Chapter 5

I take my goosequill for some recreation,I'll have a pleasurable time to-night,A little change without the perturbationOf nitro-glycerine and dynamite:Just now I'm somewhat weary of the sightOf dark disclosures in the morning newsWhich tell of crimes now daily brought to light,Of troublesome investigated cluesAnd horrifying details of the murderer's noose.

II.

These are the days when each successive paperUnfolds a tale which can but make it sell(More usually the latest Irish caper)And vendors should indeed be doing well;When columns upon columns as they tellOf blood-red things of horror and of shameResemble much a penny horrible,And which, in fact, they are, except in name,Altho' of course proprietors are not to blame.

III.

Who would not wear the ermine-robe of Power,Who would not have the majesty of kingsWhen tremble thrones and courts and nations cower,And strange alarms await all royal things—When armëd horsemen guard their wanderingsAnd palaces are silenced with affright,When morn discovers with her gleaming wingsThe dark and direful mysteries of the night,And men alternate weep and shudder at the sight?

IV.

Of such things as I've said I'm getting weary,Such themes I leave to those who such-like choose,Some people's prospects must be somewhat dreary,I shouldn't care to step within their shoes:However, time I can't afford to lose,I merely say I'm wanting something new,At least my little self I must amuse,If I, my reader, can't enliven you,So take my pen and ink determined what to do.

I will proceed with that which I have writAnd tell what came of Dora and her lover,And let me ask you now I think of itTo pardon faults if such you should discover,I mean not that I'm anxious you should coverThe follies incidental to my case,We must essay to understand each other,And look each other boldly in the faceIf in each other's sympathy we seek a place.

VI.

Their days had hurried past as doth a dream(This is the favourite simile with us)And taking all together it would seemThe dream had not implied an incubus;For my part I am somewhat dubiousIf days like those before they all had known,Tho' Dora's state had been precariousFor some three weeks or more I that must own,But she'd recovered now. Oh how those days had flown!

VII.

Yes, as I say, their time ere then was up—The harvest in—yet still they seemed to tarry,They'd quaffed the measure of their sparkling cup,They'd done their tithe of mischief like Old Harry,And so the days went on with dilly-dally,The Pater seemed unable to decide,At which their expectations seemed to rally,They hoped he'd stay another month beside,While in this doubtful state the days did onward glide.

VIII.

And as for Rowland, there he might be seenBeside his cherished Dora day by day,For regularly as a new machineAcross to Elleston Farm he bent his way:There as the daylight softly stole awayWould they together sing some little air,She in the gloaming hour would sit and playSome little movement that he liked to hear,Which circumstances made it doubly, trebly dear.

IX.

And there they sat while he, leaf after leaf,O'erturned her music as her bosom roseWith words of fondness, ah, so low and brief,That tender softness only woman knows:While even o'er them wound that still repose,That hush of spirit and that soul of prayer,That something which is only known to thoseWho love and are beloved, who inly shareThat sacred bliss with which no other can compare.

They sang of love, while in each other's eyeBeamed that rich fulness of the throbbing breast,While on their lips there hung the deep-drawn sighWhich told the form it deemed the loveliest:Ah, in those evening moments both were blest,They read each other's bosom, oh, how well!And each to each their paradise confessed—That paradise that lovers love to tell,Which round and round each bosom twined its fairy-spell.

XI.

Now sunset fell upon her gilded hairAnd tinged her brow with an angelic light,As tho' a heaven-born being lingered there,And Beauty, shamed, were weeping at the sight;Then out they strolled to meet the starlit night,He breathed Love's message on to rosy lips,While each partook that holy calm delight,Those sweetnesses alone a lover sips,And which all other earthly sweetnesses eclipse.

XII.

Oh, Love! Oh, Woman! What are ye that shineMan's ruling planet o'er this tossing sea,Who are the sculptors of his lot condign,Who form the page of each man's destiny?Oh, Love, the greatest of the great of theeHave said, thou sacrificest all to bless,That in thee is a gloom, and are not weDesigned for thee, and born but to caress?And those—they know thee not—who can thy joys express.

XIII.

“Disguise can't long hide love,” 'tis even so:We'll shake hands over that at any rate,Let me refer to our friend Rochefoucauld,He knows a lot concerning Love and Hate.But still we wont these paths perambulate,What others say I merely here repeatSo as my story I can illustrate,And hand you my authority complete;To give my own experience would be indiscreet.

XIV.

Considering I'm but a youngster still,That is to say I'm only just of age,And I, as you will say, should leave it tillI'm past my “salad days” and can look sage;Till o'er Life's road I've passed another stage,And learned to smoke the pipe of common sense,Which, you will gather from the present page,I havn't learnt to yet at all events,Of which the present folly is a consequence.

XV.

But I was saying something about DoraBut cannot recollect precisely what—Ah yes!—I now remember—her adorer—And all about his most delightful lot,That he had popped the question on the spot(As I'd have done myself had I been he,Yes, no mistake about it, like a shot)While chatting in the arborvis-a-visEnjoying love-like sweet nonsensicality.

XVI.

'Twas often that they did together sing,And somehow music's fuel to the fire,The thirsty flame of Love, and to it cling,Those sadnesses which speak the heart's desire;There's in it that which doth the soul inspire.You'll recollect the words of Mirabeau,The very last he spoke,—“Let me expireTo the delicious sounds of music”—soHe gave a last long sigh and left this world of woe.

XVII.

The greatest deeds this world has ever knownWere wrought beneath Euterpe's mystic spell.When War's deep thunders boom and nations groanAnd rolling thunders tales of terror tell,Then—then the heart rebounds within its cell,As th' charger halts to sniff the gory frayAnd, with the fiery mettle nought can quell,Bounds o'er the dead and dying on his wayTo plunge amid the foe and meet the dreadful day.

XVIII.

Givemethe sound of martial music whileTen times ten thousand close in clash of war,And, dashing o'er the red and mangled pile,Each man determines “Now or nevermore!”While unsheathed sabres flash and cannons roar,And Fury, blindfold, hisses in its hate,While Valour's shouts resound from shore to shoreAnd nations strive their sons to vindicateAnd sovereigns bow the knee to t' inexorable Fate.

XIX.

Givemethe note which did the true-born pride—That pride of will in all its strength awake,Inflamed the hearts that for it sank and died,Those British hearts that burned for Glory's sake;That song which bids insurgent nations shakeUnto their deep foundations, and the worldFrom orient to occident to quake,While battle's blood-red banner is unfurled,And haughty thrones are to their own destruction hurled.

XX.

Givemethe notes that hush the raging seas,That urge the horseman and his charger on,Make foes disarm and fall upon their knees,And garlands fade where Victory once had shone,And vigorous Youth to glitter as the sun,And frenzied Prowess with her tossing plumeFrom off the gore-drenched field that she has wonTo bear the trophies of a nation's doom,While millions weep above an ignominious tomb.

XXI.

There lies the stalwart form in Death's last sleep,There rest the foamy lip, the bloodshot eye,The noble brow o'er which some heart doth weep,Whose only elegy—the buried sigh.There kneels the friend and comrade who would dieBeside the form he loved, alas, so well,Now in his last expiring agony,When every breath is as a funeral knell,And the soul bleeds with thoughts that Friendship cannot tell.

XXII.

The last long clasp, the hushed and trembling kiss,The mother weeping at her beauty's side,And Death's last look and stiffening clutch—is this,Isthisthe outcome of a nation's pride?There lie the clammy corpses far and wide,And locks bedabbled and the princely cheek,Son, father, brother, husband, side by side—Oh, such a tale of horror who can speak!Together heaped the dead and dying, strong and weak.

XXIII.

But to our text, my friends, as parsons say,This is soliloquy, I quite neglectMy tale, from which I've wandered far away,But what, from such as I, can you expect?I wished your kind attention to directSome stanzas back—I think 'twas eight or nine—To Music's wondrous power you'll recollect,But somehow left my subject line by line,To which no doubt you'll say I should myself confine.

XXIV.

I am no minstrel, and I'd have you know it,Altho' that is the title of these pages,Nor do I yet pretend to be a poet,Those things that should be kept in wire cages,That move to Colney Hatch by easy stages,And keep good company upon the road,Consisting of some dozen or two sages,Who, like our tins of dynamite, explode,And really are most dangerous things to be abroad.

XXV.

Now Pater surely something had in view,Beyond his time he stayed so many days,Of this his daughters evidently knewAnd all their expectations were ablaze;But their excitement soon became a crazeSince he had made a grand resolve—in shortHe had—and be it spoken to his praise—The villa, furnished, with its meadows bought;With much rejoicing this intelligence was fraught.

XXVI.

Arrangements had been made. The early trainHe took to town to settle matters there,Intending shortly to return againIf all his town arrangements turned out fair.He'd travelled up on three occasions ereHis wife's idea had met with his consent,No doubt about some business affairO'er which in town a day or two he'd spent,Now for the self-same reason there he pitched his tent.

XXVII.

He did not tarry long but home did fly,His daughters went to meet him at the station,And at the news they were in spirits highAs was apparent by their conversation;He was, of course, the very consummationOf all that was “delicious” and “divine,”A home at Elleston pleased their contemplation,And as the sun each countenance did shine,The very cocks and hens beamed with a look benign.

XXVIII.

The London residence was given o'er,The furniture that was not sold was sent,As it had been arranged it should before,To Elleston, and much labour too they spentIn fixing all things to their hearts' content,And cook, of course, was busy down there too,While Pater often up to London went,He had, as you may guess, a lot to do,And had his City business also to pursue.

XXIX.

So all was settled that he should divideThe time the City and his home between,For farm indeed he could, and well—for wideHis earlier experience had been.The farm, tho' small, was large enough I ween,In fact it was a nice convenient size,A prettier little spot was never seenThan Elleston Farm, I'm sure, by human eyes,And all seemed very happy in the enterprise.

XXX.

Some weeks elapsed e'er everything was straight;The shorter days were slowly coming round,And all things told the year was getting late,And evening mists fell heavy to the ground.The distant woods were getting seared and browned,And Autumn seemed abandoning her reign,While leaf by leaf fell with a rustling sound,That elegy of all the spreading plain,And Winter, with his glistering crown, was near again.

XXXI.

The groves were still, save when the startled breeze,Like a sad smile which comes then fades away,Swept faintly o'er the amber of the trees,And Nature's wheels moved slow and Life was gray:Sadly and surely, like the darkening day,Came dreary tokens of th' impending gloom;Fainter and fainter waned the solar rayAnd all was heavy as the slumbering tomb,Far thro' the hazy air did th' distant woodlands loom.

XXXII.

The lonesome, lingering rose was drenched with dew,With hanging head aggrieving for its mate,It wept above the ground on which it grew,With smiles all past and life disconsolate:There was the flower that clambered o'er the gateShrunk like the furrows of an old man's tear,Each leaf had fallen at the touch of fateAnd sunk to die upon its autumn bier,And every breeze was sighing for the death-dealt year.

XXXIII.

Be still, O heart, for Death steps noiseless nigh,Hist to the dirges o'er the sleeping sea!Dim funeral trains pass melancholy byAnd monotone their mournful minstrelsy.It is the grave that opes by Heav'n's decree,And steeps each thing in its sepulchral breath,The self-same grave that soon must yawn for thee,The grave wherein all darkness slumbereth,While all around is fastened in the fangs of Death.

XXXIV.

The garments of the arbour fell to earth,The arbour was deserted and the lawnKnew no repast of eve, no song of mirth,No noonday lounge, for summer days were gone.The villa of its mantle all was shorn,No blinking puppy stretched upon the grassEnjoying sleepily the sunny morn,No sportive kitten frolicked there—alas!No gaudy-tinted butterfly that way did pass.

XXXV.

When strolling through the dew-bespangled lane,We pause, and, thoughtful, gaze upon the scene,Within there speaks a something as of pain—Some sort of still lament for what hath been.A few short days ago and festoons greenClustered upon the bank in deepened shadeWith graceful negligence, while close betweenThe thorny twigs the autumn flowers played,And the broad leaves swung lazily beside the glade.

XXXVI.

Now all was silence—like a palace hushed,Or hush of a deserted banquet-hallWhere wine so lately like a fountain gushedAnd Grandeur stalked with mein imperial;Where death-like stillness doth the breast appal,Where revelry is changed to slumber soundAnd echoes only answer to the call,Save when along the corridors resoundDeparting footfalls, while in mystery all is bound.

XXXVII.

Like some strange chamber—dimly lighted—vast—Where but an hour ago did Splendour tread,Where royal feet swept on and Beauty passed,Where now the chaplet lies—forsaken—dead;Where Pleasure's palsied and the music fled,Where peers the painted figure from the frame,With dusky mantle and with hanging head,As tho' it felt the pang of inward shameFor an imperial ancient line and tarnished name.

XXXVIII.

Yes, autumn sped away and with it passedIts ruddy rich delights, and winds blew high,And shriveled Winter, limping, came at last,And leaden clouds flew o'er the dreary sky;Yet still our cheerful heroines did defy,As all of them accustomed were to do,The weather's threatening inclemency,And long their old enjoyments did pursue,They walked as they had done the happy summer through.

XXXIX.

Now Rowland and his brothers' home lay nearAcross the fields, it was a farmhouse too,No parents had they and from year to yearThey'd given their bailiff orders what to do.There side by side in harmony they grew,Their days were pleasant and their income kind,And each his occupation did pursueWith happy smiles and a contented mind,And hitherto to home their joys had been confined.

XL.

Butnowabroad did Rowland daily roam,And of him little did his brothers see,He knew no pleasure in the gates of home,But pensive strolled beside the surging sea,Delighting in its vast sublimity,And in the thunders of its mighty roll,While all his love flowed forth in poesy,That love that fed the fountain of the soul:Inherhis youthful hopes were folded like a scroll.* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

XLI.

The scene is changed and years have onward sped;Dora and Rowland had been long since one;She'd wept above her parents lying dead,She—whose sole murmur was “Thy will be done.”Yet life was happy as it had begun,For tears but sweetened what was all so fair,Their days were golden as the sinking sun;The calm pervading all the soundless air,And heavenly smiles descended on that happy pair.

XLII.

Flora and Rose ('twas strange that such should be)Were single still, nor on the way to marriage,Deeming a wife's responsibilityPerhaps a trifle more than they could manage;By no means am I tending to disparageBy my last line those who would wear the ring,Repeat each phrase and step within their carriage,By all means let them do the happy thing,Yet such a matter's worthy of considering.

XLIII.

At least, whate'er the truth may be, they tell(And little folks will always have their say)That Rose was once engaged to LionelWho swore to love for ever and a day;But matters (and they often chance that way)Abruptly turned and took a fitful start,'Twas whispered too, but be that as it may.That Rose with pestle and mortar broke his heart;So now it's up for auction in an auction-mart.

XLIV.

And also, to the best of mybelief,To Flora Gilbert fell upon his knees,But somehow matters seemed extremely brief,He rose, Ifancy, somewhat ill at ease,Then cursed his stars and hers for their decrees(I wouldn't swear I'm telling you the truth),And so the clerk and parson lost their fees,Decidedly their stars were most uncouth,For Flora was as gunpowder to Gilbert's youth.

XLV.

So Lionel and Gilbert went abroad—As youngsters do with circumstances thus—They left behind them all that they adored,And said “Good morning” with no further fuss;Their resignation was miraculous,Indeed what could they be but be resignedBeyond a tear upon their exodus,A muttered oath or two when so inclined,Which served in some degree to soothe their state of mind.

XLVI.

Rowland and Dora, as before I said,Located were three furlongs from the sand,Three furlongs 'twas exactly from the headWhere sweeping views stretched wide on every hand,Far, far the eye could reach, o'er sea and land,And in the glories of a summer's dayTheir children, by the ocean breezes fanned,Would gambol long beneath the noontide ray,And with bright laughter wile the long, long hours away.

XLVII.

O God, could I so feel that young delight—That young delight that knows no thought of pain,Where all is now the ceaseless gloom of night,O give me but my childhood back again;O let me wander o'er that flowery plainAnd once more pluck the sweets of other days,Few, few of childhood's joys for me remain,And life is bent o'er sterner, stonier waysWhose solitary solace is a backward gaze.

XLVIII.

Still by the sands live Rowland and his wife,And now the old house rings with boyhood's glee,For truly both are getting on in life,Their sturdy youngsters number two or three;So they are quite a happy familyWith Rose and Flora and their blithesome fun,With circumstances thus they ought to be,Their lot is good enough for anyone.And now, my indulgent readers all, my tale is done.

XLIX.

My tale is done—'tis even so—I fearThat very few have borne with me till now,For laurels are exorbitantly dear,And so I can't expect a laureled brow;Permit me then to make my humble bow,My title-page must bid me blush for shame;O reader, stay, ere you my Muse allow,And add thy pity to the meagre name,Forsooth no solitary laurel can it claim.

I really can't excuse myself—and more,I'm certain that I can't excuse my rhyme,But now 'tis simply useless to deplore,I may do better though another time;My tedious numbers are, I know, a crime,An outrage on the world of common sense,'Tis certain I've not yet contrived to climbThe literary pole, at all events,Or scale Olympus where the Muses pitch their tents.

LI.

My reader, 'tis with feelings as of sorrowI lay aside my paper and my pen,I've half a mind to drown myself to-morrowAnd will myself to Hell, like other men,For writing such a thing of rhyme—but then,As someone wrote, “There's good in everything,”So we must both have faith, you see, and whenWe meet again I hope that I may singA song that's much more worthy of the publishing.

End of Canto III.

Brightscenes must all depart as they've departed,Unshadowed years will fly as they have flown,And fairer visions leave us silent-hearted,Keen, lashing blasts must blow as they have blown.Old mem'ries must grow dim and fade away,Across the world's wide wastes the sun shall set,Thou shalt press forward on thy toil-trod way,Nor leave me one, just one, one sad regret.Ah, where shall I be then?—forgot—estranged,When years have rolled their glory at thy feet,When friends and kindred all, yea, all have changedAnd others come their chosen one to greet.And yet what prayer from me could now implore,Could crave for all it would, for words have fled?May Heaven preserve thee as thou wast before,And multiply all blessings on thy head.Formed to be great, ennobled in thy pride,Move on to Honour's portal and, below,All human reverence shall not be denied,And Earth shall give thee all it can bestow.Then Glory's chaplet shall adorn thy brow,Thy sun shall rise, before it Night shall flee,And Heaven with all prosperity endow,And lift a smiling countenance on thee.

Brightscenes must all depart as they've departed,Unshadowed years will fly as they have flown,And fairer visions leave us silent-hearted,Keen, lashing blasts must blow as they have blown.

Old mem'ries must grow dim and fade away,Across the world's wide wastes the sun shall set,Thou shalt press forward on thy toil-trod way,Nor leave me one, just one, one sad regret.

Ah, where shall I be then?—forgot—estranged,When years have rolled their glory at thy feet,When friends and kindred all, yea, all have changedAnd others come their chosen one to greet.

And yet what prayer from me could now implore,Could crave for all it would, for words have fled?May Heaven preserve thee as thou wast before,And multiply all blessings on thy head.

Formed to be great, ennobled in thy pride,Move on to Honour's portal and, below,All human reverence shall not be denied,And Earth shall give thee all it can bestow.

Then Glory's chaplet shall adorn thy brow,Thy sun shall rise, before it Night shall flee,And Heaven with all prosperity endow,And lift a smiling countenance on thee.

Mybeauty lives in a cottage grey by a gentle river's mouth,A cottage grey by the lone sea-shore away in the sunny south,Her eye's as fair, oh fairer, than the moonlight o'er the sea,And I love to look in my darling's face as she sits and sings to me.I'm as happy as a monarch as she lingers at my side,As we watch the far horizon of the ever-tossing tide,While the cool refreshing zephyr bears her tresses in its train,Now starting into motion and now slumbering again.She trips beside the waters on the distant yellow sandWhile holy vespers steal across the ocean and the land,And the sea bears the reflection of the worlds that roll aboveAnd every breath of even seems to whisper but of love.Oh what to me is Glory, what is Power, what is Pride!I care not for this bauble with my loved one at my side.I want no other beauty than the beauty of her face,What brighter vision is there than her comeliness and grace!

I'm as happy as a monarch as she lingers at my side,As we watch the far horizon of the ever-tossing tide,While the cool refreshing zephyr bears her tresses in its train,Now starting into motion and now slumbering again.

She trips beside the waters on the distant yellow sandWhile holy vespers steal across the ocean and the land,And the sea bears the reflection of the worlds that roll aboveAnd every breath of even seems to whisper but of love.

Oh what to me is Glory, what is Power, what is Pride!I care not for this bauble with my loved one at my side.I want no other beauty than the beauty of her face,What brighter vision is there than her comeliness and grace!

Ah, hast thou gone from him whose breastBleeds with the thought we are apart,Whose tears fall vainly and unblest,Whose all—a crushed—a broken heart!Thou hastenest on Life's thorny wayWhere torrid suns the mountains burn,Where parch the thirsty plains—yet say,Oh, say thou wilt to me return.Beyond the rolling wave art thouO'er which I waft a sigh to thee,Beyond the lurid sunset nowAblaze upon the western sea.Oh, think of him whose only thoughtThat thought which Friendship cannot tell,While flows the burning tear unsought,He loved, alas, he loved too well.Farewell to thee than whom all joyNo brighter vision e'er can lend,Go, he will be to thee, my boy,A brother—more than that—a friend.

Ah, hast thou gone from him whose breastBleeds with the thought we are apart,Whose tears fall vainly and unblest,Whose all—a crushed—a broken heart!

Thou hastenest on Life's thorny wayWhere torrid suns the mountains burn,Where parch the thirsty plains—yet say,Oh, say thou wilt to me return.

Beyond the rolling wave art thouO'er which I waft a sigh to thee,Beyond the lurid sunset nowAblaze upon the western sea.

Oh, think of him whose only thoughtThat thought which Friendship cannot tell,While flows the burning tear unsought,He loved, alas, he loved too well.

Farewell to thee than whom all joyNo brighter vision e'er can lend,Go, he will be to thee, my boy,A brother—more than that—a friend.

Thereare moments we can look to, we can cherish in the past,As the fleeting days that numbered them are dwindling to their last,Like the roses in the autumn that are severed from their stem,Like the dew-bespangled petals when we sit and sigh for them.There were sweetnesses unrivalled in those halcyon days of truth,Yet fairy hopes are budding in the sunset glow of youth,When like the cloudlets o'er the far horizon of the sea,Each fringed with sheeny splendour, are the days of infancy.Yet there are days and moments for enjoyment on before,Tho' the golden skies of youth shall never smile upon us more,When the brow of early womanhood looks forth to pleasures new,And sweeter, lovelier visions are unfolding to the view.O take the gift and when though look'st upon it let it beA token of the wishes, of the hopes I have for thee,A silent language which can speak when Friendship's voice is dumb,A small yet dear remembrancer in years that are to come.

There were sweetnesses unrivalled in those halcyon days of truth,Yet fairy hopes are budding in the sunset glow of youth,When like the cloudlets o'er the far horizon of the sea,Each fringed with sheeny splendour, are the days of infancy.

Yet there are days and moments for enjoyment on before,Tho' the golden skies of youth shall never smile upon us more,When the brow of early womanhood looks forth to pleasures new,And sweeter, lovelier visions are unfolding to the view.

O take the gift and when though look'st upon it let it beA token of the wishes, of the hopes I have for thee,A silent language which can speak when Friendship's voice is dumb,A small yet dear remembrancer in years that are to come.

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