9087
HE waits with Cupid at the
wing—
The transformation is ap-
proaching;—
She gives the god, poor little
thing,
Some final hints by way of
"coaching."
For soon the merry motley
clown—
Most purely practical of
jokers—
Will bring the pit and gallery
down
With petty larcenies and
pokers.
No Venus—anything but that.
Could Fancy, howsoever flighty,
Transform the mother of this brat
To aught resembling Aphrodite?
No Venus, but the daily sport
Of common cares and vulgar trials;
No monarch of a Paphian court—
Her court is in the Seven Dials.
She taught young Love to play the part—
To bend the bow and aim the arrows
Those arms will never pierce a heart.
Unless it be a Cockney sparrow's.
Alas, the Truthful never wooed
The Beautiful to fashion Cupid:
But, in some sympathetic mood,
Perhaps the Ugly wooed the Stupid.
Is Cupid nervous? Not a bit;
Love seeks no mortal approbation.
Stalls, boxes, gallery, and pit
May hiss or cheer the transformation.
Mamma looks anxious and afraid
While parting with her young beginner,
Whose little wages, weekly paid,
Will pay her for a weekly dinner.
WHEN King Dick the lion-hearted, pack'd his luggage
up and started,
(Vide Hume and Smollettpassim) for a trip to Palestine,
Tall young men, though half unwilling to accept the offer'd
shilling.
Left their wives and little children, and enlisted in the line.
Wot ye well that there was grieving when those tall young men
were leaving;
Wot ye well that there was business being done in locks of
hair;
Wot ye well that rings were broken, and presented as a token,
By the noblest of the noble to the fairest of the fair.
Said a soldier, on the shady side of forty, to a lady
Who was buckling on his burgonet, his breastplate, and his
brand;
"By my halidom, I'd rather, as a husband and a father,
Stop at home than go crusading in that blessed Holy Land."
"Yes, I know as well asyou, dear, it's the proper thing to do,
dear;
And I'm not afraid of fighting, (as I think I said before;)
But it's not without emotion that I contemplate the notion
Of a trip across the channel in a British man-of-war.
"No, it's not at all a question of alarm, but indigestion;
Not the lances of the Paynim, but the passage in the gale,
When the awful cry of 'Steward' from the windward and the
leeward,
From a hundred lips arises, when a hundred lips are pale!"
"Yes, I know you 're very sickly," said his lady, rather quickly;
But you 'll take a cup of sherris or a little Malvoisie,
When you get as far as Dover;—and when once you 're half-
seas over,
Why you 'll find yourself as jolly as you possibly can be."
So her lord and master started, just a trifle chicken-hearted,
And, it may be, just a trifle discontented with his lot;
But whether he got sick, or felt the better for the liquor
That his lady recommended, this deponent sayeth not.
9091
OME fleetly, come fleetly, my hookabadar,
For the sound of the tam-tam is heard from
afar.
"Banoolah! Banoolah! The Brahmins
are nigh,
And the depths of the jungle re-echo their
cry.
Pestonjee Bomanjee!
Smite the guitar;
Join in the chorus, my hookabadar.
Heed not the blast of the deadly monsoon,
Nor the blue Brahmaputra that gleams in the moon.
Stick to thy music, and oh! let the sound
Be heard with distinctness a mile or two round.
Join in the chorus, my hookabadar.
Art thou a Buddhist, or dost thou indeed
Put faith in the monstrous Mohammedan creed?
Art thou a Ghebir—a blinded Parsee?
Not that it matters an atom to me.
Jcunsetjee Jeejeebhoy!
Sweep the guitar.
Cursetjee Bomanjee!
Twang the guitar.
Join in the chorus, my hookabadar.
5092
9093
PITA, my paragon, bright star of Arragon;
Listen, dear, listen; your Cristobal sings.
From my cot that lies buried a short way
from Lerida
Love and a diligence lent me their wings.
Swift as a falcon I flew to thy balcony.
(Is it bronchitis? I can't sing a bar.)
Greet not with merriment Love's first experi-
ment;
Listen, Pépita! I 've brought mycatarrh.
Manuel the matador may, like a flat, adore
Donna Dolores. I pity his choice,
For they say that her governor lets neither lover nor
Any one else hear the sound of her voice.
Brother Bartolomé (stoutish Apollo) may
Sigh for Sabina—you 'll pardon this cough?—
And Isabel's votary, Nunez the notary,
Vainly—(.That sneeze again? Loved one, I'm off!)
9094
AKE Leman wooes me with its crystal
face—
(That observation is the late Lord
Byron's)
And Chillon seems a damp unpleasant
place—
(Where Bonnivard, poor soul, got
clapt in irons.)
Beside me Vevey lies, romantic town,
(I wish the weather were not quite
so damp,
And, not far distant, Alpine summits
frown—
(Ah, just what I expected. That's the cramp!)
Before the blast are driven the flying clouds—
(And I should like to blow a cloud as well)
The vapours wrap the mountain-tops in shrouds—
(I left my mild cheroots at the hotel.)
Dotting the glassy surface of the stream,
(Oh, here's a cigarette—my mind's at ease,)
The boats move silently as in a dream—
(Confound it! where on earth are my fusees?)
Methinks in such a Paradise as this,
(Thank goodness, there 's a clodhopper in sight.)
To live were ecstasy, to die were bliss.
(Could you oblige me, Monsieur, with a light?)
I could live pure beneath so pure a sky——
(The rain's completely spoilt my Sunday coat,)
And sink into the tomb without a sigh—
(There's the bell ringing for the table d'hote.)
9096
PEED, gondolier, speed, o'er the
lonely lagoon,
To the distant piazetta
Where dwells my Minetta,
Lest envious Aurora surprise us too
soon.
Sing, gondolier, sing, with a heart
full as mine—
Though thy larynx be wheezy
And singing's not easy
Whilst guiding a vessel so tub-like as thine.
Cease, gondolier, cease; 'twas an exquisite air—
But we've reach'd the Rialto,
So hand me that paletot;
And tell me, my gondolier, what is thy fare?
THE smiling Spring is too light a thing—
Too much of a child for me.
No trace in her face of the ripen'd grace
That a lover would love to see.
Hers are the showers—but half the flowers
Hang back for her sister's call.
Amongst the seasons, for divers reasons,
The Spring is the worst of all.
I dread the Summer, the next new-comer;.
Because of her changeful forms:
She merits my praise for her cloudless days,
But my wrath for her fearful storms.
There are flames in her love from the fires above,
And her kisses like lava fall.
Amongst the seasons, for various reasons,
The Summer is worst of all.
The Autumn drear glides into a year
With the moan of an injured ghost.
Then shiver and fall the brown leaves all,
And the woods are in rags almost.
She comes and flings on blossoming things
A shadow of shroud and pall.
Amongst the seasons, for several reasons,
The Autumn is worst of all.
The Winter is good, be it understood.
For scarcely a single thing:
Although it is prime at the Christmas time
To revel and dance and sing.
It is full of such ills as tradesmen's bills.
And its pleasures are scant and small.
Amongst the seasons, for many good reason
The Winter is worst of all.
9099
ROMISES are lightly spoken;
Vows on which we blindly build
(Utter'd only to be broken)
Go for ever unfulfill'd.
Oft betray'd, but still believing—
Duped again and yet again—
All our hoping, all our grieving
Warns us, but it warns in vain.
From the cradle and the coral—
From the sunny days of youth—
We are taught a simple moral,
Still we doubt the moral's truth.
When a boy they found, me rather
Loth to do as I was bid.
'I shall buy a birch," said father—
Broken vows! He neverdid.
Grown extravagant, when youthful,
In my tailor's debt I ran;
He appear'd about as truthful
In his talk asanyman.
Let me tell you how he sold me:
"Look you, Mr What's-Your-Name,
I shall summonsyou," he told me—
But the summonsnever came!
Through the meadows, daisy-laden,
Once it was my lot to stray,
Talking to a lovely maiden
In a very loving way;
And I stole a kiss—another—
Then another—then a lot.
"Fie!" she said, "I 'll tell my mother."
Idle words; she told her not.
When a party who dislikes me
Promises to "punch my head,"
'Tis an empty phrase, it strikes me,
They are words too lightly said.
Not since Disappointment school'd me,
Have I credited the truth
Of the promises that fool'd me
In my green and gushing youth.
WHERE are the times when—miles away
From the din and the dust of cities—
Alexis left his lambs to play,
And wooed some shepherdess half the day
With pretty and plaintive ditties?
Where are the pastures daisy-strewn
And the flocks that lived in clover;
The Zephyrs that caught the pastoral tune
And carried away the notes as soon
As ever the notes were over?
Where are the echoes that bore the strains
Each to his nearest neighbour:
And all the valleys and all the plains
Where all the nymphs and their love-sick swains
Made merry to pipe and tabor?
Where are they gone? They are gone to sleep
Where Fancy alone can find them:
But Arcady's times are like the sheep
That quitted the care of Little Bo-Peep,
For they've left their tales behind them!
9103
Y deep cerulean eyes are full of tears,
And bluely burns my melancholy
taper:
How dimly every azure line appears
To be imprinted on my bluish
paper.
My casement opens on the blue,
blue sky,
The cobalt of the dawn already lightens
The outer east—and yet small joy have I,
That Luna fades and that Aurora brightens.
Oh that the morning light could bring for me
One hour amidst the blue-bells and the heather!—
One hour of sojourn on the wide blue sea,
In crystal calmness or in stormy weather!
Oh that the "freshness of the heart" could fall
Once more upon my spirit, and could kindly
Bring back again the days when first of all
I read myBlue Beardand believed it blindly!
One cure there is for all the ills that make
Existence duller than a blue-book's pages:—
A strong blue-pill is just the thing to take
For indigestion in the early stages.
THERE'S a tempting bit of greenery—of rustic
scenery—
That's haunted by the London "upper ten
Where, by exercise on horseback, an equestrian may force back
Little fits of tedium vitæ now and then.
Oh! the times that I have been there, and the types that I have
seen there
Of that gorgeous Cockney animal, the "swell
And the scores of pretty riders (both patricians and outsiders)
Are considerably more than I can tell.
When first the warmer weather brought these people all together.
And the crowds began to thicken through the Row,
I reclined against the railing on a sunny day, inhaling
All the spirits that the breezes could bestow.
And the riders and the walkers and the thinkers and the talkers
Left lonely in the thickest of the throng,
Not a touch upon my shoulder—not a nod from one beholder—
As the stream of Art and Nature went along.
But I brought away one image, from that fashionable scrimmage,
Of a figure and a face—ah,sucha face!
Love has photograph'd the features of that loveliest of creatures
On my memory, as Love alone can trace.
Did I hate the little dandy in the whiskers, (they were sandy,)
Whose absurd salute was honour'd by a smile?
Did I marvel at his rudeness in presuming on her goodness,
When she evidently loathed him all the while!
Oh the hours that I have wasted, the regrets that I have tasted,
Since the day (it seems a century ago)
When my heart was won instanter by a lady in a canter,
On a certain sunny day in Rotten Row!
9107
LONE on India's burning plain,
Beneath a banyan tree,
A mortal many hours had lain
In ceaseless agony.
Mosquitoes with a constant buzz
Came flocking round their prize
(It varies—the mosquito does—
In appetite and size.)
But, though it varies as to form,
And varies as to thirst,
In Asia, (where the nights ara warm,)
The small ones are the worst.
Anon their victim waved his arm
To scare them from their feed;
But found, alas! that their alarm
Was very brief indeed.= .
Then other remedies he sought,
But still he sought in vain;
Until a wild and witching thought
Came flashing through his brain.
At once he started bolt upright
Against the banyan tree,
And, in the silence of the night,
"Now, listen all!" said he.
"I 've had enough of these attacks—
Enough and rather more!"
(His voice had now begun to wax
Much louder than before.
The hearers trembled, one and all;
Dead stillness reign'd around:
You might have heard a needle fall
The hush was so profound.)
"When I was living far away—
Across the briny deep—
I laid me down one summer day
To try to go to sleep;
When, lo! as I began to see
A prospect of repose,
There straightway came a humble-bee
Who buzz'd about my nose.
I ever was a patient man;
I take a certain pride
In suffering as best I can
Whatever ills betide.
But this was not a thing to bear;
So rising in my wrath,
I slew the monster then and there
Upon the table-cloth.
"The moral of my tale, methinks,
'Tis needless to declare.
I wish to take my forty winks:
Disturb me if ye dare.
The first who interferes withme
Imperils life and limb;
For as I did unto the bee
I mean to do tohim!"
Again he glanced upon the crew,
And laid him down to rest.
Irresolute and pallid grew
Their bravest and their best.
Next morning when the sunlight gleam'd
Upon the earth and sea,
That unmolested youth still dream'd
About the humble-bee.
THE air is damp, the skies are leaden:
The ominous lull of impending rain
Presses upon me, and seems to deaden
Every sense but a sense of pain.
Hopes of getting again to London
Lapse into utter and grim despair;
Shall I do my verses or leave them undone?
I don't know, and I don't much care.
I sit in a silence broken only
Now and again by the wandering breeze,
A breeze in the garden, wandering lonely,
Or playing the fool with shivering trees.
I have slept all night—should I call it sleeping
Out of all sound but the pattering drops
Against the pane, and the wild wind keeping
Revelry up in the chimney-tops.
I want the hum of my working brothers—
London bustle and London strife—
To count as one in three million others;—
How can I live away from life?