-- +One tender tie, attached so long +To the same head, thro' right and wrong. +Why, Bathurst, why didst thou cut off + That memorable tail of thine? +Why--as if _one_ was not enough-- + Thy pig-tie with thy place resign, +And thus at once both _cut_ and _run_? +Alas! my Lord, 'twas not well done, +'Twas not, indeed,--tho' sad at heart, +From office and its sweets to part, +Yet hopes of coming in again, +Sweet Tory hopes! beguiled our pain; +But thus to miss that tail of thine, +Thro' long, long years our rallying sign-- +As if the State and all its powers +By tenancy _in tail_ were ours-- +To see it thus by scissors fall, +_This_ was "the unkindest _cut_ of all!" +It seemed as tho' the ascendant day +Of Toryism had past away, +And proving Samson's story true, +She lost her vigor with her _queue_. + +Parties are much like fish, 'tis said-- +The tail directs them, not the head; +Then how could _any_ party fail, +That steered its course by Bathurst's tail? +Not Murat's plume thro' Wagram's fight + E'er shed such guiding glories from it, +As erst in all true Tories sight, + Blazed from our old Colonial comet! +If you, my Lord, a Bashaw were, +(As Wellington will be anon) +Thou mightst have had a tail to spare; + But no! alas! thou hadst but one, + And _that_--like Troy, or Babylon, + A tale of other times--is gone! +Yet--weep ye not, ye Tories true-- + Fate has not yet of all bereft us; +Though thus deprived of Bathurst's _queue_, + We've Ellenborough's _curls_ still left us:-- +Sweet curls, from which young Love, so vicious, +His shots, as from nine-pounders, issues; +Grand, glorious curls, which in debate +Surcharged with all a nation's fate, +His Lordship shakes, as Homer's God did,[2] + And oft in thundering talk comes near him; +Except that there the _speaker_ nodded + And here 'tis only those who hear him. +Long, long, ye ringlets, on the soil + Of that fat cranium may ye flourish, +With plenty of Macassar oil + Thro' many a year your growth to nourish! +And ah! should Time too soon unsheath + His barbarous shears such locks to sever, +Still dear to Tories even in death, +Their last loved relics we'll bequeath, + A _hair_-loom to our sons for ever. + + +[1] The noble Lord, as is well known, cut off this much-respected +appendage on his retirement from office some months since. + +[2] "Shakes his ambrosial curls, and gives the nod."--Pope's _Homer_. + + + + + + +THE CHERRIES. + +A PARABLE.[1] + +1838. + + +See those cherries, how they cover + Yonder sunny garden wall;-- +Had they not that network over, + Thieving birds would eat them all. + +So to guard our posts and pensions, + Ancient sages wove a net, +Thro' whose holes of small dimensions + Only _certain_ knaves can get. + +Shall we then this network widen; + Shall we stretch these sacred holes, +Thro' which even already slide in + Lots of small dissenting souls? + +"God forbid!" old Testy crieth; + "God forbid!" so echo I; +Every ravenous bird that flieth + Then would at our cherries fly. + +Ope but half an inch or so, + And, behold! what bevies break in;-- +_Here_ some curst old Popish crow + Pops his long and lickerish beak in; + +_Here_ sly Arians flock unnumbered, + And Socinians, slim and spare, +Who with small belief encumbered + Slip in easy anywhere;-- + +Methodists, of birds the aptest, + Where there's _pecking_ going on; +And that water-fowl, the Baptist-- + All would share our fruits anon; + +Every bird of every city, + That for years with ceaseless din, +Hath reverst the starling's ditty, + Singing out "I can't get in." + +"God forbid!" old _Testy_ snivels; + "God forbid!" I echo too; +Rather may ten thousand devils + Seize the whole voracious crew! + +If less costly fruits won't suit 'em, + Hips and haws and such like berries, +Curse the cormorants! stone 'em, shoot 'em, + Anything--to save our cherries. + + +[1] Written during the late discussion on the Test and Corporation Acts. + + + + + + +STANZAS WRITTEN IN ANTICIPATION OF DEFEAT.[1] + +1828. + + +Go seek for some abler defenders of wrong, + If we _must_ run the gantlet thro' blood and expense; +Or, Goths as ye are, in your multitude strong, + Be content with success and pretend not to sense. + +If the words of the wise and the generous are vain, + If Truth by the bowstring _must_ yield up her breath, +Let Mutes do the office--and spare her the pain + Of an Inglis or Tyndal to talk her to death. + +Chain, persecute, plunder--do all that you will-- + But save us, at least, the old womanly lore +Of a Foster, who, dully prophetic of ill, + Is at once the _two_ instruments, AUGUR[2] and BORE. + +Bring legions of Squires--if they'll only be mute-- + And array their thick heads against reason and right, +Like the Roman of old, of historic repute,[3] + Who with droves of dumb animals carried the fight; + +Pour out from each corner and hole of the Court + Your Bedchamber lordlings, your salaried slaves, +Who, ripe for all job-work, no matter what sort, + Have their consciences tackt to their patents and staves. + +Catch all the small fry who, as Juvenal sings, + Are the Treasury's creatures, wherever they swim; +With all the base, time-serving _toadies_ of Kings, + Who, if Punch were the monarch, would worship even him; + +And while on the _one_ side each name of renown + That illumines and blesses our age is combined; +While the Foxes, the Pitts, and the Cannings look down, + And drop o'er the cause their rich mantles of Mind; + +Let bold Paddy Holmes show his troops on the other, + And, counting of noses the quantum desired, +Let Paddy but say, like the Gracchi's famed mother, + "Come forward, my _jewels_"--'tis all that's required. + +And thus let your farce be enacted hereafter-- + Thus honestly persecute, outlaw and chain; +But spare even your victims the torture of laughter, + And never, oh never, try _reasoning_ again! + + +[1] During the discussion of the Catholic question in the House of Commons +last session. + +[2] This rhyme is more for the ear than the eye, as the carpenter's tool +is spelt _auger_. + +[3] Fabius, who sent droves of bullock against the enemy. + + + + + + +ODE TO THE WOODS AND FORESTS. + +BY ONE OF THE BOARD. + +1828. + + +Let other bards to groves repair, + Where linnets strain their tuneful throats; +Mine be the Woods and Forests where + The Treasury pours its sweeter _notes_. + +No whispering winds have charms for me, + Nor zephyr's balmy sighs I ask; +To raise the wind for Royalty + Be all our Sylvan zephyr's task! + +And 'stead of crystal brooks and floods, + And all such vulgar irrigation, +Let Gallic rhino thro' our Woods + Divert its "course of liquidation." + +Ah, surely, Vergil knew full well + What Woods and Forests _ought_ to be, +When sly, he introduced in hell + His guinea-plant, his bullion-tree;[1]-- + +Nor see I why, some future day, + When short of cash, we should not send +Our Herries down--he knows the way-- + To see if Woods in hell will _lend_. + +Long may ye flourish, sylvan haunts, + Beneath whose "_branches_ of expense" +Our gracious King gets all he wants,-- + _Except_ a little taste and sense. + +Long, in your golden shade reclined. + Like him of fair Armida's bowers, +May Wellington some _wood_-nymph find, + To cheer his dozenth lustrum's hours; + +To rest from toil the Great Untaught, + And soothe the pangs his warlike brain +Must suffer, when, unused to thought, + It tries to think and--tries in vain. + +Oh long may Woods and Forests be + Preserved in all their teeming graces, +To shelter Tory bards like me + Who take delight in Sylvan _places_! + + +[1] Called by Vergil, botanically, "species _aurifrondentis_." + + + + + + +STANZAS FROM THE BANKS OF THE SHANNON.[1] + +1828. + + + "Take back the virgin page." + MOORE'S _Irish Melodies_. + + +No longer dear Vesey, feel hurt and uneasy + At hearing it said by the Treasury brother, +That thou art a sheet of blank paper, my Vesey, + And he, the dear, innocent placeman, another.[2] + +For lo! what a service we Irish have done thee;-- + Thou now art a sheet of blank paper no more; +By St. Patrick, we've scrawled such a lesson upon thee + As never was scrawled upon foolscap before. + +Come--on with your spectacles, noble Lord Duke, + (Or O'Connell has _green_ ones he haply would lend you,) +Read Vesey all o'er (as you _can't_ read a book) + And improve by the lesson we bog-trotters send you; + +A lesson, in large _Roman_ characters traced, + Whose awful impressions from you and your kin +Of blank-sheeted statesmen will ne'er be effaced-- + Unless, 'stead of _paper_, you're mere _asses' skin_. + +Shall I help you to construe it? ay, by the Gods, + Could I risk a translation, you _should_ have a rare one; +But pen against sabre is desperate odds, + And you, my Lord Duke (as you _hinted_ once), wear one. + +Again and again I say, read Vesey o'er;-- + You will find him worth all the old scrolls of papyrus +That Egypt e'er filled with nonsensical lore, + Or the learned Champollion e'er wrote of, to tire us. + +All blank as he was, we've returned him on hand, + Scribbled o'er with a warning to Princes and Dukes, +Whose plain, simple drift if they _won't_ understand, + Tho' carest at St. James's, they're fit for St. Luke's. + +Talk of leaves of the Sibyls!--more meaning conveyed is + In one single leaf such as now we have spelled on, +Than e'er hath been uttered by all the old ladies + That ever yet spoke, from the Sibyls to Eldon. + + +[1] These verses were suggested by the result of the Clare election, in +the year 1828, when the Right Honorable W. Vesey Fitzgerald was rejected, +and Mr. O'Connell returned. + +[2] Some expressions to this purport, in a published letter of one of +these gentlemen, had then produced a good deal of amusement. + + + + + + +THE ANNUAL PILL. + + +Supposed to be sung by OLD PROSY, the Jew, in the character of Major +CARTWRIGHT. + + +Vill nobodies try my nice _Annual Pill_, + Dat's to purify every ting nashty avay? +Pless ma heart, pless ma heart, let ma say vat I vill, + Not a Chrishtian or Shentleman minds vat I say. + 'Tis so pretty a bolus!--just down let it go, + And, at vonce, such a _radical_ shange you vill see, +Dat I'd not be surprished, like de horse in de show, + If your heads all vere found, vere your tailsh ought to be! + Vill nobodies try my nice _Annual Pill_, etc. + +'Twill cure all Electors and purge away clear + Dat mighty bad itching dey've got in deir hands-- +'Twill cure too all Statesmen of dulness, ma tear, + Tho' the case vas as desperate as poor Mister VAN'S. +Dere is noting at all vat dis Pill vill not reach-- + Give the Sinecure Ghentleman van little grain, +Pless ma heart, it vill act, like de salt on de leech, + And he'll throw de pounds, shillings, and pence, up again! + Vill nobodies try my nice _Annual Pill_, etc. + +'Twould be tedious, ma tear, all its peauties to paint-- + "But, among oder tings _fundamentally_ wrong, +It vill cure de Proad Pottom[1]--a common complaint + Among M.P.'s and weavers--from _sitting_ too long. +Should symptoms of _speeching_ preak out on a dunce + (Vat is often de case), it vill stop de disease, +And pring avay all de long speeches at vonce, + Dat else vould, like tape-worms, come by degrees! + +Vill nobodies try my nice _Annual Pill_, + Dat's to purify every ting nashty avay? +Pless ma heart, pless ma heart, let me say vat I vill, + Not a Chrishtian or Shentleman minds vat I say! + + +[1] Meaning, I presume, _Coalition_ Administrations. + + + + + + +"IF" AND "PERHAPS."[1] + + +Oh tidings of freedom! oh accents of hope! + Waft, waft them, ye zephyrs, to Erin's blue sea, +And refresh with their sounds every son of the Pope, + From Dingle-a-cooch to far Donaghadee. + +"_If_ mutely the slave will endure and obey, + "Nor clanking his fetters nor breathing his pains, +"His masters _perhaps_ at some far distant day + "May _think_ (tender tyrants!) of loosening his chains." + +Wise "if" and "perhaps!"--precious salve for our wounds, + If he who would rule thus o'er manacled mutes, +Could check the free spring-tide of Mind that resounds, + Even now at his feet, like the sea at Canute's. + +But, no, 'tis in vain--the grand impulse is given-- + Man knows his high Charter, and knowing will claim; +And if ruin _must_ follow where fetters are riven, + Be theirs who have forged them the guilt and the shame. + +"_If_ the slave will be silent!"--vain Soldier, beware-- + There _is_ a dead silence the wronged may assume, +When the feeling, sent back from the lips in despair, + But clings round the heart with a deadlier gloom;-- + +When the blush that long burned on the suppliant's cheek, + Gives place to the avenger's pale, resolute hue; +And the tongue that once threatened, disdaining to _speak_, + Consigns to the arm the high office--to _do_. + +_If_ men in that silence should think of the hour + When proudly their fathers in panoply stood, +Presenting alike a bold front-work of power + To the despot on land and the foe on the flood:-- + +That hour when a Voice had come forth from the west, + To the slave bringing hopes, to the tyrant alarms; +And a lesson long lookt for was taught the opprest, + That kings are as dust before freemen in arms! + +_If_, awfuller still, the mute slave should recall + That dream of his boyhood, when Freedom's sweet day +At length seemed to break thro' a long night of thrall, + And Union and Hope went abroad in its ray;-- + +_If_ Fancy should tell him, that Dayspring of Good, + Tho' swiftly its light died away from his chain, +Tho' darkly it set in a nation's best blood, + Now wants but invoking to shine out again; + +_If--if_, I say--breathings like these should come o'er + The chords of remembrance, and thrill as they come, +Then,--_perhaps_--ay, _perhaps_--but I dare not say more; + Thou hast willed that thy slaves should be mute--I am dumb. + + +[1] Written after hearing a celebrated speech in the House of Lords, June +10, 1828, when the motion in favor of Catholic Emancipation, brought +forward by the Marquis of Lansdowne, was rejected by the House of Lords. + + + + + + +WRITE ON, WRITE ON. + +A BALLAD. + + +Air.--"_Sleep on, sleep on, my Kathleen dear. + salvete, fratres Asini_. ST. FRANCIS. + + +Write on, write on, ye Barons dear, + Ye Dukes, write hard and fast; +The good we've sought for many a year + Your quills will bring at last. +One letter more, Newcastle, pen, + To match Lord Kenyon's _two_, +And more than Ireland's host of men, + One brace of Peers will do. + Write on, write on, etc. + +Sure never since the precious use + Of pen and ink began, +Did letters writ by fools produce + Such signal good to man. +While intellect, 'mong high and low, + Is marching _on_, they say, +Give _me_ the Dukes and Lords who go +Like crabs, the _other_ way. + Write on, write on, etc. + +Even now I feel the coming light-- + Even now, could Folly lure +My Lord Mountcashel too to write, + Emancipation's sure. +By geese (we read in history), + Old Rome was saved from ill; +And now to _quills_ of geese we see + Old Rome indebted still. + Write on, write on, etc. + +Write, write, ye Peers, nor stoop to style, + Nor beat for sense about-- +Things little worth a Noble's while + You're better far without. +Oh ne'er, since asses spoke of yore, + Such miracles were done; +For, write but four such letters more, + And Freedom's cause is won! + + + + + + +SONG OF THE DEPARTING SPIRIT OF TITHE. + + + "The parting Genius is with sighing sent." + MILTON. + + +It is o'er, it is o'er, my reign is o'er; +I hear a Voice, from shore to shore, +From Dunfanaghy to Baltimore, +And it saith, in sad, parsonic tone, +"Great Tithe and Small are dead and gone!" + +Even now I behold your vanishing wings, +Ye Tenths of all conceivable things, +Which Adam first, as Doctors deem, +Saw, in a sort of night-mare dream,[1] +After the feast of fruit abhorred-- +First indigestion on record!-- +Ye decimate ducks, ye chosen chicks, +Ye pigs which, tho' ye be Catholics, +Or of Calvin's most select depraved, +In the Church must have your bacon saved;-- +Ye fields, where Labor counts his sheaves, +And, whatsoever _himself_ believes, +Must bow to the Establisht _Church_ belief, +That the tenth is always a _Protestant_ sheaf;-- +Ye calves of which the man of Heaven +Takes _Irish_ tithe, one calf in seven;[2] +Ye tenths of rape, hemp, barley, flax, +Eggs, timber, milk, fish and bees' wax; +All things in short since earth's creation, +Doomed, by the Church's dispensation, +To suffer eternal decimation-- +Leaving the whole _lay_-world, since then, +Reduced to nine parts out of ten; +Or--as we calculate thefts and arsons-- +Just _ten per cent_. the worse for Parsons! + +Alas! and is all this wise device +For the saving of souls thus gone in a trice?-- +The whole put down, in the simplest way, +By the souls resolving _not_ to pay! +And even the Papist, thankless race +Who have had so much the easiest case-- +To _pay_ for our sermons doomed, 'tis true, +But not condemned to _hear them_, too-- +(Our holy business being, 'tis known, +With the ears of their barley, not their own,) +Even _they_ object to let us pillage +By right divine their tenth of tillage, +And, horror of horrors, even decline +To find us in sacramental wine![3] + +It is o'er, it is o'er, my reign is o'er, +Ah! never shall rosy Rector more, +Like the shepherds of Israel, idly eat, +And make of his flock "a prey and meat."[4] +No more shall be his the pastoral sport +Of suing his flock in the Bishop's Court, +Thro' various steps, Citation, Libel-- +_Scriptures_ all, but _not_ the Bible; +Working the Law's whole apparatus, +To get at a few predoomed potatoes, +And summoning all the powers of wig, +To settle the fraction of a pig!-- +Till, parson and all committed deep +In the case of "Shepherds _versus_ Sheep," +The Law usurps the Gospel's place, +And on Sundays meeting face to face, +While Plaintiff fills the preacher's station, +Defendants form the congregation. + +So lives he, Mammon's priest, not Heaven's, +For _tenths_ thus all at _sixes_ and _sevens_, +Seeking what parsons love no less +Than tragic poets--a good _distress_. +Instead of studying St. Augustin, +Gregory Nyss., or old St. Justin +(Books fit only to hoard dust in), +His reverence stints his evening readings +To learned Reports of Tithe Proceedings, +Sipping the while that port so ruddy, +Which forms his only _ancient_ study;-- +Port so old, you'd swear its tartar +Was of the age of Justin Martyr, +And, had he sipt of such, no doubt +His martyrdom would have been--to gout. + +Is all then lost?--alas, too true-- +Ye Tenths beloved, adieu, adieu! +My reign is o'er, my reign is o'er-- +Like old Thumb's ghost, "I can no more." + + +[1] A reverend prebendary of Hereford, in an Essay on the Revenues of the +Church of England, has assigned the origin of Tithes to "some unrecorded +revelation made to Adam." + +[2] "The tenth calf is due to the parson of common right; and if there are +seven he shall have one."--REES'S _Cyclopaedia_, art. "_Tithes_." + +[3] Among the specimens laid before Parliament of the sort of Church rates +levied upon Catholics in Ireland, was a charge of two pipes of port for +sacramental wine. + +[4] Ezekiel, xxxiv., 10.--"Neither shall the shepherds feed themselves any +more; for I will deliver my flock from their mouth, that they may not be +meat for them." + + + + + + +THE EUTHANASIA OF VAN. + + + "We are told that the bigots are growing old and fast wearing out. If + it be so why not let us die in peace?" + --LORD BEXLEY'S _Letter to the Freeholders of Kent_. + + +Stop, Intellect, in mercy stop, + Ye curst improvements, cease; +And let poor Nick Vansittart drop + Into his grave in peace. + +Hide, Knowledge, hide thy rising sun, + Young Freedom, veil thy head; +Let nothing good be thought or done, + Till Nick Vansittart's dead! + +Take pity on a dotard's fears, + Who much doth light detest; +And let his last few drivelling years + Be dark as were the rest. + +You too, ye fleeting one-pound notes, + Speed not so fast away-- +Ye rags on which old Nicky gloats, + A few months longer stay. + +Together soon, or much I err, + You _both_ from life may go-- +The notes unto the scavenger, + And Nick--to Nick below. + +Ye Liberals, whate'er your plan, + Be all reforms suspended; +In compliment to dear old Van, + Let nothing bad be mended. + +Ye Papists, whom oppression wrings, + Your cry politely cease, +And fret your hearts to fiddle-strings + That Van may die in peace. + +So shall he win a fame sublime + By few old rag-men gained; +Since all shall own, in Nicky's time, + Nor sense nor justice reigned. + +So shall his name thro' ages past, + And dolts ungotten yet, +Date from "the days of Nicholas," + With fond and sad regret;-- + +And sighing say, "Alas, had he + "Been spared from Pluto's bowers, +"The blessed reign of Bigotry + "And Rags might still be ours!" + + + + + + +TO THE REVEREND ----. + +ONE OF THE SIXTEEN REQUISITIONISTS OF NOTTINGHAM. + +1828. + + +What, _you_, too, my ******, in hashes so knowing, + Of sauces and soups Aristarchus profest! +Are _you_, too, my savory Brunswicker, going + To make an old fool of yourself with the rest? + +Far better to stick to your kitchen receipts; + And--if you want _something_ to tease--for variety, +Go study how Ude, in his "Cookery," treats + Live eels when he fits them for polisht society. + +Just snuggling them in, 'twixt the bars of the fire, + He leaves them to wriggle and writhe on the coals,[1] +In a manner that Horner himself would admire, + And wish, 'stead of _eels_, they were Catholic souls. + +Ude tells us the fish little suffering feels; + While Papists of late have more sensitive grown; +So take my advice, try your hand at live eels, + And for _once_ let the other poor devils alone. + +I have even a still better receipt for your cook-- + How to make a goose die of confirmed _hepatitis;_[2] +And if you'll, for once, _fellow_-feelings o'erlook, + A well-tortured goose a most capital sight is. + +First, catch him, alive--make a good steady fire-- + Set your victim before it, both legs being tied, +(As if left to himself he _might_ wish to retire,) + And place a large bowl of rich cream by his side. + +There roasting by inches, dry, fevered, and faint, + Having drunk all the cream you so civilly laid, off, +He dies of as charming a liver complaint + As ever sleek person could wish a pie made of. + +Besides, only think, my dear one of Sixteen, + What an emblem this bird, for the epicure's use meant. +Presents of the mode in which Ireland has been + Made a tid-bit for yours and your brethren's amusement: + +Tied down to the stake, while her limbs, as they quiver, + A slow fire of tyranny wastes by degrees-- +No wonder disease should have swelled up her liver, + No wonder you, Gourmands, should love her disease. + + +[1] The only way, Monsieur Ude assures us, to get rid of the oil so +objectionable in this fish. + +[2] A liver complaint. The process by which the livers of geese are +enlarged for the famous _Pates de foie d'oie_. + + + + + + +IRISH ANTIQUITIES. + + +According to some learned opinions +The Irish once were Carthaginians; +But trusting to more late descriptions +I'd rather say they were Egyptians. +My reason's this:--the Priests of Isis, + When forth they marched in long array, +Employed, 'mong other grave devices, + A Sacred Ass to lead the way; +And still the antiquarian traces + 'Mong Irish Lords this Pagan plan, +For still in all religious cases + They put Lord Roden in the van. + + + + + + +A CURIOUS FACT. + + +The present Lord Kenyon (the Peer who writes letters, +For which the waste-paper folks much are his debtors) +Hath one little oddity well worth reciting, +Which puzzleth observers even more than his writing. +Whenever Lord Kenyon doth chance to behold +A cold Apple-pie--mind, the pie _must_ be cold-- +His Lordship looks solemn (few people know why), +And he makes a low bow to the said apple-pie. +This idolatrous act in so "vital" a Peer, +Is by most serious Protestants thought rather queer-- +Pie-worship, they hold, coming under the head +(Vide _Crustium_, chap, iv.) of the Worship of Bread. +Some think 'tis a tribute, as author he owes +For the service that pie-crust hath done to his prose;-- +The only good things in his pages, they swear, +Being those that the pastry-cook sometimes put there. +_Others_ say, 'tis a homage, thro' piecrust conveyed, +To our Glorious Deliverer's much-honored shade; +As that Protestant Hero (or Saint, if you please) +Was as fond of cold pie as he was of green pease,[1] +And 'tis solely in loyal remembrance of that, +My Lord Kenyon to apple-pie takes off his hat. +While others account for this kind salutation;"-- +By what Tony Lumpkin calls "concatenation;" +A certain good-will that, from sympathy's ties, +'Twixt old _Apple_-women and _Orange_-men lies. + +But 'tis needless to add, these are all vague surmises, +For thus, we're assured, the whole matter arises: +Lord Kenyon's respected old father (like many +Respected old fathers) was fond of a penny; +And loved so to save,[2] that--there's not the least question-- +His death was brought on by a bad indigestion, +From cold apple-pie-crust his Lordship _would_ stuff in +At breakfast to save the expense of hot muffin. +Hence it is, and hence only, that cold apple-pies +Are beheld by his Heir with such reverent eyes-- +Just as honest King Stephen his beaver might doff +To the fishes that carried his kind uncle off-- +And while _filial_ piety urges so many on, + 'Tis pure _apple_-pie-ety moves my Lord Kenyon. + + +[1] See the anecdote, which the Duchess of Marlborough relates in her +Memoirs, of this polite hero appropriating to himself one day, at dinner, +a whole dish of green peas--the first of the season--while the poor +Princess Anne, who was then in a longing condition, sat by vainly +entreating with her eyes for a share. + +[2] The same prudent propensity characterizes his descendant, who (as is +well known) would not even go to the expense of a diphthong on his +father's monument, but had the inscription spelled, economically, +thus:--"_mors janua vita_" + + + + + + +NEW-FASHIONED ECHOES. + + +Sir,-- + +Most of your readers are no doubt acquainted with the anecdote told of a +certain not over-wise judge who, when in the act of delivering a charge in +some country court-house, was interrupted by the braying of an ass at the +door. "What noise is that?" asked the angry judge. "Only an extraordinary +_echo_ there is in court, my Lord," answered one of the counsel. + +As there are a number of such "extraordinary echoes" abroad just now, you +will not, perhaps, be unwilling, Mr. Editor, to receive the following few +lines suggested by them. + +Yours, etc. S. + +1828 + + + _huc coeamus,[1] ait; nullique libentius unquam responsura sono, + coeamus, retulit echo_. + OVID. + + +There are echoes, we know, of all sorts, + From the echo that "dies in the dale," +To the "airy-tongued babbler" that sports + Up the tide of the torrent her "tale." + +There are echoes that bore us, like Blues, + With the latest smart _mot_ they have heard; +There are echoes extremely like shrews + Letting nobody have the last word. + +In the bogs of old Paddy-land, too. + Certain "talented" echoes[2] there dwell, +Who on being askt, "How do you do?" + Politely reply, “Pretty well," + +But why should I talk any more + Of such old-fashioned echoes as these, +When Britain has new ones in store, + That transcend them by many degrees? + +For of all repercussions of sound + Concerning which bards make a pother, +There's none like that happy rebound + When one blockhead echoes an other;-- + +When Kenyon commences the bray, + And the Borough-Duke follows his track; +And loudly from Dublin's sweet bay + Rathdowne brays, with interest, back!-- + +And while, of _most_ echoes the sound + On our ear by reflection doth fall, +These Brunswickers[3] pass the bray round, + Without any reflection at all. + +Oh Scott, were I gifted like you, + Who can name all the echoes there are +From Benvoirlich to bold Benvenue, + From Benledi to wild Uamvar; + +I might track thro' each hard Irish name + The rebounds of this asinine strain, +Till from Neddy to Neddy, it came + To the _chief_ Neddy, Kenyon, again; + +Might tell how it roared in Rathdowne, + How from Dawson it died off genteelly-- +How hollow it hung from the crown + Of the fat-pated Marquis of Ely; + +How on hearing my Lord of Glandine, + Thistle-eaters the stoutest gave way, +Outdone in their own special line + By the forty-ass power of his bray! + +But, no--for so humble a bard + 'Tis a subject too trying to touch on; +Such noblemen's names are too hard, + And their noddles too soft to dwell much on. + +Oh Echo, sweet nymph of the hill, + Of the dell and the deep-sounding shelves; +If in spite of Narcissus you still + Take to fools who are charmed with themselves, + +Who knows but, some morning retiring, + To walk by the Trent's wooded side, +You may meet with Newcastle, admiring + His own lengthened ears in the tide! + +Or, on into Cambria straying, + Find Kenyon, that double tongued elf, +In his love of _ass_-cendency, braying + A Brunswick duet with himself! + + +[1] "Let us from Clubs." + +[2] Commonly called "Paddy Blake's Echoes". + +[3] Anti-Catholic associations, under the title of Brunswick Clubs, were +at this time becoming numerous both in England and Ireland. + + + + + + +INCANTATION. + +FROM THE NEW TRAGEDY OF "THE BRUNSWICKERS." + + +SCENE.--_Penenden Plain. In the middle, a caldron boiling. Thunder.-- +Enter three Brunswickers_. + + _1st Bruns_.--Thrice hath scribbling Kenyon scrawled, + + _2d Bruns_.--Once hath fool Newcastle bawled, + + _3d Bruns_.--Bexley snores:--'tis time, 'tis time, + + _1st Bruns_.--Round about the caldron go; +In the poisonous nonsense throw. +Bigot spite that long hath grown +Like a toad within a stone, +Sweltering in the heart of Scott, +Boil we in the Brunswick pot. + + _All_.--Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble, +Eldon, talk, and Kenyon, scribble. + + _2d Bruns_.--Slaver from Newcastle's quill +In the noisome mess distil, +Brimming high our Brunswick broth +Both with venom and with froth. +Mix the brains (tho' apt to hash ill, +Being scant) of Lord Mountcashel, +With that malty stuff which Chandos +Drivels as no other man does. +Catch (_i. e._ if catch you can) +One idea, spick and span, +From my Lord of Salisbury,-- +One idea, tho' it be +Smaller than the "happy flea" +Which his sire in sonnet terse +Wedded to immortal verse.[1] +Tho' to rob the son is sin, +Put his _one_ idea in; +And, to keep it company, +Let that conjuror Winchelsea +Drop but _half_ another there, +If he hath so much to spare. +Dreams of murders and of arsons, +Hatched in heads of Irish parsons, +Bring from every hole and corner, +Where ferocious priests like Horner +Purely for religious good +Cry aloud for Papist's blood, +Blood for Wells, and such old women, +At their ease to wade and swim in. + + _All_.--Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble, +Bexley, talk, and Kenyon, scribble. + + _3d Bruns_.--Now the charm begin to brew; +Sisters, sisters, add thereto +Scraps of Lethbridge's old speeches, +Mixt with leather from his breeches, +Rinsings of old Bexley's brains, +Thickened (if you'll take the pains) +With that pulp which rags create, +In their middle _nympha_ state, +Ere, like insects frail and sunny, +Forth they wing abroad as money. +There--the Hell-broth we've enchanted-- +Now but _one_ thing more is wanted. +Squeeze o'er all that Orange juice, +Castlereagh keeps corkt for use, +Which, to work the better spell, is +Colored deep with blood of ----, +Blood, of powers far more various, +Even than that of Januarius, +Since so great a charm hangs o'er it, +England's parsons bow before it, + _All_.--Dribble, dribble, nonsense dribble, +Bexley, talk, and Kenyon, scribble. + _2d Bruns_.--Cool it now with ----'s blood, +So the charm is firm and good. + [_exeunt_. + + +[1] Alluding to a well-known lyric composition of the late Marquis, which, +with a slight alteration, might be addressed either to a flea or a fly. + + + + + + +HOW TO MAKE A GOOD POLITICIAN. + + +Whene'er you're in doubt, said a Sage I once knew, +'Twixt two lines of conduct _which_ course to pursue, +Ask a woman's advice, and, whate'er she advise, +Do the very reverse and you're sure to be wise. + +Of the same use as guides the Brunswicker throng; +In their thoughts, words and deeds, so instinctively wrong, +That whatever they counsel, act, talk or indite, +Take the opposite course and you're sure to be right. + +So golden this rule, that, had nature denied you +The use of that finger-post, Reason, to guide you-- +Were you even more doltish than any given man is, +More soft than Newcastle, more twaddling than Van is. +I'd stake my repute, on the following conditions, +To make you the soundest of sound politicians. + +Place yourself near the skirts of some high-flying Tory-- +Some Brunswicker parson, of port-drinking glory,-- +Watch well how he dines, during any great Question-- +What makes him feel gayly, what spoils his digestion-- +And always feel sure that _his_ joy o'er a stew +Portends a clear case of dyspepsia to _you_. +Read him backwards, like Hebrew--whatever he wishes +Or praises, note down as absurd or pernicious. +Like the folks of a weather-house, shifting about, +When he's _out_ be an _In_-when he's _in_ be an _Out_. +Keep him always reversed in your thoughts, night and day, +Like an Irish barometer turned the wrong way:-- +If he's _up_ you may swear that foul weather is nigh; +If he's _down_ you may look for a bit of blue sky. +Never mind what debaters or journalists say, +Only ask what _he_ thinks and then think t'other way. +Does he hate the Small-note Bill? then firmly rely +The Small-note Bill's a blessing, tho' _you_ don't know why. +Is Brougham his aversion? then Harry's your man. +Does he quake at O'Connell? take doubly to Dan. +Is he all for the Turks? then at once take the whole +Russian Empire (Tsar, Cossacks and all) to your soul. +In short, whatsoever he talks, thinks or is, +Be your thoughts, words and essence the contrast of his. +Nay, as Siamese ladies--at least the polite ones,-- +All paint their teeth black, 'cause the devil has white ones- +If even by the chances of time or of tide +Your Tory for once should have sense on his side, +Even _then_ stand aloof--for be sure that Old Nick +When a Tory talks sensibly, means you some trick. + +Such my recipe is--and, in one single verse, +I shall now, in conclusion, its substance rehearse, +Be all that a Brunswicker _is_ not nor _could_ be, +And then--you’ll be all that an honest man should be. + + + + + + +EPISTLE OF CONDOLENCE. + +FROM A SLAVE-LORD, TO A COTTON-LORD. + + +Alas! my dear friend, what a state of affairs! + How unjustly we both are despoiled of our rights! +Not a pound of black flesh shall I leave to my heirs, + Nor must you any more work to death little whites. + +Both forced to submit to that general controller + Of King, Lords and cotton mills, Public Opinion, +No more shall _you_ beat with a big billy-roller. + Nor _I_ with the cart-whip assert my dominion. + +Whereas, were we suffered to do as we please + With our Blacks and our Whites, as of yore we were let, +We might range them alternate, like harpsichord keys, + And between us thump out a good piebald duet. + +But this fun is all over;--farewell to the zest + Which Slavery now lends to each teacup we sip; +Which makes still the cruellest coffee the best, + And that sugar the sweetest which smacks of the whip. + +Farewell too the Factory's white pickaninnies-- + Small, living machines which if flogged to their tasks +Mix so well with their namesakes, the "Billies" and "Jennies," + That _which_ have got souls in 'em nobody asks;-- + +Little Maids of the Mill, who themselves but ill-fed, + Are obliged, 'mong their other benevolent cares, +To "keep feeding the scribblers,"[1]--and better, 'tis said, + Than old Blackwood or Fraser have ever fed theirs. + +All this is now o'er and so dismal _my_ loss is, + So hard 'tis to part from the smack of the throng, +That I mean (from pure love for the old whipping process), + To take to whipt syllabub all my life long. + + +[1] One of the operations in cotton mills usually performed by children. + + + + + + +THE GHOST OF MILTIADES. + + + _ah quoties dubies Scriptis exarsit amator_. + OVID. + + +The Ghost of Miltiades came at night, +And he stood by the bed of the Benthamite, +And he said, in a voice that thrilled the frame, +"If ever the sound of Marathon's name + Hath fired thy blood or flusht thy brow, +"Lover of Liberty, rouse thee now!" + +The Benthamite yawning left his bed-- +Away to the Stock Exchange he sped, +And he found the Scrip of Greece so high, +That it fired his blood, it flusht his eye, +And oh! 'twas a sight for the Ghost to see, +For never was Greek more Greek than he! +And still as the premium higher went, +His ecstasy rose--so much _per cent_. +(As we see in a glass that tells the weather +The heat and the _silver_ rise together,) +And Liberty sung from the patriot's lip, +While a voice from his pocket whispered "Scrip!" +The Ghost of Miltiades came again;-- +He smiled, as the pale moon smiles thro' rain, +For his soul was glad at that patriot strain; +(And poor, dear ghost--how little he knew +The jobs and the tricks of the Philhellene crew!) +"Blessings and thanks!" was all he said, +Then melting away like a night-dream fled! + +The Benthamite hears--amazed that ghosts +Could be such fools--and away he posts, +A patriot still? Ah no, ah no-- +Goddess of Freedom, thy Scrip is low, +And warm and fond as thy lovers are, +Thou triest their passion, when under _par_, +The Benthamite's ardor fast decays, +By turns he weeps and swears and prays. +And wishes the devil had Crescent and Cross, +Ere _he_ had been forced to sell at a loss. +They quote him the Stock of various nations, +But, spite of his classic associations, +Lord! how he loathes the Greek _quotations_! + +"Who'll buy my Scrip? Who'll buy my Scrip?" +Is now the theme of the patriot's lip, +As he runs to tell how hard his lot is +To Messrs. Orlando and Luriottis, +And says, "Oh Greece, for Liberty's sake, +"Do buy my Scrip, and I vow to break +"Those dark, unholy _bonds_ of thine-- +"If you'll only consent to buy up _mine_!" +The Ghost of Miltiades came once more;-- +His brow like the night was lowering o'er, +And he said, with a look that flasht dismay, +"Of Liberty's foes the worst are they, +"Who turn to a trade her cause divine, +"And gamble for gold on Freedom's shrine!" +Thus saying, the Ghost, as he took his flight, +Gave a Parthian kick to the Benthamite, +Which sent him, whimpering, off to Jerry-- +And vanisht away to the Stygian ferry! + + + + + + +ALARMING INTELLIGENCE! + +REVOLUTION IN THE DICTIONARY--ONE _GALT_ AT THE HEAD OF IT. + + +God preserve us!--there's nothing now safe from assault;-- + Thrones toppling around, churches brought to the hammer; +And accounts have just reached us that one Mr. _Galt_ + Has declared open war against English and Grammar! + +He had long been suspected of some such design, + And, the better his wicked intents to arrive at, +Had lately 'mong Colburn's troops of _the line_ + (The penny-a-line men) enlisted as private. + +There schooled, with a rabble of words at command, + Scotch, English and slang in promiscuous alliance. +He at length against Syntax has taken his stand, + And sets all the Nine Parts of Speech at defiance. + +Next advices, no doubt, further facts will afford: + In the mean time the danger most imminent grows, +He has taken the Life of one eminent Lord, + And whom he'll _next_ murder the Lord only knows. + +_Wednesday evening_. +Since our last, matters, luckily, look more serene; + Tho' the rebel, 'tis stated, to aid his defection, +Has seized a great Powder--no, Puff Magazine, + And the explosions are dreadful in every direction. + +What his meaning exactly is, nobody knows, + As he talks (in a strain of intense botheration) +Of lyrical "ichor,"[1] "gelatinous" prose,[2] + And a mixture called amber immortalization.[3] + +_Now_, he raves of a bard he once happened to meet, +Seated high "among rattlings" and churning a sonnet;[4] +_Now_, talks of a mystery, wrapt in a sheet, + With a halo (by way of a nightcap) upon it![5] + +We shudder in tracing these terrible lines; + Something bad they must mean, tho' we can't make it out; +For whate'er may be guessed of Galt's secret designs, + That they're all _Anti_-English no Christian can doubt. + + +[1] "That dark disease ichor which colored her effusions."--GALT'S _Life +of Byron_. + +[2] "The gelatinous character of their effusions." _Ibid_. + +[3] "The poetical embalmment or rather amber immortalization."-- +_Ibid_. + +[4] "Sitting amidst the shrouds and rattlings, churning an inarticulate +melody."--_Ibid_. + +[5] "He was a mystery in a winding sheet, crowned with a halo."-- +_Ibid_. + + + + + + +RESOLUTIONS + +PASSED AT A LATE MEETING OF REVERENDS AND RIGHT REVERENDS. + + +Resolved--to stick to every particle +Of every Creed and every Article; +Reforming naught, or great or little, +We'll stanchly stand by every tittle, +And scorn the swallow of that soul +Which cannot boldly bolt the whole.[1] +Resolved that tho' St. Athanasius +In damning souls is rather spacious-- +Tho' wide and far his curses fall, +Our Church "hath stomach for them all;" +And those who're not content with such, +May e'en be damned ten times as much. + +Resolved--such liberal souls are we-- +Tho' hating Nonconformity, +We yet believe the cash no worse is +That comes from Nonconformist purses. +Indifferent _whence_ the money reaches +The pockets of our reverend breeches, +To us the Jumper's jingling penny +Chinks with a tone as sweet as any; +And even our old friends Yea and Nay +May thro' the nose for ever pray, +If _also_ thro' the nose they'll pay. + +Resolved that Hooper,[2] Latimer,[3] +And Cranmer,[4] all extremely err, +In taking such a low-bred view +Of what Lords Spiritual ought to do:-- +All owing to the fact, poor men, +That Mother Church was modest then, +Nor knew what golden eggs her goose, +The Public, would in time produce. +One Pisgah peep at modern Durham +To far more lordly thoughts would stir 'em. + +Resolved that when we Spiritual Lords +Whose income just enough affords +To keep our Spiritual Lordships cosey, +Are told by Antiquarians prosy +How ancient Bishops cut up theirs, +Giving the poor the largest shares-- +Our answer is, in one short word, +We think it pious but absurd. +Those good men made the world their debtor, +But we, the Church reformed, know better; +And taking all that all can pay, +Balance the account the other way. + +Resolved our thanks profoundly due are +To last month's Quarterly Reviewer, +Who proves by arguments so clear +(One sees how much he holds _per_ year) +That England's Church, tho' out of date, +Must still be left to lie in state, +As dead, as rotten and as grand as +The mummy of King Osymandyas, +All pickled snug--the brains drawn out-- +With costly cerements swathed about,-- +And "Touch me not," those words terrific, +Scrawled o'er her in good hieroglyphic. + + +[1] One of the questions propounded to the Puritans in 1573 was--"Whether +the Book of Service was good and godly, every tittle grounded on the Holy +Scripture?" On which an honest Dissenter remarks--"Surely they had a +wonderful opinion of their Service Book that there was not a _tittle_ +amiss, in it." + +[2] "They," the Bishops, "know that the primitive Church had no such +Bishops. If the fourth part of the bishopric remained unto the Bishop, it +were sufficient."--_On the Commandments_, p. 72. + +[3] "Since the Prelates were made Lords and Nobles, the plough standeth, +there is no work done, the people starve."--_Lat. Serm_. + +[4] "Of whom have come all these glorious titles, styles, and pomps into +the Church. But I would that I, and all my brethren, the Bishops, would +leave all our styles, and write the styles of our offices," etc.--_Life +of Cranmer, by Strype, Appendix_. + + + + + + +SIR ANDREW'S DREAM. + + + "_nec tu sperne piis venientia somnia portis: + cum pia venerunt somnia, pondus liubent_." + PROPERT. _lib. iv. eleg_. 7. + + +As snug, on a Sunday eve, of late, +In his easy chair Sir Andrew sate, +Being much too pious, as every one knows, +To do aught, of a Sunday eve, but doze, +He dreamt a dream, dear, holy man, +And I'll tell you his dream as well as I can. +He found himself, to his great amaze, +In Charles the First's high Tory days, +And just at the time that gravest of Courts +Had publisht its Book of Sunday Sports.[1] + +_Sunday_ Sports! what a thing for the ear +Of Andrew even in sleep to hear!-- +It chanced to be too a Sabbath day +When the people from church were coming away; +And Andrew with horror heard this song. +As the smiling sinners flockt along;-- +"Long life to the Bishops, hurrah! hurrah! +"For a week of work and a Sunday of play +"Make the poor man's life run merry away." + +"The Bishops!" quoth Andrew, "Popish, I guess," +And he grinned with conscious holiness. +But the song went on, and, to brim the cup +Of poor Andy's grief, the fiddles struck up! + +"Come, take out the lasses--let's have a dance-- + "For the Bishops allow us to skip our fill, +"Well knowing that no one's the more in advance + "On the road to heaven, for standing still. +"Oh! it never was meant that grim grimaces + "Should sour the cream of a creed of love; +"Or that fellows with long, disastrous faces, + "Alone should sit among cherubs above. + "Then hurrah for the Bishops, etc. + +"For Sunday fun we never can fail, + "When the Church herself each sport points out;-- +"There's May-games, archery, Whitsun-ale, + "And a May-pole high to dance about. +"Or should we be for a pole hard driven, + "Some lengthy saint of aspect fell, +"With his pockets on earth and his nose in heaven, + "Will do for a May-pole just as well. +"Then hurrah for the Bishops, hurrah! hurrah! +"A week of work and a Sabbath of play +"Make the poor man's life run merry away." + +To Andy, who doesn't much deal in history, +This Sunday scene was a downright mystery; +And God knows where might have ended the joke, +But, in trying to stop the fiddles, he woke, +And the odd thing is (as the rumor goes) +That since that dream--which, one would suppose, +Should have made his godly stomach rise. +Even more than ever 'gainst Sunday pies-- +He has viewed things quite with different eyes; +Is beginning to take, on matters divine, +Like Charles and his Bishops, the _sporting_ line-- +Is all for Christians jigging in pairs, +As an interlude 'twixt Sunday prayers:-- +Nay, talks of getting Archbishop Howley +To bring in a Bill enacting duly +That all good Protestants from this date +May freely and lawfully recreate, +Of a Sunday eve, their spirits moody, +With Jack in the Straw or Punch and Judy. + + +[1] _The Book of Sports_ drawn up by Bishop Moreton was first put forth in +the reign of James I., 1618, and afterwards republished, at the advice of +Laud, by Charles I., 1633, with an injunction that it should be "made +public by order from the Bishops." We find it therein declared, that "for +his good people's recreation, his Majesty's pleasure was, that after the +end of divine service they should not be disturbed, letted, or discouraged +from any lawful recreations, such as dancing, either of men or women, +archery for men, leaping, vaulting, or any such harmless recreations, nor +having of May-games, Whitsun-ales, or Morris-dances, or setting up of May +poles, or other sports therewith used." etc. + + + + + + +A BLUE LOVE SONG. + +TO MISS-----. + + +Air-"_Come live with me and be my love_." + + +Come wed with me and we will write, +My Blue of Blues, from morn till night. +Chased from our classic souls shall be +All thoughts of vulgar progeny; +And thou shalt walk through smiling rows +Of chubby duodecimos, +While I, to match thy products nearly, +Shall lie-in of a quarto yearly. +'Tis true, even books entail some trouble; +But _live_ productions give one double. + +Correcting children is _such_ bother,-- +While printers' devils correct the other. +Just think, my own Malthusian dear, +How much more decent 'tis to hear +From male or female--as it may be-- +"How is your book?" than "How's your baby?" +And whereas physic and wet nurses +Do much exhaust paternal purses, +Our books if rickety may go +And be well dry-nurst in _the Row_; +And when God wills to take them hence, +Are buried at _the Row's_ expense. + +Besides, (as 'tis well proved by thee, +In thy own Works, vol. 93.) +The march, just now, of population +So much outscrips all moderation, +That even prolific herring-shoals +Keep pace not with our erring souls.[1] +Oh far more proper and well-bred +To stick to writing books instead; +And show the world how two Blue lovers +Can coalesce, like two book-covers, +(Sheep-skin, or calf, or such wise leather,) +Lettered at back and stitched together +Fondly as first the binder fixt 'em, +With naught but--literature betwixt 'em. + + +[1] See "Ella of Garveloch."--Garveloch being a place where there +was a large herring-fishery, but where, as we are told by the author, "the +people increased much faster than the produce." + + + + + + +SUNDAY ETHICS. + +A SCOTCH ODE. + + +Puir, profligate Londoners, having heard tell + That the De'il's got amang ye, and fearing 'tis true, +We ha' sent ye a mon wha's a match for his spell, +A chiel o' our ain, that the De'il himsel + Will be glad to keep clear of, ane Andrew Agnew. + +So at least ye may reckon for one day entire + In ilka lang week ye'll be tranquil eneugh, +As Auld Nick, do him justice, abhors a Scotch squire, +An' would sooner gae roast by his ain kitchen fire + Than pass a hale Sunday wi' Andrew Agnew. + +For, bless the gude mon, gin he had his ain way, + He'd na let a cat on the Sabbath say "mew;" +Nae birdie maun whistle, nae lambie maun play, +An Phoebus himsel could na travel that day. + As he'd find a new Joshua in Andie Agnew. + +Only hear, in your Senate, how awfu' he cries, + "Wae, wae to a' sinners who boil an' who stew! +"Wae, wae to a' eaters o' Sabbath baked pies, +"For as surely again shall the crust thereof rise + "In judgment against ye," saith Andrew Agnew! + +Ye may think, from a' this, that our Andie's the lad + To ca' o'er the coals your nobeelity too; +That their drives, o' a Sunday, wi' flunkies,[1] a' clad +Like Shawmen, behind 'em, would mak the mon mad-- + But he's nae sic a noodle, our Andie Agnew. + +If Lairds an' fine Ladies, on Sunday, think right + To gang to the deevil--as maist o' 'em do-- +To stop them our Andie would think na polite; +And 'tis odds (if the chiel could get onything by't) + But he'd follow 'em, booing, would Andrew Agnew. + + +[1] Servants in livery. + + + + + + +AWFUL EVENT. + + +Yes, Winchelsea (I tremble while I pen it), +Winehelsea's Earl hath _cut_ the British Senate-- +Hath said to England's Peers, in accent gruff, + "_That_ for ye all"[snapping his fingers] and exit in a huff! + +Disastrous news!--like that of old which spread, +From shore to shore, "our mighty Pan is dead," +O'er the cross benches (cross from _being_ crost) +Sounds the loud wail, "Our Winchelsea is lost!" + +Which of ye, Lords, that heard him can forget +The deep impression of that awful threat, +"I quit your house!!"--midst all that histories tell, +I know but _one_ event that's parallel:-- + +It chanced at Drury Lane, one Easter night, +When the gay gods too blest to be polite +Gods at their ease, like those of learned Lucretius, +Laught, whistled, groaned, uproariously facetious-- +A well-drest member of the middle gallery, +Whose "ears polite" disdained such low canaillerie, +Rose in his place--so grand, you'd almost swear +Lord Winchelsea himself stood towering there-- +And like that Lord of dignity and _nous_, +Said, "Silence, fellows, or--I'll leave the house!!" + +How brookt the gods this speech? Ah well-a-day, +That speech so fine should be so thrown away! +In vain did this mid-gallery grandee +Assert his own two-shilling dignity-- +In vain he menaced to withdraw the ray +Of his own full-price countenance away-- +Fun against Dignity is fearful odds, +And as the Lords laugh _now_, so giggled _then_ the gods! + + + + + + +THE NUMBERING OF THE CLERGY. + +PARODY ON SIR CHARLES HAN. WILLIAMS'S FAMOUS ODE, +"COME, CLOE, and GIVE ME SWEET KISSES." + + + "We want more Churches and more Clergymen." + _Bishop of London's late Charge_. + + + _"rectorum numerum, terris pereuntibus augent." + Claudian in Eutrop_. + + +Come, give us more Livings and Rectors, + For, richer no realm ever gave; +But why, ye unchristian objectors, + Do ye ask us how many we crave?[1] + +Oh there can't be too many rich Livings + For souls of the Pluralist kind, +Who, despising old Crocker's misgivings, + To numbers can ne'er be confined.[2] + +Count the cormorants hovering about,[3] + At the time their fish season sets in, +When these models of keen diners-out + Are preparing their beaks to begin. + +Count the rooks that, in clerical dresses, + Flock round when the harvest's in play, +And not minding the farmer's distresses, + Like devils in grain peck away. + +Go, number the locusts in heaven,[4] + On the way to some titheable shore; +And when so many Parsons you've given, + We still shall be craving for more. + +Then, unless ye the Church would submerge, ye + Must leave us in peace to augment. +For the wretch who could number the Clergy, + With few will be ever content. + + +[1] +Come, Cloe, and give me sweet kisses, + For sweeter sure never girl gave; +But why, in the midst of my blisses, + Do you ask me how many I'd have? + +[2] +For whilst I love thee above measure, +To numbers I'll ne'er be confined. + +[3] +Count the bees that on Hybla are playing, + Count the flowers that enamel its fields, +Count the flocks, etc. + +[4] +Go number the stars in the heaven, + Count how many sands on the shore, +When so many kisses you've given, + I still shall be craving for more. + + + + + + +A SAD CASE. + + + "If it be the undergraduate season at which this _rabies + religiosa_ is to be so fearful, what security has Mr. Goulburn + against it at this moment, when his son is actually exposed to the + full venom of an association with Dissenters?" + --_The Times_, March 25. + + +How sad a case!--just think of it-- +If Goulburn junior should be bit +By some insane Dissenter, roaming +Thro' Granta's halls, at large and foaming, +And with that aspect _ultra_ crabbed +Which marks Dissenters when they're rabid! +God only knows what mischiefs might +Result from this one single bite, +Or how the venom, once suckt in, +Might spread and rage thro' kith and kin. +Mad folks of all denominations +First turn upon their own relations: +So that _one_ Goulburn, fairly bit, +Might end in maddening the whole kit, +Till ah! ye gods! we'd have to rue +Our Goulburn senior bitten too; +The Hychurchphobia in those veins, +Where Tory blood now redly reigns;-- +And that dear man who now perceives +Salvation only in lawn sleeves, +Might, tainted by such coarse infection, +Run mad in the opposite direction. +And think, poor man, 'tis only given +To linsey-woolsey to reach Heaven! + +Just fancy what a shock 'twould be +Our Goulburn in his fits to see, +Tearing into a thousand particles +His once-loved Nine and Thirty Articles; +(Those Articles his friend, the Duke,[1] +For Gospel, t'other night, mistook;) +Cursing cathedrals, deans and singers-- +Wishing the ropes might hang the ringers-- +Pelting the church with blasphemies, +Even worse than Parson Beverley's;-- +And ripe for severing Church and State, +Like any creedless reprobate, +Or like that class of Methodists +Prince Waterloo styles "Atheists!" + +But 'tis too much--the Muse turns pale, +And o'er the picture drops a veil, +Praying, God save the Goulburns all +From mad Dissenters great and small! + + +[1] The Duke of Wellington, who styled them "the Articles of +Christianity." + + + + + + +A DREAM OF HINDOSTAN. + + + --risum _tenaetis, amici_ + + +"The longer one lives, the more one learns," + Said I, as off to sleep I went, +Bemused with thinking of Tithe concerns, +And reading a book by the Bishop of FERNS,[1] + On the Irish Church Establishment. +But lo! in sleep not long I lay, + When Fancy her usual tricks began, +And I found myself bewitched away + To a goodly city in Hindostan-- +A city where he who dares to dine + On aught but rice is deemed a sinner; +Where sheep and kine are held divine, + And accordingly--never drest for dinner. + +"But how is this?" I wondering cried-- +As I walkt that city fair and wide, +And saw, in every marble street, + A row of beautiful butchers' shops-- +"What means, for men who don't eat meat, + "This grand display of loins and chops?" +In vain I askt--'twas plain to see +That nobody dared to answer me. + +So on from street to street I strode: +And you can't conceive how vastly odd + The butchers lookt--a roseate crew, +Inshrined in _stalls_ with naught to do; +While some on a _bench_, half dozing, sat, +And the Sacred Cows were not more fat. +Still posed to think what all this scene +Of sinecure trade was _meant_ to mean, +"And, pray," askt I--"by whom is paid +The expense of this strange masquerade?"-- +"The expense!--oh! that's of course defrayed +(Said one of these well-fed Hecatombers) +"By yonder rascally rice-consumers." +"What! _they_ who mustn't eat meat!"-- + No matter-- +(And while he spoke his cheeks grew fatter,) +"The rogues may munch their _Paddy_ crop, +"But the rogues must still support _our_ shop, +"And depend upon it, the way to treat + "Heretical stomachs that thus dissent, +"Is to burden all that won't eat meat, + "With a costly MEAT ESTABLISHMENT." + +On hearing these words so gravely said, + With a volley of laughter loud I shook, +And my slumber fled and my dream was sped, +And I found I was lying snug in bed, + With my nose in the Bishop of FERNS'S book. + + +[1] An indefatigable scribbler of anti-Catholic pamphlets. + + + + +THE BRUNSWICK CLUB. + + +A letter having been addressed to a very distinguished personage, +requesting him to become the Patron of this Orange Club, a polite answer +was forthwith returned, of which we have been fortunate enough to obtain a +copy. + + +_Brimstone-hall, September 1, 1828_. + +_Private_,--Lord Belzebub presents +To the Brunswick Club his compliments. +And much regrets to say that he +Can not at present their Patron be. +In stating this, Lord Belzebub +Assures on his honor the Brunswick Club, +That 'tisn't from any lukewarm lack +Of zeal or fire he thus holds back-- +As even Lord _Coal_ himself is not[1] +For the Orange party more red-hot: +But the truth is, still their Club affords +A somewhat decenter show of Lords, +And on its list of members gets +A few less rubbishy Baronets, +Lord Belzebub must beg to be +Excused from keeping such company. + +Who the devil, he humbly begs to know, +Are Lord Glandine, and Lord Dunlo? +Or who, with a grain of sense, would go +To sit and be bored by Lord Mayo? +What living creature--_except his nurse_-- +For Lord Mountcashel cares a curse, +Or think 'twould matter if Lord Muskerry +Were 'tother side of the Stygian ferry? +Breathes there a man in Dublin town, +Who'd give but half of half-a-crown +To save from drowning my Lord Rathdowne, +Or who wouldn't also gladly hustle in +Lords Roden, Bandon, Cole and Jocelyn? +In short, tho' from his tenderest years, +Accustomed to all sorts of Peers, +Lord Belzebub much questions whether +He ever yet saw mixt together +As 'twere in one capacious tub. +Such a mess of noble silly-bub +As the twenty Peers of the Brunswick Club. +'Tis therefore impossible that Lord B. +Could stoop to such society, +Thinking, he owns (tho' no great prig), +For one in his station 'twere _infra dig_. +But he begs to propose, in the interim +(Till they find some properer Peers for him), +His Highness of Cumberland, as _Sub_ +To take his place at the Brunswick Club-- +Begging, meanwhile, himself to dub +Their obedient servant, + BELZEBUB. + +It luckily happens, the Royal Duke +Resembles so much, in air and look, +The head of the Belzebub family, +That few can any difference see; +Which makes him of course the better suit +To serve as Lord B.'s substitute. + + +[1] Usually written Cole. + + + + + + +PROPOSALS FOR A GYNAECOCRACY. + +ADDRESSED TO A LATE RADICAL MEETING. + + + --"_quas ipsa decus sibi dia Camilla + delegit pacisque bonas bellique ministras_." + VERGIL. + + +As Whig Reform has had its range, + And none of us are yet content, +Suppose, my friends, by way of change, + We try a _Female Parliament_; +And since of late with _he_ M.P.'s +We've fared so badly, take to she's-- +Petticoat patriots, flounced John Russells, +Burdetts in _blonde_ and Broughams in _bustles_. + +The plan is startling, I confess-- +But 'tis but an affair of dress; +Nor see I much there is to choose + 'Twixt Ladies (so they're thorough-bred ones) +In ribands of all sorts of hues, + Or Lords in only blue or red ones. + +At least the fiddlers will be winners, + Whatever other trade advances +As then, instead of Cabinet dinners + We'll have, at Almack's, Cabinet dances; +Nor let this world's important questions +Depend on Ministers' digestions. + +If Ude's receipts have done things ill, + To Weippert's band they may go better; +There's Lady **, in one quadrille, + Would settle Europe, if you'd let her: +And who the deuce or asks or cares + When Whigs or Tories have undone 'em, +Whether they've _danced_ thro' State affairs, + Or simply, dully, _dined_ upon 'em? + +Hurrah then for the Petticoats! +To them we pledge our free-born votes; +We'll have all _she_, and only _she_-- + Pert blues shall act as "best debaters," +Old dowagers our Bishops be, + And termagants our agitators. +If Vestris to oblige the nation + Her own Olympus will abandon +And help to prop the Administration, + It _can't_ have better legs to stand on. +The famed Macaulay (Miss) shall show + Each evening, forth in learned oration; +Shall move (midst general cries of "Oh!") + For full returns of population: +And finally to crown the whole, +The Princess Olive, Royal soul,[1] +Shall from her bower in Banco Regis, +Descend to bless her faithful lieges, +And mid our Union's loyal chorus +Reign jollily for ever o'er us. + + +[1] A personage so styled herself who attained considerable notoriety at +that period. + + + + + + +TO THE EDITOR OF THE * * *. + + +Sir, + +Having heard some rumors respecting the strange and awful visitation under +which Lord Henley has for some time past been suffering, in consequence of +his declared hostility to "anthems, solos, duets,"[1] etc., I took the +liberty of making inquiries at his Lordship's house this morning and lose +no time in transmitting to you such particulars as I could collect. It is +said that the screams of his Lordship, under the operation of this nightly +concert, (which is no doubt some trick of the Radicals), may be heard all +over the neighborhood. The female who personates St. Cecilia is supposed +to be the same that last year appeared in the character of Isis at the +Rotunda. How the cherubs are managed, I have not yet ascertained. + +Yours, etc. + +P. P. + +[1] In a work, on Church Reform, published by his Lordship in 1832. + + + + + + +LORD HENLEY AND ST. CECILIA + + + --_in Metii decenaat Judicis aures_. + HORAT. + + +As snug in his bed Lord Henley lay, + Revolving much his own renown, +And hoping to add thereto a ray + By putting duets and anthems down, + +Sudden a strain of choral sounds + Mellifluous o'er his senses stole; +Whereat the Reformer muttered "Zounds!" + For he loathed sweet music with all his soul. + +Then starting up he saw a sight + That well might shock so learned a snorer-- +Saint Cecilia robed in light + With a portable organ slung before her. + +And round were Cherubs on rainbow wings, + Who, his Lordship feared, might tire of flitting, +So begged they'd sit--but ah! poor things, + They'd, none of them, got the means of sitting. + +"Having heard," said the Saint, "you're fond of hymns, + "And indeed that musical snore betrayed you, +"Myself and my choir of cherubims + "Are come for a while to serenade you." + +In vain did the horrified Henley say + "'Twas all a mistake--she was misdirected;" +And point to a concert over the way + Where fiddlers and angels were expected. + +In vain--the Saint could see in his looks + (She civilly said) much tuneful lore; +So at once all opened their music-books, + And herself and her Cherubs set off at score. + +All night duets, terzets, quartets, + Nay, long quintets most dire to hear; +Ay, and old motets and canzonets + And glees in sets kept boring his ear. + +He tried to sleep--but it wouldn't do; + So loud they squalled, he _must_ attend to 'em. +Tho' Cherubs' songs to his cost he knew + Were like themselves and had no end to 'em. + +Oh judgment dire on judges bold, + Who meddle with music's sacred strains! +Judge Midas tried the same of old + And was punisht like Henley for his pains. + +But worse on the modern judge, alas! + Is the sentence launched from Apollo's throne; +For Midas was given the ears of an ass, + While Henley is doomed to keep his own! + + + + + + +ADVERTISEMENT.[1] + +1830. + + +Missing or lost, last Sunday night, + A Waterloo coin whereon was traced +The inscription, "Courage!" in letters bright, + Tho' a little by rust of years defaced. + +The metal thereof is rough and hard, + And ('tis thought of late) mixt up with brass; +But it bears the stamp of Fame's award, + And thro' all Posterity's hands will pass. + +_How_ it was lost God only knows, + But certain _City_ thieves, they say, +Broke in on the owner's evening doze, + And filched this "gift of gods" away! + +One ne'er could, of course, the Cits suspect, + If we hadn't that evening chanced to see, +At the robbed man's door a _Mare_ elect + With an ass to keep her company. + +Whosoe'er of this lost treasure knows, + Is begged to state all facts about it, +As the owner can't well face his foes, + Nor even his friends just now without it. + +And if Sir Clod will bring it back, + Like a trusty Baronet, wise and able, +He shall have a ride on the whitest hack[2] + That's left in old King George's stable. + + +[1] Written at that memorable crisis when a distinguished duke, then Prime +Minister, acting under the inspirations of Sir Claudius Hunter, and other +City worthies, advised his Majesty to give up his announced intention of +dining with the Lord Mayor. + +[2] Among other remarkable attributes by which Sir Claudius distinguished +himself, the dazzling whiteness of his favorite steed vas not the least +conspicuous. + + + + + + +MISSING. + +Carlton Terrace, 1832. + + +Whereas, Lord ---- de ---- +Left his home last Saturday, +And, tho' inquired for round and round +Thro' certain purlieus, can't be found; +And whereas, none can solve our queries +As to where this virtuous Peer is, +Notice is hereby given that all +May forthwith to inquiring fall, +As, once the thing's well set about, +No doubt but we shall hunt him out. + +His Lordship's mind, of late, they say, +Hath been in an uneasy way, +Himself and colleagues not being let +To climb into the Cabinet, +To settle England's state affairs, +Hath much, it seems, _un_settled theirs; +And chief to this stray Plenipo +Hath been a most distressing blow. +Already,-certain to receive a +Well-paid mission to the Neva, +And be the bearer of kind words +To tyrant Nick from Tory Lords,- +To fit himself for free discussion, +His Lordship had been learning Russian; +And all so natural to him were +The accents of the Northern bear, +That while his tones were in your ear, you +Might swear you were in sweet Siberia. +And still, poor Peer, to old and young, +He goes on raving in that tongue; +Tells you how much you would enjoy a +Trip to Dalnodubrovrkoya;[1] +Talks of such places by the score on +As Oulisflirmchinagoboron,[2] +And swears (for he at nothing sticks) +That Russia swarms with Raskolniks, +Tho' _one_ such Nick, God knows, must be +A more than ample quantity. + +Such are the marks by which to know +This strayed or stolen Plenipo; +And whosoever brings or sends +The unhappy statesman to his friends +On Carlton Terrace, shall have thanks, +And--any paper but the Bank's. + +P.S.--Some think the disappearance +Of this our diplomatic Peer hence +Is for the purpose of reviewing, +_In person_, what dear Mig is doing, +So as to 'scape all tell-tale letters +'Bout Beresford, and such abetters,-- +The only "wretches" for whose aid[3] +Letters seem _not_ to have been made. + + +[1] In the Government of Perm. + +[2] Territory belonging to the mines of Kolivano-Kosskressense. + +[3] "Heaven first taught letters for some wretch's aid." POPE. + + + + + + +THE DANCE OF BISHOPS; + +OR, THE EPISCOPAL QUADRILLE.[1] + +A DREAM. + +1833. + + + "Solemn dances were, on great festivals and celebrations, admitted + among the primitive Christians, in which even the Bishops and + dignified Clergy were performers. Scaliger says, that the first + Bishops were called _praesules_[2] for other reason than that + they led off these dances."--"_Cyclopaedia_," art. _Dances_. + + +I've had such a dream--a frightful dream-- +Tho' funny mayhap to wags 'twill seem, +By all who regard the Church, like us, +'Twill be thought exceedingly ominous! + +As reading in bed I lay last night-- +Which (being insured) is my delight-- +I happened to doze off just as I got to +The singular fact which forms my motto. +Only think, thought I, as I dozed away, +Of a party of Churchmen dancing the hay! +Clerks, curates and rectors capering all +With a neat-legged Bishop to open the ball! +Scarce had my eyelids time to close, +When the scene I had fancied before me rose-- +An Episcopal Hop on a scale so grand +As my dazzled eyes could hardly stand. +For Britain and Erin clubbed their Sees +To make it a Dance of Dignities, +And I saw--oh brightest of Church events! +A quadrille of the two Establishments, +Bishop to Bishop _vis-à-vis_, +Footing away prodigiously. + +There was Bristol capering up to Derry, +And Cork with London making merry; +While huge Llandaff, with a See, so so, +Was to dear old Dublin pointing his toe. +There was Chester, hatched by woman's smile, +Performing a _chaine des Dames_ in style; +While he who, whene'er the Lords' House dozes, +Can waken them up by citing Moses,[3] +The portly Tuam, was all in a hurry +To set, _en avant_, to Canterbury. + +Meantime, while pamphlets stuft his pockets, +(All out of date like spent skyrockets,) +Our Exeter stood forth to caper, +As high on the floor as he doth on paper-- +like a dapper Dancing Dervise, +Who pirouettes his whole church-service-- +Performing, midst those reverend souls, +Such _entrechats_, such _cabrioles_, +Such _balonnés_, such--rigmaroles, +Now high, now low, now this, that, +That none could guess what the devil he'd be at; +Tho', watching his various steps, some thought +That a step in the Church was all he sought. + +But alas, alas! while thus so gay. +These reverend dancers friskt away, +Nor Paul himself (not the saint, but he +Of the Opera-house) could brisker be, +There gathered a gloom around their glee-- +A shadow which came and went so fast, +That ere one could say "'Tis there," 'twas past-- +And, lo! when the scene again was cleared, +Ten of the dancers had disappeared! +Ten able-bodied quadrillers swept +From the hallowed floor where late they stept, +While twelve was all that footed it still, +On the Irish side of that grand Quadrille! + +Nor this the worst:--still danced they on, +But the pomp was saddened, the smile was gone; +And again from time to time the same +Ill-omened darkness round them came-- +While still as the light broke out anew, +Their ranks lookt less by a dozen or two; +Till ah! at last there were only found +Just Bishops enough for a four-hands-round; +And when I awoke, impatient getting, +I left the last holy pair _poussetting_! + +N.B.--As ladies in years, it seems, +Have the happiest knack at solving dreams, +I shall leave to my ancient feminine friends +Of the _Standard_ to say what _this_ portends. + + +[1] Written on the passing of the memorable Bill, in the year 1833, for +the abolition of ten Irish Bishoprics. + +[2] Literally, First Dancers. + +[3] "And what does Moses say?"--One of the ejaculations with which this +eminent prelate enlivened his famous speech on the Catholic question. + + + + + + +DICK * * * * + +A CHARACTER. + + +Of various scraps and fragments built, + Borrowed alike from fools and wits, +Dick's mind was like a patchwork quilt, + Made up of new, old, motley bits-- +Where, if the _Co_. called in their shares, + If petticoats their quota got +And gowns were all refunded theirs, + The quilt would look but shy, God wot. + +And thus he still, new plagiaries seeking, + Reversed ventriloquism's trick, +For, 'stead of Dick thro' others speaking, + 'Twas others we heard speak thro' Dick. +A Tory now, all bounds exceeding, + Now best of Whigs, now worst of rats; +One day with Malthus, foe to breeding, + The next with Sadler, all for brats. + +Poor Dick!--and how else could it be? + With notions all at random caught, +A sort of mental fricassee, + Made up of legs and wings of thought-- +The leavings of the last Debate, or + A dinner, yesterday, of wits, +Where Dick sate by and, like a waiter, + Had the scraps for perquisites. + + + + + + +A CORRECTED REPORT OF SOME LATE SPEECHES. + +1834. + + + "Then I heard one saint speaking, and + another saint said unto that saint," + + +St. Sinclair rose and declared in smooth, +That he wouldn't give sixpence to Maynooth. +He had hated priests the whole of his life, +For a priest was a man who had no wife,[1] +And, having no wife, the Church was his mother, +The Church was his father, sister and brother. +This being the case, he was sorry to say +That a gulf 'twixt Papist and Protestant lay,[2] +So deep and wide, scarce possible was it +To say even "how d' ye do?" across it: +And tho' your Liberals, nimble as fleas, +Could clear such gulfs with perfect ease, +'Twas a jump that naught on earth could make +Your proper, heavy-built Christian take. +No, no,--if a Dance of Sects _must_ be, +He would set to the Baptist willingly,[3] +At the Independent deign to smirk, +And rigadoon with old Mother Kirk; +Nay even, for once, if needs must be, +He'd take hands round with all the three; +But as to a jig with Popery, no,-- +To the Harlot ne'er would he point his toe. + +St. Mandeville was the next that rose,-- +A saint who round as pedler goes +With his pack of piety and prose, +Heavy and hot enough, God knows,-- +And he said that Papists were much inclined +To extirpate all of Protestant kind, +Which he couldn't in truth so much condemn, +Having rather a wish to extirpate _them_; +That is,--to guard against mistake,-- +To extirpate them for their doctrine's sake; +A distinction Churchman always make,-- +Insomuch that when they've prime control, +Tho' sometimes roasting heretics whole, +They but cook the body for sake of the soul. + +Next jumpt St. Johnston jollily forth, +The spiritual Dogberry of the North,[4] +A right "wise fellow, and what's more, +An officer," like his type of yore; +And he asked if we grant such toleration, +Pray, what's the use of our Reformation? +What is the use of our Church and State? +Our Bishops, Articles, Tithe and Rate? +And still as he yelled out "what's the use?" +Old Echoes, from their cells recluse +Where they'd for centuries slept, broke loose, +Yelling responsive, "_What's the use_?" + + +[1] "He objected to the maintenance and education of clergy _bound by +the particular vows of celibacy, which as it were gave them the Church as +their only family, making it fill the places of father and mother and +brother_."--Debate on the Grant to Maynooth College, _The Times_, +April 19. + +[2] "It had always appeared to him that _between the Catholic and +Protestant a great gulf_ intervened, with rendered it impossible," etc. + +[3] The Baptist might acceptably extend the offices of religion to the +Presbyterian and the Independent, or the member of the Church of England +to any of the other three; but the Catholic," etc. + +[4] "Could he then, holding as he did a spiritual office in the Church of +Scotland, (cries of hear, and laughter,) with any consistency give his +consent to a grant of money?" etc. + + + + + + +MORAL POSITIONS. + +A DREAM. + + + "His Lordship said that it took a long time for a moral position to + find its way across the Atlantic. He was very sorry that its voyage + had been so long," etc.--Speech of Lord Dudley and Ward on Colonial + Slavery, March 8. + + +T'other night, after hearing Lord Dudley's oration + (A treat that comes once a year as May-day does), +I dreamt that I saw--what a strange operation! +A "moral position" shipt off for Barbadoes. + +The whole Bench of Bishops stood by in grave attitudes, + Packing the article tidy and neat;-- +As their Reverences know that in southerly latitudes + "Moral positions" don't keep very sweet. + +There was Bathurst arranging the custom-house pass; + And to guard the frail package from tousing and routing, +There stood my Lord Eldon, endorsing it "Glass," + Tho' as to which side should lie uppermost, doubting. +The freight was however stowed safe in the hold; + The winds were polite and the moon lookt romantic, +While off in the good ship "The Truth" we were rolled, + With our ethical cargo, across the Atlantic. +Long, dolefully long, seemed the voyage we made; + For "The Truth," at all times but a very slow sailer, +By friends, near as much as by foes, is delayed, + And few come aboard her tho' so many hail her. + +At length, safe arrived, I went thro' "tare and tret," + Delivered my goods in the primest condition. +And next morning read in the _Bridge-town Gazette_, + "Just arrived by 'The Truth,' a new moral position. + +"The Captain"--here, startled to find myself named + As "the Captain"--(a thing which, I own it with pain, +I thro' life have avoided,) I woke--lookt ashamed, + Found I _wasn't_ a captain and dozed off again. + + + + + + +THE MAD TORY AND THE COMET. + +FOUNDED ON A LATE DISTRESSING INCIDENT. + +1832-3. + + + _'mutantem regna cometem."_ + LUCAN.[1] + + +"Tho' all the pet mischiefs we count upon fail, + "Tho' Cholera, hurricanes, Wellington leave us, +"We've still in reserve, mighty Comet, thy tail;-- + "Last hope" of the Tories, wilt thou too deceive us? + +"No--'tis coming, 'tis coming, the avenger is nigh; + "Heed, heed not, ye placemen, how Herapath flatters; +"One whisk from that tail as it passes us by + "Will settle at once all political matters;-- + +"The East-India Question, the Bank, the Five Powers, + "(Now turned into two) with their rigmarole Protocols;-- +"Ha! ha! ye gods, how this new friend of ours + "Will knock, right and left, all diplomacy's what-d'ye-calls! + +"Yes, rather than Whigs at our downfall should mock, + "Meet planets and suns in one general hustle! +"While happy in vengeance we welcome the shock + "That shall jerk from their places, Grey, Althorp and Russell." + +Thus spoke a mad Lord, as, with telescope raised, + His wild Tory eye on the heavens he set: +And tho' nothing destructive appeared as he gazed, + Much hoped that there _would_ before Parliament met. + +And still, as odd shapes seemed to flit thro' his glass, + "Ha! there it is now," the poor maniac cries; +While his fancy with forms but too monstrous, alas! + From his own Tory zodiac peoples the skies:-- + +"Now I spy a big body, good heavens, how big! + "Whether Bucky[2] or Taurus I cannot well say:-- +"And yonder there's Eldon's old Chancery wig, + "In its dusty aphelion fast fading away. + +"I see, 'mong those fatuous meteors behind, + "Londonderry, _in vacuo_, flaring about;-- +"While that dim double star, of the nebulous kind, + "Is the Gemini, Roden and Lorton, no doubt. + +"Ah, Ellenborough! 'faith, I first thought 'twas the Comet; + "So like that in Milton, it made me quite pale; +"The head with the same 'horrid hair' coming from it, + "And plenty of vapor, but--where is the tail?" + +Just then, up aloft jumpt the gazer elated-- + For lo! his bright glass a phenomenon showed, +Which he took to be Cumberland, _upwards_ translated, + Instead of his natural course, _t'other_ road! + +But too awful that sight for a spirit so shaken,-- + Down dropt the poor Tory in fits and grimaces, +Then off to the Bedlam in Charles Street was taken, + And is now one of Halford's most favorite cases. + + +[1] Eclipses and comets have been always looked to as great changers of +administrations. + +[2] The Duke of Buckingham. + + * * * * * + + + + + + +FROM THE HON. HENRY ----, TO LADY EMMA ----. + +_Paris, March 30,1833_. + + +You bid me explain, my dear angry Ma'amselle, +How I came thus to bolt without saying farewell; +And the truth is,--as truth you _will_ have, my sweet railer,-- + There are two worthy persons I always feel loath +To take leave of at starting,--my mistress and tailor,-- + As somehow one always has _scenes_ with them both; +The Snip in ill-humor, the Syren in tears, + She calling on Heaven, and he on the attorney,-- +Till sometimes, in short, 'twixt his duns and his dears, + A young gentleman risks being stopt in his journey. + +But to come to the point, tho' you think, I dare say. +That 'tis debt or the Cholera drives me away, +'Pon honor you're wrong;--such a mere bagatelle + As a pestilence, nobody now-a-days fears; +And the fact is, my love, I'm thus bolting, pell-mell, + To get out of the way of these horrid new Peers;[1] +This deluge of coronets frightful to think of; +Which England is now for her sins on the brink of; +This coinage of _nobles_,--coined all of 'em, badly, +And sure to bring Counts to a _dis_-count most sadly. + +Only think! to have Lords over running the nation, +As plenty as frogs in a Dutch inundation; +No shelter from Barons, from Earls no protection, +And tadpole young Lords too in every direction,-- +Things created in haste just to make a Court list of, +Two legs and a coronet all they consist of! +The prospect's quite frightful, and what Sir George Rose + (My particular friend) says is perfectly true, +That, so dire the alternative, nobody knows, + 'Twixt the Peers and the Pestilence, what he's to do; +And Sir George even doubts,--could he choose his disorder,-- +'Twixt coffin and coronet, _which_ he would order. +This being the case, why, I thought, my dear Emma, +'Twere best to fight shy of so curst a dilemma; +And tho' I confess myself somewhat a villain, + To've left _idol mio_ without an _addio_, +Console your sweet heart, and a week hence from Milan + I'll send you--some news of Bellini's last trio. + +N.B. Have just packt up my travelling set-out, +Things a tourist in Italy _can't_ go without-- +Viz., a pair of _gants gras_, from old Houbigant's shop, +Good for hands that the air of Mont Cenis might chap. +Small presents for ladies,--and nothing so wheedles +The creatures abroad as your golden-eyed needles. +A neat pocket Horace by which folks are cozened +To think one knows Latin, when--one, perhaps, doesn't; +With some little book about heathen mythology, +Just large enough to refresh one's theology; +Nothing on earth being half such a bore as +Not knowing the difference 'twixt Virgins and Floras. +Once more, love, farewell, best regards to the girls, +And mind you beware of damp feet and new Earls. + +HENRY. + + +[1] A new creation of Peers was generally expected at this time. + + + + + + +TRIUMPH OF BIGOTRY. + + + College.--We announced, in our last that Lefroy and Shaw were + returned. They were chaired yesterday; the Students of the College + determined, it would seem, to imitate the mob in all things, + harnessing themselves to the car, and the Masters of Arts bearing + Orange flags and bludgeons before, beside, and behind the car." + _Dublin Evening Post_, Dec. 20, 1832. + + +Ay, yoke ye to the bigots' car, + Ye chosen of Alma Mater's scions;- +Fleet chargers drew the God of War, + Great Cybele was drawn by lions, +And Sylvan Pan, as Poet's dream, +Drove four young panthers in his team. +Thus classical Lefroy, for once, is, + Thus, studious of a like turn-out, +He harnesses young sucking dunces, + To draw him as their Chief about, +And let the world a picture see +Of Dulness yoked to Bigotry: +Showing us how young College hacks +Can pace with bigots at their backs, +As tho' the cubs were _born_ to draw +Such luggage as Lefroy and Shaw, +Oh! shade of Goldsmith, shade of Swift, + Bright spirits whom, in days of yore, +This Queen of Dulness sent adrift, + As aliens to her foggy shore;--- +Shade of our glorious Grattan, too, + Whose very name her shame recalls; +Whose effigy her bigot crew + Reversed upon their monkish walls,[1]-- +Bear witness (lest the world should doubt) + To your mute Mother's dull renown, +Then famous but for Wit turned _out_, + And Eloquence _turned upside down_; +But now ordained new wreaths to win, + Beyond all fame of former days, +By breaking thus young donkies in + To draw M.P.s amid the brays + Alike of donkies and M.A.s;-- + Defying Oxford to surpass 'em + In this new "_Gradus ad Parnassum_." + + +[1] In the year 1799, the Board of Trinity College, Dublin, thought +proper, as a mode of expressing their disapprobation of Mr. Grattan's +public conduct, to order his portrait, in the Great Hall of the +University, to be turned upside down, and in this position it remained for +some time. + + + + + + +TRANSLATION FROM THE GULL LANGUAGE. + + + _Scripta manet_. + + +1833. + + +'Twas graved on the Stone of Destiny,[1] +In letters four and letters three; +And ne'er did the King of the Gulls go by +But those awful letters scared his eye; +For he knew that a Prophet Voice had said, +"As long as those words by man were read, +"The ancient race of the Gulls should ne'er +"One hour of peace or plenty share." +But years on years successive flew, +And the letters still more legible grew,-- +At top, a T, an H, an E, +And underneath, D. E. B. T. + +Some thought them Hebrew,--such as Jews +More skilled in Scrip than Scripture use; +While some surmised 'twas an ancient way +Of keeping accounts, (well known in the day +Of the famed Didlerius Jeremias, +Who had thereto a wonderful bias,) +And proved in books most learnedly boring, +'Twas called the Pon_tick_ way of scoring. + +Howe'er this be there never were yet +Seven letters of the alphabet, +That 'twixt them formed so grim a spell, +Or scared a Land of Gulls so well, +As did this awful riddle-me-ree +Of T. H. E. D. E. B. T. + + * * * * * + +Hark!--it is struggling Freedom's cry; +"Help, help, ye nations, or I die; +"'Tis Freedom's fight and on the field +"Where I expire _your_ doom is sealed." +The Gull-King hears the awakening call, +He hath summoned his Peers and Patriots all, +And he asks. "Ye noble Gulls, shall we +"Stand basely by at the fall of the Free, +"Nor utter a curse nor deal a blow?" +And they answer with voice of thunder, "No." + +Out fly their flashing swords in the air!-- +But,--why do they rest suspended there? +What sudden blight, what baleful charm, +Hath chilled each eye and checkt each arm? +Alas! some withering hand hath thrown +The veil from off that fatal stone, +And pointing now with sapless finger, +Showeth where dark those letters linger,-- +Letters four and letters three, +T. H. E. D. E. B. T. + +At sight thereof, each lifted brand +Powerless falls from every hand; +In vain the Patriot knits his brow,-- +Even talk, his staple, fails him now. +In vain the King like a hero treads, +His Lords of the Treasury shake their heads; +And to all his talk of "brave and free," +No answer getteth His Majesty +But "T. H. E. D. E. B. T." + +In short, the whole Gull nation feels +They're fairly spell-bound, neck and heels; +And so, in the face of the laughing world, +Must e'en sit down with banners furled, +Adjourning all their dreams sublime +Of glory and war to-some other time. + + +[1] Liafail, or the Stone of Destiny,--for which see Westminster Abbey. + + + + + + +NOTIONS ON REFORM. + +BY A MODERN REFORMER. + + +Of all the misfortunes as yet brought to pass + By this comet-like Bill, with its long tail of speeches, +The saddest and worst is the schism which, alas! + It has caused between Wetherel's waistcoat and breeches. + +Some symptoms of this Anti-Union propensity + Had oft broken out in that quarter before; +But the breach, since the Bill, has attained such immensity, + Daniel himself could have scarce wisht it more. + +Oh! haste to repair it, ye friends of good order, + Ye Atwoods and Wynns, ere the moment is past; +Who can doubt that we tread upon Anarchy's border, + When the ties that should hold men are loosening so fast? + +_Make_ Wetherel yield to "some sort of Reform" + (As we all must, God help us! with very wry faces;) +And loud as he likes let him bluster and storm + About Corporate Rights, so he'll only wear braces. + +Should those he now sports have been long in possession, + And, like his own borough, the worse for the wear, +Advise him at least as a prudent concession + To Intellect's progress, to buy a new pair. + +Oh! who that e'er saw him when vocal he stands, + With a look something midway 'twixt Filch's and Lockit's, +While still, to inspire him, his deeply-thrust hands + Keep jingling the rhino in both breeches-pockets-- + +Who that ever has listened thro' groan and thro' cough, + To the speeches inspired by this music of pence,-- +But must grieve that there's any thing like _falling off_ + In that great nether source of his wit and his sense? + +Who that knows how he lookt when, with grace debonair, + He began first to court--rather late in the season-- +Or when, less fastidious, he sat in the chair + Of his old friend, the Nottingham Goddess of Reason;[1] + +That Goddess whose borough-like virtue attracted + All mongers in _both_ wares to proffer their love; +Whose chair like the stool of the Pythoness acted, + As Wetherel's rants ever since go to prove; + +_Who_ in short would not grieve if a man of his graces + Should go on rejecting, unwarned by the past, +The "moderate Reform" of a pair of new braces, + Till, some day,--he'll all fall to pieces at last. + + +[1] It will be recollected that the learned gentleman himself boasted, one +night, in the House of Commons, of having sat in the very chair which this +allegorical lady had occupied. + + + + + + +TORY PLEDGES. + + +I pledge myself thro' thick and thin, + To labor still with zeal devout +To get the Outs, poor devils, in, + And turn the Ins, the wretches, out. + +I pledge myself, tho' much bereft + Of ways and means of ruling ill, +To make the most of what are left, + And stick to all that's rotten still. + +Tho' gone the days of place and pelf, + And drones no more take all the honey, +I pledge myself to cram myself + With all I can of public money. + +To quarter on that social purse + My nephews, nieces, sisters, brothers, +Nor, so _we_ prosper, care a curse + How much 'tis at the expense of others. + +I pledge myself, whenever Right + And Might on any point divide, +Not to ask which is black or white. + But take at once the strongest side. + +For instance, in all Tithe discussions, + I'm _for_ the Reverend encroachers:- +I loathe the Poles, applaud the Russians,-- + Am _for_ the Squires, _against_ the Poachers. + +Betwixt the Corn-lords and the Poor + I've not the slightest hesitation,-- +The People _must_ be starved, to insure + The Land its due remuneration. + +I pledge myself to be no more + With Ireland's wrongs beprosed or shammed,-- +I vote her grievances a _bore_, + So she may suffer and be damned. + +Or if she kick, let it console us, + We still have plenty of red coats, +To cram the Church, that general bolus, + Down any given amount of throats. + +I dearly love the Frankfort Diet,-- + Think newspapers the worst of crimes; +And would, to give some chance of quiet, + Hang all the writers of _"The Times;_" + +Break all their correspondents' bones, + All authors of "Reply," "Rejoinder," +From the Anti-Tory, Colonel Jones, + To the Anti-Suttee, Mr. Poynder. + +Such are the Pledges I propose; + And tho' I can't now offer gold, +There's many a way of buying those + Who've but the taste for being sold. + +So here's, with three times three hurrahs, + A toast of which you'll not complain,-- +"Long life to jobbing; may the days + "Of Peculation shine again!" + + + + + + +ST. JEROME ON EARTH. + +FIRST VISIT. + +1832. + + +As St. Jerome who died some ages ago, +Was sitting one day in the shades below, +"I've heard much of English bishops," quoth he, +"And shall now take a trip to earth to see +"How far they agree in their lives and ways +"With our good old bishops of ancient days." + +He had learned--but learned without misgivings-- +Their love for good living and eke good livings; +Not knowing (as ne'er having taken degrees) +That good _living_ means claret and fricassees, +While its plural means simply--pluralities. + +"From all I hear," said the innocent man, +"They are quite on the good old primitive plan. +"For wealth and pomp they little can care, +"As they all say _'No'_ to the Episcopal chair; +"And their vestal virtue it well denotes +"That they all, good men, wear petticoats." + +Thus saying, post-haste to earth he hurries, +And knocks at the Archbishop of Canterbury's. +The door was oped by a lackey in lace, +Saying, "What's your business with his Grace?" +"His Grace!" quoth Jerome--for posed was he, +Not knowing what _sort_ this Grace could be; +Whether Grace _preventing_, Grace _particular_, +Grace of that breed called _Quinquarticular_--[1] + +In short he rummaged his holy mind +The exact description of Grace to find, +Which thus could represented be +By a footman in full livery. +At last, out loud in a laugh he broke, +(For dearly the good saint loved his joke)[2] +And said--surveying, as sly he spoke, +The costly palace from roof to base-- +"Well, it isn't, at least, a _saving_ Grace!" +"Umph!" said the lackey, a man of few words, +"The Archbishop is gone to the House of Lords." + +"To the House of the Lord, you mean, my son, +"For in _my_ time at least there was but one; +Unless such many-_fold_ priests as these +"Seek, even in their LORD, pluralities!"[3] +"No time for gab," quoth the man in lace: +Then slamming the door in St. Jerome's face +With a curse to the single knockers all +Went to finish his port in the servants' hall, +And propose a toast (humanely meant +To include even Curates in its extent) +"To all as _serves_ the Establishment." + + +[1] So called from the proceedings of the Synod of Dort. + +[2] Witness his well known pun on the name of his adversary Vigilantius, +whom he calls facetiously Dormitantius. + +[3] The suspicion attached to some of the early Fathers of being Arians in +their doctrine would appear to derive some confirmation, from this +passage. + + + + + + +ST. JEROME ON EARTH. + +SECOND VISIT. + + + "This much I dare say, that, since _lording_ and loitering hath + come up, preaching hath come down, contrary to the Apostles' times. + For they preached and _lorded_ not; and now they _lord_ and + preach not.... Ever since the Prelates were made Lords and Nobles, the + plough standeth; there is no work done, people starve." + --_Latimer, "Sermon of the Plough."_ + + +"Once more," said Jerome, "I'll run up and see +How the Church goes on,"--and off set he. +Just then the packet-boat which trades +Betwixt our planet and the shades +Had arrived below with a freight so queer, +"My eyes!" said Jerome, "what have we here?"-- +For he saw, when nearer he explored, +They'd a cargo of Bishops' wigs aboard. + +"They are ghosts of wigs," said Charon, "all, +"Once worn by nobs Episcopal.[1] +"For folks on earth, who've got a store +"Of cast off things they'll want no more, +"Oft send them down, as gifts, you know, +"To a certain Gentleman here below. +"A sign of the times, I plainly see," +Said the Saint to himself as, pondering, he +Sailed off in the death-boat gallantly. + +Arrived on earth, quoth he, "No more +"I'll affect a body as before; +"For I think I'd best, in the company +"Of Spiritual Lords, a spirit be, +"And glide unseen from See to See." +But oh! to tell what scenes he saw,-- +It was more than Rabelais's pen could draw. +For instance, he found Exeter, +Soul, body, inkstand, all in a stir,-- +For love of God? for sake of King? +For good of people?--no such thing; +But to get for himself, by some new trick, +A shove to a better bishoprick. + +He found that pious soul, Van Mildert, +Much with his money-bags bewildered; +Snubbing the Clerks of the Diocese, +Because the rogues showed restlessness +At having too little cash to touch, +While he so Christianly bears too much. +He found old Sarum's wits as gone +As his own beloved text in John,--[2] +Text he hath prosed so long upon, +That 'tis thought when askt, at the gate of heaven, +His name, he'll answer, "John, v. 7." + +"But enough of Bishops I've had to-day," +Said the weary Saint,--"I must away. +"Tho' I own I should like before I go +"To see for once (as I'm askt below +"If really such odd sights exist) +"A regular six-fold Pluralist." +Just then he heard a general cry-- +"There's Doctor Hodgson galloping by!" +"Ay, that's the man," says the Saint, "to follow," +And off he sets with a loud view-hello, +At Hodgson's heels, to catch if he can +A glimpse of this singular plural man. +But,--talk of Sir Boyle Roche's bird![3] +To compare him with Hodgson is absurd. +"Which way, sir, pray, is the doctor gone?"-- +"He is now at his living at Hillingdon."-- +"No, no,--you're out, by many a mile, +"He's away at his Deanery in Carlisle."-- +"Pardon me, sir; but I understand +"He's gone to his living in Cumberland."-- +"God bless me, no,--he can’t be there; +"You must try St. George's, Hanover Square." + +Thus all in vain the Saint inquired, +From living to living, mockt and tired;-- +'Twas Hodgson here, 'twas Hodgson there, +'Twas Hodgson nowhere, everywhere; +Till fairly beat the Saint gave o'er +And flitted away to the Stygian shore, +To astonish the natives underground +With the comical things he on earth had found. + + +[1] The wig, which had so long formed an essential part of the dress of an +English bishop, was at this time beginning to be dispensed with. + +[2] 1 John v. 7. A text which, though long given up by all the rest of the +orthodox world, is still pertinaciously adhered to by this Right Reverend +scholar. + +[3] It was a saying of the well-known Sir Boyle, that "a man could not be +in two places at once, unless he was a bird." + + + + + + +THOUGHTS ON TAR BARRELS. + +(VIDE DESCRIPTION OF A LATE FÊTE.)[1] + +1832. + + +What a pleasing contrivance! how aptly devised + 'Twixt tar and magnolias to puzzle one's noses! +And how the tar-barrels must all be surprised + To find themselves seated like "Love among roses!" + +What a pity we can't, by precautions like these, + Clear the air of that other still viler infection; +That radical pest, that old whiggish disease, + Of which cases, true-blue, are in every direction. + +Stead of barrels, let's light up an _Auto da Fe_ + Of a few good combustible Lords of "the Club;" +They would fume in a trice, the Whig cholera away, + And there's Bucky would burn like a barrel of bub. + +How Roden would blaze! and what rubbish throw out! + A volcano of nonsense in active display; +While Vane, as a butt, amidst laughter, would spout + The hot nothings he's full of, all night and all day. + +And then, for a finish, there's Cumberland's Duke,-- + Good Lord, how his chin-tuft would crackle in air! +Unless (as is shrewdly surmised from his look) + He's already bespoke for combustion elsewhere. + + +[1] The Marquis of Hertford's Fête.--From dread of cholera his Lordship +had ordered tar-barrels to be burned in every direction. + + + + + + +THE CONSULTATION.[1] + + + "When they _do_ agree, their unanimity is + wonderful. _The Critic_. + + +1833. + + +_Scene discovers Dr. Whig and Dr. Tory in consultation. Patient on the +floor between them_. + + _Dr. Whig_.--This wild Irish patient _does_ pester me so. +That what to do with him, I'm curst if I know. +I've _promist_ him anodynes-- + _Dr. Tory_. Anodynes!--Stuff. +Tie him down--gag him well--he'll be tranquil enough. +That's _my_ mode of practice. + _Dr Whig_. True, quite in _your_ line, +But unluckily not much, till lately, in _mine_. +'Tis so painful-- + _Dr. Tory_.--Pooh, nonsense--ask Ude how he feels, +When, for Epicure feasts, he prepares his live eels, +By flinging them in, 'twixt the bars of the fire, +And letting them wriggle on there till they tire. +_He_, too, says "'tis painful"--"quite makes his heart bleed"-- +But "Your eels are a vile, oleaginous breed."-- +He would fain use them gently, but Cookery says "No," +And--in short--eels were _born_ to be treated just so.[2] +'Tis the same with these Irish,--who're odder fish still,-- +Your tender Whig heart shrinks from using them ill; +I myself in my youth, ere I came to get wise, +Used at some operations to blush to the eyes:-- +But, in fact, my dear brother,--if I may make bold +To style you, as Peachum did Lockit, of old,-- +We, Doctors, _must_ act with the firmness of Ude, +And, indifferent like him,--so the fish is _but_ stewed,-- +_Must_ torture live Pats for the general good. + [_Here patient groans and kicks a little_.] + _Dr. Whig_.--But what, if one's patient's so devilish perverse, +That he _won't_ be thus tortured? + _Dr. Tory_. Coerce, sir, coerce. +You're a juvenile performer, but once you begin, +You can’t think how fast you may train your hand in: +And (_smiling_) who knows but old Tory may take to the shelf, +With the comforting thought that, in place and in pelf, +He's succeeded by one just as--bad as himself? + _Dr. Whig_ (_looking flattered_).-- +Why, to tell you the truth, I've a small matter here, +Which you helped me to make for my patient last year,-- + [_Goes to a cupboard and brings out a strait-waistcoat + and gag_.] +And such rest I've enjoyed from his raving since then +That I've made up my mind he shall wear it again. + _Dr. Tory_ (_embracing him_).— +Oh, charming!—-My dear Doctor Whig, you're a treasure, +Next to torturing, _myself_, to help _you_ is a pleasure. + [_Assisting Dr. Whig_.] +Give me leave--I've some practice in these mad machines; +There--tighter--the gag in the mouth, by all means. +Delightful!--all's snug--not a squeak need you fear,-- +You may now put your anodynes off till next year. + [_Scene closes_.] + + +[1] These verses, as well as some others that follow, were extorted from +me by that lamentable measure of the Whig ministry, the Irish Coercion +Act. + +[2] This eminent artist, in the second edition of the work wherein he +propounds this mode of purifying his eels, professes himself much +concerned at the charge of inhumanity brought against his practice, but +still begs leave respectfully to repeat that it _is_ the only proper +mode of preparing eels for the table. + + + + + + +TO THE REV. CHARLES OVERTON, + +CURATE OF ROMALDKIRK. + +AUTHOR OF THE POETICAL PORTRAITURE OF THE CHURCH. + +1833. + + +Sweet singer of Romaldkirk, thou who art reckoned, +By critics Episcopal, David the Second,[1] +If thus, as a Curate, so lofty your flight, +Only think, in a Rectory, how you _would_ write! +Once fairly inspired by the "Tithe-crowned Apollo," +(Who beats, I confess it, our lay Phoebus hollow, +Having gotten, besides the old _Nine's_ inspiration, +The _Tenth_ of all eatable things in creation.) +There's nothing in fact that a poet like you, +So be-_nined_ and be-_tenthed_, couldn't easily do. + +Round the lips of the sweet-tongued Athenian[2] they say, +While yet but a babe in his cradle he lay, +Wild honey-bees swarmed as presage to tell +Of the sweet-flowing words that thence afterwards fell. +Just so round our Overton's cradle, no doubt, +Tenth ducklings and chicks were seen flitting about; +Goose embryos, waiting their doomed decimation, +Came, shadowing forth his adult destination, +And small, sucking tithe-pigs, in musical droves, +Announced the Church poet whom Chester approves. +O Horace! when thou, in thy vision of yore, +Didst dream that a snowy-white plumage came o'er +Thy etherealized limbs, stealing downily on, +Till, by Fancy's strong spell, thou wert turned to a swan, +Little thought'st thou such fate could a poet befall, +Without any effort of fancy, at all; +Little thought'st thou the world would in Overton find +A bird, ready-made, somewhat different in kind, +But as perfect as Michaelmas' self could produce, +By gods yclept _anser_, by mortals a _goose_. + + +[1] "Your Lordship," says Mr. Overton, in the Dedication of his Poem to +the Bishop of Chester," has kindly expressed your persuasion that my Muse +will always be a 'Muse of sacred song and that it will be tuned as David's +was.'" + +[2] Sophocles. + + + + + + +SCENE FROM A PLAY, ACTED AT OXFORD, CALLED "MATRICULATION."[1] + + +[Boy discovered at a table, with the Thirty-Nine Articles before him.-- +Enter the Rt. Rev. Doctor Phillpots.] + +_Doctor P_.--There, my lad, lie the +Articles--(_Boy begins to count them_) just thirty nine-- +No occasion to count--you've now only to sign. +At Cambridge where folks are less High-church than we, +The whole Nine-and-Thirty are lumped into Three. +Let's run o'er the items;--there 'a Justification, +Predestination, and Supererogation-- +Not forgetting Salvation and Creed Athanasian, +Till we reach, at last, Queen Bess's Ratification. +That is sufficient--now, sign--having read quite enough, +You "believe in the full and true meaning thereof?" + +(_Boy stares_.) + +Oh! a mere form of words, to make things smooth and brief,-- +A commodious and short make-believe of belief, +Which our Church has drawn up in a form thus articular +To keep out in general all who're particular. +But what's the boy doing? what! reading all thro', +And my luncheon fast cooling!--this never will do. +_Boy_ (_poring over the Articles_).-- +Here are points which--pray, Doctor, what's "Grace of Congruity?" +_Doctor P._ (_sharply_).--You'll find out, young sir, when +you've more ingenuity. +At present, by signing, you pledge yourself merely. +Whate'er it may be, to believe it sincerely, +Both in _dining_ and _signing_ we take the same plan,-- +First, swallow all down, then digest--as we can. +_Boy_ (_still reading_).--I've to gulp, I see, St. Athanasius's + Creed, +Which. I'm told, is a very tough morsel indeed; +As he damns-- + + _Doctor P. (aside)_.--Ay, and so would _I_, willingly, too, +All confounded particular young boobies, like you. +This comes of Reforming!--all's o'er with our land, +When people won’t stand what they can't _under_-stand; +Nor perceive that our ever-revered Thirty-Nine +Were made not for men to _believe_ but to _sign_. + _Exit Dr. P. in a passion_. + +[1] It appears that when a youth of fifteen went to be matriculated at +Oxford, he was required first to subscribe the Thirty-Nine Articles of +Religious Belief. + + + + + + +LATE TITHE CASE. + + + _"sic vos non vobis."_ + + +1833. + + + "The Vicar of Birmingham desires me to state that, in consequence of + the passing of a recent Act of Parliament, he is compelled to adopt + measures which may by some be considered harsh or precipitate; but, + _in duty to what he owes to his successors_, he feels bound to + preserve the rights of the vicarage." + --_Letter from Mr. S. Powell_, August 6. + + +No, _not_ for yourselves, ye reverend men, +Do you take one pig in every ten, +But for Holy Church's future heirs, +Who've an abstract right to that pig, as theirs; +The law supposing that such heirs male +Are already seized of the pig, in tail. +No, _not_ for himself hath Birmingham's priest +His "well-beloved" of their pennies fleeced: +But it is that, before his prescient eyes, +All future Vicars of Birmingham rise, +With their embryo daughters, nephews, nieces, +And 'tis for _them_ the poor he fleeces. +He heareth their voices, ages hence +Saying, "Take the pig"--"oh take the pence;" +The cries of little Vicarial dears, +The unborn Birminghamites, reach his ears; +And, did he resist that soft appeal, +He would _not_ like a true-born Vicar feel. +Thou, too, Lundy of Lackington! +A rector true, if e'er there was one, +Who, for sake of the Lundies of coming ages, +Gripest the tenths of laborer's wages.[1] +'Tis true, in the pockets of _thy_ small-clothes +The claimed "obvention"[2]of four-pence goes; +But its abstract spirit, unconfined, +Spreads to all future Rector-kind, +Warning them all to their rights to wake, +And rather to face the block, the stake, +Than give up their darling right _to take_. + +One grain of musk, it is said, perfumes +(So subtle its spirit) a thousand rooms, +And a single four-pence, pocketed well, +Thro' a thousand rectors' lives will tell. +Then still continue, ye reverend souls, +And still as your rich Pactolus rolls, +Grasp every penny on every side, +From every wretch, to swell its tide: +Remembering still what the Law lays down, +In that pure poetic style of its own. +"If the parson _in esse_ submits to loss, he +"Inflicts the same on the parson _in posse_." + + +[1] Fourteen agricultural laborers (one of whom received so little as six +guineas for yearly wages, one eight, one nine, another ten guineas, and +the best paid of the whole not more than 18_l_. annually) were all, in the +course of the autumn of 1832, served with demands of tithe at the rate of +4_d_. in the 1_l_. sterling, on behalf of the Rev. F. Lundy, Rector of +Lackington, etc.--_The Times_, August, 1833. + +[2] One of the various general terms under which oblations, tithes, etc., +are comprised. + + + + + + +FOOLS' PARADISE. + +DREAM THE FIRST. + + +I have been, like Puck, I have been, in a trice, +To a realm they call Fool's Paradise, +Lying N.N.E. of the Land of Sense, +And seldom blest with a glimmer thence. +But they wanted not in this happy place, +Where a light of its own gilds every face; +Or if some wear a shadowy brow, +'Tis the _wish_ to look wise,--not knowing _how_. +Self-glory glistens o'er all that's there, +The trees, the flowers have a jaunty air; +The well-bred wind in a whisper blows, +The snow, if it snows, is _couleur de rose_, +The falling founts in a titter fall, +And the sun looks simpering down on all. + +Oh, 'tisn't in tongue or pen to trace +The scenes I saw in that joyous place. +There were Lords and Ladies sitting together, +In converse sweet, "What charming weather!-- +"You'll all rejoice to hear, I'm sure, +"Lord Charles has got a good sinecure; +"And the Premier says, my youngest brother +"(Him in the Guards) shall have another. + +"Isn’t this very, _very_ gallant!-- +"As for my poor old virgin aunt, +"Who has lost her all, poor thing, at whist, +"We must quarter _her_ on the Pension List." +Thus smoothly time in that Eden rolled; +It seemed like an Age of _real_ gold, +Where all who liked might have a slice, +So rich was that Fools' Paradise. + +But the sport at which most time they spent, +Was a puppet-show, called Parliament +Performed by wooden Ciceros, +As large as life, who rose to prose, +While, hid behind them, lords and squires, +Who owned the puppets, pulled the wires; +And thought it the very best device +Of that most prosperous Paradise, +To make the vulgar pay thro' the nose +For them and their wooden Ciceros. + +And many more such things I saw +In this Eden of Church and State and Law; +Nor e'er were known such pleasant folk +As those who had the _best_ of the joke. +There were Irish Rectors, such as resort +To Cheltenham yearly, to drink--port, +And bumper, "Long may the Church endure, +"May her cure of souls be a sinecure, +"And a score of Parsons to every soul +"A moderate allowance on the whole." +There were Heads of Colleges lying about, +From which the sense had all run out, +Even to the lowest classic lees, +Till nothing was left but _quantities_; +Which made them heads most fit to be +Stuck up on a University, +Which yearly hatches, in its schools, +Such flights of young Elysian fools. +Thus all went on, so snug and nice, +In this happiest possible Paradise. + +But plain it was to see, alas! +That a downfall soon must come to pass. +For grief is a lot the good and wise +Don’t quite so much monopolize, +But that ("lapt in Elysium" as they are) +Even blessed fools must have their share. +And so it happened:--but what befell, +In Dream the Second I mean to tell. + + + + + + +THE RECTOR AND HIS CURATE; + +OR, ONE POUND TWO. + + + "I trust we shall part as we met, in peace and charity. My last + payment to you paid your salary up to the 1st of this month. Since + that, I owe you for one month, which, being a long month, of + thirty-one days, amounts, as near as I can calculate, to six pounds + eight shillings. My steward returns you as a debtor to the amount of + SEVEN POUNDS TEN SHILLINGS FOR COX-ACRE-GROUND, which leaves some + trifling balance in my favor."--_Letter of Dismissal from the Rev. + Marcus Beresford to his Curate, the Rev. T. A. Lyons_. + + +The account is balanced--the bill drawn out,-- +The debit and credit all right, no doubt-- +The Rector rolling in wealth and state, +Owes to his Curate six pound eight; +The Curate, that _least_ well-fed of men, +Owes to his Rector seven pound ten, +Which maketh the balance clearly due +From Curate to Rector, one pound two. + +Ah balance, on earth unfair, uneven! +But sure to be all set right in heaven, +Where bills like these will be checkt, some day, +And the balance settled the other way: +Where Lyons the curate's hard-wrung sum +Will back to his shade with interest come; +And Marcus, the rector, deep may rue +This tot, in his favor, of one pound two. + + + + + + +PADDY'S METAMORPHOSIS. + +1833. + + +About fifty years since, in the days of our daddies, + That plan was commenced which the wise now applaud, +Of shipping off Ireland's most turbulent Paddies, + As good raw material for _settlers_, abroad. +Some West-India island, whose name I forget, + Was the region then chosen for this scheme so romantic; +And such the success the first colony met, + That a second, soon after, set sail o'er the Atlantic. + +Behold them now safe at the long-lookt-for shore, + Sailing in between banks that the Shannon might greet, +And thinking of friends whom, but two years before, + They had sorrowed to lose, but would soon again meet. + +And, hark! from the shore a glad welcome there came-- + "Arrah, Paddy from Cork, is it you, my sweet boy?" +While Pat stood astounded, to hear his own name + Thus hailed by black devils, who capered for joy! + +Can it possibly be?--half amazement--half doubt, + Pat listens again--rubs his eyes and looks steady; +Then heaves a deep sigh, and in horror yells out, + "Good Lord! only think,--black and curly already!" + +Deceived by that well-mimickt brogue in his ears, + Pat read his own doom in these wool-headed figures, +And thought, what a climate, in less than two years, + To turn a whole cargo of Pats into niggers! + +MORAL. + +'Tis thus,--but alas! by a marvel more true + Than is told in this rival of Ovid's best stories,-- +Your Whigs, when in office a short year or two, + By a _lusus naturae_, all turn into Tories. + +And thus, when I hear them "strong measures" advise, + Ere the seats that they sit on have time to get steady, +I say, while I listen, with tears in my eyes, + "Good Lord! only think,--black and curly already!" + + + + + + +COCKER, ON CHURCH REFORM. + +FOUNDED UPON SOME LATE CALCULATIONS. + +1833. + + +Fine figures of speech let your orators follow, +Old Cocker has figures that beat them all hollow. +Tho' famed for his rules _Aristotle_ may be, +In but _half_ of this Sage any merit I see, +For, as honest Joe Hume says, the "_tottle_" for me! + +For instance, while others discuss and debate, +It is thus about Bishops _I_ ratiocinate. + +In England, where, spite of the infidel's laughter, +'Tis certain our souls are lookt _very_ well after, +Two Bishops can well (if judiciously sundered) +Of parishes manage two thousand two hundred.-- +Said number of parishes, under said teachers, +Containing three millions of Protestant creatures,-- +So that each of said Bishops full ably controls +One million and five hundred thousands of souls. + +And now comes old Cocker. In Ireland we're told, +_Half_ a million includes the whole Protestant fold; +If, therefore, for three million souls, 'tis conceded +_Two_ proper-sized Bishops are all that is needed, +'Tis plain, for the Irish _half_ million who want 'em, +_One-third_ of _one_ Bishop is just the right quantum. +And thus, by old Cocker's sublime Rule of Three, +The Irish Church question's resolved to a T; +Keeping always that excellent maxim in view, +That, in saving men's souls, we must save money too. + +Nay, if--as St. Roden complains is the case-- +The half million of _soul_ is decreasing apace, +The demand, too, for _bishop_ will also fall off, +Till the _tithe_ of one, taken in kind be enough. +But, as fractions imply that we'd have to dissect, +And to cutting up Bishops I strongly object. +We've a small, fractious prelate whom well we could spare, +Who has just the same decimal worth, to a hair, +And, not to leave Ireland too much in the lurch. +We'll let her have Exeter, _sole_, as her Church. + + + + + + +LES HOMMES AUTOMATES. + +1834. + + + "We are persuaded that this our artificial man will not only walk and + speak and perform most of the outward functions of animal life, but + (being wound up once a week) will perhaps reason as well as most of + your country parsons."--"_Memoirs of Martinus Scriblerus_," + chap. xii. + + +It being an object now to meet +With Parsons that don’t want to eat, +Fit men to fill those Irish rectories, +Which soon will have but scant refectories, +It has been suggested,--lest that Church +Should all at once be left in the lurch +For want of reverend men endued +With this gift of never requiring food,-- +To try, by way of experiment, whether +There couldn’t be made of wood and leather,[1] +(Howe'er the notion may sound chimerical,) +Jointed figures, not _lay_,[2] but clerical, +Which, wound up carefully once a week, +Might just like parsons look and speak, +Nay even, if requisite, reason too, +As well as most Irish parsons do. + +The experiment having succeeded quite, +(Whereat those Lords must much delight, +Who've shown, by stopping the Church's food, +They think it isn’t for her spiritual good +To be served by parsons of flesh and blood,) +The Patentees of this new invention +Beg leave respectfully to mention, +They now are enabled to produce +An ample supply for present use, +Of these reverend pieces of machinery, +Ready for vicarage, rectory, deanery, +Or any such-like post of skill +That wood and leather are fit to fill. + +N.B.--In places addicted to arson, +We can’t recommend a wooden parson: +But if the Church any such appoints, +They'd better at least have iron joints. +In parts, not much by Protestants haunted, +A figure to _look at_'s all that's wanted-- +A block in black, to eat and sleep, +Which (now that the eating's o'er) comes cheap. + +P.S.--Should the Lords, by way of a treat, +Permit the clergy again to eat, +The Church will of course no longer need +Imitation-parsons that never feed; +And these _wood_ creatures of ours will sell +For secular purposes just as well-- +Our Beresfords, turned to bludgeons stout, +May, 'stead of beating their own about, +Be knocking the brains of Papists out; +While our smooth O'Sullivans, by all means, +Should transmigrate into _turning_ machines. + + +[1] The materials of which those Nuremberg Savans, mentioned by +Scriblerus, constructed their artificial man. + +[2] The wooden models used by painters are, it is well known, called "lay +figures". + + + + + + +HOW TO MAKE ONE'S SELF A PEER. + +ACCORDING TO THE NEWEST RECEIPT AS DISCLOSED IN A LATE HERALDIC WORK,[1] + +1834. + + +Choose some title that's dormant--the Peerage hath many-- +Lord Baron of Shamdos sounds nobly as any. +Next, catch a dead cousin of said defunct Peer, +And marry him, off hand, in some given year, +To the daughter of somebody,--no matter who,-- +Fig, the grocer himself, if you're hard run, will do; +For, the Medici _pills_ still in heraldry tell, +And why shouldn't _lollypops_ quarter as well? +Thus, having your couple, and one a lord's cousin, +Young materials for peers may be had by the dozen; +And 'tis hard if, inventing each small mother's son of 'em, +You can't somehow manage to prove _yourself_ one of 'em. + +Should registers, deeds and such matters refractory, +Stand in the way of this lord-manufactory, +I've merely to hint, as a secret auricular, +One _grand_ rule of enterprise,--_don't_ be particular. +A man who once takes such a jump at nobility, +Must _not_ mince the matter, like folks of nihility, +But clear thick and thin with true lordly agility. + +'Tis true, to a would-be descendant from Kings, +Parish-registers sometimes are troublesome things; +As oft, when the vision is near brought about, +Some goblin, in shape of a grocer, grins out; +Or some barber, perhaps, with my Lord mingles bloods, +And one's patent of peerage is left in the suds. + +But there _are_ ways--when folks are resolved to be lords-- +Of expurging even troublesome parish records. +What think ye of scissors? depend on't no heir +Of a Shamdos should go unsupplied with a pair, +As whate'er _else_ the learned in such lore may invent, +Your scissors does wonders in proving descent. +Yes, poets may sing of those terrible shears +With which Atropos snips off both bumpkins and peers, +But they're naught to that weapon which shines in the hands +Of some would-be Patricians, when proudly he stands +O'er the careless churchwarden's baptismal array, +And sweeps at each cut generations away. +By some babe of old times is his peerage resisted? + +One snip,--and the urchin hath _never_ existed! +Does some marriage, in days near the Flood, interfere +With his one sublime object of being a Peer? +Quick the shears at once nullify bridegroom and bride,-- +No such people have ever lived, married or died! + +Such the newest receipt for those high minded elves, +Who've a fancy for making great lords of themselves. +Follow this, young aspirer who pant'st for a peerage, +Take S--m for thy model and B--z for thy steerage, +Do all and much worse than old Nicholas Flam does, +And--_who_ knows but you'll be Lord Baron of Shamdos? + + +[1] The claim to the barony of Chandos (if I recollect right) advanced by +the late Sir Egerinton Brydges. + + + + + + +THE DUKE IS THE LAD. + + + Air.--"A master I have, and I am his man, + Galloping dreary dun." + "_Castle of Andalusia_." + + +The Duke is the lad to frighten a lass. + Galloping, dreary duke; + The Duke is the lad to frighten a lass, + He's an ogre to meet, and the devil to pass, + With his charger prancing, + Grim eye glancing, + Chin, like a Mufti, + Grizzled and tufty, + Galloping, dreary Duke. + +Ye misses, beware of the neighborhood + Of this galloping dreary Duke; +Avoid him, all who see no good +In being run o'er by a Prince of the Blood. + For, surely, no nymph is + Fond of a grim phiz. + And of the married, + Whole crowds have miscarried + At sight of this dreary Duke. + + + + + + +EPISTLE + +FROM ERASMUS ON EARTH TO CICERO IN THE SHADES. + + +Southampton. + +As 'tis now, my dear Tully, some weeks since I started +By railroad for earth, having vowed ere we parted +To drop you a line by the Dead-Letter post, +Just to say how I thrive in my new line of ghost, +And how deucedly odd this live world all appears, +To a man who's been dead now for three hundred years, +I take up my pen, and with news of this earth +Hope to waken by turns both your spleen and your mirth. + +In my way to these shores, taking Italy first, +Lest the change from Elysium too sudden should burst, +I forgot not to visit those haunts where of yore +You took lessons from Paetus in cookery's lore. +Turned aside from the calls of the rostrum and Muse, +To discuss the rich merits of _rôtis_ and stews, +And preferred to all honors of triumph or trophy, +A supper on prawns with that rogue, little Sophy. + +Having dwelt on such classical musings awhile, +I set off by a steam-boat for this happy isle, +(A conveyance _you_ ne'er, I think, sailed by, my Tully, +And therefore, _per_ next, I'll describe it more fully,) +Having heard on the way what distresses me greatly, +That England's o'errun by _idolaters_ lately, +Stark, staring adorers of wood and of stone, +Who will let neither stick, stock or statue alone. +Such the sad news I heard from a tall man in black, +Who from sports continental was hurrying back, +To look after his tithes;--seeing, doubtless, 'twould follow, +That just as of old your great idol, Apollo, +Devoured all the Tenths, so the idols in question, +These wood and stone gods, may have equal digestion, +And the idolatrous crew whom this Rector despises, +May eat up the tithe-pig which _he_ idolizes. + +London. + +'Tis all but too true--grim Idolatry reigns +In full pomp over England's lost cities and plains! +On arriving just now, as my first thought and care +Was as usual to seek out some near House of Prayer, +Some calm holy spot, fit for Christians to pray on, +I was shown to--what think you?--a downright Pantheon! + +A grand, pillared temple with niches and halls, +Full of idols and gods, which they nickname St. Paul's;-- +Tho' 'tis clearly the place where the idolatrous crew +Whom the Rector complained of, their dark rites pursue; +And, 'mong all the "strange gods" Abr'ham's father carved out,[1] +That he ever carv'd _stranger_ than these I much doubt. + + Were it even, my dear TULLY, your Hebes and Graces, +And such pretty things, that usurpt the Saints' places, +I shouldn’t much mind,--for in this classic dome +Such folks from Olympus would feel quite at home. +But the gods they've got here!--such a queer omnium gatherum +Of misbegot things that no poet would father 'em;-- +Britannias in light summer-wear for the skies,-- +Old Thames turned to stone, to his no small surprise,-- +Father Nile, too,--a portrait, (in spite of what's said, +That no mortal e'er yet got a glimpse of his _head_,) +And a Ganges which India would think somewhat fat for't, +Unless 'twas some full-grown Director had sat for't;-- +Not to mention the _et caeteras_ of Genii and Sphinxes, +Fame, Victory, and other such semi-clad minxes;-- +Sea Captains,[2]--the idols here most idolized; +And of whom some, alas! might too well be comprized +Among ready-made Saints, as they died _cannonized_; +With a multitude more of odd cockneyfied deities, +Shrined in such pomp that quite shocking to see it 'tis; +Nor know I what better the Rector could do +Than to shrine there his own beloved quadruped too; +As most surely a tithe-pig, whate'er the world thinks, is +A much fitter beast for a church than a Sphinx is. + + But I'm called off to dinner--grace just has been said, +And my host waits for nobody, living or dead. + + +[1] Joshua xxiv 2. + +[2] Captains Mosse, Riou etc. + + + + + + +LINES ON THE DEPARTURE OF LORD CASTLEREAGH +AND STEWART FOR THE CONTINENT.[1] + + + _at Paris[2] et Fratres, et qui rapure sub illis. + vix tenuere manus (scis hoc, Menelae) nefandas_. + OVID. _Metam. lib_. xiii. v. 202. + + +Go, Brothers in wisdom--go, bright pair of Peers, + And my Cupid and Fame fan you both with their pinions! +The _one_, the best lover we have--_of his years_, + And the other Prime Statesman of Britain's dominions. + +Go, Hero of Chancery, blest with the smile + Of the Misses that love and the monarchs that prize thee; +Forget Mrs. Angelo Taylor awhile, + And all tailors but him who so well _dandifies_ thee. + +Never mind how thy juniors in gallantry scoff, + Never heed how perverse affidavits may thwart thee, +But show the young Misses thou'rt scholar enough + To translate "_Amor Fortis_" a love, _about forty_! + +And sure 'tis no wonder, when, fresh as young Mars, + From the battle you came, with the Orders you'd earned in't, +That sweet Lady Fanny should cry out "_My stars_!" + And forget that the _Moon_, too, was some way concerned in't. + +For not the great Regent himself has endured + (Tho' I've seen him with badges and orders all shine, +Till he lookt like a house that was _over_ insured) + A much heavier burden of glories than thine. + +And 'tis plain, when a wealthy young lady so mad is, + Or _any_ young ladies can so go astray, +As to marry old Dandies that might be their daddies, + The _stars_ are in fault, my Lord Stewart, not they! + +Thou, too, t'other brother, thou Tully of Tories, + Thou _Malaprop_ Cicero, over whose lips +Such a smooth rigmarole about; "monarchs," and "glories," + And "_nullidge_," and "features," like syllabub slips. + +Go, haste, at the Congress pursue thy vocation + Of adding fresh sums to this National Debt of ours, +Leaguing with Kings, who for mere recreation + Break promises, fast as your Lordship breaks metaphors. + +Fare ye well, fare ye well, bright Pair of Peers, + And may Cupid and Fame fan you both with their pinions! +The one, the best lover we have--_of his years_, +And the other, Prime Statesman of Britain's dominions. + + +[1] This and the following squib, which must have been written about the +year 1815-16, have been by some oversight misplaced. + +[2] Ovid is mistaken in saying that it was "at Paris" these rapacious +transactions took place--we should read "at Vienna." + + + + + + +TO THE SHIP IN WHICH LORD CASTLEREAGH SAILED FOR THE CONTINENT. + +_Imitated from Horace, lib. i, ode 3_. + + +So may my Lady's prayers prevail, + And Canning's too, and _lucid_ Bragge's, +And Eldon beg a favoring gale + From Eolus, that _older_ Bags, +To speed thee on thy destined way, +Oh ship, that bearest our Castlereagh, +Our gracious Regent's better half + And _therefore_ quarter of a King-- +(As Van or any other calf + May find without much figuring). +Waft him, oh ye kindly breezes, + Waft this Lord of place and pelf, +Any where his Lordship pleases, + Tho' 'twere to Old Nick himself! + +Oh, what a face of brass was his. +Who first at Congress showed his phiz-- +To sign away the Rights of Man + To Russian threats and Austrian juggle; +And leave the sinking African + To fall without one saving struggle-- +'Mong ministers from North and South, + To show his lack of shame and sense, +And hoist the sign of "Bull and Mouth" + For blunders and for eloquence! + +In vain we wish our _Secs_, at home + To mind their papers, desks, and shelves, +If silly _Secs_, abroad _will_ roam + And make such noodles of themselves. + +But such hath always been the case-- +For matchless impudence of face, +There's nothing like your Tory race! +First, Pitt, the chosen of England, taught her +A taste for famine, fire and slaughter. +Then came the Doctor, for our ease, +With Eldons, Chathams, Hawksburies, +And other deadly maladies. +When each in turn had run their rigs, +Necessity brought in the Whigs: + +And oh! I blush, I blush to say, + When these, in turn, were put to flight, too, +Illustrious TEMPLE flew away + With _lots of pens he had no right to_.[1] +In short, what _will_ not mortal man do? + And now, that--strife and bloodshed past-- +We've done on earth what harm we can do, + We gravely take to heaven at last +And think its favoring smile to purchase +(Oh Lord, good Lord!) by--building churches! + + +[1] This alludes to the 1200_l_. worth of stationery, which his Lordship +is said to have ordered, when on the point of _vacating_ his place. + + + + + + +SKETCH OF THE FIRST ACT OF A NEW ROMANTIC DRAMA. + + +"And now," quoth the goddess, in accents jocose, +"Having got good materials, I'll brew such a dose +"Of Double X mischief as, mortals shall say, +"They've not known its equal for many a long day." +Here she winkt to her subaltern imps to be steady, +And all wagged their fire-tipt tails and stood ready. + +"So, now for the ingredients:--first, hand me that bishop;" +Whereupon, a whole bevy of imps run to fish up +From out a large reservoir wherein they pen 'em +The blackest of all its black dabblers in venom; +And wrapping him up (lest the virus should ooze, +And one "drop of the immortal"[1] Right Rev.[2] they might lose) +In the sheets of his own speeches, charges, reviews, +Pop him into the caldron, while loudly a burst +From the by-standers welcomes ingredient the first! + +"Now fetch the Ex-Chancellor," muttered the dame-- +"He who's called after Harry the Older, by name." +"The Ex-Chancellor!" echoed her imps, the whole crew of 'em-- +"Why talk of _one_ Ex, when your Mischief has _two_ of 'em?" +"True, true," said the hag, looking arch at her elves, +"And a double-_Ex_ dose they compose, in themselves." +This joke, the sly meaning of which was seen lucidly, +Set all the devils a laughing most deucedly. +So, in went the pair, and (what none thought surprising) +Showed talents for sinking as great as for rising; +While not a grim phiz in that realm but was lighted +With joy to see spirits so twin-like united-- +Or (plainly to speak) two such birds of a feather, +In one mess of venom thus spitted together. +Here a flashy imp rose--some connection, no doubt, +Of the young lord in question--and, scowling about, +"Hoped his fiery friend, Stanley, would not be left out; +"As no schoolboy unwhipt, the whole world must agree, +"Loved mischief, _pure_ mischief, more dearly than he." + +But, no--the wise hag wouldn’t hear of the whipster; +Not merely because, as a shrew, he eclipst her, +And nature had given him, to keep him still young, +Much tongue in his head and no head in his tongue; +But because she well knew that, for change ever ready, +He'd not even to mischief keep properly steady: +That soon even the _wrong_ side would cease to delight, +And, for want of a change, he must swerve to the _right_; +While, on _each_, so at random his missiles he threw, +That the side he attackt was most safe, of the two.-- +This ingredient was therefore put by on the shelf, +There to bubble, a bitter, hot mess, by itself. +"And now," quoth the hag, as her caldron she eyed. +And the tidbits so friendlily rankling inside, +"There wants but some seasoning;--so, come, ere I stew 'em, +"By way of a relish we'll throw in John Tuam.' +"In cooking up mischief, there's no flesh or fish +"Like your meddling High Priest, to add zest to the dish." +Thus saying, she pops in the Irish Grand Lama-- +Which great event ends the First Act of the Drama. + + +[1] To lose no drop of the immortal man. + +[2] The present Bishop of Exeter. + + + + + + +ANIMAL MAGNETISM. + + +Tho' famed was Mesmer, in his day, +Nor less so, in ours, is Dupotet, +To say nothing of all the wonders done +By that wizard, Dr. Elliotson, +When, standing as if the gods to invoke, he +Up waves his arm, and--down drops Okey![1] +Tho' strange these things, to mind and sense, + If you wish still stranger things to see-- +If you wish to know the power immense +Of the true magnetic influence, + Just go to her Majesty's Treasury, +And learn the wonders working there-- +And I'll be hanged if you don’t stare! +Talk of your animal magnetists, +And that wave of the hand no soul resists, +Not all its witcheries can compete +With the friendly beckon towards Downing Street, +Which a Premier gives to one who wishes +To taste of the Treasury loaves and fishes. +It actually lifts the lucky elf, +Thus acted upon, _above_ himself;-- +He jumps to a state of _clairvoyance_, +And is placeman, statesman, all, at once! + +These effects, observe (with which I begin), +Take place when the patient's motioned _in_; +Far different of course the mode of affection, +When the wave of the hand's in the _out_ direction; +The effects being then extremely unpleasant, +As is seen in the case of Lord Brougham, at present; +In whom this sort of manipulation, +Has lately produced such inflammation, +Attended with constant irritation, +That, in short--not to mince his situation-- +It has workt in the man a transformation +That puzzles all human calculation! +Ever since the fatal day which saw +That "pass" performed on this Lord of Law-- +A pass potential, none can doubt, +As it sent Harry Brougham to the right about-- +The condition in which the patient has been +Is a thing quite awful to be seen. +Not that a casual eye could scan + This wondrous change by outward survey; +It being, in fact, the _interior_ man + That's turned completely topsy-turvy:-- +Like a case that lately, in reading o'er 'em, +I found in the _Acta Eruditorum_, +Of a man in whose inside, when disclosed, +The whole order of things was found transposed; +By a _lusus naturae_, strange to see, +The liver placed where the heart should be, +And the _spleen_ (like Brougham's, since laid on the shelf) +As diseased and as much _out of place_ as himself. + +In short, 'tis a case for consultation, +If e'er there was one, in this thinking nation; +And therefore I humbly beg to propose, +That those _savans_ who mean, as the rumor goes, +To sit on Miss Okey's wonderful case, +Should also Lord Parry's case embrace; +And inform us, in _both_ these patients' states, +Which _ism_ it is that predominates, +Whether magnetism and somnambulism, +Or, simply and solely, mountebankism. + + +[1] The name of the heroine of the performances at the North London +Hospital. + + + + + + +THE SONG OF THE BOX. + + +Let History boast of her Romans and Spartans, +And tell how they stood against tyranny's shock; +They were all, I confess, in _my_ eye, Betty Martins + Compared to George Grote and his wonderful Box. + +Ask, where Liberty now has her seat?--Oh, it isn't + By Delaware's banks or on Switzerland's rocks;-- +Like an imp in some conjuror's bottle imprisoned, + She's slyly shut up in Grote's wonderful Box. + +How snug!--'stead of floating thro' ether's dominions, + Blown _this_ way and _that_, by the "_populi vox_," +To fold thus in silence her sinecure pinions, + And go fast asleep in Grote's wonderful Box. + +Time was, when free speech was the life-breath of freedom-- + So thought once the Seldens, the Hampdens, the Lockes; +But mute be _our_ troops, when to ambush we lead 'em, + "For Mum" is the word with us Knights of the Box. + +Pure, exquisite Box! no corruption can soil it; + There's Otto of Rose in each breath it unlocks; +While Grote is the "Betty," that serves at the toilet, + And breathes all Arabia around from his Box. + +'Tis a singular fact, that the famed Hugo Grotius + (A namesake of Grote's--being both of Dutch stocks), +Like Grote, too, a genius profound as precocious, + Was also, like him, much renowned for a Box;-- + +An immortal old clothes-box, in which the great Grotius + When suffering in prison for views heterodox, +Was packt up incog. spite of jailers ferocious,[1] + And sent to his wife,[2] carriage free, in a Box! + +But the fame of old Hugo now rests on the shelf, + Since a rival hath risen that all parallel mocks;-- +_That_ Grotius ingloriously saved but himself, + While _ours_ saves the whole British realm by a Box! + +And oh! when, at last, even this greatest of Grotes + Must bend to the Power that at every door knocks, +May he drop in the urn like his own "silent votes," + And the tomb of his rest be a large Ballot-Box. + +While long at his shrine, both from county and city, + Shall pilgrims triennially gather in flocks, +And sing, while they whimper, the appropriate ditty, + "Oh breathe not his _name_, let it sleep--in the Box." + + +[1] For the particulars of this escape of Grotius from the Castle of +Louvenstein, by means of a box (only three feet and a half long, it is +said) in which books used to be occasionally sent to him and foul linen +returned, see any of the Biographical Dictionaries. + +[2] This is not quite according to the facts of the case; his wife having +been the contriver of the stratagem, and remained in the prison herself to +give him time for escape. + + + + + + +ANNOUNCEMENT OF A NEW THALABA. + +ADDRESSED TO ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ. + + +When erst, my Southey, thy tuneful tongue +The terrible tale of Thalaba sung-- +Of him, the Destroyer, doomed to rout +That grim divan of conjurors out, +Whose dwelling dark, as legends say, +Beneath the roots of the ocean lay, +(Fit place for deep ones, such as they,) +How little thou knewest, dear Dr. Southey, +Altho' bright genius all allow thee, +That, some years thence, thy wondering eyes +Should see a second Thalaba rise-- +As ripe for ruinous rigs as thine, +Tho' his havoc lie in a different line, +And should find this new, improved Destroyer +Beneath the wig of a Yankee lawyer; +A sort of an "alien," _alias_ man, +Whose country or party guess who can, +Being Cockney half, half Jonathan; +And his life, to make the thing completer, +Being all in the genuine Thalaba metre, +Loose and irregular as thy feet are;-- +First, into Whig Pindarics rambling, +Then in low Tory doggrel scrambling; +Now _love_ his theme, now _Church_ his glory +(At once both Tory and ama-tory), +Now in the Old Bailey-_lay_ meandering, +Now in soft _couplet_ style philandering; +And, lastly, in lame Alexandrine, +Dragging his wounded length along, +When scourged by Holland's silken thong. + +In short, dear Bob, Destroyer the Second +May fairly a match for the First be reckoned; +Save that _your_ Thalaba's talent lay +In sweeping old conjurors clean away, +While ours at aldermen deals his blows, +(Who no great conjurors are, God knows,) +Lays Corporations, by wholesale, level, +Sends Acts of Parliament to the devil, +Bullies the whole Milesian race-- +Seven millions of Paddies, face to face; +And, seizing that magic wand, himself, +Which erst thy conjurors left on the shelf, +Transforms the boys of the Boyne and Liffey +All into _foreigners_, in a jiffy-- +Aliens, outcasts, every soul of 'em, +Born but for whips and chains, the whole of 'em? + +Never in short did parallel +Betwixt two heroes _gee_ so well; +And among the points in which they fit, +There's one, dear Bob, I can’t omit. +That hacking, hectoring blade of thine +Dealt much in the _Domdaniel_ line; +And 'tis but rendering justice due, +To say that ours and his Tory crew +_Damn Daniel_ most devoutly too. + + + + + + +RIVAL TOPICS.[1] + +AN EXTRAVAGANZA. + + +Oh Wellington and Stephenson, + Oh morn and evening papers, +_Times_, _Herald_, _Courier_, _Globe_, and _Sun_, +When will ye cease our ears to stun + With these two heroes' capers? +Still "Stephenson" and "Wellington," + The everlasting two!-- +Still doomed, from rise to set of sun, +To hear what mischief one has done, + And t'other means to do:-- +What bills the banker past to friends, + But never meant to pay; +What Bills the other wight intends, + As honest, in their way;-- +Bills, payable at distant sight, + Beyond the Grecian kalends, +When all good deeds will come to light, +When Wellington will do what's right, + And Rowland pay his balance. + +To catch the banker all have sought, + But still the rogue unhurt is; +While t'other juggler--who'd have thought? +Tho' slippery long, has just been caught + By old Archbishop Curtis;-- +And, such the power of papal crook, + The crosier scarce had quivered +About his ears, when, lo! the Duke + Was of a Bull delivered! +Sir Richard Birnie doth decide + That Rowland "must be mad," +In private coach, with crest, to ride, + When chaises could be had. +And t'other hero, all agree, + St. Luke's will soon arrive at, +If thus he shows off publicly, + When he might pass in private. +Oh Wellington, oh Stephenson, + Ye ever-boring pair, +Where'er I sit, or stand, or run, + Ye haunt me everywhere. +Tho' Job had patience tough enough, + Such duplicates would try it; +Till one's turned out and t'other off, + We Shan’ have peace or quiet. +But small's the chance that Law affords-- + Such folks are daily let off; +And, 'twixt the old Bailey and the Lords, + They both, I fear, will get off. + + +[1] The date of this squib must have been, I think, about 1828-9. + + + + + + +THE BOY STATESMAN. + +BY A TORY. + + + "That boy will be the death of me." + _Matthews at Home_. + + +Ah, Tories dear, our ruin is near, + With Stanley to help us, we can’t but fall; +Already a warning voice I hear, +Like the late Charles Matthews' croak in my ear, + "That boy--that boy'll be the death of you all." + +He will, God help us!--not even Scriblerius + In the "Art of Sinking" his match could be; +And our case is growing exceeding serious, + For, all being in the same boat as he, + If down my Lord goes, down go we, + Lord Baron Stanley and Company, +As deep in Oblivion's swamp below +As such "Masters Shallow," well could go; +And where we shall all both low and high, +Embalmed in mud, as forgotten lie +As already doth Graham of Netherby! +But that boy, that boy!--there's a tale I know, +Which in talking of him comes à_propos_. +Sir Thomas More had an only son, +And a foolish lad was that only one, + And Sir Thomas said one day to his wife, +"My dear, I can’t but wish you joy. +"For you prayed for a boy, and you now have a boy, +"Who'll continue a boy to the end of his life." + +Even such is our own distressing lot, +With the ever-young statesman we have got; +Nay even still worse; for Master More +Wasn't more a youth than he'd been before, +While _ours_ such power of boyhood shows, +That the older he gets the more juvenile he grows, +And at what extreme old age he'll close +His schoolboy course, heaven only knows;-- +Some century hence, should he reach so far, + And ourselves to witness it heaven condemn, +We shall find him a sort of _cub_ Old Parr, + A whipper-snapper Methusalem; +Nay, even should he make still longer stay of it, +The boy'll want _judgment_, even to the day of it! +Meanwhile, 'tis a serious, sad infliction; + And day and night with awe I recall +The late Mr. Matthews' solemn prediction, + "That boy'll be the death, the death of you all." + + + + + + +LETTER + +FROM LARRY O'BRANIGAN TO THE REV. MURTHAGH O'MULLIGAN. + + +Arrah, where were _you_, Murthagh, that beautiful day?-- + Or how came it your riverence was laid on the shelf, +When that poor craythur, Bobby--as _you_ were away-- + Had to make _twice_ as big a Tomfool of _himself_. + +Troth, it wasn’t at all civil to lave in the lurch + A boy so deserving your tindhr'est affection:-- +Too such iligant Siamase twins of the Church, + As Bob and yourself, ne'er should cut the connection. + +If thus in two different directions you pull, + 'Faith, they'll swear that yourself and your riverend brother +Are like those quare foxes, in Gregory's Bull, + Whose tails were joined _one_ way, while they lookt +_another_![1] + +Och blest be he, whosomdever he be, + That helpt soft Magee to that Bull of a Letther! +Not even my own self, tho' I sometimes make free + At such bull-manufacture, could make him a betther. + +To be sure, when a lad takes to _forgin_', this way, + 'Tis a thrick he's much timpted to carry on gayly; +Till, at last, his "injanious devices,"[2] + Show him up, not at Exether Hall, but the Ould Bailey. + +That parsons should forge thus appears mighty odd, + And (as if somethin' "odd" in their _names_, too, must be,) +_One_ forger, of ould, was a riverend Dod, + "While a riverend Todd's now his match, to a T.[3] + +But, no matther _who_ did it all blessin's betide him, + For dishin' up Bob, in a manner so nate; +And there wanted but _you_, Murthagh 'vourneen, beside him, + To make the whole grand dish of _bull_-calf complate. + + +[1] "You will increase the enmity with which they are regarded by their +associates in heresy, thus tying these foxes by the tails, that their +faces may tend in opposite directions."--Bob's _Bull_ read, at Exeter +Hall, July 14. + +[2] "An ingenious device of my learned friend."--Bob's _Letter to +Standard_. + +[3] Had I consulted only my own wishes, I should not have allowed this +hasty at tack on Dr. Todd to have made its appearance in this Collection; +being now fully convinced that the charge brought against that reverend +gentleman of intending to pass off as genuine his famous mock Papal Letter +was altogether unfounded. Finding it to be the wish, however, of my +reverend friend--as I am now glad to be permitted to call him--that both +the wrong and the reparation, the Ode and, the Palinode, should be thus +placed in juxtaposition, I have thought it but due to him, to comply with +his request. + + + + + + +MUSINGS OF AN UNREFORMED PEER. + + +Of all the odd plans of this monstrously queer age, +The oddest is that of reforming the peerage;-- +Just as if we, great dons, with a title and star, +Did not get on exceedingly well as we are, +And perform all the functions of noodles by birth +As completely as any born noodles on earth. + +How _acres_ descend, is in law-books displayed, +But we as _wise_acres descend, ready made; +And by right of our rank in Debrett's nomenclature, +Are all of us born legislators by nature;-- +Like ducklings to water instinctively taking, +So we with like quackery take to lawmaking; +And God forbid any reform should come o'er us, +To make us more wise than our sires were before us. + +The Egyptians of old the same policy knew-- +If your sire was a cook, you must be a cook too: +Thus making, from father to son, a good trade of it, +Poisoners _by right_ (so no more could be said of it), +The cooks like our lordships a pretty mess made of it; +While, famed for _conservative_ stomachs, the Egyptians +Without a wry face bolted all the prescriptions. + +It is true, we've among us some peers of the past, +Who keep pace with the present most awfully fast-- +Fruits that ripen beneath the new light now arising +With speed that to _us_, old conserves, is surprising. +Conserves, in whom--potted, for grandmamma uses-- +'Twould puzzle a sunbeam to find any juices. +'Tis true too. I fear, midst the general movement, +Even _our_ House, God help it, is doomed to improvement, +And all its live furniture, nobly descended +But sadly worn out, must be sent to be mended. +With _movables_ 'mong us, like Brougham and like Durham, +No wonder even _fixtures_ should learn to bestir 'em; +And distant, ye gods, be that terrible day, +When--as playful Old Nick, for his pastime, they say, +Flies off with old houses, sometimes, in a storm-- +So _ours_ may be whipt off, some night, by Reform; +And as up, like Loretto's famed house,[1] thro' the air, +Not angels, but devils, our lordships shall bear, +Grim, radical phizzes, unused to the sky, +Shall flit round, like cherubs, to wish us "good-by," +While perched up on clouds little imps of plebeians, +Small Grotes and O'Connells, shall sing Io Paeans. + + +[1] The _Casa Santa_, supposed to have been carried by angels through +the air from Galilee to Italy. + + + + + + +THE REVEREND PAMPHLETEER. + +A ROMANTIC BALLAD. + + +Oh, have you heard what hapt of late? + If not, come lend an ear, +While sad I state the piteous fate + Of the Reverend Pamphleteer. + +All praised his skilful jockeyship, + Loud rung the Tory cheer, +While away, away, with spur and whip, + Went the Reverend Pamphleteer. + +The nag he rode--how _could_ it err? + 'Twas the same that took, last year, +That wonderful jump to Exeter + With the Reverend Pamphleteer. + +Set a beggar on horseback, wise men say, + The course he will take is clear: +And in _that_ direction lay the way + Of the Reverend Pamphleteer, + +"Stop, stop," said Truth, but vain her cry-- + Left far away in the rear, +She heard but the usual gay "Good-by" + From her faithless Pamphleteer. + +You may talk of the jumps of Homer's gods, + When cantering o'er our sphere-- +I'd back for a _bounce_, 'gainst any odds, + This Reverend Pamphleteer. + +But ah! what tumbles a jockey hath! + In the midst of his career, +A file of the _Times_ lay right in the path + Of the headlong Pamphleteer. + +Whether he tript or shyed thereat, + Doth not so clear appear: +But down he came, as his sermons flat-- + This Reverend Pamphleteer! + +Lord King himself could scarce desire + To see a spiritual Peer +Fall much more dead, in the dirt and mire, + Than did this Pamphleteer. + +Yet pitying parsons many a day + Shall visit his silent bier, +And, thinking the while of Stanhope, say + "Poor dear old Pamphleteer! + +"He has finisht at last his busy span, + "And now _lies coolly_ here-- +"As often he did in life, good man, + "Good, Reverend Pamphleteer!" + + + + + + +RECENT DIALOGUE. + +1825. + + +A Bishop and a bold dragoon, + Both heroes in their way, +Did thus, of late, one afternoon, + Unto each other say:-- +"Dear bishop," quoth the brave huzzar, + "As nobody denies +"That you a wise logician are, + "And I am--otherwise, +"'Tis fit that in this question, we + "Stick each to his own art-- +"That _yours_ should be the sophistry, + "And _mine_ the _fighting_ part. +"My creed, I need not tell you, is + "Like that of Wellington, +"To whom no harlot comes amiss, + "Save her of Babylon; +"And when we're at a loss for words, + "If laughing reasoners flout us, +"For lack of sense we'll draw our swords-- + "The sole thing sharp about us."-- + +"Dear bold dragoon," the bishop said, + "'Tis true for war thou art meant; +"And reasoning--bless that dandy head! + "Is not in thy department. +"So leave the argument to me-- + "And, when my holy labor +"Hath lit the fires of bigotry, + "Thou'lt poke them with thy sabre. +"From pulpit and from sentrybox, + "We'll make our joint attacks, +"I at the head of my _Cassocks_, + "And you, of your _Cossacks_. +"So here's your health, my brave huzzar, + "My exquisite old fighter-- +"Success to bigotry and war, + "The musket and the mitre!" +Thus prayed the minister of heaven-- + While York, just entering then, +Snored out (as if some _Clerk_ had given + His nose the cue) "Amen." + + + + + + +THE WELLINGTON SPA. + + + "And drink _oblivion_ to our woes." + Anna Matilda. + + +1829. + + +Talk no more of your Cheltenham and Harrowgate springs, + 'Tis from _Lethe_ we now our potations must draw; +Yon _Lethe_'s a cure for--all possible things, + And the doctors have named it the Wellington Spa. + +Other physical waters but cure you in part; + _One_ cobbles your gout--_t'other_ mends your digestion-- +Some settle your stomach, but _this_--bless your heart!-- + It will settle for ever your Catholic Question. + +Unlike too the potions in fashion at present, + This Wellington nostrum, restoring by stealth, +So purges the memory of all that's unpleasant, + That patients _forget_ themselves into rude health. +For instance, the inventor--his having once said + "He should think himself mad if at _any one's_ call, +"He became what he is"--is so purged from his head + That he now doesn’t think he's a madman at all. +Of course, for your memories of very long standing-- + Old chronic diseases that date back undaunted +To Brian Boroo and Fitz-Stephens' first landing-- + A devil of a dose of the _Lethe_ is wanted. + +But even Irish patients can hardly regret + An oblivion so much in their own native style, +So conveniently planned that, whate'er they forget, + They may go on remembering it still all the while! + + + + + + +A CHARACTERLESS + +1834. + + +Half Whig, half Tory, like those mid-way things, +'Twixt bird and beast, that by mistake have wings; +A mongrel Stateman, 'twixt two factions nurst, +Who, of the faults of each, combines the worst-- +The Tory's loftiness, the Whigling's sneer, +The leveller's rashness, and the bigot's fear: +The thirst for meddling, restless still to show +How Freedom's clock, repaired by Whigs, will go; +The alarm when others, more sincere than they, +Advance the hands to the true time of day. + +By Mother Church, high-fed and haughty dame, +The boy was dandled, in his dawn of fame; +Listening, she smiled, and blest the flippant tongue +On which the fate of unborn tithe-pigs hung. +Ah! who shall paint the grandam's grim dismay, +When loose Reform enticed her boy away; +When shockt she heard him ape the rabble's tone, +And in Old Sarum's fate foredoom her own! +Groaning she cried, while tears rolled down her cheeks, +"Poor, glib-tongued youth, he means not what he speaks. +"Like oil at top, these Whig professions flow, +"But, pure as lymph, runs Toryism below. +"Alas! that tongue should start thus, in the race, +"Ere mind can reach and regulate its pace!-- +"For, once outstript by tongue, poor, lagging mind, +"At every step, still further limps behind. +"But, bless the boy!--whate'er his wandering be, +"Still turns his heart to Toryism and me. +"Like those odd shapes, portrayed in Dante's lay. +"With heads fixt on, the wrong and backward way, +"His feet and eyes pursue a diverse track, +"While _those_ march onward, _these_ look fondly back." +And well she knew him--well foresaw the day, +Which now hath come, when snatched from Whigs away +The self-same changeling drops the mask he wore, +And rests, restored, in granny's arms once more. + +But whither now, mixt brood of modern light +And ancient darkness, canst thou bend thy flight? +Tried by both factions and to neither true, +Feared by the _old_ school, laught at by the _new_; +For _this_ too feeble and for _that_ too rash, +_This_ wanting more of fire, _that_ less of flash, +Lone shalt thou stand, in isolation cold, +Betwixt two worlds, the new one and the old, +A small and "vext Bermoothes," which the eye +Of venturous seaman sees--and passes by. + + + + + + +A GHOST STORY. + +To THE AIR OF "UNFORTUNATE MISS BAILEY." + +1835. + + +Not long in bed had Lyndhurst lain, + When, as his lamp burned dimly, +The ghosts of corporate bodies slain,[1] + Stood by his bedside grimly. +Dead aldermen who once could feast, + But now, themselves, are fed on, +And skeletons of mayors deceased, + This doleful chorus led on:-- + Oh Lord Lyndhurst, + "Unmerciful Lord Lyndhurst, + "Corpses we, + "All burkt by thee, + "Unmerciful Lord Lyndhurst!" + +"Avaunt, ye frights!" his Lordship cried, + "Ye look most glum and whitely." +"Ah, Lyndhurst dear!" the frights replied, + "You've used us unpolitely. +"And now, ungrateful man! to drive + "Dead bodies from your door so, +"Who quite corrupt enough, alive, + "You've made by death still more so. + "Oh, Ex-Chancellor, + "Destructive Ex-Chancellor, + "See thy work, + "Thou second Burke, + "Destructive Ex-Chancellor!" + +Bold Lyndhurst then, whom naught could keep + Awake or surely _that_ would, +Cried "Curse you all"--fell fast asleep-- + And dreamt of "Small _v_. Attwood." +While, shockt, the bodies flew downstairs, + But courteous in their panic +Precedence gave to ghosts of mayors, + And corpses aldermanic, + Crying, "Oh, Lord Lyndhurst, + "That terrible Lord Lyndhurst, + "Not Old Scratch + "Himself could match + "That terrible Lord Lyndhurst." + + +[1] Referring to the line taken by Lord Lyndhurst, on the question of +Municipal Reform. + + + + + + +THOUGHTS ON THE LATE DESTRUCTIVE PROPOSITIONS OF THE TORIES.[1] + +BY A COMMON-COUNCILMAN. + +1835. + + +I sat me down in my easy chair, + To read, as usual, the morning papers; +But--who shall describe my look of despair, + When I came to Lefroy's "destructive" capers! +That _he_--that, of all live men, Lefroy +Should join in the cry "Destroy, destroy!" +Who, even when a babe, as I've heard said, +On Orange conserve was chiefly fed, +And never, till now, a movement made +That wasn’t manfully retrograde! +Only think--to sweep from the light of day +Mayors, maces, criers and wigs away; +To annihilate--never to rise again-- +A whole generation of aldermen, +Nor leave them even the accustomed tolls, +To keep together their bodies and souls!-- +At a time too when snug posts and places + Are falling away from us one by one, +Crash--crash--like the mummy-cases + Belzoni, in Egypt, sat upon, +Wherein lay pickled, in state sublime, +Conservatives of the ancient time;-- +To choose such a moment to overset +The few snug nuisances left us yet; +To add to the ruin that round us reigns, +By knocking out mayors' and town-clerks' brains; +By dooming all corporate bodies to fall, +Till they leave at last no bodies at all-- +Naught but the ghosts of by-gone glory, +Wrecks of a world that once was Tory!-- +Where pensive criers, like owls unblest, + Robbed of their roosts, shall still hoot o'er them: + Nor _mayors_ shall know where to seek a _nest_, + Till Gaily Knight shall _find_ one for them;-- +Till mayors and kings, with none to rue 'em, + Shall perish all in one common plague; +And the _sovereigns_ of Belfast and Tuam + Must join their brother, Charles Dix, at Prague. + +Thus mused I, in my chair, alone, +(As above described) till dozy grown, +And nodding assent to my own opinions, +I found myself borne to sleep's dominions, +Where, lo! before my dreaming eyes, +A new House of Commons appeared to rise, +Whose living contents, to fancy's survey, +Seemed to me all turned topsy-turvy-- +A jumble of polypi--nobody knew +Which was the head or which the queue. +_Here_, Inglis, turned to a sansculotte, +Was dancing the hays with Hume and Grote; +_There_, ripe for riot, Recorder Shaw +Was learning from Roebuck "Çaira:" +While Stanley and Graham, as _poissarde_ wenches, +Screamed "_à-bas_!" from the Tory benches; +And Peel and O'Connell, cheek by jowl, +Were dancing an Irish carmagnole. + +The Lord preserve us!--if dreams come true, +What _is_ this hapless realm to do? + + +[1] These verses were written in reference to the Bill brought in at this +time, for the reform of Corporations, and the sweeping amendments proposed +by Lord Lyndhurst and other Tory Peers, in order to obstruct the measure. + + + + + + +ANTICIPATED MEETING OF THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION IN THE YEAR 1836. + +1836 + + +After some observations from Dr. M'Grig +On that fossil reliquium called Petrified Wig, +Or _Perruquolithus_--a specimen rare +Of those wigs made for antediluvian wear, +Which, it seems, stood the Flood without turning a hair-- +Mr. Tomkins rose up, and requested attention +To facts no less wondrous which he had to mention. + +Some large fossil creatures had lately been found, +Of a species no longer now seen above ground, +But the same (as to Tomkins most clearly appears) +With those animals, lost now for hundreds of years, +Which our ancestors used to call "Bishops" and "Peers," +But which Tomkins more erudite names has bestowed on, +Having called the Peer fossil the _Aris_-tocratodon,[1] +And, finding much food under t'other one's thorax, +Has christened that creature the Episcopus Vorax. + +Lest the _savantes_ and dandies should think this all fable, +Mr. Tomkins most kindly produced, on the table, +A sample of each of these species of creatures, +Both tolerably human, in structure and features, +Except that the Episcopus seems, Lord deliver us! +To've been carnivorous as well as granivorous; +And Tomkins, on searching its stomach, found there +Large lumps, such as no modern stomach could bear, +Of a substance called Tithe, upon which, as 'tis said, +The whole _Genus Clericum_ formerly fed; +And which having lately himself decompounded, +Just to see what 'twas made of, he actually found it +Composed of all possible cookable things +That e'er tript upon trotters or soared upon wings-- +All products of earth, both gramineous, herbaceous, +Hordeaceous, fabaceous and eke farinaceous, +All clubbing their quotas, to glut the oesophagus +Of this ever greedy and grasping Tithophagus.[2] +"Admire," exclaimed Tomkins. "the kind dispensation +"By Providence shed on this much-favored nation, +"In sweeping so ravenous a race from the earth, +"That might else have occasioned a general dearth-- +"And thus burying 'em, deep as even Joe Hume would sink 'em, +"With the Ichthyosaurus and Paloeorynchum, +"And other queer _ci-devant_ things, under ground-- +"Not forgetting that fossilized youth,[3] so renowned, +"Who lived just to witness the Deluge--was gratified +"Much by the sight, and has since been found _stratified_!" + +This picturesque touch--quite in Tomkins's way-- +Called forth from the _savantes_ a general hurrah; +While inquiries among them, went rapidly round, +As to where this young stratified man could be found. +The "learned Theban's" discourse next as livelily flowed on, +To sketch t'other wonder, the _Aris_tocratodon-- +An animal, differing from most human creatures +Not so much in speech, inward structure or features, +As in having a certain excrescence, T. said, +Which in form of a coronet grew from its head, +And devolved to its heirs, when the creature was dead; +Nor mattered it, while this heirloom was transmitted, +How unfit were the _heads_, so the _coronet_ fitted. + +He then mentioned a strange zoölogical fact, +Whose announcement appeared much applause to attract. +In France, said the learned professor, this race +Had so noxious become, in some centuries' space, +From their numbers and strength, that the land was o'errun with 'em, +Every one's question being, "What's to be done with em?" +When, lo! certain knowing ones--_savans_, mayhap, +Who, like Buckland's deep followers, understood _trap_,[4] +Slyly hinted that naught upon earth was so good +For _Aris_tocratodons, when rampant and rude, +As to stop or curtail their allowance of food. +This expedient was tried and a proof it affords +Of the effect that short commons will have upon lords; +For this whole race of bipeds, one fine summer's morn, +Shed their coronets, just as a deer sheds his horn, +And the moment these gewgaws fell off, they became +Quite a new sort of creature--so harmless and tame, +That zoölogists might, for the first time, maintain 'em +To be near akin to the _genius humanum_, +And the experiment, tried so successfully then, +Should be kept in remembrance when wanted again. + + +[1] A term formed on the model of the Mastodon, etc. + +[2] The zoölogical term for a tithe-eater. + +[3] The man found by Scheuchzer, and supposed by him to have witnessed the +Deluge ("_homo diluvii testis_"), but who turned out, I am sorry to +say, to be merely a great lizard. + +[4] Particularly the formation called _Transition_ Trap. + + * * * * * + + + + + + +SONG OF THE CHURCH. + +No. 1. + +LEAVE ME ALONE. + +A PASTORAL BALLAD. + + + "We are ever standing on the defensive. All that we say to them is, + '_leave us alone_.' The Established Church is part and parcel of + the constitution of this country. You are bound to conform to this + constitution. We ask of you nothing more:--_let us alone_." + --Letter in _The Times_, Nov. 1838. + + +1838. + + +Come, list to my pastoral tones, + In clover my shepherds I keep; +My stalls are well furnisht with drones, + Whose preaching invites one to sleep. +At my _spirit_ let infidels scoff, + So they leave but the _substance_ my own; +For in sooth I'm extremely well off + If the world will but let me alone. + +Dissenters are grumblers, we know;-- + Tho' excellent men in their way, +They never like things to be _so_, + Let things be however they may. +But dissenting's a trick I detest; + And besides 'tis an axiom well known, +The creed that's best paid is the best, + If the _un_paid would let it alone. + +To me, I own, very surprising + Your Newmans and Puseys all seem, +Who start first with rationalizing, + Then jump to the other extreme. +Far better, 'twixt nonsense and sense, + A nice _half_-way concern, like our own, +Where piety's mixt up with pence, + And the latter are _ne'er_ left alone. + +Of all our tormentors, the Press is + The one that most tears us to bits; +And now, Mrs. Woolfrey's "excesses" + Have thrown all its imps into fits. +The devils have been at us, for weeks, + And there's no saying when they'll have done;-- +Oh dear! how I wish Mr. Breeks + Had left Mrs. Woolfrey alone! + +If any need pray for the dead, + 'Tis those to whom post-obits fall; +Since wisely hath Solomon said, + 'Tis "money that answereth all." +But ours be the patrons who _live_;- + For, once in their glebe they are thrown, +The dead have no living to give, + And therefore we leave them alone. + +Tho' in morals we may not excel, + Such perfection is rare to be had; +A good life is, of course, very well, + But good living is also-not bad. +And when, to feed earth-worms, I go. +Let this epitaph stare from my stone, +"Here lies the Right Rev. so and so; + "Pass, stranger, and--leave him alone." + + + + + + +EPISTLE FROM HENRY OF EXETER TO JOHN OF TUAM. + + +Dear John, as I know, like our brother of London, +You've sipt of all knowledge, both sacred and mundane, +No doubt, in some ancient Joe Miller, you've read +What Cato, that cunning old Roman, once said-- +That he ne'er saw two reverend sooth-say ers meet, +Let it be where it might, in the shrine or the street, +Without wondering the rogues, mid their solemn grimaces, +Didn’t burst out a laughing in each other's faces. +What Cato then meant, tho' 'tis so long ago, +Even we in the present times pretty well know; +Having soothsayers also, who--sooth to say, John-- +Are no better in some points than those of days gone, +And a pair of whom, meeting (between you and me), +Might laugh in their sleeves, too--all lawn tho' they be. + +But this, by the way--my intention being chiefly +In this, my first letter, to hint to you briefly, +That, seeing how fond you of _Tuum_[1] must be, +While _Meum's_ at all times the main point with me, +We scarce could do better than form an alliance, +To set these sad Anti-Church times at defiance: +You, John, recollect, being still to embark, +With no share in the firm but your title and _mark_; +Or even should you feel in your grandeur inclined +To call yourself Pope, why, I shouldn’t much mind; +While _my_ church as usual holds fast by your Tuum, +And every one else's, to make it all Suum. + +Thus allied, I've no doubt we shall nicely agree, +As no twins can be liker, in most points, than we; +Both, specimens choice of that mixt sort of beast, +(See Rev. xiii. I) a political priest: +Both mettlesome _chargers_, both brisk pamphleteers, +Ripe and ready for all that sets men by the ears; +And I, at least one, who would scorn to stick longer +By any given cause than I found it the stronger, +And who, smooth in my turnings, as if on a swivel, +When the tone ecclesiastic won’t do, try the _civil_. + +In short (not to bore you, even _jure divino_) +We've the same cause in common, John--all but the rhino; +And that vulgar surplus, whate'er it may be, +As you're not used to cash, John, you'd best leave to me. +And so, without form--as the postman won’t tarry-- +I'm, dear Jack of Tuain, + Yours, + EXETER HARRY. + + +[1] So spelled in those ancient versicles which John, we understand, +frequently chants:-- + "Had every one _Suum_, + You wouldn’t have _Tuum_, + But I should have _Meum_, + And sing _Te Deum_." + + + + + + +SONG OF OLD PUCK. + + + "And those things do best please me, + That befall preposterously." + PUCK Junior, _Midsummer Night's Dream_. + + +Who wants old Puck? for here am I, +A mongrel imp, 'twixt earth and sky, +Ready alike to crawl or fly; +Now in the mud, now in the air, +And, so 'tis for mischief, reckless where. + +As to my knowledge, there's no end to't, +For, where I haven't it, I pretend to't: +And, 'stead of taking a learned degree +At some dull university, +Puck found it handier to commence +With a certain share of impudence, +Which passes one off as learned and clever, +Beyond all other degrees whatever; +And enables a man of lively sconce +To be Master of _all_ the Arts at once. +No matter what the science may be-- +Ethics, Physics, Theology, +Mathematics, Hydrostatics, +Aerostatics or Pneumatics-- +Whatever it be, I take my luck, +'Tis all the same to ancient Puck; +Whose head's so full of all sorts of wares, +That a brother imp, old Smugden, swears +If I had but of _law_ a little smattering, +I'd then be _perfect_--which is flattering. + +My skill as a linguist all must know +Who met me abroad some months ago; +(And heard me _abroad_ exceedingly, +In the moods and tenses of _parlez vous_) +When, as old Chambaud's shade stood mute, +I spoke such French to the Institute +As puzzled those learned Thebans much, +To know if 'twas Sanscrit or High Dutch, +And _might_ have past with the unobserving +As one of the unknown tongues of Irving. +As to my talent for ubiquity, +There's nothing like it in all antiquity. +Like Mungo (my peculiar care) +"I'm here, I'm dere, I'm ebery where." + +If any one's wanted to take the chair +Upon any subject, any where, +Just look around, and--Puck is there! +When slaughter's at hand, your bird of prey +Is never known to be out of the way: +And wherever mischief's to be got, +There's Puck _instanter_, on the spot. + +Only find me in negus and applause, +And I'm your man for _any_ cause. +If _wrong_ the cause, the more my delight; +But I don’t object to it, even when _right_, +If I only can vex some old friend by't; +There's Durham, for instance;--to worry _him_ +Fills up my cup of bliss to the brim! + +(NOTE BY THE EDITOR.) + +Those who are anxious to run a muck +Can’t do better than join with Puck. +They'll find him _bon diable_--spite of his phiz-- +And, in fact, his great ambition is, +While playing old Puck in first-rate style, +To be _thought_ Robin Good-fellow all the while. + + + + + + +POLICE REPORTS. + +CASE OF IMPOSTURE. + + +Among other stray flashmen disposed of, this week, + Was a youngster named Stanley, genteelly connected, +Who has lately been passing off coins as antique, + Which have proved to be _sham_ ones, tho' long unsuspected. + +The ancients, our readers need hardly be told, + Had a coin they called "Talents," for wholesale demands; +And 'twas some of said coinage this youth was so bold + As to fancy he'd got, God knows how, in his hands. + +People took him, however, like fools, at his word; + And these talents (all prized at his own valuation,) +Were bid for, with eagerness even more absurd + Than has often distinguisht this great thinking nation. + +Talk of wonders one now and then sees advertised, + "Black swans"--"Queen Anne farthings"--or even "a child's caul"-- +Much and justly as all these rare objects are prized, + "Stanley's talents" outdid them--swans, farthings and all! + +At length some mistrust of this coin got abroad; + Even quondam believers began much to doubt of it; +Some rung it, some rubbed it, suspecting a fraud-- + And the hard rubs it got rather took the shine out of it. + +Others, wishing to break the poor prodigy's fall, + Said 'twas known well to all who had studied the matter, +That the Greeks had not only _great_ talents but _small_, + And those found on the youngster were clearly _the latter_. + +While others who viewed the grave farce with a grin-- + Seeing counterfeits pass thus for coinage so massy, +By way of a hint to the dolts taken in, + Appropriately quoted Budaeus "de _Asse_." + +In short, the whole sham by degrees was found out, + And this coin which they chose by such fine names to call, +Proved a mere lackered article--showy, no doubt, + But, ye gods! not the true Attic Talent at all. + +As the impostor was still young enough to repent, + And, besides, had some claims to a grandee connection, +Their Worships--considerate for once--only sent + The young Thimblerig off to the House of Correction. + + + + + + +REFLECTIONS. + +ADDRESSED TO THE AUTHOR OF THE ARTICLE OF THE CHURCH IN THE LAST NUMBER OF +_The Quarterly Review_. + + +I'm quite of your mind;--tho' these Pats cry aloud + That they've got "too much Church," 'tis all nonsense and stuff; +For Church is like Love, of which Figaro vowed + That even _too much_ of it's not quite enough. + +Ay! dose them with parsons, 'twill cure all their ills;-- + Copy Morrison's mode when from pill-box undaunted he +Pours thro' the patient his black-coated pills, + Nor cares what their quality, so there's but quantity. + +I verily think 'twould be worth England's while + To consider, for Paddy's own benefit, whether +'Twould not be as well to give up the green isle + To the care, wear and tear of the Church altogether. + +The Irish are well used to treatment so pleasant; + The harlot Church gave them to Henry Plantagenet,[1] +And now if King William would make them a present + To t'other chaste lady--ye Saints, just imagine it! + +Chief Secs., Lord-Lieutenants, Commanders-in-chief, + Might then all be culled from the episcopal benches; +While colonels in black would afford some relief + From the hue that reminds one of the old scarlet wench's. + +Think how fierce at a _charge_ (being practised therein) + The Right Reverend Brigadier Phillpotts would slash on! +How General Blomfield, thro' thick and thro' thin, + To the end of the chapter (or chapters) would dash on! + +For in one point alone do the amply fed race + Of bishops to beggars similitude bear-- +That, set them on horseback, in full steeple chase, + And they'll ride, if not pulled up in time--you know where. + +But, bless you! in Ireland, that matters not much, + Where affairs have for centuries gone the same way; +And a good stanch Conservative's system is such + That he'd back even Beelzebub's long-founded sway. + +I am therefore, dear _Quarterly_, quite of your mind;-- + Church, Church, in all shapes, into Erin let's pour: +And the more she rejecteth our medicine so kind. + The more let's repeat it--"Black dose, as before." + +Let Coercion, that peace-maker, go hand in hand + With demure-eyed Conversion, fit sister and brother; +And, covering with prisons and churches the land, + All that won't _go_ to _one_, we'll put _into_ the other. + +For the sole, leading maxim of us who're inclined + To rule over Ireland, not well but religiously, +Is to treat her like ladies who've just been confined + (Or who _ought_ to be so), and to _church_ her prodigiously. + + +[1] Grant of Ireland to Henry II. by Pope Adrian. + + + + + + +NEW GRAND EXHIBITION OF MODELS OF THE TWO HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT. + + +Come, step in, gentlefolks, here ye may view + An exact and natural representation +(Like Siburn's Model of Waterloo[1]) + Of the Lords and Commons of this here nation. + +There they are--all cut out in cork-- + The "Collective Wisdom" wondrous to see; +My eyes! when all them heads are at work, + What a vastly weighty consarn it must be. + +As for the "wisdom,"--_that_ may come anon; + Tho', to say truth, we sometimes see +(And I find the phenomenon no uncommon 'un) + A man who's M.P. with a head that's M.T. + +Our Lords are _rather_ too small, 'tis true; + But they do well enough for Cabinet shelves; +And, besides,--_what's_ a man with creeturs to do + That make such _werry_ small figures themselves? + +There--don’t touch those lords, my pretty dears--(_Aside_.) + Curse the children!--this comes of reforming a nation: +Those meddling young brats have so damaged my peers, + I must lay in more cork for a new creation. + +Them yonder's our bishops--"to whom much is given," + And who're ready to take as much more as you please: +The seers of old time saw visions of heaven, + But these holy seers see nothing but Sees. + +Like old Atlas[2](the chap, in Cheapside, there below,) + 'Tis for so much _per cent_, they take heaven on their shoulders; +And joy 'tis to know that old High Church and Co., + Tho' not capital priests, are such capital-holders. + +There's one on 'em, Phillpotts, who now is away, + As we're having him filled with bumbustible stuff, +Small crackers and squibs, for a great gala-day, + When we annually fire his Right Reverence off. + +'Twould do your heart good, ma'am, then to be by, + When, bursting with gunpowder, 'stead of with bile, +Crack, crack, goes the bishop, while dowagers cry, + "How like the dear man, both in matter and style!" + +Should you want a few Peers and M.P.s, to bestow, + As presents to friends, we can recommend these:-- +Our nobles are come down to nine-pence, you know, + And we charge but a penny a piece for M.P.s. + +Those of _bottle_-corks made take most with the trade, + (At least 'mong such as my _Irish_ writ summons,) +Of old _whiskey_ corks our O'Connells are made, + But those we make Shaws and Lefroys of, are _rum_ 'uns. + So, step in, gentlefolks, etc. + _Da Capo_. + + +[1] One of the most interesting and curious of all the exhibitions of the +day. + +[2] The sign of the Insurance Office in Cheapside. + + + + + + +ANNOUNCEMENT OF A NEW GRAND ACCELERATION COMPANY +FOR THE PROMOTION OF THE SPEED OF LITERATURE. + + +Loud complaints being made in these quick-reading times, +Of too slack a supply both of prose works and rhymes, +A new Company, formed on the keep-moving plan, +First proposed by the great firm of Catch-'em-who-can, +Beg to say they've now ready, in full wind and speed, +Some fast-going authors, of quite a new breed-- +Such as not he who _runs_ but who _gallops_ may read-- +And who, if well curried and fed, they've no doubt, +Will beat even Bentley's swift stud out and out. + +It is true in these days such a drug is renown, +We've "Immortals" as rife as M.P.s about town; +And not a Blue's rout but can offhand supply +Some invalid bard who's insured "not to die." +Still let England but once try _our_ authors, she'll find +How fast they'll leave even these Immortals behind; +And how truly the toils of Alcides were light, +Compared with _his_ toil who can read all they write. + +In fact there's no saying, so gainful the trade, +How fast immortalities now may be made; +Since Helicon never will want an "Undying One," +As long as the public continues a Buying One; +And the company hope yet to witness the hour. +When, by strongly applying the mare-motive[1] power, +A three-decker novel, midst oceans of praise, +May be written, launched, read and--forgot, in three days! + +In addition to all this stupendous celerity, +Which--to the no small relief of posterity-- +Pays off at sight the whole debit of fame, +Nor troubles futurity even with a name +(A project that won’t as much tickle Tom Tegg as _us_, +Since 'twill rob _him_ of his second-priced Pegasus); +We, the Company--still more to show how immense +Is the power o'er the mind of pounds, shillings, and pence; +And that not even Phoebus himself, in our day, +Could get up a _lay_ without first an _out_-lay-- +Beg to add, as our literature soon may compare, +In its quick make and vent, with our Birmingham ware, +And it doesn’t at all matter in either of these lines, +How _sham_ is the article, so it but _shines_,-- +We keep authors ready, all perched, pen in hand, +To write off, in any given style, at command. +No matter what bard, be he living or dead, +Ask a work from his pen, and 'tis done soon as said: +There being on the establishment six Walter Scotts, +One capital Wordsworth and Southeys in lots;-- +Three choice Mrs. Nortons, all singing like syrens, +While most of our pallid young clerks are Lord Byrons. +Then we've ***s and ***s (for whom there's small call), +And ***s and ***s (for whom no call at all). +In short, whosoe'er the last "Lion" may be, +We've a Bottom who'll copy his _roar_[2] to a T, +And so well, that not one of the buyers who've got 'em +Can tell which is lion, and which only Bottom. + +N. B.--The company, since they set up in this line, +Have moved their concern and are now at the sign +Of the Muse's Velocipede, _Fleet_ Street, where all +Who wish well to the scheme are invited to call. + + +[1] "'Tis money makes the mare to go." + +[2] "Bottom: Let me play the lion; I will roar you as 'twere any +nightingale." + + + + + + +SOME ACCOUNT OF THE LATE DINNER TO DAN. + + +From tongue to tongue the rumor flew; +All askt, aghast, "Is't true? is't true?" + But none knew whether 'twas fact or fable: +And still the unholy rumor ran, +From Tory woman to Tory man, + Tho' none to come at the truth was able-- +Till, lo! at last, the fact came out, +The horrible fact, beyond all doubt, + That Dan had dined at the Viceroy's table; +Had flesht his Popish knife and fork +In the heart of the Establisht mutton and pork! + +Who can forget the deep sensation +That news produced in this orthodox nation? +Deans, rectors, curates, all agreed, +If Dan was allowed at the Castle to feed, +'Twas clearly _all up_ with the Protestant creed! +There hadn’t indeed such an apparition + Been heard of in Dublin since that day +When, during the first grand exhibition + Of Don Giovanni, that naughty play, +There appeared, as if raised by necromancers, +An _extra_ devil among the dancers! +Yes--every one saw with fearful thrill +That a devil too much had joined the quadrille; +And sulphur was smelt and the lamps let fall +A grim, green light o'er the ghastly ball, +And the poor _sham_ devils didn’t like it at all; +For they knew from whence the intruder had come, +Tho' he left, that night, his tail at home. + +This fact, we see, is a parallel case +To the dinner that some weeks since took place. +With the difference slight of fiend and man, + It shows what a nest of Popish sinners +That city must be, where the devil and Dan + May thus drop in at quadrilles and dinners! + +But mark the end of these foul proceedings, +These demon hops and Popish feedings. +Some comfort 'twill be--to those, at least, + Who've studied this awful dinner question-- +To know that Dan, on the night of that feast, + Was seized with a dreadful indigestion; +That envoys were sent post-haste to his priest +To come and absolve the suffering sinner, +For eating so much at a heretic dinner; +And some good people were even afraid +That Peel's old confectioner--still at the trade-- +Had poisoned the Papist with _orangeade_. + + + + + + +NEW HOSPITAL FOR SICK LITERATI. + + +With all humility we beg +To inform the public, that Tom Tegg-- +Known for his spunky speculations +In buying up dead reputations, +And by a mode of galvanizing +Which, all must own, is quite surprising, +Making dead authors move again, +As tho' they still were living men;-- +All this too managed, in a trice, +By those two magic words, "Half Price," +Which brings the charm so quick about, +That worn-out poets, left without +A second _foot_ whereon to stand, +Are made to go at second _hand_;-- +'Twill please the public, we repeat, +To learn that Tegg who works this feat, +And therefore knows what care it needs +To keep alive Fame's invalids, +Has oped an Hospital in town, +For cases of knockt-up renown-- +Falls, fractures, dangerous Epic _fits_ +(By some called _Cantoes_), stabs from wits; +And of all wounds for which they're nurst, +_Dead cuts_ from publishers, the worst;-- +All these, and other such fatalities, +That happen to frail immortalities, +By Tegg are so expertly treated, +That oft-times, when the cure's completed, +The patient's made robust enough +To stand a few more rounds of _puff_, +Till like the ghosts of Dante's lay +He's puft into thin air away! +As titled poets (being phenomenons) +Don’t like to mix with low and common 'uns, +Tegg's Hospital has separate wards, +Express for literary lords, +Where _prose_-peers, of immoderate length, +Are nurst, when they've outgrown their strength, +And poets, whom their friends despair of, +Are--put to bed and taken care of. + +Tegg begs to contradict a story +Now current both with Whig and Tory, +That Doctor Warburton, M.P., +Well known for his antipathy, +His deadly hate, good man, to all +The race of poets great and small-- +So much, that he's been heard to own, +He would most willingly cut down +The holiest groves on Pindus' mount, +To turn the timber to account!-- +The story actually goes, that he +Prescribes at Tegg's Infirmary; +And oft not only stints for spite +The patients in their copy-right, +But that, on being called in lately +To two sick poets suffering greatly, +This vaticidal Doctor sent them +So strong a dose of Jeremy Bentham, +That one of the poor bards but cried, +"Oh, Jerry, Jerry!" and then died; +While t'other, tho' less stuff was given, +Is on his road, 'tis feared, to heaven! + +Of this event, howe'er unpleasant, +Tegg means to say no more at present,-- +Intending shortly to prepare +A statement of the whole affair, +With full accounts, at the same time, +Of some late cases (prose and rhyme), +Subscribed with every author's name, +That's now on the Sick List of Fame. + + + + + + +RELIGION AND TRADE. + + + "Sir Robert Peel believed it was necessary to originate all + respecting religion and trade in a Committee of the House." + --_Church Extension_, May 22, 1830. + + +Say, who was the wag, indecorously witty, + Who first in a statute this libel conveyed; +And thus slyly referred to the selfsame committee, + As matters congenial, Religion and Trade? + +Oh surely, my Phillpotts, 'twas thou didst the deed; + For none but thyself or some pluralist brother, +Accustomed to mix up the craft with the creed, + Could bring such a pair thus to twin with each other. + +And yet, when one thinks of times present and gone, + One is forced to confess on maturer reflection +That 'tisn't in the eyes of committees alone + That the shrine and the shop seem to have some connection. + +Not to mention those monarchs of Asia's fair land, + Whose civil list all is in "god-money" paid; +And where the whole people, by royal command, + Buy their gods at the government mart, ready made;[1]-- + +There was also (as mentioned, in rhyme and in prose, is) + Gold heaped throughout Egypt on every shrine, +To make rings for right reverend crocodiles' noses-- +Just such as, my Phillpotts, would look well in thine. + +But one needn't fly off in this erudite mood; + And 'tis clear without going to regions so sunny +That priests love to do the _least_ possible good + For the largest _most_ possible quantum of money. + +"Of him," saith the text, "unto whom much is given, + "Of him much, in turn, will be also required:"-- +"By _me_," quoth the sleek and obese man of heaven-- + "Give as much as you will--more will still be desired." + +More money! more churches!--oh Nimrod, hadst thou + 'Stead of _Tower_-extension, some shorter way gone-- +Hadst thou known by what methods we mount to heaven _now_, + And tried _Church_-extension, the feat had been done! + + +[1] The Birmans may not buy the sacred marble in mass but must purchase +figures of the deity already made.--_SYMES_. + + + + + + +MUSINGS. + +SUGGESTED BY THE LATE PROMOTION OF MRS. NETHERCOAT. + + + "The widow of Nethercoat is appointed jailer of Loughrea, in the room + of her deceased husband."--_Limerick Chronicle_. + + +Whether as queens or subjects, in these days, + Women seem formed to grace alike each station:-- +As Captain Flaherty gallantly says, + "You ladies, are the lords of the creation!" + +Thus o'er my mind did prescient visions float + Of all that matchless woman yet may be; +When hark! in rumors less and less remote, + Came the glad news o'er Erin's ambient sea, +The important news--that Mrs. Nethercoat + Had been appointed jailer of Loughrea; +Yes, mark it, History--Nethercoat is dead, +And Mrs. N. now rules his realm instead; +Hers the high task to wield the uplocking keys, +To rivet rogues and reign o'er Rapparees! + +Thus, while your blusterers of the Tory school +Find Ireland's sanest sons so hard to rule, +One meek-eyed matron in Whig doctrines nurst +Is all that's askt to curb the maddest, worst! + +Show me the man that dares with blushless brow +Prate about Erin's rage and riot now; +Now, when her temperance forms her sole excess; + When long-loved whiskey, fading from her sight, +"Small by degrees and beautifully less," + Will soon like other _spirits_ vanish quite; +When of red coats the number's grown so small, + That soon, to cheer the warlike parson's eyes, +No glimpse of scarlet will be seen at all, + Save that which she of Babylon supplies;-- +Or, at the most, a corporal's guard will be, + Of Ireland's _red_ defence the sole remains; +While of its jails bright woman keeps the key, + And captive Paddies languish in her chains! + +Long may such lot be Erin's, long be mine! +Oh yes--if even this world, tho' bright it shine, + In Wisdom's eyes a prison-house must be, +At least let woman's hand our fetters twine, + And blithe I'll sing, more joyous than if free, + The Nethercoats, the Nethercoats for me! + + + + + + +INTENDED TRIBUTE + +TO THE AUTHOR OF AN ARTICLE IN THE LAST NUMBER OF +_The Quarterly Review_, +ENTITLED "ROMANISM IN IRELAND." + + +It glads us much to be able to say, +That a meeting is fixt for some early day, +Of all such dowagers--_he_ or _she_-- +(No matter the sex, so they dowagers be,) +Whose opinions concerning Church and State +From about the time of the Curfew date-- +Stanch sticklers still for days bygone, +And admiring _them_ for their rust alone-- +To whom if we would a leader give, +Worthy their tastes conservative, +We need but some mummy-statesman raise, +Who was pickled and potted in Ptolemy's days; +For _that's_ the man, if waked from his shelf, +To conserve and swaddle this world like himself. +Such, we're happy to state, are the old _he_-dames +Who've met in committee and given their names +(In good hieroglyphics), with kind intent +To pay some handsome compliment +To their sister author, the nameless he, +Who wrote, in the last new _Quarterly_, +That charming assault upon Popery; +An article justly prized by them +As a perfect antediluvian gem-- +The work, as Sir Sampson Legend would say, +Of some "fellow the Flood couldn’t wash away."[1] + +The fund being raised, there remained but to see +What the dowager-author's gift was to be. +And here, I must say, the Sisters Blue +Showed delicate taste and judgment too. +For finding the poor man suffering greatly +From the awful stuff he has thrown up lately-- +So much so indeed to the alarm of all, +As to bring on a fit of what doctors call +The Antipapistico-monomania +(I'm sorry with such a long word to detain ye), +They've acted the part of a kind physician, +By suiting their gift to the patient's condition; +And as soon as 'tis ready for presentation, +We shall publish the facts for the gratification +Of this highly-favored and Protestant nation. + +Meanwhile, to the great alarm of his neighbors, +He still continues his _Quarterly_ labors; +And often has strong No-Popery fits, +Which frighten his old nurse out of her wits. +Sometimes he screams, like Scrub in the play,[2] +"Thieves! Jesuits! Popery!" night and day; +Takes the Printer's Devil for Doctor Dens, +And shies at him heaps of High-church pens;[3] +Which the Devil (himself a touchy Dissenter) +Feels all in his hide, like arrows, enter. +'Stead of swallowing wholesome stuff from the druggist's, +He _will_ keep raving of "Irish Thuggists;"[4] +Tells us they all go murdering for fun +From rise of morn till set of sun, +Pop, pop, as fast as a minute-gun![5] +If askt, how comes it the gown and cassock are +Safe and fat, mid this general massacre-- +How hap sit that Pat's own population +But swarms the more for this trucidation-- +He refers you, for all such memoranda, +To the "_archives of the Propaganda_!" + +This is all we've got, for the present, to say-- +But shall take up the subject some future day. + + +[1] See Congreve's "Love for Love." + +[2] "Beaux' Stratagem." + +[3] "Pray, may we ask, has there been any rebellious movement of Popery in +Ireland, since the planting of the Ulster colonies, in which something of +the kind was not visible among the Presbyterians of the north."-- +_Quarterly Review_. + +[4] "Lord Lorton, for instance, who, for clearing his estate of a village +of Irish Thuggists," etc.--_Quarterly Review_. + +[5] "Observe how murder after murder is committed like minute-guns."-- +_Ibid_. + + + + + + +GRAND DINNER OF TYPE AND CO. + +A POOR POET'S DREAM.[1] + + +As I sate in my study, lone and still, +Thinking of Sergeant Talfourd's Bill, +And the speech by Lawyer Sugden made, +In spirit congenial, for "the Trade," +Sudden I sunk to sleep and lo! + Upon Fancy's reinless nightmare flitting, +I found myself, in a second or so, +At the table of Messrs. Type and Co. + With a goodly group of diners sitting;-- +All in the printing and publishing line, +Drest, I thought, extremely fine, +And sipping like lords their rosy wine; +While I in a state near inanition + With coat that hadn't much nap to spare +(Having just gone into its second edition), + Was the only wretch of an author there. +But think, how great was my surprise, +When I saw, in casting round my eyes, +That the dishes, sent up by Type's she-cooks, +Bore all, in appearance, the shape of books; +Large folios--God knows where they got 'em, +In these _small_ times--at top and bottom; +And quartos (such as the Press provides +For no one to read them) down the sides. +Then flasht a horrible thought on my brain, +And I said to myself, "'Tis all too plain, +"Like those well known in school quotations, +"Who ate up for dinner their own relations, +"I see now, before me, smoking here, +"The bodies and bones of my brethren dear;-- +"Bright sons of the lyric and epic Muse, +"All cut up in cutlets, or hasht in stews; +"Their _works_, a light thro' ages to go,-- +"_Themselves_, eaten up by Type and Co.!" + +While thus I moralized, on they went, +Finding the fare most excellent: +And all so kindly, brother to brother, +Helping the tidbits to each other: +"A slice of Southey let me send you"-- +"This cut of Campbell I recommend you"-- +"And here, my friends, is a treat indeed, +"The immortal Wordsworth fricasseed!" +Thus having, the cormorants, fed some time, +Upon joints of poetry--all of the prime-- +With also (as Type in a whisper averred it) +"Cold prose on the sideboard, for such as preferred it"-- +They rested awhile, to recruit their force, +Then pounced, like kites, on the second course, +Which was singing-birds merely--Moore and others-- +Who all went the way of their larger brothers; +And, numerous now tho' such songsters be, +'Twas really quite distressing to see +A whole dishful of Toms--Moore, Dibdin, Bayly,-- +Bolted by Type and Co. so gayly! + +Nor was this the worst--I shudder to think +What a scene was disclosed when they came to drink. +The warriors of Odin, as every one knows, +Used to drink out of skulls of slaughtered foes: +And Type's old port, to my horror I found, +Was in skulls of bards sent merrily round. +And still as each well-filled cranium came, +A health was pledged to its owner's name; +While Type said slyly, midst general laughter, +"We eat them up first, then drink to them after." +There was _no_ standing this--incensed I broke +From my bonds of sleep, and indignant woke, +Exclaiming, "Oh shades of other times, +"Whose voices still sound, like deathless chimes, +"Could you e'er have foretold a day would be, +"When a dreamer of dreams should live to see +"A party of sleek and honest John Bulls +"Hobnobbing each other in poets' skulls!" + + +[1] Written during the late agitation of the question of Copyright. + + + + + + +CHURCH EXTENSION. + +TO THE EDITOR OF THE MORNING CHRONICLE. + + + Sir--A well-known classical traveller, while employed in exploring, + some time since, the supposed site of the Temple of Diana of Ephesus, + was so fortunate, in the course of his researches, as to light upon a + very ancient bark manuscript, which has turned out, on examination, + to be part of an old Ephesian newspaper;--a newspaper published, as + you will see, so far back as the time when Demetrius, the great + Shrine-Extender,[1] flourished. + + I am, Sir, yours, etc. + + EPHESIAN GAZETTE. + + +_Second edition_. + +Important event for the rich and religious! + Great Meeting of Silversmiths held in Queen Square;-- +Church Extension, their object,--the excitement prodigious;-- + Demetrius, head man of the craft, takes the chair! + +_Third edition_. + +The Chairman still up, when our devil came away; + Having prefaced his speech with the usual state prayer, +That the Three-headed Dian would kindly, this day, + Take the Silversmiths' Company under her care. + +Being askt by some low, unestablisht divines, + "When your churches are up, where are flocks to be got?" +He manfully answered, "Let _us_ build the shrines,[2] + "And we care not if flocks are found for them or not." + +He then added--to show that the Silversmiths' Guild + Were above all confined and intolerant views-- +"Only _pay_ thro' the nose to the altars we build, + "You may _pray_ thro' the nose to what altars you choose." + +This tolerance, rare from a shrine-dealer's lip + (Tho' a tolerance mixt with due taste for the till)-- +So much charmed all the holders of scriptural scrip, + That their shouts of "Hear!" "Hear!" are re-echoing still. + +_Fourth edition_. + +Great stir in the Shrine Market! altars to Phoebus + Are going dog-cheap--may be had for a rebus. +Old Dian's, as usual, outsell all the rest;-- + But Venus's also are much in request. + + +[1] "For a certain man named Demetrius, a silversmith, which made shrines +for Diana, brought no small gain unto the craftsmen: whom he called +together with the workmen of like occupation, and said, Sirs, ye know that +by this craft we have our wealth[...to be completed... + +[2] The "shrines" are supposed to have been small churches, or chapels, +adjoining to the great temples. + + + + + + +LATEST ACCOUNTS FROM OLYMPUS. + + +As news from Olympus has grown rather rare, +Since bards, in their cruises, have ceased to _touch_ there, +We extract for our readers the intelligence given, +In our latest accounts from that _ci-devant_ Heaven-- +That realm of the By-gones, where still sit in state +Old god-heads and nod-heads now long out of date. + +Jove himself, it appears, since his love-days are o'er, +Seems to find immortality rather a bore; +Tho' he still asks for news of earth's capers and crimes, +And reads daily his old fellow-Thunderer, _the Times_. +He and Vulcan, it seems, by their wives still hen-_peckt_ are, +And kept on a stinted allowance of nectar. + +Old Phoebus, poor lad, has given up inspiration, +And packt off to earth on a _puff_ speculation. +The fact is, he found his old shrines had grown dim, +Since bards lookt to Bentley and Colburn, not him. +So he sold off his stud of ambrosia-fed nags. +Came incog. down to earth, and now writes for the _Mags_; +Taking care that his work not a gleam hath to linger in't, +From which men could guess that the god had a finger in't. + +There are other small facts, well deserving attention, +Of which our Olympic despatches make mention. +Poor Bacchus is still very ill, they allege, +Having never recovered the Temperance Pledge. +"What, the Irish!" he cried--"those I lookt to the most! +"If they give up the _spirit_, I give up the ghost:" +While Momus, who used of the gods to make fun, +Is turned Socialist now and declares there are none! + +But these changes, tho' curious, are all a mere farce +Compared to the new "_casus belli_" of Mars, +Who, for years, has been suffering the horrors of quiet, +Uncheered by one glimmer of bloodshed or riot! +In vain from the clouds his belligerent brow +Did he pop forth, in hopes that somewhere or somehow, +Like Pat at a fair, he might "coax up a row:" +But the joke wouldn't take--the whole world had got wiser; +Men liked not to take a Great Gun for adviser; +And, still less, to march in fine clothes to be shot, +Without very well knowing for whom or for what. +The French, who of slaughter had had their full swing, +Were content with a shot, now and then, at their King; +While, in England, good fighting's a pastime so hard to gain, +Nobody's left to fight _with_, but Lord Cardigan. + +'Tis needless to say then how monstrously happy +Old Mars has been made by what's now on the _tapis_; +How much it delights him to see the French rally, +In Liberty's name, around Mehemet Ali; +Well knowing that Satan himself could not find +A confection of mischief much more to his mind +Than the old _Bonnet Rouge_ and the Bashaw combined. +Right well, too, he knows, that there ne'er were attackers, +Whatever their cause, that they didn’t find backers; +While any slight care for Humanity's woes +May be soothed by that "_Art Diplomatique_," which shows +How to come in the most approved method to blows. + +This is all for to-day--whether Mars is much vext +At his friend Thiers's exit, we'll know by our next. + + + + + + +THE TRIUMPHS OF FARCE. + + +Our earth, as it rolls thro' the regions of space, + Wears always two faces, the dark and the sunny; +And poor human life runs the same sort of race, + Being sad on one side--on the other side, funny. + +Thus oft we, at eve, to the Haymarket hie, + To weep o'er the woes of Macready;--but scarce +Hath the tear-drop of Tragedy past from the eye, + When lo! we're all laughing in fits at the Farce. + +And still let us laugh--preach the world as it may-- + Where the cream of the joke is, the swarm will soon follow; +Heroics are very grand things in their way, + But the laugh at the long run will carry it hollow. + +For instance, what sermon on human affairs + Could equal the scene that took place t'other day +'Twixt Romeo and Louis Philippe, on the stairs-- + The Sublime and Ridiculous meeting half-way! + +Yes, Jocus! gay god, whom the Gentiles supplied, + And whose worship not even among Christians declines, +In our senate thou'st languisht since Sheridan died, + But Sydney still keeps thee alive in our shrines. + +Rare Sydney! thrice honored the stall where he sits, + And be his every honor he deigneth to climb at! +Had England a hierarchy formed all of wits, + Who but Sydney would England proclaim as its primate? + +And long may he flourish, frank, merry and brave-- + A Horace to hear and a Paschal to read; +While he _laughs_, all is safe, but, when Sydney grows grave, + We shall then think the Church is in danger _indeed_. + +Meanwhile it much glads us to find he's preparing + To teach _other_ bishops to "seek the right way;"[1] +And means shortly to treat the whole Bench to an airing, + Just such as he gave to Charles James t'other day. + +For our parts, gravity's good for the soul, + Such a fancy have we for the side that there's fun on, +We'd rather with Sydney southwest take a "stroll," + Than _coach_ it north-east with his Lordship of Lunnun. + + +[1] "This stroll in the metropolis is extremely well contrived for your +Lordship's speech; but suppose, my dear Lord, that instead of going E. and +N. E. you had turned about," etc.--SYDNEY SMITH'S _Last Letter to the +Bishop of London_. + + + + + + +THOUGHTS ON PATRONS, PUFFS, AND OTHER MATTERS. + +IN AN EPISTLE FROM THOMAS MOORE TO SAMUEL ROGERS. + + +What, _thou_, my friend! a man of rhymes, + And, better still, a man of guineas, +To talk of "patrons," in these times, + When authors thrive like spinning-jennies, +And Arkwright's twist and Bulwer's page + Alike may laugh at patronage! + +No, no--those times are past away, + When, doomed in upper floors to star it. +The bard inscribed to lords his lay,-- + Himself, the while, my Lord Mountgarret. +No more he begs with air dependent. +His "little bark may sail attendant" + Under some lordly skipper's steerage; +But launched triumphant in the Row, +Or taken by Murray's self in tow. + Cuts both _Star Chamber_ and the peerage. + +Patrons, indeed! when scarce a sail +Is whiskt from England by the gale. +But bears on board some authors, shipt +For foreign shores, all well equipt +With proper book-making machinery, +To sketch the morals, manners, scenery, +Of all such lands as they shall see, +Or _not_ see, as the case may be:-- +It being enjoined on all who go +To study first Miss Martineau, +And learn from her the method true,[too. +To _do_ one's books--and readers, +For so this nymph of _nous_ and nerve +Teaches mankind "How to Observe;" +And, lest mankind at all should swerve, +Teaches them also "_What_ to Observe." + +No, no, my friend--it can’t be blinkt-- +The Patron is a race extinct; +As dead as any Megatherion +That ever Buckland built a theory on. +Instead of bartering in this age +Our praise for pence and patronage, +We authors now more prosperous elves, +Have learned to patronize ourselves; +And since all-potent Puffing's made +The life of song, the soul of trade. +More frugal of our praises grown, +We puff no merits but our own. + +Unlike those feeble gales of praise +Which critics blew in former days, +Our modern puffs are of a kind +That truly, really _raise the wind;_ +And since they've fairly set in blowing, +We find them the best _trade_-winds going. +'Stead of frequenting paths so slippy +As her old haunts near Aganippe, +The Muse now taking to the till +Has opened shop on Ludgate Hill +(Far handier than the Hill of Pindus, +As seen from bard's back attic windows): +And swallowing there without cessation +Large draughts (_at sight_) of inspiration, +Touches the _notes_ for each new theme, +While still fresh "_change_ comes o'er her dream." + +What Steam is on the deep--and more-- +Is the vast power of Puff on shore; +Which jumps to glory's future tenses +Before the present even commences; +And makes "immortal" and "divine" of us +Before the world has read one line of us. +In old times, when the God of Song +Drove his own two-horse team along, +Carrying inside a bard or two, +Bookt for posterity "all thro';"-- +Their luggage, a few close-packt rhymes, +(Like yours, my friend,) for after-times-- +So slow the pull to Fame's abode, +That folks oft slept upon the road;-- +And Homer's self, sometimes, they say, +Took to his night-cap on the way. +Ye Gods! how different is the story +With our new galloping sons of glory, +Who, scorning all such slack and slow time, +Dash to posterity in _no_ time! +Raise but one general blast of Puff +To start your author--that's enough. +In vain the critics set to watch him +Try at the starting post to catch him: +He's off--the puffers carry it hollow-- +The _critics_, if they please, may follow. +Ere _they_'ve laid down their first positions, +He's fairly blown thro' six editions! +In vain doth Edinburgh dispense +Her blue and yellow pestilence +(That plague so awful in my time +To young and touchy sons of rhyme)-- +The _Quarterly_, at three months' date, +To catch the Unread One, comes too late; +And nonsense, littered in a hurry, +Becomes "immortal," spite of Murray. +But bless me!--while I thus keep fooling, +I hear a voice cry, "Dinner's cooling." +That postman too (who, truth to tell, +'Mong men of letters bears the bell,) +Keeps ringing, ringing, so infernally +That I _must_ stop-- + Yours sempiternally. + + + + + + +THOUGHTS ON MISCHIEF. + +BY LORD STANLEY. + +(HIS FIRST ATTEMPT IN VERSE.) + + + "Evil, be thou my good." + --MILTON. + + +How various are the inspirations +Of different men in different nations! +As genius prompts to good or evil, +Some call the Muse, some raise the devil. +Old Socrates, that pink of sages, +Kept a pet demon on board wages +To go about with him incog., +And sometimes give his wits a jog. +So Lyndhurst, in _our_ day, we know, +Keeps fresh relays of imps below, +To forward from that nameless spot; +His inspirations, hot and hot. + +But, neat as are old Lyndhurst's doings-- +Beyond even Hecate's "hell-broth" brewings-- +Had I, Lord Stanley, but my will, +I'd show you mischief prettier still; +Mischief, combining boyhood's tricks +With age's sourest politics; +The urchin's freaks, the veteran's gall, +Both duly mixt, and matchless all; +A compound naught in history reaches +But Machiavel, when first in breeches! + +Yes, Mischief, Goddess multiform, +Whene'er thou, witch-like, ridest the storm, +Let Stanley ride cockhorse behind thee-- +No livelier lackey could they find thee. +And, Goddess, as I'm well aware, +So mischief's _done_, you care not _where_, +I own, 'twill most _my_ fancy tickle +In Paddyland to play the Pickle; +Having got credit for inventing +A new, brisk method of tormenting-- +A way they call the Stanley fashion, +Which puts all Ireland in a passion; +So neat it hits the mixture due +Of injury and insult too; +So legibly it bears upon't +The stamp of Stanley's brazen front. + +Ireland, we're told, means the land of _Ire_; +And _why_ she's so, none need inquire, +Who sees her millions, martial, manly, +Spat upon thus by me, Lord Stanley. +Already in the breeze I scent +The whiff of coming devilment; +Of strife, to me more stirring far +Than the Opium or the Sulphur war, +Or any such drug ferments are. +Yes--sweeter to this Tory soul +Than all such pests, from pole to pole, +Is the rich, "sweltered venom" got +By stirring Ireland's "charmed pot;" +And thanks to practice on that land +I stir it with a master-hand. + +Again thou'lt see, when forth have gone +The War-Church-cry, "On, Stanley, on!" +How Caravats and Shanavests +Shall swarm from out their mountain nests, +With all their merry moonlight brothers, +To whom the Church (_step_-dame to others) +Hath been the best of nursing mothers. +Again o'er Erin's rich domain +Shall Rockites and right reverends reign; +And both, exempt from vulgar toil, +Between them share that titheful soil; +Puzzling ambition _which_ to climb at, +The post of Captain, or of Primate. + +And so, long life to Church and Co.-- +Hurrah for mischief!--here we go. + + + + + + +EPISTLE FROM CAPTAIN ROCK TO LORD LYNDHURST. + + +Dear Lyndhurst,--you'll pardon my making thus free,-- +But form is all fudge 'twixt such "comrogues" as we, +Who, whate'er the smooth views we, in public, may drive at, +Have both the same praiseworthy object, in private-- +Namely, never to let the old regions of riot, +Where Rock hath long reigned, have one instant of quiet, +But keep Ireland still in that liquid we've taught her +To love more than meat, drink, or clothing--_hot water_. + +All the difference betwixt you and me, as I take it, +Is simply, that _you_ make the law and _I_ break it; +And never, of big-wigs and small, were there two +Played so well into each other's hands as we do; +Insomuch, that the laws you and yours manufacture, +Seem all made express for the Rock-boys to fracture. +Not Birmingham's self--to her shame be it spoken-- +E'er made things more neatly contrived to be broken; +And hence, I confess, in this island religious, +The breakage of laws--and of heads _is_ prodigious. + +And long may it thrive, my Ex-Bigwig, say I,-- +Tho', of late, much I feared all our fun was gone by; +As, except when some tithe-hunting parson showed sport, +Some rector--a cool hand at pistols and port, +Who "keeps dry" his _powder_, but never _himself_-- +One who, leaving his Bible to rust on the shelf, +Sends his pious texts home, in the shape of ball-cartridges, +Shooting his "dearly beloved," like partridges; +Except when some hero of this sort turned out, +Or, the Exchequer sent, flaming, its tithe-writs[1] about-- +A contrivance more neat, I may say, without flattery, +Than e'er yet was thought of for bloodshed and battery; +So neat, that even _I_ might be proud, I allow, +To have bit off so rich a receipt for a _row_;-- +Except for such rigs turning up, now and then, +I was actually growing the dullest of men; +And, had this blank fit been allowed to increase, +Might have snored myself down to a Justice of Peace. +Like you, Reformation in Church and in State +Is the thing of all things I most cordially hate. +If once these curst Ministers do as they like, +All's o'er, my good Lord, with your wig and my pike, +And one may be hung up on t'other, henceforth, +Just to show what _such_ Captains and Chancellors were worth. + +But we must not despair--even already Hope sees +You're about, my bold Baron, to kick up a breeze +Of the true baffling sort, such as suits me and you, +Who have boxt the whole compass of party right thro', +And care not one farthing, as all the world knows, +So we _but_ raise the wind, from what quarter it blows. +Forgive me, dear Lord, that thus rudely I dare +My own small resources with thine to compare: +Not even Jerry Diddler, in "raising the wind," durst +Complete, for one instant, with thee, my dear Lyndhurst. + +But, hark, there's a shot!--some parsonic practitioner? +No--merely a bran-new Rebellion Commissioner; +The Courts having now, with true law erudition, +Put even Rebellion itself "in commission." +As seldom, in _this_ way, I'm any man's debtor, +I'll just _pay my shot_ and then fold up this letter. +In the mean time, hurrah for the Tories and Rocks! +Hurrah for the parsons who fleece well their flocks! +Hurrah for all mischief in all ranks and spheres, +And, above all, hurrah for that dear House of Peers! + + +[1] Exchequer tithe processes, served under a commission of +rebellion.--_Chronicle_. + + + + + + +CAPTAIN ROCK IN LONDON. + +LETTER FROM THE CAPTAIN TO TERRY ALT, ESQ.[1] + + +Here I am, at headquarters, dear Terry, once more, +Deep in Tory designs, as I've oft been before: +For, bless them! if 'twasn't for this wrong-headed crew, +You and I, Terry Alt, would scarce know what to do; +So ready they're always, when dull we are growing, +To set our old concert of discord a-going, +While Lyndhurst's the lad, with his Tory-Whig face, +To play in such concert the true _double-base_. +I had feared this old prop of my realm was beginning +To tire of his course of political sinning, +And, like Mother Cole, when her heyday was past, +Meant by way of a change to try virtue at last. +But I wronged the old boy, who as staunchly derides +All reform in himself as in most things besides; +And, by using _two_ faces thro' life, all allow, +Has acquired face sufficient for _any_-thing now. + +In short, he's all right; and, if mankind's old foe, +My "Lord Harry" himself--who's the leader, we know, +Of another red-hot Opposition below-- +If that "Lord," in his well-known discernment, but spares +Me and Lyndhurst, to look after Ireland's affairs, +We shall soon such a region of devilment make it, +That Old Nick himself for his own may mistake it. +Even already--long life to such Bigwigs, say I, +For, as long as they flourish, we Rocks cannot die-- + +He has served our right riotous cause by a speech +Whose perfection of mischief he only could reach; +As it shows off both _his_ and _my_ merits alike, +Both the swell of the wig and the point of the pike; +Mixes up, with a skill which one can’t but admire, +The lawyer's cool craft with the incendiary's fire, +And enlists, in the gravest, most plausible manner, +Seven millions of souls under Rockery's banner! +Oh Terry, my man, let this speech _never_ die; +Thro' the regions of Rockland, like flame, let it fly; +Let each syllable dark the Law-Oracle uttered +By all Tipperary's wild echoes be muttered. +Till naught shall be heard, over hill, dale or flood, +But "_You're aliens in language, in creed and in blood;_" +While voices, from sweet Connemara afar, +Shall answer, like true _Irish_ echoes, "We are!" +And, tho' false be the cry, and the sense must abhor it, +Still the echoes may quote _Law_ authority for it, +And naught Lyndhurst cares for my spread of dominion +So he, in the end, touches cash "for the _opinion_." + +But I've no time for more, my dear Terry, just now, +Being busy in helping these Lords thro' their __row_. +They're bad hands at mob-work, but once they begin, +They'll have plenty of practice to break them well in. + +[1] The subordinate officer or lieutenant of Captain Rock. + + + + + + + + +POLITICAL AND SATIRICAL POEMS. + + + + + + +LINES ON THE DEATH OF MR. PERCEVAL. + + +In the dirge we sung o'er him no censure was heard, + Unembittered and free did the tear-drop descend; +We forgot, in that hour, how the statesman had erred, + And wept for the husband, the father and friend. + +Oh! proud was the meed his integrity won, + And generous indeed were the tears that we shed, +When in grief we forgot all the ill he had done, + And tho' wronged by him living, bewailed him, when dead. + +Even now if one harsher emotion intrude, + 'Tis to wish he had chosen some lowlier state, +Had known what he was--and, content to be _good_, + Had ne'er for our ruin aspired to be _great_. + +So, left thro' their own little orbit to move, + His years might have rolled inoffensive away; +His children might still have been blest with his love, + And England would ne'er have been curst with his sway. + + + + + + +TO THE EDITOR OF "THE MORNING CHRONICLE." + + + _Sir_,--In order to explain the following Fragment, it is + necessary to refer your readers to a late florid description of the + Pavilion at Brighton, in the apartments of which, we are told, "FUM, + _The Chinese Bird of Royalty_," is a principal ornament. + I am, Sir, yours, etc. + MUM. + + +FUM AND HUM, THE TWO BIRDS OF ROYALTY. + +One day the Chinese Bird of Royalty, FUM, +Thus accosted our own Bird of Royalty, HUM, +In that Palace or China-shop (Brighton, which is it?) +Where FUM had just come to pay HUM a short visit.-- +Near akin are these Birds, tho' they differ in nation +(The breed of the HUMS is as old as creation); +Both, full-crawed Legitimates--both, birds of prey, +Both, cackling and ravenous creatures, half way +'Twixt the goose and the vulture, like Lord Castlereagh. +While FUM deals in Mandarins Bonzes, Bohea, +Peers, Bishops and Punch, HUM.--are sacred to thee +So congenial their tastes, that, when FUM first did light on +The floor of that grand China-warehouse at Brighton, +The lanterns and dragons and things round the dome +Where so like what he left, "Gad," says FUM, "I'm at home,"-- +And when, turning, he saw Bishop L--GE, "Zooks, it is." +Quoth the Bird, "Yes--I know him--a Bonze, by his phiz- +"And that jolly old idol he kneels to so low +"Can be none but our round-about god-head, fat Fo!" +It chanced at this moment, the Episcopal Prig +Was imploring the Prince to dispense with his wig,[1] +Which the Bird, overhearing, flew high o'er his head, +And some TOBIT-like marks of his patronage shed, +Which so dimmed the poor Dandy's idolatrous eye, +That, while FUM cried "Oh Fo!" all the court cried "Oh fie!" + +But a truce to digression;--these Birds of a feather +Thus talkt, t'other night, on State matters together; +(The PRINCE just in bed, or about to depart for't, +His legs full of gout, and his arms full of HARTFORD,) +"I say, HUM," says FUM--FUM, of course, spoke Chinese, +But, bless you! that's nothing--at Brighton one sees +Foreign lingoes and Bishops _translated_ with ease-- +"I say, HUM, how fares it with Royalty now? +"Is it _up_? is it _prime_? is it _spooney_-or how?" +(The Bird had just taken a flash-man's degree +Under BARRYMORE, YARMOUTH, and young Master L--E,) +"As for us in Pekin"--here, a devil of a din +From the bed-chamber came, where that long Mandarin, +Castlereagh (whom FUM calls the _Confucius_ of Prose), +Was rehearsing a speech upon Europe's repose +To the deep, double bass of the fat Idol's nose. + +(_Nota bene_--his Lordship and LIVERPOOL come, +In collateral lines, from the old Mother HUM, +CASTLEREAGH a HUM-bug--LIVERPOOL a HUM-drum,) +The Speech being finisht, out rusht CASTLEREAGH. +Saddled HUM in a hurry, and, whip, spur, away! +Thro' the regions of air, like a Snip on his hobby, +Ne'er paused till he lighted in St. Stephen's lobby. + + +[1] In consequence of an old promise, that he should be allowed to wear +his own hair, whenever he might be elevated to a Bishopric by his Royal +Highness. + + + + + + +LINES ON THE DEATH OF SHERIDAN. + + + _principibus placuisse viris_! + --HORAT. + + +Yes, grief will have way--but the fast falling tear + Shall be mingled with deep execrations on those +Who could bask in that Spirit's meridian career. + And yet leave it thus lonely and dark at its close:-- + +Whose vanity flew round him, only while fed + By the odor his fame in its summer-time gave;-- +Whose vanity now, with quick scent for the dead, + Like the Ghoul of the East, comes to feed at his grave. + +Oh! it sickens the heart to see bosoms so hollow, + And spirits so mean in the great and high-born; +To think what a long line of titles may follow + The relics of him who died--friendless and lorn! + +How proud they can press to the funeral array + Of one whom they shunned in his sickness and sorrow:-- +How bailiffs may seize his last blanket to-day, + Whose palls shall be held up by nobles to-morrow! + +And Thou too whose life, a sick epicure's dream, + Incoherent and gross, even grosser had past, +Were it not for that cordial and soul-giving beam + Which his friendship and wit o'er thy nothingness cast:-- + +No! not for the wealth of the land that supplies thee + With millions to heap upon Foppery's shrine;-- +No! not for the riches of all who despise thee, + Tho' this would make Europe's whole opulence mine;-- + +Would I suffer what--even in the heart that thou hast-- + All mean as it is--must have consciously burned. +When the pittance, which shame had wrung from thee at last, + And which found all his wants at an end, was returned![1] + +"Was this then the fate,"--future ages will say, + When _some_ names shall live but in history's curse; +When Truth will be heard, and these Lords of a day + Be forgotten as fools or remembered as worse;-- + +"Was this then the fate of that high-gifted man, + "The pride of the palace, the bower and the hall, +"The orator,--dramatist,--minstrel,--who ran + "Thro' each mode of the lyre and was master of all;-- + +"Whose mind was an essence compounded with art + "From the finest and best of all other men's powers;- +"Who ruled, like a wizard, the world of the heart, + "And could call up its sunshine or bring down its showers;-- + +"Whose humor, as gay as the firefly's light, + "Played round every subject and shone as it played;-- +"Whose wit in the combat, as gentle as bright, + "Ne'er carried a heart-stain away on its blade;-- + +"Whose eloquence--brightening whatever it tried, + "Whether reason or fancy, the gay or the grave,-- +"Was as rapid, as deep and as brilliant a tide, + "As ever bore Freedom aloft on its wave!" + +Yes--such was the man and so wretched his fate;-- + And thus, sooner or later, shall all have to grieve, +Who waste their morn's dew in the beams of the Great, + And expect 'twill return to refresh them at eve. + +In the woods of the North there are insects that prey + On the brain of the elk till his very last sigh;[2] +Oh, Genius! thy patrons, more cruel than they, + First feed on thy brains and then leave thee to die! + + +[1] The sum was two hundred pounds--offered when Sheridan could no longer +take any sustenance, and declined, for him, by his friends. + +[2] Naturalists have observed that, upon dissecting an elk, there was +found in its head some large flies, with its brain almost eaten away by +them,--_History of Poland_. + + + + + + +EPISTLE FROM TOM CRIB TO BIG BEN.[1] + +CONCERNING SOME FOUL PLAY IN A LATE TRANSACTION.[2] + + + _"Ahi, mio Ben!"_ + --METASTASIO.[3] + + +What! BEN, my old hero, is this your renown? +Is _this_ the new _go_?--kick a man when he's down! +When the foe has knockt under, to tread on him then-- +By the fist of my father, I blush for thee, BEN! +"Foul! foul!" all the lads of the Fancy exclaim-- +CHARLEY SHOCK is electrified--BELCHER spits flame-- +And MOLYNEUX--ay, even BLACKY[4] cries "shame!" + +Time was, when JOHN BULL little difference spied +'Twixt the foe at his feet and the friend at his side: +When he found (such his humor in fighting and eating) +His foe, like his beef-steak, the sweeter for beating. +But this comes, Master BEN, of your curst foreign notions, +Your trinkets, wigs, thingumbobs, gold lace and lotions; +Your Noyaus, Curacoas, and the devil knows what-- +(One swig of _Blue Ruin_[5] is worth the whole lot!) + +Your great and small _crosses_--my eyes, what a brood! +(A _cross_-buttock from _me_ would do some of them good!) +Which have spoilt you, till hardly a drop, my old porpoise, +Of pure English _claret_ is left in your _corpus_; +And (as JIM says) the only one trick, good or bad, +Of the Fancy you're up to, is _fibbing_, my lad. +Hence it comes,--BOXIANA, disgrace to thy page!-- +Having floored, by good luck, the first _swell_ of the age, +Having conquered the _prime one_, that _milled_ us all round, +You kickt him, old BEN, as he gaspt on the ground! +Ay--just at the time to show spunk, if you'd got any-- +Kickt him and jawed him and _lagged_[6] him to Botany! +Oh, shade of the _Cheesemonger_![7] you, who, alas! +_Doubled up_ by the dozen those Moun-seers in brass, +On that great day of _milling_, when blood lay in lakes, +When Kings held the bottle, and Europe the stakes, +Look down upon BEN--see him, _dung-hill_ all o'er, +Insult the fallen foe that can harm him no more! +Out, cowardly _spooney_!--again and again, +By the fist of my father, I blush for thee, BEN. +To _show the white feather_ is many men's doom, +But, what of _one_ feather?--BEN shows a _whole Plume_. + + +[1] A nickname given, at this time, to the Prince Regent. + +[2] Written soon after Bonaparte's transportation to St. Helena. + +[3] Tom, I suppose, was "assisted" to this Motto by Mr. Jackson, who, it +is well known, keeps the most learned company going. + +[4] Names and nicknames of celebrated pugilists at that time. + +[5] Gin. + +[6] Transported. + +[7] A Life-Guardsman, one of _the Fancy_ who distinguished himself +and was killed in the memorable _set-to_ at Waterloo. + + + + + + +FABLES FOR THE HOLY ALLIANCE. + + + _tu Regibus alas eripe_ + VERGIL, _Georg. lib_. iv. + + + --Clip the wings Of these high-flying arbitrary Kings. + DRYDEN'S _Translation_. + + + + +DEDICATION. + +TO LORD BYRON. + +Dear Lord Byron,--Though this Volume should possess no other merit in your +eyes, than that of reminding you of the short time we passed together at +Venice, when some of the trifles which it contains were written, you will, +I am sure, receive the dedication of it with pleasure, and believe that I +am, + +My dear Lord, + +Ever faithfully yours, + +T. B. + + + + +PREFACE. + + +Though it was the wish of the Members of the Poco-curante Society (who +have lately done me the honor of electing me their Secretary) that I +should prefix my name to the following Miscellany, it is but fair to them +and to myself to state, that, except in the "painful pre-eminence" of +being employed to transcribe their lucubrations, my claim to such a +distinction in the title-page is not greater than that of any other +gentleman, who has contributed his share to the contents of the volume. + +I had originally intended to take this opportunity of giving some account +of the origin and objects of our Institution, the names and characters of +the different members, etc.--but as I am at present preparing for the +press the First Volume of the "Transactions of the Pococurante Society," I +shall reserve for that occasion all further details upon the subject, and +content myself here with referring, for a general insight into our tenets, +to a Song which will be found at the end of this work and which is sung to +us on the first day of every month, by one of our oldest members, to the +tune of (as far as I can recollect, being no musician,) either "Nancy +Dawson" or "He stole away the Bacon." + +It may be as well also to state for the information of those critics who +attack with the hope of being answered, and of being thereby brought into +notice, that it is the rule of this Society to return no other answer to +such assailants, than is contained in the three words "_non curat +Hippoclides_" (meaning, in English, "Hippoclides does not care a fig,") +which were spoken two thousand years ago by the first founder of Poco- +curantism, and have ever since been adopted as the leading _dictum_ of the +sect. + +THOMAS BROWN. + + + + + + +FABLES FOR THE HOLY ALLIANCE. + + + + +FABLE I. + +THE DISSOLUTION OF THE HOLY ALLIANCE. + +A DREAM. + + +I've had a dream that bodes no good +Unto the Holy Brotherhood. +I may be wrong, but I confess-- + As far as it is right or lawful +For one, no conjurer, to guess-- + It seems to me extremely awful. + +Methought, upon the Neva's flood +A beautiful Ice Palace stood, +A dome of frost-work, on the plan +Of that once built by Empress Anne,[1] +Which shone by moonlight--as the tale is-- +Like an Aurora Borealis. + +In this said Palace, furnisht all + And lighted as the best on land are, +I dreamt there was a splendid Ball, + Given by the Emperor Alexander, +To entertain with all due zeal, + Those holy gentlemen, who've shown a +Regard so kind for Europe's weal, + At Troppau, Laybach and Verona. + +The thought was happy--and designed +To hint how thus the human Mind +May, like the stream imprisoned there, +Be checkt and chilled, till it can bear +The heaviest Kings, that ode or sonnet +E'er yet be-praised, to dance upon it. +And all were pleased and cold and stately, + Shivering in grand illumination-- +Admired the superstructure greatly, + Nor gave one thought to the foundation. +Much too the Tsar himself exulted, + To all plebeian fears a stranger, +For, Madame Krudener, when consulted, + Had pledged her word there was no danger +So, on he capered, fearless quite, + Thinking himself extremely clever, +And waltzed away with all his might, + As if the Frost would last forever. + +Just fancy how a bard like me, + Who reverence monarchs, must have trembled +To see that goodly company, + At such a ticklish sport assembled. + +Nor were the fears, that thus astounded +My loyal soul, at all unfounded-- +For, lo! ere long, those walls so massy + Were seized with an ill-omened dripping, +And o'er the floors, now growing glassy, + Their Holinesses took to slipping. +The Tsar, half thro' a Polonaise, + Could scarce get on for downright stumbling; +And Prussia, tho' to slippery ways + Well used, was cursedly near tumbling. + +Yet still 'twas, _who_ could stamp the floor most, +Russia and Austria 'mong the foremost.-- +And now, to an Italian air, + This precious brace would, hand in hand, go; +Now--while old Louis, from his chair, +Intreated them his toes to spare-- + Called loudly out for a Fandango. + +And a Fandango, 'faith, they had, +At which they all set to, like mad! +Never were Kings (tho' small the expense is +Of wit among their Excellencies) +So out of all their princely senses, +But ah! that dance--that Spanish dance-- + Scarce was the luckless strain begun, +When, glaring red, as 'twere a glance + Shot from an angry Southern sun, +A light thro' all the chambers flamed, + Astonishing old Father Frost, +Who, bursting into tears, exclaimed, + "A thaw, by Jove--we're lost, we're lost! +"Run, France--a second _Water_loo +"Is come to drown you-_sauve qui peut_!" + +Why, why will monarchs caper so + In palaces without foundations?-- +Instantly all was in a flow, + Crowns, fiddles, sceptres, decorations-- +Those Royal Arms, that lookt so nice, +Cut out in the resplendent ice-- +Those Eagles, handsomely provided + With double heads for double dealings-- +How fast the globes and sceptres glided + Out of their claws on all the ceilings! +Proud Prussia's double bird of prey +Tame as a spatch cock, slunk away; +While--just like France herself, when she + Proclaims how great her naval skill is-- +Poor Louis's drowning fleurs-de-lys + Imagined themselves _water_-lilies. + +And not alone rooms, ceilings, shelves, + But--still more fatal execution-- +The Great Legitimates themselves + Seemed in a state of dissolution. +The indignant Tsar--when just about + To issue a sublime Ukase, +"Whereas all light must be kept out"-- + Dissolved to nothing in its blaze. +Next Prussia took his turn to melt, +And, while his lips illustrious felt +The influence of this southern air, + Some word, like "Constitution"--long +Congealed in frosty silence there-- + Came slowly thawing from his tongue. +While Louis, lapsing by degrees, + And sighing out a faint adieu +To truffles, salmis, toasted cheese + And smoking _fondus_, quickly grew, + Himself, into a _fondu_ too;-- +Or like that goodly King they make +Of sugar for a Twelfth-night cake, +When, in some urchin's mouth, alas! +It melts into a shapeless mass! + +In short, I scarce could count a minute, +Ere the bright dome and all within it, +Kings, Fiddlers, Emperors, all were gone-- + And nothing now was seen or heard +But the bright river, rushing on, + Happy as an enfranchised bird, +And prouder of that natural ray, +Shining along its chainless way-- +More proudly happy thus to glide + In simple grandeur to the sea, +Than when, in sparkling fetters tied, +'Twas deckt with all that kingly pride + Could bring to light its slavery! + +Such is my dream--and, I confess, +I tremble at its awfulness. +That Spanish Dance--that southern beam-- +But I say nothing--there's my dream-- +And Madame Krüdener, the she-prophet, +May make just what she pleases of it. + + +[1] "It is well-known that the Empress Anne built a palace of ice on the +Neva, in 1740, which was fifty-two feet in length, and when illuminated +had a surprising effect."--PINKERTON. + + + + + + +FABLE II. + +THE LOOKING-GLASSES. + + +PROEM. + +Where Kings have been by mob-elections + Raised to the throne, 'tis strange to see +What different and what odd perfections + Men have required in Royalty. +Some, liking monarchs large and plumpy, + Have chosen their Sovereigns by the weight;-- +Some wisht them tall, some thought your Dumpy, + Dutch-built, the true Legitimate.[1] +The Easterns in a Prince, 'tis said, +Prefer what's called a jolterhead:[2] +The Egyptians weren't at all partic'lar, + So that their Kings had _not_ red hair-- +_This_ fault not even the greatest stickler + For the blood-royal well could bear. + +A thousand more such illustrations +Might be adduced from various nations. +But, 'mong the many tales they tell us, + Touching the acquired or natural right +Which some men have to rule their fellows, + There's one which I shall here recite:-- + +FABLE. + +There was a land--to _name_ the place + Is neither now my wish nor duty-- +Where reigned a certain Royal race, + By right of their superior beauty. + +What was the cut legitimate + Of these great persons' chins and noses, +By right of which they ruled the state, + No history I have seen discloses. + +But so it was--a settled case-- + Some Act of Parliament, past snugly, +Had voted _them_ a beauteous race, + And all their faithful subjects ugly. + +As rank indeed stood high or low, + Some change it made in visual organs; +Your Peers were decent--Knights, so so-- + But all your _common_ people, gorgons! + +Of course, if any knave but hinted + That the King's nose was turned awry, +Or that the Queen (God bless her!) squinted-- + The judges doomed that knave to die. + +But rarely things like this occurred, + The people to their King were duteous, +And took it, on his Royal word, + That they were frights and He was beauteous. + +The cause whereof, among all classes, + Was simply this--these island elves +Had never yet seen looking-glasses, + And therefore did not _know themselves_. + +Sometimes indeed their neighbors' faces + Might strike them as more full of reason, +More fresh than those in certain places-- + But, Lord, the very thought was treason! + +Besides, howe'er we love our neighbor, + And take his face's part, 'tis known +We ne'er so much in earnest labor, + As when the face attackt's our own. + +So on they went--the crowd believing-- + (As crowds well governed always do) +Their rulers, too, themselves deceiving-- + So old the joke, they thought 'twas true. + +But jokes, we know, if they too far go, + Must have an end--and so, one day, +Upon that coast there was a cargo + Of looking-glasses cast away. + +'Twas said, some Radicals, somewhere, + Had laid their wicked heads together, +And forced that ship to founder there,-- + While some believe it was the weather. + +However this might be, the freight + Was landed without fees or duties; +And from that hour historians date + The downfall of the Race of Beauties. + +The looking-glasses got about, + And grew so common thro' the land, +That scarce a tinker could walk out, + Without a mirror in his hand. + +Comparing faces, morning, noon, + And night, their constant occupation-- +By dint of looking-glasses, soon, + They grew a most reflecting nation. + +In vain the Court, aware of errors + In all the old, establisht mazards, +Prohibited the use of mirrors + And tried to break them at all hazards:-- + +In vain--their laws might just as well + Have been waste paper on the shelves; +That fatal freight had broke the spell; + People had lookt--and knew themselves. + +If chance a Duke, of birth sublime, + Presumed upon his ancient face, +(Some calf-head, ugly from all time,) + They popt a mirror to his Grace;-- + +Just hinting, by that gentle sign, + How little Nature holds it true, +That what is called an ancient line, + Must be the line of Beauty too. + +From Dukes' they past to regal phizzes, + Compared them proudly with their own, +And cried. "How _could_ such monstrous quizzes + "In Beauty's name usurp the throne!"-- + +They then wrote essays, pamphlets, books, + Upon Cosmetical Oeconomy, +Which made the King try various looks, + But none improved his physiognomy. + +And satires at the Court were levelled, + And small lampoons, so full of slynesses, +That soon, in short, they quite bedeviled + Their Majesties and Royal Highnesses. + +At length--but here I drop the veil, + To spare some royal folks' sensations;-- +Besides, what followed is the tale + Of all such late-enlightened nations; + +Of all to whom old Time discloses + A truth they should have sooner known-- +That kings have neither rights nor noses + A whit diviner than their own. + + +[1] The Goths had a law to choose always a short, thick man for their +King.--Munster, "_Cosmog." lib_. iii. p. 164. + +[2] "In a Prince a jolter-head is invaluable."--_Oriental Field Sports_. + + + + + + +FABLE III. + +THE TORCH OF LIBERTY. + + +I saw it all in Fancy's glass-- + Herself, the fair, the wild magician, +Who bade this splendid day-dream pass, + And named each gliding apparition. + +'Twas like a torch-race--such as they + Of Greece performed, in ages gone, +When the fleet youths, in long array, + Past the bright torch triumphant on. + +I saw the expectant nations stand, + To catch the coming flame in turn;-- +I saw, from ready hand to hand, + The clear tho' struggling glory burn. + +And oh! their joy, as it came near, + 'Twas in itself a joy to see;-- +While Fancy whispered in my ear. + "That torch they pass is Liberty!" + +And each, as she received the flame, + Lighted her altar with its ray; +Then, smiling, to the next who came, + Speeded it on its sparkling way. + +From ALBION first, whose ancient shrine +Was furnisht with the fire already, +COLUMBIA caught the boon divine, + And lit a flame, like ALBION'S, steady. + +The splendid gift then GALLIA took, + And, like a wild Bacchante, raising +The brand aloft, its sparkles shook, + As she would set the world _a-blazing_! + +Thus kindling wild, so fierce and high + Her altar blazed into the air, +That ALBION, to that fire too nigh, + Shrunk back and shuddered at its glare! + +Next, SPAIN, so new was light to her, + Leapt at the torch--but, ere the spark +That fell upon her shrine could stir, + 'Twas quenched--and all again was dark. + +Yet, no--_not_ quenched--a treasure worth + So much to mortals rarely dies: +Again her living light lookt forth, + And shone, a beacon, in all eyes. + +Who next received the flame? alas! + Unworthy NAPLES--shame of shames, +That ever thro' such hands should pass + That brightest of all earthly flames! + +Scarce had her fingers touched the torch. + When, frighted by the sparks it shed, +Nor waiting even to feel the scorch, + She dropt it to the earth--and fled. + +And fallen it might have long remained; + But GREECE, who saw her moment now, +Caught up the prize, tho' prostrate, stained, + And waved it round her beauteous brow. + +And Fancy bade me mark where, o'er + Her altar, as its flame ascended, +Fair, laurelled spirits seemed to soar, + Who thus in song their voices blended:-- + +"Shine, shine for ever, glorious Flame, + "Divinest gift of Gods to men! +"From GREECE thy earliest splendor came, + "To GREECE thy ray returns again. + +"Take, Freedom, take thy radiant round, + "When _dimmed_, revive, when lost, return, +"Till not a shrine thro' earth be found, + "On which thy glories shall not burn." + + + + + + +FABLE IV. + +THE FLY AND THE BULLOCK. + + +PROEM. + +Of all that, to the sage's survey, +This world presents of topsy-turvy, +There's naught so much disturbs one's patience, +As little minds in lofty stations. +'Tis like that sort of painful wonder. +Which slender columns, laboring under + Enormous arches, give beholders;-- +Or those poor Caryatides, +Condemned to smile and stand at ease, + With a whole house upon their shoulders. + +If as in some few royal cases, +Small minds are _born_ into such places-- +If they are there by Right Divine + Or any such sufficient reason, +Why--Heaven forbid we should repine!-- + To wish it otherwise were treason; +Nay, even to see it in a vision, +Would be what lawyers call _misprision_. + +SIR ROBERT FILMER saith--and he, + Of course, knew all about the matter-- +"Both men and beasts love Monarchy;" + Which proves how rational the latter. +SIDNEY, we know, or wrong or right. +Entirely differed from the Knight: +Nay, hints a King may lose his head. + By slipping awkwardly his bridle:-- +But this is treasonous, ill-bred, +And (now-a-days, when Kings are led + In patent snaffles) downright idle. + +No, no--it isn’t right-line Kings, +(Those sovereign lords in leading strings +Who, from their birth, are Faith-Defenders,) +That move my wrath--'tis your pretenders, +Your mushroom rulers, sons of earth, +Who--not, like t'others, bores by birth, +Establisht _gratiâ Dei_ blockheads, +Born with three kingdoms in their pockets-- +Yet, with a brass that nothing stops, + Push up into the loftiest stations, +And, tho' too dull to manage shops, + Presume, the dolts, to manage nations! + +This class it is, that moves my gall, +And stirs up bile, and spleen and all. +While other senseless things appear +To know the limits of their sphere-- +While not a cow on earth romances +So much as to conceit she dances-- +While the most jumping frog we know of, +Would scarce at Astley's hope to show off-- +Your ***s, your ***s dare, + Untrained as are their minds, to set them +To _any_ business, _any_ where, +At _any_ time that fools will let them. + +But leave we here these upstart things-- +My business is just now with Kings; +To whom and to their right-line glory, +I dedicate the following story. + +FABLE + +The wise men of Egypt were secret as dummies; + And even when they most condescended to teach, +They packt up their meaning, as they did their mummies, + In so many wrappers, 'twas out of one's reach. + +They were also, good people, much given to Kings-- + Fond of craft and of crocodiles, monkeys and mystery; +But blue-bottle flies were their best beloved things-- + As will partly appear in this very short history. + +A Scythian philosopher (nephew, they say, + To that other great traveller, young Anacharsis,) +Stept into a temple at Memphis one day, +To have a short peep at their mystical farces. + +He saw a brisk blue-bottle Fly on an altar, + Made much of, and worshipt, as something divine; +While a large, handsome Bullock, led there in a halter, + Before it lay stabbed at the foot of the shrine. + +Surprised at such doings, he whispered his teacher-- + "If 'tisn't impertinent, may I ask why +"Should a Bullock, that useful and powerful creature, + "Be thus offered up to a bluebottle Fly?" + +"No wonder"--said t'other--"you stare at the sight, + "But we as a Symbol of Monarchy view it-- +"That Fly on the shrine is Legitimate Right, + "And that Bullock, the People that's sacrificed to it." + + + + + + +FABLE V. + +CHURCH AND STATE. + + +PROEM + + + "The moment any religion becomes national, or established, its purity + must certainly be lost, because it is then impossible to keep it + unconnected with men's interests; and, if connected, it must + inevitably be perverted by them." + --SOAME JENYNS + + +Thus did SOAME JENYNS--tho' a Tory, + A Lord of Trade and the Plantations; +Feel how Religion's simple glory + Is stained by State associations. + +When CATHARINE, ere she crusht the Poles, + Appealed to the benign Divinity; +Then cut them up in protocols, +Made fractions of their very souls-- + All in the name of the blest Trinity; +Or when her grandson, ALEXANDER, +That mighty Northern salamander,[1] +Whose icy touch, felt all about, +Puts every fire of Freedom out-- +When he, too, winds up his Ukases +With God and the Panagia's praises-- +When he, of royal Saints the type, + In holy water dips the sponge, +With which, at one imperial wipe, + He would all human rights expunge; +When LOUIS (whom as King, and eater, +Some name _Dix-huit_, and some _Deshuitres_.) +Calls down "St. Louis's God" to witness +The right, humanity, and fitness +Of sending eighty thousand Solons, + Sages with muskets and laced coats, +To cram instruction, _nolens volens_, + Down the poor struggling Spaniards' throats-- +I can’t help thinking, (tho' to Kings + I must, of course, like other men, bow,) +That when a Christian monarch brings +Religion's name to gloss these things-- + Such blasphemy out-Benbows Benbow![2] + + Or--not so far for facts to roam, +Having a few much nearer home- +When we see Churchmen, who, if askt, +"Must Ireland's slaves be tithed, and taskt, +"And driven, like Negroes or Croats, + "That _you_ may roll in wealth and bliss?" +Look from beneath their shovel hats + With all due pomp and answer "Yes!" +But then, if questioned, "Shall the brand +"Intolerance flings throughout that land,-- +"Shall the fierce strife now taught to grow +'Betwixt her palaces and hovels, +"Be ever quenched?"--from the same shovels +Look grandly forth and answer "No."-- +Alas, alas! have _these_ a claim +To merciful Religion's name? +If more you seek, go see a bevy +Of bowing parsons at a levee-- +(Choosing your time, when straw's before +Some apoplectic bishop's door,) +Then if thou canst with life escape +That rush of lawn, that press of crape, +Just watch their reverences and graces, + As on each smirking suitor frisks, +And say, if those round shining faces + To heaven or earth most turn their disks? +This, this it is--Religion, made, +Twixt Church and State, a truck, a trade-- +This most ill-matched, unholy _Co_., +From whence the ills we witness flow; +The war of many creeds with one-- +The extremes of _too_ much faith and none-- +Till, betwixt ancient trash and new, +'Twixt Cant and Blasphemy--the two +Rank ills with which this age is curst-- +We can no more tell which is worst, +Than erst could Egypt, when so rich +In various plagues, determine which +She thought most pestilent and vile, +Her frogs, like Benbow and Carlisle, +Croaking their native mud-notes loud, +Or her fat locusts, like a cloud +Of pluralists, obesely lowering, +At once benighting and devouring!-- + +This--this it is--and here I pray + Those sapient wits of the Reviews. +Who make us poor, dull authors say, + Not what we mean, but what they choose; +Who to our most abundant shares +Of nonsense add still more of theirs, +And are to poets just such evils + As caterpillars find those flies,[3] +Which, not content to sting like devils, + Lay eggs upon their backs like wise-- +To guard against such foul deposits + Of other's meaning in my rhymes, +(A thing more needful here because it's + A subject, ticklish in these times)-- +I, here, to all such wits make known, + Monthly and Weekly, Whig and Tory, +'Tis _this_ Religion--this alone-- + I aim at in the following story:-- + +FABLE. + +When Royalty was young and bold, + Ere, touched by Time, he had become-- +If 'tisn't civil to say _old_, + At least, a _ci-devant jeune homme_; + +One evening, on some wild pursuit + Driving along, he chanced to see +Religion, passing by on foot, + And took him in his vis-à-vis. + +This said Religion was a Friar, + The humblest and the best of men, +Who ne'er had notion or desire + Of riding in a coach till then. + +"I say"--quoth Royalty, who rather + Enjoyed a masquerading joke-- +"I say, suppose, my good old father, + "You lend me for a while your cloak." + +The Friar consented--little knew + What tricks the youth had in his head; +Besides, was rather tempted too + By a laced coat he got instead. + +Away ran Royalty, slap-dash, + Scampering like mad about the town; +Broke windows, shivered lamps to smash, + And knockt whole scores of watchmen down. + +While naught could they, whose heads were broke, + Learn of the "why" or the "wherefore," +Except that 'twas Religion's cloak + The gentleman, who crackt them, wore, + +Meanwhile, the Friar, whose head was turned + By the laced coat, grew frisky too; +Lookt big--his former habits spurned-- + And stormed about, as great men do: + +Dealt much in pompous oaths and curses-- + Said "Damn you" often, or as bad-- +Laid claim to other people's purses-- + In short, grew either knaves or mad. + +As work like this was unbefitting, + And flesh and blood no longer bore it, +The Court of Common Sense, then sitting, + Summoned the culprits both before it. + +Where, after hours in wrangling spent + (As Courts must wrangle to decide well). +Religion to St. Luke's was sent, + And Royalty packt off to Bridewell. + +With this proviso--should they be + Restored, in due time, to their senses, +They both must give security, + In future, against such offences-- +Religion ne'er to _lend his cloak_, + Seeing what dreadful work it leads to; +And Royalty to crack his joke,-- + But _not_ to crack poor people's heads too. + + +[1] The salamander is supposed to have the power of extinguishing fire by +its natural coldness and moisture. + +[2] A well-known publisher of irreligious books. + +[3] "The greatest number of the ichneumon tribe are seen settling upon the +back of the caterpillar, and darting at different intervals their stings +into its body--at every dart they deposit an egg"--GOLDSMITH. + + + + + + +FABLE VI. + +THE LITTLE GRAND LAMA. + + +PROEM. + +Novella, a young Bolognese, + The daughter of a learned Law Doctor,[1] +Who had with all the subtleties + Of old and modern jurists stockt her, +Was so exceeding fair, 'tis said, + And over hearts held such dominion, +That when her father, sick in bed, +Or busy, sent her, in his stead, + To lecture on the Code Justinian, +She had a curtain drawn before her, + Lest, if her charms were seen, the students +Should let their young eyes wander o'er her, + And quite forget their jurisprudence. +Just so it is with Truth, when _seen_, + Too dazzling far,--'tis from behind +A light, thin allegoric screen, + She thus can safest leach mankind. + +FABLE. + +In Thibet once there reigned, we're told, +A little Lama, one year old-- +Raised to the throne, that realm to bless, +Just when his little Holiness +Had cut--as near as can be reckoned-- +Some say his _first_ tooth, some his _second_. +Chronologers and Nurses vary, +Which proves historians should be wary. +We only know the important truth, +His Majesty _had_ cut a tooth. +And much his subjects were enchanted,-- + As well all Lamas' subjects _may_ be, +And would have given their heads, if wanted, + To make tee-totums for the baby. +Throned as he was by Right Divine-- + (What Lawyers call _Jure Divino_, +Meaning a right to yours and mine + And everybody's goods and rhino.) +Of course, his faithful subjects' purses + Were ready with their aids and succors; +Nothing was seen but pensioned Nurses; + And the land groaned with bibs and tuckers. + +Oh! had there been a Hume or Bennet, +Then sitting in the Thibet Senate, +Ye Gods! what room for long debates +Upon the Nursery Estimates! +What cutting down of swaddling-clothes + And pinafores, in nightly battles! +What calls for papers to expose + The waste of sugar-plums and rattles! +But no--if Thibet _had_ M.P.s, +They were far better bred than these; +Nor gave the slightest opposition, +During the Monarch's whole dentition. + +But short this calm;--for, just when he, +Had reached the alarming age of three, +When Royal natures and no doubt +Those of _all_ noble beasts break out-- +The Lama, who till then was quiet, +Showed symptoms of a taste for riot; +And, ripe for mischief, early, late, +Without regard for Church or State, +Made free with whosoe'er came nigh; + Tweakt the Lord Chancellor by the nose, +Turned all the Judges' wigs awry, + And trod on the old Generals' toes; +Pelted the Bishops with hot buns, + Rode cock-horse on the City maces, +And shot from little devilish guns, + Hard peas into the subjects' faces. +In short, such wicked pranks he played, + And' grew so mischievous, God bless him! +That his Chief Nurse--with even the aid +Of an Archbishop--was afraid. + When in these moods, to comb or dress him. +Nay, even the persons most inclined + Thro' thick and thin, for Kings to stickle, +Thought him (if they'd but speak their mind; + Which they did _not_) an odious pickle. + +At length some patriot lords--a breed + Of animals they've got in Thibet, +Extremely rare and fit indeed + For folks like Pidcock, to exhibit-- +Some patriot lords, who saw the length +To which things went, combined their strength, +And penned a manly, plain and free, +Remonstrance to the Nursery; +Protesting warmly that they yielded +To none that ever went before 'em, +In loyalty to him who wielded + The hereditary pap-spoon o'er 'em; +That, as for treason, 'twas a thing + That made them almost sick to think of-- +That they and theirs stood by the King, + Throughout his measles and his chincough, +When others, thinking him consumptive, +Had ratted to the Heir Presumptive!-- +But, still--tho' much admiring Kings +(And chiefly those in leading-strings), +They saw, with shame and grief of soul, + There was no longer now the wise +And constitutional control + Of _birch_ before their ruler's eyes; +But that of late such pranks and tricks + And freaks occurred the whole day long, +As all but men with bishoprics + Allowed, in even a King, were wrong. +Wherefore it was they humbly prayed + That Honorable Nursery, +That such reforms be henceforth made, + As all good men desired to see;-- +In other words (lest they might seem +Too tedious), as the gentlest scheme +For putting all such pranks to rest, + And in its bud the mischief nipping-- +They ventured humbly to suggest + His Majesty should have a whipping! + +When this was read, no Congreve rocket, + Discharged into the Gallic trenches +E'er equalled the tremendous shock it + Produced upon the Nursery benches. +The Bishops, who of course had votes, +By right of age and petticoats, +Were first and foremost in the fuss-- + "What, whip a Lama! suffer birch +"To touch his sacred--infamous! +"Deistical!--assailing thus + "The fundamentals of the Church!-- +"No--no--such patriot plans as these, +"(So help them Heaven--and their Sees!) +"They held to be rank blasphemies." + +The alarm thus given, by these and other + Grave ladies of the Nursery side, +Spread thro' the land, till, such a pother, + Such party squabbles, far and wide, +Never in history's page had been +Recorded, as were then between +The Whippers and Non-whippers seen. +Till, things arriving at a state, + Which gave some fears of revolution, +The patriot lords' advice, tho' late, + Was put at last in execution. +The Parliament of Thibet met-- + The little Lama, called before it, +Did, then and there, his whipping get, +And (as the _Nursery Gazette_ + Assures us) like a hero bore it. + +And tho', 'mong Thibet Tories, some +Lament that Royal Martyrdom +(Please to observe, the letter D +In this last word's pronounced like B), +Yet to the example of that Prince + So much is Thibet's land a debtor, +That her long line of Lamas, since, + Have all behaved themselves _much_ better. + + +[1] Andreas. + + + + + + +FABLE VII. + +THE EXTINGUISHERS. + + +PROEM. + +Tho' soldiers are the true supports, +The natural allies of Courts, +Woe to the Monarch, who depends +Too _much_ on his red-coated friends; +For even soldiers sometimes _think_-- + Nay, Colonels have been known to _reason_,-- + +And reasoners, whether clad in pink +Or red or blue, are on the brink + (Nine cases out of ten) of treason + +Not many soldiers, I believe, are + As fond of liberty as Mina; +Else--woe to Kings! when Freedom's fever + Once turns into a _Scarletina_! +For then--but hold--'tis best to veil +My meaning in the following tale:-- + +FABLE. + +A Lord of Persia, rich and great, +Just come into a large estate, +Was shockt to find he had, for neighbors, +Close to his gate, some rascal Ghebers, +Whose fires, beneath his very nose, +In heretic combustion rose. +But Lords of Persia can, no doubt, + Do what they will--so, one fine morning, +He turned the rascal Ghebers out, + First giving a few kicks for warning. +Then, thanking Heaven most piously, + He knockt their Temple to the ground, +Blessing himself for joy to see + Such Pagan ruins strewed around. +But much it vext my Lord to find, + That, while all else obeyed his will, +The Fire these Ghebers left behind, + Do what he would, kept burning still. +Fiercely he stormed, as if his frown +Could scare the bright insurgent down; +But, no--such fires are headstrong things, +And care not much for Lords or Kings. +Scarce could his Lordship well contrive + The flashes in _one_ place to smother, +Before--hey presto!--all alive, + They sprung up freshly in another. + +At length when, spite of prayers and damns, + 'Twas found the sturdy flame defied him, +His stewards came, with low _salams_, + Offering, by _contract_, to provide him +Some large Extinguishers, (a plan, +Much used, they said, at Ispahan, +Vienna, Petersburg--in short, +Wherever Light's forbid at court), +Machines no Lord should be without, +Which would at once put promptly out +All kinds of fires,--from staring, stark +Volcanoes to the tiniest spark; +Till all things slept as dull and dark, +As in a great Lord's neighborhood +'Twas right and fitting all things should. + +Accordingly, some large supplies + Of these Extinguishers were furnisht +(All of the true Imperial size), + And there, in rows, stood black and burnisht, +Ready, where'er a gleam but shone +Of light or fire, to be clapt on. + +But ah! how lordly wisdom errs, +In trusting to extinguishers! +One day, when he had left all sure, +(At least, so thought he) dark, secure-- +The flame, at all its exits, entries, + Obstructed to his heart's content, +And black extinguishers, like sentries, + Placed over every dangerous vent-- +Ye Gods, imagine his amaze, + His wrath, his rage, when, on returning, +He found not only the old blaze, + Brisk as before, crackling and burning,-- +Not only new, young conflagrations, +Popping up round in various stations-- +But still more awful, strange and dire, +The Extinguishers themselves on fire!![1] +They, they--those trusty, blind machines + His Lordship had so long been praising, +As, under Providence, the means + Of keeping down all lawless blazing, +Were now, themselves--alas, too true, +The shameful fact--turned blazers too, +And by a change as odd as cruel +Instead of dampers, served for fuel! +Thus, of his only hope bereft, + "What," said the great man, "must be done?"-- +All that, in scrapes like this, is left + To great men is--to cut and run. +So run he did; while to their grounds, + The banisht Ghebers blest returned; +And, tho' their Fire had broke its bounds, + And all abroad now wildly burned, +Yet well could they, who loved the flame, +Its wandering, its excess reclaim; +And soon another, fairer Dome +Arose to be its sacred home, +Where, cherisht, guarded, not confined, +The living glory dwelt inshrined, +And, shedding lustre strong, but even, +Tho' born of earth, grew worthy heaven. + +MORAL. + +The moral hence my Muse infers + Is, that such Lords are simple elves, +In trusting to Extinguishers, + That are combustible themselves. + + +[1] The idea of this Fable was caught from one of those brilliant _mots_, +which abound in the conversation of my friend, the author of the "Letters +to Julia,"--a production which contains some of the happiest specimens of +playful poetry that have appeared in this or any age. + + + + + + +FABLE VIII. + +LOUIS FOURTEENTH'S WIG. + + +The money raised--the army ready-- +Drums beating, and the Royal Neddy +Valiantly braying in the van, +To the old tune "_"Eh, eh, Sire Àne_!"[1]-- +Naught wanting, but some _coup_ dramatic, + To make French _sentiment_ explode, +Bring in, at once, the _goût_ fanatic, + And make the war "_la dernière mode_"-- +Instantly, at the _Pavillon Marsan_, + Is held an Ultra consultation-- +What's to be done, to help the farce on? + What stage-effect, what decoration, +To make this beauteous France forget, +In one, grand, glorious _pirouette_, +All she had sworn to but last week, +And, with a cry of _Magnifique_!" +Rush forth to this, or _any_ war, +Without inquiring once--"What for?" +After some plans proposed by each. +Lord Chateaubriand made a speech, +(Quoting, to show what men's rights are, + Or rather what men's rights _should be_, +From Hobbes, Lord Castlereagh, the Tsar, + And other friends to Liberty,) +Wherein he--having first protested +'Gainst humoring the mob--suggested +(As the most high-bred plan he saw +For giving the new War _éclat_) +A grand, Baptismal Melo-drame, +To be got up at Notre Dame, +In which the Duke (who, bless his Highness! + Had by his _hilt_ acquired such fame, +'Twas hoped that he as little shyness + Would show, when to _the point_ he came,) +Should, for his deeds so lion-hearted, +Be christened _Hero_, ere he started; +With power, by Royal Ordonnance, +To bear that name--at least in France. +Himself--the Viscount Chateaubriand-- +(To help the affair with more _esprit_ on) +Offering, for this baptismal rite, + Some of his own famed Jordan water[2]-- +(Marie Louise not having quite + Used all that, for young Nap, he brought her.) +The baptism, in _this_ case, to be +Applied to that extremity, +Which Bourbon heroes most expose; +And which (as well all Europe knows) +Happens to be, in this Defender +Of the true Faith, extremely tender. + +Or if (the Viscount said) this scheme +Too rash and premature should seem-- +If thus discounting heroes, _on_ tick-- + This glory, by anticipation, +Was too much in the _genre romantique_ + For such a highly classic nation, +He begged to say, the Abyssinians +A practice had in their dominions, +Which, if at Paris got up well. +In full _costume_, was sure to tell. +At all great epochs, good or ill, + They have, says BRUCE (and BRUCE ne'er budges +From the strict truth), a Grand Quadrille + In public danced by the Twelve Judges[3]-- +And he assures us, the grimaces, +The _entre-chats_, the airs and graces +Of dancers, so profound and stately, +Divert the Abyssinians greatly. + +"Now (said the Viscount), there's but few +"Great Empires where this plan would do: +"For instance, England;--let them take + "What pains they would--'twere vain to strive-- +"The twelve stiff Judges there would make + "The worst Quadrille-set now alive. +"One must have seen them, ere one could +"Imagine properly JUDGE WOOD, +"Performing, in hie wig, so gayly, +"A _queue-de chat_ with JUSTICE BAILLY! +"_French_ Judges, tho', are, by no means, +"This sort of stiff, be-wigged machines; +"And we, who've seen them at _Saumur_ +"And _Poitiers_ lately, may be sure +"They'd dance quadrilles or anything, +"That would be pleasing to the King-- +"Nay, stand upon their heads, and more do, +"To please the little Duc de Bordeaux!" + +After these several schemes there came +Some others--needless now to name, +Since that, which Monsieur planned, himself, +Soon doomed all others to the shelf, +And was received _par acclamation_ +As truly worthy the _Grande Nation_. + +It seems (as Monsieur told the story) +That LOUIS the Fourteenth,--that glory, +That _Coryphée_ of all crowned pates,-- +That pink of the Legitimates-- +Had, when, with many a pious prayer, he +Bequeathed unto the Virgin Mary +His marriage deeds, and _cordon bleu_, +Bequeathed to her his State Wig too-- +(An offering which, at Court, 'tis thought, +The Virgin values as she ought)-- +That Wig, the wonder of all eyes, +The Cynosure of Gallia's skies, +To watch and tend whose curls adored, + Re-build its towering roof, when flat, +And round its rumpled base, a Board + Of sixty barbers daily sat, +With Subs, on State-Days, to assist, +Well pensioned from the Civil List:-- +That wondrous Wig, arrayed in which, +And formed alike to awe or witch. +He beat all other heirs of crowns, +In taking mistresses and towns, +Requiring but a shot at _one_, +A smile at _t'other_, and 'twas done!-- + + "That Wig" (said Monsieur, while his brow +Rose proudly,) "is existing now;-- +"That Grand Perruque, amid the fall + "Of every other Royal glory, +"With curls erect survives them all, + "And tells in every hair their story. +"Think, think, how welcome at this time +"A relic, so beloved, sublime! +"What worthier standard of the Cause + "Of Kingly Right can France demand? +"Or who among our ranks can pause + "To guard it, while a curl shall stand? +"Behold, my friends"--(while thus he cried, +A curtain, which concealed this pride +Of Princely Wigs was drawn aside) +"Behold that grand Perruque--how big + "With recollections for the world-- +"For France--for us--Great Louis's Wig, + "By HIPPOLYTE new frizzed and curled-- +"_New frizzed_! alas, 'tis but too true, +"Well may you start at that word _new_-- +"But such the sacrifice, my friends, +"The Imperial Cossack recommends; +"Thinking such small concessions sage, +"To meet the spirit of the age, +"And do what best that spirit flatters, +"In Wigs--if not in weightier matters. + "Wherefore to please the Tsar, and show +"That _we_ too, much-wronged Bourbons, know +"What liberalism in Monarchs is, +"We have conceded the New Friz! +"Thus armed, ye gallant Ultras, say, +"Can men, can Frenchmen, fear the fray? +"With this proud relic in our van, + "And D'ANGOULEME our worthy leader, +"Let rebel Spain do all she can, + "Let recreant England arm and feed her,-- +"Urged by that pupil of HUNT'S school, +"That Radical, Lord LIVERPOOL-- +"France can have naught to fear--far from it-- + "When once astounded Europe sees +"The Wig of LOUIS, like a Comet, + "Streaming above the Pyrenées, +"All's o'er with Spain--then on, my sons, + "On, my incomparable Duke, +"And, shouting for the Holy Ones, + "Cry _Vive la Guerre--et la Perrugue!"_ + + +[1] They celebrated in the dark ages, at many churches, particularly at +Rouen, what was called the Feast of the Ass. On this occasion the ass, +finely drest, was brought before the altar, and they sung before him this +elegant anthem, "_Eh, eh, eh, Sire Àne, eh, eh, eh. Sire Àne_."-- +WARTEN'S Essay on Pope. + +[2] Brought from the river Jordan by M. Chateaubriand, and presented to +the French Empress for the christening of young Napoleon. + +[3] "On certain great occasions, the twelve Judges (who are generally +between sixty and seventy years of age) sing the song and dance the +figure-dance," etc.--Book. v. + + + + + + + + +THE FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS. + + + _Le Leggi della Maschera richiedono che una persona mascherata non + sia salutata per nome da uno che la conosce malgrado il suo + travestimento_. + CASTIGLIONE. + + + + +PREFACE. + + +In what manner the following Epistles came into my hands, it is not +necessary for the public to know. It will be seen by Mr. FUDGE'S Second +Letter, that he is one of those gentlemen whose _Secret Services_ in +Ireland, under the mild ministry of my Lord CASTLEREAGH, have been so +amply and gratefully remunerated. Like his friend and associate, THOMAS +REYNOLDS, Esq., he had retired upon the reward of his honest industry; but +has lately been induced to appear again in active life, and superintend +the training of that _Delatorian Cohort_ which Lord SIDMOUTH, in his +wisdom and benevolence, has organized. + +Whether Mr. FUDGE, himself, has yet made any discoveries, does not appear +from the following pages. But much may be expected from a person of his +zeal and sagacity, and, indeed, to _him_, Lord SIDMOUTH, and the +Greenland-bound ships, the eyes of all lovers of _discoveries_ are now +most anxiously directed. + +I regret much that I have been obliged to omit Mr. BOB FUDGE'S Third +Letter, concluding the adventures of his Day with the Dinner, Opera, etc.; +--but, in consequence of some remarks upon Marinette's thin drapery, +which, it was thought, might give offence to certain well-meaning persons, +the manuscript was sent back to Paris for his revision and had not +returned when the last sheet was put to press. + +It will not, I hope, be thought presumptuous, if I take this opportunity +of complaining of a very serious injustice I have suffered from the +public. Dr. KING wrote a treatise to prove that BENTLEY "was not the +author of his own book," and a similar absurdity has been asserted of +_me_, in almost all the best-informed literary circles. With the name of +the real author staring them in the face, they have yet persisted in +attributing my works to other people; and the fame of the "Twopenny Post- +Bag"--such as it is--having hovered doubtfully over various persons, has +at last settled upon the head of a certain little gentleman, who wears it, +I understand, as complacently as if it actually belonged to him. + +I can only add, that if any lady or gentleman, curious in such matters, +will take the trouble of calling at my lodgings, 245 Piccadilly, I shall +have the honor of assuring them, _in propriâ personâ_, that I am--his, or +her, + +Very obedient and very humble Servant, + +_April_ 17, 1818. + +THOMAS BROWN THE YOUNGER. + + + + + + +THE FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS + + + + + + +LETTER I. + +FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY ----, +OF CLONKILTY, IN IRELAND. + + +Amiens. + +Dear DOLL, while the tails of our horses are plaiting, + The trunks tying on, and Papa, at the door, +Into very bad French is as usual translating + His English resolve not to give a _sou_ more, +I sit down to write you a line--only think!-- +A letter from France, with French pens and French ink, +How delightful! tho', would you believe it, my dear? +I have seen nothing yet _very_ wonderful here; +No adventure, no sentiment, far as we've come, +But the cornfields and trees quite as dull as at home; +And _but_ for the post-boy, his boots and his queue, +I might _just_ as well be at Clonkilty with you! +In vain, at DESSEIN'S, did I take from my trunk +That divine fellow, STERNE, and fall reading "The Monk;" +In vain did I think of his charming Dead Ass, +And remember the crust and the wallet--alas! +No monks can be had now for love or for money, +(All owing, Pa says, to that infidel BONEY;) +And, tho' _one_ little Neddy we saw in our drive +Out of classical Nampont, the beast was alive! + + By the by, tho' at Calais, Papa _had_ a touch +Of romance on the pier, which affected me much. +At the sight of that spot, where our darling DIXHUIT +Set the first of his own dear legitimate feet,[1] +(Modelled out so exactly, and--God bless the mark! +'Tis a foot, DOLLY, worthy so _Grand a Monarque_). +He exclaimed, "_Oh, mon Roi_!" and, with tear-dropping eye, +Stood to gaze on the spot--while some Jacobin, nigh, +Muttered out with a shrug (what an insolent thing!) +"_Ma foi_, he be right--'tis de Englishman's King; +And dat _gros pied de cochon_--begar me vil say +Dat de foot look mosh better, if turned toder way." +There's the pillar, too--Lord! I had nearly forgot-- +What a charming idea!--raised close to the spot; +The mode being now, (as you've heard, I suppose,) +To build tombs over legs and raise pillars to toes. + This is all that's occurred sentimental as yet; +Except indeed some little flower-nymphs we've met, +Who disturb one's romance with pecuniary views, +Flinging flowers in your path, and then--bawling for _sous_! +And some picturesque beggars, whose multitudes seem +To recall the good days of the _ancien regime_, +All as ragged and brisk, you'll be happy to learn, +And as thin as they were in the time of poor STERNE. + + Our party consists (in a neat Calais job) +Of Papa and myself, Mr. CONNOR and BOB. +You remember how sheepish BOB lookt at Kilrandy, +But, Lord! he's quite altered--they've made him a Dandy; +A thing, you know, whiskered, great-coated, and laced, +Like an hour-glass, exceedingly small in the waist; +Quite a new sort of creatures, unknown yet to scholars, +With beads so immovably stuck in shirt-collars, +That seats, like our music-stools, soon must be found them, +To twirl, when the creatures may wish, to look round them, +In short, dear, "a Dandy" describes what I mean, +And BOB's far the best of the _genus_ I've seen: +An improving young man, fond of learning, ambitious, +And goes now to Paris to study French dishes. +Whose names--think, how quick! he already knows pat, +_À la braise, petits pâtés_, and--what d' ye call that +They inflict on potatoes?--oh! _maître d'hôtel_-- +I assure you, dear DOLLY, he knows them as well +As if nothing else all his life he had eat, +Tho' a bit of them BOBBY has never touched yet; +But just knows the names of French dishes and cooks, +As dear Pa knows the titles of authors and books. + +As to Pa, what d' ye think?--mind, it's all _entre nous_, +But you know, love, I never keep secrets from you-- +Why, he's writing a book--what! a tale? a romance? +No, we Gods, would it were!--but his travels in France; +At the special desire (he let out t'other day) +Of his great friend and patron, my Lord CASTLEREAGH, +Who said, "My dear FUDGE"--I forget the exact words, +And, it's strange, no one ever remembers my Lord's; +But 'twas something to say that, as all must allow +A good orthodox work is much wanting just now, +To expound to the world the new--thingummie--science, +Found out by the--what's-its-name--Holy Alliance, +And prove to mankind that their rights are but folly, +Their freedom a joke (which it _is_, you know, DOLLY), +"There's none," said his Lordship, "if _I_ may be judge, +Half so fit for this great undertaking as FUDGE!" + +The matter's soon, settled--Pa flies to _the Row_ +(The _first_ stage your tourists now usually go), +Settles all for his quarto--advertisements, praises-- +Starts post from the door, with his tablets--French phrases-- +"SCOTT'S Visit" of course--in short, everything _he_ has +An author can want, except words and ideas:-- +And, lo! the first thing, in the spring of the year, +Is PHIL. FUDGE at the front of a Quarto, my dear! +But, bless me, my paper's near out, so I'd better +Draw fast to a close:--this exceeding long letter +You owe to a _déjeûner à la fourchette_, +Which BOBBY _would_ have, and is hard at it yet.-- +What's next? oh? the tutor, the last of the party, +Young CONNOR:--they say he's so like BONAPARTE, +His nose and his chin--which Papa rather dreads, +As the Bourbons, you know, are suppressing all heads +That resemble old NAP'S, and who knows but their honors +May think, in their fright, of suppressing poor CONNOR'S? +_Au reste_ (as we say), the young lad's well enough, +Only talks much of Athens, Rome, virtue and stuff; +A third cousin of ours, by the way--poor as Job + (Tho' of royal descent by the side of Mamma), +And for charity made private tutor to BOB; + _Entre nous_, too, a Papist--how liberal of Pa! + +This is all, dear,--forgive me for breaking off thus, +But BOB'S _déjeûner_'s done, and Papa's in a fuss. + +B. F. + +P. S. + +How provoking of Pa! he will not let me stop +Just to run in and rummage some milliner's shop; +And my _début_ in Paris, I blush to think on it, +Must now, DOLL, be made in a hideous low bonnet. +But Paris, dear Paris!--oh, _there_ will be joy, +And romance, and high bonnets, and Madame Le Roi![2] + + +[1] To commemorate the landing of Louis le Désiré from England, +the impression of his foot is marked out on the pier at Calais, and a +pillar with an inscription raised opposite to the spot. + +[2] A celebrated mantua-maker in Paris. + + + + + + +LETTER II. + +FROM PHIL. FUDGE, ESQ., TO THE LORD VISCOUNT CASTLEREAGH. + + +Paris. + +At length, my Lord, I have the bliss +To date to you a line from this +"Demoralized" metropolis; +Where, by plebeians low and scurvy, +The throne was turned quite topsy-turvy, +And Kingship, tumbled from its seat, +"Stood prostrate" at the people's feet; +Where (still to use your Lordship's tropes) +The _level_ of obedience _slopes_ +Upward and downward, as the _stream_ +Of _hydra_ faction _kicks the beam_![1] +Where the poor Palace changes masters + Quicker than a snake its skin, +And LOUIS is rolled out on castors, + While BONEY'S borne on shoulders in:-- +But where, in every change, no doubt, + One special good your Lordship traces,-- +That 'tis the _Kings_ alone turn out, +The _Ministers_ still keep their places. + +How oft, dear Viscount CASTLEREAGH, +I've thought of thee upon the way, +As in my _job_ (what place could be +More apt to wake a thought of thee?)-- +Or, oftener far, when gravely sitting +Upon my dicky, (as is fitting +For him who writes a Tour, that he +May more of men and manners see.) +I've thought of thee and of thy glories, +Thou guest of Kings and King of Tories! +Reflecting how thy fame has grown + And spread, beyond man's usual share, +At home, abroad, till thou art known, + Like Major SEMPLE, everywhere! +And marvelling with what powers of breath +Your Lordship, having speeched to death +Some hundreds of your fellow-men, +Next speeched to Sovereign's ears,--and when +All Sovereigns else were dozed, at last +Speeched down the Sovereign of Belfast. +Oh! mid the praises and the trophies +Thou gain'st from Morosophs and Sophis; +Mid all the tributes to thy fame, + There's one thou shouldst be chiefly pleased at-- +That Ireland gives her snuff thy name, + And CASTLEREAGH'S the thing now sneezed at! + +But hold, my pen!--a truce to praising-- + Tho' even your Lordship will allow +The theme's temptations are amazing; + But time and ink run short, and now, +(As _thou_ wouldst say, my guide and teacher + In these gay metaphorie fringes, +I must _embark_ into the _feature_ + On which this letter chiefly _hinges_;) +My Book, the Book that is to prove-- +And _will_, (so help ye Sprites above, +That sit on clouds, as grave as judges, +Watching the labors of the FUDGES!) +_Will_ prove that all the world, at present, +Is in a state extremely pleasant; +That Europe--thanks to royal swords + And bayonets, and the Duke commanding-- +Enjoys a peace which, like the Lord's, + Passeth all human understanding: +That France prefers her go-cart King + To such a coward scamp as BONEY; +Tho' round, with each a leading-string. + There standeth many a Royal crony, +For fear the chubby, tottering thing + Should fall, if left there _loney-poney_;-- +That England, too, the more her debts, +The more she spends, the richer gets; +And that the Irish, grateful nation! + Remember when by _thee_ reigned over, +And bless thee for their flagellation, +As HELOISA did her lover![2]-- +That Poland, left for Russia's lunch + Upon the sideboard, snug reposes: +While Saxony's as pleased as Punch, + And Norway "on a bed of roses!" +That, as for some few million souls, + Transferred by contract, bless the clods! +If half were strangled--Spaniards, Poles, + And Frenchmen--'twouldn't make much odds, +So Europe's goodly Royal ones +Sit easy on their sacred thrones; +So FERDINAND embroiders gayly,[3] +And Louis eats his _salmi_ daily; +So time is left to Emperor SANDY +To be _half_ Caesar and _half_ Dandy; +And GEORGE the REGENT (who'd forget +That doughtiest chieftain of the set?) +Hath wherewithal for trinkets new, + For dragons, after Chinese models, +And chambers where Duke Ho and Soo + Might come and nine times knock their noddles!-- +All this my Quarto'll prove--much more +Than Quarto ever proved before:-- +In reasoning with the _Post_ I'll vie, +My facts the _Courier_ shall supply, +My jokes VANSITTART, PEELE my sense, +And thou, sweet Lord, my eloquence! + +My Journal, penned by fits and starts, + On BIDDY'S back or BOBBY'S shoulder, +(My son, my Lord, a youth of parts, + Who longs to be a small placeholder,) +Is--tho' _I_ say't, that shouldn’t say-- +Extremely good; and, by the way, +_One_ extract from it--_only_ one-- +To show its spirit, and I've done. +_"Jul. thirty-first_.--Went, after snack, + "To the Cathedral of St. Denny; +"Sighed o'er the Kings of ages back, + "And--gave the old Concierge a penny. +"(_Mem_.--Must see _Rheims_, much famed, 'tis said, +"For making Kings and ginger-bread.) +"Was shown the tomb where lay, so stately, +"A little Bourbon, buried lately, +"Thrice high and puissant, we were told, +"Tho' only twenty-four hours old! +"Hear this, thought I, ye Jacobins: +"Ye Burdetts, tremble in your skins! +"If Royalty, but aged a day, +"Can boast such high and puissant sway +"What impious hand its power would fix, +"Full fledged and wigged at fifty-six!" + +The argument's quite new, you see, +And proves exactly Q. E. D. +So now, with duty to the KEGENT, +I am dear Lord, + Your most obedient, + P. F. + +_Hôtel Breteuil, Rue Rivoli_. +Neat lodgings--rather dear for me; +But BIDDY said she thought 'twould look! +Genteeler thus to date my Book; +And BIDDY'S right--besides, it curries +Some favor with our friends at MURRAY'S, +Who scorn what any man can say, +That dates from Rue St. Honoré![4] + + +[1] This excellent imitation of the noble Lord's style shows how deeply +Mr. Fudge must have studied his great original. Irish oratory, indeed, +abounds with such startling peculiarities. Thus the eloquent Counsellor +B----, in describing some hypocritical pretender to charity, said, "He put +his hand in his breeches-pocket, like a crocodile, and," etc. + +[2] See her Letters. + +[3] It would be an edifying thing to write a history of the private +amusements of sovereigns, tracing them down from the fly-sticking of +Domitian, the mole-catching of Artabanus, the, hog-mimicking of +Parmenides, the horse-currying of Aretas, to the petticoat-embroidering of +Ferdinand, and the patience-playing of the Prince Regent! + +[4] See the _Quarterly Review_ for May, 1816 where Mr. Hobhouse is +accused of having written his book "in a back street of the French +capital." + + + + + + +LETTER III. + +FROM MR. BOB FUDGE TO RICHARD ----, ESQ. + + +Oh Dick! you may talk of your writing and reading, +Your Logic and Greek, but there's nothing like feeding; +And _this_ is the place for it, DICKY, you dog, +Of all places on earth--the headquarters of Prog! +Talk of England--her famed _Magna Charta_, I swear, is +A humbug, a flam, to the Carte[1] at old VÉRY'S; +And as for your Juries--_who_ would not set o'er 'em +A Jury of Tasters, with woodcocks before 'em? +Give CARTWRIGHT his Parliaments, fresh every year; +But those friends of _short Commons_ would never do here; +And, let ROMILLY speak as he will on the question. +No Digest of Law's like the laws of digestion! + +By the by, DICK, _I_ fatten--but _n'importe_ for that, +'Tis the mode--your Legitimates always get fat. +There's the REGENT, there's LOUIS--and BONEY tried too, +But, tho' somewhat imperial in paunch, 'twouldn't do:-- +He improved indeed much in this point when he wed, +But he ne'er grew right royally fat _in the head_. + +DICK, DICK, what a place is this Paris!--but stay-- +As my raptures may bore you, I'll just sketch a Day, +As we pass it, myself and some comrades I've got, +All thorough-bred _Gnostics_, who know what is what. + +After dreaming some hours of the land of Cocaigne, + That Elysium of all that is _friand_ and nice, +Where for hail they have _bon-bons_, and claret for rain, + And the skaters in winter show off on _cream_-ice; +Where so ready all nature its cookery yields, +_Macaroni au parmesan_ grows in the fields; +Little birds fly about with the true pheasant taint, +And the geese are all born with a liver complaint! +I rise--put on neck-cloth--stiff, tight, as can be-- +For a lad who _goes into the world_, DICK, like me, +Should have his neck tied up, you know--there's no doubt of it-- +Almost as tight as _some_ lads who _go out of it_. +With whiskers well oiled, and with boots that "hold up +"The mirror to nature"--so bright you could sup +Off the leather like china; with coat, too, that draws +On the tailor, who suffers, a martyr's applause!-- +With head bridled up, like a four-in-hand leader, +And stays--devil's in them--too tight for a feeder, +I strut to the old Café Hardy, which yet +Beats the field at a _déjeûner a la fourchette_. +There, DICK, what a breakfast!--oh! not like your ghost +Of a breakfast in England, your curst tea and toast; +But a side-board, you dog, where one's eye roves about, +Like a turk's in the Haram, and thence singles out +One's pâté of larks, just to tune up the throat, +One's small limbs of chickens, done _en papillote_. +One's erudite cutlets, drest all ways but plain, +Or one's kidneys--imagine, DICK--done with champagne! +Then, some glasses of _Beaune_, to dilute--or, mayhap, +_Chambertin_,[2]which you know's the pet tipple of NAP, +And which Dad, by the by, that legitimate stickler, +Much scruples to taste, but I'm not so partic'lar.-- +Your coffee comes next, by prescription: and then DICK's +The coffee's ne'er-failing and glorious appendix, +(If books had but such, my old Grecian, depend on't, +I'd swallow e'en Watkins', for sake of the end on't,) +A neat glass of _parfait-amour_, which one sips +Just as if bottled velvet tipt over one's lips. +This repast being ended, and _paid for_--(how odd! +Till a man's used to paying, there's something so queer in't!)-- +The sun now well out, and the girls all abroad, + And the world enough aired for us Nobs to appear in't, +We lounge up the boulevards, where--oh! DICK, the phizzes, +The turn-outs, we meet--what a nation of quizzes! +Here toddles along some old figure of fun, +With a coat you might date Anno Domini 1.; +A laced hat, worsted stockings, and--noble old soul! +A fine ribbon and cross in his best button-hole; +Just such as our PRINCE, who nor reason nor fun dreads, +Inflicts, without even a court-martial, on hundreds. +Here trips a _grisette_, with a fond, roguish eye, +(Rather eatable things these _grisettes_, by the by); +And there an old _demoiselle_, almost as fond, +In a silk that has stood since the time of the Fronde. +There goes a French Dandy--ah, DICK! unlike some ones +We've seen about WHITE'S--the Mounseers are but rum ones; +Such hats!--fit for monkies--I'd back Mrs. DRAPER +To cut neater weather-boards out of brown paper: +And coats--how I wish, if it wouldn't distress 'em, +They'd club for old BRUMMEL, from Calais, to dress 'em! +The collar sticks out from the neck such a space, + That you'd swear 'twas the plan of this head-lopping nation, +To leave there behind them a snug little place + For the head to drop into, on decapitation. +In short, what with mountebanks, counts and friseurs, +_Some_ mummers by trade and the rest amateurs-- +What with captains in new jockey-boots and silk breeches, + Old dustmen with swinging great opera-hats, +And shoeblacks, reclining by statues in niches, + There never was seen such a race of Jack Sprats! + +From the Boulevards--but hearken!--yes--as I'm a sinner, +The clock is just striking the half-hour to dinner: +So _no_ more at present--short time for adorning-- +My Day must be finisht some other fine morning. +Now, hey for old BEAUVILLIERS'S[3] larder, my boy! +And, once _there_, if the Goddess of Beauty and Joy +Were to write "Come and kiss me, dear BOB!" I'd not budge-- +Not a step, DICK, as sure as my name is + R. FUDGE. + + +[1] The Bill of Fare.--Véry, a well-known _Restaurateur_. + +[2] The favorite wine of Napoleon. + +[3] A celebrated restaurateur. + + + + + + +LETTER IV. + +FROM PHELIM CONNOR TO ---- + + +"Return!"--no, never, while the withering hand +Of bigot power is on that hapless land; +While, for the faith my fathers held to God, +Even in the fields where free those fathers trod, +I am proscribed, and--like the spot left bare +In Israel's halls, to tell the proud and fair +Amidst their mirth, that Slavery had been there[1]-- +On all I love, home, parents, friends, I trace +The mournful mark of bondage and disgrace! +No!--let _them_ stay, who in their country's pangs +See naught but food for factions and harangues; +Who yearly kneel before their masters' doors +And hawk their wrongs, as beggars do their sores: +Still let your . . . .[2] + . . . . . +Still hope and suffer, all who can!--but I, +Who durst not hope, and cannot bear, must fly. + +But whither?--every where the scourge pursues-- +Turn where he will, the wretched wanderer views, +In the bright, broken hopes of all his race, +Countless reflections of the Oppressor's face. +Every where gallant hearts and spirits true, +Are served up victims to the vile and few; +While England, every where--the general foe +Of Truth and Freedom, wheresoe'er they glow-- +Is first, when tyrants strike, to aid the blow. + +Oh, England! could such poor revenge atone +For wrongs, that well might claim the deadliest one; +Were it a vengeance, sweet enough to sate +The wretch who flies from thy intolerant hate, +To hear his curses on such barbarous sway +Echoed, where'er he bends his cheerless way;-- +Could _this_ content him, every lip he meets +Teems for his vengeance with such poisonous sweets; +Were _this_ his luxury, never is thy name +Pronounced, but he doth banquet on thy shame; +Hears maledictions ring from every side +Upon that grasping power, that selfish pride, +Which vaunts its own and scorns all rights beside; +That low and desperate envy which to blast +A neighbor's blessings risks the few thou hast;-- +That monster, Self, too gross to be concealed, +Which ever lurks behind thy proffered shield;-- +That faithless craft, which, in thy hour of need, +Can court the slave, can swear he shall be freed, +Yet basely spurns him, when thy point is gained, +Back to his masters, ready gagged and chained! +Worthy associate of that band of Kings, +That royal, ravening flock, whose vampire wings +O'er sleeping Europe treacherously brood, +And fan her into dreams of promist good, +Of hope, of freedom--but to drain her blood! +If _thus_ to hear thee branded be a bliss +That Vengeance loves, there's yet more sweet than this, +That 'twas an Irish head, an Irish heart, +Made thee the fallen and tarnisht thing thou art; +That, as the centaur gave the infected vest +In which he died, to rack his conqueror's breast, +We sent thee CASTLEREAGH:--as heaps of dead +Have slain their slayers by the pest they spread, +So hath our land breathed out, thy fame to dim, +Thy strength to waste and rot thee soul and limb, +Her worst infections all condensed in him! + + * * * * * + +When will the world shake off such yokes? oh, when +Will that redeeming day shine out on men, +That shall behold them rise, erect and free +As Heaven and Nature meant mankind should be! +When Reason shall no longer blindly bow +To the vile pagod things, that o'er her brow, +Like him of Jaghernaut, drive trampling now; +Nor Conquest dare to desolate God's earth; +Nor drunken Victory, with a NERO'S mirth, +Strike her lewd harp amidst a people's groans;-- +But, built on love, the world's exalted thrones +Shall to the virtuous and the wise be given-- +Those bright, those sole Legitimates of Heaven! + +_When_ will this be?--or, oh! is it, in truth, +But one of those sweet, day-break dreams of youth, +In which the Soul, as round her morning springs, +'Twixt sleep and waking, see such dazzling things! +And must the hope, as vain as it is bright, +Be all resigned?--and are _they_ only right, +Who say this world of thinking souls was made +To be by Kings partitioned, truckt and weighed +In scales that, ever since the world begun, +Have counted millions but as dust to one? +Are _they_ the only wise, who laugh to scorn +The rights, the freedom to which man was born? +Who . . . . . + . . . . . +Who, proud to kiss each separate rod of power, +Bless, while he reigns, the minion of the hour; +Worship each would-be god, that o'er them moves, +And take the thundering of his brass for JOVE'S! +If _this_ be wisdom, then farewell, my books, +Farewell, ye shrines of old, ye classic brooks. +Which fed my soul with currents, pure and fair, +Of living Truth that now must stagnate there!-- +Instead of themes that touch the lyre with light, +Instead of Greece and her immortal fight +For Liberty which once awaked my strings, +Welcome the Grand Conspiracy of Kings, +The High Legitimates, the Holy Band, +Who, bolder' even than He of Sparta's land, +Against whole millions, panting to be free, +Would guard the pass of right line tyranny. +Instead of him, the Athenian bard whose blade +Had stood the onset which his pen portrayed, +Welcome . . . . + . . . . . +And, ‘stead of ARISTIDES--woe the day +Such names should mingle!--welcome Castlereagh! + +Here break we off, at this unhallowed name.[3] +Like priests of old, when words ill-omened came. +My next shall tell thee, bitterly shall tell. +Thoughts that . . . . + . . . . . +Thoughts that--could patience hold--'twere wiser far +To leave still hid and burning where they are. + + +[1] "They used to leave a square yard of the wall of the house +unplastered, on which they write, in large letters, either the fore- +mentioned verse of the Psalmist ('If I forget thee, O Jerusalem,' etc.) or +the words--'The memory of the desolation.'"--Leo of Modena. + +[2] I have thought it prudent to omit some parts of Mr. Phelim Connor's +letter. He is evidently an intemperate young man, and has associated with +his cousins, the Fudges, to very little purpose. + +[3] The late Lord C. of Ireland had a curious theory about names;--he +held that every man with _three_ names was a Jacobin. + + + + + + +LETTER V. + +FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY ----. + + +What a time since I wrote!--I'm a sad, naughty girl-- +For, tho' like a tee-totum, I'm all in a twirl;-- +Yet even (as you wittily say) a tee-totum +Between all its twirls gives a _letter_ to note 'em. +But, Lord, such a place! and then, DOLLY, my dresses, +My gowns, so divine!--there's no language expresses, +Except just the _two_ words "_superbe_, _magnifique_," +The trimmings of that which I had home last week! +It is called--I forget--_à la_--something which sounded +Like _alicampane_--but in truth I'm confounded +And bothered, my dear, 'twixt that troublesome boy's +(BOB'S) cookery language, and Madame LE ROI'S: +What with fillets of roses, and fillets of veal, +Things _garni_ with lace, and things _garni_ with eel, +One's hair and one's cutlets both _en papillote_, +And a thousand more things I shall ne'er have by rote, +I can scarce tell the difference, at least as to phrase, +Between beef _à la Psyche_ and curls _à la braise_.-- +But in short, dear, I'm trickt out quite _à la Francaise_, +With my bonnet--so beautiful!--high up and poking, +Like things that are put to keep chimneys from smoking. + +Where _shall_ I begin with the endless delights +Of this Eden of milliners, monkeys and sights-- +This dear busy place, where there's nothing transacting +But dressing and dinnering, dancing and acting? +Imprimis, the Opera--mercy, my ears! + Brother BOBBY'S remark, t'other night, was a true one:-- +"This _must_ be the music," said he, "of the _spears_, + For I'm curst if each note of it doesn’t run thro' one!" +Pa says (and you know, love, his Book's to make out +'Twas the Jacobins brought every mischief about) +That this passion for roaring has come in of late, +Since the rabble all tried for a _voice_ in the State.-- +What a frightful idea, one's mind to o'erwhelm! + What a chorus, dear DOLLY, would soon be let loose of it, +If, when of age, every man in the realm + Had a voice like old LAIS,[1] and chose to make use of it! +No--never was known in this riotous sphere +Such a breach of the peace as their singing, my dear. +So bad too, you'd swear that the God of both arts, + Of Music and Physic, had taken a frolic +For setting a loud fit of asthma in parts, + And composing a fine rumbling bass to a cholic! + +But, the dancing--_ah parlez-moi_, DOLLY, _de ca_-- +There, _indeed_, is a treat that charms all but Papa. +Such beauty--such grace--oh ye sylphs of romance! + Fly, fly to TITANIA, and ask her if _she_ has +One light-footed nymph in her train, that can dance + Like divine BIGOTTINI and sweet FANNY BIAS! +FANNY BIAS in FLORA--dear creature!--you'd swear, + When her delicate feet in the dance twinkle round, +That her steps are of light, that her home is the air, + And she only _par complaisance_ touches the ground. +And when BIGOTTINI in PSYCHE dishevels + Her black flowing hair, and by daemons is driven, +Oh! who does not envy those rude little devils, + That hold her and hug her, and keep her from heaven? +Then, the music--so softly its cadences die, +So divinely--oh, DOLLY! between you and I, +It's as well for my peace that there's nobody nigh +To make love to me then--_you've_ a soul, and can judge +What a crisis 'twould be for your friend BIDDY FUDGE! + The next place (which BOBBY has near lost his heart in) +They call it the Play-house--I think--of St. Martin;[2] +Quite charming--and _very_ religious--what folly +To say that the French are not pious, dear DOLLY, +Where here one beholds, so correctly and rightly, +The Testament turned into melodrames nightly;[3] +And doubtless so fond they're of scriptural facts, +They will soon get the Pentateuch up in five acts. +Here DANIEL, in pantomime,[4] bids bold defiance +To NEBUCHADNEZZAR and all his stuft lions, +While pretty young Israelites dance round the Prophet, +In very thin clothing, and _but_ little of it;-- +Here BEGRAND,[5] who shines in this scriptural path, + As the lovely SUSANNA, without even a relic +Of drapery round her, comes out of the bath + In a manner that, BOB says, is quite _Eve-angelic_! +But in short, dear, 'twould take me a month to recite +All the exquisite places we're at, day and night; +And, besides, ere I finish, I think you'll be glad +Just to hear one delightful adventure I've had. +Last night, at the Beaujon, a place where--I doubt +If its charms I can paint--there are cars, that set out +From a lighted pavilion, high up in the air, +And rattle you down, DOLL--you hardly know where. +These vehicles, mind me, in which you go thro' +This delightfully dangerous journey, hold _two_, +Some cavalier asks, with humility, whether + You'll venture down _with_ him--you smile--'tis a match; +In an instant you're seated, and down both together + Go thundering, as if you went post to old scratch![6] +Well, it was but last night, as I stood and remarkt +On the looks and odd ways of the girls who embarkt, +The impatience of some for the perilous flight, +The forced giggle of others, 'twixt pleasure and fright,-- +That, there came up--imagine, dear DOLL, if you can-- +A fine sallow, sublime, sort of Werterfaced man, +With mustachios that gave (what we read of so oft) +The dear Corsair expression, half savage, half soft, +As Hyenas in love may be fancied to look, or +A something between ABELARD and old BLUCHER! +Up he came, DOLL, to me, and uncovering his head, +(Rather bald, but so warlike!) in bad English said, +"Ah! my dear--if Ma'mselle vil be so very good-- +Just for von littel course"--tho' I scarce understood +What he wisht me to do, I said, thank him, I would. +Off we set--and, tho' 'faith, dear, I hardly knew whether + My head or my heels were the uppermost then, +For 'twas like heaven and earth, DOLLY, coming together,-- + Yet, spite of the danger, we dared it again. +And oh! as I gazed on the features and air + Of the man, who for me all this peril defied, +I could fancy almost he and I were a pair + Of unhappy young lovers, who thus, side by side, +Were taking, instead of rope, pistol, or dagger, a +Desperate dash down the falls of Niagara! + +This achieved, thro' the gardens we sauntered about, + Saw the fire-works, exclaimed "_magnifique_!" at each cracker, +And, when 'twas all o'er, the dear man saw us out + With the air I _will_ say, of a Prince, to our _fiacre_. + +Now, hear me--this Stranger,--it may be mere folly-- +But _who_ do you think we all think it is, DOLLY? +Why, bless you, no less than the great King of Prussia, +Who's here now incog.[7]--he, who made so much fuss, you +Remember, in London, with BLUCHER and PLATOF, +When SAL was near kissing old BLUCHER'S cravat off! +Pa says he's come here to look after his money, +(Not taking things now as he used under BONEY,) +Which suits with our friend, for BOB saw him, he swore, +Looking sharp to the silver received at the door. +Besides, too, they say that his grief for his Queen +(Which was plain in this sweet fellow's face to be seen) +Requires such a stimulant dose as this car is, +Used three times a day with young ladies in Paris. +Some Doctor, indeed, has declared that such grief + Should--unless 'twould to utter despairing its folly push-- +Fly to the Beaujon, and there seek relief + By rattling, as BOB says, "like shot thro' a holly-bush." + +I must now bid adieu;--only think, DOLLY, think +If this _should_ be the King--I have scarce slept a wink +With imagining how it will sound in the papers, + And how all the Misses my good luck will grudge, +When they read that Count RUPPIN, to drive away vapors, + Has gone down the Beaujon with Miss BIDDY FUDGE. + +_Nota Bene_.--Papa's almost certain 'tis he-- +For he knows the Legitimate cut and could see, +In the way he went poising and managed to tower +So erect in the car, the true _Balance of Power_. + + +[1] The oldest, most celebrated, and most noisy of the singers at the +French Opera. + +[2] The Théâtre de la Porte St. Martin which was built when the Opera +House in the Palais Royal was burned down, in 1781. + +[3] "The Old Testament," says the theatrical Critic in the _Gazette de +France_, "is a mine of gold for the managers of our small play-houses. A +multitude crowd round the Théâtre de la Gaieté every evening to see the +Passage of the Red Sea." + +[4] A piece very popular last year, called "_Daniel, ou La Fosse aux +Lions_." + +[5] Madame Bégrand, a finely formed woman, who acts in "Susanna and the +Elders,"--"_L'Amour et la Folie_." etc. + +[6] According to Dr. Cotterel the cars go at the rate of forty-eight miles +an hour. + +[7] His Majesty, who was at Paris under the travelling name of Count +Ruppin, is known to have gone down the Beaujon very frequently. + + + + + + +LETTER VI. + +FROM PHIL. FUDGE, ESQ., TO HIS BROTHER +TIM FUDGE, ESQ., BARRISTER AT LAW. + + +Yours of the 12th received, just now-- + Thanks, for the hint, my trusty brother! +'Tis truly pleasing to see how + We, FUDGES, stand by one another. +But never fear--I know my chap, +And he knows _me_ too--_verbum sap_, +My Lord and I are kindred spirits, +Like in our ways as two young ferrets; +Both fashioned, as that supple race is, +To twist into all sorts of places;-- +Creatures lengthy, lean and hungering, +Fond of blood and _burrow_-mongering. + +As to my Book in 91, + Called "Down with Kings, or, Who'd have thought it?" +Bless you! the Book's long dead and gone,-- + Not even the Attorney-General bought it. +And tho' some few seditious tricks +I played in '95 and '6, +As you remind me in your letter, +His Lordship likes me all the better;-- +We proselytes, that come with news full, +Are, as he says, so vastly useful! + +REYNOLDS and I--(you know TOM REYNOLDS-- + Drinks his claret, keeps his chaise-- +Lucky the dog that first unkennels + Traitors and Luddites now-a-days; +Or who can help to _bag_ a few, +When SIDMOUTH wants a death, or two;) +REYNOLDS and I and some few more, + All men like us of _information_, +Friends whom his Lordship keeps in store, + As _under_-saviors of the nation[1]-- +Have, formed a Club this season, where +His Lordship sometimes takes the chair, +And gives us many a bright oration +In praise of our sublime vocation; +Tracing it up to great King MIDAS, +Who, tho' in fable typified as +A royal Ass, by grace, divine +And right of ears, most asinine, +Was yet no more, in fact historical, + Than an exceeding well-bred tyrant; +And these, his _ears_, but allegorical, + Meaning Informers, kept at high rent-- +Gem'men, who touched the Treasury glisteners, +Like us, for being trusty listeners; +And picking up each tale and fragment, +For royal MIDAS'S Green Bag meant. +"And wherefore," said this best of Peers, +"Should not the REGENT too have ears, +"To reach as far, as long and wide as +"Those of his model, good King MIDAS?" +This speech was thought extremely good, +And (rare for him) was understood-- +Instant we drank "The REGENT'S Ears," +With three times three illustrious cheers, + Which made the room resound like thunder-- +"The REGENT'S Ears, and may he ne'er +"From foolish shame, like MIDAS, wear + "Old paltry _wigs_ to keep them[2] under!" +This touch at our old friends, the Whigs, +Made us as merry all as grigs. +In short (I'll thank you not to mention + These things again), we get on gayly; +And thanks to pension and Suspension, + Our little Club increases daily. +CASTLES, and OLIVER, and such, +Who don’t as yet full salary touch, +Nor keep their chaise and pair, nor buy +Houses and lands, like TOM and I, +Of course don’t rank with us _salvators_,[3] +But merely serve the Club as waiters, +Like Knights, too, we've our _collar_ days, +(For _us_, I own, an awkward phrase,) +When, in our new costume adorned,-- +The REGENT'S buff-and-blue coats _turned_-- +We have the honor to give dinners + To the chief Rats in upper stations: +Your WEMYS, VAUGHANS,--half-fledged sinners, + Who shame us by their imitations; +Who turn, 'tis true--but what of that? +Give me the useful _peaching_ Rat; +_Not_ things as mute as Punch, when bought, +Whose wooden heads are all they've brought; +Who, false enough to shirk their friends, + But too faint-hearted to betray, +Are, after all their twists and bends, + But souls in Limbo, damned half way. +No, no, we nobler vermin are +A _genus_ useful as we're rare; +Midst all the things miraculous + Of which your natural histories brag, +The rarest must be Rats like us, + Who _let the cat out of the bag_. +Yet still these Tyros in the cause +Deserve, I own, no small applause; +And they're by us received and treated +With all due honors--only seated +In the inverse scale of their reward, +The merely _promised_ next my Lord; +Small pensions then, and so on, down, + Rat after rat, they graduate +Thro' job, red ribbon and silk gown, + To Chancellorship and Marquisate. +This serves to nurse the ratting spirit; +The less the bribe the more the merit. + +Our music's good, you may be sure; +My Lord, you know, 's an amateur[4]-- +Takes every part with perfect ease, + Tho' to the Base by nature suited; +And, formed for all, as best may please, +For whips and bolts, or chords and keys, +Turns from his victims to his glees, + And has them both well _executed_.[5] +HERTFORD, who, tho' no Rat himself, + Delights in all such liberal arts, +Drinks largely to the House of Guelph, + And superintends the _Corni_ parts. +While CANNING, who'd be _first_ by choice, +Consents to take an _under_ voice; +And GRAVES,[6] who well that signal knows, +Watches the _Volti Subitos_.[7] + +In short, as I've already hinted, + We take of late prodigiously; +But as our Club is somewhat stinted + For _Gentlemen_, like TOM and me, +We'll take it kind if you'll provide +A few _Squireens_[8] from t'other side;-- +Some of those loyal, cunning elves + (We often tell the tale with laughter), +Who used to hide the pikes themselves, + Then hang the fools who found them after. +I doubt not you could find us, too, +Some Orange Parsons that might do: +Among the rest, we've heard of one, +The Reverend--something--HAMILTON, +Who stuft a figure of himself + (Delicious thought!) and had it shot at, +To bring some Papists to the shelf, + That couldn't otherwise be got at-- +If _he_'ll but join the Association, +We'll vote him in by acclamation. + +And now, my brother, guide and friend, +This somewhat tedious scrawl must end. +I've gone into this long detail, + Because I saw your nerves were shaken +With anxious fears lest I should fail + In this new, _loyal_, course I've taken. +But, bless your heart! you need not doubt-- +We FUDGES know what we're about. +Look round and say if you can see +A much more thriving family. +There's JACK, the Doctor--night and day + Hundreds of patients so besiege him, +You'd swear that all the rich and gay + Fell sick on purpose to oblige him. +And while they think, the precious ninnies, + He's counting o'er their pulse so steady, +The rogue but counts how many guineas + He's fobbed for that day's work already. +I'll ne'er forget the old maid's alarm, + When, feeling thus Miss Sukey Flirt, he +Said, as he dropt her shrivelled arm, + "Damned bad this morning--only thirty!" + +Your dowagers, too, every one, + So generous are, when they call _him_ in, +That he might now retire upon + The rheumatisms of three old women. +Then whatsoe'er your ailments are, + He can so learnedly explain ye'em-- +Your cold of course is a _catarrh_, + Your headache is a _hemi-cranium_:-- +His skill too in young ladies' lungs, + The grace with which, most mild of men, +He begs them to put out their tongues. + Then bids them--put them in again; +In short, there's nothing now like JACK!-- + Take all your doctors great and small, +Of present times and ages back, + Dear Doctor FUDGE is worth them all. + +So much for physic--then, in law too, + Counsellor TIM, to thee we bow; +Not one of us gives more éclat to + The immortal name of FUDGE than thou. +Not to expatiate on the art +With which you played the patriot's part, +Till something good and snug should offer;-- + Like one, who, by the way he acts +The _enlightening_ part of candle-snuffer, + The manager's keen eye attracts, +And is promoted thence by him +To strut in robes, like thee, my TIM!-- +_Who_ shall describe thy powers of face, +Thy well-fed zeal in every case, +Or wrong or right--but ten times warmer +(As suits thy calling) in the former-- +Thy glorious, lawyer-like delight +In puzzling all that's clear and right, +Which, tho' conspicuous in thy youth, + Improves so with a wig and band on, +That all thy pride's to waylay Truth, + And leave her not a leg to stand on. +Thy patent prime morality,-- + Thy cases cited from the Bible-- +Thy candor when it falls to thee + To help in trouncing for a libel;-- +"God knows, I, from my soul, profess + "To hate all bigots and be-nighters! +"God knows, I love, to even excess, +"The sacred Freedom of the Press, + "My only aim's to--crush the writers." +These are the virtues, TIM, that draw + The briefs into thy bag so fast; +And these, oh TIM--if Law be Law-- + Will raise thee to the Bench at last. + +I blush to see this letter's length-- + But 'twas my wish to prove to thee +How full of hope, and wealth, and strength, + Are all our precious family. +And, should affairs go on as pleasant +As, thank the Fates, they do at present-- +Should we but still enjoy the sway +Of SIDMOUTH and of CASTLEREAGH, +I hope, ere long, to see the day +When England's wisest statesmen, judges, +Lawyers, peers, will all be--FUDGES! + +Good-by--my paper's out so nearly, +I've room only for + Yours sincerely. + + +[1] Lord C.'s tribute to the character of his friend, Mr. Reynolds, will +long be remembered with equal credit to both. + +[2] It was not under wigs, but tiaras, that King Midas endeavored to +conceal these appendages. The Noble Giver of the toast, however, had +evidently, with his usual clearness, confounded King Midas, Mr. Liston, +and the Prince Regent together. + +[3] Mr. Fudge and his friends ought to go by this name--as the man who, +some years since, saved the late Right Hon. George Rose from drowning, was +ever after called _Salvator Rosa_. + +[4] His Lordship, during one of the busiest periods of his Ministerial +career, took lessons three times a week from a celebrated music-master, in +glee-singing. + +[5] How amply these two propensities of the Noble Lord would have been +gratified among that ancient people of Etruria, who, as Aristotle tells +us, used to whip their slaves once a year to the sound of flutes! + +[6] The rapidity of this Noble Lord's transformation, at the same instant, +into a Lord of the Bed-chamber and an opponent of the Catholic Claims, was +truly miraculous. + +[7] _Turn instantly_--a frequent direction in music-books. + +[8] The Irish diminutive of _Squire_. + + + + + + +LETTER VII. + +FROM PHELIM CONNOR TO--. + + +Before we sketch the Present--let us cast +A few, short, rapid glances to the Past. + +When he, who had defied all Europe's strength, +Beneath his own weak rashness sunk at length;-- +When, loosed as if by magic from a chain +That seemed like Fate's the world was free again, +And Europe saw, rejoicing in the sight, +The cause of Kings, _for once_, the cause of Right;-- +Then was, indeed, an hour of joy to those +Who sighed for justice--liberty--repose, +And hoped the fall of _one_ great vulture's nest +Would ring its warning round, and scare the rest. +All then was bright with promise;--Kings began +To own a sympathy with suffering Man, +And man was grateful; Patriots of the South +Caught wisdom from a Cossack Emperor's mouth, +And heard, like accents thawed in Northern air, +Unwonted words of freedom burst forth there! + +Who did not hope, in that triumphant time, +When monarchs, after years of spoil and crime, +Met round the shrine of Peace, and Heaven lookt on;-- +_Who_ did not hope the lust of spoil was gone; +That that rapacious spirit, which had played +The game of Pilnitz o'er so oft, was laid; +And Europe's Rulers, conscious of the past, +Would blush and deviate into right at last? +But no--the hearts, that nurst a hope so fair, +Had yet to learn what men on thrones can dare; +Had yet to know, of all earth's ravening things, +The only _quite_ untameable are Kings! +Scarce had they met when, to its nature true, +The instinct of their race broke out anew; +Promises, treaties, charters, all were vain, +And "Rapine! rapine!" was the cry again. +How quick they carved their victims, and how well, +Let Saxony, let injured Genoa tell;- +Let all the human stock that, day by day, +Was, at that Royal slave-mart, truckt away,-- +The million souls that, in the face of heaven, +Were split to fractions, bartered, sold or given +To swell some despot Power, too huge before, +And weigh down Europe with one Mammoth more. +How safe the faith of Kings let France decide;-- +Her charter broken, ere its ink had dried;-- +Her Press enthralled--her Reason mockt again +With all the monkery it had spurned in vain; +Her crown disgraced by one, who dared to own +He thankt not France but England for his throne; +Her triumphs cast into the shade by those, +Who had grown old among her bitterest foes, +And now returned, beneath her conqueror's shields, +Unblushing slaves! to claim her heroes' fields; +To tread down every trophy of her fame, +And curse that glory which to them was shame!-- +Let these--let all the damning deeds, that then +Were dared thro' Europe, cry aloud to men, +With voice like that of crashing ice that rings +Round Alpine huts, the perfidy of Kings; +And tell the world, when hawks shall harmless bear +The shrinking dove, when wolves shall learn to spare +The helpless victim for whose blood they lusted, +Then and then only monarchs may be trusted. + +It could not last--these horrors _could_ not last-- +France would herself have risen in might to cast +The insulters off--and oh! that then as now, +Chained to some distant islet's rocky brow, +NAPOLEON ne'er had come to force, to blight, +Ere half matured, a cause so proudly bright;-- +To palsy patriot arts with doubt and shame, +And write on Freedom's flag a despot's name;-- +To rush into the list, unaskt, alone, +And make the stake of _all_ the game of _one_! +Then would the world have seen again what power +A people can put forth in Freedom's hour; +Then would the fire of France once more have blazed;-- +For every single sword, reluctant raised +In the stale cause of an oppressive throne, +Millions would then have leaped forth in her own; +And never, never had the unholy stain +Of Bourbon feet disgraced her shores again. + +But fate decreed not so--the Imperial Bird, +That, in his neighboring cage, unfeared, unstirred, +Had seemed to sleep with head beneath his wing, +Yet watched the moment for a daring spring;-- +Well might he watch, when deeds were done, that made +His own transgressions whiten in their shade; +Well might he hope a world thus trampled o'er +By clumsy tyrants would be his once more:-- +Forth from his cage the eagle burst; to light, +From steeple on to steeple[1] winged his flight, +With calm and easy grandeur, to that throne +From which a Royal craven just had flown; +And resting there, as in his eyry, furled +Those wings, whose very rustling shook the world! + + What was your fury then, ye crowned array, +Whose feast of spoil, whose plundering holiday +Was thus broke up, in all its greedy mirth, +By one bold chieftain's stamp on Gallic earth! +Fierce was the cry, and fulminant the ban,-- +"Assassinate, who will--enchain, who can, +"The vile, the faithless, outlawed, lowborn man!" +"Faithless!"--and this from _you_--from _you_, forsooth, +Ye pious Kings, pure paragons of truth, +Whose honesty all knew, for all had tried; +Whose true Swiss zeal had served on every side; +Whose fame for breaking faith so long was known, +Well might ye claim the craft as all your own, +And lash your lordly tails and fume to see +Such low-born apes of Royal perfidy! +Yes--yes--to you alone did it belong +To sin for ever, and yet ne'er do wrong,-- +The frauds, the lies of Lords legitimate +Are but fine policy, deep strokes of state; +But let some upstart dare to soar so high +In Kingly craft, and "outlaw" is the cry! +What, tho' long years of mutual treachery +Had peopled full your diplomatic shelves +With ghosts of treaties, murdered 'mong yourselves; +Tho' each by turns was knave and dupe--what then? +A holy League would set all straight again; +Like JUNO'S virtue, which a dip or two +In some blest fountain made as good as new! +Most faithful Russia--faithful to whoe'er +Could plunder best and give him amplest share; +Who, even when vanquisht, sure to gain his ends, +For want of _foes_ to rob, made free with _friends_,[2] +And, deepening still by amiable gradations, +When foes were stript of all, then fleeced relations![3] +Most mild and saintly Prussia--steeped to the ears +In persecuted Poland's blood and tears, +And now, with all her harpy wings outspread +O'er severed Saxony's devoted head! +Pure Austria too--whose history naught repeats +But broken leagues and subsidized defeats; +Whose faith, as Prince, extinguisht Venice shows, +Whose faith, as man, a widowed daughter knows! +And thou, oh England--who, tho' once as shy +As cloistered maids, of shame or perfidy, +Art now _broke in_, and, thanks to CASTLEREAGH, +In all that's worst and falsest lead'st the way! + +Such was the pure divan, whose pens and wits +The escape from Elba frightened into fits;-- +Such were the saints, who doomed NAPOLEON'S life, +In virtuous frenzy, to the assassin's knife. +Disgusting crew!--_who_ would not gladly fly +To open, downright, bold-faced tyranny, +To honest guilt, that dares do all but lie, +From the false, juggling craft of men like these, +Their canting crimes and varnisht villanies;-- +These Holy Leaguers, who then loudest boast +Of faith and honor, when they've stained them most; +From whose affection men should shrink as loath +As from their hate, for they'll be fleeced by both; +Who, even while plundering, forge Religion's name +To frank their spoil, and without fear or shame +Call down the Holy Trinity[4] to bless +Partition leagues and deeds of devilishness! +But hold--enough--soon would this swell of rage +O'erflow the boundaries of my scanty page;-- +So, here I pause--farewell--another day, +Return we to those Lords of prayer and prey, +Whose loathsome cant, whose frauds by right divine, +Deserve a lash--oh! weightier far than mine! + + +[1] Napoleon's Proclamation on landing from Elba. + +[2] At the Peace of Tilsit, where he abandoned his ally, Prussia, to +France, and received a portion of her territory. + +[3] The seizure of Finland from his relative of Sweden. + +[4] The usual preamble of these flagitious compacts. In the same spirit, +Catherine, after the dreadful massacre of Warsaw, ordered a solemn +"thanksgiving to God in all the churches, for the blessings conferred upon +the Poles"; and commanded that each of them should "swear fidelity and +loyalty to her, and to shed in her defence the last drop of their blood, +as they should answer for it to God, and his terrible judgment, kissing +the holy word and cross of their Saviour!" + + + + + + +LETTER VIII. + +FROM MR. BOB FUDGE TO RICHARD ----, ESQ. + + +Dear DICK, while old DONALDSON'S[1] mending my stays,-- +Which I _knew_ would go smash with me one of these days, +And, at yesterday's dinner, when, full to the throttle, +We lads had begun our dessert with a bottle +Of neat old Constantia, on _my_ leaning back +Just to order another, by Jove, I went crack!-- +Or, as honest TOM said, in his nautical phrase, +"Damn my eyes, BOB, in _doubling_ the _Cape_ you've _missed + stays_."[2] +So, of course, as no gentleman's seen out without them, +They're now at the _Schneider's_[3]--and, while he's about them, +Here goes for a letter, post-haste, neck and crop. +Let us see--in my last I was--where did I stop? +Oh! I know--at the Boulevards, as motley a road as + Man ever would wish a day's lounging upon; +With its cafés and gardens, hotels and pagodas, + Its founts and old Counts sipping beer in the sun: +With its houses of all architectures you please, +From the Grecian and Gothic, DICK, down by degrees +To the pure Hottentot or the Brighton Chinese; +Where in temples antique you may breakfast or dinner it, +Lunch at a mosque and see Punch from a minaret. +Then, DICK, the mixture of bonnets and bowers. +Of foliage and frippery, _fiacres_ and flowers, +Green-grocers, green gardens--one hardly knows whether +'Tis country or town, they're so messed up together! +And there, if one loves the romantic, one sees +Jew clothes-men, like shepherds, reclined under trees; +Or Quidnuncs, on Sunday, just fresh from the barber's, +Enjoying their news and _groseille_[4] in those arbors; +While gayly their wigs, like the tendrils, are curling, +And founts of red currant-juice[5] round them are purling. + +Here, DICK, arm in arm as we chattering stray, +And receive a few civil "Goddems" by the way,-- +For, 'tis odd, these mounseers,--tho' we've wasted our wealth + And our strength, till we've thrown ourselves into a phthisic;-- +To cram down their throats an old King for their health. + As we whip little children to make them take physic;-- +Yet, spite of our good-natured money and slaughter, +They hate us, as Beelzebub hates holy-water! +But who the deuce cares, DICK, as long as they nourish us +Neatly as now, and good cookery flourishes-- +Long as, by bayonets protected, we Natties +May have our full fling at their _salmis_ and _pâtés_? +And, truly, I always declared 'twould be pity +To burn to the ground such a choice-feeding city. +Had _Dad_ but his way, he'd have long ago blown +The whole batch to old Nick--and the _people_, I own, +If for no other cause than their curst monkey looks, +Well deserve a blow-up--but then, damn it, their Cooks! +As to Marshals, and Statesmen, and all their whole lineage, +For aught that _I_ care, you may knock them to spinage; +But think, DICK, their Cooks--what a loss to mankind! +What a void in the world would their art leave behind! +Their chronometer spits--their intense salamanders-- +Their ovens--their pots, that can soften old ganders, +All vanisht for ever,--their miracles o'er, +And the _Marmite Perpétuelle_ bubbling no more! +Forbid it, forbid it, ye Holy Allies! + Take whatever ye fancy--take statues, take money-- +But leave them, oh leave them, their Perigueux pies, + Their glorious goose-livers and high pickled tunny! +Tho' many, I own, are the evils they've brought us, + Tho' Royalty's here on her very last legs, +Yet who can help loving the land that has taught us + Six hundred and eighty-five ways to dress eggs? + +You see, DICK, in spite of them cries of "God-dam," +_"Coquin Anglais," et cetera_--how generous I am! +And now (to return, once again, to my "Day," +Which will take us all night to get thro' in this way.) +From the Boulevards we saunter thro' many a street, +Crack jokes on the natives--mine, all very neat-- +Leave the Signs of the Times to political fops, +And find _twice_ as much fun in the Signs of the Shops;-- +_Here_, a Louis Dix-huit--_there_, a Martinmas goose, +(Much in vogue since your eagles are gone out of use)-- +Henri Quatres in shoals, and of Gods a great many, +But Saints are the most on hard duty of any:-- +St. TONY, who used all temptations to spurn, +_Here_ hangs o'er a beer-shop, and tempts in his turn; +While _there_ St. VENECIA[6] sits hemming and frilling her +Holy _mouchoir_ o'er the door of some milliner;-- +Saint AUSTIN'S the "outward and visible sign +"Of an inward" cheap dinner, and pint of small wine; +While St. DENYS hangs out o'er some hatter of _ton_, +And possessing, good bishop, no head of his own,[7] +Takes an interest in Dandies, who've got--next to none! +Then we stare into shops--read the evening's _affiches_-- +Or, if some, who're Lotharios in feeding, should wish +Just to flirt with a luncheon, (a devilish bad trick, +As it takes off the bloom of one's appetite, DICK.) +To the _Passage des_--what d'ye call't--_des Panoramas_[8] +We quicken our pace, and there heartily cram as +Seducing young _pâtés_, as ever could cozen +One out of one's appetite, down by the dozen. +We vary, of course--_petits pâtés_ do _one_ day, +The _next_ we've our lunch with the Gauffrier Hollandais,[9] +That popular artist, who brings out, like SCOTT, +His delightful productions so quick, hot and hot; +Not the worse for the exquisite comment that follows,-- +Divine _maresquino_, which--Lord, how one swallows! +Once more, then, we saunter forth after our snack, or +Subscribe a few francs for the price of a _fiacre_, +And drive far away to the old _Montagnes Russes_, +Where we find a few twirls in the car of much use +To regenerate the hunger and thirst of us sinners, +Who've lapst into snacks--the perdition of dinners. +And here, DICK--in answer to one of your queries, + About which we Gourmands have had much discussion-- +I've tried all these mountains, Swiss, French, and Ruggieri's, + And think, for _digestion_,[10] there's none like the Russian; +So equal the motion--so gentle, tho' fleet-- + It in short such a light and salubrious scamper is, +That take whom you please--take old Louis DIX-HUIT, + And stuff him--ay, up to the neck--with stewed lampreys,[11] +So wholesome these Mounts, such a _solvent_ I've found them, +That, let me but rattle the Monarch well down them, +The fiend, Indigestion, would fly far away, +And the regicide lampreys[12] be foiled of their prey! +Such, DICK, are the classical sports that content us, +Till five o'clock brings on that hour so momentous, +That epoch--but whoa! my lad--here comes the _Schneider_, +And, curse him, has made the stays three inches wider-- +Too wide by an inch and a half--what a Guy! +But, no matter--'twill all be set right by-and-by. +As we've MASSINOT's[13] eloquent _carte_ to eat still up. +An inch and a half's but a trifle to fill up. +So--not to lose time, DICK--here goes for the task; +_Au revoir_, my old boy--of the Gods I but ask +That my life, like "the Leap of the German," may be, +_"Du lit à la table, d'la table du lit!"_ + +R. F. + + +[1] An English tailor at Paris. + +[2] A ship is said to miss stays, when she does not obey the helm in +tacking. + +[3] The dandy term for a tailor. + +[4] "Lemonade and _eau-de-groseille_ are measured out at every corner +of every street, from fantastic vessels, jingling with bells, to thirsty +tradesmen or wearied messengers."--See Lady Morgan's lively description of +the streets of Paris, in her very amusing work upon France, book vi. + +[5] These gay, portable fountains, from which the groseille water is +administered, are among the most characteristic ornaments of the streets +of Paris. + +[6] Veronica, the Saint of the Holy Handkerchief, is also, under the name +of Venisse or Venecia, the tutelary saint of milliners. + +[7] St. Denys walked three miles after his head was cut off. + +[8] Off the Boulevards Italiens. + +[9] In the Palais Royal; successor, I believe, to the Flamaud, so long +celebrated for the _moëlleux_ of his Gaufres. + +[10] Doctor Cotterel recommends, for this purpose, the Beaujon or French +Mountains. + +[11] A dish so indigestible that a late novelist at the end of his book, +could imagine no more summary mode of getting rid of all his heroes and +heroines than by a hearty supper of stewed lampreys. + +[12] They killed Henry I. of England:-"a food [says Hume, gravely], which +always agreed better with his palate than his constitution." + +[13] A famous Restaurateur--now Dupont. + + + + + + +LETTER IX. + +PROM PHIL. FUDGE, ESQ., TO +THE LORD VISCOUNT CASTLEREAGH. + + +My Lord, the Instructions, brought to-day, +"I shall in all my best obey." +Your Lordship talks and writes so sensibly! +And--whatsoe'er some wags may say-- +Oh! not at _all_ incomprehensibly. + +I feel the inquiries in your letter + About my health and French most flattering; +Thank ye, my French, tho' somewhat better, + Is, on the whole, but weak and smattering:-- +Nothing, of course, that can compare +With his who made the Congress stare +(A certain Lord we need not name), + Who, even in French, would have his trope, +And talk of "_batir_ un systême + "Sur _l'équilibre_ de l'Europe!" +Sweet metaphor!--and then the Epistle, +Which bid the Saxon King go whistle,-- +That tender letter to _"Mon Prince"_[1] +Which showed alike thy French and sense;-- +Oh no, my Lord--there's none can do +Or say _un-English_ things like you: +And, if the schemes that fill thy breast + Could but a vent congenial seek, +And use the tongue that suits them best, + What charming Turkish wouldst thou speak! +But as for _me_, a Frenchless grub, + At Congress never born to stammer, +Nor learn like thee, my Lord, to snub + Fallen Monarchs, out of CHAMBAUD'S grammar-- +Bless you, you do not, _can not_, know +How far a little French will go; +For all one's stock, one need but draw + On some half-dozen words like toese-- +_Comme ça--par-là--là-bas--ah ha_! + They'll take you all thro' France with ease. +Your Lordship's praises of the scraps + I sent you from my Journal lately, +(Enveloping a few laced caps + For Lady C,) delight me greatly. +_Her_ flattering speech--"What pretty things + "One finds in Mr. FUDGE's pages!" +Is praise which (as some poet sings) + Would pay one for the toils of ages. + +Thus flattered, I presume to send +A few more extracts by a friend; +And I should hope they'll be no less +Approved of than my last MS.-- +The former ones, I fear, were creased, + As BIDDY round the caps _would_ pin them; +But these will come to hand, at least + Unrumpled, for there's--nothing in them. + +_Extracts from Mr. Fudge's Journal, addressed to Lord C._ + +_August 10_. + +Went to the Mad-house--saw the man[2] + Who thinks, poor wretch, that, while the Fiend +Of Discord here full riot ran, + _He_, like the rest, was guillotined;-- +But that when, under BONEY'S reign, + (A more discreet, tho' quite as strong one,) +The heads were all restored again, + He, in the scramble, got a _wrong one_. +Accordingly, he still cries out + This strange head fits him most unpleasantly; +And always runs, poor devil, about, +Inquiring for his own incessantly! + +While to his case a tear I dropt, + And sauntered home, thought I--ye Gods! +How many heads might thus be swopt, + And, after all, not make much odds! +For instance, there's VANSITTART'S head-- +("Tam _carum_" it may well be said) +If by some curious chance it came + To settle on BILL SOAMES'S[3] shoulders, +The effect would turn out much the same + On all respectable cash-holders; +Except that while, in its _new_ socket, + The head was planning schemes to win +A _zig-zag_ way into one's pocket, + The hands would plunge directly in. + +Good Viscount SIDMOUTH, too, instead +Of his own grave, respected head, +Might wear (for aught I see that bars) + Old Lady WILHELMINA FRUMP'S-- +So while the hand signed _Circulars_, + The head might lisp out "What is trumps?"-- +The REGENT'S brains could we transfer +To some robust man-milliner, +The shop, the shears, the lace, and ribbon +Would go, I doubt not, quite as glib on; +And, _vice versa_, take the pains +To give the PRINCE the shopman's brains, +One only change from thence would flow, +_Ribbons_ would not be wasted so. + +'Twas thus I pondered on, my Lord; + And, even at night, when laid in bed, +I found myself, before I snored, + Thus chopping, swopping head for head. +At length I thought, fantastic elf! +How such a change would suit _myself_. +'Twixt sleep and waking, one by one, + With various pericraniums saddled, +At last I tried your Lordship's on, + And then I grew completely addled-- +Forgot all other heads, od rot 'em! +And slept, and dreamt that I was--BOTTOM. + +_August 21_. + +Walked out with daughter BID--was shown +The House of Commons and the Throne, +Whose velvet cushion's just the same +NAPOLEON sat on--what a shame! +Oh! can we wonder, best of speechers, + When LOUIS seated thus we see, +That France's "fundamental features" + Are much the same they used to be? +However,--God preserve the Throne, + And _cushion_ too--and keep them free; +From accidents, which _have_ been known + To happen even to Royalty![4] + +_August 28_. + +Read, at a stall (for oft one pops +On something at these stalls and shops, +That does to _quote_ and gives one's Book +A classical and knowing look.-- +Indeed, I've found, in Latin, lately, +A course of stalls improves me greatly)-- +'Twas thus I read that in the East + A monarch's _fat_'s a serious matter; +And once in every year, at least, + He's weighed--to see if he gets fatter:[5] +Then, if a pound or two he be +Increased, there's quite a jubilee![6] +Suppose, my Lord--and far from me +To treat such things with levity-- +But just suppose the Regent's weight +Were made thus an affair of state; +And, every sessions, at the close,-- + 'Stead of a speech, which, all can see, is +Heavy and dull enough, God knows-- + We were to try how heavy _he_ is. +Much would it glad all hearts to hear-- + That, while the Nation's Revenue +Loses so many pounds a year, + The PRINCE, God bless him! _gains_ a few. +With bales of muslin, chintzes, spices, + I see the Easterns weigh their Kings;-- +But, for the REGENT, my advice is, + We should throw in much _heavier_ things: +For instance-----'s quarto volumes, + Which, tho' not spices, serve to wrap them; +_Dominie_ STODDART'S Daily columns, + "Prodigious!"--in, of course, we'd clap them-- +Letters, that CARTWRIGHT'S[7] pen indites, + In which, with logical confusion, +The _Major_ like a _Minor_ writes, + And never comes to a _Conclusion_:-- +Lord SOMERS'S pamphlet--or his head-- +(Ah! _that_ were worth its weight in lead!) +Along with which we _in_ may whip, sly, +The Speeches of Sir JOHN COX HIPPISLY; +That Baronet of many words, +Who loves so, in the House of Lords, +To whisper Bishops--and so nigh + Unto their wigs in whispering goes, +That you may always know him by + A patch of powder on his nose!-- +If this won’t do, we in must cram +The "Reasons" of Lord BUCKINGHAM; +(A Book his Lordship means to write, + Entitled "Reasons for my Ratting":) +Or, should these prove too small and light, + His rump's a host--we'll bundle _that_ in! +And, _still_ should all these masses fail +To stir the REGENT'S pondrous scale, +Why, then, my Lord, in heaven's name, + Pitch in, without reserve or stint, +The whole of RAGLEY'S beauteous Dame-- + If _that_ won’t raise him, devil's in it! + +_August 31_. + +Consulted MURPHY'S TACITUS + About those famous spies at Rome,[8] +Whom certain Whigs--to make a fuss-- +Describe as much resembling us, + Informing gentlemen, at home. +But, bless the fools, they _can't_ be serious, +To say Lord SIDMOUTH'S like TIBERIUS! +What! _he_, the Peer, that injures no man, +Like that severe, blood-thirsty Roman!-- +'Tis true, the Tyrant lent an ear to +All sorts of spies--so doth the Peer, too. +'Tis true, my Lord's elect tell fibs, +And deal in perjury--_ditto_ TIB's. +'Tis true, the Tyrant screened and hid +His rogues from justice--_ditto_ SID. +'Tis true the Peer is grave and glib +At moral speeches--_ditto_ TIB. +'Tis true the feats the Tyrant did +Were in his dotage--_ditto_ SID. + +So far, I own, the parallel +'Twixt TIB and SIB goes vastly well; +But there are points in TIB that strike +My humble mind as much more like +_Yourself_, my dearest Lord, or him, +Of the India Board--that soul of whim! +Like him, TIBERIUS loved his joke, + On matters, too, where few can bear one; +_E. g._ a man cut up, or broke + Upon the wheel--a devilish fair one! +Your common fractures, wounds and fits, +Are nothing to such wholesale wits; +But, let the sufferer gasp for life, + The joke is then, worth any money; +And, if he writhe beneath a knife,-- + Oh dear, that's something _quite_ too funny. +In this respect, my Lord, you see +The Roman wag and ours agree: +Now as to _your_ resemblance--mum-- + This parallel we need not follow: +Tho' 'tis, in Ireland, said by some + Your Lordship beats TIBERIUS hollow; +Whips, chains--but these are things too serious + For me to mention or discuss; +Whene'er your Lordship acts TIBERIUS, + PHIL. FUDGE'S part is _Tacitus_! + +_September 2_. + +Was thinking, had Lord SIDMOUTH got +Any good decent sort of Plot +Against the winter-time--if not, +Alas, alas, our ruin's fated; +All done up and _spiflicated_! +Ministers and all their vassals, +Down from CASTLEREAGH to CASTLES,-- +Unless we can kick up a riot, +Ne'er can hope for peace or quiet! +What's to be done?--Spa-Fields was clever; + But even _that_ brought gibes and mockings +Upon our heads--so, _mem._--must never + Keep ammunition in old stockings; +For fear some wag should in his curst head +Take it to say our force was _worsted. +Mem._ too--when SID an army raises, +It must not be "_incog._" like _Bayes's_: +Nor must the General be a hobbling +Professor of the art of cobbling; +Lest men, who perpetrate such puns, +Should say, with Jacobinic grin, +He felt, from _soleing Wellingtons_,[9] + A _Wellington's_ great _soul_ within! +Nor must an old Apothecary + Go take the Tower, for lack of pence, +With (what these wags would call, so merry,) + _Physical_ force and _phial_-ence! +No--no--our Plot, my Lord, must be +Next time contrived more skilfully. +John Bull, I grieve to say, is growing +So troublesomely sharp and knowing, +So wise--in short, so Jacobin-- +'Tis monstrous hard to _take him in_. + +_September 6_. + +Heard of the fate of our Ambassador + In China, and was sorely nettled; +But think, my Lord, we should not pass it o'er + Till all this matter's fairly settled; +And here's the mode occurs to _me_:-- +As none of our Nobility, +Tho' for their _own_ most gracious King +(They would kiss hands, or--anything), +Can be persuaded to go thro' +This farce-like trick of the _Ko-tou_; +And as these Mandarins _won't_ bend, + Without some mumming exhibition, +Suppose, my Lord, you were to send + GRIMALDI to them on a mission: +As _Legate_, JOE could play his part, +And if, in diplomatic art, +The "_volto sciolto_"'s meritorius,[10] +Let JOE but grin, he has it, glorious! + +A _title_ for him's easily made; + And, by the by, one Christmas time, +If I remember right, he played + Lord MORLEY in some pantomime:--[1] +As Earl of Morley then gazette him, +If _t'other_ Earl of MORLEY'll let him, +(And why should not the world be blest +"With _two_ such stars, for East and West?) +Then, when before the Yellow Screen + He's brought--and, sure, the very essence +Of etiquette would be that scene + Of JOE in the Celestial Presence!-- + +He thus should say:--"Duke Ho and Soo, +"I'll play what tricks you please for you, +"If you'll, in turn, but do for me +"A few small tricks you now shall see. +"If I consult _your_ Emperor's liking, +"At least you'll do the same for _my_ King." + +He then should give them nine such grins, +As would astound even Mandarins; +And throw such somersets before + The picture of King GEORGE (God bless him!) +As, should Duke Ho but try them o'er, + Would, by CONFUCIUS, _much_ distress him! + +I start this merely as a hint, +But think you'll find some wisdom in't; +And, should you follow up the job, +My son, my Lord (you _know_ poor BOB), +Would in the suite be glad to go +And help his Excellency, JOE:-- +At least, like noble AMHERST'S son, +The lad will do to _practise_ on. + + +[1] The celebrated letter to Prince Hardenburgh (written, however, I +believe, originally in English) in which his Lordship, professing to see +"no moral or political objection" to the dismemberment of Saxony, +denounced the unfortunate King as "not only the most devoted, but the most +favored, of Bonaparte's vassals". + +[2] This extraordinary madman is, I believe, in the Bicêtre. He imagines, +exactly as Mr. Fudge states it, that when the heads of those who had been +guillotined were restored, he by mistake got some other person's instead +of his own. + +[3] A celebrated pickpocket. + +[4] I am afraid that Mr. Fudge alludes here to a very awkward accident, +which is well known to have happened to poor Louis le Désiré, some years +since, at one of the Regent's Fêtes. He was sitting next our gracious +Queen at the time. + +[5] "The third day of the Feast the King causeth himself to be weighed +with great care,"--_F. Bernier's "Voyage to Surat," etc_. + +[6] "I remember," says Bernier, "that all the Omrahs expressed great joy +that the King weighed two pounds more now than the year preceding."-- +Another author tells us that "Fatness, as well as a very large head, is +considered, throughout India, as one of the most precious gifts of +heaven." An enormous skull is absolutely revered, and the happy owner is +looked up to as a superior being. To a _Prince_ a joulter head is +invaluable."--_Oriental Field Sports_. + +[7] Major Cartwright. + +[8] The name of the first worthy who set up the trade of informer at Rome +(to whom our Olivers and Castleses ought to erect a statue) was Romanus +Hispo. + +[9] Short boots so called. + +[10] The _open countenance_, recommended by Lord Chesterfield. + +[11] Mr. Fudge is a little mistaken here. It was _not_ Grimaldi, but some +very inferior performer, who played this part of "Lord Morley" in the +Pantomime,--so much to the horror of the distinguished Earl of that name. + + + + + + +LETTER X. + +FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY ----. + + +Well, it _isn't_ the King, after all, my dear creature! + But _don't_ you go laugh, now--there's nothing to quiz in't-- +For grandeur of air and for grimness of feature, + He _might_ be a King, DOLL, tho', hang him, he isn't. +At first, I felt hurt, for I wisht it, I own, +If for no other cause but to vex Miss MALONE,-- +(The great heiress, you know, of Shandangan, who's here, +Showing off with _such_ airs, and a real Cashmere, +While mine's but a paltry, old rabbit-skin, dear!) +But Pa says, on deeply considering the thing, +"I am just as well pleased it should _not_ be the King; +"As I think for my BIDDY, so _gentille_ and _jolie_. + "Whose charms may their price in an _honest_ way fetch, +"That a Brandenburgh"--(what _is_ a Brandenburgh, DOLLY?)-- + "Would be, after all, no such very great catch. +"If the REGENT indeed"--added he, looking sly-- +(You remember that comical squint of his eye) +But I stopt him with "La, Pa, how _can_ you say so, +"When the REGENT loves none but old women, you know!" +Which is fact, my dear DOLLY--we, girls of eighteen, +And so slim--Lord, he'd think us not fit to be seen: +And would like us much better as old-as, as old +As that Countess of DESMOND, of whom I've been told +That she lived to much more than a hundred and ten, +And was killed by a fall from a cherry-tree then! +What a frisky old girl! but--to come to my lover, +Who, tho' not a King, is a _hero_ I'll swear,-- +You shall hear all that's happened, just briefly run over, +Since that happy night, when we whiskt thro' the air! + +Let me see--'twas on Saturday--yes, DOLLY, yes-- +From that evening I date the first dawn of my bliss; +When we both rattled off in that dear little carriage, +Whose journey, BOB says, is so like Love and Marriage, +"Beginning gay, desperate, dashing, down-hilly, +"And ending as dull as a six-inside Dilly!"[1] +Well, scarcely a wink did I sleep the night thro'; +And, next day, having scribbled my letter to you, +With a heart full of hope this sweet fellow to meet, +I set out with Papa, to see Louis DIX-HUIT +Make his bow to some half-dozen women and boys, +Who get up a small concert of shrill _Vive le Rois_- +And how vastly genteeler, my dear, even this is, +Than vulgar Pall-Mall's oratorio of hisses! +The gardens seemed full--so, of Course, we walkt o'er 'em, +'Mong orange-trees, clipt into town-bred decorum, +And daphnes and vases and many a statue +There staring, with not even a stitch on them, at you! +The ponds, too, we viewed--stood awhile on the brink +To contemplate the play of those pretty gold fishes-- +"_Live bullion_," says merciless BOB, "which, I think, +"Would, if _coined_, with a little _mint_ sauce, be delicious!" + +But _what_, DOLLY, what, is the gay orange-grove, +Or gold fishes, to her that's in search of her love? +In vain did I wildly explore every chair +Where a thing _like_ a man was--no lover sat there! +In vain my fond eyes did I eagerly cast +At the whiskers, mustachios and wigs that went past, +To obtain if I could but a glance at that curl,-- +A glimpse of those whiskers, as sacred, my girl, +As the lock that, Pa says,[2]is to Mussulman given, +For the angel to hold by that "lugs them to heaven!" +Alas, there went by me full many a quiz, +And mustachios in plenty, but nothing like his! +Disappointed, I found myself sighing out "well-a-day,"-- +Thought of the words of TOM MOORE'S Irish Melody, +Something about the "green spot of delight" +(Which, you know, Captain MACKINTOSH sung to us one day): +Ah DOLLY, _my_ "spot" was that Saturday night, +And its verdure, how fleeting, had withered by Sunday! +We dined at a tavern--La, what do I say? + + If BOB was to know!--a _Restaurateur's_, dear; +Where your _properest_ ladies go dine every day, + And drink Burgundy out of large tumblers, like beer. +Fine BOB (for he's really grown _super_-fine) + Condescended for once to make one of the party; +Of course, tho' but three, we had dinner for nine, + And in spite of my grief, love, I own I ate hearty. +Indeed, DOLL, I know not how 'tis, but, in grief, +I have always found eating a wondrous relief; +And BOB, who's in love, said he felt the same, _quite_-- + "My sighs," said he, "ceased with the first glass I drank you; +"The _lamb_ made me tranquil, the _puffs_ made me light, + "And--now that all's o'er--why, I'm--pretty well, thank you!" + +To _my_ great annoyance, we sat rather late; +For BOBBY and Pa had a furious debate +About singing and cookery--BOBBY, of course, +Standing up for the latter Fine Art in full force; +And Pa saying, "God only knows which is worst, + "The French Singers or Cooks, but I wish us well over it-- +"What with old LAÏ'S and VÉRY, I'm curst + "If _my_ head or my stomach will ever recover it!" + +'Twas dark when we got to the Boulevards to stroll, + And in vain did I look 'mong the street Macaronis, +When, sudden it struck me--last hope of my soul-- + That some angel might take the dear man to TORTONI'S![3] +We entered--and, scarcely had BOB, with an air, + For a _grappe à la jardinière_ called to the waiters, +When, oh DOLL! I saw him--my hero was there + (For I knew his white small-clothes and brown leather gaiters), +A group of fair statues from Greece smiling o'er him,[4] +And lots of red currant-juice sparkling before him! +Oh! DOLLY, these heroes--what creatures they are; + In the _boudoir_ the same as in fields full of slaughter! +As cool in the Beaujon's precipitous car, + As when safe at TORTONI'S, o'er iced currant water! +He joined us--imagine, dear creature, my ecstasy-- +Joined by the man I'd have broken ten necks to see! +BOB wished to treat him with Punch _à la glace_, +But the sweet fellow swore that my _beaute_, my _grâce_, +And my _ja-ne-sais-quoi_ (then his whiskers he twirled) +Were to him, "on de top of all Ponch in de vorld."-- +How pretty!--tho' oft (as of course it must be) +Both his French and his English are Greek, DOLL, to me. +But, in short, I felt happy as ever fond heart did; +And happier still, when 'twas fixt, ere we parted, +That, if the next day should be _pastoral_ weather. +We all would set off, in French buggies, _together_, +To see _Montmorency_--that place which, you know, +Is so famous for cherries and JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU. +His card then he gave us--the _name_, rather creased-- +But 'twas CALICOT--something--a Colonel, at least! + +After which--sure there never was hero so civil--he +Saw us safe home to our door in _Rue Rivoli_, +Where his _last_ words, as, at parting, he threw +A soft look o'er his shoulders, were--"How do you do!" +But, lord!--there's Papa for the post--I'm so vext-- +_Montmorency_ must now, love, be kept for my next. +That dear Sunday night--I was charmingly drest, +And--_so_ providential!--was looking my best; +Such a sweet muslin gown, with a flounce--and my frills, +You've no notion how rich--(tho' Pa has by the bills) +And you'd smile had you seen, when we sat rather near, +Colonel CALICOT eyeing the cambric, my dear. +Then the flowers in my bonnet--but, la! it's in vain-- +So, good-by, my sweet DOLL--I shall soon write again. + +B. F. + +_Nota bene_--our love to all neighbors about-- +Your Papa in particular--how is his gout? + +P.S.--I've just opened my letter to say, +In your next you must tell me, (now _do_, DOLLY, pray, +For I hate to ask BOB, he's so ready to quiz,) +What sort of a thing, dear, a _Brandenburgh_ is. + + +[1] The cars, on return, are dragged up slowly by a chain. + +[2] For this scrap of knowledge "Pa" was, I suspect, indebted to a note +upon Volney's "Ruins:" + +"It is by this tuft of hair (on the crown of the head), worn by the +majority of Mussulmans, that the Angel of the Tomb is to take the elect +and carry them to Paradise." + +[3] A fashionable _café glacier_ on the Italian Boulevards. + +[4] "You eat your ice at Tortoni's," says Mr. Scott, "under a Grecian +group." + + + + + + +LETTER XI. + +FROM PHELIM CONNOR TO ----. + + +Yes, 'twas a cause, as noble and as great +As ever hero died to vindicate-- +A Nation's right to speak a Nation's voice, +And own no power but of the Nation's choice! +Such was the grand, the glorious cause that now +Hung trembling on NAPOLEON'S single brow; +Such the sublime arbitrament, that poured, +In patriot eyes, a light around his sword, +A hallowing light, which never, since the day +Of his young victories, had illumed its way! + +Oh 'twas not then the time for tame debates, +Ye men of Gaul, when chains were at your gates; +When he, who late had fled your Chieftain's eye. +As geese from eagles on Mount Taurus fly,[1] +Denounced against the land, that spurned his chain, +Myriads of swords to bind it fast again-- +Myriads of fierce invading swords, to track +Thro' your best blood his path of vengeance back; +When Europe's Kings, that never yet combined +But (like those upper Stars, that, when conjoined, +Shed war and pestilence,) to scourge mankind, +Gathered around, with hosts from every shore, +Hating NAPOLEON much, but Freedom more, +And, in that coming strife, appalled to see +The world yet left one chance for liberty!-- +No, 'twas not _then_ the time to weave a net +Of bondage round your Chief; to curb and fret +Your veteran war-horse, pawing for the fight, +When every hope was in his speed and might-- +To waste the hour of action in dispute, +And coolly plan how freedom's _boughs_ should shoot, +When your Invader's axe was at the _root_! +No sacred Liberty! that God, who throws, +Thy light around, like His own sunshine, knows +How well I love thee and how deeply hate +_All_ tyrants, upstart and Legitimate-- +Yet, in that hour, were France my native land, +I would have followed, with quick heart and hand, +NAPOLEON, NERO--ay, no matter whom-- +To snatch my country from that damning doom, +That deadliest curse that on the conquered waits-- +A Conqueror's satrap, throned within her gates! + +True, he was false--despotic--all you please-- +Had trampled down man's holiest liberties-- +Had, by a genius, formed for nobler things +Than lie within the grasp of _vulgar_ Kings, +But raised the hopes of men--as eaglets fly +With tortoises aloft into the sky-- +To dash them down again more shatteringly! +All this I own--but still + + * * * * * + + +[1] See Aellan, _lib_. v. _cap_. 29.,--who tells us that these +geese, from a consciousness of their own loquacity, always cross Mount +Taurus with stones in their bills, to prevent any unlucky cackle from +betraying them to the eagles. + + + + + + +LETTER XII. + +FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY ----. + + +At last, DOLLY,--thanks to potent emetic, +Which BOBBY and Pa, grimace sympathetic, +Have swallowed this morning, to balance the bliss, +Of an eel _matelote_ and a _bisque d'écrevisses_-- +I've a morning at home to myself, and sit down +To describe you our heavenly trip out of town. +How agog you must be for this letter, my dear! +Lady JANE, in the novel, less languisht to hear, +If that elegant cornet she met at Lord NEVILLE'S +Was actually dying with love or--blue devils. +But Love, DOLLY, Love is the theme _I_ pursue; +With Blue Devils, thank heaven, I have nothing to do-- +Except, indeed, dear Colonel CALICOT spies +Any imps of that color in _certain_ blue eyes, +Which he stares at till _I_, DOLL, at _his_ do the same; +Then he simpers--I blush--and would often exclaim, +If I knew but the French for it, "Lord, Sir, for shame!" + + Well, the morning was lovely--the trees in full dress +For the happy occasion--the sunshine _express_-- +Had we ordered it, dear, of the best poet going, +It scarce could be furnisht more golden and glowing. +Tho' late when we started, the scent of the air +Was like GATTIE'S rose-water,--and, bright, here and there, +On the grass an odd dew-drop was glittering yet, +Like my aunt's diamond pin on her green tabbinet! +While the birds seemed to warble as blest on the boughs, +As if _each_ a plumed Calicot had for her spouse; +And the grapes were all blushing and kissing in rows, +And--in short, need I tell you wherever one goes +With the creature one loves, 'tis _couleur de rose_; +And ah! I shall ne'er, lived I ever so long, see +A day such as that at divine Montmorency! + +There was but _one_ drawback--at first when we started, +The Colonel and I were inhumanly parted; +How cruel--young hearts of such moments to rob! +He went in Pa's buggy, and I went with BOB: +And, I own, I felt spitefully happy to know +That Papa and his comrade agreed but so-so. +For the Colonel, it seems, is a stickler of BONEY'S-- +Served _with_ him of course--nay, I'm sure they were cronies. +So martial his features! dear DOLL, you can trace +Ulm, Austerlitz, Lodi, as plain in his face +As you do on that pillar of glory and brass,[1] +Which the poor DUC DE BERRI must hate so to pass! +It appears, too, he made--as most foreigners do-- +About English affairs an odd blunder or two. +For example misled by the names, I dare say-- +He confounded JACK CASTLES with LORD CASTLEREAGH; +And--sure such a blunder no mortal hit ever on-- +Fancied the _present_ Lord CAMDEN the _clever_ one! + +But politics ne'er were the sweet fellow's trade; +'Twas for war and the ladies my Colonel was made. +And oh! had you heard, as together we walkt +Thro' that beautiful forest, how sweetly he talkt; +And how perfectly well he appeared, DOLL, to know +All the life and adventures of JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU?-- +"'Twas there," said he--not that his _words_ I can state-- +'Twas a gibberish that Cupid alone could translate;-- +But "there," said he, (pointing where, small and remote, +The dear Hermitage rose), "there his JULIE he wrote,-- +"Upon paper gilt-edged, without blot or erasure; +"Then sauded it over with silver and azure, +"And--oh, what will genius and fancy not do!-- +"Tied the leaves up together with _nonpareille_ blue!" +What a trait of Rousseau! what a crowd of emotions + From sand and blue ribbons are conjured up here! +Alas, that a man of such exquisite notions +Should send his poor brats to the Foundling, my dear! + "'Twas here too perhaps," Colonel CALICOT said-- +As down the small garden he pensively led-- +(Tho' once I could see his sublime forehead wrinkle +With rage not to find there the loved periwinkle) +"'Twas here he received from the fair D'ÉPINAY +"(Who called him so sweetly _her Bear_, every day,) +"That dear flannel petticoat, pulled off to form +"A waistcoat, to keep the enthusiast warm!" + +Such, DOLL, were the sweet recollections we pondered, +As, full of romance, thro' that valley we wandered. +The flannel (one's train of ideas, how odd it is!) +Led us to talk about other commodities, +Cambric, and silk, and--I ne'er shall forget, +For the sun was then hastening in pomp to its set. + +And full on the Colonel's dark whiskers shone down, +When he askt me, with eagerness,--who made my gown? +The question confused me--for, DOLL, you must know, +And I _ought_ to have told my best friend long ago, +That, by Pa's strict command, I no longer employ[2] +That enchanting _couturière_, Madame LE ROI; +But am forced now to have VICTORINE, who--deuce take her!-- +It seems is, at present, the King's mantua-maker-- +I mean _of his party_--and, tho' much the smartest, +LE ROI is condemned as a rank Bonapartist.[3] +Think, DOLL, how confounded I lookt--so well knowing +The Colonel's opinions--my cheeks were quite glowing; +I stammered out something--nay, even half named +The _legitimate_ sempstress, when, loud, he exclaimed, +"Yes; yes, by the stitching 'tis plain to be seen +"It was made by that Bourbonite bitch, VICTORINE!" +What a word for a hero!--but heroes _will_ err, +And I thought, dear, I'd tell you things _just_ as they were. +Besides tho' the word on good manners intrench, +I assure you 'tis not _half_ so shocking in French. + +But this cloud, tho' embarrassing, soon past away, +And the bliss altogether, the dreams of that day, +The thoughts that arise, when such dear fellows woo us,-- +The _nothings_ that then, love, are--_everything_ to us-- +That quick correspondence of glances and sighs, +And what BOB calls the "Two-penny-post of the Eyes"-- +Ah, DOLL! tho' I _know_ you've a heart, 'tis in vain, +To a heart so unpractised these things to explain. +They can only be felt, in their fulness divine, +By her who has wandered, at evening's decline, +Thro' a valley like that, with a Colonel like mine! + +But here I must finish--for BOB, my dear DOLLY, +Whom physic, I find, always makes melancholy, +Is seized with a fancy for churchyard reflections; +And, full of all yesterday's rich recollections, +Is just setting off for Montmartre--"for _there_ is," +Said he, looking solemn, "the tomb of the VÉRYS![4] +"Long, long have I wisht as a votary true, + "O'er the grave of such talents to utter my moans; +"And, to-day--as my stomach is not in good cue + "For the _flesh_ of the VÉRYS--I'll visit their _bones_!" +He insists upon _my_ going with him--how teasing! + This letter, however, dear DOLLY, shall lie +Unsealed in my drawer, that, if anything pleasing + Occurs while I'm out, I may tell you--good-by. + +B.F. + +_Four o'clock_. + +Oh, DOLLY, dear DOLLY, I'm ruined for ever-- +I ne'er shall be happy again, DOLLY, never! +To think of the wretch--what a victim was I! +'Tis too much to endure--I shall die, I shall die-- +"My brain's in a fever--my pulses beat quick-- +I shall die or at least be exceedingly sick! +Oh! what do you think? after all my romancing, +My visions of glory, my sighing, my glancing, +This Colonel--I scarce can commit it to paper-- +This Colonel's no more than a vile linen-draper!! +'Tis true as I live--I had coaxt brother BOB so, +(You'll hardly make out what I'm writing, I sob so,) +For some little gift on my birthday--September +The thirtieth, dear, I'm eighteen, you remember-- +That BOB to a shop kindly ordered the coach, + (Ah! little I thought who the shopman would prove,) +To bespeak me a few of those _mouchoirs de poche_, + Which, in happier hours, I have sighed for, my love-- +(The most beautiful things--two Napoleons the price-- +And one's name in the corner embroidered so nice!) +Well, with heart full of pleasure, I entered the shop. +But--ye Gods, what a phantom!--I thought I should drop-- +There he stood, my dear DOLLY--no room for a doubt-- + There, behind the vile counter, these eyes saw him stand, +With a piece of French cambric, before him rolled out, + And that horrid yard-measure upraised in his hand! +Oh!--Papa, all along, knew the secret,' is clear-- +'Twas _a shopman_ he meant by a "Brandenburgh," dear! +The man, whom I fondly had fancied a King, + And, when _that_ too delightful illusion was past, +As a hero had worshipt--vile, treacherous thing-- + To turn out but a low linen-draper at last! +My head swam around--the wretch smiled, I believe, +But his smiling, alas, could no longer deceive-- +I fell back on BOB--my whole heart seemed to wither-- +And, pale as a ghost, I was carried back hither! +I only remember that BOB, as I caught him, + With cruel facetiousness said, "Curse the Kiddy! +"A stanch Revolutionist always I've thought him, + "But now I find out he's a _Counter_ one, BIDDY!" + +Only think, my dear creature, if this should be known +To that saucy, satirical thing, Miss MALONE! +What a story 'twill be at Shandangan for ever! + What laughs and what quizzing she'll have with the men! +It will spread thro' the country--and never, oh! never + Can BIDDY be seen at Kilrandy again! +Farewell--I shall do something desperate, I fear-- +And, ah! if my fate ever reaches your ear, +One tear of compassion my DOLL will not grudge +To her poor--broken-hearted--young friend, BIDDY FUDGE. + +_Nota bene_--I am sure you will hear, with delight, +That we're going, all three, to see BRUNET to-night. +A laugh will revive me--and kind Mr. COX +(Do you know him?) has got us the Governor's box. + + +[1] The column in the Place Vendôme. + +[2] Miss Biddy's notions of French pronunciation may be perceived in the +rhymes which she always selects for "_Le Roi_." + +[3] LE ROI, who was the _Couturière_ of the Empress Maria Louisa, is at +present, of course, out of fashion, and is succeeded in her station by the +Royalist mantua-maker, VICTORINE. + +[4] It is the _brother_ of the present excellent _Restaurateur_ who lies +entombed so magnificently in the Cimetière Monmartre. + + + + + + + + +THE FUDGES IN ENGLAND + +BEING A SEQUEL TO THE + +"FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS." + + + + +PREFACE. + + +The name of the country town, in England--a well-known fashionable +watering-place--in which the events that gave rise to the following +correspondence occurred, is, for obvious reasons, suppressed. The interest +attached, however, to the facts and personages of the story, renders it +independent of all time and place; and when it is recollected that the +whole train of romantic circumstances so fully unfolded in these Letters +has passed during the short period which has now elapsed since the great +Meetings in Exeter Hall, due credit will, it is hoped, be allowed to the +Editor for the rapidity with which he has brought the details before the +Public; while, at the same time any errors that may have been the result +of such haste will, he trusts, with equal consideration, be pardoned. + + + + + + +THE FUDGES IN ENGLAND + + + + + + +LETTER I. + +FROM PATRICK MAGAN, ESQ., TO +THE REV. RICHARD ----; CURATE +OF ----, IN IRELAND. + + +Who d' ye think we've got here?--quite reformed from the giddy. + Fantastic young thing that once made such a noise-- +Why, the famous Miss Fudge--that delectable Biddy, + Whom you and I saw once at Paris, when boys, +In the full blaze of bonnets, and ribands, and airs-- + Such a thing as no rainbow hath colors to paint; +Ere time had reduced her to wrinkles and prayers, + And the Flirt found a decent retreat in the Saint. + +Poor "Pa" hath popt off--gone, as charity judges, +To some choice Elysium reserved for the Fudges; +And Miss, with a fortune, besides expectations +From some much revered and much palsied relations, +Now wants but a husband, with requisites meet,-- +Age, thirty, or thereabouts--stature six feet, +And warranted godly--to make all complete. +_Nota bene_--a Churchman would suit, if he's _high_, +But Socinians or Catholics need not apply. + +What say you, Dick? doesn’t this tempt your ambition? + The whole wealth of Fudge, that renowned man of pith. +All brought to the hammer, for Church competition,-- + Sole encumbrance, Miss Fudge to be taken therewith. +Think, my boy, for a Curate how glorious a catch! +While, instead of the thousands of souls you _now_ watch, +To save Biddy Fudge's is all you need do; +And her purse will meanwhile be the saving of _you_. + +You may ask, Dick, how comes it that I, a poor elf, +Wanting substance even more than your spiritual self, +Should thus generously lay my own claims on the shelf, +When, God knows! there ne'er was young gentleman yet +So much lackt an old spinster to rid him from debt, +Or had cogenter reasons than mine to assail her +With tender love-suit--at the suit of his tailor. + +But thereby there hangs a soft secret, my friend, +Which thus to your reverend breast I commend: +Miss Fudge hath a niece--such a creature!--with eyes +Like those sparklers that peep out from summer-night skies +At astronomers-royal, and laugh with delight +To see elderly gentlemen spying all night. + +While her figure--oh! bring all the gracefullest things +That are borne thro' the light air by feet or by wings, +Not a single new grace to that form could they teach, +Which combines in itself the perfection of each; +While, rapid or slow, as her fairy feet fall, +The mute music of symmetry modulates all. + +Ne'er in short was there creature more formed to bewilder + A gay youth like me, who of castles aërial +(And _only_ of such) am, God help me! a builder; + Still peopling each mansion with lodgers ethereal, +And now, to this nymph of the seraph-like eye, +Letting out, as you see, my first floor next the sky. + +But, alas! nothing's perfect on earth--even she, + This divine little gipsy, does odd things sometimes; +Talks learning--looks wise (rather painful to see), + Prints already in two County papers her rhymes; +And raves--the sweet, charming, absurd little dear, +About _Amulets, Bijous_, and _Keepsakes_, next year. +In a manner which plainly bad symptoms portends +Of that Annual _blue_ fit, so distressing to friends; +A fit which, tho' lasting but one short edition, +Leaves the patient long after in sad inanition. + +However, let's hope for the best--and, meanwhile, +Be it mine still to bask in the niece's warm smile; +While you, if you're wise, Dick, will play the gallant +(Uphill work, I confess,) to her Saint of an Aunt. +Think, my boy, for a youngster like you, who've a lack, +Not indeed of rupees, but of all other specie. + +What luck thus to find a kind witch at your back, + An old goose with gold eggs, from all debts to release ye! +Never mind, tho' the spinster be reverend and thin, + What are all the Three Graces to her Three per Cents? +While her aeres!--oh Dick, it don’t matter one pin + How she touches the affections, so _you_ touch the rents; +And Love never looks half so pleased as when, bless him, he +Sings to an old lady's purse "Open, Sesame." + +By the way, I've just heard, in my walks, a report, +Which, if true, will insure for your visit some sport. +'Tis rumored our Manager means to bespeak +The Church tumblers from Exeter Hall for next week; +And certainly ne'er did a queerer or rummer set +Throw, for the amusement of Christians, a summerset. +'Tis feared their chief "Merriman," C--ke, cannot come, +Being called off, at present, to play Punch at home; +And the loss of so practised a wag in divinity +Will grieve much all lovers of jokes on the Trinity;-- +His pun on the name Unigenitus, lately +Having pleased Robert Taylor, the _Reverend_, greatly. +'Twill prove a sad drawback, if absent he be, +As a wag Presbyterian's a thing quite to see; +And, 'mong the Five Points of the Calvinists, none of 'em +Ever yet reckoned a point of wit one of 'em. +But even tho' deprived of this comical elf, +We've a host of _buffoni_ in Murtagh himself. +Who of all the whole troop is chief mummer and mime, +And Coke takes the _Ground_ Tumbling, _he_ the +_Sublime_;[1] +And of him we're quite certain, so pray come in time. + + +[1] In the language of the play-bills, "Ground and _Lofty_ Tumbling." + + + + + + +LETTER II. + +FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MRS. ELIZABETH ----. + + +Just in time for the post, dear, and monstrously busy, + With godly concernments--and worldly ones, too; +Things carnal and spiritual mixt, my dear Lizzy, +In this little brain till, bewildered and dizzy, + 'Twixt heaven and earth, I scarce know what I do. + +First, I've been to see all the gay fashions from Town, +Which our favorite Miss Gimp for the spring has had down. +Sleeves _still_ worn (which _I_ think is wise), _à la +folle_, +Charming hats, _pou de soie_--tho' the shape rather droll. +But you can’t think how nicely the caps of _tulle_ lace, +With the _mentonnières_ look on this poor sinful face; +And I mean, if the Lord in his mercy thinks right, +To wear one at Mrs. Fitz-wigram's to-night. + +The silks are quite heavenly:--I'm glad too to say +Gimp herself grows more godly and good every day; +Hath had sweet experience--yea, even doth begin +To turn from the Gentiles, and put away sin-- +And all since her last stock of goods was laid in. +What a blessing one's milliner, careless of pelf, +Should thus "walk in newness," as well as one's self! +So much for the blessings, the comforts of Spirit +I've had since we met, and they're more than I merit!-- +Poor, sinful, weak creature in every respect, +Tho' ordained (God knows why) to be one of the Elect. +But now for the picture's reverse.--You remember +That footman and cook-maid I hired last December; +_He_ a Baptist Particular--_she_, of some sect +Not particular, I fancy, in any respect; +But desirous, poor thing, to be fed with the Word, +And "to wait," as she said, "on Miss Fudge and the Lord." + +Well, my dear, of all men, that Particular Baptist +At preaching a sermon, off hand, was the aptest; +And, long as he staid, do him justice, more rich in +Sweet savors of doctrine, there never was kitchen. +He preached in the parlor, he preached in the hall, +He preached to the chambermaids, scullions and all. + All heard with delight his reprovings of sin, +But above all, the cook-maid:--oh, ne'er would she tire-- +Tho', in learning to save sinful souls from the fire, + She would oft let the soles she was frying fall in. +(God forgive me for punning on points thus of piety!-- +A sad trick I've learned in Bob's heathen society.) +But ah! there remains still the worst of my tale; +Come, Asterisks, and help me the sad truth to veil-- +Conscious stars, that at even your own secret turn pale! + * * * * * + * * * * * +In short, dear, this preaching and psalm-singing pair, +Chosen "vessels of mercy," as _I_ thought they were, +Have together this last week eloped; making bold +To whip off as much goods as both vessels could hold-- +Not forgetting some scores of sweet Tracts from my shelves, +Two Family Bibles as large as themselves, +And besides, from the drawer--I neglecting to lock it-- +My neat "Morning Manna, done up for the pocket."[1] +Was there e'er known a case so distressing, dear Liz? +It has made me quite ill:-and the worst of it is, +When rogues are _all_ pious, 'tis hard to detect +_Which_ rogues are the reprobate, _which_ the elect. +This man "had a _call_," he said--impudent mockery! +What call had he to _my_ linen and crockery? + +I'm now and have been for this week past in chase +Of some godly young couple this pair to replace. +The enclosed two announcements have just met my eyes +In that venerable Monthly where Saints advertise +For such temporal comforts as this world supplies; +And the fruits of the Spirit are properly made +An essential in every craft, calling and trade. +Where the attorney requires for his 'prentice some youth +Who has "learned to fear God and to walk in the truth;" +Where the sempstress, in search of employment, declares +That pay is no object, so she can have prayers; +And the Establisht Wine Company proudly gives out +That the whole of the firm, Co. and all, are devout. + +Happy London, one feels, as one reads o'er the pages, +Where Saints are so much more abundant than sages; +Where Parsons may soon be all laid on the shelf, +As each Cit can cite chapter and verse for himself, +And the _serious_ frequenters of market and dock +All lay in religion as part of their stock.[2] +Who can tell to what lengths we may go on improving, +When thus thro' all London the Spirit keeps moving, +And heaven's so in vogue that each shop adver_tise_ment +Is now not so much for the earth as the skies meant? + +P. S. + +Have mislaid the two paragraphs--can’t stop to look, +But both describe charming--both Footman and Cook. +She, "decidedly pious"--with pathos deplores +The increase of French cookery and sin on our shores; +And adds--(while for further accounts she refers +To a great Gospel preacher, a cousin of hers,) +That "tho' _some_ make their Sabbaths mere matter-of-fun days, +She asks but for tea and the Gospel, on Sundays." +The footman, too, full of the true saving knowledge;-- +Has late been to Cambridge--to Trinity College; +Served last a young gentleman, studying divinity, +But left--not approving the morals of Trinity. + +P. S. + +I enclose, too, according to promise, some scraps + Of my Journal--that Day-book I keep of my heart; +Where, at some little items, (partaking, perhaps, + More of earth than of heaven,) thy prudery may start, + And suspect something tender, sly girl as thou art. +For the present, I'm mute--but, whate'er may befall, +Recollect, dear, (in Hebrews, xiii. 4,) St. Paul +Hath himself declared, "marriage is honorable in all." + +EXTRACTS FROM MY DIARY. + +_Monday_. + +Tried a new chälé gown on--pretty. +No one to see me in it--pity! +Flew in a passion with Fritz, my maid;-- +The Lord forgive me!--she lookt dismayed; +But got her to sing the 100th Psalm, +While she curled my hair, which made me calm. +Nothing so soothes a Christian heart +As sacred music--heavenly art! + +_Tuesday_ + +At two a visit from Mr. Magan-- +A remarkably handsome, nice young man; +And, all Hibernian tho' he be, +As civilized, strange to say, as we! +I own this young man's spiritual state +Hath much engrossed my thoughts of late; +And I mean, as soon as my niece is gone, +To have some talk with him thereupon. +At present I naught can do or say, +But that troublesome child is in the way; +Nor is there, I think, a doubt that he + Would also her absence much prefer, +As oft, while listening intent to me, + He's forced, from politeness, to look at her. + +Heigho!--what a blessing should Mr. Magan +Turn out, after all, a "renewed" young man; +And to me should fall the task, on earth, +To assist at the dear youth's second birth. +Blest thought! and ah! more blest the tie, +Were it Heaven's high will, that he and I-- +But I blush to write the nuptial word-- +Should wed, as St. Paul says, "in the Lord"; +Not _this_ world's wedlock--gross, gallant, +But pure--as when Amram married his aunt. + +Our ages differ--but who would count +One's natural sinful life's amount, +Or look in the Register's vulgar page +For a regular twice-born Christian's age, +Who, blessed privilege! only then +Begins to live when he's born again? +And, counting in _this_ way--let me see-- +I myself but five years old shall be. +And dear Magan, when the event takes place, +An actual new-born child of grace-- +Should Heaven in mercy so dispose-- +A six-foot baby, in _swaddling_ clothes. + +_Wednesday_. + +Finding myself, by some good fate, +With Mr. Magan left _téte-à-téte_, +Had just begun--having stirred the fire, +And drawn my chair near his--to inquire, +What his notions were of Original Sin, +When that naughty Fanny again bounced in; +And all the sweet things I had got to say +Of the Flesh and the Devil were whiskt away! + +Much grieved to observe that Mr. Magan +Is actually pleased and, amused with Fan! +What charms any sensible man can see +In a child so foolishly young as she-- +But just eighteen, come next Mayday, +With eyes, like herself, full of naught but play-- +Is, I own, an exceeding puzzle to me. + + +[1] "Morning Manna, or British Verse-book, neatly done up for the pocket," +and chiefly intended to assist the members of the British Verse +Association, whose design is, we are told, "to induce the inhabitants of +Great Britain and Ireland to commit one and the same verse of Scripture to +memory every morning. Already, it is known, several thousand persons in +Scotland, besides tens of thousands in America and Africa, _are every +morning learning the same verse_." + +[2] According to the late Mr. Irving, there is even a peculiar form of +theology got up expressly for the money-market, "I know how far wide," he +says, "of the mark my views of Christ's work in the flesh will be viewed +by those who are working with the stock-jobbing theology of the religious +world." "Let these preachers." he adds, "(for I will not call them +theologians), cry up, brother like, their article,"--_Morning Watch_."-- +No. iii, 442. 443. + + + + + + +LETTER III. + +FROM MISS FANNY FUDGE, TO HER COUSIN, MISS KITTY ----. + +STANZAS ENCLOSED. + + +TO MY SHADOW; OR, WHY?--WHAT?--HOW? + +Dark comrade of my path! while earth and sky + Thus wed their charms, in bridal light arrayed, +Why in this bright hour, walkst thou ever nigh; + Blackening my footsteps, with thy length of shade-- + Dark comrade, WHY? + +Thou mimic Shape that, mid these flowery scenes, + Glidest beside me o'er each sunny spot, +Saddening them as thou goest--say, what means + So dark an adjunct to so bright a lot-- + Grim goblin, WHAT? + +Still, as to pluck sweet flowers I bend my brow, + Thou bendest, too--then risest when I rise;-- +Say, mute, mysterious Thing! how is't that thou + Thus comest between me and those blessed skies-- + Dim shadow, HOW? + +(ADDITIONAL STANZA, BY ANOTHER HAND.) + +Thus said I to that Shape, far less in grudge + Than gloom of soul; while, as I eager cried, +Oh Why? What? How?--a Voice, that one might judge + To be some Irish echo's, faint replied, + Oh fudge, fudge, fudge! + +You have here, dearest Coz, my last lyric effusion; + And, with it, that odious "additional stanza, +Which Aunt _will_ insist I must keep, as conclusion, + And which, you'll _at once_ see, is Mr. Magan's;--a + Most cruel and dark-designed extravaganza, +And part of that plot in which he and my Aunt are +To stifle the flights of my genius by banter. + +Just so 'twas with Byron's young eagle-eyed strain, +Just so did they taunt him;--but vain, critics, vain +All your efforts to saddle Wit's fire with a chain! +To blot out the splendor of Fancy's young stream, +Or crop, in its cradle, her newly-fledged beam!!! +Thou perceivest, dear, that, even while these lines I indite, +Thoughts burn, brilliant fancies break out, wrong or right, +And I'm all over poet, in Criticism's spite! + +That my Aunt, who deals only in Psalms, and regards +Messrs. Sternhold and Co. as the first of all bards-- +That _she_ should make light of my works I can’t blame; +But that nice, handsome, odious Magan--what a shame! +Do you know, dear, that, high as on most points I rate him, +I'm really afraid--after all, I--_must_ hate him, +He is _so_ provoking--naught's safe from his tongue; +He spares no one authoress, ancient or young. +Were you Sappho herself, and in _Keepsake_ or _Bijou_ +Once shone as contributor, Lord! how he'd quiz you! +He laughs at _all_ Monthlies--I've actually seen +A sneer on his brow at _The Court Magazine_!-- +While of Weeklies, poor things, there's but one he peruses, +And buys every book which that Weekly abuses. +But I care not how others such sarcasm may fear, +_One_ spirit, at least, will not bend to his sneer; +And tho' tried by the fire, my young genius shall burn as +Uninjured as crucified gold in the furnace! +(I suspect the word "crucified" must be made "crucible," +Before this fine image of mine is producible.) +And now, dear--to tell you a secret which, pray +Only trust to such friends as with safety you may-- +You know and indeed the whole country suspects +(Tho' the Editor often my best things rejects), +That the verses signed so,[symbol: hand], which you now and then see +In our County _Gazette_ (vide _last_) are by me. +But 'tis dreadful to think what provoking mistakes +The vile country Press in one's prosody makes. +For you know, dear--I may, without vanity, hint-- +Tho' an angel should write, still 'tis _devils_ must print; +And you can’t think what havoc these demons sometimes +Choose to make of one's sense, and what's worse, of one's rhymes. +But a week or two since, in my Ode upon Spring, +Which I _meant_ to have made a most beautiful thing, +Where I talkt of the "dewdrops from freshly-blown roses," +The nasty things made it "from freshly-blown noses!" +And once when to please my cross Aunt, I had tried +To commemorate some saint of her _cligue_, who'd just died, +Having said he "had taken up in heaven his position," +They made it, he'd "taken up to heaven his physician!" + +This is very disheartening;--but brighter days shine, +I rejoice, love, to say both for me and the Nine; +For what do you think?--so delightful! next year, + Oh, prepare, dearest girl, for the grand news prepare-- +I'm to write in "_The Keepsake_"--yes, Kitty, my dear. + To write in "_The Keepsake_," as sure as you're there!! +T' other night, at a Ball, 'twas my fortunate chance +With a very nice elderly Dandy to dance, +Who, 'twas plain, from some hints which I now and then caught. +Was the author of _something_--one couldn’t tell what; +But his satisfied manner left no room to doubt +It was something that Colburn had lately brought out. + +We conversed of _belles-lettres_ thro' all the quadrille,-- +Of poetry, dancing, of prose, standing still; +Talkt of Intellect's march--whether right 'twas or wrong-- +And then settled the point in a bold _en avant_. +In the course of this talk 'twas that, having just hinted +That _I_ too had Poems which--longed to be printed, +He protested, kind man! he had seen, at first sight, +I was actually _born_ in "_The Keepsake_" to write. +"In the Annals of England let some," he said, "shine, +"But a place in her Annuals, Lady, be thine! +"Even now future '_Keepsakes_' seem brightly to rise, +"Thro' the vista of years, as I gaze on those eyes,-- +"All lettered and prest, and of large-paper size!" +How un_like_ that Magan, who my genius would smother, +And how we true geniuses find out each other! + +This and much more he said with that fine frenzied glance +One so rarely now sees, as we slid thro' the dance; +Till between us 'twas finally fixt that, next year, + In this exquisite task I my pen should engage; +And, at parting, he stoopt down and lispt in my ear +These mystical words, which I could but _just_ hear, + "Terms for rhyme--if it's _prime_--ten and sixpence per page." +Think, Kitty, my dear, if I heard his words right, + What a mint of half-guineas this small head contains; +If for nothing to write is itself a delight, + Ye Gods, what a bliss to be paid for one's strains! + +Having dropt the dear fellow a courtesy profound, + Off at once, to inquire all about him, I ran; +And from what I could learn, do you know, dear, I've found + That he's quite a new species of literary man; +One, whose task is--to what will not fashion accustom us?-- +To _edit_ live authors, as if they were posthumous. +For instance--the plan, to be sure, is the oddest!-- +If any young he or she author feels modest +In venturing abroad, this kind gentleman-usher +Lends promptly a hand to the interesting blusher; +Indites a smooth Preface, brings merit to light, +Which else might, by accident, shrink out of sight, +And, in short, renders readers and critics polite. +My Aunt says--tho' scarce on such points one can credit her-- +He was Lady Jane Thingumbob's last novel's editor. +'Tis certain the fashion's but newly invented; + And quick as the change of all things and all names is, +Who knows but as authors like girls are _presented_, + We girls may be _edited_ soon at St. James's? + +I must now close my letter--there's Aunt, in full screech, +Wants to take me to hear some great Irvingite preach. +God forgive me, I'm not much inclined, I must say, +To go and sit still to be preached at to-day. +And besides--'twill be all against dancing, no doubt, +Which my poor Aunt abhors with such hatred devout, +That so far from presenting young nymphs with a head, +For their skill in the dance, as of Herod is said, +She'd wish their own heads in the platter instead. +There again--coming, Ma'am!--I'll write more, if I can, +Before the post goes, + Your affectionate Fan. + +_Four o'clock_. + +Such a sermon!--tho' _not_ about dancing, my dear; +'Twas only on the end of the world being near. +Eighteen Hundred and Forty's the year that some state +As the time for that accident--some Forty Eight[1] +And I own, of the two, I'd prefer much the latter, +As then I shall be an old maid, and 'twon't matter. +Once more, love, good-by--I've to make a new cap; +But am now so dead tired with this horrid mishap +Of the end of the world that I _must_ take a nap. + + +[1] With regard to the exact time of this event, there appears to be a +difference only of about two or three years among the respective +calculators. M. Alphonse Nicole, Docteur en Droit. et Avocat, merely +doubts whether it is to be in 1846 or 1847. + + + + + + +LETTER IV. + +FROM PATRICK MAGAN, ESQ., TO THE REV. RICHARD ----. + + +He comes from Erin's speechful shore +Like fervid kettle, bubbling o'er + With hot effusions--hot and weak; +Sound, Humbug, all your hollowest drums, +He comes, of Erin's martyrdoms + To Britain's well-fed Church to speak. + +Puff him, ye Journals of the Lord,[1] +Twin prosers, _Watchman_ and _Record_! +Journals reserved for realms of bliss, +Being much too good to sell in this, +Prepare, ye wealthier Saints, your dinners, + Ye Spinsters, spread your tea and crumpets; +And you, ye countless Tracts for Sinners, + Blow all your little penny trumpets. +He comes, the reverend man, to tell + To all who still the Church's part take, +Tales of parsonic woe, that well + Might make even grim Dissenter's heart ache:-- +Of ten whole bishops snatched away +For ever from the light of day; +(With God knows, too, how many more, +For whom that doom is yet in store)-- +Of Rectors cruelly compelled + From Bath and Cheltenham to haste home, +Because the tithes, by Pat withheld, + Will _not_ to Bath or Cheltenham come; +Nor will the flocks consent to pay +Their parsons thus to stay away;-- +Tho' with _such_ parsons, one may doubt +If 'tisn't money well laid out;-- +Of all, in short, and each degree +Of that once happy Hierarchy, + Which used to roll in wealth so pleasantly; +But now, alas! is doomed to see +Its surplus brought to nonplus presently! + +Such are the themes this man of pathos, +Priest of prose and lord of bathos, +Will preach and preach t'ye, till you're dull again; +Then, hail him, Saints, with joint acclaim, +Shout to the stars his tuneful name, +Which Murtagh _was_, ere known to fame, +But now is _Mortimer_ O'Mulligan! + +All true, Dick, true as you're alive-- +I've seen him, some hours since, arrive. +Murtagh is come, the great Itinerant-- +And Tuesday, in the market-place, +Intends, to every saint and sinner in't, + To state what _he_ calls Ireland's Case; +Meaning thereby the case of _his_ shop,- +Of curate, vicar, rector, bishop, +And all those other grades seraphic, +That make men's souls their special traffic, +Tho' caring not a pin _which_ way +The erratic souls go, so they _pay_.-- +Just as some roguish country nurse, + Who takes a foundling babe to suckle, +First pops the payment in her purse, + Then leaves poor dear to--suck its knuckle: +Even so these reverend rigmaroles +Pocket the money--starve the souls. +Murtagh, however, in his glory, +Will tell, next week, a different story; +Will make out all these men of barter, +As each a saint, a downright martyr, +Brought to the _stake_--i.e. a _beef_ one, +Of all their martyrdoms the chief one; +Tho' try them even at this, they'll bear it, +If tender and washt down with claret. + +Meanwhile Miss Fudge, who loves all lions. +Your saintly, _next_ to great and high 'uns-- +(A Viscount, be he what he may, +Would cut a Saint out any day,) +Has just announced a godly rout, +Where Murtagh's to be first brought out, +And shown in his tame, _week-day_ state:-- +"Prayers, half-past seven, tea at eight." +Even so the circular missive orders-- +Pink cards, with cherubs round the borders. + +Haste, Dick--you're lost, if you lose time;-- + Spinsters at forty-five grow giddy, +And Murtagh with his tropes sublime + Will surely carry off old Biddy, +Unless some spark at once propose, +And distance him by downright prose. +That sick, rich squire, whose wealth and lands +All pass, they say, to Biddy's hands, +(The patron, Dick, of three fat rectories!) +Is dying of _angina pectoris_;-- +So that, unless you're stirring soon. + Murtagh, that priest of puff and pelf, +May come in for a honey-_moon_, + And be the _man_ of it, himself! + +As for _me_, Dick--'tis whim, 'tis folly, +But this young niece absorbs me wholly. +'Tis true, the girl's a vile verse-maker-- + Would rhyme all nature, if you'd let her;-- +But even her oddities, plague take her, + But made me love her all the better. +_Too_ true it is, she's bitten sadly +With this new rage for rhyming badly, +Which late hath seized all ranks and classes, +Down to that new Estate, "the masses "; + Till one pursuit all tastes combines-- +One common railroad o'er Parnassus, +Where, sliding in those tuneful grooves, +Called couplets, all creation moves, + And the whole world runs mad _in lines_. +Add to all this--what's even still worse, +As rhyme itself, tho' still a curse, +Sounds better to a chinking purse-- +Scarce sixpence hath my charmer got, +While I can muster just a groat; +So that, computing self and Venus, +Tenpence would clear the amount between us. +However, things may yet prove better:-- +Meantime, what awful length of letter! +And how, while heaping thus with gibes +The Pegasus of modern scribes, +My own small hobby of farrago +Hath beat the pace at which even _they_ go! + + +[1] "Our anxious desire is to be found on the side of the Lord."--_Record +Newspaper_. + + + + + + +LETTER V. + +FROM LARRY O'BRANIGAN, IN ENGLAND, TO HIS WIFE JUDY, AT MULLINAFAD. + + +Dear Judy, I sind you this bit of a letther, +By mail-coach conveyance--for want of a betther-- +To tell you what luck in this world I have had +Since I left the sweet cabin, at Mullinafad. +Och, Judy, that night!--when the pig which we meant +To dry-nurse in the parlor, to pay off the rent, +Julianna, the craythur--that name was the death of her--[1] +Gave us the shlip and we saw the last breath of her! +And _there_ were the childher, six innocent sowls, +For their nate little play-fellow turning up howls; +While yourself, my dear Judy (tho' grievin's a folly), +Stud over Julianna's remains, melancholy-- +Cryin', half for the craythur and half for the money, +"Arrah, why did ye die till we'd sowled you, my honey?" + +But God's will be done!--and then, faith, sure enough, +As the pig was desaiced, 'twas high time to be off. +So we gothered up all the poor duds we could catch, +Lock the owld cabin-door, put the kay in the thatch, +Then tuk laave of each other's sweet lips in the dark, +And set off, like the Chrishtians turned out of the Ark; +The six childher with you, my dear Judy, ochone! +And poor I wid myself, left condolin' alone. + +How I came to this England, o'er say and o'er lands, +And what cruel hard walkin' I've had on my hands, +Is, at this present writin', too tadious to speak, +So I'll mintion it all in a postscript, next week:-- +Only starved I was, surely, as thin as a lath, +Till I came to an up-and-down place they call Bath, +Where, as luck was, I managed to make a meal's meat, +By dhraggin' owld ladies all day thro' the street-- +Which their docthors (who pocket, like fun, the pound starlins,) +Have brought into fashion to plase the owld darlins. +Divil a boy in all Bath, tho' _I_ say it, could carry +The grannies up hill half so handy as Larry; +And the higher they lived, like owld crows, in the air, +The more _I_ was wanted to lug them up there. + +But luck has two handles, dear Judy, they say, +And mine has _both_ handles put on the wrong way. +For, pondherin', one morn, on a drame I'd just had +Of yourself and the babbies, at Mullinafad, +Och, there came o'er my sinses so plasin' a flutther, +That I spilt an owld Countess right clane in the gutther, +Muff, feathers and all!--the descint was most awful, +And--what was still worse, faith--I knew'twas unlawful: +For, tho', with mere _women_, no very great evil, +'Tupset an owld _Countess_ in Bath is the divil! +So, liftin' the chair, with herself safe upon it, +(for nothin' about her--was _kilt_, but her bonnet,) +Without even mentionin' "By your lave, ma'am," +I tuk to my heels and--here, Judy, I am! + +What's the name of this town I can't say very well, +But your heart sure will jump when you hear what befell +Your own beautiful Larry, the very first day, +(And a Sunday it was, shinin' out mighty gay,) +When his brogues to this city of luck found their way. +Bein' hungry, God help me and happenin' to stop, +Just to dine on the shmell of a pasthry-cook's shop, +I saw, in the window, a large printed paper. +And read there a name, och! that made my heart caper-- +Though printed it was in some quare ABC, +That might bother a schoolmaster, let alone _me_. +By gor, you'd have laughed Judy, could you've but listened, +As, doubtin', I cried, "why is it!--no, it _isn't_:" +But it _was_, after all--for, by spellin' quite slow, +First I made out "Rev. Mortimer"--then a great "O"; +And, at last, by hard readin' and rackin' my skull again, +Out it came, nate as imported, "O'Mulligan!" + +Up I jumpt like a sky-lark, my jewel, at that name,-- +Divil a doubt on my mind, but it _must_ be the same +"Master Murthagh, himself," says I, "all the world over! +My own fosther-brother--by jinks, I'm in clover. +Tho' _there_, in the play-bill, he figures so grand, +One wet-nurse it was brought us both up by hand, +And he'll not let me shtarve in the inemy's land!" + +Well, to make a long hishtory short, niver doubt +But I managed, in no time, to find the lad out: +And the joy of the meetin' bethuxt him and me, +Such a pair of owld cumrogues--was charmin' to see. +Nor is Murthagh less plased with the evint than _I_ am, +As he just then was wanting a Valley-de-sham; +And, for _dressin'_ a gintleman, one way or t'other, +Your nate Irish lad is beyant every other. + +But now, Judy, comes the quare part of the case; +And, in throth, it's the only drawback on my place. +'Twas Murthagh's ill luck to be crost, as you know, +With an awkward mishfortune some short time ago; +That's to say, he turned Protestant--_why_, I can'tlarn; +But, of coorse, he knew best, an' it's not _my_ consarn. +All I know is, we both were good Catholics, at nurse, +And myself am so still--nayther better not worse. +Well, our bargain was all right and tight in a jiffy, +And lads more contint never yet left, the Liffey, +When Murthagh--or Morthimer, as he's _now_ chrishened, +His _name_ being convarted, at laist, if _he_ isn't-- +Lookin' sly at me (faith, 'twas divartin' to see) +"_Of coorse_, you're a Protestant, Larry," says he. +Upon which says myself, wid a wink just as shly, +"Is't a Protestant?--oh yes, _I am_, sir," says I;-- +And there the chat ended, and divil a more word +Controvarsial between us has since then occurred. + +What Murthagh could mane, and, in troth, Judy dear, +What _I myself_ meant, doesn'tseem mighty clear; +But the truth is, tho' still for the Owld Light a stickler, +I was just then too shtarved to be over partic'lar:-- +And, God knows, between us, a comic'ler pair +Of twin Protestants couldn't be seen _any_ where. + +Next Tuesday (as towld in the play-bills I mintioned, +Addrest to the loyal and godly intintioned,) +His Riverence, my master, comes forward to preach,-- +Myself doesn'tknow whether sarmon or speech, +But it's all one to him, he's a dead hand at each; +Like us Paddys in gin'ral, whose skill in orations +Quite bothers the blarney of all other nations. + +But, whisht!--there's his Riverence, shoutin' out "Larry," +And sorra a word more will this shmall paper carry; +So, here, Judy, ends my short bit of a letther, +Which, faix, I'd have made a much bigger and betther. +But divil a one Post-office hole in this town +Fit to swallow a dacent sized billy-dux down. +So good luck to the childer!--tell Molly, I love her; +Kiss Oonagh's sweet mouth, and kiss Katty all over-- +Not forgettin' the mark of the red-currant whiskey +She got at the fair when yourself was so frisky. +The heavens be your bed!--I will write, when I can again, +Yours to the world's end, + +LARRY O'BRANIGAN. + + +[1] The Irish peasantry are very fond of giving fine names to their pigs. +I have heard of one instance in which a couple of young pigs were named, +at their birth, Abelard and Eloisa. + + + + + + +LETTER VI. + +FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE, TO MRS. ELIZABETH ----. + + +How I grieve you're not with us!--pray, come, if you can, +Ere we're robbed of this dear, oratorical man, +Who combines in himself all the multiple glory +Of, Orangeman, Saint, _quondam_ Papist and Tory;-- +(Choice mixture! like that from which, duly confounded, +The best sort of _brass_ was, in old times, compounded.)-- +The sly and the saintly, the worldly and godly, +All fused down, in brogue so deliciously oddly! +In short, he's a _dear_--and _such_ audiences draws, +Such loud peals of laughter and shouts of applause, +As _can't_ but do good to the Protestant cause. + +Poor dear Irish Church!--he today sketched a view +Of her history and prospect, to _me_ at least new, +And which (if it _takes_ as it ought) must arouse +The whole Christian world her just rights to espouse. +As to _reasoning_--you know, dear, that's now of no use, +People still will their _facts_ and dry _figures_ produce, +As if saving the souls of a Protestant flock were +A thing to be managed "according to Cocker!" +In vain do we say, (when rude radicals hector +At paying some thousands a year to a Rector, +In places where Protestants _never yet were_,) +"Who knows but young Protestants _may_ be born there?" +And granting such accident, think, what a shame, +If they didn’t find Rector and Clerk when they came! +It is clear that, without such a staff on full pay, +These little Church embryos _must_ go astray; +And, while fools are computing what Parsons would cost, +Precious souls are meanwhile to the Establishment lost! + +In vain do we put the case sensibly thus;-- +They'll still with their figures and facts make a fuss, +And ask "if, while all, choosing each his own road, +Journey on, as we can, towards the Heavenly Abode, +It is right that _seven_ eighths of the travellers should pay +For _one_ eighth that goes quite a different way?"-- +Just as if, foolish people, this wasn't, in reality, +A proof of the Church's extreme liberality, +That tho' hating Popery in _other_ respects, +She to Catholic _money_ in no way objects; +And so liberal her very best Saints, in this sense, +That they even go to heaven at the Catholic's expense. + +But tho' clear to _our_ minds all these arguments be, +People cannot or _will_ not their cogency see; +And I grieve to confess, did the poor Irish Church +Stand on reasoning alone, she'd be left in the lurch. +It was therefore, dear Lizzy, with joy most sincere, +That I heard this nice Reverend O'_something_ we've here, +Produce, from the depths of his knowledge and reading, +A view of that marvellous Church, far exceeding, +In novelty, force, and profoundness of thought, +All that Irving himself in his glory e'er taught. + +Looking thro' the whole history, present and past, +Of the Irish Law Church, from the first to the last; +Considering how strange its original birth-- +Such a thing having _never_ before been on earth-- +How opposed to the instinct, the law and the force +Of nature and reason has been its whole course; +Thro' centuries encountering repugnance, resistance, +Scorn, hate, execration--yet still in existence! +Considering all this, the conclusion he draws +Is that Nature exempts this one Church from her laws-- +That Reason, dumb-foundered, gives up the dispute, +And before the portentous anomaly stands mute; +That in short 'tis a Miracle! and, _once_ begun, +And transmitted thro' ages, from father to son, +For the honor of miracles, _ought to go on_. + +Never yet was conclusion so cogent and sound, +Or so fitted the Church's weak foes to confound. +For observe the more low all her merits they place, +The more they make out the miraculous case, +And the more all good Christians must deem it profane +To disturb such a prodigy's marvellous reign. + +As for scriptural proofs, he quite placed beyond doubt +That the whole in the Apocalypse may be found out, +As clear and well-proved, he would venture to swear, +As anything else has been _ever_ found there:-- +While the mode in which, bless the dear fellow, he deals +With that whole lot of vials and trumpets and seals, +And the ease with which vial on vial he strings, +Shows him quite a _first-rate_ at all these sort of things. + +So much for theology:--as for the affairs +Of this temporal world--the light drawing-room cares +And gay toils of the toilet, which, God knows, I seek, +From no love of such things, but in humbleness meek, +And to be, as the Apostle, was, "weak with the weak," +Thou wilt find quite enough (till I'm somewhat less busy) +In the extracts inclosed, my dear news-loving Lizzy. + +EXTRACTS FROM MY DIARY. + +_Thursday_. + +Last night, having naught more holy to do, +Wrote a letter to dear Sir Andrew Agnew, +About the "Do-nothing-on-Sunday-club," +Which we wish by some shorter name to dub:-- +As the use of more vowels and Consonants +Than a Christian on Sunday _really_ wants, +Is a grievance that ought to be done away, +And the Alphabet left to rest, that day. + +_Sunday_. + +Sir Andrew's answer!--but, shocking to say, +Being franked unthinkingly yesterday. +To the horror of Agnews yet unborn, +It arrived on this blessed Sunday morn!!-- +How shocking!--the postman's self cried "shame on't," +Seeing the immaculate Andrew's name on't!! +What will the Club do?--meet, no doubt. +'Tis a matter that touches the Class Devout, +And the friends of the Sabbath _must_ speak out. + +_Tuesday_. + +Saw to-day, at the raffle--and saw it with pain-- +That those stylish Fitzwigrams begin to dress plain. +Even gay little Sophy smart trimmings renounces-- +She who long has stood by me thro' all sorts of flounces, +And showed by upholding the toilet's sweet rites, +That we girls may be Christians without being frights. +This, I own, much alarms me; for tho' one's religious, +And strict and--all that, there's no need to be hideous; +And why a nice bonnet should stand in the way +Of one's going to heaven, 'tisn't easy to say. + +Then, there's Gimp, the poor thing--if her custom we drop, +Pray what's to become of her soul and her shop? +If by saints like ourselves no more orders are given, +She'll lose all the interest she now takes in heaven; +And this nice little "fire-brand, pluckt from the burning," +May fall in again at the very next turning. + +_Wednesday_. + +_Mem_.--To write to the India Mission Society; +And send £20--heavy tax upon piety! + +Of all Indian luxuries we now-a-days boast, +Making "Company's Christians" perhaps costs the most. +And the worst of it is, that these converts full grown, +Having lived in _our_ faith mostly die in their _own_,[1] +Praying hard, at the last, to some god who, they say, +When incarnate on earth, used to steal curds and whey.[2] +Think, how horrid, my dear!--so that all's thrown away; +And (what is still worse) for the rum and the rice +They consumed, while believers, we saints pay the price. + +Still 'tis cheering to find that we _do_ save a few-- +The Report gives six Christians for Cunnangcadoo; +Doorkotchum reckons seven, and four Trevandrum, +While but one and a half's left at Cooroopadum. +In this last-mentioned place 'tis the barbers enslave 'em, +For once they turn Christians no barber will shave 'em.[3] + +To atone for this rather small Heathen amount, +Some Papists, turned Christians,[4] are tackt to the account. +And tho' to catch Papists, one needn't go so far, +Such fish are worth hooking, wherever they are; +And _now_, when so great of such converts the lack is, +_One_ Papist well caught is worth millions of Blackies. + +_Friday_. + +Last night had a dream so odd and funny, + I cannot resist recording it here.-- +Methought that the Genius of Matrimony + Before me stood with a joyous leer, +Leading a husband in each hand, + And both for _me_, which lookt rather queer;-- +_One_ I could perfectly understand, +But why there were _two_ wasn’t quite so clear. +T'was meant however, I soon could see, + To afford me a _choice_--a most excellent plan; +And--who should this brace of candidates be, + But Messrs. O'Mulligan and Magan:-- +A thing, I suppose, unheard of till then, +To dream, at once, of _two_ Irishmen!-- +That handsome Magan, too, with wings on his shoulders + (For all this past in the realms of the Blest.) +And quite a creature to dazzle beholders; + While even O'Mulligan, feathered and drest + As an elderly cherub, was looking his best. +Ah Liz, you, who know me, scarce can doubt +As to _which_ of the two I singled out. +But--awful to tell--when, all in dread + Of losing so bright a vision's charms, +I graspt at Magan, his image fled, +Like a mist, away, and I found but the head + Of O'Mulligan, wings and all, in my arms! +The Angel had flown to some nest divine. +And the elderly Cherub alone was mine! + +Heigho!--it is certain that foolish Magan +Either can'tor won’t see that he _might_ be the man; +And, perhaps, dear--who knows?--if naught better befall +But--O'Mulligan _may_ be the man, after all. + +N. B. + +Next week mean to have my first scriptural rout, +For the special discussion of matters devout;-- +Like those _soirées_, at Powerscourt, so justly renowned, +For the zeal with which doctrine and negus went round; +Those theology-routs which the pious Lord Roden, +That pink of Christianity, first set the mode in; +Where, blessed down-pouring[5]from tea until nine, +The subjects lay all in the Prophecy line;-- +Then, supper--and then, if for topics hard driven, +From thence until bed-time to Satan was given; +While Roden, deep read in each topic and tome, +On all subjects (especially the last) was _at home_. + + +[1] Of such relapses we find innumerable instances in the accounts of the +Missionaries. + +[2] The god Krishna, one of the incarnations of the god Vishnu. "One day +[says the Bhagavata] Krishna's playfellows complained to Tasuda that he +had pilfered and ate their curds." + +[3] "Roteen wants shaving; but the barber here will not do it. He is run +away lest he should be compelled. He says he will not shave Yesoo Kreest's +people."--_Bapt. Mission Society_, vol. ii., p. 498. + +[4] In the Reports of the Missionaries, the Roman Catholics are almost +always classed along with the Heathen. + +[5] "About eight o'clock the Lord began to pour down his spirit copiously +upon us--for they had all by this time assembled in my room for the +purpose of prayer. This down-pouring continued till about ten o'clock."-- +Letter from Mary Campbell to the Rev. John Campbell, of Row, dated +Feruicary, April 4, 1830, giving an account of her "miraculous cure." + + + + + + +LETTER VII. + +FROM MISS FANNY FUDGE, TO HER COUSIN, MISS KITTY ----. + + +IRREGULAR ODE. + +Bring me the slumbering souls of flowers, + While yet, beneath some northern sky, +Ungilt by beams, ungemmed by showers, +They wait the breath of summer hours, + To wake to light each diamond eye, + And let loose every florid sigh! + +Bring me the first-born ocean waves, +From out those deep primeval caves, +Where from the dawn of Time they've lain-- + THE EMBRYOS OF A FUTURE MAIN!-- +Untaught as yet, young things, to speak + The language of their PARENT SEA +(Polyphlysbaean named, in Greek), +Tho' soon, too soon, in bay and creek, +Round startled isle and wondering peak, + They'll thunder loud and long as HE! + +Bring me, from Hecla's iced abode, + Young fires-- + + I had got, dear, thus far in my ODE +Intending to fill the whole page to the bottom, + But, having invoked such a lot of fine things, + Flowers, billows and thunderbolts, rainbows and wings, +Didn’t know _what_ to do with 'em, when I had got 'em. +The truth is, my thoughts are too full, at this minute, + Of Past MSS. any new ones to try. +This very night's coach brings my destiny in it-- + Decides the great question, to live or to die! +And, whether I'm henceforth immortal or no, +All depends on the answer of Simpkins and Co.! + +You'll think, love, I rave, so 'tis best to let out + The whole secret, at once--I have publisht a book!!! +Yes, an actual Book:--if the marvel you doubt, + You have only in last Monday's _Courier_ to look, +And you'll find "This day publisht by Simpkins and Co. +A Romaunt, in twelve Cantos, entitled 'Woe Woe!' +By Miss Fanny F----, known more commonly so [symbol: hand]." +This I put that my friends mayn't be left in the dark +But may guess at my _writing_ by knowing my _mark_. + +How I managed, at last, this great deed to achieve, +Is itself a "Romaunt" which you'd scarce, dear believe; +Nor can I just now, being all in a whirl, +Looking out for the Magnet,[1] explain it, dear girl. +Suffice it to say, that one half the expense +Of this leasehold of fame for long centuries hence-- +(Tho' "God knows," as aunt says my humble ambition +Aspires not beyond a small Second Edition)-- +One half the whole cost of the paper and printing, +I've managed, to scrape up, this year past, by stinting +My own little wants in gloves, ribands, and shoes, +Thus defrauding the toilet to fit out the Muse! + +And who, my dear Kitty; would not do the same? +What's _eau de Cologne_ to the sweet breath of fame? +Yards of riband soon end--but the measures of rhyme, +Dipt in hues of the rainbow, stretch out thro' all time. +Gloves languish and fade away pair after pair, +While couplets shine out, but the brighter for wear, +And the dancing-shoe's gloss in an evening is gone, +While light-footed lyrics thro' ages trip on. + +The remaining expense, trouble, risk--and, alas! +My poor copyright too--into other hands pass; +And my friend, the Head Devil of the "_County Gazette_" +(The only Mecaenas I've ever had yet), +He who set up in type my first juvenile lays, +Is now see up by them for the rest of his days; +And while Gods (as my "Heathen Mythology" says) +Live on naught but ambrosia, _his_ lot how much sweeter +To live, lucky devil, on a young lady's metre! + +As for _puffing_--that first of all literary boons, +And essential alike both to bards and balloons, +As, unless well supplied with inflation, 'tis found +Neither bards nor balloons budge an inch from the ground;-- +In _this_ respect, naught could more prosperous befall; +As my friend (for no less this kind imp can I call) + +Knows the whole would of critics--the _hypers_ and all. +I suspect he himself, indeed, dabbles in rhyme, +Which, for imps diabolic, is not the first time; +As I've heard uncle Bob say, 'twas known among Gnostics, +That the Devil on Two Sticks was a devil at Acrostics. + +But hark! there's the Magnet just dasht in from Town-- +How my heart, Kitty, beats! I shall surely drop down. +That awful _Court Journal, Gazette Athenaeum_, +All full of my book--I shall sink when I see 'em. +And then the great point--whether Simpkins and Co. +Are actually pleased with their bargain or no!-- + +_Five o'clock_. + +All's delightful--such praises!--I really fear +That this poor little head will turn giddy, my dear, +I've but time now to send you two exquisite scraps-- +All the rest by the Magnet, on Monday, perhaps. + +FROM THE "MORNING POST." + +'Tis known that a certain distinguisht physician + Prescribes, for _dyspepsia_, a course of light reading; +And Rhymes by young Ladies, the first, fresh edition +(Ere critics have injured their powers of nutrition,) + Are he thinks, for weak stomachs, the best sort of feeding. +Satires irritate--love-songs are found calorific; +But smooth, female sonnets he deems a specific, +And, if taken at bedtime, a sure soporific. +Among works of this kind, the most pleasing we know, +Is a volume just published by Simpkins and Co., +Where all such ingredients--the flowery, the sweet, +And the gently narcotic--are mixt _per_ receipt, +With a hand so judicious, we've no hesitation +To say that--'bove all, for the young generation-- +'Tis an elegant, soothing and safe preparation. + +_Nota bene_--for readers, whose object's _to sleep_, +And who read, in their nightcaps, the publishers keep +Good fire-proof binding, which comes very cheap. + +ANECDOTE--FROM THE "COURT JOURNAL." + +T' other night, at the Countess of ***'s rout, +An amusing event was much whispered about. +It was said that Lord ---, at the Council, that day, + Had, move than once, jumpt from his seat, like a rocket, +And flown to a corner, where--heedless, they say, +How the country's resources were squandered away-- + He kept reading some papers he'd brought in his pocket. +Some thought them despatches from Spain or the Turk, + Others swore they brought word we had lost the Mauritius; +But it turned out 'twas only Miss Fudge's new work, + Which his Lordship devoured with such zeal expeditious-- +Messrs. Simpkins and Co., to avoid all delay, +Having sent it in sheets, that his Lordship might say, +He had distanced the whole reading world by a day! + + +[1] A day-coach of that name. + + + + + + +LETTER VIII. + +FROM BOB FUDGE, ESQ., TO THE REV. MORTIMER O'MULLIGAN. + + +_Tuesday evening_, + +I much regret, dear Reverend Sir, + I could not come to * * * to meet you; +But this curst gout won’t let me stir-- + Even now I but by proxy greet you; +As this vile scrawl, whate'er its sense is, +Owes all to an amanuensis. +Most other scourges of disease +Reduce men to _extremities_-- +But gout won’t leave one even _these_. + +From all my sister writes, I see +That you and I will quite agree. +I'm a plain man who speak the truth, + And trust you'll think me not uncivil, +When I declare that from my youth + I've wisht your country at the devil: +Nor can I doubt indeed from all + I've heard of your high patriot fame-- +From every word your lips let fall-- + That you most truly wish the same. +It plagues one's life out--thirty years +Have I had dinning in my ears, + "Ireland wants this and that and t'other," +And to this hour one nothing hears + But the same vile, eternal bother. +While, of those countless things she wanted, +Thank God, but little has been granted, +And even that little, if we're men +And Britons, we'll have back again! + +I really think that Catholic question +Was what brought on my indigestion; +And still each year, as Popery's curse +Has gathered round us, I've got worse; +Till even my pint of port a day +Can’t keep the Pope and bile away. +And whereas, till the Catholic bill, +I never wanted draught or pill, +The settling of that cursed question +Has quite _un_settled my digestion. + +Look what has happened since--the Elect +Of all the bores of every sect, +The chosen triers of men's patience, +From all the Three Denominations. +Let loose upon us;--even Quakers +Turned into speechers and lawmakers, +Who'll move no question, stiff-rumpt elves, +Till first the Spirit moves themselves; +And whose shrill Yeas and Nays, in chorus, +Conquering our Ayes and Noes sonorous, +Will soon to death's own slumber snore us. +Then, too, those Jews!--I really sicken + To think of such abomination; +Fellows, who won’t eat ham with chicken, + To legislate for this great nation!-- +Depend upon't, when once they've sway, + With rich old Goldsmid at the head o' them, +The Excise laws will be done away, + And _Circumcise_ ones past instead o' them! + +In short, dear sir, look where one will, +Things all go on so devilish ill, +That, 'pon my soul, I rather fear + Our reverend Rector may be right, +Who tells me the Millennium's near; +Nay, swears he knows the very year, + And regulates his leases by 't;-- +Meaning their terms should end, no doubt, +Before the world's own lease is out. +He thinks too that the whole thing's ended +So much more soon than was intended, +Purely to scourge those men of sin +Who brought the accurst Reform Bill in. + +However, let's not yet despair; + Tho' Toryism's eclipst, at present. +And--like myself, in this old chair-- + Sits in a state by no means pleasant; +Feet crippled--hands, in luckless hour, +Disabled of their grasping power; +And all that rampant glee, which revelled +In this world's sweets, be-dulled, be-deviled-- + +Yet, tho' condemned to frisk no more, + And both in Chair of Penance set, +There's something tells me, all's not o'er + With Toryism or Bobby yet; +That tho', between us, I allow +We've not a leg to stand on now; +Tho' curst Reform and _colchicum_ +Have made us both look deuced glum, +Yet still, in spite of Grote and Gout, +Again we'll shine triumphant out! + +Yes--back again shall come, egad, +_Our_ turn for sport, my reverend lad. +And then, O'Mulligan--oh then, +When mounted on our nags again, +You, on your high-flown Rosinante, +Bedizened out, like Show-Gallantee +(Glitter great from substance scanty);-- +While I, Bob Fudge, Esquire, shall ride +Your faithful Sancho, by your side; +Then--talk of tilts and tournaments! +Dam'me, we'll-- + + * * * * * + + 'Squire Fudge's clerk presents +To Reverend Sir his compliments; +Is grieved to say an accident +Has just occurred which will prevent +The Squire--tho' now a little better-- +From finishing this present letter. +Just when he'd got to "Dam'me, we'll"-- +His Honor, full of martial zeal, +Graspt at his crutch, but not being able + To keep his balance or his hold, + Tumbled, both self and crutch, and rolled, +Like ball and bat, beneath the table. + +All's safe--the table, chair and crutch;-- +Nothing, thank God, is broken much, +But the Squire's head, which in the fall +Got bumped considerably--that's all. +At this no great alarm we feel, +As the Squire's head can bear a deal. + +_Wednesday morning_ + +Squire much the same--head rather light-- +Raved about "Barbers' Wigs" all night. + +Our housekeeper, old Mrs. Griggs, +Suspects that he meant "barbarous Whigs." + + + + + + +LETTER IX. + +FROM LARRY O'BRANIGAN, TO HIS WIFE JUDY. + + +As it was but last week that I sint you a letther, +You'll wondher, dear Judy, what this is about; +And, throth, it's a letther myself would like betther, +Could I manage to lave the contints of it out; +For sure, if it makes even _me_ onaisy, +Who takes things quiet, 'twill dhrive _you_ crazy. + +Oh! Judy, that riverind Murthagh, bad scran to him! +That e'er I should come to've been sarvant-man to him, +Or so far demane the O'Branigan blood, +And my Aunts, the Diluvians (whom not even the Flood +Was able to wash away clane from the earth)[1] +As to sarve one whose name, of mere yestherday's birth, +Can no more to a great O, _before_ it, purtend, +Than mine can to wear a great Q at its _end_. + +But that's now all over--last night I gev warnin,' +And, masth'r as he is, will discharge him this mornin'. +The thief of the world!--but it's no use balraggin'[2]-- +All I know is, I'd fifty times rather be draggin' +Ould ladies up hill to the ind of my days, + +Than with Murthagh to rowl in a chaise, at my aise, +And be forced to discind thro' the same dirty ways. +Arrah, sure, if I'd heerd where he last showed his phiz, +I'd have known what a quare sort of monsthsr he is; +For, by gor, 'twas at Exether Change, sure enough, +That himself and his other wild Irish showed off; +And it's pity, so 'tis, that they hadn't got no man +Who knew the wild crathurs to act as their showman-- +Sayin', "Ladies and Gintlemen, plaze to take notice, +"How shlim and how shleek this black animal's coat is; +"All by raison, we're towld, that the natur o' the baste +"Is to change its coat _once_ in its lifetime, _at laste_; +"And such objiks, in _our_ counthry, not bein' common ones, +"Are _bought up_, as this was, by way of Fine Nomenons. +"In regard of its _name_--why, in throth, I'm consarned +"To differ on this point so much with the Larned, +"Who call it a '_Morthimer_,' whereas the craythur +"Is plainly a 'Murthagh,' by name and by nathur." + +This is how I'd have towld them the righst of it all. +Had _I_ been their showman at Exether Hail-- +Not forgettin' that other great wondher of Airin +(Of the owld bitther breed which they call Prosbetairin), +The famed Daddy Coke--who, by gor, I'd have shown 'em +As proof how such bastes may be tamed, when you've thrown 'em +A good frindly sop of the rale _Raigin Donem_.[3] +But throth, I've no laisure just now, Judy dear, +For anything, barrin' our own doings here, +And the cursin' and dammin' and thund'rin like mad, +We Papists, God help us, from Murthagh have had. +He says we're all murtherers--divil a bit less-- +And that even our priests, when we go to confess, +Give us lessons in murthering and wish us success! + +When axed how he daared, by tongue or by pen, +To belie, in this way, seven millions of men, +Faith, he said'twas all towld him by Docthor Den![4] +"And who the divil's _he_?" was the question that flew +From Chrishtian to Chrishtian--but not a sowl knew. +While on went Murthagh, in iligant style, +Blasphaming us Cath'lics all the while, +As a pack of desaivers, parjurers, villains, +All the whole kit of the aforesaid millions;-- +Yourself, dear Judy, as well as the rest, +And the innocent craythur that's at your breast, +All rogues together, in word and deed, +Owld Den our insthructor and Sin our creed! + +When axed for his proofs again and again, +Divil an answer he'd give but Docthor Den. +Couldn'the call into coort some _livin'_ men? +"No, thank you"--he'd stick to Docthor Den-- +An ould gintleman dead a century or two, +Who all about _us_, live Catholics, knew; +And of coorse was more handy, to call in a hurry, +Than Docthor MacHale or Docthor Murray! + +But, throth, it's no case to be jokin' upon, +Tho' myself, from bad habits, is _makin'_ it one. +Even _you_, had you witnessed his grand climactherics, +Which actially threw one owld maid in hysterics-- +Or, och! had you heerd such a purty remark as his, +That Papists are only "_Humanity's carcasses_, +"_Risen_"--but, by dad, I'm afeared I can't give it ye-- +"_Risen from the sepulchre of--inactivity_; +"_And, like owld corpses, dug up from antikity_, +"_Wandrin' about in all sorts of inikity_!!"--[5] +Even you, Judy, true as you are to the Owld Light, +Would have laught, out and out, at this iligant flight +Of that figure of speech called the Blatherumskite. +As for me, tho' a funny thought now and then came to me, +Rage got the betther at last--and small blame to me, +So, slapping my thigh, "by the Powers of Delf," +Says I bowldly "I'll make a noration myself." +And with that up I jumps--but, my darlint, the minit +I cockt up my head, divil a sinse remained in it. +Tho', _saited_, I could have got beautiful on, +When I tuk to my legs, faith, the gab was all gone:-- +Which was odd, for us, Pats, who, whate'er we've a hand in, +At laste in our _legs_ show a sthrong understandin'. + +Howsumdever, detarmined the chaps should pursaive +What I thought of their doin's, before I tuk lave, +"In regard of all that," says I--there I stopt short-- +Not a word more would come, tho' I shtruggled hard for't. +So, shnapping my fingers at what's called the Chair, +And the owld Lord (or Lady, I believe) that sat there-- +"In regard of all that," says I bowldly again-- +"To owld Nick I pitch Mortimer--_and_ Docthor Den";-- +Upon which the whole company cried out "Amen"; +And myself was in hopes 'twas to what _I_ had said, +But, by gor, no such thing--they were not so well bred: +For, 'twas all to a prayer Murthagh just had read out, +By way of fit finish to job so devout: +That is--_afther_ well damning one half the community, +To pray God to keep all in pace an' in unity! + +This is all I can shtuff in this letter, tho' plinty +Of news, faith, I've got to fill more--if 'twas twinty. +But I'll add, on the _outside_, a line, should I need it, +(Writin' "Private" upon it, that no one may read it,) +To tell you how _Mortimer_ (as the Saints chrishten him) +Bears the big shame of his sarvant's dismisshin' him. + +(_Private outside_.) + +Just come from his riv'rence--the job is all done-- +By the powers, I've discharged him as sure as a gun! +And now, Judy dear, what on earth I'm to do +With myself and my appetite--both good as new-- +Without even a single traneen in my pocket, +Let alone a good, dacent pound--starlin', to stock it-- +Is a mysht'ry I lave to the One that's above, +Who takes care of us, dissolute sawls, when hard dhrove! + + +[1] "I am of your Patriarchs, I, a branch of one of your antediluvian +families--fellows that the Flood could not wash away."--CONGREVE, "_Love +for Love_." + +[2] To _balrag_ is to abuse--Mr. Lover makes it _ballyrag_, and +he is high authority: but if I remember rightly, Curran in his national +stories used to employ the word as above.--See Lover's most amusing and +genuinely Irish work, the "Legends and Stories of Ireland." + +[3] Larry evidently means the _Regium Donum_;--a sum contributed by +the government annually to the support of the Presbyterian churches in +Ireland. + +[4]Correctly, Dens--Larry not being very particular in his nomenclature. + +[5] "But she (Popery) is no longer _the tenant of the sepulchre of +inactivity_. She has come from the burial-place, walking forth a monster, +as if the spirit of evil had corrupted _the carcass of her departed +humanity_; noxious and noisome an object of abhorrence and dismay to all +who are not _leagued with her in iniquity_."--Report of the Rev. +Gentleman's Speech, June 20, in the Record Newspaper. + + + + + + +LETTER X. + +FROM THE REV. MORTIMER O'MULLIGAN, TO THE REV. ----. + + +These few brief lines, my reverend friend, +By a safe, private hand I send +(Fearing lest some low Catholic wag +Should pry into the Letter-bag), +To tell you, far as pen can dare +How we, poor errant martyrs, fare;-- +Martyrs, not quite to fire and rack, +As Saints were, some few ages back. +But--scarce less trying in its way-- +To laughter, wheresoe'er we stray; +To jokes, which Providence mysterious +Permits on men and things so serious, +Lowering the Church still more each minute, +And--injuring our preferment in it. + +Just think, how worrying 'tis, my friend, +To find, where'er our footsteps bend, + Small jokes, like squibs, around us whizzing; +And bear the eternal torturing play +Of that great engine of our day, + Unknown to the Inquisition--quizzing! +Your men of thumb-screws and of racks +Aimed at the _body_ their attack; +But modern torturers, more refined, +Work _their_ machinery on the _mind_. +Had St. Sebastian had the luck + With me to be a godly rover, +Instead of arrows, he'd be stuck + With stings of ridicule all over; +And poor St. Lawrence who was killed +By being on a gridiron grilled, +Had he but shared _my_ errant lot, +Instead of grill on gridiron hot, +A _moral_ roasting would have got. + +Nor should I (trying as all this is) + Much heed the suffering or the shame-- +As, like an actor, _used_ to hisses, + I long have known no other fame, +But that (as I may own to _you_, +Tho' to the _world_ it would not do,) +No hope appears of fortune's beams +Shining on _any_ of my schemes; +No chance of something more _per ann_, +As supplement to Kellyman; +No prospect that, by fierce abuse +Of Ireland, I shall e'er induce +The rulers of this thinking nation +To rid us of Emancipation: +To forge anew the severed chain, +And bring back Penal Laws again. + +Ah happy time! when wolves and priests +Alike were hunted, as wild beasts; +And five pounds was the price, _per_ head, +For bagging _either_, live or dead;--[1] +Tho' oft, we're told, _one_ outlawed brother +Saved cost, by eating up _the other_, +Finding thus all those schemes and hopes +I built upon my flowers and tropes + All scattered, one by one, away, +As flashy and unsound as they, +The question comes--what's to be done? +And there's but one course left me--_one_. +Heroes, when tired of war's alarms, +Seek sweet repose in Beauty's arms. +The weary Day-God's last retreat is +The breast of silvery-footed Thetis; +And mine, as mighty Love's my judge, +Shall be the arms of rich Miss Fudge! + +Start not, my friend,--the tender scheme, +Wild and romantic tho' it seem, +Beyond a parson's fondest dream, +Yet shines, too, with those golden dyes, +So pleasing to a parson's eyes +That only _gilding_ which the Muse +Can not around _her_ sons diffuse:-- +Which, whencesoever flows its bliss, +From wealthy Miss or benefice, +To Mortimer indifferent is, +So he can only make it _his_. +There is but one slight damp I see +Upon this scheme's felicity, +And that is, the fair heroine's claim +That I shall take _her_ family name. +To this (tho' it may look henpeckt), +I can’t quite decently object, +Having myself long chosen to shine +Conspicuous in the _alias_[2] line; +So that henceforth, by wife's decree, + (For Biddy from this point won’t budge) +Your old friend's new address must be + The _Rev. Mortimer O'Fudge_-- +The "O" being kept, that all may see +We're _both_ of ancient family. + +Such, friend, nor need the fact amaze you, +My public life's a calm Euthanasia. +Thus bid I long farewell to all +The freaks of Exeter's old Hall-- +Freaks, in grimace, its apes exceeding, +And rivalling its bears in breeding. +Farewell, the platform filled with preachers-- +The prayer given out, as grace, by speechers, +Ere they cut up their fellow-creatures:-- +Farewell to dead old Dens's volumes, +And, scarce less dead, old _Standard's_ columns:-- +From each and all I now retire, +My task, henceforth, as spouse and sire, +To bring up little filial Fudges, +To be M.P.s, and Peers, and Judges-- +_Parsons_ I'd add too, if alas! +There yet were hope the Church could pass +The gulf now oped for hers and her, +Or long survive what _Exeter_-- +Both Hall and Bishop, of that name-- +Have done to sink her reverend fame. +Adieu, dear friend--you'll oft hear _from_ me, + Now I'm no more a travelling drudge; + Meanwhile I sign (that you may judge +How well the surname will become me) + Yours truly, + MORTIMER O'FUDGE. + + +[1] "Among other amiable enactments against the Catholics at this period +(1649), the price of five pounds was set on the head of a Romish +priest--being exactly the same sum offered by the same legislators for the +head of a wolf."--_Memoirs of Captain Rock_, book i., chap. 10. + +[2] In the first edition of his Dictionary, Dr. Johnson very significantly +exemplified the meaning of the word "alias" by the instance of Mallet, the +poet, who had exchanged for this more refined name his original Scotch +patronymic, Malloch. "What _other_ proofs he gave [says Johnson] of +disrespect to his native country, I know not; but it was remarked of him +that he was the only Scot whom Scotchmen did not commend."--_Life of +Mallet_. + + + + + + +LETTER XI. + +FROM PATRICK MAGAN, ESQ., +TO THE REV. RICHARD ----. +------, IRELAND. + + +Dear Dick--just arrived at my own humble_gîte_, +I enclose you, post-haste, the account, all complete, +Just arrived, _per_ express, of our late noble feat. + + [_Extract from the "County Gazette."_] + +This place is getting gay and full again. + + * * * * * + + Last week was married, "in the Lord," +The Reverend Mortimer O'Mulligan, + Preacher, in _Irish_, of the Word, +He, who the Lord's force lately led on-- +(Exeter Hall his _Armagh_-geddon,)[1] +To Miss B. Fudge of Pisgah Place, +One of the chosen, as "heir of grace," +And likewise heiress of Phil. Fudge, +Esquire, defunct, of Orange Lodge. + +Same evening, Miss F. Fudge, 'tis hinted-- + Niece of the above, (whose "Sylvan Lyre," +In our _Gazette_, last week, we printed). + Eloped with Pat. Magan, Esquire. +The fugitives were trackt some time, + After they'd left the Aunt's abode, +By scraps of paper scrawled with rhyme, + Found strewed along the Western road;-- +Some of them, _ci-devant_ curlpapers, +Others, half burnt in lighting tapers. +This clew, however, to their flight, + After some miles was seen no more; +And, from inquiries made last night, + We find they've reached the Irish shore. + +Every word of it true, Dick--the escape from Aunt's thrall-- +Western road--lyric fragments--curl-papers and all. +My sole stipulation, ere linkt at the shrine +(As some balance between Fanny's numbers and mine), +Was that, when we were _one_, she must give up the _Nine_; +Nay, devote to the Gods her whole stock of MS. +With a vow never more against prose to transgress. +This she did, like a heroine;--smack went to bits +The whole produce sublime of her dear little wits-- +Sonnets, elegies, epigrams, odes canzonets-- +Some twisted up neatly, to form _allumettes_, +Some turned into _papillotes_, worthy to rise +And enwreathe Berenice's bright locks in the skies! +While the rest, honest Larry (who's now in my pay), +Begged, as "lover of _po'thry_," to read on the way. + +Having thus of life's _poetry_ dared to dispose, +How we now, Dick, shall manage to get thro' its _prose_, +With such slender materials for _style_, Heaven knows! +But--I'm called off abruptly--_another_ Express! +What the deuce can it mean?--I'm alarmed, I confess. + +P.S. + +Hurrah, Dick, hurrah, Dick, ten thousand hurrahs! +I'm a happy, rich dog to the end of my days. +There--read the good news--and while glad, for _my_ sake, +That Wealth should thus follow in Love's shining wake, +Admire also the _moral_--that he, the sly elf, +Who has fudged all the world, should be now fudged _himself_! + +EXTRACT FROM LETTER ENCLOSED. + +With pain the mournful news I write, +Miss Fudge's uncle died last night; +And much to mine and friends' surprise, +By will doth all his wealth devise-- +Lands, dwellings--rectories likewise-- +To his "beloved grand-niece," Miss Fanny, +Leaving Miss Fudge herself, who many +Long years hath waited--not a penny! +Have notified the same to latter, +And wait instructions in the matter. + For self and partners, etc. + + +[1] The rectory which the Rev. gentleman holds is situated in the county +of _Armagh_!--a most remarkable coincidence--and well worthy of the +attention of certain expounders of the Apocalypse. + + + +[Illustration: Thomas Moore] + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE COMPLETE POEMS OF SIR THOMAS MOORE *** + +This file should be named 8187-8.txt or 8187-8.zip + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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