Chapter II: My Life Is a

At Worthing an exile from Geraldine G----,
How aimless, how wretched an exile is he!
Promenades are not even prunella and leather
To lovers, if lovers can't foot them together.

He flies the parade, sad by ocean he stands,
He traces a "Geraldine G." on the sands,
Only "G!" though her loved patronymic is "Green,"--
I will not betray thee, my own Geraldine.

The fortunes of men have a time and a tide,
And Fate, the old Fury, will not be denied;
That name was, of course, soon wiped out by the sea,--
She jilted the exile, did Geraldine G.

They meet, but they never have spoken since that,--
He hopes she is happy--he knows she is fat;
_She_ woo'd on the shore, now is wed in the Strand,--
And _I_--it was I wrote her name on the sand!

MRS. SMITH.

Last year I trod these fields with Di,
And that's the simple reason why
They now seem arid:
Then Di was fair and single--how
Unfair it seems on me--for now
Di's fair, and married.

In bliss we roved. I scorned the song
Which says that though young Love is strong
The Fates are stronger:
Then breezes blew a boon to men--
Then buttercups were bright--and then
This grass was longer.

That day I saw, and much esteemed
Di's ankles--which the clover seemed
Inclined to smother:
It twitched, and soon untied (for fun)
The ribbons of her shoes--first one,
And then the other.

'Tis said that virgins augur some
Misfortune if their shoestrings come
To grief on Friday:
And so did Di--and so her pride
Decreed that shoestrings so untied,
"Are so untidy!"

Of course I knelt--with fingers deft
I tied the right, and then the left:
Says Di--"This stubble
Is very stupid--as I live
I'm shocked--I'm quite ashamed to give
You so much trouble."

For answer I was fain to sink
To what most swains would say and think
Were Beauty present:
"Don't mention such a simple act--
A trouble? not the least. In fact
It's rather pleasant."

I trust that love will never tease
Poor little Di, or prove that he's
A graceless rover.
She's happy now as _Mrs. Smith_--
But less polite when walking with
Her chosen lover.

Heigh-ho! Although no moral clings
To Di's soft eyes, and sandal strings,
We've had our quarrels!--
I think that Smith is thought an ass,
I know that when they walk in grass
She wears balmorals.

THE SKELETON IN THE CUPBOARD.

The characters of great and small
Come ready made, we can't bespeak one;
Their sides are many, too,--and all
(Except ourselves) have got a weak one.
Some sanguine people love for life--
Some love their hobby till it flings them.--
And many love a pretty wife
For love of the _eclat_ she brings them!

We all have secrets--you have one
Which may not be your charming spouse's,--
We all lock up a skeleton
In some grim chamber of our houses;
Familiars who exhaust their days
And nights in probing where our smart is,
And who, excepting spiteful ways,
Are quiet, confidential "parties."

We hug the phantom we detest,
We rarely let it cross our portals:
It is a most exacting guest,--
Now are we not afflicted mortals?
Your neighbour Gay, that joyous wight,
As Dives rich, and bold as Hector,
Poor Gay steals twenty times a-night,
On shaking knees, to see his spectre.

Old Dives fears a pauper fate,
And hoarding is his thriving passion;
Some piteous souls anticipate
A waistcoat straiter than the fashion.
She, childless, pines,--that lonely wife,
And hidden tears are bitter shedding;
And he may tremble all his life,
And die,--but not of that he's dreading.

Ah me, the World! how fast it spins!
The beldams shriek, the caldron bubbles;
They dance, and stir it for our sins,
And we must drain it for our troubles.
We toil, we groan,--the cry for love
Mounts upward from this seething city,
And yet I know we have above
A FATHER, infinite in pity.

When Beauty smiles, when Sorrow weeps,
When sunbeams play, when shadows darken,
One inmate of our dwelling keeps
A ghastly carnival--but hearken!
How dry the rattle of those bones!--
The sound was not to make you start meant,--
Stand by! Your humble servant owns
The Tenant of this Dark Apartment.

THE VICTORIA CROSS.

A LEGEND OF TUNBRIDGE WELLS.

She gave him a draught freshly drawn from the springlet,--
O Tunbridge, thy waters are bitter, alas!
But Love finds an ambush in dimple and ringlet,--
"Thy health, pretty maiden!"--he emptied the glass.

He saw, and he loved her, nor cared he to quit her,
The oftener he came, why the longer he stayed;
Indeed, though the spring was exceedingly bitter,
We found him eternally pledging the maid.

A _preux chevalier_, and but lately a cripple,
He met with his hurt where a regiment fell,
But worse was he wounded when staying to tipple
A bumper to "Phoebe, the Nymph of the Well."

Some swore he was old, that his laurels were faded,
All vowed she was vastly too nice for a nurse;
But Love never looked on such matters as they did,--
She took the brave soldier for better or worse.

And here is the home of her fondest election,--
The walls may be worn but the ivy is green;
And here has she tenderly twined her affection
Around a true soldier who bled for his Queen.

See, yonder he sits, where the church flings its shadows;
What child is that spelling the epitaphs there?
To that imp its devout and devoted old dad owes
New zest in thanksgiving--fresh fervour in prayer.

Ere long, ay, too soon, a sad concourse will darken
The doors of that church, and that tranquil abode;
His place then no longer will know him--but, hearken,
The widow and orphan appeal to their God.

Much peace will be hers! "If our lot must be lowly,
Resemble thy father, though with us no more;"
And only on days that are high or are holy,
She will show him the cross that her warrior wore.

So taught, he will rather take after his father,
And wear a long sword to our enemies' loss;
Till some day or other he'll bring to his mother
Victoria's gift--the Victoria Cross!

And still she'll be charming, though ringlet and dimple
Perchance may have lost their peculiar spell;
And at times she will quote, with complacency simple,
The compliments paid to the Nymph of the Well.

And then will her darling, like all good and true ones,
Console and sustain her,--the weak and the strong;--
And some day or other two black eyes or blue ones
Will smile on his path as he journeys along.

Wherever they win him, whoever his Phoebe,
Of course of all beauties she must be the _belle_,
If at Tunbridge he chance to fall in with a Hebe,
He will not fall out with a draught from the Well.

ST. GEORGE'S, HANOVER SQUARE.

Dans le bonheur de nos meilleurs amis nous trouvons souvent
quelque chose qui ne nous plait pris entierement.

She passed up the aisle on the arm of her sire,
A delicate lady in bridal attire,--
Fair emblem of virgin simplicity;--
Half London was there, and, my word, there were few,
Who stood by the altar, or hid in a pew,
But envied Lord Nigel's felicity.

O beautiful Bride, still so meek in thy splendour,
So frank in thy love, and its trusting surrender,
Departing you leave us the town dim!
May happiness wing to thy bosom, unsought,
And Nigel, esteeming his bliss as he ought,
Prove worthy thy worship,--confound him!

SORRENTO.

Sorrento, stella d'amore.--VINCENZO DA FILICAIA.

Sorrento! Love's Star! Land
Of myrtle and vine,
I come from a far land
To kneel at thy shrine;
Thy brows wear a garland,
Oh, weave one for mine!

Thine image, fair city,
Smiles fair in the sea,--
A youth sings a pretty
Song, tempered with glee,--
The mirth and the ditty
Are mournful to me.

Ah, sea boy, how strange is
The carol you sing!
Let Psyche, who ranges
The gardens of Spring,
Remember the changes
December will bring.

MARCH, 1862.

JANET.

I see her portrait hanging there,
Her face, but only half as fair,
And while I scan it,
Old thoughts come back, by new thoughts met--
She smiles. I never can forget
The smile of Janet.

A matchless grace of head and hand,
Can Art pourtray an air more grand?
It cannot--can it?
And then the brow, the lips, the eyes--
You look as if you could despise
Devotion, Janet.

I knew her as a child, and said
She ought to have inhabited
A brighter planet:
Some seem more meet for angel wings
Than Mother Nature's apron strings,--
And so did Janet.

She grew in beauty, and in pride,
Her waist was slim, and once I tried,
In sport, to span it,
At Church, with only this result,
They threatened with _quicunque vult_
Both me and Janet.

She fairer grew, till Love became
In me a very ardent flame,
With Faith to fan it:
Alas, I played the fool, and she ...
The fault of both lay much with me,
But more with Janet.

For Janet chose a cruel part,--
How many win a tender heart
And then trepan it!
She left my bark to swim or sink,
Nor seemed to care--and yet, I think,
You liked me, Janet.

The old old tale! you know the rest--
The heart that slumbered in her breast
Was soft as granite:
Who breaks a heart, and then omits
To gather up its broken bits,
Is heartless, Janet.

I'm wiser now--for when I curse
My Fate, a voice cries, "Bad or worse
You must not ban it:
Take comfort, you are quits, for if
You mourn a Love, stark dead and stiff,
Why so does Janet."

BERANGER.

Cast adrift on this sphere
Where my fellows were born,
None gave me a tear,
I was weakly--forlorn.

My plaint for their spurning
To heaven took wing,--
Sweet voices said, yearning,
"Sing, Little One, sing!"

My lot, as I rove,
Is to sing for the throng;--
And will not they love
The poor Child for his song?

THE BEAR PIT.

AT THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS.

We liked the bear's serio-comical face,
As he lolled with a lazy, a lumbering grace;
Said Slyboots to me--(just as if _she_ had none),
"Papa, let's give Bruin a bit of your bun."

Says I, "A plum bun might please wistful old Bruin,
For he can't eat the stone that the cruel boy threw in;
Stick _yours_ on the point of mama's parasol,
And then he will climb to the top of the pole.

"Some bears have got two legs, some bears have got more,--
Be good to old bears if they've no legs or four:
Of duty to age you should never be careless,
My dear, I am bald--and I soon shall be hairless!

"The gravest aversion exists amongst bears
For rude forward persons who give themselves airs,
We know how some graceless young people were mauled
For plaguing a prophet, and calling him bald.

"Strange ursine devotion! Their dancing-days ended,
Bears die to 'remove' what, in life, they defended:
They succoured the Prophet, and since that affair
The bald have a painful regard for the bear."

My Moral--Small People may read it, and run,
(The child has my moral, the bear has my bun),--
Forbear to give pain, if it's only in jest,
And care to think pleasure a phantom at best.
A paradox too--none can hope to attach it,
Yet if you pursue it you'll certainly catch it.

THE CASTLE IN THE AIR.

You shake your curls, and wonder why
I build no Castle in the Sky;
You smile, and you are thinking too,
He's nothing else on earth to do.
It needs Romance, my Lady Fair,
To raise such fabrics in the air--
Ethereal brick, and rainbow beam,
The gossamer of Fancy's dream,
And much the architect may lack
Who labours in the Zodiac
To rear what I, from chime to chime,
Attempted once upon a time.

My Castle was a gay retreat
In Air, that somewhat gusty shire,
A cherub's model country seat,--
Could model cherub such require.
Nor twinge nor tax existence tortured,
The cherubs even spared my orchard!
No worm destroyed the gourd I planted,
And showers arrived when rain was wanted.
I owned a range of purple mountain--
A sweet, mysterious, haunted fountain--
A terraced lawn--a summer lake,
By sun- or moon-beam always burnished;
And then my cot, by some mistake,
Unlike most cots, was neatly furnished.
A trellised porch--a pictured hall--
A Hebe laughing from the wall.
Frail vases, Attic and Cathay.
While under arms and armour wreathed
In trophied guise, the marble breathed,
A peering faun--a startled fay.
And flowers that Love's own language spoke,

Than these less eloquent of smoke,
And not so dear. The price in town
Is half a rose-bud--half-a-crown!
And cabinets and chandeliers,
The legacy of courtly years;
And missals wrought by hooded monks,
Who snored in cells the size of trunks,
And tolled a bell, and told a bead,
(Indebted to the hood indeed!)
Stained windows dark, and pillowed light,
Soft sofas, where the Sybarite
In bliss reclining, might devour
The best last novel of the hour.
On silken cushion, happy starred,
A shaggy Skye kept wistful guard:
While drowsy-eyed, would dozing swing
A parrot in his golden ring.

All these I saw one blissful day,
And more than now I care to name;
Here, lately shut, that work-box lay,
There, stood your own embroidery frame.
And over this piano bent
A Form from some pure region sent.
Despair, some lively trope devise
To prove the splendour of her eyes!
Her mouth had all the rose-bud's hue--
A most delicious rose-bud too.
Her auburn tresses lustrous shone,
In massy clusters, like your own;
And as her fingers pressed the keys,
How strangely they resembled these!

Yes, you, you only, Lady Fair,
Adorned a Castle in the Air,
Where life, without the least foundation,
Became a charming occupation.
We heard, with much sublime disdain,
The far-off thunder of Cockaigne;
And saw, through rifts of silver cloud,
The rolling smoke that hid the crowd.
With souls released from earthly tether,
We hymned the tender moon together.
Our sympathy from night to noon
Rose crescent with that crescent moon;
The night was shorter than the song,
And happy as the day was long.
We lived and loved in cloudless climes,
And even died (in verse) sometimes.

Yes, you, you only, Lady Fair,
Adorned my Castle in the Air.
Now, tell me, could you dwell content
In such a baseless tenement?
Or could so delicate a flower
Exist in such a breezy bower?
Because, if you would settle in it,
'Twere built for love, in half a minute.

What's love? Why love (for two) at best,
Is only a delightful jest;
But sad indeed for one or three,
--I wish you'd come and jest with me.

You shake your head and wonder why
The cynosure of dear Mayfair
Should lend me even half a sigh
Towards building Castles in the Air.
"I've music, books, and all you say,
To make the gravest lady gay.
I'm told my essays show research,
My sketches have endowed a church;
I've partners who have brilliant parts,
I've lovers who have broken hearts.
Poor Polly has not nerves to fly,
And why should Mop return to Skye?
To realize your _tete-a-tete_
Might jeopardize a giddy pate;
As grief is not akin to guilt,
I'm sorry if your Castle's built."

Ah me--alas for Fancy's flights
In noonday dreams and waking nights!
The pranks that brought poor souls mishap
When baby Time was fond of pap;
And still will cheat with feigning joys,
While ladies smile, and men are boys.
The blooming rose conceals an asp,
And bliss, coquetting, flies the grasp.
How vain the prize that pleased at first!
But myrtles fade, and bubbles burst.
The cord has snapt that held my kite;--
My friends neglect the books I write,
And wonder why the author's spleeny!
I dance, but dancing's not the thing;
They will not listen though I sing
"Fra poco," almost like Rubini!
The poet's harp beyond my reach is,
The Senate will not stand my speeches,
I risk a jest,--its point of course
Is marred by some disturbing force;
I doubt the friends that Fortune gave me;
But have I friends from whom to save me?
Farewell,--can aught for her be willed
Whose every wish is all fulfilled?
Farewell,--could wishing weave a spell,
There's promise in the word "farewell."

The lady's smile showed no remorse,--
"My worthless toy hath lost its gilding,"
I murmured with pathetic force,
"And here's an end of castle building;"
Then strode away in mood morose,
To blame the Sage of Careless Close,
He trifled with my tale of sorrow,--
"What's marred to-day is made to-morrow;
Romance can roam not far from home,
Knock gently, she must answer soon;
I'm sixty-five, and yet I strive
To hang my garland on the moon."

GLYCERE.

OLD MAN.

In gala dress, and smiling! Sweet,
What seek you in my green retreat?

YOUNG GIRL.

I gather flowers to deck my hair,--
The village yonder claims the best,
For lad and lass are thronging there
To dance the sober sun to rest.
Hark! hark! the rebec calls,--Glycere
Again may foot it on the green;
Her rivalry I need not fear,
These flowers shall crown the Village Queen.

OLD MAN.

You long have known this tranquil ground?

YOUNG GIRL.

It all seems strangely marred to me.

OLD MAN.

Light heart! there sleeps beneath this mound
The brightest of yon company.
The flowers that should eclipse Glycere
Are hers, poor child,--her grave is here!

VAE VICTIS.

"My Kate, at the Waterloo Column,
To-morrow, precisely at eight;
Remember, thy promise was solemn,
And--thine till to-morrow, my Kate!"

* * * * *

That evening seemed strangely to linger,--
The licence and luggage were packed;
And Time, with a long and short finger,
Approvingly marked me exact.

Arrived, woman's constancy blessing,
No end of nice people I see;
Some hither, some thitherwards pressing,--
But none of them waiting for me.

Time passes, my watch how I con it!
I see her--she's coming--no, stuff!
Instead of Kate's smart little bonnet,
It is aunt, and her wonderful muff!

(Yes, Fortune deserves to be chidden,
It is a coincidence queer,
Whenever one wants to be hidden,
One's relatives always appear.)

Near nine! how the passers despise me,
They smile at my anguish, I think;
And even the sentinel eyes me,
And tips that policeman the wink.

Ah! Kate made me promises solemn,
At eight she had vowed to be mine;--
While waiting for one at this column,
I find I've been waiting for nine.

O Fame! on thy pillar so steady,
Some dupes watch beneath thee in vain:--
How many have done it already!
How many will do it again!

IMPLORA PACE.

(ONE HUNDRED YEARS HENCE.)

One hundred years! a long, long scroll
Of dust to dust, and woe,
How soon my passing knell will toll!
Is Death a friend or foe?
My days are often sad--and vain
Is much that tempts me to remain
--And yet I'm loth to go.
Oh, must I tread yon sunless shore--
Go hence, and then be seen no more?

I love to think that those I loved
May gather round the bier
Of him, who, whilst he erring proved,
Still held them more than dear.
My friends wax fewer day by day,
Yes, one by one, they drop away,
And if I shed no tear,
Dear parted Shades, whilst life endures,
This poor heart yearns for love--and yours!

Will some who knew me, when I die,
Shed tears behind the hearse?
Will any one survivor cry,
"I could have spared a worse--
We never spoke: we never met:
I never heard his voice--and yet
_I loved him for his verse_?"
Such love would make the flowers wave
In rapture on their poet's grave.

One hundred years! They soon will leak
Away--and leave behind
A stone mossgrown, that none will seek,
And none would care to find.
Then I shall sleep, and find release
In perfect rest--the perfect peace
For which my soul has pined;
Although the grave is dark and deep
I know the Shepherd loves his sheep.

VANITY FAIR.

"_Vanitas vanitatum_" has rung in the ears
Of gentle and simple for thousands of years;
The wail is still heard, yet its notes never scare
Or simple or gentle from Vanity Fair.

I hear people busy abusing it--yet
There the young go to learn and the old to forget;
The mirth may be feigning, the sheen may be glare,
But the gingerbread's gilded in Vanity Fair.

Old Dives there rolls in his chariot, but mind
_Atra Cura_ is up with the lacqueys behind;
Joan trudges with Jack,--is his sweetheart aware
What troubles await them in Vanity Fair?

We saw them all go, and we something may learn
Of the harvest they reap when we see them return;
The tree was enticing,--its branches are bare,--
Heigh-ho, for the promise of Vanity Fair!
That stupid old Dives! forsooth, he must barter
His time-honoured name for a wonderful garter;
And Joan's pretty face has been clouded with care
Since Jack bought _her_ ribbons at Vanity Fair.

Contemptible Dives! too credulous Joan!
Yet we all have a Vanity Fair of our own;--
My son, you have yours, but you need not despair,
Myself I've a weakness for Vanity Fair.

Philosophy halts, wisest counsels are vain,--
We go--we repent--we return there again;
To-night you will certainly meet with us there--
Exceedingly merry in Vanity Fair.

THE LEGENDE OF SIR GYLES GYLES.

Notissimum illud Phaedri, _Gallus quum tauro_.

Uppe, lazie loon! 'tis mornynge prime,
The cockke of redde redde combe
This thrice hath crowed--'tis past the time
To drive the olde bulle home.

Goe fling a rope about his hornnes,
And lead him safelie here:
Long since Sir Gyles, who slumber scornes,
Doth angle in the weir.

And, knaves and wenches, stay your din,
Our Ladye is astir:
For hark and hear her mandolin
Behynde the silver fir.

His Spanish hat he bravelie weares,
With feathere droopynge wide,
In doublet fyne, Sir Valentyne
Is seated by her side.

Small care they share, that blissfulle pair;
She dons her kindest smyles;
His songes invite and quite delighte
The wyfe of old Sir Gyles.

But pert young pages point their thumbes,
Her maids look glumme, in shorte
All wondere how the good Knyghte comes
To tarrie at his sporte.

There is a sudden stir at last;
Men run--and then, with dread,
They vowe Sir Gyles is dying fast!
And then--Sir Gyles is dead!

The bulle hath caughte him near the thornes
They call the _Parsonne's Plotte_;
The bulle hath tossed him on his hornnes,
Before the brute is shotte.

Now Ladye Gyles is sorelie tryd,
And sinks beneath the shockke:
She weeps from morn to eventyd,
And then till crowe of cockke.

Again the sun returns, but though
The merrie morninge smiles,
No cockke will crow, no bulle will low
Agen for pore Sir Gyles.

And now the knyghte, as seemeth beste,
Is layd in hallowed mould;
All in the mynstere crypt, where rest
His gallant sires and old.

But first they take the olde bulle's skin
And crest, to form a shroud:
And when Sir Gyles is wrapped therein
His people wepe aloud.

Sir Valentyne doth well incline
To soothe my lady's woe;
And soon she'll slepe, nor ever wepe,
An all the cockkes sholde crowe.

Ay soone they are in wedlock tied,
Full soon; and all, in fyne,
That spouse can say to chere his bride,
That sayth Sir Valentyne.

And gay agen are maids and men,
Nor knyghte nor ladye mournes,
Though Valentyne may trembel when
He sees a bulle with hornnes.

* * * * *

My wife and I once visited
The scene of all this woe,
Which fell out (so the curate said)
Four hundred years ago.

It needs no search to find a church
Which all the land adorns,
We passed the weir, I thought with fear
About the _olde bulle's hornnes_.

No cock then crowed, no bull there lowed,
But, while we paced the aisles,
The curate told his tale, and showed
A tablet to Sir Giles.

"'Twas raised by Lady Giles," he said,
And when I bent the knee I
Made out his name, and arms, and read,
HIC JACET SERVVS DEI.

Says I, "And so he sleeps below,
His wrongs all left behind him."
My wife cried, "Oh!" the clerk said, "No,
At least we could not find him.

"Last spring, repairing some defect,
We raised the carven stones,
Designing to again collect
And hide Sir Giles's bones.

"We delved down, and up, and round,
For many weary morns,
Through all this ground; but only found
An ancient pair of horns."

MY FIRST-BORN.

"He shan't be their namesake, the rather
That both are such opulent men:
His name shall be that of his father,--
My Benjamin--shortened to Ben.

"Yes, Ben, though it cost him a portion
In each of my relative's wills,
I scorn such baptismal extortion--
(That creaking of boots must be Squills).

"It is clear, though his means may be narrow,
This infant his age will adorn;
I shall send him to Oxford from Harrow,--
I wonder how soon he'll be born!"

A spouse thus was airing his fancies
Below--'twas a labour of love,--
And calmly reflecting on Nancy's
More practical labour above;

Yet while it so pleased him to ponder,
Elated, at ease, and alone;
That pale, patient victim up yonder
Had budding delights of her own;

Sweet thoughts, in their essence diviner
Than paltry ambition and pelf;
A cherub, no babe will be finer,
Invented and nursed by herself.

One breakfasting, dining, and teaing,
With appetite nought can appease,
And quite a young Reasoning Being
When called on to yawn and to sneeze.

What cares that heart, trusting and tender,
For fame or avuncular wills!
Except for the name and the gender,
She is almost as tranquil as Squills.

That father, in reverie centered,
Dumbfoundered, his thoughts in a whirl,
Heard Squills, as the creaking boots entered,
Announce that his Boy was--a Girl.

SUSANNAH.