Good night to the Season!—’Tis over!Gay dwellings no longer are gay;The courtier, the gambler, the lover,Are scattered like swallows away:There’s nobody left to invite oneExcept my good uncle and spouse;My mistress is bathing at Brighton,My patron is sailing at Cowes:For want of a better enjoyment,Till Ponto and Don can get out,I’ll cultivate rural employment,And angle immensely for trout.Good night to the Season!—the lobbies,Their changes, and rumours of change,Which startled the rustic Sir Bobbies,And made all the Bishops look strange;The breaches, and battles, and blunders,Performed by the Commons and Peers;The Marquis’s eloquent blunders,The Baronet’s eloquent ears;Denouncings of Papists and treasons,Of foreign dominion and oats;Misrepresentations of reasons,And misunderstandings of notes.Good night to the Season!—the buildingsEnough to make Inigo sick;The paintings, and plasterings, and gildingsOf stucco, and marble, and brick;The orders deliciously blended,From love of effect, into one;The club-houses only intended,The palaces only begun;The hell, where the fiend in his glorySits staring at putty and stones,And scrambles from storey to storey,To rattle at midnight his bones.Good night to the Season!—the dances,The fillings of hot little rooms,The glancings of rapturous glances,The fancyings of fancy costumes;The pleasures which Fashion makes duties,The praisings of fiddles and flutes,The luxury of looking at Beauties,The tedium of talking to Mutes;The female diplomatists, plannersOf matches for Laura and Jane;The ice of her Ladyship’s manners,The ice of his Lordship’s champagne.Good night to the Season!—the ragesLed off by the chiefs of the throng,The Lady Matilda’s new pages,The Lady Eliza’s new song;Miss Fennel’s macaw, which at Boodle’sWas held to have something to say;Mrs. Splenetic’s musical poodles,Which barkBatti, Batti, all day;The pony Sir Araby sported,As hot and as black as a coal,And the Lion his mother imported,In bearskins and grease, from the Pole.Good night to the Season!—the Toso,So very majestic and tall;Miss Ayton, whose singing was so-so,And Pasta, divinest of all;The labour in vain of the ballet,So sadly deficient in stars;The foreigners thronging the Alley,Exhaling the breath of cigars;Thelogewhere some heiress (how killing!)Environed with exquisites sits,The lovely one out of her drilling,The silly ones out of their wits.Good night to the Season!—the splendourThat beamed in the Spanish Bazaar;Where I purchased—my heart was so tender—A card-case, a pasteboard guitar,A bottle of perfume, a girdle,A lithographed Riego, full grown,Whom bigotry drew on a hurdleThat artists might draw him on stone;A small panorama of Seville,A trap for demolishing flies,A caricature of the Devil,And a look from Miss Sheridan’s eyes.Good night to the Season!—the flowersOf the grand Horticultural fête,When boudoirs were quitted for bowers,And the fashion was—not to be late;When all who had money and leisureGrew rural o’er ices and wines,All pleasantly toiling for pleasure,All hungrily pining for pines,And making of beautiful speeches,And massing of beautiful shows,And feeding on delicate peaches,And treading on delicate toes.Good night to the Season!—AnotherWill come, with its trifles and toys,And hurry away, like its brother,In sunshine, and odour, and noise.Will it come with a rose or a briar?Will it come with a blessing or curse?Will its bonnets be lower or higher?Will its morals be better or worse?Will it find me grown thinner or fatter,Or fonder of wrong or of right,Or married—or buried?—no matter:Good night to the Season—good night!
Good night to the Season!—’Tis over!Gay dwellings no longer are gay;The courtier, the gambler, the lover,Are scattered like swallows away:There’s nobody left to invite oneExcept my good uncle and spouse;My mistress is bathing at Brighton,My patron is sailing at Cowes:For want of a better enjoyment,Till Ponto and Don can get out,I’ll cultivate rural employment,And angle immensely for trout.Good night to the Season!—the lobbies,Their changes, and rumours of change,Which startled the rustic Sir Bobbies,And made all the Bishops look strange;The breaches, and battles, and blunders,Performed by the Commons and Peers;The Marquis’s eloquent blunders,The Baronet’s eloquent ears;Denouncings of Papists and treasons,Of foreign dominion and oats;Misrepresentations of reasons,And misunderstandings of notes.Good night to the Season!—the buildingsEnough to make Inigo sick;The paintings, and plasterings, and gildingsOf stucco, and marble, and brick;The orders deliciously blended,From love of effect, into one;The club-houses only intended,The palaces only begun;The hell, where the fiend in his glorySits staring at putty and stones,And scrambles from storey to storey,To rattle at midnight his bones.Good night to the Season!—the dances,The fillings of hot little rooms,The glancings of rapturous glances,The fancyings of fancy costumes;The pleasures which Fashion makes duties,The praisings of fiddles and flutes,The luxury of looking at Beauties,The tedium of talking to Mutes;The female diplomatists, plannersOf matches for Laura and Jane;The ice of her Ladyship’s manners,The ice of his Lordship’s champagne.Good night to the Season!—the ragesLed off by the chiefs of the throng,The Lady Matilda’s new pages,The Lady Eliza’s new song;Miss Fennel’s macaw, which at Boodle’sWas held to have something to say;Mrs. Splenetic’s musical poodles,Which barkBatti, Batti, all day;The pony Sir Araby sported,As hot and as black as a coal,And the Lion his mother imported,In bearskins and grease, from the Pole.Good night to the Season!—the Toso,So very majestic and tall;Miss Ayton, whose singing was so-so,And Pasta, divinest of all;The labour in vain of the ballet,So sadly deficient in stars;The foreigners thronging the Alley,Exhaling the breath of cigars;Thelogewhere some heiress (how killing!)Environed with exquisites sits,The lovely one out of her drilling,The silly ones out of their wits.Good night to the Season!—the splendourThat beamed in the Spanish Bazaar;Where I purchased—my heart was so tender—A card-case, a pasteboard guitar,A bottle of perfume, a girdle,A lithographed Riego, full grown,Whom bigotry drew on a hurdleThat artists might draw him on stone;A small panorama of Seville,A trap for demolishing flies,A caricature of the Devil,And a look from Miss Sheridan’s eyes.Good night to the Season!—the flowersOf the grand Horticultural fête,When boudoirs were quitted for bowers,And the fashion was—not to be late;When all who had money and leisureGrew rural o’er ices and wines,All pleasantly toiling for pleasure,All hungrily pining for pines,And making of beautiful speeches,And massing of beautiful shows,And feeding on delicate peaches,And treading on delicate toes.Good night to the Season!—AnotherWill come, with its trifles and toys,And hurry away, like its brother,In sunshine, and odour, and noise.Will it come with a rose or a briar?Will it come with a blessing or curse?Will its bonnets be lower or higher?Will its morals be better or worse?Will it find me grown thinner or fatter,Or fonder of wrong or of right,Or married—or buried?—no matter:Good night to the Season—good night!
Good night to the Season!—’Tis over!Gay dwellings no longer are gay;The courtier, the gambler, the lover,Are scattered like swallows away:There’s nobody left to invite oneExcept my good uncle and spouse;My mistress is bathing at Brighton,My patron is sailing at Cowes:For want of a better enjoyment,Till Ponto and Don can get out,I’ll cultivate rural employment,And angle immensely for trout.
Good night to the Season!—the lobbies,Their changes, and rumours of change,Which startled the rustic Sir Bobbies,And made all the Bishops look strange;The breaches, and battles, and blunders,Performed by the Commons and Peers;The Marquis’s eloquent blunders,The Baronet’s eloquent ears;Denouncings of Papists and treasons,Of foreign dominion and oats;Misrepresentations of reasons,And misunderstandings of notes.
Good night to the Season!—the buildingsEnough to make Inigo sick;The paintings, and plasterings, and gildingsOf stucco, and marble, and brick;The orders deliciously blended,From love of effect, into one;The club-houses only intended,The palaces only begun;The hell, where the fiend in his glorySits staring at putty and stones,And scrambles from storey to storey,To rattle at midnight his bones.
Good night to the Season!—the dances,The fillings of hot little rooms,The glancings of rapturous glances,The fancyings of fancy costumes;The pleasures which Fashion makes duties,The praisings of fiddles and flutes,The luxury of looking at Beauties,The tedium of talking to Mutes;The female diplomatists, plannersOf matches for Laura and Jane;The ice of her Ladyship’s manners,The ice of his Lordship’s champagne.
Good night to the Season!—the ragesLed off by the chiefs of the throng,The Lady Matilda’s new pages,The Lady Eliza’s new song;Miss Fennel’s macaw, which at Boodle’sWas held to have something to say;Mrs. Splenetic’s musical poodles,Which barkBatti, Batti, all day;The pony Sir Araby sported,As hot and as black as a coal,And the Lion his mother imported,In bearskins and grease, from the Pole.
Good night to the Season!—the Toso,So very majestic and tall;Miss Ayton, whose singing was so-so,And Pasta, divinest of all;The labour in vain of the ballet,So sadly deficient in stars;The foreigners thronging the Alley,Exhaling the breath of cigars;Thelogewhere some heiress (how killing!)Environed with exquisites sits,The lovely one out of her drilling,The silly ones out of their wits.
Good night to the Season!—the splendourThat beamed in the Spanish Bazaar;Where I purchased—my heart was so tender—A card-case, a pasteboard guitar,A bottle of perfume, a girdle,A lithographed Riego, full grown,Whom bigotry drew on a hurdleThat artists might draw him on stone;A small panorama of Seville,A trap for demolishing flies,A caricature of the Devil,And a look from Miss Sheridan’s eyes.
Good night to the Season!—the flowersOf the grand Horticultural fête,When boudoirs were quitted for bowers,And the fashion was—not to be late;When all who had money and leisureGrew rural o’er ices and wines,All pleasantly toiling for pleasure,All hungrily pining for pines,And making of beautiful speeches,And massing of beautiful shows,And feeding on delicate peaches,And treading on delicate toes.
Good night to the Season!—AnotherWill come, with its trifles and toys,And hurry away, like its brother,In sunshine, and odour, and noise.Will it come with a rose or a briar?Will it come with a blessing or curse?Will its bonnets be lower or higher?Will its morals be better or worse?Will it find me grown thinner or fatter,Or fonder of wrong or of right,Or married—or buried?—no matter:Good night to the Season—good night!
The Baron de Vaux hath a valiant crest,—My Lady is fair and free;The Baron is full of mirth and jest,—My Lady is full of glee;But their path, we know, is a path of woe,And many the reason guess,—The Baron will ever mutter “No”When my Lady whispers “Yes.”The Baron will pass the wine-cup round,—My Lady forth will roam;The Baron will out with horse and hound,—My Lady sits at home;The Baron will go to draw the bow,—My Lady will go to chess;And the Baron will ever mutter “No”When my Lady whispers “Yes.”The Baron hath ears for a lovely lay,If my Lady sings it not;The Baron is blind to a beauteous day,If it beam in my Lady’s grot;The Baron bows low to a furbelow,If it be not my Lady’s dress;And the Baron will ever mutter “No”When my Lady whispers “Yes.”Now saddle my steed, and helm my head,Be ready in the porch;Stout Guy, with a ladder of silken thread,And trusty Will, with a torch;The wind may blow, the torrent flow,—No matter,—on we press;I never can hear the Baron’s “No”When my Lady whispers “Yes.”
The Baron de Vaux hath a valiant crest,—My Lady is fair and free;The Baron is full of mirth and jest,—My Lady is full of glee;But their path, we know, is a path of woe,And many the reason guess,—The Baron will ever mutter “No”When my Lady whispers “Yes.”The Baron will pass the wine-cup round,—My Lady forth will roam;The Baron will out with horse and hound,—My Lady sits at home;The Baron will go to draw the bow,—My Lady will go to chess;And the Baron will ever mutter “No”When my Lady whispers “Yes.”The Baron hath ears for a lovely lay,If my Lady sings it not;The Baron is blind to a beauteous day,If it beam in my Lady’s grot;The Baron bows low to a furbelow,If it be not my Lady’s dress;And the Baron will ever mutter “No”When my Lady whispers “Yes.”Now saddle my steed, and helm my head,Be ready in the porch;Stout Guy, with a ladder of silken thread,And trusty Will, with a torch;The wind may blow, the torrent flow,—No matter,—on we press;I never can hear the Baron’s “No”When my Lady whispers “Yes.”
The Baron de Vaux hath a valiant crest,—My Lady is fair and free;The Baron is full of mirth and jest,—My Lady is full of glee;But their path, we know, is a path of woe,And many the reason guess,—The Baron will ever mutter “No”When my Lady whispers “Yes.”
The Baron will pass the wine-cup round,—My Lady forth will roam;The Baron will out with horse and hound,—My Lady sits at home;The Baron will go to draw the bow,—My Lady will go to chess;And the Baron will ever mutter “No”When my Lady whispers “Yes.”
The Baron hath ears for a lovely lay,If my Lady sings it not;The Baron is blind to a beauteous day,If it beam in my Lady’s grot;The Baron bows low to a furbelow,If it be not my Lady’s dress;And the Baron will ever mutter “No”When my Lady whispers “Yes.”
Now saddle my steed, and helm my head,Be ready in the porch;Stout Guy, with a ladder of silken thread,And trusty Will, with a torch;The wind may blow, the torrent flow,—No matter,—on we press;I never can hear the Baron’s “No”When my Lady whispers “Yes.”
——“I can dream, sir,If I eat well and sleep well.”—The Mad Lover.
——“I can dream, sir,If I eat well and sleep well.”—The Mad Lover.
——“I can dream, sir,If I eat well and sleep well.”—The Mad Lover.
If I could scare the light away,No sun should ever shine;If I could bid the clouds obey,Thick darkness should be mine:Where’er my weary footsteps roam,I hate whate’er I see;And Fancy builds a fairer homeIn slumber’s hour for me.I had a vision yesternightOf a lovelier land than this,Where heaven was clothed in warmth and light,Where earth was full of bliss;And every tree was rich with fruits,And every field with flowers,And every zephyr wakened lutesIn passion-haunted bowers.I clambered up a lofty rock,And did not find it steep;I read through a page and a half of Locke,And did not fall asleep;I said whate’er I may but feel,I paid whate’er I owe;And I danced one day an Irish reel,With the gout in every toe.And I was more than six feet high,And fortunate, and wise;And I had a voice of melodyAnd beautiful black eyes;My horses like the lightning went,My barrels carried true,And I held my tongue at an argument,And winning cards at loo.I saw an old Italian priestWho spoke without disguise;I dined with a judge who swore, like Best,All libels should be lies:I bought for a penny a twopenny loaf,Of wheat, and nothing more;I danced with a femalephilosophe,Who was not quite a bore.The kitchens there had richer roast,The sheep wore whiter wool;I read a wittyMorning Post,And an innocentJohn Bull:The gaolers had nothing at all to do,The hangman looked forlorn,And the Peers had passed a vote or twoFor freedom of trade in corn.There was a crop of wheat, which grewWhere plough was never brought;There was a noble lord, who knewWhat he was never taught:A scheme appeared in theGazetteFor a lottery with no blanks;And a Parliament had lately met,Without a single Bankes.And there were kings who never wentTo cuffs for half-a-crown;And lawyers who were eloquentWithout a wig and gown;And sportsmen who forebore to praiseTheir greyhounds and their guns;And poets who deserved the bays,And did not dread the duns.And boroughs were bought without a test,And no man feared the Pope;And the Irish cabins were all possessedOf liberty and soap;And the Chancellor, feeling very sick,Had just resigned the seals;And a clever little CatholicWas hearing Scotch appeals.I went one day to a Court of LawWhere a fee had been refused;And a Public School I really sawWhere the rod was never used;And the sugar still was very sweet,Though all the slaves were free;And all the folk in Downing StreetHad learnt the rule of three.There love had never a fear or doubt,December breathed like June:The Prima Donna ne’er was outOf temper—or of tune;The streets were paved with mutton pies,Potatoes ate like pine;Nothing looked black but a woman’s eyes;Nothing grew old but wine.It was an idle dream; but thou,The worshipped one, wert there,With thy dark clear eyes and beaming brow,White neck and floating hair;And oh, I had an honest heart,And a house of Portland stone;And thou wert dear, as still thou art,And more than dear, my own!Oh bitterness!—the morning brokeAlike for boor and bard;And thou wert married when I woke,And all the rest was marred:And toil and trouble, noise and steam,Came back with the coming ray;And, if I thought the dead could dream,I’d hang myself to-day!
If I could scare the light away,No sun should ever shine;If I could bid the clouds obey,Thick darkness should be mine:Where’er my weary footsteps roam,I hate whate’er I see;And Fancy builds a fairer homeIn slumber’s hour for me.I had a vision yesternightOf a lovelier land than this,Where heaven was clothed in warmth and light,Where earth was full of bliss;And every tree was rich with fruits,And every field with flowers,And every zephyr wakened lutesIn passion-haunted bowers.I clambered up a lofty rock,And did not find it steep;I read through a page and a half of Locke,And did not fall asleep;I said whate’er I may but feel,I paid whate’er I owe;And I danced one day an Irish reel,With the gout in every toe.And I was more than six feet high,And fortunate, and wise;And I had a voice of melodyAnd beautiful black eyes;My horses like the lightning went,My barrels carried true,And I held my tongue at an argument,And winning cards at loo.I saw an old Italian priestWho spoke without disguise;I dined with a judge who swore, like Best,All libels should be lies:I bought for a penny a twopenny loaf,Of wheat, and nothing more;I danced with a femalephilosophe,Who was not quite a bore.The kitchens there had richer roast,The sheep wore whiter wool;I read a wittyMorning Post,And an innocentJohn Bull:The gaolers had nothing at all to do,The hangman looked forlorn,And the Peers had passed a vote or twoFor freedom of trade in corn.There was a crop of wheat, which grewWhere plough was never brought;There was a noble lord, who knewWhat he was never taught:A scheme appeared in theGazetteFor a lottery with no blanks;And a Parliament had lately met,Without a single Bankes.And there were kings who never wentTo cuffs for half-a-crown;And lawyers who were eloquentWithout a wig and gown;And sportsmen who forebore to praiseTheir greyhounds and their guns;And poets who deserved the bays,And did not dread the duns.And boroughs were bought without a test,And no man feared the Pope;And the Irish cabins were all possessedOf liberty and soap;And the Chancellor, feeling very sick,Had just resigned the seals;And a clever little CatholicWas hearing Scotch appeals.I went one day to a Court of LawWhere a fee had been refused;And a Public School I really sawWhere the rod was never used;And the sugar still was very sweet,Though all the slaves were free;And all the folk in Downing StreetHad learnt the rule of three.There love had never a fear or doubt,December breathed like June:The Prima Donna ne’er was outOf temper—or of tune;The streets were paved with mutton pies,Potatoes ate like pine;Nothing looked black but a woman’s eyes;Nothing grew old but wine.It was an idle dream; but thou,The worshipped one, wert there,With thy dark clear eyes and beaming brow,White neck and floating hair;And oh, I had an honest heart,And a house of Portland stone;And thou wert dear, as still thou art,And more than dear, my own!Oh bitterness!—the morning brokeAlike for boor and bard;And thou wert married when I woke,And all the rest was marred:And toil and trouble, noise and steam,Came back with the coming ray;And, if I thought the dead could dream,I’d hang myself to-day!
If I could scare the light away,No sun should ever shine;If I could bid the clouds obey,Thick darkness should be mine:Where’er my weary footsteps roam,I hate whate’er I see;And Fancy builds a fairer homeIn slumber’s hour for me.
I had a vision yesternightOf a lovelier land than this,Where heaven was clothed in warmth and light,Where earth was full of bliss;And every tree was rich with fruits,And every field with flowers,And every zephyr wakened lutesIn passion-haunted bowers.
I clambered up a lofty rock,And did not find it steep;I read through a page and a half of Locke,And did not fall asleep;I said whate’er I may but feel,I paid whate’er I owe;And I danced one day an Irish reel,With the gout in every toe.
And I was more than six feet high,And fortunate, and wise;And I had a voice of melodyAnd beautiful black eyes;My horses like the lightning went,My barrels carried true,And I held my tongue at an argument,And winning cards at loo.
I saw an old Italian priestWho spoke without disguise;I dined with a judge who swore, like Best,All libels should be lies:I bought for a penny a twopenny loaf,Of wheat, and nothing more;I danced with a femalephilosophe,Who was not quite a bore.
The kitchens there had richer roast,The sheep wore whiter wool;I read a wittyMorning Post,And an innocentJohn Bull:The gaolers had nothing at all to do,The hangman looked forlorn,And the Peers had passed a vote or twoFor freedom of trade in corn.
There was a crop of wheat, which grewWhere plough was never brought;There was a noble lord, who knewWhat he was never taught:A scheme appeared in theGazetteFor a lottery with no blanks;And a Parliament had lately met,Without a single Bankes.
And there were kings who never wentTo cuffs for half-a-crown;And lawyers who were eloquentWithout a wig and gown;And sportsmen who forebore to praiseTheir greyhounds and their guns;And poets who deserved the bays,And did not dread the duns.
And boroughs were bought without a test,And no man feared the Pope;And the Irish cabins were all possessedOf liberty and soap;And the Chancellor, feeling very sick,Had just resigned the seals;And a clever little CatholicWas hearing Scotch appeals.
I went one day to a Court of LawWhere a fee had been refused;And a Public School I really sawWhere the rod was never used;And the sugar still was very sweet,Though all the slaves were free;And all the folk in Downing StreetHad learnt the rule of three.
There love had never a fear or doubt,December breathed like June:The Prima Donna ne’er was outOf temper—or of tune;The streets were paved with mutton pies,Potatoes ate like pine;Nothing looked black but a woman’s eyes;Nothing grew old but wine.
It was an idle dream; but thou,The worshipped one, wert there,With thy dark clear eyes and beaming brow,White neck and floating hair;And oh, I had an honest heart,And a house of Portland stone;And thou wert dear, as still thou art,And more than dear, my own!
Oh bitterness!—the morning brokeAlike for boor and bard;And thou wert married when I woke,And all the rest was marred:And toil and trouble, noise and steam,Came back with the coming ray;And, if I thought the dead could dream,I’d hang myself to-day!
——“Go together,You precious winners all.”—Winter’s Tale.
——“Go together,You precious winners all.”—Winter’s Tale.
——“Go together,You precious winners all.”—Winter’s Tale.
Fair Lady, ere you put to sea,You and your mate together,I meant to hail you lovingly,And wish you pleasant weather.I took my fiddle from the shelf,But vain was all my labour;For still I thought about myself,And not about my neighbour.Safe from the perils of the war,Nor killed, nor hurt, nor missing—Since many things in common areBetween campaigns and kissing—Ungrazed by glance, unbound by ring,Love’s carte and tierce I’ve parried,While half my friends are marrying,And half—good lack!—are married.’Tis strange—but I have passed aliveWhere darts and deaths were plenty,Until I find my twenty-fiveAs lonely as my twenty:And many lips have sadly sighed—Which were not made for sighing,And many hearts have darkly died—Which never dreamed of dying.Some victims fluttered like a fly,Some languished like a lily;Some told their tale in poetry,And some in Piccadilly:Some yielded to a Spanish hat,Some to a Turkish sandal;Hosts suffered from anentrechatAnd one or two from Handel.Good Sterling said no dame should comeTo be the queen of his bourn,But one who only prized her home,Her spinning wheel, and Gisborne:And Mrs. Sterling says odd thingsWith most sublime effront’ry;Gives lectures on elliptic springs,And follows hounds ’cross country.Sir Roger had a Briton’s prideIn freedom, plough, and furrow;—No fortune hath Sir Roger’s bride,Except a rotten borough;Gustavus longed for truth and crumbs,Contentment and a cottage;—His Laura brings a pair ofplumsTo boil the poor man’s pottage.My rural coz, who loves his peace,And swore at scientifics,Is flirting with a lecturer’s niece,Who construes hieroglyphics:And Foppery’s fool, who hated bluesWorse than he hated Holborn,Is raving of a pensive Muse,Who does the verse for Colburn.And Vyvyan, Humour’s crazy child,—Whose worship, whim, or passion,Was still for something strange and wild,Wit, wickedness, or fashion,—Is happy with a little Love,A parson’s pretty daughter,As tender as a turtle-dove,—As dull as milk and water.And Gerard hath his Northern Fay—His nymph of mirth and haggis;And Courtenay wins a damsel gayWho figures at Colnaghi’s;And Davenant now has drawn a prize,—I hope and trust, a Venus,Because there are some sympathies—As well as leagues—between us.Thus north and south, and east and west,The chimes of Hymen jingle;But I shall wander on, unblest,And singularly single;Light-pursed, light-hearted, addle-brained,And often captivated,Yet, save on circuit—unretained,And, save at chess—unmated.Yet oh!—if Nemesis with meShould sport, as with my betters,And put me on my awkward knee,To prate of flowers and fetters,—I know not whose the eyes should beTo make this fortress tremble;But yesternight I dreamt,—ah me!Whose they should most resemble!
Fair Lady, ere you put to sea,You and your mate together,I meant to hail you lovingly,And wish you pleasant weather.I took my fiddle from the shelf,But vain was all my labour;For still I thought about myself,And not about my neighbour.Safe from the perils of the war,Nor killed, nor hurt, nor missing—Since many things in common areBetween campaigns and kissing—Ungrazed by glance, unbound by ring,Love’s carte and tierce I’ve parried,While half my friends are marrying,And half—good lack!—are married.’Tis strange—but I have passed aliveWhere darts and deaths were plenty,Until I find my twenty-fiveAs lonely as my twenty:And many lips have sadly sighed—Which were not made for sighing,And many hearts have darkly died—Which never dreamed of dying.Some victims fluttered like a fly,Some languished like a lily;Some told their tale in poetry,And some in Piccadilly:Some yielded to a Spanish hat,Some to a Turkish sandal;Hosts suffered from anentrechatAnd one or two from Handel.Good Sterling said no dame should comeTo be the queen of his bourn,But one who only prized her home,Her spinning wheel, and Gisborne:And Mrs. Sterling says odd thingsWith most sublime effront’ry;Gives lectures on elliptic springs,And follows hounds ’cross country.Sir Roger had a Briton’s prideIn freedom, plough, and furrow;—No fortune hath Sir Roger’s bride,Except a rotten borough;Gustavus longed for truth and crumbs,Contentment and a cottage;—His Laura brings a pair ofplumsTo boil the poor man’s pottage.My rural coz, who loves his peace,And swore at scientifics,Is flirting with a lecturer’s niece,Who construes hieroglyphics:And Foppery’s fool, who hated bluesWorse than he hated Holborn,Is raving of a pensive Muse,Who does the verse for Colburn.And Vyvyan, Humour’s crazy child,—Whose worship, whim, or passion,Was still for something strange and wild,Wit, wickedness, or fashion,—Is happy with a little Love,A parson’s pretty daughter,As tender as a turtle-dove,—As dull as milk and water.And Gerard hath his Northern Fay—His nymph of mirth and haggis;And Courtenay wins a damsel gayWho figures at Colnaghi’s;And Davenant now has drawn a prize,—I hope and trust, a Venus,Because there are some sympathies—As well as leagues—between us.Thus north and south, and east and west,The chimes of Hymen jingle;But I shall wander on, unblest,And singularly single;Light-pursed, light-hearted, addle-brained,And often captivated,Yet, save on circuit—unretained,And, save at chess—unmated.Yet oh!—if Nemesis with meShould sport, as with my betters,And put me on my awkward knee,To prate of flowers and fetters,—I know not whose the eyes should beTo make this fortress tremble;But yesternight I dreamt,—ah me!Whose they should most resemble!
Fair Lady, ere you put to sea,You and your mate together,I meant to hail you lovingly,And wish you pleasant weather.I took my fiddle from the shelf,But vain was all my labour;For still I thought about myself,And not about my neighbour.
Safe from the perils of the war,Nor killed, nor hurt, nor missing—Since many things in common areBetween campaigns and kissing—Ungrazed by glance, unbound by ring,Love’s carte and tierce I’ve parried,While half my friends are marrying,And half—good lack!—are married.
’Tis strange—but I have passed aliveWhere darts and deaths were plenty,Until I find my twenty-fiveAs lonely as my twenty:And many lips have sadly sighed—Which were not made for sighing,And many hearts have darkly died—Which never dreamed of dying.
Some victims fluttered like a fly,Some languished like a lily;Some told their tale in poetry,And some in Piccadilly:Some yielded to a Spanish hat,Some to a Turkish sandal;Hosts suffered from anentrechatAnd one or two from Handel.
Good Sterling said no dame should comeTo be the queen of his bourn,But one who only prized her home,Her spinning wheel, and Gisborne:And Mrs. Sterling says odd thingsWith most sublime effront’ry;Gives lectures on elliptic springs,And follows hounds ’cross country.
Sir Roger had a Briton’s prideIn freedom, plough, and furrow;—No fortune hath Sir Roger’s bride,Except a rotten borough;Gustavus longed for truth and crumbs,Contentment and a cottage;—His Laura brings a pair ofplumsTo boil the poor man’s pottage.
My rural coz, who loves his peace,And swore at scientifics,Is flirting with a lecturer’s niece,Who construes hieroglyphics:And Foppery’s fool, who hated bluesWorse than he hated Holborn,Is raving of a pensive Muse,Who does the verse for Colburn.
And Vyvyan, Humour’s crazy child,—Whose worship, whim, or passion,Was still for something strange and wild,Wit, wickedness, or fashion,—Is happy with a little Love,A parson’s pretty daughter,As tender as a turtle-dove,—As dull as milk and water.
And Gerard hath his Northern Fay—His nymph of mirth and haggis;And Courtenay wins a damsel gayWho figures at Colnaghi’s;And Davenant now has drawn a prize,—I hope and trust, a Venus,Because there are some sympathies—As well as leagues—between us.
Thus north and south, and east and west,The chimes of Hymen jingle;But I shall wander on, unblest,And singularly single;Light-pursed, light-hearted, addle-brained,And often captivated,Yet, save on circuit—unretained,And, save at chess—unmated.
Yet oh!—if Nemesis with meShould sport, as with my betters,And put me on my awkward knee,To prate of flowers and fetters,—I know not whose the eyes should beTo make this fortress tremble;But yesternight I dreamt,—ah me!Whose they should most resemble!
In Seville, when the feast was long,And lips and lutes grew free,At Inez feet, amid the throng,A masquer bent his knee;And still the burden of his songWas “Sweet, remember me!“Remember me in shine and shower,In sorrow and in glee;When summer breathes upon the flower,When winter blasts the tree,When there are dances in the bowerOr sails upon the sea.“Remember me beneath far skies,Or foreign lawn or lea;When others worship those wild eyesWhich I no more may see,When others wake the melodiesOf which I mar the key.“Remember me! my heart will claimNo love, no trust, from thee;Remember me, though doubt and blameLinked with the record be;Remember me,—with scorn or shame,—But yet, remember me!”
In Seville, when the feast was long,And lips and lutes grew free,At Inez feet, amid the throng,A masquer bent his knee;And still the burden of his songWas “Sweet, remember me!“Remember me in shine and shower,In sorrow and in glee;When summer breathes upon the flower,When winter blasts the tree,When there are dances in the bowerOr sails upon the sea.“Remember me beneath far skies,Or foreign lawn or lea;When others worship those wild eyesWhich I no more may see,When others wake the melodiesOf which I mar the key.“Remember me! my heart will claimNo love, no trust, from thee;Remember me, though doubt and blameLinked with the record be;Remember me,—with scorn or shame,—But yet, remember me!”
In Seville, when the feast was long,And lips and lutes grew free,At Inez feet, amid the throng,A masquer bent his knee;And still the burden of his songWas “Sweet, remember me!
“Remember me in shine and shower,In sorrow and in glee;When summer breathes upon the flower,When winter blasts the tree,When there are dances in the bowerOr sails upon the sea.
“Remember me beneath far skies,Or foreign lawn or lea;When others worship those wild eyesWhich I no more may see,When others wake the melodiesOf which I mar the key.
“Remember me! my heart will claimNo love, no trust, from thee;Remember me, though doubt and blameLinked with the record be;Remember me,—with scorn or shame,—But yet, remember me!”
“A visor for a visor! What care IWhat curious eye doth quote deformities?”—Romeo and Juliet.
“A visor for a visor! What care IWhat curious eye doth quote deformities?”—Romeo and Juliet.
“A visor for a visor! What care IWhat curious eye doth quote deformities?”—Romeo and Juliet.
“You used to talk,” said Miss MacCall,“Of flowers, and flames, and Cupid;But now you never talk at all;You’re getting vastly stupid:You’d better burn your Blackstone, sir,You never will get through it;There’s a Fancy Ball at Winchester,—Do let us take you to it!”I made that night a solemn vowTo startle all beholders;I wore white muslin on the brow,Green velvet on my shoulders;My trousers were supremely wide,I learnt to swear “by Allah!”I stuck a poniard by my side,And called myself “Abdallah.”Oh, a fancy ball’s a strange affair!Made up of silk and leathers,Light heads, light heels, false hearts, false hair,Pins, paint, and ostrich feathers:The dullest duke in all the town,To-day may shine a droll one;And rakes, who have not half-a-crown,Look royal in a whole one.Go, call the lawyer from his pleas,The schoolboy from his Latin;Be stoics here in ecstasies,And savages in satin;Let young and old forego—forgetTheir labour and their sorrow,And none—except the Cabinet—Take counsel for the morrow.Begone, dull care! This life of oursIs very dark and chilly;We’ll sleep through all its serious hours,And laugh through all its silly.Be mine such motley scene as this,Where, by established usance,Miss Gravity is quite amiss,And Madam Sense a nuisance!Hail, blest Confusion! here are metAll tongues and times and faces,The Lancers flirt with Juliet,The Brahmin talks of races;And where’s your genuis, bright Corinne?And where’s your brogue, Sir Lucius?And Chinca Ti, you have not seenOne chapter of Confucius.Lo! dandies from Kamschatka flirtWith Beauties from the Wrekin;And belles from Berne look very pertOn Mandarins from Pekin;The Cardinal is here from Rome,The Commandant from Seville;And Hamlet’s father from the tomb,And Faustus from the Devil.O sweet Anne Page!—those dancing eyesHave peril in their splendour!“O sweet Anne Page!”—so Slender sighs,And what am I, but slender?Alas! when next your spells engageSo fond and starved a sinner,My pretty Page, be Shakespeare’s Page,And ask the fool to dinner!What mean those laughing Nuns, I pray,What mean they, nun or fairy?I guess they told no beads to-day,And sang no Ave Mary:From mass and matins, priest and pyx,Barred door, and window grated,I wish all pretty CatholicsWere thus emancipated!Four seasons come to dance quadrillesWith four well-seasoned sailors;And Raleigh talks of rail-road billsWith Timon, prince of railers;I find Sir Charles of Aubyn ParkEquipt for a walk to Mecca;And I run away from Joan of Arc,To romp with sad Rebecca.Fair Cleopatra’s very plain;Puck halts, and Ariel swaggers;And Cæsar’s murdered o’er again,Though not by Roman daggers:Great Charlemagne is four feet high;Sad stuff has Bacon spoken;Queen Mary’s waist is all awry,And Psyche’s nose is broken.Our happiest bride—how very odd!—Is the mourning Isabella;And the heaviest foot that ever trodIs the foot of Cinderella;Here sad Calista laughs outright,There Yorick looks most grave, sir,And a Templar waves the cross to-night,Who never crossed the wave, sir!And what a Babel is the talk!“The Giraffe”—“plays the fiddle”—“Macadam’s roads”—“I hate this chalk!”—“Sweet girl”—“a charming riddle”—“I’m nearly drunk with”—“Epsom salts”—“Yes, separate beds”—“such cronies!”“Good Heaven! who taught that man to waltz?”—“A pair of Shetland ponies.”“Lord Nugent”—“an enchanting shape”—“Will move for”—“Maraschino”—“Pray, Julia, how’s your mother’s ape?”—“He died at Navarino!”—“The gout, by Jove, is”—“apple pie”—“Don Miguel”—“Tom the tinker”—“His Lordship’s pedigree’s as highAs”—“Whipcord, dam by Clinker.”“Love’s shafts are weak”—“my chestnut kicks”—“Heart-broken”—“broke the traces”—“What say you now of politics?”—“Change hands and to your places.”—“A five-barred gate”—“a precious pearl”—“Grave things may all be punned on!”—“The Whigs, thank Heaven, are”—“out of curl!”—“Her age is”—“four by London!”Thus run the giddy hours away,The morning’s light is beaming,And we must go to dream by dayAll we to-night are dreaming,—To smile and sigh, to love and change:Oh, in our hearts’ recesses,We dress in fancies quite as strangeAs these our fancy dresses!
“You used to talk,” said Miss MacCall,“Of flowers, and flames, and Cupid;But now you never talk at all;You’re getting vastly stupid:You’d better burn your Blackstone, sir,You never will get through it;There’s a Fancy Ball at Winchester,—Do let us take you to it!”I made that night a solemn vowTo startle all beholders;I wore white muslin on the brow,Green velvet on my shoulders;My trousers were supremely wide,I learnt to swear “by Allah!”I stuck a poniard by my side,And called myself “Abdallah.”Oh, a fancy ball’s a strange affair!Made up of silk and leathers,Light heads, light heels, false hearts, false hair,Pins, paint, and ostrich feathers:The dullest duke in all the town,To-day may shine a droll one;And rakes, who have not half-a-crown,Look royal in a whole one.Go, call the lawyer from his pleas,The schoolboy from his Latin;Be stoics here in ecstasies,And savages in satin;Let young and old forego—forgetTheir labour and their sorrow,And none—except the Cabinet—Take counsel for the morrow.Begone, dull care! This life of oursIs very dark and chilly;We’ll sleep through all its serious hours,And laugh through all its silly.Be mine such motley scene as this,Where, by established usance,Miss Gravity is quite amiss,And Madam Sense a nuisance!Hail, blest Confusion! here are metAll tongues and times and faces,The Lancers flirt with Juliet,The Brahmin talks of races;And where’s your genuis, bright Corinne?And where’s your brogue, Sir Lucius?And Chinca Ti, you have not seenOne chapter of Confucius.Lo! dandies from Kamschatka flirtWith Beauties from the Wrekin;And belles from Berne look very pertOn Mandarins from Pekin;The Cardinal is here from Rome,The Commandant from Seville;And Hamlet’s father from the tomb,And Faustus from the Devil.O sweet Anne Page!—those dancing eyesHave peril in their splendour!“O sweet Anne Page!”—so Slender sighs,And what am I, but slender?Alas! when next your spells engageSo fond and starved a sinner,My pretty Page, be Shakespeare’s Page,And ask the fool to dinner!What mean those laughing Nuns, I pray,What mean they, nun or fairy?I guess they told no beads to-day,And sang no Ave Mary:From mass and matins, priest and pyx,Barred door, and window grated,I wish all pretty CatholicsWere thus emancipated!Four seasons come to dance quadrillesWith four well-seasoned sailors;And Raleigh talks of rail-road billsWith Timon, prince of railers;I find Sir Charles of Aubyn ParkEquipt for a walk to Mecca;And I run away from Joan of Arc,To romp with sad Rebecca.Fair Cleopatra’s very plain;Puck halts, and Ariel swaggers;And Cæsar’s murdered o’er again,Though not by Roman daggers:Great Charlemagne is four feet high;Sad stuff has Bacon spoken;Queen Mary’s waist is all awry,And Psyche’s nose is broken.Our happiest bride—how very odd!—Is the mourning Isabella;And the heaviest foot that ever trodIs the foot of Cinderella;Here sad Calista laughs outright,There Yorick looks most grave, sir,And a Templar waves the cross to-night,Who never crossed the wave, sir!And what a Babel is the talk!“The Giraffe”—“plays the fiddle”—“Macadam’s roads”—“I hate this chalk!”—“Sweet girl”—“a charming riddle”—“I’m nearly drunk with”—“Epsom salts”—“Yes, separate beds”—“such cronies!”“Good Heaven! who taught that man to waltz?”—“A pair of Shetland ponies.”“Lord Nugent”—“an enchanting shape”—“Will move for”—“Maraschino”—“Pray, Julia, how’s your mother’s ape?”—“He died at Navarino!”—“The gout, by Jove, is”—“apple pie”—“Don Miguel”—“Tom the tinker”—“His Lordship’s pedigree’s as highAs”—“Whipcord, dam by Clinker.”“Love’s shafts are weak”—“my chestnut kicks”—“Heart-broken”—“broke the traces”—“What say you now of politics?”—“Change hands and to your places.”—“A five-barred gate”—“a precious pearl”—“Grave things may all be punned on!”—“The Whigs, thank Heaven, are”—“out of curl!”—“Her age is”—“four by London!”Thus run the giddy hours away,The morning’s light is beaming,And we must go to dream by dayAll we to-night are dreaming,—To smile and sigh, to love and change:Oh, in our hearts’ recesses,We dress in fancies quite as strangeAs these our fancy dresses!
“You used to talk,” said Miss MacCall,“Of flowers, and flames, and Cupid;But now you never talk at all;You’re getting vastly stupid:You’d better burn your Blackstone, sir,You never will get through it;There’s a Fancy Ball at Winchester,—Do let us take you to it!”
I made that night a solemn vowTo startle all beholders;I wore white muslin on the brow,Green velvet on my shoulders;My trousers were supremely wide,I learnt to swear “by Allah!”I stuck a poniard by my side,And called myself “Abdallah.”
Oh, a fancy ball’s a strange affair!Made up of silk and leathers,Light heads, light heels, false hearts, false hair,Pins, paint, and ostrich feathers:The dullest duke in all the town,To-day may shine a droll one;And rakes, who have not half-a-crown,Look royal in a whole one.
Go, call the lawyer from his pleas,The schoolboy from his Latin;Be stoics here in ecstasies,And savages in satin;Let young and old forego—forgetTheir labour and their sorrow,And none—except the Cabinet—Take counsel for the morrow.
Begone, dull care! This life of oursIs very dark and chilly;We’ll sleep through all its serious hours,And laugh through all its silly.Be mine such motley scene as this,Where, by established usance,Miss Gravity is quite amiss,And Madam Sense a nuisance!
Hail, blest Confusion! here are metAll tongues and times and faces,The Lancers flirt with Juliet,The Brahmin talks of races;And where’s your genuis, bright Corinne?And where’s your brogue, Sir Lucius?And Chinca Ti, you have not seenOne chapter of Confucius.
Lo! dandies from Kamschatka flirtWith Beauties from the Wrekin;And belles from Berne look very pertOn Mandarins from Pekin;The Cardinal is here from Rome,The Commandant from Seville;And Hamlet’s father from the tomb,And Faustus from the Devil.
O sweet Anne Page!—those dancing eyesHave peril in their splendour!“O sweet Anne Page!”—so Slender sighs,And what am I, but slender?Alas! when next your spells engageSo fond and starved a sinner,My pretty Page, be Shakespeare’s Page,And ask the fool to dinner!
What mean those laughing Nuns, I pray,What mean they, nun or fairy?I guess they told no beads to-day,And sang no Ave Mary:From mass and matins, priest and pyx,Barred door, and window grated,I wish all pretty CatholicsWere thus emancipated!
Four seasons come to dance quadrillesWith four well-seasoned sailors;And Raleigh talks of rail-road billsWith Timon, prince of railers;I find Sir Charles of Aubyn ParkEquipt for a walk to Mecca;And I run away from Joan of Arc,To romp with sad Rebecca.
Fair Cleopatra’s very plain;Puck halts, and Ariel swaggers;And Cæsar’s murdered o’er again,Though not by Roman daggers:Great Charlemagne is four feet high;Sad stuff has Bacon spoken;Queen Mary’s waist is all awry,And Psyche’s nose is broken.
Our happiest bride—how very odd!—Is the mourning Isabella;And the heaviest foot that ever trodIs the foot of Cinderella;Here sad Calista laughs outright,There Yorick looks most grave, sir,And a Templar waves the cross to-night,Who never crossed the wave, sir!
And what a Babel is the talk!“The Giraffe”—“plays the fiddle”—“Macadam’s roads”—“I hate this chalk!”—“Sweet girl”—“a charming riddle”—“I’m nearly drunk with”—“Epsom salts”—“Yes, separate beds”—“such cronies!”“Good Heaven! who taught that man to waltz?”—“A pair of Shetland ponies.”
“Lord Nugent”—“an enchanting shape”—“Will move for”—“Maraschino”—“Pray, Julia, how’s your mother’s ape?”—“He died at Navarino!”—“The gout, by Jove, is”—“apple pie”—“Don Miguel”—“Tom the tinker”—“His Lordship’s pedigree’s as highAs”—“Whipcord, dam by Clinker.”
“Love’s shafts are weak”—“my chestnut kicks”—“Heart-broken”—“broke the traces”—“What say you now of politics?”—“Change hands and to your places.”—“A five-barred gate”—“a precious pearl”—“Grave things may all be punned on!”—“The Whigs, thank Heaven, are”—“out of curl!”—“Her age is”—“four by London!”
Thus run the giddy hours away,The morning’s light is beaming,And we must go to dream by dayAll we to-night are dreaming,—To smile and sigh, to love and change:Oh, in our hearts’ recesses,We dress in fancies quite as strangeAs these our fancy dresses!
“Enfir, monsieur, un homme aimable;Voilà pourquoi je ne saurais l’aimer”—Scribe.
“Enfir, monsieur, un homme aimable;Voilà pourquoi je ne saurais l’aimer”—Scribe.
“Enfir, monsieur, un homme aimable;Voilà pourquoi je ne saurais l’aimer”—Scribe.
You tell me you’re promised a lover,My own Araminta, next week;Why cannot my fancy discoverThe hue of his coat and his cheek?Alas! if he look like another,A vicar, a banker, a beau,Be deaf to your father and mother,My own Araminta, say “No!”Miss Lane, at her Temple of Fashion,Taught us both how to sing and to speak,And we loved one another with passion,Before we had been there a week:You gave me a ring for a token;I wear it wherever I go;I gave you a chain,—is it broken?My own Araminta, say “No!”O think of our favourite cottage,And think of our dear Lalla Rookh!How we shared with the milkmaids their pottage,And drank of the stream from the brook;How fondly our loving lips faltered“What further can grandeur bestow?”My heart is the same;—is yours altered?My own Araminta, say “No!”Remember the thrilling romancesWe read on the bank in the glen;Remember the suitors our fanciesWould picture for both of us then.They wore the red cross on their shoulder,They had vanquished and pardoned their foe—Sweet friend, are you wiser or colder?My own Araminta, say “No!”You know when Lord Rigmarole’s carriageDrove off with your cousin Justine,You wept, dearest girl, at the marriage,And whispered, “How base she has been!”You said you were sure it would kill you,If ever your husband looked so;And you will not apostatise,—will you?My own Araminta, say “No!”When I heard I was going abroad, love,I thought I was going to die;We walked arm-in-arm to the road, love,We looked arm-in-arm to the sky;And I said, “When a foreign postilionHas hurried me off to the Po,Forget not Medora Trevilian:My own Araminta, say “No!”We parted! but sympathy’s fettersReach far over valley and hill;I muse o’er your exquisite letters,And feel that your heart is mine still;And he who would share it with me, love,—The richest of treasures below,—If he’s not what Orlando should be, love,My own Araminta, say “No!”If he wears a top-boot in his wooing,If he comes to you riding a cob,If he talks of his baking or brewing,If he puts up his feet on the hob,If he ever drinks port after dinner,If his brow or his breeding is low,If he calls himself “Thompson” or “Skinner”,My own Araminta, say “No!”If he studies the news in the papersWhile you are preparing the tea,If he talks of the damps or the vapoursWhile moonlight lies soft on the sea,If he’s sleepy while you are capricious,If he has not a musical “Oh!”If he does not call Werther delicious,—My own Araminta, say “No!”If he ever sets foot in the CityAmong the stockbrokers and Jews,If he has not a heart full of pity,If he don’t stand six feet in his shoes,If his lips are not redder than roses,If his hands are not whiter than snow,If he has not the model of noses,—My own Araminta, say “No!”If he speaks of a tax or a duty,If he does not look grand on his knees,If he’s blind to a landscape of beauty,Hills, valleys, rocks, water, and trees,If he dotes not on desolate towers,If he likes not to hear the blast blow,If he knows not the language of flowers,—My own Araminta, say “No!”He must walk—like a god of old storyCome down from the home of his rest;He must smile—like the sun in his gloryOn the bud, he loves ever the best;And oh! from its ivory portalLike music his soft speech must flow!If he speak, smile, or walk like a mortal,My own Araminta, say “No!”Don’t listen to tales of his bounty,Don’t hear what they say of his birth,Don’t look at his seat in the county,Don’t calculate what he is worth;But give him a theme to write verse on,And see if he turns out his toe;If he’s only an excellent person,—My own Araminta, say “No!”
You tell me you’re promised a lover,My own Araminta, next week;Why cannot my fancy discoverThe hue of his coat and his cheek?Alas! if he look like another,A vicar, a banker, a beau,Be deaf to your father and mother,My own Araminta, say “No!”Miss Lane, at her Temple of Fashion,Taught us both how to sing and to speak,And we loved one another with passion,Before we had been there a week:You gave me a ring for a token;I wear it wherever I go;I gave you a chain,—is it broken?My own Araminta, say “No!”O think of our favourite cottage,And think of our dear Lalla Rookh!How we shared with the milkmaids their pottage,And drank of the stream from the brook;How fondly our loving lips faltered“What further can grandeur bestow?”My heart is the same;—is yours altered?My own Araminta, say “No!”Remember the thrilling romancesWe read on the bank in the glen;Remember the suitors our fanciesWould picture for both of us then.They wore the red cross on their shoulder,They had vanquished and pardoned their foe—Sweet friend, are you wiser or colder?My own Araminta, say “No!”You know when Lord Rigmarole’s carriageDrove off with your cousin Justine,You wept, dearest girl, at the marriage,And whispered, “How base she has been!”You said you were sure it would kill you,If ever your husband looked so;And you will not apostatise,—will you?My own Araminta, say “No!”When I heard I was going abroad, love,I thought I was going to die;We walked arm-in-arm to the road, love,We looked arm-in-arm to the sky;And I said, “When a foreign postilionHas hurried me off to the Po,Forget not Medora Trevilian:My own Araminta, say “No!”We parted! but sympathy’s fettersReach far over valley and hill;I muse o’er your exquisite letters,And feel that your heart is mine still;And he who would share it with me, love,—The richest of treasures below,—If he’s not what Orlando should be, love,My own Araminta, say “No!”If he wears a top-boot in his wooing,If he comes to you riding a cob,If he talks of his baking or brewing,If he puts up his feet on the hob,If he ever drinks port after dinner,If his brow or his breeding is low,If he calls himself “Thompson” or “Skinner”,My own Araminta, say “No!”If he studies the news in the papersWhile you are preparing the tea,If he talks of the damps or the vapoursWhile moonlight lies soft on the sea,If he’s sleepy while you are capricious,If he has not a musical “Oh!”If he does not call Werther delicious,—My own Araminta, say “No!”If he ever sets foot in the CityAmong the stockbrokers and Jews,If he has not a heart full of pity,If he don’t stand six feet in his shoes,If his lips are not redder than roses,If his hands are not whiter than snow,If he has not the model of noses,—My own Araminta, say “No!”If he speaks of a tax or a duty,If he does not look grand on his knees,If he’s blind to a landscape of beauty,Hills, valleys, rocks, water, and trees,If he dotes not on desolate towers,If he likes not to hear the blast blow,If he knows not the language of flowers,—My own Araminta, say “No!”He must walk—like a god of old storyCome down from the home of his rest;He must smile—like the sun in his gloryOn the bud, he loves ever the best;And oh! from its ivory portalLike music his soft speech must flow!If he speak, smile, or walk like a mortal,My own Araminta, say “No!”Don’t listen to tales of his bounty,Don’t hear what they say of his birth,Don’t look at his seat in the county,Don’t calculate what he is worth;But give him a theme to write verse on,And see if he turns out his toe;If he’s only an excellent person,—My own Araminta, say “No!”
You tell me you’re promised a lover,My own Araminta, next week;Why cannot my fancy discoverThe hue of his coat and his cheek?Alas! if he look like another,A vicar, a banker, a beau,Be deaf to your father and mother,My own Araminta, say “No!”
Miss Lane, at her Temple of Fashion,Taught us both how to sing and to speak,And we loved one another with passion,Before we had been there a week:You gave me a ring for a token;I wear it wherever I go;I gave you a chain,—is it broken?My own Araminta, say “No!”
O think of our favourite cottage,And think of our dear Lalla Rookh!How we shared with the milkmaids their pottage,And drank of the stream from the brook;How fondly our loving lips faltered“What further can grandeur bestow?”My heart is the same;—is yours altered?My own Araminta, say “No!”
Remember the thrilling romancesWe read on the bank in the glen;Remember the suitors our fanciesWould picture for both of us then.They wore the red cross on their shoulder,They had vanquished and pardoned their foe—Sweet friend, are you wiser or colder?My own Araminta, say “No!”
You know when Lord Rigmarole’s carriageDrove off with your cousin Justine,You wept, dearest girl, at the marriage,And whispered, “How base she has been!”You said you were sure it would kill you,If ever your husband looked so;And you will not apostatise,—will you?My own Araminta, say “No!”
When I heard I was going abroad, love,I thought I was going to die;We walked arm-in-arm to the road, love,We looked arm-in-arm to the sky;And I said, “When a foreign postilionHas hurried me off to the Po,Forget not Medora Trevilian:My own Araminta, say “No!”
We parted! but sympathy’s fettersReach far over valley and hill;I muse o’er your exquisite letters,And feel that your heart is mine still;And he who would share it with me, love,—The richest of treasures below,—If he’s not what Orlando should be, love,My own Araminta, say “No!”
If he wears a top-boot in his wooing,If he comes to you riding a cob,If he talks of his baking or brewing,If he puts up his feet on the hob,If he ever drinks port after dinner,If his brow or his breeding is low,If he calls himself “Thompson” or “Skinner”,My own Araminta, say “No!”
If he studies the news in the papersWhile you are preparing the tea,If he talks of the damps or the vapoursWhile moonlight lies soft on the sea,If he’s sleepy while you are capricious,If he has not a musical “Oh!”If he does not call Werther delicious,—My own Araminta, say “No!”
If he ever sets foot in the CityAmong the stockbrokers and Jews,If he has not a heart full of pity,If he don’t stand six feet in his shoes,If his lips are not redder than roses,If his hands are not whiter than snow,If he has not the model of noses,—My own Araminta, say “No!”
If he speaks of a tax or a duty,If he does not look grand on his knees,If he’s blind to a landscape of beauty,Hills, valleys, rocks, water, and trees,If he dotes not on desolate towers,If he likes not to hear the blast blow,If he knows not the language of flowers,—My own Araminta, say “No!”
He must walk—like a god of old storyCome down from the home of his rest;He must smile—like the sun in his gloryOn the bud, he loves ever the best;And oh! from its ivory portalLike music his soft speech must flow!If he speak, smile, or walk like a mortal,My own Araminta, say “No!”
Don’t listen to tales of his bounty,Don’t hear what they say of his birth,Don’t look at his seat in the county,Don’t calculate what he is worth;But give him a theme to write verse on,And see if he turns out his toe;If he’s only an excellent person,—My own Araminta, say “No!”
Some years ago, ere time and tasteHad turned our parish topsy-turvy,When Darnel Park was Darnel waste,And roads as little known as scurvy,The man who lost his way, betweenSt. Mary’s Hill and Sandy Thicket,Was always shown across the green,And guided to the Parson’s wicket.Back flew the bolt of lissom lath;Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle,Led the lorn traveller up the path,Through clean-clipt rows of box and myrtle;And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray,Upon the parlour steps collected,Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say—“Our master knows you—you’re expected.”Up rose the Reverend Dr. Brown,Up rose the Doctor’s winsome marrow;The lady laid her knitting down,Her husband clasped his ponderous Barrow;Whate’er the stranger’s caste or creed,Pundit or Papist, saint or sinner,He found a stable for his steed,And welcome for himself, and dinner.If, when he reached his journey’s end,And warmed himself in Court or College,He had not gained an honest friendAnd twenty curious scraps of knowledge,—If he departed as he came,With no new light on love or liquor,—Good sooth, the traveller was to blame,And not the Vicarage, nor the Vicar.His talk was like a stream, which runsWith rapid change from rocks to roses:It slipped from politics to puns,It passed from Mahomet to Moses;Beginning with the laws which keepThe planets in their radiant courses,And ending with some precept deepFor dressing eels or shoeing horses.He was a shrewd and sound Divine,Of loud Dissent the mortal terror;And when, by dint of page and line,He ’stablished Truth, or startled Error,The Baptist found him far too deep;The Deist sighed with saving sorrow;And the lean Levite went to sleep,And dreamed of tasting pork to-morrow.His sermon never said or showedThat Earth is foul, that Heaven is gracious,Without refreshment on the roadFrom Jerome or from Athanasius:And sure a righteous zeal inspiredThe hand and head that penned and planned themFor all who understood admired,And some who did not understand them.He wrote, too, in a quiet way,Small treatises, and smaller verses,And sage remarks on chalk and clay,And hints to noble Lords—and nurses;True histories of last year’s ghost,Lines to a ringlet, or a turban,And trifles for theMorning Post,And nothings for Sylvanus Urban.He did not think all mischief fair,Although he had a knack of joking;He did not make himself a bear,Although he had a taste for smoking;And when religious sects ran mad,He held, in spite of all his learning,That if a man’s belief is bad,It will not be improved by burning.And he was kind, and loved to sitIn the low hut or garnished cottage,And praise the farmer’s homely wit,And share the widow’s homelier pottage:At his approach complaint grew mild;And when his hand unbarred the shutter,The clammy lips of fever smiledThe welcome which they could not utter.He always had a tale for meOf Julius Cæsar, or of Venus;From him I learnt the rule of three,Cat’s cradle, leap-frog, andQuæ genus;I used to singe his powdered wig,To steal the staff he put such trust in,And make the puppy dance a jig,When he began to quote Augustine.Alack the change! in vain I lookFor haunts in which my boyhood trifled,—The level lawn, the trickling brook,The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled:The church is larger than before;You reach it by a carriage entry;It holds three hundred people more,And pews are fitted up for gentry.Sit in the Vicar’s seat: you’ll hearThe doctrine of a gentle Johnian,Whose hand is white, whose tone is clear,Whose phrase is very Ciceronian.Where is the old man laid?—look down,And construe on the slab before you,“Hic jacet GVLIELMVS BROWNVir nullâ non donandus lauru.”
Some years ago, ere time and tasteHad turned our parish topsy-turvy,When Darnel Park was Darnel waste,And roads as little known as scurvy,The man who lost his way, betweenSt. Mary’s Hill and Sandy Thicket,Was always shown across the green,And guided to the Parson’s wicket.Back flew the bolt of lissom lath;Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle,Led the lorn traveller up the path,Through clean-clipt rows of box and myrtle;And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray,Upon the parlour steps collected,Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say—“Our master knows you—you’re expected.”Up rose the Reverend Dr. Brown,Up rose the Doctor’s winsome marrow;The lady laid her knitting down,Her husband clasped his ponderous Barrow;Whate’er the stranger’s caste or creed,Pundit or Papist, saint or sinner,He found a stable for his steed,And welcome for himself, and dinner.If, when he reached his journey’s end,And warmed himself in Court or College,He had not gained an honest friendAnd twenty curious scraps of knowledge,—If he departed as he came,With no new light on love or liquor,—Good sooth, the traveller was to blame,And not the Vicarage, nor the Vicar.His talk was like a stream, which runsWith rapid change from rocks to roses:It slipped from politics to puns,It passed from Mahomet to Moses;Beginning with the laws which keepThe planets in their radiant courses,And ending with some precept deepFor dressing eels or shoeing horses.He was a shrewd and sound Divine,Of loud Dissent the mortal terror;And when, by dint of page and line,He ’stablished Truth, or startled Error,The Baptist found him far too deep;The Deist sighed with saving sorrow;And the lean Levite went to sleep,And dreamed of tasting pork to-morrow.His sermon never said or showedThat Earth is foul, that Heaven is gracious,Without refreshment on the roadFrom Jerome or from Athanasius:And sure a righteous zeal inspiredThe hand and head that penned and planned themFor all who understood admired,And some who did not understand them.He wrote, too, in a quiet way,Small treatises, and smaller verses,And sage remarks on chalk and clay,And hints to noble Lords—and nurses;True histories of last year’s ghost,Lines to a ringlet, or a turban,And trifles for theMorning Post,And nothings for Sylvanus Urban.He did not think all mischief fair,Although he had a knack of joking;He did not make himself a bear,Although he had a taste for smoking;And when religious sects ran mad,He held, in spite of all his learning,That if a man’s belief is bad,It will not be improved by burning.And he was kind, and loved to sitIn the low hut or garnished cottage,And praise the farmer’s homely wit,And share the widow’s homelier pottage:At his approach complaint grew mild;And when his hand unbarred the shutter,The clammy lips of fever smiledThe welcome which they could not utter.He always had a tale for meOf Julius Cæsar, or of Venus;From him I learnt the rule of three,Cat’s cradle, leap-frog, andQuæ genus;I used to singe his powdered wig,To steal the staff he put such trust in,And make the puppy dance a jig,When he began to quote Augustine.Alack the change! in vain I lookFor haunts in which my boyhood trifled,—The level lawn, the trickling brook,The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled:The church is larger than before;You reach it by a carriage entry;It holds three hundred people more,And pews are fitted up for gentry.Sit in the Vicar’s seat: you’ll hearThe doctrine of a gentle Johnian,Whose hand is white, whose tone is clear,Whose phrase is very Ciceronian.Where is the old man laid?—look down,And construe on the slab before you,“Hic jacet GVLIELMVS BROWNVir nullâ non donandus lauru.”
Some years ago, ere time and tasteHad turned our parish topsy-turvy,When Darnel Park was Darnel waste,And roads as little known as scurvy,The man who lost his way, betweenSt. Mary’s Hill and Sandy Thicket,Was always shown across the green,And guided to the Parson’s wicket.
Back flew the bolt of lissom lath;Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle,Led the lorn traveller up the path,Through clean-clipt rows of box and myrtle;And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray,Upon the parlour steps collected,Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say—“Our master knows you—you’re expected.”
Up rose the Reverend Dr. Brown,Up rose the Doctor’s winsome marrow;The lady laid her knitting down,Her husband clasped his ponderous Barrow;Whate’er the stranger’s caste or creed,Pundit or Papist, saint or sinner,He found a stable for his steed,And welcome for himself, and dinner.
If, when he reached his journey’s end,And warmed himself in Court or College,He had not gained an honest friendAnd twenty curious scraps of knowledge,—If he departed as he came,With no new light on love or liquor,—Good sooth, the traveller was to blame,And not the Vicarage, nor the Vicar.
His talk was like a stream, which runsWith rapid change from rocks to roses:It slipped from politics to puns,It passed from Mahomet to Moses;Beginning with the laws which keepThe planets in their radiant courses,And ending with some precept deepFor dressing eels or shoeing horses.
He was a shrewd and sound Divine,Of loud Dissent the mortal terror;And when, by dint of page and line,He ’stablished Truth, or startled Error,The Baptist found him far too deep;The Deist sighed with saving sorrow;And the lean Levite went to sleep,And dreamed of tasting pork to-morrow.
His sermon never said or showedThat Earth is foul, that Heaven is gracious,Without refreshment on the roadFrom Jerome or from Athanasius:And sure a righteous zeal inspiredThe hand and head that penned and planned themFor all who understood admired,And some who did not understand them.
He wrote, too, in a quiet way,Small treatises, and smaller verses,And sage remarks on chalk and clay,And hints to noble Lords—and nurses;True histories of last year’s ghost,Lines to a ringlet, or a turban,And trifles for theMorning Post,And nothings for Sylvanus Urban.
He did not think all mischief fair,Although he had a knack of joking;He did not make himself a bear,Although he had a taste for smoking;And when religious sects ran mad,He held, in spite of all his learning,That if a man’s belief is bad,It will not be improved by burning.
And he was kind, and loved to sitIn the low hut or garnished cottage,And praise the farmer’s homely wit,And share the widow’s homelier pottage:At his approach complaint grew mild;And when his hand unbarred the shutter,The clammy lips of fever smiledThe welcome which they could not utter.
He always had a tale for meOf Julius Cæsar, or of Venus;From him I learnt the rule of three,Cat’s cradle, leap-frog, andQuæ genus;I used to singe his powdered wig,To steal the staff he put such trust in,And make the puppy dance a jig,When he began to quote Augustine.
Alack the change! in vain I lookFor haunts in which my boyhood trifled,—The level lawn, the trickling brook,The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled:The church is larger than before;You reach it by a carriage entry;It holds three hundred people more,And pews are fitted up for gentry.
Sit in the Vicar’s seat: you’ll hearThe doctrine of a gentle Johnian,Whose hand is white, whose tone is clear,Whose phrase is very Ciceronian.Where is the old man laid?—look down,And construe on the slab before you,“Hic jacet GVLIELMVS BROWNVir nullâ non donandus lauru.”