P R 4891 L2 L6 1870 MAIN "' ' ''.:- LONDON LYRICS LONDON LYRICS BY FREDERICK LOCKER BOSTON FIELDS, OSGOOD, AND CO. 1870 LONDON : PRINTED BY VIRTUE AND CO., CITY ROAD. LI it, DEDICATION. M A ^ U I PAUSE upon the threshold, O most dear, To write thy name ; so may my book acquire One golden leaf. For Some yet sojourn here Who come and go in homeliest attire, Unknown, or only by the few who see The cross they bear, the good that they have wrought : Of such art thou, and I have found in thee Truth and the love that HE, the MASTER, taught ; . Thou likest thy humble poet : canst thou say With truth, my dearest, " And I like his lay ? " ROME, May, 1862. 248957 CONTENTS. PAGE The Castle in th Air 3 The Old Cradle 9 O Tempera mutantur ! 1 1 Piccadilly 13 The Old Government Clerk 15 Arcadia 18 The Pilgrims of Pall Mall 23 The Russet Pitcher 26 The Fairy Rose 30 Circumstance 32 A Wish 33 Geraldine Green 1. The Serenade 35 2. My Life is a ....... 36 Vanity Fair ......... 38 Bramble -Rise 40 Old Letters 44 Susan 1. The Alder Trees 46 2. A Kind Providence 48 My First-born 49 The Widow's Mite 51 Vlll CONTENTS. PAGE St. George's, Hanover Square 52 Vx Victis 53 A Human Skull 57 To my Old Friend Postumus 59 The Victoria Cross . . . . . . . .61 " I might have been more kind " . . . . .64 The Angora Cat ........ 66 Reply to a Letter enclosing a Lock of Hair . . .68 The Bear Pit . . ... . . . .72 My Neighbour Rose ........ 74 The Old Oak Tree at Hatfield Broadoak . . . .78 To my Grandmother . ...... . .83 The Skeleton in the Cupboard 86 Glycere . . . ....... .89 The Crossing- Sweeper 91 A Song that was never sung ... . . .94 On an Old Muff . ..... . . .97 An Invitation to Rome, and the Reply 1. The Invitation ...... 2. The Reply Geraldine . The Housemaid . . . .... The Jester's Plea To my Mistress . . . . . . . My Mistress's Boots ....... The Rose and the Ring 1863 . Mrs. Smith Janet CONTENTS. ix PAGE Implora Pace ......... 134 Sir Gyles Gyles 136 Mr. Placid's Flirtation 141 To Parents and Guardians 145 Beggars 148 Little Pitcher 151 Advice to a Poet 153 An Aspiration 159 Geraldine and I ........ 161 Her Letters ......... 163 The Old Shepherd 1. On the Hills 165 2. At Home 166 St. James's Street 167 Rotten Row 1 70 A Nice Correspondent ! . . . . . . . 1 73 The Silent Pool / 176 Misgivings 178 On an Old Buffer 180 To Lina Oswald 182 On "A Portrait of a Lady" 184 The Jester's Moral 186 Notes 191 PUBLISHED IN 1857 THE CASTLE IN THE AIR. YOU shake your saucy curls, and vow I build no airy castles now ; You smile, and you are thinking too, He's nothing else on earth to do. It needs Romance, my Lady Fair, To build a Castle in the Air : Ethereal brick, and rainbow beam, The gossamer of Fancy's dream ; And much the architect may lack Who labours in the Zodiac To rear what I, from chime to chime, Attempted once upon a time. My Castle was a gay retreat In Air, that somewhat gusty shire, A cherub's model country seat, Could model cherub such require. Nor twinge nor tax existence tortured, Even the cherubs spared my orchard ! THX CASTLE IN THE AIR. No worm destroyed the gourd I planted, And showers came when rain was wanted. I own'd a tract of purple mountain, A sweet mysterious haunted fountain, A terraced lawn, a summer lake, By sun- or moon-beam always burnish'd ; And then my cot, by some mistake, Unlike most cots, was neatly furnish'd A trellis'd porch, a pictured hall, A Hebe laughing from the wall ; Frail vases, Attic and Cathay ; While under arms and armour wreath'd In trophied guise, the marble breathed, A peering faun a startled fay. And flowers that Love's own language spoke, Than these less eloquent of smoke, And not so dear. The price in town Is half a rose-bud half-a-crown ! And cabinets and chandeliers, The legacy of courtly years ; Stain'd windows dark, and pillow'd light, Soft sofas, where the Sybarite, In bliss reclining, might devour The best last novel of the hour. On silken cushion, laced and pearl'd, A shaggy pet from Skye was curl'd ; While drowsy-eyed, would dozing swing A parrot in his golden ring. THE CASTLE IN THE AIR. All these I saw one happy day, And more than now I care to name ; Here, lately shut, that work-box lay, There stood your own embroidery frame. And over this piano bent A Form from some pure region lent. Her auburn tresses darkly shone In lovely clusters, like your own; And as her fingers touch'd the keys, How strangely they resembled these ! Yes, you, you only, Lady Fair, Adorn'd my Castle in the Air, And life, without the least foundation, Became a charming occupation. We heard, with much sublime disdain, The far-off thunder of Cockaigne ; And saw, through rifts of silver cloud, The rolling smoke that hid the crowd. With souls released from earthly tether, We gazed upon the moon together. Our sympathy from night to noon Rose crescent with that crescent moon ; The night was briefer than the song, And happy as the day was long. We lived and loved in cloudless climes, And even died (in verse) sometimes. Yes, you, you only, Lady Fair, Adorn'd my Castle in the Air. THE CASTLE IN THE AIR. Now, tell me, could you dwell content In such a baseless tenement ? Or could so delicate a flower Exist in such a breezy bower ? Because, if you would settle in it, Twere built for love in half a minute. What's love ? Why love (for two), at best, Is only a delightful jest ; As sad for one as bad for three, I wish you'd come and jest with me. You shake your head and wonder why The cynosure of dear Mayfair Should lend me even half a sigh Towards building Castles in the Air. " I've music, books, and all you say, To make the gravest lady gay. I'm told my essays show research, My sketches have endow'd a church ; I've partners who have brilliant parts I've lovers who have broken hearts. Poor Polly would not care to fly, And Mop, you know, was born in Skye. To realise your tete-b-tete Might jeopardise a giddy pate ; Indeed, my much-devoted vassal, I'm sorry that you've built your Castle !" And is this all we gain by fancies For noonday dreams and waking trances ; THE CASTLE IN THE AIR. The dreams that brought poor souls mishap When Baby Time was fond of pap ; And still will cheat with feigning joys, While beauty smiles, and men are boys ? The blooming rose conceals an asp, And bliss, coquetting, flies the grasp. How vain the toy that pleased at first ! But myrtles fade, and bubbles burst. The cord has snapt that held my kite ; My friends won't read the books I write, And wonder bards can be so spleeny ! I dance, but dancing's not the thing ; They will not listen, though I sing, " Fra poco " almost like Rubini ! The poet's harp beyond my reach is, The senate will not stand my speeches ; I risk a jest, its point of course Is marr'd by some disturbing force ; I doubt the friends that Fortune gave me ; But have I friends from whom to save me ? Farewell ! can aught for her be will'd Whose every wish is all fulfill'd ? Farewell ! could wishing weave a spell, There's promise in those words, fare well. The lady's smile show'd no remorse, " My worthless toy has lost its gilding," I murmur'd with pathetic force, " And here's an end of castle-building ; " THE CASTLE IN THE AIR. Then strode away in mood morose, To blame the Sage of Careless Close ; He trifled with my tale of sorrow, " What's marr'd to-day is made to-morrow ; Romance can roam not far from home, Knock gently, she must answer soon ; I'm sixty-five, and yet I strive To hang my garland on the moon/' 1848. THE OLD CRADLE. AND this was your Cradle ? Why surely, my Jenny, Such slender dimensions go clearly to show You were an exceedingly small picaninny Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago. Your baby-days flow'd in a much-troubled channel ; I see you as then in your impotent strife, A tight little bundle of wailing and flannel, Perplex'd with that newly-found fardel call'd Life. To hint at an infantine frailty's a scandal ; Let bygones be bygones, and somebody knows It was bliss such a Baby to dance and to dandle, Your cheeks were so velvet, so rosy your toes. Ay, here is your Cradle ; and Hope, at times lonely, With Love now is watching beside it, I know. They guard the small nest you inherited only Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago. 10 THE OLD CRADLE. It is Hope gilds the future, Love welcomes it smiling ; Thus wags the old world, therefore stay not to ask, " My future bids fair, is my future beguiling?" If mask'd, still it pleases then raise not the mask. Is Life a poor coil some would gladly be doffing? He is riding post-haste who their wrongs will adjust; For at most 'tis a footstep from cradle to coffin From a spoonful of pap to a mouthful of dust. Then smile as your future is smiling, my Jenny ! I see you, except for those infantine woes, Little changed since you were but a small picaninny Your cheeks were so velvet, so rosy your toes ! Ay, here is your Cradle ! much, much to my liking, Though nineteen or twenty long winters have sped ; But hark ! as I'm talking there's six o'clock striking, It is time JENNY'S BABY should be in its bed. 1853- O TEMPORA MUTANTITR ! YES, here, once more a traveller, I find the Angel Inn, Where landlord, maids, and serving-men Receive me with a grin : They surely can't remember me, My hair is grey and scanter ; I'm changed, so changed since I was here- " O tempora mutantur ! " The Angel is not alter'd since The sunny month of June, That brought me here with Pamela To spend our honeymoon. I recollect it down to e'en The shape of this decanter, We've since been both much put about " O tempora mutantur ! " Ay, there's the clock, and looking-glass Reflecting me again ; She vow'd her love was very fair, I see I'm very plain. O TEMPORA MUTANTUR ! And there's that daub of Prince Leeboo : 'Twas Pamela's fond banter To fancy it resembled me " O tempora mutantur ! " The curtains have been dyed ; but there, Unbroken, is the same, The very same crack'd pane of glass On which I scratched her name. Yes, there's her tiny flourish still, It once could so enchant her To link two happy names in one " O tempora mutantur ! " The Pilgrim sees an empty chair Where Pamela once sat ; It may be she is past all care, It might be worse than that ! Some die, and then some best of men Have met with a supplanter ; * I wish that I could change this cry, " O tempora mutantur ! " 1856. PICCADILLY. PICCADILLY! Shops, palaces, bustle, and breeze ; The whirring of wheels, and the murmur of trees ; By night or by day, whether noisy or stilly, Whatever my mood is I love Piccadilly. Wet nights, when the gas on the pavement is streaming, And young Love is watching, and old Love is dreaming, And Beauty is whirling to conquest, where shrilly Cremona makes nimble thy toes, Piccadilly. ! Bright days, when a stroll is my afternoon wont, And I meet all the people I do know or don't: Here is jolly old Brown, and his fair daughter Lillie; No wonder some pilgrims affect Piccadilly ! See yonder pair riding, how fondly they saunter ! She smiles on her poet, whose heart's in a canter : Some envy her spouse, and some covet her filly, He envies them both, he's an ass, Piccadilly ! 1 4 PICCADILLY. Were I that gay bride, with a slave at my feet, I would choose me a house in my favourite street ; Yes or no I would carry my point, willy-nilly : If no," pick a quarrel ; if " yes," Piccadilly ! From Primrose balcony, long ages ago, " Old Q." sat at gaze, who now passes below? A frolicsome statesman, the Man of the Day ; A laughing philosopher, gallant and gay ; No darling of fortune more manfully trod, Full of years, full of fame, and the world at his nod : Can the thought reach his heart, and then leave it more chilly "Old P. or Old Q., I must quit Piccadilly?" Life is chequer'd; a patchwork of smiles and of frowns ; We value its ups, let us muse on its downs ; There's a side that is bright, it will then turn us t'other, One turn, if a good one, deserves yet another. These downs are delightful, these ups are not hilly, Let us turn one more turn ere we quit Piccadilly. 1856. THE OLD GOVERNMENT CLERK. WE knew an old scribe, it was " once on a time," An era to set sober datists despairing ; Then let them despair ! Darby sat in a chair Near the Cross that gave name to the village of Charing. Though silent and lean, Darby was not malign, What hair he had left was more silver than sable ; He had also contracted a curve in his spine, From bending too constantly over a table. His pay and expenditure, quite in accord, Were both on the strictest economy founded ; His masters were known as the Sealing-wax Board, And they ruled where red tape and snug places abounded. In his heart he look'd down on this dignified knot ; For why ? The forefather of one of these senators, A rascal concerned in the Gunpowder Plot, Had been barber-surgeon to Darby's progenitors. 1 6 THE OLD GOVERNMENT CLERK. Poor fool, what is life ? A vagary of luck ! Still, for thirty long years of genteel destitution He'd been writing State Papers, which means he had stuck A few heads and some tails to much circumlocution. This sounds rather weary and dreary ; but, no ! Though strictly inglorious, his days were quiescent. His red-tape was tied in a true-lover's bow Every night when returning to Rosemary Crescent. There Joan meets him smiling, the young ones are there ; His coming is bliss to the half-dozen wee things ; The dog and the cat have a greeting to spare, And Phyllis, neat-handed, is laying the tea-things. East wind, sob eerily ! Sing, kettle, cheerily ! Baby's abed, but its father will rock it ; His little ones boast their permission to toast The nice cake that good fellow brings home in his pocket. This greeting the silent old Clerk understands, Now his friends he can love, had he foes he could I mock them ; So met, so surrounded, his bosom expands, Some tongues have more need of such scenes to unlock them. THE OLD GOVERNMENT CLERK. 17 And Darby, at least, is resign'd to his lot ; And Joan, rather proud of the sphere he's adorning, Has well-nigh forgotten that Gunpowder Plot, And he won't recall it till ten the next morning. A kindly good man, quite a stranger to fame, His heart still is green, though his head shows a hoar lock ; Perhaps his particular star is to blame, It may be, he never took Time by the forelock. A day must arrive when, in pitiful case, He will drop from his Branch, like a fruit more than mellow ; Is he yet to be found in his usual place ? Or is he already forgotten, poor fellow ? If still at his duty he soon will arrive; He passes this turning because it is shorter ; If not within sight as the clock's going five, We shall see him before it is chiming the quarter. 1856. ARCADIA. THE healthy-wealthy-wise affirm That early birds obtain the worm, The worm rose early too ! Who scorns his couch should glean by rights A world of pleasant sounds and sights That vanish with the dew : Bright Phosphor from his watch released Now fading from the purple east, As morning gets the stronger ; The comely cock that vainly strives To crow from sleep his drowsy wives, Who would be roosting longer. Uxorious Chanticleer ! And hark ! Upraise thine eyes, and find the lark, The matutine musician Who heavenward soars on rapture's wings, Though sought, unseen, who mounts and sings In musical derision. ARCADIA. 19 From sea-girt pile, where nobles dwell, A daughter waves her sire farewell Across the sunlit water : All these were heard or seen by one Who stole a march upon that sun, And then upon that daughter ! This dainty maid, the county's pride, A white lamb trotting at her side, Had tript it through the park ; A fond and gentle foster-dam, Maybe she slumber'd with her lamb, Thus rising with the lark ! The lambkin frisk'd, the lady fain Would coax him back, she call'd in vain, The rebel proved unruly ; The sun came streaming o'er the lake ; One followed for the maiden's sake, A happy fellow truly ! The maid gave chase, the lambkin ran As only woolly truant can Who never felt a crook ; But stay'd at length, as if disposed To drink, where tawny sands disclosed The margin of a brook. ARCADIA. His mistress, who had followed fast, Cried, " Little rogue, you're caught at last ; I'm cleverer than you." She then the wanderer convey'd Where branching shrubs, in tangled shade, Protected her from view. And timidly she glanced around, All fearful lest the slightest sound Might mortal footfall be ; Then shrinkingly she stept aside One moment and her garter tied The truant to a tree. Perhaps the world would like to know The hue of this enchanting bow, And if 'twere silk or lace ; No, not from him ! be pleased to think It might be either blue or pink, 'Twas tied with maiden grace. Suffice it that the child was fair As Una sweet, with golden hair, And come of high degree ; And though her feet were pure from stain, She turn'd her to the brook again, And laved them dreamingly. ARCADIA. Awhile she sat in maiden mood, And watch'd the shadows from the wood, That varied on the stream ; And as each pretty foot she dipp'd, The little waves rose crystal-lipp'd In welcome, it would seem. Yet reveries are fleeting things, That come and go on whimsy wings ; As kindly Fancy taught her The Fair her tender day-dream nurs'd ; But when the light-blown bubble burst, She wearied of the water ; Betook her to the spot where yet Safe tethered lay her captured pet, To roving tastes a martyr ; But all at once she saw a change, And scream'd (it seem'd so very strange !) Cried Echo, "Where's my garter?" The blushing girl her lamb led home ; Perhaps she thought, " No more we'll roam At peep of day together ; Or if we do, why then it's plain We will not venture forth again Without an extra tether !" ARCADIA. A pure white stone will mark this morn, He wears a prize, one gladly worn, Love's gage, though not intended ; Indeed he'll guard it near his heart, Till sun, and moon, and stars depart, And chivalry has ended ! Dull World ! He now resigns to you The tinsel star, and ribbon blue, That pride for folly barters : He'll bear his cross amid your jars, His ribbon prize, and thank his stars He does not crave your garters. 1849- THE PILGRIMS OF PALL MALL. MY little friend, so small and neat, Whom years ago I used to meet In Pall Mall daily, How cheerily you tript away To work, it might have been to play, You tript so gaily. And Time trips too. This moral means You then were midway in the teens That I was crowning ; We never spoke, but when I smiled At morn or eve, I know, dear Child, You were not frowning. Each morning when we met, I think One sentiment us both did link, Nor joy, nor sorrow ; And then at eve, experience-taught, Our hearts were lighter for the thought, We meet to-morrow ! 24 THE PILGRIMS OF PALL MALL. And you were poor ! so poor ! and why ? How kind to come, it was for my Especial grace meant ! Had you a chamber near the stars, A bird, some treasured plants in jars, About your casement ? I often wander up and down, When morning bathes the silent town In golden glory : Perhaps, unwittingly, I've heard Your thrilling-toned canary-bird From that third story. I've seen some change since last we met A patient little seamstress yet, On small means striving, Are you (if Love such luck allows) Some lucky fellow's little spouse ? Is baby thriving ? My heart grows chill can soul like thine Have tired of this dear world of mine, And snapt Life's fetter ? To find a world whose promised bliss Is better than the best of this, And is it better ? THE PILGRIMS OF PALL MALL. 25 Sometimes to Pall Mall I repair, And see the damsels passing there ; But if I try to Obtain one glance, they look discreet, As though they'd some one else to meet ; As have not / too ? Yet still I often think upon Our many meetings, come and gone ! July December ! Now let us make a tryst, and when, Dear little soul, we meet again, The mansion is preparing then Thy Friend remember ! 1856. THE RUSSET PITCHER. " The pot goeth so long to the water till at length it cometh broken home." AWAY, ye simple ones, away ! Bring no vain fancies hither ; The brightest dreams of youth decay, The fairest roses wither. Ay, since this fountain first upwell'd, And Dryad learnt to drink, Knit hand in hand, have lovers held Sweet parley at its brink. From youth to age this waterfall Most tunefully flows on, But where, ay, tell me where are all The constant lovers gone ? The falcon on the turtle preys, And beardless vows are brittle ; The brightest dream of youth decays, Ah, love is good for little. THE RUSSET PITCHER. 27 " Fair maiden, set thy pitcher down, And heed a truth neglected : The more this sorry world is known. The less it is respected. " Though youth is ardent, gay, and bold, It flatters and beguiles ; Though Giles is young, and I am old, Ne'er trust thy heart to Giles. " Thy pitcher may some luckless day Be broken coming hither ; Thy doting slave may prove a knave The fairest roses wither." She laugh'd outright, she scorn'd him quite, She deftly fill'd her pitcher; For that dear sight an anchorite Would deem himself thericher. Ill-fated damsel ! go thy way, Thy lover's vows are lither ; The brightest dreams of youth decay, The fairest roses wither. ***** These days were soon the days of yore ; Six summers pass, and then That musing man would see once more The fountain in the glen ; 28 THE RUSSET PITCHER. Again would stray where once he stray'd, Through copse and quiet dell, Half hoping too to meet the maid Pass tripping from the well. No light step comes, but, evil-starr'd, He finds a mournful token, There lies a russet pitcher marr'd, The damsel's pitcher broken ! Profoundly moved, that muser cried, " The spoiler has been hither O would the maiden first had died, The fairest roses wither ! " He turn'd from that unholy ground, His world-worn bosom throbbing ; A bow-shot thence a child he found, The little man was sobbing. He gently stroked that curly head, " My child, what brings thee hither ? Weep not, my simple child," he said, " Or let us weep together. " Thy world, I ween, is gay and green, A garden undefiled ; Thy thought should run on mirth and fun,- Where dwellest thou, my child?" THE RUSSET PITCHER. 29 'Twas then the rueful urchin spoke : " My daddy's Giles the ditcher, I fetch the water, O I've broke I've broke my mammy's pitcher ! " THE FAIRY ROSE. are plenty of roses" (the patriarch JL speaks) " Alas ! not for me on your lips, and your cheeks ; Sweet maiden, rose-laden enough and to spare, Spare, spare me the Rose that you wear in your hair." " O raise not thy hand," cries the girl, "nor suppose That I ever can part with this beautiful Rose : The bloom is a gift of the Fays, who declare it Will shield me from sorrow as long as I wear it. " ' Entwine it,' said they, * with your curls in a braid, It will blossom in winter it never will fade ; And, if tempted to rove, recollect, as you hie, Where you're dying to go 'twill be going to die.' " And breathe not, old man, such a mournful ' heigho,' Dost think that I have not the will to say l No ?' I could turn a deaf ear to a prayer to a vow, Though the suitor were far more persuasive than thou !" THE FAIRY ROSE. 31 The damsel pass'd on with a confident smile, The old man extended his walk for awhile ; His musings were trite, and their burden, forsooth The wisdom of age, and the folly of youth. Noon comes, and noon goes: all the fields are in shade As the patriarch strolls in the path of the maid ; The corn's in the ear, and awaiting the sickle, The evening is fair if the damsel is fickle. And Echo is mute to his leisurely tread, " How tranquil is nature reposing ! " he said ; He onward advances, and Fate seems to lead, "How lonely ! " quoth he it is lonely indeed ! He gazes around, not a creature is there ; No sound on the ground, and no voice in the air ; But fading there lies a poor bloom that he knows " Bad luck to the Fairy that gave her the Rose !" 1853- CIRCUMSTANCE. THE ORANGE. IT ripen'd by the river banks, Where, mask and moonlight aiding, Don Juans play their pretty pranks, Dark Donnas serenading. By Moorish damsel it was pluck'd, Beneath the golden day there ; By swain 'twas then in London suck'd, Who flung the peel away there. He could not know in Pimlico, As little she in Seville, That / should reel upon that peel, And wish them at the devil ! A WISH. TO the south of the church, and beneath yonder yew, I have watch'd two child-lovers, unseen ; More than once were they there, and the years of the two, When united, might number thirteen. They sat by a grave that had never a stone The name of the dead to determine ; It was Life paying Death a brief visit a known And a notable text for a sermon. They tenderly prattled ; ah, what did they say ? The turf on that hillock was new : Little Friends, did ye know aught of death or decay ? Could the dead be regardful of you ? I wish to believe, and believe it I must, That her father beneath them was laid : I wish to believe I will take it on trust That father knew all that they said. D 34 A WISH. My own, you are five, very nearly the age Of that poor little fatherless child ; Ay, and some day a true-love your heart will engage, When on earth I my last may have smiled. Then visit my grave, like a good little lass, Where'er it may happen to be ; And if any daisies should peer through the grass, O be sure they are kisses from me. And place not a stone to distinguish my name, For the stranger and gossip to see ; But come with your lover, as these lovers came, And talk to him sweetly of me. And while you are smiling, One Greater will smile On the dear little daughter He gave ; But mind, O yes, mind you are happy the while / wish you to visit my grave. 1856. GERALDINE GREEN, i. THE SERENADE. LIGHT slumber is quitting The eyelids it prest ; The fairies are flitting Who charm'd thee to rest. Where night dews were falling Now feeds the wild bee ; The starling is calling, My darling, for thee. The wavelets are crisper That thrill the shy fern ; The leaves fondly whisper, " We wait thy return." 36 GERALDINE GREEN. Arise then, and hazy Distrust from thee fling, For sorrows that crazy To-morrows may bring. A vague yearning smote us, But wake not to weep ; My bark, Love, shall float us Across the still deep, To isles where the lotus Erst lull'd thee to sleep. 1861. n. MY LIFE IS A At Worthing an exile from Geraldine G , How aimless, how wretched an exile is he ! Promenades are not even prunella and leather To lovers, if lovers can't foot them together. He flies the parade ; by ocean he stands ; He traces a " Geraldine G." on the sands ; Only "G. ! " though her loved patronymic is "Green/ I will not betray thee, my own Geraldine. GERALDINE GREEN. 37 The fortunes of men have a time and a tiae, And Fate, the old Fury, will not be denied ; That name was, of course, soon wiped out by the sea, She jilted the exile, did Geraldine G. They meet, but they never have spoken since that ; He hopes she is happy, he knows she is fat ; She woo'd on the shore, now is wed in the Strand, And 7 it was I wrote her name on the sand. 1854. VANITY FAIR. V ANITAS vanitatum " has rung in the ears Of gentle and simple for thousands of years ; The wail still is heard, yet its notes never scare Either simple or gentle from Vanity Fair. I often hear people abusing it, yet There the young go to learn and the old to forget ; The mirth may be feigning, the sheen may be glare, But the gingerbread's gilded in Vanity Fair. Old Dives there rolls in his chariot, but mind Atra Cur a is up with the lacqueys behind ; Joan trudges with Jack, are the sweethearts aware Of the trouble that waits them in Vanity Fair ? We saw them all go, and we something may learn Of the harvest they reap when we see them return ; The tree was enticing, its branches are bare, Heigho for the promise of Vanity Fair ! VANITY FAIR. 39 That stupid old Dives, once honest enough, His honesty sold for star, ribbon, and stuff; And Joan's pretty face has been clouded with care Since Jack bought her ribbons at Vanity Fair. Contemptible Dives ! too credulous Joan ! Yet we all have a Vanity Fair of our own ; My son, you have yours, but you need not despair, I own I've a weakness for Vanity Fair. Philosophy halts, wisest counsels are vain, We go, we repent, we return there again ; To-night you will certainly meet with us there So come and be merry in Vanity Fair. 1852. BRAMBLE-RISE. WHAT changes greet my wistful eyes In quiet little Bramble- Rise, The pride of all the shire ! How alter'd is each pleasant nook ; And used the dumpy church to look So dumpy in the spire ? This village is no longer mine ; And though the Inn has changed its sign, The beer may not be stronger : The river, dwindled by degrees, Is now a brook, the cottages Are cottages no longer. The mud is brick, the thatch is slate, The pound has tumbled out of date, And all the trees are stunted : I'm sure these thistles once grew figs, These geese were swans, and once these pigs More musically grunted. BRAMBLE-RISE. 41 Where boys and girls pursued their sports A locomotive puffs and snorts, And gets my malediction ; The turf, the fairies all are fled ! The ponds have shrunk, and tastes have spread For photograph and fiction. Ah, there's a face I know again, Fair Patty trotting down the lane To fetch a pail of water ; Yes, Patty ! still I much suspect Tis not the child I recollect, But Patty, Patty's daughter ! And has she too outlived the spells Of breezy hills and silent dells Where childhood loved to ramble ? Then Life was thornless to our ken, And, Bramble-Rise, thy hills were then A rise without a bramble. Whence comes the change ? 'Twere easy told That some grow wise, and some grow cold, And all feel time and trouble : If Life an empty bubble be, How sad are those who will not see A rainbow in the bubble ! 42 BRAMBLE-RISE. And senseless too, for Madam Fate Is not the fickle reprobate That moody sages thought her; My heart leaps up, and I rejoice As falls upon my ear thy voice, My frisky little daughter. Come hither, Pussy, perch on these Thy most unworthy father's knees, And tell him all about it ! Are dolls but bran ? Can men be base ? When gazing on thy blessed face I'm quite prepared to doubt it. O may'st thou own, my winsome elf, Some day a pet just like thyself, Her sanguine thoughts to borrow; Content to use her brighter eyes, Accept her childish ecstasies, If need be, share her sorrow ! The wisdom of thy prattle cheers This heart ; and when outworn in years, And homeward I am starting, Lead me, my darling, gently down To Life's dim strand : the skies may frown, But weep not for our parting. BRAMBLE-RISE. 43 Though Life is calPd a doleful jaunt, With sorrow fraught, in sunshine scant ; Though earthly joys, the wisest grant, Have no enduring basis ; It's pleasant in this lower sphere (For her so fresh, for me so drear) To find in Puss, my daughter dear, A little cool oasis ! April, 1857. OLD LETTERS. OLD letters ! wipe away the tear For vows and wishes vainly worded ; A pilgrim finds his journal here Since first his youthful loins were girded. Yes, here are wails from Clapham Grove ; How could philosophy expect us To live with Dr. Wise, and love Rice pudding and the Greek Delectus ? How strange to commune with the Dead ! Dead joys, dead loves ; and wishes thwarted ; Here's cruel proof of friendships fled ; And sad enough of friends departed. Yes, here's the offer that I wrote In '33 to Lucy Diver ; And here John Wylie's begging note, He never paid me back a stiver. OLD LETTERS. 45 And here my feud with Major Spike, Our bet about the French invasion ; I must confess I acted like A donkey upon that occasion. Here's news from Paternoster Row ; How mad I was when first I learnt it ! They would not take my Book, and now I'd give a trifle to have burnt it. A ghastly bill ! "I disapprove : " And yet She help'd me to defray it : What tokens of a mother's love ! O bitter thought ! I can't repay it. And here's a score of notes at last, With " love " and " dove," and " sever " " never," Though hope, though passion may be past, Their perfume is as sweet as ever. A human heart should beat for two, Despite the taunt of single scorners ; And all the hearths I ever knew Had got a pair of chimney-corners. See here a double violet Two locks of hair a deal of scandal ; I'll burn what only leaves regret Go, Betty, bring a lighted candle. 1856. SUSAN. i. THE ALDER-TREES. AT Susan's name the fancy plays With chiming thoughts of early days, And hearts unwrung ; When all too fair our future smiled, When she was Mirth's adopted child, And I was young. I see the cot with spreading eaves, Bright shines the sun through summer leaves, But does not scorch, The dial stone, the pansy bed ; Old Robin trained the roses red About the porch. 'Twixt alders twain a rustic seat Was merriest Susan's pet retreat To merry make ; SUSAN. 47 Good Robin's handiwork again, O must we say his toil was vain, For Susan's sake ? Her gleeful tones and laughter gay Were sunshine on the darkest day ; And yet some said That when her mirth was passing wild, Though still the faithful Robin smiled, He shook his head. Perhaps the old man harbour'd fears That happiness is wed with tears On this poor earth ; Or else, maybe, his fancies were That youth and beauty are a snare If link'd with mirth. And times are changed, how changed that scene ! For mark old Robin's mournful mien, And feeble tread. His toil has ceased to be his pride, At Susan's name he turns aside, And shakes his head. And summer smiles, but summer spells Can never charm where sorrow dwells ; No maiden fair, 48 SUSAN. Or sad, or gay, the passer sees, And still the much-loved Alder-trees Throw shadows there. The homely-fashion'd seat is gone, And where it stood is laid a stone, A simple square : The worldling, or the man severe, May pass the name recorded here \ But we will stay to shed a tear, And breathe a prayer. 1855- ii. A KIND PROVIDENCE. He dropt a tear on Susan's bier, He seem'd a most despairing swain ; But bluer sky brought newer tie, And would he wish her back again? The moments fly, and when we die, Will Philly Thistletop complain ? She'll cry and sigh, and dry her eye, And let herself be woo'd again. 1861. MY FIRST-BORN. " T T E shan't be their namesake, the rather L A That both are such opulent men His name shall be that of his father, My Benjamin, shorten'd to Ben. " Yes, Ben, though it cost him a portion In each of my relatives' wills I scorn such baptismal extortion ! (That creaking of boots must be Squills). " It is clear, though his means may be narrow This infant his age will adorn ; I shall send him to Oxford from Harrow, I wonder how soon he'll be born ! " A spouse thus was airing his fancies Below 'twas a labour of love And was calmly reflecting on Nancy's More practical labour above ; 50 MY FIRST-BORN. Yet while it so pleased him to ponder, Elated, at ease, and alone ; The pale, patient victim up yonder Had budding delights of her own ; Sweet thoughts, in their essence diviner Than paltry ambition and pelf ; A cherub, no babe will be finer, Invented and nursed by herself. One breakfasting, dining, and teaing, With appetite nought can appease ; And quite a Young Reasoning Being When call'd on to yawn and to sneeze. What cares that heart, trusting and tender, For fame or avuncular wills ? Except for the name and the gender, She's almost as tranquil as Squills. That father, in reverie centred, Dumfounder'd, his thoughts in a whirl, Heard Squills, as the creaking boots enter'd, Announce that his Boy was a Girl. THE WIDOW'S MITE. A WIDOW ! she had only one, A puny and decrepit son ; Yet, day and night, Though often fretful, weak and small, A loving child, he was her all The Widow's Mite. The Widow's Mite, ay, so sustained, She battled onward, nor complained When friends were fewer : And while she toil'd for daily fare, A little crutch upon the stair Was music to her. I saw her then, and now I see, That though resign'd and cheerful, she Has sorrow'd much : She has HE gave it tenderly Much faith and, carefully laid by, A little crutch. 1856. ST. GEORGE'S, HANOVER SQUARE. " Dans le bonheur de nos meilleurs amis nous trouvons souvent quelque chose qui ne nous plait pas entierement." SHE pass'd up the aisle on the arm of her sire, A delicate lady in bridal attire, Fair emblem of virgin simplicity ; Half London was there, and, my word, there were few That stood by the altar, or hid in a pew, But envied Lord Nigel's felicity. O beautiful Bride! So meek in thy splendour, So frank in thy love, and its trusting surrender, Departing you leave us the town dim ! May happiness wing to thy bosom, unsought, And may Nigel, esteeming his bliss as he ought, Prove worthy thy worship, confound him ! V& VICTIS. " A /T Y Kate> at the Waterlo Column, 1 VJL To-morrow, precisely at eight ; Remember, thy promise was solemn, And thine till to-morrow, my Kate ! " ***** That evening seem'd strangely to linger, The license and luggage were pack'd ; And Time, with a long and short finger, Approvingly mark'd me exact. Arrived, woman's constancy blessing, No end of nice people I see ; Some hither, some thitherwards pressing, But none of them waiting for me. Time passes, my watch how I con it ; I see her, she's coming no, stuff ! Is it Kate and her smart little bonnet ? It's aunt, and her wonderful muff! 54 V^E VICTIS. (Yes, Fortune deserves to be chidden ; It is a coincidence queer That whenever one wants to be hidden One's relatives always appear.) Near nine ! how the passers despise me, They smile at my anguish, I think ; And even the sentinel eyes me, And tips that policeman the wink. Ah ! Kate made me promises solemn, At eight she had vow'd to be mine ; While waiting for one at this column, I find I've been waiting for nine. O Fame ! on thy pillar so steady, Some dupes watch beneath thee in vain : How many have done it already ! How many will do it again ! PUBLISHED IN 1862 A HUMAN SKULL. A HUMAN Skull ! I bought it passing cheap, Indeed 'twas dearer to its first employer ; I thought mortality did well to keep Some mute memento of the Old Destroyer. Time was, some may have prized its blooming skin ; Here lips were woo'd, perhaps, in transport tender ; Some may have chuck'd what was a dimpled chin, And never had my doubt about its gender ! Did she live yesterday or ages back ? What colour were the eyes when bright and waking? And were your ringlets fair, or brown, or black, Poor little head ! that long has done with aching ? It may have held (to shoot some random shots) Thy brains, Eliza Fry ! or Baron Byron's ; The wits of Nelly Gwynn, or Doctor Watts, Two quoted bards ! two philanthropic sirens ! 58 A HUMAN SKULL. But this I trust is clearly understood, If man or woman, if adored or hated, Whoever own'd the Skull was not so good, Nor quite so bad as many may have stated. Who love, can need no special type of Death ; He bares his awful face too soon, too often ; " Immortelles " bloom in Beauty's bridal wreath, And does not yon green elm contain a coffin ? O, true-love mine, what lines of care are these ? The heart still lingers with its golden hours, But fading tints are on the chestnut-trees, And where is all that lavish wealth of flowers ? The end is near. Life lacks what once it gave, Yet death has promises that call for praises ; A very worthless rogue may dig the grave, But hands unseen will dress the turf with daisies. TO MY OLD FRIEND POSTUMUS. (j. G.) MY Friend, our few remaining years Are hasting to an end, They glide away, and lines are here That time can never mend ; Thy blameless life avails thee not, Alas, my dear old Friend ! Death lifts a burthen from the poor, And brings the weary rest, But aye from Earth's green orchard trees The canker takes our best, The Well-beloved ! she bloonYd, and now The turf is on her breast ! And vainly are we fenced about From peril, day and night, Those awful rapids must be shot, Our shallop will be slight ; So pray that then we may descry Some cheering beacon-light. 60 TO MY OLD FRIEND POSTUMUS. O pleasant earth ! This peaceful home ! The darling at my knee ! My own dear wife ! Thyself, old Friend ' And must it come to me That any face shall fill my place Unknown to them and thee ? THE VICTORIA CROSS. A LEGEND OF TUNBRIDGE WELLS. SHE gave him a draught freshly drawn from the springlet, O Tunbridge, thy waters are bitter, alas ! But love finds an ambush in dimple and ringlet ; "Thy health, pretty maiden!" He emptied the glass. He saw, and he loved her, nor cared he to quit her ; The oftener he came, why the longer he stay'd ; Indeed, though the spring was exceedingly bitter, We found him eternally pledging the maid. A preux chevalier, and but lately a cripple, He met with his hurt where a regiment fell, But worse was he wounded when staying to tipple A bumper to " Phoebe, the Nymph of the Well." 62 THE VICTORIA CROSS. Some swore he was old, that his laurels were faded, All vow'd she was vastly too nice for a nurse ; But Love never look'd on the matter as they did, She took the brave soldier for better or worse. And here is the home of her fondest election, The walls may be worn, but the ivy is green ; And here she has tenderly twined her affection Around a true soldier who bled for the Queen. See, yonder he sits, where the church flings its shadows; What child is that spelling the epitaphs there ? To that imp its devout and devoted old dad owes New zest in thanksgiving, fresh fervour in prayer ! Ere long, ay, too soon, a sad concourse will darken The doors of that church, and that peaceful abode ; His place then no longer will know him but, hearken, The widow and orphan appeal to their God. Much peace will be hers. " If our lot must be lowly, Resemble thy father, though with us no more ; " And only on days that are high or are holy, She'll show him the cross that her warrior wore. So taught, he will rather take after his father, And wear a long sword to our enemies' loss, Till some day or other he'll bring to his mother Victoria's gift the Victoria Cross ! THE VICTORIA CROSS. 63 And still she'll be charming, though ringlet and dimple Perchance may have lost their peculiar spell ; And often she'll quote, with complacency simple, The compliments paid to the Nymph of the Well. And then will her darling, like all good and true ones, Console and sustain her, the weak and the strong ; And some day or other two black eyes or blue ones Will smile on his path as he journeys along. Wherever they win him, whoever his Phoebe, Of course of all beauty she must be the belle, If at Tunbridge he chance to fall in with a Hebe, He will not fall out with a draught from the Well. " I MIGHT HAVE BEEN MORE KIND." HER quiet resting-place is far away, None dwelling there have wept for her sad story: The stones are mute. The stones could only say, " A humble spirit pass'd away to glory." She loved the murmur of this mighty town, The lark rejoiced her from its lattice prison \ A streamlet soothes her now, the bird has flown, Some dust is waiting there a soul has risen. No city smoke to stain the heather bells, Sigh, gentle winds, around my lone love sleeping, She bore her burthen here, but now she dwells Where scorner never came, and none are weeping. My name was falter' d with her parting breath These arms were round my darling at the latest : All scenes of death are woe but painful death In those we dearly love is surely greatest ! "l MIGHT HAVE BEEN MORE KIND." 65 I could not die : HE will'd it otherwise ; My lot is here, and sorrow, wearing older, Weighs down the heart, yet does not fill the eyes, And even friends may think that I am colder. I might have been more kind, more tender ; now Repining wrings my bosom. I am grateful No eye can see this mark upon my brow ; All, all my old companionship is hateful. But when at times I steal away from these, To find her grave, and pray to be forgiven, And when I watch beside her on my knees, I think I am a little nearer heaven. 1861. THE ANGORA CAT. GOOD pastry is vended In Cite Fadette ; Madame Pons can make splendid Brioche and galette ! Monsieur Pons is so fat that He's laid on the shelf; Madame Pons had a cat that Was fat as herself. Long hair, soft as satin, A musical purr 'Gainst the window she'd flatten Her delicate fur. Once I drove Lou to see what Our neighbours were at, When, in rapture, cried she, " What An exquisite cat ! THE ANGORA CAT. 67 " What whiskers ! She's purring All over. Regale Our eyes, Puss, by stirring Your feathery tail ! " Monsieur Pons, will you sell her?" " Mafemme est sortie, Your offer Pll tell her, But will she?" says he. Yet Pons was persuaded To part with the prize : (Our bargain was aided, My Lou, by your eyes !) From his legitime save him, My fate I prefer ! For I warrant she gave him Un mauvais quart d'Jieure. I'm giving a pleasant Grimalkin to Lou, Ah, Puss, what a present I'm giving to you ! REPLY TO A LETTER ENCLOSING A LOCK OF HAIR. " ' My darling wants to see you soon,' I bless the little maid, and thank her ; To do her bidding, night and noon I draw on Hope Love's kindest banker ! " Old MSS. YES, you were false, and though I'm free, I still would be the slave of yore ; Then join'd our years were thirty- three, And now, yes, now, I'm thirty-four. And though you were not learned well, I was not anxious you should grow so ; I trembled once beneath her spell Whose spelling was extremely so-so ! Bright season ! why will Memory Still haunt the path our rambles took, The sparrow's nest that made you cry, The lilies captured in the brook ? I'd lifted you from side to side, You seem'd as light as that poor sparrow ; I know who wish'd it twice as wide, I think you thought it rather narrow. REPLY TO A LETTER. 69 Time was, indeed, a little while ! My pony could your heart compel ; And once, beside the meadow-stile, I thought you loved me just as well ; I'd kiss'd your cheek ; in sweet surprise Your troubled gaze said plainly, " Should he ?" But doubt soon fled those daisy eyes, " He could not wish to vex me, could he ?" The brightest eyes are often sad, But your fair cheek, so lightly swa/d, Could ripple into dimples glad, For O, my stars, what mirth we made ! The brightest tears are soonest dried, But your young love and dole were stable ; You wept when dear old Rover died, You wept and dress'd your dolls in sable. As year succeeds to year, the more Imperfect life's fruition seems, Our dreams, as baseless as of yore, Are not the same enchanting dreams. The girls I love now vote me slow How dull the boys who once seem'd witty ! Perhaps I'm getting old I know I'm still romantic more's the pity ! 70 REPLY TO A LETTER. Ah, vain regret ! to few, perchance, Unknown, and profitless to all : The wisely-gay, as years advance, Are gaily-wise. Whatever befall, We'll laugh at folly, whether seen Beneath a chimney or a steeple ; At yours, at mine our own, I mean, As well as that of other people. They cannot be complete in aught Who are not humorously prone, A man without a merry thought Can hardly have a funny bone. To say I hate your dismal men Might be esteem'd a strong assertion ; If I've blue devils now and then, I make them dance for my diversion. And here's your letter debonair ! " My friend \ my dear old friend of yore" And is this curl your daughter's hair ? I've seen the Titian tint before. Are we the pair that used to pass Long days beneath the chestnut shady ? You then were such a pretty lass ! I'm told you're now as fair a lady. REPLY TO A LETTER. 7 I I've laugh'd to hide the tear I shed, As when the Jester's bosom swells, And mournfully he shakes his head, We hear the jingle of his bells. A jesting vein your poet vex'd, And this poor rhyme, the Fates determine, Without a parson or a text, Has proved a rather prosy sermon. 1859. THE BEAR PIT AT THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS. WE liked the bear's serio-comical face, As he loll'd with a lazy, a lumbering grace ; Said Slyboots to me (just as if she had none), " Papa, let's give Bruin a bit of your bun." Says I, " A plum bun might please wistful old Bruin, He can't eat the stone that the cruel boy threw in ; Stick yours on the point of mamma's parasol, And perhaps he will climb to the top of the pole. " Some bears have got two legs, and some have got more, Be good to old bears if they've no legs or four ; Of duty to age you should never be careless, My dear, I am bald, and I soon may be hairless ! " The gravest aversion exists among bears For rude forward persons who give themselves airs, We know how some graceless young people they maul'd Just for plaguing a prophet, and calling him bald. THE BEAR PIT. 73 " Strange ursine devotion ! Their dancing-days ended, Bears die to 'remove ' what, in life, they defended : They succour'd the Prophet, and since that affair The bald have a painful regard for the bear." My Moral Small People may read it, and run (The child has my moral, the bear has my bun), Does it argue that Bruin has never had peace 'Twixt bald men in Bethel, and wise men in grease? MY NEIGHBOUR ROSE. THOUGH slender walls our hearths divide, No word has pass'd from either side, How gaily all your days must glide Unvex'd by labour ! I've seen you weep, and could have wept ; I've heard you sing, and may have slept ; Sometimes I hear your chimney swept, My charming neighbour ! Your pets are mine. Pray what may ail The pup, once eloquent of tail ? I wonder why your nightingale Is mute at sunset ? Your puss, demure and pensive, seems Too fat to mouse. She much esteems Yon sunny wall, and sleeps and dreams Of mice she once ate. MY NEIGHBOUR ROSE. 75 Our tastes agree. I dote upon Frail jars, turquoise and celadon, The " Wedding March " of Mendelssohn, And Penseroso. When sorely tempted to purloin \Q\\rpietd of Marc Antoine, Fair Virtue doth fair play enjoin, Fair Virtuoso ! At times an Ariel, cruel-kind, Will kiss my lips, and stir your blind, And whisper low, " She hides behind ; Thou art not lonely." The tricksy sprite did erst assist At hush'd Verona's moonlight tryst ; Sweet Capulet ! thou wert not kiss'd By light winds only. I miss the simple days of yore, When two long braids of hair you wore, And chat botte was wonder'd o'er, In corner cosy. But gaze not back for tales like those : It's all in order, I suppose, The Bud is now a blooming ROSE, A rosy posy ! 76 MY NEIGHBOUR ROSE. Indeed, farewell to bygone years ; How wonderful the change appears, For curates now and cavaliers In turn perplex you : The last are birds of feather gay, Who swear the first are birds of prey ; I'd scare them all had I my way, But that might vex you. At times I've envied, it is true, That hero blithe, of twenty-two, Who sent bouquets and billets doux, And wore a sabre. The rogue ! how close his arm he wound About her waist, who never frown'd. He loves you, Child. Now, is he bound To love my neighbour ? The bells are ringing. As is meet, White favours fascinate the street, Sweet faces greet me, rueful-sweet 'Twixt tears and laughter : They crowd the door to see her go, The bliss of one brings many woe ; O kiss the bride, and I will throw The old shoe after. MY NEIGHBOUR ROSE. 77 What change in one short afternoon, My Charming Neighbour gone, so soon ! Is yon pale orb her honey-moon Slow rising hither ? O lady, wan and marvellous, How often have we communed thus ; Sweet memory shall dwell with us, And joy go with her ! 1861. THE OLD OAK-TREE AT HATFIELD BROADOAK. A MIGHTY growth ! The county side -L\. Lamented when the Giant died, For England loves her trees : What misty legends round him cling ! How lavishly he once would fling His acorns to the breeze ! Who struck a thousand roots in fame, Who gave the district half its name, Will not be soon forgotten : Last spring he show'd but one green bough, The red leaves hang there still, and now His very props are rotten ! Elate, the thunderbolt he braved, For centuries his branches waved A welcome to the blast ; From reign to reign he bore a spell No forester had dared to fell What Time has felFd at last. THE OLD OAK-TREE. 79 The monarch wore a leafy crown, And wolves, ere wolves were hunted down, Sought safety in his gloom; Unnumber'd squirrels frolick'd free, Glad music fill'd the gallant tree From stem to topmost bloom. 'Twere hard to say, 'twere vain to seek When first he ventured forth, a meek Petitioner for dew ; No Saxon spade disturbed his root, The rabbit spared the tender shoot, And valiantly he grew, And show'd some inches from the ground When St. Augustine came and found Us very proper Vandals : When nymphs had bluer eyes than hose, When England measured men by blows, And measured time by candles. The pilgrim bless' d his grateful shade Ere Richard led the first crusade, And maidens led the dance Where, boy and man, in summer-time, Our Chaucer ponder'd o'er his rhyme ; And Robin Hood perchance, 8o THE OLD OAK-TREE AT Stole hither to maid Marian (And if they did not come, one can At any rate suppose it) ; They met beneath the mistletoe, We did the same, and ought to know The reason why they chose it. And this was call'd the traitor's branch, Stern Warwick hung six yeomen stanch Along its mighty fork ; Uncivil wars for them ! The fair Red rose and white still bloom, but where Are Lancaster and York ? Right mournfully his leaves he shed To shroud the graves of England's dead, By English falchion slain ; And cheerfully, for England's sake, He sent his kin to sea with Drake, When Tudor humbled Spain. While Blake was fighting with the Dutch They gave his poor old arms a crutch ; And thrice four maids and men ate A meal within his rugged bark, When Coventry bewitch'd the Park, And Chatham sway'd the senate. HATFIELD BROADOAK. 8 1 His few remaining boughs were green, And 'dappled sunbeams danced between, Upon the dappled deer, When, clad in black, two mourners met To read the Waterloo Gazette, They mourn'd their darling here. They join'd their boy. The tree at last Lies prone, discoursing of the past, Some fancy-dreams awaking ; Resigned, though headlong changes come, Though nations arm to tuck of drum, And dynasties are quaking. Romantic spot ! By honest pride Of old tradition sanctified ; My pensive vigil keeping, I feel thy beauty like a spell, And thoughts, and tender thoughts, upwell, That fill my heart to weeping. The Squire affirms, with gravest look, His oak goes up to Domesday Book ! And some say even higher ! We rode last week to see the ruin, We love the fair domain it grew in, And well we love the Squire. G 82 THE OLD OAK-TREE. A nature loyally controll'd, And fashion' d in the righteous mould Of English gentleman ; Some day my child will read these rhymes, She loved her " godpapa " betimes, The little Christian ! I love the Past, its ripe pleasance, Its lusty thought, and dim romance, And heart-compelling ditties ; But more, these ties, in mercy sent, With faith and true affection blent, And, wanting them, I were content To murmur, " Nunc dimittis" HALLINGBURY, April, 1859. TO MY GRANDMOTHER. (SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE BY MR. ROMNEY.) THIS relative of mine Was she seventy and nine When she died? By the canvas may be seen, How she look'd at seventeen, As a bride. Beneath a summer tree Her maiden reverie Has a charm ; Her ringlets are in taste ; What an arm ! and what a waist For an arm ! With her bridal-wreath, bouquet, Lace, farthingale, and gay Falbala, Were Romney's limning true, What a lucky dog were you, Grandpapa ! 84 TO MY GRANDMOTHER. Her lips are sweet as love ; They are parting ! Do they move ? Are they dumb ? Her eyes are blue, and beam Beseechingly, and seem To say, " Come." What funny fancy slips From between these cherry lips? Whisper me, Sweet deity in paint, What canon says I mayn't Marry thee ? That good-for-nothing Time Has a confidence sublime ! When I first Saw this lady, in my youth, Her winters had, forsooth, Done their worst. Her locks, as white as snow, Once shamed the swarthy crow ; By-and-by, That fowl's avenging sprite Set his cruel foot for spite Near her eye. TO MY GRANDMOTHER. 85 Her rounded form was lean, And her silk was bombazine : Well I wot, With her needles would she sit, And for hours would she knit, Would she not ? Ah, perishable clay ! Her charms had dropt away One by one : But if she heaved a sigh With a burthen, it was, " Thy Will be done." In travail, as in tears, With the fardel of her years Overprest, In mercy she was borne Where the weary and the worn Are at rest. I fain would meet you there ; If witching as you were, Grandmamma, This nether world agrees That the better you must please Grandpapa. THE SKELETON IN THE CUPBOARD. THE characters of great and small Come ready made (we can't bespeak one) ; Their sides are many, too, and all (Except ourselves) have got a weak one. Some sanguine people love for life, Some love their hobby till it flings them, How many love a pretty wife For love of the eclat she brings them ! In order to relieve my mind I've thrown off this disjointed chatter, And much because I'm disinclined To venture on a painful matter : I once was bashful ; I'll allow I've blush'd for words untimely spoken, I still am rather shy, and now . . . And now the ice is fairly broken. THE SKELETON IN THE CUPBOARD. 87 We all have secrets : you have one Which mayn't be quite your charming spouse's ; We all lock up a skeleton In some grim chamber of our houses ; Familiars who exhaust their days And nights in plaguing fops and fogies, And who, excepting spiteful ways, Are blameless, unassuming bogies. We hug the phantom we detest, We rarely let it cross our portals : It is a most exacting guest, Now are we not afflicted mortals ? Your neighbour Gay, that jovial wight, As Dives rich, and bold as Hector, Poor Gay steals twenty times a night, On shaking knees, to see his spectre. Old Dives fears a pauper fate, And hoarding is his gloomy passion ; And some poor souls anticipate A waistcoat straiter than the fashion. She, childless, pines, that lonely wife, And hidden tears are bitter shedding ; And he may tremble all his life, And die, but not of that he's dreading. 88 THE SKELETON IN THE CUPBOARD. Ah me, the World ! How fast it spins ! The beldams dance, the caldron bubbles ; They shriek, and stir it for our sins, And we must drain it for our troubles. We toil, we groan the cry for love Mounts upward from the seething city, And yet I know we have above A FATHER, infinite in pity. When Beauty smiles, when Sorrow weeps, When sunbeams play, when shadows darken, One inmate of our dwelling keeps A ghastly carnival but hearken ! How dry the rattle of the bones ! The sound was not to make you start meant. Stand by ! Your humble servant owns The Tenant of this Dark Apartment. GLYCERE. OLD MAN. I N gala dress, and smiling ! Sweet, What seek you in my green retreat ? YOUNG GIRL. I gather flowers for my hair, The village yonder claims the best, For lad and lass are thronging there To dance the sober sun to rest. Hark ! hark ! the rebec calls, Glycere Again may foot it on the green ; Her rivalry I need not fear, This wreath shall crown the Village Queen. OLD MAN. You long have known this tranquil ground ? YOUNG GIRL. Indeed it all seems marr'd to me. 90 GLYCERE. OLD MAN. Light heart ! who sleeps beneath this mound Was fairest of yon company : The flowers to eclipse Glycere Are hers, poor child. Her grave is here ! THE CROSSING-SWEEPER. THE SUTTEE. A CROSSING-SWEEPER, black and tan,