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THE 
 
 BENTLEY BALLADS. 
 
 CONTAINING 
 
 THE CHOICE BALLADS, SONGS AND POEMS CONTRIBUTED TO 
 
 " BENTLEY's MISCELLANY." 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET. 
 
 1862. 
 

ADVERTISEMENT 
 
 TO THE NEW EDITION. 
 
 In introducing a New Edition to the public, the 
 Publisher of " The Bentley Ballads" is desirous of 
 calling attention to the new features which distinguish 
 it from the former, and which, in reality, constitute it 
 an entirely new Work. 
 
 The first edition was selected from only six volumes of 
 " Bentley's Miscellany"— from 1837 to 1840 ; the present 
 includes all the most famous Songs and Ballads contri- 
 buted to that celebrated magazine during a period of 
 eighteen years, from 1837 to 1855. 
 
 This Volume, it is believed, will be found worthy of a 
 place in every library ; for, perhaps, no single work in 
 English modern literature exhibits such diversity of talent 
 as these songs of love and sentiment, wit and humour, by 
 the most popular authors of England, Scotland, Ireland, 
 
IV ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 and America. It is only necessary to mention the names of 
 Prout, Maginn, Lover, Ingoldsby, Longfellow, and the 
 Irish Whiskey -Drinker, to give an idea of the rich store 
 of entertainment contained in the following pages. 
 
 London, 
 February, 1861. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 Old Morgan at Panama, by G. E. Inman. • • 1 
 
 The Sabine Farmer's Serenade, by Father Prout 12 
 
 Laud ye the Monks ! by William Jones. . . . .19 
 
 The Legend of Manor Hall, by the Author of " Headlong Hall." . 22 
 
 The " Original" Dragon. . . 29 
 
 The Temptations of St. Anthony. 33 
 
 A Tale of Grammarye. • . .43 
 
 The Red-breast of Aquitania, by Father Prout 51 
 
 The Son to his Mother, by Samuel Lover 58 
 
 Impromptu by the late George Colman 60 
 
 The Monks of Old, by William Jones 61 
 
 Our Opening Chaunt. ........ 63 
 
 To the Hard-hearted Molly Carew, by S. Lover and Father Prout. 67 
 
 The Grand Cham of Tartary and the Humble-Bee ... 74 
 
 Paddy Blake's Echo. . . 77 
 
 Impromptu, by C. J. Davids 79 
 
 Haroun Alraschid, by G. E. Inman 80 
 
 To the Hot Wells of Clifton 89 
 
 The Dumb Waiter 91 
 
 The Bottle of St. Januarius, by P. Prout 92 
 
 The Rising Periodical 93 
 
 The Song of the Cover, by Dr. Maginn. • . . 96 
 
VI 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Who are you ? • • • • 
 
 Epigram, by S. Lover. . . • 
 
 Leary the Piper's Lilt. . . • 
 
 Song of the Month, by P. Prout. 
 Song of the Old Bell. 
 " Be Quiet— do ! I'll call my Mother !" 
 Old Mountain Dew, by Charles Mackay. 
 
 Rev. Sydney Smith 
 
 The Piper's Progress, by P. Prout. . 
 The Useful Young Man, by W. Collier. 
 Madrigal of the Seasons. . • • 
 
 Siege of Belgrade 
 
 The Double Barrel, by Father Prout. . 
 
 Friar Laurence and Juliet, by Thomas Haynes Bayley. 
 
 The Phantom Ship, by Ellen Pickering. 
 
 Poetical Epistle from Father Prout to Boz, by Father Prout 
 
 A Song for a Stormy Night, by Charles Mackay. 
 
 Sardanapalus 
 
 The Memory of the Poets, by T. N. Talfourd. 
 Burns and Beranger, by Father Prout. 
 The Voices of the Night, by H. W. Longfellow. 
 Thoughts on Patrons, Puffs, and other matters, by Tom 
 
 Richelieu ; or, the Conspiracy 
 
 Song of a Eifleman, by the Author of " Vincent Eden. 
 Invitation to an Evening Walk, by J. A Wade. 
 
 The Forest Tree 
 
 The Evening Star, by H. W. Longfellow. . . 
 
 Song to the Thames, by Charles Mackay. . • 
 
 The Blind Girl of Castel Cuille, by Lady Georgiana Fullerton 
 
 The Mockings of the Soldiers, by Dr. Maginn. 
 
 A Classical Ode. 
 
 To a Fountain in Hymettus, by Edward Kenealy. 
 Wreck of the Hesperus, by H. W. Longfellow. 
 Light, by Dion L. Bourcicault. . 
 
 Moore. 
 
CONTENTS. VU 
 
 Page 
 
 The Fisherman's Dwelling, by Heinrich Heine. • • • • 205 
 
 The Ascents of Mont Blanc, by Albert Smith 206 
 
 The Village Blacksmith, by Henry W. Longfellow. • • .309 
 
 The Donnybrook Jig, by Dillon • .211 
 
 Taglioni 215 
 
 Cupid in London, by It. More 218 
 
 The Mistletoe, by Father Prout. 222 
 
 The Greek Poet's Dream, by Edward Kenealy • • . .226 
 
 My Soldier-Boy, by Dr. Maginn 230 
 
 t is not always May, by H. W. Longfellow. • • . . 231 
 
 Lines on Geneva, by Albert Smith 233 
 
 Love and Care 235 
 
 The Lass of Albany, by Robert Burns 237 
 
 Endymion, by H. W. Longfellow 239 
 
 Evening Song of the Normandy Fishermen, by W. Jones. . . 241 
 
 To ***** , by Edward Kenealy 243 
 
 The Rainy Day, by H. W. Longfellow. 246 
 
 To , by Father Prout 247 
 
 The Ides of March, by Father Prout 248 
 
 Cupid, by Edward Kenealy. 250 
 
 To my Daughters, by Dr. Maginn 252 
 
 My Nora ! by T. J. Ouseley 253 
 
 Song o' Roland, by W. Cooke Taylor. 254 
 
 Leather away with the Oak- Stick, by the Irish Whiskey-Drinker. 256 
 
 Excelsior, by H. W. Longfellow 259 
 
 Elegy in a London Theatre. 261 
 
 Unfinished Lines upon my Library, by Robert Southey. . . 265 
 The War-Song of the Gallant Eighty-Eighth, by the Irish Whiskey- 
 Drinker 267 
 
 The Expedition to Pontarlin • • . 269 
 
 The Siege of Hensburgh, by John Ryan, L.L.D 272 
 
 Brian O'Lynn, by the Irish Whiskey-Drinker 276 
 
 Old Time, by George Linnaeus Banks. 279 
 
 The Norman Peasant's Hymn to the Virgin, by William Jones . 28 1 
 
Vlll CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 The Quiet Hour, by T. J. Ouseley 283 
 
 The Christening of Her Royal Highness the Princess Alice Maude, 
 
 by the Irish Whiskey-Drinker 284 
 
 A Lyric for Christmas, by W. G. J. Barker 287 
 
 The Genius of Theocritus 290 
 
 To the Spirit of the Flowers .293 
 
 A Merry and Marvellous Ditty on the Mountain Dew, by the Irish 
 
 Whiskey-Drinker 296 
 
 Endurance, by the Rev. W. B. Flower, B.A. .... 302 
 
 Spring, by W. C. Taylor 3i4 
 
 Sonnet from Petrarch. * 306 
 
 Owed to my Creditors, by Alfred Crowquill 337 
 
 Farewell Winds and Wintry Weather, by the Irish Whiskey- 
 Drinker 309 
 
 Forget me Not. 311 
 
 The Heart's Misgivings, by Cuthbert Bede 313 
 
 Irene of Sestos, by W. G. J. Barker 317 
 
 Railway Dactyls 324 
 
 A Game at St. Stephen's Chapel, by the Rt. Hon. George Canning. 327 
 
 The Enthusiast Dead, by J. H. Reynolds 331 
 
 King Charles of Spain 333 
 
 A Dying Wife to her Husband 336 
 
 The Coral Caves, by G. Linnaeus Banks. ..... 338 
 
 Song of the People 339 
 
 lone . . . . .343 
 
 A Letter from an Old Country House, by Albert Smith. . . 344 
 
 The Praises of Colonos, by Cuthbert Bede 348 
 
 The Danish Seaman's Song .351 
 
 Oh ! Let Me Love Thee ! 353 
 
 The Bold Sea Wave, by G. Linnaeus Banks 354 
 
 The Brook, by Alfred B. Street . .355 
 
 Old Grumbleton 357 
 
 Dirge 360 
 
 A Song of Como the Beautiful, by Theresa C. I. West. . . 362 
 
CONTENTS. IX 
 
 Pagft 
 
 Advice to Lovers 366 
 
 Emma and Eginard. . 367 
 
 My Winter Eoom, by Alfred B. Street. . . . . . 386 
 
 The Dane and his King, by Hans Christian Andersen. . . . 389 
 
 The Warden of the Cinque Ports, by W. H. Longfellow. . . 391 
 
 APoet'sLove 393 
 
 The Gipsey . 395 
 
 The Cloud in the Honeymoon - . . . 396 
 
 The Churchyard at Cambridge, by W. H. Longfellow. . . . 403 
 
 Song from the Gaelic, by W. H. Maxwell 405 
 
 In Saram, by G. K. Gillespie, A.M.. 406 
 
 Yes and No 412 
 
 A Ballad of Sir John Franklin 414 
 
 My Portrait, by Mary Russell Mitford. 420 
 
 Field-Preaching, by Julia Day . .421 
 
 Sempre lo stesso, by H. T. Tuckerman 423 
 
 The Two Angels, by W. H. Longfellow. 424 
 
 The Shoe. 426 
 
 The Tomb of Glory, by Eta 429 
 
 The Cobbler of Toledo 431 
 
 As I lay a-thynkynge, by Thomas Ingoldsby 450 
 
THE 
 
 BENTLEY BALLADS. 
 
 OLD MOKGAJ5T AT PANAMA. 
 
 In tlie hostel-room we were seated in gloom, old Morgan's 
 
 trustiest crew ; 
 No mirthful sound, no jest went round, as it erst was 
 
 wont to do. 
 Wine we had none, and our girls were gone, for the last 
 
 of our gold was spent ; 
 And some swore an oath, and all were wroth, and stern 
 
 o'er the table bent ; 
 Till our chief on the board hurl'd down his sword, and 
 
 spake with his stormy shout, 
 " Hell and the devil ! an' this be revel, we had better arm 
 
 and out. 
 
 Let us go and pillage old Panama, 
 
 We, the mighty Buccaneers !" 
 
 B 
 
OLD MORGAN AT PANAMA. 
 
 II. 
 
 Straight at tlie word each girt on his sword, five hundred 
 
 men and more ; 
 And we clove the sea in our shallops free, till we reach'd 
 
 the mainland shore. 
 For many a day overland was our way, and our hearts 
 
 grew weary and low, 
 And many would back on their trodden track, rather than 
 
 farther go ; 
 But the wish was quell' d, though our hearts rebell'd, by 
 
 old Morgan's stormy roar, — 
 " The way ye have sped is farther to tread, than the way 
 
 which lies before." 
 
 So on we march'd upon Panama, 
 
 We, the mighty Buccaneers ! 
 
 in. 
 
 'Twasjust sunset when our eyes first met the sight of the 
 
 town of gold ; 
 And down on the sod each knelt to his god, five hundred 
 
 warriors bold ; 
 Each bared his blade, and we fervent pray'd (for it might 
 
 be our latest prayer), 
 " Ransom from hell, if in fight we fell, — if we lived, for a 
 
 booty rare !" 
 And each as he rose felt a deep repose, and a calm o'er all 
 
 within ; 
 For he knew right well, whatever befell, his soul was 
 
 assoil'd from sin. 
 
 Then down we march'd on old Panama 
 We, the mighty Buccaneers ! 
 
 
OLD MORGAN AT PANAMA. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The town arose to meet us as foes, and in order beheld us 
 
 come ; — 
 They were three to one, but warriors none, — traders, and 
 
 such like scum, 
 Unused to wield either sword or shield ; but they p]ied 
 
 their new trade well. 
 I am not told how they bought and sold, but they fought 
 
 like fiends of hell. 
 They fought in despair for their daughters fair, their 
 
 wives, and their wealth, God wot ! 
 And throughout the night made a gallant fight, — but it 
 
 matter'd not a jot. 
 
 For had we not sworn to take Panama, 
 
 We, the mighty Buccaneers ? 
 
 v. 
 
 O'er dying and dead the morn rose red, and o'er streets of 
 
 a redder dye ; 
 And in scatter'd spots stood men in knots, who would not 
 
 yield or fly. 
 With souls of fire they bay'd our ire, and parried the hurl 
 
 and thrust ; 
 But ere the sun its noon had won they were mingled with 
 
 the dust. 
 Half of our host in that night we lost, — but we little for 
 
 that had care ; 
 We knew right well that each that fell increased the 
 
 survivor's share 
 
 Of the plunder we found in old Panama, 
 We, the mighty Buccaneers ! 
 b 2 
 
OLD MORGAN AT PANAMA. 
 
 VI. 
 
 We found bars of gold, and coin untold, and gems which 
 
 to count were vain ; 
 We had floods of wine, and girls divine, the dark-eyed 
 
 girls of Spain. 
 They at first were coy, and baulk' d our joy, and seem'd 
 
 with their fate downcast, 
 And wept and groan' d, and shriek' d and swoon'd ; but 
 
 'twas all the same at last. 
 Our wooing was short, of the warrior's sort, and they 
 
 thought it rough, no doubt ; 
 But, truth to tell, the end was as well as had it been 
 
 longer about. 
 
 And so we revell'd in Panama, 
 
 We, the mighty Buccaneers ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 We lived in revel, sent care to the devil, for two or three 
 
 weeks or so, 
 When a general thought within us wrought that 'twas 
 
 getting time to go. 
 So we set to work with dagger and dirk to torture the 
 
 burghers hoar, 
 And their goid conceal' d compell'd them to yield, and add 
 
 to our common store. 
 And whenever a fool of the miser school declared he ha,d 
 
 ne'er a groat, 
 In charity due we melted a few, and pour'd them down 
 
 his throat. 
 
 This drink we invented at Panama, 
 
 We, the mighty Buccaneers ! 
 
 
OLD MORGAN AT PANAMA. 
 
 Till. 
 
 When the churls were eased, their bags well squeezed, we 
 gave them our blessing full fain, 
 
 And we kiss'd our girls with the glossy curls, the dark- 
 eyed girls of Spain ; 
 
 Our booty we shared, and we all prepared for the way we 
 had to roam, 
 
 "When there rose a dispute as to taking our route by land 
 or by water home. 
 
 So one half of the band chose to travel by land, the other 
 to travel by sea : 
 
 Old Morgan's voice gave the sea the choice, and I folio w'd 
 his fortunes free, 
 
 And hasten' d our leaving old Panama, 
 
 We, the mighty Buccaneers ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 A bark we equipp'd, and our gold we shipp'd, and gat us 
 
 ready for sea ; 
 Seventy men, and a score and ten, mariners bold were 
 
 we. 
 Our mates had took leave, on the yester-eve, their way 
 
 o'er the hills to find, 
 When, as morning's light pierced through the night, we 
 
 shook her sails to the wind. 
 With a fresh'ning breeze we walk'd the seas, and the land 
 
 sunk low and low'r ; 
 A dreary dread o'er our hearts there sped we never should 
 
 see land more — 
 
 And away we departed from Panama, 
 
 We, the mighty Buccaneers ! 
 
OLD MORGAN AT PANAMA. 
 
 For a day or two we were busy enow in setting ourselves 
 
 to rights, 
 In fixing each berth, our mess, and so forth, and the day's 
 
 watch and the night's ; 
 But when these were done, oyer every one came the lack 
 
 of aught to do, 
 We listless talk'd, we listless walk'd, and we pined for 
 
 excitement new. 
 Oh ! how we did hail any shift in the gale, for it gave us 
 
 a sail to trim ! 
 We began to repent that we had not bent our steps with 
 
 our comrades grim. 
 
 And thus we sail'd on from old Panama, 
 We, the mighty Buccaneers ! 
 
 XI. 
 
 Bay after day we had stagger'd away, with a steady breeze 
 
 abeam ; 
 Kb shift in the gale ; no trimming a sail ; how dull we 
 
 were, ye may deem ! 
 We sung old songs till we wearied our lungs ; we push'd 
 
 the flagon about ; 
 Vnd told and re-told tales ever so old, till they fairly 
 
 tired us out. 
 There was a shark in the wake of our bark took us three 
 
 days to hook ; 
 And when it was caught we wish'd it was not, for wo 
 
 miss'd the trouble it took. 
 
 And thus we sail'd on from old Panama, 
 We, the mighty Buccaneers ! 
 
OLD MORGAN AT PANAMA. 
 
 XII. 
 
 At last it befell, some tempter of liell put gambling in 
 
 some one's head ; 
 The devil's device, the cards and the dice, broke the 
 
 stagnant life we led : 
 From morn till night, ay, till next mom's light, we plied 
 
 the bones right well ; 
 Day after day the rattle of play clatter' d through the 
 
 caravel. 
 How the winners langh'd, how the losers quaff' d ! 'twas 
 
 a madness, as it were. 
 It was a thing of shuddering to hark to the losers swear. 
 And thus we sail'd on from old Panama, 
 We, the mighty Buccaneers ! 
 
 XIII. 
 
 From morn till night, ay, till next morn's light, for weeks 
 
 the play kept on : 
 'Twas fearful to see the winners' glee, and the losers 
 
 haggard and wan ; 
 You well might- tell, by their features fell, they would ill 
 
 brook to be crost ; 
 And one morn there was one, who all night had won 
 
 jeer'd some who all night had lost. 
 He went to bed — at noon he was dead — I know not from 
 
 what, nor reck ; 
 But they spake of a mark, livid and dark, about the dead 
 
 man's neck ! 
 
 And thus we sail'd on from old Panama, 
 We, the mighty Buccaneers ! 
 
8 OLD MORGAN AT PANAMA. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 This but begun : and those who had won lived a life of 
 
 anxious dread ; 
 Day after day there was bicker and fray ; and a man now 
 
 and then struck dead. 
 Old Morgan stern was laugh'd to scorn, and it worried his 
 
 heart, I trow ; 
 Five days of care, and his iron-grey hair was as white as 
 
 the winter's snow : 
 The losers at last his patience o'erpast, for they drew 
 
 their sword each one, 
 And cried, with a shout, " Hell take you ! come out, and 
 
 fight for the gold ye have won — 
 
 The gold that our blood bought at Panama : 
 We, the mighty Buccaneers I" 
 
 xv. 
 
 We never were slow at a word and a blow, so we cross'd 
 
 our irons full fain ; 
 And for death and life had begun the strife, when old 
 
 Morgan stopp'd it amain, 
 And thunder' d out with his stormy shout, — " Dogs, ye 
 
 have had your day ! 
 To your berths!" he roar'd. "Who sheaths not his 
 
 sword, Heaven grant him its grace, I pray ! 
 For I swear, by God, I will cleave him like wood !" There 
 
 was one made an angry sign ; 
 Old Morgan heard, and he kept his word ; for he clove 
 
 him to the chine. 
 
 So ended his exploits at Panama : 
 
 He, the mighty Buccaneer ! 
 
OLD MORGAN AT PANAMA. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 At this we quail'd, and we henceforth sail'd, in a 
 
 smouldering sort of truce ; 
 But onr dark brows gloom' d, and we inward fumed for a 
 
 pretext to give us loose : 
 When early one morn — " A strange sail astern !" we heard 
 
 the look-out-man hail ; 
 And old Morgan shout, " Put the ship about, and crowd 
 
 every stitch of sail !" 
 And around went we, surging through the sea at our island 
 
 wild buck's pace ; 
 In wonderment what old Morgan meant, we near'd to the 
 
 fated chase — 
 
 We, the pillagers of old Panama, 
 
 We, the mighty Buccaneers ! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 She went right fast, but we took her at last. 'Twas a 
 
 little brigantine thing ; 
 With some four men for crew, and a boy or two — a bark 
 
 built for trafficking ; 
 Besides this crew were three women, too : her freight was 
 
 salt-fish and oil : 
 For the men on board, they were put to the sword ; the 
 
 women we spared awhile. 
 And all was surmise what to do with the prize, when old 
 
 Morgan, calling us aft, 
 Eoar'd, " Ye who have fool'd yourselves out of your gold 
 
 take possession of yonder craft, 
 
 And go pillage some other Panama, 
 
 Ye, the mighty Buccaneers I" 
 
10 OLD MORGAN AT PANAMA. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 We were reckless and rude, we had been at feud till 'twas 
 
 war to the very knife ; 
 But it clove each heart when we came to part from 
 
 comrades in many a strife : 
 Over one and all a gloom seem'd to fall, and in silence 
 
 they pack'd their gear, 
 Amid curses and sighs, and glistening eyes, and here and 
 
 there a tear. 
 We gave brooches and things for keepsakes and rings ; and 
 
 some truck' d the weapons they wore : 
 This Spanish gun was a token from one who had fought 
 
 me a week before, 
 
 While we diced for the spoils of old Panama, 
 We, the mighty Buccaneers ! 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Their traps all pack'd, there was nothing lack'd, but sharing 
 
 the women three : 
 The odd one's choice was left to the dice, and she fell to 
 
 the rich so free ; 
 When the losers 'gan swear the dice were unfair, and 
 
 brawl' d till our chief gat wild, 
 And, without more ado, cut the woman in two, as Solomon 
 
 shared the child. 
 Then each of each band shook each old mate's hand, and 
 
 we parted with hearts full sore ; 
 We all that day watch' d them lessen away. They were 
 
 never heard of more ! 
 
 We kept merrily on from old Panama, 
 We, the mighty Buccaneers ! 
 
OLD MORGAN AT PANAMA. 11 
 
 XX. 
 
 Their sufferings none know, but ours, I trow, were very, 
 
 oh ! very sore ; 
 We had storm and gale till our hearts 'gan fail, and then 
 
 calms, which harass' d us more ; 
 Then many fell sick ; and while all were weak, we rounded 
 
 the fiery cape ; 
 As I hope for bliss in the life after this, 'twas a miracle 
 
 our escape ! 
 Then a leak we sprung, and to lighten us, flung all our 
 
 gold to the element : 
 Our perils are past, and we're here at last, but as penniless 
 
 as we went. 
 
 And such was the pillage of Panama 
 
 By the mighty Buccaneers ! 
 G. E. Inman. 
 
 Morgan, who was the son of a Welsh Farmer, and who lived to be 
 knighted, set out from Chagres with twelve hundred men, on the 18th 
 August, 1670. In ten days he reached Panama, which he at once 
 attacked and destroyed. The Buccaneers left the ruins with a hundred 
 and seventy-five beasts of burden, laden with silver, gold, and other 
 precious articles ; and with six hundred unhappy prisoners, men, 
 women, children, and slaves. — Ed. 
 
12 
 
 THE SABINE FAEMEE'S SEEENADE. 
 
 BEING A NEWLY RECOVERED FRAGMENT OF A LATIN OPLRA. 
 
 Erat turbida nox 
 
 Hora secnnda man 
 Q-uando proruit vox 
 
 Carmen in hoc inane ; 
 Viri misera mens 
 
 Meditabatur hymen, 
 Hinc pnellse flens 
 
 Stabat obsidens limen ; 
 
 Semel tantum die 
 JEris nostra Lalage ; 
 
 Ne recuses sic 
 Dulcis Julia Callage. 
 
 II. 
 
 Planctibns anrem fer, 
 
 Yenere tn formosior ; 
 Die, hos nraros per, 
 
 Tno favore potior ! 
 Yoce beatnm fac ; 
 
 En, dnm dormis, vigilo, 
 Nbcte obambulans hac 
 
 Donmin planctu stridulo. 
 
13 
 
 THE SABINE EAEMEE'S SEEENADE. 
 
 r. 
 
 'Twas on a windy night, 
 
 At two o'clock in the morning, 
 An Irish lad so tight, 
 
 All wind and weather scorning, 
 At Judy Callaghan's door, 4 
 
 Sitting upon the palings, 
 His love-tale he did pour, 
 
 And this was part of his wailings 
 
 Only say 
 You'll be Mrs. BrallagJian ; 
 
 Don't say nay, 
 Charming Judy Callaghan, 
 
 11. 
 
 Oh ! list to what I say, 
 
 Charms you've got like Yenus ; 
 Own your love you may, 
 
 There's but the wall between us. 
 Tou lie fast asleep 
 
 Snug in bed and snoring ; 
 Bound the house I creep, 
 
 Your hard heart imploring. 
 
]4 THE SABINE FARMER' S SERENADE. 
 
 Semel tantum die 
 Eris nostra Lalage ; 
 
 Ne recuses sic, 
 JDulcis Julia Callage. 
 
 in. 
 
 Est milii prsegnans sus, 
 
 Et porcellis stabulum ; 
 Villula, grex, et rus 1 
 
 Ad vaccarum pabulum ; 
 Feriis cerneres me 
 
 Splendido vestimento, 
 Tunc, heus ! quam bene te 
 
 Veherem in jumento ! 2 
 
 Semel tantum die 
 Eris nostra Lalage ; 
 
 Ne recuses sic, 
 Dulcis Julia Callage. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Vis poma terrse ? sum 
 
 Uno dives jugere ; 
 Vis lac et mella, 3 cum 
 
 Bacchi succo, 4 sugere ? 
 Vis aquse-vitse vim ? 5 
 
 Plumoso somnum sacculo ? 8 
 Vis ut paratus sim 
 
 Vel annulo vel baculo ? 7 
 
 Semel tantum die 
 Eris nostra Lalage ; 
 
 Ne recuses sic, 
 Dulcis Julia Callage. 
 
THE SABINE FARMERS SERENADE. 15 
 
 Only say 
 You'll have Mr. Brallaghan; 
 
 Don't say nay, 
 Charming Judy Callaghan. 
 
 in. 
 
 I've got a pig and a sow, 
 
 I've got a sty to sleep 'em ; 
 A calf and a brindled cow, 
 
 And a cabin too, to keep 'em ; 
 Sunday hat and coat, 
 
 An old grey mare to ride on. 
 Saddle and bridle to boot, 
 
 Which yon may ride astride on. 
 
 Only say 
 You'll be Mrs. Brallaghan; 
 
 Don't say nay, 
 Charming Judy Callaghan. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I've got an acre of ground, 
 
 I've got it set with praties ; 
 I've got of 'baccy a pound, 
 
 I've got some tea for the ladies ; 
 I've got the ring to wed, 
 
 Some whisky to make us gaily ; 
 I've got a feather-bed 
 
 And a handsome new shilelagh. 
 
 Only say 
 You'll have Mr. Brallaghan; 
 
 Don't say nay, 
 Charming Judy Callaghan, 
 
16 THE SABINE FARMERS SERENADE. 
 
 Litteris operam das ; 
 
 Lucido fudges oculo ; 
 Dotes insuper quas 
 
 Nummi sunt in loculo. 
 Novi qnod apta sis 8 
 
 Ad procreandam sobolem! 
 Possides (nesciat quis ?) 
 
 Linguani satis mobilem. 9 
 
 Semel tantum die 
 Eris nostra Lalage ; 
 
 Ne recuses sic, 
 Dulcis Julia Callage. 
 
 Conjnx utinam til 
 
 Fieres, lepidum cor, mi ! 
 Halitum perdimus, heu, 
 
 Te sopor nrget. Dormi ! 
 Ingruit imber trux — 
 
 Jam sub tecto pellitur 
 Is quem crastina lux 10 
 
 Referet hue fideliter. 
 Semel tandem die 
 Eris nostra Lalage ; 
 
 Ne recuses sic, 
 Dulcis Julia Callage. 
 
 Father Prout, 
 
 
THE SABINE FARMERS SERENADE. 17 
 
 You've got a charming eye, 
 
 You've got some spelling and reading ; 
 You've got, and so have I, 
 
 A taste for genteel breeding ; 
 You're rich, and fair, and young, 
 
 As everybody's knowing ; 
 You've got a decent tongue 
 
 Whene'er 'tis set a-going, 
 
 Only say 
 You'll be Mrs. Brallaghan ; 
 
 Don't say nay, 
 Charming Judy Gallaghan. 
 
 VI. 
 
 For a wife till death 
 
 I am willing to take ye ; 
 But, och ! I waste my breath, 
 
 The devil himself can't wake ye. 
 'Tis just beginning to rain, 
 
 So I'll get under cover ; 
 To-morrow I'll come again, 
 
 And be your constant lover. 
 
 Only say 
 You'll be Mrs. Brallaghan ; 
 
 Don't say nay, 
 Charming Judy Callaghan.* 
 
 * The above English lines are a portion of a ballad by the late 
 Tom Hudson, grocer, publican, and vocalist. — Ed. 
 
18 
 
 THE SABINE FARMER S SERENADE. 
 
 NOTUL.E 
 
 Notul. 1. 
 1° in voce rus. Nonne potius 
 legendum jus, scilicet ad vacca- 
 
 rum pabuh 
 
 Notul. 5. 
 Aqum-vita. vim, Anglo-Hyber- 
 nice, " a power of whisky," ur^us 
 
 De hoc jure apud scilicet, vox pergraeca. — Parr. 
 
 Sabinos agricolas consule Scrip- 
 tores de re rusticd passim. Ita 
 Bentleius. 
 
 Jus irao antiquissimum, at dis- 
 
 Notul. 6. 
 
 Plumoso sacco. Plumarutti 
 
 congeries certe ad somnos invitan- 
 
 dos satis apt a ; at mihi per mul- 
 
 plicet vox aequivoca ; jus etenim tos annos laneus iste saccus, Ang. 
 
 a mess of pottage aliquando audit, woolsack, fuit apprime ad dormi- 
 
 9X. gr. endum idoneus. Lites etiam de 
 
 Omne suum fratri Jacob jus ven- land ut aiunt caprind, soporiferas 
 
 didit Esau, per annos xxx. exercui. Quot et 
 
 Et Jacob fratri jus dedit omne quam praeclara sornnia ! — Eidon. 
 
 suum. Notul. 7. 
 
 Itaque, pace Bentleii, stet lectio Investitura "per annulum et 
 
 prior. — Prout. 
 
 Notul. 2. 
 Veherem in jumento. Curri- 
 culo-ne ? an pone sedentem in 
 equi dorso ? dorsaliter plane 
 Quid enim dicit Horatius de — Mag 
 uxore sic vecta ? Nonne " Post 
 equitem sedet atra euro. 
 Porson. 
 
 Notul. 3. 
 
 baculum" satis nota. Vide P. 
 Marca de Concord. Sacerdotii et 
 Imperii: et Hil.lebrandi Pont. 
 Max. bullarium. — J'rout. 
 
 Baculo certe dignissim. pontif. 
 
 Notul. 8. 
 Apta sis. Quomodo noverit ? 
 Vide Proverb. Solomonis cap. xxx. 
 v. 19. Nisi forsan tales fuerint 
 
 Lac et mella. Metaphorice pro puellae Sabinorum quales impu- 
 tea ; muliebris est compotatio dens iste balatro Connelius menti- 
 
 Graecis non ignota, teste Ana- 
 creonte, — 
 
 BEHN, deav fcaivrjv, 
 QeXco Xeyeiv eraipui, k.t A. 
 
 Brougham. 
 Notul. 4. 
 
 tur esse nostrates. — Blomfeld. 
 Notul. 9. 
 Linguam mobilem. Prius enu- 
 merat futurae conjugis bona irnmo- 
 bilia, postea transit ad mobilia, 
 Anglice, chattel property. Prae- 
 
 Bucchi succo. Duplex apud clarus ordo sententiarum I— Car. 
 poetas antiquiores habebatur hu- Wethera.ll. 
 
 nomims rmmen. Vineam 
 prius ; posterius cuidam 
 
 jusce 
 
 re 
 
 herbse exoticae prseerat quae tobacco 
 
 audit. Succus utrique optimus- 
 
 — Coleridge. 
 
 Notul. 10. 
 Allusio ad distichon Maronianum, 
 " Nocte pluit tota, redeunt spec- 
 tacula mane." — Prout. 
 
 K. T. > - 
 
 i 
 
19 
 
 LAUD YE THE MOJSTKS! 
 
 Laud ye the monks ! 
 
 They were not men of a creed austere, 
 
 Who frown' d on mirth, and forbade good cheer ; 
 
 But joyous oft were the brotherhood, 
 
 In the depths of their sylvan solitude. 
 
 The ruin'd abbey hath many a tale 
 
 Of their gay conceits and deep wassail ; 
 
 The huge hearth, left to the wreck of time, 
 
 Hath echoed of erst the minstrel's chime ; 
 
 The caves, despoil' d of their goodly store, 
 
 Have groan' d 'neath their weight in days of yore ! 
 
 Laud ye the monks ! 
 
 The wand'rer was their welcome guest, 
 The weary found in their grey walls rest ; 
 The poor man came, and they scorn'd him not, 
 Fro rank and wealth were alike forgot ; 
 The peasant sat at the plenteous board 
 With the pilgrim knight and the feudal lord ; 
 The feast was spread, and the foaming bowl 
 Gave freshen' d life to the thirsty soul ; 
 Round it pass'd, from the prince to the hind, 
 The fathers adding their greeting kind ! 
 c 2 
 
20 LAUD YE THE MONKS ! 
 
 Laud ye the monks ! 
 
 Many a blazon' d scroll doth prove 
 
 The pains they took in their work of love 5 
 
 Many a missal onr thoughts engage 
 
 With scenes and deeds of a bygone age ; 
 
 Many a hallowing minster still 
 
 Attests the marvels of olden skill ! 
 
 The broken shaft, or the altar razed, 
 
 The mould'ring fane, where onr sires have praised, 
 
 Are beantifnl, even amidst decay, 
 
 Blessing the men who have pass'd away ! 
 
 Land ye the monks ! 
 
 For they were friends of the poor and weak. 
 The prond man came to their footstool meek, 
 And many an acre broad and good 
 Was the forfeit paid for his curbless mood : — 
 The penance hard, and the peasant's ban, 
 Would make him think of his fellow-man ; 
 The mass and dirge for his parting soul 
 Would wring for the needy a welcome dole. 
 The cowl bow'd not to the noble's crest, 
 But kings would yield to the priest's behest ! 
 
 Laud ye the monks ! 
 
 Tranquil and sweet was monastic life, 
 
 Free from the leaven of worldly strife ; 
 
 The desolate found a shelter there, 
 
 A home secure from the shafts of care ! 
 
 Many a heart with sorrow riven 
 
 Would learn to dream of a shadeless heaven ! 
 
LAUD TE THE MONKS 
 
 21 
 
 And plenty smiled where the convent rose, 
 The herald of love and deep repose ; 
 The only spot where the arts gave forth 
 The hope of a glorious age to earth ! 
 
 William Jones. 
 
22 
 
 THE LEGEND OF MANOK HALL. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OE " HEADLONG HALL/ 
 
 Old Farmer Wall, of Manor Hall, 
 To market drove his wain : 
 
 Along the road it went well stowed 
 With sacks of golden grain. 
 
 His station he took, hut in vain did he look 
 
 For a customer all the morn ; 
 Though the farmers all, save Farmer Wall, 
 
 They sold off all their corn. 
 
 Then home he went, sore discontent, 
 
 And many an oath he swore, 
 And he kicked up rows with his children and spouse, 
 
 When they met him at the door. 
 
 Next market-day he drove away 
 To the town his loaded wain : 
 
 The farmers all, save Farmer Wall, 
 They sold off all their grain. 
 
THE LEGEND OP MANOR HALL. 23 
 
 No bidder lie found, and lie stood astound 
 
 At the close of the market-day, 
 When the market was done, and the chapmen were gone 
 
 Each man his several way. 
 
 He stalked by his load along the road ; 
 
 His face with wrath was red : 
 His arms he tossed, like a good man crossed 
 
 In seeking his daily bread. 
 
 His face was red, and fierce was his tread, 
 
 And with lusty voice cried he, 
 " My corn I'll sell to the devil of hell, 
 
 If he'll my chapman be." 
 
 These words he spoke just under an oak 
 
 Seven hundred winters old ; 
 And he straight was aware of a man sitting there 
 
 On the roots and grassy mould. 
 
 The roots rose high, o'er the green-sward dry, 
 And the grass around was green, 
 
 Save just the space of the stranger's place, 
 Where it seemed as fire had been. 
 
 All scorched was the spot, as gipsy-pot 
 
 Had swung and bubbled there : 
 The grass was marred, the roots were charred, 
 
 And the ivy stems were bare. 
 
24) THE LEGEND OF MANOK HALL. 
 
 The stranger up-sprung : to the farmer lie flung 
 
 A loud and friendly hail, 
 And he said, "I see well, thou hast corn to sell, 
 
 And I'll buy it on the nail." 
 
 The twain in a trice agreed on the price ; 
 
 The stranger his earnest paid, 
 And with horses and wain to come for the grain 
 
 His own appointment made. 
 
 The farmer cracked his whip, and tracked 
 
 His way right merrily on : 
 He struck up a song as he trudged along, 
 
 For joy that his job was done. 
 
 His children fair he danced in the air ; 
 
 His heart with joy was big ; 
 He kissed his wife ; he seized a knife, 
 
 He slew a sucking pig. 
 
 The faggots burned, the porkling turned 
 
 And crackled before the fire ; 
 And an odour arose that was sweet in the nose 
 
 Of a passing ghostly friar. 
 
 He twirled at the pin, he entered in, 
 
 He sate down at the board ; 
 The pig he blessed, when he saw it well dressed, 
 
 And the humming ale out-poured. 
 
THE LEGEND OF MANOR HALL. 25 
 
 The friar laughed, the friar quaffed, 
 
 He chirped like a bird in May ; 
 The farmer told how his corn he had sold 
 
 As he journeyed home that day. 
 
 The friar he quaffed, but no longer he laughed, 
 
 He changed from red to pale : 
 " Oh, helpless elf ! 'tis the fiend hhnself 
 
 To whom thou hast made thy sale !." 
 
 The friar he quaffed, he took a deep draught ; 
 
 He crossed himself amain : 
 " Oh, slave of pelf ! 'tis the devil himself 
 
 To whom thou hast sold thy grain ! 
 
 " And sure as the day, he'll fetch thee away, 
 
 With the corn which thou hast sold, 
 If thou let him pay o'er one tester more 
 
 Than thy settled price in gold." 
 
 The farmer gave vent to a loud lament, 
 
 The wife to a long outcry ; 
 Their relish for pig and ale was flown ; 
 The friar alone picked every bone, 
 
 And drained the flagon dry. 
 
 The friar was gone ; the morning dawn 
 Appeared, and the stranger's wain 
 
 Came to the hour, with six-horse power, 
 To fetch the purchased grain. 
 
26 THE LEGEND OF MANOR HALL. 
 
 The horses were black : on their dewy track 
 Light steam from the ground up-curled ; 
 
 Long wreaths of smoke from their nostrils broke, 
 And their tails like torches whirled. 
 
 More dark and grim, in face and limb, 
 Seemed the stranger than before, 
 
 As his empty wain, with steeds thrice twain, 
 Drew up to the farmer's door. 
 
 On the stranger's face was a sly grimace, 
 As he seized the sacks of grain ; 
 
 And, one by one, till left were none, 
 He tossed them on the wain. 
 
 And slily he leered as his hand up-reared 
 
 A purse of costly mould, 
 Where, bright and fresh, through a silver mesh, 
 
 Shone forth the glistering gold. 
 
 The farmer held out his right hand stout, 
 And drew it back with dread ; 
 
 For in fancy he heard each warning word 
 The supping friar had said. 
 
 His eye was set on the silver net ; 
 
 His thoughts were in fearful strife ; 
 When, sudden as fate, the glittering bait 
 
 Was snatched by his loving wife. 
 
THE LEGEND OF MANOR HALL. 27 
 
 And, swift as thought, the stranger caught 
 
 The farmer his waist around, 
 And at once the twain and the loaded wain 
 
 Sank through the rifted ground. 
 
 The gable-end wall of Manor Hall 
 
 Fell in ruins on the place : 
 'That stone-heap old the tale has told 
 
 To each succeeding race. 
 
 The wife gave a cry that rent the sky 
 
 At her goodman's downward flight : 
 But she held the purse fast, and a glance she cast 
 
 To see that all was right. 
 
 'Twas the fiend's full pay for her goodman gray, 
 
 And the gold was good and true ; 
 Which made her declare, that " his dealings were fair, 
 
 To give the devil his due." 
 
 She wore the black pall for Farmer Wall, 
 
 From her fond embraces riven : 
 But she won the vows of a younger spouse 
 
 With the gold which the fiend had given. 
 
 Now, farmers, beware what oaths you swear 
 When you cannot sell your corn ; 
 
 Lest, to bid and buy, a stranger be nigh, 
 With hidden tail and horn. 
 
28 THE LEGEND OF MANOR HALL. 
 
 And, with good heed, the moral a-read, 
 Which is of this tale the pith, — 
 
 If your corn yon sell to the fiend of hell, 
 Yon may sell yourself therewith. 
 
 And if by mishap you fall in the trap, 
 Would you bring the fiend to shame, 
 
 Lest the tempting prize should dazzle her eyes, 
 Lock up your frugal dame. 
 
29 
 
 THE " OEiaiNAL" DEAGOK 
 
 A LEGEND OF THE CELESTIAL EMPIRE. 
 
 Freely translated from an undeciphered MS. of Con-fuse-us,* and dedicated to 
 Colonel Bolsover (of the Horse Marines), by C. J. Davids, Esq. 
 
 A desperate dragon, of singular size, — 
 
 (His name was Wing-Fang-Scratch-Claw-Fum,) — 
 Flew up one day to the top of the skies, 
 
 While all the spectators with terror were dumb. 
 The vagabond vow'd as he sported his tail, 
 
 He'd have a shy lark, and some glorious fun : 
 For he'd nonplus the natives that day without fail, 
 
 By causing a total eclipse of the sun !f 
 He collected a crowd by his impudent boast, 
 
 (Some decently dress' d — some with hardly a rag on,) 
 Who said that the country was ruin'd and lost, 
 
 Unless they could compass the death of the dragon. 
 
 * " Better known to illiterate people as Confucius" — Washington 
 Irving. 
 
 f In China (whatever European astronomers may assert to the con- 
 trary) an eclipse is caused by a great dragon eating up the sun. 
 
 To avert so shocking an outrage, the natives frighten away the monster 
 from his intended hot dinner, by giving a morning concert, al fiesco ; 
 consisting of drums, trumpets, cymbals, gongs, tin-kettles, &c. 
 
30 THE " ORIGINAL" DRAGON. 
 
 II. 
 
 The emperor came with the whole of his court, — 
 
 (His Majesty's name was Ding-Dong- Junk) — 
 And he said — to delight in such profligate sport, 
 
 The monster was mad, or disgracefully drunk. 
 He call'd on the army : the troops to a man 
 
 Declared — though they didn't feel frighten' d the least — - 
 They never could think it a sensible plan 
 
 To go within reach of so ugly a beast. 
 So he offer' d his daughter, the lovely Nan- Keen, 
 
 And a painted pavilion, with many a flag on, 
 To any brave knight who could step in between 
 
 The solar eclipse and the dare-devil dragon, 
 
 in. 
 
 Presently came a reverend bonze. — 
 
 (His name, I'm told, was Long-Chin Joss,) — 
 With a phiz very like the complexion of bronze ; 
 
 And for suitable words he was quite at a loss. 
 But, he humbly submitted, the orthodox way 
 
 To succour the sun, and to bother the foe, 
 Was to make a new church-rate without more delay, 
 
 As the clerical funds were deplorably low. 
 Though he coveted nothing at all for himself, 
 
 (A virtue he always delighted to brag on,) 
 He thought, if the priesthood could pocket some pelf, 
 
 It might hasten the doom of this impious dragon. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The next that spoke was the court buffoon, — 
 
 (The name of this buffer was Whim-Wham-Fun,)- 
 
THE " ORIGINAL" DRAGON. 31 
 
 Who carried a salt-box and large wooden spoon, 
 
 With which, he suggested, the job might be done. 
 Said the jester, " I'll wager my rattle and bells, 
 
 Tour pride, my fine fellow, shall soon have a fall : 
 If yon make many more of yonr horrible yells, 
 
 I know a good method to make yon sing small !" 
 And when he had set all the place in a roar, 
 
 As his merry conceits led the whimsical wag on, 
 He hinted a plan to get rid of the bore, 
 
 By putting some salt on the tail of the dragon I 
 
 At length appear'd a brisk young knight, — 
 
 (The far-famed warrior, Bam-Boo-Gong,) — 
 Who threaten' d to burke the big blackguard outright, 
 
 And have the deed blazon' d in story and song. 
 With an excellent shot from a very long bow 
 
 He damaged the dragon by cracking his crown ; 
 When he fell to the ground (as my documents show) 
 
 With a smash that was heard many miles out of town. 
 His death was the signal for frolic and spree — 
 
 They carried the corpse, in a common stage-waggon ; 
 And the hero was crown' d with the leaves of green tea, 
 
 For saving the sun from the jaws of the dragon. 
 
 
 VI. 
 
 A poet, whose works were all the rage, — 
 
 (This gentleman's name was Sing-Song-Strum,) — 
 
 Told the terrible tale on his popular page : 
 
 (Compared with his verses, my rhymes are but rum !) 
 
32 THE " ORIGINAL" DRAGON". 
 
 The Boyal Society claim'd as their right 
 
 The spoils of the vanquish' d — his wings, tail, and claws ; 
 And a brilliant bravura, describing the fight, 
 
 Was sung on the stage with unbounded applause. 
 " The valiant Bam-Boo" was a favourite toast, 
 
 And a topic for future historians to fag on, 
 Which, when it had reach' d to the Middlesex coast, 
 
 Gave rise to the legend of "George and the Dragon." 
 
33 
 
 THE TEMPTATIONS OF ST. ANTHONY. 
 
 " He would have passed a pleasant life of it, in despite of the devil 
 and all his works, if his path had not been crossed by a being that 
 causes more perplexity to mortal man than ghosts, goblins, and the 
 whole race of witches put together, and that was — a woman." — Sketch- 
 Book 
 
 St. Anthony sat on a lowly stool, 
 
 And a book was in his hand ; 
 Never his eye from its page he took, 
 Either to right or left to look, 
 But with steadfast soul, as was his rule, 
 
 The holy page he scanned. 
 
 " We will woo," said the imp, " St. Anthony's eyes 
 
 Off from his holy book : 
 We will go to him all in strange disguise, 
 And tease him with laughter, whoops, and cries, 
 
 That he upon us may look." 
 
 The Devil was in the best humour that day 
 
 That ever his highness was in : 
 And that's why he sent out his imps to play, 
 And he furnished them torches to light their way, 
 Nor stinted them incense to burn as they may, — 
 
 Sulphur, and pitch, and rosin. 
 
 D 
 
34 THE TEMPTATIONS OF ST. ANTHONT. 
 
 So they came to tlie Saint in a motley crew, 
 
 A heterogeneous ront : 
 There were imps of every shape and hue, 
 And some looked black, and some looked blue, 
 And they passed and varied before the view, 
 
 And twisted themselves about : 
 And had they exhibited thus to you, 
 I think you'd have felt in a bit of a stew, — 
 
 Or so should myself, I doubt. 
 
 There were some with feathers, and some with scales, 
 
 And some with warty skins ; 
 Some had not heads, and some had tails, 
 And some had claws like iron nails ; 
 And some had combs and beaks like birds, 
 And yet, like jays, could utter words ; 
 
 And some had gills and fins. 
 
 Some rode on skeleton beasts, arrayed 
 
 In gold and velvet stuff, 
 With rich tiaras on the head, 
 Like kings and queens among the dead ; 
 While face and bridle-hand, displayed, 
 In hue and substance seemed to cope 
 With maggots in a microscope, 
 And their thin lips, as white as soap, 
 
 Were colder than enough. 
 
 And spiders big from the ceiling hung, 
 From every creek and nook : 
 
THE TEMPTATIONS OF ST. ANTHONY. 35 
 
 They had a crafty, ugly guise, 
 
 And looked at the Saint with their eight eyes ; 
 
 And all that malice could devise 
 
 Of evil to the good and wise 
 
 Seemed welling from their look. 
 
 Beetles and slow- worms crawled about, 
 
 And toads did squat demure ; 
 From holes in the wainscoting mice peeped out, 
 Or a sly old rat with his whiskered snout ; 
 And forty-feet, a fall span long, 
 Danced in and out in an endless throng : 
 There ne'er has been seen such extravagant rout 
 
 From that time to this, I'm sure. 
 
 But the good St. Anthony kept his eyes 
 
 Fixed on the holy book ; — 
 From it they did not sink nor rise ; 
 Nor sights nor laughter, shouts nor cries, 
 
 Could win away his look. 
 
 A quaint imp sat in an earthen pot, 
 
 In a big-bellied earthen pot sat he : 
 Through holes in the bottom his legs outshot, 
 And holes in the sides his arms had got, 
 .And his head came out through the mouth, God wot ! 
 
 A comical sight to see. 
 
 And he drummed on his belly so fair and round, 
 On his belly so round and fair ; 
 d 2 
 
36 THE TEMPTATIONS OE ST. ANTHONY. 
 
 And it gave forth, a rumbling, mingled sound, 
 'Twixt a muffled bell and a growling hound, 
 
 A comical sonnd to hear : 
 And he sat on the edge of a table-desk, 
 
 And drummed it with his heels ; 
 And he looked as strange and as picturesque 
 As the figures we see in an arabesque, 
 Half hidden in flowers, all painted in fresque, 
 
 In Gothic vaulted ceils. 
 
 Then he whooped and hawed, and winked and grinned, 
 
 And his eyes stood out with glee ; 
 And he said these words, and he sung this song, 
 And his legs and his arms, with their double prong, 
 Keeping time with his tune as it galloped along, 
 Still on the pot and the table dinned 
 
 As birth to his song gave he. 
 
 " Old Tony, my boy ! shut up your book, 
 
 And learn to be merry and gay. 
 You sit like a bat in his cloistered nook, 
 Like a round- shoulder' d fool of an owl you look 
 But straighten your back from its booby crook, 
 
 And more sociable be, I pray. 
 
 " Let us see you laugh, let us hear you sing ; 
 
 Take a lesson from me, old boy ! 
 Bemember that life has a fleeting wing, 
 And then comes Death, that stern old king, 
 
 So we'd better make sure of joy." 
 
THE TEMPTATIONS OF ST. ANTHONY. 37 
 
 But the good St. Anthony bent his eyes 
 
 Upon the holy book : 
 He heard that song with a laugh arise, 
 But he knew that the imp had a naughty guise, 
 
 And he did not care to look. 
 
 Another imp came in a masquerade, 
 
 Most like to a monk's attire : 
 But of living bats his cowl was made, 
 Their wings stitched together with spider thread ; 
 And round and about him. they fluttered and played ; 
 And his eyes shot out from their misty shade 
 
 Long parallel bars of Are. 
 
 And his loose teeth chattered like clanking bones, 
 
 When the gibbet-tree sways in the blast : 
 And with gurgling shakes, and stifled groans, 
 He mocked the good St. Anthony's tones 
 As he muttered his prayer full fast. 
 
 A rosary of beads was hung by his side, — 
 
 Oh, gaunt-looking beads were they ! 
 And still, when the good Saint dropped a bead, 
 He dropped a tooth, and he took good heed 
 To rattle his string, and the bones replied, 
 
 Like a rattle- snake's tail at play. 
 
 But the good St. Anthony bent his eyes 
 
 Upon the holy book ; 
 He heard that mock of groans and sighs, 
 
38 THE TEMPTATIONS OF ST. ANTHONY. 
 
 And lie knew that the tiling had an evil guise, 
 And he did not dare to look. 
 
 Another imp came with a trumpet- snout, 
 
 That was mouth and nose in one : 
 It had stops like a flute, as you never may doubt, 
 Where his long lean fingers capered about, 
 As he twanged his nasal melodies out, 
 
 In quaver, and shake, and run. 
 
 And his head moved forward and backward still 
 
 On his long and snaky neck ; 
 As he bent his energies all to fill 
 His nosey tube with wind and skill, 
 And he sneezed his octaves out, until 
 
 'Twas well-nigh ready to break. 
 
 And close to St. Anthony's ear he came, 
 
 And piped his music in : 
 And the shrill sound went through the good Saint's 
 
 frame, 
 With a smart and a sting, like a shred of flame, 
 Or a bee in the ear, — which is much the same, — 
 
 And he shivered with the din. 
 
 But the good St. Anthony bent his eyes 
 
 Upon the holy book ; 
 He heard that snout with its gimlet cries, 
 And he knew that the imp had an evil guise, 
 
 And he did not dare to look. 
 
 
THE TEMPTATIONS OF ST. ANTHONY. 39 
 
 A thing with horny eyes was there, 
 
 With horny eyes like the dead ; 
 And its long sharp nose was all of horn, 
 And its bony cheeks of flesh were shorn, 
 And its ears were like thin cases torn 
 Froni feet of kine, and its jaws were bare ; 
 And fish-bones grew, instead of hair, 
 
 Upon its skinless head. 
 
 Its body was of thin birdy bones, 
 
 Bonnd round with a parchment skin ; 
 And when 'twas struck, the hollow tones 
 That circled round like drum-dull groans, 
 Bespoke a void within. 
 
 Its arm was like a peacock's leg, 
 
 And the claws were like a bird's : 
 But the creep that went, like a blast of plague, 
 To loose the live flesh from the bones, 
 And wake the good Saint's inward groans, 
 As it clawed his cheek, and pulled his hair, 
 And pressed on his eyes in their beating lair, 
 Cannot be told in words. 
 
 But the good St. Anthony kept his eyes 
 
 Still on the holy book ; 
 He felt the clam on his brow arise, 
 And he knew that the thing had a horrid guise, 
 
 And he did not dare to look. 
 
40 THE TEMPTATIONS OF ST. ANTHONY. 
 
 An imp came then like a skeleton form 
 
 Out of a charnel vault : 
 Some clingings of meat had been left by the "worm, 
 Some tendons and strings on his legs and arm, 
 And his jaws with gristle were black and deform, 
 
 But his teeth were as white as salt. 
 
 And he grinned full many a lifeless grin, 
 
 And he rattled his bony tail ; 
 His skull was decked with gill and fin, 
 And a spike of bone was on his chin, 
 And his bat-like ears were large and thin, 
 And his eyes were the eyes of a snail. 
 
 He took his stand at the good Saint's back, 
 
 And on tiptoe stood a space : 
 Forward he bent, all rotten-black, 
 And he sunk again On his heel, good lack ! 
 And the good Saint uttered some ghostly groans, 
 For the head was caged in the gaunt rib-bones,— 
 
 A horrible embrace ! 
 And the skull hung o'er with an elvish pry, 
 And cocked down its India-rubber eye 
 
 To gaze upon his face. 
 
 Yet the good St. Anthony sunk his eyes 
 
 Deep in the holy book : 
 He felt the bones, and so was wise 
 To know that the thing had a ghastly guise, 
 
 And he did not dare to look. 
 

 THE TEMPTATIONS OF ST. ANTHONY. 41 
 
 Last came an imp, — how unlike the rest ! — 
 
 A beautiful female form : 
 And her voice was like music, that sleep-oppress' d 
 Sinks on some cradling zephyr's breast ; 
 And whilst with a whisper his cheek she press' d, 
 
 Her cheek felt soft and warm. 
 
 When over his shoulder she bent the light 
 
 Of her soft eyes on to his page, 
 It came like a moonbeam silver bright, 
 And relieved him then with a mild delight, 
 For the yellow lamp-lustre scorched his sight, 
 
 That was weak with the mists of age. 
 
 Hey ! the good St. Anthony boggled his eyes 
 
 Over the holy book : 
 Ho ho ! at the corners they 'gan to rise, 
 For he knew that the thing had a lovely guise,, 
 
 And he could not choose but look. 
 
 There are many devils that walk this world, — 
 
 Devils large, and devils small ; 
 Devils so meagre, and devils so stout ; 
 Devils with horns, and devils without ; 
 Sly devils that go with their tails upcurled, 
 Bold devils that carry them quite unfurled ; 
 
 Meek devils, and devils that brawl ; 
 Serious devils, and laughing devils ; 
 Imps for churches, and imps for revels ; 
 
42 THE TEMPTATIONS OF ST. ANTHONY. 
 
 Devils uncouth, and devils polite ; 
 Devils black, and devils white ; 
 Devils foolish, and devils wise ; 
 But a laughing woman, with two bright eyes 
 Is the worsest devil of ali. 
 
 T. H. S. 
 
A TALE OF GRAMMARYE. 
 
 The Baron came home in his fury and rage, 
 He blew up his Henchman, he blew np his Page ; 
 The Seneschal trembled, the Cook looked pale, 
 As he ordered for supper grilled kidneys and ale, 
 Vain thought ! that grill' d kidneys can give relief, 
 When one's own are inflamed by anger and grief. 
 
 What was the cause of the Baron's distress ? 
 Why sank his spirits so low ? — 
 
 The fair Isabel, when she should have said " Yes/ 
 Had given the Baron a " No." 
 He ate, and he drank, and he grumbled between : 
 First on the viands he vented his spleen, — 
 The ale was sour, — the kidneys were tough, 
 And tasted of nothing but pepper and snuff ! 
 — The longer he ate, the worse grew affairs, 
 Till he ended by kicking the butler down stairs. 
 
 All was hushed — 'twas the dead of the night — 
 
 The tapers were dying away, 
 And the armour bright 
 Glanced in the light 
 
 Of the pale moon's trembling ray ; 
 
44 A TALE OF GRAMMARYE. 
 
 Yet his Lordship sat still, digesting his ire, 
 With his nose on his knees, and his knees in the fire,- 
 AU at once he jump'd up, resolved to consult his 
 Cornelius Agrippa de rebus occuliis. 
 
 He seized by the handle 
 
 A bed-room flat candle, 
 And went to a secret nook, 
 
 Where a chest lay hid 
 
 With so massive a lid, 
 His knees, as he raised it, shook, 
 Partly, perhaps, from the wine he had drunk, 
 Partly from fury, and partly from funk ; 
 For never before had he ventured to look 
 In his Great- Great- Grandfather's conjuring-book. 
 
 Now Lord Eanulph Fitz-Hugh, 
 
 As lords frequently do, 
 Thought reading a bore, — but his case is quite new ; 
 
 So he quickly ran through 
 
 A chapter or two, 
 For without Satan's aid he knew not what to do, — 
 When poking the fire, as the evening grew colder, 
 
 He saw with alarm, 
 
 As he raised up his arm, 
 An odd-looking countenance over his shoulder. 
 
 Firmest rock will sometimes quake, 
 Trustiest blade will sometimes break, 
 Sturdiest heart will sometimes fail, 
 Proudest eye will sometimes quail j — 
 
A TALE OF GEAMMAEYE. 45 
 
 No wonder Fitz-Hugh felt uncommonly queer 
 Upon suddenly seeing the Devil so near, 
 Leaning over his chair, peeping into his ear. 
 
 The stranger first 
 The silence burst, 
 And replied to the Baron's look : — 
 " I would not intrude, 
 But don't think me rude 
 If I sniff at that musty old book. 
 
 Charms were all very well 
 Ere Reform came to Hell ; 
 But now not an imp cares a fig for a spell. 
 Still I see what you want, 
 And am willing to grant 
 The person and purse of the fair Isabel. 
 Upon certain conditions the maiden is won ; — 
 You may have her at once, if you choose to say ' Done !' 
 
 " The lady so rare, 
 
 Her manors so fair, 
 Lord Baron I give to thee : 
 
 But when once the sun 
 
 Five years has run, 
 Lord Baron, thy soul's my fee !" 
 
 Oh ! where wert thou, ethereal Sprite ? 
 
 Protecting Angel, where ? 
 Sure never before had noble or knight 
 
 Such need of thy guardian care ! 
 No aid is nigh — 'twas so decreed j — 
 
46 A TALE OF GKAMMARTE. 
 
 The recreant Baron at once agreed, 
 And prepared with his blood to sign the deed. 
 
 With the point of his sword • 
 
 His arm he scored, 
 And mended his pen with his Misericorde ; 
 
 From his black silk breeches 
 
 The stranger reaches 
 A lawyer's leathern case, 
 
 Selects a paper, 
 
 And snuffing the taper, 
 The Baron these words mote trace : — 
 " Five years after date, I promise to pay 
 My sonl to old Mck, without let or delay, 
 For value received." — " There, my Lord, on my life, 
 Put your name to the bill, and the lady's your wife." 
 
 All look'd bright in earth and heaven, 
 
 And far through the morning skies 
 Had Sol his fiery coursers driven, — 
 That is, it was striking half -past eleven 
 
 As Isabel opened her eyes. 
 
 All wondered what made the lady so late, 
 
 For she came not down till noon, 
 Though she usually rose at a quarter to eight, 
 
 And went to bed equally soon. 
 But her rest had been broken by troublesome dreams : — 
 She had thought that, in spite of her cries and her screams, 
 Old Nick had borne off, in a chariot of flame, 
 The gallant young Howard of Effinghame. 
 
A TALE OF GRAMMARYE. 47 
 
 Her eye was so dim, and her cheek so chill, 
 
 The family doctor declared she was ill, 
 
 And muttered dark hints of a draught and a pill. 
 
 All during breakfast to brood doth she seem 
 
 O'er some secret woes or wrongs ; 
 For she empties the salt-cellar into the cream, 
 
 And stirs up her tea with the tongs. 
 But scarce hath she finished her third round of toast, 
 
 When a knocking is heard by all — 
 " "What may that be ? — 'tis too late for the post, — 
 Too soon for a morning call." 
 After a moment of silence and dread, 
 The court-yard rang 
 With the joyful clang 
 Of an armed warrior's tread. 
 Now away and away with fears and alarms, — 
 The lady lies clasped in young Effinghame's arms. 
 
 She hangs on his neck, and she tells him true, 
 How that troublesome creature, Lord Eanulph Fitz-Hugh, 
 Hath vowed and hath sworn with a terrible curse, 
 That, unless she will take him for better for worse, 
 He will work her mickle rue I 
 
 " Now, lady love, dismiss thy fear, 
 
 Should that grim old Baron presume to come here, 
 
 We'll soon send him home with a flea in his ear ; — 
 
 And, to cut short the strife, 
 
 My love ! my life ! 
 Let me send for a parson, and make you my wife !" 
 
48 A TALE OF GEAMMAEYE. 
 
 No banns did they need, no licence require, — 
 They were married that day before dark : 
 
 The Clergyman came, — a fat little friar, 
 The doctor acted as Clerk. 
 
 But the nuptial rites were hardly o'er, 
 Scarce had they reached the vestry door, 
 When a knight rushed headlong in ; 
 From his shoes to his shirt 
 He was all over dirt, 
 From his toes to the tip of his chin ; 
 But high on his travel-stained helmet tower'd 
 The lion-crest of the noble Howard. 
 
 By horrible doubts and fears possest, 
 
 The bride turned and gaz'd on the bridegroom's breast — 
 
 No Argent Bend was there ; 
 No. Lion bright 
 Of her own true knight, 
 
 But his rival's Sable Bear ! 
 The Lady Isabel instantly knew 
 'Twas a regular hoax of the false Fitz-Hugh ; 
 And loudly the Baron exultingly cried, 
 " Thou art wooed, thou art won, my bonny gay bride ! 
 Nor heaven nor hell can our loves divide I" 
 
 This pithy remark was scarcely made, 
 
 When the Baron beheld, upon turning his head, 
 
 His Friend in black close by ; 
 He advanced with a smile all placid and bland, 
 Popp'd a small piece of parchment into his hand, 
 
 And knowingly winked his eye. 
 
A TALE OF GRAMMARVE. 49 
 
 As the Baron perused, 
 His cheek was suffused 
 With a flush between brick-dust and brown ; 
 While the fair Isabel 
 Fainted, and fell 
 In a still and death-like swoon 
 Lord Howard roar'd out, till the chapel and vaults 
 Bang with cries for burnt feathers and volatile salts. 
 
 " Look at the date !" quoth the queer-looking man, 
 
 In his own peculiar tone ; 
 " My word hath been kept, — deny it who can, — 
 
 And now I am come for my own." 
 Might he trust his eyes ? — Alas ! and alack ! 
 'Twas a bill ante-dated fall five years back ! 
 
 'Twas all too true — 
 
 It was over due — 
 The term had expired ! — he wouldn't " renew," — 
 And the Devil looked black as the Baron looked blue. 
 
 The Lord Fitz-Hugh 
 Made a great to-do, 
 And especially blew up Old Nick, — 
 " 'Twas a stain," he swore, 
 " On the name he bore 
 To play such a rascally trick !" — 
 A trick ?" quoth Mck, in a tone rather quick, 
 It's one often played upon people who ' tick.' " 
 Blue flames now broke 
 From his mouth as he spoke, 
 They went out, and left an uncommon thick smoke, 
 
 E 
 
50 A TALE OF GEAMMARYE. 
 
 Which, enveloping quite 
 
 Himself and the Knight, 
 The pair in a moment were clean out of sight. 
 
 When it wafted away, 
 
 Where the dickens were they ? 
 Oh ! no one might guess — Oh ! no one might say,—- 
 
 But never, I wis, 
 
 From that time to this, 
 In hall or in bower, on mountain or plain, 
 Has the Baron been seen, or been heard of again. 
 
 As for fair Isabel, after two or three sighs, 
 She finally opened her beautiful eyes. 
 
 She coughed, and she sneezed 
 
 And was very well pleased, 
 After being so rumpled, and towzled, and teased, 
 To find when restored from her panic and pain, 
 My Lord Howard had married her over again. 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 Be warned by our story, ye Nobles and Knights, 
 
 Who're so much in the habit of " flying of kites ;" 
 
 And beware how ye meddle again with such Flights : 
 
 At least, if your energies Creditors cramp, 
 
 Bemember a Usurer's always a Scamp, 
 
 And look well at the Bill, and the Date, and the Stamp : 
 
 Don't sign in a hurry, whatever you do, 
 
 Or you'll go the Devil, like Baron Fitz-Hugh. 
 
 Dalton. 
 
51 
 
 THE KED-BEEAST OF AQTJITAOTA. 
 
 AN HUMBLE BALLAD. 
 
 " Are. not two sparrows sold for a farthing ? yet not one of them 
 shall fall to the ground without your Father." — St. Matthew, x. 29. 
 
 " Gallos ab Aquitanis Garumna flumen." — Julius Caesar. 
 
 " Sermons in stones, and good in everything." — Shakspeare. 
 
 " Genius, left to shiver 
 On the bank, 'tis said, 
 Died of that cold river." — Tom Moore. 
 
 River trip 
 from Thou- 
 louse to 
 Bourdeaux. 
 Thermome- 
 ter at -0. 
 Snow 1J foot 
 deep. Use 
 of wooden 
 shoes. 
 
 Oh, 'twas bitter cold 
 As our steam-boat roll'd 
 Down the pathway old 
 
 Of the deep Garonne, — 
 And the peasant lank, 
 "While his sabot sank 
 In the snow- clad bank, 
 
 Saw it roll on, on. 
 
 Y* Gascon 
 farmer hieth 
 to his cot- 
 tage, and 
 dnnketh a 
 flaggonne. 
 
 II. 
 
 And he hied him home 
 To his toit de cliaume; 
 And for those who roam 
 On the broad bleak flood 
 b 2 
 
52 
 
 THE RED-BREAST OF AQUITANIA. 
 
 Cared lie ? Not a thought ; 
 For his beldame brought 
 His wine-flask fraught 
 
 With the grape's red blood. 
 
 He warmeth 
 his cold 
 shins at a 
 wooden fire. 
 Good b'ye to 
 him. 
 
 III. 
 
 And the wood-block blaze 
 Fed his vacant gaze 
 As we trod the maze 
 
 Of the river down. 
 Soon we left behind 
 On the frozen wind 
 All farther mind 
 
 Of that vacant clown. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Y* Father 
 meeteth a 
 stray ac- 
 quaintance 
 in a small 
 bird. 
 
 But there came anon, 
 As we journey' d on 
 Down the deep Garonne, 
 
 An acquaintancy, 
 Which we deem'd, I count, 
 Of more high amount, 
 it oped the fount 
 
 Of sweet sympathy. 
 
 Not y<= 
 famous alba- 
 tross of that 
 aincient ma- 
 riner olde 
 Coleridge, 
 but a poore 
 robin. 
 
 'Twas a stranger drest 
 In a downy vest, 
 'Twas a wee Red-breast, 
 (Not an " Albatross") 
 
THE RED-BREAST OP AQTJITANIA. 
 
 53 
 
 But a wanderer meek, 
 Who fain would seek 
 O'er the bosom bleak 
 Of that flood to cross. 
 
 Y e sparrow- 
 crossing y e 
 river inak- 
 eth hys half- 
 way house 
 of the fire- 
 ship. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And we watch' d him oft 
 As he soar'd aloft 
 On his pinions soft, 
 
 Poor wee weak thing, 
 And we soon could mark 
 That he sought our bark 
 As a resting ark 
 
 For his weary wing. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Delusive 
 hope. Y e 
 fire-ship 
 runneth 10 
 knots an 
 hour: 'tis 
 no go for y e 
 sparrow. 
 
 But the bark, fire-fed, 
 On her pathway sped, 
 And shot far a-head 
 
 Of the tiny bird, 
 And quicker in the van 
 Her swift wheels ran, 
 As the quickening fan 
 
 Of his winglets stirr'd. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Y« byrde is 
 led a wilde 
 goose chace 
 adown v e 
 
 Vain, vain pursuit ! 
 Toil without fruit ! 
 For his forked foot 
 
 Shall not anchor there, 
 
54 
 
 THE RED-BREAST OF AQTTITANIA. 
 
 Tho' the boat meanwhile 
 Down the stream beguile 
 For a bootless mile 
 The poor child of air ! 
 
 Symptomes 
 of fatigue, 
 "lis melan- 
 cholie to fall 
 between 
 2 stools, 
 
 And 'twas plain at last 
 He was nagging fast, 
 That his hour had past 
 
 In that effort vain ; 
 Far from either bank, 
 Sans a saving plank, 
 Slow, slow he sank, 
 
 Nor uprose again. 
 
 Mort of y j 
 birde. 
 
 And the cheerless wave 
 Just one ripple gave 
 As it oped him a grave 
 
 In its bosom cold, 
 And he sank alone, 
 With a feeble moan, 
 In that deep Garonne, 
 
 And then all was told. 
 
 Y e old man 
 at ye helm 
 weepeth for 
 a sonne lost 
 in y e bay of 
 Biscaye. 
 
 But our pilot grey 
 Wiped a tear away ; 
 In the broad Biscaye 
 He had lost his boy ! 
 
THE RED -BREAST OF AQUTTAMTA. 
 
 55 
 
 And that sight brought back 
 On its furrow'd track 
 The remember'd wreck 
 Of long perish'd joy ! 
 
 Condoleance 
 of y ladyes ; 
 eke of 1 
 chasseur 
 d'infanterie 
 Ugere. 
 
 XII. 
 
 And the tear half hid 
 In soft Beauty's lid 
 Stole forth unbid 
 
 For that red-breast bird 
 And the feeling crept, — 
 For a Warrior wept ; 
 And the silence kept 
 
 Found no fitting word. 
 
 OMe Father 
 Proutte 
 sadly 
 
 moralizetli 
 anent y* 
 
 XIII. 
 
 But I mused alone, 
 For I thought of one 
 Whom I well had known 
 
 In my earlier days, 
 Of a gentle mind, 
 Of a soul refined, 
 Of deserts design'd 
 
 For the Palm of Praise. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Y« Streame 
 of Lyfe. A 
 younge man 
 of f ayre 
 promise. 
 
 And well would it seem 
 Tha o'er Lifes dark stream, 
 Easy task for Him 
 In hi flight of Fame, 
 
56 
 
 THE RED-BREAST OF AQTTITANIA. 
 
 "Was the Skyward Path, 
 O'er tlie billow's wrath, 
 That for Genius hath 
 Ever been the same. 
 
 Hys earlie 
 rly'ght acros 
 y e streame. 
 
 XV. 
 
 And I saw him soar 
 From the morning shore, 
 While his fresh wings bore 
 
 Him athwart the tide, 
 Soon with powers unspent 
 As he forward went, 
 His wings he had bent 
 
 On the songht-for side. 
 
 A newe ob- 
 ject calleth 
 his eye from 
 y e rnaine 
 chaunce. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 But while thus he flew, 
 Lo ! a vision new 
 Caught his wayward view 
 
 With a semblance fair, 
 Zknd that new-found wooer 
 Could, alas ! allure 
 From his pathway sure 
 
 The bright child of air. 
 
 Instabilitie 
 of purpose a 
 fatall evyl 
 in lyfe. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 For he turn'd aside, 
 And adown the tide 
 For a brief hour plied 
 His yet unspent force, 
 
Prout's 
 
 ballade, 
 
 THE RED-BEEAST OF AQTJITANIA. 57 
 
 And to gain that goal 
 Gave the powers of soul, 
 Which, unwasted, whole, 
 Had achieved his course. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 ™^ J A bright Spirit, young, 
 
 Father Unwept, unsung, 
 
 humble Sank thus among 
 
 The drifts of the stream ; 
 Not a record left,— 
 Of renown bereft, 
 By thy cruel theft, 
 
 DELUSIVE DREAM I 
 
53 
 
 THE SON TO HIS MOTHER. 
 
 
 
 There was a place in childhood that I remember well 
 And there, a voice of sweetest tone bright fairy tales did 
 
 tell; 
 And gentle words and fond embrace were given with joy 
 
 to me, 
 When I was in that happy place, npcn my mother's knee. 
 
 When fairy tales were ended, " G-ood night !" she softly 
 
 said, 
 And kiss'd and laid me down to sleep within my tiny 
 
 bed ; 
 And holy words she taught me there, — methinks I yet 
 
 can see 
 Her angel eyes, as close I knelt beside my mother's knee. 
 
 In the sickness of my childhood, the perils of my prime, 
 The sorrows of my riper years, the cares of ev'ry time ; 
 When donbt or danger weigh' d me down, then pleading, 
 
 all for me, 
 It was a fervent pray'r to Heaven that bent my mother's j 
 
 knee ! 
 
THE SON TO HIS MOTHER. 59 
 
 And can I this remember, and e'er forget to prove 
 The glow of holy gratitude — the fulness of my love ? 
 When thou art feeble, mother, come rest thy arm on me, 
 And let thy cherish' d child support the aged mothers' 
 knee! 
 
 Samuel Lover. 
 
60 
 
 IMPEOMPTTJ BY THE LATE GEOKGE COLMAK 
 
 About a year since, a young lady begged this cele- 
 brated wit to write some verses in her album : he shook 
 his head ; but, good-naturedly promising to try, at once 
 extemporised the following, — most probably his last 
 written and poetical jest. 
 
 My muse and I, ere youth and spirits fled, 
 Sat up together many a night, no doubt ; 
 
 But now, I've sent the poor old lass to bed, 
 Simply because my fire is going out. 
 
61 
 
 THE MOKKS OF OLD. 
 
 Many have told of the monks of old, 
 
 What a saintly race they were ; 
 But 'tis more true that a merrier crew 
 Could scarce be found elsewhere ; 
 For they sung and laugh' d, 
 And the rich wine quaff'd, 
 And lived on the daintiest cheer. 
 
 And some they would say, that throughout the day 
 
 O'er the missal alone they would pore ; 
 But 'twas only, I ween, whilst the flock were seen 
 They thought of their ghostly lore ; 
 For they sung and laugh'd, 
 And the rich wine quaff'd 
 When the rules of their faith were o'er. 
 
 And then they would jest at the love confess' d 
 
 By many an artless maid ; 
 And what hopes and fears they have pour'd in the ears 
 Of those who sought their aid. 
 
 And they sung and laugh'd, 
 And the rich wine quaff'd 
 As they told of each love-sick jade. 
 
62 THE MONKS OF OLD. 
 
 And the Abbot meek, with his form so sleek, 
 
 Was the heartiest of them all, 
 And would take his place with a smiling face 
 When refection bell would call ; 
 
 And they sung and laugh' d, 
 And the rich wine quaff' d, 
 Till they shook the olden wall. 
 
 In their green retreat, when the drum would beat, 
 
 And warriors flew to arm, 
 The monks they would stay in their convent grey, 
 In the midst of dangers calm, 
 
 Where they sung and laugh' d, 
 And the rich wine quaff' d, 
 For none would the good men harm. 
 
 Then say what they will, we'll drink to them still, 
 
 For a jovial band they were ; 
 And 'tis most true that a merrier crew 
 Could not be found elsewhere ; 
 
 For they sung and laugh' d, 
 And the rich wine quaff'd, 
 And lived on the daintiest cheer. 
 
 William Jones. 
 
63 
 
 OUE OPENING CHATJNT. 
 
 Written on the occasion of the First Publication of "Bentley's 
 
 Miscellanv." 
 
 Come round and hear, my public dear, 
 Come hear, and judge it gently, — 
 
 The prose so terse, and flowing verse, 
 Of us, the wits of Bentley. 
 
 ii. 
 
 We offer not intricate plot 
 To muse upon intently ; 
 
 No tragic word, no bloody sword, 
 Shall stain the page of Bentley. 
 
 in. 
 
 The tender song which all day long 
 
 Eesounds so sentiment'ly, 
 Through wood and grove all full of love, 
 
 Will find no place in Bentley. 
 
64 OUR OPENING CHAUNT. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Nor yet the speech wliicli fain would teach 
 
 All nations eloquently ; — 
 'Tis quite too grand for us the bland 
 
 And modest men of Bentley. 
 
 For science deep no line we keep, 
 
 We speak it reverently ; — 
 From sign to sign the sun may shine, 
 
 Untelescoped by Bentley. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Tory and Whig, in accents big, 
 
 May wrangle violently : 
 Their party rage shan't stain the page- 
 
 The neutral page of Bentley. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The scribe whose pen is mangling men 
 
 And women pestilently, 
 May take elsewhere his wicked ware, — 
 
 He finds no mart in Bentley. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 It pains us not to mark the spot 
 Where Dan may find his rent lie ; 
 
 The Glasgow chiel may shout for Peel, 
 We know them not in Bentley 
 
OTJB OPENING CHAT7NT. 65 
 
 IX. 
 
 Those who admire a merry lyre, — 
 Those who would hear attent'ly 
 
 A tale of wit, or flashing hit, — 
 Are ask'd to come to Bentley. 
 
 Our hunt will be for grace and glee, 
 Where thickest may the scent lie ; 
 
 At slashing pace begins the chase — 
 Now for the burst of Bentley. 
 
 Dr. Maginn. 
 
 LINES 
 
 On seeing "The Young Veteran," John Bannister, 
 
 toddling up Gower- street, after he had attained his 
 
 seventieth birthday. 
 
 WRITTEN BY SIR GEORGE ROSE, AND COMMUNICATED BY 
 J. P. HARLEY, ESQ,. 
 
 With seventy years upon his back, 
 Still is my honest friend " Young Jack," 
 Nor spirits check' d nor fancy slack, 
 
 But fresh as any daisy, 
 Though Time has knock' d his stumps about, 
 He cannot bowl his temper out ; 
 And all the Bannister is stout, 
 
 Although the steps be crazy. 
 
66 
 
 AD MOLLISSIMAM PUELLAM E GETICA 
 CAEUAEUM FAMIUA. 
 
 OVIDITJS NASO LAMENTATUR. 
 
 Heu ! heu ! 
 
 Me tsedet, me piget o ! 
 Cor mihi riget o ! 
 TJt nos sub frigido . . . 
 
 Et nox ipsa mi, turn 
 Cnm vado dormitum, 
 Infausta, insomnis, 
 Transcurritur omnis . . . 
 Hoc culpa fit tua 
 Mi, mollis Cariia, 
 Sic mihi illudens, 
 Nee pudens. — 
 
 Prodigmm tu, re 
 Es, vera, naturae, 
 Candidior lacte ; — 
 Plus fronte cum hac te, 
 Cum istis ocellis, 
 Plus omnibus stellis 
 Mehercule vellem. — 
 Sed heu, me imbellem ! 
 A me, qui sum iidus, 
 Vel ultimum sidus 
 
tf 
 
 TO THE HARD-HEARTED MOLLY CAREW, 
 
 THE LAMENT OF HER IRISH LOVER. 
 
 Och hone ! 
 
 Oh! what willl do? 
 Sure my love is all crost, 
 Like a bud in the frost. . . 
 
 And there's no use at all 
 In my going to bed ; 
 For 'tis dhrames, and not sleep, 
 That comes into my head. . . 
 
 And 'tis all about you, 
 My sweet Molly Carew, 
 And indeed 'tis a sin 
 And a shame. — 
 
 You're complater than nature 
 In every feature ; 
 The snow can't compare 
 With your forehead so fair: 
 And I rather would spy 
 Just one blink of your eye 
 Than the purtiest star 
 That shines out of the sky ; 
 Tho' — by this and by that ! 
 For the matter o' that — 
 p 2 
 
63 AD MOLLISSIMAM PTJELLAM E FAMILIA CAETJAETJM. 
 
 Eon distat te niagis . . . 
 Quid agis ! 
 
 lieu ! heu ! nisi tu 
 Me ames, 
 Pereo ! pillaleu ! 
 
 ii. 
 
 Heu! heu! 
 
 Sed cur seqimr laude 
 Ocellos aut frontem 
 Si nasi, cum fraude, 
 Prsetereo pontem ? . . . 
 
 Ast hie ego minus 
 Quam ipse Longinus 
 In verbis exprimem 
 Hunc nasum sublimem , 
 
 De florida gena 
 Vulgaris camcena 
 Cantaret in vanum 
 Per annum. — 
 
 Turn, tibi puella ! 
 Sic tument labella 
 Ut nil plus jucundum 
 Sit, aut rubicundum ; 
 Si primitus homo 
 Collapsus est porno, 
 Si dolor et luctus 
 Venerunt per fructus, 
 Proh ! Betas nunc serior 
 ISTe cadat, vereor, 
 Icta tarn bello 
 
TO THE HARD-HEARTED MOLLY CAREW. 69 
 
 You're more distant by far 
 Than that same. 
 
 Och hone, wierasthrew ! 
 I am alone 
 In this world without you ! 
 
 ii. 
 
 Och hone ! 
 
 But why should I speak 
 Of your forehead and eyes, 
 When your nose it defies 
 Paddy Blake the schoolmaster 
 
 To put it in rhyme ? t — 
 Though there's one Burke, 
 He says, 
 Who would call it Snublime . . . 
 
 And then for your cheek, 
 Throth 'twould take him a week 
 Its beauties to tell 
 As he'd rather : — 
 
 Then your lips, O machree ! 
 In their beautiful glow 
 They a pattern might be 
 For the cherries to grow. — 
 'Twas an apple that tempted 
 Our mother, we know ; 
 For apples were scarce 
 I suppose long ago : 
 But at this time o' day, 
 'Pon my conscience I'll say, 
 Such cherries might tempt 
 
70 AD MCLLISSIMAM PTJELLAM E FAMILIA CAKUARUM. 
 
 Labello : 
 
 Heu ! heu ! nisi tu 
 Me ames, 
 Pereo ! pillaleu ! 
 
 in. 
 
 Heu! Heu 
 
 Per cornua lunse 
 Perpetuo tu ne 
 Me vexes impnne ? . . . 
 
 I nunc chore- salta 
 (Mac-ghius nam tecum) 
 Planta magis alta 
 Quam sueveris mecum ! . 
 
 Tibicinem quanclo 
 Cogo fustigando 
 Ne falsum det melus, 
 Anhelus. — 
 
 A te in sacello 
 Yix mentem revello, 
 Heu ! misere scissani 
 Te inter et Missam ; 
 Tu latitas vero 
 Tarn stricto galero 
 Ut cernere vultum 
 Desiderem multum. 
 Et dubites jam, niira 
 (Ob animse damnum) 
 Sit fas liunc deberi 
 Auferri ? 
 
 Heu ! heu ! nisi tu 
 
TO THE HAED-HEAETED MOLLY CAEEW. 71 
 
 A man's father ! 
 
 Och hone, wierasthrew ! 
 I'm alone 
 In this world without yon ! 
 
 in. 
 
 Och hone ! 
 
 By the man in the moon ! 
 Yon teaze me all ways 
 That a woman can plaze ; 
 
 For yon dance twice as high 
 With that thief Pat Maghee 
 As when you take share 
 In a jig, dear, with me ; 
 
 Though the piper I bate, 
 For fear the ou]d chate 
 Wouldn't play you your 
 Favourite tune. 
 
 And when you're at Mass 
 My devotion you crass, 
 For 'tis thinking of you 
 I am, Molly Carew ; 
 While you wear on purpose 
 A bonnet so deep, 
 That I can't at your sweet 
 Pretty face get a peep. 
 Oh ! lave off that bonnet, 
 Or else I'll lave on it 
 The loss of my wandering 
 Sowl ! 
 
 Och hone, like an owl, 
 
72 AD MOLLISSIMAM PTJELLAM E FAMILIA GARTJART7M. 
 
 Coram sis, 
 
 Csecus sim : eleleu ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Heu ! lieu ! 
 
 Non me provocato, 
 Nam virginum sat, o ! 
 Stant mihi amato . . . 
 
 Et stuperes plane 
 Si aliquo mane 
 Me sponsum videres ; 
 Hoc quomodo ferres ? 
 
 Quid diceres, si cum 
 Triumpho per vicum, 
 Maritus it ibi, 
 Non tibi ! 
 
 Et pol ! Catherine 
 Cui vacca, (tu, sine) 
 Si proferem hymen 
 Grande esset discrimen; 
 Tu quamvis, hie aio, 
 Sis blandior Maio, 
 Et hsec calet rariiis 
 Quam Januarius ; 
 Si non mutas brevi, 
 Hanc mihi decrevi 
 (Ut sic ultus forem) 
 IJxorem ; 
 
 Turn posthac diu 
 Me spectrum 
 Verebere tu. . . eleleu ! 
 
 Father Prout. 
 
TO THE HARD-HEARTED MOLLY CAREW. 73 
 
 Day is night, 
 
 Dear, to me without you ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Och hone ! 
 
 Don't provoke me to do it ; 
 For there's girls by the score 
 That loves me, and more. 
 
 And you'd look very queer, 
 If some morning you'd meet 
 My wedding all marching 
 In pride down the street. 
 
 Throth you'd open your eyes, 
 And you'd die of surprise 
 To think 'twasn't you 
 Was come to it. 
 
 And 'faith ! Katty Naile 
 And her cow, I go bail, 
 Would jump if I'd say, 
 " Katty ISTaile, name the day." 
 And though you're fair and fresh 
 As the blossoms in May, 
 And she's short and dark 
 Like a cold winter's day, 
 Yet if you don't repent 
 Before Easter, — when Lent 
 Is over — I'll marry 
 For spite. 
 
 Och hone ! and when I 
 Die for you, 
 
 'Tis my ghost that you'll see every night ! 
 
 S. Lover 
 
n 
 
 THE GEAND CHAM OP TAETAEY, 
 
 AND 
 
 THE HUMBLE-BEE. 
 
 Abridged from the voluminous Epic Poem by Beg-beg, 
 (formerly a mendicant ballad- singer, afterwards Prin- 
 cipal Lord Rector of the University of Samarcand, and 
 subsequently Historiographer and Poet Laureate to the 
 Court of Balk,) by C. J. Davids, Esq. 
 
 The great Tartar chief, on a festival day, 
 Grave a spread to his court, and resolv'd to be gay ; 
 But, just in the midst of their music and glee, 
 The mirth was upset by a humble-bee — 
 
 A humble-bee — ■ 
 They were bored by a rascally humble-bee ! 
 
 ii. 
 
 This riotous bee was so wanting in sense 
 As to fly at the Cham with malice prepense : 
 Said his highness, " My fate will be felo-de-se, 
 If I'm thus to be teas' d by a humble-bee — 
 
 A humble-bee — 
 How shall I get rid of the humble-bee I" 
 
THE GRAND CHAM OP TARTAEY. 75 
 
 III. 
 
 The troops in attendance, with sabre and spear, 
 Were order' d to harass the enemy's rear : 
 But the brave body-guards were forced to flee — 
 They were all so afraid of the humble-bee — 
 The humble bee — 
 The soldiers were scar'd by the humble-bee. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The solicitor- general thought there was reason 
 
 For indicting the scamp on a charge of high-treason ; 
 
 While the chancellor doubted if any decree 
 
 From the woolsack would frighten the humble-bee — 
 
 The humble-bee — 
 So the lawyers fought shy of the humble-bee. 
 
 The Cham from his throne in an agony rose, 
 While the insect was buzzing right under his nose 
 " Was ever a potentate plagued like me, 
 Or worried to death by a humble-bee ! 
 
 A humble-bee — 
 Don't let me be stung by the humble-bee !" 
 
 VI. 
 
 He said to a page, nearly choking with grief, 
 " Bring hither my valiant commander-in-chief ; 
 And say that I'll give him a liberal fee, 
 To cut the throat of this humble-bee — 
 
 This humble-bee — 
 This turbulent, Jacobin, humble-bee !" 
 
76 THE GRAND CHAM OF TARTARY. 
 
 VII. 
 
 His generalissimo came at the summons, 
 And, cursing the courtiers for cowardly rum-uns, 
 " My liege," said he, " it's all fiddle-de-dee 
 To make such a fuss for a humble-bee — 
 A humble-bee — 
 I don't care a d — n for the humble-bee !" 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The veteran rush'd sword in hand on the foe, 
 And cut him in two with a desperate blow. 
 His master exclaim' d, " I'm delighted to see 
 How neatly you've settled the humble-bee !" 
 The humble-bee — 
 So there was an end of the humble-bee. 
 
 IX. 
 
 By the doctor's advice (which was prudent and right) 
 His highness retired very early that night : 
 For they got him to bed soon after his tea, 
 And he dream' d all night of the humble-bee — ■ 
 
 The humble-bee — 
 He saw the grim ghost of the humble-bee. 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 Seditious disturbers, mind well what you're arter — 
 Lest, humming a prince, you by chance catch a Tartar. 
 Consider, when planning an impudent spree, 
 You may get the same luck as the humble-bee — 
 
 The humble-bee — 
 Eemember the doom of the humble-bee ! 
 
PADDY BLAKE'S ECHO. 77 
 
 PADDY BLAKE'S ECHO. 
 
 A NEW VERSION FROM THE ORIGINAL IRISH. 
 " Ecco ridente," &c. 
 
 Tliere's a spot by that lake, sirs, 
 
 Where echoes were born, 
 Were one Paddy Blake, sirs, 
 
 Was walking one morn 
 With a great curiosity big in his mind ! 
 Says he, " Mrs. Blake 
 
 Doesn't trate me of late 
 In the fashion she did 
 
 When I first call'd her Kate r 
 She's crusty and surly, — 
 My cabin 's the dhiaoul, 
 My pigs and my poultry 
 Are all cheek by jowl : 
 But what is the cause, from the J.cho Til find." 
 
 (Spolcen.) 
 So up he goes bouldly to the J.cho, and says, " The top 
 
78 PADDY BLAKE'S ECHO. 
 
 o' the mornin' t'ye, Misther or Missus Acho, for divil a 
 know I know whether ye wear petticoats or breeches." 
 
 " Neither," says the Acho in Irish. 
 
 " Now, that being the case," says Paddy, turnin' sharp 
 'pon the J.cho, d'ye see, " ye can tell me the stark-naked 
 truth." 
 
 "'Troth, an' ye may say that, with yir own purty 
 mouth," says the J.cho. 
 
 " Well, thin," says Paddy agin, " what the divil's come 
 over Mrs. Blake of late ?" 
 
 " Potcheen /" says the J.cho. 
 
 " Oh ! (shouting) by the pow'rs of Moll Kelly," says 
 Paddy, " I thought as mich : — 
 
 " It wasn't for nothin' the taypot was hid, 
 
 Though I guess'd what was in it, by smelling the lid !" 
 
 ii. 
 
 There's another suspicion 
 
 Comes over my mind, 
 That with all his contrition 
 
 And pray'rs, and that kind, 
 Ould Father Mahony's a wag in his way. 
 When a station, he says, 
 
 Will be held at my house, 
 I must go my ways, 
 
 Or be mute as a mouse. 
 For Mm turkey and bacon 
 
 Is pull'd from the shelf; 
 Not so much as a cake on 
 
 The coals for myself: 
 But what all this manes, why, the J.cho will say. 
 
PADDY BLAKE'S ECHO. 79 
 
 (Spoken.) 
 
 Up lie goes agin to the Acho, and says, " Tell me, affye 
 plase, what is 't brings onld Father Mahony so everlast- 
 ingly to my country seat in the bog of Bally Keeran ?" 
 
 " Mrs. Blake !" says the .Acho. 
 
 " Oh ! hannimandhiaoul !" says Paddy, " I thought as 
 mich — the thief o' the world — I thought as mich. Oh ! 
 tundher-a-nouns ! 
 
 "I'll go home an' bate her, until my heart 's sore, 
 
 Then give her the key of the street evermore !" 
 
 W. 
 
 
 IMPEOMPTU. 
 
 Who the dickens " Boz" could be 
 
 Puzzled many a learned elf ; 
 Till time unveil' d the mystery, 
 
 And Boz appear'd as Dickens' self! 
 
 C. J. Davids. 
 
80 
 
 
 HAROUN ALRASCHID. 
 
 O'er the gorgeous room a luxurious gloom, 
 
 Like the glow of a summer's eve, hung : 
 From its basin of stone, with rose-leaves bestrown 
 
 The fountain its coolness flung ; 
 Perfumes wondrously rare fill'd the eunuch-fann'd air, 
 
 And on gem-studded carpets around 
 The poets sung forth tales of glory or mirth 
 
 To their instruments' eloquent sound ; 
 On a throne framed of gold sat their monarch the bold, 
 
 With coffers of coin by his side, 
 And to each, as he sung, lavish handfuls he flung, 
 
 Till each in his gratitude cried, 
 Long, long live great Haroun Alraschid, the Caliph of 
 
 Babylon old!" 
 
 Disturbing the feast, from the Rome of the East 
 
 An embassage audience craves ; 
 And Haroun, smiling bland, cries, dismissing the band, 
 
 " We will look on the face of our slaves !" 
 Then the eunuchs who wait on their Caliph in state 
 
 Lead the messenger Lords of the Greek. 
 
HAROTJN ALRASCHID. 81 
 
 Proud and martial their mien, proud and martial 
 their sheen, 
 But they bow to the Arab right meek ; 
 And with heads bending down, though their brows 
 wear a frown, 
 They ask if he audience bestow. 
 " Yea, dogs of the Greek, we await ye, so speak ! — 
 Have ye brought us the tribute you owe ? 
 Or what lack ye of Haroun Alraschid, the Caliph of 
 Babylon old?" 
 
 Then the Greek spake loud, " To Alraschid the 
 Proud 
 
 This message our monarch doth send : 
 While ye play'd 'gainst a Queen, ye could mate her, 
 I ween — 
 
 She could ill with thy pieces contend ; 
 But Irene is dead, and a Pawn in her stead 
 
 Holds her power and place on the board : 
 By Nicephorus stern is the purple now worn, 
 
 And no longer he owns thee for lord. 
 If tribute ye claim, I am bade in his name 
 
 This to tell thee, King of the World, 
 With these, not with gold, pays Nicephorus bold !" — 
 
 And a bundle of sword-blades he hurl'd 
 At the feet of stern Haroun Alraschid, the Caliph of 
 
 Babylon old. 
 
 Dark as death was his look, and his every limb 
 shook, 
 As the Caliph glared round on the foe — 
 
 G 
 
82 HAROUN ALRASCHID. 
 
 " View my answer I" he roar'd, and unsheathing his 
 sword, 
 Clove the bundle of falchions right through. 
 " Tell my slave, the Greek hound, that Haroun the 
 E-enown'd, 
 Ere the sun that now sets rise again, 
 Will be far on the road to his wretched abode, 
 
 With many a myriad of men. 
 No reply will he send, either spoken or penn'd ; 
 
 But by Allah, and Abram our sire, 
 He shall read a reply on the earth, in the sky, 
 Writ in bloodshed, and famine, and fire ! 
 Now begone !" thundered Haroun Alraschid, the Caliph 
 of Babylon old. 
 
 As the sun dropt in night by the murky torch- 
 light, 
 There was gathering of horse and of man : 
 Tartar, Courd, Bishareen, Persian, swart Bedoween, 
 
 And the mighty of far Khorasan — 
 Of all tongues, of all lands, and in numberless 
 bands, 
 Eound the Prophet's green banner they crowd, 
 They are form'd in array, they are up and away, 
 
 Like the locusts' calamitous cloud ; 
 But rapine or spoil, till they reach the Greek soil, 
 
 Is forbidden, however assail'd. 
 A poor widow, whose fold a Courd robb'd, her tale 
 told, 
 And he was that instant impaled 
 By the stern wrath of Haroun Alraschid, the Caliph of 
 Babylon old ! 
 
HAROUN ALRASCHID. 83 
 
 - On o'er valley and hill, river, plain, onwards still, 
 
 Fleet and fell as the desert- wind, on ! 
 Where was green grass before, when that host had 
 pass'd o'er, 
 Every vestige of verdure was gone ! 
 On o'er valley and hill, desert, river, on still, 
 
 With the speed of the wild ass or deer, 
 The dust of their tread, o'er the atmosphere spread, 
 
 Hung for miles like a cloud in their rear. 
 On o'er valley and hill, desert, river, on still, 
 
 Till afar booms the ocean's hoarse roar, 
 And amid the night's gloom are seen tower, temple, 
 doom — 
 Heraclea, that sits by the shore ! 
 The doom'd city of Haroun Alraschid, the Caliph of 
 Babylon old. 
 
 There was mirth at its height in thy mansions that 
 night, 
 
 Heraclea, that sits by the sea ! 
 Thy damsels' soft smiles breathed their loveliest wiles, 
 
 And the banquet was wild in its glee ! 
 For Zoe the fair, proud Nicephorus' heir, 
 
 That night was betrothed to her mate, 
 To Theseus the Bold, of Illyria old, 
 
 And the blood of the Island-kings great. 
 When lo ! wild and lorn, and with robes travel-torn, 
 
 And with features that pallidly glared, 
 They the Arab had spurn'd from Damascus return'd, 
 
 Eush'd in, and the coming declared 
 Of the armies of Haroun Alraschid, the Caliph of Babylon 
 
 old- 
 
 g 2 
 
84 HAROUN ALRASCHID. 
 
 A faint tumult afar, the first breathing of war, 
 
 Multitudinous floats on the gale : 
 The lelie shout shrill, and the toss'd cymbals peal, 
 
 And the trumpet's long desolate wail, 
 The horse-tramp of swarms, and the clangour of 
 arms, 
 
 And the murmur of nations of men. 
 Oh woe, woe, and woe, Heraclea shall know — 
 
 She shall fall, and shall rise not again ; 
 The spiders' dusk looms shall alone hang her rooms, 
 
 The green grass shall grow in her ways, 
 Her daughters shall wail, and her warriors shall 
 quail, 
 
 And herself be a sign of amaze, 
 Through the vengeance of Haroun Alraschid, the Caliph 
 
 of Babylon old. 
 
 'Tis the dawn of the sun, and the morn-prayer is 
 done, 
 
 And the murderous onset is made ; 
 The Christian and foe they are at it, I trow, 
 
 Fearfully plying the blade. 
 Each after each rolls on to the breach, 
 
 Like the slumberless roll of the sea. 
 Rank rolling on rank rush the foe on the Frank, 
 
 Breathless, in desperate glee ; 
 The Creek's quenchless fire, the Mussulman's ire 
 
 Has hurled over rampart and wall. 
 And 'tis all one wild hell of blades slaughtering fell, 
 
 Where fiercest and fellest o'er all 
 Work'd the falchion of Haroun Alraschid, the Caliph of 
 
 Babylon old. 
 
HAROUN ALRASCHID. 85 
 
 But day rose on day, yet Nicephorus grey, 
 
 And Theseus, his daughter's betrothed, 
 With warrior-like sleight kept the town in despite, 
 
 Of the Moslem insulted and loathed. 
 Morn rose after morn on the leaguers outworn, 
 
 Till the Caliph with rage tore his beard ; 
 And, terribly wroth, sware a terrible oath — 
 
 An oath which the boldest ev'n fear'd. 
 So his mighty Emirs gat around their compeers, 
 
 And picked for the onslaught a few. 
 Oh ! that onslaught was dread, — every Moslem struck 
 dead ! 
 
 But, however, young Theseus they slew, 
 And that gladdened fierce Haroun Alraschid, the Caliph 
 
 of Babylon old. 
 
 Heraclea, that night in thy palaces bright 
 
 There was anguish and bitterest grief. 
 " He is gone ! he is dead !" were the words that they 
 said, 
 Though the stunn'd heart refused its belief: 
 Wild and far spreads the moan, from the hut, from 
 the throne, 
 Striking every one breathless with fear. 
 " Oh ! Theseus the bold, thou art stark, — thou art 
 cold, — 
 Thou art young to be laid on the bier." 
 One alone makes no moan, but with features like 
 stone, 
 In an ecstacy haggard of woe, 
 Sits tearless and lorn, with dry eyeballs that 
 burn. 
 
86 HAROUN ALRASCHID. 
 
 And fitful her lips mutter low 
 Dread tlireatenings against Haroun Alraschid, the Caliph 
 of Babylon old. 
 
 The next morn on the wall, first and fiercest of all, 
 
 The distraction of grief cast aside, 
 In her lord's arms arrayed, Zoe plies the death- 
 blade, — 
 Ay, and, marry, right terribly plied. 
 Her lovely arm fair, to the shoulder is bare, 
 
 And nerved with a giant-like power 
 Where her deadly sword sweeps fall the mighty in 
 heaps ; 
 Where she does but appear the foe cower. 
 Bank on rank they rush on, — rank on rank are 
 struck down, 
 Till the ditch is choked up with the dead. 
 The vulture and crow, and the wild dog, I trow, 
 Made a dreadful repast that night as they fed 
 On the liegemen of Haroun Alraschid, the Caliph of 
 Babylon old. 
 
 This was not to last. — The stern Moslem, downcast, 
 
 Eetrieved the next morning their might ; 
 For Alraschid the bold, and the Barmecide old, 
 
 Had proclaimed through the camp in the night, 
 That whoso should win the first footing within 
 
 The city that bearded their power, 
 Should have for his prize the fierce girl with black 
 eyes, 
 
 And ten thousand zecchines as her dower. 
 
 
HAROUN ALRASCHID. 87 
 
 It spurred them right well ; and they battled and fell, 
 
 Like lions, with long hunger wild. 
 Ere that day set the sun Heraclea was won, 
 
 And ISTicephorus bold, and his child, 
 Were captives to Haroun Alraschid, the Caliph of 
 
 Babylon old. 
 
 To his slave, the Greek hound, roared Haroun the 
 Eenowned. 
 When before him Nicephorus came, 
 " Though the pawn went to queen, 'tis checkmated, 
 I ween. 
 Thou'rt as bold as unskilled in the game. 
 Now, Infidel, say, wherefore should I not slay 
 
 The wretch that my vengeance hath sought?" — 
 " I am faint, — I am weak — and I thirst," quoth 
 the Greek, 
 " Give me drink." At his bidding 'tis brought ; 
 He took it ; but shrank, lest 'twere poison he drank. 
 
 " Thou art safe till the goblet be quaffed !" 
 Cried Haroun. The Greek heard, took the foe at 
 his word, 
 Dashed down on the pavement the draught, 
 And claimed mercy of Haroun Alraschid, the Caliph of 
 Babylon old. 
 
 Haroun never broke word or oath that he spoke, 
 
 So he granted the captive his life, 
 And then bade his slaves bear stately Zoe the fair, 
 
 To the warrior who won her in strife ; 
 But the royal maid cried in the wrath of her pride, 
 
CO HAROTJN ALKASCHID. 
 
 She would die ere her hand should be given, 
 Or the nuptial caress should be lavished to bless 
 
 Such a foe to her house and to Heaven. 
 Her entreaties they spurned, and her menace they 
 scorned ; 
 But, resolute, spite of their power, 
 All food she denied, and by self-famine died ; 
 And her father went mad from that hour. 
 Thus triumph' d stern Haroun Alraschid, the Caliph of 
 Babylon old ! 
 
 G. E. Inmak. 
 
89 
 
 TO THE HOT WELLS OF CLIFTON, 
 
 IN PRAISE OF RUM-PUNCH. 
 
 A Triglot Ode, viz. 
 
 1° Tiivoagov mgt QivpoiTos acty. 
 
 2° Horatii in fontem Bristolii carmen. 
 
 3° % Mick (unpu&lisJjetJ) of "ti)c unfortunate Cfjatterton." 
 
 PINDAR. 
 
 xXXcv iv vccXa 
 <%p.7rov<r xvk<ri <rvv 
 
 xvrXai 
 ivpuTi KoXXet 
 itryav 
 xt piXirog koXv. 
 
 O fons Bristolii 
 Hoc magis in vitro 
 Dulci digne mero 
 Non sine floribus 
 Vas impleveris 
 Unda 
 
 Mel solvente 
 Caloribus. 
 
 II. 
 
 CHATTERTON. 
 
 3E ken rjour inort^ 
 •'^ottoells" of Bristol, 
 Efjat bubble fort!) 
 &s clear as crnstal;... 
 3En parlour snug 
 Ftf roisr) no potter 
 3To mix a jug 
 @f mum antJ Skater. 
 
 2. 
 
 nig x.otv rig ipctv 
 wXzrxi vi ftxftciv 
 
 it T$XK%OV KX&ZPOV 
 
 'oiva 
 
 V XlftXTl VX[&X % 
 gO&VfAOg TS 
 
 cc% irriTXt. 
 
 Si quis vel venerem 
 Aut prselia cogitat, 
 Is Bacchi calidos 
 Inficiet tibi 
 Rubro sanguine 
 Rivos, 
 
 Fiet protinus 
 Impiger ! 
 
 JBotb lEo&e, rjoung cbiel, 
 ©ne's tosom rufHe ? 
 eieaoultf anrj feel 
 3Hipe for a scuffle ? 
 Cbe simplest plan 
 3Es just to take a 
 fldell stiffened can 
 ©f olti Jamaica. 
 
90 
 
 TO THE HOT WELLS OF CLIFTON. 
 
 Ss (p\iyp ai6ct\oiv 
 'SiUQiov curries 
 
 AvTlXia-XKTi 
 
 Tlonii; 
 
 III. 
 
 Te flagrante bibax 
 Ore canicula 
 Sugit navita : tu 
 Frigus amabile 
 Fessis vomere 
 Mauris 
 Prsebes ac 
 HoHiini nigro. 
 
 38eneaib. t?)e ?one 
 ©rog in a pail or 
 3Rum — best alone - 
 3@elig!)ts lbe sailor. 
 Cf)e can be stoills 
 Alone gibes bigour 
 3En tl)e Antilles 
 ©o fcohjte or nigger. 
 
 K^nvaig tv ri xctXo&is 
 
 ~Ea-a-ioc,i etyhxvi 
 
 2 iV HoiXa kvXxki 
 
 TLvQifAiVVjV IM$ 
 
 ActXov g| ov 
 
 IV. 
 
 Fies nobilium 
 Tu quoque fontium 
 Me dicente ; cavum 
 Dum calicem reples 
 Urnamque 
 Unde loquaces 
 Lympbse 
 Desiliunt tuse. 
 
 Wife claims, © fount, 
 ©eserbe attention : 
 ^encefortoarU count 
 @n classic mention. 
 3Rigl)t pleasant stuff 
 Cl)ine to tlje lip is... 
 S<Re 'be fyatf enough 
 <®t Aganippe's. 
 
91 
 
 THE DUMB WAITER. 
 
 I can not really understand, 
 
 (Said Henry to his aunt,) 
 Why a dumb waiter this is called, — 
 
 "Upon my word, I can't ; 
 For I have heard you often say 
 
 It answers very well. 
 Why, then, the waiter is called dumb, 
 
 I cannot think, or tell. 
 
 Between you, boy, this difference know,- 
 For once attention lending, — 
 
 While without speaking this attends, 
 You speak without attending. 
 
92 
 
 THE BOTTLE OF ST. JANTTABIUS. 
 
 In the land of the citron and myrtle, we're told 
 
 That the blood of a martyr, is kept in a phial, 
 Which, though all the year round, it lie torpid and cold, 
 
 Yet grasp but the crystal, 'twill warm the first trial . . . 
 Be it fiction or truth, with your favourite fact, 
 
 O, profound Lazzaroni ! I seek not to quarrel ; 
 But indulge an old priest who would simply extract 
 
 From your legend, a lay — from your martyr, a moral. 
 
 ii. 
 
 Lo ! with icicled beard Jantjarixjs comes ! 
 
 And the blood in his veins is all frozen and gelid, 
 And he beareth a bottle ; but torpor benumbs 
 
 Every limb of the saint : — Would ye wish to dispel it ? 
 With the hand of good-fellowship grasp the hoar sage — 
 
 Soon his joints will relax and his pulse will beat quicker ; 
 Grasp the bottle he brings — 'twill grow warm, I'll engage, 
 
 Till the frost of each heart lies dissolved in the liquor ! 
 
 Probatum est. 
 
 P. Prout. 
 
THE RISING PERIODICAL ; 
 
 Being Mr. Verdant's Account of his last Aerial Voyage, edited by 
 Thomas Haynes Bayly. 
 
 Without apology, I'll trace 
 
 Our airy flight across the sea, 
 Because at once we raised ourselves 
 
 And public curiosity. 
 
 And well might those who saw us off, 
 
 Our many perils long discuss, 
 Because, ere we were out of sight, 
 
 'Twas certainly " all up with us !" 
 
 There might be danger, sure enough, 
 
 On high, from thirst and hunger blending 
 
 But men are told they should bear up 
 Against the danger that's impending. 
 
 So we bore up into the clouds, 
 
 Of creature comforts ample store 
 And really coffee ne'er was known 
 
 To rise so speedily before. 
 
94 THE RISING PERIODICAL. 
 
 Our tongues, though salted, never halted ; 
 
 Our game fresh-kill' d was very high ; 
 And, though all nicely truss' d and roasted, 
 
 We saw our fowls and turkeys fly ! 
 
 Our solid food rose like a puff, 
 Hard biscuit seem'd a trifle, too ; 
 
 And our champagne was so much up, 
 That e'en our empty bottles flew ! 
 
 Our spirits rose ; in fact we were, 
 When not a dozen miles from Dover, 
 
 Quite in a state of elevation, 
 Indisputably " half seas over" 
 
 How like conspirators were we, 
 
 So snug we kept our hour of rising ; 
 
 And when our movement once was made, 
 All London cried, " Oh ! how surprising !" 
 
 If, when we soar'd above the great, 
 
 They trembled, 'twas without occasion : 
 
 Our thoughts were turned to France ; in truth 
 We meditated an invasion ! 
 
 But over earth and over sea 
 
 We went without one hostile notion 
 
 Our war on earth, a civil war ; 
 The Channel, — our Pacific Ocean. 
 
 When passing over Chatham town 
 We were just finishing a chicken ; 
 
THE RISING PERIODICAL. 95 
 
 A soldier and a maiden fair 
 
 I saw whilst I the bones was picking. 
 
 I threw a drumstick at the youth, 
 
 Who all around the culprit sought ; 
 And whilst the maiden laughed aloud, 
 
 I struck her with a merry thought. 
 
 In darkness we the Channel cross'd, 
 
 And left our fragile car to chance ; 
 And, scorning customary rules, 
 
 Without a passport enter'd France ! 
 
 But on we went, and our descent 
 
 Bewilder' d many a German gaper ; 
 Until, to prove from whence we came, 
 
 We show'd the last day's London paper ! 
 
 We're told no good that is substantial 
 
 B-esults from all we nobly dare ; 
 What then ? — We took a clever mason 
 
 To build us castles in the air. 
 
 We're not like certain rising men, 
 
 Puff'd up with vain presumptuous thoughts ; 
 We nothing boast of what we've done, 
 
 And deem ourselves mere airy-noughts ! 
 
 T. H. B. 
 
96 
 
 THE SONG- OF THE COVER. 
 
 (not a sporting one.) 
 
 My dear Mr. Editor. — I have been for some time 
 troubled by a slight longing to illustrate the title-page 
 (or rather the Cover and its pretty pages) of the Mis- 
 cellany. To-day I was taken suddenly worse with this 
 desperate symptom of the cacoethes scribendi, but at 
 length being safely delivered of the following doggrel, 
 you will be glad to hear that I am now " as well as can 
 be expected." 
 
 Ever, my dear Mr. Editor, yours truly, 
 
 B. J. 
 
 " Sino a song of half-a-crown — 
 
 Lay it out this minute ; 
 Buy the book, for half the town 
 
 Want to know what's in it. 
 Had you all the cares of Job, 
 
 You'd then forget your troubles," 
 Cried Cupid, seated on the globe, 
 
 Busy blowing bubbles. 
 
SONO OF THE COVER. 97 
 
 Bosy Summer, pretty Spring, 
 
 See them scattering flowers — 
 " Catch who can !" the song they sing ; 
 
 Hearts-ease fall in showers. 
 Autumn, tipsy with the grape, 
 
 Plays a pipe and tabor ; 
 Winter imitates the ape, 
 
 Mocking at his neighbour. 
 
 Bentley, Boz, and Cruikshank, stand, 
 
 Like expectant reelers — 
 " Music !" — " Play up !" — pipe in hand, 
 
 Beside the fluted pillars ! 
 Boz and Cruikshank want to dance, 
 
 None for frolic riper, 
 But Bentley makes the first advance, 
 
 Because he " pays the piper." 
 
 " Then sing a song of half-a- crown, 
 
 And make a merry race on't. 
 To buy the book, all London town ; 
 
 There's wit upon the face on't. 
 Had you all the cares of Job, 
 
 You'd then forget your troubles," 
 Cried Cupid, seated on the globe, 
 
 Busy blowing bubbles. 
 
93 
 
 WHO AEE YOU? 
 
 " Who are you ? — Who are you ? 
 
 Little boy that's running after 
 Ev'ry one up and down, 
 
 Mingling sighing with your laughter?" 
 " I am Cupid, lady belle, 
 
 I am Cupid, and no other." 
 " Little boy, then pr'ythee tell 
 
 How is Venus ? How's your mother ? 
 Little boy, little boy, 
 
 I desire you tell me true : 
 Cupid, oh ! you're alter' d so, 
 
 No wonder I cry Who are you t 
 
 ii. 
 
 " Who are you ? — Who are you ? 
 
 Little boy, where is your bow ? 
 You had a bow, my little boy." 
 
 " So had you, ma'am, long ago." 
 " Little boy, where is your torch ?" 
 • " Madam, I have given it up : 
 Torches are no use at all ; 
 
 Hearts will never now flare up" 
 
WHO ARE YOU? 99 
 
 " Naughty boy, naughty boy, 
 
 Such words as these I never knew : 
 
 Cupid, oh ; you're alter'd so, 
 No wonder I say 
 
 "Who are you?" 
 
 EPIGBAM. 
 
 On Easter Sunday, Lucy spoke, 
 
 And said, " A saint you might provoke, 
 
 Dear Sam, each day, since Monday last ; 
 
 But now I see your rage is past." 
 
 Said Sam, " What Christian could be meek ! 
 
 You know, my love, 'twas Passion Week ; 
 
 And so, you see, the rage I've spent 
 
 Was not my own — 'twas only Lent" 
 
 S. Lover. 
 
 h9 
 
100 
 
 LEAEY THE PIPEK'S LILT. 
 
 This is the first o' the May, boys ! 
 
 Listen to me, an' my planxty pipe 
 Will show ye the fan o' the day, boys ! 
 
 I know for a spree that ye're always ripe, 
 And fond o' gingerbread while it is gilt. 
 " Hnrroo ! for Leary the Piper's Lilt !" 
 
 First, on the first o' the May, boys ! 
 
 Do as the birds did Yalentine morn ; 
 Find out a lass for the day, boys ! 
 
 And then together go gether the thorn— 
 I warrant she'll never be jade or jilt. 
 " Hnrroo ! for Leary the Piper's Lilt !" 
 
 Go where ye may for the May, boys ! 
 
 Folia yir nose, an' ye'll find it soon : 
 On every hedge by the way, boys ! 
 
 Te'll hear it singin' its scented tnne, 
 Unless by the breath o' yonr darlin' hilt ! 
 " Hurroo ! for Leary the Piper's Lilt !" 
 
LEARY THE PIPER'S LILT. 101 
 
 But isn't it betther the May, boys ! 
 
 All living to lave on its flow'ry tree, 
 Than wound it by hrahing away, boys ! 
 
 A branch that in blossom not long will be 
 When the rosy dew that it drank is spilt ? 
 " Hnrroo ! for Leary the Piper's Lilt !" 
 
 An' when ye're all tir'd o' the May, boys ! 
 
 Come to the sign o' the Muzzle an' Can : 
 An' there, at the close o' the day, boys ! 
 
 Let ev'ry lass, by the side of her man, 
 Dance till the daisies are spreadin' their quilt. 
 " Hurroo ! for Leary the Piper's Lilt !" 
 
102 
 
 SONG OF THE MONTH. 
 
 (January.) 
 
 " Ille ego qui quondam," &c. &c. — JEneid. 
 
 In the month of Janus, 
 When Boz to gain us, 
 Quite " miscellaneous," 
 
 Mashed his wit so keen, 
 One, (Prout they call him,) 
 In style most solemn, 
 Led off the volume 
 
 Of his magazine. 
 
 U. 
 
 Though Maga, 'mongst her 
 Bright set of youngsters, 
 Had many songsters 
 
 For her opening tome ; 
 Yet she would rather 
 Invite " the Father," 
 And an indulgence gather 
 
 From the Pope of Eome. 
 
SONG OF THE MONTH. 103 
 
 III. 
 
 And, such a beauty 
 From head to shoe-tie, 
 Without dispute we 
 
 Found her first boy, 
 That she determined, 
 There's such a charm in't, 
 The Father's sarmint 
 
 She'd again employ. 
 
 IV. 
 
 While other children 
 Are quite bewilderin', 
 'Tis joy that fill'd her in 
 
 This bantling ; 'cause 
 What eye but glistens, 
 And what ear but listens, 
 When the clargy christens 
 
 A babe of Boz ? 
 
 I've got a scruple 
 That this young pupil 
 Surprised its parent 
 
 Ere her time was sped ; 
 Else I'm unwary, 
 Or, 'tis she's a fairy, 
 For in January 
 
 She was brought to bed. 
 
104 SONG OF THE MONTH, 
 
 VI. 
 
 This infant may be 
 A six months' baby, 
 But may his cradle 
 
 Be blest ! say I ; 
 And luck defend him ! 
 And joy attend him ! 
 Since we can't mend him, 
 
 Born in July. 
 
 VII. 
 
 He's no abortion, 
 But born to fortune, 
 And most opportune, 
 
 Though before his time ; 
 Him, Muse, ! nourish, 
 And make him flourish 
 Quite Tommy-Moorish 
 
 Both in prose and rhyme ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 I remember, also, 
 
 That this month they call so, 
 
 From Eoman Julius 
 
 The " Ccesarian" styled ; 
 Who was no gosling, 
 But, like this Boz-ling, 
 From birth a dazzling 
 
 And precocious child ! 
 
 GOD SAVE THE QUEEN ! 
 
 P. Prout 
 
105 
 
 SONG OF THE OLD BELL. 
 
 In an old village, amid older hills, 
 
 That close around their verdant walls to guard 
 
 Its tottering age from wintry winds, I dwell 
 
 Lonely, and still, save when the clamorous rooks 
 
 Or my own fickle changes wound the ear 
 
 Of Silence in my tower." — anon. 
 
 For full five hundred years I've swung 
 
 In my old grey turret high, 
 And many a different theme I've sung 
 
 As the time went stealing by ! 
 I've peal'd the chaunt of a wedding morn ; 
 
 Ere night I have sadly toll'd, 
 To say that the bride was coming, love-lorn, 
 To sleep in the church-yard mould ! 
 Ding dong, 
 
 My careless song ; 
 Merry and sad, 
 
 But neither long ! 
 
 For full five hundred years I've swung 
 
 In my ancient turret high, 
 And many a different theme I've sung 
 
 As the time went stealing by ! 
 
106 SONG OF THE OLD BELL. 
 
 I've swell' d the joy of a country's pride 
 
 For a victory far off won, 
 Then changed to grief for the brave that died 
 Ere my mirth had well begun ! 
 Ding-dong, 
 
 My careless song 
 Merry or sad, 
 
 But neither long ! 
 
 For full five hundred years I've swung 
 
 In my breezy turret high, 
 And many a different theme I've sung 
 
 As the time went stealing by ! 
 I have chimed the dirge of a nation's grief 
 
 On the death of a dear-loved king, 
 Then merrily rung for the next young chief; 
 As told, I can weep or sing ! 
 Ding-dong, 
 
 My careless song ; 
 Merry or sad, 
 
 But neither long ! 
 
 For full five hundred years I've swung 
 
 In my crumbling turret high ; 
 'Tis time my own death-song were sung, 
 
 And with truth before I die ! 
 I never could love the themes they gave 
 
 My tyrannized tongue to tell : 
 One moment for cradle, the next for grave — 
 They've worn out the old church bell ! 
 Ding-dong, 
 
 My changeful song ; 
 Farewell now, 
 
 And farewell long ! 
 
107 
 
 
 "BE QUIET— DO! I'LL CALL MY MOTHEB!" 
 
 [Lest the author of the following should be accused of 
 plagiarism, he thinks it right to state that in the 
 second volume of the Parnasse des Dames, there is a 
 song, the burden of which is, " Tenez vous coi, fapjpel- 
 lerai ma mere. It is, however, too gross for translation, 
 and nothing of it has been preserved in the present 
 lines, except the refrain."] 
 
 As I was sitting in a wood, 
 
 Under an oak-tree's leafy cover, 
 Musing in pleasant solitude, 
 
 Who should come by, but John, my lover ! 
 He pressed my hand, and kissed my cheek ; 
 
 Then warmer growing, kissed the other ; 
 While I exclaimed, and strove to shriek, 
 
 " Be quiet — do ! Til call my mother /" 
 
 n. 
 
 He saw my anger was sincere, 
 
 And lovingly began to chide me ; 
 
 And, wiping from my cheek the tear, 
 He sat him on the grass beside me. 
 
108 BE QUIET DO ! I'LL CALL MY MOTHER ! 
 
 He feigned such pretty, amorous woe, 
 
 Breathed such sweet vows one after other, 
 
 I could but smile while whispering low. 
 " Be quiet — do ! I'll call my mother /" 
 
 in. 
 
 He talked so long, and talked so well, 
 
 And swore he meant not to deceive me ; 
 I felt more grief than I can tell, 
 
 When with a kiss he rose to leave me. 
 " Oh, John !" said I, " and must thou go ! 
 
 I love thee better than all other 1 
 There is no need to hurry so, 
 
 J never meant to call my mother /" 
 
 C. M. 
 
109 
 
 OLD MOUNTAIN DEW. 
 
 Away with your port and your fine-flavour' d sherry, 
 
 And fill up with toddy as high as yon please ; 
 We men of the Northland should know ourselves better 
 
 Than pledge her in liquors so paltry as these ! 
 In whiskey, perfumed by the peat of the heather, 
 We'll drink to the land of the kind and the true, — 
 Unsullied in honour, 
 Our blessings npon her ! 
 Scotland for ever ! and old mountain dew ! 
 
 Neish ! neish ! neish ! hurra ! 
 
 Mountain dew ! clear as a Scot's understanding, 
 
 Pure as his conscience wherever he goes, 
 Warm as his heart to the friend he has chosen, 
 
 Strong as his arm when he fights with his foes ! 
 In liquor like this should old Scotland be toasted ; 
 So fill up again, and the pledge we'll renew — 
 Long flourish the honour 
 Her children have won her — 
 Scotland for ever ! and old mountain dew ! 
 
 Neish ! neish ! neish ! hurra ! 
 
110 OLD MOUNTAIN DEW. 
 
 May her worth, like her lowland streams, roll on 
 unceasing, — 
 Her fame, like her highland hills, last evermore, — 
 And the cold of her glens be confined to the climate, 
 
 Nor enter the heart, though it creep through the door ! 
 Arid never may we, while we love and revere her, 
 As long as we're brave, and warm-hearted, and true, 
 Want reason to boast her, 
 Or whiskey to toast her — 
 Scotland for ever ! and old mountain dew ! 
 
 Neish ! neish ! neish ! hurra ! 
 
 Charles Mackay. 
 
Ill 
 
 KEV. SYDNEY SMITH. 
 
 The following anecdote of this witty Divine is too good to be lost. 
 
 At one of the Holland House Sunday dinner-parties 
 many years ago, Crockford's Club, then forming, was 
 talked of; and the noble hostess observed, that the 
 female passion for diamonds was surely less ruinous than 
 the rage for play among men ; upon which Sydney Smith 
 wrote the following impromptu sermonet most appropriately 
 on a card : 
 
 Thoughtless that " all that's brightest fades," 
 Unmindful of that knave of spades, 
 
 The sexton and his subs : 
 How foolishly we play our parts ! 
 Our wives on diamonds set their hearts, 
 
 We set our hearts on clubs. 
 
112 
 
 THE PIPEE'S PKOGRESS. 
 
 When I was a boy 
 
 In my father's mud edifice, 
 Tender and bare 
 
 As a pig in a sty ; 
 Out of the door as I 
 
 Looked with a steady phiz, 
 Who but Thade Murphy, 
 
 The piper, went by ; 
 Says Thady, " But few play 
 This music — can you play ?" 
 Says I, " I can't tell, 
 
 For I never did try." 
 So he told me that he had a charm 
 
 To make the pipes purtily speak ; 
 Then squeezed a bag under his arm, 
 
 When sweetly they set up a squeak ! 
 Fa-ra-la la-ra-la loo ! 
 
 Och hone ! 
 
 How he handled the drone ! 
 
 And then the sweet music he blew 
 Would have melted the heart of a stone ! 
 
113 
 
 THE PTPBIt'S PEOaEESS 
 
 i. 
 
 Pater me clauserat 
 Domi homunculum 5 
 Grunniens sus erat 
 
 Comes, ut mos : 
 Transibat tibicen 
 Juxta domunculam, 
 Quando per januam 
 
 Protuli os ; 
 Hie ait impromptu, 
 " Hac tibia num tu, 
 Ut te sine sumptu 
 
 Edoceam, vis ?" 
 Turn pressit amiculam 
 Sub ulna vesiculam 
 Quae sonum reddidit 
 
 Vocibus bis : 
 
 Fa-ra-la la-ra-la loo! 
 
 *ev, <pev ! 
 Modo JlenSy modo flans, 
 
 MagiCO eXeXei/, 
 
 Cor et awrem vel lajoidi dam I 
 
 1 
 
114 THE PIFEP^S PROGRESS. 
 
 II. 
 
 " Your pipe," says I, " Thady, 
 
 So neatly comes over me, 
 Naked I'll wander 
 
 Wherever it blows ; 
 And, if my poor parents 
 
 Should try to recover me, 
 Sure it won't be 
 
 By describing my clothes. 
 The music I hear now 
 Takes hold of my ear now, 
 And leads me all over 
 
 The world by the nose." 
 So I follow'd his bagpipe so sweet, 
 
 And I sung, as I leapt like a frog, 
 Adieu to my family seat, 
 
 So pleasantly placed in a bog !" 
 Fa-ra-la la-ra-la loo ! 
 
 Och hone ! 
 
 How ive handled the drone ! 
 
 And then the sweet music ive blew 
 
 Would have melted the heart of a stone I 
 
 1:1. 
 
 Full five years I follow'd him, 
 
 Nothing could sunder us ; 
 Till he one morning 
 
 Had taken a sup, 
 And slipt from a bridge 
 
 In a river just under us ! 
 Souse to the bottom 
 
 Just like a blind pup. 
 
THE PIPER'S PROGRESS. 115 
 
 II. 
 
 Cui ego turn : " Tu sic, aii I 
 Me rapis musica, 
 Ut sequar nudulus 
 
 Tibicen, te ! 
 Et si pater, testibus, 
 Quserat me, vestibus, 
 Redibit, sedepol ! 
 
 Vacua re. 
 Sic melos quod audio 
 Me replet gaudio 
 Ut tralior campos et 
 
 Mumina trans ; 
 Jam linquo rudibus 
 Hie in paludibus, 
 Patris tigurium 
 
 Splendide stans. 
 
 Fa-ra-la la-ra-la loo ! 
 Dum tihicen, tu, 
 
 Modo fiend, modo flans, 
 
 Items eXeXev 
 
 Cor et aurem vel lajpidi davz* 
 
 in. 
 
 Ut arte sic magica 
 Egi quinquennium, 
 Magistro tragica 
 
 Accidit res ; 
 Bacchi nam numine 
 Pontis cacumine 
 Dum staret, iiumine 
 
 Labitur pes ! 
 
 i 2 
 
116 THE PIPER'S PROGRESS. 
 
 He roar'd, and he bawl'd out ; 
 
 And I also call'd out, 
 
 " Now, Thady, my friend, 
 
 Don't you mean to come up ?" ... 
 He was dead as a nail in a door ; 
 
 Poor Thady was laid on the shelf. 
 So I took up his pipes on the shore, 
 
 And now I've set up for myself. 
 Fa-ra-la la-ra-la loo ! 
 
 Och hone ! 
 
 Don't I handle the drone, 
 
 And play such sweet music ? I too, 
 
 Can't I soften the heart of a stone ? 
 
THE PIPER'S PROGRESS. 117 
 
 " E siim fluctmim, 
 puer, due tuum 
 (Clamat) didascalum, 
 
 Fer opem nans !" ... 
 Ast ego renuo ; 
 Et sumens dennb 
 Littore tibias 
 
 Sustuli, fans, 
 
 Fa-ra-la la-ra-la loo! 
 
 3»<£U, <f)€V ! 
 
 Modo flens, modo flans, 
 MagiCO ekeXev 
 
 Cor et aurem vel lapidi dans I 
 
 P. Prout. 
 
118 
 
 THE USEFUL YOUNG MAUL 
 
 " There's one of us in every family." 
 
 To make ourselves useful 's a duty we owe 
 To mankind and ourselves in our sojourn below ; 
 To return good for evil, and always " to do 
 Unto others as you'd have them do unto you :" 
 So I bear all with patience, resolved, if I can, 
 To act well my part as a Useful Young Man ! 
 
 But, alas ! entre nous, 'tis a difficult task, 
 
 As seldom I'm left in life's sunshine to bask ; 
 
 For I'm hurried, and worried, imposed on by all, 
 
 Who think I should run at their beck or their call ; 
 
 " So obliging," folks say, " is their favourite Sam, 
 
 That he well earns the name of the Useful Young Man !" 
 
 Each morning at breakfast I'm doomed to peruse 
 " The Herald," and " Post," for " the family news," 
 While the toast, eggs, and coffee, which fall to my lot, 
 G-et a pretty considerable distance from hot : 
 Yes, such are the comforts — deny it who can ? — 
 That fall to the share of each Useful Young Man ! 
 
TEE USEFUL YOUNG MAN. 119 
 
 If Jane, or Maria, for work should agree, 
 The dear creatures invariably send down for me 
 To make myself useful, and read while they knit, 
 Paint, draw, or do anything they may think fit. 
 Thus Sam — poor pill- garlic ! — they safely trepan : 
 Alack ! what a life leads a Useful Young Man ! 
 
 If the day 's rather wet, and they can't gad about, 
 They think nothing whatever, of sending me out : — 
 " Now. Sam, my good fellow, just pop on your hat ; 
 Bun to Howell's for this thing, and Holmes's for that ; 
 You'll make yourself pleasant we know, if you can, — 
 What a comfort to have such a Useful Young Man !" 
 
 When John, our fat butler, or Bridget, the cook, 
 
 Have leisure for reading " some novelty book," 
 
 They ne'er think of asking my leave to peruse, 
 
 But help themselves freely to just what they choose : 
 
 Making free with my novels is no novel plan, 
 
 For they own Master Sam 's such a Useful Young Man ! 
 
 Once Thomas, the footman, kissed Anne on the stairs, 
 Who loudly squalled out, just to give herself airs ; 
 When my father ran down, in great anger, to see 
 What the cause of the squeaking and squalling could be. 
 Tom had bolted ; but not till they'd settled a plan 
 To throw all the blame on the Useful Young Man ! 
 
 When the Opera we visit, I'm kept in the rear 
 Of our box, and can scarce get a glimpse, I declare, 
 Of the stage, or the audience ; — so only remain, 
 To trot up to Dubourg for ptmch a la Bomaiae, 
 To run out for a book, or to pick up a fan : — 
 Alas ! what a drudge is a Useful Young Man ! 
 
120 THE USEFUL YOUNG MAN. 
 
 But sad is my fate when I go to a rout, 
 
 If a toothless old maid sits a partner without, 
 
 The beaux are looked o'er, but they always agree 
 
 To fix the agreeable task upon me ; 
 
 For to dance with all bores, 'tis the province of Sam, 
 
 'Deed the fate of each victimised Useful Young Man ! 
 
 If we're late at the dance, and no coach to be had, 
 There's Sam ! the dear fellow ! the exquisite lad ! 
 He'll search all the stands in the town, but he'll gain 
 A coach for his friends — though it 's pelting with rain 
 Oh ! such are the pleasures — deny it who can — 
 That fall to the lot of a Useful Young Man I 
 
 To be nice about trifles is not over wise ; 
 
 Where's the churl that finds favour in woman's bright 
 
 eyes? 
 To be nice about trifles, is trifling with folly, 
 For the right end of life is but left to be jolly ; 
 So I'll make up. my mind just to stick to this plan, 
 And fag out my terms as a Useful Young Man. 
 
 W. Collier. 
 
121 
 
 MADKIGAL OF THE SEASONS. 
 
 SPRING MORN. 
 
 'Tis merry on a fair Spring morn, 
 When hush'd is ev'ry ruder wind, 
 And Nature, like a mother kind, 
 Smiles joyous on her babe just born : 
 When sparkling dew is on the ground, 
 And flowrets gay are budding round, 
 And Hope is heard in ev'ry sound, 
 'Tis merry, oh, 'tis merry ! 
 
 SUMMER NOON. 
 
 'Tis merry on a Summer's noon, 
 When Zephyr comes with balmy kiss, 
 And wakes the drowsy earth to bliss, 
 By gently breathing Love's own tune : 
 When leaves are green, and skies are blue, 
 And waters of a golden hue, 
 And ev'ry glance brings beauties new, 
 'Tis merry, oh ; 'tis merry ! 
 
122 MADRIGAL OF THE SEASONS. 
 
 AUTUMN EVE. 
 
 'Tis merry on an Autumn eve, 
 When birds sing farewell to the sun, 
 And, corn well sheaved, and labour done, 
 The fields the healthful reapers leave : 
 When those whom daylight keeps afar 
 May meet beneath the vesper star 
 Without one fear their joy to mar," 
 'Tis merry, oh, 'tis merry ! 
 
 WINTER NIGHT. 
 
 'Tis merry on a Winter's night, 
 When fast descends the deep'ning snow, 
 And o'er the heath the shrill winds blow, 
 To watch the crackling faggot's light : 
 When spicy wine and nut-brown ale, 
 Give zest to each rare Christmas tale, 
 And song, and joke, and laugh prevail, 
 'Tis merry, oh, 'tis merry ! 
 
123 
 
 SIEGE OF BELGEADE. 
 
 An Austrian, army, awfully arrayed, 
 
 Boldly by battery besieged Belgrade ; 
 
 Cossack commanders cannonading come, 
 
 Dealing destruction's devastating doom. 
 
 Every endeavour engineers essay 
 
 For fame, for fortune, — fighting, furious fray : 
 
 Generals 'gainst generals grapple — gracious God! 
 
 How honours Heaven heroic hardihood ! 
 
 Infuriate, indiscriminate in ill, 
 
 Kinsmen kill kinsmen, — kinsmen kindred kill ! 
 
 Labour low levels loftiest, longest lives ; 
 
 Men march 'mid mounds, 'mid moles, 'mid murderous 
 
 mines. 
 Now noisy, noxious numbers notice nought 
 Of outward obstacles opposing ought : 
 Poor patriots, partly purchased, partly pressed, 
 Quite quaking, quickly quarter, quarter quest. 
 Eeason returns, religious right redounds, 
 Suwarrow stops such sanguinary sounds : 
 Truce to thee Turkey — triumph to thy train ! 
 Unjust, unwise, unmerciful Ukraine ! 
 
124< THE SIEGE OF BELGRADE. 
 
 Vanish vain victory ! vanish victory vain ! 
 Why wish we warfare ? Wherefore welcome we 
 Xerxes, Ximenes, Xanthus, Xaviere? 
 Yield, ye youths ! ye yeomen, yield your yell ! 
 Zeno's, Zarpatus', Zoroaster's zeal, 
 And all attracting — arms against appeaL 
 
125 
 
 THE DOUBLE BAKREL. 
 
 September the first on the moorland hath burst, 
 
 And already with jocund carol 
 Each Nimrod of nouse hurries off to the grouse, 
 
 And has shouldered his double barrel ; 
 For well doth he ken, as he hies through the glen, 
 That scanty will be his laurel 
 Who hath not 
 On the spot 
 (Should he miss a first shot) 
 Some resource in a double barbel. 
 
 'Twas the Goddess of Sport, in her woodland court, 
 
 Diana, first taught this moral, 
 Which the Goddess of Love soon adopted, and strove 
 
 To improve on the " double barrel." 
 Hence her Cupid, we know, put two strings to his bow ; 
 And she laughs, when two lovers quarrel, 
 At the lot 
 Of the sot 
 Who, to soothe him, han't got 
 The resource of a double barrel. 
 
126 THE DOUBLE BARREL. 
 
 Nay, the hint was too good to lie hid in the wood, 
 
 Or to lurk in two lips of coral ; 
 Hence the Grod of the Grape (who his betters would ape) 
 
 Knows the use of a double barrel. 
 His escutcheon he decks with a double XX, 
 And his blithe October carol 
 Follows up 
 With the sup 
 Of a flowing ale-cup 
 September's double barrel. 
 
 Father Prout. 
 
 
127 
 
 EEIA& LAUEENCE AND JULIET. 
 
 Friar. 
 
 Who is calling Friar Laurence ? 
 
 — Madam Juliet ! how d'ye do ? 
 Dear me — talk of the — beg pardon- 
 
 I've been talking about you. 
 Mistress Montagu, they tell me 
 
 You on Thursday mean to wed ! 
 It is strange you never told me 
 
 That poor Mister M. was dead ! 
 
 Juliet. 
 
 M.'s alive ! yet County Paris 
 
 I'm to marry, people say ! 
 (I shall marry the whole county 
 
 If I go on in this way :) 
 Once you've wedded me already, 
 
 If I wed again, you see, 
 Though in you a little error, 
 
 'Twill be very big o' me. 
 
128 FRIAR LAURENCE AND JULIET. 
 
 Friar. 
 
 Ton my life, it's very awkward ! 
 
 I'll on some expedient hit ; 
 If you'll find me ready money, 
 
 I will find yon ready wit : 
 I can't let yon wed a second 
 
 Ere I know the first has died ; 
 Think of faggots ! for such deeds, ma'am, 
 
 Holy friars have been fried ! 
 
 'Tan't my wish, sir, nor intention, — 
 
 Any scheme of yonrs I'll hail ; 
 To escape from County Paris, 
 
 Put me in the county jail : 
 Kill me dead ! and make me food for 
 
 Earthworm, viper, toad, or rat ; 
 Make a widower of Eo-me- 
 
 -0, — ('twill hurt me to do that !) 
 
 Friar. 
 
 If you've really resolution 
 
 That your life-blood should be spilt, 
 I will save you, for I'll have you 
 
 Not quite killed, but merely hilt: 
 Could you in a vault be buried — 
 
 Horizontal — in a niche ? 
 And of death so good a copy, 
 
 None could find out which is which ? 
 
FBIAE LATJBENCE AND JULIET. 129 
 
 Juliet. 
 
 I would vault into a vault, sir, 
 
 With a dead man in his shroud ; 
 I'd do any dirty work, sir 
 
 Though my family 's so proud! 
 I'll do whatsoe'er you bid me, 
 
 'Till you say I've done enough j 
 Nay, sir, much as I dislike it, 
 
 I'll take 'poticary's stuff! 
 
 Friar. 
 
 Then go home, ma'am, and be merry ; 
 
 Say that Paris you will wed ; 
 Tell your nurse you've got a headache, 
 
 And go quietly to bed : 
 Ask for something warm, — some negus, 
 
 Grog, or gruel, or egg-flip, 
 Put in this, and then drink quickly,— 
 
 'Tis so nauseous if you sip. 
 
 Juliet 
 
 Give, oh ! give me quick the phial, 
 
 From the trial I'll not shrink, — 
 Is it shaken when it 's taken ? 
 
 Gracious me ! it 's black as ink ! 
 There 's no fear, I trust, of failure ? — 
 
 No — I doubt not its effect ; 
 From your conversation's tenor 
 
 No base phial I expect. 
 
130 FRIAR LAURENCE AND JULIET. 
 
 Frier. 
 
 You will have the bridegroom follow, 
 
 Where he generally leads ; 
 'Stead of hymeneal flowers, 
 
 He will wear sepulchral weeds : 
 I to Eomeo will quickly 
 
 Write a letter by the post ; 
 He will wake you, and should Paris 
 
 Meet you, — say you are your ghost ! 
 
 Juliet. 
 
 'Tis an excellent arrangement, 
 
 As you bid me I will act ; 
 But within the tomb, dear friar, 
 
 Place a basket nicely pack'd ; — 
 Just a loaf, a tongue, a chicken, 
 
 Port and sherry, and some plum z ; 
 It will really be a comfort 
 
 Should I wake e'er Konieo comes J 
 
THE PHANTOM SHIP. 131 
 
 THE PHANTOM SHIP. 
 
 " My child ! my child ! come down to rest ! 
 The day has long been past : 
 Sleep in thy mother's blessing blest, 
 The night is waning fast." 
 
 " Dear mother, let ns linger here, 
 The moon shines forth so bright ; 
 The starry sky is all so clear, 
 It does not look like night ; 
 
 " And all aronnd the waveless sea 
 In glassy smoothness lies, 
 And on it flows so silently, 
 It bids no murmur rise. 
 
 " And as I bend me o'er the side, 
 Methinks I trace below 
 The ocean's depths, their jewel' d. pride, 
 A fair and goodly show ; 
 
 " The beauties that the Mighty One 
 Hath lavish' d there from old ; 
 The treasures that from earth have gone. 
 The diamond and the gold ; 
 k 2 
 
132 THE PHANTOM SHIP. 
 
 " The glitt'ring and the sighed-for thin^ 
 Man seeks 'mid care and strife, 
 And ocean from him hardly wrings 
 With wreck or loss of life ; 
 
 " The silver fish that gently glide, 
 Or glance in gladsome play, 
 Filling with life the crystal tide, 
 How fair and bright are they ! 
 
 " And see ! and see ! approaching now, 
 A ship of pride and cost ; 
 The weary crew asleep below, 
 The helmsman at his post. 
 
 " No rushing wind compels her course, 
 No tempest raves around ; 
 She moves as by some unseen force, 
 Whilst all is still around. 
 
 " She ruffles not the glassy tide, 
 Bends not her stately mast, 
 No fretful billows chafe her side, 
 No foam is round her cast. 
 
 " She leaves no track upon the sea, 
 No furrow in her wake ; 
 But on, and on unmurmuringly 
 Her silent way doth take." 
 
 " Come down to rest, my gentle child ! 
 Thou dost not see aright : 
 Thy words are as a sleeper's wild ; 
 There is no ship in sight." 
 
THE PHANTOM SHIP. 133 
 
 " Yes, yes, the stately ship is near, 
 And all my words are true ; 
 A child looks on her mother dear, 
 As I look up at you. 
 
 " And now I hear the soften' d tone, 
 And gentle words of love ; 
 And now they sound as though mine own, 
 And now as thine they move." 
 
 " Hush ! hush, my child ! no ship is nigh, 
 No voices canst thou hear : 
 A shadowy cloud is in thine eye, 
 The breeze is in thine ear." 
 
 " No shadowy cloud is in mine eye ; 
 No breeze is in mine ear ; 
 The stately ship is passing by, 
 And gentle tones I hear. 
 
 " One walks the deck with weary pace, 
 As though he sigh'd for sleep ; 
 The steersman turns an anxious face 
 Across the waveless deep. 
 
 " And two beside the steersman stand, 
 A mother and her child : 
 One holds, as now, I hold your hand, 
 One smiles as late you smiled." 
 
 " My child ! my child ! it cannot be !" 
 Thus forth the mother broke ; 
 And yet she answer'd shudd'ringly, 
 And trembled as she spoke. 
 
134 THE PHANTOM SHIP. 
 
 " My child ! my child ! it cannot be ! 
 Vessel save ours is none. 
 Look ! o'er the still unbounded sea 
 We take our way alone." 
 
 " Her words are true," the steersman said ; 
 To youth it has been given 
 To speak, without deceit or dread, 
 The changeless will of Heav'n. 
 
 " Your child the phantom ship hath seen ! 
 Ere set to-morrow's sun, 
 No trace will rest where we have been, 
 Our mortal course be run." 
 
 Before the morrow's sun went down, 
 There was nor trace nor mark, 
 To show where o'er the sea had gone 
 That strong and gallant bark. 
 
 No shatter'd spars, no riven mast 
 Were floating o'er the waves : 
 JNbne knew when those from life had past, 
 Who slept in wat'ry graves. 
 
 Yet all she bore across the waves 
 Had pass'd from human sight, 
 With none to weep above their graves, 
 Or read the funeral rite. 
 
 Ellen Pickerikg. 
 
135 
 
 POETICAL EPISTLE FEOM FATHEK PROUT TO 
 BOZ. 
 
 A rhyme! a rhyme! from a distant clime, — from the 
 
 gulph of the Genoese : 
 O'er the rugged scalps of the Julian Alps, dear Boz ! 
 
 I send you these, 
 To light the Wick your candlestick holds up, or, should 
 
 you list, 
 To usher in the yarn you spin concerning Oliver Twist. 
 
 11. 
 
 Immense applause you've gained, oh, Boz ! through 
 
 continental Europe ; 
 You'll make Pickwick cecumenick; of fame you have a 
 
 sure hope : 
 For here your books are found, gadzooks ! in greater 
 
 luxe than any 
 That have issued yet, hotpress'd or wet, from the types 
 
 of G-alignani. 
 
136 FATHER PEOUT TO BOZ. 
 
 III. 
 
 But neither when yon sport your pen, oh, potent mirth- 
 
 compeller ! 
 Winning our hearts " in monthly parts," can Pickwick 
 
 or Sam Weller 
 Cause us to weep with pathos deep, or shake with laugh 
 
 spasmodical, 
 As when you drain your copious vein for Bentley's 
 
 periodical. 
 
 IT. 
 
 Folks all enjoy your Parish Boy,— so truly you depict 
 him ; 
 
 But I, alack ! while thus you track your stinted poor- 
 law's victim, 
 
 Must think of some poor nearer home, poor who, unheeded 
 perish, 
 
 By squires despoiled, by " patriots" gulled, — I mean the 
 starving Irish. 
 
 Yet there's no dearth of Irish mirth, which, to a mind 
 
 of feeling, 
 Seemeth to be the Helot's glee before the Spartan 
 
 reeling ; 
 Such gloomy thought o'ercometh not the glee of England's 
 
 humour, 
 Thrice happy isle ! long may the smile of genuine joy 
 
 illume her ! 
 
FATHER PEOTJT TO BOZ. 137 
 
 VI. 
 
 Write on, young sage ! still o'er the page pour forth the 
 
 flood of fancy ; 
 Wax still more droll, wave o'er the soul Wit's wand of 
 
 necromancy. 
 Behold ! e'en now around your brow th' immortal laurel 
 
 thickens ; 
 Yea, Swift or Sterne might gladly learn a thing or 
 
 two from Dickens. 
 
 vii. 
 
 A rhyme ! a rhyme ! from a distant clime, — a song from 
 
 the sunny south ! 
 A goodly theme, so Boz but deem the measure not un- 
 
 < outh, 
 Would, for thy sake, that " Protjt" could make his bow 
 
 in fashion finer, 
 " Partant" (from thee) "pour la Syrie" for Greece and 
 
 Asia Minor. 
 
 Father Prout. 
 
138 
 
 A SOKG FOE A STOEMY NIGHT. 
 
 The winds without, 
 In their midnight rout, 
 Howl through our key-hole drearily ; 
 But sweet is our mirth, 
 Eound the social hearth, 
 When circles the wine-cup cheerily. 
 
 With a heigh ho ! nonnie no ! 
 And a heigh ho ! nonnie nee ! 
 
 Fill up the bowl, 
 And stir up the coal, 
 Let no hour languish wearily ! 
 We've right good cheer, 
 And a welcome here, 
 And a big log crackling cheerily. 
 
 With a heigh ho ! nonnie no ! 
 And a heigh ho ! nonnie nee I 
 
 Yet amid our glee 
 Perchance there be, 
 Hearts near us beating drearily ; 
 
A SONG FOE A STORMY NIGHT. 139 
 
 All nipp'd by the cold, 
 Some traveller old, 
 May be trudging through snow-drifts wearily. 
 With a heigh ho ! nonnie no ! 
 And a heigh ho ! nonnie nee ! 
 
 Show then a light 
 From our window to-night, 
 Let it gleam to guide him cheerily : 
 We've a chair and a jug, 
 And a corner snug, 
 When he comes to our door so wearily. 
 With a heigh ho ! nonnie no ! 
 And a heigh ho ! nonnie nee ! 
 
 There let it burn, 
 While each in turn, 
 As he raises his full cup cheerily : 
 Drinks " Joy and zest, 
 " And a pleasant rest 
 " To all who wander wearily." 
 
 With a heigh ho ! nonnie no ! 
 And a heigh ho ! nonnie nee I 
 
 Never shall it be said, 
 That we, well fed, 
 By our fire-side singing cheerily, 
 Could forget this night, 
 The bitter plight 
 Of the thousands pining wearily. 
 
 With a heigh ho! nonnie no ! 
 And a heigh ho ! nonnie nee ! 
 
140 A. SONG FOR A STORMY NIGHT. 
 
 Let us open the door 
 To the old and poor, 
 They shall all be welcome cheerily ! 
 While there's bite or sup 
 On our board or cup, 
 They shall never pass by us wearily. 
 With a heigh ho ! nonnie no ! 
 And a heigh ho ! nonnie nee ! 
 
 Charles Mackay. 
 
141 
 
 SAKDANAPALTJS. 
 
 Saedanapaltts was Nineveh's king ; 
 
 And, if all be quite true that the chroniclers sing, 
 
 Loved his song and his glass, 
 
 And was given, alas ! 
 
 Not only to bigamy, 
 
 Nor even to trigaray, 
 But (I shudder to think on't) to rankest polygamy : 
 For his sweethearts and wives were so vast in amount, 
 They'd take you a week or two only to count ! 
 
 One morning his Majesty jump'd out of bed, 
 And hitting his valet a rap on the head, 
 By way of a joke, " Salamenes," he said, 
 
 " Gro, proclaim to the court, 
 
 " 'Tis our will to resort, 
 
 " By way of a lark, 
 
 " To our palace and park 
 " On the banks of Euphrates, and there, with our wives, 
 " Sing, dance, and get fuddled, for once in our Irves ; 
 " So, bid our state-rulers and nobles, d'ye see, 
 " Hie all to our banquet not later than three, 
 "And prepare for a long night of jollity." 
 " Very good," said the valet ; then eager and hot 
 On his errand, ducked thrice, and was off like a shot. 
 
142 SARDANAPALTTS. 
 
 When the court heard these orders, with rapture elate, 
 They adjourn' d all the business of church and of state, 
 
 And hurried off, drest 
 
 Each man in his best ; 
 
 While the women, sweet souls, 
 
 Went with them by shoals, 
 Some in gigs, some in cabs, some on horseback so gay, 
 And some in an omnibus hired for the day. — 
 (If busses in those days were not to be seen, 
 All I can say is, they ought to have been.) — 
 
 Like a torrent, the throng 
 
 Eoll'd briskly along, 
 Cheering the way with jest, laughter, and song, 
 To the Banquetting Hall, where the last of the group 
 Arrived, by good luck, just in time for the soup. 
 
 The guests set to work in superlative style, 
 And his Majesty, equally busy the while, 
 Encouraged their efforts with many a smile. 
 
 The High Priest was the first, 
 
 Who seemed ready to burst ; 
 
 (For the ladies so shy, 
 
 They swigged on the sly !) 
 But, proud of his prowess, he scorn'd to give o'er, 
 'Till at length with a hiccup he fell on the floor, 
 
 Shouting out, 'mid his qualms, 
 
 That verse in the Psalms, 
 Which saith (but it surely can't mean a whole can !) 
 That " Wine maketh merry the heart of a man." 
 
 While thus they sate tippling, peers, prelates, and all, 
 And music's sweet voice echoed light through the Hall ; 
 
 His Majesty rose, 
 
 Blew his eloquent nose, 
 

 SARDANAPALTTS. 143 
 
 And exclaiming, by way of exordium, " Here goes !" 
 Made a speech which produced a prodigious sensation, 
 Greatly, of course, to the King's delectation : 
 One courtier, o'erpower'd by its humour and wit, 
 Held both his fat sides, as if fearing a fit ; 
 While another kept crying, " Oh, God, I shall split I" 
 (So when a great publisher cracks a small joke, 
 His authors at table are ready to choke.) 
 And all, with the lungs of a hurricane, swore 
 They had ne'er heard so droll an oration before, 
 With the single exception of one silly fellow, 
 Who not being, doubtless, sufficiently mellow, 
 "Refused to applaud, or to join in the laughter, 
 And was hang'd for a traitor just ten minutes after. 
 
 By this time Dan Phoebus in ocean had sunk, 
 And the guests were all getting exceedingly drunk, 
 
 When, behold ! at the door 
 
 There was heard a loud roar, 
 And in rush'd a messenger covered with gore, 
 Who bawl'd out, addressing the Head of the State, 
 " If your Majesty pleases, the Foe's at the gate, 
 And threaten to kick up the Devil's own din, 
 If you do not surrender, and bid them come in ; 
 
 " The mob, too, has risen, 
 
 " And let out of prison, 
 "With the jailor's own keys (but it's no fault of Ms'ii), 
 " Some hundreds of burglars, and fences, and prigs, 
 " Who are playing all sorts of queer antics and rigs ; 
 " Already they've fir'd up one church for a beacon, — 
 " Hocussed a bishop, and burked an archdeacon, 
 " And swear, if you don't give them plenty of grog, 
 " They'll all become Chartists, and go the whole hog !" 
 
144 SAKDAEAPALUS. 
 
 Scarce had he ended, when hark ! with a squall, 
 A second grim herald pops into the Hall, 
 
 And, " "Woe upon woe ! 
 
 " The desperate foe," 
 Quoth he, " Have forced open the gates of the town, 
 " And are knocking by scores the rich citizens down ; 
 
 " As I pass'd with bent brow, 
 
 " By the Law Courts just now, 
 " Lo, sixty attorneys lay smash' d in a row, 
 " Having just taken wing for the regions below, 
 " (When lawyers are dead, none can doubt where they go,) 
 " 'Mid the cheers of each snob, who sung out, as he past, 
 " ' So, the scamps have gone home to their father at 
 
 last!'" 
 
 Oh ! long grew the face of each guest at this tale, 
 The men they turn'd red, and the women turn'd pale ; 
 But redder and paler they turn'd when they heard 
 The more terrible tidings of herald the third ! — 
 In he bounced with a visage as black as a crow's, 
 And a mulberry tinge on the tip of his nose ; 
 
 He'd a rent in his breeches, 
 
 A tergo, the which is 
 (As Smollett has taught us long since to believe*) 
 Not the pleasantest sight for the daughters of Eve ; 
 And he shook like a leaf, as thus hoarsely he spake 
 In the gruff and cacophonous tones of a drake — 
 
 " The town's all on fire, 
 
 " Hut, palace and spire 
 " Are blazing as fast as the foe can desire : 
 
 " Such crashing and smashing, 
 
 " And sparkling and darkling ! 
 * Vide Miss Tabitha Bramble, in Smollett's " Humphrey Clinker." 
 
SARDANAPALTJS. 145 
 
 " Sucli squalling, and bawling, and sprawling, 
 " And jobbing, and robbing, and mobbing ! 
 " Such kicking and licking, and racing and chasing, 
 " Blood-spilling and killing, and slaughtering and quar- 
 tering ! 
 " You'd swear that old Nick, with Belphegor his clerk, 
 " And Moloch his cad, were abroad on a lark !" 
 
 " Here's a go !" said the King, staring wild like a bogle 
 At these tidings, and wiping his eyes with his fogle ; 
 
 " 'Tis vain now to run for 
 
 " Our lives, for we're done for ; 
 " So, away with base thoughts of submission or flight, 
 " Let's all, my brave boys, die like heroes to-night ; 
 " Eaise high in this Hall a grand funeral pile, 
 " Then fire it, and meet our death-doom with a smile I" 
 He ceased, when a courtier replied in low tone, 
 " If your Majesty pleases, I'd rather live on ; 
 " For, although you may think me as dull as a post, 
 " Yet I can't say I've any great taste for a roast ; 
 " 'Tis apt to disorder one's system ; and so, 
 " Good night to your Majesty— D.I.O. !" 
 So saying, he made for the door and rush'd out, 
 While quick at his heels rushed the rest of the rout, 
 
 Leaving all alone, 
 
 The King on his throne, 
 With a torch in one hand which he waved all abroad, 
 And a glass in the other, as drunk as a Lord ! 
 
 That night, from the Hall, late so joyous, there bro]ke, 
 Spreading wide in 'mid air, a vast column of smoke ; 
 
 While, higher and higher, 
 
 Blazed up the red fire, 
 As it blazed from Queen Dido's funeral pyre ! — 
 
146 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Hark to the crash, as roof, pillar, and wall 
 
 Bend — rock — and down in thunder fall ! 
 
 Hark to the roar of the flames, as they show 
 
 Heaven and earth alike in a glow ! 
 
 The hollow wind sobs through the ruins, as though 
 
 'Twere hymning his dirge, who, an hour ago, 
 
 Was a King in all a King's array ; 
 
 But now lies, a blackened clod of clay, 
 
 In that Hall whose splendours have past away, 
 
 Save in old tradition, for ever and aye ! 
 
U7 
 
 THE MEMOET OF THE POETS. 
 
 The fame of those sweet bards, whose fancies lie, 
 Like glorious clouds on summer's holiest even 
 Fringing the west, upon the skirts of heaven, 
 
 And sprinkled o'er with hues of rainbow dye, 
 
 Is not of trumpet sound, nor strives to vie 
 
 With martial notes sublime. — From ages gone, 
 
 In most angelic strain it lengthens on, 
 
 Earth's greenest bowers with fresh delight to fill, 
 
 Heard, breathing from the silence of the sky, 
 Or trembling in the joy of gushing rill, 
 
 Or whispering o'er the lake's unrippled breast, 
 Till its last earthly melodies are still ; — 
 
 Hush'd, 'mid the joys of immortality, 
 
 In the calm bosom of eternal rest. 
 
 T. N. Talfoubd. 
 
 L 2 
 
148 
 
 BURNS AND BERANGER. 
 
 Is there, 
 
 For honest poverty, 
 
 That hangs his head 
 
 And a' that ? 
 The coward slave 
 "We pass him by, 
 
 We dare be poor for a' that : 
 
 For a' that; and a' that, 
 Our toils obscure, 
 
 And a' that ; 
 The rank is but 
 The guinea's stamp, 
 
 The man's the gowd for a' that. 
 
 ii. 
 
 What! though 
 
 On homely fare we dine, 
 
 Wear hodden grey, 
 
 And a' that ; 
 Give fools their silks, 
 And knaves their wine, 
 
 A man's a man for a' that: 
 
 For a* that, for a' that, 
 
149 
 
 BUKNS AND BEEANGER. 
 
 Quoi ! Pauvre honnete 
 
 Baisser la tete ? 
 Quoi ! rougir de la sorte ? 
 
 Que Tame basse 
 
 S'eloigne et passe 
 Nous — soyons gueux ! n'importe 
 
 Travail obscur — 
 N'importe ! 
 
 Quand Tor est pur 
 N'importe ! 
 
 Qu'il ne soit point 
 
 Marque au coin 
 D'un noble rang — qu'importel 
 
 ii. 
 
 Quoiqu'on dut faire 
 
 Bien maigre chere 
 Et vetir pauvre vetement ; 
 
 Aux sots leur soie, 
 
 Leur vin, leur joie ; 
 Ca fait-il l'homme? eh, nullement! 
 
 Luxe et grandeur — 
 Qu'importe ! 
 
150 BURNS AND BERANGER. 
 
 Their tinsel show, 
 
 And a' that ; 
 The honest man, 
 Thongh e'er so poor, 
 
 Is king o' men for a' that. 
 
 in. 
 
 Ye see 
 
 Yon birkie, ca'd a lord, 
 
 Wha struts and stares, 
 
 And a' that ; 
 Though hundreds worship 
 At his word, 
 
 He's but a coof for a' that : 
 
 For a' that, for a' that, 
 His riband, star, 
 
 And a' that ; 
 The man of 
 Independent mind 
 
 Can look and laugh at a' that. 
 
 IV. 
 
 A king 
 
 Can make a belted knight, 
 
 A marquis, duke, 
 
 And a' that ; 
 But an honest man 
 *s aboon his might, 
 
 Guid faith he manna fa' that. 
 
 For a' that, for a' that, 
 
BURNS AND BEEANGEB. 151 
 
 Train et splendeur — 
 
 Qu'importe ! 
 Cceurs vils et creux ! 
 Un noble gueux 
 Vaut toute la cohorte ! 
 
 IIL 
 
 Voyez ce fat — 
 
 Un vain eclat 
 L'entoure, et on l'encense, 
 
 Mais apres tout 
 
 Ce n'est qu'un fou, — 
 Un sot, quoiqu'il en pense j 
 
 Terre et maison, 
 Qn'il pense — 
 
 Titre et blazon, 
 Qu'il pense — 
 
 Or et ducats, 
 
 Non ! ne font pas 
 La vraie independence ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Un roi peut faire 
 Due, dignitaire, 
 Comte et marquis, journellement; 
 Mais ce qu'on iiomme 
 
 Un HONNETE HOMME, 
 
 Le peut-il faire ? eh, nullement ! 
 Tristes favours I 
 Eeellement ; 
 
152 BURNS AND BERANGEB. 
 
 Their dignities, 
 
 And a' that ; 
 The pith o' sense 
 And pride o' warth 
 
 Are higher ranks than a* that. 
 
 Then let us pray 
 That come it may— » 
 As come it will 
 
 For a' that — 
 That sense and warth, 
 O'er all the earth, 
 
 May bear the gree, 
 
 For a' that, and a' that, 
 It's coming yet, 
 
 For a' that, 
 That man to man, 
 The warld a' o'er, 
 Shall brothers be, for a' that. 
 
BURNS AND BERANGEB. 153 
 
 Pauvres honneurs ! 
 
 Beellement ; 
 Le fier maintien 
 Des gens de bien 
 Leur manque essentiellement. 
 
 Or faisons voeu 
 Qu'a tous, sous peu, 
 Arrive un jour de jugement ; — 
 Amis, ce jour 
 Aura son tour, 
 J'en prends, j'en prends, 1' engagement, 
 Espoir et en- 
 couragement, 
 Aux pauvres gens 
 
 Soulagement ; 
 'Lors sur la terre 
 Vivrons en freres, 
 Et librement, et sagement I 
 
 Father Prout. 
 
154 
 
 THE VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 
 
 When the hours of day are number'd, 
 
 And the voices of the night 
 Wake the better soul, that slumber' d, 
 
 To a holy calm delight. 
 
 Ere the evening lamps are lighted, 
 And, like phantoms grim and tall, 
 
 Shadows from the fitful fire-light 
 Dance upon the parlour wall, 
 
 Then the forms of the departed 
 
 Enter at the open door ! 
 The beloved ones, the true-hearted, 
 
 Come to visit me once more. 
 
 He, the young and strong, who cherish'd 
 Noble longings for the strife ! 
 
 By the road- side fell, and perish' d, 
 Weary with the march of life ! 
 
 They, the holy ones, and weakly, 
 Who the cross of suffering wore, 
 
 Folded their pale hands so meekly, 
 Spake with us on earth no more ! 
 
THE VOICES OP THE NIGHT. 155 
 
 And with them the being beauteous, 
 
 Who unto my youth was given, 
 More than all things else to love me, 
 
 And is now a saint in heaven. 
 
 With a slow and noiseless footstep 
 
 Comes that messenger divine, 
 Takes the vacant chair beside me, 
 
 Lays her gentle hand in mine. 
 
 And she sits and gazes at me, 
 
 With those deep and tender eyes, 
 Like the stars, so still and saint-like, 
 
 Looking downward from the skies. 
 
 Utter'd not, yet comprehended, 
 
 Is the spirit's voiceless prayer ; 
 Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, 
 
 Breathing from those lips of air. 
 
 Oh ! though oft depress'd and lonely, 
 
 All my fears are laid aside, 
 If I but remember only 
 
 Such as they have lived and died. 
 
 H. W. Longfellow. 
 
156 
 
 THOUGHTS ON PATRONS, PUFFS, AND OTHER 
 MATTERS. 
 
 IN AN EPISTLE FROM TOM MOORE TO SAMUEL ROGERS. 
 
 "What, thou, my friend ! a man of rhymes, 
 
 And, better still, a man of guineas, 
 To talk of " patrons," in these times, 
 
 When authors thrive, like spinning-jenneys, 
 And Arkwright's twist and Bulwer's page 
 Alike may laugh at patronage ! 
 
 No, no, — those times are past away, 
 
 When, doom'd in upper floors to star it, 
 
 The bard inscribed to lords his lay, — 
 
 Himself, the while, my Lord Mountgarret. 
 
 No more he begs, with air dependent, 
 
 His " little bark may sail attendant" 
 
 Under some lordly skipper's steerage ; 
 
 But launched triumphant in the Row, 
 
 Or ta'en by Murray's self in tow, 
 
 Cuts both Star Chamber and the Peerage. 
 
 Patrons, indeed ! when scarce a sail 
 Is whisked from England by the gale, 
 
THOUGHTS ON PATRONS AND PUFFS. 157 
 
 But bears on board some authors, shipp'd 
 For foreign shores, all well equipp'd 
 With proper book-making machinery, 
 To sketch the morals, manners, scenery, 
 Of all such lands as they shall see, 
 Or not see, as the case may be : — 
 It being enjoined on all who go 
 To study first Miss M*********, 
 And learn from her the method true, 
 To do one's books, — and readers, too. 
 For so this nymph of nous and nerve 
 Teaches mankind " How to Observe ;" 
 And, lest mankind at all should swerve, 
 Teaches them also " What to Observe." 
 
 No, no, my friend, — it can't be blink' d,— 
 The Patron is a race extinct ; 
 As dead as any Megatherion 
 That ever Buckland built a theory on. 
 Instead of bartering, in this age, 
 Our praise for pence and patronage, 
 We, authors, now, more prosperous elves, 
 Have learned to patronise ourselves ; 
 And since all-potent Puffing 's made 
 The life of song, the soul of trade, 
 More frugal of our praises grown, 
 Puff no one's merits but our own. 
 
 Unlike those feeble gales of praise 
 Which critics blew in former days, 
 Our modern puffs are of a kind 
 That truly, really raise the wind ; 
 
158 THOUGHTS ON PATRONS AND PTJFFS. 
 
 And since they've fairly set in blowing, 
 
 We find them the best trade-winds going. 
 
 'Stead of frequenting paths so slippy 
 
 As her old haunts near Aganippe, 
 
 The Muse, now, taking to the till, 
 
 Has opened shop on Ludgate Hill, 
 
 (Far handier than the Hill of Pindus, 
 
 As seen from bard's back attic windows) ; 
 
 And swallowing there without cessation 
 
 Large draughts (at sight) of inspiration, 
 
 Touches the notes for each new theme, 
 
 While still fresh " change comes o'er her dream.' 
 
 What Steam is on the deep, — and more, — 
 Is the vast power of Puff on shore ; 
 Which jumps to glory's future tenses 
 Before the present ev'n commences ; 
 And makes " immortal" and " divine" of us 
 Before the world has read one line of us. 
 
 In old times, when the God of Song 
 Drove his own two-horse team along, 
 Carrying inside a bard or two, 
 Book'd for posterity " all through ;" — 
 Their luggage, a few close-packed rhymes, 
 (Like yours, my friend,) for after-times, — 
 So slow the pull to Fame's abode, 
 That folks oft slept upon the road ; — 
 And Homer's self, sometimes, they say, 
 Took to his night-cap on the way. 
 
 Ye Gods ! how different is the story 
 With our new galloping sons of glory, 
 
THOUGHTS ON PATRONS AND PUFFS. 159 
 
 Who, scorning all such slack and slow time, 
 Dash to posterity in no time ! 
 Raise but one general blast of Puff 
 To start your author, — that's enough. 
 In vain the critics, set to watch him, 
 Try at the starting post to catch him ; 
 He 's off — the puffers carry it hollow — 
 The critics, if they please, may follow. 
 Ere they 've laid down their first positions, 
 He 's fairly blown through six editions ! 
 In vain doth Edinburgh dispense 
 Her blue and yellow pestilence, — 
 (That plague so awful in my time 
 To young and touchy sons of rhyme,) 
 The Quarterly, at three months' date, 
 To catch th' Unread One, comes too late ; 
 And nonsense, littered in a hurry, 
 Becomes " immortal," spite of Murray. 
 
 But, bless me ! — while I thus keep fooling, 
 I hear a voice cry, " Dinner 's cooling." 
 That postman, too, (who, truth to tell, 
 'Mong men of letters bears the bell,) 
 Keeps ringing, ringing, so infernally 
 That I must stop, — 
 
 Yours sempiternally. 
 
 Tom Moore. 
 
160 
 
 EICHELIEIT; OE, THE CONSPIRACY. 
 
 Cardinal Eicheliexj was Premier of Prance ; 
 
 He was keen as a fox, and yon read at a glance, 
 
 In his phiz so expressive of malice and trick, 
 
 That he'd mnch of the nature ascribed to Old Nick j 
 
 If a noble e'er dared to oppose him, instead 
 
 Of confuting his lordship, he whipped off his head: 
 
 He fixed his grim paw 
 
 Upon church, state, and law, 
 ^With as much cool assurance as ever you saw ; 
 
 With his satire's sharp sting 
 
 He badgered the King, 
 Bullied his brother, 
 Transported his mother, 
 And (what is a far more astonishing case) 
 Not only pronounced him an ass to his face, 
 But made love to his Queen, and because she declined 
 His advances, gave out she was wrong in her mind ! 
 
 Now the nobles of France, and still more the poor Kin< 
 Disliked, as was natural, this sort of thing ; 
 The former felt shocked that plebeian beholders 
 Should see a peer's head fly so oft from his shoulders, 
 
 I 
 
RICHELIEU ; OR, THE CONSPIRACY. 161 
 
 And the latter was constantly kept upon thorns 
 By the Cardinal's wish to endow him with horns ; 
 
 Thus rankling with spite, 
 
 A party one night 
 Of noblemen met, and determined outright 
 
 (So enraged were the crew) 
 
 First, to murder Eichelieu, 
 And, if needful, despatch all his partizans too : 
 
 Next to league with the foes 
 
 Of the King, and depose 
 The fat-pated monarch himself, for a fool 
 Eebellion ne'er uses, except as a tool. 
 
 On the night that Eichelieu was thus marked out for 
 
 slaughter, 
 He chanced to be tippling cold brandy and water 
 With one Joseph, a Capuchin priest — a sly dog, 
 And by no means averse to the comforts of grog, 
 As you saw by his paunch, which seemed proud to reveal 
 How exactly it looked like a fillet of veal. 
 They laughed and they quaffed, 'till the Capuchin's nose 
 ('T was a thorough bred snub) grew as red as a rose ; 
 And, whenever it chanced that his patron, Eichelieu, 
 Cracked a joke, even though it was not very new ; 
 And pointed his smart conversational squibs, 
 By a slap on Joe's back, or a peg in his ribs ; 
 The priest, who was wonderfully shrewd as a schemer, 
 Would bellow with ecstacy, " 'Grad, that's a screamer P* 
 Thus they chatted away, a rare couple well met, 
 And were just tuning up for a pious duet, 
 
 When in rushed a spy, 
 
 With his wig all awry, 
 And a very equivocal drop in his eye, 
 
 M 
 
162 EICHELIETJ; OB, THE CONSPIRACY. 
 
 Who cried (looking blue 
 
 As lie turned to Richelieu) 
 
 " Oh, my lord, lack-a-day ! 
 
 Here's the devil to pay, 
 For a dozen fierce nobles are coining this way ; 
 One of whom, an old stager, as sharp as a lizard, 
 Has threatened to stick a long knife in your gizzard ; 
 While the rest of the traitors, I say it with pain, 
 Have already sent off a despatch to Spain, 
 To state that his Majesty 's ceased to reign, 
 And order the troops all home again." 
 
 When his Eminence heard these tidings, " Go," 
 He said, in the blandest of tones, to Joe, 
 
 " And if you can catch 
 
 The traitor's despatch, 
 I swear — no matter how rich it be — 
 You shall have, dear Joe, the very next see !" — 
 (Nota bene, whenever Old Nick is wishing 
 To enjoy the prime sport of parson-fishing, 
 He always, like Richelieu, cunning and quick, 
 Baits with a good fat bishoprick !) 
 
 No sooner had Joe turned his sanctified back — 
 
 I hardly need add he was off in a crack — 
 
 Than up the grand stairs rushed the murderous pack, 
 
 Whereon the sly Cardinal, tipping the wink 
 
 To the spy, who was helping himself to some drink 
 
 At a side-table, said, 
 
 " Tell 'em I'm dead !" 
 Then flew to his chamber, and popped into bed. 
 " What, dead ?" roared the traitors. " I stuck him myself, 
 With a knife which I snatched from the back-kitchen 
 shelf," 
 
 1 
 
RICHELIEU; OR, THE CONSPIRACY. 163 
 
 Was the ready reply 
 
 Of the quick-witted spy, — 
 Who in matters of business ne'er stuck at a lie. 
 " Huzza, then, for office !" cried one, and cried all, 
 " The government 's ours by the Cardinal's fall," 
 
 And, so saying, the crew 
 
 Cut a caper or two, 
 Gave the spy a new four-penny piece and withdrew. 
 
 Next day all the papers were full of the news, 
 
 Little dreaming the Cardinal's death was a ruse ; 
 
 In parliament, too, lots of speeches were made, 
 
 And poetical tropes by the bushel displayed ; 
 
 The deceased was compared to Ulysses and Plato, 
 
 To a star, to a cherub, an eagle, and Cato ; 
 
 And 't was gravely proposed by some gents in committee 
 
 To erect him a statue of gold in the city ; 
 
 But when an economist, caustic and witty, 
 
 Asked, " Gentlemen, pray, 
 
 Who is to pay ?" 
 The committee, as if by galvanic shock jolted, 
 Looked horrified, put on their castors, and bolted ! 
 
 Meanwhile the shrewd traitors repaired in a bevy, 
 All buoyant with hope, to his Majesty's levee, 
 When, lo ! as the King with anxiety feigned, 
 Was beginning to speak of the loss he'd sustained, 
 
 In strutted Eichelieu, 
 
 And the Capuchin too, 
 Which made each conspirator shake in his shoe ; 
 One whispered a by-stander, looking him through, 
 
 m 2 
 
164 RICHELIEU ; OR, THE CONSPIRACY. 
 
 " By Jove, I can scarcely believe it! can you?" 
 Another cried, " Dam'me, I thought 't was a do /" 
 And a third muttered faintly, o'ercome by his fear, 
 " Talk of the devil, and he's sure to appear ?" 
 
 When the Xing, who at first hardly trusted his eyes, 
 Had somewhat recovered the shock of surprize, 
 
 He shook his thick head 
 
 At the Cardinal, and said, 
 In tones in which something of anger still lurked, 
 " How 's this ? Why, Grod bless me, I thought you were 
 
 burked !" 
 " Had such been my fate," quickly answered Eichelieu, 
 " Had they made me a subject, the rascally crew, 
 My liege, they'd have soon made another of you. 
 Look here !" and he pulled out the nobles' despatch, 
 Who felt that for once they had met their match, 
 
 And exclaiming, " 'Od rot 'em, 
 
 The scoundrels, I've got 'em !" 
 Eead it out to the King from the top to the bottom. 
 
 Next morning twelve scaffolds, with axes of steel, 
 Adorned the fore-court of the sprightly Bastille ; 
 And at midnight twelve nobles, by way of a bed, 
 Lay snug in twelve coffins, each minus a head — 
 A thing not uncommon with nobles, ' 't is said. 
 
 Priest Joe got his see, 
 
 And delighted was he, 
 For the bishoprick suited his taste to a T ; 
 And Eichelieu, the stern, unforgiving, and clever, 
 Bullied king, church, and people, more fiercely than ever ! 
 
RICHELIEU; OK, THE CONSPIRACY. 165 
 
 And tlie moral is this — if, conspiring in flocks, 
 Silly geese will presume to play tricks with a fox, 
 And strive by finesse to get rid of the pest, 
 ' They must always expect to come off second best ! 
 
166 
 
 SONG OF A EIFLEMAN. 
 
 I'd be a Eifleman, gallant and gay, 
 
 Longest and last at the banquet or ball ; 
 Waltzing, quadrilling, and flirting away, 
 
 Constant to none, yet a favourite with all. 
 True to the opera, concert, or play, 
 
 I'd never languish for wedlock's dull thrall; 
 I'd be a Eifleman, gallant and gay, 
 
 Constant to none, yet a favourite with all. 
 
 ii. 
 
 Oh ! from a tailor some cloth could I wheedle, 
 
 Some dark-coloured cloth of that beautiful green 
 I'd set about, with my scissors and needle, 
 
 As dashing a jacket as ever was seen. 
 What matter to me though I write or read ill, 
 
 Though a truant at school, and at college I've been 
 Oh ! from a tailor some cloth could I wheedle, 
 
 I'd have a coat of that beautiful green. 
 I'd be a Eifleman, I'd be a Eifleman, 
 
 Drest in a coat of that beautiful green. 
 
 
SOJG OF A E-IFLEiYfAN. 18 
 
 III. 
 
 What though you tell me the jacket of scarlet 
 
 Is forwarder seen when the battle's begun ? 
 Yet the Rifleman sure you ought never to snarl at, 
 
 For he'll safely return when that battle is done. 
 Others in conflict, while fighting may fall at 
 
 The stroke of a sa,bre or shot of a gun ; 
 But the Rifleman laughs at the jacket of scarlet, 
 
 Perch' d in a tree till the battle is done. 
 I'd be a Rifleman, I'd be a Rifleman, 
 
 Flirting in peace-time when battle is done. 
 
 The Author of " Vincent Eden." 
 
168 
 
 INVITATION TO AN EVENING WALK. 
 
 " There is hardly anything gives me a more sensible delight than the 
 enjoyment of a cool still evening, after the uneasiness of a hot sultry 
 day." — Spectator. 
 
 Come up the hill, to meet the moon — 
 She'll leave her daylight slumber soon, 
 And over mountain, over dale, 
 "Weep her dewy lustre pale ! 
 
 Come up the hill, and hear the flowers 
 Rustling in their heathy bowers ; 
 Closing some, with close of day, 
 Waking more to moonlight ray ! 
 
 Come up the hill, and list the breeze, 
 Full of mingled melodies, 
 Rising from the glens below, 
 Eaintly sweet, as up we go ! 
 
 Come up the hill, and smell the breath 
 Of the purple mountain-heath, 
 Sweeter than the painted flowers 
 Rear'd in artificial bowers ! 
 
INVITATION TO AN EVENING WALK. 169 
 
 Come np the hill, and joy with me, 
 In the mazy scenery 
 That below is sleeping calm, 
 Smiling beauty, breathing balm ! 
 
 Come up the hill, and gaze with me 
 On the moon-besilver'd sea, 
 That so gently rocking moves 
 To cradle the young light it loves ! 
 
 Come up the hill, — 'tis nearer to 
 The fields of Heav'n, azure blue, 
 Where the spheral minstrels play 
 Music wild and sweet, for aye ! 
 
 Come up the hill, — 't will give to thee 
 A view of deep eternity, 
 That in the valley's shorten' d ken 
 Is never known to minds of men ! 
 
 Come up the hill — the waterfall 
 
 Is emblem, true to thee, of all : 
 
 'T is tranquil where it flows near Heaven — 
 
 *T is down, with Man, — its peace is riven ! 
 
 J. A. Wade. 
 
170 
 
 THE FOBEST TEEE. 
 
 Hail to the lone old forest tree, 
 Though past his leafy prime ! 
 A type of England's past is he, — ■ 
 
 A tale of her olden time. 
 He has seen her sons, for a thousand years, 
 
 Around him rise and fall ; 
 But well his green old age he wears, 
 And still survives them all. 
 
 Then long may his safeguard the pride and care 
 
 Of our children's children be ; 
 And long may the axe and tempest spare 
 The lone old forest tree ! 
 
 The Norman baron his steed has rein'd, 
 
 And the pilgrim his journey stay'd, 
 And the toil-worn serf brief respite gain'd 
 
 In his broad and pleasant shade : 
 The friar and forester loved it well ; 
 
 And hither the jocund horn, 
 And the solemn tone of the vesper bell, 
 
 On the evening breeze were borne. 
 
 Friar and forester, lord and slave, 
 Lie mouldering, side by side, 
 
THE FOREST TREE. 171 
 
 In the dreamless sleep of a nameless grave, 
 
 Where revelling earthworms hide : 
 And Echo no longer wakes at the sound 
 
 Of bugle or vesper chime ; 
 For castle and convent are ivy-bound 
 
 By the ruthless hand of Time. 
 
 But gentle and few, with the stout old tree, 
 
 Have the spoiler's dealings been ; 
 And the brook, as of old, is clear and free, 
 
 And the turf beneath as green. 
 Thus Nature has scatter' d on every hand 
 
 Her lessons, since earth began, 
 And long may her sylvan teacher stand, 
 A check to tie pride of man. 
 
 And long may his safeguard the pride and care 
 
 Of our children's children be ; 
 Long, long may the axe and tempest spare 
 The lone old forest tree ! 
 
 J. B. T. 
 
172 
 
 THE EVENING STAK. 
 
 The night is come, but not too soon ; 
 
 And sinking silently, — 
 All silently, — the little Moon 
 
 Drops down behind the sky. 
 
 There is no light in earth or heaven 
 But the pale light of stars ; 
 
 And the first watch of night is given 
 To the red planet Mars. 
 
 Is it the tender star of love ? 
 
 The star of love and dreams ? 
 Oh no ! from that blue tent above 
 
 A hero's armour gleams. 
 
 And earnest thoughts within me rise 
 
 When I behold afar, 
 Suspended in the evening skies, 
 
 The shield of that red star. 
 
 star of strength ! I see thee stand 
 
 And smile upon my pain ; 
 Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand, 
 
 And I am strong again. 
 
THE EVENING STAR. 173 
 
 "Within my soul there shines no light 
 
 But the pale light of stars; 
 I give the first watch of the night 
 
 To the red planet Mars ! 
 
 The star of the unconquer'd will, 
 
 He rises in my breast, — ■ 
 Serene, and resolute, and still, 
 
 And calm, and self-possess'd. 
 
 And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art, 
 
 That readest this brief psalm, 
 As one by one thy hopes depart, 
 
 Be resolute and calm. 
 
 O ! fear not in a world like this, 
 
 And thou shalt know ere long, 
 Know how sublime a thing it is 
 
 To suffer and be strong ! 
 
 H. W. LOXGFELLOW. 
 
174 
 
 SONG TO THE THAMES. 
 
 Op all the broad rivers that flow to the ocean, 
 
 There's none to compare, native Thames ! unto thee ; 
 
 And gladly for ever, 
 
 Thou smooth-rolling river, 
 I'd dwell on thy green banks at fair Battersea. 
 
 'T was there I was born, and 't is there I will linger, 
 And there shall the place of my burial be, 
 
 If fortune, caressing, 
 
 Will grant but one blessing, 
 The heart of the maiden of fair Battersea. 
 
 I seek not to wander by Tyber or Arno, 
 Or castle-crown'd rivers in far Germanie ; 
 To me, Oh, far dearer, 
 And brighter, and clearer, 
 The Thames as it rimples at fair Battersea. 
 
 Contentment and Hope, spreading charms all around 
 them, 
 Have hallow'd the spot since she smil'd upon me— 
 O Love ! thy joys lend us, 
 Fortune, befriend us, 
 We'll yet make an Eden of fair Battersea. 
 
 Charles Mackay. 
 
175 
 
 THE BLIND GIEL OF CASTEL CUILLE. 
 
 The sky was bright, the air was soft, 
 
 On good St. Joseph's eve, 
 When bursting from the orchard's steins 
 
 The snowy blossoms heave. 
 
 While, echoing from the mountain height 
 
 Of Castel Cuille, rose 
 A strain of passing sweetness through 
 
 The valley's deep repose. 
 
 And loud and clear the cadence rung 
 
 As gay young voices bore 
 The burthen of that bridal hymn 
 
 Their fathers sang of yore. 
 
 " Pour your snowy blossoms forth, 
 Peach, and pear, and almond trees ; 
 
 Hang your rosy garlands on, 
 
 Wave them with yon waving breeze. 
 
 " Mountain paths, and hedges wild, 
 Bloom, that never bloom' d before ; 
 
 The bride of Castel Cuille comes, 
 Fling your gifts her pathway o'er." 
 
176 THE BLIND GIRL. 
 
 And now, where on that verging rock 
 Their careless steps alight, 
 
 A troop of fair and laughing girls 
 Arrest their giddy flight ; 
 
 And, placed betwixt the earth and sky, 
 Like some bright angels sent, 
 
 They stood, and o'er the vale below 
 Their radiant glances bent. 
 
 But soon along the mountain's side 
 With joyous steps they bound, 
 
 Where tow'rds the woods of St. Amand 
 Their narrow pathway wound. 
 
 Why seek they thus with childish glee 
 
 St. Amand' s laurel grove, 
 And poise their osier-baskets light 
 
 Their smiling heads above ? 
 
 And why with youth's unsparing hand 
 Do these gay truants tear, 
 
 And hence in verdant heaps away 
 The shining foliage bear ? 
 
 It is that Castel Cuille's maids 
 
 Are ever wont to shed 
 1h3ir leafy tribute o'er the path 
 
 Where bridal lovers tread : 
 
 And she, that laughing, blooming girl 
 Who, foremost, bounds along, 
 
 With dancing step and flying hair. 
 The thoughtless group among, 
 
THE BLIND GIRL. 177 
 
 Is on the morrow's dawn in all 
 
 The pomp of village pride, 
 To stand in Castel Cuille s church 
 
 Young Baptiste's willing bride. 
 
 And, wherefore, then, is Baptiste sad 
 
 When all around is gay ? 
 Was ever lover silent thus 
 
 On eve of bridal day ? 
 
 What ails thee, sullen bridegroom, say ? 
 
 Why wear so sad a brow ? 
 Angele is passing fair, and pure 
 
 As yonder mountain snow. 
 
 Is it that near the mountain's foot, 
 
 Where fast the streamlet glides, 
 The blind, the orphan Marguerite, 
 
 The soldier's daughter, bides ? 
 
 Baptiste had woo'd that gentle girl, 
 
 Nor long had woo'd in vain, 
 The youth who fondly sought her love 
 
 Full soon she loved again ; 
 
 And much she loved him, deeply too ; 
 
 She cared for none beside, 
 Except her little brother Paul, 
 
 Who never left her side. 
 
 Betroth'd they were, and Marguerite, 
 
 His own affianced wife, 
 When came the dread disease that took 
 
 Her sight, but spared her life. 
 
178 THE BLIND GIRL. 
 
 Alas ! for these young lovers now, 
 
 Their earthly joys are o'er ! 
 " My son the orphan shall not wed I" 
 
 An angry father swore. 
 
 A lone and weary man, Baptiste 
 
 His sadden' d home had left, 
 And, back returning, found that home 
 
 Of love and peace bereft. 
 
 His father's prayers, his mother's tears, 
 
 Extort a hasty vow, 
 And Baptiste to the rich Angcle 
 
 His faith has plighted now. 
 
 But, hark ! the bridal party shout 
 
 With now redoubled glee, 
 " The witch ! the witch ! the lame old Jeanne 
 
 Close by the fountain see." 
 
 And there she was, poor Jeanne, the witch, 
 
 With snowy hair and cheek, 
 Whose shrivell'd skin, and furrows deep, 
 
 Of age and sorrow speak. 
 
 Around her crowd the merry group, 
 
 And laughingly pursue, 
 For nought that Jeanne had e'er foretold 
 
 Had ever proved untrue. 
 
 Nor aught had maiden ever learnt, 
 
 From Jeanne's prophetic lore, 
 But what her trembling heart had oft 
 
 In secret wish'd before. 
 
THE BLIND GIRL. 179 
 
 But stern is Jeanne the witch's eye, 
 
 And wildly glares it now, 
 From underneath her wizen'd locks, 
 
 On Baptiste's sullen brow. 
 
 For there he stood, and much, I ween, 
 
 His colour went and came ; 
 And cold as marble, statue-turn' d, 
 
 The faithless lover's frame ; 
 
 When, seizing on fair Angele's hand, 
 
 The aged sibyl made 
 The cross's blessed sign thereon, 
 
 And thus address'd the maid : 
 
 " To-morrow's dawn the wedding sees 
 
 Of perjured Baptiste's bride ; 
 God send, Angele, it may not see 
 
 A maiden's grave beside !" 
 
 She hush'd, and moved away ; her words 
 
 Have for one moment's space 
 O'ercast the sunny light of joy, 
 
 On each bewilder' d face. 
 
 But can two troubled drops of rain 
 
 The sparkling course obscure 
 Of yonder silver streamlet's wave, 
 
 Or stain its surface pure ? 
 
 Oh, no ! for one short instant hush'd, 
 
 The bridal voice of song 
 Burst forth anew, with louder glee, 
 
 The joyous hills among. 
 
 n 2 
 
180 THE BLIND GIRL. 
 
 The bridegroom follows pale as death, 
 Whilst up the path they bound ; 
 
 And as they go their wild refrain, 
 Awakes the echoes round. 
 
 " Mountain paths and hedges wild 
 Bloom, which never bloom 'd before, 
 
 The bride of Castel Cuille comes, 
 Fling your gifts her pathway o'er." 
 
 Alone her cottage home within, 
 
 In broken accents sweet, 
 With pale fair face, and thoughtful brow, 
 
 Laments poor Marguerite. 
 
 " He's come, yet three long days axe past 
 
 Since little Paul ran in, 
 And clapp'd his hands for joy, and cried, 
 
 ' Baptiste is come again.' 
 
 " And knows he not that six long months 
 
 I've sat and watch' d alone, 
 And deem'd my dark night's single star, 
 
 For aye and ever gone. 
 
 " For what is day, and what is night, 
 
 To one whose aching brain 
 Has strain' d, and sought in agony, 
 
 One ray of light in vain. 
 
 " When others say the light is come 
 
 Then darkest 'tis to me, 
 For each returning day renews 
 
 Ske light I cannot see- 
 
THE BLIND GIRL. 181 
 
 " One night of fearful gloom is all 
 
 These burning eyelids know, 
 For other's light and joy, for me, 
 
 All, all is darkness now. 
 
 " Ah me ! my soul is sad, and dark 
 
 My musing fancies grow, 
 But one sweet kiss from Baptiste's lip 
 
 Would cool my fever'd brow. 
 
 " For light I yearn, and surely light 
 
 Is but the sky so blue, 
 And Baptiste's beaming eyes reflect 
 
 That deep unchanging hue. 
 
 " A heaven of love like that above 
 
 Is mine, my loved one by ; 
 No more I care for fields and flowers, 
 
 For earth, or sun, or sky ; 
 
 " But far from him, my spirit mourns 
 
 The light of other days, 
 As ivy, rudely sever' d from 
 
 The parent stem, decays. 
 
 " They say the love of those who mourn 
 
 Has ever truest been ; 
 But, oh ! such love as blindness feels 
 
 Has never yet been seen. 
 
 " But will he come ? G-od only knows ; 
 
 Perchance I wait in vain. 
 Oh, horrid thought ! away, away ! 
 
 It scares my weaken' d brain ! 
 
182 THE BLIND GIEL. 
 
 " And, oh ! 'tis wrong to doubt him thus ; 
 
 On holy cross he swore ; 
 Hush, hush, my foolish heart ! he'll come, 
 
 And never leave me more. 
 
 " Perchance my lover's wearied, ill, 
 
 And therefore tarries home ; 
 But, hark ! a hasty step ! the latch ! — 
 
 My Baptiste, art thou come ?" 
 
 Then open flew the garden- gate, 
 
 And rose poor Marguerite, 
 With outstretch' d arms, and trembling pace, 
 
 His welcome steps to meet. 
 
 But no ; 'tis Paul who comes alone, 
 
 And, bounding to her side, 
 ° Come, sister, come ; I fain would see 
 
 Angele, the pretty bride. 
 
 " And fain would I the laurel boughs 
 Have borne from St. Amand : 
 
 Why came they not to fetch us here ? 
 Come, sister, take my hand." 
 
 " Angele a bride ! and hast thou seen 
 
 The bridal party gay ? 
 How secret was this wedding kept ! 
 
 And who the bridegroom, say ?" 
 
 " Why, sister, 'tis thy friend Baptiste !"— 
 
 A feeble cry was all 
 The poor blind orphan gave, and sunk 
 
 Against her cottage wall. 
 
THE BLIND GIRL. 183 
 
 Her heart well rrigli had ceased to beat 
 
 For some few seconds' space ; 
 Whilst, half afraid, the startled child, 
 
 Gazed oil her alter'd face. 
 
 But now her ear has caught the sound, 
 
 The well-known bridal strain, 
 And life returns, and with it, too, 
 
 The icy grasp of pain. 
 
 " Now, hearken, sister, how they sing, 
 
 And shout, and dance along ; 
 To leave us out, sweet Marguerite, 
 
 I can't but think it wrong. 
 
 " At early dawn the bells will ring 
 
 To mark the wedding time ; 
 How sad 'twill be, alone the while, 
 
 To hear the merry chime." 
 
 " Hush, hush ! and fret not, little Paul, 
 
 Thou shalt not miss the show ; 
 To this gay bridal, brother dear, 
 
 Together we will go. 
 
 " And now run out awhile, and close 
 
 The garden-gate ;" but ere 
 The boy had left his sister's side, 
 
 Old Jeanne, the witch, was there. 
 
 " Why, by my witchdom, ne'er did I 
 
 So vile a racket know ; 
 But, sure thy hand is icy cold, 
 
 My child ; what ails thee now ?" 
 
184 THE BLIND GIRL. 
 
 " There 's nothing ails me, Jeanne ; 'tis sweet 
 
 For me to sit and hear 
 Those nuptial voices gay, and think 
 
 My wedding day is near. 
 
 " When Easter comes, I too shall be 
 
 A proud and happy bride ; 
 Thy fortune-telling cards, good Jeanne, 
 
 Have never, never lied. 
 
 " And much, I ween, Baptiste and me 
 Will praise thy wondrous lore, 
 
 And, oh ! 'twill be a blessed thing 
 To hear his voice once more." 
 
 u Too dearly dost thou love him, child ; 
 
 Too fondly dost thou lay 
 Thy hopes upon a broken reed : 
 
 Kneel down, kneel down, and pray." 
 
 " The more I pray, the more I love, 
 
 A sin it cannot be, 
 For surely, Jeanne, Baptiste is kind, 
 
 And ever true to me ?" 
 
 No answer ; all is over then ; 
 
 Her last faint hope is gone, 
 And true the fatal tale that turn'd 
 
 Her tender heart to stone. 
 
 But wildly smiled poor Marguerite, 
 And laugh' d, and questioned on, 
 
 The while a hectic flush arose 
 Her pallid cheek upon. 
 
THE BLIND GIRL. 185 
 
 And well till night, when Jeanne withdrew, 
 
 The orphan play'd her part ; 
 And little thought poor Jeanne she left 
 
 Behind a breaking heart. 
 
 Alas ! poor Jeanne the witch, 'tis clear 
 
 No magic arts are thine ; 
 Nor can thy simple skill the depths 
 
 Of grief like hers divine. 
 
 Perchance this morn thy full heart found 
 
 By yonder well side's brink 
 A clearer view of future woe 
 
 Than even thyself could think. 
 
 Slow dawns the day ; the clock has struck 
 
 The hour of nine ; meanwhile 
 Two maidens in their cottage homes 
 
 The weary hours beguile. 
 
 Queen of the day, the one displays 
 
 Her crown of orange flower ; 
 The golden cross, and gay attire, 
 
 Must grace the bridal hour, 
 
 And gazing on the lovely form 
 
 Reflected in her mirror, smiles, 
 And, pleased, rehearses all her store 
 
 Of beauty's playful wiles ; 
 
 But no bright flowery wreath adorns 
 
 The other maiden's brow ; 
 And 'tis no golden cross, I ween, 
 
 Her pale hands clasp e'en now. 
 
186 THE BLIND GIRL. 
 
 As, tottering through her narrow room, 
 
 Closer she draws the folds 
 Of her light vesture o'er the prize 
 
 Her grasp securely holds. 
 
 With jest and song, a thoughtless group 
 
 Around the one repair, 
 And she embraced, and flatter' d still, 
 
 Omits her daily prayer. 
 
 The other kneels the while, and prays 
 
 In murmured accents low, 
 Whilst cold her brow the death-drops stain, 
 
 " Oh God ! have mercy thou !" 
 
 And now they start, and, led by Paul, 
 
 The orphan calmly wends 
 Her way the mountain path along, 
 
 That towards the church ascends. 
 
 The day was foggy, damp the air, 
 
 Perfumed with laurel came, 
 And with it deadly shivers brought, 
 
 That wrung her feeble frame. 
 
 Not far from where the ruins stand 
 
 Of Castel Cuille's tower, 
 The little Gothic church erects 
 
 Its weather-beaten spire ; 
 
 Around whose cloud-enveloped height 
 
 The ocean eagle sings, 
 Whilst underneath its time-worn roof 
 
 Her brood the swallow brings. 
 
THE BLIND GIRL. 187 
 
 " Hush, Paul !" the maideu cries ; " methinks 
 
 The steep ascent we reach." 
 " Oh, yes ! we're come, and, sister, hark, 
 
 I hear the ospray screech. 
 
 " I hate that dark, ill-omen'd bird, 
 
 HI luck it surely brings, 
 And some misfortune follows still 
 
 Whene'er it hoarsely sings. 
 
 " Dost thou remember, sister dear, 
 
 What time our father died, 
 When, kneeling by his bedside, both 
 
 The live-long night we cried. 
 
 " We cried all night, but chiefly when 
 
 He kiss'd us both, and said, — 
 ' Take care of Paul, my girl, for I 
 
 To-morrow shall be dead.' 
 
 " Oh, how we wept ! and, sure enough 
 
 He died ; and on the roof 
 The ospray sung — I marked it well — 
 
 As now she sings aloof. 
 
 " Ah ! sister, do not clasp me so ; 
 
 You hurt me, Marguerite ! 
 Tou stifle me with kisses : — see, 
 
 The bridal train we meet ! 
 
 " But, pale thou art, and trembling too, 
 
 I fear me thou wilt swoon." 
 And true it was, the maiden's strength 
 
 O'ertask'd must fail her soon. 
 
188 THE BLIND GIRL. 
 
 The chord her brother's words have wrung, 
 Has snapp'd with sudden pain ; 
 
 Affrighted, back she starts, but Paul 
 Has urged her on again. 
 
 And when the poor bewilder'd girl 
 
 The laurel trod beneath 
 Her feet, and 'gainst her head had struck 
 
 The porch's hanging wreath, 
 
 A change came o'er her ; on she rush'd 
 The moving crowd among — 
 
 As if to some gay festive scene, — 
 The narrow aisle along. 
 
 But, lo ! with joyous peal, and loud, 
 
 The marriage-bells resound, 
 And, far and wide, through rock and vale 
 
 Awake the echos round. 
 
 The clouds have pass'd away, the sun 
 
 In splendour beams again, 
 As, winding through the portal gate, 
 
 Appears the bridal train. 
 
 But, gloomy still, as yester eve 
 The false one's cheek grew pale, 
 
 As in that nuptial hour he mused 
 On Jeanne's prophetic tale. 
 
 Whilst Angele recks of little else 
 
 Her golden cross beside ; 
 Enough for her, she moves along, 
 
 The fair and envied bride ; 
 
THE BLIND GIRL. 189 
 
 And shakes her pretty head and smiles, 
 
 As all around her say, — 
 " Was ever bride as fair as her 
 
 Whom Baptiste weds to-day ?" 
 
 And now high mass is said, and near 
 
 The altar stood the priest ; 
 Betwixt his trembling fingers held 
 
 The spousal ring, Baptiste. 
 
 But, while his bride's expecting hand 
 
 The glittering pledge awaits, 
 He needs must speak the few short words 
 
 That seal their mutual fates. 
 
 'Tis done ; and lo ! a voice has struck 
 
 The bridegroom's ear, and chill'd 
 His heart's warm blood, and wildly through 
 
 The wond'ring crowd has thrill' d, 
 
 Who from some dark, sequester' d shrine 
 
 Behold, with sudden fear, 
 The waving arms, and face insane 
 
 Of Marguerite appear. 
 
 " Baptiste has will'd my death !" she cried: 
 
 " This, this shall set me free ! 
 At this gay wedding blood must needs 
 
 The holy-water be." 
 
 And as she spoke, a knife she drew 
 
 That in her bosom lay ; 
 But ere the fearful deed was done 
 
 Her spirit pass'd away. 
 
190 THE BLIND GIRL, 
 
 And G-od in mercy call'd her home 
 " Where those who mourn are blest, 
 
 "Where the wicked cease from troubling, 
 And the weary are at rest." 
 
 That eve, in place of bridal songs, 
 
 The " De Profundis" rose, 
 As borne by weeping girls along 
 
 A coffin churchward goes. 
 
 And village maids, in white attire, 
 
 Around in silence drew, 
 And then, in murmur' d accents low, 
 
 Their dirge-like chaunt renew. 
 
 " Peach, and pear, and almond trees, 
 Away your snowy blossoms hide, 
 
 For death has woo'd the sweetest flower 
 That grew on Castel Cuille's side. 
 
 " Mountain paths, and hedges wild, 
 
 Weep, that never wept before ; 
 Wave your darkest cypress boughs, 
 
 Wave them yonder pathway o'er." 
 
 Lady Georgiana Fullerton. 
 
191 
 
 THE MOCKINGS OF THE SOLDIEES. 
 
 FROM ST. MATTHEW. 
 
 " Plant a crown upon his head, 
 "Royal robe around him spread ; 
 See that his imperial hand 
 Grasps, as fit, the sceptral wand : 
 Then before him bending low, 
 As becomes his subjects, bow ; 
 Fenced within our armed ring, 
 Hail him, hail him, as our King !" 
 
 Platted was of thorns the crown, 
 Trooper's cloak was royal gown ; 
 If his passive hand, indeed, 
 Grasp' d a sceptre, 'twas a reed. 
 He was bound to feel and hear 
 Deeds of shame, and words of jeer; 
 For he whom king in jest they call 
 Was a doom'd captive scoff' d by all. 
 
 But the brightest crown of gold, 
 Or the robe of rarest fold, 
 Or the sceptre which the mine 
 Of Golconda makes to shine, 
 
192 THE MOCKINGS OF THE SOLDIERS. 
 
 Or the lowliest homage given 
 
 By all mankind under heaven, 
 
 Were prized by him no more than scorn, 
 
 Sceptre of reed, or crown of thorn. 
 
 Of the stars his crown is made, 
 
 In the snn he is array' d, 
 
 He the lightning of the spheres 
 
 As a naming sceptre bears : 
 
 Bend in rapture before him 
 
 Ranks of glowing seraphim ; 
 
 And we, who spurn' d him, trembling stay 
 
 The judgment of his coming day. 
 
 Dr. Maginn. 
 
193 
 
 A CLASSICAL ODE 
 
 WITH "A FREE TRANSLATION." 
 
 AD PCETAM. 
 
 Qtle te sub tenera rapuerunt, Poeta, juventa, 
 O ! utinam me crudelia fata vocent ! 
 
 Ut linquam terras, invisaque lumina solis, 
 Utque tuus rursiim, corpore, sim posito ! 
 
 Te sequar : obscurum per iter dux ibit eunti 
 Fidus Amor, tenebras lampade discutiens ; 
 
 Tu cave Lethseo contingens ora liquore ; 
 Et citb venturi, sis memor, oro, viri I 
 
 TO PADDY. 
 
 Ah ! Paddy, my darlin' ! thin what has become o' ye ? 
 
 What spalpeen has darr'd to deprive ye of life ? 
 Sure the thief o' the world might have left jest a crumb 
 o' ye, 
 To comfort the heart o' yer sorrowful wife ! 
 
 o 
 
194 A CLASSICAL ODE. 
 
 Ochone ! now ye 're gone, see how dreadful my fate is, 
 Indeed, I can't bear it ; I'll soon " cut my sticks :** — 
 
 I'll lave the bright sun, and the sweet land o' praties, 
 And be off to look afther my Paddy " like bricks V* 
 
 Yes, I'll follow ye, Pat, though ye have got the start o' 
 me, 
 
 For my love is so faithful, 'twill soon find ye out : 
 With a lamp, or a rushlight, I'll seek t'other part o' me, 
 
 And as soon as I see ye, " Mavourneen I" I'll shout. 
 
 But don't drink of Lethe, or any sich stuff, my boy, 
 If ye do, ye'll forget yer poor wife, mebbe hate her ; 
 
 But if ye feel thirsty — the thought 's quite enough, my boy, 
 By the pow'rs but I'll bring yiz a dhrop o' the cratur ! 
 
195 
 
 TO A FOUNTAIN IN HTMETTUS. 
 
 These infantine beginnings gently bear, 
 
 "Whose best desert and hope must be your bearing. 
 
 Phineas Fletcher. 
 
 pure and limpid fountain, 
 What snow on Alpine mountain, 
 
 Sparkles like thee ? 
 While on thy turf reclining, 
 Our features soft and shining 
 
 In thee we see. 
 The zephyrs flitting o'er thee, 
 O fount, methinks adore thee, 
 
 And linger still, 
 With winglets light and tender 
 O'er thine eyes of splendour, 
 
 And drink their fill. 
 
 A thousand sunny flowers 
 
 Their fragrance, like rich dowers, 
 
 Around thee shed ; 
 And through the woodbine branches 
 No breeze its coldness launches 
 
 On thy calm bed. 
 
 o 2 
 
196 TO A FOUNTAIN IN HYMETTUS. 
 
 Sunshine upon thee slumbers, 
 As if thy rills' sweet numbers 
 
 Lull'd it to rest ; 
 The stars of night and morning 
 For ever are adorning 
 
 Thy crystal breast. 
 
 About thy banks so fragrant, 
 That little rose-winged vagrant, 
 
 Cupid, is seen ; 
 And in thy silVry waters 
 Bathe the mild Goddess-daughters, 
 
 In Beauty's sheen. 
 The Dryads rob'd in brightness, 
 With feet of fawn-like lightness, 
 
 The Graces Three, 
 Beneath the golden glances 
 Of Hesper weave their dances, 
 
 O fount ! round thee. 
 
 Pan leaves his rosy valleys, 
 And by thy brightness dallies 
 
 All day, — and wakes 
 Echo — the forest haunting — 
 Up with the notes enchanting 
 
 His wild pipe makes. 
 Here, too, at times resorted, 
 Fair Yenus, when she sported 
 
 With am'rous Mars. 
 Their hearts with passion beating, 
 And none to view their meeting, 
 
 But the lone stars. 
 
TO A FOUNTAIN IN HYMETTTJS. 197 
 
 Play on, thou limpid fountain 
 Eternal as yon mountain 
 
 Olympus-crown' d : 
 Gush on — in light Elysian, 
 As Poet's shape-fill' d vision, 
 
 Or Apollo's round. 
 The smiles of Heaven above thee, 
 And the stars to love thee, 
 
 Eount, thou shalt glide 
 Erom thy crystal portal, 
 Strong, beauteous, and immortal, 
 
 Whate'er betide. 
 
 Edward Kenealy. 
 
198 
 
 WKECK OF THE HESPEKUS. 
 
 It was the schooner Hesperus 
 
 That sail'd the wintry sea ; 
 And the skipper had ta'en his little daughter 
 
 To bear him company. 
 
 Blue were her eyes as the fairy -flax. 
 
 Her cheeks like the dawn of day, 
 And her bosom sweet as the hawthorn buds 
 
 That ope in the month of May. 
 
 The skipper he stood beside the helm, 
 
 With his pipe in his mouth, 
 And watch' d how the veering flaw did blow 
 
 The smoke now west, now south. 
 
 Then up and spake an old sailor, 
 
 Had sail'd the Spanish Main, 
 " I pray thee put into yonder port, 
 
 For I fear a hurricane. 
 
 " Last night the moon had a golden ring, 
 And to-night no moon we see !" 
 
 The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe, 
 And a scornful laugh laugh'd he. 
 
WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 199 
 
 Colder and louder blew the wind, 
 
 A gale from the north-east ; 
 The snow fell hissing in the brine, 
 
 And the billows froth' d like yeast. 
 
 Down came the storm, and smote amain 
 
 The vessel in its strength ; 
 She shndder'd and paused, like a frighted steed, 
 
 Then leap'd her cable's length. 
 
 " Come hither ! come hither I my little daughter, 
 
 And do not tremble so : 
 For I can weather the roughest gale 
 
 That ever wind did blow." 
 
 He wrapp'd her warm in his seaman's coat 
 
 Against the stinging blast ; 
 He cut a rope from a broken spar, 
 
 And bound her to the mast. 
 
 " O father ! I hear the church-bells ring — 
 
 Oh ! say, what may it be ?" 
 " 'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast !" 
 
 And he steer' d for the open sea. 
 
 " Oh father ! I hear the sound of guns — 
 
 Oh ! say, what may it be ?" 
 " Some ship in distress, that cannot live 
 
 In such an angry sea !" 
 
 " father ! I see a gleaming light — 
 
 Oh ! say, what may it be ?" 
 But the lather answer' d never a word, 
 
 A frozen corpse was he. 
 
200 WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 
 
 Lash'd to the helm, all stiff and stark, 
 
 "With his face to the skies, 
 The lantern gleam' d through the gleaming snow 
 
 On his fix'd and glassy eyes. 
 
 Then the maiden clasp' d her hands, and pray'd 
 
 That saved she might be ; 
 And she thought of Christ, who still'd the wave 
 
 On the lake of Galilee. 
 
 And fast through the midnight dark and drear, 
 Through the whistling sleet and snow, 
 
 Like a sheeted ghost the vessel swept 
 Toward the reef of Norman's Woe. 
 
 And ever the fitful gusts between 
 
 A sound came from the land ; 
 It was the sound of the trampling surf 
 
 On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. 
 
 The breakers were right beneath her bows, 
 
 She drifted a dreary wreck, 
 And a whooping billow swept the crew 
 
 Like icicles from her deck. 
 
 She struck where the white and fleecy waves 
 
 Look'd soft as carded wool ; 
 But the cruel rocks they gored her side 
 
 Like the horns of an angry bull. 
 
 Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, 
 With the masts went by the board, 
 
 Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, 
 Ho ! ho ! the breakers roar'd ! 
 
WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 201 
 
 At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, 
 
 A fisherman stood aghast 
 To see the form of a maiden fair 
 
 Lash'd close to a drifting mast. 
 
 The salt sea was frozen on her breast, 
 
 The salt tears in her eyes ; 
 And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, 
 
 On the billows fall and rise. 
 
 Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, 
 
 In the midnight and the snow ! 
 Christ save us all from a death like this 
 
 On the reef of Norman's Woe I 
 
 H. W. Longfellow. 
 
"LIGHT." 
 
 " And God said, Let there be light, and there was light." — Gen. i. v. 2. 
 
 Space labour' d — quicken' d by Almighty word, 
 
 And from its shapeless womb unsightly voided 
 
 Chaos. For on that great command, Matter, 
 
 Obedient to its great Progenitor, 
 
 Bush'd amain from all the corners 
 
 Of eternity. Each atom jostling 
 
 Its fellow — in haste to pleasure Him — so form'd 
 
 A turgid lump, which surging to and fro 
 
 On a black sea of thickening vapour, 
 
 An unwholesome sweat oozed from the slimy depths 
 
 Of this miscarried mass. Helpless — still with all 
 
 The germ of life, as in a new-born babe, 
 
 It lay upon the bosom of great Space, 
 
 Its mother, who could not help it into fair 
 
 Existence. ***** 
 
 God said, " Let there he light, and there was light" 
 
 The murky vault was split : Darkness was rent : 
 
 A golden orb sprung from the smile of God, 
 
 Stood, created, — Width oped her mighty jaws 
 
 To gape at this new wonder — for Space now 
 
 Had eyes to see her own immensity. 
 
 
LIGHT. 
 
 203 
 
 The Universe awoke, and dress' d in regal 
 
 Purple, stood in all the silent majesty 
 
 Of the interminable arch. Empire 
 
 Of creation ! Night, so late a tyrant, 
 
 Shrank to some pit or grave within the bosom 
 
 Of its subject mass. The infant Globe, smiling, 
 
 Stretched forth its cheek towards its novel nurse, 
 
 That sung, and soothed it with a gentle breeze. 
 
 Land sprung up to meet its benefactor, 
 
 And straight shot forth its trees and shrubs, which sent up 
 
 An odour, — the only language they could speak, 
 
 To kiss and greet the light that warmed them 
 
 Into life. Syren myrtles woo the fickle 
 
 May-breeze with a rustling kiss filch'd of 
 
 The lagging wind ; while ev'ry twinkling leaf 
 
 Whispers a lay of love-sick melody. 
 
 The airy multitudes, distilling 
 
 Sweetest music in their shrill tale of first 
 
 Affection, swell out the gentle tumult 
 
 Of this mellow choir, till beaming Nature 
 
 Seems one song of universal adoration. 
 
 " Light was — and G-od saw that it was good. 
 
 The Day went down, while Heaven blush' d at Evening' 
 Fickle flight. Night crept from the caves, keeping 
 Ear off the dreaded sun ; and as it came 
 With stealthy crawl, deserted Earth saw, 
 And its latest zephyr moan'd a wailing cry. 
 Twilight, the day's last warm embrace, turned back 
 From following the sun, and wept dew upon 
 The drooping flowers there, with a mother's slow 
 And struggling gait, with face o'er her shoulder 
 
204 " LIGHT." 
 
 Bent, fixed a last fond gaze upon the mute-struck 
 
 Loveliness of recumbent Nature. But 
 
 Ere she went she oped her jewel-box, and clad 
 
 The dingy darkness in a blaze of angel's tears, 
 
 Shed for the fallen seraphs, — a golden filter 
 
 For up- wending souls to strain out sin, and purge 
 
 Mortality withal. Their sparkle does 
 
 Amuse her fright'ned offspring, who, half 
 
 Repelling, half accepting, sobs itself 
 
 To sleep. 
 
 Dion L. Bourcicault. 
 
205 
 
 THE FISHEEMAN'S DWELLING-. 
 
 TRANSLATED BY MARY HOWITT. 
 
 We sate by the fisher's dwelling, 
 And looked upon the sea ; 
 
 The evening mists were gathering, 
 And rising up silently. 
 
 Forth from the lofty lighthouse 
 
 Streamed softly light by light, 
 
 And in the farthest distance 
 A ship hove into sight. 
 
 We spoke of storm and shipwreck ; 
 
 Of seamen, and how they lay 
 Unsafe 'twixt heaven and water, 
 
 'Twixt joy and fear each day. 
 
 We spoke of lands far distant ; 
 
 We took a world-wide range, 
 We spoke of wondrous nations, 
 
 And manners new and strange. 
 
 Of the fragrant, glittering Ganges, 
 Where giant trees uptower, 
 
 And handsome, quiet people, 
 Kneel to the lotus flower. 
 
206 the fisherman's dwelling. 
 
 Of Lapland's filthy people, 
 
 Flat-headed, wide-mouthed, we spake ; 
 How they squat round their fires and jabber, 
 
 And shriek o'er the fish they bake. 
 
 The maidens listened so gravely ; 
 
 At length no more was said ; 
 The ship was in sight no longer, 
 
 And night over all was spread. 
 
 Heinrich Heine. 
 
207 
 
 THE ASCENTS OF MONT BLANC. 
 
 When Jacques Balmat from his party was thrown, 
 He fouud out the summit untaught and alone, 
 And when he returned to his doctor with glee, 
 He said, " Eor your care you shall go up with me," 
 
 With your baton so sharp, tra la. 
 
 The next who tried was De Saussure, we're told, 
 Who climbed in a full suit of scarlet and gold : 
 Whilst poor M. Bourrit, four times driven back, 
 In dudgeon returned to Geneva — good lack ! 
 
 With his baton so sharp, tra la. 
 
 Woodley, Clissold, andBeaufoy, each thought it no lark, 
 And were followed by Jackson, and Sherwell and Clarke. 
 Then Fellowes and Hawes by a new passage went, 
 And avoided the dangers of Hamel's ascent, 
 
 With their batons so sharp, tra la. 
 
 Brave Auldjo next was pulled over a bridge 
 Of ice-poles laid on the glacier's ridge ; 
 You will see all his wonderful feats, if you look 
 At the views drawn by Harding, and placed in his book, 
 
 And his baton so sharp, tra la. 
 
208 THE ASCENTS OP MONT BLANC. 
 
 Full forty gentlemen, wealthy and bold, 
 Have climbed up in spite of the labour and cold; 
 But of all that number there lives not one 
 Who speaks of the journey as very good fun. 
 
 With their batons so sharp, tra leu 
 
 Albert Smith. 
 
2C0 
 
 THE TILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 
 
 Under a spreading chestnut tree 
 
 The village smithy stands ; 
 The smith a mighty man is he, 
 
 With large and sinewy hands, 
 And the muscles of his brawny arms 
 
 Are strong as iron bands. 
 
 His hair is crisp, and black, and long, 
 
 His face is like the tan, 
 His brow is wet with honest sweat, 
 
 He earns whate'er he can, 
 And looks the whole world in the face, 
 
 For he owes not any man. 
 
 Week out, week in, from morn till night, 
 You can hear his bellows blow, 
 
 You can hear him swing his heavy sledge 
 With measured beat and slow, — 
 
 Like a sexton ringing the old kirk-chimes, 
 When the evening sun is low. 
 
 And children coming home from school 
 
 Look in at the open door ; 
 They love to see the flaming forge, 
 
 And hear the bellows roar, 
 And catch the burning sparks that fly 
 
 Like chaff from a threshing-floor. 
 p 
 
210 THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 
 
 He goes on Sunday to the church, 
 
 And sits among his boys ; 
 He hears the parson pray and preach, 
 
 He hears his daughter's voice, 
 Singing in the village choir, 
 
 And it makes his heart rejoice. 
 
 It sounds to him like her mother's voice, 
 
 Singing in Paradise ! 
 He needs must think of her once more, 
 
 How in her grave she lies, 
 And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 
 
 A tear from out his eyes. 
 
 Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing, 
 
 Onward through life he goes ; 
 Each morning sees some task begin, 
 
 Each evening sees it close ; 
 Something attempted, something done, 
 
 Has earned a night's repose. 
 
 Thanks ! thanks to thee, my worthy friend 
 For the lesson thou hast taught ! 
 
 Thus at the sounding forge of Life 
 Our fortunes must be wrought, 
 
 Thus on its sounding anvil shaped, 
 Each burning deed and thought. 
 
 Henry W Longfellow. 
 
211 
 
 THE DONNYBKOOK JIG. 
 
 Oh ! 'twas Dermot O'Nolan M'Figg, 
 That could properly handle a twig, 
 
 He wint to the fair, and kicked up a dust there, 
 In dancing a Donnybrook jig — with his twig. 
 Oh ! my blessing to Dermot M'Figg. 
 
 Whin he came to the midst of the fair, 
 He was all in a paugh for fresh air, 
 
 For the fair very soon, was as full— as the moon, 
 Such mobs upon mobs as were there, oh rare ! 
 So more luck to sweet Donnybrook Fair. 
 
 But Dermot, his mind on love bent, 
 In search of his sweetheart he went, 
 
 Peep'd in here and there, as he walked through the fair, 
 And took a small drop in each tent — as he went, — 
 i Oh ! on whisky and love he was bent. 
 
 ( And who should he spy in a jig, 
 With a meal-man so tall and so big, 
 
 But his own darling Kate, so gay and so nate \ 
 'Faith ! her partner he hit him a dig — the pig, 
 He beat the meal out of his wig. 
 
 p 2 
 
212 the bonnybrook: jig. 
 
 Tlie piper, to keep him in tune, 
 Struck up a gay lilt very soon ; 
 
 Until an arch, wag cut a hole in the bag, 
 And at once put an end to the tune — too soon — 
 Och ! the music flew up to the moon. 
 
 The meal-man he looked very shy, 
 While a great big tear stood in his eye, 
 
 He cried, " Lord, how I'm kilt, all alone for that jilt $ 
 With her may the devil fly high in the sky, 
 For I'm murdered, and don't know for why." 
 
 " Oh !" says Dermot, and he in the dance, 
 Whilst a step to'ards his foe did advance, 
 
 " By the Father of Men, say but that word again, 
 And I'll soon knock you back in a trance — to your dance, 
 For with me you'd have but small chance." 
 
 " But," says Kitty, the darlint, says she, 
 " If you'll only just listen to me, 
 
 It's myself that will show that he can't be your foe, 
 Though he fought for his cousin — that's me," says she, 
 " For sure Billy's related to me. 
 
 " For my own cousin -jarmin, Anne Wild, 
 Stood for Biddy Mulroony's first child ; 
 
 And Biddy's step-son, sure he married Bess Dunn, 
 Who was gossip to Jenny, as mild a child 
 As ever at mother's breast smiled. 
 
 w And may be you don't know Jane Brown, 
 
 Who served goat's- whey in Dundrum's sweet town ? 
 
THE DONNYBROOX JIG. 213 
 
 'Twas her uncle's half-brother, who married my mother, 
 And bought me this new yellow gown, to go down 
 When the marriage was held in Milltown." 
 
 I By the powers, then," says Dermot, " 'tis plain, 
 Like the son of that rapscallion Cain, 
 
 My best friend I have kilt, though no blood is spilt, 
 But the devil a harm did I mane — that's plain ; 
 And by me he'll be ne'er kilt again." 
 
 Dlf.LON. 
 
214 
 
 TAGLIONI. 
 
 The universal admiration excited by the unrivalled grace and activity of Mademoiselle 
 Taglioni produced the following poetical effusion from the pen of the llev. Mr. Mitford. 
 It struck me, however, upon reading it, that the frequent classical allusions, and the 
 high strain of poetical metaphor pursued throughout the poem, might render it somewhat 
 obscure to the general reader. I have, therefore, taken the liberty, by some slight 
 alterations and additions, and by occasionally drawing the allusive imagery from more 
 common-place scenery and circumstances, to render it a little more familiar, but, I trust, 
 not less acceptable to the lovers of Poetry and Motion. — 0. Smith. 
 
 One moment linger ! lo ! from Venus' bowers 
 Descends the youngest of the roseate Hours : 
 She comes in all her blushing beauty, borne 
 From the far fountains of the purple morn, 
 Aurora's self! what time her brow resumes 
 The bright refulgence of its golden plumes. 
 Sylph of the earth ! the sky ! and oh ! as fair 
 And beauteous as her sisters of the air. 
 In that sweet form what varied graces meet, 
 Love in her eye, and Music in her feet ! 
 Light as the bounding fawn along the lea, 
 Or blythe bird glancing o'er the summer sea ; 
 Light as the foam when Yenus leaves the wave, 
 Or blossoms fluttering over April's grave. 
 Mark, on yon rose lights the celestial tread — 
 The trembling stalk but just declines its head ; 
 Sweet Ariel floats above her as she springs, 
 And wafts the flying fair, and lends her wings. 
 
215 
 
 TAGLIONI. 
 
 Jne moment linger ! — lo ! from Venus' bowers, 
 
 Painted by Messieurs Grieve with fruit and flowers, 
 
 She comes in all her blushing beauty, borne 
 
 On canvass clouds to represent the morn, 
 
 Aurora's self! what time her brow resumes 
 
 The wreath that 's scented with Delcroix' perfumes. 
 
 Sylph of the earth ! the sky ! and oh ! as fair 
 
 As Op'ra dancers generally are. 
 
 In that sweet form what varied graces meet, 
 
 From sparkling eyes to tiny twinkling feet, 
 
 Light as the bounding fawn along the lea, 
 
 " Ac-tive and spry" as an industrious flea ; 
 
 Light as the foam when Yenus leaves the wave, 
 
 Without a rag appearances to save : 
 
 Mark ! on yon rose lights the celestial tread, 
 
 While agile carpenters decline its head ; 
 
 Sweet Ariel floats above her as she springs, 
 
 And wafts the flying fair with wires and strings. 
 
 Now wreathed in radiant smiles she seems to glide, 
 
 And in a well-greased groove is made to slide ; 
 
 Her light cymar in lucid beauty streams 
 
 'Mong fops and dandies crowding 'hind the scenes. 
 
 Round her small waist the zone young Iris binds, 
 
216 TAGLIONI. 
 
 Now wreathed in radiant smiles she seems to glide 
 With buoyant footsteps like Favonius' bride, 
 Or Psyche, Zephyr borne, to Cupid's blushing side. 
 Her light cymar in lucid beauty streams, 
 Of woven air, so thin the texture seems. 
 Bound her small waist the zone young Iris binds, 
 And gives the sandals that command the winds. 
 A thousand voices challenge Music's throne, 
 Daughter of air ! this empire is thine own ! 
 Here Taglioni reigns unrivalled and alone ! 
 
 KEV. J. MlTFOBD. 
 
TAGLIONI. 217 
 
 And Corset Parisien her shape confines. 
 
 Fille de Philippe /* the ballet is thine own : 
 
 When o'er the water'd stage the whit'ning 's strown, 
 
 A thousand fiddles scrape round Terpi's throne, f 
 
 All are on tip-toe till thy toe's tip 's shown. 
 
 When for thy farewell night Fame's trumpet 's blown, 
 
 Places are purchased at a price unknown 
 
 To any, — (but the box-keeper alone). 
 
 With weight unusual then the benches groan : 
 
 Into the 'bus X sixteen are cramm'd — ochone I 
 
 In fact it is the greatest house e'er known. 
 
 0. Smith. 
 
 * The father of Mademoiselle Taglioni rejoices in the sponsorial 
 and patronymic appellation of Philippe. 
 
 f Terpsichore. Terpi for the sake of brevity, as we say Betsy for 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 X 'Bus for Omnibus. Mr. Farren says Omnibi. Vide Doctor Dil- 
 worth. 
 
218 
 
 CUPID IN LONDON. 
 
 Young- Cupid, grown tired of his wild single life, 
 And the pranks he had long been pursuing, 
 
 Determined to marry a sweet little wife, 
 So in earnest he set out a- wooing. 
 
 But disdaining to win her by magic or art, 
 
 Or aught save his beauty and merit, 
 Away with contempt threw his bow and his dart, 
 
 No longer their pow'r to inherit. 
 
 Then to London he came one fine morning in May, 
 When the full tide of fashion was flowing ; 
 
 His purse was brim-fall, his heart light and gay, 
 And his cheeks with fresh roses were glowing. 
 
 As a fine handsome youth he was soon known in town,- 
 
 All the ladies his manners delighted ; 
 Not a ball or a rout with the world would go down 
 
 Unless Mr. Love were invited. 
 
 His cab was " perfection" his horse " quite a love" 
 
 And his Tiger " the least of the little ;" 
 No one else ever wore such a hat or a glove, 
 
 And his Stultz was a fit to a tittle. 
 
CUPID IN LONDON. 219 
 
 The bride that he sought for was easy to find 
 In the midst of such dazzling attraction ; 
 
 And soon a fair maiden he met to his mind, 
 Whom he loved at first sight to distraction. 
 
 'Twas at AlmacJc's he met with the dear lovely girl, 
 She was called " the prize flower of the season ;" 
 
 And her exquisite form in the waltz to entwirl 
 Was enough to deprive him of reason. 
 
 So he told her his love, and she whispered " Oh fie !" 
 As she blushed and looked round for her mother ; 
 
 And Cupid inquired, with a tremulous sigh, 
 If her heart ever beat for another. 
 
 But her mind was as pure as her beauty was bright ; 
 
 And she told him no one e'er could win her 
 Who in frivolous pastime alone took delight — 
 
 The beau of a ball or a dinner. 
 
 Ashamed and dejected, poor Cupid retired, 
 
 Eesolving to cut — cutting capers, — 
 And chambers next day in the Temple he hired, 
 
 And filled them with law-books and papers. 
 
 Then to study the Law, like a man he went down, 
 
 No scholar could ever be apter, 
 For he bought an arm-chair, with a wig and a gown. 
 
 And in Blackstone he read a whole chapter. 
 
 At the end of a fortnight he grew thin and pale, 
 And he thought he should die without jesting ; 
 
 3o he dressed all in black, which he thought must prevail, 
 For it made him look quite interesting. 
 
220 CUPID IN LONDON. 
 
 Then he called on his love, looking grave as a judge, 
 And to plead his first suit was beginning ; — 
 
 But she laughed in his face, said the law was all fudge, 
 And her heart would never be winning. 
 
 Distracted he left her — transported with ire 
 To think that his plan should miscarry ; 
 
 He tore up his gown — threw his wig in the fire — 
 And kicked all his books to Old Harry. 
 
 Next morning to Melton he rode like a dart, 
 
 To adopt a new method to please her, 
 For he vow'd that he'd conquer her obdurate heart, 
 
 Or break his own neck — just to tease her. 
 
 So he rode like a madman the wild steeple chase, 
 And followed the hounds like a Tartar ; 
 
 And he galloped like wildfire at each hurdle-race, 
 To win it or die like a martyr ! 
 
 Then his fame got abroad as a sportsman of note, 
 And he thought he was now quite a hero, 
 
 So he went to the maid in his bright scarlet coat, 
 But his ardour soon tumbled to zero. 
 
 For she told him his deeds were unworthy of fame, 
 (Her remarks were all true to the letter) 
 
 That a fox or a hare were but pitiful game, 
 And the riding his groom could do better. 
 
 Poor Love now indulged in a grief without bounds, 
 For a week or two " sans intermission ;" 
 
 Then he sold off his hunters, and gave up the hounds, 
 And purchased a cornet's commission. 
 
CUPID IN LONDON. 221 
 
 In a cavalry reg'ment to battle he went, 
 
 And he said not a word of his going ; 
 But resolved that in action his life should be spent, 
 
 Or at least that his blood should be flowing. 
 
 -O' 
 
 And soon in a charge which he gallantly led 
 
 At the enemy's troops in platoon, 
 He got a sad cut (while defending his head) 
 
 In the arm from a heavy dragoon. 
 
 Disabled from duty, he homeward returned, 
 
 The news of a victory bringing ; 
 And now with affection his loved maiden burned, 
 
 And the town with his praises was ringing. 
 
 One morning he called with his arm in a sling, 
 And attired as a dashing young lancer ; 
 
 To refuse him this time was a difficult thing, 
 For she loved him, indeed, — when a dancer. 
 
 AYhen he talked of his passion, she listened with pride, 
 And her heart by assault was soon carried ; 
 
 And she shortly appeared as the young soldier's bride, 
 For in less than a month they were married. 
 
 R. More. 
 
222 
 
 THE MISLETOE. 
 
 A prophet sat in the Temple gate, 
 
 And he spoke each passer by 
 In thrilling tones — with words of weight — 
 
 And fire in his rolling eye. 
 
 " Pause thee, believing Jew ! 
 " Nor make one step beyond 
 " Until thy heart hath conned 
 " The mystery of this wand." 
 
 And a rod from his robe he drew ; — 
 
 'Twas a withered bough 
 
 Tom long ago 
 From the trunk on which it grew. 
 
 But the branch long torn 
 
 Showed a bud new born, 
 
 That had blossomed there anew : — 
 
 That wand was " Jesse's rod," 
 
 Symbol, 'tis said, 
 
 Of Hek, the Maid— 
 Yet mother of our G-od ! 
 
THE MISLETOE. 223 
 
 II. 
 
 
 A priest of Egypt sat meanwhile 
 
 Beneath his palm tree hid, 
 On the sacred brink of the flowing Nile, 
 
 And there saw mirror' d, 'mid 
 Tall obelisk and shadowy pile 
 
 Of ponderous pyramid, 
 One lowly, lovely, Lotus plant, 
 
 Pale orphan of the flood ; 
 And long did that aged hierophant 
 
 Gaze on that beauteous bud ; 
 For well he thought, as he saw it float 
 
 O'er the waste of waters wild, 
 On the long-re member' d cradle boat, 
 
 Of the wond'rous Hebrew child : — 
 Nor was that lowly lotus dumb 
 Of a mightier Infant still, to come, 
 If mystic skiff 
 And hieroglyph 
 Speak aught in Luxor's catacomb. 
 
 in. 
 
 A Greek sat on Colonna's cape, 
 
 In his lofty thoughts alone, 
 And a volume lay on Plato's lap, 
 Por he was that lonely one ; 
 
 And oft as the sage 
 
 Gazed o'er the page 
 His forehead radiant grew, 
 
 For in Wisdom's womb 
 
 Of the Word to come 
 A vision blest his view. — 
 
224 THE MISLETOE. 
 
 He broached that theme in the Academe 
 Of the teachful olive grove — 
 
 And a chosen few that secret knew 
 In the Poech's dim alcove. 
 
 IV. 
 
 A Sybil sat in Cumse's cave 
 
 In the hour of infant Eome, 
 And her vigil kept and her warning gave 
 
 Of the Holy One to come. 
 'Twas she who culled the hallowed branch 
 
 And silent took the helm 
 When he the Founder- Sire would launch 
 
 His bark o'er Hades' realm : 
 But chief she poured her vestal soul 
 Thro' many a bright illumined scroll, 
 By priest and sage, 
 Of an after age, 
 Conned in the lofty Capitol. 
 
 v. 
 
 A Druid stood in the dark oak wood 
 
 Of a distant northern land, 
 And he seem'd to hold a sickle of gold 
 
 In the grasp of his withered hand, 
 And he moved him slowly round the girth 
 
 Of an aged oak, to see 
 If an orphan plant of wondrous birth 
 
 Had clung to the old oak tree. 
 And anon he knelt and from his belt 
 
 Unloosened his golden blade, 
 Then rose and culled the Misletoe 
 
 Under the woodland shade. 
 
THE MISLETOE. 225 
 
 VI. 
 
 blessed bough ! meet emblem thou 
 
 Of all dark Egypt knew, 
 Of all foretold to the wise of old, 
 
 To Roman, Greek, and Jew. 
 And long, G-od grant, time-honor' d plant, 
 
 Live we to see thee hung 
 In cottage small as in baron's hall 
 
 Banner and shield among ! 
 Thus fitly rule the mirth of Yule 
 
 Aloft in thy place of pride, 
 Still usher forth in each land of the North 
 
 The solemn Christmas Tide ! 
 
 L'ENVOY 
 
 TO MISS ADELAIDE KEMBLE. 
 Quam penes arbitriuni est et jus et Norma canendi. 
 
 While thousands bless thee, Druidess ! 
 
 Bright daughter of a gifted line, 
 From an aged priest of a distant hill, 
 
 Firm friend to thee and thine, 
 Take, take one blessing still ! 
 
 Father Prout. 
 
226 
 
 THE GEEEK POET'S DEEAE 
 
 Siate presenti .... 
 Tu madre d'Anior col tuo giocondo 
 E lieto aspetto, e '1 tuo figliol veloce 
 Co' dardi sol possente a tutto '1 mondo. 
 
 iiOCCACCIO. 
 
 I dream' d a dream 
 
 As fair — as bright 
 As the star's soft gleam, 
 
 Or eyes of light. 
 At the midnight hour 
 
 The Queen of Love, 
 From her fairy bower 
 
 Of smiles above, 
 With Cupid came, 
 
 And, with grace Elysian, 
 Yielded the god 
 
 To the bard's tuition. 
 " This child hath come 
 
 To learn from thee, 
 In thine own dear home 
 
 Thy minstrelsy : 
 Teach him to sing 
 
 The strains thou hast sung ; 
 Like a bird of spring 
 
 O'er its callow young." 
 
THJS GREEK POET'S DREAM. 227 
 
 She vanish' d in light, — ^ 
 
 That witching one, 
 Like a meteor of night, 
 
 That shines, and is gone. 
 The Sprite of the skies 
 
 Eemain'd by me, 
 His deep-blue eyes 
 
 Kadiant with glee. 
 His looks were bright 
 
 As roses wreathed. 
 A wild delight 
 
 From his features breathed. 
 Legends I taught him 
 
 Of nymph and swain ; 
 Of hearts entangled 
 
 In Love's sweet chain. 
 Fables that charm 
 
 The soul from sadness ; 
 Stories that warm 
 
 The coldest to gladness : 
 Songs all glowing 
 
 With passion and mirth, 
 Like music flowing 
 
 From heaven to earth. 
 Such were the treasures 
 
 Of wit and thought 
 I gave : yet dream' d not 
 
 My task was nought. 
 Cupid listened, 
 
 And clapp'd his hands, 
 And his wild eyes glistened 
 
 Like burning brands. / 
 
 Fanning the air 
 
 Q2 
 
228 THE GREEK POET'S DEEAM. 
 
 With snow-white wings, 
 He seized my lyre, 
 
 He swept the strings : 
 He look'd — he glitter' d 
 
 Like golden morn, 
 As he chanted the loves 
 
 Of the Heaven-born. 
 His voice was sweet 
 
 And perfume-laden, 
 And light as the feet 
 
 Of dancing maiden. — 
 " Hearts there are 
 
 In Heaven above 
 Of wild desires, 
 
 Of passionate love. 
 Hearts there are 
 
 Dimmest of mould, 
 Which Love hath among 
 
 His slaves enroll' d ; — 
 Love hath been, 
 
 And ever will be : 
 The might of Heaven 
 
 Shall fade ere he." 
 Then the Boy — 
 
 Nearer advancing, 
 The Spirit of Joy 
 
 In his blue eyes dancing, 
 Told me such secrets 
 
 Of Heaven as ne'er 
 Were before reveal' d 
 
 But to poet's ear, 
 Uevealings of beauty 
 
 That make the soul 
 
THE GREEK POET'S DREAM. 229 
 
 Like the stars, that on wings 
 
 Of diamond roll. 
 In song — in splendour 
 
 The god departed ; 
 The spell was o'er, 
 
 From sleep I started. 
 Thoughts like sunbeams 
 
 Around me hung, 
 And my heart still echoed 
 
 What Love had sung. 
 Oh ! what could Heaven 
 
 Deny to us, 
 To whom it hath given 
 
 Its secrets thus ? 
 
 Edward Keneaay. 
 
230 
 
 MY SOLDIEE-BOY. 
 
 I give my soldier-boy a blade 
 
 In fair Damascus fashioned well ; 
 Who first the glittering falchion swayed, 
 
 Who first beneath its fury fell, 
 I know not, but I hope to know, 
 
 That for no mean or hireling trade, 
 To guard no feeling base or low, 
 
 I give my soldier-boy a blade. 
 
 Cool, calm, and clear, the lucid flood, 
 
 In which its tempering work was done, 
 As calm, as clear, as cool of mood, 
 
 Be thou whene'er it sees the sun. 
 For country's claim, at honour's call, 
 
 For outraged friend, insulted maid, 
 At mercy's voice to bid it fall, 
 
 I give my soldier-boy a blade. 
 
 The eye which marked its peerless edge, 
 
 The hand that weighed its balanced poise, 
 Anvil and pincers, forge and wedge, 
 
 Are gone, with all their flame and noise — 
 And still the gleaming sword remains. 
 
 So when in dust I low am laid, 
 Eemember by these heart-felt strains 
 
 I gave my soldier-boy a blade. 
 
 Dr. Magixh. 
 
231 
 
 IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY. 
 
 The sun is bright, the air is clear, 
 The darting swallows soar and sing, 
 
 And from the stately elms I hear 
 The bine-bird prophesying Spring. 
 
 So bine yon winding river flows, 
 It seems an ontlet from the sky, 
 
 Where, waiting till the west wind blows, 
 The freighted clouds at anchor lie. 
 
 All things are new, — the bnds, the leaves, 
 That gild the elm tree's nodding crest, 
 
 And even the nest beneath the eaves : — 
 There are no birds in last year's nest. 
 
 All things rejoice in yonth and love, 
 The fulness of their first delight ; 
 
 And learn from the soft heavens above^ 
 The melting tenderness of night. 
 
232 IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAT. 
 
 Maiden ! that read'st this simple rhyme, 
 Enjoy thy youth — it will not stay. 
 
 Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime, 
 For, oh ! it is not always May. 
 
 Enjoy the spring of love and yonth ; 
 
 To some good angel leave the rest ; 
 For time will teach thee soon the truth, 
 
 There are no birds in last year's nest. 
 
 H. W. Longfellow. 
 
233 
 
 LINES ON GENEVA. 
 
 BtjthIiESS ruin in cascades pouring, 
 Lightning echoing, torrents roaring; 
 Clouds obscuring every view, 
 Naught to see, and less to do. 
 Muse of muddled brains inspire me, 
 With a poet's rapture fire me, 
 Whilst I pen this careless lay, 
 Just to pass the hours away. 
 
 Fair Geneva ! favoured city, 
 Bastions frowning, buildings pretty, 
 Crested by the high Saleve, 
 Mirror' d in thy lake's blue wave ; 
 Eamparts, whence you rest your eyes on 
 Mont Blanc crowning the horizon ; 
 And rich vineyards, growing poorer 
 As they climb ' the darken' d Jura.' 
 
 Then, thy bridge across the Bhone, 
 Built of wooden beams alone ; 
 And thy verdant Isle des Barques, 
 Like an insulated park. 
 
234 LINES ON GENEVA.. 
 
 Steamers in thy harbour lying 
 To Lausanne and Yilleneuve plying, 
 If a tour you choose to make 
 Round the margin of the lake. 
 
 Shops for watches very thin, 
 Gold without, and brass within. 
 Snuff-boxes to tinkle sonnets ; 
 Women in large napping bonnets 5 
 Milan voitures very crazy, 
 Kept by vetturini lazy, 
 Who will take two days to creep 
 O'er the mighty Simplon's steep. 
 
 Diligences coming in 
 With postillion's crack- whip din, 
 Pack'd with English all the way 
 From the Rue St. Honore. 
 Touters to the bureau rushing, 
 Cards presenting, luggage crushing. 
 From these rhymes you may conceive a 
 Perfect picture of Geneva. 
 
 Albert Ski 
 
235 
 
 LOYE AND CAEE. 
 
 Love sat in his bower one summer day — 
 
 And Care, with his train, came to drive him away : 
 
 " I will not depart," said Love ! 
 And, seizing his lute, — with silvery words, 
 He ran his bright fingers along the chords, 
 And play'd so sweet, so entrancing an air, 
 That a grim smile lit up the face of Care. 
 
 " Away — away !" — said Love ! 
 
 " Nay, nay ! I have friends !" grim Care replied ; 
 " Behold, here is one — and his name is Pride!" 
 
 " I care not for Pride," said Love ! 
 Then touching the strings of his light guitar, 
 Pride soon forgot his lofty air ; 
 And seizing the hand of a rustic queen, 
 Laugh'd, gamboU'd, and tripp'd it o'er the green — 
 
 " Aha t aha /" said Love ! 
 
 " Away with your jeers !" cried Care, " if you please 
 " Here's another— lank, haggard, and pale Disease /" 
 
 " I care not for him," said Love ! 
 Then touch' d a strain so plaintive and weak, 
 That a flush pass'd over his pallid cheek ; 
 
236 LOVE AND CARE. 
 
 And Disease leap'd up from his couch of pain, 
 And smil'd, and re-echoed the healing strain — ■ 
 " Well done for Disease!" said Love! 
 
 " Pshaw ! pshaw !" cried Care — " this squalid one, see ! 
 How lik'st thou the gaunt look of Poverty ?" 
 
 " I care not for him," said Love ! 
 Then struck such a sound from his viol's string, 
 That Poverty shouted aloud, " I am King ! — 
 The jewell'd wreaths round my temples shall twine, — 
 For the sparkling gems of Golconda are mine ! ,; 
 
 " Ay, ay — very true /" said Love ! 
 
 " Nay, boast not" said Care — " there is fretful Old Age ; 
 Beware of his crutches, and tempt not his rage !" 
 
 " I care not for Age !" said Love ! 
 Then swept the strings of his magic lyre, 
 Till the glaz'd eye sparkled with youthful fire ; 
 And Age dropp'd his crutches, and, light as a fay, 
 Laugh' d, caper' d, and danc'd, like a child at play ! 
 
 " Bravo, Sir Eld /" said Love ! 
 
 " A truce," cried wrinkled Care, " with thy glee ! 
 Now, look on this last one — 'tis Jealousy I" 
 
 " Ah me ! ah me !" said Love ! 
 " Her green eye burns with a quenchless fire— 
 I die ! I die !" Then, dropping his lyre, 
 Love flew far away from his cl orish'd bower, 
 And never return' d from that fatal hour ! 
 
 Alas for thee, blighted Love! 
 
237 
 
 THE LASS OF ALBANY. 
 
 My heart is wae, and unco wae, 
 
 To think upon the raging sea 
 That roars between her gardens green 
 
 And the bonnie lass of Albany. 
 
 This lovely maid's of royal blood, 
 
 That ruled Albion's kingdoms three ; 
 
 But oh ! alas ! for her bonnie face ! 
 They've wrang'd the lass of Albany. 
 
 In the rolling tide of spreading Clyde 
 There sits an isle of high degree ; 
 
 And a town of fame, whose princely name 
 Should grace the lass of Albany. 
 
 Bat there's a youth, a witless youth, 
 That fills the place where she should be : 
 
 We'll send him o'er to his native shore, 
 And bring our ain sweet Albany. 
 
238 THE LASS OP ALBANY. 
 
 Alas the day, and woe the day, 
 
 A false usurper wan the gree ; 
 Who now commands the tower and lands, 
 
 The royal right of Albany. 
 
 We'll daily pray, we'll nightly pray, 
 On bended knees most fervently. 
 
 The time may come, with pipe and drum 
 We'll welcome home fair Albany. 
 
 Robert Burn*. 
 
ENDYMIOK 
 
 The rising moon has hid the stars 
 Her level rays, like golden bars, 
 Lie on the landscape green, 
 With shadows brown between. 
 
 And silver-white the river gleams, 
 
 As if Diana, in her dreams, 
 Had dropt her silver bow 
 Upon the meadows low. 
 
 On such a tranquil night as this, 
 She woke Endymion with a kiss, 
 When, sleeping in the grove, 
 He dreamed not of her love. 
 
 Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought, 
 Love gives itself, but is not bought ; 
 Nor voice nor sound betrays 
 Its deep, impassioned gaze. 
 
 It comes, — the beautiful, the free, — 
 The crown of all humanity, — 
 In silence and alone, 
 To seek the elected one. 
 
2i0 ENDTMION. 
 
 It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep 
 Are life's oblivion, — the soul's sleep, — 
 
 And kisses the closed eyes 
 
 Of him who slumbering lies. 
 
 O, weary hearts ! 0, slumbering ey 
 O, drooping souls, whose destinies 
 
 Are fraught with fear and pain 
 
 Ye shall be loved again ! 
 
 No one is so accursed by fate, 
 No one so wholly desolate, 
 
 But some heart, though unknown, 
 
 Eesponds unto his own. 
 
 Responds, as if with unseen wings 
 A breath from heaven had touched its strings ; 
 And whispers in its song, 
 " Where hast thou stay'd so long ?" 
 
 H. W. Longfellow. 
 
241 
 
 EVENING SONG OF 
 THE NORMANDY FISHEBMEN. 
 
 " Priez pour nous, etoile de la mer !" 
 
 Prat for us, star of the sea ! 
 
 Through the mist of the even we call on thee : 
 
 Mother eternal ! be thou our guide, 
 
 And light with thy beaming the dark flowing tide. 
 
 Pierce the dark clouds that o'ershadow the night, 
 
 And steal o'er our souls with a thrill of delight. 
 
 The winds murmur hoarsely, the waves rise in foam, 
 
 Shine forth, star of beauty, and lead us to home ! 
 
 Pray for us, star" of the sea ! 
 
 As alone on the waters we worship thee ! 
 
 Thou hast heard us, for lo ! in the bright' ning west, 
 
 Adorable one ! thou art showing thy crest, 
 
 A beacon of love to the weary and lone, 
 
 A symbol of mercy when all hope is gone. 
 
 The winds murmur hoarsely, the waves rise in foam, 
 
 Shine on, star of beauty, and lead us to home ! 
 
242 SONG OF THE NORMANDY FISHERMEN. 
 
 Pray for us, star of the sea ! 
 And for those whom we love, not watching thee, 
 They offer their vows at the fisherman's shrine,* 
 And bless thee that o'er us thou deignest to shine ! 
 Fondly they wait us by Seine's lovely shore, 
 With hearts that are throbbing to hail us once more. 
 The winds murmur hoarsely, the waves rise in foam, 
 Shine on, star of beauty, and lead us to home ! 
 
 Pray for us, star of the sea ! 
 
 Ave Maria ! we glorify thee ! 
 
 Soon, soon si al we rest from our toil on the deep, 
 
 For dim in the distance is Heve's rugged steep ; 
 
 Now Havre is seen, spreading forth 'neatli the hill 
 
 That o'erlooks it in majesty, fair Ingonville ! 
 
 The winds murmur hoarsely, the waves rise in foam, 
 
 Shine on, star of beauty, and lead us to home ! 
 
 W. Jones. 
 
 * On the heights of Hotifleur, a picturesque town on the borders of 
 the Seine, (celebrated by Washington Irving in one of his most affecting 
 tales, " Annette Delarbe,") is a small chapel situate amidst the most 
 remote scenery. Before going on any perilous enterprise, the fisherman 
 here places his votive offering, imploring the intercession of " Our 
 Lady of Grace." 
 
243 
 
 TO 
 
 ######### ##### 
 
 In the green and leafy wood, 
 When the golden sisterhood 
 
 Of stars are bright, 
 Wilt thou — wilt thou, lady fair, 
 Wander fondly with me there, 
 
 By the pale star-light ? 
 
 We shall stroll beneath the trees, 
 Through whose boughs' interstices 
 
 The clear moon flings 
 Smiles as sweet and pure as thine, 
 Or the million rays that shine 
 
 In a spirit's wings. 
 
 We shall wander by the stream, 
 Gazing on its water's gleam, 
 
 Glassing the skies, 
 Hand entwined with hand the while, 
 And upon me bent the smile 
 
 Of thy gentle eyes. 
 
 e 2 
 
244 to 
 
 ##*###*## ####* 
 
 As its waters glide along, 
 We shall listen to its song, 
 
 Whose melody, 
 Though it charm full many an ear, 
 Still is far — oh ! far less dear 
 
 Than thy voice to me. 
 
 On the turf we'll sit and pull 
 Flowers the most beautiful — 
 
 A moonlight wreath ; 
 Though their bosoms perfum'd be, 
 Have they, love, the fragrancy 
 
 Thy kisses breathe ? 
 
 When our garland is entwin'd, 
 I with it thy brows will bind — 
 
 O garland blest ! 
 Of" this flowery diadem, 
 Every leaf is worth a gem 
 
 On a monarch's breast. 
 
 Then, along the turf we'll walk, 
 Talking only Cupid-talk, 
 
 And the sweet bond 
 Of affection, which, methinks, 
 Our two spirits closely links 
 
 In one spirit fond. 
 
 Or, within our own dear grove 
 We shall sit and talk, my love, 
 
 Thou, my sweet theme ; 
 How I first before thee knelt, 
 Wildly, fondly lov'd, and felt 
 
 Thee my life's dream 
 
How thou wert within my heart 
 Long its bright Star ; how thou art 
 
 Still — still mine own ; 
 How unto the paradise 
 Of thy face and shining eyes 
 
 My whole life hath grown. 
 
 As our Eden moments fly 
 Thus beneath the purple sky, 
 
 The stars shall shine 
 With a sweeter, lovelier light, 
 On that bower flower- dight, 
 
 Where thou and I recline. 
 
 In the green and silent wood, 
 When the starry sisterhood, 
 
 With footsteps bright, 
 Trip along the azure air, 
 Meet me, meet me, lady fair, 
 
 By the pale star-light. 
 
 Edward Kenealv. 
 
246 
 
 THE EAESTY DAT. 
 
 The day is cold, and dark, and dreary ; . 
 It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 
 The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, 
 But at every gust the dead leaves fall, 
 And the day is dark and dreary. 
 
 My life is cold, and dark, and dreary ; 
 It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 
 Memory clings to the mouldering past, 
 But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, 
 And the days are dark and dreary, 
 
 Be still, sad heart, and cease repining ; 
 Above the dark clouds is the sun still shining ; 
 Thy fate is the common fate of all ; 
 Into each life some rain must fall, 
 
 Some days must be dark and dreary. 
 
 H. W. Longfellow. 
 
247 
 
 TO 
 
 In Bttrlingtown, much honoured, tho' he bears his 
 
 honours gently, 
 There lives a famous Barber, whom the public know as 
 
 B y. 
 
 The Queen herself, on whose fair head hath flowed the 
 
 Lord's anointment, 
 Hath made him her Perruquier by a regular appoint- 
 ment. 
 Since triple bobfaZe-scratch was first with novel wigs 
 
 invented,, 
 His magazin de nouveautes was brilliantly frequented, 
 In shaving, his performances were felt as smooth as 
 
 vellum ; 
 In sooth, he had certificates from Irving, Hook, and 
 
 Pelham ; 
 E'en men who wore of Mohammed the pagan beard and 
 
 badge, he 
 Had shaved them all by turns, from Anastasius to 
 
 Hadji. 
 Nay, ladies of a certain age no longer looked the G-orgon, 
 His art bedeckt the frontispiece of Trollope and of 
 
 Morgan ; 
 But Beauty, too, his style well knew as what would best 
 
 become her, 
 So Norton said, and Blessington, and graceful Gore, 
 
 and Romer. 
 
 Father Prout. 
 
248 
 
 THE IDES OF MAKCH. 
 
 " Beware ! beware !" said the Soothsayer 
 
 To tlie " noblest of the Romans ;" 
 And well had it been for Julius, I ween, 
 
 Had he lent an ear to the summons. 
 Calphurnxa sighed, the screech-owl cried, 
 
 The March gale blew a burrasca, 
 Yet, ont he went to " meet Parliament," 
 
 And the dagger of " envious Casca." 
 
 ii. 
 
 " Beware how you land !" wrote old Talleyrand 
 
 To his Elba friend, for, heigh ! 
 One bleak March day he would fain sail away 
 
 In a hooker from Porio Ferrajo. 
 And, well had it been in the year "fifteen" 
 
 Had he not pursued that folly on, 
 Mad as any " March hare," though told to beware, 
 
 But alas and alack for Napoleon ! 
 
THE IDES OP MARCH. 249 
 
 III. 
 
 " Beware, beware ! of the Black Friere," 
 
 So singeth a dame of Byron ; 
 Arouse not him ! 'tis a perilous whim, — 
 
 'Tis " meddling with cold iron." 
 E'en in crossing the ridge of Blackfriars' bridge, 
 
 When you come to the midmost arch, 
 While 'tis blowing hard, — be then on your guard, 
 Then carefully look to your hat and peruke, 
 
 And " beware of the ides of March !" 
 
 Father Pbout. 
 
250 
 
 CUPID. 
 
 In the middle hour of night, 
 
 When the stars were shining bright, 
 
 And the golden spell of sleep 
 Sat on ev'ry mortal eye. 
 
 From a slumber sweet and deep, 
 Cupid rous'd me with a cry. 
 
 " Open, open." — " Tell me, pray, 
 Who art thou who com'st this way ?" 
 
 Straight the rosy Grod replied. 
 " Fear me not. I am a child 
 
 Wand'ring without friend or guide, 
 And the night is wet and wild. 
 
 From my couch I quickly rose, 
 My doors to Cupid to unclose, 
 
 Seiz'd a lamp, and by its beam 
 Saw a Boy of beauty rare ; 
 
 On his shoulders arrows gleam, 
 And wings white and light as air. 
 
cupid. 251 
 
 By the hearth I plac'cl the child. 
 His eyes on me softly smiled : 
 
 Then his hands I chafed in mine, 
 And wrung his locks until a glow 
 
 Of heat did o'er his features shine ; — 
 Suddenly he seiz'd his bow. 
 
 " Stranger, I must try," quoth he, 
 " If my bow-string injured be." 
 
 Instantly he shot the shaft, 
 And transfixed me to the heart. 
 
 " All is right," quoth he, and laugh' d, 
 " But I think thou'lt feel love's smart." 
 
 Edward Kenealy. 
 
252 
 
 TO MY DATJGHTEES. 
 
 my darling little daughters ! 
 
 my daughters, lov'd so well ! 
 Who by Brighton's breezy waters 
 
 For a time have gone to dwell. 
 Here I come with spirit yearning, 
 
 With yonr sight my eyes to cheer, 
 When this snnny day returning 
 
 Brings my forty- second year. 
 
 Knit to me in love and duty 
 Have you been, sweet pets of mine! 
 
 Long in health, and joy, and beauty 
 May it be your lot to shine ! 
 
 And at last, when God commanding, 
 
 1 shall leave you both behind, 
 May I feel with soul expanding 
 
 I shall leave you good and kind ! 
 
 May I leave my Nan and Pigeon* 
 
 Mild of faith, of purpose true, 
 Full of faith and meek religion, 
 
 With many joys, and sorrows few ! 
 Now I part, with fond caressing, 
 
 Part you now, my daughters dear — 
 Take, then take your father's blessing, 
 
 In his forty-second year ! 
 
 Dr. Maginn. 
 
 * A pet name for his youngest daughter. 
 
253 
 
 MY NORA! 
 
 My Nora — dear Nora, is dreaming, 
 The moon on her fair cheek is gleaming ; 
 
 Whilst the fairies unseen, 
 
 Kiss her forehead serene, 
 As her eyes — through their lashes are beaming. 
 
 My Nora — sweet Nora is weeping, 
 
 The pearls through those lashes are peeping; 
 
 Oh, the fairies, I fear, 
 
 Have just breath' d in her ear 
 That my love from her bosom is creeping. 
 
 My Nora — loved Nora is waking, 
 Her heart with its anguish is breaking ; 
 
 Nora, come to thy rest 
 
 On my fond, faithful breast — 
 Of thy soul's grief, love, mine is partaking. 
 
 T. J. OUSELEY. 
 
254 
 
 
 SONG- OF EOLAND. 
 
 Say, whither are bound these illustrious knights, 
 
 The pride and the glory of France ? 
 In defence of his country, its laws, and its rights, 
 
 Each paladin takes up his lance ; 
 And foremost is Roland, whose scimitar keen 
 
 The harvest of war prostrate leaves, 
 While, led to the slain by its glittering sheen, 
 Death gathers them up in his sheaves. 
 Shout ! comrades, shout ! 
 
 Roland famous in story, 
 And your war-cry give out 
 For our country and glory ! 
 
 On our frontier the Saracen armies extend 
 
 Their legions in splendid array ; 
 The unnumber'd bands from the hills that descend 
 
 Their menacing banners display. 
 'Tis the foe ! 'tis the foe ! Sons of France spring to arms ! 
 
 And drive back the barbarous horde : 
 To them, not to us, will the fight bring alarms : 
 
 Brave Roland has ask'd for his sword. 
 
 Shout ! comrades, shout ! &c. 
 
SONG OF ROLAND. 255 
 
 0n : — onward with Roland to honour and fame ! 
 
 Glory's waving her flag by his side, 
 And those who would gain an illustrious name 
 
 Must follow his plume as their guide ! 
 On — onward, to share in his glorious career. 
 
 He stops not to number the foe, 
 Till, cleft by his sabre or pierced by his spear, 
 
 Their bravest and best are laid low. 
 
 Shout ! comrades, shout ! &c. 
 
 " How many ? how many ?" the coward may ask, 
 
 As he lurks in his covert secure ; 
 But perilous odds urge the brave to their task, 
 
 And danger itself is a lure. 
 To Roland the number of foes is unknown ; 
 
 To count them he never is found, 
 Until at the close, by his might overthrown, 
 
 They be stark and stiff on the ground. 
 
 Shout ! comrades, shout ! &c. 
 
 Once more rings the blast of the paladin's horn 
 
 As he rallies our wavering bands ; 
 But, pierc'd by a shaft, to the earth he is borne, 
 
 His life-blood is clotting the sands. 
 Still faithful to honour, he heeds not the pain, 
 
 But smiles with a welcome to death ; 
 While high o'er the tumult is heard the proud strain 
 Which he shouts with unfaltering breath : 
 Swell, comrades, swell 
 
 The loud chaunt of my story ; 
 Sing how nobly I fell 
 
 For my country and glory !" 
 
 W. Cooke Taylor. 
 
256 
 
 LEATHER AWAY WITH THE OAK-STICK 
 
 Descend, ye bright Mne, this grand scene to delight, 
 And in praise of Victoria my verses indite ! 
 Och ! she's Queen of the country, the say, and the sky, 
 Eor if they said ' black was the white of her eye,' 
 She'd leather away with the oak-stick ! 
 
 Of all the bould nations that's under the sun, 
 They 're mighty polite to her, every one ; 
 Bekaise, when she steps out in pride down the town, 
 Let them stand on the tip of the tail of her gown, 
 She 'd leather away with the oak- stick ! 
 
 She set sail for France, for she laughs at the say, 
 In September, I mind me, 'twas near quarther-day ; 
 The boatswain and saymen were all in fine glee, 
 And Lord Dolly Fitz-Clancy steered the ship, d'ye see 
 And leathered away with the oak- stick ! 
 
 Says brave Lewy Phil., ' Och you're welcome to me 
 As the flowers of May ;' by bright Cushla ma Chree ! — 
 He's a jolly ould chap, and, to see him, you'd say, 
 When they dish up the frogs, faith ! he 's not far away j 
 But leathers away with the oak-stick! 
 
LEATHER AWAY WITH THE OAE>STICK. 257 
 
 Phil, politely and qui'tly slipp'd his arm round her waist, 
 And he gave three loud smacks, and three more, the 
 
 ould baste. 
 But the blue-jackets cried, ' Mounseer Parly Voo, 
 Thry it on somewhere else, with your ' How do you do P 
 And leather away with the oak-stick ! 
 
 Through the town she paraded in grandeur and pride, 
 To the great Chcvpeau D'U, where King Phil, does reside; 
 There the tents were all spread, like ould Donnybrook fair, 
 With ceade mille failthe, and plenty to spare, 
 And leather away with the oak-stick I 
 
 We'd consartos by night, and sham shindies by day, 
 And the King tray ted every mother's sowl to the play; 
 ' Ma'am,' says he to the Queen, ' you'll come home and take 
 
 tay; 
 Plaise your Majesty, 'tis all in the family way, 
 And leather away with the oak-stick ?' 
 
 Och ! the fine town of Paris shines under the sky, 
 And a beautiful shrimmage took place there hard by ; 
 The sodgers fought shy, and the boys fought it out — 
 'Pon my sowl, I don't know what it all was about ; 
 But they leather' d away with the oak- stick. 
 
 They jamm'd up the streets with hack-cars and pochaises, 
 ' Fire again,' says the colonel, ' fire at them like blazes !' — 
 I Brave boys !' cries Fayette, * don't stay here to be kilt, 
 But give them your tooth-pickers starch to the hilt, 
 And leather away with the oak-stick !' 
 
 s 
 
258 LEATHEE AWAY WITH THE OAK-STICK. 
 
 Then success to the stout roving boys of July, 
 
 And mate when they 're hungry and drink when they 're 
 
 dry, 
 To drink Lewy's health, and the Queen's, d'ye see, 
 And the rest of the Frinch Eoyal Fam-i-lee, 
 And leather away with the oak- stick ! 
 
 When the ruction was quash' d, and the people was quiet, 
 Some blag-gaards in the North thought to kick up a riot ; 
 Says Eoossia to Spain, ' Sure, we won't stand all that !' — 
 ' Arrah be aisy,' says England, ' and mind what ye're at, 
 Or I'll leather away with the oak- stick !' 
 
 God save Queen Victoria, and bless her with joy ! 
 Och ! Albert, my jewel, you 're the broth of a boy ! 
 Three cheers for ould Ireland, and Dan, and Saint Pat, 
 And Eepayle, Father Mathew, and send round the hat, 
 And leather away with the oak- stick. 
 
 The Irish Whiskey-Dkinker. 
 
259 
 
 EXCELSIOR. 
 
 The shades of night were falling fast, 
 
 As through an Alpine village passed 
 
 A youth, who bore, 'midst snow and ice, t 
 
 A banner with the strange device — Excelsior ! 
 
 His brow was sad ; his eye beneath 
 
 Flashed like a falchion from its sheath, 
 
 And like a silver clarion rung 
 
 The accents of that unknown tongue— Excelsior! 
 
 In happy homes he saw the light 
 
 Of household fires gleam clear and bright ; 
 
 Above the spectral glaciers shone, 
 
 And from his lips escaped a groan — Excelsior ! 
 
 " Try not the pass !" the old man said ; 
 
 " Dark lowers the tempest overhead ; 
 
 The roaring torrent is deep and wide !" 
 
 And loud that clarion- voice replied — Excelsior! 
 
 " stay," the maiden said, " and rest 
 Thy weary head upon this breast l" 
 A tear stood in his bright blue eye, 
 But still he answered with a sigh — Excelsior ! 
 
 s 2 
 
260 EXCELSIOR. 
 
 " Beware the pine- tree's withered branch ! 
 
 Beware the awful avalanche !" 
 
 This was the peasant's last good-night ; 
 
 A voice replied, far up the height — Excelsior ! 
 
 At break of day, as heavenward 
 
 The pious monks of Saint Bernard 
 
 Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 
 
 A voice cried through the frosty air — Excelsior ! 
 
 A traveller, by the faithful hound, 
 
 Half buried in the snow was found, 
 
 Still grasping in his hand of ice 
 
 That banner with the strange device — Excelsior ! 
 
 There, in the twilight cold and grey, 
 
 Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, 
 
 And from the sky, serene and far, 
 
 A voice fell, like a falling star — Excelsior ! 
 
 H. W. Longfellow. 
 
261 
 
 ELEGY IN A LONDON THEATRE. 
 
 
 NOT BY GRAY. 
 
 The curtain falls — the signal all is o'er, 
 The eager crowd along the lobby throng, 
 
 The youngsters lean against the crowded door, 
 Ogling the ladies as they pass along. 
 
 The gas-lamps fade, the foot-lights hide their heads, 
 
 And not a soul beside myself is seen, 
 Save where the lacquey dirty canvass spreads, 
 
 The painted boxes from the dust to screen, — 
 
 Save that, in yonder gallery enshrined, 
 Some ragged girl complains in angry tone 
 
 Of such as, sitting in the seat behind, 
 
 Had ta'en her shawl in preference to their own. 
 
262 ELEGY IN A LONDON THEATRE. 
 
 There where those rugged planks uneven lie, 
 
 There on those dirty boards — that darken' d stage 
 
 Did Kean and Kemble fill the listener's eye, 
 And add a lustre to the poet's page. 
 
 But they are gone — and never, never more 
 
 Shall prompter's summons, or the tinkling bell, 
 
 Or call-boy crying at the green-room door, 
 
 " The stage waits, gentlemen !" — their dreams dispel. 
 
 For them no more the coaches of the great 
 
 Shall stop up Catherine Street — for them, alas ! 
 
 No more shall anxious crowds expectant wait, 
 Or polish up the gilded opera-glass. 
 
 Oft did the vicious on their accents hang, 
 
 Their power oft the stubborn heart hath bent, 
 
 And, whilst the spacious house with plaudits rang, 
 They sent the harden' d homewards to repent. 
 
 There, in that empty box, perchance, hath swell'd 
 A heart with Eomeo's burning passion rife, 
 
 Hands that " poor Torick's" skull might well have held, 
 Or clutch'd at Macbeth's visionary knife. 
 
 Full many a pearl of purest ray serene 
 The rugged oyster- shell doth hold inside, 
 
 Full many a vot'ry of the tragic queen 
 The dingy offices of London hide. 
 
 Some Lear, whose daughters never turn'd his head, 
 Nor changed to gall the honey of his life ; 
 
 Some white Othello, who with feather-bed 
 Had smothered not, his unoffending wife. 
 
ELEGY IN A LONDON THEATRE. 283 
 
 The applause of listening houses to command, 
 
 The critic's smile and malice to despise, 
 To win reward from lord and lady's hand, 
 
 And the approval of the thundering skies, 
 
 Their parents hindered, and did thus o'erthrow 
 The brilliant hopes that in their bosom rose, 
 
 To tear Macready's laurels from his brow, 
 And put out Charley Kean's immortal nose. 
 
 Of one of these I heard a drummer say, 
 
 " Oft have I seen him from the muddy street, 
 
 Across the crimson benches make his way, 
 To gain his well-loved and accustomed seat. 
 
 " There, where yon orchestra uprears its rail, 
 On which I hang my drumsticks, many a night 
 
 I've seen him, with a dirty shirt, and pale, 
 Watching the motley scene with wild delight. 
 
 " There, upon yonder seat, which now appears 
 To have rent its robe for grief he is not here, 
 
 Offc have I seen him sit, dissolved in tears, 
 Veiling his grief in draughts of ginger-beer. 
 
 " One night I missed him from his favourite seat. 
 
 I wondered strangely where the boy could be. 
 Another night — I gazed — in vain my gaze — 
 
 Nor in the pit, nor in the house was he ! 
 
 " Come here ! I saw him carried to that tomb, 
 With drunken mutes, and all their mock parade. 
 
 Just read — I've left my spectacles at home — 
 The epitaph a friend has kindly made." 
 
264 ELEGY IN A LONDON THEATRE. 
 
 Here lieth one beneath the cold damp ground, 
 A youth to London and the stage unknown, 
 Upon his merits stern Macready frowned, 
 
 And ' Swan and Edgar' marked him for their own. 
 
 ' Large was his bounty, unto aught wherein 
 The stage did mingle, and the cost was sweet. 
 
 He gave the drama all he could — his " tin," 
 
 And gained — 'twas all he could — his favourite seat. 
 
 " No father had he who could interfere 
 To check his nightly wanderings about, 
 
 And from the best authority we hear, 
 
 His mother never dreamt that he was out 1" 
 
 Hotspur. 
 
265 
 
 UNFINISHED LINES UPON MY LIBEAEY. 
 
 My days among the dead are past ; 
 
 Around me I behold, 
 Where'er these casual eyes are east, 
 
 The mighty minds of old : 
 My never-failing friends are they, 
 With whom I converse day by day. 
 
 With them I take delight in weal, 
 
 And seek relief in woe ; 
 And when I understand and feel 
 
 How much to them I owe, 
 My cheeks have often been bedew'd 
 With tears of thoughtful gratitude. 
 
 My thoughts are with the dead ; with them 
 
 I live in long past years, 
 Their virtues love, their faults condemn, 
 
 Partake their hopes and fears ; 
 And from their lessons seek and find 
 Instruction with a humble mind. 
 
266 UNFINISHED LINES UPON MY LIBRARY. 
 
 My hopes are with the dead ; anon 
 
 My place with them will be, 
 And I with them shall travel on, 
 
 Through all futurity ; 
 Yet leaving here a name, I trust, 
 That will not perish in the dust. 
 
 KOBERT SOUTHIT. 
 
267 
 
 THE WAE-SONG OF THE GALLANT 
 EIGHTY-EIGHTH. 
 
 Come now, brave boys, we're on for marching, 
 Where there's fighting and divarsion ; 
 Where cannons roar, and men are dying, 
 March, brave boys, there's no denying ! 
 Love, farewell ! 
 
 Hark ! 'tis the Colonel gaily crying, 
 " March, brave boys, there's no denying, 
 Colours flying, drums are bayting, 
 March, brave boys, there's no retrayting !" 
 Love, farewell! 
 
 The major cries, " Boys, are yez ready ?" 
 " Yes, your honour, firm and steady ; 
 Give every man his flask of powdher, 
 And his firelock on his shouldher !" 
 Love, farewell! 
 
 The mother cries, " Boys, do not wrong me, 
 Do not take my daughters from me ! 
 If you do, I will tormint yez ! 
 After death my ghost will haunt yez !" 
 Love, farewell ! 
 
268 THE WAR SONG. 
 
 " Oh, Molly, dear, you 're young and tinder, 
 And when I'm gone yon won't surrinder, 
 But howld out like an auncient ftoman, 
 And live and die an honest woman." 
 Love, farewell! 
 
 " Oh, Molly, darling, grieve no more, I 
 'M going to fight for Ireland's glory ; 
 If I come back, I '11 come victorious ; 
 If I die, my sowl in glory is !" 
 Love, farewell ! 
 
 The Irish Whiskey-Drinker. 
 
269 
 
 THE EXPEDITION TO PONTAKLIK 
 
 TRANSLATED BY W. COOKE TAYLOR. 
 
 Oh long, very long Winter lengthens his day ; 
 We hear not the song of the birds from the spray ; 
 They are silent and sad in the groves and the bowers, 
 Awaiting the coming of spring-time and flowers ! 
 
 But when the first birds on the branches were seen, 
 And the hedge changed its brown for a mantle of green, 
 The trumpet of war blew its blast o'er the land, 
 And summon' d the brave to the patriot band ! 
 
 There was arming and bustling, confusion and haste, 
 Ere battalions were form'd, and line-of-march traced ; 
 But when once in the field, the proud duke we defied :— < 
 At peasants no longer he laugh'd in his pride. 
 
 We came on so proudly through Burgundy's states, 
 That we soon forced Pontarlin to open its gates ; 
 And the women, at morn dress'd in colours so bright, 
 Were making the dark weeds of widows ere night. 
 
270 THE EXPEDITION TO PONTAELIN. 
 
 The foreigners, frantic, came forward in force ; 
 
 They number' d twelve thousand of foot and of horse : 
 
 They assaulted us fiercely to gain back the town, 
 
 But their vaunts and their boastings were soon cloven down! 
 
 Our Swiss sprung upon them with blow upon blow, 
 Till never was seen such a wide overthrow ; 
 From the ramparts their banners and pennons were thrust. 
 And lay all unheeded, defiled in the dust ! 
 
 The wild bear of Berne put forth his sharp claws, 
 And bristled his mane up, and grinded his jaws ; 
 He came with his cubs, who of thousands were four, 
 And the foreigners trembled on hearing his roar ! 
 
 Be warn'd, duke of Burgundy ! timely beware, 
 Nor venture to mate thee with Berne's fierce bear ; 
 See his teeth, see his claws, his cubs eager for prey ; 
 Haste ! haste ! save your lives, and get out of his way. 
 
 They would not take warning ; the bear rose in wrath, 
 And soon through their ranks forc'd a terrible path, 
 And, though the Burgundians were full four to one, 
 The bear and his cubs soon compell'd them to run ! 
 
 And still the bear roar'd, until, borne on the gale, 
 Its echo had reach' d the brave burghers of Basle ; 
 And they said, since the bear is come out of his den, 
 We must go and assist him with all of our men. 
 
 Then prais'd be the warriors of Basle and of Berne, 
 Nor pass we in silence Soleure and Lucerne ; 
 They came without summons our dangers to share, 
 And bravely they fought by the side of the bear ! 
 
THE EXPEDITION TO PONTAELIN. 271 
 
 Tims kjtrengthen'd, to Grandson our armies were led, 
 As the knights and the nobles of Burgundy fled. 
 We girdled the town, and our musketry's din 
 Never ceas'd night or day, the proud fortress to win ! 
 
 On the morning of Sunday the place we assail' d ; 
 Its gates were forced open, its ramparts were scal'd ; 
 The banner of freedom soon stream' d from its towers, 
 And announc'd to the duke that proud Grandson was 
 ours ! 
 
272 
 
 THE SIEGE OF HENSBUBGH. 
 
 Brave news ! brave news ! the Emperor 
 
 Hath girded on his sword, 
 And swears by the rood, in an angry mood, 
 
 And eke by his knightly word, 
 That humbled Hensburgh's towers shall be,, 
 With all her boasted chivalry. 
 
 The brazen clarion's battle note 
 
 Hath sounded through the land ; 
 And brave squire and knight, in their armour dight 
 
 Ay, many a gallant band, 
 Have heard the summons far and near, 
 And come with falchion and with spear. 
 
 " Ho ! to the rebel city, ho ! 
 
 Let vengeance lead the way !" 
 And anon the sheen of their spears was seen, 
 
 As they rushed upon the prey. 
 Beneath where Hensburgh's turrets frown' d 
 Great Conrade chose his vantage ground. 
 
THE SIEGE OP HENSBURGH. 273 
 
 Far stretching o'er the fertile plain 
 
 His snow-white tents were spread ; 
 And the sweet night air, as it linger' d there^ 
 
 Caught the watchful sentry's tread. 
 Then o'er the city's battlement 
 The tell-tale breeze its echo sent. 
 
 Day after day the leaguer sat 
 
 Before that city's wall, 
 And yet, day by day, the proud Guelph cried " Nay" 
 
 To the herald's warning call ; 
 Heedless, from morn to eventide, 
 How many a famish' d mother died. 
 
 Weak childhood, and the aged man, 
 
 Wept — sorely wept for bread ; 
 And pale Hunger seem'd, as his wild eye gleam'd 
 
 On the yet unburied dead, 
 As if he longed, alas ! to share 
 The night dog's cold, unhallow'd fare. 
 
 No longer Hensburgh's banner floats ; 
 
 Hush'd is her battle-cry, 
 For a victor waits at her shatter'd gates, 
 
 And her sons are doom'd to die. 
 But Hensburgh's daughters yet shall prove 
 The saviours of the homes they love ! 
 
 T 
 
274 THE SIEGE OF HENSBURGH. 
 
 All glory to the Emperor, 
 
 The merciful and brave ; 
 Sound, clarions, sound, tell the news around, 
 
 And ye drooping banners wave ! 
 Hensburgh's fair daughters, ye are free ; 
 Go forth, with all your " braverie /" 
 
 " Bid them go forth," the Emperor cried, 
 
 " Far from the scene of strife, 
 Whether matron staid, or the blushing maid, 
 
 Or the daughter, or the wife ; 
 For ere yon sun hath left the sky, 
 Each rebel-male shall surely die. 
 
 " Bid them go forth," the Emperor said, 
 
 " "We wage not war with them; 
 Bid them all go free, with their ' braverie? 
 
 And each richly valued gem ; 
 Let each upon her person bear 
 That which she deems her chief est care." 
 
 The city's gates are open'd wide ; 
 
 The leaguer stands amazed ; 
 'Twas a glorious deed, and shall have its meed, 
 
 And by minstrel shall be praised, 
 For each had left her jewelVd tire ; 
 To bear a husband, or a sire. 
 
 With faltering step each laden'd one 
 
 At Conrade's feet appears ; 
 In amaze he stood, but his thirst for blood 
 
 Was quench' d by his falling tears ; 
 The victor wept aloud to see 
 Devoted woman's constancy. 
 
THE SIEGE OP HENSBURGH. 275 
 
 All glory to the Emperor, — 
 
 All glory and renown ! 
 He hath sheath' d his sword, and his royal word 
 
 Hath gone forth to save the town ; 
 For woman* s love is mightier far 
 Than all the strategies of war. 
 
 John Ryan, LL.D. 
 
276 
 
 BEYAN O'LYNIT. 
 
 In Dalkey a king of great weight, 
 
 Though his deeds are not blarney'd in story, 
 For he rose, and he rowVd to bed late, 
 
 Lived Bryan O'Lynn in his glory. 
 With a nate spanchel'd # cawbeenf so gay, 
 He was crown' d by Queen Sheelah each day 
 They say. 
 
 Bryan's praise let us sing ! 
 
 What a jolly good king 
 Was rattling bowld Bryan O'Lynn ! 
 Hurroo I ! 
 
 His palace was thatched with straw ; 
 
 There he took all his meals and his glass j 
 And all his dominions he saw, 
 
 When he sauntered along on his ass ; 
 Hearty, simple, and free, to confide, 
 With no guard but " Dog Tray" would he ride 
 By his side. 
 
 * Spanchel, noun- substantive,— a hay or straw rope, chiefly used for 
 tying the legs together of cows or pigs, to hinder them, not from tres- 
 passing on their neighbour's property, but from roaming too far from 
 home. Spanchel, verb, — to tie or fasten with a hay or straw rope. 
 
 * A felt hat of no particular shape. 
 
BRYAN O'LYNN. 277 
 
 Bryan's praise let us sing ! 
 What a jolly good king 
 Was rattling ould Bryan O'Lynn ! 
 Hurroo ! ! 
 
 The nation ne'er groan' d for his table, 
 Though he drank rather fast, it is true ; 
 
 Says Bryan, " If my people are able 
 To drink, sure I'll drink whiskey, too. 
 
 An income-tax, then, at each door, 
 
 A pint to each keg he would score, 
 
 "No more. 
 
 Bryan's praise let us sing, <fec. 
 
 'Mongst the darlings of gentle degree 
 He was mighty polite ; and 'twas rather 
 
 Suspected his subjects could see 
 
 Many reasons to call him their father. 
 
 Four days in the year, sometimes six, 
 
 To manoeuvre the boys, he would fix, 
 And their sticks. 
 
 Bryan's praise let us sing, &c. 
 
 With the neighbours most friendly lived he, 
 
 And sighed not his power to increase ; 
 If with Bryan all our kings would agree, 
 
 The world would have comfort and peace I 
 When on high he was called to appear, 
 Sad Dalkey then shed its first tear 
 On his bier. 
 
 For his death let us cry, 
 
 Let us cry, " Arrah, why, 
 Bryney, jewel, och ! why did you die ? 
 Wirrasthrew ! ! !" 
 
278 BUY an o'lynn. 
 
 Bryan's phiz is preserved to this day, 
 
 Hung out o'er a sheebeen-shop door, 
 Where those that are able to pay 
 
 May drink of good whiskey galore. 
 The house is in Tandragee, 
 And it 's kept by one Widow Magee,— 
 D' ye see ? 
 Bryan's praise let us sing, 
 What a jolly good king 
 Was rattling ould Bryan O'Lynn ! 
 Hurroo ! 
 
 The Irish Whiskey-Drinker. 
 
279 
 
 OLD TIME. 
 
 There's a mighty old spirit abroad in the air, 
 
 And his footsteps are visible everywhere. 
 
 He hath been on the mountain, all hoary with years, 
 
 And left it bedew' d in an ocean of tears ; 
 
 He hath clamber' d o'er turret and battlement grey, 
 
 And wrapt them in mantles of silent decay ; 
 
 He hath swept through the forest, and laid at a blow 
 
 The stalwart oak, chief of the leafy tribe, low. 
 
 In art, as in nature, the vast and sublime, 
 
 All speak of the visits of greybeard " Time." 
 
 He 's a skeleton thing, with a countenance grim, 
 
 All toothless his gums, and his eyeballs dim ; 
 
 A two-edged scythe in his lank, boney hand, 
 
 His scutcheon 's a hatchment, and glass ebbing sand ; 
 
 With tiar of jewels, worm-eaten and black, 
 
 And arrows armipotent slung at his back ; 
 
 He leaps with the lightning, and mounts with the wind, 
 
 Destroying and scattering before and behind ; 
 
 The sun-dial's shadow, and old abbey's chime, 
 
 Denote, with a warning, the mission of " Time" 
 
280 
 
 OLD TIME. 
 
 He roameth, unwearied, by night and by day, 
 
 A daring old foot-pad, still tracking onr way ; 
 
 He feareth no dungeon, no judicial fate, 
 
 But plund'reth alike from the beggar' d and great ; 
 
 He nestleth with youth in its valley of flowers, 
 
 And sporteth with love through the eagle- wing' d hours ; 
 
 But the bald-pated laird and the tremulous knee 
 
 The most he delighteth with ever to be ; 
 
 While the wounded in heart, and the deepest in crime, 
 
 Beg a call from the mighty physician, old " Time." 
 
 He mindeth the traffic both early and late, 
 
 That lineth the road to eternity's gate, 
 
 And passeth none by, shod with earth's clayey mire, 
 
 But he taketh the body as toll for his hire. 
 
 The grandee may sit in his richly-carved chair, 
 
 And the life's blood of insects indignantly wear, — 
 
 And the monarch may rule as a god on his throne, 
 
 O'er the leasehold of " ashes" he maketh his own ; 
 
 But the spoiler at last round their strongholds will climb, 
 
 And " six feet of earth" be the conquest of " Time." 
 
 George Linnaeus Banks. 
 
281 
 
 THE NORMAN PEASANT'S HYMN TO THE 
 VIRGIN. 
 
 Hope of the faithful ! behold us now bending, 
 
 Submissive, contrite, at thy footstool of love ; 
 The tears of thy children repentant are blending, 
 Oh ! plead for their help in thy kingdom above ! 
 Thou canst each bosom see, 
 May it more sinless be, 
 Ave Maria, 
 To glorify thee ! 
 
 We are defenceless without thy protection, 
 
 To watch o'er our night, and to shield us by day ; 
 And 'tis to the warmth of thy care and affection 
 
 Our thoughts are more hallow'd, our feet less astray. 
 Thou canst each bosom see, 
 May it more sinless be, 
 Ave Maria, 
 To glorify thee ! 
 
 Be thou our comfort, when shaded by sorrow, 
 Eor weak are the tendrils we cling to below ; 
 
282 HYMN TO THE VIRGIN. 
 
 As night is subdued in the dawn of a morrow. 
 
 Illume with thy brightness the depths of our woe ! 
 Thou canst each bosom see, 
 May it more sinless be, 
 Ave Maria, 
 To glorify thee ! 
 
 Through the dim valley our vespers are pealing, 
 
 Borne on the winds to a sunnier sphere ; 
 While yon star that lonely the skies are revealing 
 Doth tell in its beaming thou hearest our prayer. 
 Thou canst each bosom see, 
 May it more sinless be, 
 Ave Maria, 
 To glorify thee ! 
 
 William Jones. 
 
THE QUIET HOUR. 
 
 Listen, listen! sounds are stealing 
 
 Tiptoe on the balmy air ; 
 Eve, her rainbow robe revealing, 
 Blushes through the twilight fair ; 
 Whilst dreamy voices, touch'd with Pleasure's pain, 
 Hum their sweet incense through the yearning brain. 
 
 Listen, listen ! hearts are beating 
 
 To a soft yet dulcet tone ; 
 Speak not — breathe not, — eyes are meeting, 
 Eich in light as Jewell' d zone : 
 Echo enchanted sleeps — the fragrant breeze 
 Just fans the leaflets on the em'rald trees. 
 
 Listen, listen ! streams are singing 
 
 Down amid the amber glade ; 
 Fairies perfumed bells are ringing, 
 
 The night-bird trills from out the shade. 
 Shall not our silent souls awake to move 
 In unison, when all around is love ? 
 
 T. J. OUSELEY. 
 
2S4 
 
 THE CHRISTENING OF HER EOYAL HIGHNESS 
 THE PRINCESS ALICE MAUDE. 
 
 Molly, my dear, did you ever hear 
 
 The likes of me from Cork to Dover ? 
 The girls all love me far and near, 
 
 They 're mad in love with " Pat the Rover." 
 
 Molly Machree, you didn't see 
 
 The Princess Ailleen's royal christening; 
 
 You '11 hear it every word from me, 
 If you '11 be only after listening. 
 
 To see the mighty grand affair 
 The Quality got invitations ; 
 
 And wasn't I myself just there, 
 
 With half-a-dozen blood relations ? 
 
 Molly, my dear, &c. 
 
 What lots of Ladies curtsied in, 
 
 And Peers all powdhered free an aisy ! 
 Miss Biddy Maginn, and Bryan O'Lynn, 
 
 Katty Neil, and bould Corporal Casey. 
 Lord Clarendine, and Lord G-landine, 
 
 Each buckled to a Maid of Honour, 
 The Queen of Spain, and Lord Castlemaine ; 
 
 The Queen of Prance, and King O'Connor, 
 Molly, my dear, &c. 
 
CHRISTENING OF THE PRINCESS ALICE, 285 
 
 There was no lack, you may be sure, 
 
 Of writers, and of rhetoricians, 
 Of Whigs and Tories, rich and poor, 
 
 Priests, patriots, and politicians. 
 The next came in was Father Prout, 
 
 With a fine ould dame from the Tunbridge waters, 
 And Dan O'Connell, bould and stout, 
 
 Led in Eebecca and her Daughters. 
 
 Molly, my dear, &c. 
 
 Some came in pairs, some came in chairs, 
 
 Prom foreign parts, and parts adjacent ! 
 " Ochone ! Pm alone !" says the Widow Malone, 
 
 " Is there nobody here to do the day cent ?" 
 There was Peggy O'Hara, from Cunnemara, 
 
 And who her beau was I couldn't tell, sir ; 
 But the Duke of Buccleuch danced with Molly Carew, 
 
 And Paddy from Cork with Fanny Ellsler ! 
 Molly, my dear, &c. 
 
 We every one sat down to tay : 
 
 The toast and muffins flew like winking ; 
 Before or since that blessed day 
 
 I never saw such eating and drinking. 
 We had pigeon-pies, and puddings likewise ; 
 
 We walk'd into the pastries after ; 
 We 'd D'Arcy's whiskey, and Gruinness's stout, 
 
 Impayrial pop, and soda-water ! 
 
 Molly, my dear, &c. 
 
 And when there was no more to sup, 
 
 The Prince cried, " Piper, rouse your chanter !" 
 
 The band of blind fiddlers then struck up, 
 And scraped " G-od save the Queen" instanter. 
 
286 CHRISTENING OF THE PRINCESS ALICE. 
 
 Her Majesty she danced, d' ye see, 
 
 An Irish hornpipe with Sir Bobby ; 
 We piled the chairs upon the stairs, 
 
 And pitch'd the tables on the lobby. 
 
 Molly, my dear, &c. 
 
 The clargy then at last came in — 
 
 Says he, " Ladies and gentlemen, will ye 's all be 
 sayted ?" 
 " Faith," says I, " I wish you'd soon begin ; 
 
 I long to see the job complayted." 
 And soon it was. The young Princess 
 
 Was stood for by my gossip's daughter ; 
 And didn't Father Mathew bless, 
 And sprinkle her with holy water ? 
 
 Molly, my dear, <fec. 
 
 The Irish Whiskey-Drinker. 
 
287 
 
 A LYRIC FOR CHRISTMAS. 
 
 Winter has resumed his reign ; 
 Snow envelopes hill and plain ; 
 Sleep the summer flowers in earth, 
 And the birds refrain from mirth: 
 Yet mirth lightens every eye j 
 Every pulse is beating high ; 
 Gladness smiles in cot and hall, 
 Like a winsome dame on all, 
 And the church-bells sweetly chime,—- 
 'Tis the merry Christmas time. 
 
 From the holly-tree be brought 
 Boughs with ruby berries fraught ; 
 Search the grey oak high and low 
 For the mystic misletoe ; 
 Bid the ivy loose her rings 
 That round rock or ruin clings ; 
 Deck the shrine with foliage green ; 
 In each house be verdure seen, 
 Just as earth were in her prime, — 
 'Tis the cheerful Christmas time. 
 
288 A LYRIC FOS, CHRISTMAS, 
 
 Pile the board with viands rare, 
 
 Savoury dishes — hearty fare ; 
 Brawn of boar, and capon good, 
 Fowls from river, marsh, and wood ; 
 Partridge plump, and pheasant wild, 
 Teal and duck by art beguiled ; 
 Bid the huge sirloin smoke nigh, 
 Luscious pastry, fruit- stored pie, 
 Fruit that grew in Eastern clime,— 
 'Tis the festal Christmas time. 
 
 Quickly broach the oldest cask, 
 Bring the goblet, bring the flask ; 
 Ale of England, wine from Spain, 
 Rhenish vintage, choice champagne : 
 Fill as wont the wassail bowl, 
 Let it round the circle trowl ; 
 Whilst the yule-fire blazes bright, 
 Whilst the yule-torch lends its light, 
 Till we hear the morning chime — 
 'Tis the joyful Christmas time. 
 
 Feed the hungry, clothe the poor, 
 Chide no wanderer from the door ; 
 Bounteous give, with thankful mind, 
 To the wretched of mankind. 
 This day throws the barrier down, 
 'Twixt the noble and the clown ; 
 For an equal share have all 
 In its blessed festival, 
 Of each colour, class, and clime, — 
 'Tis the holy Christmas time. 
 
A LYRIC FOE CHRISTMAS. 
 
 As our fathers used of old 
 Still the solemn rites we hold, 
 And with season-hallow'd mirth 
 Celebrate our Saviour's birth, 
 Chaunt those ancient carols well 
 That the wondrous story tell ; 
 Call the jocund masquers in ; 
 Bid the dancers' sport begin. 
 Blameless tale and cheerful song 
 Shall our merriment prolong, 
 Whilst around the church-bells chime 
 For the solemn Christmas time. 
 
 W. G. J. Barker. 
 
290 
 
 THE GENIUS OF THEOCEITTJS. 
 
 " And with a tale, forsooth, he cometh to you — with a tale which 
 holdeth children from play, and old men from the chimney corner." 
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 Theocritus ! Theocritus ! ah ! thou had'st pleasant 
 
 dreams, 
 Of the crystal spring Burinna, and the Haleus' murm'ring 
 
 streams ; 
 Of Physcus, and Neaethus, and fair Aretliusa's fount, 
 Of Lacinion's beetling crag, and Latymnus' woody mount ; 
 Of the fretted rocks and antres hoar that overhang the 
 
 sea, 
 And the sapphire sky and thymy plains of ihj own sweet 
 
 Sicily ; 
 And of the nymphs of Sicily, that dwelt in oak and pine — 
 Theocritus! Theocritus! what pleasant dreams were 
 
 thine ! 
 
 And of the merry rustics who tend the goats and sheep, 
 And the maids who trip to milk the cows at morning's 
 
 dewy peep, 
 Of Clearista with her locks of brightest sunny hair, 
 And the saucy girl Eunica, and sweet Chloe kind and 
 
 fair ; 
 
THE GENIUS OP THEOCRITUS. 201 
 
 And of those highly favoured ones, Endymion and Adonis, 
 Loved by Selena the divine, and the beauteous Dionis ; 
 Of the silky-haired capella, and the gentle lowing kine — 
 Theocritus ! Theocritus ! what pleasant dreams were 
 thine ! 
 
 Of the spring time, and the summer, and the zephyr's 
 balmy breeze ; 
 
 Of the dainty flowers, and waving elms, and the yellow 
 humming bees ; 
 
 Of the rustling poplar and the oak, the tamarisk and the 
 beech, 
 
 The dogrose and anemone, — thou had'st a dream of each ! 
 
 Of the galingale and hyacinth, and the lily's snowy hue, 
 
 The couch-grass, and green maiden-hair, and celandine 
 pale blue, 
 
 The gold-bedropt cassidony, the fern, and sweet wood- 
 bine — 
 
 Theocritus ! Theocritus ! what pleasant dreams were 
 thine ! 
 
 Of the merry harvest-home, all beneath the good green 
 
 tree, 
 The poppies and the spikes of corn, the shouting and the 
 
 glee 
 Of the lads so blithe and healthy, and the girls so gay 
 
 and neat. 
 And the dance they lead around the tree with ever 
 
 twinkling feet ; 
 And the bushy piles of lentisk to rest the aching brow, 
 And reach and pluck the damson down from the overladen 
 
 bough, 
 
 u 2 
 
292 THE GENIUS OF THEOCRITUS. 
 
 And munch the roasted bean at ease, and quaff the 
 
 Ptelean wine — 
 Theocritus ! Theocritus ! what pleasant dreams were 
 
 thine ! 
 
 And higher dreams were thine to dream — of Heracles 
 
 the brave, 
 And Polydenkes good at need, and Castor strong to 
 
 save; 
 Of Dionysus and the woe he wrought the Theban king ; 
 And of Zeus the mighty centre of Olympus' glittering 
 
 ring; 
 Of Tiresias, the blind old man, the famed Aonian seer ; 
 Of Hecate, and Cthonian Dis, whom all mankind revere ; 
 And of Daphnis lying down to die beneath the leafy 
 
 vine — 
 Theocritus ! Theocritus ! what pleasant dreams were 
 
 thine ! 
 
 But mostly sweet and soft thy dreams — of Cypris' loving 
 
 kiss, 
 Of the dark-haired maids of Corinth, and the feasts of 
 
 Sybaris ; 
 Of alabaster vases of Assyrian perfume, 
 Of ebony, and gold, and pomp, and softly-curtained 
 
 room; 
 Of Faunus piping in the woods to the Satyrs' noisy rout, 
 And the saucy Panisks mocking him with many a jeer 
 
 and flout ; 
 And of the tender-footed Hours, and Pieria's tuneful 
 
 Nine — 
 Theocritus ! Theocritus ! what pleasant dreams were 
 
 thine! 
 
293 
 
 TO THE SPIRIT OF THE FLOWERS. 
 
 Spirit of floral beauty ! where 
 
 Hast thou thy dwelling ? In the air ? 
 
 Or in some flow'ret's cell ? 
 Or lingerest thou in leafy bed, 
 Where the young violet droops its head, 
 Which on the breeze such fragrance shed, 
 
 Or in the lily's bell ? 
 
 Speak, fairy spirit ! is thy form 
 With life instinct, with feeling warm ? 
 
 Or has all-bounteous heaven 
 A dewy essence from on high, 
 Invisible to mortal eye, 
 Yet sweeter than the west wind's sigh, 
 
 To human weakness given ? 
 
 Ah no ! for angels loudly sung, 
 
 When first thy beauty's rays were flung 
 
 On Eden's sinless bowers ; 
 For in those joyous primal days 
 Both earth and heaven were join'd to raise 
 One universal hymn of praise, 
 
 As sprung the laughing flowers I 
 
294 TO THE SPIRIT OF THE FLOWERS. 
 
 When morn, with golden sandall'd feet, 
 Conies forth, the dewy earth to greet, 
 
 Thou floatest swift along, 
 And, by a sunbeam borne on high, 
 Careerest through the rosy sky, 
 Unmindful of the tempest nigh, 
 
 To join the lark's sweet song ! 
 
 Then through the long sweet summer hour 
 Thou wantonest from flower to flower, 
 
 Unwearied as the bee ; 
 The nectar' d honey- drops which dwell 
 Within the fair narcissus' bell, 
 Or in the woodbine's fragrant cell, 
 
 He gladly shares with thee ! 
 
 If chill the breeze of evening blows, 
 Thy form is folded in the rose, 
 
 And through the livelong night, 
 On silken couch of beauty rare, 
 Curtain' d with crimson drapery fair, 
 Secure from harm thou slumberest there, 
 
 'Mid dreams of soft delight. 
 
 Bright spirit ! from my childhood's hour 
 A secret spell of soothing power 
 
 Thou laid'st upon my heart ; 
 And now that in maturer life 
 The storm and tempest still are rife, 
 And never-ending seems the strife, 
 
 I could not say, " Depart !" 
 
TO THE SPIRIT OP THE FLOWERS. 295 
 
 I woo'd thee in the sylvan glade, 
 Were hawthorn sweet a temple made 
 
 For such as loved the spot, 
 And in the garden's trim retreat, 
 And by the winding hedge-row sweet, 
 "Were carpet sprung beneath my feet 
 
 Of blue " Forget-me-not." 
 
 And when the mighty forest-trees 
 Were bending in the autumn breeze, 
 
 Oh ! then in greenhouse fair, 
 A cherish' d and a favour' d guest, 
 'Mid courtly beauties gaily drest, 
 In azure zone or crimson vest, 
 
 Fair queen ! I sought thee there ! 
 
 And thou cans't hallow'd feelings bring, 
 And softest recollections fling 
 
 O'er pensive memory. 
 The rose-buds, stain' d with many a tear, 
 I laid upon each little bier 
 Of some, the beautiful, the dear, 
 
 Too early lost to me ! 
 
 Oh ! evermore in rural dell, 
 In flow'ry grot, in mossy cell, 
 
 Wherever springs a flower, 
 An altar will I raise to thee, 
 And faithful bend a willing knee 
 At shrine of thy divinity, 
 
 And own thy mystic power I 
 
 H, B. K. 
 
296 
 
 
 A MERRY AXD MARVELLOUS DITTY ON THE 
 MOUNTAIN DEW. 
 
 Whiskey — drink divine ! 
 
 Why should driv'llers bore us 
 With the praise of wine, 
 
 Whilst we 've thee before ns ? 
 Were it not a shame, 
 
 Whilst we gaily fling thee 
 To our lips of flame, 
 
 If we would not sing thee ! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Whiskey — drink divine ! 
 
 Why should driv'llers bore us 
 With the praise of wine, 
 
 Whilst we 've thee before us ? 
 
 Greek and Roman sung 
 
 Chian and Falernian ; 
 Shall no harp be strung 
 
 To thy praise Hibernian ? 
 Yes ; let Erin's sons, 
 
 Generous, brave, and frisky, 
 Tell the world at once 
 
 They owe it to their whiskey ! 
 Whiskey — drink divine ! &c. 
 
297 
 
 AD EOEEM MONTANUM. DITHYEAMBTTS 
 
 Vit^j Eos divine ! 
 
 Yinum quis laudaret 
 Te prsesente — quis 
 
 Palmam Yino daret ? 
 Proh pudor ! immemores 
 
 Tui, dum te libamus, 
 Ore flammato tuos 
 
 Honores non canamus ? 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Yitae Eos divine ! 
 
 Yinum quis laudaret 
 Te prsesente — quis 
 
 Palmam vino daret ? 
 
 Yeteres Falernum 
 
 Chiumque laudavere; 
 De te nefas filios 
 
 Hibernice silere! 
 Nam fortes et protervi 
 
 Hibernice habentur ; 
 Tibique lias virtutes 
 
 Debere confitentur. 
 
 Yitse Eos divine ! &c 
 
298 A MERRY AND MARVELLOUS DITTY 
 
 If Anacreon, who 
 
 Was the grapes' best poet, 
 Drank the Mountain Dew, 
 
 How his verse would show it ! 
 As the best then known, 
 
 He to wine was civil ; 
 Had he Innishowen 
 
 He 'd pitch wine to the divil ! 
 
 Whiskey — drink divine! &c. 
 
 Bright as Beauty's eye 
 
 When no sorrow veils it ; 
 Sweet as Beauty's sigh 
 
 When Young Love inhales it ; 
 Come thou, to my lip ! 
 
 Come, oh, rich in blisses ! 
 Every drop I sip 
 
 Seems a shower of kisses ! 
 
 Whiskey — drink divine ! &c 
 
 Could my feeble lays 
 
 Half thy virtues number, 
 A whole grove of bays 
 
 Should my brows encumber. 
 Be his name adored 
 
 Who summ'd up thy merits 
 In one little word; v 
 
 When he called thee " sperrits !" 
 Whiskey — drink divine ! &c. 
 
 Send it gaily round ; 
 
 Life would be no pleasure 
 If we had not found 
 
 This immortal treasure. 
 
ON THE MOUNTAIN DEW. 299 
 
 Teius Lysei 
 
 Cecinit honorem ; 
 Cecinisset dulcius 
 
 Montanmn ille Eorem ! 
 
 HOKDEARIUTM si 
 
 Forte libavisset ! 
 Ad inferos Lyaeum, 
 Anacreon misisset ! 
 
 Yitse Eos divine ! &c 
 
 Clarior ocello 
 
 Yeneris ridente ; 
 Suavior suspirio, 
 
 Cupidine praesente ! 
 Liceat beatis 
 
 Te labris applicare, 
 Imbrem et basiorum 
 
 Guttatim delibare ! 
 
 Yitse Eos divine ! &e. 
 
 Versibus pusillis 
 
 Si satis te laudarem, 
 Lauro Apollinari 
 
 Haec tempora celarem. 
 Faustus ille semper 
 
 Sit, et honoratus, 
 A quo " sfiritus" tu 
 
 Meritb vocatus ! 
 
 Yitse Eos divine ! &c. 
 
 Ordine potemus 
 
 Festivo recumbentes, 
 ur vivere optenms 
 Hoc munere egentes ? 
 
300 A MERRY AND MARVELLOUS DITTY 
 
 And when tyrant Death's 
 
 Arrows shall transfix yon, 
 Let yonr latest breaths 
 
 Be " Whiskey ! whiskey ! ! whiskey ! ! !" 
 
 CHORTJS. 
 
 Whiskey — drink divine ! 
 
 Why should driv'llers bore us 
 With the praise of wine, 
 
 Whilst we 've thee before ns ? 
 
 The Irish Whiskey-Drinker. 
 
ON THE MOUNTAIN DEW. 301 
 
 Cum te Libitina 
 
 Telo vulnerabit, 
 " Nectar ! Nectar !" spiritus 
 
 Deficiens clamabit I 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Vitse Eos divine ! 
 
 Vinum quis laudaret 
 Te prsesente — quis 
 
 Palmam vino daret ? 
 
3C2 
 
 EjTOUEANCE. 
 
 FROM THE PROM VINC. OF ^ESCHYLTJtt. 
 
 Oh ! air divine, 
 Breezes of fleetest wing ! 
 
 Oil fountains clear, 
 When pearly rivers spring ; 
 . "Waves of the sea ! 
 Whose conntless twinklings tell of mirth ; 
 
 And thon benign 
 Parent of all, — dear mother earth ! 
 Thou full-orb'd sun ! 
 That shinest on 
 Whate'er thoughout the world hath birth ; 
 On you I call — behold ! and see 
 What evils I, Divinity, 
 
 From Deity must bear ; 
 Oh ! see me mock'd with bitter scorn, 
 Oh ! see me by rude insults torn, 
 And rackt by sleepless care. 
 For years on years no changes I shall see, 
 
 For years on years shall strive against my fate ; 
 So hard the chain that has been forged for me, 
 By heaven's new tyrant's unrelenting hate. 
 
ENDURANCE. 303 
 
 All me ! I mourn the evils of to-day, 
 
 I weep the perils of my future years ! 
 The goals of sorrow, tell me, where are they ? 
 When will be dried the fountain of my tears ? 
 What say I ? for my future doom 
 Too well I know. No ill can come 
 Unknown to me. Oh ! then, as best I may, 
 
 I'll learn with firm, resigned soul, 
 My lot to bear. There has been found no way 
 Whereby to shun necessity's control. 
 
 Eev. W. B. Flower, B.A. 
 
304 
 
 SPBING. 
 
 A RELIC OP PROVENCAL LITERATURE. 
 
 Angelic choirs in upper air chaunt with their golden 
 
 tongues 
 The praises of that mighty king to whom the world 
 
 belongs ; 
 "Who bade the stars to shine in heaven ; who severed land 
 
 from sea ; 
 Who gave the fishes to the deep, the cattle to the lea. 
 The beauteous Spring begins its reign ; the woods are in 
 
 their bloom ; 
 The verdant trees put forth their leaves, the flowrets shed 
 
 perfume ; 
 The birds commence their twittering songs, and of the 
 
 feather' d crowd, 
 The smallest has the notes that are the sweetest and most 
 
 loud. 
 T Tis Philomel, who in the grove has sought the highest 
 
 spray, 
 And thence pours forth sweet melody from eve to dawn 
 
 of day. 
 Ah, gentle bird ! incessantly why dost thou thus bewail ? 
 Wouldst quell the sounds of lyre and harp by thy more 
 
 plaintive tale ? 
 
SPUING. 305 
 
 The maid who strikes the timbrel stops to lend a willing 
 
 ear, 
 And princes in attention stand thy thrilling song to hear. 
 Cease, gentle bird, to strain thy throat with notes so 
 
 wild and deep, 
 And let the weary world at last resign itself to sleep. 
 Ah ! wretched bird, thou wilt not cease, but through the 
 
 livelong night, 
 Neglecting food, wilt persevere the listeners to delight. 
 All hear with joy, but in return none succour will afford, 
 Save He who gave the power of song, the all-preserving 
 
 Lord. 
 But summer comes, the bird is hush'd, by parent's care 
 
 engross* d, 
 Forgotten then, unknown he dies by chill of winter's 
 
 frost. 
 
 W. C. Taylor. 
 
306 
 
 SONNET FEOM PETEAKCH. 
 
 TRANSLATED BY LADY NUGENT. 
 
 I go lamenting o'er my days past by, 
 Those days consumed in love of mortal thing, 
 Without attempt to mount, I having wing 
 Perchance to soar and give example high. 
 Thou, who dost see my deep iniquity, 
 Invisible, immortal, heavenly King, 
 Aid the frail soul in her wild wandering, 
 In what defective form thy grace supply ; 
 So I, with strife and storm wont to contend, 
 May thus in peace and haven die. I see 
 How vain the past, yet blameless be the end ; 
 O'er that short span of life now left for me, 
 And at its close, thy saving hand extend — 
 Thou know'st I have no hope in aught but Thee. 
 
307 
 
 OWED TO MY CEEDITOES. 
 
 In vain I lament what is past, 
 
 And pity their woe-begone looks ; 
 Though they grin at the credit they gave, 
 
 I know I am in their best books. 
 To my tailor my breaches of faith, 
 
 On my conscience now but lightly sit, 
 For such lengths in his measures he's gone, 
 
 He has given me many a fit. 
 My bootmaker finding at last, 
 
 That my soul was too stubborn to suit, 
 Waxed wroth when he found he had got 
 
 Anything but the length of my foot. 
 My hatmaker cunningly felt 
 
 He'd seen many like me before, 
 So brimful of insolence, vowed 
 
 On credit he'd crown me no more. 
 My baker was crusty, and burnt, 
 
 When he found himself quite overdone, 
 By a, fancy -bred chap like myself — 
 
 Ay, as cross as a Good-Friday's bun. 
 Next my laundress, who washed pretty clean, 
 
 In behaviour was dirty and bad ; 
 For into hot water she popp'd 
 
 All the shirts and the dickies I had. 
 x 2 
 
308 OWED TO MY CREDITOES. 
 
 Then my butcher who'd little at stake, 
 
 Most surlily opened his chops, 
 And swore my affairs out of joint, 
 
 So on to my carcase he pops. 
 In my lodgings exceedingly high, 
 
 Though low in the rent to be sure. 
 Without warning my landlady seized, 
 
 Took my things, and the key of the door. 
 Thus cruelly used by the world, 
 
 In the Bench I can smile at its hate ; 
 For a time I must alter my stile, 
 
 For I cannot get out of the Grate. 
 
 Alfred Crowciuill. 
 
309 
 
 FAREWELL WINDS AND WINTRY WEATHER! 
 
 Farewell winds and wintry weather ! 
 
 Mistress, let us go together 
 
 Forth into the fields, and pay 
 
 Due observance unto May. 
 
 On the breezy hills we go ; 
 
 For once no daily care shall find us j 
 
 Where the city sleeps below, 
 
 Wear and tear we leave behind us. 
 
 Stretch' d upon the springing grass, 
 
 Lazily the day we'll pass, 
 
 And, with half-shut, dreamy eye, 
 
 Look upon the cloudless sky ; 
 
 Or along the river side, 
 
 Through its silent meadows strolling, 
 
 Moralize till eventide, 
 
 As we mark its waters rolling. 
 
 If beneath a bank they flow, 
 Where the lowly spring-flowers blow, 
 While o'er head the eglantine 
 And the clustering maythorn twine, 
 
310 FAREWELL WINDS AND WINTRY WEATHER. 
 
 On whose sprays the wind doth breathe, 
 Lover-like, with soft caresses, 
 There we'll linger while I wreathe 
 Garlands for thy sunny tresses. 
 
 And I '11 sing thee many a rhyme, 
 Framed in honour of the time ; 
 Or in thought I '11 Arcite be ; 
 Thou a fairer Emilie. 
 Or I '11 crown thee Queen of May, 
 Though no village maids, advancing, 
 Greet thee with their joyous lay, 
 Or are round the May-pole dancing. 
 
 Thus in olden time they paid 
 Homage to the bounteous Spring, 
 And reviving Nature made 
 The object of their worshipping ; 
 Thus they met her earliest smile, 
 Glad and thankful welcome giving, 
 And forgot life's load awhile, 
 In the mere delight of living. 
 
 The Irish Whiskey-Drinker. 
 
311 
 
 EOEGET ME NOT ! 
 
 Come, Herman, soothe this hour of sadness, 
 
 Come to thy Bertha's throbbing breast, 
 The breast which Love once filled with gladness 
 
 Is now with darkest woes oppressed. 
 Too rapidly the moments stealing 
 
 Demand obedience to thy lot, 
 Yet, ere the final hour is pealing, 
 
 Receive my prayer, Eorget me not ! 
 
 No breast can ever love thee fonder ! 
 
 Eorget not, then, thy faithful maid, 
 Who oft from home and friends wonld wander, 
 
 To seek with thee the silent shade. 
 These eyes from thine would rapture borrow, 
 
 No cloud then dimmed my happy lot ; 
 But now my voice oppressed with sorrow, 
 
 Can scarcely breathe, Eorget me not ! 
 
 This burning kiss shall be a token 
 
 That years thy form shall ne'er efface ; 
 Those solemn vows our lips have spoken 
 
 Are sealed in this, our last embrace. 
 But, see ! the emblem flow'rets wither 
 
 That bloomed beneath my lowly cot ; 
 And they, till thou returnest hither, 
 
 Shall whisper still, Eorget me not ! 
 
312 FORGET ME NOT ! 
 
 When shadowy branches wave before me, 
 
 When murmuring zephyrs charm my ear, 
 Thy faithful form shall hover o'er me, 
 
 And memory wake the silent tear. 
 Ah ! then from yonder verdant willow — 
 
 Our names record the sacred spot, — 
 The breeze shall waft across the billow 
 
 My earnest prayer, Forget me not ! 
 
 Ah ! silent then yon weeping fountain, 
 
 Ah ! scentless then the flow'ret's bloom ; 
 Dark shades will hang o'er vale and mountain, 
 
 And heaven itself be wrapped in gloom. 
 The birds will greet the blushing morrow — 
 
 Their amorous joyful notes forgot, 
 With tones that breathe in fruitless sorrow 
 
 The longing wish, Forget me not ! 
 
 When magic strains are round thee breathing, 
 
 Ah ! think on her who loves thee yet, 
 Though fairer maids thy flow'rets wreathing, 
 
 May tempt thy spirit to forget. 
 May her afflictions never sadden, 
 
 Her tears ne'er dim thy brighter lot ; 
 Yet 'mid the joys thy manhood gladden, 
 
 Thou happier one, Forget me not ! 
 
313 
 
 THE HEART'S MISGIVINGS. 
 
 LINES ON THE PICTURE BY FRANK STQNJfc, 
 
 There's a languor in the air, 
 
 And a stillness all around, 
 The landscape wide and fair 
 
 Is in dreamy silence drown'd 
 The sky is blue and bright, 
 
 And all is fair to see : 
 But the maiden sigheth sadly, 
 
 " Ah ! he careth not for me I" 
 
 The royal sun goes down 
 
 Like a bridegroom to his bower, 
 Flash from his golden crown 
 
 Bright beams on tree and tower ; 
 But that scene of summer splendour, 
 
 Though so beautiful to see, 
 She heeds not, but sighs sadly, 
 
 " Ah ! he careth not for me !" 
 
 Like as snow her forehead white, 
 Dark her hair as raven's wing, 
 
 Bright her eyes as stars of light, 
 Sweet her lips as flowers of spring: 
 
314 the heart's misgivings. 
 
 Quick her breathing heaves her bosom, 
 Like the throbbings of the sea, 
 
 And she sighs again more sadly, 
 " Ah ! he careth not for me !" 
 
 Against the old stone wall 
 
 She leans with clasped hands, 
 Nought to her that castled hall, 
 
 Nought to her these wide-spread lands ; 
 For on the youth that 's near her 
 
 She gazes fixedly ; 
 But she sighs, and thinketh sadly, 
 
 " Ah ! he careth not for me !" 
 
 He sits, while she doth stand, — 
 
 He laughs, her eyes grow dim, 
 He sees that only on his hand, 
 
 She sees but only him : — 
 A hawk is on his hand, 
 
 And a dog is at his knee, 
 And the maiden sigheth sadly, 
 
 " Ah ! he careth not for me I" 
 
 " No ! he careth not for me, 
 
 Though my heart is all his own ; 
 Since I saw him ne'er 'twas free, 
 
 And 'tis his, and his alone ! 
 'Tis no slight thing or unstable, 
 
 'Tis no trifle that I've given ! 
 For my life to him I 've trusted, 
 
 And he is now my heaven ! 
 
the heart's misgivings. 31-5 
 
 " Pure as that sky above, 
 
 With not a cloud to dim, 
 Is the pure and holy love 
 
 That I have shrined in him ; 
 But he laughs whene'er I tell him 
 
 That like this my love can be." 
 And once more she sighed sadly, 
 
 " Ah ! he careth not for me I" 
 
 " Oh ! he little thinks the anguish 
 
 His unconcern can bring, 
 Or deems the heart can languish 
 
 In life's first early spring, 
 But thinks that merry girlhood 
 
 Must ever thoughtless be." 
 And again she sighed sadly, 
 
 " Ah ! he careth not for me !" 
 
 " When he speaks mine eyes do glisten, 
 
 And I feel a burning glow 
 Come o'er me as I listen 
 
 To the voice so well I know. 
 When he comes I know his footstep, 
 
 And I thrill with ecstacy ! 
 But" — she paused, and sighed sadly, 
 
 " He careth not for me !" 
 
 " No ! his hound, his steed, his bird, 
 
 To him are dearer far, 
 And no reproachful word 
 
 Shall his youthful pleasures mar. 
 
316 the heart's misgivings. 
 
 Yes ! these my heart's misgivings 
 Shall not damp his happy glee" — 
 
 But the maiden sighed sadly, 
 " Ah ! would he 'd care for me !" 
 
 Down went the royal sun, . 
 
 And the purple twilight came, 
 And the stars rose one by one, 
 
 Still the maiden gazed the same ! 
 But unmoved by twilight hour, 
 
 That " hour of love," was he, 
 And the maiden sighed sadly, 
 
 " Ah ! he careth not for me !" 
 
 There 's a languor in the air, 
 
 All around 's in dreamy rest, 
 And love is everywhere 
 
 Save in his youthful breast : 
 More entranced with his hawk 
 
 Than that maiden fair is he, 
 And her heart's misgiving is, 
 
 " Ah ! he careth not for me !" 
 
 CUTHBERT Bp.DE. 
 
317 
 
 IRENE OF SESTOS. 
 
 THE EAGLE. 
 I. 
 
 Calmly the dewy moonbeams sleep 
 Where Helle's restless billows sweep 
 Bound Sestos' height ; the sky is clear, 
 And o'er that scene to love so dear 
 Broods silence, save for the low plash 
 Caused by the waters as they dash 
 Against the rocks with trembling motion, 
 Making soft music o'er old ocean. 
 Eich odours float upon the air 
 From groves of limes and citrons rare ; 
 And all the flowers asleep that lie 
 Send up sweet incense to the sky, 
 Whence many a planet's lambent glow 
 Showers influence o'er the world below. 
 
 ii. 
 
 It is a spot from eldest time 
 In song renown' d through eastern clime, 
 Since Helle in her blooming age, 
 Flying to 'scape unnatural rage, 
 
318 IRENE OP SESTOS. 
 
 Found 'neath those waves her destined grave, 
 
 And to the strait a title gave. 
 
 And sadder still the interest thrown, 
 
 O'er sea and land, o'er cliff and stone, 
 
 By young Leander's fate, who died 
 
 Love's martyr in the storm-lash' d tide ; 
 
 And her's who, having lit in vain 
 
 Her lamp, to guide through wind and rain 
 
 That hapless youth, beheld him borne 
 
 Lifeless beneath her tower at morn, 
 
 And faithful, chose the same dark doom, 
 
 Sharing alike his death and tomb. 
 
 in. 
 
 Yet not peculiar to that place, 
 
 Its clime serene, and classic race, 
 
 Are the sweet legends minstrels tell 
 
 Of lovers who but loved too well ; 
 
 For every land beneath the sun 
 
 Can boast some tale of marvels done 
 
 By fond affection, — cape and bay, 
 
 Mainland and isle, through Beauty's sway 
 
 Have hallow' d been ; and every clan 
 
 Of the wide scatter' d tribes of man, 
 
 How rude soe'er in all beside, 
 
 Still treasure up with jealous pride 
 
 Traditions sad, for ages kept, 
 
 O'er which long since their fathers wept ; 
 
 Stories of young hearts' deep devotion — 
 
 Love's ardent hopes, and words, and sighs ; 
 That passion pure, whose true emotion 
 
 Never save with existence dies. 
 
IBENE OF SESTOS. 3^9 
 
 IT. 
 
 On Sestos' towers the moonbeams rest, 
 
 Casting a radiance solemn 
 Aronnd each temple's sculptured walls, 
 
 Carved frieze, and polish' d column : 
 The marble statues of the Gods, 
 
 Lit by their silver streaming, 
 Eesemble those celestial forms 
 
 We only see when dreaming. 
 Amid the sombre cypress groves 
 
 The light in circles glances, 
 On Juno's fountain's murmuring stream, 
 
 As if in sport it dances. 
 Not brighter was that radiance shower'd 
 
 When Night, with tardy pinion, 
 Saw Dian watch on Latinos mount 
 
 The wakening of Endymion. 
 
 v. 
 
 Gaze not upon those sacred towers, 
 
 But rather turn, where girt with flowers, 
 
 A mansion stands of modest size, 
 
 Round which the dark green chestnuts rise; 
 
 Against the sky : there, in a room 
 
 Half shaded by the pleasant gloom 
 
 Of vine and clematis that twine 
 
 About its casement, and combine 
 
 Their tendrils sportively ; half lit 
 
 By beams that on its pavement flit 
 
 Like elvish visitants, is laid 
 
 In slumber deep a youthful maid, 
 
320 IRENE OP SESTOS. 
 
 Her ivory arm her rose-cheek pillows, 
 
 That cheek is with a faint blush warm, 
 And floating down in raven billows, 
 
 Her dark hair partly veils her form : 
 Amid its fragrant tresses lie 
 Sea-pearls, and blooms, whence scent and dye 
 Have hardly faded; — though repose 
 Has made those snowy eyelids close 
 On glorious orbs, whose tender light 
 Is as the evening planet bright, 
 Not all-unconscious is she now — 
 A smile illumes both lips and brow — 
 Her bosom heaves — one low- voiced word 
 She speaks, so soft 'tis scarcely heard. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Ah, truant Love ! in sleep revealing 
 
 The tender thoughts that maiden care, 
 Through the long sunshine hours concealing, 
 
 Forbids the dearest friend to share : 
 In dreams thou still dost promise bliss, 
 Titter for brighter worlds than this ; 
 Painting with heaven's ethereal hues 
 The darkest scene thy votary views, 
 And kindling hopes which after-pain 
 Too late will prove were lit in vain. 
 Restraint may be around thee thrown 
 By day, but night is all thy own ; 
 And 'twas thy purest, holiest flame, 
 That, when she murmur'd Cleon's name, 
 Called to Irene's cheek the blush 
 Mantling it yet with roseate flush. 
 
IRENE OP SESTOS. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Has Jove from high Olympus sent 
 
 His own celestial bird 
 To guard the dreaming maiden's rest, 
 
 And whisper some sweet word 
 In her entranced ear ; and keep 
 Fantastic visions from her sleep ? 
 Or did an earthly eyry bear 
 The glorious eagle watching there 
 Beside her couch ? His flashing eyes 
 
 Are partly closed, as if he slept ; 
 And smooth each folded pinion lies, 
 
 That late thro' storms unruffled swept — 
 Smooth as the wood-dove's silver wing- 
 Seen through the pine-bough's shadowing 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Upon a lofty rock of Thrace 
 
 To life that eagle sprung ; 
 A youthful band assail' d the place, 
 Destroy' d the parents of the race, 
 
 And seized their unfledg'd young. 
 One nestling Cleon proudly bare 
 In triumph to Irene fair, 
 And gave ; — love-gifts were prized of old 
 As much when slight as when of gold. 
 The gentle girl right tenderly 
 Nourish' d the helpless bird, for she 
 And Cleon loved ; — besides, the task 
 Was such as maiden care might ask ; 
 Pleased she beheld the white down shed 
 And sprouting plumage deck his head, 
 
IRENE OF SESTOS. 
 
 And saw each callow wing unfold 
 
 Its feathers bright of brown and gold : 
 
 The noble creature well repaid 
 
 The kind affection of the maid ; 
 
 On pinions weak would round her fry, 
 
 Or haste to meet with joyous cry, 
 
 Striving how best he might express 
 
 The love he bore her tenderness • 
 
 And when at length the chase he sought, 
 
 And slew the leveret or the quail, 
 Triumphantly his prize he brought, 
 
 From rocky glen or fertile vale, 
 And laid it at Irene's feet, 
 So offering homage strange but meet. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The maiden joy'd to watch his flight, 
 Upsoaring through the highest clouds, 
 
 As if to him belonged a right 
 
 To pierce the azure veil that shrouds 
 
 The dwellings of the gods from sight, 
 
 And bask amid eternal light. 
 
 A thousand dreams her fancy blended 
 Of bowers and bliss beyond those skies, 
 
 Till mark'd she, as the bird descended, 
 The soften' d glories of his eyes ; 
 
 Whilst downwards through pure ether stooping, 
 
 On wings that scarce her tresses fann'd, 
 
 Closely around his mistress swooping, 
 Beside her he resumed his stand — 
 Folding his pinions — as her hand 
 
 Would smooth each plume, and careful deck 
 
 With favourite flowers his glossy neck ; 
 
IRENE OF SESTOS. 323 
 
 And his mute gestures eloquent 
 
 You well might deem responses meant 
 
 To her caresses. When the sun 
 
 Low in the western main was sinking, — 
 When beasts their lairs, and birds their nests 
 Sought, and the day-blooms dews were drinking — 
 When sweet repose upon her bed 
 Irene wooed, — above her head 
 His wings the eagle always spread, — 
 Like guardian from a better land, 
 An avatar of Heaven's bright band ; 
 And whilst in guiltless dreams she slept, 
 His watch and ward unwearied kept. 
 The tale was bruited, and some few, 
 Who almost more than mortals knew, 
 Said, Jove upon that Eagle had conferr'd 
 High gifts, and deem'd him a celestial bird. 
 
 W. G. J, Barker. 
 
324 
 
 BAIL WAY DACTYLS. 
 
 Here we go off on the " London and Birmingham," 
 
 Bidding adieu to the foggy metropolis ! 
 Staying at home with the dumps, is confirming 'em ;— 
 
 Motion and mirth are a fillip to life. 
 Let us look out ! Is there aught that is see-able ? 
 
 Presto ! — away ! — what a vanishing spectacle ! 
 Well ! on the whole, it is vastly agreeable — 
 
 " Why, sir, perhaps it is all very well," — 
 
 Tricketty, tracketty, tricketty, tracketty! 
 
 " Barring the noise, and the smoke, and the smell.' 
 
 Now, with the company pack'd in the carriages, 
 
 Strange is the medley of voluble Titterings, — 
 Comings and goings, deceases and marriages, — 
 
 Oh, what a clatter of matters is there I 
 History, politics, letters, morality, 
 
 Heraldry, botany, chemistry, cookery, 
 Poetry, physic, the stars, and legality, — 
 
 All in a loud opposition of tongues ! 
 
 Tricketty, tracketty, tricketty, tracketty ! 
 
 Never mind that — it is good for the lungs. 
 
RAILWAY DACTYLS. 825 
 
 " All that 's remarkable, now, we may stir and see ; 
 
 Free circulation — how huge are its benefits !" — 
 " Yet, sir, with all the improvement in currency, 
 
 Great is the dread of a run on the banks." — 
 " Fight with America I Do but the folly see ! 
 
 Since unto both, sir, belongs the same origin." — 
 " What 's your opinion of Peel and his policy ?" — 
 
 " What of the weather ? — and how is the wind ?" 
 Tricketty, tracketty, tricketty, tracketty! 
 
 " Oh ! that that whistle were far off as Ind I" 
 
 On, like a hurricane ! on, like a water-fall ! 
 
 Steam away ! scream away ! hissing and spluttering ! 
 " Madam, beware lest your out-leaning daughter fall !" 
 
 " Yes, sir, I will ; but her life is insured" — 
 " Cobden 's a-coming to mob and to rabble us !" — 
 
 " Zounds ! sir, my corn ! Do ye think I'm of adamant ?"— • 
 " Oh, what an appetite ! Heliogabalus ! 
 
 That little fellow wiU eat himself ill !" 
 
 Tricketty, tracketty, tricketty, tracketty ! 
 
 " When you 're at home again, give him a pill." 
 
 Oh, Mr. Hudson ! Macadam's extinguisher ! 
 
 Men are as boys in the grasp of thy schoolery ! 
 Those who love England can no better thing wish her 
 
 Than to have thee for her Ruler of Lines ! 
 Praised as thy course is, to heighten the fame of it, 
 
 I '31 give you a hint, without fee or expectancy : — 
 Write us a booh — and let this be the name of it, 
 
 " Mail- ways and Snail-ways ; or, Eoads New and Old.' 
 Tricketty, tracketty, tricketty, tracketty! 
 
 Won't such a volume in thousands be sold ? 
 
326 RAILWAY DACTYLS. 
 
 Here we go on again, every link of us ! 
 
 Oh, what a chain ! what a fly-away miracle ! 
 Birds o' the firmament ! what do ye think of us ? 
 
 Minutes ! be steady, as markers of miles ! 
 Well ! of new greatness we now have the germ in us ! 
 
 But the collector, I see, coming hither is. 
 " Ladies and gentlemen — this is the terminus — 
 
 Ticket, sir ! ticket, sir ! — end of the line !" 
 Ricketty, racketty, ricketty, racketty ! 
 
 " Friends of velocity ! now let us dine!" 
 
 G. D. 
 
327 
 
 A GAME AT ST. STEPHEN'S CHAPEL. 
 
 While honest John Bull 
 
 With sorrow brimfull, 
 Lamented his trusty friend Pitt, 
 
 Some sharpers we're told 
 
 In cheating grown old, 
 Thus tried all their talents and wit. 
 
 Let's invite him to play, 
 
 John never says nay, 
 So they ask'd him what game he approv'd ; 
 
 John talk'd of All Fours, 
 
 And Beat the Knave out of Doors, 
 The games of his youth which he lov'd. 
 
 Lord Howick spoke first, 
 
 " In these games I'm not versed, 
 But they surely are old fashioned things, 
 
 The best game entre nous 
 
 Is the good game of Loo, 
 Where knaves get the better of kings." 
 
o28 A GAME AT ST. STEPHENS CHAPEL. 
 
 Sam Whitbread rose next, 
 
 By all Court Cards perplext, 
 Since at his trade they reckon no score ; 
 
 For at Cribbage tis known, 
 
 That by Court Cards alone, 
 You can't make fifteen-two, fifteen-four. 
 
 Then Sheridan rose, 
 
 Saying he should propose, 
 Tho' at all times he played upon tick, 
 
 The good old game of Whist, 
 
 For if honours he miss'd, 
 He was sure to succeed by the triclc. 
 
 Now with blustering voice, 
 
 Tierney roars out " My boys, 
 I approve none of all the selection ; 
 
 "What I recommend 
 
 To myself and my friend, 
 Is to play at the Game of Connection." 
 
 By his master respected, 
 
 But by both sides suspected, 
 Telle est la fortune de la guerre 
 
 Once the minister's ombre 
 
 Now dejected and sombre, 
 The good Sidmouth preferred solitaire. 
 
 Next with perquisites stor'd 
 
 Spoke Temple's good Lord, 
 (Whose wants are supplied by the nation,) 
 
 " From our memory blot 
 
 Pique, Eepique, and Capot, 
 And practice our friend's Speculation." 
 
A GAME AT ST. STEFHEN's CHAPEL. 329 
 
 Lord G-renvillc stood bye 
 
 With considerate eye, 
 Which forbore e'en his thoughts to express ; 
 
 But Wyndham less mute, 
 
 Own'd in each game in each suit, 
 He had play'd without any success. 
 
 " Try again, sir, your skill," 
 
 Says Burdett " at Quadrille, 
 Then some of your friends may ask leave ; 
 
 As for calling a king 
 
 I shall do no such thing, 
 But shall soon play alone, I believe." 
 
 Braced with keen Yorkshire air, 
 
 Young Lord Milton stood near, 
 Who improved in all talents of late, 
 
 Said he feared not success 
 
 In a bold game of chess, 
 And should soon give the king a check mate. 
 
 " Hush," says Grenville, " young man 
 
 I'll whisper my plan, 
 While professing great zeal for the throne, 
 
 We may leave in the lurch 
 
 Both the king and the church, 
 By encouraging slyly Pope Joan." 
 
 In one hand a new dance, 
 
 In the other Finance, 
 To throw on each subject new light ; 
 
 Young Petty appeared 
 
 And begg'd to be heard, 
 In settling the game of the night. 
 
330 A GAME AT ST. STEPHEN'S CHAPEL. 
 
 " Cassiiio," he cries, 
 
 " Sure of all games supplies 
 Amusement unblended with strife, 
 
 For the black, grey, or fair, 
 
 With their fellows may pair, 
 And to all form a pleasure in life." 
 
 Without further debate, 
 
 Down to Cass they all sate ; 
 But how strange is the game I record ; 
 
 The knaves were paired off, 
 
 Of all Court Cards the scoff, 
 And in triumph the king cleared the board. 
 
 John rubbing his eyes, 
 
 At length with surprise, 
 Discovered the tricks of the crew ; 
 
 And gaining in sense 
 
 What he had just lost in pence, 
 From the wolves in sheep's clothing withdrew. 
 
 George Canning; 1808. 
 
331 
 
 THE ENTHUSIAST DEAD. 
 
 I knew a man that lived within the walls 
 
 Of this un- eastern city, where I write ; 
 "Who breath'd that deathless hope, that never palls ! 
 
 But lives out for one all-immortal light ! 
 
 XI. 
 
 He did foretell, — he had a thoughtful mind, 
 
 Too oe'r-inform'dby thought ! — that wise worn man !- 
 
 That the Messiah's advent to mankind, — 
 Was lighting on the years, — then in the van ! 
 
 in. 
 
 He pass'd, in his believing prophecy, 
 
 As many a wearied, dreaming man hath pass'd — 
 He died, before he found his faith must die ; — 
 
 Believing and predicting to the last ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Sweet in all 'haviour to his fellow-men, — 
 Earnest in argument, profound in grief; — 
 
 "Wise, and communicant to friend, — save when 
 A doubt was shadow' d o'er his vast belief 1 
 
332 THE ENTHUSIAST DEAD. 
 
 V. 
 
 Then, all the Jewish spirit fiercely rose ! — 
 
 And through his veins and eyes a firelight ran ! 
 
 He saw a destined triumph o'er all woes ! — 
 And, in the Paul-like prophet, sank the man ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 May his religious frenzy sleep at length ! 
 
 May he, beyond the power of earth, find rest ! 
 His hopes, upborne, of an appalling strength, — 
 
 Oh ! may they, in their high flight, find their nest ! 
 
 J. H. Reynolds. 
 
333 
 
 EINGr CHAELES OF SPAIN.* 
 
 A gloom was on King Charles's brow, 
 
 As pensive he sat, and lone, 
 In the gorgeous hall of the Escnrial, 
 
 On a high and stately throne. 
 None dared intrude on the monarch's mood 
 
 When his spirit was thus o'er cast ; 
 But linger' d near, with a thrill of fear, 
 
 Till the cloud from his soul had past. 
 
 He watch'd the shadows of evening fall 
 
 On the treasures that lay around ; 
 Eare works in gold, of a cost untold, 
 
 And gems through the world renown' d. 
 
 * The Archduke Charles, son of Leopold I., Emperor of Germany, and 
 successor to Charles II. It is related of this prince, lhat towards the 
 close of life he was tormented hy hypochondriac fancies, during one of 
 which he descended by torchlight into the cemetery of St. Lawrence, 
 where reposed three generations of Castilian princes. There he had the 
 massy chests which contained their relics opened, and gazed on the 
 ghastly spectacle with little emotion, until the coffin of his first wife was 
 unlocked, and she appeared before him — such had been the skill of the 
 embalmer — in all her well-remembered beauty. This awful sight was too 
 much for his already-shattered frame; and, leaving the Escnrial, he 
 retired to Madrid, where he died." — Lord Mahon's " War of the Suc- 
 cession." 
 
334 KING CHARLES OF SPAIN. 
 
 But they charm' d not him, — his eyes were dim, 
 For sorrow had veil'd their light ; 
 
 Death — death was the theme of his ev'ry dream, 
 Nor left him by day or night ! 
 
 Sudden he rose, and he cried aloud, 
 
 " St. Lawrence hath chimed the hour 
 I fain would go to the vaults below, 
 
 Where moulder the sons of power ! 
 And mark them still, in their chamber chill, 
 
 With banner and shroud o'er spread ; 
 Why hasten ye not ? 'Tis a goodly spot, 
 
 The home of the ghostly dead I" 
 
 The torches shone with a fitful glare 
 
 As they threaded the chapel aisle, 
 And pass'd the gate, where, in funereal state 
 
 Lay the princes of old Castile ! 
 The chiefs of his race ! 'Twas a lonesome place, 
 
 But meet for a monarch's rest, 
 For the sword and spear were gather' d there, 
 
 And lay on each warrior's breast ! 
 
 King Charles survey'd with an unchanged mien 
 
 The chests where his sires reposed ; 
 And said, as a smile lit his brow awhile, 
 
 " Let the slumberers be unclosed. 
 Why paleth the cheek as the lids ye break ? 
 
 'Tis a glorious thing to see ; 
 My heart is light, and welcomes the sight j 
 
 No fears hath the grave for me !" 
 
KING CHAELES OF SPAIN. 335 
 
 And the same wild look his visage wore 
 
 As they open'd the coffins wide, 
 And shew'd the dead in their ghastly bed, 
 
 Despoil' d of their ancient pride ! 
 The bones were bare, and wither'd in air, 
 
 Like the dew 'neath the morning snn. 
 'Twas a fearful lot, but the King quail' d not, — ■ 
 
 It seem'd though his mind was gone. 
 
 The last remain'd — 'twas a massive chest, 
 
 That stood near a cross of black ; 
 The bolts gave way, and the torches' ray 
 
 Shone o'er — but the King drew back. 
 Why shudders his frame as he reads the name 
 
 Inscribed on that iron chest ? 
 Why droops his head as he marks the dead ? 
 
 And whom had he robb'd of rest ? 
 
 'Twas she who had long been deeply mourn'd, 
 
 The wife he had fondly loved ; 
 And there she lay, untouch' d by decay, 
 
 Not a tress of her hair removed ! 
 Beautiful still, though palid and chill 
 
 She seem'd, in her queen's attire ; 
 The jewell' d zone on her forehead shone 
 
 And lighted the eyes with fire ! 
 
 One look — 'twas enough — the monarch wept, 
 
 As with hands upraised he cried, 
 " Oh, God of the just ! soon, soon, I trust 
 
 To lay by that dear one's side !" 
 With a slow, sad pace, he quitted the place, 
 
 And though his spirit awoke 
 To its wonted pow'r — in that dread hour 
 
 The heart of the King was broke ! 
 
336 
 
 A DYING- WIFE TO HEE HUSBAim 
 
 They tell me I must die, love, 
 
 That nought can stay my doom, — 
 
 A week ! and I must lie, love, 
 In yonder silent tomb. 
 
 They say it must be so, love, 
 
 And yet I feel no pain ; 
 And see, the healthful glow, love, 
 
 Comes to my cheek again. 
 
 Our babe's first sleep is sound, love, 
 Her arms around me twine ; 
 
 With life her pulses bound, love, 
 Can there be death m mine ? 
 
 Thy burning temples throb, love, 
 Thy tears fall fast as rain ; 
 
 I hear thy stifled sob, love ! 
 Alas ! my hopes are vain. 
 
A DYING WIPE TO HER HUSBAND. 337 
 
 We fondly deem'd but now, love, 
 
 Our early troubles past, 
 And Hope's prismatic bow, love, 
 
 Seem'd o'er the future cast ! 
 
 I feel that it is sad, love 
 
 From this fair earth to part, 
 While still young life is glad, love, 
 
 Nor griefs have chilled the heart. 
 
 And yet I would not sigh, love, 
 
 This happy world to leave, 
 Were 't not that I must die, love, 
 
 While you are left to grieve. 
 
 Oh ! think not that I dream, love, 
 
 Nor chide me that I rave, 
 If faith like ours I deem, love, 
 
 May live beyond the grave. 
 
338 
 
 THE COEAL CAVES. 
 
 Round and round the coral bower 
 
 Fairies dance the live-long day, 
 Watchful, lest the water's power 
 
 Bear some jutting reef away : 
 Now they whisper, now they sing, 
 
 To the laughter of the waves, 
 As their welcome song they bring 
 
 To the distant coral caves. 
 
 Now they enter, and prepare 
 
 For the transports of the night, 
 Wreathing in their shining hair 
 
 Coral branches snowy white. 
 Hark ! an echo, low and sweet, 
 
 As they press the sleeping waves 
 Makes soft music to their feet 
 
 In the silent coral caves. 
 
 Once again their hands entwine, 
 
 And the banquet feast is spread, . 
 Till the white reef, stained with wine, 
 
 Like a maiden, blushes red : — 
 Now the festal rite is o'er, 
 
 Day has peep'd into the waves, 
 And the fairies dance once more 
 
 Round about the coral caves. 
 
 G. Linnaeus Banks. 
 
339 
 
 SONG OF THE PEOPLE. 
 
 Once on a time in England, 
 
 The king o'er all did rule, 
 Whether he were a knave or knight, 
 
 A wise man or a fool. 
 And the hanghty barons feared him, 
 
 And bent before the crown ; 
 Nor heeded then the stifled cry 
 
 Of the people trampled down. 
 
 ii. 
 
 When this king he went a hunting, 
 
 He sent his merry men 
 To drive the farmer from the field, 
 
 The shepherd from the glen ; 
 And they razed each poor man's cottage 
 
 In all the country round ; 
 That this king might go a hunting, 
 
 On a kingly hunting ground. 
 z 2 
 
340 SONG- OF THE PEOPLE. 
 
 III. 
 
 He seized the strong man's castle, 
 
 By the right of the more strong ; 
 And neither priest nor womankind 
 
 Was sacred from his wrong. 
 What reck'd he of a woman's tears, 
 
 Or of a churchman's gown? 
 What heeded he the stifled cry 
 
 Of the people trampled down ? 
 
 rv. 
 
 But this king he had a quarrel 
 
 With his consin king of France, 
 So he called out all his merry men 
 
 With sword and bow and lance ; 
 And they fought full many a battle 
 
 On many a bloody plain, 
 And only rested from their strife 
 
 To strive the more again. 
 
 Then the barons they grew bolder, 
 
 And they met at Eunnymede ; 
 " Thou 'st taught us war, oh king!" they cried, 
 
 " And now we must be freed." 
 So the king he quailed before them, 
 
 Them and their stern appeal, 
 And he gave them Magna Charta, 
 
 And sealed it with his seal. 
 
SONG OF THE PEOPLE. 341 
 
 VI. 
 
 Next these barons ruled in England 
 
 With iron heart and hand ; 
 And sorer even than the king 
 
 Did they oppress the land. 
 They fought fall many a battle, 
 
 With roses white and red, 
 That they might put a shadow's crown 
 
 Upon an empty head. 
 
 VII. 
 
 And in their bitter striving, 
 
 The red blood flowed like rain, 
 Till the flower of English manhood 
 
 By English hands was slain. 
 And their wars spread woe and wailing 
 
 In country and in town, 
 None heeded then the stifled cry 
 
 Of the people trampled down. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 At length they ceased to battle 
 
 And to cut their neighbours' throats, 
 And, as gentler Whigs and Tories, 
 
 They bought each other's votes ; 
 And rich men only made the laws 
 
 Eor country and for town, 
 None heeded yet the stifled cry 
 
 Of the people trampled down. 
 
342 SONG OF THE PEOPLE. 
 
 IX. 
 
 At last there rose a imirrrrar 
 
 From out that patient crowd, 
 And the sound of million voices 
 
 Swell'd like a tempest loud, 
 " Our rights ! our rights !" they shouted, 
 
 Till it thunder' d in the ears 
 Of the gentle "Whigs and Tories, 
 
 And the king and all his peers. 
 
 x. 
 
 Oh \ the will of earnest millions 
 
 None may withstand its might, 
 When strong in holy patience — 
 
 Strong in a holy right ! 
 So, with justice for their banner, 
 
 And reason for their sword, 
 They won their bloodless battle, 
 
 But wrong' d no squire nor lord. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Now there *s right in merry England 
 
 For the cottage and the throne. 
 The king he has his honours, 
 
 And the poor man holds his own ; 
 And in our happy island, 
 
 In country and in town, 
 Is heard no more the stifled cry 
 
 Of the people trampled down. 
 
343 
 
 I ONE. 
 
 Sad are the glances from thy deep blue eyes, 
 
 lone ! 
 Soft as the mirror of the summer skies, 
 When twilight's shadows o'er its surface steal, 
 And twinkling stars their radiant orbs reveal : 
 Why are they sad, 
 Which were so glad, 
 lone ? 
 Have their rays bath'd in dewdrops 'mid the air, 
 And still the sparkling moisture trembles there ? 
 Then smile, for dewy tears 
 Melt when the sun appears, 
 lone ! 
 
 Yet thou art very beautiful in sadness, 
 
 lone ! 
 More beautiful e'en than in gladness ! 
 And the sweet music of those gentle sighs 
 Comes like the language of thy speaking eyes. 
 What do they say ? 
 Tell me their lay, 
 lone ! 
 Fain would I learn from thee what passing thought 
 Can with such plaintive melody be fraught. 
 Ah ! wherefore turn away ? 
 Stay ! yet a little stay ! 
 lone ! 
 
 W. R. C. 
 
344 
 
 A LETTEE FEOM AST OLD COUNTEY HOUSE. 
 
 Dear Arthur, 
 
 'Tis so very slow, 
 
 I can't tell what to do, 
 And so I've got a pen and ink, 
 
 And mean to write to you ! 
 You know how intervening space 
 
 I reckon' d, bit by bit, 
 Until this time arrived : and now 
 
 It has not proved a hit I 
 
 'Tis very well. The honse is old, 
 
 With an enormons hall ; 
 I think what learned architects 
 
 Elizabethan call. 
 With mullion'd windows, shutters vast, 
 
 And mystic double floors, 
 And hollow wainscots, creaking stairs, 
 
 And four-horse-power doors. 
 
 And authors who could write a book 
 
 Might subjects find in hosts — 
 Of civil wars, and wrongful heirs, 
 
 And murders, bones, and ghosts. 
 
A LETTER FROM AN OLD COUNTRY HOUSE. 345 
 
 And this you know 's all very well 
 
 'Neath a bright noontide sun ; 
 But when the dismal nightfall comes, 
 
 'Tis anything but fun. 
 
 I'll own, — but this is entre nous, — 
 
 I was in such a fright 
 At my gaunt bed-room, that my eyes 
 
 I never closed all night 
 When first I lay there : for each thing 
 
 Associations brought 
 Of bygone crimes, and mouldy deeds, 
 
 With frightful interest fraught. 
 
 'Twas like the room where Tennyson 
 
 Made Mariana stay — 
 A chamber odorous with time, 
 
 And damp, and chill decay. 
 The moon look'd in with ghastly stare 
 
 On those who haply slept : 
 And 'gainst the casement all night long 
 
 Some cypress branches swept. 
 
 And tapestry was on the walls — 
 
 Dull work that did engage 
 Fair fingers, fleshless long ago, — 
 
 Now dim and black with age. 
 And when I trod upon the floor, 
 
 It groan'd and wheezed and creak' d, 
 And made such awful noises that 
 
 One's very temples reek'd. 
 
346 A LETTER FROM AN OLD COUNTRY HOTJSE. 
 
 And in the middle of the night, 
 
 Half dozing in my bed, 
 Although beneath the counterpane 
 
 I buried deep my head, 
 I saw most ghastly phantom forms 
 
 Of mildew' d men and girls ; 
 With axe-lopp'd heads, and steel-pierced breasts, 
 
 And long gore-dabbled curls. 
 
 I was so glad when morning came, 
 
 For then all fear was o'er. 
 I slept 'till Fox had three times changed 
 
 The water at my door. 
 And when I reach' d the breakfast-room, 
 
 The eggs and game were gone, 
 And I was tied to marmalade 
 
 And haddock all alone. 
 
 Now nothing can make up for this, 
 
 Nor horse, nor game, nor gun ; 
 Nor yet charades, night after night, 
 
 Until they lose their fun. 
 Nor Emily's contralto voice, 
 
 And dark and floating eyes : 
 Nor that young Countess — belle de nuit ! 
 
 Nor Julia's smart replies. 
 
 I long to be in town again, 
 For all the word recalls ; 
 
 The raptures of a private box, 
 Or comfort of the stalls. 
 
A LETTER FROM AN OLD COUNTRY HOUSE. 347 
 
 Those cozy dinners at the club ; 
 
 Those rich Regalia fumes ; 
 A whirl at Weippert's ; or perchance 
 
 A supper at our rooms. 
 
 So tell the boys I'm coming back, 
 
 No more this year to roam, 
 (Don't send the birds to Collingwood ; 
 
 He never dines at home). 
 The second dinner-bell has rung, 
 
 I'll finish then forthwith, 
 And so 
 
 Believe me to remain, 
 
 Yours always, 
 
 Albert Smith. 
 
348 
 
 THE PEAISES OF COLONOS. 
 
 Welcome, stranger ! thou hast conie 
 To the Gods' well-favour' d home, 
 "Where Colonos rears on high 
 Its chalky cliffs unto the sky ; 
 Listen, stranger, and I '11 tell 
 All the joys that here do dwell ! 
 
 ii. 
 
 Here are horses, that with pride 
 E'en a king would deign to ride ; 
 Here the sweet-voiced nightingales 
 Softly tell their mournful tales ; 
 Where the purple ivy's bloom 
 Shrouds the vale in twilight gloom ! 
 
 in. 
 
 Here 's the leafy, pathless grove, 
 Which the Wine- god deigns to love, 
 Where the mighty trees have made 
 Grloomy aisles of unpierced shade, 
 Where the tempest's raging breath 
 Stirs not e'en a leaf in death. 
 
THE PRAISES OF COLONOS. 349 
 
 IV. 
 
 Here, within the leafy halls 
 
 Roam the joyous Bacchanals ; 
 
 The Nysian nymphs, who from the first 
 
 Never left the God they nnrst, 
 
 Bnt now with laugh and merry stir, 
 
 Crowd around the Eeveller ! 
 
 v. 
 
 Here, enrich' d by heavenly dew, 
 The golden crocus bursts to view, 
 And the sweet narcissus throws 
 All around its clustering shows ; 
 The holy flow'r which erst, 'tis said, 
 Wreath'd a mighty goddess' head. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Here, the sleepless fountains ever 
 Stream into Cephissus' river ; 
 Earth enriching in their flow, 
 Nomad-like, they wand'ring go, 
 Loved by all the Muses mighty 
 And by gold-rein' d Aphrodite. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Here, I've heard, too, is a tree, 
 Such as Asia ne'er did see, 
 Unplanted by man's hand, the fear 
 Of friendly and of hostile spear ; 
 For 'tis here the olive grows, 
 In the land where first it rose ! 
 
350 THE PRAISES OF COLONOS. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Here, shall neither young nor old 
 E'er be impiously bold , 
 To cut down the sacred grove, 
 For 'tis watch' d by Mosian Jovo, 
 And the great Minerva too, 
 With her eyes of melting blue ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 Here, (and this I reckon most 
 For the Mother-City's boast,) 
 Here, 'twas first the Ocean King 
 Bade the stately steed to spring, 
 And with bits did curb him then, 
 To be useful unto men ! 
 
 Thus our city 's reached the height 
 Where true G-lory sheds her light : 
 She 's the nurse of chivalry, 
 And the mistress of the sea ; 
 And 'tis thou, Saturn's son, 
 That this mighty work hast done ! 
 
 XI. 
 
 Dashing through the briny sea, 
 The tall ship bounds on wondrously, 
 Tracking through the waste of waters 
 Nereus' hundred- footed daughters : 
 For our King is Saturn's son ! 
 Stranger, now my tale is done ! 
 
 CxJTHBERT BeDE. 
 
351 
 
 THE DANISH SEAMAN'S SONG. 
 
 Kino Christian stood by the high mast, 
 
 In cloud and smoke, — 
 With his axe he hammer' d away so fast, 
 That helm and skull around he cast — 
 Sunk every foeman's yard and mast, 
 
 In cloud and smoke. 
 « Fly J" cried he, " fly ! who now fly can ! 
 Who stands for Denmark's Christian ! 
 In fight and smoke ?" 
 
 Niels Juel, to storm and cry gave heed — 
 
 " Now is the hour !" 
 And hoisted up the flag blood-red, 
 Flew blow on blow — fell head on head — 
 As he shouted through the storm, " Give heed I 
 
 Now is the hour ! 
 Fly !" cried he, " fly ! who safety seek ! 
 Who stands for Denmark's Juel now 
 
 In fight this hour !" 
 
352 
 
 North Sea ! how our lightnings rend 
 
 Thy murky sky ! — 
 There in thy lap chiefs seek their end — 
 For thence their shafts death — terror send, 
 — Shouts through the battle break, and rend 
 
 Thy murky sky ! 
 From Denmark flames thy " thunder- shield ;" 
 Then cast thyself on heaven and yield ! — 
 
 Or fly ! 
 
 Thou Danish road to fame and power, 
 
 Thou gloomy wave ! 
 Oh, take thy friend, who ne'er will cower, 
 But danger dares, where'er it lower, 
 As proud as thou, in thy storm-power, 
 
 Thou gloomy wave ! 
 And quick through shouts of joy and woe, 
 And fight and victory, bear me to 
 My grave! 
 
353 
 
 OH! LET ME LOVE THEE I 
 
 Oh ! let me love thee ! 
 I ask not passion in return ; 
 
 I ask but time, my love, to prove thee, 
 That my true heart thou wilt not spurn ; 
 
 But let me love thee ! 
 
 Oh ! let me love thee ! 
 Thy lightest word I will obey ; 
 
 I '11 own no sovereign above thee, 
 Ever obedient to thy sway, 
 
 Let me love thee ! 
 
 Then let me love thee— 
 Thy every wish I will divine, 
 
 And if one smile from thee approve me, 
 That smile o'er all my life will shine, 
 So much I love thee ! 
 
 M. A. 
 
 A A 
 
'54} 
 
 THE BOLD SEA WAVE. 
 
 Oh ! strong and brave, is the bold sea wave, 
 
 And free as the wingless wind ; 
 With sunny tides o'er the deep it rides, 
 
 And the white spray leaves behind : 
 Then the sun goes down, and his lordly crown 
 
 We cease for a while to see ; 
 But the bold bright wave still tunes its stave 
 
 In the deep ears of the sea. 
 
 When the storm comes out, and voices shout 
 
 For help, o'er the gurgling main, 
 Till the stars that gave their light to the wave, 
 
 Are frighten' d in again — 
 Then the bold wave 's heard, like a wild sea bird, 
 
 Careering on its way, 
 Till it gains the shore, and raves the more, 
 
 When its locks with rage turn grey. 
 
 Then here 's to the brave, the bold sea wave. 
 
 That hath many a true heart borne, 
 And laid it low in the depth below, 
 
 liike an infant newly born ; 
 While commerce brings to our ships' free wings 
 
 The aid of a golden sail, 
 May its might increase, for truth and peace, 
 
 Till the one mind shall prevail. 
 
 G. LiNNiEUS Bani 
 
355 
 
 THE BEOOK 
 
 Mid-Jtjne is blazing in its fiercest might ; 
 But what delicious coolness here ! its flowers 
 The laurel shows from its thick glossy bowers j 
 Trees twine an arbour o'er so dense, the sight 
 Sees the blue sky in speckles ; and the light 
 Dances like golden insects on the water. 
 The snowy lily, that most delicate daughter 
 Of all the graceful offspring of the brook, 
 Stoops to the hair- foot of the velvet bee ; 
 And now it dips, as from yon soft, dark nook 
 A furrow meets it by the wild duck's breast, 
 Raised as she launches dart-like from her nest 
 And seeks yon isle of water-cresses. See 
 Yon gleaming shape, the snowy crane out dashes 
 From the soft marge where he so long has stood 
 Poising his neck for prey ; his plumage flashes 
 An instant and is gone. How beautiful 
 
 Yon sight ! the little timid musk-rat swimming 
 By that smooth greensward the full current rimming ; 
 Nibbling yon plant, then giving hasty pull 
 
 To the long vine that hangs down its green trimming. 
 But now his keen black beads of eyes have caught 
 My form, and he is gone. Most sweet the purl 
 Of this small waierbreak, one rising curl 
 
 aa2 
 
356 the brook:. 
 
 Of foam (a fairy Verms) from the plunge ; 
 Whilst this sand-margin yields round like a sponge 
 Filling my tracks with silver. Oh, how fraught 
 With lovely things is every part and spot 
 
 Of nature ! God hath made His world o'erflowing 
 In beauty ; and with heart and soul all glowing 
 To Him, our praise should rise and weary not. 
 
 Alfred B. Street 
 
357 
 
 OLD GEUMBLETON. 
 
 Owld Grumbleton was a terrible Turk, 
 
 As I 've yeard people zay, 
 And a zwore in an honr a'd do mwore work 
 
 Than his wife wou'd do in a day : 
 " Wi' ael my heart," zays the good owld dame, 
 
 " I'm agreeable, anyhow ; 
 Zo thee sha't bide at whoame to-day, 
 And I '11 gwo driv' the plough. 
 
 " But thee must veed the brindled zow, 
 
 And the leetle pegs in th' sty, 
 And thee must milk the tiny cow, 
 
 Or Tiney her '11 gwo dry ; 
 And thee must mind the hank o' yarn 
 
 As I spun yesterday ; 
 And thee must watch the speckled hen, 
 
 Or her '11 gwo lay astray : 
 And thee must zee to the dairy pans, 
 
 Or the crame '11 be spwoilt therein, 
 And thee must mind to turn the malt 
 
 That 's dryin' in the kiln." 
 
358 OLD GETTMBLETON". 
 
 The owld 'omaii tuk tlie whip in her hand, 
 
 And trudged to drive the plough ; 
 The owld man tuk the niilking-pail, 
 
 And tackled un to the cow : 
 But Tiney winced, and Tiney hunched, 
 
 And Tiney cocked her nose, 
 And Tiney kicked the pail down, 
 
 And the milk run auver his hose. 
 And 'tis " Oh, Tiney I" and " Wo ! Tiney!" 
 
 And " drat th', cow, bide still ! 
 If I milks zich a maggotty runt again, 
 
 'T will be zore agin my will !" 
 
 And he vorgot the hank o' yarn, 
 
 And the puppy-dog stole it away j 
 And he vorgot the speckled hen, 
 
 And zo her layd astray : 
 A went to veed the hungry pegs 
 
 A- grunting in the sty, 
 A run his nose agin a pwoast, 
 
 And amwoast knocked out his eye : 
 11 A vine joke, my yead 's broke ! 
 
 A plague on the pegs and sty ! 
 If they gets no vittles till Doomsday, 
 
 They '11 never be zarved by I." 
 
 A left the crame to stand in the churm, 
 
 And turnin' hizzelf about, 
 Lar' a massey haw ! there stood the zow 
 
 A zlushin' in her snout ! 
 A stoop' d to pick a swingein' stick, 
 
 To gie th' owld zow her hire ; 
 
OLD GEJJMBLETON. 359 
 
 Her run between his legs in a vright, 
 
 And drowed nn into the vire. 
 Oh drat thee now, vor a plaguy zow, 
 
 A zurprizirf zow bist thee ; 
 Thy snont it doos mwore harm in an hour 
 
 Than I can mend in dree !" 
 
 In coomed th' owld 'oman a wringin' her hands, 
 
 And thus in haste her spoke ; 
 " The vore hos lays on his back in the pond, 
 
 And the plough and stilts be broke ; 
 And 'tis ' Dobbin ! my poor Dobbin I' 
 
 And what an owld vool was I. 
 If I wears the breeches vor arr'n agen, 
 
 I wishes as I med die !" 
 
 Owld G-rumbleton zwore by the zun and the moon, 
 
 And ael the green laves on the tree, 
 If his wife 'ou'd but take to her gear agen 
 
 Her shou'd never be caddled by he. 
 And 'tis " oh zay no mwore, pray, 
 
 Vor I hates to be called a vool ; 
 But bustle to-night, and put ael thengs right, 
 
 And I '11 gie thee lave to rale !" 
 
360 
 
 1 
 
 DIRGE* 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF A BELOVED SISTER WHO DIEU AT THE AGE 
 
 OF SEVENTEEN. 
 
 When on heaven's arch I gaze, 
 Deep through ether's azure blaze, 
 
 Methinks her form I see ! 
 Fair and pure that angel-form, 
 As a sunbeam through the storm, 
 
 Sweetly smiling upon me ! 
 
 When evening closes round, 
 Hush'd and tranquil ev'ry sound, 
 
 In Nature's wide domain, 
 Still, one is near to me 
 Whom no other eye can see — 
 
 One image doth remain ! 
 
 When night darkly reigns, 
 And Philomel complains, 
 
 Through the listening grove, 
 I hear in every tone, 
 One remembered voice alone, 
 
 Now only heard above ! 
 
 * From the German of Gustav Soiling 
 
DIRGE. 361 
 
 When the stars, with sparkling eye, 
 Hang their golden lamps on high, 
 
 She joins the glittering troop 5 
 From the regions of the blest, 
 To soothe my aching breast, 
 
 Methinks I see her stoop ! 
 
 When aronnd, returning Spring 
 Her emerald robe doth fling, 
 
 And bids her blossoms glow, 
 Each flower appears to say, 
 " Thus bloomed, her short Spring-day, 
 
 Your fair Sister, long ago !" 
 
 Ye flowers, softly weep, 
 
 O'er the grave where she doth sleep, 
 
 Tears of gentle dew ! 
 There, ye zephyrs mildly stray, 
 Ye moonbeams brightly play — 
 
 She was mild and bright as you ! 
 
 Heart ! wherefore thus opprest ? 
 Rather, envy her sweet rest ; 
 
 She hears thee not ! 
 Though lost to mortal eye, 
 In her seraph-home on high 
 
 May I share her blessed lot ! 
 
 Eta. 
 
362 
 
 A SONG OF COMO THE BEAUTIFUL. 
 
 An exiled daughter am I of that land, 
 
 Where laurel-rose, and myrtle intertwine ; 
 Where, mid the wreathing foliage of the vine, 
 
 The zephyr's fragrant breath is pure and bland ; 
 
 Where, at the twilight hour a happy band, 
 Their voices soft and light guitars awake ; 
 In fairy barks glide o'er the purple lake, 
 
 While lovers sit apart, hand clasped in hand. 
 
 Some pluck the wilding lilies, and entwine 
 A chaplet for their dark-eyed mistress' brow, 
 Some chaunt the vesper hymn, and as they row 
 
 With every stroke the melody combine ; 
 
 But to the ancient poets those most incline 
 
 With commune of the past in whispers low : 
 
 Sweet Como ! where are all thy glories now ? — 
 
 The Tuscan Medici,* with brow of snow, 
 There last I saw, the loveliest of her race, 
 She wore the charmed robe of native grace, 
 
 Rosebuds her lips, her soft hair's sunny glow 
 
 * The Madame de Medici, the most beautiful w-man in Florence, 
 since deceased. 
 
A S02STG OP COMO THE BEAUTIFUL. 363 
 
 Hung round dark eyes, whence flew the shafts of Love 
 
 In all the pitying softness of the dove, 
 Mid sun-kiss'd cheeks, black eyes, and raven hair, 
 Thou Tuscan Lily ! fairest of the fair ! 
 Yet, ah ! what is she, and where is she now ? 
 All coldly pale the marble of her brow, 
 And closed in death those bright and dove-like eyes, 
 Pillowed on stone that tender form now lies. 
 Yet from the tomb such beauty shall arise ! 
 Vanished from earth that sweet, that seraph face, 
 Shall to an angel lend immortal grace. 
 
 Just where the lime-trees over-arching meet, 
 
 Their fragrance pouring on the evening air, 
 An aged mother' sf last and calm retreat 
 
 Is by a daughter's love created there. 
 Eich jasmines by the tall mimosas climb, 
 
 And there the orange stands in courtly rows, 
 
 With golden fruit and green, it buds and bljws. 
 Sweet mockery of seasons and of time ! 
 Dewdrops, the pearls in Flora's diadem, 
 
 Lie hid within the delicate musk rose ; 
 The oleander waves its graceful stem, 
 
 The scented night-flowers all their cups unclose. 
 The evening star now glittering like a gem, 
 Sheds on those marble forms a dewy light, 
 That, bowered in myrtles, shine all coldly bright. 
 See, where the willow's flexile boughs are hung, 
 
 All weepingly enamoured of the wave, 
 Forth from the knotted roots and rocky cave, 
 Safe anchorage ! you tiny shallop sprung. 
 
 * Madame Pasta has built three beautiful villas, one expressly for 
 her mother. 
 
364 A SONG OF COMO THE BEAUTIFUL. 
 
 Light is her prow, of fairy hue her sides, 
 
 And rosy red her silken streamer waves. 
 Down the transparent stream she gently glides, 
 
 And silently, her floating beauty laves. 
 Now, as she leaves the steep and rocky shore, 
 
 What female hand propels the bark along, 
 Poising with skill the light and dripping oar ? 
 
 Medea's self ! enchantress ! Queen of Song ! 
 Who erst in car of triumph dragons bore, 
 While Europe cried, exulting in her fame, 
 " Immortal as the Muse be Pasta's name 1" 
 
 The fishermen still linger on the beach, 
 
 Breathing the fragrance of the loved cigar, 
 While to the tinkling of his old guitar, 
 
 A comrade sings, or frames his witty speech, 
 
 The Bergamasc, mid laughter heard from far. 
 
 How sweetly on the voice of echo borne, 
 
 Peals from, its height the lonely convent bell ; 
 
 How faintly sounds the goatherd's rustic horn, 
 Calling his stragglers from the chestnut fell ! 
 
 Some pious few, in yonder sacred fane, 
 Lit by the silver lamps that palely shine, 
 
 All humbly kneel before Madonna's shrine, 
 
 And kiss the ground, nor shall they pray in vain, 
 
 Though homage of the heart, and tearful vow, 
 
 Be all the gifts these votaries can bestow. 
 
 The Queen of Night shines forth — she comes to make 
 A second day, more lovely than the first : 
 Beneath her beams what happy hopes are nurst, 
 
 When first Love dares his silence sweet to break. 
 
A SONG OF COMO THE BEAUTIFUL. 365 
 
 When does the heart so soothingly o'erflow 
 In its own commune, and with tears confess, 
 And murmured sounds, its sense of happiness, 
 As when the moonlight sleeps on all below ? 
 What youthful footsteps ever fall so light 
 
 As those that dance beneath the starry queen ? 
 What palace pageant in their eyes so sheen, 
 As the green Treillis and the fireflies bright ? 
 Earth's stars which gem the mantle of her night, 
 And glittering mid the vine leaves seem to say, 
 | Short as our life is your's — joy while you may." 
 Now peasant girls are clustering in the shade 
 Of the acacia's sweet and pleasant grove, 
 With eyes like night's, that seem to swim in love ; 
 And jewelled ear, and darkly shining braid, 
 With silver bodkins crowned. And this the time 
 For childhood's gambols, sunny as its clime. 
 
 Alas ! my glowing pulses beat too fast 
 
 For these cold climes, where feeling withering dies, 
 Where in each bowl of pleasure Caution lies 
 
 In wait, to dash it from man's lips at last. 
 
 Let me escape from these soul-chilling snows ! 
 
 And may I, ere my latest sigh be past, 
 
 Make on sweet Como's shore my mossy grave, 
 
 And sink beside those waters in repose, 
 
 While rose and cypress gently o'er me wave ! 
 
 Theresa C. I. West. 
 
366 
 
 ADVICE TO LOYEES. 
 
 Lovers, who would your flame declare, 
 Trust to the language of the eyes ; 
 
 Truth ever is imprinted there, 
 
 And the tongue's eloquence supplies. 
 
 No clever, well-turned phrases seek, 
 List to the heart, and not the head ; 
 
 Let the true heart its own words speak, 
 And such will ever be well said. 
 
 Excess in words should caution raise : 
 
 From chosen language true love shrinks j 
 
 And he who thinks of what be says, 
 Says very rarely what he thinks. 
 
 M. A. R. 
 
367 
 
 EMMA AND EGINAED. 
 
 A STORY OF THE DAYS OF CHARLEMAGNE. 
 
 Ho, butler mine ! the goblet bring, 
 
 And cross the brim with mystic wine ! 
 Ho, Muses Nine ! on airy wing 
 Descend, and weave the fiery line ! 
 
 Ho, gallant Pen ! run merrily, and fling me forth a 
 strain, 
 
 Eight worthy of the noble theme that warms within my 
 brain, 
 
 Of that great King of Christendom, the glorious Charle- 
 magne ! 
 
 Lord of the frozen Baltic, Lord of the G-erman pines, 
 Lord of Italian valleys, and mountains thick with vines, 
 That look on Spanish headlands, where the dying day 
 declines ! 
 
 A thousand years are past and gone, yet long may poet? 
 
 sing, 
 What, to the base mechanic ear, much wonder yet may 
 
 bring, 
 How the illustrious Charlemagne was " every inch a 
 
 king!" 
 
368 EMMA AND EGINARD. 
 
 
 For nine foot four 
 He stood on the floor 
 (He couldn't of course have come in by the door) ; 
 And his toes, if you counted them, came rather more 
 Than the average number that gentlemen wore, 
 Even then, and we know there were giants of yore! 
 While, as for his sabre, 
 'Twould cost you less labour 
 To " put" the big stone or go " tossing the caber," 
 Than vainly strive to poise and swing 
 The terrible blade of the strong old king ! 
 His own right hand, 
 Alone in the land, 
 Might wield in the battle that ponderous brand, 
 Whose ruthless edge, 
 So legends allege 
 (Myself to that same I'd be sorry to pledge), 
 Could cleave a stout foeman of infidel breed 
 Through turban and breast-plate, thigh, saddle, 
 
 [and steed j 
 A feat which his aides-de-camp all were agreed 
 Was a capital way of confuting his creed ! 
 Now, cracking the poll 
 Seems, on the whole, 
 But a roundabout way of assisting the soul ; 
 Charlemagne didn't think so, and couldn't control 
 His zeal for the Church when him listed unrol 
 Her orthodox flag, 
 And continued to brag 
 Of multiplied converts brought safely to bag ; 
 Of Saxon and Saracen, 
 Sent up to Paris, on 
 
EMMA AND EGINABD. 369 
 
 Purpose to have them baptized by the garrison, 
 Or church'd in a way that was quick by comparison ; 
 'Till superfine saints look'd immensely mysterious, 
 And the clergy pronounced him ' decidedly serious.' 
 
 Yet, woe to the great ! 
 
 Since Envy and Fate 
 Have always conspired to libel their state : 
 Charlemagne, it is written in all of his lives, 
 Own'd a very extensive assortment of wives. 
 
 Some say three or four, 
 
 Some a dozen or more, 
 Which others in charity raise to a score ; 
 
 So, seeing in fact 
 
 One can't be exact, 
 Our muse has discover' d a sad want of tact, 
 In placing us all in a painful dilemma, 
 To choose a mamma for the beautiful Emma. 
 
 Ko matter ! such scandal we ought to forget ; 
 Why cloud the name of the sweet brunette ? 
 
 Enough to know 
 
 That, years ago, 
 A thousand at least — but chronology's low — 
 The exquisite eyes of the princess, our heroine, 
 Each gentleman's breast had at least put one arrow in ! 
 
 As well they might, 
 
 Eor a pair so bright, 
 Set off with so charming a figure and height, 
 Don't flash every day, which is lucky and right, 
 Or Wakley 'd be sitting from morning to night ! 
 And e'en in those days — for my tale, you're aware, 
 Dates back to the time when all maidens were fair, 
 And enchanted princesses weren't any way rare ; 
 
 B B 
 
370 EMMA AND EGINARD. 
 
 When Haroun was ruling in sunny Bagdad, 
 And all for the asking might beauty be had — 
 Even then there was not, on the world-wide horizon, 
 A star like our Emma whom all set their eyes on ! 
 
 Swaggering captains, cased in plate, 
 Snorted sighs through helmet-grate; 
 She liked them well — but bade them wait. 
 
 Velvet courtiers, trim and neat, 
 
 Pour'd their sorrows at her feet ; 
 
 She liked them too — they smelt so sweet. 
 
 Sovereign princes fared no better ; 
 None could link the golden fetter ; 
 She only " wish'd that they might get her." 
 
 " It was awkward to choose, 
 It was hard to refuse !" 
 In short, her vagaries, that puzzle the muse, 
 Made many a gent 
 Express an intent 
 (Which something would always occur to prevent) 
 Of easing his mind by a desperate suicide, 
 And poking a carving-knife privately through his hide ! 
 
 Now, the fiery Charlemagne, 
 
 I need scarcely explain, 
 After all that I've said, had a pious disdain 
 Of every accomplishment idle and vain ; 
 Spoke lightly of crochet, held worsted work low, 
 And dancing a vanity, music no go ; — 
 
EMMA AND EGINAED. 371 
 
 And loved to declare, 
 
 That a jewel so rare 
 Deserved to be set with unusual care, 
 For some brother-monarch to win and to wear ! 
 
 Said he, " With your boarding-school simper and starch 
 
 I cannot and will not away ; 
 My daughter shall trip it in Intellect's march, 
 
 A trifle ahead of her day ! 
 Her dawning mind shall not be fill'd 
 
 By any bleak old woman ; 
 I'll have her drill' d by a tutor skill' d 
 
 In learning quite uncommon ! 
 Logic and Latin, and Greek, may be, 
 
 Shall my own young chaplain teach her ; 
 For he is a scholar of strange degree, 
 
 And withal a wonderful preacher. 
 He reads by night, and he reads by day, 
 
 Both G-radus and Delectus ; 
 And she shall learn more, ere her years be a score, 
 
 Than you'd put in a short prospectus ! 
 So train her and teach her, my chaplain true, 
 
 Much learning grave and stately ; 
 For I were full fain that her scholarly strain, 
 
 Should make men marvel greatly !" 
 
 Ho, chivalrous Macaulay ! 
 
 A boon, my liege, I daim : 
 You 've puzzled us so sorely, 
 
 That you can't refuse the same ! 
 Ho ! did our fathers bully 
 
 Their chaplains with such glee, 
 As you paint, so very coolly, 
 
 To your ftunous Chapter III ? 
 
 B B 2 
 
--5/1S EMMA AND EGINAED. 
 
 Did each man keep a curate, 
 
 For his own especial snubbing, 
 At such a very poor rate 
 
 As a ten-pound note with grub in ? 
 
 To fetch and to carry, 
 
 And trundle a barry, 
 
 And never to marry, 
 
 And live in a garret 
 
 On cow-beef and carrot ; 
 Nail up the plums, and say grace like a parrot ; 
 
 And dub him ' young Levite ?' 
 
 Stuff! who 's to believe it? 
 Our Quarterly heretics will not receive it ! 
 
 They swear you 've perverted 
 
 What Eachard asserted ; 
 
 And craftily told 'em 
 
 What isn't in Oldham ; 
 So, as to the scales, I'd be sorry to hold 'em! 
 
 I've only to say 
 
 That, in Charlemagne's day, 
 Good people knew better, and loved to display 
 Their zeal for the Church in a liberal way ; 
 And blew out their chaplains with punch and tokay, 
 And cramm'd them with turtle and doubled their pay, 
 Delighted to see them both portly and gay ! 
 
 But pray don't suppose 
 
 That here I propose 
 To paint a fat priest with a jolly red nose, 
 And a corpulent belly and corns on his toes ! 
 
 No ! out on the bard 
 
 Who could ever be hard 
 On that model pet-parson — the dear Eginard ! 
 
 O, Tea-tables of Cheltenham ! 
 0, spinster Saints of Bath ! 
 
EMMA AND EGINAE.D. 
 
 What interest you'd have felt in him ; 
 
 How throng' d his primrose path ! 
 For his words were, oh, so silky ; 
 And his doctrine, oh, so milky ; 
 And never, in a shrill key, 
 
 Did he shriek out horrid things ! 
 But so blandly he'd entreat you, 
 So benignly balf way meet you, 
 That, really, in his seat you 
 
 Saw an angel without wings ! 
 And he did as other men did, 
 Lest the weak should be offended ; 
 And, if he now and then did 
 
 Awhile unbend the springs 
 Of life, and, waxing jolly, 
 Strike up with " Nix my dolly," 
 People said it was no folly. 
 
 In a chaplain of the King's ! 
 They say " a little learning 
 
 Is a dangerous sort of thing :" 
 Which useful hint returning, 
 
 The muse begs leave to sing, 
 That a very little tutoring 
 
 May work a man more woe, 
 Than all the downright suitoring 
 
 He'll ever undergo ! 
 If you doubt it or deny it, 
 
 Choose a cousin bright and young ; 
 For a fortnight fairly try it ; 
 
 Teach her some outlandish tongue - 
 Teach her Sanscrit, — teach her magic, 
 
 Teach her anything you know, 
 
374 EMMA AND EGINARD. 
 
 'Till you find your tone grow tragic, 
 
 And your bosom toss and glow ; 
 'Till you groan out ghastly adjec- 
 tives in whispers hoarse and low ; 
 'Till your friends crack jokes ironic ; 
 
 'Till you feel a weary wish 
 For a whiff of gas carbonic, 
 
 Cooked in a charcoal dish : 
 'Till in short you learn how lightly 
 
 Is the human heart divine 
 Fenced against eyes that brightly, 
 
 Alas, too brightly, shine ! 
 So shall you feel due sympathy 
 
 For our reverend young beau, 
 If mazed in Cupid's dim path, he 
 
 Shall chance at last on woe. 
 But, how he fared with Emma's eyes, 
 
 We leave to Part the Second ; 
 Wherein his cast of blank or prize 
 
 Shall all be duly reckoned. 
 
 PART THE SECOND. 
 
 Dear Alma Mater ! as in duty bound, 
 
 I love thy grey old walls ! I love to tread 
 
 Thy voiceless cloisters, and to hear the sound 
 Of my slow foot-fall echo over-head. 
 
 I love the sacred stream that floats around . 
 Those palaces of the immortal dead ! 
 
 We spoke of mathematics, and I am 
 
 At once — in heart at least — beside the Cam ! 
 
EMMA AND EGINAED. 375 
 
 To me, it 's idle ooze recals a time 
 
 When one look'd out so bravely on the world ; 
 
 When hearts were free to fight, and hands to climb 
 Its difficult heights, and thence to fling unfuiTd 
 
 The banner of their thought ; that young sublime ! 
 Alas, how tamely, in a nutshell curl'd, 
 
 Sleeps all its fiery promise ! Yes — of late, 
 
 Enthusiasm 's rather out of date ! 
 
 We keep it bottled for a Pope's Aggression, 
 
 Or grand new Cosmopolitan Bazaar ; 
 Perhaps its force increases by compression : 
 
 And now I really wonder where we are ? 
 The man who can unravel this digression, 
 
 And tell me how I ever stray' d so far 
 From aught and all in Part the First recorded, 
 Shall find himself most handsomely rewarded. 
 
 And so — to proceed : 
 
 Never, indeed, 
 Was a royal phenomenon train'd with such speed; 
 For, long ere the sweet little princess was twenty, 
 She'd carol off, slick, the whole As in prcesenti, 
 Had a competent knowledge of Propria quce 
 Maribus, and much learning of lesser degree ; 
 So kindly, in short, did she take to her tutor, 
 She'd really no time to encourage a suitor : 
 
 While her own royal father, 
 
 Who, somehow, was rather 
 Behind with his writing, and hadn't got farther 
 Than high-shoulder' d pot-hooks, dropp'd in, now and then, 
 And became, by and by, quite a dab at his pen, 
 
 Though others maintain, 
 
 He tried, might and main, 
 
376 EMMA AND EGINARD. 
 
 That useful accomplishment ever to gain ;* 
 
 And haunted a school at the end of the lane, 
 
 Disguised as an elderly spinster so plain, 
 
 Six lessons to take, and it all was in vain 
 
 That he cramp'd his four fingers and puzzled his brain, 
 
 For trounced as a booby was haughty Charlemagne ! 
 
 Well ! it seems that the day, 
 
 Between teaching and play, 
 Imperceptibly glided so quickly away, 
 That our exquisite tutor was forced to propose 
 To borrow a slice from the hours of repose : 
 
 And, as teaching by night, 
 
 By the merry lamp light, 
 In a lady's boudoir isn't orthodox quite, 
 And as Emma's apartment, so fragrant and gay, 
 Lay across the court-yard — in short over the way ; 
 Involving some nice points of ingress and egress, he 
 Thought it high time for a dim bit of secrecy. 
 
 So, pointing out clearly 
 
 The day wasn't nearly 
 So handy — if even for star-gazing, merely — 
 He proceeded to hint that, as folks would be shock'd 
 If he chanced to stay late and in consequence knock'd 
 People up, when the castle was all double-lock' d, 
 
 He meant to crawl out 
 
 Of his window, — no doubt, 
 He should very well find his way down by the spout : 
 And, if she'd let him in, why there wasn't a doubt 
 Her progress in Science would amply repay 
 For an ocean of obstacles braved by the way ! 
 
 * Eginard, in the biography of his royal patron, very frankly avows, 
 
 " tentabat et scribere sed parum prospere successit labor praeposte- 
 
 rus et sero inchoatus I" 
 
EMMA AND EGINARD. 
 
 377 
 
 " shocking imprudence !" I hear you exclaim : 
 
 " How could she, how dare she ? oh, fie and for shame ! 
 
 Hoav can Mr. Bentley permit you to edit 
 
 Such scandal ?" I 've only to say that I read it, 
 
 In Lauresheim's Annals, — they're quoted by G-uizot,* 
 
 Whose remarks on the subject I trust will appease you. 
 
 Heavily swayed the midnight bell, 
 Counting slow its ponderous knell ; 
 Where through the lattice a taper had shone, 
 Lattice was open and taper was gone : 
 For the slim Eginard 
 Hath tied a knot hard 
 In his reverend garters — the lattice unbarr'd, 
 And spun like a monkey -man into the yard : 
 And, crawling and creeping, 
 And craftily peeping 
 This way and that, though good people were sleeping, 
 Warm in their beds, 
 Nor troubling their heads 
 For a larky chaplain over the leads ; 
 He gains the boudoir, 
 Taps at the door, 
 And — there let us leave him, till day-break, once more, 
 Dawns grey through the darkness on turret and shore ! 
 
 Merrily chimed the matin bell, 
 
 At six o'clock in the morning : 
 It broke up a loving and learned spell, 
 With its unmistakable warning ; 
 The tutor so grave and the pupil so shy 
 Just peep'd out once at the frosty sky, 
 
 * Histoire de la Civilization en France, ii. 219. 
 
378 
 
 EMMA AND EG1NARD. 
 
 As people will do, before wishing ' good-bye/ 
 As a bint that it 's time to be going : 
 
 "When poor Eginard, with a dismal cry, 
 
 Shriek' d, " Saints protect us — oh, my eye ! 
 
 But here 's a kettle of fish to fry ; 
 I 'm shot if it hasn't been snowing ! 
 
 The ground 's as white as white can be ; 
 
 They '11 track my steps — it 's up to your knee ; 
 
 They '11 hunt me home with a villainous din, 
 
 'Twill be no use saying, you shan't come in ! 
 
 They '11 chop my head off— close at the chin ; 
 
 And hammer it up at the gates to grin ! 
 Saints on high, 
 Look down and try 
 
 If you couldn't, for once, let a gentleman fly ? 
 
 A pair of wings and a tail to match, 
 
 Across the yard, and never a batch, 
 
 Of candles blazed on an altar yet 
 
 Like those for which I'll be in your debt I" 
 
 But never a word 
 
 From Saint he heard : 
 It was clear that they thought it extremely absurd 
 Of a good beast to make an indifferent bird. 
 He felt before, and he felt behind, 
 But nothing unusual there could he find : 
 The startled princess wish'd him flown ; 
 It was very unpleasant to hear him groan : 
 At last she thought of a plan of her own. 
 
 " Listen to me, my tutor dear !" 
 
 Said she ; " there 's really nothing to fear 
 
EMMA AND EGHSTARD. 379 
 
 One thing's clear, 
 
 You can't stay here, 
 'Till the beak and the feathers yon talk of appear ! 
 Why, yon mightn't be fledged by the end of the year ! 
 Jump on my shoulders ! — it 's not very far ; 
 I'll carry you over ; and — there you are ! 
 My tiny print shall scarcely break 
 The carpet of the crisping flake ; 
 And, if perchance my track be known, 
 The trace is mine and mine alone ; 
 Scandal's self must own that here, 
 Tour innocence, at least, is clear. 
 
 No trifling, pray, 
 
 The only way 
 To save us both is to do as I say ; 
 If Dian the chaste 
 
 (Do, please, make haste), 
 Could carry a beau on her shonlder braced, 
 
 Why shouldn't I ? — 
 
 At all events try ! 
 It 's no use your flapping — you never can fly !" 
 
 Small was the need 
 
 For the lady to plead ; 
 For the chaplain was very much frighten' d, indeed, 
 And jump'd on her shoulders with singular speed ; 
 
 Begg'd her to trot ; 
 
 Cried that his lot 
 Was a great deal too hard — he 'd be hung on the spot ! 
 Now, couldn't she canter ? — it wasn't so hot ! 
 
 The poor little princess was doing her best ; 
 She stumbled on, with a panting breast- 
 
380 
 
 EMMA AND EGHSTARD. 
 
 (I wish I 'd been there ; 
 
 'Tis vain to declare 
 How hard I 'd have kick'd the unmannerly bear !) 
 Stoutly and safely she carried him through, 
 'Till he clutch' d the string of his garters true ; 
 Then kindly watch'd the lubberly lout, 
 Breaking his shins on the bricks and the spoilt ; 
 Stopping half-way for a sprawl and a shout, 
 And yelling to know what the Saints were about, 
 To leave a man dangling in aether and doubt ? 
 And so she watch'd and watch'd, until 
 She watch'd him over the window-sill. 
 Then, flush' d and breathless, homeward fled 
 The sweet princess, and only said, 
 " To judge by the way my dear tutor takes wing, 
 Learning is doubtless a dangerous thing !" 
 
 PART THE THIRD. 
 
 Charlemagne sat in his window, 
 
 A- drinking early purl ; 
 Twelve barbers stood behind him, 
 
 The royal wig to curl ; 
 Twelve paladins were kneeling 
 
 Around him in a ring ; 
 Twelve trumpeters were pealing 
 
 At once, " God save the King !" 
 Twelve courtiers took their places, 
 
 The royal jokes to praise ; 
 To hand the royal braces, 
 
 Or lace the royal stays. 
 
EMMA AND EGINARD. 381 
 
 All of a sudden he starts from his chair ; 
 
 The very wig-royal flew straight in the air, 
 
 As he stagger'dand shouted, " Grood gracious ! look there! 
 
 Look, gentlemen, Look ! !" 
 
 If the Exeter mail 
 Had run over the tip of Beelzebub's tail, 
 Accidentally drunk and asleep on the rail, 
 
 Not Nick the Satanic, 
 
 In pain and in panic, 
 Had bounced up with symptoms so loud and galvanic, 
 Or hurl'd such a broadside at stoker and guard, 
 As the furious Charlemagne at our poor Eginard ! 
 And indeed, though a moralist, captious and slow, 
 Might have fancied his expletives rather de trop ; 
 And prayed him, in nautical language, to " stow" 
 Certain pithy imperatives ; — such a tableau 
 As a talented daughter, full trot through the snow, 
 With, perch' d on her shoulder, a dandy young beau, 
 Was rather what Cockneys define as a " go I" 
 
 The courtiers grew 
 
 Excessively blue ; 
 They didr.'t know what upon earth to do. 
 
 If pulling long faces, 
 
 With frightful grimaces, 
 Were anyway useful in keeping their places, 
 Theirs were at least on a durable basis ; 
 For they thump' d their breasts and roll'd their eyes, 
 And fill'd the roof with their dismal cries ; 
 
 Nay, one was seen, 
 
 His shrieks between, 
 Indulging in anguish more dreadly serene, 
 For he buried his face in the tail of his coat, 
 And stuff'd his handkerchief down his throat ! 
 
382 EMMA AND EG1NAED. 
 
 Sharp thunder' d the King, 
 
 " Ho, gentlemen, bring 
 
 That parson pale and a penn'orth of string ! 
 
 Turn out the guard 
 
 In the great court-yard, 
 
 And bid breakfast wait till we 've scragg'd Eginard !" 
 # # # # * # 
 
 Charlemagne sat in his window, 
 
 Still drinking early purl ; 
 His daughter stood before him, 
 
 Her hair was out of curl. 
 Her downcast eyes were counting 
 
 The tangled carpet-rushes ; 
 The royal blood ran mounting 
 
 Through her cheeks in crimson blushes. 
 I would you had witnessed his majesty's grin, 
 As they kick'd the blubbering chaplain in, 
 His glowering scowl, 
 As he said, with a growl, 
 " Good youth, don't you see that it 's useless to howl ? 
 What think you, my lords — shall we hang him or stick 
 
 him, 
 Or, first of all, set a strong fellow to lick him ? 
 How would your wisdoms advise us to slaughter 
 The rascal that dares to make love to our daughter ?" 
 
 Then the spiteful courtiers gladly 
 
 Suggested sundry ways ; 
 All which would hurt him sadly, 
 
 And bequeath to future days 
 Strong hints for those who madly 
 On a princess dared to gaze ! 
 They talk'd of needles, they talk'd of pins, 
 Of singem;? his whiskers and scraping his shins ; 
 
EMMA ANi; fiGINAED. 383 
 
 Of a rack, to crack 
 
 The small of his back ; 
 Of drowning him slowly, done np in a sack ; 
 Of toasting him gently — of boiling him hard, 
 Of a nice little fry with red pepper and lard ; 
 Of a jolly Guy Fawkes in the tournament yard! 
 In short, how to pickle our poor Eginard, 
 With anything like a respectful regard 
 
 To his majesty's taste, 
 
 Which was cruelly chaste, 
 Was a problem they couldn't resolve in such haste. 
 They couldn't decide if a boil or a roast 
 Would turn, in a way that would worry him most, 
 A nice young curate into a ghost ! 
 
 Perchance you 've watch'd a hungry bear, 
 
 Snarling over a bone : 
 If so, you may picture his majesty's glare, 
 
 And fancy his majesty's tone ! 
 For in thunder roll'd his anger ; 
 
 And the courtiers held their breath : 
 Emma thought he meant to hang her, 
 
 And she stood as white as death : 
 And her lover grew so funky, 
 
 He couldn't stand at all, 
 But, like a clock- work monkey, 
 
 Roll'd gibbering round the hall ! 
 
 " Daughter mine, 
 
 Yoli 've taken the shine 
 Out of our highly respectable line ! 
 You have ! you 've disgraced me. — I 'm cursedly hurt. 
 How could you — how dare you — go, vixen, and flirt 
 
384 EMMA AND EGINARD. 
 
 With a beggar ? he 's scarcely a tail to his shirt ! 
 
 Don't answer ! I see you intend to be pert. 
 
 The shame and the scandal 't would only make worse, 
 
 Or I 'd send you together to church — in a hearse ! 
 
 Now hear me and heed me — we won't, in our ire, 
 
 E-oll out of the frying-pan into the fire ; 
 
 We must act as a king — though we feel as a sire : 
 
 We pardon our daughter — for reasons of state : 
 
 Toward our chaplain we bid the wrath-royal abate : 
 
 Our courtiers we rather advise to relate 
 
 What they 've seen of their tricks 
 If they 're anxious to ' fix,' 
 A deuced long mile t'other side of the Styx, 
 Where Paris ain't half so well known as Old Nick's. 
 And finally, girl, since you 've chosen to carry him, 
 We'll stand no more nonsense ; by jingo, you '11 marry 
 him !" 
 
 Then, smiling, spoke the courtiers, 
 
 That stood before the King ; 
 " Though we talk'd of fire and tortures, 
 
 We knew they were n't the thing ! 
 We knew your royal highness ; 
 
 And we knew your bosom ran 
 With the cream of human kindness 
 
 For this excellent young man : 
 And we only spoke in joking, 
 
 So please you, gracious King, 
 When we said we 'd set him croaking, 
 
 Or any such like thing ! 
 May our chaplain wax and flourish ! 
 
 May he wear the scarlet hat ! 
 May the princess yearly nourish, 
 
 A churchling fair and fat ! 
 
EMMA AND EGINARD. 385 
 
 May it ever be a lesson t' her, 
 
 This blessed morning's fun ! 
 Now how could we speak pleasanter 
 
 Than what as how we 've done ? 
 And, if any of us mention 
 
 Her charming little whim, 
 In traitorous intention, 
 
 Or inuendo dim, 
 Why, strike him off his pension ; 
 
 And strike his head off him !" 
 
386 
 
 MY WINTEB EOOM. 
 
 The Winter wind is roaring in the air, 
 
 And crashing through the trees, upon the panes 
 
 A dull sound tells the beating of the snow, 
 
 And, now and then, a sharp quick tinkling where 
 
 The hail is smiting. Hark, how bitterly 
 
 The wild wind shrieks ! and, as I glance from out 
 
 My casement, nothing but the black sky o'er, 
 
 And the pale ghastly snow beneath, I see. 
 
 Within, how warm and cosy is my room ! 
 
 The broad bright blaze leaps, laughing, crackling up 
 
 The rumbling chimney, shedding round my walls 
 
 Its rosy radiance. Swarms of ruddy sparks, 
 
 Like dancing fire-flies, hover now below 
 
 The chimney's mouth, now stream up quietly 
 
 Its sable throat, and now right at my face 
 
 Dart swiftly, snapping out their testy lives. 
 
 The great swart andirons stand in sulky strength 
 
 Amidst the glowing redness. Now and then 
 
 A brand breaks up, and falls on either side, 
 
 Attended by a merrier dance of sparks. 
 
 And then the play of shadows. On the wall 
 
 The tongs has cast a straddling shape, with knob 
 
 Nodding so wisely, every chair has lined 
 
 Its giant frame-work all around. The tall 
 
MY WINTER ROOM. 387 
 
 Quaint clock, which ticks with such industrious tongue, 
 Chiming harmonious with the silver chirp 
 Of the unceasing cricket, casts its high 
 And reaching figure up the wall, with breast 
 Bent to an angle, stretching half along 
 The ceiling, wavering to each mirthful fit 
 Of the glad firelight. How the cinder-blaze 
 Mashes upon the letters of my books, 
 Dances along the barrel of my gun 
 (Remainder of sweet Indian summer days 
 In the calm forest when the smoky air 
 Rang with its voice), and glittering on the joints 
 Of my long fishing-rod (awakener too 
 Of cool, dark forest streams, and leaping trout, 
 And dashing music, and of net-work gold 
 Dropped by low branches), glancing in the dark, 
 Smooth polish of my cane (that also tells 
 Of rambles in the fresh, green, pastoral hills 
 To view the summer sunset — through the glens 
 To while away the languid summer heat, 
 And by broad waters where the harvest-moon 
 Beheld its face reflected). Cheery nook, 
 Sweet cheery nook ! how precious is thy peace 
 In my unquiet life ! how gladly here 
 My heart expands in pure beatitude, 
 Feeling its storms all hushed in holy rest, 
 All tumults soothed — at sweet peace with itself — 
 In kindness with all kind. The mangling day, 
 Cares, disappointments, sorrows, may have brought, 
 But all have vanished. All the bitter things 
 Of being — unappreciated worth — 
 "Wounded affection — barred ambition like 
 The Phoenix burning in the flames it fans 
 
 c c2 
 
388 
 
 MY WINTER ROOM. 
 
 Witli its own pinions : hopes that, like old Eome, 
 
 Are strewed in wrecks, which tell how bright and grand 
 
 Their pristine shapes ; all these roll off like mists, 
 
 And leave the crimsoned room a radiant shrine 
 
 Of blest contentment. Here the fancy, too, 
 
 Revels in its sweet dreaming, tracing things 
 
 Grotesque and beautiful from ont the coals, 
 
 One glowing like a famished lion's eye 
 
 One cracking open like a maiden's lips 
 
 (So soft and rich their velvet ruddiness), 
 
 And melting one in ashes soft and grey, 
 
 Like sunset's rim, what time the sun hath sunk 
 
 Beneath it ; and not only this, but lapped 
 
 In poetry, which dances now in sweet 
 
 And fairy music, as of harp and flute, 
 
 And marching now in stately phalanx on 
 
 To drum and trumpet. Glows the happy soul 
 
 Responsive, till the hours on downy feet 
 
 Have brought the time for slumber — then with prayer 
 
 To G-ocl, my head upon its pillow sinks, 
 
 And hearing, in the slow delicious creep 
 
 Of slumber o'er the frame, the stormy wind 
 
 And beating snow, I slide within the land, 
 
 The dim, mysterious, unknown land of dreams. 
 
 Alfred B. Street, 
 
 
389 
 
 THE DANE, AND HIS KING. 
 
 A PATRIOTIC SONG FOR DENMARK. 
 
 (A Sketch of February 11, 1659,) from the Danish of Andersen. 
 
 His white tent Winter spreads around, 
 In icy chains both Belts are bonnd ; 
 • But Denmark trusts in the Lord ! 
 
 By Copenhagen camps the Swede, — 
 Trusts in his name, trusts in his deed ; — 
 But Denmark trusts in the Lord ! 
 
 Sore, bitter Want rules village, town ; 
 And Hunger- death treads all men down : — 
 But Denmark trusts in the Lord ! 
 
 The Faubourg all in ashes lies ; 
 
 From Grod's own house fierce flames arise ; — 
 
 But Denmark trusts in the Lord ! 
 
 The Danish King from rampart calls ; — 
 The red-hot ball beside him falls, — 
 But Denmark trusts in the Lord ! 
 
390 THE DANE AND HIS KING. 
 
 Now holds the foe the Isle, and all, — 
 
 But Frederik sv^ears that there he '11 fall ;— 
 
 And Denmark trusts in the Lord ! 
 
 All fight — what boots their place — who can, — 
 Each man's a god, — each maid a man ! 
 And Denmark trusts in the Lord ! 
 
 Shrouds, shrouds, the Swede now puts him on, 
 Like death-bands o'er the snows they're gone ; 
 But Denmark trusts in the Lord ! 
 
 The living Snow-man conies like Death, 
 But melts before a woman's breath ; — 
 So Denmark trusts in the Lord ! 
 
 On storms the Swede with shout and cry, 
 Soon in the snows a corpse to lie ; a 
 For Denmark trusts in the Lord ! 
 
 " Te Deum" speaks, as true hearts spoke, 
 And kneels the King with all his folk, 
 And thanks for all the Lord ! 
 
 W. 
 
39X 
 
 
 THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS. 
 
 A mist was driving down the British Channel, 
 
 The day was just begun, 
 And through the window-panes, on floor and panel, 
 
 Streamed the red Autumn sun. 
 
 It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon, 
 
 And the white sails of ships ; 
 And, from the frowning rampart, the black cannon 
 
 Hailed it with feverish lips. 
 
 Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hithe, and Dover 
 
 Were all alert that day, 
 To see the French war- steamers speeding over, 
 
 When the fog cleared away. 
 
 Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions, 
 
 Their cannon, through the night, 
 Holding their breath, had watched in grim defiance 
 
 The sea-coast opposite. 
 
 And now they roared at drum-beat from their stations 
 
 On every citadel ; 
 Each answering each, with morning salutations, 
 
 That all was well ! 
 
392 THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE POETS. 
 
 And down the coast, all taking up the bnrden, 
 
 Replied the distant forts, 
 As if to summon from his sleep the Warden 
 
 And Lord of the Cinque Ports. 
 
 Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azure, 
 
 No drum-beat from the wall, 
 No morning gun from the black fort's embrazure 
 
 Awaken with their call ! 
 
 No more surveying with an eye impartial 
 
 The long line of the coast, 
 Shall the gaunt figure of the old Field-Marshal 
 
 Be seen upon his post ! 
 
 For in the night, unseen, a single warrior, 
 
 In sombre harness mailed, 
 Dreaded of man, and surnamed the destroyer, 
 
 The rampart wall has scaled. 
 
 He passed into the chamber of the sleeper, 
 
 The dark and silent room ; 
 And as he entered, darker grew and deeper 
 
 The silence and the gloom. 
 
 He did not pause to parley or dissemble, . 
 
 But smote the Warden hoar ; 
 Ah ! what a blow ! that made all England tremble 
 
 And groan from shore to shore. 
 
 Meanwhile, without the surly cannon waited, 
 
 The sun rose bright o'erhead ; 
 
 Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated 
 
 That a great man was dead ! 
 
 H. W. Longfellow. 
 
393 
 
 A POET'S LOVE. 
 
 With my love, so sweet and fair, 
 
 None can compare ; 
 With my love, so fair and sweet, 
 
 None can compete ! 
 
 Had I a hundred eyes 
 (Two my purpose serve but ill), 
 
 Had I a hundred eyes, 
 I would gaze on her my fill ! 
 
 With my love, so sweet and fair, 
 
 None can compare ! 
 With my love, so fair and sweet, 
 None can compete ! 
 
 Had I It hundred ears, 
 They would hear her slightest tone ; 
 
 Had I a hundred ears, 
 They would list to her alone ! 
 
 With my love, so sweet and fair, 
 
 None can compare ! 
 With my love, so fair and sweet, 
 None can compete ! 
 
)94 a poet's love. 
 
 Had I a hundred tongues, 
 They would praise her night and day ; 
 
 Had I a hundred tongues, 
 All together they would say, 
 
 With my love, so sweet and fair, 
 
 None can compare ! 
 With my love so fair and sweet, 
 None can compete ! 
 
 M. A. B. 
 
395 
 
 THE GIPSEY. 
 
 Along the shaded banks of Wye 
 Three sprightly sisters stray' d, 
 
 "When lo ! a gipsey, passing by, 
 Address' d each startled maid : — 
 
 " Ladies," she cried, " oh, turn to me, 
 
 Your fortunes I can trace, 
 And show reflected to the three 
 
 Each future husband's face." 
 
 The maidens laugh' d, the boon was given, 
 To search the stream they new, 
 
 And Wye, whose tide reflected heaven, 
 Eeflected beauty too. 
 
 " I see no unknown features," cried 
 
 Each disappointed fair, 
 " My own I spy, and oft have spied, 
 
 But no one else is there." 
 
 " Whene'er," replied the crafty crone, 
 
 " Ye bless three happy men, 
 The features which are now your own, 
 
 " Will be your husbands' then." 
 
396 
 
 THE CLOUD IN THE HONEYMOON. 
 
 Know ye the road of sylvan notoriety, 
 
 Where close cabs stand, and omnibuses ply ; 
 
 Which squares and crescents deck in gay variety, 
 And walled- up villas, hidden from the eye ; 
 
 Which counts dramatic stars in its society, 
 
 In numbers that with Heaven's stars can vie ; 
 
 Which boasts an hospital ? — but wherefore prompt on ? 
 
 The place you must have recognized, as Brompton. 
 
 Near this famed place, in a secluded spot, 
 By a small garden from the road divided ; 
 
 A small house stood — a perfect rural cot, 
 In which, not many months ago, resided 
 
 A happy pair, contented with their lot ; 
 
 Thinking all bliss, while they were not divided ; 
 
 Asking kind Heaven for no further boon, — 
 
 'Tis true they still were in their honeymoon: 
 
 Yet, as good models for all constant lovers, 
 
 Joseph and Anna might have been displayed — 
 
 Each day, some brighter charm in her discovers 
 By fresh devotion on his part repaid — 
 
 
THE CLOUD IN THE HONEYMOON. 397 
 
 One cloud alone in their horizon hovers ; — 
 
 (The crumpling of the rose-leaf, I 'm afraid), 
 That horrid office ! — every day, Poor Joe, 
 At nine o'clock is hurried off to go. 
 
 Short-sighted mortals ! why, — the separation 
 Of those same eight hours out of twenty-four, 
 
 Adds to affection, zest and animation, 
 
 Felt by the wife, — and by the husband more — 
 
 Returning from, a long day's application, 
 To find a sweet face smiling at the door, 
 
 A bright fire sparkling, — warmth, and joy, and peace ; 
 
 Does not the contrast home's true charms increase ? 
 
 " Don't be late back, love," Anna murmured, parting 
 From Joseph, on the morn of the New Tear ; 
 
 It almost paid the grievance of departing, 
 
 Those tender words and gentle tones to hear. 
 
 So Joseph thought, while on his long walk starting, 
 With Anna's sweet voice ringing in his ear. 
 
 He- gave a sigh — then, quickening his gait, 
 
 Exclaimed, " Confound that watch ! I shall be late." 
 
 Elbowing, pushing, forcing on his way, 
 
 At length a brother clerk he chanced to meet. 
 " Why, you are early from your work to-day !" 
 
 Said Joseph, as he stopped, his friend to greet. 
 " Work !" said the other, " 'tis a holiday, 
 
 " To us poor fellows a delightful treat." 
 " A holiday !" cried Joseph, " what a pleasure ! 
 
 " I '11 hasten home — what glad news for my treasure ! ! 
 
398 THE CLOTJD IN THE HONEYMOON. 
 
 How gaily now, his best exertions using, 
 Onwards to home and wife he quickly hies ; 
 
 With pleasant fancies, now, his mind amusing, 
 Anticipating Anna's glad surprise ; — 
 
 At other times, the length of way abusing ; — 
 
 At length the wished-for cottage meets his eyes — 
 
 He knocks once — twice — thrice, vainly at the door ; 
 
 The well-known raps strike heedless o'er and o'er. 
 
 At length, the door was opened ; and beside him 
 
 Stood Anna, in becoming agitation ; 
 She said, she from the window had descried him ; 
 
 And when he asked her, what her occupation 
 Was, that so long, an entrance she denied him ? 
 
 She blushed, and uttered with much perturbation, 
 Some faint excuse, which, with her shrinking eye 
 And changing tint, seemed very like a lie. 
 
 " Don't let us stand here in the cold to chatter," 
 Said Joseph, in an accent somewhat stern, 
 
 His Anna would have asked, what was the matter ; 
 But feared lest her solicitude he 'd spurn : 
 
 Perhaps (my heroine I would not flatter), 
 
 Her busy conscience made her fair cheeks burn ! 
 
 And thinking of the slip in her veracity, 
 
 Acted as a restraint on her loquacity. 
 
 But, by degrees, their spirits rose again, 
 And as they sat conversing, side by side, 
 
 With fond words Joseph tried to soothe the pain 
 His harsh tones must have caused his gentle bride. 
 
THE CLOUD IN THE HONEYMOON. 399 
 
 " What could," lie thought, " have made my silly brain 
 
 " Form an idea against a love so tried ?" 
 And quite convinced that lie had been the offender, 
 He strove to make it up by words more tender. 
 
 What has occurred to make him, in a hurry, 
 Draw back from Anna's slender waist his arm ? 
 
 Can jealous thoughts again his fancy worry, 
 And cause that sudden glance round of alarm ? 
 
 Why does his look put Anna in a flurry ? 
 
 She rose, and murmuring, " 'Tis very warm," 
 
 Opened the window, and then left the room, 
 
 Leaving her husband sunk in deepest gloom. 
 
 Oh, jealousy ! how much are to be pitied 
 
 The victims of thy poisonous influence ! 
 When once a mind is to thy power submitted, 
 
 Farewell all hope, all reasoning, all sense ! 
 Now art thou into Joseph's brain admitted, 
 
 On what would seem too idle a pretence : 
 Those fears, those doubts, which all his pleasure mar, 
 Rise from the smell of an expired cigar ! 
 
 "Now, who can have been smoking here?" thought 
 Joseph : 
 
 " There's no use asking Anna, I presume. 
 " She really might as well have got no nose, if 
 
 " She can't perceive this evident perfume ! 
 I She said she had no visitors — who knows if 
 
 " I had not better ignorance assume ? 
 " She must have smelt it, and, with guilty care, 
 1 Opened the window, just to change the air. 
 
4C0 THE CLOUD IN THE HONEYMOON. 
 
 
 " I '11 hide my doubts, and watch her every motion." 
 Just then, his wife re-entered with a smile : 
 
 Her manner showed no traces of emotion, 
 
 As, with gay talk, she strove the hours to wile ; 
 
 Her merry laugh, her simple, fond devotion, 
 Served, for a time, his fancies to beguile ; 
 
 But still, that odour, floating in the air, 
 
 Contrived his coming gaiety to scare. 
 
 Vainly, dissimulation's aid invoking, 
 
 The conversation round about he led ; 
 Wished they had visitors — and said, half joking, 
 
 That he had met a friend, who was ill-bred 
 Enough to want to come in, although smoking. 
 
 Here he thought Anna's cheek grew very red ; 
 But, as she answered with some slight remark, 
 He was obliged to leave off in the dark. 
 
 Next morning, Joseph lingers in his going, 
 Although the clock his tardiness reproves ; 
 
 Till Anna, with a smile, the hour hand showing, 
 Presents him, as a hint, with hat and gloves. 
 
 " 'Tis but too clear ! she 's quite impatient growing," 
 Thought he, as to the door he slowly moves, 
 
 " But, this time, in hypocrisy I '11 match her. 
 
 " As sure as I 'm alive, to-day I '11 catch her !" 
 
 Eesolved to act with care and circumspection, 
 He hid the bitter pain from which he smarted ; 
 
 He said " good-bye !" with much assumed affection, 
 Trying to hum an air, and look light-hearted. 
 
THE CLOUD IN THE HONEYMOON. 401 
 
 His doubts thus safe from all fear of detection, 
 
 Upou his fatal journey off he started, 
 With plans that gave this gay, good-humoured fellow 
 A wonderful resemblance to Othello. 
 
 " If," thought he, " I find something wrong about her, 
 " No pains, no torments of revenge I '11 spare ! 
 
 " Yet, after all, it is unjust to doubt her 
 " On a cause, literally, ' light as air.' 
 
 " What a blank would existence be without her 
 " Kind looks and words, her tender, loving care !" 
 
 Here, as he melted fast into the lover, 
 
 He hastened back, the whole truth to discover. 
 
 Through the small garden, now behold him stealing, 
 With beating heart, and footstep light and airy : 
 
 Fearing some chance, his quick return revealing, 
 Should spoil his plot, he cast round glances wary. 
 
 At length, successfully his form concealing, 
 
 He reached the house ; and then, with anxious care, he 
 
 Crept to the parlour window, and peeped in, 
 
 Trembling at what he might behold within. 
 
 What sees he there ? — each jealous fancy flies ; 
 
 Doubt and suspicion are for ever gone ! 
 By the fireside, his Anna meets his eyes, 
 
 Eeclining in an arm-chair, and alone. 
 But what her occupation? — (his surprise 
 
 Is justified by such a cause, we own). 
 A faint cloud issues from her lips, which are 
 Puffing away at an immense cigar! 
 
402 TEE CLOUD IN THE HONEYMOON. 
 
 The exclamation, he could not repress, 
 
 Startled the fair one from her meditation ; 
 
 Trembling with wonder, and with fear no less, 
 She spied her husband at his observation. 
 
 " Joseph !" she cried, in accents of distress. 
 He waited for no further invitation, 
 
 But, quick as thought, the window ledge he gained, 
 
 And to his heart his faithful wife he strained ! 
 
 I need not tell how Joseph, doubts forswearing, 
 Was of his jealous whims for ever rid ; 
 
 How Anna had been longing, yet not daring, 
 To own the secret habit from him hid ; 
 
 How, all his frantic jealousy declaring, 
 He owned his fears deserving to be chid ; 
 
 How he forgave, and joined his constant Anna 
 
 In quiet indulgence in a mild Havanna. 
 
 Now, of this tale the moral I '11 explain : 
 A useful one to husband and to wife. 
 
 Wives, let no idle fears your truth restrain, 
 For mystery will oft occasion strife. 
 
 Husbands, from causeless jealousy refrain, 
 Lest you embitter all your wedded life, 
 
 For doubts which afterwards you would revoke, 
 
 And fears, which may, like Joseph's, end in smoke, ! 
 
 M. A. B 
 
 
403 
 
 THE CHTTECHYAED AT CAMBEIDaE. 
 
 In the village churchyard slie lies, 
 Dust is in her beautiful eyes. 
 
 Nor more she breathes, nor feels, nor stirs ; 
 At her feet and at her head 
 Lies a slave to attend the dead, 
 
 But their dust is as white as hers. 
 
 Was she a lady of high degree, 
 So much in love with the vanity 
 
 And foolish pomp of this world of ours ? 
 Or was it Christian Charity, 
 And lowliness and humility, 
 
 The richest and rarest of all dowers t 
 
 Who shall tell us ? No one speaks ; 
 No colour shoots into those cheeks, 
 
 Either of anger or of pride, 
 At the rude question we have asked : 
 Nor will the mystery be unmasked 
 
 By those who are sleeping at her side. 
 
 D D 2 
 
404 THE CHURCHYARD AT CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 Hereafter ? — And do you think to look 
 On the terrible pages of that book, 
 
 To find her failings, faults and errors ? 
 Ah, you will then have other cares 
 In your own short-comings and despairs, 
 
 In your own secret sins and terrors ! 
 
 V»\ H. Longfellow. 
 
405 
 
 SONG FEOM THE GAELIC. 
 
 " Love, will thou trust thyself with me ?" 
 
 Whispered a bold and gallant rover ; 
 u In distant lands I thought of thee, 
 
 And 'midst the wild cry of victory, 
 
 Thou wert before me." 
 
 The lady's eyes so bright and blue 
 
 Turned on the knight, but not in sorrow,— 
 " I ever "* .ew thee leal and true, 
 
 And I will wed thee, love, to-morrow, 
 And love thee dearly." 
 
 W. H. Maxwell. 
 
406 
 
 IN SAEAM. 
 
 Ante alias splendet specie pulcherrima Sara, 
 
 Formosas superans effigie egregia. 
 Urget amore mini pectus menteinque puella, et 
 
 Angusta in Nostra vivit honesta Via. 
 Virgineo in coetu nullas dulcedine Sarae, 
 
 Nobilibus natas, invenias similes. 
 Iinplet amore mini mentem pectusque puella, et 
 
 Angusta in Nostra Tivit honesta Via. 
 
 ii. 
 
 Institor huic pater est, portans qui caulibus apta 
 
 Eetia per vicos clamitat assidue : 
 Digna viro est uxor, merces cui fimbria longa est 
 
 Vendita, siqua velit foemina compta emere. 
 At tales talem quam dulcis numina Sara 
 
 (Nobilis est certe !) non generasse sinunt. 
 Est mihi delicise cordi mentique puella, et 
 
 Angusta in Nostra vivit honesta Yia. 
 
 in. 
 
 Adveniente ilia fabricam inceptosque labores 
 Desero continub, victus amore meo : 
 
407 
 
 SALLY IN OUE ALLEY. 
 
 Of all the girls that are so smart, 
 
 There 's none like pretty Sally, 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 
 And she lives in Our Alley. 
 There 's not a lady in the land, 
 
 That 's half so sweet as Sally, 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 
 And she lives in Onr Alley. 
 
 ii. 
 
 Her father, he makes cabbage-nets, 
 
 And through the streets does cry 'em, 
 Her mother, she sells laces long, 
 
 To such as please to buy 'em. 
 But sure, such folks could ne'er beget 
 
 So sweet a girl as Sally ; 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 
 And she lives in Our Alley. 
 
 in. 
 
 When she is by, I leave my work, 
 I love her so sincerely : 
 
408 IN SARAM. 
 
 Tunc ira fervens improvisusque magister, 
 Ut Saracenus, adit, me baculo feriens. 
 
 At quamvis feriat donee satiabitur iste, 
 Omnia pro Sara, perfero, sic peramo. 
 
 Firmat amore mihi pectus mentemque puella, et 
 Angusta in Nostra vivit honesta Yia. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Hebdomadal ex omni spatio serieque dierum 
 
 Solem unum expecto, suavis et est mihi lux. 
 Isque dies Lunse imperium ac Saturnia regna 
 
 Disjungit, veniens lumine propitio. 
 Tunc etenim spatior Sara comitatus amice, 
 
 Yestituqiie nitens, splendidius solito. 
 Fert mihi lenimen cura3 dulcissima Sara, et 
 
 Angusta in Nostra vivit honesta Yia. 
 
 v. 
 
 Ad templum Domini me ducit ssepe magister, 
 
 Saepe at nequitiam corripit ille meam : 
 Scilicet aufugio furtim falloque magistrum, 
 
 Sacro argumento vix bene proposito. 
 Dum monet Orator populum hortaturque disertus, 
 
 Ad Saram effugio, dulceque colloquium. 
 Implet amore mihi mentem pectusque puella, et 
 
 Angusta in Nostra vivit honesta Yia. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Quum volvente anno Christi Natalitia orta 
 Sint, nummiim mihi erunt in loculo cumuli. 
 
 Omnes servabo, atque ipsa cum pyxide Sara, 
 Tempora quum veniant, melligense tribuam. 
 
SALLY IN OTTE ALLET. 409 
 
 My master comes like any Turk, 
 
 And bangs me most severely. 
 But let him bang bis bellyful, 
 
 I'll bear it all for Sally ; 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 
 And she lives in Our Alley. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Of all the days that 's in the week, 
 
 I dearly love but one day, 
 And that 's the day that comes between 
 
 A Saturday and Monday. 
 For then I'm dress' d in all my best, 
 
 To walk abroad with Sally ; 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 
 And she lives in Our Alley. 
 
 My master carries me to church, 
 
 And often am I blamed, 
 Because I leave him in the lurch 
 
 As soon as Text is named. 
 I leave the church in sermon- time, 
 
 And slink away to Sally ; 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 
 And she lives in Our Alley. 
 
 VI. 
 
 When Christmas comes about again, 
 Oh ! then I shall have money, — 
 
 I'll hoard it up, and — box and all — 
 I'll give it to my honey. 
 
410 IN SAEAM. 
 
 Atque utinam innumeras mihi opes fortuna dedisset ! 
 
 Sara suo totas exciperet gremio. 
 Est mihi deliciae cordi mentique puella, et 
 
 Angusta in Nostra vivit honesta Via. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Irrident flammam vicini atque ipse magistar 
 
 Quae me illamque urit, ludificantque facem. 
 Sed, sine amore tuo, prsestaret, Salli, revinctuni 
 
 Servi me vitam remigio trahere. 
 Quum tamen elabens lente confecerit annus 
 
 Septimus orbiculum, Sara mihi uxor erit. 
 Turn vero thalamum celebrabimus atque hymenoeos, 
 
 At procul Angusta ibimus usque Via. 
 
 G. K. Gillespie, A.M. 
 
SALLY I1T OUR ALLEY. 411 
 
 And, "would it were ten thousand pounds, 
 
 I'd give it all to Sally ; 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 
 And she lives in Our Alley. 
 
 VII. 
 
 My master, and the neighbours all, 
 
 Make game of me and Sally, 
 And, but for her, I'd better be 
 
 A slave, and row a galley. 
 But when my seven long years are out, 
 
 Oh ! then, I'll marry Sally, 
 Oh ! then we'll wed, and then we'll bed, 
 
 But not in Our Alley. 
 
412 
 
 YES AND NO. 
 
 Christmas time, 
 
 Poets' rhyme 
 Calls tlie best of seasons ; 
 For the pref'rence they bestow, 
 Can we find good reasons ? 
 
 No! 
 
 Tet do we 
 
 Disagree 
 With those who despise it ; 
 Does not Christmas joys possess 
 For which we should prize it ? 
 
 Yes ! 
 
 When, with cold, 
 
 We behold, 
 Pinched and blue our faces, 
 Can we all complaints forego, 
 Or forbear grimaces ? 
 
 No! 
 
 But when night 
 
 Brings firelight, 
 And our friends are near us ; 
 While we round the fireside press, 
 Does not pleasure cheer us ? 
 
 Yes! 
 
YES AND NO. 413 
 
 Frost bereaves 
 
 Trees of leaves, 
 Bobs flowers of their lustre ; 
 Can the glitt'ring ice and snow 
 For their charms pass nmster ? 
 
 No! 
 
 But their place 
 
 "Will replace 
 Christmas trees and holly ; 
 Their bright tints to value less, 
 Would not that be folly ? 
 
 Tes! 
 
 To our gates, 
 
 When the waits, 
 Postmen, servants, traders, 
 All for Christmas boxes go, 
 Do we bless the invaders ? 
 
 No! 
 
 But when some 
 
 Fine things come 
 As a Christmas present, 
 All inscribed to our address, 
 Don't we find it pleasant ? 
 
 Yes! 
 
 M. A. B. 
 
414 
 
 A BALLAD OF SIE JOHN FEANKLIN. 
 
 0, whither sail you, Sir John Franklin ? 
 
 Cried a whaler in Baffin's Bay. 
 To know if between the land and the pole 
 
 I may find a broad sea-way. 
 
 I charge yon back, Sir John Franklin, 
 
 As yon would live and thrive ; 
 For between the land and the frozen pole 
 
 No man may sail alive. 
 
 Bnt lightly laughed the stout Sir John, 
 
 And spoke unto his men : 
 Half England is wrong, if he is right ; 
 
 Bear off to westward then. 
 
 0, whither sail you, brave Englishman ? 
 
 Cried the little Esquimaux. 
 Between your land and the polar star 
 
 My goodly vessels go. 
 
 Come down, if you would journey there, 
 
 The little Indian said ; 
 And change your cloth for fur clothing, 
 
 Your vessel for a sled 
 
A BALLAD OF SIR JOHN FRANKLIN. 415 
 
 But lightly laughed the stout Sir John, 
 And the crew laughed with him too : — 
 
 A sailor to change from ship to sled, 
 I ween, were something new ! 
 
 All through the long, long polar day, 
 
 The vessels westward sped ; 
 And wherever the sail of Sir John was blown, 
 
 The ice gave way and fled : 
 
 Gave way with many a hollow groan, 
 
 And with many a surly roar, 
 But it murmured and threatened on every side, 
 
 And closed where he sailed before. 
 
 Ho ! see ye not, my merry men, 
 
 The broad and open sea ? 
 Bethink ye what the whaler said, 
 Think of the little Indian's sled ! 
 
 The crew laughed out in glee. 
 
 Sir John, Sir John, 'tis bitter cold, 
 
 The scud drives on the breeze, 
 The ice comes looming from the north, 
 
 The very sunbeams freeze. 
 
 Bright summer goes, dark winter comes — 
 
 We cannot rule the year ; 
 But long ere summer's sun goes down, 
 
 On yonder sea we'll steer. 
 
 The dripping icebergs dipped and rose, 
 
 And floundered down the gale ; 
 The ships were staid, the yards were manned, 
 
 And furled the useless sail. 
 
416 A BALLAD OF SIR JOHN FRANKLIN. 
 
 The summer's gone, the winter's come, 
 
 We sail not on yonder sea : 
 Why sail we not, Sir John Franklin ? 
 
 A silent man was he. 
 
 The summer goes, the winter comes— 
 
 We cannot rule the year : 
 I ween, we cannot rule the ways, 
 
 Sir John, wherein we 'd steer. 
 
 The cruel ice came floating on, 
 
 And closed beneath the lee, 
 Till the thickening waters dashed no more ; 
 'Twice ice around, behind, before — 
 
 My God ! there is no sea ! 
 
 What think you of the whaler now ? 
 
 What of the Esquimaux ? 
 A sled were better than a ship, 
 
 To cruise through ice and snow. 
 
 Down sank the baleful crimson sun, 
 
 The northern light came out, 
 And glared upon the ice-bound ships, 
 
 And shook its spears about. 
 
 The snow came down, storm breeding storm, 
 
 And on the decks was laid ; 
 Till the weary sailor, sick at heart, 
 
 Sank down beside his spade. 
 
 Sir John, the night is black and long, 
 
 The hissing wind is bleak, 
 The hard, green ice is strong as death : — 
 
 I prithee, Captain, speak ! 
 
A BALLAD OP SIR JOHN FRANKLIN. 417 
 
 The night is neither bright nor short, 
 
 The singing breeze is cold, 
 The ice is not so strong as hope — 
 
 The heart of man is bold ! 
 
 What hope can scale this icy wall, 
 
 High over the main flag- staff ? 
 Above the ridges the wolf and bear 
 Look down, with a patient, settled stare, 
 
 Look down on us and laugh. 
 
 The summer went, the winter came — 
 
 We could not rule the year ; 
 But summer will melt the ice again, 
 And open a path to the sunny main, 
 
 Whereon our ships shall steer. 
 
 The winter went, the summer went, 
 
 The winter came around ; 
 But the hard, green ice was strong as death, 
 And the voice of hope sank to a breath, 
 
 Yet caught at every sound. 
 
 Hark ! heard you not the noise of guns ? — 
 
 And there, and there, again ? 
 'Tis some uneasy iceberg's roar, 
 
 As he turns in the frozen main. 
 
 Hurra ! hurra ! the Esquimaux 
 
 Across the ice-fields steal : 
 God give them grace for their charity ! 
 
 Ye pray for the silly seal. 
 
 E E 
 
418 A BALLAD OF SIR JOHN FRANKLIN. 
 
 Sir Jolin, where are the English fields., 
 And where are the English trees, 
 
 And where are the little English flowers 
 That open in the breeze ? 
 
 Be still, be still, my brave sailors ! 
 
 Yon shall see the fields again, 
 And smell the scent of the opening flowers, 
 
 The grass, and the waving grain. 
 
 Oh ! when shall I see my orphan child ? 
 
 My Mary waits for me. 
 Oh ! when shall I see my old mother, 
 
 And pray at her trembling knee ? 
 
 Be still, be still, my brave sailors ! 
 
 Think not snch thoughts again. 
 Bnt a tear froze slowly on his cheek ; 
 
 He thought of Lady Jane. 
 
 Ah ! bitter, bitter grows the cold, 
 The ice grows more and more ; 
 
 More settled stare the wolf and bear, 
 More patient than before. 
 
 Oh ! think you, good Sir John Franklin, 
 
 We'll ever see the land ? 
 'Twas cruel to send us here to starve, 
 
 Without a helping hand. 
 
A BALLAD OF SIR JOHN FRANEXIU. 419 
 
 'Twas cruel Sir John, to send us here, 
 
 So far from help or home, 
 To starve and freeze on this lonely sea : 
 I ween, the Lords of the Admiralty 
 
 Would rather send than come. 
 
 Oh ! whether we starve to death alone, 
 
 Or sail to our own country, 
 We have done what man has never done— 
 The truth is founded, the secret won — 
 
 We passed the Northern Sea ! 
 
 E E 2 
 
420 
 
 MY POETEAIT. 
 
 Oh, young and richly gifted ! born to claim 
 
 No vulgar place amidst the sons of fame ; 
 
 With shapes of beauty haunting thee like dreams, 
 
 And skill to realize Art's loftiest themes, 
 
 How wearisome to thee the task must be. 
 
 To copy these coarse features painfully, 
 
 Faded by time, and paled by care, to trace 
 
 The dim complexion of this homely face, 
 
 And lend to a bent brow and anxious eye, 
 
 Thy holiest toil, thine art's high mystery. 
 
 Yet by that art almost, methinks, divine, 
 By hand, and colour, and the skilful line, 
 Which at a stroke can strengthen or refine, 
 And mostly by the invisible influence 
 Of thine own spirit, gleams of thought and sense 
 Shoot o'er the careworn forehead, and illume 
 The heavy eye, and break the leaden gloom. 
 Even as the sunbeams on the rudest ground 
 Fling their illusive glories wide around, 
 And make the dullest scene of nature bright 
 By the reflexion of their own pure light. 
 
 Mart Russell Mitford. 
 
421 
 
 FIELD-PEEACHOTG. 
 
 Tite cassock'd priest's grave homily 
 You rightly deem claims reverence ; 
 
 For me, I own the heresy, 
 
 Field-preaching has more eloquence. 
 
 A budding leaf, a blade of grass, 
 A ripple on the stream, a reed, 
 
 A beam or shadow that may pass 
 To me with holiest unction plead. 
 
 And therefore sometimes I am found, 
 While close cathedral walls on you, 
 
 Where breeze and bird are chanting round, 
 Where blossoms sparkle with the dew. 
 
 Or when within the pillar' d fane 
 You view the decorated tomb, 
 
 Where effigy and record vain 
 
 Adorn with pomp the common doom : 
 
 Some rural haunt displays to me 
 Affecting types of life's decline, 
 
 The barren field, the naked tree, 
 And many a grave and solemn sign. 
 
422 FIELD-PREACHING. 
 
 And as the woodland path I tread, 
 
 Where late the new-blown flowers were gay, 
 
 Where now the wither' d leaves are spread, 
 Wise teachers meet me on the way. 
 
 Say not I break Divine commands ! 
 
 Say not I shun the house of prayer ! 
 There is a house not made with hands, 
 
 And there are hearts that worship there ! 
 
 Julia Dat. 
 
423 
 
 SEMPEE LO STESSO. 
 
 Ever the same ! — let this our watchword be 
 
 Upon the dreary battlements of time, 
 With a clear soul I breathe it unto thee 
 
 In tones whose fervour mocks this idle rhyme ; 
 Ever the same ; — how sweet to earn with pain 
 
 The tested love that casteth out all fear, 
 And amid all we suffer, doubt and feign, 
 
 To own one true and self-absorbing sphere ! 
 Ever the same ; — as moons the waters draw, 
 
 A simple presence calms all inward strife, 
 And by the sway of some benignant law, 
 
 With high completeness fills the sense of life : 
 The Holy One this sacred thought confest 
 When leaned the fond disciple on his breast. 
 
 H. T. TUC HERMAN. 
 
424 
 
 THE TWO ANGELS. 
 
 Two angels, one of Life and one of Death, 
 
 Passed o'er the village as the morning broke ; 
 
 The dawn was on their faces, and beneath, 
 
 The sombre houses hearsed with pinnies of smoke. 
 
 Their attitude and aspect were the same, 
 
 Alike their features and their robes of white ; 
 
 But one was crowned with amaranth, as with flame, 
 And one with asphodels, like flakes of hght. 
 
 I saw them pause on their celestial way ; 
 
 Then said I, with deep fear and doubt oppressed : 
 " Beat not so loud, my heart, lest thou betray 
 
 The place where thy beloved are at rest 1" 
 
 And he, who wore the crown of asphodels, 
 Descending, at my door began to knock, 
 
 And my soul sank within me, as in wells 
 
 The waters sink before an earthquake's shock. 
 
 I recognised the nameless agony, 
 
 The terror and the tremor and the pain, 
 
 That oft before had filled and haunted me, 
 
 And now returned with threefold strength again. 
 
THE TWO ANGELS. 425 
 
 The door I opened to my heavenly guest, 
 
 And listened, for I thought I heard God's voice ; 
 
 And knowing whatsoe'er He sent was best, 
 Dared neither to lament nor to rejoice. 
 
 Then with a smile, that filled the house with light, 
 " My errand is not Death, but Life," he said j 
 
 And ere I answered, passing out of sight 
 On his celestial embassy he sped. 
 
 'T was at thy door, O friend ! and not at mine, 
 
 The angel with the amaranthine wreath, 
 Pausing descended, and with voice divine, 
 
 Whispered a word that had a sound like Death. 
 
 Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom, 
 A shadow on those features fair and thin ; 
 
 And softly, from that hushed and darkened room, 
 Two angels issued, where but one went in. 
 
 All is of God ! If He but wave his hand 
 
 The mists collect, the rain falls thick and loud, 
 
 Till with a smile of light on sea and land, 
 Lo ! He looks back from the departing cloud. 
 
 Angels of Life and Death alike a,re his ; 
 
 Without his leave they pass no threshold o'er ; 
 Who, then, would wish or dare, believing this, 
 
 Against his messengers to shut the door ? 
 
 W. H. Longfellow, 
 
426 
 
 THE SHOE. 
 
 There's a great ball to-niglit at the castle ; 
 There are knocks at the door all the day ; 
 Every knock at the door brings a parcel, 
 Every parcel contains something gay. 
 My dress gives no room for complaining. 
 Flowers, trimmings, and gloves, all quite new; 
 And the only one thing now remaining, 
 Is to look for a pretty shaped shoe. 
 
 "With great trouble, I make a selection, 
 
 For I must have a well-fitting pair : 
 
 At length, some appear quite perfection — 
 
 Their beanty will make the world stare ! 
 
 My toilet thns fixed ; to begin it, 
 
 I go very early, 'tis true ; 
 
 But I wait for the very last minute, 
 
 To put on my beautiful shoe. 
 
 My dress I discover no faults in — 
 At eleven we start from the house ; 
 And half-an-hour after, we 're waltzing, 
 In time, to the sweet airs of Strauss. 
 
TII3 SHOE. 42) 
 
 But that proverb, so frequently quoted, 
 Of the cup and the lip, proved quite true ; 
 And the dancing, on which I so doted, 
 Was spoiled by my horrible shoe. 
 
 How could I have guessed, while admiring 
 Its beautiful form in the glass, 
 That the pleasure I 'd been so desiring, 
 Would be quite ruined by it ; alas ! 
 But no sooner had I begun twirling, 
 Than my shoe took to doing so too ; 
 And while in the gay dance, still whirling, 
 Off danced my detestable shoe ; 
 
 In VEU, while I in a cliasse, 
 My vis-a-vis hastened to meet, 
 I felt, on a sudden, quite glacee, 
 By something cold touching my feet. 
 A dreadful suspicion came o'er me ! 
 I looked on the ground, — full in view 
 Of the crowds of spectators before me, 
 A yard or two off, lay my shoe ! 
 
 This leads to a pause in my dancing ; 
 
 To sit, sadly still, I'm reduced ; 
 
 When I see our fair hostess advancing, 
 
 And I rise up to be introduced. 
 
 I return with a curtsey her greeting, 
 
 Then drew back, — when I found — fancy, do ! 
 
 I had left at her feet, in retreating, 
 
 My hateful, my horrible shoe ! 
 
428 THE SHOE. 
 
 By these accidents fairly affrighted, 
 All hopes of a dance I renounced ; 
 And I must own, I felt quite delighted, 
 When our carriage, at last, was announced. 
 But on mounting its step,— who can utter 
 My grief ! some one pushed — Lord knows who ! 
 And I found my foot right in the gutter, 
 Deserted, of course, by my shoe ! 
 
 Left barefoot — (there could be no wearing 
 A thing covered with mud every inch) ; 
 I determined, next time, on preparing 
 A shoe that would serve at a pinch. 
 You may talk of the torture of squeezing, 
 "What is that, pray, to being wet through ? 
 Take my word, there is nothing more teazing, 
 Than to play hide and seek with your shoe ! 
 
 M. A. B. 
 
429 
 
 THE TOMB OF GLOEY. 
 
 Hark to the solemn toll — the muffled drum ! 
 Bearing the " mighty dead," behold they come ! 
 A nation comes ! — for all that long array 
 But represents a nation's grief to-day. 
 Its myriad souls unite in silent prayer — 
 In spirit, if not presence, all are there ! 
 Unsullied laurels grace the warrior's bier, 
 And triumph's smile illumines sorrow's tear. 
 Though for a season deep regret may reign, 
 And solemn silence shrouds yon sable train — 
 Though for a moment glory sits in gloom, 
 Immortal radiance hovers o'er the tomb ! 
 
 Greatest of modern Britons ! — thou whose name 
 Shall henceforth be synonymous with Fame — 
 The second Arthur of our matchless isle — 
 On whom did virtue, valour, fortune, smile— 
 Whom pride is proud to honour — and whom state 
 Owns, in thy simple grandeur, truly great. — 
 Soon to thy name the sculptured tomb shall rise, 
 And Art's high efforts tell where Glory lies. 
 The graver's chisel, and the poet's lays, 
 For thee shall consecrate a nation's praise. 
 
430 THE TOMB OP GLORY. 
 
 Yet oh. ! how feeble ev'n the loftiest art 
 To paint the feelings of a nation's heart. 
 That mighty heart, to which in true response, 
 Thine echoed once ! — alas, that sad word once ! 
 Ah ! vain is all the incense they can raise — 
 Sculpture's fair forms, and poesy's high praise. 
 'Tis but the taper glimmering in the sun, 
 The wreath superfluous, when the race is won. 
 Glory needs no memorial — born to live 
 In that best life its deeds or works can give. 
 With its own hand its monument it builds, 
 With its own light death's dark abode it gilds. 
 'Tis thus the name we would record shall last, 
 And time preserve it when the tomb is past. 
 That for the living, not the dead, we raise, 
 To bid them emulate the name they praise — 
 To tell to after ages here doth lie 
 All of immortal glory that can die — 
 To ask no idle sigh, nor transient tear, 
 But proudly tell that Wellington sleeps here ! 
 
 Eta. 
 
431 
 
 THE COBBLER OF TOLEDO. 
 
 A LEGEND OF CASTILE. 
 
 Totj 've all of you heard, or you 've all of you read, 
 
 Of a little old cobbler whose dwelling is said 
 
 To have been nothing more than a stall or a shed, 
 
 Where he could n't stand up without bumping his head ; 
 
 But which still, as the choicest authorities say, 
 
 Both served him for kitchen and salle a manger. 
 
 This same little cobbler— so fickle is Fame — 
 Has never yet figured in rhyme with a name ; 
 And even the place of his birth or " location," 
 His life, death and actions, his language and nation, 
 Are all alike left to our imagination. 
 
 Yet, he lived and he died ; 
 
 He 'd a language beside, 
 And a mother of whom he was haply the pride. 
 
 I 've traced them all out with much trouble and pain, 
 And I 've taken a journey expressly to Spain 
 To search all the archives — I hope not in vain, — 
 As I found that this maker of shoes for " the million," 
 Was born at Toledo — a thorough Castilian. 
 
432 THE C0EELEE OF TOLEDO. 
 
 Toledo *s a city renowned through all ages, 
 
 In clerical tomes and historical pages, 
 
 For bishops and warriors, princes and sages, 
 
 And sword-blades, which even in these modern days 
 
 (When we 're giving up fighting and choleric ways) 
 
 Are confess'd to be matchless in " temper" — a rarity 
 
 Scarcely more known to our peace-men than charity. 
 
 In one of the streets of this city of steel — 
 
 This Sheffield and Birmingham store of Castile — 
 
 Stood a gloomy old mansion, with windows so few, 
 
 And so closely barred up, how the light could get through 
 
 Was a puzzle to all who beheld them the more, 
 
 As the street was so narrow and dismal before, 
 
 That no ray of the sunlight had ever been known 
 
 To wriggle its way down and burnish one stone. 
 
 Like a little excrescence below this great hall 
 Projected a queer little, black-looking, stall, 
 Whence the sound of a hammer assail'd you, together 
 With odours of beeswax and blacking and leather. 
 
 And if you look'd in, 
 
 In the midst of the din, 
 
 And the gloom and the smell — 
 
 And the dirt, too, as well — 
 
 You might see a small body, a very big head, 
 Two eyes very bright, and one nose very red, 
 Two hands very large and as grimy as soot, 
 And not the least sign of a leg or a foot. 
 
 Don't fancy, I beg, 
 
 That there was n't a leg — 
 But merely their owner, a cobbler at work, 
 Tuck'd them quite out of sight as he sat a la Turk. 
 
THE COBBLER OF TOLEDO. 433 
 
 And this is " the cobbler who lived in the stall 
 Which served him for kitchen and parlonr and all t" 
 And this is the cobbler — Pedrillo by name — 
 Whose wonderful story my verses proclaim. 
 
 One day, as Pedrillo sat mending the sole 
 
 Of a shoe that its owner had worn to a hole, 
 
 And stitching, and waxing, and pegging, and thumping, 
 
 And filing, and smoothing, and ' clicking/ and ' clumping,' 
 
 He somehow got thinking on all sorts of things 
 
 And all sorts of persons, from cobblers to kings. 
 
 Pedrillo was not a philosopher, nor 
 
 Had he ever much practised at thinking before ; 
 
 Or, at least, I much doubt till that moment if ever he 
 
 Had made the remotest approach to a reverie. 
 
 Yet, how charming a reverie is 
 
 When the mind and the heart are at rest, 
 
 When we shake off the clay of the world 
 And we dream of some land of the blest ! 
 
 How pleasant to loll at one's ease — 
 
 Arms a-kimbo and eyes on the ceiling — 
 
 And shut out, in an opium trance, 
 
 (If we can) ev'ry earthly -born feeling ! 
 
 But we 're apt to do just the reverse — 
 
 Begin thinking of every evil — 
 Our pains, and our debts, and our sins, 
 
 Our long balance-sheet with the devil. 
 
 F F 
 
434 THE COBBLER OF TOLEDO. 
 
 " Ah, Life thou 'rt at best but a dream !" 
 Is a saying each dreamer well knows — ■ 
 
 And oh, what a deuce of a nightmare 
 Doth trouble some mortals' repose ! 
 
 How we fret, and we fume, and we snore, 
 
 How we kick off the clothes, how we quake- 
 How we fight with the phantoms we raise : 
 And how stupid we look when we wake ! 
 
 Tes — we 've taken a great deal of trouble 
 
 To suffer a great deal of pain ; 
 And when we awake to our folly, 
 
 We turn round and act it again. 
 
 It 's needless to point out our madness, 
 
 We see it and feel it within — 
 But the spendthrift goes deepest in debt when 
 
 The least he 's encumber' d with " tin." 
 
 I don't mean to say 
 
 'Twas at all in this way 
 The thoughts of Pedrillo attempted to stray. 
 
 He thought of his life 
 
 Of struggle and strife 
 'G-ainst the pangs of Necessity, sharp as his knife. 
 
 He thought how much Fate 
 
 Had bless'd all the great 
 Who roll'd by his stall in their coaches of state. 
 
 He thought of his soul — 
 
 What a dark little hole 
 It was shut in, in this world — as blind as a mole. 
 
THE COBBLER OP TOLEDO. 435 
 
 He wished lie was rich — 
 
 How quickly he 'd pitch 
 This shoe to the dev'— — here he made a false stitch. 
 
 He thought he could speud 
 
 Heaps of gold without end, 
 And wear more new boots than he e'er got to mend. 
 
 He thought how he 'd dine 
 
 And what oceans of wine 
 He 'd swallow of Spain and of France and the fihine. 
 
 Till the very idea of extensive potation 
 Produced on his brain an uncommon sensation, 
 And made him feel dreamy and vicious ; — at least 
 He fancied he 'd like to try thrashing a priest ! 
 And this terrible notion so tickled his brain 
 That he burst into laughter again and again, 
 As he thought of his reverence dancing with pain. 
 
 When a wicked idea gets into the head 
 
 There 's no guessing the lengths into which it may spread ; 
 
 It expands ev'ry moment and gets more defined, 
 
 Till it seems to fill up ev'ry nook of the mind, 
 
 And leaves not a square inch of virtue behind. 
 
 And so with Pedrillo : each moment there fled 
 Some good little thought that remained in his head, 
 And its place was supplied by a bad one instead ; 
 Till at length, quite o'erwhelmed in the vortex of evil, 
 He cried, in the midst of his fanciful revel — 
 " I should like to have one little peep at the devil !" 
 
 Eat-tat-tat-tat — a whole shower of knocks 
 Come pattering down on his dark little box, 
 
 ff2 
 
436 THE COBBLER OF TOLEDO. 
 
 And he starts from his day-dream and sees with amaze 
 A very tall man with a sinister gaze, 
 Who stands at his window, and lifting his foot 
 Shoves it in as he ntters — " there — make me a boot.*' 
 
 Pedrillo feels sick — he 's half ready to faint, 
 
 His horror no language of mine conld e'er paint 
 
 As he grasps — not a foot — but a hoof hard and thick, 
 
 Just such as tradition assigns to Old Nick ! 
 
 While the owner cries, " Now then, yon booby, be quick — 
 
 Take the measure at once, sir — what makes you so slow ? 
 
 "^[ang the fellow, my dinner 's all spoiling, I know — 
 
 I 've got a roast heretic waiting below." 
 
 Half dead with the fright which he 's trying to smother, 
 
 Pedrillo contrives in some manner or other, 
 
 To measure the hoof with his tape ; while the " gent " 
 
 Casts on him a glance of such evil intent 
 
 That cold perspiration commences to ooze 
 
 From the top of his head to the soles of his shoes. 
 
 " Now make that boot well, or you'll be in a mess, 
 
 And bring it home quickly, sir — there 's my address :" 
 
 And he throws down a card with a sulphurous smell, 
 
 And one word of four letters — I'd rather not tell 
 
 What it was, but the reader will guess pretty well. 
 
 'Tis now the merry month of May 
 And all Toledo's streets are gay. 
 The bells peal forth a merry chime 
 la honour of the joyful time : 
 
THE COBBLEE OP TOLEDO. 437 
 
 From steeple tow'r and mansion-top 
 In graceful folds bright banners drop, 
 Shallop, and barge, and tiny boat, 
 Across the glittering Tagus float, 
 Bearing their smiling freights along 
 To mingle in the gladsome throng 
 That revel in each street. The song, 
 The joyous laugh, the pleasant jest, 
 The strains of music — all attest, 
 Mid sighs of mirth and sounds of glee, 
 The noisy reign of Revelry. 
 
 Let 's follow in the motley train, 
 And listen to the blithesome strain 
 Yon maiden sings : how rich and clear 
 Each cadence strikes the list'ner's ear ! 
 
 Ye nobles and gentles come near, 
 
 And list to the glee-maiden's lay ; 
 Fair ladies, approach ye and hear, 
 
 The words from my lips as they stray 
 'Tis Love is the theme of my song, 
 
 Love's praises my verses proclaim, 
 And to you all his honours belong — 
 
 For without you he is but a name. 
 
 ii. 
 
 Say, is there a jewel on earth 
 So brilliant, so priceless as this ? 
 
 Does one hour of a lifetime give birth 
 To a joy like the lover's pure bliss ? 
 
438 THE COBBLER OF TOLEDO. 
 
 It glows like a furnace in youth ; 
 
 In manhood more constant its flame ; 
 In age its companion is Truth — 
 
 In each — 't is Love only — the same ! 
 
 in. 
 
 'T is a gleam from some Angel-built sphere, 
 
 The dowry our Maker hath given 
 To prove, while we 're sojourning here, 
 
 That we still have a portion of Heaven. 
 It knows not the leav'n of despond ; 
 
 It fears not the clouds that impend, 
 But sees the bright vista beyond, 
 
 And vanquishes Fate in the end. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Let Wealth be your mistress alone — 
 
 Let Glory allure you awhile — 
 Yet Love shall still claim you his own, 
 
 You shall turn from all else for his smile. 
 You shall taste all the pleasures that fall 
 
 From the bounty of Heaven above, 
 And confess you would barter them all 
 
 For one moment of exquisite Love ! 
 
 Now look to the right and you see a great crowd, 
 With a man in the centre who 's bawling aloud 
 Some speech, or some verses, or songs, which appear 
 To please the rude folks who 're collected to hear. 
 The language, you '11 notice, is not over choice, 
 Nor sung in a very melodious voice ; 
 
THE COBBLER OP TOLEDO. 439 
 
 And therefore, good reader, I strongly advise 
 
 That we move 'tother way. Up yon narrow street lies 
 
 The Cathedral : — I fancy we 'd better go there, 
 
 Because we 're in Spain, and of course yon 're aware, 
 
 Whenever a " rumpus " takes place in that land, 
 
 For fun or for fighting, the Church bears a hand, 
 
 To help in the " scrimmage :" and mightily grand 
 
 Are the shows she gets up, though 't would puzzle to say 
 
 Where the deuce she can raise all the money to pay 
 
 For such costly affairs : but the utmost that I know 
 
 About it, is simply — she does get the " rhino." 
 
 And now I remember — I very much doubt 
 
 If I 've told what these holiday scenes are about. 
 
 It 's simply his Catholic Highness of Spain, 
 
 Who had buried one wife, has just married again ; 
 
 And so, all his people go mad for a day 
 
 And rejoice at the deed in an orthodox way. 
 
 We stand within the sacred pile — 
 
 The long broad nave, the narrow aisle, 
 
 E'en to the very altar's stone, 
 
 Scarcely one spot untrodden own. 
 
 Yet solemn silence reigns around, 
 
 Save when the silver bells' light sound 
 
 Proclaims the Host : — then bows each knee 
 
 Before the symbol' d Majesty 
 
 Of Christ Incarnate : each one there 
 
 Mutters his penitence and pray'r ; 
 
 While, pealing forth, the organ's note 
 
 Seems through the vaulted roof to float, 
 
 Rearing aloft its solemn tone 
 
 To bear its praise to God's high throne. 
 
440 THE COBBLER OF TOLEDO. 
 
 The hymns are sung, the mass is said 
 The crowd of worshippers has fled. 
 Deserted e'en by monk and priest 
 
 The lofty temple's aisles are bare : 
 The gorgeous altar in the east — 
 
 No suppliant form is kneeling there ! 
 
 The motley crowd that whilome trod, 
 With silent step, the house of God, 
 Now dance the gay-deck'd streets along, 
 Or shouting join the ribald song. 
 
 And such is man ! thus vain his mind 
 And fickle, as the veering wind : 
 Now Pleasure, and now Heav'n his text — 
 This hour a Saint — a satyr next ! 
 
 In a dark little street is a " hullah-ba-loo," 
 And shouting, and yelling, a precious " to-do ;" 
 
 What hustling and rushing 
 
 And running and crushing, 
 
 And pulling and tearing, 
 
 And laughing and swearing ! 
 What masses of people all crowding to see 
 The fun or the fight, or whate'er it may be ! 
 While each asks the other as fast as they run, 
 " Holloa — what's the row there ? do tell us the fun : 
 What the deuce are they doing? do you know, or you? 
 Are they baiting a badger, or shaving a Jew ?" 
 
 In that dark little street is the dark little stall, 
 Where our poor little cobbler 's at work with his awl — 
 
THE COBBLER OP TOLEDO. 441 
 
 At work when the rest of the city 's at play — 
 
 At wort on this glorious festival day ! 
 
 The crowd are astounded — they can't make it out— 
 
 So they yell to the cobbler, and holloa, and shout, 
 
 And they bid him come forth and partake of the revel, 
 
 And pitch all his leather and tools to the devil. 
 
 " That's just it!" cried Pedrillo, as soon as he heard 
 
 The multitude utter that last naughty word. 
 
 " Just it, my old beeswax? just what, my old Turk ?" 
 
 " Why — it 's just for his worship, I mean, I 'm at work." 
 
 " His worship — what worship ? hang me if I know 
 
 What you mean." Why — his worship that lives down 
 
 beloiv." 
 And here poor Pedrillo turned awfully white, 
 And even his nose grew pale with affright. 
 " He 's mad," cried the mob — " pull him out of his hole." 
 " Oh mercy ! not yet — I 've not finished the sole !" 
 
 In spite of his cries poor Pedrillo is seized, 
 
 And dragg'd from his hole, and most ruthlessly squeezed, 
 
 And carried in triumph, still grasping a shoe 
 
 Half-finished — not fit for a Christian or Jew ; 
 
 But a queer-looking thing, made I scarcely know how, 
 
 And exactly the shape of the hoof of a cow ! 
 
 Away they all run 
 
 In the height of their fun, 
 
 And bear off their prize 
 
 Amid laughter and cries, 
 And huzzahs for the cobbler who, first of his trade, 
 A shoe for his evil-named Majesty made. 
 
 In the midst of their running they suddenly stop, 
 And cease from hurrahing ; and quietly drop 
 
442 THE COBBLEE, OF TOLEDO. 
 
 The load that they carry : then hasten away — 
 And, before the poor cobbler could manage to say 
 One word to his captors, they 'd left him alone, 
 With his comical shoe, sitting squat on a stone. 
 
 But, absorbed in one notion, he falls to his work 
 (Still seated, of course, as before — a la Turk) 
 And marks not the place where he 's left in the lurch- 
 Alas ! 't is the porch of Saint Anthony's church ! 
 
 With stately step and solemn mien 
 A black-rob' d priest is shortly seen 
 Emerging from the door that lies 
 Behind Pedrillo : and his eyes 
 Eest on the cobbler in surprise ! 
 
 The latter stitches as before, 
 
 Unconscious of his visitor, 
 
 And heeding not the open'd door. 
 
 The priest stands still in dumb amaze 
 
 At the strange sight that meets his gaze — 
 
 The cobbler with his absent air, 
 
 And the queer shoe he 's making there. 
 
 At length his holy indignation, 
 
 At such an act of profanation, 
 
 Burst forth in words — " Holloa ! you hound, 
 
 How dare you work on holy ground !" 
 
 Pedrillo slowly raised his head, 
 Not heeding what the priest had said, 
 But slightly startled by the sound : 
 And then he turn'd himself half round, 
 
THE COBBLER OF TOLEDO. 443 
 
 And saw, with supernatural fear, 
 A black-rob d priest standing near. 
 In fact, he thought the figure must be 
 His most Satanic Majesty ! 
 
 And so he cried — " What shall I do ? 
 I've not quite done your worship's shoe ; 
 I 'm hard at work, sir — this is it — 
 Perhaps you '11 try how it will fit 
 Your worship's hoof — that is — I mean — 
 Your worship's foot — I 'd never seen 
 One like it till your worship came — 
 So, if I 've fail'd, you mustn't blame !" 
 
 Thus saying, he held out the cloven-hoof'd boot, 
 And gravely laid hold of his reverence's foot. 
 
 Then — oh for the pen of old Homer to trace 
 
 The passion that darken'd the holy man's face ! 
 
 His eyes were half-red and his cheeks were half-black, 
 
 And he rush'd at the cobbler, and caught him a whack 
 
 With his toe on the nethermost point of his back, 
 
 That sent him a summerset, tumbling and sprawling, 
 
 Into the street, and with agony bawling. 
 
 And before he could rise, 
 
 Or had finished his cries, 
 Before the whole truth could have enter'd his mind, 
 Before he could rub where he smarted behind — 
 He was seiz'd on the spot, and with smart expedition, 
 Clapp'd into the jail of the fell Inquisition ! 
 
 Fair Spain, sweet Spain, the brightest gem 
 In all Europa's diadem ! 
 
414 THE COBBLER OF TOLEDO. 
 
 Land of the sun, the flow'r, the vine — 
 Land of a race once half- divine : 
 Land of fair scenes, and fairer ladies, 
 Whose forms, from Pyrenees to Cadiz, 
 May match with all the world can boast, 
 From Ind to Russia's ice-bound coast ! 
 Land of romance — the rich, deep, store 
 Of poet's lay and monkish lore ! 
 Birth-place of men whose ev'ry name, 
 Writ in the muster-roll of Fame, 
 To ev'ry age, 'neath ev'ry zone, 
 Attest their glory and thine own ! 
 
 How art thou favor'd, glorious land ! 
 What gifts thou hast at Nature's hand — 
 Climate and soil, and hills and vales, 
 And flowing streams — all that avails 
 To charm the eye or glad the heart, 
 Or sense of gratitude impart 
 To G-od above, whose hand benign 
 Hath bless'd thee thus — all, all are thine ! 
 
 And yet, what art thou ? — lost, debased — 
 Thine annals past in glory traced — 
 Thy present but a wretched blank, 
 Or viler stain ! Where shalt thou rank 
 Among the nations of the earth ? Ay — thou, 
 Once crown' d with honour — sunken now 
 Below the meanest state enslaved 
 Where once thy flag victorious waved ! 
 
THE COBBLER OF TOLEDO. 445 
 
 And why is this ? what spell hath wrought 
 
 A change so fatal to thy fame ? 
 What sad reverse, with ruin fraught, 
 
 Hath swept away thine ancient fame ? 
 
 Alas ! within thy bosom cherish' d, 
 The deadly canker-worm hath grown, 
 
 And day by day thy weal hath perish' d 
 'Neath his corroding sting alone. 
 
 Yes ! History's impartial page, 
 
 Thy glory and thy fall that tells, 
 Shall point to ev'ry future age — 
 
 " The land is cursed where Priestcraft dwells." 
 
 In a dark dismal dungeon, where never a ray 
 Of sunlight has ever been tempted to stray ; 
 Where the walls are all damp and all mildew'd, and where 
 An uncommonly scanty supply of fresh air 
 Is deem'd quite enough to supply the vitality 
 Of any imprison'd remains of mortality ; 
 Where a heap of foul straw is to serve as a bed, 
 While the rats, by the dozen, run over your head, 
 And tickle your visage with tail and with claw, 
 Or vary the pleasure by taking a gnaw 
 At your toes, when they're hungry ; where lizards and toads 
 Crawl out from the chinks of the pavement by loads — 
 In this highly-delectable tenement, ail- 
 That remains of Pedrillo lies chain' d to the wall. 
 
 Poor fellow ! a visage so hollow and wan, 
 Scarce ever belonged to the form of a man. 
 
446 THE COBBLER OF TOLEDO. 
 
 His eyeballs so glazed, and his eyelids so blue, 
 And bis skin of a greenish and yellowish hue ; 
 His hands were so bony, so long and so thin, 
 So grizzled the beard that hung down from his chin ; 
 So wasted his limbs, and his round little nose 
 So completely deprived of its couleur de rose — 
 That no eye could have ever detected, at all, 
 The poor little cobbler who lived in the stall, 
 Except that one hand, to its " cunning" yet true, 
 Still grasp' d the remains of an odd-looking shoe. 
 
 Pedrillo 'd been tried for the wicked pretence 
 
 Of mistaking a priest for Old Nick — an offence 
 
 Pronounced, with veracity, quite " diabolical" 
 
 By the holy Inquisitors — meek Apostolical 
 
 Lambs, who 've been famed, in all countries and ages, 
 
 As patterns of Christians and virtuous sages. 
 
 The verdict was " G-uilty," of course — 't would n't " pay" 
 
 To let a man off when they 'd bagg'd him — to say 
 
 That they 'd made a mistake : and besides, just of late 
 
 They 'd been scarce of offenders in Church or in State, 
 
 And wanted a Jew or a heretic sadly — 
 
 And so poor Pedrillo was pounced upon gladly. 
 
 A little discussion between them took place, 
 . Regarding the punishment due to his case. 
 Some voted for roasting — some hinted at flaying — 
 Which others declared to be trifling and playing. 
 The President would n't agree to the roasting, 
 And seized the occasion for modestly boasting 
 How mild and how gentle his sentiments were. 
 The fact is, his house stood just facing the square 
 
THE COBBLER OP TOLEDO. 447 
 
 Where the stake was erected when sinners were burnt, 
 And from many a past sad example he 'd learnt 
 That the smell of a roast was so highly unpleasant — 
 He 'd the strongest objection to try one at present. 
 
 And so, in the end, they decided on " mercy" — 
 Or, rather, what I should call just vice versa — 
 That is — " out of care for his poor sinful soul," 
 They left him to die, like a rat, in a hole. 
 
 And thus our poor Pedrillo lay, 
 Wasting his wretched life away : 
 Dying by inches — dying slowly — 
 Condemn' d by wretches self-styled " holy." 
 
 Oh, God ! and can thy lightnings spare 
 
 The impious creatures who profane 
 The sacred livery they wear, 
 
 And take Thy holy name in vain, 
 To sanctify a deed of blood, 
 And name that deed " Religious, good !" 
 
 How vain the question ! look, weak man, 
 Beyond thy frail life's little span — 
 See Retribution's work begun — 
 God's name avenged — and Justice done ! 
 
 In a dark little street is a dark little stall, 
 And a plump little cobbler at work with his awl. 
 Who is it ? Pedrillo ? by Jove it 's the same ! 
 How on earth did he get there ? What influence came 
 
448 THE COBBLER OF TOLEDO. 
 
 To set him at liberty ? see him at work, 
 
 Sitting just as before on his board a la Turk ! 
 
 And he 's stitching with vigour, he 's making a boot — 
 
 Not a cloven hoof 'd thing, but one fit for a foot. 
 
 And how happy he looks ! and how plump and how red ! 
 
 How punchy his body, how shiny his head ! 
 
 And he sticks to his trade like an honest Castilian — 
 
 Making highlows and mending the soles of the million. 
 
 Now touching his freedom : — it chanced one fine day 
 That some two dozen Jews were all sentenced to pay 
 A very large sum for some very bad deed, 
 Regarding some matter of conscience and creed ; 
 And finding the prison was rather too small 
 (In addition to those it contain' d) for them all, 
 A " weeding" took place — and 'niongst others, Pedrillo 
 To a Hebrew in trouble relinquish' d his pillow. 
 
 And such — without varnish, invention, or mystery — 
 Is the true, undeniable, record and history 
 Of the " little old cobbler who liv'd in a stall 
 Which served him for kitchen and parlour and all." 
 
 There 's a saying so stale that it 's grown to an epigram — 
 Of course you all know it well — " Ne sutor crepidam 
 Ultra ." And some sleepy folks may opine 
 That such is the moral of this tale of mine. 
 They 're mistaken : such " morals" belong to the past — 
 They wont do for these days — we 're a great deal too fast 
 For such slow-coach old maxims. What ! " stick to our 
 last ?" 
 
THE COBBLER OF TOLEDO. 449 
 
 Nail the doctor to physic, the lawyer to law, 
 
 The parson to preaching ! — a pretty fine saw 
 
 For this age of progression ! — when ev'ry man's head 
 
 Is so fall of the things he has heard, seen, and read — 
 
 It 's not easy to say where our knowledge can stop 
 
 When our brain is as full as a pawnbroker's shop. 
 
 No, no — I 've got something much better— much truer — 
 
 Much more to the purpose — and certainly newer 
 
 To tell you. It 's this : — if you ever give way 
 
 To an evil-born thought — if you let your mind stray 
 
 In a naughty direction, don't think me uncivil 
 
 If I say that you 're making a boot for the devil. 
 
 And that very same boot — when your virtue 's clean gone — 
 
 You'll see him some day when he 's " trying it on." 
 
 
450 
 
 AS I LAYE A-THYNKYNGE. 
 
 THE LAST LINES OF THOMAS INGOLDSBY. 
 
 As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, 
 
 Merrie sang the Birde as she sat upon the spraye ; 
 There came a noble Knyghte, 
 With his hauberke shynynge brighte, 
 And his gallant heart was lyghte, 
 Free and gaye ; 
 As I laye a-thynkynge, he rode upon his waye. 
 
 As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, 
 Sadly sang the Birde as she sat upon the tree ! 
 There seem'd a crimson plain, 
 Where a gallant Knyghte lay slayne, 
 And a steed with broken rein 
 Ran free, 
 As I laye a-thynkynge, most pitiful to see ! 
 
 As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, 
 Merrie sang the Birde as she sat upon the boughe ; 
 
 A lovely Mayde came bye, 
 
 And a gentil youth was nyghe, 
 
 And he breathed many a syghe 
 And a vowe ; 
 As I laye a-thynkynge, her hearte was gladsome now. 
 
AS I LATE A-THYNKYNGE. 451 
 
 As I lay a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, 
 Sadly sang the Birde as she sat upon the thorne ; 
 
 No niore a youth was there, 
 
 But a Maiden rent her haire, 
 
 And cried in sad despaire, 
 'That I was borne !' 
 As I laye a-thynkynge, she perished forlorne. 
 
 As I lay a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, 
 Sweetly sang the Birde as she sat upon the briar ; 
 There came a lovely Childe, 
 And his face was meek and mild, 
 Yet joyously he smiled 
 On his sire ; 
 As I laye a-thynkynge, a Cherub mote admire. 
 
 But I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, 
 And sadly sang the Birde as it perch' d upon a bier ; 
 That joyous smile was gone, 
 And the face was white and wan, 
 As the downe upon the Swan 
 Doth appear, 
 As I lay a-thynkynge — oh ! bitter flow'd the tear ! 
 
 As I laye a-thynkynge, the golden sun was sinking, 
 O merrie sang that Birde as it glitter' d on her breast 
 With a thousand gorgeous dyes, 
 While soaring to the skies, 
 'Mid the stars she seem'd to rise. 
 As to her nest ; 
 
452 AS I LAYE A-THYNKYNGE. 
 
 As I laye a-thynkynge, her meaning was exprest 
 ' Follow, follow me away, 
 It boots not to delay,' — 
 'Twas so she seem'd to saye, 
 * Here is rest V 
 
 m 
 
 Thomas Ingoldsby. 
 
 the end. 
 
 Xl 7 
 
 8 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 Printed by A. Schuize, 13, Poland Street. 
 

 
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