On deck, beneath the awning,I dozing lay and yawning;It was the gray of dawning,Ere yet the sun arose;And above the funnel's roaring,And the fitful wind's deploring,I heard the cabin snoringWith universal nose.I could hear the passengers snorting—I envied their disporting—Vainly I was courtingThe pleasure of a doze!So I lay, and wondered why lightCame not, and watched the twilight,And the glimmer of the skylight,That shot across the deck;And the binnacle pale and steady,And the dull glimpse of the dead-eye,And the sparks in fiery eddyThat whirled from the chimney neck.In our jovial floating prisonThere was sleep from fore to mizzen,And never a star had risenThe hazy sky to speck.Strange company we harbored,We'd a hundred Jews to larboard,Unwashed, uncombed, unbarbered—Jews black, and brown, and gray;With terror it would seize ye,And make your souls uneasy,To see those Rabbis greasy,Who did naught but scratch and pray:Their dirty children puking—Their dirty saucepans cooking—Their dirty fingers hookingTheir swarming fleas away.To starboard, Turks and Greeks were—Whiskered and brown their cheeks were—Enormous wide their breeks were,Their pipes did puff alway;Each on his mat allottedIn silence smoked and squatted,Whilst round their children trottedIn pretty, pleasant play.He can't but smile who tracesThe smiles on those brown faces,And the pretty, prattling gracesOf those small heathens gay.And so the hours kept tolling,And through the ocean rollingWent the brave "Iberia" bowlingBefore the break of day—When A SQUALL, upon a sudden,Came o'er the waters scudding;And the clouds began to gather,And the sea was lashed to lather,And the lowering thunder grumbled,And the lightning jumped and tumbled,And the ship, and all the ocean,Woke up in wild commotion.Then the wind set up a howling,And the poodle dog a yowling,And the cocks began a crowing,And the old cow raised a lowing,As she heard the tempest blowing;And fowls and geese did cackle,And the cordage and the tackleBegan to shriek and crackle;And the spray dashed o'er the funnels,And down the deck in runnels;And the rushing water soaks all,From the seamen in the fo'ksalTo the stokers whose black facesPeer out of their bed-places;And the captain he was bawling,And the sailors pulling, hauling,And the quarter-deck tarpaulingWas shivered in the squalling;And the passengers awaken,Most pitifully shaken;And the steward jumps up, and hastensFor the necessary basins.Then the Greeks they groaned and quivered,And they knelt, and moaned, and shivered,As the plunging waters met them,And splashed and overset them;And they call in their emergenceUpon countless saints and virgins;And their marrowbones are bended,And they think the world is ended.And the Turkish women for'ardWere frightened and behorror'd;And shrieking and bewildering,The mothers clutched their children;The men sung "Allah! Illah!Mashallah Bismillah!"As the warring waters doused themAnd splashed them and soused them,And they called upon the Prophet,And thought but little of it.Then all the fleas in JewryJumped up and bit like fury;And the progeny of JacobDid on the main-deck wake up(I wot those greasy RabbinsWould never pay for cabins);And each man moaned and jabbered inHis filthy Jewish gaberdine,In woe and lamentation,And howling consternation.And the splashing water drenchesTheir dirty brats and wenches;And they crawl from bales and benchesIn a hundred thousand stenches.This was the White Squall famous,Which latterly o'ercame us,And which all will well rememberOn the 28th September;When a Prussian captain of Lancers(Those tight-laced, whiskered prancers)Came on the deck astonished,By that wild squall admonished,And wondering cried, "Potztausend,Wie ist der Stürm jetzt brausend?"And looked at Captain Lewis,Who calmly stood and blew hisCigar in all the hustle,And scorned the tempest's tussle,And oft we've thought thereafterHow he beat the storm to laughter;For well he knew his vesselWith that vain wind could wrestle;And when a wreck we thought her,And doomed ourselves to slaughter,How gayly he fought her,And through the hubbub brought her,And as the tempest caught her,Cried, "GEORGE! SOME BRANDY-AND-WATER!"And when, its force expended,The harmless storm was ended,And as the sunrise splendidCame blushing o'er the sea;I thought, as day was breaking,My little girls were waking,And smiling, and makingA prayer at home for me.1844.
Riding from Coleraine(Famed for lovely Kitty),Came a Cockney boundUnto Derry city;Weary was his soul,Shivering and sad, heBumped along the roadLeads to Limavaddy.Mountains stretch'd around,Gloomy was their tinting,And the horse's hoofsMade a dismal clinting;Wind upon the heathHowling was and piping,On the heath and bog,Black with many a snipe in.Mid the bogs of black,Silver pools were flashing,Crows upon their sidesPicking were and splashing.Cockney on the carCloser folds his plaidy,Grumbling at the roadLeads to Limavaddy.Through the crashing woodsAutumn brawld and bluster'd,Tossing round aboutLeaves the hue of mustardYonder lay Lough Foyle,Which a storm was whipping,Covering with mistLake, and shores and shipping.Up and down the hill(Nothing could be bolder),Horse went with a rawBleeding on his shoulder."Where are horses changed?"Said I to the laddyDriving on the box:"Sir, at Limavaddy."Limavaddy inn'sBut a humble bait-house,Where you may procureWhiskey and potatoes;Landlord at the doorGives a smiling welcome—To the shivering wightsWho to his hotel come.Landlady withinSits and knits a stocking,With a wary footBaby's cradle rocking.To the chimney nookHaving, found admittance,There I watch a pupPlaying with two kittens;(Playing round the fire),Which of blazing turf is,Roaring to the potWhich bubbles with the murphies.And the cradled babeFond the mother nursed it,Singing it a songAs she twists the worsted!Up and down the stairTwo more young ones patter(Twins were never seenDirtier nor fatter).Both have mottled legs,Both have snubby noses,Both have— Here the hostKindly interposes:"Sure you must be frozeWith the sleet and hail, sir:So will you have some punch,Or will you have some ale, sir?"Presently a maidEnters with the liquor(Half a pint of aleFrothing in a beaker).Gads! didn't knowWhat my beating heart meant:Hebe's self I thoughtEntered the apartment.As she came she smiled,And the smile bewitching,On my word and honor,Lighted all the kitchen!With a curtsy neatGreeting the new comer,Lovely, smiling PegOffers me the rummer;But my trembling handUp the beaker tilted,And the glass of aleEvery drop I spilt it:Spilt it every drop(Dames, who read my volumes,Pardon such a word)On my what-d'ye-call-'ems!Witnessing the sightOf that dire disaster,Out began to laughMissis, maid, and master;Such a merry peal'Specially Miss Peg's was,(As the glass of aleTrickling down my legs was,)That the joyful soundOf that mingling laughterEchoed in my earsMany a long day after.Such a silver peal!In the meadows listening,You who've heard the bellsRinging to a christening;You who ever heardCaradori pretty,Smiling like an angel,Singing "Giovinetti;"Fancy Peggy's laugh,Sweet, and clear, and cheerful,At my pantaloonsWith half a pint of beer full!When the laugh was done,Peg, the pretty hussy,Moved about the roomWonderfully busy;Now she looks to seeIf the kettle keep hot;Now she rubs the spoons,Now she cleans the teapot;Now she sets the cupsTrimly and secure:Now she scours a pot,And so it was I drew her.Thus it was I drew herScouring of a kettle,(Faith! her blushing cheeksRedden'd on the metal!)Ah! but 'tis in vainThat I try to sketch it;The pot perhaps is like,But Peggy's face is wretched.No the best of leadAnd of indian-rubberNever could depictThat sweet kettle-scrubber!See her as she movesScarce the ground she touches,Airy as a fay,Graceful as a duchess;Bare her rounded arm,Bare her little leg is,Vestris never show'dAnkles like to Peggy's.Braided is her hair,Soft her look and modest,Slim her little waistComfortably bodiced.This I do declare,Happy is the laddyWho the heart can shareOf Peg of Limavaddy.Married if she wereBlest would be the daddyOf the children fairOf Peg of Limavaddy.Beauty is not rareIn the land of Paddy,Fair beyond compareIs Peg of Limavaddy.Citizen or Squire,Tory, Whig, or Radi-cal would all desirePeg of Limavaddy.Had I Homer's fire,Or that of Serjeant Taddy,Meetly I'd admirePeg of Limavaddy.And till I expire,Or till I grow mad IWill sing unto my lyrePeg of Limavaddy!
But yesterday a naked sodThe dandies sneered from Rotten Row,And cantered o'er it to and fro:And see 'tis done!As though 'twere by a wizard's rodA blazing arch of lucid glassLeaps like a fountain from the grassTo meet the sun!A quiet green but few days since,With cattle browsing in the shade:And here are lines of bright arcadeIn order raised!A palace as for fairy Prince,A rare pavilion, such as manSaw never since mankind began,And built and glazed!A peaceful place it was but now,And lo! within its shining streetsA multitude of nations meets;A countless throngI see beneath the crystal bow,And Gaul and German, Russ and Turk,Each with his native handiworkAnd busy tongue.I felt a thrill of love and aweTo mark the different garb of each,The changing tongue, the various speechTogether blent:A thrill, methinks, like His who saw"All people dwelling upon earthPraising our God with solemn mirthAnd one consent."High Sovereign, in your Royal state,Captains, and chiefs, and councillors,Before the lofty palace doorsAre open set,—Hush ere you pass the shining gate:Hush! ere the heaving curtain draws,And let the Royal pageant pauseA moment yet.People and prince a silence keep!Bow coronet and kingly crown.Helmet and plume, bow lowly down,The while the priest,Before the splendid portal step,(While still the wondrous banquet stays,)From Heaven supreme a blessing praysUpon the feast.Then onwards let the triumph march;Then let the loud artillery roll,And trumpets ring, and joy-bells toll,And pass the gate.Pass underneath the shining arch,'Neath which the leafy elms are green;Ascend unto your throne, O Queen!And take your state.Behold her in her Royal place;A gentle lady; and the handThat sways the sceptre of this land,How frail and weak!Soft is the voice, and fair the face:She breathes amen to prayer and hymn;No wonder that her eyes are dim,And pale her cheek.This moment round her empire's shoresThe winds of Austral winter sweep,And thousands lie in midnight sleepAt rest to-day.Oh! awful is that crown of yours,Queen of innumerable realmsSitting beneath the budding elmsOf English May!A wondrous scepter 'tis to bear:Strange mystery of God which setUpon her brow yon coronet,—The foremost crownOf all the world, on one so fair!That chose her to it from her birth,And bade the sons of all the earthTo her bow down.The representatives of manHere from the far Antipodes,And from the subject Indian seas,In Congress meet;From Afric and from Hindustan,From Western continent and isle,The envoys of her empire pileGifts at her feet;Our brethren cross the Atlantic tides,Loading the gallant decks which onceRoared a defiance to our guns,With peaceful store;Symbol of peace, their vessel rides!*O'er English waves float Star and Stripe,And firm their friendly anchors gripeThe father shore!From Rhine and Danube, Rhone and Seine,As rivers from their sources gush,The swelling floods of nations rush,And seaward pour:From coast to coast in friendly chain,With countless ships we bridge the straits,And angry ocean separatesEurope no more.From Mississippi and from Nile—From Baltic, Ganges, Bosphorous,In England's ark assembled thusAre friend and guest.Look down the mighty sunlit aisle,And see the sumptuous banquet set,The brotherhood of nations met.Around the feast!Along the dazzling colonnade,Far as the straining eye can gaze,Gleam cross and fountain, bell and vase,In vistas bright;And statues fair of nymph and maid,And steeds and pards and Amazons,Writhing and grappling in the bronze,In endless fight.To deck the glorious roof and dome,To make the Queen a canopy,The peaceful hosts of industryTheir standards bear.Yon are the works of Brahmin loom;On such a web of Persian threadThe desert Arab bows his headAnd cries his prayer.Look yonder where the engines toil:These England's arms of conquest are,The trophies of her bloodless war:Brave weapons these.Victorians over wave and soil,With these she sails, she weaves, she tills,Pierces the everlasting hillsAnd spans the seas.The engine roars upon its race,The shuttle whirs the woof,The people hum from floor to roof,With Babel tongue.The fountain in the basin plays,The chanting organ echoes clear,An awful chorus 'tis to hear,A wondrous song!Swell, organ, swell your trumpet blast,March, Queen and Royal pageant, marchBy splendid aisle and springing archOf this fair Hall:And see! above the fabric vast,God's boundless Heaven is bending blue,God's peaceful sunlight's beaming through,And shines o'er all.May, 1851.
* The U. S. frigate "St. Lawrence."
A street there is in Paris famous,For which no rhyme our language yields,Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is—The New Street of the Little Fields.And here's an inn, not rich and splendid,But still in comfortable case;The which in youth I oft attended,To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is—A sort of soup or broth, or brew,Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes,That Greenwich never could outdo;Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron,Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace:All these you eat at TERRÉ'S tavern,In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.Indeed, a rich and savory stew 'tis;And true philosophers, methinks,Who love all sorts of natural beauties,Should love good victuals and good drinks.And Cordelier or BenedictineMight gladly, sure, his lot embrace,Nor find a fast-day too afflicting,Which served him up a Bouillabaisse.I wonder if the house still there is?Yes, here the lamp is, as before;The smiling red-checked écaillère isStill opening oysters at the door.Is TERRÉ still alive and able?I recollect his droll grimace:He'd come and smile before your table,And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse.We enter—nothing's changed or older."How's Monsieur TERRÉ, waiter, pray?"The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder—"Monsieur is dead this many a day.""It is the lot of saint and sinner,So honest TERRÉ'S run his race.""What will Monsieur require for dinner?""Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse?""Oh, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer;"Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il?""Tell me a good one."—"That I can, Sir:The Chambertin with yellow seal.""So TERRÉ'S gone," I say, and sink inMy old accustom'd corner-place,"He's done with feasting and with drinking,With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse."My old accustom'd corner here is,The table still is in the nook;Ah! vanish'd many a busy year isThis well-known chair since last I took.When first I saw ye, cari luoghi,I'd scarce a beard upon my face,And now a grizzled, grim old fogy,I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse.Where are you, old companions trustyOf early days here met to dine?Come, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty—I'll pledge them in the good old wine.The kind old voices and old facesMy memory can quick retrace;Around the board they take their places,And share the wine and Bouillabaisse.There's JACK has made a wondrous marriage;There's laughing TOM is laughing yet;There's brave AUGUSTUS drives his carriage;There's poor old FRED in the Gazette;On JAMES'S head the grass is growing;Good Lord! the world has wagged apaceSince here we set the Claret flowing,And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse.Ah me! how quick the days are flitting!I mind me of a time that's gone,When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting,In this same place—but not alone.A fair young form was nestled near me,A dear, dear face looked fondly up,And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me—There's no one now to share my cup.. . . . .I drink it as the Fates ordain it.Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes:Fill up the lonely glass, and drain itIn memory of dear old times.Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is;And sit you down and say your graceWith thankful heart, whate'er the meal is.—Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse!
Christmas is here:Winds whistle shrill,Icy and chill,Little care we:Little we fearWeather without,Sheltered aboutThe Mahogany Tree.Once on the boughsBirds of rare plumeSang, in its bloom;Night-birds are we:Here we carouse,Singing like them,Perched round the stemOf the jolly old tree.Here let us sport,Boys, as we sit;Laughter and witFlashing so free.Life is but short—When we are gone,Let them sing on,Round the old tree.Evenings we knew,Happy as this;Faces we miss,Pleasant to see.Kind hearts and true,Gentle and just,Peace to your dust!We sing round the tree.Care, like a dun,Lurks at the gate:Let the dog wait;Happy we'll be!Drink, every one;Pile up the coals,Fill the red bowls,Round the old tree!Drain we the cup.—Friend, art afraid?Spirits are laidIn the Red Sea.Mantle it up;Empty it yet;Let us forget,Round the old tree.Sorrows, begone!Life and its ills,Duns and their bills,Bid we to flee.Come with the dawn,Blue-devil sprite,Leave us to-night,Round the old tree.
"A surgeon of the United States' army says that on inquiring ofthe Captain of his company, he found that NINE-TENTHS of the menhad enlisted on account of some female difficulty."—Morning Paper.
Ye Yankee Volunteers!It makes my bosom bleedWhen I your story read,Though oft 'tis told one.So—in both hemispheresThe women are untrue,And cruel in the New,As in the Old one!What—in this companyOf sixty sons of Mars,Who march 'neath Stripes and Stars,With fife and horn,Nine-tenths of all we seeAlong the warlike lineHad but one cause to joinThis Hope Forlorn?Deserters from the realmWhere tyrant Venus reigns,You slipp'd her wicked chains,Fled and out-ran her.And now, with sword and helm,Together banded areBeneath the Stripe and StarEmbroider'd banner!And is it so with allThe warriors ranged in line,With lace bedizen'd fineAnd swords gold-hilted—Yon lusty corporal,Yon color-man who gripesThe flag of Stars and Stripes—Has each been jilted?Come, each man of this line,The privates strong and tall,"The pioneers and all,"The fifer nimble—Lieutenant and Ensign,Captain with epaulets,And Blacky there, who beatsThe clanging cymbal—O cymbal-beating black,Tell us, as thou canst feel,Was it some Lucy NealWho caused thy ruin?O nimble fifing Jack,And drummer making dinSo deftly on the skin,With thy rat-tattooing—Confess, ye volunteers,Lieutenant and Ensign,And Captain of the line,As bold as Roman—Confess, ye grenadiers,However strong and tall,The Conqueror of you allIs Woman, Woman!No corselet is so proofBut through it from her bowThe shafts that she can throwWill pierce and rankle.No champion e'er so tough,But's in the struggle thrown,And tripp'd and trodden downBy her slim ankle.Thus always it was ruled:And when a woman smiled,The strong man was a child,The sage a noodle.Alcides was befool'd,And silly Samson shorn,Long, long ere you were horn,Poor Yankee Doodle!
"I am Miss Catherine's book," the album speaks;"I've lain among your tomes these many weeks;I'm tired of their old coats and yellow cheeks."Quick, Pen! and write a line with a good grace:Come! draw me off a funny little face;And, prithee, send me back to Chesham Place."PEN."I am my master's faithful old Gold Pen;I've served him three long years, and drawn since thenThousands of funny women and droll men."O Album! could I tell you all his waysAnd thoughts, since I am his, these thousand days,Lord, how your pretty pages I'd amaze!"ALBUM."His ways? his thoughts? Just whisper me a few;Tell me a curious anecdote or two,And write 'em quickly off, good Mordan, do!"PEN."Since he my faithful service did engageTo follow him through his queer pilgrimage,I've drawn and written many a line and page."Caricatures I scribbled have, and rhymes,And dinner-cards, and picture pantomimes;And merry little children's books at times."I've writ the foolish fancy of his brain;The aimless jest that, striking, hath caused pain;The idle word that he'd wish back again.. . . . . ."I've help'd him to pen many a line for bread;To joke with sorrow aching in his head;And make your laughter when his own heart bled."I've spoke with men of all degree and sort—Peers of the land, and ladies of the Court;Oh, but I've chronicled a deal of sport!"Feasts that were ate a thousand days ago,Biddings to wine that long hath ceased to flow,Gay meetings with good fellows long laid low;"Summons to bridal, banquet, burial, ball,Tradesman's polite reminders of his smallAccount due Christmas last—I've answered all."Poor Diddler's tenth petition for a half-Guinea; Miss Bunyan's for an autograph;So I refuse, accept, lament, or laugh,"Condole, congratulate, invite, praise, scoff.Day after day still dipping in my trough,And scribbling pages after pages off."Day after day the labor's to be done,And sure as comes the postman and the sun,The indefatigable ink must run.. . . . ."Go back, my pretty little gilded tome,To a fair mistress and a pleasant home,Where soft hearts greet us whensoe'er we come!"Dear, friendly eyes, with constant kindness lit,However rude my verse, or poor my wit,Or sad or gay my mood, you welcome it."Kind lady! till my last of lines is penn'd,My master's love, grief, laughter, at an end,Whene'er I write your name, may I write friend!"Not all are so that were so in past years;Voices, familiar once, no more he hears;Names, often writ, are blotted out in tears."So be it:—joys will end and tears will dry—Album! my master bids me wish good-by,He'll send you to your mistress presently."And thus with thankful heart he closes you;Blessing the happy hour when a friend he knewSo gentle, and so generous, and so true."Nor pass the words as idle phrases by;Stranger! I never writ a flattery,Nor sign'd the page that register'd a lie."
WRITTEN IN A LADY'S ALBUM.
"Coming from a gloomy court,Place of Israelite resort,This old lamp I've brought with me.Madam, on its panes you'll seeThe initials K and E.""An old lantern brought to me?Ugly, dingy, battered, black!"(Here a lady I supposeTurning up a pretty nose)—"Pray, sir, take the old thing back.I've no taste for bricabrac.""Please to mark the letters twain—"(I'm supposed to speak again)—"Graven on the lantern pane.Can you tell me who was she,Mistress of the flowery wreath,And the anagram beneath—The mysterious K E?"Full a hundred years are goneSince the little beacon shoneFrom a Venice balcony:There, on summer nights, it hung,And her Lovers came and sungTo their beautiful K E."Hush! in the canal belowDon't you hear the plash of oarsUnderneath the lantern's glow,And a thrilling voice beginsTo the sound of mandolins?Begins singing of amoreAnd delire and dolore—O the ravishing tenore!"Lady, do you know the tune?Ah, we all of us have hummed it!I've an old guitar has thrummed it,Under many a changing moon.Shall I try it? Do Re MI . .What is this? Ma foi, the fact is,That my hand is out of practice,And my poor old fiddle cracked is,And a man—I let the truth out,—Who's had almost every tooth out,Cannot sing as once he sung,When he was young as you are young,When he was young and lutes were strung,And love-lamps in the casement hung."
Seventeen rosebuds in a ring,Thick with sister flowers beset,In a fragrant coronet,Lucy's servants this day bring.Be it the birthday wreath she wearsFresh and fair, and symbollingThe young number of her years,The sweet blushes of her spring.Types of youth and love and hope!Friendly hearts your mistress greet,Be you ever fair and sweet,And grow lovelier as you ope!Gentle nursling, fenced aboutWith fond care, and guarded so,Scarce you've heard of storms without,Frosts that bite or winds that blow!Kindly has your life begun,And we pray that heaven may sendTo our floweret a warm sun,A calm summer, a sweet end.And where'er shall be her home,May she decorate the place;Still expanding into bloom,And developing in grace.
In tattered old slippers that toast at the bars,And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars,Away from the world and its toils and its cares,I've a snug little kingdom up four pair of stairs.To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure,But the fire there is bright and the air rather pure;And the view I behold on a sunshiny dayIs grand through the chimney-pots over the way.This snug little chamber is cramm'd in all nooksWith worthless old knick-knacks and silly old books,And foolish old odds and foolish old ends,Crack'd bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends.Old armor, prints, pictures, pipes, china, (all crack'd,)Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-backed;A twopenny treasury, wondrous to see;What matter? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me.No better divan need the Sultan require,Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire;And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you getFrom the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet.That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp;By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp;A mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn:'Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon.Long, long through the hours, and the night, and the chimes,Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and old times;As we sit in a fog made of rich LatakieThis chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me.But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest,There's one that I love and I cherish the best:For the finest of couches that's padded with hairI never would change thee, my cane-bottom'd chair.'Tis a bandy-legg'd, high-shoulder'd, worm-eaten seat,With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet;But since the fair morning when Fanny sat there,I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottom'd chair.If chairs have but feeling, in holding such charms,A thrill must have pass'd through your wither'd old arms!I look'd, and I long'd, and I wish'd in despair;I wish'd myself turn'd to a cane-bottom'd chair.It was but a moment she sat in this place,She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face!A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair,And she sat there, and bloom'd in my cane-bottom'd chair.And so I have valued my chair ever since,Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince;Saint Fanny, my patroness sweet I declare,The queen of my heart and my cane-bottom'd chair.When the candles burn low, and the company's gone,In the silence of night as I sit here alone—I sit here alone, but we yet are a pair—My Fanny I see in my cane-bottom'd chair.She comes from the past and revisits my room;She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom;So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair,And yonder she sits in my cane-bottom'd chair.
LINES WRITTEN TO AN ALBUM PRINT.
As on this pictured page I look,This pretty tale of line and hookAs though it were a novel-bookAmuses and engages:I know them both, the boy and girl;She is the daughter of the Earl,The lad (that has his hair in curl)My lord the County's page has.A pleasant place for such a pair!The fields lie basking in the glare;No breath of wind the heavy airOf lazy summer quickens.Hard by you see the castle tall;The village nestles round the wall,As round about the hen its smallYoung progeny of chickens.It is too hot to pace the keep;To climb the turret is too steep;My lord the earl is dozing deep,His noonday dinner over:The postern-warder is asleep(Perhaps they've bribed him not to peep):And so from out the gate they creep,And cross the fields of clover.Their lines into the brook they launch;He lays his cloak upon a branch,To guarantee his Lady Blanche's delicate complexion:He takes his rapier, from his haunch,That beardless doughty champion staunch;He'd drill it through the rival's paunchThat question'd his affection!O heedless pair of sportsmen slack!You never mark, though trout or jack,Or little foolish stickleback,Your baited snares may capture.What care has SHE for line and hook?She turns her back upon the brook,Upon her lover's eyes to lookIn sentimental rapture.O loving pair! as thus I gazeUpon the girl who smiles always,The little hand that ever playsUpon the lover's shoulder;In looking at your pretty shapes,A sort of envious wish escapes(Such as the Fox had for the Grapes)The Poet your beholder.To be brave, handsome, twenty-two;With nothing else on earth to do,But all day long to bill and coo:It were a pleasant calling.And had I such a partner sweet;A tender heart for mine to beat,A gentle hand my clasp to meet;—I'd let the world flow at my feet,And never heed its brawling.
The rose upon my balcony the morning air perfuming,Was leafless all the winter time and pining for the spring;You ask me why her breath is sweet, and why her cheek is blooming,It is because the sun is out and birds begin to sing.The nightingale, whose melody is through the greenwood ringing,Was silent when the boughs were bare and winds were blowing keen:And if, Mamma, you ask of me the reason of his singing,It is because the sun is out and all the leaves are green.Thus each performs his part, Mamma; the birds have found their voices,The blowing rose a flush, Mamma, her bonny cheek to dye;And there's sunshine in my heart, Mamma, which wakens and rejoices,And so I sing and blush, Mamma, and that's the reason why.
"Quand vous serez bien vielle, le soir à la chandelleAssise auprès du feu devisant et filant,Direz, chantant mes vers en vous esmerveillant,Ronsard m'a célébré du temps que j'étois belle."
Some winter night, shut snugly inBeside the fagot in the hall,I think I see you sit and spin,Surrounded by your maidens all.Old tales are told, old songs are sung,Old days come back to memory;You say, "When I was fair and young,A poet sang of me!"There's not a maiden in your hall,Though tired and sleepy ever so,But wakes, as you my name recall,And longs the history to know.And, as the piteous tale is said,Of lady cold and lover true,Each, musing, carries it to bed,And sighs and envies you!"Our lady's old and feeble now,"They'll say; "she once was fresh and fair,And yet she spurn'd her lover's vow,And heartless left him to despair:The lover lies in silent earth,No kindly mate the lady cheers;She sits beside a lonely hearth,With threescore and ten years!"Ah! dreary thoughts and dreams are those,But wherefore yield me to despair,While yet the poet's bosom glows,While yet the dame is peerless fair!Sweet lady mine! while yet 'tis timeRequite my passion and my truth,And gather in their blushing primeThe roses of your youth!
Although I enter not,Yet round about the spotOfttimes I hover:And near the sacred gate,With longing eyes I wait,Expectant of her.The Minster bell tolls outAbove the city's rout,And noise and humming:They've hush'd the Minster bell:The organ 'gins to swell:She's coming, she's coming!My lady comes at last,Timid, and stepping fast,And hastening hither,With modest eyes downcast:She comes—she's here—she's past—May heaven go with her!Kneel, undisturb'd, fair Saint!Pour out your praise or plaintMeekly and duly;I will not enter there,To sully your pure prayerWith thoughts unruly.But suffer me to paceRound the forbidden place,Lingering a minuteLike outcast spirits who waitAnd see through heaven's gateAngels within it.
Ho, pretty page, with the dimpled chin,That never has known the Barber's shear,All your wish is woman to win,This is the way that boys begin,—Wait till you come to Forty Year.Curly gold locks cover foolish brains,Billing and cooing is all your cheer;Sighing and singing of midnight strains,Under Bonnybell's window panes,—Wait till you come to Forty Year.Forty times over let Michaelmas pass,Grizzling hair the brain doth clear—Then you know a boy is an ass,Then you know the worth of a lass,Once you have come to Forty Year.Pledge me round, I bid ye declare,All good fellows whose beards are gray,Did not the fairest of the fairCommon grow and wearisome ereEver a month was passed away?The reddest lips that ever have kissed,The brightest eyes that ever have shone,May pray and whisper, and we not list,Or look away, and never be missed,Ere yet ever a month is gone.Gillian's dead, God rest her bier,How I loved her twenty years syne!Marian's married, but I sit hereAlone and merry at Forty Year,Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine.
WERTHER had a love for CharlotteSuch as words could never utter;Would you know how first he met her?She was cutting bread and butter.Charlotte was a married lady,And a moral man was Werther,And, for all the wealth of Indies,Would do nothing for to hurt her.So he sighed and pined and ogled,And his passion boiled and bubbled,Till he blew his silly brains out,And no more was by it troubled.Charlotte, having seen his bodyBorne before her on a shutter,Like a well-conducted person,Went on cutting bread and butter.