Like my Lord Squander’s, went to ruin?
The self-same pen—as proud, as rapid—
His answer gave to Sir George Vapid.
Great was his wonder, his dejection
Gave birth for once to cool reflection:
“There’s some one else, I clearly see,
Will carry off this prodigy—
I should have liked the gem to wear,
And make my friends at Crockford’s stare!”
Hail, Envy! thou their choicest bliss,
Givest, by rebound, to fools like this!
Now change the scene, for one more gay!
At least, so Lords and Ladies say;
The maiden’s chamber fades in air,
And with its sparkle and its glare,
And music’s ever-witching spell,
The Opera wooes our youthful Belle.
For many a wise and cogent reason,
The Lady Percy had each season
An opera box; yet, though no prude,
Suspicious doubt would now intrude,
Whether ’twas right her virgin treasure
Should share that fascinating pleasure?
She scarcely knows what she intends,
And hints her scruples to her friends;
But all, inured to play and _ballet_,
With many a pleasantry did rally
The fears which in the mother woke:
“How very odd!—’twas quite a joke!
Why, all young ladies, when presented,
That harmless paradise frequented.
What is it you can see alarming?
Not the Cachoucha?—that’s _so_ charming!”
“My daughters, though they sometimes flush,”
Quoth one high dame, “did never blush—
Not even in their earliest teens:
I’ve got a box beneath the Queen’s.”
Such sapient rhetoric laughed down all
The reasons _Madame Mère_ could call
For, or against; and, thus persuaded,
Mary, she said, should do as they did—
The glories of the opera see,
And learn to _speak_ with ecstasy,
As Grisi, like a summer bird,
Poured forth the tones, while none who heard
Had pity wherewithal to note
How much the siren strained her throat.
The night is come—and now to eyes
Behold the scarlet curtain rise,
Which never novel’s page had read,
But history, voyages, instead,
With lives of great and virtuous men,
Such as a Plutarch loved to pen;
For poetry the maid had pleaded,
And but enjoyed it—wisely weeded:
Little she dreamed, how much less knew,
What things Italian play-wrights do!
Judge then—to make her entrance easy,
The piece was “Norma,” played by Grisi!
A Priestess breaking vestal vows,
A mother twice—not once a spouse:
All frenetic with jealous rage,
Which nought but vengeance can assuage,
Grasping a keen and murderous dagger,
To yon low couch behold her stagger,
Where sleep her babes:—but love prevails,
The mother stays—the murderess fails!
When this dark picture Mary saw
She trembled—scarcely dared to draw
Her breath—the while Bellini stole
With magic witchery through her soul,
And tears relieved her; then there came
O’er her young brow the blush of shame.
Around she timid glanced her eye,
But none looked shocked, and none looked shy;
Faces, as youthful as her own,
Were placid all—nor there were shewn
The feelings wakened in _her_ breast,
By Norma’s love and shame confessed!
The curtain falls—the horror’s o’er,
And Mary calmer breathes once more!
[Illustration:
_The Opera_
_BRISK MUSIC GAYER SCENES ANNOUNCES
AND IN A HALF-DRESSED DANSEUSE BOUNCES_
]
Brisk music gayer scenes announces,
And in a half-dressed _danseuse_ bounces,
With arms that wreathe, and eyes that swim,
And drapery that scarce shades each limb,
And lip that wears a studied smile,
Applauding coxcombs to beguile,
As _entre-chat_ or _pirouette_
Doth “_Brava!_” thundered loud, beget.
When Mary saw her vault in air,
Her snow-white tunic leaving bare
Her limbs—and heard that deafening shout
Grow louder as she twirled about,
With one leg pointing towards the sky
As if the gallery to defy;
Surprised, and shocked, she turned away,
Wondering how women e’er could stay,
And thinking men must sure be frantic
Who patronised such postures antic;
She felt abashed to meet the eye
Of every fop that loitered by:
And, oh! how rudely did it vex
Her fresh, pure heart, to mark her sex
Thus outraged, while the noblest came
To gaze and revel in their shame.
Her troubled look the mother saw,
And rose all-pitying, to withdraw,
Convinced such shows must pain dispense
To one bred up in innocence.
But there was one who joyed to see
The pure and shrinking modesty
Of this fair girl—’twas Deloraine!
Ah! stands he at her side again?
[Illustration:
_The Maiden’s Chamber_
_HERE GAY AND PLACID SPEED THE HOURS
AMONG HER MUSIC, BOOKS, AND FLOWERS_
]
Yes, he now knows that there can be
No maid more innocent than she;
And doth with pitying look survey
The bolder damsels—pleased to stay,
And watch what makes the indignant blush
Warm to his idol’s forehead rush.
The Races next,—O! Sport refined
For women who pretend to mind—
Come in their turn; but humdrum folks
Can miss “the Derby,” or “the Oaks.”
What, though the road to Epsom’s lined
With crowds, and “cabined, cribbed, confined,”
Each carriage scarce can move along
Amid the dense and motley throng;
And clouds of suffocating dust
Are borne by every fitful gust;
And slang, and curses—gentle notes!—
Are heard from silken-kerchiefed throats;
And rude remarks enough to raise
The blush of shame—if ever praise
Could mortify, it sure were here—
When men, the vilest, passing near,
Proclaim each high-born maid “a gal,”
With half the points of Jane or Sal.
And then tobacco’s fume exhales,
To poison e’en the vernal gales.
The coronetted coach, with steeds
Such as our England only breeds,
Ploughs down the crowded road its way,
’Mid taxcart, fly-van, buggy, dray;
The four-in-hand, from whose high seat }
Each Noble drives, with look elate, }
As if he held the reins of State; }
And flocks of men, and women too,
With nought but staring work to do,
And idle urchins, line the road
And by loud shouts the horses goad:
Such is the scene the route displays
To Epsom, on the appointed days,
When Fashion sends her votaries out
To mingle with the rabble rout.
The weather, too, propitious shines,
And all our climate’s change combines;
And showers, and wind, and dust, and sun,
Annoy us ’till the day be done;
Oh! who the Races ever knew
To pass, and was not well soaked through?
Arrived, the Stand each Lady seeks,
With crimson nose and purple cheeks,
Ringlets that all their curl have lost,
And robes and canezous sadly tossed,
And bonnets that from Paris came,
So spoilt, who’d know them for the same?
As droop poor Nattier’s faded flowers,
Pale victims to this clime of ours;
Or hangs the twisted, broken feather,
Attesting our uncertain weather.
The men behold the altered faces
Of belles who stood in their good graces;
And some, intending to propose,
Draw off, alarmed by ruby nose.
But Woman, ever prone to please,
Affects, although she feels not ease;
For, half-suspecting she’s a fright,
She tries to set her toilette right;
And lisps, “I hope _your_ horse will win,”
To every beau that enters in:
While man, the gentler sex forgetting,
Remembers nothing but his betting,
Consults his book, takes three to two,
Then nods and hollas “Done with you!”
’Tis true he comes between the heats,
And wanders round the women’s seats,
’Till he has found the favoured dame
For whom he feels, or feigns a flame;
And, by attentions somewhat free,
Leads cool spectators to agree
That “he’s a devilish lucky fellow,”
Who’ll tell them all when next he’s mellow.
To mingle with this herd of men,
Who thought of nought but horses then,
Our Mary felt was not her place,
And took no pleasure in the race.
But when she marked the women bet,
And more and more excited get,
With flushing cheek, and sparkling eye,
Whene’er a favourite’s horse they spy,
And talked of odds to give or take,
Of Handicap, Match, or Sweepstake,
And saw their dainty fingers hold
Purses in which shone coins of gold,
Ready to pay in case of loss,
Though e’en the notion made them cross;
Or heard them eager claim the cash
Won from the losers, young and rash;
She marked the scene with sad surprise,
And wished her sex more proud—more wise.
Now rise the shouts of races bawled,
And discord, falsely music called—
Vile organs, viler clarionets,
With cries of blacklegs offering bets;
Shrill flutes, and shriller pipes of Pan,
And songs deserving censor’s ban;
“The horses, and their owners’ names,”
At every side some knave proclaims;
And cries of “Dorling’s genuine card,”
From lungs stentorian ceaseless heard;
While thimbleriggers boors entice,
And sharpers others tempt with dice;
And execrations, loud and deep,
Are heard, as disappears the heap
Of coins of silver and of brass,
Won from the coffers of each ass;
And countless beggars ply their trade,
Whom practice long hath perfect made;
And gipsy, chattering like a witch,
Foretells weak maidens husbands rich,
Prates of dark women and fair men,
Begs you’ll but cross her hands, and then
She’ll straight reveal your future fate,
Whether a coffin or a mate:
These mingled sounds produce such din,
That Mary feels, a realm to win,
Again she’d not a race-course see,
And longed—how longed—at home to be!
And now the racers are led out,
And quick disperse the rabble rout;
The generous steeds impatient stand,
While held in by their trainers’ hand:
Their coats how sleek, their limbs how fine!
England, what coursers equal thine?
The Jockeys, too, how trim, how neat!
How light each hand, how firm each seat!
The signal’s given, they start a pace
That promises a well-fought race:
They quicker move—now quicker still,
Round Tottenham Corner; see what skill
Each Jockey shews to save his horse!
Now rapidly along the course
They dart, like arrows from the bow,
And keep so near, that none can know
Which is the fleetest. Side by side,
The pink and yellow rapid glide;
They’re neck to neck: how far behind
The rest are left!—swift as the wind
They fly. Now yellow dashes past
The pink—the leader’s now the last!
The yellow keeps a-head: he’ll win—
He nears the goal—“He’s in! he’s in!”
A deaf’ning shout now rends the air; }
The winners laugh, the losers swear, }
Whose feeling wives their salts prepare. }
How pallid look their cheeks and brows!
How sullen seems each beaten spouse,
Reflecting he must soon “book up,”
And leave the victor, gold, and cup!
A luncheon next the Stand supplies,
Where chickens, _pâtés_, lamb, cold pies,
Tongues, lobster-salads, hams, are all
Devoured, till appetite doth pall;
And soda-water, and champagne,
Restore the losers’ nerves again.
Those who, less favoured, find no place
In the Grand Stand to see the race,
Feast on their dickeys, or in carriage;
And hungry gazers can’t disparage
Their appetites, when e’en the fair
Lay in a meal to make one stare;
And sparkling eye, and deep-flushed cheek,
Thy influence, brisk champagne! bespeak.
How glad was Mary, when, all over,
Seated beside her ardent lover,
She heard her mother, with remorse,
Regret the hours lost at the Course;
And soon forgetting all around
Her mind its native quiet found.
Time flew on gay and airy wing,
And Summer had replaced the Spring;
No more in the street and square were seen,
The trees beclad in mantle green,
For now exhausted, dusty, brown,
They wore the livery of the town.
The grass, wherever grass was seen,
Resembled nought save washed nankeen;
The shrubs, in spite of gardener’s care,
Hung their limp boughs with dying air;
No more the sickly window-roses
Had strength to charm the inmates’ noses;
And balconies in every street
With mignonette so lately sweet,
(A melancholy sight indeed!)
Shewed their whole treasure run to seed.
Now to the plague of mortal eyes
Began the carnival of flies;
All London, still of Fashion full,
Sent up one groan—“How hot and dull!”
Now maidens bright begin to fear
They needs must wait another year
For that dear thing—establishment,
On which their eager hearts were bent;
“So fleet to chase—so hard to find,
What ails the men? they grow so blind!”
And pretty lips, with smiles that shone,
Pout as their owners sit alone,
Viewing with dread the time approach,
When, packed in the ancestral coach,
To London’s joys they bid adieu,
With long and dreary months in view!
Autumn and Winter spent at home,
Where but old stupid neighbours come—
The Rector and his prosy madam,
Whose pedigree dates back to Adam;
The Doctor, with his gossip small,
So fond of luncheon at the Hall;
The noisy, dull, and sporting Squire,
Splashed to his waist in horrid mire;
And then his loud, red-elbowed girls,
What feet! what scarlet ears! what curls!
Poor things! devoured with earnest passion
To know and ape the newest fashion—
What wonder maids would rather bear }
With dusty streets, and blazing air, }
Than bid adieu to dear May Fair? }
Now mothers, too, with _soirées_ sated,
Who hoped to see their daughters mated,
And deemed their prey each sauntering beau,
Who, passing, notice, chanced to shew;
Whose talk, however slow and _fade_, }
Betwixt _quadrille_ and _gallopade_ }
No cold repulse from them forbade; }
Are left—(the beaux all fled away),
With milliners’ long bills to pay,
Which now come pouring in a number
To rob the matrons of their slumber,
While they can scarcely courage gather
To shew them to a surly father
Too sure to swear—to sure to scoff—
“Five hundred pounds?—not one gone off?
Now truly, Madam, on my word,
This cursed expense is quite absurd!”
And while on sleepless beds they toss,
Scared by the thoughts of husbands cross,
The anxious chaperons fret and wonder
Why men bend brows of darkest thunder
Upon the adornments which, no doubt,
No well-born girl could do without;
And think some most malicious star
Takes pains their prospects bright to mar.
“Heavens! how my Lord will stamp and scold,
And hint that Dora looks so old!
And here’s another season closed,
Sir Harry—gone, and _not_ proposed!
I did my best—gave Sunday dinners,
Though strict Sir Andrew called us sinners!
I’m sure I caught three bad sore throats,
With water pic-nics made in boats:
Another year—and all but ruin!
What ever _can_ the men be doing?”
Now fathers on their banker’s book
With long and rueful visage look,
Sum the small balance, curse the town,
And, filled with sullen spleen, go down
To country-seats—to sleep, till Spring
Bids them again reluctant bring
Their wares, so long on hand, for sale,
And some—alas! grown _rather_ stale!
While thus the weeks went quickly o’er,
His cabriolet, each morning bore
Deloraine, to meet the maid, who grew
Dearer the more he saw, and knew
The varied treasures of her mind,
By culture formed, by taste refined:
He only waited just to know
If but the substance equalled show—
For beauty he but little rated,
Unless by spirit animated;
And Deloraine, wiser than his age,
Must pause before he dared engage
His faith to one but slightly known.
But all was right!—his wooed, his own,
Surpassed what fondest fancy dreamed
Of pure, and good—and now he deemed
The experiment had well been tried,
And longed to claim her for his bride!
But ere he spoke, and her fair hand
From her fond parents dared demand,
He longed to seek if in her heart
His humble image had a part;
At times depressed, at times elate,
He now would dare, and meet his fate.
There came a splendid carnival,
The season’s last—a costume ball;
And called, as if by wizard’s wand,
In garbs of many a distant land:
To grace that gorgeous revel came,
A host of charms—ah! who could name
One half the beauty, rich and bright,
That shone on that last revel night?
There many a youthful matron bore
Her store of gems—and sighed for more,
Yon fair Sultana to eclipse
With henna on her fingers’ tips;
There in a snowy veil entangled
Drooped pensive Nun; and next, half-strangled
By garland, Perdita the fair,—
And an Ophelia, with a stare
Of wonder, as she queried whether
’Twas right to wear the heron feather,
That nodded, with each Scottish breath,
On her who stood for Queen Macbeth?
In truth it was a pleasant sight
To meet, in noon-tide blaze of light,
The denizens of furthest lands,
From Asia’s shores to Egypt’s sands:
There prudes, with shrinking horror, saw
The beads and blanket of a Squaw;
But ere their whispered blame began }
To circle round, a murmur ran, }
“How very droll!—a nice young man!” }
There fair young Greeks in freedom strayed,
With braided locks, and robes that played
In many a light and graceful fold,
And white brows bound with coins of gold;
The Turkish fair unveiled were then
To the promiscuous gaze of men,
With such a wealth of raven hair,
And cheeks so radiant, brows so fair—
No wonder Sultans, passing nigh,
Eyed the fair groups, and wished to buy!
One dame—a daring feat I ween,
Wore the rich robes of Scotland’s Queen,
And loud, and long, was heard to sigh }
Whenever stately glided by, }
In harsh and formal Majesty, }
Her rival, with a well-starched ruff,
And robe of grand brocaded stuff.
There Anna Boleyn smiled elate
Defying her approaching fate;
So blithe she looked, the wise ones said
Before her time she’d lost her head:
While bluff King Harry, following after,
Thought her much younger than her daughter.
And she, the serious, sweet Jane Gray,
Who better loved to read than play—
As Ascham tells us—danced as though
She took much pleasure in the show;
There with mantilla, flower, and fan,
And saucy page behind who ran,
And sour duenna in a hoop,
Came Spanish maids, a haughty group;
Behind them close, with charming song,
Did three Tyrolean sisters throng;
And in the _chaine_, a Croat did turn
A pretty black-capped maid of Berne;
Three Nuns demure—pressed hard by railers,
(Fresh-water though) a pair of Sailors;
A Hollandaise, contrasted well
With a Savoyard—his _vielle_
Slung at his back—and when he played,
Ye Gods! what doleful noise he made!
And Naples sent her peasants there,
With sparkling eyes, and jetty hair,
And dresses dight with colours gay
Such as at _festas_ they display:
Thus, once resistless, moved along
Bright MALIBRAN, that queen of song!
They little thought, who passed her by,
And marvelled at her mirthful eye,
So full of life and joy was she,
That soon the tomb her home must be!
And Roman Ladies, chaste and proud,
Were mingled in that motley crowd;
And witching gipsies fortunes told,
The same one theme, to young and old;
And Pilgrims with their cockle-shells;
And Folly with his cap and bells;
And Comus with his cup divine;
And Circe, but without her swine;
And she who on the willowy shore[2] }
Of Carthage, did her love deplore;— }
The Muse lacks breath: she can no more. }
Through the vast hall the brilliant crowd
Roamed gaily, or to music loud
Whirled nimble feet, while some apart,
Revealed soft secrets of the heart:
Full many a fair and dimpled lisper
Lent her white ear to Flattery’s whisper,
And though in Love’s experience read,
Believed the whole the coxcomb said:
’Twas almost true—if true not quite—
And who could doubt on such a night?
Who on this brilliant scene had dwelt,
And paused to think, but must have felt
As Xerxes, when he wept to see }
That mighty, moving throng, whom he }
Had marshalled on to destiny, }
This crowd of young, and blithe, and fair,
Smiled on by Death—but not to spare?
To his wan eye, the gilded room
Is but a thickly peopled tomb;
To him the years are but a day,
That pass, and all have gone their way,
Or, touched by Time with finger cold,
Are frail, and spectral to behold:
He laughs at every polished brow,
And floating tress, and neck of snow,
And cheek that shames the rarest rose,
And lips that rows of pearl disclose;
And forms from Beauty’s faultless mould,
So softly fair or proudly bold,
That seraphs, from their amaranth bowers,
Might envy shapes this earth of ours
Yields from its dust;—and while he quaffs
His wine of tears, the Spoiler laughs,
Too soon that shadowy wand to wave,
Which sweeps the revellers to the grave!
But O! how few e’er pause to think,
While Pleasure’s cup, filled to the brink,
Lures them to taste—and idly gay,
Their brief existence sport away;
Until, perchance, some dear one dies,
Then falls the bandage from their eyes
That hid the dread truth from their gaze,
And, terror-struck, in wild amaze
They learn that nought of man’s endeavour
Can change the doom—“Ye part for ever!”
For ever?—No—in realms on high,
If the heart’s instinct prove no lie ...
But pause—nor trench on themes divine,
Unmeet for such light lay as mine.
[Illustration:
_The Declaration_
_MARK YONDER YOUTH ON WHOSE FOND ARM
LEANS ONE ENRICHED WITH EVERY CHARM_
]
Mark yonder youth, on whose fond arm
Leans one enriched with every charm
That ever-bounteous Nature spent,
When on some loving labour bent!
How fresh, how young, how fair the face!
That form, how round, how full of grace!
That foot, how fairy-like and small!
It might on bed of roses fall,
And scarce a delicate leaflet crush,
Nor by its pressure stain the blush:
A sable robe, in graceful folds,
Sweeps to her feet—a cestus holds
Her slender waist, with many a gem
Brilliant; so shines the diadem
That crowns her brow, as marble pale,
Whence low descends a dusky veil
Round her sweet face in shadowy flow,
Like clouds that float o’er Dian’s brow;
Now her rare splendour half concealing,
Now, touched by air, the whole revealing—
“She walks in beauty,” Queen of Night,
Did e’er the Goddess look more bright?
Large diamonds, of the purest lustre,
Within her raven tresses cluster,
Which darker seem between the rays
Emitted by their dazzling blaze:
So show the heavens when stars abound,
And shed their sparkling gleams around.
Her veiled arms (might Fancy say)
Remind us of the milky way,
When in the winter’s midnight sky
Its lone, long path, streams pale on high.
All eyes are on her, but her own
Are veiled, as though the lids had grown
Jealous of those bright orbs they shade,
And to reveal them half afraid.
Why wears her cheek a brighter hue,
Than Cashmere’s gardens ever knew?
Why throbs that fair and gentle breast
So wildly ’gainst her starry vest?
Would she abashed those gazers shun?
She hears—she sees—she feels but one!
At last, the chosen at her side
Hath asked her to become his Bride;
Hath told not half the manly love
Which all his future life shall prove;
And every tender, timid word,
Her ears hath drank—her heart has heard:
Yet maiden shame would half repress }
The words her blushing cheeks confess, }
Fond thoughts she dares not all express. }
“Look up, mine own! a word—a sign—
To tell me you are ever mine;
Nay, are you pained, that thus you sigh,
And listen with averted eye?—
Say—may I hope?”—O! who can tell
The rapture on his soul which fell,
When those twin faltering lips betrayed
The “Yes,” of that dear conscious maid?
Scarcely his joy he can dissemble,
The while he felt her round arm tremble
Within his own, as to his breast,
Gently, but lovingly, ’twas pressed.
And she—O! who could e’er disclose
The deep, tumultuous bliss she knows?
She longs to be alone, to weep
The tears she scarce concealed can keep.
Now, bolder grown, the ardent youth
Repeats his vows of faith and truth,
’Till, all disclosed, the maid may own
The secret by her blushes shewn.
At last—for Time, who jealous hovers
O’er mortal raptures, spares not lovers—
He leads her to her mother’s chair,
And whispers (not to empty air)
How high his bliss, how great his pride,
To call her angel-daughter bride:
Smiling, the lady hears the news,
She could not parley or refuse;
Yet dignified the gracious mien
In which she let assent be seen.
’Twas fixed next morning he should call
And tell the good Lord Percy all:
No fear of him—he could not say,
To Mary and Lord Deloraine, “Nay!”
Pass we the interim in our song—
O! but the lovers thought it long!
’Twere vain to tell how quickly flew
The hours which now the lovers knew,
As, ne’er apart, they rode or walked,
Or of the golden future talked,
For even old age looks passing bright
When viewed by Love’s own magic light:
Or how the self-same poet’s page
Would oft their downcast eyes engage.—
The bard who sung the “hell[3] of sueing,”
Forgot, methinks, the heaven of wooing!
No Deloraine blamed the law’s delay,
And drove to Lincoln’s Inn each day
To urge its ministers to speed,
Who of impatience took small heed.
They wasted weeks, without remorse,
Their tedious covenants to endorse;
Talked of fee-simple and entail,
And due provisions for heirs-male
And younger children, and made good
Jointure in case of widowhood—
Nay, so o’er-provident were they,
As with shred counsel long to weigh
What sum, in case of separation,
Should form the lady’s reparation.
The youth to fancy did begin
That Time stood still in Lincoln’s Inn;
He’d wait no more, but spoke aloud,
And, angry with impatience, vowed
He’d rather give his whole estate
Than for tedious lawyers wait.
Cold to his prayers, those parchment men
The pin-money must settle then.