SCENE I.--_An Apartment at Flint's house._

THE WORKS OF CHARLES AND MARY LAMB

IV. POEMS AND PLAYS

[Illustration: Charles Lamb (aged 23)

From a drawing by Robert Hancock]

POEMS AND PLAYS

BY

CHARLES AND MARY LAMB

INTRODUCTION

The earliest poem in this volume bears the date 1794, when Lamb was

nineteen, the latest 1834, the year of his death; so that it covers an

even longer period of his life than Vol. I.--the "Miscellaneous Prose."

The chronological order which was strictly observed in that volume has

been only partly observed in the following pages--since it seemed better

to keep the plays together and to make a separate section of Lamb's

epigrams. These, therefore, will be found to be outside the general

scheme. Such of Lamb's later poems as he did not himself collect in

volume form will also be found to be out of their chronological

position, partly because it has seemed to me best to give prominence to

those verses which Lamb himself reprinted, and partly because there is

often no indication of the year in which the poem was written.

Another difficulty has been the frequency with which Lamb reprinted some

of his earlier poetry. The text of many of his earliest and best poems

was not fixed until 1818, twenty years or so after their composition. It

had to be decided whether to print these poems in their true order as

they were first published--in Coleridge's _Poems on Various Subjects_,

1796; in Charles Lloyd's _ems on the Death of Priscilla Farmer_, 1796;

in Coleridge's _Poems_, second edition, 1797; in _Blank Verse_ by

Charles Lloyd and Charles Lamb, 1798; and in John Woodvil, 1802--with

all their early readings; or whether to disregard chronological

sequence, and wait until the time of the _Works_--1818--had come, and

print them all together then. I decided, in the interests of their

biographical value, to print them in the order as they first appeared,

particularly as Crabb Robinson tells us that Lamb once said of the

arrangement of a poet's works: "There is only one good order--and that

is the order in which they were written--that is a history of the poet's

mind." It then had to be decided whether to print them in their first

shape, which, unless I repeated them later, would mean the relegation of

Lamb's final text to the Notes, or to print them, at the expense of a

slight infringement upon the chronological scheme, in their final 1818

state, and relegate all earlier readings to the Notes. After much

deliberation I decided that to print them in their final 1818 state was

best, and this therefore I did in the large edition of 1903, to which

the student is referred for all variorum readings, fuller notes and many

illustrations, and have repeated here. In order, however, that the

scheme of Lamb's 1818 edition of his _Works_ might be preserved, I have

indicated in the text the position in the _Works_ occupied by all the

poems that in the present volume have been printed earlier.

The chronological order, in so far as it has been followed, emphasises

the dividing line between Lamb's poetry and his verse. As he grew older

his poetry, for the most part, passed into his prose. His best and

truest poems, with few exceptions, belong to the years before, say,

1805, when he was thirty. After this, following a long interval of

silence, came the brief satirical outburst of 1812, in _The Examiner_,

and the longer one, in 1820, in _The Champion_; then, after another

interval, during which he was busy as Elia, came the period of album

verses, which lasted to the end. The impulse to write personal prose,

which was quickened in Lamb by the _London Magazine_ in 1820, seems to

have taken the place of his old ambition to be a poet. In his later and

more mechanical period there were, however, occasional inspirations, as

when he wrote the sonnet on "Work," in 1819; on "Leisure," in 1821; the

lines in his own Album, in 1827, and, pre-eminently, the poem "On an

Infant Dying as Soon as Born," in 1827.

This volume contains, with the exception of the verse for children,

which will be found in Vol. III. of this edition, all the accessible

poetical work of Charles and Mary Lamb that is known to exist and

several poems not to be found in the large edition. There are probably

still many copies of album verses which have not yet seen the light. In

the _London Magazine_, April, 1824, is a story entitled "The Bride of

Modern Italy," which has for motto the following couplet:--

My heart is fixt:

This is the sixt.--_Elia_.

but the rest of what seems to be a pleasant catalogue is missing. In a

letter to Coleridge, December 2, 1796, Lamb refers to a poem which has

apparently perished, beginning, "Laugh, all that weep." I have left in

the correspondence the rhyming letters to Ayrton and Dibdin, and an

epigram on "Coelebs in Search of a Wife." I have placed the dedication

to Coleridge at the beginning of this volume, although it belongs

properly only to those poems that are reprinted from the _Works_ of

1818, the prose of which Lamb offered to Martin Burney. But it is too

fine to be put among the Notes, and it may easily, by a pardonable

stretch, be made to refer to the whole body of Lamb's poetical and

dramatic work, although _Album Verses_, 1830, was dedicated separately

to Edward Moxon.

In Mr. Bedford's design for the cover of this edition certain Elian

symbolism will be found. The upper coat of arms is that of Christ's

Hospital, where Lamb was at school; the lower is that of the Inner

Temple, where he was born and spent many years. The figures at the bells

are those which once stood out from the façade of St. Dunstan's Church

in Fleet Street, and are now in Lord Londesborough's garden in Regent's

Park. Lamb shed tears when they were removed. The tricksy sprite and the

candles (brought by Betty) need no explanatory words of mine.

E.V.L.

CONTENTS TEXT NOTE

PAGE PAGE

Dedication 1 307

Lamb's earliest poem, "Mille viae mortis" 3 307

Poems in Coleridge's _Poems on Various Subjects_, 1796:--

"As when a child ..." 4 308

"Was it some sweet device ..." 4 309

"Methinks how dainty sweet ..." 5 311

"Oh! I could laugh ..." 5 311

From Charles Lloyd's _Poems on the Death of Priscilla

Farmer_, 1796;--

The Grandame 6 312

Poems from Coleridge's _Poems_, 1797:--

"When last I roved ..." 8 315

"A timid grace ..." 8 315

"If from my lips ..." 9 315

"We were two pretty babes ..." 9 315

Childhood 9 315

The Sabbath Bells 10 316

Fancy Employed on Divine Subjects 10 316

The Tomb of Douglas 11 316

To Charles Lloyd 12 316

A Vision of Repentance 13 317

Poems Written in the Years 1795-98, and not Reprinted by

Lamb:--

"The Lord of Life ..." 16 317

To the Poet Cowper 16 317

Lines addressed to Sara and S.T.C. 17 318

Sonnet to a Friend 18 318

To a Young Lady 18 319

Living Without God in the World 19 319

Poems from _Blank Verse_, by Charles Lloyd and Charles

Lamb, 1798:--

To Charles Lloyd 21 320

Written on the Day of My Aunt's Funeral 21 320

Written a Year After the Events 22 321

Written Soon After the Preceding Poem 24 322

Written on Christmas Day, 1797 25 322

The Old Familiar Faces 25 322

Composed at Midnight 26 323

Poems at the End of _John Woodvil_, 1802:--

Helen. By Mary Lamb 28 323

Ballad. From the German 29 324

Hypochondriacus 29 324

A Ballad Noting the Difference of Rich and Poor 30 324

Poems in Charles Lamb's _Works_, 1818, not Previously

Printed in the Present Volume:--

Hester 32 325

Dialogue Between a Mother and Child. By Mary Lamb 33 325

A Farewell to Tobacco 34 325

To T.L.H. 38 326

Salome. By Mary Lamb 39 ---

Lines Suggested by a Picture of Two Females by

Lionardo da Vinci. By Mary Lamb 41 327

Lines on the Same Picture being Removed. By Mary Lamb 41 327

Lines on the Celebrated Picture by Lionardo da Vinci,

called "The Virgin of the Rocks" 42 327

On the Same. By Mary Lamb 42 327

To Miss Kelly 43 328

On the Sight of Swans in Kensington Garden 43 328

The Family Name 44 328

To John Lamb, Esq 44 329

To Martin Charles Burney, Esq 45 329

_Album Verses_, 1830:--

Album Verses:--

In the Album of a Clergyman's Lady 46 332

In the Autograph Book of Mrs. Sergeant W---- 46 332

In the Album of Lucy Barton 47 332

In the Album of Miss ---- 48 332

In the Album of a very Young Lady 48 332

In the Album of a French Teacher 49 332

In the Album of Miss Daubeny 49 333

In the Album of Mrs. Jane Towers 50 333

In My Own Album 50 333

Miscellaneous:--

Angel Help 51 333

The Christening 52 333

On an Infant Dying as Soon as Born 53 333

To Bernard Barton 55 334

The Young Catechist 56 334

She is Going 57 335

To a Young Friend 57 335

To the Same 58 335

Sonnets:--

Harmony in Unlikeness 58 336

Written at Cambridge 59 336

To a Celebrated Female Performer in the "Blind Boy" 59 336

Work 59 336

Leisure 60 336

To Samuel Rogers, Esq. 60 337

The Gipsy's Malison 61 337

Commendatory Verses:--

To the Author of Poems Published under the Name

of Barry Cornwall 61 338

To R.S. Knowles, Esq. 62 338

To the Editor of the _Every-Day Book_ 63 338

Acrostics:--

To Caroline Maria Applebee 63 339

To Cecilia Catherine Lawton 64 339

Acrostic, to a Lady who Desired Me to Write Her

Epitaph 65 339

Another, to Her Youngest Daughter 65 339

Translations from the Latin of Vincent Bourne:--

On a Sepulchral Statue of an Infant Sleeping 66 340

The Rival Bells 66 340

Epitaph on a Dog 67 340

The Ballad Singers 67 340

To David Cook 69 340

On a Deaf and Dumb Artist 70 340

Newton's Principia 71 340

The House-keeper 71 340

The Female Orators 72 340

Pindaric Ode to the Tread Mill 72 341

Going or Gone 75 341

New Poems in _The Poetical Works of Charles Lamb_, 1836:--

In the Album of Edith S---- 78 343

To Dora W---- 78 343

In the Album of Rotha Q---- 79 344

In the Album of Catherine Orkney 79 ---

To T. Stothard, Esq. 80 344

To a Friend on His Marriage 80 344

The Self-Enchanted 81 344

To Louisa M----, whom I used to call "Monkey" 82 344

Cheap Gifts: a Sonnet 82 344

Free Thoughts on Several Eminent Composers 83 344

Miscellaneous Poems not collected by Lamb:--

Dramatic Fragment 85 345

Dick Strype; or, The Force of Habit 86 345

Two Epitaphs on a Young Lady 88 346

The Ape 89 346

In tabulam eximii pictoris B. Haydoni 90 347

Translation of Same 90 347

Sonnet to Miss Burney 91 347

To My Friend the Indicator 91 348

On seeing Mrs. K---- B----, aged upwards of eighty,

nurse an infant 92 348

To Emma, Learning Latin, and Desponding 93 349

Lines Addressed to Lieut. R.W.H. Hardy, R.N. 93 349

Lines for a Monument 94 349

To C. Aders, Esq. 94 349

Hercules Pacificatus 95 349

The Parting Speech of the Celestial Messenger

to the Poet 98 349

Existence, Considered in Itself, no Blessing 99 350

To Samuel Rogers, Esq. 100 350

To Clara N---- 101 350

The Sisters 101 350

Love Will Come 102 351

To Margaret W---- 102 351

Additional Album Verses and Acrostics:--

What is an Album? 104 351

The First Leaf of Spring 105 352

To Mrs. F---- 105 352

To M. L---- F---- 106 352

To Esther Field 106 352

To Mrs. Williams 107 352

To the Book 107 353

To S.F. 108 353

To R.Q. 108 353

To S.L. 109 353

To M.L. 109 353

An Acrostic Against Acrostics 109 353

On Being Asked to Write in Miss Westwood's Album 110 353

In Miss Westwood's Album. By Mary Lamb 110 353

Un Solitaire. To Sarah Lachlan 111 353

To S. T 111 354

To Mrs. Sarah Robinson 111 354

To Sarah 112 354

To Joseph Vale Asbury 112 354

To D.A. 113 354

To Louisa Morgan 113 354

To Sarah James of Beguildy 113 354

To Emma Button 114 354

Written upon the Cover of a Blotting Book 114 354

Political and Other Epigrams:--

To Sir James Mackintosh 115 357

Twelfth Night Characters:--

Mr. A---- 115 358

Messrs. C----g and F----e 115 358

Count Rumford 116 358

On a Late Empiric of "Balmy" Memory 116 358

Epigrams:--

"Princeps his rent ..." 116 359

"Ye Politicians, tell me, pray ..." 116 359

The Triumph of the Whale 116 359

Sonnet. St. Crispin to Mr. Gifford 118 360

The Godlike 118 360

The Three Graves 119 360

Sonnet to Mathew Wood, Esq. 119 361

On a Projected Journey 120 361

Song for the C-----n 120 362

The Unbeloved 120 362

On the Arrival in England of Lord Byron's Remains 121 362

Lines Suggested by a Sight of Waltham Cross 121 363

For the _Table Book_ 122 363

The Royal Wonders 122 363

"Brevis Esse Laboro" 122 363

Suum Cuique 123 363

On the Literary Gazette 123 365

On the Fast-Day 123 365

Nonsense Verses 123 365

On Wawd 124 366

Six Epitaphs 124 366

Time and Eternity 126 366

From the Latin 126 366

Satan in Search of a Wife 127 366

Part 1 128 ---

Part II 133 ---

Prologues and Epilogues:--

Epilogue to Godwin's Tragedy of "Antonio" 138 368

Prologue to Godwin's Tragedy of "Faulkener" 140 369

Epilogue to Henry Siddons' Farce, "Time's a Tell-Tale" 140 369

Prologue to Coleridge's Tragedy of "Remorse" 142 369

Epilogue to Kenney's Farce, "Debtor and Creditor" 143 371

Epilogue to an Amateur Performance of "Richard II." 145 371

Prologue to Sheridan Knowles' Comedy, "The Wife" 146 372

Epilogue to Sheridan Knowles' Comedy, "The Wife" 147 372

John Woodvil 149 372

The Witch 199 392

Mr. H------ 202 392

The Pawnbroker's Daughter 238 397

The Wife's Trial 273 ---

Poems in the Notes:--

Lines to Dorothy Wordsworth. By Mary Lamb 328

Lines on Lamb's Want of Ear. By Mary Lamb 345

A Lady's Sapphic. By Mary Lamb (?) 356

An English Sapphic. By Charles Lamb (?) 357

Two Epigrams. By Charles Lamb (?) 359

The Poetical Cask. By Charles Lamb (?) 363

NOTES 307

INDEX 399

INDEX OF FIRST LINES 409

FRONTISPIECE

CHARLES LAMB (AGE 23)

From the Drawing by Robert Hancock, now in the National Portrait

Gallery.

DEDICATION (1818) TO S.T. COLERIDGE, ESQ.

My Dear Coleridge,

You will smile to see the slender labors of your friend designated by

the title of _Works_; but such was the wish of the gentlemen who have

kindly undertaken the trouble of collecting them, and from their

judgment could be no appeal.

It would be a kind of disloyalty to offer to any one but yourself a

volume containing the _early pieces_, which were first published among

your poems, and were fairly derivatives from you and them. My friend

Lloyd and myself came into our first battle (authorship is a sort of

warfare) under cover of the greater Ajax. How this association, which

shall always be a dear and proud recollection to me, came to be broken,

--who snapped the three-fold cord,--whether yourself (but I know that

was not the case) grew ashamed of your former companions,--or whether

(which is by much the more probable) some ungracious bookseller was

author of the separation,--I cannot tell;--but wanting the support of

your friendly elm, (I speak for myself,) my vine has, since that time,

put forth few or no fruits; the sap (if ever it had any) has become, in

a manner, dried up and extinct; and you will find your old associate, in

his second volume, dwindled into prose and _criticism_.

Am I right in assuming this as the cause? or is it that, as years come

upon us, (except with some more healthy-happy spirits,) Life itself

loses much of its Poetry for us? we transcribe but what we read in the

great volume of Nature; and, as the characters grow dim, we turn off,

and look another way. You yourself write no Christabels, nor Ancient

Mariners, now.

Some of the Sonnets, which shall be carelessly turned over by the

general reader, may happily awaken in you remembrances, which I should

be sorry should be ever totally extinct--the memory

Of summer days and of delightful years--

even so far back as to those old suppers at our old ****** Inn,--when life

was fresh, and topics exhaustless,--and you first kindled in me, if not

the power, yet the love of poetry, and beauty, and kindliness.--

What words have I heard

Spoke at the Mermaid!

The world has given you many a shrewd nip and gird since that time, but

either my eyes are grown dimmer, or my old friend is the _same_, who

stood before me three and twenty years ago--his hair a little confessing

the hand of time, but still shrouding the same capacious brain,--his

heart not altered, scarcely where it "alteration finds."

One piece, Coleridge, I have ventured to publish in its original form,

though I have heard you complain of a certain over-imitation of the

antique in the style. If I could see any way of getting rid of the

objection, without re-writing it entirely, I would make some sacrifices.

But when I wrote John Woodvil, I never proposed to myself any distinct

deviation from common English. I had been newly initiated in the

writings of our elder dramatists; Beaumont and Fletcher, and Massinger,

were then a _first love_; and from what I was so freshly conversant in,

what wonder if my language imperceptibly took a tinge? The very _time_,

which I have chosen for my story, that which immediately followed the

Restoration, seemed to require, in an English play, that the English

should be of rather an older cast, than that of the precise year in

which it happened to be written. I wish it had not some faults, which I

can less vindicate than the language.

I remain,

My dear Coleridge,

Your's,

With unabated esteem,

C. LAMB.

LAMB'S EARLIEST POEM

MILLE VIAE MORTIS

(1789)

What time in bands of slumber all were laid,

To Death's dark court, methought I was convey'd;

In realms it lay far hid from mortal sight,

And gloomy tapers scarce kept out the night.

On ebon throne the King of Terrors sate;

Around him stood the ministers of Fate;

On fell destruction bent, the murth'rous band

Waited attentively his high command.

Here pallid Fear & dark Despair were seen.

And Fever here with looks forever lean,

Swoln Dropsy, halting Gout, profuse of woes,

And Madness fierce & hopeless of repose,

Wide-wasting Plague; but chief in honour stood

More-wasting War, insatiable of blood;

With starting eye-balls, eager for the word;

Already brandish'd was the glitt'ring sword.

Wonder and fear alike had fill'd my breast,

And thus the grisly Monarch I addrest--

"Of earth-born Heroes why should Poets sing,

And thee neglect, neglect the greatest King?

To thee ev'n Caesar's self was forc'd to yield

The glories of Pharsalia's well-fought field."

When, with a frown, "Vile caitiff, come not here,"

Abrupt cried Death; "shall flatt'ry soothe my ear?"

"Hence, or thou feel'st my dart!" the Monarch said.

Wild terror seiz'd me, & the vision fled.

POEMS IN COLERIDGE'S POEMS ON

VARIOUS SUBJECTS, 1796

(_Written late in 1794. Text of 1797_)

As when a child on some long winter's night

Affrighted clinging to its Grandam's knees

With eager wond'ring and perturb'd delight

Listens strange tales of fearful dark decrees

Mutter'd to wretch by necromantic spell;

Or of those hags, who at the witching time

Of murky midnight ride the air sublime,

And mingle foul embrace with fiends of Hell:

Cold Horror drinks its blood! Anon the tear

More gentle starts, to hear the Beldame tell

Of pretty babes, that lov'd each other dear,

Murder'd by cruel Uncle's mandate fell:

Ev'n such the shiv'ring joys thy tones impart,

Ev'n so thou, SIDDONS! meltest my sad heart!

(_Probably 1795. Text of 1818_)

Was it some sweet device of Faery

That mocked my steps with many a lonely glade,

And fancied wanderings with a fair-hair'd maid?

Have these things been? or what rare witchery,

Impregning with delights the charmed air,

Enlighted up the semblance of a smile

In those fine eyes? methought they spake the while

Soft soothing things, which might enforce despair

To drop the murdering knife, and let go by

His foul resolve. And does the lonely glade

Still court the foot-steps of the fair-hair'd maid?

Still in her locks the gales of summer sigh?

While I forlorn do wander reckless where,

And 'mid my wanderings meet no Anna there.

(_Probably_ 1795. _Text of_ 1818)

Methinks how dainty sweet it were, reclin'd

Beneath the vast out-stretching branches high

Of some old wood, in careless sort to lie,

Nor of the busier scenes we left behind

Aught envying. And, O Anna! mild-eyed maid!

Beloved! I were well content to play

With thy free tresses all a summer's day,

Losing the time beneath the greenwood shade.

Or we might sit and tell some tender tale

Of faithful vows repaid by cruel scorn,

A tale of true love, or of friend forgot;

And I would teach thee, lady, how to rail

In gentle sort, on those who practise not

Or love or pity, though of woman born.

(1794. _Text of_ 1818)

O! I could laugh to hear the midnight wind,

That, rushing on its way with careless sweep,

Scatters the ocean waves. And I could weep

Like to a child. For now to my raised mind

On wings of winds comes wild-eyed Phantasy,

And her rude visions give severe delight.

O winged bark! how swift along the night

Pass'd thy proud keel! nor shall I let go by

Lightly of that drear hour the memory,

When wet and chilly on thy deck I stood,

Unbonnetted, and gazed upon the flood,

Even till it seemed a pleasant thing to die,--

To be resolv'd into th' elemental wave,

Or take my portion with the winds that rave.

FROM CHARLES LLOYD'S POEMS ON THE DEATH OF PRISCILLA FARMER, 1796

THE GRANDAME

(Summer, 1796. Text of 1818)

On the green hill top,

Hard by the house of prayer, a modest roof,

And not distinguish'd from its neighbour-barn,

Save by a slender-tapering length of spire,

The Grandame sleeps. A plain stone barely tells

The name and date to the chance passenger.

For lowly born was she, and long had eat,

Well-earned, the bread of service:--her's was else

A mounting spirit, one that entertained

Scorn of base action, deed dishonorable,

Or aught unseemly. I remember well

Her reverend image: I remember, too,

With what a zeal she served her master's house;

And how the prattling tongue of garrulous age

Delighted to recount the oft-told tale

Or anecdote domestic. Wise she was,

And wondrous skilled in genealogies,

And could in apt and voluble terms discourse

Of births, of titles, and alliances;

Of marriages, and intermarriages;

Relationship remote, or near of kin;

Of friends offended, family disgraced--

Maiden high-born, but wayward, disobeying

Parental strict injunction, and regardless

Of unmixed blood, and ancestry remote,

Stooping to wed with one of low degree.

But these are not thy praises; and I wrong

Thy honor'd memory, recording chiefly

Things light or trivial. Better 'twere to tell,

How with a nobler zeal, and warmer love,

She served her _heavenly master_. I have seen

That reverend form bent down with age and pain

And rankling malady. Yet not for this

Ceased she to praise her maker, or withdrew

Her trust in him, her faith, and humble hope--

So meekly had she learn'd to bear her cross--

For she had studied patience in the school

Of Christ, much comfort she had thence derived,

And was a follower of the NAZARENE.

POEMS FROM COLERIDGE'S _POEMS_, 1797

(_Summer_, 1795. _Text of_ 1818)

When last I roved these winding wood-walks green,

Green winding walks, and shady pathways sweet,

Oft-times would Anna seek the silent scene,

Shrouding her beauties in the lone retreat.

No more I hear her footsteps in the shade:

Her image only in these pleasant ways

Meets me self-wandering, where in happier days

I held free converse with the fair-hair'd maid.

I passed the little cottage which she loved,

The cottage which did once my all contain;

It spake of days which ne'er must come again,

Spake to my heart, and much my heart was moved.

"Now fair befall thee, gentle maid!" said I,

And from the cottage turned me with a sigh.

(1795 _or_ 1796. _Text of_ 1818)

A timid grace sits trembling in her eye,

As both to meet the rudeness of men's sight,

Yet shedding a delicious lunar light,

That steeps in kind oblivious ecstasy

The care-crazed mind, like some still melody:

Speaking most plain the thoughts which do possess

Her gentle sprite: peace, and meek quietness,

And innocent loves, and maiden purity:

A look whereof might heal the cruel smart

Of changed friends, or fortune's wrongs unkind;

Might to sweet deeds of mercy move the heart

Of him who hates his brethren of mankind.

Turned are those lights from me, who fondly yet

Past joys, vain loves, and buried hopes regret.

(_End of 1795. Text of 1818_)

If from my lips some angry accents fell,

Peevish complaint, or harsh reproof unkind,

'Twas but the error of a sickly mind

And troubled thoughts, clouding the purer well,

And waters clear, of Reason; and for me

Let this my verse the poor atonement be--

My verse, which thou to praise wert ever inclined

Too highly, and with a partial eye to see

No blemish. Thou to me didst ever shew

Kindest affection; and would oft-times lend

An ear to the desponding love-sick lay,

Weeping my sorrows with me, who repay

But ill the mighty debt of love I owe,

Mary, to thee, my sister and my friend.

(_1795. Text of 1818_)

We were two pretty babes, the youngest she,

The youngest, and the loveliest far, I ween,

And INNOCENCE her name. The time has been,

We two did love each other's company;

Time was, we two had wept to have been apart.

But when by show of seeming good beguil'd,

I left the garb and manners of a child,

And my first love for man's society,

Defiling with the world my virgin heart--

My loved companion dropped a tear, and fled,

And hid in deepest shades her awful head.

Beloved, who shall tell me where thou art--

In what delicious Eden to be found--

That I may seek thee the wide world around?

CHILDHOOD

(_Summer, 1796. Text of 1818_)

In my poor mind it is most sweet to muse

Upon the days gone by; to act in thought

Past seasons o'er, and be again a child;

To sit in fancy on the turf-clad slope,

Down which the child would roll; to pluck gay flowers,

Make posies in the sun, which the child's hand,

(Childhood offended soon, soon reconciled,)

Would throw away, and strait take up again,

Then fling them to the winds, and o'er the lawn

Bound with so playful and so light a foot,

That the press'd daisy scarce declined her head.

THE SABBATH BELLS

(_Summer, 1796. Text of 1818_)

The cheerful sabbath bells, wherever heard,

Strike pleasant on the sense, most like the voice

Of one, who from the far-off hills proclaims

Tidings of good to Zion: chiefly when

Their piercing tones fall _sudden_ on the ear

Of the contemplant, solitary man,

Whom thoughts abstruse or high have chanced to lure

Forth from the walks of men, revolving oft,

And oft again, hard matter, which eludes

And baffles his pursuit--thought-sick and tired

Of controversy, where no end appears,

No clue to his research, the lonely man

Half wishes for society again.

Him, thus engaged, the sabbath bells salute

_Sudden!_ his heart awakes, his ears drink in

The cheering music; his relenting soul

Yearns after all the joys of social life,

And softens with the love of human kind.

FANCY EMPLOYED ON DIVINE SUBJECTS

(_Summer, 1796. Text of 1818_)

The truant Fancy was a wanderer ever,

A lone enthusiast maid. She loves to walk

In the bright visions of empyreal light,

By the green pastures, and the fragrant meads,

Where the perpetual flowers of Eden blow;

By chrystal streams, and by the living waters,

Along whose margin grows the wondrous tree

Whose leaves shall heal the nations; underneath

Whose holy shade a refuge shall be found

From pain and want, and all the ills that wait

On mortal life, from sin and death for ever.

THE TOMB OF DOUGLAS

_See the Tragedy of that Name_

(1796)

When her son, her Douglas died,

To the steep rock's fearful side

Fast the frantic Mother hied--

O'er her blooming warrior dead

Many a tear did Scotland shed,

And shrieks of long and loud lament

From her Grampian hills she sent.

Like one awakening from a trance,

She met the shock of[1] Lochlin's lance;

On her rude invader foe

Return'd an hundred fold the blow,

Drove the taunting spoiler home;

Mournful thence she took her way

To do observance at the tomb

Where the son of Douglas lay.

Round about the tomb did go

In solemn state and order slow,

Silent pace, and black attire,

Earl, or Knight, or good Esquire;

Whoe'er by deeds of valour done

In battle had high honours won;

Whoe'er in their pure veins could trace

The blood of Douglas' noble race.

With them the flower of minstrels came,

And to their cunning harps did frame

In doleful numbers piercing rhymes,

Such strains as in the older times

Had sooth'd the spirit of Fingal,

Echoing thro' his father's hall.

"Scottish maidens, drop a tear

O'er the beauteous Hero's bier!

Brave youth, and comely 'bove compare,

All golden shone his burnish'd hair;

Valour and smiling courtesy

Play'd in the sun-beams of his eye.

Clos'd are those eyes that shone so fair,

And stain'd with blood his yellow hair.

Scottish maidens, drop a tear

O'er the beauteous Hero's bier!"

"Not a tear, I charge you, shed

For the false Glenalvon dead;

Unpitied let Glenalvon lie,

Foul stain to arms and chivalry!"

"Behind his back the traitor came,

And Douglas died without his fame.

Young light of Scotland early spent,

Thy country thee shall long lament;

And oft to after-times shall tell,

In Hope's sweet prime my Hero fell."

[Footnote 1: Denmark.]

TO CHARLES LLOYD

_An Unexpected Visitor_

(_January, 1797. Text of 1818_)

Alone, obscure, without a friend,

A cheerless, solitary thing,

Why seeks, my Lloyd, the stranger out?

What offering can the stranger bring

Of social scenes, home-bred delights,

That him in aught compensate may

For Stowey's pleasant winter nights,

For loves and friendships far away?

In brief oblivion to forego

Friends, such as thine, so justly dear,

And be awhile with me content

To stay, a kindly loiterer, here:

For this a gleam of random joy

Hath flush'd my unaccustom'd cheek;

And, with an o'er-charg'd bursting heart,

I feel the thanks I cannot speak.

Oh! sweet are all the Muses' lays,

And sweet the charm of matin bird;

'Twas long since these estranged ears

The sweeter voice of friend had heard.

The voice hath spoke: the pleasant sounds

In memory's ear in after time

Shall live, to sometimes rouse a tear,

And sometimes prompt an honest rhyme.

For, when the transient charm is fled,

And when the little week is o'er,

To cheerless, friendless, solitude

When I return, as heretofore,

Long, long, within my aching heart

The grateful sense shall cherish'd be;

I'll think less meanly of myself,

That Lloyd will sometimes think on me.

A VISION OF REPENTANCE

(_1796? Text of 1818_)

I saw a famous fountain, in my dream,

Where shady path-ways to a valley led;

A weeping willow lay upon that stream,

And all around the fountain brink were spread

Wide branching trees, with dark green leaf rich clad,

Forming a doubtful twilight-desolate and sad.

The place was such, that whoso enter'd in

Disrobed was of every earthly thought,

And straight became as one that knew not sin,

Or to the world's first innocence was brought;

Enseem'd it now, he stood on holy ground,

In sweet and tender melancholy wrapt around.

A most strange calm stole o'er my soothed sprite;

Long time I stood, and longer had I staid,

When, lo! I saw, saw by the sweet moon-light,

Which came in silence o'er that silent shade,

Where, near the fountain, SOMETHING like DESPAIR

Made, of that weeping willow, garlands for her hair.

And eke with painful fingers she inwove

Many an uncouth stem of savage thorn--

"The willow garland, _that_ was for her love,

And _these_ her bleeding temples would adorn."

With sighs her heart nigh burst, salt tears fast fell,

As mournfully she bended o'er that sacred well.

To whom when I addrest myself to speak,

She lifted up her eyes, and nothing said;

The delicate red came mantling o'er her cheek,

And, gath'ring up her loose attire, she fled

To the dark covert of that woody shade,

And in her goings seem'd a timid gentle maid.

Revolving in my mind what this should mean,

And why that lovely lady plained so;

Perplex'd in thought at that mysterious scene,

And doubting if 'twere best to stay or go,

I cast mine eyes in wistful gaze around,

When from the shades came slow a small and plaintive sound:

"PSYCHE am I, who love to dwell

In these brown shades, this woody dell,

Where never busy mortal came,

Till now, to pry upon my shame.

"At thy feet what thou dost see

The waters of repentance be,

Which, night and day, I must augment

With tears, like a true penitent,

"If haply so my day of grace

Be not yet past; and this lone place,

O'er-shadowy, dark, excludeth hence

All thoughts but grief and penitence."

_"Why dost thou weep, thou gentle maid!

And wherefore in this barren shade

Thy hidden thoughts with sorrow feed?

Can thing so fair repentance need?"_

"O! I have done a deed of shame,

And tainted is my virgin fame,

And stain'd the beauteous maiden white,

In which my bridal robes were dight."

"_And who the promised spouse, declare:

And what those bridal garments were._"

"Severe and saintly righteousness

Compos'd the clear white bridal dress;

JESUS, the son of Heaven's high king,

Bought with his blood the marriage ring.

"A wretched sinful creature, I

Deem'd lightly of that sacred tie,

Gave to a treacherous WORLD my heart,

And play'd the foolish wanton's part.

"Soon to these murky shades I came,

To hide from the sun's light my shame.

And still I haunt this woody dell,

And bathe me in that healing well,

Whose waters clear have influence

From sin's foul stains the soul to cleanse;

And, night and day, I them augment

With tears, like a true penitent,

Until, due expiation made,

And fit atonement fully paid,

The lord and bridegroom me present,

Where in sweet strains of high consent,

God's throne before, the Seraphim

Shall chaunt the extatic marriage hymn."

"Now Christ restore thee soon "--I said,

And thenceforth all my dream was fled.

POEMS WRITTEN IN THE YEARS 1795-98,

AND NOT REPRINTED BY LAMB

SONNET

_(Summer, 1795)_

The Lord of Life shakes off his drowsihed,

And 'gins to sprinkle on the earth below

Those rays that from his shaken locks do flow;

Meantime, by truant love of rambling led,

I turn my back on thy detested walls,

Proud City! and thy sons I leave behind,

A sordid, selfish, money-getting kind;

Brute things, who shut their ears when Freedom calls.

I pass not thee so lightly, well-known spire,

That minded me of many a pleasure gone,

Of merrier days, of love and Islington;

Kindling afresh the flames of past desire.

And I shall muse on thee, slow journeying on

To the green plains of pleasant Hertfordshire.

1795.

TO THE POET COWPER

_On his Recovery from an Indisposition.

Written some Time Back

(Summer, 1796)_

Cowper, I thank my God, that thou art heal'd.

Thine was the sorest malady of all;

And I am sad to think that it should light

Upon the worthy head: but thou art heal'd,

And thou art yet, we trust, the destin'd man,

Born to re-animate the lyre, whose chords

Have slumber'd, and have idle lain so long;

To th' immortal sounding of whose strings

Did Milton frame the stately-paced verse;

Among whose wires with lighter finger playing

Our elder bard, Spencer, a gentler name,

The lady Muses' dearest darling child,

Enticed forth the deftest tunes yet heard

In hall or bower; taking the delicate ear

Of the brave Sidney, and the Maiden Queen.

Thou, then, take up the mighty epic strain,

Cowper, of England's bards the wisest and the best!

_December 1, 1796._

LINES

_Addressed, from London, to Sara and S.T.C. at Bristol,

in the Summer of 1796._

Was it so hard a thing? I did but ask

A fleeting holiday, a little week.

What, if the jaded steer, who, all day long,

Had borne the heat and burthen of the plough,

When ev'ning came, and her sweet cooling hour,

Should seek to wander in a neighbour copse,

Where greener herbage wav'd, or clearer streams

Invited him to slake his burning thirst?

The man were crabbed who should say him nay;

The man were churlish who should drive him thence.

A blessing light upon your worthy heads,

Ye hospitable pair! I may not come

To catch, on Clifden's heights, the summer gale;

I may not come to taste the Avon wave;

Or, with mine eye intent on Redcliffe tow'rs,

To muse in tears on that mysterious youth,

Cruelly slighted, who, in evil hour,

Shap'd his advent'rous course to London walls!

Complaint, be gone! and, ominous thoughts, away!

Take up, my Song, take up a merrier strain;

For yet again, and lo! from Avon's vales,

Another Minstrel[2] cometh. Youth endear'd,

God and good Angels guide thee on thy road,

And gentler fortunes 'wait the friends I love!

[Footnote 2: "From vales where Avon winds, the Minstrel came."

COLERIDGE'S _Monody on Chatterton._]

SONNET TO A FRIEND

_(End of 1796)_

Friend of my earliest years and childish days,

My joys, my sorrows, thou with me hast shar'd

Companion dear, and we alike have far'd

(Poor pilgrims we) thro' life's unequal ways.

It were unwisely done, should we refuse

To cheer our path as featly as we may,

Our lonely path to cheer, as trav'llers use,

With merry song, quaint tale, or roundelay;

And we will sometimes talk past troubles o'er,

Of mercies shewn, and all our sickness heal'd,

And in his judgments God rememb'ring love;

And we will learn to praise God evermore,

For those glad tidings of great joy reveal'd

By that sooth Messenger sent from above.

TO A YOUNG LADY

_(Early, 1797)_

Hard is the heart that does not melt with ruth,

When care sits, cloudy, on the brow of youth;

When bitter griefs the female bosom swell,

And Beauty meditates a fond farewell

To her lov'd native land, prepar'd to roam,

And seek in climes afar the peace denied at home.

The Muse, with glance prophetic, sees her stand

(Forsaken, silent lady) on the strand

Of farthest India, sick'ning at the roar

Of each dull wave, slow dash'd upon the shore;

Sending, at intervals, an aching eye

O'er the wide waters, vainly, to espy

The long-expected bark, in which to find

Some tidings of a world she left behind.

At such a time shall start the gushing tear,

For scenes her childhood lov'd, now doubly dear.

At such a time shall frantic mem'ry wake

Pangs of remorse, for slighted England's sake;

And for the sake of many a tender tie

Of love, or friendship, pass'd too lightly by.

Unwept, unhonour'd, 'midst an alien race,

And the _cold_ looks of many a _stranger_ face,

How will her poor heart bleed, and chide the day,

That from her country took her far away.

LIVING WITHOUT GOD IN THE WORLD

_(? 1798)_

Mystery of God! thou brave and beauteous world,

Made fair with light and shade and stars and flowers,

Made fearful and august with woods and rocks,

Jagg'd precipice, black mountain, sea in storms,

Sun, over all, that no co-rival owns,

But thro' Heaven's pavement rides as in despite

Or mockery of the littleness of man!

I see a mighty arm, by man unseen,

Resistless, not to be controul'd, that guides,

In solitude of unshared energies,

All these thy ceaseless miracles, O world!

Arm of the world, I view thee, and I muse

On Man, who, trusting in his mortal strength,

Leans on a shadowy staff, a staff of dreams.

We consecrate our total hopes and fears

To idols, flesh and blood, our love, (heaven's due)

Our praise and admiration; praise bestowed

By man on man, and acts of worship done

To a kindred nature, certes do reflect

Some portion of the glory and rays oblique

Upon the politic worshipper,--so man

Extracts a pride from his humility.

Some braver spirits of the modern stamp

Affect a Godhead nearer: these talk loud

Of mind, and independent intellect,

Of energies omnipotent in man,

And man of his own fate artificer;

Yea of his own life Lord, and of the days

Of his abode on earth, when time shall be,

That life immortal shall become an art,

Or Death, by chymic practices deceived,

Forego the scent, which for six thousand years

Like a good hound he has followed, or at length

More manners learning, and a decent sense

And reverence of a philosophic world,

Relent, and leave to prey on carcasses.

But these are fancies of a few: the rest,

Atheists, or Deists only in the name,

By word or deed deny a God. They eat

Their daily bread, and draw the breath of heaven

Without or thought or thanks; heaven's roof to them

Is but a painted ceiling hung with lamps,

No more, that lights them to their purposes.

They wander "loose about," they nothing see,

Themselves except, and creatures like themselves,

Short-liv'd, short-sighted, impotent to save.

So on their dissolute spirits, soon or late,

Destruction cometh "like an armed man,"

Or like a dream of murder in the night,

Withering their mortal faculties, and breaking

The bones of all their pride.

POEMS FROM _BLANK VERSE_, BY

CHARLES LLOYD AND CHARLES LAMB, 1798

TO CHARLES LLOYD

A stranger, and alone, I past those scenes

We past so late together; and my heart

Felt something like desertion, when I look'd

Around me, and the well-known voice of friend

Was absent, and the cordial look was there

No more to smile on me. I thought on Lloyd;

All he had been to me. And now I go

Again to mingle with a world impure,

With men who make a mock of holy things

Mistaken, and of man's best hope think scorn.

The world does much to warp the heart of man,

And I may sometimes join its ideot laugh.

Of this I now complain not. Deal with me,

Omniscient Father! as thou judgest best,

And in thy season _tender_ thou my heart.

I pray not for myself; I pray for him

Whose soul is sore perplex'd: shine thou on him,

Father of Lights! and in the difficult paths

Make plain his way before him. His own thoughts

May he not think, his own ends not pursue;

So shall he best perform thy will on earth.

Greatest and Best, thy will be ever ours!

_August_, 1797.

WRITTEN ON THE DAY OF MY AUNT'S FUNERAL

Thou too art dead, ----! very kind

Hast thou been to me in my childish days,

Thou best good creature. I have not forgot

How thou didst love thy Charles, when he was yet

A prating schoolboy: I have not forgot

The busy joy on that important day,

When, child-like, the poor wanderer was content

To leave the bosom of parental love,

His childhood's play-place, and his early home,

For the rude fosterings of a stranger's hand,

Hard uncouth tasks, and school-boy's scanty fare.

How did thine eye peruse him round and round,

And hardly know him in his yellow coats[3],

Red leathern belt, and gown of russet blue!

Farewell, good aunt!

Go thou, and occupy the same grave-bed

Where the dead mother lies.

Oh my dear mother, oh thou dear dead saint!

Where's now that placid face, where oft hath sat

A mother's smile, to think her son should thrive

In this bad world, when she was dead and gone;

And when a tear hath sat (take shame, O son!)

When that same child has prov'd himself unkind.

One parent yet is left--a wretched thing,

A sad survivor of his buried wife,

A palsy-smitten, childish, old, old man,

A semblance most forlorn of what he was,

A merry cheerful man. A merrier man,

A man more apt to frame matter for mirth,

Mad jokes, and anticks for a Christmas eve;

Making life social, and the laggard time

To move on nimbly, never yet did cheer

The little circle of domestic friends.

_February_, 1797.

[Footnote 3: The dress of Christ's Hospital,]

WRITTEN A YEAR AFTER THE EVENTS

Alas! how am I chang'd! Where be the tears,

The sobs, and forc'd suspensions of the breath,

And all the dull desertions of the heart,

With which I hung o'er my dead mother's corse?

Where be the blest subsidings of the storm

Within, the sweet resignedness of hope

Drawn heavenward, and strength of filial love

In which I bow'd me to my father's will?

My God, and my Redeemer! keep not thou

My soul in brute and sensual thanklessness

Seal'd up; oblivious ever of that dear grace,

And health restor'd to my long-loved friend,

Long-lov'd, and worthy known. Thou didst not leave

Her soul in death! O leave not now, my Lord,

Thy servants in far worse, in spiritual death!

And darkness blacker than those feared shadows

Of the valley all must tread. Lend us thy balms,

Thou dear Physician of the sin-sick soul,

And heal our cleansed bosoms of the wounds

With which the world has pierc'd us thro' and thro'.

Give us new flesh, new birth. Elect of heav'n

May we become; in thine election sure

Contain'd, and to one purpose stedfast drawn,

Our soul's salvation!

Thou, and I, dear friend,

With filial recognition sweet, shall know

One day the face of our dear mother in heaven;

And her remember'd looks of love shall greet

With looks of answering love; her placid smiles

Meet with a smile as placid, and her hand

With drops of fondness wet, nor fear repulse.

Be witness for me, Lord, I do not ask

Those days of vanity to return again

(Nor fitting me to ask, nor thee to give),

Vain loves and wanderings with a fair-hair'd maid,

Child of the dust as I am, who so long

My captive heart steep'd in idolatry

And creature-loves. Forgive me, O my Maker!

If in a mood of grief I sin almost

In sometimes brooding on the days long past,

And from the grave of time wishing them back,

Days of a mother's fondness to her child,

Her little one.

O where be now those sports,

And infant play-games? where the joyous troops

Of children, and the haunts I did so love?

O my companions, O ye loved names

Of friend or playmate dear; gone are ye now;

Gone diverse ways; to honour and credit some,

And some, I fear, to ignominy and shame!

I only am left, with unavailing grief

To mourn one parent dead, and see one live

Of all life's joys bereft and desolate:

Am left with a few friends, and one, above

The rest, found faithful in a length of years,

Contented as I may, to bear me on

To the not unpeaceful evening of a day

Made black by morning storms!

_September_, 1797.

WRITTEN SOON AFTER THE PRECEDING POEM

Thou should'st have longer liv'd, and to the grave

Have peacefully gone down in full old age!

Thy children would have tended thy gray hairs.

We might have sat, as we have often done,

By our fireside, and talk'd whole nights away,

Old times, old friends, and old events recalling;

With many a circumstance, of trivial note,

To memory dear, and of importance grown.

How shall we tell them in a stranger's ear?

A wayward son ofttimes was I to thee;

And yet, in all our little bickerings,

Domestic jars, there was, I know not what,

Of tender feeling, that were ill exchang'd

For this world's chilling friendships, and their smiles

Familiar, whom the heart calls strangers still.

A heavy lot hath he, most wretched man!

Who lives the last of all his family.

He looks around him, and his eye discerns

The face of the stranger, and his heart is sick.

Man of the world, what canst thou do for him?

Wealth is a burden, which he could not bear;

Mirth a strange crime, the which he dares not act;

And wine no cordial, but a bitter cup.

For wounds like his Christ is the only cure,

And gospel promises are his by right,

For these were given to the poor in heart.

Go, preach thou to him of a world to come,

Where friends shall meet, and know each other's face.

Say less than this, and say it to the winds.

_October_, 1797.

WRITTEN ON CHRISTMAS DAY, 1797

I am a widow'd thing, now thou art gone!

Now thou art gone, my own familiar friend,

Companion, sister, help-mate, counsellor!

Alas! that honour'd mind, whose sweet reproof

And meekest wisdom in times past have smooth'd

The unfilial harshness of my foolish speech,

And made me loving to my parents old,

(Why is this so, ah God! why is this so?)

That honour'd mind become a fearful blank,

Her senses lock'd up, and herself kept out

From human sight or converse, while so many

Of the foolish sort are left to roam at large,

Doing all acts of folly, and sin, and shame?

Thy paths are mystery!

Yet I will not think,

Sweet friend, but we shall one day meet, and live

In quietness, and die so, fearing God.

Or if _not_, and these false suggestions be

A fit of the weak nature, loth to part

With what it lov'd so long, and held so dear;

If thou art to be taken, and I left

(More sinning, yet unpunish'd, save in thee),

It is the will of God, and we are clay

In the potter's hands; and, at the worst, are made

From absolute nothing, vessels of disgrace,

Till, his most righteous purpose wrought in us,

Our purified spirits find their perfect rest.

THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES

(_January_, 1798. _Text of_ 1818)

I have had playmates, I have had companions,

In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days,

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have been laughing, I have been carousing,

Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies,

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I loved a love once, fairest among women;

Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her--

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man;

Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;

Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.

Ghost-like, I paced round the haunts of my childhood.

Earth seemed a desart I was bound to traverse,

Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,

Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling?

So might we talk of the old familiar faces--

How some they have died, and some they have left me,

And some are taken from me; all are departed;

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

COMPOSED AT MIDNIGHT

(1797? _Text of_ 1818)

From broken visions of perturbed rest

I wake, and start, and fear to sleep again.

How total a privation of all sounds,

Sights, and familiar objects, man, bird, beast,

Herb, tree, or flower, and prodigal light of heaven.

'Twere some relief to catch the drowsy cry

Of the mechanic watchman, or the noise

Of revel reeling home from midnight cups.

Those are the moanings of the dying man,

Who lies in the upper chamber; restless moans,

And interrupted only by a cough

Consumptive, torturing the wasted lungs.

So in the bitterness of death he lies,

And waits in anguish for the morning's light.

What can that do for him, or what restore?

Short taste, faint sense, affecting notices,

And little images of pleasures past,

Of health, and active life--health not yet slain,

Nor the other grace of life, a good name, sold

For sin's black wages. On his tedious bed

He writhes, and turns him from the accusing light,

And finds no comfort in the sun, but says

"When night comes I shall get a little rest."

Some few groans more, death comes, and there an end.

'Tis darkness and conjecture all beyond;

Weak Nature fears, though Charity must hope,

And Fancy, most licentious on such themes

Where decent reverence well had kept her mute,

Hath o'er-stock'd hell with devils, and brought down,

By her enormous fablings and mad lies,

Discredit on the gospel's serious truths

And salutary fears. The man of parts,

Poet, or prose declaimer, on his couch

Lolling, like one indifferent, fabricates

A heaven of gold, where he, and such as he,

Their heads encompassed with crowns, their heels

With fine wings garlanded, shall tread the stars

Beneath their feet, heaven's pavement, far removed

From damned spirits, and the torturing cries

Of men, his breth'ren, fashioned of the earth,

As he was, nourish'd with the self-same bread,

Belike his kindred or companions once--

Through everlasting ages now divorced,

In chains and savage torments to repent

Short years of folly on earth. Their groans unheard

In heav'n, the saint nor pity feels, nor care,

For those thus sentenced--pity might disturb

The delicate sense and most divine repose

Of spirits angelical. Blessed be God,

The measure of his judgments is not fixed

By man's erroneous standard. He discerns

No such inordinate difference and vast

Betwixt the sinner and the saint, to doom

Such disproportion'd fates. Compared with him,

No man on earth is holy called: they best

Stand in his sight approved, who at his feet

Their little crowns of virtue cast, and yield

To him of his own works the praise, his due.

Poems at the End of _John Woodvil_,

1802

HELEN

_By Mary Lamb_

(_Summer_, 1800. _Text of_ 1818)

High-born Helen, round your dwelling

These twenty years I've paced in vain:

Haughty beauty, thy lover's duty

Hath been to glory in his pain.

High-born Helen, plainly telling

Stories of thy cold disdain;

I starve, I die, now you comply,

And I no longer can complain.

These twenty years I've lived on tears.

Dwelling for ever on a frown;

On sighs I've fed, your scorn my bread;

I perish now you kind are grown.

Can I, who loved my beloved

But for the scorn "was in her eye,"

Can I be moved for my beloved,

When she "returns me sigh for sigh?"

In stately pride, by my bed-side,

High-born Helen's portrait's hung;

Deaf to my praise, my mournful lays

Are nightly to the portrait sung.

To that I weep, nor ever sleep,

Complaining all night long to her--

_Helen, grown old, no longer cold_,

_Said_, "you to all men I prefer."

BALLAD

_From the German_

(_Spring, 1800. Text of 1818_)

The clouds are blackening, the storms threatening,

And ever the forest maketh a moan:

Billows are breaking, the damsel's heart aching,

Thus by herself she singeth alone,

Weeping right plenteously.

"The world is empty, the heart is dead surely,

In this world plainly all seemeth amiss:

To thy breast, holy one, take now thy little one,

I have had earnest of all earth's bliss,

Living right lovingly."

HYPOCHONDRIACUS

(_October, 1800. Text of 1818_)

By myself walking,

To myself talking,

When as I ruminate

On my untoward fate,

Scarcely seem I

Alone sufficiently,

Black thoughts continually

Crowding my privacy;

They come unbidden,

Like foes at a wedding,

Thrusting their faces

In better guests' places,

Peevish and malecontent,

Clownish, impertinent,

Dashing the merriment:

So in like fashions

Dim cogitations

Follow and haunt me,

Striving to daunt me.

In my heart festering,

In my ears whispering,

"Thy friends are treacherous,

Thy foes are dangerous,

Thy dreams ominous."

Fierce Anthropophagi,

Spectra, Diaboli,

What scared St. Anthony,

Hobgoblins, Lemures,

Dreams of Antipodes,

Night-riding Incubi

Troubling the fantasy,

All dire illusions

Causing confusions;

Figments heretical,

Scruples fantastical,

Doubts diabolical,

Abaddon vexeth me,

Mahu perplexeth me,

Lucifer teareth me----

_Jesu! Maria! liberate nos ab his diris tentationibus Inimici_.

A BALLAD:

_Noting the Difference of Rich and Poor, in the Ways of a

Rich Noble's Palace and a Poor Workhouse_

_To the tune of the "Old and Young Courtier"_

(_August, 1800. Text of 1818_)

In a costly palace Youth goes clad in gold;

In a wretched workhouse Age's limbs are cold:

There they sit, the old men by a shivering fire,

Still close and closer cowering, warmth is their desire.

In a costly palace, when the brave gallants dine,

They have store of good venison, with old canary wine,

With singing and music to heighten the cheer;

Coarse bits, with grudging, are the pauper's best fare.

In a costly palace Youth is still carest

By a train of attendants which laugh at my young Lord's jest;

In a wretched workhouse the contrary prevails:

Does Age begin to prattle?--no man heark'neth to his tales.

In a costly palace if the child with a pin

Do but chance to prick a finger, strait the doctor is called in;

In a wretched workhouse men are left to perish

For want of proper cordials, which their old age might cherish,

In a costly palace Youth enjoys his lust;

In a wretched workhouse Age, in corners thrust,

Thinks upon the former days, when he was well to do,

Had children to stand by him, both friends and kinsmen too.

In a costly palace Youth his temples hides

With a new devised peruke that reaches to his sides;

In a wretched workhouse Age's crown is bare,

With a few thin locks just to fence out the cold air.

In peace, as in war, 'tis our young gallants' pride,

To walk, each one i' the streets, with a rapier by his side,

That none to do them injury may have pretence;

Wretched Age, in poverty, must brook offence.

POEMS IN CHARLES LAMB'S _WORKS_ 1818,

NOT PREVIOUSLY PRINTED IN THE PRESENT VOLUME;

TOGETHER WITH REFERENCES TO THOSE POEMS

THAT HAVE BEEN PREVIOUSLY PRINTED

HESTER

(_February, 1803_)

When maidens such as Hester die,

Their place ye may not well supply,

Though ye among a thousand try,

With vain endeavour.

A month or more hath she been dead,

Yet cannot I by force be led

To think upon the wormy bed,

And her together.

A springy motion in her gait,

A rising step, did indicate

Of pride and joy no common rate,

That flush'd her spirit.

I know not by what name beside

I shall it call:--if 'twas not pride,

It was a joy to that allied,

She did inherit.

Her parents held the Quaker rule,

Which doth the human feeling cool,

But she was train'd in Nature's school,

Nature had blest her.

A waking eye, a prying mind,

A heart that stirs, is hard to bind,

A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind,

Ye could not Hester.

My sprightly neighbour, gone before

To that unknown and silent shore,

Shall we not meet, as heretofore,

Some summer morning,

When from thy cheerful eyes a ray

Hath struck a bliss upon the day,

A bliss that would not go away,

A sweet fore-warning?

* * * * *

_Here came "To Charles Lloyd" See page 12.

Here came "The Three Friends" followed by "To a River in which a Child

was drowned," first printed in "Poetry for Children" 1809. See vol. iii.

of this edition, page 416.

Here came "The Old Familiar Faces." See page 25.

Here came "Helen" by Mary Lamb. See page 28.

Here came "A Vision of Repentance." See page 13._

* * * * *

DIALOGUE BETWEEN A MOTHER AND CHILD

(_By Mary Lamb. 1804_)

CHILD

"O Lady, lay your costly robes aside,

No longer may you glory in your pride."

MOTHER

"Wherefore to-day art singing in mine ear

Sad songs, were made so long ago, my dear;

This day I am to be a bride, you know,

Why sing sad songs, were made so long ago?"

CHILD

"O, mother, lay your costly robes aside,

For you may never be another's bride.

_That_ line I learn'd not in the old sad song."

MOTHER

"I pray thee, pretty one, now hold thy tongue,

Play with the bride-maids, and be glad, my boy,

For thou shall be a second father's joy."

CHILD

"One father fondled me upon his knee.

One father is enough, alone, for me."

* * * * *

_Here came "Queen Oriana's Dream" from "Poetry for Children" See vol.

iii. page 480.

Here came "A Ballad Noting the Difference of Rich and Poor." See page

30.

Here came "Hypochondriacus." See page 29._

* * * * *

A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO

(1805)

May the Babylonish curse

Strait confound my stammering verse,

If I can a passage see

In this word-perplexity,

Or a fit expression find,

Or a language to my mind,

(Still the phrase is wide or scant)

To take leave of thee, GREAT PLANT!

Or in any terms relate

Half my love, or half my hate:

For I hate, yet love, thee so,

That, whichever thing I shew,

The plain truth will seem to be

A constrain'd hyperbole,

And the passion to proceed

More from a mistress than a weed.

Sooty retainer to the vine,

Bacchus' black servant, negro fine;

Sorcerer, that mak'st us dote upon

Thy begrimed complexion,

And, for thy pernicious sake,

More and greater oaths to break

Than reclaimed lovers take

'Gainst women: thou thy siege dost lay

Much too in the female way,

While thou suck'st the lab'ring breath

Faster than kisses or than death.

Thou in such a cloud dost bind us,

That our worst foes cannot find us,

And ill fortune, that would thwart us,

Shoots at rovers, shooting at us;

While each man, thro' thy height'ning steam,

Does like a smoking Etna seem,

And all about us does express

(Fancy and wit in richest dress)

A Sicilian fruitfulness.

Thou through such a mist dost shew us,

That our best friends do not know us,

And, for those allowed features,

Due to reasonable creatures,

Liken'st us to fell Chimeras,

Monsters that, who see us, fear us;

Worse than Cerberus or Geryon,

Or, who first lov'd a cloud, Ixion.

Bacchus we know, and we allow

His tipsy rites. But what art thou,

That but by reflex can'st shew

What his deity can do,

As the false Egyptian spell

Aped the true Hebrew miracle?

Some few vapours thou may'st raise,

The weak brain may serve to amaze,

But to the reigns and nobler heart

Can'st nor life nor heat impart.

Brother of Bacchus, later born,

The old world was sure forlorn,

Wanting thee, that aidest more

The god's victories than before

All his panthers, and the brawls

Of his piping Bacchanals.

These, as stale, we disallow,

Or judge of _thee_ meant; only thou

His true Indian conquest art;

And, for ivy round his dart,

The reformed god now weaves

A finer thyrsus of thy leaves.

Scent to match thy rich perfume

Chemic art did ne'er presume

Through her quaint alembic strain,

None so sov'reign to the brain.

Nature, that did in thee excel,

Fram'd again no second smell.

Roses, violets, but toys

For the smaller sort of boys,

Or for greener damsels meant;

Thou art the only manly scent.

Stinking'st of the stinking kind,

Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind,

Africa, that brags her foyson,

Breeds no such prodigious poison,

Henbane, nightshade, both together,

Hemlock, aconite------

Nay, rather,

Plant divine, of rarest virtue;

Blisters on the tongue would hurt you.

'Twas but in a sort I blam'd thee;

None e'er prosper'd who defam'd thee;

Irony all, and feign'd abuse,

Such as perplext lovers use,

At a need, when, in despair

To paint forth their fairest fair,

Or in part but to express

That exceeding comeliness

Which their fancies doth so strike,

They borrow language of dislike;

And, instead of Dearest Miss,

Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss,

And those forms of old admiring,

Call her Cockatrice and Siren,

Basilisk, and all that's evil,

Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil,

Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor,

Monkey, Ape, and twenty more;

Friendly Trait'ress, loving Foe,--

Not that she is truly so,

But no other way they know

A contentment to express,

Borders so upon excess,

That they do not rightly wot

Whether it be pain or not.

Or, as men, constrain'd to part

With what's nearest to their heart,

While their sorrow's at the height,

Lose discrimination quite,

And their hasty wrath let fall,

To appease their frantic gall,

On the darling thing whatever

Whence they feel it death to sever,

Though it be, as they, perforce,

Guiltless of the sad divorce.

For I must (nor let it grieve thee,

Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee.

For thy sake, TOBACCO, I

Would do any thing but die,

And but seek to extend my days

Long enough to sing thy praise.

But, as she, who once hath been

A king's consort, is a queen

Ever after, nor will bate

Any tittle of her state,

Though a widow, or divorced,

So I, from thy converse forced,

The old name and style retain,

A right Katherine of Spain;

And a seat, too,'mongst the joys

Of the blest Tobacco Boys;

Where, though I, by sour physician,

Am debarr'd the full fruition

Of thy favours, I may catch

Some collateral sweets, and snatch

Sidelong odours, that give life

Like glances from a neighbour's wife;

And still live in the by-places

And the suburbs of thy graces;

And in thy borders take delight,

An unconquer'd Canaanite.

TO T.L.H.

_A Child_

(1814)

Model of thy parent dear,

Serious infant worth a fear:

In thy unfaultering visage well

Picturing forth the son of TELL,

When on his forehead, firm and good,

Motionless mark, the apple stood;

Guileless traitor, rebel mild,

Convict unconscious, culprit-child!

Gates that close with iron roar

Have been to thee thy nursery door;

Chains that chink in cheerless cells

Have been thy rattles and thy bells;

Walls contrived for giant sin

Have hemmed thy faultless weakness in;

Near thy sinless bed black Guilt

Her discordant house hath built,

And filled it with her monstrous brood--

Sights, by thee not understood--

Sights of fear, and of distress,

That pass a harmless infant's guess!

But the clouds, that overcast

Thy young morning, may not last.

Soon shall arrive the rescuing hour,

That yields thee up to Nature's power.

Nature, that so late doth greet thee,

Shall in o'er-flowing measure meet thee.

She shall recompense with cost

For every lesson thou hast lost.

Then wandering up thy sire's lov'd hill[4],

Thou shall take thy airy fill

Of health and pastime. _Birds shall sing

For thy delight each May morning._

'Mid new-yean'd lambkins thou shalt play,

Hardly less a lamb than they.

Then thy prison's lengthened bound

Shall be the horizon skirting round.

And, while thou fillest thy lap with flowers,

To make amends for wintery hours,

The breeze, the sunshine, and the place,

Shall from thy tender brow efface

Each vestige of untimely care,

That sour restraint had graven there;

And on thy every look impress

A more excelling childishness.

So shall be thy days beguil'd,

THORNTON HUNT, my favourite child.

[Footnote 4: Hampstead.]

* * * * *

_Here came "Ballad from the German." See page 29.

Here came "David in the Cave of Aditllam" by Mary

Lamb, from "Poetry for Children." See vol. iii. page 486._

* * * * *

SALOME

(_By Mary Lamb. Probably_ 1808 _or_ 1809)

Once on a charger there was laid,

And brought before a royal maid,

As price of attitude and grace,

A guiltless head, a holy face.

It was on Herod's natal day,

Who, o'er Judea's land held sway.

He married his own brother's wife,

Wicked Herodias. She the life

Of John the Baptist long had sought,

Because he openly had taught

That she a life unlawful led,

Having her husband's brother wed.

This was he, that saintly John,

Who in the wilderness alone

Abiding, did for clothing wear

A garment made of camel's hair;

Honey and locusts were his food,

And he was most severely good.

He preached penitence and tears,

And waking first the sinner's fears,

Prepared a path, made smooth a way,

For his diviner master's day.

Herod kept in princely state

His birth-day. On his throne he sate,

After the feast, beholding her

Who danced with grace peculiar;

Fair Salome, who did excel

All in that land for dancing well.

The feastful monarch's heart was fired,

And whatsoe'er thing she desired.

Though half his kingdom it should be,

He in his pleasure swore that he

Would give the graceful Salome.

The damsel was Herodias' daughter:

She to the queen hastes, and besought her

To teach her what great gift to name.

Instructed by Herodias, came

The damsel back; to Herod said,

"Give me John the Baptist's head;

And in a charger let it be

Hither straitway brought to me."

Herod her suit would fain deny,

But for his oath's sake must comply.

When painters would by art express

Beauty in unloveliness,

Thee, Herodias' daughter, thee,

They fittest subject take to be.

They give thy form and features grace;

But ever in thy beauteous face

They shew a steadfast cruel gaze,

An eye unpitying; and amaze

In all beholders deep they mark,

That thou betrayest not one spark

Of feeling for the ruthless deed,

That did thy praiseful dance succeed

For on the head they make you look,

As if a sullen joy you took,

A cruel triumph, wicked pride,

That for your sport a saint had died.

LINES

_Suggested by a Picture of Two Females by Lionardo da Vinci._

(_By Mary Lamb_. 1804)

The Lady Blanch, regardless of all her lovers' fears,

To the Urs'line convent hastens, and long the Abbess hears.

"O Blanch, my child, repent ye of the courtly life ye lead."

Blanch looked on a rose-bud and little seem'd to heed.

She looked on the rose-bud, she looked round, and thought

On all her heart had whisper'd, and all the Nun had taught.

"I am worshipped by lovers, and brightly shines my fame,

All Christendom resoundeth the noble Blanch's name.

Nor shall I quickly wither like the rose-bud from the tree,

My queen-like graces shining when my beauty's gone from me.

But when the sculptur'd marble is raised o'er my head,

And the matchless Blanch lies lifeless among the noble dead,

This saintly lady Abbess hath made me justly fear,

It nothing will avail me that I were worshipp'd here."

LINES

_On the Same Picture being Removed to make

Place for a Portrait of a Lady by Titian._

(_By Mary Lamb_. 1805)

Who art thou, fair one, who usurp'st the place

Of Blanch, the lady of the matchless grace?

Come, fair and pretty, tell to me,

Who, in thy life-time, thou might'st be.

Thou pretty art and fair,

But with the lady Blanch thou never must compare.

No need for Blanch her history to tell;

Whoever saw her face, they there did read it well.

But when I look on thee, I only know

There lived a pretty maid some hundred years ago.

LINES

_On the Celebrated Picture by Lionardo da Vinci,

called The Virgin of the Rocks._

(? 1805)

While young John runs to greet

The greater Infant's feet,

The Mother standing by, with trembling passion

Of devout admiration,

Beholds the engaging mystic play, and pretty adoration;

Nor knows as yet the full event

Of those so low beginnings,

From whence we date our winnings,

But wonders at the intent

Of those new rites, and what that strange child-worship meant.

But at her side

An angel doth abide,

With such a perfect joy

As no dim doubts alloy,

An intuition,

A glory, an amenity,

Passing the dark condition

Of blind humanity,

As if he surely knew

All the blest wonders should ensue,

Or he had lately left the upper sphere,

And had read all the sovran schemes and divine riddles there.

ON THE SAME

(_By Mary Lamb_. 1805)

Maternal lady with the virgin grace,

Heaven-born thy Jesus seemeth sure,

And of a virgin pure.

Lady most perfect, when thy sinless face

Men look upon, they wish to be

A Catholic, Madonna fair, to worship thee.

SONNETS

TO MISS KELLY

You are not, Kelly, of the common strain,

That stoop their pride and female honor down

To please that many-headed beast _the town_,

And vend their lavish smiles and tricks for gain;

By fortune thrown amid the actor's train,

You keep your native dignity of thought;

The plaudits that attend you come unsought,

As tributes due unto your natural vein.

Your tears have passion in them, and a grace

Of genuine freshness, which our hearts avow;

Your smiles are winds whose ways we cannot trace,

That vanish and return we know not how--

And please the better from a pensive face,

And thoughtful eye, and a reflecting brow.

ON THE SIGHT OF SWANS IN KENSINGTON GARDEN

Queen-bird that sittest on thy shining nest,

And thy young cygnets without sorrow hatchest,

And thou, thou other royal bird, that watchest

Lest the white mother wandering feet molest:

Shrined are your offspring in a chrystal cradle,

Brighter than Helen's ere she yet had burst

Her shelly prison. They shall be born at first

Strong, active, graceful, perfect, swan-like able

To tread the land or waters with security.

Unlike poor human births, conceived in sin,

In grief brought forth, both outwardly and in

Confessing weakness, error, and impurity.

Did heavenly creatures own succession's line,

The births of heaven like to your's would shine.

* * * * *

_Here came "Was it some sweet device." See page_ 4.

_Here came "Methinks how dainty sweet." See page_ 5.

_Here came "When last I roved." See page_ 8.

_Here came "A timid grace" See page_ 8.

_Here came "If from my lips." See page_ 9.

* * * * *

THE FAMILY NAME

What reason first imposed thee, gentle name,

Name that my father bore, and his sire's sire,

Without reproach? we trace our stream no higher;

And I, a childless man, may end the same.

Perchance some shepherd on Lincolnian plains,

In manners guileless as his own sweet flocks,

Received the first amid the merry mocks

And arch allusions of his fellow swains.

Perchance from Salem's holier fields returned,

With glory gotten on the heads abhorr'd

Of faithless Saracens, some martial lord

Took HIS meek title, in whose zeal he burn'd.

Whate'er the fount whence thy beginnings came,

No deed of mine shall shame thee, gentle name.

TO JOHN LAMB, ESQ.

_Of the South-Sea House_

John, you were figuring in the gay career

Of blooming manhood with a young man's joy,

When I was yet a little peevish boy--

Though time has made the difference disappear

Betwixt our ages, which _then_ seemed so great--

And still by rightful custom you retain

Much of the old authoritative strain,

And keep the elder brother up in state.

O! you do well in this. 'Tis man's worst deed

To let the "things that have been" run to waste,

And in the unmeaning present sink the past:

In whose dim glass even now I faintly read

Old buried forms, and faces long ago,

Which you, and I, and one more, only know.

* * * * *

_Here came "O! I could laugh." See page_ 5.

_Here came "We were two pretty babes." See page_ 9.

_Here came, under the heading "Blank Verse," "Childhood," see page 9;

"The Grandame," see page 6; "The Sabbath Bells," see page 10, "Fancy

employed on Divine Subjects," see page 10; and "Composed at Midnight,"

see page 26._

* * * * *

TO MARTIN CHARLES BURNEY, ESQ.

(The Dedication to Vol. II. of Lamb's _Works_, 1818)

Forgive me, BURNEY, if to thee these late

And hasty products of a critic pen,

Thyself no common judge of books and men,

In feeling of thy worth I dedicate.

My _verse_ was offered to an older friend;

The humbler _prose_ has fallen to thy share:

Nor could I miss the occasion to declare,

What spoken in thy presence must offend--

That, set aside some few caprices wild,

Those humorous clouds that flit o'er brightest days,

In all my threadings of this worldly maze,

(And I have watched thee almost from a child),

Free from self-seeking, envy, low design,

I have not found a whiter soul than thine.

ALBUM VERSES

IN THE ALBUM OF A CLERGYMAN'S LADY

(? 1830)

An Album is a Garden, not for show

Planted, but use; where wholesome herbs should grow.

A Cabinet of curious porcelain, where

No fancy enters, but what's rich or rare.

A Chapel, where mere ornamental things

Are pure as crowns of saints, or angels' wings.

A List of living friends; a holier Room

For names of some since mouldering in the tomb,

Whose blooming memories life's cold laws survive;

And, dead elsewhere, they here yet speak, and live.

Such, and so tender, should an Album be;

And, Lady, such I wish this book to thee.

IN THE AUTOGRAPH BOOK OF MRS. SERGEANT W------

Had I a power, Lady, to my will,

You should not want Hand Writings. I would fill

Your leaves with Autographs--resplendent names

Of Knights and Squires of old, and courtly Dames,

Kings, Emperors, Popes. Next under these should stand

The hands of famous Lawyers--a grave band--

Who in their Courts of Law or Equity

Have best upheld Freedom and Property.

These should moot cases in your book, and vie

To show their reading and their Serjeantry.

But I have none of these; nor can I send

The notes by Bullen to her Tyrant penn'd

In her authentic hand; nor in soft hours

Lines writ by Rosamund in Clifford's bowers.

The lack of curious Signatures I moan,

And want the courage to subscribe my own.

IN THE ALBUM OF LUCY BARTON

(1824)

Little Book, surnamed of _white_,

Clean as yet, and fair to sight,

Keep thy attribution right.

Never disproportion'd scrawl;

Ugly blot, that's worse than all;

On thy maiden clearness fall!

In each letter, here design'd,

Let the reader emblem'd find

Neatness of the owner's mind.

Gilded margins count a sin,

Let thy leaves attraction win

By the golden rules within;

Sayings fetch'd from sages old;

Laws which Holy Writ unfold,

Worthy to be graved in gold:

Lighter fancies not excluding;

Blameless wit, with nothing rude in,

Sometimes mildly interluding

Amid strains of graver measure:

Virtue's self hath oft her pleasure

In sweet Muses' groves of leisure.

Riddles dark, perplexing sense;

Darker meanings of offence;

What but _shades_--be banished hence.

Whitest thoughts in whitest dress,

Candid meanings, best express

Mind of quiet Quakeress.

IN THE ALBUM OF MISS ------

I

Such goodness in your face doth shine,

With modest look, without design,

That I despair, poor pen of mine

Can e'er express it.

To give it words I feebly try;

My spirits fail me to supply

Befitting language for't, and I

Can only bless it!

II

But stop, rash verse! and don't abuse

A bashful Maiden's ear with news

Of her own virtues. She'll refuse

Praise sung so loudly.

Of that same goodness, you admire,

The best part is, she don't aspire

To praise--nor of herself desire

To think too proudly.

IN THE ALBUM OF A VERY YOUNG LADY

(? 1830)

Joy to unknown Josepha who, I hear,

Of all good gifts, to Music most is given;

Science divine, which through the enraptured ear

Enchants the Soul, and lifts it nearer Heaven.

Parental smiles approvingly attend

Her pliant conduct of the trembling keys,

And listening strangers their glad suffrage lend.

Most musical is Nature. Birds--and Bees

At their sweet labour--sing. The moaning winds

Rehearse a _lesson_ to attentive minds.

In louder tones "Deep unto Deep doth call;"

And there is Music in the Waterfall.

IN THE ALBUM OF A FRENCH TEACHER (? 1829)

Implored for verse, I send you what I can;

But you are so exact a Frenchwoman,

As I am told, Jemima, that I fear

To wound with English your Parisian ear,

And think I do your choice collection wrong

With lines not written in the Frenchman's tongue.

Had I a knowledge equal to my will,

With airy _Chansons_ I your leaves would fill;

With _Fabliaux_, that should emulate the vein

Of sprightly Cresset, or of La Fontaine;

Or _Scenes Comiques_, that should approach the air

Of your own favourite--renowned Moliere.

But at my suit the Muse of France looks sour,

And strikes me dumb! Yet, what is in my power

To testify respect for you, I pray,

Take in plain English--our rough Enfield way.

IN THE ALBUM OF MISS DAUBENY

I

Some poets by poetic law

Have Beauties praised, they never saw;

And sung of Kittys, and of Nancys,

Whose charms but lived in their own fancies.

So I, to keep my Muse a going,

That willingly would still be doing,

A Canzonet or two must try

In praise of--_pretty_ Daubeny.

II

But whether she indeed be comely,

Or only very good and homely,

Of my own eyes I cannot say;

I trust to Emma Isola.

But sure I think her voice is tuneful,

As smoothest birds that sing in June full;

For else would strangely disagree

The _flowing_ name of--Daubeny.

III

I hear that she a Book hath got--

As what young Damsel now hath not,

In which they scribble favorite fancies,

Copied from poems or romances?

And prettiest draughts, of her design,

About the curious Album shine;

And therefore she shall have for me

The style of--_tasteful_ Daubeny.

IV

Thus far I have taken on believing;

But well I know without deceiving,

That in her heart she keeps alive still

Old school-day likings, which survive still

In spite of absence--worldly coldness--

And thereon can my Muse take boldness

To crown her other praises three

With praise of--_friendly_ Daubeny.

IN THE ALBUM OF MRS. JANE TOWERS (1828)

Lady Unknown, who crav'st from me Unknown

The trifle of a verse these leaves to grace,

How shall I find fit matter? with what face

Address a face that ne'er to me was shown?

Thy looks, tones, gesture, manners, and what not,

Conjecturing, I wander in the dark.

I know thee only Sister to Charles Clarke!

But at that name my cold Muse waxes hot,

And swears that thou art such a one as he,

Warm, laughter-loving, with a touch of madness,

Wild, glee-provoking, pouring oil of gladness

From frank heart without guile. And, if thou be

The pure reverse of this, and I mistake--

Demure one, I will like thee for his sake.

IN MY OWN ALBUM (1827)

Fresh clad from heaven in robes of white.

A young probationer of light,

Thou wert my soul, an Album bright,

A spotless leaf; but thought, and care,

And friend and foe, in foul or fair,

Have "written strange defeatures" there;

And Time with heaviest hand of all,

Like that fierce writing on the wall,

Hath stamp'd sad dates--he can't recal;

And error gilding worst designs--

Like speckled snake that strays and shines--

Betrays his path by crooked lines;

And vice hath left his ugly blot;

And good resolves, a moment hot,

Fairly began--but finish'd not;

And fruitless, late remorse doth trace--

Like Hebrew lore a backward pace--

Her irrecoverable race.

Disjointed numbers; sense unknit;

Huge reams of folly, shreds of wit;

Compose the mingled mass of it.

My scalded eyes no longer brook

Upon this ink-blurr'd thing to look--

Go, shut the leaves, and clasp the book.

MISCELLANEOUS

ANGEL HELP[5]

(1827)

This rare tablet doth include

Poverty with Sanctitude.

Past midnight this poor Maid hath spun,

And yet the work is not half done,

Which must supply from earning scant

A feeble bed-rid parent's want.

Her sleep-charged eyes exemption ask,

And Holy hands take up the task:

Unseen the rock and spindle ply,

And do her earthly drudgery.

Sleep, saintly poor one, sleep, sleep on;

And, waking, find thy labours done.

Perchance she knows it by her dreams;

Her eye hath caught the golden gleams,

Angelic presence testifying,

That round her every where are flying;

Ostents from which she may presume,

That much of Heaven is in the room.

Skirting her own bright hair they run,

And to the sunny add more sun:

Now on that aged face they fix,

Streaming from the Crucifix;

The flesh-clogg'd spirit disabusing,

Death-disarming sleeps infusing,

Prelibations, foretastes high,

And equal thoughts to live or die.

Gardener bright from Eden's bower,

Tend with care that lily flower;

To its leaves and root infuse

Heaven's sunshine, Heaven's dews.

'Tis a type, and 'tis a pledge,

Of a crowning privilege.

Careful as that lily flower,

This Maid must keep her precious dower

Live a sainted Maid, or die

Martyr to virginity.

[Footnote 5: Suggested by a drawing in the possession of Charles Aders,

Esq., in which is represented the Legend of a poor female Saint; who,

having spun past midnight, to maintain a bed-rid mother, has fallen

asleep from fatigue, and Angels are finishing her work. In another part

of the chamber, an Angel is tending a lily, the emblem of purity.]

THE CHRISTENING

(1829)

Array'd--a half-angelic sight--

In vests of pure Baptismal white,

The Mother to the Font doth bring

The little helpless nameless thing,

With hushes soft and mild caressing,

At once to get--a name and blessing.

Close by the Babe the Priest doth stand,

The Cleansing Water at his hand,

Which must assoil the soul within

From every stain of Adam's sin.

The Infant eyes the mystic scenes,

Nor knows what all this wonder means;

And now he smiles, as if to say

"I am a Christian made this day;"

Now frighted clings to Nurse's hold,

Shrinking from the water cold,

Whose virtues, rightly understood,

Are, as Bethesda's waters, good.

Strange words--The World, The Flesh, The Devil--

Poor Babe, what can it know of Evil?

But we must silently adore

Mysterious truths, and not explore.

Enough for him, in after-times,

When he shall read these artless rhymes,

If, looking back upon this day,

With quiet conscience, he can say

"I have in part redeem'd the pledge

Of my Baptismal privilege;

And more and more will strive to flee

All which my Sponsors kind did then renounce for me."

ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORN

(1827)

I saw where in the shroud did lurk

A curious frame of Nature's work.

A flow'ret crushed in the bud,

A nameless piece of Babyhood,

Was in a cradle-coffin lying;

Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying;

So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb

For darker closets of the tomb!

She did but ope an eye, and put

A clear beam forth, then strait up shut

For the long dark: ne'er more to see

Through glasses of mortality.

Riddle of destiny, who can show

What thy short visit meant, or know

What thy errand here below?

Shall we say, that Nature blind

Check'd her hand, and changed her mind,

Just when she had exactly wrought

A finish'd pattern without fault?

Could she flag, or could she tire,

Or lack'd she the Promethean fire

(With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd)

That should thy little limbs have quicken'd?

Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assure

Life of health, and days mature:

Woman's self in miniature!

Limbs so fair, they might supply

(Themselves now but cold imagery)

The sculptor to make Beauty by.

Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry,

That babe, or mother, one must die;

So in mercy left the stock,

And cut the branch; to save the shock

Of young years widow'd; and the pain,

When Single State comes back again

To the lone man who, 'reft of wife,

Thenceforward drags a maimed life?

The economy of Heaven is dark;

And wisest clerks have miss'd the mark,

Why Human Buds, like this, should fall,

More brief than fly ephemeral,

That has his day; while shrivel'd crones

Stiffen with age to stocks and stones;

And crabbed use the conscience sears

In sinners of an hundred years.

Mother's prattle, mother's kiss,

Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss.

Rites, which custom does impose,

Silver bells and baby clothes;

Coral redder than those lips,

Which pale death did late eclipse;

Music framed for infants' glee,

Whistle never tuned for thee;

Though thou want'st not, thou shall have them,

Loving hearts were they which gave them.

Let not one be missing; nurse,

See them laid upon the hearse

Of infant slain by doom perverse.

Why should kings and nobles have

Pictured trophies to their grave;

And we, churls, to thee deny

Thy pretty toys with thee to lie,

A more harmless vanity?

TO BERNARD BARTON

_With a Coloured Print_[6]

(1827)

When last you left your Woodbridge pretty,

To stare at sights, and see the City,

If I your meaning understood,

You wish'd a Picture, cheap, but good;

The colouring? decent; clear, not muddy;

To suit a Poet's quiet study,

Where Books and Prints for delectation

Hang, rather than vain ostentation.

The subject? what I pleased, if comely;

But something scriptural and homely:

A sober Piece, not gay or wanton,

For winter fire-sides to descant on;

The theme so scrupulously handled,

A Quaker might look on unscandal'd;

Such as might satisfy Ann Knight,

And classic Mitford just not fright.

Just such a one I've found, and send it;

If liked, I give--if not, but lend it.

The moral? nothing can be sounder.

The fable? 'tis its own expounder--

A Mother teaching to her Chit

Some good book, and explaining it.

He, silly urchin, tired of lesson,

His learning lays no mighty stress on,

But seems to hear not what he hears;

Thrusting his fingers in his ears,

Like Obstinate, that perverse funny one,

In honest parable of Bunyan.

His working Sister, more sedate,

Listens; but in a kind of state,

The painter meant for steadiness;

But has a tinge of sullenness;

And, at first sight, she seems to brook

As ill her needle, as he his book.

This is the Picture. For the Frame--

'Tis not ill-suited to the same;

Oak-carved, not gilt, for fear of falling;

Old-fashion'd; plain, yet not appalling;

And sober, as the Owner's Calling.

[Footnote 6: From the venerable and ancient Manufactory of Carrington

Bowles: some of my readers may recognise it.]

THE YOUNG CATECHIST[7]

(1827)

While this tawny Ethiop prayeth,

Painter, who is she that stayeth

By, with skin of whitest lustre,

Sunny locks, a shining cluster,

Saint-like seeming to direct him

To the Power that must protect him?

Is she of the Heaven-born Three,

Meek Hope, strong Faith, sweet Charity:

Or some Cherub?--

They you mention

Far transcend my weak invention.

'Tis a simple Christian child,

Missionary young and mild,

From her stock of Scriptural knowledge,

Bible-taught without a college,

Which by reading she could gather,

Teaches him to say OUR FATHER

To the common Parent, who

Colour not respects, nor hue.

White and black in him have part,

Who looks not to the skin, but heart.

[Footnote 7: A Picture by Henry Meyer, Esq.]

SHE IS GOING

For their elder Sister's hair

Martha does a wreath prepare

Of bridal rose, ornate and gay:

To-morrow is the wedding day:

She is going.

Mary, youngest of the three,

Laughing idler, full of glee,

Arm in arm does fondly chain her,

Thinking, poor trifler, to detain her--

But she's going.

Vex not, maidens, nor regret

Thus to part with Margaret.

Charms like your's can never stay

Long within doors; and one day

You'll be going.

TO A YOUNG FRIEND

_On Her Twenty-First Birth-Day_

Crown me a cheerful goblet, while I pray

A blessing on thy years, young Isola;

Young, but no more a child. How swift have flown

To me thy girlish times, a woman grown

Beneath my heedless eyes! in vain I rack

My fancy to believe the almanac,

That speaks thee Twenty-One. Thou should'st have still

Remain'd a child, and at thy sovereign will

Gambol'd about our house, as in times past.

Ungrateful Emma, to grow up so fast,

Hastening to leave thy friends!--for which intent,

Fond Runagate, be this thy punishment.

After some thirty years, spent in such bliss

As this earth can afford, where still we miss

Something of joy entire, may'st thou grow old

As we whom thou hast left! That wish was cold.

O far more ag'd and wrinkled, till folks say,

Looking upon thee reverend in decay,

"This Dame for length of days, and virtues rare,

With her respected Grandsire may compare."--

Grandchild of that respected Isola,

Thou should'st have had about thee on this day

Kind looks of Parents, to congratulate

Their Pride grown up to woman's grave estate.

But they have died, and left thee, to advance

Thy fortunes how thou may'st, and owe to chance

The friends which Nature grudg'd. And thou wilt find,

Or make such, Emma, if I am not blind

To thee and thy deservings. That last strain

Had too much sorrow in it. Fill again

Another cheerful goblet, while I say

"Health, and twice health, to our lost Isola."

TO THE SAME

External gifts of fortune, or of face,

Maiden, in truth, thou hast not much to show;

Much fairer damsels have I known, and know,

And richer may be found in every place.

In thy _mind_ seek thy beauty, and thy wealth.

Sincereness lodgeth there, the soul's best health.

O guard that treasure above gold or pearl,

Laid up secure from moths and worldly stealth--

And take my benison, plain-hearted girl.

* * * * *

SONNETS

HARMONY IN UNLIKENESS

By Enfield lanes, and Winchmore's verdant hill,

Two lovely damsels cheer my lonely walk:

The fair Maria, as a vestal, still;

And Emma brown, exuberant in talk.

With soft and Lady speech the first applies

The mild correctives that to grace belong

To her redundant friend, who her defies

With jest, and mad discourse, and bursts of song.

O differing Pair, yet sweetly thus agreeing,

What music from your happy discord rises,

While your companion hearing each, and seeing,

Nor this, nor that, but both together, prizes;

This lesson teaching, which our souls may strike,

That harmonies may be in things unlike!

WRITTEN AT CAMBRIDGE

(_August_ 15. 1819)

I was not train'd in Academic bowers,

And to those learned streams I nothing owe

Which copious from those twin fair founts do flow;

Mine have been any thing but studious hours.

Yet can I fancy, wandering 'mid thy towers,

Myself a nursling, Granta, of thy lap;

My brow seems tightening with the Doctor's cap,

And I walk _gowned_; feel unusual powers.

Strange forms of logic clothe my admiring speech,

Old Ramus' ghost is busy at my brain;

And my scull teems with notions infinite.

Be still, ye reeds of Camus, while I teach

Truths, which transcend the searching Schoolmen's vein,

And half had stagger'd that stout Stagirite!

TO A CELEBRATED FEMALE PERFORMER IN THE "BLIND BOY"

(1819)

Rare artist! who with half thy tools, or none,

Canst execute with ease thy curious art,

And press thy powerful'st meanings on the heart,

Unaided by the eye, expression's throne!

While each blind sense, intelligential grown

Beyond its sphere, performs the effect of sight:

Those orbs alone, wanting their proper might,

All motionless and silent seem to moan

The unseemly negligence of nature's hand,

That left them so forlorn. What praise is thine,

O mistress of the passions; artist fine!

Who dost our souls against our sense command,

Plucking the horror from a sightless face,

Lending to blank deformity a grace.

WORK

(1819)

Who first invented work, and bound the free

And holyday-rejoicing spirit down

To the ever-haunting importunity

Of business in the green fields, and the town--

To plough, loom, anvil, spade--and oh! most sad

To that dry drudgery at the desk's dead wood?

Who but the Being unblest, alien from good,

Sabbathless Satan! he who his unglad

Task ever plies 'mid rotatory burnings,

That round and round incalculably reel--

For wrath divine hath made him like a wheel--

In that red realm from which are no returnings;

Where toiling, and turmoiling, ever and aye

He, and his thoughts, keep pensive working-day.

LEISURE

(1821)

They talk of time, and of time's galling yoke,

That like a mill-stone on man's mind doth press,

Which only works and business can redress:

Of divine Leisure such foul lies are spoke,

Wounding her fair gifts with calumnious stroke.

But might I, fed with silent meditation,

Assoiled live from that fiend Occupation--

_Improbus Labor_, which my spirits hath broke--

I'd drink of time's rich cup, and never surfeit:

Fling in more days than went to make the gem,

That crown'd the white top of Methusalem:

Yea on my weak neck take, and never forfeit,

Like Atlas bearing up the dainty sky,

The heaven-sweet burthen of eternity.

DEUS NOBIS HAEC OTIA FECIT.

TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ.

(1829)

Rogers, of all the men that I have known

But slightly, who have died, your Brother's loss

Touch'd me most sensibly. There came across

My mind an image of the cordial tone

Of your fraternal meetings, where a guest

I more than once have sat; and grieve to think,

That of that threefold cord one precious link

By Death's rude hand is sever'd from the rest.

Of our old Gentry he appear'd a stem--

A Magistrate who, while the evil-doer

He kept in terror, could respect the Poor,

And not for every trifle harass them,

As some, divine and laic, too oft do.

This man's a private loss, and public too.

THE GIPSY'S MALISON

(1829)

"Suck, baby, suck, mothers love grows by giving,

Drain the sweet founts that only thrive by wasting;

Black manhood comes, when riotous guilty living

Hands thee the cup that shall be death in tasting.

"Kiss, baby, kiss, mother's lips shine by kisses,

Choke the warm breath that else would fall in blessings;

Black manhood comes, when turbulent guilty blisses

Tend thee the kiss that poisons 'mid caressings.

"Hang, baby, hang, mother's love loves such forces,

Strain the fond neck that bends still to thy clinging;

Black manhood comes, when violent lawless courses

Leave thee a spectacle in rude air swinging."

So sang a wither'd Beldam energetical,

And bann'd the ungiving door with lips prophetical.

COMMENDATORY VERSES

TO THE AUTHOR OF POEMS,

_Published under the name of Barry Cornwall_

(1820)

Let hate, or grosser heats, their foulness mask

Under the vizor of a borrowed name;

Let things eschew the light deserving blame:

No cause hast thou to blush for thy sweet task.

"Marcian Colonna" is a dainty book;

And thy "Sicilian Tale" may boldly pass;

Thy "Dream" 'bove all, in which, as in a glass,

On the great world's antique glories we may look.

No longer then, as "lowly substitute,

Factor, or PROCTOR, for another's gains,"

Suffer the admiring world to be deceived;

Lest thou thyself, by self of fame bereaved,

Lament too late the lost prize of thy pains,

And heavenly tunes piped through an alien flute.

TO R.[J.]S. KNOWLES, ESQ.

_On his Tragedy of Virginius_

(1820)

Twelve years ago I knew thee, Knowles, and then

Esteemed you a perfect specimen

Of those fine spirits warm-soul'd Ireland sends,

To teach us colder English how a friend's

Quick pulse should beat. I knew you brave, and plain,

Strong-sensed, rough-witted above fear or gain;

But nothing further had the gift to espy.

Sudden you re-appear. With wonder I

Hear my old friend (turn'd Shakspeare) read a scene

Only to _his_ inferior in the clean

Passes of pathos: with such fence-like art--

Ere we can see the steel, 'tis in our heart.

Almost without the aid language affords,

Your piece seems wrought. That huffing medium, _words_,

(Which in the modern Tamburlaines quite sway

Our shamed souls from their bias) in your play

We scarce attend to. Hastier passion draws

Our tears on credit: and we find the cause

Some two hours after, spelling o'er again

Those strange few words at ease, that wrought the pain.

Proceed, old friend; and, as the year returns,

Still snatch some new old story from the urns

Of long-dead virtue. We, that knew before

Your worth, may admire, we cannot love you more.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE "EVERY-DAY BOOK"

(1825)

I like you, and your book, ingenuous Hone!

In whose capacious all-embracing leaves

The very marrow of tradition's shown;

And all that history--much that fiction--weaves.

By every sort of taste your work is graced.

Vast stores of modern anecdote we find,

With good old story quaintly interlaced--

The theme as various as the reader's mind.

Rome's life-fraught legends you so truly paint--

Yet kindly,--that the half-turn'd Catholic

Scarcely forbears to smile at his own saint,

And cannot curse the candid heretic.

Rags, relics, witches, ghosts, fiends, crowd your page;

Our fathers' mummeries we well-pleased behold,

And, proudly conscious of a purer age,

Forgive some fopperies in the times of old.

Verse-honouring Phoebus, Father of bright _Days_,

Must needs bestow on you both good and many,

Who, building trophies of his Children's praise,

Run their rich Zodiac through, not missing any.

Dan Phoebus loves your book--trust me, friend Hone--

The title only errs, he bids me say:

For while such art, wit, reading, there are shown,

He swears,'tis not a work of _every day_.

* * * * *

ACROSTICS

TO CAROLINE MARIA APPLEBEE

_An Acrostic_

Caroline glides smooth in verse,

And is easy to rehearse;

Runs just like some crystal river

O'er its pebbly bed for ever.

Lines as harsh and quaint as mine

In their close at least will shine,

Nor from sweetness can decline,

Ending but with _Caroline_.

_Maria_ asks a statelier pace--

"_Ave Maria_, full of grace!"

Romish rites before me rise,

Image-worship, sacrifice,

And well-meant but mistaken pieties.

_Apple_ with _Bee_ doth rougher run.

Paradise was lost by one;

Peace of mind would we regain,

Let us, like the other, strain

Every harmless faculty,

Bee-like at work in our degree,

Ever some sweet task designing,

Extracting still, and still refining.

TO CECILIA CATHERINE LAWTON

_An Acrostic_

Choral service, solemn chanting,

Echoing round cathedrals holy--

Can aught else on earth be wanting

In heav'n's bliss to plunge us wholly?

Let us great _Cecilia_ honour

In the praise we give unto them,

And the merit be upon her.

Cold the heart that would undo them,

And the solemn organ banish

That this sainted Maid invented.

Holy thoughts too quickly vanish,

Ere the expression can be vented.

Raise the song to _Catherine_,

In her torments most divine!

Ne'er by Christians be forgot--

Envied be--this Martyr's lot.

_Lawton_, who these _names_ combinest,

Aim to emulate their praises;

Women were they, yet divinest

Truths they taught; and story raises

O'er their mouldering bones a Tomb,

Not to die till Day of Doom.

ACROSTIC,

TO A LADY WHO DESIRED ME TO WRITE HER EPITAPH

(1830)

Grace Joanna here doth lie:

Reader, wonder not that I

Ante-date her hour of rest.

Can I thwart her wish exprest,

Ev'n unseemly though the laugh

Jesting with an Epitaph?

On her bones the turf lie lightly,

And her rise again be brightly!

No dark stain be found upon her--

No, there will not, on mine honour--

Answer that at least I can.

Would that I, thrice happy man,

In as spotless garb might rise,

Light as she will climb the skies,

Leaving the dull earth behind,

In a car more swift than wind.

All her errors, all her failings,

(Many they were not) and ailings,

Sleep secure from Envy's railings.

ANOTHER,

TO HER YOUNGEST DAUGHTER

(1830)

Least Daughter, but not least beloved, of _Grace_!

O frown not on a stranger, who from place,

Unknown and distant these few lines hath penn'd.

I but report what thy Instructress Friend

So oft hath told us of thy gentle heart.

A pupil most affectionate thou art,

Careful to learn what elder years impart.

_Louisa--Clare_--by which name shall I call thee?

A prettier pair of names sure ne'er was found,

Resembling thy own sweetness in sweet sound.

Ever calm peace and innocence befal thee!

* * * * *

TRANSLATIONS

_From the Latin of Vincent Bourne_

I

ON A SEPULCHRAL STATUE OF AN INFANT SLEEPING

Beautiful Infant, who dost keep

Thy posture here, and sleep'st a marble sleep,

May the repose unbroken be,

Which the fine Artist's hand hath lent to thee,

While thou enjoy'st along with it

That which no art, or craft, could ever hit,

Or counterfeit to mortal sense,

The heaven-infused sleep of Innocence!

II

THE RIVAL BELLS

A tuneful challenge rings from either side

Of Thames' fair banks. Thy twice six Bells, Saint Bride

Peal swift and shrill; to which more slow reply

The deep-toned eight of Mary Overy.

Such harmony from the contention flows,

That the divided ear no preference knows;

Betwixt them both disparting Music's State,

While one exceeds in number, one in weight.

III

EPITAPH ON A DOG

(1820)

Poor Irus' faithful wolf-dog here I lie,

That wont to tend my old blind master's steps,

His guide and guard; nor, while my service lasted,

Had he occasion for that staff, with which

He now goes picking out his path in fear

Over the highways and crossings, but would plant

Safe in the conduct of my friendly string,

A firm foot forward still, till he had reach'd

His poor seat on some stone, nigh where the tide

Of passers-by in thickest confluence flow'd:

To whom with loud and passionate laments

From morn to eve his dark estate he wail'd.

Nor wail'd to all in vain: some here and there,

The well disposed and good, their pennies gave.

I meantime at his feet obsequious slept;

Not all-asleep in sleep, but heart and ear

Prick'd up at his least motion, to receive

At his kind hand my customary crumbs,

And common portion in his feast of scraps;

Or when night warn'd us homeward, tired and spent

With our long day, and tedious beggary.

These were my manners, this my way of life,

Till age and slow disease me overtook,

And sever'd from my sightless master's side.

But lest the grace of so good deeds should die,

Through tract of years in mute oblivion lost,

This slender tomb of turf hath Irus rear'd,

Cheap monument of no ungrudging hand,

And with short verse inscribed it, to attest,

In long and lasting union to attest,

The virtues of the Beggar and his Dog.

IV

THE BALLAD SINGERS

Where seven fair Streets to one tall Column[8] draw,

Two Nymphs have ta'en their stand, in hats of straw;

Their yellower necks huge beads of amber grace,

And by their trade they're of the Sirens' race:

With cloak loose-pinn'd on each, that has been red,

But long with dust and dirt discoloured

Belies its hue; in mud behind, before,

From heel to middle leg becrusted o'er.

One a small infant at the breast does bear;

And one in her right hand her tuneful ware,

Which she would vend. Their station scarce is taken,

When youths and maids flock round. His stall forsaken,

Forth comes a Son of Crispin, leathern-capt,

Prepared to buy a ballad, if one apt

To move his fancy offers. Crispin's sons

Have, from uncounted time, with ale and buns

Cherish'd the gift of _Song_, which sorrow quells;

And, working single in their low-rooft cells,

Oft cheat the tedium of a winter's night

With anthems warbled in the Muses' spight.

Who now hath caught the alarm? the Servant Maid

Hath heard a buzz at distance; and, afraid

To miss a note, with elbows red comes out.

Leaving his forge to cool, Pyracmon stout

Thrusts in his unwash'd visage. _He_ stands by,

Who the hard trade of Porterage does ply

With stooping shoulders. What cares he? he sees

The assembled ring, nor heeds his tottering knees,

But pricks his ears up with the hopes of song.

So, while the Bard of Rhodope his wrong

Bewail'd to Proserpine on Thracian strings,

The tasks of gloomy Orcus lost their stings,

And stone-vext Sysiphus forgets his load.

Hither and thither from the sevenfold road

Some cart or waggon crosses, which divides

The close-wedged audience; but, as when the tides

To ploughing ships give way, the ship being past,

They re-unite, so these unite as fast.

The older Songstress hitherto hath spent

Her elocution in the argument

Of their great Song in _prose_; to wit, the woes

Which Maiden true to faithless Sailor owes--

Ah! "_Wandering He_!"--which now in loftier _verse_

Pathetic they alternately rehearse.

All gaping wait the event. This Critic opes

His right ear to the strain. The other hopes

To catch it better with his left. Long trade

It were to tell, how the deluded Maid

A victim fell. And now right greedily

All hands are stretching forth the songs to buy,

That are so tragical; which She, and She,

Deals out, and _sings the while_; nor can there be

A breast so obdurate here, that will hold back

His contribution from the gentle rack

Of Music's pleasing torture. Irus' self,

The staff-propt Beggar, his thin-gotten pelf

Brings out from pouch, where squalid farthings rest.

And boldly claims his ballad with the best.

An old Dame only lingers. To her purse

The penny sticks. At length, with harmless curse,

"Give me," she cries. "I'll paste it on my wall,

While the wall lasts, to show what ills befal

Fond hearts seduced from Innocency's way;

How Maidens fall, and Mariners betray."

[Footnote 8: Seven Dials.]

V.

TO DAVID COOK,

_Of the Parish of Saint Margaret's, Westminster, Watchman_

For much good-natured verse received from thee,

A loving verse take in return from me.

"Good morrow to my masters," is your cry;

And to our David "twice as good," say I.

Not Peter's monitor, shrill chanticleer,

Crows the approach of dawn in notes more clear,

Or tells the hours more faithfully. While night

Fills half the world with shadows of affright,

You with your lantern, partner of your round,

Traverse the paths of Margaret's hallow'd bound.

The tales of ghosts which old wives' ears drink up,

The drunkard reeling home from tavern cup,

Nor prowling robber, your firm soul appal;

Arm'd with thy faithful staff thou slight'st them all.

But if the market gard'ner chance to pass,

Bringing to town his fruit, or early grass,

The gentle salesman you with candour greet,

And with reit'rated "good mornings" meet.

Announcing your approach by formal bell,

Of nightly weather you the changes tell;

Whether the Moon shines, or her head doth steep

In rain-portending clouds. When mortals sleep

In downy rest, you brave the snows and sleet

Of winter; and in alley, or in street,

Relieve your midnight progress with a verse.

What though fastidious Phoebus frown averse

On your didactic strain--indulgent Night

With caution hath seal'd up both ears of Spite,

And critics sleep while you in staves do sound

The praise of long-dead Saints, whose Days abound

In wintry months; but Crispen chief proclaim:

Who stirs not at that Prince of Coblers' name?

Profuse in loyalty some couplets shine,

And wish long days to all the Brunswick line!

To youths and virgins they chaste lessons read;

Teach wives and husbands how their lives to lead;

Maids to be cleanly, footmen free from vice;

How death at last all ranks doth equalise;

And, in conclusion, pray good years befal,

With store of wealth, your "worthy masters all."

For this and other tokens of good will,

On boxing day may store of shillings fill

Your Christmas purse; no householder give less,

When at each door your blameless suit you press:

And what you wish to us (it is but reason)

Receive in turn--the compliments o' th' season!

VI

ON A DEAF AND DUMB ARTIST[9]

And hath thy blameless life become

A prey to the devouring tomb?

A more mute silence hast thou known,

A deafness deeper than thine own,

While Time was? and no friendly Muse,

That mark'd thy life, and knows thy dues,

Repair with quickening verse the breach,

And write thee into light and speech?

The Power, that made the Tongue, restrain'd

Thy lips from lies, and speeches feign'd;

Who made the Hearing, without wrong

Did rescue thine from Siren's song.

He let thee _see_ the ways of men,

Which thou with pencil, not with pen,

Careful Beholder, down did'st note,

And all their motley actions quote,

Thyself unstain'd the while. From look

Or gesture reading, more than _book_,

In letter'd pride thou took'st no part,

Contented with the Silent Art,

Thyself as silent. Might I be

As speechless, deaf, and good, as He!

[Footnote 9: Benjamin Ferrers--died A.D. 1732.]

VII

NEWTON'S PRINCIPIA

Great Newton's self, to whom the world's in debt,

Owed to School Mistress sage his Alphabet;

But quickly wiser than his Teacher grown,

Discover'd properties to her unknown;

Of A _plus_ B, or _minus_, learn'd the use,

Known Quantities from unknown to educe;

And made--no doubt to that old dame's surprise--

The Christ-Cross-Row his Ladder to the skies.

Yet, whatsoe'er Geometricians say,

Her Lessons were his true PRINCIPIA!

VIII

THE HOUSE-KEEPER

The frugal snail, with fore-cast of repose,

Carries his house with him, where'er he goes;

Peeps out--and if there comes a shower of rain,

Retreats to his small domicile amain.

Touch but a tip of him, a horn--'tis well--

He curls up in his sanctuary shell.

He's his own landlord, his own tenant; stay

Long as he will, he dreads no Quarter Day.

Himself he boards and lodges; both invites,

And feasts, himself; sleeps with himself o' nights.

He spares the upholsterer trouble to procure

Chattles; himself is his own furniture,

And his sole riches. Wheresoe'er he roam--

Knock when you will--he's sure to be at home.

IX

THE FEMALE ORATORS

Nigh London's famous Bridge, a Gate more famed

Stands, or once stood, from old Belinus named,

So judged Antiquity; and therein wrongs

A name, allusive strictly to _two Tongues_[10].

Her School hard by the Goddess Rhetoric opes,

And _gratis_ deals to Oyster-wives her Tropes.

With Nereid green, green Nereid disputes,

Replies, rejoins, confutes, and still confutes.

One her coarse sense by metaphors expounds,

And one in literalities abounds;

In mood and figure these keep up the din:

Words multiply, and every word tells in.

Her hundred throats here bawling Slander strains;

And unclothed Venus to her tongue gives reins

In terms, which Demosthenic force outgo,

And baldest jests of foul-mouth'd Cicero.

Right in the midst great Ate keeps her stand,

And from her sovereign station taints the land.

Hence Pulpits rail; grave Senates learn to jar;

Quacks scold; and Billinsgate infects the Bar.

[Footnote 10: _Billingis_ in the Latin.]

PINDARIC ODE TO THE TREAD MILL

(1825)

I

Inspire my spirit, Spirit of De Foe,

That sang the Pillory,

In loftier strains to show

A more sublime Machine

Than that, where them wert seen,

With neck out-stretcht and shoulders ill awry,

Courting coarse plaudits from vile crowds below--

A most unseemly show!

II

In such a place

Who could expose thy face,

Historiographer of deathless Crusoe!

That paint'st the strife

And all the naked ills of savage life,

Far above Rousseau?

Rather myself had stood

In that ignoble wood,

Bare to the mob, on holyday or high day.

If nought else could atone

For waggish libel,

I swear on bible,

I would have spared him for thy sake alone,

Man Friday!

III

Our ancestors' were sour days,

Great Master of Romance!

A milder doom had fallen to thy chance

In our days:

Thy sole assignment

Some solitary confinement,

(Not worth thy care a carrot,)

Where in world-hidden cell

Thou thy own Crusoe might have acted well,

Only without the parrot;

By sure experience taught to know,

Whether the qualms thou mak'st him feel were truly such or no.

IV

But stay! methinks in statelier measure--

A more companionable pleasure--

I see thy steps the mighty Tread Mill trace,

(The subject of my song

Delay'd however long,)

And some of thine own race,

To keep thee company, thou bring'st with thee along.

There with thee go,

Link'd in like sentence,

With regulated pace and footing slow,

Each old acquaintance,

Rogue--harlot--thief--that live to future ages;

Through many a labour'd tome,

Rankly embalm'd in thy too natural pages.

Faith, friend De Foe, thou art quite at home!

Not one of thy great offspring thou dost lack,

From pirate Singleton to pilfering Jack.

Here Flandrian Moll her brazen incest brags;

Vice-stript Roxana, penitent in rags,

There points to Amy, treading equal chimes,

The faithful handmaid to her faithless crimes.

V

Incompetent my song to raise

To its just height thy praise,

Great Mill!

That by thy motion proper

(No thanks to wind, or sail, or working rill)

Grinding that stubborn corn, the Human will,

Turn'st out men's consciences,

That were begrimed before, as clean and sweet

As flower from purest wheat,

Into thy hopper.

All reformation short of thee but nonsense is,

Or human, or divine.

VI

Compared with thee,

What are the labours of that Jumping Sect,

Which feeble laws connive at rather than respect?

Thou dost not bump,

Or jump,

But _walk_ men into virtue; betwixt crime

And slow repentance giving breathing time,

And leisure to be good;

Instructing with discretion demi-reps

How to direct their steps.

VII

Thou best Philosopher made out of wood!

Not that which framed the tub,

Where sate the Cynic cub,

With nothing in his bosom sympathetic;

But from those groves derived, I deem,

Where Plato nursed his dream

Of immortality;

Seeing that clearly

Thy system all is merely

Peripatetic.

Thou to thy pupils dost such lessons give

Of how to live

With temperance, sobriety, morality,

(A new art,)

That from thy school, by force of virtuous deeds,

Each Tyro now proceeds

A "Walking Stewart!"

EPICEDIUM

GOING OR GONE

(1827)

I

Fine merry franions,

Wanton companions,

My days are ev'n banyans

With thinking upon ye;

How Death, that last stinger,

Finis-writer, end-bringer,

Has laid his chill finger,

Or is laying on ye.

II

There's rich Kitty Wheatley,

With footing it featly

That took me completely,

She sleeps in the Kirk House;

And poor Polly Perkin,

Whose Dad was still firking

The jolly ale firkin,

She's gone to the Work-house;

III

Fine Gard'ner, Ben Carter

(In ten counties no smarter)

Has ta'en his departure

For Proserpine's orchards;

And Lily, postillion,

With cheeks of vermilion,

Is one of a million

That fill up the church-yards;

IV

And, lusty as Dido,

Fat Clemitson's widow

Flits now a small shadow

By Stygian hid ford;

And good Master Clapton

Has thirty years nap't on

The ground he last hap't on,

Intomb'd by fair Widford;

V

And gallant Tom Dockwra,

Of nature's finest crockery,

Now but thin air and mockery,

Lurks by Avernus,

Whose honest grasp of hand

Still, while his life did stand,

At friend's or foe's command,

Almost did burn us.

VI

Roger de Coverley

Not more good man than he;

Yet has he equally

Push'd for Cocytus,

With drivelling Worral,

And wicked old Dorrell,

'Gainst whom I've a quarrel,

Whose end might affright us!--

VII

Kindly hearts have I known;

Kindly hearts, they are flown;

Here and there if but one

Linger yet uneffaced,

Imbecile tottering elves,

Soon to be wreck'd on shelves,

These scarce are half themselves,

With age and care crazed.

VIII

But this day Fanny Hutton

Her last dress has put on;

Her fine lessons forgotten,

She died, as the dunce died:

And prim Betsy Chambers,

Decay'd in her members,

No longer remembers

Things, as she once did;

IX

And prudent Miss Wither

Not in jest now doth _wither_,

And soon must go--whither

Nor I well, nor you know;

And flaunting Miss Waller,

_That_ soon must befal her,

Whence none can recal her,

Though proud once as Juno![11]

[Footnote 11: Here came, in _Album Verses_, 1830, "The Wife's Trial,"

for which see page 273, where it is placed with Lamb's other plays.]

NEW POEMS IN LAMB'S _POETICAL WORKS, 1836_

IN THE ALBUM OF EDITH S[OUTHEY] (1833)

In Christian world MARY the garland wears!

REBECCA sweetens on a Hebrew's ear;

Quakers for pure PRISCILLA are more clear;

And the light Gaul by amorous NINON swears.

Among the lesser lights how LUCY shines!

What air of fragrance ROSAMOND throws round!

How like a hymn doth sweet CECILIA sound!

Of MARTHAS, and of ABIGAILS, few lines

Have bragg'd in verse. Of coarsest household stuff

Should homely JOAN be fashioned. But can

You BARBARA resist, or MARIAN?

And is not CLARE for love excuse enough?

Yet, by my faith in numbers, I profess,

These all, than Saxon EDITH, please me less.

TO DORA W[ORDSWORTH],

_On Being Asked by Her Father to Write in Her Album_

An Album is a Banquet: from the store,

In his intelligential Orchard growing,

Your Sire might heap your board to overflowing;

One shaking of the Tree--'twould ask no more

To set a Salad forth, more rich than that

Which Evelyn[12] in his princely cookery fancied:

Or that more rare, by Eve's neat hands enhanced,

Where, a pleased guest, the angelic Virtue sat.

But like the all-grasping Founder of the Feast,

Whom Nathan to the sinning king did tax,

From his less wealthy neighbours he exacts;

Spares his own flocks, and takes the poor man's beast.

Obedient to his bidding, lo, I am,

A zealous, meek, _contributory_

LAMB.

[Footnote 12: Acetaria, a Discourse of Sallets, by J.E., 1706.]

IN THE ALBUM OF ROTHA Q[UILLINAN]

A passing glance was all I caught of thee,

In my own Enfield haunts at random roving.

Old friends of ours were with thee, faces loving;

Time short: and salutations cursory,

Though deep, and hearty. The familiar Name

Of you, yet unfamiliar, raised in me

Thoughts--what the daughter of that Man should be,

Who call'd our Wordsworth friend. My thoughts did frame

A growing Maiden, who, from day to day

Advancing still in stature, and in grace,

Would all her lonely Father's griefs efface,

And his paternal cares with usury pay.

I still retain the phantom, as I can;

And call the gentle image--Quillinan.

IN THE ALBUM OF CATHERINE ORKNEY

Canadia! boast no more the toils

Of hunters for the furry spoils;

Your whitest ermines are but foils

To brighter Catherine Orkney.

That such a flower should ever burst

From climes with rigorous winter curst!--

We bless you, that so kindly nurst

This flower, this Catherine Orkney.

We envy not your proud display

Of lake--wood--vast Niagara:

Your greatest pride we've borne away.

How spared you Catherine Orkney?

That Wolfe on Heights of Abraham fell,

To your reproach no more we tell:

Canadia, you repaid us well

With rearing Catherine Orkney.

O Britain, guard with tenderest care

The charge allotted to your share:

You've scarce a native maid so fair,

So good, as Catherine Orkney.

TO T. STOTHARD, ESQ.

_On His Illustrations of the Poems of Mr. Rogers_

(1833)

Consummate Artist, whose undying name

With classic Rogers shall go down to fame,

Be this thy crowning work! In my young days

How often have I with a child's fond gaze

Pored on the pictured wonders[13] thou hadst done:

Clarissa mournful, and prim Grandison!

All Fielding's, Smollett's heroes, rose to view;

I saw, and I believed the phantoms true.

But, above all, that most romantic tale[14]

Did o'er my raw credulity prevail,

Where Glums and Gawries wear mysterious things,

That serve at once for jackets and for wings.

Age, that enfeebles other men's designs,

But heightens thine, and thy free draught refines.

In several ways distinct you make us feel--

_Graceful_ as Raphael, as Watteau _genteel_.

Your lights and shades, as Titianesque, we praise;

And warmly wish you Titian's length of days.

[Footnote 13: Illustrations of the British Novelists.]

[Footnote 14: Peter Wilkins.]

TO A FRIEND ON HIS MARRIAGE

(1833)

What makes a happy wedlock? What has fate

Not given to thee in thy well-chosen mate?

Good sense--good humour;--these are trivial things,

Dear M----, that each trite encomiast sings.

But she hath these, and more. A mind exempt

From every low-bred passion, where contempt,

Nor envy, nor detraction, ever found

A harbour yet; an understanding sound;

Just views of right and wrong; perception full

Of the deformed, and of the beautiful,

In life and manners; wit above her sex,

Which, as a gem, her sprightly converse decks;

Exuberant fancies, prodigal of mirth,

To gladden woodland walk, or winter hearth;

A noble nature, conqueror in the strife

Of conflict with a hard discouraging life,

Strengthening the veins of virtue, past the power

Of those whose days have been one silken hour,

Spoil'd fortune's pamper'd offspring; a keen sense

Alike of benefit, and of offence,

With reconcilement quick, that instant springs

From the charged heart with nimble angel wings;

While grateful feelings, like a signet sign'd

By a strong hand, seem burnt into her mind.

If these, dear friend, a dowry can confer

Richer than land, thou hast them all in her;

And beauty, which some hold the chiefest boon,

Is in thy bargain for a make-weight thrown.

THE SELF-ENCHANTED

(1833)

I had a sense in dreams of a beauty rare,

Whom Fate had spell-bound, and rooted there,

Stooping, like some enchanted theme,

Over the marge of that crystal stream,

Where the blooming Greek, to Echo blind,

With Self-love fond, had to waters pined.

Ages had waked, and ages slept,

And that bending posture still she kept:

For her eyes she may not turn away,

'Till a fairer object shall pass that way--

'Till an image more beauteous this world can show,

Than her own which she sees in the mirror below.

Pore on, fair Creature! for ever pore,

Nor dream to be disenchanted more;

For vain is expectance, and wish is vain,

'Till a new Narcissus can come again.

TO LOUISA M[ARTIN], WHOM I USED TO CALL "MONKEY"

(1831)

Louisa, serious grown and mild,

I knew you once a romping child,

Obstreperous much and very wild.

Then you would clamber up my knees,

And strive with every art to tease,

When every art of yours could please.

Those things would scarce be proper now.

But they are gone, I know not how,

And woman's written on your brow.

Time draws his finger o'er the scene;

But I cannot forget between

The Thing to me you once have been

Each sportive sally, wild escape,--

The scoff, the banter, and the jape,--

And antics of my gamesome Ape.

CHEAP GIFTS: A SONNET

(1834)

[In a leaf of a quarto edition of the 'Lives of the Saints, written in

Spanish by the learned and reverend father, Alfonso Villegas, Divine, of

the order of St. Dominick, set forth in English by John Heigham, Anno

1630,' bought at a Catholic book-shop in Duke Street, Lincoln's Inn

Fields, I found, carefully inserted, a painted flower, seemingly coeval

with the book itself; and did not, for some time, discover that it

opened in the middle, and was the cover to a very humble draught of a

St. Anne, with the Virgin and Child; doubtless the performance of some

poor but pious Catholic, whose meditations it assisted.]

O lift with reverent hand that tarnish'd flower,

That 'shrines beneath her modest canopy

Memorials dear to Romish piety;

Dim specks, rude shapes, of Saints! in fervent hour

The work perchance of some meek devotee,

Who, poor in worldly treasures to set forth

The sanctities she worshipped to their worth,

In this imperfect tracery might see

Hints, that all Heaven did to her sense reveal.

Cheap gifts best fit poor givers. We are told

Of the lone mite, the cup of water cold,

That in their way approved the offerer's zeal.

True love shows costliest, where the means are scant;

And, in her reckoning, they _abound_, who _want_.

FREE THOUGHTS ON SEVERAL EMINENT COMPOSERS

(1830)

Some cry up Haydn, some Mozart,

Just as the whim bites; for my part,

I do not care a farthing candle

For either of them, or for Handel.--

Cannot a man live free and easy,

Without admiring Pergolesi?

Or thro' the world with comfort go,

That never heard of Doctor Blow?

So help me heaven, I hardly have;

And yet I eat, and drink, and shave,

Like other people, if you watch it,

And know no more of stave or crotchet,

Than did the primitive Peruvians;

Or those old ante-queer-diluvians

That lived in the unwash'd world with Jubal,

Before that dirty blacksmith Tubal

By stroke on anvil, or by summ'at,

Found out, to his great surprise, the gamut.

I care no more for Cimarosa,

Than he did for Salvator Rosa,

Being no painter; and bad luck

Be mine, if I can bear that Gluck!

Old Tycho Brahe, and modern Herschel,

Had something in them; but who's Purcel?

The devil, with his foot so cloven,

For aught I care, may take Beethoven;

And, if the bargain does not suit,

I'll throw him Weber in to boot.

There's not the splitting of a splinter

To chuse 'twixt him last named, and Winter.

Of Doctor Pepusch old queen Dido

Knew just as much, God knows, as I do.

I would not go four miles to visit

Sebastian Bach (or Batch, which is it?);

No more I would for Bononcini.

As for Novello, or Rossini,

I shall not say a word to grieve 'em,

Because they're living; so I leave 'em.

* * * * *

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, NOT COLLECTED BY LAMB

DRAMATIC FRAGMENT

(1798)

Fie upon't.

All men are false, I think. The date of love

Is out, expired, its stories all grown stale,

O'er past, forgotten, like an antique tale

Of Hero and Leander.

JOHN WOODVIL.

All are not false. I knew a youth who died

For grief, because his Love proved so,

And married with another.

I saw him on the wedding-day,

For he was present in the church that day,

In festive bravery deck'd,

As one that came to grace the ceremony.

I mark'd him when the ring was given,

His countenance never changed;

And when the priest pronounced the marriage blessing,

He put a silent prayer up for the bride,

For so his moving lip interpreted.

He came invited to the marriage feast

With the bride's friends,

And was the merriest of them all that day:

But they, who knew him best, called it feign'd mirth;

And others said,

He wore a smile like death upon his face.

His presence dash'd all the beholders' mirth,

And he went away in tears.

_What followed then?_

Oh! then

He did not, as neglected suitors use,

Affect a life of solitude in shades,

But lived,

In free discourse and sweet society,

Among his friends who knew his gentle nature best.

Yet ever when he smiled,

There was a mystery legible in his face,

That whoso saw him said he was a man

Not long for this world.----

And true it was, for even then

The silent love was feeding at his heart

Of which he died:

Nor ever spake word of reproach,

Only, he wish'd in death that his remains

Might find a poor grave in some spot, not far

From his mistress' family vault, "being the place

Where one day Anna should herself be laid."

DICK STRYPE; OR, THE FORCE OF HABIT

_A Tale--By Timothy Bramble_

(1801)

Habits _are stubborn things:_

And by the time a man is turn'd of _forty_,

His _ruling passion's_ grown so haughty

There is no clipping of its wings.

The amorous roots have taken earth, and fix

And never shall P--TT leave his juggling tricks,

Till H----Y quits his metre with his pride,

Till W----M learns to flatter regicide,

Till hypocrite-enthusiasts cease to vant

And _Mister_ W----E leaves off to cant.

The truth will best be shewn,

By a familiar instance of our own.

Dick Strype

Was a dear friend and lover of the PIPE;

He us'd to say, _one pipe of Kirkman's best_

Gave life a _zest_.

To him 'twas meat, and drink, and physic,

To see the friendly vapour

Curl round his midnight taper,

And the black fume

Clothe all the room,

In clouds as dark as _science metaphysic_.

So still he smok'd, and drank, and crack'd his joke;

And, had he _single_ tarried

He might have smok'd, and still grown old in smoke:

But RICHARD _married_.

His wife was one, who carried

The _cleanly virtues_ almost to a vice,

She was so _nice:_

And thrice a week, above, below,

The house was scour'd from top to toe,

And all the floors were rubb'd so bright,

You dar'd not walk upright

For fear of sliding:

But that she took a pride in.

Of all things else REBECCA STRYPE

Could least endure a _pipe_.

She rail'd upon the filthy herb tobacco,

Protested that the noisome vapour

Had spoilt the best chintz curtains and the paper

And cost her many a pound in stucco:

And then she quoted our _King James_, who saith

"Tobacco is the Devil's breath."

When wives _will_ govern, husbands _must_ obey;

For many a day

DICK mourn'd and miss'd his favourite tobacco,

And curs'd REBECCA.

At length the day approach'd, his wife must die:

Imagine now the doleful cry

Of female friends, old aunts and cousins,

Who to the fun'ral came by dozens--

The undertaker's men and mutes

Stood at the gate in sable suits

With doleful looks,

Just like so many melancholy _rooks_.

Now cakes and wine are handed round,

Folks sigh, and drink, and drink, and sigh,

For Grief makes people dry:

But DICK is _missing_, nowhere to be found

Above, below, about

They searched the house throughout,

Each hole and secret entry,

Quite from the garret to the pantry,

In every corner, cupboard, nook and shelf,

And all concluded he had _hang'd_ himself.

At last they found him--reader, guess you where--

'Twill make you stare--

Perch'd on REBECCA'S _Coffin_, at his rest,

SMOKING A PIPE OF KIRKMAN'S BEST.

TWO EPITAPHS ON A YOUNG LADY WHO LIVED

NEGLECTED AND DIED OBSCURE

(1801 _or_ 1802)

I

Under this cold marble stone

Lie the sad remains of one

Who, when alive, by few or none

Was lov'd, as lov'd she might have been,

If she prosp'rous days had seen,

Or had thriving been, I ween.

Only this cold funeral stone

Tells, she was beloved by one,

Who on the marble graves his moan.

II

A Heart which felt unkindness, yet complained not,

A Tongue which spake the simple Truth, and feigned not:

A Soul as white as the pure marble skin

(The beauteous Mansion it was lodgèd in)

Which, unrespected, could itself respect,

On Earth was all the Portion of a Maid

Who in this common Sanctuary laid,

Sleeps unoffended by the World's neglect.

THE APE

(1806)

An Ape is but a trivial beast,

Men count it light and vain;

But I would let them have their thoughts,

To have my Ape again.

To love a beast in any sort,

Is no great sign of grace;

But I have loved a flouting Ape's

'Bove any lady's face.

I have known the power of two fair eyes,

In smile, or else in glance,

And how (for I a lover was)

They make the spirits dance;

But I would give two hundred smiles,

Of them that fairest be,

For one look of my staring Ape,

That used to stare on me.

This beast, this Ape, it had a face--

If face it might be styl'd--

Sometimes it was a staring Ape,

Sometimes a beauteous child--

A Negro flat--a Pagod squat,

Cast in a Chinese mold--

And then it was a Cherub's face,

Made of the beaten gold!

But TIME, that's meddling, meddling still

And always altering things--

And, what's already at the best,

To alteration brings--

That turns the sweetest buds to flowers,

And chops and changes toys--

That breaks up dreams, and parts old friends,

And still commutes our joys--

Has changed away my Ape at last

And in its place convey'd,

Thinking therewith to cheat my sight,

A fresh and blooming maid!

And fair to sight is she--and still

Each day doth sightlier grow,

Upon the ruins of the Ape,

My ancient play-fellow!

The tale of Sphinx, and Theban jests,

I true in me perceive;

I suffer riddles; death from dark

Enigmas I receive:

Whilst a hid being I pursue,

That lurks in a new shape,

My darling in herself I miss--

And, in my Ape, THE APE.

_In tabulam eximii pictoris_ B. HAYDONI, _in quâ Solymaei, adveniente

Domino, palmas in viâ, prosternentes mirâ arte depinguntur_

(1820)

Quid vult iste equitans? et quid oclit ista virorum

Palmifera ingens turba, et vox tremebunda Hosanna,

Hosanna Christo semper semperque canamus.

_Palma_ fuit _Senior_ pictor celeberrimus olim;

Sed palmam cedat, modò si foret ille superstes,

_Palma, Haydone_, tibi: tu palmas omnibus aufers.

Palma negata macrum, donataque reddit opimum.

Si simul incipiat cum famâ increscere corpus,

Tu citò pinguesces, fies et, amicule, obesus.

Affectat lauros pictores atque poetae

Sin laurum invideant (sed quis tibi?) laurigerentes,

Pro lauro palmâ viridante tempora cingas.

CARLAGNULUS.

_Translation of the Latin Verses on Mr. Haydon's Picture_

What rider's that? and who those myriads bringing

Him on his way with palms, Hosannas singing?

_Hosanna to the Christ_, HEAVEN--EARTH--should still be ringing.

In days of old, old Palma won renown:

But Palma's self must yield the painter's crown,

Haydon, to thee. Thy palm put every other down.

If Flaccus' sentence with the truth agree,

That "palms awarded make men plump to be,"

Friend Horace, Haydon soon in bulk shall match with thee.

Painters with poets for the laurel vie:

But should the laureat band thy claims deny,

Wear thou thy own green palm, Haydon, triumphantly.

SONNET

_To Miss Burney, on her Character of Blanch in "Country

Neighbours," a Tale_

(1820)

Bright spirits have arisen to grace the BURNEY name,

And some in letters, some in tasteful arts,

In learning some have borne distinguished parts;

Or sought through science of sweet sounds their fame:

And foremost _she_, renowned for many a tale

Of faithful love perplexed, and of that good

Old man, who, as CAMILLA'S guardian, stood

In obstinate virtue clad like coat of mail.

Nor dost thou, SARAH, with unequal pace

Her steps pursue. The pure romantic vein

No gentler creature ever knew to feign

Than thy fine Blanch, young with an elder grace,

In all respects without rebuke or blame,

Answering the antique freshness of her name.

TO MY FRIEND THE INDICATOR

(1820)

Your easy Essays indicate a flow,

Dear Friend, of brain which we may elsewhere seek;

And to their pages I, and hundreds, owe,

That Wednesday is the sweetest of the week.

Such observation, wit, and sense, are shewn,

We think the days of Bickerstaff returned;

And that a portion of that oil you own,

In his undying midnight lamp which burned.

I would not lightly bruise old Priscian's head,

Or wrong the rules of grammar understood;

But, with the leave of Priscian be it said,

The _Indicative_ is your _Potential Mood._

Wit, poet, prose-man, party-man, translator--

H[unt], your best title yet is INDICATOR.

ON SEEING MRS. K---- B----, AGED UPWARDS

OF EIGHTY, NURSE AN INFANT

A sight like this might find apology

In worlds unsway'd by our Chronology;

As Tully says, (the thought's in Plato)--

"To die is but to go to Cato."

Of this world Time is of the essence,--

A kind of universal presence;

And therefore poets should have made him

Not only old, as they've pourtray'd him,

But young, mature, and old--all three

In one--a sort of mystery--

('Tis hard to paint abstraction pure.)

Here young--there old--and now mature--

Just as we see some old book-print,

Not to one scene its hero stint;

But, in the distance, take occasion

To draw him in some other station.

Here this prepost'rous union seems

A kind of meeting of extremes.

Ye may not live together. Mean ye

To pass that gulf that lies between ye

Of fourscore years, as we skip ages

In turning o'er historic pages?

Thou dost not to this age belong:

Thou art three generations wrong:

Old Time has miss'd thee: there he tarries!

Go on to thy contemporaries!

Give the child up. To see thee kiss him

Is a compleat anachronism.

Nay, keep him. It is good to see

Race link'd to race, in him and thee.

The child repelleth not at all

Her touch as uncongenial,

But loves the old Nurse like another--

Its sister--or its natural mother;

And to the nurse a pride it gives

To think (though old) that still she lives

With one, who may not hope in vain

To live her years all o'er again!

TO EMMA, LEARNING LATIN, AND DESPONDING

(_By Mary Lamb_. ? 1827)

Droop not, dear Emma, dry those falling tears,

And call up smiles into thy pallid face,

Pallid and care-worn with thy arduous race:

In few brief months thou hast done the work of years.

To young beginnings natural are these fears.

A right good scholar shalt thou one day be,

And that no distant one; when even she,

Who now to thee a star far off appears,

That most rare Latinist, the Northern Maid--

The language-loving Sarah[15] of the Lake--

Shall hail thee Sister Linguist. This will make

Thy friends, who now afford thee careful aid,

A recompense most rich for all their pains,

Counting thy acquisitions their best gains.

[Footnote 15: Daughter of S.T. Coleridge, Esq.; an accomplished linguist

in the Greek and Latin tongues, and translatress of a History of the

Abipones. [Note in _Blackwood_.]]

LINES

_Addressed to Lieut. R.W.H. Hardy, R.N., on the Perusal of his Volume of

Travels in the Interior of Mexico_

'Tis pleasant, lolling in our elbow chair,

Secure at home, to read descriptions rare

Of venturous traveller in savage climes;

His hair-breadth 'scapes, toil, hunger--and sometimes

The merrier passages that, like a foil

To set off perils past, sweetened that toil,

And took the edge from danger; and I look

With such fear-mingled pleasure thro' thy book,

Adventurous Hardy! Thou a _diver_[16] art,

But of no common form; and for thy part

Of the adventure, hast brought home to the nation

_Pearls_ of discovery--_jewels_ of observation.

ENFIELD, _January_, 1830.

[Footnote 16: Captain Hardy practised this art with considerable

success. [Note in _Athenaeum_.]]

LINES

[_For a Monument Commemorating the Sudden Death by

Drowning of a Family, of Four Sons and Two Daughters_]

(1831)

Tears are for lighter griefs. Man weeps the doom,

That seals a single victim to the tomb.

But when Death riots--when, with whelming sway,

Destruction sweeps a family away;

When infancy and youth, a huddled mass,

All in an instant to oblivion pass,

And parents' hopes are crush'd; what lamentation

Can reach the depth of such a desolation?

Look upward, Feeble Ones! look up and trust,

That HE who lays their mortal frame in dust,

Still hath the immortal spirit in his keeping--

In Jesus' sight they are not dead but sleeping.

TO C. ADERS, ESQ.

_On his Collection of Paintings by the old German Masters_

(1831)

Friendliest of men, ADERS, I never come

Within the precincts of this sacred Room,

But I am struck with a religious fear,

Which says "Let no profane eye enter here."

With imagery from Heav'n the walls are clothed,

Making the things of Time seem vile and loathed.

Spare Saints, whose bodies seem sustain'd by Love,

With Martyrs old in meek procession move.

Here kneels a weeping Magdalen, less bright

To human sense for her blurr'd cheeks; in sight

Of eyes, new-touch'd by Heav'n, more winning fair

Than when her beauty was her only care.

A Hermit here strange mysteries doth unlock

In desart sole, his knees worn by the rock.

There Angel harps are sounding, while below

Palm-bearing Virgins in white order go.

Madonnas, varied with so chaste design,

While all are different, each seems genuine,

And hers the only Jesus: hard outline,

And rigid form, by DURER'S hand subdued

To matchless grace, and sacro-sanctitude;

DURER, who makes thy slighted Germany

Vie with the praise of paint-proud Italy.

Whoever enter'st here, no more persume

To name a Parlour, or a Drawing Room;

But, bending lowly to each holy Story,

Make this thy Chapel, and thine Oratory.

HERCULES PACIFICATUS

_A Tale from Suidas_

(1831)

In days of yore, ere early Greece

Had dream'd of patrols or police,

A crew of rake-hells _in terrorem_

Spread wide, and carried all before 'em,

Rifled the poultry, and the women,

And held that all things were in common;

Till Jove's great Son the nuisance saw,

And did abate it by Club Law.

Yet not so clean he made his work,

But here and there a rogue would lurk

In caves and rocky fastnesses,

And shunn'd the strength of Hercules.

Of these, more desperate than others,

A pair of ragamuffin brothers

In secret ambuscade join'd forces,

To carry on unlawful courses.

These Robbers' names, enough to shake us,

Where, Strymon one, the other Cacus.

And, more the neighbourhood to bother,

A wicked dam they had for mother,

Who knew their craft, but not forbid it,

And whatsoe'er they nymm'd, she hid it;

Received them with delight and wonder,

When they brought home some 'special plunder;

Call'd them her darlings, and her white boys,

Her ducks, her dildings--all was right boys--

"Only," she said, "my lads, have care

Ye fall not into BLACK BACK'S snare;

For, if he catch, he'll maul your _corpus_,

And clapper-claw you to some purpose."

She was in truth a kind of witch,

Had grown by fortune-telling rich;

To spells and conjurings did tackle her,

And read folks' dooms by light oracular;

In which she saw, as clear as daylight,

What mischief on her bairns would a-light;

Therefore she had a special loathing

For all that own'd that sable clothing.

Who can 'scape fate, when we're decreed to 't?

The graceless brethren paid small heed to 't.

A brace they were of sturdy fellows,

As we may say, that fear'd no colours,

And sneer'd with modern infidelity

At the old gipsy's fond credulity.

It proved all true tho', as she'd mumbled--

For on a day the varlets stumbled

On a green spot--_sit linguae fides_--

'Tis Suidas tells it--where Alcides

Secure, as fearing no ill neighbour,

Lay fast asleep after a "Labour."

His trusty oaken plant was near--

The prowling rogues look round, and leer,

And each his wicked wits 'gan rub,

How to bear off the famous Club;

Thinking that they _sans_ price or hire wou'd

Carry 't strait home, and chop for fire wood.

'Twould serve their old dame half a winter--

You stare? but 'faith it was no splinter;

I would not for much money 'spy

Such beam in any neighbour's eye.

The villains, these exploits not dull in,

Incontinently fell a pulling.

They found it heavy--no slight matter--

But tugg'd, and tugg'd it, till the clatter

'Woke Hercules, who in a trice

Whipt up the knaves, and with a splice,

He kept on purpose--which before

Had served for giants many a score--

To end of Club tied each rogue's head fast;

Strapping feet too, to keep them steadfast;

And pickaback them carries townwards,

Behind his brawny back head-downwards,

(So foolish calf--for rhyme I bless X--

Comes _nolens volens_ out of Essex);

Thinking to brain them with his _dextra_,

Or string them up upon the next tree.

That Club--so equal fates condemn--

They thought to catch, has now catch'd them.

Now Hercules, we may suppose,

Was no great dandy in his clothes;

Was seldom, save on Sundays, seen

In calimanco, or nankeen;

On anniversaries would try on

A jerkin spick-span new from lion;

Went bare for the most part, to be cool,

And save the time of his Groom of the Stole;

Besides, the smoke he had been in

In Stygian gulf, had dyed his skin

To a natural sable--a right hell-fit--

That seem'd to careless eyes black velvet.

The brethren from their station scurvy,

Where they hung dangling topsy turvy,

With horror view the black costume,

And each persumes his hour is come!

Then softly to themselves 'gan mutter

The warning words their dame did utter;

Yet not so softly, but with ease

Were overheard by Hercules.

Quoth Cacus--"This is he she spoke of,

Which we so often made a joke of."

"I see," said the other, "thank our sin for't,

'Tis BLACK BACK sure enough--we're in for 't."

His Godship who, for all his brag

Of roughness, was at heart a wag,

At his new name was tickled finely,

And fell a laughing most divinely.

Quoth he, "I'll tell this jest in heaven--

The musty rogues shall be forgiven."

So in a twinkling did uncase them,

On mother earth once more to place them--

The varlets, glad to be unhamper'd,

Made each a leg--then fairly scamper'd.

THE PARTING SPEECH OF THE CELESTIAL MESSENGER TO THE POET

_From the Latin of Palingenius, in the Zodiacus Vitae_

(1832)

But now time warns (my mission at an end)

That to Jove's starry court I re-ascend;

From whose high battlements I take delight

To scan your earth, diminish'd to the sight,

Pendant, and round, and, as an apple, small;

Self-propt, self-balanced, and secure from fall

By her own weight: and how with liquid robe

Blue ocean girdles round her tiny globe,

While lesser Nereus, gliding like a snake,

Betwixt her hands his flexile course doth take,

Shrunk to a rivulet; and how the Po,

The mighty Ganges, Tanais, Ister, show

No bigger than a ditch which rains have swell'd.

Old Nilus' seven proud mouths I late beheld,

And mock'd the watery puddles. Hosts steel-clad

Ofttimes I thence behold; and how the sad

Peoples are punish'd by the fault of kings,

Which from the purple fiend Ambition springs.

Forgetful of mortality, they live

In hot strife for possessions fugitive,

At which the angels grieve. Sometimes I trace

Of fountains, rivers, seas, the change of place;

By ever shifting course, and Time's unrest,

The vale exalted, and the mount deprest

To an inglorious valley; plough-shares going

Where tall trees rear'd their tops; and fresh trees growing

In antique pastures. Cities lose their site.

Old things wax new. O what a rare delight

To him, who from this vantage can survey

At once stern Afric, and soft Asia,

With Europe's cultured plains; and in their turns

Their scatter'd tribes: those whom the hot Crab burns,

The tawny Ethiops; Orient Indians;

Getulians; ever-wandering Scythians;

Swift Tartar hordes; Cilicians rapacious,

And Parthians with back-bended bow pugnacious;

Sabeans incense-bringing, men of Thrace,

Italian, Spaniard, Gaul, and that rough race

Of Britons, rigid as their native colds;

With all the rest the circling sun beholds!

But clouds, and elemental mists, deny

These visions blest to any fleshly eye.

EXISTENCE, CONSIDERED IN ITSELF, NO BLESSING

_From the Latin of Palingenius_

(1832)

The Poet, after a seeming approval of suicide, from a consideration of

the cares and crimes of life, finally rejecting it, discusses the

negative importance of existence, contemplated in itself, without

reference to good or evil.

Of these sad truths consideration had--

Thou shalt not fear to quit this world so mad,

So wicked; but the tenet rather hold

Of wise Calanus, and his followers old,

Who with their own wills their own freedom wrought,

And by self-slaughter their dismissal sought

From this dark den of crime--this horrid lair

Of men, that savager than monsters are;

And scorning longer, in this tangled mesh

Of ills, to wait on perishable flesh,

Did with their desperate hands anticipate

The too, too slow relief of lingering fate.

And if religion did not stay thine hand,

And God, and Plato's wise behests, withstand,

I would in like case counsel thee to throw

This senseless burden off, of cares below.

Not wine, _as_ wine, men choose, but as it came

From such or such a vintage: 'tis the same

With life, which simply must be understood

A black negation, if it be not good.

But if 'tis wretched all--as men decline

And loath the sour lees of corrupted wine--

'Tis so to be contemn'd. Merely TO BE

Is not a boon to seek, nor ill to flee,

Seeing that every vilest little Thing

Has it in common, from a gnat's small wing,

A creeping worm, down to the moveless stone,

And crumbling bark from trees. Unless TO BE,

And TO BE BLEST, be one, I do not see

In bare existence, _as_ existence, aught

That's worthy to be loved, or to be sought.

TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ.

_On the New Edition of his "Pleasures of Memory"_

(1833)

When thy gay book hath paid its proud devoirs,

Poetic friend, and fed with luxury

The eye of pampered aristocracy

In glittering drawing-rooms and gilt boudoirs,

O'erlaid with comments of pictorial art,

However rich and rare, yet nothing leaving

Of healthful action to the soul-conceiving

Of the true reader--yet a nobler part

Awaits thy work, already classic styled.

Cheap-clad, accessible, in homeliest show

The modest beauty through the land shall go

From year to year, and render life more mild;

Refinement to the poor man's hearth shall give,

And in the moral heart of England live.

TO CLARA N[OVELLO]

(1834)

The Gods have made me most unmusical,

With feelings that respond not to the call

Of stringed harp, or voice--obtuse and mute

To hautboy, sackbut, dulcimer, and flute;

King David's lyre, that made the madness flee

From Saul, had been but a jew's-harp to me:

Theorbos, violins, French horns, guitars,

Leave in my wounded ears inflicted scars;

I hate those trills, and shakes, and sounds that float

Upon the captive air; I know no note,

Nor ever shall, whatever folks may say,

Of the strange mysteries of _Sol_ and _Fa_;

I sit at oratorios like a fish,

Incapable of sound, and only wish

The thing was over. Yet do I admire,

O tuneful daughter of a tuneful sire,

Thy painful labours in a science, which

To your deserts I pray may make you rich

As much as you are loved, and add a grace

To the most musical Novello race.

Women lead men by the nose, some cynics say;

You draw them by the ear--a delicater way.

THE SISTERS

On Emma's honest brow we read display'd

The constant virtues of the Nut Brown Maid;

Mellifluous sounds on Clara's tongue we hear,

Notes that once lured a Seraph from his sphere;

Cecilia's eyes such winning beauties crown

As without song might draw _her_ Angel down.

LOVE WILL COME

Tune--_The Tartar Drum_

I

Guard thy feelings, pretty Vestal,

From the smooth Intruder free;

Cage thy heart in bars of chrystal,

Lock it with a golden key:

Thro' the bars demurely stealing,

Noiseless footstep, accent dumb,

His approach to none revealing--

Watch, or watch not, LOVE WILL COME.

His approach to none revealing--

Watch, or watch not, Love will come--Love,

Watch, or watch not, Love will come.

II

Scornful Beauty may deny him--

He hath spells to charm disdain;

Homely Features may defy him--

Both at length must wear the chain.

Haughty Youth in Courts of Princes--

Hermit poor with age o'er come--

His soft plea at last convinces;

Sooner, later, LOVE WILL COME.

His soft plea at length convinces;

Sooner, later, Love will come--Love,

Sooner, later, Love will come.

TO MARGARET W----

Margaret, in happy hour

Christen'd from that humble flower

Which we a daisy[17] call!

May thy pretty name-sake be

In all things a type of thee,

And image thee in all.

[Footnote 17: Marguerite, in French, signifies a daisy. [Note in

_Athenaeum_.]]

To Margaret W----

Like _it_ you show a modest face,

An unpretending native grace;--

The tulip, and the pink,

The china and the damask rose,

And every flaunting flower that blows,

In the comparing shrink.

Of lowly fields you think no scorn;

Yet gayest gardens would adorn,

And grace, wherever set.

Home-seated in your lonely bower,

Or wedded--a transplanted flower--

I bless you, Margaret!

EDMONTON, 8_th October_, 1834.

* * * * *

ADDITIONAL ALBUM VERSES AND ACROSTICS

WHAT IS AN ALBUM?

'Tis a Book kept by modern Young Ladies for show,

Of which their plain grandmothers nothing did know.

'Tis a medley of scraps, fine verse, and fine prose,

And some things not very like either, God knows.

The soft First Effusions of Beaux and of Belles,

Of future LORD BYRONS, and sweet L.E.L.'s;

Where wise folk and simple both equally shine,

And you write your nonsense, that I may write mine.

Stick in a fine landscape, to make a display,

A flower-piece, a foreground, all tinted so gay,

As NATURE herself (could she see them) would strike

With envy, to think that she ne'er did the like:

And since some LAVATERS, with head-pieces comical,

Have pronounc'd people's hands to be physiognomical,

Be sure that you stuff it with AUTOGRAPHS plenty,

All framed to a pattern, so stiff, and so dainty.

They no more resemble folks' every-day writing,

Than lines penn'd with pains do extemp'rel enditing;

Or the natural countenance (pardon the stricture)

The faces we make when we sit for our picture.

Thus you have, dearest EMMA, an ALBUM complete--

Which may _you_ live to finish, and _I_ live to see it;

And since you began it for innocent ends,

May it swell, and grow bigger each day with new friends,

Who shall set down kind names, as a token and test,

As I my poor _autograph_ sign with the rest.

THE FIRST LEAF OF SPRING

_Written on the First Leaf of a Lady's Album_

Thou fragile, filmy, gossamery thing,

First leaf of spring!

At every lightest breath that quakest,

And with a zephyr shakest;

Scarce stout enough to hold thy slender form together,

In calmest halcyon weather;

Next sister to the web that spiders weave,

Poor flutterers to deceive

Into their treacherous silken bed:

O! how art thou sustained, how nourishèd!

All trivial as thou art,

Without dispute,

Thou play'st a mighty part;

And art the herald to a throng

Of buds, blooms, fruit,

That shall thy cracking branches sway,

While birds on every spray

Shall pay the copious fruitage with a sylvan song.

So 'tis with thee, whoe'er on thee shall look,

First leaf of this beginning modest book.

Slender thou art, God knowest,

And little grace bestowest,

But in thy train shall follow after,

Wit, wisdom, seriousness, in hand with laughter;

Provoking jests, restraining soberness,

In their appropriate dress;

And I shall joy to be outdone

By those who brighter trophies won;

Without a grief,

That I thy slender promise have begun,

First leaf.

1832.

TO MRS. F[IELD]

_On Her Return from Gibraltar_

Jane, you are welcome from the barren Rock,

And Calpe's sounding shores. Oh do not mock,

Now you have rais'd, our greetings; nor again

Ever revisit that dry nook of Spain.

Friends have you here, and friendships to command,

In merry England. Love this hearty land.

Ease, comfort, competence--of these possess'd,

Let prodigal adventurers seek the rest:

Dear England is _as you_,--a _Field_ the Lord hath blest.

TO M[ARY] L[AETITIA] F[IELD]

(_Expecting to See Her Again after a Long Interval_)

How many wasting, many wasted years,

Have run their round, since I beheld your face!

In Memory's dim eye it yet appears

Crowned, as it _then_ seemed, with a chearful grace.

Young prattling Maiden, on the Thames' fair side,

Enlivening pleasant Sunbury with your smiles,

Time may have changed you: coy reserve, or pride,

To sullen looks reduced those mirthful wiles.

I will not 'bate one smile on that clear brow,

But take of Time a rigorous account,

When next I see you; and Maria now

Must _be_ the Thing she _was_. To what amount

These verses else?--all hollow and untrue--

This was not writ, these lines not meant, for YOU.

TO ESTHER FIELD

Esther, holy name and sweet,

Smoothly runs on even feet,

To the mild Acrostic bending;

Hebrew recollections blending.

Ever keep that Queen in view--

Royal namesake--bold, and true!

Firm she stood in evil times,

In the face of Haman's crimes.--

Ev'n as She, do Thou possess

Loftiest virtue in the dress,

Dear F----, of native loveliness.

[TO MRS. WILLIAMS]

(1830)

Go little Poem, and present

Respectful terms of compliment;

A gentle lady bids thee speak!

Courteous is _she_, tho' thou be weak--

Evoke from Heaven as thick as manna

Joy after joy on Grace Joanna:

On Fornham's Glebe and Pasture land

A blessing pray. Long, long may stand,

Not touched by Time, the Rectory blithe;

No grudging churl dispute his Tithe;

At Easter be the offerings due

With cheerful spirit paid; each pew

In decent order filled; no noise

Loud intervene to drown the voice,

Learning, or wisdom of the Teacher;

Impressive be the Sacred Preacher,

And strict his notes on holy page;

May young and old from age to age

Salute, and still point out, 'The good man's Parsonage!'

TO THE BOOK

Little Casket! Storehouse rare

Of rich conceits, to please the Fair!

Happiest he of mortal men,--

(I crown him monarch of the pen,)--

To whom Sophia deigns to give

The flattering prerogative

To inscribe his name in chief,

On thy first and maiden Leaf.

When thy pages shall be full

Of what brighter wits can cull

Of the Tender or Romantic,

Creeping Prose or Verse Gigantic,--

Which thy spaces so shall cram

That the Bee-like Epigram

(Which a two-fold tribute brings,

Honey gives at once, and stings,)

Hath not room left wherewithal

To infix its tiny scrawl;

Haply some more youthful swain,

Striving to describe his pain,

And the Damsel's ear to seize

With more expressive lays than these,

When he finds his own excluded

And these counterfeits intruded;

While, loitering in the Muse's bower,

He overstayed the eleventh hour,

Till the tables filled--shall fret,

Die, or sicken with regret

Or into a shadow pine:

While this triumphant verse of mine,

Like to some favoured stranger-guest,

Bidden to a good man's Feast

Shall sit--by merit less than fate--

In the upper Seat in State.

TO S[OPHIA] F[REND]

_Acrostic_

Solemn Legends we are told

Of bright female Names of old,

Phyllus fair, Laodameia,

Helen, but methinks Sophia

Is a name of better meaning

And a sort of Christian leaning.

For it _Wisdom_ means, which passes

Rubies, pearls, or golden masses.

Ever try that Name to merit;

Never quit what you inherit,

Duly from your Father's spirit.

TO R[OTHA] Q[UILLINAN]

_Acrostic_

ROTHA, how in numbers light,

Ought I to express thee?

Take my meaning in its flight--

Haste imports not always slight--

And believe, I bless thee.

TO S[ARAH] L[OCKE]

_Acrostic_

Shall I praise a face unseen,

And extol a fancied mien,

Rave on visionary charm,

And from shadows take alarm?

Hatred hates _without a cause;_

Love may love, with more applause,

Or, without a reason given,

Charmed be with unknown Heaven.

Keep the secrets, though, unmocked,

Ever in your bosom _Locke'd_.

TO M[ARY] L[OCKE]

_Acrostic_

Must I write with pen unwilling

And describe those graces killing

Rightly, which I never saw?

Yes--it is the Album's law.

Let me then Invention strain

On your excelling charms to feign--

Cold is Fiction? I _believe_ it

Kindly, as I did receive it,

Even as J.F.'s tongue did weave it.

AN ACROSTIC AGAINST ACROSTICS

[_To Edward Hogg_]

Envy not the wretched Poet

Doomed to pen these teasing strains,

Wit so cramped, ah, who can show it,

Are the trifles worth the pains.

Rhyme compared with this were easy,

Double Rhymes may not displease ye.

Homer, Horace sly and caustic,

Owed no fame to vile acrostic.

G's, I am sure, the Readers choked with,

Good men's names must not be joked with.

ON BEING ASKED TO WRITE IN MISS WESTWOOD'S ALBUM

My feeble Muse, that fain her best wou'd

Write, at command of Frances Westwood,

But feels her wits not in their best mood,

Fell lately on some idle fancies,

As she's much given to romances,

About this self-same style as Frances;

Which seems to be a name in common

Attributed to man or woman.

She thence contrived this flattering moral,

With which she hopes no soul will quarrel,

That she, whom this twin title decks,

Combines what's good in either sex;

Unites--how very rare the case is!--

Masculine sense to female graces;

And, quitting not her proper rank,

Is both in one--Fanny, and frank.

12_th October_, 1827.

[IN MISS WESTWOOD'S ALBUM]

_By Mary Lamb_

Small beauty to your Book my lines can lend,

Yet you shall have the best I can, sweet friend,

To serve for poor memorials 'gainst the day

That calls you from your Parent-roof away,

From the mild offices of Filial life

To the more serious duties of a Wife.

The World is opening to you--may you rest

With all your prospects realised, and blest!--

I, with the Elder Couple left behind,

On evenings chatting, oft shall call to mind

Those spirits of Youth, which Age so ill can miss,

And, wanting you, half grudge your S--n's bliss;

Till mirthful malice tempts us to exclaim

'Gainst the dear Thief, who robb'd you of your _Name_.

ENFIELD CHASE, 17_th May_, 1828.

UN SOLITAIRE

_A Drawing by E.I._ [_Emma Isola_]

[_To Sarah Lachlan_]

Solitary man, around thee

Are the mountains: Peace hath found thee

Resting by that rippling tide;

All vain toys of life expelling,

Hermit-like, thou find'st a dwelling,

Lost 'mid foliage stretching wide.

Angels here alone may find thee,

Contemplation fast may bind thee.

Holier spot, or more fantastic,

Livelier scene of deep seclusion,

Armed by Nature 'gainst intrusion,

Never graced a seat Monastic.

TO S[ARAH] T[HOMAS]

_An Acrostic_

Sarah, blest wife of "Terah's faithful Son,"

After a race of years with goodness run,

Regardless heard the promised miracle,

And mocked the blessing as impossible.

How weak is Faith!--even He, the most sincere,

Thomas, to his meek Master not least dear,

Holy, and blameless, yet refused assent

Of full belief, until he could content

Mere human senses. In your piety,

As you are _one_ in _name_, industriously

So copy them: but _shun_ their weak part--_Incredulity_.

TO MRS. SARAH ROBINSON

Soul-breathing verse, thy gentlest guise put on

And greet the honor'd name of Robinson.

Rome in her throng'd and stranger-crowded streets,

And palaces, where pilgrim _pilgrim_ meets,

Holds not, respected Sarah, one that can

Revered make the name of Englishman,

Or loved, more than thy Kinsman, dear to me

By many a friendly act. His heart I see

In thee with answering courtesy renew'd.

Nor shall to thee my debt of gratitude

Soon fade, that didst receive with open hand

One that was come a stranger to thy land--

Now call[s] thee Friend. Her thanks, and mine, command.

Enfield, 14_th March_, 1831.

TO SARAH [APSEY]

_Acrostic_

Sarah,--your other name I know not,

And fine encomiums I bestow not,

Regard me as an utter stranger,

A hair-brain'd, hasty, album-ranger,

Heaven shield you, Girl, from every danger!

TO JOSEPH VALE ASBURY

_Acrostic_

Judgements are about us thoroughly;

O'er all Enfield hangs the Cholera,

Savage monster, none like him

Ever rack'd a human limb.

Pest, nor plague, nor fever yellow,

Has made patients more to bellow.

Vain his threatnings! Asbury comes,

And defiance beats by drums;

Label, bottle, box, pill, potion,

Each enlists in the commotion.

And with Vials, like to those

Seen in Patmos[18], charged with woes,

Breathing Wrath, he falls pell-mell

Upon the Foe, and pays him well.

Revenge!--he has made the monster sick

Yea, Cholera vanish, choleric.

[Footnote 18: _Vide_ Revelations.]

TO D[OROTHY] A[SBURY]

_Acrostic_

Divided praise, Lady, to you we owe,

Of all the health your husband doth bestow,

Respected wife of skilful Asbury!

Oracular foresight named thee Dorothy;

Tis a Greek word, and signifies God's Gift;

(How Learning helps poor Poets at a shift!)--

You are that gift. When, tired with human ails,

And tedious listening to the sick man's tales,

Sore spent, and fretted, he comes home at eve,

By mild medicaments you his toils deceive.

Under your soothing treatment he revives;

(Restorative is the smile of gentle wives):

You lengthen _his_, who lengthens _all our lives._

TO LOUISA MORGAN

How blest is he who in his _age_, exempt

From fortune's frowns, and from the troublous strife

Of storms that harass still the private life,

"Below ambition, and above contempt,"

Hath gain'd a quiet harbour, where he may

Look back on shipwrecks past, without a sigh

For busier scenes, and hope's gay dreams gone by!

And such a nook of blessedness, they say,

Your Sire at length has found; while you, best Child,

Content in _his_ contentment, acquiesce

In patient toils; and in a station less,

Than you might image, when your prospects smiled.

In your meek virtues there is found a calm,

That on his life's soft evening sheds a balm.

TO SARAH JAMES OF BEGUILDY

_Acrostic_

Sleep hath treasures worth retracing:

Are you not in slumbers pacing

Round your native spot at times,

And seem to hear Beguildy's chimes?

Hold the airy vision fast;

Joy is but a dream at last:

And what was so fugitive,

Memory only makes to live.

Even from troubles past we borrow

Some thoughts that may lighten sorrow,

Onwards as we pace through life,

Fainting under care or strife,

By the magic of a thought

Every object back is brought

Gayer than it was when real,

Under influence ideal.

In remembrance as a glass,

Let your happy childhood pass;

Dreaming so in fancy's spells,

You still shall hear those old church bells.

TO EMMA BUTTON

_Acrostic_

EMMA, eldest of your name,

Meekly trusting in her God

Midst the red-hot plough-shares trod,

And unscorch'd preserved her fame.

By that test if _you_ were tried,

Ugly flames might be defied;

Though devouring fire's a glutton,

Through the trial you might go

"On the light fantastic toe,"

Nor for plough-shares care a BUTTON.

WRITTEN UPON THE COVER OF A BLOTTING BOOK

Blank tho' I be, within you'll find

Relics of th' enraptured mind:

Where truth and fable, mirth and wit,

Are safely here deposited.

The placid, furious, envious, wise,

Impart to me their secresies;

Here hidden thoughts in blotted line

Nor sybil can the sense divine;

Lethe and I twin sisters be--

Then, stranger, open me and see.

* * * * *

POLITICAL AND OTHER EPIGRAMS

TO SIR JAMES MACKINTOSH

(1801)

Though thou'rt like Judas, an apostate black,

In the resemblance one thing thou dost lack:

When he had gotten his ill-purchased pelf,

He went away, and wisely hanged himself.

This thou may'st do at last; yet much I doubt,

If thou hast any _bowels_ to gush out!

* * * * *

TWELFTH NIGHT

_Characters That Might Have Been Drawn on the Above Evening_

(1802)

MR. A[DDINGTON]

I put my night-cap on my head,

And went, as usual, to my bed;

And, most surprising to relate,

I woke--a Minister of State!

MESSRS. C[ANNIN]G AND F[RER]E

At Eton School brought up with dull boys,

We shone like _men_ among the _school-boys_;

But since we in the world have been,

We are but _school-boys_ among _men_.

COUNT RUMFORD

I deal in aliments fictitious

And teaze the poor with soups nutritious.

Of bones and flesh I make dilution

And belong to the National Institution.

ON A LATE EMPIRIC OF "BALMY" MEMORY

(1802. Not printed till 1820)

His namesake, born of Jewish breeder,

Knew "from the Hyssop to the Cedar;"

But he, unlike the Jewish leader,

Scarce knew the Hyssop from the Cedar.

* * * * *

EPIGRAMS

(1812)

I

Princeps his rent from tinneries draws,

His best friends are refiners;--

What wonder then his other friends

He leaves for under-_miners._

II

Ye Politicians, tell me, pray,

Why thus with woe and care rent?

This is the worst that you can say,

Some wind has blown the _wig_ away,

And left the _hair apparent._

* * * * *

THE TRIUMPH OF THE WHALE

(1812)

Io! Paean! Io! sing

To the funny people's King.

Not a mightier whale than this

In the vast Atlantic is;

Not a fatter fish than he

Flounders round the polar sea.

See his blubbers--at his gills

What a world of drink he swills,

From his trunk, as from a spout,

Which next moment he pours out.

Such his person--next declare,

Muse, who his companions are.--

Every fish of generous kind

Scuds aside, or slinks behind;

But about his presence keep

All the Monsters of the Deep;

Mermaids, with their tails and singing

His delighted fancy stinging;

Crooked Dolphins, they surround him,

Dog-like Seals, they fawn around him.

Following hard, the progress mark

Of the intolerant salt sea shark.

For his solace and relief,

Flat fish are his courtiers chief.

Last and lowest in his train,

Ink-fish (libellers of the main)

Their black liquor shed in spite:

(Such on earth the things _that write_.)

In his stomach, some do say,

No good thing can ever stay.

Had it been the fortune of it

To have swallowed that old Prophet,

Three days there he'd not have dwell'd,

But in one have been expell'd.

Hapless mariners are they,

Who beguil'd (as seamen say),

Deeming him some rock or island,

Footing sure, safe spot, and dry land,

Anchor in his scaly rind;

Soon the difference they find;

Sudden plumb, he sinks beneath them;

Does to ruthless seas bequeath them.

Name or title what has he?

Is he Regent of the Sea?

From this difficulty free us,

Buffon, Banks or sage Linnaeus.

With his wondrous attributes

Say what appellation suits.

By his bulk, and by his size,

By his oily qualities,

This (or else my eyesight fails),

This should be the PRINCE OF WHALES.

SONNET

_St. Crispin to Mr. Gifford_ (1819)

All unadvised, and in an evil hour,

Lured by aspiring thoughts, my son, you daft

The lowly labours of the Gentle Craft

For learned toils, which blood and spirits sour.

All things, dear pledge, are not in all men's power;

The wiser sort of shrub affects the ground;

And sweet content of mind is oftener found

In cobbler's parlour, than in critic's bower.

The sorest work is what doth cross the grain;

And better to this hour you had been plying

The obsequious awl with well-waxed finger flying,

Than ceaseless thus to till a thankless vein;

Still teazing Muses, which are still denying;

Making a stretching-leather of your brain.

THE GODLIKE

(1820)

In one great man we view with odds

A parallel to all the gods.

Great Jove, that shook heaven with his brow,

Could never match his princely bow.

In him a Bacchus we behold:

Like Bacchus, too, he ne'er grows old.

Like Phoebus next, a flaming lover;

And then he's Mercury--all over.

A Vulcan, for domestic strife,

He lamely lives without his wife.

And sure--unless our wits be dull--

Minerva-like, when moon was full,

He issued from paternal skull.

THE THREE GRAVES

(1820)

Close by the ever-burning brimstone beds

Where Bedloe, Oates and Judas, hide their heads,

I saw great Satan like a Sexton stand

With his intolerable spade in hand,

Digging three graves. Of coffin shape they were,

For those who, coffinless, must enter there

With unblest rites. The shrouds were of that cloth

Which Clotho weaveth in her blackest wrath:

The dismal tinct oppress'd the eye, that dwelt

Upon it long, like darkness to be felt.

The pillows to these baleful beds were toads,

Large, living, livid, melancholy loads,

Whose softness shock'd. Worms of all monstrous size

Crawl'd round; and one, upcoil'd, which never dies.

A doleful bell, inculcating despair,

Was always ringing in the heavy air.

And all about the detestable pit

Strange headless ghosts, and quarter'd forms, did flit;

Rivers of blood, from living traitors spilt,

By treachery stung from poverty to guilt.

I ask'd the fiend, for whom these rites were meant?

"These graves," quoth he, "when life's brief oil is spent,

When the dark night comes, and they're sinking bedwards,

--I mean for Castles, Oliver, and Edwards."

SONNET TO MATHEW WOOD, ESQ.

_Alderman and M.P._

(1820)

Hold on thy course uncheck'd, heroic WOOD!

Regardless what the player's son may prate,

Saint Stephens' fool, the Zany of Debate--

Who nothing generous ever understood.

London's twice Praetor! scorn the fool-born jest--

The stage's scum, and refuse of the players--

Stale topics against Magistrates and Mayors--

City and Country both thy worth attest.

Bid him leave off his shallow Eton wit,

More fit to sooth the superficial ear

Of drunken PITT, and that pickpocket Peer,

When at their sottish orgies they did sit,

Hatching mad counsels from inflated vein,

Till England, and the nations, reeled with pain.

ON A PROJECTED JOURNEY

(1820)

To gratify his people's wish

See G[eorg]e at length prepare--

He's setting out for Hanover--

We've often wished him there.

SONG FOR THE C[ORONATIO]N

_Tune, "Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch"_

(1820)

_Roi's_ wife of Brunswick Oëls!

_Roi's_ wife of Brunswick Oëls!

Wot you how she came to him,

While he supinely dreamt of no ills?

Vow! but she is a canty Queen,

And well can she scare each royal orgie.--

To us she ever must be dear,

Though she's for ever cut by Georgie.--

_Roi's_ wife, etc. _Da capo._

THE UNBELOVED

(1820)

Not a woman, child, or man in

All this isle, that loves thee, C[anni]ng.

Fools, whom gentle manners sway,

May incline to C[astlerea]gh,

Princes, who old ladies love,

Of the Doctor may approve,

Chancery lads do not abhor

Their chatty, childish Chancellor.

In Liverpool some virtues strike,

And little Van's beneath dislike.

Tho, if I were to be dead for't,

I could never love thee, H[eadfor]t:

(Every man must have his way)

Other grey adulterers may.

But thou unamiable object,--

Dear to neither prince, nor subject;--

Veriest, meanest scab, for pelf

Fastning on the skin of Guelph,

Thou, thou must, surely, _loathe thyself._

ON THE ARRIVAL IN ENGLAND OF LORD BYRON'S REMAINS

(1824)

Manners, they say, by climate alter not:

Who goes a drunkard will return a sot.

So lordly Juan, damn'd to lasting fame,

Went out a pickle, and came back the same.

LINES

_Suggested by a Sight of Waltham Cross_

(1827)

Time-mouldering CROSSES, gemm'd with imagery

Of costliest work, and Gothic tracery,

Point still the spots, to hallow'd wedlock dear,

Where rested on its solemn way the bier,

That bore the bones of Edward's Elinor

To mix with Royal dust at Westminster.--

Far different rites did thee to dust consign,

Duke Brunswick's daughter, Princely Caroline.

A hurrying funeral, and a banish'd grave,

High-minded Wife! were all that thou could'st have.

Grieve not, great Ghost, nor count in death thy losses;

Thou in thy life-time had'st thy share of _crosses._

FOR THE "TABLE BOOK"

(1827)

Laura, too partial to her friends' enditing,

Requires from each a pattern of their _writing._

A weightier trifle Laura might command;

For who to Laura would refuse his--_hand?_

THE ROYAL WONDERS

(1830)

Two miracles at once! Compell'd by fate,

His tarnish'd throne the Bourbon doth vacate;

While English William,--a diviner thing,--

Of his free pleasure hath put off _the king._

The forms of distant old respect lets pass,

And melts his crown into the common mass.

Health to fair France, and fine regeneration!

But England's is the nobler abdication.

"BREVIS ESSE LABORO"

"ONE DIP"

(1830)

Much speech obscures the sense; the soul of wit

Is brevity: our tale one proof of it.

Poor Balbulus, a stammering invalid,

Consults the doctors, and by them is bid

To try sea-bathing, with this special heed,

"One Dip was all his malady did need;

More than that one his certain death would be."

Now who so nervous or so shook as he,

For Balbulus had never dipped before?

Two well-known dippers at the Broadstairs' shore,

Stout, sturdy churls, have stript him to the skin,

And naked, cold, and shivering plunge him in.

Soon he emerges, with scarce breath to say,

"I'm to be dip--dip--dipt--." "We know it," they

Reply; expostulation seemed in vain,

And over ears they souse him in again,

And up again he rises, his words trip,

And falter as before. Still "dip--dip--dip"--

And in again he goes with furious plunge,

Once more to rise; when, with a desperate lunge,

At length he bolts these words out, "Only once!"

The villains crave his pardon. Had the dunce

But aimed at these bare words the rogues had found him,

But striving to be prolix, they half drowned him.

SUUM CUIQUE

(1830)

Adsciscit sibi divitias et opes alienas

Fur, rapiens, spolians quod mihi, quodque tibi

Proprium erat, temnens haec verba, Meumque Tuumque;

Omne Suum est. Tandem cuique suum tribuit.

Dat laqueo collum: vestes, vah! carnifici dat:

Sese Diabolo; sic bene, Cuique Suum.

[ON THE _LITERARY GAZETTE_]

(1830)

In merry England I computed once

The number of the dunces--dunce for dunce;

There were _four hundred_, if I don't forget,

_All readers of the L------y G-----e;_

But if the author to himself keep true,

In some short months they'll be reduced to _two_.

ON THE FAST-DAY

To name a Day for general prayer and fast

Is surely worse than of no sort of use;

For you may see with grief, from first to last

On _fast_-days people of all ranks are _loose_.

NONSENSE VERSES

Lazy-bones, lazy-bones, wake up, and peep!

The cat's in the cupboard, your mother's asleep.

There you sit snoring, forgetting her ills;

Who is to give her her Bolus and Pills?

Twenty fine Angels must come into town,

All for to help you to make your new gown:

Dainty AERIAL Spinsters, and Singers;

Aren't you ashamed to employ such white fingers?

Delicate hands, unaccustom'd to reels,

To set 'em a working a poor body's wheels?

Why they came down is to me all a riddle,

And left HALLELUJAH broke off in the middle:

Jove's Court, and the Presence angelical, cut--

To eke out the work of a lazy young slut.

Angel-duck, Angel-duck, winged, and silly,

Pouring a watering-pot over a lily,

Gardener gratuitous, careless of pelf,

Leave her to water her lily herself,

Or to neglect it to death if she chuse it:

Remember the loss is her own, if she lose it.

ON WAWD

_(Of the East India House)_

What Wawd knows, God knows;

But God knows _what_ Wawd knows.

* * * * *

SIX EPITAPHS ON ENSIGN PEACOCK

(1799)

MARMOR LOQUITUR

He lies a Volunteer so fine,

Who died of a decline,

As you or I, may do one day;

Reader, think of this, I pray;

And I humbly hope you'll drop a tear

For my poor Royal Volunteer.

He was as brave as brave could be,

Nobody was so brave as he;

He would have died in Honor's bed,

Only he died at home instead.

Well may the Royal Regiment swear,

They never had such a Volunteer.

But whatsoever they may say,

Death is a man that will have his way:

Tho' he was but an ensign in this world of pain;

In the next we hope he'll be a captain.

And without meaning to make any reflection on his mentals,

He begg'd to be buried in regimentals.

ON TIMOTHY WAGSTAFF

Here lies the body of Timothy Wagstaff,

Who was once as tall and as straight as a flagstaff;

But now that he's gone to another world,

His staff is broken and his flag is furled.

ON CAPTAIN STURMS

Here lieth the body of Captain Sturms,

Once "food for powder," now for worms,

At the battle of Meida he lost his legs,

And stumped about on wooden pegs.

Naught cares he now for such worthless things,

He was borne to Heaven on angels' wings.

ON MARGARET DIX

_(Born on February 29)_

_Ci git_ the remains of Margaret Dix,

Who was young in old age I ween,

Though Envy with Malice cried "seventy-six,"

The Graces declared her "nineteen."

ON ONESIMUS DRAKE

To the memory of Dr. Onesimus Drake,

Who forced good people his drugs to take--

No wonder his patients were oft on the rack

For this "duck of a man" was a terrible quack.

ON MATTHEW DAY

Beneath this slab lies Matthew Day,

If his body had not been snatched away

To be by Science dissected;

Should it have gone, one thing is clear:

His soul the last trump is sure to hear,

And thus be resurrected.

* * * * *

TIME AND ETERNITY

Where the soul drinks of misery's power,

Each moment seems a lengthened hour;

But when bright joy illumes the mind,

Time passes as the fleetest wind.--

How to a wicked soul must be

Whole ages of eternity?

FROM THE LATIN

As swallows shrink before the wintry blast,

And gladly seek a more congenial soil,

So flatterers halt when fortune's lure is past,

And basely court some richer lordling's smile.

SATAN IN SEARCH OF A WIFE

_With the Whole Process of his Courtship

and Marriage, and who Danced at the Wedding

By an Eye Witness_

(1831)

DEDICATION

To delicate bosoms, that have sighed over the _Loves of the Angels_,

this Poem is with tenderest regard consecrated. It can be no offence

to you, dear Ladies, that the author has endeavoured to extend the

dominion of your darling passion; to shew Love triumphant in places,

to which his advent has been never yet suspected. If one Cecilia

drew an Angel down, another may have leave to attract a Spirit

upwards; which, I am sure, was the most desperate adventure of the

two. Wonder not at the inferior condition of the agent; for, if King

Cophetua wooed a Beggar Maid, a greater king need not scorn to

confess the attractions of a fair Tailor's daughter. The more

disproportionate the rank, the more signal is the glory of your sex.

Like that of Hecate, a triple empire is now confessed your own. Nor

Heaven, nor Earth, nor deepest tracts of Erebus, as Milton hath it,

have power to resist your sway. I congratulate your last victory.

You have fairly made an Honest Man of the Old One; and, if your

conquest is late, the success must be salutary. The new Benedict has

employment enough on his hands to desist from dabbling with the

affairs of poor mortals; he may fairly leave human nature to

herself; and we may sleep for one while at least secure from the

attacks of this hitherto restless Old Bachelor. It remains to be

seen, whether the world will be much benefited by the change in his

condition.

PART THE FIRST

I

The Devil was sick and queasy of late,

And his sleep and his appetite fail'd him;

His ears they hung down, and his tail it was clapp'd

Between his poor hoofs, like a dog that's been rapp'd--

None knew what the devil ail'd him.

II

He tumbled and toss'd on his mattress o' nights,

That was fit for a fiend's disportal;

For 'twas made of the finest of thistles and thorn,

Which Alecto herself had gather'd in scorn

Of the best down beds that are mortal.

III

His giantly chest in earthquakes heaved,

With groanings corresponding;

And mincing and few were the words he spoke,

While a sigh, like some delicate whirlwind, broke

From a heart that seem'd desponding.

IV

Now the Devil an Old Wife had for his Dam,

I think none e'er was older:

Her years--old Parr's were nothing to them;

And a chicken to her was Methusalem,

You'd say, could you behold her.

V

She remember'd Chaos a little child,

Strumming upon hand organs;

At the birth of Old Night a gossip she sat,

The ancientest there, and was godmother at

The christening of the Gorgons.

VI

Her bones peep'd through a rhinoceros' skin,

Like a mummy's through its cerement;

But she had a mother's heart, and guess'd

What pinch'd her son; whom she thus address'd

In terms that bespoke endearment.

VII

"What ails my Nicky, my darling Imp,

My Lucifer bright, my Beelze?

My Pig, my Pug-with-a-curly-tail,

You are not well. Can a mother fail

To see _that_ which all Hell see?"

VIII

"O Mother dear, I am dying, I fear;

Prepare the yew, and the willow,

And the cypress black: for I get no ease

By day or by night for the cursed fleas,

That skip about my pillow."

IX

"Your pillow is clean, and your pillow-beer,

For I wash'd 'em in Styx last night, son,

And your blankets both, and dried them upon

The brimstony banks of Acheron--

It is not the _fleas_ that bite, son."

X

"O I perish of cold these bitter sharp nights,

The damp like an ague ferrets;

The ice and the frost hath shot into the bone;

And I care not greatly to sleep alone

O! nights--for the fear of Spirits."

XI

"The weather is warm, my own sweet boy,

And the nights are close and stifling;

And for fearing of Spirits, you cowardly Elf--

Have you quite forgot you're a Spirit yourself?

Come, come, I see you are trifling.

XII

"I wish my Nicky is not in love"--

"O mother, you have nick't it"--

And he turn'd his head aside with a blush--

Not red hot pokers, or crimson plush,

Could half so deep have prick'd it.

XIII

"These twenty thousand good years or more,"

Quoth he, "on this burning shingle

I have led a lonesome Bachelor's life,

Nor known the comfort of babe or wife--

'Tis a long--time to live single."

XIV

Quoth she, "If a wife is all you want,

I shall quickly dance at your wedding.

I am dry nurse, you know, to the Female Ghosts "--

And she call'd up her charge, and they came in hosts

To do the old Beldam's bidding:

XV

All who in their lives had been servants of sin--

Adulteress, Wench, Virago--

And Murd'resses old that had pointed the knife

Against a husband's or father's life,

Each one a She Iago.

XVI

First Jezebel came--no need of paint,

Or dressing, to make her charming;

For the blood of the old prophetical race

Had heighten'd the natural flush of her face

To a pitch 'bove rouge or carmine.

XVII

Semiramis there low tendered herself,

With all Babel for a dowry:

With Helen, the flower and the bane of Greece--

And bloody Medea next offer'd her fleece,

That was of Hell the Houri.

XVIII

Clytemnestra, with Joan of Naples, put in;

Cleopatra, by Anthony quicken'd;

Jocasta, that married where she should not,

Came hand in hand with the Daughters of Lot;

Till the Devil was fairly sicken'd.

XIX

For the Devil himself, a dev'l as he is,

Disapproves unequal matches.

"O Mother," he cried, "dispatch them hence!

No Spirit--I speak it without offence--

Shall have me in her hatches."

XX

With a wave of her wand they all were gone!

And now came out the slaughter:

"'Tis none of these that can serve my turn;

For a wife of flesh and blood I burn--

I'm in love with a Taylor's Daughter.

XXI

"'Tis she must heal the wounds that she made,

'Tis she must be my physician.

O parent mild, stand not my foe"--

For his mother had whisper'd something low

About "matching beneath his condition."--

XXII

"And then we must get paternal consent,

Or an unblest match may vex ye"--

"Her father is dead; I fetched him away.

In the midst of his goose, last Michaelmas day--

He died of an apoplexy.

XXIII

"His daughter is fair, and an only heir--

With her I long to tether--

He has left her his _hell_, and all that he had;

The estates are contiguous, and I shall be mad,

'Till we lay our two Hells together."

XXIV

"But how do you know the fair maid's mind?"--

Quoth he, "Her loss was but recent;

And I could not speak _my_ mind you know,

Just when I was fetching her father below--

It would have been hardly decent.

XXV

"But a leer from her eye, where Cupids lie,

Of love gave proof apparent;

And, from something she dropp'd, I shrewdly ween'd,

In her heart she judged, that a _living Fiend_

Was better than a _dead Parent_.

XXVI

"But the time is short; and suitors may come,

While I stand here reporting;

Then make your son a bit of a Beau,

And give me your blessing, before I go

To the other world a courting."

XXVII

"But what will you do with your horns, my son?

And that tail--fair maids will mock it--"

"My tail I will dock--and as for the horn,

Like husbands above I think no scorn

To carry it in my pocket."

XXVIII

"But what will you do with your feet, my son?"

"Here are stockings fairly woven:

My hoofs I will hide in silken hose;

And cinnamon-sweet are my pettitoes--

Because, you know, they are _cloven_."

XXIX

"Then take a blessing, my darling Son,"

Quoth she, and kiss'd him civil--

Then his neckcloth she tied; and when he was drest

From top to toe in his Sunday's best,

He appear'd a comely devil.

XXX

So his leave he took:--but how he fared

In his courtship--barring failures--

In a Second Part you shall read it soon,

In a bran new song, to be sung to the tune

Of the "Devil among the Tailors."

* * * * *

THE SECOND PART

_Containing the Courtship, and the Wedding_

I

Who is She that by night from her balcony looks

On a garden, where cabbage is springing?

'Tis the Tailor's fair Lass, that we told of above;

She muses by moonlight on her True Love;

So sharp is Cupid's stinging.

II

She has caught a glimpse of the Prince of the Air

In his Luciferian splendour,

And away with her coyness and maiden reserve!--

For none but the Devil her turn will serve,

Her sorrows else will end her.

III

She saw when he fetch'd her father away,

And the sight no whit did shake her;

For the Devil may sure with his own make free--

And "it saves besides," quoth merrily she,

"The expence of an Undertaker.--

IV

"Then come, my Satan, my darling Sin,

Return to my arms, my Hell Beau;

My Prince of Darkness, my crow-black Dove"--

And she scarce had spoke, when her own True Love

Was kneeling at her elbow!

V

But she wist not at first that this was He,

That had raised such a boiling passion;

For his old costume he had laid aside,

And was come to court a mortal bride

In a coat-and-waistcoat fashion.

VI

She miss'd his large horns, and she miss'd his fair tail,

That had hung so retrospective;

And his raven plumes, and some other marks

Regarding his feet, that had left their sparks

In a mind but too susceptive:

VII

And she held in scorn that a mortal born

Should the Prince of Spirits rival,

To clamber at midnight her garden fence--

For she knew not else by what pretence

To account for his arrival.

VIII

"What thief art thou," quoth she, "in the dark

That stumblest here presumptuous?

Some Irish Adventurer I take you to be--

A Foreigner, from your garb I see,

Which besides is not over sumptuous."

IX

Then Satan, awhile dissembling his rank,

A piece of amorous fun tries:

Quoth he, "I'm a Netherlander born;

Fair Virgin, receive not my suit with scorn;

I'm a Prince in the Low Countries--

X

"Though I travel _incog_. From the Land of Fog

And Mist I am come to proffer

My crown and my sceptre to lay at your feet;

It is not every day in the week you may meet,

Fair Maid, with a Prince's offer."

XI

"Your crown and your sceptre I like full well,

They tempt a poor maiden's pride, Sir;

But your lands and possessions--excuse if I'm rude--

Are too far in a Northerly latitude

For me to become your Bride, Sir.

XII

"In that aguish clime I should catch my death,

Being but a raw new comer"--

Quoth he, "We have plenty of fuel stout;

And the fires, which I kindle, never go out

By winter, nor yet by summer.

XIII

"I am Prince of Hell, and Lord Paramount

Over Monarchs there abiding.

My Groom of the Stables is Nimrod old;

And Nebuchadnazor my stirrups must hold,

When I go out a riding.

XIV

"To spare your blushes, and maiden fears,

I resorted to these inventions--

But, Imposture, begone; and avaunt, Disguise!"

And the Devil began to swell and rise

To his own diabolic dimensions.

XV

Twin horns from his forehead shot up to the moon,

Like a branching stag in Arden;

Dusk wings through his shoulders with eagle's strength

Push'd out; and his train lay floundering in length

An acre beyond the garden.--

XVI

To tender hearts I have framed my lay--

Judge ye, all love-sick Maidens,

When the virgin saw in the soft moonlight,

In his proper proportions, her own true knight,

If she needed long persuadings.

XVII

Yet a maidenly modesty kept her back,

As her sex's art had taught her:

For "the biggest Fortunes," quoth she, "in the land--

Are not worthy"--then blush'd--"of your Highness's hand--

Much less a poor Taylor's daughter.

XVIII

"There's the two Miss Crockfords are single still,

For whom great suitors hunger;

And their Father's hell is much larger than mine"--

Quoth the Devil, "I've no such ambitious design,

For their Dad is an old Fishmonger;

XIX

"And I cannot endure the smell of fish--

I have taken an anti-bias

To their livers, especially since the day

That the Angel smoked my cousin away

From the chaste spouse of Tobias.

XX

"Had my amorous kinsman much longer staid,

The perfume would have seal'd his obit;

For he had a nicer nose than the wench,

Who cared not a pin for the smother and stench,

In the arms of the Son of Tobit."

XXI

"I have read it," quoth she, "in Apocryphal Writ"--

And the Devil stoop'd down, and kiss'd her;

Not Jove himself, when he courted in flame,

On Semele's lips, the love-scorch'd Dame,

Impress'd such a burning blister.

XXII

The fire through her bones and her vitals shot--

"O, I yield, my winsome marrow--

I am thine for life"--and black thunders roll'd--

And she sank in his arms through the garden mould,

With the speed of a red-hot arrow.

XXIII

Merrily, merrily, ring the bells

From each Pandemonian steeple;

For the Devil hath gotten his beautiful Bride,

And a Wedding Dinner he will provide,

To feast all kinds of people.

XXIV

Fat bulls of Basan are roasted whole,

Of the breed that ran at David;

With the flesh of goats, on the sinister side,

That shall stand apart, when the world is tried;

Fit meat for souls unsaved!

XXV

The fowl from the spit were the Harpies' brood,

Which the bard sang near Cremona,

With a garnish of bats in their leathern wings imp't;

And the fish was--two delicate slices crimp't,

Of the whale that swallow'd Jonah.

XXVI

Then the goblets were crown'd, and a health went round

To the Bride, in a wine like scarlet;

No earthly vintage so deeply paints,

For 'twas dash'd with a tinge from the blood of the Saints

By the Babylonian Harlot.

XXVII

No Hebe fair stood Cup Bearer there,

The guests were their own skinkers;

But Bishop Judas first blest the can,

Who is of all Hell Metropolitan,

And kiss'd it to all the drinkers.

XXVIII

The feast being ended, to dancing they went,

To a music that did produce a

Most dissonant sound, while a hellish glee

Was sung in parts by the Furies Three;

And the Devil took out Medusa.

XXIX

But the best of the sport was to hear his old Dam,

Set up her shrill forlorn pipe--

How the wither'd Beldam hobbled about,

And put the rest of the company out--

For she needs must try a horn-pipe.

XXX

But the heat, and the press, and the noise, and the din,

Were so great, that, howe'er unwilling,

Our Reporter no longer was able to stay,

But came in his own defence away,

And left the Bride quadrilling.

PROLOGUES AND EPILOGUES

EPILOGUE TO GODWIN'S TRAGEDY OF "ANTONIO"

(1800)

Ladies, ye've seen how Guzman's consort died,

Poor victim of a Spaniard brother's pride,

When Spanish honour through the world was blown,

And Spanish beauty for the best was known[19].

In that romantic, unenlighten'd time,

A _breach of promise_[20] was a sort of crime--

Which of you handsome English ladies here,

But deem the penance bloody and severe?

A whimsical old Saragossa[21] fashion,

That a dead father's dying inclination,

Should _live_ to thwart a living daughter's passion[22],

Unjustly on the sex _we_[23] men exclaim,

Rail at _your_[24] vices,--and commit the same;--

Man is a promise-breaker from the womb,

And goes a promise-breaker to the tomb--

What need we instance here the lover's vow,

The sick man's purpose, or the great man's bow[25]?

The truth by few examples best is shown--

Instead of many which are better known,

Take poor Jack Incident, that's dead and gone.

Jack, of dramatic genius justly vain,

Purchased a renter's share at Drury-lane;

A prudent man in every other matter,

Known at his club-room for an honest hatter;

Humane and courteous, led a civil life,

And has been seldom known to beat his wife;

But Jack is now grown quite another man,

Frequents the green-room, knows the plot and plan

Of each new piece,

And has been seen to talk with Sheridan!

In at the play-house just at six he pops,

And never quits it till the curtain drops,

Is never absent on the _author's night_,

Knows actresses and actors too--by sight;

So humble, that with Suett he'll confer,

Or take a pipe with plain Jack Bannister;

Nay, with an author has been known so free,

He once suggested a catastrophe--

In short, John dabbled till his head was turn'd:

His wife remonstrated, his neighbours mourn'd,

His customers were dropping off apace,

And Jack's affairs began to wear a piteous face.

One night his wife began a curtain lecture;

'My dearest Johnny, husband, spouse, protector,

Take pity on your helpless babes and me,

Save us from ruin, you from bankruptcy--

Look to your business, leave these cursed plays,

And try again your old industrious ways.'

Jack, who was always scared at the Gazette,

And had some bits of scull uninjured yet,

Promised amendment, vow'd his wife spake reason,

'He would not see another play that season--'

Three stubborn fortnights Jack his promise kept,

Was late and early in his shop, eat, slept,

And walk'd and talk'd, like ordinary men;

No _wit_, but John the hatter once again--

Visits his club: when lo! one _fatal night_

His wife with horror view'd the well-known sight--

John's _hat, wig, snuff-box_--well she knew his tricks--

And Jack decamping at the hour of six.

Just at the counter's edge a playbill lay,

Announcing that 'Pizarro' was the play--

'O Johnny, Johnny, this is your old doing.'

Quoth Jack, 'Why what the devil storm's a-brewing?

About a harmless play why all this fright?

I'll go and see it, if it's but for spite--

Zounds, woman! Nelson's[26] to be there to-night.'

[Footnote 19: Four _easy_ lines.]

[Footnote 20: For which the _heroine died_.]

[Footnote 21: In _Spain_!!]

[Footnote 22: Two _neat_ lines.]

[Footnote 23: Or _you_.]

[Footnote 24: Or _our_, as _they_ have altered it.]

[Footnote 25: Antithesis!!]

[Footnote 26: "A good clap-trap. Nelson has exhibited two or three times

at both theatres--and advertised himself."]

PROLOGUE TO GODWIN'S TRAGEDY OF "FAULKENER"

(1807)

An author who has given you all delight,

Furnish'd the tale our stage presents to-night.

Some of our earliest tears He taught to steal

Down our young cheeks, and forc'd us first to feel.

To solitary shores whole years confin'd,

Who has not read how pensive _Crusoe_ pin'd?

Who, now grown old, that did not once admire

His goat, his parrot, his uncouth attire,

The stick, due-notch'd, that told each tedious day

That in the lonely island wore away?

Who has not shudder'd, where he stands aghast

At sight of human footsteps in the waste?

Or joy'd not, when his trembling hands unbind

Thee, _Friday_, gentlest of the savage kind?

The genius who conceiv'd that magic tale

Was skill'd by native pathos to prevail.

His stories, though rough-drawn, and fram'd in haste,

Had that which pleas'd our homely grandsires' taste.

His was a various pen, that freely rov'd

Into all subjects, was in most approv'd.

Whate'er the theme, his ready Muse obey'd--

Love, courtship, politics, religion, trade--

Gifted alike to shine in every sphere,

Nov'list, historian, poet, pamphleteer.

In some blest interval of party-strife,

He drew a striking sketch from private life,

Whose moving scenes of intricate distress

We try to-night in a dramatic dress:

A real story of domestic woe,

That asks no aid from music, verse, or show,

But trusts to truth, to nature, and _Defoe._

EPILOGUE TO HENRY SIDDONS' FARCE, "TIME'S A TELL-TALE"

(1807)

Bound for the port of matrimonial bliss,

Ere I hoist sail, I hold it not amiss,

(Since prosp'rous ends ask prudent introductions)

To take a slight peep at my written instructions.

There's nothing like determining in time

All questions marital or maritime.

In all seas, straits, gulphs, ports, havens, lands, creeks.

Oh! Here it begins.

"Season, spring, wind standing at point Desire--

The good ship Matrimony--Commander. Blanford, Esq.

Art. I.

"The captain that has the command of her,

Or in his absence, the acting officer,

To see her planks are sound, her timbers tight."--

That acting officer I don't relish quite,

No, as I hope to tack another verse on,

I'll do those duties in my proper person.

Art. II.

"All mutinies to be suppress'd at first."

That's a good caution to prevent the worst.

Art. III.

"That she be properly victual'd, mann'd and stor'd,

To see no foreigners are got aboard."

That's rather difficult. Do what we can,

A vessel sometimes may mistake her man.

The safest way in such a parlous doubt,

Is steady watch and keep a sharp look out.

Art. IV.

"Whereas their Lords Commissioners (the church)

Do strictly authorise the right of search:

As always practis'd--you're to understand

By these what articles are contraband;

Guns, mortars, pistols, halberts, swords, pikes, lances,

Ball, powder, shot, and the appurtenances.

Videlicet--whatever can be sent

To give the enemy encouragement.

Ogles are small shot (so the instruction runs),

Touches hand grenades, and squeezes rifle guns."

Art. V.

"That no free-bottom'd neutral waiting maid

Presume to exercise the carrying trade:

The prohibition here contained extends

To all commerce cover'd by the name of Friends.

Heaven speed the good ship well"--and so it ends.

Oh with such wholesome jealousies as these

May Albion cherish his old spouse the seas;

Keep over her a husband's firm command,

Not with too rigid nor too lax a hand.

Be gently patient to her swells and throws

When big with safeties to himself she goes;

Nor while she clips him in a fast embrace,

Stand for some female frowns upon her face.

But tell the rival world--and tell in Thunder,

Whom Nature joined, none ere shall put asunder.

PROLOGUE TO COLERIDGE'S TRAGEDY OF "REMORSE"

(1813)

There are, I am told, who sharply criticise

Our modern theatres' unwieldy size.

We players shall scarce plead guilty to that charge,

Who think a house can never be too large:

Griev'd when a rant, that's worth a nation's ear,

Shakes some prescrib'd Lyceum's petty sphere;

And pleased to mark the grin from space to space

Spread epidemic o'er a town's broad face.--

O might old Betterton or Booth return

To view our structures from their silent urn,

Could Quin come stalking from Elysian glades,

Or Garrick get a day-rule from the shades--

Where now, perhaps, in mirth which Spirits approve,

He imitates the ways of men above,

And apes the actions of our upper coast,

As in his days of flesh he play'd the ghost:--

How might they bless our ampler scope to please,

And hate their own old shrunk up audiences.--

Their houses yet were palaces to those,

Which Ben and Fletcher for their triumphs chose.

Shakspeare, who wish'd a kingdom for a stage, }

Like giant pent in disproportion'd cage, }

Mourn'd his contracted strengths and crippled rage. }

He who could tame his vast ambition down

To please some scatter'd gleanings of a town,

And, if some hundred auditors supplied

Their meagre meed of claps, was satisfied,

How had he felt, when that dread curse of Lear's

Had burst tremendous on a thousand ears,

While deep-struck wonder from applauding bands

Return'd the tribute of as many hands!

Rude were his guests; he never made his bow

To such an audience as salutes us now.

He lack'd the balm of labor, female praise.

Few Ladies in his time frequented plays,

Or came to see a youth with aukward art

And shrill sharp pipe burlesque the woman's part.

The very use, since so essential grown,

Of painted scenes, was to his stage unknown.

The air-blest castle, round whose wholesome crest,

The martlet, guest of summer, chose her nest--

The forest walks of Arden's fair domain,

Where Jaques fed his solitary vein.

No pencil's aid as yet had dared supply,

Seen only by the intellectual eye.

Those scenic helps, denied to Shakspeare's page,

Our Author owes to a more liberal age.

Nor pomp nor circumstance are wanting here;

'Tis for himself alone that he must fear.

Yet shall remembrance cherish the just pride,

That (be the laurel granted or denied)

He first essay'd in this distinguish'd fane,

Severer muses and a tragic strain.

EPILOGUE TO KENNEY'S FARCE, "DEBTOR AND CREDITOR"

(1814)

_Spoken by Mr. Liston and Mr. Emery in character_

_Gosling._ False world----

_Sampson._ You're bit, Sir.

_Gosling_. Boor! what's that to you?

With Love's soft sorrows what hast thou to do?

'Tis _here_ for consolation I must look.

(_Takes out his pocket book_).

_Sampson_. Nay, Sir, don't put us down in your black book.

_Gosling_. All Helicon is here.

_Sampson_. All Hell.

_Gosling_. You Clod!

Did'st never hear of the Pierian God,

And the Nine Virgins on the Sacred Hill?

_Sampson_. Nine Virgins!--Sure!

_Gosling_. I have them all at will.

_Sampson_. If Miss fight shy, then--

_Gosling_. And my suit decline.

_Sampson_. You'll make a dash at them.

_Gosling_. I'll tip all nine.

_Sampson_. What, wed 'em, Sir?

_Gosling_. O, no--that thought I banish.

I woo--not wed; they never bring the Spanish.

Their favours I pursue, and court the bays.

_Sampson_. Mayhap, you're one of them that write the plays?

_Gosling_. Bumpkin!

_Sampson_. I'm told the public's well-nigh crammed

With such like stuff.

_Gosling_. The public may be damned.

_Sampson_. They ha'nt damned you? (_inquisitively_).

_Gosling_. This fellow's wond'rous shrewd!

I'd tell him if I thought he'd not be rude.

Once in my greener years, I wrote a piece.

_Sampson_. Aye, so did I--at school like--

_Gosling_. Booby, cease!

I mean a Play.

_Sampson_. Oh!

_Gosling_. And to crown my joys,

'Twas acted--

_Sampson_. Well, and how--

_Gosling_. It made a noise,

A kind of mingled--(_as if musing_).

_Sampson_. Aye, describe it, try.

_Gosling_. Like--Were you ever in the pillory?

_Sampson_. No, Sir, I thank ye, no such kind of game.

_Gosling_. Bate but the eggs, and it was much the same.

Shouts, clamours, laughs, and a peculiar sound,

'Like, like--

_Sampson_. Like geese, I warrant, in a pound.

I like this mainly!

_Gosling_. Some began to cough,

Some cried--

_Sampson_. Go on--

_Gosling_. A few--and some--"Go off!"

I can't suppress it. Gods! I hear it now;

It was in fact a most confounded row.

Dire was the din, as when some storm confounds

Earth, sea, and sky, with all terrific sounds.

Not hungry lions sent forth notes more strange,

Not bulls and bears, that have been hoaxed on 'Change.

_Sampson_. Exeter 'Change you mean--I've seen they bears.

_Gosling_. The beasts I mean are far less tame than theirs.

Change Alley Bruins, nattier though their dress,

Might at Polito's study politesse.

Brief let me be. My gentle Sampson, pray,

Fight Larry Whack, but never write a play.

_Sampson_. I won't, Sir: and these christian souls petition,

To spare all wretched folks in such condition.

EPILOGUE TO AN AMATEUR PERFORMANCE OF "RICHARD II."

(1824)

Of all that act, the hardest task is theirs,

Who, bred no Players, play at being Players;

Copy the shrug--in Kemble once approved;--

Mere mimics' mimics--nature twice removed.

Shades of a shadow! who but must have seen

The stage-struck hero, in some swelling scene

Aspiring to be Lear--stumble on Kean?

The admired actor's faults our steps betray,--

No less his very beauties lead astray!

In "sad civility" once Garrick sate

To see a Play, mangled in form and state;

Plebeian Shakspeare must the words supply,--

The actors all were Fools--of Quality.

The scenes--the dresses--were above rebuke;--

Scarce a Performer there below a Duke.

He sate, and mused how in his Shakspeare's mind

The idea of old Nobility enshrined

Should thence a grace and a refinement have

Which passed these living Nobles to conceive,--

Who with such apish, base gesticulation,

Remnants of starts, and dregs of playhouse passion,

So foul belied their great forefathers' fashion!

He saw--and true Nobility confessed

Less in the high-born blood, than lowly poet's breast.

If Lords enacting Lords sometimes may fail,

What gentle plea, Spectators, can avail

For wight of low degree who dares to stir

The long-raked ashes of old Lancaster,

And on his nothing-martial front to set

Of warlike Gaunt the lofty burgonet?

For who shall that Plantagenet display,

Majestical in sickness and decay?

Or paint the shower of passions fierce and thick

On Richard's head--that Royal Splenetic?

Your pardon, not your plaudits, then we claim

If we've come short, where Garrick had been tame!

PROLOGUE TO SHERIDAN KNOWLES' COMEDY, "THE WIFE"

(1833)

_Untoward_ fate no luckless wight invades

More sorely than the Man who drives _two trades_;

Like Esop's bat, between two natures placed,

Scowl'd at by _mice_, among the _birds_ disgraced.

Our author thus, of two-fold fame exactor,

Is doubly scouted,--both as Bard, and Actor!

Wanting in haste a Prologue, he applied

To three poetic friends; was thrice denied.

Each glared on him with supercilious glance,

As on a Poor Relation met by chance;

And one was heard, with more repulsive air,

To mutter "Vagabond," "Rogue," "Strolling Player!"

A poet once, he found--and look'd aghast--

By turning actor, he had lost his _caste_.

The verse patch'd up at length--with like ill fortune

His friends behind the scenes he did importune

To speak his lines. He found them all fight shy,

Nodding their heads in cool civility.

"There service in the Drama was enough,

The poet might recite the poet's stuff!"

The rogues--they like him hugely--but it stung 'em,

Somehow--to think a Bard had got among 'em.

Their mind made up--no earthly pleading shook it,

In pure compassion 'till I undertook it.

Disown'd by Poets, and by Actors too,

Dear Patrons of both arts, he turns to you!

If in your hearts some tender feelings dwell

From sweet Virginia, or heroic Tell:

If in the scenes which follow you can trace

What once has pleased you--an unbidden grace--

A touch of nature's work--an awkward start

Or ebullition of an Irish heart--

Cry, clap, commend it! If you like them not,

Your former favours cannot be forgot.

Condemn them--damn them--hiss them, if you will--

Their author is your grateful servant still!

EPILOGUE TO SHERIDAN KNOWLES' COMEDY, "THE WIFE"

(1833)

When first our Bard his simple will express'd,

That I should in his Heroine's robes be dress'd,

My fears were with my vanity at strife,

How I could act that untried part--a "Wife."

But Fancy to the Grison hills me drew,

Where Mariana like a wild flower grew,

Nursing her garden-kindred: so far I

Liked her condition, willing to comply

With that sweet single life: when, with a cranch,

Down came that thundering, crashing avalanche,

Startling my mountain-project! "Take this spade,"

Said Fancy then; "dig low, adventurous Maid,

For hidden wealth." I did: and, Ladies, lo! }

Was e'er romantic female's fortune so, }

To dig a life-warm lover from the--snow? }

A Wife and Princess see me next, beset

With subtle toils, in an Italian net;

While knavish Courtiers, stung with rage or fear,

Distill'd lip-poison in a husband's ear.

I ponder'd on the boiling Southern vein;

Racks, cords, stilettos, rush'd upon my brain!

By poor, good, weak Antonio, too disowned--

I dream'd each night, I should be Desdemona'd:

And, being in Mantua, thought upon the shop,

Whence fair Verona's youth his breath did stop:

And what if Leonardo, in foul scorn,

Some lean Apothecary should suborn

To take my hated life? A "tortoise" hung

Before my eyes, and in my ears scaled "alligators" rung.

But _my_ Othello, to his vows more zealous--

Twenty Iagos could not make _him_ jealous!

New raised to reputation, and to life-- }

At your commands behold me, without strife, }

Well-pleased, and ready to repeat--"The Wife." }

* * * * *

JOHN WOODVIL

A TRAGEDY

(1798-1802. _Text of_ 1818)

* * * * *

CHARACTERS

SIR WALTER WOODVIL.

JOHN. }

SIMON. } _his sons._

LOVEL. }

GRAY. } _Pretended friends of John._

SANDFORD. _Sir Walter's old steward._

MARGARET. _Orphan ward of Sir Walter._

FOUR GENTLEMEN. _John's riotous companions._

SERVANTS.

SCENE--_for the most part at Sir Walter's mansion

in_ DEVONSHIRE; _at other times in the forest of_

SHERWOOD.

TIME--_soon after the_ RESTORATION.

* * * * *

ACT THE FIRST

SCENE.--_A Servants' Apartment in Woodvil Hall._

Servants drinking--_Time, the morning._

* * * * *

A Song by DANIEL

_"When the King enjoys his own again."_

PETER

A delicate song. Where did'st learn it, fellow?

DANIEL

Even there, where thou learnest thy oaths and thy politics--at our

master's table.--Where else should a serving-man pick up his poor

accomplishments?

MARTIN

Well spoken, Daniel. O rare Daniel!--his oaths and his politics!

excellent!

FRANCIS

And where did'st pick up thy knavery, Daniel?

PETER

That came to him by inheritance. His family have supplied the shire of

Devon, time out of mind, with good thieves and bad serving-men. All of

his race have come into the world without their conscience.

MARTIN

Good thieves, and bad serving-men! Better and better. I marvel what

Daniel hath got to say in reply.

DANIEL

I marvel more when thou wilt say any thing to the purpose, thou shallow

serving-man, whose swiftest conceit carries thee no higher than to

apprehend with difficulty the stale jests of us thy compeers. When was't

ever known to club thy own particular jest among us?

MARTIN

Most unkind Daniel, to speak such biting things of me!

FRANCIS

See--if he hath not brought tears into the poor fellow's eyes with the

saltness of his rebuke.

DANIEL

No offence, brother Martin--I meant none. 'Tis true, Heaven gives gifts,

and with-holds them. It has been pleased to bestow upon me a nimble

invention to the manufacture of a jest; and upon thee, Martin, an

indifferent bad capacity to understand my meaning.

MARTIN

Is that all? I am content. Here's my hand.

FRANCIS

Well, I like a little innocent mirth myself, but never could endure

bawdry.

DANIEL

_Quot homines tot sententiae._

MARTIN

And what is that?

DANIEL

'Tis Greek, and argues difference of opinion.

MARTIN

I hope there is none between us.

DANIEL

Here's to thee, brother Martin. (_Drinks._)

MARTIN

And to thee, Daniel. (_Drinks._)

FRANCIS

And to thee, Peter. (_Drinks._)

PETER

Thank you, Francis. And here's to thee. (_Drinks._)

MARTIN

I shall be fuddled anon.

DANIEL

And drunkenness I hold to be a very despicable vice.

ALL

O! a shocking vice. (_They drink round._)

PETER

In as much as it taketh away the understanding.

DANIEL

And makes the eyes red.

PETER

And the tongue to stammer.

DANIEL

And to blab out secrets.

(_During this conversation they continue drinking._)

PETER

Some men do not know an enemy from a friend when they are drunk.

DANIEL

Certainly sobriety is the health of the soul.

MARTIN

Now I know I am going to be drunk.

DANIEL

How can'st tell, dry-bones?

MARTIN

Because I begin to be melancholy. That's always a sign.

FRANCIS

Take care of Martin, he'll topple off his seat else.

(_Martin drops asleep._)

PETER

Times are greatly altered, since young master took upon himself the

government of this household.

ALL

Greatly altered.

FRANCIS

I think every thing be altered for the better since His Majesty's

blessed restoration.

PETER

In Sir Walter's days there was no encouragement given to good

house-keeping.

ALL

None.

DANIEL

For instance, no possibility of getting drunk before two in the

afternoon.

PETER

Every man his allowance of ale at breakfast--his quart!

ALL

A quart!! (_in derision_.)

DANIEL

Nothing left to our own sweet discretions.

PETER

Whereby it may appear, we were treated more like beasts than what we

were--discreet and reasonable serving-men.

ALL

Like beasts.

MARTIN

(_Opening his eyes_.) Like beasts.

DANIEL

To sleep, wag-tail!

FRANCIS

I marvel all this while where the old gentleman has found means to

secrete himself. It seems no man has heard of him since the day of the

King's return. Can any tell why our young master, being favoured by the

court, should not have interest to procure his father's pardon?

DANIEL

Marry, I think 'tis the obstinacy of the old Knight, that will not be

beholden to the court for his safety.

MARTIN

Now that is wilful.

FRANCIS

But can any tell me the place of his concealment?

PETER

That cannot I; but I have my conjectures.

DANIEL

Two hundred pounds, as I hear, to the man that shall apprehend him.

FRANCIS

Well, I have my suspicions.

PETER

And so have I.

MARTIN

And I can keep a secret.

FRANCIS

(_To Peter_.) Warwickshire you mean. (_Aside_.)

PETER

Perhaps not.

FRANCIS

Nearer perhaps.

PETER

I say nothing.

DANIEL

I hope there is none in this company would be mean enough to betray him.

ALL

O Lord, surely not. (_They drink to Sir Walter's safety_.)

FRANCIS

I have often wondered how our master came to be excepted by name in the

late Act of Oblivion.

DANIEL

Shall I tell the reason?

ALL

Aye, do.

DANIEL

'Tis thought he is no great friend to the present happy establishment.

ALL

O! monstrous!

PETER

Fellow servants, a thought strikes me.--Do we, or do we not, come under

the penalties of the treason-act, by reason of our being privy to this

man's concealment.

ALL

Truly a sad consideration.

_To them enters Sandford suddenly._

SANDFORD

You well-fed and unprofitable grooms,

Maintained for state, not use;

You lazy feasters at another's cost,

That eat like maggots into an estate,

And do as little work,

Being indeed but foul excrescences,

And no just parts in a well-order'd family;

You base and rascal imitators,

Who act up to the height your master's vices,

But cannot read his virtues in your bond:

Which of you, as I enter'd, spake of betraying?

Was it you, or you, or, thin-face, was it you?

MARTIN

Whom does he call thin-face?

SANDFORD

No prating, loon, but tell me who he was,

That I may brain the villain with my staff,

That seeks Sir Walter's life?

You miserable men,

With minds more slavish than your slave's estate,

Have you that noble bounty so forgot,

Which took you from the looms, and from the ploughs,

Which better had ye follow'd, fed ye, cloth'd ye,

And entertain'd ye in a worthy service,

Where your best wages was the world's repute,

That thus ye seek his life, by whom ye live?

Have you forgot too,

How often in old times

Your drunken mirths have stunn'd day's sober ears,

Carousing full cups to Sir Walter's health?--

Whom now ye would betray, but that he lies

Out of the reach of your poor treacheries.

This learn from me,

Our master's secret sleeps with trustier tongues,

Than will unlock themselves to carls like you.

Go, get you gone, you knaves. Who stirs? this staff

Shall teach you better manners else.

ALL

Well, we are going.

SANDFORD

And quickly too, ye had better, for I see

Young mistress Margaret coming this way.

(_Exeunt all but Sandford._)

_Enter Margaret, as in a fright, pursued by a Gentleman,

who, seeing Sandford, retires muttering a curse.

Sandford, Margaret._

SANDFORD

Good-morrow to my fair mistress. 'Twas a chance

I saw you, lady, so intent was I

On chiding hence these graceless serving-men,

Who cannot break their fast at morning meals

Without debauch and mis-timed riotings.

This house hath been a scene of nothing else

But atheist riot and profane excess,

Since my old master quitted all his rights here.

MARGARET

Each day I endure fresh insult from the scorn

Of Woodvil's friends, the uncivil jests,

And free discourses, of the dissolute men,

That haunt this mansion, making me their mirth.

SANDFORD

Does my young master know of these affronts?

MARGARET

I cannot tell. Perhaps he has not been told.

Perhaps he might have seen them if he would.

I have known him more quick-sighted. Let that pass.

All things seem chang'd, I think. I had a friend,

(I can't but weep to think him alter'd too,)

These things are best forgotten; but I knew

A man, a young man, young, and full of honor,

That would have pick'd a quarrel for a straw,

And fought it out to the extremity,

E'en with the dearest friend he had alive,

On but a bare surmise, a possibility,

That Margaret had suffer'd an affront.

Some are too tame, that were too splenetic once.

SANDFORD

'Twere best he should be _told_ of these affronts.

MARGARET

I am the daughter of his father's friend,

Sir Walter's orphan-ward.

I am not his servant maid, that I should wait

The opportunity of a gracious hearing,

Enquire the times and seasons when to put

My peevish prayer up at young Woodvil's feet,

And sue to him for slow redress, who was

Himself a suitor late to Margaret.

I am somewhat proud: and Woodvil taught me pride.

I was his favourite once, his playfellow in infancy,

And joyful mistress of his youth.

None once so pleasant in his eyes as Margaret.

His conscience, his religion, Margaret was,

His dear heart's confessor, a heart within that heart,

And all dear things summ'd up in her alone.

As Margaret smil'd or frown'd John liv'd or died:

His dress, speech, gesture, studies, friendships, all

Being fashion'd to her liking.

His flatteries taught me first this self-esteem,

His flatteries and caresses, while he loved.

The world esteem'd her happy, who had won

His heart, who won all hearts;

And ladies envied me the love of Woodvil.

SANDFORD

He doth affect the courtier's life too much,

Whose art is to forget,

And that has wrought this seeming change in him,

That was by nature noble.

'Tis these court-plagues, that swarm about our house,

Have done the mischief, making his fancy giddy

With images of state, preferment, place,

Tainting his generous spirits with ambition.

MARGARET

I know not how it is;

A cold protector is John grown to me.

The mistress, and presumptive wife, of Woodvil

Can never stoop so low to supplicate

A man, her equal, to redress those wrongs,

Which he was bound first to prevent;

But which his own neglects have sanction'd rather,

Both sanction'd and provok'd: a mark'd neglect,

And strangeness fast'ning bitter on his love,

His love which long has been upon the wane.

For me, I am determined what to do:

To leave this house this night, and lukewarm John,

And trust for food to the earth and Providence.

SANDFORD

O lady, have a care

Of these indefinite and spleen-bred resolves.

You know not half the dangers that attend

Upon a life of wand'ring, which your thoughts now,

Feeling the swellings of a lofty anger,

To your abused fancy, as 'tis likely,

Portray without its terrors, painting _lies_

And representments of fallacious liberty--

You know not what it is to leave the roof that shelters you.

MARGARET

I have thought on every possible event,

The dangers and discouragements you speak of,

Even till my woman's heart hath ceas'd to fear them,

And cowardice grows enamour'd of rare accidents.

Nor am I so unfurnish'd, as you think,

Of practicable schemes.

SANDFORD

Now God forbid; think twice of this, dear lady.

MARGARET

I pray you spare me, Mr. Sandford,

And once for all believe, nothing can shake my purpose.

SANDFORD

But what course have you thought on?

MARGARET

To seek Sir Walter in the forest of Sherwood.

I have letters from young Simon,

Acquainting me with all the circumstances

Of their concealment, place, and manner of life,

And the merry hours they spend in the green haunts

Of Sherwood, nigh which place they have ta'en a house

In the town of Nottingham, and pass for foreigners,

Wearing the dress of Frenchmen.--

All which I have perus'd with so attent

And child-like longings, that to my doting ears

Two sounds now seem like one,

One meaning in two words, Sherwood and Liberty.

And, gentle Mr. Sandford,

'Tis you that must provide now

The means of my departure, which for safety

Must be in boy's apparel.

SANDFORD

Since you will have it so

(My careful age trembles at all may happen)

I will engage to furnish you.

I have the keys of the wardrobe, and can fit you

With garments to your size.

I know a suit

Of lively Lincoln Green, that shall much grace you

In the wear, being glossy fresh, and worn but seldom.

Young Stephen Woodvil wore them, while he lived.

I have the keys of all this house and passages,

And ere day-break will rise and let you forth.

What things soe'er you have need of I can furnish you;

And will provide a horse and trusty guide,

To bear you on your way to Nottingham.

MARGARET

That once this day and night were fairly past!

For then I'll bid this house and love farewell;

Farewell, sweet Devon; farewell, lukewarm John;

For with the morning's light will Margaret be gone.

Thanks, courteous Mr. Sandford.--

(_Exeunt divers ways._)

ACT THE SECOND

SCENE.--_An Apartment in Woodvil Hall._

_John Woodvil--alone._

(_Reading Parts of a Letter._)

"When Love grows cold, and indifference has usurped upon old Esteem, it

is no marvel if the world begin to account _that_ dependence, which

hitherto has been esteemed honorable shelter. The course I have taken

(in leaving this house, not easily wrought thereunto,) seemed to me best

for the once-for-all releasing of yourself (who in times past have

deserved well of me) from the now daily, and not-to-be-endured, tribute

of forced love, and ill-dissembled reluctance of affection.

"MARGARET."

Gone! gone! my girl? so hasty, Margaret!

And never a kiss at parting? shallow loves,

And likings of a ten days' growth, use courtesies,

And shew red eyes at parting. Who bids "farewell"

In the same tone he cries "God speed you, Sir?"

Or tells of joyful victories at sea,

Where he hath ventures? does not rather muffle

His organs to emit a leaden sound,

To suit the melancholy dull "farewell,"

Which they in Heaven not use?--

So peevish, Margaret?

But 'tis the common error of your sex,

When our idolatry slackens, or grows less,

(As who of woman born can keep his faculty

Of Admiration, being a decaying faculty,

For ever strain'd to the pitch? or can at pleasure

Make it renewable, as some appetites are,

As, namely, Hunger, Thirst?--) this being the case,

They tax us with neglect, and love grown cold,

Coin plainings of the perfidy of men,

Which into maxims pass, and apothegms

To be retailed in ballads.--

I know them all.

They are jealous, when our larger hearts receive

More guests than one. (Love in a woman's heart

Being all in one.) For me, I am sure I have room here

For more disturbers of my sleep than one.

Love shall have part, but Love shall not have all.

Ambition, Pleasure, Vanity, all by turns,

Shall lie in my bed, and keep me fresh and waking;

Yet Love not be excluded.--Foolish wench,

I could have lov'd her twenty years to come,

And still have kept my liking. But since 'tis so,

Why, fare thee well, old play-fellow! I'll try

To squeeze a tear for old acquaintance sake.

I shall not grudge so much.--

_To him enters Lovel_.

LOVEL

Bless us, Woodvil! what is the matter? I protest, man, I thought you had

been weeping.

WOODVIL

Nothing is the matter, only the wench has forced some water into my

eyes, which will quickly disband.

LOVEL

I cannot conceive you.

WOODVIL

Margaret is flown.

LOVEL

Upon what pretence?

WOODVIL

Neglect on my part: which it seems she has had the wit to discover,

maugre all my pains to conceal it.

LOVEL

Then, you confess the charge?

WOODVIL

To say the truth, my love for her has of late stopt short on this side

idolatry.

LOVEL

As all good Christians' should, I think.

WOODVIL

I am sure, I could have loved her still within the limits of warrantable

love.

LOVEL

A kind of brotherly affection, I take it.

WOODVIL

We should have made excellent man and wife in time.

LOVEL

A good old couple, when the snows fell, to crowd about a sea-coal fire,

and talk over old matters.

WOODVIL

While each should feel, what neither cared to acknowledge, that stories

oft repeated may, at last, come to lose some of their grace by the

repetition.

LOVEL

Which both of you may yet live long enough to discover. For, take my

word for it, Margaret is a bird that will come back to you without a

lure.

WOODVIL

Never, never, Lovel. Spite of my levity, with tears I confess it, she

was a lady of most confirmed honour, of an unmatchable spirit, and

determinate in all virtuous resolutions; not hasty to anticipate an

affront, nor slow to feel, where just provocation was given.

LOVEL

What made you neglect her, then?

WOODVIL

Mere levity and youthfulness of blood, a malady incident to young men,

physicians call it caprice. Nothing else. He, that slighted her, knew

her value: and 'tis odds, but, for thy sake, Margaret, John will yet go

to his grave a bachelor. (_A noise heard, as of one drunk and singing_.)

LOVEL

Here comes one, that will quickly dissipate these humours.

(_Enter one drunk_.)

DRUNKEN MAN

Good-morrow to you, gentlemen. Mr. Lovel, I am your humble servant.

Honest Jack Woodvil, I will get drunk with you to-morrow.

WOODVIL

And why to-morrow, honest Mr. Freeman?

DRUNKEN MAN

I scent a traitor in that question. A beastly question. Is it not his

Majesty's birth-day? the day, of all days in the year, on which King

Charles the second was graciously pleased to be born. (_Sings_) "Great

pity 'tis such days as those should come but once a year."

LOVEL

Drunk in a morning! foh! how he stinks!

DRUNKEN MAN

And why not drunk in a morning? can'st tell, bully?

WOODVIL

Because, being the sweet and tender infancy of the day, methinks, it

should ill endure such early blightings.

DRUNKEN MAN

I grant you, 'tis in some sort the youth and tender nonage of the day.

Youth is bashful, and I give it a cup to encourage it. (_Sings_) "Ale

that will make Grimalkin prate."--At noon I drink for thirst, at night

for fellowship, but, above all, I love to usher in the bashful morning

under the auspices of a freshening stoop of liquor. (_Sings_) "Ale in a

Saxon rumkin then makes valour burgeon in tall men."--But, I crave

pardon. I fear I keep that gentleman from serious thoughts. There be

those that wait for me in the cellar.

WOODVIL

Who are they?

DRUNKEN MAN

Gentlemen, my good friends, Cleveland, Delaval, and Truby. I know by

this time they are all clamorous for me. (_Exit, singing._)

WOODVIL

This keeping of open house acquaints a man with strange companions.

(Enter, at another door, Three calling for Harry Freeman._)

Harry Freeman, Harry Freeman.

He is not here. Let us go look for him.

Where is Freeman?

Where is Harry?

(_Exeunt the Three, calling for Freeman._)

WOODVIL

Did you ever see such gentry? (_laughing_). These are they that fatten

on ale and tobacco in a morning, drink burnt brandy at noon to promote

digestion, and piously conclude with quart bumpers after supper, to

prove their loyalty.

LOVEL

Come, shall we adjourn to the Tennis Court?

WOODVIL

No, you shall go with me into the gallery, where I will shew you the

_Vandyke_ I have purchased. "The late King taking leave of his

children."

LOVEL

I will but adjust my dress, and attend you. (_Exit Lovel._)

JOHN WOODVIL (_alone_)

Now Universal England getteth drunk

For joy that Charles, her monarch, is restored:

And she, that sometime wore a saintly mask,

The stale-grown vizor from her face doth pluck,

And weareth now a suit of morris bells,

With which she jingling goes through all her towns and villages.

The baffled factions in their houses sculk:

The common-wealthsman, and state machinist,

The cropt fanatic, and fifth-monarchy-man,

Who heareth of these visionaries now?

They and their dreams have ended. Fools do sing,

Where good men yield God thanks; but politic spirits,

Who live by observation, note these changes

Of the popular mind, and thereby serve their ends.

Then why not I? What's Charles to me, or Oliver,

But as my own advancement hangs on one of them?

I to myself am chief.--I know,

Some shallow mouths cry out, that I am smit

With the gauds and shew of state, the point of place,

And trick of precedence, the ducks, and nods,

Which weak minds pay to rank. 'Tis not to sit

In place of worship at the royal masques,

Their pastimes, plays, and Whitehall banquetings,

For none of these,

Nor yet to be seen whispering with some great one,

Do I affect the favours of the court.

I would be great, for greatness hath great _power_,

And that's the fruit I reach at.--

Great spirits ask great play-room. Who could sit,

With these prophetic swellings in my breast,

That prick and goad me on, and never cease,

To the fortunes something tells me I was born to?

Who, with such monitors within to stir him,

Would sit him down, with lazy arms across,

A unit, a thing without a name in the state,

A something to be govern'd, not to govern,

A fishing, hawking, hunting, country gentleman?

(_Exit_.)

SCENE.--_Sherwood Forest_.

SIR WALTER WOODVIL. SIMON WOODVIL.

(_Disguised as Frenchmen_.)

SIR WALTER

How fares my boy, Simon, my youngest born,

My hope, my pride, young Woodvil, speak to me?

Some grief untold weighs heavy at thy heart:

I know it by thy alter'd cheer of late.

Thinkest, thy brother plays thy father false?

It is a mad and thriftless prodigal,

Grown proud upon the favours of the court;

Court manners, and court fashions, he affects,

And in the heat and uncheck'd blood of youth,

Harbours a company of riotous men,

All hot, and young, court-seekers, like himself,

Most skilful to devour a patrimony;

And these have eat into my old estates,

And these have drain'd thy father's cellars dry;

But these so common faults of youth not named,

(Things which themselves outgrow, left to themselves,)

I know no quality that stains his honor.

My life upon his faith and noble mind,

Son John could never play thy father false.

SIMON

I never thought but nobly of my brother,

Touching his honor and fidelity.

Still I could wish him charier of his person,

And of his time more frugal, than to spend

In riotous living, graceless society,

And mirth unpalatable, hours better employ'd

(With those persuasive graces nature lent him)

In fervent pleadings for a father's life.

SIR WALTER

I would not owe my life to a jealous court,

Whose shallow policy I know it is,

On some reluctant acts of prudent mercy,

(Not voluntary, but extorted by the times,

In the first tremblings of new-fixed power,

And recollection smarting from old wounds,)

On these to build a spurious popularity.

Unknowing what free grace or mercy mean,

They fear to punish, therefore do they pardon.

For this cause have I oft forbid my son,

By letters, overtures, open solicitings,

Or closet-tamperings, by gold or fee,

To beg or bargain with the court for my life.

SIMON

And John has ta'en you, father, at your word,

True to the letter of his paternal charge.

SIR WALTER

Well, my good cause, and my good conscience, boy,

Shall be for sons to me, if John prove false.

Men die but once, and the opportunity

Of a noble death is not an every-day fortune:

It is a gift which noble spirits pray for.

SIMON

I would not wrong my brother by surmise;

I know him generous, full of gentle qualities,

Incapable of base compliances,

No prodigal in his nature, but affecting

This shew of bravery for ambitious ends.

He drinks, for 'tis the humour of the court,

And drink may one day wrest the secret from him,

And pluck you from your hiding place in the sequel.

SIR WALTER

Fair death shall be my doom, and foul life his.

Till when, we'll live as free in this green forest

As yonder deer, who roam unfearing treason:

Who seem the Aborigines of this place,

Or Sherwood theirs by tenure.

SIMON

'Tis said, that Robert Earl of Huntingdon,

Men call'd him Robin Hood, an outlaw bold,

With a merry crew of hunters here did haunt,

Not sparing the king's venison. May one believe

The antique tale?

SIR WALTER

There is much likelihood,

Such bandits did in England erst abound,

When polity was young. I have read of the pranks

Of that mad archer, and of the tax he levied

On travellers, whatever their degree,

Baron, or knight, whoever pass'd these woods,

Layman, or priest, not sparing the bishop's mitre

For spiritual regards; nay, once, 'tis said,

He robb'd the king himself.

SIMON

A perilous man. (_Smiling_.)

SIR WALTER

How quietly we live here,

Unread in the world's business,

And take no note of all its slippery changes.

'Twere best we make a world among ourselves,

A little world,

Without the ills and falsehoods of the greater:

We two being all the inhabitants of ours,

And kings and subjects both in one.

SIMON

Only the dangerous errors, fond conceits,

Which make the business of that greater world,

Must have no place in ours:

As, namely, riches, honors, birth, place, courtesy,

Good fame and bad, rumours and popular noises,

Books, creeds, opinions, prejudices national,

Humours particular,

Soul-killing lies, and truths that work small good,

Feuds, factions, enmities, relationships,

Loves, hatreds, sympathies, antipathies,

And all the intricate stuff quarrels are made of.

(_Margaret enters in boy's apparel_.)

SIR WALTER

What pretty boy have we here?

MARGARET

_Bon jour, messieurs_. Ye have handsome English faces,

I should have ta'en you else for other two,

I came to seek in the forest.

SIR WALTER

Who are they?

MARGARET

A gallant brace of Frenchmen, curled monsieurs,

That, men say, haunt these woods, affecting privacy,

More than the manner of their countrymen.

SIMON

We have here a wonder.

The face is Margaret's face.

SIR WALTER

The face is Margaret's, but the dress the same

My Stephen sometimes wore.

(_To Margaret_)

Suppose us them; whom do men say we are?

Or know you what you seek?

MARGARET

A worthy pair of exiles,

Two whom the politics of state revenge,

In final issue of long civil broils,

Have houseless driven from your native France,

To wander idle in these English woods,

Where now ye live; most part

Thinking on home, and all the joys of France,

Where grows the purple vine.

SIR WALTER

These woods, young stranger,

And grassy pastures, which the slim deer loves,

Are they less beauteous than the land of France,

Where grows the purple vine?

MARGARET

I cannot tell.

To an indifferent eye both shew alike.

'Tis not the scene,

But all familiar objects in the scene,

Which now ye miss, that constitute a difference.

Ye had a country, exiles, ye have none now;

Friends had ye, and much wealth, ye now have nothing;

Our manners, laws, our customs, all are foreign to you,

I know ye loathe them, cannot learn them readily;

And there is reason, exiles, ye should love

Our English earth less than your land of France,

Where grows the purple vine; where all delights grow,

Old custom has made pleasant.

SIR WALTER

You, that are read

So deeply in our story, what are you?

MARGARET

A bare adventurer; in brief a woman,

That put strange garments on, and came thus far

To seek an ancient friend:

And having spent her stock of idle words,

And feeling some tears coming,

Hastes now to clasp Sir Walter Woodvil's knees,

And beg a boon for Margaret, his poor ward. (_Kneeling_.)

SIR WALTER

Not at my feet, Margaret, not at my feet.

MARGARET

Yes, till her suit is answer'd.

SIR WALTER

Name it.

MARGARET

A little boon, and yet so great a grace,

She fears to ask it.

SIR WALTER

Some riddle, Margaret?

MARGARET

No riddle, but a plain request.

SIR WALTER

Name it.

MARGARET

Free liberty of Sherwood,

And leave to take her lot with you in the forest.

SIR WALTER

A scant petition, Margaret, but take it,

Seal'd with an old man's tears.--

Rise, daughter of Sir Rowland.

(_Addresses them both._)

O you most worthy,

You constant followers of a man proscribed,

Following poor misery in the throat of danger;

Fast servitors to craz'd and penniless poverty,

Serving poor poverty without hope of gain;

Kind children of a sire unfortunate;

Green clinging tendrils round a trunk decay'd,

Which needs must bring on you timeless decay;

Fair living forms to a dead carcase join'd;--

What shall I say?

Better the dead were gather'd to the dead,

Than death and life in disproportion meet.--

Go, seek your fortunes, children.--

SIMON

Why, whither should we go?

SIR WALTER

_You_ to the Court, where now your brother John

Commits a rape on Fortune.

SIMON

Luck to John!

A light-heel'd strumpet, when the sport is done.

SIR WALTER

_You_ to the sweet society of your equals,

Where the world's fashion smiles on youth and beauty.

MARGARET

Where young men's flatteries cozen young maids' beauty,

There pride oft gets the vantage hand of duty,

There sweet humility withers.

SIMON

Mistress Margaret,

How fared my brother John, when you left Devon?

MARGARET

John was well, Sir.

SIMON

'Tis now nine months almost,

Since I saw home. What new friends has John made?

Or keeps he his first love?--I did suspect

Some foul disloyalty. Now do I know,

John has prov'd false to her, for Margaret weeps.

It is a scurvy brother.

SIR WALTER

Fie upon it.

All men are false, I think. The date of love

Is out, expired, its stories all grown stale,

O'erpast, forgotten, like an antique tale

Of Hero and Leander.

SIMON

I have known some men that are too general-contemplative for the narrow

passion. I am in some sort a _general_ lover.

MARGARET

In the name of the boy God, who plays at hood-man-blind with the Muses,

and cares not whom he catches: what is it _you_ love?

SIMON

Simply, all things that live,

From the crook'd worm to man's imperial form,

And God-resembling likeness. The poor fly,

That makes short holyday in the sun beam,

And dies by some child's hand. The feeble bird

With little wings, yet greatly venturous

In the upper sky. The fish in th' other element,

That knows no touch of eloquence. What else?

Yon tall and elegant stag,

Who paints a dancing shadow of his horns

In the water, where he drinks.

MARGARET

I myself love all these things, yet so as with a difference:--

for example, some animals better than others, some men

rather than other men; the nightingale before the cuckoo, the

swift and graceful palfrey before the slow and asinine mule.

Your humour goes to confound all qualities.

What sports do you use in the forest?--

SIMON

Not many; some few, as thus:--

To see the sun to bed, and to arise,

Like some hot amourist with glowing eyes,

Bursting the lazy bands of sleep that bound him,

With all his fires and travelling glories round him.

Sometimes the moon on soft night clouds to rest,

Like beauty nestling in a young man's breast,

And all the winking stars, her handmaids, keep

Admiring silence, while those lovers sleep.

Sometimes outstretcht, in very idleness,

Nought doing, saying little, thinking less,

To view the leaves, thin dancers upon air,

Go eddying round; and small birds, how they fare,

When mother Autumn fills their beaks with corn,

Filch'd from the careless Amalthea's horn;

And how the woods berries and worms provide

Without their pains, when earth has nought beside

To answer their small wants.

To view the graceful deer come tripping by,

Then stop, and gaze, then turn, they know not why,

Like bashful younkers in society.

To mark the structure of a plant or tree,

And all fair things of earth, how fair they be.

MARGARET (_smiling_)

And, afterwards them paint in simile.

SIR WALTER

Mistress Margaret will have need of some refreshment.

Please you, we have some poor viands within.

MARGARET

Indeed I stand in need of them.

SIR WALTER

Under the shade of a thick-spreading tree,

Upon the grass, no better carpeting,

We'll eat our noon-tide meal; and, dinner done,

One of us shall repair to Nottingham,

To seek some safe night-lodging in the town,

Where you may sleep, while here with us you dwell,

By day, in the forest, expecting better times,

And gentler habitations, noble Margaret.

SIMON

_Allons_, young Frenchman--

MARGARET

_Allons_, Sir Englishman. The time has been,

I've studied love-lays in the English tongue,

And been enamour'd of rare poesy:

Which now I must unlearn. Henceforth,

Sweet mother-tongue, old English speech, adieu;

For Margaret has got new name and language new.

(_Exeunt._)

ACT THE THIRD

SCENE.--_An Apartment of State in Woodvil Hall--Cavaliers drinking._

JOHN WOODVIL, LOVEL, GRAY, _and four more._

JOHN

More mirth, I beseech you, gentlemen--Mr. Gray, you are not merry.--

GRAY

More wine, say I, and mirth shall ensue in course. What! we have not yet

above three half-pints a man to answer for. Brevity is the soul of

drinking, as of wit. Despatch, I say. More wine. (_Fills._)

FIRST GENTLEMAN

I entreat you, let there be some order, some method, in our drinkings. I

love to lose my reason with my eyes open, to commit the deed of

drunkenness with forethought and deliberation. I love to feel the fumes

of the liquor gathering here, like clouds.

SECOND GENTLEMAN

And I am for plunging into madness at once. Damn order, and method, and

steps, and degrees, that he speaks of. Let confusion have her legitimate

work.

LOVEL

I marvel why the poets, who, of all men, methinks, should possess the

hottest livers, and most empyreal fancies, should affect to see such

virtues in cold water.

GRAY

Virtue in cold water! ha! ha! ha!--

JOHN

Because your poet-born hath an internal wine, richer than lippara or

canaries, yet uncrushed from any grapes of earth, unpressed in mortal

wine-presses.

THIRD GENTLEMAN

What may be the name of this wine?

JOHN

It hath as many names as qualities. It is denominated indifferently,

wit, conceit, invention, inspiration, but its most royal and

comprehensive name is _fancy_.

THIRD GENTLEMAN

And where keeps he this sovereign liquor?

JOHN

Its cellars are in the brain, whence your true poet deriveth

intoxication at will; while his animal spirits, catching a pride from

the quality and neighbourhood of their noble relative, the brain, refuse

to be sustained by wines and fermentations of earth.

THIRD GENTLEMAN

But is your poet-born alway tipsy with this liquor?

JOHN

He hath his stoopings and reposes; but his proper element is the sky,

and in the suburbs of the empyrean.

THIRD GENTLEMAN

Is your wine-intellectual so exquisite? henceforth, I, a man of plain

conceit, will, in all humility, content my mind with canaries.

FOURTH GENTLEMAN

I am for a song or a catch. When will the catches come on, the sweet

wicked catches?

JOHN

They cannot be introduced with propriety before midnight. Every man must

commit his twenty bumpers first. We are not yet well roused. Frank

Lovel, the glass stands with you.

LOVEL

Gentlemen, the Duke. (_Fills_.)

ALL

The Duke. (_They drink_.)

GRAY

Can any tell, why his Grace, being a Papist--

JOHN

Pshaw! we will have no questions of state now. Is not this his Majesty's

birth-day?

GRAY

What follows?

JOHN

That every man should sing, and be joyful, and ask no questions.

SECOND GENTLEMAN

Damn politics, they spoil drinking.

THIRD GENTLEMAN

For certain,'tis a blessed monarchy.

SECOND GENTLEMAN

The cursed fanatic days we have seen! The times have been when swearing

was out of fashion.

THIRD GENTLEMAN

And drinking.

FIRST GENTLEMAN

And wenching.

GRAY

The cursed yeas and forsooths, which we have heard uttered, when a man

could not rap out an innocent oath, but strait the air was thought to be

infected.

LOVEL

'Twas a pleasant trick of the saint, which that trim puritan

_Swear-not-at-all Smooth-speech_ used, when his spouse chid him with an

oath for committing with his servant-maid, to cause his house to be

fumigated with burnt brandy, and ends of scripture, to disperse the

devil's breath, as he termed it.

ALL

Ha! ha! ha!

GRAY

But 'twas pleasanter, when the other saint _Resist-the-devil-

and-he-will-flee-from-thee Pure-man_ was overtaken in the act, to plead

an illusio visûs, and maintain his sanctity upon a supposed power in the

adversary to counterfeit the shapes of things.

ALL

Ha! ha! ha!

JOHN

Another round, and then let every man devise what trick he can in his

fancy, for the better manifesting our loyalty this day.

GRAY

Shall we hang a puritan?

JOHN

No, that has been done already in Coleman-Street.

SECOND GENTLEMAN

Or fire a conventicle?

JOHN

That is stale too.

THIRD GENTLEMAN

Or burn the assembly's catechism?

FOURTH GENTLEMAN

Or drink the king's health, every man standing upon his head naked?

JOHN (_to Lovel_)

We have here some pleasant madness.

THIRD GENTLEMAN

Who shall pledge me in a pint bumper, while we drink to the king upon

our knees?

LOVEL

Why on our knees, Cavalier?

JOHN (_smiling_)

For more devotion, to be sure. (_To a servant_.) Sirrah, fetch the gilt

goblets.

(_The goblets are brought. They drink the king's health, kneeling. A

shout of general approbation following the first appearance of the

goblets_.)

JOHN

We have here the unchecked virtues of the grape. How the vapours curl

upwards! It were a life of gods to dwell in such an element: to see,

and hear, and talk brave things. Now fie upon these casual potations.

That a man's most exalted reason should depend upon the ignoble

fermenting of a fruit, which sparrows pluck at as well as we!

GRAY (_aside to Lovel_)

Observe how he is ravished.

LOVEL

Vanity and gay thoughts of wine do meet in him and engender madness.

(_While the rest are engaged in a wild kind of talk, John advances to

the front of the stage and soliloquises_.)

JOHN

My spirits turn to fire, they mount so fast.

My joys are turbulent, my hopes shew like fruition.

These high and gusty relishes of life, sure,

Have no allayings of mortality in them.

I am too hot now and o'ercapable,

For the tedious processes, and creeping wisdom,

Of human acts, and enterprizes of a man.

I want some seasonings of adversity,

Some strokes of the old mortifier Calamity,

To take these swellings down, divines call vanity.

FIRST GENTLEMAN

Mr. Woodvil, Mr. Woodvil.

SECOND GENTLEMAN

Where is Woodvil?

GRAY

Let him alone. I have seen him in these lunes before. His abstractions

must not taint the good mirth.

JOHN (_continuing to soliloquize_)

O for some friend now,

To conceal nothing from, to have no secrets.

How fine and noble a thing is confidence,

How reasonable too, and almost godlike!

Fast cement of fast friends, band of society,

Old natural go-between in the world's business,

Where civil life and order, wanting this cement,

Would presently rush back

Into the pristine state of singularity,

And each man stand alone.

(_A Servant enters._)

Gentlemen, the fire-works are ready.

FIRST GENTLEMAN

What be they?

LOVEL

The work of London artists, which our host has provided in honour of

this day.

SECOND GENTLEMAN

'Sdeath, who would part with his wine for a rocket?

LOVEL

Why truly, gentlemen, as our kind host has been at the pains to provide

this spectacle, we can do no less than be present at it. It will not

take up much time. Every man may return fresh and thirsting to his

liquor.

THIRD GENTLEMAN

There is reason in what he says.

SECOND GENTLEMAN

Charge on then, bottle in hand. There's husbandry in that.

(_They go out, singing. Only Level remains, who observes Woodvil_.)

JOHN (_still talking to himself_)

This Lovel here's of a tough honesty,

Would put the rack to the proof. He is not of that sort,

Which haunt my house, snorting the liquors,

And when their wisdoms are afloat with wine,

Spend vows as fast as vapours, which go off

Even with the fumes, their fathers. He is one,

Whose sober morning actions

Shame not his o'ernight's promises;

Talks little, flatters less, and makes no promises;

Why this is he, whom the dark-wisdom'd fate

Might trust her counsels of predestination with,

And the world be no loser.

Why should I fear this man?

(_Seeing Lovel_.)

Where is the company gone?

LOVEL

To see the fire-works, where you will be expected to follow. But I

perceive you are better engaged.

JOHN

I have been meditating this half-hour

On all the properties of a brave friendship,

The mysteries that are in it, the noble uses,

Its limits withal, and its nice boundaries.

_Exempli gratia_, how far a man

May lawfully forswear himself for his friend;

What quantity of lies, some of them brave ones,

He may lawfully incur in a friend's behalf;

What oaths, blood-crimes, hereditary quarrels,

Night brawls, fierce words, and duels in the morning,

He need not stick at, to maintain his friend's honor, or his cause.

LOVEL

I think many men would die for their friends.

JOHN

Death! why 'tis nothing. We go to it for sport,

To gain a name, or purse, or please a sullen humour,

When one has worn his fortune's livery threadbare,

Or his spleen'd mistress frowns. Husbands will venture on it,

To cure the hot fits and cold shakings of jealousy.

A friend, sir, must do more.

LOVEL

Can he do more than die?

JOHN

To serve a friend this he may do. Pray mark me.

Having a law within (great spirits feel one)

He cannot, ought not to be bound by any

Positive laws or ord'nances extern,

But may reject all these: by the law of friendship

He may do so much, be they, indifferently,

Penn'd statutes, or the land's unwritten usages,

As public fame, civil compliances,

Misnamed honor, trust in matter of secrets,

All vows and promises, the feeble mind's religion,

(Binding our morning knowledge to approve

What last night's ignorance spake);

The ties of blood withal, and prejudice of kin.

Sir, these weak terrors

Must never shake me. I know what belongs

To a worthy friendship. Come, you shall have my confidence.

LOVEL

I hope you think me worthy.

JOHN

You will smile to hear now--

Sir Walter never has been out of the island.

LOVEL

You amaze me.

JOHN

That same report of his escape to France

Was a fine tale, forg'd by myself--Ha! ha!

I knew it would stagger him.

LOVEL

Pray, give me leave.

Where has he dwelt, how liv'd, how lain conceal'd?

Sure I may ask so much.

JOHN

From place to place, dwelling in no place long,

My brother Simon still hath borne him company,

('Tis a brave youth, I envy him all his virtues.)

Disguis'd in foreign garb, they pass for Frenchmen,

Two Protestant exiles from the Limosin

Newly arriv'd. Their dwelling's now at Nottingham,

Where no soul knows them.

LOVEL

Can you assign any reason, why a gentleman of Sir Walter's known

prudence should expose his person so lightly?

JOHN

I believe, a certain fondness,

A child-like cleaving to the land that gave him birth,

Chains him like fate.

LOVEL

I have known some exiles thus

To linger out the term of the law's indulgence,

To the hazard of being known.

JOHN

You may suppose sometimes

They use the neighb'ring Sherwood for their sport,

Their exercise and freer recreation.--

I see you smile. Pray now, be careful.

LOVEL

I am no babbler, sir; you need not fear me.

JOHN

But some men have been known to talk in their sleep,

And tell fine tales that way.

LOVEL

I have heard so much. But, to say truth, I mostly sleep alone.

JOHN

Or drink, sir? do you never drink too freely?

Some men will drink, and tell you all their secrets.

LOVEL

Why do you question me, who know my habits?

JOHN

I think you are no sot,

No tavern-troubler, worshipper of the grape;

But all men drink sometimes,

And veriest saints at festivals relax,

The marriage of a friend, or a wife's birth-day.

LOVEL

How much, sir, may a man with safety drink? (_Smiling_.)

JOHN

Sir, three half pints a day is reasonable;

I care not if you never exceed that quantity.

LOVEL

I shall observe it;

On holidays two quarts.

JOHN

Or stay; you keep no wench?

LOVEL

Ha!

JOHN

No painted mistress for your private hours?

You keep no whore, sir?

LOVEL

What does he mean?

JOHN

Who for a close embrace, a toy of sin,

And amorous praising of your worship's breath,

In rosy junction of four melting lips,

Can kiss out secrets from you?

LOVEL

How strange this passionate behaviour shews in you!

Sure you think me some weak one.

JOHN

Pray pardon me some fears.

You have now the pledge of a dear father's life.

I am a son--would fain be thought a loving one;

You may allow me some fears: do not despise me,

If, in a posture foreign to my spirit,

And by our well-knit friendship I conjure you,

Touch not Sir Walter's life. (_Kneels_.)

You see these tears. My father's an old man.

Pray let him live.

LOVEL

I must be bold to tell you, these new freedoms

Shew most unhandsome in you.

JOHN (_rising_)

Ha! do you say so?

Sure, you are not grown proud upon my secret!

Ah! now I see it plain. He would be babbling.

No doubt a garrulous and hard-fac'd traitor--

But I'll not give you leave. (_Draws_.)

LOVEL

What does this madman mean?

JOHN

Come, sir; here is no subterfuge.

You must kill me, or I kill you.

LOVEL (_drawing_)

Then self-defence plead my excuse.

Have at you, sir. (_They fight_.)

JOHN

Stay, sir.

I hope you have made your will.

If not, 'tis no great matter.

A broken cavalier has seldom much

He can bequeath: an old worn peruke,

A snuff-box with a picture of Prince Rupert,

A rusty sword he'll swear was used at Naseby,

Though it ne'er came within ten miles of the place;

And, if he's very rich,

A cheap edition of the _Icon Basilike_,

Is mostly all the wealth he dies possest of.

You say few prayers, I fancy;--

So to it again. (_They fight again. Lovel is disarmed_.)

LOVEL

You had best now take my life. I guess you mean it.

JOHN (_musing_)

No:--Men will say I fear'd him, if I kill'd him.

Live still, and be a traitor in thy wish,

But never act thy thought, being a coward.

That vengeance, which thy soul shall nightly thirst for,

And this disgrace I've done you cry aloud for,

Still have the will without the power to execute.

So now I leave you,

Feeling a sweet security. No doubt

My secret shall remain a virgin for you!--

(_Goes out, smiling in scorn_.)

LOVEL (_rising_)

For once you are mistaken in your man.

The deed you wot of shall forthwith be done.

A bird let loose, a secret out of hand,

Returns not back. Why, then 'tis baby policy

To menace him who hath it in his keeping.

I will go look for Gray;

Then, northward ho! such tricks as we shall play

Have not been seen, I think, in merry Sherwood,

Since the days of Robin Hood, that archer good.

ACT THE FOURTH

SCENE.--_An Apartment in Woodvil Hall_.

JOHN WOODVIL (_alone_)

A weight of wine lies heavy on my head,

The unconcocted follies of last night.

Now all those jovial fancies, and bright hopes,

Children of wine, go off like dreams.

This sick vertigo here

Preacheth of temperance, no sermon better.

These black thoughts, and dull melancholy,

That stick like burrs to the brain, will they ne'er leave me?

Some men are full of choler, when they are drunk;

Some brawl of matter foreign to themselves;

And some, the most resolved fools of all,

Have told their dearest secrets in their cups.

SCENE.--_The Forest_.

SIR WALTER. SIMON. LOVEL. GRAY.

LOVEL

Sir, we are sorry we cannot return your French salutation.

GRAY

Nor otherwise consider this garb you trust to than as a poor disguise.

LOVEL

Nor use much ceremony with a traitor.

GRAY

Therefore, without much induction of superfluous words, I attach you,

Sir Walter Woodvil, of High Treason, in the King's name.

LOVEL

And of taking part in the great Rebellion against our late lawful

Sovereign, Charles the First.

SIMON

John has betrayed us, father.

LOVEL

Come, Sir, you had best surrender fairly. We know you, Sir.

SIMON

Hang ye, villains, ye are two better known than trusted. I have seen

those faces before. Are ye not two beggarly retainers,

trencher-parasites, to John? I think ye rank above his footmen. A sort

of bed and board worms--locusts that infest our house; a leprosy that

long has hung upon its walls and princely apartments, reaching to fill

all the corners of my brother's once noble heart.

GRAY

We are his friends.

SIMON

Fie, Sir, do not weep. How these rogues will triumph! Shall I whip off

their heads, father? (_Draws_.)

LOVEL

Come, Sir, though this shew handsome in you, being his son, yet the law

must have its course.

SIMON

And if I tell you the law shall not have its course, cannot ye be

content? Courage, father; shall such things as these apprehend a man?

Which of ye will venture upon me?--Will you, Mr. Constable self-elect?

or you, Sir, with a pimple on your nose, got at Oxford by hard drinking,

your only badge of loyalty?

GRAY

'Tis a brave youth--I cannot strike at him.

SIMON

Father, why do you cover your face with your hands? Why do you fetch

your breath so hard? See, villains, his heart is burst! O villains, he

cannot speak. One of you run for some water: quickly, ye knaves; will ye

have your throats cut? (_They both slink off_.) How is it with you, Sir

Walter? Look up, Sir, the villains are gone. He hears me not, and this

deep disgrace of treachery in his son hath touched him even to the

death. O most distuned, and distempered world, where sons talk their

aged fathers into their graves! Garrulous and diseased world, and still

empty, rotten and hollow _talking_ world, where good men decay, states

turn round in an endless mutability, and still for the worse, nothing is

at a stay, nothing abides but vanity, chaotic vanity.--Brother, adieu!

There lies the parent stock which gave us life,

Which I will see consign'd with tears to earth.

Leave thou the solemn funeral rites to me,

Grief and a true remorse abide with thee.

(_Bears in the body_.)

SCENE.--_Another Part of the Forest_.

MARGARET (_alone_)

It was an error merely, and no crime,

An unsuspecting openness in youth,

That from his lips the fatal secret drew,

Which should have slept like one of nature's mysteries,

Unveil'd by any man.

Well, he is dead!

And what should Margaret do in the forest?

O ill-starr'd John!

O Woodvil, man enfeoffed to despair!

Take thy farewell of peace.

O never look again to see good days,

Or close thy lids in comfortable nights,

Or ever think a happy thought again,

If what I have heard be true.--

Forsaken of the world must Woodvil live,

If he did tell these men.

No tongue must speak to him, no tongue of man

Salute him, when he wakes up in a morning;

Or bid "good-night" to John. Who seeks to live

In amity with thee, must for thy sake

Abide the world's reproach. What then?

Shall Margaret join the clamours of the world

Against her friend? O undiscerning world,

That cannot from misfortune separate guilt,

No, not in thought! O never, never, John.

Prepar'd to share the fortunes of her friend

_For better or for worse_ thy Margaret comes,

To pour into thy wounds a healing love,

And wake the memory of an ancient friendship.

And pardon me, thou spirit of Sir Walter,

Who, in compassion to the wretched living,

Have but few tears to waste upon the dead.

SCENE.--_Woodvil Hall_.

SANDFORD. MARGARET.

(_As from a Journey_.)

SANDFORD

The violence of the sudden mischance hath so wrought in him, who by

nature is allied to nothing less than a self-debasing humour of

dejection, that I have never seen any thing more changed and

spirit-broken. He hath, with a peremptory resolution, dismissed the

partners of his riots and late hours, denied his house and person to

their most earnest solicitings, and will be seen by none. He keeps ever

alone, and his grief (which is solitary) does not so much seem to

possess and govern in him, as it is by him, with a wilfulness of most

manifest affection, entertained and cherished.

MARGARET

How bears he up against the common rumour?

SANDFORD

With a strange indifference, which whosoever dives not into the niceness

of his sorrow might mistake for obdurate and insensate. Yet are the

wings of his pride for ever clipt; and yet a virtuous predominance of

filial grief is so ever uppermost, that you may discover his thoughts

less troubled with conjecturing what living opinions will say, and judge

of his deeds, than absorbed and buried with the dead, whom his

indiscretion made so.

MARGARET

I knew a greatness ever to be resident in him, to which the admiring

eyes of men should look up even in the declining and bankrupt state of

his pride. Fain would I see him, fain talk with him; but that a sense of

respect, which is violated, when without deliberation we press into the

society of the unhappy, checks and holds me back. How, think you, he

would bear my presence?

SANDFORD

As of an assured friend, whom in the forgetfulness of his fortunes he

past by. See him you must; but not to-night. The newness of the sight

shall move the bitterest compunction and the truest remorse; but

afterwards, trust me, dear lady, the happiest effects of a returning

peace, and a gracious comfort, to him, to you, and all of us.

MARGARET

I think he would not deny me. He hath ere this received farewell letters

from his brother, who hath taken a resolution to estrange himself, for a

time, from country, friends, and kindred, and to seek occupation for his

sad thoughts in travelling in foreign places, where sights remote and

extern to himself may draw from him kindly and not painful ruminations.

SANDFORD

I was present at the receipt of the letter. The contents seemed to

affect him, for a moment, with a more lively passion of grief than he

has at any time outwardly shewn. He wept with many tears (which I had

not before noted in him) and appeared to be touched with a sense as of

some unkindness; but the cause of their sad separation and divorce

quickly recurring, he presently returned to his former inwardness of

suffering.

MARGARET

The reproach of his brother's presence at this hour should have been a

weight more than could be sustained by his already oppressed and sinking

spirit.--Meditating upon these intricate and wide-spread sorrows, hath

brought a heaviness upon me, as of sleep. How goes the night?

SANDFORD

An hour past sun-set. You shall first refresh your limbs (tired with

travel) with meats and some cordial wine, and then betake your no less

wearied mind to repose.

MARGARET

A good rest to us all.

SANDFORD

Thanks, lady.

ACT THE FIFTH

JOHN WOODVIL (_dressing_).

JOHN

How beautiful, (_handling his mourning_)

And comely do these mourning garments shew!

Sure Grief hath set his sacred impress here,

To claim the world's respect! they note so feelingly

By outward types the serious man within.--

Alas! what part or portion can I claim

In all the decencies of virtuous sorrow,

Which other mourners use? as namely,

This black attire, abstraction from society,

Good thoughts, and frequent sighs, and seldom smiles,

A cleaving sadness native to the brow,

All sweet condolements of like-grieved friends,

(That steal away the sense of loss almost)

Men's pity, and good offices

Which enemies themselves do for us then,

Putting their hostile disposition off,

As we put off our high thoughts and proud looks.

(_Pauses, and observes the pictures_.)

These pictures must be taken down:

The portraitures of our most antient family

For nigh three hundred years! How have I listen'd,

To hear Sir Walter, with an old man's pride,

Holding me in his arms, a prating boy,

And pointing to the pictures where they hung,

Repeat by course their worthy histories,

(As Hugh de Widville, Walter, first of the name,

And Ann the handsome, Stephen, and famous John:

Telling me, I must be his famous John.)

But that was in old times.

Now, no more

Must I grow proud upon our house's pride.

I rather, I, by most unheard of crimes,

Have backward tainted all their noble blood,

Rased out the memory of an ancient family,

And quite revers'd the honors of our house.

Who now shall sit and tell us anecdotes?

The secret history of his own times,

And fashions of the world when he was young:

How England slept out three and twenty years,

While Carr and Villiers rul'd the baby king:

The costly fancies of the pedant's reign,

Balls, feastings, huntings, shows in allegory,

And Beauties of the court of James the First.

_Margaret enters._

JOHN

Comes Margaret here to witness my disgrace?

O, lady, I have suffer'd loss,

And diminution of my honor's brightness.

You bring some images of old times, Margaret,

That should be now forgotten.

MARGARET

Old times should never be forgotten, John.

I came to talk about them with my friend.

JOHN

I did refuse you, Margaret, in my pride.

MARGARET

If John rejected Margaret in his pride,

(As who does not, being splenetic, refuse

Sometimes old play-fellows,) the spleen being gone,

The offence no longer lives.

O Woodvil, those were happy days,

When we two first began to love. When first,

Under pretence of visiting my father,

(Being then a stripling nigh upon my age)

You came a wooing to his daughter, John.

Do you remember,

With what a coy reserve and seldom speech,

(Young maidens must be chary of their speech,)

I kept the honors of my maiden pride?

I was your favourite then.

JOHN

O Margaret, Margaret!

These your submissions to my low estate,

And cleavings to the fates of sunken Woodvil,

Write bitter things 'gainst my unworthiness.

Thou perfect pattern of thy slander'd sex,

Whom miseries of mine could never alienate,

Nor change of fortune shake; whom injuries,

And slights (the worst of injuries) which moved

Thy nature to return scorn with like scorn,

Then when you left in virtuous pride this house,

Could not so separate, but now in this

My day of shame, when all the world forsake me,

You only visit me, love, and forgive me.

MARGARET

Dost yet remember the green arbour, John,

In the south gardens of my father's house,

Where we have seen the summer sun go down,

Exchanging true love's vows without restraint?

And that old wood, you call'd your wilderness,

And vow'd in sport to build a chapel in it,

There dwell

"Like hermit poor

In pensive place obscure,"

And tell your Ave Maries by the curls

(Dropping like golden beads) of Margaret's hair;

And make confession seven times a day

Of every thought that stray'd from love and Margaret;

And I your saint the penance should appoint--

Believe me, sir, I will not now be laid

Aside, like an old fashion.

JOHN

O lady, poor and abject are my thoughts,

My pride is cured, my hopes are under clouds,

I have no part in any good man's love,

In all earth's pleasures portion have I none,

I fade and wither in my own esteem,

This earth holds not alive so poor a thing as I am.

I was not always thus. (_Weeps_.)

MARGARET

Thou noble nature,

Which lion-like didst awe the inferior creatures,

Now trampled on by beasts of basest quality,

My dear heart's lord, life's pride, soul-honor'd John,

Upon her knees (regard her poor request)

Your favourite, once-beloved Margaret, kneels.

JOHN

What would'st thou, lady, ever-honor'd Margaret?

MARGARET

That John would think more nobly of himself,

More worthily of high heaven;

And not for one misfortune, child of chance,

No crime, but unforeseen, and sent to punish

The less offence with image of the greater,

Thereby to work the soul's humility,

(Which end hath happily not been frustrate quite,)

O not for one offence mistrust heaven's mercy,

Nor quit thy hope of happy days to come--

John yet has many happy days to live;

To live and make atonement.

JOHN

Excellent lady,

Whose suit hath drawn this softness from my eyes,

Not the world's scorn, nor falling off of friends

Could ever do. Will you go with me, Margaret?

MARGARET (_rising_)

Go whither, John?

JOHN

Go in with me,

And pray for the peace of our unquiet minds?

MARGARET

That I will, John.--

(_Exeunt_.)

SCENE.--_An inner Apartment_.

(_John is discovered kneeling.--Margaret standing over him_.)

JOHN (_rises_)

I cannot bear

To see you waste that youth and excellent beauty,

('Tis now the golden time of the day with you,)

In tending such a broken wretch as I am.

MARGARET

John will break Margaret's heart, if he speak so.

O sir, sir, sir, you are too melancholy,

And I must call it caprice. I am somewhat bold

Perhaps in this. But you are now my patient,

(You know you gave me leave to call you so,)

And I must chide these pestilent humours from you.

JOHN

They are gone.--

Mark, love, how cheerfully I speak!

I can smile too, and I almost begin

To understand what kind of creature Hope is.

MARGARET

Now this is better, this mirth becomes you, John.

JOHN

Yet tell me, if I over-act my mirth.

(Being but a novice, I may fall into that error,)

That were a sad indecency, you know.

MARGARET

Nay, never fear.

I will be mistress of your humours,

And you shall frown or smile by the book.

And herein I shall be most peremptory,

Cry, "this shews well, but that inclines to levity,

This frown has too much of the Woodvil in it,

But that fine sunshine has redeem'd it quite."

JOHN

How sweetly Margaret robs me of myself!

MARGARET

To give you in your stead a better self!

Such as you were, when these eyes first beheld

You mounted on your sprightly steed, White Margery,

Sir Rowland my father's gift,

And all my maidens gave my heart for lost.

I was a young thing then, being newly come

Home from my convent education, where

Seven years I had wasted in the bosom of France:

Returning home true protestant, you call'd me

Your little heretic nun. How timid-bashful

Did John salute his love, being newly seen.

Sir Rowland term'd it a rare modesty,

And prais'd it in a youth.

JOHN

Now Margaret weeps herself.

(_A noise of bells heard_.)

MARGARET

Hark the bells, John.

JOHN

Those are the church bells of St. Mary Ottery.

MARGARET

I know it.

JOHN

Saint Mary Ottery, my native village

In the sweet shire of Devon.

Those are the bells.

MARGARET

Wilt go to church, John?

JOHN

I have been there already.

MARGARET

How canst say thou hast been there already? The bells are only now

ringing for morning service, and hast thou been at church already?

JOHN

I left my bed betimes, I could not sleep,

And when I rose, I look'd (as my custom is)

From my chamber window, where I can see the sun rise;

And the first object I discern'd

Was the glistering spire of St. Mary Ottery.

MARGARET

Well, John.

JOHN

Then I remember'd 'twas the sabbath-day.

Immediately a wish arose in my mind,

To go to church and pray with Christian people.

And then I check'd myself, and said to myself,

"Thou hast been a heathen, John, these two years past,

(Not having been at church in all that time,)

And is it fit, that now for the first time

Thou should'st offend the eyes of Christian people

With a murderer's presence in the house of prayer?

Thou would'st but discompose their pious thoughts,

And do thyself no good: for how could'st thou pray,

With unwash'd hands, and lips unus'd to the offices?"

And then I at my own presumption smiled;

And then I wept that I should smile at all,

Having such cause of grief! I wept outright;

Tears like a river flooded all my face,

And I began to pray, and found I could pray;

And still I yearn'd to say my prayers in the church.

"Doubtless (said I) one might find comfort in it."

So stealing down the stairs, like one that fear'd detection,

Or was about to act unlawful business

At that dead time of dawn,

I flew to the church, and found the doors wide open,

(Whether by negligence I knew not,

Or some peculiar grace to me vouchsaf'd,

For all things felt like mystery).

MARGARET

Yes.

JOHN

So entering in, not without fear,

I past into the family pew,

And covering up my eyes for shame,

And deep perception of unworthiness,

Upon the little hassock knelt me down,

Where I so oft had kneel'd,

A docile infant by Sir Walter's side;

And, thinking so, I wept a second flood

More poignant than the first;

But afterwards was greatly comforted.

It seem'd, the guilt of blood was passing from me

Even in the act and agony of tears,

And all my sins forgiven.

* * * * *

THE WITCH

A DRAMATIC SKETCH OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY (1798)

* * * * *

CHARACTERS

_Old Servant in the Family of Sir Francis Pairford. Stranger._

* * * * *

SERVANT

One summer night Sir Francis, as it chanced,

Was pacing to and fro in the avenue

That westward fronts our house,

Among those aged oaks, said to have been planted

Three hundred years ago

By a neighb'ring prior of the Fairford name.

Being o'er-task'd in thought, he heeded not

The importunate suit of one who stood by the gate,

And begged an alms.

Some say he shoved her rudely from the gate

With angry chiding; but I can never think

(Our master's nature hath a sweetness in it)

That he could use a woman, an old woman,

With such discourtesy: but he refused her--

And better had he met a lion in his path

Than that old woman that night;

For she was one who practised the black arts,

And served the devil, being since burnt for witchcraft.

She looked at him as one that meant to blast him,

And with a frightful noise,

('Twas partly like a woman's voice,

And partly like the hissing of a snake,)

She nothing said but this:--

(Sir Francis told the words)

_A mischief, mischief, mischief,

And a nine-times-killing curse,

By day and by night, to the caitiff wight,

Who shakes the poor like snakes from his door,

And shuts up the womb of his purse_.

And still she cried

_A mischief,

And a nine-fold-withering curse:

For that shall come to thee that will undo thee,

Both all that thou fearest and worse_.

So saying, she departed,

Leaving Sir Francis like a man, beneath

Whose feet a scaffolding was suddenly falling;

So he described it.

STRANGER

A terrible curse! What followed?

SERVANT

Nothing immediate, but some two months after

Young Philip Fairford suddenly fell sick,

And none could tell what ailed him; for he lay,

And pined, and pined, till all his hair fell off,

And he, that was full-fleshed, became as thin

As a two-months' babe that has been starved in the nursing.

And sure I think

He bore his death-wound like a little child;

With such rare sweetness of dumb melancholy

He strove to clothe his agony in smiles,

Which he would force up in his poor pale cheeks,

Like ill-timed guests that had no proper dwelling there;

And, when they asked him his complaint, he laid

His hand upon his heart to shew the place,

Where Susan came to him a-nights, he said,

And prick'd him with a pin.--

And thereupon Sir Francis called to mind

The beggar-witch that stood by the gateway

And begged an alms.

STRANGER

But did the witch confess?

SERVANT

All this and more at her death.

STRANGER

I do not love to credit tales of magic.

Heaven's music, which is Order, seems unstrung,

And this brave world

(The mystery of God) unbeautified,

Disorder'd, marr'd, where such strange things are acted.

* * * * *

Mr. H----

A FARCE IN TWO ACTS

As it was performed at Drury Lane Theatre, _December, 1806_

"Mr. H----, thou wert DAMNED. Bright shone the morning on the play-bills

that announced thy appearance, and the streets were filled with the buzz

of persons asking one another if they would go to see Mr. H----, and

answering that they would certainly; but before night the gaiety, not of

the author, but of his friends and the town, was eclipsed, for thou wert

DAMNED! Hadst thou been anonymous, thou haply mightst have lived. But

thou didst come to an untimely end for thy tricks, and for want of a

better name to pass them off----."

--_Theatrical Examiner._

* * * * *

CHARACTERS

Mr. H---- _Mr. Elliston_.

BELVIL _Mr. Bartley_.

LANDLORD PRY _Mr. Wewitzer_.

MELESINDA _Miss Mellon_.

Maid to Melesinda. _Mrs. Harlowe_.

Gentlemen, Ladies, Waiters, Servants, &c.

SCENE.--_Bath_

* * * * *

PROLOGUE

_Spoken by Mr. Elliston_

If we have sinn'd in paring down a name,

All civil well-bred authors do the same.

Survey the columns of our daily writers--

You'll find that some Initials are great fighters.

How fierce the shock, how fatal is the jar,

When Ensign W. meets Lieutenant R.

With two stout seconds, just of their own gizard,

Cross Captain X. and rough old General Izzard!

Letter to Letter spreads the dire alarms,

Till half the Alphabet is up in arms.

Nor with less lustre have Initials shone,

To grace the gentler annals of Crim. Con.

Where the dispensers of the public lash

Soft penance give; a letter and a dash--

Where vice reduced in size shrinks to a failing,

And loses half her grossness by curtailing.

Faux pas are told in such a modest way,--

The affair of Colonel B---- with Mrs. A----

You must forgive them--for what is there, say,

Which such a pliant Vowel must not grant

To such a very pressing Consonant?

Or who poetic justice dares dispute,

When, mildly melting at a lover's suit,

The wife's a Liquid, her good man a Mute?

Even in the homelier scenes of honest life,

The coarse-spun intercourse of man and wife,

Initials I am told have taken place

Of Deary, Spouse, and that old-fashioned race;

And Cabbage, ask'd by Brother Snip to tea,

Replies, "I'll come--but it don't rest with me--

I always leaves them things to Mrs. C."

O should this mincing fashion ever spread

From names of living heroes to the dead,

How would Ambition sigh, and hang the head,

As each lov'd syllable should melt away--

Her Alexander turned into Great A----

A single C. her Caesar to express--

Her Scipio shrunk into a Roman S----

And nick'd and dock'd to these new modes of speech,

Great Hannibal himself a Mr. H----.

* * * * *

MR. H----

A FARCE IN TWO ACTS

* * * * *

ACT I

SCENE.--_A Public Room in an Inn--Landlord, Waiters, Gentlemen, &c.

Enter Mr. H._

MR. H.

Landlord, has the man brought home my boots?

LANDLORD

Yes, Sir.

MR. H.

You have paid him?

LANDLORD

There is the receipt, Sir, only not quite filled up, no name, only

blank--"Blank, Dr. to Zekiel Spanish for one pair of best hessians."

Now, Sir, he wishes to know what name he shall put in, who he shall say

"Dr."

MR. H.

Why, Mr. H. to be sure.

LANDLORD

So I told him, Sir; but Zekiel has some qualms about it. He says, he

thinks that Mr. H. only would not stand good in law.

MR. H.

Rot his impertinence, bid him put in Nebuchadnezzar, and not trouble me

with his scruples.

LANDLORD

I shall, Sir. [_Exit_.]

_Enter a Waiter_.

WAITER

Sir, Squire Level's man is below, with a hare and a brace of pheasants

for Mr. H.

MR. H.

Give the man half-a-crown, and bid him return my best respects to his

master. Presents it seems will find me out, with any name, or no name.

_Enter Second Waiter_.

SECOND WAITER

Sir, the man that makes up the Directory is at the door.

MR. H.

Give him a shilling, that is what these fellows come for.

SECOND WAITER

He has sent up to know by what name your Honour will please to be

inserted.

MR. H.

Zounds, fellow, I give him a shilling for leaving out my name, not for

putting it in. This is one of the plaguy comforts of going anonymous.

[_Exit Second Waiter_.]

_Enter Third Waiter_.

THIRD WAITER

Two letters for Mr. H. [_Exit_.]

MR. H.

From ladies (_opens them_). This from Melesinda, to remind me of the

morning call I promised; the pretty creature positively languishes to be

made Mrs. H. I believe I must indulge her (_affectedly_). This from her

cousin, to bespeak me to some party, I suppose (_opening it_)--Oh, "this

evening"--"Tea and cards"--(_surveying himself with complacency_). Dear

H., thou art certainly a pretty fellow. I wonder what makes thee such a

favourite among the ladies: I wish it may not be owing to the

concealment of thy unfortunate--pshaw!

_Enter Fourth Waiter_.

FOURTH WAITER

Sir, one Mr. Printagain is enquiring for you.

MR. H.

Oh, I remember, the poet; he is publishing by subscription. Give him a

guinea, and tell him he may put me down.

FOURTH WAITER

What name shall I tell him, Sir?

MR. H.

Zounds, he is a poet; let him fancy a name.

[_Exit Fourth Waiter_.]

_Enter Fifth Waiter_.

FIFTH WAITER

Sir, Bartlemy the lame beggar, that you sent a private donation to last

Monday, has by some accident discovered his benefactor, and is at the

door waiting to return thanks.

MR. H.

Oh, poor fellow, who could put it into his head? Now I shall be teazed

by all his tribe, when once this is known. Well, tell him I am glad I

could be of any service to him, and send him away.

FIFTH WAITER

I would have done so, Sir; but the object of his call now, he says, is

only to know who he is obliged to.

MR. H.

Why, me.

FIFTH WAITER

Yes, Sir.

MR. H.

Me, me, me, who else, to be sure?

FIFTH WAITER

Yes, Sir; but he is anxious to know the name of his benefactor.

MR. H.

Here is a pampered rogue of a beggar, that cannot be obliged to a

gentleman in the way of his profession, but he must know the name,

birth, parentage, and education of his benefactor. I warrant you, next

he will require a certificate of one's good behaviour, and a

magistrate's licence in one's pocket, lawfully empowering so and so

to--give an alms. Any thing more? FIFTH WAITER

Yes, Sir: here has been Mr. Patriot, with the county petition to sign;

and Mr. Failtime, that owes so much money, has sent to remind you of

your promise to bail him.

MR. H.

Neither of which I can do, while I have no name. Here is more of the

plaguy comforts of going anonymous, that one can neither serve one's

friend nor one's country. Damn it, a man had better be without a nose,

than without a name. I will not live long in this mutilated, dismembered

state; I will to Melesinda this instant, and try to forget these

vexations. Melesinda! there is music in the name; but then, hang it,

there is none in mine to answer to it. [_Exit_.]

(_While Mr. H. has been speaking, two Gentlemen have been observing him

curiously._)

FIRST GENTLEMAN

Who the devil is this extraordinary personage?

SECOND GENTLEMAN

Who? why 'tis Mr. H.

FIRST GENTLEMAN

Has he no more name?

SECOND GENTLEMAN

None that has yet transpired. No more! why that single letter has been

enough to inflame the imaginations of all the ladies in Bath. He has

been here but a fortnight, and is already received into all the first

families.

FIRST GENTLEMAN

Wonderful! yet nobody knows who he is, or where he comes from!

SECOND GENTLEMAN

He is vastly rich, gives away money as if he had infinity; dresses well,

as you see; and for address, the mothers are all dying for fear the

daughters should get him; and for the daughters, he may command them as

absolutely as--. Melesinda, the rich heiress, 'tis thought, will carry

him.

FIRST GENTLEMAN

And is it possible that a mere anonymous--

SECOND GENTLEMAN

Phoo! that is the charm, Who is he? and What is he? and What is his

name?--The man with the great nose on his face never excited more of the

gaping passion of wonderment in the dames of Strasburg, than this

new-comer with the single letter to his name, has lighted up among the

wives and maids of Bath; his simply having lodgings here, draws more

visitors to the house than an election. Come with me to the parade, and

I will shew you more of him. [_Exeunt_.]

SCENE.--_In the Street_.

(MR. H. _walking_, BELVIL _meeting him_.)

BELVIL

My old Jamaica school-fellow, that I have not seen for so many years? it

must, it can be no other than Jack (_going up to him_). My dear Ho----

MR. H. (_Stopping his mouth._)

Ho----! the devil, hush.

BELVIL

Why sure it is--

MR. H.

It is, it is your old friend Jack, that shall be nameless.

BELVIL

My dear Ho----

MR. H. (_Stopping him_.)

Don't name it.

BELVIL

Name what?

MR. H.

My curst, unfortunate name. I have reasons to conceal it for a time.

BELVIL

I understand you--Creditors, Jack?

MR. H.

No, I assure you.

BELVIL

Snapp'd up a ward, peradventure, and the whole Chancery at your heels?

MR. H.

I don't use to travel with such cumbersome luggage.

BELVIL

You ha'n't taken a purse?

MR. H.

To relieve you at once from all disgraceful conjectures, you must know,

'tis nothing but the sound of my name.

BELVIL

Ridiculous! 'tis true your's is none of the most romantic, but what can

that signify in a man?

MR. H.

You must understand that I am in some credit with the ladies.

BELVIL

With the ladies!

MR. H.

And truly I think not without some pretensions. My fortune--

BELVIL

Sufficiently splendid, if I may judge from your appearance.

MR. H.

My figure--

BELVIL

Airy, gay, and imposing.

MR. H.

My parts--

BELVIL

Bright.

MR. H.

My conversation--

BELVIL

Equally remote from flippancy and taciturnity.

MR. H.

But then my name--damn my name.

BELVIL

Childish!

MR. H.

Not so. Oh, Belvil, you are blest with one which sighing virgins may

repeat without a blush, and for it change the paternal. But what virgin

of any delicacy (and I require some in a wife) would endure to be called

Mrs.----?

BELVIL

Ha! ha! ha! most absurd. Did not Clementina Falconbridge, the romantic

Clementina Falconbridge, fancy Tommy Potts? and Rosabella Sweetlips

sacrifice her mellifluous appellative to Jack Deady? Matilda her cousin

married a Gubbins, and her sister Amelia a Clutterbuck.

MR. H.

Potts is tolerable, Deady is sufferable, Gubbins is bearable, and

Clutterbuck is endurable, but Ho--

BELVIL

Hush, Jack, don't betray yourself. But you are really ashamed of the

family name?

MR. H.

Aye, and of my father that begot me, and my father's father, and all

their forefathers that have borne it since the conquest.

BELVIL

But how do you know the women are so squeamish?

MR. H.

I have tried them. I tell you there is neither maiden of sixteen nor

widow of sixty but would turn up their noses at it. I have been refused

by nineteen virgins, twenty-nine relicts, and two old maids.

BELVIL

That was hard indeed, Jack.

MR. H.

Parsons have stuck at publishing the banns, because they averred it was

a heathenish name; parents have lingered their consent, because they

suspected it was a fictitious name; and rivals have declined my

challenges, because they pretended it was an ungentlemanly name.

BELVIL

Ha, ha, ha, but what course do you mean to pursue?

MR. H.

To engage the affections of some generous girl, who will be content to

take me as Mr. H.

BELVIL

Mr. H.?

MR. H.

Yes, that is the name I go by here; you know one likes to be as near the

truth as possible.

BELVIL

Certainly. But what then? to get her to consent--

MR. H.

To accompany me to the altar without a name--in short to suspend her

curiosity (that is all) till the moment the priest shall pronounce the

irrevocable charm, which makes two names one.

BELVIL

And that name--and then she must be pleased, ha, Jack?

MR. H.

Exactly such a girl it has been my fortune to meet with, heark'e

(_whispers_)--(_musing_) yet hang it, 'tis cruel to betray her

confidence.

BELVIL

But the family name, Jack?

MR. H.

As you say, the family name must be perpetuated.

BELVIL

Though it be but a homely one.

MR. H.

True, but come, I will shew you the house where dwells this credulous

melting fair.

BELVIL

Ha, ha, my old friend dwindled down to one letter. [_Exeunt_.]

SCENE.--_An Apartment in_ MELESINDA'S _House_.

MELESINDA _sola, as if musing_.

MELESINDA

H.H.H. Sure it must be something precious by its being concealed. It

can't be Homer, that is a Heathen's name; nor Horatio, that is no

surname; what if it be Hamlet? the Lord Hamlet--pretty, and I his poor

distracted Ophelia! No, 'tis none of these; 'tis Harcourt or Hargrave,

or some such sounding name, or Howard, high born Howard, that would do;

may be it is Harley, methinks my H. resembles Harley, the feeling

Harley. But I hear him, and from his own lips I will once for ever be

resolved.

_Enter_ MR. H.

MR. H.

My dear Melesinda.

MELESINDA

My dear H. that is all you give me power to swear allegiance to,--to be

enamoured of inarticulate sounds, and call with sighs upon an empty

letter. But I will know.

MR. H.

My dear Melesinda, press me no more for the disclosure of that, which in

the face of day so soon must be revealed. Call it whim, humour, caprice,

in me. Suppose I have sworn an oath, never, till the ceremony of our

marriage is over, to disclose my true name.

MELESINDA

Oh! H.H.H. I cherish here a fire of restless curiosity which consumes

me. 'Tis appetite, passion, call it whim, caprice, in me. Suppose I have

sworn I must and will know it this very night.

MR. H.

Ungenerous Melesinda! I implore you to give me this one proof of your

confidence. The holy vow once past, your H. shall not have a secret to

withhold.

MELESINDA

My H. has overcome: his Melesinda shall pine away and die, before she

dare express a saucy inclination; but what shall I call you till we are

married?

MR. H.

Call me? call me any thing, call me Love, Love! aye, Love, Love will do

very well.

MELESINDA

How many syllables is it, Love?

MR. H.

How many? ud, that is coming to the question with a vengeance. One, two,

three, four,--what does it signify how many syllables?

MELESINDA

How many syllables, Love?

MR. H.

My Melesinda's mind, I had hoped, was superior to this childish

curiosity.

MELESINDA

How many letters are there in it?

[_Exit_ MR. H. _followed by_ MELESINDA _repeating the question_.]

SCENE.--_A Room in the Inn. (Two Waiters disputing._)

FIRST WAITER

Sir Harbottle Hammond, you may depend upon it.

SECOND WAITER

Sir Hardy Hardcastle, I tell you.

FIRST WAITER

The Hammonds of Huntingdonshire.

SECOND WAITER

The Hardcastles of Hertfordshire.

FIRST WAITER

The Hammonds.

SECOND WAITER

Don't tell me: does not Hardcastle begin with an H?

FIRST WAITER

So does Hammond for that matter.

SECOND WAITER

Faith, so it does if you go to spell it. I did not think of that. I

begin to be of your opinion; he is certainly a Hammond.

FIRST WAITER

Here comes Susan Chambermaid, may be she can tell.

_Enter Susan_.

BOTH

Well, Susan, have you heard any thing who the strange gentleman is?

SUSAN

Haven't you heard? it's all come out; Mrs. Guesswell, the parson's

widow, has been here about it. I overheard her talking in confidence to

Mrs. Setter and Mrs. Pointer, and she says, they were holding a sort of

_cummitty_ about it.

BOTH

What? What?

SUSAN

There can't be a doubt of it, she says, what from hisfigger and the

appearance he cuts, and his _sumpshous_ way of living, and above all

from the remarkable circumstance that his surname should begin with an

H., that he must be--

BOTH

Well, well--

SUSAN

Neither more nor less than the Prince.

BOTH

Prince!

SUSAN

The Prince of Hessy-Cassel in disguise.

BOTH

Very likely, very likely.

SUSAN

Oh, there can't be a doubt on it. Mrs. Guesswell says she knows it.

FIRST WAITER

Now if we could be sure that the Prince of Hessy what-do-you-call-him

was in England on his travels.

SECOND WAITER

Get a newspaper. Look in the newspapers.

SUSAN

Fiddle of the newspapers, who else can it be?

BOTH

That is very true (_gravely_).

_Enter Landlord_.

LANDLORD

Here, Susan, James, Philip, where are you all? The London coach is come

in, and there is Mr. Fillaside, the fat passenger, has been bawling for

somebody to help him off with his boots. (_The Chambermaid and Waiters

slip out_.)

(_Solus_.) The house is turned upside down since the strange

gentleman came into it. Nothing but guessing and speculating, and

speculating and guessing; waiters and chambermaids getting into corners

and speculating, ostlers and stable-boys speculating in the yard, I

believe the very horses in the stable are speculating too, for there

they stand in a musing posture, nothing for them to eat, and not

seeming to care whether thay have any thing or no; and after all what

does it signify? I hate such curious--odso, I must take this box up into

his bed-room--he charged me to see to it myself--I hate such

inquisitive--I wonder what is in it, it feels heavy (_Reads_) "Leases,

title deeds, wills." Here now a man might satisfy his curiosity at once.

Deeds must have names to them, so must leases and wills. But I

wouldn't--no I wouldn't--it is a pretty box too--prettily dovetailed--I

admire the fashion of it much. But I'd cut my fingers off, before I'd do

such a dirty--what have I to do--curse the keys, how they rattle--rattle

in one's pockets--the keys and the halfpence (_takes out a bunch and

plays with them_). I wounder if any of these would fit; one might just

try them, but I wouldn't lift up the lid if they did. Oh no, what should

I be the richer for knowing? (_All this time he tries the keys one by

one_.) What's his name to me? a thousand names begin with an H. I hate

people that are always prying, poking and prying into things,--thrusting

their finger into one place--a mighty little hole this--and their keys

into another. Oh Lord! little rusty fits it! but what is that to me? I

wouldn't go to--no no--but it is odd little rusty should just happen.

(_While he is turning up the lid of the box_, MR. H. _enters behing him

unperceived_.)

MR. H.

What are you about, you dog?

LANDLORD

Oh Lord, Sir! pardon; no thief as I hope to be saved. Little Pry was

always honest.

MR. H.

What else could move you to open that box!

LANDLORD

Sir, don't kill me, and I will confess the whole truth. This box

happened to be lying--that is, I happened to be carrying this box, and I

happened to have my keys out, and so--little rusty happened to fit--

MR. H.

So little rusty happened to fit!--and would not a rope fit that rogue's

neck? I see the papers have not been moved: all is safe, but it was as

well to frighten him a little (_aside_).

Come, Landlord, as I think you

honest, and suspect you only intended to gratify a little foolish

curiosity--

LANDLORD

That was all, Sir, upon my veracity.

MR. H.

For this time I will pass it over. Your name is Pry, I think.

LANDLORD

Yes, Sir, Jeremiah Pry, at your service.

MR. H.

An apt name, you have a prying temper. I mean, some little curiosity, a

sort of inquisitiveness about you.

LANDLORD

A natural thirst after knowledge you may call it, Sir. When a boy I was

never easy, but when I was thrusting up the lids of some of my

school-fellows' boxes,--not to steal any thing, upon my honour,

Sir,--only to see what was in them; have had pens stuck in my eyes for

peeping through key-holes after knowledge; could never see a cold pie

with the legs dangling out at top, but my fingers were for lifting up

the crust,--just to try if it were pigeon or partridge,--for no other

reason in the world. Surely I think my passion for nuts was owing to the

pleasure of cracking the shell to get at something concealed, more than

to any delight I took in eating the kernel. In short, Sir, this appetite

has grown with my growth.

MR. H.

You will certainly be hanged some day for peeping into some bureau or

other, just to see what is in it.

LANDLORD

That is my fear, Sir. The thumps and kicks I have had for peering into

parcels, and turning of letters inside out,--just for curiosity. The

blankets I have been made to dance in for searching parish-registers for

old ladies' ages,--just for curiosity! Once I was dragged through a

horse-pond, only for peeping into a closet that had glass doors to it,

while my Lady Bluegarters was undressing,--just for curiosity!

MR. H.

A very harmless piece of curiosity, truly; and now, Mr. Pry, first have

the goodness to leave that box with me, and then do me the favour to

carry your curiosity so far, as to enquire if my servants are within.

LANDLORD

I shall, Sir. Here, David, Jonathan,--I think I hear them coming,--shall

make bold to leave you, Sir.

[_Exit._]

MR. H.

Another tolerable specimen of the comforts of going anonymous!

_Enter two Footmen._

FIRST FOOTMAN

You speak first.

SECOND FOOTMAN

No, you had better speak.

FIRST FOOTMAN

You promised to begin.

MR. H.

They have something to say to me. The rascals want their wages raised, I

suppose; there is always a favour to be asked when they come smiling.

Well, poor rogues, service is but a hard bargain at the best. I think I

must not be close with them. Well, David--well, Jonathan.

FIRST FOOTMAN

We have served your honour faithfully----

SECOND FOOTMAN

Hope your honour won't take offence----

MR. H.

The old story, I suppose--wages?

FIRST FOOTMAN

That's not it, your honour.

SECOND FOOTMAN

You speak.

FIRST FOOTMAN

But if your honour would just be pleased to----

SECOND FOOTMAN

Only be pleased to----

MR. H.

Be quick with what you have to say, for I am in haste.

FIRST FOOTMAN

Just to----

SECOND FOOTMAN

Let us know who it is----

FIRST FOOTMAN

Who it is we have the honour to serve.

MR. H.

Why me, me, me; you serve me.

SECOND FOOTMAN

Yes, Sir; but we do not know who you are.

MR. H.

Childish curiosity! do not you serve a rich master, a gay master, an

indulgent master?

FIRST FOOTMAN

Ah, Sir! the figure you make is to us, your poor servants, the principal

mortification.

SECOND FOOTMAN

When we get over a pot at the public-house, or in a gentleman's kitchen,

or elsewhere, as poor servants must have their pleasures--when the

question goes round, who is your master? and who do you serve? and one

says, I serve Lord So-and-so, and another, I am Squire Such-a-one's

footman----

FIRST FOOTMAN

We have nothing to say for it, but that we serve Mr. H.

SECOND FOOTMAN

Or Squire H.

MR. H.

Really you are a couple of pretty modest, reasonable personages; but I

hope you will take it as no offence, gentlemen, if, upon a dispassionate

review of all that you have said, I think fit not to tell you any more

of my name, than I have chosen for especial purposes to communicate to

the rest of the world.

FIRST FOOTMAN

Why then, Sir, you may suit yourself.

SECOND FOOTMAN

We tell you plainly, we cannot stay.

FIRST FOOTMAN

We don't chuse to serve Mr. H.

SECOND FOOTMAN

Nor any Mr. or Squire in the alphabet----

FIRST FOOTMAN

That lives in Chris-cross Row.

MR. H.

Go, for a couple of ungrateful, inquisitive, senseless rascals! Go hang,

starve, or drown!--Rogues, to speak thus irreverently of the alphabet--I

shall live to see you glad to serve old Q--to curl the wig of great

S--adjust the dot of little i--stand behind the chair of X, Y, Z--wear

the livery of Et-caetera--and ride behind the sulky of

And-by-itself-and!

[_Exit in a rage_.]

ACT II

SCENE.--_A handsome Apartment well lighted, Tea, Cards, &c.--A large

party of Ladies and Gentlemen, among them_ MELESINDA.

FIRST LADY

I wonder when the charming man will be here.

SECOND LADY

He is a delightful creature! Such a polish----

THIRD LADY

Such an air in all that he does or says----

FOURTH LADY

Yet gifted with a strong understanding----

FIFTH LADY

But has your ladyship the remotest idea of what his true name is?

FIRST LADY

They say, his very servants do not know it. His French valet, that has

lived with him these two years----

SECOND LADY

There, Madam, I must beg leave to set you right: my coachman----

FIRST LADY

I have it from the very best authority: my footman----

SECOND LADY

Then, Madam, you have set your servants on----

FIRST LADY

No, Madam, I would scorn any such little mean ways of conning at a

secret. For my part, I don't think any secret of that consequence.

SECOND LADY

That's just like me; I make a rule of troubling my head with nobody's

business but my own.

MELESINDA

But then, she takes care to make everybody's business her own, and so to

justify herself that way----(_aside_).

FIRST LADY

My dear Melesinda, you look thoughtful.

MELESINDA

Nothing. SECOND LADY

Give it a name.

MELESINDA

Perhaps it is nameless.

FIRST LADY

As the object----Come, never blush, nor deny it, child. Bless me, what

great ugly thing is that, that dangles at your bosom?

MELESINDA

This? it is a cross: how do you like it?

SECOND LADY

A cross! Well, to me it looks for all the world like a great staring H.

(_Here a general laugh_.)

MELESINDA

Malicious creatures! Believe me it is a cross, and nothing but a cross.

FIRST LADY

A cross, I believe, you would willingly hang at.

MELESINDA

Intolerable spite!

(MR. H. _is announced_.)

(_Enter_ MR. H.)

FIRST LADY

O, Mr. H. we are so glad----

SECOND LADY

We have been so dull----

THIRD LADY

So perfectly lifeless----You owe it to us, to be more than commonly

entertaining.

MR. H.

Ladies, this is so obliging----

FOURTH LADY

O, Mr. H. those ranunculas you said were dying, pretty things, they have

got up----

FIFTH LADY

I have worked that sprig you commended--I want you to come----

MR. H.

Ladies----

SIXTH LADY

I have sent for that piece of music from London.

MR. H.

The Mozart--(_seeing Melesinda_.)--Melesinda!

SEVERAL LADIES AT ONCE

Nay positively, Melesinda, you shan't engross him all to yourself.

(_While the Ladies are pressing about MR. H. the Gentlemen shew signs of

displeasure_.)

FIRST GENTLEMAN

We shan't be able to edge in a word, now this coxcomb is come.

SECOND GENTLEMAN

Damn him, I will affront him.

FIRST GENTLEMAN

Sir, with your leave, I have a word to say to one of these ladies.

SECOND GENTLEMAN

If we could be heard----

(_The ladies pay no attention but to_ MR. H.)

MR. H.

You see, gentlemen, how the matter stands. (_Hums an air_.) I am not my

own master: positively I exist and breathe but to be agreeable to

these----Did you speak?

FIRST GENTLEMAN

And affects absence of mind, Puppy!

MR. H.

Who spoke of absence of mind, did you, Madam? How do you do, Lady

Wearwell--how do? I did not see your ladyship before--what was I about

to say--O--absence of mind. I am the most unhappy dog in that way,

sometimes spurt out the strangest things--the most mal-a-propos--without

meaning to give the least offence, upon my honour--sheer absence of

mind--things I would have given the world not to have said.

FIRST GENTLEMAN

Do you hear the coxcomb?

FIRST LADY

Great wits, they say----

SECOND LADY

Your fine geniuses are most given----

THIRD LADY

Men of bright parts are commonly too vivacious----

MR. H.

But you shall hear. I was to dine the other day at a great nabob's, that

must be nameless, who, between ourselves, is strongly suspected

of--being very rich, that's all. John, my valet, who knows my foible,

cautioned me, while he was dressing me, as he usually does where he

thinks there's a danger of my committing a _lapsus_, to take care in my

conversation how I made any allusion direct or indirect to presents

--you understand me? I set out double charged with my fellow's