LETTERS FROM TEIGNMOUTH.

“Rien n’est changé, mes amis!”—Charles X.

I heard a sick man’s dying sigh,And an infant’s idle laughter;The Old Year went with mourning by,And the New came dancing after.Let Sorrow shed her lonely tear,Let Revelry hold her ladle!Bring boughs of cypress for the bier,Fling roses on the cradle:Mutes to wait on the funeral state!Pages to pour the wine:A requiem for Twenty-eight,And a health to Twenty-nine!Alas for human happiness!Alas for human sorrow!Our yesterday is nothingness,—What else will be our morrow?Still Beauty must be stealing hearts,And Knavery stealing purses;Still cooks must live by making tarts,And wits by making verses:While sages prate, and courts debate,The same stars set and shine;And the world, as it rolled through Twenty-eight,Must roll through Twenty-nine.Some king will come, in Heaven’s good time,To the tomb his father came to;Some thief will wade through blood and crimeTo a crown he has no claim to;Some suffering land will rend in twainThe manacles that bound her,And gather the links of the broken chainTo fasten them proudly round her:The grand and great will love and hate,And combat, and combine;And much where we were in Twenty-eightWe shall be in Twenty-nine.O’Connell will toil to raise the rent,And Kenyon to sink the nation,And Sheil will abuse the Parliament,And Peel the Association;And the thought of bayonets and swordsWill make ex-chancellors merry,And jokes will be cut in the House of Lords,And throats in the County Kerry;And writers of weight will speculateOn the Cabinet’s design;And just what it did in Twenty-eightIt will do in Twenty-nine.John Thomas Mugg, on the lonely hill,Will do a deed of mystery;TheMorning Chroniclewill fillFive columns with the history.The jury will be all surprise,The prisoner quite collected,And Justice Park will wipe his eyesAnd be very much affected;And folks will relate poor Corder’s fateAs they hurry home to dine,Comparing the hangings of Twenty-eightWith the hangings of Twenty-nine.And the goddess of love will keep her smiles,And the god of cups his orgies,And there’ll be riots in St. Giles’,And weddings in St. George’s.And mendicants will sup like kings,And lords will swear like lacqueys,And black eyes oft will lead to rings,And rings will lead to black eyes;And pretty Kate will scold her mateIn a dialect all divine;Alas! they married in Twenty-eight,—They will part in Twenty-nine!And oh! I shall find how, day by day,All thoughts and things look older;How the laugh of pleasure grows less gay,And the heart of friendship colder;But still I shall be what I have been,Sworn foe to Lady Reason,And seldom troubled with the spleen,And fond of talking treason:I shall buckle my skate, and leap my gate,And throw—and write—my line;And the woman I worshipped in Twenty-eightI shall worship in Twenty-nine!

Alas for human happiness!Alas for human sorrow!Our yesterday is nothingness,—What else will be our morrow?Still Beauty must be stealing hearts,And Knavery stealing purses;Still cooks must live by making tarts,And wits by making verses:While sages prate, and courts debate,The same stars set and shine;And the world, as it rolled through Twenty-eight,Must roll through Twenty-nine.

Some king will come, in Heaven’s good time,To the tomb his father came to;Some thief will wade through blood and crimeTo a crown he has no claim to;Some suffering land will rend in twainThe manacles that bound her,And gather the links of the broken chainTo fasten them proudly round her:The grand and great will love and hate,And combat, and combine;And much where we were in Twenty-eightWe shall be in Twenty-nine.

O’Connell will toil to raise the rent,And Kenyon to sink the nation,And Sheil will abuse the Parliament,And Peel the Association;And the thought of bayonets and swordsWill make ex-chancellors merry,And jokes will be cut in the House of Lords,And throats in the County Kerry;And writers of weight will speculateOn the Cabinet’s design;And just what it did in Twenty-eightIt will do in Twenty-nine.

John Thomas Mugg, on the lonely hill,Will do a deed of mystery;TheMorning Chroniclewill fillFive columns with the history.The jury will be all surprise,The prisoner quite collected,And Justice Park will wipe his eyesAnd be very much affected;And folks will relate poor Corder’s fateAs they hurry home to dine,Comparing the hangings of Twenty-eightWith the hangings of Twenty-nine.

And the goddess of love will keep her smiles,And the god of cups his orgies,And there’ll be riots in St. Giles’,And weddings in St. George’s.And mendicants will sup like kings,And lords will swear like lacqueys,And black eyes oft will lead to rings,And rings will lead to black eyes;And pretty Kate will scold her mateIn a dialect all divine;Alas! they married in Twenty-eight,—They will part in Twenty-nine!

And oh! I shall find how, day by day,All thoughts and things look older;How the laugh of pleasure grows less gay,And the heart of friendship colder;But still I shall be what I have been,Sworn foe to Lady Reason,And seldom troubled with the spleen,And fond of talking treason:I shall buckle my skate, and leap my gate,And throw—and write—my line;And the woman I worshipped in Twenty-eightI shall worship in Twenty-nine!

“Comment! c’est lui? que je le regards encore! C’est queVraiment il est bien changé; n’est-ce pas, mon papa?”—Les Premier Amours.

You’ll come to our Ball;—since we parted,I’ve thought of you more than I’ll say;Indeed, I was half broken-heartedFor a week, when they took you away.Fond fancy brought back to my slumbersOur walks on the Ness and the Den,And echoed the musical numbersWhich you used to sing to me then.I know the romance, since it’s over,’Twere idle, or worse, to recall;I know you’re a terrible rover;But Clarence, you’ll come to our Ball!It’s only a year, since, at College,You put on your cap and your gown;But, Clarence, you’re grown out of knowledge,And changed from the spur to the crown:The voice that was best when it falteredIs fuller and firmer in tone,And the smile that should never have altered—Dear Clarence—it is not your own:Your cravat was badly selected;Your coat don’t become you at all;And why is your hair so neglected?You must have it curled for our Ball.I’ve often been out upon HaldonTo look for a covey with pup;I’ve often been over to Shaldon,To see how your boat is laid up:In spite of the terrors of Aunty,I’ve ridden the filly you broke;And I’ve studied your sweet little DanteIn the shade of your favourite oak:When I sat in July to Sir Lawrence,I sat in your love of a shawl;And I’ll wear what you brought me from Florence,Perhaps, if you’ll come to our Ball.You’ll find us all changed since you vanished;We’ve set up a National School;And waltzing is utterly banished,And Ellen has married a fool;The Major is going to travel,Miss Hyacinth threatens a rout,The walk is laid down with fresh gravel,Papa is laid up with the gout;And Jane has gone on with her easels,And Anne has gone off with Sir Paul;And Fanny is sick with the measles,—And I’ll tell you the rest at the Ball.You’ll meet all your Beauties; the LilyAnd the Fairy of Willowbrook Farm,And Lucy, who made me so sillyAt Dawlish, by taking your arm;Miss Manners, who always abused youFor talking so much about Hock,And her sister, who often amused youBy raving of rebels and Rock;And something which surely would answer,An heiress quite fresh from Bengal;So though you were seldom a dancer,You’ll dance, just for once, at our Ball.But out on the World! from the flowersIt shuts out the sunshine of truth:It blights the green leaves in the bowers,It makes an old age of our youth;And the flow of our feeling, once in it,Like a streamlet beginning to freeze,Though it cannot turn ice in a minute,Grows harder by sudden degrees:Time treads o’er the graves of affection;Sweet honey is turned into gall;Perhaps you have no recollectionThat ever you danced at our Ball!You once could be pleased with our ballads,—To-day you have critical ears;You once could be charmed with our salads—Alas! you’ve been dining with Peers;You trifled and flirted with many,—You’ve forgotten the when and the how;There was one you liked better than any,—Perhaps you’ve forgotten her now.But of those you remember most newly,Of those who delight or enthrall,None loves you a quarter so trulyAs some you will find at our Ball.They tell me you’ve many who flatter,Because of your wit and your song:They tell me—and what does it matter?—You like to be praised by the throng:They tell me you’re shadowed with laurel:They tell me you’re loved by a Blue:They tell me you’re sadly immoral—Dear Clarence, that cannot be true!But to me, you are still what I found you,Before you grew clever and tall;And you’ll think of the spell that once bound you;And you’ll come—won’t you come?—to our Ball!

It’s only a year, since, at College,You put on your cap and your gown;But, Clarence, you’re grown out of knowledge,And changed from the spur to the crown:The voice that was best when it falteredIs fuller and firmer in tone,And the smile that should never have altered—Dear Clarence—it is not your own:Your cravat was badly selected;Your coat don’t become you at all;And why is your hair so neglected?You must have it curled for our Ball.

I’ve often been out upon HaldonTo look for a covey with pup;I’ve often been over to Shaldon,To see how your boat is laid up:In spite of the terrors of Aunty,I’ve ridden the filly you broke;And I’ve studied your sweet little DanteIn the shade of your favourite oak:When I sat in July to Sir Lawrence,I sat in your love of a shawl;And I’ll wear what you brought me from Florence,Perhaps, if you’ll come to our Ball.

You’ll find us all changed since you vanished;We’ve set up a National School;And waltzing is utterly banished,And Ellen has married a fool;The Major is going to travel,Miss Hyacinth threatens a rout,The walk is laid down with fresh gravel,Papa is laid up with the gout;And Jane has gone on with her easels,And Anne has gone off with Sir Paul;And Fanny is sick with the measles,—And I’ll tell you the rest at the Ball.

You’ll meet all your Beauties; the LilyAnd the Fairy of Willowbrook Farm,And Lucy, who made me so sillyAt Dawlish, by taking your arm;Miss Manners, who always abused youFor talking so much about Hock,And her sister, who often amused youBy raving of rebels and Rock;And something which surely would answer,An heiress quite fresh from Bengal;So though you were seldom a dancer,You’ll dance, just for once, at our Ball.

But out on the World! from the flowersIt shuts out the sunshine of truth:It blights the green leaves in the bowers,It makes an old age of our youth;And the flow of our feeling, once in it,Like a streamlet beginning to freeze,Though it cannot turn ice in a minute,Grows harder by sudden degrees:Time treads o’er the graves of affection;Sweet honey is turned into gall;Perhaps you have no recollectionThat ever you danced at our Ball!

You once could be pleased with our ballads,—To-day you have critical ears;You once could be charmed with our salads—Alas! you’ve been dining with Peers;You trifled and flirted with many,—You’ve forgotten the when and the how;There was one you liked better than any,—Perhaps you’ve forgotten her now.But of those you remember most newly,Of those who delight or enthrall,None loves you a quarter so trulyAs some you will find at our Ball.

They tell me you’ve many who flatter,Because of your wit and your song:They tell me—and what does it matter?—You like to be praised by the throng:They tell me you’re shadowed with laurel:They tell me you’re loved by a Blue:They tell me you’re sadly immoral—Dear Clarence, that cannot be true!But to me, you are still what I found you,Before you grew clever and tall;And you’ll think of the spell that once bound you;And you’ll come—won’t you come?—to our Ball!

——“Sweet, when actors first appear,The loud collision of applauding gloves.”—Moultrie.

Your labours, my talented brother,Are happily over at last:They tell me—that, somehow or other,The Bill is rejected,—or passed;And now you’ll be coming, I’m certain,As fast as your posters can crawl,To help us to draw up our curtain,As usual, at Fustian Hall.Arrangements are nearly completed;But still we’ve a Lover or two,Whom Lady Albina entreatedWe’d keep, at all hazards, for you:Sir Arthur makes horrible faces;Lord John is a trifle too tall;And yours are the safest embracesTo faint in, at Fustian Hall.Come, Clarence;—its really enchantingTo listen and look at the rout:We’re all of us puffing and panting,And raving, and running about;Here Kitty and Adelaide bustle;There Andrew and Anthony bawl;Flutes murmur—chains rattle—robes rustleIn chorus, at Fustian Hall.By-the-by, there are two or three mattersWe want you to bring us from town:The Inca’s white plumes from the hatter’s,A nose and a hump for the clown;We want a few harps for our banquet,We want a few masks for our ball;And steal from your wise friend BosanquetHis white wig, for Fustian Hall!Hunca Munca must have a huge sabre;Friar Tuck has forgotten his cowl;And we’re quite at a stand-still with WeberFor want of a lizard and owl:And then, for our funeral procession,Pray get us a love of a pall,—Or how shall we make an impressionOn feelings, at Fustian Hall?And, Clarence, you’ll really delight us,If you’ll do your endeavour to bring,From the Club, a young person to write usOur prologue, and that sort of thing;Poor Crotchet, who did them supremely,Is gone for a Judge to Bengal;I fear we shall miss him extremelyThis season, at Fustian Hall.Come, Clarence! your idol AlbinaWill make a sensation, I feel;We all think there never was seen aPerformer so like the O’Neill:At rehearsals, her exquisite furyHas deeply affected us all;For one tear that trickles at Drury,There’ll be twenty at Fustian Hall!Dread objects are scattered before herOn purpose to harrow her soul;She stares, till a deep spell comes o’er her,At a knife, or a cross, or a bowl.The sword never seems to alarm herThat hangs on a peg to the wall;And she doats on thy rusty old armour,Lord Fustian, of Fustian Hall.She stabbed a bright mirror this morning,—(Poor Kitty was quite out of breath!)—And trampled, in anger and scorning,A bonnet and feathers to death.But hark!—I’ve a part in “The Stranger,”—There’s the Prompter’s detestable call!Come, Clarence—our Romeo and Ranger—We want you at Fustian Hall!

Arrangements are nearly completed;But still we’ve a Lover or two,Whom Lady Albina entreatedWe’d keep, at all hazards, for you:Sir Arthur makes horrible faces;Lord John is a trifle too tall;And yours are the safest embracesTo faint in, at Fustian Hall.

Come, Clarence;—its really enchantingTo listen and look at the rout:We’re all of us puffing and panting,And raving, and running about;Here Kitty and Adelaide bustle;There Andrew and Anthony bawl;Flutes murmur—chains rattle—robes rustleIn chorus, at Fustian Hall.

By-the-by, there are two or three mattersWe want you to bring us from town:The Inca’s white plumes from the hatter’s,A nose and a hump for the clown;We want a few harps for our banquet,We want a few masks for our ball;And steal from your wise friend BosanquetHis white wig, for Fustian Hall!

Hunca Munca must have a huge sabre;Friar Tuck has forgotten his cowl;And we’re quite at a stand-still with WeberFor want of a lizard and owl:And then, for our funeral procession,Pray get us a love of a pall,—Or how shall we make an impressionOn feelings, at Fustian Hall?

And, Clarence, you’ll really delight us,If you’ll do your endeavour to bring,From the Club, a young person to write usOur prologue, and that sort of thing;Poor Crotchet, who did them supremely,Is gone for a Judge to Bengal;I fear we shall miss him extremelyThis season, at Fustian Hall.

Come, Clarence! your idol AlbinaWill make a sensation, I feel;We all think there never was seen aPerformer so like the O’Neill:At rehearsals, her exquisite furyHas deeply affected us all;For one tear that trickles at Drury,There’ll be twenty at Fustian Hall!

Dread objects are scattered before herOn purpose to harrow her soul;She stares, till a deep spell comes o’er her,At a knife, or a cross, or a bowl.The sword never seems to alarm herThat hangs on a peg to the wall;And she doats on thy rusty old armour,Lord Fustian, of Fustian Hall.

She stabbed a bright mirror this morning,—(Poor Kitty was quite out of breath!)—And trampled, in anger and scorning,A bonnet and feathers to death.But hark!—I’ve a part in “The Stranger,”—There’s the Prompter’s detestable call!Come, Clarence—our Romeo and Ranger—We want you at Fustian Hall!

Tell him I love him yet,As in that joyous time;Tell him I ne’er forget,Though memory now be crime;Tell him, when sad moonlightIs over earth and sea,I dream of him by night,—He must not dream of me!Tell him to go where FameLooks proudly on the brave;Tell him to win a nameBy deeds on land and wave;Green—green upon his browThe laurel wreath shall be;Although the laurel nowMay not be shared with me.Tell him to smile againIn Pleasure’s dazzling throng,To wear another’s chain,To praise another’s song.Before the loveliest thereI’d have him bend his knee,And breathe to her the prayerHe used to breathe to me.And tell him, day by day,Life looks to me more dim;I falter when I pray,Although I pray for him.And bid him when I die,Come to our favourite tree;I shall not hear him sigh,—Then let him sigh for me!

Tell him to go where FameLooks proudly on the brave;Tell him to win a nameBy deeds on land and wave;Green—green upon his browThe laurel wreath shall be;Although the laurel nowMay not be shared with me.

Tell him to smile againIn Pleasure’s dazzling throng,To wear another’s chain,To praise another’s song.Before the loveliest thereI’d have him bend his knee,And breathe to her the prayerHe used to breathe to me.

And tell him, day by day,Life looks to me more dim;I falter when I pray,Although I pray for him.And bid him when I die,Come to our favourite tree;I shall not hear him sigh,—Then let him sigh for me!

In youth, when pen and fingers firstCoined rhymes for all who choose to seek ’em,Ere luring hope’s gay bubbles burst,Or Chitty was myvade mecum,Ere years had charactered my browWith the deep lines, that well become it,Or told me that warm hearts could growCold as Mont Blanc’s snow-covered summit—When my slow step and solemn swingWere steadier and somewhat brisker,When velvet collars were “the thing,”And long before I wore a whisker,Ere I had measured six foot two,Or bought Havannas by the dozen,I fell in love—as many do—She was an angel—hem—my cousin.Sometimes my eye, its furtive glanceCast back on memory’s shorthand record,I wonder—if by any chanceLife’s future page will be so checkered!My angel cousin!—ah! her form—Her lofty brow—her curls of raven,Eyes darker than the thunder-storm,Its lightnings flashing from their heaven.Her lips with music eloquentAs her own grand upright piano;No—never yet was Peri lentTo earth like thee, sweet Adriana.I may not—dare not—call to mindThe joys that once my breast elated,Though yet, methinks, the morning windSweeps over my ear, with thy tones freighted:And then I pause, and turn asideFrom pleasure’s throng of pangless-hearted,To weep! No. Sentiment and prideAre by each other always thwarted!I press my hand upon my brow,To still the throbbing pulse that heaves it,Recall my boyhood’s faltered vow,And marvel—if she still believes it.But she is woman—and her heart,Like her tiara’s brightest jewel,Cold—hard—till kindled by some art,Then quenchless burns—itself its fuel—So poets say. Well, let it pass,And those who list may yield it credit;But as for constancy, alas!I’ve never known—I’ve only read it.Love! ’tis a roving fire, at mostThecuerpo santaof life’s ocean;Now flashing through the storm, now lost—Who trust, ’tis said, rue their devotion.It may be, ’tis a mooted creed—I have my doubts, and it—believers,Though oneisfaithless—where’s the needOf shunning all—as gay deceivers?I said I loved. I did. But oursWas felt, not growled hyæna fashion!We wandered not at midnight hours,Some dignity restrained the passion!We loved—I never stooped to woo;We met—I always doffed my beaver;She smiled a careless “How d’ye do—Good morning, sir,”—I rose to leave her.She loved—she never told me so;I never asked—I could not doubt it;For there were signs on cheek and brow;And asking! Love is known without it!’Twas understood—we were content,And rode, and sang, and waltzed together!Alone, without embarrassmentWe talked of something—not the weather!Time rolled along—the parting hourWith arrowy speed brought its distresses,A kiss—a miniature—a flower—A ringlet from those raven tresses;And the tears that would unbidden start,(An hour, perhaps, and they had perished,)In the far chambers of my heart,I swore her image should be cherished.I’ve looked on peril—it has glaredIn fashionable forms upon me,From levelled aim—from weapon bared—And doctors three attending on me!But never did my sternness waneAt pang by shot or steel imparted;I’d not recall that hour of painFor years of bliss—it passed—we parted.We parted—though her tear-gemmed cheeks,Her heaving breast had thus unmanned me—She quite forgot me in three weeks!And other beauties soon trepanned me.We met—and did not find it hardJoy’s overwhelming tide to smother—There was a “Mrs.” on her card,And I—was married to another.

When my slow step and solemn swingWere steadier and somewhat brisker,When velvet collars were “the thing,”And long before I wore a whisker,Ere I had measured six foot two,Or bought Havannas by the dozen,I fell in love—as many do—She was an angel—hem—my cousin.

Sometimes my eye, its furtive glanceCast back on memory’s shorthand record,I wonder—if by any chanceLife’s future page will be so checkered!My angel cousin!—ah! her form—Her lofty brow—her curls of raven,Eyes darker than the thunder-storm,Its lightnings flashing from their heaven.

Her lips with music eloquentAs her own grand upright piano;No—never yet was Peri lentTo earth like thee, sweet Adriana.I may not—dare not—call to mindThe joys that once my breast elated,Though yet, methinks, the morning windSweeps over my ear, with thy tones freighted:

And then I pause, and turn asideFrom pleasure’s throng of pangless-hearted,To weep! No. Sentiment and prideAre by each other always thwarted!I press my hand upon my brow,To still the throbbing pulse that heaves it,Recall my boyhood’s faltered vow,And marvel—if she still believes it.

But she is woman—and her heart,Like her tiara’s brightest jewel,Cold—hard—till kindled by some art,Then quenchless burns—itself its fuel—So poets say. Well, let it pass,And those who list may yield it credit;But as for constancy, alas!I’ve never known—I’ve only read it.

Love! ’tis a roving fire, at mostThecuerpo santaof life’s ocean;Now flashing through the storm, now lost—Who trust, ’tis said, rue their devotion.It may be, ’tis a mooted creed—I have my doubts, and it—believers,Though oneisfaithless—where’s the needOf shunning all—as gay deceivers?

I said I loved. I did. But oursWas felt, not growled hyæna fashion!We wandered not at midnight hours,Some dignity restrained the passion!We loved—I never stooped to woo;We met—I always doffed my beaver;She smiled a careless “How d’ye do—Good morning, sir,”—I rose to leave her.

She loved—she never told me so;I never asked—I could not doubt it;For there were signs on cheek and brow;And asking! Love is known without it!’Twas understood—we were content,And rode, and sang, and waltzed together!Alone, without embarrassmentWe talked of something—not the weather!

Time rolled along—the parting hourWith arrowy speed brought its distresses,A kiss—a miniature—a flower—A ringlet from those raven tresses;And the tears that would unbidden start,(An hour, perhaps, and they had perished,)In the far chambers of my heart,I swore her image should be cherished.

I’ve looked on peril—it has glaredIn fashionable forms upon me,From levelled aim—from weapon bared—And doctors three attending on me!But never did my sternness waneAt pang by shot or steel imparted;I’d not recall that hour of painFor years of bliss—it passed—we parted.

We parted—though her tear-gemmed cheeks,Her heaving breast had thus unmanned me—She quite forgot me in three weeks!And other beauties soon trepanned me.We met—and did not find it hardJoy’s overwhelming tide to smother—There was a “Mrs.” on her card,And I—was married to another.

Lord Roland rose, and went to mass,And doffed his mourning weed!And bade them bring a looking-glass,And saddle fast a steed;“I’ll deck with gems my bonnet’s loop,And wear a feather fine,And when lorn lovers sit and droopWhy, I will sit and dine!Sing merrily, sing merrily,And fill the cup of wine!Though Elgitha be thus untrue,Adèle is beauteous yet;And he that’s baffled by the blueMay bow before the jet;So welcome—welcome hall or heath!So welcome shower or shine!And wither there, thou willow wreath,Thou never shalt be mine!Sing merrily, sing merrily,And fill the cup of wine!Proud Elgitha! a health to thee,—A health in brimming gold!And store of lovers after me,As honest, and less cold:My hand is on my bugle horn,My boat is on the brine;If ever gallant died of scorn,I shall not die of thine!Sing merrily, sing merrily!And fill the cup of wine!

Though Elgitha be thus untrue,Adèle is beauteous yet;And he that’s baffled by the blueMay bow before the jet;So welcome—welcome hall or heath!So welcome shower or shine!And wither there, thou willow wreath,Thou never shalt be mine!Sing merrily, sing merrily,And fill the cup of wine!

Proud Elgitha! a health to thee,—A health in brimming gold!And store of lovers after me,As honest, and less cold:My hand is on my bugle horn,My boat is on the brine;If ever gallant died of scorn,I shall not die of thine!Sing merrily, sing merrily!And fill the cup of wine!

Once on a time, when sunny MayWas kissing up the April showers,I saw fair Childhood hard at playUpon a bank of blushing flowers:Happy—he knew not whence or how,—And smiling,—who could choose but love him?For not more glad than Childhood’s browWas the blue heaven that beamed above him.Old Time, in most appalling wrath,That valley’s green repose invaded;The brooks grew dry upon his path,The birds were mute, the lilies faded.But Time so swiftly winged his flight,In haste a Grecian tomb to batter,That Childhood watched his paper kite,And knew just nothing of the matter.With curling lip and glancing eyeGuilt gazed upon the scene a minute;But Childhood’s glance of purityHad such a holy spell within it,That the dark demon to the airSpread forth again his baffled pinion,And hid his envy and despair,Self-tortured, in his own dominion.Then stepped a gloomy phantom up,Pale, cypress-crowned, Night’s awful daughter,And proffered him a fearful cupFull to the brim of bitter water;Poor Childhood bade her tell her name;And when the beldame muttered—“Sorrow,”He said—“Don’t interrupt my game;I’ll taste it, if I must, to-morrow.”The Muse of Pindus thither came,And wooed him with the softest numbersThat ever scattered wealth and fameUpon a youthful poet’s slumbers;Though sweet the music of the lay,To Childhood it was all a riddle,And, “Oh,” he cried, “do send awayThat noisy woman with the fiddle!”Then Wisdom stole his bat and ball,And taught him, with most sage endeavour,Why bubbles rise and acorns fall,And why no toy may last for ever.She talked of all the wondrous lawsWhich Nature’s open book discloses,And Childhood, ere she made a pause,Was fast asleep among the roses.Sleep on, sleep on! oh! Manhood’s dreamsAre all of earthly pain or pleasure,Of Glory’s toils, Ambition’s schemes,Of cherished love or hoarded treasure:But to the couch where Childhood liesA more delicious trance is given,Lit up by rays from seraph eyes,And glimpses of remembered Heaven!

Old Time, in most appalling wrath,That valley’s green repose invaded;The brooks grew dry upon his path,The birds were mute, the lilies faded.But Time so swiftly winged his flight,In haste a Grecian tomb to batter,That Childhood watched his paper kite,And knew just nothing of the matter.

With curling lip and glancing eyeGuilt gazed upon the scene a minute;But Childhood’s glance of purityHad such a holy spell within it,That the dark demon to the airSpread forth again his baffled pinion,And hid his envy and despair,Self-tortured, in his own dominion.

Then stepped a gloomy phantom up,Pale, cypress-crowned, Night’s awful daughter,And proffered him a fearful cupFull to the brim of bitter water;Poor Childhood bade her tell her name;And when the beldame muttered—“Sorrow,”He said—“Don’t interrupt my game;I’ll taste it, if I must, to-morrow.”

The Muse of Pindus thither came,And wooed him with the softest numbersThat ever scattered wealth and fameUpon a youthful poet’s slumbers;Though sweet the music of the lay,To Childhood it was all a riddle,And, “Oh,” he cried, “do send awayThat noisy woman with the fiddle!”

Then Wisdom stole his bat and ball,And taught him, with most sage endeavour,Why bubbles rise and acorns fall,And why no toy may last for ever.She talked of all the wondrous lawsWhich Nature’s open book discloses,And Childhood, ere she made a pause,Was fast asleep among the roses.

Sleep on, sleep on! oh! Manhood’s dreamsAre all of earthly pain or pleasure,Of Glory’s toils, Ambition’s schemes,Of cherished love or hoarded treasure:But to the couch where Childhood liesA more delicious trance is given,Lit up by rays from seraph eyes,And glimpses of remembered Heaven!

When some mad poet stops to museAbout the moonlight and the dews,The Fairies and the Fauns,He’s apt to think, he’s apt to swear,That Cupid reigns not anywhereExcept in groves and lawns,That none have vulnerable liversBut bards who haunt the banks of rivers,That none are fair enough for witchesBut maids who roam through dells and ditches,That dreams are twice as sweet as dances,That cities never breed romances,That Beauty always keeps a cottage,And Innocence grows pure on pottage.Yes! those dear dreams are all divine;And those dear dreams have all been mine;I like the dawning of the day,I like the smell of new-mown hay,I like the peaches and the posies,—But chiefly, when the season closes,I wander from my drowsy deskTo revel in the picturesque,To hear beneath those hoary treesThe far-off murmur of the seas,Or trace yon river’s many channelsWith Petrarch, and a brace of spaniels,Combining foolish rhymes together,And killing sorrow, and shoe-leather.Then, as I see some village maidGo dancing down the sunny glade,Coquetting with her fond adorerAs nobler dames have done before her,“Give me,” I cry, “the quiet blissOf souls like these, of scenes like this;Where damsels eat and sleep in peace,Where gallants never heard of Greece,Where day is day, and night is night,Where frocks—and morals—both are white;Blue eyes below—blue skies above—Here are the homes, the hearts, for Love!”But this is idle; I have beenA sojourner in many a scene,And picked up wisdom in my way,And cared not what I had to pay;Smiling and weeping all the while,As other people weep and smile;And I have learnt that Love is notConfined to any hour or spot;He lights the smile and fires the frownAlike in desert and in town.I think fair faces not more fairIn Peebles, than in Portman Square,And glances not a ray more brightIn moonbeams, than in candle-light;I think much witchcraft oft reposesIn wreaths of artificial roses,And ringlets—I have ne’er disdained themBecause the barber has profaned them;I’ve been half mad with half a millionWhose legs have never crossed a pillion,Whose hands have never dressed a salad,Whose lips have never sung a ballad:I think that many a modern danceBreeds pretty subjects for romance;And many a concert has its springsFor breaking hearts as well as strings:In short, I’m very sure that allWho seek or sigh for Beauty’s thrallMay breathe their vows, and feed their passion,Though whist and waltzing keep in fashion,And make the most enchanting sonnets,In spite of diamonds, and French bonnets!

Then, as I see some village maidGo dancing down the sunny glade,Coquetting with her fond adorerAs nobler dames have done before her,“Give me,” I cry, “the quiet blissOf souls like these, of scenes like this;Where damsels eat and sleep in peace,Where gallants never heard of Greece,Where day is day, and night is night,Where frocks—and morals—both are white;Blue eyes below—blue skies above—Here are the homes, the hearts, for Love!”But this is idle; I have beenA sojourner in many a scene,And picked up wisdom in my way,And cared not what I had to pay;Smiling and weeping all the while,As other people weep and smile;And I have learnt that Love is notConfined to any hour or spot;He lights the smile and fires the frownAlike in desert and in town.I think fair faces not more fairIn Peebles, than in Portman Square,And glances not a ray more brightIn moonbeams, than in candle-light;I think much witchcraft oft reposesIn wreaths of artificial roses,And ringlets—I have ne’er disdained themBecause the barber has profaned them;I’ve been half mad with half a millionWhose legs have never crossed a pillion,Whose hands have never dressed a salad,Whose lips have never sung a ballad:I think that many a modern danceBreeds pretty subjects for romance;And many a concert has its springsFor breaking hearts as well as strings:In short, I’m very sure that allWho seek or sigh for Beauty’s thrallMay breathe their vows, and feed their passion,Though whist and waltzing keep in fashion,And make the most enchanting sonnets,In spite of diamonds, and French bonnets!

I looked for Beauty:—on a throne,A dazzling throne of light, I found her;And Music poured its softest toneAnd flowers their sweetest breath, around her.A score or two of idle gods,Some dressed as peers, and some as peasants,Were watching all her smiles and nods,And making compliments and presents.And first young Love, the rosy boy,Exhibited his bow and arrows,And gave her many a pretty toy,Torches, and bleeding hearts, and sparrows:She told him, as he passed, she knewHer court would scarcely do without him;But yet—she hoped they were not true—There were some awkward tales about him.Wealth deemed that magic had no charmMore mighty than the gifts he brought her,And linked around her radiant armBright diamonds of the purest water:The goddess, with a scornful touch,Unclasped the gaudy, galling fetter;And said,—she thanked him very much,—She liked a wreath of roses better.Then Genius snatched his golden lute,And told a tale of love and glory:The crowd around were hushed and muteTo hear so sad and sweet a story;And Beauty marked the minstrel’s cheek,So very pale—no bust was paler;Vowed she could listen for a week;But really—heshouldchange his tailor!As died the echo of the strings,A shadowy Phantom kneeled before her,Looked all unutterable things,And swore, to see was to adore her;He called her veil a cruel cloud,Her cheek a rose, her smile a battery:She fancied it was Wit that bowed;—I’m almost certain it was Flattery.There was a beldame finding faultWith every person’s every feature:And by the sneer, and by the halt,I knew at once the odious creature:“You see,” quoth Envy, “I am comeTo bow—as is my bounden duty;—They tell me Beauty is at home;—Impossible! thatcan’tbe Beauty!”I heard a murmur far and wideOf “Lord! how quick the dotard passes!”As Time threw down at Beauty’s sideThe prettiest of his clocks and glasses;But it was noticed in the throngHow Beauty marred the maker’s cunning;For when she talked, the hands went wrong;And when she smiled, the sands stopped running.Death, in a doctor’s wig and gown,Came, arm in arm with Lethe, thither,And crowned her with a withered crown,And hinted, Beauty too must wither!“Avaunt!” she cried,—“how came he here?The frightful fiend! he’s my abhorrence!”I went and whispered in her ear,“He shall not hurt you!—sit to Lawrence!”

And first young Love, the rosy boy,Exhibited his bow and arrows,And gave her many a pretty toy,Torches, and bleeding hearts, and sparrows:She told him, as he passed, she knewHer court would scarcely do without him;But yet—she hoped they were not true—There were some awkward tales about him.

Wealth deemed that magic had no charmMore mighty than the gifts he brought her,And linked around her radiant armBright diamonds of the purest water:The goddess, with a scornful touch,Unclasped the gaudy, galling fetter;And said,—she thanked him very much,—She liked a wreath of roses better.

Then Genius snatched his golden lute,And told a tale of love and glory:The crowd around were hushed and muteTo hear so sad and sweet a story;And Beauty marked the minstrel’s cheek,So very pale—no bust was paler;Vowed she could listen for a week;But really—heshouldchange his tailor!

As died the echo of the strings,A shadowy Phantom kneeled before her,Looked all unutterable things,And swore, to see was to adore her;He called her veil a cruel cloud,Her cheek a rose, her smile a battery:She fancied it was Wit that bowed;—I’m almost certain it was Flattery.

There was a beldame finding faultWith every person’s every feature:And by the sneer, and by the halt,I knew at once the odious creature:“You see,” quoth Envy, “I am comeTo bow—as is my bounden duty;—They tell me Beauty is at home;—Impossible! thatcan’tbe Beauty!”

I heard a murmur far and wideOf “Lord! how quick the dotard passes!”As Time threw down at Beauty’s sideThe prettiest of his clocks and glasses;But it was noticed in the throngHow Beauty marred the maker’s cunning;For when she talked, the hands went wrong;And when she smiled, the sands stopped running.

Death, in a doctor’s wig and gown,Came, arm in arm with Lethe, thither,And crowned her with a withered crown,And hinted, Beauty too must wither!“Avaunt!” she cried,—“how came he here?The frightful fiend! he’s my abhorrence!”I went and whispered in her ear,“He shall not hurt you!—sit to Lawrence!”

He never meets me as of old,As friends less cherished meet me;His glance is even calm and cold,To welcome or to greet me:His sighs ne’er follow where I move,Or tell what others’ sighs do;—But though hislipsne’er say, “I love,”I often think hiseyesdo!He never turns, amid the throng,Where colder ears will listen;Or gives one thought to that poor songOnce made his eyelids glisten;But sometimes when our glances meet,As looks less warm—more wise—do,Albeit hislipsne’er say, “’Tis sweet,”—I often think hiseyesdo!Oh! brighter smiles than mine may glassHis hours of mirth or sorrow;And fairer forms than mine may passAcross his path to-morrow:But something whispers solace yet,As stars through darkened skies do;—Hislipsne’er say, “I don’t forget,”—I often think hiseyesdo!

He never turns, amid the throng,Where colder ears will listen;Or gives one thought to that poor songOnce made his eyelids glisten;But sometimes when our glances meet,As looks less warm—more wise—do,Albeit hislipsne’er say, “’Tis sweet,”—I often think hiseyesdo!

Oh! brighter smiles than mine may glassHis hours of mirth or sorrow;And fairer forms than mine may passAcross his path to-morrow:But something whispers solace yet,As stars through darkened skies do;—Hislipsne’er say, “I don’t forget,”—I often think hiseyesdo!

“L’on n’ aime bien qu’ une seule fois; c’est la premierè. Les amours qui suivent sont moins involontaires!”—La Bruyere.

How shall I woo her!—I will standBeside her when she sings;And watch that fine and fairy handFlit o’er the quivering strings:And I will tell her I have heard,Though sweet her song may be,A voice whose every whispered wordWas more than song to me.How shall I woo her?—I will gazeIn sad and silent tranceOn those blue eyes, whose liquid raysLook love in every glance:And I will tell her, eyes more bright,Though bright her own may beam,Will fling a deeper spell to-nightUpon me in my dream.How shall I woo her?—I will tryThe charms of olden time,And swear by earth, and sea, and sky,And rave in prose and rhyme:And I will tell her, when I bent,My knee in other years,—I was not half so eloquent,—I could not speak for tears!How shall I woo her?—I will bowBefore the holy shrine;And pray the prayer and vow the vow,And press her lips to mine;And I will tell her, when she partsFrom passion’s thrilling kiss,That memory to many heartsIs dearer far than bliss.Away, away, the chords are mute,The bond is rent in twain;You cannot wake that silent lute,Nor clasp those links again;Love’s toil, I know, is little cost,Love’s perjury is light sin;But souls that lose what I have lost,What have they left to win?

How shall I woo her?—I will gazeIn sad and silent tranceOn those blue eyes, whose liquid raysLook love in every glance:And I will tell her, eyes more bright,Though bright her own may beam,Will fling a deeper spell to-nightUpon me in my dream.

How shall I woo her?—I will tryThe charms of olden time,And swear by earth, and sea, and sky,And rave in prose and rhyme:And I will tell her, when I bent,My knee in other years,—I was not half so eloquent,—I could not speak for tears!

How shall I woo her?—I will bowBefore the holy shrine;And pray the prayer and vow the vow,And press her lips to mine;And I will tell her, when she partsFrom passion’s thrilling kiss,That memory to many heartsIs dearer far than bliss.

Away, away, the chords are mute,The bond is rent in twain;You cannot wake that silent lute,Nor clasp those links again;Love’s toil, I know, is little cost,Love’s perjury is light sin;But souls that lose what I have lost,What have they left to win?

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