Class _X-K^ 
 
 Book 
 
 -^ 
 
 Copyright N". 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
6061 *^L ^^^i 
 
PRAED'S POEMS 
 
y'/^oxy ..^ /^^^ 
 
POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED 
 
 SELECTED AND ARRANGED 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION 
 BY FERRIS GREENSLET 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 
 HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 
 MDCCCCIX 
 

 COPTBIGHT 1909 
 
 BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 
 ©G1.A25, 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 INTRODUCTION ix 
 
 POEMS OF LIFE AND MANNERS 
 
 EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS 
 
 I. THE VICAR 3 
 
 II. QUINCE 9 
 
 III. THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM 15 
 
 IV. MY PARTNER 21 
 
 V. PORTRAIT OF A LADY 27 
 
 THE COUNTY BALL 33 
 
 TO JULIO, ON HIS COMING OF AGE 68 
 
 TO JULIA, PREPARING FOR HER FIRST 
 
 SEASON IN TOWN 74 
 
 MARRIAGE 83 
 
 THE CHAUNT OF THE BRAZEN HEAD 86 
 
 TWENTY-EIGHT AND TWENTY-NINE 92 
 
 GOOD NIGHT TO THE SEASON 97 
 ARRIVALS AT A WATERING-PLACE 103 
 V 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 THE FANCY BALL 109 
 
 A LETTER OF ADVICE 116 
 
 THE TALENTED MAN 122 
 LETTERS FROM TEIGNMOUTH 
 
 I. OUR BALL 126 
 
 II. PRIVATE THEATRICALS 132 
 
 TALES OUT OF SCHOOL 136 
 
 UTOPIA 139 
 
 MARRIAGE CHIMES 145 
 
 SCHOOL AND SCHOOLFELLOWS 150 
 
 PALINODIA 155 
 
 POEMS OF LOVE AND SENTIMENT 
 
 MY FIRST FOLLY 163 
 STANZAS WRITTEN IN THE FIRST 
 
 LEAF OF "LILLIAN" 165 
 
 l'iNCONNUE 168 
 
 TO 170 
 
 AN EXCUSE 173 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 SECOND LOVE 175 
 LOVE AT A ROUT 178 
 THE MODERN NECTAR 182 
 MY OWN FUNERAL 186 
 time's song 189 
 FROM METASTASIO 191 
 REMEMBER ME 192 
 FUIMUS! 194 
 LINES, SENT IN THANKS FOR A BOT- 
 TLE OF VERY FINE OLD BRANDY 196 
 STANZAS, WRITTEN UNDER A PIC- 
 TURE OF king's COLLEGE CHAPEL, 
 CAMBRIDGE 198 
 LINES, WRITTEN FOR A BLANK PAGE 
 
 OF "the keepsake" 200 
 
 ANTICIPATION 202 
 
 CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS 205 
 
 childhood's CRITICISM 209 
 
 BEAUTY AND HER VISITORS 213 
 
 HOW AM I LIKE HER? 217 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 LINES 220 
 
 THE NEWLY-WEDDED 223 
 
 TO HELEN, WITH CRABBE's POEMS 225 
 
 SONNET, WRITTEN IN THE FIRST 
 LEAF OF LOCKHART's "lIFE OF 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT" 226 
 
 TO HELEN, "when SOME GRIM SOR- 
 CERESS, WHOSE skill" 227 
 TO HELEN, "dearest, I DID NOT 
 
 DREAM " 228 
 
 THE RED FISHERMAN 229 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 Anything so charming as the verse in this vol- 
 ume stands in small need of elaborate intro- 
 duction. Candidates for academic honor are 
 brought forward with a catalogue of their abili- 
 ties and virtues, but a word is enough to com- 
 mend a smiling girl to our favorable attention. 
 The gay Muse of Praed is not presented here 
 for a critical degree, yet mayhap the reader's en- 
 joyment will be keener if he receives a hint of 
 her varied accomplishments. 
 
 When Winthrop Mackworth Praed was born 
 in London in 180'-2, Keats was a child of seven, 
 Shelley a boy of ten, and Wordsworth a young 
 man of thirty-two, just become tranquil after 
 the fer\dd inspiration of the French Revolution. 
 British gentlemen in those days still considered 
 Pope the poetic paragon of the world : Praed's 
 father was such a gentleman, who also wrote 
 fluent and correct couplets for family occasions, 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 though the specimens offered in the official me- 
 moir by the Rev. Derwent Coleridge do not in- 
 dicate that it was from the father that the poet's 
 sense of humor came. His mother, who was of 
 that family of Winthrops of which a younger 
 branch is famous in the annals of New England, 
 died a year after his birth, leaving him to the care 
 of an elder sister. The future poet was a deli- 
 cate, precocious, indoors child. His early read- 
 ing was guided by the eighteenth-century taste 
 of his father, yet his best loved authors were 
 Plutarch and Shakespeare. At Eton, whither he 
 went in due course, he took numerous prizes for 
 English verse, and won distinction for his Latin 
 lyrics as well as for the perfect calligraphy, — 
 which seems to be characteristic of writers of 
 vers de societe. At Cambridge he was, in the deco- 
 rous phrase of the excellent Coleridge, '* not de- 
 voted exclusively, or even mainly, to the pursuit 
 of University distinction." Indeed, save for occa- 
 sional moody fits, he exemplified to perfection 
 the gay undergraduate of talent. Yet the talent 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 was as conspicuous as the gayety. At debate he 
 excelled, and his spirited encounters with Ma- 
 caulay became a tradition ; but it was in humane 
 letters that he chiefly made his mark. Under 
 the pen-names, curiously significant of the two 
 elements of his talent, Peregrine Courtenay and 
 Vyvyan Joyeuse, whimsy and romance, he sent 
 to the magazines verse and prose of a notable 
 vivacity, polish, and point. 
 
 But, despite the applause that followed his 
 early writing, poetry was for Praed never any- 
 thing more than an avocation. In 1829 he was 
 called to the bar. In the following year, influ- 
 enced it is clear rather by deep temperamental 
 affinities than, as was charged against him, by 
 interest, he left the Liberal Party, and entered 
 Parliament as a supporter of Peel and the Con- 
 servatives. Thence onward his life was a busy 
 one. By virtue of his personal charm and bril- 
 liant gifts he soon took a notable place among 
 the younger Parliamentarians, and having at- 
 tracted the notice of the Duke of Wellington he 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 was appointed in 1834 Secretary to the Board 
 of Control. Shortly afterwards he became De- 
 puty High Steward of the University of Cam- 
 bridge; while in 1838 he played an important 
 part in the agitation which led in the following 
 year to the introduction of a national system of 
 education. 
 
 Praed's elder sister, who had been almost the 
 sole companion of his boyhood, and to whom he 
 was tenderly attached, died in 1830. In 1835 he 
 married, in how fine and full a union the poems 
 "To Helen" show. After his marriage his liter- 
 ary faculty became more fruitful than ever, and 
 he seemed destined for a long and brilliant ca- 
 reer in both statecraft and letters. But the gods 
 vidlled otherwise. His health, always delicate, 
 began to fail, and in July of 1839, gay and pro- 
 ductive to the end, he died of a quick consump- 
 tion. He was, in his relations with men, a witty, 
 well-bred gentleman, loyal in love and friend- 
 ship, untiring in the public service, valiant be- 
 fore the world. From his poetry we know him 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 to have been a tender, whimsical soul, acquies- 
 cent in the temper of the early Victorian years, 
 yet keenly though calmly aware of their sins 
 and absurdities; able to 
 
 Make the most delicious sonnets. 
 
 In spite of diamonds and French bonnets. 
 
 So far as we can judge from Praed's earliest 
 verses, his chief and strongest poetic impulse 
 came from the old English ballad that the eight- 
 eenth century had so lately rediscovered. The 
 bulk of his writing — though not perhaps the 
 best of it — is in the form of narrative poems 
 written in the ballad temper whimsicalized, so 
 to speak, while his habitual phrase is colloquial 
 and ballad-like, only occasionally heightened; 
 almost never "literary." It is always fluent, 
 airy, melodious; yet always, despite its collo- 
 quialism, it shows the neatness, the polish, the 
 perfect solution of syntax in metre, which are 
 the marks of scholarship in poetry. Its highly 
 individual flavor lies chiefly in the poet's skill 
 in playing on the repeated word, the humorous 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 catalogue, the unexpected collocation. Take 
 the enumeration of the young gentleman's pur- 
 chases at the Spanish Bazaar in "Good Night 
 to the Season." It is a perfect illustration of 
 Praed's habitual manner : — 
 
 Good night to the Season ! — the splendour 
 
 That beamed in the Spanish Bazaar; 
 Where I purchased — my heart was so tender — 
 
 A card-case, a pasteboard guitar, 
 A bottle of perfume, a girdle, 
 
 A lithographed Riego, full-grown. 
 Whom bigotry drew on a hurdle 
 
 That artists might draw him on stone ; 
 A small panorama of Seville, 
 
 A trap for demolishing flies, 
 A caricature of the Devil, 
 
 And a look from Miss Sheridan's eyes. 
 
 A selection and arrangement of Praed's poems 
 which aims to present him only at his best, and 
 by the sequence of pieces to show the orderly 
 development and proportion of his talents, does 
 not need to contain many of his versified tales. 
 Charming as they are in their rapid flow of 
 xvi 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 whimsical narrative, it is easy to put them down 
 unfinished, and even when completely read they 
 quickly avoid the memory. There is one, how- 
 ever, which no selection of Praed's work, how- 
 ever rigorous its lines, could exclude. " The Red 
 Fisherman" is remarkable among all his verse 
 for sheer imaginative power, for the abiding 
 impression that it leaves. It has his customary 
 neatness and fanciful grace ; there is even a rich 
 beauty of natural imagery, yet for grisly satiric 
 force it stands alone among his poems and with 
 the best in this kind. The reader of his poetry 
 who comes suddenly upon it for the first time 
 experiences something of the wild surmise that 
 awaits a reader of Shelley who encounters un- 
 aware such a piece as "Swellfoot the Tyrant." 
 Were it not that Praed's work, for all his early 
 death, is so complete, varied, and self-contained, 
 one would arise from the reading of "The Red 
 Fisherman" wath regret that he did not culti- 
 vate more ^'igo^ously the graver satiric Muse. 
 Yet as it is, the poem is of the first value to re- 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 mind us from what deep waters of the imagina- 
 tion even light poetry comes. 
 
 It is open to any one reading Praed's poems 
 of love and sentiment to term them artificial, 
 — but this is to miss his essential quality and 
 charm. He wrote, it is true, among an artificial 
 people, in a highly artificial age, but he wrote 
 with a sincerity, an authentic poetic impulse, 
 that makes the result anything but artificial. Of 
 all the English poets, Praed has the best right 
 to be styled "the bard of the ball-room," but 
 it is a ball-room idealized, its lights curiously 
 interpenetrated with the glamour of romance. 
 
 I love a ball ! there 's such an air 
 Of magic in the lustres' glare, 
 And such a spell of witchery 
 In all I bear and all I see. 
 That I can read in every dance 
 Some relic sweet of old romance. 
 
 So Praed sings in " The County Ball." In " Love 
 at a Rout," he has a still clearer profession of 
 faith. 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 I own fair faces not more fair 
 
 In Ettrick than in Portman Square, 
 
 And silly danglers just as silly 
 
 In Sherwood as in Piccadilly. 
 
 Soft tones are not the worse, no doubt, 
 
 For having harps to help them out ; 
 
 And smiles are not a ray more bright 
 
 By moonbeams, than by candle-light; 
 
 I know much magic oft reposes 
 
 On wreaths of artificial roses, 
 
 And snowy necks, — X never found them 
 
 Quite spoilt by having cameos round them. 
 
 But love and sentiment in Praed's poetry 
 are by no means altogether an affair of the ball- 
 room. If the reader will read in order the poems 
 as I have ventured to arrange them, following a 
 rough chronological order, he will feel a steady 
 deepening of the note, as he passes from the 
 songs of light love and easy laughter, urbane 
 yearning and mild regret, to the pieces embody- 
 ing Praed's affection for his sister, and finally to 
 the series "To Helen," and the last brave poem, 
 wTitten only a week before his death, full of the 
 poet's tender, constant heart. 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 There is, too, a group of his pieces quite dif- 
 ferent in flavor, and containing his most char- 
 acteristic and enduring work, which show a 
 broader outlook and a deeper insight. The 
 poems of life and manners give us Praed at his 
 very best, and in this kind, who is better ? Take 
 the series of "Every-day Characters," — take in 
 particular "The Vicar," — for what other char- 
 acter described in light verse do we have such 
 a peculiar feeling of humorous affection, such an 
 enduring regard? 
 
 But if Praed was more than "the bard of the 
 ball-room," a kind of Cantabrigian Tom Moore, 
 he was, nevertheless, in a fine and permanent 
 way, essentially that. Even in the poems of life 
 and manners, the point of view is distinctly a 
 social one in the narrower sense. This is the 
 secret of his piquancy and of his permanence. 
 The manners depicted are those of other days, 
 yet of days that have come, perhaps in part be- 
 cause of their portrayal by such poets as Praed, 
 to be typical of certain enduring phases of civ- 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 ilized life. When we speak of vers de societe, 
 the "society" that comes into our minds is pre- 
 cisely his, — the society of harp and candlelight, 
 of "diamonds and French bonnets." 
 
EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS 
 I 
 
 THE VICAR 
 
 Some years ago, ere time and taste 
 
 Had turned our parish topsy-turvy, 
 When Darnel Park was Darnel Waste, 
 
 And roads as little known as scurvy, 
 The man who lost his way, between 
 
 St. Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket, 
 Was always shown across the green. 
 
 And guided to the Parson's wicket. 
 
 Back flew the bolt of lissom lath ; 
 
 Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle. 
 Led the lorn traveller up the path, 
 
 Through clean-clipt rows of box and myrtle ; 
 And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray, 
 
 Upon the parlour steps collected. 
 Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say — 
 
 " Our master knows you — you 're expected." 
 3 
 
EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS 
 
 Uprose the Reverend Dr. Brown, 
 
 Uprose the Doctor's winsome marrow; 
 The lady laid her knitting down, 
 
 Her husband clasped his ponderous Barrow : 
 Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed, 
 
 Pundit or Papist, saint or sinner, 
 He found a stable for his steed, 
 
 And welcome for himself, and dinner. 
 
 If, when he reached his journey's end, 
 
 And warmed himself in Court or College, 
 He had not gained an honest friend 
 
 And twenty curious scraps of knowledge, — 
 If he departed as he came. 
 
 With no new light on love or hquor, — 
 Good sooth, the traveller was to blame, 
 
 And not the Vicarage, nor the Vicar. 
 
 His talk was like a stream, which runs 
 With rapid change from rocks to roses : 
 
 It slipped from politics to puns. 
 It passed from Mahomet to Moses ; 
 4 
 
THE VICAR 
 
 Beginning with the laws which keep 
 The planets in their radiant courses. 
 
 And ending with some precept deep 
 For dressing eels, or shoeing horses. 
 
 He was a shrewd and sound Divine, 
 
 Of loud Dissent the mortal terror ; 
 And when, by dint of page and line, 
 
 He 'stabhshed Truth, or startled Error, 
 The Baptist found him far too deep ; 
 
 The Deist sighed with saving sorrow ; 
 And the lean Le\ite went to sleep. 
 
 And dreamed of tasting pork to-morrow. 
 
 His sermon never said or showed 
 
 That Earth is foul, that Heaven is gracious, 
 Without refreshment on the road 
 
 From Jerome, or from Athanasius : 
 And sure a righteous zeal inspired 
 
 The hand and head that penned and planned 
 them. 
 For all who understood admired. 
 
 And some who did not understand them. 
 5 
 
EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS 
 
 He wrote, too, in a quiet way, 
 
 Small treatises, and smaller verses, 
 And sage remarks on chalk and clay. 
 
 And hints to noble Lords — and nurses; 
 True histories of last year's ghost, 
 
 Lines to a ringlet, or a turban. 
 And trifles for the Morning Post, 
 
 And nothings for Sylvanus Urban. 
 
 He did not think all mischief fair. 
 
 Although he had a knack of joking; 
 He did not make himself a bear. 
 
 Although he had a taste for smoking; 
 And when religious sects ran mad. 
 
 He held, in spite of all his learning. 
 That if a man's belief is bad. 
 
 It will not be improved by burning. 
 
 And he was kind, and loved to sit 
 In the low hut or garnished cottage. 
 
 And praise the farmer's homely wit, 
 
 And share the widow's homelier pottage ; 
 () 
 
THE VICAR 
 
 At his approach complaint grew mild ; 
 
 And when his hand unbarred the shutter. 
 The clammy lips of fever smiled 
 
 The welcome which they co^ild not utter. 
 
 He always had a tale for me 
 
 Of Julius Caesar, or of Venus ; 
 From him I learnt the rule of three, 
 
 Cat's cradle, leap-frog, and Qugb genus: 
 I used to singe his powdered wig, 
 
 To steal the staff he put such trust in. 
 And make the puppy dance a jig, 
 
 When he began to quote Augustine. 
 
 Alack the change ! in vain I look 
 
 For haunts in which my boyhood trifled, - 
 The level lawn, the trickling brook, 
 
 The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled; 
 The church is larger than before ; 
 
 You reach it by a carriage entry ; 
 It holds three hundred people more, 
 
 And pews are fitted up for gentry. 
 7 
 
EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS 
 
 Sit in the Vicar's seat : you '11 hear 
 
 The doctrine of a gentle Johnian, 
 Whose hand is white, whose tone is clear, 
 
 Whose phrase is very Ciceronian. 
 Where is the old man laid ? — look down 
 
 And construe on the slab before you, 
 *'Hic jacet Gvlielmvs Brown, 
 
 Vir nulla non donandus lauru.'* 
 
EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS 
 
 II 
 
 QUINCE 
 
 Fallentis semita vitae. — Hob. 
 
 Near a small village in the West, 
 
 Where many very worthy people 
 Eat, drink, play whist, and do their best 
 
 To guard from e\il Church and steeple, 
 There stood — alas! it stands no more! — 
 
 A tenement of brick and plaster. 
 Of w^hich, for forty years and four. 
 
 My good friend Quince was lord and master. 
 
 Welcome was he in hut and hall 
 
 To maids and matrons, peers and peasants ; 
 He won the sympathies of all 
 
 By making puns, and making presents. 
 Though all the parish were at strife. 
 
 He kept his counsel, and his carriage. 
 
EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS 
 
 He laughed, and loved a quiet life, 
 
 And shrank from Chancery suits — and mar- 
 riage. 
 
 Sound was his claret — and his head; 
 
 Warm was his double ale — and feelings; 
 His partners at the whist club said 
 
 That he was faultless in his dealings : 
 He went to church but once a week ; 
 
 Yet Dr. Poundtext always found him 
 An upright man, who studied Greek, 
 
 And liked to see his friends around him. 
 
 Asylums, hospitals and schools, 
 
 He used to swear, were made to cozen ; 
 All who subscribed to them were fools, — 
 
 And he subscribed to half-a-dozen : 
 It was his doctrine, that the poor 
 
 Were always able, never willing ; 
 And so the beggar at his door 
 
 Had first abuse, and then — a shilling. 
 10 
 
QUINCE 
 
 Some public principles he had, 
 
 But was no flatterer, nor fretter; 
 He rapped his box when things were bad, 
 
 And said "I cannot make them better!" 
 And much he loathed the patriot's snort. 
 
 And much he scorned the placeman's snuflfle ; 
 And cut the fiercest quarrels short 
 
 With — "Patience, gentlemen — and shuffle ! " 
 
 For full ten years his pointer Speed 
 
 Had couched beneath her master's table ; 
 For twice ten years his old white steed 
 
 Had fattened in his master's stable ; 
 Old Quince averred, upon his troth. 
 
 They were the ugliest beasts in Devon ; 
 And none knew why he fed them both. 
 
 With his own hands, six days in seven. 
 
 Wliene'er they heard his ring or knock, 
 Quicker than thought, the village slatterns 
 
 Flung down the novel, smoothed the frock, 
 And took up IVIrs. Glasse, and patterns; 
 11 
 
EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS 
 
 Adine was studying baker's bills ; 
 
 Louisa looked the queen of knitters ; 
 Jane happened to be hemming frills ; 
 
 And Bell, by chance, was making fritters. 
 
 But all was vain ; and while decay 
 
 Came, like a tranquil moonlight, o'er him, 
 And found him gouty still, and gay. 
 
 With no fair nurse to bless or bore him. 
 His rugged smile and easy chair. 
 
 His dread of matrimonial lectures. 
 His wig, his stick, his powdered hair, 
 
 Were themes for very strange conjectures. 
 
 Some sages thought the stars above 
 
 Had crazed him with excess of knowledge ; 
 Some heard he had been crost in love 
 
 Before he came away from College ; 
 Some darkly hinted that his Grace 
 
 Did nothing, great or small, without him ; 
 Some whispered, A\ith a solemn face. 
 
 That there was " something odd about him ! ' 
 12 
 
QUINCE 
 
 I found him, at threescore and ten, 
 
 A single man, but bent quite double; 
 Sickness was coming on him then 
 
 To take him from a world of trouble : 
 He prosed of slipping down the hill, 
 
 Discovered he grew older daily ; 
 One frosty day he made his will, — 
 
 The next, he sent for Doctor Bailey. 
 
 And so he lived, — and so he died ! — 
 
 When last I sat beside his pillow 
 He shook my hand, and "Ah!" he cried, 
 
 "Penelope must wear the ^\411ow. 
 Tell her I hugged her rosy chain 
 
 While life was flickering in the socket ; 
 And say, that when I call again, 
 
 I '11 bring a licence in my pocket. 
 
 "I've left my house and grounds to Fag, — 
 I hope his master's shoes vnll suit him ; 
 
 And I 've bequeathed to you my nag. 
 To feed him for my sake, — or shoot him, 
 13 
 
EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS 
 
 The Vicar's wife will take old Fox, — 
 She '11 find him an uncommon mouser, 
 
 And let her husband have my box, 
 My Bible, and my Assmanshauser. 
 
 "Whether I ought to die or not, 
 
 My Doctors cannot quite determine ; 
 It 's only clear that I shall rot, 
 
 And be, like Priam, food for vermin. 
 My debts are paid : — but Nature's debt 
 
 Almost escaped my recollection : 
 Tom! — we shall meet again; — and yet 
 
 I cannot leave you my direction ! " 
 
 14 
 
EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS 
 III 
 
 THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM 
 
 II faut juger des femmes depuis la chaussure jusqii'a la coif- 
 fure exclusivement, a pen pres comme on mesure le poisson entre 
 queue et tete. —La BRurtRE. 
 
 Years — years ago, ere yet my dreams 
 
 Had been of being wnse or witty, — 
 Ere I had done with WTiting themes, 
 
 Or yawned o'er this infernal Chitty; — 
 Years — years ago, — while all my joy 
 
 Was in my fowling-piece and filly, — 
 In short, while I was yet a boy, 
 
 I fell in love with Laura Lily. 
 
 I saw her at the County Ball : 
 
 There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle 
 Gave signal sweet in that old hall 
 
 Of hands across and down the middle, 
 Hers was the subtlest spell by far 
 
 Of all that set young hearts romancing ; 
 15 
 
EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS 
 
 She was our queen, our rose, our star ; 
 And then she danced — O Heaven, her 
 dancing ! 
 
 Dark was her hair, her hand was white ; 
 
 Her voice was exquisitely tender ; 
 Her eyes were full of liquid light ; 
 
 I never saw a waist so slender ! 
 Her every look, her every smile, 
 
 Shot right and left a score of arrows ; 
 I thought 't was Venus from her isle. 
 
 And wondered where she'd left her sparrows. 
 
 She talked, — of politics or prayers, — 
 
 Of Southey's prose or Wordsworth's son- 
 nets, — 
 Of danglers — or of dancing bears, 
 
 Of battles — or the last new bonnets. 
 By candlelight, at twelve o'clock, 
 
 To me it mattered not a tittle ; 
 If those bright lips had quoted Locke, 
 
 I might have thought they murmured Little. 
 16 
 
THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM 
 
 Through sunny May, through sultry June, 
 
 I loved her with a love eternal ; 
 I spoke her praises to the moon, 
 
 I wrote them to the Sunday Journal : 
 My mother laughed ; I soon found out 
 
 That ancient ladies have no feeling : 
 My father frowned ; but how should gout 
 
 See any happiness in kneeling ? 
 
 She was the daughter of a Dean, 
 
 Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic ; 
 She had one brother, just thirteen, 
 
 WTiose colour was extremely hectic ; 
 Her grandmother for many a year 
 
 Had fed the parish with her bounty ; 
 Her second cousin was a peer. 
 
 And Lord Lieutenant of the County. 
 
 But titles, and the three per cents.. 
 And mortgages, and great relations. 
 
 And India bonds, and tithes, and rents, 
 Oh what are they to love's sensations } 
 17 
 
EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS 
 
 Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks — 
 Such wealth, such honours, Cupid chooses; 
 
 He cares as little for the Stocks, 
 
 As Baron Rothschild for the Muses. 
 
 She sketched ; the vale, the wood, the beach, 
 
 Grew loveher from her pencil's shading : 
 She botanized ; I envied each 
 
 Young blossom in her boudoir fading : 
 She warbled Handel ; it was grand ; 
 
 She made the Catalani jealous ; 
 She touched the organ ; I could stand 
 
 For hours and hours to blow the bellows. 
 
 She kept an album, too, at home, 
 
 Well filled with all an album's glories ; 
 Paintings of butterflies, and Rome, 
 
 Patterns for trimmings, Persian stories ; 
 Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo. 
 
 Fierce odes to Famine and to Slaughter, 
 And autographs of Prince Leboo, 
 
 And recipes for elder- water. 
 18 
 
THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM 
 
 And she was flattered, worshipped, bored ; 
 
 Her steps were watched, her dress was noted ; 
 Her poodle dog was quite adored, 
 
 Her sayings were extremely quoted ; 
 She laughed, and every heart was glad, 
 
 As if the taxes were abolished ; 
 She frowned, and every look was sad. 
 
 As if the Opera were demolished. 
 
 She smiled on many, just for fun, — 
 
 I knew that there was nothing in it; 
 I was the first — the only one 
 
 Her heart had thought of for a minute. — 
 I knew it, for she told me so, 
 
 In phrase which was divinely moulded ; 
 She wrote a charming hand, — and oh! 
 
 How sweetly all her notes were folded ! 
 
 Our love was like most other loves ; 
 
 A little glow, a little shiver, 
 A rose-bud, and a pair of gloves, 
 
 And "Fly not yet" — upon the river; 
 19 
 
EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS 
 
 Some jealousy of some one's heir, 
 Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, 
 
 A miniature, a lock of hair. 
 
 The usual vows, — and then we parted. 
 
 We parted; months and years rolled by; 
 
 We met again four summers after : 
 Our parting was all sob and sigh ; 
 
 Our meeting was all mirth and laughter ; 
 For in my heart's most secret cell 
 
 There had been many other lodgers ; 
 And she was not the ball-room's Belle, 
 
 But only — Mrs. Something Rogers! 
 
 20 
 
EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS 
 
 IV 
 
 MY PARTNER 
 
 There is, perhaps, no subject of more universal interest in the 
 whole range of natural knowledge, than that of the unceasing 
 fluctuations which take place in the atmosphere in which we are 
 immersed. — British Almanack. 
 
 At Cheltenham, where one drinks one's fill 
 
 Of folly and cold water, 
 I danced last year my first quadrille 
 
 With old Sir Geoffrey's daughter. 
 Her cheek with summer's rose might vie, 
 
 Wlien summer's rose is newest ; 
 Her eyes were blue as autumn's sky, 
 
 WTien autumn's sky is bluest ; 
 And well my heart might deem her one 
 
 Of life's most precious flowers. 
 For half her thoughts were of its sun, 
 
 And half were of its showers. 
 
 21 
 
EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS 
 
 I spoke of Novels : — " Vi\aan Grey" 
 
 Was positively charming, 
 And "Almacks" infinitely gay, 
 
 And "Frankenstein" alarming; 
 I said "De Vere" was chastely told, 
 
 Thought well of "Herbert Lacy," 
 Called IVIr. Banim's sketches "bold," 
 
 And Lady Morgan's "racy," 
 I vowed that last new thing of Hook's 
 
 Was vastly entertaining : 
 And Laura said — "I dote on books. 
 
 Because it's always raining.' " 
 
 I talked of Music's gorgeous fane ; 
 
 I raved about Rossini, 
 Hoped Ronzi would come back again. 
 
 And criticised Pacini ; 
 I wished the chorus-singers dumb, 
 
 The trumpets more pacific. 
 And eulogised Brocard's a plomb. 
 
 And voted Paul "terrific!" 
 
 22 
 
MY PARTNER 
 
 What cared she for Medea's pride. 
 
 Or Desdemona's sorrow ? 
 " Alas ! " my beauteous Hstener sighed, 
 
 "We must have rain to-morrow! " 
 
 I told her tales of other lands ; 
 
 Of ever-boiling fountains, 
 Of poisonous lakes and barren sands. 
 
 Vast forests, trackless mountains : 
 I painted bright Italian skies, 
 
 I lauded Persian roses. 
 Coined similes for Spanish eyes. 
 
 And jests for Indian noses : 
 I laughed at Lisbon's love of mass, 
 
 Vienna's dread of treason : 
 And Laura asked me — where the glass 
 
 Stood, at Madrid, last season. 
 
 I broached whate'er had gone its rounds. 
 The week before, of scandal ; 
 
 23 
 
EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS 
 
 What made Sir Luke lay down his hounds. 
 
 And Jane take up her Handel ; 
 Why Julia walked upon the heath, 
 
 With the pale moon above her ; 
 Where Flora lost her false front teeth. 
 
 And Anne her falser lover ; 
 How Lord de B. and JVIrs. L. 
 
 Had crossed the sea together : 
 My shuddering partner cried " O del 1 
 
 How could they, — in such weather ?" 
 
 Was she a Blue ? — I put my trust 
 
 In strata, petals, gases ; 
 A boudoir-pedant ? I discussed 
 
 The toga and the fasces ; 
 A Cockney-Muse ? I mouthed a deal 
 
 Of folly from Endymion; 
 A saint ? I praised the pious zeal 
 
 Of Messrs. Way and Simeon; 
 A politician ? — it was vain 
 
 To quote the morning paper ; 
 
 24 
 
MY PARTNER 
 
 The horrid phantoms came again, 
 Rain, Hail, and Snow, and Vapour. 
 
 Flat Flattery was my only chance : 
 
 I acted deep devotion, 
 Found magic in her every glance, 
 
 Grace in her every motion ; 
 I wasted all a stripling's lore. 
 
 Prayer, passion, folly, feeling ; 
 And wildly looked upon the floor, 
 
 And w^dly on the ceiling. 
 I envied gloves upon her arm 
 
 And shawls upon her shoulder ; 
 And, when my worship was most warm. 
 
 She — "never found it colder." 
 
 I don't object to wealth or land ; 
 
 And she will have the giving 
 Of an extremely pretty hand, 
 
 Some thousands, and a living. 
 
 25 
 
EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS 
 
 She makes silk purses, broiders stools, 
 
 Sings sweetly, dances finely, 
 Paints screens, subscribes to Sunday-schools, 
 
 And sits a horse divinely. 
 But to be linked for life to her! — 
 
 The desperate man who tried it 
 Might marry a Barometer 
 
 And hang himself beside it ! 
 
 26 
 
EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS 
 
 V 
 PORTRAIT OF A LADY 
 
 IN THE EXHIBITION OF THE ROYAL 
 ACADEMY 
 
 What are you, Lady ? — nought is here 
 
 To tell us of your name or story, 
 To claim the gazer's smile or fear. 
 
 To dub you Whig, or damn you Tory; 
 It is beyond a poet's skill 
 
 To form the slightest notion, whether 
 We e'er shall walk through one quadrille, 
 
 Or look upon one moon together. 
 
 You're very pretty! — all the world 
 
 Are talking of your bright brow's splendour. 
 And of your locks, so softly curled. 
 
 And of your hands, so white and slender ; 
 Some think you 're blooming in Bengal ; 
 
 Some say you're blowing in the city; 
 27 
 
EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS 
 
 Some know you 're nobody at all : 
 I only feel — you're very pretty. 
 
 But bless my heart! it's very wrong ; 
 
 You 're making all our belles ferocious ; 
 Anne "never saw a chin so long;" 
 
 And Laura thinks your dress "atrocious;' 
 And Lady Jane, who now and then 
 
 Is taken for the village steeple. 
 Is sure you can't be four feet ten, 
 
 And "wonders at the taste of people." 
 
 Soon pass the praises of a face ; 
 
 Swift fades the very best vermillion ; 
 Fame rides a most prodigious pace ; 
 
 Oblivion follows on the pillion ; 
 And all who in these sultry rooms 
 
 To-day have stared, and pushed, and 
 fainted. 
 Will soon forget your pearls and plumes, 
 
 As if they never had been painted. 
 28 
 
PORTRAIT OF A LADY 
 
 You'll be forgotten — as old debts 
 
 By persons who are used to borrow ; 
 Forgotten — as the sun that sets, 
 
 When shines a new one on the morrow ; 
 Forgotten — like the luscious peach 
 
 That blessed the schoolboy last September ; 
 Forgotten — like a maiden speech. 
 
 Which all men praise, but none remember. 
 
 Yet, ere you sink into the stream 
 
 That w^helms alike sage, saint, and martyr. 
 And soldier's sword, and minstrel's theme. 
 
 And Canning's wit, and Gatton's charter. 
 Here, of the fortunes of your youth. 
 
 My fancy weaves her dim conjectures. 
 Which have, perhaps, as much of truth 
 
 As passion's vows, or Cobbett's lectures. 
 
 Was 't in the north or in the south 
 
 That summer breezes rocked your cradle ? 
 
 And had you in your baby mouth 
 A wooden or a silver ladle ? 
 29 
 
EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS 
 
 And was your first unconscious sleep 
 
 By Brownie banned, or blessed by Fairy ? 
 
 And did you wake to laugh or weep ? 
 
 And were you christened Maud or Mary ? 
 
 And was your father called "your grace" ? 
 
 And did he bet at Ascot races ? 
 And did he chat at commonplace ? 
 
 And did he fill a score of places ? 
 And did your lady-mother's charms 
 
 Consist in picklings, broilings, bastings ? 
 Or did she prate about the arms 
 
 Her brave forefathers wore at Hastings ? 
 
 Where were you finished ? tell me where ! 
 
 Was it at Chelsea, or at Chiswick ? 
 Had you the ordinary share 
 
 Of books and backboard, harp and physic ? 
 And did they bid you banish pride. 
 
 And mind your Oriental tinting ? 
 And did you learn how Dido died. 
 
 And who found out the art of printing ? 
 30 
 
PORTRAIT OF A LADY 
 
 And are you fond of lanes and brooks — 
 
 A votary of the sylvan Muses ? 
 Or do you con the little books 
 
 WTiich Baron Brougham and Vaux diffuses ? 
 Or do you love to knit and sew — 
 
 The fashionable world's Arachne ? 
 Or do you canter down the Row 
 
 Upon a very long-tailed hackney ? 
 
 And do you love your brother James ? 
 
 And do you pet his mares and setters ? 
 And have your friends romantic names ? 
 
 And do you write them long long letters ? 
 And are you — since the world began 
 
 All women are — a little spiteful ? 
 And don't you dote on Malibran ? 
 
 And don't you think Tom Moore delightful ? 
 
 I see they've brought you flowers to-day; 
 
 Delicious food for eyes and noses ; 
 But carelessly you turn away 
 
 From all the pinks, and all the roses ; 
 31 
 
EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS 
 
 Say, is that fond look sent in search 
 Of one whose look as fondly answers ? 
 
 And is he, fairest, in the Church ? 
 Or is he — ain't he — in the Lancers ? 
 
 And is your love a motley page 
 
 Of black and white, half joy, half sorrow ? 
 Are you to wait till you 're of age ? 
 
 Or are you to be his to-morrow ? 
 Or do they bid you, in their scorn, 
 
 Your pure and sinless flame to smother ? 
 Is he so very meanly born ? 
 
 Or are you married to another ? 
 
 Whate'er you are, at last, adieu ! 
 
 I think it is your bounden duty 
 To let the rhymes I coin for you 
 
 Be prized by all who prize your beauty. 
 From you I seek nor gold nor fame ; 
 
 From you I fear no cruel strictures ; 
 I wish some girls that I could name 
 
 Were half as silent as their pictures ! 
 
THE COUNTY BALL 
 
 Busy people, great and small, 
 Awkward daucers, short and tall. 
 Ladies, fighting which shall call, 
 Loungers, pertly quizzing all. — Anon. 
 
 This is a night of pleasure ! Care, 
 I shake thee from me ! do not dare 
 To stir from out thy murky cell, 
 Where in their dark recesses dwell 
 Thy kindred gnomes, who love to nip 
 The rose on Beauty's cheek and lip. 
 Until beneath their venomed breath 
 Life wears the pallid hue of death. 
 Avaunt ! I shake thee from me, Care ! 
 The gay, the youthful, and the fair. 
 From Lodge, and Court, and House, and Hall, 
 Are hurrying to the County Ball. 
 Avaunt ! I tread on haunted ground ; 
 And giddy Pleasure draws around, 
 To shield us from thine envious spite, 
 Her magic circle ! nought to-night 
 33 
 
THE COUNTY BALL 
 
 Over that guarded barrier flies 
 But laughing lips and smiling eyes ; 
 My look shall gaze around me free, 
 And like my look my line shall be ; 
 While fancy leaps in every vein, 
 While love is life, and thought is pain, 
 I will not rule that look and line 
 By any word or will of thine. 
 
 The Moon hath risen. Still and pale 
 Thou movest in thy silver veil. 
 Queen of the night ! the filmy shroud 
 Of many a mild transparent cloud 
 Hides, yet adorns thee ; meet disguise 
 To shield thy blush from mortal eyes. 
 Full many a maid hath loved to gaze 
 Upon thy melancholy rays ; 
 And many a fond despairing youth 
 Hath breathed to thee his tale of truth ; 
 And many a luckless rhyming wight 
 Hath looked upon thy tender light. 
 And spilt his precious ink upon it, 
 34 
 
THE COUNTY BALL 
 
 In ode, or elegy, or sonnet. 
 Alas ! at this inspiring hour, 
 I feel not, I, thy boasted power, 
 Nor seek to gain thine approbation 
 By vow, or prayer, or invocation ; 
 I ask not what the vapours are 
 That veil thee like a white cymar, 
 Nor do I care a single straw 
 For all the stars I ever saw ! 
 I fly from thee, I fly from these, 
 To bow to earthly goddesses. 
 Whose forms in mortal beauty shine. 
 As fair, but not so cold, as thine. 
 
 But this is foolish ! Stars and Moon, 
 You look quite beautiful in June ; 
 But when a bard sits down to sing, 
 Your beauty is a dangerous thing ; 
 To muse upon your placid beam 
 One wanders sadly from one's theme. 
 And when weak poets go astray, 
 "The stars are more in fault than they." 
 35 
 
THE COUNTY BALL 
 
 The moon is charming; so, perhaps. 
 Are pretty maidens in mob-caps ; 
 But, when a ball is in the case, 
 They 're both a little out of place. 
 
 I love a ball ! there 's such an air 
 Of magic in the lustres' glare. 
 And such a spell of witchery 
 In all I hear and all I see, 
 That I can read in every dance 
 Some relic sweet of old romance : 
 As fancy wills I laugh and smile, 
 And talk such nonsense all the while 
 That when Dame Reason rules again, 
 And morning cools my heated brain, 
 Reality itself doth seem 
 Nought but the pageant of a dream ; 
 In raptures deep I gaze, as now, 
 On smiling lip and tranquil brow, 
 While merry voices echo round. 
 And music's most inviting sound 
 Swells on mine ear ; the glances fly, 
 36 
 
THE COUNTY BALL 
 
 And love and folly flutter high, 
 And many a fair romantic cheek, 
 Reddened with pleasure or with pique, 
 Glows with a sentimental flush 
 That seems a bright unfading blush ; 
 And slender arms before my face 
 Are rounded with a statue's grace ; 
 And ringlets wave, and beauteous feet. 
 Swifter than lightning, part and meet ; 
 Frowns come and go ; white hands are pressed. 
 And sighs are heard, and secrets guessed, 
 And looks are kind, and eyes are bright, 
 And tongues are free, and hearts are light. 
 
 Sometimes upon the crowd I look, 
 Secure in some sequestered nook ; 
 And while from thence I look and listen. 
 Though ladies' eyes so gaily ghsten, 
 Though ladies' locks so lightly float, 
 Though music pours her mellowed note, 
 Some little spite will oft intrude 
 Upon my merry solitude. 
 37 
 
THE COUNTY BALL 
 
 By turns the ever-varpng scene 
 Awakes within me mirth and spleen ; 
 By turns the gay and vain appear; 
 By turns I love to smile and sneer, 
 Mixing my malice with my glee, 
 Good humour with misanthropy; 
 And while my raptured eyes adore 
 Half the bright forms that flit before, 
 I notice with a little laugh 
 The follies of the other half. 
 That little laugh will oft call down. 
 From matron sage, rebuke and frown; 
 Little, in truth, for these I care : 
 By Momus and his mirth I swear, — 
 For all the dishes Rowley tastes, 
 For all the paper Courtenay wastes, 
 For all the punch his subjects quaff, 
 I would not change that little laugh ! ^ 
 Shall I not laugh, when every fool 
 Comes hither for my ridicule, — 
 
 1 Hoc ego opertutn, 
 Hoc ridere meum, tarn nil, nullS tibi vendo 
 Iliade. Pees. 
 
 38 
 
THE COUNTY BALL 
 
 When ev'ry face that flits to-night 
 In long review before my sight 
 Shows off, unasked, its airs and graces. 
 Unconscious of the mirth it raises ? 
 
 Skilled to deceive our ears and eyes 
 
 By ci\^l looks and ci\^l lies. 
 
 Skilled from the search of men to hide 
 
 His narrow bosom's inward pride. 
 
 And charm the blockheads he beguiles 
 
 By uniformity of smiles, 
 
 The County Member, bright Sir Paul, 
 
 Is Primo Buffo at the Ball. 
 
 Since first he longed to represent 
 His fellow-men in Parliament, 
 Courted the cobblers and their spouses, 
 And sought his honours in mud houses, 
 Full thirty springs have come and fled ; 
 And though from off his shining head 
 The twin destroyers. Time and Care, 
 Begin to pluck its fading hair, 
 39 
 
THE COUNTY BALL 
 
 Yet where it grew, and where it grows, 
 Lie powder's never- varying snows. 
 And hide the havoc years have made 
 In kind monotony of shade. 
 
 i 
 
 Sir Paul is young in all but years ; 
 And, when his courteous face appears. 
 The maiden wall-flowers of the room 
 Admire the freshness of his bloom. 
 Hint that his face has made him vain. 
 And vow "he grows a boy again," 
 And giddy girls of gay fifteen 
 Mimic his manner and his mien ; 
 And when the supple politician 
 Bestows his bow of recognition, 
 Or forces on th' averted ear 
 The flattery it affects to fear. 
 They look, and laugh behind the fan, 
 And dub Sir Paul "the young old man. 
 
 Look ! as he paces round, he greets 
 With nod and simper all he meets : — 
 40 
 
THE COUNTY BALL 
 
 "Ah, ha! your Lordship! is it you ? 
 Still slave to beauty and beaux yeux ? 
 Well, well ! and how's the gout, my Lord ? 
 My dear Sir Charles, upon my word, 
 Vair de Paris, since last I knew you. 
 Has been Medea's cauldron to you. — 
 William, my boy ! how fast you grow ! 
 Yours is a light fantastic toe. 
 Winged with the wings of Mercury ! 
 I was a scholar once, you see ! 
 And how 's the mare you used to ride ? 
 And who 's the Hebe by your side ? — 
 Doctor ! I thought I heard you sneeze ? 
 How is my dear Hippocrates ? 
 What have you done for old John Oates, 
 The gouty merchant with five votes ? 
 W^hat, dead ? well, well! no fault of yours! 
 There is no drug that always cures ! 
 Ah doctor ! I begin to break ; 
 And I 'm glad of it, for your sake ! " 
 
 41 
 
THE COUNTY BALL 
 
 As thus the spruce M. P. runs on, 
 Some quiet dame, who dotes upon 
 His speeches, buckles, and grimace, 
 Grows very eloquent in praise. 
 "How can they say Sir Paul is proud ? 
 I'm sure, in all the evening's crowd. 
 There's not a man that bows so low; 
 His words come out so soft and slow ; 
 And when he begged me keep my seat. 
 He looked so civil and so sweet. " 
 "Ma'am," says her spouse, in harsher tone, 
 " He only wants to keep his own." 
 Her Ladyship is in a huff ; 
 And Miss, enraged at Ma's rebuff, 
 Rings the alarm in t'other ear : 
 " Lord ! now Papa, you 're too severe ; 
 Where in the country will you see 
 Manners so taking and so free ? " 
 " His manners free ? I only know 
 Our votes have made his letters so! " — 
 "And then he talks with so much ease, 
 And then he gives such promises ! " 
 42 
 
THE COUNTY BALL 
 
 "Gives promises! and well he may, 
 You know they 're all he gives away!" 
 "How folks misrepresent Sir Paul ! " 
 " 'T is he misrepresents us all ! " 
 "How very stale! — but you'll confess 
 He has a charming taste in dress, 
 And uses such delightful scent ! 
 And when he pays a compliment" — 
 "Eh! and what then, my pretty pet! 
 What then ? — he never pays a debt! " 
 
 Sir Paul is skilled in all the tricks 
 Of politesse and politics ; 
 Long hath he learned to wear a mien 
 So still, so open, so serene, 
 That strangers in those features grave 
 Would strive in vain to read a knave. 
 Alas ! it is believed by all 
 There is more "Sir" than "Saint" in Paul; 
 He knows the value of a place ; 
 Can give a promise with a grace ; 
 Is quite an adept at excuse ; 
 43 
 
THE COUNTY BALL 
 
 Sees when a vote will be of use ; 
 And, if the Independents flinch, 
 Can help his Lordship at a pinch. 
 Acutely doth he read the fate 
 Of deep intrigues and plans of state, 
 And if perchance some powdered peer 
 Hath gained or lost the Monarch's ear. 
 Foretells, without a shade of doubt. 
 The comings in and goings out. 
 When placemen of distinguished note 
 Mistake, mislead, misname, misquote, 
 Confound the Papist and the Turk, 
 Or murder Sheridan and Burke, 
 Or make a riddle of the laws. 
 Sir Paul grows hoarse in his applause : 
 And when in words of equal size 
 Some Oppositionist replies, 
 And talks of taxes and starvation 
 And Catholic Emancipation, 
 The Knight, in indolent repose. 
 Looks only to the Ayes and Noes. 
 
 44 
 
THE COUNTY BALL 
 
 Let youth say " Grand ! " — Sir Paul says 
 
 "Stuff!" 
 Let youth take fire ! — Sir Paul takes snuff. 
 
 Methinks amid the crowded room 
 I see one countenance of gloom ; 
 Whence is young Edmund's pain or pique ? 
 Whence is the paleness of his cheek ? 
 And whence the wrathful eye, that now 
 Lowers, like Kean's, beneath the brow, 
 And now again on earth is bent, 
 'Tw4xt anger and embarrassment ? 
 Is he poetical, or sad ? — 
 Really — or fashionably — mad? 
 Are his young spirits colder grown 
 At Ellen's — or the Muse's frown ? 
 He did not love in other days 
 To w^ear the suUens on his face 
 WTien merry sights and sounds were near ; 
 Nor on his unregarding ear 
 Unheeded thus was wont to fall 
 The music of the County Ball. 
 45 
 
THE COUNTY BALL 
 
 I pity all whom Fate unites 
 To vulgar belles on gala nights ; 
 But chiefly him who haply sees 
 The day-star of his destinies — 
 The Beauty of his fondest dreaming — 
 Sitting in solitude, and seeming 
 To lift her dark capricious eye 
 Beneath its fringe reproachingly. 
 Alas ! my luckless friend is tied 
 To the fair hoyden by his side, 
 Who opens, without law or rule, 
 The treasures of the boarding-school ; 
 And she is prating learnedly 
 Of logic and of chemistry. 
 Describing chart and definition 
 With geographical precision, 
 Culling her words, as bid by chance. 
 From England, Italy, or France, 
 Until, like many a clever dunce, 
 She murders all the three at once. 
 Sometimes she mixes by the ounce 
 Discussions deep on frill and flounce ; 
 46 
 
THE COUNTY BALL 
 
 Points out the stains, that stick hke burs 
 To ladies' gowns — or characters; 
 Talks of the fiddles and the weather, 
 Of Laura's wreath, and Fannia's feather ; 
 All which obedient Edmund hears 
 With passive look, and open ears, 
 And understands about as much 
 As if the lady spoke in Dutch ; 
 Until, in indignation high, 
 She finds the youth makes no reply, 
 And thinks he 's grown as deaf a stock 
 As Dido — or Marpesian rock.^ 
 
 Ellen, the lady of his love, 
 
 Is doomed the like distress to prove. 
 
 Chained to a Captain of the wars. 
 
 Like Venus by the side of Mars. 
 
 Hark ! Valour talks of conquered towns ; 
 
 See ! silent Beauty frets and frowns ; 
 
 The man of fights is wondering now 
 
 1 Dido . . . non magis . . . sermoue movetur, 
 Quam si dura silex, aut stet Marpesia cautes. Vieo. 
 
 47 
 
THE COUNTY BALL 
 
 That girls wonH speak when dandies bow ; 
 
 And Ellen finds, with much surprise, 
 
 That beaux will speak when belles despise. 
 
 "Ma'am," says the Captain, "I protest 
 
 I come to ye a stranger guest, 
 
 Fresh from the dismal, dangerous land 
 
 Where men are blinded by the sand. 
 
 Where undiscovered things are hid 
 
 In owl-frequented pyramid, 
 
 And mummies with their silent looks 
 
 Appear like memorandum books 
 
 Giving a hint of death, for fear 
 
 We men should be too happy here. 
 
 But if upon my native land 
 
 Fair ones as still as mummies stand. 
 
 By Jove, — I had as lief be there ! " — 
 
 (The Lady looks — "I wish you were.") 
 
 "I fear I'm very dull to-night" — 
 
 (The Lady looks — "You're very right.") 
 
 " But if one smile — one cheering ray" — 
 
 (The Lady looks another way — ) 
 
 48 
 
THE COUNTY BALL 
 
 "Alas ! from some more happy man " — 
 (The Lady stoops and bites her fan.) 
 "Flattery, perhaps, is not a crime," — 
 (The Lady dances out of time ;) 
 "Perhaps e'en now within your heart, 
 Cruel ! you wish us leagues apart, 
 And banish me from Beauty's presence ! " 
 The Lady bows in acquiescence, 
 With steady brow, and studied face. 
 As if she thought, in such a case, 
 A contradiction to her Beau 
 Neither polite — nor a propos. 
 
 Una wed by scandal or by sneer. 
 Is Reuben Nott the blunderer here ? 
 What ! is he willing to expose 
 His erring brain to friends and foes ? 
 And does he venturously dare, 
 'Midst grinning fop and spiteful fair. 
 In spite of all their ancient slips. 
 To open those unhappy lips ? 
 
 49 
 
THE COUNTY BALL 
 
 Poor Reuben ! o'er his infant head 
 Her choicest bounties Nature shed ; 
 She gave him talent, humour, sense, 
 A decent face, and competence. 
 And then, to mar the beauteous plan. 
 She bade him be — an abrent man. 
 Ever offending, ever fretting, 
 Ever explaining and forgetting. 
 He blunders on from day to day. 
 And drives his nearest friends away. 
 Do farces meet with flat damnation ? 
 He's ready with "congratulation." 
 Are friends in office not quite pure ? — 
 He "owns he hates a sinecure." 
 
 Was Major in foreign strife 
 
 Not over prodigal of life ? — 
 He talks about "the coward's grave:" 
 And "who so base as be a slave.?" 
 Is some fair cousin made a wife. 
 In the full autumn of her life ? — 
 He 's sure to shock the youthful bride 
 With "forty years, come Whitsuntide!' 
 50 
 
THE COUNTY BALL 
 
 He wanders round. I '11 act the spy 
 
 Upon his fatal courtesy, 
 
 WTiich always gives the greatest pain. 
 
 Where most it strives to entertain : — 
 
 "Edward, my boy! an age has passed 
 
 Methinks, since Reuben saw you last; 
 
 How fares the Abbey ? and the rooks ? 
 
 Your tenants ? and your sister's looks ? 
 
 Lovely and fascinating still, 
 
 With lips that wound and eyes that kill ? 
 
 When last I saw her dangerous face. 
 
 There was a lover in the case — 
 
 A pretty pair of epaulettes ! — 
 
 But then, there were some ugly debts ! 
 
 A match ? — nay ! why so gloomy, boy ? 
 
 Upon my life I wish 'em joy ! " 
 
 With arms enfolded o'er his breast. 
 And fingers clenched, and lips compressed, 
 And eye, whose every glance appears 
 To speak a threat in Reuben's ears, 
 That youth hath heard ; 't is brief and stern, 
 51 
 
THE COUNTY BALL 
 
 The answer that he deigns return ; 
 Then silent on his homeward way, 
 Like Ossian's ghosts, he strides away. 
 
 Astonished at his indignation, 
 
 Reuben breaks out in exclamation. 
 
 "Edward! I mean — I really meant — 
 
 Upon my word! — a compliment; 
 
 You look so stern! — nay, why is this ? 
 
 Angry because I flattered Miss ? 
 
 What ! gone ? — the deuce is in the man ! 
 
 Explain, Sir Robert, if you can." — 
 
 "Eh! what? perhaps you have n't heard, — 
 
 Excuse my laughing — how absurd ! 
 
 A slight faux pas! — a trifle merely! 
 
 Ha! ha! — egad, you touched him nearly!" 
 
 All blunderers, when they chance to make 
 In colloquy some small mistake. 
 Make haste to make a hundred more 
 To mend the one they made before. 
 'T is thus with Reuben ; through the throng 
 52 
 
THE COUNTY BALL 
 
 With hurried steps he hastes along ; 
 Thins, like a pest, the crowded seats. 
 And runs amuck at all he meets, 
 Rich in his unintended satire, 
 And killing where he meant to flatter. 
 He makes a College Fellow wild 
 By asking for his wife and child ; 
 Puts a haught Blue in a^^ul passion 
 By disquisitions on the fashion ; 
 Refers a knotty case in whist 
 To Morley the philanthropist ; 
 Quotes to a sportsman from St. Luke ; 
 Bawls out plain "Bobby" to a Duke; 
 And while a barrister invites 
 Our notice to the Bill of Rights, 
 And fat Sir John begins to launch 
 Into the praises of a haunch, 
 He bids the man of quibbles pause 
 By eulogising "Spartan Laws," 
 And makes the epicure quite wroth 
 By eulogising "Spartan broth." 
 Error on error grows and swells; — 
 53 
 
THE COUNTY BALL 
 
 For, as a certain proverb tells, 
 
 "When once a man has lost his way," — 
 
 But you have read it, — or you may. 
 
 Girt with a crowd of listening Graces, 
 With expectation on their faces. 
 Chattering, and looking all the while 
 As if he strove to hide a smile 
 That fain would burst Decorum's bands, 
 Alfred Duval, the hoaxer, stands. 
 Alfred ! the eldest born of IVIirth ; 
 There is not on this nether earth 
 So light a spirit, nor a soul 
 So little used to all control. 
 Frolic and fun and jest and glee 
 Burst round him unremittingly, 
 And in the glances of his eyes 
 Ever his heart's good humour flies, 
 Mild as the breezes of the South ; 
 And while from many a wiser mouth 
 We drink the fruits of education. 
 The solid Port of conversation, 
 54 
 
THE COUNTY BALL 
 
 From Alfred's lips we seem to drain 
 A ceaseless flow of bright Champagne. 
 In various shapes his wit is found ; 
 But most it loves to send around 
 O'er half the town, on Rumour's gale, 
 Some marvellously fashioned tale, 
 And cheat the unsuspecting ear 
 With groundless hope, or groundless fear. 
 To speak in civil words, his bent 
 Lies sadly to — embellishment. 
 "Sir," says Morality, "you know 
 You should n't flatter Falsehood so : 
 The nurse that rocked you in your crib 
 Taught you to loathe and scorn a fib ; 
 And Shakespeare warns you of the evil, 
 Saying — 'Tell truth, and shame the devil!' 
 I like, as well as you, the glances 
 Where gay good humour brightly dances ; 
 But when a man tells horrid lies, — 
 You should n't talk about his eyes." 
 Madam ! you '11 think it rather odd, 
 That, while I bow me to the rod, 
 55 
 
THE COUNTY BALL 
 
 And make no shadow of defence, 
 
 I still persist in my offence : 
 
 And great and small may join to blame 
 
 The echo of the hoaxer's fame ; 
 
 But, be it known to great and small, — 
 
 I can't write sermons at a ball. 
 
 'T is Alfred fills the public prints 
 With all the sly ingenious hints 
 That fly about, begirt with cares, 
 And terrify the Bulls and Bears. 
 Unrivalled statesman ! war and peace 
 He makes and breaks with perfect ease ; 
 Skilful to crown and to depose. 
 He sets up kings, and overthrows ; 
 As if apprenticed to the work, 
 He ties the bowstring round the Turk, 
 Or makes the Algerine devout. 
 Or plagues his Holiness with gout, 
 Or drives the Spaniard from Madrid 
 As quick as Bonaparte did. 
 Sometimes at home his plots he lays, 
 56 
 
THE COUNTY BALL 
 
 And wildly still his fancy plays ; 
 
 He pulls the Speaker from the chair, 
 
 Murders the Sheriffs, or the Mayor, 
 
 Or drags a Bishop through the mire, 
 
 Or sets the theatres on fire. 
 
 Or brings the weavers to subjection, 
 
 Or prates of mobs and insurrection. 
 
 One dash of his creative pen 
 
 Can raise a hundred thousand men : 
 
 They march ! he wills, and myriads fall ; 
 
 One dash annihilates them all ! 
 
 And now, amid that female rout, 
 What scandal doth he buzz about ? 
 What grand affair or mighty name 
 Entrusts he to the gossip Fame ? 
 Unchecked, unstayed, he hurries on 
 With wondrous stories of the Ton; 
 Describes how London ladies lose 
 Their heads in helmets — like the Blues, 
 And how the highest circles meet 
 To dance with pattens on their feet ! 
 57 
 
THE COUNTY BALL 
 
 And all the while he tells his he 
 With such a solemn gravity, 
 That many a Miss parades the room 
 Dreaming about a casque and plume, 
 And vows it grievously must tire one 
 To waltz upon a pump of iron. 
 
 Jacques, the Cantab ! I see him brood, 
 Wrapt in his mental solitude. 
 On thoughts that lie too deep, I wis. 
 For such a scene and hour as this. 
 Now shall the rivers freeze in May, 
 Coquettes be silent at the play; 
 Old men shall dine without a story. 
 And mobs be civil to a Tory ! 
 All miracles shall well befall, 
 When Youth is thoughtful at a ball. 
 
 From thoughts that grieve, and words that vex, 
 And names invented to perplex ; 
 From latent findings, never found, 
 58 
 
THE COUNTY BALL 
 
 And mystic figures, square and round ; 
 Shapes, from whose labyrinthine toil 
 A Daedalus might well recoil. 
 He steals one night — one single night — 
 And gives its moments to delight. 
 Yet still upon his struggling soul 
 The muddy wave of Cam will roll, 
 And all the monsters grim, that float 
 Upon that dark and murky moat. 
 Come jabbering round him, — dark equation, 
 Subtle distinction, disputation ; 
 Notion, idea, mystic schism, 
 Assumption, proof, and syllogism. 
 And many an old and awful name 
 Of optic or mechanic fame. 
 Look ! in the van stern Euclid shows 
 The Asses'-Bridge upon his nose; 
 Bacon comes forward, sage austere, 
 And Locke and Paley both are there; 
 And Newton, with a spiteful hiss, 
 Points to his '*Z)e Principiis." 
 Yet often with his magic wand 
 59 
 
THE COUNTY BALL 
 
 Doth Mirth dispel that hideous band ; 
 And then in strange confusion lost 
 The mind of Jacques is tempest-tossed : 
 By turns around it come and flee 
 The dulce and the utile ; 
 By turns, as Thought or Pleasure wills, 
 Quadratics struggle with quadrilles ; 
 And figures sour and figures sweet, 
 Of problems — and of dances — meet ; 
 Bisections fight with "down the middle "s, 
 And chords of arcs with chords of fiddles ; 
 Vain are the poor musician's graces ; 
 His bass gives way to given bases — 
 His studied trill to shapely trine — 
 His mellowed shake to puzzling sine : 
 Each forming set recalls a vision 
 Of some enchanting proposition, 
 And merry '^ Chassez-croises huiV^ 
 Is little more than Q. E. D. 
 Ah Stoic youth ! before his eye 
 Bright beauties walk unheeded by; 
 And, while his distant fancy strays 
 60 
 
THE COUNTY BALL 
 
 Remote through Algebraic maze, 
 He sees in whatsoe'er he views 
 The very object he pursues ; 
 And fairest forms, from heel to head, 
 Seem crooked as his x and z. 
 Peace to the man of marble ! — 
 
 Hush! 
 
 Whence is the universal rush ? 
 Why doth confusion thus aflFright 
 The peaceful order of the night. 
 Thwart the musicians in their task, 
 And check the schoolboy's pas de basque ? 
 
 The Lady Clare hath lost a comb ! — 
 If old Queen Bess from out her tomb 
 Had burst, with royal indignation. 
 Upon our scandalous flirtation, 
 Darted a glance immensely chilling 
 Upon our waltzing and quadrilling, 
 Flown at the fiddlers in a pet. 
 And bade them play her minuet ; 
 61 
 
THE COUNTY BALL 
 
 Her stately step and angry eye, 
 Her waist so low, her neck so high. 
 Her habit of inspiring fear. 
 Her knack of boxing on the ear. 
 Could ne'er have made the people stare 
 Like the lost comb of Lady Clare ! 
 The tresses it was wont to bind 
 Joy in their freedom ! unconfined 
 They float around her, and bedeck 
 The marble whiteness of her neck 
 With veil of more resplendent hue 
 Than ever Aphrodite threw 
 Around her, when unseen she trod 
 Before the sight of man or god. 
 Look, how a blush of burning red 
 O'er bosom and o'er forehead spread 
 Glances like lightning ! and aside 
 The Lady Clare hath turned her head, 
 As if she strove in vain to hide 
 That countenance of modest pride. 
 Whose colour many an envying fair 
 Would give a monarch's crown to wear. 
 62 
 
THE COUNTY BALL 
 
 Persuasion lurks on woman's tongue : 
 In woman's smile, oh! raptures throng; 
 And woman's tears compassion move, — 
 But, oh ! 't is woman's blush we love ! 
 
 Now gallantry is busy round : 
 
 All eyes are bent upon the ground ; 
 
 And dancers leave the cheerful measure 
 
 To seek the Lady's missing treasure. 
 
 Meanwhile, some charitable Miss, 
 
 Quite ignorant what envy is, 
 
 Sends slowly forth her censures grave. 
 
 "How oddly beauties will behave! 
 
 Oh ! quite an accident ! — last year 
 
 I think she sprained her ankle here ; 
 
 And then there were such sudden halts. 
 
 And such a bringing out of salts." — 
 
 "You think her vain.?" — "Oh gracious, no! 
 
 She has a charming foot, you know ; 
 
 And it 's so pretty to be lame ; — 
 
 I don't impute the slightest blame, — 
 
 Only, that very careless braid ! — 
 
THE COUNTY BALL 
 
 The fault is with the waiting-maid : 
 I merely mean, since Lady Clare 
 Was flattered so about her hair, 
 Her comb is always dropping out — 
 Oh ! quite an accident ! — no doubt ! " 
 
 The sun hath risen o'er the deep, 
 And fathers, more than half asleep, 
 Begin to shake the drowsy head. 
 And hint — "It's time to be in bed." 
 Then comes chagrin on faces fair ; 
 Soft hands are clasped in mimic prayer ; 
 And then the warning watch is shown, 
 And answers in a harsher tone 
 Reply to look of lamentation. 
 And argument, and supplication : 
 In vain sweet voices tell their grief, 
 In speeches long, for respite brief ; 
 Bootless are all their " Lord ! "s and " La ! "s, 
 Their "Pray, Papa!"s and "Do, Papa!"s; 
 "Ladies," quoth Gout, "I love my rest; 
 The carriage waits! — eundum est." 
 64 
 
THE COUNTY BALL 
 
 This is the hour for parting bow. 
 This is the hour for secret vow ; 
 For weighty shawl, and hooded cloak. 
 Half-uttered tale, and whispered joke : 
 This is the hour when ladies bright 
 Relate the adventures of the night, 
 And fly by turns from truth to fiction, 
 From retrospection to prediction : 
 They regulate mth unbought bounty 
 The destinies of half the county ; 
 With gipsy talent they foretell 
 How Miss Duquesne w^ll marry well. 
 And how 't is certain that the Squire 
 Will be more stupid than his sire, 
 And how the girl they cried up so. 
 Only two little months ago. 
 Falls off already, and will be 
 Really quite plain at twenty-three. 
 
 Now Scandal hovers, laughing, o'er them. 
 While pass in long review before them, 
 "The lady that my lord admires" — 
 65 
 
THE COUNTY BALL 
 
 "The gentleman that moves on wires" — 
 The youth " with such a frightful frown ! " 
 And " that extraordinary gown ! " 
 Now characters are much debated, 
 And witty speeches are narrated ; 
 And Criticism delights to dwell 
 On conquests won by many a belle, 
 On compliments that ne'er were paid. 
 On offers that were never made. 
 Refusals — Lord knows when refused. 
 Deductions — Lord knows how deduced ; 
 Alas ! how sweetly scandal falls 
 From lips of beauties — after balls! - 
 
 The music stops — the lights expire — 
 The dance is o'er — the crowds retire, 
 And all those smiling cheeks have flown ! 
 Away! — the Rhymer is alone. 
 Thou too, the fairest and the best, 
 Hast fleeted from him with the rest; 
 Thy name he will not, love ! unite 
 To the rude strain he pours to-night; 
 66 
 
THE COUNTY BALL 
 
 Yet often hath he turned away 
 Amidst his harsh and wandering lay. 
 And often hath his earnest eye 
 Looked into thine delightedly, 
 And often hath his listening ear — 
 
 But thou art gone ! — what doth he here ? 
 
 67 
 
TO JULIO 
 
 ON HIS COMING OF AGE 
 
 Julio, while Fancy's tints adorn 
 The first bright beam of manhood's morn, 
 The cares of boyhood fleet away 
 Like clouds before the face of day ; 
 And see, before your ravished eyes 
 New hopes appear, new duties rise, 
 Restraint has left his iron throne, 
 And Freedom smiles on twenty-one. 
 
 Count o'er the friends whom erst you knew 
 When careless boyhood deemed them true, 
 With whom you wiled the lazy hours 
 Round fond Etona's classic towers, 
 Or strayed beside the learned mud 
 Of ancient Cam's meandering flood ; 
 The follies that in them you \iew 
 Shall be a source of good to you. 
 68 
 
TO JULIO 
 
 With mincing gait and foreign air 
 Sir Philip strays through park and square, 
 Or yawns in Grange's sweet recess, 
 In all the studied ease of dress ; 
 Aptly the man-ling's tongue, I deem. 
 Can argue on a lofty theme, — 
 Which damsel hath the merrier eye. 
 Which fop the better-fancied tie, 
 WTiich perfume hath the sweetest savour, 
 W^hich soup the more in\iting flavour ; 
 And Fashion, at Sir Philip's call, 
 Ordains the collar's rise and fall 
 And shifts the Brummel's varpng hue 
 From blue to brown, from brown to blue. 
 And hence the motley crowd, whoe'er 
 Bear Fashion's badge — or wish to bear. 
 From Hockley-hole to Rotten-row, 
 Unite to dub Sir Philip — beau. 
 
 And, such is Fashion's empty fame. 
 Squire Robert loathes the very name. 
 The rockets hiss, the bonfires blaze, 
 69 
 
TO JULIO 
 
 The peasants gape in still amaze ; 
 The field unploughed, the ox unyoked, 
 The farmer's mouth with pudding choked, 
 The sexton's vest of decent brown. 
 The village maiden's Sunday gown. 
 In joyful union seem to say — 
 "Squire Robert is of age to-day." 
 The bumpkins hurry to the Bell, 
 And clam'rous tongues in riot swell ; 
 Anger is hot — and so is liquor; 
 They drink confusion to the vicar ; 
 And shout and song from lad and lass, 
 And broken heads, and broken glass. 
 In concert horrible, declare 
 Their loyal rev'rence for the heir. 
 
 Right justly may the youthful squire 
 These transports in his slaves inspire ; 
 At every fireside through the place 
 He 's welcome as the curate's grace ; 
 He tells his story, cracks his joke. 
 And drinks his ale "like other folk;" 
 70 
 
TO JULIO 
 
 Fearless he risks that cranium thick 
 At cudgelling and singlestick ; 
 And then his stud ! — Why, far and wide, 
 It is the country's chiefest pride ! 
 Ah ! had his steed no firmer brains ' 
 Than the mere thing that holds the reins. 
 Grief soon would bid the beer to run, 
 Because the squire's mad race was done. 
 Not less than now it froths away, 
 Because "the squire 's of age to-day." 
 
 Far different pomp inspired of old 
 The youthful Roman's bosom bold, 
 Soon as a father's honoured hand 
 Gave to his grasp the casque and brand. 
 And off the light praetexta threw. 
 And from his neck the bulla drew, 
 Bade him the toga's foldings scan, 
 And glory in the name of Man ; 
 Far different pomp lit ardour high 
 In the young German's eager eye. 
 When, bending o'er his offspring's head, 
 71 
 
TO JULIO 
 
 An aged sire, half weeping, said — 
 "Thy duty to thy father done, 
 Go forth, and be thy country's son ! " 
 Heav'ns ! how his bosom burned to dare 
 The grim dehght of manhood's war, 
 And brandish in no mimic field 
 His beaming lance and osier shield ! 
 How his young bosom longed to claim. 
 In war's wide tumult, manhood's name. 
 And write it, 'midst the battle's foam. 
 In the best blood of trembling Rome ! 
 
 Such was the hope, the barbarous joy. 
 That nerved to arms the German boy; 
 A flame as ardent, more refined. 
 Shall brightly glow in Julio's mind ; 
 But yet I 'd rather see thee smile 
 Grimly on war's embattled file, — 
 I 'd rather see thee wield in strife 
 The German butcher's reckless knife, 
 Thinking thy claims to manhood grow 
 From each pale corse that bleeds below, 
 72 
 
TO JULIO 
 
 I 'd rather view thee thus, than see 
 A modern blockhead rise in thee. 
 
 Is it a study for a peer 
 To breathe soft vows in lady's ear ? 
 To choose a coat — or leap a gate ? 
 To win an heiress — or a plate ? 
 
 Far nobler studies shall be thine, — 
 So friendship and the Muse di\dne : 
 It shall be thine, in danger's hour, 
 To guide the helm of British power ; 
 And 'midst thy country's laurelled crown 
 To mix a garland all thine own. 
 
 Julio, from this auspicious day, 
 New honours gild thine onward way; 
 In thee posterity shall view 
 A heart to faith and feeling true, 
 And Fame her choicest wreaths shall blend 
 For virtue's and the poor man's friend ! 
 73 
 
TO JULIA 
 
 PREPARING FOR HER FIRST SEASON IN TOWN 
 
 Julia, while London's fancied bliss 
 
 Bids you despise a life like this ; 
 
 While Chiswick and its joys you leave, 
 
 For hopes that flatter to deceive ; 
 
 You will not scornfully refuse, 
 
 (Though dull the theme, and weak the Muse,) 
 
 To look upon my line, and hear 
 
 What friendship sends to Beauty's ear. 
 
 Four miles from town, a neat abode 
 O'erlooks a rose-bush, and a road ; 
 A paling, cleaned with constant care. 
 Surrounds ten yards of neat parterre. 
 Where dusty ivy strives to crawl 
 Five inches up the whitened wall. 
 The open window, thickly set 
 With myrtle and with mignonette, 
 74 
 
TO JULIA 
 
 Behind whose cultivated row 
 A brace of globes peep out for show, 
 The avenue, the burnished plate 
 That decks the would-be rustic gate. 
 Denote the fane where Fashion dwells, - 
 "Lvce's Academy for Belles." 
 
 'T was here, in earlier, happier days. 
 Retired from pleasure's weary maze. 
 You found, unknown to care or pain. 
 The peace you will not find again. 
 Here friendships, far too fond to last, 
 A bright but fleeting radiance cast 
 On every sport that mirth dcAised, 
 And every scene that childhood prized. 
 And every bliss that bids you yet 
 Recall those moments w^th regret. 
 
 Those friends have mingled in the strife 
 That fills the busy scene of life. 
 And pride and folly, cares and fears. 
 Look dark upon their future years ; 
 But by their wrecks may Julia learn 
 
TO JULIA 
 
 Whither her fragile bark to turn. 
 And o'er the troubled sea of fate 
 Avoid the rocks they found too late. 
 
 You know Camilla : o'er the plain 
 She guides the fiery hunter's rein ; 
 First in the chase she sounds the horn, 
 Trampling to earth the farmer's corn, 
 That hardly deigned to bend its head 
 Beneath her namesake's lighter tread. 
 With Bob the Squire, her polished lover, 
 She wields the gun, or beats the cover ; 
 And then her steed! — why! every clown 
 Tells how she rubs Smolensko down. 
 And combs the mane, and cleans the hoof, 
 WTiile wondering hostlers stand aloof. 
 
 At night, before the Christmas fire. 
 She plays backgammon with the squire ; 
 Shares in his laugh, and in his liquor, 
 Mimics her father, and the vicar ; 
 Swears at the grooms without a blush ; 
 76 
 
TO JULIA 
 
 Dips in her ale the captured brush ; 
 
 Until, — her father duly tired — 
 
 The parson's wig as duly fired — 
 
 The dogs all still — the squire asleep. 
 
 And dreaming of his usual leap, — 
 
 She leaves the dregs of white and red. 
 
 And lounges languidly to bed ; 
 
 And still, in nightly visions borne, 
 
 She gallops o'er the rustic's corn ; 
 
 Still wields the lash — still shakes the box. 
 
 Dreaming of "sixes" — and the fox. 
 
 And this is bliss ! — the story runs, 
 
 Camilla never wept — save once: 
 
 Yes ! once indeed Camilla cried — 
 
 'T was when her dear Blue-stockings died. 
 
 Pretty Cordelia thinks she 's ill : 
 She seeks her medicine at quadrille; — 
 With hope and fear and envy sick 
 She gazes on the dubious trick, 
 As if eternity were laid 
 77 
 
TO JULIA 
 
 Upon a diamond, or a spade. 
 And I have seen a transient pique 
 Wake o'er that soft and girlish cheek 
 A chilly and a feverish hue, 
 Blighting the soil where beauty grew, 
 And bidding hate and malice rove 
 In eyes that ought to beam with love. 
 
 Turn we to Fannia : she was fair 
 As the soft fleeting forms of air 
 Shaped by the fancy, — fitting theme 
 For youthful bard's enamoured dream. 
 The neck, on whose transparent glow 
 The auburn ringlets sweetly flow. 
 The eye that swims in liquid fire. 
 The brow that frowns in playful ire. 
 All these, when Fannia's early youth 
 Looked lovely in its native truth. 
 Diffused a bright unconscious grace. 
 Almost divine, o'er form and face. 
 
 Her lip has lost its fragrant dew, 
 Her cheek has lost its rosy hue, 
 78 
 
TO JULIA 
 
 Her eye the glad enlivening rays 
 
 That glittered there in happier days. 
 
 Her heart the ignorance of woe 
 
 Which Fashion's votaries may not know. 
 
 The city's smoke — the noxious air — 
 
 The constant crowd — the torch's glare — 
 
 The morning sleep — the noonday call — 
 
 The late repast — the midnight ball. 
 
 Bid faith and beauty die, and taint 
 
 Her heart with fraud, her face w^th paint. 
 
 And what the boon, the prize enjoyed. 
 For fame defaced, and peace destroyed .'' 
 Why ask we this ? with conscious grace 
 She criticises silk and lace ; 
 Queen of the modes, she reigns alike 
 O'er sarsenet, bobbin, net, Vandyke, 
 O'er rouge and ribbons, combs and curls, 
 Perfumes and patches, pins and pearls; 
 Feelings and faintings, songs and sighs. 
 Small-talk and scandal, love and lies. 
 Circled by beaux behold her sit, 
 79 
 
TO JULIA 
 
 While dandies tremble at her wit ; 
 
 The captain hates "a woman's gab; " 
 
 "A devil!" cries the shy Cantab; 
 
 The young Etonian strives to fly 
 
 The glance of her sarcastic eye, 
 
 For well he knows she looks him o'er, 
 
 To stamp him "buck," or dub him "bore." 
 
 Such is her life — a life of waste, 
 A life of wretchedness — and taste; 
 And all the glory Fannia boasts, 
 And all the price that glory costs, 
 At once are reckoned up, in one — 
 One word of bliss and folly — Ton. 
 
 Not these the thoughts that could perplex 
 The fancies of our fickle sex. 
 When England's favourite, good Queen Bess, 
 Was queen alike o'er war and dress. 
 Then ladies gay played chesse — and ballads, 
 And learnt to dress their hair — and salads; 
 80 
 
TO JULIA 
 
 Sweets, and sweet looks, were studied then, 
 And both were pleasing to the men ; 
 For cookery was allied to taste, 
 And girls were taught to blush — and baste. 
 Dishes were bright, — and so were eyes. 
 And lords made love, — and ladies, pies. 
 Then Valour won the wavering field 
 By dint of hauberk and of shield, 
 And Beauty won the wavering heart 
 By dint of pickle and of tart : 
 The minuet was the favourite dance ; 
 Girls loved the needle, boys the lance ; 
 And Cupid took his constant post 
 At dinner by the boiled and roast. 
 Or secretly was wont to lurk 
 In tournament or needlework. 
 Oh ! 't was a reign of all delights. 
 Of hot sirloins — and hot sir knights; 
 Feasting and fighting, hand in hand, 
 Fattened and glorified the land ; 
 And noble chiefs had noble cheer. 
 And knights grew strong upon strong beer ; 
 81 
 
TO JULIA 
 
 Honour and oxen both were nourished, 
 And chivalry — and pudding — flourished. 
 
 I 'd rather see that magic face, 
 That look of love, that form of grace. 
 Circled by whalebone and by ruffs, 
 Intent on puddings and on puffs, — 
 I 'd rather \iew thee thus, than see 
 A Fashionable rise in thee. 
 If life is dark, 't is not for you 
 (If partial friendship's voice is true) 
 To cure its griefs and drown its cares 
 By leaping gates and murd'ring hares, 
 Nor to confine that feeling soul 
 To winning lovers — or the vole. 
 
 If these, and such pursuits, are thine, 
 Julia ! thou art no friend of mine ! 
 I love plain dress, I eat plain joints, 
 I cannot play ten-guinea points ; 
 I make no study of a pin. 
 And hate a female whipper-in ! 
 82 
 
MARRIAGE 
 
 What, what is Marriage ? Harris, Priscian, 
 
 Assist me with a definition. — 
 
 " Oh ! " cries a charming silly fool. 
 
 Emerging from her boarding-school — 
 
 "Marriage is — love without disguises, 
 
 It is a — something that arises 
 
 From raptures and from stolen glances. 
 
 To be the end of all romances ; 
 
 Vows — quarrels — moonshine — babes — but 
 
 hush! 
 I must n't have you see me blush." 
 
 "Pshaw!" says a modern modish wife, 
 "Marriage is splendour, fashion, life; 
 A house in town, and villa shady. 
 Balls, diamond bracelets, and ' my lady ; ' 
 Then for finale, angry words, 
 * Some people 's — 'obstinate 's — ' absurd ! 's 
 And peevish hearts, and silly heads. 
 And oaths, and 'bete's, and separate beds." 
 83 
 
MARRIAGE 
 
 An aged bachelor, whose life 
 
 Has just been sweetened with a wife, 
 
 Tells out the latent grievance thus : 
 
 " Marriage is — odd ! for one of us 
 
 'T is worse a mile than rope or tree, 
 
 Hemlock, or sword, or slavery; 
 
 An end at once to all our ways. 
 
 Dismission to the one-horse chaise -, 
 
 Adieu to Sunday can, and pig, 
 
 Adieu to wine, and whist, and wig ; 
 
 Our friends turn out — our wife's are clapt in; 
 
 'T is 'exit Crony,' — 'enter Captain.' 
 
 Then hurry in a thousand thorns, — 
 
 Quarrels, and compliments, — and horns. 
 
 This is the yoke, and I must wear it ; 
 
 Marriage is — hell, or something near it!" 
 
 "Why, marriage," says an exquisite. 
 Sick from the supper of last night, 
 "Marriage is — after one by me! 
 I promised Tom to ride at three. — 
 Marriage is — 'gad ! I 'm rather late ; 
 84 
 
MARRIAGE 
 
 La Fleur! — my stays! and chocolate! — 
 Marriage is — really, though, 'twas hard 
 To lose a thousand on a card ; 
 Sink the old Duchess! — three revokes! 
 'Gad ! I must fell the Abbey oaks : 
 Mary has lost a thousand more ! — 
 Marriage is — 'gad! a cursed bore!" 
 
 Hymen, who hears the blockheads groan, 
 Rises indignant from his throne. 
 And mocks their self-reviling tears. 
 And whispers thus in Folly's ears : 
 " O frivolous of heart and head ! 
 If strifes infest your nuptial bed. 
 Not Hymen's hand, but guilt and sin. 
 Fashion and folly, force them in ; 
 If on your couch is seated Care, 
 I did not bring the scoffer there ; 
 If Hymen's torch is feebler grown. 
 The hand that quenched it was your own ; 
 And what I am, unthinking elves, 
 Ye all have made me for yourselves ! " 
 85 
 
THE CHAUNT OF THE BRAZEN 
 HEAD 
 
 Brazen companion of my solitary hours ! do you, while I re- 
 cline, pronounce a prologue to those sentiments of wisdom and 
 virtue, which are hereafter to be the oracles of statesmen, and 
 the guides of philosophers. Give me to-night a proem of our 
 essay, an opening of our case, a division of our subject. Speak ! 
 (Slow music. The Friar falls asleep. The Head chaunts as 
 follows.) — The Brazen Head. 
 
 I THINK, whatever mortals crave, 
 
 With impotent endeavour, — 
 A wreath, a rank, a throne, a grave, — 
 
 The world goes round for ever : 
 I think that life is not too long ; 
 
 And therefore I determine. 
 That many people read a song 
 
 Who will not read a sermon. 
 
 I think you 've looked through many 
 hearts. 
 And mused on many actions. 
 And studied Man's component parts, 
 And Nature's compound fractions: 
 86 
 
CHAUNT OF THE BRAZEN HEAD 
 
 I think you 've picked up truth by bits 
 From foreigner and neighbour ; 
 
 I think the world has lost its wits, 
 And you have lost your labour. 
 
 I think the studies of the w^se, 
 
 The hero's noisy quarrel, 
 The majesty of Woman's eyes, 
 
 The poet's cherished laurel, 
 And all that makes us lean or fat, 
 
 And all that charms or troubles, — 
 This bubble is more bright than that. 
 
 But still they all are bubbles. 
 
 I think the thing you call Renown, 
 
 The unsubstantial vapour 
 For which the soldier burns a town. 
 
 The sonnetteer a taper. 
 Is like the mist which, as he flies. 
 
 The horseman leaves behind him ; 
 He cannot mark its wreaths arise. 
 
 Or if he does they blind him. 
 87 
 
CHAUNT OF THE BRAZEN HEAD 
 
 I think one nod of Mistress Chance 
 
 Makes creditors of debtors, 
 And shifts the funeral for the dance, 
 
 The sceptre for the fetters : 
 I think that Fortune's favoured guest 
 
 May Hve to gnaw the platters. 
 And he that wears the purple vest 
 
 May wear the rags and tatters. 
 
 I think the Tories love to buy 
 
 "Your Lordship "s and "your Grace "s 
 By loathing common honesty, 
 
 And lauding commonplaces : 
 I think that some are very wise, 
 
 And some are very funny. 
 And some grow rich by telling lies. 
 
 And some by telling money. 
 
 I think the Whigs are wicked knaves — 
 (And very like the Tories) — 
 
 Who doubt that Britain rules the waves. 
 And ask the price of glories : 
 88 
 
CHAUNT OF THE BRAZEN HEAD 
 
 I think that many fret and fume 
 At what their friends are planning, 
 
 And Mr. Hume hates Mr. Brougham 
 As much as Mr. Canning. 
 
 I think that friars and their hoods, 
 
 Their doctrines and their maggots, 
 Have Hghted up too many feuds, 
 
 And far too many faggots : 
 I think, while zealots fast and frown. 
 
 And fight for two or seven. 
 That there are fifty roads to Town, 
 
 And rather more to Heaven. 
 
 I think that, thanks to Paget' s lance. 
 
 And thanks to Chester's learning, 
 The hearts that burned for fame in France 
 
 At home are safe from burning : 
 I think the Pope is on his back ; 
 
 And, though 't is fun to shake him, 
 I think the Devil not so black 
 
 As many people make him. 
 89 
 
CHAUNT OF THE BRAZEN HEAD 
 
 I think that Love is like a play, 
 
 Where tears and smiles are blended, 
 Or like a faithless April day. 
 
 Whose shine with shower is ended : 
 Like Colnbrook pavement, rather rough. 
 
 Like trade, exposed to losses, 
 And like a Highland plaid, — all stuff. 
 
 And very full of crosses. 
 
 I think the world though dark it be, 
 
 Has aye one rapturous pleasure 
 Concealed in life's monotony. 
 
 For those who seek the treasure ; 
 One planet in a starless night. 
 
 One blossom on a briar, 
 One friend not quite a hypocrite. 
 
 One woman not a liar ! 
 
 I think poor beggars court St. Giles, 
 Rich beggars court St. Stephen ; 
 
 And Death looks down with nods and smiles. 
 And makes the odds all even : 
 90 
 
CHAUNT OF THE BRAZEN HEAD 
 
 I think some die upon the field. 
 
 And some upon the billow, 
 And some are laid beneath a shield, 
 
 And some beneath a willow. 
 
 I think that very few have sighed 
 
 WTien Fate at last has found them, 
 Though bitter foes were by their side, 
 
 And barren moss around them : 
 I think that some have died of drought. 
 
 And some have died of drinking ; 
 I think that nought is worth a thought, — 
 
 And I 'm a fool for thinking ! 
 
 91 
 
TWENTY-EIGHT AND TWENTY 
 NINE 
 
 Rien n'est change, mes amis ! — Charles X. 
 
 I HEARD a sick man's dying sigh, 
 
 And an infant's idle laughter; 
 The Old Year went with mourning by, 
 
 The New came dancing after. 
 Let Sorrow shed her lonely tear, 
 
 Let Revelry hold her ladle ! 
 Bring boughs of cypress for the bier, 
 
 Fling roses on the cradle : 
 Mutes to wait on the funeral state ! 
 
 Pages to pour the wine ! 
 A requiem for Twenty-eight, 
 
 And a health to Twenty-nine ! 
 
 Alas for human happiness ! 
 
 Alas for human sorrow ! 
 Our yesterday is nothingness, — 
 
 What else will be bur morrow ? 
 92 
 
TWENTY EIGHT AND TWENTY-NINE 
 
 Still Beauty must be stealing hearts, 
 
 And Knavery stealing purses ; 
 Still cooks must live by making tarts, 
 
 And wits by making verses : 
 While sages prate, and courts debate, 
 
 The same stars set and shine ; 
 And the world, as it rolled through Twenty- 
 eight, 
 
 Must roll through Twenty-nine. 
 
 Some king ^\'ill come, in Heaven's good time. 
 
 To the tomb his father came to ; 
 Some thief will wade through blood and crime 
 
 To a crown he has no claim to ; 
 Some suffering land will rend in twain 
 
 The manacles that bound her. 
 And gather the links of the broken chain 
 
 To fasten them proudly round her : 
 The grand and great will love and hate. 
 
 And combat, and combine ; 
 And much where we were in Twenty-eight 
 
 We shall be in Twenty-nine. 
 93 
 
TWENTY-EIGHT AND TWENTY-NINE 
 
 O 'Connell will toil to raise the rent, 
 
 And Kenyon to sink the nation, 
 And Shell will abuse the Parliament, 
 
 And Peel the Association ; 
 And the thought of bayonets and swords 
 
 Will make ex-chancellors merry, 
 And jokes will be cut in the House of 
 Lords, 
 
 And throats in the county Kerry ; 
 And writers of weight will speculate 
 
 On the Cabinet's design. 
 And just what it did in Twenty-eight 
 
 It will do in Twenty-nine. 
 
 John Thomas Mugg, on a lonely hill. 
 
 Will do a deed of mystery ; 
 The Morning Chronicle will fill 
 
 Five columns with the history ; 
 The jury will be all surprise. 
 
 The prisoner quite collected. 
 And Justice Park will wipe his eyes 
 
 And be very much affected ; 
 94 
 
TWENTY-EIGHT AND TWENTY-NINE 
 
 And folks will relate poor Corder's fate 
 
 As they hurry home to dine. 
 Comparing the hangings of Twenty-eight 
 
 With the hangings of Twenty-nine. 
 
 And the goddess of love will keep her 
 smiles, 
 
 And the god of cups his orgies, 
 And there '11 be riots in St. Giles, 
 
 And weddings in St. George's ; 
 And mendicants will sup like kings. 
 
 And lords will swear like lacqueys, 
 And black eyes oft will lead to rings. 
 
 And rings will lead to black eyes ; 
 And pretty Kate will scold her mate 
 
 In a dialect all divine ; 
 Alas ! they married in Twenty-eight, 
 
 They will part in Twenty-nine ! 
 And oh ! I shall find how, day by day, 
 
 All thoughts and things look older ; 
 How the laugh of pleasure grows less gay, 
 
 And the heart of friendship colder ; 
 95 
 
TWENTY-EIGHT AND TWENTY-NINE 
 
 But still I shall be what I have been. 
 
 Sworn foe to Lady Reason, 
 And seldom troubled with the spleen, 
 
 And fond of talking treason : 
 I shall buckle my skait, and leap my gate, 
 
 And throw — and write — my line; 
 And the woman I worshipped in Twenty-eight 
 
 I shall worship in Twenty-nine ! 
 
GOOD NIGHT TO THE SEASON 
 
 So runs the world away. — Hamlet. 
 
 Good night to the Season ! 'T is over! 
 
 Gay dwellings no longer are gay; 
 The courtier, the gambler, the lover. 
 
 Are scattered like swallows away: 
 There 's nobody left to invite one 
 
 Except my good uncle and spouse ; 
 My mistress is bathing at Brighton, 
 
 My patron is sailing at Cowes : 
 For want of a better employment. 
 
 Till Ponto and Don can get out, 
 I '11 cultivate rural enjoyment. 
 
 And angle immensely for trout. 
 
 Good night to the Season! — the lobbies, 
 Their changes, and rumours of change, 
 
 Which startled the rustic Sir Bobbies, 
 And made all the Bishops look strange ; 
 
 The breaches, and battles, and blunders. 
 Performed by the Commons and Peers ; 
 97 
 
GOOD NIGHT TO THE SEASON 
 
 The Marquis's eloquent blunders, 
 
 The Baronet's eloquent ears ; 
 Denouneings of Papists and treasons, 
 
 Of foreign dominion and oats ; 
 Misrepresentations of reasons, 
 
 And misunderstandings of notes. 
 
 Good night to the Season! — the buildings 
 
 Enough to make Inigo sick ; 
 The paintings, and plasterings, and gildings 
 
 Of stucco, and marble, and brick ; 
 The orders deliciously blended, 
 
 From love of effect, into one ; 
 The club-houses only intended. 
 
 The palaces only begun ; 
 The hell, where the fiend in his glory 
 
 Sits staring at putty and stones. 
 And scrambles from story to story, 
 
 To rattle at midnight his bones. 
 
 Good night to the Season! — the dances. 
 The fillings of hot little rooms, 
 98 
 
GOOD NIGHT TO THE SEASON 
 
 The glancings of rapturous glances, 
 
 The fancyings of fancy costumes ; 
 The pleasures which fashion makes du- 
 ties, 
 
 The praisings of fiddles and flutes, 
 The luxury of looking at Beauties, 
 
 The tedium of talking to mutes ; 
 The female diplomatists, planners 
 
 Of matches for Laura and Jane ; 
 The ice of her Ladyship's manners. 
 
 The ice of his Lordship's champagne. 
 
 Good night to the Season! — the rages 
 
 Led off by the chiefs of the throng, 
 The Lady Matilda's new pages, 
 
 The Lady Eliza's new song; 
 Miss Fennel's macaw, which at Boodle's 
 
 Was held to have something to say ; 
 Mrs. Splenetic's musical poodles, 
 
 Which bark *'Batti Batti" all day; 
 The pony Sir Araby sported, 
 
 As hot and as black as a coal, 
 99 
 
GOOD NIGHT TO THE SEASON 
 
 And the Lion his mother imported, 
 
 In bearskins and grease, from the Pole. 
 
 Good night to the Season! — the Toso, 
 
 So very majestic and tall ; 
 Miss Ayton, whose singing was so-so, 
 
 And Pasta, divinest of all ; 
 The labour in vain of the ballet, 
 
 So sadly deficient in stars ; 
 The foreigners thronging the Alley, 
 
 Exhaling the breath of cigars ; 
 The loge where some heiress (how killing !) 
 
 Environed with exquisites sits. 
 The lovely one out of her drilling. 
 
 The silly ones out of their wits. 
 
 Good night to the Season! — the splendour 
 That beamed in the Spanish Bazaar ; 
 
 Where I purchased — my heart was so tender - 
 A card-case, a pasteboard guitar, 
 
 A bottle of perfume, a girdle, 
 
 A lithographed Riego, full-grown, 
 100 
 
GOOD NIGHT TO THE SEASON 
 
 Whom bigotry drew on a hurdle 
 
 That artists might draw him on stone ; 
 
 A small panorama of Seville, 
 A trap for demolishing flies, 
 
 A caricature of the Devil, 
 
 And a look from Miss Sheridan's eyes. 
 
 Good night to the Season! — the flowers 
 
 Of the grand horticultural fete, 
 When boudoirs were quitted for bowers. 
 
 And the fashion was — not to be late; 
 When all who had money and leisure 
 
 Grew rural o'er ices and wines, 
 All pleasantly toiling for pleasure. 
 
 All hungrily pining for pines. 
 And making of beautiful speeches, 
 
 And marring of beautiful shows. 
 And feeding on delicate peaches, 
 
 And treading on delicate toes. 
 
 Good night to the Season! — Another 
 Will come, with its trifles and toys, 
 101 
 
GOOD NIGHT TO THE SEASON 
 
 And hurry away, like its brother. 
 
 In sunshine, and odour, and noise. 
 Will it come with a rose or a briar ? 
 
 Will it come with a blessing or curse ? 
 Will its bonnets be lower or higher ? 
 
 Will its morals be better or worse ? 
 Will it find me grown thinner or fatter. 
 
 Or fonder of wrong or of right. 
 Or married — or buried ? — no matter: 
 
 Good night to the Season — good night! 
 
 10 ^ 
 
ARRIVALS AT A WATERING- 
 PLACE 
 
 "I PLAY a spade. — Such strange new faces 
 
 Are flocking in from near and far ; 
 Such frights ! — (Miss Dobbs holds all theaces)- 
 
 One can't imagine who they are : 
 The lodgings at enormous prices, — 
 
 New donkeys, and another fly ; 
 And Madame Bonbon out of ices. 
 
 Although we 're scarcely in July : 
 We 're quite as sociable as any, 
 
 But one old horse can scarcely crawl ; 
 And really, where there are so many, 
 
 We can't tell where we ought to call. 
 
 "Pray who has seen the odd old fellow 
 Who took the Doctor's house last week? — 
 
 A pretty chariot, — livery yellow, 
 Almost as yellow as his cheek ; 
 
 A widower, sixty-five, and surly. 
 And stiff er than a poplar-tree ; 
 103 
 
ARRIVALS AT A WATERING-PLACE 
 
 Drinks rum and water, gets up early 
 
 To dip his carcass in the sea ; 
 He's always in a monstrous hurry, 
 
 And always talking of Bengal ; 
 They say his cook makes noble curry ; — 
 
 I think, Louisa, we should call. 
 
 "And so Miss Jones, the mantua-maker. 
 
 Has let her cottage on the hill ! — 
 The drollest man, — a sugar-baker 
 
 Last year imported from the till ; 
 Prates of his 'orses and his ^oney. 
 
 Is quite in love with fields and farms ; 
 A horrid Vandal, — but his money 
 
 Will buy a glorious coat of arms ; 
 Old Clyster makes him take the waters ; 
 
 Some say he means to give a ball ; 
 And after all, with thirteen daughters, 
 
 I think. Sir Thomas, you might call. 
 
 '* That poor young man ! — I 'm sure and certain 
 Despair is making up his shroud ; 
 104 
 
ARRIVALS AT A WATERING-PLACE 
 
 He walks all night beneath the curtain 
 
 Of the dim sky and murky cloud ; 
 Draws landscapes, — throws such mournful 
 glances ; 
 
 Writes verses, — has such splendid eyes; 
 An ugly name, — but Laura fancies 
 
 He 's some great person in disguise ! — 
 And since his dress is all the fashion. 
 
 And since he 's very dark and tall, 
 I think that out of pure compassion, 
 
 I '11 get Papa to go and call. 
 
 "So Lord St. Ives is occupying 
 
 The whole of Mr. Ford's hotel! 
 Last Saturday his man was trying 
 
 A little nag I want to sell. 
 He brought a lady in the carriage ; 
 
 Blue eyes, — eighteen, or thereabouts; 
 Of course, you know, we ho'pe it 's marriage, 
 
 But yet \hefemme de chamhre doubts. 
 She looked so pensive when we met her, 
 
 Poor thing! — and such a charming shawl! 
 105 
 
ARRIVALS AT A WATERING-PLACE 
 
 Well ! till we understand it better, 
 It 's quite impossible to call ! 
 
 " Old Mr. Fund, the London Banker, 
 
 Arrived to-day at Premium Court ; 
 I would not, for the world, cast anchor 
 
 In such a horrid dangerous port ; 
 Such dust and rubbish, lath and plaster, — 
 
 (Contractors play the meanest tricks) — 
 The roof's as crazy as its master. 
 
 And he was born in fifty-six ; 
 Stairs creaking — cracks in every landing, — 
 
 The colonnade is sure to fall ; 
 We shan't find post or pillar standing. 
 
 Unless we make great haste to call. 
 
 "Who was that sweetest of sweet creatures 
 Last Sunday in the Rector's seat ? 
 
 The finest shape, the loveliest features, — 
 I never saw such tiny feet ! 
 
 My brother, (this is quite between us) 
 Poor Arthur, — 'twas a sad affair; 
 106 
 
ARRIVALS AT A WATERING-PLACE 
 
 Love at first sight! — she's quite a Venus, 
 But then she 's poorer far than fair ; 
 
 And so my father and my mother 
 Agreed it would not do at all ; 
 
 And so, — I'm sorry for my brother! — 
 It's settled that we're not to call. 
 
 "And there's an author, full of knowledge; 
 
 And there's a captain on half-pay; 
 And there 's a baronet from college, 
 
 Who keeps a boy and rides a bay; 
 And sweet Sir Marcus from the Shannon, 
 
 Fine specimen of brogue and bone ; 
 And Doctor Calipee, the canon, 
 
 Who weighs, I fancy, twenty stone : 
 A maiden lady is adorning 
 
 The faded front of Lily Hall : — 
 Upon my word, the first fine morning, 
 
 We'll make a round, my dear, and call." 
 
 Alas ! disturb not, maid and matron. 
 The swallow in my humble thatch ; 
 107 
 
ARRIVALS AT A WATERING-PLACE 
 
 Your son may find a better patron, 
 
 Your niece may meet a richer match : 
 I can't afford to give a dinner, 
 
 I never was on Almack's list ; 
 And, since I seldom rise a winner, 
 
 I never like to play at whist : 
 Unknown to me the stocks are falling, 
 
 Un watched by me the glass may fall ; 
 Let all the world pursue its calling, — 
 
 I'm not at home if people call. 
 
 108 
 
THE FANCY BALL 
 
 A visor for a visor ! What care I 
 
 What curious eye doth quote deformities? 
 
 Romeo and Juliet, 
 
 "You used to talk," said Miss Mac Call, 
 
 "Of flowers, and flames, and Cupid; 
 But now you never talk at all ; 
 
 You 're getting vastly stupid : 
 You 'd better burn your Blaekstone, sir, 
 
 You never will get through it ; 
 There 's a Fancy Ball at Winchester, — 
 
 Do let us take you to it ! " 
 
 I made that night a solemn vow 
 
 To startle all beholders ; 
 I wore white muslin on my brow, 
 
 Green velvet on my shoulders ; 
 My trousers were supremely wide, 
 
 I learnt to swear "by Allah!" 
 I stuck a poniard by my side. 
 
 And called myself "Abdallah." 
 109 
 
THE FANCY BALL 
 
 Oh, a fancy ball 's a strange affair! 
 
 Made up of silks and leathers, 
 Light heads, light heels, false hearts, false hair, 
 
 Pins, paint, and ostrich feathers : 
 The dullest duke in all the town, 
 
 To-day may shine a droll one ; 
 And rakes, who have not half-a-crown, 
 
 Look royal in a whole one. 
 
 Go, call the lawyer from his pleas. 
 
 The school-boy from his Latin ; 
 Be stoics here in ecstasies. 
 
 And savages in satin ; 
 Let young and old forego — forget 
 
 Their labour and their sorrow, 
 And none — except the Cabinet — 
 
 Take counsel for the morrow. 
 
 Begone, dull care ! This life of ours 
 
 Is very dark and chilly ; 
 We'll sleep through all its serious hours. 
 
 And laugh through all its silly. 
 110 
 
THE FANCY BALL 
 
 Be mine such motley scene as this. 
 Where, by estabhshed usance. 
 
 Miss Gravity is quite amiss, 
 And Madam Sense a nuisance ! 
 
 Hail, blest Confusion ! here are met 
 
 All tongues and times and faces, 
 The Lancers flirt with Juliet, 
 
 The Brahmin talks of races ; 
 And where 's your genius, bright Corinne ? 
 
 And where 's your brogue. Sir Lucius ? 
 And Chinca Ti, you have not seen 
 
 One chapter of Confucius. 
 
 Lo ! dandies from Kamschatka flirt 
 
 With Beauties from the Wrekin ; 
 And belles from Berne look very pert 
 
 On Mandarins from Pekin ; 
 The Cardinal is here from Rome, 
 
 The Commandant from Seville; 
 And Hamlet's father from the tomb, 
 
 And Faustus from the Devil. 
 Ill 
 
THE FANCY BALL 
 
 sweet Anne Page! — those dancing eyes 
 Have peril in their splendour ! 
 
 "O sweet Anne Page! " — so Slender sighs, 
 
 And what am I, but slender ? 
 Alas ! when next your spells engage 
 
 So fond and starved a sinner, 
 My pretty Page, be Shakspeare's Page, 
 
 And ask the fool to dinner! 
 
 What mean those laughing Nuns, I pray. 
 What mean they, nun or fairy ? 
 
 1 guess they told no beads to-day. 
 
 And sang no Ave Mary : 
 From mass and matins, priest and pix. 
 
 Barred door, and window grated, 
 I wish all pretty Catholics 
 
 Were thus emancipated ! 
 
 Four Seasons come to dance quadrilles 
 With four well-seasoned sailors ; 
 
 And Raleigh talks of rail-road bills 
 With Timon, prince of railers ; 
 112 
 
THE FANCY BALL 
 
 I find Sir Charles of Aubyn Park 
 Equipt for a walk to Mecca ; 
 
 And I run away from Joan of Arc 
 To romp with sad Rebecca. 
 
 Fair Cleopatra 's very plain ; 
 
 Puck halts, and Ariel swaggers ; 
 And Caesar 's murdered o'er again, 
 
 Though not by Roman daggers : 
 Great Charlemagne is four feet high ; 
 
 Sad stuff has Bacon spoken ; 
 Queen Mary's waist is all awry, 
 
 And Psyche's nose is broken. 
 
 Our happiest bride — how very odd ! — 
 
 Is the mourning Isabella ; 
 And the heaviest foot that ever trod 
 
 Is the foot of Cinderella ; 
 Here sad Calista laughs outright. 
 
 There Yorick looks most grave, sir, 
 And a Templar waves the cross to-night. 
 
 Who never crossed the wave, sir ! 
 113 
 
THE FANCY BALL 
 
 And what a Babel is the talk ! 
 
 "The GiraflPe"— "plays the fiddle" — 
 ** Macadam's roads " — "I hate this chalk ! " — 
 
 *' Sweet girl " — "a charming riddle " — 
 " I 'm nearly drunk with " — " Epsom salts " — 
 
 *' Yes, separate beds " — " such cronies ! " — 
 "Good Heaven! who taught that man to 
 waltz?" — 
 
 "A pair of Shetland ponies." 
 
 "Lord Nugent" — "an enchanting shape" — 
 
 " Will move for" — " Maraschino " — 
 "Pray, Julia, how's your mother's ape?" — 
 
 " He died at Navarino ! " 
 "The gout, by Jove, is" — "apple pie" — 
 
 "Don Miguel" — "Tom the tinker" — 
 "His Lordship's pedigree 's as high 
 
 As" — "Whipcord, dam by Clinker." 
 
 "Love's shafts are weak" — "my chestnut 
 kicks" — 
 "Heart broken" — "broke the traces" — 
 114 
 
THE FANCY BALL 
 
 " What say you now of politics ? " — 
 "Change sides and to your places." — 
 
 "A five-barred gate" — "a precious pearl" — 
 " Grave things may all be punned on ! " — 
 
 "The Whigs, thank Heaven, are" — "out of 
 curl!" — 
 "Her age is" — "four by London!" 
 
 Thus run the giddy hours away, 
 
 Till morning's light is beaming. 
 And we must go to dream by day 
 
 All we to-night are dreaming, — 
 To smile and sigh, to love and change : 
 
 Oh, in our heart's recesses, 
 We dress in fancies quite as strange 
 
 As these our fancy dresses ! 
 
 115 
 
A LETTER OF ADVICE 
 
 FROM MISS MEDORA TREVILIAN, AT PADUA, 
 TO MISS ARAMINTA VAVASOUR, IN LONDON 
 
 Enfin, monsieur, un homme aimable ; 
 
 Voila pourquoi je ne saurais I'aimer. — Scribe. 
 
 You tell me you 're promised a lover, 
 
 My own Araminta, next week ; 
 Why cannot my fancy discover 
 
 The hue of his coat and his cheek ? 
 Alas ! if he look like another, 
 
 A vicar, a banker, a beau, 
 Be deaf to your father and mother, 
 
 My own Araminta, say " No ! " 
 
 Miss Lane, at her Temple of Fashion, 
 
 Taught us both how to sing and to speak, 
 And we loved one another with passion, 
 
 Before we had been there a week : 
 You gave me a ring for a token ; 
 
 I wear it wherever I go ; 
 I gave you a chain, — is it broken ? 
 
 My own Araminta, say *'No!" 
 116 
 
A LETTER OF ADVICE 
 
 O think of our favourite cottage, 
 
 And think of our dear Lalla Rookh ! 
 How we shared with the milkmaids their pottage, 
 
 And drank of the stream from the brook ; 
 How fondly our lo\^ng lips faltered 
 
 "What further can grandeur bestow?" 
 My heart is the same; — is yours altered ? 
 
 My own Araminta, say "No!" 
 
 Remember the thrilling romances 
 
 We read on the bank in the glen ; 
 Remember the suitors our fancies 
 
 Would picture for both of us then. 
 They wore the red cross on their shoulder, 
 
 They had vanquished and pardoned their foe; 
 Sweet friend, are you wiser or colder ? 
 
 My own Araminta, say "No ! " 
 
 You know, when Lord Rigmarole's carriage 
 Drove off with your cousin Justine, 
 
 You wept, dearest girl, at the marriage. 
 And whispered "How base she has been!" 
 117 
 
A LETTER OF ADVICE 
 
 You said you were sure it would kill you, 
 If ever your husband looked so ; 
 
 And you will not apostatize, — will you ? 
 My own Araminta, say " No ! " 
 
 When I heard I was going abroad, love, 
 
 I thought I was going to die ; 
 We walked arm in arm to the road, love, 
 
 We looked arm in arm to the sky ; 
 And I said " When a foreign postilion 
 
 Has hurried me off to the Po, 
 Forget not Medora Trevilian : 
 
 My own Araminta, say * No ! ' " 
 
 We parted ! but sympathy's fetters 
 
 Reach far over valley and hill ; 
 I muse o'er your exquisite letters. 
 
 And feel that your heart is mine still ; 
 And he who would share it with me, love, 
 
 The richest of treasures below, — 
 If he 's not what Orlando should be, love. 
 
 My own Araminta, say "No!" 
 118 
 
A LETTER OF ADVICE 
 
 If he wears a top-boot in his wooing, 
 
 If he comes to you riding a cob. 
 If he talks of his baking or brewing, 
 
 If he puts up his feet on the hob. 
 If he ever drinks port after dinner, 
 
 If his brow or his breeding is low, 
 If he calls himself "Thompson" or "Skinner," 
 
 My own Araminta, say " No ! " 
 
 If he studies the news in the papers 
 
 While you are preparing the tea. 
 If he talks of the damps or the vapours 
 
 While moonlight lies soft on the sea. 
 If he 's sleepy while you are capricious. 
 
 If he has not a musical " Oh ! " 
 If he does not call Werther delicious, — 
 
 My own Araminta, say " No ! " 
 
 If he ever sets foot in the City 
 
 Among the stockbrokers and Jews, 
 
 If he has not a heart full of pity, 
 
 If he don't stand six feet in his shoes, 
 119 
 
A LETTER OF ADVICE 
 
 If his lips are not redder than roses, 
 If his hands are not whiter than snow, 
 
 If he has not the. model of noses, — 
 My own Araminta, say " No ! " 
 
 If he speaks of a tax or a duty, 
 
 If he does not look grand on his knees. 
 If he 's blind to a landscape of beauty. 
 
 Hills, valleys, rocks, waters, and trees, 
 If he dotes not on desolate towers. 
 
 If he likes not to hear the blast blow. 
 If he knows not the language of flowers, - 
 
 My own Araminta, say "No! " 
 
 He must walk — like a god of old story 
 
 Come down from the home of his rest ; 
 He must smile — like the sun in his glory 
 
 On the buds he loves ever the best ; 
 And oh ! from its ivory portal 
 
 Like music his soft speech must flow ! — 
 If he speak, smile, or walk like a mortal. 
 
 My own Araminta, say "No!" 
 120 
 
A LETTER OF ADVICE 
 
 Don't listen to tales of his bounty, 
 
 Don't hear what they say of his birth, 
 Don't look at his seat in the county, 
 
 Don't calculate what he is worth ; 
 But give him a theme to WTite verse on. 
 
 And see if he turns out his toe ; 
 If he 's only an excellent person, — 
 
 My own Araminta, say "No!" 
 
 121 
 
THE TALENTED MAN 
 
 A LETTER FROM A LADY IN LONDON TO A 
 LADY AT LAUSANNE 
 
 Dear Alice ! you '11 laugh when you know it, — 
 
 Last week, at the Duchess's ball, 
 I danced with the clever new poet, — 
 
 You've heard of him,— Tully St. Paul. 
 Miss Jonquil was perfectly frantic ; 
 
 I wish you had seen Lady Anne ! 
 It really was very romantic. 
 
 He is such a talented man ! 
 
 He came up from Brazen Nose College, 
 
 Just caught, as they call it, this spring ; 
 And his head, love, is stuffed full of knowledge 
 
 Of every conceivable thing. 
 Of science and logic he chatters, 
 
 As jBne and as fast as he can ; 
 Though I am no judge of such matters, 
 
 I 'm sure he 's a talented man. 
 122 
 
THE TALENTED MAN 
 
 His stories and jests are delightful ; — 
 
 Not stories or jests, dear, for you; 
 The jests are exceedingly spiteful, 
 
 The stories not always quite true. 
 Perhaps to be kind and veracious 
 
 May do pretty well at Lausanne ; 
 But it never would answer, — good gracious ! 
 
 Chez nous — in a talented man. 
 
 He sneers, — how my Alice would scold him ! - 
 
 At the bliss of a sigh or a tear ; 
 He laughed — only think! — when I told him 
 
 How we cried o'er Trevelyan last year ; 
 I vow I was quite in a passion ; 
 
 I broke all the sticks of my fan ; 
 But sentiment 's quite out of fashion 
 
 It seems, in a talented man. 
 
 Lady Bab, who is terribly moral. 
 
 Has told me that Tully is vain, 
 And apt — which is silly — to quarrel. 
 
 And fond — which is sad — of champagne. 
 123 
 
THE TALENTED MAN 
 
 I listened, and doubted, dear Alice, 
 For I saw, when my Lady began. 
 
 It was only the Dowager's malice; — 
 She does hate a talented man ! 
 
 He's hideous, I own it. But fame, love. 
 
 Is all that these eyes can adore ; 
 He 's lame, — but Lord Byron was lame, 
 love, 
 
 And dumpy, — but so is Tom Moore. 
 Then his voice, — such a voice ! my sweet 
 creature. 
 
 It's like your Aunt Lucy's toucan: 
 But oh ! what 's a tone or a feature. 
 
 When once one 's a talented man ? 
 
 My mother, you know, all the season. 
 Has talked of Sir GeofiFrey's estate ; 
 
 And truly, to do the fool reason. 
 He has been less horrid of late. 
 
 But to-day, when we drive in the carriage, 
 I'll tell her to lay down her plan; — 
 124 
 
THE TALENTED MAN 
 
 If ever I venture on marriage, 
 It must be a talented man ! 
 
 P. S. — I have found, on reflection. 
 
 One fault in my friend, — entre noits; 
 Without it, he'd just be perfection; — 
 
 Poor fellow, he has not a sou ! 
 And so, when he comes in September 
 
 To shoot with my uncle, Sir Dan, 
 I 've promised mamma to remember 
 
 He 's only a talented man ! 
 
 125 
 
LETTERS FROM TElGNMOUTH 
 
 OUR BALL 
 
 Comment! c'est lui? que je le regarde encore! C'est que 
 vraimeut il est bien change ; n'est ce pas, mon papa ? — Les 
 Pkbmiers Amours. 
 
 You'll come to our Ball; — since we parted, 
 
 I 've thought of you more than I '11 say ; 
 Indeed, I was half broken-hearted 
 
 For a week, when they took you away. 
 Fond fancy brought back to my slumbers 
 
 Our walks on the Ness and the Den, 
 And echoed the musical numbers 
 
 Which you used to sing to me then. 
 I know the romance, since it's over, 
 
 'T were idle, or worse, to recall ; 
 I know you 're a terrible rover ; 
 
 But Clarence, you '11 come to our Ball ! 
 
 It's only a year, since, at College, 
 You put on your cap and your gown ; 
 126 
 
OUR BALL 
 
 But, Clarence, you're grown out of know- 
 ledge, 
 
 And changed from the spur to the crown : 
 The voice that was best when it faltered 
 
 Is fuller and firmer in tone, 
 And the smile that should never have altered - 
 
 Dear Clarence — it is not your own: 
 Your cravat was badly selected ; 
 
 Your coat don't become you at all ; 
 And why is your hair so neglected ? 
 
 You must have it curled for our Ball. 
 
 I 've often been out upon Haldon 
 
 To look for a covey with pup ; 
 I 've often been over to Shaldon, 
 
 To see how your boat is laid up : 
 In spite of the terrors of Aunty, 
 
 I 've ridden the filly you broke ; 
 And I 've studied your sweet little Dante 
 
 In the shade of your favourite oak : 
 When I sat in July to Sir Lawrence, 
 
 I sat in your love of a shawl ; 
 127 
 
LETTERS FROM TEIGNMOUTH 
 
 And I '11 wear what you brought me from Flor- 
 ence, 
 Perhaps, if you '11 come to our Ball. 
 
 You '11 find us all changed since you van- 
 ished ; 
 
 We've set up a National School; 
 And waltzing is utterly banished. 
 
 And Ellen has married a fool ; 
 The Major is going to travel. 
 
 Miss Hyacinth threatens a rout, 
 The walk is laid down with fresh gravel, 
 
 Papa is laid up with the gout ; 
 And Jane has gone on with her easels. 
 
 And Anne has gone off with Sir Paul ; 
 And Fanny is sick with the measles, — 
 
 And I'll tell you the rest at the Ball. 
 
 You '11 meet all your Beauties ; the Lily, 
 And the Fairy of Willowbrook Farm, 
 
 And Lucy, who made me so silly 
 At Dawlish, by taking your arm ; 
 128 
 
OUR BALL 
 
 Miss Manners, who always abused you 
 
 For talking so much about Ilock, 
 And her sister, who often amused you 
 
 By raving of rebels and Rock ; 
 And something which surely would an- 
 swer, 
 
 An heiress quite fresh from Bengal ; 
 So, though you were seldom a dancer. 
 
 You'll dance, just for once, at our Ball. 
 
 But out on the World ! from the flowers 
 
 It shuts out the sunshine of truth : 
 It blights the green leaves in the bowers, 
 
 It makes an old age of our youth ; 
 And the flow of our feeling, once in it, 
 
 Like a streamlet beginning to freeze, 
 Though it cannot turn ice in a minute, 
 
 Grows harder by sudden degrees : 
 Time treads o'er the graves of affection ; 
 
 Sweet honey is turned into gall ; 
 Perhaps you have no recollection 
 
 That ever you danced at our Ball ! 
 129 
 
LETTERS FROM TEIGNMOUTH 
 
 You once could be pleased wdth our bal- 
 lads, — 
 
 To-day you have critical ears ; 
 You once could be charmed with our salads - 
 
 Alas ! you 've been dining with Peers ; 
 You trifled and flirted with many, — 
 
 You 've forgotten the when and the how ; 
 There was one you liked better than any, — 
 
 Perhaps you 've forgotten her now. 
 But of those you remember most newly. 
 
 Of those who delight or enthrall. 
 None love you a quarter so truly 
 
 As some you will find at our Ball. 
 
 They tell me you 've many who flatter, 
 
 Because of your wit and your song : 
 They tell me — and what does it matter ? — 
 
 You like to be praised by the throng : 
 They tell me you 're shadowed with laurel : 
 
 They tell me you 're loved by a Blue : 
 They tell me you're sadly immoral — 
 
 Dear Clarence, that cannot be true ! 
 130 
 
OUR BALL 
 
 But to me, you are still what I found you, 
 
 Before you grew clever and tall ; 
 And you'll think of the spell that once bound 
 you; 
 And you'll come — won't you come? — to our 
 Ball! 
 
 131 
 
LETTERS FROM TEIGNMOUTH 
 II 
 
 PRIVATE THEATRICALS 
 
 Sweet, when actors first appear, 
 
 The loud collision of applauding gloves. — Moultrie. 
 
 Your labours, my talented brother, 
 
 Are happily over at last : 
 They tell me — that, somehow or other, 
 
 The Bill is rejected, — or past; 
 And now you '11 be coming, I 'm certain, 
 
 As fast as your posters can crawl. 
 To help us to draw up our curtain. 
 
 As usual, at Fustian Hall. 
 
 Arrangements are nearly completed ; 
 
 But still we've a Lover or two. 
 Whom Lady Albina entreated 
 
 We 'd keep, at all hazards, for you : 
 Sir Arthur makes horrible faces ; 
 
 Lord John is a trifle too tall ; 
 132 
 
PRIVATE THEATRICALS 
 
 And yours are the safest embraces 
 To faint in, at Fustian Hall. 
 
 Come, Clarence; — it's really enchanting 
 
 To listen and look at the rout : 
 We 're all of us puffing and panting. 
 
 And raving, and running about ; 
 Here Kitty and Adelaide bustle ; 
 
 There Andrew and Anthony bawl ; 
 Flutes murmur — chains rattle — robes 
 rustle 
 
 In chorus, at Fustian Hall. 
 
 By the bye, there are two or three matters 
 
 We want you to bring us from Town : 
 The Inca's white plumes from the hatter's, 
 
 A nose and a hump for the Clown ; 
 We want a few harps for our banquet; 
 
 We want a few masks for our ball ; 
 And steal from your wise friend Bosan- 
 quet 
 
 His white wig, for Fustian Hall! 
 133 
 
LETTERS FROM TEIGNMOUTH 
 
 Hunca Munca must have a huge sabre ; 
 
 Friar Tuck has forgotten his cowl ; 
 And we 're quite at a stand still with Weber 
 
 For want of a lizard and owl : 
 And then, for our funeral procession, 
 
 Pray get us a love of a pall, — 
 Or how shall we make an impression 
 
 On feelings, at Fustian Hall ? 
 
 And, Clarence, you'll really delight us. 
 
 If you '11 do your endeavour to bring. 
 From the Club, a young person to write us 
 
 Our prologue, and that sort of thing ; 
 Poor Crotchet, who did them supremely, 
 
 Is gone for a Judge to Bengal ; 
 I fear we shall miss him extremely 
 
 This season, at Fustian Hall. 
 
 Come, Clarence ! your idol Albina 
 
 Will make a sensation, I feel ; 
 We all think there never was seen a 
 
 Performer so like the O'Neill : 
 134 
 
PRIVATE THEATRICALS 
 
 At rehearsals, her exquisite fancy 
 
 Has deeply affected us all ; 
 For one tear that trickles at Drury, 
 
 There '11 be twenty at Fustian Hall ! 
 
 Dread objects are scattered before her 
 
 On purpose to harrow her soul ; 
 She stares, till a deep spell comes o'er her, 
 
 At a knife, or a cross, or a bowl. 
 The sword never seems to alarm her 
 
 That hangs on a peg to the wall ; 
 And she dotes on thy rusty old armour, 
 
 Lord Fustian, of Fustian Hall. 
 
 She stabbed a bright mirror this morning, — 
 
 (Poor Kitty was quite out of breath !) — 
 And trampled, in anger and scorning, 
 
 A bonnet and feathers to death. 
 But hark! — I've a part in "The Stranger," - 
 
 There's the Prompter's detestable call! 
 Come, Clarence — our Romeo and Ranger — 
 
 We want you at Fustian Hall ! 
 135 
 
TALES OUT OF SCHOOL 
 
 A DROPT LETTER FROM A LADY 
 
 Your godson, my sweet Lady Bridget, 
 
 Was entered at Eton last May; 
 But really, I 'm all in a fidget 
 
 Till the dear boy is taken away ; 
 For I feel an alarm which, I 'm certain, 
 
 A mother to you may confess. 
 When the newspaper draws up the curtain, 
 
 The terrible Windsor Express. 
 
 You know I was half broken-hearted 
 
 When the poor fellow whispered " Good- 
 bye!" 
 As soon as the carriage had started 
 
 I sat down in comfort to cry. 
 Sir Thomas looked on while I fainted. 
 
 Deriding — the bear ! — my distress ; 
 But what were the hardships I painted, 
 
 To the tales of the Windsor Express ? 
 136 
 
TALES OUT OF SCHOOL 
 
 The planter in sultry Barbadoes 
 
 Is a terrible tyrant, no doubt ; 
 In Moscow, a Count carbonadoes 
 
 His ignorant serfs with the knout ; 
 Severely men smart for their errors 
 
 WTio dine at a man-of-war's mess ; 
 But Eton has crueller terrors 
 
 Than these, — in the Windsor Express. 
 
 I fancied the Doctor at College 
 
 Had dipped, now and then, into books ; 
 But, bless me ! I find that his knowledge 
 
 Is just hke my coachman's, or cook's : 
 He's a dunce — I have heard it with sorrow; 
 
 'T would puzzle him sadly, I guess. 
 To put into English to-morrow 
 
 A page of the Windsor Express. 
 
 All preachers of course should be preaching 
 That virtue 's a very good thing ; 
 
 All tutors of course should be teaching 
 To fear God, and honour the King; 
 137 
 
TALES OUT OF SCHOOL 
 
 But at Eton they've regular classes 
 
 For folly, for vice, for excess ; 
 They learn to be villains and asses. 
 
 Nothing else — in the Windsor Express. 
 
 Mrs. Martha, who nursed little Willy, 
 
 Believes that she nursed him in vain ; 
 Old John, who takes care of the filly. 
 
 Says " He '11 ne'er come to mount her again ! 
 My Juliet runs up to her mother, 
 
 And cries, with a mournful caress, 
 " Oh where have you sent my poor brother ? 
 
 Look, look at the Windsor Express ! " 
 
 Ring, darling, and order the carriage ; 
 
 Whatever Sir Thomas may say, — 
 Who has been quite a fool since our marriage, - 
 
 I '11 take him directly away. 
 For of all their atrocious ill-treating 
 
 The end it is easy to guess ; — 
 Some day they'll be killing and eating 
 
 My boy — in the Windsor Express! 
 138 
 
UTOPIA 
 
 I can dream, sir, 
 
 If I eat well and sleep well. — The Mad Lover. 
 
 If I could scare the light away, 
 
 No sun should ever shine ; 
 If I could bid the clouds obey. 
 
 Thick darkness should be mine : 
 Where'er my weary footsteps roam, 
 
 I hate whate'er I see ; 
 And Fancy builds a fairer home 
 
 In slumber's hour for me. 
 
 I had a vision yesternight 
 
 Of a lovelier land than this. 
 Where heaven was clothed in warmth and 
 light, 
 
 Where earth was full of bliss ; 
 And every tree was rich with fruits, 
 
 And every field with flowers, 
 And every zephyr wakened lutes 
 
 In passion-haunted bowers. 
 139 
 
UTOPIA 
 
 I clambered up a lofty rock, 
 
 And did not find it steep ; 
 I read through a page and a half of Locke, 
 
 And did not fall asleep ; 
 I said whate'er I may but feel, 
 
 I paid whate'er I owe ; 
 And I danced one day an Irish reel, 
 
 With the gout in every toe. 
 
 And I was more than six feet high, 
 
 And fortunate, and wise ; 
 And I had a voice of melody 
 
 And beautiful black eyes ; 
 My horses like the lightning went. 
 
 My barrels carried true. 
 And I held my tongue at an argument. 
 
 And winning cards at Loo. 
 
 I saw an old Italian priest 
 
 Who spoke without disguise ; 
 I dined with a judge who swore, like Best, 
 
 All libels should be lies : 
 140 
 
UTOPIA 
 
 I bought for a penny a twopenny loaf, 
 Of wheat, and nothing more ; 
 
 I danced with a female philosophe. 
 Who was not quite a bore. 
 
 The kitchens there had richer roast, 
 
 The sheep wore whiter wool ; 
 I read a witty Morning Post, 
 
 And an innocent John Bull : 
 The gaolers had nothing at all to do, 
 
 The hangman looked forlorn, 
 And the Peers had passed a vote or two 
 
 For freedom of trade in corn. 
 
 There was a crop of wheat, which grew 
 
 WTiere plough was never brought ; 
 There was a noble Lord, who knew 
 
 WTiat he was never taught : 
 A scheme appeared in the Gazette 
 
 For a lottery with no blanks ; 
 And a Parliament had lately met. 
 
 Without a single Bankes. 
 141 
 
UTOPIA 
 
 And there were kings who never went 
 
 To cuffs for half-a-crown ; 
 And lawyers who were eloquent 
 
 Without a wig and gown ; 
 x'^lnd sportsmen who forbore to praise 
 
 Their greyhounds and their guns ; 
 And poets who deserved the bays, 
 
 And did not dread the duns. 
 
 And boroughs were bought without a test, 
 
 And no man feared the Pope ; 
 And the Irish cabins were all possest 
 
 Of liberty and soap ; 
 And the Chancellor, feeling very sick, 
 
 Had just resigned the seals ; 
 And a clever little Catholic 
 
 Was hearing Scotch appeals. 
 
 I went one day to a Court of Law 
 Where a fee had been refused ; 
 
 And a Public School I really saw 
 Where the rod was never used ; 
 142 
 
UTOPIA 
 
 And the sugar still was very sweet, 
 Though all the slaves were free ; 
 
 And all the folk in Downing Street 
 Had learnt the rule of three. 
 
 There love had never a fear or doubt ; 
 
 December breathed like June : 
 The Prima Donna ne'er was out 
 
 Of temper — or of tune; 
 The streets were paved Tvith mutton pies. 
 
 Potatoes ate like pine ; 
 Nothing looked black but woman's eyes ; 
 
 Nothing grew old but wine. 
 
 It was an idle dream ; but thou, 
 
 The worshipped one, wert there. 
 With thy dark clear eyes and beaming brow, 
 
 WTiite neck and floating hair ; 
 And oh, I had an honest heart, 
 
 And a house of Portland stone ; 
 And thou wert dear, as still thou art, 
 
 And more than dear, my own ! 
 
 143 
 
UTOPIA 
 
 Oh bitterness! — the morning broke 
 
 Alike for boor and bard ; 
 And thou wert married when I woke, 
 
 And all the rest was marred : 
 And toil and trouble, noise and steam, 
 
 Came back with the coming ray ; 
 And, if I thought the dead could dream, 
 
 I 'd hang myself to-day ! 
 
 144 
 
MARRIAGE CHIMES 
 
 Go together, 
 
 You precious winners all. — Wintee's Tale. 
 
 Fair Lady, ere you put to sea, 
 
 You and your mate together, 
 I meant to hail you lo\angly, 
 
 And wish you pleasant weather. 
 I took my fiddle from the shelf; 
 
 But vain was all my labour ; 
 For still I thought about myself, 
 
 And not about my neighbour. 
 
 Safe from the perils of the war. 
 
 Nor killed, nor hurt, nor missing — 
 Since many things in common are 
 
 Between campaigns and kissing — 
 Ungrazed by glance, unbound by ring. 
 
 Love's carte and tierce I 've parried. 
 While half my friends are marrying, 
 
 And half — good lack! — are married. 
 145 
 
MARRIAGE CHIMES 
 
 'T is strange — but I have passed alive 
 
 Where darts and deaths were plenty, 
 Until I find my twenty-five 
 
 As lonely as my twenty : 
 And many lips have sadly sighed — 
 
 Which were not made for sighing, 
 And many hearts have darkly died — 
 
 Which never dreamed of dying. 
 
 Some victims fluttered like a fly. 
 
 Some languished like a lily ; 
 Some told their tale in poetry, 
 
 And some in Piccadilly : 
 Some yielded to a Spanish hat. 
 
 Some to a Turkish sandal ; 
 Hosts suffered from an entrechat. 
 
 And one or two from Handel. 
 
 Good Sterling said no dame should come 
 To be the queen of his bourn, 
 
 But one who only prized her home. 
 Her spinning wheel, and Gisborne : 
 146 
 
MARRIAGE CHIMES 
 
 And Mrs. Sterling says odd things 
 With most sublime efFront'ry ; 
 
 Gives lectm'es on elliptic springs, 
 And follows hounds 'cross country. 
 
 Sir Roger had a Briton's pride 
 
 In freedom, plough, and furrow; — 
 No fortune hath Sir Roger's bride, 
 
 Except a rotten borough : 
 Gustavus longed for truth and crumbs, 
 
 Contentment and a cottage; — 
 His Laura brings a pair of plums 
 
 To boil the poor man's pottage. 
 
 My rural coz., who loves his peace, 
 
 And swore at scientifics, 
 Is flirting with a lecturer's niece. 
 
 Who construes hieroglyphics : 
 And Foppery's fool, who hated Blues 
 
 Worse than he hated Holborn, 
 Is raving of a pensive Muse, 
 
 Who does the verse for Colburn. 
 147 
 
MARRIAGE CHIMES 
 
 And Vyvyan, Humour's crazy child, — 
 
 Whose worship, whim, or passion. 
 Was still for something strange and wild. 
 
 Wit, wickedness, or fashion, — 
 Is happy with a little Love, 
 
 A parson's pretty daughter. 
 As tender as a turtle-dove, — 
 
 As dull as milk and water. 
 
 And Gerard hath his Northern Fay — 
 
 His nymph of mirth and haggis ; 
 And Courtenay wins a damsel gay 
 
 Who figures at Colnaghi's ; 
 And Davenant now has drawn a prize, — 
 
 I hope and trust, a Venus, 
 Because there are some sympathies — 
 
 As well as leagues — between us. 
 
 Thus north and south, and east and west, 
 The chimes of Hymen dingle ; 
 
 But I shall wander on, unblest. 
 And singularly single ; 
 148 
 
MARRIAGE CHIMES 
 
 Light-pursed, light-hearted, addle-brained, 
 
 And often captivated, 
 Yet, save on circuit — unretained. 
 
 And, save at chess — unmated. 
 
 Yet oh ! -7- if Nemesis with me 
 
 Should sport, as with my betters, 
 And put me on my awkward knee 
 
 To prate of flowers and fetters, — 
 I know not whose the eyes should be 
 
 To make this fortress tremble ; 
 But yesternight I dreamt, — ah me! 
 
 Whose they should most resemble ! 
 
 149 
 
SCHOOL AND SCHOOLFELLOWS 
 
 " Floreat Etona." 
 
 Twelve years ago I made a mock 
 
 Of filthy trades and traffics : 
 I wondered what they meant by stock ; 
 
 I wrote delightful sapphics ; 
 I knew the streets of Rome and Troy, 
 
 I supped with Fates and Furies, — 
 Twelve years ago I was a boy, 
 
 A happy boy, at Drury's. 
 
 Twelve years ago ! — how many a thought 
 
 Of faded pains and pleasures 
 Those whispered syllables have brought 
 
 From Memory's hoarded treasures ! 
 The fields, the farms, the bats, the books, 
 
 The glories and disgraces, 
 The voices of dear friends, the looks 
 
 Of old familiar faces ! 
 150 
 
SCHOOL AND SCHOOLFELLOWS 
 
 Kind Mater smiles again to me, 
 
 As bright as when we parted ; 
 I seem again the frank, the free, 
 
 Stout-limbed, and simple-hearted ! 
 Pursuing every idle dream. 
 
 And shunning every warning ; 
 With no hard work but Bovney stream. 
 
 No chill except Long Morning : 
 
 Now stopping Harry Vernon's ball 
 
 That rattled like a rocket ; 
 Now hearing Wentworth's " Fourteen all ! 
 
 And striking for the pocket ; 
 Now feasting on a cheese and flitch, — 
 
 Now drinking from the pewter ; 
 Now leaping over Chalvey ditch. 
 
 Now laughing at my tutor. 
 
 Where are my friends ? I am alone ; 
 
 No playmate shares my beaker : 
 Some lie beneath the churchyard stone, 
 
 And some — before the Speaker; 
 151 
 
SCHOOL AND SCHOOLFELLOWS 
 
 And some compose a tragedy, 
 
 And some compose a rondo ; 
 And some draw sword for Liberty, 
 
 And some draw pleas for John Doe. 
 
 Tom Mill was used to blacken eyes 
 
 Without the fear of sessions ; 
 Charles Medlar loathed false quantities. 
 
 As much as false professions ; 
 Now Mill keeps order in the land, 
 
 A magistrate pedantic ; 
 And Medlar's feet repose unscanned 
 
 Beneath the wide Atlantic. 
 
 Wild Nick, whose oaths made such a din. 
 
 Does Dr. Martext's duty; 
 And Mullion, with that monstrous chin. 
 
 Is married to a Beauty ; 
 And Darrell studies, week by week. 
 
 His Mant, and not his Manton ; 
 And Ball, who was but poor at Greek, 
 
 Is very rich at Canton. 
 152 
 
SCHOOL AND SCHOOLFELLOWS 
 
 And I am eight-and-twenty now; — 
 
 The world's cold chains have bound me ; 
 And darker shades are on my brow 
 
 And sadder scenes around me : 
 In Parliament I fill my seat. 
 
 With many other noodles ; 
 And lay my head in Jermyn Street, 
 
 And sip my hock at Boodle's. 
 
 But often, when the cares of life 
 
 Have set my temples aching, 
 When visions haunt me of a wife, 
 
 When duns await my waking. 
 When Lady Jane is in a pet. 
 
 Or Hoby in a hurry. 
 When Captain Hazard Tsdns a bet, 
 
 Or BeauKeu spoils a curry, — 
 
 For hours and hours I think and talk 
 
 Of each remembered hobby ; 
 I long to lounge in Poets' Walk, 
 
 To shiver in the lobby ; 
 153 
 
SCHOOL AND SCHOOLFELLOWS 
 
 I wish that I could run away 
 
 From House, and Court, and Levee, 
 
 Where bearded men appear to-day 
 Just Eton boys grown heavy, — 
 
 That I could bask in childhood's sun 
 
 And dance o'er childhood's roses. 
 And find huge wealth in one pound one. 
 
 Vast wit in broken noses. 
 And play Sir Giles at Datchet Lane, 
 
 And call the milk-maids Houris, — 
 That I could be a boy again, — 
 
 A happy boy, — at Drury's. 
 
 154 
 
PALINODIA 
 
 Nee meus hie eermo est, sed quern praecepit. — Horace. 
 
 There was a time, when I could feel 
 
 All passion's hopes and fears ; 
 And tell what tongues can ne'er reveal 
 
 By smiles, and sighs, and tears. 
 The days are gone! no more — no more 
 
 The cruel Fates allow ; 
 And, though I'm hardly twenty-four, — 
 I 'm not a lover now. 
 
 Lady, the mist is on my sight. 
 
 The chill is on my brow; 
 My day is night, my bloom is blight; 
 I 'm not a lover now ! 
 
 I never talk about the clouds, 
 
 I laugh at girls and boys, 
 I 'm growing rather fond of crowds. 
 
 And very fond of noise ; 
 155 
 
PALINODIA 
 
 I never wander forth alone 
 
 Upon the mountain's brow ; 
 I weighed, last winter, sixteen stone; — 
 
 I 'm not a lover now ! 
 
 I never wish to raise a veil, 
 
 I never raise a sigh ; 
 I never tell a tender tale, 
 
 I never tell a lie : 
 I cannot kneel, as once I did ; 
 
 I 've quite forgot my bow ; 
 I never do as I am bid ; — 
 
 I 'm not a lover now ! 
 
 I make strange blunders every day. 
 
 If I would be gallant ; 
 Take smiles for wrinkles, black for grey. 
 
 And nieces for their aunt : 
 I fly from folly, though it flows 
 
 From lips of loveliest glow ; 
 I don't object to length of nose; — 
 
 I 'm not a lover now ! 
 156 
 
PALINODIA 
 
 I jfind my Ovid very dry, 
 
 My Petrarch quite a pill, 
 Cut Fancy for Philosophy, 
 
 Tom Moore for Mr. Mill. 
 And belles may read, and beaux may write,- 
 
 I care not who or how ; 
 I burnt my Album, Sunday night; — 
 
 I 'm not a lover now ! 
 
 I don't encourage idle dreams 
 
 Of poison or of ropes : 
 I cannot dine on airy schemes ; 
 
 I cannot sup on hopes : 
 New milk, I own, is very fine 
 
 Just foaming from the cow ; 
 But yet, I want my pint of wine ; — 
 
 I 'm not a lover now ! 
 
 WTien Laura sings young hearts away, 
 
 I 'm deafer than the deep ; 
 When Leonora goes to play, 
 
 I sometimes go to sleep ; 
 157 
 
PANINODIA 
 
 When Mary draws her white gloves out, 
 
 I never dance, I vow, — 
 ** Too hot to kick one's heels about ! " 
 
 I 'm not a lover now ! 
 
 I 'm busy, now, with state affairs ; 
 
 I prate of Pitt and Fox ; 
 I ask the price of rail-road shares, 
 
 I watch the turns of stocks. 
 And this is life ! no verdure blooms 
 
 Upon the withered bough : 
 I save a fortune in perfumes; — 
 
 I 'm not a lover now ! 
 
 I may be yet, what others are, 
 
 A boudoir's babbling fool. 
 The flattered star of Bench or Bar, 
 
 A party's chief, or tool : — 
 Come shower or sunshine, hope or fear, 
 
 The palace or the plough, — 
 My heart and lute are broken here ; 
 
 I 'm not a lover now ! 
 158 
 
PALINODIA 
 
 Lady, the mist is on my sight, 
 
 The chill is on my brow; 
 My day is night, my bloom is blight; 
 
 I'm not a lover now! 
 
POEMS OF LOVE AND SENTIMENT 
 
MY FIRST FOLLY 
 
 STANZAS WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT 
 
 Pretty Coquette, the ceaseless play 
 
 Of thine unstudied wit, 
 And thy dark eye's remembered ray 
 
 By buoyant fancy lit. 
 And thy young forehead's clear expanse, 
 Where the locks slept, as through the dance, 
 
 Dreamlike, I saw thee flit, 
 Are far too warm and far too fair 
 To mix with aught of earthly care; 
 But the vision shall come when my day is done, 
 A frail and a fair and a fleeting one ! 
 
 And if the many boldly gaze 
 
 On that bright brow of thine. 
 And if thine eye's undying rays 
 
 On countless coxcombs shine. 
 And if thy wit flings out its mirth, 
 Which echoes more of air than earth. 
 
 For other ears than mine, 
 163 
 
MY FIRST FOLLY 
 
 I heed not this ; ye are fickle things, 
 And I like your very wanderings ; 
 I gaze, and if thousands share the bliss, 
 Pretty capricious ! I heed not this. 
 
 In sooth I am a wayward youth, 
 
 As fickle as the sea, 
 And very apt to speak the truth, 
 
 Unpleasing though it be ; 
 I am no lover ; yet as long 
 As I have heart for jest or song, 
 
 An image, Sweet, of thee. 
 Locked in my heart's remotest treasures. 
 Shall ever be one of its hoarded pleasures ; 
 This from the scoffer thou hast won. 
 And more than this he gives to none. 
 
 164 
 
STANZAS 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE FIRST LEAF OF "LILLIAN 
 
 Talk not to me of learned dust, 
 
 Of reasoning and renown, 
 Of withering wreath and crumbling bust. 
 
 Torn book and tattered gown ; 
 Oh Wisdom lives in Folly's ring. 
 And beards, thank Heaven, are not the thing ! 
 
 Then let me live a long romance, 
 
 And learn to trifle well ; 
 And write my motto, "Vive la danse," 
 
 And "Vive la bagatelle!" 
 And give all honour, as is fit. 
 To sparkling eyes, and sparkling wit. 
 
 And let me deem, when Sophs condemn 
 
 And Seniors burn my lays. 
 That some bright eyes \\ill smile on them. 
 
 And some kind hearts will praise ; 
 165 
 
STANZAS 
 
 And thus my little book shall be 
 A mine of pleasant thoughts to me. 
 
 And we, perchance, may meet no more; 
 
 For other accents sound, 
 And darker prospects spread before, 
 
 And colder hearts come round ; 
 And cloistered walk and grated pane 
 Must wear their wonted gloom again. 
 
 But those who meet, as we have met. 
 In frolic and in laughter, — 
 
 O dream not they can e'er forget 
 The thoughts that linger after ; 
 
 That parted friend and faded scene 
 
 Can be as if they ne'er had been : 
 
 No ! I shall miss that merry smile 
 When thou hast left me lone ; 
 
 And listen in the silent aisle 
 For that remembered tone ; 
 
 And look up to the lattice high 
 
 For beckoning hand and beaming eye. 
 166 
 
STANZAS 
 
 And thou perhaps, when years are gone, 
 
 Wilt turn these pages over, 
 And waste one idle thought upon 
 
 A rambling rhyming rover, 
 And deem the Poet and his line 
 Both wild, both worthless, — and both thine ! 
 
 167 
 
L'INCONNUE 
 
 Many a beaming brow I 've known , 
 
 And many a dazzling eye, 
 And I 've listened to many a melting tone 
 
 In magic fleeting by; 
 And mine was never a heart of stone, 
 And yet my heart hath given to none 
 
 The tribute of a sigh ; 
 For Fancy's wild and witching mirth 
 Was dearer than aught I found on earth, 
 And the fairest forms I ever knew 
 Were far less fair than — L'Inconnue ! 
 
 Many an eye that once was bright 
 
 Is dark to-day in gloom ; 
 Many a voice that once was light 
 
 Is silent in the tomb ; 
 Many a flower that once was dight 
 In beauty's most entrancing might 
 
 Hath faded in its bloom ; 
 168 
 
L INCONNUE 
 
 But she is still as fair and gay 
 
 As if she had sprung to life to-day ; 
 
 A ceaseless tone and a deathless hue 
 
 Wild Fancy hath given to — L'Inconnue. 
 
 Many an eye of piercing jet 
 
 Hath only gleamed to grieve me ; 
 Many a fairy form I 've met, 
 
 But none have wept to leave me ; 
 When all forsake, and all forget, 
 One pleasant dream shall haunt me yet, 
 
 One hope shall not deceive me ; 
 For oh ! when all beside is past, 
 Fancy is found our friend at last. 
 And the faith is firm and the love is true 
 Which are vowed by the lips of — L'Inconnue! 
 
 169 
 
TO 
 
 I 
 
 We met but in one giddy dance, 
 
 Good-night joined hands with greeting; 
 And twenty thousand things may chance 
 
 Before our second meeting : 
 For oh ! I have been often told 
 
 That all the world grows older, 
 And hearts and hopes, to-day so cold. 
 
 To-morrow must be colder, 
 
 II 
 If I have never touched the string 
 
 Beneath your chamber, dear one. 
 And never said one civil thing 
 
 When you were by to hear one, — 
 If I have made no rhymes about 
 
 Those looks which conquer Stoics, 
 And heard those angel tones, without 
 
 One fit of fair heroics, — 
 170 
 
TO 
 
 III 
 
 Yet do not, though the world's cold school 
 Some bitter truths has taught me, 
 
 do not deem me quite the fool 
 Which wiser friends have thought me ! 
 
 There is one charm I still could feel, 
 
 If no one laughed at feeling ; 
 One dream my lute could still reveal, — 
 
 If it were worth revealing. 
 
 IV 
 
 But Folly little cares what name 
 
 Of friend or foe she handles, 
 When merriment directs the game. 
 
 And midnight dims the candles ; 
 
 1 know that Folly's breath is weak 
 
 And would not stir a feather; 
 But yet I would not have her speak 
 Your name and mine together. 
 
 V 
 
 Oh no ! this life is dark and bright. 
 Half rapture and half sorrow; 
 171 
 
TO 
 
 My heart is very full to-night, 
 
 My cup shall be to-morrow : 
 But they shall never know from me, 
 
 On any one condition, 
 Whose health made bright my Burgundy, 
 
 Whose beauty was my vision ! 
 
 172 
 
AN EXCUSE 
 
 Blame not the Minstrel's wayward will : 
 
 His soul has slumbered all too long ; 
 He has no pulse for passion's thrill, 
 
 No lute for passion's song. 
 O frown not, though he turns away 
 
 Unloved, unloving, even from thee, 
 And mars with idle jests the lay 
 
 Where Beauty's praise should be. 
 
 If he should bid the golden string 
 
 Be vocal to a loftier theme. 
 Sad Memory from her cell would bring 
 
 The fond forbidden dream ; 
 The dream of her, whose broken chain 
 
 Than new forged bonds is far more dear ; 
 Whose name he may not speak again, 
 
 And shudders but to hear. 
 
 And if he breathes Love's hopes and fears 
 In many a soulless idol's shrine, 
 173 
 
AN EXCUSE 
 
 The falsehoods fit for vulgar ears 
 
 Were never fit for thine. 
 Take back, take back the book to-night ; 
 
 Thou art too brightly — nobly fair, 
 For hearts so worn as his to write 
 
 Their worthless worship there. 
 
 174 
 
SECOND LOVE 
 
 L'on n'aime bien qu'une seule fois: c'est la premiere. Les 
 amours qui suivent sont moins iuvolontaires ! — La BRuriiRE. 
 
 How shall he woo her ? — Let him stand 
 
 Beside her as she sings ; 
 And watch that fine and fairy hand 
 
 Flit o'er the quivering strings : 
 And let him tell her he has heard, 
 
 Though sweet the music flow, 
 A voice whose every whispered word 
 
 Was sweeter, long ago. 
 
 How shall he woo her ? — Let him gaze 
 
 In sad and silent trance 
 On those blue eyes, whose liquid rays 
 
 Look love in every glance : 
 And let him tell her, eyes more bright. 
 
 Though bright her own may beam. 
 Will fling a deeper spell to-night 
 
 Upon him in his dream. 
 175 
 
SECOND LOVE 
 
 How shall he woo her ? — Let him try 
 
 The charms of olden time, 
 And swear by earth and sea and sky, 
 
 And rave in prose and rhyme : 
 And let him tell her, when he bent 
 
 His knee in other years, 
 He was not half so eloquent, — 
 
 He could not speak for tears ! 
 
 How shall he woo her ? — Let him bow 
 
 Before the shrine in prayer ; 
 And bid the priest pronounce the vow 
 
 That hallows passion there : 
 And let him tell her, when she parts 
 
 From his unchidden kiss. 
 That memory to many hearts 
 
 Is dearer far than bliss. 
 
 Away, away ! the chords are mute, 
 
 The bond is rent in twain ; 
 You cannot wake that silent lute. 
 
 Nor clasp those links again ; 
 176 
 
SECOND LOVE 
 
 Love's toil, I know, is little cost, 
 Love's perjury is light sin; 
 
 But souls that lose what his hath lost,- 
 Oh what have they to win ? 
 
 177 
 
LOVE AT A ROUT 
 
 When some mad bard sits down to muse 
 About the lilies and the dews, 
 The grassy vales and sloping lawns, 
 Fairies and Satyrs, Nymphs and Fawns, 
 He 's apt to think, he 's apt to swear. 
 That Cupid reigns not anywhere 
 Except in some sequestered village 
 Where peasants live on truth and tillage. 
 That none are fair enough for witches 
 But maids who frisk through dells and 
 
 ditches, 
 That dreams are twice as sweet as dances. 
 That cities never breed romances. 
 That Beauty always keeps a cottage, 
 And Purity grows pale on pottage. 
 
 Yes ! those dear dreams are all divine ; 
 And those dear dreams have all been mine. 
 I like the stream, the rock, the bay, 
 I like the smell of new-mown hay, 
 178 
 
LOVE AT A ROUT 
 
 I like the babbling of the brooks, 
 I like the creaking of the crooks, 
 I like the peaches, and the posies, — 
 But chiefly, when the season closes, 
 And often, in the month of fun. 
 When every poacher cleans his gun. 
 And cockneys tell enormous lies. 
 And stocks are pretty sure to rise, 
 And e'en the Chancellor, they say. 
 Goes to a point the nearest way, 
 I hurry from my drowsy desk 
 To revel in the picturesque. 
 To hear beneath those ancient trees 
 The far-off murmur of the bees. 
 Or trace yon river's mazy channels 
 With Petrarch, and a brace of spaniels, 
 Combining foolish rhymes together. 
 And killing sorrow, and shoe-leather. 
 
 Then, as I see some rural maid 
 Come dancing up the sunny glade. 
 Coquetting with her fond adorer 
 179 
 
LOVE AT A ROUT 
 
 Just as her mother did before her, 
 "Give me," I cry, "the quiet bliss 
 Of souls like these, of scenes like this ; 
 Where ladies eat and sleep in peace. 
 Where gallants never heard of Greece, 
 Where day is day, and night is night, 
 Where frocks — and morals — both are white ; 
 Blue eyes below — blue skies above — 
 These are the homes, the hearts, for Love ! " 
 
 But this is idle ; I have been 
 A sojourner in many a scene. 
 And picked up wisdom in my way. 
 And cared not what I had to pay ; 
 Smiling and weeping all the while, 
 As other people weep and smile ; 
 And I have learnt that Love is not 
 Confined to any hour or spot ; 
 He lights the smile and fires the frown 
 Alike in country and in town. 
 I own fair faces not more fair 
 In Ettrick, than in Portman Square, 
 180 
 
LOVE AT A ROUT 
 
 And silly danglers just as silly 
 
 In Sherwood, as in Piccadilly. 
 
 Soft tones are not the worse, no doubt. 
 
 For having harps to help them out ; 
 
 And smiles are not a ray more bright 
 
 By moonbeams, than by candle-light ; 
 
 I know much magic oft reposes 
 
 On wreaths of artificial roses. 
 
 And snowy necks, — I never found them 
 
 Quite spoilt by having cameos round them. 
 
 In short, I 'm very sure that all 
 
 Who seek or sigh for Beauty's thrall 
 
 May breathe their vows, and feed their passion, 
 
 Though whist and waltzing keep in fashion. 
 
 And make the most delicious sonnets, 
 
 In spite of diamonds, and French bonnets ! 
 
 181 
 
THE MODERN NECTAR 
 
 One day, as Bacchus wandered out 
 
 From his own gay and glorious heaven, 
 To see what mortals were about 
 
 Below, 'twixt six o'clock and seven, 
 And laugh at all the toils and tears. 
 The endless hopes, the causeless fears. 
 The midnight songs, the morning smarts, 
 The aching heads, the breaking hearts, 
 Which he and his fair crony Venus 
 Within the month had sown between us. 
 He lighted by chance on a jfiddling fellow 
 Who never was known to be less than mel- 
 low, 
 A wandering poet, who thought it his duty 
 To feed upon nothing but bowls and beauty, 
 Who worshipped a rhyme, and detested a quar- 
 rel, 
 And cared not a single straw for laurel, 
 Holding that grief was sobriety's daughter. 
 And loathing critics, and cold water. 
 182 
 
THE MODERN NECTAR 
 
 Ere day on the Gog-Magog hills had fainted, 
 The god and the minstrel were quite acquainted ; 
 Beneath a tree, in the sunny weather. 
 They sate them down, and drank together : 
 They drank of all fluids that ever were poured 
 By an English lout, or a German lord. 
 Rum and shrub and brandy and gin, 
 One after another, they stowed them in. 
 Claret of Carbonell, porter of Meux. 
 Champagne which would waken a wit in dukes. 
 Humble Port, and proud Tokay, 
 Persico, and Creme de The, 
 The blundering Irishman's Usquebaugh, 
 The fiery Welshman's Cwrw da ; 
 And after toasting various names 
 Of mortal and immortal flames. 
 And whispering more than I or you know 
 Of Mistress Poll, and Mistress Juno, 
 The god departed, scarcely knowing 
 A zephyr's from a nose's blowing, 
 A frigate from a pewter flagon. 
 Or Thespis from his own stage waggon ; 
 183 
 
THE MODERN NECTAR 
 
 And rolling about like a barrel of grog, 
 He went up to heaven as drunk as a hog ! 
 
 "Now may I," he lisped, "for ever sit 
 
 In Lethe's darkest and deepest pit, 
 
 Where dullness everlasting reigns 
 
 O'er the quiet pulse and the drowsy brains. 
 
 Where ladies jest, and lovers laugh, 
 
 And noble lords are bound in calf. 
 
 And Zoilus for his sins rehearses 
 
 Old Bentham's prose, old Wordsworth's verses. 
 
 If I have not found a richer draught 
 
 Than ever yet Olympus quaffed. 
 
 Better and brighter and dearer far 
 
 Than the golden sands of Pactolus are ! " 
 
 And then he filled in triumph up. 
 
 To the highest top-sparkle, Jove's beaming 
 
 cup. 
 And pulling up his silver hose. 
 And turning in his tottering toes, 
 (While Hebe, as usual, the mischievous gipsy, 
 184 
 
THE MODERN NECTAR 
 
 Was laughing to see her brother tipsy,) 
 He said — "May it please your high Divin- 
 ity, 
 This nectar is — Milk Punch at Trinity ! " 
 
 185 
 
MY OWN FUNERAL 
 
 FROM DE BERANG53R 
 
 This morning, as in bed I lay, 
 
 Half waking and half sleeping, 
 A score of Loves, immensely gay. 
 
 Were round my chamber creeping ; 
 I could not move my hand or head 
 
 To ask them what the stir meant ; 
 And "Ah," they cried, "our friend is dead; 
 
 Prepare for his interment ! " 
 
 All whose hearts with mine were blended. 
 Weep for me ! my days are ended ! 
 
 One drinks my brightest Burgundy, 
 
 Without a blush, before me ; 
 One brings a little rosary. 
 
 And breathes a blessing o'er me ; 
 One finds my pretty chambermaid. 
 
 And courts her in dumb crambo ; 
 Another sees the mutes arrayed 
 
 With fife by way of flambeau : 
 186 
 
MY OWN FUNERAL 
 
 In your feasting and your feting. 
 Weep for me ! my hearse is waiting. 
 
 Was ever such a strange array ? 
 
 The mourners all are singing ; 
 From all the churches on our way 
 
 A merry peal is ringing ; 
 The pall that clothes my cold remains, 
 
 Instead of boars and dragons, 
 Is blazoned o'er with darts and chains. 
 
 With lutes, and flowers, and flagons : 
 Passers-by their heads are shaking ! 
 Weep for me ! my grave is making. 
 
 And now they let my coflBn fall ; 
 
 And one of them rehearses. 
 For want of holy ritual, 
 
 My own least holy verses : 
 The sculptor carves a laurel leaf. 
 
 And writes my name and story ; 
 And silent nature in her grief 
 
 Seems dreaming of my glory : 
 187 
 
MY OWN FUNERAL 
 
 Just as I am made immortal, — 
 Weep for me ! — they bar the portal. 
 
 But Isabel, by accident. 
 
 Was wandering by that minute ; 
 She opened that dark monument, 
 
 And found her slave within it ; 
 The clergy said the Mass in vain. 
 
 The College could not save me ; 
 But life, she swears, returned again 
 
 With the first kiss she gave me : 
 You who deem that life is sorrow. 
 Weep for me again to-morrow ! 
 
 188 
 
TIME'S SONG 
 
 O'er the level plains, where mountains greet me 
 as I go, 
 
 O'er the desert waste, where fountains at my bid- 
 ding flow. 
 
 On the boundless beam by day, on the cloud by 
 night, 
 
 I am riding hence away: who will chain my 
 flight? 
 
 War his weary watch was keeping, — I have 
 crushed his spear ; 
 
 Grief within her bower was weeping, — I have 
 dried her tear; 
 
 Pleasure caught a minute's hold, — then I hur- 
 ried by, 
 
 Leaving all her banquet cold, and her goblet 
 dry. 
 
 Power had won a throne of glory : where is now 
 his fame ? 
 
 189 
 
TIME S SONG 
 
 Genius said "I live in story:" who hath heard 
 
 his name ? 
 Love beneath a myrtle bough whispered "Why 
 
 so fast ? " 
 And the roses on his brow withered as I past. 
 
 I have heard the heifer lowing o'er the wild 
 
 wave's bed; 
 I have seen the billow flowing where the cattle 
 
 fed; 
 Where began my wanderings ? Memory will not 
 
 say! 
 Where will rest my weary wings ? Science turns 
 
 away! 
 
 190 
 
FROM METASTASIO 
 
 The venomous serpent, dearest, 
 
 Shall couch with the cushat dove. 
 Ere a true friend, as thou fearest, 
 
 Shall ever be false in Love. 
 From Eden's greenest mountain 
 
 Two separate streamlets came ; 
 But their source was in one fountain, 
 
 Their waters are the same ! 
 
 191 
 
REMEMBER ME 
 
 In Seville, when the feast was long, 
 And lips and lutes grew free. 
 
 At Inez' feet, amid the throng, 
 A masquer bent his knee ; 
 
 And still the burthen of his song 
 Was "Sweet, remember me! 
 
 "Remember me in shine and shower. 
 
 In sorrow and in glee ; 
 When summer breathes upon the flower, 
 
 When winter blasts the tree, 
 When there are dances in the bower 
 
 Or sails upon the sea. 
 
 "Remember me beneath far skies, 
 
 On foreign lawn or lea ; 
 When others worship those wild eyes 
 
 Which I no more may see, 
 When others wake the melodies 
 
 Of which I mar the key. 
 192 
 
REMEMBER ME 
 
 " Remember me ! my heart will claim 
 No love, no trust, from thee ; 
 
 Remember me, though doubt and blame 
 Linked with the record be ; 
 
 Remember me, — with scorn or shame, — 
 But yet, remember me ! " 
 
 193 
 
FUIMUS! 
 
 Go to the once loved bowers ; 
 Wreathe blushing roses for the lady's hair : 
 Winter has been upon the leaves and 
 flowers, — 
 
 They were ! 
 
 Look for the domes of kings ; 
 Lo, the owl's fortress, or the tiger's lair! 
 
 Oblivion sits beside them ; mockery sings 
 They were ! 
 
 Waken the minstrel's lute ; 
 Bid the smooth pleader charm the listening air : 
 The chords are broken, and the lips are 
 mute ; — 
 
 They were ! 
 
 Visit the great and brave; 
 Worship the witcheries of the bright and fair. 
 Is not thy foot upon a new-made grave ? — 
 They were ! 
 194 
 
FUIMUS 
 
 Speak to thine own heart ; prove 
 The secrets of thy nature. What is there ? 
 Wild hopes, warm fancies, fervent faith, 
 fond love, — 
 
 They were ! 
 
 We too, we too must fall ; 
 A few brief years to labour and to bear ; — 
 Then comes the sexton, and the old trite 
 tale, 
 
 "We were!" 
 
 195 
 
LINES 
 
 SENT IN THANKS FOR A BOTTLE OF VERY 
 
 FINE OLD BRANDY 
 
 WRITTEN FOR LADY C 
 
 Spirits there were, in olden time, 
 
 Which wrought all sorts of wondrous things 
 (As we are told in prose and rhyme) 
 
 With wands and potions, lamps and rings; 
 I know not, Lady fair, — do you ? — 
 Whether those tales be false or true. 
 
 But in our day — our dismal day 
 Of sadder song and soberer mirth. 
 
 If any spirits ever play 
 
 Upon the faded fields of earth, 
 
 Whose magic. Lady fair, can fling 
 
 O'er winter's frosts the flowers of spring, — 
 
 If any spirits haunt our Isle 
 
 Whose power can make old age look gay, 
 196 
 
LINES 
 
 Revive tiie tone, relume the smile. 
 
 And chase three score of years away, 
 Such spirits, Lady fair, must be 
 Like those your kindness sends to me ! 
 
 197 
 
STANZAS 
 
 WRITTEN UNDER A PICTURE OF KING's 
 COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE 
 
 Most beautiful ! I gaze and gaze 
 
 In silence on the glorious pile, 
 And the glad thoughts of other days 
 
 Come thronging back the while. 
 To me dim memory makes more dear 
 
 The perfect grandeur of the shrine ; 
 But if I stood a stranger here, 
 
 The ground were still divine. 
 
 Some awe the good and wise have felt, 
 
 As reverently their feet have trod 
 On any spot where man hath knelt 
 
 To commune with his God ; 
 By sacred spring, or haunted well. 
 
 Beneath the ruined temple's gloom, 
 Beside the feeble hermit's cell. 
 
 Or the false Prophet's tomb. 
 
 198 
 
STANZAS 
 
 But when was high devotion graced 
 
 With loveHer dwelHng, loftier throne, 
 Than here the hmner's art hath traced 
 
 From the time-honoured stone ? 
 The Spirit here of Worship seems 
 
 To bind the soul in willing thrall, 
 And heavenward hopes and holy dreams 
 
 Come at her voiceless call ; 
 
 At midnight, when the lonely moon 
 
 Looks from a vapour's silvery fold ; 
 At morning, when the sun of June 
 
 Crests the high towers w^th gold ; 
 For every change of hour and form 
 
 Makes that fair scene more deeply fair. 
 And dusk and daybreak, calm and storm. 
 
 Are all Religion there. 
 
 199 
 
LINES 
 
 written for a blank page of "the keep- 
 sake" 
 
 Lady, there 's fragrance in your sighs, 
 
 And sunlight in your glances ; 
 I never saw such lips and eyes 
 
 In pictures or romances ; 
 And Love will readily suppose, 
 
 To make you quite enslaving, 
 That you have taste for verse and prose, 
 
 Hot pressed, and line engraving. 
 
 And then, you waltz so like a Fay, 
 
 That round you envy rankles ; 
 Your partner's head is turned, they say. 
 
 As surely as his ankles ; 
 And I was taught, in days far gone. 
 
 By a most prudent mother, 
 That in this world of sorrow, one 
 
 Good turn deserves another. 
 200 
 
LINES 
 
 I may not win you ! — that 's a bore ! 
 
 But yet 't is sweet to woo you ; 
 And for this cause, — and twenty more, 
 
 I send this gay book to you. 
 If its songs please you, — by this light ! 
 
 I will not hold it treason 
 To bid you dream of me to-night, 
 
 And dance with me next season. 
 
 201 
 
ANTICIPATION 
 
 " Oh yes ! he is in Parliament ; 
 
 He's been returning thanks ; 
 You can't conceive the time he 's spent 
 
 Already on his franks. 
 He '11 think of nothing, night and day. 
 
 But place, and the gazette : " — 
 No matter what the people say, — 
 
 You won't believe them yet. 
 
 "He filled an album, long ago, 
 
 With such delicious rhymes ; 
 Now we shall only see, you know. 
 
 His speeches in the ' Times ; ' 
 And liquid tone and beaming brow, 
 
 Bright eyes and locks of jet. 
 He '11 care for no such nonsense now : " • 
 
 Oh ! don't believe them yet ! 
 
 " I vow he 's turned a Goth, a Hun, 
 By that disgusting Bill ; 
 202 
 
ANTICIPATION 
 
 He '11 never make another pun ; 
 
 He's danced his last quadrille. 
 We shall not see him flirt again 
 
 With any fair coquette ; 
 He'll never laugh at Drury Lane." — 
 
 Psha! — don't believe them yet. 
 
 "Last week I heard his uncle boast 
 
 He 's sure to have the seals ; 
 I read it in the ' Morning Post ' 
 
 That he has dined at Peel's ; 
 You '11 never see him any more, 
 
 He 's in a different set : 
 He cannot eat at half-past four:" — 
 
 No ? — don't believe them yet. 
 
 "In short, he'll soon be false and cold, 
 
 And infinitely wise ; 
 He '11 grow next year extremely old. 
 
 He '11 tell enormous lies ; 
 He '11 learn to flatter and forsake. 
 
 To feign and to forget:" — 
 203 
 
ANTICIPATION 
 
 O whisper — or my heart will break - 
 You won't believe them yet ! 
 
 204 
 
CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS 
 
 Once on a time, when sunny May 
 
 Was kissing up the April showers, 
 I saw fair Childhood hard at play 
 
 Upon a bank of blushing flowers : 
 Happy — he knew not whence or how, — 
 
 And smiling, — who could choose but love 
 him? 
 For not more glad than Childhood's brow, 
 
 Was the blue heaven that beamed above him. 
 
 II 
 Old Time, in most appalling wrath, 
 
 That valley's green repose invaded ; 
 The brooks grew dry upon his path. 
 
 The birds were mute, the lilies faded. 
 But Time so swiftly "v\4nged his flight. 
 
 In haste a Grecian tomb to batter, 
 That Childhood watched his paper kite, 
 
 And knew just nothing of the matter. 
 205 
 
CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS 
 III 
 
 With curling lip and glancing eye 
 
 Guilt gazed upon the scene a minute ; 
 But Childhood's glance of purity 
 
 Had such a holy spell within it, 
 That the dark demon to the air 
 
 Spread forth again his bafBed pinion, 
 And hid his envy and despair, 
 
 Self -tortured, in his own dominion. 
 
 IV 
 
 Then stepped a gloomy phantom up. 
 
 Pale, cypress-crowned. Night's awful daugh- 
 ter. 
 And proffered him a fearful cup 
 
 Full to the brim of bitter water : 
 Poor Childhood bade her tell her name ; 
 And when the beldame muttered — "Sor- 
 row," 
 He said, — '* Don't interrupt my game ; 
 I'll taste it, if I must, to-morrow." 
 206 
 
CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS 
 V 
 
 The Muse of Pindus thither came, 
 
 And wooed him with the softest num- 
 bers 
 That ever scattered wealth and fame 
 
 Upon a youthful poet's slumbers ; 
 Though sweet the music of the lay, 
 
 To Childhood it was all a riddle, 
 And "Oh," he cried, "do send away 
 
 That noisy woman with the fiddle ! " 
 
 VI 
 
 Then Wisdom stole his bat and ball. 
 
 And taught him, with most sage endeav- 
 our. 
 Why bubbles rise and acorns fall, 
 
 And why no toy may last for ever. 
 She talked of all the wondrous laws 
 
 Which Nature's open book discloses, 
 And Childhood, ere she made a pause, 
 
 Was fast asleep among the roses. 
 207 
 
CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS 
 VII 
 
 Sleep on, sleep on ! Oh ! Manhood's dreams 
 
 Are all of earthly pain or pleasure. 
 Of Glory's toils, Ambition's schemes, 
 
 Of cherished love, or hoarded treasure : 
 But to the couch where Childhood lies 
 
 A more delicious trance is given, 
 Lit up by rays from seraph eyes. 
 
 And glimpses of remembered Heaven ! 
 
 208 
 
CHILDHOOD'S CRITICISM 
 
 TO MISS E S , ON HER REPEATING THE 
 
 PRECEDING LINES 
 
 You 've only got to curtsey, whisp— 
 — er, hold your liead up, laugh aud lisp, 
 And then you 're sure to take. 
 
 Rejected Addresses. 
 
 I 
 
 A Poet o'er his tea and toast 
 
 Composed a page of verse last winter, 
 Transcribed it on the best Bath post, 
 
 And sent the treasure to a printer. 
 He thought it an enchanting thing ; 
 
 And, fancpng no one else could doubt it, 
 Went out, as happy as a king. 
 
 To hear what people said about it. 
 
 II 
 
 Queen Fame was driving out that day ; 
 
 And, though she scarcely seemed to know him, 
 He bustled up, and tried to say 
 
 Something about his little poem ; 
 209 
 
CHILDHOOD S CRITICISM 
 
 But ere from his unhappy lip 
 
 Three timid trembling words could falter, 
 The goddess cracked her noisy whip, 
 
 And went to call upon Sir Walter ! 
 
 Ill 
 
 Old Criticism, whose glance observed 
 
 The minstrel's blushes and confusion. 
 Came up and told him he deserved 
 
 The rack at least for his intrusion : 
 The poor youth stared and strove to speak ; 
 
 His tyrant laughed to see him wincing, 
 And grumbled out a line of Greek, 
 
 Which Dullness said was quite convincing. 
 
 IV 
 
 Then stepped a gaunt and wrinkled witch, 
 Hight Avarice, from her filthy hovel ; 
 
 And" Rhyme," quoth she," won't make you rich ; 
 Go home, good youth, and write a novel ! 
 
 Cut up the follies of the age ; 
 
 Sauce them with puns and disquisitions ; 
 210 
 
childhood's criticism 
 
 Let Colburn cook your title-page, 
 And I'll ensure you six editions." 
 
 Ambition met him next; — he sighed 
 
 To see those once-loved wreaths of laurel, 
 And crept into a bower to hide, 
 
 For he and she had had a quarrel. 
 The goddess of the cumbrous crown 
 
 Called after him, in tones of pity, 
 "My son, you've dropped your wig and gown! 
 
 And, bless me, how you 've torn your Chitty ! " 
 
 VI 
 
 'T was all unheeded or unheard, 
 
 For now he knocked at Beauty's portal ; 
 One word from her, one golden word. 
 
 He knew, would make his lays immortal. 
 Alas ! he elbowed through a throng 
 
 Of danglers, dancers, catgut scrapers, 
 And found her twisting up his song 
 
 Into the sweetest candlepapers. 
 211 
 
CHILDHOOD S CRITICISM 
 VII 
 
 He turned away with sullen looks 
 
 From Beauty, and from Beauty's scorning. 
 "To-night," he said, "I'll burn my books; 
 
 I '11 break my harpstrings in the morning." - 
 When lo, a laughing Fay drew near ; 
 
 And with soft voice, more soft than Circe's, 
 She whispered in the poet's ear 
 
 The sounds the poet loved — his verses ! 
 
 VIII 
 
 He looked, and listened ; and it seemed 
 
 In Childhood's lips the lines grew sweeter : 
 Good lack ! till now he had not dreamed 
 
 How bright the thought, how smooth the 
 metre. 
 Ere the last stanza was begun, 
 
 He managed all his wrath to smother ; 
 And when the little Nymph had done, 
 
 Said "Thank you. Love; — I'll write an- 
 other!" 
 
 212 
 
BEAUTY AND HER VISITORS 
 I 
 I LOOKED for Beauty : — on a throne, 
 
 A dazzling throne of Hght, I found her; 
 And Music poured its softest tone 
 
 And flowers their sweetest breath around 
 her. 
 A score or two of idle gods, 
 
 Some dressed as peers, and some as peasants, 
 Were watching all her smiles and nods. 
 
 And making compliments and presents. 
 
 II 
 
 And first young Love, the rosy boy, 
 
 Exhibited his bow and arrows. 
 And gave her many a pretty toy. 
 
 Torches, and bleeding hearts, and sparrows : 
 She told him, as he passed, she knew 
 
 Her court would scarcely do wHithout him ; 
 But yet — she hoped they were not true — 
 
 There were some awkward tales about him. 
 213 
 
BEAUTY AND HER VISITORS 
 III 
 
 Wealth deemed that magic had no charm 
 
 More mighty than the gifts he brought her, 
 And Knked around her radiant arm 
 
 Bright diamonds of the purest water : 
 The Goddess, with a scornful touch, 
 
 Unclasped the gaudy galling fetter ; 
 And said, — she thanked him very much, — 
 
 She liked a wreath of roses better. 
 
 IV 
 
 Then Genius snatched his golden lute, 
 
 And told a tale of love and glory : 
 The crowd around were hushed and mute 
 
 To hear so sad and sweet a story ; 
 And Beauty marked the minstrel's cheek. 
 
 So very pale — no bust was paler; 
 Vowed she could listen for a week ; 
 
 But really — he should change his tailor! 
 
 V 
 
 As died the echo of the strings, 
 
 A shadowy Phantom kneeled before her, 
 214 
 
BEAUTY AND HER VISITORS 
 
 Looked all unutterable things, 
 And swore, to see was to adore her ; 
 
 He called her veil a cruel cloud. 
 
 Her cheek a rose, her smile a battery : 
 
 She fancied it was Wit that bowed ; — 
 I 'm almost certain it was Flattery. 
 
 There was a beldame finding fault 
 
 With every person's every feature ; 
 And by the sneer, and by the halt, 
 
 I knew at once the odious creature : 
 "You see," quoth Envy, "I am come 
 
 To bow — as is my bounden duty ; — 
 They tell me Beauty is at home; — 
 
 Impossible! that canH be Beauty!" 
 
 VII 
 
 I heard a murmur far and wade 
 
 Of " Lord ! how quick the dotard passes ! 
 As Time threw down at Beauty's side 
 
 The prettiest of his clocks and glasses ; 
 215 
 
BEAUTY AND HER VISITORS 
 
 But it was noticed in the throng 
 
 How Beauty marred the maker's cunning; 
 For when she talked, the hands went wrong ; 
 
 And when she smiled, the sands stopped run- 
 ning. 
 
 Death, in a doctor's wig and gown, 
 
 Came, arm in arm with Lethe, thither. 
 And crowned her with a withered crown. 
 
 And hinted. Beauty too must wither! 
 " Avaunt! " she cried, — " how came he here ? 
 
 The frightful fiend ! he's my abhorrence! " 
 I went and whispered in her ear, 
 
 " He shall not hurt you ! — sit to Lawrence ! " 
 
 nQ 
 
HOW AM I LIKE HER? 
 
 You are very like her. — Miss E H . 
 
 Resemblances begin to strike 
 
 In things exceedingly unlike. — MS. Poem. 
 
 How am I like her ? — for no trace 
 Of pain, of passion, or of aught 
 
 That stings or stains, is on her face : — 
 Mild eyes, clear forehead, — ne'er was 
 wrought 
 
 A fitter, fairer dwelling-place 
 
 For tranquil joy and holy thought. 
 
 How am I like her ? — for the fawn 
 Not lighter bounds o'er rock and rill. 
 
 Than she, beneath the intruding dawn 
 Threading, all mirth, our gay quadrille ; 
 
 Or tripping o'er our level lawn 
 To those she loves upon the hill. 
 
 How am I like her ? — for the ear 
 
 Thrills with her voice. Its breezy tone 
 217 
 
' HOW AM I LIKE HER 
 
 Goes forth, as eloquently clear 
 
 As are the lutes at Heaven's high throne; 
 And makes the hearts of those who hear 
 
 As pure and peaceful as her own. 
 
 How am I like her ? — for her ways 
 Are full of bliss. She never knew 
 
 Stern avarice, nor the thirst of praise 
 Insatiable ; — Love never threw 
 
 Upon her calm and sunny days 
 The venom of his deadly dew. 
 
 How am I like her ? — for her arts 
 Are blessing. Sorrow owns her thrall ; 
 
 She dries the tear-drop as it starts. 
 And checks the murmurs as they fall ; 
 
 She is the day-star of our hearts. 
 Consoling, guiding, gladdening all. 
 
 How am I like her ? — for she steals 
 All sympathies. Glad Childhood's play 
 
 218 
 
HOW AM I LIKE HER 
 
 Is left for her ; and wild Youth kneels 
 Obedient to her gentle sway ; 
 
 And Age beholds her smile, and feels 
 December brightening into May. 
 
 How am I like her ? — The rude fir 
 Is little like the sweet rose-tree : — 
 
 Unless perchance, fair flatterer. 
 In this your fabled likeness be, — 
 
 That all who are most dear to her 
 Are apt to be most dear to me. 
 
 219 
 
LINES 
 
 The hues of life are fading from her wan and 
 
 wasted cheek ; 
 Her voice is as an infant's voice, a whisper faint 
 
 and weak ; 
 But still we look and listen, for our hearts have 
 
 never known 
 Such sweetness in a countenance, such softness 
 
 in a tone. 
 
 She is passing from the world, from the weary 
 world away. 
 
 From the sorrows that afflict us, from the plea- 
 sures that betray ; 
 
 And another Home, a fairer Home, is opened 
 to her sight. 
 
 Where the summer shines for ever, where the 
 roses know no blight. 
 
 I know that we shall miss her, in the evening and 
 the dawn, 
 
 220 
 
LINES 
 
 In our converse round the fireside, in our walk 
 upon the lawn ; 
 
 I know that we shall miss her, in our mirth and 
 in our care, 
 
 In the breaking of our bread, and in the breath- 
 ing of our prayer. 
 
 And not the ring or brooch alone, but whatso- 
 e'er we see. 
 
 The river and the green hill-side, the cottage and 
 the tree, 
 
 Will bring her image back to us ; there is not in 
 our heart 
 
 A single hope — a single fear — in which she has 
 no part. 
 
 Yet weep not, if you love her, that her tedious 
 
 toil is done ; 
 O weep not, if you love her, that her holy rest is 
 
 won! 
 There should be gladness in your thought and 
 
 smiles upon your brow, 
 221 
 
LINES 
 
 For will she not' be happy then ? — is she not 
 happy now ? 
 
 And we will learn to talk of her ; — and after 
 
 many years 
 The tears which we shall shed for her will not 
 
 be bitter tears, 
 When we shall tell each other, with a fond and 
 
 thankful pride. 
 In what purity she lived, and in what peaceful- 
 
 ness she died. 
 
THE NEWLY-WEDDED 
 
 Now the rite is duly done ; 
 
 Now the word is spoken ; 
 And the spell has made us one 
 
 Which may ne'er be broken : 
 Rest we, dearest, in our home, — 
 
 Roam we o'er the heather, — 
 We shall rest, and we shall roam. 
 
 Shall we not ? together. 
 
 II 
 
 From this hour the summer rose 
 
 Sweeter breathes to charm us ; 
 From this hour the winter snows 
 
 Lighter fall to harm us : 
 Fair or foul — on land or sea — 
 
 Come the wind or weather, 
 Best and worst, whate'er they be. 
 
 We shall share together. 
 223 
 
THE NEWLY-WEDDED 
 III 
 Death, who friend from friend can part, 
 
 Brother rend from brother. 
 Shall but link us, heart and heart. 
 
 Closer to each other : 
 We will call his anger play. 
 
 Deem his dart a feather, 
 When we meet him on our way 
 
 Hand in hand together. 
 
 224 
 
TO HELEN 
 
 WITH CRABBE's poems, A BIRTHDAY PRESENT 
 
 Give Crabbe, dear Helen, on your shelf, 
 A place by Wordsworth's mightier self; 
 In token that your taste, self wrought 
 From mines of independent thought, 
 And shaped by no exclusive rule 
 Of whim or fashion, sect or school, 
 Can honour Genius, whatsoe'er 
 The garb it chance or choose to wear. 
 
 Nor deem, dear Helen, unallied 
 The bards we station side by side; 
 Different their harps, — to each his own; 
 But both are true and pure of tone. 
 Brethren, methinks, in times like ours 
 Of misused gifts, perverted powers, — 
 Brethren are they, whose kindred song 
 Nor hides the Right, nor gilds the Wrong. 
 
 225 
 
SONNET 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE FIRST LEAF OF LOCKHART's 
 "life of sir WALTER SCOTT" 
 
 Lo the magician, whose enchantments lend 
 To the dim past a fresh and fairy light, 
 Who makes the absent present to our sight. 
 
 And calls the dead to life ! Till time shall end. 
 
 O'er him the grateful Muses shall extend 
 Unfading laurels ; yet methinks, of right, 
 With holier glory shall his fame be bright, — 
 
 Leal subject, honest patriot, cordial friend. 
 
 Of such a spirit, by your cheerful fire 
 
 This record, Helen, welcome shall appear; 
 
 To which your husband-lover's duteous lyre, 
 Not tuneless yet, sweet Helen, to your ear. 
 
 Adds the warm wish these winter eves inspire, 
 " A merry Christmas, and a glad New Year ! " 
 
 226 
 
TO HELEN 
 
 When some grim sorceress, whose skill 
 Had bound a sprite to work her will, 
 In mirth or malice chose to ask 
 Of the faint slave the hardest task, 
 
 She sent him forth to gather up 
 Great Ganges in an acorn-cup. 
 Or heaven's unnumbered stars to bring 
 In compass of a signet ring. 
 
 Thus Helen bids her poet write 
 The thanks he owes this morning's light; 
 And "Give me," — so he hears her say, — 
 "Four verses, only four, to-day." 
 
 Dearest and best! she knows, if wit 
 Could ever half love's debt acquit. 
 Each of her tones and of her looks 
 Would have its four, not lines, but books. 
 
 227 
 
TO HELEN 
 
 Dearest, I did not dream, four years ago, 
 
 When through your veil I saw your bright 
 tear shine. 
 Caught your clear whisper, exquisitely low. 
 
 And felt your soft hand tremble into mine. 
 That in so brief — so very brief a space. 
 
 He, who in love both clouds and cheers our life, 
 Would lay on you, so full of light, joy, grace, 
 
 The darker, sadder duties of the wife, — 
 Doubts,fears, and frequent toil, and constantcare 
 
 For this poor frame, by sickness sore bested ; 
 The daily tendance on the fractious chair. 
 
 The nightly vigil by the feverish bed. 
 
 Yet not. unwelcomed doth this morn arise. 
 Though with more gladsome beams it might 
 have shone : 
 Strength of these weak hands, light of these dim 
 eyes, 
 In sickness, as in health, — bless you. My Own ! 
 
THE RED FISHERMAN 
 
THE RED FISHERMAN 
 
 OR 
 
 THE DEVIL'S DECOY 
 
 Oh flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified! — Romeo and Juliet. 
 
 The Abbot arose, and closed his book, 
 
 And donned his sandal shoon. 
 And wandered forth, alone, to look 
 
 Upon the summer moon : 
 A starlight sky was o'er his head, 
 
 A quiet breeze around ; 
 And the flowers a thrilling fragrance shed. 
 
 And the waves a soothing sound : 
 It was not an hour, nor a scene, for aught 
 
 But love and calm delight; 
 Yet the holy man had a cloud of thought 
 
 On his wrinkled brow that night. 
 He gazed on the river that gurgled by. 
 
 But he thought not of the reeds ; 
 He clasped his gilded rosary. 
 
 But he did not tell the beads ; 
 231 
 
THE RED FISHERMAN 
 
 If he looked to the heaven, 'twas not to invoke 
 
 The Spirit that dwelleth there ; 
 If he opened his Hps, the words they spoke 
 
 Had never the tone of prayer. 
 A pious priest might the Abbot seem, 
 
 He had swayed the crozier well ; 
 But what was the theme of the Abbot's dream, 
 
 The Abbot were loth to tell. 
 
 Companionless, for a mile or more, 
 
 He traced the windings of the shore. 
 
 Oh, beauteous is that river still. 
 
 As it winds by many a sloping hill. 
 
 And many a dim o'erarching grove. 
 
 And many a flat and sunny cove. 
 
 And terraced lawns, whose bright arcades 
 
 The honeysuckle sweetly shades, 
 
 And rocks, whose very crags seem bowers. 
 
 So gay they are with grass and flowers ! 
 
 But the Abbot was thinking of scenery 
 
 About as much, in sooth, 
 As a lover thinks of constancy, 
 232 
 
THE RED FISHERMAN 
 
 Or an advocate of truth. 
 He did not mark how the skies in wrath 
 
 Grew dark above his head ; 
 He did not mark how the mossy path 
 
 Grew damp beneath his tread ; 
 And nearer he came, and still more near, 
 
 To a pool, in whose recess 
 The water had slept for many a year, 
 
 Unchanged and motionless ; 
 From the river stream it spread away 
 
 The space of a half a rood ; 
 The surface had the hue of clay 
 
 And the scent of human blood ; 
 The trees and the herbs that round it grew 
 
 Were venomous and foul, 
 And the birds that through the bushes flew 
 
 Were the vulture and the owl ; 
 The water was as dark and rank 
 
 As ever a Company pumped. 
 And the perch, that was netted and laid on the 
 bank, 
 
 Grew rotten while it jumped ; 
 233 
 
THE RED FISHERMAN 
 
 And bold was he who thither came 
 
 At midnight, man or boy, 
 For the place was cursed with an evil name, 
 
 And that name was "The Devil's Decoy" ! 
 
 The Abbot was weary as abbot could be, 
 And he sat down to rest on the stump of a tree : 
 When suddenly rose a dismal tone, — 
 Was it a song, or was it a moan ? — 
 
 "Oho! Oho! 
 
 Above, — below, — 
 Lightly and brightly they glide and go ! 
 The hungry and keen on the top are leaping, 
 The lazy and fat in the depths are sleeping ; 
 Fishing is fine when the pool is muddy, 
 Broihng is rich when the coals are ruddy! " — 
 In a monstrous fright, by the murky light, 
 He looked to the left and he looked to the right. 
 And what was the vision close before him, 
 That flung such a sudden stupor o'er him ? 
 'Twas a sight to make the hair uprise. 
 And the life-blood colder run : 
 234 
 
THE RED FISHERMAN 
 
 The startled Priest struck both his thighs. 
 And the abbey clock struck one ! 
 
 All alone, by the side of the pool, 
 A tall man sat on a three-legged stool, 
 Kicking his heels on the dewy sod, 
 And putting in order his reel and rod ; 
 Red were the rags his shoulders wore. 
 And a high red cap on his head he bore ; 
 His arms and his legs were long and bare ; 
 And two or three locks of long red hair 
 Were tossing about his scraggy neck, 
 Like a tattered flag o'er a splitting wreck. 
 It might be time, or it might be trouble. 
 Had bent that stout back nearly double, 
 Sunk in their deep and hollow sockets 
 That blazing couple of Congreve rockets. 
 And shrunk and shrivelled that tawny skin, 
 Till it hardly covered the bones within. 
 The line the Abbot saw him throw 
 Had been fashioned and formed long ages 
 ago, 
 
 235 
 
THE RED FISHERMAN 
 
 And the hands that worked his foreign vest 
 Long ages ago had gone to their rest : 
 You would have sworn, as you looked on them, 
 He had fished in the flood with Ham and Shem ! 
 
 There was turning df keys, and creaking of 
 
 locks, 
 As he took forth a bait from his iron box. 
 Minnow or gentle, worm or fly, — 
 It seemed not such to the Abbot's eye ; 
 Gaily it glittered with jewel and gem, 
 And its shape was the shape of a diadem. 
 It was fastened a gleaming hook about 
 By a chain within and a chain without ; 
 The Fisherman gave it a kick and a spin, 
 And the water fizzed as it tumbled in ! 
 
 From the bowels of the earth. 
 Strange and varied sounds had birth ; 
 Now the battle's bursting peal, 
 Neigh of steed, and clang of steel; 
 236 
 
THE RED FISHERMAN 
 
 Now an old man's hollow groan 
 Echoed from the dungeon stone ; 
 Now the weak and wailing cry 
 Of a stripling's agony! — 
 Cold by this was the midnight air ; 
 
 But the Abbot's blood ran colder, 
 When he saw a gasping Knight lie there, 
 With a gash beneath his clotted hair. 
 
 And a hump upon his shoulder. 
 And the loyal churchman strove in vain 
 
 To mutter a Pater Noster ; 
 For he who writhed in mortal pain 
 Was camped that night on Bosworth plain — 
 
 The cruel Duke of Gloster! 
 
 There was turning of keys, and creaking of 
 
 locks. 
 As he took forth a bait from his iron box. 
 It was a haunch of princely size, 
 Filling with fragrance earth and skies. 
 The corpulent Abbot knew full well 
 The swelling form, and the steaming smell; 
 237 
 
THE RED FISHERMAN 
 
 Never a monk that wore a hood 
 Could better have guessed the very wood 
 Where the noble hart had stood at bay, 
 Weary and wounded, at close of day. 
 
 Sounded then the noisy glee 
 Of a revelling company, — 
 Sprightly story, wicked jest, 
 Rated servant, greeted guest. 
 Flow of wine, and flight of cork. 
 Stroke of knife, and thrust of fork : 
 But, where'er the board was spread, 
 Grace, I ween, was never said ! — 
 Pulling and tugging the Fisherman sat ; 
 
 And the Priest was ready to vomit. 
 When he hauled out a gentleman, fine and 
 
 fat. 
 With a belly as big as a brimming vat. 
 
 And a nose as red as a comet. 
 "A capital stew," the Fisherman said, 
 
 '* With cinnamon and sherry ! " 
 And the Abbot turned away his head, 
 238 
 
THE RED FISHERMAN 
 
 For his brother was lying before him dead, 
 The Mayor of St. Edmund's Bury! 
 
 There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks. 
 As he took forth a bait from his iron box. 
 It was a bundle of beautiful things, — 
 A peacock's tail, and a butterfly's wings, 
 A scarlet slipper, an auburn curl, 
 A mantle of silk, and a bracelet of pearl. 
 And a packet of letters, from whose sweet fold 
 Such a stream of delicate odours rolled. 
 That the Abbot fell on his face, and fainted, 
 And deemed his spirit was half-way sainted. 
 
 Sounds seemed dropping from the skies, 
 Stifled whispers, smothered sighs. 
 And the breath of vernal gales. 
 And the voice of nightingales : 
 But the nightinojales were mute. 
 Envious, when an unseen lute 
 Shaped the music of its chords 
 Into passion's thrilling words : 
 239 
 
THE RED FISHERMAN 
 
 "Smile, Lady, smile! — I will not set 
 Upon my brow the coronet, 
 Till thou wilt gather roses white 
 To wear around its gems of light. 
 Smile, Lady, smile! — I will not see 
 Rivers and Hastings bend the knee, 
 Till those bewitching lips of thine 
 Will bid me rise in bliss from mine. 
 Smile, Lady, smile! — for who would win 
 A loveless throne through guilt and sin ? 
 Or who would reign o'er vale and hill, 
 If woman's heart were rebel still ? " 
 
 One jerk, and there a lady lay, 
 
 A lady wondrous fair ; 
 But the rose of her lip had faded away. 
 And her cheek was as white and as cold as 
 clay, 
 
 And torn was her raven hair. 
 "Ah ha! " said the Fisher, in merry guise, 
 
 " Her gallant was hooked before ; " 
 And the Abbot heaved some piteous sighs, 
 240 
 
THE RED FISHERMAN 
 
 For oft he had blessed those deep blue eyes. 
 The eyes of Mistress Shore ! 
 
 There was turning of keys, and creaking of 
 
 locks, 
 As he took forth a bait from his iron box. 
 Many the cunning sportsman tried, 
 Many he flung with a frown aside ; 
 A minstrel's harp, and a miser's chest, 
 A hermit's cowl, and a baron's crest. 
 Jewels of lustre, robes of price, 
 Tomes of heresy, loaded dice. 
 And golden cups of the brightest wine 
 That ever was pressed from the Burgundy vine. 
 There was a perfume of sulphur and nitre. 
 As he came at last to a bishop's mitre ! 
 
 From top to toe the Abbot shook, 
 As the Fisherman armed his golden hook, 
 And awfully were his features wrought 
 By some dark dream or wakened thought. 
 Look how the fearful felon gazes 
 241 
 
THE RED FISHERMAN 
 
 On the scaffold his country's vengeance raises, 
 When the lips are cracked and the jaws are dry 
 With the thirst which only in death shall die : 
 Mark the mariner's frenzied frown 
 As the swaling wherry settles down, 
 When peril has numbed the sense and will, 
 Though the hand and the foot may struggle still : 
 Wilder far was the Abbot's glance, 
 Deeper far was the Abbot's trance: 
 Fixed as a monument, still as air, 
 He bent no knee, and he breathed no prayer ; 
 But he signed — he knew not why or how, — 
 The sign of the Cross on his clammy brow. 
 
 There was turning of keys, and creaking of 
 
 locks. 
 As he stalked away with his iron box. 
 "Oho! Oho! 
 The cock doth crow; 
 It is time for the Fisher to rise and go. 
 Fair luck to the Abbot, fair luck to the shrine ! 
 He hath gnawed in twain my choicest line ; 
 242 
 
THE RED FISHERMAN 
 
 Let him swim to the north, let him swim to the 
 
 south, 
 The Abbot will carry my hook in his mouth ! " 
 
 The Abbot had preached for many years 
 
 With as clear articulation 
 As ever was heard in the House of Peers 
 
 Against Emancipation ; 
 His words had made battalions quake. 
 
 Had roused the zeal of martyrs. 
 Had kept the Court an hour awake. 
 
 And the King himself three quarters : 
 But ever from that hour, 't is said, 
 
 He stammered and he stuttered, 
 As if an axe went through his head 
 
 With every word he uttered. 
 He stuttered o'er blessing, he stuttered o'er ban, 
 
 He stuttered, drunk or dry; 
 And none but he and the Fisherman 
 
 Could tell the reason why! 
 
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