' mes tnat faU as thick as rain, j£a riig And melt to metres that as freely flow As Alpine streams enriched by thawing snow ; But when, for theme sublime, or purpose high, I seek in rhythmic bonds my thoughts to tie, Full soon they fly beyond their tether's length ; To rule them is as far beyond my strength As were the task to guide the raging storm, To curb the winds, or give to Chaos form. THE HAVEN OF LIFE'S AUTUMN. " Four seasons fill the measure of the year ; There are four seasons in the mind of man." — Keat^ JERE is an island haven all may reach ; It smiles securely and serenely free, Too gentle to defy the restless sea, That frets and threatens on its silver beach. Flower-gemm'd and verdant are its calm retreats, Lit by a sunshine bright, and sweet, and warm, But never marr'd by fiercer solar heats, Nor by the murky terrors of the storm : Perpetual there autumnal brightness glows, Inviting to calm joy and soft repose. THE HAVEN OF LIFE'S AUTUMN*. O Voyager of Life.! whate'er thy bark Or course, if thou hast known our common lot, If Fate hath meted thee her standard measure, Of toil and rest, deep care and transient pleasure, Of gentle gales and tempests fierce and dark, And wrecks too closely 'scaped to be forgot, — Yet, thus far safely o'er life's ocean borne, Be thankful, nor regret the vanished morn. Rest in this haven ; if no rising sun Gild it with beams of youthful joy and hope, Its sunset is a bright and glorious one. Enjoy thy due repose with fullest scope, Yielding thy aid and counsel to the last To younger mariners, with whom the strife Of ocean perils is but stayed, not passed. Thus be thy restward path profusely decked With peace, contentment, and sweet retrospect Crowning the autumn of a well-spent life. SONG OF THE EASTERN TOURIST. " Luxurious slave Whose soul would sicken o'er the /leaving wave.'' — BYRON. O-MORROW I'm off to that Orient clime, Where all is romantic, unique, and sublime ; Where they " melt into sorrow, or madden to crime," According to how they may feel at the time ; Where " the voice of the nightin- gale never is mute,'' And nothing 's so cheap as " the fairest of fruit ? " Where tobacco is splendid, and little of cost, And none of its charm in the smoking is lost ; While the curling Chibouque can yield solace to man, Or the fragrant Narghilly of distant Iran. Though my name is but Jones, and I'm no Oriental, In spirit I'm Eastern — at heart, sentimental ; SONG OF THE EASTERN TOURIST. 33 So I'll doff this tweed suit, and this wideawake hat, And don the grand turban, robes, sash, and all that ; And girding on scimitar, pistols, and dirk, Come out at Stamboul as " a regular Turk ; " To set both the natives and visitors staring At my splendid costume and my pasha-like bearing. O lovely Stamboul ! with thy glittering mosques, Thy fountains and minarets, khans, and kiosks, Thy streets and bazaars, where in picturesque groups, Swarm Greeks, Arabs, Pashas, and Ottoman troops, Dark beauties, whose veils mock the infidel's stare, Zuleika and Leila, Dudd and Gulnare, Shall I really behold thee?— What heavenly bliss ! I've longed all my life for a pleasure like this. Oh ! am I not happy ? I stop, if I look ; There's a similar sentence in Moore's " Lalla Rookh ; " And, Jones, if you wish to succeed as a poet, Don't plagiarise — leastways let nobody know it. My bark has weighed anchor, her sails court the breeze That's destined to waft her across the wide seas (Which means, when translated to plain sober prose, We've just got the steam up, and cried, " Off she goes !") 34 SONGS OF SINGULARITY. As I stand on the deck of the P. & O. packet, Surrounded by noise, and confusion, and racket, The winds are arising, and lashing to foam The waves of the Channel that bear us from home. How grand is the ocean ! — what fervour of zeal It wakes in the -bless me how strangely I feel ! My head is beginning to spin like a wheel, I 'm going to be sea-sick ! Oh, Jones, what a fool Wert thou to embark on this trip to Stamboul In weather like this ! But, my heart, be thou brave ! Did Selim or Conrad thus fear the wild wave ? Yet away with Byronics ; they 're all very fine On shore, when all things to enhance them combine ; But now I am humbly compelled to confess That city-bred Jones, in his present distress, Has little in common with heroes like these. 'Here, steward ! some brandy, and quick, if you please. I 'm in such a state that I really must lie Down' here till I feel rather better — good-bye ! 35 A LAMENT FOR DEPARTED GREATNESS. BY YE BARDE OF KE.VTYSSHE TOIVNE. " What a falling off was there." — Hamlet. ARK ye that wanderer 'midst the busy crowd, Whose aspect speaks of poverty and cares ; His hair is grey, his aged frame is bowed Beneath the heavy burden that he bears. He is a remnant of a mighty race, Who wielded wide dominion long ago ; But now his nation hath no resting-place, He wanders through the streets, and — cries " Ole clo\" Observe yon churl, a man of stalwart build : His sires, perchance,/ were Saxon thralls of old- Stern, brave, determined vassals, such as filled The armies of their thanes and franklins bold. D 2 36 SONGS OF SINGULARITV. Such men have followed Alfred to the field, Or to King Harold vowed each sword and heart ; But this descendant doth no weapon wield, He only — drives a costermonger's cart. Lo ! the poor minstrel ; there was once a time When his progenitors, in mighty Rome, Their sword of power stretched from clime to clime — The " mistress of the world " their central home. Their all-pervading yoke was fettered fast On this our isle — or history speaks false ; Now Britain reigns, and this poor lone outcast Strays thro' her streets, and — grinds the latest waltz. See yon Teutonic waif : in days of yore, His Allemanian sires were mighty men, Who chased the savage bear, the wolf, and boar Through pathless woods now vanished from our ken. The conquerors of the world they set at nought, They fought for freedom — scorned the alien yoke ; Now their descendant — melancholy thought ! — Lives but by — mending windows that are broke. Thus may we see, where'er we turn our eyes, Some poor lone waifs, some emblems of decay, A LAMENT FOR DEPARTED GREATNESS. 37 Of races that once swayed earth's destinies, But all whose glory now has passed away. Thus I your bard, who in old Roman days, In tones inspired to classic crowds would speak, Clad in majestic robes and crowned with bays, Am now — a clerk, at eighteen bob a-week ! A STEREOTYPED PRESCRIPTION. "Mingle, mingle, mingle!" — Shakespeare. llHERE is a phrase we oft have seen On bottle-labels writ, And those who invalids have been Best know the drift of it ; It may embody in a line A world of chemic lore, And skill to portion and combine — " The mixture as before?' This will apply to many things, To oratory most, Addresses made to queens and kings, And wedding speech and toast ; For commonplace and compliment Are mingled o'er and o'er; This saves the trouble to invent — " The mixture as before?' A STEREOTYPED PRESCRIPTION. 39 In plays and novels, do there not The same events recur ? The lovers suffer, villains plot, The weak are led to err. In painting, poor King Harold's slain In many a pool of gore ; Queen Mary parts with us again — " The mixture as before? The greatest genius will repeat, Though vast resource it owns ; Our very Shakespeare's woodnotes sweet Oft sound like monotones. That most prolific child of art, By some called " Gustayve Dor'," Oft to the canvas doth impart — " The mixture as before? The more we see, the less we hope That novelty will strike, But judge, from that within our scope, What all the rest is like. Each region sameness more or less Unfolds as we explore, 4° SONGS OF SINGULARITY. And sameness leads to weariness — That " 7nixture as before? It must be so : the human mind Is straitly compassed round, And what materials it can find All lie within the bound. Why, Man's a mixture — blended day, With spirit formed to soar : Of each new infant we may say — " The mixture as before!'''' 41 THE TIGHT FIT. A REMINISCENCE OF SIR WALTER. "And still his brows the helmet pressed."— Lay oftfu Last MittsireL ENE'ER in boyhood's golden day, I read the latest Minstrel's Lay, ! And revelled in its sweet romance, So meet the youthful to entrance, Of wizards, ladies, knights, and pages, -^v That flourished in the feudal ages; __ Of feasts in old baronial halls, And fights on rugged castle walls ; And stirring scenes on moss and fell, All told as only Scott can tell; The line I -quote below impressed My feelings more than all the rest — " And still his brows the helmet pressed." 42 SONGS OF SINGULARITY. These words, you recollect, refer Unto a warlike'moss-trooper,* An aged, though a stalwart man, The chieftain of a border clan, A " kinsman to the bold Buccleuch," A stark marauder through and through; Who now, grown old, one might suppose Would leave off mail for softer clothes. Not he ; with valour still possessed, In age, as youth, " he spurned at rest, And still his brows the helmet pressed." Gra'mercy ! only meditate Upon that veteran's dreadful fate ! Talk not to me of worldly care ; Just fancy being doomed to wear A ponderous helmet day and night ; Moreover, one a size too tight ! The very thought at once doth make My own unwarlike caput ache, * This poetical license with regard to the accent has been so frequently used by latter-day bards, that we think ourselves justified in adopting it. THE TIGHT FIT. 43 As if 'twas / that bore the test, And on my brows the helmet pressed. Why pinched that casque ? Methinks I '11 tell, — Perchance in youth it fitted well ; For then his head, not over wise, Was rather of a smallish size ; But gathering wisdom as it went, As snowballs grow when rolling sent, His skull, expanding more and more, Filled up the helmet that he wore, While that unyielding iron frame In measure still remained the same, Until the roofage of his brain He never could get off again, And he discovered when too late, That this must always be his state, — That, went he east, or went he west, Did he his worst, or did his best, Yet still his brows the helmet pressed. No skullcap soft, no tarbouche red, So grateful to the aged head ; No snowy nightcap gave relief To the vexed cranium of that chief; 44 SONGS OF SINGULARITY. Not e'en the modern " stove-pipe " hat (Few things less comforting than that) Could form a substitute awhile For that uncompromising tile ; But, summer, winter, hot or cold, The self-same head-gear you 'd behold ; His pate was ne'er in mufti dressed, With warlike helm 'twas ever pressed. When wanting polishing, he must Have " cleaned it on," from dirt and rust, In that rough mode which often suits Us hurried moderns with our boots. I doubt not, after such a task, It looked a bright and handsome casque ; But outward aspects so deceive ; Within, no process could relieve, And that strong helmet still would be An iron " Old Man of the Sea"— A tight, oppressive, leech-like pest, Upon his brows for ever pressed. No doubt his comrades deeply felt Compassion for that valiant Celt ; THE TIGHT FIT. 45 But vain they tried to thwart the doom That o'er his life had cast a gloom. The helmet being of a piece, Wrought strongly, there was no release ; A thundering blow from axe or mace Might have detached it from its place, But such a blow, his friends well knew, Would kill the aged warrior too, And prove, by entering the brain, A cure more deadly than the pain. Well, truly, had his case been mine, At death I'd list not or repine. I know 'tis said that custom oft Can make the hardest fate more soft ; That proverb's truth is not impeached, But here, I think, the limit 's reached. Could laughter spring from any jest, Could meals be ta'en with any zest, Could life have any joy possessed To one whose brows a helmet pressed ? What after fate that chief befell, I frankly own I cannot tell ; 46 SONGS OF SINGULARITY. Whether he died on battle plain, Or 'neath the sheet and counterpane, Or did by base assassin's knife Make exit from the stage of life ; But in my soul's remotest deep Will pity's lamp for ever keep Some rays to reach, as they are shed, The Man of the Imprisoned Head. But as he was to me unknown, And as three centuries have flown, Perhaps 'tis useless to deplore His sad condition any more. I only hope that long ago His spirit hath forgot its woe, And that his body lies at rest, Though on its skull that helmet's pressed. 47 TANGLED THOUGHTS. BY AX IX. MA TE OF COL. YET HA TCH." ' Full of sound and fury, signifying ." — Shakespeake. OFTEN think — the strangest whim That ever came With settled aim To dwell within a mortal's head — : How nice 'twould be if I could swim From Table Bay To Mandalay, And see the mighty Hippo- campus fed ! It seems to me the queerest thing That in the East A monarch's feast ' Hopelessly incurable. 48 SONGS OF SINGULARITY. Is never quite complete without a psalm ; Yet when the Persians serenade their king, And set in tune The loud bassoon, They find him sleeping underneath a palm. I've travell'd twenty-nine degrees Of longitude With interlude Of rest, and eating strawberry-ice ; But yet I always failed to please The native blacks, Who turned their backs And kicked me — which was hardly nice. There ! if you like to sit ye down, I'd tell such tales Of raging gales, And things to make your bosom bleed, But as you only answer with a frown, And as my head Feels hot as lead, I find I must refrain — I must, indeed ! 49 A SUDDEN SOUND. FROM silence deep and distances unknown, It rose and grew upon my listening ear ; Strengthen'd and swell'd in compass and in tone, Each moment ringing out more full and near ; Inspiring, as it onward fled, That vague, inexplicable dread Wrought by such sudden sounds, that seem to mean Some danger brooding like a thunder-cloud, But still more dread, because unknown, unseen. Hush ! now its height is reach'd — it grew less loud, And sank and sank, and died and died away, Until it hung upon its utmost bound, The furthest limit of the hearing's sway, The border-land of silence and of sound, Where these and echo we alike confound. 'Tis thus with man — his progress and decay ; He rises, whence we reck not, to fulfil His course, grows, culminates, and dies away To death's own silence ; memory may thrill Brief echoes of his life to those that stay ; These die ; — he passes like a tale that 's told Or sudden sound across our hearing roll'd. E 5° A VISION OF TERROR. " From dreams, where Thought in Fancy's maze runs mad, Once more I wake." — YouhG. I had a dream, a most terrific dream ; Methought through London streets I took my way, An atom in that surging, living stream, Which flows its restless course by night and day ; But now a panic o'er the city spread, — Women and children shrieked and ran with fear, Men armed themselves, or, less courageous, fled, To any house or place of refuge near. What meant that chorus of discordant sounds ? Too soon, alas ! the cause was plain to me — The inmates of the " Zoo " had broke their bounds, And every reptile, bird, and beast was free ! They roamed the streets as unconstrained as thought. A lion raging through Trafalgar Square, A VISION OF TERROR. 5 1 Growled at his effigies by Landseer wrought ; A pelican, giraffe, and Polar bear Paraded Bond Street, though they purchased nought At any of the shops abounding there. An elephant had blocked up Temple Bar, A pack of wolves through Regent Street did march, In Pall Mall vultures waged intestine war, An eagle perched upon the Marble Arch, A serpent curled around each lamp-post high, And fiercely hissing, kept the crowd at bay ; St. Paul's was filled with hippopotami, Three camels in the Strand had lost their way. A jaguar and a puma — rather bold — Walked into Mudie's, as in search of books, While crocodiles and caymans slowly stroll'd In quest of limpid lakes or purling brooks ; A crowd of zebras, antelopes, gazelles, An " armed rhinoceros," and buffalo, Ranged through the parks, alarming all the swells, And frightened every horse in Rotten Row. The monkeys screamed and gibed in every place, The air was darkened with the parrot tribe, SONGS OF SINGULARITY. In short, if I had twice the time and space, My words would fail the discord to describe ; Men fought with all the weapons they could get, And strove their rightful mastery to gain, By every means of strength and skill, and yet I grieve to say their efforts were in vain. A dreadful alligator rushed at me, And seized my leg — 'twas bootless to resist ; While three large serpents, still more fierce than he, Were twined around me — how the monsters hiss'd ! What could I do ? I saw my fate was sealed, And so I sank, with one despairing scream, All prostrate to the earth in Lincoln's Field, Then woke — and jolly glad I was tofind it all a Dream ! 53 MY MADELINE. SERENADE IN M. FLAT. Sung liy Major Marmaduke Muttonhead, to Mademoiselle Madeline Mendoza. Y Madeline ! — my Madeline ! Mark my melodious midnight moans ; Much may my melting music mean, My modulated monotones. My mandolin's mild minstrelsy, My mental music magazine, My mouth, my mind, my memory, Must mingling murmur " Madeline." Muster 'mid midnight masquerades. Mark Moorish maidens', matrons' mien, 'Mongst Murcia's most majestic maids, Match me my matchless Madeline. 54 SONGS OF SINGULARITY. Mankind's malevolence may make Much melancholy musing mine ; Many my motives may mistake, My modest merits much malign. My Madeline's more mirthful mood Much mollifies my mind's machine ; My mournfulness's magnitude Melts — make me merry, Madeline ! Matchmaking ma's may machinate, Manoeuvring misses me mis-ween ; Mere money may make many mate, MY magic motto *s — " Madeline ! " Melt, most mellifluous melody, 'Midst Murcia's misty mounts marine, Meet me 'mid moonlight ; marry me, Madonna miaf— my Madeline. 55 THE LONG GONG SONG; OR, THE PERSISTENT MINSTREL. " It haunts me still, though years have passed away, Like some wild melody." — Rogers. HAT would'st thou ? " asked the child of rhyme, " My native harp, and Erin's lays, Or music of some distant clime ?" I, thoughtless, answered, " Which ye plaze. 1 " And so he sang a Tartar song, And struck the loud melodious gong. At first I rather liked the sound, 'Twas wild and new, and full of power, But human patience has a bound, He played three-quarters of an hour ; And then I cried—" Break off your song, And silence that atrocious gong ! " 5^ SONGS OF SINGULARITY. But, no, the minstrel wouldn't cease, But made the discord worse and worse ; It dazed my brain, it wrecked my peace, 'Till, when he'd reached the thousandth verse, I shriek'd — I swore (I own 'twas wrong), Then fled, and left that dreadful gong. But ever since that luckless time, Some demon, seated in my ear, Rings night and day the horrid chime, And fills my soul with gloom and fear ; Days, months, and years may roll along, I still must hear that awful gong ! 57 BICYCULAR BLISS. BY A VIGOROUS VELOCIPEDESTRIAK. ' I go. I go ; look how I go. Swifter than arrow from the Tartar's bow." — Robin Goodfellow. NE autumn eve, when, sharp and chill, The wind blew like an icicle, I met, fast speeding o'er the hill, A youth upon a bicycle. " How glorious thus to skim ! " I cried. " By Jove ! I too will /ry-cycle ; And when like him I've learnt to ride, Why, then, I'll also 6uy-cycle." That very day I made a start, First practising the tricycle, Then soaring to that nobler art, The riding of the bicycle. 53 SONGS OF SINGULARITY. So well I liked my hired machine, That, having ask'd the price-ical, I bought it, and it since has been My own peculiar bicycle. And now, at morn, and noon, and night, My life is paradisical ; 1 emulate the eagle's flight, When mounted on my bicycle. Oh, all ye gay and festive youth, Remember my advicical, And haste to prove this precious truth — There's nothing like the bicycle ! 59 A FASCINATING MONSTER. ** I am a Villain ! " — Richard III. '* Murder, stern murder, in the direst degree."— Ibid. In youth 'twas a source of great content, A regular treat of treats, To sit o'er the table closely bent, With paint, and paper and paste be- sprent, To tinsel, and colour, and ornament The Villain of Ha'penny Sheets. A terrible villain — his eyes were black, And gleaming with fury's heats ; His raven ringlets hung down at back, He'd boots of the true Transpontine smack. The weapons he wore would have fill'd a sack, This Villain of Ha'penny Sheets. 6o SONGS OF SINGULARITY. A forest of plumes from his castor sprung (Such crest the effect completes), A cluster of tails from his doublet hung, He'd buttons all parts of his dress among, He wasn't old and he wasn't young, That Villain of Ha'penny Sheets. His scabbard hung from a sash or chain, While the sword performed its feats ; His pistols " spotted " the foeman's brain, A broad black belt did his dirks sustain, With buckle as big as a window-pane, This Villain of Ha'penny Sheets. A harrowing villain — the blood runs cold When the tongue his crimes repeats ; He took the pay of the Baron bold, And lurked at night in the gloomy wold, To stab his enemies, young or old — That Villain of Ha'penny Sheets. A horrible villain ! — no fiend more gloats O'er murders, assaults, and cheats, He thought no more of slithering throats, To get at a bag of gold or notes, A FASCINATING MONSTER. 6l Than a donkey would think of munching oats— The Villain of Ha'penny Sheets. He lived in a cavern underground, Far out of the "peelers'" beats, Where often he passed the bottle round, Till drench'd with liquor he snored profound, To wake at the Captain's bugle sound — The Villain of Ha'penny Sheets. He never was met with occupied With home and its peaceful sweets, But ever to murd'rous tasks applied, Was stalking about with tremendous stride, And flashing his weapons far and wide — That Villain of Ha'penny Sheets. A perfect monster of wickedness ; And yet — for I scorn deceits — ' A " sneaking kindness " I still confess, For one who could, with such mark'd success, Perform such feats — and in SUCH a dress — As the Villain of Ha'penny Sheets. For, oh ! what joy to bedize each stuff With colours no rainbow beats, — 62 SONGS OF SINGULARITY. To blazon doublet, and sash, and puff, And paint his terrible buskins buff, And give him tinsel and fringe enough, For even the Ha'penny Sheets. We lose the pleasure that once we took In infancy's strange conceits ; Yet when I see, in some shop-front nook, Those heroes, I feel, if my pride would brook, I'd enter, and say — " Please let me look At some of your Ha'penny Sheets." And thought finds food — if it feels inclined — In those tinsell'd counterfeits ; Nor should we be to their moral blind, Dear reader, doesn't it strike your mind To wish that villany were confined To villains on Ha'penny Sheets ? But virtue always (at least in plays) Vice ultimately defeats ; The villain usually closed his days, Struck down in one of his cut-throat frays ; Or died in some arson-lighted blaze, Whose .flames were in Wmding-SAeeis. A FASCINATING MONSTER. 63 Thai good old type of the brigand clan, The playgoer seldom meets ; He's sunk to the " gaff" and caravan, Well, sorry I am he 's fill'd his span, I better could spare a better man Than the Villain of Ha'penny Sheets. 64 THE ABBEY CHAPEL. ' Take then from me the pensive strain that flows, Congenial to this consecrated gloom."— Mason. LOVE to stand be- neath the moss- green'd wall Of that old chapel on the abbey ground, When all is calm, and on ray senses fall No garish sunlight, no disturbing sound, To break the harmony of thought profound ; When skies are veil'd with grey and pensive cloud, And twittering notes of birds come sweet and low — More sweet to me than carols gay and loud- While, soften'd to a pleasing lullaby, The distant scraping of the gardener's hoe Breaks in with accidental harmony. THE ABBEY CHAPEL. The castellated abbey through the trees, Rears its high top, so picturesque and grey ; But the enthusiast regretful sees Its modem parts ; some idols thus display Heads of pure gold, but spoilt by feet of clay. The cypress shadows seem not sombre here, And speak of slumber rather than of death ; No cluster'd monumental stones appear, To join in warning those who still have breath. One lonely tomb is seen — a hermitage, And not a town or city of the dead, 'Twas rear'd to one, who in a bygone age Did deeds recorded, but no longer read ; For there the emerald moss has grown, and fill'd The graven letters with a velvet pile ; And Time's stern hand, in all destruction skill'd, Has smooth'd the chisel's inroads, long erewhile. And not alone the cypress shades the place, The broad-leaved laurel, with its varnish'd sheen, The myrtle dense, the yew of stately grace, And many another pleasant evergreen Add beautv to the stillness of the scene ; 66 SONGS OF SINGULARITY. While groups of bright but modest flow'rets dot The nooks and corners of this sacred spot. Moved by surroundings to its mood so meet, My soul is charm'd, and taken captive wholly ; Hence, vain delights ! — there is no joy so sweet As that just tinged with tender melancholy ; Better than all the wild and gaudy mirth, Wrung from the throng'd activities of earth, To me that calm enjoyment, kept and made For souls that long for solitude and shade, I'd barter summer days for autumn eves. There is a voice that whispers thro' the leaves, The sturdy oak, the ivy robe that cleaves, The nodding yew — all join to weave the spell That bears my spirit back to qther days, To hours and scenes of childhood — loved so well When Memory's brightening hand the veil doth raise, And in a fairer world awhile we dwell ; 'Tis ecstasy ! — absorbing happiness ! Such as all words are feeble to express, All human effort powerless to show, But which to feel — that only is to know. THE ABBEY CHAPEL. 67 How long it lasts I reck not, but the mind Clings fondly to such bliss as it may find ; Yet all intenser joys are sadly brief, The slightest cause — the falling of a leaf, Filch'd by some zephyr from its parent bough — May break the spell ; such leaf disturbs it now — Gyrating, as it battles with the air, In many an orbit on its wild descent; Striking the chapel roof, and resting there A moment ; now, again on high 'tis hurl'd. And now the struggle's o'er, its strength is spent, With other dead things on the earth 'tis blent. How small a thing can turn the tide of thought When other, brighter lands it would have sought, And ebb it back to this prosaic world ! F 2 68 THE YOUNG GAZELLE. A MOORE-ISH TALE. "The antelope* whose feet shall bless, With their light sound thy loneliness.'' — Light of the Harem, N early youth, as you may guess, I revell'd in poetic lore, And while njy schoolmates studied less, I resolutely studied Moore. Those touching lines from " Lalla Rookh,"— " Ah ! ever thus — know them well, Such root within my bosom took, I wished / had a young gazelle. Oh, yes ! a sweet, a sweet gazelle, " : To charm me with its soft black eye," So soft, so liquid, that a spell Seems in that gem-like orb to lie. you THE YOUXG GAZELLE. 69 Years, childhood passed — youth fled away. My vain desire I*d leanr'd to quell, Till came that most auspicious day, When some one gave me a gazelle. With care, and trouble, and expense, Twas brought from Artie's northern cape ; It seem'd of great intelligence, And, oh ! so beautiful in shape. Its lustrous, liquid eye was bent With special lovingness on me; No gift that mortal could present More welcome to my heart could be. I brought him food with fond caress, Built him a hut, snug, neat, and warm ; I called him Selim, to express The mark'd s(e)lim-ness of his form. The little creature grew so tame, He " leam'd to know (the neighbours) well ;" And then the ladies, when they came, Oh I how they " nursed that dear gazelle." 70 SONGS OF SINGULARITY. But, woe is me ! — on earthly ground Some ill with every blessing dwells ; And soon, to my dismay, I found That this applies to young gazelles. When free allowed to roam indoors, The mischief that he did was great ; The walls, the furniture, and floors He made in a terrific state. He nibbled at the table-cloth, And trod the carpet into holes, And in his gambols, nothing loth, Kick'd over scuttles full of coals. To view his image in the glass, He rear'd upon his hinder legs, And thus one morn I found, alas ! Two porcelain vases smash'd like eggs. Whatever did his fancy catch By way of food, he would not wait To be invited, but would snatch It from one's table, hand, or plate. THE YOUXG GAZELLE. He riled the dog, annoyed the cat, And scared the goldfinch into fits ; He butted thro' my newest hat, And tore my manuscripts to bits. Twas strange, so light his hooflets weigh'd, His limbs as slender as a hare's, The noise my little Selim made In trotting up aqd down the stairs. To tie him up I thought was wise, But loss of freedom gave him pain ; I could not stand those pleading eyes, And so I let him go again. How sweet to see him skip and prance Upon the gravel or the lawn ; More light in step than fairies' dance, More graceful than an English fawn. But then he spoilt the garden so, Trod down the beds, raked up the seeds, And ate the plants — nor did he show The least compunction for his deeds. JZ SONGS OF SINGULARITY. He trespass'd on the neighbours' ground, And broke two costly melonrframes, With other damages — a pound To pay, resulted from his games. In short, the mischief was immense That from his gamesome pranks befell, And truly, in a double sense He proved a very " dear gazelle." At length I sighed — " Ah ! ever thus, Doth disappointment mock each hope; But 'tis in vain to make a fuss, You '11 have to go, my antelope.'' The chance I wish'd for did occur, A lady, going to the East, Was willing, so I gave to her That little antelopian beast. I said, " This antler'd desert child, In Turkish palaces may roam, But he is much too free and wild, To keep in any English home.'' > THE YOUXG GAZELLE. Yes ; tho' I gave him up with tears, Experience had broke the spell, And if I live a thousand years, I'll never have a young gazelle. 74 THE CAPTIVE KNIGHT'S LAMENT. HfafKn MPRISON'D in this dungeon dark and drear, O, freedom ! thou to me art but a dream, ■ A blissful dream, but one that cannot cheer Wjth consolation's balm, or hope's bright beam, I^S?"' But mock my sorrows with the constant thought Of thee. Alas ! we prize thee as we ought, Only when thus thy priceless worth is taught ! 'Tis true my body is from fetters free, But, oh ! the shackles on this weary heart — The dread suspense, the dark uncertainty Whether 'twill be my doom from life to part, Or linger here, to feel the ceaseless smart Of grief and woe — the crushing weight of pain, Or (ah ! too joyous thought !) be freed again. THE CAPTIVE KNIGHT'S LAMENT. 7: Would that my arms were bound, if in exchange, I had the power to reach yon casement high, And let my eyes, at least, have freedom's range, To view the verdant fields, the azure sky, The tuneful birds, so gladsome and so free, Sporting in golden sunlight on each tree ; But, ah ! fhat pleasure is denied to me ! Brief is the time that 's pass'd, since on the field Of battle fierce' I led my chosen bands, Now to base, lawless foes perforce I yield ; My life, my liberty are in their hands. Better if on that field I'd join'd the slain, And on a bed of gore, but honour, lain, Than linger here in shame and doubled pain. Be calm, my heart ; worse sorrows have been known Than in this prison thou art forced to bear. Souls that are stain'd with guilt, and those alone, Should feel the deepest anguish of despair ; The innocent have bulwarks against care, By seekiDg from on high their best relief ; Do this, my heart, and close the springs of grief! 76 BOTANICAL RESEARCHES. ' A primrose by the river's brim, A rhododendron was to him." — Wordsworth (?). THAT ENDS SHAKESPEARE : .. HE poets deal so much in flowers, And speak so oft of summer hours, When Nature to perfection brings The beauties of her brightest things ; They show an insight so pro- found Into the glories of the ground , That if their works aright we'd view We ought to share their knowledge too ; And fully to enjoy the sweets Of Shakespeare, Chaucer, Moore, or Keats, It is essential one should know Something of all the flowers that grow. BOTANICAL RESEARCHES. 77 If thus for mere appreciating, 'Tis far more needful for creating ; A poet one can never be If ignorant of Botany. Convinced of this, I must confess My knowledge could not well be less : I knew that the Virginian stock Was different from the hollyhock ; I knew the poppy's red of hue, And lilies white, and violets blue ; I knew he must be wrong who thinks That dahlias are the same as pinks. And just as wrong if he supposes Geraniums smell as sweet as roses ; I knew that flowers give food to bees, That cowslips do not grow on trees, That sunflowers in height excel The daisy and the pimpernel ; But in the mysteries of growth, Et cetera, if on my oath, I should confess to know no more Than lizards do of metaphor, 78 SONGS OF SINGULARITY. Than moles can know about the skies, Or fishes know of butterflies. Deeming such ignorance as this Was something very much amiss, I felt it would be well for me To buy a book on Botany. The first perusal made me feel A damp on my botanic zeal, For in the indices I saw Some names that filled my soul with awe ; Such Latin lame, and crabbed Greek, As almost twists the tongue to speak, With terms of more familiar sound Whose meanings we must not confound. Thus, Costa's no orchestral chief, It means the mid-rib of a leaf; And bacca, though suggestive — very — Of smoking, merely means a berry ; The style it would be very rash on Your part to think applies to fashion ; A radicle 'twere wrong to fix As aught to do with politics, It simply means a little root ; The pistils are not used to shoot, BOTANICAL RESEARCHES. 79 Nor does the stigma e'er express One tittle of reproachfulness : From these examples you will see How strange a thing is Botany. As yet bright knowledge scarce had dawned, And Botany before me yawned, A vast, impenetrable chasm, Filled with such things as Protoplasm, Germ, cell, and embryo, whence issue All kinds of membrane, vein, and tissue, Which, if uncheck'd, they do their duty, Give flowers life, and health, and beauty. One most important is Parenchyma, Which does, of course, include Ovenchyma, And, void of which, things foliaceous Are specified as rametttaceous. Great is the use of sap and fibre, Alburnum, cambium, and liber; Stems, you must know, constructed are Of bundles fibro-vascular; Leaves spring from stipules with crenelles, Seeds grow within organic cells ; And then there axe fasciculi, And cormlum and nuclei, SONGS/OF SINGULARITY. And Cotyledons — gracious me ! What terms they use in Botany ! The further we advance, the more Occult become these words of lore ; Yet 'tis consoling to reflect . That in these realms, I may expect, Thousands of persons live and die As ignorant of them as I ; So, fearlessly, I take the lists 'Gainst all who are not botanists ; For instance, Reader, canst thou tell A phylloid from a pedicle f Explain the uses and the acts Of phyllaries, peduncles, bracts? Demonstrate how is SILIQUOSA Distinguished from siliculosa ; Canst tell a Tuber from a Conn ? What means infundibuliform ? When is a leaf called multifid? And then, what is an oophorid ? And antherids of lycopods ? Thou canst not tell, I'll take some odds- BOTANICAL RESEARCHES. / can, for I have looked to find, And pride already fills my mind That I'm superior to thee In many points of Botany. List, Ignoramus, while I try Thy darkened mind to edify, By making statements, proved so well That they are incontestable. All net-veined leaves from tap-roots spring, Spathes are not sutures — no such thing ; Corollas that are gamop&alous Have calyces all gamosepalous ; Some apocarpi are utriculous, The many-sided ones, folliculous ; Some ovules in their shape are globous, . As in the Tetragonolobus; SESTERIA are stoloniferous, And sphenogynia are piliferous ; MlCHAUXIA are melastomaceous ; When gymnocarpians are drupaceous The pericarpium 's indihiscent ; What s interesting, if this isn't ? 82. SONGS OF SINGULARITV. What can more edifying be Than facts like these of Botany ? The pictures that adorn my book Have, some of them, a horrid look. I know that they are only meant The parts of flowers to represent ; But they resemble more, by far, Cut portions of one's jugular, Dissected livers, kidneys, hearts, And other such internal parts As we may hope (?) to see displayed When surgeons' sanctums we invade. In shapes, the portions of a flower Outvie the armoury in the Tower ; Leaves, most of all, for some are like A spear, an arrow, or a spike, Or instruments of torture, such As held poor " traitors " in their clutch In those much-lauded " good old times," When harmless acts oft passed for crimes ; The very names I think to you will Seem jagged, tortuous, and cruel — Aimiculate and sagittate, BOTANICAL RESEARCHES. S3 Dolabriform, lanceolate. Flabelliform and pectinate. Orbiculate and digitate; But words like these, you know, must be In every book on Botany. Pursuing now, with less of fear, My sweet botanical career, I learnt a hundred mysteries Of seeds, corollas, calyces ; I learnt how pollen is conducted, And how ovaria are constructed, And solved full many a strange enigma Concerning stamen, style, and stigma ; Full many a weary hour I spent O'er anther, disk, and filament ; Next, added to the muster-roll Carpel, and sheath, and petiole, ll'horl, culm, corpuscle, vesicle, Umbel, spatliellet, follicle; And (at the feat though you may laugh) I cut an ovary in half, , To see what cells and seeds might lie In compass of a needle's eye : 84 SONGS OF SINGULARITY. But these minutitz do not hope To test without a microscope, For Botany's, in every tittle, The science of the much-in-little ; Why, e'en a bottle-cork will hold More tiny holes than can be told — Twelve thousand millions to an inch, A fact to make the stoutest flinch, And, startled, cry, " Can such things be ? " Of course they can — in Botany. To classify, we must progress Up to the greater from the less ; Some groups of plants well known to us Are Monocotyledonous, i?z-cotyledonous the others ; The name Adelphia, meaning brothers, Is used of filaments connected In groups — let these be well inspected ; But at this stage the subject passes Into division of the classes. Of these, I started with MONANDRIA, And got as far as ICOSANDRIA, Proceeded on to SYNGENESIA, BOTANICAL RESEARCHES. S5 To MONCECIA, DIODESIA, To POLYGAMIA, DIDYXAMIA, And, last of all, to CRYPTOGAMIA. Of course I studied aestivation, Inflorescence, germination, And all the movements of venation ; Nor could I well neglect carpology, And soon I knew as much morphology As Mr. Darwin does zoology ; By this I felt, in some degree, An oracle in Botany. Ye pupils of Botanic schools, Remember that, by strictest rules, Imperial Linnaeus doth forbid, We use the terms our fathers did, Crude, rude, and English, plump and plain — Hold such-named plants in high disdain ; We rather should consider ours Botanic specimens than flowers, And give to each so grand a name Their nature scarce shall seem the same. The modest English snowdrop can thus Shine as the classical Calantlms, 86 SONGS OF SINGULARITY. The little speedwell, gentle Reader, is To be Veronica chamadrys, The scarlet poppy 's known to me as A Monogyne— Papaver rhczas, The holly, meet for Christmas wall, We Ilex aquifolium call ; In ivy that adorns the ground, Glechoma hederacea 's found ; Botanic grammar's laws require I Should wallflowers term Cheiranthus chcirij When you with groundsel feed canaries, Call it Senecio vulgaris. Remembering this, and all the rest Of what herein has been expressed, Dear Reader, you must now discern, That if this charming art you learn, You will become — or much I err — A poet and philosopher ; Nay, even hope in time to reach The giddy height from which I teach, And prove, in that exalted place, A benefactor to your race ; So take this good advice from me, Go thou and study Botany. 87 THE KNIGHTS RETURN". SUMMER morning has just V^LJT begun To own the sway of the kingly sun, Who, casting the courtier clouds aside ^i That dare to stand in his p = th SSf of pride, S? ; Sits smiling bright at the sub- ject world, At the foot of his splendid throne unfurl'd, Giving the top of each hill and tree A golden mark of his charity ; SONGS OF SINGULARITY. While bands of minstrels among the boughs, Breathe to the morning their musical vows, And messenger breezes the perfumes are bearing, That flowers are yielding with bounty unsparing, And the dews on the sward into diamonds turning, Enriched by the sunbeams that on them are burning. A knight upon a milk-white steed, Rides o'er the flower-bespangled mead, His coat of mail returns the blaze Of Phcebus's resplendent gaze ; Gay are the hues his equipments bear, And gayer the look that his features-wear ; But gayest of all is the matin song He sings to himself as he rides along. ***** With jingle of armour the court-yard rings, — Tis filled with a merry train, — As swiftly the knight from his saddle springs As lightning flies o'er the main ; For the lady is there who has look'd so long From the watch-tower's utmost height, To catch the first glimpse of the homeward throng, That is led by her own true knight. THE KNIGHT'S RETURN. Sj And now he is safe in the old, old place, Closely locked in her fond embrace. O ! the rapture of the greeting Of two lovers parted long ! Absence makes the joy of meeting-— Links the chain of love more strong ; Every fear and sorrow over, Like the sun's emerging light, From a dark cloud's jealous cover, Are they to each other's sight. The knight has laid his sword to rest, And cast aside his steely vest, To pass a time of bliss and peace, From war's alarms a sweet release ; Once more Love plies its tender wiles, He breathes its atmosphere of smiles, And feels how near our joys may go To form a heaven on earth below. So leave him ; may the perils past Bind him to love and home more fast, 9<3 SONGS OF SINGULARITY. And when he issues forth again, On Battle's march of death and pain, . O ! may it ever be his meed, The way through Victory's path to lead, — May Valour well sustain its honour'd toils, And Love and Glory be its richest spoils ! 9i BY THE GLAD SEA WAVES. A.V IDYLL. " O, gai ! "—Frtruh exclamation of delight. $X E stood on his head on the wild sea-shore, And joy was the cause of the act, For he felt as he never had felt before, Insanely glad, in fact. And why ? In that vessel that left the bay, His mother-in-law had sail'd To a tropical country far away, Where tigers and snakes prevail'd. And more than one of his creditors too — Those objects of constant dread — Had taken berths in that ship " Curlew," Whose sails were so blithely spread. 92 SONGS OF SINGULARITY. Ah ! now he might hope for a quiet life, Which he never had known as yet, 'Tis true that he still possessed a wife, And was not quite out of debt. But he watch'd the vessel, this singular chap, O'er the waves as she up'd and down'd, And he felt exactly like Louis Nap, When " the edifice was crown'd." Till over the blue horizon's edge She disappear^ from view, Then up he leapt on a chalky ledge, And danced like a kangaroo. And many and many a joysome lay He peal'd o'er the sunset sea; Till down with a " fizz " went the orb of day, And then he went home to tea. 93 SOLITUDE. There 's not in all the world a heart That feels one throb of love for me ; For I have ever dwelt apart From all the paths of sympathy. There 's not in all the world a face That lights with joyful smiles at mine ; For I am fated ne'er to trace Of longed-for love the outward sign. There never comes a human voice, With any welcome in its tone, To bid me for a time rejoice, And briefly cease to be alone- Alone, alone ! it is my fate ; All others have from Friendship's sun Some beams to cheer their weary state, With gladdening light — but I have none. And must the spell endure, and make My life a desert all the way ; Or will there on my vision break A fairer view — a brighter day ? 94 DOING AS WE CAN. A CAN-DID CONFESSION. " L'homme propose," etc. — French Proverb. Believe me, no falser assertion The ear of a mortal can strike, No statement so prone to perversion As this — " I shall do as I like." Far better for truth and consistence, More fitting the nature of Man, The motto of human existence Should be — " We must do as we can." It is so in all things, though boldly We talk of the " will and the way," If Fate on our efforts looks coldly, The)- '11 fail, do whatever we may. DOING AS WE CAN. 95 Whatever may be our condition Through all the extent of life's span, We 're bound to this humble admission, " Poor mortals must do as they can." Some men covet splendour and riches, But just as they realise these, Misfortune, with one of her hitches, May scatter their hopes to the breeze ; Before they were sanguine and scornful, Secure in the strength of their plan, But now, very humble and mournful, They sigh — " We must do as we can." Some pine for distinction, and cherish Sweet dreams of a future of fame, Too often, alas ! but to perish Ere blossoms have sprung from their aim ; And even success, if they meet it, Oft acts independent of plan, And makes them confess, as they greet it, They still have to do as they can. 96 SONGS OF SINGULARITY. In short, beyond all computation, Are proofs that unerringly show That faith in mankind's calculation Is vain as the breezes that blow. If this meet with your kind approbation, I'm glad that my lay I began, If not, I have one consolation, I'm contented to do as I can. flAW-IJto A PATHETIC PASTORAL. lt Too bright and good Fur human nature's daily food." — Wordsworth. Far in the windings of a greeny vale, Where tender lambkins gamboll'd on the mead, And little dicky-birds, with wagsome tail Sang all the day — scarce leaving off" to feed ; A vale where murmuring brooklets purl'd along, And buttercups and daisies musterM strong, SONGS OF SINGULARITY. Sweet Emmelinda dwelt — O, dulcet maid! Fair as ten May-days, innocent as snow, With Nature's own simplicity array'd, All undebased by courtly pomp and show ; For in that vale, so primitive and green, " The latest fashions " never had been seen. Her father's cot stood on the verdant soil, Hard by the stream— he was the miller's man, In toil and rest (particularly toil) The placid course of his existence ran ; His only care — nor had he far to seek — How best to spend his nine-and-six per week. O happy, happy place ! — no noisy trains Came there — no naughty papers to excite The simple minds of those ingenuous swains, Besides, but very few could read or write ; And in that village every soul alive Retired to rest at nine, and rose at five. The boys and girls — or, rather, nymphs and swains- Were child-like and immaculately good ; They danced round maypoles, plaited daisy chains, And made romantic love in grove and wood. A PATHETIC PASTORAL. 9^ Life was with them a series of tableaus, Less French and artificial than Watteau's. Young Corydamon was the gentlest swain That ever handled crook or tootled pipe, Free from those heinous faults too oft that stain The daily lives of men of worldly type ; He talk'd no slang, to theatres ne'er went, Nor smoked, nor betted on " the next event," Scarce need I say that Corydamon felt For Emmelinda the most rapturous love ; And at her feet he oft-times would have knelt, With all the fervour of a turtle dove (Though 'tis a faulty simile, I feel, For turtle doves are seldom known to kneeL. But both were very shy, and when they met, Save for the pinky blush that dyed each cheek, You might have deem'd them hardly lovers yet, For they would stand for hours and never speak : Or only spoke a whisper scarce above, But never, never, never talk'd of love ! Thus passed the peaceful time. Anon arrived A stranger in that rural wilderness, SONGS OF SINGULARITY. Fresh come from where the city bees were hived, A finish'd exquisite in mien and dress ; His advent caused, of course, as much commotion As would a tropic fish in Polar Ocean. HE " chaffed " the swains, " pooh- pooh'd " the rustic games, Quizzed at the blushing nymphs — politely, though — Smiled at the toilettes of the homely dames, And called the happy valley " awful' slow ; '' He talk'd of races, dramas, duns, and debt, And smoked a wicked, wicked cigarette ! Why did he choose the lowly miller's cot To bide in, 'midst so many richer farms ? What meant it if his tinder heart were not Lit by a spark from Emmelinda's charms ? Perchance she loved him too, for oft a match Is burnt by flames itself has caused to catch. A PATHETIC PASTORAL. Her swain beheld her with that alien youth, They seemed together always — 'twas so strange ! Just like old friends — ah ! who could miss the truth i Her heart had undergone a thorough change ; The fascinations of this sprightly hero Had caused her former love to sink to zero. It must be so ; her manner had grown cold, Or so to Corydamon seemed to be ; But that meek shepherd grew not fierce and bold, Nor made his rival feel his jealousy; He sought the lonely meadows, there to weep, And only told his sorrows to his sheep. The verdurous fields, bespeckt with red and white, The murmuring streamlet with its flaggy shore, All fair things pall'd on Corydaiuon's sight, He felt he never could be happy more ; And so he laid him down beneath a willow, And used a little lambkin as his pillow. That lambkin felt the pressure of his head, And gave an injured bleat — but one alone — For when he heard what Corydamon said, And saw his face, so sad, so like his own, SONGS OF SINGULARITY. He merely ruffled up his velvet fleece, And let his gentle shepherd weep in peace. CORYDAMON'S LAMENT. " O, lovers ,give ear to my pain, And have a compassionate sigh, For ne'er was unfortunate swain More utterly wretched than I ; I loved, and I thought she loved back, But misery ! sorrow ! and woe ! Ah me ! and alas ! and alack ! She loves me no longer I know ! O, willow, willow, willow, A lambkin is my pillow ! " So meagre with grief have I grown, My frame 's surely lost all its sap ; And even my crook 's dwindled down, I constantly fear it will snap ; My pipe plays sad notes out of tune, Tears blot out the light of the day, And whether 'tis Christmas or June, My tortured mind scarcely can say ! O, willow, willow, willow, A lambkin is my pillow ! " False nymph! leave the home of thy youth, This vale of contentment and health, And barter devotion and truth, For baubles like fashion and wealth ; A PATHETIC PASTORAL. I03 Go ; v.ed thou this proud city beau, Why, why should I weep for your sake ? And yet I can't help it, you know, My heart into pieces will break ! O, willow, willow, willow, A lambkin is my pillow ! " Oh ! hang up my shepherdy crook, And put out my tootle-y pipe, I'll pop off Existence's hook, As fruit falls from branch over-ripe; And when I have yielded my breath, Let those who my remnants may find, Proclaim as the cause of my death, ' He found Emmelinda unkind.' O, willow, willow, willow, A lambkin is my pillow ! " 104 SONGS OF SINGULARITY. No sooner had he sang these touching words, Than, there alone beneath the azure sky, In presence only of the sheep and birds, Young Corydamon did proceed to die ; He called his flock, said tearfully " Good day,'' Turn'd up his eyes, and sigh'd his life away. ******* The city beau was gone, the rustic maid '(Who was indeed to Corydamon true), Her thoughts too much distracted while he stay'd, Prepared to face her humble life anew ; And knowing not how near did sorrow lurk, Went cheerfully about her daily work. You ask me to explain her truth ; I will ; 'Tis simply told : — the stranger was her brother, Who had been educate', and placed to fill A clerkship by an uncle of his mother : And in the course of time had prosper'd so, He'd grown a sharp and polished London beau. Had hapless Corydamon only known ! What grief were spared, what anguish nipt in bud, A PATHETIC PASTORAL. 105 And Emnielinda might have been his own ; But as it was, though copious as the Flood, The tears she shed lamenting, 'twas in vain, They could not float him back to life again. But they could float her out, with Death to deal ; The news was brought her when at mid-day hour She was divesting onions of their peel, Grief added much to their hydraulic power ; She wept and peel'd, and peel'd and wept, until All that remained of her grew very ill. And soon upon her dying bed she lay, Her weeping relatives were clustered round, But she was calm, comparatively gay, For now she hoped to meet him underground ; Ah '. had a word or two on either side Been spoke in time, then neither need have died. " Lay us," she said, " beneath one grassy tomb My Corydamon and poor little me, Let buttercups and daisies o'er us bloom, And let two shepherd-crooks be tastefully Placed one on each side, enwreath'd with fragrant may, Woodbine or myrtle — something in that way." 106 SONGS OF SINGULARITY. And so she died ; — within one grave they lie, With flowers adorn'd — the traveller views it yet : In cold March winds the mound is rather dry, And when it rains the grass gets very wet ; So pass'd they : O, that no one more had sinn'd Than Corydamon and his Emmelind' ! THE MANIACS LAST. Oh ! dye me jreen ; oh ! dye me green ! And put me in a soup tureen, And never let me see again The blood-besprinkled battle-plain. Oh .' send me cats .' oh : send me cats ! And let them all wear opera hats, But never, never, let them go To Coventry or Jericho. Oh ! join the dance ! oh ! join the dance ! And jump from England into France, But never let your fingers shrink From frenzy-rolling pen and ink ; And now 111 die, Good-bye ! good-bye ! You 11 see me fly Athwart the sky, ^Vith flashing eye, Good-bye ! ! Good-bye ! ! ! io8 THE TRIUMPH OF HARMONY. " Music hath charms, &c." Go, string for me the sounding harp, The classic lyre, go string, The peaceful pipe, of accent sharp, The shepherd's pandaeans bring. And bring me, too, the sweet guitar, The bird-like, warbling flute, The silvern bugle, echoing far, The soft and tender lute. Tune up the magic violin, Prepare the deep trombone, The triangle, with timely din, The viol, of thunderous tone. The sacred slow harmonium bring. The gentler pianette, The cymbals, with sonorous ring, The dulcet flageolet. THE TRIUMPH OF HARMONY. I09 Xor be the voice of glory dumb, Of conquest and of strife, Bring forth the stirring trump and drum, The shrill and piercing fife. Aye, bring them all, my soul with glee To music I'll devote ; Bring all — for all are one to me, I cannot play a note ! Ye ILegentte of Sir ©uUgbrn; or, of (Eorage. A "DARKE CONCEITE," AFTER SPENSER. Sir Gullyvere ye Lions twaine, Doth meete in contest tonghe, A tygere and a snake alsoe, He soon hath foes y-noughe. (ESUhenas ye knighte 'gan thread ye dismalle woode, Two fearfull Lyons quicke thereout did rush, With lashyng tailes and gleaming eyne they stood, And teeth right well y-formed his bones to crusshe ; But undismay'd, of Corage full and flush, YE LEGENDE OF SIR GULLYVERE ; OR, OF CORAGE. 1 1 1 He drew his swerde, and dealt one mightie wownde, Making ye gore spout forth in crymsonne gush, Whereat both salvage beestes stood astound, With rore that could be heard for twentie leagues around. lEftsoones, to add to his so parlous plighte, A dredfull Tyger, from ye other syde, Rusht ragingly upon that gentle knighte, Who, soon as this despightful foe he spyde, Raised rampart-wise his shielde, so stoute and wide, Whose steely bosses fierce ye Tygere bitte, With greedie gulpe — one lodged in his insyde, For 'gainst his own entent he swallow'd itt, Then rolled he to ye grounde in indigestive fitte. 21 h ! how unpiteous fate high Corage tryes ! Now ther appered, ye undergrasse among, Meet to strike terrour to all mortalle eies, A boa-constryct', of fourtie elles full long, With poys'nous breth, fierce hiss, and forky tong, Nath'lesse ye knighte his corage did not faile, In gracefull kickes he plied his legges strong, And quasht with iron heele its loathsome tayle, Ye while his other limbes his other foes assaile. 12 SONGS OF SINGULARITY. Once more ye brutes combynde in furie vilde, To rend to shredds ye brave Sir Gullyvere, And sadlie wolde have fared that gallant Childe, But he, as full of nerve as void of feare,. Flasht his brighte sworde high, lowe, in front, in reare, Which so astonied them they backwarde flie. With soddayne jompe he then a path did cleare, Reached his nobile steede, that stood a-nigh, Lept into selle, and off like Wunnoklocke did hie. ITe wrothfull creatures, spying his escape, Made after him attonce with vengesome speede, But all in vaine, for not in erthlie shape Lived beest more swift than Spankadoure, his steede ; Ere night, ye palais reacht, he tolde his deede Untoe ye Queene, his roiall maisteresse, Who gave him for his valour rightfull meede, While Fame was busie with his worthinesse. And may like corage alway meet with like successe ! i'3 ODE OX OCEAN. OSSIAXIC OUTBURST IN O NATURAL. By Okpheus Ogdex, of Orkney. CEAN, oh, One omnipresent ! our own ! O'er oozy outlets oft-times overflowing, Outbreathing odoriferous ozone, Ourselves ostensibly obedi- ence owing ; Oh, often otherwise ! observe, o'erhead, Opacity obnoxiously obscuring, Ocean on Ocean on our orb o'erspread, Omnipotent, o'erwhelmingly outpouring. O, ospreys, otters, oysters opalline ! Offspring of Ocean's odd organizations, Own Ogden'S odic offsprings outshine Ovid or Ossian's obsolete orations ! H4 SPOONIANA. "Love me little, love me long." — Antique Dittv. He saw her form reflected in a spoon, Which made her blithe and beauteous visage spread To breadth and roundness like the fullest moon, Her figure dwarf'd till shorten'd by a head. And then he turn'd the spoon, and saw her face And form in " linked sweetness long drawn out," Like to a lamp-post in its slender grace, Or hollyhock allow'd too high to sprout. But what are changes to a lover's eyes ? Howe'er distorted was the image shown, If squat, or lanky, as in natural guise, He still perceived his beautiful, his own ! And so he said, as down the spoon they placed, " I'm like the party in that ancient song, For dearest ! (here he clasp'd her slender waist) I love thee little, and I love thee long" NIGHT AND MORNING. "tggjo- 5- g^ AY "s not always bright, nor Night obscure, ~="— - In the seen world, or in the viewless soul ; iOne night — and not when stars shone clear and pure, But when dense clouds athwart the skies did roll, And pall-like darkness spread from pole to pole — I lay me down, my heart all full of hope, Replete with present and expected bliss, Wanrfd by an inner sun whose lucid scope Showed happiness in store, more great than this. I 2 Il6 SONGS OF SINGULARITY. I thought, and thought, till on my wearied eyes The magic seal of sleep was firmly fix'd, And I was where the soul each darkness flies, The neutral line whereon two worlds are mix'd ; That region of dread shades and mysteries, Where, leaving for awhile Earth's bliss and pain, Men visit Death, — donning his outward guise, To do him homage in his - pwn domain ; Wherefrom, however, they emerge alive, New strengthen'd in the worldly war to strive. The morning came — the sun so warmly beam'd, His golden fingers touch'd my sleeping face, And woke me to a busy world that seem'd A paradise for every native race. All things were glad ; the birds, refresh'd with rest, Infused new vigour in their jocund lays, All hearts expanded 'neath the solar rays, All voices, mute or heard, one joy express'd, And Nature wore a universal smile. And I, how fared it now ? Alas, the while ! 'Twas THEN my soul was sad ; not life nor light, Nor aught that soothed the ear, or charm'd the sight- NIGHT AND MORNING. 117 Bright hue, nor beauteous form, nor joyous sound — Could break the chain of gloom about it wound, Or melt, with force benign, its iron weight ; I stood amidst the gladness isolate, Impervious to the subtle influence That steals upon us through each outer sense. And thus, in opposition and despite Of potent Nature's beneficial sway, I carried Day into the darkest night, And brought back Night into the brightest day ! nS A MODERN CRICHTON; AND FRIENDSHIP'S LAMENT FOR HIS LOSS. " I shall not look upon his like again." — Hamlet. JND have I lost thee?— art thou gone for ever ? If so, my future life I shall abhor ; Can all the world produce thine equal? — Never! t Who dares to stand as thy competitor ? O, wise and good, and beautiful and clever, Tom Dolamore! A MODERN" CRICHTON. Oho ! what games in youth we've had together ! Sometimes in thy balloon sky-high we'd soar ; Thence empty several beds of every feather, Falling to earth with steady downward pour, And making people think 'twas- snowy weather, Tom Dolamore ! Sometimes a zebra from the " Zoo " we'd borrow, And mount him — I behind, and thou before ; Then all night long, and far into the morrow, Through London streets at maddest pace we tore; Thou wert my only antidote to sorrow, Tom Dolamore ! Sometimes, attired as water-sprites or mermen, We two would swim from Chelsea to the Nore ; Sometimes we'd rove as minstrels — Black or German- Or go as missionaries 'midst the poor ; And thou couldst preach a most impressive sermon, Tom Dolamore ! SONGS OF SINGULARITY. What friend like thee could charm our social hours When sparkled ruby wine of olden store ? How all enjoyed thy bright convivial powers ! Thy jokes would " set the table in a roar;" Thy sparks of wisdom flew about in showers, Tom Dolamore! How often, to our rapture and diversion, Thou told'st of wondrous feats performed of yore : Such as how thou, without the least exertion, Didst kill a lion, tiger, or wild boar ; These told in Swedish, Cherokee, or Persian, Tom Dolamore! Then thou couldst paint on canvas, silk, and satin, Designs the harshest critic would adore ; Turn washing bills at sight to choicest Latin, Spout Greek for hours ; yet all thy tomes of lore Lay in one room, too small to swing a cat in, Tom Dolamore ! A MODERN CRICHTON. 12 Thy poetry — take Shakespeare at his primest, Add Byron, Wordsworth, Tennyson, and Moore, And Milton, when his subject is sublimest, With Edgar Poe, lamenting " Lost Lenore " — All these would fail to match thee when thou rhymest, Tom Dolamore ! In music — classical or operatic — No such performer e'er was known before ; Thy singing turned the very air ecstatic, And made the madden'd hearers shout " Encore ! ' Praises of thee were endless and emphatic, Tom Dolamore! Thou trod'st the stage as stately as a Kemble, Yet shone in comedy ; the dullest boor Scream'd at thy humour, at thy rage did tremble ; Thou hadst no peer, though all that ever wore The sock and buskin could at once assemble, Tom Dolamore ! SONGS OF SINGULARITY. And then thy warlike deeds, what nonsense talking Of Caesar, or the Cid Campeador ! There are no heroes dead, no live ones walking, But, did they dare to meet thee in the war, Would soon find Victory thy name up-chalking, Tom Dolamore ! Thy field sports, too ! — why, in a dozen cases Three hundred runs at cricket thou didst score ; And then at stag-hunts, meets, and steeple-chases, Thou and thy steed were ever to the fore, Jumping the most impracticable places, Tom Dolamore! In shooting rabbits, birds, or other game things, Thou at one shot couldst bring down three or four ; Oxford and Cambridge both were beat like lame things, When on the river thou didst ply the oar ; And in all pastimes thou couldst do the same things, Tom Dolamore ! A MODERN CRICHTOX. 1 23 Oft have I seen thee, with unerring rifle, Out-do the members of thy gallant corps ; A thousand yards to thee were but a trifle, Prize cups upon thee did in cartloads pour. Yet thou thy comrades' jealousy couldst stifle, Tom Dolamore ! Scarce have I told a tithe of thy perfections, And thou art gone ! — my heart is full and sore, My spirit crushed with sorrowful reflections, The happy portion of my life is o'er, And nought will now remain, but recollections, Tom Dolamore ! I mourn, but in my grief I am not single ; "I find a hundred females round thy door, Distraught with woe — their tears and shrieks commingle; A sight to pierce one's bosom to the core. Thy name re-echoed makes the welkin tingle, "Tom Dolamore!!!" 124 SONGS OF SINGULARITY. Yes, I have lost thee, O, thou more than Crichton ; I watch thy vessel fading from the shore, Here, standing on the gloomy cliffs at Brighton, With streaming eyes I weep, I howl, I roar, Oh ! how I envy those who next may light on Tom Dolamore ! 125 THE LOVELESS BARD. AN ANACREONTIC SENTIMENT REVERSED. (Vide Ode XXII.) TRY to tune the lyric string To such soft lays as lovers sing ; To speak in rapturous delight Of ruby lips and tresses bright, Of roseate flushes, zephyr sighs, And the mild beams of love-lit eyes, Offragrantkisses,witchingforms, Whose every move the spirit warms; Of heart's pulsations sweetly set To one harmonious duet ; Of tUes-drMes in twilight hours, And billets-doux expressed by flowers, Of Chloe, Daphne, Lesbia, all Those dames whom classic thoughts recall. 126 SONGS OF SINGULARITY. Alas ! in vain — my wayward lyre Would yield to strains of martial fire, — Would sing of Caesar, Bonaparte, And other masters of the art Of conquest — fighting o'er again, In song, each hero's best campaign ; Or in sublimer strains rehearse The wonders of the universe ; The rise and fall of mighty states, The mystic workings of the Fates ; Or muse on human woes and joys, From Age's dreams to Childhood's toys ; Or treat of things in sight that be, Birds, beasts, and fishes, land and sea, The earth below, the heavens above ; In short, of anything but Love ! Ah, me ! I deem it sorely hard Upon a most well-meaning bard, To be excluded from the choir That sings the joys of soft desire, That theme which never old appears, Tho' used for many thousand years. THE LOVELESS BARD. 1 27 Oft have I called on Venus' name, To Cupid's aid laid piteous claim, In vain ! alas ! — the tyrant boy Will mock my plaint, my hopes destroy ; Love's goddess from my prayers will turn, ■While some divinity more stem, Pallas, or Mars, will rise and say " To love thou mayst not tune thy lay !" Farewell, then, ye delicious themes, Tho' ye may occupy my dreams, And make my wakiDg hours more sweet, I ne'er am fated to repeat Your promptings on my loveless lyre, It must be wann'd by other fire ; So, welcome, iron-fronted War, Since thee I best am fitted for, Be mine the warrior's soul to thrill With longings to arise and kill, By Mars inspired, 111 sing thy praises, In songs of blood and sighs of blazes ! 128 THE WILD WARRIOR. A LA\ OF MARTIAL ARDOUR. I. H ! let me like a slaughter'd soldier fall, In death's convulsive fits; I hunger for the shell or cannon-ball, To blow me into bits ! ' == I thirst for glory, fame ; a million lives r^ 3 ^ I'd take without remorse, And lucky's every foeman that survives — My bleeding corse. Wounds ? I should think I had ! at least a score, But what care I ? I may get fifty or a hundred more Before I die : THE WILD WARRIOR. 1 29 The body's hurts reach not the valiant mind ; Make way, ye slaves ! All that oppose my path shall quickly find Dishonourable graves. III. Another horse shot under me — that 's ten, In one brief hour ! Don't be dismay'd at that, my gallant men, / never cower ; Quick ! mount the wall ; the ladder is red hot, The Hope 's Forlorn, But you may just as well be kill'd as not, Now that you have been born. IV. There go an arm, and portion of my leg, O, true-aim'd shot ! Twas rude, but no apology, I beg — It is my lot. Hurrah ! our banner on the conquer'd heights Its breadth uncoils; Now, soldiers, hasten to the wild delights Of well-earn'd spoils. 130 SONGS OF SINGULARITY. V. O, what ecstatig bliss 'tis thus to stand 'Midst blood and flames ! All for the glory of our Fatherland, And our own names. There goes my head at last ; how weak is man ! - My life is lost ; But knowing that I fell in Victory's van Is worth the cost ! i3i A MORNING SKETCH. J And this is England, bathed in morning's glow."— Montgomery. SUMMER morning on the wood- land road : Here is a little cottage, rising dun With red-tiled roof, above its snow-white pales, An ivy baldric's slung across its breast, Sturdy it stands as forester of old, Bent on his sylvan sport in woods like this ; But 'tis a peaceful home ; and, mounting guard, Four stately poplars are its sentinels, Each more attenuate than the next, the last But a mere ragged staff of fluttering green. 132 SONGS OF SINGULARITY. All that hath surface for it glistens bright, Catching some richness from the wealthy sun, The very gnats that sport upon the air Show up like dancing jewels, fill the view WithJiving specks of light ; upon the wires, The black-tarred wires that hold the farmer's fence, The spider's web is fixed, and this has caught Some drops of falling dew ; these, in the glow, Assume the aspect of a string of pearls, Swung by a fairy hand — the gentle breeze. The surface of the pond is sombre-bright, Like to black armour, for it lies in shade. Its time for splendour is not now, but when The enriching sun goes down, bequeathing it A legacy of light ; upon its face The lily ducks, disporting at their will, Disturb the current with their widening rings. Elsewhere, the gentle ripples ebb and flow, And meet and play, and vanish in each other, And ever change, and yet are still the same, Blending in geometric harmony. A MORNING SKETCH. 133 The mighty trees whose shadows check the road With moving patterns on a dusty ground, Are endless in variety of shape ; Some straight and haughty stand, as princes proud, Wrapping their green robes scornfully around them ; Some are mere cripples of deformity, With gnarled and tortured limbs and ragged garb: And some so battered with the storms of life, And worn by Time, they are but wrecks, yet each, Age, ugliness, decay, and death itself, Some phase of grand or beautiful displays. The stately ox, advancing from the depths Of emerald meadow, fringed with dark-green wood (Effective background to his sunlit form), Wends slowly down the pathway to the pond, And quaffs its grateful waters ; white is he, And when at rest seems form'd of alabaster, Or might be marble, wrought with sculptured skill So great as to inform with all but life. The butterflies are out, and three flit near, One richly-hued, one tawny-brown, one white 134 SONGS OF SINGULARITY. As winter snow-flake ; sweetly they contrast, As, on their giddy and desultory flight, In partnership they flit from joy to joy, Intoxicate with all, an emblem true Of Man's unheeding youth, while follow close, Or more remote, as high or low they fly, Their shadows, light and wayward as themselves, '35 POWER WITHOUT ENERGY. HE sluggish soul is in the lion's state, When, gorged and wearied in his darksome den, He lets the chain of Sleep, v.ith clogging weight, Link round his frame — no lion is he then, But a mere heap of matter— so remains Till Hunger's lust for blood again revives, Quickens his limbs, and all his vigour strains To crush the tenements of gentler lives ; So lies that dormant soul — a lion's strength, The weakness of a corpse ; — the smotherM spark" Might burst from bondage into light at length, Soar high, and flash o'er earth its beacon mark ; But smoulders on instead, and ne'er will warm To stronger flame than little sickly spires, That leap awhile to view, then die, and form Faint symptoms of the mightier inward fires. 136 6 ge (Cltrto nf hi Witym, a (fffliucerian jFrasuicnt a