Chapter I: STARTED up and slammed the book;

I seized my hat and cane;

I sought the bell and summoned cook

With all my might and main.

My cook, she is a sober lass--

Respectable, but slow:

She wonder'd what had come to pass

To set me ringing so.

Said I, My skiff is on the shore,

My bark is on the sea;

And many suns may set before

I can return to thee.

Expect me back on Friday week;

I'm not at home till then.

Adieu, adieu; I go to seek

The Stupidest of Men!"

I travers'd London in my search,

Careering to and fro,

From Barnsbury to Brixton Church.

From Notting Hill to Bow.

"There's no such word as fail," said I:

"I 'll seek my treasure still

From Brixton Church to Barnsbury,

From Bow to Notting Hill!"

He went not by the penny-boat,

The omnibus, or train;

One hour on shore--the next afloat--

I hunted him in vain.

And ever, as the days wore on

In travels east and west,

I marvell'd where he could have gone,

My own, my Stupidest.

I met, of course, with many men

Whose brains were very small;

I found a party, now and then,

With nearly none at all.

I spoke to some who talk'd about

The weather and the crops;

To others, much the worse, no doubt,

For alcohol or hops.

Alas! in ev'ry deep, you know,

There is a deeper yet;

Methought that I had sunk as low

As I was like to get.

Say, wherefore should I deign to dive

An atom deeper down?

"My Man," said I, "if still alive,

Is hiding out of town."

The fret, the fever, and the fuss,

Were wearing out my brain;

And so at last I hail'd a 'bus

To take me back again.

At home, securely re-install'd,

I rang for Mary Ann;

She said a visitor had call'd--

A "stupid-looking man."

I question'd her, and cook's replies

Completely prov'd the case.

She said, "I never did set eyes

On such a silly face."

"Thrice welcome, Destiny!" I cried

"The moral that you teach:

'Tis thus Man travels far and wide

For things within his reach!'

A VERY COMMON CHILD.

EFLECTIVE reader, you may go

From Chelsea unto outer Bow,

And back again to Chelsea,

Nor grudge the labour if you meet--

In lane or alley, square or street--

The child whom all the children greet

As Elsie--little Elsie.

A pretty name, a pretty face,

And pretty ways that give a grace

To all she does or utters,

Did Fortune at her birth bestow',

When little Elsie's lot below--

About a dozen years ago--

Got cast among the gutters.

The Fates, you see, have will'd it so

That even folks in Rotten Row

Are not without their trials;

Whilst only those that know the ways

Of stony London's waifs and strays

Can fancy how the seven days

Pass o'er the Seven Dials.

Suppose an able artizan,

(A model of the "working man"

So written at and lectur'd,)

Amongst the fevers that infest

His temporary fever-nest

Should catch a deadly one--the rest

Is easily conjectur'd.

'Twas hard, on father's death, I think,

That Elsie's mother took to drink;

('Twas harder yet on baby.)

The reason, reader, you may guess,

(I cannot find it, I confess)--

Perhaps it was her loneliness;

Or love of gin, it may be.

So there was Elsie, all astray,

And growing bigger day by day,

But growing none the better.

No other girl (in all the set

That looks on Elsie as a pet)

But knows at least the alphabet,

And Elsie--not a letter.

Well, reader, I had best be dumb

About the future that may come

To this forlorn she-urchin.

Her days are brighter ones _pro tem_.,

So let her make the most of them,

Amidst the labyrinths that hem

Saint Giles's ugly Church in.

CROOKED ANSWERS.

(Dedicated to the Laureate.)

NO. 1.--VERE DE VERE.

THE Lady Clara V. de V.

Presents her very best regards

To that misguided Alfred T.

(With one of her enamell'd cards).

Though uninclin'd to give offence,

The Lady Clara begs to hint

That Master Alfred's common sense

Deserts him utterly in print.

The Lady Clara can but say,

That always from the very first

She snubb'd in her decisive way

The hopes that silly Alfred nurs'd.

The fondest words that ever fell

From Lady Clara, when they met,

Were "How d 'ye do? I hope you 're well!

Or else "The weather's very wet."

To show a disregard for truth

By penning scurrilous attacks,

Appears to Lady C. in sooth

Like stabbing folks behind their backs.

The age of chivalry, she fears,

Is gone for good, since noble dames

Who irritate low sonneteers

Get pelted with improper names.

The Lady Clara cannot think

What kind of pleasure can accrue

From wasting paper, pens, and ink,

On statements the reverse of true.

If Master Launcelot, one fine day,

(Urged on by madness or by malt.)

Destroy'd himself--can Alfred say

The Lady Clara was in fault?

Her Ladyship needs no advice

How time and money should be spent,

And can't pursue at any price

The plan that Alfred T. has sent.

She does not in the least object

To let the "foolish yeoman" go,

But wishes--let him recollect--

That he should move to Jericho.

NO. 2.--MAUD.

Nay, I cannot come into the garden just new,

Tho' it vexes me much to refuse:

But I must have the next set of waltzes, I vow,

With Lieutenant de Boots of the Blues.

I am sure you 'll be heartily pleas'd when you hear

That our ball has been quite a success.

As for me--I've been looking a monster, my dear,

In that old-fashion'd guy of a dress.

You had better at once hurry home, dear, to bed;

It is getting so dreadfully late,

You may catch the bronchitis or cold in the head

If you linger so long at our gate.

Don't be obstinate, Alfy; come, take my advice--

For I know you're in want of repose.

Take a basin of gruel (you 'll find it so nice)

And remember to tallow your nose.

No, I tell you I can't and I shan't get away,

For De Boots has implor'd me to sing.

As to you--if you like it, of course you can stay;

You were always an obstinate thing.

If you feel it a pleasure to talk to the flow'rs

About'"babble and revel and wine,"

When you might have been snoring for two or three hours.

Why, it's not the least business of mine.

A BEGGING LETTER.

Y dear Tomorrow,

I can think

Of little else to do,

And so I take my pen and ink

To drop a line to you.

I own that I am ill at ease

Respecting you to-day:

Do let me have an answer, please:

_Répondez, s 'il vous plait_.

I long to like you very much,

But that will all depend

On whether you behave "as such,"

(I mean, dear, as a friend).

I 'll set you quite an easy task

At which you are au fait;

You 'll come and bring me what I ask?

_Répondez, s 'il vous plait_.

Be sure to recollect your purse,

For be it understood

Though money-matters might be worse.

They 're very far from good.

So, if you have a little gold

You care to give away--

But am I growing over-bold?

_Répondez, s'il vous plait._

A little--just a little--fame

You must contrive to bring,

Because I think a poet's name,

Would be a pleasant thing

Perhaps, though, as I've scarcely got

A single claim to lay

To such a gift, you'd rather not?

_Répondez, s'il vous plait_.

Well, well, Tomorrow, you may strike

A line through what 's above:

And bring me folks that I can like

And folks that I can love.

A warmer heart--a quicker brain--

I 'll ask for, if I may:

Tomorrow, shall I ask in vain?

_Répondez, s'il vous plait_

A COCKNEY'S EVENING SONG.

FADES into twilight the last golden gleam

Thrown by the sunset on upland and stream

Glints o'er the Serpentine--tips Notting Hill--

Dies on the summit of proud Pentonville.

Day brought us trouble, but Night brings us peace

Morning brought sorrow, but Eve bids it cease.

Gaslight and Gaiety, beam for a while;

Pleasure and Paraffin, lend us a smile.

Temples of Mammon are voiceless again--

Lonely policemen inherit Mark Lane

Silent is Lothbury--quiet Cornhill--

Babel of Commerce, thine echoes are still.

Far to the South,--where the wanderer strays

Lost among graveyards and riverward ways,

Hardly a footfall and hardly a breath

Comes to dispute Laurence--Pountney with Death.

Westward the stream of Humanity glides;--

'Busses are proud of their dozen insides.

Put up thy shutters, grim Care, for to-day--

Mirth and the lamplighter hurry this way.

Out on the glimmer weak Hesperus yields!

Gas for the cities and stars for the fields.

Daisies and buttercups, do as ye list;

I and my friends are for music or whist.

ROMANTIC RECOLLECTIONS.

I.

HEN I lay in a cradle and suck'd a coral,

I lov'd romance in my childish way;

And stories, with or without a moral,

Were welcome as ever the flow'rs in

May.

For love of the false I learnt my spelling,

And brav'd the

perils of

While matters of fact

were most repelling,

Romance was plea-

sant as aught

could----

II.

My reading took me to desert islands,

And buried me deep in Arabian Nights;

Sir Walter led me amongst the Highlands,

On into the thickest of Moslem fights.

I found the elder Dumas delightful--

Before the sun had eclips'd the----------

And Harrison Ainsworth finely frightful,

And Fenimore Cooper far from-------------------

A few years later I took to reading

The morbid stories of Edgar Poe--

Not healthy viands for youthful feeding

(And all my advisers told me so).

But, healthy or not, I enjoy'd them vastly;

My feverish fancy was nightly -------

Upon horrible crimes and murders ghastly

Which sent me terrified off to-----------

III.

Well: what with perils upon the prairies,

And haunted ruins and ghosts in white,

And wars with giants and gifts from fairies,

At last I came to be craz'd outright.

And many a time, in my nightly slumbers,

Bearing a glove as a lady's-------

I held the lists against countless numbers,

After the style of the darkest-------

I am chang'd at present; the olden fever

Has left my brain in a sounder state;

In common-place I'm a firm believer,

And hunt for figure and fact and date.

I have lost a lot of my old affection,

For books on which I was wont to--------

But still I can thrill at the recollection

Of mystery, magic, and martial --------

THE MAD GRANDPAPA.

Charley, if I call you twice,

I shall box your ears!

Grandpapa has something nice

In the shape of good advice

For his little dears:

Simple maxims for the young.

Mary, _will_ you hold your tongue?

ISTEN, little girls and boys;

Listen, one and all!

Put away those nasty toys--

Mary, hold that horrid noise--

Willy, drop your ball!

Come and listen, if you can.

To a bald but good old man.

Folks will teach you when at school

"Never tell a lie!"

Nonsense: if you 're not a fool

You may always break the rule,

But you must be sly;

For they'll whip you, past a doubt,

If they ever find you out.

"Little boys," they say, "should be

Seen but never heard!"

Rubbish: what can people see

In an ugly brat if he

Never says a word?

Talk, then, if you feel inclin'd;

Talking shows the active mind.

Folks will tell you, "Children _must_

Do as they are bid

But you understand, I trust,

That the rule is quite unjust

To a thoughtful kid:

For, if once brute force appears.

How about Free-will, my dears?

Folks say, "Children should not let

Angry passions rise."

Humbug! When you 're in a pet

Why on earth should you regret

Blacking some one's eyes?

Children's eyes are made, in fact,

Just on purpose to be black'd.

I, when young, was green enough

Blindly to obey

All the idiotic stuff

That an old pedantic muff

Taught me day by day;--

And, you see--at eighty-five

I'm the biggest fool alive!

SHABBY-GENTEEL.

WHEN I last had the pleasure--one day in the City--

Of seeing poor Brown, I was forcibly struck

By his alter'd appearance, and thought, What, a pity

To see the old fellow so down on his luck.

From the crown of a hat that was horribly seedy

To shoes that were dreadfully down at the heel

He suggested a type of the poor and the needy--

A sketch at full length of the shabby-genteel.

There were holes in his gloves--his umbrella was cotton--

His coat was a faded invisible green;

And in prominent bulbs, through the trowsers he'd got on,

The marks of his knees, or _patellae_, were seen.

But it seem'd above all inexpressibly painful

To notice the efforts he made to conceal--

By a tone partly nervous and partly disdainful--

The fact of his looking so shabby-genteel.

"How is business?" I ask'd him;--"and what are you doing?"

To tell you the truth I decidedly had

A belief that the trade he had last been pursuing

(Whatever its nature) had gone to the bad..

His reply was a sigh:--it was little good urging

The questions afresh, for I could not but feel

That he saw not a prospect of ever emerging

Above the dead-level of shabby-genteel.

When we parted I sunk into gloomy reflection--

A state of the mind that I hate, by the way--

And I gave my Brown-studies a moral direction--

Though, put into poetry, morals don't pay.

Here's the truth I evolved, if I quite recollect it:

Frail Fortune one day, by a turn of the wheel,

May despatch you or me, sir, when least we expect it,

To march in the ranks of the shabby-genteel.

CUPID'S MAMMA.

HE waits with Cupid at the

wing--

The transformation is ap-

proaching;--

She gives the god, poor little

thing,

Some final hints by way of

"coaching."

For soon the merry motley

clown--

Most purely practical of

jokers--

Will bring the pit and gallery

down

With petty larcenies and

pokers.

No Venus--anything but that.

Could Fancy, howsoever flighty,

Transform the mother of this brat

To aught resembling Aphrodite?

No Venus, but the daily sport

Of common cares and vulgar trials;

No monarch of a Paphian court--

Her court is in the Seven Dials.

She taught young Love to play the part--

To bend the bow and aim the arrows

Those arms will never pierce a heart.

Unless it be a Cockney sparrow's.

Alas, the Truthful never wooed

The Beautiful to fashion Cupid:

But, in some sympathetic mood,

Perhaps the Ugly wooed the Stupid.

Is Cupid nervous? Not a bit;

Love seeks no mortal approbation.

Stalls, boxes, gallery, and pit

May hiss or cheer the transformation.

Mamma looks anxious and afraid

While parting with her young beginner,

Whose little wages, weekly paid,

Will pay her for a weekly dinner.

THE CRUSADER'S FAREWELL.

WHEN King Dick the lion-hearted, pack'd his luggage

up and started,

(Vide Hume and Smollett _passim_) for a trip to Palestine,

Tall young men, though half unwilling to accept the offer'd

shilling.

Left their wives and little children, and enlisted in the line.

Wot ye well that there was grieving when those tall young men

were leaving;

Wot ye well that there was business being done in locks of

hair;

Wot ye well that rings were broken, and presented as a token,

By the noblest of the noble to the fairest of the fair.

Said a soldier, on the shady side of forty, to a lady

Who was buckling on his burgonet, his breastplate, and his

brand;

"By my halidom, I'd rather, as a husband and a father,

Stop at home than go crusading in that blessed Holy Land."

"Yes, I know as well as _you_, dear, it's the proper thing to do,

dear;

And I'm not afraid of fighting, (as I think I said before;)

But it's not without emotion that I contemplate the notion

Of a trip across the channel in a British man-of-war.

"No, it's not at all a question of alarm, but indigestion;

Not the lances of the Paynim, but the passage in the gale,

When the awful cry of 'Steward' from the windward and the

leeward,

From a hundred lips arises, when a hundred lips are pale!"

"Yes, I know you 're very sickly," said his lady, rather quickly;

But you 'll take a cup of sherris or a little Malvoisie,

When you get as far as Dover;--and when once you 're half-

seas over,

Why you 'll find yourself as jolly as you possibly can be."

So her lord and master started, just a trifle chicken-hearted,

And, it may be, just a trifle discontented with his lot;

But whether he got sick, or felt the better for the liquor

That his lady recommended, this deponent sayeth not.

LAYS OF MANY LANDS.

NO. I. COSSIMBAZAR.

OME fleetly, come fleetly, my hookabadar,

For the sound of the tam-tam is heard from

afar.

"Banoolah! Banoolah! The Brahmins

are nigh,

And the depths of the jungle re-echo their

cry.

_Pestonjee Bomanjee!_

Smite the guitar;

Join in the chorus, my hookabadar.

Heed not the blast of the deadly monsoon,

Nor the blue Brahmaputra that gleams in the moon.

Stick to thy music, and oh! let the sound

Be heard with distinctness a mile or two round.

Join in the chorus, my hookabadar.

Art thou a Buddhist, or dost thou indeed

Put faith in the monstrous Mohammedan creed?

Art thou a Ghebir--a blinded Parsee?

Not that it matters an atom to me.

Jcunsetjee Jeejeebhoy!

Sweep the guitar.

Cursetjee Bomanjee!

Twang the guitar.

Join in the chorus, my hookabadar.

NO. 2. SARAGOSSA.

PITA, my paragon, bright star of Arragon;

Listen, dear, listen; your Cristobal sings.

From my cot that lies buried a short way

from Lerida

Love and a diligence lent me their wings.

Swift as a falcon I flew to thy balcony.

(Is it bronchitis? I can't sing a bar.)

Greet not with merriment Love's first experi-

ment;

Listen, Pépita! I 've brought my _catarrh_.

Manuel the matador may, like a flat, adore

Donna Dolores. I pity his choice,

For they say that her governor lets neither lover nor

Any one else hear the sound of her voice.

Brother Bartolomé (stoutish Apollo) may

Sigh for Sabina--you 'll pardon this cough?--

And Isabel's votary, Nunez the notary,

Vainly--(.That sneeze again? Loved one, I'm off!)

NO. 3. CLARENS.

AKE Leman wooes me with its crystal

face--

(That observation is the late Lord

Byron's)

And Chillon seems a damp unpleasant

place--

(Where Bonnivard, poor soul, got

clapt in irons.)

Beside me Vevey lies, romantic town,

(I wish the weather were not quite

so damp,

And, not far distant, Alpine summits

frown--

(Ah, just what I expected. That's the cramp!)

Before the blast are driven the flying clouds--

(And I should like to blow a cloud as well)

The vapours wrap the mountain-tops in shrouds--

(I left my mild cheroots at the hotel.)

Dotting the glassy surface of the stream,

(Oh, here's a cigarette--my mind's at ease,)

The boats move silently as in a dream--

(Confound it! where on earth are my fusees?)

Methinks in such a Paradise as this,

(Thank goodness, there 's a clodhopper in sight.)

To live were ecstasy, to die were bliss.

(Could you oblige me, Monsieur, with a light?)

I could live pure beneath so pure a sky----

(The rain's completely spoilt my Sunday coat,)

And sink into the tomb without a sigh--

(There's the bell ringing for the table d'hote.)

NO. 4. VENICE.

PEED, gondolier, speed, o'er the

lonely lagoon,

To the distant piazetta

Where dwells my Minetta,

Lest envious Aurora surprise us too

soon.

Sing, gondolier, sing, with a heart

full as mine--

Though thy larynx be wheezy

And singing's not easy

Whilst guiding a vessel so tub-like as thine.

Cease, gondolier, cease; 'twas an exquisite air--

But we've reach'd the Rialto,

So hand me that paletot;

And tell me, my gondolier, what is thy fare?

THE SEASONS.

THE smiling Spring is too light a thing--

Too much of a child for me.

No trace in her face of the ripen'd grace

That a lover would love to see.

Hers are the showers--but half the flowers

Hang back for her sister's call.

Amongst the seasons, for divers reasons,

The Spring is the worst of all.

I dread the Summer, the next new-comer;.

Because of her changeful forms:

She merits my praise for her cloudless days,

But my wrath for her fearful storms.

There are flames in her love from the fires above,

And her kisses like lava fall.

Amongst the seasons, for various reasons,

The Summer is worst of all.

The Autumn drear glides into a year

With the moan of an injured ghost.

Then shiver and fall the brown leaves all,

And the woods are in rags almost.

She comes and flings on blossoming things

A shadow of shroud and pall.

Amongst the seasons, for several reasons,

The Autumn is worst of all.

The Winter is good, be it understood.

For scarcely a single thing:

Although it is prime at the Christmas time

To revel and dance and sing.

It is full of such ills as tradesmen's bills.

And its pleasures are scant and small.

Amongst the seasons, for many good reason

The Winter is worst of all.

BROKEN VOWS.

ROMISES are lightly spoken;

Vows on which we blindly build

(Utter'd only to be broken)

Go for ever unfulfill'd.

Oft betray'd, but still believing--

Duped again and yet again--

All our hoping, all our grieving

Warns us, but it warns in vain.

From the cradle and the coral--

From the sunny days of youth--

We are taught a simple moral,

Still we doubt the moral's truth.

When a boy they found, me rather

Loth to do as I was bid.

'I shall buy a birch," said father--

Broken vows! He never _did_.

Grown extravagant, when youthful,

In my tailor's debt I ran;

He appear'd about as truthful

In his talk as _any_ man.

Let me tell you how he sold me:

"Look you, Mr What's-Your-Name,

I shall summons _you_," he told me--

But the summons _never came!_

Through the meadows, daisy-laden,

Once it was my lot to stray,

Talking to a lovely maiden

In a very loving way;

And I stole a kiss--another--

Then another--then a lot.

"Fie!" she said, "I 'll tell my mother."

Idle words; she told her not.

When a party who dislikes me

Promises to "punch my head,"

'Tis an empty phrase, it strikes me,

They are words too lightly said.

Not since Disappointment school'd me,

Have I credited the truth

Of the promises that fool'd me

In my green and gushing youth.

WHERE--AND OH! WHERE?

WHERE are the times when--miles away

From the din and the dust of cities--

Alexis left his lambs to play,

And wooed some shepherdess half the day

With pretty and plaintive ditties?

Where are the pastures daisy-strewn

And the flocks that lived in clover;

The Zephyrs that caught the pastoral tune

And carried away the notes as soon

As ever the notes were over?

Where are the echoes that bore the strains

Each to his nearest neighbour:

And all the valleys and all the plains

Where all the nymphs and their love-sick swains

Made merry to pipe and tabor?

Where are they gone? They are gone to sleep

Where Fancy alone can find them:

But Arcady's times are like the sheep

That quitted the care of Little Bo-Peep,

For they've left their tales behind them!

A FIT OF THE BLUES.

Y deep cerulean eyes are full of tears,

And bluely burns my melancholy

taper:

How dimly every azure line appears

To be imprinted on my bluish

paper.

My casement opens on the blue,

blue sky,

The cobalt of the dawn already lightens

The outer east--and yet small joy have I,

That Luna fades and that Aurora brightens.

Oh that the morning light could bring for me

One hour amidst the blue-bells and the heather!--

One hour of sojourn on the wide blue sea,

In crystal calmness or in stormy weather!

Oh that the "freshness of the heart" could fall

Once more upon my spirit, and could kindly

Bring back again the days when first of all

I read my _Blue Beard_ and believed it blindly!

One cure there is for all the ills that make

Existence duller than a blue-book's pages:--

A strong blue-pill is just the thing to take

For indigestion in the early stages.

ROTTEN ROW.

THERE'S a tempting bit of greenery--of rustic

scenery--

That's haunted by the London "upper ten

Where, by exercise on horseback, an equestrian may force back

Little fits of tedium vitæ now and then.

Oh! the times that I have been there, and the types that I have

seen there

Of that gorgeous Cockney animal, the "swell

And the scores of pretty riders (both patricians and outsiders)

Are considerably more than I can tell.

When first the warmer weather brought these people all together.

And the crowds began to thicken through the Row,

I reclined against the railing on a sunny day, inhaling

All the spirits that the breezes could bestow.

And the riders and the walkers and the thinkers and the talkers

Left lonely in the thickest of the throng,

Not a touch upon my shoulder--not a nod from one beholder--

As the stream of Art and Nature went along.

But I brought away one image, from that fashionable scrimmage,

Of a figure and a face--ah, _such_ a face!

Love has photograph'd the features of that loveliest of creatures

On my memory, as Love alone can trace.

Did I hate the little dandy in the whiskers, (they were sandy,)

Whose absurd salute was honour'd by a smile?

Did I marvel at his rudeness in presuming on her goodness,

When she evidently loathed him all the while!

Oh the hours that I have wasted, the regrets that I have tasted,

Since the day (it seems a century ago)

When my heart was won instanter by a lady in a canter,

On a certain sunny day in Rotten Row!

A LAST RESOURCE.

LONE on India's burning plain,

Beneath a banyan tree,

A mortal many hours had lain

In ceaseless agony.

Mosquitoes with a constant buzz

Came flocking round their prize

(It varies--the mosquito does--

In appetite and size.)

But, though it varies as to form,

And varies as to thirst,

In Asia, (where the nights ara warm,)

The small ones are the worst.

Anon their victim waved his arm

To scare them from their feed;

But found, alas! that their alarm

Was very brief indeed.
.

Then other remedies he sought,

But still he sought in vain;

Until a wild and witching thought

Came flashing through his brain.

At once he started bolt upright

Against the banyan tree,

And, in the silence of the night,

"Now, listen all!" said he.

"I 've had enough of these attacks--

Enough and rather more!"

(His voice had now begun to wax

Much louder than before.

The hearers trembled, one and all;

Dead stillness reign'd around:

You might have heard a needle fall

The hush was so profound.)

"When I was living far away--

Across the briny deep--

I laid me down one summer day

To try to go to sleep;

When, lo! as I began to see

A prospect of repose,

There straightway came a humble-bee

Who buzz'd about my nose.

I ever was a patient man;

I take a certain pride

In suffering as best I can

Whatever ills betide.

But this was not a thing to bear;

So rising in my wrath,

I slew the monster then and there

Upon the table-cloth.

"The moral of my tale, methinks,

'Tis needless to declare.

I wish to take my forty winks:

Disturb me if ye dare.

The first who interferes with _me_

Imperils life and limb;

For as I did unto the bee

I mean to do to _him!"_

Again he glanced upon the crew,

And laid him down to rest.

Irresolute and pallid grew

Their bravest and their best.

Next morning when the sunlight gleam'd

Upon the earth and sea,

That unmolested youth still dream'd

About the humble-bee.

WEATHERBOUND IN THE SUBURBS.

THE air is damp, the skies are leaden:

The ominous lull of impending rain

Presses upon me, and seems to deaden

Every sense but a sense of pain.

Hopes of getting again to London

Lapse into utter and grim despair;

Shall I do my verses or leave them undone?

I don't know, and I don't much care.

I sit in a silence broken only

Now and again by the wandering breeze,

A breeze in the garden, wandering lonely,

Or playing the fool with shivering trees.

I have slept all night--should I call it sleeping

Out of all sound but the pattering drops

Against the pane, and the wild wind keeping

Revelry up in the chimney-tops.

I want the hum of my working brothers--

London bustle and London strife--

To count as one in three million others;--

How can I live away from life?

MIDAS.

N Lemprière--bewitching book--

I've read and read the story

olden,

Which tells us of the king who

took

That fatal fancy to the golden.

The monarch, by a simple touch,

Transmuted anything instanter.

(Since then the times have alter'd

much,

And only Tempora mutantur.)

His palace roof was raised on high

By pillars bright with golden glory;--

(No modern publisher could buy

One column of this classic story.)

His pamper'd pages quite cut out

The pages from the "Wealth of Nations:"

They had gilt edges, past a doubt,

And lots of _Doré_ illustrations.

But Midas very soon, they say,

Knelt down and--driven to distraction--

Implored the gods to take away

Their awful gift of aurifaction.

'Twas hunger that induced remorse;

The king was at the point of starving.

(For gilding had become, of course,

The instant consequence of carving.)

Do all I will, I cannot bring

My faith to credit such a fable;

Although a _cheque 's_ a common thing

To turn to gold when one is able.

But gold, as far as I can learn,

(And here the story seems a "whopper!")

Gets changed to silver in its turn,

And silver in its turn to copper.

TO A TIMID LEECH.

NAY, start not from the banquet where the red wine foams

for thee--

Though somewhat thick to perforate this _epidermis_ be;

'Tis madness, when the bowl invites, to linger at the brink;

So haste thee, haste thee, timid one. Drink, pretty creature,

drink!

I tell thee, if these azure veins could boast the regal wine

Of Tudors or Plantagenets, the draught should still be thine!

Though round the goblet's beaded brim plebeian bubbles wink.

'Twill cheer and not inebriate. Drink, pretty creature, drink!

Perchance, reluctant being, I have placed thee wrong side up,

And the lips that I am chiding have been farthest from the cup.

I have waited long and vainly, and I cannot, cannot think

Thou wouldst spurn the oft-repeated call: Drink, pretty crea-

ture, drink!

While I watch'd thy patient struggles, and imagined thou wert

coy,

'Twas thy tail, and not thy features, that refused the proffer'd

joy.

I will but turn thee tenderly--nay, never, never shrink--

Now, once again the banquet calls: Drink, pretty creature

drink!

ANACREONTIC,

(For a Cavalier Tea-Party.)

Y, marry! With glee I abandon the

bottle;

But, mark me, not all your philo-

sophers, up

From quaint Master Mill to an-

tique Aristotle,

Shall make me turn tail on the

saucer and cup.

Drink, roysterers all; and, ifegs!

while I utter.

The praises of tea, let the burden resound.

Let those who prefer it have plain bread and butter;

For _me_, lads, I warrant the _toast_ shall go round.

_Chorus_.--Let those. &c.

Dull knaves who delight in the worship of BACCHUS

May jeer at our joys in their pestilent way.

Pert fools that love Sherris perchance may attack us;

What boots it, my bully boys? Drink and be gay.

Adzooks, let the braggarts go sleep in the gutter;

Carouse ye, so long as Bohea can be found;

Let those who prefer it have plain bread and butter:

For _me_ lads, I warrant the toast shall go t round.

_Chorus_.--Let those, &c.

Odsbodikins! Tea is the soul and the sinew

Of all the gay gallants that fight for the king;

Long, long on the throne may our monarch continue,

To laugh at the French and bid rebels go swing.

Drink, drink to our flag, boys; for ages shall flutter

In glory and honour that standard renown'd.

Let those who prefer it have plain bread and butter;

For me, lads, I warrant the toast shall go round.

_Chorus_.--Let those, &c.

A CHILD'S TWILIGHT.

CHILD.

THE sun drops down in the deep, deep west

As a ball sinks into a cup;

And the moon springs rapidly up from rest

As a Jack-in-the-box leaps up.

Now falls the shadow and comes the dark,

And the face of the world is hid;

Like the men and the beasts in a Noah's ark

When they slumber beneath its lid.

So softly--slowly--the silence creeps

Over earth and all earthly things,

That it leaves Mankind like a doll that sleeps

With nothing to touch the springs.

MOTHER.

Ah! would that never the stars might shine--

Like Heaven's kaleidoscopes--

Upon lids less innocent, love, than thine

Less innocent joys and hopes.

THE HOUSE ON THE TOP OF A HILL.

A Newgate Ballad.

HERE'S a structure whose battle-

ments gloomily frown

From the brow of a moun-

tainous height;

And the people go up and the

people go down

By that mansion from dawn

until night.

I viewed it with terror in in-

fancy's days,

I've a latent respect for it still;

Many sentiments thrill me whenever I gaze

At the House on the Top of a Hill.

Permission to enter that fortress I find

Can be got from a judge now and then,

Through a letter of recommendation that's sign'd

By a dozen respectable men.

You have merely to put a friend out of the way,

Or abstract the contents of his till,

To make yourself heartily welcome, they say,

At the House on the Top of a Hill.

There is lodging and board for the destitute poor,

With a diet nutritious though cheap;

And at evening they kindly make sure of your door,

Just in case you should walk in your sleep.

There's a medical man to attend on the guests,

And a chaplain who strives to instil

The most laudable sentiments into their breasts

At the House on the Top of a Hill.

Ev'ry guest has a private apartment;--in fact,

It's a kind of luxurious hotel,

Where a man who commits any praiseworthy act

Can be treated remarkably well.

Nay; it's better than many hotels you can find,

For they never present any bill;

But they patch you up _gratis_ in body and mind

At the House on the Top of a Hill.

MEN I DISLIKE.

Of all the bores whom now and then

Society permits

To speak to literary men,

And mix among the wits,

The worst are those that will devote

Their little minds to anecdote.

I often listen (more or less)

To muffs of many kinds--

Including people who possess

Encyclopaedic minds:

But oh! the biggest muff afloat

Is he who takes to anecdote.

I like the man who makes a pun,

Or drops a deep remark;

I like philosophy or fun--

A lecture or a lark;

But I despise the men who gloat

Inanely over anecdote.

I quake when some one recollects

A "little thing" he heard,

And, while he tells the tale, expects

A grin at every word.

Can any one on earth promote

Good fellowship through anecdote?

Ah me! I'd rather live alone

Upon a desert isle,

Without a voice except my own

To cheer me all the while,

Than dwell with men who learn by rote

Their paltry funds of anecdote!

NOT QUITE FAIR.

UMMER and spring the lovely rose,

Unconscious of its beauty, blows--

Condemn'd, in summer and in spring,

To feel no pride at blossoming.

The hills, the meadows, and the lakes,

Enchant not for their own sweet sakes;

They cannot know, they cannot care

To know, that they are thought so fair.

The rainbow, sunset, cloud, and star,

Dream not how exquisite they are.

All dainty things of earth and sky

Delight us--but they know not why.

But I--a poet--who possess

The power of loving loveliness,

May ask, (and I may ask in vain,)

"Why _am_ I so intensely plain?"

WISDOM AND WATER.

FIELDS are green in the early light,

When Morning treads on the skirts of Night

Fields are gray when the sun's gone west,

Like a clerk from the City in search of rest.

"Flesh," they tell us, "is only grass

And that is the reason it comes to pass

That mortals change in a life's long day

From the young and green to the old and gray.

Not long since--as it seems to me--

I was as youthful as youth could be:

Cramming my noddle, as young folks do,

With a thousand things more nice than true.

_Now_ this noddle of mine looks strange,

With its plenty of silver--and no small change!--

Surely I came the swiftest way

From the young and green to the old and gray.

Though the day be a changeful thing

In winter and summer, autumn and spring;

Days in December and days in June

Both seem finish'd a deal too soon.

Twilight shadows come closing in,

And the calmest, placidest hours begin:

The closing scenes of the piece we play

From the young and green to the old and gray.

'TWAS EVER THUS.

NEVER rear'd a young gazelle,

(Because, you see, I never tried;)

But, had it known and loved me well,

No doubt the creature would have died.

My rich and aged uncle John

Has known me long and loves me well,

But still persists in living on--

I would he were a young gazelle.

I never loved a tree or flower;

But, if I had, I beg to say,

The blight, the wind, the sun, or shower,

Would soon have wither'd it away.

I 've dearly loved my uncle JOHN,

From childhood till the present hour,

And yet he will go living on--

I would he were a tree or flower!

MY SONG.