nulla tuum nobis subducet femina lectum, etc.,Lib. iv. Carm. 13.
"Never shall woman's smile have power"To win me from those gentle charms!"—Thus swore I, in that happy hour,When Love first gave thee to my arms.
And still alone thou charm'st my sight—Still, tho' our city proudly shineWith forms and faces, fair and bright,I see none fair or bright but thine.
Would thou wert fair for only me,And couldst no heart but mine allure!—To all men else unpleasing be,So shall I feel my prize secure.
Oh, love like mine ne'er wants the zestOf others' envy, others' praise;But, in its silence safely blest,Broods o'er a bliss it ne'er betrays.
Charm of my life! by whose sweet powerAll cares are husht, all ills subdued—My light in even the darkest hour,My crowd in deepest solitude!
No, not tho' heaven itself sent downSome maid of more than heavenly charms,With bliss undreamt thy bard to crown,Would he for her forsake those arms!
With women and apples both Paris and AdamMade mischief enough in their day:—God be praised that the fate of mankind, my dear Madam,Depends not onus, the same way.For, weak as I am with temptation to grapple,The world would have doubly to rue thee:
Like Adam, I'd gladly takefromthee the apple,Like Paris, at once give ittothee.
September, 1818.
Some think we bards have nothing real;That poets live among the stars so,Their very dinners are ideal,—(And, heaven knows, too oft theyareso,)—For instance, that we have, insteadOf vulgar chops and stews and hashes,First course—a Phoenix, at the head.Done in its own celestial ashes;At foot, a cygnet which kept singingAll the time its neck was wringing.Side dishes, thus—Minerva's owl,Or any such like learned fowl:Doves, such as heaven's poulterer gets,When Cupid shoots his mother's pets.Larks stewed in Morning's roseate breath,Or roasted by a sunbeam's splendor;And nightingales, berhymed to death—Like young pigs whipt to make them tender.
Such fare may suit those bards, who are ableTo banquet at Duke Humphrey's table;But as for me, who've long been taughtTo eat and drink like other people;And can put up with mutton, boughtWhere Bromham[1] rears its ancient steeple—If Lansdowne will consent to shareMy humble feast, tho' rude the fare,Yet, seasoned by that salt he bringsFrom Attica's salinest springs,'Twill turn to dainties;—while the cup,Beneath his influence brightening up,Like that of Baucis, touched by Jove,Will sparkle fit for gods above!
[1] A picturesque village in sight of my cottage, and from which it is separated out by a small verdant valley.
All, as he left it!—even the pen,So lately at that mind's command,Carelessly lying, as if thenJust fallen from his gifted hand.
Have we then lost him? scarce an hour,A little hour, seems to have past,Since Life and Inspiration's powerAround that relic breathed their last.
Ah, powerless now—like talismanFound in some vanished wizard's halls,Whose mighty charm with him began,Whose charm with him extinguisht falls.
Yet, tho', alas! the gifts that shoneAround that pen's exploring track,Be now, with its great master, gone,Nor living hand can call them back;
Who does not feel, while thus his eyesRest on the enchanter's broken wand,Each earth-born spell it worked ariseBefore him in succession grand?
Grand, from the Truth that reigns o'er all;The unshrinking truth that lets her lightThro' Life's low, dark, interior fall,Opening the whole, severely bright:
Yet softening, as she frowns along,O'er scenes which angels weep to see—Where Truth herself half veils the Wrong,In pity of the Misery.
True bard!—and simple, as the raceOf true-born poets ever are,When, stooping from their starry place,They're children near, tho' gods afar.
How freshly doth my mind recall,'Mong the few days I've known with thee,One that, most buoyantly of all,Floats in the wake of memory;[2]
When he, the poet, doubly graced,In life, as in his perfect strain,With that pure, mellowing power of Taste,Without which Fancy shines in vain;
Who in his page will leave behind,Pregnant with genius tho' it be,But half the treasures of a mind,Where Sense o'er all holds mastery:—
Friend of long years! of friendship triedThro' many a bright and dark event;In doubts, my judge—in taste, my guide—In all, my stay and ornament!
He, too, was of our feast that day,And all were guests of one whose handHath shed a new and deathless rayAround the lyre of this great land;
In whose sea-odes—as in those shellsWhere Ocean's voice of majestySeems still to sound—immortal dwellsOld Albion's Spirit of the Sea.
Such was our host; and tho', since then,Slight clouds have risen 'twixt him and me,Who would not grasp such hand again,Stretched forth again in amity?
Who can, in this short life, affordTo let such mists a moment stay,When thus one frank, atoning word,Like sunshine, melts them all away?
Bright was our board that day—tho'oneUnworthy brother there had place;As 'mong the horses of the Sun,One was, they say, of earthly race.
Yet,nextto Genius is the powerOf feeling where true Genius lies;And there was light around that hourSuch as, in memory, never dies;
Light which comes o'er me as I gaze,Thou Relic of the Dead, on thee,Like all such dreams of vanisht days,Brightly, indeed—but mournfully!
[1] Soon after Mr. Crabbe's death, the sons of that gentleman did me the honor of presenting to me the inkstand, pencil, etc., which their distinguished father had long been in the habit of using.
[2] The lines that follow allude to a day passed in company with Mr.Crabbe, many years since, when a party, consisting only of Mr. Rogers, Mr.Crabbe, and the author of these verses, had the pleasure of dining withMr. Thomas Campbell, at his house at Sydenham.
When I would sing thy beauty's light,Such various forms, and all so bright,I've seen thee, from thy childhood, wear,I know not which to call most fair,Nor 'mong the countless charms that springFor ever round thee,whichto sing.
When I would paint thee as thouart,Then all thouwertcomes o'er my heart—The graceful child in Beauty's dawnWithin the nursery's shade withdrawn,Or peeping out—like a young moonUpon a world 'twill brighten soon.Then next in girlhood's blushing hour,As from thy own loved Abbey-towerI've seen thee look, all radiant, down,With smiles that to the hoary frownOf centuries round thee lent a ray,Chasing even Age's gloom away;—Or in the world's resplendent throng,As I have markt thee glide along,Among the crowds of fair and greatA spirit, pure and separate,To which even Admiration's eyeWas fearful to approach too nigh;—A creature circled by a spellWithin which nothing wrong could dwell;And fresh and clear as from the source.Holding through life her limpid course,Like Arethusa thro' the sea,Stealing in fountain purity.
Now, too, another change of light!As noble bride, still meekly brightThou bring'st thy Lord a dower aboveAll earthly price, pure woman's love;And showd'st what lustre Rank receives,When with his proud Corinthian leavesHer rose this high-bred Beauty weaves.
Wonder not if, where all's so fair,To choose were more than bard can dare;Wonder not if, while every sceneI've watched thee thro' so bright hath been,The enamored muse should, in her questOf beauty, know not where to rest,But, dazzled, at thy feet thus fall,Hailing thee beautiful in all!
Of all speculations the market holds forth,The best that I know for a lover of pelf,Is to buy Marcus up, at the price he is worth,And then sell him at that which he sets on himself.
They tell us of an Indian tree,Which, howsoe'er the sun and skyMay tempt its boughs to wander free,And shoot and blossom wide and high,Far better loves to bend its armsDownward again to that dear earth,From which the life that, fills and warmsIts grateful being, first had birth.'Tis thus, tho' wooed by flattering friends,And fed with fame (iffame it be)This heart, my own dear mother, bends,With love's true instinct, back to thee!
Love had a fever—ne'er could closeHis little eyes till day was breaking;And wild and strange enough, Heaven knows,The things he raved about while waking.
To let him pine so were a sin;—One to whom all the world's a debtor—So Doctor Hymen was called in,And Love that night slept rather better.
Next day the case gave further hope yet,Tho' still some ugly fever latent;—"Dose, as before"—a gentle opiate.For which old Hymen has a patent.
After a month of daily call,So fast the dose went on restoring,That Love, who first ne'er slept at all,Now took, the rogue! to downright snoring.
carbone notati.
Ay—down to the dust with them, slaves as they are,From this hour let the blood in their dastardly veins,That shrunk at the first touch of Liberty's war,Be wasted for tyrants, or stagnate in chains.
On, on like a cloud, thro' their beautiful vales,Ye locusts of tyranny, blasting them o'er—Fill, fill up their wide sunny waters, ye sailsFrom each slave-mart of Europe and shadow their shore!
Let their fate be a mock-word—let men of all landsLaugh out with a scorn that shall ring to the poles,When each sword that the cowards let fall from their handsShall be forged into fetters to enter their souls.
And deep, and more deep, as the iron is driven,Base slaves! let the whet of their agony be,To think—as the Doomed often think of that heavenThey had once within reach—that theymighthave been free.
Oh shame! when there was not a bosom whose heatEver rose 'bove thezeroof Castlereagh's heart.That did not, like echo, your war-hymn repeat,And send all its prayers with your Liberty's start;
When the world stood in hope—when a spirit that breathedThe fresh air of the olden time whispered about;And the swords of all Italy, halfway unsheathed,But waited one conquering cry to flash out!
When around you the shades of your Mighty in fame,FILICAJAS and PETRARCHS, seemed bursting to view,And their words and their warnings, like tongues of bright flameOver Freedom's apostles, fell kindling on you!
Oh shame! that in such a proud moment of lifeWorth the history of ages, when, had you but hurledOne bolt at your tyrant invader, that strifeBetween freemen and tyrants had spread thro' the world—
That then—oh! disgrace upon manhood—even then,You should falter, should cling to your pitiful breath;Cower down into beasts, when you might have stood men,And prefer the slave's life of prostration to death.
It is strange, it is dreadful:—shout, Tyranny, shoutThro' your dungeons and palaces, "Freedom is o'er;"—If there lingers one spark of her light, tread it out,And return to your empire of darkness once more.
For ifsuchare the braggarts that claim to be free,Come, Despot of Russia, thy feet let me kiss;Far nobler to live the brute bondman of thee,Than to sully even chains by a struggle like this!
Ere Psyche drank the cup that shedImmortal Life into her soul,Some evil spirit poured, 'tis said,One drop of Doubt into the bowl—
Which, mingling darkly with the stream,To Psyche's lips—she knew not why—Made even that blessed nectar seemAs tho' its sweetness soon would die.
Oft, in the very arms of Love,A chill came o'er her heart—a fearThat Death might, even yet, removeHer spirit from that happy sphere.
"Those sunny ringlets," she exclaimed.Twining them round her snowy fingers;"That forehead, where a light unnamed,"Unknown on earth, for ever lingers;
"Those lips, thro' which I feel the breath"Of Heaven itself, whene'er they sever—"Say, are they mine, beyond all death,"My own, hereafter, and for ever?
"Smile not—I know that starry brow,"Those ringlets, and bright lips of thine,"Will always shine, as they do now—"But shallIlive to see them shine?"
In vain did Love say, "Turn thine eyes"On all that sparkles round thee here—"Thou'rt now in heaven where nothing dies,"And in these arms—whatcanstthou fear?"
In vain—the fatal drop, that stoleInto that cup's immortal treasure,Had lodged its bitter near her soul.And gave a tinge to every pleasure.
And, tho' there ne'er was transport givenLike Psyche's with that radiant boy,Here is the only face in heaven,That wears a cloud amid its joy.
"Come, come," said Tom's father, "at your time of life,"There's no longer excuse for thus playing the rake—"It is time you should think, boy, of taking a wife"—"Why, so it is, father—whose wife shall I take?"
Pure as the mantle, which, o'er him who stoodBy Jordan's stream, descended from the sky,Is that remembrance which the wise and goodLeave in the hearts that love them, when they die.
So pure, so precious shall the memory be,Bequeathed, in dying, to our souls by thee—So shall the love we bore thee, cherisht warmWithin our souls thro' grief and pain and strife,Be, like Elisha's cruse, a holy charm,Wherewith to "heal the waters" of this life!
This life, dear Corry, who can doubt?—Resembles much friend Ewart's[1] wine,Whenfirstthe rosy drops come out,How beautiful, how clear they shine!And thus awhile they keep their tint,So free from even a shade with some,That they would smile, did you but hint,That darker drops wouldevercome.
But soon the ruby tide runs short,Each minute makes the sad truth plainer,Till life, like old and crusty port,When near its close, requires a strainer.
Thisfriendship can alone confer,Alone can teach the drops to pass,If not as bright asoncethey were,At least unclouded, thro' the glass.
Nor, Corry, could a boon be mine.Of which this heart were fonder, vainer,Than thus, if life grow like old wine,To havethyfriendship for its strainer.
[1] A wine-merchant.
Here lies Factotum Ned at last;Long as he breathed the vital air,Nothing throughout all Europe pastIn which Ned hadn't some small share.
Whoe'er wasin, whoe'er wasout,Whatever statesmen did or said,If not exactly brought about,'Twas all, at least, contrived by Ned.
With Nap, if Russia went to war,'Twas owing, under Providence,To certain hints Ned gave the Tsar—(Vide his pamphlet—price, sixpence.)
If France was beat at Waterloo—As all but Frenchmen think she was—To Ned, as Wellington well knew,Was owing half that day's applause.
Then for his news—no envoy's bagE'er past so many secrets thro' it;Scarcely a telegraph could wagIts wooden finger, but Ned knew it.
Such tales he had of foreign plots,With foreign names, one's ear to buzz in!From Russia,shefsandofsin lots,From Poland,owskisby the dozen.
When George, alarmed for England's creed,Turned out the last Whig ministry,And men asked—who advised the deed?Ned modestly confest 'twas he.
For tho', by some unlucky miss,He had not downrightseenthe King,He sent such hints thro' ViscountThis,To MarquisThat, as clenched the thing.
The same it was in science, arts,The Drama, Books, MS. and printed—Kean learned from Ned his cleverest parts,And Scott's last work by him was hinted.
Childe Harold in the proofs he read,And, here and there infused some soul in't—Nay, Davy's Lamp, till seen by Ned,Had—odd enough—an awkward hole in't.
'Twas thus, all-doing and all-knowing,Wit, statesman, boxer, chymist, singer,Whatever was the best pie going,InthatNed—trust him—had his finger.
* * * * *
What shall I sing thee? Shall I tellOf that bright hour, remembered wellAs tho' it shone but yesterday,
When loitering idly in the rayOf a spring sun I heard o'er-head,My name as by some spirit said,And, looking up, saw two bright eyesAbove me from a casement shine,Dazzling my mind with such surpriseAs they, who sail beyond the Line,Feel when new stars above them rise;—And it was thine, the voice that spoke,Like Ariel's, in the mid-air then;And thine the eye whose lustre broke—Never to be forgot again!
What shall I sing thee? Shall I weaveA song of that sweet summer-eve,(Summer, of which the sunniest partWas that we, each, had in the heart,)When thou and I, and one like thee,In life and beauty, to the soundOf our own breathless minstrelsy.Danced till the sunlight faded round,Ourselves the whole ideal Ball,Lights, music, company, and all?
Oh, 'tis not in the languid strainOf lute like mine, whose day is past,To call up even a dream againOf the fresh light those moments cast.
One night the nymph called country dance—(Whom folks, of late, have used so ill,Preferring a coquette from France,That mincing thing,Mamsellequadrille)—
Having been chased from London downTo that most humble haunt of allShe used to grace—a Country Town—Went smiling to the New-Year's Ball.
"Here, here, at least," she cried, tho' driven"From London's gay and shining tracks—"Tho', like a Peri cast from heaven,"I've lost, for ever lost, Almack's—
"Tho' not a London Miss alive"Would now for her acquaintance own me;"And spinsters, even, of forty-five,"Upon their honors ne'er have known me;
"Here, here, at least, I triumph still,"And—spite of some few dandy Lancers."Who vainly try to preach Quadrille—"See naught buttrue-blueCountry Dancers,
"Here still I reign, and, fresh in charms,"My throne, like Magna Charta, raise"'Mong sturdy, free-born legs and arms,"That scorn the threatenedchaine anglaise."
'Twas thus she said, as mid the dinOf footmen, and the town sedan,She lighted at the King's Head Inn,And up the stairs triumphant ran.
The Squires and their Squiresses all,With young Squirinas, justcome out,And my Lord's daughters from the Hall,(Quadrillers in their hearts no doubt,)—
All these, as light she tript upstairs,Were in the cloak-room seen assembling—When, hark! some new outlandish airs,From the First Fiddle, set her trembling.
She stops—she listens—canit be?Alas, in vain her ears would 'scape it—Itis "Di tanti palpiti"As plain as English bow can scrape it.
"Courage!" however—in she goes,With her best, sweeping country grace;When, ah too true, her worst of foes,Quadrille, there meets her, face to face.
Oh for the lyre, or violin,Or kit of that gay Muse, Terpsichore,To sing the rage these nymphs were in,Their looks and language, airs and trickery.
There stood Quadrille, with cat-like face(The beau-ideal of French beauty),A band-box thing, all art and laceDown from her nose-tip to her shoe-tie.
Her flounces, fresh fromVictorine—FromHippolyte, her rouge and hair—Her poetry, fromLamartine—Her morals, from—the Lord knows where.
And, when she danced—so slidingly,So near the ground she plied her art,You'd swear her mother-earth and sheHad made a compact ne'er to part.
Her face too, all the while, sedate,No signs of life or motion showing.Like a brightpendule'sdial-plate—So still, you'd hardly think 'twasgoing.
Full fronting her stood Country Dance—A fresh, frank nymph, whom you would knowFor English, at a single glance—English all o'er, from top to toe.
A littlegauche, 'tis fair to own,And rather given to skips and bounces;Endangering thereby many a gown,And playing, oft, the devil with flounces.
UnlikeMamselle—who would prefer(As morally a lesser ill)A thousand flaws of character,To one vile rumple of a frill.
No rouge did She of Albion wear;Let her but run that two-heat raceShe calls aSet, not Dian e'erCame rosier from the woodland chase.
Such was the nymph, whose soul had in'tSuch anger now—whose eyes of blue(Eyes of that bright, victorious tint,Which English maids call "Waterloo")—
Like summer lightnings, in the duskOf a warm evening, flashing broke.While—to the tune of "Money Musk,"[1]Which struck up now—she proudly spoke—
"Heard you that strain—that joyous strain?"'Twas such as England loved to hear,"Ere thou and all thy frippery train,"Corrupted both her foot and ear—
"Ere Waltz, that rake from foreign lands,"Presumed, in sight of all beholders,"To lay his rude, licentious hands"On virtuous English backs and shoulders—
"Ere times and morals both grew bad,"And, yet unfleeced by funding block-heads,"Happy John Bull not onlyhad,"But danced to, 'Money in both pockets.'
"Alas, the change!—Oh, Londonderry,"Where is the land could 'scape disasters,"Withsucha Foreign Secretary,"Aided by Foreign Dancing Masters?
"Woe to ye, men of ships and shops!"Rulers of day-books and of waves!"Quadrilled, on one side, into fops,"And drilled, on t'other, into slaves!
"Ye, too, ye lovely victims, seen,"Like pigeons, trussed for exhibition,"With elbows,à la crapaudine,"And feet, in—God knows what position;
"Hemmed in by watchful chaperons,"Inspectors of your airs and graces,"Who intercept all whispered tones,"And read your telegraphic faces;
"Unable with the youth adored,"In that grimcordonof Mammas,"To interchange one tender word,"Tho' whispered but inqueue-de-chats.
"Ah did you know how blest we ranged,"Ere vile Quadrille usurpt the fiddle—"What looks insettingwere exchanged,"What tender words indown the middle;
"How many a couple, like the wind,"Which nothing in its course controls,Left time and chaperons far behind,"And gave a loose to legs and souls;
How matrimony throve—ere stopt"By this cold, silent, foot-coquetting—"How charmingly one's partner propt"The important question inpoussetteing.
"While now, alas—no sly advances—"No marriage hints—all goes on badly—"'Twixt Parson Malthus and French Dances,"We, girls, are at a discount sadly.
"Sir William Scott (now Baron Stowell)"Declares not half so much is made"By Licences—and he must know well—"Since vile Quadrilling spoiled the trade."
She ceased—tears fell from every Miss—She now had touched the true pathetic:—One such authentic fact as this,Is worth whole volumes theoretic.
Instant the cry was "Country Dance!"And the maid saw with brightening face,The Steward of the night advance,And lead her to her birthright place.
The fiddles, which awhile had ceased,Now tuned again their summons sweet,And, for one happy night, at least,Old England's triumph was complete.
[1] An old English country dance.
Haste, Maami, the spring is nigh;Already, in the unopened flowersThat sleep around us, Fancy's eyeCan see the blush of future bowers;And joy it brings to thee and me,My own beloved Maami!
The streamlet frozen on its way,To feed the marble Founts of Kings,Now, loosened by the vernal ray,Upon its path exulting springs—As doth this bounding heart to thee,My ever blissful Maami!
Such bright hours were not made to stay;Enough if they awhile remain,Like Irem's bowers, that fade away.From time to time, and come again.And life shall all one Irem beFor us, my gentle Maami.
O haste, for this impatient heart,Is like the rose in Yemen's vale,That rends its inmost leaves apartWith passion for the nightingale;So languishes this soul for thee,My bright and blushing Maami!
If ever life was prosperously cast,If ever life was like the lengthened flowOf some sweet music, sweetness to the last,'Twas his who, mourned by many, sleeps below.
The sunny temper, bright where all is strife.The simple heart above all worldly wiles;Light wit that plays along the calm of life,And stirs its languid surface into smiles;
Pure charity that comes not in a shower,Sudden and loud, oppressing what it feeds,But, like the dew, with gradual silent power,Felt in the bloom it leaves along the meads;
The happy grateful spirit, that improvesAnd brightens every gift by fortune given;That, wander where it will with those it loves,Makes every place a home, and home a heaven:
All these were his.—Oh, thou who read'st this stone,When for thyself, thy children, to the skyThou humbly prayest, ask this boon alone,That ye like him may live, like him may die!
scripsit quidem fata, sed sequitur.SENECA.
Of old, the Sultan Genius reigned,As Nature meant, supreme alone;With mind unchekt, and hands unchained,His views, his conquests were his own.
But power like his, that digs its graveWith its own sceptre, could not last;So Genius' self became the slaveOf laws that Genius' self had past.
As Jove, who forged the chain of Fate,Was, ever after, doomed to wear it:His nods, his struggles all too late—"Qui semel jussit, semper paret."
To check young Genius' proud career,The slaves who now his throne invaded,Made Criticism his prime Vizir,And from that hour his glories faded.
Tied down in Legislation's school,Afraid of even his own ambition,His very victories were by rule,And he was great but by permission.
His most heroic deeds—the same,That dazzled, when spontaneous actions—Now, done by law, seemed cold and tame,And shorn of all their first attractions.
If he but stirred to take the air,Instant, the Vizir's Council sat—"Good Lord, your Highness can't go there—"Bless me, your Highness can't do that."
If, loving pomp, he chose to buyRich jewels for his diadem,"The taste was bad, the price was high—"A flower were simpler than a gem."
To please them if he took to flowers—"What trifling, what unmeaning things!"Fit for a woman's toilet hours,"But not at all the style for Kings."
If, fond of his domestic sphere,He played no more the rambling comet—"A dull, good sort of man, 'twas clear,"But, as for great or brave, far from it."
Did he then look o'er distant oceans,For realms more worthy to enthrone him?—"Saint Aristotle, what wild notions!"Serve a 'ne exeat regno' on him."
At length, their last and worst to do,They round him placed a guard of watchmen,Reviewers, knaves in brown, or blueTurned up with yellow—chiefly Scotchmen;
To dog his footsteps all aboutLike those in Longwood's prison grounds,Who at Napoleon's heels rode out,For fear the Conqueror should break bounds.
Oh for some Champion of his power,SomeUltraspirit, to set free,As erst in Shakespeare's sovereign hour,The thunders of his Royalty!—
To vindicate his ancient line,The first, the true, the only one,Of Right eternal and divine,That rules beneath the blessed sun.
Written at Middleton.
Oh albums, albums, how I dreadYour everlasting scrap and scrawl!How often wish that from the deadOld Omar would pop forth his head,And make a bonfire of you all!
So might I 'scape the spinster band,The blushless blues, who, day and night,Like duns in doorways, take their stand,To waylay bards, with book in hand,Crying for ever, "Write, sir, write!"
So might I shun the shame and pain,That o'er me at this instant come,When Beauty, seeking Wit in vain,Knocks at the portal of my brain,And gets, for answer, "Not at home!"
November, 1828.
No wonder bards, both high and low,From Byron down to ***** and me,Should seek the fame which all bestowOn him whose task is praising thee.
Let but the theme be Jersey's eyes,At once all errors are forgiven;As even old Sternhold still we prize,Because, tho' dull, he sings of heaven.
At night, when all is still around.How sweet to hear the distant soundOf footstep, coming soft and light!What pleasure in the anxious beat,With which the bosom flies to meetThat foot that comes so soft at night!
And then, at night, how sweet to say"'Tis late, my love!" and chide delay,Tho' still the western clouds are bright;Oh! happy, too, the silent press,The eloquence of mute caress.With those we love exchanged at night!
[1] These lines allude to a curious lamp, which has for its device a Cupid, with the words "at night" written over him.
Gift of the Hero, on his dying day,To her, whose pity watched, for ever nigh;Oh! could he see the proud, the happy ray,This relic lights up on her generous eye,Sighing, he'd feel how easy 'tis to payA friendship all his kingdoms could not buy.
Paris, July, 1821
Last night, as lonely o'er my fire I sat,Thinking of cues, starts, exits, and—all that,And wondering much what little knavish spriteHad put it first in women's heads to write:—Sudden I saw—as in some witching dream—A bright-blue glory round my book-case beam,From whose quick-opening folds of azure lightOut flew a tiny form, as small and brightAs Puck the Fairy, when he pops his head,Some sunny morning from a violet bed."Bless me!" I starting cried "what imp are you?"—"A small he-devil, Ma'am—my name BAS BLEU—"A bookish sprite, much given to routs and reading;"'Tis I who teach your spinsters of good breeding,"The reigning taste in chemistry and caps,"The last new bounds of tuckers and of maps,"And when the waltz has twirled her giddy brain"With metaphysics twirl it back again!"I viewed him, as he spoke—his hose were blue,His wings—the covers of the last Review—Cerulean, bordered with a jaundice hue,And tinselled gayly o'er, for evening wear,Till the next quarter brings a new-fledged pair."Inspired by me—(pursued this waggish Fairy)—"That best of wives and Sapphos, Lady Mary,"Votary alike of Crispin and the Muse,"Makes her own splay-foot epigrams and shoes."For me the eyes of young Camilla shine,"And mingle Love's blue brilliances with mine;"For me she sits apart, from coxcombs shrinking,"Looks wise—the pretty soul!—andthinksshe's thinking."By my advice Miss Indigo attends"Lectures on Memory, and assures her friends,"''Pon honor!—(mimics)—nothing can surpass the plan"'Of that professor—(trying to recollect)—psha! that memory-man—"'That—what's his name?—him I attended lately—"''Pon honor, he improvedmymemory greatly.'"Here curtsying low, I asked the blue-legged sprite,What share he had in this our play to-night.'Nay, there—(he cried)—there I am guiltless quite—"What! choose a heroine from that Gothic time"When no one waltzed and none but monks could rhyme;"When lovely woman, all unschooled and wild,"Blushed without art, and without culture smiled—"Simple as flowers, while yet unclassed they shone,"Ere Science called their brilliant world her own,"Ranged the wild, rosy things in learned orders,"And filled with Greek the garden's blushing borders!—"No, no—your gentle Inas will not do—"To-morrow evening, when the lights burn blue,"I'll come—(pointing downwards)—you understand—till then adieu!"
Andhasthe sprite been here! No—jests apart—Howe'er man rules in science and in art,The sphere of woman's glories is the heart.And, if our Muse have sketched with pencil trueThe wife—the mother—firm, yet gentle too—Whose soul, wrapt up in ties itself hath spun,Trembles, if touched in the remotest one;Who loves—yet dares even Love himself disown,When Honor's broken shaft supports his throne:If such our Ina, she may scorn the evils,Dire as they are, of Critics and—Blue Devils.