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LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
The Minerva Library 
 
 OF FAJilOUS BOOKS. 
 
 1. CHARLES DARWIN'S JOURNAL during a 
 
 Voyage in the ' Beagle.* 
 
 2. THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS. 
 
 3. BORROWS BIBLE IN SPAIN. 
 
 4. EMERSONS PROSE WORKS. 
 
 5. GALTONS TROPICAL SOUTH AFRICA. 
 
 6. MANZONVS THE BETROTHED LOVERS. 
 
 7. GOETHES FA UST (Complete). Bayard Taylor. 
 
 8. WALLACE'S TRAVELS ON THE AMAZON. 
 g. DEAN STANLEY'S LIFE OF DR. ARNOLD. 
 
 ro. POE'S TALES. 
 
 It. COMEDIES BY MOLltRE. 
 
 12. FORSTER'S LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. 
 
 13. LANE'S MODERN EGYPTIANS. 
 
 14. TORRENS' LIFE OF MELBOURNE. 
 
 15. THACKERAYS VANITY FAIR. 
 
 lb. EARTH'S TRAVELS IN AFRICA. 
 
 17. VICTOR HUGO: SELECT POEMS, Si'c. 
 
 iS. DARWIN'S CORAL REEFS, Sfic. 
 
 ig. LOCKHARTS LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 20. EARTH'S TRAVELS IN AFRICA (II.). 
 
 21. LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 London: WARD, LOCK & Co. 
 
VVc^^vi<:^ Jiookiy^^ C^C(/l.^Jiy0 
 
 (fri. 
 
THE MINERVA LIBRARY OF FAMOUS BOOKS. 
 Edited by G. T. BETTANY, M.A., B.Sc. 
 
 LYRA ELEGANTIARUM 
 
 A COLLECTION OF SOME OF THE BEST 
 
 SOCIAL AND OCCASIONAL VERSE 
 
 BY DECEASED ENGLISH AUTHORS. 
 
 REVISED AND ENLARGED EDITION. 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 FREDERICK LO C KE R-L A M P S O N, 
 
 ASSISTED BY 
 COULSON KERNAHAN. 
 
 WARD, LOCK, AND CO., 
 
 LONDON, NEW YORK, AND MELBOURNE, 
 1891. 
 
" J'aj' seulement faict icy un amas de fleiirs, n'y ayant fourny du mien 
 que le filet a les Her."— Michel de Montaigne, 
 
" These pieces commonly go under the title of poetical 
 amusements ; but these amusements have sometimes gained 
 as much reputation to their authors, as works of a more 
 serious nature. 
 
 "It is surprising how much the mind is entertained and 
 enlivened by these little poetical compositions, as they turn 
 upon subjects of gallantry, satire, tenderness, politeness, and 
 everything, in short, that concerns life, and the affairs of the 
 world." 
 
 Plinv to Tusct;s. 
 
DEDICATION. 
 
 TO THE VERY REVEREND HENRY HART MILMAN, D.D., 
 THE DEAN OF ST. PAUL'S. 
 
 Dear Mr. Dean, 
 
 You have given me great pleasure in allowing me to 
 dedicate this little work to yourself. 1 hesitated to ask the 
 tUvour, because the book might seerti to be of too trifling 
 a character, to be connected with so venerable >t name ; 
 but then I remembered your universal appreciation of every 
 branch of our literature, and also the kindly interest which 
 you took in the scheme when I first mentioned it to you. 
 
 I trast that the principle of my selection will meet your 
 approval. I feel sure you will make allowance for many 
 shortcomings, and will charitably believe that the Editor 
 tried to do his best. 
 
 I am, 
 
 Dear Mr. Dean, 
 
 Yours very faitlifully, 
 
 FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 So many collections of favourite poetical pieces, ap- 
 pealing to nearly every variety of taste, have been 
 published of late years that some apology may seem 
 due to the public for adding yet another volume to the 
 number already in existence. 
 
 But although there have been sentimental, heroic, 
 humorous, lyrical, juvenile, and devotional collections, 
 there is another kind of poetry which was more in 
 vogue in the reign of Queen Anne, and, indeed, in 
 Ante-Reform-Bill times, than it is at the present day ; 
 a kind which, in its more restricted for^n, has some- 
 wh at the same relation to th e poetry of lofty imap;;ina- 
 tion and deep feeling, that .the Dresden China 
 Shepherds and Shepherdesses of the ■'t st century bear 
 to the sculpture of Donatello and Michael Angelo ; 
 na mely, smoothly written verse, where a boudoir 
 decorum is, or ought alw'ays to be, preserved i where 
 sentiment never surges into ,^passion,^, and^^jwhere 
 humour^ never_ overflows into bois te ro us ^merri ment . 
 The Editor is not aware that a Collection of this 
 peculiar species of exquisitely rounded and polished 
 verse, which, for want of a better title, he has called 
 Lyra Elegantiarum, has ever yet been offered to the 
 public, 
 
X Preface. 
 
 Hitherto this kind of metrical composition has re- 
 mained difficult of access to the majority of readers, 
 because its most finished specimens have often lain 
 scattered among masses of poetry, more ambitious m 
 aim, but frequently far less worthy of preservation. 
 It seems only reasonable, then, that those who delight 
 in this lighter verse should be enabled to enjoy their 
 favourite pieces in a single volume. 
 
 In commencing his task the Editor's first endeavour 
 was to frame a definition of vers d'occasion, or social 
 verse, with sufficient clearness 'to guide him in making 
 his selection, and he has been desirous of rendering 
 the collection as comprehensive as possible. His 
 second endeavour was to choose those pieces which 
 most completely reached this ideal standard. But it 
 will be easily understood that no exact line of demar- 
 cation can in all cases be maintained, and that such 
 verse frequently approximates to other kinds of poetry, 
 such as the song, the parody, the epigram, and even 
 the riddle. 
 
 Lest any reader who may not be familiar with this 
 description of poetry should be misled by the adoption 
 of the French title, which, the absence of any precise 
 English equivalent seems to render necessary, it may 
 be as well to observe that such verse by iio means 
 need be confined to topics ofTOnventionaHife. Subjects 
 of the_^most import^t as well as the most trivjal_char^ 
 acter, may bs treated with equal success, provi ded the 
 manner of their treatment is in accordance with the 
 followi ng;- characteristics, which the Editor ventures to 
 
 submit as expressive of his own ideas on this subject. 
 
 L'LiiS-jJl^SSlS'^'- 0'^'-i's.'°"5]L3f.M§£.-?^°Jr''4,j2^ shor' 
 graceful, refined, and fanciful, not seldom distinguished 
 
Preface. xi 
 
 by chastened sentiment, and often playful. The tone 
 shou ld not be pitched high; it should be terse_and 
 idiomatic, and rather in th^ cgnversational key ; the 
 rhythm should be crisp and sparkling, and the rhyme 
 frequent and never forced, while the entire poem 
 should be marked byjtasteful_moderation, high finish 
 and completeness; for, however trivial the subject- 
 matter may be, indeed, rather in proportion to its 
 triviality, s ubordination to the rules of comgosition, 
 and perfectiori of execution, are of th.cutJBpst .jaiport- 
 ajicg. The definition may be illustrated by a few 
 examples of pieces which, from the absence of some 
 of the foregoing qualities, or from the excess of others, 
 cannot be properly claimed as Occasional Verse, 
 though they may bear u certain generic resemblance 
 to it. The ballad of John Gilpin., for instance, is too 
 broadly humorous ; Swift's On the Death of Marl- 
 borough, and Byron's Windsor Poetics are too satirical 
 and savage ; Cowper's My Mary is too pathetic ; 
 Herrick's lyrics to Blossoms and to Daffodils are too 
 serious; Sally in our Alley is, perhaps, too homely, 
 and too entirely simple and natural, though I should 
 like to have included it ; while Pope's Rape- of the Lock, 
 which is one of the finest specimens of light verse in 
 any language, must be excluded on account of its 
 length. I should have liked to have added one or two 
 of his exquisite personal compliments, but they might 
 have seemed too fragmentary. 
 
 Every piece which has been selected for this volume 
 cannot be expected to exhibit all the characteristics 
 above enumerated, but the qualities of brevity _and 
 buoj^ancy are a^okjtely essential. The £oem may be 
 tinctured with a^el^bred^philosoghy, it may be 
 
xii Preface. 
 
 whimsica lly sad, it may be gay and gallan t, it may_ be 
 playfully malicious or tenderly irQnical, it may d.isplay 
 lively banter, and it may be^'saUricalTyfacetious; it 
 may even, considering it merely as a work of a rt, be 
 paganlrTTt? P^>'1'^2EIJL>2I trifling in its tone, 'but__it_ 
 must never be flat, or ponderous, or com'mori-place. 
 
 Having^thus' fixed upon a definition, tfie Editor 
 proceeded to put it to a practical use, by submitting it 
 as a touchstone to the various pieces which came under 
 his notice. In the first place it is scarcely necessary 
 to say that all poetry of a strictly religious character, on 
 account of the singleness and earnestness of its tone, 
 is inadmissible in a collection where jest and earnest 
 are' inextricably intermingled. All pieces of quasi 
 fashionably jingle have been excluded, because they 
 are usually trashy and vulgar. Some of our best 
 writers of Occasional Verse are not merely tinged with 
 coarseness, they seem to delight in it, and often show 
 much raciness in their revelry, but they are hardly 
 ever vulgar. Vulgarity appears to be a rock on which 
 so many would-be verse writers have suffered, and will 
 continue to suffer, shipwreck. 
 
 Fables, prologues, rhymed anecdotes, and pieces of 
 purely ephemeral or personal interest, such as satirical 
 or political squibs, have been generally rejected, as 
 well as those pieces which expand into real song or 
 crystallise into mere epigram, though in these cases, 
 as already observed, the border line is often extremely 
 difficult to define. Riddles, parodies, 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 
 
Preface. . xlii 
 
 within the scops of this work. The few which are 
 inserted possess an unusual breadth of feeling, or a 
 delicacy of treatment, which elevates them beyond the 
 range of mere epigram, riddle, and parody. 
 
 Some epitaphs have been adm jtted,, their e^ig;ram- 
 
 ingeni ous than ^ solemn or affecting; and a few pieces 
 of gracefully turned nonsense will be found towards 
 the end of the volume, of which The Broken Dish may I 
 be cited as a fair specimen. Mr. Hood was very happy 
 in this kind of composition, where a conceit is built up 
 on some pointed absurdity. 
 
 Occasional Ve rse should seem to, be^ entirely spon- 
 tan eous : when the reader thinks to himself, " I could 
 have written that, and easily, too," he pays the author 
 a very high compliment, but, at the same time, 
 it is right to observe, that this absence of effort. 
 a s recognised in most wo rks of rea l excelle nce, is _pnly 
 apparent; the writing of Occasional Verse is-a.difficult 
 accomp li shrn ^ ^nf:. for a large number of authors, both 
 famous and obscure, have attempted it, but in the 
 great majority of cases with very indifferent success, 
 and no one has fully succeeded who did not possess a 
 certain ^ift of irony, which is not only a much rarer 
 quality than humour, or even wit, but is less commonly 
 met with than is sometimes imagined. This frequent 
 liability to failure will excite less surprise if it be borne 
 in mind that the possession of the f rue_ g^oetjc ^faculty^ 
 isnot of itself sufficient ^to guarantee capacity for, this 
 inferjpr,brancb.Qft h£a£t of versification. The writer 
 of O ccasional Verse^_m order to be genuinely successful^ 
 must not only be__sometlnng of a poet, bu t he ma st 
 alsobe a man of the world, in the liberal sense of the 
 
xiv Preface. 
 
 expression; he must have associated throu ghout his Hfe 
 with the refine(land'cuItiva7e'd'memEersofhis species, 
 not merely 'as an idle bystander, l5ut as a busy^actor 
 in the throng. A profeisional poet will seldom 
 write the best vers de socUte, just because writing 
 is the business of his life, and because he has 
 something better to do. It appears to be an essential 
 charac teristic of t hese brilliant trifles, that th ey should 
 fo-be thrown ofif_Jn_the leisure moments of me n whose 
 lives are devoted to more stirrmg pursuits. Swift was 
 an ardent politician; Prior, a zealous ambassador; 
 SuckUng, Praed, and Landor, were essentially men of 
 action; even Cowper was no recluse, but a man of the 
 world, forced by mental infirmity into a state of modi- 
 fied seclusion. Indeed, it may be' affirmed of most of 
 the authors quoted in this volume — and it is curious to 
 see what a large proportion of them are men of a 
 certain social position — that they submitted their in- 
 tellects to the monotonous grindstone of worldly busi- 
 ness, and that their poetical composition^ wer e., like 
 the sparks which fly off and prove the generous 
 quality of the metal thus applied; and it must be ne- 
 membered, to pursue the simile, that but for the dull 
 grindstone, however finely tempered the metal might 
 be, there would be no sparks at all : in other words, 
 the writer of such compositions needs perpetual con- 
 tact with the world. 
 
 I will quote here what the late Rev. Dr. J. Hannah 
 says, in the Preface to his " Courtly Poets," for, in a 
 measure, his remarks apply to the present collec- 
 tion : — 
 
 "There are scarcely half-a-dozen pieces in this 
 volume which we owe to poets by profession. Most 
 
Preface. )cV 
 
 of these poems are little more than the comparatively 
 idle words of busy men, whose end ' was not writing, 
 even while .they wrote;' these occasional sayings, in 
 which the character often reveals itself more clearly 
 than in studied languagS. There is a special charm in 
 compositions which have amused the leisure of distin- 
 guished persons, who have won their spurs in very 
 different fields; of statesmen, soldiers, students, and 
 divines, who have used metre as the mere outlet for 
 transitory feelings, to give grace to a compliment, or 
 terseness to the expression of a sudden emotion, or 
 point and beauty to a calm reflection. To a great ex- 
 tent, such poems are likely to be imitative; and in that 
 aspect they form a curiously exact measure of the 
 influence exerted by a style or fashion. But several 
 of the pieces which are brought together here may 
 claim a higher rank than this." 
 
 The Editor trusts that he has gathered together 
 nearly all the Occasional Verse of real merit in the 
 English language, at the same time he almost hopes 
 that the cultivated reader will find hardly anything al- 
 together unknown to him. The Editor is of opinion 
 that hitherto verse of real excellence and buoyancy has 
 been seldom very long lost sight of ; in" other words, 
 that an unknown piece of such verse probably does ' 
 not deserve to become better known. The contents of 
 the volume have been selected and winnowed fi'om an 
 enormous mass of inferior rhyme o/ the same kind, 
 the great bulk of which did not appear of sufficient 
 merit to deserve, special preservation. 
 
 Many pieces, however, have been pondered over, 
 and at last discarded with regret. Several, indeed, 
 have been found, whose rejection was especially tanta" 
 
xvl P)>efaci. 
 
 lising, because, though otherwise perfect specimen^, 
 their aim and execution was just above the range of 
 Occasional Verse. Thus, The Milkmaid's Song, com- 
 mencing : 
 
 "Come live with me, and be my love," 
 
 appears to be too poetical, while the less beautiful, but 
 almost as charming Reply has been admitted, because 
 it is depressed to the requisite level by the tone of 
 worldly sentiment which runs through it. Something 
 of the same kind may be said of Waller's Lines to a 
 Rose and his Lines to a Girdle, and on this account 
 only the last will be found here. 
 
 On the other hand several have been omitted or 
 given with omissions, because their tone is hardly 
 suited to the more refined taste of the present day. 
 
 Isaac D'Israeli, in his Miscellanies, has some in- 
 teresting remarks on 'j'^^.r d' occasion. " The passions 
 of the poet," he says, " may form the subjects of his 
 verse. It is in his writings he delineates himself ; he 
 reflects his tastes, his desires, his humours, his amours, 
 and even his defects. In other poems the poet dis- 
 appears under the feigned character he assumes : here 
 alone he speaks, here he acts. He makes a 
 confidant of the reader, interests hini in his hopes and 
 his sorrows. We admire the poet, and conclude with 
 esteeming the man. In these effusions the lover may 
 not unsuccessfully urge his complaints. They may 
 form a compliment for a patron or a congratulation for 
 an artist, a vow of friendship or a hymn of gratitude. 
 .... It must not be supposed that because these 
 productions are concise, they have, therefore, the m.ore 
 facihty ; we must not consider the genius of a poet 
 
Preface. xvii 
 
 diminutive because his pieces are so, nor must we call 
 them, as a fine sonnet has been called, a difficult 
 trifle. A circle may be very small, yet it may be as 
 mathematically beautiful and perfect as a larger one. 
 To such compositions we may apply the observation 
 of an ancient critic, that although a little thing gives 
 perfection, yet perfection is not a little thing. 
 
 " The poet, to sucteed in these hazardous pieces, 
 must be alike polished by an intercourse with the 
 world, as with the studies of taste, to whom labour is 
 negligence, refinement a science, and art a nature. 
 Genius will not always be sufficient to impart that grace 
 of amenity which seems peculiar to those who are 
 accumstomed to elegant society These pro- 
 ductions are more the effusions of taste than genius, 
 and it is not sufficient that the poet is inspired by the 
 Muse, he must also sufifer his concise page to be, 
 polished by the hand of the Graces." 
 
 A reviewer in The Times newspaper has made the 
 following noteworthy remarks on the subject of Social 
 Verse, more especially in its exacter and narrower 
 sense, as cultivated by Praed : " It is the poetry of ) 
 men who belong to society, who have a keen sympathy i 
 with the lightsome tone and airy jesting of fashion ; I 
 who are not disturbad by the flippances of small talk, 
 but, on the contrary, can see the gracefulness of which j 
 it is capable, and who, nevertheless, amid all this froth ] 
 of society, feel that there are depths in our nature | 
 which even in the gaiety of drawing-rooms cannot be > 
 forgotten. Theirs is the poetry of bitter-sweet, of : 
 sentiment that breaks into humour, and of solemn | 
 thought, which, lest it should be too solemn, plunges I 
 into la'ughter ; it is in an especial sense the verse of ( 
 
 6 
 
xviii Preface, 
 
 society. When society ceases to be simple, it becomes 
 sceptical. Nor are we utterly to condemn this scep- 
 tical temper as a sign of corruption. It is assumed in 
 self-defence, and becomes a necessity of rapid conver- 
 j sation. When society becomes refined, it begins to 
 ! dread the exhibition of strong feeling, no matter 
 ! whether real or simulated. If real, it disturbs the 
 '( level of conversation and of manners — if simulated, so 
 , much the worse. In such an atmosphere, emotion 
 ; takes refuge in jest, and passion hides itself in scep- 
 j ticism of passion : we are not going to wear ourheaits 
 I upon our sleeves, rather than that we shall pretend to 
 j have no heart at all ; and if, perchance, a bit of it 
 i should peep out, we shall hide it again as quickly as 
 ' possible, and laugh at the exposure as a good joke." 
 In his introduction to W. M. Praed, in Ward's " Eng- 
 lish Poets," Mr. Austin Dobson makes some remarks 
 upon Social Verse in general, and that of Praed in 
 particular, which are equally suitable for quotation 
 here. 
 
 " As a writer of Society Verse in its exacter sense,'' 
 says Mr. Dobson, " Praed is justly acknowledged to 
 be supreme. We say exacter sense because it has of 
 late become the fashion to apply this vague term in 
 the vaguest possible way, so as, indeed, to include 
 almost all verse but the highest and the lowest. This 
 is manifestly a mistake. ' Society Verse,' as Praed 
 understood it, and as we understand it fn Praed, treats 
 almost exclusively of the votum, timor, ira, voluptas 
 (and especially of the voluptas), of that charmed circle 
 of uncertain hmits, known conventionally as ' good 
 society' — those latter-day Athenians, who, in town or 
 I countiy, spend their time in telling or hearing some new 
 
Preface. xix 
 
 thing, and vvho3e graver and deeper impulses are subor- 
 dinated to a code of artificial manners. Of th^se Praed 
 is the laureate-elect ; and the narrow circle in which they 
 move is the 'haunt, and the main region of his song.' 
 Now and again, it may be, he appears to quit it, but 
 never in reahty, and even when he seems to do so, 
 like Landor's shell remote from the sea, he still 
 ' remembers its august abodes.' " 
 
 Suckling and Herrick, Swift and Prior, Cowper, 
 Landor, and Thomas Moore, and Praed, and Thack- 
 eray, may be considered the representative men in 
 this class of literature. 
 
 The collection has been restricted to the writings of 
 deceased British authors, and as this kind of metrical 
 composition is little cultivated at the present day, the 
 Editor hopes that his book will not suffer much in 
 consequence, although, at the same time, he regrets 
 that the rules which he has laid down prevent his giv- 
 ing specimens from tlie writings of Lord Tennyson, 
 Sir Theodore Martin, Sir Edwin Arnold, Messrs. Austin 
 Dobson, Andrew Lang, F. C. Burnand, H. Cholmon- 
 deley-Pennell, W. S. Gilbert, J.Ashby Sterry, Godfrey 
 Turner, Savile- Clarke, F. Anstey, Lewis Carroll, Miss 
 May Probyn, and others ; and of Dr. O. W. Holmes, 
 and Messrs. James Russell Lowell, Bret Harte, J. G. 
 Saxe, C. G. Leland, and some who have written 
 anonymously. 
 
 For permission to make extracts from Mr. T. H. 
 Bayly's works, the Editor's thanks are due to Messrs. R. 
 Bentley & Son ; from Mr. Shirley Brooks's, to Messrs. 
 Bradbury, Agnew, & Co. ; from Mr. H. S. Leigh's, 
 to Messrs. Chatto & Windus ; from Mr. W. J. 
 Prowse's, to Messrs. Dalziel Bros.; from Mr, Mortimer 
 
XX Preface. 
 
 Collins's, to Messrs. Kegan Paul, Trench, Triibner & 
 Co. ; and from Sir Francis Hastings Doyle's and the 
 Rev. Charles Tennyson-Turner's, to Messrs. Mac- 
 millan & Co. 
 
 In thanking- Messrs. G. Bell & Son, for permission 
 to print the verses by the late C. S. Calverley which 
 are given in the volume, it should be added that the 
 selection from Mr. Calverley was, by Messrs. Bell & 
 Son's request, limited to three pieces, otherwise the 
 lines entitled "Motherhood," "Forever," and " Beer," 
 would also have appeared. 
 
 In one or two cases the Editor was unable to dis- 
 cover to whom to apply for permission to include a 
 poem, or leave would first have been asked, and an 
 acknowledgment made. 
 
 The reading of several of the poems varies in 
 different collections, and much difficulty has been 
 encountered in discovering which was correct. When 
 any doubt about the authorship of a poem was enter- 
 tained, it was thought best to leave the question open. 
 
 The Editor has taken great care to make the selec- 
 tion as complete as possible ; still, he trusts to the in- 
 dulgence of his readers for any errors or omissions 
 which may be found. 
 
 Frederick Locker-Lampson. 
 
LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. 
 
 L 
 
 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 everything. 
 
 Far, 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 Isiphil, 
 
 Coliander, 
 
 Sweet Pomander, 
 
 Good Cassander; 
 
 Steadfast of thought. 
 
 Well made, well wrought 
 
 Far may be sought, 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 Ere you can find 
 
 So courteous, so kind, 
 
 As merry Margaret 
 
 This Midsummer flower, 
 
 Gentle as falcon. 
 
 Or hawk of the tower. 
 
 John Skelton. 
 
 THE ONE HE WOULD LOVE. 
 
 A FACE that should content me wondrous well 
 Should not be fair, but lovely to behold; 
 
 Of lively look, all grief for to repel 
 
 With right good grace, so would I that it shoidd 
 
 Speak without words, such words as none can tell ; 
 Her tress also shoidd be of crisped gold. 
 
 With wit, and these, perchance, I might be tried. 
 
 And knit again with knot that should not slide. 
 
 Sir Thomas Wyat. 
 
 III. 
 
 THE SERENADE. 
 
 " Who is it that this dark night 
 Underneath my window plaineth ? " — 
 
 It is one who from thy sight 
 Being (ah !) exiled, disdaineth 
 
 Every other vulgar light. 
 
 " Why, alas ! and are you he ? 
 
 Are not yet these fancies changed ? " — 
 Dear, when you find change in me. 
 
 Though from me you be estranged. 
 Let my change to rxiin be. 
 
 " What if you new beauties see? 
 
 Will not they stir new affection ? "— 
 I will think they pictures be 
 
 (Image-like of saint perfection) 
 Poorly counterfeiting thee. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 " Peace ! I think that some give ear, 
 Come, no more, lest I get anger. " — 
 
 Bliss ! I will my bliss forbear. 
 Fearing, sweet, you to endanger; 
 
 But my soul shall harbour there. 
 
 " Well, begone : begone, I say. 
 Lest that Argus' eyes perceive you." — 
 
 O ! unjust is Fortune's sway. 
 Which can make me thus to leave you. 
 
 And from louts to run away ! 
 
 Sir Philip Sydney. 
 
 Love is a sickness full of woes. 
 
 All remedies refusing ; 
 A plant that most vrith cutting grows, 
 Most barren with best using. 
 Why so ? 
 More we enjoy it, more it dies. 
 If not enjoy'd, it sighing cries 
 Hdgh-hot 
 
 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 enjoy'd, it sighing cries 
 Heigh-ho I 
 
 Samttel Daniel, 
 
 V. 
 ■ A DITTY. 
 
 My true love hath my heart, and I have his. 
 By just exchange one to the other given : 
 
 I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss. 
 There never was a better bargain driven : 
 My true love hath my heart, and I hp"e his. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum, 
 
 His heart in me keeps him and me in one, 
 
 My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides : 
 He loves my heart, for once it was his own, 
 I cherish his because in me it bides : 
 My true love hath my heart, and I have his. 
 
 Sir Philip Sydney. 
 
 My flocks feed not, my ewes breed not, 
 My rams speed not, all is amiss : 
 Love is dying. Faith's defying, 
 Heart's denying, causer of this. 
 All my merry jigs are quite forgot, 
 All my lady's love is lost, God wot : 
 Where her faith was firmly fix'd in love, 
 There a nay is placed without remove. 
 One silly cross wrought all my loss ; 
 
 O frowning Fortune, cursed, fickle dame ! 
 For now I see inconstancy 
 
 More in women than in men remain. 
 
 In black mourn I, all fears scorn I, 
 Love hath forlorn me, living in thrall : 
 Heart is bleeding, all help needing, 
 (O cruel speeding!) fraughted with gall. 
 My shepherd's pipe can sound no deal, 
 My wether's bell rings doleful knell ; 
 My curtail dog, that wont to have play'd, 
 Plays riot at all, but seems afraid ; 
 With sighs so deep procures to weep. 
 
 In howling wise, to see my doleful plight 
 How sighs resoimd through heartless ground. 
 
 Like a thousand vanquish'd men in bloody fight ! 
 
 Clear wells spring not, sweet birds sing not, 
 Green plants bring not forth ; they die ; 
 Herds stand weeping, flocks all sleeping. 
 Nymphs back peeping fearfully : 
 All our pleasure known to us poor swains, 
 All our merry meetings on the plains. 
 All our evening sport from us is fled, 
 All our Love is lost, for Love is dead. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 Farewell, sweet lass, thy like ne'er was 
 
 For a sweet content, the cause of all my moan : 
 
 Poor Coiidon must live alone ; 
 Other help for him I see that there is none. 
 
 William Shakspere. 
 
 A RENUNCIATION. 
 
 If women could be fair, and yet not fond, 
 Or that their love were firm, not fickle still, 
 
 I would not miarvel that they make men bond 
 By service long to purchase their good will ; 
 
 But when I see how frail those creatures are, 
 
 I muse 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 J 
 
 Who would not scorn and shake them from the fist. 
 
 And let them fly, fair fools, which way they list ? 
 
 Yet for disport 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 their wiles, ourselves we ease ; 
 
 And then we say when we their fancy try, 
 
 To play with fools, O what a fool was I ! 
 
 Edward Vere, Earl of Oxford. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 HAPPY AS A SHEPHERD. 
 
 Ah ! what is love ! It is a pretty thing. 
 As sweet unto a shepherd as a king. 
 
 And sweeter, too ; 
 For kings have cares that wait upon a crown. 
 And cares can make the sweetest loves to frown : 
 
 Ah then, ah then, 
 If country loves such sweet desires do gain. 
 What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? 
 
Lyra Ekgantiarutn. 
 
 His flocks are folded ; he comes home at night 
 As merry as a king in his delight, 
 
 And merrier, too ; 
 For kings bethink them what the State require, 
 Where shepherds careless carol by the fire ; 
 
 Ah then, &c. 
 
 He kisseth first, then sits as blithe to eat 
 
 His cream and curd, as doth the king his meat. 
 
 And blither too ; 
 For kings have often tremours when they sup. 
 Where shepherds dread no poison in their cup : 
 
 Ah then, &c 
 
 Upon his conch of straw he sleeps as sound 
 As doth the king upon his bed of down. 
 
 More sounder, too ; 
 For cares cause kings full oft their sleep to spill, 
 Where weary shepherds he and snort their fill : 
 
 Ah then, &c. 
 
 Thus with his wife he spends the year as blithe 
 As doth the king at every tide or syth, 
 
 And blither, too ; 
 For kings have wars and broils to take in hand. 
 Where shepherds laugh, and love upon the land : 
 
 Ah then, &c. 
 
 Robert Greene. 
 
 PHILLWA AND CORYDON. 
 
 In the merry month of May, 
 In a mom by break of day. 
 With a troop of damsels playing 
 Forth I rode, forsooth, a-maying. 
 When anon by a woodside. 
 Where as May was in his pride, 
 I espied, all alone, 
 Phillida and Cory don. 
 
 Much ado there was, God wot ! 
 He would love, and she would not : 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 She said, never man was true : 
 He says, none was false to you. 
 He said, he had loved her long : 
 She says, Love should have no wrong. 
 
 Corydou would kiss her then. 
 She says, maids must kiss no men, 
 Till they do for good and all. 
 Then she made the shepherd call 
 All the heavens to witness, tnith 
 Never loved a truer youth. 
 
 Thus, with many a pretty oath, 
 Yea, and nay, and faith and troth ! — 
 Such as silly shepherds use 
 When they vidll not love abuse ; 
 Love, which had been long deluded. 
 Was with kisses sweet concluded : 
 And Phillida, vrith garlands gay. 
 Was made the lady of the May, 
 
 Nicholas Breton. 
 
 Send back my long-stray'd eyes to me, 
 Which, O ! too long have dwelt on thee : 
 But if from you thejr ve learnt such ill, 
 
 To sweetly smile, 
 
 And then beguile. 
 Keep the deceivers, keep them still. 
 
 Send home my harmless heart again, 
 Which no unworthy thought could stain ; 
 But if it has been taught by thine 
 
 To forfeit both 
 
 Its word and oath. 
 Keep it, for then 'tis none of mine. 
 
 Yet send me back my heart and eyes. 
 
 For I'll know all thy falsities ; 
 
 That I one day may laugh, when thou 
 
 Shalt grieve and mouni — 
 
 Of one Ihe scorn. 
 Who proves as false as thou art now. 
 
 John Donne. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 XI. 
 
 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 ? 
 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 remain'd thy own, 
 I might perchance have yet been thine. 
 But thou thy freedom didst recall, 
 That if thou might elsewhere inthrall ; 
 And then bow could I but disdain 
 A captive's captive to remain ? 
 
 When new desires had conquer'd thee, 
 And changed the object of thy will, 
 It had been lethargy in me, 
 
 Not constancy to love thee still. 
 Yea, it had been a sin to go 
 And prostitute aifection 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 beggai^s door. 
 
 Sir Robert Ayton, 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 THE SILENT LOVER. 
 
 Wrong not, sweet empress of my heart, 
 
 The merit of true passion. 
 With thinking that he feels no smart. 
 
 That sues tor no compassion ; 
 
 Since, if my plaints serve not to approve 
 
 The conquest of thy beauty, 
 It comes not from defect of love. 
 
 But from excess of duty. 
 
 For knowing that I sue to serve 
 
 A saint of such perfection, 
 As all desire, but none deserve, 
 
 A place in her affection, 
 
 I rather choose to want relief 
 
 Than venture the revealing ; 
 Where glory recommends the grief, 
 
 Despair distrusts the healing. 
 
 Thus those desires that aim too high 
 
 For any mortal lover, 
 When reason cannot make them die, 
 
 Discretion doth them cover. 
 
 Yet, when discretion doth bereave 
 
 The plaints that they should utter. 
 Then thy discretion may perceive 
 
 That silence is a suitor. 
 
 Silence in love bewrays more woe 
 
 Than words tho' ne'er so witty ; 
 A beggar that is dumb, you know. 
 
 May challenge double pity. 
 
 Then wrong not, dearest to my heart. 
 
 My true, tho' secret passion ; 
 He smarteth most tliat hides his smart, 
 
 And sues for no compassion. 
 
 Sir Walter Raleigh. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 Since first I saw your face I vowed 
 
 To honour and renown you ; 
 If now I be disdain'd, I wish 
 
 My heart I had never known you. 
 What ? I that loved, and you that liked- 
 
 Shall we begin to wrangle ? — 
 No, no, no, my heart is fast. 
 
 And cannot disentangle I 
 
 If I admire or praise too much. 
 
 That fault you may forgive me ; 
 Or if my hands had stray'd to touch, 
 
 Then justly might you leave me. 
 I ask'd you leave, you bade me love, 
 
 Is't now a time to chide me? 
 No, no, no, I'll love you still, 
 
 What fortune e'er betide me. 
 
 The sun, whose beams most glorious are, 
 
 Rejecteth no beholder ; 
 And thy sweet beauty, past compare. 
 
 Made my poor eyes the bolder. 
 Where beauty moves, and wit delights. 
 
 And signs of kindness bind me. 
 There, oh I there, where'er I go, 
 
 I leave my heart behind me. 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 Phillis is my only joy. 
 
 Faithless as the winds or seas. 
 Sometimes cunning, sometimes coy, 
 Yet she never fnils to please ; 
 If with a frown 
 I am cast down, 
 Phillis smiling. 
 And beguiling. 
 Makes me happier than before. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 Though, alas ! too late I find 
 Nothing can her fancy fix, 
 Yet the moment she is kind 
 I forgive her with her triclcs ; 
 Which though I see, 
 I can't get free, — 
 She deceiving, 
 I believing, — 
 What need lovers wish for more ? 
 
 Sir Charles Sedley. 
 
 O Mistress mine, where are you roammg? 
 O stay and hear ! your true love's coming, 
 
 That can sing both high and low ; 
 Trip no farther, 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 J 
 
 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. 
 
 William Shahfere. 
 
 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 kiss'd by none. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 The morning rose, that untouch'd stands, 
 Arm'd with her hriars, how sweet her smell ! 
 
 But pluck'd, and strain'd 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 has 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 Robert Ayton, 
 
 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, 
 
 George Wither. 
 XVIII. 
 
 TO CELIA. 
 
 Drink 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. 
 
Lyra EleganUarum. 13 
 
 I sent thee late a rosy wreath, 
 
 Not so much honouring thee 
 As giving it a hope that there 
 
 It could not wither'd 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 yonson. 
 
 A MADRIGAL. 
 
 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 so dear. 
 Yea, a thousand liked well near ; 
 And, in love with all together. 
 Feared the enjoying either : 
 'Cause to be of one possess'd, 
 Barfd the hope of all the rest. 
 
 George Wither. 
 
 XX. 
 
 CHARIS. 
 Her Triumph. 
 
 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 enamour'd, do wish, as they might 
 But enjoy such a sight, 
 That they still were to run by her side, 
 Through swords, through seas, whither she would 
 
 ride. 
 
14 Lyra Elegantiarutn. 
 
 Do but look on her eyes, they do light 
 All that Love's world compriseth ! 
 
 Do but look on her, she is bright 
 As Love's star when it riset£ ! 
 
 Do but mark, her forehead's smoother 
 
 Than words that soothe her ! 
 
 And from her arch'd brows, such a grace 
 
 Sheds itself through her 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 touch'd it ? 
 
 Have you niark'd but the fall o' the snow 
 Before the soil hath smutch'd it ? 
 
 Have you felt the wool of the beaver ? 
 
 Or swan's down ever ? 
 
 Or have smell'd o' the bud of the briar ? 
 
 Or the 'nard in the fire ? 
 
 Or have tasted the bag of the bee ? 
 
 O so white ! O so soft ! O so sweet is she ! 
 
 Ben yhnsoH. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 He that loves a rosy cheek, 
 
 Or a coral lip admires. 
 Or from star-like eyes doth seek 
 
 Fuel to maintain liis fires ; 
 As old Time makes these decay, 
 So his flames must waste away. 
 
 But a smooth and steadfast 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. 
 
 Thomas Carew. 
 
Lyra Skgantiarum. JS 
 
 XXII. 
 
 EPITAPH ON SALATHIEL PARRY, A CHILD OF 
 QUEEN ELIZABETH'S CHAPPEL. 
 
 Weepe with me all you that read 
 
 This little storie : 
 And know for whom a teare you shed, 
 
 Death's selfe is sorry. 
 'Twas a child that so did thrive 
 
 In grace and feature, 
 As Heaven and Nature seenj,'d to strive 
 
 Which own'd the creature. 
 Yeeres he numbred scarce thirteene 
 
 When Fates tum'd cruell, 
 Yet three fill'd Zodiackes had he beene 
 
 The stage's Jewell ; 
 And did act (what now we mone) 
 
 Old men so duely, 
 As sooth, the Parcaa thought him one, 
 
 He plai'd so truely. 
 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 bathes to steep him ; 
 But being so much too good for earth. 
 
 Heaven vows to keepe him. 
 
 Ben Jonson. 
 
 Fain would I, Chloris, ere I die, 
 Bequeath you such a legacy, 
 That you might say, when I am gone. 
 None hath the like : — my heart alone 
 Were the best gift I could bestow. 
 But that's already yours, you know: 
 So that till you my heart resign, 
 Or fill with yours the place of mine. 
 And by that grace my store renew, 
 I shall have nought worth giving you 
 
1 6 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 Whose breast has all the wealth I have, 
 Save a faint carcass and a grave. 
 But had I as many hearts as hairs, 
 As many loves as love has fears. 
 As many lives as years have hours. 
 They should be all and only yours. 
 
 Unknanun 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 " WHAT WIGHT HE LOVED." 
 
 Shall I tell you v^hom I love ? 
 
 Hearken then awhile to me, 
 And if such a woman move. 
 
 As I now shall versifie. 
 Be assur'd 'tis she or none 
 That I love, and love alone. 
 
 Nature did her so much right, 
 That she scornes the help of art, 
 
 In as many Virtues dight 
 As ere yet embraced a hart. 
 
 So much good as truly tride, 
 
 Some for lesse were deifide. 
 
 Wit she hath without desire 
 
 To make knowne how much she hath ; 
 And her anger flames no higher 
 
 Than may fitly sweeten wrath. 
 Full of pity as may be, 
 Tho' perhaps not so to me I 
 
Lyra EUgantiarum. 17 
 
 Reason masters every sense, 
 
 And her virtues grace her birth ; 
 Lovely as all excellence, 
 
 Modest in her most of mirth : 
 Likelihood enough to prove 
 Onely worth could kindle love. 
 
 Such she is, and if you know 
 
 Such a one as I have sung, 
 Be she browne, or faire, or so, 
 
 That she be but somewhile young, 
 Be assured 'tis she or none • 
 That I love, and love alone. 
 
 'WWAam Brovme. 
 
 THE INQUIRY. 
 
 Amongst the myrtles as I walk'd. 
 
 Love and my sighs, thus intertalk'd : 
 
 " Tell me," said I, in deep distress, 
 
 " Where may I find my shepherdess?" 
 
 " Thou fool," said Love, " know'st thou not this. 
 
 In every thing that's good, she is? 
 
 In yonder tulip go and seek. 
 
 There thou may'st find her lip, her cheek; 
 
 In yon enameU'd pansy by. 
 
 There thou shall have her curious eye ; 
 
 In bloom of peach, in rosy bud. 
 
 There wave the streamers of her blood ; 
 
 In brightest lilies that there stand, 
 
 The emblems of her whiter hand ; 
 
 In yonder rising hill there smell 
 
 Such sweets as in her bosom dwell": 
 
 '"Tis true," said I. And thereupon 
 
 I went to pluck them one by one, 
 
 To make of parts an union : 
 
 But on a sudden all was gone. 
 
 
 
l8 Lyra EUgantiarum. 
 
 With that I stopt. Said Love, " these be, 
 Fond man, resemblances of thee; 
 And as these flowers, thy joy shall die, 
 E'en in the twinkling of an eye ; 
 And all thy hopes of her shall wither. 
 Like these short sweets thus knit together.'' 
 
 Thomas Carew. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 A DIALOGUE BETWEEN HIMSELF AND MIS- 
 TRESS ELIZA WHEELER, UNDER THE 
 NAME OF AMARILLIS. 
 
 (H. ) My dearest love, since thou wilt go. 
 And leave me here behind thee ; 
 For love or pity, let me know 
 The place where I may find thee. 
 
 (A. ) In country meadows, pearl'd Vfith dew, 
 And set about with lihes ; 
 There, fiUing maunds with cowslips, you 
 May find your Amarillis. 
 
 (H.) What have the meads to do with thee, 
 Or with thy youthful hours? 
 Live thou at Court, where thou may'st be 
 The queen of men — not flowers. 
 
 Let country wenches make 'em fine 
 
 With posies, since 'tis fitter 
 For thee with richest gems to shine. 
 
 And like the stars to glitter. 
 
 (A. ) You set too high a rate upon 
 
 A shepherdess so homely. 
 (H.) Believe it, dearest, there's not one 
 
 I' th' Court that's half so comely. 
 
 I prithee stay. (A. ) I must away ; 
 (H.) Let's kiss first, ilien we'll sever; 
 ( Ambo. ) And tho' we bid adieu to-day. 
 We shall not part for ever. 
 
 Robert Herrich. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 19 
 
 THE PRIMROSE. 
 
 Ask m^why I send you here 
 
 This firstling of the infant year ; 
 
 Ask me why I send to you 
 
 This primrose all bepearl'd with dew; 
 
 I straight will whisper in your ears, 
 
 The sweets of love are wash'd with tears ; — 
 
 Ask me why this flower doth show 
 
 So yellow, green, and sickly too ; 
 
 Ask me why the stalk is weak, 
 
 And bending, yet it doth not break ; 
 
 I must tell you, these discover 
 
 What doubts and fears are in a lover. 
 
 Thomas Carew. 
 
 THE SHEPHERD'S DESCRIPTION OF LOVE. 
 
 " Shepherd, what's love? I pray thee, tell ! " — 
 
 It is that fountain, and that well, 
 
 Where pleasure and repentance dwell ; 
 
 It is, perhaps, that passing bell 
 
 That tolls us all to heaven or hell ; 
 
 And this is love, as I heard tell. 
 
 " Yet, what is love? I pray thee, say!" — 
 It is a work on holiday : 
 It is December match'd vidth May, 
 When lusty woods, in fresh array, 
 Hear, ten months after, of the play ; 
 And this is love, as I hear say. 
 
 "Yet, what is love? good shepherd, saine!" — 
 It is a sunshine mix'd with rain ; 
 It is a tooth-ache, or like pain ; 
 It is a game where none doth gain. 
 The lass saith, No, and would full fain ! 
 And this is love, as I hear saine. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 " Yet, shepherd, what is love, I pray?" — 
 
 It is a " yea," it is a "nay," 
 
 A pretty kind of sporting fray; 
 
 It is a thing will soon away ; 
 
 Then, nymphs, take vantage while ye may. 
 
 And this is love, as I hear say. . 
 
 " Yet, what is love? good shepherd, show!" — 
 
 A thing that creeps, it cannot go, 
 
 A prize that passeth to and fro, 
 
 A thing for one, a thing for moe ; 
 
 And he that proves shall find it so ; 
 
 And, shepherd, this is love I trow. 
 
 Ascribed to Sir Walter Raleigh. 
 
 TO ms MISTRESS OByECTING TO HIS 
 NEITHER TOYING NOR 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. 
 Some 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. 
 
 Robert Herrick 
 
 Ask me no more where Jove bestows. 
 When June is past, the fading rose ; 
 For in your beauties, orient deep. 
 These flowers, as in their causes, sleep. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 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 light, 
 That dovrawards 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 ! 
 
 Thomas Carew. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 JULIA'S BED. 
 
 See'st thou that cloud as silver clear, 
 Plump, soft, and swelling everywhere ? 
 'Tis Julia's bed, and she sleeps there. 
 
 Robert Herrick. 
 
 XXXII 
 
 UPON JULIA'S CLOTHES. 
 
 When as 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 ! 
 
 Robert Herrick. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 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 
 
 Enthralls the crimson stomacher ; 
 
 A cuff neglectful, and thereby 
 
 Ribbons 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. 
 
 Robert Herrick, 
 
 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. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 CHERRY-RIPE. 
 
 There is a garden in her face 
 
 Where roSes and white lilies blow ; 
 
 A heavenly paradise is that place, 
 Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow ; 
 
 There cherries grow that none may buy, 
 
 Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. 
 
Lyra Ekgantiarum. 23 
 
 Those cherries fairly do enclose 
 Of orient pearl a double row, 
 Which when her lovely laughter shows, 
 They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow 
 ■ Yet them no peer nor prince may buy, 
 Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. 
 
 Her eyes like angels watch them still ; 
 
 Her brows like bended bows do stand, 
 Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill 
 
 All that approach with eye or hand 
 These sacred cherries to come ni^h, — 
 Till cheiTy-ripe themselves do ciy! 
 
 Richard Allison. 
 
 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 knowest the sacred laws of old, 
 
 Ordained a thief should pay. 
 To quit him of his theft, sevenfold 
 
 What he had stolen awav. 
 
24 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 Thy payment shall but double be ; 
 
 O then with speed resign 
 My own seduced heart to me, 
 
 Accompanied with thine. 
 
 Sir William Davmant. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 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, fot shame, this will not move, 
 
 This cannot take her ; 
 If of herself she will not love. 
 
 Nothing can make her : 
 
 The devil take her. 
 
 Sir fohn Suckling. 
 
 Shall I, wasting in despair. 
 Die because a woman's fair ? 
 Or my cheeks make pale 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 fai she be ? 
 
 Shall my foolish heart be pined 
 'Cause I see a woman kind ; 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 25 
 
 Or a well disposgd 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 merit's value known 
 
 Make me quite forget my own ? 
 
 Be she with that goodness blest 
 
 Which may gain her name of Best ; 
 If she seem not such to me. 
 What care I how good she be ? 
 
 '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 
 
 Who without them dare to woo : 
 And unless that mind I see. 
 What care I tho' great she be ? 
 
 Great or good, or kind or fair, 
 
 I will ne'er the more despair ; 
 
 If she loves me, this believe, 
 
 I vrill 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 ? 
 George Wither. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 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. 
 
26 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 No will-o'-th'-wisp mis-light thee, 
 Nor snake nor slow worm bite thee ; 
 
 But on, on thy way, 
 
 Not making a stay, 
 Since ghost there's none to affright thee. 
 
 Let not the dark thee cumber ; 
 
 What tho' the moon do 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 thee ; 
 
 And when I shall meet 
 
 Thy silv'ry feet, 
 My soul I'll pour into thee. 
 
 Robert Herrick. 
 
 TO THE VIRGINS TO MAKE MUCH OF 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 Sim, 
 
 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 
 
 But being spent, the worse, and worst 
 Times still succeed the former. 
 
 Then be not coy, but use your time, 
 
 And while you may, go marry : 
 For having lost but once your prime, 
 
 You may for ever tarry. 
 
 Robert Herrick. 
 
Lyra Eleganiiarum. 27 
 
 XLI. 
 
 THE HEAD- ACHE. 
 
 My head doth ache, 
 O, Sappho ! take 
 
 Thy fillet, 
 And bind the pain ! 
 Or bring some bane 
 
 To km it. 
 
 But less that part 
 Than my poor heart. 
 
 Now is sick : 
 One kiss iirom thee 
 Will comisel be. 
 
 And physic 
 
 Robert Herrick. 
 
 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 Up 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. 
 
28 Lyra Eleganiiarum. 
 
 I then resolved to starve tte 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. 
 
 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 yohn Suckling. 
 
 A RING PRESENTED TO JULIA. 
 
 Julia, I bring 
 
 To thee this ring, 
 Made for thy finger fit ; 
 
 To shew by this. 
 
 That our love is. 
 Or should be, like to it. 
 
 Close tho' it be, 
 The joint is free ; 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 29 
 
 So when love's yoke is on, 
 
 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 overslide ; 
 Or be so straight to choke. 
 
 So we, who bear 
 
 This beam, must rear 
 Ourselves to such a height 
 
 As that the stay 
 
 Of either may 
 Create the burthen light. 
 
 And as this round 
 
 Is no where found 
 To flaw, or else to sever ; 
 
 So let our love 
 
 As endless prove, 
 And pure as gold for ever. 
 
 Robert Herrick. 
 
 I pr'ythee send me back my heart. 
 
 Since I can not 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'st 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 you sever ? 
 
30 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 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 has mine. 
 
 Sir John Suckling. 
 
 TO LUC AST A, ON GOING TO THE WARS. 
 
 Tell me not. Sweet, I am unkind, 
 
 That from the nunnery 
 Of your 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 inconstancy is such 
 
 As you too shall adore ; 
 I could not love thee, Dear, so much, 
 
 Loved I not Honour more ! 
 
 Richard Lovelace. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 A BALLAD UPON A WEDDING. 
 
 I TELL thee, Dick, where I have been, 
 AWTiere I the rarest things have seen ; 
 
 O things without 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 knowst) do sell our hay 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 31 
 
 There is a house with stairs ; 
 And there did I see coming down 
 Such folks as are not in our town, 
 
 Forty at least, in pairs. 
 
 Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine, 
 (His beard no bigger, tho', than mine) 
 
 Walk'd on before the rest ; 
 Our landlord looks like nothing to him : 
 The king, God bless him ! 'twould undo him, 
 
 Should he go still so drest. 
 
 But wot you what ? The youth was going 
 To make an end of all his wooing ; 
 
 The parson for him staid : 
 Yet by his leave, for all his haste, 
 He did not so much wish all past. 
 
 Perchance as did the maid. 
 
 The maid, and thereby hangs a tale. 
 For such a maid no Whitsun-ale 
 
 Could ever yet produce : 
 Nq gi'ape that's kindly ripe, could be 
 So round, so soft, so plump 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 vride a peck : 
 And to say truth (for out it must) 
 It look'd 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 fear'd the light : 
 But O ! 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 Cath'rine pear, 
 
 The side that's next the sun. 
 
32 Lyra Elegantianim. 
 
 Her lips were red; and one was thin, 
 Compar'd 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 ths sun in July. 
 
 Her mouth so small, when she does speak, 
 Thou'd'st 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. 
 
 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 ; 
 
 Nor was it there denied. 
 
 Just in the.nick the cook knock'd thrice. 
 And all the waiters in a trice 
 
 His summons did obey ; 
 Each serving-man, with dish in hand, 
 March'd boldly up, like our train'd-band, 
 
 Presented, and away. 
 
 When all the meat was on the table. 
 What man of knife, or teeth, was able 
 
 To stay to be intreated ? 
 And this the very reason was. 
 Before the parson could say grace, 
 ' The company were seated. 
 
 Now hats fly off, and youth carouse ; 
 Healths first go round, and then the house, 
 
 The bride's come 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 ; 
 
Lyra Eleganti'arum. 
 
 Then dance again, and kiss. 
 Tlius several ways the time did pass, 
 Till every woman wish'd her place, 
 
 And every man wish'd his. 
 
 By this time all were stol'n aside 
 To counsel and undress the bride ; 
 
 But that he must not Icnow : 
 But yet 'twas thought he guess'd her mind, 
 And did not mean to stay behind 
 
 Above an hour or so. 
 
 Sir John Suckling. 
 
 TO MR. THOMAS SOUTHERNE, 
 
 On his Birthday, 1742. 
 
 Resign'd 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 vidld goose and the larks ! 
 
 The mushrooms show his wit was sudden ! 
 
 And for his judgment, 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 ! 
 
 Alexander Pope. 
 
34 Lyra Elegantiarum, 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 LOVE AND DEBT. 
 A Fragment. 
 
 There's one request I make to Him 
 
 Who sits the clouds above : 
 That I were fairly 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 any rogue one shilling. 
 
 'Tis only being in love, or debt, 
 
 That robs us of our rest. 
 And he that is quite out of both, 
 
 Of all the world is blest. 
 
 He sees the golden age, wherein 
 All things were free and common ; 
 
 He eats, he drinks, he takes his rest — 
 And fears nor man nor woman. 
 
 Sir John Suckling. 
 
 THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE PASSIONATE 
 SHEPHERD. 
 
 If all the world and love were young, 
 And truth in every shepherd's tongue, 
 Tliese pretty pleasures might me move, 
 To live with thee, and be thy love. 
 
 Time drives the flocks from field to fold 
 When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold, 
 And Philomel becometh dumb ; 
 The rest complain of cares to come. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 35 
 
 The flowers do fade, and wanton fields 
 To wayward winter reckoning yields ; 
 A honey'd tongue, a heart of gall, 
 Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. 
 
 Thy gown, thy shoes, thy beds of 'roses. 
 Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies ; 
 Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten. 
 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, and age no need ; 
 Then these deliglits my mind might move, 
 To live with thee, and be thy love. 
 
 Sir Walter Raleigh, 
 
 Out upon it, I have loved 
 Three whole days together; 
 
 And am like to love three more, — 
 If it prove fine 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 in her place ! 
 
 Sir yohn Suckling. 
 
36 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 TO CHLOE, WHO WISHED HERSELF YOUNG 
 ENOUGH FOR ME. 
 
 A Fragment. 
 
 Chloe, why wish you that your years 
 Would backwards run, till they meet mine, 
 
 That perfect likeness, which endears 
 Things unto things, might us combine? 
 
 Our ages so in date agree. 
 
 That twins do diflFer more than we. 
 
 There are two births : the one when light 
 First strikes the new awakened sense ; 
 
 The other, when two souls unite, 
 
 And we must count our life from thence : 
 
 When you loved me, and I loved you. 
 
 Then both of us were bom anew. 
 
 Love then to us did new souls give, 
 And in those souls did plant new powers; 
 
 Since when another life we live. 
 The breath we breathe is his, not ours ; 
 
 Love makes thosetyoung, whom age doth chill. 
 
 And whom he finds yo-mg, keeps young still. 
 
 And now since you and I are such. 
 
 Tell me what's yours and what is mine? 
 
 Our eyes, our ears, our taste, smell, touch. 
 Do, like our souls, in one combine ; 
 
 So by this, I as well may be 
 
 Too old for you, as you for me. 
 
 William Cartwright. 
 
Lyra EUgantiarum. 37 
 
 LII. 
 
 THE MERIT OF INCONSTANCY. 
 A Fragment. 
 
 Why dost thou say I am forsworn, 
 
 Since thine I vow'd to be ? 
 Lady, it is already mom ; 
 
 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. 
 
 Richard Lovelace. 
 
 Love not me for comely grace, 
 For my pleasing eye or face, 
 Nor for any outward part, 
 No, nor for my constant heart, — 
 For these 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. 
 
 uv. 
 
 TO LUCASTA, ON GOING BEYOND THE SEAS. 
 
 A Fragment. 
 
 If to be absent were to be 
 
 Away from thee; 
 Or that when I am gone 
 You or I were alone ; 
 Then, my Lucasta, might I crave 
 Pity from blustering wind; or swallowing wave. 
 
jS Lyra Elegantiarunt. 
 
 Though seas and land betwixt us both, 
 
 Our faith and troth, 
 Like separated souls, 
 All time and space controls : 
 Above the highest sphere we meet 
 Unseen, unknown, and greet as angels greet. 
 
 So then we do anticipate 
 
 Our after-fate. 
 And are alive i' the skies, 
 If thus our lips and eyes 
 Can speak like spirits unconfined 
 In heaven, their earthly bodies left behind. 
 
 Richard Lovdaci. 
 
 Wert thou yet fairer in thy feature. 
 Which lies not in the power of nature ; 
 Orhadst thou in thine eyes more darts 
 Than ever Cupid shot at hearts ; 
 Vet if they were not tlirown at me, 
 I would not cast a thought on thee. 
 
 I'd rather marry a disease, 
 
 Than court the thing I could not please : 
 
 She that would cherish my desires, 
 
 Must meet my flame with equal fires : 
 
 What pleasure is there in a kiss 
 
 To him that doubts the heart's not his ? 
 
 I love thee not because thou'rt fair, 
 
 Softer than down, smoother than air ; 
 
 Nor for the Cupids that do lie 
 
 In either comer .of thine eye : 
 
 Would'st thou then know what it might be ?- 
 
 'Tis I love thee 'cause thou lov'st me. 
 
 Unknown. 
 
Lyra Eleganliantm. ;^g 
 
 '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 'cause 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. 
 
 Alexander Brome. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 THE PEREMPTORY LOVER. 
 
 'Tis not your beauty not your wit 
 
 That can my heart obtain. 
 For they could never conquer yet 
 
 Either my breast or brain ; 
 For if you'll not prove kind to me, 
 
 And true as heretofore, 
 Henceforth I'll scorn your slave to be, 
 
 And doat on you no more. 
 
 Think not my fancy to o'ercome 
 
 By proving thus unbind ; 
 No smoothed sigh, nor smiling frown. 
 
 Can satisfy my mind. 
 Pray let Platonics play such pranks, . 
 
 Such follies I deride; 
 For love at least I will have thanlcs, — 
 
 And something else beside ! 
 
 Then open-hearted be with me. 
 
 As I shall be, I vow. 
 And let our actions be as free 
 
 As virtue will allow. 
 If you'll prove loving, I'll prove kind, — 
 
 If constant, I'll be true ; 
 If Fortune chance to change your mind, 
 
 I'll turn as soon as you. 
 
40 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 Since our affections, well ye know, 
 
 In equal terms do stand, 
 'Tis in your power to love or no, 
 
 Mine's likewise in my hand. 
 Dispense with your austerity, 
 
 Inconstancy abhor, 
 Or, by great Cupid's deity, 
 
 I'll never love you more. 
 
 Unkncm. n. 
 
 I pr'vthee leave this peevish fashion. 
 
 Don't desire to be high-prized, 
 Love's a princely, noble passion. 
 
 And doth scorn to be despised. 
 Tho' we say you're fair, you know 
 We your beauty do bestow, — 
 For our fancy makes you so. 
 
 Don't be proud 'cause we adore you. 
 
 We do't only for our pleasure ; 
 And those parts in which you glory. 
 
 We, by fancy, weigh and measure. 
 When for Deities you go. 
 For Angels, or for Queens, pray know 
 'Tis our own fancy makes you so ! 
 
 Don't suppose your majesty 
 
 By tyranny's best signified. 
 And your angelic natures be 
 
 Distinguish'd only by your pride. 
 Tyrants make subjects rebels grow. 
 And pride makes angels devils below. 
 And your pride may make you so ! 
 
 Alexander Brovte. 
 
 LIX. , 
 
 UNGRATEFUL BEAUTY THREATENED. 
 
 Know Celia (since thou art so proud) 
 'Twas I that gave thee thy renown : 
 
 Thou hadst, in th^ forgotten crowd 
 Of common beauties, lived imknown 
 
 Had not my verse exhaled thy name. 
 
 And with it impt the wings of Fame. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 41 
 
 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 — shinest in my skies ; 
 Then dart not from thy borrow'd sphere 
 Lightning on him that fix'd thee there. 
 
 Tempt me with such affrights no more, 
 
 Lest what I made I uncreate ; 
 Let fools thy mystic forms adore, 
 
 I'll know thee in thy mortal state. 
 Wise poets, that wrap Truth in tales. 
 Know her themselves thro' all her veils. 
 
 Thomas Carew, 
 
 I.X. 
 
 TO DIANEME. 
 
 Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes 
 Which, star-like, 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 love-sick 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. 
 
 Robert Herrick. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 Love in her sunny eyes does 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 1 he never went within. 
 
 Abraham Cowley. 
 
42 Lyra EUgantiarum 
 
 LXII. 
 
 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. 
 
 Robert Herrick. 
 
 Lxm. 
 THE PRESENT MOMENT. 
 
 All my past life is mine no more, 
 
 The flying hours are gone; 
 Like tran.sitoi7 dreams given o'er. 
 Whose images are kept in store 
 
 By memory alone. 
 
 The time that is to come, is not ; ■ 
 
 How, then, can it 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 ! 
 
 John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 THE VICTOR AND THE VANQUISHED. 
 
 While pn those lovely looks I gaze, 
 
 And see a wretch pursuing. 
 In raptures of a bless'd amaze, 
 
 His pleasing, happy ruin ; 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 43 
 
 'Tis not for pity that I move; — 
 
 His fate is too aspiring, 
 Whose heart, broke with a load of love, 
 
 Dies, wishing and admiring. 
 
 But if this murder you'd forego. 
 
 Your slave from death removing ; 
 Let me your art of charming know, 
 
 Or learn you mine of loving. 
 But, whether life or death betide. 
 
 In love 'tis equal measure ; 
 The victor lives with empty pride. 
 
 The vanquish'd dies with pleasure. 
 
 John Wilmot, Earl of Rochesia: 
 
 Phillis, men say tliat aU 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 
 
 Then all my large command. 
 
 My humble love has leam'd to live 
 
 On what the nicest maid, 
 Without a conscious blush, may give 
 
 Beneath the myrtle shade. 
 
 Sir Charles Sedley. 
 
 'Tis not your saying that you love 
 
 Can ease me of my sifiart ; 
 Your actions must your words approve, 
 
 Or else you break my heart. 
 
 In vain you bid my passions cease, 
 And ease my troubled breast ; 
 
 Your love alone must give me peace — 
 Restore ray wonted rest. 
 
44 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 But if I fail your heart to move, 
 
 Or 'tis not yours to give, 
 I cannot, will not cease to love, 
 But I will cease to live. 
 
 Aphra Bekn. 
 LXVII. 
 
 Ah, Chloris ! could I now but sit 
 
 As unconcem'd as when 
 Your infant beauty could beget 
 
 No happiness or pain ! 
 When I this dawning did admire, 
 
 And praised the coming day, 
 I little thought the rising fire 
 
 Would take my rest away. 
 
 Your charms in harmless childhood lay 
 
 Like metals in a mine ; 
 Age from no face takes more away 
 
 Than youth conceal'd in tMne. 
 But as your charms insensibly 
 
 To their perfection prest. 
 So love as unperceived did fly. 
 
 And center'd in my breast. 
 
 My passion with your beauty grew. 
 
 While Cupid at my heart. 
 Still as his mother favour'd you. 
 
 Threw a new flaming dart. 
 Each gloried in their wanton part ; 
 
 To make a lover, he 
 Employ'd the utmost of his art — 
 
 To make a beauty, she. 
 
 Sir Charles Sedley. 
 
 Ye happy swains, whose hearts are free 
 
 From Love's imperial chain. 
 Take warning, and be taught by me, 
 
 T' avoid tli' enchanting pain. 
 Fatal the wolves to trembling flocks — 
 
 Fierce winds to blossoms prove — 
 To careless seamen, hidden rocks— 
 
 To human quiet, love. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum, 45 
 
 Then fly the Fair, if bliss you prize ; 
 
 The snalce's beneath the flower : 
 Who ever gazed on beauteous eyes, 
 
 And tasted quiet more ? 
 How faithless is the lover's joy ! 
 
 How constant is his care ! 
 The kind with falsehood do destroy, 
 
 The cruel with despair. 
 
 Sir George Etherege. 
 
 TO CELIA. 
 
 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 Charles Sedley. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 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, 
 
 From change of love are only free. 
 
4.6 Lyra Elegantiantm. 
 
 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 past. 
 
 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. 
 
 Sir George Ethertge. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 OF ENGLISH VERSE. 
 
 Poets may boast, as safely vain. 
 Their works shall with the world remain ; 
 Both bound together, live or die. 
 The verses and the prophecy. 
 
 But who can hope his line should long 
 Last in a daily changing tongue ? 
 While they are new, envy prevails ; 
 And, as that dies, our language fails. 
 
 When architects have done their part. 
 The matter may betray their art : 
 Time, if we use ill-chosen stone, 
 Soon brings a well-built palace down. 
 
 Poets, that lasting marble seek, 
 Must carve in Latin or in Greek : 
 We write in sand : our language grows. 
 And, like the tide, our work o'erflows. 
 
 Chaucer his sense can only boast, — 
 The glory of his numbers lost ! 
 Years have defaced his matchless strain,— 
 And yet he did not sing in vain ! 
 
 The beauties which adom'd that age, 
 The shining subjects of his page. 
 Hoping they should Immortal prove, 
 Rewarded with, success his love. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 47 
 
 This was the generous poet's scope ; 
 And all an English pen can hope; 
 To make the fair approve his flame, 
 That can so far extend their name. 
 
 Verse, thus design'd, has no ill fate, 
 If it arrive but at the date 
 Of fading beauty ; if it prove 
 But as long-lived as present love. 
 
 Edmund Waller. 
 
 THE STORY OF PHCEBUS AND DAPHME 
 APPLIED. 
 
 Thyrsis, 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 thro' flowery meads ; 
 Invoked to testily 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 reach'd the nymph vnth 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 : ' 
 AH, but the nymph who should redress his wrong, 
 Attend his passion, and approve his song. 
 Like Phoebus thus, acquiring unsought praise. 
 He catch'd at love, and fill'd his arms with bays. 
 
 Edmund Waller 
 
 Phillis, for shame ! let us improve, 
 
 A thousand difierent ways. 
 These few short moments snatch'd by love 
 
 From many tedious days. 
 
48 Lyra Elegantianim. 
 
 If you want courage to despise 
 
 The censure of 3ie grave, 
 Tho' Love's a tyrant in your eyes. 
 
 Your heart is but a slave. 
 
 My love is fall of noble pride ; 
 
 Nor can it e'er submit 
 To let that fop, Discretion, ride 
 
 In triumph over it. 
 
 False friends I have, as well as you. 
 
 Who daily counsel me 
 Fame and Ambition to pursue. 
 
 And leave off loving thee. 
 
 But when the least regard I show- 
 To fools who thus advise, 
 
 May I be dull enough to gi-ow 
 Most miserably wise ! 
 
 Charles SackviUe, Earl of Dorset. 
 
 TO CHLORIS SINGING A SONG OF HIS 
 COMPOSING. 
 
 Chloris ! 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 are one, 
 Wiich, 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 retum'd, 
 
 Not for reflection of his face, 
 
 But of his voice, the boy had burn'd. 
 
 Edmund Waller. 
 
Lyra Eiegantiarum. 49 
 
 Uorinda'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. 
 
 Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset, 
 
 iVKITTEN AT SEA, THE FIRST DUTCH WAT! 
 THE NIGHT BEFORE AN ENGAGEMENT. 
 
 To all you ladies now on 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. 
 
 For tho' the muses should prove kind. 
 
 And fill our empty brain ; 
 Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind, 
 
 To witve the azure main. 
 Our paper, pen, and ink, and we 
 Roll up and down our ships at sea. 
 
 Then, if we write not by each post. 
 
 Think not we are unkind ; 
 Nor yet conclude our ships are lost 
 
 By Dutchmen or by wind ; 
 Our tears we'll send a speedier way : 
 The tide shall bring them twice a day. 
 
 The king with wonder and surprise. 
 Will swear the seas grow bold ; 
 
50 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 Because the tides will higher rise 
 
 Than e'er they did of old : 
 But let him know it is our tears 
 Bring floods of grief to Whitehall-stairs. 
 
 Should foggy Opdam chance to know 
 
 Our sad and dismal story, 
 The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe, 
 
 And quit their fort at Goree ; 
 For what resistance can they find 
 From men who've left their hearts behind ! 
 
 Let wind and weather do its worst, 
 
 Be you to us but kind ; 
 Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse. 
 
 No sorrow we shall find : 
 'Tis then no matter how things go. 
 Or who's our friend, or who's our foe. 
 
 To pass our tedious hours away. 
 
 We throw a 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. 
 
 But now our fears tempestuous grow 
 
 And cast our hopes away ; 
 Whilst you, regardless of our wo, 
 
 Sit careless at a play : 
 Perhaps permit some happier man 
 To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan. 
 
 When any mournful tune you hear. 
 
 That dies in every note, 
 As if it sigh'd with each man's care 
 
 For being so remote : 
 Think then how often love we've made 
 To you, when all those tunes were play'd. 
 
 In justice, you cannot refuse 
 
 To think of our distress. 
 When we for hopes of honour lose 
 
 Our certain happiness ; 
 All these designs are but to prove 
 Ourselves more worthy of your love. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. ji 
 
 And now we've told you all our loves, 
 
 And likewise all our fears, 
 In hopes this declaration moves 
 
 Some pity for our tears ; 
 Let's hear of no inconstancy. 
 We have too much of that at sea. 
 With a fa la, la, la, la. 
 
 Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON. 
 
 When Love with unconfinfed wings 
 
 Hovers within my gates. 
 And my divine Althea brings 
 
 To whisper at the grates ; 
 When I lie tangled in her hair 
 
 And fetter'd 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 crown'd, 
 
 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 hberty. 
 
 When, linnet-like confined, 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 a hermitage : 
 
5» Lyra ElegatiHarum, 
 
 If I have freedom in my love, 
 
 And in my soul am free, 
 Angels alone, that soar above. 
 
 Enjoy such liberty. 
 
 Richard Lovelace. 
 
 LXXVIIl. 
 
 LOYALTY CONFINED. 
 
 ( Written when a prisoTier in the Tower, during CromwelVi 
 usurpation. ) 
 
 Beat on, proud billows ; Boreas, blow ; 
 
 Swell, curled waves, high as Jove's roof; 
 Your incivility doth plainly show 
 
 That innocence is tempest-proof; 
 Though surly Nereus frown, my thoughts are calm ; 
 Then strike. Affliction, for thy wounds are balm. 
 
 That which the world miscalls a jail, 
 
 A private closet is to me ; 
 Whilst a good conscience is my bail, 
 
 And innocence my liberty : 
 Locks, bars, and solitude, together met. 
 Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret. 
 
 Here sin, for want of food, must starve 
 Where tempting objects are not seen ; 
 
 And these strong walU do only serve 
 To keep rogues out, hot keep me in. 
 
 Malice is now grown charitable, sure : 
 
 I'm not committed, but I'm kept secure. 
 
 And whilst I wish to be retired. 
 
 Into this private room I'm tum'd ; 
 As if their wisdom had conspired 
 
 The salamander should be bum'd. 
 Or, like those sophists who would drown a fish, 
 I am condemn'd to suffer what I wish. 
 
 The cynic hugs his poverty, 
 
 The pelican her wilderness ; 
 And 'tis the Indian's pride to be 
 
 Naked on frozen Caucasus. 
 Contentment feels no smart ; stoics, we see. 
 Make torments easy by their apathy. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 53 
 
 I'm in the cabinet lock'd up, 
 
 Like some high-prized margarite ; 
 Or like the great Mogul or Pope, 
 
 I'm cloister'd up from public sight. 
 Retiredness is a part of majesty, 
 And thus, proud Sultan ! I am great as thee. 
 
 These manacles upon my arm 
 
 I, as my mistress' favours, wear ; 
 And for to keep my ankles warm, 
 
 I have some iron shackles there. 
 These walls are but my garrison ; this cell. 
 Which men call jail, doth prove my citadel. 
 
 So he that struck at Jason's life, 
 
 Thinking to make his purpose sure, 
 By a malicious friendly knife 
 
 Did only wound him to his cure : 
 Malice, we see, wants vrit ; for what is meant 
 Mischief, oft times proves favour by th' event. 
 
 Altho' I cannot see my king — 
 
 Neither in person — nor in coin ! — 
 Yet contemplation is a thing 
 
 That renders that I have not, mine. 
 My king from me no adamant can part, 
 Whom I do wear engraven in my heart. 
 
 Have you not heard the nightingale, 
 
 A prisoner close kept in a cage. 
 How she doth chaunt her wonted tale. 
 
 In that her narrow hermitage ? 
 Even then her melody doth plainly prove 
 Her bars are trees, her cage a pleasant grove. 
 
 My soul is free as ambient air. 
 
 Which doth my outward parts include ; 
 
 Whilst loyal thoughts do stiU repair 
 T' accompany my solitude. 
 
 What tho' they do with chains my body bind, 
 
 My king alone can captivate my mind. 
 
 1 am that bird whom they combine 
 
 Thus to deprive of liberty ; 
 And tho' they may my corpse confine, 
 
 Yet, maugre that, my soul is free : 
 
54 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 Though I'm meVd up, yet I can chirp and sing, 
 Disgi-ace to rebels, glory to my king. 
 
 Sir Boger L'Estrange.. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 THE MEANS TO ATTAIN HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 Martial, the things that do attain 
 The happy life be these, I find— 
 
 The riches left, not got with pain; 
 The fruitful ground, the quiet mind, 
 
 The equal friend; no grudge, no strife; 
 
 No charge of rule, nor governance ; 
 Without disease, the healthful life ; 
 
 The household of continuance ; 
 
 The mean diet, no delicate fare ; 
 
 True wisdom join'd with simpleness ; 
 The night discharged of all care. 
 
 Where wine the wit may not oppress ; 
 
 The faithful wife, without debate ; 
 
 Such sleep as may beguile the night ; 
 Contented with thine own estate. 
 Nor wish for death, nor fear his might. 
 
 Earl of Surrey, 
 LXXX. 
 
 CONTENT. 
 
 Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content :- — 
 The quiet mind is richer than a crown ; 
 
 Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent — 
 The poor estate scorns Fortune's angry frown : 
 
 Such sweet content, such minds, such, sleep, such bliss, 
 
 Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss. 
 
 The homely house that harbours quiet rest, 
 The cottage that affords no pride or care, 
 
 The mean that 'grees with country music best. 
 The sweet consort of mirth and music's fare. 
 
 Obscured life sets down a type of bliss ; 
 
 A mind'Content both crown and kingdom is. 
 
 Robert ih-eene. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 55 
 
 THE WISH. 
 
 Well then ; I now dp 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 endure the stings, 
 The crowd, and buz, and murmurings 
 
 Of this great hive, the city. 
 
 Ah, yet, ere I descend to th' 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, fountains ! 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 ; 
 Where all the riches lie, that she 
 
 Has coin'd and stamp'd for good. 
 
 Pride and ambition here 
 Only in far-fetch'd metaphors appear ; 
 Here nought but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter, 
 
 And nought but Echo flatter. 
 
 The gods, when they descended, hither 
 Erom 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, live, and embracing die ! 
 She, who is all the world, and can exclude 
 
 In deserts solitude. 
 
56 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 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. 
 
 Abraham Cowley. 
 
 THE ANGLER'S WISH. 
 
 I IN these flowery meads would be ; 
 
 These crystal streams should solace me ; 
 
 To whose harmonious bubbling noise, 
 
 I with my angle wiU rejoice ; 
 
 Sit here, and see the turtle-dove 
 Court his chaste mate to acts of love , 
 
 Or on that bank feel the west wind 
 Breathe health and plenty ; please my mind 
 To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers, 
 And then wash'd off by April showers ; 
 
 Here, hear my Kenna sing a song ; 
 
 There, see a blackbird feed her young, 
 
 Or, a laverock build her nest : 
 
 Here, give my weary spirits rest. 
 
 And raise my low-pitch'd thoughts above 
 
 Earth, or what poor mortals love : 
 
 Thus, free from lawsuits and the noise 
 Of princes' courts, I would rejoice. 
 
 Or, with my Bryan and a book, 
 Loiter long days near Shawford brook ; 
 There sit with him, and eat my meat, 
 There see the sun both rise and set. 
 There bid good morning to each day, 
 There meditate my time away, 
 ' And angle on : and beg to have 
 A quiet passage to a welcome grave. 
 
 Izaak Walton. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum, 57 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 THE CONTENTED MAN. 
 
 Happy the man whose wish and care 
 
 A few paternal acres bound, 
 Content to breathe his native air 
 
 In his own ground. 
 
 Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, 
 
 Whose flocks supply him with attire ; 
 Whose trees in summer yield"him shade, 
 In winter, fire. 
 
 Blest, who can unconcem'dly find 
 
 Hours, days, and years slide soft away 
 In health of body, peace of mind, 
 
 Quiet by day, 
 
 Sound sleep by night; study and ease 
 
 Together mix'd, sweet recreation 
 And innocence, which most doth pleaSe 
 
 With meditation. 
 
 Thus let me live unseen, unknown ; 
 
 Thus, unlamented, let me die ; 
 Steal from the world, and not a stone 
 
 Tell where I lie. 
 
 Alexander Pope. 
 
 There is none, O none but you, 
 Who from me estrange the sight, 
 
 Whom mine eyes affect to view. 
 And chained ears hear with delight. 
 
 Others' beauties others move : 
 In you I all the graces find ; 
 
 Such are the effects of love. 
 To make them happy that are kind. 
 
 Women in frail beauty trust ; 
 
 Only seem you kind to me ! 
 Still be truly kind and just, 
 
 For that can't dissembled be. 
 
58 Lyra BUgantiarum. 
 
 Dear, afford me then your sight ! 
 
 That, surveying all your looks, 
 Endless volumes I may write, ■ 
 
 And fill the world with envied books. 
 
 Which, when after ages view, 
 All shall wonder and despair, — 
 
 Women, to find a man so true. 
 And men, a woman half so fair ! 
 
 Robert, Earl of Essex. 
 
 Tell me no more I am deceived. 
 
 That Chloe's false and common ; 
 I always knew (at least believed) 
 
 She was a very woman : 
 As such I liked, as such caress'd, 
 She still was constant when possess'd, 
 
 She could do more for no man. 
 
 But O ! her thoughts on others ran ; 
 And that you think a hard thing ! 
 Perhaps she fancied you the man ; 
 And what care I one farthing ? 
 You think she's false, I'm sure she's kind, 
 I take her body, you her mind, — 
 Who has the better bargain ? 
 
 William Congreri: 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 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, 
 
Lyra El^anHarum, 59 
 
 And shakes her wings and will not stay, 
 I puiF the prostitute away : 
 The little or the much she gave, is quietly resign'd : 
 Content with poverty, my soul I arm ; 
 And virtue, tho' in rags, will keep me warm. 
 
 John Dryden. 
 
 Fair Amoret is gone astray, 
 
 Pursue, and seek her, every lover ; 
 
 I'll tell the s^ns by which you may 
 The wandering shepherdess discover. 
 
 Coquet and coy at once her air. 
 
 Both studied, tho' both seem neglected ; 
 
 Careless she is, with artful care, 
 Affecting 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. 
 
 William- Congreve. 
 
 FABLE, RELATED BY A BEAU TO MSOP. 
 
 A Band, a Bob-wig, and a Feather, 
 Attack'd a lady's heart together. 
 The Band, in a most leamfed plea, 
 Made up of deep philosophy. 
 Told her, if she would please to wed 
 A reverend beard, and take, instead 
 
 Of vigorous youth, 
 
 Old solemn truth. 
 With books and morals, into bed. 
 How happy she would be. 
 
6o Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 The Bob, he talked of management, 
 What wondrous blessings heaven sent 
 On care, and pains, and industry : 
 And truly he must be so free 
 To own he thought your airy beaux, 
 With powder'd wigs, and dancing shoes. 
 Were good for nothing (mend his soul !) 
 But prate, and talk, and play the fool. 
 
 He said 'twas wealth gave joy and mirth. 
 
 And that to be the dearest wife 
 
 Of one, who laboured all his life 
 
 To make a mine of gold his own, 
 
 And not spend sixpence when he'd done. 
 
 Was heaven upon earth. 
 
 When these two blades had done, d'ye see, 
 The Feather (as it might be me) 
 Steps out, sir, from behind the screen. 
 With such an air and such a mien — 
 " Look you, old gentleman," — in short. 
 He quickly spoil 'd the statesman's sport. 
 
 1 It proved such sunshine weather. 
 That you must know, at the first beck 
 The lady leapt about his neck. 
 And off they went tc^ether ! 
 
 Sir John Vanirugh. 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 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 we 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 ; and 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 join'd. 
 
 John Drydtn 
 
Lyra EUgantiarum. Si 
 
 THE BAG OF THE BEE. 
 
 About the sweet bag of a bee, 
 
 Two Cupids fell at odds ; 
 And whose the pretty prize should be, 
 
 They vow'd to ask the gods. 
 
 Which Venus hearing, thither came, 
 And for their boldness stript them ; 
 
 And taking thence from each his flame, 
 With rods of myrtle whipt them. 
 
 ^\^uch done, to still their wanton cries, 
 When quiet grown she'd seen them. 
 
 She kist, and wiped their dove-like eyes ; 
 And gave the bag between them. 
 
 Robert Herrick. 
 
 xci. 
 CUPJD 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 fill'd 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? 
 
 1 took you for your Ukeness, Chloe." 
 
 Matthew Prior. 
 
62 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 THE QUESTION TO LISETTA. 
 
 What nymph should I admire or trast, 
 But Chloe beauteous, Chloe just? 
 What nymph should I desire to see, 
 But her who leaves the plain for me 2 
 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? 
 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 fliUy blest? 
 Lisetta, prythee tell the rest. 
 
 lisetta's reply. 
 Sure Chloe just, and Chloe fair, 
 Deserves to be your only care ; 
 But, when she and you to-day 
 Far into the wood did stray. 
 And I happen'd ,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. 
 
 Matthew Prior. 
 XCIII. 
 
 DAMON AND CUPID. 
 
 The sun was now withdrawn. 
 
 The shepherds home were sped ; 
 The moon wide o'er the lawn 
 
 Her silver mantle spread ; 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 63 
 
 When Damon stay'd behind, 
 
 And saunter'd 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 
 
 Lodg'd nymphs and swains by pairs; 
 But now from wood and plain 
 
 Flies eveiy 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 revell'd 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 Corirt, 
 
 None ask where Cupid dwells ; 
 But readily resort 
 
 To Bellendens or Lepells. '' 
 
 John Gay. 
 
 xciv. 
 ANSWER TO CHLOE JEALOUS. 
 
 Dear Chloe, how blubber'd is that pretty face ! 
 
 Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurl' d : 
 Pr'ythee 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 hast leave to destroy 
 The beauties which Venus but lent to thy keeping', 
 
 Those looks were design'd to inspire love and joy; 
 More ordinary eyes may serve people for weeping. 
 
64 Lyra Eleganliarum. 
 
 To be vex'd at a trifle or two that I writ, 
 
 Your judgment 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 up his rest: 
 If at morning o'er Earth 'tis his fancy to run ; 
 - At night he declines on his Thetis' 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. 
 
 Matthew Prior, 
 
 Phyllida, that loved to dream 
 In the grove, or by the stream ; 
 
 Sigh'd 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? 
 There, 'tis true, we see more men ; 
 
 But much fewer lovers. 
 
 O, how changed the prospect grows I 
 Flock and herds to fops and beaux. 
 Coxcombs without number ! 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 5^ 
 
 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, 
 
 E'en 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. 
 
 John Gay. 
 
 XCVI. 
 
 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 ordain'd. 
 
 And sorely vex'd to play the saint, 
 Whilst wit and beauty reign'd. 
 
 ' ' Shall I thumb holy books, confined 
 
 With Abigails, forsaken ? 
 Kitty's for other things design'd. 
 
 Or I am much mistaken. 
 
66 Lyra Ekgantiarum. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 ^'hat hidden charms to boast. 
 That all mankind for her should die. 
 
 Whilst I am scarce a toast ? 
 
 Dearest mamma, for once let me, 
 Unchain' d, my fortune try; 
 
 I'll have my Earl as Trell as ^e, 
 Or know the reason why. 
 
 I'll soon with Jenny's pride quit score. 
 
 Make all her lovers fall : 
 TheyTl grieve I was not loosed before : 
 
 She, I was loosed at all ! " 
 
 Fondness prevail'd, — mamma gave way : 
 
 Kitty, at heart's desire, 
 Obtain'd the chariot for a day. 
 
 And set the world on fire. 
 
 Mattheo) Prior. 
 
 False tho' she be to me and love 
 
 I'll ne'er pursue revenge ; 
 For still the charmer I approve, 
 
 Tho' I deplore her change. 
 
 In hours of bliss we oft have met. 
 
 They could not alwaj-s last ; 
 And tho' the present I r^pret, 
 
 I'm gratefiil for the past. 
 
 WiKiam Congreut. 
 
 XCVIII. 
 
 HER RIGHT KAME. 
 
 As Nancy at her toilet sat, 
 Admiring this and blaming that ; 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 67 
 
 "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 crown'd : 
 
 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 show'd she knew the face : 
 " And which am I most like, " she said, 
 " Your Chloe, or your nut-brown maid? " 
 Matthew Prior. 
 
 HIS EXCUSE FOR LOVING. 
 
 Let it not your wonder move, 
 Less your laughter, that I love. 
 Tho' I now write fifty years, 
 I have had, and have my peers ; 
 Poets, tho' divine, are men : 
 Some have loved as old again. 
 And it is not always face. 
 Clothes, or fortune, gives the grace ; 
 Or the feature, or the youth : 
 But the language, and the truth, 
 With the ardour, and the passion, 
 Give, the lover weight and fashion. 
 
68 Lyira Btegaiittaruni. 
 
 If you then will read the story, 
 First, prepare you to be sorry, 
 That you never knew till now. 
 Either whom to love of how : 
 But be glad, as soon with me, 
 When you know that this is she, 
 Of whose beauty it was sung, 
 " She shall make the old man young," 
 Keep the middle age at stay, 
 And let nothing high decay. 
 Till she be the reason, why. 
 All the world for love may die. 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 C 
 
 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 mom 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 check. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 69 
 
 Dissembling what I l<new too well, 
 " My love, my life," said I, "explain 
 
 This change of humom- : pry'thee tell : 
 That falling tear — what does it mean ?" 
 
 She sigh'd : 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 mom poor Stella danced and sung; 
 
 The amorous youth around her bow'd ; 
 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 sorrow.'' 
 
 Matthew Prior, 
 
 THE LOVER. 
 
 Addressed to Congreve. 
 
 At length, by so much importunity press'd. 
 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 join'd ? — 
 
70 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 Would value his pleasures, conti-Ibute to mine ; 
 Not meanly wo»Ud boast, and not grossly design ; 
 Not over severe, yet not stupidly vain, 
 For I would have the power, but not g^ve 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 ; 
 In public preserve the decorum that's just, 
 And show in his eye he is true to his trust ; 
 Then rarely approach, and respectlully bow. 
 But not fulsomely forward, or foppishly low. 
 
 But when tlie long horn's of public are past, 
 And we meet with champagne and a chicken at last, 
 May every fond pleasure the moment endear; 
 Be banish'd 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 fix'd, 
 
 Let the friend and the lover be handsomely mix'd. 
 
 In whose tender bosom my soul may confide. 
 
 Whose kindness can soothe me, whose counsel can guida 
 
 For sucli a dear lover as here I describe, 
 
 No danger should fright me, no millions should bribe ; 
 
 But till this astonishing a-eature 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 drest 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. 
 
 Ladv Marv W. Montagu. 
 
Lyra Elegantianim. 71 
 
 The merchant, to secure his treasure, 
 
 Conveys it in a borrow'd name : 
 Euphelia serves to grace my measure ; 
 
 But Chloe is my real flame. 
 
 My softest verse, my darling lyre 
 
 Upon Euphelia'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 vpith my numbers mix my sighs : 
 And while I sing Euphelia's praise, 
 
 I fix my soul on Chloe's eyes. 
 
 Fair Chloe blush'd : Euphelia frown'd : 
 I sung, and gazed : I play'd, and trembled ; 
 
 And Venus to the Loves around 
 
 Remark'd, how ill we all dissembled. 
 
 Matthew Prior. 
 
 cm. 
 ON THE LOSS OF TIME. 
 
 If life be time that here is lent, 
 And time on earth be cast away. 
 
 Whoso his time hath here mis-spent 
 Hath hasten'd his own dying day ; 
 
 So it doth prove a killing crime 
 
 To massacre our living time. 
 
 If doing nought be like to death, 
 Of him that doth, chameleon-wise, 
 
 Take only pains to draw his breath, 
 The passers-by may pasquilize, 
 Not, here he lives ; but, here he dies. 
 
 Jghn Hosi;ins. 
 
72 Lyra Elegantiarum, 
 
 CIV. 
 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 swim in pleasure ; if it prove 
 Disdain, that torrent will devour 
 
 My vulture hopes ; and he'spossess'd 
 
 Of Heaven that is from Hell released ; 
 
 Then crown ray joys or cure my pain ; 
 
 Give me more love, or more disdain. 
 
 Thomas Owtqw. 
 
 cv. 
 
 MRS. FRANCES HARRIS' PETITION. 
 
 ' Written in the year 1 701. 
 
 To their Excellencies the Lord Justices of Ireland. 
 
 The humble petition of Frances Hams, who mus; 
 staive, and die a maid, if it miscarries. 
 Humbly sheweth, 
 
 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 six- 
 pence, besides fai-things, 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. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 73 
 
 So, when I went to put up my purse, as luck would have it, 
 
 my smock was unript, 
 And instead of putting it into my pocket, down it slipt : 
 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 search'd, and miss'd 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 ?" 
 " 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 coveted me up warm : 
 However, she stole away my garters, that I might do myself 
 
 no harm. 
 So I tumbled and toss'd all night, as you may verywell think, 
 But hardly ever set my eyes together, or glept a wink. 
 So I was a-dream'd, methought, that I went and search'd 
 
 the folks round. 
 And in a comer 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- 
 
 Iwenty yeai-s 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 Shrewsbury's. 
 Such a tiling as this happtn'd, just about the time of goose- 
 berries. " 
 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 
 
 thie4) 
 
/4 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 However, I was resolved to bring the discourse slily about ! 
 " Mrs. Dukes," said I, " here's an ugly accident has happen'd 
 
 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 tho' '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 roar'd like a Bedlam, as tho' I had called her all to 
 
 nought. 
 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 
 
 blunder" d, 
 "Parson," said I, "can you cast a nativity when a body's 
 
 plunder'd?" 
 (Now you must know, he hates to be called parson, 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 : 
 I was never taken for a conjuror 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 conjuror in all my life. " 
 With that, he twisted his girdle at me like a rope, as who 
 
 should say, 
 ' ' Now you may go hang yourself for me 1 " and so went away. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 75 
 
 Well: I thought I should have swoon'd, "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 L" 
 "O, but," said I, "what if, after all, the chajilain won't 
 
 come to ? " 
 For that, he said, (an't please your Excellencies,) I must peti- 
 tion you. 
 The premises tenderly consider'd, 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. 
 
 Jonathan Swift. 
 
 When thy beauty appears 
 In its graces and airs. 
 
 All bright as an angel new dropt 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 thought 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 this, might I gratify both, I would do : 
 Still an angel appear to each lover beside. 
 
 But still be a woman to you. 
 
 Thomas Parnell. 
 
76 Lyra Elegantiarum, 
 
 STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY, 1718. 
 
 Stella this day is thirty-four, 
 (We shan't dispute a year or more :) 
 However, Stella, be not troubled; 
 Altho' thy size and years are doubled 
 Since first I saw thee at sixteen, 
 The brightest virgin on the green ; 
 So little is thy foiin 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. 
 
 Jonathan Swift. 
 
 STELLA'S BIRTB-DAY, 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 decay'd, 
 The House will never lose its trade ; 
 Nay, tho' the treacherous tapster, Thomai, 
 Hangs a new angel two doors from us. 
 As fine as dauber's hands can make it, 
 In hopes tliat strangers may mistake it, 
 We think it both a shame and sin 
 To quit the true old Angel Inn. 
 
Lyra Etegantiarum. 77 
 
 Now this is Stella's case in fact; 
 An angel's face, a little crack'd; 
 (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 eveiy 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 plentifiiUy 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-gix, 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 ; 
 That should you live to see the day 
 When Stella's locks must all be grey. 
 When age must print a furrow'd trace 
 On every feature of her face ; 
 That you, and all your senseless tribe. 
 Could art, or time, or natiire bribe 
 To make you look like beauty's queen. 
 And hold for ever at fifteen ; 
 No bloom of youth can ever blind 
 The cracks and wrinkles of your mind ; 
 All men of sense will pass your door. 
 And crowd to Stella's at four score. 
 
 jfonathan Swift, 
 
jS Cyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 STELLA'S BIRTHDAY, 1724. 
 
 As, when a beauteous nymph decays, 
 We say, she's past her dancing days ; 
 .So poets lose their feet by time. 
 And can no longer dance in rhyme. 
 Your 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 lier 
 To fill a place, for want of better : 
 While Sheridan is off the hooks, 
 And friend Delany at his books. 
 That Stella may avoid disgrace, 
 Once more the Deaii 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 Ije 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 I'll be still your friend in prose; 
 Esteem and friendship to express, 
 Will not require poetic dress ; 
 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 tum'd to grey ? 
 I'll ne'er believe a word they say. 
 
Lyra Blegantiarum. 79 
 
 'Tis trae, 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 midistinguish'd pass. 
 For I'm asham'd 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 
 Ilonour 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. 
 
 Jonathan Swift. 
 
 STELLA'S BIRTHDAY, MARCH 13, 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. 
 
 Altho' 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, 
 (The only comfort they propose, 
 To have companions in their woes) 
 
6o Lyra Elegantianim. 
 
 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 thro' life's declining part. 
 Say, Stella, feel you no content, 
 Reflecting on a life well spent? 
 Your skilful hand employ d to save 
 Despairing wretches from the grave ; 
 And then supporting with your store 
 Those whom you dragg'd 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, 
 Wliere stubborn stoics would complain ; 
 Must these like empty shadows pass, 
 Or forms reflected from a glass? 
 Or mere chimaeras 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 thmgs below. 
 
Lyra Elegantiantm. 
 
 Nor prize your life for other ends 
 Than merely to oblige your friends ; 
 Your former actions claim their part, 
 And join to fortify your heart. 
 For virtue in her daily race, 
 Like 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 mmd. 
 To fancy they can be unkind. 
 Me, surely me, you ought to spare. 
 Who gladly would your suffering 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. 
 
 Jonathan Swifl. 
 
 CXI. 
 
 TO MRS. THRALE ON HER COMPLETING 
 ITER 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; 
 
Lyra Eltgemtiarmm. 
 
 AnJ all who msely wish to wive 
 Must look on Thrale at thirty-five. 
 
 Samtui Jeinsfm. 
 
 CXU. 
 WINIFREDA. 
 
 Away, let nought to love displeasing, 
 
 My Winificda, move your care ; 
 Let nought delay the heavenly blessin|^ 
 
 Xor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear. 
 
 What tho' no giants of io)-al dcHiois 
 With pompous titles grace our blood ; 
 
 We'll shine in more substantial honours. 
 And to be noble we'll be good. 
 
 Our name, while virtue thus we tender. 
 Will sweetly sound where'er "tis spoke : 
 
 And all the great ones, they shall wonder 
 How they respect such little folk. 
 
 What tho' from fortune's lavish bounty 
 Xo mi^ty treasures we possess ; 
 
 We'll find within our pittance plenty. 
 And be content without excess. 
 
 Still shall each retaining seaam 
 
 Sufficient iot our wishes give; 
 For we will live a life of reason. 
 
 And that's the only life to live. 
 
 Thro' age and youth in love cvcelling. 
 We'll band in hand together tread, 
 
 Svreet smiling peace shall crown our dwelling 
 And babes, sweet smiling babes, our bed. 
 
 How shall I love the pretty creatures, 
 
 While round my knees they fondly clung; 
 
 To see them look their mother's features, 
 To hear them lisp their mother's tongue. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 83 
 
 And when with envy time transported, 
 
 Shall think to rob us of our joys, 
 You'll in your girls again be courted, 
 
 And I'll go wooing in my boys. 
 
 Unkmrwn, 
 
 A MAN may live thrice Nestor's life. 
 
 Thrice wander out Ulysses' race, 
 Yet never find Ulysses' wife;— 
 
 Such change hath chanced in this case ! 
 Less age will serve than Paris had, 
 
 Sm^ 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 vrife, Greece overthrew 
 
 The town of Troy. — Sith bad and good 
 Bring mischief. Lord let be thy will 
 To keep me free from either ill ! 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 THE JOYS OF WEDLOCK. 
 
 How blest has my time been ! what joys have I known, 
 Since wedlock's soft bondage made Jessy my own ! 
 So joyful my heart is, so easy my chain. 
 That freedom is tasteless, and roving a pain. 
 
 Through walks grown with woodbines, as often we stray. 
 Around us our boys and girls frolic and play : 
 How pleasing their sport is ! the wanton ones see 
 And borrow their looks from my Jessy and me. 
 
 To try her sweet temper, ofl times am I seen, 
 In revels all day with the nymphs on the green ; 
 Tho' painful my absence, my doubts she beguiles, 
 And meets me at night with complaisance and smiles. 
 
 What though on her cheeks the rose loses its hue. 
 Her wit and good humour bloom all the year through ; 
 Time still, as he flies, adds increase to her truth. 
 And gives to her mind what he steals from her youth. 
 
84 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 Ye shepherds so gay, who make love to ensnare, 
 And cheat with false vows, the too credulous fair; 
 In search of true pleasure how vainly you roam ! 
 To hold it for life, you must find it at home. 
 
 Edward Moore. 
 
 CXV. 
 
 ON THE MARRIAGE ACT. 
 
 The fools that are wealthy are sure of a bride ; 
 For riches lilce raiment their nakedness hide : 
 The slave that is needy must starve all his life, 
 In a bachelor's plight, without mistress or vrife. 
 
 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 enter'd course. 
 E'en took one another for better or worse. 
 
 Then pi-'ythee, 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. 
 
 Untnawn. 
 
 TO HIS WIFE WITH A KNIFE ON THE 
 FOURTEENTH ANNIVERSARY OF HER 
 WEDDING-DAY, WHICH HAPPENED TO BE 
 HER BikTH-DAY AND NEW YEAR'S DAY. 
 
 A KNIFE, dear girl, cuts love, they say — 
 Mere modish love perhaps it may ; 
 For any tool of any kind 
 Can separate what was never join'd. 
 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. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 85 
 
 The self-same blade from me must sever 
 
 Sensation, judgment, 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 aifection feels and fears. 
 
 When hours, without you, seem like years. 
 
 'Till that be done, — and I'd as soon 
 
 Believe this knife would clip the moon, — 
 
 Accept my present undeterrd. 
 
 And leave tlieir 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-7-" cut and come again." 
 
 Samuel Bishop, 
 
 CXVII. 
 
 TO HIS WIFE ON THE SIXTEENTH ANNI- 
 VERSARY OF HER 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 rever'd, 
 And all my Molly then appear'd. 
 
 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. 
 
86 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 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 ; 
 These 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 judgment's sentence. 
 And teach me all things — ^but repentance. 
 
 Samuel Bishop. 
 
 CXVIII. 
 
 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! 
 
 Thomas Flatman. 
 
 THE GRAND QUESTION DEBATED WHETHER 
 HAMILTON'S BAWN SHOULD BE TURNED 
 INTO A BARRACK OR A MALT-HOUSE. 
 (1729.) 
 
 Thus spoke to my lady tlie knight full of care : 
 
 " Let me have youi" 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 , 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 87 
 
 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 ponder'd 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. 
 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 daub'd 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 prayersj 
 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 listen'd to aU that was past, 
 And could not endure so vulgar a taste, 
 As soon as her ladyship call'd to be dress'd, 
 Cried, " Madam, why surely my master's possess'd. 
 Sir Arthur the maltster ! How fine it will sound ! 
 I'd rather the bawn were sunk under ground. 
 But, madam, I guess'd there would never come good, 
 When I saw him so often with Darby and Wood. 
 And now my dream's out ; for I was adream'd 
 That I saw a huge rat ; dear, how I scream'd ! 
 And after, methought I had lost my flew shoes ; 
 And Molly, she said, I should hear some ill news. 
 
88 Lyra Eleganiiarum. 
 
 " 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/»rtest, 
 Till he gave me my will, I would give him no rest ; 
 And ratber 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 hang'd 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 froop 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 dave ; ' 
 ' You honour me much ' — ' the honour is mine — ' 
 ' 'Tvras a sad rainy night' — ' but the morning is fine.' 
 ' Pray how does my lady ? ' — ' My ^Wfe's at your service.' 
 ' I think I have seen her picture by Jenris. ' 
 ' Good morrow, good captain ' — ' I'll wait on you doMm — ' 
 ' You shan't stir a foot ' — 'you'll think me a clown — ^ 
 ' For all the world, captain ' — ' not half an inch farthpr — ' 
 ' You must be obey'd ' — ' Your servant. Sir Arthur ; 
 My humble respects to my lady imknown — ' 
 ' I hope you wU 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 pf my head. 
 
 Next day, to be sure, the captain will come 
 At the head of his troop, with trumpet and drum ; 
 Now, madam, observe how he marches in state ; 
 The man with the kettle-dram enters the gate ; 
 Dub, dub, adub, dub. The trumj-eters follow, 
 Tantara, tantara ; while all the boys halloo. 
 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 ; 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 89 
 
 And his horse, the dear creter, it prances and rears, 
 
 With ribands 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 dizen'd 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 cock'd; 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 dovim the point, and kisses the hilL 
 
 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 half way to the gi-ound. 
 
 ' 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. 
 
 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!" 
 
 "No, 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 ; 
 
go Lyra Eltgaitkanam. 
 
 And * Madam,' sa}^ he, * if sadi dinneis yoa |^vc^ 
 VoaK ne'er want for parsons as long as you Utc ; 
 I ne'er knew a par^coi wittioat a good nose, 
 But the devil's as wetcome whoever he go^; 
 
 , they bid us reform and r^>ent. 
 
 But a — 5 by thdr looks they never keep Lent ; 
 Mister C-irate. for all your grave looks, I'm afiaid 
 Yon cast a sheq>'s eye on her bdyship's maid ; 
 I wi:iih she vroold load you her pretty white hand 
 In mending your cassock, and smoothii^ your bond,* 
 (For the dean was so shabby, and look'd like a ninny. 
 That the captain sn]qiQsed 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 had as my groom; 
 
 A s:hoIard, when just fiom his collie broke loose, 
 
 Can baMly tell how to crv- ^ to a goose : 
 
 Your Naoeis, and Bbitttrki, and Ommn, and stnt^ 
 
 By , they don't s^poify this {uncfa of sauif. 
 
 To give a yom^ ^ntloooan tigiit education. 
 The Army^s the only good school in the nation ; 
 My sdioolmaster cafrd me a dimce and a fool. 
 But at cnf& I was always the cock of the school ; 
 I never could take to my book for the blood o' me. 
 And the puppy confess'd he expected no good cf me. 
 He caught me one morning coquetting his wife. 
 And he maul'd me; I ne'er was so maul'd in my life ; 
 So I took to the load, and, what's very odd. 
 The first man 1 robb'd n-as a parson, by &— > 
 Now, madam, you'll think it a stiai^ thing to say. 
 But the sight of a book makes me sick to this day.' 
 
 '■ Never since I was bom did I hear so much wit. 
 And, madam, I laugh'd till I thou^t I should spUt. 
 So then you look'd scomfol, and snift at the dean. 
 As who should say, Neiaiy am I skimMy and ham t 
 But he durst not so much as once open his lips. 
 And the doctor was piaguily down in the hips." 
 
 Thus merciless Hannah tan on in her talk. 
 Till she heard the dean call, "Will n-out ladyship walk ? 
 Her ladyship answers, " Im just coming down. 
 Then, turning to Hannah, and forcing a frown, 
 Altho' it was plain in her heart she was glad. 
 Cried, •" Hussy, why sure the wench has gone mad ; 
 
Lyra EUgantiarum. 91 
 
 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," 
 
 Jonathan Swift. 
 
 TO MRS. MARTHA BLOUNT. 
 
 Sent on her Birth-Day. 
 
 O, BE thou blest with all that Heaven can send. 
 
 Long health, long youth, long pleasure and a fiiend ! 
 
 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, artfiil 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 ! 
 
 Alexander Fopi. 
 
 Pr'ythee, Chloe, not so fast, 
 Let's not run and wed in haste ; 
 We've a thousand tilings to do, 
 You must tiy, and I pursue ; 
 
92 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 You must frown, and I must sigh; 
 I entreat, and you deny. 
 Stay — K I am never crost, 
 Haiif the pleasure will be lost. 
 
 Be, or seem to be severe, 
 Give me reason to despair ; 
 Fondness will my wishes cloy, 
 Make me careless of the joy. 
 Lovers may, of course, complain 
 Of their trouble, and their pain ; 
 But if pain and trouble cease. 
 Love without it will not please. 
 
 UTtknawn. 
 
 DR. DELANTS VILLA. 
 
 Would you that DelviUe I describe! 
 BeUeve me, sir, I will not gibe : 
 For ivho could be satirical? 
 Upon a thing so very small? 
 
 You scarce upon the borders enter. 
 Before you're at the very centre. 
 A single crow can make it night. 
 When o'er your farm she takes her flight : 
 Yet, in this narrow compass, we 
 Observe a vast variety ; 
 Both walks, walls, meadows, and parterres, 
 Windows, and doors, and rooms, and staiis. 
 And hill's and dales, and woods and fields. 
 And hay, and grass, and com, it yields ; 
 All to your hazard brought so cheap in. 
 Without the mowing or the reaping : 
 A razor, tho' to sa/t I'm loth, 
 Would shave you and your meadows both. 
 
 Tho' small's the farm, yet here's a house 
 Full large to entertain a mouse ; 
 But where a lat is dreaded more 
 Than sa^-age Caledonian boar; 
 For, if It's enter'd by a rat, 
 There is no room to bring a cat. 
 
Lyra Eleganliarum. 93 
 
 A little rivulet seems to steal 
 Down tliro' a thing you call a vale, 
 Like tears adown a wrinkled cheek, 
 Like rain along a blade of leek : 
 And this you call your sweet meander. 
 Which might be suck'd up by a gander. 
 Could he but force his nether bill 
 To scoop the channel of the riU. 
 For sure you'd make a mighty clutter, 
 Were it as big as city gutter. 
 
 Next come I to your kitchen garden, 
 Where one poor mouse would fare but hard in ; 
 And round this garden is a walk. 
 No longer than a tailor's chalk ; 
 Thus I compare what space is in it, 
 A snail creeps round it in a minute. 
 One lettuce makes a shift to squeeze 
 Up thro' a tuft you call your trees : 
 And, once a year, a single rose 
 Peeps from the bud, but never blows ; 
 In vain then you expect its bloom ! 
 It cannot blow for want of room. 
 
 In shoit, in all your boasted seat, 
 There's nothing but yourself that's GREAT. 
 
 Dr. Thomas Sheridan. 
 
 ON THE LITTLE HOUSE BY THE CHURCH- 
 YARD OF CASTLENOCK. 
 
 Whoever pleaseth to enquire 
 Why yonder steeple wants a spire. 
 The grey old fellow, poet Joe, 
 The philosophic cause will show. 
 Once on a time, a western blast 
 At least twelve inches overcast, 
 Reckoning roof, weathercock and all. 
 Which came with a prodigious fall, 
 And tumbling topsy-turvy round. 
 Lit vrith its bottom on the ground, 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 For by the laws of gravitation 
 It fell into its proper station. 
 
 This is the little strutting pile 
 You see just by the church-yard stile : 
 The walls in tumbling gave a knock, 
 And thus the steeple gave a shock : 
 From whence the neighbouring fanner calls. 
 The steeple, Knock : the Vicar, Walls. 
 
 The vicar once a week creeps in. 
 Sits with his knees up to his chin ; 
 Here cons his notes, and takes a whet. 
 Till the small ragged flock is met. 
 
 A traveller Avho by did pass, 
 Observed the roof behind the grass. 
 On tiptoe stood, and rear'd his snout, 
 And saw the parson creeping out ; 
 Was much surprised to see a crow 
 Venture to build his nest so low. 
 
 A school-boy ran unto't, and thought 
 The crib was down, the blackbird caught. 
 A third, who lost his way by night, 
 Was forced for safety to alight. 
 And stepping o'er the fabric-roof. 
 His horse had like to spoil his hoof. 
 
 Warburton took it in his noddle. 
 This building was design'd a model 
 Or of a pigeon-house, or oven, 
 To bake one loaf, and keep one dove in. 
 Then Mrs. Johnson gave her verdict, 
 And every one was pleased that heard it. 
 All that you make tliis stir about 
 Is but a still which wants a spout, 
 The Rev. Dr. Raymond guess'd 
 More probably than all the rest ; 
 He said, but that it wanted room. 
 It might have been a pigmy's tomb. 
 The doctor's family came by, 
 And little miss began to cry. 
 Give me that house in my own hand ! 
 Then madam bade the chariot stand, 
 Call'd to the clerk, in manner mild, 
 Pray reach that thing here to the child ; 
 That thing, I mean, among the kale. 
 And here's to buy a pot of ale. 
 
Lyra Elegantianim. gj 
 
 The clerk said to her, in a heat, 
 What, sell my master's country seat, 
 Where he comes every week from town, 
 He would not sell it for a crown? 
 Poh, fellow, keep not such a pother. 
 In half-an-hour thou'lt make another. 
 Says Nancy, I can make for miss 
 A finer house ten times than this. 
 The Dean will give me willow-sticks, 
 And Joe my apron full of bricks. 
 
 Jonathan Swift. 
 
 A RONDELAY. 
 
 Man is for woman made. 
 And woman made for man : 
 
 As the spur is for the jade, 
 
 As the scabbard for the blade, 
 As for liquor is the can. 
 
 So man's for woman made, 
 And woman made for man. 
 
 As the sceptre to be sway'd, 
 As to night the serenade. 
 
 As for pudding is the pan. 
 
 As to cool us is the fan. 
 So man's for woman made. 
 
 And woman made for man. 
 
 Be she widow, wife, or maid, 
 Be she wanton, be she staid. 
 
 Be she well or ill array'd, 
 
 « * * 
 
 So man's for woman made, 
 And woman made for man. 
 
 Peter A.- Motteux. 
 
g6 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 THE BRACELET, 
 
 When 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 bond-slave 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 ! 
 
 Robert Herrick. 
 
 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 aU vrithin 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. 
 
 Edmund Waller. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. ^"J 
 
 CXXVII. 
 
 TO A GLOVE. 
 
 Go, virgin kid, with lambent Iciss, 
 
 Salute a virgin's hand ; 
 Go, senseless thing, and reap a bliss 
 
 Thou dost not understand : 
 Go, for in thee, methinks, I find 
 
 (Though 'tis not half so bright) 
 An emblem of her beauteous mind, 
 
 By nature clad in vrhite. 
 
 Securely thou may'st touch the fair. 
 
 Whom few securely can ; 
 May'st press her breast, her lip, her hair, 
 
 C3r wanton with her fan : 
 May'st coach it with her to and fro, 
 
 From masquerade to plays ; 
 Ah ! couldst thou hither come and go. 
 
 To tell me what she says ! 
 
 Go then, and when the morning cold 
 
 Shall nip her lily arm. 
 Do thou (oh, might I be so bold !) 
 
 With kisses make it warm. 
 But when thy glossy beauty's o'er, 
 
 When all thy charms are gone. 
 Return to me, I'll love thee more 
 
 Than e'er I yet have done. , 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 SUSAN'S COMPLAINT AND REMED V. 
 
 As dovra in the meadows I chanced to pass, 
 O ! there I beheld a young beautiful lass : 
 Her'age, I am sure, it was scarcely fifteen ; 
 And she on her head wore a garland of green : 
 Her lips were like rubies ; and as for her eyes. 
 They sparkled like diamonds, or stars in the skies : 
 And, as for her voice, it was charming and clear, 
 As sadly she sung for the loss of her dear. 
 
 H 
 
gS Lyra Elegantianim. 
 
 " WJiy does my loved Billy prove false and unkind, 
 Ah ! why does he change, like the wavering wind. 
 From one that is loyal in every degree? 
 Ah ! why does he change to another from me 1 
 Or does he take pleasure to torture me so ? 
 Or does he delight in my sad overthrow ? 
 Susannah will sJways prove true to her trust, 
 'Tis pity, loved Billy should be so unjust. 
 
 In the meadows as we were a making of hay, 
 There, there did we pass the soft minutes away ; 
 
 then was I kiss'd, as I sat on his knee. 
 No man in the world was so loving as he. 
 
 And as he went forth to hoe, harrow, and plough, 
 
 1 milk'd him sweet syllabubs under my cow ; 
 O then I was kiss'd, as I sat on his knee. 
 No man in the world was so loving as he. 
 
 But now he has left me, and Fanny, the fair. 
 Employs all his wishes, his thoughts, and his care ; 
 And he kisses her lips, and she sits on his knee. 
 As he says all the soft things he once said to me. 
 But if she believe him, the false-hearted 5waln 
 Will leave her, and then she with me may complain : 
 For nought is more certain (believe, silly Sue), 
 Who once has been faithless, can never be true." 
 
 She finished her song, and rose up to be gone. 
 When over the meadow came jolly young John ; 
 Who told her that she was the joy of his life. 
 And, if she'd consent, he would make her his wife ; 
 She could not refuse him, to church so they went. 
 Young Billy's forgot, and young Susan's content. 
 Most men are like Billy, most women like Sue ; 
 If man will be false, why should women be true? 
 
 Unhnmaii. 
 
 ANSWER TO THE FOLLOWING QUESTION 
 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. 
 
Lyra Elegantiaruin. 99 
 
 '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 Lepell and you. 
 
 Alexander Pope. 
 
 WHA T IS PR UDENCE ? 
 
 Prudence, Sir William, is a jewel — 
 Is clothes, and meat, and jirink, and fuel ! 
 Prudence ! for man the very best of wives, 
 Whom bards have seldom met with in their lives ; 
 Which certes does account for, in some measure, 
 Their grievous want of worldly treasure, 
 On wluch the greatest blockheads make their brags, 
 And showeth why we' see, instead of lace 
 About the poet's back, with little grace. 
 Those fluttering, French-like followers — call'd rags. 
 
 Prudence, a sweet, obliging, curtsyihg lass, 
 Fit through this hypocritic world to pass ! 
 Who kept at first a little peddling shop, 
 Swept her own room, twirled her own mop, 
 Wash'd her own clothes, caught her own fleas. 
 And rose to fame and fortune by degrees ; 
 Who, when she enter'd other people's houses, 
 'Till spoke to was as silent as a mouse is; 
 And of opinions tho' possess'd a store, 
 She left them with her pattens — at the door. 
 
 yohn Wolcot. 
 
 cxxxi. 
 
 SONG BY A PERSON OF QUALITY. . 
 
 I SAID to my heart, between sleeping and waking, 
 Thou wild thing, that always art leaping or aching, 
 What black, brown, or fair, in what clime, in what nation, 
 By turns has not taught thee a pit-a-pat-ation? 
 
1 00 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 Thus accysed, the wild thing gave this sober reply : — 
 See the heart without motion, thougli Celia pass by ! 
 Not the beauty she has, or the wit that she borrows, 
 Gives the eye any joys, or the heart any sorrows. 
 
 When our Sappho appears, she whose wit's so refined, 
 1 am forced to applaud with the rest of mankind ; 
 Whatever she says, is with spirit and fire ; 
 Every word I attend j but 1 only admire. 
 
 Prudentia as vainly would put in her claim, 
 Ever gazing on heaven, tho' man is her aim : 
 'Tis love, not devotion, that turns up her eyes ; 
 Those stars of the world are too good for the skies. 
 
 But Chloe so lively, so easy, so fair. 
 Her wit so genteel, without art, without care ; 
 When she comes in my way, the emotion, the pain, 
 The leapings, the achings, return all again. 
 
 O wonderful creature ! a woman of reason ! 
 Never grave out of pride, never gay out of season ! 
 When so easy to guess who this angel should be, 
 Would one think Mrs. Howard ne'er dreamt it was she ? 
 
 Lord PeterboroiiglK 
 
 THE LOVERS CHOICE. 
 
 You, Damon, covet to possess 
 The nymph that sparkles in her dress ; 
 Would rustling silks and hoops invade, 
 And clasp an armful of brocade. 
 
 Such raise the price of your delight 
 Who purchase both their red and while. 
 And, pirate-like, surprise your heart 
 With colours of adulterate art. 
 
 Me, Damon, me the maid enchants 
 Whose cheeks the hand of nature paints ; 
 A modest blush adorns her face, 
 Her air an unaffected grace. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 No art she knows, or seeks to know ; 
 No charm to wealthy pride will owe ; 
 No gems, no gold she needs to wear; 
 She shines intrinsically fair. 
 
 William Bedingfield. 
 
 AMYNTA. 
 
 My sheep I neglected, I broke my sheep-hook. 
 And all the gay haunts of my youth I forsook ; 
 No more for Amynta fresh garlands I wove ; 
 For ambition, I said, would soon cure me of love. 
 
 O, what had my youth with ambition to do ? 
 Why left I Amynta ? why broke I my vow ? 
 O, give me my sheep, and my sheep-hook restore. 
 And I'U wander from love and Amynta no more. 
 
 Through regions remote in vain do I rove, 
 And bid the wide ocean secure me from love ! 
 O, fool ! to imagine that aught could subdue 
 A love so well founded, a passion so true ! 
 
 Alas, 'tis too late at thy fate to repine ; 
 Poor Shepherd, Amynta can no more be thine ; 
 Thy tears are all fruitless, thy wishes are vain. 
 The moments neglected return not again. 
 
 Sir Gilbert Elliot 
 
 Strephon, when you see me fly, 
 Why should that your fear create ? 
 
 Maids may be as often shy, 
 Out of love, as out of hate : 
 
 When from you I fly away, 
 
 'Tis because I fear to stay. 
 
 Did I out of hatred run 
 
 Less would be my pain and care ; 
 But the youth I love to shun ! 
 
 Who could such a trial bear? 
 Who, that such a swain did see, 
 Who could love, and fly, like me ? 
 
Lyra EUgoHiiarum. 
 
 Cmel duty bids me go ; 
 
 Gentle love commands my stay; 
 Duty's still to love a foe ; 
 
 Shall I this or that obey ? 
 Duty frowns, and Cupid smiles, 
 That defends, and this b^niles. 
 
 Ever by this crystal stream, ; 
 
 I could sit and see thee sigh, 
 Ravish'd with this pleasing dream, 
 
 O, 'tis worse than death to 0y ! 
 Eut the danger is so great. 
 Fear gives wings instead of feet. 
 
 K you love me, Strephon, leave me 
 
 If you stay, I am tmdone; 
 O, you may with ease deceive me ; 
 
 Pr'ythee, charming boy, b^one : 
 The gods decree, that we must part ; 
 They have my vow, but you my heart. 
 UnktuKim. 
 
 WHA T IS A WOMAN LIKE ? 
 
 A WOMAN is like to — but stay — 
 What a woman is like, who can say ? 
 There is no living with or without one — 
 
 Lore bites like a fly, 
 
 Now an ear, now an eye, 
 Buz, buz, always buzzing about one. 
 
 When she's tender and kind 
 
 She is like, to my mind, 
 (And Fanny was so, I remember, ) 
 
 She's like to — O dear ! 
 
 She's as good, very near. 
 As a lipe melting peach in September. 
 
 If she langh, and she chat. 
 
 Flay, joke, and all that. 
 And mth snules and good humour she meet me, 
 
 She's like a rich dish 
 
 Of venison or fish. 
 That cries from the table. Come eat me ! 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 103 
 
 But she'll plague you, and vex you, 
 Distract and perplex you ; 
 False-hearted and ranging, 
 Unsettled and changing, 
 What then do you think, she is like ? 
 
 Like a sand ? like a rock ? 
 
 Like a wheel ? like a clock ? 
 Ay, a clock that is always at strike. 
 Her head's like the island folks tell on, 
 Wliich nothing but monkeys can dwell on ; 
 Her heart's like a lemon — so nice 
 She carves for each lover a slice ; 
 
 In truth she's to me. 
 
 Like the wind, like the sea. 
 Whose raging will hearken to no man; 
 
 Like a mill, like a pill. 
 
 Like a flail, like a whale, 
 
 Like an ass, like a glass 
 Whose image is constant to no man ; 
 
 Like a shower, like a flower. 
 
 Like a fly, like a pie. 
 
 Like a pea, like a flea, 
 
 Like a thief, like — in brief, 
 She's like nothing on earth^ — but a woman ! 
 
 Unknorwn. 
 
 THE TOWN AND COUNTRY MOUSE. 
 
 A Fragment. 
 
 Once on a time, so runs the fable, 
 A country mouse, right hospitable. 
 Received a town mouse at his board, 
 Just as a fanner might a lord. 
 A frugal mouse, upon the whole, 
 Yet loved his friend, and had a soul. 
 Knew what was handsome, and could do't, 
 On just occasion, " coUte qui cdte." 
 He brought him bacon, nothing lean, 
 Pudding, that might have pleased a Dean; 
 Cheese, such as men in Suffolk make. 
 But wish'd it Stilton for his sake ; 
 
t04 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 ^et, to his guest though no ways sparing, 
 
 He ate himself the rind and paring. 
 
 Our courtier scarce could touch a bit, 
 
 But show'd his breeding and his wit ; 
 
 He did his best to seem to eat, 
 
 And cried, " I vow, you're mighty neal. 
 
 ' ' But Lord, my friend, this savage scene ! 
 
 " For God's sake, come and live with men 
 
 " Consider, mice, like men, must die, 
 
 ' ' Both small and great, both you and I ; 
 
 " Then spend your life in joy and sport, ' 
 
 " (This doctrine, friend, I learnt at court)." 
 
 The veriest hermit in the nation 
 
 May yield, God knows, to strong temptation 
 
 Away they came, through thick and thin. 
 
 To a tall house near Lincoln's-Inn : 
 
 ('Twas on the night of a debate. 
 
 When all their Lordships had sat late). 
 
 Behold the place, where if a poet 
 Shined in description, he might show it ; 
 Tell how the moon-beam trembling falls. 
 And tips with silver all the walls ; 
 Falladian walls, Venetian doors, 
 Grotesco roofs, and stucco floors : 
 But let it, in a word, be said. 
 The moon was up, and men a-bed. 
 The napkins white, the carpet red : 
 The guests withdrawn had left the treat, 
 And down the mice sat, ttte-&-tite. 
 
 Our courtier walks from dish to dish. 
 Tastes for his friend of fowl and fish ; 
 Tells all their names, lays down the law, 
 " Que fa est I/on ! Ah goutea fa ! 
 ' ' That jelly's rich, this Malmsey's healing, 
 " Pray dip your whiskers and your tail in.'' 
 Was ever such a happy swain ? 
 He stuffs, and swills, and stuffs again. 
 " I'm quite asham'd — 'tis mighty rude 
 " To eat so much — but all's so good. 
 " I have a thousand thanks to give — 
 " My Lord alone knows how to live.'' 
 No sooner said, than from the hall 
 Rush chaplain, butler, dogs and all : 
 " A rat, a rat ! clap to the door" — 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 105 
 
 The cat comes bouncing on the floor. 
 
 O for the heart of Homer's mice, 
 
 Or gods to save tliem in a trice! 
 
 " An't please your honour," quotli the peasant, 
 
 " This same dessert is not so pleasant : 
 
 " Give me again my hollow tree, 
 
 " A crust of bread, and liberty 1 " 
 
 Alexmider Pope 
 
 CXXXVII. 
 
 THE D YING L VER. 
 Dear Love, let me this evening die, 
 
 O smile not to prevent it ; 
 Dead with my rivals let me lie, 
 
 Or we shall both repent it. 
 Frown quickly then, and break my heart. 
 
 That so my way of dying 
 May, tho' my life was full of smart. 
 
 Be worth the world's envying. 
 Some, striving knowledge to refine, 
 
 Consume themselves vrith thinking ; 
 And some, who friendship seal in wine, 
 
 Ai-e kindly kill'd with drinking. 
 Anil some are wreck'd on the Indian coast, 
 
 Thither by gain invited ; 
 Some are in smoke of battle lost, 
 
 Wliom drums, not lutes, delighted. 
 Alas, how poorly these depart. 
 
 Their graves still unattended 1 
 Wlio dies not of a broken heart 
 
 Is not of Death commended. 
 His memory is only sweet, 
 
 All praise and pity moving, 
 Who kindly at his mistress' feet 
 
 Does die with over-loving. 
 And now thou frown'st, and no\y I die, 
 
 My corpse by lovers followed ; 
 Which straight shall by dead lovers lie ; 
 
 That ground is only hallow'd. 
 If priests are grieved I have a grave, 
 
 My death not well approving. 
 The poets my estate shall have, 
 
 To teach (hem the art of loving. 
 
io6 Lyra Bl^antiarum. 
 
 And how let lovers ring their bells 
 
 For me, poor youth departed, 
 Who kindly in his love excels, 
 
 By dying broken-hearted. 
 My grave with flowers let lovers strow, 
 
 Which, if thy tears fall near them, 
 May so transcend in scent and show. 
 
 As thou wilt shortly wear them. 
 Such flowers how much will florists prize, 
 
 On lover's grave that grcwing, 
 Are water'd by his mistress' eyes, 
 
 With pity overflowing. 
 A grave so deck'd will, tho' thou art 
 
 Yet fearful to come nigh me, 
 Provoke thee straight to break thy heart, 
 
 And lie down boldly by me. 
 Then everywhere all bells shall ring, 
 
 All light to darkness turning ; 
 While every choir shall sadly sing, 
 
 And Nature's self wear mourning. 
 Yet we hereafter may be found, 
 
 By destiny's right placing, 
 Making, like flowers, love underground. 
 
 Where roots are still embracing. 
 
 Sir William Davenant. 
 
 CXXXVIII. 
 
 ON A HALFPENNY WHICH A YOUNG LADY 
 GA VE A BEGGAR, AND WHICH THE A UTHOR 
 REDEEMED FOR HALF-A-CROWN. 
 
 Dear little, pretty, favourite ore, 
 That once increased Gloriana's store ; 
 That lay within her bosom blest, 
 Gods might have envied thee thy rest ! 
 I've read, imperial Jove of old 
 For love transform'd himself to gold : 
 And why for a more lovely lass 
 May he not now have lurk'd in brass ? 
 O, rather than from her he'd part 
 He'd shut that charitable heart. 
 That heart whose goodness nothing less 
 Than his vast power could dispossess. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 107 
 
 From Gloriana's gentle touch 
 Thy mighty vahie now is such, 
 That thou to me art worth alone 
 More than his medals are to Sloane. 
 
 Henry Fielding. 
 
 I LATELY vow'd, but 'twas in haste, 
 
 That I no more would court 
 The joys that seem when they are past 
 
 As dull as they are short. 
 
 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. 
 
 yohn Oldtnixoii. 
 
 ON BEA U NASH'S PICTURE A T BATH, WHICH 
 ONCE STOOD BETWEEN THE BUSTS OF 
 NEWTON AND POPE. 
 
 This picture placed these busts between. 
 
 Gives satire its full strength ; 
 Wisdom and wit are little seen, 
 
 But folly at full length. 
 
 Mrs. Jane Brereton. 
 
 CXLI. 
 
 ON THE ABOVE LINES. 
 
 Immortal Newton never spoke 
 
 More truth than here you 11 find ; 
 Nor Pope himself ere penn'd a joke, 
 
 Severer on mankind. 
 
 Philip Stanhope, Earl of Chesterfield. 
 
loS Lyra Ekgantiariim. 
 
 CXLII. 
 
 ADVICE TO A LADY-iy- AUTU3LV. 
 
 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 breaMast 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 carefiilly 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. 
 
 Philip Stanhope, Earl of Chesterfield. 
 
 ON LORD /SLAY'S GARDEN AT WHITTON ON 
 HOUNSLOIV HEATH. 
 
 Old Islay, to show his fine delicate taste. 
 
 In improving his garden purloin'd from the waste j 
 
^ L)ira Slegantianim. 109 
 
 Bade his gard'ner one morning lay open his views, 
 
 By cutting a couple of grand avenues. 
 
 No particular prospect his Lordship intended, 
 
 But left it to chance how his walks should be ended. 
 
 With transport and joy he perceiv'd his first view end 
 
 In a favourite prospect — a church that was ruin'd ; 
 
 But alas ! what a sight did the next cut exhibit, 
 
 At (he end of the walk hung a rogue on a gibbet ! 
 
 He beheld it and wept, for it caused him to muse on 
 
 Full many a Campbell that died with his shoes on. 
 
 All amazed and aghast at the ominous scene, 
 
 He ordered it quick to be dosed up again, 
 
 With a clump of Scotch fir trees by way of a screen. 
 
 Philip Stanhope, Earl of Chesterfield, 
 
 CXLIV. 
 
 ON A WOMAN OF FASHION. 
 
 " Then, behind, all my hair is done up in a plat. 
 And so, like a cornet's, tuck'd under my hat, 
 Then I mount on my palfrey as gay as a lark, 
 And, foUow'd by John, take the dust in High Park. 
 In the way I am met by some smart macaroni, 
 Who rides by my side on a little bay pony — 
 No sturdy Hibernian, with shoulders so wide, 
 But as taper and shm as the ponies they ride ; 
 Their legs are as slim, and their shoulders no wider. 
 Dear sweet little creatures, both pony and rider ! 
 
 " But sometimes, when hotter, I order my chaise, 
 And manage, myself, my two little greys : 
 Sure never were seen two such sweet little ponies. 
 Other horses are clowns, and these macaronies. 
 And to give them this title I'm sure isn't wrong, 
 Their legs are so slim, and their tails are so long. 
 
 " In Kensington Gardens to stroll up and down. 
 You know was the fashion before you left town, 
 The thing's well enough, when allowance is made 
 For the size of the trees and the depth of the shade. 
 But the spread of their leaves such a shelter affords 
 To those noisy impertinent creatures call'd birds. 
 Whose ridiculous chirruping ruins the scene. 
 Brings the country before me, and gives me the spleen. 
 
lo Lyra Elegantiarum, 
 
 " Yet, though 'tis too rural — to come near the mark. 
 We all herd in one walk, and that, nearest the park, 
 There with ease we may see, as we pass by the wicket. 
 The chimneys of Knightsbridge, and — footmen at cricket 
 I must though, in justice, declare that the grass. 
 Which, worn by our feet, is diminish'd apace. 
 In a little time more will be brown and as flat 
 As the sand at Vauxhall, or as Ranelagh mat. 
 Improving thus fast, perhaps, by degrees 
 We may see rolls and butter spread under the trees, 
 Witli a small pretty band in each seat of the walk. 
 To play little tunes and enliven our talk. " 
 
 Thomas TickelL 
 
 Last Sunday at St. James's prayers. 
 
 The prince and princess by, 
 I, drest in all my whale-bone airs. 
 
 Sat in a closet nigh. 
 I bow'd 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, 
 
 .\nd bow'd with courtly grace ; 
 But whisper'd love into my ear. 
 
 Too warm for that grave place. 
 " Love, love," said he, "by all adored, 
 
 My tender 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. 
 
 UnkiKnan. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 1 1 1 
 
 CXLVI. 
 
 THE 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 a good 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 : 
 
 Our Garrick a salad, for in him we see 
 
 Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree : 
 
 To make out the dinner, full certain I am 
 
 That Ridge is anchovy, and Reynolds is lamb ; 
 
 That Hickey's a capon ; and, by the same mle. 
 
 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, reunited to earth. 
 Who mix'd 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 them out ; 
 Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied them, 
 That Slyboots was cursedly cunning to hide them. 
 
 Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such. 
 We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much ; 
 Who, bom for the universe, narrow'd 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 ; 
 Tho' 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. 
 
12 Lrra ElegamtiarMat. 
 
 lo short, 'twas bis fate, aner^ployd or in pbce, Sir, 
 To eat laiitton cold, and cnt blocks witli a razor. 
 
 Here lies honest William, whose heir; tras a mint, 
 \¥lule the owner ne'er knew half the good that los in't i 
 Tite pupil of impulse, it forced him akm^ 
 His oondnct still t^it, with his argument wroi^ ; 
 Still aimii^ at honoar, jet feanig to roam. 
 The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home : 
 Would ym ask for his merits ? alas, he had none : 
 What was good was spontaneous, his faalts were his owe 
 
 Here lies Ixmest Richard, whose &te I must si^ at, 
 Alas, that sach fiolic should now be >c- c uie; ! 
 What ^Htits were his, what wit and whir wbim, 
 Xon' breaking a jest, and now bieakiig a limb ! 
 Kowwiar^^ii^ anA gtmmhling to keep np the ball, 
 ^ow teasii^ and vexii^ yet ]ai^[hii^ at all ! 
 In short, so proTOking a devil M-?.f Dick, 
 Taiat we wish'd him foil ten times a d^y at Old Xick , 
 But, mtg«anff lus mirth and agreeable vein. 
 As often we wish'd to have Dic& back sg-oin. 
 
 Here Comberiand lies, haTing acted his parts. 
 The Tereice of Er^iand, the mender of heiits ; 
 A flattetii^ painter, who made it his care 
 To draw men as they ought to be, not what they are. 
 His gallants axe all Guiltless, his women diving 
 And Comedy wonders at boi^ so fine ; 
 Like a tiagedy-qneen he has diien'd her out. 
 Or rather like tragedy givii^ a tout. 
 His fools haTC their follies so lost in a crowd 
 Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud ; 
 And coscomb% alike in their filings al<me, 
 Adoptii^ his portraits, are pleased with their own. 
 Say, where hss our poet ths malady caught ? 
 Or wher^tte his characters thus widtoat &iilt? 
 Say, was it, that Tainly directii^his view 
 To find out men's virtues, and foidii^ than few. 
 Quite sick of pursuing eadi troublesome €ii. 
 He grew lazy at la^ and drew from himself? 
 
 Here Doi^^as retires from his toils to relax. 
 The scourge of impcstois, the terror of quacts. 
 Come^ all ye quack bards, and ye qoadang divines, 
 Com^ and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines 
 When satiie and cotsure encircled his thnme, 
 I feat'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own : 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. ri3 
 
 But now he is gone, and we want a detectoi, 
 
 Our Dodds shall be pious, our Kenricks shall lecture ; 
 
 Macpherson write bombast, and call it a style ; 
 
 Our Townshend make speeches, and I shaU compile ; 
 
 New Landers and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over, 
 
 No coimtryman living their tricks to discover : 
 
 Detection her taper siiall quench to a spark. 
 
 And Scotchman meet Scotchman and cheat in the dark. 
 
 Here lies David Garrick, describe him who can ? 
 An abridgement of all that was pleasant in man ; 
 As an actor, confest 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 beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red. 
 On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting : 
 'Twas only that when he was off he was acting ; 
 With no reason on earth to go out of his way. 
 He tum'd and he varied full ten times a day ; 
 Tho' secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick 
 If they were not his own by finessing and trick ; 
 He cast offhis friends as a huntsman his pack, 
 For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back. 
 Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came, 
 And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame ; 
 Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease, 
 Who pepper'd 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, 
 When he was be-Roscius'd, and you were bepraised ! 
 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 Hickey reclines, a most blunt, pleasant creature, 
 And Slander itself must allow him good-nature : 
 He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper : 
 Yet one &ult he had, and that one was a thumper. 
 
 I 
 
114 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 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 iny mind, 
 He has not left a wiser or better behind : 
 His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand : 
 His manners were gentle, complying, and bland ; 
 StUl bom to improve us in eveiy part, 
 His pencil our faces, his manners our heart : 
 To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering. 
 When they judged witiout skill he was still hard of hearing ; 
 When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff, 
 He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff. 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith. 
 
 Come, come, my good shepherds, our flocks we must shear, 
 In your holiday suits, with your lasses appear ; 
 The happiest of folk, are the guiltless and free, 
 And who are so guiltless, so happy, as we ? 
 
 We harbour no passions, by luxury taught, 
 
 We practise no arts, with hypocrisy fraught ; 
 
 What we think in our hearts, you may read in our eyes ; 
 
 For knowing no falsehood, we need no disguise. 
 
 By mode and caprice are the city dames led. 
 
 But we, as the children of nature are bred ; 
 
 By her hand alone we are painted and dress'd, 
 
 For the roses will bloom when there's peace in tlie breast. 
 
 That giant. Ambition, we never can dread ; 
 Our roofs are too low for so lofty a head ; 
 Content and sweet cheerfulness open our door. 
 They smile with the simple, and feed with the poor. 
 
 When love has possess'd us, that love we reveal : 
 Like the flocks that we feed are the passions we feel ; 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 11$ 
 
 So harmless and simple we sport, and we play, 
 And leave to fine folks to deceive and betray. 
 
 David Garrick. 
 
 Ye fair married dames, who so often deplore 
 That a lover once blest is a lover no more ; 
 Attend to my counsel, nor blush to be taught 
 That prudence must cherish what beauty has caught. 
 
 The bloom of your cheek, and the glance of your eye, 
 Your roses and lilies may make the men sigh ; 
 But roses and lilies, and sighs pass away. 
 And passion will die as your beauties decay. 
 
 Use the man that you wed like your fav'rite guitar, 
 Though music in both, they are both apt to jar; 
 How tuneful and soft from a delicate touch, — 
 Not bandied too roughly, or play'd on too much ! 
 
 The sparrow and linnet will feed from your hand. 
 Grow tame at your kindness, and come at command ; 
 Exert with your husband the same happy skill ; 
 For hearts, like young birds, may be tamed at your will. 
 
 Be gay and good-humoured, complying and kind, 
 Turn the chief of your care from your face to your mind ; 
 'Tis thus that a wife may her conquests improve. 
 And Hymen shall rivet the fetters of Love. 
 
 David Garrick. 
 
 Too plain, dear youth, these tell-tale eyes 
 
 My heart your own declare ; 
 But for love's sake let it suffice 
 
 You reign triumphant there. 
 
 Forbear your utmost power to try, 
 
 Nor further urge your sway ; 
 Press not for what I must deny, 
 
 For fear I should obey. 
 
1 16 Lyra EltgatOiarum. 
 
 Could iill your arts successful prove, 
 Would you a maid undo, 
 
 Whose greatest failing is her love, 
 And diat her love for you ? 
 
 Say, would you use that very power 
 You from her fondness claim. 
 
 To ruin in one fatal hour 
 A life of spotless fame ? 
 
 Resolve not then to do an ill, 
 Because perhaps you may ; 
 
 But rather use your utmost skill 
 To save me, than betray. 
 
 Be you yourself my virtue's guard ; 
 
 Defend, and not pursue ; 
 Since 'tis a task for me too hard 
 
 To strive with love and you. 
 
 Soame yeiiyns. 
 
 A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE. 
 
 Thanks, my Lord, for your venison — for finer or fatter 
 
 Never ranged in a forest, or smoked in a platter : 
 
 The haunch was a picture 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 thought, in my chambers, to place it in view, ' 
 
 To be shewn to my friends as a piece of virtu — 
 
 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 fry'd in. 
 
 But hold — let me pause— doirt I hear you pronounce 
 
 This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce ; 
 
 Well, suppose it a bounce — sure a poet may try. 
 
 By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly. 
 
 But, my Lord, it's no bounce — I protest in my turn, 
 It's a truth — and your lordship may ask Mr. Burn. 
 
> Lyra Elegantiarum. 1 1 7 
 
 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 undrest, 
 
 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 Monroe's : 
 
 But in parting with these, I was puzzled again. 
 
 With the how, and the who, arid the where, and the when. 
 
 There's H — d, and C — y, and H — rth, and H — ff, 
 
 I think they love venison — I know they love beef ; 
 
 There's my countryman Higgins O, let him alone, 
 
 For making a blunder, or picking a bone. 
 
 But hang it — to poets, who seldom can eat. 
 
 Your very good mutton's a very good treat ; 
 
 Such dainties to them, flieir health it might hurt — 
 
 It's like sending them ruffles, when wanting a shirt. 
 
 While thus I debated, in reverie center'd, 
 
 An acquaintance, a friend as he called himself, enter'd : 
 
 An underbred, fine-spoken fellow was he, 
 
 And he smiled as he look'd at the venison and me. 
 
 ' ' What have we got here ? — why this 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. " 
 
 " If that be the case then," cried he, "very gay, 
 
 "•I'm glad I have taken this house in my way : 
 
 To-morrow you'll take a poor dinner with ipe ; 
 
 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 ICitty, 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; " 
 Tho' I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty, 
 Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison pasty, 
 
Ii8 Lyra Elegantiarum. • 
 
 Were things that I never disliked in my life, 
 Tho' clogged with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife : 
 So next day, in due splendour to make my approach, 
 I drove to his door in my own hackney-coach. 
 
 When come to the place where we all were to dine, 
 (A chair-lumber'd 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 waiTant 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 both of them merry, and authors like you ; 
 The one wiites the Snarler, the other the Scourge ; 
 Some think he writes Cinna — he ovrais to Panurge." 
 While thus he described them by trade and by name. 
 They entered, and dinner was sei-ved 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 vex'd me most, was that hang'd Scottish rogue. 
 With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his brogue, 
 And "madam," quoth he, " may this bit be my poison, 
 A prettier dinner I never set eyes on ; 
 Pray a slice of your liver, tho' may I be curst. 
 But I've ate 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 a week : 
 I like these here dinners, so pretty and small ; 
 But your friend there the Doctor eats nothing at all. " 
 " 0-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-echo'd the Scot ; 
 " Though splitting, I'll still keep a. comer for that." 
 "We'll all keep a comer," the lady cried out ; 
 " We'll all keep a comer," was echo'd about. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 119 
 
 While thus we resolved, and the pasty delay'd, 
 
 With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid ! 
 
 A visage so sad, and so pale with affright. 
 
 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 — sicken'd over by learning ; 
 
 At least it's your temper, as very well known. 
 
 That you thmk very slightly of all that's your own : 
 
 So, perhaps, in your habit of thinking amiss, 
 
 You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this. 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith. 
 
 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 wish you'd set about it. " 
 
 Encouraged thus to mend my faults, 
 I tum'd his counsel in my thoughts 
 
 Which way I could apply it ; 
 Genius I knew was past my reach. 
 For who can learn what none can teach ' 
 
 And wit — I could not buy it. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 Then come, my friends, and try your skill ; 
 You may improve me if you will, 
 
 (My 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 hc.v 
 To suffer with unclouded i)row. 
 
 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 gain'd. 
 But genius, too, may be attain'd, 
 
 By studious imitation ; 
 Thy temper mild, thy genius fine, 
 I'U study till I make them mine 
 
 By constant meditation. 
 
 The art of pleasing teach me, Garrick, 
 Thou who reversest odes Pindarick 
 
 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 borrow'd grace, 
 
 From him I'll learn to write : 
 Copy his free and easy style, 
 And from the roughness of his file 
 
 Grow, like himself, polite. 
 
 Dr. Barnard, of Killaloe. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 When Molly smiles beneath her cow, 
 I feel my heart — I can't tell how ; 
 When Molly Is on Sunday drest, 
 On Sund^s I can take no rest. 
 
 AVhat can I do? on worlcy days 
 I leave my work on her to gaze. 
 What shall I say? At sermons, I 
 Forget the text when Molly's by. 
 
 Good master curate, teach me how 
 
 To mind your preaching, and my plough : 
 
 And if for this you'll raise a spell, 
 
 A good fat goose shall thank you well. 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 ROBIN'S COMPLAINT. 
 
 Did ever swain a nymph adore. 
 
 As I ungrateful Nanny do ? 
 Was ever shepherd's heart so sore, 
 
 Or ever broken heart so true ? 
 My cheeks are swell'd with tears, but she 
 Has never wet a cheek for me. 
 
 If Nanny call'd, did e'er I stay? 
 
 Or linger, when she bid me run? 
 She only had the word to say. 
 
 And all she wish'd was quickly done. 
 I always think of her, but she 
 Does ne'er bestow a thought on me. 
 
 To let her cows my clover taste. 
 Have I not rose by break of day? 
 
 Did ever Nanny's heifers fast. 
 If Robin in his barn had hay? 
 
 Th ough to my fields they welcome were, 
 
 I ne'er was welcome yet to her. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 If ever Nanny lost a sheep,' 
 
 Then cheerfully I gave her two ; 
 And I her lambs did safely keep, 
 
 Within my folds, in frost and snow. 
 Have they not there from cold been free? 
 But Nanny still is cold to me. 
 
 When Nanny to the well did come, 
 'Twas I that did her pitchers fill; 
 
 Full as they were, I brought them home : 
 Her com I carried to the mill. 
 
 My back did bear the sack, but she 
 
 Will never bear the sight of me. 
 
 To Nanny's poultry oats I gave, 
 I'm sure they always had the best : 
 
 Within this week her pigeons have 
 Ate up a peck of pease, at least : 
 
 Her little pigeons kiss, but she 
 
 Will never take a kiss from me. 
 
 Must Robin always Nanny woo. 
 And Naimy still on Robin frown ? 
 
 Alas, poor wretch ! what shall I do, 
 If Nanny does not love me soon? 
 
 If no relief to me she'll bring, 
 
 I'll hang me in her apron-string. 
 
 UfiktKnvn. 
 
 CUV. 
 
 THE FAIR STRANGER. 
 
 Happy and free, securely blest, 
 
 No beauty could disturb my rest ; 
 
 My amorous heart was in despair 
 
 To find a new victorious fair. 
 
 Till you, descending on our plains, 
 
 With foreign force renew my chains ; 
 
 Where now you reign without control. 
 
 The mighty .sovereign of my soul. 
 
 Your smiles have more of conquering charms 
 
 Than all your native country's arms : 
 
 Their troops we can expel with ease. 
 
 Who vanquish only when we please. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 123 
 
 But in your eyes, O ! there's the spell I 
 Who can see them, and not rebel ? 
 You make us captives by your stay. 
 Yet kill us if you go away. 
 
 John Dryden. 
 
 CLV. 
 
 A LOVER'S MESSAGE. 
 
 " Ye little nymphs that hourly wait 
 To bring from Celia's eyes my fate, 
 Tell her my pain in softest sighs, 
 And gently whisper Strephon dies. 
 
 " But if this won't her pity move. 
 And the coy nymph disdains to love, 
 Tell her, instead, 'tis all a lie, 
 And haughty Strephon scorns to die. '' 
 
 Unhnown. 
 
 CLVI. 
 
 ABSENCE. 
 
 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. 
 
 Richard Jago. 
 
 CLVII. 
 
 WRITTEN' AT AN INN. 
 
 To thee, fair Freedoin ! I retire, 
 
 From flattery, feasting, dice and din ; 
 
 Nor art thou found in domes much higher 
 Than the lone cot or humble Inn. 
 
 'Tis here with boundless power I reign, 
 And every health which I begin. 
 
 Converts dull port to bright champagne ; 
 For Freedom crowns it, at an Inn. 
 
1 24 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 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 lacqueys else might hope to win ; 
 
 It buys what Courts have not in store, 
 It buys me Freedom, at an Inn. 
 
 And now once more I shape my way 
 Through rain or shine, fiirough thick or thin, 
 
 Secure to meet, at close of day. 
 With kind reception at an Inn. 
 
 Whoe'er has travell'd life's dull round, 
 Where'er his stages may have been. 
 
 May sigh to think how oft he found 
 The warmest welcome — at an Inn. 
 
 William Shenstone. 
 
 As t'other day o'er the green meadow I pass'd, 
 A swain overtook me, and held my hand fast ; 
 Then cried, my dear Lucy, thou cause of my care. 
 How long must thy faithfiil young Thyrsis despair? 
 To grant my petition, no longer be shy; 
 But frowning, I answer'd, " O, fie, shepherd, fie." 
 
 He told me his fondness like time should endure, 
 That beauty which kindled his flame 'twould secure ; 
 That all my sweet charms were for homage design'd, 
 And youth was the season to love and be kind : 
 Lord, what could I say? I could hardly deny. 
 And faintly I uttered, ' ' O, fie, shepherd, fie. " 
 
 He swore — ^with a kiss, that he could not refrain, 
 I told him 'twas rude, — but he kiss'd me again; 
 My conduct, ye fair ones, in question ne'er call, 
 Nor think I did wrong, — I did nothing at all! 
 Resolved to resist, yet inclined to comply, 
 I leave it for you to say, " Fie, shepherd, fie." 
 
 Unknown. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 125 
 
 Young Colin protests I'm his joy and delight ; 
 He's ever unhappy when I'm from his sight : 
 He wants to be with me wherever I go ; 
 The deuce sure is in him for plaguing me so. 
 
 His pleasure all day is to sit by my side ; 
 He pipes and he sings, though I frovra and I chide ; 
 I bid him depart : but he smiling, says "No." 
 The deuce sure is in him for plaguing me so. 
 
 He often requests me his flame to relieve ; 
 I ask him what favour he hopes to receive : 
 His answer's a sigh, while in blushes I glow ; 
 What mortal, beside him, would plague a maid so ? 
 
 This breast-knot he yesterday brought from the wake. 
 And softly entreated I'd wear't for his sake, 
 Such trifles are easy enough to bestow : 
 I sure deserve more for his plaguing me so ! 
 
 He hands me each eve from the cot to the plain, 
 And meets me each mom to conduct me again ; 
 But what's his intention I wish I could know. 
 For I'd rather be married than plagued by him. so. 
 
 Unknmvn. 
 
 Were I a king, I could command content ; 
 Were I obscure, hidden should be my cares ; 
 Or were I dead, no cares should me torment, 
 Nor hopes, nor hates, nor loves, nor griefs, nor fears. 
 A doubtful choice, — of these three which to crave, 
 A kingdom, or a cottage, or a grave. 
 
 EdMwrd Vere, Earl of Oxford. 
 
126 Lyra Elegantianim. 
 
 THE REMEDY WORSE THAN THE DISEASE, 
 
 I SENT for Ratcliffe ; was so ill, 
 That other doctois gave me over : 
 
 He felt my pulse, prescribed his pill, 
 And I viras likely to recover. 
 
 But when the wit began to wheeze, 
 And wine had warm'd the politician. 
 
 Cured yesterday of my disease, 
 I died last night of my physician. 
 
 Matthew Prior. 
 
 Underneath this sable hearse 
 Lies the subject of all verse, 
 Sydney's sister — Pembroke's mother — 
 Death, ere thou hast slain another, 
 Fair and wise and good as she, 
 Time shall throw his dart at thee. 
 
 Ben Jonsan. 
 
 TO LAURELS. 
 
 A FUNERAL Stone, 
 Or verse, I covet none ; 
 But only crave 
 Of you that I may have 
 A sacred laurel springing from my grave, 
 Which being seen 
 Blest v?ith perpetual green. 
 
 May grow to be 
 Not so much call'd a tree. 
 As the eternal monument of me. 
 
 Robert Herrick. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. ill 
 
 UPON A LADY THAT DIED IN CHILD-BED, 
 AND LEFT A DAUGHTER BEHIND HER. 
 
 As gilly-flowers do but stay 
 
 To blow, and seed, and so away, 
 
 So you, sweet lady, sweet as May, 
 
 The garden's glory, lived awhile. 
 
 To lend the world your scent and smile : 
 
 But when your own fair print was set 
 
 Once in a virgin flosculet. 
 
 Sweet as yourself, and newly blown. 
 
 To give that life, resign'd your own ; 
 
 But so, as still the mother's power 
 
 Lives in the pretty lady-flower. 
 
 Robert Herrick. 
 
 UPON THE DEATH OF SIR A. MORTONS 
 WIFE. 
 
 He first deceased ; she, for a little, tried 
 To live without him, liked it not, and died. 
 Sit Henry Wotton. 
 
 FOR MY OWN MONUMENT. 
 
 As doctors give physic by way of prevention, 
 
 Mat, alive and in health, of his tombstone took care ; 
 
 For ddays are unsafe, and his pious intention 
 May haply be never fulfiU'd by his heir. 
 
 Then take Mat's word for it, the sculptor is paid ; 
 
 That the figure is fine, pray believe your own eye ; 
 Vet credit but lightly what more 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 smother'd great fears, 
 In a life party-colour'd, half pleasure, half care. 
 
128 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 Nor to business a dradge, 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 ! hovif merry was he. 
 
 Now in equipage stately, now humbly on foot. 
 Both fortunes he tried, but to neither wbuld trust ; 
 
 And whirl'd in the round as the wheel tum'd about. 
 He found riches had wings, and knew man was but dust 
 
 This verse, little polish'd, tho' 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 kill'd, and his bones never found ; 
 
 False witness at court, and fierce tempests at sea. 
 So Mat may yet chance to be hang d or be drown'd. 
 
 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. 
 
 Matthew Prior, 
 
 CLXVII. 
 
 EPIGRAM. 
 
 Had Cain been Scot, God would have changed his doom,— 
 Not forced him wander, but confined him home. 
 
 John Cleveland. 
 
 EPITAPH FOR ONE WHO WOULD NOT BE 
 BURIED IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 Heroes and kings ! your distance keep. 
 In peace let one poor poet sleep, 
 Who never flatter'd folks like you : 
 Let Horace blush, and Virgil too. 
 
 Alexander Pope. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 129 
 
 CLXIX. 
 
 ON TWIN-SISTERS. 
 
 Fair marble tell to future' days 
 
 That here two vjrgin-sisters lie, 
 Whose life employ'd each tongue in praise, 
 
 Whose death gave tears to every eye. 
 In stature, beauty, years and fame, 
 
 Together as they grew, they shone ; 
 So much alike, so much the same, 
 
 That death mistook them both for one. 
 
 Supposed to be after Ronsard. 
 
 Wind, gentle evergreen, to form a shade 
 Around the tomb where Sophocles is laid : 
 Sweet ivy, wind thy boughs, and intertwine 
 With blushing roses and the clustering vine ; 
 Thus wUl thy lasting leaves, with beauties hung. 
 Prove grateful emblems of the lays he sung ; 
 Whose soul, exalted, like a god of wit 
 Among the Muses and the Graces writ. 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 Gaily I lived as ease and nature taught, 
 And spent my little life, without a thought ; 
 And am amazed that Death, that tyrant grim, 
 Should think of me, who never thought of him. 
 
 After the AbbS Eegnier. 
 
 TO HIS LITTLE CHILD BENJAMIN, FROM THE 
 TOWER. 
 
 My little Ben, since thou art young, 
 And hast not yet the use of tongue, 
 Make it thy slave while thou art free ; 
 It prison, lest it prison thee. 
 
 John Hoshins. 
 
i Lyra El^antiarum, 
 
 CLXXIII. 
 
 TO AN INFANT NEWLY BORN. 
 
 On parent's knees, a naked new-bom child. 
 Weeping thou sat'st while all around thee smiled ; 
 So live, that sinking in thy long last sleep, 
 Calm thou ma/st smile, while all around thee weep. 
 
 Sir William Jimei. 
 
 CLXXIV. 
 
 TO HIS SOUL. 
 
 Poor little, pretty, fluttering thing, 
 
 Must we no longer live together ? 
 And dost thou prune thy trembling wing. 
 
 To take thy flight thou know'st not whither ? 
 
 Thy humorous vein, thy pleasing folly 
 
 Lie all neglected, all forgot : 
 And pensive, wavering, mdancholy. 
 
 Thou dread'st and hop'st thou know'st not what 
 
 Matthew Prior. 
 
 CLXXV. 
 
 He that will win his dame must do 
 As Love does when he bends his bow : 
 With one hand thrust the lady from. 
 And with the other pull her home. 
 
 Samuel Butler. 
 
 My muse and I, ere youth and spirits fled. 
 Sat up together many a night, no doubt : 
 
 But now I've sent the poor old lass to bed, 
 Simply because my fire is going out. 
 
 George Colman, the Younger. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 131 
 
 CLXXVII. 
 
 To fix her, — 'twere a task as vain 
 To count the April drops of rain. 
 To sow in A,fric s barren soil, — 
 Or tempests hold within a "toil. 
 
 I know it, friend, she's light as air. 
 False as the fowler's artful snare. 
 Inconstant as the passing wind, 
 As winter's dreary frost unkind. 
 
 She's such a miser, too, in love, 
 Its joys she'll neither share nor prove ; 
 Though hundreds of gallants await 
 From her victorious eyes their fate. 
 
 Blushing at such inglorious reign, 
 I sometimes strive to break my chain ; 
 My reason summon to my aid, 
 Resolve no more to be betray'd. 
 
 Ah, friend ! 'tis but a short-lived trance, 
 Dispell'd by one enchanting glance ; 
 She need but look, and I confess 
 Those looks completely curse or bless. 
 
 So soft, so elegant, so fair, 
 
 Sure something mors than human's there : 
 
 I must submit, for strife is vain, 
 
 Twas destiny that forged the chain. 
 
 Tobias Smollett. 
 
 CLXXVIII. 
 
 K-ATE OF ABERDEEN. 
 
 The silver moon's enamour'd beam. 
 
 Steals softly thro' the night. 
 To wanton with the winding stream. 
 
 And kiss reflected light. 
 To beds of state go balmy sleep, 
 
 ('Tis where you've seldom been). 
 May's vigil while the shepherds keep 
 
 With Kate of Aberdeen. 
 
132 ' Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 Upon the green the virgins wait, 
 
 In rosy chaplets gay, 
 Till mom unbar her golden gate. 
 
 And ^ve the promised May. 
 Methinks I hear the maids declare. 
 
 The promised May, when seen, 
 Not half so fragrant, half so fair. 
 
 As Kate of Aberdeen. 
 
 Strike up the tabor's boldest notes, 
 
 We'll rouse the nodding grove ; 
 The nested birds shall raise their throats. 
 
 And hail the maid of love : 
 And see — the matin lark mistakes. 
 
 He quits the tufted green : 
 Fond bird ! 'tis not the morning breaks, — 
 
 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen. 
 
 Now lightsome o'er the level mead. 
 
 Where midnight fairies rove. 
 Like them the jocund dance we'll lead. 
 
 Or tune the reed to love : 
 For see the rosy May draws nigh,. 
 
 She claims a virgin Queen ; 
 And hark, the happy shepherds cry, 
 
 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen. 
 
 John Cunningham, 
 
 CLXXIX. 
 
 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 
 Tum'd to these springs which we see here : 
 The pretty whimperings that they make, 
 When of the banks their leaves they take. 
 Tell ye but this, they are the same. 
 In nothing changed but in their name. 
 
 RQb(rt llerrick. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 133 
 
 CLXXX. 
 
 THE COUNTRY WEDDING. 
 
 Well met, pretty nymph, says a jolly young swain 
 To a lovely young shepherdess crossing the plain ; 
 Why so much in naste ? — now the month it was May — 
 May I venture to ask you, fair maiden, which way ? 
 Then straight to this question the nymph did reply. 
 With a blush on her cheek, and a smile in her eye, 
 I came from the village, and homeward I go, 
 And now, gentle shepherd, pray why would you know ? 
 
 I hope, pretty maid, you won't take it amiss, 
 
 If I tell you ray reason for asking you this ; 
 
 I would see you safe home — (now the swain was in love !)— 
 
 Of such a companion if you would approve. 
 
 Your offer, kind shepherd, is civil, I own. 
 
 But I see no great danger in going alone ; 
 
 Nor yet can I hinder, the road being free 
 
 For one as another, for you as for me. 
 
 No danger in going alone, it is true, 
 But yet a companion is pleasanter too ; 
 And if you could like (now the swain he took heart) 
 Such fi sweetheart as me, why we never would part. 
 O that's a long word, said the shepherdess then, 
 I've often heard say there's no minding you men. 
 You'll say and unsay, and you'll flatter, 'tis true ! 
 Then to leave a young maiden's the first thing you do, 
 
 O judge not so harshly, the shepherd replied, 
 To prove what I say I will make you my bride. , 
 To-morrow the parson (well said, little swain !) 
 Shall join both our hands, and make one of us twain. 
 Then what the nymph answer'd to this isn't said. 
 The very next mom, to be sure, they were wed. 
 Sing hey-diddle, — ho-diddle, — hey-diddle-down — 
 Now when shall we see such a wedding in town ? 
 
 Unknown. 
 
134 Lyra Elcgantiarum. 
 
 CLXXXI. 
 
 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 esteem'd 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 -iVeek ; 
 From mine I can exclude but one day. 
 My door is quiet on a Sunday. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. I3S 
 
 Nor in the manner of attendance, 
 
 Doth your great bard claim less ascendance, 
 
 Familiar you to admiration 
 
 May be approached by all the nation ; 
 
 While I, lilce the Mogul in Indo, 
 
 Am never seen but at my window. 
 
 If with my greatness you're offended, 
 
 The fault is easily amended ; 
 
 For I'U come down, with wondrous ease. 
 
 Into whatever ^/a« 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 
 ShoiUd 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. 
 
 Henry Fielding. 
 
 CLXXXII. 
 
 TO SIR ROBERT WALPOLE. 
 
 Great 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. 
 
136 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 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 malce my levee fly me, 
 
 Or lend your porter to deny me. 
 
 Henry Fielding. 
 CLXXXIII. 
 
 THE LASS OF THE HILL. 
 
 On the brow of a hill a young Shepherdess dwelt, 
 Who no pangs of ambition or love had e'er felt : 
 For a few sober maxims still ran in her head 
 That t'was better to earn, ere she ate her brown bread ; 
 That to rise with the lark was conducive to liealth. 
 And, to folks in a cottage, contentment was wealth. 
 
 Now young Roger, who lived in the valley below. 
 Who at church and at market was reckoned a beau. 
 Had many times tried o'er her heart to prevail. 
 And would rest on his pitchfork to tell her his tale : 
 With his vrinning behaviour he melted lier heart ; 
 For quite artless herself, she suspected no art. 
 
 He had sigh'd and protested, — had knelt and implored, 
 He could lie with the grandeur and air of a lord : 
 Then her eyes he commended in language well drest. 
 And enlarged on the torments that troubled his breast ; 
 Till his sighs and his tears had so wrought on her mind, 
 That in downright compassion to love she inclined. 
 
 But as soon as he'd melted the ice of her breast. 
 All the flames of his love in a moment had ceas'd, 
 And now he goes flaunting all over the dell. 
 And boasts of his conquest to Susan and Nell : 
 Tho' he sees her but seldom, he's always in haste, 
 And if ever he mentions her, makes her his jest. 
 
 All the day she goes sighing, and hanging her head, 
 
 And her thoughts are so pestered, she scarce earns her bread : 
 
 The whole village cries shame when a milking she goes, 
 
 That so little affection she shows to the cows : 
 
 But she heeds not their railing, — e'en let them rail on. 
 
 And a fig for the cows, now her sweetheart is gone ! 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 137 
 
 Take heed pretty virgins of Britain's fair Isle 
 
 How you venture your liearts for a look or a smile, 
 
 For Cupid is artful, and virgins are frail, 
 
 And you'll find a false Roger in every vale, 
 
 Who to court you and tempt you virill try all his skill : 
 
 So remember the lass at the brovif of the hill. 
 
 Miss Mary Jones. 
 
 ON SEEING A PORTRAIT OF SIR ROBERT 
 WALPOLE. 
 
 .Such vifere 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 caress'd. 
 His cheerful smile and open honest look 
 Added new graces to the truth he spoke. 
 Then eveiy 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 goodnature 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 Mary W. MoiUagu, 
 
 CLXXXV. 
 
 TO CELL A. 
 
 I HATE the town, and all its ways j 
 Ridottos, operas, and plays ; 
 The ball, the ring, the mall, the Court, 
 Wherever the beau monde resort ; 
 
138 Lyra Elegantiartim. 
 
 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 n^es that skin 'em. 
 I hate all critics ; may they bum all. 
 From Bentley to the Grub-street Journal ; 
 All banls, 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 be^ars, 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 tho' I bear a gentle mind. 
 Let not my hatred of mankind 
 Wonder within my Celia move, 
 Since she possesses all I love. 
 
 Henry Fielding. 
 
 CLXXXVI. 
 
 TO THE SUNFLOWER. 
 
 Hail ! pretty emblem of my fate ! 
 Sweet flower, you still on Phoebus wait ; 
 On him you look, and with him move. 
 By nature led, and constant love. 
 
 Know, pretty flower, that I am he. 
 Who am in all so like to thee ; 
 I, too, my fair one court, and where 
 She moves, my eyes I ttither steer. 
 
 But, yet this difference still I find. 
 The sun to you is always kind ; 
 Does always life and \vaTmth bestow : — 
 Ah ! would my fair one use me so 1 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 139 
 
 Ne'er would I wait till she arose 
 From her soft bed and sweet repose ; 
 But, leaving thee, dull plant, by night 
 I'd meet my Phillis with delight. 
 
 Robert Walfole, Earl of Orford. 
 
 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 thro' 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 ha!f-drown6d 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 Secretaris. 
 
 Hague, 1696. Matthew Prior. 
 
140 Lyra Eleganiiarum. 
 
 CLXXXVIII. 
 
 TO MRS. CREWE. 
 
 Where the loveliest expression to features is join'd. 
 
 By Nature's most delicate pencil design'd ; 
 
 Where blushes unbidden, and smiles without art. 
 
 Speak the softness and feeling that dwell in the heart; 
 
 Where in manners, enchanting, no blemish we trace ; 
 
 But the soul keeps the promise we had from the face ; 
 
 Sure philosophy, reason, and coldness must prove 
 
 Defences unequal to shield us from love : 
 
 Then tell me, mysterious Enchanter, O tell ! 
 
 By what wonderful art, by what magical spell. 
 
 My heart is so fenced that for once I am wise. 
 
 And gaze without rapture on Amoret's eyes ; 
 
 That my wishes, which never were bounded before. 
 
 Are here bounded by friendship, and ask for no more? 
 
 Is it reason ? No, that my whole life Avill belie. 
 
 For who so at variance as reason and I ? 
 
 Ambition, that fills up each chink of my heart. 
 
 Nor allows any softer sensation a part ? 
 
 O, no ! for in this all the world must agree, 
 
 One folly was never sufficient for me. 
 
 Is my mind on distress too intensely employ'd. 
 
 Or by pleasure relax'd, by variety clo/d ? 
 
 For alike in this only, enjoyment and pain 
 
 Both slacken the springs of those nerves which they strain. 
 
 That I've felt each reverse that from Fortune can flow. 
 
 That I've tasted each bliss that the happiest know. 
 
 Has still been the whimsical fate of my life. 
 
 Where anguish and joy have been ever at strife : 
 
 But, tho' versed in extremes both of pleasure and pain, 
 
 I am still but too ready to feel them again. 
 
 If, then, for this once in my life, I am free. 
 
 And escape firom the snares that catch wiser than me ; 
 
 'Tis that beauty alone but imperfectly charms ; 
 
 For though brightness may dazzle, 'tis kindness that warms; 
 
 As on suns in the winter with pleasure we gaze. 
 
 But feel not their warmth, tho their splendour we praise, 
 
 So beauty our just admiration may clmm. 
 
 But love, and love only, the heart can inflame ! 
 
 Rt. Honble. Charles James Fox. 
 
Lyra Eltgantiarum. 141 
 
 CLXXXIX. 
 
 EPISTLE FROM LOUD BORINGDON TO LORD 
 GRANVILLE. 
 
 Ofi' you have ask'd me, Granville, why 
 
 Of late I heave the frequent sigh? 
 
 Why, moping, melancholy, low. 
 
 From supper, commons, wine, I go ? 
 
 Why bows my mind, by care oppress'd ; 
 
 By day no peace, by night no rest ? 
 
 Hear, then, my &iend, and ne'er you knew 
 
 A tale so tender, and so true — ■ 
 
 Hear what, tho' shame my tongue restrain, 
 
 My pen with freedom shall explain. 
 
 Say, Granville, do you not remember, 
 About the middle of November, 
 When Blenheim's hospitable lord 
 Received us at his cheerfiil board ; 
 How fair the Ladies Spencer smiled. 
 Enchanting, witty, courteous, mild ? 
 And mark'd you not, how many a glance 
 Across the table, shot by chance 
 From fair Eliza's graceful form, 
 Assail'd and took my heart by storm? 
 And mark'd you not, with earnest zeal, 
 I ask'd her, if she'd have some veal? 
 And how, when conversation's charms 
 Fresh vigour gave to love's alarms. 
 My heart was scorch'd, and burnt to tinder. 
 When talking to her at the winder? 
 These facts premised, you can't but guess 
 The cause of my uneasiness. 
 For you have heard, as well as I, 
 That she'll be married speedily; 
 And then — my grief more plain to tell — 
 Soft cares, sweet fears, fond hopes, — farewell i 
 But still, tho' false the fleeting dream. 
 Indulge awhile the tender theme. 
 And hear, had fortune yet been kind. 
 How bright the prospect of the mind. 
 O ! had I had it in my power 
 To wed her — with a suited dower — 
 
f42 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 And proudly bear the beauteous maid 
 
 To Saltrum's venerable shade, — 
 
 Or if she liked not woods at Saltrum, 
 
 Why, nothing easier than to alter 'em, — 
 
 Then had I tasted bliss sincere, 
 
 And happy been from year to year. 
 
 How changed this scene ! for now, my Granville, 
 
 Another match is on the anvil. 
 
 And I, a widow'd dove, complain. 
 
 And feel no refuge from my pain — 
 
 Save that of pitjring Spencers sister, 
 
 Who's lost a lord, and gained a Mister. 
 
 The Rt. Honble. George Canning. 
 
 cxc. 
 
 '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 curl'd 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 sorrow'd o'er the bowl 
 At Chloe's 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 ! 
 
 William Lamb, Viscount Melbout'ne. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 143 
 
 CXCI. , 
 
 AN ODE TO THE EARL OP BATH. 
 
 Great Earl of Bath, your reign is o'er, 
 The Tories trust your word no more, 
 
 The Whigs no longer fear you ; 
 Your gates are seldom now unbarr'd. 
 No crowd of coaches fills your yard, 
 
 And scarce a soul comes near you. 
 
 Few now aspire to your good graces. 
 Scarce any sue to you for places, 
 
 Or come with their petition, 
 To tell how well they have deserved, 
 How long, how steadily they starved 
 
 For you, in opposition. 
 
 Expect to see that tribe no more. 
 Since all mankind perceive that power 
 
 Is lodged in other hands : 
 Sooner to Carteret now they'll go, 
 Or even (tho' that's excessive low) 
 
 To Wilmington or Sandys'. 
 
 With your obedient wife retire. 
 And sitting silent by the fire, 
 
 A sullen tite-a-Ute, 
 Think over all you've done or said, 
 And curse the hour that you were made 
 
 Unprofitably great. 
 
 With vapours there, and spleen o'ercast, 
 Reflect on all your actions past 
 
 With sorrow and contrition : 
 And there enjoy the thoughts that rise 
 From disappointed avarice. 
 
 From frustrated ambition. 
 
 There soon you'll loudly, but in vain, 
 Of your deserting friends complain. 
 
 That visit you no more : 
 For in this country, 'tis a truth. 
 As known, as that love follows youth, 
 
 That friendship follows power. 
 
144 Lyra EUgantiarum. 
 
 Such is the calm of your retreat ? 
 You thro' the dregs of life must sweat 
 
 Beneath this heavy load ; 
 And I'll attend you as I've done, 
 Only to help reflection on, 
 
 With now and then an ode. 
 
 Sir Charles H. Williams. 
 
 THE STATESMAN. 
 
 VillKT statesman, what hero, what king. 
 Whose name thro' the island is spread, 
 
 Will you choose, oh, my Clio, to sing. 
 Of all the great Uvlng, or dead ? 
 
 Go, my muse, from this place to Japan, 
 
 In search of a topic for rhyme ; 
 The great Earl of Bath is the man 
 
 Who deserves to employ your whole time. 
 
 But, howe'er, as the subject is nice. 
 
 And perhaps you're unfiimish'd with matter, 
 
 May it please you to take my advice. 
 That you mayn't be suspected to flatter. 
 
 When you touch on his Lordship's high birth, 
 Spesdc Latin as if you were Upsy, 
 
 Say, we all are the sons of the earth, 
 Et genus non fecimtis ipsi. 
 
 Proclaim him as rich as a Jew, 
 
 Yet attempt not to reckon his bounties ; 
 
 You may say, he is married — that's true — 
 Yet speak not a word of his Countess. 
 
 Leave a blank here and there in each page. 
 To enrol the fair deeds of his youth ! 
 
 When you mention the acts of his age. 
 Leave a blank for his — honour and truth. 
 
 Say he made a great monarch change hands; 
 
 He spake, and the minister fell ; 
 Say he made a great statesman of Sandys ; — 
 
 O that he had taught him to spell ! 
 
Lyra Eleganiiarum. 145 
 
 Then enlarge on his cunning and wit, 
 Say how he harangued at the Fountain : 
 
 Say how the old Patriots were bit, 
 And a mouse was produced by a mountain. 
 
 Tlien say how he mark'd tlie new year 
 
 By increasing our taxes and stocks ; 
 Then say how he changed to a Peer, 
 
 Fit companion for Edgcumbe and Fox. 
 
 Sir Charles H. Williams. 
 
 ADVICE TO THE MARQUIS OF ROCKINGHAh 
 Upon a late Occasion. 
 
 Well may they, Wentworth, call thee young ; 
 What, hear and feel ! sift right from wrong, 
 
 And to a wretch be kind ! 
 Old statesmen would reverse your plan, 
 Sink, in the minister, the man, 
 
 And be both deaf and blind. 
 
 If thus, my Lord, your heart o'erflows, 
 Know you, how many mighty foes 
 
 Such weakness will create you ? 
 Regard not what Fitzherbert says, 
 For though you gain each good man's praise, 
 
 We older folks shall hate you. 
 
 You should have sent, the other day, 
 Garrick, the player, with frowns away; 
 
 Your smiles but made him bolder : 
 Why would you hear his strange appeal, 
 Which dared to make a statesman feel ? — 
 
 I would that you were older. 
 
 You should be proud, and seem displeased, 
 Or you forever will be teased. 
 
 Your house with beggars haunted 
 What, every suitor kindly used ? 
 If wrong, their folly is excused. 
 
 If right, their suit is granted. 
 
 L 
 
146 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 From pressing words of great and small 
 To free yourself, give hopes to all, 
 
 And fail nineteen in twenty : 
 What, wound my honour, break my word ? 
 You're young again, — you may, my Lord, 
 
 Have precedents, in plenty ! 
 
 Indeed, young Statesman, 'twill not do, — 
 Some other ways and means pursue. 
 
 More fitted to your station : 
 What from your boyish freaks can spring ? 
 Mere toys ! — The favour of your king. 
 
 And love of all the nation. 
 
 Damd Garrick. 
 
 CXCIV. 
 PADDY'S METAMORPHOSIS. 
 
 About 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 materials for settlers, abroad. 
 
 Some West Indian Island, whose name I forget. 
 Was the region 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. 
 
 Behold them now safe at the long look'd-for shore, 
 
 Sailing in between banks that the Shannon might greet. 
 
 And thinking of friends whom, but two years before. 
 They had sorrow'd to lose, but would soon again meet. 
 
 And, hark ! from the shore a glad welcome there came — 
 " Arrah, Paddy from Cork, is it you, ray sweet boy ? " 
 
 While Pat stood astounded, to hear his own name 
 Thus hail'd by black devils, who caper'd for joy 1 
 
 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 1 only think — black and curly already ! " 
 
Lyra Eleganiiarvut, 147 
 
 Deceived by that well-mimick'd brogue in his eavs, 
 
 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 ! 
 MORAL. 
 '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 natures^ 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 ! " 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 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 O ! ' 
 
 " Tell me, knife-grinder, how you came to gi-ind 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 law-suit ? 
 
 " (Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine ?) 
 Drop? of compassion tremble on my eye-lids, 
 Ready to fall as soon as you have told your 
 
 Pitiful stoiy." 
 
148 Lyra Ekgantiarum. 
 
 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 
 
 Tom in the scuffle. 
 
 " Constable 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 gUid to drink your honour's health in 
 A pot of beer, if you would give me sixpence ; 
 But, for my part, I never love to meddle 
 
 With politics, sir." 
 
 FRIEND OF HUMANITY. 
 
 " /give thee sixpence ! I vrill see thee damned first — 
 Wretch ! whom no sense of wrong can rouse to vengeance — 
 Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded. 
 
 Spiritless outcast ! " 
 
 (Kicks the knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and 
 exit in a transport of republican enthusiasm and 
 universal philanthropy. ) 
 
 Anti-yacobin. 
 
 CXCVI. 
 
 A POLITICAL DESPATCH. 
 
 In matters of commerce, the fault of the Dutch 
 Is giving too little and asking too much ; 
 With equal advantage the French are content, 
 So we'll clap on Dutch bottoms a twenty per cent 
 
 Twenty per cent.. 
 
 Twenty per cent., 
 Nous irapperons Falck with twenty per cent. 
 
 The Right Hon. George Cannine, 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 149 
 
 CXCVII. 
 
 FRAGMENT OF AN ORATION. 
 
 Part of Mr. Whiiiread's speech on the trial of Lord Melville, 
 pttt into verse by Canning at the time it was delivered. 
 
 I'm like Archimedes for science and skill, 
 
 I'm like a young prince going straight up a hill ; 
 
 I'm like (with respect to the fair be it said, ) 
 
 I'm like a young lady just bringing to bed. 
 
 If you ask why the llth of June I remember, 
 
 Much better than April, or May, or November, 
 
 On that day, my Lords, with truth, I assure ye, 
 
 My sainted progenitor set up his brewery; 
 
 On that day, in the mom, he began brewing beer : 
 
 On that day, too, began his connubial career ; 
 
 On that day he received and he issued his bills ; 
 
 On that day he cleared out all the cash from his tills ; 
 
 On that day he died, having finished his summing. 
 
 And the angels all cried, " Here's old Whitbread a-coming ! " 
 
 So that day still I hail with a smile and a sigh. 
 
 For his beer with an E, and his bier with an I ; 
 
 And still on that day, in the hottest of weather. 
 
 The whole Whitbread family dine all together. 
 
 So long as the beams of this house shall support 
 
 The roof which o'ershades this respectable court, 
 
 Where Hastings was tried for oppressing the Hindoos : 
 
 So long as the sun shall shine in at those windows. 
 
 My name shall shine bright as my ancestor's shines, 
 
 Mine recorded in journals, his blazon'd on signs ! 
 
 The Right Hon. George Canning. 
 
 CXCVIII. 
 
 KING CRACK AND HIS IDOLS. 
 Written after the late negotiation for a new ministry. 
 
 King Crack was the best of all possible kings, 
 
 (At least so his courtiers would swear to you gladly, ) 
 
 But Crack now and then would do het'rodox things, 
 And, at last, took to worshipping images sadly. 
 
ijo Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 Some broken-down idols, that long had been placed 
 In his Father's old Cabinet, pleased him so much, 
 
 That he knelt down and worshipp'd, tho' — such was his 
 taste ! — 
 They were monstrous to look at, and rotten to touch. 
 
 And these were the beautifal gods of King Crack ! — 
 But his People, disdaining to worship such things. 
 
 Cried aloud, one and all, "Come, your godships must pack— 
 You'll not do for ««, tho' you may do for Kings." 
 
 Then, trampling these images under their feet. 
 
 They sent Crack a petition, beginning ' ' Great Csesar ! 
 
 We're willing to worship ; but only entreat 
 
 That you'll find us some decanter godheads than these 
 
 " I'll try," says King Crack — so they fumish'd him models 
 Of better shaped gods, but he sent them all back ; 
 
 Some were chisell'd too fine, some had heads 'stead ol 
 noddles. 
 In short they were all much too godlike for Crack. 
 
 So he took to his darling old idols again. 
 
 And, just mending their legs and new bronzing their faces, 
 In open defiance of gods and of men. 
 
 Set the monsters up grinning once more in their places. 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 THE PILOT THAT WEATHERED THE STORM 
 
 If hush'd the loud whirlwind that ruffled the deep. 
 The sky if no longer dark tempests deform. 
 
 When our perils are past, shall our gratitude sleep? 
 No — here's to the pilot that weather'd the storm ; 
 
 At the footstool of Power let Flattery fawn; 
 
 Let Faction her idol extol to the skies ; 
 To Virtue in humble retirement withdrawn, 
 
 Unblamed may the accents of gratitude rise ! 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 151 
 
 And shall not his memory to Britain be dear, 
 Whose Example with envy all nations behold? 
 
 A Statesman unbiass'd by interest or fear, 
 By power uncornipted, untainted by gold ! 
 
 Who, when terror and doubt thro' the universe reigned, 
 When rapine and treason their standards unfurl'd, 
 
 The hearts and the hopes of his country maintained, 
 
 And our kingdom preserved midst the wreck of the world ! 
 
 Unheeding, unthankful, we bask in the blaze, 
 While the beams of the sun in full majesty shine : 
 
 When he sinks into twilight witli fondness we gaze. 
 And mark the mild lustre that gilds his decline. 
 
 So, Pitt, when the course of thy greatness is o'er. 
 Thy talents, thy virtues, we fondly recall ; 
 
 Now justly we prize thee, when lost we deplore; 
 Admired in thy zenith, but loved in thy fall. 
 
 O take then, for dangers by wisdom repell'd, 
 For evils by courage and constancy braved, 
 
 O take, for the throne by thy counsels upheld, 
 The thanks of a people thy firmness has saved. 
 
 And oh! if again the rude whirlwind should rise. 
 The dawning of peace should fresh darkness deform ; 
 
 The regrets of the good and the fears of the wise, 
 Shall turn to the pilot that weather'd the storm. 
 
 Right Hon. George Canning. 
 
 cc. 
 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 3 
 
 So let him swear and pray ; 
 Be deaf to all his oaths and prayers, 
 
 And take the sword away. 
 
152 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 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 toastsi 
 
 And tame to Dibdin's songs ; 
 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. 
 
 Let Portugal have rulers twain ; 
 
 Let Greece go on with none; 
 Let Popery sink or swim in Spain, 
 
 While we' enjoy the fun ; 
 Let 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. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 153 
 
 And O, the bitter tears we wept, 
 
 In those our days of fame, — 
 The dread, that o'er our heart-strings crept 
 
 With eveiy post that came, — 
 The home-affections, waged and lost 
 
 In every far-off fray, — 
 Tlie 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. 
 
 Winthrop M. Praed. 
 CCI. 
 l^ERSES ON- SEEING THE ' SPEAKER ASLEEP 
 IN HIS CHAIR DURING ONE OF THE 
 DEBATES OF THE FIRST REFORMED 
 PARLIAMENT. 
 
 Sleep, Mr. Speaker, 'tis surely fair 
 
 If you mayn't in your bed, that j'ou should in your chair ; 
 
 Louder and longer still they grow, 
 
 Tory and Radical, Aye and No ; 
 
 Talking by night and talking by day : 
 
 Sleep, Mr. Speaker — sleep while you may ! 
 
 Sleep, Mr. Speaker ; slumber lies 
 
 Light and brief on a Speaker's eyes. 
 
 Fielden or Finn in a minute or two 
 
 Some disorderly thing will do ; 
 
 Riot will chase repose away — 
 
 Sleep, Mr. Speaker — sleep while you may ! 
 
 Sleep, Mr. Speaker. Sweet to men ' 
 Is the sleep that cometh biit now and then. 
 Sweet to the weary, sweet to the ill, 
 Sweet to the children that work in the mill. 
 You have more need of repose than they — ' 
 Sleep, Mr. Speaker — sleep while you may! 
 
154 Lyra Ekgantiarum. 
 
 Sleep, Mr. Speaker, Harvey will soon 
 Move to abolish the sun and the moon : 
 Hume will no doubt be taking the sense 
 Of the House on a question of sixteen pence. 
 Statesmen will howl, and patriots.bray — ■ 
 Sleep, Mr. Speaker — sleep while you may! 
 
 Sleep, Mr. Speaker, and dream of the time. 
 
 When loyalty was not quite a crime. 
 
 When Grant was a pupil in Canning's school. 
 
 And Palmerston fancied Wood a fool. 
 
 Lord, how principles pass away — 
 
 Sleep, Mr. Speaker — sleep while you may! 
 
 Winthrop M. Praed. 
 
 THE COUNTRY CLERGYMAN'S TRIP TO 
 CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 An Election Ballad. 
 
 As I sate down to breakfast in state. 
 
 At my living oiTithing-gum-Boring, 
 With Betty beside me to wait, 
 
 Carile 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 be ? Why, my dear, 
 
 'Tis our glorious, our Protestant Bankes. 
 " 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. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. IJS 
 
 To assist this detestable scheme 
 
 Three nuncios from Rome are come ovei ; 
 
 They left Calais on Monday by steam, 
 And landed to dinner at Dover. 
 
 " An army of grim Cordeliers, 
 
 Well furnish'd with relics and vermin. 
 Will follow, I,ord 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 bom. 
 
 They then, like high-principled Tories, 
 Called our Sovereign unjust and unsteady, 
 
 And assailed him with scandalois 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. 
 
 There were Sneaker and Griper, a pair 
 Who stick to Lord Mulesby like leeches; 
 
 A smug chaplain of plausible air. 
 
 Who writes my Lord Goslingham's speeches. 
 
156 Lyra Elegantianim. 
 
 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 syrap ; 
 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 show'd : 
 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 barter'd 
 
 His faith for a legate's commission ; 
 How Lyndhurst, aftaid to be martyr'd. 
 
 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 topes, which each moment grew louder. 
 
 Told how we shoiJd dress for the show," 
 And where we should fasten the powder. 
 
 And if we should bellow or no. 
 
 Thus from subject to subject we ran. 
 And the journey pass'd pleasantly o'er, 
 
 Till at last Dr. Humdnmi began : 
 From that time I remember no more. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. t57 
 
 At Ware he commenced liis prelection, 
 
 In the dullest of clerical drones : 
 And when next I regained recollection 
 
 We were rumbling o'er Trumpington-stones. 
 
 Thomas, Lord Macaulay. 1827. 
 
 ON ms MISTRESS, THE QUEEN OP BOHEMIA. 
 
 You 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 chaunters 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 ishall raise ? 
 
 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 ? 
 
 So, when my mistress shall be seen 
 
 In form and beauty of her mind. 
 
 By virtue first, then choice, a Queen, 
 
 Tell me if she were not; design'd 
 
 The eclipse and glory of her kind ? 
 
 Sir Henry Wotton. 
 cciv. 
 
 ON MR. GEORGE HERBERTS BOOK, ENTITLED 
 
 THE TEMPLE OP SACRED POEMS. SENT 
 
 TO A GENTLEWOMAN. 
 
 Know you, fair, on what you look ? 
 Divinest love lies in this book, 
 Expecting fire from your eyes 
 
158 Lyra Ble^aniiarum. 
 
 To kindle this his sacrifice. 
 
 When your hands untie these strings, 
 
 Think you've an angel by the wings ; 
 
 One that gladly would be nigh 
 
 To wait upon each morning sigh, 
 
 To flutter in the balmy air 
 
 Of your well perfumed prayer. 
 
 Thes^e white plumes of his he'll lend you, 
 
 Which every day to heaven will send you, 
 
 To take acquaintance of the sphere. 
 
 And all the smooth-faced kindred there 1 
 
 Richard Oraxhaw. 
 
 ccv. 
 
 rff£ CONSTANT SWAIN AND VIRTUOUS MAID. 
 
 Soon as the day begins to waste, 
 Straight to the well-known door I haste, 
 
 And, rapping there, I'm forced to stay 
 While Molly hides her work Tuath care. 
 Adjusts her tucker and her hair. 
 
 And nimble Becky scours away. 
 
 Entering, I see in Molly's eyes 
 A sudden smiling joy arise. 
 
 As quickly clieck'd by virgin shame : 
 She drops a curtsey, steals a glance. 
 Receives a kiss, one step advance. — 
 
 If such I love, am I to blame ? 
 
 I sit, and talk of twenty things. 
 
 Of South Sea Stock, or death of kings. 
 
 While only " Yes " or " No," says Molly ; 
 As cautious she conceals her thoughts. 
 As others do their private faults : — 
 
 Is this her prudence, or her folly ? 
 
 Parting, I kiss her lip and cheek, 
 I hang about her snowy neck, 
 
 And cry, " Farewell, my dearest Molly !" 
 Yet still I hang, and still I kiss, 
 Ye leamfed sages, say, is this 
 
 In me the effect of love, or folly ? 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 159 
 
 No — both by sober reason move, — 
 She pnidence Shows, and I true love — 
 
 No charge of folly can be laid. 
 Then (till the marriage-rites proclaim'd 
 Shall join our hands) let us be named 
 
 The constant swain, and virtuous maid. 
 
 Unknown, 
 
 You say you love, — and twenty more 
 Have sigh'd, and said the same before. 
 A.nd yet I swear I can't tell how, 
 I ne'er believed a man till now. 
 
 'Tis strange that I should credit give 
 To words, who know that words deceive : 
 And lay my better judgment by, 
 To trust my partial ear or eye. 
 
 'Tis ten to one I had denied 
 Your suit had you to-morrow tried ; 
 But, faith! unthinkingly, to-day 
 My heedless heart has gone astray. 
 
 To bring it back would give me pain, 
 Perhaps the struggle, too, were vain ; 
 I'm indolent, — so he that gains 
 My heart, may keep it for his pains. 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 Fair Hebe I left, with a cautious design. 
 
 To escape from her charms, and to drovra 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 repair'd to my Reason, entreatmg her aid. 
 Who paused on my case, and each circumstance weigh'd : 
 Then gravely pronounced, in return to my prayer, 
 Tliat Hebe was fairest of all that were fair. 
 
l6o Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 That's a truth, rephed 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. 
 Earl of De la Warre, 
 
 As I went to the wake that is held on the green, 
 I met with young Phoebe, as blithe as a queen ; 
 A form so divine might an anchorite move, 
 And I found (tho' a clown) I was smitten with love : 
 So I ask'd for a kiss, but she, blushing, replied, 
 Indeed, gentle shepherd, you must be denied. 
 
 Lovely Phoebe, says I, don't affect to be shy, 
 I vow I will kiss you — here's nobody by ; 
 No matter for that, she replied, 'tis the same ; 
 For know, silly shepherd, I value my fame; 
 So pray let me go, I shall surely be miss'd ; 
 Besides, I'm resolved that I will not be kiss'd. 
 
 Lord bless me ! I cried, I'm surprised you refuse ; 
 A few harmless kisses but serve to amuse ; 
 The month it is May, and the season for love, 
 So come, my dear girl, to the wake let us rove. 
 No, Damon, she cried, I must first be your wife, 
 You then shall be welcome to kiss me for life. 
 
 Well, come then, I cried, to the church let us go. 
 
 But after, dear Phoebe must never say " No." 
 
 Via you prove but true, (she replied,) you shall find 
 
 I'll ever be constant, good-humour'd, and kind. 
 
 So I kiss when I please, for she ne'er says she won't 
 
 And I kiss her so much, that I wonder she don't. 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 ON LORD KING'S MOTTO (LABOR IPSE 
 VOLUPTAS.) 
 
 'Tis not the splendour of the place. 
 The gilded coach, the purse, the mace ; 
 Nor all the pompous train of state. 
 With crowds that at your levee wait. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. i6i 
 
 That make you happy, — raake you great. 
 But while mankind you strive to bless, 
 With all the talents you possess ; 
 While the chief pleasure you receive, 
 Arises from the joy you give : 
 This wins the heart, and conquers spite, 
 And makes the heavy burthen light. 
 For Pleasure, rightly understood, 
 Is only labour to be good. 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 TO A CHILD OF QUALITY, FIVE YEARS OLD, 
 1704. THE AUTHOR THEN FORTY. 
 
 Lords, 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 fires, and look 
 The power they have to be obey'd. 
 
 Nor quality, nor reputation. 
 
 Forbid 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 rhymes some yoimger rival sends ; 
 
 She'll give me leave to write, I fear, 
 And we shall still continue friends. 
 
 M 
 
l62 Lyra Eleganiiarum. 
 
 For, as our different ages move, 
 
 'Tis so ordained, (would Fate but mend it !) 
 That I sliall be past making love. 
 
 When she begins to comprehend it 
 
 Matthew Prior. 
 
 AN ODE ON MISS HARRIET HAN BURY, SIX 
 YEARS OLD. 
 
 Why should I thus employ my time, 
 To paint those cheeks of rosy hue? 
 
 Why should I search my brains for rhyme. 
 To sing those eyes of glossy blue ? 
 
 The power as yet is all in vain. 
 
 Thy numerous charms, and various graces : 
 
 They only serve to banish pain. 
 And light up joy in parents' faces. 
 
 But soon those eyes their strength shall feel ; 
 
 Those charms their powerful sway shall find : 
 Youth shall in crowds before you kneel. 
 
 And own your empire o'er mankind. 
 
 Then, when on Beauty's throne you sit. 
 And thousands court your wlsh'd-for arms ; 
 
 My Muse shall stretch her utmost wit. 
 To sing the victories of your charms. 
 
 Charms that in time shall ne'er be lost. 
 At least while verse like mine endures : 
 
 And future Hanburys shall boast, 
 Of verse like mine, of charms like yours. 
 
 A little vain we both may be, 
 Since scarce another house can show, 
 
 A poet, that can sing like me ; 
 
 A beauty, that can charm like you. 
 
 Sir Charles H. Williams. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 163 
 
 CCXII. 
 
 A SONG UPON MISS HARRIET HANBURY, AD- 
 DRESSED TO THE REV. MR. BIRT. 
 
 Dear Doctor of St. Mary's, 
 In the hundred of 'Bergavenny, 
 I've seen such a lass, 
 With a shape and a face, 
 As never vi^as match'd by any. 
 
 Such wit, such bloom, and such beauty. 
 Has this girl of Ponty-Pool, Sir, 
 
 With eyes that vv^ould make 
 
 The toughest heart ache, 
 And the wisest man a fool, Sir. 
 
 At our fair t'other day she appear'd. Sir, 
 
 And the Welshmen all ilock'd and vlew'd hei ; 
 
 And all of them said, 
 
 She was fit t'have been made 
 A wife for Owen Tudor. 
 
 They would ne'er have been tired of gazing, 
 And so much her charms did please. Sir, 
 
 That all of them sat 
 
 Till their ale grew flat. 
 And cold was their toasted cheese. Sir. 
 
 How happy the lord of the manor, 
 That shall be of her possest. Sir ; 
 For all must agree. 
 Who my Harriet shall see. 
 She's a Harriet of the best. Sir. 
 
 Then pray make a ballad about her ; 
 We know you have wit if you'd show it. 
 Then don't be ashamed, 
 You can never be blamed, — 
 For a prophet is often a poet ! ' 
 
 But why don't Jfou make one yourself, then ? 
 I suppose I by you shall be told. Sir, 
 This beautiful piece 
 Of Eve's flesh is my niece — 
 And besides, she's but five years old. Sir 1 
 
164 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 But tho', my dear friend, she's no older, 
 In her face it may plainly be seen, Sir, 
 That this angel at five. 
 Will, if she's alive. 
 Be a goddess at fifteen. Sir. 
 
 Sir Charles H. Williams. 
 
 TO MY COUSIN ANNE BODBAM, 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 ; 
 1 therefore, as a proof of love. 
 Esteem thy present far above 
 
 The best things kept within it. 
 
 William Camper. 
 
 SKETCH OF A YOUNG LADY FIVE MONTHS 
 OLD. 
 
 My pretty, budding, breathing flower, 
 
 Methinlcs, if I to-morrow 
 Could manage, just for half an hour, 
 
 Sir Joshua's brush to borrow, 
 I might immortalise a few 
 
 Of all the myriad graces 
 Which Time, while yet they all are new, 
 
 With newfflr still replaces. 
 
Lyra EUgantiarum. 165 
 
 I'd paint, my child, your deep blue eyes. 
 
 Their quick and earnest flashes ; 
 I'd paint the fringe that round them lies. 
 
 The fringe of long dark lashes ; 
 I'd draw with most fastidious care 
 
 One eyebrow, then the other, 
 And that fair forehead, broad and fair, 
 
 The forehead of your mother. 
 
 I'd oft retouch the dimpled cheek 
 
 Where health in sunshine dances ; 
 And oft the pouting lips, where speak 
 
 A thousand voiceless fancies ; 
 And the soft neck would keep me long, 
 
 The neck, more smooth and snowy 
 Than ever yet in schoolboy's song 
 
 Had Caroline or Chloe. 
 
 Nor less on those twin rounded arms 
 
 My new-found skill would linger. 
 Nor less upon the rosy charms 
 
 Of every tiny finger ; 
 Nor slight the small feet, little one, 
 
 So prematurely clever 
 That, though they neither walk nor run, 
 
 I think they'd jump for ever. 
 
 But then your odd endearing ways — 
 
 What study e'er could catch them ? 
 Your aimless gestures, endless plays— 
 
 What canvas e'er could match them ? 
 Your lively leap of merriment. 
 
 Your murmur of petition, 
 Your serious silence of content, 
 
 Your laugh of recognition. 
 
 Here were a puzzling toil, indeed. 
 
 For Art's most fine creations ! — 
 Grow on, sweet baby ; we will need, 
 
 To note your transformations. 
 No picture of your form or face, 
 
 Your waking or your sleeping. 
 But that which Love shall daily trace. 
 
 And trust to Memory's keeping. 
 
1 66 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 Hereafter, wLen revolving years 
 
 Have made you tall and twenty, 
 And brought you blended hopes and fears, 
 
 And sighs and slaves in plenty, 
 May those who watch our little saint 
 
 Among her tasks and duties. 
 Feel all her virtues hard to paint. 
 
 As now we deem her beauties. 
 
 Winthrop M. Praed. 
 
 ccxv. 
 TO A GIRL IN HER THIRTEENTH YEAR. 
 
 Thy smiles, thy talk, thy aimless plays. 
 
 So beautiM approve thee, 
 So winning light are all thy ways, 
 
 I cannot choose but love thee. 
 Thy balmy breath upon my brow 
 
 Is like the summer air. 
 As o'er my cheek thou leanest now. 
 
 To plant a soft kiss there. 
 
 Thy steps are dancing toward the bound 
 
 Between the child and woman. 
 And thoughts and feelings more profound. 
 
 And other years are coming : 
 And thou shalt be more deeply fair 
 
 More precious to the heart. 
 But never canst thou be again 
 
 That lovely thing thou art ! 
 
 And youth shall pass, with all the brood 
 
 Of fancy-fed affection ; 
 And grief shall come with womanhood, 
 
 And waken cold reflection. 
 Thou'It learn to toil, and watch, and weep, 
 
 O'er pleasures unretuming, 
 Like one who waives from pleasant sleep 
 
 Unto the cares of morning. 
 
 Nay, say not so ! nor cloud the sun 
 
 Of joyous expectation, 
 Ordain'd to bless the little one — 
 
 The freshling of creation ! 
 
 Sidtiey Walker. 
 
Lyra Ehgantiarum. 167 
 
 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 this page's span, 
 But be correct and recollect 
 
 I'm not a single man. 
 
 Pray only think for pen and'in'K 
 
 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. 
 
 Scribblers unwed, with little head 
 
 May eke it out with heart, 
 And in their lays it often plays 
 
 A rare first-fiddle 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 must be vrfse 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 beat. 
 And I might dare as soon to swear 
 
 At you as at your feet. 
 
1 68 Lyra Elegantianim. 
 
 I cant 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. 
 
 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 voVd, and not allow'd 
 
 To flirt e'en wiUi your fan. 
 Here end, as just a friend, I must — 
 
 I'm not a single man. 
 
 Thomas Hood, 
 
 ccxvil. 
 
 VALENTINE. 
 
 To the Honble. M. C. Stanhope. 
 
 Haii., 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, yoimg and fair, 
 From Bethnal Green to Belgrave Square, 
 With cheeks high flush'd, 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 stiU good morrow, 
 Without one cloud of strife or sorrow. 
 
Lyra Elega7itiarum. ibg 
 
 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, 
 Benignant may his aspect be, 
 His yoke the 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 outstretch'd hand, 
 Majestic, thy great kinsman stand, 
 And half unbend 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 Bmssels veil, 
 The page on which those fingers white, 
 Still trembling from the awful rite, 
 For the last time shall faintly trace 
 The 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, Lord Macaiilay. 
 CCXVIII. 
 
 DIXIT, ET IN MENSAM—. 
 
 The scene is a pic-nic, and Mr. Joseph de Olapham ventures 
 to thin!: that his Jiancde, the lovely Bdgravima, is a little too 
 fast. 
 
 Now, don't look so glum and so sanctified, please, 
 For folks comme Ufaut, Sir, are always at ease ; 
 How dare you suggest that my talk is too free ? 
 H n' est jamais de mal en ban compagnie. 
 
'70 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 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, 
 R ft! est jamais de mai 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 mai en ion 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 ? 
 
 Jl n'est jamais de mai en bon compagnie. 
 
 " My grandmother would not " — O, would not, indeed ? 
 Just read Horace Walpole — Yes, Sir, I do read. 
 Besides, what's my grandmother's buckram to me ? 
 H n'est jamais de mai en bon compagnie. 
 
 " I said it before that old roud. Lord Gadde ; " 
 That's a story, he'd gon^: and what harm if I had ? 
 He has known me for years — from a baby of three. 
 n n'est jamoM de mat en bon compagnie. 
 
 You go to your Club (and this makes me so wild). 
 There you smoke, and you slander man, woman, and child ; 
 But /"m not to know there's such people as she — 
 
 II n'est jamais de mai en bon compagnie. 
 
 It's all my own fault ; the Academy, Sir, 
 You whispered to Philip, " No, no, it's not her. 
 Sir Edwin would hardly — " I heard, mon a/mi ; 
 n n'est jamais de rruU 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 mai en bon compagnie. 
 
 Oha/rles Shirley Brooks. 
 
Lyra Ble^antiarum, Tfi 
 
 When youthful faith hath fled. 
 
 Of loving take thy leave ; 
 Be constant to the dead — 
 
 The dead cannot deceive. 
 
 Sweet modest flowers of sprinj, 
 How fleet your balmy day ! 
 
 And man's brief year can bring 
 No secondary May. 
 
 No earthly burst again 
 Of gladness not of gloom « 
 
 Fond hope and vision vain. 
 Ungrateful to the tomb. 
 
 But 'tis an old belief 
 
 That on some solemn shore. 
 
 Beyond the sphere of grief, 
 i)ear friends shall meet once more. 
 
 Beyond the sphere of time, 
 And Sin and Fate's control. 
 
 Serene in endless prime 
 Of body and of soul. 
 
 That creed I fein would keep. 
 
 That hope I'll not forego, 
 Eternal be the sleep, 
 
 Unless to waken so. 
 
 John G. Lockhart. 
 
 ccxx. 
 
 THE FAIR THIEF. 
 
 Before the urchin well could go, 
 She stole the whiteness of the snow; 
 And more, — that whiteness to adorn. 
 She stole flie blushes of the mom : 
 Stole all the sweets that ether sheds 
 On primrose buds or violet beds. 
 
 Still, to reveal her artful wiles. 
 She stole the Graces' silken smiles : 
 
1 72 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 She stole Aurora's balmy breath, 
 And pilfer'd Orient pearl for teeth : 
 The cherry, dipt in morning dew. 
 Gave moisture to her lips and hue. 
 
 These were her infant spoils, a store 
 To which, in time, she added more ; 
 At twelve, she stole from Cyprus' queen 
 Her air and love-conmianding mienj 
 Stole Juno's dignity, and stole 
 From Pallas sense to charm the soul. 
 
 Ap^o's wit was next her prey. 
 Her next the beam that lights the day ; 
 She sung ; amazed the Syrens heard ; 
 And to assert their voice appear'd : 
 She pla/d ; the Muses from the hill 
 WondePd who thus had stole their slcUL 
 
 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. 
 
 Charles Wyndham, Earl of Egremont. 
 
 CCXXI. 
 
 EPITAPH. 
 A Husband to a Wife. 
 
 Thou wert too good to live on earth with me, 
 And I not good enough to die with thee. 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 No truer friend than woman man discovers. 
 So that they have not been, nor can be lovers. 
 
 Unknovm. 
 
Lyra Bltgantiarum. i73 
 
 Till death I Sylvia must adore ; 
 No time my freedom can restore ; 
 Her cruel rigour makes me smart, 
 Yet when I try to free my heart, 
 Straight all my senses take her part. 
 And when against the cruel maid 
 I call my reason lo my aid ; 
 By that, alas ! I plainly see 
 That nothing lovely is but she ; 
 And reason captivates me more 
 Than all my senses did before. 
 
 Unhnmrn,. 
 
 Treason doth never prosper — What's the reason ? 
 If it doth prosper, none dare call it treason. 
 
 Sir John Harrington. 
 
 None, without hope, e'er loved the brightest &ir, 
 But love can hope when reason would despair. 
 
 George, Lord Lyttelton. 
 
 ccxxvi. 
 To MADAME DE DAMAS LEARNING ENGLISH 
 
 THOtJGH British accents your attention fire. 
 You caimot leam so fast as we admire. 
 Scholars like you but slowly can improve. 
 For who would teach you but the verb " I love.'' 
 Horace WaJpole, Earl of Orford. 
 
 As lamps bum silent with unconscious light. 
 So modest ease in beauty shines most bright, 
 Unaiming charms with edge resistless fall. 
 And she who means no mischief does it all. 
 
 Aaron Hill. 
 
ly^ Lyra Elfgantiarum, 
 
 I LOVED thee, beautiful and kind, 
 And plighted an eternal vow; 
 
 So alter'd are thy face and mind, 
 'Twere perjury to love thee now. 
 
 Robert, Earl Nugenl. 
 
 To my ninth decade I have totter'd on, 
 
 And no soft arm bends now nny step to steady ; 
 She, who once led me where she would, is gone. 
 So when he calls me, Death shall find me ready. 
 
 Walter Savage Landor. 
 
 My heart still hovering round about you 
 I thought I could not live without you : 
 But since we ve been three months asunder, 
 How I lived with you is the wonder. 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 ON THE DISTINGUISHED SINGER, MISS 
 MARIA TREE. 
 
 On this Tree if a nightingale settles and sings, 
 The Tree will return her as good as she brings. 
 
 Henry Lvit/rdl. 
 
 CCXXXII. 
 
 ON SOUTHEY'S DEATH. 
 
 Friends ! hear the words my wandering thoughts would say, 
 And cast them into shape some other day ; 
 Southey, my friend of forty years, is gone. 
 And, shatter'd by the fall, I stand alone. 
 
 Walter Savage Landor, 
 
Lyra EUgantiarum, 175 
 
 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. 
 
 Matthmi Prior. (Prom Plato.) 
 
 ccxxxiv. 
 
 Myrtilla, early on the lawn. 
 Steals roses from the blushing dawn ; 
 But when Myrtilla sleeps till ten, 
 Aurora steals them back again ! 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 ON THE COLLAR OF A DOG PRESENTED BY 
 MR. POPE TO THE PRINCE OF WALES. 
 
 I AM liis Highness' dog at Kew ; 
 Pray, tell me, sir, whose dog are you ? 
 
 Alexander Pope. 
 
 ON THE GREEK SCHOLAR GOTTFRIED 
 HERMANN. 
 
 A Syllogism, with the Conclusioit suppressed. 
 
 The Germans in Greek 
 Are sadly to seek ; 
 Not five in five-score 
 But ninety-five more ; 
 All save only Hermann, 
 And — Hermann's a German. 
 
 Richard Parson. 
 
176 Lyra Ehgantiarum. 
 
 ccxxxvii. 
 AN EXPOSTULA TION. 
 
 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 down stairs ? 
 
 Bicherstaff. 
 
 CCXXXVIII. 
 
 JOB. 
 
 Sly Beelzebub took all occasions 
 To try Job's constancy and patience. 
 He took his honour, took his health ; 
 He took his children, took his wealth. 
 His servants, hoiseS, oien, cows, — 
 But cuiming Satan did not take his spouse. 
 
 But Heaven, that brings out good from evil. 
 
 And loves to disappoint the devil, 
 
 Had predetermined to restore 
 
 Twofold all he had before j 
 
 His servants, horses, oxen, cows — 
 
 Short-sighted devil, not to take his spouse ! 
 
 Samuel T. Coleridge. 
 
 Lord Erskine, on woman presuming to rail. 
 Calls a wife, a tin canister tied to one's tail ; 
 And fair Lady Anne, while the subject he carries on. 
 Seems hurt at his Lordship's degrading comparison. 
 But wherefore degrading ? consider'd aright, 
 A canister's polish'd, and useful, and bright : 
 And should dirt its original purity hide. 
 That's the fault of the puppy to whom it is tied. 
 
 Matthew O. Lewis, 
 
 CCXL. 
 
 COLOGMS. 
 
 In Kbln, a town of monks and bones, 
 
 And pavement fang'd with murderous stones, 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 177 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Samuel T. Coleridge, 
 
 CCXLI. 
 TO SLEEP. 
 
 Come, gentle sleep, attend thy votary's prayer, 
 And, tho' Death's image, to my couch repair ; 
 How sweet, tho' lifeless, yet with life to lie. 
 And without dying, O, how sweet to die ! 
 
 yohn Wolcot. 
 
 TO 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 ! 
 O come again, 
 Or send to us 
 Thy wits' great overplus ; 
 
 But teach us yet 
 Wisely to husband it, 
 Lest >ve that talent spend; 
 And having once brought to an end 
 That precious stock, the store 
 Of such a wit, the world should have no move. 
 Robert fferrick 
 
178 Lyra Elegantiarum, 
 
 CCXLIII. 
 THE DRAGON-FLY. 
 
 Life (priest and poet say) is but a dream ; 
 I wish no happier one than to be laid 
 Beneath some 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 I. 
 
 Thanks for this fancy, insect king. 
 Of purple crest and meshy 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 1 
 God pardon them, O insect king, 
 Who fancy so unjust a thing ! 
 
 Walter Savage Landor. 
 
 CCXLIV. 
 
 OJV A FLY DRINKING OUT OF HIS CUP. 
 
 Busy, curious, thirsty fly! 
 Drink with me, and drink as I. 
 Freely welcome to my ctfp, 
 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. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 179 
 
 Thine's a summer, mine no more, 
 Though repeated to threescore. 
 Threescore summers, when they're gone. 
 Will appear as short as one ! 
 
 William Oldys. 
 
 The Sages of old, 
 
 In prophecy told. 
 The cause of a nation's undoing ; 
 
 But our new English breed 
 
 No prophecies need. 
 For each one here seeks his own ruin. 
 
 With grambling and jars, 
 
 We promote civil wars. 
 And preach up false tenets to many ; 
 
 We snarl, and we bite. 
 
 We rail, and we fight 
 For Religion, yet no man has any. 
 
 Then him let's commend. 
 
 That is true to his friend. 
 And the Church, and the Senate would settle ; 
 
 Who delights not in blood. 
 
 But draws when he should. 
 And bravely stands brunt to the battle. 
 
 Who rails not at kings. 
 
 Nor at politick things. 
 Nor treason will speak when he's mellow : 
 
 But takes a full glass. 
 
 To his cotmtry's success ; 
 This, this is an honest, brave fellow. 
 
 Unknown, 
 
 Says Plato, why should man be vain 
 
 Since bounteous heaven has made him great? 
 
 Why look with insolent disdain 
 On those undecked \vith wealth or state ' 
 
l8o Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 Can splendid robes or beds of down, 
 
 Or costly gems to deck the fair, 
 Can all the glories of a crown 
 
 Give health, or ease the brow of care. 
 
 The sceptred king, the burthen'd slave, 
 
 The humble, and the haughty, die : 
 The rich, the poor, the base, the brave. 
 
 In dust without distinction lie ! 
 Go, search the tombs where monarchs rest. 
 
 Who once the greatest titles bore, — 
 The wealth and glory they possessed, 
 
 And all their honours, are no more ! 
 
 So glides the meteor through the sky, 
 
 And spreads along a gilded train ; 
 But when its short-lived beauties die. 
 
 Dissolves to common air again ; 
 So 'tis with us, my jovial souls ! 
 
 Let friendship reign while here we stay ; 
 Let's crown our joys with flowing bowls, 
 
 When Jove us calls we must away. 
 
 Unknmun. 
 
 With an honest old friend and a merry old song, 
 And a flask of old port, let me sit the night long. 
 And laugh at the malice of those who repine 
 That they must drink porter whilst I can drink wine. 
 
 I envy no mortal tho' ever so great. 
 Nor scorn I a wretch for his lowly estate ; 
 But what I abhor and esteem as a curse. 
 Is poorness of spirit, not poorness of purse. 
 
 Then dare to be generous, dauntless, and gay. 
 Let us merrily pass life's remainder away ; 
 Upheld by our friends, we our foes may despise. 
 For the more we are envied, the higher we rise. 
 
 Henry Carey. 
 
Lyra Elegaiitianim. i8i 
 
 CCXLVIII. 
 CAT as ADVICE. 
 
 What Cato advises most certainly wise is, 
 Not always to labour, but sometimes to play, 
 
 To mingle sweet pleasure with thirst after treasure. 
 Indulging at night for the toils of the day : 
 
 And while the dull miser esteems himself wiser 
 His bags to increase, while his health does decay. 
 
 Our souls we enlighten, our fancy we brighten, 
 And pass the long evenings in pleasure away. 
 
 All cheerful and hearty, we set aside party, 
 With some tender fair the bright bumper is crown'd ; 
 
 Thus Bacchus invites us, and Venus delights us, 
 While care in an ocean of claret is drown'd. 
 
 See here's our physician, — we know no ambition. 
 But where there's good wine and good company found ; 
 
 Thus happy together, in spite of all weather, 
 'Tis sunshine and summer with us all the year round 
 
 Henry Carey. 
 
 CCXLIX. 
 
 GOOD OLD THINGS. 
 
 In the days of my youth I've been frequently told, 
 
 That the best of good things are despised when they're old, 
 
 Yet I own, I'm so lost in the modes of this life, 
 
 As to prize an old friend, and to love an old wife ; 
 
 And the first of enjoyments, thro' life has been mine, 
 
 To regale an old friend with a flask of old wine. 
 
 In this gay world, new fashions spring up every day, 
 And to make room for them, still the old must give way ; 
 A new fav'rite at Court will an old one displace. 
 And too oft an old friend will put on a new face : 
 Yet the pride, pomp, and splendour of courts I'd resign. 
 To regale an old friend with a flask of old wine. 
 
l82 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 With old England, by some folks, great faults have been 
 
 found, 
 Tho' the/ve since found much greater on New England's 
 
 ground, 
 And the thief a new region transportedly hails. 
 Quitting Old England's coast for a trip to New Wales : 
 But such transporting trips, pleased with home, I'd decline, 
 To regale an old friend with a flask of old wine. 
 
 By the bright golden sun, that gives birth to the day, 
 Tho' as old as the globe which he gilds vrith his ray. 
 And the moon, which, tho' new, every month, as we're told. 
 Is the same sUver lamp near six thousand years old — 
 Could the lamp of my life last while sun and moon shine, 
 I'd regale an old friend with a flask of old wine. 
 
 John CoUiiis. 
 
 If all be true that I do think. 
 There are five reasons we shoiUd drink ; 
 Good wine— a friend — or being dry — 
 Or lest we should be by and by — 
 Or any other reason why. 
 
 jDr. Henry Aldrich. 
 
 CCLl. 
 
 ON BREAKING A CHINA QUART-MUG BE- 
 LONGING TO THE SOCIETY OF LINCOLN 
 COLLEGE, OXFORD. 
 
 Whene'er the cruel hand of death 
 
 Untimely stops a favourite's breath, 
 
 Muses in plaintive numbers tell 
 
 How loved he lived — how mouru'd he fell ; 
 
 Catullus wail'd his sparroV^ fate. 
 
 And Gray immortalised his cat. 
 Thrice tuneful bards! could I but chime so clever. 
 My quart, my honest quart, should live for ever. 
 
 How weak is all a mortal's power 
 T' avert the death-devoted hour I 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 183 
 
 Nor can a shape, or beauty save 
 
 From the sure conquest of the grave. 
 
 In vain the butler's choicest care, 
 
 The master's wish, the bursar's prayer ! 
 For vifhen hfe's lengthen'd to its longest span, 
 China itself must fall, as well as man. 
 
 Can I forget how oft my' quart 
 
 Has soothed my care, and warm'd my heart! 
 
 When barley lent its balmy aid. 
 
 And all its liquid charms display'd ! 
 
 When orange and the nut-brown toast 
 
 Swam mantling round the spicy coast ! 
 The pleasing depth I view'd with sparkling eyes, 
 Nor envied Jove the nectar of the skies. 
 
 The side-board, on that fatal day. 
 
 When you in glittering ruins lay, 
 
 Moum'd at thy loss — in guggling tone 
 
 Decanters poured out their moan — 
 
 A dimness hung on every glass — 
 • Joe wonder'd what the matter was — 
 Corks, self-contracted, freed the frantic beer, 
 And sympathising tankards dropt a tear. 
 
 Where are the flowery wreaths that bound 
 
 In rosy rings thy chaplets round? 
 
 The azure stars whose glittering rays 
 
 Promised a happier length of days ! 
 
 The trees that on thy border grew. 
 
 And blossom'd with eternal blue ! 
 Trees, stars, and flowers are scatter'd on the floor, 
 And all thy brittle beauties are no more. 
 
 Hadst thou been form'd of coarser earth, 
 Had Nottingham but given thee birth ! 
 Or had thy variegated side 
 Of Staiford's sable hue been dyed. 
 Thy stately fabric had been found. 
 Though tables tumbled on the ground. — 
 
 The finest mould the soonest will decay; 
 
 Hear this, ye fair, for you yourselves are clay ! 
 
 Unknown. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum, 
 
 THE COUNTRY WEDDING. 
 
 All you that e'er tasted of Swatfal-Hall beer, 
 Or ever cried " roast-meat" for having been there, 
 To crown your good cheer, pray accept of a catch, 
 Now Harry and Betty have struck up a match ! 
 
 Derry down, down, down, deny down ! 
 
 As things may fall out which nobody would guess. 
 So it happens that Harry should fall in with Bess : 
 May they prove to each other a mutual relief; 
 To their plenty of carrots, I wish 'em some beef! 
 
 Derry down, down, down, derry down ! 
 
 She had a great talent at roast-meat and boil'd, 
 And seldom it was that her pudding was spoil'd ; 
 Renown'd, too, for dumpling, and dripping-pan sop, 
 At handluig a dish-clout, and twirling a mop. 
 
 Derry down, down, down, derry down ! 
 
 To kitchen-stuff only her thoughts did aspire, 
 Vet wit she'd enough to keep out of the fire : 
 And though in some things she was short of the fox. 
 It is said, she had twenty good pounds in her box. 
 
 Deny down, down, down, derry down I 
 
 Now we've told you the bride's rare descent and estate, 
 'Tis fit that the bridegroom's good parts we relate : 
 As honest a ploughman as e'er held a plough, 
 As trusty a carter as e'er cried, "Ga-!io!" 
 
 Derry down, down, down, deny down ! 
 
 So lovingly he with his cattle agreed. 
 That seldom a lash for his whip he had need : 
 When a man is so gentle and kind to his horse. 
 His wife may expect that he'll not use her worse. 
 
 Derry down, down, down, derry do^vii 1 
 
 With industry he has collected the pence. 
 In thirty good pounds there's a great deal of sense. 
 And though he suspected ne'er was of a plot, 
 None yet in good-humour e'er called him a sot. 
 
 Derry down, down, down, derry down ! 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 1 85 
 
 For brewing we hardly shall meet with his fellow, 
 His beer is well hopt, clear, substantial, and mellow : 
 He brew'd the good liquor, she made the good cake, 
 And as they have brew'd even so let them bake. 
 
 Derry down, down, down, derry down ! 
 
 Your shoes he can cobble, she mend your old clothes, 
 And both are ingenious at darning of hose : 
 Then since he has gotten the length of her foot, 
 As they make their own bed, — so pray let them go to't. 
 Derry down, down, down, derry down! 
 
 Bid the lasses and lads to the merry brown bowl, 
 Whilst rashers of bacon shall smoke on the coal : 
 Then Roger and Bridget, and Robin and Nan, 
 Hit 'em each on the nose, with the hose, if ye can. 
 
 Derry down, down, down, derry down I 
 
 May her wheel and his plough be so happily sped. 
 With the best in the parish to hold up their head : 
 May he load his own waggon with butter and cheese. 
 Whilst she rides to market with turkeys and geese. 
 
 Derry down, down, down, derry down ! 
 
 May he be churchwarden, and yet come to church. 
 Nor when in his office take on him too much : 
 May she meet due respect, without scolding or strife. 
 And live to drink tea with the minister's wife 1 
 
 Derry down, down, down, derry down ! 
 
 Rejoice ye good fellows that love a good bit. 
 To see thus united the tap and the spit ; 
 For as bread is the staff of man's life, so you know 
 Good drink is the switch makes it merrily go. 
 
 Derry down, down, down, deny down ! 
 
 Then drink to good neighbourhood, plenty, and peace. 
 That our taxes may lessen, and weddings increase : 
 Let the high and the low, like good subjects, agree. 
 Till the courtiers, for shame, grow as honest as we. 
 
 Derry down, down, down, deny down ! 
 
 Let conjugal love be the pride of each swain. 
 
 Let tnie-hearted maids have no cause to complain : 
 
l86 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 To the Church pay her dues, to their Majesties honour, 
 And homage and rent to the lord of the manor. 
 
 Deny down, down, down, derry down ! 
 Unknown. 
 
 To hug yourself in perfect ease, 
 
 What would you wish for more than these? 
 
 A healthy, clean, paternal seat, 
 
 Well shaded from the summer's heat : 
 
 A little parlour-stove, to hold 
 A constant fire from winter's cold ; 
 Where you may sit and think, and sing, 
 Far off from Court—" God bless the King!" 
 
 Safe from the harpies of the law. 
 From party rage, and great man's paw ; 
 Have few choice friends to your own taste,— 
 A wife agreeable and chaste ; 
 
 An open, but yet cautious mind. 
 Where guilty cares no entrance find ; 
 Nor miser's fears, nor envy's spite. 
 To break the Sabbath of the night. 
 Plain equipage, and temperate meals, 
 Few tailor s, and no doctor's bills ; 
 Content to take, as Heaven shall please, 
 A longer or a shorter lease. 
 
 William Bedingfield. 
 
 CCLIV. 
 
 When I'm dead, on my tomb-stone I hope they will say ; 
 
 Here lies an old fellow, the foe of all care ; 
 With the juice of the grape he would moisten his clay, 
 And, wherever he went, frolic foUow'd him there. 
 With the young he would laugh. 
 With the old he would quaff, 
 
 And banish afar all traces of sorrow : 
 Old Jerome would say — 
 " Though the sun sinks to-day. 
 It is certain to rise up as gaily to-morrow." 
 
 Tho' the snows of old age now may whiten his brow. 
 It never by gloom was a moment o'ercast ; 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 187 
 
 His age, like the sunset that gleams on us now, 
 Chased away with its brightness the clouds to the last. 
 With the young he would laugh, 
 With the old he would quaff, 
 
 And banish afar all traces of sorrow : 
 Old Jerome would say — 
 " Tho' the sun sinlcs to-day, 
 It is certain to rise up as gaily to-morrow." 
 
 Samuel Beazley, 
 
 CCLV. 
 
 THE TOPERS APOLOGY. 
 
 I'm often ask'd by plodding souls. 
 
 And men of crafty tongue, 
 What joy I take in draining bowls. 
 
 And tippling aE night long. 
 Now, tho' these cautious Icnaves I scorn, 
 
 For once I'll not disdain 
 To tell them why I sit till mom, 
 
 And fill my glass again : 
 
 'Tis by the glow my bumper gives 
 
 Life's picture's mellow made ; 
 The fading light then brightly lives. 
 
 And softly sinks the shade ; 
 Some happier tint still rises there 
 
 With every drop I drain — 
 And that I think's a reason fair 
 
 To fill my glass again. 
 
 My Muse, too, when her wings are dry 
 
 No froHc flight will take ; 
 But round a bowl she'll dip and fly. 
 
 Like swallows round a lake. 
 Then if the nymph will have her share . 
 
 Before she'll bless her swain — 
 Why that I think's a reason fair 
 
 To fill my glass again. 
 
 In life I've rung all changes too, — 
 
 Run every pleasure dovrn, — 
 Tried all extremes of fancy through, 
 
 And lived with half the town ; 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 For me there's nothing new or rare, 
 Till wine deceives my brain — 
 
 And that I think's a reason fair 
 To fill my glass again. 
 
 Then, many a lad I liked is dead. 
 
 And many a lass grown old ; 
 And as the lesson strikes my head, 
 
 My weary heart grows cold. 
 But wine, awhile, drives off despair, 
 
 Nay, bids a hope remain — 
 And that I think's a reason fair 
 
 To fin my glass again. 
 
 Then, hipp'd and vex'd at England's state 
 
 In these convulsive days, 
 I can't endmre the ruin'd fate 
 
 My sober eye surveys ; 
 But, 'midst the bottle s dazzling glare, 
 
 I see the gloom less plain — . 
 And that I think's a reason fair 
 
 To fill my glass again. 
 
 I find too when I stint my glass. 
 
 And sit with sober air, 
 I'm prosed by some dull reasoning ass, 
 
 Who treads the path of care ; 
 Or, harder tax'd, I m forced to bear 
 
 Some coxcomb's fribbling strain — 
 And that I think's a reason fair 
 
 To fill my glass again. 
 
 Nay, don't we see Love's fetters, too. 
 
 With different holds entwine ? 
 While nought but death can some undo, 
 
 There's some give way to wine. 
 With me the lighter head I wear 
 
 The lighter hangs the chain — 
 And that I think a reason fair 
 
 To fin my glass again. 
 
 And now I'll tell, to end my song. 
 
 At what I most repine ; 
 This cursed war, or right or wrong. 
 
 Is war against all wine ; 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 189 
 
 Nay, Port, they say, will soon be rare 
 
 As juice of France or Spain — 
 And that I think's a reason fair 
 
 To fill my glass again. 
 
 Captain Charles Morris. 
 
 Farewell ! — ^but whenever you welcome the hour, 
 That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower, 
 Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too. 
 And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you. 
 His griefs may return, not a hope may remain 
 Of the few that have brightened his pathway of pain. 
 But he ne'er vidll forget the short vision, that threw 
 Its enchantment around him, while lingering with you. 
 
 And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up 
 
 To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup. 
 
 Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright. 
 
 My soul, happy fiiends, shall be with you that night : 
 
 Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles, 
 
 And return to me, beaming all o'er with your smiles — 
 
 Too blest, if it tells me that, 'mid the gay cheer, 
 
 Some kind voice had murmur'd, " I wish he were here !" 
 
 Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, 
 Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy; 
 Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care. 
 And bring back the features that joy used to wear. 
 Long, long be my heart with such memories fill'd ! 
 Like the vase, in which roses have once been distill'd — 
 You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you wUl, 
 But the scent of the roses will hang roimd it still. 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 CCLVIL 
 
 THE SHANDON BELLS. 
 
 With deep affection. 
 And recollection, 
 I often think of 
 Those Shandon bells. 
 
igo Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 Whose sounds so wild would. 
 In the days of childhood, 
 Fling round my cradle 
 
 Their magic spells. 
 On this I ponder 
 Whene'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 river 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 this music 
 
 Spoke nought like thine ; 
 For memory dwelling 
 On each proud swelling 
 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 
 
 From the Vatican, 
 And cymbals glorious 
 Swinging uproarious 
 In the gorgeous turrets 
 
 Of NdtreDame; 
 But thy sounds were sweeter 
 Than the dome of Peter 
 Flings o'er the Tiber, 
 
 Pealing solemnly; — 
 
Lyra EUgantianim. 191 
 
 ! the bells of Shandon 
 Sound far more grand on 
 The pleasant waters 
 
 Of the river Lee. 
 
 There's a bell in Moscow, 
 While on tower and kiosk O ! 
 In Saint Sophia 
 
 The Turkman gets ; 
 And loud in air 
 Calls men to prayer 
 From the tapering summit 
 
 Of tall minarets. 
 Such empty phantom 
 
 1 freely grant them ; 
 But there is an anthem 
 
 More dear to me, — 
 'Tis the bells of Shandon 
 That sound so grand on 
 The pleasant waters 
 
 Of the river Lee. 
 
 Frank Mahony. 
 
 CCLVIII. 
 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 suiTound me, 
 
 It hath springs that may be won. 
 
 Were't the last drop in the well. 
 
 As I gasp'd upon the brink, 
 Ere my fainting spirit fell, 
 , 'Tis to thee that I would drink. 
 
*92 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 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. 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 CCLIX. 
 
 In his last binn Sir Peter lies. 
 
 Who knew not what it was to frown : 
 Death took him mellow, by smrprise, 
 
 And in his cellar stopp'd him down. 
 Thro' 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 grac'd his board 
 
 Was there the freest of the free, 
 His bumper toast when Peter pour'd. 
 
 And pass'd 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 fimeral song, and passing bell. 
 
 To hear no sound but three times three. 
 Thomas L. Peacock. 
 
 CCLX. 
 
 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, thro' life's varied round. 
 In the goblet alone no deception is found- 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 193 
 
 I have tried in its turn all that life can supply ; 
 
 I have bask'd 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 as faithful as thou ? 
 
 The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange. 
 Friendship shifts with the sunbeam — thou never canst change ; 
 Thou grow'st old — who does not? — but on earth what ap- 
 pears, 
 Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its years ? 
 
 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 open'd 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. 
 
 Lm-d Byron. 
 
 CCLXI. 
 
 TO A LADY: SHE REFUSING TO CONTINUE A 
 DISPUTE WITH ME AND LEAVING ME IN 
 THE ARGUMENT. 
 
 Spare, gen'rous Victor, spare the slave, 
 
 Who did unequal war pursue ; 
 That more than triumph he might have, 
 
 In being overcome by you. 
 
ig4 Lyra Ekgantiarum. 
 
 In the dispute whate'er I said, 
 My heart was by my tongue belied ; 
 
 And in my looks you might have read 
 IIow much I argu'd on your side. 
 
 Vou, far from danger as from fear, 
 Might have sustain'd an open fight : 
 
 For seldom your opinions err ; 
 Your eyes are always in the right. 
 
 Why, fair one, would you not rely 
 
 On S.eason's force with Beauty's join'd ? 
 Could 1 their prevalence deny, 
 
 I must at once be deaf and blind. 
 Alas ! not hoping to subdue, 
 
 I only to the fight aspir'd : 
 To keep the beauteous foe in view 
 
 Was all the glory I desir'd. 
 But she, howe'er of vict'ry sure, 
 
 Contemns the wreath too long delay'd; 
 And arm'd with more immediate power. 
 
 Calls cruel silence to her aid. 
 Deeper to wound, she shuns the fight: 
 
 She drops her arms, to gain the field : 
 Secures her conquest by her flight. 
 
 And triumphs, when she seems to yield. 
 So when the Parthian turn'd his steed. 
 
 And from the hostile camp withdrew ; 
 With cruel skill the backward reed 
 
 He sent ; and as he fled, he slew. 
 
 Matthew Prior. 
 
 CCLXII. 
 
 LINES SUNG AT THE DINNER GIVEN TO 
 CHARLES KEMBLE WHEN HE RETIRED 
 FROM THE STAGE. 
 
 Farewell ! all good wishes go with him to-day. 
 Rich in name, rich in fame, he has play'd out the play. 
 Though the sock and the buskin for aye be removed 
 Still he serves in the train of the drama he loved. 
 We now who surround him, would make some amends 
 For past years of enjoyment — we court him as friends. 
 Our chief, nobly born, genius crown'd, our real shares, 
 O, his coronet's hid by the laurel he wears. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 195 
 
 Shall we never again see his spirit infuse 
 Life, life in the gay gallant forms of the Muse, 
 Through the lovers and heroes of Shakespeare he ran, 
 All the soul of a soldier, the heart of the man — 
 Shall we never in Cyprus his spirit retrace. 
 See him stroll into Anglers with indolent grace, 
 Or greet him in bonnet at fair Dunsinane — 
 Or meet hira in moonlight Verona again ! 
 
 Let the curtain come down. Let the scene pass away— 
 There's an autumn when summer has squander'd her day ; 
 We sit by the fire when we can't by the lamp, 
 And re-people the banquet, re-soldier the camp. 
 O, nothing can rob us of memory's gold : 
 And though he quit the gorgeous, and we may grow old. 
 With our Shakespeare in hand, and bright forms in ourbrain, 
 We can dream up our Siddons and Kembles again. 
 
 y. Hamilton Reynolds. 
 
 CCLXIII. , 
 
 SPECTATOR AB EXTRA. 
 
 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 pelfj 
 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. 
 
196 Lyra Elegantianim. 
 
 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 ; 
 While 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 ; voild, taut; of the fish 
 "Thsjilets desoU 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, Sauteme ; then Sherry ; Champagne, 
 Ere one bottle goes, comes another again ; 
 Fly up, thou bold cork, to the ceiling above. 
 And tell to our ears in the sound that we 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 s. poulet-au-riz. 
 
 Fish 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 M^doc ; 
 St. Peray is exquisite ; but, if you please. 
 Some Burgundy just before tasting the cheese. 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho 1 
 So pleasant it is to have money. 
 
 As for that, pass the bottle, and hang 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, 
 
tyra Elegantiarum. 197 
 
 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. 
 
 PARVENANT. 
 
 I cannot but ask, in the park and the streets. 
 When I look at the number of persons one meets, 
 Whate'er in the world the poor devils can do 
 Whose fathers and mothers can't give them a sous. 
 
 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 usefiil 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 ray way to good houses vrithout much ado. 
 Am beginning to see the nobility too. 
 
 So usefiil it is to have money, heigh-ho! 
 
 So useful it is to have money. 
 
 O dear what a pity they ever should lose it, 
 Since they are the people who 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 t 
 
 So needful it is to have money. 
 
 It is all very well to be handsome and tall. 
 Which certainly makes you look well at a ball. 
 It's all very welLto be clever and vritty, 
 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, 1 
 To know how to smile and be able to stare, 
 
igS Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 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 money. 
 
 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. 
 
 Arthur H. Clough. 
 
 CCLXIV. 
 
 THE GOLDEN FARMER. 
 
 While I'm blest with health and plenty, 
 
 Let me live a jolly, jolly dog ; 
 For as blythe as five-and-twenty, 
 
 Thro' the world I wish to jog. 
 
 As for greater folks or richer, — 
 
 While I pay both scot and lot. 
 And enjoy my friend and pitcher, 
 
 I've a kingdom in a cot ! 
 
 Flocks and herds in fields, all nigh too. 
 Com and clover, beans and pease. 
 
 And in hen yard, pond and stye too, 
 Pigs and poultry, ducks and geese. 
 
 While my farm thus cuts a dash too. 
 Poor folks daily labouring on't, 
 
 Who plough, sow, and reap, and thrash too, 
 I'll be thrash'd if they shall want. 
 
 He who sticks his knife in roast meat. 
 
 And for numbers has to carve, 
 May the churl the whipping-post meet, 
 
 If he stuffs — and lets them starve. 
 
 And when I, like Neighbour Squeezum, 
 Plot and scheme the poor to drain. 
 
 Or with Badger join, to fleece 'em. 
 Badger me for a rogue in grain. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 199 
 
 He for that who tills and cultures, 
 
 Now may laugh, but when Old Scratch 
 
 Spreads his net for sharks and vultures. 
 What a swarm he'll have to catch I 
 
 Heaps of grain then let them hoard up ; — 
 Heaps of wealth while they count o'er, 
 
 All the treasures I have stored up 
 Are the Blessings of the Poor ! 
 
 John CollvM. 
 
 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 j 
 
 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 crack'd fiddle in the air. 
 Which offends all sound morality. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 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. 
 
 Thonuu L, Peacock, 
 
 THE KISS. 
 
 Among thy fancies, tell me this, 
 What is the thing we call a kiss ! 
 I shall resolve you what it is. 
 
 It is a creatmre born and bred 
 Between the lips, all cherry-red, 
 By Love and warm desires fed. 
 
 And makes more soft the bridal bed. 
 
 It is an active flame, that flies 
 First to the babies of the eyes. 
 And charms them there with lullabies, 
 
 And stills the bride, too, when she cries. 
 
 Then to the chin, the cheek, the ear, 
 It frisks and flies, — now here, now Aere, 
 'Tis now far off, and then 'tis near. 
 
 And here, and there, and everywhere. 
 
 Has it a speaking virtue ? Yes. 
 How speaks it, say ? Do you but this, 
 Part your join'd lips, then speaks your kiss ; 
 And this Love's sweetest language is. 
 
 Has it a body ? Aye, and wings. 
 With thousands rare encolourings ; 
 And as it flies, it gently sings. 
 
 Love honey yields, but never stiiigs. 
 
 Robert Harrick. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 CCLXVII. 
 
 My love and I for kisses play'd ; 
 
 She would keep stakes, I was content ; 
 But when I won she would be paid, 
 
 This made me ask her what she meant; 
 Nay, since I see (quoth she) you wrangle in vain, 
 Take your own kisses, give me mine again. 
 
 William Strode. 
 CCLXVIII. 
 
 TO A KISS. 
 
 Soft child of Love — thou balmy bliss, 
 Inform me, O delicious Kiss ! 
 Why thou so suddenly art gone. 
 Lost in the moment thou art won ? 
 Yet, goffer wherefore should I sigh ? — 
 On Delia's lip, with raptured eye, 
 On Delia's blushing Up, I see 
 A thousand fiill as sweet as thee ! 
 
 John Wolcot. 
 
 CCLXIX. 
 
 ON A KISS. 
 
 Philosophers pretend to tell, 
 How like a hermit in his cell. 
 The soul within the brain does dwell : 
 But I, who am not half so wise, 
 Think I have seen't in Chloe's eyes, 
 Down to her lips from thence it stole, 
 And there I kiss'd her very soul. 
 
 Unknown. 
 CCLXX. 
 
 THE AUBURN LOCK. 
 
 Come, lovely lock of Julia's hair. 
 The gift of that bewitching fair, 
 Come, next my heart shalt thou be laid, 
 Thou precious little auburn braid ! 
 
!02 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 Of Julia's charms, O sacred part, 
 
 Thou'st drank the pure stream of her heart ; 
 
 Thou'st tended on my love's repose, 
 
 Thou'st kiss'd her fingers when she rose, 
 
 And, half concealing many a grace, 
 
 Giv'n added powers to that sweet face : 
 
 Oft, careless, o'er her shoulders flung, 
 
 Down her small waist redundant hung ; 
 
 And oft thy wanton curls have press'd. 
 
 And dared to kiss her snow-white breast ! 
 
 High favour'd lock ! O, thou shalt be 
 
 The dearest gift of life to me. 
 
 Come, next my heart shalt thou be laid. 
 
 Delightful little auburn braid ! 
 
 And art thou mine ? and did my fair 
 
 Intrust thee to her lover's care ? 
 
 What streams of bliss wilt thou impart, 
 
 Who drank the stream of Julia's heart! 
 
 O, thou shalt be the healing power 
 
 To soothe me in misfortune's hour. 
 
 And oft, beneath my pillow laid. 
 
 My soul in dreams will ask thine aid. 
 
 Thou shalt inspire with full delight 
 
 The fairest visions of the night ; 
 
 For thou, intrusive lock, hast spread 
 
 And wanton'd o'er my Julia's bed ; 
 
 Seen the sweet languish of her eyes, 
 
 Heard all her vrishes, all her sighs : 
 
 O, thou hast been divinely bless'd. 
 
 And pass'd' whole nights on Julia's breast 
 
 Come, then, dear lock of Julia's hair. 
 
 The gift of that enchanting fair. 
 
 Come, next my heart shalt thou be laid. 
 
 Delightful little auburn braid ! 
 
 Unkn<rwn. 
 
 CCLXXI. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF MR. ROBERT LEVET, A 
 PRACTISER IN PHYSIC. 
 
 Well tried thro' many a varying year. 
 See Levet to the grave descend, 
 
 Officious, innocent, sincere, 
 
 Of every friendless name the friend. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 203 
 
 In Misery's darkest cavein known. 
 
 His useful care was ever nigh, 
 Where hopeless Anguish pour'd his groan, 
 
 And lonely Want retired to die. 
 
 No summons mock'd by chill delay, 
 
 No petty gain disdain'd by pride, 
 The modest wants of every day, 
 
 The toil of every day supplied. 
 
 His virtues walked their narrow round, 
 
 Nor made a pause nor left a void : 
 And sure the Eternal Master found 
 
 The single talent well employ'd. 
 
 Samuel Johnson. 
 
 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 mom of May. 
 
 How oft he told me I was fair, 
 And, wove the garland for my hair • 
 How oft for Marian stript the bower, 
 To fill my lap with every ilower ! 
 
 No more his gifts of guile I'll wear, 
 But from my brow the chaplet tear ; 
 The crook he gave in pieces break, 
 And rend his ribbons from my neck. 
 
 How oft he vow'd a constant flame, 
 And carved on every oak my name ! 
 Blush, Colin, that the wounded tree 
 Is all that will remember me. 
 
 John Wplcot. 
 
204 Lyra Ekgantiatum. 
 
 SECRET LOVE. 
 
 I FEED a flame within, which so torments me, 
 That it both pains my heart, and yet contents me ; 
 'Tis such a pleasing smart, and I so love it. 
 That I had rather die, than once remove it. 
 
 Yet he for whom I grieve shall never know it. 
 My tongue does not betray, nor my eye show it ; 
 No sigh, and not a tear, my pain discloses. 
 For they fall silently like dew on roses. 
 
 Thus to prevent my love from being cruel. 
 My heart's the sacrifice, as 'tis the fiiel : 
 And while I suffer thus to give him quiet. 
 My faith rewards my love, though he deny it. 
 
 On his eyes will I gaze, and there delight me ; 
 While I conceal my love, no frown can fright me : 
 To be more happy I dare not aspire ; 
 Nor can I fall more low, mounting no higher. 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 ON LADY MARGARET FORDYCE. 
 
 A Fragment. 
 
 Mark'd you her cheek of roseate hue? 
 Mark'd you her eye of radiant blue ? — 
 That eye, in liquid circles moving ! 
 That cheek, abash'd at man's approving ! 
 The one Love's arrows darting round, 
 The other blushing at the wound. 
 Did she not speak, did she not move, 
 Now Pallas, — now the Queen of Love. 
 
 Rt. Hon. Richard B. Sheridan. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 205 
 
 CCLXXV. 
 
 You ask me, -dear Nancy, what makes me presume 
 That you cherish a secret affection for me ? 
 
 When we see the flowers bud, don't we look for the bloom ! 
 Then, sweetest ! attend while I answer to thee. 
 
 When we young men with pastimes the twilight beguile, 
 I watch your plump cheek till it dimples with joy : 
 
 And observe, that whatever occasions the smile, 
 You give me a glance ; but provokingly coy. 
 
 Last month, when wild strawberries, plucked in the grove. 
 Like beads on the tall seeded grass you had strung, 
 
 You gave me the choicest ; I hoped 'twas for love ; 
 And I told you my hopes while the nightingale sung. 
 
 Remember the viper : — 'twas close at your feet, 
 How you started, and threw yourself into my arms : 
 
 Not a strawberry there was so ripe nor so sweet 
 As the lips which I kiss'd, to subdue your alarms. 
 
 As I puU'd down the clusters of nuts for my fair, 
 
 What a blow I received from a strong-bending bough ; 
 
 Tho' Lucy and other gay lasses were there. 
 Not one of them show'd such compassion as you. 
 
 And was it compassion ? by Heaven 'twas more ! 
 
 A tell-tale betrays you ; — that blush on your cheek — 
 There come, dearest maid, all your trifling give o'er, 
 
 And whisper what candour will, teach you to speak. 
 
 Can you stain my fair honour with one broken vow ? 
 
 Can you say that I've ever occasion'd a pain? 
 .On truth's honest base let your tenderness grow ; 
 
 I swear to be faithful, again and again. ' 
 
 Robert Bloomfidd. 
 
 A RETROSPECT. 
 
 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 ; 
 
2o6 Lyra EUgantiarum. 
 
 How smiled, she but six years ago, 
 
 Heiself a chilJ, 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 her knee), 
 
 " Mamma ! who can that stranger be ? 
 
 How grave the smile he smiles on me ! " 
 
 Walter Saaige Liindor. 
 
 I ne'er could any Instie 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 nntouch'd by art ? 
 
 I will own their 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 e'en be certain then. 
 Till it grateful press again. 
 Must I with attentive eye. 
 Watch her heaving bosom agh ? 
 I will do so— when I see 
 That heaving bosom sigh for me. 
 
 Rt. Hon. Richard B. Sheridan. 
 
 CCLXXVIII. 
 
 TO HIS SON VINCENT CORBET. 
 
 What 1 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. 
 
Lyra Ekgantiarum. 207 
 
 Not 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 fether's fortune — 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 contentions days ; 
 
 And when thy soul and body part. 
 
 As innocent as now thou art. 
 
 Corbet. 
 
 THE HOURS. 
 
 Ne'ek were the 2^hyrs known disclosing 
 More sweets, than when in Tempe's shades 
 
 They waved the lilies, where reposing 
 Sat four-and-twenty lovely maids. 
 
 Those lovely maids were called "the Hours," 
 The charge of Virtue's flock they kept; 
 
 And each in turn employ'd her powers 
 To guard it while her sisters slept. 
 
 False Love, how simple souls thou cheatest ! 
 
 In myrtle 'jower that traitor near 
 Long watch'd an Hour — the softest, sweetest— 
 
 The evening Hour, to shepherds dear. 
 
 In tones so bland he praised her beauty. 
 Such melting airs his pipe could play ; 
 
 The thoughtless Hour forgot her duty, 
 And fled in Love's embrace away. 
 
 Meanwhile the fold was left unguarded ; 
 
 The wolf broke in, the lambs were slain ; 
 And now from Virtue's train discarded. 
 
 With tears her sisters speak their pain. 
 
2o8 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 Time flies, and still they weep ; for never 
 
 The fugitive can time restore ; 
 An Hour once fled, has fled for ever, 
 
 And all the rest shall smile no more ! 
 
 Matthew G. Leivis, 
 
 CCLXXX. 
 
 ROSE A YLMER. 
 
 Ah 1 what avails the sceptred race 1 
 
 Ah ! what the form divine 1 
 What every virtue, every grace ! 
 
 Rose Aylmer, all were thine. 
 
 Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes 
 
 May weep, but never see, 
 A night of memories and of sighs 
 
 I consecrate to thee. 
 
 Wcdtei- Savage Landor 
 
 A RING to me Cecilia sends — 
 
 And what to show 2— that we are friends ; 
 
 That she with favour reads my lays, 
 
 And sends a token of her praise ; 
 
 Such as the nun, vrith heart of snow, 
 
 Might on her Confessor bestow ; 
 
 Or which some favourite nymph would pay, 
 
 Upon her grandsire's natal day, 
 
 And to his trembling hand impart 
 
 The offering of a feeling heart. 
 
 And what shall I return the fair 
 
 And flattering nymph? — a verse ?— a prayer ?- 
 
 For were a Ring my present too, 
 
 I see the smile that must ensue ; — 
 
 The smile that pleases tho' it stings. 
 
 And says, " no more of giving rings : 
 
 Remember, thirty years are gone, 
 
 Old friend, since you presented one ! " 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 20g 
 
 Well ! one there is, or one shall be, 
 To give a ring instead of me ; 
 And with it sacred vows for life 
 To love the fair — the angel-wife : 
 In that one act may every grace, 
 And every blessing have their place — 
 And give to future hours the bliss, 
 The charm of life, derived from this : 
 And when even love no more supplies—- 
 
 When weary nature sinks to rest ; — 
 May brighter, steadier light arise. 
 
 And make the parting moment blest ! 
 
 George Crdbhc, 
 
 CCLXXXII. 
 PRAYER FOR INDIFFERENCE. 
 
 Oft I've implored the gods in vain, 
 
 And pra/d till I've been weary ; 
 For once I'll seek my wish to gain 
 
 Of Oberon, the fairy. 
 
 Sweet airy being, wanton sprite, 
 
 Who lurk'st in woods unseen ; 
 And oft by Cynthia's silver light, 
 
 Trip'st gaily o'er the gieen ; 
 
 If e'er thy pitying heart was moved, 
 
 As ancient stories tell ; 
 And for th' Athenian maid who loved, 
 
 Thou sought'st a wondrous spell j 
 
 O, deign once more t'exert thy power, — 
 
 Haply some herb or tree. 
 Sovereign as juice of western flower, 
 
 Conceals a balm for mfe. 
 
 I ask no kind return of love — 
 
 No tempting chaim to please ; 
 Far from the heart those gifts remove. 
 
 That sighs for peace and ease ! 
 
 Nor peace, nor ease, the heart can know. 
 
 That, like the needle true, 
 Turns at the touch of joy or woe ; 
 
 But, turning, trembles too. 
 
 P 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 Far as distress the soul can wound, 
 
 'Tis pain in eacli d^;ree : 
 'Tis bliss but to a certain bound ; — 
 
 Beyond is agony. 
 
 Then take this treacherous sense of mine^ 
 Which dooms me still to smart ; 
 
 Which pleasure can to pain refine, 
 To pain new pangs impart. 
 
 O haste to shed the sovereign balm, — 
 My shatter'd nerves new string : 
 
 And for my guest serenely calm. 
 The nymph Indi£ference bring ! 
 
 At her approach, see Hope, see Fear, 
 
 See Expectation fly ! 
 And Disappointment in the rear, 
 
 That blasts the promised joy. 
 
 The tear which pity taught to flow. 
 
 The eye shall then disown ; 
 The heart that melts for others' woe, 
 
 Shall then scarce feel its own. 
 
 The wounds which now each moment bleed. 
 Each moment then shall close ; 
 
 And tranquil days shall stiU succeed 
 To nights of calm repose. 
 
 O Faiiy Elf! but grant me this. 
 
 This one kind comfort send ; 
 And so may never-fading bliss 
 
 Thy flowery paths attend ! 
 
 So may the glow-worm's glinmiering light 
 
 Thy tiny footsteps lead 
 To some new region of delight. 
 
 Unknown to mortal tread ! 
 
 And be thy acorn goblet fill'd 
 With Heaven's ambrosial dew : 
 
 From sweetest, freshest flowers distill'd, 
 That shed fresh sweets for you ! 
 
Lyra EUgantiarum. 
 
 And wli«it of life remains for me, 
 
 I'll pass in sober ease ; 
 Half-pleased, contented wUl I be. 
 
 Content but half to please. 
 
 Mrs, Fanny Greuille. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 Life ! I know not what thou art, 
 But know that thou and I must part ; 
 And when, or how, or where we met, 
 I own to me's a secret yet. 
 
 Life ! we have been long together 
 Through pleasant and through cloudy weather ; 
 'Tis hard to part when friends are dear — 
 Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear ; — 
 Then steal away, give little warning, 
 
 Choose thine own time ; 
 Say not good night, — but in some brighter clime 
 
 Bid me good morning. 
 
 A. L. Barbauld, 
 
 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, Phcenix-like, beneath her eye, 
 Involved in fragrance, bum 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 j 
 You die with envy, I with love. 
 
 John Gay. 
 
12 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 CCLXXXV. 
 
 THE WHITE ROSE. 
 Sent by a Yorkist Gentleman to his Lancastrian Mistress, 
 
 If this fair rose offend thy sights 
 
 Placed in thy bosom bare, 
 'Twill blush to iSnd itself less white, 
 
 And turn Lancastrian there. 
 
 But if thy ruby lip it spy, — 
 
 As kiss it thou mayst deign, — 
 With envy pale 'twill lose its dye, 
 
 And Yorkist turn again. 
 
 Ascribed to JomKs SomervUle. 
 
 CCLXXXVI. 
 
 TO ASLEEP. 
 
 Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile. 
 
 Tho' shut so close thy laughing eyes. 
 Thy rosy lips still wear a smile. 
 
 And move, and breathe delicious sighs — 
 
 Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks. 
 
 And mantle o'er her neck of snow. 
 Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks 
 
 What most I wish — and fear to know. 
 
 She starts, she trembles, and she weeps ! 
 
 Her fair hands folded on her breast 
 And now, how like a saint she sleeps ! 
 
 A seraph in the realms of rest ! 
 
 Sleep on secure ! above control. 
 
 Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee ! 
 A.nd may the secret of thy soul 
 - Remain within its sanctuary 1 
 
 Samuel Rogers. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 213 
 
 CCLXXXVII. 
 
 TO A YOUNG LADY ON HER RECOVERY 
 FROM A FEVER. 
 
 Why need I say, Louisa dear ! 
 How glad I am to see you here, 
 
 A lovely convalescent ; 
 Risen from the bed of pain and fear, 
 
 And feverish heat incessant. 
 
 The sunny shov?ers, the dappled sky, 
 The little birds that vifarble high, 
 
 Their vernal loves commencing. 
 Will better welcome you than I 
 
 With their svi^eet influencing. 
 
 Believe me, vfhile in bed you lay. 
 Your danger taught us all to pray : 
 
 You made us grovr devouter ! 
 Each eye look'd up and seem'd to say, 
 
 How can we do without her 1 
 
 Besides, what vex'd us worse, we knew 
 They had no need of such as you 
 
 In the place where you were going ; 
 This world has angels all too few, 
 
 And Heaven is overflowing ! 
 
 Samuel T. Coleridge. 
 
 CCLXXXVIII. 
 
 TO A YOUNG LADY WHO HAD BEEN RE- 
 PROACHED FOR TAXING LONG WALJTS IN 
 THE COUNTRY. 
 
 Dear child of nature, let them rail ! — 
 There is a nest in a green dale, 
 
 A harbour and a hold ; 
 Where thou, a friend and wife, shalt see 
 Thy own heart-stirring days, and be ' 
 
 A light to young and old. 
 
214 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 There, healthy as a shepherd boy, 
 And treading among flowers of joy 
 
 Which at no season fade. 
 Thou, while thy babes around thee cling, 
 Shalt show us how divine a thing 
 
 A woman may be made. 
 
 Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die. 
 Nor leave thee, when grey hairs are nigh, 
 
 A melancholy slave ; 
 But an old age serene and bright. 
 And lovely as a Lapland night. 
 
 Shall lead thee to thy grave. 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 CCLXXXIX. 
 
 ON A TEAR. 
 
 Oh ! that the chemist's magic art 
 
 Could crystallize this sacred treasure ! 
 
 Long should it glitter near my heart, 
 A secret source of pensive pleasure. 
 
 The little brilliant, ere it fell. 
 
 Its lustre caught from Chloe's eye ; 
 
 Then, trembling, left its coral cell — 
 The spring of sensibility ! 
 
 Sweet drop of pure and pearly light ! 
 
 In thee the rays of Virtue shine ; 
 More calmly clear, more mildly bright, 
 
 Than any gem that gilds the mine. 
 
 Benign restorer of the soul ! 
 
 Who ever fly'st to bring reUef, 
 When first we feel the rude control 
 
 Of Love or Pity, Joy or Grief. 
 
 The sage's and the poet's theme, 
 In eveiy clime, in every age ; 
 
 Thou charm'st in Fancy's idle dream. 
 In Reason's philosophic page. 
 
Lyra EleganHarum. 215 
 
 That very law which moulds a tear, 
 
 And bids it trickle from its source, 
 That law preserves the earth a sphere, 
 
 And guides the planets in their course. 
 
 Samuel Rogers, 
 
 TO . 
 
 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. 
 
 O, 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. 
 
 Samuel Rogers. 
 ccxcx. 
 
 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 abandon'd 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 pretty joys. 
 Wanton in the change of toys, 
 Like the linnet green, in May 
 
2i6 Lyra Bkgantiarum. 
 
 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. 
 
 Ambrose Philipi. 
 
 ccxcii. 
 
 STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BETWEEN 
 FLORENCE AND PISA. 
 
 O, 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 svfeet tvifo-and-tvrenty 
 Are worth all your laurels, tho' 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? 
 
 0, 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. 
 
 Tho't chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee ; 
 Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee ; 
 When its spark led o'er aught that was bright in my story, 
 I knew it was love, and I felt It was glory. 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 
Lyra Elegantiariim. 217 
 
 TO-MORROW. 
 
 In the downhill of Ufe when I find I'm declining, 
 
 May my fate no less fortunate be, 
 Than a snug elbow-chair will aiford 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 bam 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, 
 rU 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 hiU ; 
 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 off this frail covering, 
 
 Which I've worn for threescore years and ten. 
 On the brink of the grave 111 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 fiirrow, 
 As this old worn-out stuff, which is threadbare to-day, 
 
 May become Everlasting To-morrow. 
 
 — Collins. 
 
2l8 Lyra Elegantiarum, 
 
 A WISH. 
 
 Mine be a cot beside the hill ; 
 
 A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear ; 
 A willowy brook, that turns a mill, 
 
 'With many a fall shall linger near. 
 
 The swallow, oft beneath my thatch. 
 Shall twitter from her clay-built nest ; 
 
 Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch. 
 And share my meal, a welcome guest 
 
 Around my ivied porch shall spring 
 
 Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; 
 
 And Lucy, at her wheel shall sing 
 In russet gown and apron blue. 
 
 The village church, among the trees, 
 
 Where first our martiage-vows were given. 
 
 With merry peals shall swell the breeze, 
 And point with taper spire to heaven. 
 
 Samud Rogers. 
 
 ccxcv. 
 
 THE POPLAR FIELD. 
 
 The poplars are fell'd, ferewell to the shade. 
 And &e whispering sound of the cool colonnade ; 
 The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves, 
 Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives. 
 
 Twelve years have elapsed since I last took a view 
 Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew; 
 And now in the grass behold they are laid. 
 And the tree is my seat, that once lent me a shade. 
 
 The blackbird has fled to another retreat. 
 Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat. 
 And the scene, where his melody charm'd me before. 
 Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 2I9 
 
 My fugitive years are all hasting away, 
 And I most ere long lie as lowly as they, 
 With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head. 
 Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead. 
 
 'Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can. 
 To muse on the perishing pleasures of man ; 
 Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments, I see. 
 Have a being less durable even than he. 
 
 William Cmvfer. 
 
 I KNEW by the smoke, that so gracefiilly curl'd 
 Above the green elms, that a cottage was near. 
 
 And I said, " if there's peace to be found in the world, 
 A heart that was humble might hope for it here ! " 
 
 It was noon, and on flowers that languish'd around 
 
 In silence reposed the voluptuous bee ; 
 Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound 
 
 But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech-tree. 
 
 And, "here in this lone little wood," I exdaim'd, 
 " With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye, 
 
 Who would blush when I praised her, and weep if I blamed, 
 How blest could I live, and how calm could I die ! 
 
 " By the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry dips 
 In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to recline, 
 
 And to know that I sigh'd upon innocent lips, 
 
 Which had never been sigh'd on by any but mine ! " 
 
 Thomas Moore, 
 
 AN ITALIAN SONG. 
 
 Dear is my little native vale, 
 
 The ringdove builds and murmurs there ; 
 Close to my cot she tells her tale 
 
 To every passing villager. 
 The squirrel leaps from tree to tree, 
 And shells his nuts at liberty. 
 
220 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 In orange-graves and myrtle-bowers, 
 That breathe a gale of fragrance round, 
 
 I charm the fairy-footed hours 
 With my loved lute's romantic sound j 
 
 Or crowns of living laurel weave, 
 
 For those that win the race at eve. 
 
 The shepherd's horn at break of day, 
 The ballet danced in twilight glade, 
 The canzonet and roundelay 
 
 Sung in the silent green-wood shade ; 
 These Simple joys, that never fail. 
 Shall bind me to my native vale. 
 
 Samtul Rogers. 
 CCXCVIII. 
 
 SOMETHING CHILDISH BUT VERY NATURAL. 
 
 If I had but two little wings. 
 And were a little feathery bird. 
 
 To you I'd fly, my dear ! 
 But thoughts like these are idle things. 
 
 And I stay here. 
 
 But in my sleep to you I fly : 
 I'm always with you in my sleep. 
 
 The world is iiS. one's o^vn. 
 But then one wakes, and where am I ? 
 
 All, all alone. 
 
 Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids : 
 Sol love to wake ere break of day : 
 For tho' my sleep be gone. 
 Yet, while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids. 
 And still dreams on. 
 
 Samuel T. Coleridge. 
 
 ccxcix. 
 
 THE POETS NEW-YEARS GIFT. 
 
 To Lady Throckmortott. 
 
 Maria ! I have every good 
 
 For thee wish'd many a time. 
 Both sad, and in a cheerful mood. 
 
 But never yet in rhyme. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 To wish thee fairer is no need, 
 More prudent or more sprightly, 
 
 Or more ingenious, or more freed 
 From temper-flaws unsightly. 
 
 What favour then not yet possess'd. 
 
 Can I for thee require, 
 In wedded love already bless'd 
 
 To thy whole heart's desire ? 
 
 None here is happy but in part : 
 
 Full bliss is bliss divine ; 
 There dwells some wish in every heart. 
 
 And doubtless one in thine. 
 
 That wish, on some fair future day, 
 Which Fate shall brightly gild,. 
 
 ('Tis blameless, be it what it may) 
 I wish it all fiUfiU'd. 
 
 William Cowfcr. 
 
 ccc. 
 
 TO A LADY. 
 
 'Tis not the lily brow I prize. 
 
 Nor roseate cheeks nor sunny eyes, — 
 
 Enough of lilies and of roses ! 
 A thousand fold more dear to me 
 
 The look that gentle love discloses, — 
 That look which Love alone can see. 
 
 Samuel T. Coleridge 
 
 ccci. 
 
 TO HESTER SAVORY. 
 
 When maidens such as Hester die, 
 Their place we may not well supply. 
 Though we 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. 
 
Lyra El^atUiarum. 
 
 A springy motion in her gait, 
 
 A riang step, did indicate 
 
 Of pride and jor no common late 
 
 That flnshVl her sjnrit : 
 I know not by what name beside 
 I shall it call ; if 'twas not pride, 
 It was a joy to that allied 
 
 She diid inherit. 
 
 Her parents held the Qnaker mle 
 Which doth the human feeling cool; 
 Bat die was brain'd in Nature's schocd. 
 
 Natnre had blest her. 
 A waking eye, a prying mind, 
 A heart that stirs, is hard to bind ; 
 A hawk's keen sght ye cannot blind. 
 
 Ye conld not Hester. 
 
 My sprightly neigfabonr ! gone before 
 To that nnimown and silent shore. 
 Shall we not meet, as heretofore 
 
 ^ome summer n]jOining'~~ 
 Whoi from thy cheerfiil eyes a ray 
 Hath struck a bliss npon the day, 
 A bliss that would not go away, 
 
 A sweet fore-warning ! 
 
 Charles Lamb. 
 
 Mt lilla gave me yestermom 
 A rose, methinks in Eden bom. 
 And as she gave it, little elf! 
 She blo^'d like any rose heisd£ 
 Hien said I, fidl of tenderness, 
 
 " Since this sweet rose I owe to yon. 
 Dear girl, why may I not possess 
 
 The loreiier Rose that gare it too ? " 
 
 Unbimim. 
 
Lyra EbgBniuimai, 223 
 
 occm. 
 
 MARGARET AXD DORA. 
 
 MAiGAijn's beanteoQS — Grecian aits 
 
 Xe*er diew fonn completer, 
 Yet why, in my heart of hearts. 
 
 Hold I Dora's sweeter ? 
 
 Dora's eyes of heavenly bine 
 
 Pass all pamfings' reach. 
 Ringdove's notes are discord to 
 
 The nmsic of her speedi. 
 
 Aitisls ! Margaret's smile leceive, 
 
 And on canvas show it ; 
 But foi perfect woisiiip leave 
 
 Dora to her poet. 
 
 Thomas Campbell. 
 CCCIT. 
 
 CLEMENTINA AND LUCILLA. 
 
 Ik Clementina's aitles mien, 
 Lacilla asks me what I see. 
 And are the roses of sixteen 
 
 Enou^fiirme? 
 
 Lacilla asks, if that be all. 
 
 Have I not coU'd as sweet before— 
 Ah, yes, Lacilla ! and their fall 
 
 I still deplore. 
 
 I now behold another scene. 
 
 Where Fleasore beams with heaven's own light. 
 More pore, more constant, more serene. 
 And not less blight. 
 
 Faith on iriiose breast the Loves repose. 
 
 Whose chain of flowers no force can sever. 
 And Modesty, who when she goes. 
 Is gone for ever. 
 
 Wtdter Saxage Landor. 
 
2*4 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 cccv. 
 
 DEAR FANNY. 
 
 " She has beauty, but still you must keep your heart cool ; 
 She has wit, but you mustn't be caught so : " 
 Thus Reason advises, but Reason's a fool. 
 And 'tis not the first time I have thought so, 
 
 Dear Fanny, 
 'Tis not the first time I have thought so. 
 
 " She is lovely ; then love her, nor let the bliss fly ; 
 'Tis the charm of youth's vanishing season ; " 
 Thus Love has advised me, and who will deny 
 That Love reasons much better than Reason, 
 
 Dear Fanny ? 
 Love reasons much better than Reason. 
 
 Thomas Moore, 
 
 CCCVI. 
 
 TO LADY ANNE HAMILTON. 
 
 Too late I stay'd ! forgive the crime. 
 
 Unheeded new the hours ; 
 How noiseless falls the foot of Time, 
 
 That only treads on flowers ! 
 
 What eye with clear account remarks 
 
 The ebbing of his glass, 
 When all its sands are diamond sparks, 
 
 That dazzle as they pass ? 
 
 Ah ! who to sober measurement 
 
 Time's happy swiftness brings, 
 When birds of Paradise have lent 
 
 Their plumage for his wings ? 
 
 Honble. William R. Spemtr. 
 
Lyra Elegantianim. 325 
 
 THE JUDGMENT OF THE POETS. 
 
 Two n3nnphs, both nearly of an age, 
 Of numerous charms possess'd, 
 
 A warm dispute once chanced to wage, 
 Whose temper was the best. 
 
 The worth of each had been complete 
 
 Had both alike been mild : 
 But one, altho' her smile was sweet, 
 
 Frown'd oftener than she smiled. 
 
 And in her humour, when she frown'd. 
 Would raise her voice, and roar. 
 
 And shake with fiiry to the ground 
 The garland that she wore. 
 
 The other was of gentler cast. 
 
 From all such frenzy clear. 
 Her frowns were seldom known to last. 
 
 And never proved severe. 
 
 To poets of renown in song 
 The nymphs referr'd the cause. 
 
 And, strange to teU, all judged it wrong-. 
 And gave misplaced appfiuse. 
 
 They gentle caU'd, and kind and soft, 
 
 The flippant and the scold. 
 And tho' she changed her mood so oft 
 
 That felling left untold. 
 
 No judges, sure, were e'er so mad. 
 
 Or so resolved to err — 
 In short, the charms her sister had 
 
 They larish'd all on her. 
 
 Then thus the god, whom fondly they 
 
 Their great inspirer call, 
 Was heard, one genial summer's day, 
 
 To reprimand them all. 
 
326 Lyra El^ntiarum. 
 
 " Since thus ye have combined," he said, 
 " My fav'rite nymph to slight, 
 
 Adoming May, that peevish maid, 
 With June's undoubted right ; 
 
 The minx shall, fcr your folly's sake. 
 
 Still prove herself a shrew, 
 Shall make your scribbling fingers ache, 
 
 And pinch your noses blue.' 
 
 IVilliam Cowper, 
 
 CCCVIII. 
 TffE MERMAID TA VERN. 
 
 Souls of Poets dead and gone. 
 What Elysium have ye known, 
 Happy field or mossy cavern, 
 Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ? 
 Have ye tippled drink more fine 
 Than mine host's Canary wine ? 
 Or are fruits of Paradise 
 Sweeter than those dainty pies 
 Of Venison ? O generous food ! 
 Drest 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 signboard 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 I 
 
Lyra EUgantiarum. 227 
 
 Souls of Poets dead and gone, 
 What Elysium have ye known — 
 Happy field or mossy cavern — 
 Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 EPITAPH UPON THE YEAS 1806. 
 
 'Tis gone, with its thorns and its roses. 
 With the dust of dead ages to mix; 
 
 Time's chamel for ever encloses 
 
 The year Eighteen hundred and six ! 
 
 Though many may question thy merit, 
 
 I duly thy dirge will perform, 
 Content, if thy heir but inherit 
 
 Thy portion of sunshine and storm ! 
 
 My blame and my blessing thou sharest, 
 For black were thy moments in part, 
 
 But O ! thy fair days were the fairest 
 That ever have shone on my heart. 
 
 If thine was a gloom the completest 
 
 That death's darkest cypress could throw. 
 
 Thine, too, was a garland the sweetest 
 That life in full blossom could show ! 
 
 One hand gave the balmy corrector 
 Of ills which the other had brew'd ; 
 
 One draught of thy chalice of nectar 
 All taste of thy bitters subdued. 
 
 'Tis gone, with its thorns and its roses ! 
 
 With mine tears more precious will mix. 
 To hallow this midnight which closes. 
 
 The year Eighteen hundred and six. 
 
 Honhle. William R. Spencer. 
 
228 Lyra Elegantiarnm. 
 
 MINERVA'S THIMBLE. 
 
 Young Jessica sat all the day, 
 
 With heart o'er idle love-thoughts pining ; 
 Her needle bright beside her lay, 
 
 So active once ! — now idly shining. 
 Ah, Jessy, 'tis in idle hearts 
 
 That love and mischief are most nimble ; 
 The safest shield against the darts 
 
 Of Cupid, is Minerva's thimble. 
 
 The child, who with a magnet plays, 
 
 Well knowing all its arts, so wily. 
 The tempter near a needle lays. 
 
 And laughing, says, " we'U steal it slily." 
 The needle, having nought to do. 
 
 Is pleased to let the magnet wheedle, 
 Till closer, closer come the two. 
 
 And off, at length, elopes the needle. 
 
 Now, had this needle tum'd its eye 
 
 To some gay reticule's construction. 
 It ne'er had stray'd from duty's tie, 
 
 Nor felt the magnet's sly seduction. 
 Thus, girls, would you keep quiet hearts. 
 
 Your snowy fingers must be nimble ; 
 The safest shield against the darts 
 
 Of Cupid, is Minei-va's thimble. 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 cccxi. 
 
 DM OBSERVING SOME NAMES OF LITTLE 
 NOTE RECORDED IN THE BIOGRAPHIA 
 BRTTANNICA. 
 
 Oh, fond attempt to give a deathless lot 
 To names ignoble, born to be forgot ! 
 In vain, recorded in historic page. 
 They court the notice of a future age : 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 229. 
 
 These twinkling tiny lustres of the land 
 Drop one by one from Fame's neglecting hand ; 
 Lethsean gulfs receive them as they fall, 
 And dark oblivion soon absorbs them all. 
 
 So when a child, as playful children use, 
 Has bum'd to tinder a stale last year's news. 
 The flame extinct, he views the roving fire — 
 There goes my lady, and there goes the squire ! 
 There goes the parson, oh, illustrious spark ! 
 And there, scarce less illustrious, goes the clerk ! 
 
 William Cowper 
 
 <:ccxii. 
 
 A DREAM OF HINDOSTAN. 
 
 RisuM teneatis, amid? — 
 
 " The longer one lives the more one learns," 
 
 Said I, as off to sleep I went, 
 Bemused with thinking of tithe concerns, 
 And reading a book by the Bishop of Ferns, 
 
 On the Irish Church Establishment. 
 But, lo ! in sleep not long I lay, 
 
 When Fancy her usual tricks began, 
 And I found myself bewitch'd away 
 
 To a goodly city of Hindostan — 
 A city, where he, who dares to dine 
 
 On aught but rice, is deem'd a sinner ; 
 Where sheep and kine are held divine. 
 
 And accordingly — never drest for dinner. 
 
 " But how is this ? " I wondering cried, 
 As I walked that city, fair and wide. 
 And saw in every marble street, 
 
 A row of beautiful butchers' shops — 
 " What means, for men who don't eat meat, 
 
 This grand display of loins and chops? " 
 In vain I ask'd-=-'twas plain to see 
 That nobody dared to answer me. 
 
 So, on, from street to street I strode ; 
 And you can't conceive how vastly odd 
 
230 Lyra Blegantiarum. 
 
 The butchers look'd — a roseate crew, 
 Inshrined in staXlt with nought to do ; 
 While some on a henib,, half dozing, sat, 
 And the Sacred Cows were not more fat. 
 
 Still posed to think what all this scene 
 
 Of sinecure trade was rneant to mean, 
 
 " And pray," asked I, "by whom is paid 
 
 The expense of this strange masquerade ? V — 
 
 " The expense ! Oh, that's of course defray'd," 
 
 Said one of these well-fed Hecatombers, 
 
 " By yonder rascally rice-consumers." — 
 
 "What! «Aey, who mustn't eat meat!" — " Np matter ' 
 
 (And while he spoke his cheeks grew fatter), 
 
 " The rogues may munch their Paddy crop, 
 
 But the rogues must still support ov/r shop. 
 
 And, depend upon it, the way to treat 
 
 Heretical stomachs that thus dissent. 
 Is to burthen all that won't eat meat 
 
 With a costly Mtat Msiablishment." 
 
 On hearing these words so gravely said. 
 With a volley of laughter loud I shook ; 
 
 And my slumber fled, and my dream was sped. 
 
 And I found I was lying snug in bed, 
 
 With my nose in the Bishop of Perns's book. 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 When Love came first to earth, the Spring 
 Spread rose-beds to receive him, 
 
 And back he vow'd his flight he'd wing 
 To Heaven, if she should leave him. 
 
 But Spring departing, saw his faith 
 Pledged to the next new comer — 
 
 He revell'd in the warmer breath 
 And richer bowers of Summer. 
 
Lyra EUgantiarum. 231 
 
 Then sportive Autumn claim'd by rights 
 
 An Archer for her lover, 
 And even in Winter's dark cold nights 
 
 A charm he could discover. 
 
 Her routs and balls, and fireside joy. 
 
 For this time were his reasons — 
 In short, young Love's a gallant boy, 
 
 That likes all times and seasons. 
 
 Thomas Campbell. 
 
 When the black-letter'd list to the gods was presented, 
 (The list of what Fate for each mortal intends) 
 
 At the long string of ills a kind goddess relented, 
 And slipt in three blessings— wife, children, and friends. 
 
 In vain surly Pluto maintain'd he was cheated. 
 For justice divine could not compass her ends ; 
 
 The scheme of man's penance he swore was defeated, 
 
 For earth becomes heaven with vrife, children, and friends 
 
 If the stock of our bliss is in stranger hands vested. 
 The fund ill-secured oft in bankruptcy ends ; 
 
 But the heart issues bills which are never protested 
 
 When dravm on the firm of Wife, Cliildren, and Friends. 
 
 Though valour still glows in his life's waning embers, 
 The death- wounded tar who his colours defends. 
 
 Drops a tear of regret as he dying remembers 
 
 How blest was his home with vrife, children, and friends. 
 
 The soldier, whose deeds live immortal in story, 
 
 Whom duty to far distant latitudes sends. 
 With transport would barter whole ages of glory 
 
 For one happy day with wife, children, and friends. 
 
 Though spice-breathing gales o'er his caravan hover, 
 Though roimd him Arabia's whole fragrance ascends. 
 
 The merchant still thinks of the woodbines that cover 
 The bower where he sat with wife, children, and friends. 
 
 The day-spring of youth, still unclouded by sorrow, 
 
 Alone on itself for enjoyment depends ; 
 But drear is the twihght of age If it borrow 
 
 No warmth from the smiles of wife, children, and friends, 
 
23* Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 Let the breath of Renown ever freshen and cherish , 
 The laurel which o'er her dead favourite bends. 
 
 O'er me wave the willow ! and long may it flourish 
 Sedew'd with the tears of wife, children, and friends. 
 
 Let us drink — for my song, growing graver and graver. 
 
 To subjects too solemn insensibly tends ; 
 Let us drink — pledge me high — Love and Virtue shall flavour 
 
 The glass which I fill to wife, children, and friends. 
 
 HoMe. WiUiam E. Spencer. 
 cccxv. 
 THE OLD STORY OVER AGAIN. 
 
 When I was a maid. 
 
 Nor of lovers afraid. 
 My mother cried, " Girl, never listen to men.'- 
 
 Her lectures were long, 
 
 But I thought her quite wrong, 
 And said I, " Mother, whom should I listen to, then? " 
 
 Now teaching, in turn. 
 
 What I never could learn, 
 I find, like my mother, my lessons all vain ; 
 
 Men ever deceive, — 
 
 Silly maidens believe. 
 And stifl 'tis the old story over again. 
 
 So himibly they woo. 
 
 What can poor maidens do 
 But keep them alive when they swear they must die ! 
 
 Ah ! who can forbear. 
 
 As they weep in despair. 
 Their crocodile tears in compassion to dry ? 
 
 Yet, wedded at last, 
 
 Wl en the honeymoon's past, 
 The lovers forsake us, the husbands remain; 
 
 Our vanity's check'd. 
 
 And we ne'er can expect 
 They will tell us the old story over again. 
 
 James Kenny. 
 
Lyra El^antiarum. 233 
 
 - cccxvi. 
 THE GIRL OF CADIZ. 
 
 O, NEVER talk again to me 
 
 Of northern climes and British ladies ; 
 It has not been your lot to see, 
 
 Like me, the lovely girl of Cadiz. 
 Altho' her eyes be not of blue, 
 
 Nor fair her locks, like English lasses', 
 How fer its own expressive hue 
 
 The languid azure eye surpasses ! 
 
 Prpmetheus-like from Heaven she stole 
 
 The fire that thro' those silken lashes 
 In darkest glances seems to roll, 
 
 From eyes that cannot hide their flashes ; 
 And as along her bosom steal 
 
 In lengthen'd flow her raven tresses. 
 You'd swear each clustering lock could feel, 
 
 And curl'd to give her neck caresses. 
 
 Our English maids are long to woo. 
 
 And frigid even in possession ; 
 And if their charms be fair to view, 
 
 Their lips are slow at Love's confession ; 
 But, bom beneath a brighter sun. 
 
 For love ordaiu'd the Spanish maid is. 
 And who, — when fondly, fairly won — 
 
 Enchants you like the girl of Cadiz ? 
 
 The Spanish maid is no coquette. 
 
 Nor joys to see a lover tremble ; 
 And if she love, or if she hate, 
 
 Alike she knows not to dissemble. 
 Her heart can ne'er be bought or sold — 
 
 Howe'er it beats, it beats sincerely; 
 And, tho' it will not bend to gold, 
 
 'Twin love you long, and love you dearly, 
 
 The Spanish girl that meets your love 
 Ne'er taunts you with a mock denial ; 
 
 For every thought is bent to prove 
 Her passion in the hour of trial. 
 
234 Lyra Ehganttarum. 
 
 When thronging foemen menace Spain 
 She dares the deed and shares the danger ; 
 
 And should her lover press the plain, 
 She hurls the spear, her love's avenger. 
 
 And when beneath the evening star, 
 
 She mingles in the gay Bolero ; 
 Or sings to her attuned guitar 
 
 Of Christian knight or Moorish hero ; 
 Or coimts her beads with fairy hand 
 
 Beneath the twinkling rays of Hesper ; 
 Or joins devotion's choral band 
 
 To chant the sweet and hallow'd vesper : 
 
 In each her charms the heai-t must move 
 
 Of all who venture to behold her : 
 Then let not maids less fair reprove, 
 
 Because her bosom is not colder ; 
 Thro' many a clime 'tis mine to roam 
 
 Where many a soft and melting maid is, 
 But none abroad, and few at home, 
 
 May match the dark-eyed girl of Cadiz. 
 
 Lord ByroK. 
 
 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. 
 Tho' Wisdom oft has sought me, 
 I scom'd the lore she brought me, 
 
 My only books 
 
 Were woman's looks. 
 And folly's all they taught me. 
 
 Her smile when Beauty granted, 
 I hung with gaze enchanted. 
 
 Like him the sprite 
 
 Whom maids by night 
 Oft meet in glen that's haunted. 
 Like him, too. Beauty won me ; 
 But when the spell was on me, 
 
 If once their ray 
 
 Was turned away, 
 O I winds could not outrun me. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 235 
 
 And are those follies going 1 
 And is my proud heart growing 
 
 Too cold or wise 
 
 For brilliant eyes 
 Again to set it glowing ? 
 No — vain, alas ! th' endeavour 
 From bonds so sweet to sever; — 
 
 Poor Wisdom's chance 
 
 Against a glance 
 Is now as weak as ever. 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 If I freely may discover 
 
 What would please me in my lover, 
 
 I would have her faire and wittie, 
 
 Savouring more of court than cittie ; 
 
 A little proud, but full of pittie : 
 
 Light and humorous in her toying, 
 
 Oft building hopes, and soone destroying. 
 
 Long but sweet in the enjoying, 
 
 Neither too easie, nor too hard. 
 
 All extremes I would have barr'd. 
 
 She should be allow'd 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 onely constant when I crave her. 
 'Tis a virtue should not save her. 
 Thus, nor her delicates would cloy me. 
 Neither her peevishnesse annoy me. 
 
 Bern, Jonson. 
 
236 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 cccxix. 
 
 TO MR. HODGSON. 
 
 From on hoard the Lisbon Packet. 
 
 Huzza ! Hodgson, 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 ; 
 Sailors swearing, women screammg, 
 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 comer for a mouse 
 'Scapes unsearch'd 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— O lord! " 
 " Sick, ma'am, hang it, you'll be sicker 
 Ere you've been an hour on board." 
 Thus are screaming 
 Men and women, 
 Gcmmen, 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 reach'd her, lo ! the Captain, 
 Gallant Kidd commands the crew ; 
 
 Passengers their berths are clapt in, 
 Some to grumble — some to spew. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 237 
 
 ' ' 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." 
 "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 ? 
 
238 Lyra Elegantianim. 
 
 Some good wine ! and who would lack it, 
 Even on board the Lisbon Packet? 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 cccxx. 
 KITTY OF COLERAINE. 
 
 As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping, 
 With a pitcher of milk from the fair of Coleraine, 
 
 When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher it tumbled, 
 And all the sweet butter-milk water'd the plain. 
 
 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, O, 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 Idid leave her. 
 She vow'd for such pleasure she'd break it agam. 
 
 'Twas hay-malcing 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. 
 
 Sdwiird Lysaght. 
 
 cccxxi. 
 
 T/f£ CONTRAST. 
 
 In London I never know what I'd be at. 
 Enraptured with this, and enchanted vnth 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 I 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. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum, 239 
 
 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. 
 
 In London, if folks ill together are put, 
 A-bore may be dropt, and a quiz may be cut ; 
 We change without end ; and if lazy or ill, 
 AH wants are at hand, and all wishes at will. 
 
 In the country you're nail'd, like a pale in the park, 
 To some stick of a neighbour that's cramm'd in the ark ; 
 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-humour'd delight. 
 And we rattle, in comfort, to pleasure at night. 
 
 In the country, how sprightly ! our visits we make 
 Through ten niiles 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 Xx)ndon 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 we go to bed ; 
 And as to that old-fashion'd 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 1 
 
240 Lyra EUgantiarum. 
 
 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 drawled 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 tho', 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 links to my chain. 
 
 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, O ! 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 tiousand to cure. 
 
 I know love's a devil, too subtle to spy, 
 
 That shoots through the soiil, 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 ! 
 
 Captain Charles Morrii 
 
 CCCXXII. 
 
 CHRISTMAS OUT OF TOWN. 
 
 For many a winter in Billiter-lane, 
 
 My wife, Mrs. Brown, was not heard to complain' ; 
 
 At Christmas the family met there to dine 
 
 On beef and plum-pudding, and turkey and chine. 
 
Lyra Eleganiiarum. 241 
 
 Our bark has now taken a contrary heel, 
 My wife has found out that the sea is genteel. 
 To Brighton we duly go scampering down, 
 For nobody now spends his Christmas in Town. 
 
 Our register-stoves, and our crimson-baized doors, 
 Our weather-proof walls, and our carpeted floors. 
 Our casements well fitted to stem the north wind, 
 Our arm-chair and sofa, are all left behind. 
 We lodge on the Steyne, in a bow-window'd box. 
 That beckons up-stairs every Zephyr that knocks ; 
 The sun hides his head, and the elements frown, — 
 But nobody now spends his Christmas in Town. 
 
 In Billiter-lane, at this mirth-moving time. 
 
 The lamp-lighter brought us his annual rhyme, 
 
 The tricks of Grimaldi were sure to be seen, 
 
 We carved a twelfth-cake, and we drew king and queen ! 
 
 These pastimes gave oil to Time's round-about wheel. 
 
 Before we began to be growing genteel ; 
 
 'Twas all very well for a cockney or clown. 
 
 But nobody now spends his Christmas in Town. 
 
 At Brighton I'm stuck up in Donaldson's shop, 
 Or walk upon bricks till I'm ready to drop ; 
 Throw stones at an anchor, look out for a skiff. 
 Or view the Chain- pier from the top of the Cliff : 
 Till winds from all quarters oblige me to halt. 
 With an eye full of sand, and a mouth full of salt. 
 Yet still I am suffering with folks of renown. 
 For nobody now spends his Christmas in Town. 
 
 In gallop the winds, at the full of the moon. 
 And puff up the carpet like Sadler's balloon ; 
 My drawing-room rug is besprinkled vrith soot. 
 And there is not a lock in the house that will shut. 
 At Mahomet's steam-bath I lean on my cane. 
 And murmur in secret,— " Oh, Billiter-lane !" 
 But would not express what I think.for a crown. 
 For nobody now spends his Christmas in Town.' 
 
 The Duke and the Earl are no cronies of mine, 
 His Majesty never inviles me to dine ; 
 The Marquis won't speak when we meet on the pier, 
 Which makes me suspect that I'm nobody here. 
 
 B 
 
242 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 If that be the case, why then welcome again 
 Twelfth-cake and snap-dragon in Billiter-lane. 
 Next winter I'll prove to my dear Mrs. Brown, 
 That Nobody now spends his Christmas in Town. 
 
 James Smith. 
 
 cccxXiii. 
 
 LINES LEFT AT MR. THEODORE HOOK'S 
 HOUSE IN JUNE, 1834. . 
 
 As Dick and I 
 
 Were a-sailing by 
 At Fulham bridge, I cock'd my eye, 
 
 And says I, " Add-zooks ! 
 
 There's Theodore Hook's, 
 Whose Sayings and Doings make such pretty books. 
 
 " I wonder," sajrs I, 
 
 Still keeping my eye 
 On the house, " if he's in — I should like to try ;" 
 
 With his oar on his knee. 
 
 Says Dick, says he, 
 " Father, suppose you land and see !" 
 
 " What land and sea," 
 
 Says I to he, 
 " Together ! why Dick, why how can that be ? " 
 
 And my comical son. 
 
 Who is fond of fun, 
 I thought would have split his sides at the pun. 
 
 So we rows to shore. 
 
 And knocks at the door — 
 When William, a man I've seen often before, 
 
 Makes answer and says, 
 
 " Master's gone in a chaise 
 Call'd a homnibus, drawn by a couple of bays." 
 
 So I says then, 
 " Just lend me a pen : " 
 " I will, sir," says William, politest of men ; 
 So having no card, these poetical brayings, 
 Are the record I leave of my doings and sayings, 
 Richard H, Barhant. 
 
Lyra EUganiiarum. 243 
 
 CCCXXIV. 
 
 JENNY KISSD ME. 
 
 Jenny kiss'd 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 j 
 
 Say that health and wealth have miss'd me ; 
 Say I'm growing old, but add — 
 
 Jenny kiss'd me ! 
 
 Leigh Hunt, 
 
 cccxxv. 
 THE HONEYMOON. 
 
 Serene and tranquil was the night. 
 The night that closed the simimer day, 
 
 And brilliant was the moon and bright 
 And soft and tender was her ray. 
 
 How like our loves, the husband cried, 
 
 As on his arm Louisa hung ; 
 Louisa was but just a bride, 
 
 And both were fond and both were young. 
 
 This moon how like our love, my dear. 
 He said, and clasp'd her round the waist, 
 
 'Tis pure and perfect and sincere, 
 Tender and true and warm and chaste. 
 
 Time flew — the youthful pair again 
 
 Enjoyed at eve the stilly vale. 
 The moon still shone, but in her wane. 
 
 Her form less round, her face more pale. 
 
 This too is like our love — my queen, 
 For tho' less radiant and less bright, 
 
 Yet still o'er all this sylvan scene 
 She sheds a mild and pleasing light. 
 
244 Lyra Eltgantiarum, 
 
 Louisa gently bow'd her head, 
 
 And yet a sigh escaped her breast, 
 Perhaps the fnir one would have said, 
 She liked the first bright moon the best. 
 
 Unknown. 
 CCCXXVI. 
 
 LESBIA ON HER SPARROW. 
 
 Tell me not of joy : there's none 
 Now my little sparrow's gone ; 
 He, just as you 
 Would toy and woo. 
 He would chirp and flatter me, 
 He would hang the wing awhile. 
 Till at length he saw me smile, 
 Lord, how sullen he would be ! 
 
 He would'Catch a crumb, and then 
 Sporting let it go again, 
 He from my lip 
 Would moisture sip. 
 He would from my trencher feed, 
 Then would hop, and then would run. 
 And cry " Philip " when h' had done, 
 O whose heart can choose but bleed ? 
 
 O, how eager would he fight ! 
 And ne'er hurt tho' he did bite : 
 No mom did pass 
 But on my glass 
 He would sit, and mark, and do 
 What I did : now ruffle all 
 His feathers o'er, now let 'em fall. 
 And then straightway sleek 'em too. 
 
 Whence will Cupid get his darts 
 Feather'd now to pierce our hearts ? 
 A wound he may, 
 Not love convey. 
 Now this faithful bird is gone. 
 O let mournful turtles join 
 With loving red-breasts, and combine 
 To sing dirges o'er his stone. 
 
 WWam Cartwright. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum, 245 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF MATZEL, A FAVOURITE 
 BULLFINCH. 
 
 Try not, my Stanhope, 'tis in vain, 
 To stop your tears, to hide your pain, 
 
 Or check your honest rage ; 
 Give sorrow and revenge their scope, 
 My present joy, your future hope, 
 
 Lies murderd in his cage.' 
 
 Matzel's no more ! ye Graces, Loves, 
 Ye linnets, nightin^es, and doves, 
 
 Attend th' untimely bier ; 
 Let every sorrow be express'd. 
 Beat with your wings each mournful breast. 
 
 And drop the nat'ral tear. 
 
 For thee, my bird, the sacred Nine, 
 Who loved thy tuneful notes, shall join 
 
 In thy funereal verse ; 
 My painfcl task shall be to write 
 Th' eternal dirge which they indite. 
 
 And hang it on thy hearse. 
 
 In height of song, in beauty's pride. 
 By fell Grimalkin's claws he died — 
 
 But vengeance shall have way. 
 On pains and tortures I'll refine ; 
 Yet, Matzel, that one death of thine 
 
 His nine vrill ill repay. 
 
 In vain I loved, in vain I mourn 
 My bird, who never to return. 
 
 Is fled to happier shades. 
 Where Lesbia shall for him prepare 
 The place most charming and most fair 
 
 Of all the Elysian glades. 
 
 There shall thy notes in cypress grove 
 Soothe wretched ghosts that died for love 
 There shall thy plaintive strain 
 
246 Lyra Elegantiarum, 
 
 Lull impious Phaedra's endless grief, 
 To Procris yield some short relief, 
 And soften Dido's paiiu 
 
 Till Proserpine by chance shall hear 
 Thy notes, and make thee all her care. 
 
 And love thee with my love ; 
 While each attendant's soul shall praise 
 The .matchless Matzel's tuneftil lays, 
 
 And all his songs approve. 
 
 Sir Charles H. Williams. 
 
 cccxxvni. 
 
 OtT THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CAT, 
 DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLD FISHES. 
 
 '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 j and purr'd applause. 
 
 StUl had she gazed; but midst the tide 
 Two angel forms were seen to glide. 
 
 The genii of the sti-eam : 
 Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue 
 Through richest purple to the view 
 
 Betray'd a golden gleam. 
 
 The hapless nymph with wonder saw : 
 A whisker first, and then a claw. 
 
 With many an ardent wish, 
 She stretch'd, in vain, to reach the prize, 
 What female heart can gold despise ? 
 
 Wliat cat's averse to fish ? 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 247 
 
 Presumptuous maid ! with looks intent 
 Again she stretch'd, again she bent, 
 
 Nor knew the gulf between. 
 (Malignant Fate sat by, and smiled.) 
 The slippery verge her feet beguiled 
 
 She tumbled headlong in. 
 
 Eight times emerging from the flood 
 She mew'd to every watery god. 
 
 Some speedy aid to send. 
 No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd : 
 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. 
 
 Thomas Gray, 
 
 ON A GOLDFINCH STARVED TO DEATH IN 
 HIS CAGE. 
 
 Time was when I was free as air, 
 The thistle's downy seed my fare. 
 
 My drink the morning dew; 
 I perch'd at will on every spray. 
 My form genteel, my plumage gay, 
 
 My strains for ever new. 
 
 Sut gaudy plumage, sprightly strain. 
 And form genteel, were all in vain. 
 
 And of a transient date ; 
 For caught, and caged, and starved to death, 
 In dying sighs my little breath 
 
 Soon pass'd the wiry grate. 
 
 Thanks, gentle swain, for all my woes, 
 And thanks for this eifectual close 
 And cure of every ill ! 
 
248 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 More cruelty could none express ; 
 
 And I, if you had shown me less, 
 
 Had been your prisoner still. 
 
 William Ccrwper. 
 
 THE FAITHFUL BIRD. 
 
 The greenhouse is my summer seat ; 
 My sbjubs displaced from that retreat 
 
 Enjo/d the open air; 
 Two goldfinches, whose sprightly song 
 Had been their mutual solace long, 
 
 Lived happy prisoners there. 
 
 They sang as blithe as finches sing, 
 That flutter loose on golden wing. 
 
 And frolic where they list ; 
 Strangers to Uberty, 'tis true. 
 But that delight they never knew, 
 
 And therefore never miss'd. 
 
 But nature works in every breast, 
 
 Instinct is never quite suppress'd ; 
 And Dick felt some desires. 
 Which, after many an effort vain, 
 Instructed him at length to gain 
 A pass between his wires. 
 
 The open windows seem'd t' invite 
 The freeman to a farewell flight ; 
 
 But Tom was still confined ; 
 And Dick, although his way was clear. 
 Was much too generous and sincere. 
 
 To leave his friend behind. 
 
 For, settling on his grated roof. 
 
 He chirp'd and kiss'd him, giving proof 
 
 That he desired no more ; 
 Nor would forsake his cage at last 
 Till gently seized I shut him fast, 
 
 A prisoner as before. 
 
Lyra Eleguntiarum. 249 
 
 O ye, who never knew the joys 
 Of Friendship, satisfied with noise, 
 
 Fandango, ball, and rout ! 
 Blush, when I tell you how a bird, 
 A prison with a friend preferr'd 
 
 To liberty without. 
 
 William Cmuper. 
 
 EPITAPH ON A HARE. 
 
 Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue. 
 Nor swUter greyhound follow. 
 
 Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew, 
 Nor ear heard huntsman's halloo. 
 
 Old Tiney, surliest of his kind. 
 Who, nursed with tender care, 
 
 And to domestic bounds confined. 
 Was stUl a wild Jack-hare. 
 
 Though duly from my hand he took 
 
 His pittaiice 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 regal'd. 
 
 On pippins' russet peel. 
 And, when his juicy salads fail'd. 
 
 Sliced carrot pleas'd him well. 
 
 A Turkey carpet was his lawn. 
 
 Whereon he lov'd 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. 
 
250 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 Eight years and five round-rolling moons 
 
 He thus saw steal away, 
 Doang out all his idle noons, 
 
 And every night at play. 
 
 I kept him for his humour's sake, 
 
 For he would oft beguile 
 My heart of thoughts that made it ache. 
 
 And force me to a smile. 
 
 But now beneath his walnut shade 
 He finds his long last home. 
 
 And waits, in snug concealment laid. 
 Till gentler Puss shall come. 
 
 He, stai more aged, feels the shocks, 
 From which no care can save. 
 
 And, partner once of Tiney's box. 
 Must soon partake his grave. 
 
 William Cowper. 
 
 CCCXXXII. 
 
 TO A KITTEN. 
 
 Wanton droll, whose harmless play 
 
 B^;uiles 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 fa^ot glows, 
 
 Who, bending to the fiiendly light, 
 
 PUes her task with busy sleight ; 
 
 Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces, 
 
 Thus circled round with merry iaxxs. 
 
 Backward coil'd and crouching low. 
 With glaring eye-balls watch thy foe, — 
 The housewife's spindle whirling roimd. 
 Or thread or straw, that on the ground 
 Its shadow throws, by urchin sly 
 Held out to lure thy roving eye ; 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 251 
 
 Then onward stealing, fiercely spring 
 
 Upon the fiitile faithless thing. 
 
 Now, wheeling round with bootless skill, 
 
 Thy bo-peep taU provokes thee stiU, 
 
 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, 
 Who every hmb and sinew strains 
 To do what costs thee little pains ; 
 For which, I trow, the gaping crowd 
 Requite him oft with praises loud. 
 But, stopp'd 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 Icindness glides 
 Along thy back and tabby sides. 
 Dilated swells thy glossy fiir 
 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 imsteady gleam 
 Hath roused him from his moody dream. 
 Feels, as thou gambol'st round Ms seat, 
 His heart of pride less fiercely beat, 
 And smiles, a link in thee to find, 
 That joins it still to living kind. 
 
Lyra Elegantiantm. 
 
 Whence hast thou, then, thou witless puss I 
 
 The magic power to chann us thus ? 
 
 Is it that in thy glaring eye 
 
 And rapid movements, we descry — 
 
 Whilst we at ease, secure from ill. 
 
 The chimney comer snugly fill, — 
 
 A lion darting on its prey, 
 
 A tiger at his ruthless play? 
 
 Or is it that in thee we ti-ace 
 
 With all thy varied wanton grace, 
 
 An emblem, view'd with kindred eye. 
 
 Of tricksy, restless infancy ? 
 
 All I many a lightly sportive child, 
 
 Who hath like thee our wits beguiled, 
 
 To dull and sober manhood grown. 
 
 With strange recoil our hearts disown. 
 
 And so, poor kit ! must thou endure. 
 When thou becom'st a cat demure. 
 Full many a cuff and angry word, 
 Chas'd roughly from the tempting board. 
 But yet, for that thou hast, I ween. 
 So oft our favour'd playmate been. 
 Soft be the change which thou shalt prove. 
 When time hath spoil'd thee of our love. 
 Still be thou deenrd by housewife fat 
 A comely, careful, mousing cat, 
 Whose dish is, for the public good, 
 Replenished oft with savouiy food. 
 Nor, when thy span of life is past, ■ 
 Be thou to pond or dung-hill cast, 
 But gently borne on goodman's spade, 
 Beneath the decent sod be laid ; 
 And -children show vrith glistening eyes 
 The place where poor old pussy lies. 
 
 Joanna Baillie. 
 CCCXXXIII. 
 
 EPITAPH ON A ROBIN-REDBREAST. 
 
 Tread lightly here, for here, 'tis said, 
 When piping vrinds are hush'd around, 
 A small note wakes from underground. 
 
 Where now his tiny bones are laid. 
 
Lyra EUgantiarum. 253 
 
 No more in lone and leafless groves, 
 
 With raffled wing and faded breast, 
 His friendless, homeless spirit roves ; 
 
 — Gone to the world where birds are blest ! 
 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 ! 
 
 Samuel Rogers, 
 
 cccxxxiv. 
 
 THE COLUBRIAD. 
 
 Close by the threshold of a door naii'd fast 
 
 Three kittens sat ; each kitten looked aghast. 
 
 I, passing swift and inattentive by. 
 
 At the three kittens cast a careless eye ; 
 
 Not much concerned to know what they did there ; 
 
 Not deeming kittens worth a poet's care. 
 
 But presently a loud and furious hiss 
 
 Caus'd me to stop, and to exclaim, " What's tliis?" 
 
 When lo ! upon the threshold met my view, 
 
 With head erect, and eyes of fiery hue, 
 
 A viper, long as Count de Grasse's queue. 
 
 Forth from his head his forked tongue he throws. 
 
 Darting it full against a kitten's nose ; 
 
 Who, never having seen, in field or house. 
 
 The like, sat still and silent as a mouse ; 
 
 Only projecting, with attention due. 
 
 Her whisker'd face, she asked him, " Who are you?" 
 
 On to the hall went I, with pace not slow. 
 
 But swift as lightning, for a long Dutch hoe : 
 
 With which well arm'd I hasten'd to the spot, 
 
 To find the viper, but I found him not. 
 
 And, turning up the leaves and shrubs around, 
 
 Found only that he was not to be found. 
 
 But still the kittens, sitting as before. 
 
 Sat watching close the bottom of the door. 
 
 " I hope," said I, " the villain I would kill 
 
 Has slipt between the door and the door-sill ; 
 
 And if I make despatch, and follow hard. 
 
 No doubt but I shall find him in the yard :" 
 
254 Lyra Ehgantianim. 
 
 For long ere now it should have been reheais'd, 
 'Twas in the garden that I found him first. 
 E'en there I found him, there the fiill-grown cat 
 His head, with velvet paw, did gently pat ; 
 As curious as the kittens erst had been 
 To leam what this phenomenon might mean. 
 Fill'd with heroic ardour at the sight. 
 And fearing every moment he would bite, 
 And rob our household of our only cat 
 That was of age to combat with a rat ; 
 With outstretch'd hoe I slew him at the door. 
 And taught him never to come there no more. 
 
 William Cowper. 
 
 cccxxxv. 
 
 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 weatlier : 
 Look up — your brains b^in 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 bustle and the rareeshow 
 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 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 25: 
 
 He sees that this great roundabout, 
 The world, widi 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 Jhe vanities of men ; 
 
 And, sick of having seen 'em, 
 Would cheerfiiUy these limbs resign 
 For such a pair of wings as thine. 
 
 And such a head between 'em. 
 
 William Cowper. 
 
 cccxxxvi. 
 
 THE WALTZ. 
 
 Behold with downcast eyes and modest glance. 
 In measured step, a well-dress'd pair advance. 
 One hand on hers, tfae'other on her hip, 
 ♦ ♦ * * 
 
 For thus the law's ordain'd by Baron Trip. 
 'Twas in such posture our first parents moved. 
 When hand in hand thro' Eden s bowers they roved. 
 Ere yet the devU, with practice foul and false, 
 Tum'd their poor heads, and taught them how to waltz. 
 Rt. Honbh. Richard B. Sheridan. 
 
 CCCXXXVII. 
 
 AN EPLSTLE TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 
 
 Dear JosEPH-^five and twenty years ago — 
 Alas, how time escapes ! — 'tis even so — 
 With frequent intercourse, and always sweet. 
 And always friendly, we were wont to cheat 
 A tedious hour — and now we never meet ! 
 As some grave gentleman in Terence says 
 ('Twas therefore much the same in ancient days). 
 Good lack, we know not what to-morrow brings — ■ 
 Strange fluctuation of all human things I 
 
256 Lyra Elegantiaruvt, 
 
 True. Changes will befall, and friends may part. 
 But distance only cannot change the heart : 
 And, were I call'd to prove th assertion true, 
 One proof should serve — a reference to you. 
 
 Whence comes it then, that in the wane of life, 
 Though nothing have occurr'd to kindle strife, 
 We find the friends we fancied we had won, 
 Though num'rous once, reduced to few or none? 
 Can gold grow worthless, that has stood the touch ? 
 No ; gold they seem'd, but they were never such. 
 
 Horatio's servant once, with bow and cringe, 
 Swinging the parlour-door upon its hinge, 
 Dreading a negative, and overaw'd 
 Lest he should trespass, begg'd to go abroad. 
 Go, fellow I — whither? — turning short about — 
 Nay. Stay at home — you're always going out. 
 'Tis but a step, sir, just at the street's end. — 
 For what? — An please you, sir, to see a friend. — 
 A friend 1 Horatio cried, and seem'd to start- 
 Yea many shalt thou, and with all my heart. — 
 And fetch my cloak ; for, though the night be raw, 
 I'll see him too— the fii-st I ever saw. 
 
 I knew the man, and knew his nature mild. 
 And was his plaything often when a child ; 
 But somewhat at that moment pinch'd him closp, 
 Else he was seldom bitter or morose. 
 Perhaps his confidence just then betray'd. 
 His grief might prompt him with the speech he madej 
 Pel haps 'twas mere good humour gave it birth. 
 The harmless play of pleasantry and mirth. 
 Howe'er it was, his language, in my mind. 
 Bespoke at least a man that knew mankind. 
 
 But not to moralise too much, and strain 
 To prove an evil, of which all complain, 
 (I hate long arguments verbosely spim), 
 One story more, dear Hill, and I have done. 
 Once on a time an einp'ror, a vrise man. 
 No matter where, in China or Japan, 
 Decreed, that whosoever should offend 
 Against the well-known duties of a friend. 
 Convicted once should ever after wear 
 But half a coat, and show his bosom bare. 
 The punishment importing this, no doubt. 
 That all was naught within, and all found out. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 257 
 
 O happy Britain ! we have not to fear 
 Such hard and arbitrary measure here ; 
 Else, could a law, like that which I relate, 
 Once have the sanction of our triple state, 
 Some few, that I have known in days of old, 
 Would run most dreadfiil risk of catching cold ; 
 While you, my friend, whatever vrind should blow. 
 Might traverse England safely to and fro. 
 An honest man, close button'd to the chin. 
 Broad-cloth without, and a warm heart within. 
 
 William Cawper. 
 
 CCCXXXVIII. 
 
 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 ev'ning ramble we made, 
 
 Catharina, Maria, and I, 
 Out progress was often delay'd 
 
 By the nightingale warbling nigh. 
 We paused under many a tree. 
 
 And much she was charm'd vrith a tone 
 Less sweet to Maria and me. 
 
 Who so lately had witness'd her own. 
 
 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 esteem'd 
 
 The work of my fancy the more. 
 And e'en to myself never seem'd 
 
 So tuneful a poet before. 
 
258 Lyra Elegantiamm. 
 
 Though the pleasures of London exceed 
 
 In number the days of the year, 
 Catharina, did nothing impede, 
 
 Would feel herself happier here; 
 For the close- woven arches of limes 
 
 On the banks of ourjiver, I know, 
 Are sweeter to her many times 
 
 Than aught that the city can show. 
 
 So it is, when the mind is endued 
 
 With a well-judging taste from above ; 
 Then, whether embellish'd or rude, 
 
 'Tis nature alone that we love. 
 Th' 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 
 
 From 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 hope or to fear. 
 And ours would be pleasant as hers. 
 
 Might we view her enjoying it here. 
 
 William Cowper, 
 
 cccxxxix. 
 
 THE DESPAIRING LOVER. 
 
 Distracted with care. 
 For PhiUis the fair, 
 Since nothing can move her, 
 Poor Damon, her lover, 
 
Lyra EUgantiarum. 259 
 
 Resolves in despair 
 No longer to languish, 
 Nor bear so much anguish ; 
 But, mad with his love, 
 
 To a precipice goes, 
 Where a leap from above 
 
 Will soon finish his woes. 
 
 When, in rage, he came there, 
 
 Beholding how steep 
 The sides did appear. 
 
 And the bottom how deep ; 
 His torments projecting, 
 And sadly reflecting 
 That a lover forsaken 
 
 A new lover may get ; 
 But a neck, when once broken, 
 
 Can never be set : 
 
 And that he could die 
 
 Whenever he would ; 
 But that he could live 
 
 But as long as he could ; 
 How grievous soever 
 
 The torment might grow, 
 He scom'd to endeavour 
 
 To finish it so. 
 But bold, unconcem'd, 
 
 At the thoughts of the pain, 
 He calmly retum'd 
 
 To his cottage again. 
 
 William Walsh. 
 
 CCCXL. 
 
 SYMPATHY. 
 
 A KNIGHT and a lady once met in a grovq. 
 While each was in quest of a fugitive love ; 
 A river ran mournfully murmuring by, 
 And they wept in its waters for sympathy. 
 
 " O, never was knight such a sorrow that bore ! " 
 " O, never was maid so deserted before ! " 
 
26o Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 " From life and its woes let us instantly fly. 
 And jump in together for company 1 " 
 
 They search'd 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 moumfiil embrace ; " sobb'd the youth, " ere we die ! " 
 So kissing and crying kept company. 
 
 " O, 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." 
 
 Regijiald Hcber, 
 
 CCCXLI. 
 THE CHAUNT OF 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 determine. 
 That many people read a song 
 
 Who vnll not read a sermon. 
 
 I think you've look'd through many hearts. 
 
 And mused on many actions. 
 And studied Man's component jiarts. 
 
 And Nature's compound fractions : 
 I tiiink you've pick'd up truth by bits 
 
 From foreigner and neighbour ; 
 I think the world has lost its wits. 
 
 And you have lost your labour. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 261 
 
 I think the studies of the wise, 
 
 The hero's noisy quarrel, 
 The majesty of Woman's eyes. 
 
 The poet's cherish'd laurel. 
 And all that makes us lean or fat. 
 
 And all that charms or troubles, — 
 This bubble is moie bright than that. 
 
 But still they are all bubbles. 
 
 I think the thing you caE Renown, 
 
 The unsubstantial vapour 
 For which the soldier bums a town. 
 
 The sonnetteer a taper, 
 Is like the mist which, as he flies, 
 • The horseman leaves behind him ; 
 He 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 dance. 
 
 The sceptre for the fetters : 
 I think that Fortune's favour'd guest 
 
 May live to gnaw the platters. 
 And he that wears the purple vest 
 
 May wear the rags and tatters. 
 
 I think the Tories love to buy 
 
 "Your Lordship"s and "your Grace"s, 
 By loathing common honesty, 
 
 And lauding commonplaces : 
 T think that some are very wise. 
 
 And some are very funny. 
 And some grow rich by telling lies. 
 
 And some by telling money. 
 
 I think the Whigs are wicked knaves — 
 
 (And very like the Tories) — 
 Who doubt that Britain rules the waves, 
 
 And ask the price of glories : 
 I think that many fret and fame • 
 
 At what their friends are planning, 
 And Mr. Hume hates Mr. Brougham 
 
 As much as Mr. Canning. 
 
262 Lyra EUgantiarum. 
 
 I think tliat friars and their hoods, 
 
 Their doctrines and their maggots. 
 Have lighted np too many feuds, 
 
 And &r too many fe^ots : 
 I think, while zealots fast and frown, 
 
 And fight for two or seven, 
 That there are fifty roads to Town, 
 
 And rather more to Heaven. 
 
 I think that, thanks to Pagef s lance. 
 
 And tbanjks to Chester's learning. 
 The hMTts that bum'd for &me in France 
 
 At home are safe fi-om burning : 
 I think the Pope is on his back ; 
 
 And, though 'tis fim to shake him, 
 I think the Devil 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 plaid, — aU stuff. 
 
 And very full of crosses. 
 
 I think the world, though dark it be. 
 
 Has aye one rapturous pleasure 
 Conceal'd in life's monotony. 
 
 For those who seek the treasure ; 
 One planet in a starless night. 
 
 One blossom on a briar. 
 One fiiend not quite a hypocrite, 
 
 One woman not a liar! 
 
 I think poor be^ars court SL Giles, 
 
 Rich b^gars court St. Stephen ; 
 And Death looks down with nods and smiles, 
 
 And makes the odds aU 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. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 263 
 
 I think that very few have sigh'd 
 
 When Fate at last has found them, 
 Though bitter foes vifere by their side, 
 
 And barren moss around them : 
 I thinlc that some have died of drought. 
 
 And some have died of drinking ; 
 I think that nought is viforth a thought, — 
 
 And I'm a fool for thinking ! 
 
 Winthrop M. Praed. 
 
 A RIDDLE ON THE LETTER II. 
 
 'TWAS in heaven pronounced — it vifas mutter'd in liell. 
 And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell ; 
 On the confines of earth 'twas permitted to rest, 
 And the depths of the ocean its presence confess'd. 
 'Twill be found in the sphere, when 'tis riven asunder, 
 Be seen in the light'ning, and heard in the thunder. 
 'Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath, 
 Attends at his birth and awaits him in death : 
 ' Presides o'er his happiness, honour, and health. 
 Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth. 
 In the heaps of the miser 'tis hoarded with care, 
 But is sure to be lost on his prodigal heir. 
 It begins every hope, every wish it must bound, 
 With the husbandman toils, and with monarchs is crown'd, 
 Without it the soldier, the seaman may roam, 
 But woe to the wretch who expels it from home ! 
 In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found, 
 Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passion is drown'd. 
 'Twill not soften the heart ; and tho' deaf be the ear, 
 It will make it acutely and instantly hear. 
 Yet in shade let it rest like a delicate flower, 
 Ah, breathe on it softly— it dies in an hour. 
 
 Catherine Fanshawe. 
 
z64 Lyra EUganliarum. 
 
 CHARADE ON THE NAME OF THE POET 
 CAMPBELL. 
 
 Come from my First, ay, come ; 
 
 The battle dawn is nigh ; 
 And the screaming trump and the thundering drum 
 
 Are calling thee to die ; 
 Fight, as thy father fought ; 
 
 Fall, as thy father fell: 
 Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought ; 
 
 So, forward ! and farewell ! 
 
 Toll ye my Second, toll ; 
 
 Fling high the flambeau's light ; 
 And sing the hymn for a parted soul 
 
 Beneath the silent night ; 
 The helm upon his head. 
 
 The cross upon his breast. 
 Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed ; 
 
 Now take him to his rest ! 
 
 Call ye my Whole, go, call ; 
 
 The Lord of lute and lay ; 
 And let him greet the sable paU 
 
 With a noble song to-day : 
 Ay, call him by his name ; 
 
 No fitter hand may crave 
 To light the flame of a soldier's fame 
 
 On the turf of a soldier's grave ! 
 
 Winthrofi M. Praed. 
 
 CCCXLIV. 
 
 THE MAIDEN BLUSH. 
 
 So look the mornings, when the sun 
 Paints them with fresh vermilion ; 
 So cherries blush, and Catherine peai-s, 
 And apricots, in youthful years ; 
 So corals look more lovely red, 
 And rubies lately polished ; 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 265 
 
 So purest diaper doth thine, 
 Stained by tlie beams of claret wine ; 
 As Julia looks, when she doth dress 
 Her either cheek with bashfulness. 
 
 Robert Herrick. 
 
 CCCXLV. 
 
 DOLCE FAR NIENTE. 
 
 Sooth 'twere a pleasant life to lead, 
 With nothing in the world to do, 
 
 But just to blow a shepherd's reed. 
 The silent seasons thro' : — 
 
 And just to drive a flock to feed,— 
 Sheep, — quiet, fond, and few ! 
 
 Pleasant to breathe beside a brook. 
 
 And count the bubbles, love- worlds, there; ' 
 To muse within some minstrel's book. 
 
 Or watch the haunted air ; — 
 To slumber in some leafy nook, — 
 
 Or idle anywhere. 
 
 And then, a draught of nature's wine, 
 A meal of summer's daintiest fruit ; 
 
 To take the air with forms divine ; 
 Clouds, silvery, cool, and mute ; 
 
 Descending, if the night be fine. 
 In a star-parachute. 
 
 Give me to live vidth Love alone. 
 And let the world go dine and dress ; 
 
 For Love hath lowly haunts — a stone 
 Holds something meant to bless. 
 
 If life's a flower, I choose my own — 
 'Tis "Love in Idleness." 
 
 Laman Blanchard. 
 
266 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 CCCXLVI. 
 
 NAMES. 
 
 I ASKED my fair one happy day, 
 What I should call her in my lay ; 
 
 By what sweet name from Rome or Greece ; 
 Lalage, Neasra, Chloris, 
 Sappho, Lesbia, or Doris, 
 
 Arethusa or Lucrece. 
 
 " Ah ! " replied my gentle fair, 
 "Beloved, what are names but air? 
 
 Choose thou whatever suits the line j 
 Call me Sappho, call me Chloris, 
 Call me Lalage or Doris, 
 
 Only, only call me thine.'' 
 
 Samuel T. Coleridge. 
 
 CCCXLVII. 
 
 VERSES. 
 
 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 tho' my heart no more must bound 
 
 At witching call of sprightly joys, 
 Mine is the brow that never frown'd 
 
 On laughing lips, or sparkling eyes. 
 
 No — though behind me now is clos'd 
 
 The youthful paradise of Love, 
 Yet can I bless, with soul compos'd. 
 
 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. 
 
Lyra Elegantianim. 267 
 
 And while the youthful lover's n^tme 
 
 Here with the sister beauty's blends, 
 Laugh not to scorn the humbler aim, 
 
 That to their list would add a friend's ! 
 
 Francis, Lord Jeffrey . 
 
 ALBUM VERSES. 
 
 Thou record of the votive throng. 
 That fondly seek this fairy shrine. 
 
 And pay the tribute of a song 
 
 Where worth and loveliness combine, — 
 
 What boots that I, a vagrant wight 
 From clime to clime still wandering on, 
 
 Upon thy friendly page should write 
 — Who'll think of me when I am gone ? 
 
 Go plough the wave, and sow the sand ! 
 
 Throw seed to ev'ry wind that blows ; 
 Along the highway strew thy hand, 
 
 And fatten on the crop that grows. 
 
 For even thus the man that roams 
 On heedless hearts his feeling spends ; 
 
 Strange tenant of a thousand homes, 
 
 And friendless, with ten thousand friends ! 
 
 Yet here, for once, I'll leave a trace. 
 To ask in after times a thought ! 
 
 To say that here a resting-place 
 
 My wayworn heart has fondly sought. 
 
 So the poor pilgrim heedless strays. 
 Unmoved, thro' many a region fair ; 
 
 But at some shrine his tribute pays 
 To tell that he has worshipp d there. 
 
 Washington Irving. 
 
268 Lyra Elegantiarum . 
 
 BURNHAM-BEECHES. 
 
 A Bard, dear muse, unapt to sing, 
 
 Your friendly aid beseeches. 
 Help me to touch the lyric string. 
 
 In praise of Bumham-beeches.. 
 
 What tho' my tributary lines 
 Be less like Pope's lian Creech's, 
 
 The theme, if not the poet, shines, 
 So bright are Bumham-beeches. 
 
 O'er many a dell and upland walk, 
 
 Their sylvan beauty reaches, 
 Of Bimam-wood let Scotland talk. 
 
 While we've our Bumham-beeches. 
 
 Oft do I linger, oft retum, 
 
 (Say, who my taste impeaches) 
 
 Where holly, juniper, and fern. 
 Spring up round Bumham-beeches. 
 
 Tho' deep embower'd their shades among, 
 The owl at midnight screeches, 
 
 Birds of far merrier, sweeter song. 
 Enliven Bumham-beeches. 
 
 If "sermons be in stones," I'll bet 
 
 Our vicar, when he preaches, 
 He'd find it easier far to get 
 
 A hint from Bumham-beeches. 
 
 Their glossy rind here winter stains. 
 Here the hot solstice bleaches. 
 
 Bow, stubborn oaks ! bow, gracefid planes 
 Ye matcli not Bumham-beeches. 
 
 Gardens may boast a tempting show 
 Of nectarines, grapes, and peaches, 
 
 But daintiest truffles lurk below 
 The boughs of Bumham-beeches. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 269 
 
 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 ! tho' I'd fain be jingling on. 
 
 My power no further reaches^ 
 Again that rhyme ? enough — ^I've done, 
 
 Farewell to Burnham-beeches. 
 
 Henry Luttrdl. 
 
 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. 
 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 ? 
 
270 Lyra Blegantiarum. 
 
 Love me with their lids, that fall 
 
 Snow-like at first meeting ; 
 Love me with thine heart, that all 
 
 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 
 
 When 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 crovvn'd thee ; 
 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. 
 
 Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 
 
 CCCLI. 
 
 OVER A COVERED SEAT IN THE FLOWER- 
 GARDEN AT HOLLAND HOUSE, 
 
 Where the Author of the "Pleasures of Memory^' was ae- 
 customed to sit, appear the following lines. 
 
 Here Rogers sat, and here for ever dwell. 
 To me, those pleasures that he sang so well. 
 
 Z^rd Holland. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 271 
 
 ON SAMUEL ROGERS' SEAT IN THE GARDEN 
 AT HOLLAND HOUSE. 
 
 How happily shelter'd is he who reposes 
 In this haunt of the poet, o'ershadow'd with roses, 
 While the sun is rejoicing, unclouded, on high. 
 And summer's fuU majesty reigns in the sky ! 
 
 Let me in, and be seated. — I'll try if, thus placed, 
 I can catch but one spark of his feeling and taste. 
 Can steal a sweet note from his musical strain. 
 Or a ray of his genius to kindle my brain. 
 
 Well — ^now I am fairly install'd in the bower, 
 How lovely the scene ! How propitious the hour ! 
 The breeze is perfumed by the hawthorn it stirs ; 
 All is beauty around me ; — but nothing occurs. 
 Not a thought, I protest, though I'm here and alone. 
 Not a line can I hit on, that Rogers would own. 
 Though my senses are ravish'd, my feelings in tune. 
 And Holland's my host, and the season is June. 
 
 The trial is ended. Nor garden, nor grove. 
 Though poets amid them may linger or rove, 
 Nor a seat e'en so hallow'd as this can ihipart 
 The fancy and fire that must spring from the heart. 
 So I rose, since the Muses continue to frown, 
 No more of a poet than when I sat down ; 
 While Rogers, on whom they look kindly, can strike 
 Their lyre, at all times, in all places, alike. 
 
 Henry Luttrell. 
 
 CCCLIII. 
 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 yawn'd o'er this infernal Chitty ; — 
 Years — ^years ago, — while all my joy 
 
 Was in my fowling-piece and filly, — 
 In short, while I was yet a boy, 
 
 I fell in love with Laura Lily. 
 
272 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 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 — O Heaven, her dancing ! 
 
 \ 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 so slender ! 
 Her every look, her every smile, 
 
 Shot right and left a score of arrows ; 
 I thought 'twas Venus from her isle, 
 
 And wonder'd where she'd left her sparrows. 
 
 She talk'd, — of politics or prayers, — 
 
 Or 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 mattei-'d not a tittle ; 
 If those bright lips had quoted Locke, 
 
 I might have thought they murmur'd Littley' 
 
 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 laugh'd ; I soon found out 
 
 That ancient ladies have no feeling : 
 My father frown'd ; 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 ; 
 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. 
 
Lyra Elegaiitiarum. 273 
 
 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 sketch'd ; 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 touch'd the organ ; I could stand 
 
 For hours and hours to blow the bellows. 
 
 She kept an album, too, at home. 
 
 Well fill'd 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 flatter' d, worshipp'd, bored ; 
 
 Her steps were watch' d, her dress was noted ; 
 Her poodle dog was quite adored. 
 
 Her sayings were extremely quoted ; 
 She laugh'd, and every heart was glad. 
 
 As if the taxes were abolish'd j 
 She frown'd, and every look was sad, 
 
 As if the Opera were demolish'd. 
 
 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 ! 
 
274 Lyra £Ugantiarum. 
 
 Onr lore was like most other lores ; — 
 
 A little glow, a little shiver, 
 A rose-bud, and a pair of gloves. 
 
 And " Fly not yet " — upon the river ; 
 Some jealonsy of some one's heir. 
 
 Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, 
 A miniatnre, a lock of hair. 
 
 The nsnal vows, — and then we parted. 
 
 We parted ; months and years roll'd by ; 
 
 We met ^ain foor sonuners after : 
 Onr parting was all sob and sigh ; 
 
 Oar meeting was all mirth and lang^iterf 
 Fcff in my heart's most secret cell 
 
 Tboe had been many other lodgers ; 
 And she was not the ball-room's BeUe, 
 
 Bat only — ^Mis. Something Rogers ! 
 
 Wmtkrop M. Pnud. 
 
 CCCLIT. 
 LOVE AND AGE. 
 
 I plat'o with Toa 'mid cowslips blowii^ 
 
 When I was six and yon were four; 
 When garlands weaving, flower-balls throwii^ 
 
 Were pleasares soon to please no more. 
 Thro' groves and meads, o'er grass and heather. 
 
 With little playmates, to and fio. 
 We wander'd hand in lond tt^ether ; 
 
 But that was six^ years ago. 
 
 Yon grew a lovely roseate maiden. 
 
 And still oar early love was stroi^; 
 Still with no care oar days were ladoi. 
 
 They glided joyously along ; 
 And 1 did love you very dearly — 
 
 How dearly, words want power to show ; 
 I thought your heart was touched as oeady - 
 
 But that was fifty years ago. 
 
 Then other lovers came around you. 
 
 Your beanty grew from year to year, 
 And many a splendid drde found yon 
 
 The centre of its giitterii^ sphere- 
 
Lyra Ei^gatUiantm, 275 
 
 I saw joa tihoo, &s£ tows Ibssaidi^ 
 
 On rank and weahhyooF hand bestow; 
 <^ HnsOj I Uun^^t m J Iteait was brealdii^^ — 
 
 Bat that was finty yeais ago. 
 
 And I lived on, to wed another : 
 
 Xo canse she ^Te me to repine ; 
 And when I heaid yon were a mother, 
 
 I did not wi^ the rhil Hrpti mine. 
 Mt own yoEU^ Bock, in &ir progression, 
 
 Made np a ^basant Chiistmas row : 
 My joy ID them was past expresaon ; — 
 
 ^sl l^iat was thirty years ago. 
 
 Yaa giew a. matron phnnp and oomdy. 
 
 Yon d^clt in fesfaion's bn^itest blaze ; 
 My eartHy lot was fzx more homely ; 
 
 Bat 1 too had my festal days. 
 Xo merner eyes hare ever ^isten'd 
 
 Aronnd the hearth-stone^s wintry g^ow. 
 Than iHien my yooi^est chfld was christened: — 
 
 But that was twenty yeais agOL 
 
 Imie past. My eldest ^il was married. 
 
 And I am now a giand^re grey ; 
 One pet of foar years old I've carried 
 
 AnuM^ the wild-flowec'd meads to play. 
 In oar old hdds of childish pleasor^ 
 
 Where now, as then, the cowslips blow. 
 She hUs her ba^efs ample measaie, — - 
 
 And that is not ten yeirs ago. 
 
 But dio' ^r^ lore's impassson'd Idindness 
 
 Has pass'd away in colder l^fat, 
 I still h^Te thoo^E of yon with kindness^ 
 
 And shall dot, till our last good-night. 
 The ever-Folhiig sOoit hoars 
 
 Win bring a time we shall not know. 
 When oar yoong days of gathering flowers 
 
 Will be an hnndred years ago. 
 
 Thffmas L. Paxaxk 
 
276 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 A TEMPLE TO FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 " A Temple to Friendship," said Laura, enchanted, 
 
 " I'll build in this gai-den, — the thought is divine !" 
 Her temple was built, and she now only wanted 
 
 An image of Friendship to place on the shrine. 
 She flew to a sculptor, who set down before her 
 
 A Friendship, the fairest his art could invent ; 
 But so cold and so dull, that the youthful adorer 
 
 Saw plainly this was not the idol she meant. 
 
 " O never," she cried, " could I think of enshrining 
 
 An image whose looks are so joyless and dim : — 
 But yon little god, upon roses reclining. 
 
 We'll make, if you please, sir, a Friendship of him. " 
 So the bargain was struck : with the little god laden 
 
 She joyfully flew to her shrine in the giove : 
 " Farewell," said the sculptor, "you're not the first maiden 
 
 Who came but for Friendstup and took away Love. " 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 TO . 
 
 Composed at Rotterdam. 
 
 1 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 canj/oa be in England, 
 And / at Rotterdam ! 
 
 Before me lie dark waters 
 In broad canals and deep, 
 Whereon the silver moonbeams 
 Sleep, resdess in their sleep ; 
 
Lyra FJegantiaruni. 277 
 
 A sort of vulgar Venice 
 Reminds me where I am ; 
 Yes, yes, you are in England, 
 And I'm at Rotterdam. 
 
 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 
 From western Surinam, 
 All tell me you're in England, 
 But I'm in Rotterdam. 
 
 Those sailors, how outlandish 
 The face and form of each ! 
 They deal in foreign gestures, 
 And use a foreign speech ; 
 A tongue not leam'd near Isis, 
 Or studied by the Cam, 
 Declares that you're in England, 
 And 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 
 But I'm at Rotterdam. 
 
 The coffee-room is open — 
 I mingle in Its crowd, — 
 The dominos are noisy — 
 The hookahs raise a cloud ; 
 The flavour, none of Fearon's, 
 That mingles with my dram, 
 Reminds me you're in England, 
 And I'm at Rotterdam. 
 
 Then here it goes, a bumper— 
 The toast it shall he mine. 
 In Schiedam, or in sherry, 
 Tokay, or hock of Rhine; 
 
278 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 It well deserves the brightest, 
 Where sunbeam ever swam — 
 " The Girl I love in England" 
 I drink at Rotterdam ! 
 
 Thomas Hood. 
 
 CCCLVII. 
 
 THE VICAR. 
 
 Some years ago, ere time and taste 
 
 Had tum'd 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 green. 
 
 And guided to the Parson's wicket. 
 
 Back flew the bolt of lissom lath ; 
 
 Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle. 
 Led the lorn traveller up the path, 
 
 Through clean-clipt rows of box and myrtle ; 
 And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray, 
 
 Upon the parlour steps collected, 
 Wagged all their tails, and seem'd to say — 
 
 " Our master knows you — you're expected.' 
 
 Uprose the Reverend Dr. Brown, 
 
 Uprose the Doctor's winsome maiTow ; 
 The lady laid her knitting down. 
 
 Her husband clasp'd 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 reach'd his journey's end. 
 
 And warm'd himself in Court or College, 
 lie had not gain'd 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 the Vicarage, or the Vicar. 
 
Lyra Eiegantiarum. 279 
 
 His talk was like a stream, which runs 
 
 With rapid change from rocks to roses : 
 It slipt from politics to puns, 
 
 It pass'd from Mahomet to' Moses ; 
 Begiiming with the laws which keep 
 
 The planets in their radiant coui-ses, 
 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 'stablish'd Truth, or startled Error, 
 The Baptist found him far too deep; 
 
 The Deist sigh'd with saving sorrow ; 
 And the lean Levite went to sleep. 
 
 And dream'd of tasting pork to-morrow. 
 
 His sermon never said or show'd 
 
 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 penn'd and plann'd them. 
 For all who understood admired, 
 
 And some who did not understand them. 
 
 He wrote, too, in a quiet way. 
 
 Small treatises, and smallei verses, 
 And sage remarks on chalk and clay. 
 
 And hints to noble Lords — and nurses; 
 True histories of last year's ghost. 
 
 Lines to a ringlet or a turban, 
 And trifles for the Morning Post, 
 
 And nothings for Sylvanus Urba.n. 
 
 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. 
 
28o Lyra Elegantiantm. 
 
 And he was kind, and loved to sit 
 
 In the low hut or gamish'd cottage, 
 And praise the farmer's homely wit. 
 
 And share the widow's homelier pottage: 
 At his approath complaint grew mild ; 
 
 And when his hand unbarr'd the shutter, 
 The clammy lips of fever smiled 
 
 The welcome which they could not utter. 
 
 He always had a tale for me 
 
 Of Julius Csesar, or of Venus; 
 From him I learnt the rule of three. 
 
 Cat's cradle, leap-frog, and Qua genus. 
 I used to singe his powder'd wig. 
 
 To steal the staif 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 I climb'd, 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 Gvlielmvs Brown, 
 
 Vir niilld non donandus lauru." 
 
 Winthrop M. Praed. 
 
 FROM THE HON. HENRY TO LADY 
 
 EMMA . 
 
 Paris, March 30, 1832. 
 You bid me explain, my dear angry Ma'amselle, 
 How I came thus to bolt without saying farewell; 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 281 
 
 And the tmth is, —as truth you will have, my sweet railer, — 
 
 There are two worthy persons I always feel loth 
 To take leave of at starting, — my mistress and tailor, — 
 
 As somehow one always has scenes with them both ; 
 The Snip in ill-humour, the Syren in tears, 
 
 She calling on Heaven, and he on th' attorney, — 
 Till sometimes, in short, 'twixt his duns and his dears, 
 
 A young gentleman risks being stopp'd in his journey. 
 
 But, to come to the point, — tho' you think, I daresay. 
 That 'tis debt or the Cholera drives me away, 
 'Pon honour you're wrong: — such a mere bagatelle 
 
 As a pestilence, nobody, now-a-days, fears : 
 And the fact is, my love, I'm thus bolting, pell-mell. 
 
 To get out of the way of these horrid new Peers ; 
 This deluge of coronets, frightful to think of. 
 Which England is now, for her sins, on the brink of. 
 This coinage of nobles, — coin'd, all of them, badly, 
 And sure to bring Counts to a discount most sadly. 
 
 Only think, to have Lords overrunning the nation, 
 As plenty as frogs in a Dutch inundation ; 
 No shelter from Barons, from Earls no protection. 
 And tadpole young Lords, too, in every direction, — 
 Things created ia haste, just to make a Court list of, 
 Two legs and a coronet all they consist of ! 
 
 The prospect's quite frightful, and what Sir George Rose 
 
 (My particular friend) says is perfectly true. 
 That, so dire the alternative, nobody knows, 
 
 'Twixt the Peers and the Pestilence, what he's to do ; 
 And Sir George even doubts, — could he choose his disorder,— 
 'Tvrixt coffin and coronet, ■which he would order. 
 
 This being the case, why, I thought, my dear Emma, 
 'Twere best to fight shy of so curst a dilemma ; 
 And tho' I confess myself somewhat a villain 
 
 To 've left idol mio without an addio. 
 Console your sweet heart, and, a week hence, from Milan 
 
 I'll send you — some news of Bellini's last trio. 
 
 N.B. — Have just pack'd up my travelling set-out, 
 Things a tourist in Italy canH go without — 
 Viz., a pair oi gants gras, from old Houbigant's shop. 
 Good for hands that the air of Mont Cenis might chap. 
 
282 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 Small presents for bulies, — and nothing so wheedles 
 
 The creatures abroad as your golden-eyed needles. 
 
 A neat pocket Horace, by which folks are cozen'd. 
 
 To think one knows Latin, when — one, perhaps, doesn't 
 
 With some little book about heathen mythol(^y, 
 
 Just large enough to refresh one's theology : 
 
 Nothing on earth being half such a bore as 
 
 Not knowing the difference 'twixt Virgins and Floras, 
 
 Once more, love, farewell, best r^ards to the girls. 
 
 And mind you beware of damp feet and new Earls. 
 
 Henry. . 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 A LETTER OF ADVICE, 
 
 From Miss Medora TrevUian, at Padua, to Miss Araminta 
 Vavasour, in London. 
 
 You tell me you're promised a lover. 
 
 My own Ar aminta, next week ; 
 Why cannot my fancy discoYcr 
 
 The hue of lus 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 falter'd 
 
 " What further can grandeur bestow?" 
 My heart is the same ; — is yours alter'd ? 
 
 My own Araminta, say " No !" 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum, 283 
 
 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 vanquish'd and pardon'd 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 whisper'd " How base she has been ! " 
 You said you were sure it would kill you. 
 
 If ever your husband look'd so ; 
 And you will not apostatize, — will you ? 
 
 My own Araminta, say " No 1 " 
 
 When I heard I was going abroad, love, 
 
 I thought I was going to die ; 
 We walk'd arm in arm to the road, love, 
 
 We look'd arm in arm to the sky; 
 And I said " When a foreign postillion 
 
 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, 
 
 My own Araminta, say ' ' No ! " 
 
 If he wears a top-boot in his wooing, 
 
 If he comes to you riding a cob, 
 If he talks of his baking or brewing. 
 
 If he puts up his feet on the hob, 
 If he ever drinks port after dinner, 
 
 If his brow or his breeding is low, 
 If he calls himself " Thompson" or " Skinner," 
 
 My own Araminta, say ' ' No ! " 
 
284 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 If he studies the news in the papers 
 
 Whil? 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 
 
 Among 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. 
 If he dotes not on desolate towers, 
 
 If he likes not to hear the blast blow. 
 If lie 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 buds 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 !" 
 , Winthrop M. Praed 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 285 
 
 CCCLX. 
 
 THE POPLAR. 
 
 Ay, 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 proclaim'd 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 O ! 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Richard H. Barham. 
 CCCLXI. 
 
 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 echo'd 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 : 
 
286 Lyra Ehgantiarum. 
 
 The voice that was best when it falter'd 
 
 Is fuller and firmer in tone, 
 And the smile that should never have alter' d^ 
 
 Dear Clarence — it is not your own : 
 Your cravat is badly selected ; 
 
 Your coat don't become you at all; 
 And why is your hair so neglected? 
 
 You must have it curl'd 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 vanish'd ; 
 
 We've set up a National School; 
 And waltzing is utterly banish'd. 
 
 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 ; 
 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 Dawhsh, 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 ; 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 287 
 
 And something wliicli 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 tnith : 
 It blights the green leaves in the bower^ 
 
 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 turn'd 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 charm'd with our salads- 
 Alas I you've been dining with Peers ; 
 
 You trifled and flirted with many, — 
 You've forgotten the when and the how; 
 
 There 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 : 
 They tell me you're shadow'd 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 yoti come ? — to our Ball ! 
 Winthrop M. Praed, 
 
288 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 CCCLXII. 
 
 BECAUSE. 
 
 Sweet Nea ! — for your lovely sake 
 
 I weave these rambling numbers, 
 Because I've lain an hour awake, 
 
 And can't compose my slumbers ; 
 Because your beauty's gentle light 
 
 Is round my pillow beaming, 
 And flings, I know not why, to-night. 
 
 Some witchery o'er my dreaming ! 
 
 Because we've pass'd some joyous days- 
 
 And danced some meiTy dances ; 
 Because we love old Beaumont's plays, 
 
 And old Froissart's romances ! 
 Because whene'er I hear your words 
 
 Some pleasant feeling Jingers; 
 Because I think your heart has cords 
 
 That vibrate to your fingers ! 
 
 Because you've got those long, soft curls, 
 
 I've sworn should deck my goddess ; 
 Because you're not, like other girls. 
 
 All bustle, blush, and boddice ! 
 Because your eyes are deep and blue. 
 
 Your fingers long and rosy; 
 Because a little child and you 
 
 Would make one's hopie so cozy ! 
 
 Because your little tiny nose 
 
 Turns up so pert and funny ; 
 Because I know you choose your beaux 
 
 More for their mirth than money ; 
 Because I think you'd rather twirl 
 
 A waltz, with me to guide you. 
 Than talk small nonsense with an earl, 
 
 And a coronet beside you ! 
 
 Because you don't object to walk. 
 And are not given to fainting ; 
 
 Because you have not learnt to talk 
 Of flowers, and Poonah -painting; 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 289 
 
 Because I think you'd scarce refuse 
 
 To sew one on a. button; 
 Because I know you'd sometimes choose 
 
 To dine on simple mutton ! 
 
 Because I think I'm just so weak 
 
 As, some of those fine morrows, 
 To ask you if you'll let me speak 
 
 My story— and my sorrows ; 
 Because the rest's a simple thing, 
 
 A matter quickly over, 
 A church — a priest — a sigh— a ring — 
 
 And a chaise and four to Dover. 
 
 Edward Fitzgerald, 
 
 CCCLXIII. 
 
 MY LOST OLD AGE. 
 By a Young Invalid. 
 
 I'm only nine-and-twenty yet, 
 
 Though young experience makes me sage ; 
 So, how on earth can / forget 
 
 The memory of my lost old age ? 
 Of manhood's prime let others boast ; 
 
 It comes too late, or goes too soon : 
 At times the life I envy most 
 
 Is that of slipper'd pantaloon ! 
 
 In days of old — a twelvemonth back ! — 
 
 I laugh'd, and quaff'd, and chaiFd my fill ; 
 And now, a broken-winded hack, 
 
 I'm weak and worn, and faint and ill. 
 Life's opening chapter pleased me well ; 
 
 Too hurriedly I turned the page ; 
 I spoil'd the volume — who can tell 
 
 What might have been my lost old age ? 
 
 I lived my life ; I had my day ; 
 
 And now I feel it more and more, 
 The game I have no strength to play 
 
 Seems better than it seem'd of yore. 
 
zga Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 I watch the sport with earnest eyes. 
 That gleam with joy before it ends ; 
 
 For plainly I can hear the cries 
 That hail the triumph of my friends. 
 
 We work so hard, we age so soon, 
 
 We live so swiftly, one and all, 
 That ere our day be fairly noon 
 
 The shadows eastward seem to fall. 
 Some tender light mny gild them yet , 
 
 As yet, it's not so very cold ; 
 And, on the whole, I won't regret 
 
 My slender chance of growing old ! 
 
 W. J. Prowae. 
 
 CCCLXIV. 
 
 CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS. 
 
 Once on a time, when sunny May 
 
 Was kissing up the April showers, 
 I saw fair Childhood hard at play 
 
 Upon a bank of blushing flowers : 
 Happy — he knew not whence or how, — 
 
 And smiling,— who could choose but love him ? 
 For not more glad than Childhood's brow. 
 
 Was the blue heaven that beam'd above him. 
 
 Old Time, in most appalling wrath, 
 
 That valley's green repose invaded ; 
 The brooks grew diy upon his path. 
 
 The birds were mute, the lilies faded. 
 But Time so swiftly wing'd his flight, 
 
 In haste a Grecian tomb to batter. 
 That Childhood watch'd Ms paper kite. 
 
 And knew just nothing of the matter. 
 
 With curling lip and glancing eye 
 Guilt gazed upori the scene a minute ; 
 
 But Childhood's glance of purity 
 Had such a holy spell within it, 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 29! 
 
 That the dark demon to the air 
 
 Spread forth again his baffled pinion, 
 And hid his envy and despair, 
 
 Self-tortured in his own dominion. 
 
 Then stepp'd a gloomy phantom up. 
 
 Pale, cypress-crown'd. Night's awful daughter, 
 And proffer'd him a fearful cup 
 
 Full to the brim of bitter water : 
 Poor Childhood bade her tell her name ; 
 
 And when the beldame mutter'd — " Sorrow," 
 He said, — " Don't interrupt my game ; 
 
 I'll taste it, if I must, to-morrow." 
 
 The Muse of Pindus thither came. 
 
 And woo'd him with the softest numbers 
 That ever scatter'd wealth and fame 
 
 Upon a youthful poet's slumbers ; 
 Though sweet the music of the lay, 
 
 To Childhood it was all a riddle. 
 And " Oh," he cried, " do send away 
 
 That noisy woman vrith the fiddle ! " 
 
 Then Wisdom stole his bat and ball. 
 
 And taught him with most sage endeavour, 
 Why bubbles rise and acorns fall. 
 
 And why no toy may last for ever. 
 She talk'd of all the wondrous laws 
 
 Which Nature's open book discloses. 
 And Childhood, ere she made a pause. 
 
 Was fast asleep among the roses. 
 
 Sleep on, sleep on ! Oh ! Manhood's dreams 
 
 Are all of earthly pain or pleasure. 
 Of Glory's toils. Ambition's schemes, 
 
 Of cherish'd love, or hoarded treasure : 
 But to the couch where Childhood lies 
 
 A more delicious trance is given, 
 Lit up by rays from seraph eyes, 
 
 And glimpses of remember'd Heaven ! 
 
 Winthrop M. Praed. 
 
292 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 I'd be a Butterfly bom in a bower, 
 
 Where roses and lilies and violets meet ; 
 Roving for ever from flower to flower, 
 
 And kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet ! 
 I'd never languish for wealth, or for power; 
 
 I'd never sigh to see slaves at my feet : 
 I'd be a Butterfly bom in a bower, 
 
 Kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet 
 
 O could I pilfer the wand of a fairy, 
 
 I'd have a pair of those beautiful wings ; 
 Their summer days' ramble is sportive and airy. 
 
 They sleep in a rose when the nightingale sings. 
 Those who have wealth must be watchfiil any wary; 
 
 Power, alas ! nought but misery brings ! 
 I'd be a Butterfly, sportive and airy, 
 
 Rock'd in a rose when the nightingale sings ! 
 
 What, though you tell me each gay little rover 
 
 Shrinks from the breath of the first autumn day ! 
 Surely 'tis better when summer is over 
 
 To die when all &ir things are fading away. 
 Some in life's winter may toil to discover 
 
 Means of procuring a weary delay — 
 I'd be a Butterfly; living, a reiver. 
 
 Dying when fair things are &ding away ! 
 
 Thomas H. Bayly, 
 
 CCCLXVI. 
 
 MY LITTLE COUSINS. 
 
 Laugh on, fair Cousins, for to you 
 
 All life is joyous yet ; 
 Your hearts have aU 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 ! 
 
Lyra Elegantumim. 293 
 
 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'U 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 soiind, 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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 stiU 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 leam'd, and toil'd, 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 ! 
 
 Winthrop M. Praed. 
 
204 Lyra El^anHarum. 
 
 CCCLXVII. 
 
 SCHOOL AND SCHOOLFELLOWS. 
 
 Twelve years ago I made a mock 
 
 Of filthy trades and trafiScs : 
 I wonder'd what they meant by stock ; 
 
 I wrote delight&l sapphics : 
 I knew the streets of Rome and Troy, 
 
 I snpp'd with Fates and Furies, — 
 Twelve years ago I was a boy, 
 
 A happy boy, at Dnny's. 
 
 Twelve years ago ! — ^how many a thought 
 
 Of &ded pains and pleasures 
 Those whisper'd syllables have brought 
 
 From Memory's hoarded treasures ! 
 /he fields, the farms, the bats, the books. 
 
 The glories and disgraces. 
 The voices of dear fiiends, die looks 
 
 Of old faTniliar faces ! 
 
 ' Kind Mater smUes again to me. 
 
 As bright as when we parted ; 
 I seem again the fiank, the free, 
 
 Stout-limb'd, 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 drinking fi-om the pewter j 
 Now leaping over Chalvey ditch. 
 
 Now laughing at my tutor. J 
 
 Where are my friends ? I am alone ; 
 
 No playmate shares my beaker: 
 Some lie beneath the churchyard stone. 
 
 And some— before the Speaker; 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 29S 
 
 And some compose a tragedy, 
 
 And some compose a rondo ; 
 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 miscann'd 
 
 Beneath the wide Atlantic. 
 
 Wild Nick, whose oaths made such a din. 
 
 Does Dr. Martext's duty; 
 And MuUion, with that monstrous chin, 
 
 Is married to a Beauty ; 
 And DarreU 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 haye bound mej 
 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 curiy, — 
 
 For hours and hours I think and talk 
 
 Of each remember'd hobby ; 
 I long to lounge in Poets' walk, 
 
 To .shiver in the lobby; 
 
2g6 Lyra Elegantianim. 
 
 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. 
 
 Winthrop M. Praed. 
 
 cccLXvm. 
 
 ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF CLAPHAM 
 ACADEMY. 
 
 Ah me I those old familiar bounds I 
 That classic house, those classic grounds 
 
 My pensive thought recalls ! 
 What tender urchins now confine, 
 What little captives now repine. 
 
 Within yon irksome walls ? 
 
 Ay, that's the veiy house ! I know 
 Its 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 tum'd our table-beer ! 
 
 There I was birch'd ! there I was bred ! 
 There like a little Adam fed 
 
 From Learning's woeful tree ! 
 The weaiy tasks I used to con ! — 
 The hopeless leaves I wept upon ! — 
 
 Most fruitless leaves to me I— 
 
 The summon'd class ! — the awful bow I — 
 I wonder who is master now 
 And wholesome anguish sheds I 
 
Lyra Slegantiarum, 297 
 
 How many ushers now employs, 
 
 How many maids to see the boys 
 
 Have nothing in their heads ! 
 
 And Mrs. S * * *?— Doth she abet 
 (Lilce Pallas in the parlour) yet 
 
 Some favour'd two or three, — 
 The little Crichtons of the hour, 
 Her muffin-medals that devour, 
 
 And swill her prize — bohea ? 
 
 Ah, there's the playground ! 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 Romance, and weaves a dream 
 
 Of Love and Cottage-bread ? 
 
 Who struts the Randall of the walk? 
 Who models tiny heads in chalk? 
 
 Who scotjps 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 perish'd young I — 
 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 Ovi^hee ; 
 
 Poor Chase is with the worms ! — 
 All, all are gone— the olden breed ! — 
 New crops of mushroom boys succeed, 
 
 "And push us from our forms I " 
 
 Lo ! where they scramble forth, and shout, 
 And leap, and skip, and mob about, 
 
 At play where we have play'd ! 
 Some hop, some ran, (some fall,) some twine 
 Their crony arms ; some in the shine, — 
 
 And some are in the shade ! 
 
298 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 IiO there what mix'd conditions run ! 
 The orphan lad ; the widow's son ; 
 
 And Fortune's favour'd care — 
 The wealthy-bom, for whom she hath 
 Mac-Adamised the future path — 
 
 The Nabob's pamper'd heir ! 
 
 Some brightly starr'd— some evil born, — 
 For honour some, and some for scorn, — 
 
 For fair or foul renown ! ' 
 Good, bad, indiff' rent — none may lack ! 
 Look, here's a White, and there's a Black ! 
 
 And there's a Creole brown ! 
 
 Some laugh and sing, some mope and weep, 
 And wish their ' frugal sires would keep 
 
 Their only sons at home ;'— 
 Sbme 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 ai. fives ! and five who stoop 
 
 The marble taw to speed 1 
 And one that curvets in and out. 
 Reining 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 little fool ! 
 Whilst thou canst be a horse at school. 
 
 To wish to be a man ! 
 
 Perchance thou deem'st it were a thing 
 To wear a crovinn, — 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 1 
 
 And dost thou think that years acquire 
 New added joys ? Dost think thy sire 
 More happy than his son ? 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 299 
 
 That manhood's mirth ? — Oh, go thy ways 
 
 To Dmiy-lane when — ^ floy^t 
 
 And see h.aw forced our fmi ! 
 
 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 doiigh, 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 ! 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Thomas Hood. 
 
 Lord Harry has written a novel, 
 
 A story of elegant life ; 
 No stuflF 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 feshion. 
 
 Come look at his caps — ^how they fit .' 
 
 O, Radcliffe ! thou once wert the channel 
 
 Of 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. 
 
30O' Lyra Elegantiarutn. 
 
 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 dije&ner a lafourchette. " 
 
 Hani 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 vnfe, 
 And reads till she dreams she is one of 
 
 The leaders of elegant life. 
 
 Thomas H. Bayly. 
 
 CCCLXX. 
 
 TO MINERVA. 
 From the 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. 
 
 Thomas Hood. 
 
 CCCLXXI. 
 
 A LOVE SONG. 
 
 In the Modern Taste. 1733. 
 
 Fluttering spread thy purple pinions, 
 Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart ; 
 I a slave in thy dominions ; 
 Nature must give way to art. 
 
Lyra EleganHarum. goi 
 
 Mild Arcadians, ever blooming, 
 Nightly nodding o'er your flocks, 
 See my weary days consuming 
 All beneath yori floweiy rocks. 
 
 Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping 
 Mourn'd Adonis, darling youth ; 
 Him the boar, in silence creeping, 
 Gored with unrelenting tooth. 
 
 Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers; 
 Fair Discretion, string the lyre ! 
 Soothe my ever- waking slumbers ; 
 Bright Apollo, lend thy choir. 
 
 Gloomy Plufo, king of terrors, 
 Arm'd in adamantine'chains. 
 Lead me to the crystal mirrors 
 Watering soft Elysian plains. 
 
 Mournful cypress, verdant willow, 
 Gilding my Aurelia's brows, 
 •Morpheus, hovering o'er my pillow, 
 Hear me pay my dying vows. 
 
 Melancholy smooth Maeander, 
 Swiftly purling in a round. 
 On thy margin lovers wander. 
 With thy flowery chaplets crown'd. 
 
 Thus when Philomela drooping. 
 Softly seeks her silent mate. 
 See the bird of Juno stooping; 
 Melody resigns to fate. 
 
 foiiathan Swift, 
 
 CCCLXXII. 
 
 ' THE FLOWER. 
 
 Alone, across a foreign plain. 
 The Exile slowly wanders. 
 
 And on his Isle beyond the main 
 With sadden'd spirit ponders; 
 
302 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 This lovdy 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 bedeck'd with stars 
 His childhood loved to gather : 
 
 ^Vhen lo ! he starts, with glad surprise. 
 Home-joys come rushing o'er him. 
 
 For "modest, wee, and crimson-tipp'd," 
 He spies the flower before him ! 
 
 With eager haste he stoops him down, 
 
 His eyes with moisture hazy, 
 And as he plucks the simple bloom. 
 
 He murmurs, " Lawk-a-daisy ! " 
 
 Thomas Hood. 
 
 cccLXxm. 
 
 TO A FISH OF THE BROOKE. 
 
 Why fiyest thou away with fear? 
 Trust me there's nought of danger near, 
 
 I have no wicked hooke 
 All cover'd 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 wisli 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 ottt, 
 God give thee strength, O gentle trout, 
 
 To pull the raskall in! 
 
 Dr. John Wolcot. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 303 
 
 SONG BY ROGERO. 
 
 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 check'd with heavenly blue, 
 
 Which once my love sat knotting in, 
 Alas, MatUda 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 chaitu 
 in cadence,) 
 
 Barbs ! barbs ! alas ! how swift ye flew. 
 
 Her neat post-waggon trotting in ! 
 Ye bore Matilda from my view ; 
 . Forlorn I languish'd at the U- 
 -niversity of Gottingep — 
 -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 enter'd at the U- 
 
 -niversity 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. 
 
304 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 Sun, moon, and thou vain world, adieu, 
 That kings and priests are plotting in ; 
 Here doom'd 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 re- 
 peatAly against the walls 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. ) 
 
 Anti-Jacohin. 
 
 THE BURNING OF THE LOVE LETTER. 
 
 No morning ever seem'd so long ! — 
 I tried to read with all my might ! 
 In my left hand "My Landlord's Tales," 
 And threepence ready in my right. 
 
 'Twas twelve at last^my heart beat high !- - 
 
 The Postman rattled at the door ! — 
 
 And just upon her road to church, 
 
 I dropt the ' ' Bride of Lammermoor ! " 
 
 I seized the note — I flew up stairs — 
 Flung-to the door, and lock'd me in — 
 With panting haste' I tore the seal — 
 And kiss'd the B in Benjamin ! 
 
 'Twas full of love — to rhyme with dove — 
 And. all that tender sort of thing — 
 Of sweet and meet — and heart and dart — 
 But not a word about a ring ! — 
 
 In doubt I cast it in the ilame. 
 And stood to watch the latest spark — 
 And saw the love all end in smoke — 
 Without a Parson and a Clerk ! 
 
 Thomas Hood, 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 305 
 
 CCCLXXVI. 
 
 THE WATER PESTS SONG. 
 
 Farewell, farewell to my mother's own daughter, 
 The child that she wet-nursed is lapp'd in the wave ! 
 
 The Mussel-man coming to fish in this water, 
 Adds a tear to the flood that weeps over her grave. 
 
 This sack is her coffin, this water's her bier, 
 This greyish Bath cloak is her fimeral pall, 
 
 And, stranger, O stranger ! this song that you hear 
 Is her epitaph, elegy, dirges, and all ! 
 
 Farewell, farewell to the child of Al Hassan, 
 
 My mother's own daughter — the last of her race — 
 She's a corpse, the poor body ! and lies in this basin, 
 And sleeps in the water that washes her face. 
 
 Thomas Hood, 
 CCCLXXVII. 
 "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 call'd 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-taX : 
 So Lucy ran up — and in two seconds more 
 Hid question'd the stranger and answer'd the door. 
 
 The meeting was bKss ; but the parting was woe ; 
 For the moment will come when such comers must go. 
 So she kiss'd him, and whisper'd — poor iimocent thing — 
 " The next time you come, love, pray come with a ring." 
 
 Thomas Hood. 
 CCCLXXVIII. 
 
 If the man who turnips cries, 
 Cry not when his father dies, 
 'Tis a proof that he had rather 
 Have a turnip than his father. 
 
 Samuel Johnson. 
 X 
 
3o6 Lyra Elegantianmi. 
 
 CCCLXXIX. 
 
 REPORT OF AN ADJUDGED CASE, NOT TO 
 BE FOUND IN ANY OF THE BOOKS. 
 
 Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose, 
 The spectacles set them unhappily wrong ; 
 
 The point in dispute was, as all the world knows, 
 To which the said spectacles ought to belong. 
 
 So Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause 
 With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of learning; 
 
 While chief baron Ear sat to balance the laws. 
 So famed for his talent in nicely discerning. 
 
 In behalf of the Nose it will quickly appear, 
 
 And your lordship, he said, will undoubtedly find, 
 
 That the Nose has had spectacles always in wear, 
 Which amounts to possession time out of mind. 
 
 Then holding the spectacles up to the court — 
 
 Your lordship observes they are made with a straddle. 
 
 As wide as the ridge of the Nose is ; in short, 
 Design'd to sit close to it, just like a saddle. 
 
 Again, would your lordship a moment suppose 
 ('Tis a case that has happen'd, and may be again) 
 
 That the visage or countenance had not a Nose, 
 
 Pray who would, or who could, wear spectacles then ? 
 
 On the whole it appears, and my argument shows, 
 With a reasoning the court will never condemn. 
 
 That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose, 
 And the Nose was as plainly intended for them. 
 
 Then shifting his side (as a lawyer knows how), 
 
 He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes ; 
 But what were liis arguments few people know. 
 
 For the court did not think they were equally wise. 
 
 So his lordship decreed, with a grave solemn tone, 
 Decisive and cleai', without one if ox but — 
 
 That, whenever the Nose put his spectacles on. 
 By daylight or candlelight — Eyes should be shut ! 
 
 William Cowjter. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. ' 307 
 
 TBE 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 tlirills 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 quail'd 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 ai)d eagle eye. 
 
 The Hebrew shalt thou know, 
 So well as by the plaintive cry 
 
 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 ! " 
 
 William E. Aytoun, 
 
3o8 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 CCCLXXXI. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 My mother bids me spend my smiles 
 On all who come and call me fair, 
 
 As crumbs are thrown upon the tUes, 
 To all the sparrows of the air. 
 
 But I've a darling of my own 
 
 For whom I hoard my little stock — 
 
 What if I chirp him all alone, 
 And leave mamma to feed the flock ! 
 
 Thomas Hood, 
 
 cccLXXxn. 
 AN IMITATION OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 There is a river clear and fair, 
 
 'Tis neither broad nor narrow ; 
 It winds a little here and there — 
 It winds about like any hare ; 
 And then it takes as straight a course 
 As on the turnpike road a horse, 
 
 Or through the air an arrow. 
 
 The trees that grow upon the shore. 
 Have grown a hundred years or more ; 
 
 So long there is no knowing. 
 Old Daniel Dobson does not know 
 When first these trees began to grow ; 
 But still they grew, and grew, and grew, 
 As if they'd nothing else to do, 
 
 But ever to be growing. 
 
 The impulses of air and sky 
 
 Have rear'd their stately heads so high. 
 
 And clothed their boughs with green ; 
 Their leaves the dews of evening quaff, — 
 
 And when the wind blows loud and keen, 
 I've seen the jolly timbers laugh, 
 
 And shake their sides vrith merry glee — 
 
 Wagging their heads in mockery. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 309 
 
 Fix'd are their feet in solid earth, 
 
 Where winds can never blow ; 
 But visitings of deeper birth 
 
 Have reach'd their roots below. 
 For they have gain'd the river's brink, 
 And of the living waters drink. 
 
 There's little Will, a five years child — 
 
 He is my youngest boy ; 
 To look on eyes so fair and wild, 
 
 It is a very joy : — 
 He hath conversed with sun and shower. 
 And dwelt with eveiy idle flower, 
 
 As fresh and gay as therii. 
 He loiters with the briar rose, — 
 The blue-belles are his play-fellows. 
 
 That dance upon their slender stem. 
 
 And I have said, my little Will, 
 Why should not he continue still 
 
 A thing of Nature's rearing ? 
 A thing beyond the world's control — 
 A living vegetable soul, — 
 
 No human sorrow fearing. 
 
 It were a blessed sight to see 
 That child become a Willow-tree, 
 
 His brother trees among. 
 He'd be four times as tall as me. 
 
 And live three times as long. ' 
 
 Catherine M. FansAawe 
 
 CCCLXXXIII. 
 
 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. 
 
310 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 We gather flowers of every hue, 
 
 And fish in boats for fishes, 
 Build summer-houses painted blue, — 
 
 But life's as firail as dishes. 
 
 Walking about their groves of trees, 
 
 Blue bridges and blue rivers, 
 How little thought them two Chinese, 
 
 They'd both be smash'd to shivers. 
 
 Thotnas Hood. 
 
 cccLXXxrv. 
 
 ELEGY ON THE ABROGATION OF THE BIRTH. 
 NIGHT BALL, AND THE CONSEQUENT 
 FINAL SUBVERSION OF THE MINUET. 
 
 By a beau of the last century. 
 
 Now eease the exulting strain. 
 
 And bid the warbling lyre complain ; 
 
 Heave the soft sigh, and drop the tuneful tear, 
 
 And mingle notes far other than of mirth. 
 
 E'en with the song that greets the new-bom year, 
 
 Or hails the day that gave a monarch birth. 
 
 That self-same sun whose chariot wheels have roU'd 
 
 Thro' many a circling year, with glorious toil, 
 
 Up to the axles in refulgent gold. 
 
 And gems, and silk, and crape, and flowers, and foil ; 
 
 That self-same sun no longer dares 
 
 Bequeath his honours to his heirs, 
 
 And bid the dancing hours supply 
 
 As erst, with kindred pomp, his absence from the sky. 
 
 For ever at his lordly call 
 
 Uprose the spangled night ! 
 
 Leading, in gorgeous splendour bright. 
 
 The minuet and the Ball. 
 
 An3 balls each frolic hour may bring. 
 
 That revels through the maddening spring. 
 
 Shaking with hurried steps the painted floor : 
 
 But Minuets are no more ! 
 
 No more the well-taught feet shall tread 
 The figure of the mazy Zed : 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 31 1 
 
 The beau of other times shall moum, 
 As gone, and never to return, 
 The graceful bow, the curtsy low. 
 The floating forms, that undulating glide, 
 (Like anchoi-'d vessels on the swelling tide, ) 
 Tliat rise. and sinl^, alternate, as they go. 
 Now bent tlie Icnee, now lifted on the toe. 
 The side-long step that works its even way. 
 The slovi pas-grave, and slower balance — 
 Still with fixed gaze he eyes the imagined fair, 
 And turns the comer with an easy air. 
 Not so his partner— from her tangled train 
 To free her captive foot, she strives in vain ; 
 Her tangled train, the struggling captive holds 
 (Like great Alcides) m its fatal folds ; 
 The laws of gallantry his aid demand, 
 The laws of etiquette withhold his hand. 
 Such pains, such pleasures, now alike are o'er. 
 And beau and etiquette shall soon exist no more ! 
 
 In their stead, behold advancing, 
 
 Modem men and women dancing ! 
 
 Step and dress alike express, 
 
 Above, below, from head to toe, 
 
 Male and female awkwardness. 
 
 Without a hoop, without a ruffle, 
 
 One etemal jig and shuffle ; 
 
 Where's the air, and where's the gait ? 
 
 Where's the feather in the hat ? 
 
 Where's the frizzed toupee ? and where, 
 
 O, where's the powder for the hair ? 
 
 Where are all their former graces ? 
 
 And where three-quarters of their faces ? 
 
 With half the forehead lost and half the chin ? 
 
 We know not where they end, or where begin. 
 
 Mark the pair, whom favouring fortune 
 
 At the envy'd top shall place. 
 Humbly they the rest impbrtune 
 
 To vouchsafe a little space. 
 
 Not the graceful arm to wave in. 
 
 Or the silken robe expand ; 
 AU superfluous action saving. 
 
 Idly drops the lifeless hand. 
 
312 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 Her downcast eye the modest beauty 
 Sends, as doubtful of their skill, 
 To see if feet perform their duty. 
 And their endless task fulfil : 
 Footihg, footing, footing, footing, 
 Footing, footing, footing, still. 
 
 While the rest in hedgerow state. 
 
 All insensible to sound. 
 With more than human patience wait. 
 
 Like trees fast rooted to the ground- 
 Not such as once, with sprightly motion. 
 
 To distant music stin'ed their stumps, 
 And tript from Pelion to the Ocean, 
 
 Perfoiining avenues and clumps : 
 What time old Jason's ship, the Argo, 
 
 Orpheus fiddling at the helm. 
 From Colchis bore her golden cargo, 
 
 Dancing o'er the azure main. 
 But why recur to ancient story. 
 
 Or balls of modern date ? 
 
 Be mine to tiace the Minuet's fate, 
 And weep its fallen glory : 
 To ask. Who rang the parting knell ? 
 
 If Vestris came the solemn dirge to hear J 
 
 Genius of Valoiiy, didst thou hover near 1 
 Shade of Lepicq ,! and spirit of Gardel ! 
 
 I saw their angry forms arise 
 
 Where wreaths of smoke involve the skies 
 
 Above St. James's steeple : 
 I heard them curse our heavy heel, 
 The Irish step, the Highland reel, 
 
 And all the United People. 
 To the dense air the curse adhesive clung. 
 Repeated since by many a modish tongue. 
 In words that may be said, but never shall be sung 
 What cause untimely urged the Minuet's fate ? 
 Did war subvert the manners of the State? 
 Did savage nations give the barbarous law. 
 The Gaul Cisalpine, or the Gonoquaw ? 
 Its fall was destined to a peaceful land, 
 ft. sportive pencil, and a courtly hand ; 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 313 
 
 Tliey left a name, that time itself might spare, 
 To grinding organs and tlie dancing bear. 
 On Avon's banks, where sport and laugh 
 
 Careless pleasure's sons and daughters, 
 Where health, the sick, and aged quaiif. 
 
 From good King Bladud's healing waters ; 
 While genius sketch'd, and humour group'd. 
 Then it sicken'd, then it droop'd : 
 Sadden'd with laughter, wasted with a sneer, 
 And " the long minuet " shorten'd its cai-eer. 
 With cadence slow, and solemn pace, 
 Th' indignant mourner quits the place — 
 For ever quits — no more to roam 
 From proud Augusta's regal dome. 
 Ah ! not unhappy who securely rest, 
 
 Within the sacred precincts of a court ; 
 Who, then, their timid steps shall dare arrest ? 
 
 White wands shall guide them, and gold sticks support 
 In vain — these eyes with tears of horror wet. 
 Read its death-warrant in the Court Gazette ! 
 " No ball to-night,! " Lord Chamberlain proclaims ; 
 " No ball to-night shall grace thy roof, St. James ! " 
 " No ball ! " the Globe, the Sun, the Star repeat, 
 The morning paper and the evening sheet ; 
 Thro' all the land the tragic news has spread, 
 And all the land has mourned the Minuet dead. 
 So power completes ; but satire sketch'd the plan. 
 And Cecil ends what Bunbury began. 
 
 Catherine M. Fanshawe. 
 
 CCCLXXXV. 
 
 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-ra^t, 
 
 How can I call the lone night good. 
 
 Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight ? 
 
 Be it not said, thought, understood, 
 That it will be Good-m^t. 
 
314 Lyra Elegantianim. 
 
 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. 
 
 Percy B. Shelley. 
 
 CCCLXXXVI. 
 
 GOOD-NIGHT. 
 
 Good-night to thee, Lady ! tho' many 
 
 Have join'd in the dance of to-night, 
 Thy form was the fairest of any. 
 
 Where all was seducing and bright; 
 Thy smile was the softest and dearest. 
 
 Thy form tlie most sylph-like of all, 
 And thy voice the most gladsome and clearest 
 
 That e'er held a partner in thrall. 
 
 Good-night to thee, Lady ! 'tis over— 
 
 The waltz, the quadrille, and the song — 
 The whisper'd farewell of the lover. 
 
 The heartless adieu of the throng ; 
 The heart that was throbbing with pleasure. 
 
 The eye-lid that long'd for repose — • 
 The beaux that were dreaming of treasure. 
 
 The girls that were dreaming of beaux. 
 
 'Tis over — the lights are all dying. 
 
 The coaches all driving away ; 
 And many a fair one is sighing. 
 
 And many a false one is gay ; 
 And Beauty counts over her numbers 
 
 Of conquests, as homeward she drives — 
 And some are gone home to their slumbers. 
 
 And some are gone home to their wives. 
 
 And I, while my cab in the shower 
 
 Is waiting, the last at the door. 
 Am looking all round for the flower 
 
 That fell from your wreath on the floor. 
 I'll keep it — if but to remind me. 
 
 Though wither'd and faded its hue — 
 Wherever next season may find me-^ 
 
 Of England — of Almack's — and you 1 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 315 
 
 There are tones that will haunt us, tho' lonely 
 
 Our path be o'er mountain, or sea ; 
 There are looks that will part from us only 
 
 When memory ceases to be ; 
 There are hopes which our burthen can lighten, 
 
 Tho' toilsome and steep be the way ; 
 And dreams that, like moonlight, can brighten 
 
 With a light that is clearer than day. 
 
 There are names that we cherish, tho' nameless. 
 
 For aye on the lip they may be ; 
 There are hearts that, tho' fetter'd, are tameless, 
 
 And thoughts unexpress'd, but still free ! 
 And some are too grave for a rover. 
 
 And some for a husband too light, — 
 The Ball and my dream are all over — 
 
 Good-night to thee, Lady, Good-night ! 
 
 Edward Fitzgerald. 
 
 CCCLXXXVII. 
 
 CHIVALRY AT A DISCOUNT. 
 
 Fair cousin mine ! the golden days 
 
 Of old romance are over; 
 And minstrels now care nought for bays, 
 
 Nor damsels for a lover ; 
 And hearts are cold, and lips are mute 
 
 That kindled once with passion, 
 And now we've neither lance nor lute, 
 
 And tnting's out of fashion. 
 
 Yet weeping Beauty mourns the time 
 
 Wlien Love found words in flowers j 
 When softest sighs were breathed in rhyme, 
 
 And sweetest songs in bowers ; 
 Now wedlock is a sober thing — 
 
 No more of chains or forges ! — ■ 
 A plain young man — a plain gold ring — 
 
 The curate — and St. George's. 
 
 Then every cross-bow had a string, 
 
 And every heart a fetter ; 
 And making love was quite the thing, 
 
 And making verses better .: 
 
3l6 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 And maiden-aunts were never seen, 
 
 And gallant beaux were plenty ; 
 And lasses married at sixteen, 
 
 And died at one-and-twenty. 
 
 Then hawking was a noble sport. 
 
 And chess a pretty science ; 
 And huntsmen learnt to blow a morte. 
 
 And heralds a defiance ; 
 And knights and spearmen show'd their might, 
 
 And timid hinds took warning ; 
 And hypocras was warm'd at night 
 
 And coursers in the morning. 
 
 Then plumes and pennons were prepared. 
 
 And patron-saints were lauded ; 
 And noble deeds were bravely dared, 
 
 And noble dames applauded ; 
 And Beauty play'd the leech's part. 
 
 And wounds were heal'd with syrup ; 
 And warriors sometimes lost a heart, 
 
 But never lost a stirrup. 
 
 Then there was no such thing as Fear, 
 
 And no such word as Reason ; 
 And Faith was like a pointed spear. 
 
 And Fickleness was treason ; 
 And hearts were soft, though blows were hard j 
 
 But when the fight was over, 
 A brimming goblet cheer'd the board, 
 
 His Lady's smUe the lover. 
 
 Ay, these were glorious days ! The moon 
 
 Had then her true adorers ; 
 And there were lyres and lutes in tune. 
 
 And no such thing as snorersj 
 And lovers swam, and held at nought 
 
 Streams broader than the Mersey; 
 And fifty thousand would have fought 
 
 For a smile from Lady Jersey. 
 
 Then people wore an iron vest, 
 
 And had no use for tailors ; 
 And the artizans who lived the best 
 
 Were armourers and nailers ; 
 
Lyra EUgantiarum. 317 
 
 And steel was measured by the ell, 
 
 And trousers lined with leather ; 
 And jesters wore a cap and bell, 
 
 And knights a cap and feather. 
 
 Then single folks might live at ease, 
 
 And married ones might sever; 
 Uncommon doctors had their fees, 
 
 But Doctors Commons never ; 
 O ! had we in those times been bred. 
 
 Fair cousin, fot thy glances. 
 Instead of breaking Priscian's head, 
 
 I had been breaking lances ! 
 
 Edward Fitzgerald. 
 
 cccLxxxvm. 
 THE ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST. 
 
 Little Ellie sits alone 
 'Mid the beeches of a meadow 
 
 By a stream-side on the grass. 
 
 And the trees are showering down 
 Doubles of their leaves in shadow 
 
 On her shining hair and face. 
 
 She has throvm her bonnet by. 
 And her feet she has been dipping 
 
 In the shallow water's flow : 
 
 Now she holds them nakedly 
 In her hands, all sleek and dripping. 
 
 While she rocketh to and fro. 
 
 Little Ellie sits alone. 
 And the smile she softly uses 
 
 FUls the silence like a speech. 
 
 While she thinks what shall be done, 
 And the sweetest pleasure chooses 
 
 For her future within reach. 
 
 Little ElUe in her smile 
 Chooses — ' ' I will have a lover. 
 
 Riding on a steed of steeds : 
 
 He shall love me without guile. 
 And to him I will discover 
 
 The swan's nest among the reeds. 
 
3 18 Lyra El^aniiarum. 
 
 " And the steed shall be red-roan. 
 And the lover shall be noble, 
 
 With an eye that takes the breath 
 
 And the lute he plays upon 
 Shall strike ladies into trouble, 
 
 As his sword strikes men to death. 
 
 " And the steed it shall be shod 
 All in silver, housed in azure, 
 
 And the mane shall swim the wind ' 
 
 And the hoofs along the sod 
 Shall flasli onward and keep measure, 
 
 Till the shepherds look behind. 
 
 " But my lover will not prize 
 All the glory that he rides in, 
 
 When he gazes in my face : 
 
 He will say, ' O Love, thine eye."; 
 Build the shrine my soul abides in. 
 
 And I kneel here for thy grace ! ' 
 
 " Then, ay, then he shall kneel low, 
 With the red-roan steed anear him, 
 
 Which shall seem to understand, 
 
 Till I answer, ' Rise and go ! 
 For the world must love and fear him 
 
 Whom I gift with heart and h.-»nd.' 
 
 " Then he mil arise so pale, 
 I shall feel my own lips tremble 
 
 With a. yes I must not say, 
 
 Natliless maiden-brave, ' Farewell,' 
 I will utter, and dissemble — 
 
 ' Light to-morrow with to-jlay ! ' 
 
 " Then he'll ride among the hills 
 To the wide world past the river, 
 
 There to put a>vay all wrong; 
 
 To make straight distorted wills. 
 And to empty the broad quiver 
 
 Which the wicked bear along. 
 
 " Three times shall a young foot-page 
 Swim the stream and climb the mountain, 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 319 
 
 And kneel down beside my feet — 
 ' Lo, my master sends this, gage, 
 Lady, for thy pity's counting ! 
 What wilt thou exchange for it?' 
 
 " And the first time, I will send 
 A little rose-bud for a guerdon, 
 
 And tlie second time, a glove ; 
 
 But the third time — I may bend 
 From my pride, and answer — ' Pardon, 
 
 If he comes to take my love.' 
 
 " Then the young foot-page will run. 
 Then my lover will ride faster. 
 
 Till he kneeleth at my knee : 
 
 ' I am a duke's eldest son. 
 Thousand serfs do call me master. 
 
 But, O Love, I love but thee! ' 
 
 " He will kiss me on the mouth 
 Then, and lead me as a lover 
 
 Through the crowds that praise his deeds : 
 
 And, when soul-tied by one troth. 
 Unto him I will discover 
 
 That swan's nest among the reeds." 
 
 Little EUie, with her smile 
 Not yet ended, rose up gaily. 
 
 Tied the bonnet, donn'd the shoe, 
 
 And went homeward round a mile. 
 Just to see, as she did daily. 
 
 What more eggs were with the two. 
 
 Pushing thro' the elm-tree copse. 
 Winding up the stream, light-hearted. 
 
 Where the osier pathway leads. 
 
 Past the boughs she stoops — and stops. 
 Lo, the white swan had deserted ! 
 
 And a rat had gnaw'd the reeds ! 
 
 EUie went home sad and slow. 
 If she found the lover ever. 
 
 With his red-roan steed of steeds. 
 
 Sooth I know not ; but I know 
 She could never show him — never, 
 
 That swan's nest among the reeds. 
 
 Elizabeth B. Browning 
 
320 Lyra Elegantiarum, 
 
 CCCLXXXIX. 
 
 That out of sight is out of mind 
 Is true of most we leave behind ; 
 It is not sure, nor can be true, 
 My own, my only love, of you. 
 
 They were my friends, — 'twas sad to part; 
 Almost a tear began to start ; 
 But yet as things run on they find, 
 That out of sight is out of mind. 
 
 For men that will not idlers be, 
 Must lend their hearts to things they see , 
 And friends who leave them far behind. 
 When out of sight are out of mind. 
 
 I blame it not ; I think that when 
 The cold and silent meet again, 
 Kind hearts will yet as erst be kind, 
 'Twas "out of sight" was "out of mind." 
 
 That friends, however friends they were. 
 Still deal vrith things as things occur, 
 And that, excepting for the blind. 
 What's out of sight is out of mind. 
 
 But Love, the poets say, is blind ; 
 So out of sight and out of mind 
 Need not, nor will, I think, be true. 
 My own, and only love, of you. 
 
 Arthur H. Clough. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 CUPID AND CAMPASPE. 
 
 Cupid and my Campaspe play'd 
 
 At cards for kisses ; Cupid paid. 
 
 He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows, 
 
 His mother's doves and team of sparrows ; 
 
 Loses them too, and down he throws 
 
 The coral of his lip — the rose 
 
 Growing on's cheek, but none knows how ; 
 
 With these the crystal on 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, hath she done this to thee ? 
 
 What shall, alas, become of me ! 
 
 John Lyly. 
 
 cccxci. 
 
 TO MR. LA WRENCE. 
 
 Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son. 
 Now that the fields are dank and ways are mire. 
 Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire 
 Help waste a sullen day, what may be won 
 
322 Lyra Blegantiarum. 
 
 From the hard season gaining ? Time will run 
 On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire 
 The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire 
 The lily and rose, that neither sow'd nor spun. 
 What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice. 
 Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise 
 To hear the lute well touch'd, or artful voice 
 Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air ? 
 He who of those delights can judge, and spare 
 To interpose them oft, is not unwise. 
 
 John Milton. 
 
 Of all the tornjents, all the cares. 
 
 With which our lives are curst ; 
 Of all the plagues a lover bears. 
 
 Sure rivals are the worst ! 
 By partners of each other kind, 
 
 Afflictions easier grow ; 
 In love alone we hate to find 
 
 Companions of our woe. 
 
 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. 
 
 William Walsh. 
 
 CCCXCIII. 
 
 EPITAPH. 
 
 The Lady Mary Villiers lies 
 Under this stone : with weeping eyes 
 The parents that first gave her birth. 
 And their sad friends, laid her in earth. 
 If any of them. Reader, were 
 Known unto thee, shed a tear j • 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 323 
 
 Or if thyself possess a gem, 
 As dear to thee as this to them ; 
 Tho' a stranger to this place, 
 Bewayle in theirs thine own hard case. 
 For thou, perhaps, at thy returne 
 Mayst find thy darling in an urne. 
 
 Thomas Carew. 
 
 cccxciv. 
 
 TO CYRIAC SKINNER. 
 
 CyriAC, whose grandsire, on Ae 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 intends, 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, tho' wise in show. 
 That with superfluous burthen loads the day, , 
 And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains. 
 
 John Milton. 
 
 Still to be neat, still to be drest 
 
 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 ; 
 
324 Lyra Elegantiarutn. 
 
 Robes 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. 
 
 Bin Jonson. 
 
 HIS LOVE ADMITS NO RIVAL. 
 
 Shall I, like a hermit, dwell 
 Qn a rock, 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 Walter ScUeigh. 
 
 TO HIS PECULIAR FRIEND, AIR. JOHN WICKS. 
 
 Since shed nor 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 ; 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 3K5 
 
 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, 
 
 Robert Herrieh. 
 
 CCCXCVIII. 
 
 Come, let us now resolve at last 
 
 To live and love in quiet ; 
 We'll tie the knot so very fast, 
 
 That Time shall ne'er untie it. 
 
 The truest joys they seldom prove 
 Who free from quarrels live ; 
 
 'Tis the most tender part of love 
 Each other to forgive. 
 
 When least I seemed concerned, I took 
 
 No pleasure, nor no rest ; 
 And when I feign'd an angry look, 
 
 Alas ! I loved you best. 
 
 Own but the same to me, you'll find 
 How blest will be your fate •: 
 
 O, to be happy, to be kind. 
 Sure never is too late. 
 
 John, Duke of Buchinglmm. 
 
 C'.CXCIX. 
 
 HER LIPS. 
 
 OfTEN I have heard it said 
 That her lips are ruby-red. 
 Little heed I what they say, 
 I have seen as red as they. 
 Ere she smiled on other men, 
 Real rubies were they then. 
 
326 Lyra Elegantiarum, 
 
 When she kiss'd me once in play, 
 Rubies were less bright than they, 
 And less bright were those that shone 
 In the palace of the Sun. 
 Will they be as bright again? 
 Not if kiss'd by other men. 
 
 Waiter Savage Lander. 
 
 It often comes into ray head 
 
 That we may dream when we are dead, 
 
 But I am far from sure we do. 
 O that it were so ! then my rest 
 Would be indeed among the blest ; 
 
 I should for ever dream of you. 
 
 Walter Savage Landor. 
 
 TO FANNW 
 
 Nature ! thy fair and smiling face 
 Has now a double power to bless, 
 
 For 'tis the glass in which I trace 
 My absent Fanny's loveliness. 
 
 Her heavenly eyes above me shine. 
 The rose reflects her modest blush. 
 
 She breathes in every eglantine. 
 She sings in every warbling thrush. 
 
 That her dear form alone I see. 
 
 Need not excite surprise in any. 
 For Fanny's all the world to me, 
 
 And all the world to me is Fanny. 
 
 Horatio Smith. 
 
 WITS A GUITAR TO JANE. 
 
 Ariel to Miranda : — Take 
 This slave of Music, for the sake 
 Of him who is the slave of thee ; 
 
Lyra EUgantiarum. 327 
 
 And teach it all the harmony 
 
 In which thou can'st, 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 ; 
 
 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, aJas ! 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, 
 
328 Lyra Eleganiiarum. 
 
 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^ 
 
 Oh, 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 the loved Guitar; 
 
 And taught it justly to reply 
 
 To all who question skilfully, 
 
 In language gentle as thine own ; 
 
 Whispering in enamoured tone 
 
 Sweet oracles of woods and dells,. 
 
 And summer winds in sylvan celk. 
 
 For it had learnt all harmonies 
 
 Of the plains and of the skies. 
 
 Of the forests and the mountains. 
 
 And the many-voicfed 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 j and it knew 
 
 That seldom -heard, mysterious sound 
 
 Which, driven on its diurnal 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 vpit 
 
 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. 
 
 Percy Bysshe Shdlcy. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 329 
 
 ccccm. 
 
 To his young Rose an old man said, 
 "You will be sweet when I am dead : 
 Where skies are brightest we shall meet. 
 And there will you be yet more sweet. 
 Leaving your wingid company 
 To waste an idle thought on me. " 
 
 WaXter Savage Landor. 
 
 FEATHERS. 
 
 There falls with every wedding-chime 
 A feather from the ,wing of Time. 
 You pick it up, and say, " How fair 
 To look upon its colours are ! " 
 Another drops, day after day. 
 Unheeded ; not one word you say : 
 When bright and dusky are blown past. 
 Upon the hearse there nods the last. 
 
 Walter Savage Landor. 
 
 I STROVE with none, for none was worth my strife ; 
 
 Nature I loved, and, next to nature, art ; 
 I warm'd both hands before the fire of life ; ' 
 
 It sinks, and I am ready to depart. 
 
 Walter Savage Landor. 
 
 ccccvi. 
 ON ONE IN ILLNESS. 
 
 Health, strength, and beauty, who would not resign, 
 And be neglected by the world, if you 
 
 Round his faint neck your loving arms would twine. 
 And bathe his aching brow with jSity's dew ? 
 
 Walter Savage Landor. 
 
330 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 CCCCVII. 
 
 " WHEN I LOVED YOU." 
 (TO .) 
 
 When I loved you, I can't but allow 
 I had many an exquisite minute ; 
 
 But the scorn that I 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 is pleasant enough, 
 But oh I 'tis delicious to hate you ! 
 
 Thotnas Moore. 
 
 A SONNET. ON CHRISTIAN NAMES: WRITTEN 
 IN THE ALBUM OF MISS EDITH SOVTHEY. 
 
 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 around ! 
 
 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 Clare for love excuse enough ? 
 
 Yet, by my faith in numbers, I profess. 
 
 These all, than Saxon Edith, please me less. 
 
 Charles Lamb. 
 
 THE WHITE SQUALL. 
 
 On deck, beneath the awning, 
 I dozing lay and yawning j 
 
Lyra Elgganiiarum, 331 
 
 It was the grey of dawning, 
 
 Eve yet the sun arose ; 
 And above the funnel's roaring. 
 And the fitful wind's deploring, 
 I heard the cabin snoring 
 
 With universal nose. 
 I could hear the passengers snorting — 
 I envied their disporting — 
 Vainly I was courting 
 
 The pleasure of a doze ! 
 
 So I lay, and wondered why light 
 Came not, and watched the twilight, 
 And the glimmer of the skylight, 
 
 That shot across the deck ; 
 And the binnacle pale and steady. 
 And the dull glimpse of the dead-eye, 
 And the sparks in fiery eddy 
 
 That whirled from the chimney neck. 
 In our jovial floating prison 
 There was sleep from fore to mizen. 
 And never a star had risen 
 
 The hazy sky to speck. 
 
 Strange company we harboured ; 
 We'd a hundred Jews to larboard, 
 Unwashed, uncombed, unbarbered — 
 
 Jews black, and brown, and gray ; 
 With terror it would seize ye. 
 And make your souls uneasy. 
 To see those Rabbis greasy, 
 
 Who did nought but scratch and pray ; 
 Their dirty children puking — 
 Their dirty saucepans cooking — 
 Their dirty fingers hooking 
 
 Their swarming fleas away. 
 
 To starboard, Turks and Greeks were — 
 Whiskered and brown their cheeks were — • 
 Enormous wide their breeks were, 
 
 Their pipes did puff alway ; 
 Each on his mat allotted 
 In silence smoked and squatted. 
 Whilst round their children trotted 
 
 In pretty, pleasant play. 
 
332 Lyra EUgantiarum. 
 
 He can't but smile who traces 
 The smiles on those brown faces, 
 And the pretty prattling graces 
 Of those small heathen gay. 
 
 And so the hours kept tolling, 
 And through the ocean rolling 
 Went the brave " Iberia " bowling 
 Before the break of day — 
 
 When A SQUALL, upon a sudden. 
 Came o'er the waters scudding ; 
 And the clouds began to gather. 
 And the sea was lashed to lather. 
 And the lowering thunder grumbled. 
 And the lightning jumped and tumbled, 
 And the ship, and all the ocean, 
 Woke up in wild commotion. 
 Then the wind set up a howling. 
 And the poodle dog a yowling, 
 And the cocks began a crowing. 
 And the old cow raised a lowing. 
 As she heard tlie tempest blowing ; 
 And fowls and geese did cackle, 
 And the cordage and the tackle 
 Began to shriek and crackle ; 
 And the spray dashed o'er the funnels, 
 And down the deck in runnels ; 
 And the rushing water soaks all. 
 From the seamen in the fo'ksal 
 To the stokers whose black faces 
 Peer out of their bed-places ; , 
 And the captain he was bawling, 
 And the sailors pulling, hauling, 
 And the quarter-deck tarpauling 
 Was shivered in the squalling; 
 And the passengers awaken. 
 Most pitifully shaken ; 
 And the steward jumps up, and hastens 
 For the necessary basins. 
 
 Then the Greeks they groaned and quivered, 
 And they knelt, and moaned, and shivered, 
 
Lyra EleganHarum. 333 
 
 As the plunging waters met them, 
 And splashed and overset them ; 
 And they call in their emergence 
 Upon countless saints and virgins ; 
 And their marrow-bones are bended, 
 And they think the world is ended. 
 And the Turkish women for'ard 
 Were frightened and behorror'd ; 
 And shrieking and bewildering, 
 The mothers clutched their children ; 
 The men sung " Allah ! lUah ! 
 Mashallah ! Bismillah ! " 
 As the warring waters douced them 
 And splashed them and soused them. 
 And they called upon the Prophet, 
 And thought but little of it. 
 
 Then all the fleas in Jewry 
 
 Jumped up and bit like fury ; 
 
 And the progeny of Jacob 
 
 Did on the main-deck wake up 
 
 (I wot those greasy Rabbins 
 
 Would never pay for cabins) ; 
 
 And each man moaned and jabbered in 
 
 His filthy Jewish gaberdine. 
 
 In woe and lamentation. 
 
 And howling consternation. 
 
 And the splashing water drenches 
 
 Their dirty brats and wenches ; 
 
 And they crawl from bales and benches 
 
 In a hundred thousand stenches. 
 
 This was the White Squall famous, 
 Which latterly o'ercame us. 
 And which all will well remember 
 On the 28th September ; 
 When a Prussian captain of Lancers 
 (Those tight-laced, whiskered prancers) 
 Came on the deck astonished, 
 By that wild squall admonished, 
 And wondering cried, " Potztausend, 
 Wie ist der StUrm jetzt brausend ? " 
 And looked at Captain Lewis, 
 Who calmly stood and blew his 
 
334 Lyra ElesanHdrum. 
 
 Cigar in all the bustle. 
 And scorned the tempest's tussle. 
 And oft we've thought thereafter 
 How he beat the storm to laughter ; 
 For well he knew his vessel 
 With that vain wind could wrestle ; 
 And, when a wreck we thought her. 
 And doomed ourselves to slaughter, 
 How gaily he fought her. 
 And through the hubbub brought her, 
 ■And as the tempest caught her, 
 Cried, " George, some brandy and water!" 
 
 And when, its force expended. 
 The harmless storm was ended, 
 And as the sunrise splendid 
 
 Came blushing o'er the sea ; 
 I thought, as day was breaking, 
 My little girls were waking, 
 And smiling, and making 
 
 A prayer at home for me. 
 
 William Makepeace Thackeray. 
 
 ON CATULLUS. 
 
 Tell me not what too well I know 
 About the bard of Sirmio — 
 
 Yes, in Thalia's son 
 Such stains there are — as when a Grace 
 Sprinkles another's laughing face 
 
 With nectnr, and runs on. 
 
 Walter Savage Landor. 
 
 Proud word you never spoke, but you will spealc 
 Four 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. 
 
 Walter Savage Landor, 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. " 335 
 
 How many voices gaily sing, 
 
 " O 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 ! 
 
 Walter Savouge Landor, 
 
 THE POET OF FASHION. 
 
 His book is successful, he's steeped in renown. 
 His lyric effusions have lickled 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 t^te-i-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. 
 
 Now 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 & la reme, 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, 
 Remember'd by starts, and forgotten by fits, 
 Now artists and actors, the bardling engage, 
 To squib in the journals, and write for the stage. 
 Now soup iJ la nine bends the knee to ox-cheek. 
 And chickens and tongue bow to bubble and squeak. 
 While, still in translation employ'd by " the Row," 
 The Poet of Fashion dines out in Soho. 
 
 Pushed down from Parnassus to Phlegethon's brink, 
 Toss'd, torn, and trunk-lining, but still with some ink, 
 
336 ' Lyra Elegantiarum, 
 
 Now squat city misses their albums expand, 
 
 And woo tlie worn rhymer for " something oiif-hand ; " 
 
 No longer with stinted effrontery fraught, 
 
 Buclclersbury now seeks what St. James's once sought. 
 
 And (O, what a classical haunt for a bard !) 
 
 The Poet of Fashion dines out in Barge-yard. 
 
 Jamts Smith. 
 
 CHATEAUX VESPAGNE. 
 
 (A Beminiscence of " David Garrich " and " The Castle of 
 Andalusia.") 
 
 Once upon an evening weary, shortly after Lord Dundreary 
 With his quaint and curious humour set the town in such a roar. 
 With my shilling I stood rapping — only very gently tapping — 
 For the man in charge was napping— at the money-taker's door. 
 It was Mr. Buckstone's play-house, where I linger'd at the door; 
 Paid half price and nothing more. 
 
 Most distinctly I remember, it was just about September — 
 Though it might have been in August, or it might have been 
 
 before — 
 Dreadfully I fear'd the morrow. Vainly had I s^ought to borrow ; 
 For (I own it to my sorrow) I was miserably poor. 
 And the heart is heavy laden when one's miserably poor ; 
 (I have been so once before.) 
 
 I was doubtful and uncertain, at the rising of the curtain, 
 If the piece would prove a novelty, or one I'd seen before ; 
 For a band of robbers drinking in a gloomy cave, and clinking 
 With their glasses on the table, I had witness'd o'er and o'er ; 
 Since the half-forgotten period of my innocence was o'er j 
 Twenty years ago or more. 
 
 Presently my doubt grew stronger. I could stand the thing no 
 
 longer, 
 " Miss,' said I, " or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore. 
 Pardon my apparent rudeness. Would you kindly have the 
 
 goodness 
 To inform me if this drama is from Gaul's enlighten'd shore ? " 
 For I know that plays are often brought us from the Gallic shore ; 
 Adaptations — nothing more ! 
 
Lyra Elegantiantm. 337 
 
 So I put the question lowly : and my neighboiiv answer'd slowly, 
 ' ' It's a Britisli drama wholly, written quite in days of yore. 
 'Tis an Andalusian story of a castle old and hoary. 
 And the music is delicious, though the dialogue be poor ! " 
 (And I could not help agreeing that the dialogue was poor j 
 Very flat, and nothing more, ) 
 
 But at last a lady entered, and my interest grew center'd 
 In her figure, and her features, and the costume that she wore. 
 And the slightest sound she utter'd was lilce music; so I mutter'd 
 To my neiglibour, " Glance a minute at your play-bill, I implore. 
 Who's that rare and radiant maiden ? Tell, oh, tell me ! I 
 implore." 
 
 Quoth my neighbour, " Nelly Moore," 
 
 Then I ask'd in quite a tremble — it was useless to dissemble — 
 " Miss, or Madam, do not trifle with my feelings any more ; 
 Tell me who, then, was the mai4en, that appear'd so sorrow 
 
 laden 
 In the room of David Ganick, with a bust above the door? " 
 (With a bust of Julius Csesar up above the study door,) 
 Quoth my neighbour, " Nelly Moore." 
 
 I've her photograph from Lacy's ; that delicious little face is 
 .Smiling on me as I'm sitting (in a draught from yonder door), 
 And often in the nightfalls, when a precious little light falls 
 From the wretched tallow candles on my gloomy second floor 
 (For I have not got the gaslight on my gloomy second floor), 
 Comes an echo, " Nelly Moore ! " 
 
 Henry S. Leigh. 
 
 THE CASKET. 
 
 Sure, 'tis time to have resign'd 
 All the dainties of the mind. 
 And to take a little rest 
 After Life's too lengthen'd feast, 
 Why then turn the Casket-key ? 
 What- is there within to see ? 
 Whose is this dark twisted hair ? 
 Whose this other, crisp and fair ? 
 
338 Lyra EUgantiarum. 
 
 Wliose the slender ring ? now broken, 
 Undesignedly, a token. 
 Love said Mine ; and Friendship said 
 So I fear, and shook her head. 
 
 WcUter Savage Landor. 
 
 ccccxvi. 
 
 WHY REPINE ? 
 
 Why, why repine, my pensive friend, 
 
 At pleasures slipt away ? 
 Some the stern Fates will never lend. 
 
 And all refuse to stay. 
 
 I see the rainhow in the sky. 
 
 The dew upon the grass, 
 I see them, and I ask not why 
 They glimmer or tliey pass. 
 
 With folded arms I linger not 
 To call them back ; 'twere vain ; 
 
 In this, or in some other spot, 
 I know they'll shine again. 
 
 Walter Savage Landor. 
 
 CCCC.XVII. 
 
 TO LADY MARGARET CAVENDISH HOLIES- 
 BARLEY, AFTERWARDS DUCHESS OF PORT- 
 LAND, WHEN A CHILD. 
 
 My noble, lovely, little Peggy, 
 Let this my First Epistle beg ye. 
 At dawn of morn, and close ot even. 
 To lift your heart and hands to Heaven. 
 In double duty say your prayer : 
 Our Father first, then Noire Pire. 
 And, dearest Child, along the day, 
 In every thing 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. 
 
 Matthew Pnor. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum, 339 
 
 CCCCXVIII. 
 
 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 stretch'd 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. 
 Cockney on the car 
 
 Closer folds his plaidy. 
 Grumbling at the road 
 
 Leads to Limavaddy. 
 
 Through the crashing woods 
 
 Autumn brawl'd and bluster'd, 
 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. 
 
34" Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 " Where are horses changed ? " 
 Said I to the laddy 
 
 Driving on the box : 
 " Sir, at Limavaddy." 
 
 Limavaddy inn's 
 
 But a humble bait-house, 
 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 nurst it. 
 Singing it a song 
 
 As she twists the worsted I 
 
 Up and down the stair 
 
 Two more young ones patter 
 (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 tlie sleet and hail, sir : 
 So will you have some punch. 
 
 Or will you have some ale, sir ? ' 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 341 
 
 Presently a maid 
 
 Enters with the liquor 
 (Half a pint of ale 
 
 Frothing in a beaker). 
 Gads 1 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. 
 
 Such a silver peal ! 
 
 In the meadows listening. 
 You who've heard the bells 
 
 Ringing to a christening ; 
 
342 Lyra Elegantiarum, 
 
 You who ever heard 
 
 Caradori pretty. 
 Smiling like an angel, 
 
 Singing " 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 teapot ; 
 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 
 
 Redden'd 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 indian-rubber 
 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 show'd 
 
 Ankles like to Peggy's. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum, 343 
 
 Braided is hei 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 adihire 
 
 Peg of Limavaddy. 
 And till I expire. 
 
 Or till I grow mad, I 
 Will sing unto my lyre 
 
 Peg of Limavaddy ! 
 
 William MahepeiKe ThaclcRray. 
 ccccxix. 
 TO ONE IN GRIEF. 
 
 Ah I do not drive off grief, but place your hand 
 
 Upon it gently ; it will then subside. 
 A wish is often more than a command, 
 
 Either of yours would do ; let one be tried. 
 
 WaXUr Savage Landor. 
 
344 Lyra Eleganfiarum. 
 
 IRELAND. 
 
 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 8t. Patrick's bounty, 
 Emeralds big as half a county. 
 
 WaXUr Savage Lander. 
 
 ccccxxi. 
 
 7V A FAIR MAIDEN. 
 
 Fair maiden ! when I look at thee, 
 I wish I could be young and free ; 
 But both at once, ah ! who could be ? 
 
 WalUr Savage Landor. 
 
 A LONG STORY. 
 
 In Britain's isle, no matter where, 
 An ancient pile of building stands ; 
 
 The Huntingdons and Hattons there 
 Eraploy'd the power of fairy hands 
 
 To raise the ceiling's fretted height, 
 Each pannel in achievements clotliing. 
 
 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 seals and maces danc'd before him. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 345 
 
 His bushy beard, and shoe-strings green, 
 His high-crown'd hat and satin doublet, 
 
 Mov'd 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 vphence one fatal morning issues 
 
 A brace of warriors, not in buff, 
 
 But rustling in their silks and tissues. 
 
 The first came cap-a-pee from France, 
 
 Her conquering destiny fulfilling. 
 Whom meaner beauties eye askance. 
 
 And vainly ape her art of killing. 
 
 The other Amazon kind heav'n 
 
 Had arm'd with spirit, virit, and satire : 
 
 But Cobham had the polish giv'n. 
 
 And tipp'd her arrows with good-nature. 
 
 To celebrate her eyes, her air — 
 
 Coarse panegyrics would but tease her, 
 
 Melissa is her Nom de Guerre, 
 Alas, who would not wish to please her ! 
 
 With bonnet blue and capuchine. 
 
 And aprons long, they hid their armour ; 
 
 And veil'd their weapons, bright and keen. 
 In pity to the country farmer. 
 
 Fame, in the shape of Mr. P — t 
 
 (By this time all the parish know it). 
 Had told that thereabouts there lurk'd 
 
 A wicked imp, they call a Poet, 
 
 Who prowl'd the country far and near, 
 Bewitch'd the children of the peasants. 
 
 Dried up the cows, and lam'd the deer. 
 And suck'd the eggs, and kill'd the pheasants. 
 
346 Lyra Eleganiiarum. 
 
 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 ventur'd, 
 Rapp'd at the door, nor stay'd to ask, 
 
 But bounce into the parlour entei'd. 
 
 The trembling family they daunt, 
 
 They flirt, they sing, they laugh, they tattle, 
 
 Rummage his Mother, pinch his Aunt, 
 And upstairs in a whirlwind rattle : 
 
 Each hole and cupboard they explore, 
 Each creek and cranny of his chamber. 
 
 Rim hurry-skurry round the floor. 
 And. o'er the bed and tester clamber ; 
 
 Into the drawers and china pry. 
 Papers and books, a huge imbroglio 1 
 
 Under a tea-cup he might lie. 
 Or creased, like dog's-ears, in a folio. 
 
 On the first marching of the troops. 
 The Muses, hopeless of his pardon, 
 
 Convey'd him underneath their hoops 
 To a small closet in the garden. 
 
 So Rumour says : (Who will, believe.) 
 
 But that they left the door ajar. 
 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 bird-lime form'd the middle, 
 And chains invisible the border. 
 
Lyra Blegantiarum. 347 
 
 So cunning was the apparatus, 
 
 The powerful pot-hooks 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 preferr'd his case. 
 
 And begg'd his aid that dreadful day. 
 
 The Godhead wou'd have back'd his quarrel ; 
 
 But with a blush on recollection, 
 Own'd that his quiver and his laurel 
 
 'Gainst four such eyes were no protection. 
 
 The Court was sate, the Culprit there. 
 
 Forth from their gloomy niansiojis creeping, 
 
 The Lady Janes and poans 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; 
 
 In peaked hoods and mantles tarnish'd, 
 
 Sour visages, enough to scare ye, 
 High dames of honour once, that garnish'd 
 
 The drawing-room of fierce Queen Mary. 
 
 The Peeress comes. The audience stare. 
 And doff their hats with due submission : ■ 
 
 She curtsies, as she takes the chair. 
 To all the people of condition. 
 
 The Bard, with many an artful fib. 
 
 Had in imagination fenc'd him, 
 Disprov'd 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. 
 
348 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 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 poultiy,) 
 
 " He once or twice had penn'd a sonnet ; 
 
 Yet hop'd that he might save his bacon : 
 Numbers would give their oaths upon it. 
 
 He ne'er was for a conjurer talcen." 
 
 The ghostly prudes, with hagged face. 
 Already had condemn'd the sinner. 
 
 My Lady rose, and with a grace — 
 She smil'd, 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 alter'd quite and clean ! 
 
 " Decorum's turn'd to mere civility; 
 
 Her air and all her manners show it. 
 Commend me to her affability ! 
 
 Speak to a Commoner and Poet ! " 
 
 [//ere 500 Stanzas are lost.l 
 
 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. 
 
 Thomas Gray, 
 ccccxxm. 
 IGNORANCE OF BOTANY. 
 
 I HARDLY know one flower that grows 
 
 On my small garden plot ; 
 Perhaps I may have seen a i?ose. 
 
 And said. Forget-me-not. 
 
 Walter Savage Landor. 
 
Lyra Eleganiiarum, 349 
 
 ccccxxiv. 
 
 WHERE ARE SIG/IS? 
 
 Unless my. senses are more dull, 
 Sighs are become less plentiful. 
 Where are they all ? these many years 
 Only my own have reach'd my ears. 
 
 Walter Savage, Landor. 
 
 CHILDREN FLA YING IN A CHURCHYARD. 
 
 Children, keep up that harmless play. 
 Your kindred angels plainly say, 
 By God's authority, ye may. 
 
 Be prompt His holy word to hear, 
 It teaches you to banish fear ; 
 The lesson lies on all sides near. 
 
 Ten summers hence the sprightliest lad 
 In Nature's face will look more sad. 
 And ask, where are those smiles she had ? 
 
 Ere many days the last will close. 
 
 Play on, play on, for then (who knows ?) 
 
 Ye who play here may here repose. 
 
 Walter Savage Landor. 
 
 ccccxxvi. 
 
 PEA C E. 
 
 A Study. 
 
 He stood, a worn-out City clerk — 
 Who'd toil'd, and seen no holiday, 
 
 For forty years from dawn to dark — 
 Alone beside Caermarthen Bay. 
 
3SO Lyra Bkgantiarum, 
 
 He felt the salt spray on his lips ; 
 
 Heard children's voices on the sands ; 
 Up the sun's path he saw the ships 
 
 Sail on and on to other lands ; 
 
 And laugh'd aloud. Each sight and sound 
 To him was joy too deep for tears ; 
 
 He sat him on the beach, and bound 
 A blue bandanna round his ears ; 
 
 And thought how, posted near his door. 
 His own green door on Camden Hill, 
 
 Two bands at least, most likely more. 
 Were mingling at their own sweet will 
 
 Verdi with Vane e. And at tlie thought 
 He laugh'd again, and softly drew 
 
 That Morning Herald that he'd bought 
 Forth from his breast, and read it through. 
 
 O. S. Calverley. 
 
 ccccxxvn. 
 "BIC FIR, 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 enquiries, 
 
 Made upon the 15th ult. ? 
 Still my soul is in ils boyhood ; 
 
 Nor of year or changes recks. 
 Though my scalp is almost hairless, 
 
 A nd my figure grows convex. 
 
Lyra Eleganiiarum. ,-, 
 
 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 minil, 
 And a long-backed fancy-mongrel 
 
 Trailing casually behind. 
 
 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 nursemaid 
 
 Pass, without a tribute, by. 
 
 Once, an unassuming Freshman, 
 
 Thro' 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 Brothers ; 
 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 thro' 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. 
 
352 Lyra Eleganiiarum. 
 
 I have stood serene on Fanner'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 backhair straight ; 
 Drunk (not lavishly) of Miller's 
 
 Old dry wines at 78/ : — 
 
 When within my veins the blood ran, 
 
 And the curls were on my brow, 
 I did, oh ye undergraduates, 
 
 Much as ye are doing now. 
 Wherefore bless ye, O beloved ones : — 
 
 Now unto mine inn must I, 
 Your " poor moralist," betake me. 
 
 In my " solitary fly." 
 
 C. S. CcUverhy. 
 
 CCCCXXVIII, 
 
 THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE. 
 
 A STREET there is in Paris famous. 
 
 For which no rh3mie our language yields, 
 Rue Neuve ries Petit 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 soit of soup, or broth, or brew. 
 Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes. 
 
 That Greenwich never could outdo ; 
 Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron. 
 
 Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace : 
 All these you eat at terra's tavern. 
 
 In that one dish of Bouillabaisse. 
 
Lyya, Eleganiiarum. 353 
 
 Indeed, a rich and savoury stew 'tis ; 
 
 And true philosophers, methinks, 
 Who love all sorts of natural beautie;;, 
 
 Should love good victuals and goocj. 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 ^tiU there is ? 
 
 Yes, here the lamp is, as before ; 
 The smiling red-cheeked ecaill^re 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 fof 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." 
 " So terre's gone," I say, and sink in 
 
 My old accustom'd corner place ; 
 ** He's done with feasting and with drinking, 
 
 With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse." 
 
 My old accustom'd corner here is, 
 
 The table still is in the nook ; 
 Ah ! vanish'd 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 oIq fogy, 
 
 I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse. 
 
 2 A 
 
3S4 Lyra Mlegantiarum. 
 
 Where are you, old companions trusty 
 
 Of early days here met to dine ? 
 Come, waiter ! quick, a flagon crusty — 
 
 ni 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 1 
 
 I mind me of a time that's gone. 
 When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting, 
 
 In this saime place — but not alone. 
 A fair young form was nestled near me, 
 
 A dear, dear face looked fondly up. 
 And sweetly spoke tind 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 I 
 
 William Makepeace Thackeray. 
 
 I HELD her hand, the pledge of bliss. 
 Her hand that trembled and withdrew ; 
 
 She bent her head before my kiss. 
 My heart was sure that hers was true. 
 
Lyra, Ekgaatiarum. g^j 
 
 Now I have told her I must part, 
 
 She shakes my hand, she bids adieu, 
 Nor shuns the kiss. Alas, my heart ! 
 
 Hers never was the heart for you. 
 
 Walter Savage Landor. 
 
 You smiled, you spolce, and I believed, 
 
 By every word and smile deceived. 
 Another man would hope no inore ; 
 
 Nor hope I what I hoped before : 
 But let not this last wish be vain ; 
 
 Deceive, deceive me once again ! 
 
 Walter SaVage Landor. 
 ccccxxxi. 
 TO lANTHE. 
 
 From you, lantlie, little (roubles pass 
 Like little ripples down a sunny river ; 
 
 Your pleasures spring like daisies in the grass. 
 Cut down, a,id up again as blythe as ever. 
 
 Walter Savage Landor. 
 
 CCCCXXXII. 
 
 MY LOVE AND MY HEART. ' 
 
 Oh, the days were ever shiny 
 
 When I ran to meet my love ; 
 When I press'd her hand so tiny 
 
 Through her tiny tiny glove. 
 Was I very deeply smitten ? 
 
 Oh, I loved like anything ! 
 But my love she is a kitten, 
 
 And my heart's a ball of string. 
 
 She was pleasingly poetic, 
 And she loved my little rhymes ; 
 
 For our tastes were sympathetic, 
 In the old and happy times. 
 
3S6 Lyra Bkgantiarum. 
 
 Oh, the ballads I have written, 
 And have taught my love to sing 1 
 
 But my love she is a kitten, 
 And my heart's a ball of string. 
 
 Would she listen to my offer, 
 
 On my knees I would impart 
 A sincere and ready proffer 
 
 Of my hand and of my heart. 
 And below her dainty mitten 
 
 I would fix a wedding ring — 
 But my love she is a kitten. 
 
 And my heart's a ball of string. 
 
 Take a warning, happy lover, 
 
 From the moral that I show ; 
 Or too late you may discover 
 
 What I learn'd a month ago. 
 We are scratch'd or we are bitten 
 
 By the pets to whom we cling. 
 Oh, my love she is a kitten. 
 
 And my heart's a ball of string. 
 
 Henry S. Leigh. 
 ccccxxxin. 
 
 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 lear 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 Coleridge. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum, 357 
 
 CCCCXXXIV. 
 
 ODE TO TOBACCO. 
 
 Thou who, when fears attack, 
 Bidst them avaunt, and Black 
 Care, at the horseman's back 
 
 Perching, unseatest ; 
 Sweet when the morn is gray; 
 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. 
 
 Cats may have had their goose 
 Cooked by tobacco-juice ; 
 Still why deny its use 
 Thoughtfully taken ? 
 
358 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 We're not as tabbies are : 
 Smith, take a fresh cigar ! 
 Jones, the tobacco-jar ! 
 
 Here's to thee. Bacon ! 
 
 C S. CaXverley. 
 ccccxxxv. 
 TEARS. 
 
 Mine fall, and yet a tear of hers 
 
 Would swell, not soothe their pain ; 
 
 Ah, if she look but at these tears. 
 They do not fall in vain. 
 
 Walter Savage Landor. 
 
 ccccxxxvi. 
 DESTINY UNCERTAIN. 
 
 Gracefully shy is yon gazelle : 
 
 And are those eyes, so clear, so mild, 
 Only to shine upon a wild. 
 
 And be reflected in a shallow well ? 
 
 Ah ! who can tell ? 
 
 If she grows tamer, who shall pat 
 
 Her neck ? who wreathe the flowers around ? 
 Who give the name ? who pace the ground ? 
 Pondering these things a grave old Dervish sat. 
 And sigh'd. Ah ! who can tell ? 
 
 Walter Savage Landor. 
 
 CCCCXXXVII. 
 
 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. 
 
Lyra Blegantiarum. 359 
 
 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. 
 
 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, 
 Poijnd the old treQ, 
 
j6o Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 Sorrows, begone ! 
 Life and its ills, 
 Duns and their bills, 
 , Bid we to flee. 
 
 Come with the dawn. 
 Blue-devil sprite, 
 Leave us to-night 
 Round the old tree. 
 
 William Mahepeace Thackeray. 
 
 CCCCXXXVIII. 
 
 WOMAN'S LAUGHTER. 
 {A Fragment.') 
 ***** 
 While her laugh, full of life, without any controul 
 But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her soul ; 
 And where it most sparkled no glance could discover, 
 In lip, cheek, or eyes, for she brighten'd all over, — 
 Like any fair lake that the breeze is upon. 
 When it breaks into dimples and laughs in the sun. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 ccccxxxix. 
 
 SHADOWS 
 
 II. 
 
 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, 
 Put had gone on for years and years ! 
 
Lyra Elegantidrum. 361 
 
 Alas ! that Love was not too strong 
 For maiden shame and manly pride 1 
 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. 
 
 Richard, Lord Houghtmi. 
 
 Twenty years hence my eyes may grow, 
 If not quite dim, yet rather so, 
 Yet yours from others they shall know 
 Twenty years hence. 
 
 Twenty years hence, tho' it may hap 
 Tliat I be call'd 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 sigh'd Alas, 
 And I shall catch, ere you can pass, 
 That winged word. 
 
 Walter Savage Landor. 
 
 CCCCXLI. 
 
 ROSES AND THORNS. 
 
 Why do our joys depart 
 For cares to seize the heart ? 
 I know not. Nature says. 
 Obey ; and man obeys. 
 I see, and know not why 
 Thorns live and roses die. 
 
 Walter Savage Landor. 
 
36a Lyra Elegantiarum, 
 
 CCCCXLII. 
 
 While thou wert by 
 
 With laughing eye, 
 I felt the glow and song of spring ; 
 
 Now thou art gone 
 
 I sit alone, 
 Nor heed who smile nor hear who sing. 
 
 Walter Savage Lander. 
 
 CCCCXLIIl. 
 
 THE SHORTEST DA Y. 
 
 The day of brightest dawn (day soonest flown !) 
 Is that when we have met and you have gone. 
 
 Walter Savage Landor. 
 
 CCCCXLIV. 
 
 Do you ask what the birds say ? The sparrow, the dove, 
 
 The linnet and ^Jvrush say, " I love and I love ! " 
 
 In the winter they're silent — the wind is so strong ; 
 
 What it says I don't know, but it sings a loud song. 
 
 But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather, 
 
 And singing and loving — all come back together. 
 
 But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love, 
 
 The green fields beneath him, the blue sky above. 
 
 That he sings and he sings, and for ever sings he — 
 
 " I love my love, and my love loves me ! " 
 
 Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 
 
 CCCCXLV. 
 
 A FABLE FOR FIVE YEARS OLD. 
 
 The Boy and Jds 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 lash'd the top, and made it spin ; 
 
Lyra Bkgantiarum. 363 
 
 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 cah't spin faster ; 
 
 I can spin quite as well without it." 
 
 The little boy replied, " I doubt it ; 
 
 I only whip 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. " 
 
 EXPLANA'IION. 
 
 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 siglrts, and walking : 
 
 If you leave off he drops at once, 
 
 A lumpish, wooden-headed dunce. 
 
 John Hoohham Frere. 
 
 CCCCXLVI. 
 
 THE CANE-BOTTOM'D CHAIR. 
 
 In tattered old slippers that toast at the bars. 
 And a ragged old jacket perfum'ed 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 thej e 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. 
 
364 Lyra Ekgantiarum, 
 
 This snug little chamber is ciamm'd in all nooks 
 
 With worthless old knicknacks and silly old books, 
 
 And foolish old odds and foolish old ends, 
 
 Crack'd bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends. 
 
 Old armour, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all crack'd). 
 
 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 Makeluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn : 
 'Tia a murderous knife to toast muffins 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 pleasSnt 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-bottom'd chair. 
 
 'Tis a bahdy-legg'd, high-shoulder'd, 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-bottom'd chair. 
 
 If chairs have but feeling, in holding such charms, 
 
 A thrill must have pass'd through your wither'd old arms ! 
 
 I look'd, and I long'd, and I wish'd in despair ; 
 
 I wish'd myself turn'd to a cane-bottom'd 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 bloom'd in my cane-bottom'd chair. 
 
Lyra Eleganiiarum, 365 
 
 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-bottom'd 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-bottom'd 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-bottom'd chair. 
 
 William Makepeace Thackeray. 
 
 ccgcxLVii. 
 
 One year ago my path vias green. 
 My footstep light, 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 I broken should have been thy bow 
 One year ago. 
 
 Walter Savage Landor. 
 
 ccccxLvm. 
 
 SHADOWS. 
 
 HI , 
 
 Beneath an Indian palm a girl 
 Of other blood reposes, 
 Her cheek is clear and pale as pearl. 
 Amid that wild of roses. 
 
3(>6 Lyra Elegantiarum, 
 
 Beside a northern pine a boy 
 Is leaning fancy-bound, 
 Nor listens where with noisy joy 
 Awaits the impatient hound. 
 
 Cool grows the sick and feverish calm, — 
 Relaxed the frosty twine, — ■ 
 The pine-tree dreameth.of the palm, 
 The palm-tree of the pine. 
 
 As soon shall nature interlace 
 Those dinily-visioned boughs, 
 As these young lovers face to face 
 Renew their early vows ! 
 
 Michard, Lord Hovghton. 
 
 PISCATOR AND PISCATRIX. 
 
 lAnes written to an Album Print. 
 
 As on this pictured page I look, 
 This pr^ty tale of line and hook, 
 As though it were a novel-book, 
 
 Amuses and engages : 
 I know them both, the boy and girl ; 
 She is the daughter of the Earl, 
 The lad (that has his hair in curl) 
 
 My lord the County's page is. 
 
 A pleasant place for such a pair ! 
 The fields lie basking in the glare ; 
 No breath of wind the heavy air 
 
 Of lazy summer quickens. 
 Hard by you see the castle tall ; 
 The village nestles round the wall, 
 As round about the hen its small 
 
 Young progeny of chickens. 
 
 It is too hot to pace the keep ; 
 To climb the turret is too steep ; 
 My lord the Earl is dozing deep. 
 His noonday dinner over : 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 367 
 
 The postern warder is asleep 
 (Perhaps they've bribed him not to peep) ! 
 And so from out the gate they creep ; 
 And cross the fields ol" clover. 
 
 Their lines into the brook they launch ; 
 lie lays his cloak upon a branch, 
 To guarantee his Lady Blanche 
 
 's delicate complexion : 
 He takes his rapier from his haunch, 
 That beardless, doughty champion staunch ; 
 He'd drill it through the rival's paunch 
 
 That question 'd his affection ! 
 
 O heedless pair of sportsmen slack ! 
 You never mark, though trout or jack. 
 Or little foolish stickleback. 
 
 Your baited snares may capture. 
 What care has she for line and hook ? 
 She turns her back upon the brook, 
 Upon her lover's eyes to look 
 
 In sentimental rapture. 
 
 O loving pair ! as thus I gaze 
 Upon the girl who smiles always, 
 The little band that ever plays 
 
 Upon the lover's shoulder ; 
 In looking at your pretty shapes, 
 A sort of envious wish escapes 
 (Such as the Fox had for the Grapes) 
 
 The Poet, your beholder. 
 
 To be brave, handsome, twenly-two ; 
 AVith nothing else on earth to do. 
 But all day long to bill and coo : 
 
 It were a pleasant calling. 
 And had I such a partner sweet ; 
 A tender heart for mine to beat, 
 A gentle hand my clasp to meet ; — 
 I'd let the world flow at my feet, 
 
 And never heed its brawling. 
 
 William Makepeace Thac.lce.ray 
 
368 Lyra Elegantiaruvt^ 
 
 MOONSHINE: A CHARADE. . 
 
 He talked of daggers and of darts, 
 
 Of passions and of pains, 
 Of weeping eyes and wounded hearts. 
 
 Of kisses and of chains ; 
 He said, though Love was kin to Grief, 
 
 She was not born to grieve ; 
 He said though many rued belief 
 
 She safely might believe ; 
 But still the lady shook her head. 
 
 And swore by yea and nay 
 My Whole was all that he had said. 
 
 And all that he could say. 
 
 He said, my First, whose silent car 
 
 Was slowly wandering by. 
 Veiled in a vapour, faint and far. 
 
 Through the unfathomed sky. 
 Was like the smile whose rosy light 
 
 Across her young lips passed. 
 Yet oh ! it was not half so bright. 
 
 It changed not half so fast ; 
 But still the lady shook her head. 
 
 And swore by yea and nay 
 My Whole was all that he had said. 
 
 And all that he could say. 
 
 And then he set a cypress wreath 
 
 Upon his raven hair. 
 And drew his rapier from its sheath. 
 
 Which made the lady stare ; 
 And said, his life-blood's purple flow 
 
 My Second there should dim. 
 If she he served and worshipped so 
 
 Would weep one tear for him ; 
 But still the lady shook her head. 
 
 And swore by yea and nay. 
 My Whole was all that lie had said. 
 
 And all that he could say. 
 
 Wmthrop M. Praed. 
 
Lyra EUgantiarum. 369 
 
 CCCCLI. 
 
 LA PROMESSA SPOSA. 
 
 Sleep, my sweet girl ! and all the sleep 
 You take away from others, keep : 
 A night, no distant one, will come 
 When those you took your slumbers from, 
 Generous — ungenerous — will confess 
 Their joy that you have slumber'd less. 
 And envy more than they condemn 
 The rival who avenges them. 
 
 ' Walter Savage Zandor. 
 
 SYMPA THY IN SORROW. 
 
 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 kiss'd the cheek whence youth had fled. 
 Angels ! some future day for this, 
 Give her as sweet and pure a kiss. 
 
 Walter Savage Landor. 
 
 MARY AND AGNES BERRY. 
 Nov. 27, 1852. 
 
 Two friends within one grave we place 
 
 United in our tears, — 
 Sisters, scarce parted for the space 
 
 Of more than eighty years ; 
 And she whose bier is borne to-day. 
 
 The one the last to go. 
 Bears with her thoughts that force their way 
 
 Above the moment's woe ; 
 
 2 B 
 
37° Lyra Ekgantiarum, 
 
 Thoughts of tlie varied human life 
 
 Spread o'er that field of time — 
 The toil, the passion, and the strife, 
 
 The virtue and the crime. 
 Yet 'mid this long tumultuous scene, 
 
 The image on our mind 
 Of these dear women rests serene 
 
 In happy bounds confined. 
 
 Within one undisturbed abode 
 
 Their presence seems to dwell. 
 From which continual pleasures flowed, 
 
 And countless graces fell j 
 Not unbecoming this our age 
 
 Of decorative forms, 
 Yet simple as the hermitage 
 
 Exposed to Nature's storms. 
 
 Our English grandeur on the shelf 
 
 Deposed its decent gloom, 
 And every pride unloosed itself 
 
 Within that modest room ; 
 Where none were sad, and few were dull, 
 
 And each one said his best, 
 And beauty was most beautiful 
 
 With vanity at rest. 
 
 Brightly the day's discourse rolled on, 
 
 Still casting on the shore 
 Memorial pearls of days bygone, 
 
 And worthies now no more ; 
 And little tales of long ago 
 
 Took meaning from those lips, 
 Wise chroniclers of joy and woe. 
 
 And eyes without eclipse. 
 
 No taunt or scoff obscured the wit 
 
 That there rejoiced to reign ; 
 They never could have laughed at it 
 
 If it had carried pain. 
 There needless scandal, e'en though true, 
 
 Provoked no bitter smile. 
 And even men-of-fashion grew 
 
 Benignant for a while, 
 
Lyra Bkgantiarum. 371 
 
 Not that there lacked the nervous scovii 
 
 At every public wrong, 
 Not that a friend was left lorlovn 
 
 When victim of the strong : 
 Free words, expressing generous blood, 
 
 . No nice punctilio weighed, 
 For deep and earnest womanhood 
 
 Their reason underlaid. 
 
 As generations onward came, 
 
 They loved from all to win 
 Revival of the sacred flame 
 
 That glowed their hearts within. 
 While others in Time's greedy mesh 
 
 The faded garlands flung, 
 Their hearts went out and gathered fresh 
 
 Affections from the young. 
 
 Farewell, dear ladies ! in your loss 
 
 We feel the past recede, 
 The gap our harids could almost cross 
 
 Is now a gulf indeed : 
 Ye, and the days in which your claims 
 
 And charms were early known. 
 Lose substance, and ye stand as names 
 
 That History makes its own. 
 
 Farewell ! the pleasant social page 
 
 Is read, but ye remain 
 Examples of ennobled age. 
 
 Long life without a stain ; 
 A lesson to be scorned by none, 
 
 Least by the wise and brave. 
 Delightful as the winter sun 
 
 That gilds this open grave. 
 
 Eicha/rd, Lord Houghton. 
 
 CCCCLIV. 
 
 TJIS ARCHERY MEETING. 
 
 I. 
 
 The Archery meeting is fixed for the third ; 
 The fuss that it causes is truly absurd ; 
 
372 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 I've bought summer bonnets for Rosa and Bess, 
 And now I must buy each an archery dress ! 
 Without a green suit they would bhish to be seen, 
 And poor little Rosa looks horrid in green 1 
 
 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 laugiis so ! the beaux are to blame : 
 
 She doats on flirtation — but oh ! by-the-bye, 
 
 'Twas awkward her shooting out Mrs. Flint's eye ! 
 
 They've made my poor husband an archer elect ; 
 He dresses the part with prodigious effect ; 
 A pair of nankeens, with a belt round 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 1 
 
 They dance on the lawn, and we mother's, 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 hils there may be, 
 But still at my elbow two misses I see ! 
 
 Thomas H. Bayly. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 373 
 
 CCCCLV. 
 
 AT THE CHURCH GATE. 
 
 Although 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 hush'd the Minster bell : 
 The organ 'gins to swell ; 
 
 She's coming, she's coming ! 
 
 My lady comes at last, 
 Timid, and stepping fast, 
 
 And hastening hither. 
 With modest eyes downcast : 
 She comes — she's here — she's past — 
 
 May heaven go with her 1 
 
 Kneel, undisturb'd, fair Saint ! 
 Pour out your praise or plaint 
 
 Meekly and duly ; 
 I will not enter there, 
 Tu 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 heaven's gate 
 
 Angels within it. 
 
 William Makepeace Thackeray. 
 
374 Lyra Elegantiarum. 
 
 CCCCLVI. 
 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 dotli 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 pass'd away? 
 
 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. 
 
 William MaJcepeace Thacksray. 
 
Lyra Elegantiaruin. 375 
 
 ccccLvn. 
 ROSE'S BIRTHDAY. 
 Tell me, perverse youn<; year 1 
 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. 
 
 Walter Savage Landor. 
 
 ccccLvni. 
 
 The grateful heart for all things blesses ; 
 
 Not only joy, but grief endears : 
 I love you for your few caresses, 
 
 I love you for your many tears. 
 
 Walter Savage Landor. 
 
 CCCCLIX. 
 
 TH^: 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 ! 
 Preml — 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 — Sciir — and for you and to you ! 
 Sciir-— and to you ! " 
 
 Richard. Lord Houghlon. 
 
376 Lyra Etegantiarum. 
 
 CCCCLX. 
 
 A LITERARY SQUABBLE. 
 
 The Alphabet rejoiced to hear 
 
 That Monckton Milnes was made a Peer ; 
 
 For in this present world of letters 
 
 But few, if any, are his betters : 
 
 So an address by acclamation. 
 
 They voted of congratulation, 
 
 And H, O, U, G, T, and N, 
 
 Were chosen the address to pen ; 
 
 Possessing each an interest vital 
 
 In the new Peer's baronial title. 
 
 'Twas done in language terse and telling, 
 
 Perfect in grammar and in spelling : 
 
 But when 'twas read aloud, oh, mercy ! 
 
 There sprang up such a controversy 
 
 About the true pronunciation 
 
 Of said baronical appellation. 
 
 The vowels O and U averred 
 
 They were entitled to be heard ; 
 
 The consonants denied their claim. 
 
 Insisting that they mute became. 
 
 Johnson and Walker were applied lo, 
 
 Sheridan, Bailey, Webster, tried too ; 
 
 But all in vain, for each picked out 
 
 A word that left the case in doubt. 
 
 O, looking round upon them all. 
 
 Cried, " If it be correct to call 
 
 T, H, R, O, U, G, H, ' throo,' 
 
 H, O, U, G, H, must be ' Hoo,' 
 
 Therefore there can be no dispute on 
 
 The question, we should say, ' Lord Hoo\or\."' 
 
 U brought "bought," "lought," and "sought," 
 
 to show 
 He should be doubled and not 0,- 
 For sure if ".ought" was " awt," then "nought" on 
 Earth could the title be but " Jfawlon.'' 
 H, on the other hand, said he, 
 In " cough " and " trough," stood next to G, 
 And like an F was thus looked soft on, 
 Which made him think it should be " //ofton." 
 But G corrected H, and drew 
 Attention other cases to. 
 
Lp-a Elegantiarum. 3^7 
 
 " Tough," " rough," and " chough " more tlian " enough " 
 
 To prove O, U, G, H, spelt " uff," 
 
 And growled out in a sort of gruff tone, 
 
 They must pronounce the title "I{ti^toD." 
 
 N said emphatically " No ! " 
 
 There is D, O, U, G, H, " doA," 
 
 And tAougA (look there again !) that stuff 
 
 At sea, for fun, they nicknamed " duff," 
 
 They should propose. they took a vote on 
 
 The question, " Should it not be .Soton ? " 
 
 Besides in French 'twould have such force, 
 
 A lord was of " Hautton," of course. 
 
 Higher and higher contention rose, , 
 
 From words they almost came to blows, 
 
 Till T, as yet who hadn't spoke. 
 
 And dearly loved a little joke. 
 
 Put in his word and said, " Look there ! 
 
 ' Plough ' in this row must have its s/ian. '' 
 
 At this atrocious pun each page 
 
 Of Johnson whiter turned with rage ; 
 
 Bailey looked desperately cut up. 
 
 And Sheridan completely shut up ; 
 
 Webster, who is no idle talker, 
 
 Made a sign indicating ' ' Walker ! " 
 
 While Walker, who had been used badly. 
 
 Just shook his dirty dog's-ears sadly. 
 
 But as we find in prose or rhyme 
 
 A joke made happily in time, 
 
 However poor, will often tend 
 
 The hottest argument to end. 
 
 And smother anger in a laugh. 
 
 So T succeeded with his chaff 
 
 (Containing as it did some wheat) 
 
 In calming this fierce verbal heat. 
 
 Authorities were all conflicting, 
 
 And T there was no contradicting ; 
 
 P, L, O, U, G, H, was fi/ojv, 
 
 Even " enough " was called " mow ; " 
 
 And no one who preferred "enough '' 
 
 Would dream of saying " Speed the Pluff I " 
 
 So they considered it more wise 
 
 With "T to make a compromise. 
 
 And leave no loop to hang a doubt on 
 
 By giving three cheers for " Lord \ ^^ f ton I 
 
 James Robinson Planchi. 
 
378 Lyra Eleganliaruin. 
 
 CCCCLXI. 
 
 WITH PETKARCHS SON.VETS. 
 
 Behold what homage to his idol paid 
 
 The tuneful suppliant of Valclusa's shade. 
 
 His verses still the tender heart engage, 
 
 They charm 'd a rude, and please a polish'd age ; 
 
 Some are to nature and to passion true, 
 
 And all had been so, had he lived for you. 
 
 Walter Savage Landor. 
 
 AN ENVOY TO AN AMERICAN LADY. 
 
 Beyond the vague Atlantic deep, 
 Far as the farthest prairies sweep, 
 Where forest-glooms the nerve appal. 
 Where burns the radiant Western fall, 
 One duty lies on old and young, — 
 With filial piety to guard, 
 As on its greenest native sward. 
 The glory of the English tongue. 
 That ample speech ! That subtle speech ! 
 Apt for the need of all and each : 
 Strong to endure, yet prompt to bend 
 Wlierever human feelings tend. 
 Preserve its force — expand its powers ; 
 And through the maze of civic life. 
 In Letters, Commerce, even in Strife, 
 Forget not it is yours and ours. 
 
 Richard, Lord Houghton 
 
 CCCCLXIII. 
 
 AD MINISTRAM. 
 
 Dear Lucy, you know what my wish is, — 
 
 I hate all your Frenchified fuss ; 
 Your silly entriSes and made dishes 
 
 Were never intended for us. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum. 379 
 
 No footman in lace'and in ruffles 
 
 Need dangle behind my armchair ; 
 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. 
 
 William Makepeace Thackeray. 
 
 CCCCLXIV. 
 
 ON AN OLD LAMP. 
 
 * * * 
 
 " Hush ! in the canal below 
 Don't you hear the plash of oars 
 Underneath the lantern's glow, 
 And a thrilling voice begins 
 To the sound of mandolins ? — 
 Begins singing of amore 
 And delire and dolore — 
 O the ravishing tenore ! 
 
 " Lady, do you know the tune ? 
 
 Ah, we all of us have hummed it 1 
 
 I've an old guitar has thrummed it, 
 
 Under many a changing moon. 
 
 Shall I try it ? Z»o re MI * * 
 
 What is this ? Ma foi, the fact is, 
 
 That my hand is out of practice, 
 
 And my poor old fiddle cracked is, 
 
 And a man — I let the truth out, — 
 
 Who's had almost every tooth out. 
 
 Cannot sing as once he sung, 
 
 When he was young as you are young, 
 
 When he was young and lutes were strung, 
 
 And love-lamps in the casement hung." 
 
 William Makepeace Thackeray. 
 
33o Lyra. Elegantiarum. 
 
 CCCCLXV. 
 ROTTEN ROW. 
 
 There's a tempting bit of greenery — of rua in wrbe scenery — 
 That's haunted by the London "upper ten ; " 
 
 Where, by exercise on horseback, an equestrian may force back 
 Little 6ts of tedium vitm now and then. 
 
 Oh ! the times that I have been there, and the types that I have 
 seen there 
 
 Of that gorgeous Cockney animal, the " swell ; " 
 And the scores of pretty riders (both patricians and outsiders) 
 
 Are considerably more than I can tell. 
 
 When first the warmer weather brought these people all together, 
 And the crowds began to thicken through the Row, 
 
 I reclined against the railing on a sunny day, inhaling 
 All the spirits that the breezes could bestow. 
 
 And the riders and the walkers and the thinkers and the talkers 
 
 Left me lonely in the thickest of the throng, 
 Not a touch upon my shoulder — not a nod from one beholder — 
 
 As the stream of Art and Nature went along. 
 
 But I brought away one image, from that fashionable scrimmage. 
 
 Of a figure and a face — ah, such a face ! 
 Love has photograph'd the features of that loveliest of creatures 
 
 On my memory, as Love alone can trace. 
 
 Did I hate the little dandy in the whiskers, (they were sandy,) 
 Whose absurd salute was honour'd liy a smile ? 
 
 Did I marvel at his rudeness in presuming on her goodness, 
 When she evidently loathed him all the while ? 
 
 Oh the hours that I have wasted, the regrets that I have tasted, 
 
 Since the day (it seems a century ago) 
 When my heart was won instanter by a lady in a canter. 
 
 On a certain sunny day in Rotten Row ! 
 
 Henry S. Leigh. 
 
Lyra Eleganharum. 3I 
 
 CCCCLXVI. 
 
 DRYDEN AND THACKERAY. 
 (Historical Contrast. J 
 
 When one whose nervous English verse, 
 
 Public and party hates defied, 
 Who bore and bandied many a curse 
 
 Of angry times — when Dryden died. 
 
 Our royal Abbey's Bishop-Dean 
 
 Waited for no suggestive prayer, 
 But, ere one day closed o'er the "scene. 
 
 Craved as a boon to lay him there. 
 
 The wayward faith, the faulty life, 
 
 Vanished before a nation's pain ; 
 " Panther " and " Hind " forgot their strife. 
 
 And rival slatesmen thronged the. fane. 
 
 O gentle Censor of our age ! 
 
 Prime master of our ampler tongue ! 
 Whose word of wit and generous page 
 
 Were never wroth except with wrong, — 
 
 Fielding — without the manners' dross, 
 
 Scott — with a spirit's larger room. 
 What prelate deems thy grave his loss? 
 
 What Haliflax erects thy tomb ? 
 
 But may be, He who so could draw 
 The hidden great, the humble wise. 
 
 Yielding with them to God's good law, 
 Makes the Pantheon where he lies. 
 
 Richard, Lord Houghton. 
 
 CCCCLXVII. 
 
 MY THRUSH. 
 
 All through the sultry hours of June, 
 From morning blithe to golden noon, 
 
 And till the star of evening climbs 
 The gray-blue East, a world too soon, 
 
 There sings a Thrush amid the limes, 
 
382 Lyra EUgantiarum. 
 
 God's poet, hid in foliage green, 
 Sings endless songs, himself unseen; 
 
 Right seldom come his silent times. 
 Linger, ye summer hours serene ! 
 
 Sing on, dear Thrush, amid the limes ! 
 
 Nor from these confines wander out. 
 Where with old gun bucolic lout 
 
 Commits all day his murderous crimes : 
 Though cherries ripe are sweet, no doubt, 
 
 Sweeter thy song amid the limes. 
 
 May I not dream God sends thee there, 
 Thou mellow angel of the air, 
 
 Even to rebuke my earthlier rhymes 
 With music's soul, all praise and prayer? 
 
 Is that thy lesson in the limes ? 
 
 Closer to God art thou than I : 
 
 His minstrel thou, whose brown wings fly 
 
 Through silent aether's summer climes. 
 Ah, never may thy music die ! 
 
 Sing.on, dear Thrush, amid tlie limes ! 
 
 Mortimer Collins. 
 
 CCCCLXVIII. 
 
 FORGET-ME-NO TS. 
 
 Blue as the sky were the simple flowers 
 
 We gathered together that day, 
 Tho' dead and dry they recall the hours 
 
 Of a happiness pass'd away. 
 
 They grew mid the rushes so tall and greeji. 
 
 Low down in the sedges cool. 
 We drew them out of their home, unseen. 
 
 In a fortunate fairy pool. 
 
 And you gave me some and I took them home, 
 And treasured those blossoms blue, 
 
 Tho' never a flower was needed less 
 To be given to me by you. 
 
 Oharlotte AUngton Barnard. 
 
Lyra Elegantim-um. 383 
 
 CCCCLXIX. 
 
 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." 
 
 Oeorge John GayUy. 
 
 CCCCLXX. 
 
 TO THE A VTHOR OF HESPERWES. 
 
 Hayrick some do spell thy name. 
 And thy verse approves the same ; 
 For 'tis like fresh-scented hay, — 
 With country lasses in't at play. 
 
 William AUingham. 
 
 CCCCLXXI. 
 
 EPITAPH ON A FAVOURITE DOG. 
 
 Not hopeless, round this calm sepulchral spot, 
 
 A wreath presaging life, we twine ; 
 If God be Love, what sleeps below was not 
 
 Without a spark divine. 
 
 Sir Francis Hastings Doyle. 
 
 CCCCLXXII. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 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, 
 
384 Lyra Eltgantiarum. 
 
 And laughed, and prattled in her pride of 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 1 " 
 And while she hid all England with a kiss, 
 
 Bright over Europe fell her golden hair. 
 
 Eev. Charles Tennyson-Twrner. 
 
 CCCCLXXIII. 
 
 YOUTH AND ART. 
 
 It once might have been, once only : 
 We lodged in a street tpgether, 
 
 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 style?. 
 
 Chipped eacli at a crust like Hindoos, 
 
 For air, looked out on the tiles. 
 For fun, watched each other's windows. 
 
Lyra. Mlegantiarum. 385 
 
 VI. 
 
 You lounged, like a boy of tlie So^th, 
 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 water-cresses. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 I did look, sharp as a lynx 
 
 (And yet the memory rankles), 
 
 When models arrived, some minx 
 Tripped up-stairs, she and her ankles. 
 
386 Lyra Ekgantiarum. 
 
 But I think I gave you as good ! 
 
 " That foieign 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 hals-pari, 
 
 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 jiot sighed deep, laughed and free, 
 
 Starved, feasted, despaired, — been happy. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 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. 
 
 Robert Browning. 
 
Lyra Elegantiarum.. 387 
 
 CCCCLXXIV. 
 
 GARDEN FANCIES. ' 
 The Flower's Name. 
 
 Here'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 spuned. 
 
 To feed and forget it the leaves among. 
 II. 
 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 a 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 I 
 III. 
 This flower she stooped 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 ; 
 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. 
 
388 Lyra Ekganliarum. 
 
 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 I 
 For while 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 ! 
 
 Robert Browning, 
 
 CCCCLXXV. 
 
 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, altho' 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, 
 
 I'aid me my precious wages — " Baby's kiss." 
 
 Francis, Earl of Rosslyn. 
 
Lyra Bkgantiarum. 38g 
 
 CCCCLXXVI. 
 
 TO MISS PEEL: ON THE ANNOUNCEMENT OFHEJi 
 INTENDED MARRIAGE WITH LORD VILLIERS. 
 
 You have a great name of your own, 
 
 By nature and reason endeared : 
 A name thro' the Universe known — 
 
 Admired, beloved, and revered ! 
 
 But since, under Hymen's control. 
 That name you are destined to lose. 
 
 There is not in Heraldry's roll 
 A brighter than Villiers to choose. 
 
 But not on his title or birth 
 
 Alone, would your choice have been placed : 
 I am told of his talents and worth — 
 
 Wt have proof of M8 sense and Ms taste ! 
 
 Of You, to yourself I suppress 
 
 How dearly your merits I prize ! — 
 But I may be allowed to confess 
 
 That I view you with Villiers' eyes. 
 
 May Heaven behold with its grace 
 
 A union that blends and secures 
 The splendour and fame of his race 
 
 With the genius and virtues of yours ! 
 
 The Bight Hon. John Wilson Oroker. 
 
INDEX OF WRITERS, 
 
 WITH DATES OP THEIR BIKTH AND DEATH. 
 
 AtDBioH, Dean (1647—1710) 
 
 Reasons for drinking — ccl, 
 
 Allinqham, William (1828—1889) 
 
 To the Author of Hesperides— ccoclxx, 
 
 AiLisos, Bicliard (1606) 
 
 Cherry ripe— Kxxv. 
 
 Anti-Jaooein (1797—1798) 
 
 The friend of humanity — cxov 
 Song of^Eogero — codLXxiv. 
 
 Avion, Sir Robert (1670-1638) 
 
 Woman's inconstancy — xi 
 
 I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair— xvi. 
 
 Aytoun, William B. (1813—1866) 
 
 The lay of the Levite — ccclxxx. 
 
 £aillie, Joanna (1762 — 1851) 
 
 To a kitten— oocxxxii. 
 
 Babbauld, Anna Letitia (1743— 1825) 
 
 Life ! I know not what thou art— ooixxxiii. 
 
 Barham, Richard H. (1788—1845) 
 
 Lines left at Theodore Hook's House— cccxxiii 
 The poplar— ocoi.x. 
 
 Barnaed, Charlotte Alington (1830—1869) 
 Forget-me-nots— coooLXTiii. 
 
 Barnakd, Dr. Thomas, Bishop of Limerick (1727— ISOB) 
 On mending his faults — cli. 
 
 Bayly, Thomas Haynes (1797—1839) 
 I'd he a butterfly — CCCLXV 
 A fashionable novel — ccolxix 
 The archery meeting— ccccliv, 
 
3g2 Index of Writers. 
 
 Beazlby, Samuel (1786—1851) 
 
 When I'm dead, on my tomb-stor.e I hop-i they will 
 say— ooLiv. 
 
 Bedinqfield, ■William 
 
 The lover's choice— cxxxii 
 Contentment — ccliii. 
 
 Behn, Aphra (1640—1689) 
 
 The alternative — lxvi. 
 
 BicKEKSTAPF, Isaac (1735— 1812?) 
 
 An expostulation — ccxxxvii. 
 
 Bishop, Eev Samuel (1731—1796) 
 
 To his wife, with a knife — cxvi 
 To his wife, with a ring— cxvii. 
 
 Blasohakd, Laman (1804—1845) 
 
 Dolce far niente— oocxlv. 
 
 Bloomfield, Robert (1760—1823) 
 
 Why he thinks she loves him — cclxxv. 
 
 Bkereton, Mrs. Jane (1685-1740) 
 
 On Nash's picture at Bath — cxl. 
 
 Breton, Nicholas (1655—1624) 
 
 Phillida and Corydon — ix. 
 
 Beome, Alexander (1620—1666) 
 Why I love her— lvi 
 To a coy lady— Lviii. 
 
 Brooks, Charles Shirley (1816—1874) 
 
 Dixit, et in Mensam — ccxviii. 
 
 Bkowne, William (1591—1645) 
 
 What wight he loved — xxrv. 
 
 BnowNiN'o, Elizabeth Barrett (1809—1861) 
 A man's requirements — CCCL 
 The romance of the swan's nest — ccclxxxviii. 
 
 Brownish, Robert (1812—1890) 
 
 Youth and Art — acccLxxiii 
 Garden fancies— cccclxx] v. 
 
 BUCKINOHAIM, John, Duke of (1649—1720) 
 
 Come, let us now resolve at last — cccxcviii. 
 
 Butler, Samuel (1612—1680) 
 
 He that will win his dame — .vlxxt. 
 
 ByRON, George, Lord (1788—1824) 
 
 To Thomas Moore — cclviii 
 Fill the goblet again— CCLX 
 Love and glory — ccxcii 
 The girl of Cadiz— cccxvi 
 To Mr. Hodgson— cocxix. 
 
Index of Writers. 303 
 
 Caiverley, C. S. (1831—1884) 
 
 Peace— ccccxxvi 1 
 
 Hie vir, hie est — ccccxxvii 
 
 Ode to Tobacco — ccccxxxiv 
 
 Beer \ 
 
 Motherhood [■ See Preface. 
 
 Forever ) 
 
 Campbell, Thomas, LL.D. (1777—1844) 
 Margaret and Dora— ccciii 
 Young love's a gallant boy— cccxiii. 
 
 Canning, Rt. Hon. George (1770—1827) 
 
 Epistlpfrom Lord Boringdon to Lord Granville— clxxxix 
 
 A political despatch — cxcvi 
 
 Fragment of an oration — cxcvir 
 
 The pilot that weathered the storm — cxcix, 
 
 Carew, Thomas (1589—1639) 
 
 He that loves a rosy cheek — xxi 
 
 The inquiry— XXV 
 
 The primrose — xxvii 
 
 Ask me no more where Jove bestows — xxx 
 
 Ungrateful beauty threatened — lix. 
 
 Cahey, Henry (16 —1743) 
 
 With an honest old friend and a merry old song — ccxlvii 
 Cato's advice — ccxlviii 
 Mediocrity in love rejected — civ 
 Epitaph on Lady Mary Villiers— cccxciii. 
 
 Cartwright, William (1611—1613) 
 To Chloe— LI 
 Lesbia on her sparrow— cccxxvi. 
 
 Cayley, George John 
 
 An epitaph — cccclxix. 
 
 Chesterfield, Earl of (1694^1773) 
 
 The picture of Nash at Bath — cxli 
 Advice to a lady in autu-mn — cxlii 
 On Lord Islay's garden— cxliii. 
 
 Cleveland, John (1613—1659) 
 Epigram— OL XVII, 
 
 Clough, Arthur H. (1819—1861) 
 
 Spectator ah extra— oclxiii 
 
 Out of sight, out of mind — ccclxxxix, 
 CoLEiuDGE, Hartley (1796— 1849) 
 
 To a proud kinswoman — ccccxxxiii 
 CoLEEiDGE, Samuel Taylor (1772—1834) 
 
 On Job— ccxxxviii 
 
 Cologne— ccxL 
 
 To a young lady on her recovery from a fever— cclxxxvii 
 
 Something childish but very natural— ccxcviii 
 
 To a lady— ccc 
 
 Names— cccxlvi 
 
 What the birds say — ccccxliv. 
 
394 Index of Writers. 
 
 Collins, John (17 —1808) 
 * Good old things — ccxlix 
 
 The golden farmer — cclxiv 
 To-morrow — ccxcili. 
 
 Collins, Mortimer (1827—1876) 
 
 My thrush — cccclxvii. 
 
 CoLMAN, George (1762—1836) 
 
 My muse and I— cLxxvi. 
 
 CoNOREVE, William (1670—1729) 
 
 Tell me no more I am deceived — lxxxv 
 Fair Amoret is gone astray— lxxxv n 
 False tho' she be to me and love — xovii. 
 
 Corbet, Richard (1582—1635) 
 
 To his son Vincent— cclxxvih. 
 
 Cowley, Abraham (1618— 16G7) 
 
 Love in her sunny eyes— lxt 
 The wish— lxxxt. 
 
 CowPER, "William (1731—1800) 
 
 To his cousin, Anne Bodham— ccxiii 
 
 The poplar field— ooxov 
 
 The poet's'new year's gift— ccxcix 
 
 The judgment of the poets—occvii 
 
 On some names of little note— ccixi 
 
 On a goldfinch starved to death— cccxxix 
 
 The faithful bird- coexxx 
 
 Epitaph on a hare— cccxxxr 
 
 The Colubriad— cccxxxiv 
 
 The jackdaw— cucxxxv 
 
 To Joseph Hill- cccxxx\ ii 
 
 Catharina— oooxxxvni 
 
 Eeport of au adjudged case— ccclxxix. 
 
 Crabbe, George (17i^4— 1832) 
 
 To Cecilia— coLxxxi. 
 
 Crashaw, Richard (1615—1662) 
 
 On Mr. George Herbert's book — cciv. 
 
 Croker, The Eight Hon. John Wilson (1780— 1850 
 
 To Miss Peel: on the announcement of her intended 
 marriage— ccccLX XVI. 
 
 Cunningham, John (1729—1773) 
 
 Kate of Aberdeen— CLXXViJi. 
 
 Daniel, Samuel (15G2— 1619) 
 
 Love is a sickness full of woes — iv. 
 
 Davenant, Sir William (1606— 166S) 
 
 'Ihe soldier going to the field- xxxvi 
 The dying lover— cxxxvii. 
 
 De la Wabrb, Earl of (1729—1777) 
 Fair Hebe — oovn. 
 
Index of Writers, 395 
 
 Donne, John (1573—1631) 
 
 Send back my long stray'd eyes to me— x. 
 Dorset, Earl of (1637—1706) ■ 
 
 Phillis, for shame— Lxxiii 
 
 Dorinda — lxxv 
 
 Written at sea — lxxvi. 
 Doyle, Sir Francis Hastings (1810—1888) 
 
 Epitaph on a favourite dog— cccfcLxxi. 
 Dry DEN, John (1631—1700) 
 
 On Fortune— Lxxxvi 
 
 A pair well matched— lxxxix 
 
 The fair stranger — ulit. 
 
 Egremont, Charles "Wyndham, Earl of (1710—1763) 
 
 The fair thief— ccxx. 
 Elliot, Sir GUbert ( —1777) 
 
 Amynta— cxxxiii. 
 Essex, Robert, Earl of (1567—1601) 
 
 There is noue, O, none but you— Lxxxiv. 
 JiiREGE, Sir George (1636—1694) 
 
 A warning to swains— lxviii 
 
 (-'arpe diem — lxx. 
 
 Fanshawe, Miss Catherine M. (1764—1-34) 
 
 Riddle on the letter fl — occxlji 
 
 Imitation of "Wordsworth- coclxxxii 
 
 Elegy on the birth-night ball— ccclxxxiv. 
 Fielding, Henry (1707—1754) 
 
 On a halfpenny — cxxxvui 
 
 An epistle to Sir R. "Walpole— olxxxi 
 
 To Sir K. "Walpole— CLXXXii 
 
 To Celia — clxxxv. 
 
 Fitzgerald, Edward (fiWca 1820) 
 
 Because — cuclxii 
 
 Oood-night — ccclxxxvi 
 
 Chivalry at a discount— cccLXXXvii. 
 Flatman, Thomas (1635—1688) 
 
 On maiTiage— cxviii. 
 Fox, Right Hon. Charles James (1748—1806) 
 
 To Mrs. Crewe— CLx XXVI II. 
 Frere, the Right Hon. John Hookham (1769—1846) 
 
 A fable for five years old— ooooxlv. 
 
 Garrick, David (1716-1779) 
 
 Come, come, my good shepherds, our flocks we must 
 shear — cxlvii 
 
 Ye fair married dames, who so often deplore— cxlviii 
 
 Advice to the Marquis of Rocking/iam- cxciii. 
 Gay, John (1688—1732) 
 
 Damon and Cupid — xciii 
 
 Phyllida— XGV 
 
 Go, rose, my Chloe's bosom grace— ocLxxxiv. 
 
39^ Index of Writers, 
 
 ^ Goldsmith, Oliver (1728—1774) 
 
 The retaliation— cxLVi 
 The haunch of venison— cl. 
 
 Gray, Thomas (1716—1771) 
 
 On the death of a favourite cat — cocxxviii 
 
 A long story— occcxxii. 
 Greene, Eobert (1560—1592) 
 
 Happy as a shepherd— vxii 
 
 Content— Lxxx. 
 Greville, Mrs. Fanny (1720 ?— ) 
 
 Prayer for indifference — colxxxii. 
 
 Harrington, Sir John (1561—1612) 
 
 Treason— coxxiv. 
 Heber, Reginald, Bishop of Calcutta (1783— 1826) 
 
 Sympathy— cocxL. 
 Herrick, Eobert, The Eev. (1591—1674) 
 
 A dialogue between himself and Mrs. Eliza Wheeler— 
 
 XXVI 
 
 To his mistress objecting— xxix 
 Julia's bed — xxxi 
 Upon Julia's clothes -xxxii 
 Delight in disorder- xxxiir 
 The night piece— xxxix 
 To the virgins to make much of time— xl 
 The head-ache— xLi 
 The riiig--xLni 
 To Dianeme — lx 
 To carnations — lxii 
 The bag of the bee — c 
 The bracelet— oxxv 
 To laurels— cLxiii 
 
 Upon a lady that died in cliild-bed— clxiv 
 How springs came first— clxxix 
 An ode to Ben Jonson— ccxlii 
 The kiss— ccLxvi 
 The maiden blush— cccxliv 
 To Mr. John Wicks— cooxcvii. 
 Hill, Aaron (1684-6—1749-50) 
 '' Modesty and beauty dangerous— ccxxvii. 
 
 Holland, Lord (1773—1840) 
 
 On Samuel Eoger's seat— cccli. 
 Hood, Thomas (1798—1845) 
 
 I'm not a single man— ccxvi 
 
 To ■ , (composed at Eotterdam)— ccclvi 
 
 On a distant view of Clapham academy— cccLxvni 
 
 To Minerva— cccLxx 
 
 The flower— cccLxxii 
 
 The burning of the love letter— occlxxv 
 
 The water Peri's song— ocaLxxvi 
 
 "Please to ring the belle"— ccclxxvii 
 
 I've a darling of my own— ccclxxxi 
 
 The broken dish— ccoLxxxiiif 
 
Index of Writers, 397 
 
 HosKiNS, John (1566—1638) 
 
 On the loss of Time— oiii 
 
 To his little child Benjamin— clxxti.. 
 
 HouGHTOKj Kichard, Lord (1809—1885) 
 Shadows ii. — ccccxxxix 
 Shadows iii.— ccccxlviii 
 Mary and Agnea Berry— occcliii 
 The Venetian serenade— cccclix 
 An envoy to an American lady— ccccLXii 
 Dryden and Thackeray— cccci-xvi. 
 
 Hunt, Leigh (1784—1859) 
 
 Jenny kiss'd me— cccxxiv. 
 
 iRViNGj "Washington (1783—1859) 
 
 Album verses— ccoxL VIII. 
 
 Jaqo, Richard (1715—1781) 
 Absence — ulvi. 
 
 Jeffrey, Francis, Lord (1773—1850) 
 Verses— occxLVii. 
 
 Jenyns, Soame (1704—1787) 
 
 Too plain, dear youth, these tell-tale eyes— cjxlix. 
 
 JoHKSos, Samuel (1709-1784) 
 
 To Mrs. Thrale— CXI 
 
 If the man who turnips cries— cc.clxxviii 
 
 On the death of Mr. Eobert Levet— cclxxi. 
 
 Jones, Miss Mary 
 
 The lass of the hill— olxxxiii. 
 
 Jones, Sir William (1746—1794) 
 
 To an infant newly born— CLxxiir. 
 
 JoNsoN, Ben (1574—1637) 
 
 To Celia— XVIII 
 
 Charis— her triumph — xx 
 
 Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke— clxii 
 
 Epitaph on Salathiel Parry— xxii 
 
 If I freely may discover — cucxviii 
 
 Still to be neat, still to be drest— ccoxcv, 
 
 Keats, John (1795—1821) 
 
 The Mermaid Tavern— cocviii. 
 
 Kenny, James (1770—1849) 
 
 The old story over again— cccxv. 
 
 Lamb, Charles (1775—1835) 
 
 To Hester Savory— ccci 
 
 A sonnet on Christian names — cccoviii. 
 Landor, Walter Savage (1775-1864) 
 
 To my ninth decade—ccxxix 
 
 On Southey's death— ccxxxii 
 
 The dragon fly— ccxliii 
 
398 Index of Writersm 
 
 Lajtsdr, Continued— 
 
 A retrospect — ccLXxn 
 
 Bose Aylmer — cci.xxx 
 
 Clementina and Loeilla— cccrv 
 
 Herlips — occxcn 
 
 Breams : To lanthe— cocc 
 
 To his yoang Boee — oc»cin 
 
 Feathers — cccciv 
 
 I strore with none — occcv 
 
 Utt one in illness— ccccvi 
 
 On Catollaa— ococx 
 
 Frond word you never spoke — ccccxi 
 
 How many voices gaily sing — coccxn 
 
 The casket— ccocxv 
 
 AVhy repine ?— ooodvi 
 
 To one in grief— coccxxx 
 
 Ireland— ooccxx 
 
 To a fair mudea — coccxxi 
 
 Ignorance of botany—coocxxxii 
 
 Where axe m^a ?-~ooocxxEr 
 
 Children playing in a dinrchyud — ococxxr 
 
 I held her hand the pledge trf bUss — ccccxxixi 
 
 Ton smiled, yon spoke, and I beliered — ccccxxx 
 
 To lanthe— ccccxxxi 
 
 Teats — occcxxxv 
 
 Destiny uncertain — ccccxxxn 
 
 Twenty years hence — cccx.-xl 
 
 Boses and thorns — occcxli 
 
 While thoa wert by — cccozui 
 
 The shortest day — ococxxuz 
 
 One year ^o — coocxlvii 
 
 La E^messa Sposa — ccoci.i 
 
 Sympathy in sorrow — cocclu. 
 
 Bose's birthday — ccccLm 
 
 The grateful heart — ccocltixz 
 
 With Petrarch's sonnets — oocx;x.xi. 
 
 Leigs, Henry S. (1836—1883) 
 
 Chateaa D'Espagne — ccccxiv 
 liy lore and my heart— occcxxxu 
 Botten Bow — cccci<xv, 
 
 L'EsTEA2*aE, Sir Boger (1616—1704) 
 
 Loy^ty confined — Ljcxmi. 
 
 Lewis, Matthew Gregory (177*— 1S18) ' 
 
 Lord Erskine on woman presuming to rail— ccxxa 
 The boors — cclxxix. 
 
 LOCKHABT, J. O. (1794—1851) 
 
 When yoathf ol faith hath fled — ccxix. 
 
 LoT£LACE, Colonel Bichard (1618—1658) 
 
 To Locasta, on going to the wars — xl,v 
 The merit of inconstancy — ui 
 To Lncasta, on going beyond the seas— lit 
 To Althea^LXXTU. 
 
Index tf Wriiers. 399 
 
 LrTTRELL, Heniy (1771—1851) 
 
 On Miss Maria Tree — ccxxxi 
 BarDbam-Beeches — cccxiix 
 At Holiand Boose — cccld. 
 
 Ltly, John (1534—1600) 
 
 Capid and Campaspe — cccxc- 
 
 Lysaoht, Edwai^ (1763—1810) 
 
 Kitty of Colerune — cccxx. 
 
 Lttteltos, Geoi^e, Lord (1709—1773) 
 Hope and Love — ccxxv. 
 
 Macaulat, Thomas B., Lord (1800— l&o9) 
 
 As 1 sate dowB Uj breakfast in state— ecu 
 Valentine to the Honble. M. C. Stanhope — ccxtu. 
 
 Mahosy, Frank (1805— 1S65) 
 
 The Shandon bells — cclvii. 
 
 Melboi:e;se, William Lamb, Yisconnt (1779— 184&) 
 'Tis late, and 1 must haste away — cxc. 
 
 MiLTOX, John (1005—1674) 
 
 To Mr. Lawrence — cccxci 
 To Cyriac Skinner — cccxcrv. 
 
 MoiTTAGr, Lady Mary Wortley (1690—1762) 
 The lorer — cr 
 On Sir Bobert Walpole— clxxxit, 
 
 MooEE, Edward (1712—1757) 
 
 The joys of wedlock— cxrv, 
 
 MooBB, Thomas (ITS'V-lSo^) 
 
 Paddy's metamorphosis — cxciv 
 
 King Crack and hid idols — cxcviu 
 
 Farewell !— but whenever you welcome the hour— cclvi 
 
 I knew by the smoke, that so gracefully curl'd — ccxcti 
 
 Dear Fanny— cccv 
 
 Minerva's thimble — cccx. 
 
 A dream of Hindostan — cccxn 
 
 The time I've lost in wooing — cccxvn 
 
 A temple to friendship — cccxv 
 
 From the Honble. Henry— to Lady Emma—. — ccclviii 
 
 Season, folly, and^auty— ccclxui 
 
 When I loved you-^scccvu 
 
 Woman's laughter — ccccxxxvni, 
 
 MoEKis, Captain Charles (1740~18S2) 
 The toper's apology— ccxv 
 The contrast -cccxxi. 
 
 MoTTEUx, Peter Anthony (1660—1718) 
 A roundelay — cxxiv. 
 
 XuGEST, Bobert, Earl (1709—1788) 
 
 I loved thee, beautiful and kind— ccxxviu. 
 
4oO Index of Writers. 
 
 Oldmixon, John (1673—1742) 
 
 I lately vow'd, but 'twas in haste— cxxxix- 
 
 Oldys, "William (1696—1761) 
 The fly— C'cxLiv. 
 
 Orfobd, Horace "Walpole, Earl of (1717—1797) 
 
 To Madame de Damas learning English -ccxxvi. 
 
 Orfoed, Robert Walpole, Earl of (1676—1745) 
 To the sunflower— CLXXXvi. 
 
 Oxford, Edward Vere, Earl of (1534—1604) 
 A renunciation— VII 
 Were I a king— clx. 
 
 Parnell, Dr. Thomas (1679-1717) 
 
 When thy beauty appears— cvi. 
 
 Peacock, Thomas Love (1785—1866) 
 
 In his last binn Sir Peter lies— cclix 
 Rich and poor— cclxv 
 Love and age — cccliv. 
 
 PjETERBOROUOH, Lord (1658—1735) 
 
 Song by a person of quality— ex xxi. 
 
 Philips, Ambrose (1671— 1749) 
 
 To Charlotte Pulteney-cuxci. 
 
 Planchb, James Robinson (1796—1880) 
 A literary squabble— cccclx. 
 
 Pope, Alexander (1688— 1744) 
 
 To Mr. Thomas Southerne- xlvii 
 
 The contented man — lxxxiii 
 
 To Mrs. Martha Blount— cxx 
 
 Answer to the question— What is prudery ?—cxxix 
 
 The town and country mouse — oxxxvi 
 
 Kpitaph for one who would not be buried in Westminster 
 
 Abbey— CLxviii 
 On the collar of a dog— ccxxxv. 
 
 PoESON, Richard (1759—1803) 
 
 Epi gram — ccx x xv i . 
 
 Praed, AVintbrop Mackworth (1802—1839) 
 Mars disarmed by Love— cc 
 Verses on seeing the Spejwr asleep— cui 
 Sketch of a young lady — ccxiv 
 The chaunt of the brazen head- cccxli 
 Enigma — cccxliii 
 The belle of the ball-room— ccoliii 
 The Vicar— cocLvii 
 A letter of advice— cccLix 
 Our bait — ccclxi 
 
 Childhood and his visitors —ccclxiv 
 My little cousins— ccclxvi 
 School and schoolfellows— cccLxvii 
 Moonshine : a charade— ccccl. 
 
Index of Writers, 401 
 
 Prior, Matthew (1604—1721) 
 
 Cupid mistaken — xci 
 
 The question to Lisetta— xoii 
 
 Answer to Chloe jealous — xciv 
 
 The female Phaeton — xcvi 
 
 Her right name— xcvm 
 
 The garland— 
 
 The merchant, to secure his treasure — cii 
 
 The remedy worse than the disease - olxi 
 
 For his own monument — OLxvi 
 
 To his soul— CLxxiv 
 
 The secretary— CLxxxvii 
 
 To a child of quality — cox 
 
 The lady who offers her looking-glass to Venus— ccxxxiii 
 
 To a lady : she refusing to continue a dispute with me — 
 
 CCLXI 
 
 To Lady Margaret Cavendish HoUes-Harley— ccccxvii. 
 
 Prowse, William Jeffery (1836—1870) 
 My lost old age— cccLXiii 
 
 Kaleigh, Sir Walter (1552—1618) 
 The silent lover — xii 
 
 The sliepherd's description of love— xxviii 
 The nymph's reply to the shepherd —xlix 
 Her love admits no rival — ccoxcvi. 
 
 Eegnibr, the Ahh^ (1573—1613) 
 
 Gaily I lived as ease and nature tau^fht— clxxi. 
 
 EETN0LD3, J. Hamilton (1796—1853) 
 
 On Charles Kemble— cclxii. 
 
 Rochester, Earl of (1648-1680) 
 
 The present moment — Lxrii 
 
 The victor and the vanquishec! — LXiv 
 
 EoGERS, Samuel (1762—1855) 
 
 To asleep— ocLxxxvi 
 
 On a tear— ccLXXXix 
 
 To , — ccxc 
 
 A wish — ccxoiv 
 
 An Italian song— coxcvii 
 
 Epitaph on a robin redbreast — cccsxxiii, 
 
 EoNSAKD, After Pierre de (15»~15S5) 
 On twin sisters— clxix. 
 
 RoasLYN, Francis, Earl of (1833—1890) 
 Bedtime— ccccLxxv. 
 
 SsDLEY, Sir Charles (1639—1701) 
 
 Phillis is my only joy — xiv 
 To Phillis— LXT 
 To Chloris— Lxvii 
 To Celia— LXix, 
 
402 Index of Writer's, 
 
 Shakspehe, William (1564—1616) 
 My flocks feed not — vi 
 
 mistress mine, where are you roaming ?— xv. 
 
 Shelley, Percy B. (1792—1822) 
 
 Good-n ight— cccLxxxv 
 "With a guitar to Jane— ccccii. 
 
 Sheridan, Dr. Thomas (1684— 173S) 
 Dr. Delany's vlU^— cxxn. 
 
 Shekidan, Ht. Honble. R. B. (1751—1816) 
 
 On Lady Margaret Fordyce — colxxtv 
 
 1 ne'er could any lustre see— cclxxvii 
 The waltz— cccxxxvi. 
 
 Shekstone, William (1714—1763) 
 
 Written at an inn — CLVir. 
 
 Skelton, Uev. John (1463—1529) 
 
 To Mrs. Margaret Hussey- 1. 
 
 Smith, Horatio (1779—1849) 
 To Fanny— cccci. 
 
 Smith, James (1775— 1S39) 
 
 Christmas out of town— cccxxii 
 The Poet of Fashion — ccccxni. 
 
 Smollett, Tobias (1721—1771) 
 
 Her fascination— OLXxvii. 
 
 SOMERTILLE. James (1692 — 1742) 
 
 The white rose— cclxxxv 
 
 SPENCER.lHonble. Wm. Robt. (1770—1834) 
 To Lady Anne Hamilton— cccvi 
 Epitaph upon the year 1806 — cccix 
 Wife, children, and friends— cccxi v. 
 
 Strode, William (1600—1644) 
 
 Kisses- ocLxvn. ^ 
 
 Suckling, Sir John (1608 or 9—1641) 
 
 Why so pale and wan, fond lover? — xxxvri 
 , The siege— XLii 
 
 I pr'ythee send me back my heart — xl[v 
 A ballad upon a wedding — xlvi 
 Love and debt— xlviii 
 Out upon it, I have loved — l 
 
 Surrey, Earl of (1516— i!547) 
 
 The means to attain a happy life— lxxix. 
 
Index of Writers, 403 
 
 Swift, Jonathan (1667—1745) 
 
 Mrs. Harris's petition — cv 
 
 Stella's birthday, 1718— ovii 
 
 Stella's birthday, 1720— cviii 
 
 Stella's birthday, 1721 — cix 
 
 Stella's birthday, 1726^cx 
 
 The grand question debated— cxix 
 
 On the little house by the churchyard of Castleknock- 
 
 cxxiri 
 A love song in the modern taste— ccclxxi 
 
 SvDNEY, Sir Philip (1554—1586) 
 The serenade — iii 
 A ditty — V. 
 
 Tennyson-Turneb, the Eev. Charles (1808—1879) 
 Sonnet— ccccLxx 11. 
 
 Thackeray, "William Makepeace (1811—1863) 
 The white squall— ccccix 
 Peg of Limavaddy— ccccxviii 
 The ballad of Bouillabaisse — ccccxxviii 
 The mahogany tree — ccccxxxvn 
 The cane-bottom'd chair — ccccxlvi 
 Piscator and Piscatrix — ccccxlix 
 At the church gate— ccgclv 
 The age of wisdom — cccolvi 
 Ad ministram — cccclxiii 
 On an old lamp— cccclxiv. 
 
 TiCKELL, Thomas (1686—1740) 
 
 On a woman of fashion — cxliv. 
 
 Vanbbugh, Sir John (1066—1726) 
 
 Fable related by a beau to ^Esop— lxxjcviix. 
 
 Walker, Sidney (1795—1846) 
 
 To a girl in her 13th year— ccxv. 
 
 Waller, Edmund (1605—1687) 
 
 Of English verse— lxxi 
 
 The story of Phoebus and Daphne applied— lxxii 
 To Chloris singing a song of his composing— lxxiv 
 On a girdle— cxxvi. 
 
 Walsh, William (1663—17*) 
 
 The despairing lover— cccix 
 Eivals in love— cccxcii. 
 
 Walton, Izaak (1593—1683) 
 
 The angler's wish— lxxxii, 
 
 Williams, Sir Charles Hanbury (1709—1759) 
 An ode to the Earl of Bath— cxci 
 The statesman— oxcii 
 An ode on Miss Harriet Hanbury— ccxi 
 A song upon Miss Harriet Hanbury— coxii 
 On the death of Matzel - cccxxvii. 
 
404 Index of Writers, 
 
 "Wither, George (1588—1667) 
 
 On a stolen kiss— xvii 
 
 A madrigal— XIX 
 
 Shall I, wasting in despair ?— xxxviii. 
 
 WoLCOT, John (1738—1819) 
 
 "What is prudence?— cxxx 
 To sleep— ccxLi 
 To a kiss— ccLxviii 
 Marian's complaint— cclxxii 
 To a fish— cccLxxiii. 
 
 WoRDSWOBTH, William (1770— 1S50) 
 
 To a young lady who had been reproached for taking long 
 walks in the country — cclxxxviii. 
 
 WoTTON, Sir Henry (1568—1639) 
 
 Upon the death of Sir A. Morton's wife— olxv 
 On his mistress the Queen of Bohemia— cciii. 
 
 "Wtat, Sir Thomas (1503—1542) 
 
 The one be would love— 11. 
 
 UNKNOWN. 
 
 Since I first saw your face I vowed— xiii 
 
 Fain would I, Chloris, ere I die — xxni 
 
 My Love in her attire doth show her wit — xxxit 
 
 Love not me for comely grace- liii 
 
 "Wert thou yet fairer in thy feature — lv 
 
 The peremptory lover— Lvri 
 
 His excuse for loving — xcix 
 
 To Winifreda— cxii 
 
 A man may live thrice Nestor's life— cxiii 
 
 On the Marriage Act— oxv 
 
 Pr'ythee, Chloe, not so fast— cxxi 
 
 To a glove— cxxvii 
 
 Susan's complaint— cxxviii 
 
 Strephon, when you see me fly— cxxxiv 
 
 "What is a woman like ?— cxxxv 
 
 Last Sunday at St. James's prayers- cxlv 
 
 "When Molly smiles beneath her cow— clii 
 
 Kobin's complaint— cliii 
 
 A Lover's message — clv % 
 
 As t'other day o'er the green meadow I pass'd— cr.vi: 
 
 Young Colin protests I'm his joy and delight— clix 
 
 "Wind, gentle evergreen, to forma shade— clxx 
 
 The nymph and the swain — clxxx 
 
 The constant swain and virtuous maid— ocv 
 
 You say you love, — and twenty more— re vi 
 
 The courtship and wedding— covin 
 
 On Lord King's motto— ccix 
 
 A husband to a wife— ocxxi 
 
 No truer friend than woman man discovers— ccxxir 
 
 Till death I Sylvia must adore— ccxxiii. 
 
 My heart still hovering round about you— ccxxx 
 
Index of Writers, 405 
 
 UNKNOWN. Continued— 
 
 Early rising— ccxxxiv 
 
 The Wages of old, in prophecy told— coxlv 
 
 Says Plato, why should man be vain ?— coxlvi 
 
 On breaking a china mug— ccli 
 
 The country wedding— cclii 
 
 On a kiss— ccLXix 
 
 The auburn lock— cclxx 
 
 Secret lo'^e— cclxxiii 
 
 My Lilia gave me yestermorn— cccii 
 
 The honeymoon— crcxxv. 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 A BAND, a bob-wig, and a feather 
 
 A bard, dear muse, unapt to sing 
 
 About fifty years ^ince, in the days of our daddies 
 
 A,bout the sweet-bag of a bee 
 
 A face that should content me wondrous well 
 
 A funeral stone, or verse, I covet none 
 
 Ah, Ben ! say how or when . . . ■ 
 
 Ah I Chloris I could I now but sit 
 
 Ah ! do not drive oft grief, but place your hand 
 
 Ah me ! those old familiar bounds ! 
 
 Ah ! what avails the sceptred race ! 
 
 Ah, what is love ! it is a pretty thing . 
 
 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, 
 
 All my past life is mine no more . 
 
 All through the sultry liours of June . 
 
 All travellers at first incline 
 
 All you that e'er tasted of Swatfal-Uall beer 
 Alone, across a foreign plain 
 A lovely young lady I mourn in my rhymes 
 Although I enter not .... 
 A man may live thrice Nestor's life 
 Amaryllis 1 did woo . . . . 
 
 Amongst t^e myrtles as I walk'd . 
 Among thy fancies, tell me this . 
 
 A pretty task, Misa S , to ask . 
 
 Ariel to Miranda : — Take . 
 
 A ring to me Cecilia sends .... 
 
 As after noon, one summer's day . 
 
 As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping 
 
 As Dick and I were a-sailing by . 
 
 As doctors give physic by way of prevention 
 
 As down in the meadows I chanced to pass . 
 
 As gilly-ilowers do but stay .... 
 
 As I sat at the Caf^ I said to myself . 
 
 As I sate down to breakfast in state . 
 
 As 1 went to the wake that is held on the green . 
 
 Ask me no more where Jove bestows . 
 
 Page 
 
 59 
 268 
 146 
 
 61 
 
 2 
 
 156 
 
 177 
 
 44 
 
 343 
 
 206 
 
 208 
 
 S 
 
 84 
 269 
 362 
 
 42 
 S81 
 
 76 
 184 
 301 
 383 
 373 
 
 83 
 
 13 
 
 17 
 200 
 167 
 326 
 208 
 
 61 
 238 
 242 
 127 
 
 97 
 127 
 196 
 154 
 160 
 
 20 
 
Index of First Lines, 
 
 407 
 
 Ask me why I Bend you here .... 
 As lamps burn silent with unconscious light 
 
 Aa Nancy at her toilet sat 
 
 As on this picturetl page I look .... 
 
 Asses' milk, half a pint, take at seven, or before 
 
 As t'other day o'er the green meadow I pass'cl . 
 
 A street there is in Paris famous .... 
 
 A sweet disorder in the dress 
 
 Aa when a beauteous nymph decays 
 
 "A temple to Friendship," said Laura, enchanted 
 
 At length, by so much importunity press'd . 
 
 Away, Jet nought to love displeasing . 
 
 A woman is like to— but stay .... 
 
 Aye, bear it hence,,thou blessed child . 
 
 Ay, here stands the poplar, so tall and so stately 
 
 . Beat on, proud billows ; Boreas, blow 
 Before the urchin well could go 
 Behold what homage to his idol paid . 
 Behold with downcast eyes and modest glance . 
 Beneath an Indian palm a girl 
 Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose 
 Beyond the vague Atlantic deep . 
 Blue as the sky were the simple flowers 
 Busy, curious, thirsty fly ! . 
 
 Childuen, keep up that harmless play 
 Chloe, why wish you that your years . 
 Chloris, yourself you so excel 
 
 Christmas is here 
 
 Close by the threshold of a door nail'd fast . 
 
 Come, come, my good shepherds, our flocks we must shear 
 
 Come from my First, ay, come 
 
 Come, gentle sleep, attend thy votary's prayer 
 
 Come let us now resolve at last ... 
 
 Come, lovely lock of Julia's hair . 
 
 Cupid and my Campaspe play'd . 
 
 Cyriac, whose grandsire on the royal bench 
 
 Dear child of nature, let them rail ! — 
 
 Dear Chloe, how blubber'd is that pretty face ! 
 
 Dear Doctor of St. Mary's 
 
 Dear is my little native vale . 
 
 Dear Joseph,— five-and-twenty years ago— . 
 
 Dear little, pretty, favourite ore . 
 
 Dear Love, let me this evening die 
 
 Dear Lucy, you know what my wish is 
 
 Did ever swain a nymph adore ^ . 
 
 Distracted with care .... 
 
 Dorintla's sparkling wit and eyes . 
 
 Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove 
 
 Drink to me only with thine eyes 
 
 Fain would I, Chloris, ere I die 
 
 Fair Amoret is gone astray 
 
4o8 
 
 Index of First Lines. 
 
 Page 
 
 Fair cousin mine ! the golden days .... . 315 
 
 Fair Hebe I left, with a cautious design . . . 159 
 
 Fair Iris I love, and hourly I die . . . . (iO 
 
 Fair maiden ! when I look at thee . . . ■ 344 
 
 Fair maid, had I not heard thy baby cries , S56 
 
 Fair marble, tell to future days . '. . 129 
 
 False tho' she be to me and love ... 66 
 
 Farewell ! all good wishes go with him to-day . 194 
 
 Farewell !— but whenever you welcome the hour . . . 189 
 
 Farewell ! farewell to my mother's own daughter 305 
 
 Fill the goblet again ! for I never before . . 192 
 
 Fluttering spread thy purple pinions . . . 300 
 
 For many a winter in Billiter-lane ... . 240 
 
 Fortune, that, with malicious joy 58 
 
 Friends, hear the words my wandering thoughts would say 174 
 
 From you, lanthe, little troubles pass 35a 
 
 GtAILy I lived as ease and nature taughb 
 Gather ye rose-buds while ye may 
 Give me more love, or more disdain 
 Good-night ? ah ! no ; the hour is ill . 
 Good-night to thee, Lady ! tho' many . 
 Go, rose, my Chloe's bosom grace . 
 Go, virgin kid, with lambeut kiss . 
 Go— you may call it madness, folly 
 Gracefully shy is yon gazelle 
 Great Earl of Bath, your reign is o'er 
 Great Sir, as on each lev^e day 
 
 Had Cain been Scot, God would have changed his doom 
 
 Hail ! day of music, day of love . 
 
 Hail I pretty emblem of my fate ! . 
 
 Happy and free, securely^ blest 
 
 Happy the man whose wish and care 
 
 Hayrick some do spell thy name . 
 
 Health, strength and beauty, who would not resign 
 
 He first deceased ; she, for a little, tried 
 
 Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue 
 
 Here Rogers sat, and here for ever dwell 
 
 Here's the garden she walked across 
 
 Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee 
 
 Heroes and kings ! your distance keep . 
 
 He stood, a worn-out city clerk 
 
 He talked of daggers and of darts 
 
 He that loves a rosy cheek .... 
 
 He that will win his dame must do 
 
 His book is successful, he's steeped in renown 
 
 Ho ! pretty page, with the dimpled chin 
 
 How blest has my time been ! What joys have 1 1 
 
 How happily shelter'd is he who reposes 
 
 How happy a thing were a wedding 
 
 How many voices gaily sing 
 
 Hush I in the canal below 
 
 Huzza ! Hodgson, we ajre going . 
 
 known 
 
 129 
 26 
 72 
 313 
 314 
 211 
 97 
 215 
 368 
 143 
 135 
 
 128 
 168 
 138 
 122 
 57 
 
 127 
 249 
 270 
 387 
 
 2b 
 128 
 349 
 368 
 
 14 
 130 
 385 
 374 
 
 83 
 271 
 
 86 
 335 
 379 
 
Index of First Lines. 409 
 
 Page 
 
 I AM his Highness' dog at Kew ... .175 
 
 I asked my fair one happy day 266 
 
 I'd be a butterfly born in a bower . 292 
 
 I do confess tliou'rfc smooth and fair . , 1] 
 
 If all be true that I do think . ' 182 
 
 If all the world and love were young, ... 3i 
 
 If hush'd the loud whirlwind that ruffled the deep 150 
 
 If I freely may discover .... 235 
 
 If I had but two little wings 220 
 
 I feed a flame within, which so torments me . 204 
 
 If life be time that here is lent . , 71 
 
 If the man who turnips cries . 305 
 
 If thi? fair rose offend thy sight . , 212 
 
 If to be absent were to be . ? . . , 37 
 
 If women could be fair, and yet not fond . . 5 
 
 I gaze upon a city, — ... . . 276 
 
 I hardly know one flower that grows 348 
 
 I hate the town, and all its ways 137 
 
 I held her hand, the pledge of bliss 354 
 
 I in these flowery meads would be . , .56 
 
 I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curl'd 21<* 
 
 I lately thought no man alive . . 119 
 
 I lately vowed, but 'twas in haste ... , 107 
 
 I'll tell you a story that's not in Tom Moore . 305 
 
 I loved thee, beautiful and kind ... 174 
 
 I loved thee once, I'lllove no more , . . . .8 
 
 I'm like Archimedes for science and skill . . 149 
 
 Immortal Kewton never spoke ... . 107 
 
 I'm often asked by plodding souls . 187 
 
 I'm only nine-and-twenty yet . . . 2'!(9 
 
 In Britain's isle, no matter where . . 344 
 
 In Christian world Mary the garland wears . , 330 
 
 In Clementina's artless mien . 223 
 
 I ne'er could any lustre see . 206 
 
 In his last binn Sir Peter lies . . 192 
 
 In Kdln, a town of monks and bones 176 
 
 In London I never know what I'd be at . . 238 
 
 In matters of commerce, the fault of the Dutch 148 
 
 In tatter'd old slippers that toast at the bars . 363 
 
 In the downhill of life when I find I'm declining . . 217 
 
 In the days of my youth I've been frequently told 181 
 
 In the merry month of May ... . 6 
 
 I play'd with you 'mid cowslips blowing . . 274 
 
 I pr'ythee leave this foolish fashion . . 40 
 
 I pr'ythee send me back my heart . . 29 
 
 Ireland never was contented 344 
 
 I said to my heart, between sleeping and waking ' . 99 
 
 I sent for Ratcliffe ; was so ill 126 
 
 I strove with none, for none was worth my strife . . 329 
 
 I tell thee, Dick, where I have been . . 30 
 
 I think, whatever mortals crave . . 260 
 
 It is not, Celia, in your power . 45 
 
 It often comes into my head 326 
 
 It once might have been, once only . 384 
 
 Jenny kiss'd me when we met . . 243 
 
 Julia, I bring . 28 
 
4IO 
 
 Index of First Lines. 
 
 King Crack was the best of all possible kings 
 Know, Celia (since thou art so proud) . 
 Know you, fair, on what you look ? 
 
 Last Sunday at St, James's prayers 
 Laugh on, fair Cousins, for to you 
 Lawrence, -of virtuous father, virtuous son 
 Let it not your wonder move 
 Life ! I Icnow not what thou art . 
 Life (priest and poet say) is but a dream 
 
 Little BUie sits alone 
 
 Lord Erskine, on woman presuming to rail . 
 
 Lord Harry has written a novel 
 
 Lords, knights and squires, the numerous band 
 
 Love in her sunny eyes does basking play . 
 
 Love is a sickness full of woes 
 
 Love me, Sweet, with all thou art 
 
 Love not me for comely grace 
 
 Maw is for woman made 
 Margaret's beauteous— Grecian arts 
 Maria 1 I have every good 
 Mark'd you her clieek of roseate hue ? 
 Martial, the things tliat do attain 
 
 Merry Margaret 
 
 Mine be a cot beside the hill . 
 
 Mine fall, and yet a tear of hers . 
 
 My boat is on the shore ... 
 
 My dearest love, since thou wilt go 
 
 My flocks feed not . 
 
 My gentle Anne, whom heretofore 
 
 My head doth ache .... 
 
 My heart still hovering round about you 
 
 My Lilla gave me yestermorn 
 
 My little Ben, since thou art young 
 
 My love and I for Icisses play'd 
 
 My love in her attire doth show her wit 
 
 My mother bids me spend my smiles . 
 
 My muse and I, ere youth and spirits fled . 
 
 My noble, lovely, little Peggy 
 
 My pretty, budding, breathing flower 
 
 Myrtilla, early on the lawn .... 
 
 My sheep I neglected, I broke my sheep-hook 
 
 My temples throb, my pulses boil 
 
 My true love hath my heart, and I have his 
 
 Nature, thy fair and smiling face 
 Needy knife-grinder I whither are you going ? 
 Ne'er were the Zephyrs known disclosing* . 
 No morning ever seemed so long 1 
 None, without hope, e'er lov'd the brightest fair 
 Not, Celia, that I juster am . 
 Not hopeless, round this calm sepulchral spot 
 No truer friend than woman man discovers 
 Now cease the exulting strain 
 Now, don't look so glum and so sanctified, please 
 , Now gentle sleep hath closed up those eyes 
 
 Page 
 160 
 40 
 167 
 
 110 
 292 
 321 
 
 87 
 211 
 178 
 317 
 178 
 299 
 161 
 
 41 
 
 3 
 
 269 
 
 37 
 
 95 
 223 
 220 
 204 
 
 64 
 
 1 
 
 218 
 
 368 
 
 191 
 
 18 
 
 4 
 
 164 
 
 27 
 174 
 222 
 129 
 201 
 
 22 
 SOS 
 130 
 338 
 164 
 175 
 101 
 300 
 
 326 
 147 
 207 
 304 
 173 
 
 46 
 383 
 172 
 310 
 169 
 
 12 
 
Index of First Lines. 411 
 
 Page 
 
 O, BE thou blest with all that Heaven can send, . , 91 
 
 Of all the torments, all the cares .... . 322 
 
 Of old, when Scarron his companions invited . Ill 
 
 Often I have heard it said ... - 325 
 
 Often, when o'er tree and turret . . . 350 
 
 Oft in danger, yet alive ... 81 
 
 Oft I've implored the gods in vain 2"9 
 
 Oft you have ask'd me, Granville, why ^ . 141 
 
 Oh, fond attempt to give a deathless lot' . 22S 
 
 Oh 1 that the chemist's magic art . 214 
 
 Oh, the days were ever shiny . . 355 
 
 Old Islay, to show his fine delicate taste . . 108 
 
 O mistress mine, where are you roaming ? , 11 
 
 Once on a time, so runs the fable 103 
 
 Once on a time, when sunny May 290 
 
 Once upon an evening weary, shortly after Lord Dundreary 336 
 
 On deck beneath the awning 330 
 
 O, never talk again to me 233 
 
 One year ago my path was green . . ... 365 
 
 ' On parents' knees, a naked new-born child . . 130 
 
 On the brow of a hill a yxjung Shepherdess dwelt 136 
 
 On this Tree if a nightingale settles and sings 174 
 
 O, talk not to me of a name great in story 216 
 
 Out upon it, I have loved . . . . . 35 
 
 Phillis, for shame ! let us improve . ... 47 
 
 Fhillis is my only joy . . .10 
 
 Phillis, men say that all ray vows . . ' 43 
 
 Philosophers pretend to tell . . 201 
 
 Phyllida, that loved to dream , 64 
 
 Poets may boast, as safely vain . 46 
 
 Poor little, pretty, fluttering thing . . 130 
 
 Preserve thy sighs, unthrifty girl ... .23 
 
 Proud word you never spoke, but you will speak . 334 
 
 Pr'ythee, Chloe, not so fast .... !^1 
 
 Prudence, Sir "William, is a jewel . 09 
 
 Resign'd to live, prepared to die . ' .33 
 
 Riding^rom Coleraine ... : 339 
 
 Says Plato, why should man be vain . 179 
 
 21 
 13 
 7 
 243 
 324 
 16 
 
 See'st thou that cloud as silver clear 
 
 See the chariot at hand here of Love 
 
 Send back my long stray'd eyes to me 
 
 Serene and tranquil was the night 
 
 Shall I, like a hermit, dwell ., 
 
 Shall I tell you wliom I love ? 
 
 Shall I, wasting in despair . . . ■ • 24 
 
 She came — she is gone— we have met — ... .25/ 
 
 She has beauty, but still you must keep your heart cool . 224 
 
 " Shepherd, what's love ? I pray thee tell ! " . 19 
 
 Since first I saw your face I vowed ... 10 
 
 Since shed nor cottage I have none . . • ' „?„ 
 
 Since truth ha' left the shepherd's tongue . . .203 
 
412 Index of First Lines. 
 
 Page 
 
 Sleep, Mr. Speaker, 'tis surely fair . . . 153 
 
 Sleep, my sweet girl ! and all the sleep . . . 369 
 
 Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile . 212 
 
 Sly Beelzebub took all occasions . . 176 
 
 Soft child of Love— thou balmy bliss . 201 
 
 So look the mornings, when the sun . '^34 
 
 Some years ago, ere time and taste . 278 
 
 Soon as the day begins to waste . 1-^^ 
 
 Sooth 'twere a pleasant life to lead . -<>5 
 
 Souls of poets dead and gone . 22'! 
 
 Spare, gen'rous Victor, spare the slave . , 198 
 
 Stay while ye will, or go . . .42 
 
 Stella this day is thirty-four . . 76 
 
 Still to be neat, still to be drest . ■ 323 
 
 Strephon, when you see me fly . 101 
 
 Such were the lively eyes and rosy hue 1^7 
 
 Sure 'tis time to have resign'd . . . 337 
 
 Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content 54 
 
 Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes ... 41 
 
 Sweet Nea !— for your lovely sake 288 
 
 Trll me uo more I am deceived '■>% 
 
 Tell me not of joy : there's none -44 
 
 Tell me nob. Sweet, I am unkind ... 30 
 
 Tell rae not what too well I know . . 334 
 
 Tell me, perverse young year ! 375 
 
 Thanks, my Lord, for your venison— for finer or fatttr 116 
 
 That out of sight is out of mind .... 320 
 
 That which her slentler waist confined . 96 
 
 The Alphabet rejoiced to hear . . . 376 
 
 The Archery meeting is fixed for the third . . 371 
 
 The day of brightest dawn (day soonest flown) . . 3i52 
 
 " Thee, Mary, with this ring I wed " . . . . 85 
 
 The fools that are wealthy are sure of a bride 84 
 
 The Germans in Greek 175 
 
 The grateful heart for all things blesses . . 375 
 
 The greenhouse is my summer seat 248 
 
 The Lady Mary Villiers lies .... 322 
 
 " The longer one lives, the more one learns " 220 
 
 The maid I love ne'er thought of me 360 
 
 The merchant, to secure his treasuie . . .71 
 
 Then, behind, all my hair is done up in a plat . . 109 
 
 The poor man's sins are jjlaring 199 
 
 The poplars are fell'd, farewell to the shade 218 
 
 The pride of every grove I chose . 68 
 
 There are some wishes that may start 205 
 
 There falls with every wedding chime 329 
 
 There is a bird, who by his coat 254 
 
 There is a garden in her face . . -22 
 
 There is a river clear and fair . . 308 
 
 There is a sound that's dear to rae .- . . 307 
 
 'Jhere is none, O none but you .57 
 
 There's a tempting bit of greenery- of rus in urbe scenery 380 
 
 There's one request I make to Him , . . 34 
 
 The Sages of old, in prophecy told . . . 179 
 
Index of First Lines. 
 
 413 
 
 These springs were maidens once that loved 
 
 The silver moon's enamour'd beam 
 
 The sun was now withdrawn 
 
 The time I've lost in wooing .... 
 
 They seemed to those who saw them meet 
 
 This day, whate'er the Pates decree 
 
 This picture placed these busts between 
 
 Though British accents your attention Are 
 
 Thou record of the votive throng . 
 
 Thou wert too good to live on earth with' me 
 
 Thou who, when fears attack 
 
 Thus Kitty, beautiful and young . 
 
 Thus spoke to my lady the knight full of care 
 
 Thyrsis, a youth of the inspired train 
 
 Thy smiles, thy talk, thy aimless plays 
 
 Till death, T Sylvia must adore . 
 
 Timely blossom. Infant fair 
 
 Time was when I was free as air . 
 
 'Tis bedtime ; say your hymn, and bid "Good-night 
 
 'Tis gone, with its thorns and its roses 
 
 'Tis late, and I must haste away .... 
 
 'Tis not her birth, her friends, nor yet her treasure 
 
 'Tis not the lily brow I prize .... 
 
 'Tis not the splendour of the place 
 
 'Tis not your beauty nor your wit 
 
 'Tis not your saying that you love 
 
 'Tis now, since I sat down before 
 
 To all you ladies now on land 
 
 To fix her, — 'twere a task as vain . 
 
 To his young Rose an old man said 
 
 To hug yourself in perfect ease 
 
 To my ninth decade I have' tottered on 
 
 Too late I stay'd ! forgive the crime 
 
 Too plain, dear youth, these tell-tale eyes 
 
 To thee, fair Freedom ! 1 retire .... 
 
 To their Excellencies the Lords Justices of Ireland 
 
 Tread lightly here, for here 'tis said 
 
 Treason doth never prosper — What's the reason ? 
 
 Try not, my Stanhope, 'tis in vain 
 
 'Twas in heaven pronounced, it was mutter'd in hell 
 
 'Twas on a lofty vase's side 
 
 Twelve years ago I made a mock , 
 
 Twenty years hence my eyes may grow 
 
 Two friends within one grave we place 
 
 'Two nymphs, both nearly of an age 
 
 Underneath this sable hearse 
 Unless my senses are more dull . 
 
 Page 
 132 
 13'1 
 
 62 
 234 
 360 
 
 79 
 
 lor 
 
 173 
 
 287 
 
 172 
 
 867 
 
 65 
 
 88 
 
 47 
 
 166 
 
 173 
 
 215 
 
 247 
 
 888 
 
 22T 
 
 142 
 
 39 
 
 221 
 
 160 
 
 39 
 
 43 
 
 27 
 
 49 
 
 131 
 
 329 
 
 186 
 
 174 
 
 224 
 
 116 
 
 3 23 
 
 72 
 
 252 
 
 173 
 
 245 
 
 268 
 
 246 
 
 294 
 
 361 
 
 389 
 
 225 
 
 VENtJS, take my votive glass 
 
 Wanton droll, whose harmless play 
 
 Weepe with me all you that read . 
 
 Well may they, Wentworth, call thee young 
 
 Well met, pretty nymph, says a jolly young swain 
 
 260 
 
 15 
 145 
 133 
 
4^4 ' index of First Lines. 
 
 Page 
 55 
 
 "Well then ; I now do plainly see 
 
 Wert thou yet fairer in thy feature ... . . 3M 
 
 Well tried thro' many a varying year . ...... 202 
 
 "Were I a king, I could command content . 125 
 
 What Cato advises most certainly wise is . ... 181 
 
 What I shall leave thee none can tell . . 206 
 
 What is Prudery? 'Tis a beldam . . .98 
 
 What nymph should I admire, or trust . 62 
 
 What's life but full of care and doubt . 309 
 
 What statesman, what hero, what king . 144 
 
 When along the light ripple the far serenade . ^75 
 
 When as in silks my Julia goes . . 21 
 
 Whene'er the cruel hand of death . 182 
 
 Whene'er with haggard eyes I view . . 303 
 
 When I loved you, I can't but allow 330 
 
 When I am dead, on my tomb-stone I hope they will say 186 
 
 When I tie about thy wrist 96 
 
 When I was a maid 232 
 
 When late I attempted your pity to move . . . 176 
 
 When Letty had scarce passed her third glad year . 383 
 
 When Love came first to earth, the Spring , 230 
 
 When Love with unconfin^d wings 51 
 
 When maidens such as Hester died . . 221 
 
 When Molly smiles beneath her cow . 121 
 
 When one whose nervous English verse . . . 381 
 
 When the black-letter'd list to the gods was presented 231 
 
 When thy beauty appears .... 75 
 
 When youthful faith hath fled .... 171 
 
 Where the loveliest expression to features is join'd . 140 
 
 While at the helm of State you ride ... . 134 
 
 While her laugh, full of life, without any controul 360 
 
 While I'm West with health ivnd plenty .... 198 
 
 While on those lovely looks I gaze . . 42 
 
 While thou wert by . . 362 
 
 While with labour assiduous due pleasure"! mix . . 139 
 
 Whoever pleaseth to inquire . 93 
 
 Who is it that this dark night ... . 2 
 
 Why dost thou say I am forsworn . . 37 
 
 Why do our joys depart . . 361 
 
 Why flyest thou away with fear ? 302 
 
 Why need I say, Louisa dear ! . . 213 
 
 Why should I thus employ my time 162 
 
 Why BO pale and wan, fond lover? ... .24 
 
 Why, why repine my pensive friend . . 338 
 
 Why write my name 'mid songs and flowers . . 266 
 
 Wind, gentle evergreen, to form a shade . . 129 
 
 With an honest old friend and a merry old song . . ]80 
 
 With deep affection ... ... 189 
 
 With leaden foot Time creepsalong . . 123 
 
 Would you that Delville I describe ? . . . 02 
 
 Wrong not, sweet empress of my heart . 9 
 
 YEAEfl,— years ago,— ere yet my dreams . 271 
 
 Ye fair married dames, who so often deplore . . 116 
 
 Ye happy swains, whose hearts are free . 44 
 
Index of First Lines. 415 
 
 Page 
 
 Ye little njTnplis that hourly wait ' 123 
 
 Yoa asic me, dear Nancy, what makes me presume . . 205 
 
 You bid me explain, my dear angry ma'amselle . . 281 
 
 You, Damon, covet to possess ... ... ipo 
 
 You'll come to our Ball ; — since we parted . 285 
 
 You meaner beauties of the night . . . 157 
 
 Young Colin protests I'm his joy and delight 125 
 
 Young Jessica sat all the day .... . 228 
 
 You say I love not, 'cause I do not play 20 
 
 You say you love, and twenty more . 159 
 
 You smiled, you spoke, and I believed 355 
 
 You tell me you're promised a lover . . 282 
 
NOTES. 
 
 II. Wyat distinguished himself by the ability with which he 
 
 diBcharged the duties of Ambassador at the court of Spain. 
 At one time he commanded a ship of war. 
 
 viri. Greene is said to have been the first Englishman who wrote 
 
 for bread. Hallam says of him that he "succeeded pretty 
 well in that florid and gay style, a little redundant in 
 images, which Shakespere frequently gives to his princes 
 and courtiers." 
 
 xni. Another stanza Is sometimes added to this poem : but it 
 does not appear to be by the same hand. 
 
 XIV. Sedley was a boon companion of the Merry Monarch. His 
 
 daughter became mistress to James II., who created her 
 Countess of Dorchester. In the time of the Eevolution, 
 Sedley used his influence against James, and in favour of 
 William and Mary, and when asked the reason, replied : 
 "From principles of gratitude, for, since his Majesty has 
 made my daughter a countess, it is fit I should do all I can 
 to make his daughter a queen." 
 
 XVII. "Wither was a Puritan soldier. His life was spared by 
 
 Chai'les II. at the intercession of Denham, who urged for 
 him the singular plea that, " while Wither lived, he (Den- 
 ham) could not be accounted the wox'st poet in England." 
 
 XXV. and xxvii. Poems almost similar to these are to be found in 
 Herrick's *' Hesperides." 
 
 XXVIII. In Dr. Hannah's " Courtly Poets," this is signed, " [S. W. 
 'R.] Ignoto," with the following footnote: "In 'England's 
 Helico.i,' IGOO, with the first signature obliterated; and 
 ascribed to ' S. W. Eawly ' in F. Davison's list, Harl. MS. 
 28,0 fol. 99. It is anonymous in Davison's ' Poetical Khap- 
 Body,' 1602, etc., as 'The Anatomy of Love.' with no dis- 
 tinction of dialogue, and the first line running, * Now what 
 Is love, I pray thee tell?' An imperfect copy of the first 
 and last stanzas form 'the third song' in T. Heywood's 
 ' Rape of Lucrece,' 1608, etc." 
 
Notes, 
 
 417 
 
 XLV. Lovelace was a aoldier and senator, and was distinguished 
 
 for the beauty of his person, and the dignity and courtesy 
 of his manners. 
 
 XLVi. This is one of Suckling's best poems, and, as Leigh Hunt 
 says, " his fancy 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 stanzas of this poem have been 
 necessarily omitted. 
 
 XLvii. The best known of Southerne's plays was "Oroonoko." 
 The dinner described in the poem was given by "Kind 
 Boyle " (Lord Orrery) in order to celebrate the dramatist's 
 birthday. 
 
 LXi. There is a good deal in Cowley which is well-nigh absurd. 
 
 He said of the big stone with which Cain slew his brother ;— 
 
 *' I saw him fling the stone, as if he meant 
 At once his murther and his monument." 
 
 And of the sword taken from Goliath :— 
 
 " A sword so great that it was only fit 
 To cut off his great head that came with it." 
 
 Lxxr. Leigh Hunt said that Waller wrote like an inspired 
 gentleman usher. I wish we had more such "gentlemen- 
 ushers." 
 
 Lxxvii. It is said that this poem was written in the Gatehouse of 
 Westminster. 
 
 Lxxvrix. These lines have also been attributed to Arthur, Lord Capel. 
 
 Lxxrx. Surrey was a warrior as well as a poet and courtier. He 
 distinguished himself at the siege of Landrecy, and com- 
 manded afterwards at Quisnes and at Boulogne, and 
 received the order of the Garter. He was beheaded on 
 Snow Hill. 
 
 Lxxxii. Walton said of himself that: "When the lawyer was 
 swallowed up with business, and the statesman contriving 
 plots, he sat on cowslip-banks hearing the birds sing, and 
 possessed himself in as much quietness as the silent 
 silver stream which rippled softly beside him." 
 
 jcci. It is said of Prior that, after having spent the evening with 
 
 Oxford, Bolingbrbke, Pope, and Swift, he would go to smoke a 
 pipe and drink a bottle of ale with a common soldier and 
 his wife, in Long Acre, before he went to bed This is 
 stated as a proof of his propensity to sordid converse, but 
 before we judge him we ought to know what sort of man 
 the soldier was, and the scope of his social gift. 
 
 xciv. Cowper, the poet, says, " Every man conversant with verse- 
 
 making knows, and knows by painful experience, that the 
 familiarstyle is of all styles the most difficult to succeed in. 
 
 2 E 
 
41 8 Notes. 
 
 NO. 
 
 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 extem- 
 porary speaker, yet without meanness, harmoniously, ele- 
 gantly, and withoat seeming to displace a syllable for tUe 
 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 thfe best copies have fallen short of the original." 
 
 Of this poem, " To Chloe Jealous," Thomas Moore said, 
 "The last two stanzas are objected to as un grammatical, 
 correctness requiring ' than she,' and ' than I,' but it is far 
 prettier as it is." 
 
 xcvi. Kitty was Lady. Katherine Hyde, afterwards Duchess of 
 Qufeensberry. Lady Jenny was Lady Jane Hyde, then 
 Countess of Essex. 
 
 CI. Lady Mary "W. Montagu wrote 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, kiss me and be quiet." 
 Her verses on Sir Robert "Walpole are nob bad, but they in- 
 evitably recall the exquisite couplets of Pope : — 
 " Seen him I have, but in his happier hour 
 Of social pleasure, ill-exchang'd for power; 
 Seen him, uncumber'd with the venal tribe. 
 Smile without art, and win without a bribe." 
 
 cm. John Hoskin was originally a Fellow of New College, where 
 
 he graduated M.A. in 1592, but some sarcasm which he in- 
 dulged in as Terns FUiiis for that year led to his expulsion 
 from the University. A prosperous marriage enabled him 
 afterwards to enter at the Middle Temple, and he became a 
 member of Parliament, when a desperate allusion to the 
 Sicilian Vesper consigned him to the Tower, June 7, 1()14^ 
 He spent about a year in the Tower, and was afterwards 
 successively a reader to the Temple, sergeant-at-law, 
 a judge for Wales, and a member of the Council of the 
 Marches. 
 
 cv. Perhaps this s one of the most humorous pieces of versa in 
 
 the English language. 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. 
 
 cxii. Dr. Percy supposed this to be a translation from the ancient 
 British language. It has a very modern ring about it. 
 
Notes. 
 
 419 
 
 cxvi. Bishop was a Master of Merchant Taylors' School. Had he 
 lived in the nineteenth instead of the eighteenth century, 
 he would probably have shown his good sense by being an 
 enthusiastic reader of Mr. Coventry Patmore. 
 
 cxix. A marked quality of Swift's satire is shown in the 
 precise and business-like air with which he carries on an 
 argument that is absolutely baseless. The gravity not only 
 adds to tlie humour, but gives a wonderful air of plausi- 
 bility to the statements themselves. 
 
 cxx. Martha and Teresa Blount, who were sisters and members of 
 
 the ancient Catholic family of Blount of Mapledurham, 
 were acquainted with the poet from his boyhood. To 
 the former Pope wrote the day after his father's death : — 
 " My poor Father died last night — Believe, since I do not 
 forget you this moment, I never shall." 
 
 cxxiiT. Archdeacon "Walls" was the business adviser of Swift. 
 "Raymond" was Dr. Eaymond of Trim, , a correspondent? 
 and friend of Pope's. 
 
 cxxix. Miss Lepell, a lady of beauty and wit, was Maid of Honour 
 to Queen Caroline. She afterwards married Lord Hervey. 
 Mary Howe, also a Maid of Honour to Queen Caroline, 
 was daughter of the first Viscount Howe. She married 
 the Earl of Pembroke, and after his death, John Mordaunt, 
 brother to the Earl of Peterborough. Miss Meadows was 
 the eldest daughter of Sir Philip Meadows. 
 
 cxxx. Wolcot was a rough, tough, scurrilous, but. funny wag. 
 There is the true caper of the Satyr in liis style, and if he 
 hated anybody, he fell foul of that person's sister, mother, 
 or grandmother. 
 
 cxxxiii. Sir Gilbert Elliot, father of the first Earl of Minto, was 
 Treasurer of the Navy, Keeper of the Signet in Scotland, 
 and an eloquent Parliamentary orator. 
 
 cxL. and cxli. A picture of Beau Nash (the celebrated Master of 
 the Ceremonies of Bath) once hung between the busts of 
 Newton and Pope in Wiltshire's ball-room, and it was on 
 that juxtaposition that Mrs, Brereton wrote her lines. (See 
 the " Historic Guide to Bath,") 
 
 cxLii. Lord Chesterfield also wrote some excellent lines, in con- 
 junctibn with Lord Bath, on Miss Lepell: but, happily, 
 taste and manners are so altered that it would be im- 
 possible to give them. 
 
 cxLiv. Thomas Moore thought that these lines were the joint- 
 production of Sheridan and liis friend Tickell. 
 
 oxLVi. Dr. Goldsmith and some of his friends occasionally dined 
 at the St, James's Coffee-house, where one day it was pro- 
 posed to write epitaphs on him. lie was challenged to 
 retaliate, and these lines were the result. "Our Dean," 
 Dr. Barnard, Dean of Derry ; Edmund Burke ; Mr. Wm. 
 
420 
 
 Notes* 
 
 Burke, M.P. for Bedwin ; Mr. Kichard Burke, Collector of 
 Grenada ; Cumberland, the dramatist ; Dr. Douglas, Canon 
 of Windsor; Counsellor John B-idge, an Irish barrister; 
 Hickey, an eminent attorney ; Townshend, M. f. for Whit- 
 church ; Dr. Dodd, the popular preacher ; Dr. Kenrick 
 lectnred at the Devil's I'avem; Macpherson of "Osaian" 
 celebrity ; Mr. Woodfall was printer of the Morning 
 Chronicle. \ 
 
 CLi, Dr. Barnard had asserted, in Dr. Johnson's presence, that 
 
 men did nob 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 Keynolds. 
 
 CLiv. Of Dryden, whom Landor called "The Bacon of the 
 Rhyming creed," it should be said, as also of Milton, that 
 he is very inadequately represented in this volume. It is 
 impossible to do justice to his genius by such selections as 
 are of necessity given here. 
 
 CLV. This poem has been ascribed to Thomas Alexander, Earl of 
 
 Kellie, who was bom in 1732 ; but Bitson, in his " Collection 
 of English Songs," states that the lines may be found in the 
 Musical Misceliany, published in London in a729. 
 
 cLxxvi. Colman's friend, Dr. Kitchiner, who was very regular in his 
 habits, had a placard on which was written, "Come at 
 Seven, go at Eleven," placed over his drawing-room chim- 
 ney-piece ; but Colman, when the Doctor's back was turned, 
 inserted an "it" after the "go," thus materially altering 
 the reading. 
 
 CLXXXix. Lord Boringdon, afterwards Earl of Morley, and Lord 
 Granville, were old friends of Canning, and the "Lady 
 Elizabeth " alluded to in this poem was one of the daughters 
 of the Duke of Marlborough, and sister to Lord Henry 
 Spencer. She married Mr, bpencer, the son of Lord 
 Charles Spencer. 
 
 cxci. Williams was of the old family of Hanbury. His mother 
 
 was a Selwyn. He got into Parliament and made himself 
 useful to Walpole. He was Envoy at Dresden and at St. 
 Petersburg, but all his gaiety and success ended in insanity 
 and it is believed in suicide. He said of the Irish :— 
 "Nature, indeed, denies them sense, 
 gives them legs and impudence 
 That beat all understanding." 
 
 cxcii. Lady Bath with a bad temper had much wit. Lord Bath 
 said to her in one of her passions, " Pray, my dear, keep 
 your temper." She replied, "Keep my temper I I don't 
 like it so well ; I wonder you should." " A great monarch" 
 was George III. " The minister fell " refers to Walpole. 
 
Notes, 
 
 421 
 
 This is a parody (said to be tlie joint production of Can- 
 ning and Frere) of Southey's Sappliics— entitled "The 
 Widow." "In this piece," says a writer in Chambers' 
 Encyclopedia of English Literature, " Canning ridiaules 
 the youthful Jacobin effusions of Southey, in which, he 
 says, it was sedulously inculcated that there was a 
 natural and eternal warfare between the poor and the 
 rich. The Sapphic rhymes of Southey afford a tempting 
 subject for ludicrous parody, and Canning quotes the 
 following stanza, lest he should be suspected of painting 
 from fancy and not from life : — 
 
 ' Cold was the night- wind : drifting fast the snows fell ; 
 "Wids were the (iowns, and shelterless and nak^d ; 
 When a poor wanderer struggled on her journey. 
 
 Weary and way-sore.' " 
 
 Mr. Falck, the Dutch Minister in 1826, having made a 
 proposition by which a considerable advantage would 
 have accrued to Holland, tbiS poetical despatch was 
 actually sent by 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, 
 
 A parody on part of Mr. "Whitbread's speech on the trial 
 of Lord Melville, put into verse by Mr. Canning at the 
 time it was delivered. 
 
 It is rather difficult to make a selection from Thomas 
 Moore ; nearly everything that he has written might be 
 claimed as v^Ts de sociM^, whether it be epitaph, epigram, 
 ballad, or sacred song. He could not help being witty 
 and sparkling, and perhaps a little artillcial. How com- 
 placently lie carolled to his Bessy on Love, Death and 
 Eternity ! He is the most brilliant of our squib writers, 
 as Swift is the most powerful. Moore had a charming 
 fancy and an airy and sprightly wit. Never was there a 
 neater swordsman, nor one who wore a prettier plume of 
 poetry. 
 
 This song was composed for the dinner at Merchant 
 Taylors' Hall, in celebration of Mr. Pitt's birthday (1802). 
 Lord Spencer was chairman. Mr. Pitt was not present. 
 
 These verses express, with much force, grace, 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 sotdiering. But at the 
 present era of non-intervention the poem has a satirical 
 application which Praed probably did not intend. 
 
 This appeared in the Times on the 14th of May, 1827, 
 when Mr. William Bankes was a candidate for the repre- 
 sentation of the University of Cambridge. 
 
422 
 
 Notes. 
 
 NO. 
 
 cum. 
 
 CCXTII. 
 CCLV. 
 
 CUCVIII. 
 OCCXXI. 
 
 Elizabeth of Bohemia was a daughter of James I. and 
 ancestor to Sophia of Hanover. 
 
 " Miss S " was in all probability the daughter of 
 
 Horace Smith, who wrote " Rejected Addressee " con- 
 jointly with James Smith, 
 
 "Thy great kinsman," — the statue of Pitt. 
 
 Captain Morris's convivial songs were at one time in 
 high repute. It is stated in "Two Centuries of Song," 
 that when the original of Thackeray's Costigan died and 
 was buried under the windows of Cffley's, Captain MorriR 
 read a mock funeral service from the window above, and 
 then poured a crown bowl of punch upon the grave, 
 
 Francis Mahoney, better known by his nom- de plume of 
 " i'ather Prout," a celebrated wit and litterateur, was 
 born at Cork about 1S05. He was educated in a Jesuit 
 College in France ard in the University of Rome ; and 
 took priest's orders,' but, being expelled from the Society 
 of Jesuits, adopted literature as his profession. 
 
 Thomas Hood married Hamilton Reynolds' sister. Charles 
 Kemble was especially admirable in the characters of 
 Macduff, Cassio, Falconbridge, and Romeo. 
 
 Mrs. Greville was the wife of Fulke Greville of Wilbury. 
 She was the daughter of General McCartney, and mother 
 of the celebrated beauty, Mrs. Crewe, Her grandson, 
 Charles, was the author of the *' Greville Memoirs," pub- 
 lished in 1874. 
 
 These lines obtained for theiil author the nickname of 
 '*Namby-f amby," although the people who so called 
 him could not, in all probability, have written them half 
 as well. 
 
 This song, the grace and simplicity of which Rogers never 
 excelled, was written in 1786. Tlie language may be 
 conventional, the idea commonplace, and the wish obvi- 
 ously insincere, but it is, nevertlieless, a graceful little 
 poem, and should survive many more pretentious pro- 
 ductions. The lines, 
 
 " A vnllowy brook, that furns a mill, 
 "With many a fall, shall linger near," 
 
 are skilful examples of "representative" metre, the words 
 printed in italics being very suggestive of a winding 
 stream of water. 
 
 The "Mermaid" was the tavern frequented by Shake- 
 speare, Ben Jonson, and their friends. 
 
 It has been proposed that the last line but one, which is 
 grammatically incomplete, be altered to, " If one must in 
 a villa in summer time dwell ; " but the poem is printed 
 here as Captain Morris wrote it. 
 
Notes. 
 
 423 
 
 cccxxviii. Dr, Johnson aaid of this poem, "If what glistened had 
 been gold^ the cat would not have gone into the water ; 
 and, if she had, would not less have been drowned." 
 
 cccxxxiT. This has been cut down to bring it within the scope of the 
 collection. I think it has not suffered in consequence. 
 
 cocxxxvii. This is an admirable .specimen of wrs de socUte. Cowper 
 is a master of playful irony. 
 
 cocxLii. This riddle has been published as Lord Byron's; but 
 there is no doubt about its authorship. The Rev. Mr. 
 Harness, who edited Miss Fanshawe's "Literary Re- 
 mains," says he remembers her reading it at the Deep- 
 dene in the summer of 1816, and the admiration with 
 ■ which it was received. Some excellent riddles have been 
 attributed to the late Lord Macaulay ; but I have good 
 reason for knowing that he nevtr wrote a riddle in his 
 life. 
 
 cccxLix. " Creech's." 
 
 " Plain truth, dear Murray, needs no flowers of speech 
 
 To take it in the very words of Creech." — A. Pope. 
 " Yonder Ruin " refers to Burnham Abbey. 
 
 cccLiv. Thomas L. Peacock was the friend of Shelley, and the 
 son of a London merchant, and held an appointment in 
 the India House. He was an excellent classic, and wrote 
 several very clever novels. There is a remarkable fresh- 
 ness about the best of his verses. 
 
 cccLX. The flexibility and variety of Barham's rhythm is remark- 
 
 able. Tom Moore, Praud, and Prior could hardly have 
 produced a more graceful piece of drollery than these 
 lines. 
 
 cccLXVi. There is a wonderful vivacity about Praed's "Letter of 
 Advice," and " 'Jhe Belle of the Dell ; " but this poem is, 
 perhaps, the mdst perfect of his verses. 
 
 cccLXxr. This is sometimes attributed to Pope, 
 
 cccLXXiv. I believe there is little doubt but that this was written 
 by Mr. Canning, assisted by Mr. Frere. 
 
 cccLXXXiv. " But never shall be sung." " Go to the devil and shake 
 yourself," the name of a favourite country dance. " The 
 long minuet" was a celebrated caricature by iiunbury. 
 " Cecil " refers to Lord Salisbury, the then Lord Chamber- 
 Iain. 
 
 cccLXXXVi. Mr, Fitzgerald wrote in the style of Praed, and perhaps 
 exaggerated Praed's defects, but there are noteworthy 
 stanzas by him scattered through the magazines. It is 
 said that Praed assisted Fitzgerald in his compositions. 
 
 cccxcii. "Walsh was the friend of Pope, and is referred to in com- 
 plimentary terms in the " Essay on Criticism." 
 
424 
 
 Notes. 
 
 ccccxi. It has been aaid with truth that poetry, in the most com- 
 prehensive application of the term, is the flower of any 
 kind of experience, vested in truth, and issuing forth in 
 beauty. It should spring out of a real impulse, be con- 
 sistent in its parts, and shaped in some characteristic 
 harmony of verse. With these requisites the humbler 
 poetry may survive much that is superior to itself, as a 
 good apple is better than an insipid peach. 
 
 ccocxxii. The "ancient pile of buildings," referred to in this poem, 
 was the Old Manor House at Stoke-Pogis. The " Grave 
 Lord Keeper " was Sir Christopher Hatton, who, it must 
 be remarked, was never the owner or occupier of the 
 
 mansion. Mr. P 1 was Mr. Robert Purt, a Fellow of 
 
 King's College, Cambridge, who died of the small-pox, 
 April, 1752, soon after the publication of the poem. He 
 was a neighbour of Gray's at Stoke ; "Styack," mentioned 
 in the poem, was the Housekepper ; "Squib "was the 
 Steward, and "Groom," the Groom of the Chamber. 
 "Macleane" was a famous highwayman, who had re- 
 cently been hanged. 
 
 ccccxxvii. In Calverley's volume the following lines from Gray 
 are added as a footnote to the last verse : — 
 
 " Poor moralist, and what art thou ? 
 A solitary fly." 
 
 ociccxLV. John Hookham Frere, the' friend of Canning, was in 1799 
 appointed Under-Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, 
 and afterwards Envoy to Portugal, and then to Spain. 
 His abilities and accomplishment need no eulogy. It is 
 enough to say that, in conjunction with Canning, he com- 
 posed the best pieces in the "Anti-Jacobin." 
 
 ccccL. "It was Praed," says Walter Thornbury, "who first 
 
 raised the charade to the rank of a poem. It was, per- 
 haps, a waste of time and a misplacing of talent." 
 
 ccccLiii. The sisters Mary and Agnes Berry were greatly distin- 
 guished in European society for their high-bred manners, 
 and conversation, and for their personal beauty. During 
 half a century, they were the friends and correspondents 
 of many prominent literary and political personages — 
 .race Walpole among others. They died within a year 
 uf each other, and the Memorial Verses quoted, appeared 
 after their death in the Times. The late Lord Houghton's 
 "Monographs" contain a paper upon these distinguished 
 ladies. Their Memoirs were edited by Lady Theresa 
 Lewis, the wife of the Hight Hon. Sir George Cornewall 
 Lewis. 
 
 Lxvi. A bust of Thackeray has now been placed in Westminster 
 Abbey by public subscription, and with the sanction of 
 Dean Stanley. The " Bishop Dean" referred to in the 
 
Notes. 425 
 
 second verse was Dr. Spratt, Bishop of Eochester and 
 Dean of Westminster. 
 
 The following note is appended to the poem in Lord 
 Hougrhton's Poetical Works : — 
 
 " The Lord Halifax sent to the Lady Elizabeth and 
 Mr. Charles ,Dryden, her son, that if they would give 
 him leave to bury Mr. Dryden, he would inter him with 
 a gentleman's private funeral, and afterwards bestow five 
 hundred pounds on a monument in the Abbey : which, 
 as they had no reason to refuse, they accepted."— ^iof/. 
 Diet. 
 
 ccccLXTiii. Charlotte Alington Barnard was the wife of Mr. Charles 
 Cary Barnard, and published many charming songs and 
 poems under the name of " Claribel." She died in Jan- 
 uary, 1869, and is buried at St. James's Cemetery, Dover. 
 
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