II.

“My mother’s grave, my mother’s grave!Oh! dreamless is her slumber there,And drowsily the banners waveO’er her that was so chaste and fair;Yea! love is dead, and memory faded!But when the dew is on the brake,And silence sleeps on earth and sea,And mourners weep, and ghosts awake,Oh! then she cometh back to me,In her cold beauty darkly shaded!“I cannot guess her face or form;But what to me is form or face?I do not ask the weary wormTo give me back each buried graceOf glistening eyes, or trailing tresses!I only feel that she is here,And that we meet, and that we part;And that I drink within mine ear,And that I clasp around my heart,Her sweet still voice, and soft caresses!“Not in the waking thought by day,Not in the sightless dream by night,Do the mild tones and glances play,Of her who was my cradle’s light!But in some twilight of calm weatherShe glides, by fancy dimly wrought,A glittering cloud, a darkling beam,With all the quiet of a thought,And all the passion of a dream,Linked in a golden spell together!”

“I cannot guess her face or form;But what to me is form or face?I do not ask the weary wormTo give me back each buried graceOf glistening eyes, or trailing tresses!I only feel that she is here,And that we meet, and that we part;And that I drink within mine ear,And that I clasp around my heart,Her sweet still voice, and soft caresses!

“Not in the waking thought by day,Not in the sightless dream by night,Do the mild tones and glances play,Of her who was my cradle’s light!But in some twilight of calm weatherShe glides, by fancy dimly wrought,A glittering cloud, a darkling beam,With all the quiet of a thought,And all the passion of a dream,Linked in a golden spell together!”

Spirits, that walk and wail to-night,I feel, I feel that ye are near;There is a mist upon my sight,There is a murmur in mine ear,And a dark, dark dreadOf the lonely deadCreeps through the whispering atmosphere!Ye hover o’er the hoary trees,And the old oaks stand bereft and bare;Ye hover o’er the moonlight seas,And the tall masts rot in the poisoned air;Ye gaze on the gateOf earthly state,And the ban dog shivers in silence there.Come hither to me upon your cloud,And tell me of your bliss or pain,And let me see your shadowy shroud,And colourless lip, and bloodless vein;Where do ye dwell,In heaven or hell?And why do ye wander on earth again?Tell me where and how ye died,Fell ye in darkness, or fell ye in day,On lorn hill-side, or roaring tide,In gorgeous feast, or rushing fray?By bowl or blow,From friend or foe,Hurried your angry souls away?Mute ye come, and mute ye pass,Your tale untold, your shrift unshriven;But ye have blighted the pale grass,And scared the ghastly stars from heaven;And guilt hath knownYour voiceless moan,And felt that the blood is unforgiven!

Ye hover o’er the hoary trees,And the old oaks stand bereft and bare;Ye hover o’er the moonlight seas,And the tall masts rot in the poisoned air;Ye gaze on the gateOf earthly state,And the ban dog shivers in silence there.

Come hither to me upon your cloud,And tell me of your bliss or pain,And let me see your shadowy shroud,And colourless lip, and bloodless vein;Where do ye dwell,In heaven or hell?And why do ye wander on earth again?

Tell me where and how ye died,Fell ye in darkness, or fell ye in day,On lorn hill-side, or roaring tide,In gorgeous feast, or rushing fray?By bowl or blow,From friend or foe,Hurried your angry souls away?

Mute ye come, and mute ye pass,Your tale untold, your shrift unshriven;But ye have blighted the pale grass,And scared the ghastly stars from heaven;And guilt hath knownYour voiceless moan,And felt that the blood is unforgiven!

Oh fly with me! ’tis Passion’s hour;The world is gone to sleep;And nothing wakes in brake or bower,But those who love and weep:This is the golden time and weather,When songs and sighs go out together,And minstrels pledge the rosy wineTo lutes like this, and lips like thine!Oh fly with me! my courser’s flightIs like the rushing breeze,And the kind moon has said “Good night!”The lover’s voice—the loved one’s ear—There’s nothing else to speak or hear;And we will say, as on we glide,That nothing lives on earth beside!Oh fly with me! and we will wingOur white skiff o’er the waves,And hear the Tritons revellingAmong their coral caves;The envious Mermaid, when we pass,Shall cease her song, and drop her glass;For it will break her very heart,To see how fair and dear thou art.Oh fly with me! and we will dwellFar over the green seas,Where sadness rings no parting knellFor moments such as these!Where Italy’s unclouded skiesLook brightly down on brighter eyes,Or where the wave-wed City smiles,Enthroned upon her hundred isles.Oh fly with me! by these sweet stringsSwept o’er by Passion’s fingers,By all the rocks, and vales, and springsWhere Memory lives and lingers,By all the tongue can never tell,By all the heart has told so well,By all that has been or may be,And by Love’s self—Oh fly with me!

Oh fly with me! my courser’s flightIs like the rushing breeze,And the kind moon has said “Good night!”The lover’s voice—the loved one’s ear—There’s nothing else to speak or hear;And we will say, as on we glide,That nothing lives on earth beside!

Oh fly with me! and we will wingOur white skiff o’er the waves,And hear the Tritons revellingAmong their coral caves;The envious Mermaid, when we pass,Shall cease her song, and drop her glass;For it will break her very heart,To see how fair and dear thou art.

Oh fly with me! and we will dwellFar over the green seas,Where sadness rings no parting knellFor moments such as these!Where Italy’s unclouded skiesLook brightly down on brighter eyes,Or where the wave-wed City smiles,Enthroned upon her hundred isles.

Oh fly with me! by these sweet stringsSwept o’er by Passion’s fingers,By all the rocks, and vales, and springsWhere Memory lives and lingers,By all the tongue can never tell,By all the heart has told so well,By all that has been or may be,And by Love’s self—Oh fly with me!

Fare thee well, fare thee well,Most beautiful of earthly things!I will not bid thy spirit stay,Nor link to earth those glittering wings,That burst like light away!I know that thou art gone to dwellIn the sunny home of the fresh day-beam,Before decay’s unpitying treadHath crept upon the dearest dreamThat ever came and fled;Fare thee well, fare thee well;And go thy way, all pure and fair,Into the starry firmament;And wander there with the spirits of air,As bright and innocent!Fare thee well, fare thee well!Strange feet will be upon thy clay,And never stop to sigh or sorrow;Yet many wept for thee to-day,And one will weep to-morrow:Alas! that melancholy knellShall often wake my wondering ear,And thou shalt greet me for awhile,Too beautiful to make me fear,Too sad to let me smile!Fare thee well, fare thee well!I know that heaven for thee is won!And yet I feel I would resignWhole ages of my life, for one—One little hour, of thine!Fare thee well, fare thee well!See, I have been to the sweetest bowers,And culled from garden and from heathThe tenderest of all tender flowers,And blended in my wreathThe violet and the blue harebell,And one frail rose in its earliest bloom;Alas! I meant it for thy hair,And now I fling it on thy tomb,To weep and wither there!Fare ye well, fare ye well!Sleep, sleep, my love, in fragrant shade,Droop, droop, to-night, thou blushing token;A fairer flower shall never fade,Nor a fonder heart be broken!

Fare thee well, fare thee well!Strange feet will be upon thy clay,And never stop to sigh or sorrow;Yet many wept for thee to-day,And one will weep to-morrow:Alas! that melancholy knellShall often wake my wondering ear,And thou shalt greet me for awhile,Too beautiful to make me fear,Too sad to let me smile!Fare thee well, fare thee well!I know that heaven for thee is won!And yet I feel I would resignWhole ages of my life, for one—One little hour, of thine!

Fare thee well, fare thee well!See, I have been to the sweetest bowers,And culled from garden and from heathThe tenderest of all tender flowers,And blended in my wreathThe violet and the blue harebell,And one frail rose in its earliest bloom;Alas! I meant it for thy hair,And now I fling it on thy tomb,To weep and wither there!Fare ye well, fare ye well!Sleep, sleep, my love, in fragrant shade,Droop, droop, to-night, thou blushing token;A fairer flower shall never fade,Nor a fonder heart be broken!

Clotilda! many hearts are light,And many lips dissemble;But I am thine till priests shall fight,Or Cœur de Lion tremble!—Hath Jerome burned his rosary,Or Richard shrunk from slaughter?Oh! no, no,Dream not so!But till you mean your hopes to die,Engrave them not in water!Sweet Ida, on my lonely wayThose tears I will remember,Till icicles shall cling to May,Or roses to December!—Are snow-wreaths bound on Summer’s brow?Is drowsy Winter waking?Oh! no, no,Dream not so!But lances, and a lover’s vow,Were only made for breaking.Lenora, I am faithful still,By all the saints that listen,Till this warm heart shall cease to thrill,Or these wild veins to glisten!—This bosom,—is its pulse less high?Or sleeps the storm within it?Oh! no, no,Dream not so!But lovers find eternityIn less than half a minute.And thus to thee I swear to-night,By thine own lips and tresses,That I will take no further flight,Nor break again my jesses:And wilt thou trust the faith I vowed,And dream in spite of warning?Oh! no, no,Dream not so!But go and lure the midnight cloud,Or chain the mist of morning.These words of mine, so false and bland,Forget that they were spoken!The ring is on thy radiant hand,—Dash down the faithless token!And will they say that Beauty sinned,That Woman turned a rover?Oh! no, no,Dream not so!But lovers’ vows are like the wind—And Vidal is a Lover.

Sweet Ida, on my lonely wayThose tears I will remember,Till icicles shall cling to May,Or roses to December!—Are snow-wreaths bound on Summer’s brow?Is drowsy Winter waking?Oh! no, no,Dream not so!But lances, and a lover’s vow,Were only made for breaking.

Lenora, I am faithful still,By all the saints that listen,Till this warm heart shall cease to thrill,Or these wild veins to glisten!—This bosom,—is its pulse less high?Or sleeps the storm within it?Oh! no, no,Dream not so!But lovers find eternityIn less than half a minute.

And thus to thee I swear to-night,By thine own lips and tresses,That I will take no further flight,Nor break again my jesses:And wilt thou trust the faith I vowed,And dream in spite of warning?Oh! no, no,Dream not so!But go and lure the midnight cloud,Or chain the mist of morning.

These words of mine, so false and bland,Forget that they were spoken!The ring is on thy radiant hand,—Dash down the faithless token!And will they say that Beauty sinned,That Woman turned a rover?Oh! no, no,Dream not so!But lovers’ vows are like the wind—And Vidal is a Lover.

“Lorsque l’on aime comme il fautLe moindre éloignement nous tueEt ce, dont on chérit la vueNe reviènt jamais assez tôt.”—Moliere.

He’s gone, dear Fanny!—gone at last—We’ve said good-bye—and all is over;’Twas a gay dream—but it is past—Next Tuesday he will sail from Dover.Well! gentle waves be round his prow!But tear and prayer alike are idle;Oh! who shall fill my album now?And who shall hold my pony’s bridle?Last night he left us after tea—I never thought he’d leave us—never;He was so pleasant, was’nt he?Papa, too, said he was so clever.And, Fanny, you’ll be glad to hear—That little boy that looked so yellow,Whose eyes weresolike his—my dear,Is a poor little orphan fellow!That odious Miss Lucretia Browne,Who, with her horrid pugs and Bibles,Is always running through the town,And circulating tracts—and libels;Because he never danced with her,Told dear Mamma such horrid scandalAbout his moral character,For stooping, just to tie a sandal!She said he went to fights and fairs—That always gives Papa the fidgets;She said he did not know his prayers—He’s every Sunday at St. Bridget’s!She said he squeezed one’s waist and handsWhene’er he waltzed—a plague upon her—I danced with him at Lady Eland’s—He never squeezed me—’pon my honour!His regiment have got the route,(They came down here to quell the riot,And now—what can they be about,The stupid people are so quiet:)—They say it is to India, too,If there I’m sure he’ll get the liver!—And should he bathe—he used to do—They’ve crocodiles in every river.There may be bright eyes there—and then!(I’m sure I love him like a brother;)His lute will soon be strung again,His heart will soon beat for another.I know him well! he is not false—But when the song he loves is playing—Or after he has danced a waltz—He never knows what he is saying.I know ’twas wrong—’twas very wrong—To listen to his wild romancing;Last night I danced with him too long,—One’s always giddy after dancing:But when he begged me so to sing,And when he sighed, and asked me, “Would I?”And when he took my turquoise ring,I’m sure I could not help it, could I?Papa was lecturing the girls,And talked of settlements and rentals;—I wore a white-lace frock—and pearls—He looked so well in regimentals!And just before we came away,While we were waiting for the carriage,I heard him, not quite plainly, saySomething of Blacksmiths—and of marriage.He promised, if he could get leave,He’d soon come back—I wonder can he?—Lord Hill is very strict, I b’lieve;—(What could he mean by Blacksmiths, Fanny?)He said he wished we ne’er had met,I answered—it was lovely weather!—And then he bade me not forgetThe pleasant days we’d passed together.He’s gone—and other lips may weaveA stronger spell than mine to bind him;But bid him, if he loves me, leaveThose rhymes he made me love, behind him;Tell him I know those waywards stringsNot always sound to mirthful measures;But sighs are sometimes pleasant things,And tears from those we love are treasures.Tell him to leave off drinking wine,—Tell him to break himself off smoking,—Tell him to go to bed at nine,—His hours are really quite provoking.Tell him I hope he won’t get fat,—Tell him to act with due reflection;—Tell him to wear a broad-leaf hat,Or else he’ll ruin his complexion.Tell him I amsoill to-day,—Perhaps to-morrow I’ll be better;—-Tell him before he goes awayTo write me a consoling letter:Tell him to send me down that songHe said he loved the best of any,—Tell him I’m sure I can’t live long,—And—bid him love me,—won’t you, Fanny?

Last night he left us after tea—I never thought he’d leave us—never;He was so pleasant, was’nt he?Papa, too, said he was so clever.And, Fanny, you’ll be glad to hear—That little boy that looked so yellow,Whose eyes weresolike his—my dear,Is a poor little orphan fellow!

That odious Miss Lucretia Browne,Who, with her horrid pugs and Bibles,Is always running through the town,And circulating tracts—and libels;Because he never danced with her,Told dear Mamma such horrid scandalAbout his moral character,For stooping, just to tie a sandal!

She said he went to fights and fairs—That always gives Papa the fidgets;She said he did not know his prayers—He’s every Sunday at St. Bridget’s!She said he squeezed one’s waist and handsWhene’er he waltzed—a plague upon her—I danced with him at Lady Eland’s—He never squeezed me—’pon my honour!

His regiment have got the route,(They came down here to quell the riot,And now—what can they be about,The stupid people are so quiet:)—They say it is to India, too,If there I’m sure he’ll get the liver!—And should he bathe—he used to do—They’ve crocodiles in every river.

There may be bright eyes there—and then!(I’m sure I love him like a brother;)His lute will soon be strung again,His heart will soon beat for another.I know him well! he is not false—But when the song he loves is playing—Or after he has danced a waltz—He never knows what he is saying.

I know ’twas wrong—’twas very wrong—To listen to his wild romancing;Last night I danced with him too long,—One’s always giddy after dancing:But when he begged me so to sing,And when he sighed, and asked me, “Would I?”And when he took my turquoise ring,I’m sure I could not help it, could I?

Papa was lecturing the girls,And talked of settlements and rentals;—I wore a white-lace frock—and pearls—He looked so well in regimentals!And just before we came away,While we were waiting for the carriage,I heard him, not quite plainly, saySomething of Blacksmiths—and of marriage.

He promised, if he could get leave,He’d soon come back—I wonder can he?—Lord Hill is very strict, I b’lieve;—(What could he mean by Blacksmiths, Fanny?)He said he wished we ne’er had met,I answered—it was lovely weather!—And then he bade me not forgetThe pleasant days we’d passed together.

He’s gone—and other lips may weaveA stronger spell than mine to bind him;But bid him, if he loves me, leaveThose rhymes he made me love, behind him;Tell him I know those waywards stringsNot always sound to mirthful measures;But sighs are sometimes pleasant things,And tears from those we love are treasures.

Tell him to leave off drinking wine,—Tell him to break himself off smoking,—Tell him to go to bed at nine,—His hours are really quite provoking.Tell him I hope he won’t get fat,—Tell him to act with due reflection;—Tell him to wear a broad-leaf hat,Or else he’ll ruin his complexion.

Tell him I amsoill to-day,—Perhaps to-morrow I’ll be better;—-Tell him before he goes awayTo write me a consoling letter:Tell him to send me down that songHe said he loved the best of any,—Tell him I’m sure I can’t live long,—And—bid him love me,—won’t you, Fanny?

“If she be not fair to me,What care I how fair she be.”—Suckling.

Wherefore, Fanny, look so lovely,In your anger, in your glee?Laughing, weeping, fair, capricious!If you will look so delicious,Prythee, look at me!Wherefore, Fanny, sing so sweetly,Like the bird upon the tree,—Hearts in dozens round you bringing?Siren! if you must be singing,Prythee, sing to me!Wherefore, Fanny, dance so lightly,Like the wave upon the sea?Motion every charm enhancing;Fanny, if you will be dancing,Prythee, dance with me!Wherefore smile so like an angel,Angel-like although you be?Head and heart at once beguiling,—Dearest! if you will be smiling,Prythee, smile on me!Wherefore flirt, and aim your arrowsAt each harmless fop you see?Coxcombs, hardly worth the hurting;Tyrant! if you must be flirting,Prythee, flirt with me!Wherefore, Fanny, kiss and fondleHalf the ugly brats you see?Waste not love among so many;—Sweetest! if you fondle any,Prythee, fondle me!Wherefore wedlock’s lottery enter?Chances for you, one to three!Richest ventures oft miscarry,Fanny, Fanny, if you marry,Prythee, marry me!

Wherefore, Fanny, look so lovely,In your anger, in your glee?Laughing, weeping, fair, capricious!If you will look so delicious,Prythee, look at me!

Wherefore, Fanny, sing so sweetly,Like the bird upon the tree,—Hearts in dozens round you bringing?Siren! if you must be singing,Prythee, sing to me!

Wherefore, Fanny, dance so lightly,Like the wave upon the sea?Motion every charm enhancing;Fanny, if you will be dancing,Prythee, dance with me!

Wherefore smile so like an angel,Angel-like although you be?Head and heart at once beguiling,—Dearest! if you will be smiling,Prythee, smile on me!

Wherefore flirt, and aim your arrowsAt each harmless fop you see?Coxcombs, hardly worth the hurting;Tyrant! if you must be flirting,Prythee, flirt with me!

Wherefore, Fanny, kiss and fondleHalf the ugly brats you see?Waste not love among so many;—Sweetest! if you fondle any,Prythee, fondle me!

Wherefore wedlock’s lottery enter?Chances for you, one to three!Richest ventures oft miscarry,Fanny, Fanny, if you marry,Prythee, marry me!

Ye dons and ye doctors, ye provosts and proctors,Who are paid to monopolise knowledge,Come make opposition, by vote and petition,To the radical infidel college;Come put forth your powers, in aid of the towersWhich boast of their bishops and martyrs;And arm all the terrors of privileged errorsWhich live by the wax of their charters.Let Mackintosh battle with Canning and V——,Let Brougham be a friend to the niggers,Burdett cure the nation’s misrepresentations,And Hume make a figure in figures;But let them not babble of Greek to the rabble,Nor teach the mechanics their letters;The labouring classes were born to be asses,And not to be aping their betters.’Tis a terrible crisis for Cam and for Isis,Fat butchers are learning dissection;And looking-glass makers become Sabbath breakers,To study the laws of reflection;Sin Φ and sin Θ, no sin can be sweeter,Are taught to the poor of both sexes,And weavers and spinners jump up from their dinnersTo flirt with their y’s and their x’s.Chuck farthing advances the doctrine of chancesIn spite of the staff of the beadle;And menders of breeches between the long stitchesWrite books on the laws of the needle;And chandlers all chatter of luminous matter,Who communicate none to their tallows;And rogues gets a notion of the pendulum’s motionWhich is only of use at the gallows.The impurest of Attics read pure mathematics,The gin-shops are turned into cloisters;A Crawford next summer will fill up your rummer,A Copleston open your oysters;The bells of Old Bailey are practising gailyThe erudite tunes of St. Mary’s;The Minories any day will rear you a Kennedy,And Bishopsgate blossom with Airy’s.The nature of granites, the tricks of the planets,The forces of steam and of gases,The engines mechanical, the long words botanical,The ranging of beetles in classes,The delicate junctions of symbols and functions,The impossible roots of equations,Are these proper questions for Cockney digestions,Fit food for a cit’s lucubrations?The eloquent pages of time-hallowed sages,Embalmed by some critical German,Old presents by Brunckius, new futures by Monckius,[6]The squabbles of Porson with Hermann,Your Alphas and Betas, your canons of metres,Your infinite powers of particles,Shall these and such like work make journeymen strike work,And ’prentices tear up their articles.But oh, since fair science will cruelly fly hence,To smile upon vagrants and gypsies,Since knights of the hammer must handle their grammar,And nightmen account for eclipses,Our handicraft neighbours shall share in our laboursIf they leave us the whole of the honey,And the sans culotte caitiff shall start for the plate ifHe puts in no claim for plate-money.Ye halls on whose daïs the don of to-day isTo feed on the beef and the benison,Ye common room glories, where beneficed ToriesDigest their belief and their venison,Ye duels scholastic, where quibbles monasticAre asserted with none to confute them,Ye grave congregations, where frequent taxationsAre settled with none to dispute them:Far hence be the season when radical treasonOf port and of puddings shall bilk ye;When the weavers aforesaid shall taste of our boar’s head,The silk-winders swallow our silky:When the mob shall eat faster than any vice-master,The watermen try to out-tope us;When Campbell shall dish up a bowl of our bishop,Or Brougham and Co. cope with our Copus.[7]

Let Mackintosh battle with Canning and V——,Let Brougham be a friend to the niggers,Burdett cure the nation’s misrepresentations,And Hume make a figure in figures;But let them not babble of Greek to the rabble,Nor teach the mechanics their letters;The labouring classes were born to be asses,And not to be aping their betters.

’Tis a terrible crisis for Cam and for Isis,Fat butchers are learning dissection;And looking-glass makers become Sabbath breakers,To study the laws of reflection;Sin Φ and sin Θ, no sin can be sweeter,Are taught to the poor of both sexes,And weavers and spinners jump up from their dinnersTo flirt with their y’s and their x’s.

Chuck farthing advances the doctrine of chancesIn spite of the staff of the beadle;And menders of breeches between the long stitchesWrite books on the laws of the needle;And chandlers all chatter of luminous matter,Who communicate none to their tallows;And rogues gets a notion of the pendulum’s motionWhich is only of use at the gallows.

The impurest of Attics read pure mathematics,The gin-shops are turned into cloisters;A Crawford next summer will fill up your rummer,A Copleston open your oysters;The bells of Old Bailey are practising gailyThe erudite tunes of St. Mary’s;The Minories any day will rear you a Kennedy,And Bishopsgate blossom with Airy’s.

The nature of granites, the tricks of the planets,The forces of steam and of gases,The engines mechanical, the long words botanical,The ranging of beetles in classes,The delicate junctions of symbols and functions,The impossible roots of equations,Are these proper questions for Cockney digestions,Fit food for a cit’s lucubrations?

The eloquent pages of time-hallowed sages,Embalmed by some critical German,Old presents by Brunckius, new futures by Monckius,[6]The squabbles of Porson with Hermann,Your Alphas and Betas, your canons of metres,Your infinite powers of particles,Shall these and such like work make journeymen strike work,And ’prentices tear up their articles.

But oh, since fair science will cruelly fly hence,To smile upon vagrants and gypsies,Since knights of the hammer must handle their grammar,And nightmen account for eclipses,Our handicraft neighbours shall share in our laboursIf they leave us the whole of the honey,And the sans culotte caitiff shall start for the plate ifHe puts in no claim for plate-money.

Ye halls on whose daïs the don of to-day isTo feed on the beef and the benison,Ye common room glories, where beneficed ToriesDigest their belief and their venison,Ye duels scholastic, where quibbles monasticAre asserted with none to confute them,Ye grave congregations, where frequent taxationsAre settled with none to dispute them:

Far hence be the season when radical treasonOf port and of puddings shall bilk ye;When the weavers aforesaid shall taste of our boar’s head,The silk-winders swallow our silky:When the mob shall eat faster than any vice-master,The watermen try to out-tope us;When Campbell shall dish up a bowl of our bishop,Or Brougham and Co. cope with our Copus.[7]

Good night to thee, lady!—though manyHave join’d in the dance to-night,Thy form was the fairest of any,Where all was seducing and bright;Thy smile was the softest and dearest,Thy form the most sylph-like of all,And thy voice the most gladsome and clearestThat e’er held a partner in thrall.Good night to thee, lady!—’tis over—The waltz, the quadrille, and the song—The whisper’d farewell of the lover,The heartless adieu of the throng;The heart that was throbbing with pleasure,The eyelid that long’d for repose—The beaux that were dreaming of treasure,The girls that were dreaming of beaux.’Tis over—the lights are all dying,The coaches all driving away;And many a fair one is sighing,And many a false one is gay;And Beauty counts over her numbersOf conquests, as homeward she drives—-And some are gone home to their slumbers,And some are gone home to their wives.And I, while my cab in the showerIs waiting, the last at the doorAm looking all around for the flowerThat fell from your wreath on the floor,I’ll keep it—if but to remind me,Though withered and faded its hue—Wherever next season may find me—Of England—of Almack’s—and you!There are tones that will haunt us, though lonelyOur path be o’er mountain or sea;There are looks that will part from us onlyWhen memory ceases to be;There are hopes which our burden can lighten,Though toilsome and steep be the way;And dreams that, like moonlight, can brightenWith a light that is clearer than day.There are names that we cherish, though nameless;For aye on the lips they may be;There are hearts that, though fetter’d, are tameless,And thoughts unexpress’d, but still free!And some are too grave for a rover,And some for a husband too light.—The ball and my dream are all over—Good night to thee, lady! good night!

Good night to thee, lady!—’tis over—The waltz, the quadrille, and the song—The whisper’d farewell of the lover,The heartless adieu of the throng;The heart that was throbbing with pleasure,The eyelid that long’d for repose—The beaux that were dreaming of treasure,The girls that were dreaming of beaux.

’Tis over—the lights are all dying,The coaches all driving away;And many a fair one is sighing,And many a false one is gay;And Beauty counts over her numbersOf conquests, as homeward she drives—-And some are gone home to their slumbers,And some are gone home to their wives.

And I, while my cab in the showerIs waiting, the last at the doorAm looking all around for the flowerThat fell from your wreath on the floor,I’ll keep it—if but to remind me,Though withered and faded its hue—Wherever next season may find me—Of England—of Almack’s—and you!

There are tones that will haunt us, though lonelyOur path be o’er mountain or sea;There are looks that will part from us onlyWhen memory ceases to be;There are hopes which our burden can lighten,Though toilsome and steep be the way;And dreams that, like moonlight, can brightenWith a light that is clearer than day.

There are names that we cherish, though nameless;For aye on the lips they may be;There are hearts that, though fetter’d, are tameless,And thoughts unexpress’d, but still free!And some are too grave for a rover,And some for a husband too light.—The ball and my dream are all over—Good night to thee, lady! good night!

“Not a man—nor a boy—But a Hobbledehoy.”—Old Song.

Oh! there is a time, a happy time,When a boy is just half a man;When ladies may kiss him without a crime,And flirt with him like a fan:—When mammas with their daughters will leave him alone,If he only will seem to fear them;While were he a man, or a little more grown,They never would let him near them.These, Lilly!—these were the days when youWere my boyhood’s earliest flame,—When I thought it an honour to tie your shoe,And trembled to hear your name:—When I scarcely ventured to take a kiss,Though your lips seemed half to invite me;But, Lilly! I soon got over this,—When I kissed—and they did not bite me!Oh! these were gladsome and fairy times,And our hearts were then in their Spring,When I passed my nights in writing you rhymes,And my days in hearing you sing:—And don’t you remember your mother’s dismayWhen she found in your drawer my sonnet;And the beautiful verses I wrote, one day,On the ribbon that hung from your bonnet!And the seat we made by the fountain’s gush,Where your task you were wont to say,—And how I lay under the holly-bushTill your governess went away:—And how, when too long at your task you sat,Or whenever a kiss I wanted,I brayed like an ass—or mewed like a cat,Till she deemed that the place was haunted!And do you not, love, remember the daysWhen I dressed you for the play,—When I pinned your kerchief, and laced your staysIn the neatest and tidiest way!—And do you forget the kiss you gaveWhen I tore my hand with the pin;—And how you wondered men would not shaveThe beards from their horrible chin.And do you remember the garden wallI climbed up every night,—And the racket we made in the servants’ hallWhen the wind had put out the light;—When Sally got up in her petticoat,And John came out in his shirt,—And I silenced her with a guinea-note,And blinded him with a squirt!And don’t you remember the horrible biteI got from the gardener’s bitch,When John let her out of the kennel, for spite,And she seized me, crossing the ditch;—And how you wept when you saw my blood,And numbered me with Love’s martyrs,—And how you helped me out of the mud,By tying together your garters!But, Lilly! now I am grown a man,And those days have all gone by,—And Fortune may give me the best she can,And the brightest destiny;But I would give every hope and joyThat my spirit may taste again,That I once more were that gladsome boy,And that you were as young as then.

These, Lilly!—these were the days when youWere my boyhood’s earliest flame,—When I thought it an honour to tie your shoe,And trembled to hear your name:—When I scarcely ventured to take a kiss,Though your lips seemed half to invite me;But, Lilly! I soon got over this,—When I kissed—and they did not bite me!

Oh! these were gladsome and fairy times,And our hearts were then in their Spring,When I passed my nights in writing you rhymes,And my days in hearing you sing:—And don’t you remember your mother’s dismayWhen she found in your drawer my sonnet;And the beautiful verses I wrote, one day,On the ribbon that hung from your bonnet!

And the seat we made by the fountain’s gush,Where your task you were wont to say,—And how I lay under the holly-bushTill your governess went away:—And how, when too long at your task you sat,Or whenever a kiss I wanted,I brayed like an ass—or mewed like a cat,Till she deemed that the place was haunted!

And do you not, love, remember the daysWhen I dressed you for the play,—When I pinned your kerchief, and laced your staysIn the neatest and tidiest way!—And do you forget the kiss you gaveWhen I tore my hand with the pin;—And how you wondered men would not shaveThe beards from their horrible chin.

And do you remember the garden wallI climbed up every night,—And the racket we made in the servants’ hallWhen the wind had put out the light;—When Sally got up in her petticoat,And John came out in his shirt,—And I silenced her with a guinea-note,And blinded him with a squirt!

And don’t you remember the horrible biteI got from the gardener’s bitch,When John let her out of the kennel, for spite,And she seized me, crossing the ditch;—And how you wept when you saw my blood,And numbered me with Love’s martyrs,—And how you helped me out of the mud,By tying together your garters!

But, Lilly! now I am grown a man,And those days have all gone by,—And Fortune may give me the best she can,And the brightest destiny;But I would give every hope and joyThat my spirit may taste again,That I once more were that gladsome boy,And that you were as young as then.

“You have often promised to teach me Greek and Latin. Now, that we are in this classic land, do keep your promise.”—Conversation on the beach at Salerno.

Oh, yes! beside that moonlit creek,Where sleep the silent waters,I’ll teach thee all I know of Greek,Young queen of beauty’s daughters!And each sweet eve, by that lone shore,Where no rude step can fright us,We’ll cull sweet flowers of classic lore,With the young stars to light us!I’ll teach thee how the billows grieve,Where Lesbian Sappho slumbers,How young Catullus used to weaveFresh heart-sighs with his numbers:How Ariadne sighed and wept,And watched her love’s returning;And the young maid of Sestos keptHer love-lamp ever burning.There by the light the quiet skyAnd the soft stars have made us,Thou for my Commentary;—IThy Lexicon and Gradus;—We’ll con each page of that bright lore,Love taught those maiden sagesWho read in Paphos’ bowers of yore,With moonlight on the pages!And if, ere half our walk be done,Some ruined fane we light on,Which love once warmed,—some little oneThat moonlight then is bright on;We’ll kneel—and should some spark that glowsStill round the altar, reach us,And light our hearts—Heaven only knowsWhat wondrous things ’twill teach us!

I’ll teach thee how the billows grieve,Where Lesbian Sappho slumbers,How young Catullus used to weaveFresh heart-sighs with his numbers:How Ariadne sighed and wept,And watched her love’s returning;And the young maid of Sestos keptHer love-lamp ever burning.

There by the light the quiet skyAnd the soft stars have made us,Thou for my Commentary;—IThy Lexicon and Gradus;—We’ll con each page of that bright lore,Love taught those maiden sagesWho read in Paphos’ bowers of yore,With moonlight on the pages!

And if, ere half our walk be done,Some ruined fane we light on,Which love once warmed,—some little oneThat moonlight then is bright on;We’ll kneel—and should some spark that glowsStill round the altar, reach us,And light our hearts—Heaven only knowsWhat wondrous things ’twill teach us!

“Why will you never listen to an Irish melody?”—Query in a Ball-room.

The songs she sung—the songs she sung!How many a sigh they stole!Oh! there be lutes as sweetly strung,But none with half the soulThat dwelt in every silver toneShedrew from each sweet string:Oh! no,—the songs she made her ownI will not hear them sing!The songs she sung—the songs she sung!How few and faint the wordsOf praise that fell whene’er she flungHer fingers o’er the chords;No plaudit followed when the strainDied on the quivering air,But tears were gushing forth like rain,And lips were quivering there!The songs she sung—the songs she sung!Long, grieving years are fled,Earth’s yearnings from the heart are flung,Earth’s hopes are with the dead;And worldly wrongs—forgot—forgiven—Sleep in Death’s second birth;But I would only hear in HeavenThe songsshegave to earth!

The songs she sung—the songs she sung!How few and faint the wordsOf praise that fell whene’er she flungHer fingers o’er the chords;No plaudit followed when the strainDied on the quivering air,But tears were gushing forth like rain,And lips were quivering there!

The songs she sung—the songs she sung!Long, grieving years are fled,Earth’s yearnings from the heart are flung,Earth’s hopes are with the dead;And worldly wrongs—forgot—forgiven—Sleep in Death’s second birth;But I would only hear in HeavenThe songsshegave to earth!

“Why? Because.”—Lindley Murray.

Sweet Nea!—for your lovely sakeI weave these rambling numbers,Because I’ve lain an hour awake,And can’t compose my slumbers;Because your beauty’s gentle lightIs round my pillow beaming,And flings, I know not why, to-night,Some witchery o’er my dreaming!Because we’ve passed some joyous days,And danced some merry dances;Because you love old Beaumont’s plays,And old Froissart’s romances!Because, whene’er I hear your words,Some pleasant feeling lingers;Because I think your heart has chordsThat vibrate to my fingers!Because you’ve got those long, soft curlsI’ve sworn should deck my goddess;Because you’re not, like other girls,All bustle, blush, and bodice!Because your eyes are deep and blue,Your fingers long and rosy;Because a little child and youWould make one’s home so cosy!Because your little tiny noseTurns up so pert and funny;Because I know you choose your beauxMore for their mirth than money;Because I think you’d rather twirlA waltz, with me to guide you,Than talk small nonsense with an Earl,And a coronet beside you!Because you don’t object to walk,And are not given to fainting;Because you have not learned to talkOf flowers and Poonah-painting;Because I think you’d scarce refuseTo sew one on a button;Because I know you’d sometimes chooseTo dine on simple mutton!Because I think I’m just so weakAs, some of those fine morrows,To ask you if you’ll let me speakMystory—andmysorrows:Because the rest’s a simple thing,A matter quickly over,A church—a priest—a sigh—a ring—And a chaise-and-four for Dover!

Because we’ve passed some joyous days,And danced some merry dances;Because you love old Beaumont’s plays,And old Froissart’s romances!Because, whene’er I hear your words,Some pleasant feeling lingers;Because I think your heart has chordsThat vibrate to my fingers!

Because you’ve got those long, soft curlsI’ve sworn should deck my goddess;Because you’re not, like other girls,All bustle, blush, and bodice!Because your eyes are deep and blue,Your fingers long and rosy;Because a little child and youWould make one’s home so cosy!

Because your little tiny noseTurns up so pert and funny;Because I know you choose your beauxMore for their mirth than money;Because I think you’d rather twirlA waltz, with me to guide you,Than talk small nonsense with an Earl,And a coronet beside you!

Because you don’t object to walk,And are not given to fainting;Because you have not learned to talkOf flowers and Poonah-painting;Because I think you’d scarce refuseTo sew one on a button;Because I know you’d sometimes chooseTo dine on simple mutton!

Because I think I’m just so weakAs, some of those fine morrows,To ask you if you’ll let me speakMystory—andmysorrows:Because the rest’s a simple thing,A matter quickly over,A church—a priest—a sigh—a ring—And a chaise-and-four for Dover!

Dear minstrel, the dangers are not to be toldOf those strains which have trebly undone me,—A victim to pity, to love, and to cold,I’ll be dead by the time thou hast won me!Oh! think for a moment—whoever thou art,On the woes that beset me together,—If thou wilt not consider the state of my heart,Oh! think of the state of the weather.How keenly around me the night breezes blow,—How sweetly thy parting note lingers,—Ah! would that the glow of my heart could bestowA share of its warmth to—my fingers!But though she who would watch while the nightingales singShould scorn to let cold overcome her,—Though, like other sweet birds, you begin in the Spring,I can’t fall in love till the Summer.

Dear minstrel, the dangers are not to be toldOf those strains which have trebly undone me,—A victim to pity, to love, and to cold,I’ll be dead by the time thou hast won me!

Oh! think for a moment—whoever thou art,On the woes that beset me together,—If thou wilt not consider the state of my heart,Oh! think of the state of the weather.

How keenly around me the night breezes blow,—How sweetly thy parting note lingers,—Ah! would that the glow of my heart could bestowA share of its warmth to—my fingers!

But though she who would watch while the nightingales singShould scorn to let cold overcome her,—Though, like other sweet birds, you begin in the Spring,I can’t fall in love till the Summer.

Back to Index Next