In Memoriam.
Weep, Italy, weep!
For the sun of thy dawning,
Now set in midday:
For the flower of thy morning,
In bloom pass'd away.
On his brow be the laurel,
Fame's smile on his sleep,—
But weep for thy Hero,
Weep, Italy, weep!
Weep, Italy, weep!
For thy great one departed—
The eloquent breath:
For the strong, the high hearted,
Now silent in death.
For the lion-like courage;
The eye of the lynx;
The wisdom that baffled
The Gallican sphinx;
That humbled the pride
Of the priesthood of Rome;
Thy falchion abroad,
And thy buckler at home;
In whose life thou wert first,
And the last on whose lip,—
For thy Patriot—Statesman—
Weep, Italy, weep!
Weep, Italy! weep—
And the loud cannon's rattle
Make mourn for the brave—
For the light of thy battle,
Cold-quench'd in the grave!
For the daring that conquer'd
By Mincio's flood;
That wiped out each slave-stain
In Austrian blood;
That swept the red eagle
From Gaeta's steep,—
For his Country's Avenger
Let Italy weep!
Yes, Italy! weep!
For the arm that has righted
Thy wrongs and thy shame;
For the hand that has lighted
Bright Liberty's flame:
That took from thee—Scorning!
That left thee—Renown!
Thy long scatter'd jewels
Gave back to thy crown,—
That nerved thee to conquer,
That taught thee to keep,
For the man that has saved thee
Weep, Italy, weep!
9110
'TWAS sunset—(much ill-usèd hour,
And Southey swears it's yellow!)—
And so I lay and smoked the weed—
Immaculate Havannah!—
And watch'd a spider nobbling flies
In an artistic manner.
And mused in speculative vein
On England, and her story;
Why Palmerston was dubb'd a Whig,
And Derby was a Tory;—
Which diff'ring Poets tell you
Is ev'ry shade from green to red,
Why Manchester detested war,
And cottons took delight in;
Why Cobden's voice was all for peace,
And Horsman's all for fighting;—
Why England sent out Bibles' store,
To teach our pig-tail'd brother;
And gave him Gospel with one hand,
And Opium with the other;—
And why the Church was always poor,
And Lawyers lived in clover,
And why my tailor made me pay
His last.. account.. twice... over...
And why———
Perhaps it was the scent
That hover'd round my bow'r?
Perhaps it was the flies that haunt
That soul-subduing hour?
Or else those interesting gnats,
Which sting one so severely,
Made dreamy music round my head,
Until I slept—or nearly:—
But lo! I floated on a pool,
Beneath a monstrous funnel,
Whose crowning disc shone faint above,
Like sun-light thro' a tunnel;
And forms and faces quaint and strange
Swept by me ev'ry minute;
And ev'ry breast transparent lay
And had a window in it.
Then sudden thro' my mind it flash'd—
What mania could have got'em—
The place was truth's historic well,
And I—was at the bottom!
And first I mark'd a sombre man *
Of aspect wondrous saintly,
Whose pious eyes look'd shock'd and good,
If Sin but whisper'd faintly;
* Sir John Paul.
And every Sunday in the plate,
His clinking gold was given
With such an air—the righteous vow'd
His alms had conquer'd Heaven!
And such his godly wrath'gainst all
Who betted, swore, or liquor'd,—
Old women said around his head
An Angel halo flicker'd.
But looking through his heart I saw
A blank, dark, moral torpor,—
And while he gave his princely alms
He cursed the needy pauper.
And all men grovell'd at his feet
With coax, and crawl, and wheedle;—
But I thought of Dives' burning tongue
And the parabolic needle.
And next I spied a priestly band,
In cassock, cope, and mitre,
Who diff'ring slightly from the Church,
Lent all their wits to spite her,—
With some who thought church-music gave
The Devil grievous handles;
And some who lit Polemic War
By lighting altar-candles;
And one who held a certain place
Most probable to get to,
Unless he preach'd in a scarlet cloak
And pray'd in afalsetto!—
Butonething I could plainly read,
On ev'ry breast displaying;—
The rev'rend men took more delight
In quarrelling than praying!
They pass'd—and lo! an Hebrew youth,
To ebon locks confessing,
The sturdy yeomanry of Bucks
In honey'd phrase addressing.
And so enthusiastic wax'd
The sleek bucolic charmer;
As if his body, soul, and brains,
Had all been born a farmer.
And he felt "glad" and "proud," he said,
To meet his friends again—
"His valued friends!"—and in his heart
He wished himself in Spain;—
Of all spots in the world, he said,
To see themtherehe'd rather,—
And inly sent them ev'ry one
To Jericho—or farther.
And so he gave their right good health—
And off it went in toppers;
And call'd them "Men and Patriots,"
And in his heart "Clodhoppers."—
And then—with very blandest smiles—
From self and boon carousers,
Gave prizes to some model louts,
And onea pair of trousers!!*
* Vide "Times" of 4 Nov. 1857, giving an account of the meeting of the Amersham and Chesham Agricultural Association.
And as he cried "Take, fine old man,
"These best of merit's brandings,"—
He thought "Was ever such a Calf
"On such thin understandings!"
Just then roll'd by, so bluff and bold,
A tar—from truck to kelson—
And prophesied such vast exploits,
Men cried—"Another Nelson!"
"You'll see," quoth he, "I'llshortly be
"In Heav'n or Cronstadt reckon'd"—
But never meant to chance thefirst,
Or go too near thesecond.
And then I lost him in the crowd,
Nor could the question try on;
If I'd heard the voice of Balaam's ass
Or the roar of Britain's lion;
But when I thought what bumping things
The hero had been saying,
I felt I knew what Gray must mean
By the din of battlebraying.—
0118m
9119
OOD gracious, Julia! wretched girl,
What horror do I see?
What frantic fiend has done the
deed
That rends your charms from
me?
Those matchless charms which like
the sun
Lit up Belinda Place—
What fiend, I ask, in human mask
Has dared to black your face?
Your cheeks that once out-bloom'd the rose
Are both of ebon hue;
Your chin is green—your lips are brown—
Your nose is prussian blue!
This mom the very driven snow
Was not so stainless pure,—
And now, alack! you're more a black,
Than any black-a-more.
Some wretch has painted you! Oh, Jove,
That I could clutch his throat!—
That I could give his ears acuff,
Who gave your face acoat:
If there is justice in the land—
But no:—the law is bosh:
Altho' it's tme you're black and blue
That remedy "won't wash."
Revenge, I say!—yet hold, no rage—
I will be calm, sweet wife—
Calm—icycalm——————Speak, woman, speak,
That I may have his life!!
Who did the deed?—
"Oh! Charles,'twasyou!
"Nay, dearest, do not shrink—
"This face and chin!—I've wash'd it in
"Your Photographic Ink!"
0121m
(Not by A—f—d T—y—n.)
9122
OUTHWARD Ho—Here we go!—
O'er the wave onward,
Out from the Harbor of Cork
Sail'd the Six Hundred!
Sail'd like Crusaders thence,
Burning for Peter's pence,—
Burning for fight and fame—
Burning to show their zeal—
Into the gates of Rome,
Into the jaws of Hell,
(It's all the same)
March'd the Six Hundred!
"Barracks, and tables laid!
Food for the Pope's Brigade!"
But ev'ry Celt afraid,
Gazed on the grub dismay'd—
Twigg'd he had blunder'd;—
"Who can eat rancid grease?
Callthisa room a-piecc?" *
"Silence unseemly din,
Prick them with bayonets in."—
Blessed Six Hundred!
Waves ev'ry battle-blade.—
"Forward! the Pope's Brigade!"—
Was there a man obeyed?
No—where they stood they stay'd,
Tho' Lamoriciere pray'd,
Threaten'd, and thunder'd,—
* A room for each man, and a table furnished from the fat of the land, were among the inducements reported to have been held out to the "Pope's own."
"Charge!" Down their sabres then
Clash'd, as they turn'd—and ran—
Sab'ring the empty air,
Each of one taking care,—
Here, there, and ev'rywhere
Scatter'd and sunder'd.
Sick of the powder smell,
Down on their knees they fell;
Howling for hearth and home—
Cursing the Pope of Rome—
Whilst afar shot and shell
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Captured, alive and well,
Ev'ry Hibernian swell,
Came back the tale to tell;
Back from the states of Rome—
Back from the gates of Hell—
Safe and sound ev'ry man—
Jack of Six Hundred!
When shall their story fade?
Oh the mistake they made!
Nobody wonder'd.
Pity the fools they made—
Pity the Pope's Brigade—
Nobbled Six Hundred!
9126
US! ever wus!:—By freak of Puck's
My most exciting hopes are dash'd;
I never wore my spotless ducks
But madly—wildly!—they were
splash'd.
I never roved by Cynthia's beam,
To gaze upon the starry sky;
But some unpleasant beetle came,
And charged into my pensive eye:
And oh! I never did the swell
In Regent-street, amongst the beaus,
But smuts the most prodigious fell,
And always settled on my Nose!
0127m
(New Year's Eve,'58.)
9128
T was the huge metropolis
With fog was like to choke;
It was the gentle cabby—
horse
His ancient knees that
broke;—
And, oh, it was the cabby-man
That swore from ear to ear,
And did vituperate his eyes
Considerably severe,
If any swell should make him stir
Another step that year!
Then up and spake that bold cabman,
Unto his inside Fare,—
"I say, you Sir,—come out of that!—
"I say, you Sir in there—
"Six precious aggrawatin miles
"I've druv to this here gate,
"And that poor injer'd hanimal
"Is in a faintin state;
"There aint a thimblefull of shine,
"The fog's as black as pitch,—
"I'm flummox'd'tween them posteses
"And that most 'ateful ditch.
"So bundle out! my'oss is beat;
"I'm sick of this'ere night;—
I say, you Sir in there,—hear?——
He's bolted—blow me tight!"
0130m
Wuw—Wuw—Wuw—Wuw—Wuw—Wuw—
W-Waterloo Place? yes you
T—Take the first tut—tut—tut—turning
that faces you,—
Lul—left, and then kuk—kuk—kuk,—kuk—
kuk—kuk—keep up Pell Mell'till you
See the Wuw—Wuw——Wuw——Wuw——
Zounds, Sir, you'll get there before I
can tell it you!
0131m
9132
ID you never hear a rustling,
In the comer of your room;
When the faint fantastic fire-light
Served but to reveal the gloom?
Did you never feel the clammy
Terror, starting from each pore,
At a shocking
Sort of knocking
On your chamber door?
Did you never fancy something
Horrid, underneath the bed?
Or a ghastly skeletonian,
In the garret overhead?
Or a sudden life-like movement,
Of theVandyke, grim and tall?
Or that ruddy
Mark, a bloody
Stain upon the wall?
Did you never see a fearful
Figure, by the rushlight low,
Crouching, creeping,crawlingnearer—
Putting out its lingers—SO.
Whilst its lurid eyes glared on you
From the darkness where it sat—
And youcouldnot,
Or youwouldnot,
See it was the cat?
0134m
9135
IR Toby was a portly party;
Sir Toby took his turtle
hearty;
Sir Toby lived to dine:
Chateau d'Iquenwas his fort;
Bacchus would have backt his
port;
He was an Alderman in short
Of the very first water—and wine.
An Alderman of the first degree,
But neither wife nor son had he;
He had a daughter fair:
And often said her father, "Cis,
"You shall be dubb'd 'my Lady,' Miss,
"When I am dubb'd Lord Mayor.
"The day I don the gown and chain,
"In Hymen's modern Fetter-Lane
"You wed Sir Gobble Grist;
"And whilst with pomp and pageant high
"I scrape, and stut, and star it by
"St. George's in the East, you'll try
"St. George's in the West."
Oh vision of paternal pride!
Oh blessed Groom to such a Bride!
Oh happy Lady Cis!
Yet sparks won't always strike the match,
And she may chance to miss her 'catch,'
Or he may catch—amiss!
Such things do happen, here and there,
When Knights are old, and Nymphs are fair,
And who can say they don't?
When Worldly takes the gilded pill,
And Dives stands and says "I will,"
And Beauty says "I WONT!"
Sweet Beauty! Sweeter thus by far—
Young Goddess of the silver star,
Divinity capricious!—
Who would not barter wealth and wig,
And pomp and pride andotium dig,
For Youth—when 'plums' weren't worth a fig
And Venus smiled propitious?
Alas! that beaus will lose their spring,
And wayward belles refuse to 'ring,'
Unstruck by Cupid's dart!
Alas that—must the truth be told—
Yet oft'ner has the archer sold
The 'white and red,' to touch the 'gold,'
And Diamonds trump'd the Heart!
That luckless heart! too soon misplaced!—
Why is it that parental taste
On sagest calculation based
So rarely pleases Miss?
Let those who can, the riddle read;
For me, I've no idea indeed,
No more, perhaps, had Cis.
It might have been she found Sir G.
Less tender than a swain should be,—
Young—sprightly—witty—gay?—
It might have been she thought his hat
Or head too round or square or flat
Or empty—who can say?
What Bard shall dare? Perhaps his nose?—
A shade too pink, or pale, or rose?—
His cut of beard, wig, whisker, hose?—
A wrinkle?—here—or there?—
Perhaps thepreux chevalier'schance,
Hung on a word or on a glance,
Or on a single hair!
I know not! But the Parson waited,
The Groomsmen swore, the Bridegroom rated,
Till two o'clock or near;—
Then home again in rage and wrath,
Whilst pretty Cis—— was rattling North
With Jones the Volunteer!