Chapter XVIII: Preface (7)

I come from a land in the sun bright deep,
Where golden gardens grow;
Where the winds of the north, be calmed in sleep,
Their conch-shells never blow.[1]
Haste to that holy Isle with me,
Haste--haste!

So near the track of the stars are we,
That oft on night's pale beams
The distant sounds of their harmony
Come to our ear, like dreams.
Then haste to that holy Isle with me, etc.

The Moon too brings her world so nigh,
That when the night-seer looks
To that shadowless orb, in a vernal sky,
He can number its hills and brooks.
Then, haste, etc.

To the Sun-god all our hearts and lyres[2]
By day, by night, belong;
And the breath we draw from his living fires,
We give him back in song.
Then, haste, etc.

From us descends the maid who brings
To Delos gifts divine;
And our wild bees lend their rainbow wings
To glitter on Delphi's shrine.
Then haste to that holy Isle with me,
Haste--haste!

[1] On the Tower of the Winds, at Athens, there is a conch shell placed in the hands of Boreas.--See _Stuart's Antiquities_. "The north wind," says Herodotus, in speaking of the Hyperboreans, "never blows with them."

[2] Hecataeus tells us, that this Hyperborean island was dedicated to Apollo; and most of the inhabitants were either priests or songsters.

THOU BIDST ME SING.

Thou bidst me sing the lay I sung to thee
In other days ere joy had left this brow;
But think, tho' still unchanged the notes may be,
How different feels the heart that breathes them now!
The rose thou wearst to-night is still the same
We saw this morning on its stem so gay;
But, ah! that dew of dawn, that breath which came
Like life o'er all its leaves, hath past away.

Since first that music touched thy heart and mine,
How many a joy and pain o'er both have past,--
The joy, a light too precious long to shine,--
The pain, a cloud whose shadows always last.
And tho' that lay would like the voice of home
Breathe o'er our ear, 'twould waken now a sigh--
Ah! not, as then, for fancied woes to come,
But, sadder far, for real bliss gone by.

CUPID ARMED.

Place the helm on thy brow,
In thy hand take the spear;--
Thou art armed, Cupid, now,
And thy battle-hour is near.
March on! march on! thy shaft and bow
Were weak against such charms;
March on! march on! so proud a foe
Scorns all but martial arms.

See the darts in her eyes,
Tipt with scorn, how they shine!
Every shaft, as it flies,
Mocking proudly at thine.
March on! march on! thy feathered darts
Soft bosoms soon might move;
But ruder arms to ruder hearts
Must teach what 'tis to love.
Place the helm on thy brow;
In thy hand take the spear,--
Thou art armed, Cupid, now,
And thy battle-hour is near.

ROUND THE WORLD GOES.

Round the world goes, by day and night,
While with it also round go we;
And in the flight of one day's light
An image of all life's course we see.
Round, round, while thus we go round,
The best thing a man can do,
Is to make it, at least, a _merry_-go-round,
By--sending the wine round too.

Our first gay stage of life is when Youth in its dawn salutes the eye-- Season of bliss! Oh, who wouldn't then Wish to cry, "Stop!" to earth and sky? But, round, round, both boy and girl Are whisked thro' that sky of blue; And much would their hearts enjoy the whirl, If--their heads didn't whirl round too.

Next, we enjoy our glorious noon,
Thinking all life a life of light;
But shadows come on, 'tis evening soon,
And ere we can say, "How short!"--'tis night.
Round, round, still all goes round,
Even while I'm thus singing to you;
And the best way to make it a _merry_-go-round,
Is to--chorus my song round too.

OH, DO NOT LOOK SO BRIGHT AND BLEST.

Oh, do not look so bright and blest,
For still there comes a fear,
When brow like thine looks happiest,
That grief is then most near.
There lurks a dread in all delight,
A shadow near each ray,
That warns us then to fear their flight,
When most we wish their stay.
Then look not thou so bright and blest,
For ah! there comes a fear,
When brow like thine looks happiest,
That grief is then most near.

Why is it thus that fairest things
The soonest fleet and die?--
That when most light is on their wings,
They're then but spread to fly!
And, sadder still, the pain will stay--
The bliss no more appears;
As rainbows take their light away,
And leave us but the tears!
Then look not thou so bright and blest,
For ah! there comes a fear,
When brow like thine looks happiest,
That grief is then most near.

THE MUSICAL BOX.

"Look here," said Rose, with laughing eyes,
"Within this box, by magic hid,
"A tuneful Sprite imprisoned lies,
"Who sings to me whene'er he's bid.
"Tho' roving once his voice and wing,
"He'll now lie still the whole day long;
"Till thus I touch the magic spring--
"Then hark, how sweet and blithe his song!"
_(A symphony.)_

"Ah, Rose," I cried, "the poet's lay
"Must ne'er even Beauty's slave become;
"Thro' earth and air his song may stray,
"If all the while his heart's at home.
"And tho' in freedom's air he dwell,
"Nor bond nor chain his spirit knows,
"Touch but the spring thou knowst so well,
"And--hark, how sweet the love-song flows!"
_(A symphony.)_

Thus pleaded I for freedom's right;
But when young Beauty takes the field,
And wise men seek defence in flight,
The doom of poets is to yield.
No more my heart the enchantress braves,
I'm now in Beauty's prison hid;
The Sprite and I are fellow slaves,
And I, too, sing whene'er I'm bid.

WHEN TO SAD MUSIC SILENT YOU LISTEN.

When to sad Music silent you listen,
And tears on those eyelids tremble like dew,
Oh, then there dwells in those eyes as they glisten
A sweet holy charm that mirth never knew.
But when some lively strain resounding
Lights up the sunshine of joy on that brow,
Then the young reindeer o'er the hills bounding
Was ne'er in its mirth so graceful as thou.

When on the skies at midnight thou gazest.
A lustre so pure thy features then wear,
That, when to some star that bright eye thou raisest,
We feel 'tis thy home thou'rt looking for there.
But when the word for the gay dance is given,
So buoyant thy spirit, so heartfelt thy mirth,
Oh then we exclaim, "Ne'er leave earth for heaven,
"But linger still here, to make heaven of earth."

THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS.

Fly swift, my light gazelle,
To her who now lies waking,
To hear thy silver bell
The midnight silence breaking.
And, when thou com'st, with gladsome feet,
Beneath her lattice springing,
Ah, well she'll know how sweet
The words of love thou'rt bringing.

Yet, no--not words, for they
But half can tell love's feeling;
Sweet flowers alone can say
What passion fears revealing.
A once bright rose's withered leaf,
A towering lily broken,--
Oh these may paint a grief
No words could e'er have spoken.

Not such, my gay gazelle,
The wreath thou speedest over
Yon moonlight dale, to tell
My lady how I love her.
And, what to her will sweeter be
Than gems the richest, rarest,--
From Truth's immortal tree[1]
One fadeless leaf thou bearest.

[1] The tree called in the East, Amrita, or the Immortal.

THE DAWN IS BREAKING O'ER US.

The dawn is breaking o'er us, See, heaven hath caught its hue! We've day's long light before us, What sport shall we pursue? The hunt o'er hill and lea? The sail o'er summer sea? Oh let not hour so sweet Unwinged by pleasure fleet. The dawn is breaking o'er us, See, heaven hath caught its hue! We've days long light before us, What sport shall we pursue?

But see, while we're deciding,
What morning sport to play,
The dial's hand is gliding,
And morn hath past away!
Ah, who'd have thought that noon
Would o'er us steal so soon,--
That morn's sweet hour of prime
Would last so short a time?
But come, we've day before us,
Still heaven looks bright and blue;
Quick, quick, ere eve comes o'er us,
What sport shall we pursue?

Alas! why thus delaying? We're now at evening's hour; Its farewell beam is playing O'er hill and wave and bower. That light we thought would last, Behold, even now 'tis past; And all our morning dreams Have vanisht with its beams But come! 'twere vain to borrow Sad lessons from this lay, For man will be to-morrow-- Just what he's been to-day.

UNPUBLISHED SONGS.

ETC.

ASK NOT IF STILL I LOVE.

Ask not if still I love, Too plain these eyes have told thee; Too well their tears must prove How near and dear I hold thee. If, where the brightest shine, To see no form but thine, To feel that earth can show No bliss above thee,-- If this be love, then know That thus, that thus, I love thee.

'Tis not in pleasure's idle hour That thou canst know affection's power. No, try its strength in grief or pain; Attempt as now its bonds to sever, Thou'lt find true love's a chain That binds forever!

DEAR? YES.

Dear? yes, tho' mine no more,
Even this but makes thee dearer;
And love, since hope is o'er,
But draws thee nearer.

Change as thou wilt to me, The same thy charm must be; New loves may come to weave Their witchery o'er thee, Yet still, tho' false, believe That I adore thee, yes, still adore thee. Think'st thou that aught but death could end A tie not falsehood's self can rend? No, when alone, far off I die, No more to see, no more cares thee, Even then, my life's last sigh Shall be to bless thee, yes, still to bless thee.

UNBIND THEE, LOVE.

Unbind thee, love, unbind thee, love,
From those dark ties unbind thee;
Tho' fairest hand the chain hath wove,
Too long its links have twined thee.
Away from earth!--thy wings were made
In yon mid-sky to hover,
With earth beneath their dove-like shade,
And heaven all radiant over.

Awake thee, boy, awake thee, boy,
Too long thy soul is sleeping;
And thou mayst from this minute's joy
Wake to eternal weeping.
Oh, think, this world is not for thee;
Tho' hard its links to sever;
Tho' sweet and bright and dear they be,
Break or thou'rt lost for ever.

THERE'S SOMETHING STRANGE.

A BUFFALO SONG.

There's something strange, I know not what,
Come o'er me,
Some phantom I've for ever got
Before me.
I look on high and in the sky
'Tis shining;
On earth, its light with all things bright
Seems twining.
In vain I try this goblin's spells
To sever;
Go where I will, it round me dwells
For ever.

And then what tricks by day and night
It plays me;
In every shape the wicked sprite
Waylays me.
Sometimes like two bright eyes of blue
'Tis glancing;
Sometimes like feet, in slippers neat,
Comes dancing.
By whispers round of every sort
I'm taunted.
Never was mortal man, in short,
So haunted.

NOT FROM THEE.

Not from thee the wound should come,
No, not from thee.
Care not what or whence my doom,
So not from thee!
Cold triumph! first to make
This heart thy own;
And then the mirror break
Where fixt thou shin'st alone.
Not from thee the wound should come,
Oh, not from thee.
I care not what, or whence, my doom,
So not from thee.

Yet no--my lips that wish recall;
From thee, from thee--
If ruin o'er this head must fall,
'Twill welcome be.
Here to the blade I bare
This faithful heart;
Wound deep--thou'lt find that there,
In every pulse thou art.
Yes from thee I'll bear it all:
If ruin be
The doom that o'er this heart must fall,
'Twere sweet from thee.

GUESS, GUESS.

I love a maid, a mystic maid, Whose form no eyes but mine can see; She comes in light, she comes in shade, And beautiful in both is she. Her shape in dreams I oft behold, And oft she whispers in my ear Such words as when to others told, Awake the sigh, or wring the tear; Then guess, guess, who she, The lady of my love, may be.

I find the lustre of her brow, Come o'er me in my darkest ways; And feel as if her voice, even now, Were echoing far off my lays. There is no scene of joy or woe But she doth gild with influence bright; And shed o'er all so rich a glow As makes even tears seem full of light: Then guess, guess, who she, The lady of my love, may be.

WHEN LOVE, WHO RULED.

When Love, who ruled as Admiral o'er Has rosy mother's isles of light, Was cruising off the Paphian shore, A sail at sunset hove in sight. "A chase, a chase! my Cupids all," Said Love, the little Admiral.

Aloft the winged sailors sprung, And, swarming up the mast like bees, The snow-white sails expanding flung, Like broad magnolias to the breeze. "Yo ho, yo ho, my Cupids all!" Said Love, the little Admiral.

The chase was o'er--the bark was caught, The winged crew her freight explored; And found 'twas just as Love had thought, For all was contraband aboard. "A prize, a prize, my Cupids all!" Said Love, the little Admiral.

Safe stowed in many a package there, And labelled slyly o'er, as "Glass," Were lots of all the illegal ware, Love's Custom-House forbids to pass. "O'erhaul, o'erhaul, my Cupids all," Said Love, the little Admiral.

False curls they found, of every hue, With rosy blushes ready made; And teeth of ivory, good as new, For veterans in the smiling trade. "Ho ho, ho ho, my Cupids all," Said Love, the little Admiral.

Mock sighs, too,--kept in bags for use, Like breezes bought of Lapland seers,-- Lay ready here to be let loose, When wanted, in young spinsters' ears. "Ha ha, ha ha, my Cupids all," Said Love, the little Admiral.

False papers next on board were found, Sham invoices of flames and darts, Professedly for Paphos bound, But meant for Hymen's golden marts. "For shame, for shame, my Cupids all!" Said Love, the little Admiral.

Nay, still to every fraud awake, Those pirates all Love's signals knew, And hoisted oft his flag, to make Rich wards and heiresses _bring-to_.[1] "A foe, a foe, my Cupids all!" Said Love, the little Admiral.

"This must not be," the boy exclaims, "In vain I rule the Paphian seas, "If Love's and Beauty's sovereign names "Are lent to cover frauds like these. "Prepare, prepare, my Cupids all!" Said Love, the little Admiral.

Each Cupid stood with lighted match-- A broadside struck the smuggling foe, And swept the whole unhallowed batch Of Falsehood to the depths below. "Huzza, huzza! my Cupids all!" Said Love the little Admiral.

[1] "_To Bring-to_, to check the course of a ship."--_Falconer_.

STILL THOU FLIEST.

Still thou fliest, and still I woo thee,
Lovely phantom,--all in vain;
Restless ever, my thoughts pursue thee,
Fleeting ever, thou mock'st their pain.
Such doom, of old, that youth betided,
Who wooed, he thought, some angel's charms,
But found a cloud that from him glided,--
As thou dost from these outstretched arms.

Scarce I've said, "How fair thou shinest,"
Ere thy light hath vanished by;
And 'tis when thou look'st divinest
Thou art still most sure to fly.
Even as the lightning, that, dividing
The clouds of night, saith, "Look on me,"
Then flits again, its splendor hiding.--
Even such the glimpse I catch of thee.

THEN FIRST FROM LOVE.

Then first from Love, in Nature's bowers,
Did Painting learn her fairy skill,
And cull the hues of loveliest flowers,
To picture woman lovelier still.
For vain was every radiant hue,
Till Passion lent a soul to art,
And taught the painter, ere he drew,
To fix the model in his heart.

Thus smooth his toil awhile went on,
Till, lo, one touch his art defies;
The brow, the lip, the blushes shone,
But who could dare to paint those eyes?
'Twas all in vain the painter strove;
So turning to that boy divine,
"Here take," he said, "the pencil, Love,
"No hand should paint such eyes but thine."

HUSH, SWEET LUTE.

Hush, sweet Lute, thy songs remind me
Of past joys, now turned to pain;
Of ties that long have ceased to bind me,
But whose burning marks remain.
In each tone, some echo falleth
On my ear of joys gone by;
Every note some dream recalleth
Of bright hopes but born to die.

Yet, sweet Lute, though pain it bring me,
Once more let thy numbers thrill;
Tho' death were in the strain they sing me,
I must woo its anguish still.
Since no time can e'er recover
Love's sweet light when once 'tis set,--
Better to weep such pleasures over,
Than smile o'er any left us yet.

BRIGHT MOON.

Bright moon, that high in heaven art shining,
All smiles, as if within thy bower to-night
Thy own Endymion lay reclining,
And thou wouldst wake him with a kiss of light!--
By all the bliss thy beam discovers,
By all those visions far too bright for day,
Which dreaming bards and waking lovers
Behold, this night, beneath thy lingering ray,--

I pray thee, queen of that bright heaven,
Quench not to-night thy love-lamp in the sea,
Till Anthe, in this bower, hath given
Beneath thy beam, her long-vowed kiss to me.
Guide hither, guide her steps benighted,
Ere thou, sweet moon, thy bashful crescent hide;
Let Love but in this bower be lighted,
Then shroud in darkness all the world beside.

LONG YEARS HAVE PAST.

Long years have past, old friend, since we
First met in life's young day;
And friends long loved by thee and me,
Since then have dropt away;--
But enough remain to cheer us on,
And sweeten, when thus we're met,
The glass we fill to the many gone,
And the few who're left us yet.
Our locks, old friend, now thinly grow,
And some hang white and chill;
While some, like flowers mid Autumn's snow,
Retain youth's color still.
And so, in our hearts, tho' one by one,
Youth's sunny hopes have set,
Thank heaven, not all their light is gone,--
We've some to cheer us yet.

Then here's to thee, old friend, and long
May thou and I thus meet,
To brighten still with wine and song
This short life, ere it fleet.
And still as death comes stealing on,
Let's never, old friend, forget,
Even while we sigh o'er blessings gone,
How many are left us yet.

DREAMING FOR EVER.

Dreaming for ever, vainly dreaming,
Life to the last, pursues its flight;
Day hath its visions fairly beaming,
But false as those of night.
The one illusion, the other real,
But both the same brief dreams at last;
And when we grasp the bliss ideal,
Soon as it shines, 'tis past.

Here, then, by this dim lake reposing,
Calmly I'll watch, while light and gloom
Flit o'er its face till night is closing--
Emblem of life's short doom!
But tho', by turns, thus dark and shining,
'Tis still unlike man's changeful day,
Whose light returns not, once declining,
Whose cloud, once come, will stay.

THO' LIGHTLY SOUNDS THE SONG I SING.

A SONG OF THE ALPS.

Tho' lightly sounds the song I sing to thee, Tho' like the lark's its soaring music be, Thou'lt find even here some mournful note that tells How near such April joy to weeping dwells. 'Tis 'mong the gayest scenes that oftenest steal Those saddening thoughts we fear, yet love to feel; And music never half so sweet appears, As when her mirth forgets itself in tears.

Then say not thou this Alpine song is gay-- It comes from hearts that, like their mountain-lay, Mix joy with pain, and oft when pleasure's breath Most warms the surface feel most sad beneath. The very beam in which the snow-wreath wears Its gayest smile is that which wins its tears,-- And passion's power can never lend the glow Which wakens bliss, without some touch of woe.

THE RUSSIAN LOVER.

Fleetly o'er the moonlight snows
Speed we to my lady's bower;
Swift our sledge as lightning goes,
Nor shall stop till morning's hour.
Bright, my steed, the northern star
Lights us from yon jewelled skies;
But to greet us, brighter far,
Morn shall bring my lady's eyes.
Lovers, lulled in sunny bowers,
Sleeping out their dream of time,
Know not half the bliss that's ours,
In this snowy, icy clime.
Like yon star that livelier gleams
From the frosty heavens around,
Love himself the keener beams
When with snows of coyness crowned.
Fleet then on, my merry steed,
Bound, my sledge, o'er hill and dale;--
What can match a lover's speed?
See, 'tis daylight, breaking pale!
Brightly hath the northern star
Lit us from yon radiant Skies;
But, behold, how brighter far
Yonder shine my lady's eyes!

A SELECTION FROM THE SONGS IN

M. P.; OR, THE BLUE-STOCKING:

A COMIC OPERA IN THREE ACTS.

1811.

BOAT GLEE.

The song that lightens the languid way, When brows are glowing, And faint with rowing, Is like the spell of Hope's airy lay, To whose sound thro' life we stray; The beams that flash on the oar awhile, As we row along thro' the waves so clear, Illume its spray, like the fleeting smile That shines o'er sorrow's tear.

Nothing is lost on him who sees With an eye that feeling gave;-- For him there's a story in every breeze, And a picture in every wave. Then sing to lighten the languid way; When brows are glowing, And faint with rowing, 'Tis like the spell of Hope's airy lay, To whose sound thro' life we stray.

* * * * *

'Tis sweet to behold when the billows are sleeping,
Some gay-colored bark moving gracefully by;
No damp on her deck but the eventide's weeping,
No breath in her sails but the summer wind's sigh.
Yet who would not turn with a fonder emotion,
To gaze on the life-boat, tho' rugged and worn.
Which often hath wafted o'er hills of the ocean
The lost light of hope to the seaman forlorn!

Oh! grant that of those who in life's sunny slumber
Around us like summer-barks idly have played,
When storms are abroad we may find in the number
One friend, like the life-boat, to fly to our aid.

* * * * *

When Lelia touched the lute, Not _then_ alone 'twas felt, But when the sounds were mute, In memory still they dwelt. Sweet lute! in nightly slumbers Still we heard thy morning numbers.

Ah, how could she who stole Such breath from simple wire, Be led, in pride of soul, To string with gold her lyre? Sweet lute! thy chords she breaketh; Golden now the strings she waketh!

But where are all the tales Her lute so sweetly told? In lofty themes she fails, And soft ones suit not gold. Rich lute! we see thee glisten, But, alas! no more we listen!

* * * * *

Young Love lived once in a humble shed,
Where roses breathing
And woodbines wreathing
Around the lattice their tendrils spread,
As wild and sweet as the life he led.
His garden flourisht,
For young Hope nourisht.
The infant buds with beams and showers;
But lips, tho' blooming, must still be fed,
And not even Love can live on flowers.

Alas! that Poverty's evil eye
Should e'er come hither,
Such sweets to wither!
The flowers laid down their heads to die,
And Hope fell sick as the witch drew nigh.
She came one morning.
Ere Love had warning,
And raised the latch, where the young god lay;
"Oh ho!" said Love--"is it you? good-by;"
So he oped the window and flew away!

* * * * *

Spirit of Joy, thy altar lies
In youthful hearts that hope like mine;
And 'tis the light of laughing eyes
That leads us to thy fairy shrine.

There if we find the sigh, the tear,
They are not those to sorrow known;
But breathe so soft, and drop so clear,
That bliss may claim them for her own.
Then give me, give me, while I weep,
The sanguine hope that brightens woe,
And teaches even our tears to keep
The tinge of pleasure as they flow.

The child who sees the dew of night Upon the spangled hedge at morn, Attempts to catch the drops of light, But wounds his finger with the thorn. Thus oft the brightest joys we seek, Are lost when touched, and turned to pain; The flush they kindle leaves the cheek, The tears they waken long remain. But give me, give me, etc.

* * * * *

To sigh, yet feel no pain. To weep, yet scarce know why; To sport an hour with Beauty's chain, Then throw it idly by; To kneel at many a shrine, Yet lay the heart on none; To think all other charms divine, But those we just have won; This is love, careless love, Such as kindleth hearts that rove.

To keep one sacred flame, Thro' life unchilled, unmoved, To love in wintry age the same As first in youth we loved; To feel that we adore To such refined excess. That tho' the heart would break with _more_, We could not live with _less_; This is love, faithful love, Such as saints might feel above.

* * * * *

Dear aunt, in the olden time of love, When women like slaves were spurned, A maid gave her heart, as she would her glove, To be teased by a fop, and returned! But women grow wiser as men improve. And, tho' beaux, like monkeys, amuse us, Oh! think not we'd give such a delicate gem As the heart to be played with or sullied by them; No, dearest aunt, excuse us.

We may know by the head on Cupid's seal What impression the heart will take; If shallow the head, oh! soon we feel What a poor impression 'twill make! Tho' plagued, Heaven knows! by the foolish zeal Of the fondling fop who pursues me, Oh, think not I'd follow their desperate rule, Who get rid of the folly by wedding the fool; No, dearest aunt! excuse me.

* * * * *

When Charles was deceived by the maid he loved, We saw no cloud his brow o'er-casting, But proudly he smiled as if gay and unmoved, Tho' the wound in his heart was deep and lasting. And oft at night when the tempest rolled He sung as he paced the dark deck over-- "Blow, wind, blow! thou art not so cold As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover."

Yet he lived with the happy and seemed to be gay,
Tho' the wound but sunk more deep for concealing;
And Fortune threw many a thorn in his way,
Which, true to one anguish, he trod without feeling!
And still by the frowning of Fate unsubdued
He sung as if sorrow had placed him above her--
"Frown, Fate, frown! thou art not so rude
As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover."

At length his career found a close in death,
The close he long wished to his cheerless roving,
For Victory shone on his latest breath,
And he died in a cause of his heart's approving.
But still he remembered his sorrow,--and still
He sung till the vision of life was over--
"Come, death, come! thou art not so chill
As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover."

* * * * *

When life looks lone and dreary,
What light can dispel the gloom?
When Time's swift wing grows weary,
What charm can refresh his plume?
'Tis woman whose sweetness beameth
O'er all that we feel or see;
And if man of heaven e'er dreameth,
'Tis when he thinks purely of thee,
O woman!

Let conquerors fight for glory,
Too dearly the meed they gain;
Let patriots live in story--
Too often they die in vain;
Give kingdoms to those who choose 'em,
This world can offer to me
No throne like Beauty's bosom,
No freedom like serving thee,
O woman!

CUPID'S LOTTERY.

A lottery, a Lottery,
In Cupid's court there used to be;
Two roguish eyes
The highest prize
In Cupid's scheming Lottery;
And kisses, too,
As good as new,
Which weren't very hard to win,
For he who won
The eyes of fun
Was sure to have the kisses in
A Lottery, a Lottery, etc.

This Lottery, this Lottery,
In Cupid's court went merrily,
And Cupid played
A Jewish trade
In this his scheming Lottery;
For hearts, we're told,
In _shares_ he sold
To many a fond believing drone,
And cut the hearts
In sixteen parts
So well, each thought the whole his own.
_Chor_.--A Lottery, a Lottery, etc.

* * * * *

Tho' sacred the tie that our country entwineth,
And dear to the heart her remembrance remains,
Yet dark are the ties where no liberty shineth,
And sad the remembrance that slavery stains.
O thou who wert born in the cot of the peasant,
But diest in languor in luxury's dome,
Our vision when absent--our glory, when present--
Where thou art, O Liberty! there is my home.

Farewell to the land where in childhood I've wandered!
In vain is she mighty, in vain, is she brave!
Unblest is the blood that for tyrants is squandered,
And fame has no wreaths for the brow of the slave.
But hail to thee, Albion! who meet'st the commotion.
Of Europe as calm as thy cliffs meet the foam!
With no bonds but the law, and no slave but the ocean,
Hail, Temple of Liberty! thou art my home.

* * * * *

Oh think, when a hero is sighing,
What danger in such an adorer!
What woman can dream' of denying
The hand that lays laurels before her?
No heart is so guarded around,
But the smile of the victor will take it;
No bosom can slumber so sound,
But the trumpet of glory will wake it.

Love sometimes is given to sleeping,
And woe to the heart that allows him;
For oh, neither smiling nor weeping
Has power at those moments to rouse him.
But tho' he was sleeping so fast,
That the life almost seemed to forsake him,
Believe me, one soul-thrilling blast
From the trumpet of glory would wake him.

* * * * *

Mr. Orator Puff had two tones in his voice, The one squeaking thus, and the other down so! In each sentence he uttered he gave you your choice, For one was B alt, and the rest G below. Oh! oh, Orator Puff! One voice for one orator's surely enough.

But he still talked away spite of coughs and of frowns, So distracting all ears with his ups and his downs, That a wag once on hearing the orator say, "My voice is for war," asked him, "Which of them, pray?" Oh! oh! etc.

Reeling homewards one evening, top-heavy with gin, And rehearsing his speech on the weight of the crown, He tript near a sawpit, and tumbled right in, "Sinking Fund," the last words as his noddle came down. Oh! oh, etc.

"Help! help!" he exclaimed, in his he and she tones, "Help me out! help me out--I have broken my bones!" "Help you out?" said a Paddy who passed, "what a bother! Why, there's two of you there, can't you help one another?" Oh I oh! etc.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

OCCASIONAL EPILOGUE.

SPOKEN BY MR. COBBY, IN THE CHARACTER OF VAPID, AFTER THE PLAY OF THE DRAMATIST, AT THE KILKENNY THEATRE.

(_Entering as if to announce the Play_.)

Ladies and Gentlemen, on Monday night, For the ninth time--oh accents of delight To the poor author's ear, when _three times three_ With a full bumper crowns, his Comedy! When, long by money, and the muse, forsaken, He finds at length his jokes and boxes taken, And sees his play-bill circulate--alas, The only bill on which his name will pass! Thus, Vapid, thus shall Thespian scrolls of fame Thro' box and gallery waft your well-known name, While critic eyes the happy cast shall con, And learned ladies spell your _Dram. Person_.

'Tis said our worthy Manager[1]intends To help my night, and _he_, ye know, has friends. Friends, did I say? for fixing friends, or _parts_, Engaging actors, or engaging hearts, There's nothing like him! wits, at his request. Are turned to fools, and dull dogs learn to jest; Soldiers, for him, good "trembling cowards" make, And beaus, turned clowns, look ugly for his sake; For him even lawyers talk without a fee, For him (oh friendship) _I_ act tragedy! In short, like Orpheus, his persuasive tricks Make _boars_ amusing, and put life in _sticks_.

With _such_ a manager we can't but please, Tho' London sent us all her loud O. P.'s,[2] Let them come on, like snakes, all hiss and rattle, Armed with a thousand fans, we'd give them battle; You, on our side, R. P.[3]upon our banners, Soon should we teach the saucy O. P.'s manners: And show that, here--howe'er John Bull may doubt-- In all _our_ plays, the Riot-Act's cut out; And, while we skim the cream of many a jest, Your well-timed thunder never sours its zest.

Oh gently thus, when three short weeks are past, At Shakespeare's altar,[4] shall we breathe our last; And, ere this long-loved dome to ruin nods, Die all, die nobly, die like demigods!

[1] The late Mr. Richard Power.

[2] The brief appellation by which these persons were distinguished who, at the opening of the new theatre of Convent Garden, clamored for the continuance of the old prices of admission.

[3] The initials of our manager's name.

[4] This alludes to a scenic representation then preparing for the last night of the performances.

EXTRACT.

FROM A PROLOGUE WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE AUTHOR, AT THE OPENING OF THE KILKENNY THEATRE, OCTOBER, 1809.

* * * * *

Yet, even here, tho' Fiction rules the hour, There shine some genuine smiles, beyond her power; And there are tears, too--tears that Memory sheds Even o'er the feast that mimic fancy spreads, When her heart misses one lamented guest,[1] Whose eye so long threw light o'er all the rest! There, there, indeed, the Muse forgets her task, And drooping weeps behind Thalia's mask.

Forgive this gloom--forgive this joyless strain, Too sad to welcome pleasure's smiling train. But, meeting thus, our hearts will part the lighter, As mist at dawn but makes the setting brighter; Gay Epilogue will shine where Prologue fails-- As glow-worms keep their splendor for their tails.

I know not why--but time, methinks, hath past More fleet than usual since we parted last. It seems but like a dream of yesternight. Whose charm still hangs, with fond, delaying light; And, ere the memory lose one glowing hue Of former joy, we come to kindle new. Thus ever may the flying moments haste With trackless foot along life's vulgar waste, But deeply print and lingeringly move, When thus they reach the sunny spots we love. Oh yes, whatever be our gay career, Let this be still the solstice of the year, Where Pleasure's sun shall at its height remain, And slowly sink to level life again.

[1] The late Mr. John Lyster, one of the oldest members and best actors of the Kilkenny Theatrical Society.

THE SYLPH'S BALL.

A sylph, as bright as ever sported
Her figure thro' the fields of air,
By an old swarthy Gnome was courted.
And, strange to say, he won the fair.

The annals of the oldest witch
A pair so sorted could not show,
But how refuse?--the Gnome was rich,
The Rothschild of the world below;

And Sylphs, like other pretty creatures,
Are told, betimes, they must consider
Love as an auctioneer of features,
Who knocks them down to the best bidder.

Home she was taken to his Mine--
A Palace paved with diamonds all--
And, proud as Lady Gnome to shine,
Sent out her tickets for a ball.

The _lower_ world of course was there, And all the best; but of the _upper_ The sprinkling was but shy and rare,-- A few old Sylphids who loved supper.

As none yet knew the wondrous Lamp Of DAVY, that renowned Aladdin, And the Gnome's Halls exhaled a damp Which accidents from fire were had in;

The chambers were supplied with light By many strange but safe devices; Large fire-flies, such as shine at night Among the Orient's flowers and spices;--

Musical flint-mills--swiftly played By elfin hands--that, flashing round, Like certain fire-eyed minstrel maids, Gave out at once both light and sound.

Bologna stones that drink the sun; And water from that Indian sea, Whose waves at night like wildfire run-- Corked up in crystal carefully.

Glow-worms that round the tiny dishes Like little light-houses, were set up; And pretty phosphorescent fishes That by their own gay light were eat up.

'Mong the few guests from Ether came That wicked Sylph whom Love we call-- My Lady knew him but by name, My Lord, her husband, not at all.

Some prudent Gnomes, 'tis said, apprised That he was coming, and, no doubt Alarmed about his torch, advised He should by all means be kept out.

But others disapproved this plan, And by his flame tho' somewhat frighted, Thought Love too much a gentleman In such a dangerous place to light it.

However, _there_ he was--and dancing With the fair Sylph, light as a feather; They looked like two fresh sunbeams glancing At daybreak down to earth together.

And all had gone off safe and well, But for that plaguy torch whose light, Though not _yet_ kindled--who could tell How soon, how devilishly, it _might_?

And so it chanced--which, in those dark And fireless halls was quite amazing; Did we not know how small a spark Can set the torch of Love a-blazing.

Whether it came (when close entangled In the gay waltz) from her bright eyes, Or from the _lucciole_, that spangled Her locks of jet--is all surmise;

But certain 'tis the ethereal girl _Did_ drop a spark at some odd turning, Which by the waltz's windy whirl Was fanned up into actual burning.

Oh for that Lamp's metallic gauze, That curtain of protecting wire, Which DAVY delicately draws Around illicit, dangerous fire!--

The wall he sets 'twixt Flame and Air,
(Like that which barred young Thisbe's bliss,)
Thro' whose small holes this dangerous pair
May see each other but not kiss.

At first the torch looked rather bluely,--
A sign, they say, that no good boded--
Then quick the gas became unruly.
And, crack! the ball-room all exploded.

Sylphs, gnomes, and fiddlers mixt together,
With all their aunts, sons, cousins, nieces,
Like butterflies in stormy weather,
Were blown--legs, wings, and tails--to pieces!

While, mid these victims of the torch,
The Sylph, alas, too, bore her part--
Found lying with a livid scorch
As if from lightning o'er her heart!

* * * * *

"Well done"--a laughing Goblin said--
Escaping from this gaseous strife--
"'Tis not the _first_ time Love has made
"A _blow-up_ in connubial life!"

REMONSTRANCE.

_After a Conversation with Lord John Russell, in which he had intimated some Idea of giving up all political Pursuits. _

What! _thou_, with thy genius, thy youth, and thy name--
Thou, born of a Russell--whose instinct to run
The accustomed career of thy sires, is the same
As the eaglet's, to soar with his eyes on the sun!

Whose nobility comes to thee, stampt with a seal,
Far, far more ennobling than monarch e'er set;
With the blood of thy race, offered up for the weal
Of a nation that swears by that martyrdom yet!

Shalt _thou_ be faint-hearted and turn from the strife,
From the mighty arena, where all that is grand
And devoted and pure and adorning in life,
'Tis for high-thoughted spirits like thine to command?

Oh no, never dream it--while good men despair
Between tyrants and traitors, and timid men bow,
Never think for an instant thy country can spare
Such a light from her darkening horizon as thou.

With a spirit, as meek as the gentlest of those
Who in life's sunny valley lie sheltered and warm;
Yet bold and heroic as ever yet rose
To the top cliffs of Fortune and breasted her storm;

With an ardor for liberty fresh as in youth
It first kindles the bard and gives life to his lyre;
Yet mellowed, even now, by that mildness of truth
Which tempers but chills not the patriot fire;

With an eloquence--not like those rills from a height,
Which sparkle and foam and in vapor are o'er;
But a current that works out its way into light
Thro' the filtering recesses of thought and of lore.

Thus gifted, thou never canst sleep in the shade;
If the stirrings of Genius, the music of fame,
And the charms of thy cause have not power to persuade,
Yet think how to Freedom thou'rt pledged by thy Name.

Like the boughs of that laurel by Delphi's decree
Set apart for the Fane and its service divine,
So the branches that spring from the old Russell tree
Are by Liberty _claimed_ for the use of her Shrine.

MY BIRTH-DAY.

"My birth-day"--what a different sound
That word had in my youthful ears!
And how, each time the day comes round,
Less and less white its mark appears!

"When first our scanty years are told, It seems like pastime to grow old; And as Youth counts the shining links That Time around him binds so fast, Pleased with the task, he little thinks How hard that chain will press at last. Vain was the man, and false as vain, Who said--"were he ordained to run "His long career of life again, "He would do all that he _had_ done."-- Ah, 'tis not thus the voice that dwells In sober birth-days speaks to me; Far otherwise--of time it tells, Lavished unwisely, carelessly: Of counsel mockt; of talents made Haply for high and pure designs, But oft, like Israel's incense, laid Upon unholy, earthly shrines; Of nursing many a wrong desire, Of wandering after Love too far, And taking every meteor fire That crost my pathway, for his star.-- All this it tells, and, could I trace The imperfect picture o'er again. With power to add, retouch, efface The lights and shades, the joy and pain, How little of the past would stay! How quickly all should melt away-- All--but that Freedom of the Mind Which hath been more than wealth to me; Those friendships, in my boyhood twined, And kept till now unchangingly, And that dear home, that saving ark, Where Love's true light at last I've found, Cheering within, when all grows dark And comfortless and stormy round!

FANCY.

The more I've viewed this world, the more I've found, That filled as 'tis with scenes and creatures rare, Fancy commands within her own bright round A world of scenes and creatures far more fair. Nor is it that her power can call up there A single charm, that's not from Nature won,-- No more than rainbows in their pride can wear A single tint unborrowed from the sun; But 'tis the mental medium; it shines thro', That lends to Beauty all its charm and hue; As the same light that o'er the level lake One dull monotony of lustre flings, Will, entering in the rounded raindrop, make Colors as gay as those on angels' wings!

SONG.

FANNY, DEAREST.

Yes! had I leisure to sigh and mourn,
Fanny dearest, for thee I'd sigh;
And every smile on my cheek should turn
To tears when thou art nigh.
But between love and wine and sleep,
So busy a life I live,
That even the time it would take to weep
Is more than my heart can give.
Then wish me not to despair and pine,
Fanny, dearest of all the dears!
The Love that's ordered to bathe in wine,
Would be sure to take cold in tears.

Reflected bright in this heart of mine, Fanny dearest, thy image lies; But ah! the mirror would cease to shine, If dimmed too often with sighs. They lose the half of beauty's light, Who view it thro' sorrow's tear; And 'tis but to see thee truly bright That I keep my eye-beams clear. Then wait no longer till tears shall flow--

Fanny, dearest! the hope is vain;
If sunshine cannot dissolve thy snow,
I shall never attempt it with rain.

TRANSLATIONS FROM CATULLUS.

CARM. 70.

_dicebas quondam, etc_.

TO LESBIA.

Thou told'st me, in our days of love,
That I had all that heart of thine;
That, even to share the couch of Jove,
Thou wouldst not, Lesbia, part from mine.

How purely wert thou worshipt then!
Not with the vague and vulgar fires
Which Beauty wakes in soulless men,--
But loved, as children by their sires.

That flattering dream, alas, is o'er;--
I know thee now--and tho' these eyes
Doat on thee wildly as before,
Yet, even in doating, I despise.

Yes, sorceress--mad as it may seem--
With all thy craft, such spells adorn thee,
That passion even outlives esteem.
And I at once adore--and scorn thee.

CARM. II.

_pauca nunciate meae puellae_.

Comrades and friends! with whom, where'er
The fates have willed thro' life I've roved,
Now speed ye home, and with you bear
These bitter words to her I've loved.

Tell her from fool to fool to run,
Where'er her vain caprice may call;
Of all her dupes not loving one,
But ruining and maddening all.

Bid her forget--what now is past--
Our once dear love, whose rain lies
Like a fair flower, the meadow's last.
Which feels the ploughshare's edge and dies!

CARM. 29.

_peninsularum Sirmio, insularumque ocelle_.

Sweet Sirmio! thou, the very eye
Of all peninsulas and isles,
That in our lakes of silver lie,
Or sleep enwreathed by Neptune's smiles--

How gladly back to thee I fly!
Still doubting, asking--_can_ it be
That I have left Bithynia's sky,
And gaze in safety upon thee?

Oh! what is happier than to find
Our hearts at ease, our perils past;
When, anxious long, the lightened mind
Lays down its load of care at last:

When tired with toil o'er land and deep,
Again we tread the welcome floor
Of our own home, and sink to sleep
On the long-wished-for bed once more.

This, this it is that pays alone
The ills of all life's former track.--
Shine out, my beautiful, my own
Sweet Sirmio, greet thy master back.

And thou, fair Lake, whose water quaffs
The light of heaven like Lydia's sea,
Rejoice, rejoice--let all that laughs
Abroad, at home, laugh out for me!

TIBULLUS TO SULPICIA.

_nulla tuum nobis subducet femina lectum, etc.,
Lib. iv. Carm. 13_.

"Never shall woman's smile have power
"To win me from those gentle charms!"--
Thus swore I, in that happy hour,
When Love first gave thee to my arms.

And still alone thou charm'st my sight--
Still, tho' our city proudly shine
With forms and faces, fair and bright,
I see none fair or bright but thine.

Would thou wert fair for only me,
And couldst no heart but mine allure!--
To all men else unpleasing be,
So shall I feel my prize secure.

Oh, love like mine ne'er wants the zest
Of others' envy, others' praise;
But, in its silence safely blest,
Broods o'er a bliss it ne'er betrays.

Charm of my life! by whose sweet power
All cares are husht, all ills subdued--
My light in even the darkest hour,
My crowd in deepest solitude!

No, not tho' heaven itself sent down
Some maid of more than heavenly charms,
With bliss undreamt thy bard to crown,
Would he for her forsake those arms!

IMITATION.

FROM THE FRENCH.

With women and apples both Paris and Adam
Made mischief enough in their day:--
God be praised that the fate of mankind, my dear Madam,
Depends not on _us_, the same way.
For, weak as I am with temptation to grapple,
The world would have doubly to rue thee:

Like Adam, I'd gladly take _from_ thee the apple,
Like Paris, at once give it _to_ thee.

INVITATION TO DINNER.

ADDRESSED TO LORD LANSDOWNE.

September, 1818.

Some think we bards have nothing real; That poets live among the stars so, Their very dinners are ideal,-- (And, heaven knows, too oft they _are_ so,)-- For instance, that we have, instead Of vulgar chops and stews and hashes, First course--a Phoenix, at the head. Done in its own celestial ashes; At foot, a cygnet which kept singing All the time its neck was wringing. Side dishes, thus--Minerva's owl, Or any such like learned fowl: Doves, such as heaven's poulterer gets, When Cupid shoots his mother's pets. Larks stewed in Morning's roseate breath, Or roasted by a sunbeam's splendor; And nightingales, berhymed to death-- Like young pigs whipt to make them tender.

Such fare may suit those bards, who are able To banquet at Duke Humphrey's table; But as for me, who've long been taught To eat and drink like other people; And can put up with mutton, bought Where Bromham[1] rears its ancient steeple-- If Lansdowne will consent to share My humble feast, tho' rude the fare, Yet, seasoned by that salt he brings From Attica's salinest springs, 'Twill turn to dainties;--while the cup, Beneath his influence brightening up, Like that of Baucis, touched by Jove, Will sparkle fit for gods above!

[1] A picturesque village in sight of my cottage, and from which it is separated out by a small verdant valley.

VERSES TO THE POET CRABBE'S INKSTAND.[1]

(WRITTEN MAY, 1832.)

All, as he left it!--even the pen,
So lately at that mind's command,
Carelessly lying, as if then
Just fallen from his gifted hand.

Have we then lost him? scarce an hour,
A little hour, seems to have past,
Since Life and Inspiration's power
Around that relic breathed their last.

Ah, powerless now--like talisman
Found in some vanished wizard's halls,
Whose mighty charm with him began,
Whose charm with him extinguisht falls.

Yet, tho', alas! the gifts that shone
Around that pen's exploring track,
Be now, with its great master, gone,
Nor living hand can call them back;

Who does not feel, while thus his eyes
Rest on the enchanter's broken wand,
Each earth-born spell it worked arise
Before him in succession grand?

Grand, from the Truth that reigns o'er all;
The unshrinking truth that lets her light
Thro' Life's low, dark, interior fall,
Opening the whole, severely bright:

Yet softening, as she frowns along,
O'er scenes which angels weep to see--
Where Truth herself half veils the Wrong,
In pity of the Misery.

True bard!--and simple, as the race
Of true-born poets ever are,
When, stooping from their starry place,
They're children near, tho' gods afar.

How freshly doth my mind recall,
'Mong the few days I've known with thee,
One that, most buoyantly of all,
Floats in the wake of memory;[2]

When he, the poet, doubly graced,
In life, as in his perfect strain,
With that pure, mellowing power of Taste,
Without which Fancy shines in vain;

Who in his page will leave behind,
Pregnant with genius tho' it be,
But half the treasures of a mind,
Where Sense o'er all holds mastery:--

Friend of long years! of friendship tried
Thro' many a bright and dark event;
In doubts, my judge--in taste, my guide--
In all, my stay and ornament!

He, too, was of our feast that day,
And all were guests of one whose hand
Hath shed a new and deathless ray
Around the lyre of this great land;

In whose sea-odes--as in those shells
Where Ocean's voice of majesty
Seems still to sound--immortal dwells
Old Albion's Spirit of the Sea.

Such was our host; and tho', since then,
Slight clouds have risen 'twixt him and me,
Who would not grasp such hand again,
Stretched forth again in amity?

Who can, in this short life, afford
To let such mists a moment stay,
When thus one frank, atoning word,
Like sunshine, melts them all away?

Bright was our board that day--tho' _one_
Unworthy brother there had place;
As 'mong the horses of the Sun,
One was, they say, of earthly race.

Yet, _next_ to Genius is the power
Of feeling where true Genius lies;
And there was light around that hour
Such as, in memory, never dies;

Light which comes o'er me as I gaze,
Thou Relic of the Dead, on thee,
Like all such dreams of vanisht days,
Brightly, indeed--but mournfully!

[1] Soon after Mr. Crabbe's death, the sons of that gentleman did me the honor of presenting to me the inkstand, pencil, etc., which their distinguished father had long been in the habit of using.

[2] The lines that follow allude to a day passed in company with Mr. Crabbe, many years since, when a party, consisting only of Mr. Rogers, Mr. Crabbe, and the author of these verses, had the pleasure of dining with Mr. Thomas Campbell, at his house at Sydenham.

TO CAROLINE, VISCOUNTESS VALLETORT.

WRITTEN AT LACOCK ABBEY, JANUARY, 1832.