The Project Gutenberg eBook ofFly Leaves

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofFly LeavesThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Fly LeavesAuthor: Charles Stuart CalverleyRelease date: December 1, 2003 [eBook #4739]Most recently updated: November 4, 2014Language: EnglishCredits: Transcribed from the 1884 Deighton, Bell, and Co. edition by David Price*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FLY LEAVES ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Fly LeavesAuthor: Charles Stuart CalverleyRelease date: December 1, 2003 [eBook #4739]Most recently updated: November 4, 2014Language: EnglishCredits: Transcribed from the 1884 Deighton, Bell, and Co. edition by David Price

Title: Fly Leaves

Author: Charles Stuart Calverley

Release date: December 1, 2003 [eBook #4739]Most recently updated: November 4, 2014

Language: English

Credits: Transcribed from the 1884 Deighton, Bell, and Co. edition by David Price

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FLY LEAVES ***

Transcribed from the 1884 Deighton, Bell, and Co. edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org

C. S. CALVERLEY,AUTHOR OF “VERSES AND TRANSLATIONS.”

TENTH THOUSAND.

CAMBRIDGE:DEIGHTON, BELL, AND CO.LONDON: GEORGE BELL AND SONS.1884

CHISWICK PRESS:—C. WHITTINGHAM AND CO., TOOKS COURT,CHANCERY LANE.

Page

Morning

Evening

Shelter

In the Gloaming

The Palace

Peace

The Arab

Lines on Hearing the Organ

Changed

First Love

Wanderers

Sad Memories

Companions

Ballad

Precious Stones

Disaster

Contentment

The Schoolmaster

Arcades Ambo

Waiting

Play

Love

Thoughts at a Railway Station

On the Brink

“Forever”

Under the Trees

Motherhood

Mystery

Flight

On the Beach

104

Lovers, and a Reflection

108

The Cock and the Bull

113

An Examination Paper

121

’Tisthe hour when white-horsed DayChases Night her mares away;When the Gates of Dawn (they say)Phœbus opes:And I gather that the QueenMay be uniformly seen,Should the weather be serene,On the slopes.

When the ploughman, as he goesLeathern-gaitered o’er the snows,From his hat and from his noseKnocks the ice;And the panes are frosted o’er,And the lawn is crisp and hoar,As has been observed beforeOnce or twice.

When arrayed in breastplate redSings the robin, for his bread,On the elmtree that hath shedEvery leaf;While, within, the frost benumbsThe still sleepy schoolboy’s thumbs,And in consequence his sumsCome to grief.

But when breakfast-time hath come,And he’s crunching crust and crumb,He’ll no longer look a glumLittle dunce;But be brisk as bees that settleOn a summer rose’s petal:Wherefore, Polly, put the kettleOn at once.

Kate! if e’er thy light foot lingersOn the lawn, when up the fellsSteals the Dark, and fairy fingersClose unseen the pimpernels:When, his thighs with sweetness laden,From the meadow comes the bee,And the lover and the maidenStand beneath the trysting tree:—

Lingers on, till stars unnumber’dTremble in the breeze-swept tarn,And the bat that all day slumber’dFlits about the lonely barn;And the shapes that shrink from garishNoon are peopling cairn and lea;And thy sire is almost bearishIf kept waiting for his tea:—

And the screech-owl scares the peasantAs he skirts some churchyard drear;And the goblins whisper pleasantTales in Miss Rossetti’s ear;Importuning her in strangest,Sweetest tones to buy their fruits:—O be careful that thou changest,On returning home, thy boots.

Bythe wide lake’s margin I mark’d her lie—The wide, weird lake where the alders sigh—A young fair thing, with a shy, soft eye;And I deem’d that her thoughts had flownTo her home, and her brethren, and sisters dear,As she lay there watching the dark, deep mere,All motionless, all alone.

Then I heard a noise, as of men and boys,And a boisterous troop drew nigh.Whither now will retreat those fairy feet?Where hide till the storm pass by?One glance—the wild glance of a hunted thing—She cast behind her; she gave one spring;And there follow’d a splash and a broadening ringOn the lake where the alders sigh.

She had gone from the ken of ungentle men!Yet scarce did I mourn for that;For I knew she was safe in her own home then,And, the danger past, would appear again,For she was a water-rat.

Inthe Gloaming to be roaming, where the crested waves are foaming,And the shy mermaidens combing locks that ripple to their feet;When the Gloaming is, I never made the ghost of an endeavourTo discover—but whatever were the hour, it would be sweet.

“To their feet,” I say, for Leech’s sketch indisputably teachesThat the mermaids of our beaches do not end in ugly tails,Nor have homes among the corals; but are shod with neat balmorals,An arrangement no one quarrels with, as many might with scales.

Sweet to roam beneath a shady cliff, of course with some young lady,Lalage, Neæra, Haidee, or Elaine, or Mary Ann:Love, you dear delusive dream, you! Very sweet your victims deem you,When, heard only by the seamew, they talk all the stuff one can.

Sweet to haste, a licensed lover, to Miss Pinkerton the glover,Having managed to discover what is dear Neæra’s “size”:P’raps to touch that wrist so slender, as your tiny gift you tender,And to read you’re no offender, in those laughing hazel eyes.

Then to hear her call you “Harry,” when she makes you fetch and carry—O young men about to marry, what a blessed thing it is!To be photograph’d—together—cased in pretty Russia leather—Hear her gravely doubting whether they have spoilt your honest phiz!

Then to bring your plighted fair one first a ring—a rich and rare one—Next a bracelet, if she’ll wear one, and a heap of things beside;And serenely bending o’er her, to inquire if it would bore herTo say when her own adorer may aspire to call her bride!

Then, the days of courtship over, with your WIFE to start for DoverOr Dieppe—and live in clover evermore, whate’er befalls:For I’ve read in many a novel that, unless they’ve souls that grovel,Folkspreferin fact a hovel to your dreary marble halls:

To sit, happy married lovers; Phillis trifling with a plover’sEgg, while Corydon uncovers with a grace the Sally Lunn,Or dissects the lucky pheasant—that, I think, were passing pleasant;As I sit alone at present, dreaming darkly of a Dun.

Theycome, they come, with fife and drum,And gleaming pikes and glancing banners:Though the eyes flash, the lips are dumb;To talk in rank would not be manners.Onward they stride, as Britons can;The ladies following in the Van.

Who, who be these that tramp in threesThrough sumptuous Piccadilly, throughThe roaring Strand, and stand at easeAt last ’neath shadowy Waterloo?Some gallant Guild, I ween, are they;Taking their annual holiday.

To catch the destin’d train—to payTheir willing fares, and plunge within it—Is, as in old Romaunt they say,With them the work of half-a-minute.Then off they’re whirl’d, with songs and shouting,To cedared Sydenham for their outing.

I mark’d them light, with faces brightAs pansies or a new coin’d florin,And up the sunless stair take flight,Close-pack’d as rabbits in a warren.Honour the Brave, who in that stressStill trod not upon Beauty’s dress!

Kerchief in hand I saw them stand;In every kerchief lurk’d a lunch;When they unfurl’d them, it was grandTo watch bronzed men and maidens crunchThe sounding celery-stick, or ramThe knife into the blushing ham.

Dash’d the bold fork through pies of pork;O’er hard-boil’d eggs the saltspoon shook;Leapt from its lair the playful cork:Yet some there were, to whom the brookSeem’d sweetest beverage, and for meatThey chose the red root of the beet.

Then many a song, some rather long,Came quivering up from girlish throats;And one young man he came out strong,And gave “The Wolf” without his notes.While they who knew not song or balladStill munch’d, approvingly, their salad.

But ah! what bard could sing how hard,The artless banquet o’er, they ranDown the soft slope with daisies starr’dAnd kingcups! onward, maid with man,They flew, to scale the breezy swing,Or court frank kisses in the ring.

Such are the sylvan scenes that thrillThis heart! The lawns, the happy shade,Where matrons, whom the sunbeams grill,Stir with slow spoon their lemonade;And maidens flirt (no extra charge)In comfort at the fountain’s marge!

Others may praise the “grand displays”Where “fiery arch,” “cascade,” and “comet,”Set the whole garden in a “blaze”!Far, at such times, may I be from it;Though then the public may be “lostIn wonder” at a trifling cost.

Fann’d by the breeze, to puff at easeMy faithful pipe is all I crave:And if folks rave about the “treesLit up by fireworks,” let them rave.Your monster fêtes, I like not these;Though they bring grist to the lessees.

Hestood, a worn-out City clerk—Who’d toil’d, and seen no holiday,For forty years from dawn to dark—Alone beside Caermarthen Bay.

He felt the salt spray on his lips;Heard children’s voices on the sands;Up the sun’s path he saw the shipsSail on and on to other lands;

And laugh’d aloud. Each sight and soundTo him was joy too deep for tears;He sat him on the beach, and boundA blue bandana round his ears:

And thought how, posted near his door,His own green door on Camden Hill,Two bands at least, most likely more,Were mingling at their own sweet will

Verdi with Vance. And at the thoughtHe laugh’d again, and softly drewThat Morning Herald that he’d boughtForth from his breast, and read it through.

On, on, my brown Arab, away, away!Thou hast trotted o’er many a mile to-day,And I trow right meagre hath been thy fareSince they roused thee at dawn from thy straw-piled lair,To tread with those echoless unshod feetYon weltering flats in the noontide heat,Where no palmtree proffers a kindly shadeAnd the eye never rests on a cool grass blade;And lank is thy flank, and thy frequent coughOh! it goes to my heart—but away, friend, off!

And yet, ah! what sculptor who saw thee stand,As thou standest now, on thy Native Strand,With the wild wind ruffling thine uncomb’d hair,And thy nostril upturn’d to the od’rous air,Would not woo thee to pause till his skill might traceAt leisure the lines of that eager face;The collarless neck and the coal-black pawsAnd the bit grasp’d tight in the massive jaws;The delicate curve of the legs, that seemToo slight for their burden—and, O, the gleamOf that eye, so sombre and yet so gay!Still away, my lithe Arab, once more away!

Nay, tempt me not, Arab, again to stay;Since I crave neither Echo nor Fun to-day.For thyhandis not Echoless—there they areFun, Glowworm, and Echo, and Evening Star:And thou hintest withal that thou fain would’st shine,As I con them, these bulgy old boots of mine.But I shrink from thee, Arab! Thou eat’st eel-pie,Thou evermore hast at least one black eye;There is brass on thy brow, and thy swarthy huesAre due not to nature but handling shoes;And the hit in thy mouth, I regret to see,Is a bit of tobacco-pipe—Flee, child, flee!

Grinder, who serenely grindestAt my door the Hundredth Psalm,Till thou ultimately findestPence in thy unwashen palm:

Grinder, jocund-hearted Grinder,Near whom Barbary’s nimble son,Poised with skill upon his hinderPaws, accepts the proffered bun:

Dearly do I love thy grinding;Joy to meet thee on thy roadWhere thou prowlest through the blindingDust with that stupendous load,

’Neath the baleful star of Sirius,When the postmen slowlier jog,And the ox becomes delirious,And the muzzle decks the dog.

Tell me by what art thou bindestOn thy feet those ancient shoon:Tell me, Grinder, if thou grindestAlways, always out of tune.

Tell me if, as thou art bucklingOn thy straps with eager claws,Thou forecastest, inly chuckling,All the rage that thou wilt cause.

Tell me if at all thou mindestWhen folks flee, as if on wings,From thee as at ease thou grindest:Tell me fifty thousand things.

Grinder, gentle-hearted Grinder!Ruffians who led evil lives,Soothed by thy sweet strains, are kinderTo their bullocks and their wives:

Children, when they see thy suppleForm approach, are out like shots;Half-a-bar sets several coupleWaltzing in convenient spots;

Not with clumsy Jacks or Georges:Unprofaned by grasp of manMaidens speed those simple orgies,Betsey Jane with Betsey Ann.

As they love thee in St. Giles’sThou art loved in Grosvenor Square:None of those engaging smiles isUnreciprocated there.

Often, ere yet thou hast hammer’dThrough thy four delicious airs,Coins are flung thee by enamour’dHousemaids upon area stairs:

E’en the ambrosial-whisker’d flunkeyEyes thy boots and thine unkemptBeard and melancholy monkeyMore in pity than contempt.

Far from England, in the sunnySouth, where Anio leaps in foam,Thou wast rear’d, till lack of moneyDrew thee from thy vineclad home:

And thy mate, the sinewy Jocko,From Brazil or Afric came,Land of simoom and sirocco—And he seems extremely tame.

There he quaff’d the undefilèdSpring, or hung with apelike glee,By his teeth or tail or eyelid,To the slippery mango-tree:

There he woo’d and won a duskyBride, of instincts like his own;Talk’d of love till he was huskyIn a tongue to us unknown:

Side by side ’twas theirs to ravageThe potato ground, or cutDown the unsuspecting savageWith the well-aim’d cocoa-nut:—

Till the miscreant Stranger tore himScreaming from his blue-faced fair;And they flung strange raiment o’er him,Raiment which he could not bear:

Sever’d from the pure embracesOf his children and his spouse,He must ride fantastic racesMounted on reluctant sows:

But the heart of wistful JockoStill was with his ancient flameIn the nutgroves of Morocco;Or if not it’s all the same.

Grinder, winsome grinsome Grinder!They who see thee and whose soulMelts not at thy charms, are blinderThan a trebly-bandaged mole:

They to whom thy curt (yet clever)Talk, thy music and thine ape,Seem not to be joys for ever,Are but brutes in human shape.

’Tis not that thy mien is stately,’Tis not that thy tones are soft;’Tis not that I care so greatlyFor the same thing play’d so oft:

But I’ve heard mankind abuse thee;And perhaps it’s rather strange,But I thought that I would choose theeFor encomium, as a change.

Iknownot why my soul is rack’dWhy I ne’er smile as was my wont:I only know that, as a fact,I don’t.I used to roam o’er glen and gladeBuoyant and blithe as other folk:And not unfrequently I madeA joke.

A minstrel’s fire within me burn’d,I’d sing, as one whose heart must break,Lay upon lay: I nearly learn’dTo shake.All day I sang; of love, of fame,Of fights our fathers fought of yore,Until the thing almost becameA bore.

I cannot sing the old songs now!It is not that I deem them low;’Tis that I can’t remember howThey go.I could not range the hills till highAbove me stood the summer moon:And as to dancing, I could flyAs soon.

The sports, to which with boyish gleeI sprang erewhile, attract no more;Although I am but sixty-threeOr four.Nay, worse than that, I’ve seem’d of lateTo shrink from happy boyhood—boysHave grown so noisy, and I hateA noise.

They fright me, when the beech is green,By swarming up its stem for eggs:They drive their horrid hoops betweenMy legs:—It’s idle to repine, I know;I’ll tell you what I’ll do instead:I’ll drink my arrowroot, and goTo bed.

Omyearliest love, who, ere I number’dTen sweet summers, made my bosom thrill!Will a swallow—or a swift, or some bird—Fly to her and say, I love her still?

Say my life’s a desert drear and arid,To its one green spot I aye recur:Never, never—although three times married—Have I cared a jot for aught but her.

No, mine own! though early forced to leave you,Still my heart was there where first we met;In those “Lodgings with an ample sea-view,”Which were, forty years ago, “To Let.”

There I saw her first, our landlord’s oldestLittle daughter. On a thing so fairThou, O Sun,—who (so they say) beholdestEverything,—hast gazed, I tell thee, ne’er.

There she sat—so near me, yet remoterThan a star—a blue-eyed bashful imp:On her lap she held a happy bloater,’Twixt her lips a yet more happy shrimp.

And I loved her, and our troth we plightedOn the morrow by the shingly shore:In a fortnight to be disunitedBy a bitter fate for evermore.

O my own, my beautiful, my blue eyed!To be young once more, and bite my thumbAt the world and all its cares with you, I’dGive no inconsiderable sum.

Hand in hand we tramp’d the golden seaweed,Soon as o’er the gray cliff peep’d the dawn:Side by side, when came the hour for tea, we’dCrunch the mottled shrimp and hairy prawn:—

Has she wedded some gigantic shrimper,That sweet mite with whom I loved to play?Is she girt with babes that whine and whimper,That bright being who was always gay?

Yes—she has at least a dozen wee things!Yes—I see her darning corduroys,Scouring floors, and setting out the tea-things,For a howling herd of hungry boys,

In a home that reeks of tar and sperm-oil!But at intervals she thinks, I know,Of those days which we, afar from turmoil,Spent together forty years ago.

O my earliest love, still unforgotten,With your downcast eyes of dreamy blue!Never, somehow, could I seem to cottonTo another as I did to you!

Aso’er the hill we roam’d at will,My dog and I together,We mark’d a chaise, by two bright baysSlow-moved along the heather:

Two bays arch neck’d, with tails erectAnd gold upon their blinkers;And by their side an ass I spied;It was a travelling tinker’s.

The chaise went by, nor aught cared I;Such things are not in my way:I turn’d me to the tinker, whoWas loafing down a by-way:

I ask’d him where he lived—a stareWas all I got in answer,As on he trudged: I rightly judgedThe stare said, “Where I can, sir.”

I ask’d him if he’d take a whiffOf ’bacco; he acceded;He grew communicative too,(A pipe was all he needed,)Till of the tinker’s life, I think,I knew as much as he did.

“I loiter down by thorp and town;For any job I’m willing;Take here and there a dusty brown,And here and there a shilling.

“I deal in every ware in turn,I’ve rings for buddin’ SallyThat sparkle like those eyes of her’n;I’ve liquor for the valet.

“I steal from th’ parson’s strawberry-plots,I hide by th’ squire’s covers;I teach the sweet young housemaids what’sThe art of trapping lovers.

“The things I’ve done ’neath moon and starsHave got me into messes:I’ve seen the sky through prison bars.I’ve torn up prison dresses.

“I’ve sat, I’ve sigh’d, I’ve gloom’d, I’ve glancedWith envy at the swallowsThat through the window slid, and danced(Quite happy) round the gallows;

“But out again I come, and showMy face nor care a stiverFor trades are brisk and trades are slow,But mine goes on for ever.”

Thus on he prattled like a babbling brook.Then I, “The sun hath slipt behind the hill,And my aunt Vivian dines at half-past six.”So in all love we parted; I to the Hall,They to the village. It was noised next noonThat chickens had been miss’d at Syllabub Farm.

Theytell me I am beautiful: they praise my silken hair,My little feet that silently slip on from stair to stair:They praise my pretty trustful face and innocent grey eye;Fond hands caress me oftentimes, yet would that I might die!

Why was I born to be abhorr’d of man and bird and beast?The bulfinch marks me stealing by, and straight his song hath ceased;The shrewmouse eyes me shudderingly, then flees; and, worse than that,The housedog he flees after me—why was I born a cat?

Men prize the heartless hound who quits dry-eyed his native land;Who wags a mercenary tail and licks a tyrant hand.The leal true cat they prize not, that if e’er compell’d to roamStill flies, when let out of the bag, precipitately home.

They call me cruel. Do I know if mouse or songbird feels?I only know they make me light and salutary meals:And if, as ’tis my nature to, ere I devour I tease ’em,Why should a low-bred gardener’s boy pursue me with a besom?

Should china fall or chandeliers, or anything but stocks—Nay stocks, when they’re in flowerpots—the cat expects hard knocks:Should ever anything be missed—milk, coals, umbrellas, brandy—The cat’s pitch’d into with a boot or any thing that’s handy.

“I remember, I remember,” how one night I “fleeted by,”And gain’d the blessed tiles and gazed into the cold clear sky.“I remember, I remember, how my little lovers came;”And there, beneath the crescent moon, play’d many a little game.

They fought—by good St. Catharine, ’twas a fearsome sight to seeThe coal-black crest, the glowering orbs, of one gigantic He.Like bow by some tall bowman bent at Hastings or Poictiers,His huge back curved, till none observed a vestige of his ears:

He stood, an ebon crescent, flouting that ivory moon;Then raised the pibroch of his race, the Song without a Tune;Gleam’d his white teeth, his mammoth tail waved darkly to and fro,As with one complex yell he burst, all claws, upon the foe.

It thrills me now, that final Miaow—that weird unearthly din:Lone maidens heard it far away, and leap’d out of their skin.A potboy from his den o’erhead peep’d with a scared wan face;Then sent a random brickbat down, which knock’d me into space.

Nine days I fell, or thereabouts: and, had we not nine lives,I wis I ne’er had seen again thy sausage-shop, St. Ives!Had I, as some cats have, nine tails, how gladly I would lickThe hand, and person generally, of him who heaved that brick!

For me they fill the milkbowl up, and cull the choice sardine:But ah! I nevermore shall be the cat I once have been!The memories of that fatal night they haunt me even now:In dreams I see that rampant He, and tremble at that Miaow.

Iknownot of what we ponder’dOr made pretty pretence to talk,As, her hand within mine, we wander’dTow’rd the pool by the limetree walk,While the dew fell in showers from the passion flowersAnd the blush-rose bent on her stalk.

I cannot recall her figure:Was it regal as Juno’s own?Or only a trifle biggerThan the elves who surround the throneOf the Faëry Queen, and are seen, I ween,By mortals in dreams alone?

What her eyes were like, I know not:Perhaps they were blurr’d with tears;And perhaps in your skies there glow not(On the contrary) clearer spheres.No! as to her eyes I am just as wiseAs you or the cat, my dears.

Her teeth, I presume, were “pearly”:But which was she, brunette or blonde?Her hair, was it quaintly curly,Or as straight as a beadle’s wand?That I fail’d to remark;—it was rather darkAnd shadowy round the pond.

Then the hand that reposed so snuglyIn mine—was it plump or spare?Was the countenance fair or ugly?Nay, children, you have me there!Myeyes were p’raps blurr’d; and besides I’d heardThat it’s horribly rude to stare.

And I—was I brusque and surly?Or oppressively bland and fond?Was I partial to rising early?Or why did we twain abscond,All breakfastless too, from the public viewTo prowl by a misty pond?

What pass’d, what was felt or spoken—Whether anything pass’d at all—And whether the heart was brokenThat beat under that shelt’ring shawl—(If shawl she had on, which I doubt)—has gone,Yes, gone from me past recall.

Was I haply the lady’s suitor?Or her uncle? I can’t make out—Ask your governess, dears, or tutor.For myself, I’m in hopeless doubtAs to why we were there, who on earth we were,And what this is all about.

Theauld wife sat at her ivied door,(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)A thing she had frequently done before;And her spectacles lay on her apron’d knees.

The piper he piped on the hill-top high,(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)Till the cow said “I die,” and the goose ask’d “Why?”And the dog said nothing, but search’d for fleas.

The farmer he strode through the square farmyard;(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)His last brew of ale was a trifle hard—The connexion of which with the plot one sees.

The farmer’s daughter hath frank blue eyes;(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)She hears the rooks caw in the windy skies,As she sits at her lattice and shells her peas.

The farmer’s daughter hath ripe red lips;(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)If you try to approach her, away she skipsOver tables and chairs with apparent ease.

The farmer’s daughter hath soft brown hair;(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)And I met with a ballad, I can’t say where,Which wholly consisted of lines like these.

She sat with her hands ’neath her dimpled cheeks,(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)And spake not a word. While a lady speaksThere is hope, but she didn’t even sneeze.

She sat, with her hands ’neath her crimson cheeks;(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)She gave up mending her father’s breeks,And let the cat roll in her new chemise.

She sat, with her hands ’neath her burning cheeks,(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)And gazed at the piper for thirteen weeks;Then she follow’d him out o’er the misty leas.

Her sheep follow’d her, as their tails did them.(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)And this song is consider’d a perfect gem,And as to the meaning, it’s what you please.

MyCherrystones! I prize them,No tongue can tell how much!Each lady caller eyes them,And madly longs to touch!At eve I lift them down, I lookUpon them, and I cry;Recalling how my Prince ‘partook’(Sweet word!) of cherry-pie!

To me it was an EraIn life, that Dejeuner!They ate, they sipp’d MadeiraMuch in the usual way.Many a soft item there would be,No doubt, upon the carte:But one made life a heaven to me:It was the cherry-tart.

Lightly the spoonfuls enter’dThat mouth on which the gazeOf ten fair girls was centredIn rapturous amaze.Soon that august assemblage clear’dThe dish; and—as they ate—The stones, all coyly, re-appear’dOn each illustrious plate.

And when His Royal HighnessWithdrew to take the air,Waiving our natural shyness,We swoop’d upon his chair.Policemen at our garments clutch’d:We mock’d those feeble powers;And soon the treasures that had touch’dExalted lips were ours!

One large one—at the momentIt seem’d almost divine—Was got by that Miss Beaumont:And three, O three, are mine!Yes! the three stones that rest beneathGlass, on that plain deal shelf,Stranger, once dallied with the teethOf Royalty itself.

Let Parliament abolishChurches and States and Thrones:With reverent hand I’ll polishStill, still my Cherrystones!A clod—a piece of orange-peelAn end of a cigar—Once trod on by a Princely heel,How beautiful they are!

Years since, I climb’d Saint MichaelHis Mount:—you’ll all go thereOf course, and those who like’llSit in Saint Michael’s Chair:For there I saw, within a frame,The pen—O heavens! the pen—With which a Duke had sign’d his name,And other gentlemen.

“Great among geese,” I faltered,“Is she who grew that quill!”And, Deathless Bird, unalter’dIs mine opinion still.Yet sometimes, as I view my threeStones with a thoughtful brow,I think there possibly might beE’en greater geese than thou.

’Twasever thus from childhood’s hour!My fondest hopes would not decay:I never loved a tree or flowerWhich was the first to fade away!The garden, where I used to delveShort-frock’d, still yields me pinks in plenty:The peartree that I climb’d at twelveI see still blossoming, at twenty.

I never nursed a dear gazelle;But I was given a parroquet—(How I did nurse him if unwell!)He’s imbecile, but lingers yet.He’s green, with an enchanting tuft;He melts me with his small black eye:He’d look inimitable stuff’d,And knows it—but he will not die!

I had a kitten—I was richIn pets—but all too soon my kittenBecame a full-sized cat, by whichI’ve more than once been scratch’d and bitten.And when for sleep her limbs she curl’dOne day beside her untouch’d plateful,And glided calmly from the world,I freely own that I was grateful.

And then I bought a dog—a queen!Ah Tiny, dear departing pug!She lives, but she is past sixteenAnd scarce can crawl across the rug.I loved her beautiful and kind;Delighted in her pert Bow-wow:But now she snaps if you don’t mind;’Twere lunacy to love her now.

I used to think, should e’er mishapBetide my crumple visaged Ti,In shape of prowling thief, or trap,Or coarse bull-terrier—I should die.But ah! disasters have their use;And life might e’en be too sunshiny:Nor would I make myself a goose,If some big dog should swallow Tiny.

Friend, there be they on whom mishapOr never or so rarely comes,That, when they think thereof, they snapDerisive thumbs:

And there be they who lightly loseTheir all, yet feel no aching void;Should aught annoy them, they refuseTo be annoy’d:

And fain would I be e’en as these!Life is with such all beer and skittles;They are not difficult to pleaseAbout their victuals:

The trout, the grouse, the early pea,By such, if there, are freely taken;If not, they munch with equal gleeTheir bit of bacon:

And when they wax a little gayAnd chaff the public after luncheon,If they’re confronted with a strayPoliceman’s truncheon,

They gaze thereat with outstretch’d necks,And laughter which no threats can smother,And tell the horror-stricken XThat he’s another.

In snowtime if they cross a spotWhere unsuspected boys have slid,They fall not down—though they would notMind if they did:

When the spring rosebud which they wearBreaks short and tumbles from its stem,No thought of being angry e’erDawns upon them;

Though ’twas Jemima’s hand that placed,(As well you ween) at evening’s hour,In the loved button-hole that chasteAnd cherish’d flower.

And when they travel, if they findThat they have left their pocket-compassOr Murray or thick boots behind,They raise no rumpus,

But plod serenely on without:Knowing it’s better to endureThe evil which beyond all doubtYou cannot cure.

When for that early train they’re late,They do not make their woes the textOf sermons in the Times, but waitOn for the next;

And jump inside, and only grinShould it appear that that dry wag,The guard, omitted to put inTheir carpet-bag.

Owhatharper could worthily harp it,Mine Edward! this wide-stretching wold(Look outwold) with its wonderful carpetOf emerald, purple, and gold!Look well at it—also look sharp, itIs getting so cold.

The purple is heather (erica);The yellow, gorse—call’d sometimes “whin.”Cruel boys on its prickles might spike aGreen beetle as if on a pin.You may roll in it, if you would like aFew holes in your skin.

You wouldn’t? Then think of how kind youShould be to the insects who craveYour compassion—and then, look behind youAt you barley-ears! Don’t they look braveAs they undulate—(undulate, mind you,Fromunda,a wave).

The noise of those sheep-bells, how faint itSounds here—(on account of our height)!And this hillock itself—who could paint it,With its changes of shadow and light?Is it not—(never, Eddy, say “ain’t it”)—A marvellous sight?

Then yon desolate eerie morasses,The haunts of the snipe and the hern—(I shall question the two upper classesOnaquatiles, when we return)—Why, I see on them absolute massesOffilixor fern.

How it interests e’en a beginner(Ortiro) like dear little Ned!Is he listening? As I am a sinnerHe’s asleep—he is wagging his head.Wake up! I’ll go home to my dinner,And you to your bed.

The boundless ineffable prairie;The splendour of mountain and lakeWith their hues that seem ever to vary;The mighty pine-forests which shakeIn the wind, and in which the unwaryMay tread on a snake;

And this wold with its heathery garment—Are themes undeniably great.But—although there is not any harm in’t—It’s perhaps little good to dilateOn their charms to a dull little varmintOf seven or eight.

Whyare ye wandering aye ’twixt porch and porch,Thou and thy fellow—when the pale stars fadeAt dawn, and when the glowworm lights her torch,O Beadle of the Burlington Arcade?—Who asketh why the Beautiful was made?A wan cloud drifting o’er the waste of blue,The thistledown that floats above the glade,The lilac-blooms of April—fair to view,And naught but fair are these; and such, I ween, are you.

Yes, ye are beautiful. The young street boysJoy in your beauty. Are ye there to barTheir pathway to that paradise of toys,Ribbons and rings? Who’ll blame ye if ye are?Surely no shrill and clattering crowd should marThe dim aisle’s stillness, where in noon’s mid-glowTrip fair-hair’d girls to boot-shop or bazaar;Where, at soft eve, serenely to and froThe sweet boy-graduates walk, nor deem the pastime slow.

And O! forgive me, Beadles, if I paidScant tribute to your worth, when first ye stoodBefore me robed in broadcloth and brocadeAnd all the nameless grace of Beadlehood!I would not smile at ye—if smile I couldNow as erewhile, ere I had learn’d to sigh:Ah, no! I know ye beautiful and good,And evermore will pause as I pass by,And gaze, and gazing think, how base a thing am I.

“Ocome, O come,” the mother pray’dAnd hush’d her babe: “let me beholdOnce more thy stately form array’dLike autumn woods in green and gold!

“I see thy brethren come and go;Thy peers in stature, and in hueThy rivals. Same like monarchs glowWith richest purple: some are blue

“As skies that tempt the swallow back;Or red as, seen o’er wintry seas,The star of storm; or barr’d with blackAnd yellow, like the April bees.

“Come they and go! I heed not, I.Yet others hail their advent, clingAll trustful to their side, and flySafe in their gentle piloting

“To happy homes on heath or hill,By park or river. Still I waitAnd peer into the darkness: stillThou com’st not—I am desolate.

“Hush! hark! I see a towering form!From the dim distance slowly roll’dIt rocks like lilies in a storm,And O, its hues are green and gold:

“It comes, it comes! Ah rest is sweet,And there is rest, my babe, for us!”She ceased, as at her very feetStopp’d the St. John’s Wood omnibus.

Play, play, while as yet it is day:While the sweet sunlight is warm on the brae!Hark to the lark singing lay upon lay,While the brown squirrel eats nuts on the sprayAnd in the apple-leaves chatters the jay!Play, play, even as they!What though the cowslips ye pluck will decay,What though the grass will be presently hay?What though the noise that ye make should dismayOld Mrs. Clutterbuck over the way?Play, play, for your locks will grow gray;Even the marbles ye sport with are clay.

Play, ay in the crowded highway:Was it not made for you? Yea, my lad, yea.True that the babes you were bid to conveyHome may fall out or be stolen or stray;True that the tip-cat you toss about mayStrike an old gentleman, cause him to sway,Stumble, and p’raps be run o’er by a dray:Still why delay? Play, my son, play!Barclay and Perkins, not you, have to pay.

Play, play, your sonatas in A,Heedless of what your next neighbour may say!Dance and be gay as a faun or a fay,Sing like the lad in the boat on the bay;Sing, play—if your neighbours inveighFeebly against you, they’re lunatics, eh?Bang, twang, clatter and clang,Strum, thrum, upon fiddle and drum;Neigh, bray, simply obeyAll your sweet impulses, stop not or stay!Rattle the “bones,” hit a tinbottom’d trayHard with the fireshovel, hammer away!Is not your neighbour your natural prey?Should he confound you, it’s only in play.

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