Chapter V: (from Canto Iii.)

Clotilda! many hearts are light,
And many lips dissemble;
But I am thine till priests shall fight,
Or Cœur de Lion tremble!--
Hath Jerome burned his rosary,
Or Richard shrunk from slaughter?
Oh! no, no,
Dream not so!
But till you mean your hopes to die,
Engrave them not in water!

Sweet Ida, on my lonely way
Those tears I will remember,
Till icicles shall cling to May,
Or roses to December!--
Are snow-wreaths bound on Summer’s brow?
Is drowsy Winter waking?
Oh! no, no,
Dream not so!
But lances, and a lover’s vow,
Were only made for breaking.

Lenora, I am faithful still,
By all the saints that listen,
Till this warm heart shall cease to thrill,
Or these wild veins to glisten!--
This bosom,--is its pulse less high?
Or sleeps the storm within it?
Oh! no, no,
Dream not so!
But lovers find eternity
In less than half a minute.

And thus to thee I swear to-night,
By thine own lips and tresses,
That I will take no further flight,
Nor break again my jesses:
And wilt thou trust the faith I vowed,
And dream in spite of warning?
Oh! no, no,
Dream not so!
But go and lure the midnight cloud,
Or chain the mist of morning.

These words of mine, so false and bland,
Forget that they were spoken!
The ring is on thy radiant hand,--
Dash down the faithless token!
And will they say that Beauty sinned,
That Woman turned a rover?
Oh! no, no,
Dream not so!
But lovers’ vows are like the wind--
And Vidal is a Lover.

THE SEPARATION.

“Lorsque l’on aime comme il faut
Le moindre éloignement nous tue
Et ce, dont on chérit la vue
Ne reviènt jamais assez tôt.”--MOLIERE.

He’s gone, dear Fanny!--gone at last--
We’ve said good-bye--and all is over;
’Twas a gay dream--but it is past--
Next Tuesday he will sail from Dover.
Well! gentle waves be round his prow!
But tear and prayer alike are idle;
Oh! who shall fill my album now?
And who shall hold my pony’s bridle?

Last night he left us after tea--
I never thought he’d leave us--never;
He was so pleasant, was’nt he?
Papa, too, said he was so clever.
And, Fanny, you’ll be glad to hear--
That little boy that looked so yellow,
Whose eyes were _so_ like his--my dear,
Is a poor little orphan fellow!

That odious Miss Lucretia Browne,
Who, with her horrid pugs and Bibles,
Is always running through the town,
And circulating tracts--and libels;
Because he never danced with her,
Told dear Mamma such horrid scandal
About his moral character,
For stooping, just to tie a sandal!

She said he went to fights and fairs--
That always gives Papa the fidgets;
She said he did not know his prayers--
He’s every Sunday at St. Bridget’s!
She said he squeezed one’s waist and hands
Whene’er he waltzed--a plague upon her--
I danced with him at Lady Eland’s--
He never squeezed me--’pon my honour!

His regiment have got the route,
(They came down here to quell the riot,
And now--what can they be about,
The stupid people are so quiet:)--
They say it is to India, too,
If there I’m sure he’ll get the liver!--
And should he bathe--he used to do--
They’ve crocodiles in every river.

There may be bright eyes there--and then!
(I’m sure I love him like a brother;)
His lute will soon be strung again,
His heart will soon beat for another.
I know him well! he is not false--
But when the song he loves is playing--
Or after he has danced a waltz--
He never knows what he is saying.

I know ’twas wrong--’twas very wrong--
To listen to his wild romancing;
Last night I danced with him too long,--
One’s always giddy after dancing:
But when he begged me so to sing,
And when he sighed, and asked me, “Would I?”
And when he took my turquoise ring,
I’m sure I could not help it, could I?

Papa was lecturing the girls,
And talked of settlements and rentals;--
I wore a white-lace frock--and pearls--
He looked so well in regimentals!
And just before we came away,
While we were waiting for the carriage,
I heard him, not quite plainly, say
Something of Blacksmiths--and of marriage.

He promised, if he could get leave,
He’d soon come back--I wonder can he?--
Lord Hill is very strict, I b’lieve;--
(What could he mean by Blacksmiths, Fanny?)
He said he wished we ne’er had met,
I answered--it was lovely weather!--
And then he bade me not forget
The pleasant days we’d passed together.

He’s gone--and other lips may weave
A stronger spell than mine to bind him;
But bid him, if he loves me, leave
Those rhymes he made me love, behind him;
Tell him I know those waywards strings
Not always sound to mirthful measures;
But sighs are sometimes pleasant things,
And tears from those we love are treasures.

Tell him to leave off drinking wine,--
Tell him to break himself off smoking,--
Tell him to go to bed at nine,--
His hours are really quite provoking.
Tell him I hope he won’t get fat,--
Tell him to act with due reflection;--
Tell him to wear a broad-leaf hat,
Or else he’ll ruin his complexion.

Tell him I am _so_ ill to-day,--
Perhaps to-morrow I’ll be better;---
Tell him before he goes away
To write me a consoling letter:
Tell him to send me down that song
He said he loved the best of any,--
Tell him I’m sure I can’t live long,--
And--bid him love me,--won’t you, Fanny?

AN INVITATION.

“If she be not fair to me,
What care I how fair she be.”--SUCKLING.

Wherefore, Fanny, look so lovely,
In your anger, in your glee?
Laughing, weeping, fair, capricious!
If you will look so delicious,
Prythee, look at me!

Wherefore, Fanny, sing so sweetly,
Like the bird upon the tree,--
Hearts in dozens round you bringing?
Siren! if you must be singing,
Prythee, sing to me!

Wherefore, Fanny, dance so lightly,
Like the wave upon the sea?
Motion every charm enhancing;
Fanny, if you will be dancing,
Prythee, dance with me!

Wherefore smile so like an angel,
Angel-like although you be?
Head and heart at once beguiling,--
Dearest! if you will be smiling,
Prythee, smile on me!

Wherefore flirt, and aim your arrows
At each harmless fop you see?
Coxcombs, hardly worth the hurting;
Tyrant! if you must be flirting,
Prythee, flirt with me!

Wherefore, Fanny, kiss and fondle
Half the ugly brats you see?
Waste not love among so many;--
Sweetest! if you fondle any,
Prythee, fondle me!

Wherefore wedlock’s lottery enter?
Chances for you, one to three!
Richest ventures oft miscarry,
Fanny, Fanny, if you marry,
Prythee, marry me!

A DISCOURSE DELIVERED BY A COLLEGE TUTOR,

AT A SUPPER PARTY, JULY 1ST, 1825.

Ye dons and ye doctors, ye provosts and proctors,
Who are paid to monopolise knowledge,
Come make opposition, by vote and petition,
To the radical infidel college;
Come put forth your powers, in aid of the towers
Which boast of their bishops and martyrs;
And arm all the terrors of privileged errors
Which live by the wax of their charters.

Let Mackintosh battle with Canning and V----,
Let Brougham be a friend to the niggers,
Burdett cure the nation’s misrepresentations,
And Hume make a figure in figures;
But let them not babble of Greek to the rabble,
Nor teach the mechanics their letters;
The labouring classes were born to be asses,
And not to be aping their betters.

’Tis a terrible crisis for Cam and for Isis,
Fat butchers are learning dissection;
And looking-glass makers become Sabbath breakers,
To study the laws of reflection;
Sin Φ and sin Θ, no sin can be sweeter,
Are taught to the poor of both sexes,
And weavers and spinners jump up from their dinners
To flirt with their y’s and their x’s.

Chuck farthing advances the doctrine of chances
In spite of the staff of the beadle;
And menders of breeches between the long stitches
Write books on the laws of the needle;
And chandlers all chatter of luminous matter,
Who communicate none to their tallows;
And rogues gets a notion of the pendulum’s motion
Which is only of use at the gallows.

The impurest of Attics read pure mathematics,
The gin-shops are turned into cloisters;
A Crawford next summer will fill up your rummer,
A Copleston open your oysters;
The bells of Old Bailey are practising gaily
The erudite tunes of St. Mary’s;
The Minories any day will rear you a Kennedy,
And Bishopsgate blossom with Airy’s.

The nature of granites, the tricks of the planets,
The forces of steam and of gases,
The engines mechanical, the long words botanical,
The ranging of beetles in classes,
The delicate junctions of symbols and functions,
The impossible roots of equations,
Are these proper questions for Cockney digestions,
Fit food for a cit’s lucubrations?

The eloquent pages of time-hallowed sages,
Embalmed by some critical German,
Old presents by Brunckius, new futures by Monckius,[6]
The squabbles of Porson with Hermann,
Your Alphas and Betas, your canons of metres,
Your infinite powers of particles,
Shall these and such like work make journeymen strike work,
And ’prentices tear up their articles.

But oh, since fair science will cruelly fly hence,
To smile upon vagrants and gypsies,
Since knights of the hammer must handle their grammar,
And nightmen account for eclipses,
Our handicraft neighbours shall share in our labours
If they leave us the whole of the honey,
And the sans culotte caitiff shall start for the plate if
He puts in no claim for plate-money.

Ye halls on whose daïs the don of to-day is
To feed on the beef and the benison,
Ye common room glories, where beneficed Tories
Digest their belief and their venison,
Ye duels scholastic, where quibbles monastic
Are asserted with none to confute them,
Ye grave congregations, where frequent taxations
Are settled with none to dispute them:

Far hence be the season when radical treason
Of port and of puddings shall bilk ye;
When the weavers aforesaid shall taste of our boar’s head,
The silk-winders swallow our silky:
When the mob shall eat faster than any vice-master,
The watermen try to out-tope us;
When Campbell shall dish up a bowl of our bishop,
Or Brougham and Co. cope with our Copus.[7]

GOOD NIGHT.

Good night to thee, lady!--though many
Have join’d in the dance to-night,
Thy form was the fairest of any,
Where all was seducing and bright;
Thy smile was the softest and dearest,
Thy form the most sylph-like of all,
And thy voice the most gladsome and clearest
That e’er held a partner in thrall.

Good night to thee, lady!--’tis over--
The waltz, the quadrille, and the song--
The whisper’d farewell of the lover,
The heartless adieu of the throng;
The heart that was throbbing with pleasure,
The eyelid that long’d for repose--
The beaux that were dreaming of treasure,
The girls that were dreaming of beaux.

’Tis over--the lights are all dying,
The coaches all driving away;
And many a fair one is sighing,
And many a false one is gay;
And Beauty counts over her numbers
Of conquests, as homeward she drives---
And some are gone home to their slumbers,
And some are gone home to their wives.

And I, while my cab in the shower
Is waiting, the last at the door
Am looking all around for the flower
That fell from your wreath on the floor,
I’ll keep it--if but to remind me,
Though withered and faded its hue--
Wherever next season may find me--
Of England--of Almack’s--and you!

There are tones that will haunt us, though lonely
Our path be o’er mountain or sea;
There are looks that will part from us only
When memory ceases to be;
There are hopes which our burden can lighten,
Though toilsome and steep be the way;
And dreams that, like moonlight, can brighten
With a light that is clearer than day.

There are names that we cherish, though nameless;
For aye on the lips they may be;
There are hearts that, though fetter’d, are tameless,
And thoughts unexpress’d, but still free!
And some are too grave for a rover,
And some for a husband too light.
--The ball and my dream are all over--
Good night to thee, lady! good night!

HOBBLEDEHOYS.

“Not a man--nor a boy--
But a Hobbledehoy.”--_Old Song._

Oh! there is a time, a happy time,
When a boy is just half a man;
When ladies may kiss him without a crime,
And flirt with him like a fan:--
When mammas with their daughters will leave him alone,
If he only will seem to fear them;
While were he a man, or a little more grown,
They never would let him near them.

These, Lilly!--these were the days when you
Were my boyhood’s earliest flame,--
When I thought it an honour to tie your shoe,
And trembled to hear your name:--
When I scarcely ventured to take a kiss,
Though your lips seemed half to invite me;
But, Lilly! I soon got over this,--
When I kissed--and they did not bite me!

Oh! these were gladsome and fairy times,
And our hearts were then in their Spring,
When I passed my nights in writing you rhymes,
And my days in hearing you sing:--
And don’t you remember your mother’s dismay
When she found in your drawer my sonnet;
And the beautiful verses I wrote, one day,
On the ribbon that hung from your bonnet!

And the seat we made by the fountain’s gush,
Where your task you were wont to say,--
And how I lay under the holly-bush
Till your governess went away:--
And how, when too long at your task you sat,
Or whenever a kiss I wanted,
I brayed like an ass--or mewed like a cat,
Till she deemed that the place was haunted!

And do you not, love, remember the days
When I dressed you for the play,--
When I pinned your kerchief, and laced your stays
In the neatest and tidiest way!--
And do you forget the kiss you gave
When I tore my hand with the pin;--
And how you wondered men would not shave
The beards from their horrible chin.

And do you remember the garden wall
I climbed up every night,--
And the racket we made in the servants’ hall
When the wind had put out the light;--
When Sally got up in her petticoat,
And John came out in his shirt,--
And I silenced her with a guinea-note,
And blinded him with a squirt!

And don’t you remember the horrible bite
I got from the gardener’s bitch,
When John let her out of the kennel, for spite,
And she seized me, crossing the ditch;--
And how you wept when you saw my blood,
And numbered me with Love’s martyrs,--
And how you helped me out of the mud,
By tying together your garters!

But, Lilly! now I am grown a man,
And those days have all gone by,--
And Fortune may give me the best she can,
And the brightest destiny;
But I would give every hope and joy
That my spirit may taste again,
That I once more were that gladsome boy,
And that you were as young as then.

A CLASSICAL WALK.

“You have often promised to teach me Greek and Latin. Now, that we
are in this classic land, do keep your promise.”--_Conversation on
the beach at Salerno._

Oh, yes! beside that moonlit creek,
Where sleep the silent waters,
I’ll teach thee all I know of Greek,
Young queen of beauty’s daughters!
And each sweet eve, by that lone shore,
Where no rude step can fright us,
We’ll cull sweet flowers of classic lore,
With the young stars to light us!

I’ll teach thee how the billows grieve,
Where Lesbian Sappho slumbers,
How young Catullus used to weave
Fresh heart-sighs with his numbers:
How Ariadne sighed and wept,
And watched her love’s returning;
And the young maid of Sestos kept
Her love-lamp ever burning.

There by the light the quiet sky
And the soft stars have made us,
Thou for my Commentary;--I
Thy Lexicon and Gradus;--
We’ll con each page of that bright lore,
Love taught those maiden sages
Who read in Paphos’ bowers of yore,
With moonlight on the pages!

And if, ere half our walk be done,
Some ruined fane we light on,
Which love once warmed,--some little one
That moonlight then is bright on;
We’ll kneel--and should some spark that glows
Still round the altar, reach us,
And light our hearts--Heaven only knows
What wondrous things ’twill teach us!

STANZAS.

“Why will you never listen to an Irish melody?”--_Query in a
Ball-room._

The songs she sung--the songs she sung!
How many a sigh they stole!
Oh! there be lutes as sweetly strung,
But none with half the soul
That dwelt in every silver tone
_She_ drew from each sweet string:
Oh! no,--the songs she made her own
I will not hear them sing!

The songs she sung--the songs she sung!
How few and faint the words
Of praise that fell whene’er she flung
Her fingers o’er the chords;
No plaudit followed when the strain
Died on the quivering air,
But tears were gushing forth like rain,
And lips were quivering there!

The songs she sung--the songs she sung!
Long, grieving years are fled,
Earth’s yearnings from the heart are flung,
Earth’s hopes are with the dead;
And worldly wrongs--forgot--forgiven--
Sleep in Death’s second birth;
But I would only hear in Heaven
The songs _she_ gave to earth!

BECAUSE!

“Why? Because.”--LINDLEY MURRAY.

Sweet Nea!--for your lovely sake
I weave these rambling numbers,
Because I’ve lain an hour awake,
And can’t compose my slumbers;
Because your beauty’s gentle light
Is round my pillow beaming,
And flings, I know not why, to-night,
Some witchery o’er my dreaming!

Because we’ve passed some joyous days,
And danced some merry dances;
Because you love old Beaumont’s plays,
And old Froissart’s romances!
Because, whene’er I hear your words,
Some pleasant feeling lingers;
Because I think your heart has chords
That vibrate to my fingers!

Because you’ve got those long, soft curls
I’ve sworn should deck my goddess;
Because you’re not, like other girls,
All bustle, blush, and bodice!
Because your eyes are deep and blue,
Your fingers long and rosy;
Because a little child and you
Would make one’s home so cosy!

Because your little tiny nose
Turns up so pert and funny;
Because I know you choose your beaux
More for their mirth than money;
Because I think you’d rather twirl
A waltz, with me to guide you,
Than talk small nonsense with an Earl,
And a coronet beside you!

Because you don’t object to walk,
And are not given to fainting;
Because you have not learned to talk
Of flowers and Poonah-painting;
Because I think you’d scarce refuse
To sew one on a button;
Because I know you’d sometimes choose
To dine on simple mutton!

Because I think I’m just so weak
As, some of those fine morrows,
To ask you if you’ll let me speak
_My_ story--and _my_ sorrows:
Because the rest’s a simple thing,
A matter quickly over,
A church--a priest--a sigh--a ring--
And a chaise-and-four for Dover!

SONG TO A SERENADER IN FEBRUARY.

AIR--“Why hast thou taught me to love thee?”

Dear minstrel, the dangers are not to be told
Of those strains which have trebly undone me,--
A victim to pity, to love, and to cold,
I’ll be dead by the time thou hast won me!

Oh! think for a moment--whoever thou art,
On the woes that beset me together,--
If thou wilt not consider the state of my heart,
Oh! think of the state of the weather.

How keenly around me the night breezes blow,--
How sweetly thy parting note lingers,--
Ah! would that the glow of my heart could bestow
A share of its warmth to--my fingers!

But though she who would watch while the nightingales sing
Should scorn to let cold overcome her,--
Though, like other sweet birds, you begin in the Spring,
I can’t fall in love till the Summer.

THE CHILDE’S DESTINY.

“And none did love him--not his lemans dear.”
--BYRON.

No mistress of the hidden skill,
No wizard gaunt and grim,
Went up by night to heath or hill
To read the stars for him;
The merriest girl in all the land
Of vine-encircled France
Bestowed upon his brow and hand
Her philosophic glance:
“I bind thee with a spell,” said she,
“I sign thee with a sign;
No woman’s love shall light on thee,
No woman’s heart be thine!

“And trust me, ’tis not that thy cheek
Is colourless and cold;
Nor that thine eye is slow to speak
What only eyes have told;
And many a cheek of paler white
Hath blushed with passion’s kiss,
And many an eye of lesser light
Hath caught its fire from bliss;
Yet while the rivers seek the sea,
And while the young stars shine,
No woman’s love shall light on thee,--
No woman’s heart be thine!

“And ’tis not that thy spirit, awed
By Beauty’s numbing spell,
Shrinks from the force or from the fraud
Which Beauty loves so well;
For thou hast learned to watch, and wake,
And swear by earth and sky;
And thou art very bold to take
What we must still deny:
I cannot tell;--the charm was wrought
By other threads than mine!
The lips are lightly begged or bought,--
The heart may not be thine!

“Yet thine the brightest smiles shall be
That ever Beauty wore;
And confidence from two or three,
And compliments from more;
And one shall give--perchance hath given--
What only is not love,--
Friendship,--oh! such as saints in heaven
Rain on us from above:
If she shall meet thee in the bower,
Or name thee in the shrine,
O wear the ring and guard the flower!
Her heart may not be thine!

“Go, set thy boat before the blast,
Thy breast before the gun;
The haven shall be reached at last,
The battle shall be won:
Or muse upon thy country’s laws,
Or strike thy country’s lute;
And patriot hands shall sound applause,
And lovely lips be mute.
Go, dig the diamond from the wave,
The treasure from the mine;
Enjoy the wreath, the gold, the grave,--
No woman’s heart is thine!

“I charm thee from the agony
Which others feel or feign;
From anger, and from jealousy,
From doubt, and from disdain;
I bid thee wear the scorn of years
Upon the cheek of youth,
And curl the lip at passion’s tears,
And shake the head at truth;
While there is bliss in revelry,
Forgetfulness in wine,
Be thou from woman’s love as free
As woman is from thine!”

THE MODERN NECTAR.

One day, as Bacchus wandered out
From his own gay and glorious heaven,
To see what mortals were about
Below, ’twixt six o’clock and seven,
And laugh at all the toils and tears,
The sudden hopes, the causeless fears,
The midnight songs, the morning smarts,
The aching heads, the breaking hearts,
Which he and his fair crony Venus
Within the month had sown between us,
He lighted by chance on a fiddling fellow
Who never was known to be less than mellow,
A wandering poet, who thought it his duty
To feed upon nothing but bowls and beauty,
Who worshipped a rhyme, and detested a quarrel,
And cared not a single straw for laurel,
Holding that grief was sobriety’s daughter,
And loathing critics, and cold water.

Ere day on the Gog-Magog hills had fainted,
The god and the minstrel were quite acquainted;
Beneath a tree, in the sunny weather,
They sate them down, and drank together:
They drank of all fluids that ever were poured
By an English lout, or a German lord,
Rum and shrub, and brandy and gin,
One after another, they stowed them in,
Claret of Carbonell, porter of Meux,
Champagne which would waken a wit in dukes,
Humble Port, and proud Tokay,
Persico, and Crême de Thé,
The blundering Irishman’s Usquebaugh,
The fiery Welshman’s Cwrw da;
And after toasting various names
Of mortal and immortal flames,
And whispering more than I or you know
Of Mistress Poll, and Mistress Juno,
The god departed, scarcely knowing
A Zephyr’s from a nose’s blowing,
A frigate from a pewter flagon,
Or Thespis from his own stage waggon;
And rolling about like a barrel of grog,
He went up to heaven as drunk as a hog!
“Now may I,” he lisped, “for ever sit
In Lethe’s darkest and deepest pit,
Where dulness everlasting reigns
O’er the quiet pulse and the drowsy brains,
Where ladies jest, and lovers laugh,
And noble lords are bound in calf,
And Zoilus for his sins rehearses
Old Bentham’s prose, old Wordsworth’s verses,
If I have not found a richer draught
Than ever yet Olympus quaffed
Better and brighter and dearer far
Than the golden sands of Pactolus are!”

And then he filled in triumph up,
To the highest top sparkle, Jove’s beaming cup,
And pulling up his silver hose,
And turning in his tottering toes
(While Hebe, as usual, the mischievous gipsy,
Was laughing to see her brother tipsy),
He said--“May it please your high Divinity,
This nectar is--Milk Punch at Trinity!”

AN EPITAPH

_On the late King of the Sandwich Islands._

1825.

Beneath the marble, mud, or moss,
Which e’er his subjects shall determine,
Entombed in eulogies and dross,
The Island King is food for vermin.
Preserved by scribblers and by salt
From Lethe and sepulchral vapours,
His body fills his father’s vault,
His character, the daily papers.

Well was he framed for royal seat;
Kind, to the meanest of his creatures,
With tender heart and tender feet,
And open purse and open features;
The ladies say who laid him out,
And earned thereby the usual pensions,
They never wreathed a shroud about
A corpse of more genteel dimensions.

He warred with half-a-score of foes,
And shone, by proxy, in the quarrel;
Enjoyed hard fights and soft repose,
And deathless debt and deathless laurel.
His enemies were scalped and flayed
Whene’er his soldiers were victorious,
And widows wept and paupers paid
To make their sovereign ruler glorious;

And days were set apart for thanks,
And prayers were said by pious readers,
And laud was lavished on the ranks,
And laurel lavished on their leaders;
Events are writ by History’s pen,
Though causes are too much to care for;
Fame talks about the where and when,
While Folly asks the why and wherefore.

In peace he was intensely gay
And indefatigably busy,
Preparing gewgaws every day,
And shows to make his subjects dizzy,
And hearing the report of guns,
And signing the report of gaolers,
And making up receipts for buns,
And patterns for the army tailors,

And building carriages and boats,
And streets, and chapels, and pavilions,
And regulating all the coats,
And all the principles of millions,
And drinking homilies and gin,
And chewing pork and adulation,
And looking backwards upon sin,
And looking forward to salvation.

The people, in his happy reign,
Were blest beyond all other nations;
Unharmed by foreign axe or chain,
Unhealed by civil innovations;
They served the usual logs and stones
With all the usual rites and terrors,
And swallowed all their father’s bones,
And swallowed all their father’s errors.

When the fierce mob, with clubs and knives,
All vowed that nothing should content them,
But that their representatives
Should actually represent them,
He interposed the proper checks,
By sending troops with drums and banners
To cut their speeches short, and necks,
And break their heads to mend their manners,
And when Dissension flung her stain
Upon the light of Hymen’s altar,
And Destiny made Hymen’s chain
As galling as the hangman’s halter,
He passed a most domestic life,
By many mistresses befriended,
And did not put away his wife,
For fear the priest should be offended.

And thus at last he sank to rest
Amid the blessings of his people,
And sighs were heard from every breast,
And bells were tolled from every steeple,
And loud was every public throng
His brilliant character adorning,
And poets raised a mourning song,
And clothiers raised the price of mourning.

His funeral was very grand,
Followed by many robes and maces,
And all the great ones of the land
Struggling, as heretofore, for places;
And every loyal minister
Was there, with signs of purse-felt sorrow,
Save Pozzy, his lord chancellor,
Who promised to attend to-morrow.

Peace to his dust. His fostering care
By grateful hearts shall long be cherished;
And all his subjects shall declare
They lost a grinder when he perished.
They who shall look upon the lead
In which a people’s love hath shrined him,
Will say when all the worst is said,
Perhaps he leaves a worse behind him.

THE CHAUNT OF THE BRAZEN HEAD.

“Brazen companion of my solitary hours! do you, while I recline,
pronounce a prologue to those sentiments of Wisdom and Virtue,
which are hereafter to be the oracles of statesmen, and the guides
of philosophers. Give me to-night a proem of our essay, an opening
of our case, a division of our subject. Speak!” (_Slow music. The
Friar falls asleep. The head chaunts as follows._) --THE BRAZEN
HEAD.

I think, whatever mortals crave,
With impotent endeavour,--
A wreath, a rank, a throne, a grave,--
The world goes round for ever:
I think that life is not too long;
And therefore I determine,
That many people read a song
Who will not read a sermon.

I think you’ve looked through many hearts,
And mused on many actions,
And studied Man’s component parts,
And Nature’s compound fractions;
I think you’ve picked up truth by bits
From foreigner and neighbour;
I think the world has lost its wits,
And you have lost your labour.

I think the studies of the wise,
The hero’s noisy quarrel,
The majesty of woman’s eyes,
The poet’s cherished laurel,
And all that makes us lean or fat,
And all that charms or troubles,--
This bubble is more bright than that,
But still they all are bubbles.

I think the thing you call Renown,
The unsubstantial vapour
For which the soldier burns a town,
The sonnetteer a taper,
Is like the mist which, as he flies,
The horseman leaves behind him;
He cannot mark its wreaths arise,
Or if he does they blind him.

I think one nod of Mistress Chance
Makes creditors of debtors,
And shifts the funeral for the dance,
The sceptre for the fetters:
I think that Fortune’s favoured guest
May live to gnaw the platters,
And he that wears the purple vest
May wear the rags and tatters.

I think the Tories love to buy
“Your Lordships” and “your Graces,”
By loathing common honesty,
And lauding commonplaces:
I think that some are very wise,
And some are very funny,
And some grow rich by telling lies,
And some by telling money.

I think the Whigs are wicked knaves--
(And very like the Tories)--
Who doubt that Britain rules the waves,
And ask the price of glories:
I think that many fret and fume
At what their friends are planning,
And Mr. Hume hates Mr. Brougham,
As much as Mr. Canning.

I think that friars and their hoods,
Their doctrines and their maggots,
Have lighted up too many feuds,
And far too many faggots:
I think, while zealots fast and frown,
And fight for two or seven,
That there are fifty roads to Town,
And rather more to Heaven.

I think that, thanks to Paget’s lance,
And thanks to Chester’s learning,
The hearts that burned for fame in France
At home are safe from burning:
I think the Pope is on his back;
And, though ’tis fun to shake him,
I think the Devil not so black
As many people make him.

I think that Love is like a play,
Where tears and smiles are blended,
Or like a faithless April day,
Whose shine with shower is ended:
Like Colnbrook pavement, rather rough,
Like trade, exposed to losses,
And like a Highland plaid,--all stuff,
And very full of crosses.

I think the world, though dark it be,
Has aye one rapturous pleasure
Concealed in life’s monotony,
For those who seek the treasure:
One planet in a starless night,
One blossom on a briar,
One friend not quite a hypocrite,
One woman not a liar!

I think poor beggars court St. Giles,
Rich beggars court St. Stephen;
And death looks down with nods and smiles,
And makes the odds all even:
I think some die upon the field,
And some upon the billow,
And some are laid beneath a shield,
And some beneath a willow.

I think that very few have sighed
When Fate at last has found them,
Though bitter foes were by their side,
And barren moss around them:
I think that some have died of drought,
And some have died of drinking;
I think that nought is worth a thought,--
And I’m a fool for thinking!

MY OWN FUNERAL.

(_From Beranger._)

This morning, as in bed I lay,
Half waking and half sleeping,
A score of Loves, immensely gay,
Were round my chamber creeping;
I could not move my hand or head
To ask them what the stir meant;
And “Ah!” they cried, “our friend is dead;
Prepare for his interment!”
All whose hearts with mine were blended,
Weep for me! my days are ended!

One drinks my brightest Burgundy,
Without a blush, before me;
One brings a little rosary,
And breathes a blessing o’er me;
One finds my pretty chambermaid,
And courts her in dumb crambo;
Another sees the mutes arrayed
With fife by way of flambeau:
In your feasting and your fêting,
Weep for me! my hearse is waiting.

Was ever such a strange array?
The mourners all are singing;
From all the churches on our way
A merry peal is ringing;
The pall that clothes my cold remains,
Instead of boars and dragons,
Is blazoned o’er with darts and chains,
With lutes, and flowers, and flagons:
Passers-by their heads are shaking!--
Weep for me! my grave is making.

And now they let my coffin fall;
And one of them rehearses,
For want of holy ritual,
My own least holy verses:
The sculptor carves a laurel leaf,
And writes my name and story;
And silent nature in her grief
Seems dreaming of my glory:
Just as I am made immortal,--
Weep for me!--they bar the portal.

But Isabel, by accident,
Was wandering by that minute;
She opened that dark monument,
And found her slave within it;
The clergy said the Mass in vain,
The College could not save me;
But life, she swears, returned again
With the first kiss she gave me:
You who deem that life is sorrow,
Weep for me again to-morrow!

L’INCONNUE.

Many a beaming brow I’ve known,
And many a dazzling eye,
And I’ve listened to many a melting tone
In magic fleeting by;
And mine was never a heart of stone,
And yet my heart hath given to none
The tribute of a sigh;
For Fancy’s wild and witching mirth
Was dearer than aught I found on earth,
And the fairest forms I ever knew
Were far less fair than--L’Inconnue!

Many an eye that once was bright
Is dark to-day in gloom;
Many a voice that once was light
Is silent in the tomb;
Many a flower that once was dight
In beauty’s most entrancing might
Hath faded in its bloom;
But she is still as fair and gay
As if she had sprung to life to-day;
A ceaseless tone and a deathless hue
Wild Fancy hath given to--L’Inconnue
Many an eye of piercing jet
Hath only gleamed to grieve me;
Many a fairy form I’ve met,
But none have wept to leave me;
When all forsake, and all forget,
One pleasant dream shall haunt me yet,
One hope shall not deceive me;
For oh! when all beside is past,
Fancy is found our friend at last;
And the faith is firm and the love is true
Which are vowed by the lips of--L’Inconnue!

SONG.

(_From Lidean’s Love._)

“O Love! O beauteous Love!
Thy home is made for all sweet things,
A dwelling for thine own soft dove
And souls as spotless as her wings;
There summer ceases never:
The trees are rich with luscious fruits,
The bowers are full of joyous throngs,
And gales that come from Heaven’s own lutes
And rivulets whose streams are songs
Go murmuring on for ever!

O Love! O wretched Love!
Thy home is made for bitter care;
And sounds are in thy myrtle grove
Of late repentance, long despair,
Of feigning and forsaking:
Thy banquet is the doubt and fear
That come we know not whence or why,
The smile that hardly masks a tear,
The laughter that is half a sigh,
The heart that jests in breaking!

O Love! O faithless Love!
Thy home is like the roving star
Which seems so fair, so far above
The world where woes and sorrows are;
But could we wander thither,
There’s nothing but another earth
As dark and restless as our own,
Where misery is child of mirth,
And every heart is born to groan,
And every flower to wither!”

JOSEPHINE.

We did not meet in courtly hall,
Where birth and beauty throng,
Where Luxury holds festival,
And Wit awakes the song;
We met where darker spirits meet,
In the home of sin and shame,
Where Satan shows his cloven feet
And hides his titled name:
And she knew that she could not be, Love,
What once she might have been;
But she was kind to me, Love,
My pretty Josephine.

We did not part beneath the sky,
As warmer lovers part;
Where night conceals the glistening eye,
But not the throbbing heart;
We parted on the spot of ground
Where we first had laughed at love,
And ever the jests were loud around,
And the lamps were bright above:--
“The heaven is very dark, Love,
The blast is very keen,
But merrily rides my bark, Love,
Good night, my Josephine!”

She did not speak of ring or vow,
But filled the cup of wine,
And took the roses from her brow
To make a wreath for mine;
And bade me, when the gale should lift
My light skiff o’er the wave,
To think as little of the gift
As of the hand that gave:--
“Go gaily o’er the sea, Love,
And find your own heart’s queen;
And look not back to me, Love,
Your humble Josephine!”

That garland breathes and blooms no more;
Past are those idle hours:
I would not, could I choose, restore
The fondness, or the flowers.
Yet oft their withered witchery
Revives its wonted thrill,
Remembered, not with passion’s sigh,
But, oh! remembered still;
And even from your side, Love,
And even from this scene,
One look is o’er the tide, Love,
One thought with Josephine.

Alas! your lips are rosier,
Your eyes of softer blue,
And I have never felt for her
As I have felt for you;
Our love was like the bright snow-flakes
Which melt before you pass,
Or the bubble on the wine, which breaks
Before you lip the glass;
You saw these eyelids wet, Love,
Which she has never seen;
But bid me not forget, Love,
My poor Josephine!

SONG FOR THE FOURTEENTH OF FEBRUARY.

_By a General Lover._

“Mille gravem telis, exhaustâ pene pharetrâ.”

Apollo has peeped through the shutter,
And awakened the witty and fair;
The boarding-school belle’s in a flutter,
The twopenny post’s in despair;
The breath of the morning is flinging
A magic on blossom, on spray,
And cockneys and sparrows are singing
In chorus on Valentine’s Day.

Away with ye, dreams of disaster,
Away with ye, visions of law,
Of cases I never shall master,
Of pleadings I never shall draw!
Away with ye, parchments and papers,
Red tapes, unread volumes, away!
It gives a fond lover the vapours
To see you on Valentine’s Day.

I’ll sit in my nightcap, like Hayley,
I’ll sit with my arms crost, like Spain.
Till joys, which are vanishing daily,
Come back in their lustre again;
Oh! shall I look over the waters,
Or shall I look over the way,
For the brightest and best of earth’s daughters,
To rhyme to, on Valentine’s Day?

Shall I crown with my worship, for fame’s sake,
Some goddess whom Fashion has starred,
Make puns on Miss Love and her namesake,
Or pray for a _pas_ with Brocard?
Shall I flirt, in romantic idea,
With Chester’s adorable clay,
Or whisper in transport “_Si mea_[8]
_Cum vestris_”--on Valentine’s Day?

Shall I kneel to a Sylvia or Celia,
Who no one e’er saw, or may see,
A fancy-drawn Laura-Amelia,
An _ad libit._ Anna Marie?
Shall I court an initial with stars to it,
Go mad for a G. or a J.,
Get Bishop to put a few bars to it,
And print it on Valentine’s Day?

I think not of Laura the witty;
For, oh! she is married at York!
I sigh not for Rose of the City,
For, oh! she is buried at Cork!
Adèle has a braver and better
To say--what I never could say;
Louise cannot construe a letter
Of English, on Valentine’s Day.

So perish the leaves in the arbour!
The tree is all bare in the blast;
Like a wreck that is drifting to harbour,
I come to thee, Lady, at last:
Where art thou, so lovely and lonely?
Though idle the lute and the lay,
The lute and the lay are thine only,
My fairest, on Valentine’s Day.

For thee I have opened my Blackstone,
For thee I have shut up myself;
Exchanged my long curls for a Caxton,
And laid my short whist on the shelf;
For thee I have sold my old sherry,
For thee I have burnt my new play;
And I grow philosophical,--very!
Except upon Valentine’s Day!

PALINODIA.

“Nec meus hic sermo est, sed quem præcepit.”
--HORACE.

There was a time, when I could feel
All passion’s hopes and fears;
And tell what tongues can ne’er reveal
By smiles and sighs and tears.
The days are gone! no more--no more
The cruel Fates allow;
And though I’m hardly twenty-four,--
I’m not a lover now.
Lady, the mist is on my sight,
The chill is on my brow;
My day is night, my bloom is blight;
I’m not a lover now!

I never talk about the clouds,
I laugh at girls and boys,
I’m growing rather fond of crowds,
And very fond of noise;
I never wander forth alone
Upon the mountain’s brow;
I weighed, last winter, sixteen stone;--
I’m not a lover now!

I never wish to raise a veil,
I never raise a sigh;
I never tell a tender tale,
I never tell a lie:
I cannot kneel, as once I did;
I’ve quite forgot my bow;
I never do as I am bid;--
I’m not a lover now!

I make strange blunders every day,
If I would be gallant;
Take smiles for wrinkles, black for grey,
And nieces for their aunt:
I fly from folly, though it flows
From lips of loveliest glow;
I don’t object to length of nose;--
I’m not a lover now!

I find my Ovid very dry,
My Petrarch quite a pill,
Cut Fancy for Philosophy,
Tom Moore for Mr. Mill.
And belles may read, and beaux may write,--
I care not who or how;
I burnt my Album, Sunday night;--
I’m not a lover now!

I don’t encourage idle dreams
Of poison or of ropes:
I cannot dine on airy schemes;
I cannot sup on hopes:
New milk, I own, is very fine,
Just foaming from the cow;
But yet I want my pint of wine;--
I’m not a lover now!

When Laura sings young hearts away,
I’m deafer than the deep;
When Leonora goes to play,
I sometimes go to sleep;
When Mary draws her white gloves out,
I never dance, I vow,--
“Too hot to kick one’s heel’s about!”
I’m not a lover now!

I’m busy, now, with state affairs;
I prate of Pitt and Fox;
I ask the price of rail-road shares,
I watch the turns of stocks.
And this is life! no verdure blooms
Upon the withered bough:
I save a fortune in perfumes;--
I’m not a lover now!

I may be yet, what others are,
A boudoir’s babbling fool,
The flattered star of Bench or Bar,
A party’s chief, or tool:--
Come shower or sunshine, hope or fear,
The palace or the plough,--
My heart and lute are broken here;--
I’m not a lover now!
Lady, the mist is on my sight,
The chill is on my brow;
My day is night, my bloom is blight
I’m not a lover now!

TIME’S SONG.

O’er the level plains, where mountains greet me as I go,
O’er the desert waste, where fountains at my bidding flow,
On the boundless beam by day, on the cloud by night,
I am riding hence away: who will chain my flight?

War his weary watch was keeping,--I have crushed his spear;
Grief within her bower was weeping,--I have dried her tear;
Pleasure caught a minute’s hold,--then I hurried by,
Leaving all her banquet cold, and her goblet dry.

Power had won a throne of glory: where is now his fame?
Genius said, “I live in story:” who hath heard his name?
Love beneath a myrtle bough whispered “Why so fast?”
And the roses on his brow withered as I past.

I have heard the heifer lowing o’er the wild wave’s bed;
I have seen the billow flowing where the cattle fed;
Where began my wandering? Memory will not say!
Where will rest my weary wings? Science turns away!

THE HOOPOE’S INVOCATION TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

(From the Birds of Aristophanes, 1. 209.)

Waken, dear one, from thy slumbers;
Pour again those holy numbers,
Which thou warblest there alone
In a heaven-instructed tone,
Mourning from this leafy shrine
Lost--lost Itys, mine and thine,
In the melancholy cry
Of a mother’s agony.
Echo, ere the murmurs fade,
Bear them from the yew tree’s shade
To the throne of Jove; and there,
Phœbus with his golden hair
Listens long, and loves to suit
To his ivory-mounted lute
Thy sad music; at the sound
All the gods come dancing round,
And a sympathetic song
Peals from the immortal throng.

GOOD NIGHT TO THE SEASON.

“So runs the world away.”--_Hamlet._

Good night to the Season!--’Tis over!
Gay dwellings no longer are gay;
The courtier, the gambler, the lover,
Are scattered like swallows away:
There’s nobody left to invite one
Except my good uncle and spouse;
My mistress is bathing at Brighton,
My patron is sailing at Cowes:
For want of a better enjoyment,
Till Ponto and Don can get out,
I’ll cultivate rural employment,
And angle immensely for trout.

Good night to the Season!--the lobbies,
Their changes, and rumours of change,
Which startled the rustic Sir Bobbies,
And made all the Bishops look strange;
The breaches, and battles, and blunders,
Performed by the Commons and Peers;
The Marquis’s eloquent blunders,
The Baronet’s eloquent ears;
Denouncings of Papists and treasons,
Of foreign dominion and oats;
Misrepresentations of reasons,
And misunderstandings of notes.

Good night to the Season!--the buildings
Enough to make Inigo sick;
The paintings, and plasterings, and gildings
Of stucco, and marble, and brick;
The orders deliciously blended,
From love of effect, into one;
The club-houses only intended,
The palaces only begun;
The hell, where the fiend in his glory
Sits staring at putty and stones,
And scrambles from storey to storey,
To rattle at midnight his bones.

Good night to the Season!--the dances,
The fillings of hot little rooms,
The glancings of rapturous glances,
The fancyings of fancy costumes;
The pleasures which Fashion makes duties,
The praisings of fiddles and flutes,
The luxury of looking at Beauties,
The tedium of talking to Mutes;
The female diplomatists, planners
Of matches for Laura and Jane;
The ice of her Ladyship’s manners,
The ice of his Lordship’s champagne.

Good night to the Season!--the rages
Led off by the chiefs of the throng,
The Lady Matilda’s new pages,
The Lady Eliza’s new song;
Miss Fennel’s macaw, which at Boodle’s
Was held to have something to say;
Mrs. Splenetic’s musical poodles,
Which bark _Batti, Batti_, all day;
The pony Sir Araby sported,
As hot and as black as a coal,
And the Lion his mother imported,
In bearskins and grease, from the Pole.

Good night to the Season!--the Toso,
So very majestic and tall;
Miss Ayton, whose singing was so-so,
And Pasta, divinest of all;
The labour in vain of the ballet,
So sadly deficient in stars;
The foreigners thronging the Alley,
Exhaling the breath of cigars;
The _loge_ where some heiress (how killing!)
Environed with exquisites sits,
The lovely one out of her drilling,
The silly ones out of their wits.

Good night to the Season!--the splendour
That beamed in the Spanish Bazaar;
Where I purchased--my heart was so tender--
A card-case, a pasteboard guitar,
A bottle of perfume, a girdle,
A lithographed Riego, full grown,
Whom bigotry drew on a hurdle
That artists might draw him on stone;
A small panorama of Seville,
A trap for demolishing flies,
A caricature of the Devil,
And a look from Miss Sheridan’s eyes.

Good night to the Season!--the flowers
Of the grand Horticultural fête,
When boudoirs were quitted for bowers,
And the fashion was--not to be late;
When all who had money and leisure
Grew rural o’er ices and wines,
All pleasantly toiling for pleasure,
All hungrily pining for pines,
And making of beautiful speeches,
And massing of beautiful shows,
And feeding on delicate peaches,
And treading on delicate toes.

Good night to the Season!--Another
Will come, with its trifles and toys,
And hurry away, like its brother,
In sunshine, and odour, and noise.
Will it come with a rose or a briar?
Will it come with a blessing or curse?
Will its bonnets be lower or higher?
Will its morals be better or worse?
Will it find me grown thinner or fatter,
Or fonder of wrong or of right,
Or married--or buried?--no matter:
Good night to the Season--good night!

SONG.--YES OR NO.

The Baron de Vaux hath a valiant crest,--
My Lady is fair and free;
The Baron is full of mirth and jest,--
My Lady is full of glee;
But their path, we know, is a path of woe,
And many the reason guess,--
The Baron will ever mutter “No”
When my Lady whispers “Yes.”

The Baron will pass the wine-cup round,--
My Lady forth will roam;
The Baron will out with horse and hound,--
My Lady sits at home;
The Baron will go to draw the bow,--
My Lady will go to chess;
And the Baron will ever mutter “No”
When my Lady whispers “Yes.”

The Baron hath ears for a lovely lay,
If my Lady sings it not;
The Baron is blind to a beauteous day,
If it beam in my Lady’s grot;
The Baron bows low to a furbelow,
If it be not my Lady’s dress;
And the Baron will ever mutter “No”
When my Lady whispers “Yes.”

Now saddle my steed, and helm my head,
Be ready in the porch;
Stout Guy, with a ladder of silken thread,
And trusty Will, with a torch;
The wind may blow, the torrent flow,--
No matter,--on we press;
I never can hear the Baron’s “No”
When my Lady whispers “Yes.”

UTOPIA.

----“I can dream, sir,
If I eat well and sleep well.”
--_The Mad Lover._

If I could scare the light away,
No sun should ever shine;
If I could bid the clouds obey,
Thick darkness should be mine:
Where’er my weary footsteps roam,
I hate whate’er I see;
And Fancy builds a fairer home
In slumber’s hour for me.

I had a vision yesternight
Of a lovelier land than this,
Where heaven was clothed in warmth and light,
Where earth was full of bliss;
And every tree was rich with fruits,
And every field with flowers,
And every zephyr wakened lutes
In passion-haunted bowers.

I clambered up a lofty rock,
And did not find it steep;
I read through a page and a half of Locke,
And did not fall asleep;
I said whate’er I may but feel,
I paid whate’er I owe;
And I danced one day an Irish reel,
With the gout in every toe.

And I was more than six feet high,
And fortunate, and wise;
And I had a voice of melody
And beautiful black eyes;
My horses like the lightning went,
My barrels carried true,
And I held my tongue at an argument,
And winning cards at loo.

I saw an old Italian priest
Who spoke without disguise;
I dined with a judge who swore, like Best,
All libels should be lies:
I bought for a penny a twopenny loaf,
Of wheat, and nothing more;
I danced with a female _philosophe_,
Who was not quite a bore.

The kitchens there had richer roast,
The sheep wore whiter wool;
I read a witty _Morning Post_,
And an innocent _John Bull_:
The gaolers had nothing at all to do,
The hangman looked forlorn,
And the Peers had passed a vote or two
For freedom of trade in corn.

There was a crop of wheat, which grew
Where plough was never brought;
There was a noble lord, who knew
What he was never taught:
A scheme appeared in the _Gazette_
For a lottery with no blanks;
And a Parliament had lately met,
Without a single Bankes.

And there were kings who never went
To cuffs for half-a-crown;
And lawyers who were eloquent
Without a wig and gown;
And sportsmen who forebore to praise
Their greyhounds and their guns;
And poets who deserved the bays,
And did not dread the duns.

And boroughs were bought without a test,
And no man feared the Pope;
And the Irish cabins were all possessed
Of liberty and soap;
And the Chancellor, feeling very sick,
Had just resigned the seals;
And a clever little Catholic
Was hearing Scotch appeals.

I went one day to a Court of Law
Where a fee had been refused;
And a Public School I really saw
Where the rod was never used;
And the sugar still was very sweet,
Though all the slaves were free;
And all the folk in Downing Street
Had learnt the rule of three.

There love had never a fear or doubt,
December breathed like June:
The Prima Donna ne’er was out
Of temper--or of tune;
The streets were paved with mutton pies,
Potatoes ate like pine;
Nothing looked black but a woman’s eyes;
Nothing grew old but wine.

It was an idle dream; but thou,
The worshipped one, wert there,
With thy dark clear eyes and beaming brow,
White neck and floating hair;
And oh, I had an honest heart,
And a house of Portland stone;
And thou wert dear, as still thou art,
And more than dear, my own!

Oh bitterness!--the morning broke
Alike for boor and bard;
And thou wert married when I woke,
And all the rest was marred:
And toil and trouble, noise and steam,
Came back with the coming ray;
And, if I thought the dead could dream,
I’d hang myself to-day!

MARRIAGE CHIMES.

----“Go together,
You precious winners all.”
--_Winter’s Tale._

Fair Lady, ere you put to sea,
You and your mate together,
I meant to hail you lovingly,
And wish you pleasant weather.
I took my fiddle from the shelf,
But vain was all my labour;
For still I thought about myself,
And not about my neighbour.

Safe from the perils of the war,
Nor killed, nor hurt, nor missing--
Since many things in common are
Between campaigns and kissing--
Ungrazed by glance, unbound by ring,
Love’s carte and tierce I’ve parried,
While half my friends are marrying,
And half--good lack!--are married.

’Tis strange--but I have passed alive
Where darts and deaths were plenty,
Until I find my twenty-five
As lonely as my twenty:
And many lips have sadly sighed--
Which were not made for sighing,
And many hearts have darkly died--
Which never dreamed of dying.

Some victims fluttered like a fly,
Some languished like a lily;
Some told their tale in poetry,
And some in Piccadilly:
Some yielded to a Spanish hat,
Some to a Turkish sandal;
Hosts suffered from an _entrechat_
And one or two from Handel.

Good Sterling said no dame should come
To be the queen of his bourn,
But one who only prized her home,
Her spinning wheel, and Gisborne:
And Mrs. Sterling says odd things
With most sublime effront’ry;
Gives lectures on elliptic springs,
And follows hounds ’cross country.

Sir Roger had a Briton’s pride
In freedom, plough, and furrow;--
No fortune hath Sir Roger’s bride,
Except a rotten borough;
Gustavus longed for truth and crumbs,
Contentment and a cottage;--
His Laura brings a pair of _plums_
To boil the poor man’s pottage.

My rural coz, who loves his peace,
And swore at scientifics,
Is flirting with a lecturer’s niece,
Who construes hieroglyphics:
And Foppery’s fool, who hated blues
Worse than he hated Holborn,
Is raving of a pensive Muse,
Who does the verse for Colburn.

And Vyvyan, Humour’s crazy child,--
Whose worship, whim, or passion,
Was still for something strange and wild,
Wit, wickedness, or fashion,--
Is happy with a little Love,
A parson’s pretty daughter,
As tender as a turtle-dove,--
As dull as milk and water.

And Gerard hath his Northern Fay--
His nymph of mirth and haggis;
And Courtenay wins a damsel gay
Who figures at Colnaghi’s;
And Davenant now has drawn a prize,--
I hope and trust, a Venus,
Because there are some sympathies--
As well as leagues--between us.

Thus north and south, and east and west,
The chimes of Hymen jingle;
But I shall wander on, unblest,
And singularly single;
Light-pursed, light-hearted, addle-brained,
And often captivated,
Yet, save on circuit--unretained,
And, save at chess--unmated.

Yet oh!--if Nemesis with me
Should sport, as with my betters,
And put me on my awkward knee,
To prate of flowers and fetters,--
I know not whose the eyes should be
To make this fortress tremble;
But yesternight I dreamt,--ah me!
Whose they should most resemble!

REMEMBER ME.

In Seville, when the feast was long,
And lips and lutes grew free,
At Inez feet, amid the throng,
A masquer bent his knee;
And still the burden of his song
Was “Sweet, remember me!

“Remember me in shine and shower,
In sorrow and in glee;
When summer breathes upon the flower,
When winter blasts the tree,
When there are dances in the bower
Or sails upon the sea.

“Remember me beneath far skies,
Or foreign lawn or lea;
When others worship those wild eyes
Which I no more may see,
When others wake the melodies
Of which I mar the key.

“Remember me! my heart will claim
No love, no trust, from thee;
Remember me, though doubt and blame
Linked with the record be;
Remember me,--with scorn or shame,--
But yet, remember me!”

THE FANCY BALL.

“A visor for a visor! What care I
What curious eye doth quote deformities?”
--_Romeo and Juliet._

“You used to talk,” said Miss MacCall,
“Of flowers, and flames, and Cupid;
But now you never talk at all;
You’re getting vastly stupid:
You’d better burn your Blackstone, sir,
You never will get through it;
There’s a Fancy Ball at Winchester,--
Do let us take you to it!”

I made that night a solemn vow
To startle all beholders;
I wore white muslin on the brow,
Green velvet on my shoulders;
My trousers were supremely wide,
I learnt to swear “by Allah!”
I stuck a poniard by my side,
And called myself “Abdallah.”

Oh, a fancy ball’s a strange affair!
Made up of silk and leathers,
Light heads, light heels, false hearts, false hair,
Pins, paint, and ostrich feathers:
The dullest duke in all the town,
To-day may shine a droll one;
And rakes, who have not half-a-crown,
Look royal in a whole one.

Go, call the lawyer from his pleas,
The schoolboy from his Latin;
Be stoics here in ecstasies,
And savages in satin;
Let young and old forego--forget
Their labour and their sorrow,
And none--except the Cabinet--
Take counsel for the morrow.

Begone, dull care! This life of ours
Is very dark and chilly;
We’ll sleep through all its serious hours,
And laugh through all its silly.
Be mine such motley scene as this,
Where, by established usance,
Miss Gravity is quite amiss,
And Madam Sense a nuisance!

Hail, blest Confusion! here are met
All tongues and times and faces,
The Lancers flirt with Juliet,
The Brahmin talks of races;
And where’s your genuis, bright Corinne?
And where’s your brogue, Sir Lucius?
And Chinca Ti, you have not seen
One chapter of Confucius.

Lo! dandies from Kamschatka flirt
With Beauties from the Wrekin;
And belles from Berne look very pert
On Mandarins from Pekin;
The Cardinal is here from Rome,
The Commandant from Seville;
And Hamlet’s father from the tomb,
And Faustus from the Devil.

O sweet Anne Page!--those dancing eyes
Have peril in their splendour!
“O sweet Anne Page!”--so Slender sighs,
And what am I, but slender?
Alas! when next your spells engage
So fond and starved a sinner,
My pretty Page, be Shakespeare’s Page,
And ask the fool to dinner!

What mean those laughing Nuns, I pray,
What mean they, nun or fairy?
I guess they told no beads to-day,
And sang no Ave Mary:
From mass and matins, priest and pyx,
Barred door, and window grated,
I wish all pretty Catholics
Were thus emancipated!

Four seasons come to dance quadrilles
With four well-seasoned sailors;
And Raleigh talks of rail-road bills
With Timon, prince of railers;
I find Sir Charles of Aubyn Park
Equipt for a walk to Mecca;
And I run away from Joan of Arc,
To romp with sad Rebecca.

Fair Cleopatra’s very plain;
Puck halts, and Ariel swaggers;
And Cæsar’s murdered o’er again,
Though not by Roman daggers:
Great Charlemagne is four feet high;
Sad stuff has Bacon spoken;
Queen Mary’s waist is all awry,
And Psyche’s nose is broken.

Our happiest bride--how very odd!--
Is the mourning Isabella;
And the heaviest foot that ever trod
Is the foot of Cinderella;
Here sad Calista laughs outright,
There Yorick looks most grave, sir,
And a Templar waves the cross to-night,
Who never crossed the wave, sir!

And what a Babel is the talk!
“The Giraffe”--“plays the fiddle”--
“Macadam’s roads”--“I hate this chalk!”--
“Sweet girl”--“a charming riddle”--
“I’m nearly drunk with”--“Epsom salts”--
“Yes, separate beds”--“such cronies!”
“Good Heaven! who taught that man to waltz?”--
“A pair of Shetland ponies.”

“Lord Nugent”--“an enchanting shape”--
“Will move for”--“Maraschino”--
“Pray, Julia, how’s your mother’s ape?”--
“He died at Navarino!”--
“The gout, by Jove, is”--“apple pie”--
“Don Miguel”--“Tom the tinker”--
“His Lordship’s pedigree’s as high
As”--“Whipcord, dam by Clinker.”

“Love’s shafts are weak”--“my chestnut kicks”--
“Heart-broken”--“broke the traces”--
“What say you now of politics?”--
“Change hands and to your places.”--
“A five-barred gate”--“a precious pearl”--
“Grave things may all be punned on!”--
“The Whigs, thank Heaven, are”--“out of curl!”--
“Her age is”--“four by London!”

Thus run the giddy hours away,
The morning’s light is beaming,
And we must go to dream by day
All we to-night are dreaming,--
To smile and sigh, to love and change:
Oh, in our hearts’ recesses,
We dress in fancies quite as strange
As these our fancy dresses!

A LETTER OF ADVICE.

(_From Miss Medora Trevilian, at Padua, to Miss Araminta Vavasour, in London._)

“Enfir, monsieur, un homme aimable;
Voilà pourquoi je ne saurais l’aimer”
--SCRIBE.

You tell me you’re promised a lover,
My own Araminta, next week;
Why cannot my fancy discover
The hue of his coat and his cheek?
Alas! if he look like another,
A vicar, a banker, a beau,
Be deaf to your father and mother,
My own Araminta, say “No!”

Miss Lane, at her Temple of Fashion,
Taught us both how to sing and to speak,
And we loved one another with passion,
Before we had been there a week:
You gave me a ring for a token;
I wear it wherever I go;
I gave you a chain,--is it broken?
My own Araminta, say “No!”

O think of our favourite cottage,
And think of our dear Lalla Rookh!
How we shared with the milkmaids their pottage,
And drank of the stream from the brook;
How fondly our loving lips faltered
“What further can grandeur bestow?”
My heart is the same;--is yours altered?
My own Araminta, say “No!”

Remember the thrilling romances
We read on the bank in the glen;
Remember the suitors our fancies
Would picture for both of us then.
They wore the red cross on their shoulder,
They had vanquished and pardoned their foe--
Sweet friend, are you wiser or colder?
My own Araminta, say “No!”

You know when Lord Rigmarole’s carriage
Drove off with your cousin Justine,
You wept, dearest girl, at the marriage,
And whispered, “How base she has been!”
You said you were sure it would kill you,
If ever your husband looked so;
And you will not apostatise,--will you?
My own Araminta, say “No!”

When I heard I was going abroad, love,
I thought I was going to die;
We walked arm-in-arm to the road, love,
We looked arm-in-arm to the sky;
And I said, “When a foreign postilion
Has hurried me off to the Po,
Forget not Medora Trevilian:
My own Araminta, say “No!”

We parted! but sympathy’s fetters
Reach far over valley and hill;
I muse o’er your exquisite letters,
And feel that your heart is mine still;
And he who would share it with me, love,--
The richest of treasures below,--
If he’s not what Orlando should be, love,
My own Araminta, say “No!”

If he wears a top-boot in his wooing,
If he comes to you riding a cob,
If he talks of his baking or brewing,
If he puts up his feet on the hob,
If he ever drinks port after dinner,
If his brow or his breeding is low,
If he calls himself “Thompson” or “Skinner”,
My own Araminta, say “No!”

If he studies the news in the papers
While you are preparing the tea,
If he talks of the damps or the vapours
While moonlight lies soft on the sea,
If he’s sleepy while you are capricious,
If he has not a musical “Oh!”
If he does not call Werther delicious,--
My own Araminta, say “No!”

If he ever sets foot in the City
Among the stockbrokers and Jews,
If he has not a heart full of pity,
If he don’t stand six feet in his shoes,
If his lips are not redder than roses,
If his hands are not whiter than snow,
If he has not the model of noses,--
My own Araminta, say “No!”

If he speaks of a tax or a duty,
If he does not look grand on his knees,
If he’s blind to a landscape of beauty,
Hills, valleys, rocks, water, and trees,
If he dotes not on desolate towers,
If he likes not to hear the blast blow,
If he knows not the language of flowers,--
My own Araminta, say “No!”

He must walk--like a god of old story
Come down from the home of his rest;
He must smile--like the sun in his glory
On the bud, he loves ever the best;
And oh! from its ivory portal
Like music his soft speech must flow!
If he speak, smile, or walk like a mortal,
My own Araminta, say “No!”

Don’t listen to tales of his bounty,
Don’t hear what they say of his birth,
Don’t look at his seat in the county,
Don’t calculate what he is worth;
But give him a theme to write verse on,
And see if he turns out his toe;
If he’s only an excellent person,--
My own Araminta, say “No!”

EVERY-DAY CHARACTERS.