Drunkards from brandy, Dukes from play,
And common-councilmen from turtle,
Shall break his dart in Grosvenor Square,
And mutter, in his fierce despair,
“Why, what’s become of Lady Myrtle?”
A BALLAD
TEACHING HOW POETRY IS BEST PAID FOR.
“Non voglio cento scudi.”--_Italian Song._
O say not that the minstrel’s art,
The glorious gift of verse,
Though his hopes decay, though his friends depart,
Can ever be a curse;
Though sorrow reign within his heart,
And poortith hold his purse.
Say not his toil is profitless;
Though he charm no rich relation,
The Fairies all his labours bless
With such remuneration
As Mr. Hume would soon confess
Beyond his calculation.
Annuities and Three per Cents,
Little cares he about them;
And Indian bonds, and tithes, and rents,
He rambles on without them;
But love, and noble sentiments,
Oh, never bid him doubt them!
Childe Florice rose from his humble bed
And prayed, as a good youth should;
And forth he sped, with a lightsome tread,
Into the neighbouring wood;
He knew where the berries were ripe and red,
And where the old oak stood.
And as he lay at the noon of day
Beneath the ancient tree,
A grey-haired pilgrim passed that way;
A holy man was he,
And he was wending forth to pray
At a shrine in a far countrie.
Oh, his was a weary wandering,
And a song or two might cheer him,
The pious Childe began to sing,
As the ancient man drew near him;
The lark was mute as he touched the string,
And the thrush said, “Hear him, hear him!”
He sang high tales of the martyred brave,
Of the good, and pure, and just,
Who have gone into the silent grave
In such deep faith and trust,
That the hopes and thoughts which sain and save
Spring from their buried dust.
The fair of face, and the stout of limb,
Meek maids and grandsires hoary,
Who have sung on the cross their rapturous hymn,
As they passed to their doom of glory;
Their radiant fame is never dim,
Nor their names erased from story.
Time spares the stone where sleep the dead
With angels watching round them;
The mourner’s grief is comforted
As he looks on the chains that bound them;
And peace is shed on the murderer’s head,
And he kisses the thorns that crowned them
Such tales he told; and the pilgrim heard
In a trance of voiceless pleasure;
For the depths of his inmost soul was stirred
By the sad and solemn measure:
“I give thee my blessing,” was his word,
“It is all I have of treasure!”--
A little child came bounding by;
And he, in a fragrant bower,
Had found a gorgeous butterfly,
Rare spoil for a nursery dower,
Which with fierce step and eager eye
He chased from flower to flower.
“Come hither, come hither,” ’gan Florice call;
And the urchin left his fun:
So from the hall of poor Sir Paul
Retreats the baffled dun;
So Ellen parts from the village ball,
Where she leaves a heart half won.
Then Florice did the child caress,
And sang his sweetest songs:
Their theme was of the gentleness
Which to the soul belongs,
Ere yet it knows the name or dress
Of human rights and wrongs;
And of the wants which make agree
All parts of this vast plan;
How life is in whate’er we see,
And only life in man;
What matter where the less may be,
And where the longer span?
And how the heart grows cold without
Soft Pity’s freshening dews;
And how when any life goes out
Some little pang ensues:--
Facts which great soldiers often doubt,
And wits who write reviews.
Oh, song hath power o’er Nature’s springs,
Though deep the Nymph has laid them!
The child gazed--gazed on gilded wings
As the next bright breeze displayed them;
But he felt the while that the meanest things
Are dear to Him that made them!
The sun went down behind the hill,
The breeze was growing colder;
But there the Minstrel lingered still,
And amazed the chance beholder,
Musing beside a rippling rill
With a harp upon his shoulder.
And soon, on a graceful steed and tame,
A sleek Arabian mare,
The lady Juliana came
Riding to take the air,
With many a lord at whose proud name
A Radical would swear.
The Minstrel touched his lute again;
It was more than a Sultan’s crown,
When the Lady checked her bridle rein
And lit from her palfrey down:--
What would you give for such a strain,
Rees, Longman, Orme and Brown?
He sang of Beauty’s dazzling eyes,
Of Beauty’s melting tone,
And her praise is a richer prize
Than the gems of Persia’s throne,
And her love a bliss which the coldly wise
Have never, never known.
He told how the valiant scoff at fear
When the sob of her grief is heard;
How fiercely they fight for a smile or a tear,
How they die for a single word:--
Things which, I own, to me appear
Exceedingly absurd.
The Lady soon had heard enough;
She turned to hear Sir Denys
Discourse in language vastly gruff
About his skill at Tennis;
While smooth Sir Guy described the stuff
His mistress wore at Venice.
The Lady smiled one radiant smile,
And the Lady rode away--
There is not a Lady in all our Isle,
I have heard a Poet say,
Who can listen more than a little while
To a poet’s sweetest lay.--
His mother’s voice was fierce and shrill
As she set the milk and fruit:
“Out on thine unrewarded skill,
And on thy vagrant lute;
Let the strings be broken an they will,
And the beggar lips be mute!”
Peace, peace! the Pilgrim as he went
Forgot the Minstrel’s song,
But the blessing that his wan lips sent
Will guard the Minstrel long,
And keep his spirit innocent,
And turn his hand from wrong.
Belike the child had little thought
Of the moral the Minstrel drew;
But the dream of a deed of kindness wrought--
Brings it not peace to you?
And does not a lesson of virtue taught
Teach him that teaches too?
And if the Lady sighed no sigh
For the Minstrel or his hymn,--
Yet when he shall lie ’neath the moonlit sky,
Or lip the goblet’s brim,
What a star in the mist of memory
That smile will be to him!
OLD WINE.
It was my father’s wine,--alas!
It was his chiefest bliss
To fill an old friend’s evening glass
With nectar such as this.
I think I have as warm a heart,
As kind a friend, as he;
Another bumper ere we part!
Old wine, old wine, for me.
In this we toasted William Pitt,
Whom twenty now outshine;
O’er this we laughed at Canning’s wit,
Ere Hume’s was thought as fine;
In this “The King”--“The Church”--“The Laws”--
Have had their three times three;
Sound wine befits as sound a cause;
Old wine, old wine for me.
In this, when France in those long wars
Was beaten black and blue,
We used to drink our troops and tars,
Our Wellesley and Pellew;
Now, things are changed, though Britain’s fame
May out of fashion be,
At least my wine remains the same!
Old wine, old wine for me.
My neighbours, Robinson and Lamb,
Drink French of last year’s growth;
I’m sure, however they may sham,
It disagrees with both.
I don’t pretend to interfere;
An Englishman is free;
But none of that cheap poison here!
Old wine, old wine for me.
Some dozens lose, I must allow,
Something of strength and hue;
And there are vacant spaces now
To be filled up with new;
And there are cobwebs round the bins,
Which some don’t like to see;
If these are all my cellar’s sins,
Old wine, old wine for me.
THE TALENTED MAN.
A LETTER FROM A LADY IN LONDON TO A LADY AT LAUSANNE.
Dear Alice! you’ll laugh when you know it,--
Last week, at the Duchess’s ball,
I danced with the clever new poet,--
You’ve heard of him,--Tully St. Paul.
Miss Jonquil was perfectly frantic;
I wish you had seen Lady Anne!
It really was very romantic,
He _is_ such a talented man!
He came up from Brazenose College,
Just caught, as they call it, this spring;
And his head, love, is stuffed full of knowledge
Of every conceivable thing.
Of science and logic he chatters,
As fine and as fast as he can;
Though I am no judge of such matters,
I’m sure he’s a talented man.
His stories and jests are delightful;--
Not stories or jests, dear, for you;
The jests are exceedingly spiteful,
The stories not always _quite_ true.
Perhaps to be kind and veracious
May do pretty well at Lausanne;
But it never would answer,--good gracious!
_Chez nous_--in a talented man.
He sneers,--how my Alice would scold him!--
At the bliss of a sigh or a tear;
He laughed--only think!--when I told him
How we cried o’er Trevelyan last year;
I vow I was quite in a passion;
I broke all the sticks of my fan;
But sentiment’s quite out of fashion,
It seems, in a talented man.
Lady Bab, who is terribly moral,
Has told me that Tully is vain,
And apt--which is silly--to quarrel,
And fond--which is sad--of champagne.
I listened, and doubted, dear Alice,
For I saw, when my Lady began,
It was only the Dowager’s malice;--
She _does_ hate a talented man!
He’s hideous, I own it. But fame, love,
Is all that these eyes can adore;
He’s lame,--but Lord Byron was lame, love,
And dumpy,--but so is Tom Moore.
Then his voice,--_such_ a voice! my sweet creature,
It’s like your Aunt Lucy’s toucan:
But oh! what’s a tone or a feature,
When once one’s a talented man?
My mother, you know, all the season,
Has talked of Sir Geoffrey’s estate;
And truly, to do the fool reason,
He _has_ been less horrid of late.
But to-day, when we drive in the carriage,
I’ll tell her to lay down her plan;--
If ever I venture on marriage,
It must be a talented man!
P.S.--I have found on reflection,
One fault in my friend,--_entre nous_;
Without it, he’d just be perfection;--
Poor fellow, he has not a _sou_!
And so, when he comes in September
To shoot with my uncle, Sir Dan,
I’ve promised mamma to remember
He’s _only_ a talented man!
PLUS DE POLITIQUE.
(1832.)
No politics!--I cannot bear
To tell our ancient fame;
No politics!--I do not dare
To paint our present shame!
What we have been, what we must be,
Let other minstrels say;
It is too dark a theme for me:
No politics to-day!
I loved to see the captive’s chain
By British hands burst through;
I loved to sing the fields of Spain,
The war of Waterloo:
But now the Russians’ greedy swords
Are edged with English pay;
We help, we hire, the robber hordes:
No politics to-day!
I used to look on many a home
Of industry and art;
I gazed on pleasure’s gorgeous dome,
On labour’s busy mart:
From Derby’s rows, from Bristol’s fires,
I turn with tears away;
I can’t admire what Brougham admires:
No politics to-day!
Let’s talk of Coplestone and prayers,
Of Kitchener and pies,
Of Lady Sophonisba’s airs,
Of Lady Susan’s eyes;
Let’s talk of Mr. Attwood’s cause,
Of Mr. Pococks’s play,
Of fiddles, bubbles, rattles, straws!
No politics to-day!
TALES OUT OF SCHOOL.
A DROPPED LETTER FROM A LADY.
Your godson, my sweet Lady Bridget,
Was entered at Eton last May;
But really, I’m all in a fidget
Till the dear boy is taken away;
For I feel an alarm which, I’m certain,
A mother to you may confess,
When the newspaper draws up the curtain,
The terrible Windsor Express.
You know I was half broken-hearted
When the poor fellow whispered “Good bye!”
As soon as the carriage had started
I sat down in comfort to cry.
Sir Thomas looked on while I fainted,
Deriding--the bear!--my distress;
But what were the hardships I painted
To the tales of the Windsor Express?
The planter in sultry Barbadoes
Is a terrible tyrant, no doubt;
In Moscow, a Count carbonadoes
His ignorant serfs with the knout;
Severely men smart for their errors
Who dine at a man-of-war’s mess;
But Eton has crueller terrors
Than these,--in the Windsor Express.
I fancied the Doctor at College
Had dipped, now and then, into books;
But, bless me! I find that his knowledge
Is just like my coachman’s or cook’s:
He’s a dunce--I have heard it with sorrow;--
’Twould puzzle him sadly, I guess,
To put into English to-morrow
A page of the Windsor Express.
All preachers of course should be preaching
That virtue’s a very good thing;
All tutors of course should be teaching
To fear God, and honour the King;
But at Eton they’ve regular classes
For folly, for vice, for excess;
They learn to be villains and asses,
Nothing else in the Windsor Express.
Mrs. Martha, who nursed little Willy,
Believes that she nursed him in vain:
Old John, who takes care of the filly,
Says “He’ll ne’er come to mount her again!”
My Juliet runs up to her mother,
And cries, with a mournful caress,
“Oh, where have you sent my poor brother?
Look, look at the Windsor Express!”
Ring, darling, and order the carriage;
Whatever Sir Thomas may say,--
Who has been quite a fool since our marriage,--
I’ll take him directly away.
For of all their atrocious ill-treating
The end it is easy to guess;
Some day they’ll be killing and eating
My boy--in the Windsor Express!
STANZAS TO THE SPEAKER ASLEEP.
(1833.)
Sleep, Mr. Speaker; it’s surely fair
If you don’t in your bed, that you should in your chair,
Longer and longer still they grow,
Tory and Radical, Aye and No;
Talking by night, and talking by day;--
Sleep, Mr. Speaker; sleep, sleep while you may!
Sleep, Mr. Speaker; slumber lies
Light and brief on a Speaker’s eyes;
Fielden or Finn, in a minute or two,
Some disorderly thing will do;
Riot will chase repose away;--
Sleep, Mr. Speaker; sleep, sleep while you may!
Sleep, Mr. Speaker; Cobbett will soon
Move to abolish the sun and moon;
Hume, no doubt, will be taking the sense
Of the House on a saving of thirteen pence;
Grattan will growl, or Baldwin bray;--
Sleep, Mr. Speaker; sleep, sleep while you may!
Sleep, Mr. Speaker; dream of the time
When loyalty was not quite a crime;
When Grant was a pupil in Canning’s school;
When Palmerston fancied Wood a fool;
Lord, how principles pass away!
Sleep, Mr. Speaker; sleep, sleep, while you may!
Sleep, Mr. Speaker; sweet to men
Is the sleep that cometh but now and then;
Sweet to the sorrowful, sweet to the ill,
Sweet to the children that work in a mill;
You have more need of sleep than they;--
Sleep, Mr. Speaker; sleep, sleep while you may!
LATIN HYMN TO THE VIRGIN.
I.
Virgin Mother, thou hast known
Joy and sorrow like my own;
In thy arms the bright Babe lay,
As my own in mine to-day;
So he wept and so he smiled;
Ave Mary! guard my child!
II.
From the pains and perils spread
Round about our path and bed,
Fierce desires, ambitious schemes,
Moody doubts, fantastic dreams,
Pleasures idle, passions wild,
Ave Mary! guard my child!
III.
Make him whatsoe’er may be
Dearest to the saints and thee;
Tell him, from the throne above,
What to loathe and what to love;
To be true and just and mild,
Ave Mary! teach my child!
IV.
By the wondrous mercy won
For the world by thy blest son,
By the rest his labours wrought,
By the bliss his tortures bought,
By the Heaven he reconciled,
Ave Mary! bless my child!
V.
If about his after fate
Sin and sorrow darkly wait,
Take him rather to thine arms
From the world and the world’s harms;
Thus unscathed, thus undefiled,
Ave Mary! take my child!
THE NEWLY-WEDDED.
(1835.)
I.
Now the rite is duly done;
Now the word is spoken;
And the spell has made us one
Which may ne’er be broken:
Rest we, dearest, in our home,--
Roam we o’er the heather,--
We shall rest, and we shall roam,
Shall we not? together.
II.
From this hour the summer rose
Sweeter breathes to charm us;
From this hour the winter snows
Lighter fall to harm us:
Fair or foul--on land or sea--
Come the wind or weather,
Best or worst, whate’er they be,
We shall share together.
III.
Death, who friend from friend can part,
Brother rend from brother,
Shall but link us, heart and heart,
Closer to each other:
We will call his anger play,
Deem his dart a feather,
When we meet him on our way
Hand in hand together.
SKETCH OF A YOUNG LADY
FIVE MONTHS OLD.
(_October 10, 1836._)
My pretty, budding, breathing flower,
Methinks, if I to-morrow
Could manage, just for half-an-hour,
Sir Joshua’s brush to borrow,
I might immortalise a few
Of all the myriad graces
Which Time, while yet they all are new,
With newer still replaces.
I’d paint, my child, your deep blue eyes,
Their quick and earnest flashes;
I’d paint the fringe that round them lies,
The fringe of long dark lashes;
I’d draw with most fastidious care
One eyebrow, then the other,
And that fair forehead, broad and fair,
The forehead of your mother.
I’d oft retouch the dimpled cheek
Where health in sunshine dances;
And oft the pouting lips, where speak
A thousand voiceless fancies;
And the soft neck would keep me long,
The neck, more smooth and snowy
Than ever yet in schoolboy’s song
Had Caroline or Chloe.
Nor less on those twin rounded arms
My new-found skill would linger,
Nor less upon the rosy charms
Of every tiny finger;
Nor slight the small feet, little one,
So prematurely clever
That, though they neither walk nor run,
I think they’d jump for ever.
But then your odd endearing ways--
What study ere could catch them?
Your aimless gestures, endless plays--
What canvass ere could match them?
Your lively leap of merriment,
Your murmur of petition,
Your serious silence of content,
Your laugh of recognition.
Here were a puzzling toil, indeed,
For Art’s most fine creations!--
Grow on, sweet baby; we will need,
To note your transformations,
No picture of your form or face,
Your waking or your sleeping,
But that which Love shall daily trace,
And trust to Memory’s keeping.
Hereafter, when revolving years
Have made you tall and twenty,
And brought you blended hopes and fears,
And sighs and slaves in plenty,
May those who watch our little saint
Among her tasks and duties,
Feel all her virtues hard to paint,
As now we deem her beauties.
TO HELEN.
(_July 7th, 1836._)
When some grim sorceress, whose skill
Had bound a sprite to work her will,
In mirth or malice chose to ask
Of the faint slave the hardest task,
She sent him forth to gather up
Great Ganges in an acorn cup;
Or Heaven’s unnumbered stars to bring
In compass of a signet ring.
Thus Helen bids her poet write
The thanks he owes this morning’s light;
And “Give me,”--so he hears her say,--
“Four verses, only four, to-day.”
Dearest and best! she knows, if wit
Could ever half love’s debt acquit,
Each of her tones and of her looks
Would have its four, not lines, but books.
TO HELEN.
(WITH A SMALL CANDLESTICK, A BIRTHDAY PRESENT.)
_February 12th, 1838._
If, wand’ring in a wizard’s car
Through yon blue ether, I were able
To fashion of a little star
A taper for my Helen’s table,--
“What then?” she asks me, with a laugh:--
Why then, with all Heaven’s lustre glowing,
It would not gild her path with half
The light her love o’er mine is throwing!
TO HELEN.
(_July 7th, 1839._)
Dearest, I did not dream, four years ago,
When through your veil I saw your bright tear shine,
Caught your clear whisper, exquisitely low,
And felt your soft hand tremble into mine,
That in so brief--so very brief a space,
He who in love both clouds and cheers our life,
Would lay on you, so full of light, joy, grace,
The darker, sadder duties of the wife,--
Doubts, fears, and frequent toil, and constant care
For this poor frame, by sickness sore bestead;
The daily tendance on the fractious chair,
The nightly vigil by the feverish bed.
Yet not unwelcomed doth this morn arise,
Though with more gladsome beams it might have shone;
Strength of these weak hands, light of these dim eyes,
In sickness, as in health,--bless you, My own!
GOD SAVE THE QUEEN.
(1839.)
That she may see, our bright and fair,
How arduous is her path to fame,
How much of solemn thought and care
An empire’s interests fitly claim,--
That she may know how poor ’twould seem
In one who graces Britain’s throne
To patronise a party’s scheme
Or make a favourite’s cause her own,--
That she may feel to whom belong
Alike the contest and the prize,
Whence springs the valour of the strong,
Whence flows the counsel of the wise,--
That she may keep in womanhood
The heaven-born impulses of youth,
The zeal for universal good,
The reverence for eternal truth,--
That she may seek the right and just,--
That she may shun the false and mean,--
That she may win all love and trust,
Blessing and blest,--God save the Queen.
CHARADES.
I.
Sir Hilary charged at Agincourt;
Sooth, ’twas an awful day!
And though in that old age of sport
The rufflers of the camp and court
Had little time to pray,
’Tis said Sir Hilary muttered there
Two syllables by way of prayer:
My First to all the brave and proud
Who see to-morrow’s sun:
My next, with her cold and quiet cloud,
To those who find their dewy shroud
Before to-day’s be done:
And both together to all blue eyes,
That weep when a warrior nobly dies.
II.
My First in torrents bleak and black
Was rustling from the sky,
When with my Second at his back
Young Cupid wandered by;
“Now take me in; the moon hath past;
I pray ye, take me in!
The lightnings flash, the hail falls fast,
All Hades rides the thunder-blast;
I’m dripping to the skin!”
“I know thee well, thy songs and sighs;
A wicked god thou art,
And yet most welcome to the eyes,
Most witching to the heart!”
The wanderer prayed another prayer,
And shook his drooping wing;
The Lover bade him enter there,
And wrung my First from out his hair,
And dried my Second’s string.
And therefore--(so the urchin swore,
By Styx, the fearful river,
And by the shafts his quiver bore,
And by his shining quiver)--
That Lover aye shall see my Whole
In life’s tempestuous Heaven;
And when the lightnings cease to roll,
Shall fix thereon his dreaming soul
In the deep calm of even.
III.
Alas! for that forgotten day
When chivalry was nourished,
When none but friars learned to pray,
And beef and beauty flourished;
And fraud in kings was held accurst,
And falsehood sin was reckoned,
And mighty chargers bore my First,
And fat monks wore my Second!
Oh, then I carried sword and shield,
And casque with flaunting feather,
And earned my spurs in battlefield,
In winter and rough weather;
And polished many a sonnet up
To ladies’ eyes and tresses,
And learned to drain my father’s cup,
And loose my falcon’s jesses.
But dim is now my grandeur’s gleam;
The mongrel mob grows prouder;
And everything is done by steam,
And men are killed by powder:
And now I feel my swift decay,
And give unheeded orders,
And rot in paltry state away,
With Sheriffs and Recorders.
IV.
On the casement frame the wind beat high;
Never a star was in the sky;
All Kenneth Hold was wrapt in gloom,
And Sir Everard slept in the Haunted Room.
I sat and sang beside his bed;
Never a single word I said,
Yet did I scare his slumber;
And a fitful light in his eyeball glistened,
And his cheek grew pale as he lay and listened,
For he thought or dreamt that Fiends and Fays
Were reckoning o’er his fleeting days
And telling out their number.
Was it my Second’s ceaseless tone?
On my Second’s hand he laid his own;
The hand that trembled in his clasp
Was crushed by his convulsive grasp.
Sir Everard did not fear my First;--
He had seen it in shapes that men deem worst,
In many a field and flood;
Yet in the darkness of that dread
His tongue was parched and his reason fled,
And he watched, as the lamp burned low and dim,
To see some Phantom, gaunt and grim,
Come dabbled o’er with blood.
Sir Everard kneeled, and strove to pray;
He prayed for light and he prayed for day,
Till terror checked his prayer;
And ever I muttered, clear and well,
“Click, click,” like a tolling bell,
Till, bound by fancy’s magic spell,
Sir Everard fainted there.
And oft from that remembered night,
Around the taper’s flickering light
The wrinkled beldames told,
Sir Everard had knowledge won
Of many a murder darkly done,
Of fearful sights, and fearful sounds,
And ghosts that walk their midnight rounds
In the tower of Kenneth Hold!
V.
The canvas rattled on the mast
As rose the swelling sail,
And gallantly the vessel past
Before the cheering gale;
And on my First Sir Florice stood,
As the far shore faded now,
And looked upon the lengthening flood
With a pale and pensive brow:--
“When I shall bear thy silken glove
Where the proudest Moslem flee,
My lady love, my lady love,--
O waste one thought on me!”
Sir Florice lay in a dungeon cell
With none to soothe or save,
And high above his chamber fell
The echo of the wave;
But still he struck my Second there,
And bade its tones renew
These hours when every hue was fair
And every hope was true:--
“If still your angel footsteps move
Where mine may never be,
My lady love, my lady love,
O dream one dream of me!”
Not long the Christian captive pined!
My Whole was round his neck;
A sadder necklace ne’er was twined
So white a skin to deck:
Queen Folly ne’er was yet content
With gems or golden store,
But he who wears this ornament
Will rarely sigh for more:--
“My spirit to the Heaven above,
My body to the sea,
My heart to thee, my lady love,--
O weep one tear for me!”
VI.
Row on, row on!--The First may light
My shallop o’er the wave to-night,
But she will hide in a little while
The lustre of her silent smile;
For fickle she is, and changeful still,
As a madman’s wish, or a woman’s will.