They both were husht, the voice, the chords,—I heard but once that witching lay;And few the notes, and few the words.My spell-bound memory brought away;
Traces, remembered here and there,Like echoes of some broken strain;—Links of a sweetness lost in air,That nothing now could join again.
Even these, too, ere the morning, fled;And, tho' the charm still lingered on,That o'er each sense her song had shed,The song itself was faded, gone;—
Gone, like the thoughts that once were ours,On summer days, ere youth had set;Thoughts bright, we know, as summer flowers,Tho'whatthey were we now forget.
In vain with hints from other strainsI wooed this truant air to come—As birds are taught on eastern plainsTo lure their wilder kindred home.
In vain:—the song that Sappho gave,In dying, to the mournful sea,Not muter slept beneath the waveThan this within my memory.
At length, one morning, as I layIn that half-waking mood when dreamsUnwillingly at last gave wayTo the full truth of daylight's beams,
A face—the very face, methought,From which had breathed, as from a shrineOf song and soul, the notes I sought—Came with its music close to mine;
And sung the long-lost measure o'er,—Each note and word, with every toneAnd look, that lent it life before,—All perfect, all again my own!
Like parted souls, when, mid the BlestThey meet again, each widowed soundThro' memory's realm had winged in questOf its sweet mate, till all were found.
Nor even in waking did the clew,Thus strangely caught, escape again;For never lark its matins knewSo well as now I knew this strain.
And oft when memory's wondrous spellIs talked of in our tranquil bower,I sing this lady's song, and tellThe vision of that morning hour.
[1] In these stanzas I have done little more than relate a fact in verse; and the lady, whose singing gave rise to this curious instance of the power of memory in sleep, is Mrs. Robert Arkwright.
Where is the heart that would not giveYears of drowsy days and nights,One little hour, like this, to live—Full, to the brim, of life's delights?Look, look around,This fairy ground,With love-lights glittering o'er;While cups that shineWith freight divineGo coasting round its shore.
Hope is the dupe of future hours,Memory lives in those gone by;Neither can see the moment's flowersSpringing up fresh beneath the eye,Wouldst thou, or thou,Forego what'snow,For all that Hope may say?No—Joy's reply,From every eye,Is, "Live we while we may,"
haud curat Hippoclides.ERASM.Adag.
To those we love we've drank tonight;But now attend and stare not,While I the ampler list reciteOf those for whom WE CARE NOT.
For royal men, howe'er they frown,If on their fronts they bear notThat noblest gem that decks a crown,The People's Love—WE CARE NOT.
For slavish men who bend beneathA despot yoke, yet dare notPronounce the will whose very breathWould rend its links—WE CARE NOT.
For priestly men who covet swayAnd wealth, tho' they declare not;Who point, like finger-posts, the wayThey never go—WE CARE NOT.
For martial men who on their sword,Howe'er it conquers, wear notThe pledges of a soldier's word,Redeemed and pure—WE CARE NOT.
For legal men who plead for wrong.And, tho' to lies they swear not,Are hardly better than the throngOf those who do—WE CARE NOT.
For courtly men who feed uponThe land, like grubs, and spare notThe smallest leaf where they can sunTheir crawling limbs—WE CARE NOT.
For wealthy men who keep their minesIn darkness hid, and share notThe paltry ore with him who pinesIn honest want—WE CARE NOT.
For prudent men who hold the powerOf Love aloof, and bare notTheir hearts in any guardless hourTo Beauty's shaft—WE CARE NOT.
For all, in short, on land or sea,In camp or court, whoarenot,Who neverwere, or e'erwillbeGood men and true—WE CARE NOT.
"Histoire d'Anne Boleyn."
"S'elle estoit belle et de taille élégante,Estoit des yeulx encor plus attirante,Lesquelz sçavoit bien conduyre à proposEn les lenant quelquefoys en repos;Aucune foys envoyant en messagePorter du cueur le secret tesmoignage."
Much as her form seduced the sight,Her eyes could even more surely woo;And when and how to shoot their lightInto men's hearts full well she knew.For sometimes in repose she hidTheir rays beneath a downcast lid;And then again, with wakening air,Would send their sunny glances out,Like heralds of delight, to bearHer heart's sweet messages about.
Nell ora, credo, che dell'orientePrima raggio nel monte Citerea,Che di fuoco d'amor par sempre dente,Giovane e bella in sogno mi pareaDonna vedere andar per una landaCogliendo flori; e cantando dicea ;—Sappia qualunque'l mio nome dimanda,Ch'io mi son Lia, e vo movendo 'ntornoLe belle mani a farmi una ghirlanda—Per piacermi allo specchio qui m'adorno;Ma mia suora Rachel mai non si smagaDal suo ammiraglio, e siede tutto il giorno.
Ell' è de'suoi begli occhi veder vaga,Com' io dell'adornarmi con le mani;Lei lo vodere e me l'ovrare appaga.
DANTE,Purg. Canto xxvii.
'Twas eve's soft hour, and bright, above.The star of beauty beamed,While lulled by light so full of love,In slumber thus I dreamed—Methought, at that sweet hour,A nymph came o'er the lea,Who, gathering many a flower,Thus said and sung to me:—"Should any ask what Leila loves,"Say thou, To wreathe her hair"With flowerets culled from glens and groves,"Is Leila's only care.
"While thus in quest of flowers rare,"O'er hill and dale I roam,"My sister, Rachel, far more fair,"Sits lone and mute at home."Before her glass untiring,"With thoughts that never stray,"Her own bright eyes admiring,"She sits the live-long day;"While I!—oh, seldom even a look"Of self salutes my eye;"My only glass, the limpid brook,"That shines and passes by."
The dance was o'er, yet still in dreamsThat fairy scene went on;Like clouds still flusht with daylight gleamsTho' day itself is gone.And gracefully to music's sound,The same bright nymphs were gliding round;While thou, the Queen of all, wert there—The Fairest still, where all were fair.The dream then changed—in halls of state,I saw thee high enthroned;While, ranged around, the wise, the great,In thee their mistress owned;And still the same, thy gentle swayO'er willing subjects won its way—Till all confest the Right DivineTo rule o'er man was only thine!
But, lo, the scene now changed again—And borne on plumed steed,I saw thee o'er the battle-plainOur land's defenders lead:And stronger in thy beauty's charms,Than man, with countless hosts in arms,Thy voice, like music, cheered the Free,Thy very smile was victory!
Nor reign such queens on thrones alone—In cot and court the same,Wherever woman's smile is known,Victoria's still her name.For tho' she almost blush to reign,Tho' Love's own flowerets wreath the chain,Disguise our bondage as we will,'Tis woman, woman, rules us still.
Come, play me that simple air again,I used so to love, in life's young day,And bring, if thou canst, the dreams that thenWere wakened by that sweet layThe tender gloom its strainShed o'er the heart and browGrief's shadow without its pain—Say where, where is it now?But play me the well-known air once more,For thoughts of youth still haunt its strainLike dreams of some far, fairy shoreWe never shall see again.
Sweet air, how every note brings backSome sunny hope, some daydream bright,That, shining o'er life's early track,Filled even its tears with light.The new-found life that cameWith love's first echoed vow;—The fear, the bliss, the shame—Ah—where, where are they now?But, still the same loved notes prolong,For sweet 'twere thus, to that old lay,In dreams of youth and love and song,To breathe life's hour away.
(1827.)
Far as the sight can reach, beneath as clearAnd blue a heaven as ever blest this sphere,Gardens and pillared streets and porphyry domesAnd high-built temples, fit to be the homesOf mighty gods, and pyramids whose hourOutlasts all time, above the waters tower!
Then, too, the scenes of pomp and joy that makeOne theatre of this vast peopled lake,Where all that Love, Religion, Commerce givesOf life and motion, ever moves and lives,Here, up in the steps of temples, from the waveAscending, in procession slow and grave,Priests in white garments go, with sacred wandsAnd silver cymbals gleaming in their hands:While there, rich barks—fresh from those sunny tractsFar off, beyond the sounding cataracts—Glide with their precious lading to the sea,Plumes of bright birds, rhinoceros' ivory,Gems from the isle of Meroë, and those grainsOf gold, washed down by Abyssinian rains.
Here, where the waters wind into a bayShadowy and cool, some pilgrims on their wayTo Saïs or Bubastus, among bedsOf lotos flowers that close above their heads,Push their light barks, and hid as in a bowerSing, talk, or sleep away the sultry hour,While haply, not far off, beneath a bankOf blossoming acacias, many a prankIs played in the cool current by a trainOf laughing nymphs, lovely as she whose chainAround two conquerors of the world was cast;But, for a third too feeble, broke at last.
Drink of this cup—Osiris sipsThe same in his halls below;And the same he gives, to cool the lipsOf the dead, who downward go.
Drink of this cup—the water withinIs fresh from Lethe's stream;'Twill make the past, with all its sin,And all its pain and sorrows, seemLike a long forgotten dream;The pleasure, whose charmsAre steeped in woe;The knowledge, that harmsThe soul to know;
The hope, that brightAs the lake of the waste,Allures the sightAnd mocks the taste;
The love, that bindsIts innocent wreath,Where the serpent windsIn venom beneath!—
All that of evil or false, by theeHath ever been known or seen,Shalt melt away in this cup, and beForgot as it never had been!
Drink of this cup—when Isis ledHer boy of old to the beaming sky,She mingled a draught divine and said.—"Drink of this cup, thou'lt never die!"
Thus do I say and sing to thee.Heir of that boundless heaven on high,Though frail and fallen and lost thou be,"Drink of this cup, thou'lt never die!"
* * * * *
And Memory, too, with her dreams shall come,Dreams of a former, happier day,When heaven was still the spirit's home,And her wings had not yet fallen away.
Glimpses of glory ne'er forgot,That tell, like gleams on a sunset sea,What once hath been, what now is not.But oh! what again shall brightly be!"
O Abyssinian tree,We pray, we pray to thee;By the glow of thy golden fruitAnd the violet hue of the flower,And the greeting muteOf thy boughs' saluteTo the stranger who seeks thy bow.
O Abyssinian tree!How the traveller blesses theeWhen the light no moon allows,And the sunset hour is near,And thou bend'st thy boughsTo kiss his brows.Saying, "Come, rest thee here."O Abyssinian tree!Thus bow thy head to me!
For the groundwork of the following Poem I am indebted to a memorable Fête, given some years since, at Boyle Farm, the seat of the late Lord Henry Fitzgerald. In commemoration of that evening—of which the lady to whom these pages are inscribed was, I well recollect, one of the most distinguished ornaments—I was induced at the time to write some verses, which were afterwards, however, thrown aside unfinished, on my discovering that the same task had been undertaken by a noble poet,[1] whose playful and happyjeu d'espriton the subject has since been published. It was but lately, that, on finding the fragments of my own sketch among my papers, I thought of founding on them such a description of an imaginary Fête as might furnish me with situations for the introduction of music.
Such is the origin and object of the following Poem, and to MRS. NORTON it is, with every feeling of admiration and regard, inscribed by her father's warmly attached friend,
Sloperton Cottage,
November 1881
[1] Lord Francis Egerton.
"Where are ye now, ye summer days,"That once inspired the poet's lays?"Blest time! ere England's nymphs and swains,"For lack of sunbeams, took to coals—"Summers of light, undimmed by rains,"Whose only mocking trace remains"In watering-pots and parasols."
Thus spoke a young Patrician maid,As, on the morning of that FêteWhich bards unborn shall celebrate,She backward drew her curtain's shade,And, closing one half-dazzled eye,Peeped with the other at the sky—The important sky, whose light or gloomWas to decide, this day, the doomOf some few hundred beauties, wits,Blues, Dandies, Swains, and Exquisites.
Faint were her hopes; for June had nowSet in with all his usual rigor!Young Zephyr yet scarce knowing howTo nurse a bud, or fan a bough,But Eurus in perpetual vigor;And, such the biting summer air,That she, the nymph now nestling there—Snug as her own bright gems reclineAt night within their cotton shrine—Had more than once been caught of lateKneeling before her blazing grate,Like a young worshipper of fire,With hands uplifted to the flame,Whose glow as if to woo them nigher.Thro' the white fingers flushing came.
But oh! the light, the unhoped-for light,That now illumed this morning's heaven!Up sprung Iänthe at the sight,Tho'—hark!—the clocks but strike eleven,And rarely did the nymph surpriseMankind so early with her eyes.Who now will say that England's sun(Like England's self, these spendthrift days)His stock of wealth hath near outrun,And must retrench his golden rays—Pay for the pride of sunbeams past,And to mere moonshine come at last?
"Calumnious thought!" Iänthe cries,While coming mirth lit up each glance,And, prescient of the ball, her eyesAlready had begun to dance:For brighter sun than that which nowSparkled o'er London's spires and towers,Had never bent from heaven his browTo kiss Firenze's City of Flowers.
What must it be—if thus so fair.Mid the smoked groves of Grosvenor Square—What must it be where Thames is seenGliding between his banks of green,While rival villas, on each side,Peep from their bowers to woo his tide,And, like a Turk between two rowsOf Harem beauties, on he goes—A lover, loved for even the graceWith which he slides from their embrace.
In one of those enchanted domes,One, the most flowery, cool, and brightOf all by which that river roams,The Fête is to be held to-night—That Fête already linked to fame,Whose cards, in many a fair one's sight(When looked for long, at last they came,)Seemed circled with a fairy light;—That Fête to which the cull, the flowerOf England's beauty, rank and power,From the young spinster, just comeout,To the old Premier, too longin—From legs of far descended gout,To the last new-mustachioed chin—All were convoked by Fashion's spellsTo the small circle where she dwells,Collecting nightly, to allure us,Live atoms, which, together hurled,She, like another Epicurus,Sets dancing thus, and calls "the World."
Behold how busy in those bowers(Like May-flies in and out of flowers.)The countless menials, swarming run,To furnish forth ere set of sunThe banquet-table richly laidBeneath yon awning's lengthened shade,Where fruits shall tempt and wines entice,And Luxury's self, at Gunter's call,Breathe from her summer-throne of iceA spirit of coolness over all.
And now the important hour drew nigh,When, 'neath the flush of evening's sky,The west-end "world" for mirth let loose,And moved, as he of Syracuse[1]Ne'er dreamt of moving worlds, by forceOf four horse power, had all combinedThro' Grosvenor Gate to speed their course,Leaving that portion of mankind,Whom they call "Nobody," behind;No star for London's feasts to-day,No moon of beauty, new this May,To lend the night her crescent ray;—Nothing, in short, for ear or eye,But veteran belles and wits gone by,The relics of a past beau-monde,A world like Cuvier's, long dethroned!Even Parliament this evening nodsBeneath the harangues of minor Gods,On half its usual opiate's share;The great dispensers of repose,The first-rate furnishers of proseBeing all called to—prose elsewhere.
Soon as thro' Grosvenor's lordly square—That last impregnable redoubt,Where, guarded with Patrician care,Primeval Error still holds out—Where never gleam of gas must dare'Gainst ancient Darkness to revolt,Nor smooth Macadam hope to spareThe dowagers one single jolt;—Where, far too stately and sublimeTo profit by the lights of time,Let Intellect march how it will,They stick to oil and watchman still:—Soon as thro' that illustrious squareThe first epistolary bell.Sounding by fits upon the air,Of parting pennies rung the knell;Warned by that tell-tale of the hours,And by the day-light's westering beam,The young Iänthe, who, with flowersHalf crowned, had sat in idle dreamBefore her glass, scarce knowing whereHer fingers roved thro' that bright hair,While, all capriciously, she nowDislodged some curl from her white brow,And now again replaced it there:—As tho' her task was meant to beOne endless change of ministry—A routing-up of Loves and Graces,But to plant others in their places.
Meanwhile—what strain is that which floatsThro' the small boudoir near—like notesOf some young bird, its task repeatingFor the next linnet music-meeting?A voice it was, whose gentle soundsStill kept a modest octave's bounds,Nor yet had ventured to exaltIts rash ambition toB alt,That point towards which when ladies rise,The wise man takes his hat and—flies.Tones of a harp, too, gently played,Came with this youthful voice communing;Tones true, for once, without the aidOf that inflictive process, tuning—A process which must oft have givenPoor Milton's ears a deadly wound;So pleased, among the joys of Heaven,He specifies "harpsevertuned."She who now sung this gentle strainWas our young nymph's still younger sister—Scarce ready yet for Fashion's trainIn their light legions to enlist her,But counted on, as sure to bringHer force into the field next spring.
The song she thus, like Jubal's shell,Gave forth "so sweetly and so well,"Was one in Morning Post much famed,From adivinecollection, named,"Songs of the Toilet"—every LayTaking for subject of its Muse,Some branch of feminine array,Some item, with full scope, to choose,From diamonds down to dancing shoes;From the last hat that Herbault's handsBequeathed to an admiring world,Down to the latest flounce that standsLike Jacob's Ladder—or expandsFar forth, tempestuously unfurled.
Speaking of one of these new Lays,The Morning Post thus sweetly says:—"Not all that breathes from Bishop's lyre,"That Barnett dreams, or Cooke conceives,"Can match for sweetness, strength, or fire,"This fine Cantata upon Sleeves."The very notes themselves reveal"The cut of each new sleeve so well;"Aflatbetrays theImbécilles,[2]"Light fugues the flying lappets tell;"While rich cathedral chords awake'Our homage for theManches d'Évêque."
'Twas the first opening song the LayOf all least deep in toilet-lore,That the young nymph, to while awayThe tiring-hour, thus warbled o'er:—
Array thee, love, array thee, love,In all thy best array thee;The sun's below—the moon's above—And Night and Bliss obey thee.Put on thee all that's bright and rare,The zone, the wreath, the gem,Not so much gracing charms so fair,As borrowing grace from them.Array thee, love, array thee, love,In all that's bright array thee;The sun's below—the moon's above—And Night and Bliss obey thee.
Put on the plumes thy lover gave.The plumes, that, proudly dancing,Proclaim to all, where'er they wave,Victorious eyes advancing.Bring forth the robe whose hue of heavenFrom thee derives such light,That Iris would give all her sevenTo boast butoneso bright.Array thee, love, array thee, love, etc.
Now hie thee, love, now hie thee, love,Thro' Pleasure's circles hie thee.And hearts, where'er thy footsteps move,Will beat when they come nigh thee.Thy every word shall be a spell,Thy every look a ray,And tracks of wondering eyes shall tellThe glory of thy way!Now hie thee, love, now hie thee, love,Thro' Pleasure's circles hie thee,And hearts, where'er thy footsteps move,Shall beat when they come nigh thee.
* * * * *
Now in his Palace of the West,Sinking to slumber, the bright Day,Like a tired monarch fanned to rest,Mid the cool airs of Evening lay;While round his couch's golden rimThe gaudy clouds, like courtiers, crept—Struggling each other's light to dim,And catch his last smile e'er he slept.How gay, as o'er the gliding ThamesThe golden eve its lustre poured,Shone out the high-born knights and damesNow grouped around that festal board;A living mass of plumes and flowers.As tho' they'd robbed both birds and bowers—A peopled rainbow, swarming thro'With habitants of every hue;While, as the sparkling juice of FranceHigh in the crystal brimmers flowed,Each sunset ray that mixt by chanceWith the wine's sparkles, showedHow sunbeams may be taught to dance.If not in written form exprest,'Twas known at least to every guest,That, tho' not bidden to paradeTheir scenic powers in masquerade,(A pastime little found to thriveIn the bleak fog of England's skies,Where wit's the thing we best contrive,As masqueraders, todisguise,)It yet was hoped-and well that hopeWas answered by the young and gay—That in the toilet's task to-dayFancy should take her wildest scope;—That the rapt milliner should beLet loose thro fields of poesy,The tailor, in inventive trance,Up to the heights of Epic clamber,And all the regions of RomanceBe ransackt by thefemme de chambre.
Accordingly, with gay Sultanas,Rebeccas, Sapphos, Roxalanas—Circassian slaves whom Love would payHalf his maternal realms to ransom;—Young nuns, whose chief religion layIn looking most profanely handsome;—Muses in muslin-pastoral maidsWith hats from theArcade-ianshades,And fortune-tellers, rich, 'twas plain,As fortune-huntersformed their train.
With these and more such female groups,Were mixt no less fantastic troopsOf male exhibitors—all willingTo look even more than usual killing;—Beau tyrants, smock-faced braggadocios,And brigands, charmingly ferocious:—M.P.'s turned Turks, good Moslems then,Who, last night, voted for the Greeks;And Friars, stanch No-Popery men,In close confab with Whig Caciques.
But where is she—the nymph whom lateWe left before her glass delayingLike Eve, when by the lake she sate,In the clear wave her charms surveying,And saw in that first glassy mirrorThe first fair face that lured to error."Where is she," ask'st thou?—watch all looksAs centring to one point they bear,Like sun-flowers by the sides of brooks,Turned to the sun—and she is there.Even in disguise, oh never doubtBy her own light you'd track her out:As when the moon, close shawled in fog,Steals as she thinks, thro' heavenincog.,Tho' hid herself, some sidelong rayAt every step, detects her way.
But not in dark disguise to-nightHath our young heroine veiled her light;—For see, she walks the earth, Love's own.His wedded bride, byholiestvowPledged in Olympus, and made knownTo mortals by the type which nowHangs glittering on her snowy brow,That butterfly, mysterious trinket,Which means the Soul (tho' few would think it),And sparkling thus on brow so white,Tells us we've Psyche here tonight!But hark! some song hath caught her ears—And, lo, how pleased, as tho' she'd ne'erHeard the Grand Opera of the Spheres,Her goddess-ship approves the air;And to a mere terrestrial strain,Inspired by naught but pink champagne,Her butterfly as gayly nodsAs tho' she sate with all her trainAt some great Concert of the Gods,With Phoebus, leader—Jove, director,And half the audience drunk with nectar.
From the male group the carol came—A few gay youths whom round the boardThe last-tried flask's superior fameHad lured to taste the tide it poured;And one who from his youth and lyreSeemed grandson to the Teian-sire,Thus gayly sung, while, to his song,Replied in chorus the gay throng:—
Some mortals there may be, so wise, or so fine,As in evenings like this no enjoyment to see;But, as I'm not particular—wit, love, and wine,Are for one night's amusement sufficient for me.Nay—humble and strange as my tastes may appear—If driven to the worst, I could manage, thank Heaven,To put up with eyes such as beam round me here,And such wine as we're sipping, six days out of seven.So pledge me a bumper—your sages profoundMay be blest, if they will, on their own patent plan:But as we arenotsages, why—send the cup round—We must only be happy the best way we can.
A reward by some king was once offered, we're told,To whoe'er could invent a new bliss for mankind;But talk ofnewpleasures!—give me but the old,And I'll leave your inventors all new ones they find.Or should I, in quest of fresh realms of bliss,Set sail in the pinnace of Fancy some day,Let the rich rosy sea I embark on be this,And such eyes as we've here be the stars of my way!In the mean time, a bumper—your Angels, on high,May have pleasures unknown to life's limited span;But, as we arenotAngels, why—let the flask fly—We must be happyallways that we can.
* * * * *
Now nearly fled was sunset's light,Leaving but so much of its beamAs gave to objects, late so blight,The coloring of a shadowy dream;And there was still where Day had setA flush that spoke him loath to die—A last link of his glory yet,Binding together earth and sky.Say, why is it that twilight bestBecomes even brows the loveliest?That dimness with its softening TouchCan bring out grace unfelt before,And charms we ne'er can see too much,When seen but half enchant the more?Alas, it is that every joyIn fulness finds its worst alloy,And half a bliss, but hoped or guessed,Is sweeter than the whole possest;—That Beauty, when least shone upon,A creature most ideal grows;And there's no light from moon or sunLike that Imagination throws;—It is, alas, that Fancy shrinksEven from a bright reality,And turning inly, feels and thinksFor heavenlier things than e'er will be.
Such was the effect of twilight's hourOn the fair groups that, round and round,From glade to grot, from bank to bower,Now wandered thro' this fairy ground;And thus did Fancy—and champagne—Work on the sight their dazzling spells,Till nymphs that looked at noonday plain,Now brightened in the gloom to belles;And the brief interval of time,'Twixt after dinner and before,To dowagers brought back their prime,And shed a halo round two-score.
Meanwhile, new pastimes for the eye,The ear, the fancy, quick succeed;And now along the waters flyLight gondoles, of Venetian breed,With knights and dames who, calm reclined,Lisp out love-sonnets as they glide—Astonishing old Thames to findSuch doings on his moral tide.
So bright was still that tranquil river,With the last shaft from Daylight's quiver,That many a group in turn were seenEmbarking on its wave serene;And 'mong the rest, in chorus gay,A band of mariners, from the islesOf sunny Greece, all song and smiles,As smooth they floated, to the playOf their oar's cadence, sung this lay:—
Our home is on the sea, boy,Our home is on the sea;When Nature gaveThe ocean-wave,She markt it for the Free.Whatever storms befall, boy,Whatever storms befall,The island barkIs Freedom's ark,And floats her safe thro' all.
Behold yon sea of isles, boy,Behold yon sea of isles,Where every shoreIs sparkling o'erWith Beauty's richest smiles.For us hath Freedom claimed, boy,For us hath Freedom claimedThose ocean-nestsWhere Valor restsHis eagle wing untamed.
And shall the Moslem dare, boy,And shall the Moslem dare,While Grecian handCan wield a brand,To plant his Crescent there?No—by our fathers, no, boy,No, by the Cross, we show—From Maina's rillsTo Thracia's hillsAll Greece re-echoes "No!"
* * * * *
Like pleasant thoughts that o'er the mindA minute come and go again,Even so by snatches in the wind,Was caught and lost that choral strain,Now full, now faint upon the ear,As the bark floated far or near.At length when, lost, the closing noteHad down the waters died along,Forth from another fairy boat,Freighted with music, came this song—
Smoothly flowing thro' verdant vales,Gentle river, thy current runs,Sheltered safe from winter gales,Shaded cool from summer suns.Thus our Youth's sweet moments glide.Fenced with flowery shelter round;No rude tempest wakes the tide,All its path is fairy ground.
But, fair river, the day will come,When, wooed by whispering groves in vain,Thou'lt leave those banks, thy shaded home,To mingle with the stormy main.And thou, sweet Youth, too soon wilt passInto the world's unsheltered sea,Where, once thy wave hath mixt, alas,All hope of peace is lost for thee.
Next turn we to the gay saloon,Resplendent as a summer noon,Where, 'neath a pendent wreath of lights,A Zodiac of flowers and tapers—(Such as in Russian ball-rooms shedsIts glory o'er young dancers' heads)—Quadrille performs her mazy rites,And reigns supreme o'er slides and capers;—
Working to death each opera strain,As, with a foot that ne'er reposes,She jigs thro' sacred and profane,From "Maid and Magpie" up to "Moses;"—[3]Wearing out tunes as fast as shoes,Till fagged Rossini scarce respires;Till Meyerbeer for mercy sues,And Weber at her feet expires.
And now the set hath ceased—the bowsOf fiddlers taste a brief repose,While light along the painted floor,Arm within arm, the couples stray,Talking their stock of nothings o'er,Till—nothing's left at last to say.When lo!—most opportunely sent—Two Exquisites, a he and she,Just brought from Dandyland, and meantFor Fashion's grand Menagerie,Entered the room—and scarce were thereWhen all flocked round them, glad to stareAtanymonsters,anywhere.Some thought them perfect, to their tastes;While others hinted that the waists(That in particular of thehething)Left far too ample room for breathing:Whereas, to meet these critics' wishes,The isthmus there should be so small,That Exquisites, at last, like fishes,Must manage not to breathe at all.The female (these same critics said),Tho' orthodox from toe to chin,Yet lacked that spacious width of headTo hat of toadstool much akin—That build of bonnet, whose extentShould, like a doctrine of dissent,Puzzle church-doors to let it in.
However—sad as 'twas, no doubt,That nymph so smart should go about,With head unconscious of the placeItoughtto fill in Infinite Space—Yet all allowed that, of her kind,A prettier show 'twas hard to find;While of that doubtful genus, "dressy men,"The male was thought a first-rate specimen.SuchSavans, too, as wisht to traceThe manners, habits, of this race—To know what rank (if rank at all)'Mong reasoning things to them should fall—What sort of notions heaven impartsTo high-built heads and tight-laced heartsAnd how far Soul, which, Plato says,Abhors restraint, can act in stays—Might now, if gifted with discerning,Find opportunities of learning:As these two creatures—from their poutAnd frown, 'twas plain—had just fallen out;And all their little thoughts, of course.Were stirring in full fret and force;—Like mites, through microscope espied,A world of nothings magnified.
But mild the vent such beings seek,The tempest of their souls to speak:As Opera swains to fiddles sigh,To fiddles fight, to fiddles die,Even so this tender couple setTheir well-bred woes to a Duet.
HE.Long as I waltzed with only thee,Each blissful Wednesday that went by,Nor stylish Stultz, nor neat NugeeAdorned a youth so blest as I.Oh! ah! ah! oh!Those happy days are gone—heigho!
SHE.Long as with thee I skimmed the ground,Nor yet was scorned for Lady Jane,No blither nymph tetotumed roundTo Collinet's immortal strain.Oh! ah! etc.Those happy days are gone—heigho!
HE.With Lady Jane now whirled about,I know no bounds of time or breath;And, should the charmer's head hold out,My heart and heels are hers till death.Oh! ah! etc.Still round and round thro' life we'll go.
SHE.To Lord Fitznoodle's eldest son,A youth renowned for waistcoats smart,I now have given (excuse the pun)A vested interest in my heart.Oh! ah! etc.Still round and round with him I'll go.
HE.What if by fond remembrance ledAgain to wear our mutual chain.For me thou cut'st Fitznoodledead,And Ilevantfrom Lady Jane.Oh! ah! etc.Still round and round again we'll go.
SHE.Tho' he the Noodle honors give,And thine, dear youth, are not so high,With thee in endless waltz I'd live,With thee, to Weber's Stop—Waltz, die!Oh! ah! etc.Thus round and round thro' life we'll go.
[Exeunt waltzing.
* * * * *
While thus, like motes that dance awayExistence in a summer ray,These gay things, born but to quadrille,The circle of their doom fulfil—(That dancing doom whose law decreesThat they should live on the alert toeA life of ups-and-downs, like keysOf Broadwood's in a long concerto:—)While thus the fiddle's spell,within,Calls up its realm of restless sprites.Without, as if some MandarinWere holding there his Feast of Lights,Lamps of all hues, from walks and bowers,Broke on the eye, like kindling flowers,Till, budding into light, each treeBore its full fruit of brilliancy.
Here shone a garden-lamps all o'er,As tho' the Spirits of the AirHad taken it in their heads to pourA shower of summer meteors there;—While here a lighted shrubbery ledTo a small lake that sleeping lay,Cradled in foliage but, o'er-head,Open to heaven's sweet breath and ray;While round its rim there burning stoodLamps, with young flowers beside them bedded,That shrunk from such warm neighborhood,And, looking bashful in the flood,Blushed to behold themselves so wedded.
Hither, to this embowered retreat,Fit but for nights so still and sweet;Nights, such as Eden's calm recallIn its first lonely hour, when allSo silent is, below, on high,That is a star falls down the sky,You almost think you hear it fall—Hither, to this recess, a few,To shun the dancers' wildering noise,And give an hour, ere night-time flew,To music's more ethereal joys,Came with their voices-ready allAs Echo waiting for a call—In hymn or ballad, dirge or glee,To weave their mingling ministrelsy,And first a dark-eyed nymph, arrayed—Like her whom Art hath deathless made,Bright Mona Lisa[4]—with that braidOf hair across the brow, and oneSmall gem that in the centre shone—With face, too, in its form resemblingDa Vinci's Beauties-the dark eyes,Now lucid as thro' crystal trembling,Now soft as if suffused with sighs—Her lute that hung beside her took,And, bending o'er it with shy look,More beautiful, in shadow thus,Than when with life most luminous,Past her light finger o'er the chords,And sung to them these mournful words:—
Bring hither, bring thy lute, while day is dying—Here will I lay me and list to thy song;Should tones of other days mix with its sighing,Tones of a light heart, now banisht so long,Chase them away-they bring but pain,And let thy theme be woe again.
Sing on thou mournful lute—day is fast going,Soon will its light from thy chords die away;One little gleam in the west is still glowing,When that hath vanisht, farewell to thy lay.Mark, how it fades!-see, it is fled!Now, sweet lute, be thou, too, dead.
The group that late in garb of GreeksSung their light chorus o'er the tide—Forms, such as up the wooded creeksOf Helle's shore at noon-day glide,Or nightly on her glistening sea,Woo the bright waves with melody—Now linked their triple league againOf voices sweet, and sung a strain,Such as, had Sappho's tuneful earBut caught it, on the fatal steep,She would have paused, entranced, to hear,And for that day deferred her leap.
On one of those sweet nights that oftTheir lustre o'er the AEgean fling,Beneath my casement, low and soft,I heard a Lesbian lover sing;And, listening both with ear and thought,These sounds upon the night breeze caught—"Oh, happy as the gods is he,"Who gazes at this hour on thee!"
The song was one by Sappho sung,In the first love-dreams of her lyre,When words of passion from her tongueFell like a shower of living fire.And still, at close of every strain,I heard these burning words again—"Oh, happy as the gods is he,"Who listens at this hour to thee!"
Once more to Mona Lisa turnedEach asking eye—nor turned in vainTho' the quick, transient blush that burnedBright o'er her cheek and died again,Showed with what inly shame and fearWas uttered what all loved to hear.Yet not to sorrow's languid layDid she her lute-song now devote;But thus, with voice that like a rayOf southern sunshine seemed to float—So rich with climate was each note—Called up in every heart a dreamOf Italy with this soft theme:—
Oh, where art thou dreaming,On land, or on sea?In my lattice is gleamingThe watch-light for thee;
And this fond heart is glowingTo welcome thee home,And the night is fast going,But thou art not come:No, thou com'st not!
'Tis the time when night-flowersShould wake from their rest;'Tis the hour of all hours,When the lute singeth best,But the flowers are half sleepingTillthyglance they see;And the husht lute is keepingIts music for thee.Yet, thou com'st not!
* * * * *
Scarce had the last word left her lip,When a light, boyish form, with tripFantastic, up the green walk came,Prankt in gay vest to which the flameOf every lamp he past, or blueOr green or crimson, lent its hue;As tho' a live chameleon's skinHe had despoiled, to robe him in.A zone he wore of clattering shells,And from his lofty cap, where shoneA peacock's plume, there dangled bellsThat rung as he came dancing on.Close after him, a page—in dressAnd shape, his miniature express—An ample basket, filled with storeOf toys and trinkets, laughing bore;Till, having reached this verdant seat,He laid it at his master's feet,Who, half in speech and half in song,Chanted this invoice to the throng:—
Who'll buy?—'tis Folly's shop, who'll buy?—We've toys to suit all ranks and ages;Besides our usual fools' supply,We've lots of playthings, too, for sages.For reasoners here's a juggler's cupThat fullest seems when nothing's in it;And nine-pins set, like systems, up,To be knocked down the following minute.Who'll buy?—'tis Folly's shop, who'll buy?
Gay caps we here of foolscap make.For bards to wear in dog-day weather;Or bards the bells alone may take,And leave to wits the cap and feather,Tetotums we've for patriots got,Who court the mob with antics humble;Like theirs the patriot's dizzy lot,A glorious spin, and then—a tumble,Who'll buy, etc.
Here, wealthy misers to inter,We've shrouds of neat post-obit paper;While, for their heirs, we've _quick_silver,That, fast as they can wish, will caper.For aldermen we've dials true,That tell no hour but that of dinner;For courtly parsons sermons new,That suit alike both saint and sinner.Who'll buy, etc.
No time we've now to name our terms,But, whatsoe'er the whims that seize you,This oldest of all mortal firms,Folly and Co., will try to please you.Or, should you wish a darker hueOf goods thanwecan recommend you,Why then (as we with lawyers do)To Knavery's shop next door we'll send you.Who'll buy, etc.
While thus the blissful moments rolled,Moments of rare and fleeting light,That show themselves, like grains of goldIn the mine's refuse, few and bright;Behold where, opening far away,The long Conservatory's range,Stript of the flowers it wore all day,But gaining lovelier in exchange,Presents, on Dresden's costliest ware,A supper such as Gods might share.
Ah much-loved Supper!—blithe repastOf other times, now dwindling fast,Since Dinner far into the nightAdvanced the march of appetite;Deployed his never-ending forcesOf various vintage and three courses,And, like those Goths who played the dickensWith Rome and all her sacred chickens,Put Supper and her fowls so white,Legs, wings, and drumsticks, all to flight.Now waked once more by wine—whose tideIs the true Hippocrene, where glideThe Muse's swans with happiest wing,Dipping their bills before they sing—The minstrels of the table greetThe listening ear with descant sweet:—
Call the Loves around,Let the whispering soundOf their wings be heard alone.Till soft to restMy Lady blestAt this bright hour hath gone,Let Fancy's beamsPlay o'er her dreams,Till, touched with light all through.Her spirit beLike a summer sea,Shining and slumbering too.And, while thus husht she lies,Let the whispered chorus rise—"Good evening, good evening, to ourLady's bright eyes."
But the day-beam breaks,See, our Lady wakes!Call the Loves around once more,Like stars that waitAt Morning's gate,Her first steps to adore.Let the veil of nightFrom her dawning sightAll gently pass away,Like mists that fleeFrom a summer sea,Leaving it full of day.And, while her last dream flies,Let the whispered chorus rise—"Good morning, good morning, to ourLady's bright eyes."
If to see thee be to love thee,If to love thee be to prizeNaught of earth or heaven above thee,Nor to live but for those eyes:If such love to mortal given,Be wrong to earth, be wrong to heaven,'Tis not for thee the fault to blame,For from those eyes the madness came.Forgive but thou the crime of lovingIn this heart more pride 'twill raiseTo be thus wrong with thee approving,Than right with all a world to praise!
* * * * *
But say, while light these songs resound,What means that buzz of whispering round,From lip to lip—as if the PowerOf Mystery, in this gay hour,Had thrown some secret (as we flingNuts among children) to that ringOf rosy, restless lips, to beThus scrambled for so wantonly?And, mark ye, still as each revealsThe mystic news, her hearer stealsA look towards yon enchanted chair,Where, like the Lady of the Masque,A nymph, as exquisitely fairAs Love himself for bride could ask,Sits blushing deep, as if awareOf the winged secret circling there.Who is this nymph? and what, oh Muse,What, in the name of all odd thingsThat woman's restless brain pursues,What mean these mystic whisperings?
Thus runs the tale:—yon blushing maid,Who sits in beauty's light arrayed,While o'er her leans a tall young Dervise,(Who from her eyes, as all observe, isLearning by heart the Marriage Service,)Is the bright heroine of our song,—The Love-wed Psyche, whom so longWe've missed among this mortal train,We thought her winged to heaven again.
But no—earth still demands her smile;Her friends, the Gods, must wait awhile.And if, for maid of heavenly birth,A young Duke's proffered heart and handBe things worth waiting for on earth,Both are, this hour, at her command.To-night, in yonder half-lit shade,For love concerns expressly meant,The fond proposal first was made,And love and silence blusht consentParents and friends (all here, as Jews,Enchanters, house-maids, Turks, Hindoos,)Have heard, approved, and blest the tie;And now, hadst thou a poet's eye,Thou might'st behold, in the air, aboveThat brilliant brow, triumphant Love,Holding, as if to drop it downGently upon her curls, a crownOf Ducal shape—but, oh, such gems!Pilfered from Peri diadems,And set in gold like that which shinesTo deck the Fairy of the Mines:In short, a crown all glorious—such asLove orders when he makes a Duchess.
But see, 'tis morn in heaven; the SunUp in the bright orient hath begunTo canter his immortal beam;And, tho' not yet arrived in sight,His leaders' nostrils send a steamOf radiance forth, so rosy brightAs makes their onward path all light.What's to be done? if Sol will beSo deuced early, so must we:And when the day thus shines outright,Even dearest friends must bid good night.So, farewell, scene of mirth and masking,Now almost a by-gone tale;Beauties, late in lamp-light basking,Now, by daylight, dim and pale;Harpers, yawning o'er your harps,Scarcely knowing flats from sharps;Mothers who, while bored you keepTime by nodding, nod to sleep;Heads of hair, that stood last nightCrépé, crispy, and upright,But have now, alas, one sees, aLeaning like the tower of Pisa;Fare ye will—thus sinks awayAll that's mighty, all that's bright:Tyre and Sidon had their day,And even a Ball—has but its night!
[1] Archimedes.
[2] The name given to those large sleeves that hang loosely.
[3] In England the partition of this opera of Rossini was transferred to the story of Peter the Hermit; by which means the indecorum of giving such names as "Moyse," "Pharaon," etc., to the dancers selected from it (as was done in Paris), has been avoided.
[4] The celebrated portrait by Leonardo da Vinci, which he is said to have occupied four years in painting,—Vasari, vol. vii.