Chapter VI: Part II (2)

Thus spoke Tarquin with a deal of dryness;
But the Augur, eager for his fees,
Answered--"Try it, your Imperial Highness;
Press a little harder, if you please.
There! the deed is done!"
Through the solid stone
Went the steel as glibly as through cheese.

So the Augur touched the tin of Tarquin,
Who suspected some celestial aid;
But he wronged the blameless gods; for hearken!
Ere the monarch's bet was rashly laid,
With his searching eye
Did the priest espy
ROGERS' name engraved upon the blade.

La Mort d'Arthur,

NOT BY ALFRED TENNYSON.

Slowly, as one who bears a mortal hurt, Through which the fountain of his life runs dry, Crept good King Arthur down unto the lake. A roughening wind was bringing in the waves With cold dull plash and plunging to the shore, And a great bank of clouds came sailing up Athwart the aspect of the gibbous moon, Leaving no glimpse save starlight, as he sank, With a short stagger, senseless on the stones.

No man yet knows how long he lay in swound; But long enough it was to let the rust Lick half the surface of his polished shield; For it was made by far inferior hands, Than forged his helm, his breastplate, and his greaves, Whereon no canker lighted, for they bore The magic stamp of MECHI'S SILVER STEEL.

Jupiter and the Indian Ale.

"Take away this clammy nectar!"
Said the king of gods and men;
"Never at Olympus' table
Let that trash be served again.
Ho, Lyaeus, thou the beery!
Quick--invent some other drink;
Or, in a brace of shakes, thou standest
On Cocytus' sulphury brink!"

Terror shook the limbs of Bacchus,
Paly grew his pimpled nose,
And already in his rearward
Felt he Jove's tremendous toes;
When a bright idea struck him--
"Dash my thyrsus! I'll be bail--
For you never were in India--
That you know not HODGSON'S ALE!"

"Bring it!" quoth the Cloud-compeller;
And the wine-god brought the beer--
"Port and claret are like water
To the noble stuff that's here!"
And Saturnius drank and nodded,
Winking with his lightning eyes,
And amidst the constellations
Did the star of HODGSON rise!

The Lay of the Doudney Brothers.

Coats at five-and-forty shillings! trousers ten-and-six a pair! Summer waistcoats, three a sov'reign, light and comfortable wear! Taglionis, black or coloured, Chesterfield and velveteen! The old English shooting-jacket--doeskins such as ne'er were seen! Army cloaks and riding-habits, Alberts at a trifling cost! Do you want an annual contract? Write to DOUDNEYS' by the post. DOUDNEY BROTHERS! DOUDNEY BROTHERS! Not the men that drive the van, Plastered o'er with advertisements, heralding some paltry plan, How, by base mechanic stinting, and by pinching of their backs, Lean attorneys' clerks may manage to retrieve their Income-tax: But the old established business--where the best of clothes are given At the very lowest prices--Fleet Street, Number Ninety-seven. Wouldst thou know the works of DOUDNEY? Hie thee to the thronged Arcade, To the Park upon a Sunday, to the terrible Parade. There, amid the bayonets bristling, and the flashing of the steel, When the household troops in squadrons round the bold field-marshals wheel, Shouldst thou see an aged warrior in a plain blue morning frock, Peering at the proud battalions o'er the margin of his stock,-- Should thy throbbing heart then tell thee, that the veteran worn and grey Curbed the course of Bonaparte, rolled the thunders of Assaye-- Let it tell thee, stranger, likewise, that the goodly garb he wears Started into shape and being from the DOUDNEY BROTHERS' shears! Seek thou next the rooms of Willis--mark, where D'Orsay's Count is bending, See the trouser's undulation from his graceful hip descending; Hath the earth another trouser so compact and love-compelling? Thou canst find it, stranger, only, if thou seek'st the DOUDNEYS' dwelling! Hark, from Windsor's royal palace, what sweet voice enchants the ear? "Goodness, what a lovely waistcoat! Oh, who made it, Albert dear? 'Tis the very prettiest pattern! You must get a dozen others!" And the Prince, in rapture, answers--"'Tis the work of DOUDNEY BROTHERS!"

Paris and Helen.

As the youthful Paris presses
Helen to his ivory breast.
Sporting with her golden tresses,
Close and ever closer pressed,

"Let me," said he, "quaff the nectar,
Which thy lips of ruby yield;
Glory I can leave to Hector,
Gathered in the tented field.

"Let me ever gaze upon thee,
Look into thine eyes so deep;
With a daring hand I won thee,
With a faithful heart I'll keep.

"Oh, my Helen, thou bright wonder,
Who was ever like to thee?
Jove would lay aside his thunder,
So he might be blest like me.

"How mine eyes so fondly linger
On thy smooth and pearly skin;
Scan each round and rosy finger,
Drinking draughts of beauty in!

"Tell me, whence thy beauty, fairest?
Whence thy cheek's enchanting bloom?
Whence the rosy hue thou wearest;
Breathing round thee rich perfume?"

Thus he spoke, with heart that panted,
Clasped her fondly to his side,
Gazed on her with look enchanted,
While his Helen thus replied:

"Be no discord, love, between us,
If I not the secret tell!
'Twas a gift I had of Venus,--
Venus, who hath loved me well;

"And she told me as she gave it,
'Let not e'er the charm be known;
O'er thy person freely lave it,
Only when thou art alone.'

"'Tis enclosed in yonder casket--
Here behold its golden key;
But its name--love, do not ask it,
Tell't I may not, even to thee!"

Long with vow and kiss he plied her;
Still the secret did she keep,
Till at length he sank beside her,
Seemed as he had dropped to sleep.

Soon was Helen laid in slumber,
When her Paris, rising slow,
Did his fair neck disencumber
From her rounded arms of snow.

Then, her heedless fingers oping,
Takes the key and steals away,
To the ebon table groping,
Where the wondrous casket lay;

Eagerly the lid uncloses,
Sees within it, laid aslope,
PEARS' LIQUID BLOOM OF ROSES,
Cakes of his TRANSPARENT SOAP!

A Warning.

Lose thou no time! A grave and solemn warning,
Yet seldom ta'en, to man's eternal cost.
Night wanes, day lessens, evening, noon, and morning
Flit by unseen, and yet much time is lost.

And why? Are moments useless as the vapour
That rises from the lamp's extinguish'd flame!
Why do we, like the moth around the taper,
Sport with the fire that must consume our frame?

Be wise in time! Arouse thee, oh thou sleeper,
Account thy moments dearer than thy gold;
While time thou hast, appoint a good time-keeper
To treasure up thine hours till thou art old.

Lose but this chance, and thou art lost for ever,--
Seek him who keeps a watch for sinking souls--
Ask for COX SAVORY'S HORIZONTAL LEVER,
With double case, and jewell'd in four holes!

To Persons About to Marry.

Gentle pair, ere Hymen binds you
In his fetters, soft but sure,
Pray, bethink you, have you ever
Had substantial furniture?

Love's a fickle god, they tell us,
Giddy-pated, lightly led,
Therefore it were well you found him
In a comfortable bed.

Olive branches soon will blossom
Round your table, two or three;
And that table should be made of
Good and strong mahogany.

If the cares of life should gather,
And we all must look for cares,--
Sorrow falls extremely lightly
In the midst of rosewood chairs.

Few that walk can 'scape a stumble,
Thus hath said The Prophet-King;
But your fall will be a light one
On Axminster carpeting.

We can keep your little children
From collision with the grate--
We have wardrobes, we have presses
At a reasonable rate;

Mirrors for the queen of beauty
Basins of the purest stone,
Ottomans which Cleopatra
Might have envied on her throne.

Seek us ere you taste with rapture
Love's sweet draught of filter'd honey,
And you'll find the safest plan is,
NO DISCOUNT, AND READY MONEY!

Want Places.

Wants a place a lad, who's seen
Pious life at brother Teazle's,
Used to cleaning boots, and been
Touch'd with grace, and had the measles.

* * * * *

Wants a place as housemaid, or Companion to a bachelor, Up in years, and who'd prefer A person with no character, A female, who in this respect, Would leave him nothing to object.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

The Lay of the Lover's Friend.

[AIR--"_The days we went a-gypsying_."]

I would all womankind were dead,
Or banished o'er the sea;
For they have been a bitter plague
These last six weeks to me:
It is not that I'm touched myself,
For that I do not fear;
No female face has shown me grace
For many a bygone year.
But 'tis the most infernal bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who's lost his heart
A short time ago.

Whene'er we steam it to Blackwall,
Or down to Greenwich run,
To quaff the pleasant cider-cup,
And feed on fish and fun;
Or climb the slopes of Richmond Hill,
To catch a breath of air:
Then, for my sins, he straight begins
To rave about his fair.
Oh, 'tis the most tremendous bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who's lost his heart
A short time ago.

In vain you pour into his ear
Your own confiding grief;
In vain you claim his sympathy,
In vain you ask relief;
In vain you try to rouse him by
Joke, repartee, or quiz;
His sole reply's a burning sigh,
And "What a mind it is!"
O Lord! it is the greatest bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who's lost his heart
A short time ago.

I've heard her thoroughly described
A hundred times, I'm sure;
And all the while I've tried to smile,
And patiently endure;
He waxes strong upon his pangs,
And potters o'er his grog;
And still I say, in a playful way--
"Why, you're a lucky dog!"
But oh! it is the heaviest bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who's lost his heart
A short time ago.

I really wish he'd do like me,
When I was young and strong;
I formed a passion every week,
But never kept it long.
But he has not the sportive mood
That always rescued me,
And so I would all women could
Be banished o'er the sea.
For 'tis the most egregious bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who's lost his heart
A short time ago.

Francesca Da Rimini.

TO BON GAULTIER.

[ARGUMENT.--An impassioned pupil of Leigh Hunt, having met Bon Gaultier at a Fancy Ball, declares the destructive consequences thus.]

Didst thou not praise me, Gaultier, at the ball, Ripe lips, trim boddice, and a waist so small, With clipsome lightness, dwindling ever less, Beneath the robe of pea-y greeniness? Dost thou remember, when, with stately prance, Our heads went crosswise in the country-dance; How soft, warm fingers, tipped like buds of balm, Trembled within the squeezing of thy palm; And how a cheek grew flushed and peachy-wise At the frank lifting of thy cordial eyes? Ah, me! that night there was one gentle thing, Who, like a dove, with its scarce feathered wing, Fluttered at the approach of thy quaint swaggering!

There's wont to be, at conscious times like these, An affectation of a bright-eyed ease,-- A crispy cheekiness, if so I dare Describe the swaling of a jaunty air; And thus, when swirling from the waltz's wheel, You craved my hand to grace the next quadrille, That smiling voice, although it made me start, Boiled in the meek o'erlifting of my heart; And, picking at my flowers, I said, with free And usual tone, "O yes, sir, certainly!"

Like one that swoons, 'twixt sweet amaze and fear, I heard the music burning in my ear, And felt I cared not, so thou wert with me, If Gurth or Wamba were our vis-a-vis. So, when a tall Knight Templar ringing came, And took his place amongst us with his dame, I neither turned away, nor bashful shrunk From the stern survey of the soldier-monk, Though rather more than three full quarters drunk; But, threading through the figure, first in rule, I paused to see thee plunge into La Poule.

Ah, what a sight was that! Not prurient Mars, Pointing his toe through ten celestial bars-- Not young Apollo, beamily arrayed In tripsome guise for Juno's masquerade-- Not smartest Hermes, with his pinion girth, Jerking with freaks and snatches down to earth, Looked half so bold, so beautiful, and strong, As thou, when pranking through the glittering throng! How the calmed ladies looked with eyes of love On thy trim velvet doublet laced above; The hem of gold, that, like a wavy river, Flowed down into thy back with glancing shiver! So bare was thy fine throat, and curls of black, So lightsomely dropped in thy lordly back, So crisply swaled the feather in thy bonnet, So glanced thy thigh, and spanning palm upon it, That my weak soul took instant flight to thee, Lost in the fondest gush of that sweet witchery!

But when the dance was o'er, and arm in arm (The full heart beating 'gainst the elbow warm) We passed into the great refreshment-hall, Where the heaped cheese-cakes and the comfits small Lay, like a hive of sunbeams, brought to burn Around the margin of the negus urn; When my poor quivering hand you fingered twice, And, with inquiring accents, whispered "Ice, Water, or cream?" I could no more dissemble, But dropped upon the couch all in a tremble. A swimming faintness misted o'er my brain, The corks seemed starting from the brisk champagne, The custards fell untouched upon the floor, Thine eyes met mine. That night we danced no more!

The Cadi's Daughter.

A LEGEND OF THE BOSPHORUS.

[FROM ANY OF THE ANNUALS.]

How beauteous is the star of night
Within the eastern skies,
Like the twinkling glance of the Toorkman's lance,
Or the antelope's azure eyes!
A lamp of love in the heaven above,
That star is fondly streaming;
And the gay kiosk and the shadowy mosque
In the Golden Horn are gleaming.

Young Leila sits in her jasmine bower,
And she hears the bulbul sing,
As it thrills its throat to the first full note,
That anthems the flowery spring.
She gazes still, as a maiden will,
On that beauteous eastern star:
You might see the throb of her bosom's sob
Beneath the white cymar!

She thinks of him who is far away,--
Her own brave Galiongee,--
Where the billows foam and the breezes roam,
On the wild Carpathian sea.
She thinks of the oath that bound them both
Beside the stormy water;
And the words of love, that in Athens' grove
He spake to the Cadi's daughter.

"My Selim!" thus the maiden said,
"Though severed thus we be
By the raging deep and the mountain steep,
My soul still yearns to thee.
Thy form so dear is mirrored here
In my heart's pellucid well,
As the rose looks up to Phingari's orb,
Or the moth to the gay gazelle.

"I think of the time when the Kaftan's crime
Our love's young joys o'ertook,
And thy name still floats in the plaintive notes
Of my silver-toned chibouque.
Thy hand is red with the blood it has shed,
Thy soul it is heavy laden;
Yet come, my Giaour, to thy Leila's bower;
Oh, come to thy Turkish maiden!"

A light step trod on the dewy sod,
And a voice was in her ear,
And an arm embraced young Leila's waist--
"Beloved! I am here!"
Like the phantom form that rules the storm,
Appeared the pirate lover,
And his fiery eye was like Zatanai,
As he fondly bent above her.

"Speak, Leila, speak; for my light caique
Rides proudly in yonder bay;
I have come from my rest to her I love best,
To carry thee, love, away.
The breast of thy lover shall shield thee, and cover
My own jemscheed from harm;
Think'st thou I fear the dark vizier,
Or the mufti's vengeful arm?

"Then droop not, love, nor turn away
From this rude hand of mine!"
And Leila looked in her lover's eyes,
And murmured--"I am thine!"
But a gloomy man with a yataghan.
Stole through the acacia-blossoms,
And the thrust he made with his gleaming blade
Hath pierced through both their bosoms.

"There! there! thou cursed caitiff Giaour!
There, there, thou false one, lie!"
Remorseless Hassan stands above,
And he smiles to see them die.
They sleep beneath the fresh green turf,
The lover and the lady--
And the maidens wail to hear the tale
Of the daughter of the Cadi!

The Dirge of the Drinker.

Brothers, spare awhile your liquor, lay your final tumbler down; He has dropped--that star of honour--on the field of his renown! Raise the wail, but raise it softly, lowly bending on your knees, If you find it more convenient, you may hiccup if you please. Sons of Pantagruel, gently let your hip-hurrahing sink, Be your manly accents clouded, half with sorrow, half with drink! Lightly to the sofa pillow lift his head from off the floor; See, how calm he sleeps, unconscious as the deadest nail in door! Widely o'er the earth I've wandered; where the drink most freely flowed, I have ever reeled the foremost, foremost to the beaker strode. Deep in shady Cider Cellars I have dreamed o'er heavy wet, By the fountains of Damascus I have quaffed the rich sherbet, Regal Montepulciano drained beneath its native rock, On Johannis' sunny mountain frequent hiccuped o'er my hock; I have bathed in butts of Xeres deeper than did e'er Monsoon, Sangaree'd with bearded Tartars in the Mountains of the Moon; In beer-swilling Copenhagen I have drunk your Danesman blind, I have kept my feet in Jena, when each bursch to earth declined; Glass for glass, in fierce Jamaica, I have shared the planter's rum. Drunk with Highland dhuine-wassails, till each gibbering Gael grew dumb; But a stouter, bolder drinker--one that loved his liquor more-- Never yet did I encounter than our friend upon the floor! Yet the best of us are mortal, we to weakness all are heir, He has fallen who rarely staggered--let the rest of us beware! We shall leave him as we found him,--lying where his manhood fell, 'Mong the trophies of the revel, for he took his tipple well. Better 'twere we loosed his neckcloth, laid his throat and bosom bare, Pulled his Hobies off, and turned his toes to taste the breezy air. Throw the sofa cover o'er him, dim the flaring of the gas, Calmly, calmly let him slumber, and, as by the bar we pass, We shall bid that thoughtful waiter place beside him, near and handy, Large supplies of soda-water, tumblers bottomed well with brandy, So, when waking, he shall drain them, with that deathless thirst of his,-- Clinging to the hand that smote him, like a good 'un as he is!

The Death of Duval.

BY W--- H--- A---TH, ESQ.

["Methinks I see him already in the cart, sweeter and more lovely than the nosegay in his hand! I hear the crowd extolling his resolution and intrepidity! What volleys of sighs are sent from the windows of Holborn, that so comely a youth should be brought to disgrace! I see him at the tree! the whole circle are in tears! even butchers weep!"--BEGGARS OPERA.]

A living sea of eager human faces, A thousand bosoms throbbing all as one, Walls, windows, balconies, all sorts of places, Holding their crowds of gazers to the sun: Through the hushed groups low-buzzing murmurs run; And on the air, with slow reluctant swell, Comes the dull funeral-boom of old Sepulchre's bell.

Oh, joy in London now! in festal measure Be spent the evening of this festive day! For thee is opening now a high-strung pleasure; Now, even now, in yonder press-yard they Strike from his limbs the fetters loose away! A little while, and he, the brave Duval, Will issue forth, serene, to glad and greet you all.

"Why comes he not? Say, wherefore doth he tarry?" Starts the inquiry loud from every tongue. "Surely," they cry, "that tedious Ordinary His tedious psalms must long ere this have sung,-- Tedious to him that's waiting to be hung!" But hark! old Newgate's doors fly wide apart. "He comes, he comes!" A thrill shoots through each gazer's heart.

Joined in the stunning cry ten thousand voices, All Smithfield answered to the loud acclaim. "He comes, he comes!" and every breast rejoices, As down Snow Hill the shout tumultuous came, Bearing to Holborn's crowd the welcome fame. "He comes, he comes!" and each holds back his breath-- Some ribs are broke, and some few scores are crushed to death.

With step majestic to the cart advances The dauntless Claude, and springs into his seat. He feels that on him now are fixed the glances Of many a Briton bold and maiden sweet, Whose hearts responsive to his glories beat. In him the honour of "The Road" is centred, And all the hero's fire into his bosom entered.

His was the transport--his the exultation Of Rome's great generals, when from afar, Up to the Capitol, in the ovation, They bore with them, in the triumphal car, Rich gold and gems, the spoils of foreign war. _Io Triumphe_! They forgot their clay. E'en so Duval, who rode in glory on his way.

His laced cravat, his kids of purest yellow, The many-tinted nosegay in his hand, His large black eyes, so fiery, yet so mellow, Like the old vintages of Spanish land, Locks clustering o'er a brow of high command, Subdue all hearts; and, as up Holborn's steep Toils the slow car of death, e'en cruel butchers weep.

He saw it, but he heeded not. His story, He knew, was graven on the page of Time. Tyburn to him was as a field of glory, Where he must stoop to death his head sublime, Hymned in full many an elegiac rhyme. He left his deeds behind him, and his name-- For he, like Caesar, had lived long enough for fame.

He quailed not, save when, as he raised the chalice,-- St Giles's bowl,--filled with the mildest ale, To pledge the crowd, on her--his beauteous Alice-- His eye alighted, and his cheek grew pale. She, whose sweet breath was like the spicy gale, She, whom he fondly deemed his own dear girl, Stood with a tall dragoon, drinking long draughts of purl.

He bit his lip--it quivered but a moment-- Then passed his hand across his flushing brows: He could have spared so forcible a comment Upon the constancy of woman's vows. One short sharp pang his hero-soul allows; But in the bowl he drowned the stinging pain, And on his pilgrim course went calmly forth again.

A princely group of England's noble daughters Stood in a balcony suffused with grief, Diffusing fragrance round them, of strong waters, And waving many a snowy handkerchief; Then glowed the prince of highwayman and thief! His soul was touched with a seraphic gleam-- That woman could be false was but a mocking dream.

And now, his bright career of triumph ended, His chariot stood beneath the triple tree. The law's grim finisher to its boughs ascended, And fixed the hempen bandages, while he Bowed to the throng, then bade the cart go free. The car rolled on, and left him dangling there, Like famed Mohammed's tomb, uphung midway in air.

As droops the cup of the surcharged lily Beneath the buffets of the surly storm, Or the soft petals of the daffodilly, When Sirius is uncomfortably warm, So drooped his head upon his manly form, While floated in the breeze his tresses brown. He hung the stated time, and then they cut him down.

With soft and tender care the trainbands bore him, Just as they found him, nightcap, robe, and all, And placed this neat though plain inscription o'er him, Among the atomies in Surgeons' Hall: "THESE ARE THE BONES OF THE RENOWNED DUVAL!" There still they tell us, from their glassy case, He was the last, the best of all that noble race!

Eastern Serenade.

BY THE HONOURABLE SINJIN MUFF.

The minarets wave on the plain of Stamboul, And the breeze of the evening blows freshly and cool; The voice of the musnud is heard from the west, And kaftan and kalpac have gone to their rest. The notes of the kislar re-echo no more, And the waves of Al Sirat fall light on the shore.

Where art thou, my beauty; where art thou, my bride? Oh, come and repose by thy dragoman's side! I wait for thee still by the flowery tophaik-- I have broken my Eblis for Zuleima's sake. But the heart that adores thee is faithful and true, Though it beats 'neath the folds of a Greek Allah-hu!

Oh, wake thee, my dearest! the muftis are still, And the tschocadars sleep on the Franguestan hill; No sullen aleikoum--no derveesh is here, And the mosques are all watching by lonely Kashmere! Oh, come in the gush of thy beauty so full, I have waited for thee, my adored attar-gul!

I see thee--I hear thee--thy antelope foot Treads lightly and soft on the velvet cheroot; The jewelled amaun of thy zemzem is bare, And the folds of thy palampore wave in the air. Come, rest on the bosom that loves thee so well, My dove! my phingari! my gentle gazelle!

Nay, tremble not, dearest! I feel thy heart throb, 'Neath the sheltering shroud of thy snowy kiebaub; Lo, there shines Muezzin, the beautiful star! Thy lover is with thee, and danger afar: Say, is it the glance of the haughty vizier, Or the bark of the distant effendi, you fear?

Oh, swift fly the hours in the garden of bliss! And sweeter than balm of Gehenna thy kiss! Wherever I wander--wherever I roam, My spirit flies back to its beautiful home; It dwells by the lake of the limpid Stamboul, With thee, my adored one! my own attar-gul! {269}

Dame Fredegonde.

When folks, with headstrong passion blind, To play the fool make up their mind, They're sure to come with phrases nice And modest air, for your advice. But as a truth unfailing make it, They ask, but never mean to take it. 'Tis not advice they want, in fact, But confirmation in their act. Now mark what did, in such a case, A worthy priest who knew the race.

A dame more buxom, blithe, and free, Than Fredegonde you scarce would see. So smart her dress, so trim her shape, Ne'er hostess offered juice of grape, Could for her trade wish better sign; Her looks gave flavour to her wine, And each guest feels it, as he sips, Smack of the ruby of her lips. A smile for all, a welcome glad,-- A jovial coaxing way she had; And,--what was more her fate than blame,-- A nine months' widow was our dame. But toil was hard, for trade was good, And gallants sometimes will be rude. "And what can a lone woman do? The nights are long and eerie too. Now, Guillot there's a likely man, None better draws or taps a can; He's just the man, I think, to suit, If I could bring my courage to't." With thoughts like these her mind is crossed: The dame, they say, who doubts, is lost. "But then the risk? I'll beg a slice Of Father Haulin's good advice."

Prankt in her best, with looks demure, She seeks the priest; and, to be sure, Asks if he thinks she ought to wed: "With such a business on my head, I'm worried off my legs with care, And need some help to keep things square. I've thought of Guillot, truth to tell! He's steady, knows his business well. What do you think?" When thus he met her: "Oh, take him, dear, you can't do better!" "But then the danger, my good pastor, If of the man I make the master. There is no trusting to these men." "Well, well, my dear, don't have him, then!" "But help I must have; there's the curse. I may go farther and fare worse." "Why, take him, then!" "But if he should Turn out a thankless ne'er-do-good-- In drink and riot waste my all, And rout me out of house and hall?" "Don't have him, then! But I've a plan To clear your doubts, if any can. The bells a peal are ringing,--hark! Go straight, and what they tell you mark. If they say 'Yes!' wed, and be blest-- If 'No,' why--do as you think best."

The bells rang out a triple bob: Oh, how our widow's heart did throb, As thus she heard their burden go, "Marry, mar-marry, mar-Guillot!" Bells were not then left to hang idle: A week,--and they rang for her bridal. But, woe the while, they might as well Have rung the poor dame's parting knell. The rosy dimples left her cheek, She lost her beauties plump and sleek; For Guillot oftener kicked than kissed, And backed his orders with his fist, Proving by deeds as well as words That servants make the worst of lords.

She seeks the priest, her ire to wreak, And speaks as angry women speak, With tiger looks and bosom swelling, Cursing the hour she took his telling. To all, his calm reply was this,-- "I fear you've read the bells amiss: If they have lead you wrong in aught, Your wish, not they, inspired the thought. Just go, and mark well what they say." Off trudged the dame upon her way, And sure enough their chime went so,-- "Don't have that knave, that knave Guillot!"

"Too true," she cried, "there's not a doubt: What could my ears have been about?" She had forgot, that, as fools think, The bell is ever sure to clink.

Song of the Ennuye.

I'm weary, and sick, and disgusted
With Britain's mechanical din;
Where I'm much too well known to be trusted,
And plaguily pestered for tin;
Where love has two eyes for your banker,
And one chilly glance for yourself;
Where souls can afford to be franker,
But when they're well garnished with pelf.

I'm sick of the whole race of poets,
Emasculate, misty, and fine;
They brew their small-beer, and don't know its
Distinction from full-bodied wine.
I'm sick of the prosers, that house up
At drowsy St Stephen's,--ain't you?
I want some strong spirits to rouse up
A good revolution or two!

I'm sick of a land, where each morrow
Repeats the dull tale of to-day,
Where you can't even find a new sorrow
To chase your stale pleasures away.
I'm sick of blue-stockings horrific,
Steam, railroads, gas, scrip, and consols;
So I'll off where the golden Pacific
Round Islands of Paradise rolls.

There the passions shall revel unfettered,
And the heart never speak but in truth,
And the intellect, wholly unlettered,
Be bright with the freedom of youth!
There the earth can rejoice in her blossoms,
Unsullied by vapour or soot,
And there chimpanzees and opossums
Shall playfully pelt me with fruit.

There I'll sit with my dark Orianas,
In groves by the murmuring sea,
And they'll give, as I suck the bananas,
Their kisses, nor ask them from me.
They'll never torment me for sonnets,
Nor bore me to death with their own;
They'll ask not for shawls nor for bonnets,
For milliners there are unknown.

There my couch shall be earth's freshest flowers,
My curtains the night and the stars,
And my spirit shall gather new powers,
Uncramped by conventional bars.
Love for love, truth for truth ever giving,
My days shall be manfully sped;
I shall know that I'm loved while I'm living,
And be wept by fond eyes when I'm dead!

The Death of Space.

[Why has Satan's own Laureate never given to the world his marvellous threnody on the "Death of Space"? Who knows where the bays might have fallen, had he forwarded that mystic manuscript to the Home Office? If unwonted modesty withholds it from the public eye, the public will pardon the boldness that tears from blushing obscurity the following fragments of this unique poem.]

Eternity shall raise her funeral-pile
In the vast dungeon of the extinguished sky,
And, clothed in dim barbaric splendour, smile,
And murmur shouts of elegiac joy.

While those that dwell beyond the realms of space,
And those that people all that dreary void,
When old Time's endless heir hath run his race,
Shall live for aye, enjoying and enjoyed.

And 'mid the agony of unsullied bliss,
Her Demogorgon's doom shall Sin bewail,
The undying serpent at the spheres shall hiss,
And lash the empyrean with his tail.

And Hell, inflated with supernal wrath,
Shall open wide her thunder-bolted jaws,
And shout into the dull cold ear of Death,
That he must pay his debt to Nature's laws.

And when the King of Terrors breathes his last,
Infinity shall creep into her shell,
Cause and effect shall from their thrones be cast,
And end their strife with suicidal yell:

While from their ashes, burnt with pomp of kings,
'Mid incense floating to the evanished skies,
Nonenity, on circumambient wings,
An everlasting Phoenix shall arise.

Caroline.

Lightsome, brightsome, cousin mine, Easy, breezy Caroline! With thy locks all raven-shaded, From thy merry brow up-braided, And thine eyes of laughter full, Brightsome cousin mine! Thou in chains of love hast bound me-- Wherefore dost thou flit around me, Laughter-loving Caroline?

When I fain would go to sleep In my easy-chair, Wherefore on my slumbers creep-- Wherefore start me from repose, Tickling of my hooked nose, Pulling of my hair? Wherefore, then, if thou dost love me, So to words of anger move me, Corking of this face of mine, Tricksy cousin Caroline?

When a sudden sound I hear, Much my nervous system suffers, Shaking through and through. Cousin Caroline, I fear, 'Twas no other, now, but you, Put gunpowder in the snuffers, Springing such a mine! Yes, it was your tricksy self, Wicked-tricked little elf, Naughty Caroline!

Pins she sticks into my shoulder,
Places needles in my chair,
And, when I begin to scold her,
Tosses back her combed hair,
With so saucy-vexed an air,
That the pitying beholder
Cannot brook that I should scold her:
Then again she comes, and bolder,
Blacks anew this face of mine,
Artful cousin Caroline!

Would she only say she'd love me, Winsome, tinsome Caroline, Unto such excess 'twould move me, Teazing, pleasing, cousin mine! That she might the live-long day Undermine the snuffer-tray, Tickle still my hooked nose, Startle me from calm repose With her pretty persecution; Throw the tongs against my shins, Run me through and through with pins, Like a pierced cushion; Would she only say she'd love me, Darning-needles should not move me; But, reclining back, I'd say, "Dearest! there's the snuffer-tray; Pinch, O pinch those legs of mine! Cork me, cousin Caroline!"

To a Forget-Me-Not,

FOUND IN MY EMPORIUM OF LOVE-TOKENS.

Sweet flower, that with thy soft blue eye
Didst once look up in shady spot,
To whisper to the passer-by
Those tender words--Forget-me-not!

Though withered now, thou art to me
The minister of gentle thought,--
And I could weep to gaze on thee,
Love's faded pledge--Forget-me-not!

Thou speak'st of hours when I was young,
And happiness arose unsought;
When she, the whispering woods among,
Gave me thy bloom--Forget-me-not!

That rapturous hour with that dear maid
From memory's page no time shall blot,
When, yielding to my kiss, she said,
"Oh, Theodore--Forget me not!"

Alas for love! alas for truth!
Alas for man's uncertain lot!
Alas for all the hopes of youth
That fade like thee--Forget-me-not!

Alas for that one image fair,
With all my brightest dreams inwrought!
That walks beside me everywhere,
Still whispering--Forget-me-not!

Oh, Memory! thou art but a sigh
For friendships dead and loves forgot,
And many a cold and altered eye
That once did say--Forget-me-not!

And I must bow me to thy laws,
For--odd although it may be thought--
I can't tell who the deuce it was
That gave me this Forget-me-not!

The Meeting.

Once I lay beside a fountain,
Lulled me with its gentle song,
And my thoughts o'er dale and mountain
With the clouds were borne along.

There I saw old castles flinging
Shadowy gleams on moveless seas,
Saw gigantic forests swinging
To and fro without a breeze;

And in dusky alleys straying,
Many a giant shape of power,
Troops of nymphs in sunshine playing,
Singing, dancing, hour on hour.

I, too, trod these plains Elysian,
Heard their ringing tones of mirth,
But a brighter, fairer vision
Called me back again to earth.

From the forest shade advancing,
See, where comes a lovely May;
The dew, like gems, before her glancing,
As she brushes it away!

Straight I rose, and ran to meet her,
Seized her hand--the heavenly blue
Of her eyes smiled brighter, sweeter,
As she asked me--"Who are you?"

To that question came another--
What its aim I still must doubt--
And she asked me, "How's your mother?
Does she know that you are out?"

"No! my mother does not know it,
Beauteous, heaven-descended muse!"
"Then be off, my handsome poet,
And say I sent you with the news!"

The Mishap.

"Why art thou weeping, sister?
Why is thy cheek so pale?
Look up, dear Jane, and tell me
What is it thou dost ail?

"I know thy will is froward,
Thy feelings warm and keen,
And that _that_ Augustus Howard
For weeks has not been seen.

"I know how much you loved him;
But I know thou dost not weep
For him;--for though his passion be,
His purse is noways deep.

"Then tell me why those tear-drops?
What means this woeful mood
Say, has the tax-collector
Been calling, and been rude?

"Or has that hateful grocer,
The slave! been here to-day?
Of course he had, by morrow's noon,
A heavy bill to pay!

"Come, on thy brother's bosom
Unburden all thy woes;
Look up, look up, sweet sister;
Nay, sob not through thy nose."

"Oh, John, 'tis not the grocer
Or his account, although
How ever he is to be paid
I really do not know.

"'Tis not the tax-collector;
Though by his fell command
They've seized our old paternal clock,
And new umbrella-stand!

"Nor that Augustus Howard,
Whom I despise almost,--
But the soot's come down the chimney, John,
And fairly spoilt the roast!"

Comfort in Affliction.

"Wherefore starts my bosom's lord?
Why this anguish in thine eye?
Oh, it seems as thy heart's chord
Had broken with that sigh!

"Rest thee, my dear lord, I pray,
Rest thee on my bosom now!
And let me wipe the dews away,
Are gathering on thy brow.

"There, again! that fevered start!
What, love! husband! is thy pain?
There is a sorrow on thy heart,
A weight upon thy brain!

"Nay, nay, that sickly smile can ne'er
Deceive affection's searching eye;
'Tis a wife's duty, love, to share
Her husband's agony.

"Since the dawn began to peep,
Have I lain with stifled breath;
Heard thee moaning in thy sleep,
As thou wert at grips with death.

"Oh, what joy it was to see
My gentle lord once more awake!
Tell me, what is amiss with thee?
Speak, or my heart will break!"

"Mary, thou angel of my life,
Thou ever good and kind;
'Tis not, believe me, my dear wife,
The anguish of the mind!

"It is not in my bosom, dear,
No, nor my brain, in sooth;
But Mary, oh, I feel it here,
Here in my wisdom tooth!

"Then give,--oh, first best antidote,--
Sweet partner of my bed!
Give me thy flannel petticoat
To wrap around my head!"

The Invocation.

"Brother, thou art very weary,
And thine eye is sunk and dim,
And thy neckcloth's tie is crumpled,
And thy collar out of trim;
There is dust upon thy visage,--
Think not, Charles, I would hurt ye,
When I say, that altogether
You appear extremely dirty.

"Frown not, brother, now, but hie thee
To thy chamber's distant room;
Drown the odours of the ledger
With the lavender's perfume.
Brush the mud from off thy trousers,
O'er the china basin kneel,
Lave thy brows in water softened
With the soap of Old Castile.

"Smooth the locks that o'er thy forehead
Now in loose disorder stray;
Pare thy nails, and from thy whiskers
Cut those ragged points away;
Let no more thy calculations
Thy bewildered brain beset;
Life has other hopes than Cocker's,
Other joys than tare and tret.

"Haste thee, for I ordered dinner,
Waiting to the very last,
Twenty minutes after seven,
And 'tis now the quarter past.
'Tis a dinner which Lucullus
Would have wept with joy to see,
One, might wake the soul of Curtis
From death's drowsy atrophy.

"There is soup of real turtle,
Turbot, and the dainty sole;
And the mottled roe of lobsters
Blushes through the butter-bowl.
There the lordly haunch of mutton,
Tender as the mountain grass,
Waits to mix its ruddy juices
With the girdling caper-sauce.

"There a stag, whose branching forehead
Spoke him monarch of the herds,
He whose flight was o'er the heather
Swift as through the air the bird's,
Yields for thee a dish of cutlets;
And the haunch that wont to dash
O'er the roaring mountain-torrent,
Smokes in most delicious hash.

"There, besides, are amber jellies
Floating like a golden dream;
Ginger from the far Bermudas,
Dishes of Italian cream;
And a princely apple-dumpling,
Which my own fair fingers wrought,
Shall unfold its nectared treasures
To thy lips all smoking hot.

"Ha! I see thy brow is clearing,
Lustre flashes from thine eyes;
To thy lips I see the moisture
Of anticipation rise.
Hark! the dinner-bell is sounding!"
"Only wait one moment, Jane:
I'll be dressed, and down, before you
Can get up the iced champagne!"

The Husband's Petition.

Come hither, my heart's darling,
Come, sit upon my knee,
And listen, while I whisper
A boon I ask of thee.
You need not pull my whiskers
So amorously, my dove;
'Tis something quite apart from
The gentle cares of love.

I feel a bitter craving--
A dark and deep desire,
That glows beneath my bosom
Like coals of kindled fire.
The passion of the nightingale,
When singing to the rose,
Is feebler than the agony
That murders my repose!

Nay, dearest! do not doubt me,
Though madly thus I speak--
I feel thy arms about me,
Thy tresses on my cheek:
I know the sweet devotion
That links thy heart with mine,--
I know my soul's emotion
Is doubly felt by thine:

And deem not that a shadow
Hath fallen across my love:
No, sweet, my love is shadowless,
As yonder heaven above:
These little taper fingers--
Ah, Jane! how white they be!--
Can well supply the cruel want
That almost maddens me.

Thou wilt not sure deny me
My first and fond request;
I pray thee, by the memory
Of all we cherish best--
By all the dear remembrance
Of those delicious days,
When, hand in hand, we wandered
Along the summer braes;

By all we felt, unspoken,
When 'neath the early moon,
We sat beside the rivulet,
In the leafy month of June;
And by the broken whisper
That fell upon my ear,
More sweet than angel music,
When first I wooed thee, dear!

By thy great vow which bound thee
For ever to my side,
And by the ring that made thee
My darling and my bride!
Thou wilt not fail nor falter,
But bend thee to the task--
A BOILED SHEEP'S-HEAD ON SUNDAY
Is all the boon I ask!

Sonnet to Britain.

BY THE D--- OF W---

Halt! Shoulder arms! Recover! As you were! Right wheel! Eyes left! Attention! Stand at ease! O Britain! O my country! Words like these Have made thy name a terror and a fear To all the nations. Witness Ebro's banks, Assaye, Toulouse, Nivelle, and Waterloo, Where the grim despot muttered--_Sauve qui peut_! And Ney fled darkling.--Silence in the ranks! Inspired by these, amidst the iron crash Of armies, in the centre of his troop The soldier stands--unmoveable, not rash-- Until the forces of the foeman droop; Then knocks the Frenchmen to eternal smash, Pounding them into mummy. Shoulder, hoop!

THE END.

PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS.

NOTES.

{vii} Prologue de premiere livre.

{ix} A fact. That such a subject for cathedral chimes, and in Scotland, too, could ever have been chosen, will scarcely be believed. But my astonished ears often heard it.

{7} W. Gomersal, for many years a leading actor and rider at Astley's Amphitheatre.

{8} John Esdaile Widdicomb, from 1819 to 1852 riding-master and conductor of the ring at Astley's Amphitheatre.

{11} Stickney, a very dashing and graceful rider at Astley's.

{12} A not uncommon tribute from the gallery at Astley's to the dash and daring of the heroes of the ring was half-eaten oranges or fragments of orange-peel. Either oranges are less in vogue, or manners are better in the galleries of theatres and circuses in the present day.

{18} The allusion here is to one of Ducrow's remarkable feats. Entering the ring with the reins in his hands of five horses abreast, and standing on the back of the centre horse, he worked them round the ring at high speed, changing now and then with marvellous dexterity their relative positions, and with his feet always on more than one of them, ending with a foot on each of the extreme two, so that, as described, "the outer and the inner felt the pressure of his toes."

{44} The value of these Bonds at the time this poem was written was precisely nil.

{49} A fact.

{64} The Yankee substitute for the _chapeau de soie_.

{97} The Marquis of Waterford,

{99} The fashionable abbreviation for a thousand pounds.

{117} The reference here and in a subsequent verse is to a song very popular at the time:--

"All round my hat I vears a green villow,
All round my hat for a twelvemonth and a day,
And if any van should arsk you the reason vy I vears it,
Say, all for my true love that's far, far away.
'Twas agoin of my rounds on the streets I first did meet her,
'Twas agoin of my rounds that first she met my heye,
And I never heard a voice more louder nor more sweeter,
As she cried, 'Who'll buy my cabbages, my cabbages who'll buy?'"

There were several more verses, and being set to a very taking air, it was a reigning favourite with the "Social Chucksters" of the day. Even scholars thought it worth turning into Latin verse. I remember reading in some short-lived journal a very clever version of it, the first verse of which ran thus--

"Omne circa petusum sertum gero viridem
Per annum circa petasum et unum diem plus.
Si quis te rogaret, cur tale sertum gererem,
Dic, 'Omne propter corculum qui est inpartibus.'"

Allusions to the willow, as an emblem of grief, are of a very old date. "Sing all, a green willow must be my garland," is the refrain of the song which haunted Desdemona on the eve of her death (Othello, act iv. sc. 3). That exquisite scene, and the beautiful air to which some contemporary of Shakespeare wedded it, will make "The Willow Song" immortal.

{119a} {119b} Madame Laffarge and Daniel Good were the two most talked about criminals of the time when these lines were written. Madame Laffarge was convicted of poisoning her husband under extenuating circumstances, and was imprisoned for life, but many believed in her protestations of innocence--this, of course, she being a woman and unhappily married. Daniel Good died on the scaffold on the 23rd of May 1842, protesting his innocence to the last, and asserting that his victim, Jane Sparks, had killed herself, an assertion which a judge and jury naturally could not reconcile with the fact that her head, arms, and legs had been cut off and hidden with her body in a stable. He, too, found people to maintain that his sentence was unjust.

{121} The two papers here glanced at were 'The Age' and 'The Satirist,' long since dead.

{122a} The colonnaded portion of Regent Street, immediately above the Regent Circus, was then called the Quadrant. Being sheltered from the weather, it was a favourite promenade, but became so favourite a resort of the "larking" population--male and female--that the Colonnade was removed in the interests of social order and decorum.

{122b} The expression of contemptuous defiance, signified by the application of the thumb of one hand to the nose, spreading out the fingers, and attaching to the little finger the stretched-out fingers of the other hand, and working them in a circle. Among the graffiti in Pompeii are examples of the same subtle symbolism.

{122c} Well known to readers of Thackeray's 'Newcomes' as "The Cave of Harmony."

{123} Sir Peter Laurie, Lord Mayor; afterwards Alderman, and notable for his sagacity and severity as a magistrate in dealing with evil-doers.

{157} Sir James Graham was then, and had been for some years, Secretary Of State under Sir Robert Peel.

{160} Moxon was Tennyson's publisher.

{162} Edward Fitzball, besides being the prolific author of the most sulphurous and sanguinary melodramas, flirted also with the Muses. His triumph in this line was the ballad, "My Jane, my Jane, my pretty Jane," who was for many long years implored in the delightful tenor notes of Sims Reeves "never to look so shy, and to meet him, meet him in the evening when the bloom was on the rye." Fitzball, I have heard, was the meekest and least bellicose of men, and this was probably the reason why he was dubbed by Bon Gaultier "the terrible Fitzball."

{168} Two less poetically-disposed men than Goulburn and Knatchbull could not well be imagined.

{177} The most highly reputed oysters of the day.

{200} Lord John Russell's vehement letter on Papal Aggression in November 1850 to the Bishop of Durham, provoked by the Papal Bull creating Catholic bishops in England, and the angry controversy to which it led, were followed by the passing of the Ecclesiastic Titles Bill in 1857. Aytoun was not alone in thinking that Cardinal Wiseman, the first to act upon the mandate from Rome, was more than a match for Lord John, and that the Bill would become a dead letter, as it did. The controversy was at its hottest when Aytoun expressed his view of the probable result of the conflict in the preceding ballad.

{269} This poem appeared in a review by Bon Gaultier of an imaginary volume, 'The Poets of the Day,' and was in ridicule of the numerous verses of the time, to which the use of Turkish words was supposed to impart a poetical flavour. His reviewer's comment upon it was as follows:--

"Had Byron been alive, or Moore not ceased to write, we should have
bidden them look to their laurels. 'Nonsense,' says Dryden, 'shall
be eloquent in love,' and here we find the axiom aptly illustrated,
for in this Eastern Serenade are comprised nonsense and eloquence in
perfection. But, apart from its erotic and poetical merits, it is a
great curiosity, as exhibiting in a very marked manner the singular
changes which the stride of civilisation and the bow-string of the
Sultan Mahmoud have made in the Turkish language and customs within a
very few years. Thus we learn from the writer that a 'musnud,' which
in Byron's day was a sofa, now signifies a nightingale. A 'tophaik,'
which once fired away in Moore's octosyllabics as a musket, is
metamorphosed into a bank of flowers. 'Zemzem,' the sacred well, now
makes shift as a chemise; while the rallying-cry of 'Allah-hu' closes
in a stanza as a military cloak. Even 'Gehenna,' the place of
torment, is mitigated into a valley, rich in unctuous spices. But
the most singular of all these transmutations of the Turkish
vocabulary is that of the word 'Effendi,' which used to be a
respectful epithet applied to a Christian gentleman, but is now the
denomination of a dog. Most of these changes are certainly highly
poetical, and, while we admire their ingenuity, we do not impugn
their correctness. But with all respect for the author, the
Honourable Sinjin Muff, we think that, in one or two instances, he
has sacrificed propriety at the shrine of imagination. We do not
allude to such little incongruities as the waving of a minaret, or
the watching of a mosque. These may be accounted for; but who--who,
we ask with some earnestness, ever heard of cheroots growing
ready-made among the grass, or of a young lady keeping an appointment
in a scarf trimmed with mutton cutlets? We say nothing to the bold
idea of a dragoman, who snaps Eblis in twain, as a gardener might
snap a frosted carrot; but we will not give up our own interpretation
of 'kiebaubs,' seeing that we dined upon them not two months ago at
the best chop-house in Constantinople."