With a beaker in his hand, in the midst he took his stand,And silence did command, all below—“Ho! Launcelot the bold, ere thy lips are icy cold,In the centre of thy hold,Pledge me now!
“Art surly, brother mine? In this cup of rosy wine,I drink to the decline of thy race!Thy proud career is done, thy sand is nearly run,Never more shall setting sunGild thy face!
“The pilgrim, in amaze, shall see a goodly blaze,Ere the pallid morning rays flicker up;And perchance he may espy certain corpses swinging high!What, brother! art thou dry?Fill my cup!”
Dumb as death stood Launcelot, as though he heard him not,But his bosom Provan smote, and he swore;And Sir Roderick Dalgleish remarked aside to Neish,“Never sure did thirsty fishSwallow more!
“Thirty casks are nearly done, yet the revel’s scarce begun;It were knightly sport and fun to strike in!”“Nay, tarry till they come,” quoth Neish, “unto the rum—They are working at the mum,And the gin!”
Then straight there did appear to each gallant GorbalierTwenty castles dancing near, all around;The solid earth did shake, and the stones beneath them quake,And sinuous as a snakeMoved the ground.
Why and wherefore they had come, seemed intricate to some,But all agreed the rum was divine.And they looked with bitter scorn on their leader highly born,Who preferred to fill his hornUp with wine!
Then said Launcelot the tall, “Bring the chargers from their stall;Lead them straight unto the hall, down below:Draw your weapons from your side, fling the gates asunder wide,And together we shall rideOn the foe!”
Then Provan knew full well, as he leaped into his selle,That few would ’scape to tell how they fared;And Gilkison and Nares, both mounted on their mares,Looked terrible as bears,All prepared.
With his bloodhounds in the leash, stood the iron-sinewed Neish,And the falchion of Dalgleish glittered bright—“Now, wake the trumpet’s blast; and, comrades, follow fast;Smite them down unto the last!”Cried the knight.
In the cumbered yard without, there was shriek, and yell, and shout,As the warriors wheeled about, all in mail.On the miserable kerne fell the death-strokes stiff and stern,As the deer treads down the fern,In the vale!
Saint Mungo be my guide! It was goodly in that tideTo see the Bogle ride in his haste;He accompanied each blow with a cry of “Ha!” or “Ho!”And always cleft the foeTo the waist.
“George of Gorbals—craven lord! thou didst threat me with the cord;Come forth and brave my sword, if you dare!”But he met with no reply, and never could descryThe glitter of his eyeAnywhere.
Ere the dawn of morning shone, all the Gorbaliers were down,Like a field of barley mown in the ear:It had done a soldier good to see how Provan stood,With Neish all bathed in blood,Panting near.
“Now bend ye to your tasks—go trundle down those casks,And place the empty flasks on the floor;George of Gorbals scarce will come, with trumpet and with drum,To taste our beer and rumAny more!”
So they bent them to their tasks, and they trundled down the casks,And replaced the empty flasks on the floor;But pallid for a week was the cellar-master’s cheek,For he swore he heard a shriekThrough the door.
When the merry Christmas came, and the Yule-log lent its flameTo the face of squire and dame in the hall,The cellarer went down to tap October brown,Which was rather of renown’Mongst them all.
He placed the spigot low, and gave the cask a blow,But his liquor would not flow through the pin.“Sure, ’tis sweet as honeysuckles!” so he rapped it with his knuckles,But a sound, as if of buckles,Clashed within.
“Bring a hatchet, varlets, here!” and they cleft the cask of beer:What a spectacle of fear met their sight!There George of Gorbals lay, skull and bones all blanched and grey,In the arms he bore the dayOf the fight!
I have sung this ancient tale, not, I trust, without avail,Though the moral ye may fail to perceive;Sir Launcelot is dust, and his gallant sword is rust,And now, I think, I mustTake my leave!
[The following eleven pieces of verse appeared originally with many others in an article called “Puffs and Poetry,” from which the following passage is taken:—
“Some people are fond of excursions into the realms of old romance, with their Lancelots and Gueneveres, their enchanted castles, their bearded wizards, ‘and such odd branches of learning.’ There needs a winged griffin, at the very least, to carry them out of the everyday six-and-eightpenny world, or the whizz of an Excalibur to startle their drowsy imaginations into life. The beauties and the wonders of the universe died for them some centuries ago; they went out with Friar Bacon and the invention of gunpowder. Praised be Apollo! this is not our case. There is a snatch of poetry, to our apprehension, in almost everything. We have detected it pushing its petals forth from the curls of a barrister’s wig, and scented its fragrance even in the columns of the ‘London Gazette.’
“‘The deep poetic voice that hourly speaks within us’ is never silent. Like Signor Benedick, it ‘will still be talking.’ We can scarcely let our eyes dwell upon an object—nay, not even upon a gridiron or a toothpick—but it seems to be transmuted as by the touch of Midas into gold. Our facts accordingly adopt upon occasions a very singular shape. We are not nice to a shade. A trifle here or there never stands in our way. We regard a free play of fancy as the privilege of every genuine Briton, and exclaim with Pistol, ‘A fico for all yea and nay rogues.’
“We have often thought of entering the lists against Robins [famous for his imaginative advertisements of properties for sale]. It may be vanity, but we think we could trump him. Robins amplifies well, but we think we could trump him. There is an obvious effort in his best works. The result is a want of unity of effect. Hesiod and Tennyson, the Caverns of Ellora, and the magic caves of the Regent’s Park Colosseum, are jumbled confusedly one upon another. He never achieves the triumph of art—repose. Besides, he wants variety. A country box, consisting of twenty feet square of tottering brickwork, a plateau of dirt, with a few diseased shrubs and an open drain, is as elaborately be-metaphored as an island of the Hebrides, with a wilderness of red-deer, Celts, ptarmigan, and other wild animals upon it. Now, this is out of all rule. An elephant’s trunk can raise a pin as well as uproot an oak, but it would be ridiculous to employ the same effort for one as for the other. Robins—with reverence to so great a name, be it spoken—does not attend to this. He has yet to acquire the light and graceful touch of the finished artist.” Thereupon Bon Gaultier proceeds to illustrate his views by the following, and many other rhyming advertisements.]
Died the Jew? “The Hebrew died.On the pavement cold he lay,Around him closed the living tide;The butcher’s cad set down his tray;The pot-boy from the Dragon GreenNo longer for his pewter calls;The Nereid rushes in between,Nor more her ‘Fine live mackerel!’ bawls.”
Died the Jew? “The Hebrew died.They raised him gently from the stone,They flung his coat and neckcloth wide—But linen had that Hebrew none.They raised the pile of hats that pressedHis noble head, his locks of snow;But, ah, that head, upon his breast,Sank down with an expiring ‘Clo!’”
Died the Jew? “The Hebrew died,Struck with overwhelming qualmsFrom the flavour spreading wideOf some fine Virginia hams.Would you know the fatal spot,Fatal to that child of sin?These fine-flavoured hams are boughtAt50Bishopsgate Within!”
’Twas in the town of Lubeck,A hundred years ago,An old man walked into the church,With beard as white as snow;Yet were his cheeks not wrinkled,Nor dim his eagle eye:There’s many a knight that steps the street,Might wonder, should he chance to meetThat man erect and high!
When silenced was the organ,And hushed the vespers loud,The Sacristan approached the sire,And drew him from the crowd—“There’s something in thy visage,On which I dare not look;And when I rang the passing bell,A tremor that I may not tell,My very vitals shook.
“Who art thou, awful stranger?Our ancient annals say,That twice two hundred years agoAnother passed this way,Like thee in face and feature;And, if the tale be true,’Tis writ, that in this very yearAgain the stranger shall appear.Art thou the Wandering Jew?”
“The Wandering Jew, thou dotard!”The wondrous phantom cried—“’Tis several centuries agoSince that poor stripling died.He would not use my nostrums—See, shaveling, here they are!Theseput to flight all human ills,These conquer death—unfailing pills,And I’m the inventor,Parr!”
Gingerly is good King Tarquin shaving.Gently glides the razor o’er his chin,Near him stands a grim Haruspex raving,And with nasal whine he pitches inChurch extension hints,Till the monarch squints,Snicks his chin, and swears—a deadly sin!
“Jove confound thee, thou bare-legged impostor!From my dressing-table get thee gone!Dost thou think my flesh is double Glo’ster?There again! That cut was to the bone!Get ye from my sight;I’ll believe you’re right,When my razor cuts the sharpening hone!”
Thus spoke Tarquin with a deal of dryness;But the Augur, eager for his fees,Answered—“Try it, your Imperial Highness;Press a little harder, if you please.There! the deed is done!”Through the solid stoneWent the steel as glibly as through cheese.
So the Augur touched the tin of Tarquin,Who suspected some celestial aid;But he wronged the blameless gods; for hearken!Ere the monarch’s bet was rashly laid,With his searching eyeDid the priest espyRogers’name engraved upon the blade.
not by alfred tennyson.
Slowly, as one who bears a mortal hurt,Through which the fountain of his life runs dry,Crept good King Arthur down unto the lake.A roughening wind was bringing in the wavesWith cold dull plash and plunging to the shore,And a great bank of clouds came sailing upAthwart the aspect of the gibbous moon,Leaving no glimpse save starlight, as he sank,With a short stagger, senseless on the stones.
No man yet knows how long he lay in swound;But long enough it was to let the rustLick half the surface of his polished shield;For it was made by far inferior hands,Than forged his helm, his breastplate, and his greaves,Whereon no canker lighted, for they boreThe magic stamp ofMechi’s Silver Steel.
“Take away this clammy nectar!”Said the king of gods and men;“Never at Olympus’ tableLet that trash be served again.Ho, Lyæus, thou the beery!Quick—invent some other drink;Or, in a brace of shakes, thou standestOn Cocytus’ sulphury brink!”
Terror shook the limbs of Bacchus,Paly grew his pimpled nose,And already in his rearwardFelt he Jove’s tremendous toes;When a bright idea struck him—“Dash my thyrsus! I’ll be bail—For you never were in India—That you know notHodgson’s Ale!”
“Bring it!” quoth the Cloud-compeller;And the wine-god brought the beer—“Port and claret are like waterTo the noble stuff that’s here!”And Saturnius drank and nodded,Winking with his lightning eyes,And amidst the constellationsDid the star ofHodgsonrise!
Coats at five-and-forty shillings! trousers ten-and-six a pair!Summer waistcoats, three a sov’reign, light and comfortable wear!Taglionis, black or coloured, Chesterfield and velveteen!The old English shooting-jacket—doeskins such as ne’er were seen!Army cloaks and riding-habits, Alberts at a trifling cost!Do you want an annual contract? Write toDoudneys’by the post.Doudney Brothers!Doudney Brothers! Not the men that drive the van,Plastered o’er with advertisements, heralding some paltry plan,How, by base mechanic stinting, and by pinching of their backs,Lean attorneys’ clerks may manage to retrieve their Income-tax:But the old established business—where the best of clothes are givenAt the very lowest prices—Fleet Street, Number Ninety-seven.Wouldst thou know the works ofDoudney? Hie thee to the thronged Arcade,To the Park upon a Sunday, to the terrible Parade.There, amid the bayonets bristling, and the flashing of the steel,When the household troops in squadrons round the bold field-marshals wheel,Shouldst thou see an aged warrior in a plain blue morning frock,Peering at the proud battalions o’er the margin of his stock,—Should thy throbbing heart then tell thee, that the veteran worn and greyCurbed the course of Bonaparte, rolled the thunders of Assaye—Let it tell thee, stranger, likewise, that the goodly garb he wearsStarted into shape and being from theDoudney Brothers’shears!Seek thou next the rooms of Willis—mark, where D’Orsay’s Count is bending,See the trouser’s undulation from his graceful hip descending;Hath the earth another trouser so compact and love-compelling?Thou canst find it, stranger, only, if thou seek’st theDoudneys’dwelling!Hark, from Windsor’s royal palace, what sweet voice enchants the ear?“Goodness, what a lovely waistcoat! Oh, who made it, Albert dear?’Tis the very prettiest pattern! You must get a dozen others!”And the Prince, in rapture, answers—“’Tis the work ofDoudney Brothers!”
As the youthful Paris pressesHelen to his ivory breast.Sporting with her golden tresses,Close and ever closer pressed,
“Let me,” said he, “quaff the nectar,Which thy lips of ruby yield;Glory I can leave to Hector,Gathered in the tented field.
“Let me ever gaze upon thee,Look into thine eyes so deep;With a daring hand I won thee,With a faithful heart I’ll keep.
“Oh, my Helen, thou bright wonder,Who was ever like to thee?Jove would lay aside his thunder,So he might be blest like me.
“How mine eyes so fondly lingerOn thy smooth and pearly skin;Scan each round and rosy finger,Drinking draughts of beauty in!
“Tell me, whence thy beauty, fairest?Whence thy cheek’s enchanting bloom?Whence the rosy hue thou wearest;Breathing round thee rich perfume?”
Thus he spoke, with heart that panted,Clasped her fondly to his side,Gazed on her with look enchanted,While his Helen thus replied:
“Be no discord, love, between us,If I not the secret tell!’Twas a gift I had of Venus,—Venus, who hath loved me well;
“And she told me as she gave it,‘Let not e’er the charm be known;O’er thy person freely lave it,Only when thou art alone.’
“’Tis enclosed in yonder casket—Here behold its golden key;But its name—love, do not ask it,Tell’t I may not, even to thee!”
Long with vow and kiss he plied her;Still the secret did she keep,Till at length he sank beside her,Seemed as he had dropped to sleep.
Soon was Helen laid in slumber,When her Paris, rising slow,Did his fair neck disencumberFrom her rounded arms of snow.
Then, her heedless fingers oping,Takes the key and steals away,To the ebon table groping,Where the wondrous casket lay;
Eagerly the lid uncloses,Sees within it, laid aslope,Pears’ Liquid Bloom of Roses,Cakes of hisTransparent Soap!
Lose thou no time! A grave and solemn warning,Yet seldom ta’en, to man’s eternal cost.Night wanes, day lessens, evening, noon, and morningFlit by unseen, and yet much time is lost.
And why? Are moments useless as the vapourThat rises from the lamp’s extinguish’d flame!Why do we, like the moth around the taper,Sport with the fire that must consume our frame?
Be wise in time! Arouse thee, oh thou sleeper,Account thy moments dearer than thy gold;While time thou hast, appoint a good time-keeperTo treasure up thine hours till thou art old.
Lose but this chance, and thou art lost for ever,—Seek him who keeps a watch for sinking souls—Ask forCox Savory’s Horizontal Lever,With double case, and jewell’d in four holes!
Gentle pair, ere Hymen binds youIn his fetters, soft but sure,Pray, bethink you, have you everHad substantial furniture?
Love’s a fickle god, they tell us,Giddy-pated, lightly led,Therefore it were well you found himIn a comfortable bed.
Olive branches soon will blossomRound your table, two or three;And that table should be made ofGood and strong mahogany.
If the cares of life should gather,And we all must look for cares,—Sorrow falls extremely lightlyIn the midst of rosewood chairs.
Few that walk can ’scape a stumble,Thus hath said The Prophet-King;But your fall will be a light oneOn Axminster carpeting.
We can keep your little childrenFrom collision with the grate—We have wardrobes, we have pressesAt a reasonable rate;
Mirrors for the queen of beautyBasins of the purest stone,Ottomans which CleopatraMight have envied on her throne.
Seek us ere you taste with raptureLove’s sweet draught of filter’d honey,And you’ll find the safest plan is,No Discount,and Ready Money!
Wants a place a lad, who’s seenPious life at brother Teazle’s,Used to cleaning boots, and beenTouch’d with grace, and had the measles.
* * * * *
Wants a place as housemaid, orCompanion to a bachelor,Up in years, and who’d preferA person with no character,A female, who in this respect,Would leave him nothing to object.
[Air—“The days we went a-gypsying.”]
I would all womankind were dead,Or banished o’er the sea;For they have been a bitter plagueThese last six weeks to me:It is not that I’m touched myself,For that I do not fear;No female face has shown me graceFor many a bygone year.But ’tis the most infernal bore,Of all the bores I know,To have a friend who’s lost his heartA short time ago.
Whene’er we steam it to Blackwall,Or down to Greenwich run,To quaff the pleasant cider-cup,And feed on fish and fun;Or climb the slopes of Richmond Hill,To catch a breath of air:Then, for my sins, he straight beginsTo rave about his fair.Oh, ’tis the most tremendous bore,Of all the bores I know,To have a friend who’s lost his heartA short time ago.
In vain you pour into his earYour own confiding grief;In vain you claim his sympathy,In vain you ask relief;In vain you try to rouse him byJoke, repartee, or quiz;His sole reply’s a burning sigh,And “What a mind it is!”O Lord! it is the greatest bore,Of all the bores I know,To have a friend who’s lost his heartA short time ago.
I’ve heard her thoroughly describedA hundred times, I’m sure;And all the while I’ve tried to smile,And patiently endure;He waxes strong upon his pangs,And potters o’er his grog;And still I say, in a playful way—“Why, you’re a lucky dog!”But oh! it is the heaviest bore,Of all the bores I know,To have a friend who’s lost his heartA short time ago.
I really wish he’d do like me,When I was young and strong;I formed a passion every week,But never kept it long.But he has not the sportive moodThat always rescued me,And so I would all women couldBe banished o’er the sea.For ’tis the most egregious bore,Of all the bores I know,To have a friend who’s lost his heartA short time ago.
to bon gaultier.
[Argument.—An impassioned pupil of Leigh Hunt, having met Bon Gaultier at a Fancy Ball, declares the destructive consequences thus.]
Didst thou not praise me, Gaultier, at the ball,Ripe lips, trim boddice, and a waist so small,With clipsome lightness, dwindling ever less,Beneath the robe of pea-y greeniness?Dost thou remember, when, with stately prance,Our heads went crosswise in the country-dance;How soft, warm fingers, tipped like buds of balm,Trembled within the squeezing of thy palm;And how a cheek grew flushed and peachy-wiseAt the frank lifting of thy cordial eyes?Ah, me! that night there was one gentle thing,Who, like a dove, with its scarce feathered wing,Fluttered at the approach of thy quaint swaggering!
There’s wont to be, at conscious times like these,An affectation of a bright-eyed ease,—A crispy cheekiness, if so I dareDescribe the swaling of a jaunty air;And thus, when swirling from the waltz’s wheel,You craved my hand to grace the next quadrille,That smiling voice, although it made me start,Boiled in the meek o’erlifting of my heart;And, picking at my flowers, I said, with freeAnd usual tone, “O yes, sir, certainly!”
Like one that swoons, ’twixt sweet amaze and fear,I heard the music burning in my ear,And felt I cared not, so thou wert with me,If Gurth or Wamba were our vis-à-vis.So, when a tall Knight Templar ringing came,And took his place amongst us with his dame,I neither turned away, nor bashful shrunkFrom the stern survey of the soldier-monk,Though rather more than three full quarters drunk;But, threading through the figure, first in rule,I paused to see thee plunge into La Poule.
Ah, what a sight was that! Not prurient Mars,Pointing his toe through ten celestial bars—Not young Apollo, beamily arrayedIn tripsome guise for Juno’s masquerade—Not smartest Hermes, with his pinion girth,Jerking with freaks and snatches down to earth,Looked half so bold, so beautiful, and strong,As thou, when pranking through the glittering throng!How the calmed ladies looked with eyes of loveOn thy trim velvet doublet laced above;The hem of gold, that, like a wavy river,Flowed down into thy back with glancing shiver!So bare was thy fine throat, and curls of black,So lightsomely dropped in thy lordly back,So crisply swaled the feather in thy bonnet,So glanced thy thigh, and spanning palm upon it,That my weak soul took instant flight to thee,Lost in the fondest gush of that sweet witchery!
But when the dance was o’er, and arm in arm(The full heart beating ’gainst the elbow warm)We passed into the great refreshment-hall,Where the heaped cheese-cakes and the comfits smallLay, like a hive of sunbeams, brought to burnAround the margin of the negus urn;When my poor quivering hand you fingered twice,And, with inquiring accents, whispered “Ice,Water, or cream?” I could no more dissemble,But dropped upon the couch all in a tremble.A swimming faintness misted o’er my brain,The corks seemed starting from the brisk champagne,The custards fell untouched upon the floor,Thine eyes met mine. That night we danced no more!
a legend of the bosphorus.
[from any of the annuals.]
How beauteous is the star of nightWithin the eastern skies,Like the twinkling glance of the Toorkman’s lance,Or the antelope’s azure eyes!A lamp of love in the heaven above,That star is fondly streaming;And the gay kiosk and the shadowy mosqueIn the Golden Horn are gleaming.
Young Leila sits in her jasmine bower,And she hears the bulbul sing,As it thrills its throat to the first full note,That anthems the flowery spring.She gazes still, as a maiden will,On that beauteous eastern star:You might see the throb of her bosom’s sobBeneath the white cymar!
She thinks of him who is far away,—Her own brave Galiongee,—Where the billows foam and the breezes roam,On the wild Carpathian sea.She thinks of the oath that bound them bothBeside the stormy water;And the words of love, that in Athens’ groveHe spake to the Cadi’s daughter.
“My Selim!” thus the maiden said,“Though severed thus we beBy the raging deep and the mountain steep,My soul still yearns to thee.Thy form so dear is mirrored hereIn my heart’s pellucid well,As the rose looks up to Phingari’s orb,Or the moth to the gay gazelle.
“I think of the time when the Kaftan’s crimeOur love’s young joys o’ertook,And thy name still floats in the plaintive notesOf my silver-toned chibouque.Thy hand is red with the blood it has shed,Thy soul it is heavy laden;Yet come, my Giaour, to thy Leila’s bower;Oh, come to thy Turkish maiden!”
A light step trod on the dewy sod,And a voice was in her ear,And an arm embraced young Leila’s waist—“Belovèd! I am here!”Like the phantom form that rules the storm,Appeared the pirate lover,And his fiery eye was like Zatanai,As he fondly bent above her.
“Speak, Leila, speak; for my light caïqueRides proudly in yonder bay;I have come from my rest to her I love best,To carry thee, love, away.The breast of thy lover shall shield thee, and coverMy own jemscheed from harm;Think’st thou I fear the dark vizier,Or the mufti’s vengeful arm?
“Then droop not, love, nor turn awayFrom this rude hand of mine!”And Leila looked in her lover’s eyes,And murmured—“I am thine!”But a gloomy man with a yataghan.Stole through the acacia-blossoms,And the thrust he made with his gleaming bladeHath pierced through both their bosoms.
“There! there! thou cursèd caitiff Giaour!There, there, thou false one, lie!”Remorseless Hassan stands above,And he smiles to see them die.They sleep beneath the fresh green turf,The lover and the lady—And the maidens wail to hear the taleOf the daughter of the Cadi!
Brothers, spare awhile your liquor, lay your final tumbler down;He has dropped—that star of honour—on the field of his renown!Raise the wail, but raise it softly, lowly bending on your knees,If you find it more convenient, you may hiccup if you please.Sons of Pantagruel, gently let your hip-hurrahing sink,Be your manly accents clouded, half with sorrow, half with drink!Lightly to the sofa pillow lift his head from off the floor;See, how calm he sleeps, unconscious as the deadest nail in door!Widely o’er the earth I’ve wandered; where the drink most freely flowed,I have ever reeled the foremost, foremost to the beaker strode.Deep in shady Cider Cellars I have dreamed o’er heavy wet,By the fountains of Damascus I have quaffed the rich sherbet,Regal Montepulciano drained beneath its native rock,On Johannis’ sunny mountain frequent hiccuped o’er my hock;I have bathed in butts of Xeres deeper than did e’er Monsoon,Sangaree’d with bearded Tartars in the Mountains of the Moon;In beer-swilling Copenhagen I have drunk your Danesman blind,I have kept my feet in Jena, when each bursch to earth declined;Glass for glass, in fierce Jamaica, I have shared the planter’s rum.Drunk with Highland dhuiné-wassails, till each gibbering Gael grew dumb;But a stouter, bolder drinker—one that loved his liquor more—Never yet did I encounter than our friend upon the floor!Yet the best of us are mortal, we to weakness all are heir,He has fallen who rarely staggered—let the rest of us beware!We shall leave him as we found him,—lying where his manhood fell,’Mong the trophies of the revel, for he took his tipple well.Better ’twere we loosed his neckcloth, laid his throat and bosom bare,Pulled his Hobies off, and turned his toes to taste the breezy air.Throw the sofa cover o’er him, dim the flaring of the gas,Calmly, calmly let him slumber, and, as by the bar we pass,We shall bid that thoughtful waiter place beside him, near and handy,Large supplies of soda-water, tumblers bottomed well with brandy,So, when waking, he shall drain them, with that deathless thirst of his,—Clinging to the hand that smote him, like a good ’un as he is!
by w--- h--- a---th,esq.
[“Methinks I see him already in the cart, sweeter and more lovely than the nosegay in his hand! I hear the crowd extolling his resolution and intrepidity! What volleys of sighs are sent from the windows of Holborn, that so comely a youth should be brought to disgrace! I see him at the tree! the whole circle are in tears! even butchers weep!”—Beggars Opera.]
A living sea of eager human faces,A thousand bosoms throbbing all as one,Walls, windows, balconies, all sorts of places,Holding their crowds of gazers to the sun:Through the hushed groups low-buzzing murmurs run;And on the air, with slow reluctant swell,Comes the dull funeral-boom of old Sepulchre’s bell.
Oh, joy in London now! in festal measureBe spent the evening of this festive day!For thee is opening now a high-strung pleasure;Now, even now, in yonder press-yard theyStrike from his limbs the fetters loose away!A little while, and he, the brave Duval,Will issue forth, serene, to glad and greet you all.
“Why comes he not? Say, wherefore doth he tarry?”Starts the inquiry loud from every tongue.“Surely,” they cry, “that tedious OrdinaryHis tedious psalms must long ere this have sung,—Tedious to him that’s waiting to be hung!”But hark! old Newgate’s doors fly wide apart.“He comes, he comes!” A thrill shoots through each gazer’s heart.
Joined in the stunning cry ten thousand voices,All Smithfield answered to the loud acclaim.“He comes, he comes!” and every breast rejoices,As down Snow Hill the shout tumultuous came,Bearing to Holborn’s crowd the welcome fame.“He comes, he comes!” and each holds back his breath—Some ribs are broke, and some few scores are crushed to death.
With step majestic to the cart advancesThe dauntless Claude, and springs into his seat.He feels that on him now are fixed the glancesOf many a Briton bold and maiden sweet,Whose hearts responsive to his glories beat.In him the honour of “The Road” is centred,And all the hero’s fire into his bosom entered.
His was the transport—his the exultationOf Rome’s great generals, when from afar,Up to the Capitol, in the ovation,They bore with them, in the triumphal car,Rich gold and gems, the spoils of foreign war.Io Triumphe! They forgot their clay.E’en so Duval, who rode in glory on his way.
His laced cravat, his kids of purest yellow,The many-tinted nosegay in his hand,His large black eyes, so fiery, yet so mellow,Like the old vintages of Spanish land,Locks clustering o’er a brow of high command,Subdue all hearts; and, as up Holborn’s steepToils the slow car of death, e’en cruel butchers weep.
He saw it, but he heeded not. His story,He knew, was graven on the page of Time.Tyburn to him was as a field of glory,Where he must stoop to death his head sublime,Hymned in full many an elegiac rhyme.He left his deeds behind him, and his name—For he, like Cæsar, had lived long enough for fame.
He quailed not, save when, as he raised the chalice,—St Giles’s bowl,—filled with the mildest ale,To pledge the crowd, on her—his beauteous Alice—His eye alighted, and his cheek grew pale.She, whose sweet breath was like the spicy gale,She, whom he fondly deemed his own dear girl,Stood with a tall dragoon, drinking long draughts of purl.
He bit his lip—it quivered but a moment—Then passed his hand across his flushing brows:He could have spared so forcible a commentUpon the constancy of woman’s vows.One short sharp pang his hero-soul allows;But in the bowl he drowned the stinging pain,And on his pilgrim course went calmly forth again.
A princely group of England’s noble daughtersStood in a balcony suffused with grief,Diffusing fragrance round them, of strong waters,And waving many a snowy handkerchief;Then glowed the prince of highwayman and thief!His soul was touched with a seraphic gleam—That woman could be false was but a mocking dream.
And now, his bright career of triumph ended,His chariot stood beneath the triple tree.The law’s grim finisher to its boughs ascended,And fixed the hempen bandages, while heBowed to the throng, then bade the cart go free.The car rolled on, and left him dangling there,Like famed Mohammed’s tomb, uphung midway in air.
As droops the cup of the surchargèd lilyBeneath the buffets of the surly storm,Or the soft petals of the daffodilly,When Sirius is uncomfortably warm,So drooped his head upon his manly form,While floated in the breeze his tresses brown.He hung the stated time, and then they cut him down.
With soft and tender care the trainbands bore him,Just as they found him, nightcap, robe, and all,And placed this neat though plain inscription o’er him,Among the atomies in Surgeons’ Hall:“These are the Bones of the Renowned Duval!”There still they tell us, from their glassy case,He was the last, the best of all that noble race!
by the honourable sinjin muff.
The minarets wave on the plain of Stamboul,And the breeze of the evening blows freshly and cool;The voice of the musnud is heard from the west,And kaftan and kalpac have gone to their rest.The notes of the kislar re-echo no more,And the waves of Al Sirat fall light on the shore.
Where art thou, my beauty; where art thou, my bride?Oh, come and repose by thy dragoman’s side!I wait for thee still by the flowery tophaik—I have broken my Eblis for Zuleima’s sake.But the heart that adores thee is faithful and true,Though it beats ’neath the folds of a Greek Allah-hu!
Oh, wake thee, my dearest! the muftis are still,And the tschocadars sleep on the Franguestan hill;No sullen aleikoum—no derveesh is here,And the mosques are all watching by lonely Kashmere!Oh, come in the gush of thy beauty so full,I have waited for thee, my adored attar-gul!
I see thee—I hear thee—thy antelope footTreads lightly and soft on the velvet cheroot;The jewelled amaun of thy zemzem is bare,And the folds of thy palampore wave in the air.Come, rest on the bosom that loves thee so well,My dove! my phingari! my gentle gazelle!
Nay, tremble not, dearest! I feel thy heart throb,’Neath the sheltering shroud of thy snowy kiebaub;Lo, there shines Muezzin, the beautiful star!Thy lover is with thee, and danger afar:Say, is it the glance of the haughty vizier,Or the bark of the distant effendi, you fear?
Oh, swift fly the hours in the garden of bliss!And sweeter than balm of Gehenna thy kiss!Wherever I wander—wherever I roam,My spirit flies back to its beautiful home;It dwells by the lake of the limpid Stamboul,With thee, my adored one! my own attar-gul![269]
When folks, with headstrong passion blind,To play the fool make up their mind,They’re sure to come with phrases niceAnd modest air, for your advice.But as a truth unfailing make it,They ask, but never mean to take it.’Tis not advice they want, in fact,But confirmation in their act.Now mark what did, in such a case,A worthy priest who knew the race.
A dame more buxom, blithe, and free,Than Fredegonde you scarce would see.So smart her dress, so trim her shape,Ne’er hostess offered juice of grape,Could for her trade wish better sign;Her looks gave flavour to her wine,And each guest feels it, as he sips,Smack of the ruby of her lips.A smile for all, a welcome glad,—A jovial coaxing way she had;And,—what was more her fate than blame,—A nine months’ widow was our dame.But toil was hard, for trade was good,And gallants sometimes will be rude.“And what can a lone woman do?The nights are long and eerie too.Now, Guillot there’s a likely man,None better draws or taps a can;He’s just the man, I think, to suit,If I could bring my courage to’t.”With thoughts like these her mind is crossed:The dame, they say, who doubts, is lost.“But then the risk? I’ll beg a sliceOf Father Haulin’s good advice.”
Prankt in her best, with looks demure,She seeks the priest; and, to be sure,Asks if he thinks she ought to wed:“With such a business on my head,I’m worried off my legs with care,And need some help to keep things square.I’ve thought of Guillot, truth to tell!He’s steady, knows his business well.What do you think?” When thus he met her:“Oh, take him, dear, you can’t do better!”“But then the danger, my good pastor,If of the man I make the master.There is no trusting to these men.”“Well, well, my dear, don’t have him, then!”“But help I must have; there’s the curse.I may go farther and fare worse.”“Why, take him, then!” “But if he shouldTurn out a thankless ne’er-do-good—In drink and riot waste my all,And rout me out of house and hall?”“Don’t have him, then! But I’ve a planTo clear your doubts, if any can.The bells a peal are ringing,—hark!Go straight, and what they tell you mark.If they say ‘Yes!’ wed, and be blest—If ‘No,’ why—do as you think best.”
The bells rang out a triple bob:Oh, how our widow’s heart did throb,As thus she heard their burden go,“Marry, mar-marry, mar-Guillot!”Bells were not then left to hang idle:A week,—and they rang for her bridal.But, woe the while, they might as wellHave rung the poor dame’s parting knell.The rosy dimples left her cheek,She lost her beauties plump and sleek;For Guillot oftener kicked than kissed,And backed his orders with his fist,Proving by deeds as well as wordsThat servants make the worst of lords.
She seeks the priest, her ire to wreak,And speaks as angry women speak,With tiger looks and bosom swelling,Cursing the hour she took his telling.To all, his calm reply was this,—“I fear you’ve read the bells amiss:If they have lead you wrong in aught,Your wish, not they, inspired the thought.Just go, and mark well what they say.”Off trudged the dame upon her way,And sure enough their chime went so,—“Don’t have that knave, that knave Guillot!”
“Too true,” she cried, “there’s not a doubt:What could my ears have been about?”She had forgot, that, as fools think,The bell is ever sure to clink.
I’m weary, and sick, and disgustedWith Britain’s mechanical din;Where I’m much too well known to be trusted,And plaguily pestered for tin;Where love has two eyes for your banker,And one chilly glance for yourself;Where souls can afford to be franker,But when they’re well garnished with pelf.
I’m sick of the whole race of poets,Emasculate, misty, and fine;They brew their small-beer, and don’t know itsDistinction from full-bodied wine.I’m sick of the prosers, that house upAt drowsy St Stephen’s,—ain’t you?I want some strong spirits to rouse upA good revolution or two!
I’m sick of a land, where each morrowRepeats the dull tale of to-day,Where you can’t even find a new sorrowTo chase your stale pleasures away.I’m sick of blue-stockings horrific,Steam, railroads, gas, scrip, and consols;So I’ll off where the golden PacificRound Islands of Paradise rolls.
There the passions shall revel unfettered,And the heart never speak but in truth,And the intellect, wholly unlettered,Be bright with the freedom of youth!There the earth can rejoice in her blossoms,Unsullied by vapour or soot,And there chimpanzees and opossumsShall playfully pelt me with fruit.
There I’ll sit with my dark Orianas,In groves by the murmuring sea,And they’ll give, as I suck the bananas,Their kisses, nor ask them from me.They’ll never torment me for sonnets,Nor bore me to death with their own;They’ll ask not for shawls nor for bonnets,For milliners there are unknown.
There my couch shall be earth’s freshest flowers,My curtains the night and the stars,And my spirit shall gather new powers,Uncramped by conventional bars.Love for love, truth for truth ever giving,My days shall be manfully sped;I shall know that I’m loved while I’m living,And be wept by fond eyes when I’m dead!
[Why has Satan’s own Laureate never given to the world his marvellous threnody on the “Death of Space”? Who knows where the bays might have fallen, had he forwarded that mystic manuscript to the Home Office? If unwonted modesty withholds it from the public eye, the public will pardon the boldness that tears from blushing obscurity the following fragments of this unique poem.]
Eternity shall raise her funeral-pileIn the vast dungeon of the extinguished sky,And, clothed in dim barbaric splendour, smile,And murmur shouts of elegiac joy.
While those that dwell beyond the realms of space,And those that people all that dreary void,When old Time’s endless heir hath run his race,Shall live for aye, enjoying and enjoyed.
And ’mid the agony of unsullied bliss,Her Demogorgon’s doom shall Sin bewail,The undying serpent at the spheres shall hiss,And lash the empyrean with his tail.
And Hell, inflated with supernal wrath,Shall open wide her thunder-bolted jaws,And shout into the dull cold ear of Death,That he must pay his debt to Nature’s laws.
And when the King of Terrors breathes his last,Infinity shall creep into her shell,Cause and effect shall from their thrones be cast,And end their strife with suicidal yell:
While from their ashes, burnt with pomp of kings,’Mid incense floating to the evanished skies,Nonenity, on circumambient wings,An everlasting Phœnix shall arise.
Lightsome, brightsome, cousin mine,Easy, breezy Caroline!With thy locks all raven-shaded,From thy merry brow up-braided,And thine eyes of laughter full,Brightsome cousin mine!Thou in chains of love hast bound me—Wherefore dost thou flit around me,Laughter-loving Caroline?
When I fain would go to sleepIn my easy-chair,Wherefore on my slumbers creep—Wherefore start me from repose,Tickling of my hookèd nose,Pulling of my hair?Wherefore, then, if thou dost love me,So to words of anger move me,Corking of this face of mine,Tricksy cousin Caroline?
When a sudden sound I hear,Much my nervous system suffers,Shaking through and through.Cousin Caroline, I fear,’Twas no other, now, but you,Put gunpowder in the snuffers,Springing such a mine!Yes, it was your tricksy self,Wicked-trickèd little elf,Naughty Caroline!
Pins she sticks into my shoulder,Places needles in my chair,And, when I begin to scold her,Tosses back her combèd hair,With so saucy-vexed an air,That the pitying beholderCannot brook that I should scold her:Then again she comes, and bolder,Blacks anew this face of mine,Artful cousin Caroline!
Would she only say she’d love me,Winsome, tinsome Caroline,Unto such excess ’twould move me,Teazing, pleasing, cousin mine!That she might the live-long dayUndermine the snuffer-tray,Tickle still my hookèd nose,Startle me from calm reposeWith her pretty persecution;Throw the tongs against my shins,Run me through and through with pins,Like a piercèd cushion;Would she only say she’d love me,Darning-needles should not move me;But, reclining back, I’d say,“Dearest! there’s the snuffer-tray;Pinch, O pinch those legs of mine!Cork me, cousin Caroline!”
found in my emporium of love-tokens.
Sweet flower, that with thy soft blue eyeDidst once look up in shady spot,To whisper to the passer-byThose tender words—Forget-me-not!
Though withered now, thou art to meThe minister of gentle thought,—And I could weep to gaze on thee,Love’s faded pledge—Forget-me-not!
Thou speak’st of hours when I was young,And happiness arose unsought;When she, the whispering woods among,Gave me thy bloom—Forget-me-not!
That rapturous hour with that dear maidFrom memory’s page no time shall blot,When, yielding to my kiss, she said,“Oh, Theodore—Forget me not!”
Alas for love! alas for truth!Alas for man’s uncertain lot!Alas for all the hopes of youthThat fade like thee—Forget-me-not!
Alas for that one image fair,With all my brightest dreams inwrought!That walks beside me everywhere,Still whispering—Forget-me-not!
Oh, Memory! thou art but a sighFor friendships dead and loves forgot,And many a cold and altered eyeThat once did say—Forget-me-not!
And I must bow me to thy laws,For—odd although it may be thought—I can’t tell who the deuce it wasThat gave me this Forget-me-not!
Once I lay beside a fountain,Lulled me with its gentle song,And my thoughts o’er dale and mountainWith the clouds were borne along.
There I saw old castles flingingShadowy gleams on moveless seas,Saw gigantic forests swingingTo and fro without a breeze;
And in dusky alleys straying,Many a giant shape of power,Troops of nymphs in sunshine playing,Singing, dancing, hour on hour.
I, too, trod these plains Elysian,Heard their ringing tones of mirth,But a brighter, fairer visionCalled me back again to earth.
From the forest shade advancing,See, where comes a lovely May;The dew, like gems, before her glancing,As she brushes it away!
Straight I rose, and ran to meet her,Seized her hand—the heavenly blueOf her eyes smiled brighter, sweeter,As she asked me—“Who are you?”
To that question came another—What its aim I still must doubt—And she asked me, “How’s your mother?Does she know that you are out?”
“No! my mother does not know it,Beauteous, heaven-descended muse!”“Then be off, my handsome poet,And say I sent you with the news!”
“Why art thou weeping, sister?Why is thy cheek so pale?Look up, dear Jane, and tell meWhat is it thou dost ail?
“I know thy will is froward,Thy feelings warm and keen,And thatthatAugustus HowardFor weeks has not been seen.
“I know how much you loved him;But I know thou dost not weepFor him;—for though his passion be,His purse is noways deep.
“Then tell me why those tear-drops?What means this woeful moodSay, has the tax-collectorBeen calling, and been rude?
“Or has that hateful grocer,The slave! been here to-day?Of course he had, by morrow’s noon,A heavy bill to pay!
“Come, on thy brother’s bosomUnburden all thy woes;Look up, look up, sweet sister;Nay, sob not through thy nose.”
“Oh, John, ’tis not the grocerOr his account, althoughHow ever he is to be paidI really do not know.
“’Tis not the tax-collector;Though by his fell commandThey’ve seized our old paternal clock,And new umbrella-stand!
“Nor that Augustus Howard,Whom I despise almost,—But the soot’s come down the chimney, John,And fairly spoilt the roast!”
“Wherefore starts my bosom’s lord?Why this anguish in thine eye?Oh, it seems as thy heart’s chordHad broken with that sigh!
“Rest thee, my dear lord, I pray,Rest thee on my bosom now!And let me wipe the dews away,Are gathering on thy brow.
“There, again! that fevered start!What, love! husband! is thy pain?There is a sorrow on thy heart,A weight upon thy brain!
“Nay, nay, that sickly smile can ne’erDeceive affection’s searching eye;’Tis a wife’s duty, love, to shareHer husband’s agony.
“Since the dawn began to peep,Have I lain with stifled breath;Heard thee moaning in thy sleep,As thou wert at grips with death.
“Oh, what joy it was to seeMy gentle lord once more awake!Tell me, what is amiss with thee?Speak, or my heart will break!”
“Mary, thou angel of my life,Thou ever good and kind;’Tis not, believe me, my dear wife,The anguish of the mind!
“It is not in my bosom, dear,No, nor my brain, in sooth;But Mary, oh, I feel it here,Here in my wisdom tooth!
“Then give,—oh, first best antidote,—Sweet partner of my bed!Give me thy flannel petticoatTo wrap around my head!”
“Brother, thou art very weary,And thine eye is sunk and dim,And thy neckcloth’s tie is crumpled,And thy collar out of trim;There is dust upon thy visage,—Think not, Charles, I would hurt ye,When I say, that altogetherYou appear extremely dirty.
“Frown not, brother, now, but hie theeTo thy chamber’s distant room;Drown the odours of the ledgerWith the lavender’s perfume.Brush the mud from off thy trousers,O’er the china basin kneel,Lave thy brows in water softenedWith the soap of Old Castile.
“Smooth the locks that o’er thy foreheadNow in loose disorder stray;Pare thy nails, and from thy whiskersCut those ragged points away;Let no more thy calculationsThy bewildered brain beset;Life has other hopes than Cocker’s,Other joys than tare and tret.
“Haste thee, for I ordered dinner,Waiting to the very last,Twenty minutes after seven,And ’tis now the quarter past.’Tis a dinner which LucullusWould have wept with joy to see,One, might wake the soul of CurtisFrom death’s drowsy atrophy.
“There is soup of real turtle,Turbot, and the dainty sole;And the mottled roe of lobstersBlushes through the butter-bowl.There the lordly haunch of mutton,Tender as the mountain grass,Waits to mix its ruddy juicesWith the girdling caper-sauce.
“There a stag, whose branching foreheadSpoke him monarch of the herds,He whose flight was o’er the heatherSwift as through the air the bird’s,Yields for thee a dish of cutlets;And the haunch that wont to dashO’er the roaring mountain-torrent,Smokes in most delicious hash.
“There, besides, are amber jelliesFloating like a golden dream;Ginger from the far Bermudas,Dishes of Italian cream;And a princely apple-dumpling,Which my own fair fingers wrought,Shall unfold its nectared treasuresTo thy lips all smoking hot.
“Ha! I see thy brow is clearing,Lustre flashes from thine eyes;To thy lips I see the moistureOf anticipation rise.Hark! the dinner-bell is sounding!”“Only wait one moment, Jane:I’ll be dressed, and down, before youCan get up the iced champagne!”