POEMS, Etc.

“Des traditions étrangeres,En parlant sans obscuritéMais dans ces sources mensongères,Necherchons point la vérité.”—Gresset.

“Nous avons changé tout cela.”—Moliere.

Lily, I’ve made a sketch, to showHow all the world will alterThe tournament in Ivanhoe,As painted by Sir Walter;Those jousting days have all gone by,And heaven be praised they’re over!“When brains were out, the man would die,”A swain may now recover!Yet, Lily! Love has still his darts,And Beauty still her glances;Her trophies now are wounded hearts,Instead of broken lances!Soft tales are told, though not with flowers,But in a simple letter,And on the whole, this world of oursIs altered for the better!Your stalwart chiefs, and men of might,Though fine poetic sketches,Contrasted with a modern knight,Were sad, unpolished wretches;They learned, indeed, to poise a dart,Or breathe a bold defiance,But “reading” was a mystic art,And “writing” quite a science!Our heroes still wear spur on heel,And falchion, cap, and feather;But for your surcoats made of steel,And doublets made of leather,—Good heavens! just fancy, at a ball,How very incommodious!And then, they never shaved at all—’Twas positively odious!A warrior wasted half his lifeIn wild crusades to Mecca,In previous penance for a wife,Like Jacob for Rebecca!Or captive, held some twenty yearsAt Tunis or Aleppo,Came back, perchance, without his ears,A yellow fright, like Beppo!Then heads were made to carry weight,And not to carry knowledge;Boys were not “brought up for the state,”Girls were not sent to college;Now (oh! how this round world improves!)We’ve “Essays” by mechanics,“Courses” of wisdom with removes,And ladies’ calisthenics!In the olden time, when youth had fled,A lady’s life was over;For might she not as well be deadAs live without a lover?But now, no foolish date we fix,So briskourHymen’s trade is,Ladies are now at fifty-sixBut “elderlyyoungladies.”And husbands now, with bolts and springs,Ne’er cage and frighten Cupid,They know that if they clip his wings,They only make him stupid;Their married ladies had no lutesTo sigh beneath their windows,They treated them, those ancient brutes,As cruelly as Hindoos!They moped away their lives, poor souls!By no soft vision brightened,Perched up in castle pigeon-holes,Expecting to be frightened!Or hauled away through field, or fray,To dungeon, or to tower;They ne’er were neat for half a day,Or safe for half an hour.’Twas easy too, by fraud or force,A wife’s complaints to stifle;To starve her was a thing of course,—To poison her a trifle!Their wrongs remain no longer dumb,For now the laws protect them;And canes “no thicker than one’s thumb”Are suffered to correct them.Then dwell not, Lily! on an ageOf Fancy’s wild creation,Our own presents a fairer pageFor Beauty’s meditation;Though you share no Bois Guilbert’s bed,No Front de Bœuf’s vagaries,Youmaybe comfortably wedSome morning at St. Mary’s!

Yet, Lily! Love has still his darts,And Beauty still her glances;Her trophies now are wounded hearts,Instead of broken lances!Soft tales are told, though not with flowers,But in a simple letter,And on the whole, this world of oursIs altered for the better!

Your stalwart chiefs, and men of might,Though fine poetic sketches,Contrasted with a modern knight,Were sad, unpolished wretches;They learned, indeed, to poise a dart,Or breathe a bold defiance,But “reading” was a mystic art,And “writing” quite a science!

Our heroes still wear spur on heel,And falchion, cap, and feather;But for your surcoats made of steel,And doublets made of leather,—Good heavens! just fancy, at a ball,How very incommodious!And then, they never shaved at all—’Twas positively odious!

A warrior wasted half his lifeIn wild crusades to Mecca,In previous penance for a wife,Like Jacob for Rebecca!Or captive, held some twenty yearsAt Tunis or Aleppo,Came back, perchance, without his ears,A yellow fright, like Beppo!

Then heads were made to carry weight,And not to carry knowledge;Boys were not “brought up for the state,”Girls were not sent to college;Now (oh! how this round world improves!)We’ve “Essays” by mechanics,“Courses” of wisdom with removes,And ladies’ calisthenics!

In the olden time, when youth had fled,A lady’s life was over;For might she not as well be deadAs live without a lover?But now, no foolish date we fix,So briskourHymen’s trade is,Ladies are now at fifty-sixBut “elderlyyoungladies.”

And husbands now, with bolts and springs,Ne’er cage and frighten Cupid,They know that if they clip his wings,They only make him stupid;Their married ladies had no lutesTo sigh beneath their windows,They treated them, those ancient brutes,As cruelly as Hindoos!

They moped away their lives, poor souls!By no soft vision brightened,Perched up in castle pigeon-holes,Expecting to be frightened!Or hauled away through field, or fray,To dungeon, or to tower;They ne’er were neat for half a day,Or safe for half an hour.

’Twas easy too, by fraud or force,A wife’s complaints to stifle;To starve her was a thing of course,—To poison her a trifle!Their wrongs remain no longer dumb,For now the laws protect them;And canes “no thicker than one’s thumb”Are suffered to correct them.

Then dwell not, Lily! on an ageOf Fancy’s wild creation,Our own presents a fairer pageFor Beauty’s meditation;Though you share no Bois Guilbert’s bed,No Front de Bœuf’s vagaries,Youmaybe comfortably wedSome morning at St. Mary’s!

If you’ll tell me the reason why Lucy de VereThinks no more of her silks, or her satins;If you’ll tell me the reason why, cloudy or clear,She goes both to vespers and matins:Then I think I can tell why young Harry de Vaux,Who once cared for naught but his wine, hasBeen seen, like a saint, for a fortnight or so,In a niche, at St. Thomas Aquinas!If you’ll tell me the reason Sir Rowland will rideAs though he’d a witch on his crupper,Whenever he hopes to join Rosalie’s side,Or is going to meet her at supper;Then I think I can tell how it is that his groom,With a horse that is better and faster,Though the coaches make way, and the people make room,Can never keep up with his master!If you’ll tell me the reason why Isabel’s eyesSparkle brighter than Isabel’s rubies;If you’ll tell me the reason why Isabel’s sighsTurn sensible men into boobies:Then I think I can tell,—when she promised last nightTo waltz, and my eye turned to thank hers,—Why it was that my heart felt so wondrously light,Though I hadn’t a sou at my bankers!If you’ll tell me the reason a maidenmustsighWhen she looks at a star or a planet;If you’ll tell me the reason she flings her book by,When you know she has hardly began it;If her cheek has grown pale, and if dim is her eye,And her breathing both fevered and faint is,Then think itexceedinglylikely that ICan tell what that maiden’s complaint is!

If you’ll tell me the reason Sir Rowland will rideAs though he’d a witch on his crupper,Whenever he hopes to join Rosalie’s side,Or is going to meet her at supper;Then I think I can tell how it is that his groom,With a horse that is better and faster,Though the coaches make way, and the people make room,Can never keep up with his master!

If you’ll tell me the reason why Isabel’s eyesSparkle brighter than Isabel’s rubies;If you’ll tell me the reason why Isabel’s sighsTurn sensible men into boobies:Then I think I can tell,—when she promised last nightTo waltz, and my eye turned to thank hers,—Why it was that my heart felt so wondrously light,Though I hadn’t a sou at my bankers!

If you’ll tell me the reason a maidenmustsighWhen she looks at a star or a planet;If you’ll tell me the reason she flings her book by,When you know she has hardly began it;If her cheek has grown pale, and if dim is her eye,And her breathing both fevered and faint is,Then think itexceedinglylikely that ICan tell what that maiden’s complaint is!

Had you ever a Cousin, Tom?Did your Cousin happen to sing?Sisters we’ve all by the dozen, Tom,But a Cousin’s a different thing:And you’d find, if you ever had kissed her, Tom,(But let this be a secret between us,)That your lips would have been a blister, Tom,For they’re not of the Sister genus.There is something, Tom, in a Sister’s lip,When you give her a good-night kiss,That savours so much of relationshipThat nothing occurs amiss;But a Cousin’s lip if you once uniteWith yours, in the quietest way,Instead of sleeping a week that night,You’ll be dreaming the following day.And people think it no harm, Tom,With a Cousin to hear you talk;And no one feels any alarm, Tom,At a quiet, cousinly walk;—But, Tom, you’ll soon find what I happen to know,That such walks often grow into straying,And the voices of Cousins are sometimes so low,Heaven only knows what you’ll be saying!And then there happen so often, Tom,Soft pressures of hands and fingers,And looks that were moulded to soften, Tom,And tones on which memory lingers;That long ere the walk is half over, those stringsOf your heart are all put in play,By the voice of those fair, demi-sisterly things,In not quite the most brotherly way.And the song of a Sister may bring to you, Tom,Such tones as the angels woo,But I fear if your Cousin should sing to you, Tom,You’ll take her for an angel, too;For so curious a note is that note of theirs,That you’ll fancy the voice that gave itHas been all the while singing the National Airs,Instead of the Psalms of David.I once had a Cousin who sung, Tom,And her name may be nameless now,But the sound of those songs is still young, Tom,Though we are no longer so:’Tis folly to dream of a bower of greenWhen there is not a leaf on the tree;—But ’twixt walking and singing, that Cousin has been,God forgive her! the ruin of me.And now I care nought for society, Tom,And lead a most anchorite life,For I’ve loved myself into sobriety, Tom,And out of the wish for a wife;But oh! if I said but half what I might say,So sad were the lesson ’twould give,That ’twould keep you from loving for many a day,And from Cousins—as long as you live.

There is something, Tom, in a Sister’s lip,When you give her a good-night kiss,That savours so much of relationshipThat nothing occurs amiss;But a Cousin’s lip if you once uniteWith yours, in the quietest way,Instead of sleeping a week that night,You’ll be dreaming the following day.

And people think it no harm, Tom,With a Cousin to hear you talk;And no one feels any alarm, Tom,At a quiet, cousinly walk;—But, Tom, you’ll soon find what I happen to know,That such walks often grow into straying,And the voices of Cousins are sometimes so low,Heaven only knows what you’ll be saying!

And then there happen so often, Tom,Soft pressures of hands and fingers,And looks that were moulded to soften, Tom,And tones on which memory lingers;That long ere the walk is half over, those stringsOf your heart are all put in play,By the voice of those fair, demi-sisterly things,In not quite the most brotherly way.

And the song of a Sister may bring to you, Tom,Such tones as the angels woo,But I fear if your Cousin should sing to you, Tom,You’ll take her for an angel, too;For so curious a note is that note of theirs,That you’ll fancy the voice that gave itHas been all the while singing the National Airs,Instead of the Psalms of David.

I once had a Cousin who sung, Tom,And her name may be nameless now,But the sound of those songs is still young, Tom,Though we are no longer so:’Tis folly to dream of a bower of greenWhen there is not a leaf on the tree;—But ’twixt walking and singing, that Cousin has been,God forgive her! the ruin of me.

And now I care nought for society, Tom,And lead a most anchorite life,For I’ve loved myself into sobriety, Tom,And out of the wish for a wife;But oh! if I said but half what I might say,So sad were the lesson ’twould give,That ’twould keep you from loving for many a day,And from Cousins—as long as you live.

I saw one day, near Paphos’ bowers,In a glass—sweet Fancy’s own—A boy lie down among the flowersThat circled Beauty’s throne.Poor youth! it moved my pity quite,He looked so very sad;—Apollo said “his head was light,”But Pallas called him “mad.”A little sylphid, hiding near,Flew out from some blue-bells,And whispered in the pale youth’s ear,“Pray, try our Bagatelles!“You’ve pondered over those musty booksTill half your locks are grey;—You’ve dimmed your eyes, you’ve spoiled your looks,You’ve worn yourself away!Leave Wisdom’s leaden page awhile,And take your lute again,And Beauty’s eyes shall round you smile,And Love’s repay the strain:Leave politics to dull M.P.’s,Philosophy to cells,—Good youth!—you’ll ne’er succeed in these—So try our Bagatelles!“We’ve cures in these enchanted bowersFor every sort of ill,—Ouronly medicines are flowers,Sweet flowers that never kill!Our leeches, too, are wondrous wiseIn mixing simples up,—We’ve frozen dew-drops from the skiesFor the fevered lover’s cup;We’ve moonbeams gathered on the hills,And star-drops in the dells;And we never send you in our bills—Pray, try our Bagatelles!“And youths from every court and climeCome here to seek advice,And maids who have misspent their timeAre kept preserved—in ice!Bright fountains in our gardens play,And each has magic in it,—We cure blue devils every day,Blue stockings every minute:And heartaches when they’re worst, and whenNo other medicine tells,In maids or matrons, youths or men,Yield to our—Bagatelles!“Last week a statesman came, whose eyesScarce knew what sweet repose is,We gave one draught of Beauty’s sighs,—Look there—how calm he dozes!A lawyer called the week before,Who talked of naught but Blackstone,We took him to our sylphid store,And a pair of wings we waxed on;And if you’ll look in yonder grove,—Just by that grot of shells,—You’ll find him making shocking love,And talking—Bagatelles!”The sick youth raised his drooping headAs the sylphid ceased to speak,—“Hush, hush,” she cried, “you must to bed,And be quiet for a week!”And soon a Muse, with rainbow wings,And looks of laughing joy,Came with a lute of silver strings;And she sat beside the boy:And when I saw them last they layFar up those flowery dells,And the boy was growing glad and gayAs she sung him—Bagatelles!

“You’ve pondered over those musty booksTill half your locks are grey;—You’ve dimmed your eyes, you’ve spoiled your looks,You’ve worn yourself away!Leave Wisdom’s leaden page awhile,And take your lute again,And Beauty’s eyes shall round you smile,And Love’s repay the strain:Leave politics to dull M.P.’s,Philosophy to cells,—Good youth!—you’ll ne’er succeed in these—So try our Bagatelles!

“We’ve cures in these enchanted bowersFor every sort of ill,—Ouronly medicines are flowers,Sweet flowers that never kill!Our leeches, too, are wondrous wiseIn mixing simples up,—We’ve frozen dew-drops from the skiesFor the fevered lover’s cup;We’ve moonbeams gathered on the hills,And star-drops in the dells;And we never send you in our bills—Pray, try our Bagatelles!

“And youths from every court and climeCome here to seek advice,And maids who have misspent their timeAre kept preserved—in ice!Bright fountains in our gardens play,And each has magic in it,—We cure blue devils every day,Blue stockings every minute:And heartaches when they’re worst, and whenNo other medicine tells,In maids or matrons, youths or men,Yield to our—Bagatelles!

“Last week a statesman came, whose eyesScarce knew what sweet repose is,We gave one draught of Beauty’s sighs,—Look there—how calm he dozes!A lawyer called the week before,Who talked of naught but Blackstone,We took him to our sylphid store,And a pair of wings we waxed on;And if you’ll look in yonder grove,—Just by that grot of shells,—You’ll find him making shocking love,And talking—Bagatelles!”

The sick youth raised his drooping headAs the sylphid ceased to speak,—“Hush, hush,” she cried, “you must to bed,And be quiet for a week!”And soon a Muse, with rainbow wings,And looks of laughing joy,Came with a lute of silver strings;And she sat beside the boy:And when I saw them last they layFar up those flowery dells,And the boy was growing glad and gayAs she sung him—Bagatelles!

The world pursues the very trackWhich it pursued at its creation;And mortals shrink in horror backFrom any hint of innovation;From year to year the children doExactly what their sires have done;Time is! time was!—there’s nothing new,—There’s nothing new beneath the sun!Still lovers hope to be believed,Still clients hope to win their causes;Still plays and farces are receivedWith most encouraging applauses;Still dancers have fantastic toes,Still dandies shudder at a dun;Still diners have their fricandeaus,—There’s nothing new beneath the sun!Still cooks torment the hapless eels,Still boys torment the dumb cockchafers;Lord Eldon still adores the seals,Lord Clifford still adores the wafers;Still asses have enormous ears,Still gambling bets are lost and won;Still opera dancers marry peers,—There’s nothing new beneath the sun!Still women are absurdly weak,Still infants dote upon a rattle;Still Mr. Martin cannot speakOf anything but beaten cattle;Still brokers swear the shares will rise,Still Cockneys boast of Manton’s gun;Still listeners swallow monstrous lies,—There’s nothing new beneath the sun!Still genius is a jest to earls,Still honesty is down to zero;Still heroines have spontaneous curls,Still novels have a handsome hero;Still Madame Vestris plays a man,Still fools adore her, I for one;Still youths write sonnets to a fan,—There’s nothing new beneath the sun!Still people make a plaguey fuss,About all things that don’t concern them,As if it matters aught to us,What happens to our grandsons, burn them!Still life is nothing to the dead,Still Folly’s toil is Wisdom’s fun;And still, except the Brazen Head,—There’s nothing new beneath the sun!

Still lovers hope to be believed,Still clients hope to win their causes;Still plays and farces are receivedWith most encouraging applauses;Still dancers have fantastic toes,Still dandies shudder at a dun;Still diners have their fricandeaus,—There’s nothing new beneath the sun!

Still cooks torment the hapless eels,Still boys torment the dumb cockchafers;Lord Eldon still adores the seals,Lord Clifford still adores the wafers;Still asses have enormous ears,Still gambling bets are lost and won;Still opera dancers marry peers,—There’s nothing new beneath the sun!

Still women are absurdly weak,Still infants dote upon a rattle;Still Mr. Martin cannot speakOf anything but beaten cattle;Still brokers swear the shares will rise,Still Cockneys boast of Manton’s gun;Still listeners swallow monstrous lies,—There’s nothing new beneath the sun!

Still genius is a jest to earls,Still honesty is down to zero;Still heroines have spontaneous curls,Still novels have a handsome hero;Still Madame Vestris plays a man,Still fools adore her, I for one;Still youths write sonnets to a fan,—There’s nothing new beneath the sun!

Still people make a plaguey fuss,About all things that don’t concern them,As if it matters aught to us,What happens to our grandsons, burn them!Still life is nothing to the dead,Still Folly’s toil is Wisdom’s fun;And still, except the Brazen Head,—There’s nothing new beneath the sun!

When Sorrow moves with silent treadAround some mortal’s buried dust,And muses on the mouldering deadWho sleep beneath their crumbling bust,Though all unheard and all unknownThe name on that sepulchral stone,She looks on its recording line,And whispers kindly, “Peace be thine!”O Lady! me thou knowest not,And what I am, or am to be;The pain and pleasure of my lotAre nought, and must be nought, to thee;Thou seest not my hopes and fears;Yet thou, perhaps, in other years,Wilt look on this recording line,And whisper kindly, “Peace be thine!”

O Lady! me thou knowest not,And what I am, or am to be;The pain and pleasure of my lotAre nought, and must be nought, to thee;Thou seest not my hopes and fears;Yet thou, perhaps, in other years,Wilt look on this recording line,And whisper kindly, “Peace be thine!”

O tell me not of broken vow—I speak a firmer passion now;O tell me not of shattered chain—The link shall never burst again!My soul is fixed as firmly hereAs the red sun in his career,As victory on Mina’s crestOr tenderness in Rosa’s breast;Then do not tell me, while we part,Of fickle flame and roving heart;While youth shall bow at beauty’s shrine,That flame shall glow—that heart be thine.Then wherefore dost thou bid me tellThe fate thy malice knows so well?I may not disobey thee!—yes!Thou bidst me—and Iwillconfess:See how adoringly I kneel:Hear how my folly I reveal:My folly!—chide me if thou wilt,Thou shalt not, canst not, call it guilt:—And when my faithlessness is told,Ere thou hast time to play the scold,I’ll haste the fond rebuke to check,And lean upon the snowy neck,Play with its glossy auburn hair,And hide the blush of falsehood there.Inez, the innocent and young,First shared my heart, and waked my song;We were both harmless, and untaughtTo love as fashionables ought;With all the modesty of youthWe talked of constancy and truth,Grew fond of music and the moon,And wandered on the nights of JuneTo sit beneath the chesnut tree,While the lonely stars shone mellowly,Shedding a pale and dancing beamOn the wave of Guadalquivir’s stream.And aye we talked of faith and feelings,With no distrustings, no concealings;And aye we joyed in stolen glances,And sighed, and blushed, and read romances.Our love was ardent and sincere,And lasted, Rosa—half a-year!And then the maid grew fickle-hearted,—Married Don Josè—so we parted.At twenty-one I’ve often heardMy bashfulness was quite absurd;For, with a squeamishness uncommon,I feared to love a married woman.Fair Leonora’s laughing eyeAgain awaked my song and sigh:A gay intriguing dame was she,And fifty Dons of high degree,That came and went as they were bid,Dubbed her the Beauty of Madrid.Alas! what constant pains I tookTo merit one approving look!I courted valour and the muse,Wrote challenges and billets-doux;Paid for sherbet and serenade,Fenced with Pegru and Alvarade;Fought all the bull-fights like a hero,Studied small talk and the Bolero:Played the guitar—and played the fool,That out of tune—this out of rule.I oft at midnight wandered out,Wrapt up in love and my capoté,To muse on beauty and the skies,Cold winds—and Leonora’s eyes.Alas! when all my gains were told,I’d caught a Tartar—and a cold.And yet, perchance, that lovely browHad still detained my captive vow—That clear blue eye’s enchanting rollHad still enthralled my yielding soul,—But suddenly a vision brightCame o’er me in a veil of light,And burst the bonds whose fetters bound me,And brake the spell that hung around me,Recalled the heart that madly roved,And bade me love, and be beloved.Who was it broke the chain and spell?Dark-eyed Castilian!thoucanst tell!And am I faithless!—woe the while!What vow but melts at Rosa’s smile?For broken vows, and faith betrayed,The guilt is thine, Castilian maid!The tale is told, and I am gone:Think of me, loved and only one,When none on earth shall care besideHow Carlos lived, or loved, or died!Thy love on earth shall be to meA bird upon a leafless tree,A bark upon a hopeless wave,A lily on a tombless grave,A cheering hope, a living ray,To light me on a weary way.And thus is love’s confession done:Give me thy parting benison;And, ere I rise from bended knee,To wander o’er a foreign seaAlone and friendless,—ere I donMy pilgrim’s hat and sandal shoon,Dark-eyed Castilian! let me winForgiveness sweet for venial sin;Let lonely sighs, and dreams of thee,Be penance for my perjury!

Then wherefore dost thou bid me tellThe fate thy malice knows so well?I may not disobey thee!—yes!Thou bidst me—and Iwillconfess:See how adoringly I kneel:Hear how my folly I reveal:My folly!—chide me if thou wilt,Thou shalt not, canst not, call it guilt:—And when my faithlessness is told,Ere thou hast time to play the scold,I’ll haste the fond rebuke to check,And lean upon the snowy neck,Play with its glossy auburn hair,And hide the blush of falsehood there.

Inez, the innocent and young,First shared my heart, and waked my song;We were both harmless, and untaughtTo love as fashionables ought;With all the modesty of youthWe talked of constancy and truth,Grew fond of music and the moon,And wandered on the nights of JuneTo sit beneath the chesnut tree,While the lonely stars shone mellowly,Shedding a pale and dancing beamOn the wave of Guadalquivir’s stream.And aye we talked of faith and feelings,With no distrustings, no concealings;And aye we joyed in stolen glances,And sighed, and blushed, and read romances.Our love was ardent and sincere,And lasted, Rosa—half a-year!And then the maid grew fickle-hearted,—Married Don Josè—so we parted.At twenty-one I’ve often heardMy bashfulness was quite absurd;For, with a squeamishness uncommon,I feared to love a married woman.

Fair Leonora’s laughing eyeAgain awaked my song and sigh:A gay intriguing dame was she,And fifty Dons of high degree,That came and went as they were bid,Dubbed her the Beauty of Madrid.Alas! what constant pains I tookTo merit one approving look!I courted valour and the muse,Wrote challenges and billets-doux;Paid for sherbet and serenade,Fenced with Pegru and Alvarade;Fought all the bull-fights like a hero,Studied small talk and the Bolero:Played the guitar—and played the fool,That out of tune—this out of rule.I oft at midnight wandered out,Wrapt up in love and my capoté,To muse on beauty and the skies,Cold winds—and Leonora’s eyes.

Alas! when all my gains were told,I’d caught a Tartar—and a cold.And yet, perchance, that lovely browHad still detained my captive vow—That clear blue eye’s enchanting rollHad still enthralled my yielding soul,—But suddenly a vision brightCame o’er me in a veil of light,And burst the bonds whose fetters bound me,And brake the spell that hung around me,Recalled the heart that madly roved,And bade me love, and be beloved.Who was it broke the chain and spell?Dark-eyed Castilian!thoucanst tell!

And am I faithless!—woe the while!What vow but melts at Rosa’s smile?For broken vows, and faith betrayed,The guilt is thine, Castilian maid!

The tale is told, and I am gone:Think of me, loved and only one,When none on earth shall care besideHow Carlos lived, or loved, or died!Thy love on earth shall be to meA bird upon a leafless tree,A bark upon a hopeless wave,A lily on a tombless grave,A cheering hope, a living ray,To light me on a weary way.

And thus is love’s confession done:Give me thy parting benison;And, ere I rise from bended knee,To wander o’er a foreign seaAlone and friendless,—ere I donMy pilgrim’s hat and sandal shoon,Dark-eyed Castilian! let me winForgiveness sweet for venial sin;Let lonely sighs, and dreams of thee,Be penance for my perjury!

What, what is Marriage? Harris, Priscian!Assist me with a definition.—“Oh!” cries a charming silly fool,Emerging from her boarding-school—“Marriage is—love without disguises,It is a—something that arisesFrom raptures and from stolen glances,To be the end of all romances;Vows—quarrels—moonshine—babes—but hush!I mustn’t have you see me blush.”“Pshaw!” says a modern modish wife,“Marriage is splendour, fashion, life;A house in town, and villa shady,Balls, diamond bracelets, and ‘my lady;’Then for finale, angry words,Some people’s—‘obstinate’s—‘absurds!’And peevish hearts, and silly heads,And oaths, andbêtes, and separate beds.”An aged bachelor, whose lifeHas just been sweetened with a wife,Tells out the latent grievance thus:“Marriage is—odd! for one of us’Tis worse a mile than rope or tree,Hemlock, or sword, or slavery;An end at once to all our ways,Dismission to the one-horse chaise;Adieu to Sunday car, and pig,Adieu to wine, and whist, and wig;Ourfriends turn out,—our wife’s are clapt in;’Tis ‘Exit crony,’—‘Enter captain!’Then hurry in a thousand thorns,—Quarrels, and compliments,—and horns.This is the yoke, and I must wear it;Marriage is—hell, or something near it!”“Why, marriage,” says an exquisite,Sick from the supper of last night,“Marriage is—after one by me!I promised Tom to ride at three.—Marriage is—’gad! I’m rather late;La Fleur—my stays! and chocolate!—Marriage is—really, though, ’twas hardTo lose a thousand on a card;Sink the old Duchess!—three revokes!’Gad! I must fell the abbey oaks:Mary has lost a thousand more!—Marriage is—’gad! a cursed bore!”Hymen, who hears the blockheads groan,Rises indignant from his throne,And mocks their self-reviling tears,And whispers thus in Folly’s ears:“O frivolous of heart and head!If strifes infest your nuptial bed,Not Hymen’s hand, but guilt and sin,Fashion and folly, force them in;If on your couch is seated Care,Idid not bring the scoffer there;If Hymen’s torch is feebler grown,The hand that quenched it was your own;And what I am, unthinking elves,Ye all have made me for yourselves!”

“Pshaw!” says a modern modish wife,“Marriage is splendour, fashion, life;A house in town, and villa shady,Balls, diamond bracelets, and ‘my lady;’Then for finale, angry words,Some people’s—‘obstinate’s—‘absurds!’And peevish hearts, and silly heads,And oaths, andbêtes, and separate beds.”

An aged bachelor, whose lifeHas just been sweetened with a wife,Tells out the latent grievance thus:“Marriage is—odd! for one of us’Tis worse a mile than rope or tree,Hemlock, or sword, or slavery;An end at once to all our ways,Dismission to the one-horse chaise;Adieu to Sunday car, and pig,Adieu to wine, and whist, and wig;Ourfriends turn out,—our wife’s are clapt in;’Tis ‘Exit crony,’—‘Enter captain!’Then hurry in a thousand thorns,—Quarrels, and compliments,—and horns.This is the yoke, and I must wear it;Marriage is—hell, or something near it!”

“Why, marriage,” says an exquisite,Sick from the supper of last night,“Marriage is—after one by me!I promised Tom to ride at three.—Marriage is—’gad! I’m rather late;La Fleur—my stays! and chocolate!—Marriage is—really, though, ’twas hardTo lose a thousand on a card;Sink the old Duchess!—three revokes!’Gad! I must fell the abbey oaks:Mary has lost a thousand more!—Marriage is—’gad! a cursed bore!”

Hymen, who hears the blockheads groan,Rises indignant from his throne,And mocks their self-reviling tears,And whispers thus in Folly’s ears:“O frivolous of heart and head!If strifes infest your nuptial bed,Not Hymen’s hand, but guilt and sin,Fashion and folly, force them in;If on your couch is seated Care,Idid not bring the scoffer there;If Hymen’s torch is feebler grown,The hand that quenched it was your own;And what I am, unthinking elves,Ye all have made me for yourselves!”

You wonder that your ancient friendHas come so near his journey’s end,And borne his heavy load of illO’er Sorrow’s slough, and Labour’s hill,Without a partner to beguileThe toilsome way with constant smile,To share in happiness and pain,To guide, to comfort, to sustain,And cheer the last long weary stageThat leads to Death through gloomy Age!To drop these metaphoric jokes,And speak like reasonable folks,It seems you wonder, Mr. Pringle,That old Tom Quince is living single!Since my old crony and myselfLaid crabbed Euclid on the shelf,And made ourcongéto the Cam,Long years have passed; and here I amWith nerves and gout, but yet alive,A Bachelor, and fifty-five.—Sir, I’m a Bachelor, and meanUntil the closing of the scene,Or be it right, or be it wrong,To play the part I’ve played so long,Nor be the rat that others are,Caught by a ribbon or a star.“As years increase,” your worship cries,“All troubles and anxietiesCome swiftly on: you feel vexationAbout your neighbours, or the nation;The gout in fingers or in toesAwakes you from your first repose;You’ll want a clever nurse, when lifeBegins to fail you—take a wife!Believe me, from the mind’s diseaseHer soothing voice might give you ease,And, when the twinge comes shooting through you,Her care might be of service to you!”Sir, I’m not dying, though I knowYou charitably think me so;—Not dying yet, though you, and others,In augury your learned brothers,Take pains to prophesy eventsWhich lie some twenty winters hence.Some twenty?—look! you shake your headAs if I were insane or dead,And tell your children and your wife—“Old men growveryfond of life!”Alas! you prescience never endsAs long as it concerns your friends;But your own fifty-third DecemberIs what you never can remember!And when I talk about my healthAnd future hopes of weal or wealth,With something ’twixt a grunt and groanYou mutter in an undertone—“Hark! how the dotard chatters still![3]He’ll not believe he’s old or ill!He goes on forming great designs,—Has just laid in a stock of wines,—And promises his niece a ball,As if grey hairs would never fall!I really think he’s all but mad.”Then, with a wink and sigh, you add,“Tom is a friend I dearly prize,But—never thought himoverwise!”You—who are clever to foretellWhere ignorance might be as well—Would marvel how my health has stood:My pulse is firm, digestion good,I walk to see my turnips grow,Manage to ride a mile or so,Get to the village church to pray,And drink my pint of wine a day;And often, in an idle mood,Emerging from my solitude,Look at my sheep, and geese, and fowls,And scare the sparrows and the owls,Or talk with Dick about my crops,And learn the price of malt and hops.You say that when you saw me lastMy appetite was going fast,My eye was dim, my cheek was pale,My bread—and stories—both were stale;My wine and wit were growing worse,And all things else,—except my purse;In short, the very blind might seeI was not what I used to be.My glass (which I believe before ye)Will teach me quite another story;My wrinkles are not many yet,My hair is still as black as jet;My legs are full, my cheeks are ruddy,My eyes, though somewhat weak by study,Retain a most vivacious ray,And tell no stories of decay;And then my waist, unvexed, unstayed,By fetters of the tailor’s trade,Tells you, as plain as waist can tell,I’m most unfashionably well.And yet you think I’m growing thinner!—You’d stare to see me eat my dinner!You know that I was held by allThe greatest epicure in Hall,And that the voice of Granta’s sonsStyled me the Gourmand of St. John’s:—I have not yet been found unableTo do my duty to my table,Though at its head no lady gayHath driven British food away,And made her hapless husband bearAlike her fury and her fare.If some kind-hearted chum calls in,An extra dish and older binAnd John in all his finery drestDo honour to the welcome guest;And then we talk of other times,Of parted friends, and distant climes,And lengthened converse, tale, and jest,Lull every anxious care to rest;And when unwillingly I riseWith newly wakened sympathiesFrom conversation—and the bowl,The feast of stomach—and of soul,I lay me down, and seem to leapO’er forty summers in my sleep;And youth, with all its joy and pain,Comes rushing on my soul again.I rove where’er my boyhood roved—I love whate’er my boyhood loved—And rocks, and vales, and woods, and streams,Fleet o’er my pillow in my dreams.’Tis true, some ugly foes arise,E’en in this earthly paradise,Which you, good Pringle, may beguile,By Mrs. P’s unceasing smile;I am an independent elf,And keep my comforts in myself.If my best sheep have got the rot—Or if the Parson hits a blot—Or if young witless prates of laurel—Or if my tithe produces quarrel—Or if my roofing wants repairs—Or if I’m angry with my heirs—Or if I’ve nothing else to do—I grumble for an hour or two;Riots or rumours unrepressed,My niece—or knuckle—over-drest,The lateness of a wished-for post,Miss Mackrell’s story of the ghost,New wine, new fashions, or new faces,New bills, new taxes, or new places,Or Mr. Hume’s enumerationOf all the troubles of the nation,Will sometimes wear my patience out!Then, as I said before, the gout—Well, well, my heart was never faint!And yet it might provoke a saint.A rise of bread, or fall of rain,Sometimes unite to give me pain;And oft my lawyer’s bag of papersGives me a taste of spleen and vapours.Angry or sad, alone or ill,I have my senses with me still;Although my eyes are somewhat weak,Yet can I dissipate my pique,By Poem, Paper, or Review;And though I’m dozy in my pewAt Dr. Poundtext’s second leaf,I am not yet so very deafAs to require the rousing noiseOf screaming girls and roaring boys.Thrice—thrice accursed be the dayWhen I shall fling my bliss away,And, to disturb my quiet life,Take discord in the shape of wife!Time, in his endless muster-roll,Shall mark the hour with blackest coal,When old Tom Quince shall cease to seeTheChroniclewith toast and tea,Confine his rambles to his park,And never dine till after dark,And change his comfort and his cronyFor crowd and conversazione.If every aiding thought is vain,And momentary grief and painUrge the old man to frown and fret,He has another comfort yet;This earth has thorns, as poets sing,But not for ever can they sting;Our sand from out its narrow glassRapidly passes!—let it pass!I seek not, I, to check or stayThe progress of a single day,But rather cheer my hours of pain,Because so few of them remain.Care circles every mortal head,—The dust will be a calmer bed!From Life’s alloy no life is free,But—Life is not Eternity!When that unerring day shall comeTo call me, from my wandering, home,—The dark and still and painful dayWhen breath shall fleet in groans away,When comfort shall be vainly sought,And doubt shall be in every thought,When words shall fail th’ unuttered vow,And fever heat the burning brow,When the dim eye shall gaze, and fearTo close the glance that lingers here,Snatching the faint departing lightThat seems to flicker in its flight,When the lone heart, in that long strife,Shall cling unconsciously to life,—I’ll have no shrieking female byTo shed her drops of sympathy;To listen to each smothered throe,To feel, or feign, officious woe,To bring me every useless cup,And beg “dear Tom” to drink it up,To turn my oldest servants off,E’en as she hears my gurgling cough;And then expectantly to stand,And chafe my temples with her hand,And pull a cleaner night-cap o’er ’em,That I may die with due decorum;And watch the while my ebbing breath,And count the tardy steps of death;Grudging the leech his growing bill,And wrapt in dreams about the will.I’ll have no Furies round my bed!—They shall not plague me—till I’m dead.Believe me! ill my dust would rest,If the plain marble o’er my breast,That tells, in letters large and clear,“The bones of Thomas Quince lie here!”Should add a talisman of strife,“Also the bones of Joan, his wife!”No! while beneath this simple stoneOld Quince shall sleep, and sleep alone,Some village Oracle, who wellKnows how to speak, and read, and spell,Shall slowly construe, bit by bit,My “Natus” and my “Obiit,”And then, with sage discourse and long,Recite my virtues to the throng:—“The Gentleman came straight from College:A most prodigious man for knowledge!He used to pay all men their due,Hated a miser—and a Jew;But always opened wide his doorTo the first knocking of the poor.None, as the grateful parish knows,Save the Churchwardens, were his foes;They could not bear the virtuous prideWhich gave the sixpence they denied.If neighbours had a mind to quarrel,He used to treat them to a barrel;And that, I think, was sounder lawThan any book I ever saw.The ladies never used to flout him;But this was rather strange about him:That, gay or thoughtful, young or old,He took no wife for love or gold;Women he called ‘a pretty thing,’But never could abide a ring!”Good Mr. Pringle!—you must seeYour arguments are light with me;They buzz like feeble flies around me,But leave me firm, as first they found me.Silence your logic! burn your pen!The poet says, “We all are men;”And all “condemned alike to groan”—You with a wife, and I with none.Well! yours may be a happier lot,But it is one I envy not;And you’ll allow me, Sir, to prayThat, at some near-approaching day,You may not have to wince and whine,And find some cause to envy mine!

Since my old crony and myselfLaid crabbed Euclid on the shelf,And made ourcongéto the Cam,Long years have passed; and here I amWith nerves and gout, but yet alive,A Bachelor, and fifty-five.—Sir, I’m a Bachelor, and meanUntil the closing of the scene,Or be it right, or be it wrong,To play the part I’ve played so long,Nor be the rat that others are,Caught by a ribbon or a star.

“As years increase,” your worship cries,“All troubles and anxietiesCome swiftly on: you feel vexationAbout your neighbours, or the nation;The gout in fingers or in toesAwakes you from your first repose;You’ll want a clever nurse, when lifeBegins to fail you—take a wife!Believe me, from the mind’s diseaseHer soothing voice might give you ease,And, when the twinge comes shooting through you,Her care might be of service to you!”Sir, I’m not dying, though I knowYou charitably think me so;—Not dying yet, though you, and others,In augury your learned brothers,Take pains to prophesy eventsWhich lie some twenty winters hence.Some twenty?—look! you shake your headAs if I were insane or dead,And tell your children and your wife—“Old men growveryfond of life!”Alas! you prescience never endsAs long as it concerns your friends;But your own fifty-third DecemberIs what you never can remember!And when I talk about my healthAnd future hopes of weal or wealth,With something ’twixt a grunt and groanYou mutter in an undertone—“Hark! how the dotard chatters still![3]He’ll not believe he’s old or ill!He goes on forming great designs,—Has just laid in a stock of wines,—And promises his niece a ball,As if grey hairs would never fall!I really think he’s all but mad.”Then, with a wink and sigh, you add,“Tom is a friend I dearly prize,But—never thought himoverwise!”

You—who are clever to foretellWhere ignorance might be as well—Would marvel how my health has stood:My pulse is firm, digestion good,I walk to see my turnips grow,Manage to ride a mile or so,Get to the village church to pray,And drink my pint of wine a day;And often, in an idle mood,Emerging from my solitude,Look at my sheep, and geese, and fowls,And scare the sparrows and the owls,Or talk with Dick about my crops,And learn the price of malt and hops.

You say that when you saw me lastMy appetite was going fast,My eye was dim, my cheek was pale,My bread—and stories—both were stale;My wine and wit were growing worse,And all things else,—except my purse;In short, the very blind might seeI was not what I used to be.

My glass (which I believe before ye)Will teach me quite another story;My wrinkles are not many yet,My hair is still as black as jet;My legs are full, my cheeks are ruddy,My eyes, though somewhat weak by study,Retain a most vivacious ray,And tell no stories of decay;And then my waist, unvexed, unstayed,By fetters of the tailor’s trade,Tells you, as plain as waist can tell,I’m most unfashionably well.

And yet you think I’m growing thinner!—You’d stare to see me eat my dinner!You know that I was held by allThe greatest epicure in Hall,And that the voice of Granta’s sonsStyled me the Gourmand of St. John’s:—I have not yet been found unableTo do my duty to my table,Though at its head no lady gayHath driven British food away,And made her hapless husband bearAlike her fury and her fare.If some kind-hearted chum calls in,An extra dish and older binAnd John in all his finery drestDo honour to the welcome guest;And then we talk of other times,Of parted friends, and distant climes,And lengthened converse, tale, and jest,Lull every anxious care to rest;And when unwillingly I riseWith newly wakened sympathiesFrom conversation—and the bowl,The feast of stomach—and of soul,I lay me down, and seem to leapO’er forty summers in my sleep;And youth, with all its joy and pain,Comes rushing on my soul again.I rove where’er my boyhood roved—I love whate’er my boyhood loved—And rocks, and vales, and woods, and streams,Fleet o’er my pillow in my dreams.

’Tis true, some ugly foes arise,E’en in this earthly paradise,Which you, good Pringle, may beguile,By Mrs. P’s unceasing smile;I am an independent elf,And keep my comforts in myself.If my best sheep have got the rot—Or if the Parson hits a blot—Or if young witless prates of laurel—Or if my tithe produces quarrel—Or if my roofing wants repairs—Or if I’m angry with my heirs—Or if I’ve nothing else to do—I grumble for an hour or two;Riots or rumours unrepressed,My niece—or knuckle—over-drest,The lateness of a wished-for post,Miss Mackrell’s story of the ghost,New wine, new fashions, or new faces,New bills, new taxes, or new places,Or Mr. Hume’s enumerationOf all the troubles of the nation,Will sometimes wear my patience out!Then, as I said before, the gout—Well, well, my heart was never faint!And yet it might provoke a saint.A rise of bread, or fall of rain,Sometimes unite to give me pain;And oft my lawyer’s bag of papersGives me a taste of spleen and vapours.Angry or sad, alone or ill,I have my senses with me still;Although my eyes are somewhat weak,Yet can I dissipate my pique,By Poem, Paper, or Review;And though I’m dozy in my pewAt Dr. Poundtext’s second leaf,I am not yet so very deafAs to require the rousing noiseOf screaming girls and roaring boys.Thrice—thrice accursed be the dayWhen I shall fling my bliss away,And, to disturb my quiet life,Take discord in the shape of wife!Time, in his endless muster-roll,Shall mark the hour with blackest coal,When old Tom Quince shall cease to seeTheChroniclewith toast and tea,Confine his rambles to his park,And never dine till after dark,And change his comfort and his cronyFor crowd and conversazione.

If every aiding thought is vain,And momentary grief and painUrge the old man to frown and fret,He has another comfort yet;This earth has thorns, as poets sing,But not for ever can they sting;Our sand from out its narrow glassRapidly passes!—let it pass!I seek not, I, to check or stayThe progress of a single day,But rather cheer my hours of pain,Because so few of them remain.Care circles every mortal head,—The dust will be a calmer bed!From Life’s alloy no life is free,But—Life is not Eternity!

When that unerring day shall comeTo call me, from my wandering, home,—The dark and still and painful dayWhen breath shall fleet in groans away,When comfort shall be vainly sought,And doubt shall be in every thought,When words shall fail th’ unuttered vow,And fever heat the burning brow,When the dim eye shall gaze, and fearTo close the glance that lingers here,Snatching the faint departing lightThat seems to flicker in its flight,When the lone heart, in that long strife,Shall cling unconsciously to life,—I’ll have no shrieking female byTo shed her drops of sympathy;To listen to each smothered throe,To feel, or feign, officious woe,To bring me every useless cup,And beg “dear Tom” to drink it up,To turn my oldest servants off,E’en as she hears my gurgling cough;And then expectantly to stand,And chafe my temples with her hand,And pull a cleaner night-cap o’er ’em,That I may die with due decorum;And watch the while my ebbing breath,And count the tardy steps of death;Grudging the leech his growing bill,And wrapt in dreams about the will.I’ll have no Furies round my bed!—They shall not plague me—till I’m dead.

Believe me! ill my dust would rest,If the plain marble o’er my breast,That tells, in letters large and clear,“The bones of Thomas Quince lie here!”Should add a talisman of strife,“Also the bones of Joan, his wife!”No! while beneath this simple stoneOld Quince shall sleep, and sleep alone,Some village Oracle, who wellKnows how to speak, and read, and spell,Shall slowly construe, bit by bit,My “Natus” and my “Obiit,”And then, with sage discourse and long,Recite my virtues to the throng:—

“The Gentleman came straight from College:A most prodigious man for knowledge!He used to pay all men their due,Hated a miser—and a Jew;But always opened wide his doorTo the first knocking of the poor.None, as the grateful parish knows,Save the Churchwardens, were his foes;They could not bear the virtuous prideWhich gave the sixpence they denied.If neighbours had a mind to quarrel,He used to treat them to a barrel;And that, I think, was sounder lawThan any book I ever saw.The ladies never used to flout him;But this was rather strange about him:That, gay or thoughtful, young or old,He took no wife for love or gold;Women he called ‘a pretty thing,’But never could abide a ring!”

Good Mr. Pringle!—you must seeYour arguments are light with me;They buzz like feeble flies around me,But leave me firm, as first they found me.Silence your logic! burn your pen!The poet says, “We all are men;”And all “condemned alike to groan”—You with a wife, and I with none.Well! yours may be a happier lot,But it is one I envy not;And you’ll allow me, Sir, to prayThat, at some near-approaching day,You may not have to wince and whine,And find some cause to envy mine!

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