Thecharacters of great and smallCome ready made, we can't bespeak one;Their sides are many, too,—and all(Except ourselves) have got a weak one.Some sanguine people love for life—Some love their hobby till it flings them.—And many love a pretty wifeFor love of theéclatshe brings them!We all have secrets—you have oneWhich may not be your charming spouse's,—We all lock up a skeletonIn some grim chamber of our houses;Familiars who exhaust their daysAnd nights in probing where our smart is,And who, excepting spiteful ways,Are quiet, confidential "parties."We hug the phantom we detest,We rarely let it cross our portals:It is a most exacting guest,—Now are we not afflicted mortals?Your neighbour Gay, that joyous wight,As Dives rich, and bold as Hector,Poor Gay steals twenty times a-night,On shaking knees, to see his spectre.Old Dives fears a pauper fate,And hoarding is his thriving passion;Some piteous souls anticipateA waistcoat straiter than the fashion.She, childless, pines,—that lonely wife,And hidden tears are bitter shedding;And he may tremble all his life,And die,—but not of that he's dreading.Ah me, the World! how fast it spins!The beldams shriek, the caldron bubbles;They dance, and stir it for our sins,And we must drain it for our troubles.We toil, we groan,—the cry for loveMounts upward from this seething city,And yet I know we have aboveAFather, infinite in pity.When Beauty smiles, when Sorrow weeps,When sunbeams play, when shadows darken,One inmate of our dwelling keepsA ghastly carnival—but hearken!How dry the rattle of those bones!—The sound was not to make you start meant,—Stand by! Your humble servant ownsThe Tenant of this Dark Apartment.
Thecharacters of great and smallCome ready made, we can't bespeak one;Their sides are many, too,—and all(Except ourselves) have got a weak one.Some sanguine people love for life—Some love their hobby till it flings them.—And many love a pretty wifeFor love of theéclatshe brings them!
We all have secrets—you have oneWhich may not be your charming spouse's,—We all lock up a skeletonIn some grim chamber of our houses;Familiars who exhaust their daysAnd nights in probing where our smart is,And who, excepting spiteful ways,Are quiet, confidential "parties."
We hug the phantom we detest,We rarely let it cross our portals:It is a most exacting guest,—Now are we not afflicted mortals?Your neighbour Gay, that joyous wight,As Dives rich, and bold as Hector,Poor Gay steals twenty times a-night,On shaking knees, to see his spectre.
Old Dives fears a pauper fate,And hoarding is his thriving passion;Some piteous souls anticipateA waistcoat straiter than the fashion.She, childless, pines,—that lonely wife,And hidden tears are bitter shedding;And he may tremble all his life,And die,—but not of that he's dreading.
Ah me, the World! how fast it spins!The beldams shriek, the caldron bubbles;They dance, and stir it for our sins,And we must drain it for our troubles.We toil, we groan,—the cry for loveMounts upward from this seething city,And yet I know we have aboveAFather, infinite in pity.
When Beauty smiles, when Sorrow weeps,When sunbeams play, when shadows darken,One inmate of our dwelling keepsA ghastly carnival—but hearken!How dry the rattle of those bones!—The sound was not to make you start meant,—Stand by! Your humble servant ownsThe Tenant of this Dark Apartment.
A LEGEND OF TUNBRIDGE WELLS.
A LEGEND OF TUNBRIDGE WELLS.
Shegave him a draught freshly drawn from the springlet,—O Tunbridge, thy waters are bitter, alas!But Love finds an ambush in dimple and ringlet,—"Thy health, pretty maiden!"—he emptied the glass.He saw, and he loved her, nor cared he to quit her,The oftener he came, why the longer he stayed;Indeed, though the spring was exceedingly bitter,We found him eternally pledging the maid.Apreux chevalier, and but lately a cripple,He met with his hurt where a regiment fell,But worse was he wounded when staying to tippleA bumper to "Phœbe, the Nymph of the Well."Some swore he was old, that his laurels were faded,All vowed she was vastly too nice for a nurse;But Love never looked on such matters as they did,—She took the brave soldier for better or worse.And here is the home of her fondest election,—The walls may be worn but the ivy is green;And here has she tenderly twined her affectionAround a true soldier who bled for his Queen.See, yonder he sits, where the church flings its shadows;What child is that spelling the epitaphs there?To that imp its devout and devoted old dad owesNew zest in thanksgiving—fresh fervour in prayer.Ere long, ay, too soon, a sad concourse will darkenThe doors of that church, and that tranquil abode;His place then no longer will know him—but, hearken,The widow and orphan appeal to their God.Much peace will be hers! "If our lot must be lowly,Resemble thy father, though with us no more;"And only on days that are high or are holy,She will show him the cross that her warrior wore.So taught, he will rather take after his father,And wear a long sword to our enemies' loss;Till some day or other he'll bring to his motherVictoria's gift—the Victoria Cross!And still she'll be charming, though ringlet and dimplePerchance may have lost their peculiar spell;And at times she will quote, with complacency simple,The compliments paid to the Nymph of the Well.And then will her darling, like all good and true ones,Console and sustain her,—the weak and the strong;—And some day or other two black eyes or blue onesWill smile on his path as he journeys along.Wherever they win him, whoever his Phœbe,Of course of all beauties she must be thebelle,If at Tunbridge he chance to fall in with a Hebe,He will not fall out with a draught from the Well.
Shegave him a draught freshly drawn from the springlet,—O Tunbridge, thy waters are bitter, alas!But Love finds an ambush in dimple and ringlet,—"Thy health, pretty maiden!"—he emptied the glass.
He saw, and he loved her, nor cared he to quit her,The oftener he came, why the longer he stayed;Indeed, though the spring was exceedingly bitter,We found him eternally pledging the maid.
Apreux chevalier, and but lately a cripple,He met with his hurt where a regiment fell,But worse was he wounded when staying to tippleA bumper to "Phœbe, the Nymph of the Well."
Some swore he was old, that his laurels were faded,All vowed she was vastly too nice for a nurse;But Love never looked on such matters as they did,—She took the brave soldier for better or worse.
And here is the home of her fondest election,—The walls may be worn but the ivy is green;And here has she tenderly twined her affectionAround a true soldier who bled for his Queen.
See, yonder he sits, where the church flings its shadows;What child is that spelling the epitaphs there?To that imp its devout and devoted old dad owesNew zest in thanksgiving—fresh fervour in prayer.
Ere long, ay, too soon, a sad concourse will darkenThe doors of that church, and that tranquil abode;His place then no longer will know him—but, hearken,The widow and orphan appeal to their God.
Much peace will be hers! "If our lot must be lowly,Resemble thy father, though with us no more;"And only on days that are high or are holy,She will show him the cross that her warrior wore.
So taught, he will rather take after his father,And wear a long sword to our enemies' loss;Till some day or other he'll bring to his motherVictoria's gift—the Victoria Cross!
And still she'll be charming, though ringlet and dimplePerchance may have lost their peculiar spell;And at times she will quote, with complacency simple,The compliments paid to the Nymph of the Well.
And then will her darling, like all good and true ones,Console and sustain her,—the weak and the strong;—And some day or other two black eyes or blue onesWill smile on his path as he journeys along.
Wherever they win him, whoever his Phœbe,Of course of all beauties she must be thebelle,If at Tunbridge he chance to fall in with a Hebe,He will not fall out with a draught from the Well.
Dans le bonheur de nos meilleurs amis nous trouvons souvent quelque chose qui ne nous plaît pris entièrement.
Dans le bonheur de nos meilleurs amis nous trouvons souvent quelque chose qui ne nous plaît pris entièrement.
Shepassed up the aisle on the arm of her sire,A delicate lady in bridal attire,—Fair emblem of virgin simplicity;—Half London was there, and, my word, there were few,Who stood by the altar, or hid in a pew,But envied Lord Nigel's felicity.O beautiful Bride, still so meek in thy splendour,So frank in thy love, and its trusting surrender,Departing you leave us the town dim!May happiness wing to thy bosom, unsought,And Nigel, esteeming his bliss as he ought,Prove worthy thy worship,—confound him!
Shepassed up the aisle on the arm of her sire,A delicate lady in bridal attire,—Fair emblem of virgin simplicity;—Half London was there, and, my word, there were few,Who stood by the altar, or hid in a pew,But envied Lord Nigel's felicity.
O beautiful Bride, still so meek in thy splendour,So frank in thy love, and its trusting surrender,Departing you leave us the town dim!May happiness wing to thy bosom, unsought,And Nigel, esteeming his bliss as he ought,Prove worthy thy worship,—confound him!
Sorrento, stella d'amore.—Vincenzo da Filicaia.
Sorrento, stella d'amore.—Vincenzo da Filicaia.
Sorrento!Love's Star! LandOf myrtle and vine,I come from a far landTo kneel at thy shrine;Thy brows wear a garland,Oh, weave one for mine!Thine image, fair city,Smiles fair in the sea,—A youth sings a prettySong, tempered with glee,—The mirth and the dittyAre mournful to me.Ah, sea boy, how strange isThe carol you sing!Let Psyche, who rangesThe gardens of Spring,Remember the changesDecember will bring.
Sorrento!Love's Star! LandOf myrtle and vine,I come from a far landTo kneel at thy shrine;Thy brows wear a garland,Oh, weave one for mine!
Thine image, fair city,Smiles fair in the sea,—A youth sings a prettySong, tempered with glee,—The mirth and the dittyAre mournful to me.
Ah, sea boy, how strange isThe carol you sing!Let Psyche, who rangesThe gardens of Spring,Remember the changesDecember will bring.
March, 1862.
March, 1862.
I seeher portrait hanging there,Her face, but only half as fair,And while I scan it,Old thoughts come back, by new thoughts met—She smiles. I never can forgetThe smile of Janet.A matchless grace of head and hand,Can Art pourtray an air more grand?It cannot—can it?And then the brow, the lips, the eyes—You look as if you could despiseDevotion, Janet.I knew her as a child, and saidShe ought to have inhabitedA brighter planet:Some seem more meet for angel wingsThan Mother Nature's apron strings,—And so did Janet.She grew in beauty, and in pride,Her waist was slim, and once I tried,In sport, to span it,At Church, with only this result,They threatened withquicunque vultBoth me and Janet.She fairer grew, till Love becameIn me a very ardent flame,With Faith to fan it:Alas, I played the fool, and she ...The fault of both lay much with me,But more with Janet.For Janet chose a cruel part,—How many win a tender heartAnd then trepan it!She left my bark to swim or sink,Nor seemed to care—and yet, I think,You liked me, Janet.The old old tale! you know the rest—The heart that slumbered in her breastWas soft as granite:Who breaks a heart, and then omitsTo gather up its broken bits,Is heartless, Janet.I'm wiser now—for when I curseMy Fate, a voice cries, "Bad or worseYou must not ban it:Take comfort, you are quits, for ifYou mourn a Love, stark dead and stiff,Why so does Janet."
I seeher portrait hanging there,Her face, but only half as fair,And while I scan it,Old thoughts come back, by new thoughts met—She smiles. I never can forgetThe smile of Janet.
A matchless grace of head and hand,Can Art pourtray an air more grand?It cannot—can it?And then the brow, the lips, the eyes—You look as if you could despiseDevotion, Janet.
I knew her as a child, and saidShe ought to have inhabitedA brighter planet:Some seem more meet for angel wingsThan Mother Nature's apron strings,—And so did Janet.
She grew in beauty, and in pride,Her waist was slim, and once I tried,In sport, to span it,At Church, with only this result,They threatened withquicunque vultBoth me and Janet.
She fairer grew, till Love becameIn me a very ardent flame,With Faith to fan it:Alas, I played the fool, and she ...The fault of both lay much with me,But more with Janet.
For Janet chose a cruel part,—How many win a tender heartAnd then trepan it!She left my bark to swim or sink,Nor seemed to care—and yet, I think,You liked me, Janet.
The old old tale! you know the rest—The heart that slumbered in her breastWas soft as granite:Who breaks a heart, and then omitsTo gather up its broken bits,Is heartless, Janet.
I'm wiser now—for when I curseMy Fate, a voice cries, "Bad or worseYou must not ban it:Take comfort, you are quits, for ifYou mourn a Love, stark dead and stiff,Why so does Janet."
Castadrift on this sphereWhere my fellows were born,None gave me a tear,I was weakly—forlorn.My plaint for their spurningTo heaven took wing,—Sweet voices said, yearning,"Sing, Little One, sing!"My lot, as I rove,Is to sing for the throng;—And will not they loveThe poor Child for his song?
Castadrift on this sphereWhere my fellows were born,None gave me a tear,I was weakly—forlorn.
My plaint for their spurningTo heaven took wing,—Sweet voices said, yearning,"Sing, Little One, sing!"
My lot, as I rove,Is to sing for the throng;—And will not they loveThe poor Child for his song?
AT THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS.
AT THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS.
Weliked the bear's serio-comical face,As he lolled with a lazy, a lumbering grace;Said Slyboots to me—(just as ifshehad none),"Papa, let's give Bruin a bit of your bun."Says I, "A plum bun might please wistful old Bruin,For he can't eat the stone that the cruel boy threw in;Stickyourson the point of mama's parasol,And then he will climb to the top of the pole."Some bears have got two legs, some bears have got more,—Be good to old bears if they've no legs or four:Of duty to age you should never be careless,My dear, I am bald—and I soon shall be hairless!"The gravest aversion exists amongst bearsFor rude forward persons who give themselves airs,We know how some graceless young people were mauledFor plaguing a prophet, and calling him bald."Strange ursine devotion! Their dancing-days ended,Bears die to 'remove' what, in life, they defended:They succoured the Prophet, and since that affairThe bald have a painful regard for the bear."My Moral—Small People may read it, and run,(The child has my moral, the bear has my bun),—Forbear to give pain, if it's only in jest,And care to think pleasure a phantom at best.A paradox too—none can hope to attach it,Yet if you pursue it you'll certainly catch it.
Weliked the bear's serio-comical face,As he lolled with a lazy, a lumbering grace;Said Slyboots to me—(just as ifshehad none),"Papa, let's give Bruin a bit of your bun."
Says I, "A plum bun might please wistful old Bruin,For he can't eat the stone that the cruel boy threw in;Stickyourson the point of mama's parasol,And then he will climb to the top of the pole.
"Some bears have got two legs, some bears have got more,—Be good to old bears if they've no legs or four:Of duty to age you should never be careless,My dear, I am bald—and I soon shall be hairless!
"The gravest aversion exists amongst bearsFor rude forward persons who give themselves airs,We know how some graceless young people were mauledFor plaguing a prophet, and calling him bald.
"Strange ursine devotion! Their dancing-days ended,Bears die to 'remove' what, in life, they defended:They succoured the Prophet, and since that affairThe bald have a painful regard for the bear."
My Moral—Small People may read it, and run,(The child has my moral, the bear has my bun),—Forbear to give pain, if it's only in jest,And care to think pleasure a phantom at best.A paradox too—none can hope to attach it,Yet if you pursue it you'll certainly catch it.
Youshake your curls, and wonder whyI build no Castle in the Sky;You smile, and you are thinking too,He's nothing else on earth to do.It needs Romance, my Lady Fair,To raise such fabrics in the air—Ethereal brick, and rainbow beam,The gossamer of Fancy's dream,And much the architect may lackWho labours in the ZodiacTo rear what I, from chime to chime,Attempted once upon a time.My Castle was a gay retreatIn Air, that somewhat gusty shire,A cherub's model country seat,—Could model cherub such require.Nor twinge nor tax existence tortured,The cherubs even spared my orchard!No worm destroyed the gourd I planted,And showers arrived when rain was wanted.I owned a range of purple mountain—A sweet, mysterious, haunted fountain—A terraced lawn—a summer lake,By sun- or moon-beam always burnished;And then my cot, by some mistake,Unlike most cots, was neatly furnished.A trellised porch—a pictured hall—A Hebe laughing from the wall.Frail vases, Attic and Cathay.While under arms and armour wreathedIn trophied guise, the marble breathed,A peering faun—a startled fay.And flowers that Love's own language spoke,Than these less eloquent of smoke,And not so dear. The price in townIs half a rose-bud—half-a-crown!And cabinets and chandeliers,The legacy of courtly years;And missals wrought by hooded monks,Who snored in cells the size of trunks,And tolled a bell, and told a bead,(Indebted to the hood indeed!)Stained windows dark, and pillowed light,Soft sofas, where the SybariteIn bliss reclining, might devourThe best last novel of the hour.On silken cushion, happy starred,A shaggy Skye kept wistful guard:While drowsy-eyed, would dozing swingA parrot in his golden ring.All these I saw one blissful day,And more than now I care to name;Here, lately shut, that work-box lay,There, stood your own embroidery frame.And over this piano bentA Form from some pure region sent.Despair, some lively trope deviseTo prove the splendour of her eyes!Her mouth had all the rose-bud's hue—A most delicious rose-bud too.Her auburn tresses lustrous shone,In massy clusters, like your own;And as her fingers pressed the keys,How strangely they resembled these!Yes, you, you only, Lady Fair,Adorned a Castle in the Air,Where life, without the least foundation,Became a charming occupation.We heard, with much sublime disdain,The far-off thunder of Cockaigne;And saw, through rifts of silver cloud,The rolling smoke that hid the crowd.With souls released from earthly tether,We hymned the tender moon together.Our sympathy from night to noonRose crescent with that crescent moon;The night was shorter than the song,And happy as the day was long.We lived and loved in cloudless climes,And even died (in verse) sometimes.Yes, you, you only, Lady Fair,Adorned my Castle in the Air.Now, tell me, could you dwell contentIn such a baseless tenement?Or could so delicate a flowerExist in such a breezy bower?Because, if you would settle in it,'Twere built for love, in half a minute.What's love? Why love (for two) at best,Is only a delightful jest;But sad indeed for one or three,—I wish you'd come and jest with me.You shake your head and wonder whyThe cynosure of dear MayfairShould lend me even half a sighTowards building Castles in the Air."I've music, books, and all you say,To make the gravest lady gay.I'm told my essays show research,My sketches have endowed a church;I've partners who have brilliant parts,I've lovers who have broken hearts.Poor Polly has not nerves to fly,And why should Mop return to Skye?To realize yourtête-à-têteMight jeopardize a giddy pate;As grief is not akin to guilt,I'm sorry if your Castle's built."Ah me—alas for Fancy's flightsIn noonday dreams and waking nights!The pranks that brought poor souls mishapWhen baby Time was fond of pap;And still will cheat with feigning joys,While ladies smile, and men are boys.The blooming rose conceals an asp,And bliss, coquetting, flies the grasp.How vain the prize that pleased at first!But myrtles fade, and bubbles burst.The cord has snapt that held my kite;—My friends neglect the books I write,And wonder why the author's spleeny!I dance, but dancing's not the thing;They will not listen though I sing"Fra poco," almost like Rubini!The poet's harp beyond my reach is,The Senate will not stand my speeches,I risk a jest,—its point of courseIs marred by some disturbing force;I doubt the friends that Fortune gave me;But have I friends from whom to save me?Farewell,—can aught for her be willedWhose every wish is all fulfilled?Farewell,—could wishing weave a spell,There's promise in the word "farewell."The lady's smile showed no remorse,—"My worthless toy hath lost its gilding,"I murmured with pathetic force,"And here's an end of castle building;"Then strode away in mood morose,To blame the Sage of Careless Close,He trifled with my tale of sorrow,—"What's marred to-day is made to-morrow;Romance can roam not far from home,Knock gently, she must answer soon;I'm sixty-five, and yet I striveTo hang my garland on the moon."
Youshake your curls, and wonder whyI build no Castle in the Sky;You smile, and you are thinking too,He's nothing else on earth to do.It needs Romance, my Lady Fair,To raise such fabrics in the air—Ethereal brick, and rainbow beam,The gossamer of Fancy's dream,And much the architect may lackWho labours in the ZodiacTo rear what I, from chime to chime,Attempted once upon a time.
My Castle was a gay retreatIn Air, that somewhat gusty shire,A cherub's model country seat,—Could model cherub such require.Nor twinge nor tax existence tortured,The cherubs even spared my orchard!No worm destroyed the gourd I planted,And showers arrived when rain was wanted.I owned a range of purple mountain—A sweet, mysterious, haunted fountain—A terraced lawn—a summer lake,By sun- or moon-beam always burnished;And then my cot, by some mistake,Unlike most cots, was neatly furnished.A trellised porch—a pictured hall—A Hebe laughing from the wall.Frail vases, Attic and Cathay.While under arms and armour wreathedIn trophied guise, the marble breathed,A peering faun—a startled fay.And flowers that Love's own language spoke,
Than these less eloquent of smoke,And not so dear. The price in townIs half a rose-bud—half-a-crown!And cabinets and chandeliers,The legacy of courtly years;And missals wrought by hooded monks,Who snored in cells the size of trunks,And tolled a bell, and told a bead,(Indebted to the hood indeed!)Stained windows dark, and pillowed light,Soft sofas, where the SybariteIn bliss reclining, might devourThe best last novel of the hour.On silken cushion, happy starred,A shaggy Skye kept wistful guard:While drowsy-eyed, would dozing swingA parrot in his golden ring.
All these I saw one blissful day,And more than now I care to name;Here, lately shut, that work-box lay,There, stood your own embroidery frame.And over this piano bentA Form from some pure region sent.Despair, some lively trope deviseTo prove the splendour of her eyes!Her mouth had all the rose-bud's hue—A most delicious rose-bud too.Her auburn tresses lustrous shone,In massy clusters, like your own;And as her fingers pressed the keys,How strangely they resembled these!
Yes, you, you only, Lady Fair,Adorned a Castle in the Air,Where life, without the least foundation,Became a charming occupation.We heard, with much sublime disdain,The far-off thunder of Cockaigne;And saw, through rifts of silver cloud,The rolling smoke that hid the crowd.With souls released from earthly tether,We hymned the tender moon together.Our sympathy from night to noonRose crescent with that crescent moon;The night was shorter than the song,And happy as the day was long.We lived and loved in cloudless climes,And even died (in verse) sometimes.
Yes, you, you only, Lady Fair,Adorned my Castle in the Air.Now, tell me, could you dwell contentIn such a baseless tenement?Or could so delicate a flowerExist in such a breezy bower?Because, if you would settle in it,'Twere built for love, in half a minute.
What's love? Why love (for two) at best,Is only a delightful jest;But sad indeed for one or three,—I wish you'd come and jest with me.
You shake your head and wonder whyThe cynosure of dear MayfairShould lend me even half a sighTowards building Castles in the Air."I've music, books, and all you say,To make the gravest lady gay.I'm told my essays show research,My sketches have endowed a church;I've partners who have brilliant parts,I've lovers who have broken hearts.Poor Polly has not nerves to fly,And why should Mop return to Skye?To realize yourtête-à-têteMight jeopardize a giddy pate;As grief is not akin to guilt,I'm sorry if your Castle's built."
Ah me—alas for Fancy's flightsIn noonday dreams and waking nights!The pranks that brought poor souls mishapWhen baby Time was fond of pap;And still will cheat with feigning joys,While ladies smile, and men are boys.The blooming rose conceals an asp,And bliss, coquetting, flies the grasp.How vain the prize that pleased at first!But myrtles fade, and bubbles burst.The cord has snapt that held my kite;—My friends neglect the books I write,And wonder why the author's spleeny!I dance, but dancing's not the thing;They will not listen though I sing"Fra poco," almost like Rubini!The poet's harp beyond my reach is,The Senate will not stand my speeches,I risk a jest,—its point of courseIs marred by some disturbing force;I doubt the friends that Fortune gave me;But have I friends from whom to save me?Farewell,—can aught for her be willedWhose every wish is all fulfilled?Farewell,—could wishing weave a spell,There's promise in the word "farewell."
The lady's smile showed no remorse,—"My worthless toy hath lost its gilding,"I murmured with pathetic force,"And here's an end of castle building;"Then strode away in mood morose,To blame the Sage of Careless Close,He trifled with my tale of sorrow,—"What's marred to-day is made to-morrow;Romance can roam not far from home,Knock gently, she must answer soon;I'm sixty-five, and yet I striveTo hang my garland on the moon."
OLD MAN.Ingala dress, and smiling! Sweet,What seek you in my green retreat?YOUNG GIRL.I gather flowers to deck my hair,—The village yonder claims the best,For lad and lass are thronging thereTo dance the sober sun to rest.Hark! hark! the rebec calls,—GlycereAgain may foot it on the green;Her rivalry I need not fear,These flowers shall crown the Village Queen.OLD MAN.You long have known this tranquil ground?YOUNG GIRL.It all seems strangely marred to me.OLD MAN.Light heart! there sleeps beneath this moundThe brightest of yon company.The flowers that should eclipse GlycereAre hers, poor child,—her grave is here!
OLD MAN.
Ingala dress, and smiling! Sweet,What seek you in my green retreat?
YOUNG GIRL.
I gather flowers to deck my hair,—The village yonder claims the best,For lad and lass are thronging thereTo dance the sober sun to rest.Hark! hark! the rebec calls,—GlycereAgain may foot it on the green;Her rivalry I need not fear,These flowers shall crown the Village Queen.
OLD MAN.
You long have known this tranquil ground?
YOUNG GIRL.
It all seems strangely marred to me.
OLD MAN.
Light heart! there sleeps beneath this moundThe brightest of yon company.The flowers that should eclipse GlycereAre hers, poor child,—her grave is here!
"MyKate, at the Waterloo Column,To-morrow, precisely at eight;Remember, thy promise was solemn,And—thine till to-morrow, my Kate!"* * * * *That evening seemed strangely to linger,—The licence and luggage were packed;And Time, with a long and short finger,Approvingly marked me exact.Arrived, woman's constancy blessing,No end of nice people I see;Some hither, some thitherwards pressing,—But none of them waiting for me.Time passes, my watch how I con it!I see her—she's coming—no, stuff!Instead of Kate's smart little bonnet,It is aunt, and her wonderful muff!(Yes, Fortune deserves to be chidden,It is a coincidence queer,Whenever one wants to be hidden,One's relatives always appear.)Near nine! how the passers despise me,They smile at my anguish, I think;And even the sentinel eyes me,And tips that policeman the wink.Ah! Kate made me promises solemn,At eight she had vowed to be mine;—While waiting for one at this column,I find I've been waiting for nine.O Fame! on thy pillar so steady,Some dupes watch beneath thee in vain:—How many have done it already!How many will do it again!
"MyKate, at the Waterloo Column,To-morrow, precisely at eight;Remember, thy promise was solemn,And—thine till to-morrow, my Kate!"
* * * * *
That evening seemed strangely to linger,—The licence and luggage were packed;And Time, with a long and short finger,Approvingly marked me exact.
Arrived, woman's constancy blessing,No end of nice people I see;Some hither, some thitherwards pressing,—But none of them waiting for me.
Time passes, my watch how I con it!I see her—she's coming—no, stuff!Instead of Kate's smart little bonnet,It is aunt, and her wonderful muff!
(Yes, Fortune deserves to be chidden,It is a coincidence queer,Whenever one wants to be hidden,One's relatives always appear.)
Near nine! how the passers despise me,They smile at my anguish, I think;And even the sentinel eyes me,And tips that policeman the wink.
Ah! Kate made me promises solemn,At eight she had vowed to be mine;—While waiting for one at this column,I find I've been waiting for nine.
O Fame! on thy pillar so steady,Some dupes watch beneath thee in vain:—How many have done it already!How many will do it again!
(ONE HUNDRED YEARS HENCE.)
(ONE HUNDRED YEARS HENCE.)
Onehundred years! a long, long scrollOf dust to dust, and woe,How soon my passing knell will toll!Is Death a friend or foe?My days are often sad—and vainIs much that tempts me to remain—And yet I'm loth to go.Oh, must I tread yon sunless shore—Go hence, and then be seen no more?I love to think that those I lovedMay gather round the bierOf him, who, whilst he erring proved,Still held them more than dear.My friends wax fewer day by day,Yes, one by one, they drop away,And if I shed no tear,Dear parted Shades, whilst life endures,This poor heart yearns for love—and yours!Will some who knew me, when I die,Shed tears behind the hearse?Will any one survivor cry,"I could have spared a worse—We never spoke: we never met:I never heard his voice—and yetI loved him for his verse?"Such love would make the flowers waveIn rapture on their poet's grave.One hundred years! They soon will leakAway—and leave behindA stone mossgrown, that none will seek,And none would care to find.Then I shall sleep, and find releaseIn perfect rest—the perfect peaceFor which my soul has pined;Although the grave is dark and deepI know the Shepherd loves his sheep.
Onehundred years! a long, long scrollOf dust to dust, and woe,How soon my passing knell will toll!Is Death a friend or foe?My days are often sad—and vainIs much that tempts me to remain—And yet I'm loth to go.Oh, must I tread yon sunless shore—Go hence, and then be seen no more?
I love to think that those I lovedMay gather round the bierOf him, who, whilst he erring proved,Still held them more than dear.My friends wax fewer day by day,Yes, one by one, they drop away,And if I shed no tear,Dear parted Shades, whilst life endures,This poor heart yearns for love—and yours!
Will some who knew me, when I die,Shed tears behind the hearse?Will any one survivor cry,"I could have spared a worse—We never spoke: we never met:I never heard his voice—and yetI loved him for his verse?"Such love would make the flowers waveIn rapture on their poet's grave.
One hundred years! They soon will leakAway—and leave behindA stone mossgrown, that none will seek,And none would care to find.Then I shall sleep, and find releaseIn perfect rest—the perfect peaceFor which my soul has pined;Although the grave is dark and deepI know the Shepherd loves his sheep.
"Vanitasvanitatum" has rung in the earsOf gentle and simple for thousands of years;The wail is still heard, yet its notes never scareOr simple or gentle from Vanity Fair.I hear people busy abusing it—yetThere the young go to learn and the old to forget;The mirth may be feigning, the sheen may be glare,But the gingerbread's gilded in Vanity Fair.Old Dives there rolls in his chariot, but mindAtra Curais up with the lacqueys behind;Joan trudges with Jack,—is his sweetheart awareWhat troubles await them in Vanity Fair?We saw them all go, and we something may learnOf the harvest they reap when we see them return;The tree was enticing,—its branches are bare,—Heigh-ho, for the promise of Vanity Fair!That stupid old Dives! forsooth, he must barterHis time-honoured name for a wonderful garter;And Joan's pretty face has been clouded with careSince Jack boughtherribbons at Vanity Fair.Contemptible Dives! too credulous Joan!Yet we all have a Vanity Fair of our own;—My son, you have yours, but you need not despair,Myself I've a weakness for Vanity Fair.Philosophy halts, wisest counsels are vain,—We go—we repent—we return there again;To-night you will certainly meet with us there—Exceedingly merry in Vanity Fair.
"Vanitasvanitatum" has rung in the earsOf gentle and simple for thousands of years;The wail is still heard, yet its notes never scareOr simple or gentle from Vanity Fair.
I hear people busy abusing it—yetThere the young go to learn and the old to forget;The mirth may be feigning, the sheen may be glare,But the gingerbread's gilded in Vanity Fair.
Old Dives there rolls in his chariot, but mindAtra Curais up with the lacqueys behind;Joan trudges with Jack,—is his sweetheart awareWhat troubles await them in Vanity Fair?
We saw them all go, and we something may learnOf the harvest they reap when we see them return;The tree was enticing,—its branches are bare,—Heigh-ho, for the promise of Vanity Fair!That stupid old Dives! forsooth, he must barterHis time-honoured name for a wonderful garter;And Joan's pretty face has been clouded with careSince Jack boughtherribbons at Vanity Fair.
Contemptible Dives! too credulous Joan!Yet we all have a Vanity Fair of our own;—My son, you have yours, but you need not despair,Myself I've a weakness for Vanity Fair.
Philosophy halts, wisest counsels are vain,—We go—we repent—we return there again;To-night you will certainly meet with us there—Exceedingly merry in Vanity Fair.
Notissimum illud Phædri,Gallus quum tauro.
Notissimum illud Phædri,Gallus quum tauro.
Uppe,lazie loon! 'tis mornynge prime,The cockke of redde redde combeThis thrice hath crowed—'tis past the timeTo drive the olde bulle home.Goe fling a rope about his hornnes,And lead him safelie here:Long since Sir Gyles, who slumber scornes,Doth angle in the weir.And, knaves and wenches, stay your din,Our Ladye is astir:For hark and hear her mandolinBehynde the silver fir.His Spanish hat he bravelie weares,With feathere droopynge wide,In doublet fyne, Sir ValentyneIs seated by her side.Small care they share, that blissfulle pair;She dons her kindest smyles;His songes invite and quite delighteThe wyfe of old Sir Gyles.But pert young pages point their thumbes,Her maids look glumme, in shorteAll wondere how the good Knyghte comesTo tarrie at his sporte.There is a sudden stir at last;Men run—and then, with dread,They vowe Sir Gyles is dying fast!And then—Sir Gyles is dead!The bulle hath caughte him near the thornesThey call theParsonne's Plotte;The bulle hath tossed him on his hornnes,Before the brute is shotte.Now Ladye Gyles is sorelie tryd,And sinks beneath the shockke:She weeps from morn to eventyd,And then till crowe of cockke.Again the sun returns, but thoughThe merrie morninge smiles,No cockke will crow, no bulle will lowAgen for pore Sir Gyles.And now the knyghte, as seemeth beste,Is layd in hallowed mould;All in the mynstere crypt, where restHis gallant sires and old.But first they take the olde bulle's skinAnd crest, to form a shroud:And when Sir Gyles is wrapped thereinHis people wepe aloud.Sir Valentyne doth well inclineTo soothe my lady's woe;And soon she'll slepe, nor ever wepe,An all the cockkes sholde crowe.Ay soone they are in wedlock tied,Full soon; and all, in fyne,That spouse can say to chere his bride,That sayth Sir Valentyne.And gay agen are maids and men,Nor knyghte nor ladye mournes,Though Valentyne may trembel whenHe sees a bulle with hornnes.* * * * *My wife and I once visitedThe scene of all this woe,Which fell out (so the curate said)Four hundred years ago.It needs no search to find a churchWhich all the land adorns,We passed the weir, I thought with fearAbout theolde bulle's hornnes.No cock then crowed, no bull there lowed,But, while we paced the aisles,The curate told his tale, and showedA tablet to Sir Giles."'Twas raised by Lady Giles," he said,And when I bent the knee IMade out his name, and arms, and read,Hic jacet servvs dei.Says I, "And so he sleeps below,His wrongs all left behind him."My wife cried, "Oh!" the clerk said, "No,At least we could not find him."Last spring, repairing some defect,We raised the carven stones,Designing to again collectAnd hide Sir Giles's bones."We delvèd down, and up, and round,For many weary morns,Through all this ground; but only foundAn ancient pair of horns."
Uppe,lazie loon! 'tis mornynge prime,The cockke of redde redde combeThis thrice hath crowed—'tis past the timeTo drive the olde bulle home.
Goe fling a rope about his hornnes,And lead him safelie here:Long since Sir Gyles, who slumber scornes,Doth angle in the weir.
And, knaves and wenches, stay your din,Our Ladye is astir:For hark and hear her mandolinBehynde the silver fir.
His Spanish hat he bravelie weares,With feathere droopynge wide,In doublet fyne, Sir ValentyneIs seated by her side.
Small care they share, that blissfulle pair;She dons her kindest smyles;His songes invite and quite delighteThe wyfe of old Sir Gyles.
But pert young pages point their thumbes,Her maids look glumme, in shorteAll wondere how the good Knyghte comesTo tarrie at his sporte.
There is a sudden stir at last;Men run—and then, with dread,They vowe Sir Gyles is dying fast!And then—Sir Gyles is dead!
The bulle hath caughte him near the thornesThey call theParsonne's Plotte;The bulle hath tossed him on his hornnes,Before the brute is shotte.
Now Ladye Gyles is sorelie tryd,And sinks beneath the shockke:She weeps from morn to eventyd,And then till crowe of cockke.
Again the sun returns, but thoughThe merrie morninge smiles,No cockke will crow, no bulle will lowAgen for pore Sir Gyles.
And now the knyghte, as seemeth beste,Is layd in hallowed mould;All in the mynstere crypt, where restHis gallant sires and old.
But first they take the olde bulle's skinAnd crest, to form a shroud:And when Sir Gyles is wrapped thereinHis people wepe aloud.
Sir Valentyne doth well inclineTo soothe my lady's woe;And soon she'll slepe, nor ever wepe,An all the cockkes sholde crowe.
Ay soone they are in wedlock tied,Full soon; and all, in fyne,That spouse can say to chere his bride,That sayth Sir Valentyne.
And gay agen are maids and men,Nor knyghte nor ladye mournes,Though Valentyne may trembel whenHe sees a bulle with hornnes.
* * * * *
My wife and I once visitedThe scene of all this woe,Which fell out (so the curate said)Four hundred years ago.
It needs no search to find a churchWhich all the land adorns,We passed the weir, I thought with fearAbout theolde bulle's hornnes.
No cock then crowed, no bull there lowed,But, while we paced the aisles,The curate told his tale, and showedA tablet to Sir Giles.
"'Twas raised by Lady Giles," he said,And when I bent the knee IMade out his name, and arms, and read,Hic jacet servvs dei.
Says I, "And so he sleeps below,His wrongs all left behind him."My wife cried, "Oh!" the clerk said, "No,At least we could not find him.
"Last spring, repairing some defect,We raised the carven stones,Designing to again collectAnd hide Sir Giles's bones.
"We delvèd down, and up, and round,For many weary morns,Through all this ground; but only foundAn ancient pair of horns."
"Heshan't be their namesake, the ratherThat both are such opulent men:His name shall be that of his father,—My Benjamin—shortened to Ben."Yes, Ben, though it cost him a portionIn each of my relative's wills,I scorn such baptismal extortion—(That creaking of boots must be Squills)."It is clear, though his means may be narrow,This infant his age will adorn;I shall send him to Oxford from Harrow,—I wonder how soon he'll be born!"A spouse thus was airing his fanciesBelow—'twas a labour of love,—And calmly reflecting on Nancy'sMore practical labour above;Yet while it so pleased him to ponder,Elated, at ease, and alone;That pale, patient victim up yonderHad budding delights of her own;Sweet thoughts, in their essence divinerThan paltry ambition and pelf;A cherub, no babe will be finer,Invented and nursed by herself.One breakfasting, dining, and teaing,With appetite nought can appease,And quite a young Reasoning BeingWhen called on to yawn and to sneeze.What cares that heart, trusting and tender,For fame or avuncular wills!Except for the name and the gender,She is almost as tranquil as Squills.That father, in reverie centered,Dumbfoundered, his thoughts in a whirl,Heard Squills, as the creaking boots entered,Announce that his Boy was—a Girl.
"Heshan't be their namesake, the ratherThat both are such opulent men:His name shall be that of his father,—My Benjamin—shortened to Ben.
"Yes, Ben, though it cost him a portionIn each of my relative's wills,I scorn such baptismal extortion—(That creaking of boots must be Squills).
"It is clear, though his means may be narrow,This infant his age will adorn;I shall send him to Oxford from Harrow,—I wonder how soon he'll be born!"
A spouse thus was airing his fanciesBelow—'twas a labour of love,—And calmly reflecting on Nancy'sMore practical labour above;
Yet while it so pleased him to ponder,Elated, at ease, and alone;That pale, patient victim up yonderHad budding delights of her own;
Sweet thoughts, in their essence divinerThan paltry ambition and pelf;A cherub, no babe will be finer,Invented and nursed by herself.
One breakfasting, dining, and teaing,With appetite nought can appease,And quite a young Reasoning BeingWhen called on to yawn and to sneeze.
What cares that heart, trusting and tender,For fame or avuncular wills!Except for the name and the gender,She is almost as tranquil as Squills.
That father, in reverie centered,Dumbfoundered, his thoughts in a whirl,Heard Squills, as the creaking boots entered,Announce that his Boy was—a Girl.
AtSusan's name the fancy playsWith chiming thoughts of early days,And hearts unwrung;When all too fair our future smiled,When she was Mirth's adopted child,And I was young.I see the cot with spreading eaves,The sun shines bright through summer leaves,But does not scorch,—The dial stone, the pansy bed;—Old Robin trained the roses redAbout the porch.'Twixt elders twain a rustic seatWas merriest Susan's pet retreatTo merry make;Good Robin's handiwork again,—Oh, must we say his toil was vain,For Susan's sake?Her gleeful tones and laughter gayWere sunshine for the darkest day;And yet, some saidThat when her mirth was passing wild,Though still the faithful Robin smiled,He shook his head.Perchance the old man harboured fearsThat happiness is wed with tearsOn this poor earth;Or else, may be, his fancies wereThat youth and beauty are a snareIf linked with mirth.* * * * *And now how altered is that scene!For mark old Robin's mournful mien,And feeble tread.His toil has ceased to be his pride,At Susan's name he turns aside,And shakes his head.And summer smiles, but summer spellsCan never charm where sorrow dwells;—No maiden fair,Or gay, or sad, the passer sees,—And still the much-loved Elder-treesThrow shadows there.The homely-fashioned seat is gone,And where it stood is set a stone,A simple square:The worldling, or the man severe,May pass the name recorded here;But we will stay to shed a tear,And breathe a prayer.
AtSusan's name the fancy playsWith chiming thoughts of early days,And hearts unwrung;When all too fair our future smiled,When she was Mirth's adopted child,And I was young.
I see the cot with spreading eaves,The sun shines bright through summer leaves,But does not scorch,—The dial stone, the pansy bed;—Old Robin trained the roses redAbout the porch.
'Twixt elders twain a rustic seatWas merriest Susan's pet retreatTo merry make;Good Robin's handiwork again,—Oh, must we say his toil was vain,For Susan's sake?
Her gleeful tones and laughter gayWere sunshine for the darkest day;And yet, some saidThat when her mirth was passing wild,Though still the faithful Robin smiled,He shook his head.
Perchance the old man harboured fearsThat happiness is wed with tearsOn this poor earth;Or else, may be, his fancies wereThat youth and beauty are a snareIf linked with mirth.
* * * * *
And now how altered is that scene!For mark old Robin's mournful mien,And feeble tread.His toil has ceased to be his pride,At Susan's name he turns aside,And shakes his head.
And summer smiles, but summer spellsCan never charm where sorrow dwells;—No maiden fair,Or gay, or sad, the passer sees,—And still the much-loved Elder-treesThrow shadows there.
The homely-fashioned seat is gone,And where it stood is set a stone,A simple square:The worldling, or the man severe,May pass the name recorded here;But we will stay to shed a tear,And breathe a prayer.