They sat on the grave which had never a stoneThe name of the dead to determine,It was Life paying Death a brief visit—aloneA notable text for a sermon.
They tenderly prattled,—what was it they said?The turf on that hillock was new:O! kenn’d ye, poor little ones, aught of the dead,Or could he be heedful of you?
I wish to believe, and believe it I must,That a father beneath them was laid:I wish to believe,—I will take it on trust,That father knew all that they said.
My Own, you are five, very nearly the ageOf that poor little fatherless child;And some day a true-love your heart will engageWhen on earth I my last may have smil’d.
Then visit my grave, like a good little lass,Where’er it may happen to be,And if any daisies should peer through the grass,Be sure they are kisses from me.
And place not a stone to distinguish my name,For strangers and gossips to see,But come with your lover as these lovers came,And talk to him gaily of me.
And while you are smiling, your father will smileSuch a sweet little daughter to have:But mind, O yes! mind you are merry the while—I wish you to visit my grave.
At Worthing an exile from Geraldine G—,How aimless, how wretched an exile is he!Promenades are not even prunella and leatherTo lovers, if lovers can’t foot them together.
He flies the parade, sad by ocean he stands,He traces a “Geraldine G” on the sands.But a G, tho’ her lov’d patronymic is Green,“I will not betray thee, my own Geraldine.”
The fortunes of men have a time and a tide,And Fate, the old fury, will not be denied;That name was, of course, soon wip’d out by the sea,—And she jilted the exile, did Geraldine G—.
They meet, but they never have spoken since that,—He hopes she is happy—he knows she is fat;Shewoo’d on the shore, now is wed in the Strand,AndI—it was I wrote her name on the sand!
“Vanity of vanities, saith the preacher, all is vanity.”Ecclesiastes.
“Vanity of vanities, saith the preacher, all is vanity.”
Ecclesiastes.
“Vanitas Vanitatum” has rung in the earsOf gentle and simple for thousands of years;The wail is still heard, yet its notes never scareOr simple, or gentle, from Vanity Fair.
This Fair has allurements alike to engageThe dimples of youth and the wrinkles of age;Though mirth may be feigning, though sheen may be glare,The gingerbread’s gilded in Vanity Fair.
Old Dives there rolls in his chariot of state,There Jack takes his Joan at a lowlier rate,St Giles’, St James’, from alley and square,Send votaries plenty to Vanity Fair.
That goal would be vain where the guerdon was dross,So come whence they may they must come by a loss:The tree was enticing,—its branches are bare;Heigh-ho! for the promise of Vanity Fair.
My son, the sham goddess I warn thee to shun,Beware of the beautiful temptress, my son;Her blandishments fly,—or, despising the snare,Go laugh at the follies of Vanity Fair.
That stupid old Dives, once honest enough,His honesty sold for Stars, Ribbons, and Stuff;And Joan’s pretty face has been clouded with careSince Jack boughtherribbons at Vanity Fair.
Contemptible Dives!—too credulous Joan!Yet each has a Vanity Fair of his own;—My son, you have yours, but you need not despair,Myself, I’ve a weakness for Vanity Fair.
Philosophy halts, wisest counsels are vain,—We go, we repent, we return there again;To-night you will certainly meet with us there,Exceedingly merry at Vanity Fair.
What changes greet my wistful eyesIn quiet little Bramble-Rise,Once fairest of its shire;How alter’d is each pleasant nook,The dumpy church used not to lookSo dumpy in the spire.
This village is no longer mine;And though the inn has chang’d its sign,The beer may not be stronger:The river, dwindled by degrees,Is now a brook,—the cottagesAre cottages no longer.
The thatch is slate, the plaster bricks,The trees have cut their ancient sticks,Or else those sticks are stunted:I’m sure these thistles once grew figs,These geese were swans, and once those pigsMore musically grunted.
Where early reapers whistled—shrillA whistle may be noted still,The locomotives’ ravings.New custom newer want begets—My bank of early violetsIs now a bank of—savings.
Ah! there’s a face I know again,Fair Patty trotting down the LaneTo fetch a pail of water;Yes, Patty! still I much suspect,’Tis not the child I recollect,But Patty, Patty’s daughter!
And has she too outliv’d the spellsOf breezy hills and silent dells,Where childhood loved to ramble?Then life was thornless to our ken,And, Bramble-Rise, thy hills were thenA rise without a bramble.
Whence comes the change? ’twere easy toldHow some grow wise and some grow cold,And all feel time and trouble;And mouldy sages much averThat if the Past’s a gossamer,The Future is a bubble.
So let it be, at any rateMy Fate is not the cruel FateWhich sometimes I have thought her:My heart leaps up, and I rejoiceAs falls upon my ear thy voice,My frisky little daughter.
Come hither, Puss, and perch on theseYour most unworthy Father’s knees,And try and tell him—Can you?Are Punch and Judy bits of wood?Does Dolly boast of ancient blood,Or is it only “bran new”?
We talk sad stuff,—and Bramble-RiseIs lovely to the infant’s eyes,Whose doll is ever charming;She does not weigh the pros and cons,Her pigs still please, her geese are swans,Though more or less alarming!
O, mayst thou own, my winsome elf,Some day a pet just like thyself,Her sanguine thoughts to borrow;Content to use her brighter eyes,Accept her childish ecstacies,And, need be, share her sorrow!
My wife, though life is called a jaunt,In sadness rife, in sunshine scant,Though mundane joys, the wisest grant,Have no enduring basis:’Tis something in this desert drear,For thee so fresh, for me so sere,To find in Puss, our daughter dear,A little cool oasis!
“Fragile creations of still frailer man,That men outlast,Though to eternity, from whence he came,The scribe be past.O there are tongues within these dry brown leavesThat speak as Autumns do;They cry of death and sorrow,To me—to you.”Mr George Thornbury.
“Fragile creations of still frailer man,That men outlast,Though to eternity, from whence he came,The scribe be past.
O there are tongues within these dry brown leavesThat speak as Autumns do;They cry of death and sorrow,To me—to you.”
Mr George Thornbury.
Old letters! wipe away the tear,And gaze upon these pale mementoes,A pilgrim finds his journal hereSince first he took to walk on ten toes.
Yes, here are scrawls from Clapham Rise,Do mothers still their school-boys pamper?O, how I hated Doctor Wise!O, how I lov’d a well-fill’d hamper!
How strange to commune with the Dead—Dead joys, dead loves, and wishes thwarted:Here’s cruel proof of friendships fled,And sad enough of friends departed.
And here’s the offer that I wroteIn ’33 to Lucy Diver;And here John Wylie’s begging note—He never paid me back a stiver.
And here my feud with Major Spike,Our bet about the French Invasion;On looking back I acted likeA donkey upon that occasion.
And here a letter from “the Row,”—How mad I was when first I learnt it!They would not take my Book, and nowI’d give a trifle to have burnt it.
And here a heap of notes, at last,With “love” and “dove,” and “sever” “never”—Though hope, though passion may be past,Their perfume is as sweet as ever.
A human heart should beat for two,Whatever say your single scorners,And all the hearths I ever knewHad got a pair of chimney corners.
See here a double violet—Two locks of hair—a deal of scandal:I’ll burn what only brings regret—Go, Betty, fetch a lighted candle.
“My sprightly neighbour, gone beforeTo that unknown and silent shore!Shall we not meet as heretoforeSome summer morning?When from thy cheerful eyes a rayHath struck a bliss upon the day,A bliss that would not go away,A sweet forewarning?”C. Lamb.
“My sprightly neighbour, gone beforeTo that unknown and silent shore!Shall we not meet as heretoforeSome summer morning?When from thy cheerful eyes a rayHath struck a bliss upon the day,A bliss that would not go away,A sweet forewarning?”
C. Lamb.
Susannah! still that name can raiseThe memory of ancient days,And hearts unwrung:When all too bright our future smil’d,When she was Mirth’s adopted child,And I—was young.
I see the cot with spreading eavesEmbosom’d bright in summer leaves,As heretofore:The gables quaint, the pansy bed,—Old Robin train’d the roses redAbout the door.
A seat did most blithe Susan please,Beneath two shady elder trees,Of rustic make:Old Robin’s handiwork again,He dearly lov’d those elders twainFor Susan’s sake.
Her gleeful tones and laughter gayLent sunshine to a gloomy day,And trouble fled:Yet when her mirth was passing wild,Though still the faithful Robin smil’d,He shook his head.
Perchance the old man harbour’d fearsThat happiness is wed with tearsOn this poor earth:Or else, may be, his fancies wereThat youth and beauty are a snareIf link’d with mirth.
* * * * *
And times are chang’d,—how chang’d that scene,For mark old Robin’s alter’d mien,And feeble tread.His toil has ceased to be his pride,At Susan’s name he turns aside,And shakes his head.
And summer smiles, but summer spellsCan never charm where sorrow dwells,Nor banish care.No fair young form the passer sees,And still the much-lov’d elder treesThrow shadows there.
The well-remember’d seat is gone,And where it stood is set a stone,A simple square:The worlding gay, or man austere,May pass the name recorded here,But we will stay to shed a tear,And breathe a prayer.
“But thou that didst appear so fairTo fond imagination,Dost rival in the light of day,Her delicate creation!”Wordsworth.
“But thou that didst appear so fairTo fond imagination,Dost rival in the light of day,Her delicate creation!”
Wordsworth.
It shall not be “Albert” nor “Arthur,”Though both are respectable men,His name shall be that of his father,My Benjamin shorten’d to “Ben.”
Yes, much as I wish for a cornerIn each of my relative’s wills,I will not be reckon’d a fawner—That creaking of boots must be Squills.
It is clear, though his means may be narrow,This infant his age will adorn;I shall send him to Oxford from Harrow—I wonder how soon he’ll be born.
A spouse thus was airing his fanciesBelow—’twas a labour of love—And calmly reflecting on Nancy’sMore practical labour above.
Yet while it so pleas’d him to ponder,Elated, at ease, and alone,That pale, patient victim up yonderHad budding delights of her own;
Sweet thoughts in their essence divinerThan dreams of ambition and pelf;A cherub, no babe will be finer,Invented and nursed by herself!
One breakfasting, dining, and teaing,With appetite nought can appease,And quite a young Reasoning BeingWhen called on to yawn and to sneeze.
What cares that heart, trusting and tender,For fame or avuncular wills;Except for the name and the gender,She is almost as tranquil as Squills.
That father, in reverie centr’d,Dumfoundered, his brain in a whirl,Heard Squills—as the creaking boots enter’d,—Announce that his Boy was—aGirl.
St Mark’s Gospel, chap. xii. verses 42, 43, 44
The widow had but only one,A puny and decrepid son;But day and night,Though fretful oft, and weak, and small,A loving child, he was her all—The widow’s mite.
The widow’s might—yes! so sustain’dShe battled onward, nor complain’dThough friends were fewer:And, cheerful at her daily care,A little crutch upon the stairWas music to her.
I saw her then, and now I see,Though cheerful and resign’d, still sheHas sorrow’d much:She has—HE gave it tenderly—Much faith—and carefully laid byA little crutch.
“Dans lebonheurde nos meilleurs amis nous trouvons souvent quelque chose qui ne nous plaît pas entièrement.”
“Dans lebonheurde nos meilleurs amis nous trouvons souvent quelque chose qui ne nous plaît pas entièrement.”
She pass’d up the aisle on the arm of her sire,A delicate lady in bridal attire,Fair emblem of virgin simplicity:Half London was there, and, my word, there were few,Who stood by the altar, or hid in a pew,But envied Lord Nigel’s felicity.
O, beautiful bride, still so meek in thy splendour,So frank in thy love and its trusting surrender,Going hence thou wilt leave us the town dim!May happiness wing to thy bosom, unsought,And Nigel, esteeming his bliss as he ought,Prove worthy thy worship, confound him!
Mary in her hand has sixpence,Mary starts to fetch some butter,Mary’s pinafore is spotless,Off she goes across the gutter,Gleeful, radiant, as she thus did,Proud to be so largely trusted.
One, two, three, small steps she’s taken,Blissfully away she’s tripping,When good lack, and who’d a thought it,Down goes Mary, slipping, slipping;Daubs her clothes, the little slut—herSixpence, too, rolls in the gutter.
Never creep back so despairing,Dry those eyes, my little Mary,All of us start off in high glee,Many come back quite “contrairy”—I’ve mourn’d sixpences in scores too,Damag’d hopes and pinafores too.
Miss Edith lifts the latch with care,And now she must brave the chill night air.She has violet eyes and ruby lips,A dancing shape—and away she skips;She hies to the haunt of a hermit weird,With flaming eyes and a forky beard,A shocking wizard—who, gossips say,Has dwelt in his cavern a year to-day.
“O, ancient man! I am filled with fear,My lover has left me full a year.‘I swear to return in a year,’ said he,‘Or question the man of mystery.Your eyes are blue, and your lips are red;I swear, my love, to come back,’ he said.O, fearsome man! I pray of you,Can he prove so false whom I think so true?”
“O, daughter fair! I am sad to sayThat young men now and then betray:Thy lover, I wis, has thy trust betray’d,For he presently woos a witching maid:Her eyes are blue, and, I tell thee this,She has tempting lips that he fain would kiss;But courage, my child, thou mayst yet discoverA clue to the heart of this worthless lover.”
He mutter’d, when thus he the maid had cheer’d,A strange sound that was drown’d in the forky beard;Then all around loud thunders broke,And the cave was wrapp’d in fire and smoke,And that fearsome man has disappear’dWith his flaming eyes and his forky beard;And Edith weeps in rapture sweetTo find her lover at her feet!
“My Kate, at the Waterloo column,To-morrow, precisely at eight;Remember, thy promise was solemn,And—thine till to-morrow, my Kate!”
* * * * *
That evening seem’d strangely to linger,The licence and luggage were packt,And Time, with a long and short finger,Approvingly mark’d me exact.
Arrived, woman’s constancy blessing,No end of nice people I see,Some hither, some thitherwards pressing,But none of them waiting for me.
Time passes, my watch how I con it,I see her—she’s coming—no, stuff!Instead of Kate’s smart little bonnet,It is aunt and her wonderful muff!
(Yes! Fortune deserves to be chidden,It is a coincidence queer,Whenever one wants to be hidden,One’s relatives always appear.)
Near nine! how the passers despise me,They smile at my anguish, I think;And even the sentinel eyes me,And tips that policeman the wink.
Ah! Kate made me promises solemn,At eight she had vow’d to be mine;While waiting for one at this column,I find I’ve been waiting for nine.
O Fame! on thy pillar so steady,Some dupes watch beneath thee in vain:How many have done it already!How many will do it again!
Two wayward imps, all smiles or tears,With large round eyes of ceaseless wonder,Small pitchers with extensive ears,And fingers prone to urchin plunder.
Two whisp’ring lovers—blissful pair!Ishethe rogue? or hath she trick’d him?Unless he dupes his mistress there,The chances are, he’ll fall a victim.
Two toiling ones of sober age(Their bet with Care a losing wager);They own, though now so very sage,They might have been a trifle sager!
Two frail old wretches, sick and sad,Yet sore dismayed lest Death should take them,—Come, hang it, things, though passing bad,Are not so bad as some would make them:
For, like yon clock, when twelve shall sound,The call these poor old souls obeying,Together shalltheirhands be found,An earnest they are humbly praying!
He met her with her milking-cans,Too fast the moments speeded,For while they chat on this and thatMyfirstmay low unheeded.And was she call’d a forward jade,And was he graceless reckon’d,Because he stopt the dairy-maid,Enchanted by mysecond?
Though stars in thousands stud the pole,The fields own stars as yellow,And when I gave that last mywhole,She thank’d a happy fellow.But she was call’d a forward jade,And I was graceless reckon’d;—I only kiss’d that dairy-maid,Enraptur’d by mysecond.
Toll, toll the bell, its iron tongueIs weighty as mysecond,Dig, dig the grave, to life he clung,But now his days are reckon’d.
Old man, who’ll ring a knell for thee,Or dress thy couch of clay?Why didst not thou thy death foresee,And dig it for to-day?
King Death his journeyman demands,On all he works his worst:His dart he’s flung at old and young,—Death heedeth not myfirst.
Old man, thou’st dug some scores of graves,Who’ll turn the mould for thine?And when this spade thy bed hath made,Who’ll lift a spade at mine?
Small imp of blackness, off at once,Expend thy mirth as likes thee best:Thy toil is over for the nonce;Yes, “opus operatum est.”When dreary authors vex thee sore,Thy Mentor’s old, and would remind theeThat if thy griefs are all before,Thy pleasures are not all behind thee.
the end
The Castle in the Air. Last published in 1872.
The Cradle. Last published in 1878.
O Tempora Mutantur. Written in 1856: last published in 1893: omitted from the 1881 edition. In 1893 the last stanza is different: I have quoted from it in the Introduction.
Piccadilly. Last published in 1893. After the words “If ‘yes,’ Piccadilly,” the 1893 version is as follows:—
“From Primrose balcony, long ages ago‘Old Q’ sat at gaze,—who now passes below?A frolicsome statesman, the Man of the Day,”etc.
“From Primrose balcony, long ages ago‘Old Q’ sat at gaze,—who now passes below?A frolicsome statesman, the Man of the Day,”etc.
The Old Clerk. Written in 1856: last published in 1893: omitted in 1881. The final version (title, “The Old Government Clerk”) is a good deal elaborated, and a stanza added.
The Garter. Last published in 1878. In the 1862 and subsequent editions the title is “Arcadia.”
Pilgrims of Pall Mall. Written in 1856: last published in 1893. The first lines of the fifth stanza run, as finally revised:
“I often wander up and down,When morning bathes the silent townIn dewy glory”;
and the seventh stanza is altered to:
“My heart grows chill! Can Soul like thine,Weary of this clear world of mine,Have loosed its fetter,To find a world whose promised blissIs better than the best of this?—And is it better?”
These are the most important changes.
The Russet Pitcher. Last published in 1870: omitted in 1868.
The Enchanted Rose. “The Fairy Rose” in subsequent editions. Last published in 1870: omitted in 1868.
Circumstance. Written in 1856: last published in 1893, with some alteration. The last line runs, finally: “And—wish them at the devil.”
A Wish. Last published in 1878.
My Life is a—. Last published in 1893: omitted in 1881. Practically the same in the final version.
Vanity Fair. Last published in 1878.
Bramble-Rise. Written in 1857: last published in 1893, a good deal altered. It is less “Praedian” than in the original form: the puns in stanzas four and nine disappear.
Old Letters. Last published in 1878. Of all theLondon Lyrics this is the most obviously reminiscent of Praed: and as such it is rejected by Locker’s final judgment. It belongs evidently to the period when “I once tried to write like Praed.”
Susannah. Last published (as “Susan”) in 1872: omitted in 1868. The first verse, slightly altered, serves as “motto” for the serious poem, “Her quiet resting-place is far away,” which is in some of the later editions.
My Firstborn. Last published in 1878, omitted in 1868.
The Widow’s Mite. Last published in 1893. In the final form of the poem the pun is (characteristically) dropped.
St George’s. Last published in 1878: omitted in 1868.
Seven Dials. Last published in 1862.
Miss Edith. Not again published.
Gretna Green. Subsequently under the title “Vae Victis”: last published in 1870.
The Four Seasons. Not again published.
Enigma. 1. / 2. } Not again published.
The Printer’s Devil. Not again published.
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