Hurrah! the Season's past at last;At length we've "done" our pleasure.Dear "Pater," if youonlyknewHow much I'velongedfor home and you,—Our own green lawn and leisure!And then the pets! One half forgetsThe dear dumb friends—in Babel.I hope my special fish is fed;—I long to see poor Nigra's headPushed at me from the stable!I long to see the cob and "Rob,"—Old Bevis and the Collie;Andwon'twe read in "Traveller's Rest"!Home readings after all are best;—None else seem half so "jolly!"One misses your dear kindly storeOf fancies quaint and funny;One misses, too, your kindbon-mot;—The Mayfair wit I mostly knowHas more of gall than honey!How tired one grows of "calls and balls!"This "toujours perdrix" wearies;I'm longing, quite, for "Notes on Knox";(Apropos, I've the loveliest boxFor holdingNotes and Queries!)A change of place would suit my case.You'll take me?—on probation?As "Lady-help," then, let it be;I feel (as Lavender shall see),That Jams aremyvocation!How's Lavender? My love to her.Does Briggs still flirt with Flowers?—Has Hawthorn stubbed the common clear?—You'll let me givesomepicnics, Dear,And ask the Vanes and Towers?I met Belle Vane. "He's" still in Spain!Sir John won't let them marry.Aunt drove the boys to Brompton Rink;And Charley,—changing Charley,—think,Is nowau mieuxwith Carry!AndNO. You know what "No" I mean—There's no one yet at present:The Benedick I have in viewMust be a something wholly new,—One's father'sfartoo pleasant.So hey, I say, for home and you!Good-by to Piccadilly;Balls, beaux, and Bolton-row, adieu!Expect me, Dear, at half-past two;Till then,—your Own Fond—Milly.
Hurrah! the Season's past at last;At length we've "done" our pleasure.Dear "Pater," if youonlyknewHow much I'velongedfor home and you,—Our own green lawn and leisure!
And then the pets! One half forgetsThe dear dumb friends—in Babel.I hope my special fish is fed;—I long to see poor Nigra's headPushed at me from the stable!
I long to see the cob and "Rob,"—Old Bevis and the Collie;Andwon'twe read in "Traveller's Rest"!Home readings after all are best;—None else seem half so "jolly!"
One misses your dear kindly storeOf fancies quaint and funny;One misses, too, your kindbon-mot;—The Mayfair wit I mostly knowHas more of gall than honey!
How tired one grows of "calls and balls!"This "toujours perdrix" wearies;I'm longing, quite, for "Notes on Knox";(Apropos, I've the loveliest boxFor holdingNotes and Queries!)
A change of place would suit my case.You'll take me?—on probation?As "Lady-help," then, let it be;I feel (as Lavender shall see),That Jams aremyvocation!
How's Lavender? My love to her.Does Briggs still flirt with Flowers?—Has Hawthorn stubbed the common clear?—You'll let me givesomepicnics, Dear,And ask the Vanes and Towers?
I met Belle Vane. "He's" still in Spain!Sir John won't let them marry.Aunt drove the boys to Brompton Rink;And Charley,—changing Charley,—think,Is nowau mieuxwith Carry!
AndNO. You know what "No" I mean—There's no one yet at present:The Benedick I have in viewMust be a something wholly new,—One's father'sfartoo pleasant.
So hey, I say, for home and you!Good-by to Piccadilly;Balls, beaux, and Bolton-row, adieu!Expect me, Dear, at half-past two;Till then,—your Own Fond—Milly.
Old Loves and old dreams,—"Requiescant in pace."How strange now it seems,—"Old" Loves and "old" dreams!Yet we once wrote you reamsMaude, Alice, and Gracie!Old Loves and old dreams,—"Requiescant in pace."
Old Loves and old dreams,—"Requiescant in pace."How strange now it seems,—"Old" Loves and "old" dreams!Yet we once wrote you reamsMaude, Alice, and Gracie!Old Loves and old dreams,—"Requiescant in pace."
When I called at the "Hollies" to-day,In the room with the cedar-wood presses,Aunt Deb. was just folding awayWhat she calls her "memorial dresses."She'd the frock that she wore at fifteen,—Short-waisted, of course—my abhorrence;She'd "the loveliest"—something in "een"That she wears in her portrait by Lawrence;She'd the "jelick" she used—"as a Greek," (!)She'd the habit she got her bad fall in;She had e'en the bluemoiré antiqueThat she opened Squire Grasshopper's ball in:—New and old they were all of them there:—Sleek velvet and bombazine stately,—She had hung them each over a chairTo the "paniers" she's taken to lately(Which she showed me, I think, by mistake).And I conned o'er the forms and the fashions,Till the faded old shapes seemed to wakeAll the ghosts of my passed-away "passions;"—From the days of love's youthfullest dream,When the height of my shooting ideaWas to burn, like a young Polypheme,For a somewhat mature Galatea.There was Lucy, who "tiffed" with her first,And who threw me as soon as her third came;There was Norah, whose cut was the worst,For she told me to wait till my "berd" came;Pale Blanche, who subsisted on salts;Blonde Bertha, who doted on Schiller;Poor Amy, who taught me to waltz;Plain Ann, that I wooed for the "siller;"—All danced round my head in a ring,Like "The Zephyrs" that somebody painted,All shapes of the feminine thing—Shy, scornful, seductive, and sainted,—To my Wife, in the days she was young...."How, Sir," says that lady, disgusted,"Do you dare to includeMeamongYour loves that have faded and rusted?""Not at all!"—I benignly retort.(I was just the least bit in a temper!)"Those, alas! were the fugitive sort,But you are my—eadem semper!"Full stop,—and a Sermon. Yet think,—There was surely good ground for a quarrel,—She had checked me when just on the brinkOf—I feel—a remarkableMoral.
When I called at the "Hollies" to-day,In the room with the cedar-wood presses,Aunt Deb. was just folding awayWhat she calls her "memorial dresses."
She'd the frock that she wore at fifteen,—Short-waisted, of course—my abhorrence;She'd "the loveliest"—something in "een"That she wears in her portrait by Lawrence;
She'd the "jelick" she used—"as a Greek," (!)She'd the habit she got her bad fall in;She had e'en the bluemoiré antiqueThat she opened Squire Grasshopper's ball in:—
New and old they were all of them there:—Sleek velvet and bombazine stately,—She had hung them each over a chairTo the "paniers" she's taken to lately
(Which she showed me, I think, by mistake).And I conned o'er the forms and the fashions,Till the faded old shapes seemed to wakeAll the ghosts of my passed-away "passions;"—
From the days of love's youthfullest dream,When the height of my shooting ideaWas to burn, like a young Polypheme,For a somewhat mature Galatea.
There was Lucy, who "tiffed" with her first,And who threw me as soon as her third came;There was Norah, whose cut was the worst,For she told me to wait till my "berd" came;
Pale Blanche, who subsisted on salts;Blonde Bertha, who doted on Schiller;Poor Amy, who taught me to waltz;Plain Ann, that I wooed for the "siller;"—
All danced round my head in a ring,Like "The Zephyrs" that somebody painted,All shapes of the feminine thing—Shy, scornful, seductive, and sainted,—
To my Wife, in the days she was young...."How, Sir," says that lady, disgusted,"Do you dare to includeMeamongYour loves that have faded and rusted?"
"Not at all!"—I benignly retort.(I was just the least bit in a temper!)"Those, alas! were the fugitive sort,But you are my—eadem semper!"
Full stop,—and a Sermon. Yet think,—There was surely good ground for a quarrel,—She had checked me when just on the brinkOf—I feel—a remarkableMoral.
Yes, here it is, behind the box,That puzzle wrought so neatly—That paradise of paradox—We once knew so completely;You see it? 'Tis the same, I swear,Which stood, that chill September,Beside your aunt Lavinia's chairThe year when ... You remember?Look, Laura, look! You must recallThis florid "Fairy's Bower,"This wonderful Swiss waterfall,And this old "Leaning Tower;"And here's the "Maiden of Cashmere,"And here is Bewick's "Starling,"And here the dandy cuirassierYou thought was "such a Darling!"Your poor dear Aunt! you know her way,She used to say this figureReminded her of Count D'Orsay"In all his youthful vigour;"And here's the "cot beside the hill"We chose for habitation,The day that ... But I doubt if stillYou'd like the situation!Too damp—by far! She little knew,Your guileless Aunt Lavinia,Those evenings when she slumbered through"The Prince of Abyssinia,"That there were two beside her chairWho both had quite decidedTo see things in a rosier airThan Rasselas provided!Ah! men wore stocks in Britain's land,And maids short waists and tippets,When this old-fashioned screen was plannedFrom hoarded scraps and snippets;But more—far more, I think—to meThan those who first designed it,Is this—in Eighteen Seventy-ThreeI kissed you first behind it.
Yes, here it is, behind the box,That puzzle wrought so neatly—That paradise of paradox—We once knew so completely;You see it? 'Tis the same, I swear,Which stood, that chill September,Beside your aunt Lavinia's chairThe year when ... You remember?
Look, Laura, look! You must recallThis florid "Fairy's Bower,"This wonderful Swiss waterfall,And this old "Leaning Tower;"And here's the "Maiden of Cashmere,"And here is Bewick's "Starling,"And here the dandy cuirassierYou thought was "such a Darling!"
Your poor dear Aunt! you know her way,She used to say this figureReminded her of Count D'Orsay"In all his youthful vigour;"And here's the "cot beside the hill"We chose for habitation,The day that ... But I doubt if stillYou'd like the situation!
Too damp—by far! She little knew,Your guileless Aunt Lavinia,Those evenings when she slumbered through"The Prince of Abyssinia,"That there were two beside her chairWho both had quite decidedTo see things in a rosier airThan Rasselas provided!
Ah! men wore stocks in Britain's land,And maids short waists and tippets,When this old-fashioned screen was plannedFrom hoarded scraps and snippets;But more—far more, I think—to meThan those who first designed it,Is this—in Eighteen Seventy-ThreeI kissed you first behind it.
All night through Daisy's sleep, it seems,Have ceaseless "rat-tats" thundered;All night through Daisy's rosy dreamsHave devious Postmen blundered,Delivering letters round her bed,—Mysterious missives, sealed with red,And franked of course with due Queen's-head,—While Daisy lay and wondered.But now, when chirping birds begin,And Day puts off the Quaker,—When Cook renews her morning din,And rates the cheerful baker,—She dreams her dream no dream at all,For, just as pigeons come at call,Winged letters flutter down, and fallAround her head, and wake her.Yes, there they are! With quirk and twist,And fraudful arts directed;(Save Grandpapa's dear stiff old "fist,"Through all disguise detected;)But which is his,—her young Lothair's,—Who wooed her on the school-room stairsWith three sweet cakes, and two ripe pears,In one neat pile collected?'Tis there, be sure. Though truth to speak,(If truth may be permitted),I doubt that young "gift-bearing Greek"Is scarce for fealty fitted;For has he not (I grieve to say),To two loves more, on this same day,In just this same emblazoned way,His transient vows transmitted?Hemaybe true. Yet, Daisy dear,That even youth grows colderYou'll find is no new thing, I fear;And when you're somewhat older,You'll read of one Dardanian boyWho "wooed with gifts" a maiden coy,—Then took the morning train to Troy,In spite of all he'd told her.But wait. Your time will come. And then,Obliging Fates, please send herThe bravest thing you have in men,Sound-hearted, strong, and tender;—The kind of man, dear Fates, you know,That feels how shyly Daisies grow,And what soft things they are, and soWill spare to spoil or mend her.
All night through Daisy's sleep, it seems,Have ceaseless "rat-tats" thundered;All night through Daisy's rosy dreamsHave devious Postmen blundered,Delivering letters round her bed,—Mysterious missives, sealed with red,And franked of course with due Queen's-head,—While Daisy lay and wondered.
But now, when chirping birds begin,And Day puts off the Quaker,—When Cook renews her morning din,And rates the cheerful baker,—She dreams her dream no dream at all,For, just as pigeons come at call,Winged letters flutter down, and fallAround her head, and wake her.
Yes, there they are! With quirk and twist,And fraudful arts directed;(Save Grandpapa's dear stiff old "fist,"Through all disguise detected;)But which is his,—her young Lothair's,—Who wooed her on the school-room stairsWith three sweet cakes, and two ripe pears,In one neat pile collected?
'Tis there, be sure. Though truth to speak,(If truth may be permitted),I doubt that young "gift-bearing Greek"Is scarce for fealty fitted;For has he not (I grieve to say),To two loves more, on this same day,In just this same emblazoned way,His transient vows transmitted?
Hemaybe true. Yet, Daisy dear,That even youth grows colderYou'll find is no new thing, I fear;And when you're somewhat older,You'll read of one Dardanian boyWho "wooed with gifts" a maiden coy,—Then took the morning train to Troy,In spite of all he'd told her.
But wait. Your time will come. And then,Obliging Fates, please send herThe bravest thing you have in men,Sound-hearted, strong, and tender;—The kind of man, dear Fates, you know,That feels how shyly Daisies grow,And what soft things they are, and soWill spare to spoil or mend her.
"The blue fly sung in the pane."—Tennyson.
"The blue fly sung in the pane."—Tennyson.
Toiling in Town now is "horrid,"(There is that woman again!)—June in the zenith is torrid,Thought gets dry in the brain.There is that woman again:"Strawberries! fourpence a pottle!"Thought gets dry in the brain;Ink gets dry in the bottle."Strawberries! fourpence a pottle!"Oh for the green of a lane!—Ink gets dry in the bottle;"Buzz" goes a fly in the pane!Oh for the green of a lane,Where one might lie and be lazy!"Buzz" goes a fly in the pane;Bluebottles drive me crazy!Where one might lie and be lazy,Careless of Town and all in it!—Bluebottles drive me crazy:I shall go mad in a minute!Careless of Town and all in it,With some one to soothe and to still you;—I shall go mad in a minute;Bluebottle, then I shall kill you!With some one to soothe and to still you,As only one's feminine kin do,—Bluebottle, then I shall kill you:There now! I've broken the window!As only one's feminine kin do,—Some muslin-clad Mabel or May!—There now! I've broken the window!Bluebottle's off and away!Some muslin-clad Mabel or May,To dash one with eau de Cologne;—Bluebottle's off and away;And why should I stay here alone!To dash one with eau de Cologne,All over one's eminent forehead;—And why should I stay here alone!Toiling in Town now is "horrid."
Toiling in Town now is "horrid,"(There is that woman again!)—June in the zenith is torrid,Thought gets dry in the brain.
There is that woman again:"Strawberries! fourpence a pottle!"Thought gets dry in the brain;Ink gets dry in the bottle.
"Strawberries! fourpence a pottle!"Oh for the green of a lane!—Ink gets dry in the bottle;"Buzz" goes a fly in the pane!
Oh for the green of a lane,Where one might lie and be lazy!"Buzz" goes a fly in the pane;Bluebottles drive me crazy!
Where one might lie and be lazy,Careless of Town and all in it!—Bluebottles drive me crazy:I shall go mad in a minute!
Careless of Town and all in it,With some one to soothe and to still you;—I shall go mad in a minute;Bluebottle, then I shall kill you!
With some one to soothe and to still you,As only one's feminine kin do,—Bluebottle, then I shall kill you:There now! I've broken the window!
As only one's feminine kin do,—Some muslin-clad Mabel or May!—There now! I've broken the window!Bluebottle's off and away!
Some muslin-clad Mabel or May,To dash one with eau de Cologne;—Bluebottle's off and away;And why should I stay here alone!
To dash one with eau de Cologne,All over one's eminent forehead;—And why should I stay here alone!Toiling in Town now is "horrid."
Frank(on the Lawn).Come to the Terrace, May,—the sun is low.May(in the House).Thanks, I prefer my Browning here instead.Frank.There are two peaches by the strawberry bed.May.They will be riper if we let them grow.Frank.Then the Park-aloe is in bloom, you know.May.Also, her Majesty Queen Anne is dead.Frank.But surely, May, your pony must be fed.May.And was, and is. I fed him hours ago.'Tis useless, Frank, you see I shall not stir.Frank.Still, I had something you would like to hear.May.No doubt some new frivolity of men.Frank.Nay,—'tis a thing the gentler sex deploresChiefly, I think....May(coming to the window).What is this secret, then?Frank(mysteriously).There are no eyes more beautiful than yours!
Frank(on the Lawn).
Come to the Terrace, May,—the sun is low.
May(in the House).
Thanks, I prefer my Browning here instead.
Frank.
There are two peaches by the strawberry bed.
May.
They will be riper if we let them grow.
Frank.
Then the Park-aloe is in bloom, you know.
May.
Also, her Majesty Queen Anne is dead.
Frank.
But surely, May, your pony must be fed.
May.
And was, and is. I fed him hours ago.'Tis useless, Frank, you see I shall not stir.
Frank.
Still, I had something you would like to hear.
May.
No doubt some new frivolity of men.
Frank.
Nay,—'tis a thing the gentler sex deploresChiefly, I think....
May(coming to the window).
What is this secret, then?
Frank(mysteriously).
There are no eyes more beautiful than yours!
"On a l'âge de son cœur."—A. d'Houdetot.
"On a l'âge de son cœur."—A. d'Houdetot.
A little more toward the light;—Me miserable! Here's one that's white;And one that's turning;Adieu to song and "salad days;"My Muse, let's go at once to Jay's,And order mourning.We must reform our rhymes, my Dear,—Renounce the gay for the severe,—Be grave, not witty;We have, no more, the right to findThat Pyrrha's hair is neatly twined,—That Chloe's pretty.Young Love's for us a farce that's played;Light canzonet and serenadeNo more may tempt us;Gray hairs but ill accord with dreams;From aught but sour didactic themesOur years exempt us.Indeed! you really fancy so?You think for one white streak we growAt once satiric?A fiddlestick! Each hair's a stringTo which our ancient Muse shall singA younger lyric.The heart's still sound. Shall "cakes and ale"Grow rare to youth becausewerailAt schoolboy dishes?Perish the thought! 'Tis ours to chantWhen neither Time nor Tide can grantBelief with wishes.
A little more toward the light;—Me miserable! Here's one that's white;And one that's turning;Adieu to song and "salad days;"My Muse, let's go at once to Jay's,And order mourning.
We must reform our rhymes, my Dear,—Renounce the gay for the severe,—Be grave, not witty;We have, no more, the right to findThat Pyrrha's hair is neatly twined,—That Chloe's pretty.
Young Love's for us a farce that's played;Light canzonet and serenadeNo more may tempt us;Gray hairs but ill accord with dreams;From aught but sour didactic themesOur years exempt us.
Indeed! you really fancy so?You think for one white streak we growAt once satiric?A fiddlestick! Each hair's a stringTo which our ancient Muse shall singA younger lyric.
The heart's still sound. Shall "cakes and ale"Grow rare to youth becausewerailAt schoolboy dishes?Perish the thought! 'Tis ours to chantWhen neither Time nor Tide can grantBelief with wishes.
I drink of the Ale of Southwark, I drink of the Ale of Chepe;At noon I dream on the settle; at night I cannot sleep;For my love, my love it groweth; I waste me all the day;And when I see sweet Alison, I know not what to say.The sparrow when he spieth his Dear upon the tree,He beateth-to his little wing; he chirketh lustily;But when I see sweet Alison, the words begin to fail;I wot that I shall die of Love—an I die not of Ale.Her lips are like the muscadel; her brows are black as ink;Her eyes are bright as beryl stones that in the tankard wink;But when she sees me coming, she shrilleth out—"Te-Hee!Fye on thy ruddy nose, Cousin, what lackest thou of me?""Fye on thy ruddy nose, Cousin! Why be thine eyes so small?Why go thy legs tap-lappetty like men that fear to fall?Why is thy leathern doublet besmeared with stain and spot?Go to. Thou art no man (she saith)—thou art a Pottle-pot!""No man," i'faith. "No man!" she saith. And "Pottle-pot" thereto!"Thou sleepest like our dog all day; thou drink'st as fishes do."I would that I were Tibb the dog; he wags at her his tail;Or would that I were fish, in truth, and all the sea were Ale!So I drink of the Ale of Southwark, I drink of the Ale of Chepe;All day I dream in the sunlight; I dream and eke I weep,But little lore of loving can any flagon teach,For when my tongue is looséd most, then most I lose my speech.
I drink of the Ale of Southwark, I drink of the Ale of Chepe;At noon I dream on the settle; at night I cannot sleep;For my love, my love it groweth; I waste me all the day;And when I see sweet Alison, I know not what to say.
The sparrow when he spieth his Dear upon the tree,He beateth-to his little wing; he chirketh lustily;But when I see sweet Alison, the words begin to fail;I wot that I shall die of Love—an I die not of Ale.
Her lips are like the muscadel; her brows are black as ink;Her eyes are bright as beryl stones that in the tankard wink;But when she sees me coming, she shrilleth out—"Te-Hee!Fye on thy ruddy nose, Cousin, what lackest thou of me?"
"Fye on thy ruddy nose, Cousin! Why be thine eyes so small?Why go thy legs tap-lappetty like men that fear to fall?Why is thy leathern doublet besmeared with stain and spot?Go to. Thou art no man (she saith)—thou art a Pottle-pot!"
"No man," i'faith. "No man!" she saith. And "Pottle-pot" thereto!"Thou sleepest like our dog all day; thou drink'st as fishes do."I would that I were Tibb the dog; he wags at her his tail;Or would that I were fish, in truth, and all the sea were Ale!
So I drink of the Ale of Southwark, I drink of the Ale of Chepe;All day I dream in the sunlight; I dream and eke I weep,But little lore of loving can any flagon teach,For when my tongue is looséd most, then most I lose my speech.
He.Whither away, fair Neat-herdess?She.Shepherd, I go to tend my kine.He.Stay thou, and watch this flock of mine.She.With thee? Nay, that were idleness.He.Thy kine will pasture none the less.She.Not so: they wait me and my sign.He.I'll pipe to thee beneath the pine.She.Thy pipe will soothe not their distress.He.Dost thou not hear beside the springHow the gay birds are carolling?She.I hear them. But it may not be.He.Farewell then, Sweetheart! Farewell now.She.Shepherd, farewell——Where goest thou?He.I go ... to tend thy kine for thee!
He.Whither away, fair Neat-herdess?She.Shepherd, I go to tend my kine.He.Stay thou, and watch this flock of mine.She.With thee? Nay, that were idleness.He.Thy kine will pasture none the less.She.Not so: they wait me and my sign.He.I'll pipe to thee beneath the pine.She.Thy pipe will soothe not their distress.He.Dost thou not hear beside the springHow the gay birds are carolling?She.I hear them. But it may not be.He.Farewell then, Sweetheart! Farewell now.She.Shepherd, farewell——Where goest thou?He.I go ... to tend thy kine for thee!
To the Burden of "Rogues All."
To the Burden of "Rogues All."
Come hither ye gallants, come hither ye maids,To the trim gravelled walks, to the shady arcades;Come hither, come hither, the nightingales call;—SingTantarara,—Vauxhall! Vauxhall!Come hither, ye cits, from your Lothbury hives!Come hither, ye husbands, and look to your wives!For the sparks are as thick as the leaves in the Mall;—SingTantarara,—Vauxhall! Vauxhall!Here the 'prentice from Aldgate may ogle a Toast!Here his Worship must elbow the Knight of the Post!For the wicket is free to the great and the small;—SingTantarara,—Vauxhall! Vauxhall!Here Betty may flaunt in her mistress's sack!Here Trip wear his master's brocade on his back!Here a hussy may ride, and a rogue take the wall;—SingTantarara,—Vauxhall! Vauxhall!Here Beauty may grant, and here Valour may ask!Here the plainest may pass for a Belle (in a mask)!Here a domino covers the short and the tall;—SingTantarara,—Vauxhall! Vauxhall!'Tis a type of the world, with its drums and its din;'Tis a type of the world, for when once you come inYou are loth to go out; like the world 'tis a ball;—SingTantarara,—Vauxhall! Vauxhall!
Come hither ye gallants, come hither ye maids,To the trim gravelled walks, to the shady arcades;Come hither, come hither, the nightingales call;—SingTantarara,—Vauxhall! Vauxhall!
Come hither, ye cits, from your Lothbury hives!Come hither, ye husbands, and look to your wives!For the sparks are as thick as the leaves in the Mall;—SingTantarara,—Vauxhall! Vauxhall!
Here the 'prentice from Aldgate may ogle a Toast!Here his Worship must elbow the Knight of the Post!For the wicket is free to the great and the small;—SingTantarara,—Vauxhall! Vauxhall!
Here Betty may flaunt in her mistress's sack!Here Trip wear his master's brocade on his back!Here a hussy may ride, and a rogue take the wall;—SingTantarara,—Vauxhall! Vauxhall!
Here Beauty may grant, and here Valour may ask!Here the plainest may pass for a Belle (in a mask)!Here a domino covers the short and the tall;—SingTantarara,—Vauxhall! Vauxhall!
'Tis a type of the world, with its drums and its din;'Tis a type of the world, for when once you come inYou are loth to go out; like the world 'tis a ball;—SingTantarara,—Vauxhall! Vauxhall!
(XVIII. CENT.)
When first inCelia'sear I pouredA yet unpractised pray'r,My trembling tongue sincere ignoredThe aids of "sweet" and "fair."I only said, as in me lay,I'd strive her "worth" to reach;She frowned, and turned her eyes away,—So much for truth in speech.ThenDeliacame. I changed my plan;I praised her to her face;I praised her features,—praised her fan,Her lap-dog and her lace;I swore that not till Time were deadMy passion should decay;She, smiling, gave her hand, and said'Twill last then—for aDay.
When first inCelia'sear I pouredA yet unpractised pray'r,My trembling tongue sincere ignoredThe aids of "sweet" and "fair."I only said, as in me lay,I'd strive her "worth" to reach;She frowned, and turned her eyes away,—So much for truth in speech.
ThenDeliacame. I changed my plan;I praised her to her face;I praised her features,—praised her fan,Her lap-dog and her lace;I swore that not till Time were deadMy passion should decay;She, smiling, gave her hand, and said'Twill last then—for aDay.
(After Anthony Hamilton.)
To G. S.
She that I love is neither brown nor fair,And, in a word her worth to say,There is no maid that with her mayCompare.Yet of her charms the count is clear, I ween:There are five hundred things we see,And then five hundred too there be,Not seen.Her wit, her wisdom are direct from Heaven:But the sweet Graces from their storeA thousand finer touches moreHave given.Her cheek's warm dye what painter's brush could note?Beside her Flora would be wanAnd white as whiteness of the swanHer throat.Her supple waist, her arm from Venus came,Hebe her nose and lip confess,And, looking in her eyes, you guessHer name.
She that I love is neither brown nor fair,And, in a word her worth to say,There is no maid that with her mayCompare.
Yet of her charms the count is clear, I ween:There are five hundred things we see,And then five hundred too there be,Not seen.
Her wit, her wisdom are direct from Heaven:But the sweet Graces from their storeA thousand finer touches moreHave given.
Her cheek's warm dye what painter's brush could note?Beside her Flora would be wanAnd white as whiteness of the swanHer throat.
Her supple waist, her arm from Venus came,Hebe her nose and lip confess,And, looking in her eyes, you guessHer name.
(Expanded from an Epigram of Piron.)
Stella, 'tis not your dainty head,Your artless look, I own;'Tis not your dear coquettish tread,Or this, or that, alone;Nor is it all your gifts combined;'Tis something in your face,—The untranslated, undefined,Uncertainty of grace,That taught the Boy on Ida's hillTo whom the meed was due;All three have equal charms—but stillThis one I give it to!
Stella, 'tis not your dainty head,Your artless look, I own;'Tis not your dear coquettish tread,Or this, or that, alone;
Nor is it all your gifts combined;'Tis something in your face,—The untranslated, undefined,Uncertainty of grace,
That taught the Boy on Ida's hillTo whom the meed was due;All three have equal charms—but stillThis one I give it to!
(HOR. III., 23.)
Incense, and flesh of swine, and this year's grain,At the new moon, with suppliant hands, bestow,O rustic Phidyle! So naught shall knowThy crops of blight, thy vine of Afric bane,And hale the nurslings of thy flock remainThrough the sick apple-tide. Fit victims grow'Twixt holm and oak upon the Algid snow,Or Alban grass, that with their necks must stainThe Pontiff's axe: to thee can scarce availThy modest gods with much slain to assail,Whom myrtle crowns and rosemary can please.Lay on the altar a hand pure of fault;More than rich gifts the Powers it shall appease,Though pious but with meal and crackling salt.
Incense, and flesh of swine, and this year's grain,At the new moon, with suppliant hands, bestow,O rustic Phidyle! So naught shall knowThy crops of blight, thy vine of Afric bane,And hale the nurslings of thy flock remainThrough the sick apple-tide. Fit victims grow'Twixt holm and oak upon the Algid snow,Or Alban grass, that with their necks must stainThe Pontiff's axe: to thee can scarce availThy modest gods with much slain to assail,Whom myrtle crowns and rosemary can please.Lay on the altar a hand pure of fault;More than rich gifts the Powers it shall appease,Though pious but with meal and crackling salt.
(HOR. EP. I., 20.)
For mart and street you seem to pineWith restless glances, Book of mine!Still craving on some stall to stand,Fresh pumiced from the binder's hand.You chafe at locks, and burn to quitYour modest haunt and audience fitFor hearers less discriminate.I reared you up for no such fate.Still, if youmustbe published, go;But mind, you can't come back, you know!"What have I done?" I hear you cry,And writhe beneath some critic's eye;"What did I want?"—when, scarce polite,They do but yawn, and roll you tight.And yet methinks, if I may guess(Putting aside your heartlessnessIn leaving me and this your home),You should find favour, too, at Rome.That is, they'll like you while you're young,When you are old, you'll pass amongThe Great Unwashed,—then thumbed and sped,Be fretted of slow moths, unread,Or to Ilerda you'll be sent,Or Utica, for banishment!And I, whose counsel you disdain,At that your lot shall laugh amain,Wryly, as he who, like a fool,Thrust o'er the cliff his restive mule.Nay! there is worse behind. In ageThey e'en may take your babbling pageIn some remotest "slum" to teachMere boys their rudiments of speech!But go. When on warm days you seeA chance of listeners, speak of me.Tell them I soared from low estate,A freedman's son, to higher fate(That is, make up to me in worthWhat you must take in point of birth);Then tell them that I won renownIn peace and war, and pleased the town;Paint me as early gray, and oneLittle of stature, fond of sun,Quick-tempered, too,—but nothing more.Add (if they ask) I'm forty-four,Or was, the year that over usBoth Lollius ruled and Lepidus.
For mart and street you seem to pineWith restless glances, Book of mine!Still craving on some stall to stand,Fresh pumiced from the binder's hand.You chafe at locks, and burn to quitYour modest haunt and audience fitFor hearers less discriminate.I reared you up for no such fate.Still, if youmustbe published, go;But mind, you can't come back, you know!
"What have I done?" I hear you cry,And writhe beneath some critic's eye;"What did I want?"—when, scarce polite,They do but yawn, and roll you tight.And yet methinks, if I may guess(Putting aside your heartlessnessIn leaving me and this your home),You should find favour, too, at Rome.That is, they'll like you while you're young,When you are old, you'll pass amongThe Great Unwashed,—then thumbed and sped,Be fretted of slow moths, unread,Or to Ilerda you'll be sent,Or Utica, for banishment!And I, whose counsel you disdain,At that your lot shall laugh amain,Wryly, as he who, like a fool,Thrust o'er the cliff his restive mule.Nay! there is worse behind. In ageThey e'en may take your babbling pageIn some remotest "slum" to teachMere boys their rudiments of speech!
But go. When on warm days you seeA chance of listeners, speak of me.Tell them I soared from low estate,A freedman's son, to higher fate(That is, make up to me in worthWhat you must take in point of birth);Then tell them that I won renownIn peace and war, and pleased the town;Paint me as early gray, and oneLittle of stature, fond of sun,Quick-tempered, too,—but nothing more.Add (if they ask) I'm forty-four,Or was, the year that over usBoth Lollius ruled and Lepidus.
Many days have come and gone,Many suns have set and shone,Herrick, since thou sang'st of Wake,Morris-dance and Barley-break;—Many men have ceased from care,Many maidens have been fair,Since thou sang'st ofJulia'seyes,Julia'slawns and tiffanies;—Many things are past: but thou,Golden-Mouth, art singing now,Singing clearly as of old,And thy numbers are of gold!
Many days have come and gone,Many suns have set and shone,Herrick, since thou sang'st of Wake,Morris-dance and Barley-break;—Many men have ceased from care,Many maidens have been fair,Since thou sang'st ofJulia'seyes,Julia'slawns and tiffanies;—Many things are past: but thou,Golden-Mouth, art singing now,Singing clearly as of old,And thy numbers are of gold!
About the ending of the Ramadán,When leanest grows the famished Mussulman,A haggard ne'er-do-well, Mahmoud by name,At the tenth hour to CaliphOmarcame."Lord of the Faithful (quoth he), at the lastThe long moon waneth, and men cease to fast;Hard then, O hard! the lot of him must be,Who spares to eat ... but not for piety!""Hast thou no calling, Friend?"—the Caliph said."Sir, I make verses for my daily bread.""Verse!"—answeredOmar. "'Tis a dish, indeed,Whereof but scantily a man may feed.Go. Learn the Tenter's or the Potter's Art,—Verse is a drug not sold in any mart."I know not if that hungry Mahmoud died;But this I know—he must have versified,For, with his race, from better still to worse,The plague of writing follows like a curse;And men will scribble though they fail to dine,Which is the Moral of more Books than mine.
About the ending of the Ramadán,When leanest grows the famished Mussulman,A haggard ne'er-do-well, Mahmoud by name,At the tenth hour to CaliphOmarcame."Lord of the Faithful (quoth he), at the lastThe long moon waneth, and men cease to fast;Hard then, O hard! the lot of him must be,Who spares to eat ... but not for piety!""Hast thou no calling, Friend?"—the Caliph said."Sir, I make verses for my daily bread.""Verse!"—answeredOmar. "'Tis a dish, indeed,Whereof but scantily a man may feed.Go. Learn the Tenter's or the Potter's Art,—Verse is a drug not sold in any mart."
I know not if that hungry Mahmoud died;But this I know—he must have versified,For, with his race, from better still to worse,The plague of writing follows like a curse;And men will scribble though they fail to dine,Which is the Moral of more Books than mine.
(WITH ORIGINAL DRAWINGS BY G. H. BOUGHTON.)
Shade of Herrick, Muse of Locker,Help me sing of Knickerbocker!Boughton, had you bid me chantHymns to Peter Stuyvesant!Had you bid me sing of Wouter,(He! the Onion-head! the Doubter!)But to rhyme of this one,—Mocker!Who shall rhyme to Knickerbocker?Nay, but where my hand must failThere the more shall yours avail;You shall take your brush and paintAll that ring of figures quaint,—All those Rip-van-Winkle jokers,—All those solid-looking smokers,Pulling at their pipes of amberIn the dark-beamed Council-Chamber.Only art like yours can touchShapes so dignified ... and Dutch;Only art like yours can showHow the pine-logs gleam and glow,Till the fire-light laughs and passes'Twixt the tankards and the glasses,Touching with responsive gracesAll those grave Batavian faces,—Making bland and beatificAll that session soporific.Then I come and write beneath,Boughton, he deserves the wreath;He can give us form and hue—This the Muse can never do!
Shade of Herrick, Muse of Locker,Help me sing of Knickerbocker!
Boughton, had you bid me chantHymns to Peter Stuyvesant!Had you bid me sing of Wouter,(He! the Onion-head! the Doubter!)But to rhyme of this one,—Mocker!Who shall rhyme to Knickerbocker?
Nay, but where my hand must failThere the more shall yours avail;You shall take your brush and paintAll that ring of figures quaint,—All those Rip-van-Winkle jokers,—All those solid-looking smokers,Pulling at their pipes of amberIn the dark-beamed Council-Chamber.
Only art like yours can touchShapes so dignified ... and Dutch;Only art like yours can showHow the pine-logs gleam and glow,Till the fire-light laughs and passes'Twixt the tankards and the glasses,Touching with responsive gracesAll those grave Batavian faces,—Making bland and beatificAll that session soporific.
Then I come and write beneath,Boughton, he deserves the wreath;He can give us form and hue—This the Muse can never do!
(H. E. B.)
Among my best I put your Book,O Poet of the breeze and brook!(That breeze and brook which blows and fallsMore soft to those in city walls)Among my best: and keep it stillTill down the fair grass-girdled hill,Where slopes my garden-slip, there goesThe wandering wind that wakes the rose,And scares the cohort that exploreThe broad-faced sun-flower o'er and o'er,Or starts the restless bees that fretThe bindweed and the mignonette.Then I shall take your Book, and dreamI lie beside some haunted stream;And watch the crisping waves that pass,And watch the flicker in the grass;And wait—and wait—and wait to seeThe Nymph ... that never comes to me!
Among my best I put your Book,O Poet of the breeze and brook!(That breeze and brook which blows and fallsMore soft to those in city walls)Among my best: and keep it stillTill down the fair grass-girdled hill,Where slopes my garden-slip, there goesThe wandering wind that wakes the rose,And scares the cohort that exploreThe broad-faced sun-flower o'er and o'er,Or starts the restless bees that fretThe bindweed and the mignonette.
Then I shall take your Book, and dreamI lie beside some haunted stream;And watch the crisping waves that pass,And watch the flicker in the grass;And wait—and wait—and wait to seeThe Nymph ... that never comes to me!
(TO E. G., WITH A COLLECTION OF ESSAYS.)
When You and I have wandered beyond the reach of call,And all our Works immortal lie scattered on the Stall,It may be some new Reader, in that remoter age,Will find the present volume and listless turn the page.For him I speak these verses. And, Sir (I say to him),This Book you see before you,—this masterpiece of WhimOf Wisdom, Learning, Fancy (if you will, please, attend),—Was written by its Author, who gave it to his Friend.For they had worked together, been Comrades of the Pen;They had their points at issue, they differed now and then;But both loved Song and Letters, and each had close at heartThe hopes, the aspirations, the "dear delays" of Art.And much they talked of Measures, and more they talked of Style,Of Form and "lucid Order," of "labour of the File;"And he who wrote the writing, as sheet by sheet was penned(This all was long ago, Sir!), would read it to his Friend.They knew not, nor cared greatly, if they were spark or star;They knew to move is somewhat, although the goal be far;And larger light or lesser, this thing at least is clear,They served the Muses truly,—their service was sincere.This tattered page you see, Sir, this page alone remains(Yes,—fourpence is the lowest!) of all those pleasant pains;And as for him that read it, and as for him that wrote,No Golden Book enrolls them among its "Names of Note."And yet they had their office. Though they to-day are passed,They marched in that procession where is no first or last;Though cold is now their hoping, though they no more aspire,They too had once their ardour—they handed on the fire.
When You and I have wandered beyond the reach of call,And all our Works immortal lie scattered on the Stall,It may be some new Reader, in that remoter age,Will find the present volume and listless turn the page.
For him I speak these verses. And, Sir (I say to him),This Book you see before you,—this masterpiece of WhimOf Wisdom, Learning, Fancy (if you will, please, attend),—Was written by its Author, who gave it to his Friend.
For they had worked together, been Comrades of the Pen;They had their points at issue, they differed now and then;But both loved Song and Letters, and each had close at heartThe hopes, the aspirations, the "dear delays" of Art.
And much they talked of Measures, and more they talked of Style,Of Form and "lucid Order," of "labour of the File;"And he who wrote the writing, as sheet by sheet was penned(This all was long ago, Sir!), would read it to his Friend.
They knew not, nor cared greatly, if they were spark or star;They knew to move is somewhat, although the goal be far;And larger light or lesser, this thing at least is clear,They served the Muses truly,—their service was sincere.
This tattered page you see, Sir, this page alone remains(Yes,—fourpence is the lowest!) of all those pleasant pains;And as for him that read it, and as for him that wrote,No Golden Book enrolls them among its "Names of Note."
And yet they had their office. Though they to-day are passed,They marched in that procession where is no first or last;Though cold is now their hoping, though they no more aspire,They too had once their ardour—they handed on the fire.