Chapter XIX: Preface (8)

When I would sing thy beauty's light, Such various forms, and all so bright, I've seen thee, from thy childhood, wear, I know not which to call most fair, Nor 'mong the countless charms that spring For ever round thee, _which_ to sing.

When I would paint thee as thou _art_, Then all thou _wert_ comes o'er my heart-- The graceful child in Beauty's dawn Within the nursery's shade withdrawn, Or peeping out--like a young moon Upon a world 'twill brighten soon. Then next in girlhood's blushing hour, As from thy own loved Abbey-tower I've seen thee look, all radiant, down, With smiles that to the hoary frown Of centuries round thee lent a ray, Chasing even Age's gloom away;-- Or in the world's resplendent throng, As I have markt thee glide along, Among the crowds of fair and great A spirit, pure and separate, To which even Admiration's eye Was fearful to approach too nigh;-- A creature circled by a spell Within which nothing wrong could dwell; And fresh and clear as from the source. Holding through life her limpid course, Like Arethusa thro' the sea, Stealing in fountain purity.

Now, too, another change of light! As noble bride, still meekly bright Thou bring'st thy Lord a dower above All earthly price, pure woman's love; And showd'st what lustre Rank receives, When with his proud Corinthian leaves Her rose this high-bred Beauty weaves.

Wonder not if, where all's so fair, To choose were more than bard can dare; Wonder not if, while every scene I've watched thee thro' so bright hath been, The enamored muse should, in her quest Of beauty, know not where to rest, But, dazzled, at thy feet thus fall, Hailing thee beautiful in all!

A SPECULATION.

Of all speculations the market holds forth,
The best that I know for a lover of pelf,
Is to buy Marcus up, at the price he is worth,
And then sell him at that which he sets on himself.

TO MY MOTHER.

WRITTEN IN A POCKET BOOK, 1822.

They tell us of an Indian tree,
Which, howsoe'er the sun and sky
May tempt its boughs to wander free,
And shoot and blossom wide and high,
Far better loves to bend its arms
Downward again to that dear earth,
From which the life that, fills and warms
Its grateful being, first had birth.
'Tis thus, tho' wooed by flattering friends,
And fed with fame (_if_ fame it be)
This heart, my own dear mother, bends,
With love's true instinct, back to thee!

LOVE AND HYMEN.

Love had a fever--ne'er could close
His little eyes till day was breaking;
And wild and strange enough, Heaven knows,
The things he raved about while waking.

To let him pine so were a sin;--
One to whom all the world's a debtor--
So Doctor Hymen was called in,
And Love that night slept rather better.

Next day the case gave further hope yet,
Tho' still some ugly fever latent;--
"Dose, as before"--a gentle opiate.
For which old Hymen has a patent.

After a month of daily call,
So fast the dose went on restoring,
That Love, who first ne'er slept at all,
Now took, the rogue! to downright snoring.

LINES ON THE ENTRY OF THE AUSTRIANS INTO NAPLES, 1821.

_carbone notati_.

Ay--down to the dust with them, slaves as they are,
From this hour let the blood in their dastardly veins,
That shrunk at the first touch of Liberty's war,
Be wasted for tyrants, or stagnate in chains.

On, on like a cloud, thro' their beautiful vales,
Ye locusts of tyranny, blasting them o'er--
Fill, fill up their wide sunny waters, ye sails
From each slave-mart of Europe and shadow their shore!

Let their fate be a mock-word--let men of all lands
Laugh out with a scorn that shall ring to the poles,
When each sword that the cowards let fall from their hands
Shall be forged into fetters to enter their souls.

And deep, and more deep, as the iron is driven,
Base slaves! let the whet of their agony be,
To think--as the Doomed often think of that heaven
They had once within reach--that they _might_ have been free.

Oh shame! when there was not a bosom whose heat
Ever rose 'bove the _zero_ of Castlereagh's heart.
That did not, like echo, your war-hymn repeat,
And send all its prayers with your Liberty's start;

When the world stood in hope--when a spirit that breathed
The fresh air of the olden time whispered about;
And the swords of all Italy, halfway unsheathed,
But waited one conquering cry to flash out!

When around you the shades of your Mighty in fame,
FILICAJAS and PETRARCHS, seemed bursting to view,
And their words and their warnings, like tongues of bright flame
Over Freedom's apostles, fell kindling on you!

Oh shame! that in such a proud moment of life
Worth the history of ages, when, had you but hurled
One bolt at your tyrant invader, that strife
Between freemen and tyrants had spread thro' the world--

That then--oh! disgrace upon manhood--even then,
You should falter, should cling to your pitiful breath;
Cower down into beasts, when you might have stood men,
And prefer the slave's life of prostration to death.

It is strange, it is dreadful:--shout, Tyranny, shout
Thro' your dungeons and palaces, "Freedom is o'er;"--
If there lingers one spark of her light, tread it out,
And return to your empire of darkness once more.

For if _such_ are the braggarts that claim to be free,
Come, Despot of Russia, thy feet let me kiss;
Far nobler to live the brute bondman of thee,
Than to sully even chains by a struggle like this!

SCEPTICISM.

Ere Psyche drank the cup that shed
Immortal Life into her soul,
Some evil spirit poured, 'tis said,
One drop of Doubt into the bowl--

Which, mingling darkly with the stream,
To Psyche's lips--she knew not why--
Made even that blessed nectar seem
As tho' its sweetness soon would die.

Oft, in the very arms of Love,
A chill came o'er her heart--a fear
That Death might, even yet, remove
Her spirit from that happy sphere.

"Those sunny ringlets," she exclaimed.
Twining them round her snowy fingers;
"That forehead, where a light unnamed,
"Unknown on earth, for ever lingers;

"Those lips, thro' which I feel the breath
"Of Heaven itself, whene'er they sever--
"Say, are they mine, beyond all death,
"My own, hereafter, and for ever?

"Smile not--I know that starry brow,
"Those ringlets, and bright lips of thine,
"Will always shine, as they do now--
"But shall _I_ live to see them shine?"

In vain did Love say, "Turn thine eyes
"On all that sparkles round thee here--
"Thou'rt now in heaven where nothing dies,
"And in these arms--what _canst_ thou fear?"

In vain--the fatal drop, that stole
Into that cup's immortal treasure,
Had lodged its bitter near her soul.
And gave a tinge to every pleasure.

And, tho' there ne'er was transport given
Like Psyche's with that radiant boy,
Here is the only face in heaven,
That wears a cloud amid its joy.

A JOKE VERSIFIED.

"Come, come," said Tom's father, "at your time of life,
"There's no longer excuse for thus playing the rake--
"It is time you should think, boy, of taking a wife"--
"Why, so it is, father--whose wife shall I take?"

ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.

Pure as the mantle, which, o'er him who stood
By Jordan's stream, descended from the sky,
Is that remembrance which the wise and good
Leave in the hearts that love them, when they die.

So pure, so precious shall the memory be, Bequeathed, in dying, to our souls by thee-- So shall the love we bore thee, cherisht warm Within our souls thro' grief and pain and strife, Be, like Elisha's cruse, a holy charm, Wherewith to "heal the waters" of this life!

TO JAMES CORRY, ESQ.

ON HIS MAKING ME A PRESENT OF A WINE STRAINER.

BRIGHTON, JUNE, 1825.

This life, dear Corry, who can doubt?--
Resembles much friend Ewart's[1] wine,
When _first_ the rosy drops come out,
How beautiful, how clear they shine!
And thus awhile they keep their tint,
So free from even a shade with some,
That they would smile, did you but hint,
That darker drops would _ever_ come.

But soon the ruby tide runs short,
Each minute makes the sad truth plainer,
Till life, like old and crusty port,
When near its close, requires a strainer.

_This_ friendship can alone confer,
Alone can teach the drops to pass,
If not as bright as _once_ they were,
At least unclouded, thro' the glass.

Nor, Corry, could a boon be mine.
Of which this heart were fonder, vainer,
Than thus, if life grow like old wine,
To have _thy_ friendship for its strainer.

[1] A wine-merchant.

FRAGMENT OF A CHARACTER.

Here lies Factotum Ned at last;
Long as he breathed the vital air,
Nothing throughout all Europe past
In which Ned hadn't some small share.

Whoe'er was _in_, whoe'er was _out_,
Whatever statesmen did or said,
If not exactly brought about,
'Twas all, at least, contrived by Ned.

With Nap, if Russia went to war,
'Twas owing, under Providence,
To certain hints Ned gave the Tsar--
(Vide his pamphlet--price, sixpence.)

If France was beat at Waterloo--
As all but Frenchmen think she was--
To Ned, as Wellington well knew,
Was owing half that day's applause.

Then for his news--no envoy's bag
E'er past so many secrets thro' it;
Scarcely a telegraph could wag
Its wooden finger, but Ned knew it.

Such tales he had of foreign plots,
With foreign names, one's ear to buzz in!
From Russia, _shefs_ and _ofs_ in lots,
From Poland, _owskis_ by the dozen.

When George, alarmed for England's creed,
Turned out the last Whig ministry,
And men asked--who advised the deed?
Ned modestly confest 'twas he.

For tho', by some unlucky miss,
He had not downright _seen_ the King,
He sent such hints thro' Viscount _This_,
To Marquis _That_, as clenched the thing.

The same it was in science, arts,
The Drama, Books, MS. and printed--
Kean learned from Ned his cleverest parts,
And Scott's last work by him was hinted.

Childe Harold in the proofs he read,
And, here and there infused some soul in't--
Nay, Davy's Lamp, till seen by Ned,
Had--odd enough--an awkward hole in't.

'Twas thus, all-doing and all-knowing,
Wit, statesman, boxer, chymist, singer,
Whatever was the best pie going,
In _that_ Ned--trust him--had his finger.

* * * * *

WHAT SHALL I SING THEE?

TO ----.

What shall I sing thee? Shall I tell Of that bright hour, remembered well As tho' it shone but yesterday,

When loitering idly in the ray Of a spring sun I heard o'er-head, My name as by some spirit said, And, looking up, saw two bright eyes Above me from a casement shine, Dazzling my mind with such surprise As they, who sail beyond the Line, Feel when new stars above them rise;-- And it was thine, the voice that spoke, Like Ariel's, in the mid-air then; And thine the eye whose lustre broke-- Never to be forgot again!

What shall I sing thee? Shall I weave A song of that sweet summer-eve, (Summer, of which the sunniest part Was that we, each, had in the heart,) When thou and I, and one like thee, In life and beauty, to the sound Of our own breathless minstrelsy. Danced till the sunlight faded round, Ourselves the whole ideal Ball, Lights, music, company, and all?

Oh, 'tis not in the languid strain
Of lute like mine, whose day is past,
To call up even a dream again
Of the fresh light those moments cast.

COUNTRY DANCE AND QUADRILLE.

One night the nymph called country dance--
(Whom folks, of late, have used so ill,
Preferring a coquette from France,
That mincing thing, _Mamselle_ quadrille)--

Having been chased from London down
To that most humble haunt of all
She used to grace--a Country Town--
Went smiling to the New-Year's Ball.

"Here, here, at least," she cried, tho' driven
"From London's gay and shining tracks--
"Tho', like a Peri cast from heaven,
"I've lost, for ever lost, Almack's--

"Tho' not a London Miss alive
"Would now for her acquaintance own me;
"And spinsters, even, of forty-five,
"Upon their honors ne'er have known me;

"Here, here, at least, I triumph still,
"And--spite of some few dandy Lancers.
"Who vainly try to preach Quadrille--
"See naught but _true-blue_ Country Dancers,

"Here still I reign, and, fresh in charms,
"My throne, like Magna Charta, raise
"'Mong sturdy, free-born legs and arms,
"That scorn the threatened _chaine anglaise_."

'Twas thus she said, as mid the din
Of footmen, and the town sedan,
She lighted at the King's Head Inn,
And up the stairs triumphant ran.

The Squires and their Squiresses all,
With young Squirinas, just _come out_,
And my Lord's daughters from the Hall,
(Quadrillers in their hearts no doubt,)--

All these, as light she tript upstairs,
Were in the cloak-room seen assembling--
When, hark! some new outlandish airs,
From the First Fiddle, set her trembling.

She stops--she listens--_can_ it be?
Alas, in vain her ears would 'scape it--
It _is "Di tanti palpiti"_
As plain as English bow can scrape it.

"Courage!" however--in she goes,
With her best, sweeping country grace;
When, ah too true, her worst of foes,
Quadrille, there meets her, face to face.

Oh for the lyre, or violin,
Or kit of that gay Muse, Terpsichore,
To sing the rage these nymphs were in,
Their looks and language, airs and trickery.

There stood Quadrille, with cat-like face
(The beau-ideal of French beauty),
A band-box thing, all art and lace
Down from her nose-tip to her shoe-tie.

Her flounces, fresh from _Victorine_--
From _Hippolyte_, her rouge and hair--
Her poetry, from _Lamartine_--
Her morals, from--the Lord knows where.

And, when she danced--so slidingly,
So near the ground she plied her art,
You'd swear her mother-earth and she
Had made a compact ne'er to part.

Her face too, all the while, sedate,
No signs of life or motion showing.
Like a bright _pendule's_ dial-plate--
So still, you'd hardly think 'twas _going_.

Full fronting her stood Country Dance--
A fresh, frank nymph, whom you would know
For English, at a single glance--
English all o'er, from top to toe.

A little _gauche_, 'tis fair to own,
And rather given to skips and bounces;
Endangering thereby many a gown,
And playing, oft, the devil with flounces.

Unlike _Mamselle_--who would prefer
(As morally a lesser ill)
A thousand flaws of character,
To one vile rumple of a frill.

No rouge did She of Albion wear;
Let her but run that two-heat race
She calls a _Set_, not Dian e'er
Came rosier from the woodland chase.

Such was the nymph, whose soul had in't
Such anger now--whose eyes of blue
(Eyes of that bright, victorious tint,
Which English maids call "Waterloo")--

Like summer lightnings, in the dusk
Of a warm evening, flashing broke.
While--to the tune of "Money Musk,"[1]
Which struck up now--she proudly spoke--

"Heard you that strain--that joyous strain?
"'Twas such as England loved to hear,
"Ere thou and all thy frippery train,
"Corrupted both her foot and ear--

"Ere Waltz, that rake from foreign lands,
"Presumed, in sight of all beholders,
"To lay his rude, licentious hands
"On virtuous English backs and shoulders--

"Ere times and morals both grew bad,
"And, yet unfleeced by funding block-heads,
"Happy John Bull not only _had_,
"But danced to, 'Money in both pockets.'

"Alas, the change!--Oh, Londonderry,
"Where is the land could 'scape disasters,
"With _such_ a Foreign Secretary,
"Aided by Foreign Dancing Masters?

"Woe to ye, men of ships and shops!
"Rulers of day-books and of waves!
"Quadrilled, on one side, into fops,
"And drilled, on t'other, into slaves!

"Ye, too, ye lovely victims, seen,
"Like pigeons, trussed for exhibition,
"With elbows, _à la crapaudine_,
"And feet, in--God knows what position;

"Hemmed in by watchful chaperons,
"Inspectors of your airs and graces,
"Who intercept all whispered tones,
"And read your telegraphic faces;

"Unable with the youth adored,
"In that grim _cordon_ of Mammas,
"To interchange one tender word,
"Tho' whispered but in _queue-de-chats_.

"Ah did you know how blest we ranged,
"Ere vile Quadrille usurpt the fiddle--
"What looks in _setting_ were exchanged,
"What tender words in _down the middle_;

"How many a couple, like the wind,
"Which nothing in its course controls,
Left time and chaperons far behind,
"And gave a loose to legs and souls;

How matrimony throve--ere stopt "By this cold, silent, foot-coquetting-- "How charmingly one's partner propt "The important question in _poussetteing_.

"While now, alas--no sly advances--
"No marriage hints--all goes on badly--
"'Twixt Parson Malthus and French Dances,
"We, girls, are at a discount sadly.

"Sir William Scott (now Baron Stowell)
"Declares not half so much is made
"By Licences--and he must know well--
"Since vile Quadrilling spoiled the trade."

She ceased--tears fell from every Miss--
She now had touched the true pathetic:--
One such authentic fact as this,
Is worth whole volumes theoretic.

Instant the cry was "Country Dance!"
And the maid saw with brightening face,
The Steward of the night advance,
And lead her to her birthright place.

The fiddles, which awhile had ceased,
Now tuned again their summons sweet,
And, for one happy night, at least,
Old England's triumph was complete.

[1] An old English country dance.

GAZEL.

Haste, Maami, the spring is nigh; Already, in the unopened flowers That sleep around us, Fancy's eye Can see the blush of future bowers; And joy it brings to thee and me, My own beloved Maami!

The streamlet frozen on its way, To feed the marble Founts of Kings, Now, loosened by the vernal ray, Upon its path exulting springs-- As doth this bounding heart to thee, My ever blissful Maami!

Such bright hours were not made to stay; Enough if they awhile remain, Like Irem's bowers, that fade away. From time to time, and come again. And life shall all one Irem be For us, my gentle Maami.

O haste, for this impatient heart, Is like the rose in Yemen's vale, That rends its inmost leaves apart With passion for the nightingale; So languishes this soul for thee, My bright and blushing Maami!

LINES ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ., OF DUBLIN.

If ever life was prosperously cast,
If ever life was like the lengthened flow
Of some sweet music, sweetness to the last,
'Twas his who, mourned by many, sleeps below.

The sunny temper, bright where all is strife.
The simple heart above all worldly wiles;
Light wit that plays along the calm of life,
And stirs its languid surface into smiles;

Pure charity that comes not in a shower,
Sudden and loud, oppressing what it feeds,
But, like the dew, with gradual silent power,
Felt in the bloom it leaves along the meads;

The happy grateful spirit, that improves
And brightens every gift by fortune given;
That, wander where it will with those it loves,
Makes every place a home, and home a heaven:

All these were his.--Oh, thou who read'st this stone,
When for thyself, thy children, to the sky
Thou humbly prayest, ask this boon alone,
That ye like him may live, like him may die!

GENIUS AND CRITICISM.

_scripsit quidem fata, sed sequitur_.
SENECA.

Of old, the Sultan Genius reigned,
As Nature meant, supreme alone;
With mind unchekt, and hands unchained,
His views, his conquests were his own.

But power like his, that digs its grave
With its own sceptre, could not last;
So Genius' self became the slave
Of laws that Genius' self had past.

As Jove, who forged the chain of Fate,
Was, ever after, doomed to wear it:
His nods, his struggles all too late--
"_Qui semel jussit, semper paret_."

To check young Genius' proud career,
The slaves who now his throne invaded,
Made Criticism his prime Vizir,
And from that hour his glories faded.

Tied down in Legislation's school,
Afraid of even his own ambition,
His very victories were by rule,
And he was great but by permission.

His most heroic deeds--the same,
That dazzled, when spontaneous actions--
Now, done by law, seemed cold and tame,
And shorn of all their first attractions.

If he but stirred to take the air, Instant, the Vizir's Council sat-- "Good Lord, your Highness can't go there-- "Bless me, your Highness can't do that."

If, loving pomp, he chose to buy
Rich jewels for his diadem,
"The taste was bad, the price was high--
"A flower were simpler than a gem."

To please them if he took to flowers--
"What trifling, what unmeaning things!
"Fit for a woman's toilet hours,
"But not at all the style for Kings."

If, fond of his domestic sphere,
He played no more the rambling comet--
"A dull, good sort of man, 'twas clear,
"But, as for great or brave, far from it."

Did he then look o'er distant oceans,
For realms more worthy to enthrone him?--
"Saint Aristotle, what wild notions!
"Serve a '_ne exeat regno_' on him."

At length, their last and worst to do, They round him placed a guard of watchmen, Reviewers, knaves in brown, or blue Turned up with yellow--chiefly Scotchmen;

To dog his footsteps all about
Like those in Longwood's prison grounds,
Who at Napoleon's heels rode out,
For fear the Conqueror should break bounds.

Oh for some Champion of his power,
Some _Ultra_ spirit, to set free,
As erst in Shakespeare's sovereign hour,
The thunders of his Royalty!--

To vindicate his ancient line,
The first, the true, the only one,
Of Right eternal and divine,
That rules beneath the blessed sun.

TO LADY JERSEY.

ON BEING ASKED TO WRITE SOMETHING IN HER ALBUM.

Written at Middleton.

Oh albums, albums, how I dread Your everlasting scrap and scrawl! How often wish that from the dead Old Omar would pop forth his head, And make a bonfire of you all!

So might I 'scape the spinster band, The blushless blues, who, day and night, Like duns in doorways, take their stand, To waylay bards, with book in hand, Crying for ever, "Write, sir, write!"

So might I shun the shame and pain, That o'er me at this instant come, When Beauty, seeking Wit in vain, Knocks at the portal of my brain, And gets, for answer, "Not at home!"

_November, 1828_.

TO THE SAME.

ON LOOKING THROUGH HER ALBUM.

No wonder bards, both high and low,
From Byron down to ***** and me,
Should seek the fame which all bestow
On him whose task is praising thee.

Let but the theme be Jersey's eyes,
At once all errors are forgiven;
As even old Sternhold still we prize,
Because, tho' dull, he sings of heaven.

AT NIGHT.[1]

At night, when all is still around. How sweet to hear the distant sound Of footstep, coming soft and light! What pleasure in the anxious beat, With which the bosom flies to meet That foot that comes so soft at night!

And then, at night, how sweet to say "'Tis late, my love!" and chide delay, Tho' still the western clouds are bright; Oh! happy, too, the silent press, The eloquence of mute caress. With those we love exchanged at night!

[1] These lines allude to a curious lamp, which has for its device a Cupid, with the words "at night" written over him.

TO LADY HOLLAND.

ON NAPOLEON'S LEGACY OP A SNUFF-BOX.

Gift of the Hero, on his dying day,
To her, whose pity watched, for ever nigh;
Oh! could he see the proud, the happy ray,
This relic lights up on her generous eye,
Sighing, he'd feel how easy 'tis to pay
A friendship all his kingdoms could not buy.

_Paris, July_, 1821