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 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. I 
 
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 .?.3-S.£ 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. \ 
 
 mmt^ ^^tpktott^JlliTt^Btt. 
 
Songs of Singularity. 
 
SONGS OF SINGULARITY; 
 
 OR, 
 
 ^m foil ifit %m^iu 
 
 BY THE -LONDON HERMIT. 
 
 WITH FIFTY ILLUSTRATIONS BY THE AUTHOR AND OTHERS 
 
 SECOlsTHD lEIDITIOn^. 
 
 DY THE GLAD SEA WAVES. 
 
 LONDON : 
 SIMP KIN, MARSHALL & CO., 
 
 STATIONERS' HALL COURT, 
 

 LONDON : 
 
 STEVENS AND RICHAPDSON, PRINTERS, 5, GREAT QL"EFN STREET, 
 
 UNCOLN'S INN FIEi-DS, W.C. 
 
THIS VOLUME IS DEDICATED 
 
 WITH THE 
 
 PROFOUNDEST RESPECT, 
 
 AND THE 
 
 MOST COMPLETE IMPARTIALITY, 
 
 TO ALL 
 
 WHO ARE INTERESTED 
 
 IN 
 
 ITS CONTENTS. 
 
PREFACE, 
 
 ND wherefore *The London Hermit?'" it may 
 be asked. " Hermits are out of date in the 
 nineteenth century, and particularly out of place in the 
 world's most populous city. This thronged and busy 
 metropolis of ours is no locality for the 'mossgrown 
 cave,' garnished with hour-glass, skull, and maple dish, 
 and tenanted by the cowled anchorite with his ' staff and 
 amice grey.' " But though such accessories belong tradi- 
 tionally to the hermitical character, they are not essential 
 to it, and whether or not they exist in the present case 
 is of little consequence. Real seclusion depends far 
 more upon a certain mental attitude and temperament 
 than upon any mere outward circumstances of garb, and 
 time, and place. It is, therefore, as attainable in the 
 centres of life and activity, as 
 
 " Far in a wild, remote from public view." 
 
 Indeed, to be in the world, but not of it ; to dwell in its 
 midst, but aloof from all its gayer and busier scenes, has 
 
viii PREFACE. 
 
 been acknowledged the condition most favourable for 
 true solitude. 
 
 The above remarks, while explaining the designation 
 adopted by the author, will also serve to account for the 
 somewhat isolated and reflective tone often observable in 
 this volume, and the absence of those subjects bearing 
 upon modem society which form the staple of our light 
 literature. 
 
 The title of the book itself needs little apology. The 
 "Singularity" of the "Songs" cannot well be disputed : 
 they are the diversions of solitude, the wild vagaries of 
 the mind in its more mirthful and freakish moods ; their 
 madness slightly controlled by method ; their capricious 
 flights somewhat curbed by the necessities of poetical 
 form. Some are intended to illustrate the triumph of 
 Rhyme over Reason, others the triumph of Reason over 
 Rhyme ; or, in other words, the verbal difficulties, as 
 well as verbal resources, which the English language pre- 
 sents to the diligent versifier. Under this extravagance 
 there is, however, sometimes a serious purpose, and lest 
 
 " Laughter holding both his sides " 
 
PREFACE. \t 
 
 (or even one of them) may find that position fatiguing if 
 too long continued, the general whimsicality has been 
 now and then relieved by the outpourings of the writer's 
 more melancholy vein, which, it is to be hoped, will pra 
 duce upon the reader's mind a sufficiently depressing 
 effect. 
 
 Some of these lyrics have already appeared in 
 various periodicals. The book is not, however, a mere 
 random collection of fugitive pieces, the greater part of 
 its contents having been written with the express view of 
 production in the present form; and in arrangement 
 every effort has been made to impart the charm of variety 
 and the force of contrast. 
 
 With these pleas in his own defence, the author 
 ventures to hope that any literary judges whose province 
 it may be to try his case will find sufficient extenuating 
 circumstances to mitigate the severity of their sentence. 
 
 The Hermitage. London, E.G., 
 November 20, 1874. 
 
PRE1.UDE TO SECOND EDITION. 
 
 o, little book, as thou hast gone before, 
 
 Seek out the eyes and hearts that love thee best, 
 And use thy genial harmlessness once more, 
 
 To soothe the dreadful critic's savage breast ; 
 Win him to smile, or laugh as one possessed, 
 
 Or, melted by thy pathos, drop a tear. 
 And put his weapon to its sheathy rest : 
 
 Oh ! may thy warblings wild delight and cheer 
 Both young and old, and loved and lone, and far and near. 
 
 nter the social ring where friends are met. 
 
 Relieve the pointsman in his lonely box, 
 And cause the city pilgrim to forget 
 
 Awhile the ceaseless rise and fall of stocks ; 
 Be with the tourist on the hills and lochs. 
 
 The yachter as he ploughs the endless main . 
 Go, prompted by resolves as firm as rocks 
 
 To add to pleasure, and subtract from pain ; 
 But wheresoe'er thou goest, pray don't come back again \ 
 
 July 2 1 J/, 1875. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE CIVILIZATION OF TONGATAr.OO I 
 
 AMANDALINE 8 
 
 THE MISANTHROPE . . . lO 
 
 A KNIGHT OF MISERY . , . . . . . . I9 
 
 LINES TO A CROCODILE 20 
 
 MORN IN SPRING 24 
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF NATURE 26 
 
 THE poet's REASON FOR HIS MANNER OF WRITING . . 29 
 
 THE HAVEN OF LIFE's AUTUMN ..... 30 
 
 SONG OF THE EASTERN TOURIST ...... 32 
 
 A LAMENT FOR DEPARTED GREATNESS . • • • 35 
 
 A STEREOTYPED PRESCRIPTION 38 
 
 THE TIGHT FIT 41 
 
 TANGLED THOUGHTS . . . . . . . . 47 
 
 A SUDDEN SOUND . . - 49 
 
 A VISION OF TERROR 50 
 
 MY MADELINE 53 
 
 THE LONG GONG SONG; OR, THE PERSISTENT MINST41EL . 55 
 
 BICYCULAR BLISS 57 
 
 A FASCINATING MONSTER ...... ^ 59 
 
 THE ABBEY CHAPEL . 64 
 
 THE YOUNG GAZELLE 6S 
 
 THE CAPTIVE KNIGHT's LAMENT . . . . .74 
 
 BOTANICAL RESEARCHES .7*5 
 
ni CONTENTS. 
 
 THE knight's return , • 87 
 
 BY THE GLAD SEA WAVES o QI 
 
 SOLITUDE 93 
 
 DOING AS WE CAN 94 
 
 CORYDAMON AND EMMELINDA: A PATHETIC PASTORAL , 97 
 
 THE maniac's LAST IO7 
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF HARMONY loS 
 
 YE LEGENDE of SIR GULLYVEREJ OR, OF CORAGE . . IIO 
 
 ODE ON OCEAN II3 
 
 SPOONIANA . . . 114 
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. . II5 
 
 A MODERN CRICHTON ; AND FRIENDSHIP'S LAMENT FOR HIS 
 
 LOSS IlS 
 
 THE LOVELESS BARD 12 
 
 THE WILD WARRIOR , . . I2S 
 
 A MORNING SKETCH I3I 
 
 POWER WITHOUT ENERGY I35 
 
 YE CLERKE OF YE WETHERE 1 36 
 
 FUROR POETICUS; OR, THE BARD SURCHARGED . . . I37 
 
 AN EVENING VISION 1 39 
 
 A VAGUE STORY I43 
 
 THE SLEEPLESS NIGHT ....... I45 
 
 PARANA 148 
 
 THE UNPRINTED ONE: A WAIL OF TEARS .... I49 
 
 A REFLECTION I52 
 
 A BLIGHTED LIFE I53 
 
 NURSERY NONSENSE 1 56 
 
 A PHONETIC PROTEST 1 59 
 
 A BLANK PAGE 162 
 
 THE PRIMA donna's DREAM 1 63 
 
SONGS OF SINGULARITY. 
 
 THE CIVILIZATION OF TONGATABOO. 
 
 A LAV OF PliOCJiESS. 
 
 Improved off the face of the earth." — Popular Expression. 
 
 INGJUNGAREEGOO, 
 Of Tongataboo, 
 
 Was a terrible savage, just six 
 feet two, 
 
 Who ne'er wore a coat, nor a 
 vest, nor a shoe ; 
 
 His garments, in fact, were re- 
 markably few. 
 
 Consisting of feathers, and fibres 
 run through 
 The bones of the foes that in battle he slew. 
 
SONGS OF SINGULARITY, 
 
 (And some of the latter were toothsome to chew), 
 But during his wars he had found time to woo 
 Queen Wongaree-Wang, from the isles of Pe-loo, 
 A lady adorned with the brightest tattoo, 
 Of mauve and of yellow, of crimson and blue, 
 And she loved him as savage wives only can do. 
 
 King Jungaree's island was charming to view ; 
 The plantain and yam in luxuriance grew, 
 The delicate palm and the slender bamboo ; 
 To thread the dense forests required a clue, 
 The animals found were the horn'd cariboo, 
 The hardy wild-pig, and the bison-like gnu, 
 And a species of miniature kangaroo ; 
 While over the island the sea-gull flew. 
 The albatross, petrel, and snipe, and curlew. 
 The talkative parrot and loud cockatoo 
 (Whereof there are specimens now in the "Zoo"). 
 
 King Jungaree's subjects were savages true. 
 Tall, black, and athletic in sinew and thew ; 
 They wielded the hatchet, and hurled up the boo- 
 -merang at the birds that were good in a stew. 
 And chased the wild porker with whoop and halloo ; 
 
THE CIVILIZATION OF TONGATABOO. 3 
 
 (The national dish was a prime barbecue;) 
 For favours they were not accustomed to sue, 
 Each paddled his own independent canoe. 
 Whilom it perchanced that the good ship Pegu 
 (From Liverpool sailing, and bound for Loo-choo) 
 Was caught in a storm that so fearfully blew. 
 It threatened each moment her life to undo, 
 Till, torn and dismasted, the wild billows threw 
 Her on to the isle of King Jungareegoo. 
 The natives immediately came to rescue, 
 Give shelter and food to the perishing crew, 
 Who wondered where fate had conducted them to. 
 
 The sailors, enraptured, the island surview ; — 
 
 'Twas lovely as Eden, and rich as Peru, 
 
 Its splendour and verdure would more than outdo 
 
 The tropical part of the gardens at Kew ; — 
 
 Till, having explored every nook and purlieu. 
 
 They cried, "Just the place. Jack, for me and for you; 
 
 We're here, and we '11 stick to the island like glue ! " 
 
 They stayed ; and, dear me! what a change did ensue! 
 They taught to the natives all arts that they knew, 
 And gave them to civilization the cue ; 
 The zealous ship's chaplain, Aminadab Drew, 
 
 E 2 
 
SONGS OF SINGULARITY. 
 
 Exhorted the Pagans their creed to eschew, 
 And built a large chapel with plenty of pew, 
 Wherein he could guide, and with virtue 
 
 imbue 
 Their moral perceptions, — so sadly askew. 
 
 The nation, thus tutored, began life anew : 
 They started a Times ^ and aWeekly Review, 
 A School Board, a Church — which the State 
 
 did endue, 
 A Bank, and a Mint, and a Royal revenue, 
 A National Debt, and a Parliament too. 
 
 The body as well as the mind they transmew ; 
 Coat, trousers, and vest superseded tattoo ; 
 The ladies wore chignon^ and skirt, andyfr//?/, 
 And all the last vwdcs of the Bo2iVva7'd and Rite; 
 They played and croqiiee'd, sang and painted and drew, 
 Danced, practised deportment, and French"parley-voo," 
 And slandered each other o'er cups of Congou. 
 In short, the old customs gave way to the new 
 So very completely, that difference of hue 
 Alone marked the natives of Tongataboo. 
 
THE CIVILIZATION OF TONGATADOO. 5 
 
 But ah ! to all blessings will evil accrue! 
 
 The Tongataboolians had reason to rue 
 
 Sojue imports received /^r the good ship Pc'^uj 
 
 A host of diseases — small-pox and ague, 
 
 Consumption, bronchitis, and tic-doloreux — 
 
 Played havoc among them ; still more, entre 7ious, 
 
 Gin, brandy, and rum, and " Ben Nevis's dew," 
 
 Sent thousands of blacks down Death's dark avenue ; 
 
 And as the destroyer will never " koo-too " 
 
 To prince any more than to vd^rt. parveitii^ 
 
 %ieen Wongaree-Wang and King Jungareegoo 
 
 Were soon as defunct as old Brian Boru. 
 
 Thus dwindled the nation — grew few and more few. 
 No power its vigour and life could renew, 
 Until the last native — called Pallee-ga-too, 
 Distinguished for Latin, and Greek, and Hebrew, 
 As learned, in fact, as a Hindoo Baboo — 
 Succumbed of exhaustion when just thirty-two. 
 
 And now all the natives lie under the yew, 
 While Briton and Yankee, Hibernian and Jew, 
 Have settled themselves on the isle in their lieu, 
 And prosperously their existence pursue, 
 
SONGS OF SINGULARITY, 
 
 On Jungaree's palace they've planted the U- 
 
 -nion Jack, and appointed a governor, who 
 
 Is twentieth cousin to Lord Nozoo. 
 
 Ko more in the woods roams the grim Wanderoo 
 
 (An animal mentioned by Monsieur Chaillu, 
 
 I think, in his "Travels in Eastern Bornou"); 
 
 No more the wild pig and the bison-like gnu 
 
 Kick up in the forest their hullaballoo; 
 
 But now there's the cat, with his civilized mew, 
 
 The Alderney cow, with her mellow "moohoo," 
 
 The dog and the equines, from racer to " screw," 
 
 And, 'stead of the parrot and harsh cockatoo, 
 
 The tender tame pigeons do dulcetly coo. 
 
 And bright Chanticleer sounds his loud "doodle-doo!" 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 Thus, sure as the game of Unlimited Loo, 
 
 Does civilization the savage subdue; 
 
 His chance of existence is not worth a sou ; 
 
 He fades like the shades that to Hades withdrew, 
 
 And when it 's no longer " il esV but " Z///^/," 
 
 The funeral wreaths o'er his tombstone we strew, 
 
THE CIVILIZATION OF TONGATABOO. 
 
 And give to his ashes the tear that is due. 
 Such is the moral of Tongataboo. 
 So, having exhausted the endings in U, 
 I bid thee, good reader, a courteous adieu. 
 
AMANDALINE. 
 
 A RABID LOVE-SONG. 
 *' These are the charming agonies of love." — Thojison. 
 
 are there words sufficient to describe her ? 
 
 Amandaline ! 
 Will Castal's fount enable the imbiber 
 
 To sing my Queen ? 
 A thousand Cupids live within her glances, 
 Three thousand Graces foot it when she 
 dances, 
 
 Amandaline ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Oh! dare I hope to be thy chosen lover? 
 Amandaline ! 
 Would that my heart, by tearing off the cover, 
 By thee were seen ! 
 
AMANDALINE. 
 
 1 dieam of thee at night, and when I 'm waking ; 
 Thou haunt'st me even while my meals I 'm taking, 
 Amandaline ! 
 
 III. 
 Thine eyes are brighter than a million planets, 
 
 Amandaline ! 
 Thy breast is whiter than the swan's or gan net's ; 
 
 Thy voice and mien 
 Fill me with raging fervour so ecstatic, 
 1 writhe as one convulsed with pains rheumatic, 
 
 Amandaline ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Oh ! in this doubt no longer let me languish, 
 
 Amandaline I 
 My bosom is combustible with anguish — 
 
 A magazine 
 Of Love's own gunpowder ; and thou wilt lose me. 
 Explosively, unless thy heart will choose mc — 
 
 Amandaline ! 
 
10 
 
 THE MISANTHROPE. 
 
 *• Man delights me not, nor woman either."— Ha: 
 
 OCUS it eastward, keep it still, 
 And through that patent telescope 
 
 You'll spy a house upon the hill : 
 There dwells a misanthrope. 
 
 He hates mankind to that extent. 
 He holds the world so deep in 
 scorn, 
 J The wrong he fiercest does resent 
 Is being human-born. 
 
 " Oh ! would I were a bird," he cries, 
 
 " A lobster, or a chimpanzee, 
 Or one amongst the butterflies, 
 
 'Twere better far for me ! " 
 
 And so, — though from a different cause. 
 Like those who Fashion's follies ape — 
 
 He violates all Reason's laws. 
 To hide his human shape. 
 
THE MISANTHROPE. ii 
 
 Sometimes he's scaled like a fish, 
 
 And sometimes feather'd like a bird ; 
 
 His aspect would be devilish, 
 If it were not absurd. 
 
 He dwells alone, shuns human aid, 
 
 Lights his own fire, and bakes his bread ; 
 
 Makes his own tea and lemonade. 
 Clothes, " bacca," boots, and bed. 
 
 Money he scorns as dross most vile, 
 
 Polluted oft by human touch ; 
 And liring in that Crusoe-style, 
 
 Of course, don't cost him much. 
 
 If ever 'tis his chance to meet 
 
 A man that near his house may roam, 
 
 It turns him sick, he cannot eat 
 His meals when he gets home. 
 
 And if he meets a woman — oh ! 
 
 How furious then becomes his craze ! 
 He yells with horror, groans with woe, 
 
 It lays him up for days. 
 
12 SONGS OF SINGULARITV. 
 
 Nay, if he meets the smallest child 
 That ever learnt to run alone, 
 
 His hair uprears, his eyes grow wild, 
 It chills him to the bone. 
 
 And yet this being, though so strange, 
 So alien from the beaten track, 
 
 So meteor-like in mental range, 
 Is not a maniac. 
 
 Talk to him (if you get a chance), 
 And quickly, reader, you will find, 
 
 H e '11 prove in every utterance 
 The vastness of his mind. 
 
 He '11 speak of all things old and new, 
 With boundless knowledge, force, and truth 
 
 Showing he must have travelled through 
 Some libraries in youth. 
 
 But when of human kind he speaks. 
 
 His soul seems turned to raging flames •' 
 
 He vents reproach in piercing shrieks, 
 And calls them dreadful names. 
 
THE MISANTHROPE. 
 
 r3 
 
 Once when opinions I exprest 
 In favour of our mortal race, 
 
 He would not stay to hear the rest, 
 But drove me from the place. 
 
 'tertHoopcR 
 
14 SONGS OF SINGULARITY. 
 
 " My hate," he said, " is all I'll give 
 To men, nor need they even boast 
 
 Of that ; for, of all things that live, 
 I hate myself the most ! " 
 
 There ne'er has been a misanthrope 
 More fierce than that one on the hill; 
 
 And most devoutly do I hope 
 There never, never will. 
 
 How came he thus? what made him so? 
 
 Pity and interest may ask; 
 Who can unfold his tale of woe ? 
 
 Be mine the tearful task. 
 
 From birth a blight was on his fate ; 
 
 Nay, life was blighted ere begun : 
 His ancestors, I blush to state, 
 
 Were lawyers, every one. 
 
 Misfortune marked him from a "kid ;" 
 His master's cane oft made him sniart 
 
 To sit up late he was forbid, 
 Or eat too much plum-tart. 
 
THK MISANTHROPE, 1 5 
 
 Ambition grew as grew his mind, 
 
 But o'er him still the cloud loomed dark; 
 
 On quitting school he was designed 
 To be a lawyer's clerk. 
 
 But from the high-stooled desk he shrank. 
 
 '^ It is not this I'm fitted for," 
 He said; "but some much higher rank, 
 
 Such as Lord Chancellor ! " 
 
 He wrote, applying for that post, 
 But (this will scarcely be believed) 
 
 A short refusal, at the most. 
 Was all that he received. 
 
 And next, imbued with martial fire, 
 He donned the warrior's coat of red; 
 
 " To be Field-Marshal I aspire, 
 Like Wellington," he said. 
 
 Also his tastes grew nautical ; 
 
 He went to sea : " At least, I think," 
 Mused he, " they '11 make me Admiral — 
 
 Rear- Admiral of the Pink." 
 
l6 SONGS OF SINGULARITY. 
 
 But, ah ! he failed in either case, 
 And never rose to half the height; 
 
 For others got the foremost place, 
 And held it very tight. 
 
 He turned to Art, and did prrduce 
 
 A picture twenty feet by twelve ; 
 But paltry hangers said, " No use ! 
 
 This we shall have to shelve." 
 
 He wrote a Middle Age romance, 
 
 And for it asked five hundred pound? ; 
 
 But publishers refused the chance, 
 Upon commercial grounds. 
 
 *' And this they call a happy world ! " 
 He cried. "Though little I expect, 
 
 Ingratitude on me is hurled, 
 Injustice and neglect." 
 
 And then, to make the worse more bad, • 
 Impelled by that sweet mania, love, 
 
 He married — flew from ills he had 
 To those he knew not of.* ^ 
 
 * We were never struck with the rhyming affinity between the words love an I 
 of, until certain eminent contemporary poets raade that brilHant discovery. In 
 order to obtain the full benefit of it, ^should be pronounced tro. 
 
THE MISANTHROPE. l7 
 
 But soon he found that wedded hfe 
 
 Could not unmingled bhss aftbrd, 
 For the behaviour of his wife 
 
 Displeased her loving lord. 
 
 Firmly (he deemed it far from right) 
 
 Did she refuse to black his boots, 
 To sit up for him late each night, 
 
 Or make his tourist-suits. 
 
 '' Thus," murmured he, " do swine use pearls ; 
 
 I should have married a princess, 
 Or ' daughter of a hundred earls,' 
 
 Or duchess — nothing less ! " 
 
 He once had friends, but when they said, 
 
 "You overrate your consequence ; 
 Expect too much ! " — he cut them dead.. 
 
 It gave hin\ such offence. 
 
 He placed som.e hundreds in a bank, 
 Though warned the " spec" was not the best ; 
 
 It failed, and actually sank 
 H/s money with the rest. 
 
 c 
 
iS SONGS OF SINGULARITY. 
 
 He plunged extensively in trade, 
 But gave it up in discontent, 
 
 So small the profits that he made. 
 Scarce thirty-five per cent. 
 
 Canst wonder that his heart was seared ? 
 
 That bitterness consumed his soul? 
 And that to him mankind appeared 
 
 Disgusting, on the whole ? 
 
 " Ungrateful world ! from thee I'll fly," 
 He cried in misanthropic rage ; 
 
 " And hid from man's detested eye, 
 I'll fix my hermitage ! " 
 
 So there he drags his blighted days, 
 With woe in heart, and scowl on brow, 
 
 And all those most eccentric ways 
 Whereof I've told you now. 
 
 No, ne'er was there a misanthrope 
 
 More strange than that one on the hill ; 
 
 And most devoutly do I hope 
 There never, never will ! 
 
19 
 A KNIGHT OF MISERY. 
 
 Why seem'd he ill at ease ? 
 Such dazzling throngs, such scenes of 
 light, 
 Could scarcely fail to please. 
 With lordly step he trod the stage, 
 Each action gained applause, 
 The audience proved him "quite the rage;" 
 
 What was the hidden cause 
 That thus disturbed his mental rest ? 
 
 Oh ! reader, I implore, 
 Lock, lock the secret in your breast, 
 
 'Twas ne'er revealed before. 
 Know, then, that when that touching scene 
 
 Had reach'd it's tenderest pitch, 
 When all was pathos, calm, serene. 
 
 His nose began to itch. 
 'Twas sad, but so it came to pass, 
 
 The knight might chafe and frown, 
 But could not reach it, for, alas ! 
 
 He wore his vizor down. 
 
 c: 2 
 
20 
 
 LINES TO A CROCODILE. 
 ADDRESSED FROM A RESPECTFUL DISTANCE. 
 
 *»'Tis distance lends enchantment to the \nc\\'."— Bard of Hope. 
 
 Q CROCODILE ! 
 
 Reposing on the mud-bed of the Nile, 
 How bright the sun upon thine armour glints, 
 Lending thy scales a thousand rainbow tints 
 
LINES TO A CROCODILE. 21 
 
 How graceful are the movements of thy tail ! 
 What strength 's embodied in thy coat of mail 1 
 What lines of beauty in thy shape combine ! 
 (More so, I fear, than any lines of mine). 
 In fancy let me gaze on thee awhile, 
 Thou brilliant Crocodile ! 
 
 Crocodile ! 
 
 Let others call thee vile, 
 A horrid monster with devouring maw ; 
 Thine aspect in the flesh I never saw. 
 Thou art the dread of travellers and blacks, 
 But here at home, quite safe from thy attacks, 
 
 1 at my ease thy merits can espy, 
 
 With fearless calmness and unbiassed eye, 
 And even greet thee with a friendly smile, 
 O gentle Crocodile ! 
 
 Yet, Crocodile, 
 
 Thou master of all treachery and wile ; 
 
 As copious as Niobe's thy tears. 
 
 As sad thy wails, which, reaching to his ears. 
 
 Some poor unwary nigger, young and fat, 
 
 Draws near to aid, he thinks, some drowning brat. 
 
22 SONGS OF SIXGULARITY. 
 
 Then out thou fliest, and grabbest at his feet, 
 And in a trice he's munched to sausage-meat. 
 How can'st thou be so full of greed and guile, 
 Remorseless Crocodile ! 
 
 Now, Crocodile ! 
 
 After thy meal thou liest immobile, 
 Seeking at once digestion and repose. 
 Whilst on thy form the tropic noon-day glows ; 
 Thou art as gently still, as sweetly calm. 
 As the scarce-waving leafage of the palm ; 
 Thou liest log-like, and thy spirit seems 
 Deep sunk in blissful philosophic dreams. 
 An owlish wisdom's in thy blinking eyes ; 
 What art thou thinking of, O monster wise ? 
 Perchance thou know'st the sources of the Nile, 
 O sapient Crocodile ! 
 
 O Crocodile ! 
 
 In days of old a massive regal pile, 
 
 Pharaoh's palace, :;tood where thou art lying ; 
 
 Around was seen the sacred Ibis flying, 
 
 While priests and princes, in the pomp of state, 
 
 Entered and issued from the monarch's gate ; 
 
 And o'er the landscape — viewed with awe, methinks- 
 
LINES TO A CROCODILE. 23 
 
 Frowned the gigantic image of the Sphinx ; 
 
 And later on, in Egypt's proudest hour, 
 
 That ruler great by Beauty's despot power, 
 
 The Kleopatra, glode o'er Nilus' breast 
 
 In golden galley, past thy place of rest ; 
 
 To sights of thee, upon thy native waste, 
 
 The fable of the dragon can be traced ; 
 
 Yet he, with all his mighty reach of claw, 
 
 His whalc»-hke size, and crushing strength of jaw, 
 
 Was scarce more terrible an animile 
 
 Than thou, O Crocodile 1 
 
 Yes, Crocodile ! 
 I am too old a file 
 
 To journey where Egyptian sunlights blaze, 
 And on thy beauties personally gaze ; 
 I would not venture to the sunny South, 
 Within the range of thy well-furnished mouth • 
 No ! I prefer between ns to protect 
 That distance so conducive to respect. 
 When late a friend of mine, a traveller bold. 
 Of Bakeresque or Livingstonian mould. 
 Asked, "Will you take a trip upon the Nile .'*" 
 I said—" Not yet awhile ! " 
 
24 
 
 MORN IN SrRING. 
 
 BY AN OUT-PATIENT OF HANIVELL* 
 " A mad world, my masters !" — Middleton. 
 
 RIGHTLY and sweetly the thunderbolt 
 rolling, 
 Spreads o'er the meadows ^he heat of the 
 sun ; 
 The lambs, on the green smiling earth cara- 
 coling, 
 Rejoice o'er the deeds that their parents 
 have done. 
 
 The daisies are out, and the skylark soars near them, 
 And pecks at the blossoms that cover the thorn ; 
 
 The raven and crane — oh ! what mortal can hear them. 
 And still say, " Mankind was created to mourn"? 
 
 * Slowly recovering. 
 
MORN IN SPRING. 2$ ] 
 
 The owl, 'mid the leaves of the gay pelargonium, 1 
 
 Pours forth to the woodlands his dulcetest lay ; •. 
 
 The chough and the crow imitate the hannonium, ; 
 
 Proclaiming, that no7^ 'tis their opening day. i 
 
 Afar in the distance the tempest is howling, ' j 
 
 But near there is nothing but calmness and light ; < 
 
 The wolf, on the edge of the precipice growling, \ 
 
 Feels hope in his bosom rise blissful and bright. ] 
 
 What poet can gaze on yon cluster of pansies, I 
 
 That pimple like day-stars the face of the sky, I 
 
 Nor feel that, entranced by such beautiful fancies, J 
 
 'Tis joyful to live, and ecstatic to die? \ 
 
 And yet there are those to whom Nature's pure pleasures ] 
 
 Are llat as this beer which the potman has brought : 5 
 
 But let us enjoy life's ethereal treasures, ' 
 
 And pick out the plums from the Pudding of Thought ! I 
 
26 
 
 (( 
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF NATURE. 
 
 *' Beauty when unadorned, adorned the most." 
 
 T T E loves me not," she sighing said ; 
 " He cannot say I am not kind; 
 It must be that my hue of head 
 
 Is not exactly to his mind; 
 It must be that my skin's too fair, 
 
 My eyes of too insipid blue, 
 And that he don't like hazel hair ; 
 
 And so, to prove I 'm fond and true, 
 Let art my poor defects supply. 
 For his dear sake I 've sworn to dye ! " 
 
 She did ; she soaked her tresses 
 brown 
 In patent fluid black as jet. 
 To candle-straightness smoothed 
 them down, 
 And stained herself a deep 
 brunette ; 
 Her eyes with//67/;z^round thelid 
 In Oriental langour drooped ; 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF NATURE. 
 
 27 
 
 Her dress, as taste or "keeping" bids, 
 
 Was dark and rich, and widely hooped ; 
 And yet he past indifferent by. 
 She wept : " For him once more Pll dye/" 
 
 This time she aimed at being 
 blonde 
 As any Saxon dame of old ; 
 She powdered, rouged, her hair, 
 too, donned 
 The sheen of Auricomous gold ; 
 She curled it to the very roots, 
 Most dazzling to the raptured 
 sight ; 
 And dressed herself, from hat to boots, 
 
 In heavenly blue and angel white : 
 Yet he with coldness turned aside, 
 Though twice for him this maid had dyed. 
 
 In wild despair she rushed away, 
 And doffed her artificial charms ; 
 
 And when he came again next day 
 He took her fondlv to his arms. 
 
28 
 
 SONGS OF SINGULARITY. 
 
 With trembling joy and fond reproof, 
 Her tale she told, her grief expressed ; 
 
 He said, '' For this I kept aloof, — 
 I like thy natural aspect best; 
 
 No change so charms my heart and eye, 
 
 And so with thee I'll Hve and die ! " 
 
29 
 
 THE POET'S REASON FOR HIS MANNER OF 
 WRITING. 
 
 t<|fT^S strange, the flighty vapours of my brain 
 
 '^^ ■• »' Will flow to rhymes that fall as thick as rain. 
 
 
 ^^^ 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 wmds, or give to Chaos form. 
 
?p 
 
 THE HAVEN OF LIFE'S AUTUMN. 
 
 " Four seasons fill the measure of the year; 
 
 There are four seasons in the mind of man."— Keats. 
 
 '^RE 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. 3I 
 
 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 heavi7ig wave."— Byron. 
 
 0-MORROW I'm off to that Orient 
 
 clime, 
 Where all is rom-antic, 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 iragrant 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 tv/eed 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-Hke 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, Dudti and Gulnare, 
 Shall I really behold thee?— What heavenly bliss ! 
 I've longed all my life for a pleasure ike 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 I") 
 
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 
 
35 
 
 A LAMENT FOR DEPARTED GREATNESS. 
 
 BY YE BARDE OF KE.VTYSS/I E TOWNE. 
 "What a falliiijT off was there."— II aiuiei. 
 
 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 — cric?s 
 " 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. 
 
 rv o. 
 
36 SONGS OF LINGULARITV. 
 
 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, 
 Tlieir 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 eaHh'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! "—SnAKEsrEAKE 
 
 |n/% HERE is a phrase we oft have seen 
 On bottle-labels writ, 
 And those who invalids have been 
 
 Lest know the drift of it ; 
 It niay embody in a line 
 A world of chemic lore, 
 And skill to portion and combine — 
 " Tlic mixture as before.'" 
 
 This Avill 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 sloin 
 
 In many a pool of gore ; 
 Queen Mary parts with us again — - 
 
 *^' The mixtiD'e as bcforeP 
 
 The greatest genius will repeat, 
 
 Though vast resource it owns ; 
 Our very Shakespeare's woodnotcs sweet 
 
 Oft sound like monotones. 
 That most prolific child of art, 
 
 By some called " Gustayve Dor'," 
 Oft to the canvas doth impart — ■ 
 
 " The 7nixtu7'e 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, 
 
40 SONGS OF SINGULARITY. 
 
 And sameness leads to weariness — 
 That " mixture 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 clay, 
 With spirit formed to soar : 
 
 Of each new infant we may say — 
 " The mixture as before P^ 
 
41 
 
 THE TIGHT FIT. 
 
 A REMINISCENCE OF SIR WALTER. 
 'And still his brows the helmet pressed."— Z^jv of the Last I\Ii7istreL 
 
 EN E'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, 
 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 anly Scott can tell; 
 The line I quote below impressed 
 My feelings more than all th^ 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 un warlike caput ache, 
 
 ' This poetical license with regard to the accent has been so frequently used 
 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 hehnet pressed. 
 
 Why pinched that casque? Methinks I 'II 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 reheve. 
 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 hfe had cast a gloom. 
 The hehnet 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 me list not to 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. 
 
 Dut 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. 
 
TANGLED THOUGHTS. 
 
 £V AN IN MA TE OF COLNEY HA TCIL* 
 Full of sound and fury, signifying — --." — Shaicespeakk. 
 
 T 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 thin^ 
 That in the East 
 A monarch's feast 
 
 Hopelessly incurable. 
 
SONGS OF SINGULARITY. 
 
 Is never quite complete without a psalm ; 
 Yet when the Persians serenade their kin^ 
 
 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 ihunder-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. 
 
A VISION OF TERROR. 
 
 *• From dreams, where Tlioiight in Fancy's maze runs mad. 
 Once more I wake." — Young. 
 
 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 1 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 TF.RROR. 5 1 
 
 Growled at his effigies by Lanclseer 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, 
 
$2 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 to find it alia Dream! 
 
53 
 
 MY MADELINE. 
 
 SERENADE IN M. FLAT. 
 Sung by Major Maimaduke Muttonhead, to Mademoiselle Madeline M^ndora, 
 
 Y Madeline! — my Madeline! 
 Mark my melodious midnight 
 moans ; 
 Much may my melting music 
 mean, 
 My modulated monotones. 
 
 My mandolin's mild minstrels^', 
 My mental music magazine, 
 My mouth, my mind, my memory, 
 Must minc2ling 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, 
 Madoniia inia /—\ny Madehne. 
 
55 
 
 THE LONG GONG SONG; OR, THE PERSISTENT 
 MINSTREL. 
 
 **It haur^s 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:' 
 And so he sang a Tartar song, 
 ~>f-< . 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 abound, 
 He played three-quarters of an hour ; 
 
 And then I cried — " Break off your song, 
 And silence that atrocious gong ! " 
 
,56 oONGS 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. 
 
 £V A VIGOROUS VELOCI PEDESTRIAN. 
 
 ' I go, I go ; look how I go, 
 Swifter than arrow from the Tartar's bow."— RoBiN Goodfeliow. 
 
 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 .!" 
 T^,^,^^^^<t5^'^ I cried. 
 
 " By Jove ! I too will /;j-cycle ; 
 And when like him I've learnt to ride, 
 
 Why, then, Til also <^z/y-cycle." 
 
 That very day I made a start, 
 
 First practising the tricycle, 
 Then soaring to that nobler art, 
 
 The riding of the bicycle. 
 
gS 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 ! "— Richakd 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 miore 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. 6 1 
 
 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 hquor 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 tPiat 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-Hghted blaze, 
 
 Whostjlanies were in Wmdiing-S hceis. 
 
A FASCINATING MONSTER. 6^ 
 
 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 fiom me the pensive strain that flows, 
 Congenial to this consecrated gloom."— Mason. 
 
 LOVE to stand be- 
 neath the moss- 
 green'd wall 
 '<^ Ofthat old chapel on 
 the abbey ground. 
 When all is calm, and 
 on my 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 regretxul sees 
 
 Its modern parts; some idols thus display 
 Heads of pure gold, but spoilt by feet oi' 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 fiU'd 
 
 The graven letters with a velvet pile ; 
 And Time's stern hand, in all destruction skill'd, 
 
 Plas 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 beauty 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 other 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, 
 liul 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 bhss as it may find; 
 Yet all intense!" 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 thou^'^ht 
 When other, brighter lands it would have sought, 
 
 And ebb it back to this prosaic world ! 
 
 F 2 
 
63 
 
 THE YOUNG GAZELLE. 
 
 A MOORE-ISH TALE. 
 
 'The antelope, whose feet shall bless, 
 With their light sound thy loneliness." — Light of the Harem, 
 
 
 N earlyyoLith, 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 " you 
 
 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 sort black eye," 
 
 So soft, so liquid, that a spell 
 
 Seems in that oem-like orb to lie. 
 
THE YOUNG GAZELLE. -69 
 
 Years, childhood passed — youth fled away, 
 
 My vain desire I'd learn'd to quel], 
 Till came that most auspicious day, 
 
 When some one gave me a gazelle. 
 
 With care, and trouble, and expense, 
 
 'Twas brought from Afric'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 Sehm, to express 
 
 The mark'd s{e)lzm-nt<s.'5, of his form. 
 
 The little creature grew so tame, 
 
 He " learn'd to know (the neighbours) well ;" 
 And then the ladies, when they came. 
 
 Oh ! 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 YOUNG 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 and 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. 
 
SONGS OF SINGULARITY, 
 
 He trespass'd on the neighbours' ground, 
 And broke two costly melon-frames, 
 
 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; 
 
 Lut '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. 
 
 1 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 YOUNG GAZELx^E. 73 
 
 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. 
 
 ^^ " ''"^MPRISON'D in this dungeon 
 dark and drear, 
 O, freedom ! thou to me art 
 bui * dream, 
 A blissful dream, but one that 
 cannot cheer 
 With consolation's balm, or 
 hope's bright beam, 
 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. 75 
 
 Would that my arms were bound, if in exchans^e, 
 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 ! that 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 seeking from on high their best relief; 
 
 Do this, my heart, and close the springs of grief. 
 
BOTANICAL RESEARCHES. 
 
 THRT END;S 
 
 SHAKESPEARE: 
 
 * A primrose by the river's brim, 
 A rhododciidyort was to him." — WoRDSWORTH ?). 
 
 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 
 Somethin'^ of all the flowers that ^rrow. 
 
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 hollyhoc!:; 
 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 Icnow 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 
 
 Whos^ meanings we must not confound. 
 
 Thus, CostaJs 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 I'ash on 
 
 Your part to think apphes 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 stif^ma 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 ramentaceous. 
 Great is the use of sap and fibre, 
 Alburnum, cambium, and liber; 
 Stems, you must know, constructed are 
 Of hviVL^XQS Jib}-o-vasciila7^j 
 Leaves spring from stipules with crenelles, 
 Seeds grow within organic cells ; 
 And then there 2i.\-Qfasda(h, 
 And coradum and nuclei^ 
 
8o 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 pedicel ? 
 
 Explain the uses and the acts 
 
 Oi phyliaric's, pediuiclcs, bracts f 
 
 Demonstrate how is SILI(^)U0SA 
 
 Distinguished from siliculosa; 
 
 Canst tell a Tuber from a Corm ? 
 
 What means infiindibuUforni ? 
 
 When is a leaf called miiltifid? 
 
 And then, what is an oophorid ? 
 
 And antherids of lycopods ? 
 
 Thou canst not tell, I'll take some odds- 
 
BOTANICAL RESEARCHES. 8 1 
 
 / 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 gamopetalous 
 
 Have calyces all gamosepalous ; 
 
 Some apocarpi are utriculous, 
 
 The many-sided ones, folliculous ; 
 
 Some ovules in their shape are globous, 
 
 As in the Tetragonolobtis; 
 
 Sesteria are stoloniferous. 
 
 And sphenogynia are piliferous; 
 
 MiCHAUXiA 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 — 
 
 Anniciilaie and sagittate, 
 
 % 
 
BOTANICAL RESEARCHES. 83 
 
 Dolabriform^ la7iceoIate^ 
 
 FlabcIUforvi and pectinate^ 
 
 07'biculate 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, 2iYi6. sheath, diTidi petiole, 
 
 Whoi'l, culm, corp2tscle, vesicle, 
 
 U7nbel, spathella, 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 viimitia; 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 tolc — 
 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 g'reater from the less ; 
 
 Some groups of plants well known to us 
 
 Are Monocotyledonous, 
 
 Z?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. 85 
 
 To POLYGAMIA, DIDYNAMIA, 
 And, last of all, to CRYPTOGAMIA, 
 Of course f 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 Linnseus 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 Galanthus^ 
 
S6 SONGS OF SINGULARITY. 
 
 The little speedwell, gentle Reader, is 
 
 To be Veronica chavicEdrys^ 
 
 The scarlet poppy 's known to me as 
 
 A Monogyne — Papaver 7'hceas, 
 
 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 Clieiranthus chciri. 
 
 When you with groundsel feed canaries^ 
 
 Call it Seiiecio 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. 
 
S7 
 
 THE KNIGHT'S RETURN. 
 
 SUMMER morning has just 
 
 begun 
 To own the sway of the kingly 
 
 Who, casting the courtier clouds 
 
 aside 
 That dare to stand in his path 
 
 of pride, 
 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 m.orning their musical vows, 
 And messenger breezes the perfumes are bearingj 
 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 iTiail returns the blaze 
 Of Phoebus'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. 
 
 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 pHes 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, 
 
90 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 ! 
 
91 
 
 BY THE GLAD SEA WAVES. 
 
 AN IDYLL. 
 *' O, gai ! "— French exclajnatiori. of delight. 
 
 E stood on his head on the 
 ''' '-— wild sea-shore, 
 
 7f ^fe^^=T And joy was the cause of the 
 act, 
 For he felt as he never had felt 
 before, 
 7-.;-. «a~z i- 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 hfe, 
 Which he never had known as yet, 
 
 'Tis true that he still possessed a wife, 
 And was not qicite 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'd from view. 
 Then up he leapt on a chalky ledge, 
 
 And danced like a kangaroo. 
 
 And many and many a joy some 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. — Fkiinch 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. 
 They '11 fail, do whatever we may. 
 
DOING AS WE CAN. 95 
 
 Whatever may be our condition 
 
 Tlirough 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. 
 
gS 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. 
 
S7 
 
 ^^^U^^ 
 
 A PATH Eric PASTORAL, 
 
 " Too blight and good 
 For 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 muster'd strong, 
 
98 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, 
 
 II er 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. 99 
 
 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, 7iever, NEVER talk'd of love ! 
 
 Thus passed the peaceful time. Anon arrived 
 
 A stranger in that rural wilderness, 
 
 H 2 
 
lOO 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 'f his tinder heart were not 
 Lit by a spark from Emmelinda's charms ? 
 
 Perchance she loved him too, for oft a match 
 ^ .^arnt by flames itself has caused to catch. 
 
A PATHETIC PASTORAL. lOI 
 
 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 ? 
 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 Corydamon'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 oivn^ 
 
I02 SONGS OF Sr.IGULARITY. 
 
 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 heave 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 I 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 PASTQRAL. 
 
 I03 
 
 Go ; wed 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 ! " 
 
I04 SOISGS OF SINGULARITY. 
 
 JNo 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. 
 
 if ***** * 
 
 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 /urk, 
 
 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 ! 
 
 W^hat grief were spared, what anguish nipt in bud, 
 
A PATHETIC PASTORAL. I05 
 
 And Emmelinda 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 cluster'd 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." 
 
lo6 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' I 
 
I07 
 
 THE MANIACS LAST. 
 
 Oh ! dye me green ; 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 theu 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 I'll die, 
 Good-bye ! good-bye ! 
 You '11 see me fly 
 Athwart the sky, 
 With flashing eye, 
 Good-bye ! ! Good-bye ! ! ! 
 
io3 
 
 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 pandc^ans 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 
 
 Nor 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 I 
 
no 
 
 ¥e ILrsentie of £it #unj)bere; or, of OTorage. 
 
 A "DARKE CONCEITE," AFTER SPENSER. 
 
 Sir Gullyvere ye Lions twaine, 
 
 Doth meete in contest toughe, 
 A tysere and a snake alsoe, 
 
 He soon iiath foes y-noughe. 
 
 5l23hcnas 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 Gould be heard for twentie leagues around. 
 
 i-ftsoones, 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. 
 
 ^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 phed his leggcs strong, 
 
 And quasht with iron heele its loathsome tayle, 
 
 Ye while his other limbes his other foes assaile. 
 
112 
 
 SONGS OF SINGULARITY. 
 
 ©nee 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 
 
 We wrothfull creatures, spying his escape. 
 
 Made after him attonce wif^ vengesome spcede, 
 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 Oueene, 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 ! 
 
113 
 
 ODE ON OCEAN. 
 
 OSSIANIC OUTBURST IN O NATURAL. 
 
 Bv Orpheus Ogden, 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 I 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 oftsprings outshine 
 
 Ovid or Ossian's obsolete orations ! 
 
114 
 
 SPOONIANA. 
 
 "Love me little, love me long." — Antique Ditty. 
 
 He saw her form reflected in a spoon, 
 ^ Which made her blithe and beauteous visage spread 
 To breadth and roundness hke 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 ^yhat 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 loiig.^^ 
 
11- 
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 ^^i:^^-'^'^^'%:_^^i^^' is not always bright, nor 
 Night obscure, 
 In the seen world, or in the 
 viewless soul ; 
 One night — and not when stars 
 shone clear and pure, 
 "ailiS'^^'S'^^ij^^^ -j/S^^ ^ But when dense clouds athwart 
 the skies did roll, 
 And pall-like darkness spread from pole to pole — 
 I lay me down, ni)- heart all full of hope, 
 
 Replete with present and expected bliss, 
 Warm'd by an inner sun whose lucid scope 
 
 Show'd happiness in store, more great than this, 
 
 1 2 
 
m6 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, 
 I\Ien visit Death, — donning his outward guise, 
 
 To do him homage in his own domain ; 
 Whcrefrom, 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 expressed, 
 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, 
 ««c>r cxu-ml ^^^^ soothed the ear, or charm'd the bight 
 
NIGHT AND MORNING. II7 
 
 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 I 
 
Ii3 
 
 A MODERN CRICHTON; 
 AXD FRIENDSHIP'S I A ME NT FOR HIS LOSS. 
 
 "I shall not look upon his like again." — Hamlet. 
 
 ND have I lost thee?— art 
 thou gone for ever? 
 
 If so, my future hfe I shall 
 abhor ; 
 Can all the world produce 
 thine equal? — Never I 
 Who dares to stand as thy 
 competitor? 
 wise and crood, and iDcautiful and clever, 
 
 O, 
 
 Tom Dolamore! 
 
A MODERN CRICHTON-. II9 
 
 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. 121 
 
 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 ! 
 
122 SONCxS 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, oi other ^ame things. 
 Thou at one shot couldst bring down three or four ; 
 
 Oxford and Cambridge both were beat like /ame things,. 
 When on the river t/i02f didst ply the oar ; 
 
 And in all pastimes thou couldst do the same things, 
 
 Tom Dolamore! 
 
A MODERN CklCHTON. 123 
 
 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, 
 
 JNIy 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 XX 11.) 
 
 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, 
 ^ A^x 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 tetcs-a-tetes in twilight hours, 
 And billets-do7ix 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 I 
 
 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 EARD. 12/ 
 
 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 stern, 
 
 Pallas, or Mars, will rise and say 
 
 *' To love thou may'st not tune thy lay !" 
 
 Farewell, then, ye delicious themes, 
 
 Tho' ye may occupy my dreams. 
 
 And make my waking hours more sweet, 
 
 I ne'er am fated to repeat 
 
 Your promptings on my loveless lyre, 
 
 It must be warm'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, I'll sing thy praises, 
 
 In songs of blood and sighs of blazes ! 
 
128 
 
 THE WILD WARRIOR. 
 A LAY OP MARTIAL ARDOUR. 
 
 / 1\ I ■ 
 
 ' In 
 
 I. 
 
 \ H ! let me like a slaughter'd 
 *=oldier fall, 
 death's convulsive fits ; 
 \S) I hunger for the shell or 
 
 >i cannon-ball, 
 '.--^ To blow me into bits ! 
 g^^ I thirst for glory, fame ; a 
 million lives 
 I'd take without remorse, 
 ^p And luckv's every foeman 
 
 that survives — 
 My bleeding corse* 
 
 n. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 mei;, 
 
 / 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 deligltts 
 
 Of well-earn'd spoils^ 
 
 K 
 
130 SONGS OF SINGULARITY. 
 
 0, \vhat ecstatic 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 ! 
 
^31 
 
 A MORNING SKETCH. 
 
 'And this is England, bathed in morning's glow." — Monigomery. 
 
 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. 
 
 K. 2 
 
 1 
 
SONGS Ot SIKGULARITY. 
 
 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 
 With living 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 ot 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 arc 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 Sn-'GULARITY. 
 
 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. 
 
POWER WITHOUT ENERGY. 
 
 .^5^3 
 
 State, 
 When, gorged and wearied in 
 
 his darksome den, 
 He lets thechain of Sleep, with 
 
 clogging weight, 
 Link round his frame — no lion 
 
 is he then, 
 But a mere heap of matter— sr 
 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 smother'd 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 
 
 ^B (Clrrfo Df 11^ Wtlljm. 
 
 9 ©tiaucerlan fragment 
 
 E Qtinkt tijer teas, a puissant toigijt teas Jee, 
 ^li^ijo of ))e ^IHeti^ere Jatitie pe maisterte ; 
 ^Itoai) It b3as Ijisi mirt!)e anti ^is jjolace 
 f:o put ecije sescn'ss toetfiere out of place* 
 
 ^IHfjanne tjat ^prille gljoureis toec our tie^grr, 
 ?ge gaf us i^ulge sonnes as Jottc as fjjre ; 
 i3utsitf) pe summers togges toetionneo agayne, 
 iSftsoons ge toetf)ere cjauugeti to roltie anti rajme. 
 
 ^ISao teas t5at pilgnmme Mjo fareti fortf) a^^foote, 
 ^ISaitljout ane gpngfjam tfjat jjim list uppc-putte, 
 ^nti gif no ittacfeji)ntosc5es eke Jatitie Jee, 
 B parlous state tfjat b3tgt)t fiefelle— partrfe ! 
 
 ^Wiz torst not gif it nerte Sen eolte or fjotte, 
 (ttogsbDoaintis t^e fiartie a gretosomeeoltie Jatf) gottr ! 
 (jfTmes, tSat OTlerke ^s ane migl)tie man bitjallr, 
 Hft non tion f^im offence, lest ille tefalle. 
 
I^' 
 
 FUROR POETICUS;OR,THE BARD SURCHARGED. 
 
 H ! I am bursting with poetic fire, 
 A raging Etna flames within my 
 breast, 
 And 1 must write at once, or shall 
 expire, 
 
 Crush'd by the weight of thought 
 upon me press'd ! 
 
 A thousand Shakespeares melted into 
 one, 
 
 A million Homers to a drop distill'd, 
 
 A billion Byrons focuss'd to a sun, * 
 
 Would not outshine the soul wherewith I'm fill'd ! 
 
 My poet's eye in finest frenzy rolls, 
 To highest heaven, then down to lowest earth, 
 
 Sweeps the Equator, reaches to the Poles, 
 And in a glance sums up Creation's worthy 
 
FUROR POETICUS ; OR, TKt BARD SURCHARGED. 
 
 My spirit pierces all things through and through ; 
 
 I'm link'd to Nature with so close a bond, 
 She, sympathising, shares in all I do. 
 
 Laughs when I smile, and weeps when I despond * 
 
 Give me the heavens' expansion for my scroll, 
 The boundless ocean for my pot of ink, 
 
 My rhythmic raptures shall exhaust the whole, 
 And then will scarce express one half I think ! 
 
 Stand back, ye common mortals ! be not rash ! 
 
 I am inspired — surcharged — with danger fraught, 
 Poetic lightnings from my eyeballs flash, 
 
 One glance of mine might shrivel ye to nought. 
 
 O, heaven ! O, earth ! the stars, the sun, the sky ! 
 
 O, fire and water ! time and boundless space ! 
 O, universe ! O, firmament on high ! 
 
 O, angels ! demons ! O, ye human race ! 
 I'll stretch my longing arms to draw you nigh, 
 
 And clasp ye all in one wide, wild embrace ! 
 
139 
 
 AN EVENING VISION. 
 
 "the whole might seem 
 
 The scenery of a fairy dream." — Wcott. 
 
 HE infant wind, just waked 
 from slumbers light, 
 Moves through the leafage 
 with so faint a stir, 
 'Tis all but stillness both to ear 
 '}'^r^^ and sight. 
 
 As thus, with Thought and 
 Nature to confer, 
 'Neath the elm-portico I pause awhile 
 Of this tree-cluster's lofty-column'd pile. 
 Whose upper tenants are the skyey race, 
 Whilst earthlier Man finds shelter in the base. 
 
 Eastward the coming night may mount the skies, 
 Darkening their slaty hue with every stride ; 
 
 I mark it not, but westward keep mine eyes. 
 Fast on the sumptuous couch of regal pride. 
 
I40 SONGS OF SINGULARITY. 
 
 Whereon the sun, replete and worn with glory, 
 And toil of spreading empire far and wide, 
 
 Sinks like some warrior-king renowned in story, 
 Leaving a milder sway his realms to guide, 
 And give that peace his restless rule denied. 
 
 Yon lonely pool is crimson'd with the tints 
 
 Caught from the clouds that look upon the sun, 
 Ripples as light and changeful as the prints 
 
 Of fairy feet, athwart its surface nm ; 
 I love the place, and at this silent hour 
 
 It is most beautiful ; my present mood 
 Invites the gentle, though resistless, power 
 
 Of Nature's loveliness in solitude. 
 
 Insensibly, unwittingly — for joy 
 
 That comes unsought-for hath the less alloy, 
 
 I let Imagination's hand undo 
 
 The ties that bind me to my earthly cafes. 
 Dimmer to actual beauties grows my view 
 
 But all it meets a higher beauty wears. 
 There are no clouds above, but isles of light, 
 
 With hills and dales, and palaces and towers. 
 Where summer lives, and day is always bright, 
 
 Night ne'er descends, and tempest never lowers. 
 
AN EVENING VISION. I41 
 
 The pool still rolls before me, but its tide 
 
 Is changed into a vast and radiant sea, 
 Superbly with the solar glories dyed, 
 
 To the horizon spreading wide and free ; 
 With light is life, for o'er its waters now » 
 
 A band of tiny elfins dance and flit, 
 Bright, butterfly-winged things, and all avow 
 
 The sway of her who in their midst doth sit, 
 Enthroned in golden galley, with its sail 
 
 Of gossamer ; — not Cleopatra's self 
 More beauty could have shown — yet on a scale 
 
 Proportioned to the mimic land of Elf. 
 
 What more than music in that song of theirs ! 
 
 The ear, the soul, are prisoners to its spell ; 
 Ilowe'er divine, all merely mortal airs 
 
 Are harsh in contrast, take the stringed stell, 
 yEolian harp, and nightingale, and sigh 
 
 From gentlest wind through brightest garden blowing, 
 And blend them in one rapturous melody, 
 
 Still such enchantment passes your bestowing. 
 
 Oh, I am spell-bound, I could gaze for ever, 
 And listen thus to all eternity ! 
 
142 SONGS OF SINGULARITY. 
 
 But there are powers can mock at Man's endeavour, 
 
 I am of earth, and it is not to be ; 
 
 There seems between that lovely scene and me, 
 Sudden to fall a thick and sombre veil, 
 
 Shutting out sight and sound, and elf and fay. 
 The music dwindles to a plaintive wail, 
 
 And the bright vision vanishes away ; 
 For those sun-clouds, whose magic caused it all. 
 
 Have fled with him who was the cause of ihciii^ 
 As courtiers oft will share their monarch's fall. 
 
 Or leaves will follow blossoms from the stem. 
 
 Now black-brow'd night its nearer presence hints. 
 
 And all that into indistinctness fades. 
 Proclaims the temporary death of tints. 
 
 And transient victory of the despot shades ; 
 Soon will the interregnum end, and fast 
 
 The Queen of Night be fixed upon her throne : 
 Ah, well ! such visions are too bright to last, 
 
 But while ii stay'd 'twas sweet, and all my own ! 
 
H3 
 
 A VAGUE STORY. 
 
 Perchance it was her eyes of blue, 
 
 Her cheeks that might the rose have shamed, 
 Her figure in proportion true 
 
 To all the rules by artists framed, 
 Perhaps it was her mental worth 
 
 That made her lover love her so, 
 Perhaps her name, or wealth, or birth, 
 
 I cannot tell — I do not know. 
 
 He may have had a rival, who 
 
 Did fiercely gage him to a duel, . 
 And being luckier of the two, 
 
 Defeated him with triumph cruel ; 
 Then she may have proved false, and turned 
 
 To welcome to her arms his foe, 
 Left him despairing, conquer'd, spurned, 
 
 I cannot tell — I do not know. 
 
144 
 
 SONGS OF SINGULARITY 
 
 So oft such woes will counteract 
 
 The thousand ecstasies of love, 
 That you may fix on base of fact 
 
 The story hinted at above, 
 But all on earth so doubtful is, 
 
 Man knows so little here below. 
 That if you ask for proof of this 
 
 I cannot tell— I do not know. 
 
 
?45 
 
 THE SLEEPLESS NIGHT. 
 
 •' O ! Cospetto ! 
 Maledetto ! 
 Non dormir', ma star' in letto !" 
 
 From " JMaldidcntL"—z. Tragedy. 
 
 T is a solemn thing, with 
 
 wakeful eyes. 
 Vigil to keep wnile all the 
 
 world is sleeping, 
 And in that state the 
 
 question will arise 
 Whether a vigil is a thing 
 
 worth keeping. 
 
 Three causes — Tooth- 
 ache, I ndigestion. Care, 
 Thereare to sleeplessness 
 that most conduce, 
 And on the helpless Hds a traction bear, 
 
 Which makes their closing not the slightest use. 
 
U6 . SONGS OF SINGULARITY. 
 
 Toothache— worst cause of all— that makes one's bed 
 Like to a torture-wheel, whereon the wretch 
 
 In vain for solace turns his weary head, 
 His agony is ever on the stretch. 
 
 And Indigestion gives a fever'd mouth — 
 
 A chest as though thereon some " Claimant " sat, 
 
 Which cause you, as you toss from north to south, 
 To wish you had not supp'd — at least on that. 
 
 While Care— whate'er its cause, and whether great 
 Or such as in day's hopefulness seem'd light, — 
 
 Is doubled in intensity and weight. 
 By the oppressive stillness of the night. 
 
 How slowly the church clock doles out the hours. 
 Quarters, and halves ! — as if it grudged to pay 
 
 E'en just demands ; while, with diminish'd powers, 
 Old laggard Time retards the welcome day. 
 
 And then, what sounds 'gainst slumber will combine I 
 Precocious cocks in darkness greet the morn, 
 
 Dogs bay the moon — although it may not shine, 
 And cats !— you wish they never had been bom. 
 
THE SLEEPLESS NIGHT, 147 
 
 Twere vain to try the hackney'd recipe 
 Of counting millions — though 'tis fair to try it. 
 
 When sleep's in such demand, so dear 'twill be, 
 Bidder could not bid high enough to buy it. 
 
 Do all you can, woo slumber as a maid. 
 
 Threaten, cajole, or cozen her, but still 
 If once determined to withhold her aid, 
 
 She's truly feminine in strength of will. 
 
 Yes, sad it is to lie awake ail night. 
 
 When mind and eye alike should calmly close. 
 
 So grant me, Somnus, to avoid this plight, 
 A twenty-dormouse-power of sound reposo. 
 
 L ^ 
 
148 
 
 PARANA. 
 
 POEM IN P. SHARP. 
 (Perpetrated by Prince Paul Popschlkoff, Polish Poet.) 
 
 ROUD Phoebus *pon Parana plays 
 
 Prismatic, plants purvey perfumes ; 
 Prim peacocks proffer pealing praise, 
 Poll-parrots prattle, prinking 
 plumes ; 
 Pink pouter-pigeons plaintive paeans 
 pipe, 
 ^g^ Pure Poesie's primaeval prototype. 
 
 Ton Pernambuco's palmy plain, 
 
 Past Paraguay— past proud Peru, 
 Producing peace — precluding pain, 
 
 Parana's purling paths pursue 
 Pellucid progress ; pampas penetrating, 
 Prolific provinces perambulating. 
 
 Parana ; placid paradise ! 
 
 Poor pilgrim, pause, partake, procure 
 Peace, passing princely power's price; 
 
 Pleasure, perennial, perfect, pure ! 
 
149 
 
 THE UNPRINTED ONE : A WAIL OF TEARS. 
 
 All men nave woes, afflictions dire 
 
 Will torture every heart, 
 But those who hopelessly aspire 
 
 Feel sorrow's deepest smart ; 
 Say, wouldst thou know why life to me 
 
 Assumes no rosy tint ? 
 These fearful words will answer thee — 
 
 I can't get into print ! 
 
I50 SONGS OF SINGULARITY. 
 
 I've written stanzas, cantos, reams, 
 
 In every rhyme and style, 
 From grand, sublime, Miltonic themes, 
 
 To slang and humour vile ; 
 The teeming coinage of my brain 
 
 Has proved it quite a mint 
 Of golden thoughts ; but all in vain — 
 
 I can't get into print ! 
 
 Vve written pamphlets, thick and thin, 
 
 On topics of the age. 
 And — ah ! how oft ! — have sought to wia 
 
 My way upon the stage ; 
 Plays, farces, operas, tragedies, 
 
 Without a bound or stint. 
 But each, forlorn, neglected lies. 
 
 Nor acted, nor in print. 
 
 IVe written " three vol." novels, too, 
 The true Braddonian kind. 
 
 Or milder ones, in which you'd view 
 " Word painting " most refined ; 
 
THE UNPRINTED ONE; A WAIL OF TEARS. 15I 
 
 But, ah ! the tyrants of the Press 
 
 Shrug down my slightest hint, 
 When I unfold my deep distress, 
 
 And still I'm not in print ! 
 
 Well, cease regrets ! — no more I'll stx've 
 
 For fame through printers' ink ; 
 My hopes, so long sustain'd alive, 
 
 Must now for ever sink ; 
 And when I lie beneath the stone, 
 
 Let skilful chisel dint 
 For epitaph, these words alone— 
 
 " He never was in print " 
 
152 
 
 A REFLECTION. 
 
 (thermometer So° FAHRENHEIT.) 
 
 The heat that has, this summer time, 
 Such melting moments made — 
 
 (But, there ! — how ca7i a fellow rhyme^ 
 With eighty in the shade ? ) 
 
 Ye gods ! it makes the bard desire 
 
 That he in ice be laid; 
 Far, far too much poetic fire 
 
 Is eighty in the shade. 
 
 Shut out the sunhght's scorching smile, 
 
 Call in the Punkah's aid, 
 Here will I lie, and stir not, while 
 
 'Tis eighty in the shade. 
 
 A clime so torrid has begun 
 
 Our island to invade, 
 Not worse than England in the sun 
 
 Is Hayti in the shade ! 
 
153 
 
 A BLIGHTED LIFE. 
 
 always in the gloomy cell 
 
 Of life-consuming sorrow dwell."— Langhokne. 
 
 No touch of love, no sympathetic glow, 
 No careless, social hours, no golden gleams 
 From Hope's bright kingdom of dehcious dreams ; 
 To think and think, and ever circle back, 
 Fix'd in one dark, confined, and cheerless track 
 Upon whose bounds no gladness can encroach, 
 A changeless atmosphere of self-reproach ; 
 To yield no bud of joy but on it lies 
 Some worm, however small, that never dies ; 
 To view man's pleasures with diversive pain. 
 Ranging from envy's height to deep disdain. 
 The world relinquishing, ere knowing aught 
 Thereof by knowledge practically bought. 
 
154 SONGS OF SINGULARITY. 
 
 And warp'd in spirit so, as most to mark 
 
 The words of those who paint it wholly dark, — 
 
 Such is my lot, and such 'twill ever be 
 
 For 'tis too late for change to come to me ; 
 
 Sear'd to the core, all grief is here comprised, 
 
 And sorrow in my heart seems crystallized ; 
 
 'Tis Hke a prison, on whose cheerless walls 
 
 The vivifying sunlight never falls, 
 
 Save by some fitful gleam, so weak and thin, 
 
 The gloom absorbs it ere it enters in. 
 
 Yet I had thoughts *twas pleasure to express, 
 
 And capabilities of happiness, 
 
 And usefulness, and good and lofty aims. 
 
 Concurrent with the world and all it claims ; 
 
 I had — nor deem'd such feeling could depart — 
 
 The welfare of the human race at heart ; 
 
 All these have fled — they vanish'd with life's morn. 
 
 By darker influences overborne. 
 
 'Tis maddening now to view that fairy scene, 
 
 The phantom prospect of what might have been, 
 
 To mark the flowers that others' paths bedeck. 
 
 Then see my own — a desert strewn with wreck ! 
 
A BLIGHTED LIFE. 155 
 
 Bitter my words, yet none to wound they seek— 
 In sorrow, not in anger, do I speak ; 
 Let those in happier ways of life that move, 
 Show charity, and pause ere they reprove. 
 Pity the soul that in such darkness gropes, 
 And mourns despairing o'er its shatter'd hopes, 
 Remembering that had fate ordain'd it so, 
 They also must have lived in sunless woe. 
 
 ! that some power, as potent as benign. 
 Would lift me where a purer light doth shine, 
 A clearer air prevail — far, far beyond 
 
 The perils of this slough of deep despond. 
 Dispel the shade that clouds my being o'er. 
 And hush the voice that bids me hope no more ! 
 
 1 fear it may not be, that to such Dane 
 No balm nor antidote does earth contain ; 
 Ah ! hopeless as recalling life once fled, 
 The resurrection of a heart that's dead I 
 
156 
 
 NURSERY NONSENSE. 
 
 (.AFTER THE APPROVED FASHION.) 
 
 HERE was an old consul in 
 
 China, 
 The name of whose daughter 
 was Dinah : 
 Said she, " It's a shame 
 I own such a name, 
 i I ought to be called Wilhd- 
 
 myiidi 
 
 »» 
 
 There was an old waiter at 
 Wapping 
 -S^ Drew corks for a week with- 
 :(ii^ r?P^' -ll^iV^, out stopping j 
 
 Cried he, '• iis too bad! — 
 The practice I've had ! 
 Yet cannot prevent them from popping ! " 
 
NURSERY NONSENSE. 1 57 
 
 There was a young prince of Bombay, 
 Who always would have his own way; 
 
 He pamper'd his horses 
 
 On five or six courses, 
 Himself eating nothing but hay. 
 
 There was an old priest of Peru, 
 Who dreamt he converted a Jew ; 
 
 He woke in the night 
 
 In a deuce of a fright, 
 And found it was perfectly true. 
 
 There was an old sexton in Rome, 
 Who climbed up St. Peters's dome ; 
 
 When safe at the top 
 
 He cried, " Here I'll stop ; 
 By Jingo ! I'll never go home ! " 
 
 There was a young man who was bitten 
 By twenty-two cats and a kitten ; 
 
 Sighed he, " It is clear 
 
 My finish is near, 
 No matter : I'll die like a Briton ! " 
 
1^6 SONGS OF SINGULARITY. 
 
 Inhere was a princess of Bengal, 
 Whose mouth was exceedingly small ; 
 
 Said she, " It would be 
 
 More easy for me 
 To do without eating at all ! " 
 
 There was an old witch of Malacca, 
 Who smoked such atrocious tdbacca, 
 When tigers came near 
 They trembled with fear, 
 And didn't attempt to att^^^^. 
 
 There was an old stupid who wrote 
 The verses above that we quote ; 
 His want of all sense 
 Was something immense, 
 Which made him a person of note. 
 
59 
 
 A PHONETIC PROTEST. 
 
 "Yes, 'tis a spell."— Old Song. 
 
 WHI shood bardz — a sorring raice, 
 Bee bound bi authograffik rools ? 
 Kan trammelz bee az mutch in plaiss 
 Wyth menn ov jenyus as wyth 
 phoolz ? 
 
 Oh, whi shood thoze, hooz skil inn wurdz 
 
 Duth moov the hart, and tsharm the mynde, 
 
 Hoo longue too warbl phree az burdz 
 
 In spellyngz chaynz thair pinyonz bynde ? 
 
 Itt iz nott thatt I kannot spel 
 
 Kwite orthodockslie hwen I chooz, 
 lie undertaik too ryte az wel 
 
 Az enny mann thatt waux in shooz : 
 
l6o SONGS OF SINGULARITY. 
 
 But Ime det-erminn'd too unlynke 
 The bondz that gaul mi fyerie sole, 
 
 And soarr lyke eegul, nair too synk 
 Untyl I reach mi hiest gole. 
 
 Whenn yung and in-oscent I lernte 
 Spellyng soe mutch I ophten cride, 
 
 And wisht aul Mayvor's boocs ware birnt, 
 Vize's and Karpentir's besyde. 
 
 Ho, swete revenj ! — ha ! Myster Kane, 
 Yu offt chastyzde and kawld mee dunse, 
 
 *Tis nhow mi tirn phor gy wyng payn, 
 Reed thiss — yule haw a phitt at wunce. 
 
 Aul skoolz, awl teechirz I defi, 
 
 Thayre vewz and myne dyd newer talli, 
 
 And bohldlie poot the kweschun — " hwi 
 Kahnt peepul spel fonettikalli ? " 
 
 Whi, hwy, I asc, sutch vallew sett 
 On pewrli arbbitrari phormz ? 
 
 And tremb'l whenn sum martinnette 
 In lernedd fewry strutz and stormz ? 
 
A PHONETIC PROTEST. l6l 
 
 It wozzn't soil in erlyer daze, 
 
 Whenn Chawsir tooc wurdz az thay kaime, 
 And hwen thair wair a duzz'n waize 
 
 Ov spellyng eevun Shaixpeer's nayme. 
 
 Besighdz, varyetie hath charm, 
 
 And thauts, lyke menn, shood chainge thair dres, 
 Noh libbertoy trew menn kan harme, 
 
 But ohnli tierantz wil distresse. 
 
 Thenn raze the standdard ov revohlte, 
 
 Yee ard'nt voht'riz ov the mewze. 
 And leev eech unenlyten'd dohlte 
 
 Stil gruvv'ling 'neeth grammattik screvvze. 
 
 O-wiff yu nu the sweete delyte 
 
 The mb-stunnutterabl joi, 
 In sutcha stile az thiss too ryte, 
 
 Yewr spellyngboox yu-dawl destroi ! 
 
 Butt iftj7i/i stil alleejance giv 
 
 To DoKTOR Jons'n az bephor, 
 I, knever hwhyle on erth I lyv, 
 
 Wil s-pel korektli enny moar ! 
 
1 62 
 
 A BLANK PAGE. 
 
 I'd fill with fancies bright as gold 
 Some paper sheets to-night, 
 
 Ere linen ones my form enfold, 
 But what am I to write ? 
 
 Here burns the famous "midnight oil,** 
 
 There pens and paper lie. 
 And ink enough a ream to spoil, 
 
 Now, Muse, to do or die ! 
 
 Still no result ; I only chase 
 The thing that won't be caught, 
 
 Ideas often run a race 
 Along the course of thought. 
 
 And tho' we spur the sluggish brain, 
 It shuns the rhythmic groove, 
 
 Unless our thoughts are in a train 
 Upon no line they '11 move. 
 
 Well, with such odds 'tis vain to cope. 
 My couch I'll seek— and find, 
 
 To-morrow, fervently I hope, 
 The Muse will be more kind. 
 
1 63 
 
 THE PRIMA DONNA'S DREAM. 
 
 " Oh, for the voice !" * * * 
 
 -, * -.«. * -x- * ^ * -v 
 
 " Hence inextinguishabie thirst of gain." — Young.. 
 
 HE Opera finished, the curtain 
 down, 
 Away went the Queen of 
 Song, 
 Her carriage drove to her 
 
 house in town, 
 The crowd ran after with cheer 
 S_ and shout, 
 I Nay, offer'd to take the horses 
 out, 
 And draw her in state along. 
 
 *g{:Jr^:^^^l 
 
 lw_ 
 
 For her triumph that night 
 had e'en surpass'd 
 3 The laurels she'd won before, 
 From roof to basement the house was mass'd, 
 Applause like thunder had proved her powers. 
 The stage was covered with votive flowers, 
 And Echo still rang " Encore ! " 
 
 M 1 
 
164. SOXCS OF SINGULARITY. 
 
 Anon she enter'd her sumptuous room, 
 
 Where luxury had no bound, 
 Furniture costly, and sweet perfume, 
 And hangings splendid, and tapers bright, 
 That charm'd the senses, and dazed the sight, 
 Were plentiful all around. 
 
 Awhile she sat at the stately glass. 
 To judge of the damage wrought 
 
 By heat, excitement, and toil, and gas ; 
 
 But no, that beauty, unchanged and proud, 
 
 Might still beam confident on the crowd, 
 As yet it had suffer'd nought. 
 
 She thought of her lowly Itahan home, 
 Far off where the vine is rife. 
 
 Where a simple child she was wont to roain. 
 
 Long ere she knew that her precious gift 
 
 Was fated her humble self to hft 
 To the hi^rhest walks of life. 
 
THE PRIMA donna's DREAM. 
 
 T65 
 
 And then she thought of her present state 
 
 Of riches and pride and fame ; 
 The pet and idol of small and great, 
 Donning each night some queenly robe, 
 And spreading each year throughout the globe 
 The spell of her magic name. 
 
 *Twas passing sweet, as she mused alone, 
 
 Her triumphs and gains to count ; 
 All now bow'd down to her lyric throne, 
 
1 66 SONGS OF rr.NGULARITY. 
 
 And only to-day she Lad made a choice 
 Of a future market to vend her voice 
 For a fabulous amount. 
 
 And soon on its pillow of down reposed 
 
 That lovely and well-kTiown head, 
 Those lips, with their treasures of song, were closed- 
 Those favourite eyes had quench'd their beams, 
 She'd started away to the land of dreams, 
 In a vehicle called a bed. 
 
 Sleep : — *Lis the interval 'twixt the acts 
 
 Of life's long varied play, 
 Yet dreams are a world of deeds and facts, 
 Reflecting life in its mirror'd light, 
 As if we acted again at night 
 
 The pieces perform'd by day. 
 
 And thus once more in her lyric realm. 
 
 The Opera-Queen's enthroned, 
 Once more enthusiasts overwhelm 
 Their darling with flowers, and wealth, and praise, 
 And clouds of exquisite incense raise. 
 
 Whose sway is more fully own'd ? 
 
THE PRIMA DONNA'S DREAM. 
 
 The tenors— SO prone with love to glow. 
 
 Around at her court she sees ; 
 Edgardo, Gennaro, and Manrico, 
 And the rest of the operatic race, 
 Baritones noble, and villains base^ 
 And prominent there is the demon face 
 
 Of Mephistopheles. 
 
 Her feminine rivals, too, were there, 
 And eyed her with eyes of hate. 
 
 And all were gifted, and some were fair. 
 
 Alas ! that envy their charms should mar 
 
 That Jealousy's discord-notes should jar 
 The harmony of their state ! 
 
 The gentle Lucia, the sweet Amina, 
 
 The simple Alice appear. 
 Fair Margharita, and arch Zerlina, 
 Poor doubly- fragile Violette, 
 "With many another together met, 
 And each has her cavalier. 
 
1 68 SONGS OF SINGULARITY. 
 
 They warbled solos, and sweet duets, 
 In many a well-known scene, 
 
 And recitatives, and canzonets. 
 
 They dwelt on the tender theme " Ainor'^ 
 
 And oft repeated the words " Mio cor\" 
 The Orchestra play'd between 
 
 Incongruous things in dreams are mix'd, 
 
 And so it befell with them, 
 All reason and unity came unfix'd, 
 Lucrezia flirted with Don Giovanni, 
 La Traviata espoused Ernani, 
 Faust to Norma preferr'd his suit, 
 Whilst Figaro play'd on the " Magic Flute," 
 And sang " La ci darem\''^ 
 
 And next they join in a mazy dance, 
 
 While Verdi inspires the air, 
 Then all — save one — to the throne advance, 
 And greet the Diva on bended knees, 
 A chorus of subjects of all degrees 
 Her sovereignty declare. 
 
THE PRIMA DONNA'S DREAM. I69 
 
 Till vanish'd all but Mephisto grim, 
 
 Who stood in a burst of flame, 
 For a terrible change had come to him, 
 A fiendish light did his form illume, 
 From his peak6d boots to his capon plume, 
 
 But his grin was still the same. 
 
 "Daughter of fashion and art," he cried, 
 
 " These puppets have had their sport, 
 Their homage hath soothed thy queenly pride, 
 Their warbling notes had a pleasing ring, 
 Now list awhile to the song /sing — 
 'Twill be of a different sort. 
 
 ** By Goethe, my master ! it sickens me 
 
 To hear upon every side 
 The adulation bestow'd on thee ; — 
 To see the payment — the wreaths — the gems^ 
 The laurel and floral diadems. 
 
 So squanderingly supplied ! 
 
J,70 ^ SONGS OF SINGULARITY. 
 
 " And all for what ? — for a few sweet sounds, 
 And a form that's fair to view, 
 
 Should these be guerdon'd beyond all bounds ? 
 
 Go to ! — for what will thy notes avail, 
 
 Compared with those of the Nightingale ? — 
 And she sings for nothing, too. 
 
 " The book that is written, if good, will last 
 
 Till centuries by have roll'd, 
 The painter's triumphs their spell shall cast, 
 Delighting the souls of old and young, 
 For ages to come, — but a song once sung 
 
 Is gone like a tale that's told. 
 
 " And yet the poet and sage may toil, 
 
 The painter work hand and brain. 
 The student consume the midnight oil, 
 Till the bloom of their lives has pass'd a-.vay, 
 And not one tithe shall their work repay 
 Of thy readily-gotten gain. 
 
THE PRIMA DONNA'S DREAM. I7I 
 
 " Some fairy, surely, must patronize 
 
 The child of the vocal South, 
 Such magic might in her talent lies ; 
 A golden brain and a golden heart, 
 Will go for nothing in Fashion's mart 
 
 Compared with a golden mouth ! 
 
 " Let lesser musical artists keep 
 
 Their prices in modest bounds, — 
 Such harvests are not for them to reap,- 
 But you, who all other ' stars ' eclipse, 
 Can never open your cherry lips, 
 
 For less than two hundred pounds ! 
 
 " O, pride ! O, greed ! — ye are foster'd and fed 
 
 In this world of human wrong ! 
 The more deserving may want for bread, 
 While Dives lolls on his silken couch, 
 And flings his heaviest money-pouch 
 To those who can sing a song ! 
 
172 SONGS OF SINGULARITY. 
 
 " It ill-becomes me to recommend 
 Deeds reckon'd by men as good ; 
 
 But wealth on the stricken and poor to spend — 
 
 To give with a hand as generous 
 
 As that which others have used to us — 
 As virtues are understood. 
 
 * Have you done this ? — methinks, with shame 
 
 Perforce you must answer, ' No ! ' 
 For years you have fed on gold and fame, 
 And Charity's calls would scarce obey, 
 But kept uncheck'd on your selfish way. 
 Though ruin might follow to those that pay, 
 And managers bankrupt go. 
 
 " Then think of thy worshippers, goddess cruel, 
 
 Melodious Juggurnaut ! 
 How dearly they purchase each mouth-born jewel, 
 Which gives delight for a moment felt, 
 And then, like Fairyland's gifts, will melt 
 
 As sudden and swift as thought ! 
 
THE PRIMA DONNA'S DREAM. 1 73 
 
 " Yet fools, like moths, to thy flame will fly, 
 
 Yea, even in thousands swarm — 
 On benefit-nights, in fierce July, 
 To give thee a 'bumper' — to let thee sweep 
 Fresh treasures into thy pockets deep— 
 For hours in a stifling heat they'll keep ; 
 
 My dwelling is scarce more warm. 
 
 " The critics, and all of that scribbling ilk 
 
 To-morrow their skill will show, 
 With pens well dipp'd in honey and milk, 
 And drag such platitudes from the shelf, 
 As how the artiste ' surpassed herself,' 
 And ' praise can no further go.' 
 
 ** And thou, while others to thee bow down, 
 
 To Mammon in turn dost bow ; 
 By him I am sent thy life to crown, 
 For since of riches thou art so fond, 
 I'll try the charm of this slender wand. 
 And let thee have gold enow." 
 
i74 
 
 SONGS OF SINGULARITY. 
 
 He waved his whisk with a mutter'd spell 
 
 As sorcery's cede enjoins, 
 Lo ! sudden as from the skies there fell, 
 As if turned on at some aureate main, 
 In ghttering dazzle of radiant rain, 
 
 A shower of golden coins ! 
 
 
 Gold of all nations, from every state 
 
 And continent far and near ; 
 Newly-minted, and full in weight. 
 Or old and worn — all clashing and ringing 
 With music as sweet as the Donna's singing- 
 
 At least to a miser's ear. 
 
THE PRIMA DONNA'S DREAM. 1 7$ 
 
 And everything else to gold seemed turn'd, 
 
 Or bathed in its dazzhng shine; 
 The sky like a sheet of metal burn'd, 
 No other hue could her eyes behold 
 Than the sickening yellow of horrid gold, 
 
 Like a never-ending mine. 
 
 No hand of hers did the metal clutch, 
 
 She hated its jaundiced ray, 
 She shudder'd beneath its death-cold touch, — 
 *■ Dread fiend ! O spare me, for pity's sake, 
 Or torture me anywise else, but take 
 
 This horrible gold away ! " 
 
 " Ho ! ho ! is it thus thy tune doth change?" 
 
 The demon his teeth did gnash; 
 " Such words from thy lips indeed are strange. 
 The sum that's fallen is not so great, 
 'Tis a twelvemonth's pay at the opera rate. 
 Paid down in the hardest cash !" 
 
176 SONGS OF SINGULARITY. 
 
 " No more ! no more ! " — but he did not hear, 
 
 Or, hearing, he would not heed, 
 His wand — more deadly than barbM spear- 
 He flourish'd again with a dreadful laugh, 
 " Why, here 's not lucre enough by half 
 To serve for our urgent need ! " 
 
 Faster and faster the gleaming shower 
 
 Descended in wealth untold ; 
 With force it struck her, she had no power 
 To ward it off, she was losing breath, 
 In sooth, 'twas a terrible form of death, 
 To be smother'd in heaps of gold ! 
 
 No aid— no shelter— and no retreat 
 
 From the fierce metallic pour. 
 That delicate frame was bruised and beat, 
 Never was maid in so sad a hap. 
 Since Jupiter fell into Danae's lap. 
 In the classic days of yore. 
 
THE PRIMA DONNA'S DREAM. 177 
 
 At length in the throes of death she gave 
 
 One last despairing scream, 
 Ere sinking crush'd in her golden grave, 
 A violent effort she made to rise, 
 And half succeeded, and open'd her eyes, 
 
 And found she had dreamt a Dream ! 
 
 Yes, yes ; — though throbbing and dazed in brain. 
 
 And damp'd with horror and fear, 
 The shadows that caused her chiefest pain 
 Had fled : — no demon nor gold was there. 
 But the room lay dim in the lamp's pale flare, 
 
 And the dawn of day was near. 
 
 O ! blest first beam of the morning light. 
 Glad life thou dost restore ! 
 
 Killer of Dreamland's forms of fright, 
 
 Ghost and nightmare, and evil elf ; — 
 
 The lady arose, again herself. 
 But her former self no more. 
 
1 78 SONGS OF SINGULARITY. 
 
 t or her voice was gone from that fatal hour, 
 So sudden and so complete 
 
 Was the wreck of its gold-producing power, 
 
 That now no notes from her lips were worth 
 
 To any manager on the earth 
 The price of a single seat ! 
 
 'Twas bitter, 'twas sad, for her fairy gift 
 
 Departed, what else remain'd ? 
 Now hack to obscurity she must drift, 
 A wretched waif of a bygone age, 
 While others "strove on the lyric stage 
 To reign as she had reign'd. 
 
 At first the force of her crushing grief 
 
 By nothing could be controll'd, 
 But Time could teach, with its slow relief, 
 That life may cheerfully pass along) 
 Untinged by the golden light of song, 
 Or the drossy shade of gold. 
 
THE PRIMA donna's DREAM. - 179 
 
 Now changed and humbled, and much concern'd 
 
 Past negligence to repair, 
 To Charity's channels her wealth she turn'd, 
 And sweeter than praise from the public tongue . 
 The music of Gratitude since has rung 
 From old, sick, helpless, and orphan young, 
 
 Whose good is her constant care. 
 
 She saw, in her voiceless days, there passed 
 
 A change o'er the patron-mind,* 
 No more were gems to the singers cast, 
 To swell rewards already immense, 
 But Justice had leagued with Common Sense, 
 Some level of Right to find. 
 
 And need Art suffer ? — does Music's spell 
 
 Less sweet and less potent seem, 
 When paid for "wisely, but 7iot too well ?" 
 No ! — still, as of old, it charms the ear, 
 
 * In propheiic allusion to a "good time coming." 
 
!8o 
 
 SONGS OF SIMCULARITV. 
 
 And though much cheaper, is still as de?', 
 But ye who mourn o'er the retrospect, 
 Singer or hearer, I pray reflect 
 
 On the Prima Donna's Dream ! 
 
 
 
 STEVENS AND RICHARDSON, PRINTERS, 5, GREAT Ot'KEN STREET, W.C