The Project Gutenberg eBook ofVerses and Translations

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofVerses and TranslationsThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Verses and TranslationsAuthor: Charles Stuart CalverleyRelease date: May 1, 2003 [eBook #4096]Most recently updated: November 4, 2014Language: EnglishCredits: Transcribed from the 1862 Deighton, Bell, and Co. edition by David Price*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VERSES AND TRANSLATIONS ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Verses and TranslationsAuthor: Charles Stuart CalverleyRelease date: May 1, 2003 [eBook #4096]Most recently updated: November 4, 2014Language: EnglishCredits: Transcribed from the 1862 Deighton, Bell, and Co. edition by David Price

Title: Verses and Translations

Author: Charles Stuart Calverley

Release date: May 1, 2003 [eBook #4096]Most recently updated: November 4, 2014

Language: English

Credits: Transcribed from the 1862 Deighton, Bell, and Co. edition by David Price

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VERSES AND TRANSLATIONS ***

Transcribed from the 1862 Deighton, Bell, and Co. edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglag.org

BY C. S. C.

SECOND EDITION,REVISED.

CAMBRIDGE:DEIGHTON, BELL, AND CO.LONDON: BELL AND DALDY.1862.

Cambridge:PRINTED BY JONATHAN PALMER, SIDNEY STREET.

Page

Visions

Gemini and Virgo

“There Stands a City”

Striking

Voices of the Night

Lines Suggested by the 14th of February

A, B, C.

To Mrs. Goodchild

Ode—‘On a Distant Prospect’ of Making a Fortune

Isabel

Dirge

Lines Suggested by the 14th of February

“Hic Vir, Hic Est”

Beer

Ode to Tobacco

Dover to Munich

Charades

Proverbial Philosophy

TRANSLATIONS:

Lycidas

106

In Memoriam

128

Laura Matilda’s Dirge

132

“Leaves have their time to Fall”

136

“Let us turn Hitherward our Bark”

140

Carmen Sæculare

144

TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE:

To a Ship

152

To Virgil

154

To the Fountain of Bandusia

156

To Ibycus’s Wife

158

Soracte

160

To Leuconöe

162

Juno’s Speech

163

To a Faun

168

To Lyce

170

To his Slave

172

TRANSLATIONS:

From Virgil

173

From Theocritus

175

Speech of Ajax

177

From Lucretius

180

From Homer

188

“She was a phantom,” &c.

Inlone Glenartney’s thickets lies couched the lordly stag,The dreaming terrier’s tail forgets its customary wag;And plodding ploughmen’s weary steps insensibly grow quicker,As broadening casements light them on towards home, or home-brewed liquor.

It is (in fact) the evening—that pure and pleasant time,When stars break into splendour, and poets into rhyme;When in the glass of Memory the forms of loved ones shine—And when, of course, Miss Goodchild’s is prominent in mine.

Miss Goodchild!—Julia Goodchild!—how graciously you smiledUpon my childish passion once, yourself a fair-haired child:When I was (no doubt) profiting by Dr. Crabb’s instruction,And sent those streaky lollipops home for your fairy suction!

“She wore” her natural “roses, the night when first we met”—Her golden hair was gleaming ’neath the coercive net:“Her brow was like the snawdrift,” her step was like Queen Mab’s,And gone was instantly the heart of every boy at Crabb’s.

The parlour-boarder chasséed tow’rds her on graceful limb;The onyx decked his bosom—but her smiles were not for him:Withmeshe danced—till drowsily her eyes “began to blink,”AndIbrought raisin wine, and said, “Drink, pretty creature, drink!”

And evermore, when winter comes in his garb of snows,And the returning schoolboy is told how fast he grows;Shall I—with that soft hand in mine—enact ideal Lancers,And dream I hear demure remarks, and make impassioned answers:—

I know that never, never may her love for me return—At night I muse upon the fact with undisguised concern—But ever shall I bless that day: (I don’t bless, as a rule,The days I spent at “Dr. Crabb’s Preparatory School.”)

And yet—we twomaymeet again—(Be still, my throbbing heart!)—Now rolling years have weaned us from jam and raspberry tart:—One night I saw a vision—’Twas when musk-roses bloomI stood—westood—upon a rug, in a sumptuous dining-room:

One hand clasped hers—one easily reposed upon my hip—And “Bless ye!” burst abruptly from Mr. Goodchild’s lip:I raised my brimming eye, and saw in hers an answering gleam—My heart beat wildly—and I woke, and lo! it was a dream.

Some vast amount of years ago,Ere all my youth had vanished from me,A boy it was my lot to know,Whom his familiar friends called Tommy.

I love to gaze upon a child;A young bud bursting into blossom;Artless, as Eve yet unbeguiled,And agile as a young opossum:

And such was he. A calm-browed lad,Yet mad, at moments, as a hatter:Why hatters as a race are madI never knew, nor does it matter.

He was what nurses call a ‘limb;’One of those small misguided creatures,Who, though their intellects are dim,Are one too many for their teachers:

And, if you asked of him to sayWhat twice 10 was, or 3 times 7,He’d glance (in quite a placid way)From heaven to earth, from earth to heaven:

And smile, and look politely round,To catch a casual suggestion;But make no effort to propoundAny solution of the question.

And so not much esteemed was heOf the authorities: and thereforeHe fraternized by chance with me,Needing a somebody to care for:

And three fair summers did we twainLive (as they say) and love together;And bore by turns the wholesome caneTill our young skins became as leather:

And carved our names on every desk,And tore our clothes, and inked our collars;And looked unique and picturesque,But not, it may be, model scholars.

We did much as we chose to do;We’d never heard of Mrs. Grundy;All the theology we knewWas that we mightn’t play on Sunday;

And all the general truths, that cakesWere to be bought at four a-penny,And that excruciating achesResulted if we ate too many:

And seeing ignorance is bliss,And wisdom consequently folly,The obvious result is this—That our two lives were very jolly.

At last the separation came.Real love, at that time, was the fashion;And by a horrid chance, the sameYoung thing was, to us both, a passion.

OldPosersnorted like a horse:His feet were large, his hands were pimply,His manner, when excited, coarse:—But Miss P. was an angel simply.

She was a blushing gushing thing;All—more than all—my fancy painted;Once—when she helped me to a wingOf goose—I thought I should have fainted.

The people said that she was blue:But I was green, and loved her dearly.She was approaching thirty-two;And I was then eleven, nearly.

I did not love as others do;(None ever did that I’ve heard tell of;)My passion was a byword throughThe town she was, of course, the belle of.

Oh sweet—as to the toilworn manThe far-off sound of rippling river;As to cadets in HindostanThe fleeting remnant of their liver—

To me wasAnna; dear as goldThat fills the miser’s sunless coffers;As to the spinster, growing old,The thought—the dream—that she had offers.

I’d sent her little gifts of fruit;I’d written lines to her as Venus;I’d sworn unflinchingly to shootThe man who dared to come between us:

And it was you, my Thomas, you,The friend in whom my soul confided,Who dared to gaze on her—to do,I may say, much the same as I did.

One night Isawhim squeeze her hand;There was no doubt about the matter;I said he must resign, or standMy vengeance—and he chose the latter.

We met, we ‘planted’ blows on blows:We fought as long as we were able:My rival had a bottle-nose,And both my speaking eyes were sable.

When the school-bell cut short our strife,Miss P. gave both of us a plaster;And in a week became the wifeOf Horace Nibbs, the writing-master.

* * *

I loved her then—I’d love her still,Only one must not love Another’s:But thou and I, my Tommy, will,When we again meet, meet as brothers.

It may be that in age one seeksPeace only: that the blood is briskerIn boy’s veins, than in theirs whose cheeksAre partially obscured by whisker;

Or that the growing ages stealThe memories of past wrongs from us.But this is certain—that I feelMost friendly unto thee, oh Thomas!

And wheresoe’er we meet again,On this or that side the equator,If I’ve not turned teetotaller then,And have wherewith to pay the waiter,

To thee I’ll drain the modest cup,Ignite with thee the mild Havannah;And we will waft, while liquoring up,Forgiveness to the heartlessAnna.

Ingoldsby.

Yearby year do Beauty’s daughters,In the sweetest gloves and shawls,Troop to taste the Chattenham waters,And adorn the Chattenham balls.

‘Nulla non donanda lauru’Is that city: you could not,Placing England’s map before you,Light on a more favoured spot.

If no clear translucent riverWinds ’neath willow-shaded paths,“Children and adults” may shiverAll day in “Chalybeate baths:”

If “the inimitable Fechter”Never brings the gallery down,Constantly “the Great Protector”There “rejects the British crown:”

And on every side the painterLooks on wooded vale and plainAnd on fair hills, faint and fainterOutlined as they near the main.

There I met with him, my chosenFriend—the ‘long’ but not ‘stern swell,’[15a]Faultless in his hats and hosen,Whom the Johnian lawns know well:—

Oh my comrade, ever valued!Still I see your festive face;Hear you humming of “the gal you’dLeft behind” in massive bass:

See you sit with that composureOn the eeliest of hacks,That the novice would suppose yourManly limbs encased in wax:

Or anon,—when evening lent herTranquil light to hill and vale,—Urge, towards the table’s centre,With unerring hand, the squail.

Ah delectablest of summers!How my heart—that “muffled drum”Which ignores the aid of drummers—Beats, as back thy memories come!

Oh, among the dancers peerless,Fleet of foot, and soft of eye!Need I say to you that cheerlessMust my days be till I die?

At my side she mashed the fragrantStrawberry; lashes soft as silkDrooped o’er saddened eyes, when vagrantGnats sought watery graves in milk:

Then we danced, we walked together;Talked—no doubt on trivial topics;Such as Blondin, or the weather,Which “recalled us to the tropics.”

But—oh! in the deuxtemps peerless,Fleet of foot, and soft of eye!—Once more I repeat, that cheerlessShall my days be till I die.

And the lean and hungry raven,As he picks my bones, will startTo observe ‘M. N.’ engravenNeatly on my blighted heart.

Itwas a railway passenger,And he lept out jauntilie.“Now up and bear, thou stout portèr,My two chattèls to me.

“Bring hither, bring hither my bag so red,And portmanteau so brown:(They lie in the van, for a trusty manHe labelled them London town:)

“And fetch me eke a cabman bold,That I may be his fare, his fare;And he shall have a good shilling,If by two of the clock he do me bringTo the Terminus, Euston Square.”

“Now,—so to thee the saints alway,Good gentleman, give luck,—As never a cab may I find this day,For the cabman wights have struck:And now, I wis, at the Red Post Inn,Or else at the Dog and Duck,Or at Unicorn Blue, or at Green Griffin,The nut-brown ale and the fine old ginRight pleasantly they do suck.”

“Now rede me aright, thou stout portèr,What were it best that I should do:For woe is me, an I reach not thereOr ever the clock strike two.”

“I have a son, a lytel son;Fleet is his foot as the wild roebuck’s:Give him a shilling, and eke a brown,And he shall carry thy chattels down,To Euston, or half over London town,On one of the station trucks.”

Then forth in a hurry did they twain fare,The gent, and the son of the stout portèr,Who fled like an arrow, nor turned a hair,Through all the mire and muck:“A ticket, a ticket, sir clerk, I pray:For by two of the clock must I needs away.”“That may hardly be,” the clerk did say,“For indeed—the clocks have struck.”

“The tender Grace of a day that is past.”

Thedew is on the roses,The owl hath spread her wing;And vocal are the nosesOf peasant and of king:“Nature” (in short) “reposes;”But I do no such thing.

Pent in my lonesome studyHere I must sit and muse;Sit till the morn grows ruddy,Till, rising with the dews,“Jeameses” remove the muddySpots from their masters’ shoes.

Yet are sweet faces flingingTheir witchery o’er me here:I hear sweet voices singingA song as soft, as clear,As (previously to stinging)A gnat sings round one’s ear.

Does Grace draw young ApollosIn blue mustachios still?Does Emma tell the swallowsHow she will pipe and trill,When, some fine day, she followsThose birds to the window-sill?

And oh! has Albert fadedFrom Grace’s memory yet?Albert, whose “brow was shadedBy locks of glossiest jet,”Whom almost any lady’dHave given her eyes to get?

Does not her conscience smite herFor one who hourly pines,Thinking her bright eyes brighterThan any star that shines—I mean of course the writerOf these pathetic lines?

Who knows? As quoth Sir Walter,“Time rolls his ceaseless course:“The Grace of yore” may alter—And then, I’ve one resource:I’ll invest in a bran-new halter,And I’ll perish without remorse.

Erethe morn the East has crimsoned,When the stars are twinkling there,(As they did in Watts’s Hymns, andMade him wonder what they were:)When the forest-nymphs are beadingFern and flower with silvery dew—My infallible proceedingIs to wake, and think of you.

When the hunter’s ringing bugleSounds farewell to field and copse,And I sit before my frugalMeal of gravy-soup and chops:When (as Gray remarks) “the mopingOwl doth to the moon complain,”And the hour suggests eloping—Fly my thoughts to you again.

May my dreams be granted never?Must I aye endure afflictionRarely realised, if ever,In our wildest works of fiction?Madly Romeo loved his Juliet;Copperfield began to pineWhen he hadn’t been to school yet—But their loves were cold to mine.

Give me hope, the least, the dimmest,Ere I drain the poisoned cup:Tell me I may tell the chymistNot to make that arsenic up!Else, this heart shall soon cease throbbing;And when, musing o’er my bones,Travellers ask, “Who killed Cock Robin?”They’ll be told, “Miss Sarah J—s.”

A is an Angel of blushing eighteen:B is the Ball where the Angel was seen:C is her Chaperone, who cheated at cards:D is the Deuxtemps, with Frank of the Guards:E is the Eye which those dark lashes cover:F is the Fan it peeped wickedly over:G is the Glove of superlative kid:H is the Hand which it spitefully hid:I is the Ice which spent nature demanded:J is the Juvenile who hurried to hand it:K is the Kerchief, a rare work of art:L is the Lace which composed the chief part.M is the old Maid who watch’d the girls dance:N is the Nose she turned up at each glance:O is the Olga (just then in its prime):P is the Partner who wouldn’t keep time:Q ’s a Quadrille, put instead of the Lancers:R the Remonstrances made by the dancers:S is the Supper, where all went in pairs:T is the Twaddle they talked on the stairs:U is the Uncle who ‘thought we’d be going’:V is the Voice which his niece replied ‘No’ in:W is the Waiter, who sat up till eight:X is his Exit, not rigidly straight:Y is a Yawning fit caused by the Ball:Z stands for Zero, or nothing at all.

Thenight-wind’s shriek is pitiless and hollow,The boding bat flits by on sullen wing,And I sit desolate, like that “one swallow”Who found (with horror) that he’d not brought spring:Lonely as he who erst with venturous thumbDrew from its pie-y lair the solitary plum.

And to my gaze the phantoms of the Past,The cherished fictions of my boyhood, rise:I see Red Ridinghood observe, aghast,The fixed expression of her grandam’s eyes;I hear the fiendish chattering and chucklingWhich those misguided fowls raised at the Ugly Duckling.

The House that Jack built—and the Malt that layWithin the House—the Rat that ate the Malt—The Cat, that in that sanguinary wayPunished the poor thing for its venial fault—The Worrier-Dog—the Cow with Crumpled horn—And then—ah yes! and then—the Maiden all forlorn!

O Mrs. Gurton—(may I call thee Gammer?)Thou more than mother to my infant mind!I loved thee better than I loved my grammar—I used to wonder why the Mice were blind,And who was gardener to Mistress Mary,And what—I don’t know still—was meant by “quite contrary”?

“Tota contraria,” an “Arundo Cami”Has phrased it—which is possibly explicit,Ingenious certainly—but all the same IStill ask, when coming on the word, ‘What is it?’There were more things in Mrs. Gurton’s eye,Mayhap, than are dreamed of in our philosophy.

No doubt the Editor of ‘Notes and Queries’Or ‘Things not generally known’ could tellThat word’s real force—my only lurking fear isThat the great Gammer “didna ken hersel”:(I’ve precedent, yet feel I owe apologyFor passing in this way to Scottish phraseology).

Alas, dear Madam, I must ask your pardonFor making this unwarranted digression,Starting (I think) from Mistress Mary’s garden:—And beg to send, with every expressionOf personal esteem, a Book of Rhymes,For Master G. to read at miscellaneous times.

There is a youth, who keeps a ‘crumpled Horn,’(Living next me, upon the selfsame story,)And ever, ’twixt the midnight and the morn,He solaces his soul with Annie Laurie.The tune is good; the habit p’raps romantic;But tending, if pursued, to drive one’s neighbours frantic.

And now,—at this unprecedented hour,When the young Dawn is “trampling out the stars,”—I hear that youth—with more than usual powerAnd pathos—struggling with the first few bars.And I do think the amateur cornopeanShould be put down by law—but that’s perhaps Utopian.

Who knows what “things unknown” I might have “bodiedForth,” if not checked by that absurd Too-too?But don’t I know that when my friend has ploddedThrough the first verse, the second will ensue?Considering which, dear Madam, I will merelySend the aforesaid book—and am yours most sincerely.

Nowthe “rosy morn appearing”Floods with light the dazzled heaven;And the schoolboy groans on hearingThat eternal clock strike seven:—Now the waggoner is drivingTowards the fields his clattering wain;Now the bluebottle, reviving,Buzzes down his native pane.

But to me the morn is hateful:Wearily I stretch my legs,Dress, and settle to my platefulOf (perhaps inferior) eggs.Yesterday Miss Crump, by message,Mentioned “rent,” which “p’raps I’d pay;”And I have a dismal presageThat she’ll call, herself, to-day.

Once, I breakfasted off rosewood,Smoked through silver-mounted pipes—Then how my patrician nose wouldTurn up at the thought of “swipes!”Ale,—occasionally claret,—Graced my luncheon then:—and nowI drink porter in a garret,To be paid for heaven knows how.

When the evening shades are deepened,And I doff my hat and gloves,No sweet bird is there to “cheep andTwitter twenty million loves:”No dark-ringleted canariesSing to me of “hungry foam;”No imaginary “Marys”Call fictitious “cattle home.”

Araminta, sweetest, fairest!Solace once of every ill!How I wonder if thou bearestMivins in remembrance still!If that Friday night is banishedYet from that retentive mind,When the others somehow vanished,And we two were left behind:—

When in accents low, yet thrilling,I did all my love declare;Mentioned that I’d not a shilling—Hinted that we need not care:And complacently you listenedTo my somewhat long address—(Listening, at the same time, isn’tQuite the same as saying Yes).

Once, a happy child, I carolledO’er green lawns the whole day through,Not unpleasingly apparelledIn a tightish suit of blue:—What a change has now passed o’er me!Now with what dismay I seeEvery rising morn before me!Goodness gracious, patience me!

And I’ll prowl, a moodier Lara,Through the world, as prowls the bat,And habitually wear aCypress wreath around my hat:And when Death snuffs out the taperOf my Life, (as soon he must),I’ll send up to every paper,“Died, T. Mivins; of disgust.”

Nowo’er the landscape crowd the deepening shades,And the shut lily cradles not the bee;The red deer couches in the forest glades,And faint the echoes of the slumberous sea:And ere I rest, one prayer I’ll breathe for thee,The sweet Egeria of my lonely dreams:Lady, forgive, that ever upon meThoughts of thee linger, as the soft starbeamsLinger on Merlin’s rock, or dark Sabrina’s streams.

On gray Pilatus once we loved to stray,And watch far off the glimmering roselight breakO’er the dim mountain-peaks, ere yet one rayPierced the deep bosom of the mist-clad lake.Oh! who felt not new life within him wake,And his pulse quicken, and his spirit burn—(Save one we wot of, whom the colddidmakeFeel “shooting pains in every joint in turn,”)When first he saw the sun gild thy green shores, Lucerne?

And years have past, and I have gazed once moreOn blue lakes glistening beneath mountains blue;And all seemed sadder, lovelier than before—For all awakened memories of you.Oh! had I had you by my side, in lieuOf that red matron,whom the flies would worry,(Flies in those parts unfortunately do,)Who walked so slowly, talked in such a hurry,And with such wild contempt for stops and Lindley Murray!

O Isabel, the brightest, heavenliest themeThat ere drew dreamer on to poësy,Since “Peggy’s locks” made Burns neglect his team,And Stella’s smile lured Johnson from his tea—I may not tell thee what thou art to me!But ever dwells the soft voice in my ear,Whispering of what Time is, what Man might be,Would he but “do the duty that lies near,”And cut clubs, cards, champagne, balls, billiard-rooms, and beer.

“Dr. Birch’s young friends will reassemble to-day, Feb. 1st.”

Whiteis the wold, and ghostlyThe dank and leafless trees;And ‘M’s and ‘N’s are mostlyPronounced like ‘B’s and ‘D’s:’Neath bleak sheds, ice-encrusted,The sheep stands, mute and stolid:And ducks find out, disgusted,That all the ponds are solid.

Many a stout steer’s work is(At least in this world) finished;The gross amount of turkiesIs sensibly diminished:The holly-boughs are faded,The painted crackers gone;Would I could write, as Gray did,An Elegy thereon!

For Christmas-time is ended:Now is “our youth” regainingThose sweet spots where are “blendedHome-comforts and school-training.”Now they’re, I dare say, ventingTheir grief in transient sobs,And I am “left lamenting”At home, with Mrs. Dobbs.

O Posthumus! “FugacesLabuntur anni” still;Time robs us of our graces,Evade him as we will.We were the twins of Siam:Nowshethinksmea bore,And I admit thatIamInclined at times to snore.

I was her own Nathaniel;With her I took sweet counsel,Brought seed-cake for her spaniel,And kept her bird in groundsel:We’ve murmured, “How delightfulA landscape, seen by night, is,”—And woke next day in frightfulPain from acute bronchitis.

* * *

But ah! for them, whose laughterWe heard last New Year’s Day,—(They reeked not of Hereafter,Or what the Doctor’d say,)—For those small forms that flutteredMoth-like around the plate,When Sally brought the butteredBuns in at half-past eight!

Ah for the altered visageOf her, our tiny Belle,Whom my boy Gus (at his age!)Said was a “deuced swell!”P’raps now Miss Tickler’s tocsinHas caged that pert young linnet;Old Birch perhaps is boxingMy Gus’s ears this minute.

Yet, though your young ears be asRed as mamma’s geraniums,Yet grieve not! Thus ideasPass into infant craniums.Use not complaints unseemly;Tho’ you must work like bricks;And itiscold, extremely,Rising at half-past six.

Soon sunnier will the day grow,And the east wind not blow so;Soon, as of yore, L’AllegroSucceed Il Penseroso:Stick to your Magnall’s QuestionsAnd Long Division sums;And come—with good digestions—Home when next Christmas comes.

Darknesssucceeds to twilight:Through lattice and through skylightThe stars no doubt, if one looked out,Might be observed to shine:And sitting by the embersI elevate my membersOn a stray chair, and then and thereCommence a Valentine.

Yea! by St. Valentinus,Emma shall not be minusWhat all young ladies, whate’er their grade is,Expect to-day no doubt:Emma the fair, the stately—Whom I beheld so lately,Smiling beneath the snow-white wreathWhich told that she was “out.”

Wherefore fly to her, swallow,And mention that I’d “follow,”And “pipe and trill,” et cetera, tillI died, had I but wings:Say the North’s “true and tender,”The South an old offender;And hint in fact, with your well-known tact,All kinds of pretty things.

Say I grow hourly thinner,Simply abhor my dinner—Tho’ I do try and absorb some viandEach day, for form’s sake merely:And ask her, when all’s ended,And I am found extended,With vest blood-spotted and cut carotid,To think on Her’s sincerely.

Often, when o’er tree and turret,Eve a dying radiance flings,By that ancient pile I lingerKnown familiarly as “King’s.”And the ghosts of days departedRise, and in my burning breastAll the undergraduate wakens,And my spirit is at rest.

What, but a revolting fiction,Seems the actual resultOf the Census’s enquiriesMade upon the 15th ult.?Still my soul is in its boyhood;Nor of year or changes recks.Though my scalp is almost hairless,And my figure grows convex.

Backward moves the kindly dial;And I’m numbered once againWith those noblest of their speciesCalled emphatically ‘Men’:Loaf, as I have loafed aforetime,Through the streets, with tranquil mind,And a long-backed fancy-mongrelTrailing casually behind:

Past the Senate-house I saunter,Whistling with an easy grace;Past the cabbage-stalks that carpetStill the beefy market-place;Poising evermore the eye-glassIn the light sarcastic eye,Lest, by chance, some breezy nursemaidPass, without a tribute, by.

Once, an unassuming Freshman,Through these wilds I wandered on,Seeing in each house a College,Under every cap a Don:Each perambulating infantHad a magic in its squall,For my eager eye detectedSenior Wranglers in them all.

By degrees my educationGrew, and I became as others;Learned to court delirium tremensBy the aid of Bacon Brothers;Bought me tiny boots of Mortlock,And colossal prints of Roe;And ignored the propositionThat both time and money go.

Learned to work the wary dogcartArtfully through King’s Parade;Dress, and steer a boat, and sport withAmaryllis in the shade:Struck, at Brown’s, the dashing hazard;Or (more curious sport than that)Dropped, at Callaby’s, the terrierDown upon the prisoned rat.

I have stood serene on Fenner’sGround, indifferent to blisters,While the Buttress of the periodBowled me his peculiar twisters:Sung ‘We won’t go home till morning’;Striven to part my backhair straight;Drunk (not lavishly) of Miller’sOld dry wines at 78:—

When within my veins the blood ran,And the curls were on my brow,I did, oh ye undergraduates,Much as ye are doing now.Wherefore bless ye, O beloved ones:—Now unto mine inn must I,Your ‘poor moralist,’[51a]betake me,In my ‘solitary fly.’

Inthose old days which poets say were golden—(Perhaps they laid the gilding on themselves:And, if they did, I’m all the more beholdenTo those brown dwellers in my dusty shelves,Who talk to me “in language quaint and olden”Of gods and demigods and fauns and elves,Pans with his pipes, and Bacchus with his leopards,And staid young goddesses who flirt with shepherds:)

In those old days, the Nymph called Etiquette(Appalling thought to dwell on) was not born.They had their May, but no Mayfair as yet,No fashions varying as the hues of morn.Just as they pleased they dressed and drank and ate,Sang hymns to Ceres (their John Barleycorn)And danced unchaperoned, and laughed unchecked,And were no doubt extremely incorrect.

Yet do I think their theory was pleasant:And oft, I own, my ‘wayward fancy roams’Back to those times, so different from the present;When no one smoked cigars, nor gave At-homes,Nor smote a billiard-ball, nor winged a pheasant,Nor ‘did’ their hair by means of long-tailed combs,Nor migrated to Brighton once a-year,Nor—most astonishing of all—drank Beer.

No, they did not drink Beer, “which brings me to”(As Gilpin said) “the middle of my song.”Not that “the middle” is precisely true,Or else I should not tax your patience long:If I had said ‘beginning,’ it might do;But I have a dislike to quoting wrong:I was unlucky—sinned against, not sinning—When Cowper wrote down ‘middle’ for ‘beginning.’

So to proceed. That abstinence from MaltHas always struck me as extremely curious.The Greek mind must have had some vital fault,That they should stick to liquors so injurious—(Wine, water, tempered p’raps with Attic salt)—And not at once invent that mild, luxurious,And artful beverage, Beer. How the digestionGot on without it, is a startling question.

Had they digestions? and an actual bodySuch as dyspepsia might make attacks on?Were they abstract ideas—(like Tom NoddyAnd Mr. Briggs)—or men, like Jones and Jackson?Then Nectar—was that beer, or whiskey-toddy?Some say the Gaelic mixture,Ithe Saxon:I think a strict adherence to the latterMight make some Scots less pigheaded, and fatter.

Besides, Bon Gaultier definitely shewsThat the real beverage for feasting gods onIs a soft compound, grateful to the noseAnd also to the palate, known as ‘Hodgson.’I know a man—a tailor’s son—who roseTo be a peer: and this I would lay odds on,(Though in his Memoirs it may not appear,)That that man owed his rise to copious Beer.

O Beer! O Hodgson, Guinness, Allsop, Bass!Names that should be on every infant’s tongue!Shall days and months and years and centuries pass,And still your merits be unrecked, unsung?Oh! I have gazed into my foaming glass,And wished that lyre could yet again be strungWhich once rang prophet-like through Greece, and taught herMisguided sons that “the best drink was water.”

How would he now recant that wild opinion,And sing—as would that I could sing—of you!I was not born (alas!) the “Muses’ minion,”I’m not poetical, not even blue:And he (we know) but strives with waxen pinion,Whoe’er he is that entertains the viewOf emulating Pindar, and will beSponsor at last to some now nameless sea.

Oh! when the green slopes of Arcadia burnedWith all the lustre of the dying day,And on Cithæron’s brow the reaper turned,(Humming, of course, in his delightful way,How Lycidas was dead, and how concernedThe Nymphs were when they saw his lifeless clay;And how rock told to rock the dreadful storyThat poor young Lycidas was gone to glory:)

What would that lone and labouring soul have given,At that soft moment, for a pewter pot!How had the mists that dimmed his eye been riven,And Lycidas and sorrow all forgot!If his own grandmother had died unshriven,In two short seconds he’d have recked it not;Such power hath Beer. The heart which Grief hath canker’dHath one unfailing remedy—the Tankard.

Coffee is good, and so no doubt is cocoa;Tea did for Johnson and the Chinamen:When ‘Dulce et desipere in loco’Was written, real Falernian winged the pen.When a rapt audience has encored ‘Fra Poco’Or ‘Casta Diva,’ I have heard that thenThe Prima Donna, smiling herself out,Recruits her flagging powers with bottled stout.

But what is coffee, but a noxious berry,Born to keep used-up Londoners awake?What is Falernian, what is Port or Sherry,But vile concoctions to make dull heads ache?Nay stout itself—(though good with oysters, very)—Is not a thing your reading man should take.He that would shine, and petrify his tutor,Should drink draught Allsop in its “native pewter.”

But hark! a sound is stealing on my ear—A soft and silvery sound—I know it well.Its tinkling tells me that a time is nearPrecious to me—it is the Dinner Bell.O blessed Bell! Thou bringest beef and beer,Thou bringest good things more than tongue may tell:Seared is (of course) my heart—but unsubduedIs, and shall be, my appetite for food.

I go. Untaught and feeble is my pen:But on one statement I may safely venture;That few of our most highly gifted menHave more appreciation of the trencher.I go. One pound of British beef, and thenWhat Mr. Swiveller called a “modest quencher;”That home-returning, I may ‘soothly say,’“Fate cannot touch me: I have dined to-day.”

Thouwho, when fears attack,Bid’st them avaunt, and BlackCare, at the horseman’s backPerching, unseatest;Sweet when the morn is grey;Sweet, when they’ve cleared awayLunch; and at close of dayPossibly sweetest:

I have a liking oldFor thee, though manifoldStories, I know, are told,Not to thy credit;How one (or two at most)Drops make a cat a ghost—Useless, except to roast—Doctors have said it:

How they who use fuseesAll grow by slow degreesBrainless as chimpanzees,Meagre as lizards;Go mad, and beat their wives;Plunge (after shocking lives)Razors and carving knivesInto their gizzards.

Confound such knavish tricks!Yet know I five or sixSmokers who freely mixStill with their neighbours;Jones—who, I’m glad to say,Asked leave of Mrs. J.)—Daily absorbs a clayAfter his labours.

Cats may have had their gooseCooked by tobacco-juice;Still why deny its useThoughtfully taken?We’re not as tabbies are:Smith, take a fresh cigar!Jones, the tobacco-jar!Here’s to thee, Bacon!

Farewell, farewell! Before our prowLeaps in white foam the noisy channel,A tourist’s cap is on my brow,My legs are cased in tourists’ flannel:

Around me gasp the invalids—(The quantity to-night is fearful)—I take a brace or so of weeds,And feel (as yet) extremely cheerful.

The night wears on:—my thirst I quenchWith one imperial pint of porter;Then drop upon a casual bench—(The bench is short, but I am shorter)—

Place ’neath my head theharve-sacWhich I have stowed my little all in,And sleep, though moist about the back,Serenely in an old tarpaulin.

* * *

Bed at Ostend at 5A.M.Breakfast at 6, and train 6.30.Tickets to Königswinter (mem.The seats objectionably dirty).

And onward through those dreary flatsWe move, with scanty space to sit on,Flanked by stout girls with steeple hats,And waists that paralyse a Briton;—

By many a tidy little town,Where tidy little Fraus sit knitting;(The men’s pursuits are, lying down,Smoking perennial pipes, and spitting;)

And doze, and execrate the heat,And wonder how far off Cologne is,And if we shall get aught to eat,Till we get there, save raw polonies:

Until at last the “grey old pile”Is seen, is past, and three hours laterWe’re ordering steaks, and talking vileMock-German to an Austrian waiter.

* * *

Königswinter, hateful Königswinter!Burying-place of all I loved so well!Never did the most extensive printerPrint a tale so dark as thou could’st tell!

In the sapphire West the eve yet lingered,Bathed in kindly light those hill-tops cold;Fringed each cloud, and, stooping rosy-fingered,Changed Rhine’s waters into molten gold;—

While still nearer did his light waves splinterInto silvery shafts the streaming light;And I said I loved thee, Königswinter,For the glory that was thine that night.

And we gazed, till slowly disappearing,Like a day-dream, passed the pageant by,And I saw but those lone hills, uprearingDull dark shapes against a hueless sky.

Then I turned, and on those bright hopes ponderedWhereof yon gay fancies were the type;And my hand mechanically wanderedTowards my left-hand pocket for a pipe.

Ah! why starts each eyeball from its socket,As, in Hamlet, start the guilty Queen’s?There, deep-hid in its accustomed pocket,Lay my sole pipe, smashed to smithereens!

* * *

On, on the vessel steals;Round go the paddle-wheels,And now the tourist feelsAs he should;For king-like rolls the Rhine,And the scenery’s divine,And the victuals and the wineRather good.

From every crag we pass’llRise up some hoar old castle;The hanging fir-groves tasselEvery slope;And the vine her lithe arms stretchesO’er peasants singing catches—And you’ll make no end of sketches,I should hope.

We’ve a nun here (called Therèse),Two couriers out of place,One Yankee, with a faceLike a ferret’s:And three youths in scarlet capsDrinking chocolate and schnapps—A diet which perhapsHas its merits.

And day again declines:In shadow sleep the vines,And the last ray through the pinesFeebly glows,Then sinks behind yon ridge;And the usual evening midgeIs settling on the bridgeOf my nose.

And keen’s the air and cold,And the sheep are in the fold,And Night walks sable-stoledThrough the trees;And on the silent riverThe floating starbeams quiver;—And now, the saints deliverUs from fleas.

* * *

Avenues of broad white houses,Basking in the noontide glare;—Streets, which foot of traveller shrinks from,As on hot plates shrinks the bear;—

Elsewhere lawns, and vista’d gardens,Statues white, and cool arcades,Where at eve the German warriorWinks upon the German maids;—

Such is Munich:—broad and stately,Rich of hue, and fair of form;But, towards the end of August,Unequivocallywarm.

There, the long dim galleries threading,May the artist’s eye behold,Breathing from the “deathless canvass”Records of the years of old:

Pallas there, and Jove, and Juno,“Take” once more “their walks abroad,”Under Titian’s fiery woodlandsAnd the saffron skies of Claude:

There the Amazons of RubensLift the failing arm to strike,And the pale light falls in massesOn the horsemen of Vandyke;

And in Berghem’s pools reflectedHang the cattle’s graceful shapes,And Murillo’s soft boy-facesLaugh amid the Seville grapes;

And all purest, loveliest fanciesThat in poets’ souls may dwellStarted into shape and substanceAt the touch of Raphael.—

Lo! her wan arms folded meekly,And the glory of her hairFalling as a robe around her,Kneels the Magdalene in prayer;

And the white-robed Virgin-motherSmiles, as centuries back she smiled,Half in gladness, half in wonder,On the calm face of her Child:—

And that mighty Judgment-visionTells how man essayed to climbUp the ladder of the ages,Past the frontier-walls of Time;

Heard the trumpet-echoes rollingThrough the phantom-peopled sky,And the still voice bid this mortalPut on immortality.

* * *

Thence we turned, what time the blackbirdPipes to vespers from his perch,And from out the clattering cityPass’d into the silent church;

Marked the shower of sunlight breakingThro’ the crimson panes o’erhead,And on pictured wall and windowRead the histories of the dead:

Till the kneelers round us, rising,Cross’d their foreheads and were gone;And o’er aisle and arch and cornice,Layer on layer, the night came on.

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