CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY Iff W FROM The Carnegie Cor.xjration Cornell University Library PR1195.V3L58 A book of light verse, 3 1924 013 293 257 Cornell University Library The original of tliis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013293257 A BOOK OF LIGHT VERSE E^ A BOOK OF LIGHT VERSE EDITKO l;V R. M. LEONARD From witty men antl mad, All poetry conception had. Randolph HENRY FROWDE OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS LONDON, NEW YORK, TORONTO AND MELBOURNE 1910 PKEFACE Mr. Swinbukne, in his essay on ' Social Verse ', declared that there was no better or completer anthology than Mr. F. Locker-Lampson's Lyra Elegantiarum ; ' a collection of some of the best specimens of vers de societi and vers (P occasion in the English language by deceased authors ' which was indeed incomparable, and has been heavily laid under contri- bution for the present volume. If Mr. Locker-Lampson were alive to bring out a twentieth-century edition of his collection, he would, as a matter of course, make many additions and omissions, especially if space had to be studied. In his 1867 edition there are 24 authors and 52 poems which find no place in that published nearly a quarter of a century later, and the latter contains 38 authors and 130 poems which the earlier volume lacks. Mr. Locker-Lampson expresses regret that he was prevented by his rule from giving specimens of the writings of living poets ; the Fates have so willed that the present editor is able to include poems by Robert Browning, Lord Tennyson, Lord Houghton, Sir Theodore Martin, C. S. Calverley, Lewis Carroll, 0- W. Holmes, J. R. Lowell, and others, English and American, particularly mentioned in the prefaces to Lyra Elegantiarum, as well as examples of Mr. Locker-Lampson's own delightful compositions. There are in the present collection upwards of 60 poets, contributing between them 120 poems, whose names will not be found in the last edition of the older anthology. The newer poetry has necessitated omissions, but some would have been made in any ease, for canons of taste are not fixed once for all, and an editor to-day would be foolish who did not seek to jjrofit by the criticism of Mr. Swinburne and other fine judges of poetry. The scope of this volume, too, is not quite so restricted in intention as was that of Lyra vi PREFACE ElegaiUiarum. But neither Mr. Locker-Lampson, nor his chief critic, Mr. Swinburne, was able to keep within the limits which the former laid down. Mr. Locker-Lampson, for example, omits Waller's ' Go Lovely Rose ' as ' too highly poetical ', and Herrick's ' To Blossoms ' and ' To Daffodils ' as ' too elevated ', but he gives Mrs. Barbauld's Ij'ric on death, ' Life ! I know not what thou art ' ; he stipulates that ' brevity and buoj'ancy are absolutely essential ', and yet gives Swift's ' The Grand Question Debated '. For Mr. Swinburne's departures from the narrow path his essay may be consulted. Generally, however, the present editor has kept Mr. Locker-Lampson's touchstone before him, and has availed himself freely of the admirable editing, the almost invariably sound choice, and the interesting notes in Lyra Elegantiarum. In that volume (to quote from the original preface) and in this : — ' Fables, prologues, rhymed anecdotes, and pieces of purely ophomcral interest, such as satirical or political squibs, have been generally avoided, as well as those specimens which expand into real song or crystallize into mere epigram, tliough in these oases, as already observed, t!io border line is often extremely difficult of definition. Kiddles, paradoxes, and punning couplets are for the most part omitted ; not, as some readers may suppose, because they are contemptible, for nothing is contemptible that is really good of its kind ; but because they do not, strictly speaking, come within the scope of this work.' It would be difficult to find a better judge than Mr. Locker- Limpson, though, as already said, he found it impossible to maintain an exact line of demarcation, and bis definitions arc worth giving again. ' It uiay be as well to observe, that I'ers de societe need by no means be confined to topics of ailiticial life. Subjects of tlie most exalted, anil of the most trivial, character, may be treated with equal succcs.s, ])r(i\ide(l the manner of thoii- treatment is in accordance with the Jollowing characteristics, which the Editor vcntiucs to submit as expressive of his own ideas on this subject. In his judgement genuine verd de societe and vers d'occasiun should bo short, elegant, refined, and PREFACE vii fanciful, not seldom distinguished by chastened sentiment, and often playful. The tone should not be pitched high ; it should be idiomatic, and rather in the conversational key ; the rhythm should be crisp and sparkling, and the rhyme frequent and never forced, while the entire poem should be marked by tasteful moderation, high finish, and completeness : for, however trivial the subject-matter may be, indeed rather in proportion to its triviality, subordination to the rules of composition and perfection of execution should be strictly enforced. . . . The two qualities of brevity and buoyancy are absolutely essential. The poem may be tinctured with a well-bred philosophy, it may be gay and gallant, it may be playfully malicious or tenderly ironical, it may display lively banter, and it may be satirically facetious ; it may even, considering it merely as a work of art, be pagan in its philosophy, or trifling in its tone, but it must never be ponderous or common-place. . . . The chief merit of vers de societe is, that it should seem to be entirely spontaneous : when the reader says to himself, " I could have written that, and easily too," he pays the poet the highest possible compliment. At the same time it is right to observe that this absence of effort, as recognized in most works of real excellence, is only apparent ; the writing of vers de societe is a difficult accomplishment, and no one has fully succeeded in it without possessing a certain gift of irony, which is not only a much rarer quality than humour, or even wit, but is altogether lass commonly met with than is sometimes imagined. At the same time this description of poetry seems so easy to write that a long catalogue of authors, both famous and obscure, have attempted it, but in the great majority of cases with very indifferent success. This frequent liability to failure will excite less surprise if it be borne in mind that the possession of the true poetic faculty is not sufficient of itself to guarantee capacity for this inferior branch of the art of versification. The \Miter of vers de societe, in order to be genuinely successful, must not only be more or less of a poet, but he must also be a man of the world, in the most liberal sense of the expression ; he must have mixed throughout his life with the most refined and cultivated members of his species, not merely as an idle bystander, but as a busy actor in the throng. A professed poet, however exalted hLs faculty, will seldom write the best vers de societe, just because writing is the business of his life ; for it appears to be an essential characteristic of these brilliant trifles, that they should be thrown off in the leisure moments of men whose lives are devoted to graver pursuits. Swift viii PREFACE was an ardent politician ; Piior a zealous ambassador ; Suckling, Praed, and Landor were essentially men of action ; even Cowper was no recluse, but a man of the world, forced by mental suffering into a state of modified seclusion. Indeed, it may be affirmed of most of the authors quoted in tliis volume — and it is curious to see what a large proportion of them are men of a certain social position — that they submitted their intellects to the monotonous grindstone of worldly business, and that their poetical compositions were like the sparks which fly off and prove the generous quality of the metal thus applied ; and it must be remembered, to pursue the simile, that but for tlie dull grindstone, however finely tempered the metal might be, there would be no sparks at all : in other words, the wiiter of iccs de societc needs perpetual contact with the world.' When Lyra Elegantiarum first appeared, the art of writing light verse — ' where a boudoir decorum is, or ought to be, preserved ; where sentiment never surges into passion, and where humour never overflows into boisterous merriment ' — had fallen upon evil days. Now, happilj-, there are several living poets who have revived, or who now cultivate, the art, and no invidious comx^arisons need be provoked by the mention of Mr. Austin Dobson, Mi-. Andrew Lang, Sir W. S. Gilbert, Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch, Mr. A. D. Godley, and Mr. Owen Seaman. The work of living authors is, however, necessarily excluded from this volume. No one who reads through the following pages carefully can fail to be struck with the modern characteristics of much old poetry which age cannot either. It is often impossible to realize, for instance, that Prior has been dead for nearly two centuries. Not only may the reader say ' I could have written that ', but also ' It might have been written yesterday '. Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch has noted ' how constantly and curiously Jonson, especially in the Underwoods, seems to anticipate the best and something more than the best, manner of Browning ' ; especially mentioning ' The Triumph of Charis ' as a case in point. A slight modification here and there, or an occasional PREFACE ix omission, has enabled the present editor, as it enabled Mr. Locker-Lamxjson, to include poems which would be otherwise unsuitable for a popular anthology. If justifica- tion be required for changing, by the substitution of one word for another, what some might regard as blasphemy into a classical allusion, or what all must regard as indecency into innocent merriment, Mr. Swinburne himself may bo pressed into service. ' That to enact the part of Bowdler,' Mr. Swinburne says, ' should ever be a thankless part to j)lay ill any case of obvious or apparent necessity reflects little credit on the taste and judgement of those whose objections or whose ridicule would make it so. More nauseous and more foolish cant was never chattered than that which would deride the memory or depreciate the merits of Bowdler.' Mr. Swinburne's tribute to Mr. Locker-Lamjpson's skill in the case of Swift will be found in the notes at the end of this volume. It may be explained that orthography has been modernized, and that the poems have been grouped according to their subject, and printed as a general rule in chronological order of the authors within the groups. No compiler of an anthology can expect to please everybody, for the personal equation is ineradicable, but none can dis- pute that in light verse there is an extraordinary amount of imperishable poetry which glorifies the English language. The editor is grateful to those who have enabled him to make the collection as complete and representative as it is : to Lord Tennyson for permission to include Charles Tennyson Turner's sonnet ; to Sir Herbert Stephen, Bart., for poems by hi.s brother, J. K. Stephen ; to Mr. Theodore Watts-Dunton, for various poems by Swinburne, whose essay has also been indispensable ; to Mr. Edward Garnett, for Richard Garnett's poem; to Messrs. George Bell & Sons, Ltd., for the copyright poems of C. S. Calverley reprinted from Fly Leaves, and for CoNcntry Patmore's honeymoon lines ; to Messrs. AVilliam Blackwood & Sons, for the Earl of Rosslyn's poem. Sir a3 X PREFACE Theodore Martin's parody of Tennyson (from the Bon Gaultier Ballads), and H. D. Traill's verses ; to Messrs. Chatto & Windus, for R. L. Stevenson's lines to Mr. Andrew Lang ; to Messrs. Ellis for Dante Gabriel Rossetti's sonnet ; to the Houghton Mifflin Co., for the poems by Bret Harte, J. G. Saxe, and Whittier, and for 0. W. Holmes's copyright poem L'Inconnue ; to Messrs. Macmillan & Co., for Charles Kingsley's 'Invitation' (to Tom Hughes); to Messrs. Metcalfe & Co., for A. C. Hilton's parody ; to Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons, for a poem by H. C. Bunner ; and to Messrs. Smith, Elder & Co., for Robert Browning's ' The Pope and the Net '. R. M. L. ALPHABETICAL LIST OF AUTHORS WITH THE TITLES OF THEIR POEMS Adams, John Quincy (1767-1848). ^io To Sally . . 424 Aldrich, Henry (1647-1710). Reasons for Drinking . . . 392 Ayton, Sir Robert (1570-1638). I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair . ... 109 Woman's Inconstancy ..... . . 108 AiTODN, William Edmondstouke (1813-05). The Lay of the Levitc . . . . 00 Baillie, Joanna (1702-1851). To a Kitten. ......... 331 Baeham, Richard Harris (Thomas Ingoldsbv) (1788-1845). Eheii Fugaces .... . . . 445 My Letters ... . . 367 New-Made Honour ... .411 The Poplar .......... 3I8 Barnard, Thomas, Bishop of Killaloe and Limerick (1728-1806). Improvement in the Forties . ..... 389 Barnes, William (1801-80). Bleako's House in Blackmwore ...... 306 Bath, Earl of. See Pultenev. Bayly, Thomas Haynes (1797-1839). A Novel of High Life ........ 279 The Archery Meeting ..... . . 201 Behn, Aphra (1040-89). Love in fantastic triumpli sate ...... 58 BiCKERSTAFFE, ISAAC (d. 1812 ?). An Expostulation ........ 140 Bishop, Samuel (1731-95). To Hia Wife on the Fourteenth Anniversary of their Wedding . 269 To His Wife on the Sixteenth Anniversary of their Wedding . 270 Blake, William (1757-1827). Never seek to tell thy love ....... 139 To the Muses 270 Why was Cupid a boy . . . . . . . , 101 xii ALPHABETICAL LIST OF AUTHORS AND TITLES Bheton, Nicholas (1545 V-1G2G :'). A Farewell to Town Phillida and Corydon . Brome, Alexander (1620-00). Love unaccountable Brooks, Charles William yHiRLEV (1810-74). Dixit, et in mensam — • . Browne, Isaac Hawkins (1705-60). A Pipe of Tobacco Blest leaf ! who.ge aromatic gales dispense Little tube of mighty power . Browne, William (1591-1643 ?). Venus, by Adonis' side . What Wight he Loved . BttovvNiNG, Elizabeth Barrett (1806-61). A Man's Requirements . Amy's Cruelty .... May's Love ..... My Kate . ... Brownino, Robert (1812-SU). Garden Fancies .... Sibrandus Scliafnaburgcnsis The Flower's Name Nationality in Drinlcs . The Lost Mistress The Pope and the Net . Youth and Art .... Buchanan, Robert (1841-1'JOl). In London on Saturday night , Bulwer-Lytton. See Lytton. BunnEE, Henry Cuyler (1855-96). The Chaperon .... Burns, Robert (1759-90). Bonnie Lesley Duncan Gray Butler, Samuel (1012-80). Hypocrisy .... The Religion of Hudihras Byrom, John (1092-1763). A JacobitB Toast Byron, George Gordon, Lord (1788- FarcwcU to Malta. Fill the goblet again First Love 4 . . . 1824), 412, 322, no. 293 131 50 202 413 413 412 102 125 166 104 174 463 , 323 323 322 402 152 237 45 301 203 119 262 239 227 408 425 396 54 ALPHABETICAL LIST OF AUTHORS AND TITLES xiii Byron, George Gordon, Lord (1788-1824) eonld. Lines to Mr. Hodgson ..... Oh, talk not to me of a name great in .-itory Stanzas to Augilsta ... Sublime Tobacco .... To Thomas Moore Calverley, Charles Stuart (1831-S4). A, B, C Ballad (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) Beer ' Hie Vir, Hie Est ' Lovers, and a Refieetion Ode to Tobacco . Proverbial Philosophy . Cajipeell, Thomas (1777-1844). Epistle from Algiers Margaret and Dora Campion, Thomas (15C7-I620). Cherry-Ripe Jack and Joan My Sweetest Lesbia Never love unless you can Think' st thou to seduce me Thou art not fair . When to her lute Corinna sings Canning, Georoe (1770-1827). A Political Dispatch Song by Rogero . Canning, George, and John Hookham Pre Imitation of Southey . Sapphics (Needy Knife-grindor) Carew, Thomas (1595 ?-1639 ?). Ask me no more where Jove bestows Disdain Returned .... Mediocrity in Love rejected . Ungrateful Beauty threatened Caeey, Henry (d. 1743). Sally in Our Alley ' Carroll, Lewis '. See Dodgson. Cayley, George John (d. 1878). An Epitaph ...... CiiALKinLL, John (fl. 1000). Coridon's Song (Oh, the sweet contentment) . Oh, the brave fisher's life 132 208 303 347 ;xiv ALPHABETICAL LIST OF AUTHORS AND TlTLKb Chaucer, Geoffrev (1340 ?-1400). so. To Rosemounde ......... 107 f'llKSTERFIELD, EaEL OF. See iSTANnOPE. Cleveland, John (10I:!-58). ' Had Cain been 8cot . 427 Ci.ntTGH, Arthur Hugh (181fl-Gl). Spectator ab Extra 410 The Latest Decalogue ........ 238 Coleridge, Hartley (1796-1849). She is not fair to outward view ...... 120 To a Proud Kinswoman . . . . . . .14 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor (1772-1834). Cologne ... 429 Names .... ..... 71 The Devil's Thoughts 222 The Exchange . CO Collins, John (d. 1808). To-morrow .......... 442 Collins, Mortimer (1827-76). Ad Chloen, M.A 28 Collins, William (1721-59). Dirge for Fidele ... .... 468 CoxoREVE, William (1670-1729). A Hue and Cry after Fair Amorct .... 187 Pious Selinda . . . . .229 Sabina Wakes ......... 147 Corbet, Richard, Bishop of Oxford and of Norwich (1582-1635). Farewell, rewards and fairies . ... 228 To Vincent Corbet. His Son ... . 2(1 Cowley, Abraham (1618-67). Drinking . . . . . . 393 The Chronicle . . ... 128 Tlie Wish . . 440 To His Mistress 92 Without and Within .... ... 148 Cowper, William (1731-1800). An Epitaph (on a Pointer) ....... 329 Catharina ... 302 Epitaph on a Hare ........ 335 Gratitude 99 On tlic Death ol Mrs. Throckmorton's Bullfinch . . 3.39 The Jackdaw 338 To Mrs. Throckmorton, on Her Transcript of Hor.acc 284 To my Cousin, Anne Bodliam . . . 13 ALPHABETICAL LIST OF AUTHORS AND TITLES xv 98). CowPER, William (llSl-lSOO)—conld. To the Immortal Memory of a Halibut . To the Rev. William Bull .... Crashaw, Richard (1C13 ?-49). Wishes for the Supposed Mistress Daniel, Samuel (1562-1619). Love is a sickness ..... Davenant, Sir William (1606-08). The lark now leaves his watery nest The Soldier going to the Field De La Waer. See West. DoDGSoN, Charles Lutwidge (Lewis Carroll) (1832 ' You are old. Father William ' . . . Donne, John (1573-1631). Go and catch a falling star . The Bait Dorset, Earl of. See Sackville, Charles, Drayton, Michael (1563-1631). Immortality in Song The Crier To His Coy Love .... Drummond, William (1585-1649). Like the Idalian queen Dryden, John (1631-1700). A Pair well matched Fortune Ecre:\iont, Earl of. See Wyndham. Emerson, Ralph Waldo (1803-82). Fable Erskine, Francis Robert St. Clair, Earl of Rosslyn (1833-90). Bedtime ..... . . Etherege, Sir George (1635 ?-91). Carpe Diem ..... Fanshawe, Catherine Maria (1765-1834) Enigma on the Letter H. Fielding, Henry (1707-54). An Epistle to Sir R. Walpole To Celia .... To Sir R. Walpole Flatman, Thomas (1637-88). On Marriage ..... Fletcher, John (1.579-1625). Hear ye, ladies, that despise Now the lusty Spring is seen NO. 349 414 126 53 146 246 480 170 346 63 55 150 310 177 218 334 9 . 184 . 285 . 360 . 296 . 359 . 257 33 32 xvi ALPHABETICAL LIST OF AUTHORS AND TITLES Fletcher, John (\^)^Q-l^|•2^>) — cotild. Women's Longing . Frerk, Johk HooKifAM (1769-1840). A Fable for Five Years Old See Cannixc, and Frere. rjARN'ETT, Richard (1835-190(1). Our master, Meleagcr . Gay, John (1685-1732). A Ballad on Quadrille . A Fragment . An Elegy on u, Lap-dog Arcadia Black-eyed Susan . The Lady's Lamentation Goldsmith, Oliver (1728-74). llrs. Mary Blaize . Retaliation . The Haunch o£ Venison Gray, Thomas (1710-71). A Long Story .... Ode on the Death of a Favourite Cat Habington, William (1005-54). To Roses, in the Bosom of Castara .... Harinoton, Sir John (1561-1612). Against Writers that carp at other Men's Books Harte, Francis Bret (1839-1902). Plain Language from Truthful James .... Heber, Reginald (1783-1826). Sympathy ......... Herbert, Edward, Lord Herbert of Cherbitrv (1583-1048). Now that the April of your youth adorns .... Herrick, Robert (1591-1674). A Ring presented to Julia . A Ternary of Littles An Ode for Ben Jonson Delight in Disorder His Prayer to Ben Jonson How Springs Came First Jnlia's Bed . The Bracelet to Julia . The Headache The Night Piece, to Julia The Primrose To Carnations NO. 439 21 281 ALPHABETICAL LIST OF AUTHORS AND TITLES xvii Hekkick, Robert (1591-1674) — conld. To Dianeme ....... To Electra To his Mistress objecting to him neither Toying or Talking To his Peculiar Friend, Mr. John Wicks To Meadows. To Oenone ..... To the Virgins to make much of Time . To Virgins . . . . Upon Julia's Clothes Hevwood, John (U97 V-luSO ?). A Praise of His Lady ... . . Heywood, Thomas (d. 1650 ;). The Message .... The Nations .... Hilton, Arthur Clement (1851-77). The Heathen Pass-ee . Holmes, Oliver Wendell (1809-U4). Contentment .... L'Inconnue ..... On lending a Punch Bowl The Last I.«a£ .... To an Insect .... Hood, Thomas (1799-1845). Faithless Nelly Gray My mother bids me spend my smiles No! Ode on a Distant Prospect of Clapham Our Village ..... ' Please to ring the Belle ' The Broken Dish . The Flower . The Superiority of Machinery To (Composed at Rotterdam) To Minerva ..... Written in a Young Lady's Album Hood, Thomas — the Younger (1835-74). Poets and Linnets Houghton, Lord. See Milnes. Hunt, James Henry Leigh (1784-1809). Jenny kissed me when wc met ' Incoldsby, Thomas.' See Baruam. Jago, Richard (1715-81). Willi leaden foot time trccpB along . Academy NU. 42 75 136 373 u26 06 41 40 86 111 330 90 26 444 72 400 450 345 251 273 297 22 305 265 474 325 252 423 419 446 480 79 121 xviii ALPHABETICAL LIST OF AUTHORS AND TITLES Jeffrey, Francis, Lord Jeffeev (1773-1850), Why write my name .... Johnson, Samuel (1709-84). Epigram (on Colley Gibber) . If the man who turnips cries One-and-twenty To Mrs. Thrale . Jones, Sir William (174(i-94). On parent knees . JoNSON, Benjamin (1573 7-1637). Epitaph on Salathiel Pavy . If I freely may discover Inviting a Friend to Supper Still to be neat . That Women are but Men's Shadows The Triumph of Charis . To Celia Vivamus .... Jordan, Thomas (l(jl2 ?-85). The Careless Gallant Keats, John (1795-1821). Epistle to J. H. Reynolds The Mermaid Tavern . KiNGSLEY, Charles (1819-75). My Little Doll . The Invitation (To Tom Hughes) Lamb, Charles (1775-1834). A Farewell to Tobacco . A Sonnet on Christian Names Hester . Parental Recollections . Lamb, William, Viscount Melbourne 'Tis late, and I must haste away Landor, Walter S.\v.\oe (1775-1864) An Ancient Rh3'me Botany Dirce . ... Household Gods . How many voices gaily sing . I remember the time ere his temples lanthe's Shell In Clementina's artless mien Ireland never was contented . Mother, I cannot mind my wheel New Stylo (I very much indeed approve NO. 447 (177 9-1848), grey ALPHABETICAL LIST OF AUTHORS AND TITLES xix Landok, Walter Savage (1770-1864) — contd. No, my own love of other years . Old t>tyle (Aurelius, Sire of Hungrinesses) One 3ear ago my path was green . Proud word you never spoke Rose's Birthday . The Cistus . The Dragon Fly . The Gifts returned The maid I love ne'er thought of me The vessel that rests here at last There are some wishes that may start To Alfred Tennyson To E. Arundell . To E. F. (So doubt thy little bosom beats) To Leigh Hunt Twenty years hence my eyes may grow AVell I remember how you smiled . Yes : I write verses now and then Youth Lee, Sathasiel (1653 r-ioai). Blush not redder than the morning Lelakd, Charles Godfrey (182-1-1903). Hans Breitmann's Barty Locker-Lampsox, Frederick (1821-95). X Nice Correspondent . On an Old Muil . Piccadilly !>t. James's Street The Jester's Plea . To My Grandmother To lly Mistress's Boots Lo>'GrELLOw, Henry AVadsworth (1807-82) Catawba Wine .... Lovelace, Richard (1618-58). Gratiana dancing, and singing The Merit of Inconstancy To Althea from Prison . To Amarantha To Lucasta, on going to the Warb. Lowell, James Russell (1819-91). Auf wiedersehcn . • • ■ The Courtin' Without and Within xo. 452 378 189 192 387 321 344 271 78 453 455 370 320 263 280 460 67 206 31 44 379 366 95 298 300 225 457 94 401 205 183 220 91 245 497 133 204 XX ALPHABETICAL LIST OF AUTHORS AND TITLES LuTTKELL, Henry- (17G5 ?-1851). s-T, Robert, Eahl Nugent (1702-S8). Perjury ..... O'Kleffe, Jons (1747-1833). Amo, amas ...... Oldham, John (1653-83). The Cup Oldmixon, John (1673-1742). I lately vowed, but 'twas in haste. Oldys, William (1696-1761). Busy, curious, thirsty fly ... . Okfokd, Eakl of. See Wali'OLE. Otway, Thomas (1652-85). The Enchantment ...... Oxford, Eael of. See Verb. Pabnell, Thomas (1079-1718). When thy beauty appears .... Patmore, Coventry Kersey Diuhton (1823-96). Disappointment The Kiss The Rosy-bosomed Hours Valour Misdirected Peacock, Thomas Love (1785-1866). In his last hinn Sir Peter lies Llyn-y-Dreiddiad-Vrawd (The Pool o£ the Diving Love and Age . . ... Rich and Poor . ... Song by Mr. Cypress .... The War Song of Dinas Vawr PniLiFS, Ambrose (1675 ?-1749). To Charlotte Pulteney 'Pindar, Peter.' See Wolcot. Pope, Alexander (1688-1744). Epitaph for one who would not be buried in Wostmlnstcr Abbey On a Certain Lady at Court .... Prudery ....... The Happy Life of a Country Parson . To Mr. Thomas Southerne .... To Mrs. Martha Blount .... To Quinbus Flestrin Pope, Walter (d. 1714). The Old Man's Wish . . . . Praed, AViNTHRor Mackworth (1802-39). A Letter of Advice ..... Good-night to the Season .... 'riar) . NO. 182 118 398 188 343 59 114 260 82 267 144 397 233 458 223 483 249 467 197 196 232 385 384 431 414 364 199 Axii ALPHABETICAL LIST OF AUTHORS AND TITLES Pkaed, Wixthrop Mackwouth (1802-39) — conld. xo. . 250 18 . .210 212 . 307 . 23 . 243 Mars disarmed by Love My Little Cousins. One More Quadrille Our Ball Quince ..... School and Schoolfellows Stanzas to the Speaker asleep The Belle of the Ball-room ... . 209 The Chaunt of tlie Brazen Head 224 The Talented Man 365 Tlie Vicar .... . . . 234 pRiOli, Mattuew (1064-1721). A Dutch Proverb ..... 155 A Letter (Lady Margaret Hailey) . 8 A Paraphrase from the French . 247 A Reasonable Affliction . 261 Answer to Cliloe Jealous 158 Cupid Mistaken . . ... 103 Kpigram (To John I owed great obligation) 299 Epitaph on himself . 466 For my own Monument . . 465 Her Right Name ... .68 The Female Phaeton . 194 The Garland .... 464 The Lady who oflers her Looking-glass to A'cniis 443 The Merchant, to secure his trca.surc . . 69 The Question to Lisetta . . . 162 Tlie Remedy worse than the Disease 420 The Secretary . . 422 To a Child of Quality . . . . . 1 ' Pkout, Father.' See Mauosy. PuLTENEV, Sib William, Eaul ok Bath (1684-1763). On the Dowager Lady E. H — d .... . 450 Ralegh, Sib Walter (1552 V- 1618). His Love admits no Rival ....... 141 The Mymph's Reply . . 160 lUNDOLru, Thomas (1605-35). The Poet . 193 Rochester, Earl of. See \A'ilmot. ROCBRS, S.\.->iUEL (1763-1855). Melancholy ... ... . 217 The Robin's (.Iravc . 340 ALPHABETICAL LIST OF AUTHORS AND TITLES xxiii RossETTi, Christina Georoina (1830-91). A Birthday ... My Seciet . . ... ' No, thank you, John ' . RossETTi. Dante Gabriel (1S28-82). A Match with the Moon .... RossLYN, Earl or. See Ebskine. S.\CKViLLE, Charles, Eakl or Dorset (IG38-170G) A Ballad when at Sea . Dorinda ...... Maj' the ambitious ever find Tlie Advice ...... The dainty young heiress .S.\xe. John- Godfrey (1816-87). The Mourner a la Mode Scott, Sir Walter (1771-18.32). Oh say not, my love Sedley, Sir Charles (1639 ?-1701). Child and Maiden ..... Not, Celia, that I juster am . Phillis, men say that all my aows Shakespeare, William (1564-1616). Mistress mine ..... AVho will believe my verse . Shellev, Percy' Bysshe (1792-1 822). Good-night ...... Love's Philosopliy .... To Maria Gisborne With a GiMtar, to Jane Shenstone, William (1714-63). Written at an Inn at Henley Sheridan, Richard Brinsley (1751-1816). 1 ne'er could any lustre see . The Waltz Sidney, Sir Philip (1554-86). Grammar-Rules ..... Inspiration ...... Look in tliy heart and write Wooing Stuff ..... Skelton, John (1460 V-l.">2'.i). To Mistress Margaret Hussey Smith, Horatio (1779-1849). An Address to the Mummy iu Bclzoni's Exhibition NO. 388 274 165 81 254 105 113 39 295 469 390 3 179 180 38 65 496 80 :^62 290 405 145 207 a 135 61 62 134 350 470 xxiv ALPHABETICAL LIST OF AUTHORS AND TITLES Smith, James (1775-1839). The Baby's Debut ... ... The Poet of Fashion Smollett, Tobias Georob (1721-71). When Sappho tuned the raptured strain SouTHEY, Robert (1774-1843). A Portrait in Delia's Parlour ..... Spenceb, William Egbert (1769-1834). To Lady Anne Hamilton ...... Spenser, Edmund (1552 ?-99). One day I wrote her name . . ... Stanhope, Philip Dormer, Earl of Chesterfield (IG94-1773). Advice to a I*idy in Autumn Stanley, Thomas (1625-78). A Deposition from Beauty Stephen, James Kesseth (1859-92). A Political Allegory A Sonnet (Two voices are there) . Senex to Matt. Prior . Sincere Flattery of R. B. . Sincere Flattery of W. S. (Mr.) . Sincere Flattery of W. W. (Americanus) To C. S. C Stevenson, Robert Louis (1850-94). To Andrew Lang .... Still, John, Bishop of Bath and Wells Ale Stirling -Ma XWKLL, Lady. See Norton. Suckling, Sir John (1609-42). A Ballad upon a Wedding A Toast I prithee send me back my heart Love and Debt .... Out upon it, I have loved . The Siege Why so pale and wan, fond lover Swift, Jonathan (1667-1745). Mary the Cook-maid's Letter Mrs. Frances Harris' Petition Poetry and Love .... Stella's Birthday, 1718 . Stella's Birthday, 1720 . Stella's Birthday, 1724 . Stella's Birtkday, 1726 . (1.543 y-1008). ALPHABETICAL LIST OF AUTHORS AND TITLES xxv 02). 1-03), Swift, Jonathan (1667-1745) — contd. The Grand Question Debated Swinburne, Algernon Chakles (1837-1909), A Match . . . . A Rhyme An Interlude Neplielidia ..... Sonnet for a Picture The Person of the House (Tlie Kid) To a Cat Taylor, Bayard (1825-78). Cimabuella ..... Tennyson, Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809- Hendecasyllabics . Made at The Cock The Blackbird The Goose . The Miller's Daughter . To the Rev. F. D. Maurice . Thackeray, William Makepeace (181 A Ballad of Bouillabaisse Ad Ministram At the .Church Gate Peg of Limavaddy Sorrows of Werther The Age of Wisdom Tlie Battle of Limerick . The Cane-bottomed Chair The Mahogany Tree The Yankee Volunteers Traill, Henkv Duff (1842-1900) After Dilettante Concetti Vers de Socicto Turner, Charle.s Tennyson (1808-79) Letty's Globe Veee, Edward de. Earl of Oxford A Renunciation Waller, Ed.mund (1606-87). On a Girdle .... Phoebus and Daphne . To a Lady singing To Mr. Henry Lawes . To the younger Lady Lucy Sydney Walpole, Horace, Earl op Orford (1719-97 To Madame de Damas, learning English (1550-1604), NO. 248 178 73 495 494 493 333 491 282 407 342 341 93 368 409 377 236 436 476 391 438 100 370 253 492 200 10 107 89 190 289 291 432 xxvi ALPHABETICAL LIST OF AUTHORS AND TITLES Walsh, William (1603-1708). Against Marriage .... Rivals in Love .... Wrsley, Samuel (1691-1739). What man had nob rather be poor West, John, Eael De La Warr (1729-77) Fair Hebe and Reason . Whitehead, William (1715-8.')). Je ne sals qiioi .... WniTTiER, John Greenleaf (1807-92). In School-days .... W1LLIAM.S, Sir Charles Hanburv (1708-59). Come, Chloe, and give me sweet kisses WiLMOT, John, Earl op Rochester (1647-80). A Song (Too late, alas !) Epitaph on Charles II . I promised Sylvia . Insulting Beauty .... Love and Life The Mistress .... Upon his Drinking in a Bowl Woman's Honour .... Wither, George (1588-1667). A Stolen Kiss .... Amaryllis I did woo I loved a lass, a fair one Shall I, wasting in despair . Wni.coT, John (Peter Pindar) (1738-1819), ilarians Complaint To a Fish of the Brooke To a Kiss .... Wordsworth, William (1770-I8.')0). The Kitten and Falling Leaves The Tables Turned WdTTON, Sir Hexrv (1568-1039). On his Mistress, the Queen of Bohemia Wv.iTT, Sir Thomas (1503 ?-42). Blame not my Lute To his Lute WvNDHAM, Sir Cilarles, Earl of Egre.mont (1 The Fair Thief . YoNOB, Sir William (d. 1755). The Wheedler 10-63). ALPHABETICAL LIST OF AUTHORS AND TITLES xxvii Unkxowx. Love in thy youth, fair maid Love not me for comely grace Marriage (A man may live tlniee Nestor's lite) My Love in her attire dotli show her wit On the Marriage Act . Repentance . Sweet Suffolk Owl The White Rose When Molly smiles beneath her cow NO. 37 51 258 84 266 230 337 316 231 A BOOK OF LIGHT VERSE 1. TO A CHILD OP QUALITY, FIVE YEARS OLD, 1704, THE AUTHOR THEN FORTY LoBBS, knights and squires, the numerous band That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters, Were summoned by her high command To show their passions by their letters. My pen amongst the rest I took, Lest those bright eyes that cannot read Should dart their kindling iires, and look The power they have to be obeyed. Nor quality, nor reputation. Forbids me yet my flame to tell ; Dear five-years-old befriends my passion. And I may write till she can spell. For, while she makes her silkworms' beds With all the tender things I swear ; Whilst all the house my passion reads In papers round her baby's hair ; She may receive and own my flame. For, though the strictest prudes should know it, She'll pass for a most virtuous dame, And I for an unhappy poet. Then too, alas ! when she shall tear The lines some younger rival sends ; She'll give me leave to write, I fear. And we shall still continue friends. For, as our different ages move, 'Tis so ordained (would Fate but mend it !) That I shall be past making love, When she begins to comprehend it. M. Peior. E. u y. B 2. TO THE YOUNGER LADY LUCY SYDNEY Why came I so untimely forth Into a world which, wanting thee. Could entertain us with no worth. Or shadow of felicity ? That time should me so far remove Erom that which I was born to love. Yet, fairest Blossom 1 do not slight That eye which you may know so soon ; The rosy morn resigns her light And milder splendours to the noon : If such thy dawning beauty's power Who shall abide its noon-tide hour ? Hope waits upon the flowery prime ; And summer though it be less gay. Yet is not looked on as a time Of declination or decay ; For with a full hand she doth bring All that was promised by the spring. E. Wallbe. 3. CHILD AND MAIDEN Ah, Chloris ! that I now could sit As unconcerned as when Your infant beauty could beget No pleasure, nor no pain ! When I the dawn used to admire And praised the coming day I little thought the growing fire Must take my rest away. Your charms in barmless childhood lay, Like metals in the mine ; Age from no face took more away Than youth concealed in thine But as your charms insensibly To their perfection pressed, Fond love as unperceived did fly. And in my bosom rest. CHILD AND MAIDEN My passion with your beauty grew ; And Cupid at my heart Still, as his mother favoured you. Threw a new flaming dart : Each gloried in their wanton part ; To make a lover, he Employed the utmost of his art — To make a beauty, she. SiK C. Sedley. 4. THE FAIR THIEF Bbfoke the urchin well could go. She stole the whiteness of the snow ; And more, that whiteness to adorn. She stole the blushes of the morn ; Stole all the sweetness ether sheds On primrose buds or violet beds. Still to reveal her artful wiles She stole the Graces' silken smiles : She stole Aurora's balmy breath ; And pilfered orient pearl for teeth : The cherry, dipped in morning dew. Gave moisture to her lips, and hue. These were her infant spoils, a store; And she in time still pilfered more ! At twelve, she stole from Cyprus' queen Her air and love- commanding mien ; Stole Juno's dignity ; and stole From Pallas sense to charm the soul. Apollo's wit was next her prey ; Her next the beam that lights the day ; She sang amazed the Sirens heard ; And to assert their voice appeared : She played ; the Muses from the hill Wondered who thus had stole their skill. Great Jove approved her crimes and art ; And, t'other day, she stole my heart ! If lovers, Cupid, are thy care. Exert thy vengeance on this Fair ; To trial bring her stolen charms. And let her prison be my arms. C. Wyndham, Eael of Egeemont. 5. A RHYME Babe, if rhyme be none For that sweet small word Babe, the sweetest one Ever heard. Bight it is and meet Bhyme should keep not true Time with such a sweet Thing as you. Meet it is that rhyme Should not gain such grace : What is April's prime To your face ? What to yours is May's Rosiest smile ? what sound Like your laughter sways All hearts round ? Kone can tell in metre Fit for ears on earth What sweet star grew sweeter At your birth. Wisdom doubts what may be : Hope, with smile sublime. Trusts : but neither, baby. Knows the rhyme. Wisdom lies down lonely ; Hope keeps watch from far ; None but one seer only Sees the star. Love alone, with yearning Heart for astrolabe, Takes the star's height, burning O'er the babe. A. C. Swinburne. 6. ON PARENT KNEES, A NAKED NEW-BORN CHILD On parent knees, a naked new-born child. Weeping thou sat'st while all around thee smiled : So live, that sinking to thy life's last sleep, Calm thou mayest smile, whilst all around thee weep. Sir W. Jones. 7. TO CHARLOTTE PULTENEY Timely blossom, infant fair, Fondling of a happy pair, Every morn and every night Their solicitous delight. Sleeping, waking, still at ease. Pleasing, without skill to please ; Little gossip, blithe and hale. Tattling many a broken tale. Singing many a tuneless song. Lavish of a heedless tongue ; Simple maiden, void of art, Babbling out the very heart. Yet abandoned to thy will. Yet imagining no ill. Yet too innocent to blush ; Like the linnet in the bush To the mother-linnet's note Moduling her slender throat ; Chirping forth thy petty joys. Wanton in the change of toys. Like the linnet green, in May Flitting to each bloomy spray ; Wearied then and glad of rest. Like the linnet in the nest : — This thy present happy lot. This in time will be forgot : Other pleasures, other cares. Ever- busy Time prepares ; And thou shalt in thy daughter see, This picture, once, resembled thee. A. Philips. 8. A LETTER To THE HONOUKABLB LaDY MaEQAHET CaVENDISH HaHLEY, WHEN A Child My noble, lovely, little Peggy, Let this my first epistle beg ye. At dawn of morn, and close of even. To lift your heart and hands to Heaven. In double beauty say your prayer : Our Father first, — then Notre Pire : A LETTER And, dearest child, along the day. In everything you do and say. Obey and please my lord and lady, So God shall love, and angels aid ye. If to these precepts you attend. No second letter need I send. And so I rest your constant friend. M. Prioe. 9. BEDTIME 'Tis bedtime ; say your hymn, and bid ' Good-night, ' God bless Mamma, Papa, and dear ones all,' Your half-shut eyes beneath your eyelids fall, Another minute you will shut them quite. Yes, I will carry you, put out the light. And tuck you up, although you are so tall ! What will you give me. Sleepy One, and call My wages, if I settle you all right ? I laid her golden curls upon my arm, I drew her little feet within my hand. Her rosy palms were joined in trustful bliss. Her heart next mine beat gently, soft and warm ; She nestled to me, and, by Love's command. Paid me my precious wages — ' Baby's kiss.'' F. Eeskine, Eakl of Rosslyn. 10. LETTY'S GLOBE When Letty had scarce passed her third glad year. And her young, artless words began to flow. One day we gave the child a coloured sphere Of the wide earth, that she might mark and know. By tint and outline, all its sea and land. She patted all the world ; old empires peeped Between her baby fingers ; her soft hand Was welcome at all frontiers. How she leaped. And laughed, and prattled in her world-wide bliss ; But when we turned her sweet unlearned eye On our own isle, she raised a joyous cry, ' Oh ! yes, I see it, Letty's home is there ! ' And, while she hid all England with a kiss, Bright over Europe fell her golden hair. 0. Tennyson Turner. 11. PARENTAL RECOLLECTIONS A CHILD 's a plaything for an hour ; Its pretty tricks we try For that or for a longer space ; Then tire, and lay it by. But I knew one, that to itself All seasons could control ; That would have mocked the sense of pain Out of a grieved soul. Thou straggler into loving arms. Young climber up of knees> When I forget thy thousand ways, Then life and all shall cease. C. Lamb. 12. VALENTINE To thbHonble. M. C. Stanhope Hail, day of Music, day of Love, On earth below, in air above. In air the turtle fondly moans. The linnet pipes in joyous tones ; On earth the postman toils along, Bent double by huge bales of song. Where, rich with many a gorgeous dye, Blazes all Cupid's heraldry — Myrtles and roses, doves and sparrows. Love-knots and altars, lamps and arrows. What nymph without wild hopes and fears The double rap this morning hears ! Unnumbered lasses, young and fair. From Bethnal Green to Belgrave Square, With cheeks high flushed, and hearts loud-beating, Await the tender annual greeting. The loveliest lass of all is mine — Good morrow to my Valentine ! Good morrow, gentle child ! and then Again good morrow, and again. Good morrow following still good morrow, Without one cloud of strife or sorrow. And when the god to whom we pay In jest our homages to-day Shall come to claim, no more in jest. His rightful empire o'er thy breast. VALENTINE Benignant may his aspect be, His yoke tlie truest liberty : And if a tear his power confess. Be it a tear of happiness. It shall be so. The Muse displays The future to her votary's gaze ; Prophetic rage my bosom swells — I taste the cake — I hear the bells ! From Conduit Street the close array Of chariots barricades the way To where I see, with outstretched hand. Majestic, thy great kinsman stand, And half unband his brow of pride. As welcoming so fair a bride. Gay favours, thick as flakes of snow. Brighten St. George's portico : Within I see the chancel's pale, The orange flowers, the Brussels veil. The page on which those fingers white. Still trembling from the awful rite. For the last time shall faintly trace Tlie name of Stanhope's noble race, I see kind faces round thee pressing, I hear kind voices whisper blessing ; And with those voices mingles mine — All good attend my Valentine ! Thomas, Loed Macattlay. 13. TO MY COUSIN ANNE BODHAM, ON RECEIVING FROM HER A PURSE My gentle Anne, whom heretofore. When I was young, and thou no more Than plaything for a nurse, I danced and fondled on my knee, A kitten both in size and glee ! I thank thee for my purse. Gold pays the worth of all things here ; But not of love : — that gem 's too dear For richest rogues to win it ; I, therefore, as a proof of love. Esteem thy present far above The best things kept within it. W. COWPEB. 14. TO A PROUD KINSWOMAN Fair maid, had I not heard thy baby cries. Nor seen thy girlish sweet vicissitude. Thy mazy motions, striving to elude, Yet wooing still a parent's watchful eyes, — Thy humours, many as the opal's dyes. And lovely all ; methinks thy scornful mood And bearing high of stately womanhood. Thy brow where Beauty sits to tyrannize O'er humble love, had made me sadly fear thee ; For never sure was seen a Royal Bride, Whose gentleness gave grace to so much pride. My very thoughts would tremble to be near thee : But when I see thee at thy father's side, Old times unqueen thee, and old loves endear thee. Hartley Colbridqb. 15. lANTHE'S SHELL Darling shell, where hast thou been. West or East ? or heard or seen ? From what pastimes art thou come ? Can we make amends at home ? Whether thou hast tuned the dance To the maids of ocean Know I not ; but Ignorance Never hurts Devotion. This I know, lanthe's shell, I must ever love thee well. Though too little to resound While the Nereids dance around ; For, of all the shells that are, Thou art sure the brightest ; Thou, lanthe's infant care. Most these eyes delightest. To thy early aid she owes Teeth like budding snowdrop rows : And what other shell can say On her bosom once it lay ? That which into Cyprus bore Venus from her native sea, (Pride of shells !) was never more Dear to her than thou to me. W. S. Landoe. b3 10 16. IN CLEMENTINA'S ARTLESS MIEN In Clementina's artless mien Lucilla asks me what I see. And are the roses of sixteen Enough for me ? Lucilla asks, if that be all. Have I not culled as sweet before : Ah yes, Lucilla ! and their fall I still deplore. I now behold another scene. Where Pleasure beams with heaven's own light. More pure, more constant, more serene. And not less bright : Faith, on whose breast the Loves repose. Whose chain of flowers no force can sever. And Modesty who, when she goes. Is gone for ever. W. S. Landor. 17. HOUSEHOLD GODS Ye little household gods, that make My heart leap lighter with your play. And never let it sink or ache. Unless you are too far away ; Eight years have flown, and never yet One day has risen up between The kisses of my earlier pet. And few the hours he was not seen. How can I call to you from Rome ? Will mamma teach what hahho said ? Have ye not heard him talk at home About the city of the dead ? Marvellous tales will hahho tell. If you don't clasp his throat too tight. Tales which you, Arnold, will love well. Though Julia's cheek turns pale with fright. HOUSEHOLD GODS 11 How, swimming o'er the Tiber, Clelia Headed the rescued virgin train ; And, loftier virtue ! liow Cornelia Lived when her two brave sons were slain. This is my birthday : may ye waltze Till mamma cracks her best guitar ! Yours are true pleasures ; those are false We wise ones follow from afar. What shall I bring you ! would you like Urn, image, glass, red, yellow, blue. Stricken by Time, who soon must strike As deep the heart that beats for you. W. S. Landob. 18. MY LITTLE COUSINS Laugh on, fair Cousins, for to you All life is joyous yet ; Your hearts have all things to pursue. And nothing to regret ; And every flower to you is fair. And every month is May : You've not been introduced to Care, — Laugh on, laugh on to-day ! Old Time will fling his clouds ere long Upon those sunny eyes ; The voice whose every word is song Will set itself to sighs ; Your quiet slumbers, — hopes and fears Will chase their rest away : To-morrow you'll be shedding tears, — Laugh on, laugh on to-day. Oh yes, if any truth is found In the dull schoolman's theme. If friendship is an empty sound. And love an idle dream, If mirth, youth's playmate, feels fatigue Too soon on life's long way. At least he'll run with you a league ; — Laugh on, laugh on to-day ! 12 MY LITTLE COUSINS Perhaps your eyes may grow more bright As childhood's hues depart ; You may be lovelier to the sight And dearer to the heart ; You may be sinless still, and see This earth still green and gay ; But what you are you will not be : Laugh on, laugh on to-day ! O'er me have many winters crept With less of grief than joy ; But I have learned, and toiled, and wept ; I am no more a boy ! I've never had the gout, 'tis true ; My hair is hardly grey ; But now I cannot laugh like you : Laugh on, laugh on to-day ! I used to have as glad a face, As shadowless a brow ; I once could run as blithe a race As you are running now ; But never mind how I behave ! Don't interrupt your play ; And though I look so very grave. Laugh on, laugh on to-day ! W. M. Peaed. 19. MY LITTLE DOLL I ONCE had a sweet little doll, dears, The prettiest doll in the world ; Her cheeks were so red and so white, dears, And her hair was so charmingly curled. But I lost my poor little doll, dears. As I played in the heath one day ; And I cried for her more than a week, dears. But I never could find where she lay. I found my poor little doll, dears. As I played in the heath one day ; Folks say she is terribly changed, dears. For her paint is all washed away. And her arm trodden off by the cows, dears, And her hair not the least bit curled : Yet, for old sakes' sake she is still, dears, The prettiest doll in the world. C. KlNQSLEY. 13 20. TO VINCENT CORBET, HIS SON What I shall leave thee, none can tell. But all shall say I wish thee well : I wish thee, Vin, before all wealth. Both bodily and ghostly health ; Nor too much wealth nor wit come to thee. So much of either may undo thee. I wish thee learning not for show. Enough for to instruct and know ; Not such as gentlemen require To prate at table or at fire. I wish thee all thy mother's graces. Thy father's fortunes and his places. I wish thee friends, and one at court. Not to build on, but support ; To keep thee not in doing many Oppressions, but from suffering any. I wish thee peace in all thy ways, Nor lazy nor contentious days ; And, when thy soul and body part. As innocent as now thou art. R. Corbet. 21. A FABLE FOR FIVE YEARS OLD The Boy and His Top A LITTLE boy had bought a top. The best in all the toyman's shop ; He made a whip with good eel's skin. He lashed the top and made it spin ; All the children within call, And the servants, one and all. Stood round to see it and admire. At last the top began to tire ; He cried out, ' Pray, don't whip me, master. You whip too hard ; I can't spin faster ; I can spin quite as well without it.' The little hoy replied, ' I doubt it ; I only wbip you for your good. You were a foolish lump of wood ; By dint of whipping you were raised To see yourself admired and praised, And if I left you, you'd remain A foolish lump of wood again.' 14 A FABLE Explanation Whipping sounds a little odd, It don't mean whipping with a rod. It means to teach a boy incessantly, Whether by lessons or more pleasantly. Every hour and every day. By every means, in every way. By reading, writing, rhyming, talking. By riding to see sights, and walking : If you leave ofi he drops at once, A lumpish, wooden-headed dunce. J. H. Frbee. 22. ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF CLAPHAM ACADEMY Ah me ! those old familiar bounds ! That classic house, those classic grounds. My pensive thought recalls ! What tender urchins now confine. What little captives now repine. Within yon irksome walls ? Aye, that 's the very house ! I know Ita ugly windows, ten a-row ! Its chimneys in the rear ! And there 's the iron rod so high. That drew the thunder from the sky, And turned our table-beer ! There I was birched ! there I was bred ! There like a little Adam fed From Learning's woeful tree ! The weary tasks I used to con ! — The hopeless leaves I wept upon ! — Most fruitless leaves to me ! — The summoned class ! — the awful bow ! — I wonder who is master now And wholesome anguish sheds ! How many ushers now employs. How many maids to see the boys Have nothing in their heads ! And Mrs. S ?— Doth she abet (Like Pallas in the parlour) yet Some favoured two or three, — The little Crichtons of the hour. Her muffin-medals that devour. And swill her prize — bohea ? CLAPHAM ACADEMY 15 Aye, there 's the play-ground ! there 's the lime Beneath whose shade in summer's prime So wildly I have read ! — Who sits there now, and skims the cream Of young Bomance, and weaves a dream Of Love and Cottage-bread ? Who struts the Bandall of the walk ? Who models tiny heads in chalk ? Who scoops the light canoe ? What early genius buds apace ? Where 's Poynter ? Harris ? Bowers ? Chase ? Hal Baylis ? blithe Carew ? Alack ! they're gone — a thousand ways ! And some are serving in ' the Greys ', And some have perished young ! — Jack Harris weds his second wife ; Hal Baylis drives the wane of life ; And blithe Carew — is hung ! Grave Bowers teaches ABC To savages at Owhyee ; Poor Chase is with the worms !— All, all are gone — the olden breed ! — New crops of musliroom boys succeed, ' And push us from our forms ! ' Lo ! where they scramble forth,, and shout. And leap, and skip, and mob about. At play where we have played ! Some hop, some run (some fall), some twine Their crony arms ; some in the shine, — And some are in the shade ! Lo there what mixed conditions run ! The orphan lad ; the widow's son ; And Fortune's favoured care— The wealthy-born, for whom she hath Mac-Adamized the future path — The Nabob's pampered heir ! Some brightly starred — some evil born, — For honour some, and some for scorn, — For fair or foul renown ! Good, bad, indifferent — none may lack ! Look, here 's a White, and there 's a Black 1 And there 's a Creole brown ! 16 ON A DISTANT PROSPECT Some laugh and sing, some mope and weep. And wish their frugal sires would keep Their only sons at home ; — Some tease the future tense, and plan The full-grown doings of the man. And pant for years to come 1 A foolish wish ! There 's one at hoop ; And four at fives ! and five who stoop The marble taw to speed ! And one that curvets in and out, Beining his fellow Cob about, — Would I were in his stead ! Yet he would gladly halt and drop That boyish harness off, to swop With this world's heavy van — To toil, to tug. O Utile fool ! While thou canst be a horse at school, To wish to be a man ! Perchance thou deem'st it were a thing , To wear a crown, — to be a king ! And sleep on regal down ! Alas ! thou know'st not kingly cares ; Far happier is thy head that wears That hat without a crown ! And dost thou think that years acquire New added joys ? Dost think thy sire More happy than his son ? That manhood 's mirth ? — Oh, go thy ways To Drury Lane when plays, And see how forced our fun ! Thy taws are brave ! — thy tops are rare ! — Our tops are spun with coils of care. Our dumps are no delight ! — The Elgin marbles are but tame. And 'tis at best a sorry game To fly the Muse's kite ! Our hearts are dough, our heels are lead. Our topmost joys fall dull and dead Like balls with no rebound ! And often with a faded eye We look behind, and send a sigh Towards that merry ground ! OF CLAPHAM ACADEMY 17 Then be contented. Thou hast got The most of heaven in thy young lot ; There 's sky-blue in thy cup ! Thou'lt find thy Manhood all too fast — Soon come, soon gone ! and Age at last A sorry breaking-up t T. Hood. 23. SCHOOL AND SCHOOLFELLOWS ' Floreat Etona ' Twelve years ago I made a mock Of filthy trades and traffics : I wondered what they meant by stock ; I wrote delightful sapphics ; I knew the streets of Rome and Troy ; I supped with Pates and Furies, — Twelve years ago I was a boy, A h&,ppy boy, at Drury's. Twelve years ago ! — how many a thought Of faded pains and pleasxires Those whispered 'syllables have brought Prom Memory's hoarded treasures ! The fields, the farms, the bats, the books. The glories and disgraces, The voices of dear friends, the looks Of old familiar faces ! Kind Mater smiles again to me. As bright as when we parted ; I seem again the frank, the free. Stout-limbed and simple-hearted ! Pursuing every idle dream. And shunning every warning ; With no hard work but Bovney stream. No chill except Long Morning : Now stopping Harry Vernon's ball That rattled like a rocket ; Now hearing Wentworth's ' Fourteen all ! And striking for the pocket ; Now feasting on a cheese and flitch, — Now drinWng from the pewter ; Now leaping over Chalvey ditch. Now laughing at my tutor. 18 SCHOOL AND SCHOOLFELLOWS Where are my friends ? I am alone'; No playmate shares my beaker : Some lie beneath the churchyard stone. And some — before the Speaker ; And some compose a tragedy, And some compose a rondeau ; And some draw sword for liberty. And some draw pleas for John Doe. Tom Mill was used to blacken eyes Without the fear of sessions ; Charles Medlar loathed false quantities, As much as false professions ; Now Mill keeps order in the land, A magistrate pedantic ; And Medlar's feet repose unscanned Beneath the wide Atlantic. Wild Nick, whose oaths made such a din. Does Dr. Martext's duty ; And Mullion, with that monstrous chin. Is married to a Beauty ; And Darrell studies, week by week. His Mant, and not his Manton ; And Ball, who was but poor at Greek, Is very rich at Canton. And I am eight-and-twenty now ; — The world's cold chains have bound me ; And darker shades are on my brow. And sadder scenes around me : In Parliament I fill my seat. With many other noodles ; And lay my head in Jermyn Street, And sip my hock at Boodle's. But often when the cares of life Have set my temples aching. When visions haunt me of a wife. When duns await my waking. When Lady Jane is in a pet. Or Hoby in a hurry. When Captain Hazard wins a bet. Or Beaulieu spoils a curry, — For hours and hours I think and talk Of each remembered hobby ; I long to lounge in Poets' Walk, To shiver in the lobby ; SCHOOL AND SCHOOLFELLOWS 19 I wish that I could run away From House and Court and Levee, Where bearded men appear to-day Just Eton boys grown heavy, — That I could bask in childhood's sun And dance o'er childhood's roses. And find huge wealth in one pound one. Vast wit in broken noses. And play Sir Giles at Datchet Lane, And call the milk-maids Houris, — That I could be a boy again, — A happy boy, — at Drury's. W. M. Praed. 24. IN SCHOOL-DAYS Still sits the school-house by the road, A ragged beggar sleeping ; Around it still the sumachs grow, And blackberry-vines are creeping. Within, the master's desk is seen. Deep scarred by raps official ; The warping floor, the battered seats, The jack-knife's carved initial ; The charcoal frescoes on its wall ; Its door's worn sill, betraying The feet that, creeping slow to school. Went storming out to playing ! Long years ago a winter sun Shone over it at setting ; Lit up its western window-panes, And low eaves' icy fretting. It touched the tangled golden curls. And brown eyes full of grieving. Of one who still her steps delayed When all the school were leaving. For near her stood the little boy Her childish favour singled : His cap pulled low upon a face Where pride and shame were mingled. Pushing with restless feet the snow To right and left, he lingered ; — As restlessly her tiny hands The blue-checked apron fingered. 20 IN SCHOOL-DAYS He saw her lift her eyes ; he felt The soft hand's light caressing. And heard the tremble of her voice. As if a fault confessing. ' I'm sorry that I spelt the word : I hate to go above you, Because,'— the brown feyes lower fell, — ' Because, you see, I love you ! ' Still memory to a grey-haired man That sweet child-face is showing. Dear girl ! the grasses on her grave Have forty years been growing ! He lives to learn, in life's hard school How few who pass above him Lament their triumph and his loss. Like her, — because they love him. J. G. Whittiee. 25. ' HIC VIR, HIC EST ' Often, when o'er tree and turret. Eve a dying radiance flings. By that ancient pile I linger Known familiarly as ' King's ''. And the ghosts of days departed Rise, and in my burning breast All the undergraduate wakens. And my spirit is at rest. What, but a revolting fiction. Seems the actual result Of the Census's inquiries Made 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 again With those noblest of their species Called emphatically ' Men ' : Loaf, as I have loafed aforetime. Through the streets, with tranquil mind. And a long-backed fancy-mongrel Trailing casually behind : 'HIC VIR, HIC EST' 21 Past the Senate-house I saunter, Whistling with an easy grace ; Past the cabbage-stalks that carpet Still the beefy market-place ; Poising evermore the eye-glass In the light sarcastic eye, Lest, by chance, some breezy nurse-maid Pass, 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 infant Had a magic in its squall, For my eager eye detected Senior Wranglers in them all. By degrees my education Grew, and I became as others ; Learned to blunt my moral feelings By the aid of Bacon Brotherss Bought me tiny boots of Mortlock, And colossal prints of Roe ; And ignored the proposition That both time and money go. Learned to work the wary dogcart Artfully through King's Parade ; Dress, and steer a boat, and sport with Amaryllis in the shade : Struck, at Brown's, the dashing hazard ; Or (more curious sport than that) Dropped, at Callaby's, the terrier Down upon the prisoned rat. I have stood serene on Fenner's Ground, indifferent to blisters, While the Buttress of the period Bowled me his peculiar twisters : Sung ' We won't go home till morning ' ; Striven to part my baokhair straight ; Driuik (not lavishly) of Miller's Old dry wines at 78/- : — 22 'HIC VIB, HIC EST' 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 ', betake me. In my ' solitary fly '. C. S. Calverlet. 26. THE HEATHEN PASS-EE Beenq the Story of a Pass Examination. By Bred Hard Which I wish to remark. And my language is plain, That for plots that are dark And not always in vain. The heathen Pass-ee is peculiar. And the same I would rise to explain. I would also premise That the term of Pass-ee Most fitly applies, As you probably see, To one whose vocation is passing The ' ordinary B.A. degree '. Tom Crib wag his name. And I shall not deny In regard to the same What that name might imply. But his face it was trustful and childlike. And he had the most innocent eye. Upon April the First The Little-Go fell, And that was the worst Of the gentleman's sell, For he fooled the Examining Body In a way I'm reluctant to tell. The candidates came And Tom Crib soon appeared ; It was Euclid. The same Was ' the subject he feared ', But he smiled as he sat by the table With a smile that was wary and weird. THE HEATHEN PASS-EE 23 Yet he did what he could And the papers he showed Waie remarkably good, And his countenance glowed With pride when I met him soon after As he walked down the Trumpington Boad. ^ We did not find him out. Which I bitterly grieve. For I've not the least doubt That he'd placed up his sleeve Mr. Todhunter's excellent Euclid, The same with intent to deceive. But I shall not forget How the next day at two A stiff paper was set By Examiner U . . . On Euripides' tragedy, Bacchae. A subject Tom ' partially knew '. But the knowledge displayed By that heathen Pass-ee, And the answers he made Were quite frightful to see. For he rapidly floored the whole paper By about twenty minutes to three. Then I looked up at D . . . And he gazed upon me. I observed, ' This won't do.' He replied, ' Goodness me ! We are fooled by this artful young person,' And he sent for that heathen Pass-ee. The scene that ensued Was disgraceful to view. For the floor it was strewed With a tolerable few Of the ' tips ' that Tom Crib had been hiding For the ' subject he partially knew '. On the cuff of his shirt He had managed to get What we hoped had been dirt. But which proved, I regret, To be notes on the rise of the Drama, A question invariably set. 24 THE HEATHEN PASS-EE In his various coats We proceeded to seek, Where we found sundry notes And — with sorrow I speak — One of Bohn's publications, so useful To the student of Latin or Greek. In the crown of his cap Were the Furies and Fates, And a delicate map Of the Dorian States, And we found in his palms which were hollow. What are frequent in palms, — that is dates. Which ia why I remark. And my language is plain. That for plots that are dark And not always in vain. The heathen Paas-ee is peculiar, Wiiioh the same I am free to maintain. A. C. Hilton. 27. TO Never mind how the pedagogue proses. You want not antiquity's stamp ; The lip that such fragrance discloses, Oh ! never should smell of the lamp. Old Cloe, whose withering kiss Hath long set the Loves at defiance. Now, done with the science of bliss, May take to the blisses of science. Young Sappho, for want of employments, Alone o'er her Ovid may melt. Condemned but to read of enjoyments Which wiser Corinna had felt. But for you to be buried in books — Ah, Fanny, they're pitiful sages, Who could not in oree of your looks Read more than in millions of pages. Astronomy finds in those eyes Better light than she studies above, And Music would borrow your sighs As the melody fittest for Love. TO : 25 In Ethics — 'tis you that can check, In a minute, their doubts and their quarrels ; Oh ! show but that mole on your neck. And 'twill soon put an end to their morals: Your Arithmetic only can trip If to count your own charms you endeavour ; And Eloquence glows on your lip When you swear, that you'll love me for ever. Thus you see, what a brilliant alliance Of arts is assembled in you; — A course of more exquisite science Man never need wish to pursue 1 And, oh ! — if a Fellow like me May confer a diploma of hearts. With my lip thus I seal your degree, My divine little Mistress of Arts ! T. MOOBEL 28. AD CHLOEN, M.A. (Fresh prom her Cambridge Examination) Lady, very fair are you. And your eyes are very blue. And your hose ; And your brow is like the snow. And the various things you know Goodness knows. And the rose-flush on your cheek. And your algebra and Greek Perfect are ; And that loving lustrous eye Recognizes in the sky Every star. You have pouting piquant lips. You can doubtless an eclipse Calculate ; But for your caerulean hue, I had certainly from you Met my fate. If by an arrangement dual I were Adams mixed with Whewell, Then some day I, as wooer, perhaps might come To so sweet an Artium Magistra. M. Collins. 26 29. ONE-AND-TWENTY Long-expected One-and-twenty, Lingering year, at length is flown : Pride and pleasure, pomp and plenty. Great *** ****, are now your own. Loosened from the minor's tether, Free to mortgage or to sell. Wild as wind and light as feather. Bid the sons of thrift farewell. Call the Betsies, Kates, and Jennies, All the names that banish care ; Lavish of your grandsire's guineas. Show the spirit of an heir. All that prey on vice and folly Joy to see their quarry fly : There the gamester, light and jolly. There the lender, grave and sly. Wealth, my lad, was made to wander. Let it wander as it will ; Call the jockey, call the pander. Bid them come and take their fill. When the bonny blade carouses. Pockets full, and spirits high — What are acres ? What are houses ? Only dirt, or wet or dry. Should the guardian friend or mother Tell the woes of wilful waste. Scorn their counsel, scorn their pother ; — You can hang or drown at last ! S. Johnson. 30. OH, TALK NOT TO ME OF A NAME GREAT IN STORY Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story ; The days of our youth are the days of our glory ; And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled ? 'Tis but as a dead-flower with May-dew besprinkled. Then away with all such from the head that is hoary ! What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory ? TALK NOT TO ME OF A NAME GREAT IN STORY 27 Oh Fame !— if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases. Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover. She thought that I was not unworthy to love her. There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee ; Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee ; When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story, I knew it was love, ^nd I felt it was glory. G. Gordon, Lord Byron. 31. YOUTH The days of our youth are not over while sadness Chills never, and seldom o'ershadows, the heart ; While Friendship is crowning the banquet of Gladness And bids us be seated and ofiers us part ; While the swift-spoken when ? and the slowly-breathed hush ! Make us half-love the maiden and half-hate the lover. And feel too what is or what should be a blush . . . Believe me, the days of our youth are not over. W. S. Landoe. 32. NOW THE LUSTY SPRING IS SEEN Now the lusty Spring is seen ; Golden yellow, gaudy blue. Daintily invite the view. Everywhere, on every green, Roses blushing as they blow. And enticing men to pull ! Lilies whiter than the snow. Woodbines, of sweet honey full : All Love's emblems ! and all cry, ' Ladies, if not plucked, we die ! ' Yet the lusty Spring hath stayed ; Blushing red and purest white Daintily to Love invite Every woman, every maid ! Cherries kissing, as they grow ; And inviting men to taste ! Apples even ripe below, Winding gently to the waist 1 All Love's emblems, and all cry, ' Ladies, if not plucked, we die ! ' J. Fletcher. 28 33. HEAR YE, LADIES, THAT DESPISE Hear ye, ladies, that despise. What the mighty love has done ; Fear examples, and be wise : Fair Callisto was a nun ; Leda, sailing on the stream To deceive the hopes of man. Love accounting but a dream. Doted on a silver swan ; Danae, in a brazen tower. Where no love was, loved a shower. Hear, ye ladies that are coy. What the mighty love can do ; Fear the fierceness of the boy : The chaste moon he makes to woo ; Vesta, kindling holy fires. Circled round about with spies. Never dreaming loose desires. Doting at the altar dies ; Ilion, in a short hour, higher He can build, and once more fire. J. Fletcheb. 34. MY SWEETEST LESBIA My sweetest Lesbia, let us live and love. And though the sager sort our deeds reprove. Let us not weigh them ; heaven's great lamps do dive Into their west, and straight again revive ; But, soon as once is set our little light, Then must we sleep one ever-during night. Tf all would lead their lives in love like me. Then bloody swords and armour should not be, No drum nor trumpet peaceful sleeps should move. Unless alarm came from the camp of love. But fools do live, and waste their little light. And seek with pain their ever-during night. When timely death my life and fortune ends. Let not my hearse be vexed with mourning friends ; But let all lovers rich in triumph come. And with sweet pastimes grace my happy tomb ; And, Lesbia, close up thou my little light. And crown with love my ever-during night. T. Campion. 29 35. VIVAMUS Come, my Celia, let us prove, While we can, the sports of love ; Time will not be ours for ever. He, at length, our good will sever ; Spend not then his gifts in vain ; Suns that set may rise again ; But if once we lose this light, 'Tis with us perpetual night. Why should we defer our joys ? Fame and rumour are but toys. Cannot we delude the eyes Of a few poor household spies ? Or his easier ears beguile. Thus removed by our wile ? — 'Tis no sin love's fruits to steal. But the sweet thefts to reveal. To be taken, to be seen. These have crimes accounted been. Ben. Jonson. 36. NOW THAT THE APRIL OP YOUR YOUTH ADORNS Now that the April of your youth adorns The garden of your face. Now that for you each knowing lover mourns. And all seek to your grace. Do not repay affection with scorns. What though you may a matchless beauty vaunt. And that all hearts can move. By such a power, as seemeth to enchant ? Yet, without help of love. Beauty no pleasure to itself can grant. Then think each minute that you lose, a day ; The longest youth is short, The shortest age is long ; Time flies away. And makes us but his sport. And that which is not Youth's, is Age'8 prey. Edward, Lord Herbert of Cherburt. 30 37. LOVE IN THY YOUTH, FAIR MAID Love in thy youth, fair maid, be wise. Old Time will make thee colder. And though each morning new arise. Yet we each day grow older. Thou as heaven art fair and young. Thine eyes like twin stars shining ; But ere another day be sprung. All these will be declining ; Then winter comes with all his fears. And all thy sweets shall borrow ; Too late then wilt thou shower thy tears. And I, too late, shall sorrow. Unknown. 38. O MISTRESS MINE, WHERE ARE YOU ROAMING O MiSTBEss mine, where are you roaming ? O ! stay and hear ! your true-love 's coming. That can sing both high and low ; Trip no further, pretty sweeting ; Journeys end in lovers meeting, Every wise man's son doth know. What is love ? 'tis not hereafter ; Present mirth hath present laughter ; What 's to come is still unsure : In delay there lies no plenty ; Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty, Youth 's a stuff will not endure. W. Shakbspeaee. 39. THE ADVICE Phyllis, for shame, let us improve A thousand several ways, These few short minutes stolen by love From many tedious days. Whilst you want courage to despise The censure of the grave. For all the tyrants in your eyes. Your heart is but a slave. My love is full of noble pride, And never will submit To let that fop, Discretion, ride In triumph over wit. THE ADVICE 31 False friends I have, as well as you. That daily counsel me Vain frivolous trifles to pursue, And leave off loving thee. When I the least belief bestow On what such fools advise. May I be dull enough to grow Most miserably wise. C. Saokville, Eabl of Dorset. 40. TO VIRGINS Hear, ye virgins, and I'll teach What the times of old did preach. Rosamond was in a bower Kept, as Danae, in a tower ; But yet Love, who subtle is, Crept to that, and came to this. Be ye locked up like to these, Or the rich Hesperides : Or those babies in your eyes. In their crystal nunneries ; Notwithstanding, love will win, Or else force a passage in ; And as coy be as you can. Gifts will get ye, or the man. R. Hereick. a. TO THE VIRGINS TO MAKE MUCH OP TIME Gather ye rose-buds while ye may. Old Time is still a-flying ; And this same flower that smiles to-day. To-morrow will be dying. The glorious lamp of heaven, the Sun, The higher he 's a-getting. The sooner will his race "be run. And nearer he 's to setting. That age is best which is the first. When youth and blood are warmer ; Bat being spent the worse and worst Times still succeed the former. Then be not coy, but use your time. And while ye may, go marry ; For having lost but once your prime, You may for ever tarry. R. Herrick. 32 42. TO DIANEME Sweet, be not proud of those two eyea Which, starlike, sparkle in their skies Nor be you proud, that you can see All hearts your captives, yours yet free ; Be you not proud of that rich hair, Which wantons with the lovesick air ; Whenas that ruby, which you wear Sunk from the tip of your soft ear. Will last to be a precious stone When all your world of beauty 's gone. R. Herrick. 43. DISDAIN RETURNED He that loves a rosy cheek. Or a coral lip admires. Or from star-like eyes doth seek Fuel to maintain his fires ; As old Time makes these decay. So his flames must waste away. But a smooth and stedfast mind, Gentle thoughts, and calm desires.- Hearts with equal love combined. Kindle never-dying fires : — Where these are not, I despise Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes. T. Caeew. 44. BLUSH NOT REDDER THAN THE MORNING Blush not redder than the morning. Though the virgins gave you warning ; Sigh not at the chance befell ye. Though they smile and dare not tell ye. Maids, like turtles, love the cooing, Bill and murmur in their wooing. Thus like you, they start and tremble And their troubled joys dissemble. Grasp the pleasure while 'tis coming, Though your beauties now are blooming ; Time at last your joys will sever. And they'll part, they'll part for ever. N. Lee. 33 45. YOUTH AND ART It once might have been, once only : We lodged in a street together. You, a sparrow on the housetop lonely, I, a lone she-bird of his feather. Your trade was with sticks and clay. You thumbed, thrust, patted and polished, Then laughed ' They will see some day Smith made, and Gibson demolished.' My business was song, song, song ; I chirped, cheeped, trilled and twittered, ' Kate Brown 's on the boards ere long. And Grisi's existence embittered ! ' I earned no more by a warble Than you by a sketch in plaster ; You wanted a piece of marble, I needed a music-master. We studied hard in our styles. Chipped each at a crust like Hindoos, For air, looked out on the tiles. For fun, watched each other's windows. You lounged, like a boy of the South, Cap and blouse — nay, a bit of beard too ; Or you got it, rubbing your mouth With fingers the clay adhered to. And I — soon managed to find Weak points in the flower-fence facing. Was forced to put up a blind And be safe in my corset-lacing. No harm ! It was not my fault If you never turned your eye's tail up, As I shook upon E in alt. Or ran the chromatic scale up : For spring bade the sparrows pair. And the boys and girls gave guesses, And stalls in our street looked rare With bulrush and watercresses. Why did not you pinch a flower In a pellet of clay and fling it ? Why did not I put a power Of thanks in a look, or sing it ? 34 YOUTH AND- ART I did look, sharp as a lynx, (And yet the memory rankles) When models arrived, some minx Tripped iip-stairs, she and her ankles. But I think I gave you as good ! ' That foreign fellow, — who can know How she pays, in a playful mood. For his tuning her that piano ? ' Could you say so, and never say ' Suppose we join hands and fortunes. And I fetch her from over the way. Her, piano, and long tunes and short tunes ? ' No, no : you would not be rash. Nor I rasher and something over : You've to settle yet Gibson's hash. And Grisi yet lives in clover. But you meet the Prince at the Board, I'm queen myself at bals-pare, I've married a rich old lord. And you're dubbed knight and an R.A. Each life unfulfilled, you see ; It hangs still, patchy and scrappy: We have not sighed deep, laughed free. Starved, feasted, despaired, — been happy. And nobody calls you a dunce. And people suppose me clever : This could but have happened once, And we missed it, lost it for ever. R. Beowmnq. 46. HOW MANY VOICES GAILY SING How many voices gaily sing, ' happy morn, O happy spring Of life ! ' Meanwhile there comes o'er me A softer voice from Memory, And says, ' If loves and hopes have flown With years, think too what griefs are gone ! ' W. S. Landor. 35 47. SHADOWS They seemed, to those who saw them meet. The casual friends of every day ; Her smile was undisturbed and sweet. His courtesy was free and gay. But yet if one the other's name In some unguarded moment heard. The heart you thought so calm and tame Would struggle like a captured bird : And letters of mere formal phrase Were blistered with repeated tears, — And this was not the work of days, But had gone on for years and years ! Alas, that love was not too strong For maiden shame and manly pride ! Alas, that they delayed so long The goal of mutual bliss beside ! Yet what no chance could then reveal. And neither would be first to own. Let fate and courage now conceal, When truth could bring remorse alone. R. M. MiLNEs, LoKD Houghton. 48. LOVE AND REASON 'Twas in the summer-time so sweet. When hearts and flowers are both in season. That — who, of all the world, should meet. One early dawn, but Love and Reason ! Love told his dream of yesternight. While Reason talked about the weather ; The morn, in sooth, was fair and bright. And on they took their way together. The boy in many a gambol flew, While Reason, like a Juno, stalked. And from her portly figure threw A lengthened shadow, as she walked. No wonder Love, as on they passed. Should find the sunny morning chill. For still the shadow Reason cast Fell o'er the boy, and cooled him still. 36 LOVE AND REASON In vain he tried his wings to warm. Or find a pathway not so dim. For still the maid's gigantic form Would stalk between the sun and him. ' This must not be,' said little Love — ' The sun was made for more than you.' So, turning through a myrtle grove. He bid the portly nymph adieu. Now gaily roves the laughing boy O'er many a mead, by many a stream ; In every breeze inhaling joy. And drinking bliss in every beam. From all the gardens, all the bowers. He culled the many sweets they shaded. And ate the fruits and smelled the flowers. Till taste was gone and odour faded ! But now the sun, in pomp of noon. Looked blazing o'er the sultry plains ; Alas ! the boy grew languid soon. And fever thrilled through all his veins. The dew forsook his baby brow, No more with healthy bloom he smiled — Oh ! where was tranquil Reason now. To cast her shadow o'er the child ? Beneath a green and aged palm. His foot at length for shelter tiurning, He saw the nymph reclining calm, With brow as cool as his was burning. ' Oh ! take me to that bosom cold,' In murmurs at her feet he said ; And ReaBon oped her garment's fold, And flung it round his fevered head. He felt her bosom's icy touch, And soon it lulled his pulse to rest ; For, ah ! the chill was quite too much. And Love expired on Reason's breast ! T. MOOBE. 37 " 49. JE NE SAIS QUQI ' Yes, I'm in love, I feel it now, And Celia has undone me ! And yet I'll swear I can't tell how The pleasing plague stole on me. 'Tis not her face that love creates, -Eor there no graces revel ; 'Tis not her shape, for there the Fates Have rath«r been uncivil. 'Tis not her air, for, sure, in- that There 's nothing more than common ; And all her sense is only chat. Like any other woman. Her voice, her touch, might give the alarm, 'Twas both, perhaps, or neither ! In short, 'twas that provoking charm Of Celia all together. W. Whitehead. 50. LOVE UNACCOUNTABLE 'Tis not her birth, her friends, nor yet her treasure, Nor do I covet her for sensual pleasure. Nor for that old morality Do I love her, 'cause she loves me. Sure he that loves his lady 'caus&she 's fair, Delights his eye, so loves himself, not her. Something there is moves me to love, and I Do know I love, but know not how, nor why. A. Bkome. 51. LOVE NOT ME FOR COMELY GRACE Love not me for comely grace. For my pleasing eye or face ; Nor for any outward part. No, nor for my constant heart : For those may fail or turn to ill. So thou and I shall sever. Keep therefore a true woman's eye, And love me still, but know not why ; So hast thou the same reason still To doat upon me ever. Unknown. 38 52. I DO NOT LOVE THEE I DO not love thee ! — no ! I do not love thee ! And yet when thou art absent I am sad ; And envy even the bright blue sky above thee, Whose quiet stars may see thee and be glad. I do not love thee ! — yet, I know not why, Whate'er thou dost seems still well done, to me : And often in my solitude I sigh That those I do love are not more like thee ! I do not love thee ! — yet, when thou art gone, I hate the sound (though those who speak be dear) Which breaks the lingering echo of the tone Thy voice of music leaves upon my ear. I do not love thee ! — yet thy speaking eyes. With their deep, bright, and most expressive blue. Between me and the midnight heaven arise, Oftener than any eyes I ever knew. I know I do not love thee ! yet, alas ! Others will scarcely trust my candid heart ; And oft I catch them smiling as they pass, Because they see me gazing where thou art. The Hon. Mes. C. E. S. Norton; 63. LOVE IS A SICKNESS Love is a sickness full of woes. All remedies refusing ; A plant that with most cutting grows, Most barren with best using. Why so ? More we enjoy it, more it dies ; If not enjoyed, it sighing cries Heigh-ho ! Love is a torment of the mind, A tempest everlasting ; And Jove hath made it of a kind Not well, nor full, nor fasting. Why so ? More we enjoy it, more it dies ; If not enjoyed, it sighing cries Heigh-ho ! S. Daniel. 39 54. FIRST LOVE 'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home ; 'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark Our coming, and look brighter when we come ; 'Tis sweet to be awakened by the lark, Or lulled by falling waters ; sweet the hum Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds, The lisp of children, and their earliest words. Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth. Purple and gushing ; sweet are our escapes From civic revelry to rural mirth ; Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps, Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth. Sweet is revenge — especially to women. Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen. Sweet is a legacy, and passing sweet The unexpected death of some old lady Or gentleman of seventy years complete. Who've made ' us youth ' wait too — too long already For an estate, or cash, or country seat. Still breaking, but with stamina so steady That all the Israelites are fit to mob its Next owner for their double-damned post-obits. 'Tis sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels. By blood or ink ; 'tis sweet to put an end To strife ; 'tis sometimes sweet to have our quarrels. Particularly with a tiresome friend : Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels ; Dear is the helpless creature we defend Against the world ; and dear the schoolboy spot We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot. But sweeter still than this, than these, than all, Is first and passionate love — it stands alone, Like Adam's recollection of his fall ; The tree of knowledge has been plucked — all 'a known — And life yields nothing further to recall Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown. No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven Fire which Prometheus filched for us from heaven. G. Gordon, Lord ByROisr. 40 55. THE CRIER Good folk, for gold or hire, But help me to a crier ; Ear my poor heart is run astray After two eyes, that passed this way. O yes, yes, O yes, If there be any man. In town or country, can Bring me my heart again, I'll please him for his pain ; And by these marks I will you show That only I this heart do owe. It is a wounded heart, Wherein yet sticks the dart, Every piece sore hurt throughout it. Faith and troth writ round about it : It was a tame heart and a dear. And never used to roam ; But having got this haunt, I fear, 'Twill hardly stay at home. For God's sake, walking by the way, If you my heart do see. Either impound it for a stray. Or send it back to me. M. Deayton. 56. TO OENONE What conscience, say, is it in thee. When I a heart had one. To take away that heart from me. And to retain thy own ? For shame or pity now incline To play a loving part ; Either to send me kindly thine. Or give me back my heart. Covet not both ; but if thou dost Resolve to part with neither. Why, yet to show that thou art just, Take me and mine together ! R. Herrick. 41 57. I PRITHEE SEND ME BACK MY HEART I PRITHEE send me back my heart. Since I cannot have thine ; For if from yours you will not part, Why, then, shouldst thou have mine ? Yet now I think on't, let it lie. To find it were in vain ; For thou hast a thief in either eye Would steal it back again. Why should two hearts in one breast lie. And yet not lodge together ? O Love ! where is thy sympathy, If thus our breasts thou sever ? But love is such a mystery, I cannot find it out ; For when I think I'm best resolved, I then am in most doubt. Then farewell care, and farewell woe ; I will no longer pine ; For I'll believe I have her heart. As much as she hath mine. Sib J. ScrcKilNG. 58. LOVE IN FANTASTIC TRIUMPH SATE Love in fantastic triumph sate. Whilst bleeding hearts around him flowed : For whom fresh pains he did create, And strange tyrannic power he showed,, From thy bright eyes he took his fires. Which round about in sport he hurled ; But 'twas from mine he took desires Enough to undo the amorous world. From me he took his sighs and tears, From thee his pride and cruelty ; From me his languishments and fears, And every killing dart from thee. Thus thou and I the God have armed. And set him up a deity, But my poor heart alone is harmed. Whilst thine the victor is, and free. ApHEA Been. c3 42 59. THE ENCHANTMENT I DID but look and love awhile — 'Twas but for one half-hour ; Then to resist I had no will. And now I have no power. To sigh, and wish, is all my ease, Sighs which do heat impart Enough to melt the coldest ice. Yet cannot warm your heart. Oh, would your pity give my heart One corner of your breast, 'Twould learn of yours the winning art. And quickly steal the rest. T. Otway. 60. THE EXCHANGE Wb pledged our hearts, my love and I, — I in my arms the maiden clasping ; I could not tell the reason why. But, oh ! I trembled like an aspen. Her father's love she bade me gain ; I went, and shook like any reed ! I strove to act the man — in vain ! We had exchanged our hearts indeed. S. T. Coleridge. 61. INSPIRATION I NEVER drank of Aganippe well, Nor ever did in shade of Tempe sit. And Muses scorn with vulgar brains to dwell ; Poor layman I, for sacred rites unfit. Some do I hear of poets' fury tell. But, God wot, wot not what they mean by it ; And this I swear by blackest brook of hell, I am no pick-purse of another's wit. How falls it then, that with so smooth an ease My thoughts I speak ; and what I speak doth flow In verse, and that my verse best wits doth please ? Guess we the cause ? What, is it this : Fie, no. Or so ? Much less. How then ? Sure thus it is. My lips are sweet, inspired with Stella's kiss. Sir p. Sidney. 43 62. LOOK IN THY HEART AND WRITE Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show. That she, dear she, might take some pleasure of my pain — Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know, Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain— I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe. Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain ; Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would flow Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburned brain. But words came halting forth, wanting Invention's stay ; Invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame Study's blows ; And others' feet still seemed but strangers in my way. Thus, great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes. Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite, ' Fool,' said my Muse to me, ' look in thy heart and write ! ' SiE P. Sidney. 63. IMMORTALITY IN SONG How many paltry, foolish, painted things. That now in coaches trouble every street. Shall be forgotten, whom no poet sings, ' Ere they be well wrapped in their winding-sheet ? Where I to thee eternity shall give. When nothing else remaineth of these days. And queens hereafter shall be glad to live Upon the alms of thy superfluous praise ; Virgins and matrons reading these my rhymes. Shall be so much delighted with thy story. That they shall grieve they lived not in these times. To have seen thee, their sex's only glory : So shalt thou fly above the vulgar throng, Still to survive in my immortal song. M. Drayton. 64. UNGRATEFUL BEAUTY THREATENED Know, Celia, since thou art so proud, 'Twas I that gave thee thy renown ; Thou hadst in the forgotten crowd Of common beauties lived unknown. Had not my verse exhaled thy name. And with it imped the wings of Fame. 44 UNGRATEFUL BEAUTY THREATENED That killing power is none of thine : I gave it to thy voice and eyes ; Thy sweets, thy graces, all are mine ; Thou art my star, shin'st in my skies ; Then dart not from thy borrowed sphere Lightning on him that fixed thee there. Tempt me with such affrights no more. Lest what I made I uncreate ; Let fools thy mystic forms adore, I know thee in thy mortal state : Wise poets, that wrapped Truth in tales. Knew her themselves through all her veils. T. Cabew. 65. WHO WILL BELIEVE MY VERSE Who will believe my verse in time to come, If it were filled with your most high deserts ? Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb Which hides your life and shows not half your parts. If I could write the beauty of your eyes And in fresh numbers number all your gi-aces. The age to come would say, ' This poet lies ; Such heavenly touches ne'er touched earthly faces.' So should my papers, yellowed with their age. Be scorned, like old men of less truth than tongue. And your true rights be termed a poet's rage And stretched metre of an antique song : But were some child of yours alive that time. You should live twice, — in it and in my rhyme. W. Shakespeare. 66. ONE DAY I WROTE HER NAME One day I wrote her name upon the strand. But came the waves and washed it away : Again I wrote it with a second hand. But came the tide and made my pains his prey. ' Vain man,' said she, ' that dost in vain essay A mortal thing so to immortalize ; For I myself shall like to this decay. And eke my name be wiped out likewise.' ' Not so,' quoth I ; 'let baser things devise To die in dust, but you shall live by fame ; My verse your virtues rare shall eternize. And in the heavens write your glorious name : Where, whenas Death shall all the world subdue. Our love shall live, and later life renew.' E. Spensee. 45 67. WELL I REMEMBER HOW YOU SMILED Well I remember how you smiled To see me write your name upon The soft sea-sand — 'O / what a child ! Yon think you're writing upon stone ! ' I have since written what no tide Shall ever wash away, what men Unborn shall read o'er ocean wide And find lanthe's name again. W. S. Landoe. 68. HER RIGHT NAME As Nancy at her toilet sat, Admiring this and blaming that ; ' Tell me,' she said ; ' but tell me true ; The nymph who could your heart subdue. What sort of charms does she possess ? ' ' Absolve me, fair one : I'll confess With pleasure,' I replied. ' Her hair. In ringlets rather dark than fair. Does down her ivory bosom roll. And, hiding half, adorns the whole. In her high forehead's fair half-round Love sits in open triumph crowned : He in the dimple of her chin. In private state, by friends is seen. Her eyes are neither black nor grey ; Nor fierce nor feeble is their ray ; Their dubious lustre seems to show Something that speaks nor Yes, nor No. Her lips no living bard, I weet, May say, how red, how round, how sweet : Old Homer only could indite Their vagrant grace and soft delight: They stand recorded in his book. When Helen smiled, and Hebe spoke ' — The gipsy, turning to her glass. Too plainly showed she knew the face : ' And which am I most like,' she said, ' Your Chloe, or your nut-brown maid J ' M. Peioe. 46 69. THE MERCHANT, TO SECURE HIS TREASURE The merchant, to secure his treasure. Conveys it in a, borrowed name : Euphelia serves to grace my measure. But Chloe is my real flame. My softest verse, my darling lyre. Upon Euphella's toilet lay — When Chloe noted her desire That I should sing, that I should play. My lyre I tune, my voice I raise. But with my numbers mix my sighs ; And whilst I sing Euphelia'S praise, I fix my soul on Chloe's eyes. Fair Chloe blushed : Euphelia frowned : I sung, and gazed ; I played, and trembled : And Venus to the Loves around Remarked how ill we all dissembled. JI. Peioe. 70. A SONNET ON CHRISTIAN NAMES (Written in the album of Edith Souihey) In Christian world Mary the garland wears ! Rebecca sweetens on a Hebrew's ear ; Quakers for pure Priscilla are more clear ; And the light Gaul by amorous Ninon swears. Among the lesser lights how Lucy shines ! What air of fragrance Rosamond throws round ! How like a hymn doth sweet Cecilia sound ! Of Marthas, and of Abigails, few lines Have bragged in verse. Of coarsest household stuff Should homely Joan be fashioned. But can You Barbara resist, or Marian ? And is not dare for love excuse enough ? Yet, by my faith in numbers, I profess. These all, than Saxon Edith, please me less. C. Lamb. 7L NAMES I ASKED my fair one happy day. What I should call her in my lay ; By what sweet name from Rome or Gteece ; Lalage, Neaera, Chloris, Sappho, Lesbia, or Doris, Arethusa or Lucrece. NAMES 47 ' Ah ! ' replied my gentle fair, ' Beloved, what are names but air ? Choose thou whatever suits the line ; Call me Sappho, call me Chloris, Call me Lalage or Doris, Only, only call me Thine.' S. T, COLEBIDGE. 72. L'INCONNUE Is thy name Mary, maiden fair ? Such should, methinks, its music be ; The sweetest name that mortals bear Were best befitting thee ; And she to whom it once was given, Was half of earth and half of heaven. I hear thy voice, I see thy smile, I look upon thy folded hair ; Ah ! while we dream not they beguile. Our hearts are in the snare ; And she who chains a wild bird's wing ilust start not if her captive sing. So, lady, take the leaf that falls. To all but thee unseen, unknown ; When evening shades thy silent walls. Then read it all alone ; In stillness read, in darkness seal, forget, despise, but not reveal ! 0. W. HouuEa. 73. AN INTERLUDE In the greenest growth of the Maytime, I rode where the woods were wet. Between the dawn and the daytime ; The spring was glad that we met. There was something the season wanted. Though the ways and the woods smelt sweet ; The breath at your lips that panted. The pulse of the grass at your feet. You came, and the sun came after. And the green grew golden above ; And the fiag-flowers lightened with laughter, And the meadow-sweet shook with love. Your feet in the full-grown grasses Moved soft as a weak wind blows ; You passed me as April passes, With face made out of a rose. 48 AN INTERLUDE By the stream where the stems were slender, Your bright foot paused at the sedge ; It might be to watch the tender Light leaves in the springtime hedge, On boughs that the sweet month blanches With flowery frost of May : It might be a bird in the branches, It might be a thorn in the way. I waited to watch you linger With foot drawn back from the dew. Till a sunbeam straight like a finger Struck sharp through the leaves at you. And a bird overhead sang Follow, And a bird to the right sang Here ; And the arch of the leaves was hollow. And the meaning of May was clear. I saw where the sun's hand pointed, I knew what the bird's note said ; By the dawn and the dewfall anointed. You were queen by the gold on your head. As the glimpse of a burnt-out ember Recalls a regret of the sun, I remember, forget, and remember What Love saw done and undone. I remember the way we parted. The day and the way we met ; You hoped we were both broken-hearted. And knew we should both forget. And May with her world in flower Seemed still to murmur and smile As you murmured and smiled for an hour ; I saw you turn at the stile. A hand like a white wood-blossom You lifted, and waved, and passed. With head hung down to the bosom. And pale, as it seemed, at last. And the best and the worst of this is That neither is most to blame If you've forgotten my kisses And I've forgotten your name. A. C. SWINBTJENB. 49 74. A STOLEN KISS Now gentle sleep hath closed up those eyes Which, waking, kept my boldest thoughts in awe ; And free access unto that sweet lip lies. From whence I long the rosy breath to draw. Methinks no wrong it were, if I should steal From those two melting rubies one poor kiss ; None sees the theft that would the theft reveal. Nor rob I her of aught that she can miss ; Nay, should I twenty kisses take away, There would be little sign I would do so ; Why then should I this robbery delay ? O she may wake, and therewith angry grow ! Well, if she do, I'll back restore that one. And twenty hundred thousand more for loan. G. Wither. 75. TO ELECTRA I DARE not ask a kiss, I dare not beg a smile ; Lest having that, or this, I might grow proud the while. No, no, the utmost share Of my desire, shall be. Only to kiss that air That lately kissed thee. R. Herrick. 76. COME, CHLOE, AND GIVE ME SWEET KISSES Come, Chloe, and give me sweet kisses. For sweeter sure never girl gave ; But why, in the midst of my blisses. Do you ask me how many I'd have ? I'm not to be stinted in pleasure. Then, prithee, my charmer, be kind, For whilst I love thee above measure. To numbers I'll ne'er be confined. Count the bees that on Hybla are playing. Count the flowers that enamel its fields. Count the flocks that on Tempe are straying, Or the grain that rich Sicily yields. Go number the stars in the heaven, Count how many sands on the shore. 50 COME, CHLOE When so many kisses you've given, I still shall be craving for more. To a heart full of love, let me hold thee. To a heart that, dear Chloe, is thine ; In my arms I'll for ever enfold thee. And twist round thy limbs like a vine. What joy can be greater than this is ? My life on thy lips shall be spent ! But the wretch that can number his kisses. With few will be ever content. Sir C. Hanbdby Williams. 77. TO A KISS Soft child of love, thou balmy bliss. Inform me, delicious kiss. Why thou so suddenly art gone, Lost in the moment thou art won ? Yet go ! For wherefore should I sigh ? On Delia's lips, with raptured eye. On Delia's blushing lips I see A thousand full as sweet as thee. J. WOLCOT. 78. THE MAID I LOVE NE'ER THOUGHT OF ME The maid I love ne'er thought of me Amid the scenes of gaiety ; But when her heart or mine sank low. Ah, then it was no longer so. From the slant palm she raised her head, And kissed the cheek whence youth had fled. Angels ! some future day for this. Give her as sweet and pure a kiss. W. S. Landor. 79. JENNY KISSED ME WHEN WE MET Jenny kissed me when we met, Jumping from the chair she sat in ; Time, you thief ! who love to get Sweets into your list, put that in. Say I'm weary, say I'm sad ; Say that health and wealth have missed me ; Say I'm growing old, but add — Jenny kissed me ! J. H. Leigh Hunt. 51 80. LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY The fountains mingle with the river And the rivers with the Ocean, The winds of Heaven mix for ever With a sweet emotion ; Nothing in the world is single ; All things by a law divine In one spirit meet and mingle. Why not I with thine ? — ■ See the mountains kiss high Heaven And the waves clasp one another ; No sister-flower would be forgiven If it disdained its brother ; And the sunlight clasps the earth And the moonbeams kiss the sea : What is all this sweet work worth, If thou kiss not me ? P. B. Shelley. 81. A MATCH WITH THE MOON Weary already, weary miles to-night I walked for bed : and so, to get some ease, I dogged the flying moon with similes. And like a wisp she doubled on my sight In ponds ; and caught in tree-tops like a kite ; And in a globe of film all liquorish Swam full-faced like a silly silver fish ; — Last, like a bubble shot the welkin's height Where my road turned and got behind me, and sent My wizened shadow craning round at me, And jeered, ' So, step the measure, — one, two, three ! '- And if I faced on her, looked innocent. But just at parting, halfway down a dell. She kissed me for good-night. So you'll not tell. D. G. ROSSETTI. 82. THE KISS ' I SAW you take his kiss ! ' ' 'Tis true.' ' O, modesty ! ' ' 'Twas strictly kept : ■ He thought me asleep ; at least, I knew He thought I thought he thought I slept.' Coventry Patmore. 52 83. STILL TO BE NEAT Still to be neat, still to be dressed As you were going to a feast ; Still to be powdered, still perfumed : Lady, it is to be presumed. Though art's hid causes are not found. All is not sweet, all is not sound. Give me a look, give me a face. That makes simplicity a grace ; Kobes loosely flowing, hair as free : Such sweet neglect more taketh me. Than all the adulteries of art ; They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. Ben. Jonson. 84. MY LOVE IN HER ATTIRE DOTH SHOW HER WIT My Love in her attire doth show her wit. It doth so well become her ; For every season she hath dressings fit. For winter, spring, and summer. No beauty she doth miss When all her robes are on ; But Beauty's self she is When all her robes are gone. Unknown. 85. DELIGHT IN DISORDER A SWEET disorder in the dress Kindles in clothes a wantonness ; A lawn about the shoulders thrown Into a fine distraction ; An erring lace, which here and there Enthrals a crimson stomacher ; A cuff neglectful, and thereby Ribands to flow confusedly ; A winning wave, deserving note. In the tempestuous petticoat ; A careless shoe-string, in whose tie I see a wild civility ; Do more bewitch me, than when art Is too precise in every part. R. Herrick. 53 86. UPON JULIA'S CLOTHES Whenas in silks my Julia goes, Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows That liquefaction of her clothes. Next, when I cast mine eyes and see That brave vibration each way free ; O how that glittering taketh me ! R. Hereick. 87. A RING PRESENTED TO JULIA Julia, I bring To thee this ring. Made for thy finger fit ; To show by this, That our love is, Or should be, like to it. Close though it be. The joint is free : So when Love's yoke is en, . It must not gall. Or fret at all With hard oppression. But it must play Still either way, And be, too, such a yoke. As not too wide. To over-slide ; Or be so strait to choke. So we, who bear This beam, must rear Ourselves to such a height : As that the stay Of either may Create the burden light. And as this round Is nowhere found To flaw, or else to sever : So let our love As endless prove. And pure as gold for ever. R. Hekbick. 54 88. THE BRACELET TO JULIA Why I tie about thy wrist Julia, this my silken twist ; For what other reason is 't, But to show thee how in part. Thou my pretty captive art ? But thy bondslave is my heart : 'Tis but silk that bindeth thee. Snap the thread, and thou art free : But 'tis otherwise with me ; I am bound, and fast bound so, That from thee I cannot go, If I could, I would not so. R. Heeeick. 89. ON A GIRDLE That which her slender waist confined Shall now my joyful temples bind : No monarch but would give his crown His arms might do what this has done. It was my heaven's extremest sphere. The pale which held that lovely dear : My joy, my grief, my hope, my love Did all within this circle move. A narrow compass ! and yet there Dwelt all that 's good, and all that 's fair : Give me but what this riband bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round. E. Wallee. 90. THE NATIONS The Spaniard loves his ancient slop, A Lombard the Venetian : And some like breechless women go. The Russ.Turk, Jew, and Grecian. The thrifty Frenchman wears small waist. The Dutch his belly boasteth. The Englishman is for them all. And for each fashion coeisteth. The Turk in linen wraps his head, The Persian his in lawn too, The Russ with sables furs his cap And change will not be drawn to. The Spaniard 's constant to his block, The French inconstant ever : THE NATIONS 55 But of all felts that may be felt Give me your English beaver. The German loves his coney-wool, The Irishman his shag too, The Welsh his Monmouth loves to wear, And of the same will brag too. Some love the rough, and some the smooth. Some great, and others small things. But O your liquorish Englishman, He loves to deal in all things. The Russ drinks quasse ; Dutch, Lubeck's beer. And that is strong and mighty ^ The Briton he metheglin quaffs, The Irish aqua-vitae. The French affects the Orleans grape, The Spaniard sips his sherry, The English none of these can 'scape. But he with all makes merry. The Italian in her high chioppine, Scotch lass, and lovely Erse too, The Spanish donna, French madame. He doth not fear to go to. Nothing so full of hazard, dread. Naught lies above the centre. No health, no fashion, wine or wench. On which he dare not venture. T. Hbywood. 91. TO AMARANTHA That she would dishevel hee Hair Amakantha, sweet and fair. Ah, braid no more that shining hair ! As my curious hand or eye ■ Hovering round thee, let it fly. Let it fly as unconfined As its calm ravisher the wind. Who hath left his darling, the east ! To wanton o'er that spicy nest. Every tress must be confessed ; But neatly tangled at the best ; Like a clue of golden thread Most excellently ravelled. Do not, then, wind up that light In ribands, and o'ercloud in night. Like the sun in 's early ray ; But shake your head and scatter day. R. Lovelace. 56 92. TO HIS MISTRESS Tyeian dye why do you wear. You whose cheeks best scarlet are ? Why do you fondly pin Pure linens o'er your skin. Your skin that 's whiter far ? — Casting a dusky cloud before a star. Why bears your neck a golden chain ? Did Natiu-e make your hair in vain. Of gold most pure and fine ? With gems why do you shine ? They, neighbours to yoiir eyes. Show but like Phosphor when the sun doth rise. I would have all my mistress' parts Owe more to Nature than the arts ; I would not woo the dress, Or one whose nights give less Contentment than the day ; She 's fair whose beauty only makes her gay. A. Cowley. 93. THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER It is the miller's daughter, And she is grown so dear, so dear, That I would be the jewel That trembles at her ear : For hid in ringlets day and night, I'd touch her neck so warm and white. And I would be the girdle About her dainty dainty waist And her heart would beat against me. In sorrow and in rest : And I should know if it beat right, I'd clasp it round so close and tight. And I would be the necklace. And all day long to fall and rise Upon her balmy bosom. With her laughter or her sighs. And I would lie so light, so light, I scarce should be unclasped at night. Alfbed, Lord Tennyson. 57 94. TO MY MISTRESS'S BOOTS They nearly strike me dumb. And I tremble when they come Pit-a-pat : This palpitation means That these boots are Geraldine's — Think of that ! Oh, where did hunter win So delicate a skin For her feet ? You lucky little kid. You perished, so you did. For my sweet. The faery stitching gleams On the toes, and in the seams, And reveals That Pixies were the wags Who tipped these funny tags, And these heels. What soles ! so little worn ! Had Crusoe — soul forlorn ! — Chanced to view One printed near the tide, How hard he would have tried For the two ! For Gerry's debonair. And innocent, and fair As a rose : She's an angel in a frock. With a fascinating cock To her nose. Those simpletons who squeeze Their extremities to please Mandarins, Would positively flinch From venturing to pinch Geraldine's. Cinderella's lejla and rights To Geraldine's were frights : And, in truth. The damsel, deftly shod, Has dutifully trod From her youth. 58 TO MY MISTRESS'S BOOTS The mansion — aye, and more. The cottage of the poor, Where there 's grief. Or sickness, are her choice — And the music of her voice Brings relief. Come, Gerry, since it suits Such a pretty Puss-in-Boots These to don. Set your little hand awhile On my shoulder, dear, and I'll Put them on. F. Lockeb-Lampsow. 95. ON AN OLD MUFF Time has a magic wand ! What is this meets my hand, Moth-eaten, mouldy, and Covered with fluff ? Faded, and stiff, and scant ; Can it be ? no, it'can't — Yes, — I declare 'tis Aunt Prudence's muff ! Years ago — twenty-three — Old Uncle Barnaby Gave it to Aunty P. — Laughing and teasing — ' Pru., of the breezy curls, Whisper these solemn churls. What holds a pretty girVs Hand ujithout squeezing ? ' Uncle was then a lad Gay, but, I grieve to add. Sinful ; if smoking bad Baccy 's a vice : Glossy was then this mink Muff, lined with pretty pink Satin, which maidens think ' Awfully nice ! ' I see, in retrospect. Aunt, in her best bedecked. Gliding, with mien erect. Gravely to Meeting : ON AN OLD MUFF 59 Psalm-book, and kerchief new. Peeped from the muff of Pru. — Young men — and pious too- — Giving her greeting. Pure was the life she led Then — from this Muff, 'tis said, Tracts she distributed : — Scapegraces many. Seeing the grace they lacked, Followed her — one, in fact. Asked for — and got his tract Oftener than any. Love has a potent spell ! Soon this bold Ne'er-do-well, Aunt's sweet susceptible Heart undermining. Slipped, so the scandal runs. Notes in the pretty nun's Muff — triple-cornered ones — Pink as its lining ! Worse even, soon the jade Fled (to oblige her blade !) Whilst her friends thought that they'd Locked her up tightly : After such shocking games Aunt is of wedded dames Gayest — and now her name 's Mrs. Golightly. In female conduct flaw Sadder I never saw. Still I've faith in the law Of compensation. Once Uncle went astray — Smoked, joked, and swore away — Sworn by, he's now, by a Large congregation ! Changed is the Child of Sin, Now he's (he once was thin) Grave, with a double chin, — Blest be his fat form ! Changed is the garb he wore, — Preacher was never more Prized than is Uncle for Pulpit or platform. 60 ON AN OLD MUFF If all 's as best befits Mortals of slender wits, Then beg this Muff, and its Fair Owner pardon : All 's for the best, — indeed Such is my simple creed — Still I must go and weed Hard in my garden. F. Locker-Lampson. 96. THE LAY OF THE LEVITE There is a sound that 's dear to me, It haunts me in my sleep ; I wake, and, if I hear it not, I cannot choose but weep. Above the roaring of the wind, Above the river's flow, Methinks I hear the mystic cry Of ' Clo !— Old Clo ! ' The exile's song, it thrills among The dwellings of the free, Its sound is strange to English ears. But 'tis not strange to me ; For it hath shook the tented field In ages long ago. And hosts have quailed before the cry Of ' Clo !— Old Clo ! ' O lose it not ! forsake it not ! And let no time efface The memory of that solemn sound. The watchword of our race ; For not by dark and eagle eye The Hebrew shall you know. So well as by the plaintive crv Of ' Clo !— Old Clo ! ' Even now, perchance, by Jordan's banks, Or Sidon's sunny walls, Where, dial-like, to portion time. The palm-tree's shadow falls. The pilgrims, wending on their way. Will linger as they go. And listen to the distant cry Of ' Clo !— Old Clo ! ' W. E. AYTOtTN. 61 97. JULIA'S BED See'st thou that cloud as silver clear, Plump, soft, and swelling everywhere 1 'Tis Julia's bed, and she sleeps there. B. Herkick. 98. A TERNARY OP LITTLES, UPON A PIPKIN OF JELLY SENT TO A LADY A LITTLE Saint best fits a little shrine, A little prop best fits a little vine. As my small cruse best fits my little wine. A little seed best fits a little soil, A little trade best fits a little toil : As my small jar best fits my little oil. A little bin best fits a little bread, A littte garland fits a little head : As my small stuff best fits my little shed. A little hearth best fits a little fire, A little chapel fits a little choir. As my small bell best fits my little spire. A little stream best fits a little boat ; A little lead best fits a little float ; As my small pipe best fits my little note. A little meat best fits a little belly. As sweetly, Lady, give me leave to tell ye. This little pipkin fits this little jelly. B. Herrick. «9. GRATITUDE This cap, that so stately appears. With ribbon-bound tassel on high. Which seems, by the crest that it rears. Ambitious of brushiiig the sky : This cap to my cousin I owe. She gave it, and gave me beside. Wreathed into an elegant bow. The ribbon with which it is tied. This wheel-footed studying chair, Contrived both for toil and repose. Wide-elbowed, and wadded with hair. In which I iDoth scribble and doze. 62 GRATITUDE Bright-studded to dazzle the eyes, And rival in lustre of that, In which, or astronomy lies, Fair Cassiopeia sat: These carpets, so soft to the foot, Caledonia's traffic and pride ! Oh spare them, ye Knights of the Boot ! Escaped from a cross-country ride ! This table and mirror within, Secure from collision and dust. At which I oft shave cheek and chin. And periwig nicely adjust : This movable structure of shelves. For its beauty admired and its use. And charged with octavos and twelves. The gayest I had to produce. Where, flaming in scarlet and gold. My Poems enchanted I view, And hope, in due time, to behold My Iliad and Odyssey too : This china, that decks the alcove. Which here people call a beaufette. But what the Go(ta call it above. Has ne'er been revealed to us yet : These curtains, that keep the room warm Or cool, as the season demands. These stoves, that for pattern and form Seem the labour of Mulciber's hands : All these are not half that I owe To one, from our earliest youth To me ever ready to show Benignity, friendship, and truth. For Time, the destroyer declared And foe of our perishing kind. If even her face he has spared. Much less could he alter her mind. Thus compassed about with the goods And chattels of leisure and ease, I indulge my poetical moods In many such fancies eis these ; And fancies I fear they will seem, Poets' goods are not often so fine ; The poets will swear that I dream, When I sing of the splendour of mine. W. COWPER. 63 100. THE CANE-BOTTOMED CHAIR In tattered old slippers that toast at the bars, And a ragged old jatfket perfumed with cigars, Away from the world and its toils and its cares, I've a snug little kingdom up four pair of stairs. To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure. But the fire there is bright and the air rather pure ; And the view I behold on a sunshiny day Is grand through the chimney-pots over the way. This snug little chamber is crammed in all nooks. With worthless old knicknacks and silly old books, And foolish old odds and foolish old ends. Cracked bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends. Old armour, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all cracked). Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-backed ; A twopenny treasury, wondrous to see ; What matter ? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me. No better divan need the Sultan require, Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire ; And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you get From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet. That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp ; By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp ; A Mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn : 'Tis a murderous knife to toast mufiins upon. Long, long through the hours, and the night, and the chimes. Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and old times ; As we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me. But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest. There 's one that I love and I cherish the best ; For the finest of couches that 's padded with hair I never would change thee, my cane-bottomed chair. 'Tis a bandy-legged, high-shouldered, worm-eaten seat With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet ; But since the fair morning when Fanny sat there, I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottomed chair. If chairs have but feeling in holding such charms, A thrill must have passed through your withered old arms ! I looked, and I longed, and I wished in despair — L wished myself turned to a cane-bottomed chair. 64 THE CANE-BOTTOMED CHAIR It was but a moment she sat in this place, She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face ! A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair. And she sat there, and bloomed in my cane-bottomed chair. And so I have valued my chair ever since. Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince ; Saint Fanny, my patroness sweet I declare. The queen of my heart and my cane-bottomed chair. When the candles burn low, and the company 's gone. In the silence of night as I sit here alone — I sit here alone, but we yet are a pair — My Fanny I see in my cane-bottomed chair. She comes from the past and revisits my room ; She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom ; So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair. And yonder she sits in my cane-bottomed chair. W. M. Thackeray. 101. WHY WAS CUPID A BOY Why was Cupid a boy, And why a boy was he ? He should have been a girl. For aught that I can see. For he shoots with his bow, And the girl shoots with her eye. And they both are merry and glad. And laugh when we do cry. Then to make Cupid a boy Was surely a woman's plan. For a boy ne'er learns so much Till he is become a man. And then he 's so pierced with cares. And wounded with arrowy smarts, That the whole business of his life Is to pick out the heads of the darts. 'Twas the Greeks' love of war Turned love into a boy, And woman into a statue of stone — And away fled every joy. W. BlAKB. 65 102. VENUS, BY ADONIS' SIDE Venus, by Adonis' side. Crying Idssed, and kissing cried, Wrung her hands and tore her hair. For Adonis dying there. ' Stay,' quoth she, ' Oh, stay and live ! Nature, surely, doth not give To the earth iier sweetest flowers. To be seen but some few hours.' On his face, still as he bled. For each drop a tear she shed, Which she kissed or wiped away. Else had drowned him where he lay. ' Fair Proserpina,' quoth she, ' Shall not have thee yet from me ; Nor thy soul, to fly begin ; While my lips can keep it in ! ' Here she ceased again. And some Say, Apollo would have come To have cured his wounded limb. But that she had smothered bim. W. Browne. 103. CUPID MISTAKEN As after noon, one summer's day, Venus stood bathing in a river ; Cupid a-shooting went that way. New strung his bow, new filled his quiver. With skill he chose his sharpest dart : With all his might his bow he drew : Swift to his beauteous parent's heart The too- well-guided arrow flew. ' I faint ! I die ! ' the goddess cried : ' cruel, could'st thou find none other To wreck thy spleen on : Parricide ! Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother.' Poor Cupid sobbing scarce could speak ; ' Indeed, mama, I did not know ye : Alas ! how easy my mistake ? I took you for your likeness, Chloe. M. Peiok. 104. APELLES' SONG Cupid and my Campaspe played At cards for kisses, Cupid paid ; He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows. His mother's doves, and team of sparrows ; Loses them too ; then, down he throws The coral of his lip, the rose Growing on 's cheek (but none knows how), With these, the crystal of his brow. And then the dimple of his chin : All these did my Campaspe win. At last he set her both his eyes ; She won, and Cupid blind did rise. O Love ! lias she done this to thee ? What shall (alas !) become of me ? J. Lyly. 105. DORINDA Dorinda's sparkling wit and eyes United, cast too fierce a light. Which blazes high, but quickly dies ; Pains not the heart, but hurts the sight. Love is a calmer, gentler joy ; Smooth are his looks, and soft his pace ; Her Cupid is a blackguard boy. That runs his link full in your face. C. Sackville, Earl of Dorset. 106. WHEN LOVE, WHO RULED When Love, who ruled as Admiral o'er His rosy mother's isles of light. Was cruising off the Paphian shore, A sail at sunset hove in sight. ' A chase, a chase ! my Cupids all,' Said Love, the little Admiral. Aloft the winged sailors sprung. And, swarming up the mast like bees. The snow-white sails expanding flung. Like broad magnolias to the breeze. ' Yo ho, yo ho, my Cupids all ! ' Said Love, the little Admiral. The chass was o'er — the bark was caught. The winged crew her freight explored ; And found 'twas just as Love had thought, JFor all was contraband aboard. WHEN LOVE, WHO RULED 67 ' A prize, a prize, my Cupids all ! ' Said Love, the little Admiral. Safe stowed in many a package there. And labelled slyly o'er, as ' Glass,' Were lots of all the illegal ware. Love's Custom -House forbids to pass. ' O'erhaul, o'erhaul, my Cupids all,' Said Love, the little Admiral. False curls they found, of every hue. With rosy blushes ready made ; And teeth of ivory, good as new. For veterans in the smiling trade. ' Ho ho, ho ho, my Cupids all,' Said Love, the little Admiral. Mock sighs, too, — kept in bags for use. Like breezes bought of Lapland seers, — Lay ready here to be let loose, When wanted, in young spinsters' ears. ' Ha ha, ha ha, my Cupids all,' Said Love, the little Admiral. False papers next on board were found. Sham invoices of flames and darts. Professedly for Paphos bound. But meant for Hymen's golden marts. ' For shame, for shame, my Cupids all ! ' Said Love, the little Admiral. Nay, still to every fraud awake, ■Those pirates all Love's signals knew. And hoisted oft his flag, to make Rich wards and heiresses bring-to. ' A foe, a foe, my Cupids all ! ' Said Love, the little Admiral. ' This must not be,' the boy exclaims, ' In vain I rule the Paphian seas. If Love's and Beauty's sovereign names Are lent to cover frauds like these. Prepare, prepare, my Cupids all ! ' Said Love, the little Admiral. Each Cupid stood with lighted match- — • A broadside struck the smuggling foe. And swept the whole unhallowed batch Of falsehood to the depths below. ' Huzza, huzza ! my Cupids all ! ' Said Love, the little Admiral. T. MOOEB. 68 107. TO ROSEMOUNDE. A BALADE Madame, ye ben of al beautfe shryne As fer as cercled is the mappemounde ; For as the cristal glorious ye shyne. And lyke ruby ben your ohekes rounde. Therwith ye ben so mery and so iocoundo. That at a revel whan that I see you daunce, It is an oynement unto my wounde, Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce. For thogh I wepe of teres ful a tyne, Yet may that wo myn herte nat confounde ; Your seemly voys that ye so smal out-twyne Maketh my thoght in loye and blis habounde. So curteisly I go, with love bounde. That to my-self I sey, in my penaunee, SufEyseth me to love you, Rosemounde, Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce. Nas never pyk walwed in galauntyne As I in love am walwed and y-wounde ; For which ful ofte I of my-self divyne That I am trewe Tristam the secounde. My love may not refreyd be nor afounde ; I brenne ay in an amorous plesaunce. Do what you list, I wil your thral be founde, Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce. G. Chaucek. 108. APOLLO'S SONG My Daphne's hair is twisted gold. Bright stars apiece her eyes do hold, My Daphne's brow enthrones the Graces, My Daphne's beauty stains all faces. On Daphne's cheek grow rose and cherry. On Daphne's lip a sweeter berry. Daphne's snowy hand but touched does melt. And then no heavenlier warmth is felt. My Daphne's voice tunes all the spheres. My Daphne's music charms all ears. Fond am I thus to sing her praise ; These glories now are turned to bays. J. Lyly. 69 109. THE TRIUMPH OF CHARTS See the chariot at hand here of Love, Wherein my Lady rideth ! Each that draws is a swan or a dove, And well the car Love guideth. As she goes, all hearts do duty Unto her beauty ; And enamoured, do wish, so they might But enjoy such a sight. That they still were to run by her side. Through sands, through seas, whither she would ride. Do but look on her eyes, they do light All that Love's world compriseth ! Do but look on her hair, it is bright As Love's star when it riseth ! Do but mark, her forehead 's smoother Than words that soothe her ! And from her arched brows such a grace Sheds itself through the face. As alone there triumphs to the life All the gain, all the good of the elements' strife. Have you seen but a bright lily grow, Before rude hands have touched it ? Have you marked but the fall o' the snow Before the soil hath smutched it ? Have you felt the wool of the beaver, Or swan's down ever ? Or have smelled o' the bud of the briar. Or the 'nard in the fire ! Or have tasted the bag of the bee ? so white ! O so soft ! so sweet is she ! Ben. Jonson. 110. ON HIS MISTRESS, THE QUEEN OF BOHEMIA YoTT meaner beauties of the night, That poorly satisfy our eyes More by your number than your light, You common people of the skies ; What are you, when the Moon shall rise ? You curious chanters of the wood That warble forth Dame Nature's lays, Thinking your passions understood By your weak accents ; what 's your praise When Philomel her voice shall raise ? 70 ON HIS MISTRESS, THE QUEEN OF BOHEMIA You violets that first appear. By your pure purple mantles known Like the proud virgins of the year. As if the spring were all your own. What are you, when the Rose is blown 1 So, when my Mistress shall be seen In form and beauty of her mind. By virtue first, then choice, » Queen, Tell me, if she were not designed The eclipse and glory of her kind ? Sib H. Wotton. 111. A PRAISE OF HIS LADY Give place, you ladies, and be gone ! Boast not yourselves at all. For here at hand approacheth one Whose face will stain you all. The virtue of her lively looks Excels the precious stone ; I wish to have none other books To read or look upon. In each of her two crystal eyes Smileth a naked boy ; It would you all in heart suffice To see that lamp of joy. I think Nature hath lost the mould Where she her shape did take ; Or else I doubt if Nature could So fair a creature make. She may be well compared TJnto the Phoenix kind. Whose like was never seen or heard. That any man can find. In life she is Diana chaste ; In truth Penelope ; In word and eke in deed steadfast ; — What will you more say we ? If all the world were sought so far. Who could find such a wight ? Her beauty twinkleth like a star Within the frosty night. A PRAISE OF HIS LADY 71 Her rosial colour comes and goes With such a comely grace. More ruddier, too, than doth the rose, Within her lively face. At Bacchus' feast none shall her meet. Nor at no wanton play. Nor gazing in an open street. Nor gadding as a stray. The modest mirth that she doth use Is mixed with shamefastness ; All vice she doth wholly refuse. And hateth idleness. O Lord ! it is a world to see How virtue can repair, And deck in her such honesty. Whom Nature made so fair. Truly she doth so far exceed Our women nowadays. As doth the gillyflower a weed ; And more a thousand ways. How might I do to get a grafE Of this unspotted tree ? — For all the rest are plain but chaff. Which seem good corn to be. This gift alone I shall her give ; When death doth what he can. Her honest fame shall ever live Within the mouth of man. J. Heywood. 112. A SONG In IfflTATioN OF Sir John Eaton Too late, alas ! I must confess. You need not arts to move me ; Such charms by nature you possess, 'Twere madness not to love ye. Then spare a heart you may surprise. And give my tongue the glory To boast, though my ungrateful eyes Betray a tender story. J. WiLMOT, Eael of Rochester. 72 113. MAY THE AMBITIOUS EVER FIND May the ambitious ever find Success in crowds and noise. While gentle love does fill my mind With silent real joys. May knaves and fools grow rich and great. And the world think them wise. While I lie dying at her feet, And all that world despise ! Let conquering kings new triumphs raise. And melt in court delights ; Her eyes can give much brighter days. Her arms much softer nights. C. Sackville, Eael of Dorset. 114. WHEN THY BEAUTY APPEARS When thy beauty appears In its graces and airs All bright as an angel new dropped from the sky. At distance I gaze, and am awed by my fears, So strangely you dazzle my eye ! But when without art. Your kind thoughts you impart. When your love runs in blushes through every vein ; When it darts from your eyes, when it pants in your heart, Then I know you're a woman again. There 's a passion and pride In our sex (she replied). And thus, might I gratify both, I would do ; Still an angel appear to each lover beside, But still be a woman to you ! T. Paenell. 115. WHEN SAPPHO TUNED THE RAPTURED STRAIN When Sappho tuned the raptured strain. The listening wretch forgot his pain ; With art divine the lyre she strung, Like thee she played, like thee she sung. BEN SAPPHO TUNED THE RAPTURED STRAIN 73 For while she struck the quivering wire, The eager breast was all on fire ; And when she joined the vocal lay. The captive soul was charmed away. But had she added still to these Thy softer, chaster power to please. Thy beauteous air of sprightly youth, Thy native smiles of artless truth : She ne'er had pined beneath disdain. She ne'er had played and sung in vain, Despair had ne'er her soul possessed To dash on rocks the tender breast. T. G. Smollett. 116. FAIR HEBE AND REASON Fair Hebe I left, with a cautious design, To escape from her charms, and to drown Love in wine ; I tried it, but found, when I came to depart. The wine in my head, but still Love in my heart. I repaired to my Reason, entreating her aid. Who paused on my case, and each circumstance weighed : Then gravely pronounced, in return to my prayer. That Hebe was fairest of all that were fair. That 's a truth, replied I, I've no need to be taught, I came for your counsel to find out a fault ; If that 's all, quoth Reason, return as you came, For to find fault with Hebe would forfeit my name. J. West, Earl De La Wark. 117. TO LADY ANNE HAMILTON Too late I stayed — forgive the crime ; Unheeded flew the hours ; How noiseless falls the foot of Time, That onlv treads on flowers ! What eye with clear account remarks The ebbing of the glass. When all its sands are diamond sparks. That dazzle as they pass ! Oh, who to sober measurement Time's happy swiftness brings. When birds of Paradise have lent Their plumage for his wings ! W. R. Spencer. d3 74 118. AMO, AMAS Amo, amas, 1 love a lass As a cedar tall, and slender. Sweet cowslip's grace Is her Nominative Case, And she 's of the Feminine Gender. Borum corum, sunt Divorum ! Harum, scarum, Divo ! Tag rag, merry derry, periwig and hatband ! Hie hoc horum Oenitivo ! Can I decline A nymph divine ? Her voice as a flute is dulcis ; Her oculi bright, Her manus white, And soft, when I tacto, her pulse is. liorum corum, sunt Divorum / Harum, scarum, Divo ! Tag rag, merry derry, periwig and hatband ! Hie hoc horum Genilivo! O, how hella Is my ■puella ! I'll kiss saecula saeculorum. If I've luck, sir, She 's my uxor, dies benedictorum ! liorum corum, sunt Divorum ! Harum, scarum, Divo ! Tag rag, merry derry, periwig and hatband ! Hie hoe horum Oenitivo ! J. O'Keeffe. 119. BONNIE LESLEY O SAW ye bonnie Lesley As she gaed o'er the border ? She 's gane, like Alexander, To spread her conquests farther. To see her is to love her. And love but her for ever ; For Nature made her what she is, And never made anither ! BONNIE LESLEY 75 Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, Thy subjects we, before thee : Thou art divine, fair Lesley, The hearts o' men adore thee. The Deil he could na scaith thee, Or aught that wad belang thee ; He'd look into thy bonnie face. And say, ' I canna wrang thee.' The Powers aboon will tent thee ; Misfortune sha'na steer thee ; Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely, That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. Return again, fair Lesley, Return to Caledonie ! That we may brag we hae a lass There 's nane again sae bonnie. R. BUKNS. 120. SHE IS NOT FAIR TO OUTWARD VIEW She is not fair to outward view As many maidens be. Her loveliness I never knew Until she smiled on me. O then I saw her eye was bright, A well of love, a spring of light. But now her looks are coy and cold. To mine they ne'er reply, And yet I cease not to behold The love-light in her eye : Her very frowns are fairer far Than smiles of other maidens are. Hartley Coleridqe. 121. WITH LEADEN FOOT TIME CREEPS ALONG With leaden foot time creeps along. While Delia is away ; With her, nor plaintive was the song, Nor tedious was the day. Ah ! envious power, reverse my doom ; Now double thy career ; Strain every nerve, stretch every plume, And rest them when she 's here. R. Jaqo. 76 122. THE MISTRESS An age, in her embraces passed. Would seem a winter's day ; Where life and light, with envious haste. Are torn and snatched away. But oh ! how slowly minutes roll. When absent from her eyes. That fed my love, which is my soul ; It languishes and dies. For then, no more a soul but shade. It mournfully does move ; And haunts my breast, by absence made The living tomb of love. You wiser men despise me not. Whose love-sick fancy raves. On shades of souls and Heaven knows what ; Short ages live in graves. Whene'er those wounding eyes so full Of sweetness you did see. Had you not been profoundly dull. You had gone mad like me. Nor censure us, you who perceive My best-beloved and me, Sigh and lament, complain and grieve ; You think we disagree. Alas ! 'tis sacred jealousy, Love raised to an extreme ; The only proof, 'twixt them and me. We love, and do not dream. Fantastic fancies fondly move, And in frail joy believe : Taking false pleasure for true love ; But pain can ne'er deceive. Kind jealous doubts, tormenting fears. And anxious cares, when past. Prove our heart's treasure fixed and dear. And make us blessed at last. J. WiLMOT, Eael op Rochester. 77 123. AMARYLLIS I DID WOO Amaryllis I did woo ; And I courted Phillis too ; Daphne for her love I chose ; Chloris, for that damask rose In her cheek I held as dear ; Yea, a thousand liked, well near ; And, in love with all together, Feared the enjoying either, 'Cause to be of one possessed. Barred the hope of all the rest. G. WiTHEB. 124. IF I FREELY MAY DISCOVER If I freely may discover What would please me in my lover, I would have her fair and witty, Savouring more of court than city ; A little proud, but full of pity : Light and humorous in her toying ; Oft building hopes, and soon destroying ; Long, but sweet, in the enjoying ; Neither too easy, nor too hard : All extremes I would have barred. She should be allowed her passions. So they were but used as fashions ; Sometimes froward, and then frowning. Sometimes sickish and then swooning. Every fit with change still crowning. Purely jealous I would have her. Then only constant when I crave her : 'Tis a virtue should not save her. Thus, nor her delicates would cloy me. Neither her peevishness annoy me. Ben. Jonson. 125. WHAT WIGHT HE LOVED Shall I tell you whom I love ? Hearken then awhile to me, And if such a woman move. As I now shall versify. Be assured 'tis she or none That I love and love alone. 78 WHAT WIGHT HE LOVED Nature did her so much right. That she scorns the help of art. In as many virtues dight As ere yet embraced a heart. So much good as truly tried. Some for less were deified. Wit she hath without desire To make known how much she hath ; And her anger flames no higher Than may fitly sweeten wrath. Full of pity as may be. Though perhaps not so to me ! Reason masters every sense, And her virtues grace her birth ; Lovely as all excellence. Modest in her most of mirth : Likelihood enough to prove Only worth could kindle love. Such she is, and if you know Such a one as I have sung. Be she brown or fair or so That she be but somewhile young. Be assured 'tis she or none That I love and love alone. W. Bb-OVTse. 126. WISHES FOR THE SUPPOSED MISTRESS Whoe'er she be. That not impossible She That shall command my heart and me : Where'er she lie. Locked up from mortal eye In shady leaves of destiny : Till that ripe birth Of studied fate stand forth. And teach her fair steps to our earth : Till that divine Idea take a shrine Of crystal flesh, through which to shine : —Meet you her, my Wishes, Bespeak her to my blisses, And be ye called my absent kisses. WISHES FOR THE SUPPOSED MISTRESS 79 I wish her Beauty That owes not all his duty To gaudy tire, or glistering shoe-tie ; Something more than Tafiata or tissue can, Or rampant feather, or rich fan. More than the spoil Of shop or silkworm's toil. Or a bought blush, or a set smile. A face that *s best By its own beauty dressed. And can, alone, command the rest. A face, made up Out of no other shop Than what Nature's white hand sets ope. A cheek where youth And blood, with pen of truth, Write what the reader sweetly rueth. A cheek where grows More than a morning rose ; Which to no box his being owes. Lips where all day A lover's kiss may play Yet carry nothing thence away. Looks that oppress Their richest tires, but dress And clothe their simplest nakedness. Eyes that displace The neighbour diamond, and out-face That sunshine by their own sweet grace. Tresses that wear Jewels but to declare How much themselves more precious are. Whose native ray Can tame the wanton day Of gems, that in their bright shades play. Each ruby there Or pearl, that dare appear. Be its own blush, be its own tear ! 80 WISHES FOR THE SUPPOSED MISTRESS A well-tamed heart, For whose more noble smart Love may be long choosing a dart. Eyes that bestow Full quivers on Love's bow. Yet pay less arrows than they owe. Smiles that can warm The blood, yet teach a charm That chastity shall take no harm. Blushes, that bin The burnish of no sin. Nor flames of aught too hot within. Joys that confess Virtue their mistress. And have no other head to dress. Fears, fond and slight As the coy bride's, when night First does the longing lover right. Days that need borrow No part of their ' Good morrow ' From a forespent night of sorrow: Days that in spite Of darkness, by the light Of a clear mind are day all night. Nights, sweet as they Made short by lovers' play. Yet long by the absence of the day. Life that dares send A challenge to his end. And, when it comes, say ' Welcome, friend ! ' Sidneian showers Of sweet discourse, whose powers Can crown old Winter's head with flowers. Soft, silken hours. Open suns, shady bowers, 'Bove all, nothing within that lowers. Whate'er delight Can make Day's forehead bright. Or give down to the wings of Night. WISHES FOR THE SUPPOSED MISTRESS 81 In her whole frame Have Nature all the name ; Art and ornament, the shame. Her flattery, Picture and Poesy ; Her counsel her own vurtue be. I wish her store Of worth may leave her poor Of wishes. And I wish — No more ! Now, if Time knows That her, whose radiant brows Weave them a garland of my vows ; Her, whose just bays My future hopes can raise, A trophy to her present praise ; Her, that dares be What these lines wish to see, I seek no further : it is she ! 'Tis she, and here, Lo, I unclothe and clear My wishes' cloudy character. May she enjoy it, Whose merit dare apply it But modesty dares still deny it. Such worth as this is Shall fix my flying wishes. And determine them to kisses. Let her full glory. My fancies, fly before ye ; Be ye my fictions, but her story. R. Crashaw. 127. CLORIS AND FANNY Cloris ! if I were Persia's king, , I'd make my graceful queen of thee ; While Fanny, wild and artless thing, Should but thy humble handmaid be. There is but one objection in it — That, verily, I'm much afraid I should, in some unlucky minute, Forsake the mistress for the maid ! T. MOOBE. 82 128. THE CHRONICLE Margarita first possessed, If I remember well, my breast ; Margarita first of all ! But when a while the wanton maid With my restless heart had played, Martha took the flying ball. Martha soon did it resign To the beauteous Catharine. Beauteous Catharine gave place (Though loath and angry she to part With the possession of my heart) To Eliza's conquering face. Eliza till this hour might reign, Had not she evil counsels ta'en. Fundamental laws she broke ; And still new favourites she chose. Till up in arms my passions rose. And cast away her yoke. Mary then and gentle Anne Both to reign at once began. Alternately they swayed ; And sometimes Mary was the fair. And sometimes Anne the crown did wear ; And sometimes both I obeyed. Another Mary then arose And did rigorous laws impose ; A mighty tyrant she ! Long, alas, should I have been Under that iron-sceptred Queen, Had not Rebecca set me free. When fair Rebecca set me free, 'Twas then a golden time with me. But soon those pleasures fled. For the gracious Princess died In her youth and beauty's pride, And Judith reigned in her stead. One month, three days, and half an hour, Judith held the sovereign power. Wondrous beautiful her face ; But so weak and small her wit That she to govern was unfit. And so Susanna took her place. THE CHRONICLE 83 But when Isabella came. Armed with a resistless flame And the artillery of her eye. Whilst she proudly marched about Greater conquests to find out, She beat out Susan by the by. But in her place I then obeyed Black Bess, her viceroy maid. To whom ensued a vacancy. Thousand worse passions then possessed The Interregnum of my breast ; Bless me from such an anarchy ! Gentle Henrietta then. And a third Mary next began ; Then Joan and Jane and Audria, And then a pretty Thomasine, And then another Katharine, And then a long et caetera. But should I now to you relate The strength and riches of their state. The powder, patches, and the pins, The ribands, jewels, and the rings, The lace, the paint and warlike things That make up all their magazines ; If I should tell the politic arts To take and keep men's hearts. The letters, embassies, and spies. The frowns and smiles and flatteries, The quarrels, tears, and perjuries. Numberless, nameless mysteries ; And all the little lime-twigs laid By Machiavel, the waiting-maid, I more voluminous should grow (Chiefly if I, like them, should tell All change of weathers that befell) Than Holinshed or Stow. But I will briefer with them be, Since few of them were long with me. A higher and a nobler strain My present Emperess does claim : Heleonora, first o' th' name. Whom God grant long to reign ! A. Cowley. 84 129. MARGARET AND DORA Margaebt 's beauteous. Grecian arta Ne'er drew form completer ; Yet why, in my heart of hearts. Hold I Dora's sweeter ? Dora's eyes of heavenly blue Pass all painting's reach ; Ringdoves' notes are discord to The music of her speech. Artists ! Margaret's smile receive. And on canvas show it ; But for perfect worship leave Dora to her poet. T. Campbell. 130. LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE Lesbia hath a beaming eye. But no one knows for whom it beameth ) Right and left its arrows fly. But what they aim at no one dreameth. Sweeter 'tis to gaze upon My Nora's lid that seldom rises ; Few its looks, but every one. Like unexpected light, surprises. Oh, my Nora Creina, dear. My gentle, bashful Nora Creina, Beauty lies In many eyes, But Love in yours, my Nora Creina ! Lesbia wears a robe of gold. But all so close the nymph hath laced it. Not a charm of beauty's mould Presumes to stay where nature placed it. Oh ! my Nora's gown for me. That floats as wild as mountain breezes, Leaving every beauty free To sink or swell as Heaven pleases. Yes, my Nora Creina, dear. My simple, graceful Nora Creina, Nature's dress Is loveliness — The dress you wear, my Nora Creina. LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE 85 Lesbia hath a wit refined. But when its points are gleaming round us. Who can tell if they're designed To dazzle merely, or to wound us ? Pillowed on my Nora's heart In safer slumber Love reposes — Bed of peace ! whose roughest part Is but the crumpling of the roses. Oh ! my Nora Creina, dear. My mild, my artless Nora Creina ! Wit, though bright. Hath no such light. As warms your eyes, my Nora Creina. T. MooRK 131. PHILLIDA AND CORYDON In the merry mqnth of May, In a morn by break of day, Forth I walked by the wood-side, Whenas May was in his pride : There I spied all alone Phillida and Corydon. Much ado there was, God wot ! He would love and she would not. She said. Never man was true ; He said. None was false to you. He said. He had loved her long ; She said, Love should have no wrong. Corydon would kiss her then ; She said, Maids must kiss no men Till they did for good and all ; Then she made the shepherd call All the heavens to witness truth Never loved a truer youth. Thus with many a pretty oath. Yea and nay, faith and troth. Such as silly shepherds use When they will not love abuse. Love, which had been long deluded. Was with kisses sweet concluded ; And Phillida with garlands gay Was made the Lady of the May. N. Breton. 86 132. SALLY IN OUR ALLEY Or all the girls that are so smart There 'a none like pretty Sally ; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. There is no lady in the land Is half so sweet as Sally ; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. Her father he makes cabbage-nets And through the streets does cry them ; Her mother she sells laces long To such as please to buy them : But sure such folks could ne'er beget So sweet a girl as Sally ! She is the darling of my heart. And she lives in our alley. When she is by, I leave my work, I love her so sincerely ; My master comes like any Turk, And bangs me most severely — But let him bang his bellyful, I'll bear it all for Sally ; She is the darling of my heart. And she lives in our alley. Of all the days that 's in the week I dearly love but one day — And that 's the day that comes betwixt A Saturday and Monday ; For then I'm dressed all in my best To walk abroad with Sallj' ; She is the darling of my heart. And she lives in our alley. My master carries me to church. And often am I blamed Because I leave him in the lurch As soon as text is named ; I leave the church in sermon-time And slink away to Sally ; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. When Christmas oomes about again then I shall have money ; I'll hoard it up, and box and all I'll give it to my honey : SALLY IN OUR ALLEY 87 And would it were ten thousand pounds, I'd give it all to Sally ; She is the darling of my heart. And she lives in our alley. My master and the neighbours all Make game of me and Sally, And, but for her, I'd better be A slave and row a galley ; But when my seven long years are out then I'll marry Sally, — then we'll wed, and then we'll bed. But not in our alley ! H. CABEy. 133. THE COURTIN' God makes sech nights, all white an' still Fur 'z you can look or listen. Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill. All silence an' all glisten. Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown An' peeked in thru' the winder. An' there sot Huldy all alone, 'Ith no one nigh to hender. A fireplace filled the room's one side With half a cord o' wood in — There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) To bake ye to a puddin'. The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out Towards the pootiest, bless her. An' leetle flames danced all about The chiny on the dresser. Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, An' in amongst 'em rusted The ole queen's-arm that gran'ther Young Fetched back f'om Concord busted. The very room, coz she was in, Seemed warm f'om floor to oeilin', An' she looked full ez rosy agin Ez the apples she was peelin'. 'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look On sech a blessed cretur, A dogrose blushin' to a brook Ain't modester nor sweeter. 88 THE COURTIN' He was six foot o' man, A 1, Clear grit an' human natur'. None couldn't quicker pitch a ton Nor dror a furrer straighter. He'd sparked it with full twenty gals, Hed squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells — All is, he couldn't love 'em. But long o' her his veins 'ould run All crinkly like curled maple. The side she breshed felt full o' sun Ez a south slope in Ap'il. She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing Ez hisn in the choir ; My ! when he made Ole Hunderd ring. She knowed the Lord was nigher. An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer. When her new meetin'-bunnet Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair 0' blue eyes sot upun it. That night, I tell ye, she looked some / She seemed to 've got a new soul, For she felt sartin-sure he'd come, Down to her very shoe-sole. She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, A-raspin' on the scraper, — All ways to once her feelins flew Like sparks in burnt-up paper. He kin' o' I'itered on the mat, Some doubtfle o' the sekle. His heart kep' goin' pity-pat. But hern went pity Zekle. An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk Ez though she wished him furder, An' on her apples kep' to work, Parin' away like murder. ' You want to see my Pa, I s'pose ? ' ' Wal — no — I come dasignin' ' — ' To see my Ma ? She 's sprinklin' clo'ea Agin to-morrer's i'nin'.' THE COURTIN' 89 To say why gals act so or so, Or don't, 'ould be presumin' ; Mebbe to mean yes an' say no Comes nateral to women. He stood a spell on one foot fust. Then stood a spell on t'other. An' on which one he felt the wust He couldn't ha' told ye nuther. Says he, ' I'd better call agin ; ' Says she, ' Think likely. Mister : ' Thet last word pricked him like a pin. An' — Wal, he up an' kissed her. When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, Huldy sot pale ez ashes. All kin' o' smily roun' the lips An' teary roun' the lashes. For she was jes' the quiet kind Whose naturs never vary. Like streams that keep a summer mind Snow-hid in Jenooary. The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued Too tight for all expressin'. Tell mother see how metters stood. An' gin 'em both her blessin'. Then her red come back like the tide Down to the Bay o' Fundy An' all I know is they was cried In meetin' come nex' Sunday. J. R. Lowell. 134. WOOING STUFF Faint Amorist ! what, dost thou think To taste Love's honey, and not drink One dram of gall ? or to devour A world of sweet, and taste no sour ? Dost thou ever think to enter The Elysian fields, that dar'st not venture In Charon's barge ? A lover's mind Must use to sail with every wind. He that loves, and fears to try. Learns his mistress to deny. Doth she chide thee ? 'Tis to show it, That thy coldness makes her do it. 90 WOOING STUFF Is she silent ? Is she mute ? Silence fully grants thy suit. Doth she pout and leave the room ? Then she goes, to bid thee come. Is she sick ? Why then, be sure She invites thee to the cure. Doth she cross thy suit with ' No ' ? Tush ! She loves to hear thee woo. Doth she call the faith of man In question ? Nay, she loves thee then. And if e'er she makes a blot, She 's lost if that thou hitt'st her not. He that after ten denials Dares attempt no further trials. Hath no warrant to acquire The dainties of his chaste desire. Sib p. Sidney. 135. GRAMMAR-RULES GRAMMAR-RULES, O now your virtues show ; So children still read you with awful eyes. As my young dove may, in your precepts wise. Her grant to me by her own virtue know : For late, with heart most high, with eyes most low, 1 craved the thing which ever she denies ; She, lightning love, displaying Venus' skies, Lest once should not be heard, twice said No, No. Sing then, my Muse, now lo Paean sing ; Heavens, envy not at my high triumphing. But grammar's force with sweet success confirm : For grammar says, — O this, dear Stella, say, — For grammar says, — to grammar who says nay ? — That in one speech two negatives aflSrm ! Sir p. Sidney. 136. TO HIS MISTRESS OBJECTING TO HIM NEITHER TOYING OR TALKING You say I love not, 'cause I do not play Still with your curls, and kiss the time away. You blame me, too, because I can't devise Some sport, to please those babies in your eyes ; By Love's religion, I must here confess it, The most I love, when I the least express it. TO HIS MISTRESS 91 Small griefs find tongues : full casks are ever found To give, if any, yet but little sound. Deep waters noiseless are ; and this we know. That chiding streams betray small depth below. So when Love speechless is, she doth express A depth in love, and that depth bottomless. Now since my love is tongueless, know me such. Who speak but little, 'cause I love so much. R. Hebrick. 137. THE NIGHT-PIECE, TO JULIA Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee. The shooting stars attend thee ; And the elves also. Whose little eyes glow Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. No will-o'-th'-wisp mis-light thee ; Nor snake, or slow-worm bite thee : But on, on thy way Not making a stay. Since ghost there 's none to afiiright thee. Let not the dark thee cumber ; What though the moon does slumber ? The stars of the night Will lend thee their light. Like tapers clear without number. Then Julia let me woo thee, Thus, thus to come unto me : And when I shall meet Thy silvery feet. My soul I'll pour into thee. R. Heeeick. 138. THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING The time I've lost in wooing. In watching and pursuing The light that lies In woman's eyes. Has been my heart's undoing. Though Wisdom oft has sought me, I scorned the lore she brought me, My only books Were woman's looks. And folly 's all they taught me. 92 THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING Her smile when Beauty granted, I hung with gaze enchanted, Like him the sprite Whom maids by night Oft met in glen that 's haunted. But while her eyes were on me, Like him, too, Beauty won me. If once their ray Was turned away, O ! winds could not outrun me. And are those follies going ? And is my proud heart growing Too cold or wise For brilliant eyes Again to set it glowing ? No, vain, alas ! the endeavour From bonds so sweet to sever ; Poor Wisdom's chance Against a glance Is now as weak as ever. T. MOOBE. 139. NEVER SEEK TO TELL THY LOVE Never seek to tell thy love. Love that never told can be ; For the gentle wind does move Silently, invisibly. I told my love, I told my love, I told her all my heart ; Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears, Ah ! she doth depart. Soon as she was gone from me, A traveller came by. Silently, invisibly — O ! was no deny. W. Blake, 140. AN EXPOSTUL.-VTION When late I attempted your pity to move, What made you so deaf to my prayers ? Perhaps it was right to dissemble your love, But — why did you kick me downstairs ? I. BlOKEESTAFFE. 93 141. HIS LOVE ADMITS NO RIVAL Shall I, like a hermit, dwell On a rook, or in a cell. Calling home the smallest part That is missing of my heart. To bestow it where I may Meet a rival every day ? If she undervalue me. What care I how fair she be ? Were her tresses angel gold. If a stranger may be bold, Unrebuked, unafraid. To convert them to a braid. And with little more ado Work them into bracelets too ; If the mine be grown so free. What care I how rich it be ? Sir W. Ralegh. 142. SHALL I, WASTING IN DESPAIR Shall I, wasting in despair. Die because a woman 's fair ? Or make pale my cheeks with care 'Cause another's rosy are ? Be she fairer than the day, Or the flowery meads in May, If she be not so to me What care I how fair she be ? Should my heart be grieved or pined 'Cause I see a woman kind ? Or a well-dispos&d nature Joined with a lovely feature ? Be she meeker, kinder than Turtle-dove, or pelican. If she be not so to me. What care I how kind she be ? Shall a woman's virtues move Me to perish for her love ? Or her well-deserving, known. Make me quite forget my own ? Be she with that goodness blessed Which may gain her name of best. If she be not such to me What care I how good she be ? 94 SHALL I, WASTING IN DESPAIR 'Cause her fortune seems too high, Shall I play the fool, and die ? Those that bear a noble mind. Where they want of riches find. Think what with them they would do That without them dare to woo ; And unless that mind I see. What care I though great she be ? Great, or good, or kind, or fair, I will ne'er the more despair : If she love me, this believe I will die ere she shall grieve : If she slight me when I woo, I can scorn and let her go ; For if she be not for me. What care I for whom she be ? G. Wither. 143. WHY SO PALE AND WAN, FOND LOVER Why so pale and wan, fond lover ? Prithee, why so pale ? Will, when looking well can't move her. Looking ill prevail ? Prithee, why so pale 2 Why so dull and mute, young sinner ? Prithee, why so mute ? Will, when speaking well can't win her. Saying nothing do't ? Prithee, why so mute ? Quit, quit, for shame ! this will not move. This cannot take her ; If of herself she will not love. Nothing can make her : The Devil take her ! SiE J. Suckling. 144. VALOUR MISDIRECTED ' I'll hunt for dangers North and South, To prove my love, which sloth maligns ! ' What seems to say her rosy mouth ? ' I'm not convinced by proofs but signs.' Coventry Patmore. 96 U5. I NE'ER COULD ANY LUSTRE SEE I ne'er could any lustre see In eyes that would not look on me ; I ne'er saw nectar on a lip. But where my own did hope to sip. Has the maid who seeks my heart Cheeks of rose, untouched by art ? I will own the colour true When yielding blushes aid their hue. Is her hand so soft and pure ? I must press it, to be sure ; Nor can I be certain then. Till it, grateful, press again. Must I, with attentive eye. Watch her heaving hosom sigh ? I will do so, when I see That heaving bosom sigh for me. E. B. Sheridan. 146. THE LARK NOW LEAVES HIS WATERY NEST The lark now leaves his watery nest And climbing shakes his dewy wings. He takes this window for the East, And to implore your light he sings — Awake, awake ! the morn will never rise Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes. The merchant bows unto the seaman's star, The ploughman from the sun his season takes ; But still the lover wonders what they are Who look for day before his mistress wakes. Awake, awake ! break through your veils of lawn ! Then draw your curtains, and begin the dawn ! Sir W. Davenant. 147. SABINA WAKES See ! see, she wakes ! Sabina wakes ! And now the sun begins to rise ! Less glorious is the morn that breaks Erom his bright beams than her fair eyes. With light united, day they give ; But different fates ere night fulfil ; How many by his warmth will live ! How many will her coldness kill ! W. COKGEEVE. 96 148. WITHOUT AND WITHIN Love in her sunny eyes doth basking play ; Love walks the pleasant mazes of her hair ; Love does on both her lips for ever stray. And sows and reaps a thousand kisses there : In all her outward parts Love 's always seen ; But oh ! he never went within. A. Cowley. 149. I LOVED A LASS, A FAIR ONE I LOVED a lass, a fair one, As fair as e'er was seen ; She was indeed a rare one. Another Sheba Queen ! But, fool as then I was, I thought she loved me too : But now, alas ! she 's left me, Falero, lero, loo. Her hair like gold did glister. Each eye was lik& a star. She did surpass her sister. Which passed all others far ; She would me hobey call. She'd, — oh she'd kiss me too : But now, alas ! she 's left me, Falero, lero, loo. Many a merry meeting My love and I have had ; She was my only sweeting. She made my heart full glad ; The tears stood in her eyes Like to the morning dew : But now, alas ! she 's left me, Falero, lero, loo. Her cheeks were like the cherry. Her skin as white as snow ; When she was blithe and merry. She angel-like did show ; Her waist exceeding small. The fives did fit her shoe : But now, alas ! she 's left me, Falero, lero, loo. I LOVED A LASS, A FAIR ONE 97 In summer time or winter She liad lier heart's desire ; I still did scorn to stint her From sugar, sack, or fire ; The world went round about, No cares we ever knew : But now, alas ! she 's left me, Falero, lero, loo. As we walked home together At midnight through the town, To keep away the weather O'er her I'd cast my gown. No cold my love should feel, Whate'er the heavens could do ; But now, alas ! she 's left me, Falero, lero, loo. Like doves we should be billing. And clip and kiss so fast ; Yet she would be unwilling That I should kiss the last. They're Judas-kisses now. Since that they proved untrue ; For now, alas ! she 's left me, Falero, lero, loo. To maidens' vows and swearing Henceforth no credit give You may give them the hearing But never them believe ; They are as false as fair, Unconstant, frail, untrue : For mine, alas ! hath left me, Falero, lero, loo. G. Wither. 150. TO HIS COY LOVE I PRAY thee leave, love me no more. Call home the heart you gave me, , I but in vain that saint adore. That can, but will not save me : These poor half-kisses kill me quite Was ever man thus served ? Amidst an ocean of delight, For pleasure to be starvW. 98 TO HIS COY LOVE Show me no more those snowy breasts. With azure riverets branched. Where whilst my eye with plenty feasts. Yet is my thirst not stanched. O Tantalus, thy pains ne'er tell. By me thou art prevented ; 'Tis nothing to be plagued in hell. But thus in heaven tormented. Clip me no more in those dear arms. Nor thy life's comfort call me ; Oh, these are but too powerful charms. And do but more enthral me. But see, how patient I am grown. In all this coil about thee ; Come, nice thing, let my heart alone, I cannot live without thee. M. Drayton. 151. THOU ART NOT FAIR Thou art not fair for all thy red and white, For all those rosy ornaments in thee. Thou art not sweet, though made of mere delight. Nor fair nor sweet, unless thou pity me. I will not soothe thy fancies : thou shalt prove That beauty is no beauty without love. Yet love not me, nor seek thou to allure My thoughts with beauty, were it more divine. Thy smiles and kisses I cannot endure, I'll not be wrapped up in those arms of thine. Now show it, if thou be a woman right, — Embrace, and kiss, and love me, in despite ! T. Campion. 152. THE LOST MISTRESS All 's over, then : does truth sound bitter As one at first believes ? Hark, 'tis the sparrows' good-night twitter About your cottage eaves ! And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly, I noticed that, to-day ; One day more bursts them open fully — You know the red turns grey. THE LOST MISTRESS 99 To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest ? May I take your hai^ in mine ? Mere friends are we, — well, friends the merest Keep much that I'll resign : For each glance of that eye so bright and black. Though I keep with heart's endeavour, — Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back. Though it stay in my soul for ever ! — Yet I will but say what mere friends say, Or only a thought stronger ; I will hold your hand but as long as all may. Or so very little longer ! R. Bkowmng. 153. THE SIEGE 'Tis now, since I sat down before That foolish fort, a heart, (Time strangely spent !) a year, and more ; And still I did my part. Made my approaches, from her hand Unto her lip did rise ; And did already understand The language of her eyes. Proceeding on with no less art. My tongue was engineer ; I thought to undermine the heart By whispering in the ear. When this did nothing, I brought down Great canon-oaths, and shot A thousand thousand to the town, And still it yielded not. I then resolved to starve the place. By cutting off all kisses. Praising and gazing on her face, And all such little blisses. To draw her out, and from her strength, I drew all batteries in : And brought myself to lie at length. As if no siege had been. When I had done what man could do. And thought the place my own. The enemy lay quiet too. And smiled at all was done. 100 THE SIEGE I sent to know from whence, and where. These hopes, and this relief ? A spy informed, Honour was there. And did command in chief. March, march (quoth I), the word straight give, Let 's lose no time, but leave her : That giant upon air will live. And hold it out for ever. To such a place our camp remove As will no siege abide ; I hate a fool that starves her love. Only to feed her pride. Sir J. Suckling. 154. WOMAN'S HONOUR • Love bade me hope, and I obeyed ; Phyllis continued still unkind ; ' Then you may e'en despair,' he said, ' In vain I strive to change her mind. ' Honour 's got in, and keeps her heart ; Durst he but venture once abroad. In my own right I'd take your part. And show myself the mightier god.' This huffing Honour domineers In breasts where he alone has place ; But if true generous Love appears. The hector dares not show his face. Let me still languish and complain. Be most inhumanly denied ; I have some pleasure in my pain, She can have none with all her pride. I fall a sacrifice to Love, She lives a wretch for Honour's sake ! Whose tyrant does most cruel prove. The difference is not hard to make. Consider real Honour then, You'll find hers cannot be the same. 'Tis noble confidence in men ; In women, mean distrustful shame. J. WiLMOT, Eabl of Rochester. 101 155. A DUTCH PROVERB ' FiKE, Water, Woman, are Man's ruin ! ' Says wise Professor Van der Bruin. By flames, a house I hired was lost Last year ; and I must pay the cost. This spring, the rains o'erflowed my ground, And my best Flanders mare was drowned. A slave am I to Clara's eyes ; The gipsy knows her power, and flies ! Fire, Water, Woman, are my ruin ; And great thy wisdom. Van der Bruin ! M. Prior. 156. NEVER LOVE UNLESS — Never love unless you can Bear with all the faults of man : Men sometimes will jealous be. Though but little cause they see. And hang the head as discontent. And speak what, straight, they will repent. Men that but one saint adore Make a show of love to more : Beauty must be scorned in none. Though but truly served in one : For what is courtship, but disguise ? True hearts may have dissembling eyes. Men when their affairs require. Must a while themselves retire : Sometimes hunt, and sometimes hawk. And not ever sit and talk. If these, and such like you can bear. Then like, and love, and never fear. T. Campion. 157. RIVALS IN LOVE Of all the torments, all the cares. With which our lives are cursed ; Of all the plagues a lover bears, Sure, rivals are the worst ! By partners in each other kind. Afflictions easier grow ; In love alone we hate to find Companions of our woe. 102 RIVALS IN LOVE Sylvia, for all the pangs you see Are labouring in my breast, I beg not you would favour me. Would you but slight the rest. How great soe'er your rigours are With them alone I'll cope : — I can endure my own despair, But not another's hope. W. Walsh. 158. ANSWER TO CHLOE JEALOUS Dear Chloe, how blubbered is that pretty face ! Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurled : Prithee quit this caprice ; and, as old Falstaff says. Let us e'en talk a little like folks of this world. How canst thou presume, thou hadst leave to destroy The beauties which Venus but lent to thy keeping ? Those looks were designed to inspire love and joy : More ordinary eyes may serve people for weeping. To be vexed at a trifle or two that I writ. Your judgement at once, and my passion, you wrong : You take that for fact, which will scarce be found wit ; Ods life ! must one swear to the truth of a song ? What I speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write, shows The difference there is betwixt nature and art : I court others in verse — but I love thee in prose ; And they have my whimsies — but thou hast my heart. The God of us verse-men (you know, child) the Sun, How after his journeys he sets lip his rest : If at morning o'er Earth 'tis his fancy to run ; At night he declines on his Thetis's breast. So when I am wearied with wandering all day ; To thee, my delight, in the evening I come : No matter what beauties I saw in my way : They were but my visits, but thou art my home. Then finish, dear Chloe, this pastoral war ; And let us like Horace and Lydia agree ; For thou art a girl as much brighter than her. As he was a poet sublimer than me. M. Prior. 103 159. THE WHEEDLER In vain, dear Chloe, you suggest That I, inconstant, have possessed Or loved a fairer she ; Would you with ease at once be cured Of all the ills you've long endured. Consult your glass and me ! If then you think that I can find A nymph more fair, or one more kind. You've reason for your fears ; But if impartial you will prove To your own beauty and my love. How needless are your tears ! If, in my way, I should by chance Receive, or give, a wanton glance, I like but while I view ; How slight the glance, how faint the kiss. Compared to that substantial bliss Which I receive from you ! With wanton flight the curious bee From flower to flower still wanders free i And where each blossom blows. Extracts the juice of all he meots. But for his quintessence of sweets, He ravishes the rose. So, my fond fancy to employ On each variety of joy From nymph to nymph I roam ; Perhaps see fifty in a day ! Those are but visits which I pay — For Chloe is my home ! SiE W. YONOB. 160. THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD If all the world and love were young, And truth in every shepherd's tongue. These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee, and be thy love. But Time drives flocks from field to fold When rivers rage and rocks grow cold. And Philomel becometh dumb ; The rest complain of cares to come. 104 THE NYMPH'S REPLY The flowers do fade ; and wanton fields To wayward winter reckoning }delds : A honey tongue, a heart of gall. Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses. Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies Soon break, soon wither, soon forgottei). In folly ripe, in reason rotten. Thy belt of straw and ivy buds. Thy coral clasps and amber studs, All these in me no means can move To come to thee, and be thy love. But could youth last, and love still breed. Had joys no date, nor age no need ; Then these delights my mind might move To live with thee, and be thy love. Sir W. Ralegh. 161. THINK'ST THOU TO SEDUCE ME "Thtnk'st thou to seduce me then with words that have no meaning ? Parrots so can learn to prate, our speech by pieces gleaning : Nurses teach their children so about the time of weaning. Learn to speak first, then to woo : to wooing much pertaineth : He that courts us, wanting art, soon falters when he feigneth. Looks asquint on his discourse and smiles when he complaineth. Skilful anglers hide their hooks, fit baits for every season ; But with crooked pins fish thou, as babes do that want reason ; Gudgeons only can be caught with such poor tricks of treason. Ruth forgive me, if I erred, from human heart compassion. When I laughed sometimes too much to see thy foolish fashion : But alas ! who less could do that found so good occasion ! T. Campion. 162. THE QUESTION TO LISETTA What nymph should I admire or trust. But Cliloe beauteous, Chloe just ? What nymph should I desire to see, But her who leaves the plain for me ? To whom should I compose the lay. But her who listens when I play ? To whom in song repeat my cares. But her who in my sorrow shares ? THE QUESTION TO LISETTA 105 For whom should I the garland make, But her who joys the gift to take, And boasts she wears it for my sake ? In love am I not fully blest ? Lisetta, prithee tell the rest. Lisetta's Reply Sure CJhloe just, and Chios fair. Deserves to be your only care ; But, when she and you to-day Par into the wood did stray. And I happened to pass by ; Which way did you cast your eye ? But, when your cares to her you sing. You dare not tell her whence they spring ; Does it not more afflict your heart. That in those cares she bears a part ? When you the flowers for Chloe twine. Why do you to her garland join The meanest bud that falls from mine ? Simplest of swains ! the world may see, Whom Chloe loves, and who loves me. M. Pbioe. 163. THE LOVER Addressed to Congreve At length, by so much importunity pressed. Take, Congreve, at once the inside of my breast. The stupid indifference so often you blame. Is not owing to nature, to fear, or to shame ; I am not as cold as a virgin in lead. Nor is Sunday's sermon so strong in my head ; I know but too well how old Time flies along. That we live but few years, and yet fewer are young. But I hate to be cheated, and never will buy Long years of repentance for moments of joy. O ! was there a man — but where shall I find Good sense and good nature so equally joined ? — Would value his pleasures, contribute to mine ; Not meanly would boast, and not grossly design ; Not over severe, yet not stupidly vain, For I would have the power, but not give the pain. No pedant, yet learned ; no rakey-hell gay. Or laughing, because he has nothing to say ; To all my whole sex obliging and free, Yet never be loving to any but me ; E 3 106 THE LOVER In public preserve the decorum that 's just. And show in his eye he is true to his trust ; Then rarely approach, and respectfully bow. But not fulsomely forward, or foppishly low. But when the long hours of public are past. And we meet with champagne and a chicken at last. May every fond pleasure the moment endear ; Be banished afar both discretion and fear ! Forgetting or scorning the aim of the crowd. He may cease to be formal, and I to be proud. Till, lost in the joy, we confess that we live. And he may be rude, and yet I may forgive. And that my delight may be solidly fixed. Let the friend and the lover be handsomely mixed, In whose tender bosom my soul may confide. Whose kindness can soothe me, whose counsel can guide. For such a dear lover as here I describe. No danger should fright me, no millions should bribe ; But till this astonishing creature I know. As I long have lived chaste, I will keep myself so. I never will share with the wanton coquet, Or be caught by a vain affectation of wit. The toasters and songsters may try all their art. But never shall enter the pass of my heart. I loathe the mere rake, the dressed fopling despise : Before such pursuers the chaste virgin flies : And as Ovid so sweetly in parable told. We harden like trees, and like rivers grow cold. Lady M. Wortley Montagu. 164. AMY'S CRUELTY Faik Amy of the terraced house. Assist me to discover Why you who would not hurt a mouse Can torture so your lover. You give your coffee to the cat. You stroke the dog for coming. And all your face grows kinder at The little brown bee's humming. But when he haunts your door . . . the town Marks coming and marks going . . . You seem to have stitched your eyelids down To that long piece of sewing ! AMY'S CRUELTY 107 You never give a look, not you, Nor drop him a ' Good morning ', To keep his long day warm and blue. So fretted by your scorning. She shook her head — ' The mouse and bee For crumb or flower will linger : The dog is happy at my knee. The oat purrs at my finger. 'But he ... to him, the least thing given Means great things at a distance ; He wants my world, my sun, my heaven. Soul, body, whole existence. ' They say love gives as well as takes ; But I'm a simple maiden, — My mother's first smile when she wakes I still have smiled and prayed in. ' I only know my mother's love Which gives all and asks nothing ; And this new loving sets the groove Too much the way of loathing. ' Unless he gives me all in change, I forfeit all things by him : The risk is terrible and strange — I tremble, doubt, . . . deny him. ' He 's sweetest friend, or hardest foe. Best angel or worst devil ; I either hate or . . . love him so, I can't be merely civil ! ' You trust a woman who puts forth. Her blossoms thick as summer's ? You think she dreams what love is worth. Who casts it to new-comers ? ' Such love 's a cowslip-ball to fling, A moment's pretty pastime ; I give . . w all me, if anything, The first time and the last time. ' Dear neighbour of the trellised house, A man should murmur never. Though treated worse than dog and mouse. Till doted on for ever ! ' E. B. Beowntng. 108 165. 'NO, THANK YOU, JOHN' I NEVER said I loved you, John : Why will you teaze me day by day. And wax a weariness to think upon With always ' do ' and ' pray ' ? You know I never loved you, John ; No fault of mine made me your toast : Why will you haunt me with a face as wan As shows an hour-old ghost ? I dare say Meg or Moll would take Pity upon you, if you'd ask : And pray don't remain single for my sake Who can't perform that task. I have no heart ? — Perhaps I have not ; But then you're mad to take offence That I don't give you what I have not got : Use your own common sense. Let bygones be bygones : Don't call me false, who owed not to be true : I'd rather answer ' No ' to fifty Johns Than answer ' Yes ' to you. Let 's mar our pleasant days no more. Song-birds of passage, days of youth : Catch at to-day, forget the days before : I'll wink at your untruth. Let us strike hands as hearty friends ; No more, no less ; and friendship 's good : Only don't keep in view ulterior ends. And points not understood In open treaty. Rise above Quibbles and shuffling off and on : Here 's friendship for you if you like ; but love, — No, thank you, John. C. G. ROSSETTL 166. A MAN'S REQUIREMENTS Love me, sweet, with all thou art, Feeling, thinking, seeing, — Love me in the lightest part. Love me in full being. A MAN'S REQUIREMENTS 109 Love me with thine open youth In its frank surrender ; With the vowing of thy mouth, With its silence tender. Love me with thine azure eyes, Made for earnest granting ! Taking colour from the skies. Can Heaven's truth be wanting ? Love me with their lids, that fall Snow-like at first meeting ; Love me with thine heart, that all The neighbours then see beating. Love me with thine hand stretched out Freely — open-minded ; Love me with thy loitering foot, — Hearing one behind it. Love me with thy voice, that turns Sudden faint above me ; Love me with thy blush that burns While I murmur. Love me ! Love me with thy thinking soul — Break it to love-sighing ; Love me with thy thoughts that roll On through living — dying. Love me in thy gorgeous airs. When the world has crowned thee 1 Love me, kneeling at thy prayers. With the angels round thee. Love me pure, as musers do. Up the woodlands shady ; Love me gaily, fast, and true, As a winsome lady. Through all hopes that keep us brave, Further off or nigher, Love me for the house and grave, — And for something higher. Thus, if thou wilt prove me, dear. Woman's love no fable, / will love thee — half-a-year — As a man is able. E. B. Browniuo. no 167. A RENUNCIATION If women could be fair, and yet not fond. Or that their love were firm, not fickle still, I would not marvel that they make men bond By service long to purchase their good will ; But when I see how frail those creatures are, I laugh that men forget themselves so far. To mark the choice they make, and how they change. How oft from Phoebus they do flee to Pan ; Unsettled still, like haggards wild they range. These gentle birds that fly from man to man ; Who would not scorn and shake them from the fist. And let them fly, fair fools, which way they list ? Yet for our sport we fawn and flatter both, To pass the time when nothing else can please. And train them to our lure with subtle oath. Till, weary of our wiles, ourselves we ease ; And then we say when we their fancy try, To play with fools, Oh what a fool was I. E. Vere, Earl of Oxford. 168. WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY I LOVED thee once, I'll love no more, Thine be the grief as is the blame ; Thou art not what thou wast before. What reason I should be the same 1 He that can love unloved again. Hath better store of love than brain : God send me love my debts to pay, While unthrifts fool their love away ! Nothing could have my love o'erthrown. If thou hadst still continued mine ; Yea, if thou hadst remained thy own, I might perchance have yet been thine. But thou thy freedoin didst recall, That, if thou might, elsewhere inthrall ; And then how could I but disdain A captive's captive to remain ? When new desires had conquered thee, And changed the object of thy will. WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY 111 It had been lethargy in me, Not constancy to love thee still. Yea, it had been a sin to go And prostitute affection so. Since we are taught no prayers to say To such as must to others pray. Yet do thou glory in thy choice, — Thy choice of his good fortune boast ; I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice To see him gain what I have lost ; The height of my disdain shall be To laugh at him, to blush for thee ; To love thee still, but go no more A-begging to a beggar's door. Sir R. Ayton. 169. I DO CONFESS THOU'RT SMOOTH AND FAIR I DO confess thou'rt smooth and fair. And I might have gone near to love thee ; Had I not found the slightest prayer That lips could speak had power to move thee : But I can let thee now alone. As worthy to be loved by none. I do confess thou'rt sweet, yet find Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets. Thy favours are but like the wind. That kisses everything it meets : And since thou canst with more than one, Thou'rt worthy to be kissed by none. The morning rose, that untouched stands. Armed with her briers, how sweet her smell ! But plucked, and strained through ruder hands. Her sweets no longer with her dwell ; But scent and beauty both are gone. And leaves fall from her, one by one. Such fate, ere long, will thee betide. When thou hast handled been awhile, Like sere flowers to be thrown aside ; And I will sigh, while some will smile. To see thy love for more than one Hath brought thee to be loved by none. Sir R. Ayton. 112 170. GO AND CATCH A FALLING STAR Go and catch a falling star, Get with child a mandrake root, Tell me where all past years are, Or who cleft the Devil's foot ; Teach me to hear mermaids singing, Or to keep off envy's stinging, And find What wind Serves to advance an honest mind. If thou beest born to strange sights. Things invisible to see. Ride ten thousand days and nights Till age snow white hairs on thee ; Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me All strange wonders that befell thee. And swear. No where Lives a woman true and fair. If thou find'st one, let me know ; Such a pilgrimage were sweet. Yet do not ; I would not go. Though at next door we might meet. Though she were true when you met her, And last till you write your letter. Yet she Will be False, ere I come, to two or three. J. Donne. 171. A DEPOSITION FROM BEAUTY Though when I loved thee thou wert fair, Thou art no longer so ; These glories all the pride they wear Unto opinion owe. Beauties, like stars, in borrowed lustre shine ; And 'twas my love that gave thee thine. The flames that dwelt within thine eye Do now with mine expire ; Thy brightest graces fade and die At once with my desire. Love's fires thus mutual influence return ; Thine cease to shine, when mine to burn. A DEPOSITION FROM BEAUTY 113 Then, proud Celinda, hope no more To be implored or wooed, Since by thy scorn thou dost restore The wealth my love bestowed ; And thy despised disdain too late shall find That none are fair but who are kind. T. Stahley. 172. INSULTING BEAUTY Insulting Beauty ! you misspend Those frowns upon your slave. Your scorn against such rebels bend Who dare with confidence pretend That other eyes their hearts defend From all the charms you have. Your conquering eyes so partial are, Or mankind is so dull. That while I languish in despair Many proud senseless hearts declare They find you not so killing fair. To wish you merciful. They an inglorious freedom boast, I triumph in my chain ; Nor am I unrevenged though lost. Nor you unpunished though unjust. When I alone, who love you most. Am killed by your disdain. J. WiLMOT, Eael of Rochestee. 173. MEDIOCRITY IN LOVE REJECTED Give me more love, or more disdain ; The torrid or the frozen zone Bring equal ease unto my pain ; The temperate affords me none : Either extreme, of love or hate. Is sweeter than a calm estate. Give me a storm ; if it be love — Like Danae in that golden shower, I'll swim in pleasure ; if it prove Disdain, that torrent will devour My vulture hopes ; and he 's possessed Of heaven, that 's from hell released. Then crown my joys, or cure my pain ; Give me more love, or more disdain. T. Carew. 114 174. MAY'S LOVE You love all, you say. Round, beneath, above me : Find me then some way Better than to love me. Me, too, dearest May ! O world-kissing eyes Which the blue heavens melt to ! I, sad, overwise. Loathe the sweet looks dealt to All things — men and flies. Y'ou love all, you say : Therefore, Dear, abate me Just your love, I pray ! Shut your eyes and hate me — Only me — fair May ! E. B. Browning. 175. TO When I loved you, I can't but allow I had many an exquisite minute ; But the scorn that 1 feel for you now Hath even more luxury in it. Thus, whether we're on or we're off. Some witchery seems to await you ; To love you was pleasant enough, And, oh ! 'tis delicious to hate you ! T. MOOEB. 176. THAT WOMEN AB,E BUT MEN'S SHADOWS Follow a shadow, it still flies you ; Seem to fly it, it will pursue : So court a mistress, she denies you ; Let her alone, she will court you. Say are not women truly, then, Styled but the shadows of us men ? At morn and even, shades are longest ; At noon they are or short or none : So men at weakest, they are strongest, But grant us perfect, they're not known. Say are not women truly, then, Styled but the shadows of us men ? Ben. Jonson. 115 177. A PAIR WELL MATCHED Fair Iris I love and hourly I die. But not for a lip, nor a languishing eye ; She 's fickle and false, and there I agree. For I am as false and as fickle as she ; We neither believe what either can say. And neither believing, we neither betray. 'Tis civil to swear, and to say things of course ; We mean not the taking for better or worse. When present we love, when absent agree ; I think not of Iris, nor Iris of me : The legend of Love no couple can find So easy to part, or so equally joined. J. Dkyden. 178. A MATCH li" love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf. Our lives would grow together In sad or singing weather, Blown fields or flowerful closes. Green pleasure or grey grief ; If love were what the rose is. And 1 were like the leaf. If I were what the words are. And love were like the tune. With double sound and single Delight our lips would mingle. With kisses glad as birds are That get sweet rain at noon ; If I were what the words are. And love were like the tune. If you were life, my darling. And I your love were death. We'd shine and snow together Ere March made sweet the weather With daffodil and starling And hours of fruitful breath ; If you were life, my darling. And I your love were death. 116 A MATCH If you were thrall to sorrow. And I were page to joy, We'd play for lives and seasons With loving looks and treasons And tears of night and morrow And laughs of maid and boy ; If you were thrall to sorrow. And I were page to joy. If you were April's lady, And I were lord in May, We'd throw with leaves for hours And draw for day with flowers. Till day like night were shady And night were bright like day ; If you were April's lady. And I were lord in May. If you were queen of pleasure. And I were king of pain, We'd hunt down love together. Pluck out his flying-feather. And teach his feet a measure. And find his mouth a rein ; If you were queen of pleasure. And I were king of pain. A. C. SwrNBITENE. 179. NOT, CELIA, THAT I JUSTER AM Not, Celia, that I juster am Or better than the rest ; For I would change each hour, like them. Were not my heart at rest. But I am tied to very thee By every thought I have Thy face I only care to see Thy heart I only crave. All that in woman is adored In thy dear self I find — For the whole sex can but afford The handsome and the kind. Why then should I seek further store, And still make love anew ? When change itself can give no more, 'Tis easy to be true. Sir C. Sedley. 117 180. PHILLIS, MEN SAY THAT ALL MY VOWS Phillis, men say that all my vows Are to thy fortune paid ; Alas ! my heart he little knows, Who thinks my love a trade. Were I of all these woods the lord. One berry from thy hand More real pleasure would afford Than all my large command. My humble love has learned to live On what the nicest maid. Without a conscious blush, may give Beneath the myrtle shade. Sir C. SEDLEr. 181. OUT UPON IT, I HAVE LOVED Out upon it, I have loved Three whole days together ! And am like to love three more. If it prove fair weather. Time shall moult away his wings Ere he shall discover In the whole wide world again Such a constant lover. But the spite on't is, no praise Is due at all to me : Love with me had made no stays, Had it any been but she. Had it any been but she. And that very face. There had been at least ere this A dozen dozen in her place. Sir J. SucKLLffa. 182. PERJURY I LOVED thee, beautiful and kind. And plighted an eternal vow ; So altered are thy face and mind, 'Twere perjury to love thee now. R. Nugent, Eael Nugent. 118 183. THE MERIT OF INCONSTANCY Why dost thou say I am forsworn, Since thine I vowed to be ? Lady, it is already morn ; It was last night I swore to thee That fond impossibility. Yet have I loved thee well, and long ; A tedious twelve-hours' space ! I should all other beauties wrong. And rob thee of a new embrace. Did I still doat upon that face. R. Lovelace. 184. CARPE DIEM It is not, Celia, in your power To say how long our love will last ; It may be we, within this hour. May lose those joys we now do taste : The blessed, who immortal be. Prom change of love are only free. Then, since we mortal lovers are. Ask not how long our love will last ; But, while it does, let us take care Each minute be with pleasure passed. Were it not madness to deny To live, because we're sure to die ? Fear not, though love and beauty fail. My reason shall my heart direct : Your kindness now shall then prevail, And passion turn into respect. Celia, at worst, you'll in the end But change a lover for a friend. Sib G. Ethbbege. 185. I PROMISED SYLVIA I PKOMiSED Sylvia to be true. Nay, out of zeal I swore it too ; And that she might believe me more Gave her in writing what I swore. Not vows nor oaths can lovers bind ; So long as blessed so long they're kind. 'Twas in a leaf ! The wind but blew ; Away both leaf and promise flew. J. WiLMOT, Earl of Rochester. 119 186. LOVE AND LIFE All my past life is mine no more ; The flying hours are gone. Like transitory dreams given o'er, Whose images are kept in store By memory alone. The time that is to come, is not ; How can it then be mine ? The present moment 's all my lot ; And that, as fast as it is got, Phillis, is only thine. Then talk not of inconstancy. False hearts, and broken vows ! If I by miracle can be This live-long minute true to thee, 'Tis all that Heaven allows. J. WiLMOT, EaEL or ROCHESTEB. 187. A HUE AND CRY AFTER FAIR AMORET Fair Amoret is gone astray ! Pursue and seek her, every lover ! I'll tell the signs by which you may The wandering shepherdess discover. Coquet and coy at once her air. Both studied, though both seem neglected : Careless she is, with artful care ; Afiecting to seem unaffected. With skill, her eyes dart every glance ; Yet change so soon, you'd ne'er suspect them : For she'd persuade, they wound by chance ; Though certain aim and art direct them. She likes herself, yet others hates For that which in herself she prizes. And, while she laughs at them, forgets She is the thing that she despises. W. CONGREVE. 188. I LATELY VOWED, BUT 'TWAS IN HASTE I LATELY vowed, but 'twas in haste. That I no more would court The joys which seem when they are past As dull as they are short. 120 I LATELY VOWED, BUT 'TWAS IN HASTE I oft to hate my mistress swear, But soon my weakness find : I make my oaths when she 's severe, But break them when she 's kind. J. OLDrnxoN. 189. ONE YEAR AGO One year ago my path was green. My footstep hght, my brow serene ; Alas ! and could it have been so One year ago ? There is a love that is to last When the hot days of youth are past : Such love did a sweet maid bestow One year ago. I took a leaflet from her braid And gave it to another maid. Love ! broken should have been thy bow One year ago. W. S. Laitdoe. 190. THE STORY OF PHOEBUS AND DAPHNE APPLIED Thybsis, a youth of the inspired train. Fair Sacharissa loved, but loved in vain : Like Phoebus sung the no less amorous boy ; Like Daphne she, as lovely, and as coy ! With numbers he the flying nymph pursues ; With numbers, such as Phoebus' self might use ! Such is the chase, when Love and Fancy leads, O'er craggy mountains, and through flowery meads Invoked to testify the lover's care, Or form some image of his cruel fair. Urged with his fury, like a wounded deer. O'er these he fled ; and now approaching near. Had reached the nymph with his harmonious lay, Whom all his charms could not incline to stay. Yet, what he sung in his immortal strain. Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain : All, but the nymph who should redress his wrong. Attend his passion, and approve his song ; Like Phoebus thus, acquiring unsought praise. He catohed at love, and filled his arms with bajra. E. Wallek. 121 191. POETRY AND LOVE Cadenus many things had writ : Vanessa much esteemed his wit, And called for his Poetic Works : Meantime the boy in secret lurks ; And while the book was in her hand. The urchin from his private stand Took aim, and shot with all his strength A dart of such prodigious length. It pierced thefeeblevolumethrough. And deep transfixed her bosom too. Some lines, more moving than the rest. Stuck to the point that pierced her breast. And, borne directly to her heart, With pains unknown increased her smart. J. SwrPT. 192. PROUD WORD YOU NEVER SPOKE Peoud word you never spoke, but you will speak Eour not exempt from pride some future day. Resting on one white hand a warm wet cheek Over my open volume you will say, ' This man loved me ! ' then rise and trip away. W. S. Landok. 193. THE POET From witty men and mad All poetry conception had. No sires but these will poetry admit : Madness or wit. This definition poetry doth fit : It is witty madness, or mad wit. Only these two poetic heat admits : A witty man, or one that 's out of 's wits. T. Randolph. 122 194. THE FEMALE PHAETON Thus Kitty, beautiful and young, And wild as colt untamed, Bespoke the fair from whence she sprung. With little rage inflamed : Inflamed with rage at sad restraint. Which wise mamma ordained. And sorely vexed to play the saint. Whilst wit and beauty reigned. ' Shall I thumb holy books, confined With Abigails, forsaken ? Kitty 's for other things designed. Or I am much mistaken. ' Must Lady Jenny frisk about. And visit with her cousins ? At balls must she make all the rout. And bring home hearts by dozens ? ' What has she better, pray, than I ? What hidden charms to boast, That all mankind for her should die. Whilst I am scarce a toast ? ' Dearest mamma, for once let me. Unchained, my fortune try ; I'll have my Earl as well as she. Or know the reason why. ' I'll soon with Jenny's pride quit score. Make all her lovers fall : They'll grieve I was not loosed before ; She, I was loosed at all ! ' Fondness prevailed, — mamma gave way : Kitty, at heart's desire, Obtained the chariot for a day. And set the world on fire. M. Priok. 195. ARCADIA The sun was now withdrawn. The shepherds home were sped ; The moon wide o'er the lawn Her silver mantle spread ; ARCADIA 123 When Damon stayed behind. And sauntered in the grove. ' Will ne'er a nymph be kind, And give me love for love ? ' O ! those were golden hours. When Love, devoid of cares. In all Arcadia's bowers Lodged nymphs and swains by pairs ; But now from wood and plain Flies every sprightly lass ; No joys for me remain, In shades, or on the grass.' The winged boy draws near, And thus the swain reproves : ' While Beauty revelled here. My game lay in the groves ; At Court I never fail To scatter round my arrows ; Men fall as thick as hail, And maidens love like sparrows. ' Then, swain, if me you need. Straight lay your sheep-hook down ; Throw by your oaten reed. And haste away to town. So well I'm known at Court, None ask where Cupid dwells ; But readily resort To Bellendens or Lepels.' J. Gat. 196. PRUDERY Answer to the follov?ing Questioit of Mrs. Howe What is Prudery ? 'Tis a beldam, Seen with wit and beauty seldom. 'Tis a fear that starts at shadows. 'Tis (no 'tisn't) like Miss Meadows. 'Tis a virgin hard of feature, Old, and void of all good-nature ; Lean and fretful ; would seem wise ; Yet plays the fool before she dies : 'Tis an ugly envious shrew That rails at dear Lepel and you. A. Pope. 124 197. ON A CERTAIN LADY AT COURT [Henrietta Howard, Countess of Supfoui] I know the thing that 's most uncommon (Envy, be silent, and attend) ; I know a reasonable woman. Handsome and witty, yet a friend. Not warped by passion, awed by rumour, Not grave through pride, or gay tlxrough folly ; An equal mixture of good humom-, And sensible soft melancholy. ' Has she no faults then,' Envy says, ' Sir ? ' Yes, she has one, I must aver ; When all the world conspires to praise her, The woman 's deaf, and does not hear ! A. Pope. 198. A LONG STORY In Britain's isle, no matter where. An ancient pile of buildings stands : The Huntingdons and Hattons there Employed the power of fairy hands To raise the ceiling's fretted height. Each panel in achievements clothing, Rich windows that exclude the light. And passages, that lead to nothing. Full oft within the spacious walls. When he had fifty winters o'er him, My grave Lord- Keeper led the brawls : The Seal and Maces danced before him. His bushy beard, and shoe-strings green. His high-crowned hat, and satin-doublet. Moved the stout heart of England's Queen, Though Pope and Spaniard could not trouble it. What, in the very first beginning ! Shame of the versifying tribe ! Your History whither are you spinning ? Can you do nothing but describe ? A house there is (and that 's enough). From whence one fatal morning issues A brace of warriors, not in buff. But rustling in their silks and tissues. A LONG STORY 125 The first came cap-a-pie from Prance, Her conquering destiny fulfilling. Whom meaner beauties eye askance. And vainly ape her art of killing. The other Amazon kind Heaven Had armed with spirit, wit, and satire : But Cobham had the polish given. And tipped her arrows with good-nature. To celebrate her eyes, her air — Coarse panegyrics would but teaze her. Melissa is her nom de guerre. Alas, who would not wish to please her ! With bonnet blue and capucine. And aprons long they hid their armour, And veiled their weapons bright and keen In pity to the country-farmer. Fame in the shape of Mr. P 1 (By this time all the Parish know it) Had told that thereabouts there liirked A wicked imp they call a Poet, Who prowled the country far and near. Bewitched the children of the peasants. Dried up the cows, and lamed the deer. And sucked the eggs, and killed the pheasants. My lady heard their joint petition. Swore by her coronet and ermine. She'd issue out her high commission To rid the manor of such vermin. The heroines undertook the task. Through lanes unknown, o'er stiles they ventured. Rapped at the door, nor stayed to ask. But bounce into the parlour entered. The trembling family they daunt. They flirt, they sing, they laugh, they tattle, Rummage his mother, pinch his aunt. And up stairs in a whirlwind rattle. Each hole and cupboard they explore, Each creek and cranny of his chamber, Bun hurry-skurry round the floor. And o'er the bed and tester clamber. 126 A LONG STORY Into the drawers and china pry, Papers and books, a huge imbroglio ! Under a tea- cup he might lie, Or creased, like dogs-ears, in a folio. On the first marching of the troops The Muses, hopeless of his pardon. Conveyed him underneath their hoops To a small closet in the garden. So Rumour says. (Who will, believe.) But that they left the door a- jar, Where, safe and laughing in his sleeve, He heard the distant din of war. Short was his joy. He little knew The power of magic was no fable. Out of the window, whisk, they flew. But left a spell upon the table. The words too eager to unriddle The Poet felt a strange disorder : Transparent birdlime formed the middle. And chains invisible the border. So cunning was the apparatus. The powerful pothooks did so move him. That will he, nill he, to the great house He went, as if the Devil drove him. Yet on his way (no sign of grace. For folks in fear are apt to pray) To Phoebus he preferred his case, And begged his aid that dreadful day. The Godhead would have backed his quarrel. But with a blush on recollection Owned, that his quiver and his laurel 'Gainst four such eyes were no protection. The court was sat, the culprit there ; Forth from their gloomy mansions creeping The Lady Janes and Joans repair. And from the gallery stand peeping : Such as in silence of the night Come (sweep) along some winding entry (Styack has often seen the sight) Or at the chapel-door stand sentry ; A LONG STORY 127 In peaked hoods and mantles tarnished. Sour visages, enough to scare ye, High dames of honour once, that garnished Tlie drawing-room of fierce Queen Mary ! The peeress comes. The audience stare, And doff their hats with due submission : She curtsies, as she takes her chair, To all the people of condition. The bard with many an artful fib Had in imagination fenced him. Disproved the arguments of Squib And all that Groom could urge against him. But soon his rhetoric forsook him. When he the solemn hall had seen ; A sudden fit of ague shook him. He stood as mute as poor Macleane. Yet something he was heard to mutter, ' How in the park beneath an old-tree (Without design to hurt the butter. Or any malice to the poultry), ' He once or twice had penned a sonnet ; Yet hoped that he might save his bacon : Numbers would give their oaths upon it, He ne'er was for a conjurer taken.' The ghostly prudes with haggard face Already had condemned the sinner. My Lady rose, and with a grace . . . She smiled, and bid him come to dinner. ' Jesu-Maria ! Madam Bridget, Why, what can the Viscountess mean ? ' (Cried the square hoods in woful fidget) ' The times are altered quite and clean ! ' Decorum 's turned to mere civility ; Her air and all her manners show it. Commend me to her affability ! Speak to a Commoner and Poet ! ' [Here 500 Stanzas are lost.^ And so God save our noble King, And guard us from long-winded lubbers, That to Eternity would sing. And keep my Lady from her rubbers. T. Gray. 128 199. GOOD-NIGHT TO THE SEASON So runs the world away. — Hamlet. 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 one Except 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 enjoyment. 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 Peera ; 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 buildings Enough to make Inigo sick ; The paintings, and plasterings, and gildings Of 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 glory Sits staring at putty and stones. And scrambles from story to story. To rattle at midnight his bones. Good-night to the Season ! — the dances. The fillings of hot little rooms. The glanoings 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 talMng to mutes ; GOOD-NIGHT TO THE SEASON 129 The female diplomatists, planners Of 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 rages Led 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's Was held to have something to say ; Miss Splenetic's musical poodles. Which bark ' Batti 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 ; The loge where 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 splendour That 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 hurdle That 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 flowers , Of the grand horticultural fete. When boudoirs were quitted for bowers. And the fashion was — not to be late ; When all who had money and leisure Grew rural o'er ices and wines, 130 GOOD-NIGHT TO THE SEASON All pleasantly toiling for pleasure, All hungrily pining for pines, And making of beautiful speeches. And marring of beautiful shows, And feeding on delicate peaches. And treading on delicate toes. Good-night to the Season ! — Another Will 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 brier ? 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 ! W. M. Praed. 200. VERS DE SOCIETE There, pay it, James ! 'tis cheaply earned ; My conscience ! how one's cabman charges ! But never mind, so I'm returned Safe to my native street of Clarges. I've just an hour for one cigar (What style these Reinas have, and what ash !) One hour to watch the evening star With just one Cura^ao-and-potash. Ah me ! that face beneath the leaves And blossoms of its piquant bonnet ! Who would have thought that forty thieves Of years had laid their fingers on it ! Could you have managed to enchant At Lord's to-day old lovers simple. Had Robber Time not played gallant, And spared you every youthful dimple ! That Robber bold, like courtier Claude, Who danced the gay coranto jesting. By your bright beauty charmed and awed. Has bowed and passed you unmolesting. No feet of many-wintered crows Have traced about your eyes a wrinkle ; Your sunny hair has thawed the snows That other heads with silver sprinkle. VERS DE SOCIETE 131 I wonder if that pair of gloves I won of you you'll ever pay me ! I wonder if our early loves Were wise or foolish, cousin Amy ? I wonder if our childish tiff Now seems to you, like me, a blunder ! I wonder if you wonder if I ever wonder if you wonder. I wonder if you'd think it bliss Once more to be the fashion's leader ! I wonder if the trick of this Escapes the unsuspecting reader ! And as for him who does or can Delight in it, I wonder whether He knows that almost any man Could reel it off by yards together ! I wonder if — What 's that ? a knock ? Is that you, James ? Eh ? What ? God bless me ! How time has flown ! It 's eight o'clock. And here's my fellow come to dress me. Be quick, or I shall be the guest Whom Lady Mary never pardons ; I trust you, James, to do your best To save the soup at Grosvenor Gardens. H. D. Traill. 201. THE ARCHERY MEETING The Archery meeting is fixed for the third ; The fuss that it causes is truly absurd ; I've bought summer bonnets for Rosa and Bess, And now I must buy each an archery dress ! Without a green suit they would blush to be seen, And poor little Rosa looks horrid in green ! Poor fat little Rosa ! she 's shooting all day ! She sends forth an arrow expertly, they say ; But 'tis terrible when with exertion she warms. And she seems to me getting such muscular arms ; And if she should hit, 'twere as well if she missed, Prize bracelets could never be clasped on her wrist ! Dear Bess with her elegant figure and face. Looks quite a Diana, the queen of the place ; But as for the shooting — she never takes aim ; She talks so and laughs so ! the beaux are to blame She doats on flirtation — but oh ! by the by, 'Twas awkward her shooting out Mrs. Flint's eye ! 132 THE ARCHERY MEETING They've made my poor husband an archer elect ; He dresses the part with prodigious effect ; A pair of nankeens, with a belt roimd his waist, And a quiver of course in which arrows are placed ; And a bow in his hand — oh ! he looks of all things Like a corpulent Cupid bereft of his wings ! They dance on the lawn, and we mothers, alas ! Must sit on camp stools with our feet in the grass ; My Rosa and Bessy no partners attract ! The Archery men are all cross Beaux in fact ! Among the young ladies some hits there may be. But still at my elbow two misses I see. T. H. Bayly. 202. DIXIT, ET IN MENSAM — (The Scene is a Picnic, and Mr. Joseph de Clapham ventures to THINK THAT HIS FlANCEE, THE LOVELY BeLGRAVINIA, IS A LITTLE TOO FAST) . Now don't look so glum and so sanctified, please. For folks, comme il jaitt, sir, are always at ease ; How dare you suggest that my talk is too free ? II n'est jamais de mal en bon compagnie. Must I shut up my eyes when I ride in the Park ; Or pray would you like me to ride after dark ? If not, Mr. Prim, I shall say what I see, II n'est jamais de mal en bon compagnie. What harm am I speaking, you stupid old Nurse ? I'm sure Papa's newspaper tells us much worse. He 's a clergyman, too, are you stricter than he ? II n'est jamais de mal en ban compagnie. I knew who it was, and I said so, that 's all ; I said who went round to her box from his stall, Pray what is your next prohibition to be t II n'est jamais de mal en bon compagnie. ' My grandmother would not ' — Oh, would not, indeed ? Just read Horace Walpole — Yes, sir, I do read. Besides, what 's my grandmother's buckram to me ? II n'est jamais de mal en bon compagnie. ' I said it before that old roue, Lord Gadde ; ' That 's a story, he'd gone ; and what harm if I had ? He has known me for years — from a baby of three. II n'est jamais de mal en bon compagnie. DIXIT, ET IN MENSAM — 133 You go to your Club (and this makes me so wild), There you smoke and you slander, man, woman, and child ; But I'va not to know there 's such people as she — II n'est jamais de mal en bon compagnie. It 's all your own fault : the Academy, sir, You whispered to Philip, ' No, no, it 's not her, — Sir Edwin would hardly '• — I heard, mon ami ; II n'est jamais de mal en bon compagnie. Well there, I'm quite sorry ; now, stop looking haughty. Or must I kneel down on my knees and say ' naughty ' ? There ! Get me a peach, and I wish you'd agree II n'est jamais de mal en bon com/pagnie. C. W. Shieley Brooks. 203. THE CHAPERON Take my chaperon to the play- She thinks she 's taking me — And the gilded youth who owns the box, A proud young man is he. But how would his young heart be hurt If he could only know That not for his sweet sake I go. Nor yet to see the trifling show ; But to see my chaperon flirt. Her eyes beneath her snowy hair They sparkle young as mine ; There 's scarce a wrinkle in her hand So delicate and fine. And when my chaperon is seen. They come from everywhere — ■ The dear old boys with silvery hair. With old-time grace and old-time air, To greet their old-time queen. They bow as my young Midas here Will never learn to bow (The dancing-masters do not teach That gracious reverence now) ; With voices quavering just a bit. They play their old parts through. They talk of folk who used to woo. Of hearts that broke in 'fifty-two— Now none the worse for it. From Poems of H. G. Bunner. Copyright 1884, 1889, by Charles Soribner'a Sons. t 134 THE CHAPERON And as those agfed crickets chirp I watch my chaperon's face, And see the dear old features take A new and tender grace — And in her happy eyes I see Her youth awakening bright, With all its hope, desire, delight — Ah, me ! I wish that I were quite As young — as young as she ! H. C. Btjnner. 204. WITHOUT AND WITHIN Mv coachman, in the moonlight there. Looks through the side-light of the door ; I hear him with his brethren swear, As I could do, — but only more. Flattening his nose against the pane. He envies me my brilliant lot. Breathes on his aching fists in vain. And dooms me to a place more hot. He sees me in to supper go, A silken wonder by my side. Bare arms, bare shoulders, and a row Of flounces, for the door too wide. He thinks how happy is my arm 'Neath its white-gloved and jewelled load ; And wishes me some dreadful harm. Hearing the merry corks explode. Meanwhile I inly curse the bore Of hunting still the same old coon. And envy him, outside the door. In golden quiets of the moon. The winter wind is not so cold As the bright smile he sees me win. Nor the host's oldest wine so old As our poor gabble sour and thin I envy him the ungyved prance With which his freezing feet he warms, And drag my lady's-chains and dance The galley-slave of dreary forms. O, could he have my share of din. And I his quiet ! — past a doubt 'Twould still be one man bored within. And just another bored without. J. R. Lowell. 135 205. GRATIANA DANCING, AND SINGING See, with what constant motion. Even, and glorious as the sun, Gratiana steers that noble frame. Soft as her breast, sweet as her voice. That gave each \vinding law and poise. And swifter than the wings of Fame. She beat the happy pavement — By such a star made firmament. Which now no more the roof envies ! But swells up high, with Atlas even. Bearing the brighter, nobler heaven. And, in her, all the deities. Each step trod out a lover's thought. And the ambitious hopes he brought Chained to her brave feet with such arts. Such sweet command and gentle awe. As, when she ceased, we sighing saw The floor lay paved with broken hearts. So did she move, so did she sing. Like the harmonious spheres that bring Unto their rounds their music's aid ; Which she performed such a way As all the enamoured world will say, ' The Graces danced, and Apollo played ! ' R. Lovelace. 206. YES ; I WRITE VERSES Yes ; I write verses now and then. But blunt and flaccid is my pen. No longer talked of by young men As rather clever : In the last quarter are my eyes. You see it by their form and size ; Is it not time then to be wise ? Or now or never. Fairest that ever sprang from Eve ! While Time allows the short reprieve. Just look at me ! would you believe 'Twas once a lover ? 136 YES ; I WRITE VERSES I cannot clear the five-bar gate. But, trying first its timber's state. Climb stiffly up, take breath, and wait To trundle over. Through gallopade I cannot swing The entangling blooms of Beauty's spring : I cannot say the tender thing, Be 't true or false. And am beginning to opine Those girls are only half-divine Whose waists yon wicked boys entwine In giddy waltz. I fear that arm above that shoulder, I wish them wiser, graver, older, Sedater, and no harm if colder And panting less. Ah ! people were not half so wild In former days, when, starchly mild, Upon her high-heeled Essex smiled The brave Queen Bess. W. S. Landor. 207. THE WALTZ Behold with downcast eyes and modest glance. In measured step, a well-dressed pair advance. One hand on hers, the other on her hip. For thus the law 's ordained by Baron Trip. 'Twas in such posture our first parents moved, When hand in hand through Eden's bowers they roved. Ere yet the devil with practice foul and false Turned their poor heads and taught them how to waltz. R. B. Sheridan. 208. AN EPITAPH A LOVELY young lady I mourn in my rhymes. She was pleasant, good-natured, and civil (sometimes). Her figure was good, she had very fine eyes. And her talk was a mixture of foolish and wise. Her adorers were many, and one of them said, ' She waltzed rather well — it 's a pity she 's dead.' ,G. J. Cayley. 137 209. THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM Years — years ago — ere yet my dreams Had been of being wise or witty, — Ere I had done with writing themes, Or yawned o'er this infernal Chitty ; — Years, — years ago, — while all my joy Was in my fowUng-piece and filly,— In short, while I was yet a boy, I fell in love with Laura Lily. I saw her at the County Ball : There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle Gave signal sweet in that old hall Of hands across and down the middle. Hers was the subtlest spell by far Of all that set young hearts romancing ; She was our queen, our rose, our star ; And then she danced — Heaven, her dancing I Dark was her hair, her hand was white ; Her voice was exquisitely tender ; Her eyes were full of liquid light ; I never saw a waist more slender ! Her every look, her every smile. Shot right and left a score of arrows ; I thought 'twas Venus from her isle. And wondered where she'd left her sparrows. She talked, — of politics or prayers, — Of Southey's prose or Wordsworth's sonnets, — Of danglers — or of dancing bears. Of battles — or the last new bonnets. By candlelight, at twelve o'clock. To me it mattered not a tittle ; If those bright lips had quoted Locke, I might have thought they murmured Little. Through sunny May, through sultry June, I loved her with a love eternal ; I spoke her praises to the moon, I wrote them to the Sunday Journal: My mother laughed ; I soon found out That ancient ladies have no feeling : My father frowned ; but how should gout See any happiness in kneeling ? She was the daughter of a Dean, Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic ; She had one brother, just thirteen. Whose colour was extremely hectic ; f3 138 THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM Her grandmother for many a year Had fed the parish with her bounty ; Her second cousin was a peer. And Lord Lieutenant of the County. But titles, and the three per cents. And mortgages, and great relations. And India bonds, and tithes, and rents. Oh what are they to love's sensations ? Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks — Such wealth, such honours, Cupid chooses ; He cares as little for the Stocks, As Baron Rothschild for the Muses. She sketched ; the vale, the wood, the beach. Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading : She botanized ; I envied each Young blossom in her boudoir fading : She warbled Handel ; it was grand ; She made the Catalani jealous : She touched the organ ; I could stand For hours and hours to blow the bellows. She kept an album, too, at home, Well filled with all an album's glories ; Paintings of butterflies, and Rome, Patterns for trimmings, Persian stories ; Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo. Fierce odes to Famine and to Slaughter, And autographs of Prince Leboo, And recipes for elder-water. And she was flattered, worshipped, bored ; Her steps were watched, her dress was noted ; Her poodle dog was quite adored, Her sayings were extremely quoted ; She laughed, and every heart was glad. As if the taxes were abolished ; She frowned, and every look was sad, As if the Opera were demolished. She smiled on many, just for fun, — I knew that there was nothing in it ; I was the first — the only one Her heart had thought of for a minute. — I knew it, for she told me so, In phrase which was divinely moulded ; She wrote a charming hand, — and oh ! How sweetly all her notes were folded THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM 139 Our love was like most other loves ; — A little glow, a little shiver, A rose-bud, and a pair of gloves. And ' Ply not yet ' — upon the river ; Some jealousy of some one's heir, Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, A -miniature, a lock of hair. The usual vows, — and then we parted. We parted ; months and years rolled by ; We met again four summers after : Our parting was all sob and sigh ; Our meeting was all mirth and laughter : For in my heart's most secret cell There had been many other lodgers ; And she was not the ball-room's Belle, But only — Mrs. Something Rogers ! W. M. Peaed. 210. ONE MORE QUADRILLE Not yet, not yet ; it 's hardly four ; Not yet ; we'll send the chair away ; Mirth still has many smiles in store. And love has fifty things to say. Long leagues the weary Sun must drive, Ere pant his hot steeds o'er the hill ; The merry stars will dance till five ; One more quadrille, — one more quadrille I 'Tis only thus, 'tis only here That maids and minstrels may forget The myriad ills they feel or fear, Ennui, taxation, cholera, debt ; With daylight busy cares and schemes Will come again to chafe or chill ; This is the fairy land of dreams ; One more quadrille, — one more quadrille ! What tricks the French in Paris play, And what the Austrians are about. And whether that tall knave, Lord Grey, Is stajring in, or going out ; And what the House of Lords will do. At last, with that eternal Bill, I do not care a rush, — do you ? One more quadrille, — one more quadrille ! 140 ONE MORE QUADRILLE My book don't sell, my play don't draw. My garden gives me only weeds ; And Mr. Quirk has found a flaw — Deuce take him — in my title-deeds ; My- Aunt has scratched her nephew's name From that sweet corner in her will ; My dog is dead, my horse is lame ; One more quadrille, — one more quadrille ! Not yet, not yet ; it is not late ; Don't whisper it to sister Jane ; Your brother, I am sure, will wait ; Papa will go to cards again. Not yet, not yet. Your eyes are bright. Your step is like a wood-nymph's, still. Oh no, you can't be tired, to-night ! One more quadrille, — one more quadrille ! W. M. Peaed. 211. A, B, C A is an Angel of blushing eighteen : B is the Ball where the Angel was seen : C is the Chaperon, 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 the fair one 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 watched 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. C. S. Calveeley. 141 212. OUR BALL You'll come to our Ball ; — since we parted, I've thought of you more than I'll say ; Indeed, I was half broken-hearted For a week, when they took you away. Fond fancy brought back to my slumbers Our walks on the Ness and the Den, And echoed the musical numbers Which you used to sing to me then. I know the romance, since it 's over, 'Twere idle, or worse, to recall ; I know you're a terrible rover ; But Clarence, you'll come to our Ball ! It 's only a year, since, at College, You put on your cap and your gown ; But, Clarence, you're grown out of knowledge. And changed from the spur to the crown : The voice that was best when it faltered Is fuller and firmer in tone. And the smile that should never have altered — Dear Clarence — it is not your own : Your cravat was badly selected ; Your coat don't become you at all ; And why is your hair so neglected ? You must have it curled for our Ball. I've often been out upon Haldon To look for a covey with pup ; I've often been over to Shaldon, To see how your boat is laid up : In spite of the terrors of Aunty I've ridden the filly you broke ; And I've studied your sweet little Dante In the shade of your favourite oak : When I sat in July to Sir Lawrence, I sat in your love of a shawl ; And I'll wear what you brought me from Florence, Perhaps, if you'll come to our Ball. You'll find us all changed since you vanished ; We've set up a National School ; And waltzing is utterly banished. And Ellen has married a fool ; The Major is going to travel, Miss Hyacinth threatens a rout. The walk is laid down with fresh gravel. Papa is laid up with the gout ; 142 OUR BALL And Jane has gone on with her easels, And Anne has gone off with Sir Paul ; And Fanny is sick with the measles, — And I'll tell you the rest at the Ball. You'll meet all your Beauties ; the Lily, And the Fairy of Willowbrook Farm, And Lucy, who made me so silly At Dawlish, by taking your arm ; Miss Manners, who always abused you For talking so much about Hock, And her sister who often amused you By raving of rebels and Rock ; And something which surely would answer, An heiress quite fresh from Bengal ; So, though you were seldom a dancer. You'll dance, just for once, at our Ball. But out on the World ! from the flowers It shuts out the sunshine of truth : It blights the green leaves in the bowers. It makes an old age of our youth ; And the flow of our feeling, once in it. Like a streamlet beginning to freeze. Though it cannot turn ice in a minute. Grows harder by sudden degrees : Time treads o'er the graves of affection ; Sweet honey is turned into gall ; Perhaps you have no recollection That ever you danced at our Ball ! You once could be pleased with our ballads, To-day you have critical ears ; You once could be charmed with our salads- Alas ! you've been dining with Peers ; You trifled and flirted with many, — You've forgotten the when and the how ; Tliere was one you liked better than any, — Perhaps you've forgotten her now. But of those you remember most newly. Of those who delight or enthrall, None love you a quarter so truly As some you will find at our Ball. They tell me you've many who flatter. Because of your wit and your song : They tell me — and what does it matter ? — You like to be praised by the throng : OUR BALL 143 They tell me you're shadowed with laurel : They tell me you're loved by a Blue : They tell me you're sadly immoral — Dear Clarence, that cannot be true ! But to me, you are still what I found you. Before you grew clever and tall ; And you'll think of the spell that once bound you; And you'll come — won't you come ? — to our Ball ! W. M. Peaed. 213. A BALLAD ON QUADRILLE Wheit as corruption hence did go. And left the nation free ; When Aye said aye, and No said no. Without or place or fee ; Then Satan, thinking things went ill Sent forth his spirit called Quadrille. Quadrille, Quadrille, &o. Kings, queens, and knaves, made up his pack. And four fair suits he wore ; His troops they were with red and black All blotched and spotted o'er ; And every house, go where you will. Is haunted by this imp Quadrille. Sure cards he has for everything. Which well court-cards they name. And, statesman-like, calls in the king. To help out a bad game ; But, if the parties manage ill. The king is forced to lose codille. When two and two were met of old, Though they ne'er meant to marry. They were in Cupid's books enrolled. And called a partie quarree ; But now, meet when and where you will, A partie quarree is quadrille. The commoner and knight and peer, Men of all ranks and fame, Leave to their wives the only care To propagate their name ; And well that duty they fulfil, When the good husband 's at quadrille. 144 A BALLAD ON QUADRILLE When patients lie in piteous case, In comes the apothecary , And to the doctor cries, Alas ! Non debes quadrillare : The patient dies without a pill : For why ? the doctor 's at quadrille. Should France and Spain again grow loud. The Muscovite grow louder, Britain, to curb her neighbours proud. Would want both ball and powder ; Must want both sword and gun to kill : For why ? the general 's at quadrille. The king of late drew forth his sword (Thank God 'twas not in wrath), And made, of many a 'squire and lord. An unwashed Knight of Bath : What are their feats of arms and skill t They're but nine parties at quadrille. A party late at Cambray met. Which drew all Europe's eyes ; 'Twas called in Post-Boy and Gazette The Quadruple Allies , But somebody took something ill. So broke this party at quadrille. And now God save this noble realm. And God save eke Hanover , And God save those who hold the helm. When as the king goes over ; But let the king go where he will. His subjects must play at quadrille. Quadrille, Quadrille, &c. J. Gay. 214. THE LADY'S LAMENTATION Phyllida, that loved to dream In the grove or by the stream. Sighed on velvet pillow. What, alas ! should fill her head. But a fountain, or a mead. Water and a willow ? 'Love in cities never dwells. He delights in rural cells Which sweet woodbine covers. What are your assemblies then 1 There, 'tis true, we see more men ; But much fewer lovers. THE LADY'S LAMENTATION 145 ' Oh, how changed the prospect grows ! Flocks and herds to fops and beaux, Coxcombs without number ! Moon and stars that shone so bright. To the torch and waxen light. And whole nights at ombre. ' Pleasant as it is, to hear Scandal tickling in our ear. Even of our own mothers ; In the chit-chat of the day. To us is paid, when we're away. What we lent to others. ' Though the favourite toast I reign, Wine, they say, that prompts the vain. Heightens defamation. Must I live 'twixt spite and fear. Every day grow handsomer. And lose my reputation ? ' Thus the fair to sighs gave way. Her empty purse beside her lay. Nymph, ah ! cease thy sorrow. Though curst fortune frown to-night. This odious town can give delight. If you win to-morrow. J. Gay. 215. PLAIN LANGUAGE PROM TRUTHFUL JAMES Table Mountain, 1870 Which I wish to remark, — And my language is plain, That for ways that are dark, And for tricks that are vain. The heathen Chinee is peculiar, — Which the same I would rise to explain. Ah Sin was his name. And I shall not deny In regard to the same What that name might imply ; But his smile it was pensive and childlike, As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye. It was August the third ; And quite soft was the skies : Which it might be inferred That Ah Sin was likewise ; Yet he played it that day upon William And me in a way I despise. 146 PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES Which we had a small game, And Ah Sin took a hand : It was euchre. The same He did not understand ; But he smiled as he sat by the table. With the smile that was childlike and bland. Yet the cards they were stocked In a way that 1 grieve. And my feelings were shocked At the state of Nye's sleeve : Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers, And the same with intent to deceive. But the hands that were played By that heathen Chinee, And the points that he made. Were quite frightful to see. — Till at last he put down a right bower. Which the same Nye had dealt unto me. Then I looked up at Nye, And he gazed upon me ; And he rose with a sigh. And said, ' Can this be ? We are ruined by Chinese cheap labour ' ; And he went for that heathen Chinee. In the scene that ensued I did not take a hand ; But the floor it was strewed Like the leaves on the strand With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding. In the game ' he did not understand '. In his sleeves, which were long. He had twenty-four packs, — Which was coming it strong. Yet I state but the facts ; And we found on his nails, which were taper, What is frequent in tapers, — that 's was. Which is why I remark. And my language is plain. That for ways that are dark. And for tricks that are vain. The heathen Chinee is peculiar,— Which the same I am free to maintain. F. Bret Hartb. 147 216. THE CHESS BOARD Ieeke, do you yet remember, Ere we were grown so sadly wise. Those evenings in the bleak December, Curtained warm from the snowy weather. When you and I played chess together. Checkmated by each other's eyes ? Ah, still I see your soft white hand Hovering warm o'er Queen and Knight. Brave Pawns in valiant battle stand : The double Castles guard the wings : The Bishop, bent on distant things. Moves, sidling, through the fight. Our fingers touch : our glances meet. And falter ; falls your golden hair Against my cheek ; your bosom sweet Is heaving. Down the field, your Queen Bides slow her soldiery all between. And checks me unaware. Ah me ! the little battle 's done. Dispersed is all its chivalry ; Full many a move, since then, have we 'Mid Life's perplexing chequers made. And many a game with Fortune played, — What is it we have won ? This, this at least — if this alone ; — That never, never, never more. As in those old still nights of yore (Ere we were grown so sadly wise) Can you and I shut out the skies, Shut out the world, and wintry weather. And, eyes exchanging warmth with eyes. Play chess, as then we played, together ! E. R. BuLWEE Lytton, Eakl of Lytton. 217. MELANCHOLY Go — you may call it madness, folly ; You shall not chase my gloom away. There 's such a charm in melancholy, I would not, if I could, be gay. Oh, if you knew the pensive pleasure That fills my bosom when I sigh. You would not rob me of a treasure Monarchs are too poor to buy ! S. Rogers. 148 218. FORTUNE A Fragment Fortune, that, with malicious joy. Does man her slave oppress, Proud of her office to destroy. Is seldom pleased to bless : Still various and unconstant still. But with an inclination to be ill. Promotes, degrades, delights in strife. And makes a lottery of life. I can enjoy her while she 's kind ; But when she dances in the wind. And shakes her wings and will not stay, I puff the prostitute away : The little or the much she gave, is quietly resigned : Content with poverty, my soul I arm ; And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm. J. Dkyden. 219. WHAT MAN HAD NOT RATHER BE POOR What man in his wits had not rather be poor. Than for lucre his freedom to give. Ever busy the means of his life to secure. And so ever neglecting to live ? Environed from morning to night in a crowd, Not a moment unbent, or alone ; Constrained to be abject, though never so proud. And at every one's call but his own. Still repining, and longing for quiet, each hour. Yet studiously flying it still ; With the means of enjoying his wish, in his power ; But accursed with his wanting the will. For a year must be past, or a day must be come. Before he has leisure to rest ; He must add to his store this or that pretty sum. And then he will have time to be blessed. But his gains more bewitching the more they increase. Only swell the desire of his eye : Such a wretch, let mine enemy live if he please. Let not even mine enemy die. S. Wesley. 149 220. TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON When Love with unconfined wings Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at the grates ; When I lie tangled in her hair And fettered to her eye, The birds that wanton in the air Know no such liberty. When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames, Our careless heads with roses bound. Our hearts with loyal flames ; When thirsty grief in wine we steep. When healths and draughts go free — Fishes that tipple in the deep Know no such liberty. When (like committed linnets) I With shriller throat shall sing The sweetness, mercy, majesty And glories of my King ; When I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great should be. Enlarged winds, that curl the flood Know no such liberty. Stone walls do not a prison make. Nor iron bars a cage ; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage : If I have freedom in my love And in my soul am free. Angels alone, that soar above. Enjoy such liberty. R. Lovelace. 221. EPITAPH ON CHARLES II Herb lies our Sovereign Lord the King, Whose word no man relies on, Who never said a foolish thing. Nor ever did a wise one. J. WiLMOT, Earl of Rochester. 150 222. THE DEVIL'S THOUGHTS Prom his brimstone bed at break of day A walking the Devil is gone. To visit his little snug farm the earth And see how his stock goes on. Over the hill and over the dale, And he went over the plain. And backward and forward he switched his long tail As a gentleman switches his cane. And how then was the Devil dressed ? Oh ! he was in his Sunday's best : His jacket was red and his breeches were blue. And there was a hole where the tail came through. He saw a Lawyer killing a Viper On a dunghill hard by his own stable ; And the Devil smiled, for it put him in mind Of Cain and his brother, Abel. He saw an Apothecary on a white horse Ride by on his vocations. And the Devil thought of his old Friend Death in the Revelations. He saw a cottage with a double coach-house, A cottage of gentility ! And the Devil did grin, for his darling sin Is pride that apes humility. He peeped into a rich bookseller's shop. Quoth he ! we are both of one college. For I sate myself like a cormorant once Hard by the tree of knowledge. Down the river did glide, with wind and tide, A pig, with vast celerity. And the Devil looked wise as he saw how the while, It cut its own throat. ' There ! ' quoth he with u, smile, 'Goes "England's commercial prosperity." ' As he went through Cold-Bath Fields he saw A solitary cell ; And the Devil was pleased, for it gave him a hint For improving his prisons in Hell. THE DEVIL'S THOUGHTS 151 General 's burning face He saw with consternation, And back to hell his way did he take. For the Devil thought by a slight mistake It was general conflagration. S. T. COLEKIDGE. 223. RICH AND POOR ; OR, SAINT AND SINNER The poor man's sins are glaring ; In the face of ghostly warning He is caught in the fact Of an overt act — Buying greens on Sunday morning. The rich man's sins are hidden In the pomp of wealth and station ; And escape the sight Of the children of light Who are wise in their generation. The rich man has a kitchen And cooks to dress his dinner ; The poor who would roast To the baker's must post. And thus becomes a sinner. The rich man has a cellar. And a ready butler by him ; The poor must steer For his pint of beer Where the saint can't choose but spy him. The rich man's painted windows Hide the concerts of the quality ; The poor can but share A cracked fiddle in the air. Which offends all sound morality. The rich man is invisible In the crowd of his gay society ; But the poor man's delight Is a sore in the sight. And a stench in the nose of piety. T. L. Peacock.. 152 224. THE CHAUNT OP THE BRAZEN HEAD I THINK, whatever mortals crave With impotent endeavour, — A wreath, a rank, a throne, a grave, — The world goes round for ever : I think that life is not too long ; And therefore I dotormine, That many people read a song Who will not road a sermon. I think you've looked through many hearts. And mused on many actions, And studied Man's component parts, And Nature's compound fractions: I think you've picked up truth by bits From foreigner and neighbour ; I think the world has lost its wits. And you have lost your labour. I think the studies of the wise. The hero's noisy (juarrel. The majesty of Woman's eyes, The poet s cherished laurel. And all that makes us lean or fat, And all that charms or troubles, — This bubble is more bright than that. But still they all are bubbles. I think the thing you call Renown, The unsubstantial vapour For which tlic soldier burns a town, The sonnettcer a taper. Is like the mist wliich, as ho flies. The horseman loaves behind him ; Ho cannot mark its wreaths arise. Or if he does they blind him. I think one nod of Mistress Chance Makes creditors of debtors. And shifts the funeral for the danco, The sceptre for the fetters : I think that Fortune's favoured guest May live to gnaw tlio platters. And he that wears tho purple vest May wear the rags and tatters. I think tho Tories love to buy ' Your Lordship's' and ' your Grace's ', By Io:itliing common liimosty, And lauding commonplaces : THE CHAUXT OF THE BRAZEN HEAD 153 I think that jome are very wis^. And some are Tery fanny. And some grow rich by telling lies. And some by telling money. I think the Wnigs are wicked knaves — (And vray like the Tories) — Who doabi that Britain ml^ the wave. And ask the jaice of glories : I tJiink that many fret and fume At what their friends are planning. And ilr. Hume hates ilr. Brougham As mnch as Mr. Canning. I think that friars and their hoods. Thar doctrines and their maggots. Have lighted tip too many fends. And far too miny iaggots : I think, while zealots fast and frown. And nght for two or seven. That there are fifty roads to Town, And rather more to Heaven. I think that, thanks to Paget's lance. And thanks to Chester's learning. The hearts that bomed for fame in France At home are safe from burning : I think the Pope is on his back ; And, though "tls fan to shake him, I think the I>eTil not so black As many people make him. I think that Love is like a play. Where tears and smiles are blended. Or like a faithless April day. Whose shine with shower is ended: Like Colnbrook pavement, rather rough, like trade, exposed to losses. And like a Highland pkdd, — all stuS, And very full of crosses. I think the world, though dark it be. Has aye one rapturous pleasure Concealed in life's monotony. For those who seek the treasure ; One planet in a starless night, Om blossom on a brier. One friend not quite a hypocrite, One ^wiman not a liar ! 154 THE CHAUNT OF THE BRAZEN HEAD I think poor beggars court St. Giles, Rich beggars court St. Stephen ; And Death looks down with nods and smiles. And makes the odds all even : I think some die upon the field, And some upon the billow. And some are laid beneath a shield. And some beneath a willow. I think that very few have sighed When Pate at last has found them, Though bitter foes were by their side, And barren moss around them : I think that some have died of drought. And some have died of drinking ; I think that naught is worth a thought, — And I'm a fool for thinking ! W. M. Peaed. 225. THE JESTER'S PLEA The World ! Was jester ever in A viler than the present ? Yet if it ugly be — as sin. It almost is — as pleasant ! The world 's a merry world {pro tern.). And some are gay, and therefore It pleases them — but some condemn The fun they do not care for. It is an ugly world. Offend Good people — how they wrangle ! Their manners that they never mend ! The characters they mangle ! They eat, and drink, and scheme, and plod. And go to church on Sunday ; And many are afraid of God — And more of Mrs. Grundy. The time for pen and sword was when ' My ladye fayre ' for pity Could tend her wounded knight, and then Grow tender to his ditty. Some ladies now make pretty songs. And some make pretty nurses : Some men are good for righting wrongs, — And some for writing verses. THE JESTER'S PLEA 155 I wish we better understood The tax that poets levy ; I know the Muse is very good, I think she 's rather heavy : She now compounds for winning ways By morals of the sternest ; Methinks the lays of nowadays Are painfully in earnest. When wisdom halts, I humbly try To make the most of folly ; If Pallas be unwilling, I Prefer to flirt with Polly ; To quit the goddess for the maid y Seems low in lofty musers ; But Pallas is a haughty jade — And beggars can't be choosers. I do not wish to see the slaves Of party stirring passion. Or psalnas quite superseding staves. Or piety ' the fashion '. I bless the Hearts where pity glows. Who, here together banded, Are holding out a hand to those That wait so empty-handed ! A righteous work ! My masters, may A jester by confession, Scarce noticed join, half sad, half gay. The close of your procession ? The motley here seems out of place With graver robes to mingle, But if one tear bedews his face. Forgive the bells their jingle. P. Lockeb-Lampson. 226. LOVE AND DEBT ALIKE TROUBLESOME This one request I make to him that sits the clouds above ; That I were freely out of debt, as I am out of love. Then for to dance, to drink, and sing, I should be very willing ; I should not owe one lass a kiss, nor ne'er a knave a shilling. 'Tis only being in love and debt, that breaks us of our rest ; And he that is quite out of both, of all the world is blessed. He sees the golden age, wherein all things were free and common ; He eats, he drinks, he takes his rest, he fears no man nor woman. SiK J, Suckling, 156 227, THE RELIGION OP HUDIBRAS Fob his Religion, it was fit To match his learning and his wit ; 'Twas Presb5rterian true blue ; For he was of that stubborn crew Of errant saints, whom all men grant To be the true Church Militant ; Such as do build their faith upon The holy text of pike and gun ; Decide all controversies by Infallible artillery ; And prove their doctrine orthodox By apostolic blows and knocks ; Call fire and sword and desolation, A godly, thorough Reformation, Which always must be carried on, And still be doing, never done ; As if Religion were intended For nothing else but to be mended. A sect, whose chief devotion lies In odd perverse antipathies ; In falling out with that or this. And finding somewhat still amiss ; More peevish, cross, and splenetic, Than dog distract or monkey sick ; That with more care keep holy-day The wrong, than others the right way ; Compound for sins they are inclined to. By danming those they have no mind to : Still so perverse and opposite. As if they worshipped God for spite. The self -same thing they will abhor One way, and long another for. Free-will they one way disavow, Another, nothing else allow. All piety consists therein In them, in other men all sin. Rather than fail, they will defy That which they love most tenderly, Quarrel with minced-pies, and disparage Their best and dearest friend — plum porridge ; Fat pig and goose itself oppose, And blaspheme custard through the nose. S. BUTLEK. 157 228. FAREWELL, REWARDS AND FAIRIES Farewell, rewards and fairies, Good housewives now may say. For now foul sluts in dairies Do fare as well as they. And though they sweep their hearths no less Than maids were wont to do, Yet who of late for cleanliness Finds sixpence in her shoe ? Lament, lament, old Abbeys, The Fairies' lost command ! They did but change Priests' babies. But some have changed your land. And all your children, sprung from thence. Are now grown Puritans, Who live as Changelings ever since For love of your domains. At morning and at evening both You merry were and glad. So little care of sleep or sloth These pretty ladies had ; When Tom came home from labour. Or Cis to milking rose. Then merrily went their tabor. And nimbly went their toes. Witness those rings and roundelays Of theirs, which yet remain, Were footed in Queen Mary's days On many a grassy plain ; But since of late, Elizabeth, And, later, James came in, They never danced on any heath As when the time hath been. By which we note the Fairies Were of the old Profession. Their songs were ' Ave Mary's ', Their dances were Procession. But now, alas, they all are dead ; Or gone beyond the seas ; Or farther for Religion fled ; Or else they take their ease. 158 FAREWELL, REWARDS AND FAIRIES A tell-tale in their company They never could endure ! And whoso kept not secretly Their mirth, was punished, sure ; It was a just and Christian deed To pinch such black and blue. Oh how the commonwealth doth want Such Justices as you ! R. Corbet. 229. PIOUS SELINDA Pious Belinda goes to prayers, If I but ask her favour ; And yet the silly fool 's in tears. If she believes I'll leave her. Would I were free from this restraint. Or else had hopes to win her : Would she could make of me a saint. Or I of her a sinner. W. CONGBEVE. 230. REPENTANCE Last Sunday at St. James's prayers. The prince and princess by, I, dressed in all my whale-bone airs. Sat in a closet nigh. I bowed my knees, I held my book. Read all the answers o'er ; But was perverted by a look. Which pierced me from the door. High thoughts of Heaven I came to use. With the devoutest care ; Which gay young Strephon made me lose. And all the raptures there. He stood to hand me to my chair. And bowed with courtly grace ; But whispered love into my ear Too warm for that grave place. ' Love, love,' said he, ' by all adored. My tendw heart has won.' But I grew peevish at the word. And bade he would be gone. He went quite out of sight, while I A kinder answer meant ; Nor did I for my sins that day By half so much repent. Unknown. 159 231. WHEN MOLLY SiHLZS Whks Molly smiles beneath her cow, I feel my heart — ^I cant tell how ; When Molly is on Sunday dressed. On SuacLiys I can take no rest. What can I do 5 on worky days I leave my work on her to gaze. \Vhat shall I say '; At sermons, I Forget the text when Molly "s by. Good master curate, teadi me how To mind yonr preaching and my ploBgh : And if for this yon'll raise a spelL A good iat goose shall thank yon weU. THE HAPPY LIFE OF A COUNTRY PARS OX (liirCATIOS OF Db. Swtft) Paesos, these things in thy possessing Are better than the bishop's blessing, A wife that makes conserves ; a steed That carries double when there 's need; October store, and best Virginia, Tythe pig, and mortuary guinea : Gazettes sent gratis down, and franked. For which thy patron 's weekly thanked ; A large concordance bound long since ; Sermons to Charles the First, when prince ; A chronicle of ancient standing ; A Chrysostom to smooth thy band in ; The polyglot — three parts — my text, Howb^t — ^likewise — now to my next. Lo here the Septuagint, and Paul, To sum the whole, the clcse of alL He that has these may pass his life, Drink with the 'squire and kiss his wife ; On 5 jndays preach, and eat his fill ; And ta^t on Fridays — if he will ; Toast church and queen, explain the news. Talk with chnrch-wardens about pews ; Pray heartily for some new gift. And shake his head at Doctor Swift. A. Popz. 160 233. LLYN-Y-DREIDDIAD-VRAWD The Pool or the Diving Fbiab GwENWYNWYN withdrew from the feasts of his hall : He slept very little, he prayed not at all : He pondered, and wandered, and studied alone ; And sought, night and day, the philosopher's stone. He found it at length, and he made its first proof By turning to gold all the lead of his roof : Then he bought some magnanimous heroes, all fire. Who lived but to smite and be smitten for hire. With these on the plains like a torrent he broke ; He filled the whole country with flame and with smoke ; He killed all the swine, and he broached all the wine ; He drove off the sheep, and the beeves, and the kine ; He took castles and towns ; he cut short limbs and lives ; He made orphans and widows of children and wives : This course many years he triumphantly ran. And did mischief enough to be called a great man. When, at last, he had gained all for which he had striven. He bethought him of buying a passport to heaven ; Good and great as he was, yet he did not well know. How soon, or which way, his great spirit might go. He sought the grey friars, who beside a wild stream. Refected their frames on a primitive scheme ; The gravest and wisest Gwenwynwyn found out. All lonely and ghostly, and angling for trout. Below the white dash of a mighty cascade. Where a pool of the stream a deep resting-place made. And rock-rooted oaks stretched their branches on high. The friar stood musing, and throwing his fly. To him said Gwenwynwyn, ' Hold, father, here 's store. For the good of the church, and the good of the poor ' ; Then he gave him the stone ; but, ere more he could speak. Wrath came on the friar, so holy and meek. He had stretched forth his hand to receive the red gold, And he thought himself mocked by Gwenwynwyn the Bold ; And in scorn of the gift, and in rage at the giver. He jerked it immediately into the river. THE POOL OF THE DIVING FRIAR 161 Gwenwynwyn, aghast, not a syllable spake ; The philosopher's stone made a duck and a drake ; Two systems of circles a moment were seen. And the stream smoothed them off, as they never had been. Gwenwynwyn regained, and uplifted his voice, ' Oh friar, grey friar, full rash was thy choice ; The stone, the good stone, which away thou hast thrown. Was the stone of all stones, the philosopher's stone.' The friar looked pale, when his error he knew ; The friar looked red, and the friar looked blue ; And heels over head, from the point of a rock. He plunged, without stopping to pull off his frock. He dived very deep, but he dived all in vain. The prize he had slighted he found not again ; Many times did the friar his diving renew. And deeper and deeper the river still grew. Gwenwynwyn gazed long, of his senses in doubt. To see the grey friar a diver so stout ; Then sadly and slowly his castle he sought. And left the friar diving, like dabchick distraught. Gwenwynwyn fell sick with alarm and despite. Died, and went to the devil, the very same night ; The magnanimous heroes he held in his pay Sacked his castle, and marched with the plunder away. No knell on the silence of midnight was rolled For the flight of the soul of Gwenwynwyn the Bold. The brethren, unfeed, let the mighty ghost pass. Without praying a prayer, or intoning a mass. The friar haunted ever beside the dark stream ; The philosopher's stone was his thought and his dream : And day after day, ever head under heels He dived all the time he could spare from his meals. He dived, and he dived, to the end of his days. As the peasants oft witnessed with fear and amaze. The mad friar's diving-place long was their theme. And no plummet can fathom that pool of the stream. And still, when light clouds on the midnight winds ride. If by moonlight you stray on the lone river-side. The ghost of the friar may be seen diving there. With head in the water, and heels in the air. T. L. Peacock. 162 234. THE VICAR Some years ago, ere time and taste Had turned our parish topsy-turvy, When Darnel Park was Darnel Waste, And roads as little known as scurvy, The man who lost his way, between St. Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket, Was always shown across the groon. 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 Sanoho, Tramp and Tray, Upon the parlour steps collected. Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say — ' Our maater knows you — you're expected.' Uprose the Reverend Dr. Brown, Uprose 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 friend And 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 J.he Vicarage, nor the Vicar. His talk was like a spring, which runs With rapid change from rocks to roses : It slipped from politics to puns. It passed from Mahomet to Moses ; THE VICAR 163 Beginning with the laws which keep The planets in their radiant courses. And ending with some precept deep For 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 sermons never said or showed That Earth is foul, that Heaven is gracious. Without refreshment on the road From Jerome or from Athanasius : And sure a righteous zeal inspired The hand and head that penned and planned them. For 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 nursra ; True histories of last year's ghost. Lines to a ringlet, or a turban. And trifles for the Morning 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 sit In 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 smiled The welcome which they could not utter. 164 THE VICAR He always had a tale for me Of Julius Caesar, or of Venus ; From him 1 learnt the rule of three. Cat's cradle, leap-frog, and Quae 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 look For haunts in which my boyhood trifled, — The level lawn, the trickling brook. The trees 1 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 hear The 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. Hie jacet OvuELiws Bitowx, Vir nulla non donandua lauru.' W. M. Praed. 235. THE COUNTRY CLERGYMAN'S TRIP TO CAMBRIDGE An Election Ballad, 1827 As I sat down to breakfast in state. At my living of Tithing-cum-Boring, With Betty beside me to wait, Came a rap that almost beat the door in. I laid down my basin of tea. And Betty ceased spreading the toast, ' As sure as a gun, sir,' said she, ' That must be the knock of the post.' A letter — and free^ — bring it here — I have no correspondent who franks. No ! yes ! can it bo ! Why, my dear, 'Tis our glorious, our Protestant Bankes. THE COUNTRY CLERGYMAN'S TRIP 165 ' Dear sir, as I know you desire That the Church should receive due protection, I humbly presume to require Your aid at the Cambridge election. ' It has lately been brought to my knowledge, That the Ministers fully design To suppress each cathedral and college. And eject every learned divine. To assist this detestable scheme Three nuncios from Rome are come over ; They left Calais on Monday by steam. And landed to dinner at Dover. ' An army of grim Cordeliers, Well furnished with relics and vermin, Will follow, Lord Westmoreland fears. To effect what their chiefs may determine. Lollards' Tower, good authorities say. Is again fitting up as a prison ; And a wood-merchant told me to-day 'Tis a wonder how faggots have risen. ' The finance scheme of Canning contains A new Easter-offering tax ; And he means to devote all the gains To a bounty on thumb-screws and racks. Your living, so neat and compact — Pray, don't let the news give you pain ! — • Is promised, I know for a fact. To an olive-faced Padre from Spain.' I read, and I felt my heart bleed. Sore wounded with horror and pity ; So I flew, with all possible speed, To our Protestant champion's committee. True gentlemen, kind and well-bred ! No fleering ! no distance ! no scorn ! They asked after my wife, who is dead. And my children who never were born. They then, like high-principled Tories, Called our Sovereign unjust and unsteady, And assailed him with scandalous stories. Till the coach for the voters was ready. That coach might be well called a casket Of learning and brotherly love : There were parsons in boot and in basket ; There were parsons below and above. 166 THE COUNTRY CLERGYMAN'S TRIP There were Sneaker and Griper, a pair Who stiolt to Lord Mulesby like leeches ; A smug chaplain of plausible air, Who writes my Lord Goslingham's speeches ; Dr. Buzz, who alone is a host. Who, with arguments weighty as lead. Proves six times a week in the Post That flesh somehow differs from bread ; Dr. Nimrod, whose orthodox toes Are seldom withdrawn from the stirrup ; Dr. Humdrum, whose eloquence flows. Like droppings of sweet poppy syrup ; Dr. Rosygill puffing and fanning. And wiping away perspiration ; Dr. Humbug, who proved Mr. Canning The beast in St. John's Revelation. A layman can scarce form a notion Of our wonderful talk on the road ; Of the learning, the wit, and devotion. Which almost each syllable showed : Why divided allegiance agrees So ill with our free constitution ; How Catholics swear as they please. In hope of the priest's absolution ; How the Bishop of Norwich had bartered His faith for a legate's commission ; How Lyndhurst, afraid to be martyred. Had stooped to a base coalition ; How Papists are cased from compassion By bigotry, stronger than steel ; How burning would soon come in fashion, And how very bad it must feel. We were all so much touched and excited By a subject so direly sublime. That the rules of politeness were slighted. And we all of us talked at a time ; And in tones, which each moment grew louder, Told how we should dress for the show, And where we should fasten the powder, And if we should bellow or no. AT THE CHURCH GATE 167 Thus from subject to subject we ran. And the journey passed pleasantly o'er, Till at last Dr. Humdrum began ; From that time I remember no more. At Ware he commenced his prelection. In the dullest of clerical drones : And when next I regained recollection We were rumbling o'er Trumpington stones. Thomas, Loed Macadlay. 236. AT THE CHURCH GATE AiiTHODGH I enter not. Yet round about the spot Oft-times I hover ; And near the sacred gate. With longing eyes I wait. Expectant of her. The Minster bell tolls out Above the city's rout And noise and humming : They've hushed the Minster bell : The organ 'gins to swell : She 's coming, she 's coming ! My lady comes at last. Timid, and stepping fast. And hasteninghither. With modest eyes downcast : She comes — she 's here — she 's passed — May Heaven go with her ! Kneel, undisturbed, fair Saint ! Pour out your praise or plaint Meekly and duly ; I will not enter there. To sully your pure prayer With thoughts unruly. But suffer me to pace Round the forbidden place. Lingering a minute. Like outcast spirits who wait And see through heaveji's gate Angels within it. W. M. Thackeray. t 168 237. THE POPE AND THE NET What, he on whom our voices unanimously ran. Made Pope at our last Conclave ? Full low his life began : His father earned the daily bread as just a fisherman. So much the more his boy minds book, gives proof of mother-wit. Becomes first Deacon, and then Priest, then Bishop : see him sit No less than Cardinal ere long, while no one cries ' Unfit ! ' But some one smirks, some other smiles, jogs elbow and nods head : Each winks at each : ' 'I-faith, a rise ! Saint Peter's net, instead Of sword and keys, is come in vogue I ' You think he blushes red ? Not he, of humble holy heart ! ' Unworthy me ! ' he sighs : ' From fisher's drudge to Church's prince — it is indeed a rise : So, here 's the way to keep the fact for ever in my eyes ! ' And straightway in his palace-hall, where commonly is set Some coat-of-arms, some portraiture ancestral, lo, we met His mean estate's reminder in his fisher-father's net ! Which step conciliates all and some, stops cavil in a trice : ' The humble holy heart that holds of new-born pride no spice ! He 's just the saint to choose for Pope ! ' Each adds ' 'Tis my advice' So, Pope he was : and when we fiooked — its sacred slipper on — To kiss his foot, we lifted eyes, alack the thing was gone — That guarantee of lowlihead, — eclipsed that star which shone ! Each eyed his fellow, one and all kept silence. I cried ' Pish ! I'll make me spokesman for the rest, express the common wish. Why, Father, is the net removed ? ' ' Son, it hath caught the fish.' K. Beowning. From Asolando. By permission of Messrs. Smith, Elder & Co. 238. THE LATEST DECALOGUE Thou shalt have one God only ; who Would be at the expense of two ? No graven images may be Worshipped, except the currency : Swear not at all ; for, for thy curse Thine enemy is none the worse : At church on Sunday to attend Will serve to keep the world thy friend : Honour thy parents ; that is, all From whom advancement may befall : Thou shalt not kill ; but need'st not strive Ofiiciously to keep alive : THE LATEST DECALOGUE 169 Do not adultery commit ; Advantage rarely comes of it : Thou shalt not steal ; an empty feat, When it 's so lucrative to cheat : Bear not false witness ; let the lie Have time on its own wings to fly : Thou shalt not covet, but tradition Approves all forms of competition. A. H. Clottgh. 239. HYPOCRISY Hypocrisy will serve as well To propagate a church, as zeal ; As persecution and promotion Do equally advance devotion ; So round white stones will serve, they say, As well as eggs to make hens lay. S. BUTLEK. 240. SAPPHICS The Friend of Humanity and the Knife-grinder Friend of Humanity Needy Knife-grinder ! whither are you going ? Rough is the road, your wheel is out of order — Bleak blows the blast ; — your hat has got a hole in't. So have your breeches. Weary Knife-grinder ! little think the proud ones Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike- Road, what hard work 'tis crying all day, ' Knives and Scissors to grind ! ' Tell me. Knife-grinder, how you came to grind knives : Did some rich man tyrannically use you ? Was it the 'Squire ? or Parson of the Parish ? Or the Attorney ? Was it the 'Squire, for killing of his game ? or Covetous Parson, for his tithes distraining ? Or roguish Lawyer, made you lose your little All in a lawsuit ? (Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine ?) Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids. Ready to fall, as soon as you have told your Pitiful story. g3 170 THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY Knife-grinder Story ! God bless you ! I have none to tell, Sir, Only last night a-drinking at the ' Chequers ', This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were Torn in a scuffle. Constables came up for to take me into Custody ; they took me before the justice ; Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish- Stocks for a vagrant. I should be glad to drink your Honour's health in A Pot of Beer, if you will give me Sixpence ; But for my part, I never love to meddle With politics. Sir. Friend of Humanity I give thee Sixpence ! I will see thee damned first — Wretch ! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance — Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded, Spiritless outcast ! {Kicks the Knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in u. transport of Republican Enthusiasm and Universal Philanthropy.) G. Canning and J. H. Freke. 241. A POLITICAL DISPATCH In matters of commerce the fault of the Dutch Is offering too little and asking too much. The French are with equal advantage content. So we clap on Dutch bottoms just 20 per cent. 20 per cent, 20 per cent. We clap on Dutch bottoms just 20 per cent. Vous frapperez Palck avec 20 per cent. G. Canning. 242. PADDY'S METAMORPHOSIS Abottt fifty years since, in the days of our daddies, That plan was commenced which the wise now applaud. Of shipping off Ireland's most turbulent Paddies, As good raw material for settlers, abroad. Some West Indian Island, whose name I forget. Was the reason then chosen for this scheme so romantic ; And such the success the first colony met, That a second, soon after, set sail o'er the Atlantic. PADDY'S METAMORPHOSIS 171 Behold them now safe at the long looked-for shore, Sailing in between banks that the Shannon might greet, And thinking of friends whom, but two years before. They had sorrowed to lose, but would soon again meet. And, hark ! from the shore a glad welcome there came — ' Arrah, Paddy from Cork, is it you, my sweet boy ? ' While Pat stood astounded to hear his own name Thus hailed by black devils,»who capered for joy ! Can it possibly be ? — half amazement — half doubt, Pat listens again — rubs his eyes and looks steady ; Then heaves a deep sigh, and in horror yells out, * ' Good Lord ! only think — black and curly already ! Deceived by the well-mimicked brogue in his ears, Pat read his own doom in these wool-headed figures. And thought, what a climate, in less than two years, To turn a whole cargo of Pats into niggers ! MOEAL 'Tis thus, — but alas ! — by a moral more true Than is told in this rival of Ovid's best stories, — Your Whigs, when in office a short year or two. By a lusus naturae, all turn into Tories. And thus, when I hear them ' strong measures ' advise. Ere the seats that they sit on have time to get steady, I say, while I listen, with tears in my eyes, ' Good Lord ! — only think — black and curly already ! ' T. Moore. 243. STANZAS TO THE SPEAKER ASLEEP Sleep, Mr. Speaker ; it 's surely fair If you don't in your bed, that you should in your chair. Longer and longer still they grow, Tory and Radical, Aye and No ; Talking by night, and talking by day ; — ■ Sleep, Mr. Speaker ; sleep, sleep while you may ! Sleep, Mr. Speaker ; slumber lies Light and brief on a Speaker's eyes ; Eielden or Finn, in a minute or two. Some disorderly thing will do ; Riot will chase repose away ; — Sleep, Mr. Speaker ; sleep, sleep while you may ! 172 STANZAS TO THE SPEAKER ASLEEP Sleep, Mr. Speaker ; Cobbett will soon Move to abolish the sun and moon ; Hume, no doubt, will be taking the sense Of the House on a saving of thirteen pence ; Grattan will growl, or Baldwin bray ; — Sleep, Mr. Speaker ; sleep, sleep while you may ! Sleep, Mr. Speaker ; dream of the time When loyalty was nat quite a crime ; When Grant was a pupil in Canning's school. When Palmerston fancied Wood a fool ; Lord^ how principles pass away ! Sleep, Mr. Speaker ; sleep, sleep while you may ! Sleep, Mr. Speaker ; sweet to men Is the sleep that cometh but now and then ; Sweet to the sorrowful, sweet to the ill. Sweet to the children that work in a mill. You have more need of sleep than they ; — Sleep, Mr. Speaker ; sleep, sleep while you may ! W. M. Pkaed. 244. A POLITICAL ALLEGORY Once there was a famous nation With a long and glorious past : Very splendid was its station, And its territory vast ; It had won the approbation. The applause and admiration. Of the states who'd had occasion. In a time of tribulation. And of disorganization, Not to mention degradation, And profound humiliation. To observe it standing fast Without any trepidation. Or a sign of vacillation, Firm and faithful to the last. Came a time of dire distraction, Pull of terror and despair, When a delicate transaction Called for unexampled care ; But the people were directed. Both the well and ill-affected. To a wholly unexpected And surprising course of action, Based on motives new and rare (Being gijverned by a faction, As they generally were). A POLITICAL ALLEGORY 173 In a. little time the nation Had a chance of saying whether It and its administration Seemed inclined to pull together : And it spoke its mind with vigour : — ' Such disgraceful conduct must Everlastingly disfigure Future annals, and disgust Evermore the candid student : You have been unwise, imprudent. Pusillanimous, unjust. And neglectful of the glory Appertaining to our name Till this melancholy story Put a period to our fame.' So this faction, disappointed. Lost the national good graces. And their rivals were anointed. And were set in the high places. Pretty soon arose conditions Most embarrassing and hard. And the party politicians Had to be upon their guard. Illegitimate ambitions, Democratic rhetoricians. Persons prone to base submissions. Men of warlike dispositions. Wild and wicked statisticians. Metaphysical magicians. People apt to sign petitions. Men inclined to make conditions. And a host of wary foes. Compassed round the ruling faction : But a certain line of action They incontinently chose : And with great determination. And extreme discrimination. Not untouched by exaltation, After proper preparation. And profound examination. Wrought it out with acclamation. And each other's approbation. Till the national taxation Not unnaturally rose. To the nation now occurred an Opportunity of saying What they thought about the burden Which the government was laying 174 A POLITICAL ALLEGORY On their shoulders : and they said it In uncompromising terms : — ' Your behaviour would discredit Tigers, crocodiles, or worms : You have ruined and disgraced us. And successfully effaced us From the proud commanding station Where the zeal and penetration Of our ancestors had placed us. Go ! we are a ruined nation ; But before our dissolution We pronounce your condemnation — Sappers of our constitution, Slayers of our reputation ! ' But the nation — mark the moral, For its value is untold — During each successive quarrel Grew and prospered as of old. J. K. Stephen. 245. TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS Tell me not. Sweet, I am unkind That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind, To war and arms I fly. True, a new mistress now I chase. The first foe in the field ; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield. Yet this inconstaney is such As you too shall adore ; I could not love thee. Dear, so much, Loved I not Honour more. R. Lovelace. 175 246. THE SOLDIER GOING TO THE FIELD Preserve thy sighs, unthrifty girl. To purify the air. Thy tears to thread, instead of pearl, On bracelets of thy hair. The trumpet makes the echo hoarse. And wakes the louder drum : Expense of grief gains no remorse When sorrow should be dumb. For I must go where lazy Peace Will hide her drowsy head. And, for the sport of kings, increase The number of the dead. But, first, I'll chide thy cruel theft : Can I in war delight. Who (being of my heart bereft) Can have no heart to fight ? Thou know'st, the sacred laws of old Ordained a thief should pay. To quit him of his theft, sevenfold What he had stolen away. Thy payment shall but double be ; then with speed resign My own seduced heart to me. Accompanied with thine. Sir W. Daven AST. 247. A PARAPHRASE PROM THE FRENCH In grey-haired Celia's withered arms As mighty Louis lay. She cried ' If I have any charms, My dearest, let's away ! For you, my love, is all my fear. Hark how the drums do rattle ; Alas, sir ! what should you do here In dreadful day of battle ? Let little Orange stay and fight. For danger 's his diversion ; The wise will think you in the right. Not to expose your person : Nor vex your thoughts how to repair The ruins of your glory : 176 A PARAPHRASE FROM THE FRENCH You ought to leave so mean a care To those who pen your story. Are not Boileau and Corneille paid For panegyric writing ? They know how heroes may be made, Without the help of fighting. When foes too saucily approach, 'Tis best to leave them fairly ; Put six good horses in your coach. And carry me to Marly. Let Bouflers, to secure your fame. Go take some town, or buy it ; Whilst you, great sir, at Notre Dame, Te Deum sing in quiet ! ' M. Prior. 248. THE GRAND QUESTION DEBATED Whether Hamilton's Bawn should be turned into a Barrack OR a Malt-house (1,729) Thus spoke to my lady the knight full of care : ' Let me have your advice in a weighty affair. This Hamilton's Bawn, whilst it sticks on my hand, I lose by the house what I get by the land ; But how to dispose of it to the best bidder. For a barrack or malt-house, we now must consider. ' First, let me suppose I make it a malt-house. Here I have computed the profit will fall t 'us ; There 's nine hundred pounds for labour and grain, I increase it to twelve, so three hundred remain ; A handsome addition for wine and good cheer. Three dishes a day, and three hogsheads a year : With a dozen large vessels my vault shall be stored. No little scrub joint shall come on to my board : And you and the dean no more shall combine To stint me at night to one bottle of wine ; Nor shall I, for his humour, permit you to purloin A stone and a quarter of beef from my sirloin. If I make it a barrack, the Crown is my tenant : My dear, I have pondered again and again on 't ; In poundage and drawbacks I lose half my rent ; Whatever they give me I must be content. Or join with the Court in every debate ; And rather than that I would lose my estate.' Thus ended the knight : thus began his meek wife ; ' It must and it shall be a barrack, my life. THE GRAND QUESTION DEBATED I'm grown a mere mopus ; no company comes But a rabble of tenants and rusty dull Rums. With parsons what lady can keep herself clean ? I'm all over daubed when I sit by the dean. But if you will give us a barrack, my dear, The captain, I'm sure, will always come here ; I then shall not value his deanship a straw. For the captain, I warrant, will keep him in awe ; Or, should he pretend to be brisk and alert. Will tell him that chaplains should not be so pert ; That men of his coat should be minding their prayers. And not among ladies to give themselves airs.' Thus argued my lady, but argued in vain ; The knight his opinion resolved to maintain. But Hannah, who listened to all that was passed And could not endure so vulgar a taste. As soon as her ladyship called to be dressed. Cried, ' Madam, why surely my master 's possessed. Sir Arthur the maltster ! How fine it will sound ! I'd rather the bawn were sunk under ground. But, madam, I guessed there would never come good. When I saw him so often with Darby and Wood. And now my dream 's out ; for I was a-dreamed That I saw a huge rat ; O dear, how I screamed ! And after, methought t had lost my new shoes ; And Molly, she said, I should hear some ill news. ' Dear madam, had you but the spirit to tease You might have a barrack whenever you please ; And, madam, I always believed you so stout That for twenty denials you would not give out. If I had a husband like him, I purtest. Till he gave me my will, I would give him no rest ; And rather than come in the same pair of sheets With such a cross man, I would lie in the streets : But, madam, I beg you, contrive and invent. And worry him out, till he gives his consent. Dear madam, whene'er of a barrack I think. An I were to be hanged I can't sleep a wink : For if a new crotchet comes into my brain, I can't get it out, though I'd never so fain. I fancy already a barrack contrived At Hamilton's Bawn, and the troop is arrived ; Of this, to be sure. Sir Arthur has warning. And waits on the captain betimes the next morning. Now see when they meet how their honours behave, " Noble captain, your servant " — " Sir Arthur, your slave " ; " You honour me much " — " the honour is mine " — " 'Twas a sad rainy night " — " but the morning is fine." 178 HAMILTON'S BAWN " Pray how does my lady ? " — " My wife 's at your service." " I tliink I have seen her picture by Jervis." " Good morrow, good captain " — " I'll wait on you down " — " You shan't stir a foot " — " you'll think me a clown " — " For all the world, captain, not half an inch farther " — " You must be obeyed — your servant. Sir Arthur ; My humble respects to my lady unknown " — " I hope you will use my house as your own." ' Go bring me my smock, and leave off your prate. Thou hast certainly gotten a cup in thy pate.' ' Pray, madam, be quiet : what was it I said You had like to have put quite out of my head. ' Next day, to be sure, the captain will come At the head of his troop, with trumpet and drum ; jSTow, madam, observe how he marches in state ; The man with the kettle-drum enters the gate ; Dub, dub, adub, dub. The trumpeters follow, Tantara, tantara ; while all the boys hallo. See now comes the captain all daubed with gold lace ; O, la ! the sweet gentleman, look in his face ; And see how he rides like a lord of the land. With the fine flaming sword that he holds in his hand ; And his horse, the dear creter, it prances and rears. With ribbons in knots at its tail and its ears ; At last comes the troop, by the word of command. Drawn up in our Court, when the captain cries. Stand ! Your ladyship lifts up the sash to be seen, (For sure I had dizened you out like a queen) ; The captain, to show he is proud of the favour. Looks up to your window, and cocks up his beaver (His beaver is cocked ; pray, madam, mark that, For a captain of horse never takes off his hat ; Because he has never a hand that is idle. For the right holds the sword, and the left holds the bridle) ; Then flourishes thrice his sword in the air. As a compliment due to a lady so fair (How I tremble to think of the blood it has spilt) ; Then he lowers down the point, and kisses the hilt. Your ladyship smiles, and thus you begin : " Pray, captain, be pleased to alight and walk in." The captain salutes you with congee profound. And your ladyship curtsies halfway to the ground. " Kit, run to your master, and bid him come to us ; I'm sure he'll be proud of the honour you do us. And, captain, you'll do us the favour to stay. And take a short dinner here with us to-day ; You're heartily welcome ; but as for good cheer, You come in the very worst time of the year. THE GRAND QUESTION DEBATED 179 If I had expected so worthy a guest " " Lord, madam ! your ladyship sure is in jest ; You banter me, madam, the kingdom must grant " " You officers, captain, are so complaisant." ' ' Hist, hussy, I think I hear somebody coming ! ' ' Xo, madam ! 'tis only Sir Arthur a-humming. To shorten my tale (for I hate a long story; The captain at dinner appears in his glory ; The dean and the doctor have humbled their pride. For the captain 's entreated to sit by your side ; And, because he 's their betters, you carve for him first. The parsons for envy are ready to burst ; The servants amazed are scarce ever able To keep off their eyes as they wait at the table ; And Molly and I have thrust in our nose To peep at the captain in all his fine clo'es ; Dear madam, be sure he 's a fine-spoken man, Do but hear on the clergy how glib his tongue ran ; And " Madam," says he, " if such dinners you give. You'll ne'er want for parsons as long as you live ; I ne'er knew a parson without a good nose. But the devil 's as welcome wherever he goes ; , they bid us reform and repent. But z — s, by their looks they never keep Lent ; Mister Curate, for all your grave looks, I'm afraid You cast a sheep's eye on her ladyship's maid ; I wish she would lend you her pretty white hand In mending your cassock, and smoothing your band" (For the dean was so shabby, and looked like a ninny. That the captain supposed he was curate to Jinny), " Whenever you see a cassock and gown, A hundred to one but it covers a clown ; Observe how a parson comes into a room, , he hobbles as bad as my groom ; A scholard, when just from his college broke loose. Can hardly tell how to cry Bo to a goose ; Your yoveds, and Blviwrhs, and Omurs, and stuff. By , they don't signify this pinch of snufi. To give a young gentleman right education, The Army 's the only good school in the nation ; My schoolmaster called me a dunce and a fool. But at cuffs I was always the cock of the school ; I never could take to my book for the blood o' me. And the puppy confessed he expected no good of me. He caught me one morning coquetting his wife. And he mauled me ; I ne'er was so mauled in my life ; So I took to the road, and, what 's very odd. The first man I robbed was a parson, by G . 180 HAMILTON'S BAWN Now, madam, you'll think it a strange thing to say, But the sight of a book makes me sick to this day." ' Never since I was born did I hear so much wit. And, madam, I laughed till I thought I should split. So then you looked scornful, and sniffed at the dean. As who should say. Now, am I skinny and lean ? But he durst not so much as once open his lips. And the doctor was plaguily down in the hips.' Thus merciless Hannah ran on in her talk, Till she heard the dean call ' Will your ladyship walk ? ' Her ladyship answers, ' I'm just coming down,' Then, turning to Hannah, and forcing a frown. Although it was plain in her heart she was glad. Cried, ' Hussy, why sure the wench has gone mad ; How could these chimeras get into your brains ? Come hither, and take this old gown for your pains. But the dean, if this secret should come to his ears. Will never have done with his jibes and his jeers. For your life not a word of the matter, I charge ye. Give me but a barrack ; a fig for the clergy.' J. Swift. 249. THE WAR SONG OP DINAS VAWR The mountain sheep are sweeter. But the valley sheep are fatter ; We therefore deemed it meeter To carry off the latter. We made an expedition ; We met a host and quelled it ; We forced a strong position. And killed the men who held it. On Dyfed's richest valley. Where herds of kine were browsing, We made a mighty sally. To furnish our carousing. Fierce warriors rushed to meet us ; We met them, and o'erthrew them : They struggled hard to beat us ; But we conquered them, and slew them. As we drove our prize at leisure, The king marched forth to catch us : His rage surpassed all measure. But his people could not match us. THE WAR SONG OP DINAS VAWR 181 He fled to his hall-pillars ; And, ere our force we led off, Some sacked his house and cellars. While others cut his head off. We there, in strife bewildering, Spilt blood enough to swim in : We orphaned many children, And widowed many women. The eagles and the ravens We glutted with our foemen : The heroes and the cravens, The spearmen and the bowmen. We brought away from battle. And much their land bemoaned them. Two thousand head of cattle, And the head of him who owned them : Ednyfed, King of Dyfed, His head was borne before us ; His wine and beasts supplied our feasts. And his overthrow, our chorus. T. L. Peacock. 250. MARS DISARMED BY LOVE Aye, bear it hence, thou blessed child, Though dire the burthen be. And hide it in the pathless wild. Or drown it in the sea : The ruthless murderer prays and swears ; So let him swear and pray ; Be deaf to all his oaths and prayers. And take the sword away. We've had enough of fleets and camps. Guns, glories, odes, gazettes. Triumphal arches, coloured lamps. Huzzas and epaulettes ; We could not bear upon our head Another leaf of bay ; That horrid Buonaparte 's dead ; — Yes, take the sword away. We're weary of the noisy boasts That pleased our patriot throngs : We've long been dull to Gooch's toasts. And tame to Dibdin's songs ; 182 MARS DISARMED BY LOVE We're quite content to rule the wave, Without a great display ; We're known to be extremely brave ; But take the sword away. We give a shrug, when fife and drum Play up a favourite air ; We think our barracks are become More ugly than they were ; We laugh to see the banners float ; We loathe the charger's bray ; We don't admire a scarlet coat ; Do take the sword away. Lot Portugal have rulers twain ; Let Greece go on with none ; Let Popery sink or swim in Spain, While we enjoy the fun ; I«t Turkey tremble at the knout ; Let Algiers lose her Dey ; Let Paris turn her Bourbons out ; — Bah ! take the sword away. Our honest friends in Parliament Are looking vastly sad ; Our farmers say with one consent It 's all immensely bad ; There was a time for borrowing. But now it 's time to pay ; A budget is a serious thing ; So take the sword away. And 0, the bitter tears we wept. In those our days of fame, — The dread, that o'er our heart-strings crept With every post that came, — The home-affections, waged and lost In every far-off fray, — The price that British glory cost ! Ah ! take the sword away. We've plenty left to hoist the sail. Or mount the dangerous breach ; And Freedom breathes in every gale, That wanders round our beach. When duty bids us dare or die. We'll fight another day : But till we know a reason why. Take, take the sword away. W. M. Praed. 183 251. FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY A Pathetic Ballad Ben Battle was a soldier bold. And used to war's alarms ; But a cannon-ball took off his legs. So he laid down his arms ! Now as they bore him off the field. Said he, ' Let others shoot. For here I leave my second leg. And the Forty -second Foot ! ' The army-surgeons made him limbs : Said he : — ' They're only pegs : But there 's as wooden members quite As represent my legs ! ' Now Ben he loved a pretty maid. Her name was Nelly Gray ; So he went to pay her his devours When he'd devoured his pay ! But when he called on Nelly Gray, She made him quite a scoff ; And when she saw his wooden legs. Began to take them off ! ' 0, Nelly Gray ! O, Nelly Gray ! Is this your love so warm ? The love that loves a scarlet coat Should be more uniform ! ' Said she, ' I loved a soldier once. For he was blythe and brave ; But I will never have a man With both legs in the grave ! ' Before you had those timber toes. Your love I did allow. But then, you know, you stand upon Another footing now ! ' •' O, Nelly Gray ! O, Nelly Gray ! For all your jeering speeches. At duty's call, I left my legs In Badajos's hreaches ! ' 184 FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY ' Why then,' said she, ' you've lost the feet Of legs in war's alarms, ■ And now you cannot wear your shoes Upon your feats of arms ! ' ' O, false and fickle Nelly Gray ; I know why you refuse : — Though I've no feet — some other man Is standing in my shoes ! ' I wish I ne'er had seen your face ; But, now, a long farewell ! For you will be my death ; — alas ! You will not be my Ndl ! ' Now when he went from Nelly Gray, His heart so heavy got — And life was such a burthen grown. It made him take a knot ! So round his melancholy neck, A rope he did entwine. And, for his second time in life. Enlisted in the Line ! One end he tied around a beam. And then removed his pegs. And, as his legs were off, — of course. He soon was off his legs ! And there he hung, till he was dead As any nail in town, — For though distress had cut him up, It could not cut him down ! A dozen men sat on his corpse, To find out why he died — And they buried Ben in four cross-roads. With a stake in his inside ! T. Hood. 252. THE SUPERIORITY OF MACHINERY A MECHANIC his labour will often discard If the rate of his pay he dislikes ; But a clock — and its case is uncommonly hard — Will continue to work though it strikes. T. Hood. 185 253. THE YANKEE VOLUNTEERS Ye Yankee volunteers ! It makes my bosom bleed When I your story read, Though oft 'tis told one. So — ^in both hemispheres The women are untrue. And cruel in the New, As in the Old one ! What — in this company Of sixty sons of Mars, Who march 'neath Stripes and Stars, With fife and horn. Nine-tenths of all we see Along the warlike line Had but one cause to join This Hope Forlorn ? Deserters from the realm Where tyrant Venus reigns, You slipped her wicked chains. Fled and out-ran her. And now, with sword and helm. Together banded are Beneath the Stripe and Star- Ejcnbroidered banner ! And is it so with all The warriors ranged in line. With lace bedizened fine And swords gold-hilted — Yon lusty corporal. Yon colour-man who gripes The flag of Stars and Stripes — Has each been jilted ? Come, each man of this line, The privates strong and tall, ' The pioneers and all,' The fifer nimble — Lieutenant and Ensign, Captain with epaulets, And Blacky there, who beats The clanging cymbal — O cymbal-beating black. Tell us, as thou canst feel. Was it some Lucy Neal Who caused thy ruin ? 186 THE YANKEE VOLUNTEERS O nimble fifing Jack, And drummer making din So deftly on the skin, With thy rat-tattooing — Confess, ye volunteers. Lieutenant and Ensign, And Captain of the line. As bold as Roman — Confess, ye grenadiers. However strong and tall. The Conqueror of you all Is Woman, Woman ! No corslet is so proof But through it from her bqw The shafts that she can throw Will pierce and rankle. No champion e'er so tough, But 's in the struggle thrown. And tripped and trodden down By her slim ankle. Thus always it was ruled : And when a woman smiled. The strong man was a child. The sage a noodle. Alcides was befooled. And silly Samson shorn. Long, long ere you were born. Poor Yankee Doodle ! W. M. Thackeray. 254. A BALLAD WHEN AT SEA To you, fair ladies, now at land. We men at sea indite ; But, first, would have you understand How hard it is to write. The Muses now, and Neptune too. We must implore, to write to you. With a fa, la, la, la, la ! But though the Muses should be kind. And fill our empty brain : Yet if rough Neptune cause the wind To rouse the azure main. Our paper, pens, and ink, and we Roll up and down our ships at sea. With a fa, la, la, la, la ! A BALLAD WHEN AT SEA 187 Then if we write not by each post. Think not that we're unkind ! Nor yet conclude that we are lost By Dutch, by French, or wind. Our griefs will find a speedier way : The tide shall bring them twice a day. With a fa, la, la, la, la ! The King, with wonder and surprise. Will think the sea 's grown bold. For that the tide does higher rise Than e'er it did of old. But let him know that 'tis our tears Send floods of grief to Whitehall Stairs, With a fa, la, la, la, la ! Should Count Toulouse but come to know Our sad and dismal story, The French would scorn so weak a foe. Where they can get no glory. For what resistance can they find From men, who've left their hearts behind. With a fa, la, la, la, la ! To pass our tedious time away Wethrow the merry Main, Or else at serious Ombre play. But why should we in vain Each other's ruin thus pursue ? We were undone when we left you. With a fa, la, la, la, la ! When any mournful tune you hear. That dies in every note. As if it sighed for each man's care. For being so remote. Then think how often love we've made To you, while all those tunes were played With a fa, la, la, la, la ! Let wind and weather do their worst Be you to us but kind. Let Frenchmen vapour, Dutchmen curse. No sorrows we shall find. 'Tis then no matter how things go, Nor who 's our friend, nor who 's our foe. With a fa, la, la, la, la ! 188 A BALLAD WHEN AT SEA Thus, having told you all our loves. And likewise all our fears, In hopes this declaration moves Some pity to our tears. Let's hear of no inconstancy ; We have too much of that at sea, With a fa, la, la, la, la ! C. Sackville, Eabl of D0R3ET. 235. BLACK-EYED SUSAN All in the Downs the fleet was moored, The streamers waving in the wind. When black-eyed Susan came aboard. ' Oh ! where shall I my true love find ? Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true. If my sweet William sails among the crew.' William, who high upon the yard Rocked with the billow to and fro, Soon as her well-known voice he heard. He sighed, and cast his eyes below : The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands. And (quick as lightning) on the deck he stands. So the sweet lark, high poised in air. Shuts close his pinions to his breast, If chance his mate's shrill call he hear. And drops at once into her nest : — The noblest captain in the British fleet Might envy William's lip those kisses sweet. ' O Susan, Susan, lovely dear. My vows shall ever true remain. Let me kiss off that falling tear ; We only part to meet again. Change, as ye list, ye winds ; my heart shall be The faithful compass that still points to thee. ' Believe not what the landmen say, Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind. They'll tell thee, sailors, when away. In every port a mistress find : Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so. For thou art present wheresoe'er I go. ' If to far India's coast we sail Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright. Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale, ■Thy skin is ivory so white. BLACK-EYED SUSAN 189 Thus every beauteous object that I view Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue. ' Though battle call me from thy arms Let not my pretty Susan mourn ; Though cannons roar, yet safe from harms William shall to his Dear return. Love turns aside the balls that round me fly, Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye.' The boatswain gave the dreadful word. The sails their swelling bosom spread ; No longer must she stay aboard ; They kissed, she sighed, he hung his head. Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land ; ' Adieu ! ' she cries ; and waved her lily hand. J. Gay. 256. A BALLAD UPON A WEDDING I TELL thee, Dick, where I have been. Where I the rarest things have seen. Oh, things beyond compare ! Such sights again cannot be found In any place on English ground. Be it at wake or fair. At Charing Cross, hard by the way Where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay, There is a house with stairs ; And there did I see coming down Such folk as are not in our town. Forty at least, in pairs. Amongst the rest, one pestilent fine (His beard no bigger, though, than thine !) Walked on before the rest. Our landlord looks like nothing to him ; The king (God bless him !), 'twould undo him. Should he go still so dressed. At Course-a-Park, without all doubt, He should have first been taken out By all the maids i' th' town ; Though lusty Roger there had been. Or little George upon the green, Or Vincent of the Crown. 190 A BALLAD UPON A WEDDING But wot you what ? The youth was going To make an end of all his wooing ; The Parson for him stayed. Yet, by his leave, for all his haste, He did not so much wish all passed. Perchance, as did the maid. The maid (and thereby hangs a tale) For such a maid no Whitsun ale Could ever yet produce ; No grape that 's kindly ripe could be So round, so plump, so soft, as she ; Nor half so full of juice ! Her finger was so small, the ring Would not stay on ; which they did bring. It was too wide a peck ! And to say truth, for out it must. It looked like the great collar (just) About our young colt's neck. Her feet, beneath her petticoat, Like little mice stole in and out. As if they feared the light : But oh ! she dances such a way. No sun, upon an Easter Day, Is half so fine a sight ! Her cheeks so rare a white was on ; No daisy makes comparison. Who sees them is undone. For streaks of red were mingled there. Such as are on a Katherine pear (The side that 's next the sun). Her lips were red, and one was thin Compared to that was next her chin (Some bee had stung it newly). But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face, I durst no more upon them gaze. Than on the sun in July. Her mouth so small, when she does speak Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break, That they might passage get : But she so handled still the matter. They came as good as ours or better, And are not spent a whit ! A BALLAD UPON A WEDDING 191 Passion o' me ! how I run on There 's that that would be thought upon, I trow, besides the bride : The business of the Kitchen's great. For it is fit that men should eat ; Xor was it there denied. Just in the nick, the cook knocked thrice. And all the waiters, in a trice. His summons did obey. Each serving-man, with dish in hand. Marched boldly up Uke our trained band. Presented, and away ! When all the meat was on the table What man of knife or teeth was able To stay to be entreated ? And this the very reason was. Before the Parson could say grace The company was seated. Now hats fly off ; and youths carouse : Healths first go round, and then the house. The bride's came thick and thick. And when 'twas named another's health. Perhaps he made it hers by stealth. (And who could help it, Dick ?) O' th' sudden, up they rise and dance : Then sit again and sigh and glance. Then dance again and kiss. Thus several ways the time did pass ; Whilst every woman wished her place. And every man wished his ! Sia J. SircKLESG. 257. ON MARRIAGE How happy a thing were a wedding. And a bedding. If a man might purchase a wife For a twelvemonth and a day ; But to live with her all a man's life. For ever and for aye, Till she grow as grey as a cat. Good faith, Mr. Parson, excuse me from that ! T. Flatman. 192 258. MARRIAGE A MAN may live thrice Nestor's life. Thrice wander out Ulysses' raoe, Yet never find Ulysses' wife ; — Such change hath chanced in this case ! Less age will serve than Paris had, Small pain (if none be small enow) To find good store of Helen's trade : Such sap the root doth yield the bough ! For one good wife, Ulysses slew A worthy knot of gentle blood : For one ill wife, Greece overthrew The town of Troy. — Sith bad and good Bring mischief. Lord let be thy will To keep me free from either ill. 259. AGAINST MARRIAGE To HIS Mistress Yes, all the world must sure agree, He who 's secured of having thee. Will be entirely blessed ; But 'twere in me too great a wrong. To make one who has been so long My queen, my slave at last. Nor ought those things to be confined. That were for public good designed : Could we, in foolish pride. Make the sun always with us stay, 'Twould burn our corn and grass away. To starve the world beside. Let not the thoughts of parting fright Two souls which passion does unite ; For while our love does last. Neither will strive to go away ; And why the devil should we stay. When once that love is past ? 260. DISAPPOINTMENT Unknown. W. Walsh. ' The bliss which woman's charms bespeak, I've sought in many, found in none ! ' ' In many 'tis in vain you seek What only can bo found in one.' Coventry Patmore. 193 261. A REASONABLE AFFLICTION On his death-bed poor Lubin lies ; His spouse is in despair : With frequent sobs, and mutual cries, They both express their care. ' A different cause,' says parson Sly, ' The same effect may give : Poor Lubin fears that he shall die ; His wife, that he may live.' M. Prior 262. DUNCAN GRAY Dtjncan Gray cam here to woo. Ha, ha, the wooing o't, On blythe Yule night when we were fou, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Maggie coost her head fu' high. Looked asklent and unco skeigh, Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ; Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Duncan fleeched, and Duncan prayed ; Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, Duncan sighed baith out and in, Grat his een baith bleer't and blin', Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn ! Time and chance are but a tide, Slighted love is sair to bide. Shall I, like a fool, quoth he. For a haughty hizzie .die ? She may gae to — France for me ! How it comes let doctors tell, Meg grew sick as he grew haill. Something in her bosom wrings. For relief a sigh she brings, And O, her een they spak sic things t Duncan was a lad o' grace. Ha, ha, the wooing o't, Maggie's was a piteous case. Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Duncan couldna be her death. Swelling pity smoored his wrath ; Now they're crouse and canty baith ! Ha, ha, the wooing o't. R. Burns. 194 263. TO E. P. No doubt thy little bosom beats When sounds a wedding bell, No doubt it pants to taste the sweets That songs and stories tell. Awhile in shade content to lie. Prolong life's morning dream. While others rise at the first fly That glitters on the stream. W. S. Landob. 264. NEW STYLE I VERY much indeed approve Of maidens moderating love Until they've twenty pounds ; Then Prudence, with a poet's praise, May loose the laces of their stays. And let them quest like hounds. Peggy, my theme, twelve years ago (Or better) did precisely so : She lived at farmer Spence's ; She scoured the pantry, milked the cows, And answered every would-be spouse, ' D'ye think I've lost my senses ? ' Until the twenty pounds were safe. She tiffed at Tim, she ran from Ealph, Squire nodded — deuce a curtsy ! Sam thought her mopish, Silas proud, And Jedediah cried aloud, ' Pray who the devil hurts ye ? ' But now the twenty pounds were got. She knew the fire to boil the pot. She knew the man to trust to. I'm glad I gave this tidy lass (Under my roof) a cheerful glass (Of water) and a crust too. Although the seventeenth of May, It was a raw and misty day When Ebenezer Smart, (The miller's lad of Boxholm-mill) Having obtained her right good-will And prudent virgin heart. NEW STYLE 195 Led her to church : and Joseph Stead (The curate of said Boxholm) read The service ; and Will Sands (The clerk) repeated the response (They after him) which uttered once Holds fast two plighted hands. And now they live aside the weir, And (on my conscience) I declare As merrily as larks. This I can vouch for : I went in One day and sat upon the bin While Peggy hemmed two sarks. I do not say two sarks entire. Collar and wristband ; these require (I reckon) some time more ; But mainly two stout sarks, the tail And fore-flap, stiff as coat of mail On knight in days of yore. I told my sister and our maid (Anne Waddlewell) how long I stayed With Peggy : 'twas until her Dinner-time : we expect, before Eight or (at most) nine months are o'er. Another little miller. W. S. Landor. 265. ' PLEASE TO RING THE BELLE ' I'll tell you a story that 's not in Tom Moore : — Young Love likes to knock at a pretty girl's door : So he called upon Lucy — 'twas just ten o'clock — Like a spruce single man, with a smart double knock. Now a hand-maid, whatever her fingers be at. Will run like a puss when she hears a rat-tat : So Lucy ran up — and in two seconds more Had questioned the stranger and answered the door. The meeting was bliss ; but the parting was woe For the moment will come when such comers must go : So she kissed him, and whispered — poor innocent thing — ' The next time you come, love, pray come with a ring.' T. Hood. 196 266. ON THE MARRIAGE ACT The fools that are wealthy are sure of a bride ; For riches like raiment their nakedness hide ; The slave that is needy must starve all his life. In a bachelor's plight, without mistress or wife. In good days of yore they ne'er troubled their heads In settling of jointures, or making of deeds ; But Adam and Eve when they first entered course. E'en took one another for better or worse. Then prithee, dear Chloe, ne'er aim to be great. Let love be the jointure, don't mind the estate ; You can never be poor who have all of these charms ; And I shall be rich when I've you in my arms. Unknown. 267. THE ROSY-BOSOMED HOURS A FLORIN to the willing Guard Secured, for half the way (He locked us in, ah, lucky starred), A curtained, front coupe. The sparkling sun of August shone ; The wind was in the West ; Your gown and all that you had on Was what became you best ; And we were in that seldom mood When soul with soul agrees. Mingling, like flood with equal flood, In agitated ease. Ear round, each blade of harvest bare Its little loaf of bread ; Each furlong of that journey fair With separate sweetness sped. The calm of use was coming o'er The wonder of our wealth, And now, maybe, 'twas not much more Than Eden's common health. We paced the sunny platform, while The train at Havant changed : What made the people kindly smile. Or stare with looks estranged ? Too radiant for a wife you seemed, Serener than a bride ; Me happiest born of men I deemed. And showed perchance my pride. THE ROSY-BOSOMED HOURS 197 I loved that girl, so gaunt and tall, Who whispered loud, ' Sweet Thing 1 ' Scanning your figure, slight yet all Round as your own gold ring. At Salisbury you strayed alone Within the shafted glooms. Whilst I was by the Verger shown The brasses and the tombs. At tea we talked of matters deep, Of joy that never dies ; We laughed, till love was mixed with sleep Within your great sweet eyes. The next day, sweet with luck no less And sense of sweetness past, The full tide of our happiness Rose higher than the last. At Dawlish, 'mid the pools of brine. You stepped from rock to rock, One hand quick tightening upon mine. One holding up your frock. On starfish and on weeds alone You seemed intent to be : Flashed those great gleams of hope unknown From you, or from the sea ? Ne'er came before, ah, when again Shall come two days like these : Such quick delight within the brain. Within the heart such peace ? I thought, indeed, by magic chance, A third from' Heaven to win, But as, at dusk, we reached Penzance, A drizzling rain set in. Coventry Patmoke. 268. SYMPATHY A KNIGHT and a lady once met in a grove, While each was in quest of a fugitive love ; A river ran mournfully murmuring by. And they wept in its waters for sympathy. ' 0, never was knight such a sorrow that bore ! ' ' O, never was maid so deserted before ! ' ' Prom life and its uses let us instantly fly. And jump in together for company ! ' 198 SYMPATHY They searched for an eddy that suited the deed, But here was a bramble, and there was a weed ; ' How tiresome it is ! ' said the fair with a sigh ; So they sat down to rest them in company. They gazed at each other, the maid and the knight ; How fair was her form, and how goodly his height ! ' One mournful embrace ' ; sobbed the youth, ' ere we die ! ' So kissing and crying kept company. ' 0, had I but loved such an angel as you ! ' ' O, had but my swain been a quarter as true ! ' ' To miss such perfection how blinded was I ! ' Sure now they were excellent company ! At length spoke the lass, twixt a smile and a tear, ' The weather is cold for a watery bier ; When summer returns we may easily die. Till then let us sorrow in company.' R. Heber. 269. TO HTS WIFE With a Knife on the Fourteenth Anniversary OF HER Wedding-day, which happened to be her Birthday and New Year's Day A KNIFE, dear girl, outs love, they say — Mere modish love perhaps it may ; For any tool of any kind Can separate what was never joined. The knife that cuts our love in two Will have much tougher work to do : Must cut your softness, worth, and spirit Down to the vulgar size of merit ; To level yours with common taste. Must cut a world of sense to waste ; And from your single beauty's store. Clip what would dizen out a score. The self-same blade from me must sever Sensation, judgement, sight — for ever ! All memory of endearments past. All hope of comforts long to last. All that makes fourteen years with you A summer — and a short one too : All that affection feels and fears, When hours, without you, seem like years. TO HIS WIFE 199 'Till that be done, — and I'd as soon Believe this knife -would clip the moon, — Accept my present undetened. And leave their proverbs to the herd. If in a kiss — delicious treat ! Your lips acknowledge the receipt ; Love, fond of such substantial fare. And proud to play the glutton there. All thoughts of cutting will disdain, Save only — ' out and come again.' S. Bishop. 270. TO HIS WIFE Os THE Sixteenth AN^ravEBSAKY of hee Wedding-day, WITH A Ring ' Thee, Mary, with this ring I wed,' So sixteen years ago I said — Behold another ring ! ' for what ? ' To wed thee o'er again — why not ? With the first ring I married youth, Grace, beauty, innocence, and truth ; Taste long admired, sense long revered. And all my Molly then appeared. If she, by merit since disclosed. Prove twice the woman I supposed, I plead that double merit now. To justify a double vow. Here then to-day, with faith as sure. With ardour as intense and pure. As when amidst the rites divine I took thy troth, and plighted mine. To thee, sweet girl, my second ring, A token and a pledge I bring ; With this I wed, till death us part. Thy riper virtues to my heart ; Those virtues which, before untried. The wife has added to the bride — Those virtues, whose progressive claim. Endearing wedlock's very name. My soul enjoys, my song approves. For conscience' sake as well as love's. For why ? They teach me hour by hour Honour's high thought, affection's power. Discretion's deed. Sound judgement's sentence. And teach me all things — but repentance. S. Bishop. 200 271. THE GIFTS RETURNED ' You must give back,' her mother said. To a poor sobbing little maid, ' All the young man has given you, Hard as it now may seem to do.' ' 'Tis done already, mother dear ! ' Said the sweet girl, ' So, never fear.' Mother. Are you quite certain ? Come, recount (There was not much) the whole amount. Girl. The locket : the kid gloves. Mother. Go on. Girl. Of the kid gloves I found but one. Mother. Never mind that. What else ? Proceed. You gave back all his trash ? Girl. Indeed. Mother. And was there nothing you would save ? Girl. Everything I could give I gave. Mother. To the last tittle ? Girl. Even to that. Mother. Freely ? Girl. My heart went pit-a-pat At giving up ... ah me ! ah me ! I cry so I can hardly see. . . All the fond looks and words that passed. And all the kisses, to the last. W. S. Landoe. 272. MOTHER, I CANNOT MIND MY WHEEL Mother, I cannot mind my wheel ; My fingers ache, my lips are dry : Oh ! if you felt the pain I feel ! But oh ! who ever felt as I ! No longer could I doubt him true. . . All other men may use deceit ; He always said my eyes were blue, And often swore my lipa were sweet. W. S. Landob. 273. MY MOTHER BIDS ME SPEND MY SMILES My mother bids me spend my smiles On all who come and call me fair, As crumbs are thrown upon the tiles, To all the sparrows of the air. MY MOTHER BIDS ME SPEND MY SMILES 201 But I've a darling of my own For whom I hoard my httle stock — What if I chirp him all alone. And leave mamma to feed the flock ! T. Hood. 274. MY SECRET I TELL my secret ? No indeed, not I : Perhaps some day, who knows ? But not to-day ; it froze, and blows, and snows, And you're too curious : fie ! You want to hear it ? well : Only, my secret 's mine, and I won't tell. Or, after all, perhaps there 's none : Suppose there is no secret after all. But only just my fun. To-day 's a nipping day, a biting day ; In which one wants a shawl, A veil, a cloak, and other wraps : I cannot ope to every one who taps. And let the draughts come whistling through my hall ; Come bounding and surrounding me. Come buffeting, astounding me. Nipping and clipping through my wraps and all. I wear my mask for warmth : who ever shows His nose to Russian snows To be pecked at by every wind that blows ? You would not peck ? I thank you for good will, Believe, but leave that truth untested still. Spring 's an expansive time : yet I don't trust March with its peck of dust. Nor April with its rainbow-crowned brief showers. Nor even May, whose flowers One frost may wither through the sunless hours. Perhaps some languid summer day, When drowsy birds sing less and less, And golden fruit is ripening to excess, If there 's not too much sun nor too much cloud, And the warm wind is neither still nor loud. Perhaps my secret I may say. Or you may guess. C. e. ROSSISTTL H 3 202 275. SONNET A BOOK was writ of late called Tetrachordon , And woven close, both matter, form and style ; The subject new : it walked the town awhile, Numbring good intellects ; now seldom pored on. Cries the stall-reader, bless us ! what a word on A title page is this ! and some in file Stand spelling false, while one might walk to Mile- End Green. Why is it harder. Sirs, than Gordon, Colkitto, or Macdonnel, or Galasp ? Those rugged names to our like mouths grow sleek That would have made Quintilian stare and gasp. Thy age, like ours, O soul of Sir John Cheek, Hated not learning worse than toad or asp ; When thou taught 'st Cambridge, and King Edward Greek. J. MiLTOX. 276. TO THE MUSES Whethek on Ida's shady brow. Or in the chambers of the East, The chambers of the sun, that now From ancient melody have ceased ; Whether in Heaven ye wander fair. Or the green corners of the earth. Or the blue regions of the air Where the melodious winds have birth ; Whether on crystal rocks ye rove. Beneath the bosom of the sea Wandering in many a coral grove. Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry ! How have you left the ancient love That bards of old enjoyed in you ! The languid strings do scarcely move ! The sound is forced, the notes are few ! W. Blake. 277. EPIGRAM Augustus still survives in Maro's strain. And Spenser's verse prolongs Eliza's reign ; Great George's acts let tuneful Gibber sing ; For Nature formed the poet for the king. S. JOHNSOS. 203 278. THE POET OF FASHION His book is successful, he 's steeped in renown, His lyric effusions have tickled the town ; Dukes, dowagers, dandies, are eager to trace The fountain of verse in the verse-maker's face ; While, proud as Apollo, with peers tete-a-tete. From Monday till Saturday dining off plate, His heart full of hope, and his head full of gain, The Poet of Fashion dines out in Park Lane. Xow lean-jointured widows who seldom draw corks. Whose tea-spoons do duty for knives and for forks. Send forth, vellum-covered, a six o'clock card. And get up a dinner to peep at the bard : Veal, sweetbread, boiled chickens, and tongue, crown the cloth, And soup a la reine, little better than broth ; While, past his meridian, but still with some heat. The Poet of Fashion dines out in Sloane Street. Enrolled in the tribe who subsist by their wits. Remembered by starts and forgotten by fits, ISIow artists and actors, the bardling engage. To squib in the journals, and write for the stage. Now soup a la reine bends the knee to ox-cheek. And chickens and tongue bow to bubble and squeak — While, still in translation employed by ' The Row,' The Poet of Fashion dines out in Soho. Pushed down from Parnassus to Phlegethon's brink. Tossed, torn, and trunk-lining, but still with some ink. Now squab city misses their albums expand, And woo the worn rhymer for ' something off-hand,' No longer with stilted effrontery fraught, Bucklersbury now seeks what St. James's once sought, And (0 what a classical haunt for a bard !) The Poet of Fashion dines out in Barge Yard. J. Smith. 279. A NOVEL OP HIGH LIFE Lord Harry has written a novel, A story of elegant life : No stuff about love in a hovel. No sketch of a commoner's wife : No trash, such as pathos and passion. Fine feelings, expression and wit ; But all about people of fashion, Come look at his caps — how they fit ! 204 A NOVEL OF HIGH LIFE Radcliffe ! thou once wert the charmer ()i girls who sat reading all night ; Thy heroes were striplings in armour. Thy heroines damsels in white. But past are thy terrible touches. Our lips in derision we curl. Unless we are told how a Duchess Conversed with her cousin the Earl. We now have each dialogue quite full Of titles — ' I give you my word, My lady, you're looking delightful.' ' O dear, do you think so, my lord ! ' ' You've heard of the marquis's marriage. The bride with her jewels new set. Four horses, new travelling carriage. And dejeuner a la fourchette.' Haul Ton finds her privacy broken, We trace all her ins and her outs ; The very small talk that is spoken By very great people at routs. At Tenby Miss Jinks asks the loan of The book from the innkeeper's wife. And reads till she dreams she is one of The leaders of elegant life. T. H. Bayly. 280. TO LEIGH HUNT, ON AN OMISSION IN HIS ' FEAST OF THE POETS ' Leigh Hunt ! thou stingy man, Leigh Hunt ! May Charon swamp thee in his punt. For having, in thy list, forgotten So many poets scarce half rotten. Who did expect of thee at least A few cheese-parings from thy Feast. Hast thou no pity on the men Who suck (as babes their tongues) the pen. Until it leaves no traces where It lighted, and seems dipped in air. At last be generous. Hunt ! and prithee Refresh (and gratis too) in Lethe Yonder sick Muse, surcharged with poppies And heavier presentation-copies. She must grow livelier, and the river More potent in effect than ever. W. S. Landob. 205 281. OUR MASTER, MELEAGER Ovn master, Meleager, he who framed The first Anthology and daintiest, Matod each minstrel with a flower, and named For each the blossom that beseemed him best. 'Twas then as now ; garlands were somewhat rare, (Candidates many : one in doleful strain Lamented thus, ' This is a sad affair ; How shall I face my publisher again ? Lacking some emblem suitable for me, My book 's undone ; I shall not sell a copy.' ' Take courage, son,' quoth Phoebus, ' there must be Somewhere or other certainly a poppy.' R. Garnett. 282. HENDECASYLLABICS O YOtr chorus of indolent reviewers, Irresponsible, indolent reviewers, Look, I come to the test, a tiny poem All composed in a metre of Catullus, All in quantity, careful of my motion. Like the skater on ice that hardly bears him. Lest I fall unawares before the people. Waking laughter in indolent reviewers. Should I flounder awhile without a tumble Through this metrifioation of Catullus, They should speak to me not without a welcome. All that chorus of indolent reviewers. Hfird, hard, hard is it, only not to tumble. So fantastical is the dainty metre. Wherefore slight me not wholly, nor believe me Too presumptuous, indolent reviewers. blatant Magazines, regard me rather — Since I blush to belaud myself a moment — As some rare little rose, a piece of inmost Horticultural art, or half coquette-like Maiden, not to be greeted unbenignly. Alfred, Lord Tennyson. 2H?,. AGAINST WRITERS THAT CARP AT OTHER MEN'S BOOKS The readers and the hearers like my books. And yet some writers cannot them digest ; liut what care I ? for when I make a feast, I would my guests should praise it, not the cooks. Sir J. Harinqton. 206 284. TO MRS. THROCKMORTON On her beautiful Transcript of Horace's Ode, Ad Librum Suum Maria, could Horace have guessed What honour awaited his ode To his own little volume addressed, The honour which you have bestowed. Who have traced it in characters here, So elegant, even, and neat ; He had laughed at the critical sneer. Which he seems to have trembled to meet. And sneer, if you please, he had said. Hereafter a nymph shall arise. Who shall give me, when you are all dead, The glory your malice denies ; Shall dignity give to my lay. Although but a mere bagatelle ; And even a poet shall say. Nothing ever was written so well. W. Cowper. 285. ENIGMA ON THE LETTER H 'TwAS whispered in Heaven, 'twas muttered in Hell, And echo caught softly the sound as it fell ; In the confines of earth 'twas permitted to rest, And the depth of the ocean its presence confessed ; 'Twas seen in the lightning, 'twas heard in the thunder, 'Twill be found in the spheres when they're riven asunder ; 'Twas given to man with his earliest breath, It assists at his birth and attends him in death. Presides o'er his happiness, honour, and health, 'Tis the prop of his house and the end of his wealth ; It begins every hope, every wish it must bound, With the husbandman toils, and with monarchs is crowned ; In the heaps of the miser 'tis hoarded with care. But is sure to be lost in the prodigal heir ; Without it the soldier and sailor may roam, But woe to the wretch who expels it from home ; In the whispers of conscience it there will be found. Nor e'er in the whirlwind of passion be drowned ; It softens the heart, and though deaf to the ear. It will make it acutely and instantly hear ; But in shades let it rest, like an elegant flower, Oh ! breathe on it softly, it dies in an hour. C. M. Fanshawe, 207 286. BLAME NOT MY LUTE Blame not my Lute ! for he must sound Of this or that as liketh me ; For lack of wit the lute is bound To give such tunes as pleaseth me ; Though my songs be somewhat strange, And speak such words as touch thy change, Blame not my lute ! My lute, alas ! doth not offend. Though that perforce he must agree To sound such tunes as I intend To sing to them that heareth me ; Then though my songs be somewhat plain. And toucheth some that use to feign. Blame not my lute ! My lute and strings may not deny, But as I strike they must obey ; Break not them then so wrongfully. But wreak thyself some other way ; And though the songs which I indite Do quit thy change with rightful spite, Blame not my lute ! Spite asketh spite, and changing, change ; And falsed faith must needs be known ; The faults so great, the case so strange. Of right it must abroad be blown ; Then since that by thy own desert My songs do tell how true thou art. Blame not my lute 1 Blame but thyself that hast misdone. And well deserved to have blame ; Change thou thy way, so evil begun. And then my lute shall sound that same ; But if till then my fingers play. By thy desert their wonted way, Blame not my lute '. Farewell, unknown ! For though thou break My strings in spite with great disdain. Yet have I found out, for thy sake. Strings for to string my lute again ; And if perchance this silly rhyme Do make thee blush at any time. Blame not my lute ! Sir T. Wyatt. 20S 287. TO HIS LUTE My Lute, awake ! Perform the last Labour that thou and I shall waste. And end that I have now begun ; For when this song is sung and past, My lute, be still, for I have done. As to be heard where ear is none, As lead to grave in marble stone. My song may pierce her heart as soon : Shovild we then sing, or sigh, or moan ? No, no, my lute ! for I have done. The rocks do not so cruelly Repulse the waves continually, As she my suit and affection : So that I am past remedy : Whereby my lute and 1 have done. Proud of the spoil that thou hast got Of simple hearts thorough Love's shot. By whom, unkind, thou hast them won ; Think not he hath his bow forgot. Although my lute and I have done. Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain, That mak'st but game of earnest pain : Think not alone under the sun Unquit to cause thy lover's plain. Although my lute and I have done. May chance thee lie withered and old The winter nights that are so cold. Plaining in vain unto the moon : Thy wishes then dare not be told : Care then who list ! for I have done. And then may chance thee to repent The time that thou hast lost and spent To caiise thy lover's sigh and swoon : Then shalt thou know beauty but lent, And wish and want as I have done. Now cease, my lute ! This is the last Labour that thou and I shall waste. And ended is that we begun : Now is this song both sung and past — My lute, be still, for I have done. Sir T. Wyatt. 209 288. WHEN TO HER LUTE CORINNA SIXGS When to her lute Corinna sings. Her voice revives the leaden strings. And doth in highest notes appear. As any challenged echo clear ; But when she doth of mourning speak. Even vi-ith her sighs the strings do break. And as her lute doth live or die. Led by her passion, so must I, For when of pleasure she doth sing. My thoughts enjoy a sudden spring. But if she doth of sorrow speak. Even from my heart the strings do break. T. Campiok. 289. TO A LADY SINGING Chlobis, yourself you so excel. When you vouchsafe to breathe my thought. That like a spirit, with this spell Of my own teaching I am caught. That eagle's fate and mine is one. Which, on the shaft that made him die. Espied a feather of his own. Wherewith he wont to soar so high. Had Echo, with so sweet a grace. Narcissus' loud complaints returned ; Not for reflection of his face. But of his voice, the boy had mourned. E. Waller. 290. WITH A GUITAR, TO JANE Ariel to Miranda : — Take This slave of Music, for the sake Of him who is the slave of thee. And teach it all the harmony In which thou canst, and only thou. Make the delighted spirit glow. Till joy denies itself again. And, too intense, is turned to pain ; For by permission and command Of thine own Prince Ferdinand, Poor Ariel sends this silent token Of more than ever can be spoken ; 210 WITH A GUITAR, TO JANE Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who From life to life, must still pursue Your happiness, for thus alone Can Ariel ever find his own. From Prospero's enchanted cell. As the mighty verses tell, To the throne of Naples, he Lit you o'er the trackless sea. Flitting on, your prow before. Like a living meteor. When you die, the silent Moon In her interlunar swoon. Is not sadder in her cell Than deserted Ariel. When you live again on earth, Like an unseen star of birth Ariel guides you o'er the sea Of life from your nativity. Many changes have been run Since Ferdinand and you begun Your course of love, and Ariel still Has tracked your steps and served your will ; Now, in humbler, happier lot. This is all remembered not ; And now, alas ! the poor sprite is Imprisoned, for some fault of his. In a body like a grave ; — From you he only dares to crave. For his service and his sorrow, A smile to-day, a song to-morrow. The artist who this idol wrought, To echo all harmonious thought. Felled a tree, while on the steep The woods were in their winter sleep. Rocked in that repose divine On the wind-swept Apennine ; And dreaming, some of Autumn past, And some of Spring approaching fast. And some of April buds and showers, And some of songs in July bowers, And all of love ; and so this tree, — O that such our death may be ! — Died in sleep, and felt no pain. To live in happier form again : From which, beneath Heaven's fairest star. The artist wrought this loved Guitar, And taught it justly to reply. To all who question skilfully. WITH A GUITAR, TO JANE 211 In language gentle as thine own ; Whispering in enamoured tone Sweet oracles of woods and dells. And summer winds in sylvan cells ; For it had learned all harmonies Of the plains and of the skies. Of the forests and the mountains. And the many-voiced fountains ; The clearest echoes of the hills. The softest notes of falling rills. The melodies of birds and bees. The murmuring of summer seas, And pattering rain, and breathing dew. And airs of evening ; and it knew That seldom-heard mysterious sound. Which, driven on its dinmal round. As it floats through boundless day. Our world enkindles on its way. — All this it knows, but will not tell To those who cannot question well The Spirit that inhabits it ; It talks according to the wit Of its companions ; and no more Is heard than has been felt before. By those who tempt it to betray These secrets of an elder day : But, sweetly as its answers will Flatter hands of perfect skill. It keeps its highest, holiest tone For our beloved Jane alone. P. B. Shelley. 291. TO ME. HEKRY LAWES Who had >-ewly Set a Song of MrsE ix the Year 163.5 Vebses make heroic virtue live ; But you can life to verses give. As when in open air we blow, The breath, though strained, sounds flat and low ; But if a trumpet takes the blast. It lifts it high and makes it last ; So in your airs our numbers dressed Make a shrill sally from the breast Of nymphs, who, singing what we penned. Our passions to themselves commend ; While love, victorious with thy art. Governs at once their voice and heart. E. Waller. 21i 292. TO MR. H. LAWES. OX HIS AIRS Harry whose tuneful and well-measured song Fii-st taught our English music how to span Words with just note and accent, not to scan With Jlidas ears, committing short and long ; Thy worth and skill exempts thee from the throng. With praise enough for Envy to look wan ; To after age thou shalt be writ the man. That with smooth air couldst humour best our tongue. Thou honour'st verse, and verse must send her wing To honour thee, the priest of Phooljus' quire That tun'st their happiest lines in hymn, or story. Dante shall give Fame leave to set thee higher Than his Casella, whom he wooed to sing Met in the milder shades of Pui-gatory. J. Milton. 293. A FAREWELL TO TOWN SixcE secret Spite hath sworn my woe. And I am driven by Destiny Against my will, God knows, to go From place of gallant company. And, in the stead of sweet delight. To reap the fruits of foul despite : As it hath been a custom long, To bid farewell when men depart, So will I sing this solemn song. Farewell, to some, with all my heart : But those my friends : but to my foes, I wish a nettle in their nose. I wish my friends their hearts' content : My foes, again, the contrary : I wish myself, the time were spent That I must spend in misery : I wish my deadly foe, no worse Than want of friends, and empty purse. But, now my wishes thus are done, I must begin to bid farewell : With friends and foes I have begun, And therefore, now I cannot tell Which first to choose, or ere 1 part. To write a farewell from my heart. A FAREWELL TO TOWN 213 First, place of worldly Paradise, Thou gallant court, to thee farewell ! For froward Fortune me denies Now longer near to thee to dwell. I must go live, I wot not where. Nor how to live when I come there. And next, adieu you gallant dames, The chief of noble youth's delight ! Untoward Fortune now so frames. That I am banished from your sight. And, in your stead, against my will, I must go live with country Jill. Now next, my gallant youths farewell ; My lads that oft have cheered my heart ! My grief of mind no tongue can tell. To think that I must from you part. I now must leave you all, alas. And live with some odd lobcock ass ! And now farewell thou gallant lute. With instruments of music's sounds : Recorder, cittern, harp and flute. And heavenly descants on sweet grounds ; I now must leave you all indeed. And make some music on a reed ! And now you stately stamping steeds And gallant geldings fair, adieu ! My heavy heart for sorrow bleeds. To think that I must part with you : And on a strawen pannel sit. And ride some country carting tit ! And now farewell both spear and shield, Caliver, pistol, arquebus. See, see, what sighs my heart doth yield, To think that I must leave you thus ; And lay aside my rapier blade. And take in hand a ditching spade ! And you farewell, all gallant games, Primero and Imperial, Wherewith I used, with courtly dames. To pass away the time withal : I now must learn some country plays For ale and cakes on holidays ! 214 A FAREWELL TO TOWN And now farewell each dainty dish, With sundry sorts of sugared wine ' Farewell, I say, fine flesh and fish, To please this dainty mouth of mine ! I now, alas, must leave all these. And make good cheer with bread and cheese. And now, all orders due, farewell ! My table laid when it was noon ; My heavy heart it irks to tell My dainty dinners all are done : With leeks and onions, whig and whey, I must content me as I may. And farewell all gay garments now. With jewels rich, of rare device ! Like Robin Hood, I wot not how, I must go range in woodman's wise ; Clad in a coat of green or grey. And glad to get it if I may. What shall I say, but bid adieu To every dram of sweet delight. In place where pleasure never grew, In dungeon deep of foul despite, I must, ah me ! wretch, as I may. Go sing the song of welaway. N. BBETO»f. 294. THE CONTRAST In London I never know what I'd be at. Enraptured with this, and enchanted with that ; I'm wild with the sweets of variety's plan. And Life seems a blessing too happy for man. But the country. Lord help me ! sets all matters right, So calm and composing from morning to night ; Oh ! it settles the spirits when nothing is seen But an ass on a common, a goose on a green. In town if it rain, why it damps not our hope. The eye has her choice, and the fancy her scope ; What harm though it pour whole nights or whole days It spoils not our prospects, or stops not our ways. In the country what bliss, when it rains in the fields. To live on the transports that shuttlecock yields ; Or go crawling from window to window, to see A pig on a dunghill or crow on a tree. THE CONTRAST 215 In London, if folks ill together are put, A bore may be dropped, and a quiz may be cut ; We change without end ; and it lazy or ill. All wants are at hand, and all wishes at will. In the country you're nailed, like a pale in the park. To some slick of a neighbour that 's crammed in the ark j And 'tis odd, if you're hurt, or in fits tumble down. You reach death ere the doctor can reach you from town. In London how easy we visit and meet. Gay pleasure 's the theme, and sweet smiles are our treat : Our morning 's a round of good-humoured delight. And we rattle, in comfort, to pleasure at night. In the country, how sprightly ! our visits we make Through ten miles of mud, for Formality's sake ; With the coachman in drink, and the moon in a fog, And no thought in our head but a ditch or a bog. In London the spirits are cheerful and light. All places are gay and all faces are bright ; We've ever new joys, and revived by each whim. Each day on a fresh tide of pleasure we swim. But how gay in the country ! what summer delight To be waiting for winter from morning to night ! Then the fret of impatience gives exquisite glee To relish the sweet rural subjects we see. In town we've no use for the skies overhead. For when the sun rises then go we to bed ; And as to that old-fashioned virgin the moon, She shines out of season, like satin in June. In the country these planets delightfully glare Just to show us the object we want isn't there ; O, how cheering and gay, when their beauties arise. To sit and gaze round with the tears in one's eyes ! But 'tis in the country alone we can find That happy resource, that relief of the mind. When, drove to despair, our last efforts we make. And drag the old fish-pond, for novelty's sake : Indeed I must own, 'tis a pleasure complete To see ladies well draggled and wet in their feet ; But what is all that to the transport we feel When we capture, in triumph, two toads and an eel ? I have heard, though, that love in a cottage is sweet. When two hearts in one link of soft sympathy meet : That 's to come — for as yet I, alas ! am a swain Who require, I own it, more Unks to my chain. 216 THE CONTRAST Your magpies and stock-doves may flirt among trees. And chatter their transports in groves, if they please : But a house is much more to my taste than a tree, And for groves, ! a good grove of chimneys for me. In the country, if Cupid should find a man out. The poor tortured victim mopes hopeless about ; But in London, thank Heaven ! our peace is secure, Where for one eye to kill, there 's a thousand to cure. I know love 's a devil, too subtle to spy. That shoots through the soul, from the beam of an eye ; But in London these devils so quick fly about. That a new devil still drives an old devil out. In town let me live then, in town let me die. For in truth I can't relish the country, not I. If one must have a villa in summer to dwell, O, give me the sweet shady side of Pall Mall. C. MOBEIS. 295. THE DAINTY YOUNG HEIRESS The dainty young heiress of Lincoln's Inn Fields, Brisk, beautiful, wealthy, and witty. To the power of Love so unwillingly yields. That 'tis feared she'll unpeople the city. The sparks and the beaus all languish and die. Yet, after the conquest of many, One little good marksman, that aims with one eye. May wound her heart deeper than any. C. Sackville, Eakl of Dorset. 296. TO CELIA I HATE the town, and all its ways ; Ridottos, operas, and plays ; The ball, the ring, the mall, the Court, Wherever the beau monde resort ; Where beauties lie in ambush for folks. Earl Straffords and the Dukes of Norfolks ; All coffee-houses and their praters, All courts of justice and debaters ; All taverns, and the sots within 'em ; All bubbles, and the rogues that skin 'em. TO CELIA 217 I hate all critics ; may they burn all. From Bentley to the Grub Street Journal ; All bards, as Dennis hates a pun ; Those who have wit, and who have none. All nobles of whatever station ; And all the parsons in the nation. I hate the world crammed altogether. From beggars, up, the Lord knows whither ! Ask you then, Celia, if there be The thing I love ? My charmer, thee. Thee more than light, than life adore. Thou dearest, sweetest creature, more Than wildest raptures can express. Than I can tell, or thou canst guess. Then though I bear a gentle mind. Let not my hatred of mankind Wonder within my Celia move, Since she possesses all I love. H. FlELDrSG. 297. NO ! Xo sun — no moon ! No morn — no noon — No dawn — no dusk — no proper time of day — No sky — no earthly view — No distance looking blue — No road — no street — no ' t'other side the way '- No end to any Row — No indications where the Crescents go — No top to any steeple — No recognitions of familiar people — No courtesies for showing 'em — No knowing 'em ! — No travelling at all — no locomotion. No inkling of the way — no notion — ' No go ' — by land or ocean — No mail — no post — No news from any foreign coast — No Park — no Ring — no afternoon gentility — No company — no nobility, — No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, No comfortable feel in any member — No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees. No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds — November ! T. Hood. 218 298. PICCADILLY Piccadilly ! — shops, palaces, bustle, and breeze. The whirring of wheels, and the murmur of trees. By daylight, or nightlight, — or noisy, or stilly, — Whatever my mood is — I love Piccadilly. Wet nights, when the gas on the pavement is streaming. And young Love is watching and old Love is dreaming. And Beauty is whirled off to conquest, where shrilly Cremona makes nimble thy toes, Piccadilly ! Bright days, when we leisurely pace to and fro. And meet all the people we do or don't know, — Here is jolly old Brown, and his fair daughter Lillie, — No wonder, young pilgrim, you like Piccadilly ! See yonder pair riding, how fondly they saunter ! She smiles on her poet, whose heart 's in a canter : Some envy her spouse, and some covet her filly. He envies them both — he 's an ass, Piccadilly ! Now were I that gay bride, with -a, slave at my feet, I would choose me a house in my favourite street ; Yes or no — I would carry my point, willy, nilly. If ' no ', — pick a quarrel, if ' yes ', — Piccadilly ! Prom Primrose balcony, long ages ago, ' Old Q ' sat at gaze, — who now passes below ? A frolicsome Statesman, the Man of the Day, A laughing philosopher, gallant and gay ; No darling of Fortune more manfully trod. Full of years, full of fame, and the world at his nod, Heu, anni fugaces ! The wise and the silly, Old P or old Q, — we must quit Piccadilly. Life is chequered, — a patchwork of smiles and of frowns We value its ups, let us muse on its downs ; There 's a side that is bright, it will then turn us t'other, — One turn, if a good one, deserves such another. These, downs are delightful, thest ups are not hilly, — Let us turn one more turn ere we quit Piccadilly. F. Locker-Lampson. 299. EPIGRAM To John I owed great obligation ; But John unhappily thought fit To publish it to all the nation. Sure John and I are more than quit. M. Prior. 219 300. ST. JAMES'S STREET (A Grumble) St. James's Street, of classic fame ! The finest people throng it ! St. James's Street ? I know the name, I think I've passed along it. Why, that 's where Sacharissa sighed When Waller read his ditty ; Where Byron lived, and Gibbon died. And Alvanley was witty. A noted street ! It skirts the Park Where Pepys once took his pastime ; Come, gaze on fifty men of mark, And then recall the fast time ! The flats at White's, the play at Crock's, The bumpers to Miss Gunning ; The bonhomie of Charlie Fox, And Selwyn's ghastly funning. The dear old street of clubs and cribs. As north and south it stretches. Still seems to smack of RoUiad squibs. And Gillray's fiercer sketches ; Th« quaint old dress, the grand old style. The mots, the racy stories ; The wine, the dice, the wit, the bile. The hate of Whigs and Tories. At dusk, when I am strolling there. Dim forms will rise around me ; Lepel flits past me in her chair. And Congreve's airs astound me ! And once Nell Gwyn, a frail young sprite. Looked kindly when I met her ; I shook my head, perhaps, — but quite Forgot to quite forget her. The street is still a lively tomb For rich, and gay, and clever ; The crops of dandies bud, and bloom. And die as fast as ever. Now gilded youth loves cutty pipes. And slang the worse for wearing : It can't approach its prototypes In taste, or tone, or bearing. In Brummell's day of buckle shoes. Lawn cravats, and roll collars. They'd fight, and woo, and bet — and lose Like gentlemen and scholars : 220 ST. JAMES'S STREET I like young men to go the pace, I half forgive old Ripid ; These louts disgrace their name and race, — So vicious and so vapid ! Worse times may come. Bon ton, indeed. Will then be quite forgotten, And all we much revere will speed From ripe to worse than rotten ; Then grass will sprout between yon stones. And owls will roost at Boodle's, For Echo will hurl back the tones Of screaming Yankee Doodles. I love the haunts of old Cockaigne, Where wit and wealth were squandered ; The halls that tell of hoop and train. Where grace and rank have wandered ; Those halls where ladies fair and leal First ventured to adore me ! — And something of the like I feel For this old street before me. F. Lockee-Lampsok. 301. IN LONDON ON SATURDAY NIGHT Is it not pleasant to wander In town on Saturday night, While people go hither or thither. And shops shed cheerful light ? *And, arm in arm, while our shadows Chase us along the panes, Are we not quite as cosy As down among country lanes ? Nobody knows us, heeds us, Nobody hears or sees. And the shop-lights gleam more gladly Than the moon on hedges and trees ; And people coming and going. All upon ends of their own. Though they work a spell on the spirit. Move it more finely alone. The sound seems harmless and pleasant As the murmur of brook and wind ; The shops with the fruit and the pictures Have sweetness to suit my mind ; IN LONDON ON SATURDAY NIGHT 221 And nobody knows us, heeds us. And our loving none reproves, — /, the poor figure-painter ! You, the lady he loves ! And what if the world should scorn you, For now and again, as you do. Assuming a country kirtle. And bonnet of straw thereto. Or the robe of a vestal virgin. Or a nun's grey gabardine. And keeping a brother and sister By standing and looking divine ? And what if the world, moreover. Should silently pass me by. Because, at the dawn of the struggle I labour some stories high ! Why, there 's comfort in waiting, working. And feeling one's heart beat right, — And rambling alone, love-making. In London on Saturday night. R. BUCHASiS. 302. CATHARINA Addressed to Miss Stapleton She came — she is gone — we have met — And meet perhaps never again ; The sun of that moment is set. And seems to have risen in vain. Catharina has fled like a dream — (So vanishes pleasure, alas !) But has left a regret and esteem. That will not so suddenly pass. The last evening ramble we made, Catharina, Maria, and I, Our progress was often delayed By the nightingale warbling nigh. We paused under many a tree. And much she was charmed with a tone Less sweet to Maria and me, Who had witnessed so lately her own. 222 CATHARINA My numbers that day she had sung, And gave them a grace so divine. As only her musical tongue Could infuse into numbers of mine. The longer I heard, I esteemed The work of my fancy the more. And e'en to myself never seemed So tuneful a poet before. Though the pleasures of London exceed In number the days of the year. Catharina, did nothing impede, Would JEeel herself happier here ; For the close-woven arches of limes On the banks of our river, I know Are sweeter to her many times Than all that the city can show. So it is, when the mind is endued With a well-judging taste from above. Then, whether embellished or rude, 'Tis nature alone that we love. The achievements of art may amuse. May even our wonder excite. But groves, hills, and valleys diffuse A lasting, a sacred delight. Since then in the rural recess Catharina alone can rejoice. May it still be her lot to possess The scene of her sensible choice ! To inhabit a mansion remote Prom the clatter of street-pacing steeds. And by Philomel's annual note To measure the life that she leads. With her book, and her voice, and her lyre. To wing all her moments at home, And with scenes that new rapture inspire As oft as it suits her to roam. She will have just the life she prefers. With little to wish or to fear, And ours will be pleasant as hers. Might we view her enjoying it here. W. COWPER. 223 303. CORIDON'S SONG Oh, the sweet contentment The countryman doth find. High trolollie loUie loe, High trolollie lee. That quiet contemplation Possesseth all my mind : Then care away, And wend along with me. For courts are full of flattery. As hath too oft been tried ; High trolollie lollie loe, High trolollie lee. The city full of wantonness. And both are full of pride. Then care away. And wend along with me. But oh, the honest countryman Speaks truly from his heart. High trolollie lollie loe. High trolollie lee. His pride is in his tillage. His horses and his cart : Then care away. And wend along with me. Our clothing is good sheepskins. Grey russet for our wives. High trolollie lollie loe. High trolollie lee. 'Tis warmth and not gay clothing That doth prolong our lives ; Then care away. And wend along with me. The ploughman, though he labour hard. Yet on the holiday. High trolollie lollie loe. High trolollie lee. No emperor so merrily Does pass his time away ; Then care away. And wend along with me. To recompense our tillage The heavens afford us showers ; High trolollie lollie loe. High trolollie lee. 224 CORIDON'S SONG And for our sweet refreshments The earth affords us bowers : Then care away, And wend along with me. The cuckoo and the nightingale Full merrily do sing, High troloUie lolUe loe, High troloUie lee, And with their pleasant roundelays, Bid welcome to the spring : Then care away, And wend along with me. This is not half the happiness The countryman enjoys ; High troloUie lollie loe. High troloUie lee, Though others think they have as much Yet he that says so lies : Then come away. Turn countryman with me. J. Chalkhill. 304. JACK AND JOAN Jack and Joan, they think no ill. But loving live, and merry still ; Do their weekday's work, and pray Devoutly on the holy day ; Skip and trip it on the green. And help to choose the summer queen ; Lash out, at a country feast. Their silver penny with the best. Well can they judge of nappy ale. And tell at large a winter tale ; CHmb up to the apple loft, And turn the crabs till they be soft. Tib is all the father's joy. And little Tom the mother's boy. All their pleasure is content ; And care, to pay their yearly rent. Joan can call by name her cows. And deck her windows with green bouglis ; She can wreaths and tutties make. And trim with plums a bridal cake. JACK AND JOAN 225 Jack knows what brings gain or loss ; And his long flail can stoutly toss ; Makes the hedge, which others break. And ever thinks what lie doth speak. Now, you courtly dames and knights. That study only strange delights ; Though you scorn the homespun grey And revel in your rich array : Though your tongues dissemble deep, And can your heads from danger keep ; Yet, for all your pomp and train, S3curer lives the silly swain. T. Campion. 305. OUR VILLAGE— BY A VILLAGER ' Sweet Auburn, loveliest village of the plain.' — Goldsmith. Our village, that 's to say not Miss Mitford's village, but our village of Bullock Smithy, Is come into by an avenue of trees, three oak pollards, two elders, and a withy ; And in the middle, there 's a green of about not exceeding an acre and a half ; It 's common to all, and fed off by nineteen cows, six ponies, three horse.s, five asses, two foals, seven pigs, and a calf ! Besides a pond in the middle, as is held by a similar sort of common law lease. And contains twenty ducks, six drakes, three ganders, two dead dogs, four drowned kittens, and twelve geese. Of course the green 's cropt very close, and does famous for bowling when the little village boys play at cricket ; Only some horse, or pig, or cow, or great jackass, is sure to come and stand right before the wicket. There 's fifty-five private houses, let alone barns and workshops, and pigstyes, and poultry huts, and such-like sheds ; With plenty of public-houses — two Poxes, one Green Man, three Bunch of Grapes, one Crown, and six King's Heads. The Green Man is reckoned the best, as the only one that for love or money can raise A postilion, a blue jacket, two deplorable lame white horses, and a ram- shackled ' neat postchaise '. There 's one parish church for all the people, whatsoever may be their ranks in life or their degrees. Except one very damp, small, dark, freezing-cold, little Methodist chapel of Ease ; 226 OUR VILLAGE And close by the church-yard there 's a stone-mason's yard, tha,t when the time is seasonable Will furnish with afflictions sore and marble urns and cherubims very low and reasonable. There 's a cage, comfortable enough ; I've been in it with old Jack Jeffrey and Tom Pike ; For the Green Man next door will send you in ale, gin, or anything else you like. I can't speak of the stocks, as nothing remains of them but the upright post ; But the pound is kept in repairs for the sake of Cob's horse, as is always there almost. There 's a smithy of course, where that queer sort of a chap in his way. Old Joe Bradley, Perpetually hammers and stammers, for he stutters and shoes horses very badly. There 's a shop of all sorts, that sells everything, kept by the widow of Mr. Task ; But when you go there, it 's ten to one she 's out of everything you ask. You'll know her house by the swarm of boys, like flies, about the old sugary cask : There are six empty houses, and not so well papered inside as out, For bill-stickers won't beware, but sticks notices of sales and election placards all about. That 's the Doctor's with a green door, where the garden pots in the windows is seen ; A weakly monthly rose that don't blow, and a dead geranium, and a tea- plant with five black leaves and one green. As for hollyoaks at the cottage doors, and honeysuckles and jasmines, you may go and whistle ; But the Tailor's front garden grows two cabbages, a dock, a ha'porth of pennyroyal, two dandelions, and a thistle. There are three small orchards — Mr. Busby's the schoolmaster's is the chief — With two pear-trees that don't bear ; one plum and an apple, that every year is stripped by a thief. There 's another small day-school too, kept by the respectable Mrs. Gaby. A select establishment, for six Uttle boys and one big, and four little girls and a baby ; There 's a rectory, with pointed gables and strange odd chimneys that never smokes. For the rector don't live on his living like other Christian sort of folks ; There 's a barber's, once a week well filled with rough black-bearded, shock-headed churls. And a window with two feminine men's heads, and two masculine ladies in false curls ; OUR VILLAGE 227 There 's a, butcher's, and a carpenter's, and a plumber's, and a small greengrocer's and a baker. But he won't bake on a Sunday, and there 's a sexton that 's a coal- merchant besides, and an undertaker ; And a toyshop, but not a whole one, for a village can't compare with the London shops ; One window sells drums, dolls, kites, carts, bats. Clout's balls, and the other sells malt and hops. And !Mrs. Brown, in domestic economy not to be a bit behind her betters. Lets her house to a milliner, a watchmaker, a rat-catcher, a cobbler, lives in it herself, and it 's the post-office for letters. Xow I've gone through all the village — aye, from end to end, save and except one more house. But I haven't come to that — and I hope I never shall — and that 's the Village Poor House ! T. Hood. 306. BLEAKE'S HOUSE IN BLACKMWORE John Bleake he had a bit o' ground Come to en by his mother's zide ; An' after that, two hundred pound His uncle left en when he died ; ' Well now,' cried John, ' it is my bent To build a house, an' pay noo rent.' An' Meary gi'ed en her consent. ' Do, do,' — the maidens cried. ' True, true,' — ^his wife repUed. ' Done, done, — a house o' brick or stwone,' Cried merry Bleake o' Blackmwore. Then John he call'd vor men o' skill. An' builders answer'd to his call ; An' met to reckon, each his bill, Vor vloor an' winder, rwof an' wall. An' woone did mark it on the groun', An' woone did think, an' scratch his crown. An' reckon work, an' write it down : ' Zoo, zoo,' — woone treadesman cried ; ' True, true,' — woone mwore replied. ' Aye, aye, — good work, an' have good pay,' Cried merry Bleake o' Blackmwore. The work begun, an' trowels rung An' up the bricken wall did rise. An' up the slanten refters sprung, Wi' busy blows, an' lusty cries ; 228 BLEAKE'S HOUSE An woone brought planks to meake a vloor. An' woone did come wi' durns or door. An' woone did zaw, an woone did bore. ' Brick, brick, — there down below. Quick, quick, — why b'ye so slow ? ' ' Lime, lime, — why we do weaste the time, Vor merry Bleake o' Blackmwore.' The house wer up vrom groun' to tun. An' thatch'd agean the rainy sky, Wi' windors to the noonday zun. Where rushy Stour do wander by. In coo'se he had a pworch to screen The inside door, when win's wer keen. An' out avore the pworch, a green. ' Here ! here ! ' — the childern cried ; 'Dear ! dear ! ' — the wife replied ; ' There, there, — the house is perty feair,' Cried merry Bleake o' Blackmwore. Then John he ax'd his friends to warm His house, an' they, a goodish batch. Did come alwone, or earm in earm. All roads, a-meaken vor his hatch : An' there below the clavy beam The kettle-spout did zing an' steam ; An' there wer ceakes, an' tea wi' cream. ' Lo ! lo ! ' — the women cried ; ' Ho ! ho ! ' — the men replied ; ' Health, health, — attend ye wi' your wealth. Good merry Bleake o' Blackmwore.' Then John, a-praised, flung up his crown All back, a-laughen in a roar. They prais'd his wife, an' she looked down A-simperen towards the vloor. Then up they sprung a-dancen reels. An' up went tooes, an' up went heels, A-winden roun' in knots an' wheels. ' Brisk, brisk,' — the maidens cried ; ' Frisk, frisk,' — the men replied ; ' Quick, quick, — there wi' your fiddle-stick,' Cried merry Bleake o' Blackmwore. An' when the morrow's zun did sheen John Bleake beheld, wi' jay an' pride. His bricken house, an' pworch, an' green. Above the Stour's rushy zide. IN BLACKMWORE 229 The zwallows left the Iwonesome groves To build below the thatcben oves, An' robins come vor crumbs o' Iwoaves : ' Tweet, tweet,' — the birds all cried ; ' Sweet, sweet,' — John's wife replied ; ' Dad, dad,' — the childern cried so glad. To merry Bleake o' Blackmwore. W. Baknes. 307. QUINCE Near a small village in the West, Where many very worthy people. Eat, drink, play whist, and do their best To guard from evil Church and steeple There stood — alas ! it stands no more ! — A tenement of brick and plaster. Of which, for forty years and four. My good friend Quince was lord and master. Welcome was he in hut and hall To maids and matrons, peers and peasants ; He won the sympathies of all By making puns, and making presents. Though all the parish were at strife. He kept his counsel, and his carriage. And laughed, and loved a quiet life. And shrank from Chancery suits — and marriage. Sound was his claret — and his head ; Warm was his double ale — and feelings ; His partners at the whist club said That he was faultless in his dealings : He went to church but once a week ; Yet Dr. Poundtext always found him An upright man, who studied Greek, And liked to see his friends around him. Asylums, hospitals and schools. He used to swear, were made to cozen ; All who subscribed to them were fools, — And he subscribed to half a dozen : It was his doctrine, that the poor Were always able, never willing ; And so the beggar at his door Had first abuse, and then — a shilling. Some public principles he had. But was no flatterer, nor fretter ; He rapped his box when things were bad. And said ' I cannot make them better 1 ' 230 QUINCE And much he loathed the patriot's snort, And much he scorned the placeman's snuffle ; And cut the fiercest quarrels short With — ' Patience, gentlemen — and shuffle ! ' For full ten years his pointer Speed Had couched beneath her master's table ; For twice ten years his old white steed Had fattened in his master's stable ; Old Quince averred, upon his troth, They were the ugliest beasts in Devon ; And none knew why he fed them both. With his own hands, six days in seven. Whene'er they heard his ring or knock, Quicker than thought, the village slatterns Flung down the novel, smoothed the frock. And took up Mrs. Glasse, and patterns ; Adine was studying baker's bills ; Louisa looked the queen of knitters ; Jane happened to be hemming frills ; And Bell, by chance, was making fritters. But all was vain ; and while decay Came, like a tranquil moonlight, o'er him. And found him gouty still, and gay. With no fair nurse to bless or bore him. His rugged smile and easy chair. His dread of matrimonial lectures. His wig, his stick, his powdered hair, Were themes for very strange conjectures. Some sages thought the stars above Had crazed him with excess of knowledge ; Some heard he had been crossed in love Before he came away from College ; Some darkly hinted that his Grace Did nothing, great or small, without him ; Some whispered, with a solemn face, That there was ' something odd about him ! ' I found him, at threescore and ten, A single man, but bent quite double ; Sickness was coming on him then To take him from a world of trouble : He prosed of slipping down the hill. Discovered he grew older daily ; One frosty day he made his will, — The next, he sent for Doctor Bailey. QUINCE 231 And so he lived, — and so he died ! — When last I sat beside his pillow He shook my hand, and ' Ah ! ' he cried, ' Penelope must wear the willow. Tell her I hugged her rosy chain While life was flickering in the socket ; And say, that when I call again, I'll bring a licence in my pocket. ' I've left my house and grounds to Fag, — I hope his master's shoes will suit him ; And I've bequeathed to you my nag, To feed him for my sake, — or shoot him. The Vicar's wife will take old Fox, — She'll find him an uncommon mouser, — And let her husband have my box. My BiWe, and my Assmanshauser. ' Whether I ought to die or not. My Doctors cannot quite determine ; It 's only clear that I shall rot. And be, Uke Priam, food for vermin. My debts are paid : — but Nature's debt Almost escaped my recollection : Tom ! — we shall meet again ; — and yet I cannot leave you my direction ! ' W. M. Peaed. 308. THE TABLES TURNED Up ! up ! my Friend, and quit your books ; Or surely you'll grow double : Up ! up ! my Friend, and clear your looks. Why all this toil and trouble ? The sun, above the mountain's head, A freshening lustre mellow Through all the long green fields has spread. His first sweet evening yellow. Books ! 'tis a dull and endless strife : Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music ! on my life. There 's more of wisdom in it. And hark ! how blithe the throstle sings ! He, too, is no mean preacher : Come forth into the light of things. Let Nature be your teacher. 232 THE TABLES TURNED She has a world of ready wealth, Our minds and heartB to bless — Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Truth breathed by cheerfulness. One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good. Than all the sages can. Sweet is the lore which Nature brings ; Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things : — We murder to dissect. Enough of Science and of Art ; Close up those barren leaves ; Come forth, and bring with yrfu a heart That watches and receives. W. Wordsworth. 309. CHERRY-RIPE There is a garden in her face, Where roses and white lilies grow ; A heavenly paradise is that place. Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow ; There cherries grow, which none may buy, Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. Those cherries fairly do enclose Of orient pearl a double row ; Which when her lovely laughter shows. They look like rose-buds filled with snow. Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy, Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. Her eyes like angels watch them still ; Her brows like bended bows do stand. Threatening with piercing frowns to kill All that attempt with eye or hand These sacred cherries to come nigh — Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry ! T. Campion. 233 310. LIKE THE IDALIAN QUEEN Like the Idalian Queen, Her hair about her eyne With neck and breast's ripe apples to be seen, At first glance of the morn, In Cyprus' gardens gathering those fair flowers Which of her blood were born, I saw, but fainting saw, my paramours. The Graces naked danped about the place. The winds and trees amazed With silence on her gazed ; The flowers did smile like those upon her face. And as their aspen stalks those fingers band, That she might read my case, A hyacinth I wished me in her hand. W. Dkummond. 311. THE PRIMROSE Ask me why I send you here This sweet Infanta of the year ; Ask me why I send to you This Primrose, thus bepearled with dew ; I will whisper to your ears The sweets of Love are mixed with tears. Ask me why this flower does show So yellow-green, and sickly too ; Ask me why the stalk is weak And bending, yet it doth not break ; I will answer. These discover What fainting hopes are in a lover. R. Heerick. 312. TO CARNATIONS Stay while ye will, or go, And leave no scent behind ye : Yet trust me, I shall know The place where I may find ye. Within my Lucia's cheek, (Whose livery ye wear) Play ye at hide or seek, I'm sure to find ye there. R. Heerick. i3 234 313. ASK ME NO MORE WHERE JOVE BESTOWS Ask me no more where Jove bestows, When June is past, theiading rose ; For in your beauty's orient deep These flowers, as in their causes, sleep. Ask me no more whither do stray The golden atoms of the day ; - For in pure love heaven did prepare Those powders to enrich your hair. Ask me no more whither doth haste The nightingale when May is past ; For in your sweet dividing throat She winters, and keeps warm her note. Ask me no more where those stars 'Ught That downwards fall in dead of night ; For in your eyes they sit, and there Fixed become as in their sphere. Ask me no more if east or west The Phoenix builds her spicy nest ; For unto you at last she flies. And in your fragrant bosom dies. T. Caeew. 314, TO ROSES, IN THE BOSOM OP CASTARA Ye blushing Virgins happy are In the chaste nunnery of her breasts. For he'd profane so chaste a fair, Whoe'er should call them Cupid's nests. Transplanted thus, how bright ye grow, How rich a perfume do ye yield ! In some close garden, cowslips so Are sweeter than i' th' open field. In those white cloisters, live secure From the rude blasts of wanton breath, Each hour more innocent and pure. Till you shall wither into death. Then that which, living, gave you room. Your glorious sepulchre shall be. There wants no marble for a tomb. Whose breast hath marble been to me. W. Habi]SGTo:!T. 235 315. A FRAGMENT Go, rose, my Chloe's bosom grace. How happy should I prove, Might I supply that envied place With never-fading love ! There, Phoenix-like, beneath her eye, Involved in fragrance, burn and die. Know, hapless flower, that thou shalt find More fragrant roses there, I see thy withering head reclined With envy and despair ; One common fate we both must prove ; You die with envy, I with love. J. Gay. 316. THE WHITE ROSE Sent by a Yokkist Gentleman to his Lancastrian Mistress If this fair rose offend thy sight. Placed in thy bosom bare, 'Twill blush to find itself less white, And turn Lancastrian there. But if thy ruby lips it spy, — As kiss it thou mayst deign, — With envy pale 'twill lose its dye. And Yorkist turn again. Unknown. 317. MARIAN'S COMPLAINT Since truth ha' left the shepherd's tongue, Adieu the cheerful pipe and song ; Adieu the dance at closing day. And, ah, the happy morn of May. How oft he told me I was fair. And wove the garland for my hair ; How oft for Marian stripped the bower, To fill my lap with every flower ! No more his gifts of guile I'll wear, But from my brow the ohaplet tear ; The crook he gave in pieces break. And rend his ribbons from my neck. 236 MARIAN'S COMPLAINT How oft he vowed a constant flame. And carved on every oak my name ! Blush, Colin, that the wounded tree Is all that will remember me. J. WOLCOT. 318. THE POPLAR Aye, here stands the Poplar, so tall and so stately. On whose tender rind — 'twas a little one then — We carved her initials ; though not very lately — We think in the year eighteen hundred and ten. Yes, here is the G which proclaimed Georgiana ; Our heart's empress then ; see, 'tis grown all askew ; And it 's not without grief we perforce entertain a Conviction, it now looks much more like a Q. This should be the great D too, that once stood' for Dobbin, Her loved patronymic — ah ! can it be so ? Its once fair proportions, time, too, has been robbing ; A D ?— we'll be Deed if it isn't an ! Alas ! how the soul sentimental it vexes, That thus on our labours stern Chronos should frown, Should change our soft liquids to izzards and Xes, And turn true-love's alphabet all upside down ! R. H. Bakham. 319. BOTANY I HARDLY know One flower that grows On my small garden plot ; Perhaps I may have seen a Rose, And said. Forget-me-not. \V. S. Landoti. 320. TO E. ARUNDELL Natukb ! thou mayest fume and fret. There 's but one white violet ; Scatter o'er the vernal ground Paint resemblances around, Kature ! I will tell thee yet There 's but one wliite violet. W. S. Landok. 237 321. THE CISTUS CiSTTJS ! whose fragile flower Waits but the vesper hour To droop and fall, Smoothen thy petals now The Floral Fates allow . . . And why so ruffled in fresh youth are all ? Thou breathest on my breast, ' We are but like the rest Of our whole family ; Ruffled we are, 'tis true. Through life ; but are not you ? . . . Without our privilege so soon to die.' W. S. Landok. 322. GARDEN FANCIES I. The Flower's Name Herb 's the garden she walked across, Arm in my arm, such a short while since : Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss Hinders the hinges and makes them wince ! She must have reached this shrub ere she turned. As back with that murmur the wicket swung ; For she laid the poor snail, my chance foot spurned, ' To feed and forget it the leaves among. Down this side of the gravel- walk She went while her robe's edge brushed the box : And here she paused in her gracious talk To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox. Roses, ranged in valiant row, I will never think that she passed you by ! She loves you noble roses, I know ; But yonder, see, where the rock-plants lie 1 This flower she stopped at, finger on lip. Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim ; Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip. Its soft meandering Spanish name : What a name ! was it love or praise ? Speech half-asleep, or song half-awake ? I must learn Spanish, one of these days. Only for that slow sweet name's sake. Roses, if I live and do well, I may bring her, one of these days, To fix you fast with as fine a spell. Fit you each with his Spanish phrase ; 238 THE FLOWER'S NAME But do not detain me now ; for she lingers There, like sunshine over the ground, And ever I see her soft white fingers Searching after the bud she found. Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not, Stay as you are and be loved for ever ! Bud, if I kiss you 'tis that you blow not : Mind, the shut pink mouth opens never ! For while thus it pouts, her fingers wrestle. Twinkling the audacious leaves between. Till round they turn and down they nestle — Is not the dear mark still to be seen ? Where I find her not, beauties vanish ; Whither I follow her, beauties flee ; Is there no method to tell her in Spanish June 's twice June since she breathed it with me ? Come, bud, show me the least of her traces. Treasure my lady's lightest footfall — Ah, you may flout and turn up your faces — Roses, you are not so fair after all ! R. Beowninq. 323. GARDEN FANCIES II. SlBRANDTJS SCHAFNABTJROENSIS Plague take all your pedants, say I ! He who wrote what I hold in my hand, Centuries back was so good as to die. Leaving this rubbish to cumber the land ; This, that was a book in its time. Printed on paper and bound in leather. Last month in the white of a matin-prime Just when the birds sang all together. Into the garden I brought it to read. And under the arbute and laurustine Read it, so help me grace in my need. From title-page to closing line. Chapter on chapter did I count. As a curious traveller counts Stonehenge ; Added up the mortal amount ; And then proceeded to my revenge. Yonder 's a plum-tree with a crevice An owl would build in, were he but sage ; For a lap of moss, like a fine pont-levis In a castle of the middle age. SIBRANDUS SCHAFNABURGENSIS 239. Joins to a lip of gum, pure amber ; Where he'd be private, there might he spend Hours alone in his lady's chamber : Into this crevice I dropped our friend. Splash, went he, as under he ducked, — I knew at the bottom rain-drippings stagnate ; Next a handful of blossoms I plucked To bury him with, my bookshelf's magnate ; Then I went indoors, brought out a loaf, Half a cheese, and a bottle of Chablis ; Lay on the grass and forgot the oaf Over a jolly chapter of Rabelais. Now, this morning, betwixt the moss And gum that locked our friend in limbo, A spider had spun his web across, And sat in the midst with arms akimbo : So, I took pity, for learning's sake, And, de profundis, accentihiis laelis, Cantate ! quoth I, as I got a rake. And up I fished his delectable treatise. Here you have it, dry in the sun, With all the binding all of a blister. And great blue spots where the ink has run, And reddish streaks that wink and glister O'er the page so beautifully yellow : Oh, well have the droppings played their tricks ! Did he guess how toadstools grow, this fellow ? Here 's one stuck in his chapter six ! How did he like it when the live creatures Tickled and toused and browsed him all over. And worm, slug, eft, with serious features, Came in, each one, for his right of trover ? — When the water-beetle with great blind deaf face Made of her eggs the stately deposit. And the newt borrowed just so much of the preface As tiled in the top of his black wife's closet ? All that life and fun and romping, All that frisking and twisting and coupling. While slowly our poor friend's leaves were swamping And clasps were cracking and covers suppling ! As if you had carried sour John Knox To the play-house at Paris, Vienna or Munich, Fastened him into a front-row box. And danced off the ballet with trousers and tunic. 240 SIBRANDUS SCHAFNABURGENSIS Come, old martyr ! Wl^it, torment enough is it ? Back to my room shall you take your sweet self ! Good-bye, mother-beetle ; husband-eft, sufficit I See the snug niche I have made on my shelf. A.'s book shall prop you up, B.'s shall cover you. Here 's C. to be grave with, or D. to be gay, And with E. on each side, and F. right over you. Dry-rot at ease till the Judgement-day R. Bkowning. 324. BURNHAM BEECHES A Bard, dear Muse, unapt to sing. Your friendly aid beseeches. Help me to touch the lyric string. In praise of Burnham beeches. What though my tributary lines Be less like Pope's than Creech's, The theme, if not the poet, shines, So bright are Burnham beeches. O'er many a dell and upland walk. Their sylvan beauty reaches. Of Birnam wood let Scotland talk, While we've our Burnham beeches. Oft do I linger, oft return (Say, who my taste impeaches). Where holly, juniper, and fern, Spring up round Burnham beeches. Though deep embowered their shades among, The owl at midnight screeches, Birds of far merrier, sweeter song. Enliven Burnham beeches. If ' sermons be in stones ', I'll bet Our vicar when he preaches. He'll find it easier far to get A hint from Burnham beeches. Their glossy rind here winter stains, Here the hot solstice bleaches. Bow, stubborn oaks ! bow, graceful planes ! Ye match not Burnham beeches. BURNHAM BEECHES 241 Gardens may boast a tempting show Of nectarines, grapes, and peaches But daintiest truffles lurk below The boughs of Burnham beeches. Poets and painters, hither hie, Here ample room for each is With pencil and with pen to try His hand at Burnham beeches. When monks, by holy Church well schooled. Were lawyers, statesmen, leeches. Cured souls and bodies, judged or ruled. Then flourished Burnham beeches, Skirting the convent's walls of yore. As yonder ruin teaches. But shaven crown and cowl no more Shall darken Burnham beeches. Here bards have mused, here lovers true Have dealt in softest speeches. While suns declined, and, parting, threw Their gold o'er Burnham beeches. O ne'er may woodman's axe resound Nor tempest, making breaches In the sweet shade that cools the ground Beneath our Burnham beeches. Hold ! though I'd fain be jingling on, My power no further reaches — Again that rhyme ? enough — I've done, Farewell to Burnham beeches. H. LUTTBELL. 325. THE FLOWER Alone, across a foreign plain. The Exile slowly wanders. And on his Isle beyond the main With saddened spirit ponders. This lovely Isle beyond the sea. With all its household treasures ; Its cottage homes, its merry birds. And all its rural pleasures : Its leafy woods. Its shady vales, Its moors, and purple heather ; Its verdant fields bedecked with stars His childhood loves to gather. 242 THE FLOWER When lo ! he starts, with glad surprise, Home-joys come rushing o'er him. For 'modest, wee, and crimson-tipped ', fle spies the flower before him ! With eager haste he stoops him down. His eyes with moisture hazy. And as he pluclcs the simple bloom. He murmurs, ' Lawk-a-daisy ! ' 326. TO MEADOWS Ye have been fresh and green, Ye have been filled with flowers : And ye the walks have been Where maids have spent their hours. You have beheld, how they With wicker arks did come To kiss, and bear away The richer cowslips home. Ye have heard them sweetly sing. And seen them in a round : Each virgin, like a Spring, With honeysuckles crowned. But now, we see none here Whose silvery feet did tread, And with dishevelled hair Adorned this smoother mead. Like unthrifts, having spent Your stock, and needy grown. Ye are left here to lament Your poor estates alone. T. Hood. R. Hereick. 327. HOW SPRINGS CAME FIRST These springs were maidens once that loved. But, lost to that they most approved, My story tells, by Love they were Turned to these springs which we see here ; The pretty whimpering that they make. When of the banks their leave they take. Tells ye but this, they are the same. In nothing changed but in their name. R. Hereick. 243 328. AN ELEGY ON A LAP-DOG Shock's fate I mourn ; poor Shock is now no more ; Ye Muses, mourn ; ye chairibermaids, deplore. Unhappy Shock ! yet more unhappy iPair, Doomed to survive thy joy and only care ! Thy wretched fingers now no more shall deck, And tie the favourite riband round his neck ; No more thy hand shall smooth his glossy hair, And comb the wavings of his pendant ear. Yet cease thy flowing grief, forsaken maid ; All mortal pleasures in a moment fade ; Our surest hope is in an hour destroyed. And love, best gift of Heaven, not long enjoyed. Methinks I see her frantic with despair. Her streaming eyes, wrung hands, and flowing hair ; Her Mechlin pinners, rent, the floor bestrow,. And her torn fan gives real signs of woe. Hence Superstition, that tormenting guest. That haunts with fancied fears the coward breast ; Ko dread events upon this fate attend, Stream, eyes, no more, no more thy tresses rend. Though certain omens oft forewarn a state. And dying lions show the monarch's fate ; Why should such fears bid Celia's sorrow rise ? For, when a lap-dog falls, no lover dies. Cease, Celia, cease ; restrain thy flowing tears. Some warmer passion will dispel thy cares. In man you'll find a more substantial bliss, More grateful toying, and a sweeter kiss. He 's dead. Oh lay him gently in the ground ! And may his tomb be by this verse renowned : ' Here Shock, the pride of all his kind, is laid. Who fawned like man, but ne'er like man betrayed.' J. Gay. 329. AN EPITAPH Herb lies one, who never drew Blood himself, yet many slew ; Gave the gun its aim, and figure Made in field, yet ne'er pulled trigger. Armed men have gladly made Him their guide, and him obeyed ; At his signified desire. Would advance, present, and fire — Stout he was, and large of limb. Scores have fled at sight of him ; 244 AN EPITAPH And to all this fame he rose Only following his nose. Neptune was he called, not he Who controls the boisterous sea. But of happier command, Neptune of the furrowed land ; And, your wonder vain to shorten. Pointer to Sir John Throckmorton. W. COWPEB. 330. ODE ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CAT DROWNED IN A TUB OP GOLD PISHES 'TwAS on a lofty vase's side Where China's gayest art had dyed The azure flowers, that blow ; Demurest of the tabby kind. The pensive Selima reclined. Gazed on the lake below. Her conscious tail her joy declared ; The fair round face, the snowy beard. The velvet of her paws. Her coat, that with the tortoise vies, Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes She saw ; and purred applause. Still had she gazed ; but 'midst the tide Two angel forms were seen to glide, The Genii of the stream : Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue Through richest purple to the view Betrayed a golden gleam. The hapless Nymph with wonder saw : A whisker first and then a claw With many an ardent wish, She stretched in vain to reach the prize. What female heart can gold despise ? What Cat 's averse to fish ? Presumptuous Maid ! with looks intent Again she stretched, again she bent. Nor knew the gulf between. (Malignant Fate sat by and smiled) The slippery verge her feet beguiled. She tumbled headlong in. ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CAT 245 Eight times emerging from the flood She mewed to every watry God, Some speedy aid to send. No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirred : Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard. A Favourite has no friend ! From hence, ye Beauties, undeceived. Know, one false step is ne'er retrieved. And be with caution bold. Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize ; Nor all, that glisters, gold. T. Gray. 331. TO A KITTEN Wanton droll, whose harmless play Beguiles the rustics' closing day, When, drawn the evening fire about. Sit aged crone and thoughtless lout. And child upon his three-foot stool. Waiting till his supper cool ; And maid, whose cheek outblooms the rose. As bright the blazing faggot glows, Who, bending to the friendly light. Plies her task with busy sleight ; Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces. Thus circled round with many faces. Backward coiled and crouching low. With glaring eye-balls watch thy foe, — The housewife's spindle whirling round. Or thread or straw, that on the ground Its shadow throws, by urchin sly Held out to lure thy roving eye ; Then onward stealing, fiercely spring Upon the futile faithless thing. Now, wheeling round with bootless skill, Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still, As oft beyond thy curving side Its jetty tip is seen to glide ; And see ! — the start, the jet, the bound. The giddy scamper round and round With leap and toss and high curvet. And many a whirling somerset. The featest tumbler, stage bedight. To thee is but a clumsy wight, 246 TO A KITTEN Who every limb and sinew strains To do what costs thee little pains ; For which, I trow, the gaping crowd Requite him oft with praises loud. But, stopped awhile thy wanton play, Applauses too thy pains repay. For now, beneath some urchin's hand With modest pride thou tak'st thy stand. While many a stroke of kindness glides Along thy back and tabby sides. Dilated swells thy glossy fur And loudly sings thy busy purr As, timing well the equal sound. Thy clutching feet bepat the ground. And all their harmless claws disclose. Like prickles of an early rose ; While softly from thy whiskered cheek Thy half-closed eyes peer mild and meek. But not alone by cottage fire Do rustics rude thy feats admire. Even he, whose mood of gloomy bent, In lonely tower or prison pent. Reviews the coil of former days. And loathes the world and all its ways. What time the lamp's unsteady gleam Hath roused him from his moody dream. Feels, as thou gambol'st round his seat. His heart of pride less fiercely beat, And smiles, a link in thee to find. That joins it still to living kind. Whence hast thou, then, thou witless puss ! The magic power to charm us thus ? Is it that in thy glaring eye And rapid movements, we descry — Whilst we at ease, secure from ill. The chimney corner snugly fill, — A lion darting on its prey, A tiger at his ruthless play ? Or is it that in thee we trace With all thy varied wanton grace. An emblem, view'd with kindred eye. Of tricksy, restless infancy ? Ah ! many a lightly sportive child. Who hath like thee our wits beguiled. To dull and sober manhood grown. With strange recoil our hearts disown. TO A KITTEN 247 And so, poor kit ! must thou endure, When thou beoom'st a cat demure. Full many a cufiE and angry word. Chased roughly from the tempting board. But yet, for that thou hast, I ween, So oft our favoured playmate been. Soft be the change which thou shalt prove. When time hath spoiled thee of our love. Still be thou deemed by housewife fat A comely, careful, mousing cat. Whose dish is, for the public good. Replenished oft with savoury food. Nor, when thy span of life is past. Be thou to pond or dunghill cast. But gently borne on goodman's spade, Beneath the decent sod be laid ; And children show with glistening eyes The place where poor old pussy lies. Joanna Baillie. 332. THE KITTEN AND FALLING LEAVES That way look, my Infant, lo ! What a pretty baby-show ! See the Kitten on the wall, Sporting with the leaves that fall. Withered leaves — one — two — and three — From the lofty elder-tree ! Through the calm and frosty air Of this morning bright and fair. Eddying round and round they sink Softly, slowly ; one might think, From the motions that are made, Every little leaf conveyed Sylph or Faery hither tending, — To this lower world descending. Each invisible and mute. In his wavering parachute. — But the Kitten, how she starts. Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts ! First at one, and then its fellow. Just as light and just as yellow ; There are many now — now one — Now they stop and there are none : What intenseness of desire In her upward eye of fire ! 248 THE KITTEN With a tiger-leap half-way Now she meets the coming prey, Lets it go as fast, and then Has it in her power again : Now she works with three or four. Like an Indian conjurer ; Quick as he in feats of art. Far beyond in joy of heart. Were her antics played in the eye Of a thousand standers-by. Clapping hands with shout and stare. What would little Tabby care For the plaudits of the crowd ? Over happy to be proud. Over wealthy in the treasure Of her own exceeding pleasure ! 'Tis a pretty baby-treat ; Nor, I deem, for me unmeet ; Here, for neither Babe nor me. Other playmate can I see. Of the countless living things. That with stir of feet and wings (In the sun or under shade. Upon bough or grassy blade) And with busy revellings. Chirp and song, and murmurings. Made this orchard's narrow space. And this vale, so blithe a place ; Multitudes are swept away Never more to breathe the day : Some are sleeping ; some in bands Travelled into distant lands ; Others slunk to moor and wood, Far from human neighbourhood ; And among the Kinds that keep With us closer fellowship, With us openly abide. All have laid their mirth aside. Where is he that giddy Sprite, Blue-cap, with his colours bright. Who was blest as bird could be. Feeding in the apple-tree ; Made such wanton spoil and rout, Turning blossoms inside out ; Hung — head pointing towards the ground- Fluttered, perched, into a round Bound himself, and then unbound ; AND FALLING LEAVES 249 Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin I Prettiest Tumbler ever seen ! Light of heart and light of limb ; What is now become of Him ? Lambs, that through the mountains went Frisking, bleating merriment. When the year was in its prime, They are sobered by this time. If you look to vale or hill, If you listen, all is still, Save a little neighbouring rill. That from out the rooky ground Strikes a solitary sound. Vainly glitter hill and plain. And the air is calm in vain ; Vainly Morning spreads the lure Of a sky serene and pure ; Creature none can she decoy Into open sign of joy : Is it that they have a fear Of the dreary season near ? Or that other pleasures be Sweeter even than gaiety ? Yet, whate'er enjoyments dwell In the impenetrable cell Of the silent heart which Nature Furnishes to every creature ; Whatsoe'er we feel and know Too sedate for outward show. Such a light of gladness breaks, Pretty Kitten ! from thy freaks, — Spreads with such a living grace O'er my little Dora's face ; Yes, the sight so stirs and charms Thee, Baby, laughing in my arms, That almost I could repine That your transports are not mine. That I do not wholly fare Even as ye do, thoughtless pair ! And I will have my careless season Spite of melancholy reason. Will walk through lite in such a way That, when time brings on decay. Now and then I may possess Hours of perfect gladsomeness. — Pleased by any random toy ; By a kitten's busy joy, 250 THE KITTEN AND FALLING LEAVES Or an infant's laughing eye Sharing in the ecstasy ; I would fare like that or this. Find my wisdom in my bliss ; Keep the sprightly soul awake And have faculties to take, Even from things by sorrow wrought. Matter for a jocund thought, Spite of care, and spite of grief. To gambol with Life's falling Leaf. W. Wordsworth. 333. TO A CAT Stately, kindly, lordly friend. Condescend Here to sit by me, and turn Glorious eyes that smile and burn. Golden eyes, love's lustrous meed. On the golden page I read. All your wondrous wealth of hair. Dark and fair, Silken-shaggy, soft and bright As the clouds and beams of night. Pays my reverent hand's caress Back with friendlier gentleness. Dogs may fawn on all and some As they come ; You, a friend of loftier mind. Answer friends alone in kind. Just your foot upon my hand Softly bids it understand. Morning round this silent sweet Garden-seat Sheds its wealth of gathering light, Thrills the gradual clouds with might. Changes woodland, orchard, heath. Lawn, and garden there beneath. Fair and dim they gleamed below : Now they glow Deep as even your sunbright eyes. TO A CAT 251 Pair as even the wakening skies. Can it not or can it be Now that you give thanks to see ? May not you rejoice as I, Seeing the sky Change to heaven revealed, and bid Earth reveal the heaven it hid All night long from stars and moon. Now the sun sets all in tune ? What within you wakes with day Who can say ? All too little may we tell, Friends who like each other well. What might haply, if we might. Bid us read our lives aright. Wild on woodland ways yowc sires Flashed like fires ; Fair as flame and fierce and fleet As with wings on wingless feet Shone and sprang your mother, free. Bright and brave as wind or sea. Free and proud and glad as they, Here to-day Rests or roams their radiant child, Vanquished not, but reconciled, Free from curb of aught above Save the lovely curb of love. Love through dreams of souls divine Fain would shine Round a dawn whose light and song Then should right our mutual wrong — Speak, and seal the love-lit law Sweet Assisi's seer foresaw. Dreams were theirs ; yet haply may Dawn a day When such friends and fellows born, Seeing our earth as fair at morn. May for wiser love's sake see More of heaven's deep heart than we. A. C. SWINBUBNE. 252 334. FABLE The mountain and the squirrel Had a quarrel ; And the former called the latter ' Little Prig '. Bun replied, ' You are doubtless very big ; But all sorts of things and weather Must be taken in together, To make up a year And a sphere. And I think it no disgrace To occupy my place. 'If I'm not so large as you. You are not so small as I, And not half so spry. I'll not deny you make A very pretty squirrel track ; Talents differ : all is well and wisely put ; If I cannot carry forests on my back. Neither can you crack a nut.' R. W. Emerson. 335. EPITAPH ON A HARE Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue, Nor swifter greyhound follow. Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew. Nor ear heard huntsman's hallo ', Old Tiney, surliest of his kind. Who, nursed with tender care. And to domestic bounds confined, Was still a wild Jack-hare. Though duly from my hand he took His pittance every night, He did it with a jealous look. And, when he could, would bite. His diet was of wheaten bread. And milk, and oats, and straw. Thistles, or lettuces instead, With sand to scour his maw. On twigs of hawthorn he regaled, On pippins' russet peel ; And, when his juicy salads failed. Sliced carrot pleased him well. EPITAPH ON A HARE 253 A Turkey carpet was his lawn, Whereon he loved to bound. To skip and gambol like a fawn. And swing his rump around. His frisking was at evening hours. For then he lost his fear ; But most before approaching showers. Or when a storm drew near. Eight years and five round-rolling moons He thus saw steal away. Dozing out all his idle noons. And every night at play. I kept him for his humour' sake, For he would oft beguile My heart of thoughts that made it ache. And force me to a smile. But now, beneath this walnut-shade He finds his long, last home. And waits in snug concealment laid. Till gentler Puss shall come. He, still more aged, feels the shocks From which no care can save. And, partner once of Tiney's box. Must soon partake his grave. W. COWPER. 336. THE MESSAGE Ye little birds that sit and sing Amidst the shady valleys. And see how Phyllis sweetly walks Within her garden-alleys ; Go, pretty birds, about her bower ; Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower ; Ah me ! methinks I see her frown ! Ye pretty wantons, warble. Go tell her through your chirping bills. As you by me are bidden. To her is only known my love. Which from the world is hidden. Go, pretty birds, and tell her so ; See that your notes strain not too low. For still methinks I see her frown ; Ye pretty wantons, warble. 254 THE MESSAGE Go tune your voices' harmony And sing, I am her lover ; Strain loud and sweet, that every note With sweet content may move her : And she that hath the sweetest voice, Tell her I will not change my choice : — Yet still methinks I see her frown ! Ye pretty wantons, warble. O fly ! make hast* ! see, see, she falls Into a pretty slumber ! Sing round about her rosy bed That waking she may wonder. Say to her, 'tis her lover true That sendeth love to you, to you ; And when you hear her kind reply Return with pleasant warblings. T. Heywood. 337. SWEET SUFFOLK OWL Sweet Suffolk owl, so trimly dight With feathers, like a lady bright ; Thou sing'st alone, sitting by night, ' Te whit ! Te whoo ! ' Thy note that forth so freely rolls With shrill command the mouse controls ; And sings a dirge for dying souls. ' Te whit ! Te whoo ! ' Unknown. 338. THE JACKDAW There is a bird, who by his coat. And by the hoarseness of his note Might be supposed a crow ; A great frequenter of the church, Where, bishop-like, he finds a perch. And dormitory too. Above the steeple shines a plate. That turns and turns, to indicate From what point blows the weather. Look up — your brains begin to swim, 'Tis in the clouds — that pleases him. He chooses it the rather. Fond of the speculative height, Thither he wings his airy flight, And thence securely sees THE JACKDAW 255 The bvistle and the raree-show That occupy mankind below. Secure and at his ease. You think, no doubt, he sits and muses On future broken bones and bruises, If he should chance to fall. No ; not a single thought like that Employs his philosophic pate, Or troubles it at all. He sees, that this great roundabout The world, with all its motley rout. Church, army, physic, law. Its customs, and its businesses, Is no concern at all of his. And says — what says he ? — Caw. Thrice happy bird ! I too have seen Much of the vanities of men ; And, sick of having seen 'em. Would cheerfully these limbs resign For such a pair of wings as thine. And such a head between 'em. W. COWPEK. 339. ON THE DEATH OP MRS. THROCKMORTON'S BULLFINCH Ye nymphs ! if e'er your eyes were red With tears o'er hapless favourites shed, O share Maria's grief ! Her favourite, even in his cage, (What will not hunger's cruel rage ?) Assassined by a thief. Where Rhenus strays his vines among. The egg was laid from which he sprung. And though by nature mute. Or only with a whistle blest. Well-taught, he all the sounds expressed Of flageolet or flute. The honours of his ebon poll Were brighter than the sleekest mole ; His bosom of the hue With which Aurora decks the skies, When piping winds shall soon arise To sweep up all the dew. 256 MRS. THROCKMORTON'S BULLFINCH Above, below, in all the house. Dire foe, alike to bird and mouse. No cat had leave to dwell ; And Bully's cage supported stood, On props of smoothest-shaven wood. Large-built and latticed well. Well-latticed — but the grate, alas ! Not rough with wire of steel or brass. For Bully's plumage sake. But smooth with wands from Ouse's side. With which, when neatly peeled and dried. The swains their baskets make. Night veiled the pole — all seemed secure — When led by instinct sharp and sure. Subsistence to provide, A beast forth-sallied on the scout. Long-backed, long-tailed, with whiskered snout, And badger-coloured hide. He, entering at the study-door. Its ample area 'gan explore ; And something in the wind Conjectured, sniffing round and round. Better than all the books he found. Food, chiefly, for the mind. Just then, by adverse fate impressed A dream disturbed poor Bully's rest; In slsep he seemed to view A rat, fast-clinging to the cage. And, screaming at the sad presage. Awoke and found it true. For, aided both by ear and scent. Right to his mark the monster went — Ah, Muse ! forbear to speak Min4te the horrors that ensued ; His teeth were strong, the cage was wood — He left poor Bully's beak. He left it — but he should have ta'en That beak, whence issued many a strain Of such mellifluous tone. Might have repaid him well, I wote. For silencing so sweet a throat, Fast set within his own. MRS. THROCKMORTON'S BULLFINCH 257 Maria weeps — The Muses mourn — So, when by Bacchanalians torn. On Thracian Hebrus' side The tree-enchanter Orpheus fell ; His head alone remained to tell The cruel death he died. W. COWPEE. 340. THE ROBIN'S GRAVE Tread lightly here, for here, 'tis said. When piping winds are hushed around, A small note wakes from underground. Where now his tiny bones are laid. No more in lone and leafless groves. With ruffled wing and faded breast. His friendless, homeless spirit roves ; — Gone to the world where birds are blessed I Where never cat glides o'er the green. Or schoolboy's giant form is seen ; But Love, and Joy, and smiling Spring Inspire their little souls to sing. S. Rogers. 341. THE GOOSE I KNEW an old wife lean and poor, Her rags scarce held together ; There strode a stranger to the door. And it was windy weather. He held a goose upon his arm. He uttered rhyme and reason, ' Here, take the goose, and keep you warm, It is a stormy season.' She caught the white goose by the leg, A goose — 'twas no great matter. The goose let fall a golden egg With cackle and with clatter. She dropped the goose, and caught the pelf. And ran to tell her neighbours ; And blessed herself, and cursed herself. And rested from her labours. 258 THE GOOSE And feeding high, and living soft. Grew plump and able-bodied ; Ontil the grave churchwarden doffed. The parson smirked and nodded. So sitting, served by man and maid, She felt her heart grow prouder : But ah ! the more the white goose laid It clacked and cackled louder. It cluttered here, it chuckled there ; It stirred the old wife's mettle : She shifted in her elbow-chair, And hurled the pan and kettle. ' A quinsy choke thy cursed note ! ' Then waxed her anger stronger. ' Go, take the goose, and wring her throat, I will not bear it longer.' Then yelped the cur, and yawled the cat ; Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer. The goose flew this way and flew that, And filled the house with clamour. As head and heels upon the floor They floundered all together. There strode a stranger to the door. And it was windy weather : He took the goose upon his arm, He uttered words of scorning ; ' So keep you cold, or keep you warm. It is a stormy morning.' The wild wind rang from park and plain. And round the attics rumbled. Till all the tables danced again. And half the chimneys tumbled. The glass blew in, the fire blew out. The blast was hard and harder. Her cap blew off, her gown blew up, And a whirlwind cleared the larder ; And while on all sides breaking loose Her household fled the danger. Quoth she, ' The Devil take the goose. And God forget the stranger ! ' Alfred, Lord Tennyson. 259 342. THE BLACKBIRD O Blackbird ! sing me something well : While all the neighbours shoot thee round, I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, Where thou mayest warble, eat and dwell. The espaliers and the standards all Are thine ; the range of lawn and park : The unnetted black-hearts ripen dark. All thine, against the garden wall. Yet, though I spared thee all the spring, Thy sole delight is, sitting still. With that gold dagger of thy bill To fret the summer jenneting. A golden bill ! the silver tongue, Cold February loved, is dry : Plenty corrupts the melody That made thee famous once, when young : And in the sultry garden-squares. Now thy flute-notes are changed to coarse, I hear thee not at all, or hoarse As when a hawker hawks his wares. Take warning ! he that will not sing While yon sun prospers in the blue. Shall sing for want, ere leaves are new. Caught in the frozen palms of Spring. Alfeed, Lord Tennyson, 343. BUSY, CURIOUS, THIRSTY FLY Busy, curious, thirsty fly, D.ink with me, and drink as I ; Freely welcome to my cup, Couldst thou sip and sip it up. Make the most of life you may. Life is short and wears away. Both alike are mine and thine Hastening quick to their decline ; Thine 's a summer, mine 's no more. Though repeated to threescore ; Threescore summers, when they're gone. Will appear as short as one. W. Oldys. 260 344. THE DRAGON-FLY Life (priest and poet say) is but a dream ; I wish no happier one than to be laid Beneath a cool syringa's scented shade, Or wavy willow, by the running stream. Brimful of moral, where the Dragon-fly Wanders as careless and content as L Thanks for this fancy, insect king. Of purple crest and filmy wing. Who with indifference givest up The water-lily's golden cup ; To come again and overlook What I am writing in my book. Believe me, most who read the line Will read with hornier eyes than thine ; And yet their souls shall live for ever. And thine drop dead into the river ! God pardon them, O insect king. Who fancy so unjust a thing ! W. S. Landor. 345. TO AN INSECT I LOVE to hear thine earnest voice. Wherever thou art hid. Thou testy little dogmatist. Thou pretty Katydid ! Thou mindest me of gentlefolks, — Old gentlefolks are they, — Thou say'st an undisputed thing In such a solemn way. Thou art a female. Katydid ! I know it by the trill That quivers through thy piercing notes. So petulant and shrill ; I think there is a knot of you Beneath the hollow tree, — A knot of spinster Katydids,— Do Katydids drink tea ? O tell me where did Katy live. And what did Katy do ? And was she very fair and young, And yet so wicked, too ? KATYDID 261 Did Katy love a naughty man, Or kiss more cheeks than one ? I warrant Katy did no more Than many a Kate has done. Dear me ! I'll tell you all about My fuss with little Jane, And Ann, with whom I used to walk So often down the lane, And all that tore their locks of black Or wet their eyes of blue, — Pray tell me, sweetest Katydid, What did poor Katy do ? Ah no ! the living oak shall crash, That stood for ages still, The rock shall rend its mossy base And thunder down the hill, Before the little Katydid Shall add one word, to tell The mystic story of the maid Whose name she knows so well. Peace to the ever-murmuring race And when the latest one Shall fold in death her feeble wings Beneath the autumn sun. Then shall she raise her fainting voice And lift her drooping lid. And then the child of future years Shall hear what Katy did. 0. W. Holmes. 346. THE BAIT Comb live with me, and be my love. And we will some new pleasures prove Of golden sands, and crystal brooks, With silken lines and silver hooks. There will the river whispering run Warmed by thy eyes, more than the sun ; And there the enamoured fish will stay, Begging themselves they may betray. When thou wilt swim in that live bath. Each fish, which every channel hath, Will amorously to thee swim. Gladder to catch thee, than thou him. 262 THE BAIT If thou, to be so seen, beest loath, By sun or moon, thou darkenest both. And if myself have leave to see, I need not their light, having thee. Let others freeze with angling reeds. And out their legs with shells and weeds. Or treacherously poor fish beset, With strangling snare, or windowy net. Let coarse bold hands from slimy nest The bedded fish in banks out- wrest ; Or curious traitors, sleeve-silk flies. Bewitch poor fishes' wandering eyes. For thee, thou need'st no such deceit. For thou thyself art thine own bait : That fish, that is not catched thereby, Alas ! is wiser far than I. J. DOKNE, 347. OH, THE BRAVE FISHER'S LIFE Oh, the brave fisher's life. It is the best of any, 'Tis full of pleasure, void of strife, And 'tis beloved of many : Other joys Are but toys. Only this Lawful is, For our skill Breeds no ill. But content and pleasure. In a morning up we rise Ere Aurora's peeping. Drink a cup to wash our eyes. Leave the sluggard sleeping ; Then we go To and fro. With our knacks At our backs. To such streams As the Thames, If we have the leisure. THE BRAVE FISHER'S LIFE 263 When we please to walk abroad For our recreation, In the fields is our abode, Full of delectation : Where in a brook With a hook. Or a lake Fish we take. There we sit For a bit. Till we fish entangle. We have gentles in a horn. We have paste and worms too, We can watch both night and morn, Suffer rain and storms too : None do here Use to swear. Oaths do fray Fish away. We sit still. Watch our quill. Fishers must not wrangle. If the sun's excessive heat Makes our bodies swelter. To an osier hedge we get For a friendly shelter. Where in a dike Perch or pike. Roach or dace We do chase. Bleak or gudgeon Without grudging. We are still contented. Or we sometimes pass an hour Under a green willow. That defends us from a shower. Making earth our pillow ; There we may Think and pray Before death Stops our breath : Other joys Are but toys And to be lamented. J. Chalkhill. 264 348. TO A FISH OF THE BROOKE Why flyest thou away with fear ? Trust me there 's naught of danger near, I have no wicked hooke All covered with a snaring bait, Alas, to tempt thee to thy fate, And^dragge thee from the brooke. harmless tenant of the flood, 1 do not wish to spill thy blood. For Nature unto thee Perchance hath given a tender wife. And children dear, to charm thy life, As she hath done for me. Enjoy thy stream, O harmless fish ; And when an angler for his dish, Through gluttony's vile sin. Attempts, a wretch, to pull thee ortt, God give thee strength, O gentle trout. To pull the raskall in ! J. WOLCOT. 349. TO THE IMMORTAL MEMORY OF THE HALIBUT ON WHICH I DINED THIS DAY Where hast thou floated, in what seas pursued Thy pastime ? when wast thou an egg new-spawned. Lost in th' immensity of ocean's waste ? Roar as they might, the overbearing winds That rooked the deep, thy cradle, thou wast safe — And in thy minikin and embryo state. Attached to the firm leaf of some salt weed. Didst outlive tempests, such as wrung and racked The joints of many a stout and gallant bark. And whelmed them in the unexplored abyss. Indebted to no magnet and no chart. Nor under guidance of the polar fire. Thou wast a voyager on many coasts. Grazing at large in meadows submarine. Where flat Batavia just emerging peeps Above the brine, — where Caledonia's rooks Beat back the surge, — and where Hibernia shoots Her wondrous causeway far into the main. — Wherever thou hast fed, thou little thought'st, And I not more, that I should feed on thee. ON A HALIBUT 265 Peace therefore, and good health, and much good fish, To him who sent thee ! and success, as oft As it descends into the billowy gulf. To the same drag that caught thee ! — Pare thee well ! Thy lot thy brethren of the slimy fin Would envy, could they know that thou wast doomed To feed a bard, and to be praised in verse. W. COWPER. 350. TO MISTRESS MARGARET HUSSEY Merry Margaret, As midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon. Or hawk of the tower ; With solace and gladness. Much mirth and no madness, All good and no badness ; So joyously. So maidenly. So womanly Her demeaning In every thing, Ear, far passing That I can indite. Or suffice to write Of Merry Margaret As midsummer flower. Gentle as falcon. Or hawk of the tower. As patient and as still And as full of good will As fair Isaphill, Coliander, Sweet pomander. Good Cassander ; Steadfast of thought. Well made, well wrought, Ear may be sought, Ere that ye can find So courteous, so kind. As merry Margaret, This midsummer flower. Gentle as falcon. Or hawk of the tower. J. Skelton K 3 266 331. HIS PRAYER TO BEN JONSON When I a verse shall make. Know I have prayed thee. For old religion's sake. Saint Ben, to aid me. Make the way smooth for me, When I, thy Herrick, Honouring thee, on my knee Offer my lyric. Candles I'll give to thee. And a new altar ; And thou, Saint Ben, shalt be Writ in my psalter. R. Hereick. 352. TO CYRIACK SKINNER Cyriack, whose grandsire on the royal bench Of British Themis, with no mean applause Pronounced and in his volumes taught our laws. Which others at their bar so often wrench : To-day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench In mirth, that after no repenting draws ; Let Euclid rest and Archimedes pause, And what the Swede intend, and what the French. To measure life, learn thou betimes, and know Toward solid good what leads the nearest way ; For other things mild Heaven a time ordains. And disapproves that care, though wise in show. That with superfluous burden loads the day, And when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains. J. MiLTOif. 353. STANZAS TO AUGUSTA Though the day of my destiny 's over, And the star of my fate hath declined. Thy soft heart refused to discover The faults which so many could find ; Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted. It shrunk not to share it with me. And the love which my spirit hath painted It never hath found but in thee. TO AUGUSTA 267 Then when nature around me is smiling, The last smile which answers to mine, I do not believe it beguiling. Because it reminds me of thine ; And when winds are at war with the ocean, As the breasts I believed in with me, If their billows excite an emotion. It is that they bear me from thee. Though the rock of my last hope is shivered, And its fragments are sunk in the wave. Though I feel that my soul is delivered To pain — it shall not be its slave. There is many a pang to pursue me : They may crush, but they shall not contemn ; They may torture, but shall not subdue me ; 'Tis of thee that I think — not of them. Though human, thou didst not deceive me, Though woman, thou didst not forsake. Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me. Though slandered, thou never couldst shake ; Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me. Though parted, it was not to fly, Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me. Nor, mute, that the world might belie. Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it, Nor the war of the many with one ; If my soul was not fitted to prize it, 'Twas folly not sooner to shun : And if dearly that error hath cost me. And more than I once could foresee, I have found that, whatever it lost me, It could not deprive me of thee. From the wteck of the past, which hath perished, Thus much I at least may recall, It hath taught me that what I most cherished Deserved to be dearest of all : In the desert a fountain is springing. In the wide waste there still is a tree, And a bird in the solitude singing, Which speaks to my spirit of thee. G. GoRpoN, Lord ByRON. 268 354. TO THOMAS MOORE My boat is on the shore. And my bark is on the sea ; But, before I go, Tom Moore, Here's a double health to thee ! Here's a sigh to those that love me. And a smile to those who hate ; And, whatever sky 's above me. Here 's a heart for every fate. Though the ocean roar around me, Yet it still shall bear me on ; Though a desert should surround me, It hath springs that may be won. Were 't the last drop in the well. As I gasped upon the brink. Ere my fainting spirit fell, 'Tis to thee that I would drink. With that water, as this wine. The libation I would pour Should be — peace with thine and mine. And a health to thee, Tom Moore. G. GoKDON, LoED Byron. 355. TO C. S. 0. Oh, when the grey courts of Christ's College glowed With all the rapture of thy frequent lay. When printers' devils chuckled as they strode. And blithe compositors grew loudly gay : Did Granta realize that here abode. Here in the home of Milton, Wordsworth, Gray, A poet not unfit to cope with any That ever wore the bays or turned a penny ? The wit of smooth delicious Matthew Prior, The rhythmic grace which Hookham Frere displayed. The summer lightning wreathing Byron's lyre. The neat inevitable turns of Praed, Rhymes to which Hudibras could scarce aspire. Such metric pranks as Gilbert oft has played, All these good gifts and others far sublimer Are found in thee, belov6d Cambridge rhymer. TO C. S. C. 269 And scholarship as sound as his whose name Matched thine (he lives to moupn, alas, thy death, And now enjoys the plenitude of fame, And oft to crowded audience lectureth. Or writes to prove religion is the same As science, unbelief a form of faith) : — Ripe scholar ! Virgil's self would not be chary Of praises for thy Carmen Seculare. Whene'er I take my ' pint of beer ' a day, I ' gaze into my glass ' and think of thee : When smoking, after ' lunch is cleared away ', Thy face amid the cloud I seem to see ; When ' that sweet mite with whom I used to play ', Or ' Araminta ', or ' the fair Miss P.' Recur to me, I think upon thy verses. Which still my beating heart and quench my curses. Ah, Calverley ! if in these lays of mine Some sparkle of thy radiant genius burned. Or were in any poem — stanza — line Some faint reflection of thy muse discerned : If any critic would remark in fine ' Of C. S. C. this gentle art he learned ' ; I should not then expect my book to fail. Nor have my doubts about a decent sale. J. K. Stephen. 356. TO ANDREW LANG Dear Andrew, with the brindled hair, Who glory to have thrown in air. High over arm, the trembling reed, By Ale and Kail, by Till and Tweed : An equal craft of hand you show The pen to guide, the fly to throw : I count you happy starred ; for God, When he with inkpot and with rod Endowed you, bade your fortune lead Forever by the crooks of Tweed, Forever by the woods of song And lands that to the Muse belong ; Or if in peopled streets, or in The abhorred pedantic sanhedrim, It should be yours to wander, still Airs of the morn, airs of the hill, The plovery Forest and the seas That break about the Hebrides, 270 TO ANDREW LANG Should follow over field and plain And find you at the window pane ; And you again see hill and peel. And the bright springs gush at your heel. So went the fiat forth, and so Garrulous like a brook you go. With sound of happy mirth and sheen Of daylight — whether by the green You face that moment, or the grey ; Whether you dwell in March or May ; Or whether treat of reels and rods Or of the old unhappy gods : Still like a brook your page has shone, And your ink sings of Helicon. R. L. Stevenson. 357. MRS. FRANCES HARRIS'S PETITION Written in th? year 1701 To their Excellencies the Lord Justices of Ireland The Humble Petition op Frances Harris, who must Starve, and die a Maid, if it Miscarries Humbly showeth. That I went to warm myself in Lady Betty's chamber, because I was cold. And I had in a purse seven pounds, four shillings, and sixpence, besides farthings, in money and gold : So, because I had been buying things for my lady last night, I was resolved to tell my money, and see if it was right. Now you must know, because my trunk has a very bad lock, Therefore all the money I have, which God knows, is a very small stock, I keep in my pocket, tied about my middle, next my smock. So, when I went to put up my purse, as luck would have it, my smock was unripped. And instead of putting it into my pocket, down it slipped : Then the bell rung, and I went down to put my lady to bed : And, God knows, I thought my money was as safe as my stupid head ! So, when I came up again, I found my pocket feel very light : But when I searched, and missed my purse, law ! I thought I should have sunk outright. ' Lawk, madam,' says Mary, ' how d'ye do ? ' ' Indeed,' says I, ' never worse : But pray, Mary, can you tell what I've done with my purse ? ' MRS. HARRIS'S PETITION 271 ' Lawk, help me ! ' said Mary, ' I never stirred out of this place : ' ' Nay,' said I, ' I had it in Lady Betty's chamber, that 's a plain case.' So Mary got me to bed, and covered me up warm : However, she stole away my garters, that I might do myself no harm. So I tumbled and tossed all night, as you may very well think, But hardly ever set my eyes together, or slept a wink. So I was a-dreamed, methought, that I went and searched the folks round, And in a corner] of Mrs. Dukes's box, tied in a rag the money was found. So next morning we told Whittle, and he fell a-swearing : Then my dame Wadger came : and she, you know, is thick of hearing : ' Dame,' said I, as loud as I could bawl, ' do you know what a loss I have had?' ' Nay,' said she, ' my Lord Colway's folks are all very sad ; For my Lord Dromedary comes a Tuesday without fail.' ' Pugh ! ' said I, ' but that 's not the business that I ail.' Says Cary, says he, ' I've been a servant this five-and-twenty years come spring. And in all the places I lived I never heard of such a thing.' ' Yes,' says the steward, ' I remember, when I was at my Lady Shrews- bury's, Such a thing as this happened, just about the time of gooseberries.' So I went to the party suspected, and I found her full of grief (Now you must know, of all things in the world I hate a thief). However, I was resolved to bring the discourse slily about : ' Mrs. Dukes,' said I, ' here 's an ugly accident has happened out : 'Tis not that I value the money three skips of a mouse ; But the thing I stand upon is the credit of the house. 'Tis true, seven pounds, four shillings, and sixpence, makes a great hole in my wages :. Besides, as they say, service is no inheritance in these ages. Now, Mrs. Dukes, you know, and everybody understands. That though 'tis hard to judge, yet money can't go without hands.' ' The devil take me,' said she (blessing herself), ' if ever I saw 't ! ' So she roared like a Bedlam, as though I had called her all to naught. So you know, what could I say to her any more ? I e'en left her, and came away as wise as I was before. Well : but then they would have had me gone to the cunning man. ' No,' said I, ' 'tis the same thing, the chaplain will be here anon.' So the chaplain came in. Now the servants say he is my sweetheart, Because he 's always in my chamber, and I always take his part. So, as the devil would have it, before I was aware, out I blundered, ' Parson,' said I, ' can you cast a nativity when a body 's plundered ! ' (Now you must know, he hates to be called f arson, like the devil.) ' Truly,' says he, ' Mrs. Nab, it might become you to be more civil ; If your money be gone, as a learned divine says, d'ye see. You are no text for my handling ; so take that from me : 272 MRS. HARRIS'S PETITION I was never taken for a conjurer before, I'd have you to know.' ' Law ! ' said I, ' don't be angry, I am sure I never thought you so ; You know I honour the cloth ; I design to be a parson's wife, I never took one in your coat for a conjurer in all my life.' With that, he twisted his girdle at me like a rope, as who should say, ' Now you may hang yourself for me ! ' and so went away. Well : I thought I should have swooned, ' Law ! ' said I, * what shall I do? I have lost my money, and shall lose my true love too ! ' Then my lord called me : ' Harry,' said my lord, ' don't cry, I'll give you something towards your loss ' ; and, says my lady, ' so will I.' ' 0, but,' said I, ' what if, after all, the chaplain won't come to ? ' For that, he said (an't please your Excellencies), I must petition you. The premises tenderly considered, I desire your Excellencies' protection, And that I may have a share in next Sunday's collection ; And, over and above, that I may have your Excellencies' letter. With an order for the chaplain aforesaid, or, instead of him, a better : And then your poor petitioner both night and day. Or the chaplain (for 'tis his trade), as in duty bound, shall ever pray. J. Swift. 358. MARY THE COOK-MAID'S LETTER TO DOCTOR SHERIDAN Written in the year 1723 Well ! if ever I saw such another man, since my mother bound my head ! You a gentleman ! Marry come up ! I wonder where you were bred ? I am sure such words do not become a man of your cloth ! I would not give such language to a dog ! faith and troth ! Yes, you called my master a knave ! Fie ! Mr. Sheridan ! 'tis a shame For a parson, who should know better things, to come out with such a name. Knave in your teeth, Mr. Sheridan ! 'Tis both a shame and a sin ; And the dean, my master, is an honester man than you and all your kin : He has more goodness in his little finger, than you have in your whole body ! My master is a parsonable man, and not a spindle-shanked hoddy- doddy ! And now whereby I find you would fain make an excuse, Because my master, one day, in anger, called you goose ! Which, and I am sure I have been his servant four years since October, And he never called me worse than sweetheart drunk or sober. MARY THE COOK-MAID'S LETTER 273 Not that I know that his Reverence was ever concerned, to my know- ledge ; Though you and your come-rogues keep him out so late, in your College. You say you will eat grass on his grave : a Christian eat grass ! Whereby you now confess yourself to be a goose, or an ass. But that 's as much as to say, that my master should die before ye. Well ! Well ! That 's as God pleases, and I don't believe that 's a true story ! And so say I told you so, and you may go tell my master ! What care I ? And I don't care who knows it, 'tis all one to Mary ! Everybody knows that I love to tell truth, and shame the Devil ; I am but a poor servant ; but I think Gentlefolks should be civil ! Besides, you found fault with our vittels, one day that you were here ; I remember it was upon a Tuesday, of all days in the year ! And Saunders, the man, says you are always jesting and mocking. ' Mary,' said he, one day, as I was mending my master's stocking, ' My master is so fond of that minister, that keeps the school ! I thought my master was a wise man ; but that man makes him a fool ! ' ' Saunders,' says I, ' I would rather than a quart of ale. He would come into our kitchen ; and I would pin a dish-clout to his tail ! ' And now I must go, and get Saunders to direct this letter, For I write but a sad scrawl ; but my sister Marget, she writes better. Well ! but I must run, and make the bed, before my master comes from prayers. And see now, it strikes ten, and I hear him coming upstairs. Whereof I could say more to your verses, if I could write written hand : And so I remain, in a civil way, your servant to command, — Mary. J. Swift. 359. TO SIR ROBERT WALPOLE Geeat Sir, as on each levee day I still attend you — still you say — I'm busy now, to-morrow come ; To-morrow, sir, you're not at home ; So says your porter, and dare I Give such a man as him the lie ? In imitation, sir, of you, I keep a mighty levee too : Where my attendants, to their sorrow, Are bid to come again to-morrow. To-morrow they return, no doubt. But then, like you, sir, I'm gone out. 274 TO SIR R. WALPOLE So says my maid ; but they less civil Give maid and master to the devil ; And then with menaces depart. Which could you hear would pierce your heart. Good sir, do make my levee fly me, Or lend your porter to deny me. H. Fielding. 360. AN EPISTLE TO SIR ROBERT WALPOLE While at the helm of State you ride, Our nation's envy, and its pride ; While foreign Courts with wonder gaze. And curse those counsels that they praise ; Would you not wonder, sir, to view Your bard a greater man than you ? Which that he is, you cannot doubt. When you have read the sequel out. You know, great sir, that ancient fellows. Philosophers, and such folks, tell us. No great analogy between Greatness and happiness is seen. If then, as it might follow straight. Wretched to be, is to be great ; Forbid it, gods, that you should try What 'tis to be so great as I ! The family that dines the latest Is in our street esteemed the greatest ; But latest hours must surely fall 'Fore him who never dines at all. Your taste in architect, you know. Hath been admired by friend and foe ; But can your earthly domes compare With all my castles — in the air ? We're often taught, it doth behove us To think those greater who're above us ; Another instance of my glory. Who live above you, twice two story ; And from my garret can look down On the whole street of Arlington. Greatness by poets still is painted With many followers acquainted ; This, too, doth in my favour speak ; Your levee is but twice a week ; Prom mine I can exclude but one day, My door is quiet on a Sunday. ON A PORTRAIT OF SIR R. WALPOLE 275 Nor in the matter of attendance Doth your great bard claim less ascendance. Familiar you to admiration May be approached by all the nation ; While I, like the Mogul in Indo, Am never seen but at the window. If with my greatness you're offended, The fault is easily amended ; For I'll come down, with wondrous ease. Into whatever 'place you please. I'm not ambitious ; little matters Will serve us great, but humble creatures. Suppose a secretary o' this isle. Just to be doing with a while ; Admiral, general, judge, or bishop : Or I can foreign treaties dish up. If the good genius of the nation Should call me to negotiation, Tuscan and French are in my head, Latin I write, and Greek — I read. If you should ask, what pleases best ? To get the most, and do the least ; What fittest for ? — you know, I'm sure, I'm fittest for — a sinecure. H. Fielding. 361. ON SEEING A PORTRAIT OF SIR ROBERT WALPOLE Such were the lively eyes and rosy hue Of Robin's face, when Robin first I knew. The gay companion and the favourite guest. Loved without awe, and without views caressed. His cheerful smile and open honest look Added new graces to the truth he spoke. Then every man found something to commend. The pleasant neighbour, and the worthy friend : The generous master of a private house. The tender father, and indulgent spouse. The hardest censors at the worst believed. His temper was too easily deceived (A consequential ill good-nature draws, A bad effect, but from a noble cause). Whence then these clamours of a judging crowd, ' Suspicious, griping, insolent, and proud — Rapacious, cruel, violent, and unjust ; False to his friend, and traitor to his trust.' Lady M. Woetlby Montagu. 276 362. TO MARIA GISBORNE You are now In London, that great sea, whose ebb and flow At once is deaf and loud, and on the shore Vomits its wrecks, and still howls on for more. Yet in its depth what treasures ! You will see That which was Godwin, — greater none than he Though fallen — and fallen on evil times — to stand Among the spirits of our age and land. Before the dread tribunal of to come The foremost, — while Rebuke cowers pale and dumb. You will see Coleridge — he who sits obscure In the exceeding lustre and the pure Intense irradiation of a mind. Which, with its own internal lightning blind. Flags wearily through darkness and despair — A cloud-encircled meteor of the air, A hooded eagle among blinking owls. — You will see Hunt — one of those happy souls Which are the salt of the earth, and without whom This world would smell like what it is — a tomb ; Who is, what others seem ; his room no doubt Is still adorned with many a oast from Shout, With graceful flowers tastefully placed about ; And coronals of bay from ribbons hung. And brighter wreaths in neat disorder flung ; The gifts of the most learned among some dozens Of female friends, sisters-in-law, and cousins. And there is he with his eternal puns. Which beat the dullest brain for smiles, like duns Thundering for money at a poet's door ; Alas ! it is no use to say, ' I'm poor ! ' Or oft in graver mood, when he will look Things wiser than were ever read in book. Except in Shakespeare's wisest tenderness. — You will see Hogg, — and I cannot express His virtues, — though I know that they are great. Because he locks, then barricades the gate Within which they inhabit ; — of his wit And wisdom, you'll cry out when you are bit. He is a pearl within an oyster shell. One of the richest of the deep ; — and there Is English Peacock, with his mountain Fair, Turned into a Flamingo ; — that shy bird That gleams i' the Indian air — have you not heard When a man marries, dies, or turns Hindoo, His best friends hear no more of him ? — but you TO MARIA GISBORNE 277 Will see him, and will like him too, I hope. With the milk-white Snowdonian Antelope Matched with this cameleopard — his fine wit Makes such a wound, the knife is lost in it ; A strain too learned for a shallow age, Too wise for selfish bigots ; let his page. Which charms the chosen spirits of the time. Fold itself up for the serener clime Of years to come, and find its recompense In that just expectation. — Wit and sense. Virtue and human knowledge ; all that might Make this dull world a business of delight, Are all combined in Horace Smith. — And these. With some exceptions, which I need not tease Your patience by descanting on, — are all You and I know in London. P. B. Shelley. 363. EPISTLE TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS Dear Reynolds ! as last night I lay in bed, There came before my eyes that wonted thread Of shapes, and shadows, and remembrances. That every other minute vex and please : Things all disjointed come from north and south, — Two Witch's eyes above a Cherub's mouth, Voltaire with casque and shield and habergeon. And Alexander with his nightcap on ; Old Socrates a-tying his cravat. And Hazlitt playing with Miss Edgeworth's cat ; And Junius Brutus, pretty well so so. Making the best of 's way towards Soho. Few are there who escape these visitings, — Perhaps one or two whose lives have patent wings. And through whose curtains peeps no hellish nose. No wild-boar tushes, and no Mermaid's toes ; But flowers bursting out with lusty pride. And young Aeolian harps personified ; Some Titian colours touched into real life, — The sacrifice goes on ; the pontiff knife Gleams in the Sun, the milk-white heifer lows. The pipes go shrilly, the libation flows : A white sail shows above the green-head cliff. Moves round the point, and throws her anchor stiff ; The mariners join hymn with those on land. 278 TO J. H. REYNOLDS You know the Enchanted Castle, — it doth stand Upon a rock, on the border of a Lake, Nested in trees, which all do seem to shake From some old magic-like Urganda's Sword. O Phoebus ! that I had thy sacred word To show this Castle, in fair dreaming wise. Unto my friend, while sick and ill he lies ! You know it well enough, where it doth seem A mossy place, a Merlin's Hall, a dream ; You know the clear Lake, and the little Isles, The mountains blue, and cold near neighbour rills, All which elsewhere are but half animate ; There do they look alive to love and hate, To smiles and frowns ; they seem a lifted mound Above some giant, pulsing underground. Part of the Building was a chosen See, Built by a banished Santon of Chaldee ; The other part, two thousand years from him. Was built by Cuthbert de Saint Aldebrim ; Then there 's a little wing, far from the Sun, Built by a Lapland Witch turned maudlin Nun ; And many other juts of aged stone Founded with many a mason-devil's groan. The doors all look as if they oped themselves. The windows as if latched by Fays and Elves, And from them comes a silver flash of light. As from the westward of a Summer's night ; Or like a beauteous woman's large blue eyes Gone mad through olden songs and poesies. See ! what is coming from the distance dim ! A Golden Galley all in silken trim ! Three rows of oars are lightening, moment whiles, Into the verdurous bosoms of those isles ; Towards the shade, under the Castle wall, It comes in silence, — now 'tis hidden all. The Clarion sounds and from a Postern-gate An echo of sweet music doth create A fear in the poor Herdsman, who doth bring His beasts to trouble the enchanted spring, — He tells of the sweet music, and the spot, To all his friends, and they believe him not. O, that our dreamings all, of sleep or wake. Would all their colours from the sunset take : From something of material sublime. Rather than shadow our own soul's day-time TO J. H. REYNOLDS 279 In the dark void of night. For in the world We jostle,^ — but my flag is not unfurled On the Admiral-staff, — and so philosophize I dare not yet ! Oh, never will the prize. High reason, and the love of good and ill, Be my award ! Things cannot to the will Be settled, but they tease us out of thought ; Or is it that imagination brought Beyond its proper bound, yet still confined. Lost in a sort of Purgatory blind, Cannot refer to any standard law Of either earth or heaven ? It is a flaw In happiness, to see beyond our bourn, — It forces us in summer skies to mourn. It spoils the singing of the Nightingale. Dear Reynolds ! I have a mysterious tale, And cannot speak it : the first page I read Upon a Lampit rock of green sea-weed Among the breakers ; 'twas a quiet eve. The rocks were silent, the wide sea did weave An untumultuous fringe of silver foam Along the flat brown sand ; I was at home And should have been most happy, — but I saw Too far into the sea, where every maw The greater on the less feeds evermore. — But 1 saw too distinct into the core Of an eternal fierce destruction. And so from happiness I far was gone. Still am I sick of it, and though, to-day, I've gathered young spring-leaves, and flowers gay Of periwinkle and wild strawberry. Still do I that most fierce destruction see, — The Shark at savage prey, — the Hawk at pounce, — The gentle Robin, like a Pard or Ounce, Ravening a worm, — Away, ye horrid moods ! Moods of one's mind ! You know I hate them well. You know I'd sooner be a clapping Bell To some Kamsohatkan Missionary Church, Than with these horrid moods be left i' the lurch. J. Keats. 280 364. A LETTER OF ADVICE (From Miss Medora Trevilian, at Padua, to Miss Araminta Vavasour, in London) Yotr tell me you're promised a lover, My own Araminta, next week ; Why cannot my fancy discover The 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 romances We read on the bank in the glen ; Remember the suitors our fancies Would 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 carriage Drove 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 apostatize, — will you ? My own Araminta, say ' No ! ' A LETTER OF ADVICE 281 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 postilion Has hurried me off to the Po, Forget not Medora Trevilian : My own Araminta, say " No ! " ' We parted ! but sympathy's fetters Reach 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, BIy 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 papers While you are preparing the tea. If he talks of the damps or the vapours While 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 City Ampng 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, waters, and trees. 282 A LETTER OF ADVICE 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 story Come down from the home of his rest ; He must smile — like the sun in his glory On the bud he loves ever the best ; And oh ! from its ivory portal Like 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 ! ' W. M. Praed. 365. THE TALENTED MAN A Letter from a Lady in London to a Lady at Lausanne Dear Alice ! you'll laugh when you know it, — Last week, at the Duchess's ball, I danced with the clever new poet, — You've heard of him, — TuUy St. Paul. Miss Jonquil was perfectly frantic ; I wish you had seen Lady Anne ! It really was very romantic. He is such a talented man ! He came up from Brazen nose College, Just caught, as they call it, this spring ; And his head, love, is stuffed full of knowledge Of every conceivable thing. Of science and logic he chatters. As fine and as fast as he can ; Though I am no judge of such matters, I'm sure he 's a talented man. His stories and jests are delightful ; — Not stories or jests, dear, for you ; The jests are exceedingly spiteful. The stories not always quite true. THE TALENTED MAN 283 Perhaps to be kind and veracious May do pretty well at Lausanne ; But it never would answer, — good gracious ! Chez nous — in a talented man. He sneers, — how my Alice would scold him ! — At the bliss of a sigh or a tear ; He laughed — only think ! — when I told him How we cried o'er Trevelyan last year ; I vow I was quite in a passion ; I broke all the sticks of my fan ; But sentiment 's quite out of fashion. It seems, in a talented man. Lady Bab, who is terribly moral. Has told me that TuUy is vain. And apt — which is silly — to quarrel. And fond — which is sad — of champagne. I listened and doubted, dear Alice, For I saw, when my Lady began. It was only the Dowager's malice ; — She does hate a talented man ! He's hideous, I own it. But fame, love. Is all that these eyes can adore ; He 's lame, — but Lord Byron was lame, love. And dumpy, — but so is Tom Moore. Then his voice, — such a voice ! my sweet creature. It 's like your Aunt Lucy's toucan : But oh ! what 's a tone or a feature. When once one 's a talented man ? My mother, you know, all the season. Has talked of Sir Geoffrey's estate ; And truly, to do the fool reason. He has been less horrid of late. But to-day, when we drive in the carriage, I'll tell her to lay down her plan ; — If ever I venture on marriage. It must be a talented man ! P.S. — I have found, on reflection. One fault in my friend, — entre nous ; Without it, he'd just be perfection ; — Poor fellow, he has not a sou ! And so, when he comes in September To shoot with my uncle, Sir Dan, I've promised mamma to remember He 's only a talented man ! W. M. Praed. 284 366. A NICE CORRESPONDENT ' The glow and the glory are plighted To darkness, for evening is come ; The lamp in Glebe Cottage is lighted, The birds and the sheep-bells are dumb ; I'm alone at my casement, for Pappy Is summoned to dinner at Kew ; I'm alone, my dear Fred, but I'm happy, — I'm thinking of you. ' I wish you were here ; were I duller Than dull, you'd be dearer than dear, — I am dressed in your favourite colour, — Dear Fred, how I wish you were here ! I am wearing my lazuli necklace. The necklace you fastened askew ! Was there ever so rude or so reckless A darling as you ? ' I want you to come and pass sentence On two or three books with a plot : Of course you know " Janet's Repentance " : I'm reading Sir Waverley Scott, The story of Edgar and Lucy, — How thrilling, romantic, and true ! The Master, — his bride was a goosey, — Reminds me of you. ' To-da5% in my ride, I've been crowning The Beacon whose magic still lures. For up there you discoursed about Browning,- That stupid old Browning of yours : His verve and his vogue are alarming, I'm anxious to give him his due ; But, Fred, he 's not nearly so charming A poet as you. ' I have heard how you shot at the Beeches, I saw how you rode Chanticleer, I have read the reports of your speeches, And echoed the echoing cheer : There 's a whisper of hearts you are breaking,- I envy their owners. I do ! — Small marvel that fashion is making Her idol of you. ' Alas for the world, and its dearly Bought triumph, and fugitive bliss ; Sometimes I half wish I was merely A plain or a penniless Miss : A NICE CORRESPONDENT 285 But, perhaps, one is best with a measure Of pelf ; and I'm not sorry, too, That I'm pretty, because it 's a pleasure. My dearest, to you. ' Your whim is for frolic and fashion. Your taste is for letters and art ; — This rhyme is the common-place passion That glows in a fond woman's heart : Put it by in a dainty deposit For relics, — we all have a few ! Some day, love, they'll print it, because it Was written to yovi.' F. Lockbk-Lampson. 367. MY LETTERS ' Litera soripta manet ' — Old Saw. Another mizzling, drizzling day ! Oi clearing up there 's no appearance ; So I'll sit down without delay. And here, at least, I'll make a clearance. Oh, ne'er ' on such a day as this ', Would Dido with her woes oppressed Have wooed Aeneas back to bliss, Or Troilus gone to hunt for Cressid ! No, they'd have stayed at home, like me. And popped their toes up on the fender. And drunk a quiet cup of tea : — On days like this one can't be tender. So, Molly, draw that basket nigher. And put my desk upon the table — Bring that Portfolio — stir the lire — Now off as fast as you are able ! First, here 's a card from Mrs. Grimes, ' A ball ! ' — she knows that I'm no dancer — That woman 's asked me fifty times, And yet I never send an answer. ' Dear Jack, — Just lend me twenty pounds Till Monday next, when I'll return it. Yours truly, Henry Gibbs.' Why, Z — ds ! I've seen the man but twice — here, burn it. One from my Cousin Sophy Daw — • Full of Aunt Margery's distresses ; ' The Cat has kittened in " the draw ", And ruined two bran-new silk dresses.' 286 MY LETTERS From Sam, ' The Chancellor's motto,' — nay, Confound his puns, he knows I hate 'em ; ' Pro Rege, Lege, Grege,' — Aye, ' For King read Mob ! ' Brougham's old erratum. From Seraphina Price — ' At two ' — ' Till then I can't, my dearest John, stir ' ; Two more because I did not go. Beginning ' Wretch ' and ' Faithless Monster ! ' ' Dear Sir, — This morning Mrs. P , Who 's doing quite as well as may be, Presented me at half-past three, Precisely, with another baby. ' We'll name it John, and know with pleasure You'll stand ' — Five guineas more, confound it ! — I wish they'd called it Nebuchadnezzar, Or thrown it ia the Thames and drowned it. What have we next ? A civil Dun : ' John Brown would take it as a favour ' — Another, and a surlier one, ' I can't put up with sich behaviour.' ' Bill so long standing,' — ' quite tired out,' — ' Must sit down to insist on payment,' ' Called ten times,' — Here 's a fuss about A few coats, waistcoats, and small raiment ! For once I'll send an answer, and in- form Mr. Snip he needn't ' call ' so ; But when his bill 's as ' tired of standing ' As he is, beg 'twill ' sit down also '. This from my rich old Uncle Ned, Thanking me for my annual present ; And saying he last Tuesday wed His cook-maid, Molly — vastly pleasant ! An ill-spelt note from Tom at school, Begging I'll let him learn the fiddle ; Another from that precious fool, Miss Pyefinch, with this stupid riddle. ' D'ye give it up ? ' Indeed I do ! Confound these antiquated minxes ; I won't play ' Billy Black ' to a ' Blue. ' Or Oedipus to such old sphinxes. A note sent up from Kent to show me. Left with my bailiff^ Peter King ; MY LETTERS 287 ' I'll burn them precious stacks down, blow me '. ' Yours most sincerely, Captain Swing.' Four begging letters with petitions, One from my sister Jane, to pray I'll ' execute a few commissions ' In Bond Street, ' when I go that way.' ' And buy at Pearsal's in the city Twelve skeins of silk for netting purses ; Colour no matter, so it 's pretty ; — Two hundred pens ' — two hundred curses ! From Mistress Jones : ' My little Billy Goes up his schooling to begin, 'Will you just step to Piccadilly, And meet him when the coach comes in ? ' And then, perhaps, you will as well see The poor dear fellow safe to school At Dr. Smith's in Little Chelsea ! ' Heaven send he flog the little fool ! Prom Lady Snooks : ' Dear Sir, you know You promised me last week a Rebus ; A something smart and ayro-pos. For my new Album ? ' — Aid me, Phoebus ! ' My first is followed by my second ; Yet should my first my second see, A dire mishap it would be reckoned. And sadly shocked my first would be. ' Were I but what my whole implies, And passed by chance across your portal, You'd cry, " Can I believe my eyes ? I never saw so CLueer a mortal ! " ' For then my head would not be on. My arms their shoulders must abandon ; My very body would be gone, I should not have a leg to stand on.' Come, that 's dispatched — what follows ? — Stay, ' Reform demanded by the nation — Vote for Tagrag and Bobtail ! ' Aye, By Jove, a blessed Reformation I Jack, clap the saddle upon Rose — Or, no ! — the filly — she 's the fleeter ; The devil take the rain — here goes, I'm off — a plumper for St. Peter ! R. H. Baeham. 288 368. TO THE REV.. F. D. MAURICE Comb, when no graver cares employ, Godfather, come and see your boy : Your presence will be sun in winter, Making the little one leap for joy. For, being of that honest few. Who give the Fiend himself his due. Should eighty thousand college-councils Thunder ' Anathema ', friend, at you ; Should all our churchmen foam in spitei At you, so careful of the right. Yet one lay-hearth would give you welcome (Take it and come) to the Isle of Wight ; Where, far from noise and smoke of town, I watch the twilight falling brown All round a careless-ordered garden Close to the ridge of a noble down. You'll have no scandal while you dine. But honest talk and wholesome wine. And only hear the magpie gossip Garrulous under a roof of pine : For groves of pine on either hand. To break the blast of winter, stand ; And further on, the hoary Channel Tumbles a breaker on chalk and sand ; Where, if below the milky steep Some ship of battle slowly creep. And on through zones of light and shadow Glimmer away to the lonely deep, We might discuss the Northern sin Which made a selfish war begin ; Dispute the claims, arrange the chances ; Emperor, Ottoman, which shall win : Or whether war's avenging rod Shall lash all Europe into blood Till you should turn to dearer matters. Dear to the man that is dear to God ; How best to help the slender store. How mend the dwellings, of ihe poor ; How gain in life, as life advances. Valour and charity more and more. TO THE EEV. F. D. MAURICE 288 Come, Maurice, come : the lawn as yet Is hoar with rime, or spongy- wet ; But when the wreath of March has blossomed. Crocus, anemone, violet, Or later, pay one visit here, For those are few we hold as dear ; Nor pay but one, but come for many. Many and many a happy year. Alfked, Lokd Tennyson. January, 1854. 369. THE INVITATION To Tom Hughes Come away with me, Tom, Term and talk are done ; My poor lads are reaping. Busy every one. Curates mind the parish. Sweepers mind the court ; We'll away to Snowdon For our ten days' sport : Fish the August evening Till the eve is past. Whoop like boys, at pounders Fairly played and grassed. When they cease to dimple. Lunge, and swerve, and leap. Then up over Siabod, Choose our nest, and sleep. Up a thousand feet, Tom, Round the lion's head. Find soft stones to leeward And make up our bed. Eat our bread and bacon. Smoke the pipe of peace. And, ere we be drowsy. Give our boots a grease. Homer's heroes did so. Why not such as we ? What are sheets and servants ? Superfluity ! Pray for wives and children Safe in slumber curled, Then to chat till midnight O'er this babbling world-7 290 TO TOM HUGHES Of the workmen's college. Of the price of grain. Of the tree of knowledge, Of the chance of rain ; If Sir A. goes Romeward, If Miss B. sings true. If the fleet comes homeward. If the mare will do, — Anything and everything — Up there in the sky Angels understand us. And no ' saints ' are by. Down, and bathe at day-dawn. Tramp from lake to lake. Washing brain and heart clean Every step we take. Leave to Robert Browning Beggars, fleas, and vines ; Leave to mournful Ruskin Popish Apennines, Dirty Stones of Venice And his Gas-lamps Seven — We've the stones of Snowdon And the lamps of heaven. Where 's the mighty credit In admiring Alps ? Any goose sees ' glory ' In their ' snowy scalps '. Leave such signs and wonders For the dullard brain. As aesthetic brandy. Opium and cayenne. Give me Bramshill common (St. John's harriers by). Or the vale of Windsor, England's golden eye. Show me life and progress. Beauty, health, and man ; Houses fair, trim gardens. Turn where'er I can. Or, if bored with ' High Art ' And such popish stufif. One's poor ears need airing, Snowdon's high enough. While we find God's signet Fresh on English ground. Why go gallivanting With the nations round ? Though we try no ventures TO TOM HUGHES 291 Desperate or strange ; Feed on commonplaces In a narrow range ; Never sought for Franklin Round the frozen Capes ; Even, with Macdougall, Bagged our brace of apes ; Never had our chance, Tom, In that black JBedan ; Can't avenge poor Brereton Out in Sakarran ; Though we earn our bread, Tom, By the dirty pen. What we can we will be. Honest Englishmen. Do the work that 's nearest. Though it's dull at whiles. Helping, when we meet them. Lame dogs over stiles ; See in every hedgerow Marks of angels' feet. Epics in each pebble Underneath our feet ; Once a year, like schoolboys, Robin-Hooding go. Leaving fops and fogies A thousand feet below. C. KlNGSLEY. 370. TO ALFRED TENNYSON I ENTKEAT you, Alfred Tennyson, Come and share my haunch of venison. I have too a bin of claret. Good, but better when you share it. Though 'tis only a small bin. There 's a stock of it within. And as sure as I'm a rhymer Half a butt of Rudesheimer. Come : among the sons of men is one Welcomer than Alfred Tennyson ? W. S. Landob. 292 371. INVITING A FRIEND TO SUPPER To-NiOHT, grave sir, both my poor house and I Do equally desire your company : Not that we think us worthy such a guest. But that your worth will dignify our feast, With those that come ; whose grace may make that seem Something, which else, could hope for no esteem. It is the fair acceptance, sir, creates The entertainment perfect, not the cates. Yet shall you have, to rectify your palate. An olive, capers, or some better salad Ushering the mutton, with a short-legged hen If we can get her, full of eggs, and then Lemons, and wine for sauce ; to these, a coney Is not to be despaired of for our money ; And though f6wl now be scarce, yet there are clerks, The sky not falling, think we may have larks. I'll tell you of more, and lie, so you will come : Of partridge, pheasant, woodcock, of which some May yet be there ; and godwit if we can, Knat, rail and ruff too. Howsoe'er, my man Shall read a piece of Virgil, Tacitus, Livy, or of some better book to us. Of which we'll speak our minds, amidst our meat, And I'll profess no verses to repeat : To this if aught appear, which I not know of. That will the pastry, not the paper, show of. Digestive cheese and fruit there sure will be, But that which most doth take my Muse and me, Is a pure cup of rich Canary wine. Which is the Mermaid's now, but shall be mine : Of which had Horace or Anacreon tasted. Their lives, as do their lines, till now had lasted. Tobacco, nectar, or the Thespian spring, Are all but Luther's beer, to this I sing. Of this we will sup free, but moderately. And we will have no Pooly or Parrot by ; Nor shall our cups make any guilty men But, at our parting, we will be as when We innocently met. No simple word, That shall be uttered at our mirthful board. Shall make us sad next morning ; or affright The liberty that we'll enjoy to-night. Ben. Jonson. 293 372. AN ODE FOR BEN JONSON Ah Ben ! Say how, or when Shall we, thy guests. Meet at those lyric feasts. Made at the Sun, The Dog, the Triple Tun ; Where we such clusters had, As made us nobly wild, not mad ? And yet each verse of thine Out-did the meat, out-did the frolic wine. My Ben ! Or come agen, Or send to us Thy wit's great over-plus ; But teach us yet Wisely to husband it, Lest we that talent spend ; And having once brought to an end That precious stock, the store Of such a wit the world should have no more. R. Hersiok. 373. TO HIS PECULIAR FRIEND, MR. JOHN WICKS Since shed or cottage I have none, I sing the more that thou hast one, To whose glad threshold and free door I may a poet come, though poor. And eat with thee a savoury bit. Paying but common thanks for it. Yet should I chance, my Wicks, to see An over-leaven look in thee, To sour the bread, and turn the beer To an exalted vinegar ; Or shouldst thou prize me as a dish Of thrice boiled worts, or third day's fish, I'd rather hungry go and come Than to thy house be burdensome : Yet in my depth of grief I'd be One that should drop his beads for thee. R. Hereick. 294 374. THE HAUNCH OF VENISON A Poetical Epistle to Lord Clare Thanks, my Lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter Never ranged in a forest, or smolted in a platter ; The haunch was a piotiiro for painters to study. The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy. Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help regretting To spoil such a delicate picture by eating ; I had thoughts, in my chambers, to place it in view. To be shown to my friends as a piece of virlii ; As in some Irish houses, where things are so so, One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show : But for eating a rasher of what they take pride in. They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in. But hold — let me pause — Don't I hear you pronounce This tale of the bacon a damnable bounce ? Well, suppose it a bounce — sure a poet may try. By a bounce now and then, to get courage to tiy. But, my Lord, it 's no bounce : I protest in my turn. It 's a truth — and your Lordship may ask Mr. Byrne. To go on with my tale — as I gazed on the haunch, I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch ; So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrcHned, To paint it, or eat it, just as he liked best. Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose ; 'Twas a neck and a breast — that might rival M — r — 's : But in parting with these I was puzzled again. With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when. There 's H— d, and C— y, and H— rth, and H— £F, I think they love venison — I know they love beef ; There 's my countryman H — gg — ns — Oh ! let him alone, For makinf; a blunder, or picking a bone. But hang it — to poets who seldom eaq oat. Your very good mutton 's a very good treat ; Such dainties to them, their health it might hurt. It 's like sending them ruffles, when wanting a shirt. While thus I debated, in reverie centred. An acquaintance, a friend as he called himself, entered ; An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was lie. And he smiled as he looked at the venison and me. ' What have we got here ?— Why, tliis is good eating ! Your own, I suppose — or is it in waiting ? ' ' Why, whose should it be ? ' cried I with a flounce, ^ ' I get these things often ; ' — but that was a bounce : ' Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation, Are pleased to be kind — but I hate ostentation.' THE HAUNCH OF VENISON 295 ' If that be the case, then,' cried he, very gay, ' I'm glad I have taken this house in my way. To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me ; No words — I insist on 't — precisely at three : We'll have Johnson, and Burke ; all the wits will be there ; My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my Lord Clare. And now that I think on't, as I am a sinner ! We wanted this venison to make out the dinner. What say you — a pasty ? it shall, and it must. And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. Here, porter ! — this venison with me to Mile-end ; No stirring — I beg — my dear friend — my dear friend ! ' Thus snatching his hat, he brushed off like the wind. And the porter and eatables followed behind. Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, ' And nobody with me at sea but myself ' ; Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty, Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison pasty, Were things that I never disliked in my life. Though clogged with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife. So next day, in due splendour to make my approach, 1 drove to his door in my own hackney coach. When come to the place where we all were to dine, (A chair-lumbered closet just twelve feet by nine :) My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb. With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come ; ' For I knew it,' he cried, ' both eternally fail. The one with his speeches, and t'other with Thrale ; But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty. The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew, They're both of them merry and authors like you ; The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge ; Some think he writes Cinna — he owns to Panurge.' While thus he described them by trade, and by name, They entered, and dinner was served as they came. At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen. At the bottom was tripe in a swinging tureen ; At the sides there was spinach and pudding made hot ; In the middle a place where the pasty — was not. Now, my Lord, as for tripe, it 's my utter aversion, And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian ; So there I sat stuck, like a horse in a pound. While the bacon and liver went merrily round. But what vexed me most was that d — 'd Scottish rogue. With his long-winded speeches, his smiles and his brogue. 296 THE HAUNCH OF VENISON And, ' Madam,' quoth he, ' may this bit be my poison, A prettier dinner I never set eyes on ; Pray a slice of your liver, though may I be cursed, But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst.' ' The tripe,' quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek, ' I could dine on this tripe seven days in the week : I like these here dinners so pretty and small ; But your friend there, the Doctor, eats nothing at all.' ' — Oh ! ' quoth my friend, ' he'll come on in a trice, He 's keeping a corner for something that 's nice : There 's a pasty ' — ' A pasty ! ' repeated the Jew, ' I don't care if I keep a corner for 't too.' ' What the de'il, mon, a pasty ! ' re-echoed the Soot, ' Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for thot.' ' We'll all keep a corner,' the lady cried out ; ' We'll all keep a corner,' was echoed about. While thus we resolved, and the pasty delayed, With looks that quite petrified, entered the maid ; A visage so sad, and so pale with aif right. Waked Priam in drawing his curtains by night. But we quickly found out, for who could mistake her ? That she came with some terrible news from the baker : And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven. Sad Philomel thus — but let similes drop — And now that I think on 't, the story may stop. To be plain, my good Lord, it 's but labour misplaced To send such good verses to one of your taste ; You've got an odd something — a kind of discerning — A relish — a taste — sickened over by learning ; At least, it 's your temper, as very well known. That you think very slightly of all that 's your own : So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss, You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this. O. Goldsmith. 375. RETALIATION Of old, when Scarron his companions invited. Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united ; If our landlord supplies us with beef, and with fish. Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish : Our Dean shall be venison, just fresh from the plains ; Our Burke shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains ; Our Will shall be wild-fowl, of excellent flavour. And Dick with his pepper shall heighten their savour : Our Cumberland's sweet-bread its place shall obtain. And Douglas is pudding, substantial and plain : RETALIATION 297 Our Garriok 's a salad ; for in him we see Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree : To malse out the dinner, full certain I am, That Ridge is anchovy, and Reynolds is lamb ; That Mickey 's a capon, and by the same rule, Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool. At a dinner so various, at such a repast. Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last ? Here, waiter ! more wine, let me sit while I'm able. Till all my companions sink under the table ; Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head. Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead. Here lies the good Dean, re-united to earth. Who mixed reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth : If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt. At least, in six weeks, I could not find 'em out ; Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied 'em. That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em. Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such. We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much ; Who, born for the Universe, narrowed his mind, And to party gave up what was meant for mankind. Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote ; Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining. And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining ; Though equal to all things, for all things unfit. Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit : For a patriot, too cool ; for a drudge, disobedient ; And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient. In short, 'twas his fate, unemployed, or in place. Sir, To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint. While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in 't ; The pupil of impulse, it forced him along. His conduct still right, with his argument wrong ; Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam. The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home ; Would you ask for his merits ? alas ! he had none ; What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own. Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh at ; Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet ! What spirits were his ! what wit and what whim ! Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb ; Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball. Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all ! l3 298 RETALIATION In short, so provoking a devil was Dick, Tiiat we wished him full ten times a day at Old Nick ; But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein. As often we wished to have Dick back again. Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts. The Terence of England, the mender of hearts ; A flattering painter, who made it his care To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are. His gallants are all faultless, his women divine. And comedy wonders at being so fine ; Like a tragedy queen he has dizened her out. Or rather like tragedy giving a rout. His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud ; And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone. Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own. Say, where has our poet this malady caught ? Or, wherefore his characters thus without fault ? Say, was it that vainly directing his view To find out men's virtues, and finding them few, Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf. He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself ? Here Douglas retires, from his toils to relax. The scourga of impostors, the terror of quacks : Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines. Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines : When Satire and Censure encircled his throne, I feared for your safety, I feared for my own ; But now he is gone, and we want a detector, Our Dodds shall be pious, our Kenricks shall lecture ; Macpherson write bombast, and call it a style. Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile ; New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over. No countryman living their tricks to discover ; Detection her taper shall quench to a spark, And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the dark. Here lies David Garrick, describe me, who can. An abridgement of all that was pleasant in man ; As an actor, confessed without rival to shine : As a wit, if not first, in the very first line : Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart. The man had his failings, a dupe to his art. Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread. And beplastered with rouge his own natural red. On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting ; 'Twas only that when he was off lie was acting. RETALIATION 299 With no reason on earth to go out of his way, He turned and he varied full ten times a day. Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly, sick If they were not his own by finessing and trick. He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack. For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back. Of praise a mere glutton, he swallowed what came. And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for faine ; Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease. Who peppered the highest was surest to please. But let us be candid, and speak out our mind, If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, and Woodfalls so grave. What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave ! How did Grub Street re-echo the shouts that you raised, While he was be-Rosciused, and you were be-praised ! But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies, To act as an angel, and mix with the skies : Those poets, who owe their best fame to his skill. Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will: Old Shakespeare, receive him, with praise and with love, And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above. Here Mickey reclines, a most blunt, pleasant creature, And slander itself must allow him good nature : He cherished his friend, and he relished a bumper ; Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper. Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser ? I answer, no, no, for he always was wiser : Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat ? His very worst foe can't accuse him of that : Perhaps he confided in men as they go. And so was too foolishly honest ? Ah no ! Then what was his failing ? come, tell it, and, burn ye ! He was, could he help it ? — a special attorney. Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind, He has not left a better or wiser behind : His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand ; His manners were gentle, complying, and bland ; Still born to improve us in every part, His pencil our faces, his manners our heart : To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, When they judged without skill he was still hard of hearing : When they talked of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff, He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff. 0. Goldsmith. 300 376. THE MAHOGANY TREE Christmas is here ; Winds whistle shrill. Icy and chill. Little care we : Little we fear Weather without. Sheltered about The Mahogany Tree. Commoner greens, Ivy and oaks. Poets, in jokes. Sing, do ye see ? Good fellows' shins Here, boys, are found. Twisting around The Mahogany Tree. Once on the boughs. Birds of rare plume Sang, in its bloom ; Night-birds are we : Here we carouse, Singing, like them. Perched round the stem Of the jolly old tree. Here let us sport. Boys, as we sit ; Laughter and wit Flashing so free. Life is but short- When we are gone. Let them sing on, Round the old tree. Evenings we knew, Happy as this ; Faces we miss, Pleasant to see. Kind hearts and true. Gentle and just, Peace to your dust ! We sing round the tree. THE MAHOGANY TREE 301 Care, like a dun, Lurks at the gate : Let the dog wait ; Happy we'll be ! Drink every one ; Pile up the coals. Fill the red bowls, Round the old tree ! Drain we the cup. — Friend, art afraid ? Spirits are laid In the Red Sea. Mantle it up ; Empty it yet ; Let us forget. Round the old tree. Sorrows, begone ! Life and its ills. Duns and their bills, Bid we to flee. Coitie with the dawn. Blue-devil sprite. Leave us to night. Round the old tree. W. M. Thackbeay. 377. AD MINISTRAM Dear Lucy, you know what my wish is, — I hate all your Frenchified fuss : Your silly entrees and made dishes Were never intended for us. No footman in lace and in rufSes Need dangle behind my arm-chair ; And never mind seeking for truffles. Although they be ever so rare. But a plain leg of mutton, my Lucy, I prithee get ready at three : Have it smoking, and tender and juicy, And what better meat can there be ? And when it has feasted the master, 'Twill amply suffice for the maid ; Meanwhile I will smoke my canaster. And tipple my ale in the shade. W. M. Thackeray 302 378. OLD STYLE AuRELius, Sire of Hungrinesses ! Thee thy old friend Catullus blesses, And sends thee six fine wateroresses. There are who would not think me quite (Unless we were old friends) polite To mention whom you should invite. Look at them well ; and turn it o'er In your own mind . . . I'd have but four . Lucullus, Caesar, and two more. W. S. Landor. 379. HANS BREITMANN'S BARTY Hans Beeitmann gif a barty ; Dey hat biano-blayin', I felled in luf mit a 'Merioan frau. Her name vas Madilda Yane. She hat haar ash prown ash a pretzel. Her eyes vas himmel-plue, Und ven dey looket indo mine, Dey shplit mine heart in doo. Hans Breitmann gif a barty, I vent dere, you'll be pound ; I valtz't mit Madilda Yane, Und vent shpinnen' roundt und roundt. Der pootiest Fraulein in der hause. She vayed 'pout doo hoondred poundt, Und efery dime she gif a shoomp She make der vinders sound. Hans Breitmann gif a barty, I dells you, it cosht him dear ; Dey rolled in more ash sefen kecks Of foost-rate lager-peer. Und venefer dey knocks der sphioket in Der Deutsohers gifs a cheer. I dinks dat so vine a barty Nefer coom to a het dis year. Hans Breitmann gif a barty ; Dere all vash Souse undt Brouse, Ven der sooper comed in, de gompany Did make demselfs to house ; Dey ate das Brot und Gensy-broost, Der Bratwurst und Braten vine, Undt vash der Abendessen down Mit vour parrels ov Neokarwein. HANS BREITMANX'S BARTY 303 Hans Breitmann gif a barty ; Ve all cot troonk ash bigs. 1 poot mine mout' to a parrel o£ peer Undt emptied it cop mit a schwigs ; Und den I gissed Madilda Yane Und she schlog me on der kop, Und der gompany vighted mit daple-lecks Dill der coonshtable mate cos shtop. Hans Breitmann gif a barty — Vhere ish dat barty now ? Vhere ish der lufly colden gloud Dat float on der moundain's prow ? Vhere ish de himmelstrahlende stern — De shtar of de shpirit's light ? All goned afay mit der lager-peer — Afay in de ewigkeit ! C. G. Leland. 380. STELLA'S BIRTHDAY, 1718 Stella this day is thirty-four, (We shan't dispute a year or more :) However, Stella, be not troubled ; Although thy size and years are doubled Since first I saw thee at sixteen. The brightest virgin on the green ; So little is thy form declined ; Made up so largely in thy mind. O, would it please the gods to split Thy beauty, size, and years, and wit ! No age could furnish out a pair Of nymphs so graceful, wise, and fair ; With half the lustre of your eyes. With half your wit, your years, and size. And then, before it grew too late. How should I beg of gentle fate (That either nymph might have her swain) To split my worship too in twain. J. Swift. 3U4 381. STELLA'S BIRTHDAY, 1720 All travellers at first incline Where'er they see the fairest sign ; And, if they find the chamber neat, And like the liquor and the meat. Will call again, and recommend The Angel Inn to every friend. What though the painting grows decayed. The House will never lose its trade : Nay, though the treacherous tapster, Thomas, Hangs a new angel two doors from us. As fine as dauber's hands can make it, In hopes that strangers may mistake it. We think it both a shame and sin To quit the true old Angel Inn. Now this is Stella's case in fact; An angel's face, a little cracked ; (Could poets, or could painters fix How angels look at thirty-six :) This drew us in at first to find In such a form an angel's mind ; And every virtue now supplies The fainting rays of Stella's eyes. See at her levee crowding swains. Whom Stella freely entertains With breeding, humour, wit, and sense. And puts them but to small expense ; Their mind so plentifully fills, And makes such reasonable bills. So little gets for what she gives, We really wonder how she lives ! And had her stock been less, no doubt She must have long ago run out. Then who can think we'll quit the place. When Doll hangs out a newer face ; Or stop and light at Chloe's Head, With scraps and leavings to be fed ? Then, Chloe, still go on to prate Of thirty-six, and thirty-eight ; Pursue your trade of scandal-picking. Your hints, that Stella is no chicken ; Your innuendoes, when you tell us That Stella loves to talk with fellows : And let me warn you to believe A truth, for which your soul should grieve ; STELLA'S BIRTHDAY 305 That should you live to see the day When Stella's locks must all be grey. When age must print a ftirrowed trace On every feature of her face ; That you, and all your senseless tribe. Could art, or time, or nature bribe To make you look like beauty's queen. And hold for ever at fifteen ; No bloom of youth can ever bUnd The cracks and wrinkles of your mind ; All men of sense will pass your door. And crowd to Stella's at four score. J. Swift. 382. STELLA'S BIRTHDAY, 1724 As, when a beauteous n3?inph decays. We say, she 's past her dancing days ; So poets lose their feet by time. And can no longer dance in rhyme. Tour annual bard had rather chose To celebrate your birth in prose : Yet merry folks, who want by chance A pair to make a country dance. Call the old housekeeper, and get her To fill a place, for want of better : While Sheridan is oS the hooks. And friend Delany at his books. That Stella may avoid disgrace. Once more the Dean supplies their place. Beauty and wit, too sad a truth ! Have always been confined to youth ; The god of wit, and beauty's queen. He twenty-one, and she fifteen. No poet ever sweetly sung. Unless he were, like Phoebus, young ; Nor ever nymph inspired to rhyme. Unless, like Venus, in her prime. At fifty-six, if this be true. Am I a poet fit for you ? Or, at the age of forty-three. Are you a subject fit for me ? Adieu ! bright wit, and radiant eyes, You must be grave, and I be wise. Our fate in vain we would oppose : But Til be still your friend in prose ; Esteem and friendship to express. Will not require poetic dress ; 306 STELLA'S BIRTHDAY And, if the Muse deny her aid To have them sung, they may be said. But, Stella, say, what evil tongue Reports you are no longer young ; That Time sits, with his scythe to mow Where erst sat Cupid with his bow ; That half your locks are turned to grey ? I'll ne'er believe a word they say. 'TIs true, but let it not be known. My eyes are somewhat dimmish grown : For Nature, always in the right. To your decay adapts my sight ; And wrinkles undistinguished pass. For I'm ashamed to use a glass ; And till I see them with these eyes. Whoever says you have them, lies. No length of time can make you quit Honour and virtue, sense and wit ; Thus you may still be young to me. While I can better hear than see. O ne'er may Fortune show her spite. To make me deaf and mend my sight. 383. STELLA'S BIRTHDAY, 1726 This day, whate'er the Fates decree. Shall still be kept with joy by me : This day then let us not be told That you are sick, and I grown old ; Nor think on our approaching ills. And talk of spectacles and pills : To-morrow will be time enough To hear such mortifying stuff. Yet, since from reason may be brought A better and more pleasing thought, Which can in spite of all decays Support a few remaining days. From not the gravest of divines Accept for once some serious lines. Although we now can form no more Long schemes of life, as heretofore ; Yet you, while time is running fast. Can look with joy on what is past. Were future happiness and pain A mere contrivance of the brain, As atheists argue, to entice And fit their proselytes for vice J. Swift. STELLA'S BIRTHDAY 307 (The only comfort they propose, To have companions in their woes), Grant this the case ; yet sure 'tis hard That virtue, styled its own reward And by all sages understood To be the chief of human good. Should acting die, nor leave behind Some lasting pleasure in the mind, Which, by remembrance, will assuage Grief, sickness, poverty, and age ; And strongly shoot a radiant dart To shine through life's declining part. Say, Stella, feel you no content, Reflecting on a life well spent ? Your skilful hand employed to gave Despairing wretches from the grave ; And then supporting with your store Those whom you dragged from death before : So Providence on mortals waits. Preserving what it first creates : Your generous boldness to defend An innocent and absent friend ; That courage which can make you just To merit humbled in the dust ; The detestation you express For vice in all its glittering dress ; That patience under torturing pain, Where stubborn stoics would complain : Must these like empty shadows pass. Or forms reflected from a glass ? Or mere chimeras in the mind, That fly, and leave no marks behind ? Does not the body thrive and grow By food of twenty years ago ? And, had it not been still supplied, It must a thousand times have died. Then who with reason can maintain That no effects of food remain ? And is not virtue in mankind The nutriment that feeds the mind ; Upheld by each good action past, And still continued by the last ? Then who with reason can pretend That all effects of virtue end ? Believe me, Stella, when you show That true contempt for things below, Nor prize your life for other ends Than merely to oblige your friends ; 308 STELLA'S BIRTHDAY Your former actions claim their part. And join to fortify your heart. For virtue in her daily race, Lilie Janus, bears a double face ; Looks back with joy where she has gone, And therefore goes with courage on. She at your sickly couch will wait. And guide you to a better state. O then, whatever Heaven intends. Take pity on your pitying friends ! Nor let your ills affect your mind. To fancy they can be unkind. Me, surely me, you ought to spare. Who gladly would your sufifering share, Or give my scrap of life to you. And think it far beneath your due ; You, to whose care so oft I owe That I'm alive to tell you so. J. Swift. 384. TO MRS. MARTHA BLOUNT Sent on her Birthday BE thou blest with all that Heaven can send. Long health, long youth, long pleasure and a friend ! Not with those toys the female race admire, Riches that vex, and vanities that tire. Not as the world its petty slaves rewards, A youth of frolics, an old age of cards ; Fair to no purpose, artful to no end ; Young without lovers, old without a friend ; A fop their passion, but their prize a sot ; Alive, ridiculous, — and dead, forgot ! Let joy or ease, let affluence or content. And the gay conscience of a life well spent. Calm every thought, inspirit every grace. Glow in thy heart and smile upon thy face ; Let day improve on day, and year on year, Without a pain, a trouble, or a fear ; Till death unfelt that tender frame destroy, In some soft dream, or ecstasy of joy ; Peaceful sleep out the Sabbath of the tomb. And wake to raptures in a life to come. A. Pope. 309 385. TO MR. THOMAS SOUTHERNE On his Birthday, 1742 Resigned to live, prepared to die. With not one sin, — but poetry, This day Tom's fair account has run (Without a blot) to eighty-one. Kind Boyle, before his poet, lays A table, with a cloth of bays ; And Ireland, mother of sweet singers. Presents her harp still to his fingers. The feast his towering genius marks In yonder wild goose and the larks ! The mushrooms show his wit was sudden ! And for his judgement, lo, a pudden ! Roast beef, though old, proclaims him stout, And grace, although a bard, devout. May Tom, whom Heaven sent down to raise The price of prologues and of plays. Be every birthday more a winner. Digest his thirty- thousandth dinner; Walk to his grave without reproach, And scorn a rascal and a coach. A. Pope. TO MRS. THRALE ON HER COMPLETING HER THIRTY-FIFTH YEAR Oft in danger, yet alive. We are come to thirty-five ; Long may better years arrive. Better years than thirty-five ! Could philosophers contrive Life to stop at thirty-five, Time his hours should never drive O'er the bounds of thirty-five. High to soar and deep to dive. Nature gives at thirty-five. Ladies, stock and tend your hive, Trifle not at thirty-five ; For, howe'er we boast and strive. Life declines from thirty- five. He that ever hopes to thrive Must begin by thirty-five ; And all who wisely wish to wive Must look on Thrale at thirty-five. S. Johnson. 310 387. EOSE'S BIRTHDAY Tell me, perverse young year ! Why is the morn so drear ? Is there no flower to twine ? Away, thou churl, away ! 'Tis Rose's natal day, Reserve thy frowns for mine. W. S. Landor. 388. A BIRTHDAY My heart is like a singing bird Whose nest is in a watered shoot ; My heart is like an apple-tree Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit ; My heart is like a rainbow shell That paddles in a halcyon sea ; My heart is gladder than all these, Because my love is come to me. Raise me a dais of silk and down ; Hang it with vair and purple dyes ; Carve it in doves, and pomegranates. And peacocks with a hundred eyes ; Work it in gold and silver grapes. In leaves, and silver fleurs-de-lys ; Because the birthday of my life Is come, my love is come to mc. C. G. ROSSETTI. 389. IMPROVEMENT IN THE FORTIES I LATELY thought no man alive Could e'er improve past forty-five. And ventured to assert it. The observation was not new, But seemed to me so just and true That none could controvert it. ' No, sir,' said Johnson, ' 'tis not so ; 'Tis your mistake, and I can show An instance, if you doubt it. You, who perhaps are forty-eight. May still improve, 'tis not too late ; I vidsh you'd set about it.' Encouraged thus to mend ray faults, I turned his counsel in my thoughts Which way I could apply it ; mPROVEMEXT IX THE FORTIES 311 Genius I knew was past my reach, For who can learn what none can teach ' And wit — I could not buy it. Then come, my friends, and try your skill ; You may improve me if you will, (lly books are at a distance) : With you I'll live and learn, and then Instead of books I shall read men. So lend me your assistance. Dear Knight of Plympton, teach me how To suffer with unclouded brow. And smile serene as thine. The jest uncouth and truth severe ; Like thee to turn my deafest ear. And calmly drink my wine. Thou say'st not only skill is gained. But genius, too, may be attained. By studious imitation ; Thy temper mild, thy genius fine, I'll study till I make them mine By constant meditation. The art of pleasing teach me, Garrick, Thou who reversest odes Pindaric A second time read o'er ; O could we read thee backwards too. Last thirty years thou shouldst review. And charm us thirty more. If I have thoughts and can't express 'em, Gibbon shall teach me how to dress 'em In terms select and terse ; Jones, teach me modesty and Greek ; Smith, how to think ; Burke, how to speak ; And Beauclerk, to converse. Let Johnson teach me how to place In fairest light each borrowed grace, From him I'll learn to write : Copy his free and easy style. And from the roughnass of his file Grow, like himself, polite. T. Barnard. 312 390. OH SAY NOT, MY LOVE Oh say not, my love, with that mortified air, That your spring-time of pleasure is flown. Nor bid me to maids that are younger repair For those raptures that still are thine own. Though April his temples may wreathe with the vine, Its tendrils in infancy curled, 'Tis the ardour of August matures us the wine, Whose life-blood enlivens the world. Though thy form, that was fashioned as light as a fay's. Has assumed a proportion more round. And thy glance, that was bright as a falcon's at gaz3, Looks soberly now on the ground ; Enough, after absence to meet me again. Thy steps still with ecstasy move ; Enough, that those dear sober glances retain For me the kind language of love. Sir W. Scott. 39L THE AGE OF WISDOM Ho, pretty page, with the dimpled chin. That never has known the barber's shear. All your wish is woman to win. This is the way that boys begin, — Wait till you come to Forty Year. Curly gold locks cover foolish brains. Billing and cooing is all your cheer ; Sighing and singing of midnight strains. Under Bonnybell's window panes, — Wait till you come to Forty Year. Forty times over let ^Michaelmas pass. Grizzling hair the brain doth clear — Then you know a boy is an ass. Then you know the worth of a lass. Once you have come to Forty Year. Pledge me round, I bid ye declare, All good fellows whose beards are grey. Did not the fairest of the fair Common grow and wearisome ere Ever a month was passed away ? THE AGE OF WISDOM 313 The reddest lips that ever have kissed, The brightest eyes that ever have shone, May pray and whisper, and we not list, Or look away, and never be missed. Ere yet ever a month is gone. Gillian 's dead, God rest her bier. How I loved her twenty years syne ! Marian 's married, but I sit here Alone and merry at Forty Year, Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine. W. M. Thackeray. 392. REASONS FOR DRINKING If all be true that I do think. There are five reasons we should drink ; Good wine — a friend — or being dry — Or lest we should be by and by — Or any other reason why. H. Aldrich. 393. DRINKING The thirsty earth soaks up the rain, And drinks, and gapes for drink again. The plants suck in the earth, and are With constant drinking fresh and fair ; The sea itself — ^which one would think Should have but little need of drink — Drinks ten thousand rivers up. So filled that they o'erflow the cup. The busy sun — and one would guess By 's drunken fiery face no less — Drinks up the sea, and when he 's done. The moon and stars drink up the sun : They drink and dance by their own light They drink and revel all the night. Nothing in nature 's sober found. But an eternal health goes round. Fill up the bowl then, fill it high. Fill up the glasses there ; for why Should every creature drink but I ; Why, man of morals, tell me why ? A. CowLEy. 314 394. A TOAST She 's pretty to walk with, And witty to talk with. And pleasant too to think on : But the best use of all Is, her health is a stale, And helps to make us drink on. 395. TO CELIA SiE J. SuoKtraa. Deink to me only with thine eyes. And I will pledge with mine ; Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise. Doth ask a drink divine : But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine. I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honouring thee. As giving it a hope that there It could not withered be. But thou thereon didst only breathe. And sent'st it back to me : Since when it grows, and smells, I swear. Not of itself, but thee. Ben. Jonson 396. FILL THE GOBLET AGAIN Fill the goblet again ! for I never before Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to its core ; Let us drink ! — who would not ? — since, through life's varied round. In the goblet alone no deception is found. I have tried in its turn all that lite can supply ; I have basked in the beam of a dark rolling eye ; I have loved ! — who has not ? — but what heart can declare That pleasure existed while passion was there ? In the days of my youth, when the heart 's in its spring, And dreams that affection can never take wing, I had friends ! — who has not ? — but what tongue will avow. That friends, rosy wine ! are so faithful as thou ? The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange. Friendship shifts with the sunbeam — thou never canst change ; Thou growest old — who does not ? — but on earth what appears. Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its years ? FILL THE GOBLET AGAIN 315 Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow, Should a rival bow down to our idol below, We are jealous ! — who 's not ? — thou hast no such alloy ; For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy. Then the season of youth and its vanities past. For refuge we fly to the goblet at last ; There we find — do we not ? — in the flow of the soul. That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl. When the box of Pandora was opened on earth. And Misery's triumph commenced over Mirth, Hope was left, — was she not ? — but the goblet we kiss. And care not for Hope, who are certain of bliss. Long life to the grape ! for when summer is flown The age of our nectar shall gladden our own : We must die — who shall not ? — May our sins be forgiven. And Hebe shall never be idle in heaven. G. Gordon, Lobd Byron. 397. IN HIS LAST BINN SIR PETER LIES In his last binn Sir Peter lies. Who knew not what it was to frown : Death took him mellow, by surprise. And in his cellar stopped him down. Through all our land we could not boast A knight more gay, more prompt than he. To rise and fill a bumper toast, And pass it round with three times three. None better knew the feast to sway. Or keep mirth's boat in better trim ; For Nature had but little clay Like that of which she moulded him. The meanest guest that graced his board Was there the freest of the free, His bumper toast when Peter poured. And passed it round with three times three. He kept at true good humour's mark The social flow of pleasure's tide : He never made a brow look dark. Nor caused a tear, but when he died. No sorrow round his tomb should dwell : More pleased his gay old ghost would be. For funeral song, and passing bell, To hear no sound but three times three. T. L. Peacock. 316 398. THE CUP A Pabaphease of Anacreon Make me a bowl, a mighty bowl, Large as my capacious soul. Vast as my thirst is. Let it have Depth enough to be my grave. I mean the grave of all my care, For I intend to bury 't there. Let it of silver fashioned be. Worthy of wine ! worthy of me ! Worthy to adorn the spheres As that bright Cup among the stars ! Yet draw no shapes of armour there. No casque nor shield nor sword nor spear. Nor wars of Thebes nor wars of Troy, Nor any other martial toy. For what do I vain armour prize. Who mind not such rough exercise ? But gentle sieges, softer wars. Fights that cause no wounds or scars. I'll have no battles on my plate. Lest sight of them should brawls create. Lest that provoke to quarrels too, Which wine itself enough can do. J. Oldham. 399. UPON HIS DRINKING IN A BOWL Vulcan, contrive me such a cup As Nestor used of old ; Show all thy skill to trim it up. Damask it round with gold. Make it so large that, filled with sack Up to the swelling brim. Vast toasts on the delicious lake Like ships at sea may swim. Engrave not battle on his cheek : With war I've naught to do. I'm none of those that took Maestrich, Nor Yarmouth leaguer knew. Let it no name of planets tell. Fixed stars or constellations. For I am no Sir Sidrophel, Nor none of his relations. THE BOWL 317 But carve thereon a spreading vine, Tlien add two lovely boys ; Their limbs in amorous folds entwine, The type of future joys. Cupid and Bacchus my saints are ; May drink and love still reign ! With wine I wash away my cares And then to love again. J. WiLMOT, Earl of Rochester. 400. ON LENDING A PUNCH BOWL This ancient silver bowl of mine, — it tells of good old times. Of joyous days, and jolly nights, and merry Christmas chimes ; They were a free and jovial race, but honest, brave, and true. That dipped their ladle in the punch when this old bowl was new. A Spanish galleon brought the bar ; so runs the ancient tale ; 'Twas hammered by an Antwerp smith, whose arm was like a flail ; And now and then between the strokes, for fear his strength should fail, He wiped his brow, and quafEed a cup of good old Flemish ale. 'Twas purchased by an English squire to please his loving dame. Who saw the cherubs, and conceived a longing for the same ; And oft, as on the ancient stock another twig was found, 'Twas filled with caudle spiced and hot, and handed smoking round. But, changing hands, it reached at length a Puritan divine. Who used to follow Timothy, and take a little wine, But hated punch and prelacy ; and so it was, perhaps, He went to Leyden, where he found conventicles and schnaps. And then, of course, you know what 's next, — it left the Dutchman's shore With those that in the Mayflower came, — a hundred souls and more, — Along with all the furniture, to fill their new abodes, — To judge by what is still on hand, at least a hundred loads. 'Twas on a dreary winter's eve, the night was closing dim, When brave Miles Standish took the bowl, and filled it to the brim ; The little Captain stood and stirred the posset with his sword. And all his sturdy men-at-arms were ranged about the board. He poured the fiery Hollands in, — the man that never feared, — He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped his yellow beard ; And one by one the musketeers — the men that fought and prayed — • All drank as 'twere their mother's milk, and not a man afraid. 318 ON LENDING A PUNCH BOWL That night, affrighted from his nest, the screaming eagle flew, He heard the Pequot's ringing whoop, the soldier's wild halloo ; And there the sachem learned the rule he taught to kith and kin, ' Run from the white man when you find he smells of Hollands gin ! ' A hundred years, and fifty more, had spread their leaves and snows, A thousand rubs had flattened down each little cherub's nose. When once again the bowl was filled, but not in mirth or joy, 'Twas mingled by a mother's hand to cheer her parting boy. ' Drink, John,' she said, ' 'twill do you good, — poor child, you'll never bear This working in the dismal trench, out in the midnight air ; And if — God bless me ! — you were hurt, 'twould keep away the chill.' So John did drink, — and well he wrought that night at Bunker's Hill I I tell you, there was generous warmth in good old English cheer ; I tell you, 'twas a pleasant thought to bring its symbol here. 'Tis but the fool that loves excess ; — hast thou a drunken soul ? Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in my silver bowl ! I love the memory of the past, — its pressed yet fragrant flowers, — The moss that clothes its broken walls,^tho ivy on its towers ; — Nay, this poor bauble it bequeathed, — my eyes grow moist and dim, To think of all the vanished joys that danced around its brim. Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it straight to me ; The goblet hallows all it holds, whate'er the liquid be ; And may the cherubs on its face protect me from the sin. That dooms me to those dreadful words, — ' My dear, where have you been?' O. W. Holmes. 401. CATAWBA WINE This song of mine Is a Song of the Vine, To be sung by the glowing embers Of wayside inns. When the rain begins To darken the drear Novembers. It is not a song Of the Scuppernong, From warm Carolinian valleys, Nor the Isabel And the Muscadel That bask in our garden alleys. CATAWBA WI\E 319 Nor the red Mustang, Whose clusters hang O'er the waves of the Colorado, And the fiery flood Of whose purple blood Has a dash of Spanish bravado. For richest and best Is the wine of the West, That grows by the Beautiful River ; Whose sweet perfume Fills all the room With a benison on the giver. And as hollow trees Are the haunts of bees. For ever going and coming ; So this crystal hive Is all alive With a swarming and buzzing and humming. Very good in its way Is the Verzenay, Or the Sillery soft and creamy ; But Catawba wine Has a taste more divine. More dulcet, delicious, and dreamy. There grows no vine By the haunted Bhine, By Danube or Guadalquivir, Nor on island or cape. That bears such a grape As grows by the Beautiful River. Drugged is their juice For foreign use. When shipped o'er the reeling Atlantic, To rack our brains With the fever pains, That have driven the Old World frantic. To the sewers and sinks With all such drinks. And after them tumble the mixer ; For a poison malign Is such Borgia wine. Or at best but a Devil's Elixir. 320 CATAWBA WINE While pure as a spring Is the wine I sing, And to praise it, one needs but name it ; For Catawba wine Has need of no sign. No tavern-bush to proclaim it. And this Song of the Vine, This greeting of mine. The winds and the birds shall deliver To the Queen of the West, In her garlands dressed. On the banks of the Beautiful Biver. H. W. LONGFELLOW 402. NATIONAUTY IN DRINKS My heart sank with our Claret-flask, Just now, beneath the heavy sedges That serves this pond's black face for mask ; And still at yonder broken edges Of the hole, where up the bubbles glisten, After my heart I look and listen. Our laugliing little flask, compelled Through depth to depth more bleak and shady ; As when, both arms beside her held. Feet straightened out, some gay French lady Is caught up from life's light and motion. And dropped into death's silent ocean ! Up jumped Tokay on our table. Like a pygmy castle-warder. Dwarfish to see, but stout and able. Arms and accoutrements all in order ; And fierce he looked North, then, wheeling South, Blew with his bugle a challenge to Drouth, Cocked his flap-hat with the tosspot-feather, Twisted his thumb in his red moustache. Jingled his huge brass spurs together. Tightened his waist with its Buda sash. And then, with an impudence naught could abash. Shrugged his hump-shoulder, to tell the beholder. For twenty such knaves he should laugh but the bolder : NATIONALITY IN DRINKS 321 And so, with his sword-hilt gallantly jutting, And dexter-hand on his haunch abutting, Went the little man, Sir Ausbruch, strutting ! Here 's to Nelson's memory ! 'Tis the second time that I, at sea. Right off Cape Trafalgar here. Have drunk it deep in British Beer. Nelson for ever — any time Am I his to command in prose or rhyme ! Give me of Nelson only a touch. And I save it, be it little or much : Here 's one our Captain gives, and so Down at the word, by George, shall it go ! He says that at Greenwich they point the beholder To Nelson's coat, ' still with tar on the shoulder. For he used to lean with one shoulder digging, Jigging, as it were, and zig-zag-zigging Up against the mizen-rigging ! ' R. Browning. 403. ALE I CANNOT eat but little meat. My stomach is not good ; But sure, I think that I can drink With him that wears a hood. Though I go bare, take ye no care, I am nothing a- cold ; I stuff my skin so full within Of jolly good ale and old. Back and side go bare, go bare. Both foot and hand go cold ; But, belly, God send thee good ale enough. Whether it be new or old. I love no roast but a nut-brown toast. And a crab laid in the fire ; A little bread shall do me stead ; Much bread I not desire. No frost, nor snow, no wind, I trow. Can hurt me if I would ; I am so wrapped, and throughly lapped Of jolly good ale and old. Back and side go bare, go bare, &c. 322 ALE And Tyb my wife, that as her life Iioveth well good ale to seek, Full oft drinks she, till ye may see The tears run down her cheek ; Then doth she troll to me the bowl. Even as a malt-worm should ; And saith, ' Sweetheart, I took my part Of this jolly good ale and old ! ' Back and side go bare, go bare, &c. Now let them drink till they nod and wink. Even as good fellows should do ; They shall not miss to have the bliss Good ale doth bring men to ; And all poor souls that have scoured bowls Or have them lustily trolled, God save the lives of them and their wives. Whether they be young or old. Back and side go bare, go bare. Both foot and band go cold ; But, belly, God send thee good ale enough. Whether it be new or old. J. Still. 404. BEER In those old days which poets say were golden — (Perhaps they laid the gilding on themselves : And, if they did, I'm all the more beholden To those brown dwellers in ray dusty shelves. Who talk to me ' in language quaint and olden ' Of gods and demigods and fauns and elves, Pan 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, ray ' wayward fancy roams ' Back to those times, so different from the present ; When no one smoked cigars, nor gave At-homes, BEER 323 Nor smote a billiard-ball, nor winged a pheasant, Nor ' did ' her 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 Malt Has 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 digestion Got on without it, is a startling question. Had they digestions ? and an actual body Such as dyspepsia might make attacks on ? Were they abstract ideas — (like Tom Noddy And Mr. Briggs) — or men, like Jones and Jackson ? Then nectar — was that beer, or whisky-toddy ? Some say the Gaelic mixture, I the Saxon : I think a strict adherence to the latter Might make some Scots less pigheaded, and fatter. Besides, Bon Gaultier definitely shows . That the real beverage for feasting gods on Is a soft compound, grateful to the nose And also to the palate, known as ' Hodgson '. I know a man — a tailor's son — who rose To 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, AUsop, Bass ! Names that should be on every infant's tongue ! Shall days and months and years and centuries pass. And still your merits be unreeked, unsung ? Oh ! I have gazed into my foaming glass. And wished that lyre could yet again be strung Which once rang prophet-like through Greece, and taught her Msguided sons that ' the best drink was water '. 324 BEER 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 view Of emulating Pindar, and will be Sponsor at last to some now nameless sea. Oh I when the green slopes of Arcadia burned With all the lustre of the dying day. And on Cithaeron's brow the reaper turned, (Humming, of course, in his delightful way, How Lyoidas was dead, and how concerned The Nymphs were when they saw his lifeless clay ; And how rock told to rock the dreadful story That 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 cankered Hath one unfailing remedy — the Tankard. Ck)Ree is good, and so no doubt is cocoa ; Tea did for Johnson and the Chinamen : When ' Dulce est 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 then The Prima Donna, smiling herself out. Recruits her flagging powers with bottled stout. But what is cofiee, 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 pe^rter '. 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 near Precious to me — it is the Dinner Bell. BEER 325 blessed Bell ! Thou bringest beef and beer, Thou bringest good things more than tongue may tell : Seared is, of course, my heart — but unsubdued Is, and shall be, my appetite for food. 1 go. Untaught and feeble is my pen : But on one statement I may safely venture : That few of our most highly gifted men Have more appreciation of the trencher. I go. One pound of British beef, and then What Mr. Swiveller called a ' modest quencher ' ; That, home-returning, I may ' soothly say ', ' Fate cannot touch me : I have dined to-day.' C. S. Calverley. 405. WRITTEN AT AN INN AT HENLEY To thee, fair freedom ! I retire From flattery, cards, and dice, and din ; Nor art thou found in mansions higher Than the low cot, or humble inn. 'Tis here with boundless power I reign ; And every health which I begin. Converts dull port to bright champagne ; Such freedom crowns it, at an inn. I fly from pomp, I fly from plate ! I fly from falsehood's specious grin ; Freedom I love, and form I hate. And choose my lodgings at an inn. Here, waiter ! take my sordid ore. Which lackeys else might hope to win ;, It buys, what courts have not in store ; It buys me freedom at an inn. Whoe'er has travelled life's dull round. Where'er his stages may have been, May sigh to think he still has found The warmest welcome at an inn. W. Shenstone. 326 406. THE MERMAID TAVERN Souls of Poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern. Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern T Have ye tippled drink more fine Than mine host's Canary wine ? Or are fruits of Paradise Sweeter than those dainty pies Of venison ? generous food ! Dressed as though bold Robin Hood Would, with his maid Marian, Sup and bowse from horn and can. I have heard that on a day Mine host's sign-board flew away, ^ Nobody knew whither, till An astrologer's old quill To a sheepskin gave the story, Said he saw you in your glory, Underneath a new old sign Sipping beverage divine. And pledging with contented smack The Mermaid in the Zodiac ! Souls of Poets dead and gone. What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern. Choicer than the Mermaid Tavem ? J. Keats. 407. MADE AT THE COCK O PLTiMP head-waiter at the Cock, To which I most resort, How goes the time ? 'Tis five o'clock. Go fetch a pint of port : But let it not be such as that You set before chance comers, But such whose father-grape grew fat On Lusitanian summers. No vain libation to the Muse, But may she still be kind, And whisper lovely words, and use Her influence on the mind. MADE AT THE COCK 327 To make me write my random rhymes. Ere they be half-forgotten ; Nor add and alter, many times, Till all be ripe and rotten. Head-waiter, honoured by the guest Half-mused, or reeling-ripe. The pint, you brought me, was the best That ever came from pipe. But though the port surpasses praise. My nerves have dealt with stiffer. Is there some magic in the place ? Or do my peptics differ ? For since I came to live and learn. No pint of white or red Had ever half the power to turn This wheel within my head. Which bears a seasoned brain about, Unsubject to confusion, Though soaked and saturate, out and out. Through every convolution. For I am of a numerous house. With many kinsmen gay, Where long and largely we carouse As who shall say me nay : Each month, a birth-day coming on. We drink, defying trouble. Or sometimes two would meet in one. And then we drank it double ; Whether the vintage, yet unkept. Had relish iiery-new. Or, elbow-deep in sawdust, slept, As old as Waterloo ; Or stowed (when classic Canning died) In musty bins and chambers. Had cast upon its crusty side The gloom of ten Decembers. The Muse, the jolly Muse, it is ! She answered to my call. She changes with that mood or this. Is all-in-all to all : She lit the spark within my throat, To make my blood run quicker. Used all her fiery will, and smote Her life into the liquor. 328 MADE AT THE COCK And hence this halo lives about The waiter's hands, that reach To each his perfect pint of stout, His proper chop to each. He looks not like the common breed That with the napkin dally ; I think he came like Ganymede, From some delightful valley. The Cock was of a larger egg Than modern poultry drop, Stepped forward on a firmer leg. And crammed a plumper crop ; Upon an ampler dunghill trod, Crowed lustier late and early. Sipped wine from silver, praising God, And raked in golden barley. A private life was all his joy. Till in a court he saw A something-pottle-bodied boy That knuckled at the taw : He stooped and clutched him, fair and good. Flew over roof and casement : His brothers of the weather stood Stock-still for sheer amazement. But he, by farmstead, thorpe and spire. And followed with acclaims, A sign to many a staring shire. Came crowing over Thames, Right down by smoky Paul's they bore. Till, where the street grows straiter. One fixed for ever at the door. And one became head- waiter. Alfred, Lord Tennyson. 408. A JACOBITE TOAST God bless the king ! — I mean the Faith's Defender ; God bless (no harm in blessing) the Pretender ! But who Pretender is, or who is King, God bless us all ! — that 's quite another thing. J. Byrom. 329 409. A BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE A STRKET there is in Paris famous, For which no rhyme our language yields, Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is — The New Street of the Little Fields ; And here 's an inn, not rich and splendid. But still in comfortable case ; The which in youth I oft attended. To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse. This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is — A sort of soup, or broth, or brew. Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes, That Greenwich never could outdo ; Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffern. Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace ; All these you eat at Terre's tavern. In that one dish of Bouillabaisse. Indeed, a rich and savoury stew 'tis ; And true philosophers, methinks. Who love all sorts of natural beauties. Should love good victuals and good drinks. And Cordelier or Benedictine Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace. Nor find a fast-day too afflicting Which served him up a Bouillabaisse. I wonder if the house still there is ? Yes, here the lamp is, as before ; The smiling red-cheeked eoaillere is Still opening oysters at the door. Is Terre still alive and able ? I recollect his droll grimace ; He'd come and smile before your table. And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse. We enter — nothing's changed or older. ' How 's Monsieur Terre, waiter, pray ? ' The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder — ' Monsieur is dead this many a day.' ' It is the lot of saint and sinner. So honest Terre 's run his race.' ' What will Monsieur require for dinner ? ' ' Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse ? ' ' Oh, oui. Monsieur,' 's the waiter's answer ; ' Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il ? ' ' Tell me a good one.' — ' That I can, Sir : The Chambertin with yellow seal.' M 3 330 BOUILLABAISSE ' So Terr6 's gone,' I say, and sink in My old accustomed corner-place ; ' He's done with feasting and with drinking. With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse.' My old accustomed corner here is. The table still is in the nook ; Ah ! vanished many a busy year is. This well-known chair since last I took. When first I saw ye, cari luoghi, I'd scarce a beard upon my face. And now a grizzled, grim old fogy, I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse. Where are you, old companions trusty. Of early days, here met to dine ? Come, waiter ! quick, a fiagon crusty — I'll pledge them in the good old wine. The kind old voices and old faces My memory can quick retrace ; Around the board they take their places. And share the wine and Bouillabaisse. There's Jack has made a wondrous marriage There's laughing Tom is laughing yet ; There's brave Augustus drives his carriage ; There's poor old Fred in the Gazette ; On James's head the grass is growing : Good Lord ! the world has wagged apace Since here we set the Claret flowing. And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse. Ah me ! how quick the days are flitting ! I mind me of a time that 's gone. When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting. In this same place — but not alone. A fair young form was nestled near me, A dear, dear face looked fondly up, And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me — There's no one now to share my cup. I drink it as the Fates ordain it. Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes : Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it In memory of dear old times. Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is ; And sit you down and say your grace With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is. — Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse ! W. M. Thackeray. 331 410. SPECTATOR AB EXTRA I As I sat at the Cafe I said to myself, They may talk as they please about what they call pelf. They may sneer as they like about eating and drinking. But help it I cannot, I cannot help thinking How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho ! How pleasant it is to have money. I sit at my table en grand seigneur. And when I have done, throw a crust to the poor ; Not only the pleasure itself of good living. But also the pleasure of now and then giving : So pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho ! So pleasant it is to have money. They may talk as they please about what they call pelf. And how one ought never to think of one's self, How pleasures of thought surpass eating and drinking, — My pleasure of thought is the pleasure of thinking How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho ! How pleasant it is to have money. II Le Diner Come along, 'tis the time, ten or more minutes past. And he who came first had to wait for the last ; The oysters ere this had been in and been out ; Whilst I have been sitting and thinking about How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho ! How pleasant it is to have -money. A clear soup with eggs ; voila tout ; of the fish The f.lets de sole are a moderate dish A la Orly, but you're for red mullet, you say : By the gods of good fare, who can question to-day How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho ! How pleasant it is to have money. After oysters, sauterne ; then sherry ; champagne. Ere one bottle goes, comes another again ; Ply up, thou bold cork, to the ceiling above, And tell to our ears in the sound that they love How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho ! How pleasant it is to have money. I've the simplest of palates ; absurd it may be. But I almost could dine on a poulet-au-riz, 332 SPECTATOR AB EXTRA Piah and soup and omelette and that — but the deuce - There were to be woodcocks, and not Charlotte Russe ! So pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho ! So pleasant it is to have money. Your chablis is acid, away with the hock. Give me the pure juice of the purple medoo : St. Peray is exquisite ; but, if you please. Some burgundy just before tasting the cheese. So pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho ! So pleasant it is to have money. As for that, pass the bottle, and d — n the expense, I've seen it observed by a writer of sense. That the labouring classes could scarce live a day. If people like us didn't eat, drink, and pay. So useful it is to have money, heigh-ho ! So useful it is to have money. One ought to be grateful, I quite apprehend. Having dinner and supper and plenty to spend. And so suppose now, while the things go away. By way of a grace we all stand up and say How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho ! How pleasant it is to have money. Ill Parvenant I cannot but ask, in the park and the streets When I look at the number of persons one meets. What e'er in the world the poor devils can do Whose fathers and mothers can't give them a sov,. So needful it is to have money, heigh-ho ! So needful it is to have money. I ride, and I drive, and I care not a d — n. The people look up and they ask who I am ; And if I should chance to run over a cad, I can pay for the damage, if ever so bad. So useful it is to have money, heigh-ho ! So useful it is to have money. It was but this winter I came up to town. And already I'm gaining a sort of renown ; Find my way to good houses without much ado, Am beginning to see the nobility too. So useful it is to have money, heigh-ho ! So useful it is to have money. SPECTATOR AB EXTRA 333 O dear what a pity they ever should lose it, Since they are the people that know how to use it ; So easy, so stately, such manners, such dinners. And yet, after all, it is we are the winners. So needful it is to have money, heigh-ho ! So needful it is to have money. It 's all very well to be handsome and tall. Which certainly makes you look well at a ball ; It 's all very well to be clever and witty. But if you are poor, why it 's only a pity. So needful it is to have money, heigh-ho ! So needful it is to have money. There 's something undoubtedly in a fine air, To know how to smile and be able to stare. High breeding is something, but well-bred or not. In the end the one question is, what have you got. So needful it is to have money, heigh-ho ! So needful it is to have monej'. And the angels in pink and the angels in blue. In muslins and moires so lovely and new, What is it they want, and so wish you to guess. But if you have money, the answer is Yes. So needful, they tell you, is money, heigh-ho ! So needful it is to have money. A. H. Clough. 411. NEW-MADE HONOUR A FRIEND I met some half -hour since— ' Good-morrow, Jack ! ' quoth I ; The new-made Knight, like any Prince, Frowned, nodded, and passed by ; When up came Jem — ' Sir John, your slave I ' ' Ah, James ; we dine at eight — Fail not — '(low bows the supple knave) ' Don't make my lady wait.' The King can do no wrong ? As I'm a sinner, He 's spoilt an honest tradesman and my dinner. R. H. BAeham. 334 412. A PIPE OF TOBACCO I. Mb. Phillips's style imitated Little tube of mighty power, Charmer of an idle hour. Object of my warm desire. Lip of wax and eye of fire : And thy snowy taper waist, With my finger gently braced ; And thy swelling ashy crest. With my little stopper pressed ; And the sweetest bliss of blisses, Breathing from thy balmy kisses. Happy thrice and thrice agen — Happiest he of happy men ! Who, when agen the night returns. When agen the taper burns ; When agen the cricket 's gay (Little cricket) full of play, Can afford his tube to feed, With the fragrant Indian weed ; Pleasure for a nose divine, Incense of the god of wine : Happy thrice and thrice agen — Happiest he of happy men ! I. H. Browne. 413. A PIPE OF TOBACCO II. Mr. Pope's style imitated Blest leaf ! whose aromatic gales dispense To templars modesty, to parsons sense : So raptured priests, at famed Dodona's shrine Drank inspiration from the steam divine. Poison that cures, a vapour that affords Content, more solid than the smile of lords : Rest to the weary, to the hungry food, The last kind refuge of the wise and good. Inspired by thee, dull cits adjust the scale Of Europe's peace, when other statesmen fail. By thee protected, and thy sister, beer, Poets rejoice, nor think the bailiff near. Nor less the critic owns thy genial aid, While supperless he plies the piddling trade. What, though to love and soft delights a foe, By ladies hated, hated by the beau. Yet social freedom, long to court unknown. Fair health, fair truth, and virtue are thy own. Come to thy poet, come with healing wings, And let me taste thee unexcised by kings. I. H. Brovitie. 335 414. TO THE REV. WILLIAM BULL June 22, 1782. My dear Friend, If reading verse be your delight, 'Tis mine as much, or more, to write ; But what we would, so weak is man, Lies oft remote from what we can. For instance, at this very time 1 feel a wish, by cheerful rhyme To soothe my friend, and, had I power. To cheat him of an anxious hour ; Not meaning (for I must confess, It were but folly to suppress) His pleasure, or his good alone. But squinting partly at my own. But though the sun is flaming high r th' centre of yon arch, the sky. And he had once (and who but he ?) The name for setting genius free, Yet whether poets of past days Yielded him undeserved praise. And he by no uncommon lot Was famed for virtues he had not ; Or whether, which is like enough. His Highness may have taken huff. So seldom sought with invocation. Since it has been the reigning fashion To disregard his inspiration, I seem no brighter in my wits For all the radiance he emits. Than if I saw, through midnight vapour, The glimmering of a farthing taper. Oh for a succedaneum, then. To accelerate a creeping pen ! Oh for a ready succedaneum. Quod caput, cerebrum, et cranium Pondere liberet exoso, Et morbo jam caliginoso ! 'Tis here ; this oval box well filled With best tobacco, finely milled. Beats all Anticyra's pretences To disengage the encumbered senses. Oh Nymph of Transatlantic fame. Where'er thine haunt, whate'er thy name. Whether reposing on the side Of Oroonoquo's spacious tide. Or listening with delight not small To Niagara's distant fall. 336 TO THE REV. WILLIAM BULL 'Tis thine to cherish and to feed The pungent nose-retreshing weed, Which, whether pulverized it gain A speedy passage to the brain, Or whether, touched with fire, it rise In circling eddies to the skies. Does thought more quicken and refine Than all the breath of all the Nine — Forgive the Bard, if Bard he be, Who once too wantonly made free. To touch with a satiric wipe That symbol of thy power, the pipe ; • So may no blight infest thy plains. And no unseasonable rains. And so may smiling Peace once more Visit America's sad shore ; And thou, secure from all alarms Of thundering drums and glittering arms. Rove unconfined beneath the shade Thy wide-expanded leaves have made ; So may thy votaries increase. And fumigation never cease. May Newton with renewed delights Perform thy odoriferous rites. While clouds of incense half divine Involve thy disappearing shrine ; And so may smoke-inhaling Bull Be always filling, never full. W. COWPBR. 415. SUBLIME TOBACCO Sttbume tobacco ! which from east to west Cheers the tar's labour or the Turkman's rest ; Which on the Moslem's ottoman divides His hours, and rivals opium and his brides ; Magnificent in Stamboul, but less grand. Though not less loved, in Wapping or the Strand Divine in hookas, glorious in a pipe, When tipped with amber, mellow, rich, and ripe ; Like other charmers, wooing the caress. More dazzlingly when daring in full dress ; Yet thy true lovers more admire by far Thy naked beauties — Give me a cigar ! G. Gordon, Lord Byron. 337 416. A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO May the Babylonish curse Strait confound my stammering verse, If I can a passage see In this word-perplexity. Or a fit expression find. Or a language to my mind, (Still the phrase is wide or scant) To take leave of thee, GREAT PLANT Or in any terms relate Half my love, or half my hate : For I hate, yet love, thee so. That, whichever thing I show. The plain truth will seem to be A constrained hyperbole. And the passion to proceed More from a mistress than a weed. Sooty retainer to the vine, Bacchus' black servant, negro fine ; Sorcerer, that mak'st us dote upon Thy begrimed complexion. And, for thy pernicious sake. More and greater oaths to break Than reclaimed lovers take 'Gainst women : thou thy siege dost lay Much too in the female way. While thou suck'st the labouring breath Faster than kisses or than death. Thou in such a cloud dost bind us. That our worst foes cannot find us. And ill-fortune, that would thwart us. Shoots at lovers, shooting at us ; While each man, through thy heightening steam, Does like a smoking Etna seem. And all about us does express (Fancy and wit in richest dress) A Sicilian fruitfulness. Thou through such a mist dost show us. That our best friends do not know us. And, for those allowed features. Due to reasonable creatures, Liken'st us to fell Chimeras, Monsters that, who see us, fear us ; Worse than Cerberus or Geryon, Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion. 338 A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO Bacchus we know, and we allow His tipsy rites. But what art thou That but by reflex canst show What his deity can do. As the false Egyptian spell Aped the true Hebrew miracle ? Some few vapours thou may'st raise. The weak brain may serve to amaze, But to the reins and nobler heart Canst nor life nor heat impart. Brother of Bacchus, later born. The old world was sur« forlorn, Wanting thee, that aidest more The god's victories than before All his panthers, and the brawls Of his piping Bacchanals. These, as stale, we disallow, Or judge of thee meant : only thou Hia true Indian conquest art ; And, for ivy round his dart. The reformed god now weaves A finer thyrsus of thy leaves. Scent to match thy rich perfume Chemic art did ne'er presume Through her quaint alembic strain. None so sovereign to the brain. Nature, that did in thee excel. Framed again no second smell. Roses, violets, but toys For the smaller sort of boys, Or for greener damsels meant ; Thou art the only manly scent. Stinking'st of the stinking kind. Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind. Africa, that brags her foyson. Breeds no such prodigious poison, Henbane, nightshade, both together. Hemlock, aconite — Nay, rather. Plant divine, of rarest virtue ; Blisters on the tongue would hurt you. 'Twas but in a sort I blamed thee ; None e'er prospered who defamed thee ; Irony all, and feigned abuse. Such as perplexed lovers use. A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO 330 At a need, when, in despair To paint forth their fairest fair. Or in part but to express That exceeding comeliness • Which their fancies doth so strike, They borrow language of dislike ; And, instead of Dearest Miss, Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss, And those forms of old admiring. Call her Cockatrice and Siren, Basilisk, and all that 's evil, Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil, Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor, Monkey, Ape, and twenty more ; Friendly Trait'ress, loving Foe, — Not that she is truly so. But no other way they know A contentment to express. Borders so upon excess, That they do not rightly wot Whether it be pain or not. Or as men, constrained to part With what 's nearest to their heart. While their sorrow 's at the height. Lose discrimination quite. And their hasty wrath let fall. To appease their frantic gall. On the darling thing whatever Whence they feel it death to sever. Though it be, as they, perforce, Guiltless of the sad divorce. For I must (nor let it grieve thee. Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee. For thy sake. Tobacco, I Would do any thing but die. And but seek to extend my days Ix>ng enough to sing thy praise. But as she, who once hath been A king's consort, is a queen Ever after, nor will bate Any tittle of her state. Though a widow, or divorced. So I, from thy converse forced, The old name and style retain, A right Katherine of Spain ; And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys Of the blest Tobacco boys ; 340 A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO Where, though I, by sour physician, Am debarred the full fruition Of thy favours, I may catch Some collateral sweets, and snatch Sidelong odours, that give life Like glances from a neighbour's wife ; And still live in the by-places And the suburbs of thy graces ; And in thy borders take delight. An unconquered Canaanite. 417 ODE TO TOBACCO Thott who, when fears attack, Bid'st them avaunt, and Black Care, at the horseman's back Perching, unseatest ; Sweet when^the morn is grey ; Sweet, when they've cleared away Lunch ; and at close of day Possibly sweetest : I have a liking old For thee, though manifold Stories, 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 fusees All grow by slow degrees Brainless as chimpanzees. Meagre as lizards ; Go mad, and beat their wives ; Plunge (after shocking lives) Razors and carving knives Into their gizzards. Confound such knavish tricks ! Yet know I five or six Smokers who freely mix Still with their neighbours ; Jones — (who, I'm glad to say, Asked leave of Mrs. J ) — Daily absorbs a clay After his labours. C. Lamb. ODE TO TOBACCO 341 Cats may have had their goose Cooked by tobacco- juice ; Still why deny its use Thoughtfully taken ? We're not as tabbies are : Smith, take a fresh cigar ! Jones, the tobacco-jar ! Here 's to thee. Bacon ! C. S. Calveeley. 418. THE HEADACHE My head doth ache, O Sappho ! take Thy fillet, And bind the pain ; Or bring some bane To kill it. But less that part. Than my poor heart. Now is sick : One kiss from thee Will counsel be, And physic. R. Heerick. 419. TO MINERVA (Peom ihe Greek) My temples throb, my pulses boil, I'm sick of Song, and Ode, and Ballad — So, Thyrsis, take the Midnight Oil, And pour it on a lobster salad. My brain is dull, my sight is foul, I cannot write a verse, or read, — Then, Pallas, take away thine Owl, And let us have a lark instead. T. Hood. 342 420. THE REMEDY WORSE THAN THE DISEASE I SENT for Ratclifie ; was so ill, That other doctors gave me over : He felt my pulse, prescribed his pill. And I was likely to recover. But when the wit began to wheeze. And wine had warmed the politician. Cured yesterday of my disease, I died last night of my physician. M. Prioeu 421. ADVICE TO A LADY IN AUTUMN Asses' milk, half a pint, take at seven, or before. Then sleep for an hour or two, and no more. At nine stretch your arms, and, oh ! think when alone There 's no pleasure in bed. — Mary, bring me my gown. Slip on that ere you rise ; let your caution be such ; Keep all cold from your breast, there 's already too much ; Your pinners set right, your twitcher tied on, Your prayers at an end, and your breakfast quite done. Retire to some author improving and gay, And with sense like your own, set your mind for the day. At twelve you may walk, for at this time o' the year. The sun, like your wit, is as mild as 'tis clear : But mark in the meadows the ruin of time ; Take the hint, and let life be improved in its prime. Return not in haste, nor of dressing take heed ; For beauty like yours no assistance can need. With an appetite thus down' to dinner you sit. Where the chief of the feast is the flow of your wit : Let this be indulged, and let laughter go round ; As it pleases your mind to your health 'twill redound. After dinner two glasses at least, I approve ; Name the first to the King, and the last to your love : Thus cheerful, with wisdom, with innocence, gay. And calm with your joys, gently glide through the day. The dews of the evening most carefully shun ; Those tears of the sky for the loss of the sun. Then in chat, or at play, with a dance or a song, Let the night, like the day, pass with pleasure along. All cares, but of love, banish far from your mind ; And those you may end, when you please to be kind. P. Stanhope, Earl of Chesterfield. 343 422. THE SECRETARY While with labour assiduous due pleasure I mix. And in one day atone for the business of six, In a little Dutch chaise, on a Saturday night. On my left hand my Horace, a nymph on my right ; No memoirs to compose, and no post-boy to move. That on Sunday may hinder the softness of love. For her neither visits nor parties at tea. Nor the long-winded cant of a dull refugee. This night and the next shall be hers, shall be mine. To good or ill fortune the third we resign. Thus scorning the world, and superior to fate, I drive in my car in professional state. So with Phia through Athens Pisistratus rode ; Men thought her Minerva, and him a new god. But why should I stories of Athens rehearse Where people knew love, and were partial to verse. Since none can with justice my pleasures oppose In Holland half-drowned in interest and prose ? By Greece and past ages what need I be tried When The Hague and the present are both on my side ; And is it enough for the joys of the day To think what Anacreon or Sappho would say ? When good Vandergoes and his provident vrow. As they gaze on my triumph do freely allow. That, search all the province, you'll find no man dar is So blest as the Englishen Heer Secretar' is. The Hague, 1696. M. Price. 423. TO Composed at Rotteedam I GAZE upon a city, A city new and strange ; Down many a watery vista My fancy takes a range ; From side to side I saunter. And wonder where I am ; — And can you be in England, And I at Rotterdam ! Before me lie dark waters. In broad canals and deep. Whereon the silver moonbeams Sleep, restless in their sleep : 344 TO A sort of vulgar Venice Reminds me where I am, — Yes, yes, you are in England, And I'm at Kotterdam. Tall houses with quaint gables. Where frequent windows shine. And quays that lead to bridges, And trees in formal line. And masts of spicy vessels, Prom distant Surinam, All tell me you're in England, And I'm in Rotterdam. Those sailors — how outlandish The face and garb of each ! They deal in foreign gestures. And use a foreign speech ; A tongue not learned near Isis, Or studied by the Cam, Declares that you're in England, But I'm at Rotterdam. And now across a market My doubtful way I trace. Where stands a solemn statue. The Genius of the place ; And to the great Erasmus I offer my salaam, — Who tells me you're in England, And I'm at Rotterdam. The coffee-room is open, I mingle in its crowd ; The dominoes are rattling. The hookahs raise a cloud ; A flavour, none of Fearon's, That mingles with my dram. Reminds me you're in England, But I'm in Rotterdam. Then here it goes, a bumper, — The toast it shall be mine. In Schiedam, or in sherry, Tokay, or hock of Rhine, — It well deserves the brightest. Where sunbeam ever swam — ' The girl I love in England ', I drink at Rotterdam ! T. Hood. 345 424. TO SALLY The man in righteousness arrayed, A pure and blameless liver, Needs not the keen Toledo blade. Nor venom-freighted quiver. What though he wind his toilsome way O'er regions wild and weary — Through Zara's burning desert stray, Or Asia's jungles dreary : What though he plough the billowy deep By lunar light, or solar. Meet the resistless Simoon's sweep. Or iceberg circumpolar ! In bog or quagmire deep and dank His foot shall never settle ; He mounts the summit of Mont Blanc, Or Popocatapetl. On Chimborazo's breathless height He treads o'er burning lava ; Or snuffs the Bohan Upas blight. The deathful plant of Java. Through every peril he shall pass, By Virtue's shield protected ; And still by Truth's unerring glass His path shall be directed. Else wherefore was it, Thursday last. While strolling down the valley. Defenceless, musing as I passed A canzonet to Sally, A wolf, with mouth-protruding snout. Forth from the thicket bounded — I clapped my hands and raised a shout — He heard — and fled — confounded. Tangier nor Tunis never bred An animal more crabbed ; Nor Fez, dry-nurse of lions, fed A monster half so rabid ; Nor Ararat so fierce a beast Has seen since days of Noah ; Nor stronger, eager for a feast. The fell constrictor boa. J. Q. Adams. 346 425. FAREWELL TO MALTA Adieu, ye joys of La Valette ! Adieu, sirocco, sun, and sweat ! Adieu, thou palace rarely entered ! Adieu, ye mansions where — I've ventured ! Adieu, ye cursed streets of stairs ! (How surely he who mounts you swears !) Adieu, ye merchants often failing ! Adieu, thou mob for ever railing ! Adieu, ye packets — without letters ! Adieu, ye fools — who ape your betters ! Adieu, thou damned'st quarantine. That gave me fever, and the spleen ! Adieu, that stage which makes us yawn. Sirs, Adieu, his Excellency's dancers ! Adieu to Peter — whom no fault 's in. But could not teach a colonel waltzing ; Adieu, ye females fraught with graces ! Adieu, red coats, and redder faces ! Adieu, the supercilious air Of all that strut ' en militaire ! ' 1 go— but God knows when, or why. To smoky towns and cloudy sky. To things (the honest truth to say) As bad— but in a different way. Farewell to these, but not adieu. Triumphant sons of truest blue ! While either Adriatic shore, And fallen chiefs, and fleets no more. And nightly smiles, and daily dinners. Proclaim you war and woman's winners. Pardon my Muse, who apt to prate is. And take my rhyme — because 'tis ' gratis '. And now, O Malta ! since thou'st got us. Thou little military hothouse ! I'll not offend with words uncivil. And wish thee rudely at the Devil, But only stare from out my casement. And ask, for what is such a place meant ? Then, in my solitary nook, Return to scribbling, or a book. Or take my physic while I'm able (Two spoonfuls hourly by the label), Prefer my nightcap to my beaver. And bless the gods I've got a fever. G. Gordon, Lord Byron. 347 426. LINES TO MR. HODGSON Weitten on board the Lisbon Packet Huzza ! Hodgaon, we are going. Our embargo 's off at last ; Favourable breezes blowing Bend the canvas o'er the mast. From aloft the signal 's streaming. Hark ! the farewell gun is fired ; Women screeching, tars blaspheming, Tell us that our time 's expired. Here 's a rascal Come to task all, Prying from the custom-house Trunks unpacking. Cases cracking. Not a corner for a mouse 'Scapes unsearched amid the racket. Ere we sail on board the Packet. Now our boatmen quit their mooring, And all hands must ply the oar ; Baggage from the quay is lowering. We're impatient, push from shore. ' Have a care ! that case holds liquor — Stop the boat — I'm sick — oh Lord ! ' ' Sick, ma'am, hang it, you'll be sicker Ere you've been an hour on board.' Thus are screaming Men and women, Gemmen, ladies, servants. Jacks ; Here entangling. All are wrangling. Stuck together close as wax. — Such the general noise and racket, Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet. Now we've reached her, lo ! the captain. Gallant Kidd, commands the crew ; Passengers their berths are clapped in. Some to grumble, some to spew. ' Heyday ! call you that a cabin ? Why 'tis hardly three feet square : Not enough to stow Queen Mab in — Who the deuce can harbour there ? ' ' Who, sir ? plenty — Nobles twenty Did at once my vessel fill.' — 348 LINES TO MR. HODGSON ' Did they ? Bacchus, How you pack us ! Would to Heaven they did so still : Then I 'd scape the heat and racket Of the good ship, Lisbon Packet.' Fletcher ! Murray ! Bob ! where are you ? Stretched along the deck like logs — Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you ! Here 's a rope's end for the dogs. Hobhouse muttering fearful curses. As the hatchway down he rolls Now his breakfast, now his verses, Vomits forth — and d — s our souls. ' Here 's a stanza On Braganza — Help ! '— ' A couplet ? '— ' No, a cup Of warm water — ' ' What 's the matter ? ' ' Zounds ! my liver 's coming up ; I shall not survive the racket Of this brutal Lisbon Packet.' Now at length we're off for Turkey, Lord knows when we shall come back ! Breezes foul and tempests murky May unship us in a crack. But, since life at most a jest is, As philosophers allow. Still to laugh by far the best is. Then laugh on — as I do now. Laugh at all things. Great and small things. Sick or well, at sea or shore ; While we're quaffing. Let's have laughing— Who the devil cares for more ? — Some good wine ! and who would lack it, Ev'n on board the Lisbon Packet ? G. Gordon, Lord Byhon. 427. HAD CAIN BEEN SCOT Had Cain been Scot, God would have changed his doom, — Not forced him wander, but confined him home. J. Cleveland. 349 428. EPISTLE FROM ALGIERS To Horace Smith Dear Horace ! be melted to tears, For I'm melting with heat as I rime ; Though the name of the place is Algiers 'Tis no joke to fall in with its clime. With a shaver from France who came o'er, To an African inn I ascend ; I am cast on a barbarous shore, Where a barber alone is my friend. Do you ask me the sights and the news Of this wonderful city to sing ? Alas ! my hotel has its mews. But no muse of the Helicon's spring. My windows afford me the sight Of a people all diverse in hue ; They are black, yellow, olive, and white. Whilst I in my sorrow look blue. Here are groups for the painter to take. Whose fingers jocosely combine, — The Arab disguised in his haik. And the Frenchman disguised in his wine. In his breeches of petticoat size You may say, as the Mussulman goes. That his garb is a fair compromise 'Twixt a kilt and a pair of small-clothes. The Mooresses, shrouded in white, Save two holes for their eyes to give room. Seem like corpses in sport or in spite That have slily whipped out of their tomb. The old Jewish dames make me sick : If I were the devil — I declare Such hags should not mount a broom-stick In my service to ride through the air. But hipped and undined as I am. My hippogriff's course I must rein — For the pain of my thirst is no sham. Though I'm bawling aloud for Champagne. 350 EPISTLE FROM ALGIERS Dinner 's brought ; but their wines have no pith — They are flat as the statutes at law ; And for all that they bring me, dear Smith ! Would a glass of brown stout they could draw ! O'er each French trashy dish as I bend, My heart feels a patriot's grief ! And the round tears, O England ! descend When I think on a round of thy beef. Yes, my soul sentimentally craves British beer. — Hail, Britannia, hail ! To thy flag on the foam of the waves. And the foam on thy flagons of ale. Yet I own, in this hour of my drought, A dessert has most welcomely come ; Here are peachies that melt in the mouth. And grapes blue and big as a plum. There are melons too, luscious and great. But the slices I eat shall be few. For from melons incautiously eat Melancholic effects may ensue. Horrid pun ! you'll exclaim ; but be calm. Though my letter bears date, as you view. From the land of the date-bearing palm, I will palm no more puns upon you. T. Campbell. 429. COLOGNE In Koln, a town of monks and bones, And pavements fanged with murderous stones. And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches ; I counted two and seventy stenches. All well defined, and several stinks ! Ye Nymphs that reign o'er sewers and sinks, The river Rhine, it is well known. Doth wash your city of Cologne ; But tell me, Nymphs ! what power divine Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine ? S. T. Coleridge. 351 430. THE VENETIAN SERENADE When along the light ripple the far serenade Has accosted the ear of each passionate maid. She may open the window that looks on the stream, — She may smile on her pillow and blend it in dream ; Half in words, half in music, it pierces the gloom, ' I am coming — Stall — but you know not for whom ! Stall — not for whom ! ' Now the tones become clearer — you hear more and more How the water divided returns on the oar, — Does the prow of the gondola strike on the stair ? Do the voices and instruments pause and prepare ? Oh ! they faint on the ear as the lamp on the view, ' I am coming — Premi — but I stay not for you ! Premi — not for you ! ' Then return to your couch, you who stifle a tear. Then awake not, fair sleeper — believe he is here ; For the young and the loving no sorrow endures. If to-day be another's, to-morrow'is yours ; — May, the next time you listen, your fancy be true, ' I am coming — Sciar — and for you and to you ! Sciar — and to you ! ' K. M. MiLNES, Lord Houghton. 431. OCCASIONED BY READING THE TRAVELS OF CAPTAIN LEMUEL GULLIVER To QuiNBtJS Flestrin, the Man-Mountain An ode by Tilly-tit, poet-laureate to his Majesty of Lilliput Translated into English In amaze. Lost J gaze. Can our eyes Reach thy size ? May my lays Swell with praise, Worthy thee ! Worthy me ! 352 TO THE MAN-MOUNTAIN Muse, inspire. All thy fire ! Bards of old Of him told. When they said Atlas' head Propped the skies : See I and believe your eyes i See him stride Valleys wide. Over woods. Over floods ! When he treads Mountains' heads Groan and shake : Armies quake : Lest his spurn Overturn Man and steed : Troops, take heed ! Left and right. Speed your flight ! Lest an host Beneath his foot be lost. Turned aside. From his hide. Safe from wound. Darts rebound. From his nose Clouds he blows : When he speaks. Thunder breaks ! When he eats. Famine threats ! When he drinks, Neptune shrinks ! Nigh thy ear In mid air. On thy hand Let me stand ; . So shall I, Lofty poet, touch the sky. A. Pope. 353 432. TO MADAME DE DAMAS LEARNING ENGLISH Thotjgh British accents your attention fire. You cannot learn so fast as- we admire. Scholars like you can slowly but improve. For who would teach you but the verb ' I love ' ? H. Walpolb, Earl of Oefoed. 433. THE GROVES OF BLARNEY The groves of Blarney, Tliey look so charming, Down by the purlings Of sweet silent brooks. All decked by posies That spontaneous grew there. Planted in order In the rocky nooks. 'Tis there the daisy. And the sweet carnation. The blooming pink, And the rose so fair ; Likewise the lily. And the daffodilly — All flowers that scent The sweet open air. 'Tis Lady Jefters Owns this plantation ; Like Alexander, Or like Helen fair, There 's no commander In all the nation, For regulation. Can with her compare. Such walls surround her, That no nine-pounder Could ever plunder Her place of strength ; But Oliver Cromwell, Her he did pommel, And made a breach In her battlement. There is a cave where No daylight enters. But cats and badgers 354 THE GROVES OF BLARNEY Are for ever bred ; And mossed by nature Makes it completer Than a ooaoh-and-six. Or a downy bed. 'Tis there the lake is Well stored with fishes. And comely eels in The verdant mud ; Besides the leeches. And groves of beeches. Standing in order To guard the flood. There gravel walks are For recreation, And meditation In sweet solitude. 'Tis there the lover May hear the dove, or The gentle plover, In the afternoon ; And if a lady Would be so engaging As for to walk in Those shady groves, 'Tis there the courtier Might soon transport her Into some fort, or The ' sweet rook-close '. There are statues graciag^ This noble place in — All heathen gods. And nymphs so fair ; Bold Neptune, Caesar, And Nebuchadnezzar, All standing naked In the open air ! There is a boat on The lake to float on. And lots of beauties Which I can't entwine r. But were I a preacher. Or a classic teacher. In every feature I'd make 'em shine 1 THE GROVES OP BLARNEY 355 There is a stone there That whoever kisses, Oh ! he never misses To grow eloquent. 'Tis he may clamber To a lady's chamber. Or become a member Of Parliament : A clever spouter He'll sure turn out, or An out-and-outer, ' To be let alone.' Don't hope to hinder him, Or to bewilder him ; Sure he 's a pilgrim From the Blarney stone ! R. A. RIiLLiKiN. 434. THE SHANDON BELLS With deep affection. And recollection, I often think of Those Shandon bells. Whose sounds so wild would, In the days of childhood. Fling around my cradle Their magic spells. On this I ponder Where'er I wander. And thus grow fonder. Sweet Cork, of thee ; With thy bells of Shandon, That sound so grand on The pleasant waters Of the Biver Lee. I've heard bells chiming Full many a clime in. Tolling sublime in Cathedral shrine. While at a glib rate Brass tongues would vibrate — But all the music Spoke naught like thine ; For memory, dwelling On each proud swelling 356 THE SHANDON BELLS Of the belfry knelling Its bold notes free, Made the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters Of the River Lee. I've heard bells tolling Old Adrian's Mole in, . Their thunder rolling Prom the Vatican, And cymbals glorious Swinging uproarious In the glorious turrets Of Notre Dame ; But thy sounds were sweeter Than the dome of Peter Flings o'er the Tiber, Pealing solemnly ; — O, the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters Of the River Lee. There 's a bell in Moscow, While in tower and kiosk O In Saint Sophia ■ The Turkman gets ; And loud in air Calls men to prayer From the tapering summits Of tall minarets. Such empty phantom I freely grant them ; But there 's an anthem More dear to me, — 'Tis the bells of Shandon That sound so grand on The pleasant waters Of the River Lee. F. S. Mahony (Father Proot). 357 433. KITTY OF COLERAINE As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping. With a pitcher o£ milk from the fair of Coleraine, When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher it tumbled, And all the sweet butter-milk watered the plaia. O, what shall I do now, 'twas looking at you now, Sure, sure, such a pitcher I'll ne'er meet again, 'Twas the pride of my dairy, 0, Barney M'Leary, You're sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine. I sat down beside her, — and gently did chide her. That such a misfortune should give her such pain, A kiss then I gave her, — before I did leave her. She vowed for such pleasure she'd break it again. 'Twas hay-making season, I can't tell the reason. Misfortunes will never come single, — that 's plain. For, very soon after poor Kitty's disaster, The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine. E. Ltsaght. 436. PEG OF LIMAVADDY Riding from Coleraine (Famed for lovely Kitty), Came a Cockney bound Unto Derry city ; Weary was his soul. Shivering and sad, he Bumped along the road Leads to Limavaddy. Mountains stretched around, Gloomy was their tinting. And the horse's hoofs Made a dismal dinting ; Wind upon the heath Howling was and piping. On the heath and bog, Black with many a snipe in, 'Mid the bogs of black, Silver pools were flashing, Crows upon their sides Picking were and splashing. 358 PEG OF LIMAVADDY Cockney on the car Closer folds his plaidy. Grumbling at the road Leads to Limavaddy. Through the crashing woods Autumn brawled and blustered. Tossing round about Leaves the hue of mustard ; Yonder lay Lough Foyle, Which a storm was whipping, Covering with mist Lake, and shores, and shipping. Up and down the hill (Nothing could be bolder), Horse went with a raw Bleeding on his shoulder. ' Where are horses changed ? ' Said I to the laddy Driving on the box : ' Sir, at Limavaddy.' Limavaddy inn 's But a liumble baithouse. Where you may procure Whisky and potatoes ; Landlord at the door Gives a smiling welcome To the shivering wights Who to his hotel come. Landlady within Sits and knits a stocking. With a wary foot Baby's cradle rocking. To the chimney nook Having found admittance, There I watch a pup Playing with two kittens (Playing round the fire. Which of blazing turf is. Roaring to the pot Which bubbles with the murphies) ; And the cradled babe Fond the mother nursed it, Singing it a song As she twists the worsted I Up and down the stair Two more young ones patter PEG OF LIMAVADDY 359 (Twins were never seen Dirtier nor fatter) ; Both have mottled legs. Both have snubby noses, Both have — Here the host Kindly interposes : ' Sure you must be froze With the sleet and hail, sir, So will you have some punch, Or will you have some ale, sir ? Presently a maid Enters with the liquor (Half a pint of ale Frothing in a beaker). Gads ! I didn't know What my beating heart meant, Hebe's self, I thought. Entered the apartment. As she came she smiled. And the smile bewitching. On my word and honour. Lighted all the kitchen ! With a curtsy neat Greeting the new-comer Lovely, smiling Peg Offers me the rummer ; But my trembling hand Up the beaker tilted. And the glass of ale Every drop I spilt it : Spilt it every drop (Dames, who read my volumes, Pardon such a word) On my what-d'ye-call-'ems Witnessing the sight Of that dire disaster. Out began to laugh Missis, maid, and master ; Such a merry peal, 'Specially Miss Peg's was (As the glass of ale Trickling down my legs was), That the joyful sound Of that mingling laughter Echoed in my ears Many a long day after. 360 PEG OF LIMAVADDY Such a silver peal ! In the meadows listening. You who've heard the bells Ringing to a christening ; You who ever heard Caradori pretty, Smiling like an angel, Sipging Giovinetti ; Fancy Peggy's laugh, Sweet, and clear, and cheerful. At my pantaloons With half a pint of beer full ! When the laugh was done. Peg, the pretty hussy. Moved about the room Wonderfully busy ; Now she looks to see If the kettle keep hot ; Now she rubs the spoons. Now she cleans the tea-pot ; Now she sets the cups Trimly and secure ; Now she scours a pot. And so it was I drew her. Thus it was I drew her Scouring of a kettle (Faith ! her blushing cheeks Reddened on the metal). Ah ! but 'tis in vain That I try to sketch it ; The pot perhaps is like, But Peggy's face is wretched. No : the best of lead And of indiarubber. Never could depict That sweet kettle-scrubber ! See her as she moves ! Scarce the ground she touches, Airy as a fay. Graceful as a duchess ; Bare her rounded arm. Bare her little leg is, Vestris never showed Ankles like to Peggy's ; PEG OF LIMAVADDY 361 Braided is her hair. Soft her look and modest, Slim her little waist Comfortably bodiced. This I do declare, Happy is the laddy Who the heart can share Of Peg of Limavaddy ; Married if she were. Blest would be the daddy Of the children fair Of Peg of Limavaddy. Beauty is not rare In the land of Paddy, Fair beyond compare Is Peg of Limavaddy. Citizen or Squire, Tory, Whig, or Radi- cal would all desire Peg of Limavaddy. Had I Homer's fire. Or that of Serjeant Taddy, Meetly I'd admire Peg of Limavaddy. And till I expire, Or till I grow mad, I Will sing unto my lyre Peg of Limavaddy ! W. M. Thackeeay. 437. IRELAND NEVER WAS CONTENTED Ireland never was contented. Say you so ? You are demented. Ireland was contented when All could use the sword and pen. And when Tara rose so high That her turrets split the sky. And about her courts were seen Liveried angels robed in green. Wearing, by St. Patrick's bounty, Emeralds big as half the county. W. S. Landoe. n3 362 438. THE BATTLE OP LIMERICK Ye Genii of the nation, Who look with veneration. And Ireland's desolation onsaysingly deplore; Ye sons of General Jackson, Who thrample on the Saxon, Attend to the thransaction upon Shannon shore. When William, Duke of Schumbug, A tyrant and a humbug. With cannon and with thunder on our city bore, Our fortitude and valliance Insthructed his battalions To rispict the galliant Irish upon Shannon shore. Since that capitulation. No city in this nation So grand a reputation could boast before. As Limerick prodigious. That stands with quays and bridges. And the ships up to the windies of the Shannon shore. A chief of ancient line, 'Tis William Smith O'Brine, Reprisints this darling Limerick, this ten years or mora Oh, the Saxons can't endure To see him on the flure. And thrimble at the Cicero from Shannon shore ! This valliant son of Mars Had been to visit Par's, That land of Revolution, that grows the tricolor ; And to welcome his returrn From pilgrimages furren, We invited him to tay on the Shannon store. Then we summoned to our board Young Meagher of the Sword : 'Tis he will sheath that battle-axe in Saxon gore ; And Mitchil of Belfast We bade to our repast. To dthrink a dish of coffee on the Shannon shore. Convaniently to hould These patriots so bould. We tuck the opportunity of Tim Doolan's store ; And with ornamints and banners (As becomes gintale good manners) We made the loveliest tay-room upon Shannon shore. THE BATTLE OF LIMERIGK 363 'Twould binifit your sowls To see the butthered rowls. The sugar-tongs and sangwidges and craim galyore, And the muflBns and the crumpets. And the band of harps and thrumpets. To celebrate the sworry upon Shannon shore. Sure the Imperor of Bohay Would be proud to dthrink the tay That Misthress Biddy Rooney for O' Brine did pour ; And, since the days of Strongbow, There never was such Congo — Mitohil dthrank six quarts of it — by Shannon shore. But Clarndon and Corry Connellan beheld this sworry With rage and imulation in their black hearts' core ; And they hired a gang of ruffins To interrupt the muffins And the fragrance of the Congo on the Shannon shore. When full of tay and cake, O'Brine began to spake. But juice a one could hear him, for a sudden roar Of a ragamuffin rout Began to yell and shout. And frighten the propriety of Shannon shore. As Smith O'Brine harangued. They batthered and they banged : Tim Doolan's doors and windies down they tore ; They smashed the lovely windies (Hung with muslin from the Indies), Purshuing of their shindies upon Shannon shore. With throwing of brickbats. Drowned puppies, and dead rats, These ruffin democrats themselves did lower ; Tin kettles, rotten eggs, Cabbage-stalks, and wooden legs. They flung among the patriots of Shannon shore. Oh, the girls began to scrame And upset the milk and orame ; And the honourable gintlemin, they cursed and swore : And Mitchil of Belfast, 'Twas he that looked aghast. When they roasted him in eifigy by Shannon shore. 364 THE BATTLE OF LIMERICK Oh, the lovely tay was spilt On that day of Ireland's guilt ; Says Jack Mitchil, ' I am kilt ! Boys, where 's the back door ? 'Tis a national disgrace ; Let me go and veil me face ; ' And he boulted with quick pace from the Shannon shore. ' Cut down the bloody horde ! ' Says Meagher of the Sword, ' This conduct would disgrace any blackamore ' ; But the best use Tommy made Of his famous battle blade Was to cut his own stick from the Shannon shore. Immortal Smith O'Brine Was raging like a line ; 'Twould have done your sowl good to have heard him roar ; In his glory he arose. And he rushed upon his foes, But they hit him on the nose by the Shannon shore. Then the Futt and the Dthragoons In squadthrons and platoons. With their music playing chunes, down upon us bore ; And they bate the rattatoo. But the Peelers came in view. And ended the shaloo on the Shannon shore. W. JI. Thackeray. 439. WOMEN'S LONGING Tell me what is that only thing For which all women long ; Yet having what they most desire, To have it does them wrong ? 'Tis not to be chaste nor fair, (Such gifts malice may impair), Richly trimmed, to walk or ride, Or to wanton unespied. To preserve an honest name And so to give it up to fame — These are toys. In good or ill They desire to have their will : Yet when they have it, they abuse it. For they know not how to use it. J. Fletcher. 365 440. THE WISH Well then, I now do plainly see This busy world and I shall ne'er agree. The very honey of all earthly joy Does, of all meats, the soonest cloy ; And they, methinks, deserve my pity Who for it can endvire the stings. The crowd and buzz and murmurings Of this great hive, the city ! Ah yet, ere I descend to the grave. May I a small house and large garden have ; And a few friends, and many books, both true. Both wise, and both delightful too ! And since Love ne'er will from me flee, — A Mistress moderately fair. And good as guardian angels are, Only beloved, and loving me ! O founts ! Oh, when in you shall I Myself eased of unpeaceful thoughts espy ? O fields ! O woods ! when, when shall I be made The happy tenant of your shade ? Here 's the spring-head of Pleasure's flood ! Here 's wealthy Nature's treasury. Where all the riches he that she Has coined and stamped for good. Pride and ambition here Only in far-fetched metaphors appear ; Here naught but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter. And naught but echo flatter. The gods, when they descended, hither From heaven did always choose their way ; And therefore we may boldly say That 'tis the way too thither. How happy here should I And one dear She Uve, and embracing die ! She who is all the world, and can exclude In deserts solitude. I should have then this only fear : Lest men, when they my pleasures see. Should hither throng to live like me. And so make a city here. A. Cowley. 366 441. THE OLD MAN'S WISH If I live to grow old (for I find I go down !) Let this be my fate in a country town : Let me have a warm house, with a stone at the gate ; And a cleanly young girl to rub my bald pate : May I govern my passions with an absolute sway, And grow wiser and better as my strength wears away. Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay. In a country town, by a murmuring brook. The ocean at distance, on which I may look , With a spacious plain, without hedge or stile. And an easy pad-nag to ride out a mile ; With a pudding on Sunday, and stout humming liquor. And remnants of Latin to puzzle the vicar ; With a hidden reserve of Burgundy wine To drink the King's health as oft as I dine : With Plutarch and Horace and one or two more Of the best wits that lived in the ages before ; With a dish of roast mutton, not venison nor teal. And clean, though coarse, linen at every meal : And if I should have guests I must add to my wish, On Fridays, a mess of good buttered fish ; For full well I do know, and the truth I reveal, I had better do so than come short of a meal : With breeches and jerkin of good country grey ; And live without working, now my strength doth decay ; With a hogshead of sherry, for to drink when I please. With friends to be merry, and to live at my ease. Without molestation, may I spend my last days In sweet recreation ; and sound forth the praise Of all those that are true to the King and his laws ; Since it be their due, they shall have my applause. When the days are grown short and it freezes and snows. May I have a coal fire as high as my nose ! A iire which, once stirred xip with a prong. Will keep the room temperate all the night long. With courage undaunted, may I face my last day ; And when I am dead may the better sort say, ' In the morning, when sober ; in the evening, when mellow. He is gone, and has left not behind him his fellow. For he governed his passions with an absolute sway, And grew wiser and better, as his strength wore away. Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay.' W. Pope. 367 442. TO-MORROW In the downhill of life when I find I'm declining. May my fate no less fortunate be, Than a snug elbow-oliair will afford for reclining, And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea ; With an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er the lawn. While I carol away idle sorrow ; And, blythe as the lark that each day hails the dawn. Look forward with hope to To-morrow. With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade, too. As the sunshine or rain may prevail ; And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade, too. With a barn for the use of the flail : A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game. And a purse when a man wants to borrow, I'll envy no nabob his riches or fame, Or what honours may wait him To-morrow. From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely Secured, by a neighbouring hill ; And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly. By the sound of a murmuring rill : And while peace and plenty I find at my board, With a heart free from sickness and sorrow. With my friends let me share what to-day may afford, And let them spread the table To-morrow. And when I, at last, must throw oS this frail covering, Which I've worn for three-score years and ten. On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hovering. Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again ; But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey. And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow, As this old worn-out stuff, which is threadbare to-day, May become everlasting To-morrow. J. Collins. 443. THE LADY WHO OFFERS HER LOOKING-GLASS TO VENUS Venus, take my votive glass ; Since I am not what I was, What from this day I shall be, Venus, let me never see. M. Prior. 368 444. CONTENTMENT 'Man wants but little here below.' — Ooldsmith. Little I ask ; my wants are few ; I only wish a hut of stone (A very plain brown stone will do), That I may call my own ; — And close at hand is such a one, In yonder street that fronts the sun. Plain food is quite enough for me ; Three courses are as good as ten ; — If Nature can subsist on tliree, Thank Heaven for three. Amen ! I always thought cold victual nice ; — My choice would be vanilla-ice. I care not much for gold or land ; — Give me a mortgage here and there, — Some good bank-stock, — some note of hand, Or trifling railroad share ; — I only ask that Fortune send A little more than I shall spend. Honours are silly toys, I know. And titles are but empty names ; — I would, perhaps, be Plenipo, — But only near St. James ; I'm very sure I should not care To fill the Gubernator's chair. Jewels are baubles ; 'tis a sin To care for such unfruitful things ; — One good-sizod diamond in a pin, — Some, not so large, in rings, — A ruby, and a pearl, or so. Will do for me ; — I laugh at show. My dame shall dress in cheap attire (Good, heavy silks are never dear) ; — I own perhaps I might desire Some shawls of true Cashmere, — Some marrowy crapes of China silk. Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk. I would not have the horse I drive So fast that folks must stop and stare ; An easy gait, — two, forty-five — Suits me ; I do not care ; — Perhaps, for just a single spurt. Some seconds less would do no hurt. CONTENTMENT 369 Of pictures I should like to own Titians and Raphaels three or four, — I love so much their style and tone, — ■ One Turner, and no more, — (A landscape, — foreground golden dirt, — The sunshine painted with a squirt.) Of books but few, — some fifty score For daily use, and bound for wear ; The rest upon an upper floor ; — Some little luxury there Of red morocco's gilded gleam. And vellum rich as country cream. Busts, cameos, gems, — such thin^ as these. Which others often show for pride, / value for their power to please. And selfish churls deride' ; One Stradivarius, I confesiis, Tv:o Meerschaums, I would fain possess. Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not leam. Nor ape the glittering upstart fool ; — Shall not carved tables serve my turn. But all must be of buhl ? Give grasping pomp its double share, — I ask but one recumbent chair. Tlius humble let me live and die, Nor long for Midas' golden touch. If Heaven more generous gifts deny, I shall not miss them much, — Too grateful for the blessing lent Of simple tastes and mind content ! 0. W. Holmes. 445. EHEU FUGACES What Horace says is, Eheu fugaces Anni labuntur, Postume, Postume / Years glide away, and are lost to me, lost to me ! Now, when the folks in the dance sport their merry toes, Taglionis and Ellslers, Duvemays and Ceritos, Sighing I murmur, ' mihi praeteritos I ' R. H. Baeham. 370 446. WRITTEN IN A YOUNG LADY'S ALBUM A PRETTY task, Miss S , to ask A Benedictine pen, That cannot quite at freedom write Like those of other men. No lover's plaint my Muse must paint To fill tliis page's span. But be correct and recollect I'm not a single man. Pray only think for pen and ink How hard to get along. That may not turn on words that burn Or Love, the life of song ! Nine Muses, if I chooses, I May woo all in a clan. But one Miss S I daren't address — I'm not a single man. Scribbles unwed, with little head May eke it out with heart. And in their lays it often plays A rare first-iiddle part. They make a kiss to rhyme with bliss. But if / so began, I have my fears about my ears — I'm not a single man. Upon your cheek I may not speak. Nor on your lip be warm, I miist be wise about your eyes. And formal with your form. Of all that sort of thing, in short. On T. H. Bayly's plan, I must not twine a single line — I'm not a single man. A watchman's part compels my heart To keep you off its heat. And I might dare as soon to swear At you, as at your feet. I can't expire in passion's fire As other poets can- — My life (she 's by) won't let me die — I'm not a single man. WRITTEN IN A YOUNG LADY'S ALBUM 371 Shut out from love, denied a dove. Forbidden bow and dart, Without a groan to call my own, With neither hand nor heart, To Hymen vowed, and not allowed To flirt e'en with your fan. Here end, as just a friend, I must — I'm not a single man. T. Hood. 447. WHY WRITE 31 T NAME Why write my name 'midst songs and flowers. To meet the eye of lady gay ? I have no voice for lady's bowers — For page like this no fitting lay. Yet though my heart no more must bound At witching call of sprightly joys. Mine is the brow that never frowned On laughing lips, or sparkling eyes. No — ^though behind me now is closed The youthful paradise of Love, Yet can I bless, with soul composed, The lingerers in that happy grove ! Take, then, fair girls, my blessing take ! Where'er amid its charms you roam ; Or where, by western hill or lake. You brighten a serener home. And while the youthful lover's name. Here with the sister beauty's blends, Laugh not to scorn the humbler aim. That to their list would add a friend's ! Fkancis, Lobd Jeffbey. 448. SENEX TO MATT. PRIOR Ah ! Matt. : old age has brought to me Thy wisdom, less thy certainty : The world 's a jest, and joy 's a trinket : I knew that once : but now — I think it. J. K. Stephen. 372 449. 'TIS LATE, AND I MUST HASTE AWAY 'Tis late, and I must haste away, My usual hour of rest is near — And do you press me, youths, to stay — To stay and revel longer here ? Then give me back the scorn of care Which spirits light in health allow. And give me back the dark brown hair Which curled upon my even brow. And give me back the sportive jest Which once could midnight hours beguile ; The life that bounded in my breast, And joyous youth's becoming smile : And give me back the fervid soul Which love inflamed with strange delight. When erst I sorrowed o'er the bowl At Chloe'a coy and wanton flight. 'Tis late, and I must haste away. My usual hour of rest is near — But give me these, and I will stay — Will stay till noon, and revel here ! W. Lamb, Viscount Melbourne. 450. ON THE DOWAGER LADY E. H D Vain are the charms of white and red, Which divide the blooming fair ; Give me the nymph whose snow is spread Not o'er her breast, but hair. Of smoother cheeks, the winning grace. As open forces I defy ; But in the wrinkles of her face Cupids, as in ambush, lie. If naked eyes set hearts on blaze. And amorous warmth inspire ; Through glass who darts her pointed rays. Lights up a fiercer fire ! W. PuLTBNEY, Earl op Bath. 373 451. AN ANCIENT RHYME The burden of an ancient rhyme Is, ' By the forelock seize on Time. Time in some corner heard it said ; Pricking his ears, away he fled ; And, seeing me upon the road, A hearty curse on me bestowed. ' What if I do the same by thee ? How wouldst thou like it ? ' thundered he, And, without answer thereupon, Seizing my forelock ... it was gone. W. S. Landob. 452. NO, MY OWN LOVE OF OTHER YEARS No, my own love of other years ! No, it must never be. Much rests with you that yet endears, Alas ! but what with me ! Could those bright years o'er me revolve So gay, o'er you so fair. The pearl of life we would dissolve. And each the cup might share. You show that truth can ne'er decay. Whatever fate befalls ; I, that the myrtle and the bay Shoot fresh on ruined walls. W. S. Landob. 453. THE VESSEL THAT RESTS HERE The vessel that rests here at last Had once stout ribs and topping mast. And, whate'er wind there might prevail. Was ready for a row or sail. It now lies idle on its side, Forgetful o'er the stream to glide. And yet there have been days of yore. When pretty maids their posies bore To crown its prow, its deck to trim, And freighted a whole world of whim. A thousand stories it could tell. But it loves secrecy too well. Come closer, my sweet girl, pray do ! There may Ise still one left for you. W. S. Landob. 374 454. I REMEMBER THE TIME I REMEMBER the time ere his temples were grey. And I frowned at the things he'd the boldness to say. But now he 's grown old he may say what he will, I laugh at his nonsense and take nothing ill. Indeed I must say he 's a little improved. For he watches no longer the slily beloved. No longer aa once he awakens my fears. Not a glance he perceives, not a whisper he hears. If he heard one of late, it has never transpired. For his only delight is to see me admired ; And now pray what better return can I make Than to flirt and be always admired ... for his sake. W. S. Landor. 455. THERE ARE SOME WISHES There are some wishes that may start Nor cloud the brow nor sting the heart. Gladly then would I see how smiled One who now fondles with her child ; How smiled she but six years ago, Herself a child, or nearly so. Yes, let me bring before my sight The silken tresses chained up tight. The tiny fingers tipt with red By tossing up the strawberry- bed ; Half-open lips, long violet eyes, A little rounder with surprise. And then (her chin against the knee) ' Mama ! who can that stranger be ? How grave the smile he smiles on me ! ' W. S. Landor. 456. THE LAST LEAF I SAW him once before. As he passed by the door. And again The pavement stones resound, As he totters o'er the ground With his cane. They say that in his prime. Ere the pruning-knife of Time Cut him down. THE LAST LEAF 375 Kot a better man was found By the Crier on his round Through the town. But now he walks the streets. And he looks at all he meets Sad and wan, And he shakes his feeble head. That it seems as if he said, ' They are gone.' The mossy marbles rest On the lips that he has prest In their bloom, And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb. My grandmamma has said, — Poor old lady, she is dead Long ago, — That he had a Roman nose. And his cheek was like a rose In the snow. But now his nose is thin. And it rests upon his chin Like a staff, And a crook is in his back. And a melancholy crack In his laugh. I know it is a sin For me to sit and grin At him here ; But the old three-cornered hat. And the breeches, and all that, Are so queer ! And if I should live to be The last leaf upon the tree In the spring, — Let them smile, as I do now, At the old forsaken bough Where I cling. 0. W. Holmes. 376 457. TO MY GRANDMOTHER (Suggested by a Picture by Me. Romney) This relative of mine Waa she seventy and nine Wlien she died 7 By the canvas may be seen How she looked at seventeen, — As a bride. Beneath a summer tree As she sits, her reverie Has a charm ; Her ringlets are in taste, — What an arm ! and what a waist For an arm 1 In bridal coronet, Lace, ribbons, and coquette Falbala ; Were Romney's limning true. What a lucky dog were you. Grandpapa ! Her lips are sweet as love, — They are parting ! Do they move ? Are they dumb ? — Her eyes are blue, and beam Beseechingly, and seem To say, ' Come.' What funny fancy slips From atween these cherry lips ? Whisper me. Sweet deity, in paint. What canon says I mayn't Marry thee ? That good-for-nothing Time Has a confidence sublime ! When I first Saw this lady, in my youth. Her winters had, forsooth. Done their worst. Her locks (as white as snow) Once shamed the swarthy crow By and by That fowl's avenging sprite Set his cloven foot for spite In her eye. TO MY GRANDMOTHER 377 Her rounded form was lean. And her silk was bombazine : — Well I wot. With her needles would she sit. And for hours would she knit, — Would she not ? Ah, perishable clay ! Her charms had dropped away One by one. But if she heaved a sigh With a burthen, it was ' Thy Will be done.' In travail, as in tears. With the fardel of her years Overprest,^ — In mercy Was she borne Where the weary ones and worn Are at rest. I'm fain to meet you there, — If as witching as you were. Grandmamma i This nether world agrees That the better it must please Grandpapa. F. Lockee-Lampson. 458. LOVE AND AGE I PLAYED with you 'mid cowslips blowing. When I was six and you were four ; When garlands weaving, flower-balls throwing, Were pleasures soon to please no more. Through groves and meads, o'er grass and heather. With little playmates, to and fro. We wandered hand in hand together ; But that was sixty years ago. You grew a lovely roseate maiden, And still our early love was strong ; Still with no care our days were laden. They glided joyously along ; And I did love you very dearly. How dearly words want power to show ; I thought your heart was touched as nearly ; But that was fifty years ago. 378 LOVE AND AGE Then other lovers came around you, Your beauty grew from year to year. And many a splendid circle found you The centre of its glittering sphere. I saw you then, first vows forsaking. On rank and wealth your hand bestow ; Oh, then I thought my heart was breaking, — But that was forty years ago. And I lived on, to wed another : No cause she gave me to repine ; And when I heard you were a mother, 1 did not wish the children mine. My own young flock, in fair progression. Made up a pleasant Christmas row : My joy in them was past expression ; — But that was thirty years ago. You grew a matron plump and comely. You dwelt in fashion's brightest blaze ; My earthly lot was far more homely ; But I too had my festal days. No merrier eyes have ever glistened Around the hearth-stone's wintry glow. Than when my youngest child was christened, — But that was twenty years ago. Time passed. My eldest girl was married. And I am now a grandsire grey ; One pet of four years old I've carried Among the wild-flowered meads to play. In our old fields of childish pleasure. Where now, as then, the cowslips blow, She fills her basket's ample measure ; — And that is not ten years ago. But though love's first impassioned blindness Has passed away in colder light, I still have thought of you with kindness, And shall do, till our last good-night. The ever-rolling silent hours Will bring a time we shall not know. When our young days of gathering flowers Will be an hundred years ago. T. L. Peacock. 379 459. AN EPITAPH ON SALATHIEL PAVY A Child op Queen Elizabeth's Chapel Weep with me, all you that read This little story ; And know, for whom a tear you shed. Death's self is sorry. 'Twas a child, that so did thrive In grace and feature. As heaven and nature seemed to strive Which owned the creature. Years he numbered scarce thirteen. When Fates turned cruel ; Yet three filled zodiacs had he been The stage's jewel ; And did act, what now we moan. Old men so duly. As, sooth, the Parcae thought him one. He played so truly. So, by error, to his fate They all consented ; But, viewing him since (alas, too late !), They have repented ; And have sought, to give new birth. In baths to steep him : But, being so much too good for earth. Heaven vows to keep him. Ben. Jonson. 460. TWENTY YEARS HENCE Twenty years hence my eyes may grow If not quite dim, yet rather so, Still yours from others they shall know Twenty years hence. Twenty years hence though it may hap That I be called to take a nap In a cool cell where thunder-clap Was never heard, There breathe but o'er my arch of grass A not too sadly sighed Alas, And I shall catch, ere you can pass, That winged word. W. S. Landor. 380 461. HESTER When maidens such as Hester die. Their place ye may not well supply. Though ye among a thousand try. With vain endeavour. A month or more hath she been dead. Yet cannot I by force be led To think upon the wormy bed. And her together. A springy motion in her gait, A rising step, did indicate Of pride and joy no common rate. That flushed her spirit. I know not by what name beside I shall it call : — if 'twas not pride. It was a joy to that allied. She did inherit. Her parents held the Quaker rule, Wiiioh doth the human feeling cool, But she was trained in Nature's school. Nature had blest her. A waking eye, a prying mind, A heart that stirs, is hard to bind, A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind. Ye could not Hester. My sprightly neighbour, gone before To that unknown and silent shore. Shall we not meet, as heretofore. Some summer morning. When from thy cheerful eyes a ray Hath struck a bliss upon the day, A bliss that would not go away, A sweet fore-warning 2 C. LAilB. 462. DIRCE Stand close around, ye Stygian set, With Dirce in one boat conveyed ! Or Charon, seeing, may forget That he is old and she a shade. W. S. Landor. 3S1 463. MY KATE She was not as pretty as women I know. And yet all your best made of sunshine and snow Drop to shade, melt to naught in the long-trodden ways. While she '5 still remembered on warm and cold davs — My Kate. Her air had a meaning, h^ movements a grace : You torned from the fairest to eaze on ha: face : And when yon had once seen her forehead and month. Yon saw as distinctly her sool and h^ truth — My Kate. Such a bine inner light from h^ eyelids outbroke. You looked at her silence and fancied she spoke : When she did, Sj peculiar vet soft was the tone, Tnoigh the iondest spoke also, yon heard her alone — My Kate. I donbt if she said to yon much that could act As a thought or suggestion : she did not attract In the sease of the brilliant or wise ; I infer "Twas her thinbing of othas, made you think of her — My Kate. She never found &nlt with you, never implied Your wroDg by her right ; aiid yet men at her side Grew nobler, girls purer, as thronga the whole town The chiMreD were gladder tLat pulled at her gown — My Kate. None knelt at her feet confessed lovers in tlirall : They knelt more to God than they used, — that was all : If you praised her as charming, some asked what you meant. But the chaxm o: her presence was felt when she went — My Kate. Tiie weak and the gentle, the ribald and rude. She took them as she found them, and did them all good ; It was always s-j with her — see what you have 1 .She has made the grass greens even b&e . . with her grave — My Kite. My dear one ! — when thou wast alive with the rest, I held thee the sweetest and loved thee the best : And now thou art dead, shall I not take thy part As thv smiles used to do for thyself, my sweet Heart — My Kate ? E. B. Bbowxisg. 382 464. THE GARLAND The pride of every grove I chose, The violet sweet, and lily fair. The dappled pink, and blushing rose. To deck my charming Chloe's hair. At morn the nymph vouchsafed to place Upon her brow the various wreath ; The flowers less blooming than her face. The scent less fragrant than her breath. The flowers she wore along the day ; And every nymph and shepherd said. That in her hair they looked more gay, Than glowing in their native bed. Undrest at evening, when she found Their odours lost, their colours past ; She changed her look, and on the ground Her garland and her eye she cast. That eye dropt sense distinct and clear. As any muse's tongue could speak ; When from Its lid a pearly tear Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek. Dissembling what I knew too well, ' My love, my life,' said I, ' explain This change of humour : pr'ythee tell : That falling tear — what does it mean ? ' She sighed : she smiled : and to the flowers Pointing, the lovely moralist said : ' See ! friend, in some few fleeting hours. See yonder, what a change is made. ' Ah me, the blooming pride of May, And that of Beauty are but one ; At morn both flourish bright and gay. Both fade at evening, pale, and gone. ' At morn poor Stella danced and sung ; The amorous youth around her bowed ; At night her fatal knell was rung ; I saw and kissed her in her shroud. ' Such as she is, who died to-day ; Such I, alas ! may be to-morrow : Go, Damon, bid thy muse display The justice of thy Chloe's sorror/.' M. Pbiok. 383 465. FOR MY OWN MONUMENT As doctors give physic by way of prevention, Mat, alive and in iiealth, of his tombstone tools care ; For delays are unsafe, and his pious intention May haply be never fulfilled by his heir. Then take Mat's word for it, the sculptor is paid ; That the figure is fine, pray believe your own eye ; Yet credit but lightly what morfe may be said, For we flatter ourselves, and teach marble to lie. Yet counting as far as to fifty his years. His virtues and vices were as other men's are ; High hopes he conceived, and he smothered great fears. In a life parti-coloured, half pleasure, half care. Nor to business a drudge, nor to faction a slave. He strove to make interest and freedom agree ; In public employments industrious and grave. And alone with his friends. Lord ! how merry was he ! Now in equipage stately, now humble on foot, Both fortunes he tried, but to neither would trust ; And whirled in the round as the wheel turned about. He found riches had wings, and knew man was but dust. This verse, little polished, though mighty sincere. Sets neither his titles nor merit to view ; It says that his relics collected lie here. And no mortal yet knows too if this may be true. Fierce robbers there are that infest the highway. So Mat may be killed, and his bones never found ; False witness at court, and fierce tempests at sea. So Mat may yet chance to be hanged or be drowned. If his bones lie in earth, roll in sea, fly in air. To Fate we must yield, and the thing is the same ; And if passing thou giv'st him a smile or a tear. He cares not — yet, prithee, be kind to his fame. M. Prior. 466. EPITAPH ON HIMSELF Nobles and heralds, by your leave. Here lies what once was Matthew Prior, The son of Adam and of Eve ; Can Bouibon or Nassau claim higher 7 M. Prior. 384 467. EPITAPH FOR ONE WHO WOULD NOT BE BUKIED IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY Heroes and kings ! your distance keep, In peace let one poor poet sleep, Who never flattered folks like you : Let Horace blush, and Virgil too. A. Pope. 468. DIRGE FOR FIDELE To fair Fidele's grassy tomb Soft maids and village binds shall bring Each opening sweet of earliest bloom, And rifle all the breathing Spring. No wailing ghost shall dare appear To vex with shrieks this quiet grove : But shepherd lads assemble here, And melting virgins own their love. No withered witch shall here be seen ; No goblins lead their nightly crew : The female fays shall haunt the green. And dress thy grave with pearly dew ! The red-breast oft at evening hours Shall kindly lend his little aid ; With hoary moss, and gathered flowers, To deck the ground where thou art laid. When howling winds, and beating rain, In tempests shake the sylvan cell ; Or 'midst the chase on every plain, , The tender thought on thee shall dwell. Each lonely scene shall thee restore. For thee the tear be duly shed ; Beloved till life can charm no more. And mourned, till Pity's self be dead. W. Collins. 385 469. THE MOURNER A LA MODE I SAW her last night at a party (The elegant party at Mead's), And looking remarkably hearty For a widow so young in her weeds ; Yet I know she was suffering sorrow Too deep for the tongue to express, — Or why had she chosen to borrow So much from the language of dress ? Her shawl was as sable as night ; And her gloves were as dark as her shawl ; And her jewels — that flashed in the light — Were black as a funeral pall ; Her robe had the hue of the rest (How nicely it fitted her shape !), And the grief that was heaving her breast Boiled over in billows of crape ! What tears of vicarious woe. That else might have sullied her face, Were kindly permitted to flow In ripples of ebony lace ! While even her fan, in its play. Had quite a lugubrious scope. And seemed to be waving away The ghost of the angel of Hope 1 Yet rich as the robes of a queen Was the sombre apparel she wore ; I'm certain I never had seen Such a sumptuous sorrow before ; And I couldn't help thinking the beauty In mourning the loved and the lost. Was doing her conjugal duty Altogether regardless of cost ! One surely would say a devotion Performed at so vast an expense Betrayed an excess of emotion That was really something immense ; And yet as I viewed, at my leisure. Those tokens of tender regard, I thought : — It is scarce without measure — The sorrow that goes by the yard ! Ah ! grief is a curious passion ; And yours — I am sorely afraid The very next phase of the fashion Will find it beginning to fade ; 386 THE MOURNER A LA MODE Though dark are the shadows of grief, The morning will follow the night, Half-tints will betoken relief, Till joy shall be symboled in white ! Ah well ! it were idle to quarrel With Fashion, or aught she may do ; And so I conclude with a moral And metaphor — warranted new : — When measles come handsomely out, The patient is safest, they say ; And the Sorrow is mildest, no doubt. That works in a similar way ! J. G. Saxe. 470. AN ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY IN BELZONI'S EXHIBITION And thou hast walked about (how strange a story !) In Thebes's streets three thousand years ago. When the Memnonium was in all its glory. And time had not begun to overthrow Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous. Of which the very ruins are tremendous ! Speak ! for thou long enough hast acted dummy ; Thou hast a tongue, come, let us hear its tune ; Thou'rt standing on thy legs above ground, mummy I Revisiting the glimpses of the moon. Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures, But with thy bones and flesh, and limbs and features. Tell us — for doubtless thou canst recollect — To whom we should assign the Sphinx's fame ? Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect Of either Pyramid that bears his name ? Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer ? Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer ? Perhaps thou wert a mason, and forbidden By oath to tell the secrets of thy trade — Then say, what secret melody was hidden In Memnon's statue, which at suiurise played ? Perhaps thou wert a priest — if so, my struggles Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its juggles. ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY 387 Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat, Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to glaas ; Or dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat. Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass, Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, A torch at the great Temple's dedication. I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed, Has any Roman soldier mauled and knuckled. For thou wert dead and buried and embalmed, Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled : Antiquity appears to have begun Long after thy primaeval race was run. Thou couldst develop, if that withered tongue Blight tell us what those sightless orbs have seen, How the world looked when it was fresh and young. And the great Deluge still had left it green — Or was it then so old, that History's pages Contained no record of its early ages ? Still silent ! incommunicative elf ! Art sworn to secrecy ? then keep thy vows ; But prythee tell us something of thyself — Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house ; Since in the world of spirits thou hast slumbered, What hast thou seen — what strange adventures numbered ? Since first thy form was in this box extended. We have, above-ground, seen some strange mutations. The Roman empire has begun and ended. New worlds have risen — we have lost old nations. And countless Kings have into dust been humbled. While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled. Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head. When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses, Marched armies o'er thy tomb with thundering tread, O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis, And shook the Pyramids with fear and wonder. When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder ? If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed. The nature of thy private life unfold : — A heart has throbbed beneath that leathern breast. And tears adown that dusty cheek have rolled : — Have children climbed those knees, and kissed that face ? What was thy name and station, age and race ? . . . H. Smith. 388 471. AN ELEGY ON THAT GLORY OP HER SEX, MRS. MARY BLAIZE Good people all, with one accord, Lament for Madam Blaize, Who never wanted a good word — From those who spoke her praise. The needy seldom passed her door. And always found her kind ; She freely lent to all the poor, — Who left a pledge behind. She strove the neighbourhood to please. With manners wonderous winning. And never followed wicked ways, — Unless when she loas sinning. , At church, in silks and satins new. With hoop of monstrous size. She never slumbered in her pew, — But when she shut her eyes. Her love was sought, I do aver. By twenty beaux and more ; The king himself has followed her, — When she has walked before. But now her wealth and finery fled. Her hangers-on cut short all ; The doctors found, when she was dead, — Her last disorder mortal. Let us lament, in sorrow sore. For Kent Street well may say. That had she lived a twelve-month more, — She had not died to-day. 0. Goldsmith. 472. IF THE MAN WHO TURNIPS CRIES Ip the man who turnips cries, Cry not when his father dies, 'Tis a proof that he had rather Have a turnip than his father. S. JOHNSOS. 389 473. THE CARELESS GALLANT OR A FAREWELL TO SORROW Let us drink and be merry, dance, joke, and rejoice, With claret and sherry, theorbo and voice, The changeable world to our joy is unjust. All treasures uncertain, then down with your dust ; In frolics dispose your pounds, shillings, and pence, For we shall be nothing a liundred years hence. We'll sport and be free with Frank, Betty, and Dolly, Have lobsters and oysters to cure melancholy. Fish dinners will make a man spring like a flea, Dame Venus, love's lady, was born of the sea, With her and with Bacchus we'll tickle the sense. For we shall be past it a hundred years hence. Your beautiful bit who hath all eyes upon her. That her honesty sells for a hogo of honour, Whose lightness and brightness doth cast such a splendour. That none are thought fit but the stars to attend her. Though now she seems pleasant and sweet to the sense, Will be damnable mouldy a hundred years hence. Your usurer that in the hundred takes twenty. Who wants in his wealth and pines in his plenty. Lays up for a season which he shall ne'er see ; The year of one thousand eight hundred and three Shall have changed all hia bags, his houses and rents. For a worm-eaten coffin a hundred years hence. Your Chancery-lawyer who by conscience thrives, In spinning a suit to the length of three lives, A suit which the client doth wear out in slavery. While pleader makes conscience a cloak for his knavery, Can boast of his cunning but i' th' present tense. For non est inventus a hundred years hence. Then why should we turmoil in cares and in fears, And turn our tranquillity to sighs and tears. Let 's eat, drink and play ere the worms do corrupt us, For I say that. Post mortem nulla volwptas. Let 's deal with our chances that so we may thence. Be held in remembrance a hundred years hence. 390 THE CARELESS GALLANT I never could gain satisfaction upon Your dreams of a bliss when we're cold as a stone ; Though sages may say we're to Bacchus a debtor. By Venus ! are sages themselves so much better ? And Abigail, Hannah, and sister Prudence, Will simper to nothing a hundred years hence. The butterfly courtier, that pageant of state. The mouse-trap of honour and May-game of Fate, With all his ambitions, intrigues, and his tricks. Must die like a clown, and then drops into Styx, His plots against death are too slender a fence. For he'll be out of place a hundred years hence. Yea, the poet himself that so loftily sings. As he scorns any subjects but heroes or kings. Must to the capriccios of fortune submit, And often be counted a fool for his wit ; Thus beauty, wit, wealth, law, learning and sense, All comes to nothing a hundred years hence. T. Jordan. 474. DOMESTIC DIDACTICS BY AN OLD SERVANT The Broken Dish What 's life but full of care and doubt. With all its fine humanities. With parasols we walk about. Long pigtails and such vanities. We plant pomegranate trees and things. And go in gardens sporting, With toys and fans of peacock's wings, To painted ladies courting. We gather flowers of every hue, And fish in boats for fishes. Build summer-houses painted blue, But life 's as frail as dishes. Walking about their groves of trees. Blue bridges and blue rivers. How little thought them two Chinese, They'd both be smashed to shivers. T. Hooi>. 391 475. SINCERE FLATTERY Of W. S. (Mb.) For Gkeek Iambics Pe. Not so, my liege, for even now the town Splits with sedition, and the incensed mob Rush hither roaring. Olc. Let them roar their fill, Bluster and bellow till the enormous wings Of gusty Boreas flap with less ado. Ask they my treacherous nephew's wretched life. As if that order were a thing of nought Which I did publish ? Let them beg or threaten, I'll not regard them. Oh my trusty friend. There is no rock defies the elements, With half the constancy that kinglike men Shut up their breasts against such routs as thesa Pe. O my most valiant lord, I feel 'tis so. Permit me to advance against the foe. (Plcis and Terranea, Act iv. Se. iii.) J. K. Stephen. 476. SORROWS OF WERTHER Wekthbr had a love for Charlotte Such as words could never utter ; Would you know how first he met her ? She was cutting bread-and-butter. Charlotte was a married lady, And a moral man was Werther, And, for all the wealth of Indies, Would do nothing for to hurt her. So he sighed and pined and ogled. And his passion boiled and bubbled. Till he blew his silly brains out. And no more was by it troubled. Charlotte, having seen his body Borne before her on a shutter, Like a well-conducted person. Went on cutting bread-and butter. W. M. Thackeeay. 392 477. SONG BY EOGERO Whene'er with haggard eyes I view This dungeon, that I'm rotting in, I think of those companions true Who studied with me in the U- -niversity of Gottingen — -niversity of Gottingen. (Weeps, and pulls out a blue 'kerchief, with which he wipes his eyes ; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds.) Sweet 'kerchief checked with heavenly blue. Which once my love sat knotting in, Alas, Matilda then was true. At least I thought so at the U- -niversity of Gottingen — -niversity of Gottingen. {At the repetition of this line Rogero clanks his chains in cadence. ) Barbs ! barbs ! alas ! how swift ye flew. Her neat post-wagon trotting in ! Ye bore Matilda from my view ; Forlorn I languished at the U- -niversity of Gottingen — • -niversity of Gottingen. This faded form ! this pallid hue ! This blood my veins is clotting in, My years are many — they were few When first I entered at the U- -niverdty of Gottingen — -niversity of Gottingen. There first for thee my passion grew. Sweet ! sweet Matilda Pottingen ! Thou wast the daughter of my tu- -tor, Law Professor at the U- -niversity of Gottingen — -niversity of Gottingen. Sun, moon, and thou vain world, adieu. That kings and priests are plotting in ; Here, doomed to starve on water-gru- -el, never shall I see the U- -niversity of Gottingen ! — -niversity of Gottingen ! {.During the last stanza Rogero dashes his head repeat- edly against the waUs of his prison; and, finally, so hard as to produce a visible contusion. He then throws himself on the floor in an agony. The curtain drops— the music still continuing to play till it is wholly fallen.) G. Canning. 393 478. A PORTRAIT IN DELIA'S PARLOUR I WOULD I were that portly gentleman. With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane, Who hangs in Delia's parlour ! For whene'er From books or needlework her looks arise. On him converge the sunbeams op her eyes, And he unblamed may gaze upon my fair. And oft MY fair his favoured form surveys. HAPPY PICTURE ! still On HEK to gaze ! 1 envy him ! and jealous fear alarms. Lest the strong glance of those divineet charms Warm him to life, as in the ancient days. When MARBLE MELTED in Pygmalion's arms. I would I were that portly gentleman With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane. R. SOXITHET. 479. IMITATION OF SOUTHEY Inscription For the Door of the Cell in Newgate, where Mrs. Brownrigg, the Prentice-cide, was confined previous to her Execution For one long term, or e'er her trial came. Here Brownrigg lingered. Often have these cells Echoed her blasphemies, as with shrill voice She screamed for fresh Geneva. Not to her Did the blithe fields of Tothill, or thy street, St. Giles, its fair varieties expand ; Till at the last, in slow-drawn cart, she went To execution. Dost thou ask her crime ? She whipped two female prentices to death. And hid them in the coal-hole. For her mind Shaped strictest plans of discipline. Sage schemes ! Such as Lycurgus taught, when at the shrine Of the Orthyan Goddess he bade flog The little Spartans ; such as erst chastised Our Milton, when at college. For this act Did Brownrigg swing. Harsh laws ! But time shall come. When France shall reign, and laws be all repealed ! G. Canning and J. H. Frere. o 3 394 480. YOU ARE OLD, FATHER WILLIAM ' YoTJ are old, Father William,' the young man said, ' And your hair has become very white ; And yet you incessantly stand on your head — Do you think, at your age, it is right ? ' ' In my youth,' Father William replied to his son, ' I feared it might injure the brain ; But, now that I'm perfectly sure I have none. Why, I do it again and again.' ' You are old,' said the youth, " as I mentioned before. And have grown most uncommonly fat ; Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door — Pray, what is the reason of that ? ' ' In my youth,' said the sage, as he shook his grey locks, ' I kept all my limbs very supple By the use of this ointment — one shilling the box — Allow me to sell you a couple ? ' ' You are old,' said the youth, ' and your jaws are too weak For anything tougher than suet ; Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak — Pray how did you manage to do it ? ' In my youth,' said his father, ' I took to the law. And argued each case with my wife ; And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw. Has lasted the rest of my life.' ' You are old,' said the youth, ' one would hardly suppose That your eye was as steady as ever ; Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose— What made you so awfully clever ? ' ' I have answered three questions, and that is enough,' Said his father ; ' don't give yourself airs ! Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff ? Be off, or I'll kick you downstairs ! ' C. L. DoDGsoN (Lewis Carroll). 48L A SONNET Two voices are there : one is of the deep ; It learns the storm-cloud's thunderous melody. Now roars, now murmurs with the changing sea. Now bird-like pipes, now closes soft in sleep : And one is of an old half-witted sheep Which bleats articulate monotony, A SONNET 395 And indicates that two and one are three, That grass is green, lakes damp, and mountains steep : And, Wordsworth, both are thine : at certain times Forth from the heart of thy melodious rhymes, The form and pressure of high thoughts will burst : At other times — good Lord ! I'd rather be Quite unacquainted with the ABC Than write such hopeless rubbish as thy worst. J. K. Stephen 482. THE BABY'S DEBUT [Spoken in the Character op Nancy Lake, a Girl Eight Years of Age, who is drawn upon the Stage in a Child's Chaise by Samuel Hughes, HER Uncle's Porter] My brother Jack was nine in Blay, And I was eight on New Year's day ; So in Kate Wilson's shop Papa (he 's my papa and Jack's) Bought me, last week, a doll of wax. And brother Jack a top. Jack 's in the pouts, and this it is, — He thinks mine came to more than his ; So to my drawer he goes. Takes out the doll, and, O, my stars! He pokes her head between the bars. And melts off half her nose ! Quite cross, a bit of string I beg, And tie it to his peg-top's peg. And bang, with might and main, Its head against the parlour-door ; Ofi flies the head, and hits the floor. And breaks a window-pane. This made him cry with rage and spite : Well, let him cry, it serves him right. A pretty tiling, forsooth ! If he 's to melt, all scalding hot. Half my doll's nose, and I am not To draw his peg-top's tooth ! 396 THE BABY'S DEBUT Aunt Hannah heard the window break. And cried, ' O naughty Nancy Lake, Thus to distress your aunt : No Drury Lane for you to-day ! ' And while papa said, ' Pooh, she may ! ' Mamma said, ' No, she shan't ! ' Well, after many a sad reproach. They got into a hackney coach. And trotted down the street. I saw them go : one horse was blind. The tails of both hung down behind. Their shoes were on their feet. The chaise in which poor brother Bill' Used to be drawn to Pentonville, Stood in the lumber-room : I wiped the dust from off the top. While Molly mopped it with a mop, And brushed it with a broom. My uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes, Came in at six to black the shoes, (I always talk to Sam :) So what does he, but takes, and drags Me in the chaise along the flags. And leaves me where I am. My father's walls are made of brick. But not so tall and not so thick As these ; and, goodness me ! My father's beams are made of wood. But never, never half so good As those that now I see. What a large floor ! 'tis like a town ! The carpet, when they lay it down, Won't hide it, I'll be bound ; And there 's a row of lamps ! — my eye How they do blaze ! I wonder why They keep them on the ground. At first I caught hold of the wing. And kept away ; but Mr. Thing- umbob, the prompter man, Gave with his hand my chaise a shove, And said, ' Go on, my pretty love ; Speak to 'em, little Nan. THE BABY'S DEBUT 397 ' You've only got to curtsey, whisp- er, hold your chin up, laugh, and lisp. And you are sure to take : I've known the day when brats, not quite Thirteen, got fifty pounds a-night ; Then why not Nancy Lake ? ' But while I'm speaking, where 's papa ? And where 's my aunt ? and where 's mamma ? Where 's Jack ? 0, there they sit ! They smile, they nod, I'll go my ways. And order round poor Billy's chaise. To join them in the pit. And now, good gentlefolk, I go To join mamma, and see the show : So, bidding you adieu, I curtsy like a pretty miss. And if you'll blow to me a kiss, I'll blow a kiss to you. J. Smith. 483. SONG BY MR. CYPRESS There is a fever of the spirit, The brand of Cain's unresting doom, Which in the lone dark souls that bear it Glows like the lamp in TuUia's tomb. Unlike the lamp, its subtle fire Burns, blasts, consumes its cell, the heart. Till, one by one, hope, joy, desire, Like dreams of shadowy smoke depart. When hope, love, life itself, are only Dust — spectral memories — dead and cold — The unfed fire burns bright and lonely. Like that undying lamp of old ; And by that drear illumination. Till time its clay-built home has rent. Thought broods on feeling's desolation — The soul is its own monument. T. L. Peacock. 398 484. THE LAY OF THE LOVELORN Comrades, you may pass the rosy. With permission of the chair, I shall leave you for a little, for I'd like to take the air. Whether 'twas the sauce at dinner, or that glass of ginger-beer. Or these strong cheroots, I know not, but I feel a little queer. Let me go. Nay, Chuckster, blow me, 'pon my soul, this is too bad When you want me, ask the waiter ; he knows where I'm to be had. Whew ! This is a great relief now ! Let me but undo my stock. Resting here beneath the porch, my nerves will steady like a rock. In my ears I hear the singing of a lot of favourite tunes- Bless my heart, how very odd ! Why, surely there 's a brace of moons ! See ! the stars ! how bright they twinkle, winking with a frosty glare. Like my faithless cousin Amy when she drove me to despair. my cousin, spider-hearted ! O my Amy ! No, confound it ! 1 must wear the mournful willow, — all around my hat I've bound it. Falser than the Bank of Fancy, frailer than a shilling glove, Puppet to a father's anger, minion to a nabob's love ! Is it well to wish thee happy ? Having known me, could you ever Stoop to marry half a heart, and little more than half a liver ? Happy ! Damme ! Thou shalt lower to his level day by day. Changing from the best of china to the commonest of clay. As the husband is, the wife is, — he is stomach-plagued and old ; And his curry soups will make thy cheek the colour of his gold. When his feeble love is sated, he will hold thee surely then Something lower than his hookah, — something less than his cayenne. What is this ? His eyes are pinky. Was 't the claret ? Oh, no, no. Bless your soul ! it was the salmon, — salmon always makes him so. Take him to thy dainty chamber — soothe him with thy lightest fancies. He will understand thee, won't he ? — pay thee with a lover's glances ? Louder than the loudest trumpet, harsh as harshest ophicleide. Nasal respirations answer the endearments of his bride. Sweet response, delightful music ! Gaze upon thy noble charge. Till the spirit fill thy bosom that inspired the meek Laffarge. Better thou wert dead before me, — better, better that I stood. Looking on thy murdered body, like the injured Daniel Good ! Better, thou and I were lying, cold and timber-stiff and dead , With a pan of burning charcoal underneath our nuptial bed ! THE LAY OF THE LOVELORN 399 Cursed be the Bank of England's notes, that tempt the soul to sin ! Cursed be the want of acres, — doubly cursed the want of tin ! Cursed be the marriage contract, that enslaved thy soul to greed ! Cursed be the sallow lawyer, that prepared and drew the deed ! Cursed be his foul apprentice, who the loathsome fees did earn ! Cursed be the clerk and parson, cursed be the whole concern ! Oh, 'tis well that I should bluster, — much I'm like to make of that ; Better comfort have I found in singing ' All Around my Hat ' But that song, so wildly plaintive, palls upon my British ears. 'Twill not do to pine for ever, — I am getting up in years. Can't I turn the honest penny, scribbling for the weekly press. And in writing Sunday libels drown my private wretchedness ? Oh, to feel the wild pulsation that in manhood's dawn I knew. When my days were all before me, and my years were twenty-two ! When I smoked my independent pipe along the Quadrant wide. With the many larks of London flaring up on every side ; When I went the pace so wildly, caring little what might come ; Coffee-milling care and sorrow, with a nose-adapted thumb ; Felt the exquisite enjoyment, tossing nightly off, oh heavens ! Brandy at the Cider Cellars, kidneys smoking-hot at Evans' ! Or in the Adelphi sitting, half in rapture, half in tears. Saw the glorious melodrama conjure up the shades of years ! Saw Jack Sheppard, noble stripling, act his wondrous feats again, Snapping Newgate's bars of iron, like an infant's daisy chain. Might was right, and all the terrors, which had held the world in awe, Were despised, and prigging prospered, spite of Laurie, spite of law. In such scenes as these I triumphed, ere my passion's edge was rusted And my cousin's cold refusal left me very much disgusted ! Since, my heart is sere and withered, and I do not care a curse. Whether worse shall be the better, or the better be the worse. Hark ! my merry comrades call me, bawling for another jorum ; They would mock me in derision, should I thus appear before 'em. Womankind no more shall vex me, such at least as go arrayed In the most expensive satins and the newest silk brocade. I'll to Afric, lion-haunted, where the giant forest yields Rarer robes and finer tissue than are sold at Spitalfields. 400 THE LAY OF THE LOVELORN Or to burst all chains of habit, flinging habit's self aside, I shall walk the tangled jungle in mankind's primeval pride ; Feeding on the luscious berries and the rich cassava root, Lots of dates and lots of guavas, clusters of forbidden fruit. Kever comes the trader thither, never o'er the purple main Sounds the oath of British commerce, or the accents of Cockaigne. There, methinks, would be enjoyment, where no envious rule prevents ; Sink the steamboats ! cuss the railways ! rot, O rot the Three per Cents. There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have space to breathe, my cousin ! I will wed some savage woman — nay, I'll wed at least a dozen. There I'll rear my young mulattoes, as no Bond Street brats are reared : They shall dive for alligators, catch the wild goats by the beard — Whistle to the cockatoos, and mock the hairy-faced baboon, Worship mighty Mumbo Jumbo in the Mountains of the Moon. I myself, in far Timbuotoo, leopard's blood will daily quaff. Ride a tiger-hunting, mounted on a thorough-bred giraffe. Fiercely shall I shout the war-whoop, as some sullen stream he crosses. Startling from their noonday slumbers iron-bound rhinoceroses. Fool ! again the dream, the fancy ! But I know my words are mad. For I hold the grey barbarian lower than the Christian cad. I the swell — the city dandy ! I to seek such horrid places, — I to haunt with squalid negroes, blubber-lips, and monkey-faces. I to wed with Coromantees ! I, who managed — very near — To secure the heart and fortune of the widow Shillibeer ! Stuff and nonsense ! let me never fling a single chance away, Maids ere now, I know, have loved me, and another maiden may. ' Morning Post ' (' The Times ' won't trust me), help me, as I know you can ; I will pen an advertisement, — that 's a never-failing plan. ' Wanted — By a bard in wedlock, some young interesting woman : Looks are not so much an object, if the shiners be forthcoming ! ' Hymen's chains the advertiser vows shall be but silken fetters. Please address to A. T., Chelsea. N.B. — You must pay the letters.' That 's the sort of thing to do it. Now I'll go and taste the balmy, — Rest thee with thy yellow nabob, spider-hearted Cousin Amy ! Sir T. Martin. 401 485. PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY Of Pbopkiety Stttdt first Propriety : for she is indeed the Pole-star Which shall guide the artless maiden through the mazes of Vanity Fair ; Nay, she is the golden chain which holdeth together Society ; The lamp by whose light young Psyche shall approach unblamed her Bros. Verily Truth is as Eve, which was ashamed being naked ; Wherefore doth Propriety dress her with the fair foliage of artifice : And when she is dressed, behold ! she knoweth not herself again. — I walked in the Forest ; and above me stood the Yew, Stood like a slumbering giant, shrouded in impenetrable shade ; Then I passed into the citizen's garden, and marked a tree cUpped into shape, (The giant's locks had been shorn by the Dalilah-shears of Decorum ;) And I said, ' Surely nature is goodly ; but how much goodUer is Art ! ' I heard the wild notes of the lark floating far over the blue sky. And my foolish heart went after him, and, lo ! I blessed him as he rose ; Foolish ! for far better is the trained boudoir bullfinch. Which pipeth the semblance of a tune, and mechanically draweth up water : And the reinless steed of the desert, though his neck be clothed with thunder. Must yield to him that danceth and ' moveth in the circles ' at Astley's. For verily, O my daughter, the world is a masquerade. And God made thee one thing, that thou mightest make thyself another : A maiden's heart is as champagne, ever aspiring and struggling upwards. And it needed that its motions be checked by the silvered cork of Pro- priety : He that can afford the price, his be the precious treasure. Let him drink deeply of its sweetness, nor grumble if it tasteth of the cork, C. S. Calvebley. 486. POETS AND LINNETS Where'er there 's a thistle to feed a linnet And linnets are plenty, thistles rife — Or an acorn-cup to catch dew-drops in it There 's ample promise of further life. Now, mark how we begin it. 402 POETS AND LINNETS For linnets will follow, if linnets are minded, As blows the white-feather parachute ; And ships will reel by the tempest blinded — Aye, ships and shiploads of men to boot I How deep whole fleets you'll find hid. And we blow the thistle-down hither and thither Forgetful of linnets, and men, and God. The dew ! for its want an oak will wither — By the dull hoof into the dust is trod. And then who strikes the cither ? But thistles were only for donkeys intended. And that donkeys are common enough is clear, And that drop ! what a vessel it might have befriended. Does it add any flavour to Glugabib's beer ? Well, there 's my musing ended. T. Hood, the Younger. 487. SINCERE FLATTERY OF R. B. To A. S. Birthdays ? yes, in a general way ; For the most if not for the best of men : You were born (I suppose) on a certain day : So was I : or perhaps in the night : what then ? Only this : or at least, it more, You must know, not think it, and learn, not speak : There is truth to be found on the unknown shore. And many will find where few will seek. For many are called and few are chosen, And the few grow many as ages lapse : But when will the many grow few : what dozen Is fused into one by Time's hammer-taps ? A bare brown stone in a babbling brook : — It was wanton to hurl it there, you say : And the moss, which clung in the sheltered nook (Yet the stream runs cooler), is washed away. That begs the question : many a prater Thinks such a suggestion a sound ' stop thief ! * Which, may I ask, do you think the greater Sergeant-at-arms or a Robber Chief ? SINCERE FLATTERY OF R. B. 403 And if it were not so ? still you doubt ? Ah ! yours is a birthday indeed if so. That were something to write a poem about, If one thought a httle. I only know. P.S. There 's a Me Society down at Cambridge, Where my works, cum notis variorum. Are talked about ; well, I require the same bridge That Euclid took toll at as Aainorum : And, as they have got through several ditties I thought were as stiff as a brick-built wall, I've composed the above, and a stiff one it is, A bridge to stop asses at, once for all. J. K. Stephen. 488. BALLAD The auld wife sat at her ivied door, (Butler and eggs and a pound of cheese) A thing she had frequently done before ; And her spectacles lay on her aproned knees. The piper he piped on the hill-top high, (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) Till the cow said ' I die,' and the goose asked ' Why ? ' And the dog said nothing, but searched for fleas. The farmer he strove through the square farmyard ; (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) His last brew of ale was a trifle hard — The connexion of which with the plot one sees The farmer's daughter hath frank blue eyes ; (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) She hears the rooks caw in the windy skies. As she sits at her lattice and shells her peas. The farmer's daughter hath ripe red lips ; (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) If you try to approach her, away she skips Over tables and chairs with apparent ease. The farmer's daughter hath soft brown hair ; (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) And I met with a ballad, I can't say where. Which wholly consisted of lines like these. 4M BALLAD Part II She sat, with her hands 'neath her dimpled cheeks, (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) And spake not a word. While a lady speaks There is hope, but she didn't even sneeze. She sat, with her hands 'neath her crimson cheeks, (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) She gave up mending her father's breeks, And let the cat roll in her now chemise. She sat, with her hands 'neath her burning cheeks, (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) And gazed at the piper for thirteen weeks ; Then she followed him out o'er the misty leas. Her sheep followed her, as their tails did them. (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) And this song is considerod a perfect gem. And as to the meaning, it 's what you please. C. tS. Calverlev. 489. LOVEES, AND A REFLECTION In moss-prankt dells which the sunbeams flatter (And heaven it knoweth what that may mean ; Meaning, however, is no great matter) Where woods are a- tremble, with rifts at ween ; Through God's own heather we wonned together, 1 and my Willie (O love my love) : I need hardly remark it was glorious weather, And flitterbats wavered alow, above : Boats were curtseying, rising, bowing, (Boats in that climate are so polite). And sands were a ribbon of green endowing. And O the sundazzle on bark and bight ! Through the rare red heather we danced together, (O love my Willie !) and smelt for flowers : I must mention again it was gorgeous weather. Rhymes are so scarce in this world of ours : — By rises that flushed with their purple favours. Through becks that brattled o'er grasses sheen. We walked and waded, we two young shavers, Thanking our stars we were both so green. LOVERS, AND A REFLECTION 405 We journeyed in parallels, I and Willie, In fortunate parallels ! Butterflies, Hid in weltering shadows of daffodilly Or marjoram, kept making peacock eyes : Songbirds darted about, some inky As coal, some snowy (I ween) as curds ; Or rosy as pinks, or as roses pinky — They reck of no eerie To-oome, those birds ! But they skim over bents which the millstream washes. Or hang in the lift 'neath a white cloud's hem ; They need no parasols, no goloshes ; And good Mrs. Trimmer she feedeth them. Then we thrid God's cowslips (as erst His heather) That endowed the wan grass with their golden blooms And snapped — (it was perfectly charming weather) — Our fingers at Fate and her goddess-glooms : And Willie 'gan sing (O, his notes were fluty ; Wafts fluttered them out to the white-winged sea) — Something made up of rhymes that have done much duty Rhymes (better to put it) of ' ancientry ' : Bowers of flowers encountered showers In William's carol — (O love my Willie !) Then he bade sorrow borrow from blithe to-morrow I quite forget what — say a daffodilly : A nest in a hollow, ' with buds to follow,' I think occurred next in his nimble strain ; And clay that was ' kneaden ' of course in Eden — A rhyme most novel, I do maintain : Mists, bones, the singer himself, love-stories. And all least furlable things got ' furled ' ; Not with any design to conceal their ' glories ', But simply and solely to rhyme with ' world '- O if billows and pillows and hours and flowers. And all the brave rhymes of an elder day. Could be furled together, this genial weather. And carted, or carried on ' wafts ' away. Nor ever again trotted out — ah me ! How much fewer volumes of verse there 'd be ! C, S. Calverley. 406 490. SINCERE FLATTERY Of W. W. (Ambricanus) The clear cool note of the cuckoo which has ousted the legitimate nest- holder, The whistle of the railway guard dispatching the train to the inevitable collision. The maiden's monosyllabic reply to a polysyllabic proposal. The fundamental note of the last trump, which is presumably D natural ; AH of these are sounds to rejoice in, yea to let your very ribs re-echo with : But better than all of them is the absolutely last chord of the apparently inexhaustible pianoforte player. J. K. Stephen. 491. CIMABUELLA Fair-tinted cheeks, clear eyelids drawn In crescent curves above the light Of eyes, whose dim, uncertain dawn Becomes not day : a forehead white Beneath long yellow heaps of hair : She is so strange she must be fair. Had she sharp, slani-wise wings outspread. She were an angel ; but she stands With flat dead gold behind her head. And lilies in her long thin hands : Her folded mantle, gathered in. Falls to her feet as it were tin. Her nose is keen as pointed flame ; Her crimson lips no thing express ; And never dread of saintly blame Held down her heavy eyelashes : To guess what she were thinking of, Precludeth any meaner love. An azure carpet, fringed with gold. Sprinkled with scarlet spots, I laid Before her straight, cool feet unrolled : But she nor sound nor movement made (Albeit I heard a soft, shy smile, ]?rinting her neck a moment's while) ; And I was shamed through all my mind For that she spake not, neither kissed. But stared right past me. Lo ! behind Me stood, in pink and amethyst. Sword-girt and velvet-doubleted, A tall, gaunt youth, with frowzy head. CBL\BUELLA 407 Wide nostrils in the air, dull eyes. Thick lips that simpered, but, ah me ! I saw, \vith most forlorn surprise. He was the Thirteenth Century, I but the Nineteenth : then despair Curdled beneath my curling hair, Love and Fate ! How could she choose My rounded outUnes, broader brain. And my resuscitated Muse ? Some tears she shed, but whether pain Or joy in him unlocked their source, 1 could not fathom which, of course. But I from missals, quaintly bound, With cither and with clarichord Will sing her songs of sovran sound : Belike her pity will afford Sach faint return as suits a saint So sweetly done in verse and paint. Batakd Taylob. 492. AFTER DILETTANTE CONCETTI ' Why do you wear vour hair like a man. Sister Helen ? This week is the third since you began.' ' I'm writing a ballad ; be still if you can. Little brother. (0 Mother Carey, mother ! What chickens are these between sea and heaven ?) ' But why does your figure appear so lean. Sister Helen ? And why do you dress in sage, sage green ? ' ' Children should never be heard, if seen. Little brother ? (O Mother Carey, mother ! ^Yha^ jowls are a-icing in the stormy heaven .') ' ' But why is your face so yellowy white. Sister Helen ? And why are your skirts so funnily tight 5 ' ' Be quiet, you torment, or how can I \iTite, Little brother ? (0 Mother Carey, mother ! How gathers thy train to the sea from the heaven !) ' 408 AFTER DILETTANTE CONCETTI And who 's Mother Carey, and what is her train. Sister Helen ? And why do you call her again and again ? ' ' You troublesome boy, why that 's the refrain, Little brother. (0 Mother Carey, mother I What work is toward in the stmrtled heaven ?) ' ' And what 's a ref .ain ? What a curious word. Sister Helen ! Is the ballad you're writing about a sea-bird ? ' ' Not at all ; why should it be ? Don't be absurd. Little brother. (O Mother Carey, mother ! Thy brood flies lower as lowers the heaven.)' {A I ig brother speaketh :) ' The refrain you've studied a meaning had. Sister Helen ! It gave strange force to a weird ballad. But refrains have become a ridiculous ' fad ' Little brother. And Mother Carey, mother. Has a bearing on nothing in earth or heaven. ' But the finical fashion has had its day. Sister Helen. And let 's try in the style of a different lay To bid it adieu in poetical way. Little brother. So, Mother Carey, mother ! Collect your chickens and go to — heaven.' {A pause. Then the big brother singeth, accompanying him- self in a plaintive wise on the triangle : ' Look in my face. My name is Used-to-was, I am also called Played out and Done-to-death, And It-will-wash-no more. Awakeneth Slowly, but sure awakening it has. The common-sense of man ; and I, alas ! The ballad-burden trick, now known too well. Am turned to scorn, and grown contemptible — A too transparent artifice to pass. ' What a cheap dodge I am ! The cats who dart Tin-kettled through the streets in wild surprise Assail judicious ears not otherwise ; And yet no critics praise the urchin's ' art ', Who to the wretched creature's caudal part Its foolish empty-jingling ' burden ' ties.' H. D. Traill. 409 493. THE PERSOK OF THE HOUSE Idyl ccclxvi. The Ked My spirit, in the doorway's pause. Fluttered with fancies in my breast ; Obsequious to all decent laws, 1 felt exceedingly distressed. I knew it rude to enter there With Mrs. V. in such a state ; And, 'neath a magisterial air. Felt actually indelicate. I knew the nurse began to grin ; I turned to greet my Love. Said she — ' Confound your modesty, come in ! — What shall we call the darling, V. ? ' (There are so many charming names ! Girls' — Peg, Moll, Doll, Fan, Kate, Blanche, Bab; Boys' — Mahershahal-hashbaz, James, Luke, Nick, Dick, Mark, Aminadab.) Lo, as the acorn to the oak. As well-heads to the river"s height. As to the chicken the moist yolk. As to high noon the day's first white — Such is the baby to the man. There, straddling one red arm and leg. Lay my last work, in length a span, , Half hatched, and conscious of the egg. A creditable child, I hoped ; And half a score of joys to be Through sunny lengths of prospect sloped Smooth to the bland futurity. 0, fate surpassing other dooms, O, hope above all wrecks of time ! O, light that fills all vanquished glooms, O, silent song o'ermastering rhyme ! I covered either little foot, I drew the strings about its waist ; Pink as the unshelled Inner fruit. But barely decent, hardly chaste. Its nudity had startled me ; But when the petticoats were on, ' I know,' I said ; ' its name shall be Paul C3rril Athauasius John.' ' Why,' said my wife, ' the child 's a girl.' My brain swooned, sick with failing sense ; With all perception In a whirl. How could I tell the difference ? 410 THE KID ' Nay,' smiled the nurse, ' the child 's a boy.' And all my soul was soothed to hear That so it was : then startled Joy Mocked Sorrow with a, doubtful tear And I was glad as one who sees For sensual optics things unmeet : As purity makes passion freeze, So faith warns science off her beat. Blessed are they that have not seen, And yet, not seeing, have believed : To walk by faith, as preached the DeaiL And not by sight, have I achieved. Let love, that does not look, believe ; Let knowledge, that believes not, look : Truth pins her trust on falsehood's sleeve. While reason blunders by the book. Then Mrs. Prig addressed me thus ; ' Sir, if you'll be advised by me, You'll leave the blessed babe to us ; It 's my belief he wants his tea.' A. C. SWIKBHENE. 494. SONNET FOR A PICTURE That nose is out of drawing. With a gasp, ' She pants upon the passionate lips that ache With the red drain of her own mouth, and make A monochord of colour. Like an asp. One lithe lock wriggles in his rutilant grasp. Her bosom is an oven of myrrh, to bake Love's white warm shewbread to a browner cake. The lock his fingers clench has burst its hasp. The legs are absolutely abominable. Ah ! what keen overgust of wild-eyed woes Flags in that bosom, flushes in that nose ? Nay ! Death sets riddles for desire to spell, Responsive. What red hem earth's passion sews. But may be ravenously unripped in hell? A. C. SWINBUBNE. 411 495. NEPHELIDIA From the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn through a notable nimbus of nebulous noonshine, Pallid and pink as the palm of the flag- flower that flickers with fear of the flies as they float. Are they looks of our lovers that lustrously lean from a, marvel of mystic miraculous moonshine, These that we feel in the blood of our blushes that thicken and threaten with throbs through the throat ? Thicken and thrill as a theatre thronged at appeal of an actor's appalled agitation. Fainter with fear of the fires of the future than pale with the promise of pride in the past ; Flushed with the famishing fullness of fever that reddens with radiance of rathe recreation. Gaunt as the ghastliest of glimpses that gleam through the gloom of the gloaming when ghosts go aghast ? Nay, for the nick of the tick of the time is a tremulous touch on the temples of terror, Strained as the sinews yet strenuous with strife of the dead who is dumb as the dust-heaps of death : Surely no soul is it, sweet as the spasm of erotic emotional exquisite error. Bathed in the balms of beatified bliss, beatific itself by beatitude's breath. Surely no spirit or sense of a soul that was soft to the spirit and soul of our senses Sweetens the stress of suspiring suspicion that sobs in the semblance and sound of a sigh ; Only this oracle opens Olympian, in mystical moods and triangular tenses — ' Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the dawn of the day when we die.' Mild is the mirk and monotonous music of memory, melodiously mute as it may be. While the hope in the heart of a hero is bruised by the breach of men's rapiers, resigned to the rod ; Made meek as a mother whose bosom-beats bound with the bliss-bringing bulk of a balin-breathing baby. As they grope through the graveyard of creeds, under skies growing green at a groan for the grimness of God. Blank is the book of his bounty beholden of old, and its binding is blacker than bluer : Out of blue into black is the scheme of the skies, and their dews are the wine of the bloodshed of things ; Till the darkling desire of delight shall be free as a fawn that is freed from the fangs that pursue her, Till the heart-beats of hell shall be hushed by a hymn from the hunt that has harried the kennel of kings. A. C. SWINBUHNE. 412 496. GOOD-NIGHT Good-night ? ah ! no ; the hour is ill Which severs those it should unite ; Let us remain together still, Then it will be good night. How can I call the lone night good. Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight ? Be it not said, thought, understood. Then it will be — good night. To hearts which near each other move From evening close to morning light. The night is good ; because, my love. They never say good-night. P. B. Shelley. 497. AUF WIEDERSEHEN Summer The little gate was reached at last. Half hid in lilacs down the lane ; She pushed it wide, and, as she past, A wistful look she backward cast. And said, — ' Auf vnedersehen ! ' With hand on latch, a vision white Lingered reluctant, and again Half doubting if she did aright, Soft as the dews that fell that night. She said, — ' Auf wiedersehen ! ' The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair ; I linger in delicious pain ; Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air To breathe in thought I scarcely dare. Thinks she, — '' Au] wiedersehen T 'Tis thirteen years ; once more I press The turf that silences the lane ; I hear the rustle of her dress, I smell the lilacs, and — ah, yes, I hear ' Au\ wiedersehen ! ' Sweet piece of bashful maiden art ! The English words had seemed too fain. But these — they drew us heart to heart. Yet held us tenderly apart ; She said, ' Axtf wiedersehen I ' J. R. Lowell. NOTES [The notes marked F. L.-L. are those of Mr. Locker-Lampson in the 'new and revised edition' of Lyra Elegantiarum, published in 18G7.] Page 1. No. 1. — Cowper, the poet, says, 'Every man conversant with verse-making knows, and knows by painful experience, that the familiar style is of all styles the most difficult to succeed in. To make verse speak the language of prose, without being prosaic, to marshal the words of it in such an order as they might naturally take in falling from the lips of an extemporary speaker, yet without meanness, harmoniously, elegantly, and without seeming to displace a syllable for the sake of the rhyme, is one of the most arduous tasks a poet can undertake. He that could accomplish this task was Prior : many have imitated his excellence in this particular, but the best copies have fallen short of the original.' — F. L.-L. Page 6. Nos. 9 and 10. — Mr. Swinburne says : ' There are loftier sonnets in the language, there is no lovelier sonnet in the world, than the late Lord Rosslyn's "Bedtime". ''It gives a very echo to the seat where love is throned " — the painless and stainless love of little children. Landoi might and would, for all his fanteistic and factitious abhorrence of their form, have given a place to this divine sormet and its coequal companion in a truly blessed immortality, Mr. Tennyson Turner's on "Letty's Globe", in his list of exceptions to the common rule or the conventional axiom which denies that any work of man's can ever be absolutely perfect.' Page 11. No. 18. — 'Among the happiest of Praed's efforts.' — F. L.-L. Page 14. No. 22. — For the guidance of the reader more familiar with Gray's ' On a distant prospect of Eton College', Hood notes that this has ' no connexion with any other ode '- Page 20. No. 25. — ^Mr. Swinburne disliked Calverley^' the monstrously overrated and preposterously overpraised.' ' A jester, graduate, or under- graduate,' he wrote, 'may be fit enough to hop, skip, and tumble before university audiences, without capacity to claim an enduring or even a, passing station among even the humblest of English humorists.' Calverley quotes the lines of Gray ; — Poor moralist, and what art thou ? A solitary fly a-, a footnote to 'poor moralist' in the last stanza. 414 NOTES Page 22. No. 26.— This parody appeared in The Light Green, reprints o£ Parts I and II of which can be obtained of Messrs. Metcalfe, Cambridge. It is, of course, a parody of Bret Harte's poem which will be found on page 145. Page 24. No. 27. — ■' It is rather difficult to make a selection from Thomas Moore : nearly everything that he has written might bo claimed as vera de sociM, whether it be epitaph, epigram, ballad, or sacred song. He could not help being witty and sparkling, and perhaps a little artiBcial.' — F. L.-L. Moore suppressed two verses — the third and sixth as originally printed, i.e. Young Sappho, for want of employments. Alone o er her Ovid may melt. Condemned but to read of enjoyments Which wiser Corinna had felt. In Ethics — 'tis you that can check, In a minute, their doubts and their quarrels ; Oh ' shew but that mole on your neck, And 'twill soon put an end to their morals. Page 26. No. 29. — The young gentleman was Mr. Thrale's nephew, Sir John Lade, who made an ' unfortunate marriage ' and contrived to waste the whole of a fine fortune before he died. Boswell remarks that ' these improvise lines ' show ' a mind of surprising activity and warmth ; the more so as he [Johnson] was past seventy years of age when he composed them.' Johnson sent to Mrs. Piozzi the ' song, which you must not show to anybody '. Page 28. No. 34. — This and the next are based on Catullus's ' Vivamus mea Lesbia, atque amamus '. Page 29. No, 36. — From Occasional Verses (1GG5), where the poem, which contains two more verses than here, is called ' Ditty in imitation of the Spanish Entre tantoque L'Avril.' Page 32. No. 42. — Compare Matthew Arnold's ' Horatian Echo ' : — The day approaches, when we must Be crumbling bones and windy dust ; And scorn us as our mistress may. Her beauty will no better be Than the poor face she slights in thee. When dawns that day, that day. Page 33. No. 45. — Mr. Swinburne would rule this out as not a sample of social verse : ' it is an echo from the place of conscious or unconscious torment which is paved with penitence and roofed with despair. Its quiet note of commonplace resignation is more bitter and more impressive in the self-scornful sadness of its retrospect than any shriek ol rebellion or any imprecation of appeal.' Page 39. No. 54.— From ' Don Juan ', Canto I, stanzas 123 to 127. NOTES 415 Page 42. No. 61. — A well, attended by a nymph, Aganippe, at the foot of Mount Helicon, sacred to the Muses, the water of which gave inspiration to the drinker. I'ACiE 43. No. 64. — Compare No. 171, page 112. Page 46. No. 71. — From the German by Lessing. Page 63. No. 100. — One of the ' Love Songs by the Fat Contributor ' in Punch. ' Articles of furniture are deservedly favourite subjects with domestic poets ; witness those celebrated verses, "My Uncle's Old Hat," ' My Grandmother's Muff," " My Ancestor's Coal-scuttle," &c., by Miss Bunion and other poetesses, who have taken such a strong hold on the affections of the public.'— W. M. T. Page 68. No. 107. — Mr. Swinburne asserts that, ' If Skelton's and Wyatt's orthography may be modified or modernized, as assuredly it may be without protest from any but the most horny-eyed and beetle-headed of pedants, so assuredly may Chaucer's.' By permission of the Rev. Professor Skeat the following modern version by him is appended : — My lady, ye of beauty are the shrine. As far as stretches earth's remotest bound ; For as the crystal glorious ye shine, And like the ruby are your cheeks so round. Beside, your jocund mirth doth so redound, That, at a revel when I see you dance, 'Tis like an ointment to my inward wound Though ye vouchsafe to me no complaisance. Tor though my tears should fill a tun for wine. Yet e'en that woe will not my heart confound; The charming notes ye sing, so clear and fine. Can make my thoughts with joy and bliss abound. So courteously I move, by love so crowned. That to myself I say, in my sad chance. Content am I to love you, Rosamound, Though ye vouchsafe to me no c<5mplaisance. Was never pike so soused in galantine As I by love am wrapped and compassed round ; And therefore of myself I oft divine, A Beoond Tristram is in me renowned. My love can ne'er be chilled, nor yet be drowned ; I burn for ever in an amorous trance. Do what ye will, your thrall will I be found, Though ye vouchsafe to me no complaisance. G. Chaucee (trans, by Rev. Pbof. Skeat). Dr. Skeat, in his Oxford edition of Chaucer, gives the following explana- tions : — mappemonde is French, Latin mappa mundi — ' as far as the map- of the world extends ' ; tyne = a large tub ; seemly = pleasing ; smal = 416 NOTES fine in tone, delicate, perhaps treble ; oiit-twyne = twist out, force out. Verse iii ' never was pike so involved in galantine-sauce as I am completely involved in love,' a humorous allusion to a manner of serving up pikes which is well illustrated in the fifteenth-century cookery- books ; ref reyd = re- frigerated ; afounde = sink, bo submerged. The Oxford English Dictionary defines galantine ' as a kind of sauce for lish and fowl ' : this use of the word being obsolete. Compare Sam Weller's description of Mr. Winkle : ' He 'a in u. horrid state o' love ; reg'larly oomfoozled, and done over with it.' Pace 69. No. 110. — Elizabeth, daughter of James I and wife of the Elector Palatine, Frederick V, chosen King of Bohemia in 1619. Howell, in Familiar Letters, says she was not only Queen of Bohemia, but also ' for her winning princely comportment the Queen of Hearts '. Page 74. No. 119. — Bonnie Lesley was Miss Lesley Baillie. Mr. Baillie, of Ayrshire, with his two daughters, called on Burns at Dumfries, and he siccompanied his visitors for fifteen miles on their way to England, composing the song on his ride homeward. Page 78. No. 126. — ' Has things in it vivid and subtle as anything in Shelley at his best ; and I affirm this deliberately ' ! — Gbosabt. Page 84. No. 129. — Margaret was a servant girl employed by the poet's cousin. Gray. Page 86. No. 132.— Mr. F. T. Palgrave says (Golden Treasury) :—' A little masterpiece in a very difficult style : Catullus himself could hardly have bettered it. In grace, tenderness, simplicity, and humour, it is worthy of the Ancients ; and even more so, from the completeness and unity of the picture presented.' It is rejected by Mr. Lockcr-Lampson as ' too homely, and too entirely simple and natural ' for the Lyra Eleganiiarum. Page 91. No. 138.— In Mr. Godley's Oxford Edition of Moore there is the following note, which explains the reference in the second verse: — ' This alludes to a kind of Irish fairy, which is to be met with, they say, in the fields at dusk. As long as you keep your eyes upon him, he is fixed, and in your power ; — but the moment you look away (and he is ingenious in furnishing some inducement) he vanishes. I had thought that this was the sprite which we call the Leprechaun ; but a high authority upon such subjects. Lady Morgan (in a note upon her national and interesting novel, O'Donnel), has given a very different account of that goblin.' Page 103. No. 160. — This reply to Marlowe's ' Come live with me ' (excluded by Mr. Locker-Lampson as 'too highly poetical', though the i-eply is admitted ' because it is depressed to the requisite level by the tinge of worldly satire which runs through it') is attributed to Kalcgh ,' in his NOTES 417 younger days ', on the authority o£ Isaak Walton in The Compleat Angler. Compare Donne's poem (p. 261). Page 121. No. 190. — From 'Cadenus and Vanessa', 'thought to be'. Goldsmith says, 'one o£ Dr. Swift's oorreotest pieces'. Vanessa was Miss Vanhomrigh ; Cadenus, of course. Dean (' Decanus') Swift himself. Page 122. No. 194. — ' Kitty was Lady Katherine Hyde, afterwards Duchess of Queensberry. Lady Jenny was Lady Jane Hyde, then Countess of Esses.' — F. L.-L. Pages 122 and 123. Nos. 195 and 196. — Miss Lepel was maid of honour to Queen Caroline. She afterwards married Lord Hervey. Page 124. No. 198. — A humorous account of the poet's acquaintance with Lady Cobham, who lived at Stoke Pogis. This lady sent her relative. Miss Harriet Speed, and Lady Schanb to invite the poet to call upon her, so impressed was she by the Elegy. ' My grave Lord Keeper ' is Sir Christo- pher Hatton ; Sir Luke Schaub, ' cap a pie from France,' had been Ambassa- dor in Paris ; ' the other Amazon ', Miss Speed, afterwards wife of Count de Viry ; the Rev. Mr. Purt was tutor to the Duke of Bridgewater ; Tyaeke was the housekeeper ; Squib, groom of the chamber ; Groom, steward ; Macleane, a highwayman, just hanged. Page 137. No. 209. — With regard td the last word in verse four, Moore's early poems were published in the name of Thomas Little, and his later judgement suppressed them for being too erotic. Page 139. No. 210. — Another version, signed Phi, appeared in the Court Journal in 1832. I am able to give Sir George Young's conclusion, viz. : — ' That (1) the idea of this piece, with a hint or two as to how it should be worked out, was given by Praed to his friend E. Marlborough Fitzgerald ; who thereupon (2) produced the piece, substantially as in the Court Journal ; which again (3) was probably corrected and enriched by Praed ; (4) Praed afterwards rewriting it as in the MSS., which recently came into my posses- sion, according to his own original idea. Page 145. No. 215. — See p. 22 for Hilton's parody of this. Page 150. No. 222. — Coleridge wrote that he had no particular General in mind. Several verses have been omitted. Page 151. No. 223. — This was suggested by a speech in which Mr. Wilberforce, replying to an observation of Dr. Lushington, that ' the Society for the Suppression of Vice meddled with the poor alone ', said that ' the offences of the poor came more under observation than those of the rich'. Mr, Swinburne considers 'the riper and richer humour of Peacock aa superior to Praed's as dry champagne to sweet, or a sultana grape to a green gooseberry '. 418 NOTES Page 152. No. 224.— This appeared in the first number of The Brazen Head, a short-lived periodical started by Praed and others in 1826, and was thus introduced : ' Brazen companion of my solitary hours ! do you, while I recline, pronounce a prologue to those sentiments of Wisdom and Virtue, which are hereafter to be the oracles of statesmen, and the guides of philoso- phers. Give me to-night a proem of our essay, an opening of our case, a division of our subject. Speak ! ' (Slow music. The Friar falh asleep. The head chaunls as jollows.) Page 154. No. 225. — Published anonymously at first in An Offering to Lancashire issued for the benefit of the sufferers from the cotton famine. Page 155. No. 226. — This is only a fragment from a long poem. Page 1 68. No. 238. — ' Even more out of • plfice in such good company [than Calverley ; see note to No. 25 on p. 413] is the weary and wearisome laureate of Oxonicules and Bostonicules, Mr. Lowell's realized and chosen representative of English poetry at its highest in the generation of Tennyson and Browning ; whose message to his generation may be summed up as follows : We've got no faith, and we don't know what to do : To think one can't believe a creed because it isn't true ! * ("■ Et certamen erat, Corydon cum Thyrside, parvum.) Literary history will hardly care to remember or to register the fact that there was a bad poet named Clough, whom his friends found it useless to puff : for the public, if dull, has not quite such a skull as belongs to believers in Clough.' — A. C. Swinburne. Page 169. No. 240. — ^Mr. Swinburne also condemned Mr. Locker-Lampson for including poems from the Anti-Jacobin. ' It is something above and beyond all realized conceptions of incongruity,' he wrote, ' to hoist the flag of "no politics" and pass the watchword of "no parodies", and then to salute the reader with a broadside of brutality and burlesque, a discharge of mildewed mockery and fly-blown caricature, from the social and political battery of Messrs. Canning and Frere.' Southey's essay in sapphics, of which this is a parody, was entitled ' The Widow ' and began : Cold was the night wind, drifting fast the snow fell ; Wide were the downs and shelterless and naked. When a poor wanderer struggled on her journey. Weary and way-sore. The 'Friend of Humanity' signified George Tierney, who fought a duel with Pitt, and held several offices, being finally Master of the Mint, under Canning. Canning's copy of the Anli-Jacdbin credits Frere and himself with this poem, and with ' Mrs. Brownrigg ', which is given on p. 393. NOTES 419 Page 170. No. 241.— 'Jlr. Falck, the Dutch Minister in 1826, having made a proposition by which a considerable advantage would have accrued to Holland, this poetical dispatch was actually sent bj' Canning to Sir Charles Bagot, the English Ambassador at the Hague, and soon afterwards an Order in Council was issued to put into effect the intention so announced.' — F. L.-L. The dispatch was sent in cypher : this version, of several, is the correct one. Pace 170. No. 242. — iloore says that this ' squib ' was wrung from him by the Irish Coercion Act of his friends, the Whigs. Page 172. No. 244. — These lines are extremely characteristic of the author's extraordinary fluency and mastery of rhyme. They appeared originally in the book of the ' Cambridge Lotus Club'. The fifteenth line from the end was printed, by a lapsus calami, incorrectly in Lapsus Calami. Page 176. No. 248. — Hamilton's Bawn was an old house belonging to Sir Arthur Acheson, Bart., whose wife, Anne Savage, was daughter of an Irish Chancellor of the Exchequer. Pi.ums = Iri.sh for poor country clergy- men ; Darby and Wood = two of Sir Arthur's managers ; Dr. Jinny : a local clergyman ; Noveds, &c. = Ovids, Plutarchs, and Homers. See note to No. 357, pp. 421 and 422. Page 181. No. 250. — ' These verses express, with much force and humour, the feelings of the British nation on military affairs after the close of the long struggle with France. Five-and-twenty years of almost incessant fighting had made people heartily weary of soldiers and soldiering. But at the present era of non-intervention the poem has a satirical application which Praed probably did not intend.' — F. L.-L. Pace 185. No. 253. — This poem is prefaced by the following extract from the Horning rout : — ' A surgeon of the United States army says that, on inquiring of the Captain of his company, he found that nine-tenths of the men had enlisted on account of some female difficulty.' Page 186. No. 254. — The Higher Criticism has sought to deprive these lines of their impromptu character. Instead of having been written on the night before the engagement, in which the Dutch admiral was blown up with all his crew, the composition is said to have cost its author time and trouble. Pace 188. No. 255. — In the marriage register of Warlingham, for 1724, is this entry : — ' Sweet William and Black-eyed Susan, alias William Black- man and Susan Humfrey, both of this parish of Warlingham, were married by banns, Dec. 26th, 1724. D. Price, Vicar.' Pace 189. No. 256. — 'Suckling is remarkable for a careless natural grace. This is one of his best poems, and, as Leigh Hunt says, " his fancy 420 NOTES is so full of gusto as to border on imagination." The bridegroom is said to have been Lord Broghill, and the bride Lady Margaret Howard, daughter of the Earl of Suffolk. Three [several] stanzas of this poem have been necessarily omitted.' — F. L.-L. Page 193. No. 262. — ' That kind of horse-gallop of an air which precludes sentiment. The ludicrous is its ruling feature.' — Bukns. Page 195. No. 265. — This poem, when first published in the London Magazine, was thus introduced : — f We have received the following letter : " Sib, — After residing the other day that Pope could have extracted poetry out of a warming pan, it occurred to me that I could, perhaps, wring a verse of two out of a bell, or strike a few stanzas out of a brass knocker." ' Page 1 96. No. 267. — From the volume entitled Amelia, published in 1878. Page 200. No. 272. — ' Low as is the key of these tenderer verses in comparison with the fiery and faultless music, the subtle and simple intensity of the four transcendent lines which suggested them, it seems to me,' Mr. Swinburne observes, 'that Sappho's very self might have smiled approval, or at least condonation of their gentler loveliness and less passionate melody than her own.' Page 209. No. 290.— Jane = llrs. Williams. ' All the verses Shelley addressed to her passed through her husband's hands without the slightest interruption to their intercourse ; and Mrs. Shelley, who was not unpardon- ably jealous of her Ariel, continued to be Mrs. Williams's warm friend.' — J. Addington Symonds. Trelawny says the MS. ' was a frightful scrawl ; words smeared out with his finger, and one upon the other, over and over in tiers, and all run together in " most admired disorder ".' Pages 211, 212. Nos. 291, 292. — Herrick also wrote some lines toLawes: I Touch but thy lyre, my Harry.' Page 219. No. 300. — In later editions the author was at pains to explain that the remark in the seventh stanza was that of a habitue of St. James's, but that he himself had a sincere admiration for the American people. See the note on Lepel, p. 417. Page 220. No. 301. — ^An excerpt from ' Artist and Model '. Page 224. No. 304.— Tutties = nosegays. Page 227. No. 306. — Verse 3, line 6, durns=doorposts ; verse 4, line 1, tun= chimney ; verse 5, line 4, hatch = gate, line 5, clavy = mantel. Page 235. No. 316. — The authorship of these lines is uncertain, but they are obviously based on an inferior poem of four verses written by William Somerville (1675-1712), who wrote f The Chase'. NOTES 421 Page 236. Xo. 318. — 'The flexibility and Tariety o£ Barham's rhythm is quite wonderful. Tom Moore, Praed, and Prior could not have produced a more graceful piece ot drollery than these lines.' — F. L.-L. Page 236. No. 320. — ' This gracefullest and sweetest of all compliments ever offered to a sweet and graceful English girl,' is Mr. Swinburne's comment. Page 237. Uo. 321. — ' The lovely song (as of a graver and more thought- ful Herrick).' — A. C. Swinbcbxe. Page 240. No. 324.—' Creech's : — Plain truth, dear Murray, needs no flowers of speech. To take it in the very words of Creech.' — A. Pope. Page 244. No. 330. — ^Walpole, after the death of Gray, preserved the China vase on a pedestal at Strawberry Hill, with an inscription from the ode. Page 245. No. 331. — -'This has been cut down to bring it within the scope of the collection. I think it has not suffered in consequence.' — F. L.-L. Pace261. Xo. 346. — See Ralegh's poem on p. 103, and the note on p. 416. Page 266. No. 352. — Themis was the goddess of justice. Skinner's mother was Sir E. Coke's daughter. Sweden was at the time of writing at war with Poland, and France with the Spanish Netherlands. Pace 266. No. 353. — Mr. Swinburne's remarks on this poem must be given in full : — ' The melodious stanzas to Augusta might surely have found a place — with or without the closing verses (unaccountably omitted from the current editions of Byron) which are hardly necessary to explain and justify the enthusiastic admiration of that most exquisite critic, Edgar Poe, for the metrical perfection of that most mellifluous poem — usually and prematurely broken off short after the fourth of the following sweet lines: In the desert a fountain is springing. In the wide waste there still is a tree. And a bird in the solitude singing Which speaks to my spirit of thee. Thou thought'sfc verses like these could be scanned — which Was absurd, but uncommonly kind : Tliou said'st each stanza was not a sandwich Of blank prose and rank doggerel combined : Thou found'st out some strange sort of sweet fitness In the rhythms mauled and mangled by me ; And such ears, I take Midas to witness. Belong but to donkeys and thee.' Page 268. No. 354. — ' This brave affectionate lyric— (surely its second 422 NOTES stanza embodies as good and sound a philosophy of life as Protestant could desire ?) — was meant as the writer's farewell ere he went into exile in the April of 1810.'— W. E. Henley. Page 269. No. 356. — Mr. Lang has also been immortalized in the ' Ballade of Andrew Lang ', published in the Oxford Magazine : You ask me. Fresher, who it is Who rhymes, researches, and reviews, Wiio sometimes writes like Genesis, And sometimes for the Daily News : Who jests in words that angels use, And is most solemn with most slang : Who's who — who's which — and which is whose? Who can it be but Andrew Lang '! Page 270. No. 357. — ' Perhaps this is the most humorous piece of verse in the English language, and yet it is essentially vers de sociite. One or two slight expressions have been softened down, both here and in other pieces, to suit the taste of the day. " Whittle " was the Earl of Berkeley's valet ; " Dame Wadger " was the deaf old housekeeper ; " Lord Colway " means Galway ; " Lord Dromedary " means Drogheda ; " Gary " was clerk of the kitchen ; " Mrs. Dukes " was a servant, and wife to one of the footmen. " The Chaplain " refers to Swift himself.'— F. L.-L. With regard to this, Mr. Swinburne notes : ' The perfection of taste and tact displayed in the discharge of such a task as the presentation of Swift at his best, and of Swift in the fullness of his powers, to the modern reader of either sex and any possible age — and this without hint or Buspicion of offence — is notable alike for simplicity, for dexterity, and for daring. Two poems in which the genius of Aristophanes shakes hands with the genius of Dickens — for Swift has revived the one and anticipated the other in his exquisite abuse of language, and his delicious perversion of proper names — " Hamilton's Bawn " and " Mrs. Harris's Petition ", are now, by the slightest and most delicate of touches, made accessible to all lovers of the rarest humour and the most resplendent wit : we only miss Mary the cookmaid's not less wonderful and delightful letter to Dr. Sheridan.' The last mentioned has been included in this volume, and it has the merit of not needing any excision : see page 272. ' Hamilton's Bawn ' will bo found on page 176. Page 275. No. 361. — 'Lady Mary W. Montagu wrote very smartly. Lord Lyttelton once sent her some highly didactic and sentimental lines, beginning, " The councils of a friend, Belinda, hear," of which Lady Mary made the following concise summary : " Be plain in dress, and sober in your diet. In short, my deary, Iciss me, and be quiet." NOTES 423 Her verses on Sir Robert Walpole are happy, but they inevitably recall the exquisite couplets of Pope : " Seen him I have, but in his happier hour Of social pleasure, ill-exchanged for power ; Seen him, uncumbered with the venal tribe, Smile without art, and win without a bribe." ' — F. L.-L. Page 276. No. 362. — ^This poem, of which only a part is here printed, was written at Pisa in 1820, and, ilr. J. Addington Symonds says, might be mentioned as a pendant to ' Julian and Maddalo for its treatment of familiar things ; one of Shelley's most genial poems'. Byron in ' Don Juan ' wrote : And Coleridge, too, has lately taken wing. But like a hawk encumbered with his hood. Pace 289. Xo. 369. — At the conclusion of a prefatory memoir of Kingsley , contributed by T. Hughes to the 1876 edition of Allon I/ocke, the writer states : ' A few weeks later [in the summer of 1856] I received the following invitation to Snowdon, and to Snowdon we went in the autumn of 1856,' Macdougall was the Bishop of Labuan. Page 292. No. 371, 1. 20. — Knat, also gnat, now obsolete except in dialect, was a kind of sandpiper ; ruff was also the male of a bird of the- sandpiper family; rail, a bird of the family RaUidae, especially of ther genus SallttrS : compare land-rail, water-rail Page 294. No. 374. — ' That it represents the actual thanks of the poet to Lord Clare [afterwards Earl Nugent, see p. 117] for an actual present of venison, part of which he promptly transferred to Reynolds, is probably the fact. But it is also clear that Goldsmith borrowed, if not his entire fable, at least some of its details, from Boileau's third satire ; and that, in certain of the lines, he had in memory Swift's " Grand Question Debated " [see p. 176], the measure of which he adopts.' — llr. Austin Doesok (Oxford edition of Goldsmith's Poems). In the second paragraph : Mr. Byrne was a relative of Lord Clare. II — 1 — 's=Dorothy Monroe's. The line, ' There 'sH — d,' &c., originally was : ' There's Coley, and Williams, and Howard, and HiflE ' (i. e. HifEeman) ; ' my countryman ' was Higgins. Page 296. No. 375. — ' Dr. Goldsmith and some of his friends occasionally dined at the St. James's Coffee-house, where one day it was proposed to write epitaphs on him. He was challenged to retaliate, and these lines were the result. " Our Dean," Dr. Barnard, Dean of Derry [then, finally Bishop of Limerick ; see p. 3 10] ; Edmund Burke ; Mr. William Burke, II.P. for Bedwin ; Mr. Richard Burke, Collector of Grenada ; Cumberland the dramatist ; Dr. Douglas, Canon of Windsor [afterwards Bishop of Salisbury] ; Counsellor John Ridge, an Irish barrister ; Hickey, an eminent 424 NOTES attorney; Townshend, M.P. ior Whitchurch; Dr. Dodd, the popiilar preacher ; Dr. Kenrick lectured at the Devil's Tavern ; Macpherson, of " Ossian " celebrity ; Mr. Woodfall was printer of the Morning Chronicle.^ — F. L.-L. Scarron (1610-60), whose works Goldsmith had been translating. Mr. Austin Dobson points out that this poem was composed and circulated in detached fragments, and that Goldsmith was still working on it when he was seized with his last illness. Page 301. No. 377. — From ' Memories of Gormandizing ', in which it is printed side by side with the Latin. ' Who knew or studied this cheap philosophy of life better than old Horace ? . . . How affecting (Thackeray wrote) is the last ode of the first book : To his serving-boy — Persicos odi, Puer, apparatur,'' &o. Page 302. No. 379. — Pretzel — bretzel, bread ; Souse undt Brouse, i. e. • Saus und Braus, riot and bustle ; Gensy-broost, i. e. Gansebust, goose moat ; Bratwurst und Braten, sausages and roast meats ; Abendessen, supper ; bimmelstrahlende stem, heavenly shining star ; ewigkeit, eternity. Page 310. No. 389. — ' Dr. Barnard had asserted, in Dr. Johnson's presence, that men did not improve after the age of forty-five. " That is not true, sir," said Johnson. " You, who perhaps are forty-eight, may still improve, if you will try ; I wish you would set about it. And I am afraid," he added, " there is great room for it." Johnson afterwards greatly regretted his rudeness to the bishop, who took the insult in good part, wrote the following verses next day, and sent them to Sir Joshua Reynolds.' — F. L.-L. ' I know not,' Boswell writes, ' whether Johnson ever saw the poem, but I had occasion to find that as Dr. Barnard and he knew each other better, their mutual regard increased.' Boswell also gives with peculiar pleasure to the world, ' a just and elegant compliment ' paid to the Bishop by Johnson in the form of a charade : My first shuts out thieves from your house or your room. My second expresses a Syrian perfume. My whole is a man in whose converse is shar'd, The strength of a Bar and the sweetness of Nard. Page 314. No. 394. — Stale=an excuse, or snare. Shakespeare uses the same word — ' for stale to catch these thieves ' — in The Tempest, IV. i. 187. Page 314. No. 395. — ' It is one of Ben Jonson's distinctions among Fnglish poets that he contrives to be most spontaneous when most imitative. This immortally careless rapture is meticulously pieced together from scraps of the Love Letters of Philostratus, a Greek rhetorician of the second century A.D.' (Sir A. T. Quiller-Couoh in The Golden Pomp). Jonson's ' Still to be NOTES 425 Neat ' (p. 52), and ' Come, my Celia ' (p. 29), are also imitated from the classics. Page 321. No. 403. — Bishop Still's poem is from ' Gammer Gurton's Needle ' (1575). Page 322. No. 404. — ^The allusion in verse 7 is to ' Jupiter and the Indian Ale': ' Bring it ! ' quoth the Cloud-compeller ; And the wine-god brought the beer — ' Port and Claret are like water To the noble stuff that 's here.' Page 326. No. 407. — From ' Will Waterproof's Lyrical Monologue made at the Cock,' addressed to ' the plump head- waiter ', and ending : No carved cross-bones, the types of Death, Shall show thee passed to He'aven : But carved cross-pipes, and, underneath, A pint-pot, neatly graven.' Page 334. Nos. 412, 413. — These are two of a series, A Pipe of To- bacco: in imilaiion of six several authors (1768) — Cibber, Ambrose Philips, Thomson, Young, Pope, and Swift. The imitation of Philips (see page 5 for the original] is prefaced by the line from Virgil : Tenues fugit ceu fumus in auras. Lucan is quoted at the beginning of the imitation of Pope's style : Solis £id ortus Vanescit fumus. Pace 336. No. 415. — ^Taken from ' The Island ', Canto II, stanza xix. Page 349. No. 428. — ^This was written in 1835, ' a composition,' Camp- bell wrote, ' which will remain in the English language until it is forgotten.' The poet was sea-sick, and received kindness from a person whom he took for a doctor, but who proved to be an Algerian barber. Page 353. No. 433. — llr. Arthur Symons in A Book of Parodies states that ' The Groves of Blarney ' is a parody of a doggerel ballad ' Castle Hyde ' written by an itinerant poet named Barrett about 1790. ' The Groves ' was translated into French, Latin, and Greek by Father Prout, who composed ' The Shandon Bells ' (No. 434) to its tune. Page 370. No. 446. — This was written in the album of Horace Smith's daughter. Page 371. No. 448. — Gay : * my own epitaph.' Life is a jest, and all things show it ; I thought so once, but now I know it. p3 426 NOTES Page 380. No. 402. — Mr. Swinburne asserts that there is nothing in our language comparable with this quatrain. Page 381. No. 463. — Mr. Swinburne also testifies to the beauty of these lines : ' The beautiful and simple memorial stanzas, so light and soft in movement, so grave and tender in emotion, which give so perfect and so sweet a picture of the typical English girl whom Mrs. Browning has made lovable and memorable for ever.' Page 388. No. 471. — Based on a very long popular French song on Monsieur de la Palisse, the work originally of Bernard de la Monnoye, born 1641. Page 389. No. 473. — Mr. Swinburne pleaded for the inclusion of at least part of this, especially the verse beginning ' Your most beautiful bit' Bit=girl; hogo (French, haut gout) = a savoury dish. One or two verses have been omitted, and certain lines modified. Page 392. No. 477. — From ' The Rovers,' a farce ridiculing the German drama of Schiller, Kotzebue, and Goethe. It was played at the Haymarket Theatre in 1811. Sir Robert Adair, the friend of Fox, was educated at Gottingen, and was frequently burlesqued in the Anli- Jacobin. The last stanza is ascribed by some to Pitt. It is not published in the first edition, and there is a story that Canning showed the lament to Pitt in MS., and the Prime Minister weis so delighted with it that he dashed off, impromptu, an ending. But, as Mr. Lloyd Sanders suggests, in Selections from 'The Anti-Jacobin' , even Gifford would not have dared to knock out a contribution by Pitt. Page 393. No. 478. — Southey wrote several ' Sonnets and Elegies of Abel Shufflebottom', inspired by Coleridge's ' Higginbottom ' sonnets. The poetry that Southey made fun of was that of the Delia Cruscan school, composed by English residents in Florence, who at the end of the eighteenth century became notorious for the rubbishy verses which they printed. The brother- hood found many admiring imitators : to quote Gifford, ' the epidemic malady spread from fool to fool.' Page 393. No. 479. — Mrs. Brownrigg, the wife of a house-painter, was a real person, and was hanged at Tyburn in 1767. The poem parodied, written in 1795, when Southey was still in sympathy with the French Revolution, was an ' inscription for the apartment in Chepstow Castle, where Henry Martin, the regicide, was imprisoned thirty years '. It was excluded from later editions of Southey's works. See the parody on p. 169, and the note thereto. Page 394. No. 480. — From Alice in Wonderland. This is a parody of Southey's ' The Old Man's Comforts, and how he gained them,' beginning : NOTES 427 You are old. Father William, the young man cried. The few locks that arc left you are grey ; You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man, Now tell me the reason I pray. The poem ends : In the days of my youth I remembered my God ! And he hath not forgotten my age. Page 395. No. 482. — Author's Note. ' Jack and Nancy, as it was afterwards remarked to the Authors, are here made to come into the world at periods not suf&ciently remote. The writers were then bachelors. One of them, unfortunately, still continues so, as he has thus recorded in his niece's album : Should I seek Hymen's tie. As a poet I die — Ye Benedicks, mourn my distresses! For what little fame Is annexed to my name Is derived from Rejected Addresses. The blunder, notwithstanding, remains unrectified. The reader of poetry is always dissatisfied with emendations ; they sound discordantly upon the ear, like a modern song, by Bishop or Braham, introduced in Love in a Village.^ James Smith alone is credited with the authorship of this parody. Page 397. No. 483. — The quintessence of Byron as distilled by Peacock into what Mr. Swinburne calls ' the two consummate stanzas which utter or e.^hale the lyric agony of Mr. Cypress.' It occurs in Nightmare Abbey. Peacock's son-in-law, George Meredith, wrote some very contemptuous lines on Byron, entitled ' Manfred '. Page 398. No. 484. — From the Book of Ballads edited by Bon Gaultier, i.e. Sir Theodore Martin and W. E. Aytoun. This parody of ' Locksley Hall', by Sir T. Martin only, was considered by the author (in a, letter to the present editor) his best contribution to the collection. Page 403. No. 488. — Calverley is said to have had in mind William Morris's ' Two Bed Roses across the Moon', but probably the source of his inspiration was Jean Ingelow's 'The Apple Woman's Song', from Mopsa the Fairy, which has for a recurring second line, ' Feathers, and moss, and a wisp of hay.' Page 404. No. 489. — This is, of course, an imitation of the poetry of Miss Ingelow, who retaliated in Fated to be Free with satirical lines at the expense of ' Gifford Crayshaw '. Page 406. No. 491. — From 2'he Diversions of the Echo Club, in which a score of poets are parodied. 428 NOTES Page 407. No. 492.— Compare D. G. Rossetti's 'Sister Helen', wliioh begins : ' Why did you melt your waxen man. Sister Helen ? To-day is the third since you began.' ' The time was long, yet the time ran, Little brother.' (0 Mother, Mary Mother, Three days to-day, between Hell and Heaven .') Page 409. No. 493. — This and the two following parodies are from Specimens of Modern Poets | The Heptalogia \ or \ The Seven against Sense | A Cap with Seven Bells, originally published anonymously. The poets parodied include Tennyson, Robert and Mrs. Browning, Coventry Patmore, 'Owen Meredith', D. G. Rossetti, and Swinburne himself. The first is the third part of a parody of Coventry Patmore's The Angel in the House ; No. 494 is a Rossetti ; No. 495 is, of course, a Swinburne, and shows that no one, gifted with a sense of humour, can more successfully parody a poet's style than the poet himself. INDEX OF FIRST LINES AND TITLES [The titles are printed in italics where differing from the first lines-] dear Mnse, unapt to sing A Bard, A, B, C A book was writ of late called Tetrachordon A child "s a plaything for an hour . A floria to the willing Guard . A friend I met some half-honr since A is an Angel of blushing eighteen . A knife, dear girl, cuts love, they say A knight and a lady once met in a grove A little boy had bought a top A little Saint best fits a little shrine A lovely young lady I mourn in my rhymes A man may live thrice Xestor's life A mechanic his labour will often discard . A pretty task. Miss .S , to ask . A street there is in Paris famous A sweet disorder in the dress . About fifty years since, in the days of our daddies Ad CUoen, 3I.A Ad MiniMram ...... Adieu, ye joys of La Valette Advice, A Letter of , . . Advice, The ...... Advice to a Lady in AiUumn . ApAr DihUanle Concetti .... Agdingt Writers that carp at other Hen's Books Age of Wisdom, The ..... Ah Ben .... . . Ah, Chloris ! that I now could sit . Ah ! Matt. : old age has brought to me . Ah me ! those old familiar bounds . Album, Written in u Toung Lady's . Ak Algiers, Epistle from All in the Downs the fleet was moored . All my past life is mine no more All's over, then: does truth sound bitter All travellers at first incline Alone, across a foreign plain . AUhea, To, from Prison . Although I enter not .... PAGE LuUreU 240 Calverley 140 Milton 202 Lamb 7 Patmore 196 Barham 333 Calverley 140 Bishop 198 Heber 197 Frere 13 Herrick 61 Cayley 136 Vnimnm 192 Bood 184 Hood 370 Thackeray 329 Herrick 52 Moore 170 J/. CoUins 25 Thackeray 301 Byron 346 Pra£d 280 Dorset 30 Chesterfield 342 TraiU 407 Harington 205 Thackeray 312 Herrick 293 Sedky 2 Stephen 371 Hood 14 Hood 370 Still 321 Campbell 349 Gay 188 Rochester 119 B. Browning 98 Swift 304 Hood 241 Lovelace 149 Thackeray 167 430 INDEX OF FIRST LINES AND TITLES PAGE Amarantha, sweet and fair .... Lovelace 55 Amaryllis I did woo ..... Wither 77 Amo, amas .... O'Keefe 74 Amoret, A Hue and Cry after fair . Congreve 119 Amy's Cruelty ....... E. B. Browning 106 An age, in her embraces passed Rochester 76 Ancient Rhyme, An . Landor 373 And thou hast walked about (how strange a story ! H. Smith 386 Anne Bodham, To my Cousin .... Cowper 8 Another mizzling, drizzling day Barham 285 Apelles' Song . . . l^ly 66 Apollo's Song .... Lyly 68 Arcadia . Gay 122 Archery Meeting, The ..... Bayly 131 Shelley 209 Arundell, To E Landor 236 As after noon, one summer's day Prior 65 As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping . Lysaght 357 As doctors give physic by way of prevention . Prior 383 As I sat at the Cafe I said to myself Clough 331 As J sat down to breakfast in state Macaulay 164 As Nancy at her toilet sat .... Prior 45 As, when a beauteous nymph decays Swift 305 Ask me no more where Jove bestows Carew 234 Ask me why I send you here .... Herrick 233 Asses' milk, half a pint, take at seven, or before . Chesterfield 342 At length, by so much importunity pressed Montagu 105 Auf Wiedersthen ...... Lowell 412 Augusta, Stanzas to . Byron 266 Augustus still survives in Maro's strain Johnson 202 Aurelius, Sire of Hungrinesses .... Landor 302 Aye, bear it hence, thou blessed child Praed 181 Aye, here stands the Poplar, so tall and so stately Barham 236 Babe, if rhyme be none ..... Swinburne 4 Baby's Debut, The . . J. SmUh 395 Bait, The Donne 261 Ball, Our Praed 141 Ball-room, The Belle of the Praed 137 Ballad Calverley 403 Ballad A, upon a Wedding Suckling 189 Ballad, A, when at Sea Dorset 186 Bedtime ....... Rosslyn 6 Beer Calverley 322 Before the urchin well could go . . . Egremont 3 Behold with downcast eyes and modest glance . Sheridan 136 Ben Battle was a soldier bold . Hood 183 Birthday, A . C. G. RossetH 310 Birthdays ? yes, in a general way Stephen 402 Blackbird, The Tennyson 259 Black-eyed Susan .... Qay 188 Blaize, An Elegy on that Glory of her Sex, Mrs. Mary Goldsmith 388 INDEX OF FIRST LlXiS AXD TITLES 431 Blame not my Lute ! for he must sound Blarney, The Groves of . . . BleSte's House in Blactmwore . Blest leaf ! whose aromatic gales dispense BlowU, To Mrs. Martha . Blnsh not redder than the morning . Bohemia, On his Mistress, the Queen of Bonnie Lesley . Boots, To my Mistress's . Botany .... Bouillabaisse, A Ballad of Bowl, On lending a Punch Boicl, Upon his drinking in a Bracelet to Julia, The Brazen Head, The Chaunt of the Blrowning\ B., Sincere Flattery of BuU, To the Rev. WiUiarn Bullfineh, On the Death of Mrs. Throchmorton^ s Burnham Beeches ..... Bnsy, curious, thirsty fly Cadenus many things had writ Cambridge, The Country Clergyman's Trip Uj Cane-boUomed Chair, The . Careless Gallant, The. Camaiions, To Carpe Diem Cat drowned in a Tub a favourite Cat, To a Catauiba Wine . Catharina Celia, To Ceba, To Certain Lady at Court, On a Chaperon, The Charis, The Triumph of . Charles II, Epitaph on Cherry-ripe Chess Board, The . Child and Maiden . Child of Quality, To a ChJoe jealous. Answer to . Chloen, M.A., Ad . Cbloris, yourself you so excel Oiristmas is here Chronicle, The . Church Gate, At the . Cimabudla Cistus ! whose fragile flower Clapham Academy, Ode on a i Claris and Fanny Wyatt MiUikin Barnes Browne Pope Lee Wotton Bums Lccker-Lampson Landor Thackeray Holmes Bochester Herriet Praed Stephen, Cowper ^oteper of Gold Fiihei, Ode on the Death of lav.i profpeel of O LuttreU Oldys PAGE 207 35a 2*27 334r 308- 32 69 74 57 236 329 317 316 54 152 4(B 335 255 240 259 Swift 121 Macaulay 164 Thackeray 63 Jordan 389 Herrick 233 Etherege 118 Gray 244 Swinburne 250 Longfellow 318 Cowper 221 Fielding 216 Jonson 314 Pope 124 Bunner 133 Jonson 69 Bochester 149 Campion 232 Lytlon 147 Sedley 2 Prior 1 Prior 102 M. CoUins 25 Waller 209 Thackeray 300 Cowlof 82 Thackeray 167 Taylor 406 Landor 237 Hood 14 Moore 81 432 INDEX or FIRST LINES AND TITLES The Cloris ! if I were Persia's king Cologne ...... Come away with me, Tom Come, Chloe, and give me sweet kisses Come live with me, and be my love Come, my Celia, let us prove . Come, when no graver cares employ Comrades, you may pass the rosy. With the chair . Contentment Contrast, The . Corbet, his Son, To Vincent Coridon's Song Correspondent, A nice Country Clergyman's Trip to Cambridge. Country Parson, The Happy Life of a Courtin', The .... Crier, The .... C. S. C, To . Cup, The .... Cupid a boy. Why was Cupid and my Campaspe played Cupid mistaJcen Cypress, Song by Mr. Cyriack, whose grandsire on the royal bench Damas, To Madame de, learning English . Darling shell, where hast thou been Dear Alice ! you'll laugh when you know it Dear Andrew, with the brindled hair Dear Chloe, how blubbered is that pretty face Dear Horeice ! be melted to tears Dear Lucy, you know what my wish is . Dear Reynolds ! as last night I lay in bed - Decalogue, The latest Delight in Disorder . Deposition from Beauty, A DeviVs Thoughts, The Dianeme, To . Dinas Vaurr, The War Song of Dirce .... Dirge for Fidele Disappointment Disdain returned Diving Friar, The Pool of the Dixit, et in mensam — Doll, My little . Domestic Didactics by an old Servant Dorinda's sparkling wit and eyes Dowager Lady E. H — d. On the Dragon-fly, The Drink to me only with thine eyes permission S.T. of Moore . Coleridge Kingsley Williams Donne Jonson Tennyson Martin Holmes Morris Corbet Chalkhill Loclcer-Lampson Macaulay Pope Lowell Drayton Stephen Oldham Blake Lyly Prior Peacock Milton PAGE 81 350 289 49 261 29 288 398 368 214 13 223 284 164 159 87 40 268 316 64 66 65 397 266 Walpole 353 Landor 9 Praed 282 Stevenson 269 Prior 102 Campbell 349 Thackeray 301 Keats 277 Clough 168 Herrick 32, Stanley 1 12 S. T. Coleridge 150 Herrick 32 Peacock 180 Landor 380 W. Collins 384 Palmare 192 Carew Peacock Brooks 132 Kingsley 12 Hood 390 Dorset 06 Bath 372 Landor 260 Jonson 314 32 160 INDEX OF FIRST LINES AND TITLES 433 PAQE Drinking Cowley 313 Drinking, Reasons for ..... . Aldrick 313 Duncan Gray cam here to woo .... Burns 193 Dutch Proverb, A ...... . Prior 101 P.. F., To . Landor 194 Eheu jugaces ........ Barham 369 Plectra, To Herriclc 49 Enchantment, The ....... Otway 42 Epistle from Algiers, to Horace Smith . . . Campbell 349 Epitaph for one who tvould not be buried in Westminster Abbey Pope 384 Epitaph on a Hare ....... Cowper 252 Epitaph on a Pointer, An ..... Cowper 243 Epitaph on Charles II . . ... Eochester 149 Epitaph on himself ....... Prior 383 Epitaph on Salathiel Pavy, An . . . . Jonson 379 Exchange, The ....... Coleridge 42 Expostulation, An ....... Bickerstaffe 92 Fable ......... Emerson 252 Fable for Five Years old, A .... . Frere 13 Faint Amorist ! what, dost thou think . . . Sidney 89 Fair Amoret is gone astray ..... Congreve 119 Fair Amy of the terraced house . . . E. B. Browning 106 Fair Hebe and Reason . ... De La Warr 73 Fair Hebe I left, with » cautious design . . . De La Warr 73 Fair Iris I love, and hourly I die .... Dryden 115 Fair maid, hsid I not heard thy baby cries . . H. Coleridge 9 Fair Thief, The ....... Egremont 3 Fair-tinted cheeks, clear eyelids drawn . . . Taylor 406 Faithless Nelly Gray Hood 183 Farewell, rewards and fairies ..... Corbet 157 Farewell to Sorrow, A ..... . Jordan 389 Farewell to Tobacco, A . ... Lamb 337 Farewell to Tovm, A . . ... Breton 212 Female Phaeton, The Prior 122 Fidele, Dirge for . . . . W. Collins 384 Fill the goblet again ! for I never before . . Byron 314 ' Fire, Water, Woman, are Man's ruin ' . . . Prior 101 First Love ... ... Byron 39 Fish of the Brooke, To a . . ... Wolcot 264 Flower, The . . . .... Hood 241 Flower's Name, The . . . . . . S. Browning 237 Follow a shadow, it still flies you .... Jonson 1 14 For his Religion, it was fit . . . Butler 156 For one long term, or e'er her trial came . Canning and Frere 393 Fortune, that, with malicious joy .... Dryden 148 Friend of Humanity and the Knife-Grinder, The Canning and Frere 169 From his brimstone bed at break of day . . S. T. Coleridge 150 From the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn through a notable nimbus of nebulous noonshine Swinburne 411 From witty men and mad ..... Randolph 121 434 INDEX OF FIRST LINES AND TITLES Gallant, The Careless Garden Fancies Garland, The .... Gather ye rosebuds while ye may Gifts Returned, The . Girdle, On a . Gisborne, To Maria . Give me more love, or more disdain Give place, you ladies, and be gone Go and catch a falling star Go, rose, my Chloe's bosom grace Go — you may call it madness, folly God bless the king ! — I mean the Faith's Defender God makes sech nights, all white an' still Good folk, for gold or hire Good-night ? ah ! no ; the hour is ill Good-night to the Season ! 'Tis over Good people all, with one accord Goose, The . ... Grammar-Rules .... Grand Question Debated, The Grandmother, To my Graliana dancing, and singing . Gratitude ...... Great Sir, as on each levee day Gulliver's Travels, Occasioned by reading Gwenwynwyn withdrew from the feasts of his hall H, Enigma on the letter ..... Had Cain been Scot, God would have changed hi doom ....... Hail, day of Music, day of liOve Halibut on which I dined this Day, To the immortal Memory of the . Hamilton, To Lady Anne . Hamilton's Bawn ..... Hans Breitmann gif a barty Hare, Epitaph on a . Harris's Petition, Mrs. Frances . Harry whose tuneful and well-measured song H — d. On the Dowager Lady E. He that loves a rosy cheek Headache, The ..... Hear ye, ladies, that despise Hear, ye virgins, and I'll teach Heathen Pass-ee, The Hendecasyllabics .... Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee . Here lies one, who never drew Here lies our Sovereign Lord the King Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue Here 's the garden she walked ticross Jordan R. Browning Prior Herrick Landor Waller Shelley Carew Heywood Donne Gay Rogers Byrom Lowell Drayton Shelley Praed Goldsmith Tennyson Swift Locker-Lampson Lovelace Cowper Fielding Pope Peacock PAGE 389 237 382 31 200 54 276 113 70 112 235 147 328 87 40 412 128 388 257 90 176 376 135 61 273 351 160 Fanshawe 206 Cleveland 348 Macaulay 7 Cowper 264 Spencer 73 Swift 176 Leland 302 Cowper 252 Swift 270 Milton 212 Balh 372 Carew 32 Herrick 341 Fletcher Herrick Hilton Tennyson 205 Herrick 91 Cowper 243 Rochester 149 Cowper 252 R. Browning 237 28 31 22 INDEX OF FIRST LINES AND TITLES 435 Here 'a to Nelson's memory Heroes and kings ! your distance keep Hester ...... 'Hie Vir, Hie Est' . His book is successful, he's steeped in renown Ho, pretty page, with the dimpled chin . Hodgson, Lines to Mr. .... Household Gods ..... How happy a thing were a wedding How many paltry, foolish, painted things How many voices gaily sing How Springs came first .... Hudibras, The Religion of. Hughes, The Invitation to Tom . Hussey, To Mistress Margaret Huzza ! Hodgson, we are going Hypocrisy will serve as well I asked my fair one happy day I cannot eat but little meat I dare not ask a ki.ss .... I did but look and love awhile I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair I do not love thee ! — no I I do not love thee I entreat you, Alfred Tennyson I gaze upon a city .... I hardly know one flower that grows I hate the town, and all its ways . I knew an old wife lean and poor I know the thing that 's most uncommon . I lately thought no man alive . I lately vowed, but 'twas in haste . ni hunt for dangers North and South -. I'll tell you a story that 's not in Tom Moore I love to hear thine earnest voice I loved a lass, a fair one. I loved thee, beautiful and kind I loved thee once, I'll love no more. I ne'er could any lustre see I never drank of Aganippe well . I never said I loved you, John I once had a sweet little doll, dears. I played with you 'mid cowslips blowing I pray thee leave, love me no more . I prithee send me back my heart I promised Sylvia to be true . I remember the time ere his temples were grey I saw her last night at a party I saw him once before .... 'I saw you take his kiss!' "Tis true' . I sent for Batcliffe ; was so ill I tell my secret ? No indeed, not I PAGE . E. Brovming Pope Lamb 321 384 380 C'alverley ■J. Smith 20 203 Thackeray Byron Landor 312 347 10 Flatman 191 Drayton Landor 43 34 Herrick 242 Butter 156 Kingsley Skdton 289 265 Byron Butler 347 169 S. T. Coleridge Still 46 321 Herrick 49 Olway Ay ton Norton 42 111 38 Landor 291 Hood 343 Landor 236 Fielding Tennyson Pope Barnard 216 257 124 310 Oldmixon 119 Palmore 94 Hood 195 Holmes 260 Wither 96 Nugent Ayton Sheridan 117 110 95 Sidney . 0. G. Rosselti 42 108 Kingsley Peacock 12 377 Drayton Suckling Rochester 97 41 118 ! . Landor 374 Saxe 385 Holmes 374 Palmore 51 Prior 342 . 0. G. Eossetti 201 436 INDEX OF FIRST LINES AND TITLES I tell thee, Dick, where I have been I think, whatever mortals crave I very much indeed approve . I would I were that portly gentleman lanthe's Shell ...... If all be true that I do think . If all the world and love were young If I freely may discover .... If I live to grow old (for I find I go down) If love were what the rose is . If reading verse be your delight If the man who turnips cries . If this fair rose offend thy sight If women could be fair, and yet not fond Immortality in Song ..... Improvement in the Forties In amaze ...... In Britain's isle, no matter where In Christian world Mary the garland wears In Clementina's artless mien In grey-haired Celia's withered arms In his last binn Sir Peter lies . In Koln, a town of monks and bones In London I never know what I'd be at . In London on Saturday Night . In matters of commerce the fault of the Dutch In mosa-prankt dells which the sunbeams flatter In tattered old slippers that toast at the bars In the downhill of life when I find I'm declining In the greenest growth of the May time In the merry month of May . In those old days which poets say were golden In vain, dear Chloe, you suggest Inconstancy, The Merit of . Inconstancy, Woman^s Inn at Henley, Written at an . Insect, To an . Inspiration .... Insulting Beauty ! you misspend Interlude, An . Invitation, The. Inviting a Friend to Supper Ireland never was contented Irene, do you yet remember Is it not pleasant to wander . Is thy name Mary, maiden fair It is not, Celia, in your power . It is the miller's daughter It once might have been, once only . Jack and Joan, they think no ill Jackdaw, The .... PAGE Suckling Praed 189 152 Landor 194 Southey Landor 393 9 Aldrich 313 Ralegh Jonson 103 77 W. Pope Swinburne 366 115 Cowper Johnson 335 388 Unknown 235 Oxford Drayton Barnard 110 43 310 Pope Gray Lamb 351 124 46 Landor 10 Prior 175 Peacock 315 S. T. Coleridge Morris 350 214 Buchanan 220 Canning Calverley Thackeray J. Collins 170 404 03 367 Swinburne 47 Breton 85 Calverley Yonge Lovelace 322 103 118 Ayton Shenstone 110 325 Holmes 260 Sidney Rochester 42 113 Swinburne 47 Kingsley Jonson 289 292 Landor 361 Lytton Buchanan 147 220 Holmes 47 Etherege Tennyson R. Browning 118 56 33 Campion Cowper 224 254 INDEX OF FIRST LINES AND TITLES 437 Jacobite Toast, A . . . Jane, With a Guitar, to Je ne sais quoi Jenny kissed me when we met Jester's Plea, The . John Bleake he had a bit n' ground Jonson, An Ode for Ben . Jonson, His Prayer to Ben Julia, A Ring presented to Julia, I bring . Julia, The Bracelet to Julia, The Night-piece, to Julia's Bed Julia's Clothes, Upon Kate, My Kid, The. Kiss, A stolen . Kiss, The Kiss, To a Kitten and Falling Leaves, The Kitten, To a . Kitty of Coleraine Know, Celia, since thou art so proud Lady, very fair are you . Ziady who offers her Looking-glass to Venus, Lady's Lamentation, The . Lang, To Andrew Lap-dog, An Elegy on a . Last Sunday at St. James's prayers Laugh on, fair Cousins, for to you Lawes, To Mr. Henry Lawes, To Mr. H., on his Airs Lay of the Levite, The Lay of the Lovelorn, The . Leaf, The Last. . ■ . , „ , Leigh Hunt ! thou stingy man, Leigh Hunt Lesbia hath a beaming eye Lesley, Bonnie Let lis drink and be merry, dance, ]0ke Letter, A (To Lady Margaret Harley) Letter of Advice, A . Letters, My . • ■ ■ Letly's Globe Levite, The Lay of the Life (priest and poet say) is but a dream Like the Idalian queen . Limerick, The Battle of . . ■ L'Inconnue . . . • • Little I ask; my wants are few Little tube of mighty power PAGE Byrom 328 Shelley 209 Whitehead 37 Leigh Hunt 50 Locker-Lampson 154 Barnes 227 Herrick 293 Herrick 266 Herrick 53 Herrick 53 Herrick 54 Herrick 91 Herrick 61 Herrick 53 E. B. Brouming 381 Sunnburne 409 Wither 49 Palmore 51 Wolcot 50 Wordsuiorth 247 Baillie 245 Lysaght 357 Carew 43 M. Collins 25 The . Prior 307 Gay 144 Stevenson 269 Gay 243 Unknown 158 Praed 1 1 Waller 211 Milton 212 Aytoun 60 Martin 398 Holmes 374 Landor 204 3Ioore 84 Burns 74 and rejoice. Jordan 389 Prior 5 Praed 280 Barham 285 Tennyson Twrner 6 AyUmn 60 Landor 260 Drum/mond 233 Thackeray 362 Holmes 47 Holmes 368 Browne 334 438 INDEX OF FIRST LINES AND TITLES Llyn-y-Dreiddiad-Vrawd .... Long-expected One-and-twenty . Long Story, A ♦ Look in my face. My name is Used-tO-was ' Look in thy heart and write Lord Harry has written a novel Lords, knights and squires, the numerous band Lost Mistress, The ..... Love admits no rival. His . Love ami Age ...... Love and Debt alike troublesome. Love and Life ..... Love and Reason ..... Love bade me hope, and I obeyed Love, First ..... Love in fantastic triumph sate love in her sunny eyes doth basking play Love in thy youth, fair maid, be wise Love is a, sickness full of woes. Love me, sweet, with all thou art Love not me for comely grace . Love, To his coy Love unaccountable . Lovelorn, The Lay of Ihe .... Lover, The . . Lovers, and a Befleclion .... Lovers Philosophy ..... Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to Lucasta, on going to the Wars, To Lute, To his ...... show E. PAGE Peacock 160 Johnson 26 Gray 124 Traill 408 Sidney 43 Bayly 203 Prior 1 R. Browning 98 Ralegh 93 Peacock 377 Suckling 155 Rochester 119 .Jloore 35 Rochester 100 Byron 39 Behn Cowley Unknown Daniel B. Browning 108 Unknown 37 Drayton Brome Martin 398 Montagu 105 Calverley 404 Shelley 51 Sidney 43 Lovelace 174 Wyalt 208 Machinery, The Superiority of . Madame, ye ben of al beaute shryne Made at the Cock Mahogany Tree, The Make me a, bowl, a mighty bowl Malta, Farewell to . Man's Requirements, A . Margaret and Dora . Margaret Hussey, To Mistress Margaret 's beauteous. Grecian arts . Margarita first possessed . Maria, could Horace have guessed Marian's Complaint . Marriage ..... Marriage Act, On the Marriage, Against Marriage, On . Mars disarmed by Luce Mary the cook-maid's Letter Match, A ..... Match with the Moon, A 41 96 30 38 97 37 Hood 184 Chaucer 68 Tennyson 326 Thackeray 300 Oldham, 316 Byron 346 E. B. Browning 108 Campbell 84 Skelton 265 Campbell 84 Cowley 82 Cowper 206 Wolcot 235 Unknown 192 Unknown 196 WaUh 192 Flatman 191 Praed 181 Smft 272 Swiniurne 115 D. G. Rosselti 51 INDEX OF FIRST LINES AND TITLES 439 Maurice, To the Bev. F. D. May the ambitious ever find May the Babylonish curse May's Love MeadotDS, To . Mediocrity in Love rejected MelancJudy Mermaid Tavern, The Merry Margaret Message, The . MUkr's Daughter, The Minerva, To . Mi.;tress Margaret Htissey, To . Mistress objecting to him neither toying or talldng. To his Mistress, The Mistress, The Lost . Mistress, To his Monument, For my own Moore, To Thomas . Mother, I cannot mind my wheel . . Landor Mourner a la Mode, The . . ... Saxe Muff, On an old ...... Locker-Lampson Tennyson Dorset Lamb B. Browning Herrick Carew Sogers Keats SkeUon Heywood Tennyson Hood SkeUon Herrick Sochester R. Browning Cowley Prior Mummy in Belzoni^s Exhibition, An Address to the Muses, To the . My boat is on the shore . My brother Jack was nine in May . My coachman, in the moonlight there My Daphne's hair is twisted gold My gentle Anne, whom heretofore My head doth ache My heart is like a singing bird My heart sank with our Claret-flask My Kate My Utile Cousins .... My little Doll . My Love in her attire doth show her wit My Lute, awake ! Perform the last . My mother bids me spend my smiles My noble, lovely, little Peggy . My Secret .... My spirit, in the doorway's pause My sweetest Lesbia, let us live and love My temples throb, my pulses boil Name, Her right Names .... Names, A Sonnet on Christian Nationality in Drinks Nations, The ..... Nature ! thou mayest fume and fret Near a small village in the West Needy Knife-grinder ! whither are you going ' H. Smith Blake Byron J. Smith Lowell Lyly Courper Herrick C. G. Sossetti JR. Brou-ning E. B. Browning Praed Kingsley Vnknoum WyaU Hood Prior G. Bossetti Swinburne Campion Hood Prior S. T. Coleridge Lamb R. Browning Heywood Landor Pra£d Canning PAGE 288 72 337 114 242 113 147 326 265 253 56 341 265 90 76 98 56 383 268 200 385 58 386 202 268 395 134 68 8 341 310 320 381 11 12 52 208 200 5 201 409 28 341 45 46 46 320 54 236 !S9 169 440 INDEX OP FIRST LINES AND TITLES Nephelidia ..... Never love unless you can Never mind how the pedagogue proses Never seek to tell thy love New-made Honour .... Night-piece, The, to Julia No! No doubt thy little bosom beats No, my own love o£ other years No sun — no moon .... No, thank you, John Nobles and heralds, by your leave . Not, Celia, that I juster am Not so, my liege, for even now the town , Not yet, not yet ; it 's hardly four . Novel of High Life, A . . . Now don't look so glum and so sanctified, please Now gentle sleep hath closed up those eyes Now that the April of your youth adorns Now the lusty Spring is seen . Nymph's Reply to the passionate Shepherd, The PAGE Swinburne 411 Campion 101 Moore 24 Blake 92 Barham 333 Berrick 91 Hood 217 Landor 194 Landor 373 Hood 217 C. G. Roasetti 108 Prior 383 Sedley 116 Stephen 391 Praed 139 Bayly 203 Brooks 132 Wither 49 Herbert 29 Fletcher 27 Ralegh 103 O be thou blest with all that Heaven can send O Blackbird ! sing me something well O grammar-rules, now your virtues show O Slistress mine, where are you roaming . O plump head-waiter at the Cock O saw ye bonnie Lesley . O you chorus of indolent reviewers Oenone, To ... . Of all the girls that are so smart Of all the torments, all the cares Of old, when Scarron his companions invited Oft in danger, yet alive . Often, when o'er tree and turret Oh say not, my love, with that mortified air Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story Oh, the brave fisher's life Oh, the sweet contentment Oh, when the grey courts of Christ's Old Man's Wish, The On his death-bed poor Lubin lies On parent knees, a naked new-born Once there was a famous nation One-and-twenty .... One day I wrote her name upon the One more Quadrille . One year ago my path was green Our master, Meleager, he who framed Our village, that 's to say not Miss Mitford's Out upon it, I have loved College glowed child , strand 86 101 Pope 308 Tennyson 259 Sidney 90 Shakespeare 30 Tennyson 326 Burns 74 Tennyson 205 Herrick 40 Carey WaUh Goldsmith 296 Johnson 309 Calverley 20 Scott 312 Byron 26 Chalkhill 262 Chalkhill 223 Stephen 268 W.Pope 366 Prior 193 Jones 4 Stephen Johnson Spenser Praed Landor Garnetl 205 Hood 225 Suckling 117 172 26 44 139 120 INDEX OF FIRST LINES AND TITLES 441 Paddy's Metamorphosis Pair well matched, A . . . Paraphrase from the French, A . Parental Recollections Parson, The Happy Life of a Country Parson, these things in thy possessing Pavy, An Epitaph on Salalhiel . Peg of Limavaddy .... Perjury ...... Person of the House, The . Phaeton, The Female Phillida and Corydon Phillis, men say that all my vows . Phoebus and Daphne applied. The Story o, Phyllida, that loved to dream . Phyllis, for shame, let us improve Piccadilly ! — shops, palaces, bustle, and breeze Picture, Sonnet for a Pious Belinda goes to prayers . Pipe of Tobacco, A . Plague take all your pedants, say I Plain Language from, Triithful James ' Please to ring the Belle ' . Poet of Fashion, The Poet, The Poetry and Love Poets and Linnets Political Allegory, A Political Dispatch, A Pope and the Net, The Poplar, The . . . Portrait in Delia's Parlour, A Praise of his Lady, A Preserve thy sighs, unthrifty girl Primrose, The . Proud Kinswoman, To a . Proud word you never spoke, but you will speak Proverbial Philosophy Prudery Pulteney, To Charlotte Punch Bowl, On lending a Quadrille, A Ballad on Quadrille, One more . Question to Lisetta, The Quinius Flestrin, To Quince .... B&asonable Affliction, A Recollections, Parental Remedy worse than the Disease, The Moore Dryden Prior Lanib Pope Pope Jonson Thackeray Nugent Swinburne Prior Breton Waller Gay Dorset Locker-Lampson Swinburne Browne R. Brouming Bret Harte Hood J. Smith ■ Randolph Swift T. Hood, jun. Stephen Canning R. Browning Barham Southey J. Heywood Davenant Herrick H. Coleridge Landor Calverley Pope Philips Holmes PAGE 170 115 175 7 159 159 379 357 117 409 122 85 117 120 144 30 218 410 158 334 238 145 195 203 121 121 401 172 170 168 236 393 .70 175 233 9 121 401 123 5 317 Gay 143 Praed 139 Prior 104 Pope 351 Praed 229 Prior 193 Lamb 7 Prior 342 442 INDEX or FIRST LINES AND TITLES Henuneiation, A Re-pentance • \ ■ Resigned to live, prepared to die Retaliation Reynolds, Epistle to J. H. Rhyme, A . . . Rhyme, An ancient . Rich and Poor . Riding from Coleraine Ring presented to Julia, A RivaU in Love . Robin's Grave, The Rogero, Song by Rose, The White Rosemounde, To . . . Rose's Birthday Roses, in the Bosom of Castara, To Rosy-bosomed Hours, The . Rotterdam, To , composed at . Sabina wakes .... Saint and Sinner St. James's Street, of classic fame Sally in our Alley Sally, To School and Schoolfellows School-days, In . . . Sea, A Ballad when at Secret, My .... Secretary, The .... See ! see, she wakes ' Sabina wakes See the chariot at hand here of Love See, with what constant motion See'st thou that cloud as silver clear Senex to Matt. Prior Shadows ...... S[hakespeare], W., Sincere Flattery of Shall I, like a hermit, dwell Shall I tell you whom I love ? Shall I, wasting in despair Shandon Bells, The .... She came — she is gone — we have met She is not fair to outward view She 's pretty to walk with She was not as pretty as women I know Shock's fate I mourn ; poor Shook is now Sibrandus Schafnaburgensis Siege, The ..... Since secret Spite hath sworn my woe Since shed or cottage I have none Since truth ha' left the shepherd's tongue Singing, To a Lady ..... PAGE Oxford no Unknown 15& Pope 309. Goldsmith 296 Keats 277 Swinburne 4 Landor 373 Peacock 151 Thackeray 357 Herrick 53 Walsh 101 Rogers 257 Canning 392 Unknown 235 Chaucer 68 Landor 310 Ilabington 234 Palmare 196 . Hood 343 Congreve 95 Peacock 151 '. L ocker-Lampson 219 Carey 86 Adams 345 Praed 17 Whittier 19 Dorset 186 C. G. Rossetli 201 Prior 343 Congreve 95 Jonson 69 Lovelace 135 Herrick 61 Stephen 371 Houghton 35 Stephen 391 Ralegh 93 W. Brovme 77 Wither 93 Mahony 355 Cowper 221 H. Coleridge 75 Suckling 314 L '. B. Browning 381 more . Gay 243 R. Browning 238 Suckling 99 Breton 212 Herrick 293 Wolcot 235 Waller 209 INDEX OF FIRST LINES AND TITLES 443 Pole-star Skinner, To Cyriack Sleep, Mr. Speaker ; it 's surely fair . Soft child of love, thou balmy bliss . Soldier going io the Field, The . Some years ago, ere time and taste . Sonnet for a pii^ire Sorrows of Werther .... Souls of ]?oets dead and gone . Southerne, To Mr. Thomas Sovlhey, Imitation of . . . Speaker asleep. Stanzas to the . Spectator ab Extra .... Springs came first. How . Stand close around, ye Stygian set Stately, kindly, lordly friend Stay while ye will, or go . Stella this day is thirty-four Stella's Birthday, n 18' . Stella's Birthday, 1720 Stella's Birthday, 1724 . Stella's Birthday, 1726 . Still sits the schoolhouse by the road Still to be neat, still to be dressed . Study first Propriety : for she is indeed the Style, New .... Style, Old .... Sublime Tobacco ! which from east to west Such were the lively eyes and rosy hue Supper, Inviting a Friend to Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes Sweet Suffolk owl, so trimly dight Sydney, To the younger Lady Lucy Sympathy .... Titles turned. The , Take my chaperon to the play Talented Man, The . . ' . Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind Tell me, perverse young year . Tell me what is that only thing Tennyson, To Alfred Ternary of Littles, A, upon a Pipkin of Jelly sent to a lady Thanks, my Lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter That I went to warm myself in Lady Betty's chamber That nose is out of drawing. With a gasp That way look, my Infant, lo . That which her slender waist confined The Archery meeting is fixed for the third The auld wife sat at her ivied door . ' The bliss which woman's charms bespeak ' The burden of an ancient rhyme The clear cool note of the cuckoo . Milton Praed Wolcot DavenarU Praed Swinburne Thackeray Keats Pope Canning and Frere Praed dough Herrick Landor Swinburne Herrick Swift Swift Swift Swift Whittier Jonson Calverley Landor Landor Byron Montagu Jonson Herrick Unknown Waller Heber PAGE 266 171 50 175 162 410 391 326 309 393 171 331 242 380 250 233 303 303 304 305 306 19 52 401 194 302 336 275 292 32 254 2 197 Wordsworth 231 Bunner 133 Praed 282 Lovelace 174 Landor 310 Fletcher 364 Landor 291 Herrick 61 Goldsmith 294 Swift 270 Swinburne 410 Wordsworth 247 Waller 54 Bayly 131 Calverley 403 Patmore 192 Landor 373 Stephen 406 444 INDEX OF FIRST LINES AND TITLES The dainty young heiress of Lincoln's Inn Fields The days of our youth are not over while sadness The fools that are wealthy are sure of a bride The fountains mingle with the river . ' The glow and the glory are plighted ' The groves of Blarney ..... The lark now leaves his watery nest The little gate was reached at last . The maid I love ne'er thought of me The man in righteouspess arrayed The merchant, to secure his treasure The mountain and the squirrel The mountain sheep are sweeter The poor man's sins are glaring The pride of every grove I chose The readers and the hearers like my books The Spaniard loves his ancient slop . The sun was now withdrawn . The thirsty earth soaks up the rain . The time I've lost in wooing .... The vessel that rests here at last The World ! Was jester ever in 'Thee, Mary, with this ring I wed' . There are some wishes that may start There is a. bird, who by his coat There is a fever of the spirit . There is » garden in her face .... There is a sound that's dear to me There, pay it, James ! 'tis cheaply earned These springs were maidens once that loved Dorset Landor Unknown Locher-Lampson Millikin Davenant Lowell Landor Adams Prior Emerson Peacock Peacock Prior Haringlon Heyivood Gay Cowley Moore Landor Locher-Lampson Bishop Landor Cotvper Peacock Campion Aytoun Traill Herrick They nearly strike me dumb .... Locher-Lampson They seemed, to those who saw them meet . . Houghton Think' at thou to seduce me then with words that have no meaning This ancient silver bowl of mine Campion it tells of good old times Holmes This cap, that so stately appears .... Cowper This day, whate'er the Fates decree . Swift This one request I make to him .... Suckling This relative of mine ..... Locher-Lampson This song of mine ....... Longfellow Thou art not fair for all thy red and white . Campion Thou shalt have one God only ; who . . . CUmgh Thou who, when fears attack ..... Calverhy Though British accents your attention fire . Walpole Though the day of my destiny's over . . . Byron Though when I loved thee thou wert fair . . Stanley Thrale, To Mrs., on her completing her thirty-fifth Tear Johnson Throckmorton, To Mrs., on her transcript of Horace . Cowper Throckmorton's Bullfinch, On the death of Mrs. . . Cowper Thus Kitty, beautiful and young .... Prior Thus spoke to my lady the knight full of care . Swift Thyrsis, a youth of the inspired train . . . Waller PAGE 216 27 196 51 284 353 95 412 50 345 46 252 180 151 382 205 54 122 313 91 373 154 199 374 254 397 232 60 130 242 57 35 104 317 61 306 155 376 318 98 168 340 353 266 112 309 206 255 122 176 120 INDEX OF FIRST LINES AND TITLES 445 Time has a magic wand . Timely blossom, infant fair 'Tia bedtime; say your hymn, and bid 'Good night' 'Tis late, and I must haste away 'Tia not her birth, her f fiends, nor yet her treasure 'Tis now, since I sat down before 'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark To , composed at Rotterdam To fair Fidele's grassy tomb To John I owed great obligation To-night, grave sir, both my poor house and To thee, fair freedom ! I retire To you, fair ladies, now at land Toast, A . Tobacco, A Farewell to Tobacco, A Pipe of . Tobacco, Ode to Tobacco, Sublime To-morrow Too late, alas ! I must confess Too late I stayed — forgive the crime Town, A Farewell to . ' . Tread lightly here, for here, 'tis said Truthful James, Plain Language from 'Twas in the summer-time so sweet , 'Twas on a lofty vase's side 'Twas whispered in Heaven, 'twas muttered in Hell Twelve years ago I made a mock Twenty years hence my eyes may grow Two voices are there : one is of the deep Tyrian dye why do you wear ' . Ungrateful Beauty threatened Up jumped Tokay on our table Up ! up ! my Friend, and quit your books Vain are the charms of white and red Valentine . . . Valour misdirected Venetian Serenade, The Venison, The Haunch of . Venus, by Adonis' side Venus, take my votive glass Vers de Societe Verses make heroic virtue live Vicar, The Virgins, To Virgins to maJce much of lime. To the Vivamua ..... Vulcan, contrive me such a cup Walpoh, An Epistle to Sir Robert Locker-Lampson Philips Melbourne Brome Suckling Byron Hood W. Collins Prior Jonson Shenslone Dorset Suckling Lamb Browne Calverley Byron J. Collins Rochester Spencer Breton Rogers Bret Harte Moore Gray Fanshawe Praed Landor Stephen Cowley 58 5 6 372 37 99 39 343 384 218 292 325 186 314 337 334 340 336 367 71 73 212 257 145 35 244 206 17 379 394 56 Carew 43 R. Browning 320 Wordsworth 231 Bath 372 Macaulay 7 Poteore 94 Houghton 351 Goldsmith 294 Browne 65 Prior 367 Traill 130 Waller 211 Praed 162 Herrick Herrick Jonson 31 31 29 Rochester 316 Fielding 274 446 INDEX OF FIRST LINES AND TITLES s. Walpoh, On seeirw a PoHrait ej Sir- Bdbert Walpole, To Sir M Waltz, The Wanton droll, whose harmless 'play ■ . We pledged our hearts, my love and I . Weary already, weary miles to-night Wedding, A Ballad upon a . . . Weep with me, all you that read Well I remember how you smiled ■. Well ! if ever I saw such another man, since my mother bound my head .... Well then, I now do plainly see Werther had a love for Charlotte What conscience, say, is it in thee . What, he on whom our voices unanimously ran What Horace says is ... . What I shall leave thee, none can tell What is Prudery ? 'Tis a beldam What man in his wits had not rather be poor What nymph should I admire or trust What 's life but full of care and doubt What Wight he loved .... Wheedler, The ...... When along the light ripple the far serenade When as corruption hence did go . . When I a verse shall make AVhen I loved you, I can't but allow When late I attempted your pity to move When Letty had scarce passed her third glad yeai When Love who ruled as Admiral o'er When Love with unconfined wings . When maidens such as Hester die . When Molly smiles beneath her cow. When Sappho tuned the raptured strain . When thy beauty appears When to her lute Corinna sings Whenas in silks my Julia goes . Whene'er with haggard eyes I view . Where hast thou floated, in what seas pursued Where'er there 's a thistle to feed a linnet Whether on Ida's shady brow . Which I wish to remark .... Which I wish to remark While at the helm of State you ride While with labour assiduous due pleasure I mi: W[hiiman]. W\al(], Sincertt'^lMery of Who will believe my verse in time lo come Wlioe'er she be .... . Why came I so untimely forth Why do you wear your liair like a man . Why dost thou say I am forsworn . Why flyest thou away with fear PAGE Montagu 275 Fielding 273 Sheridan 136 Baillie 245 . T. Coleridge 42 D. 0. Roaselti 51 Sickling 189 Jonson 379 Lander 45 Swift 272 Cowley 365 Thackeray 391 Hefrich 40 E. Browning 168 Barkam 369 Corbet 13 Pope 123 Wesley 148 Prior 104 Hood 390 Browne 77 Yonge 103 Houghton 351 Guy 143 Ilerrick 206 Moore 114 Bickerstaffe 92 nyson Turner 6 Moore 66 Lovelace 149 Lamb 380 Unknown 159 Smollett 72 Parnell 72 Campion 209 Herrick 53 Canning 392 Cowper 264 T. Hood, jun. 401 Blake 202 Bret Harte 145 Hilton 22 Fielding 274 Prior 343 Stephen 406 Shakespeare 44 Crashaw 78 Waller 2 Train 407 Lovelace 118 Wolcoi 264 INDEX OP FIRST LINES AND TITLES 447 Why I tie about thy wrist Why so pale and wan, fond lover Why was Cupid a boy Why write mt, name 'midst songs aiid floWers WKks, To his peculiar Friend, Mr. John Wife, To his . Wisdom, The Age of Wish, The . . Wish, The Old Man's Wishes for the supposed Mistress With deep affection With leaden foot time creeps along Without and Within . . Without and Within '. \ Woman's Honour . . \ Woman's Inconstancy . \ Women are but Men's Shadows,' That Women's Longing Wooing Stuff ..'.'. Written in a Young Lady's Album Yankee Volunteers, The . Ye blushing Virgins happy are' Ye Genii of the nation . Ye have been fresh and green ' Ye little birds that sit and sing Ye little household gods, that make Ye nymphs ! if e'er your eyes were red Ye Yankee Volunteers Years— years ago— ere yet my dreams les, all the world must sure agree Yes, I'm in love, I feel it now '. Yes ; I write verses now and then . You are now In London . 'You are old. Father William,' the young man said You 11 come to our Ball ;— since we parted You love all, you say You meaner beauties of the night 'You must give back,' her mother said You say I love not, 'cause I do not play You tell me you're promised a lover Youth • . . . . Youth and Art . . Herrick PAGE 54 Suckling 94 Blake 64 Jeffrey 371 Herrick 293 Bishop 198 Thackeray 312 Cowley 365 W. Pope 366 Crashaw 78 Mahony 355 Jago 75 Cowley 96 Lowell 134 Rochester 100 Ayton ^110 Jonson 114 Fletcher 364 Sidney 89 Hood 370 Thackeray 185 Habington 234 Thackeray 362 Herrick 242 Heywood 253 Landor 10 Cowper 255 Thackeray 185 Praed 137 Walsh 192 Whitehead 37 Landot 135 Shelley 276 Lewis Carroll ' 394 Praed 141 E. B. Browning 114 Wotton 69 Landor 200 Herrick 90 Pra«d 280 Landor 27 B. Browning 33 OXFORD: HORACE HAET PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY TWK«>«W!Wi!?iWP^^