9113
N Lemprière—bewitching book—
I've read and read the story
olden,
Which tells us of the king who
took
That fatal fancy to the golden.
The monarch, by a simple touch,
Transmuted anything instanter.
(Since then the times have alter'd
much,
And only Tempora mutantur.)
His palace roof was raised on high
By pillars bright with golden glory;—
(No modern publisher could buy
One column of this classic story.)
His pamper'd pages quite cut out
The pages from the "Wealth of Nations:"
They had gilt edges, past a doubt,
And lots ofDoréillustrations.
But Midas very soon, they say,
Knelt down and—driven to distraction—
Implored the gods to take away
Their awful gift of aurifaction.
'Twas hunger that induced remorse;
The king was at the point of starving.
(For gilding had become, of course,
The instant consequence of carving.)
Do all I will, I cannot bring
My faith to credit such a fable;
Although acheque 'sa common thing
To turn to gold when one is able.
But gold, as far as I can learn,
(And here the story seems a "whopper!")
Gets changed to silver in its turn,
And silver in its turn to copper.
NAY, start not from the banquet where the red wine foams
for thee—
Though somewhat thick to perforate thisepidermisbe;
'Tis madness, when the bowl invites, to linger at the brink;
So haste thee, haste thee, timid one. Drink, pretty creature,
drink!
I tell thee, if these azure veins could boast the regal wine
Of Tudors or Plantagenets, the draught should still be thine!
Though round the goblet's beaded brim plebeian bubbles wink.
'Twill cheer and not inebriate. Drink, pretty creature, drink!
Perchance, reluctant being, I have placed thee wrong side up,
And the lips that I am chiding have been farthest from the cup.
I have waited long and vainly, and I cannot, cannot think
Thou wouldst spurn the oft-repeated call: Drink, pretty crea-
ture, drink!
While I watch'd thy patient struggles, and imagined thou wert
coy,
'Twas thy tail, and not thy features, that refused the proffer'd
joy.
I will but turn thee tenderly—nay, never, never shrink—
Now, once again the banquet calls: Drink, pretty creature
drink!
9117
Y, marry! With glee I abandon the
bottle;
But, mark me, not all your philo-
sophers, up
From quaint Master Mill to an-
tique Aristotle,
Shall make me turn tail on the
saucer and cup.
Drink, roysterers all; and, ifegs!
while I utter.
The praises of tea, let the burden resound.
Let those who prefer it have plain bread and butter;
Forme, lads, I warrant thetoastshall go round.
Chorus.—Let those. &c.
Dull knaves who delight in the worship of BACCHUS
May jeer at our joys in their pestilent way.
Pert fools that love Sherris perchance may attack us;
What boots it, my bully boys? Drink and be gay.
Adzooks, let the braggarts go sleep in the gutter;
Carouse ye, so long as Bohea can be found;
Let those who prefer it have plain bread and butter:
Formelads, I warrant the toast shall go t round.
Chorus.—Let those, &c.
Odsbodikins! Tea is the soul and the sinew
Of all the gay gallants that fight for the king;
Long, long on the throne may our monarch continue,
To laugh at the French and bid rebels go swing.
Drink, drink to our flag, boys; for ages shall flutter
In glory and honour that standard renown'd.
Let those who prefer it have plain bread and butter;
For me, lads, I warrant the toast shall go round.
Chorus.—Let those, &c.
THE sun drops down in the deep, deep west
As a ball sinks into a cup;
And the moon springs rapidly up from rest
As a Jack-in-the-box leaps up.
Now falls the shadow and comes the dark,
And the face of the world is hid;
Like the men and the beasts in a Noah's ark
When they slumber beneath its lid.
So softly—slowly—the silence creeps
Over earth and all earthly things,
That it leaves Mankind like a doll that sleeps
With nothing to touch the springs.
Ah! would that never the stars might shine—
Like Heaven's kaleidoscopes—
Upon lids less innocent, love, than thine
Less innocent joys and hopes.
9121
HERE'S a structure whose battle-
ments gloomily frown
From the brow of a moun-
tainous height;
And the people go up and the
people go down
By that mansion from dawn
until night.
I viewed it with terror in in-
fancy's days,
I've a latent respect for it still;
Many sentiments thrill me whenever I gaze
At the House on the Top of a Hill.
Permission to enter that fortress I find
Can be got from a judge now and then,
Through a letter of recommendation that's sign'd
By a dozen respectable men.
You have merely to put a friend out of the way,
Or abstract the contents of his till,
To make yourself heartily welcome, they say,
At the House on the Top of a Hill.
There is lodging and board for the destitute poor,
With a diet nutritious though cheap;
And at evening they kindly make sure of your door,
Just in case you should walk in your sleep.
There's a medical man to attend on the guests,
And a chaplain who strives to instil
The most laudable sentiments into their breasts
At the House on the Top of a Hill.
Ev'ry guest has a private apartment;—in fact,
It's a kind of luxurious hotel,
Where a man who commits any praiseworthy act
Can be treated remarkably well.
Nay; it's better than many hotels you can find,
For they never present any bill;
But they patch you upgratisin body and mind
At the House on the Top of a Hill.
Of all the bores whom now and then
Society permits
To speak to literary men,
And mix among the wits,
The worst are those that will devote
Their little minds to anecdote.
I often listen (more or less)
To muffs of many kinds—
Including people who possess
Encyclopaedic minds:
But oh! the biggest muff afloat
Is he who takes to anecdote.
I like the man who makes a pun,
Or drops a deep remark;
I like philosophy or fun—
A lecture or a lark;
But I despise the men who gloat
Inanely over anecdote.
I quake when some one recollects
A "little thing" he heard,
And, while he tells the tale, expects
A grin at every word.
Can any one on earth promote
Good fellowship through anecdote?
Ah me! I'd rather live alone
Upon a desert isle,
Without a voice except my own
To cheer me all the while,
Than dwell with men who learn by rote
Their paltry funds of anecdote!
9125
UMMER and spring the lovely rose,
Unconscious of its beauty, blows—
Condemn'd, in summer and in spring,
To feel no pride at blossoming.
The hills, the meadows, and the lakes,
Enchant not for their own sweet sakes;
They cannot know, they cannot care
To know, that they are thought so fair.
The rainbow, sunset, cloud, and star,
Dream not how exquisite they are.
All dainty things of earth and sky
Delight us—but they know not why.
But I—a poet—who possess
The power of loving loveliness,
May ask, (and I may ask in vain,)
"WhyamI so intensely plain?"
FIELDS are green in the early light,
When Morning treads on the skirts of Night
Fields are gray when the sun's gone west,
Like a clerk from the City in search of rest.
"Flesh," they tell us, "is only grass
And that is the reason it comes to pass
That mortals change in a life's long day
From the young and green to the old and gray.
Not long since—as it seems to me—
I was as youthful as youth could be:
Cramming my noddle, as young folks do,
With a thousand things more nice than true.
Nowthis noddle of mine looks strange,
With its plenty of silver—and no small change!—
Surely I came the swiftest way
From the young and green to the old and gray.
Though the day be a changeful thing
In winter and summer, autumn and spring;
Days in December and days in June
Both seem finish'd a deal too soon.
Twilight shadows come closing in,
And the calmest, placidest hours begin:
The closing scenes of the piece we play
From the young and green to the old and gray.
9128
NEVER rear'd a young gazelle,
(Because, you see, I never tried;)
But, had it known and loved me well,
No doubt the creature would have died.
My rich and aged uncle John
Has known me long and loves me well,
But still persists in living on—
I would he were a young gazelle.
I never loved a tree or flower;
But, if I had, I beg to say,
The blight, the wind, the sun, or shower,
Would soon have wither'd it away.
I 've dearly loved my uncle JOHN,
From childhood till the present hour,
And yet he will go living on—
I would he were a tree or flower!
I LEARNT a simple bit of rhyme—
An easy air to sing;—
I thought the ditty at the time
A rather funny thing.
Of course, as I was green and young,
My judgment might be wrong;
Still, folks applauded when I sung
My only comic song.
Twas all about a Cavalier
Who finds a pair of gloves,
Which implicate, it's very clear,
The lady whom he loves.
That knight incontinently sends
That lady to Hong-Kong—
And thereupon abruptly ends
My only comic song.
'Twas most successful in its way,
For I could understand
Enough of harmony to play
Upon a Collard's grand.
My voice (though never very sweet,
And never very strong)
Possess'd sufficient force to treat
My only comic song.
One evening, anxious to impress
The lady of my choice,
I took some pains about my dress
And more about my voice.
But lo! a miserable man
(My rival all along)
Stept in before me, and began
My only comic song.
9131
T the brink of a murmuring brook
A contemplative Cockney reclined;
And his face wore a sad sort of look,
As if care were at work on his mind.
He sigh'd now and then as we sigh
When the heart with soft sentiment
swells;
And a tear came and moisten'd each eye
As he mournfully thought of Bow Bells.
I am monarch of all I survey!
(Thus he vented his feelings in words)—
But my kingdom, it grieves me to say,
Is inhabited chiefly by birds.
In this brook that flows lazily by
I believe thatonetittlebat dwells,
For I saw something jump at a fly
As I lay here and long'd for Bow Bells.
Yonder cattle are grazing—it's clear
From the bob of their heads up and down;—
But I cannot love cattle down here
As I should if I met them in town.
Poets say that each pastoral breeze
Bears a melody laden with spells;
But I don't find the music in these
That I find in the tone of Bow Bells.
I am partial to trees, as a rule;
And the rose is a beautiful flower.
(Yes, I once read a ballad at school
Of a rose that was wash'd in a shower.)
But, although I may doat on the rose,
I can scarcely believe that it smells
Quite so sweet in the bed where it grows
As when sold within sound of Bow Bells.
No; I've tried it in vain once or twice,
And I've thoroughly made up my mind
That the country is all very nice—
But I'd much rather mix with my kind.
Yes; to-day—if I meet with a train—
I will fly from these hills and these dells;
And to-night I will sleep once again
(Happy thought!) within sound of Bow Bells.
Ay there they stood on the self-same spot,
And, it might be, the self-same day;
But one was thinking and one was not,
In exactly the old, old way.
Let the proud Earl feast in his gilded halls,
But the sound of a maniac's curse
Rings ever and aye round the castle-walls
That shelter the grim Fitz-Urse.
For the gory head of a patriot sire
Shall smile on a long-lost son,
Ere an island home shall be girt with fire,
And a victory lost and won.
There's an empty chair in the ingle-nook,
And a trivet against the wall;
There's a ghastly stain in the Domesday book,
And a mystery shroudeth all.
Old Peter the Beadsman breathes a sigh
As he passes the churchyard lone,
Where the bones of the best and the bravest lie,
All under a milk-white stone.
But winter and summer there lies a blot
On the scutcheon of grim Fitz-Urse;
And the two stood there, on the self-same spot,
As I said in the opening verse.
9136
MULETEER! my Muleteer!
you haunt me in my slumber!
Through ballads (oh, so many!)
and through songs (oh, such
a number!):
You scale the Guadarrama—
you infest the Pyrenees,
And trot through comic operas
in four and twenty keys.
I hum of you, and whistle too;
I vainly try to banish
The million airs that you pervade in English, French, and
Spanish.
I hold your dark Pepitas and your mules immensely dear,
Butyoubegin to bore me, O eternal Muleteer!
O Gondolier! my Gondolier! pray quit the Adriatic;
That cold lagoon will make me soon incurably asthmatic.
Enough of barcarolling when the moon is in the skies;
I'm sick of the Rialto and I hate the Bridge of Sighs.
Your craft may suit, on summer nights, the songster or the
dreamer;
But, both for speed and elegance, givemethe penny steamer.
Your city is romantic, but your songs begin, I fear,
To pall upon me sadly, O eternal Gondolier!
O Cavalier! my Cavalier! for ages and for ages
You 've glared upon me darkly out of scores of title-pages:
I've join'd in all your battles, in your banquets, and your loves
(Including one occasion when you found a pair of gloves:)
I've seen you kiss and ride away—most cowardly behaviour!
But then, to damsels in distress I've seen you act the saviour.
You 're vastly entertaining; but I fancy that I hear
A deal too much about you, O eternal Cavalier!
IS Cupid quite the rosy god
That poets try to make him out?
I've known him two-score years and odd,
And, frankly, I begin to doubt.
He has his prizes, I have heard;
Iknowhe has his blanks as well:
In fact, I think, upon my word,
Le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle!
Is PLUTUS quite the hero-king
That money-worms would have us think?
And is there, truly, anything
Of music in the metal's clink?
Perhaps you have a heart and brain,
And have a heart and brainto sell!
If not—I think 'tis pretty plain
Le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle!
Is Bacchus quite the handsome rake—
The gay and fascinating youth—
That poets paint him when they take
Poetic licences with truth?
When fever'd pulses come with day,
And headaches at your breakfast-bell,
I rather fancy that you 'll say,
Le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle!
And is Apollo quite so kind
As people say, to all his sons?
I think that now and then you 'll find
He rather starves his younger ones.
To play the lyre is pretty hard;
It's harder still to play it well.
Depend upon it, brother bard,
Le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle!
Of course you can afford to burn
A rushlight, if the stakes be large;
(And when you look for some return
In money for your rushlight's charge.)
But will you lose or will you gain?
That's somewhat difficult to tell;
And, if you lose, it's very plain
Le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle!