Chapter C: Lamb

Gay shops, stately palaces, bustle and breeze,
The whirring of wheels, and the murmur of trees,
By night, or by day, whether noisy or stilly,
Whatever my mood is--I love Piccadilly.

Wet nights, when the gas on the pavement is streaming,
And young Love is watching, and old Love is dreaming,
And Beauty is whirl'd off to conquest, where shrilly
Cremona makes nimble thy toes, Piccadilly!

Bright days, when I leisurely pace to and fro,
And meet all the people I do or don't know.
Here is jolly old Brown, and his fair daughter Lillie;--
No wonder some pilgrims affect Piccadilly!

See yonder pair, fonder ne'er rode at a canter,--
She smiles on her Poet, contented to saunter;
Some envy her spouse, and some covet her filly,
He envies them both--he's an ass, Piccadilly!

Now were I that gay bride, with a slave at my feet,
I would choose me a house in my favourite street.
Yes or No--I would carry my point, willy, nilly;
If "no," pick a quarrel, if "yes," Piccadilly.

Thus the high frolic by--thus the lowly are seen,
As perched on the roof of yon bulky machine,
The Kensington dilly--and Tom Smith or Billy
Smoke doubtful cigars in ill-used Piccadilly.

And there's the balcony, where, ages ago,
Old Q sat and gazed on the damsels below.
There are plausible wolves even now, seeking silly
Red Riding Hoods small in thy woods, Piccadilly!

And there is a Statesman, the Man of the Day,
A laughing philosopher, gallant and gay;
No darling of Fortune more manfully trod,
Full of years, full of fame, and the world at his nod,
Can the thought reach his heart, and then leave it more chilly,--
"Old P or Old Q I must quit Piccadilly?"

Life is chequer'd, a patchwork of smiles and of frowns;
We valued its ups, let us muse on its downs.
There's a side that is bright, it will then turn the other,
One turn, if a good one, deserves such another.
_These_ downs are delightful, _these_ ups are not hilly,--
Let us turn one more turn ere we quit Piccadilly!

THE OLD CLERK

We knew an old Clerk, it was "once on time,"
An era to set sober datists despairing;
Then let them despair!--Darby sat in a chair
Near a cross that takes name from the village of Charing.

Though silent and lean, Darby was not morose,
What hair he had left was more silver than sable,
His feet had begun to turn up at the toes,
From constantly being curled under a table.

His pay and expenditure, quite in accord,
Were both on the strictest economy founded;
His rulers, in conclave, were known as the Board,
His rulers were sticks of mahogany rounded.

In his heart he looked down on this dignified knot,--
For why, the forefather of one of these senators,
A rascal concern'd in the Gunpowder Plot,
Had been barber-surgeon to Darby's progenitors.

Poor fool! to resent the caprices of Luck.
Still, a long thirty years (it was rather degrading)
He'd been writing despatches,--which means he had stuck
Some heads and some tails to much rhodomontading.

This sounds rather weary and dreary; but, no!
Though strictly inglorious, his days were quiescent,
And his red-tape was tied in a true-lover's bow
Each night when returning to Rosemary Crescent.

There Joan meets him smiling, the young ones are there,
His coming is bliss to the half-dozen wee things;
Of his advent the dog and the cat are aware,
And Phyllis, neat handed, is laying the tea-things.

This greeting the silent old Clerk understands.
Now his friends he can love, had he foes, he could mock them;
So met, so surrounded, his bosom expands,--
Some tongues have more need of such scenes to unlock them.

And Darby, at least, is resign'd to his lot,
And Joan (rather proud of the sphere he's adorning)
Has well-nigh forgotten that Gunpowder Plot,
And _he_ won't recall it till ten the next morning.

A time must arrive when, in pitiful case,
He will drop from his Branch like a fruit more than mellow:
Is he still to be found in his usual place?
Or is he already forgotten, poor fellow?

If still at his duty, he soon will arrive,--
He passes this turning, because it is shorter,--
If not within sight as the clock's striking five,
We shall see him before it is chiming the quarter.

THE GARTER

The healthy-wealthy-wise, affirm,
That early birds secure the worm,
And doubtless so they do;
Who scorns his couch should earn, by rights,
A world of pleasant sounds and sights
That vanish with the dew.

Bright Phosphor, from his watch released,
Now fading from the purple East--
The morning waxing stronger;
The comely cock that vainly strives
To crow from sleep his drowsy wives,
Who would be dosing longer.

Uxorious Chanticleer! and hark!
Upraise thine eyes, and find the lark,
That matutine musician,
Who heavenward soars on rapture's wings,
Though sought, unseen, who mounts, and sings
In musical derision.

A daughter hast'ning to prepare
Her father's humble morning fare--
The sturdy reaper's meal.
In russet gown and apron blue,
The daughter sings; like "Lucy," too,
She plies her spinning-wheel.

Anon the early reaper hies
To waving fields that clasp the skies,
Broad sheets of sunlit water.
All these were heard or seen by one
Who stole a march upon that sun,
And then--upon that Daughter!

This dainty maid, the hamlet's pride,
A lambkin trotting at her side,
Then hied her through the park;
A fond and gentle foster-dam--
May be she slumbered with her lamb,
Thus rising with the lark!

The lambkin frisk'd, the damsel fain
Would wile him back,--she called in vain.
The truant gamboll'd farther:
One follow'd for the maiden's sake,
A pilgrim in an Angel's wake--
A happy pilgrim, rather.

The maid gave chase, the lambkin ran,
As only woolly vagrant can,
Who never felt a crook;
But stay'd at length, as 'twere disposed
To drink, where tawny sands disclosed
The margent of a brook.

His mistress, who had follow'd fast,
Cried, "Little rogue, you're caught at last;
I'm fleeter, Sir, than you."
Then straight the wanderer convey'd
Where tangled shrubs, in branching shade,
Protected her from view--

Of all save one. She glanced around,
All fearful lest the slightest sound
Might mortal footfall be.
Then shrinkingly she stepped aside
One moment, and her garter tied
The truant to a tree.

Perhaps the world may wish to know
The hue of this delightful bow,
And how it might be placed:
No, not from him, he only knows--
It might be purple, blue, or rose,--
'Twas tied--with maiden taste.

Suffice it that the nymph was fair,
With dove-like eyes, and golden hair,
And feet of lily dye:
And, though these feet were pure from stain,
She turned her to the brook again,
And laved them dreamingly.

Awhile she sat in maiden mood,
And watch'd the shadows in the flood,
Which varied with the stream:
And as each pretty foot she dips,
The ripples ope their crystal lips
In welcome, as 'twould seem.

But reveries are fleeting things,
Which come and go on Fancy's wings,
Now longer, and now shorter:
The Fair One well her day-dream nurst,
But, when the light-blown bubble burst,
She wearied of the water;

Betook her to the spot where yet
Safe tether'd lay her snowy pet,
To roving tastes a martyr:
But something met the damsel's gaze,
Which made her cry in sheer amaze,
"Good gracious! where's my garter?"

Yes! where indeed? the echoes there,
Inquisitive, responded "where?"
And mourn'd the missing fetter:
A something else a little space
Must render duty in its place,
Till banish'd for a better.

The blushing Fair her lamb led home,
Perhaps resolved no more to roam
At peep of day together;
If chance so takes them, it is plain
She will not venture forth again
Without an extra tether.

A fair white stone will mark this morn--
He wears a prize, one lightly worn,
Love's gage (though not intended);
Of course he'll guard it near his heart,
Till suns and even stars depart,
And chivalry has ended.

And knighthood he'll not envy you,
The crosses, stars, and cordons bleus,
Which pride for folly barters;
He'll bear _his_ cross 'mid mundane jars,
His ribbon prize, and thank his stars
He does not crave your garters!

THE PILGRIMS OF PALL MALL

My little Friend, so small and neat,
Whom years ago I used to meet
In Pall Mall daily;
How cheerily you tripp'd away
To work, it might have been to play,
You tripp'd so gaily.

And Time trips too.--This moral means,
You then were midway in the teens
That I was crowning:
We never spoke, but when I smil'd
At morn or eve, I know, dear child,
You were not frowning.

Each morning when we met, I think,
Some sentiment did us two link--
Nor joy, nor sorrow:
And then at eve, experience-taught,
Our hearts fell back upon the thought,--
_We meet to-morrow_!

And you were poor; and how? and why?
How kind to come! it was for my
Especial grace meant!
Had you a parlour next the stars,
A bird, some treasur'd plants in jars,
About your casement?

You must have dwelt _au cinquieme_,
Like little darling What's-her-name,--
Eugene Sue's glory:
Perchance, unwittingly, I've heard
Your thrilling-toned Canary-bird
From that fifth storey.

I've seen some changes since we met;
A patient little seamstress yet,
With small means striving,
Have you a Lilliputian spouse?
And do you dwell in some doll's house?
--Is baby thriving?

Can bloom like thine--my heart grows chill--
Have sought that bourne unwelcome still
To bosom smarting?
The most forlorn--what worms we are!--
Would wish to finish this cigar
Before departing.

I sometimes to Pall Mall repair,
And see the damsels passing there;
But though I try to
Obtain one glance, they look discreet,
As though they'd someone else to meet,--
As have not _I_ too?

Yet still I often muse upon
Our many meetings--come and gone!
July--December!
Now let us make a tryste, and when,
Dear little soul, we meet again,
In some serener sphere, why then--
Thy Friend remember!

THE RUSSET PITCHER

"The Pitcher may go often to the Well, but it gets broken at last."

Away, ye simple ones, away!
Bring no vain fancies hither;
The brightest dreams of youth decay,
The fairest roses wither.

Aye, since this fountain first was plann'd,
And Dryad learnt to drink,
Have lovers held, knit hand in hand,
Sweet parley at its brink.

From youth to age this waterfall
Most tunefully flows on,
But where, aye! tell me where, are all
Those constant lovers gone?

The falcon on the turtle preys,
And fondest vows are lither,
The brightest dream of youth decays,
The fairest roses wither.

"Thy Russet Pitcher set adown,
Fair maid, and list to one
Who much this sorry world hath known,--
A muser thereupon.

Though youth is ardent, gay, and bold,
Youth flatters and beguiles,
Though Giles is young,--and I am old,--
Ne'er trust thy heart to Giles.

Thy Pitcher may some luckless day
Be broken coming hither,
Thy doting slave may prove a knave,--
The fairest roses wither."

She laugh'd outright, she scorn'd him quite,
She fill'd her Russet Pitcher;--
For that dear sight an anchorite
Might deem himself the richer.

Ill-fated maiden! go thy ways,
Thy lover's vows are lither,
The brightest dream of youth decays,
The fairest roses wither.

* * * * *

These days are soon the days of yore;
Six summers pass, and then
That musing man would see once more
The fountain in the glen.

Again to stray where once he stray'd,
Those woods with verdure richer;
Half hoping to espy the maid
Come tripping with her pitcher.

No light step comes, but, evil-starr'd,
He finds a mournful token,--
There lies a Russet Pitcher marr'd,
The damsel's pitcher broken!

Profoundly moved, that muser cried:
The spoiler hath been hither;
O! would the maiden first had died,--
The fairest rose must wither!

The tender flow'ret blooms apace,
But chilling winds blow o'er;
It fades unheeded, and its place
Shall never know it more.

He turn'd from that accursed ground,
His world-worn bosom throbbing;
A bow-shot thence a child he found,--
The little man was sobbing.

He gently stroked that curly head,--
"My child, what brings thee hither?
Weep not, my simple child," he said,
"Or let us weep together.

Thy world, I ween, my child, is green,
As garden undefil'd,
Thy thoughts should run on mirth and fun,--
Where dost thou dwell, my child?"

'Twas then the tiny urchin spoke,--
"My daddy's Giles the ditcher;
I water fetch, and, oh! I've broke
My mammy's Russet Pitcher!"

THE ENCHANTED ROSE

"O where dost thou trip it," the patriarch said,
"A Rose in thy bosom so daintily laid?
A pilgrim, whose shadow extends to the tomb,
Would gaze on its beauty, would breathe its perfume!"

"O raise not thy hand," cried the maid, "nor suppose
I ever can part with this beautiful Rose;
The bloom is a gift of the fays, who declare it
Will shield me from sorrow as long as I wear it.

And sigh not, old man, such a doleful 'heigh-ho,'
Dost think I possess not the will to say, 'No'?
And shake not thy head, I could pitiless be
Should supplicants come even younger than thee."

The damsel pass'd on with a confident smile,
The old man extended his walk for a while,
His musings were trite, and their burthen, forsooth,
The wisdom of age, and the folly of youth.

Noon comes, and noon goes, paler twilight is there;
Rosy day dons the garb of a Penitent Fair;
The patriarch strolls in the path of the maid,
Where cornfields are ripe, and awaiting the blade.

And Echo was mute to the patriarch's tread,--
"How tranquil is Nature!" that patriarch said;
He onward advances, where boughs overshade
A lonelier spot, and the barley is laid.

He gazes around, not a creature is there,
No sound upon earth, and no voice in the air;
But fading there lies a poor bloom that he knows,
Neglected, unheeded--a beautiful Rose.

CIRCUMSTANCE THE ORANGE

It ripen'd by the river banks,
Where, musk and moonlight aiding,
Dons Whiskerandos play sad pranks,
Dark Donnas serenading.

By Moorish maiden it was pluck'd,
Who broke some hearts, they say, then,
By Saxon sweetheart it was suck'd,--
Who threw the peel away then.

How little thought the London Fair,
Or dark-eyed Girl of Seville,
That _I_ should reel upon that peel,
And find my proper level!

A WISH

To the south of the church, and beneath yonder yew,
A pair of child-lovers I've seen,
More than once were they there, and the years of the two,
When added, might number thirteen.

* * * * *

They sat on the grave which had never a stone
The name of the dead to determine,
It was Life paying Death a brief visit--alone
A notable text for a sermon.

They tenderly prattled,--what was it they said?
The turf on that hillock was new:
O! kenn'd ye, poor little ones, aught of the dead,
Or could he be heedful of you?

I wish to believe, and believe it I must,
That a father beneath them was laid:
I wish to believe,--I will take it on trust,
That father knew all that they said.

My Own, you are five, very nearly the age
Of that poor little fatherless child;
And some day a true-love your heart will engage
When on earth I my last may have smil'd.

Then visit my grave, like a good little lass,
Where'er it may happen to be,
And if any daisies should peer through the grass,
Be sure they are kisses from me.

And place not a stone to distinguish my name,
For strangers and gossips to see,
But come with your lover as these lovers came,
And talk to him gaily of me.

And while you are smiling, your father will smile
Such a sweet little daughter to have:
But mind, O yes! mind you are merry the while--
_I wish you to visit my grave_.

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.
But a G, tho' her lov'd 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 wip'd out by the sea,--
And 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!

VANITY FAIR

"Vanity of vanities, saith the preacher, all is vanity."

ECCLESIASTES.

"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.

This Fair has allurements alike to engage
The dimples of youth and the wrinkles of age;
Though mirth may be feigning, though sheen may be glare,
The gingerbread's gilded in Vanity Fair.

Old Dives there rolls in his chariot of state,
There Jack takes his Joan at a lowlier rate,
St Giles', St James', from alley and square,
Send votaries plenty to Vanity Fair.

That goal would be vain where the guerdon was dross,
So come whence they may they must come by a loss:
The tree was enticing,--its branches are bare;
Heigh-ho! for the promise of Vanity Fair.

My son, the sham goddess I warn thee to shun,
Beware of the beautiful temptress, my son;
Her blandishments fly,--or, despising the snare,
Go laugh at the follies of Vanity Fair.

That stupid old Dives, once honest enough,
His honesty sold for Stars, Ribbons, and Stuff;
And Joan's pretty face has been clouded with care
Since Jack bought _her_ ribbons at Vanity Fair.

Contemptible Dives!--too credulous Joan!
Yet each has a Vanity Fair of his 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 at Vanity Fair.

BRAMBLE-RISE

What changes greet my wistful eyes
In quiet little Bramble-Rise,
Once fairest of its shire;
How alter'd is each pleasant nook,
The dumpy church used not to look
So dumpy in the spire.

This village is no longer mine;
And though the inn has chang'd its sign,
The beer may not be stronger:
The river, dwindled by degrees,
Is now a brook,--the cottages
Are cottages no longer.

The thatch is slate, the plaster bricks,
The trees have cut their ancient sticks,
Or else those sticks are stunted:
I'm sure these thistles once grew figs,
These geese were swans, and once those pigs
More musically grunted.

Where early reapers whistled--shrill
A whistle may be noted still,
The locomotives' ravings.
New custom newer want begets--
My bank of early violets
Is now a bank of--savings.

Ah! there's a face I know again,
Fair Patty trotting down the Lane
To fetch a pail of water;
Yes, Patty! still I much suspect,
'Tis not the child I recollect,
But Patty, Patty's daughter!

And has she too outliv'd the spells
Of breezy hills and silent dells,
Where childhood loved to ramble?
Then life was thornless to our ken,
And, Bramble-Rise, thy hills were then
A rise without a bramble.

Whence comes the change? 'twere easy told
How some grow wise and some grow cold,
And all feel time and trouble;
And mouldy sages much aver
That if the Past's a gossamer,
The Future is a bubble.

So let it be, at any rate
My Fate is not the cruel Fate
Which sometimes I have thought her:
My heart leaps up, and I rejoice
As falls upon my ear thy voice,
My frisky little daughter.

Come hither, Puss, and perch on these
Your most unworthy Father's knees,
And try and tell him--Can you?
Are Punch and Judy bits of wood?
Does Dolly boast of ancient blood,
Or is it only "bran new"?

We talk sad stuff,--and Bramble-Rise
Is lovely to the infant's eyes,
Whose doll is ever charming;
She does not weigh the pros and cons,
Her pigs still please, her geese are swans,
Though more or less alarming!

O, mayst thou own, my winsome elf,
Some day a pet just like thyself,
Her sanguine thoughts to borrow;
Content to use her brighter eyes,
Accept her childish ecstacies,
And, need be, share her sorrow!

My wife, though life is called a jaunt,
In sadness rife, in sunshine scant,
Though mundane joys, the wisest grant,
Have no enduring basis:
'Tis something in this desert drear,
For thee so fresh, for me so sere,
To find in Puss, our daughter dear,
A little cool oasis!

OLD LETTERS

"Fragile creations of still frailer man,
That men outlast,
Though to eternity, from whence he came,
The scribe be past.

O there are tongues within these dry brown leaves
That speak as Autumns do;
They cry of death and sorrow,
To me--to you."

MR GEORGE THORNBURY.

Old letters! wipe away the tear,
And gaze upon these pale mementoes,
A pilgrim finds his journal here
Since first he took to walk on ten toes.

Yes, here are scrawls from Clapham Rise,
Do mothers still their school-boys pamper?
O, how I hated Doctor Wise!
O, how I lov'd a well-fill'd hamper!

How strange to commune with the Dead--
Dead joys, dead loves, and wishes thwarted:
Here's cruel proof of friendships fled,
And sad enough of friends departed.

And here's the offer that I wrote
In '33 to Lucy Diver;
And here John Wylie's begging note--
He never paid me back a stiver.

And here my feud with Major Spike,
Our bet about the French Invasion;
On looking back I acted like
A donkey upon that occasion.

And here a letter from "the Row,"--
How mad I was when first I learnt it!
They would not take my Book, and now
I'd give a trifle to have burnt it.

And here a heap of notes, at last,
With "love" and "dove," and "sever" "never"--
Though hope, though passion may be past,
Their perfume is as sweet as ever.

A human heart should beat for two,
Whatever say your single scorners,
And all the hearths I ever knew
Had got a pair of chimney corners.

See here a double violet--
Two locks of hair--a deal of scandal:
I'll burn what only brings regret--
Go, Betty, fetch a lighted candle.

SUSANNAH

"My sprightly neighbour, gone before
To that unknown and silent shore!
Shall we not meet as heretofore
Some summer morning?
When from thy cheerful eyes a ray
Hath struck a bliss upon the day,
A bliss that would not go away,
A sweet forewarning?"