OLD WINE.

O say not that the minstrel’s art,The glorious gift of verse,Though his hopes decay, though his friends depart,Can ever be a curse;Though sorrow reign within his heart,And poortith hold his purse.Say not his toil is profitless;Though he charm no rich relation,The Fairies all his labours blessWith such remunerationAs Mr. Hume would soon confessBeyond his calculation.Annuities and Three per Cents,Little cares he about them;And Indian bonds, and tithes, and rents,He rambles on without them;But love, and noble sentiments,Oh, never bid him doubt them!Childe Florice rose from his humble bedAnd prayed, as a good youth should;And forth he sped, with a lightsome tread,Into the neighbouring wood;He knew where the berries were ripe and red,And where the old oak stood.And as he lay at the noon of dayBeneath the ancient tree,A grey-haired pilgrim passed that way;A holy man was he,And he was wending forth to prayAt a shrine in a far countrie.Oh, his was a weary wandering,And a song or two might cheer him,The pious Childe began to sing,As the ancient man drew near him;The lark was mute as he touched the string,And the thrush said, “Hear him, hear him!”He sang high tales of the martyred brave,Of the good, and pure, and just,Who have gone into the silent graveIn such deep faith and trust,That the hopes and thoughts which sain and saveSpring from their buried dust.The fair of face, and the stout of limb,Meek maids and grandsires hoary,Who have sung on the cross their rapturous hymn,As they passed to their doom of glory;Their radiant fame is never dim,Nor their names erased from story.Time spares the stone where sleep the deadWith angels watching round them;The mourner’s grief is comfortedAs he looks on the chains that bound them;And peace is shed on the murderer’s head,And he kisses the thorns that crowned themSuch tales he told; and the pilgrim heardIn a trance of voiceless pleasure;For the depths of his inmost soul was stirredBy the sad and solemn measure:“I give thee my blessing,” was his word,“It is all I have of treasure!”—A little child came bounding by;And he, in a fragrant bower,Had found a gorgeous butterfly,Rare spoil for a nursery dower,Which with fierce step and eager eyeHe chased from flower to flower.“Come hither, come hither,” ’gan Florice call;And the urchin left his fun:So from the hall of poor Sir PaulRetreats the baffled dun;So Ellen parts from the village ball,Where she leaves a heart half won.Then Florice did the child caress,And sang his sweetest songs:Their theme was of the gentlenessWhich to the soul belongs,Ere yet it knows the name or dressOf human rights and wrongs;And of the wants which make agreeAll parts of this vast plan;How life is in whate’er we see,And only life in man;What matter where the less may be,And where the longer span?And how the heart grows cold withoutSoft Pity’s freshening dews;And how when any life goes outSome little pang ensues:—Facts which great soldiers often doubt,And wits who write reviews.Oh, song hath power o’er Nature’s springs,Though deep the Nymph has laid them!The child gazed—gazed on gilded wingsAs the next bright breeze displayed them;But he felt the while that the meanest thingsAre dear to Him that made them!The sun went down behind the hill,The breeze was growing colder;But there the Minstrel lingered still,And amazed the chance beholder,Musing beside a rippling rillWith a harp upon his shoulder.And soon, on a graceful steed and tame,A sleek Arabian mare,The lady Juliana cameRiding to take the air,With many a lord at whose proud nameA Radical would swear.The Minstrel touched his lute again;It was more than a Sultan’s crown,When the Lady checked her bridle reinAnd lit from her palfrey down:—What would you give for such a strain,Rees, Longman, Orme and Brown?He sang of Beauty’s dazzling eyes,Of Beauty’s melting tone,And her praise is a richer prizeThan the gems of Persia’s throne,And her love a bliss which the coldly wiseHave never, never known.He told how the valiant scoff at fearWhen the sob of her grief is heard;How fiercely they fight for a smile or a tear,How they die for a single word:—Things which, I own, to me appearExceedingly absurd.The Lady soon had heard enough;She turned to hear Sir DenysDiscourse in language vastly gruffAbout his skill at Tennis;While smooth Sir Guy described the stuffHis mistress wore at Venice.The Lady smiled one radiant smile,And the Lady rode away—There is not a Lady in all our Isle,I have heard a Poet say,Who can listen more than a little whileTo a poet’s sweetest lay.—His mother’s voice was fierce and shrillAs she set the milk and fruit:“Out on thine unrewarded skill,And on thy vagrant lute;Let the strings be broken an they will,And the beggar lips be mute!”Peace, peace! the Pilgrim as he wentForgot the Minstrel’s song,But the blessing that his wan lips sentWill guard the Minstrel long,And keep his spirit innocent,And turn his hand from wrong.Belike the child had little thoughtOf the moral the Minstrel drew;But the dream of a deed of kindness wrought—Brings it not peace to you?And does not a lesson of virtue taughtTeach him that teaches too?And if the Lady sighed no sighFor the Minstrel or his hymn,—Yet when he shall lie ’neath the moonlit sky,Or lip the goblet’s brim,What a star in the mist of memoryThat smile will be to him!

O say not that the minstrel’s art,The glorious gift of verse,Though his hopes decay, though his friends depart,Can ever be a curse;Though sorrow reign within his heart,And poortith hold his purse.

Say not his toil is profitless;Though he charm no rich relation,The Fairies all his labours blessWith such remunerationAs Mr. Hume would soon confessBeyond his calculation.

Annuities and Three per Cents,Little cares he about them;And Indian bonds, and tithes, and rents,He rambles on without them;But love, and noble sentiments,Oh, never bid him doubt them!

Childe Florice rose from his humble bedAnd prayed, as a good youth should;And forth he sped, with a lightsome tread,Into the neighbouring wood;He knew where the berries were ripe and red,And where the old oak stood.

And as he lay at the noon of dayBeneath the ancient tree,A grey-haired pilgrim passed that way;A holy man was he,And he was wending forth to prayAt a shrine in a far countrie.

Oh, his was a weary wandering,And a song or two might cheer him,The pious Childe began to sing,As the ancient man drew near him;The lark was mute as he touched the string,And the thrush said, “Hear him, hear him!”

He sang high tales of the martyred brave,Of the good, and pure, and just,Who have gone into the silent graveIn such deep faith and trust,That the hopes and thoughts which sain and saveSpring from their buried dust.

The fair of face, and the stout of limb,Meek maids and grandsires hoary,Who have sung on the cross their rapturous hymn,As they passed to their doom of glory;Their radiant fame is never dim,Nor their names erased from story.

Time spares the stone where sleep the deadWith angels watching round them;The mourner’s grief is comfortedAs he looks on the chains that bound them;And peace is shed on the murderer’s head,And he kisses the thorns that crowned them

Such tales he told; and the pilgrim heardIn a trance of voiceless pleasure;For the depths of his inmost soul was stirredBy the sad and solemn measure:“I give thee my blessing,” was his word,“It is all I have of treasure!”—

A little child came bounding by;And he, in a fragrant bower,Had found a gorgeous butterfly,Rare spoil for a nursery dower,Which with fierce step and eager eyeHe chased from flower to flower.

“Come hither, come hither,” ’gan Florice call;And the urchin left his fun:So from the hall of poor Sir PaulRetreats the baffled dun;So Ellen parts from the village ball,Where she leaves a heart half won.

Then Florice did the child caress,And sang his sweetest songs:Their theme was of the gentlenessWhich to the soul belongs,Ere yet it knows the name or dressOf human rights and wrongs;

And of the wants which make agreeAll parts of this vast plan;How life is in whate’er we see,And only life in man;What matter where the less may be,And where the longer span?

And how the heart grows cold withoutSoft Pity’s freshening dews;And how when any life goes outSome little pang ensues:—Facts which great soldiers often doubt,And wits who write reviews.

Oh, song hath power o’er Nature’s springs,Though deep the Nymph has laid them!The child gazed—gazed on gilded wingsAs the next bright breeze displayed them;But he felt the while that the meanest thingsAre dear to Him that made them!

The sun went down behind the hill,The breeze was growing colder;But there the Minstrel lingered still,And amazed the chance beholder,Musing beside a rippling rillWith a harp upon his shoulder.

And soon, on a graceful steed and tame,A sleek Arabian mare,The lady Juliana cameRiding to take the air,With many a lord at whose proud nameA Radical would swear.

The Minstrel touched his lute again;It was more than a Sultan’s crown,When the Lady checked her bridle reinAnd lit from her palfrey down:—What would you give for such a strain,Rees, Longman, Orme and Brown?

He sang of Beauty’s dazzling eyes,Of Beauty’s melting tone,And her praise is a richer prizeThan the gems of Persia’s throne,And her love a bliss which the coldly wiseHave never, never known.

He told how the valiant scoff at fearWhen the sob of her grief is heard;How fiercely they fight for a smile or a tear,How they die for a single word:—Things which, I own, to me appearExceedingly absurd.

The Lady soon had heard enough;She turned to hear Sir DenysDiscourse in language vastly gruffAbout his skill at Tennis;While smooth Sir Guy described the stuffHis mistress wore at Venice.

The Lady smiled one radiant smile,And the Lady rode away—There is not a Lady in all our Isle,I have heard a Poet say,Who can listen more than a little whileTo a poet’s sweetest lay.—

His mother’s voice was fierce and shrillAs she set the milk and fruit:“Out on thine unrewarded skill,And on thy vagrant lute;Let the strings be broken an they will,And the beggar lips be mute!”

Peace, peace! the Pilgrim as he wentForgot the Minstrel’s song,But the blessing that his wan lips sentWill guard the Minstrel long,And keep his spirit innocent,And turn his hand from wrong.

Belike the child had little thoughtOf the moral the Minstrel drew;But the dream of a deed of kindness wrought—Brings it not peace to you?And does not a lesson of virtue taughtTeach him that teaches too?

And if the Lady sighed no sighFor the Minstrel or his hymn,—Yet when he shall lie ’neath the moonlit sky,Or lip the goblet’s brim,What a star in the mist of memoryThat smile will be to him!

It was my father’s wine,—alas!It was his chiefest blissTo fill an old friend’s evening glassWith nectar such as this.I think I have as warm a heart,As kind a friend, as he;Another bumper ere we part!Old wine, old wine, for me.In this we toasted William Pitt,Whom twenty now outshine;O’er this we laughed at Canning’s wit,Ere Hume’s was thought as fine;In this “The King”—“The Church”—“The Laws”—Have had their three times three;Sound wine befits as sound a cause;Old wine, old wine for me.In this, when France in those long warsWas beaten black and blue,We used to drink our troops and tars,Our Wellesley and Pellew;Now, things are changed, though Britain’s fameMay out of fashion be,At least my wine remains the same!Old wine, old wine for me.My neighbours, Robinson and Lamb,Drink French of last year’s growth;I’m sure, however they may sham,It disagrees with both.I don’t pretend to interfere;An Englishman is free;But none of that cheap poison here!Old wine, old wine for me.Some dozens lose, I must allow,Something of strength and hue;And there are vacant spaces nowTo be filled up with new;And there are cobwebs round the bins,Which some don’t like to see;If these are all my cellar’s sins,Old wine, old wine for me.

In this we toasted William Pitt,Whom twenty now outshine;O’er this we laughed at Canning’s wit,Ere Hume’s was thought as fine;In this “The King”—“The Church”—“The Laws”—Have had their three times three;Sound wine befits as sound a cause;Old wine, old wine for me.

In this, when France in those long warsWas beaten black and blue,We used to drink our troops and tars,Our Wellesley and Pellew;Now, things are changed, though Britain’s fameMay out of fashion be,At least my wine remains the same!Old wine, old wine for me.

My neighbours, Robinson and Lamb,Drink French of last year’s growth;I’m sure, however they may sham,It disagrees with both.I don’t pretend to interfere;An Englishman is free;But none of that cheap poison here!Old wine, old wine for me.

Some dozens lose, I must allow,Something of strength and hue;And there are vacant spaces nowTo be filled up with new;And there are cobwebs round the bins,Which some don’t like to see;If these are all my cellar’s sins,Old wine, old wine for me.

Dear Alice! you’ll laugh when you know it,—Last week, at the Duchess’s ball,I danced with the clever new poet,—You’ve heard of him,—Tully St. Paul.Miss Jonquil was perfectly frantic;I wish you had seen Lady Anne!It really was very romantic,Heissuch a talented man!He came up from Brazenose College,Just caught, as they call it, this spring;And his head, love, is stuffed full of knowledgeOf every conceivable thing.Of science and logic he chatters,As fine and as fast as he can;Though I am no judge of such matters,I’m sure he’s a talented man.His stories and jests are delightful;—Not stories or jests, dear, for you;The jests are exceedingly spiteful,The stories not alwaysquitetrue.Perhaps to be kind and veraciousMay do pretty well at Lausanne;But it never would answer,—good gracious!Chez nous—in a talented man.He sneers,—how my Alice would scold him!—At the bliss of a sigh or a tear;He laughed—only think!—when I told himHow we cried o’er Trevelyan last year;I vow I was quite in a passion;I broke all the sticks of my fan;But sentiment’s quite out of fashion,It seems, in a talented man.Lady Bab, who is terribly moral,Has told me that Tully is vain,And apt—which is silly—to quarrel,And fond—which is sad—of champagne.I listened, and doubted, dear Alice,For I saw, when my Lady began,It was only the Dowager’s malice;—Shedoeshate a talented man!He’s hideous, I own it. But fame, love,Is all that these eyes can adore;He’s lame,—but Lord Byron was lame, love,And dumpy,—but so is Tom Moore.Then his voice,—sucha voice! my sweet creature,It’s like your Aunt Lucy’s toucan:But oh! what’s a tone or a feature,When once one’s a talented man?My mother, you know, all the season,Has talked of Sir Geoffrey’s estate;And truly, to do the fool reason,Hehasbeen less horrid of late.But to-day, when we drive in the carriage,I’ll tell her to lay down her plan;—If ever I venture on marriage,It must be a talented man!P.S.—I have found on reflection,One fault in my friend,—entre nous;Without it, he’d just be perfection;—Poor fellow, he has not asou!And so, when he comes in SeptemberTo shoot with my uncle, Sir Dan,I’ve promised mamma to rememberHe’sonlya talented man!

He came up from Brazenose College,Just caught, as they call it, this spring;And his head, love, is stuffed full of knowledgeOf every conceivable thing.Of science and logic he chatters,As fine and as fast as he can;Though I am no judge of such matters,I’m sure he’s a talented man.

His stories and jests are delightful;—Not stories or jests, dear, for you;The jests are exceedingly spiteful,The stories not alwaysquitetrue.Perhaps to be kind and veraciousMay do pretty well at Lausanne;But it never would answer,—good gracious!Chez nous—in a talented man.

He sneers,—how my Alice would scold him!—At the bliss of a sigh or a tear;He laughed—only think!—when I told himHow we cried o’er Trevelyan last year;I vow I was quite in a passion;I broke all the sticks of my fan;But sentiment’s quite out of fashion,It seems, in a talented man.

Lady Bab, who is terribly moral,Has told me that Tully is vain,And apt—which is silly—to quarrel,And fond—which is sad—of champagne.I listened, and doubted, dear Alice,For I saw, when my Lady began,It was only the Dowager’s malice;—Shedoeshate a talented man!

He’s hideous, I own it. But fame, love,Is all that these eyes can adore;He’s lame,—but Lord Byron was lame, love,And dumpy,—but so is Tom Moore.Then his voice,—sucha voice! my sweet creature,It’s like your Aunt Lucy’s toucan:But oh! what’s a tone or a feature,When once one’s a talented man?

My mother, you know, all the season,Has talked of Sir Geoffrey’s estate;And truly, to do the fool reason,Hehasbeen less horrid of late.But to-day, when we drive in the carriage,I’ll tell her to lay down her plan;—If ever I venture on marriage,It must be a talented man!

P.S.—I have found on reflection,One fault in my friend,—entre nous;Without it, he’d just be perfection;—Poor fellow, he has not asou!And so, when he comes in SeptemberTo shoot with my uncle, Sir Dan,I’ve promised mamma to rememberHe’sonlya talented man!

No politics!—I cannot bearTo tell our ancient fame;No politics!—I do not dareTo paint our present shame!What we have been, what we must be,Let other minstrels say;It is too dark a theme for me:No politics to-day!I loved to see the captive’s chainBy British hands burst through;I loved to sing the fields of Spain,The war of Waterloo:But now the Russians’ greedy swordsAre edged with English pay;We help, we hire, the robber hordes:No politics to-day!I used to look on many a homeOf industry and art;I gazed on pleasure’s gorgeous dome,On labour’s busy mart:From Derby’s rows, from Bristol’s fires,I turn with tears away;I can’t admire what Brougham admires:No politics to-day!Let’s talk of Coplestone and prayers,Of Kitchener and pies,Of Lady Sophonisba’s airs,Of Lady Susan’s eyes;Let’s talk of Mr. Attwood’s cause,Of Mr. Pococks’s play,Of fiddles, bubbles, rattles, straws!No politics to-day!

I loved to see the captive’s chainBy British hands burst through;I loved to sing the fields of Spain,The war of Waterloo:But now the Russians’ greedy swordsAre edged with English pay;We help, we hire, the robber hordes:No politics to-day!

I used to look on many a homeOf industry and art;I gazed on pleasure’s gorgeous dome,On labour’s busy mart:From Derby’s rows, from Bristol’s fires,I turn with tears away;I can’t admire what Brougham admires:No politics to-day!

Let’s talk of Coplestone and prayers,Of Kitchener and pies,Of Lady Sophonisba’s airs,Of Lady Susan’s eyes;Let’s talk of Mr. Attwood’s cause,Of Mr. Pococks’s play,Of fiddles, bubbles, rattles, straws!No politics to-day!

Your godson, my sweet Lady Bridget,Was entered at Eton last May;But really, I’m all in a fidgetTill the dear boy is taken away;For I feel an alarm which, I’m certain,A mother to you may confess,When the newspaper draws up the curtain,The terrible Windsor Express.You know I was half broken-heartedWhen the poor fellow whispered “Good bye!”As soon as the carriage had startedI sat down in comfort to cry.Sir Thomas looked on while I fainted,Deriding—the bear!—my distress;But what were the hardships I paintedTo the tales of the Windsor Express?The planter in sultry BarbadoesIs a terrible tyrant, no doubt;In Moscow, a Count carbonadoesHis ignorant serfs with the knout;Severely men smart for their errorsWho dine at a man-of-war’s mess;But Eton has crueller terrorsThan these,—in the Windsor Express.I fancied the Doctor at CollegeHad dipped, now and then, into books;But, bless me! I find that his knowledgeIs just like my coachman’s or cook’s:He’s a dunce—I have heard it with sorrow;—’Twould puzzle him sadly, I guess,To put into English to-morrowA page of the Windsor Express.All preachers of course should be preachingThat virtue’s a very good thing;All tutors of course should be teachingTo fear God, and honour the King;But at Eton they’ve regular classesFor folly, for vice, for excess;They learn to be villains and asses,Nothing else in the Windsor Express.Mrs. Martha, who nursed little Willy,Believes that she nursed him in vain:Old John, who takes care of the filly,Says “He’ll ne’er come to mount her again!”My Juliet runs up to her mother,And cries, with a mournful caress,“Oh, where have you sent my poor brother?Look, look at the Windsor Express!”Ring, darling, and order the carriage;Whatever Sir Thomas may say,—Who has been quite a fool since our marriage,—I’ll take him directly away.For of all their atrocious ill-treatingThe end it is easy to guess;Some day they’ll be killing and eatingMy boy—in the Windsor Express!

You know I was half broken-heartedWhen the poor fellow whispered “Good bye!”As soon as the carriage had startedI sat down in comfort to cry.Sir Thomas looked on while I fainted,Deriding—the bear!—my distress;But what were the hardships I paintedTo the tales of the Windsor Express?

The planter in sultry BarbadoesIs a terrible tyrant, no doubt;In Moscow, a Count carbonadoesHis ignorant serfs with the knout;Severely men smart for their errorsWho dine at a man-of-war’s mess;But Eton has crueller terrorsThan these,—in the Windsor Express.

I fancied the Doctor at CollegeHad dipped, now and then, into books;But, bless me! I find that his knowledgeIs just like my coachman’s or cook’s:He’s a dunce—I have heard it with sorrow;—’Twould puzzle him sadly, I guess,To put into English to-morrowA page of the Windsor Express.

All preachers of course should be preachingThat virtue’s a very good thing;All tutors of course should be teachingTo fear God, and honour the King;But at Eton they’ve regular classesFor folly, for vice, for excess;They learn to be villains and asses,Nothing else in the Windsor Express.

Mrs. Martha, who nursed little Willy,Believes that she nursed him in vain:Old John, who takes care of the filly,Says “He’ll ne’er come to mount her again!”My Juliet runs up to her mother,And cries, with a mournful caress,“Oh, where have you sent my poor brother?Look, look at the Windsor Express!”

Ring, darling, and order the carriage;Whatever Sir Thomas may say,—Who has been quite a fool since our marriage,—I’ll take him directly away.For of all their atrocious ill-treatingThe end it is easy to guess;Some day they’ll be killing and eatingMy boy—in the Windsor Express!

Sleep, Mr. Speaker; it’s surely fairIf you don’t in your bed, that you should in your chair,Longer and longer still they grow,Tory and Radical, Aye and No;Talking by night, and talking by day;—Sleep, Mr. Speaker; sleep, sleep while you may!Sleep, Mr. Speaker; slumber liesLight and brief on a Speaker’s eyes;Fielden or Finn, in a minute or two,Some disorderly thing will do;Riot will chase repose away;—Sleep, Mr. Speaker; sleep, sleep while you may!Sleep, Mr. Speaker; Cobbett will soonMove to abolish the sun and moon;Hume, no doubt, will be taking the senseOf the House on a saving of thirteen pence;Grattan will growl, or Baldwin bray;—Sleep, Mr. Speaker; sleep, sleep while you may!Sleep, Mr. Speaker; dream of the timeWhen loyalty was not quite a crime;When Grant was a pupil in Canning’s school;When Palmerston fancied Wood a fool;Lord, how principles pass away!Sleep, Mr. Speaker; sleep, sleep, while you may!Sleep, Mr. Speaker; sweet to menIs the sleep that cometh but now and then;Sweet to the sorrowful, sweet to the ill,Sweet to the children that work in a mill;You have more need of sleep than they;—Sleep, Mr. Speaker; sleep, sleep while you may!

Sleep, Mr. Speaker; slumber liesLight and brief on a Speaker’s eyes;Fielden or Finn, in a minute or two,Some disorderly thing will do;Riot will chase repose away;—Sleep, Mr. Speaker; sleep, sleep while you may!

Sleep, Mr. Speaker; Cobbett will soonMove to abolish the sun and moon;Hume, no doubt, will be taking the senseOf the House on a saving of thirteen pence;Grattan will growl, or Baldwin bray;—Sleep, Mr. Speaker; sleep, sleep while you may!

Sleep, Mr. Speaker; dream of the timeWhen loyalty was not quite a crime;When Grant was a pupil in Canning’s school;When Palmerston fancied Wood a fool;Lord, how principles pass away!Sleep, Mr. Speaker; sleep, sleep, while you may!

Sleep, Mr. Speaker; sweet to menIs the sleep that cometh but now and then;Sweet to the sorrowful, sweet to the ill,Sweet to the children that work in a mill;You have more need of sleep than they;—Sleep, Mr. Speaker; sleep, sleep while you may!

Virgin Mother, thou hast knownJoy and sorrow like my own;In thy arms the bright Babe lay,As my own in mine to-day;So he wept and so he smiled;Ave Mary! guard my child!

From the pains and perils spreadRound about our path and bed,Fierce desires, ambitious schemes,Moody doubts, fantastic dreams,Pleasures idle, passions wild,Ave Mary! guard my child!

Make him whatsoe’er may beDearest to the saints and thee;Tell him, from the throne above,What to loathe and what to love;To be true and just and mild,Ave Mary! teach my child!

By the wondrous mercy wonFor the world by thy blest son,By the rest his labours wrought,By the bliss his tortures bought,By the Heaven he reconciled,Ave Mary! bless my child!

If about his after fateSin and sorrow darkly wait,Take him rather to thine armsFrom the world and the world’s harms;Thus unscathed, thus undefiled,Ave Mary! take my child!

Now the rite is duly done;Now the word is spoken;And the spell has made us oneWhich may ne’er be broken:Rest we, dearest, in our home,—Roam we o’er the heather,—We shall rest, and we shall roam,Shall we not? together.

From this hour the summer roseSweeter breathes to charm us;From this hour the winter snowsLighter fall to harm us:Fair or foul—on land or sea—Come the wind or weather,Best or worst, whate’er they be,We shall share together.

Death, who friend from friend can part,Brother rend from brother,Shall but link us, heart and heart,Closer to each other:We will call his anger play,Deem his dart a feather,When we meet him on our wayHand in hand together.

My pretty, budding, breathing flower,Methinks, if I to-morrowCould manage, just for half-an-hour,Sir Joshua’s brush to borrow,I might immortalise a fewOf all the myriad gracesWhich Time, while yet they all are new,With newer still replaces.I’d paint, my child, your deep blue eyes,Their quick and earnest flashes;I’d paint the fringe that round them lies,The fringe of long dark lashes;I’d draw with most fastidious careOne eyebrow, then the other,And that fair forehead, broad and fair,The forehead of your mother.I’d oft retouch the dimpled cheekWhere health in sunshine dances;And oft the pouting lips, where speakA thousand voiceless fancies;And the soft neck would keep me long,The neck, more smooth and snowyThan ever yet in schoolboy’s songHad Caroline or Chloe.Nor less on those twin rounded armsMy new-found skill would linger,Nor less upon the rosy charmsOf every tiny finger;Nor slight the small feet, little one,So prematurely cleverThat, though they neither walk nor run,I think they’d jump for ever.But then your odd endearing ways—What study ere could catch them?Your aimless gestures, endless plays—What canvass ere could match them?Your lively leap of merriment,Your murmur of petition,Your serious silence of content,Your laugh of recognition.Here were a puzzling toil, indeed,For Art’s most fine creations!—Grow on, sweet baby; we will need,To note your transformations,No picture of your form or face,Your waking or your sleeping,But that which Love shall daily trace,And trust to Memory’s keeping.Hereafter, when revolving yearsHave made you tall and twenty,And brought you blended hopes and fears,And sighs and slaves in plenty,May those who watch our little saintAmong her tasks and duties,Feel all her virtues hard to paint,As now we deem her beauties.

I’d paint, my child, your deep blue eyes,Their quick and earnest flashes;I’d paint the fringe that round them lies,The fringe of long dark lashes;I’d draw with most fastidious careOne eyebrow, then the other,And that fair forehead, broad and fair,The forehead of your mother.

I’d oft retouch the dimpled cheekWhere health in sunshine dances;And oft the pouting lips, where speakA thousand voiceless fancies;And the soft neck would keep me long,The neck, more smooth and snowyThan ever yet in schoolboy’s songHad Caroline or Chloe.

Nor less on those twin rounded armsMy new-found skill would linger,Nor less upon the rosy charmsOf every tiny finger;Nor slight the small feet, little one,So prematurely cleverThat, though they neither walk nor run,I think they’d jump for ever.

But then your odd endearing ways—What study ere could catch them?Your aimless gestures, endless plays—What canvass ere could match them?Your lively leap of merriment,Your murmur of petition,Your serious silence of content,Your laugh of recognition.

Here were a puzzling toil, indeed,For Art’s most fine creations!—Grow on, sweet baby; we will need,To note your transformations,No picture of your form or face,Your waking or your sleeping,But that which Love shall daily trace,And trust to Memory’s keeping.

Hereafter, when revolving yearsHave made you tall and twenty,And brought you blended hopes and fears,And sighs and slaves in plenty,May those who watch our little saintAmong her tasks and duties,Feel all her virtues hard to paint,As now we deem her beauties.

When some grim sorceress, whose skillHad bound a sprite to work her will,In mirth or malice chose to askOf the faint slave the hardest task,She sent him forth to gather upGreat Ganges in an acorn cup;Or Heaven’s unnumbered stars to bringIn compass of a signet ring.Thus Helen bids her poet writeThe thanks he owes this morning’s light;And “Give me,”—so he hears her say,—“Four verses, only four, to-day.”Dearest and best! she knows, if witCould ever half love’s debt acquit,Each of her tones and of her looksWould have its four, not lines, but books.

When some grim sorceress, whose skillHad bound a sprite to work her will,In mirth or malice chose to askOf the faint slave the hardest task,

She sent him forth to gather upGreat Ganges in an acorn cup;Or Heaven’s unnumbered stars to bringIn compass of a signet ring.

Thus Helen bids her poet writeThe thanks he owes this morning’s light;And “Give me,”—so he hears her say,—“Four verses, only four, to-day.”

Dearest and best! she knows, if witCould ever half love’s debt acquit,Each of her tones and of her looksWould have its four, not lines, but books.

If, wand’ring in a wizard’s carThrough yon blue ether, I were ableTo fashion of a little starA taper for my Helen’s table,—“What then?” she asks me, with a laugh:—Why then, with all Heaven’s lustre glowing,It would not gild her path with halfThe light her love o’er mine is throwing!

Dearest, I did not dream, four years ago,When through your veil I saw your bright tear shine,Caught your clear whisper, exquisitely low,And felt your soft hand tremble into mine,That in so brief—so very brief a space,He who in love both clouds and cheers our life,Would lay on you, so full of light, joy, grace,The darker, sadder duties of the wife,—Doubts, fears, and frequent toil, and constant careFor this poor frame, by sickness sore bestead;The daily tendance on the fractious chair,The nightly vigil by the feverish bed.Yet not unwelcomed doth this morn arise,Though with more gladsome beams it might have shone;Strength of these weak hands, light of these dim eyes,In sickness, as in health,—bless you, My own!

Yet not unwelcomed doth this morn arise,Though with more gladsome beams it might have shone;Strength of these weak hands, light of these dim eyes,In sickness, as in health,—bless you, My own!

That she may see, our bright and fair,How arduous is her path to fame,How much of solemn thought and careAn empire’s interests fitly claim,—That she may know how poor ’twould seemIn one who graces Britain’s throneTo patronise a party’s schemeOr make a favourite’s cause her own,—That she may feel to whom belongAlike the contest and the prize,Whence springs the valour of the strong,Whence flows the counsel of the wise,—That she may keep in womanhoodThe heaven-born impulses of youth,The zeal for universal good,The reverence for eternal truth,—That she may seek the right and just,—That she may shun the false and mean,—That she may win all love and trust,Blessing and blest,—God save the Queen.

Sir Hilary charged at Agincourt;Sooth, ’twas an awful day!And though in that old age of sportThe rufflers of the camp and courtHad little time to pray,’Tis said Sir Hilary muttered thereTwo syllables by way of prayer:My First to all the brave and proudWho see to-morrow’s sun:My next, with her cold and quiet cloud,To those who find their dewy shroudBefore to-day’s be done:And both together to all blue eyes,That weep when a warrior nobly dies.

My First to all the brave and proudWho see to-morrow’s sun:My next, with her cold and quiet cloud,To those who find their dewy shroudBefore to-day’s be done:And both together to all blue eyes,That weep when a warrior nobly dies.

My First in torrents bleak and blackWas rustling from the sky,When with my Second at his backYoung Cupid wandered by;“Now take me in; the moon hath past;I pray ye, take me in!The lightnings flash, the hail falls fast,All Hades rides the thunder-blast;I’m dripping to the skin!”“I know thee well, thy songs and sighs;A wicked god thou art,And yet most welcome to the eyes,Most witching to the heart!”The wanderer prayed another prayer,And shook his drooping wing;The Lover bade him enter there,And wrung my First from out his hair,And dried my Second’s string.And therefore—(so the urchin swore,By Styx, the fearful river,And by the shafts his quiver bore,And by his shining quiver)—That Lover aye shall see my WholeIn life’s tempestuous Heaven;And when the lightnings cease to roll,Shall fix thereon his dreaming soulIn the deep calm of even.

“I know thee well, thy songs and sighs;A wicked god thou art,And yet most welcome to the eyes,Most witching to the heart!”The wanderer prayed another prayer,And shook his drooping wing;The Lover bade him enter there,And wrung my First from out his hair,And dried my Second’s string.And therefore—(so the urchin swore,By Styx, the fearful river,And by the shafts his quiver bore,And by his shining quiver)—That Lover aye shall see my WholeIn life’s tempestuous Heaven;And when the lightnings cease to roll,Shall fix thereon his dreaming soulIn the deep calm of even.

Alas! for that forgotten dayWhen chivalry was nourished,When none but friars learned to pray,And beef and beauty flourished;And fraud in kings was held accurst,And falsehood sin was reckoned,And mighty chargers bore my First,And fat monks wore my Second!Oh, then I carried sword and shield,And casque with flaunting feather,And earned my spurs in battlefield,In winter and rough weather;And polished many a sonnet upTo ladies’ eyes and tresses,And learned to drain my father’s cup,And loose my falcon’s jesses.But dim is now my grandeur’s gleam;The mongrel mob grows prouder;And everything is done by steam,And men are killed by powder:And now I feel my swift decay,And give unheeded orders,And rot in paltry state away,With Sheriffs and Recorders.

Oh, then I carried sword and shield,And casque with flaunting feather,And earned my spurs in battlefield,In winter and rough weather;And polished many a sonnet upTo ladies’ eyes and tresses,And learned to drain my father’s cup,And loose my falcon’s jesses.But dim is now my grandeur’s gleam;The mongrel mob grows prouder;And everything is done by steam,And men are killed by powder:And now I feel my swift decay,And give unheeded orders,And rot in paltry state away,With Sheriffs and Recorders.

On the casement frame the wind beat high;Never a star was in the sky;All Kenneth Hold was wrapt in gloom,And Sir Everard slept in the Haunted Room.

I sat and sang beside his bed;Never a single word I said,Yet did I scare his slumber;And a fitful light in his eyeball glistened,And his cheek grew pale as he lay and listened,For he thought or dreamt that Fiends and FaysWere reckoning o’er his fleeting daysAnd telling out their number.Was it my Second’s ceaseless tone?On my Second’s hand he laid his own;The hand that trembled in his claspWas crushed by his convulsive grasp.Sir Everard did not fear my First;—He had seen it in shapes that men deem worst,In many a field and flood;Yet in the darkness of that dreadHis tongue was parched and his reason fled,And he watched, as the lamp burned low and dim,To see some Phantom, gaunt and grim,Come dabbled o’er with blood.Sir Everard kneeled, and strove to pray;He prayed for light and he prayed for day,Till terror checked his prayer;And ever I muttered, clear and well,“Click, click,” like a tolling bell,Till, bound by fancy’s magic spell,Sir Everard fainted there.And oft from that remembered night,Around the taper’s flickering lightThe wrinkled beldames told,Sir Everard had knowledge wonOf many a murder darkly done,Of fearful sights, and fearful sounds,And ghosts that walk their midnight roundsIn the tower of Kenneth Hold!

Sir Everard did not fear my First;—He had seen it in shapes that men deem worst,In many a field and flood;Yet in the darkness of that dreadHis tongue was parched and his reason fled,And he watched, as the lamp burned low and dim,To see some Phantom, gaunt and grim,Come dabbled o’er with blood.

Sir Everard kneeled, and strove to pray;He prayed for light and he prayed for day,Till terror checked his prayer;And ever I muttered, clear and well,“Click, click,” like a tolling bell,Till, bound by fancy’s magic spell,Sir Everard fainted there.

And oft from that remembered night,Around the taper’s flickering lightThe wrinkled beldames told,Sir Everard had knowledge wonOf many a murder darkly done,Of fearful sights, and fearful sounds,And ghosts that walk their midnight roundsIn the tower of Kenneth Hold!

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