Chapter I: AM a friar of orders gray,

And down in the valleys I take my way;
I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip;
Good store of venison fills my scrip;
My long bead-roll I merrily chant;
Where’er I walk no money I want;
And why I’m so plump the reason I tell:
Who leads a good life is sure to live well.
What baron or squire,
Or knight of the shire,
Lives half so well as a holy friar?

After supper, of heaven I dream,
But that is a pullet and clouted cream;
Myself by denial I mortify--
With a dainty bit of a warden-pie;
I’m clothed in sackcloth for my sin--
With old sack wine I’m lined within;
A chirping cup is my matin song,
And the vesper’s bell is my bowl, ding-dong.
What baron or squire,
Or knight of the shire,
Lives half so well as a holy friar?

_John O’Keefe._

THE COUNTRY SQUIRE

A COUNTRY squire, of greater wealth than wit
(For fools are often bless’d with fortune’s smile),
Had built a splendid house, and furnish’d it
In splendid style.

“One thing is wanted,” said a friend; “for, though
The rooms are fine, the furniture profuse,
You lack a library, dear sir, for show,
If not for use.”

“’Tis true; but, zounds!” replied the squire with glee,
“The lumber-room in yonder northern wing
(I wonder I ne’er thought of it) will be
The very thing.

“I’ll have it fitted up without delay
With shelves and presses of the newest mode.
And rarest wood, befitting every way
A squire’s abode.

“And when the whole is ready, I’ll despatch
My coachman--a most knowing fellow--down,
To buy me, by admeasurement, a batch
Of books in town.”

But ere the library was half supplied
With all its pomp of cabinet and shelf,
The booby squire repented him, and cried
Unto himself:

“This room is much more roomy than I thought;
Ten thousand volumes hardly would suffice
To fill it, and would cost, however bought,
A plaguy price.

“Now, as I only want them for their looks,
It might, on second thoughts, be just as good,
And cost me next to nothing, if the books
Were made of wood.

“It shall be so. I’ll give the shaven deal
A coat of paint--a colourable dress,
To look like calf or vellum, and conceal
Its nakedness.

And gilt and letter’d with the author’s name,
Whatever is most excellent and rare
Shall be, or seem to be (’tis all the same),
Assembled there.“

The work was done; the simulated hoards
Of wit and wisdom round the chamber stood.
In bindings some; and some, of course, in boards,
Were all of wood.

From bulky folios down to slender twelves,
The choicest tomes in many an even row,
Display’d their letter’d backs upon the shelves,
A goodly show.

With such a stock, which seemingly surpass’d
The best collection ever form’d in Spain,
What wonder if the owner grew at last
Supremely vain?

What wonder, as he paced from shelf to shelf,
And conn’d their titles, that the Squire began,
Despite his ignorance, to think himself
A learned man?

Let every amateur, who merely looks
To backs and bindings, take the hint, and sell
His costly library; for painted books
Would serve as well.
_Tomas Yriarte._

THE EGGS

BEYOND the sunny Philippines
An island lies, whose name I do not know;
But that’s of little consequence, if so
You understand that there they had no hens,
Till, by a happy chance, a traveller,
After a while, carried some poultry there.
Fast they increased as anyone could wish,
Until fresh eggs became the common dish.
But all the natives ate them boiled, they say,
Because the stranger taught no other way.
At last th’ experiment by one was tried--
Sagacious man!--of having his eggs fried.
And oh, what boundless honours, for his pains,
His fruitful and inventive fancy gains!
Another, now, to have them baked devised--
Most happy thought! and still another, spiced.
Who ever thought eggs were so delicate!
Next, someone gave his friends an omelette:
“Ah!” all exclaimed, “what an ingenious feat!”
But scarce a year went by, an artist shouts,
“I have it now! ye’re all a pack of louts!
With nice tomatoes all my eggs are stewed.”
And the whole island thought the mode so good,
That they would so have cooked them to this day,
But that a stranger, wandering out that way,
Another dish the gaping natives taught,
And showed them eggs cooked _à la Huguenot_.

Successive cooks thus proved their skill diverse,
But how shall I be able to rehearse
All of the new, delicious condiments
That luxury from time to time invents?
Soft, hard, and dropped; and now with sugar sweet,
And now boiled up with milk, the eggs they eat;
In sherbet, in preserves; at last they tickle
Their palates fanciful with eggs in pickle.
All had their day--the last was still the best.
But a grave senior thus one day addressed
The epicures: “Boast, ninnies, if you will,
These countless prodigies of gastric skill,
But blessings on the man _who brought the hens_!”

Beyond the sunny Philippines
Our crowd of modern authors need not go
New-fangled modes of cooking eggs to show.
_Tomas Yriarte._

THE LITERARY LADY

WHAT motley cares Corilla’s mind perplex,
Whom maids and metaphors conspire to vex!
In studious dishabille behold her sit,
A letter’d gossip and a household wit:
At once invoking, though for different views,
Her gods, her cook, her milliner, and muse.
Round her strew’d room a frippery chaos lies,
A checker’d wreck of notable and wise,
Bills, books, caps, couplets, combs, a varied mass,
Oppress the toilet and obscure the glass;
Unfinish’d here an epigram is laid,
And there a mantua-maker’s bill unpaid.
There new-born plays foretaste the town’s applause,
There dormant patterns pine for future gauze.
A moral essay now is all her care,
A satire next, and then a bill of fare.
A scene she now projects, and now a dish;
Here Act the First, and here Remove with Fish.
Now, while this eye in a fine frenzy rolls,
That soberly casts up a bill for coals;
Black pins and daggers in one leaf she sticks,
And tears, and threads, and bowls, and thimbles mix.
_Richard Brinsley Sheridan._

SLY LAWYERS

LO, that small office! there th’ incautious guest
Goes blindfold in, and that maintains the rest;
There in his web th’ observant spider lies,
And peers about for fat, intruding flies;
Doubtful at first, he hears the distant hum,
And feels them flutt’ring as they nearer come;
They buzz and blink, and doubtfully they tread
On the strong birdlime of the utmost thread;
But when they’re once entangled by the gin,
With what an eager clasp he draws them in!
Nor shall they ’scape till after long delay,
And all that sweetens life is drawn away.
_George Crabbe._

REPORTERS

FIRST, from each brother’s hoard a part they draw,
A mutual theft that never feared a law;
Whate’er they gain, to each man’s portion fall,
And read it once, you read it through them all.
For this their runners ramble day and night,
To drag each lurking deep to open light;
For daily bread the dirty trade they ply,
Coin their fresh tales, and live upon the lie.
Like bees for honey, forth for news they spring--
Industrious creatures! ever on the wing;
Home to their several cells they bear the store,
Culled of all kinds, then roam abroad for more.
_George Crabbe._

ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS

OH, ye wha are sae guid yoursel’,
Sae pious an’ sae holy,
Ye’ve nought to do but mark an’ tell
Your neibour’s fauts an’ folly!
Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill,
Supplied wi’ store o’ water,
The heapéd happer’s ebbing still,
An’ still the clap plays clatter.

Hear me, ye venerable core,
As counsel for poor mortals,
That frequent pass douce Wisdom’s door,
For glaiket Folly’s portals:
I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes,
Would here propone defences,
Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes,
Their failings an’ mischances.

Ye see your state wi’ theirs compar’d,
An’ shudder at the niffer,
But cast a moment’s fair regard,
What mak’s the mighty differ?
Discount what scant occasion gave,
That purity ye pride in,
An’ (what’s aft mair than a’ the lave)
Your better art o’ hiding.

Think, when your castigated pulse
Gi’es now an’ then a wallop,

What ragings must his veins convulse,
That still eternal gallop.
Wi’ wind an’ tide fair i’ your tail,
Right on ye scud your sea-way;
But in the teeth o’ baith to sail,
It makes an unco lee-way.

See social life an’ glee sit down,
All joyous an’ unthinking,
Till, quite transmugrified, they’re grown
Debauchery an’ drinking:
Oh, would they stay to calculate
Th’ eternal consequences;
Or your more dreaded hell to state,
Damnation of expenses!

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames,
Tied up in godly laces,
Before ye gi’e poor frailty names,
Suppose a change o’ cases;
A dear loved lad, convenience snug,
A treacherous inclination--
But, let me whisper i’ your lug,
Ye’re aiblins nae temptation.

Then gently scan your brother man,
Still gentler sister woman;
Though they may gang a kennin’ wrang,
To step aside is human.
One point must still be greatly dark,
The moving why they do it;
An’ just as lamely can ye mark
How far, perhaps, they rue it
Who made the heart, ’tis He alone
Decidedly can try us;
He knows each chord--its various tone,
Each spring--its various bias;
Then at the balance let’s be mute--
We never can adjust it;
What’s done we partly may compute,
But know not what’s resisted.

_Robert Burns._

HOLY WILLIE’S PRAYER

O THOU, wha in the heavens dost dwell,
Wha, as it pleases best Thysel,
Sends ane to heaven an’ ten to hell,
A’ for Thy glory,
And no for ony guid or ill
They’ve done before Thee!

I bless and praise Thy matchless might,
When thousands Thou hast left in night,
That I am here, before Thy sight,
For gifts an’ grace,
A burnin’ an’ a shinin’ light
To a’ this place.

What was I, or my generation,
That I should get sic exaltation!
I, wha deserv’d most just damnation,
For broken laws
Sax thousand years ere my creation,
Thro’ Adam’s cause.

When frae my mither’s womb I fell,
Thou might hae plung’d me deep in hell,
To gnash my gooms, to weep and wail
In burnin’ lakes,
Whare damnéd devils roar and yell,
Chain’d to their stakes.

Yet I am here, a chosen sample,
To show Thy grace is great and ample;
I’m here a pillar o’ Thy temple,
Strong as a rock,
A guide, a buckler, an example
To a’ Thy flock!

But yet, O Lord! confess I must,
At times I’m fash’d wi’ fleshly lust;
An’ sometimes, too, wi’ warldly trust,
Vile self gets in;
But Thou remembers we are dust,
Defil’d wi’ sin.

May be Thou lets this fleshly thorn
Beset Thy servant e’en and morn,
Lest he owre proud and high should turn
That he’s sae gifted:
If sae, Thy han’ maun e’en be borne
Until Thou lift it.

Lord, bless Thy chosen in this place,
For here Thou hast a chosen race:
But God confound their stubborn face,
An’ blast their name,
Wha bring Thy elders to disgrace
An’ open shame!

Lord, mind Gawn Hamilton’s deserts;
He drinks, an’ swears, an’ plays at carts,
Yet has sae mony takin’ arts,
Wi’ great and sma’,
Frae God’s ain priests the people’s hearts
He steals awa.

An’ when we chasten’d him therefor,
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore,
As set the warld in a roar
O’ laughin’ at us;
Curse Thou his basket and his store,
Kail an’ potatoes!

Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray’r
Against the Presbyt’ry of Ayr!
Thy strong right hand, Lord, mak it bare
Upo’ their heads!
Lord, visit them, an’ dinna spare,
For their misdeeds!

O Lord, my God! that glib-tongu’d Aiken,
My vera heart and saul are quakin’,
To think how we stood sweatin’, shakin’,
An’ pish’d wi’ dread,
While he wi’ hingin’ lip an’ snakin,
Held up his head.

Lord, in Thy day o’ vengeance try him!
Lord, visit them wha did employ him,
And pass not in Thy mercy by them,
Nor hear their pray’r;
But for Thy people’s sake destroy them,
An’ dinna spare!

But, Lord, remember me and mine,
Wi’ mercies temp’ral and divine,
That I for grace and gear may shine,
Excell’d by nane,
An’ a’ the glory shall be Thine,
Amen, Amen!
_Robert Burns._

KITTY OF COLERAINE

As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping,
With a pitcher of milk from the fair of Coleraine,
When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher down tumbled,
And all the sweet buttermilk watered the plain.
“Oh, what shall I do now? ’twas looking at you, now!
Sure, sure, such a pitcher I’ll ne’er meet again;
’Twas the pride of my dairy! O Barney M’Cleary,
You’re sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine!”
I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her
That such a misfortune should give her such pain;
A kiss then I gave her, and, ere I did leave her,
She vowed for such pleasure she’d break it again.
’Twas hay-making season--I can’t tell the reason--
Misfortunes will never come single, ’tis plain;
For very soon after poor Kitty’s disaster
The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine.

_Edward Lysaght._

THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE-GRINDER

FRIEND OF HUMANITY

“NEEDY Knife-grinder, whither are you going?
Rough is the road, your wheel is out of order;
Bleak blows the blast; your hat has got a hole in’t,
So have your breeches!

“Weary Knife-grinder, little think the proud ones,
Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike
Road, what hard work ’tis crying all day, ‘Knives and
Scissors to grind O!’

“Tell me, Knife-grinder, how came you to grind knives?
Did some rich man tyrannically use you?
Was it the squire? or parson of the parish?
Or the attorney?

“Was it the squire, for killing of his game? or
Covetous parson, for his tithes distraining?
Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little
All in a lawsuit?

“(Have you not read the ‘Rights of Man,’ by Tom Paine?)
Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids,
Ready to fall, as soon as you have told your
Pitiful story.”

KNIFE-GRINDER

“Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir,
Only last night, a-drinking at the Chequers,
This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were
Torn in a scuffle.

“Constables came up, for to take me into
Custody; they took me before the justice;
Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish--
Stocks for a vagrant.

“I should be glad to drink your Honour’s health in
A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence;
But for my part, I never love to meddle
With politics, sir.”

FRIEND OF HUMANITY

“I give thee sixpence! I will see thee damned first--
Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance--
Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded,
Spiritless outcast!”

(_Kicks the Knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a transport of Republican enthusiasm and universal philanthropy._) /* _George Canning._ */

NORA’S VOW

HEAR what Highland Nora said:
“The Earlie’s son I will not wed,
Should all the race of Nature die,
And none be left but he and I.
For all the gold, for all the gear,
And all the lands both far and near,
That ever valour lost and won,
I would not wed the Earlie’s son.”

“A maiden’s vows,” old Callum spoke,
“Are lightly made and lightly broke.
The heather on the mountain’s height
Begins to bloom in purple light;
The frost-wind soon shall sweep away
That lustre deep from glen and brae;
Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone,
May blithely wed the Earlie’s son.”

“The swan,” she said, “the lake’s clear breast
May barter for the eagle’s nest;
The Awe’s fierce stream may backward turn,
Ben Cruaichan fall, and crush Kilchurn;
Our kilted clans, when blood is high,
Before their foes may turn and fly;
But I, were all these marvels done,
Would never wed the Earlie’s son.”

Still in the water-lily’s shade
Her wonted nest the wild swan made,
Ben Cruaichan stands as fast as ever,
Still downward foams the Awe’s fierce river;
To shun the clash of foeman’s steel,
No Highland brogue has turn’d the heel;
But Nora’s heart is lost and won--
She’s wedded to the Earlie’s son!
_Sir Walter Scott._

JOB

SLY Beelzebub took all occasions
To try Job’s constancy and patience.
He took his honour, took his health;
He took his children, took his wealth,
His servants, horses, oxen, cows--
But cunning Satan did _not_ take his spouse.

But Heaven, that brings out good from evil,
And loves to disappoint the devil,
Had predetermined to restore
_Twofold_ all he had before;
His servants, horses, oxen, cows--
Short-sighted devil, _not_ to take his spouse!
_Samuel T. Coleridge._

COLOGNE

IN Köln, a town of monks and bones,
And pavements fanged with murderous stones,
And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches,
I counted two-and-seventy stenches,
All well defined, and separate stinks!
Ye nymphs that reign o’er sewers and sinks,
The river Rhine, it is well known,
Doth wash your city of Cologne;
But tell me, nymphs, what power divine
Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine?
_Samuel T. Coleridge._

GILES’ HOPE

“WHAT! rise again with all one’s bones?”
Quoth Giles. “I hope you fib.
I trusted, when I went to heaven,
To go without my rib.”
_Samuel T. Coleridge._

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM

IT was a summer’s evening;
Old Casper’s work was done,
And he before his cottage-door
Was sitting in the sun;
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round,
That he beside the rivulet
In playing there had found.
He came to ask what he had found,
That was so large, and smooth, and round.

Old Casper took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by;
And then the old man shook his head,
And with a natural sigh,
“’Tis some poor fellow’s skull,” said he,
“Who fell in the great victory.

“I find them in the garden, for
There’s many here about;
And often, when I go to plough,
The ploughshare turns them out;
For many thousand men,” said he,
“Were slain in the great victory.”

“Now tell us what ’twas all about,”
Young Peterkin he cries;
And little Wilhelmine looks up,
With wonder-waiting eyes:
“Now tell us all about the war,
And what they kill’d each other for.”

“It was the English,” Casper cried,
“That put the French to rout;
But what they kill’d each other for,
I could not well make out;
But everybody said,” quoth he,
“That ’twas a famous victory.

“My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by;
They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forced to fly;
So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.

“With fire and sword the country round
Was wasted far and wide,
And many a childing mother then
And new-born infant died.
But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.

“They say it was a shocking sight,
After the field was won,
For many a thousand bodies here
Lay rotting in the sun.
But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.

“Great praise the Duke of Marlbro’ won,
And our good Prince Eugene.”
“Why, ’twas a very wicked thing!”
Said little Wilhelmine.
“Nay, nay, my little girl,” quoth he,
“It was a famous victory;

“And everybody praised the duke,
Who such a fight did win.”
“But what good came of it at last?”
Quoth little Peterkin.
“Why, that I cannot tell,” said he;
“But ’twas a famous victory.”
_Robert Southey._

THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE

A WELL there is in the west country,
And a clearer one never was seen;
There is not a wife in the west country
But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.

An oak and an elm-tree stand beside,
And behind doth an ash-tree grow,
And a willow from the bank above
Droops to the water below.

A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne,
Joyfully he drew nigh,
For from cock-crow he had been travelling,
And there was not a cloud in the sky.

He drank of the water so cool and clear,
For thirsty and hot was he;
And he sat down upon the bank
Under the willow-tree.

There came a man from the house hard by,
At the well to fill his pail;
On the well-side he rested it,
And he bade the stranger hail.

“Now art thou a bachelor, stranger?” quoth he,
“For an’ if thou has a wife,
The happiest draught thou hast drank this day
That ever thou didst in thy life.

“Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast,
Ever here in Cornwall been?
For an’ if she have, I’ll venture my life
She has drank of the Well of St. Keyne.”

“I have left a good woman who never was here,”
The stranger he made reply;
“But that my draught should be better for that,
I pray you answer me why?”

“St. Keyne,” quoth the Cornishman, “many a time
Drank of this crystal well,
And before the angels summon’d her,
She laid on the water a spell.

“If the husband of this gifted well
Shall drink before his wife,
A happy man henceforth is he,
For he shall be master for life.

“But if the wife should drink of it first,
God help the husband then!”
The stranger stooped to the Well of St. Keyne,
And drank of the water again.

“You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes?”
He to the Cornishman said;
But the Cornishman smiled as the stranger spake,
And sheepishly shook his head.

“I hasten’d as soon as the wedding was done,
And left my wife in the porch;
But i’ faith she had been wiser than me,
For she took a bottle to church.”
_Robert Southey._

THE POET OF FASHION

HIS book is successful, he’s steeped in renown,
His lyric effusions have tickled the town;
Dukes, dowagers, dandies, are eager to trace
The fountain of verse in the verse-maker’s face;
While, proud as Apollo, with peers _tête-à-tête_,
From Monday till Saturday dining off plate,
His heart full of hope, and his head full of gain,
The Poet of Fashion dines out in Park Lane.

Now lean-jointured widows who seldom draw corks,
Whose teaspoons do duty for knives and for forks,
Send forth, vellum-covered, a six-o’clock card,
And get up a dinner to peep at the bard;
Veal, sweetbread, boiled chickens, and tongue crown the cloth,
And soup _à la reine_, little better than broth.
While, past his meridian, but still with some heat,
The Poet of Fashion dines out in Sloane Street.

Enrolled in the tribe who subsist by their wits,
Remember’d by starts, and forgotten by fits,
Now artists and actors, the bardling engage,
To squib in the journals, and write for the stage.
Now soup _à la reine_ bends the knee to ox-cheek,
And chickens and tongue bow to bubble and squeak.
While, still in translation employ’d by “the Row,”
The Poet of Fashion dines out in Soho.

Pushed down from Parnassus to Phlegethon’s brink,
Toss’d, torn, and trunk-lining, but still with some ink,
Now squat city misses their albums expand,
And woo the worn rhymer for “something offhand”;
No longer with stinted effrontery fraught,
Bucklersbury now seeks what St. James’ once sought,
And (oh, what a classical haunt for a bard!)
The Poet of Fashion dines out in Barge-yard.
_James Smith._

CHRISTMAS OUT OF TOWN

FOR many a winter in Billiter Lane,
My wife, Mrs. Brown, was not heard to complain;
At Christmas the family met there to dine
On beef and plum-pudding, and turkey and chine.
Our bark has now taken a contrary heel;
My wife has found out that the sea is genteel.
To Brighton we duly go scampering down,
For nobody now spends his Christmas in town.

Our register-stoves, and our crimson-baized doors,
Our weather-proof walls, and our carpeted floors,
Our casements well fitted to stem the north wind,
Our arm-chair and sofa, are all left behind.
We lodge on the Steyne, in a bow-window’d box,
That beckons up-stairs every Zephyr that knocks;
The sun hides his head, and the elements frown,
But nobody now spends his Christmas in town.

In Billiter Lane, at this mirth-moving time,
The lamp-lighter brought us his annual rhyme;
The tricks of Grimaldi were sure to be seen;
We carved a twelfth-cake, and we drew king and queen.
These pastimes gave oil to Time’s round-about wheel,
Before we began to be growing genteel;
’Twas all very well for a cockney or clown,
But nobody now spends his Christmas in town.

At Brighton I’m stuck up in Donaldson’s shop,
Or walk upon bricks till I’m ready to drop;
Throw stones at an anchor, look out for a skiff,
Or view the Chain-pier from the top of the cliff:
Till winds from all quarters oblige me to halt,
With an eye full of sand and a mouth full of salt,
Yet still I am suffering with folks of renown,
For nobody now spends his Christmas in town.

In gallop the winds at the full of the moon,
And puff up the carpet like Sadler’s balloon;
My drawing-room rug is besprinkled with soot,
And there is not a lock in the house that will shut.
At Mahomet’s steam-bath I lean on my cane,
And murmur in secret, “Oh, Billiter Lane!”
But would not express what I think for a crown,
For nobody now spends his Christmas in town.

The Duke and the Earl are no cronies of mine;
His Majesty never invites me to dine;
The Marquis won’t speak when we meet on the pier,
Which makes me suspect that I’m _nobody_ here.
If that be the case, why, then welcome again
Twelfth-cake and snap-dragon in Billiter Lane.
Next winter I’ll prove to my dear Mrs. Brown
That _Nobody_ now spends his Christmas in town.
_James Smith._

ETERNAL LONDON

AND is there, then, no earthly place
Where we can rest in dream Elysian,
Without some cursed round English face
Popping up near to break the vision?

’Mid northern lakes, ’mid southern vines,
Unholy cits we’re doomed to meet;
Nor highest Alps, nor Apennines,
Are sacred from Threadneedle Street.

If up the Simplon’s path we wind,
Fancying we leave this world behind,
Such pleasant sounds salute one’s ear
As, “Baddish news from ’Change, my dear:
The Funds (phew! curse this ugly hill!)
Are lowering fast (what! higher still?)
And (zooks! we’re mounting up to heaven!)
Will soon be down to sixty-seven.”
Go where we may, rest where we will,
Eternal London haunts us still.
The trash of Almack’s or Fleet-Ditch--
And scarce a pin’s-head difference which--
Mixes, though even to Greece we run,
With every rill from Helicon.
And if this rage for travelling lasts,
If cockneys of all sets and castes,
Old maidens, aldermen, and squires,
Will leave their puddings and coal fires,
To gape at things in foreign lands
No soul among them understands;
If Blues desert their coteries,
To show off ’mong the Wahabees;
If neither sex nor age controls,
Nor fear of Mamelukes forbids
Young ladies, with pink parasols,
To glide among the Pyramids:
Why, then, farewell all hope to find
A spot that’s free from London-kind!
Who knows, if to the West we roam,
But we may find some Blue “at home”
Among the Blacks of Carolina,
Or, flying to the eastward, see,
Some MRS. HOPKINS taking tea
And toast upon the Wall of China?
_Thomas Moore._

THE MODERN PUFFING SYSTEM

UNLIKE those feeble gales of praise
Which critics blew in former days,
Our modern puffs are of a kind
That truly, really “raise the wind”;
And since they’ve fairly set in blowing,
We find them the best _trade-winds_ going.
What storm is on the deep--and more
Is the great power of Puff on shore,
Which jumps to glory’s future tenses
Before the present even commences,
And makes “immortal” and “divine” of us,
Before the world has read one line of us.
In old times, when the god of song
Drew his own two-horse team along,
Carrying inside a bard or two
Booked for posterity “all through,”
Their luggage a few close-packed rhymes
(Like yours, my friend, for after-times),
So slow the pull to Fame’s abode
That folks oft slumbered on the road;
And Homer’s self sometimes, they say,
Took to his nightcap on the way.
But now, how different is the story
With our new galloping sons of glory,
Who, scorning all such slack and slow time,
Dash to posterity in no time!
Raise but one general blast of puff
To start your author--that’s enough:
In vain the critics sit to watch him,
Try at the starting-post to catch him;
He’s off--the puffers carry it hollow--
The critics, if they please, may follow;
Ere they’ve laid down their first positions,
He’s fairly blown through six editions!
In vain doth Edinburgh dispense
Her blue and yellow pestilence
(That plague so awful in my time
To young and touchy sons of rhyme);
The _Quarterly_, at three months’ date,
To catch the Unread One comes too late;
And nonsense, littered in a hurry,
Becomes “immortal” spite of Murray.
_Thomas Moore._

LYING

I do confess, in many a sigh,
My lips have breath’d you many a lie,
And who, with such delights in view,
Would lose them for a lie or two?
Nay--look not thus, with brow reproving:
Lies are, my dear, the soul of loving!
If half we tell the girls were true,
If half we swear to think and do,
Were aught but lying’s bright illusion,
The world would be in strange confusion!
If ladies’ eyes were, every one,
As lovers swear, a radiant sun,
Astronomy should leave the skies,
To learn her lore in ladies’ eyes!
Oh no!--believe me, lovely girl,
When nature turns your teeth to pearl,
Your neck to snow, your eyes to fire,
Your yellow locks to golden wire,
Then, only then, can heaven decree,
That you should live for only me,
Or I for you, as night and morn,
We’ve swearing kiss’d, and kissing sworn.

And now, my gentle hints to clear,
For once, I’ll tell you truth, my dear!
Whenever you may chance to meet
A loving youth, whose love is sweet,
Long as you’re false and he believes you,
Long as you trust and he deceives you,
So long the blissful bond endures;
And while he lies, his heart is yours.
But, oh! you’ve wholly lost the youth
The instant that he tells you truth!
_Thomas Moore._

THE KING OF YVETOT[A]

THERE was a king of Yvetot,
Of whom renown hath little said,
Who let all thoughts of glory go,
And dawdled half his days abed;
And every night, as night came round,
By Jenny with a nightcap crowned,
Slept very sound:
Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!
That’s the kind of king for me.

And every day it came to pass
That four lusty meals made he;
And step by step, upon an ass,
Rode abroad, his realms to see;
And wherever he did stir,
What think you was his escort, sir?
Why, an old cur.
Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!
That’s the kind of king for me.

If e’er he went into excess,
’Twas from a somewhat lively thirst;
But he who would his subjects bless,
Odd’s fish! must wet his whistle first;

And so, from every cask they got,
Our king did to himself allot
At least a pot.
Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!
That’s the kind of king for me.

To all the ladies of the land
A courteous king, and kind, was he;
The reason why, you’ll understand--
They named him Pater Patriæ.
Each year he called his fighting men,
And marched a league from home, and then.
Marched back again.
Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!
That’s the kind of king for me.

Neither by force nor false pretence,
He sought to make his kingdom great,
And made (O princes, learn from hence)
“Live and let live” his rule of state.
’Twas only when he came to die,
That his people who stood by
Were known to cry.
Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!
That’s the kind of king for me.

The portrait of this best of kings
Is extant still, upon a sign
That on a village tavern swings,
Famed in the country for good wine.
The people in their Sunday trim,
Filling their glasses to the brim,
Look up to him,
Singing, “Ha, ha, ha!” and “He, he, he!
That’s the sort of king for me.”
_Pierre Jean De Béranger._

[A] Version of W. M. Thackeray.

SYMPATHY

A KNIGHT and a lady once met in a grove,
While each was in quest of a fugitive love.
A river ran mournfully murmuring by,
And they wept in its waters for sympathy.

“Oh, never was knight such a sorrow that bore!”
“Oh, never was maid so deserted before!”
“From life and its woes let us instantly fly,
And jump in together for company!”

They search’d for an eddy that suited the deed,
But here was a bramble, and there was a weed.
“How tiresome it is!” said the fair, with a sigh;
So they sat down to rest them in company.

They gazed at each other, the maid and the knight;
How fair was her form, and how goodly his height!
“One mournful embrace,” sobb’d the youth, “ere we die!”
So kissing and crying kept company.

“Oh, had I but loved such an angel as you!”
“Oh, had but my swain been a quarter as true!”
“To miss such perfection, how blinded was I!”
Sure now they were excellent company.

At length spoke the lass, ’twixt a smile and a tear,
“The weather is cold for a watery bier;
When summer returns we may easily die,
Till then let us sorrow in company.”
_Reginald Heber._

A MODEST WIT

A SUPERCILIOUS nabob of the East--
Haughty, being great--purse-proud, being rich--
A governor, or general, at the least,
I have forgotten which--
Had in his family a humble youth,
Who went from England in his patron’s suite,
An unassuming boy, in truth
A lad of decent parts, and good repute.
This youth had sense and spirit;
But yet with all his sense,
Excessive diffidence
Obscured his merit.

One day, at table, flushed with pride and wine,
His honour, proudly free, severely merry,
Conceived it would be vastly fine
To crack a joke upon his secretary.

“Young man,” he said, “by what art, craft, or trade
Did your good father gain a livelihood?”
“He was a saddler, sir,” Modestus said,
“And in his time was reckoned good.”

“A saddler, eh? and taught you Greek,
Instead of teaching you to sew!
Pray, why did not your father make
A saddler, sir, of you?”

Each parasite, then, as in duty bound,
The joke applauded, and the laugh went round.
At length Modestus, bowing low,
Said (craving pardon, if too free he made),
“Sir, by your leave, I fain would know
Your father’s trade!”

“My father’s trade! by Heaven, that’s too bad!
My father’s trade? Why, blockhead, are you mad?
My father, sir, did never stoop so low--
He was a gentleman, I’d have you know.”

“Excuse the liberty I take,”
Modestus said, with archness on his brow,
“Pray, why did not your father make
A gentleman of you?”
_Selleck Osborn._

THE PHILOSOPHER’S SCALES

A MONK, when his rites sacerdotal were o’er,
In the depth of his cell with its stone-covered floor,
Resigning to thought his chimerical brain,
Once formed the contrivance we now shall explain;
But whether by magic’s or alchemy’s powers
We know not; indeed, ’tis no business of ours.

Perhaps it was only by patience and care,
At last, that he brought his invention to bear.
In youth ’twas projected, but years stole away,
And ere ’twas complete he was wrinkled and gray;
But success is secure, unless energy fails,
And at length he produced THE PHILOSOPHER’S SCALES.

“What were they?” you ask. You shall presently see.
These scales were not made to weigh sugar and tea.
Oh, no; for such properties wondrous had they,
That qualities, feelings, and thoughts they could weigh,
Together with articles small or immense,
From mountains or planets to atoms of sense.

Naught was there so bulky but there it would lay,
And naught so ethereal but there it would stay,
And naught so reluctant but in it must go:
All which some examples more clearly will show.

The first thing he weighed was the head of Voltaire,
Which retained all the wit that had ever been there.
As a weight, he threw in a torn scrap of a leaf
Containing the prayer of the penitent thief;
When the skull rose aloft with so sudden a spell,
That it bounced like a ball on the roof of the cell.

One time he put in Alexander the Great,
With the garment that Dorcas had made, for a weight;
And though clad in armour from sandals to crown,
The hero rose up, and the garment went down.
A long row of almshouses, amply endowed
By a well-esteemed Pharisee, busy and proud,
Next loaded one scale; while the other was pressed
By those mites the poor widow dropped into the chest:
Up flew the endowment, not weighing an ounce.
And down, down the farthing-worth came with a bounce.

By further experiments (no matter how)
He found that ten chariots weighed less than one plough;
A sword with gilt trapping rose up in the scale,
Though balanced by only a ten penny nail;
A shield and a helmet, a buckler and spear,
Weighed less than a widow’s uncrystallized tear.

A lord and a lady went up at full sail,
When a bee chanced to light on the opposite scale;
Ten doctors, ten lawyers, two courtiers, one earl,
Ten counsellors’ wigs, full of powder and curl,
All heaped in one balance and swinging from thence,
Weighed less than a few grains of candor and sense;
A first-water diamond, with brilliants begirt,
Than one good potato just washed from the dirt;
Yet not mountains of silver and gold could suffice
One pearl to outweigh--’twas THE PEARL OF GREAT PRICE.

Last of all, the whole world was bowled in at the grate,
With the soul of a beggar to serve for a weight,
When the former sprang up with so strong a rebuff
That it made a vast rent and escaped at the roof!
When balanced in air, it ascended on high,
And sailed up aloft, a balloon in the sky;
While the scale with the soul in’t so mightily fell,
That it jerked the philosopher out of his cell.
_Jane Taylor._

FROM “THE FEAST OF THE POETS”

NEXT came Walter Scott, with a fine, weighty face,
For as soon as his visage was seen in the place,
The diners and barmaids all crowded to know him,
And thank him with smiles for that sweet, pretty poem!
However, he scarcely had got through the door,
When he looked adoration, and bowed to the floor,
For his host was a god--what a very great thing!
And what was still greater in his eyes--a king!
Apollo smiled shrewdly, and bade him sit down,
With, “Well, Mr. Scott, you have managed the town;
Now, pray, copy less--have a little temerity;
Try if you can’t also manage posterity.
All you add now only lessens your credit;
And how could you think, too, of taking to edit?
A great deal’s endured where there’s measure and rhyme,
But prose such as yours is a pure waste of time--
A singer of ballads unstrung by a cough,
Who fairly talks on, till his hearers walk off.
Be original, man; study more, scribble less,
Nor mistake present favor for lasting success;
And remember, if laurels are what you would find,
The crown of all triumph is freedom of mind.”
_James Henry Leigh Hunt._

RICH AND POOR; OR, SAINT AND SINNER

THE poor man’s sins are glaring;
In the face of ghostly warning,
He is caught in the fact
Of an overt act--
Buying greens on Sunday morning.

The rich man’s sins are hidden
In the pomp of wealth and station;
And escape the sight
Of the children of light,
Who are wise in their generation.

The rich man has a kitchen,
And cooks to dress his dinner;
The poor, who would roast,
To the baker’s must post,
And thus becomes a sinner.

The rich man has a cellar,
And a ready butler by him;
The poor must steer
For his pint of beer,
Where the saint can’t choose but spy him.

The rich man’s painted windows
Hide the concerts of the quality;
The poor can but share
A crack’d fiddle in the air,
Which offends all sound morality.

The rich man is invisible
In the crowd of his gay society;
But the poor man’s delight
Is a sore in the sight,
And a stench in the nose of piety.
_Thomas L. Peacock._

MR. BARNEY MAGUIRE’S ACCOUNT OF THE CORONATION

OCH! the Coronation! what celebration
For emulation can with it compare?
When to Westminster the Royal Spinster
And the Duke of Leinster, all in order did repair!
’Twas there you’d see the new Polishemen
Make a scrimmage at half after four;
And the Lords and Ladies, and the Miss O’Gradys,
All standing round before the Abbey door.

Their pillows scorning, that selfsame morning
Themselves adorning, all by the candle-light,
With roses and lilies, and daffy-down-dillies,
And gould and jewels, and rich di’monds bright.
And then approaches five hundred coaches,
With Gineral Dullbeak.--Och! ’twas mighty fine
To see how aisy bould Corporal Casey,
With his sword drawn, prancing, made them kape the line.

Then the guns’ alarums, and the King of Arums,
All in his Garters and his Clarence shoes,
Opening the massy doors to the bould Ambassydors,
The Prince of Potboys, and great haythen Jews;
’Twould have made you crazy to see Esterhazy
All jools from his jasey to his di’mond boots;
With Alderman Harmer, and that swate charmer,
The famale heiress, Miss Anjä-ly Coutts.

And Wellington, walking with his swoord drawn, talking
To Hill and Hardinge, haroes of great fame;
And Sir De Lacy, and the Duke Dalmasey
(They call’d him Sowlt afore he changed his name),
Themselves presading, Lord Melbourne lading
The Queen, the darling, to her royal chair,
And that fine ould fellow, the Duke of Pell-Mello,
The Queen of Portingal’s Chargy-de-fair.

Then the noble Prussians, likewise the Russians,
In fine laced jackets with their goulden cuffs,
And the Bavarians, and the proud Hungarians,
And Everythingarians all in furs and muffs.
Then Misther Spaker, with Misther Pays the Quaker,
All in the gallery you might persave;
But Lord Brougham was missing, and gone a-fishing,
Ounly crass Lord Essex would not give him lave.

There was Baron Alten himself exalting,
And Prince Von Schwartzenburg, and many more;
Och! I’d be bother’d, and entirely smother’d,
To tell the half of ’em was to the fore;
With the swate Peeresses, in their crowns and dresses,
And Aldermanesses, and the Boord of Works;
But Mehemet Ali said, quite gintalely,
“I’d be proud to see the likes among the Turks!”

Then the Queen--Heaven bless her!--och! they did dress her
In her purple garments and her goulden crown,
Like Venus, or Hebe, or the Queen of Sheby,
With eight young ladies houlding up her gown.
Sure ’twas grand to see her, also for to he-ar
The big drums bating and the trumpets blow;
And Sir George Smart, oh! he played a consarto,
With his four-and-twenty fiddlers all on a row!

Then the Lord Archbishop held a goulden dish up
For to resave her bounty and great wealth,
Saying, “Plase your Glory, great Queen Vic-tory!
Ye’ll give the Clargy lave to dhrink your health!”
Then his Riverence, retrating, discoorsed the mating:
“Boys, here’s your Queen! deny it if you can!
And if any bould traitor, or infarior craythur,
Sneezes at that, I’d like to see the man!”

Then the Nobles kneeling, to the Pow’rs appealing--
“Heaven send your Majesty a glorious reign!”
And Sir Claudius Hunter, he did confront her,
All in his scarlet gown and goulden chain.
The great Lord May’r, too, sat in his chair, too,
But mighty sarious, looking fit to cry,
For the Earl of Surrey, all in his hurry,
Throwing the thirteens, hit him in his eye.

Then there was preaching, and good store of speeching,
With dukes and marquises on bended knee;
And they did splash her with raal Macasshur,
And the Queen said, “Ah! then thank ye all for me!”
Then the trumpets braying, and the organ playing,
And the swate trombones, with their silver tones;
But Lord Rolle was rolling--’twas mighty consoling
To think his lordship did not break his bones!

Then the crames and custard, and the beef and mustard,
All on the tombstones like a poultherer’s shop;
With lobsters and white-bait, and other swatemeats,
And wine and nagus, and Imparial Pop!
There was cakes and apples in all the Chapels,
With fine polonies, and rich, mellow pears.
Och! the Count Von Strogonoff, sure he got prog enough,
The sly ould divil, undernathe the stairs.

Then the cannons thunder’d, and the people wonder’d,
Crying, “God save Victoria, our Royal Queen!”
Och! if myself should live to be a hundred,
Sure it’s the proudest day that I’ll have seen!
And now, I’ve ended, what I pretended,
This narration splendid in swate poe-thry,
Ye dear bewitcher, just hand the pitcher;
Faith, it’s mesilf that’s getting mighty dhry.

_Richard Harris Barham._

FROM “THE DEVIL’S DRIVE.”

THE devil returned to hell by two,
And he stayed at home till five;
When he dined on some homicides done in _ragoût_,
And a rebel or so in an Irish stew,
And sausages made of a self-slain Jew--
And bethought himself what next to do,
“And,” quoth he, “I’ll take a drive.
I walked in the morning, I’ll ride to-night;
In darkness my children take most delight,
And I’ll see how my favorites thrive.

“And what shall I ride in?” quoth Lucifer then;
“If I followed my taste, indeed,
I should mount in a wagon of wounded men,
And smile to see them bleed.
But these will be furnished again and again,
And at present my purpose is speed,
To see my manor as much as I may,
And watch that no souls shall be poached away.

“I have a state coach at Carlton House,
A chariot in Seymour Place,
But they’re lent to two friends, who make me amends
By driving my favorite pace;
And they handle their reins with such a grace,
I have something for both at the end of the race.

“So now for the earth to take my chance.”
Then up to the earth sprung he,
And making a jump from Moscow to France,
He stepped across the sea,
And rested his hoof on a turnpike road,
No very great way from a bishop’s abode.

But first, as he flew, I forgot to say,
That he hovered a moment upon his way
To look upon Leipsic plain;
And so sweet to his eye was its sulphury glare,
And so soft to his ear was the cry of despair,
That he perched on a mountain of slain;
And he gazed with delight from its growing height,
Nor often on earth had he seen such a sight,
Nor his work done half as well:
For the field ran so red with the blood of the dead,
That it blushed like the waves of hell!
Then loudly and wildly and long laughed he:
“Methinks they have here little need of _me_!”

* * * * *

But the softest note that soothed his ear
Was the sound of a widow sighing;
And the sweetest sight was the icy tear,
Which horror froze in the blue eye clear
Of a maid by her lover lying,
As round her fell her long fair hair;
And she looked to heaven with that frenzied air,
Which seemed to ask if a God were there!
And, stretched by the wall of a ruined hut,
With its hollow cheeks, and eyes half shut,
A child of famine dying:
And the carnage begun, when resistance is done,
And the fall of the vainly flying!
_Lord Byron._

FROM “ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS”

A MAN must serve his time to ev’ry trade
Save censure; critics all are ready-made.
Take hackney’d jokes from Miller, got by rote,
With just enough of learning to misquote;
A mind well skill’d to find or forge a fault,
A turn for punning, call it Attic salt;
To Jeffrey go, be silent and discreet;
His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet.
Fear not to lie--’twill seem a sharper hit;
Shrink not from blasphemy--’twill pass for wit;
Care not for feeling; pass your proper jest,
And stand a critic, hated yet caress’d.

And shall we own such judgment? No! as soon
Seek roses in December, ice in June,
Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff,
Believe a woman or an epitaph,
Or any other thing that’s false, before
You trust in critics, who themselves are sore;
Or yield one single thought to be misled
By Jeffrey’s heart or Lambe’s Bœotian head.
To these young tyrants, by themselves misplaced,
Combined usurpers on the throne of taste;
To these, when authors bend in humble awe,
And hail their voice as truth, their word as law--
While these are censors, ’twould be sin to spare;
While such are critics, why should I forbear?
But yet, so near all modern worthies run,
’Tis doubtful whom to seek or whom to shun;
Nor know we when to spare or where to strike,
Our bards and censors are so much alike.
Then should you ask me why I venture o’er
The path which Pope and Gifford trod before;
If not yet sicken’d, you can still proceed;
Go on; my rhyme will tell you as you read.
“But hold!” exclaims a friend--“here’s some neglect:
This, that, and t’other line seems incorrect.”
What then? the self-same blunder Pope has got,
And careless Dryden--“Ay, but Pye has not.”
Indeed! ’tis granted, faith! but what care I?
Better to err with Pope than shine with Pye.
_Lord Byron._

TO WOMAN

WOMAN, experience might have told me
That all must love thee who behold thee;
Surely experience might have taught,
Thy firmest promises are naught;
But, placed in all thy charms before me,
All I forget, but to adore thee.
O Memory! thou choicest blessing,
When join’d with hope, when still possessing;
But how much cursed by every lover,
When hope is fled, and passion’s over!
Woman, that fair and fond deceiver,
How prompt are striplings to believe her!
How throbs the pulse when first we view
The eye that rolls in glossy blue,
Or sparkles black, or mildly throws
A beam from under hazel brows!
How quick we credit every oath,
And hear her plight the willing troth!
Fondly we hope ’twill last for aye,
When, lo! she changes in a day.
This record will forever stand,
“Woman, thy vows are trac’d in sand.”
_Lord Byron._

A COUNTRY HOUSE PARTY

THE gentlemen got up betimes to shoot
Or hunt: the young, because they liked the sport--
The first thing boys like after play and fruit;
The middle-aged to make the day more short;
For _ennui_ is a growth of English root,
Though nameless in our language: we retort
The fact for words, and let the French translate
That awful yawn which sleep cannot abate.

The elderly walk’d through the library,
And tumbled books, or criticised the pictures,
Or saunter’d through the gardens piteously,
And made upon the hothouse several strictures;
Or rode a nag which trotted not too high,
Or on the morning papers read their lectures;
Or on the watch their longing eyes would fix,
Longing, at sixty, for the hour of six.

But none were _gêné_: the great hour of union
Was rung by dinner’s knell; till then all were
Masters of their own time--or in communion,
Or solitary, as they chose to bear
The hours, which how to pass is but to few known.
Each rose up at his own, and had to spare
What time he chose for dress, and broke his fast
When, where, and how he chose for that repast.

The ladies--some rouged, some a little pale--
Met the morn as they might. If fine, they rode,
Or walk’d; if foul, they read, or told a tale,
Sung, or rehearsed the last dance from abroad;
Discuss’d the fashion which might next prevail,
And settled bonnets by the newest code;
Or cramm’d twelve sheets into one little letter,
To make each correspondent a new debtor.

For some had absent lovers, all had friends.
The earth has nothing like a she-epistle,
And hardly heaven--because it never ends.
I love the mystery of a female missal,
Which, like a creed, ne’er says all it intends,
But, full of cunning as Ulysses’ whistle
When he allured poor Dolon. You had better
Take care what you reply to such a letter.

Then there were billiards; cards, too, but no dice--
Save in the clubs, no man of honour plays;
Boats when ’twas water, skating when ’twas ice,
And the hard frost destroy’d the scenting days:
And angling, too, that solitary vice,
Whatever Izaak Walton sings or says:
The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet
Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it.

With evening came the banquet and the wine;
The conversazione; the duet,
Attuned by voices more or less divine
(My heart or head aches with the memory yet).
The four Miss Rawbolds in a glee would shine;
But the two youngest loved more to be set
Down to the harp--because to music’s charms
They added graceful necks, white hands and arms.

Sometime a dance (though rarely on field-days,
For then the gentlemen were rather tired)
Display’d some sylph-like figures in its maze:
Then there was small-talk ready when required;
Flirtation, but decorous; the mere praise
Of charms that should or should not be admired.
The hunters fought their fox-hunt o’er again.
And then retreated soberly--at ten.

The politicians, in a nook apart,
Discuss’d the world, and settled all the spheres:
The wits watch’d every loophole for their art,
To introduce a _bon mot_, head and ears.
Small is the rest of those who would be smart.
A moment’s good thing may have cost them years
Before they find an hour to introduce it;
And then, even _then_, some bore may make them lose it.

But all was gentle and aristocratic
In this our party; polish’d, smooth, and cold,
As Phidian forms cut out of marble Attic.
There now are no Squire Westerns, as of old;
And our Sophias are not so emphatic,
But fair as then, or fairer to behold.
We have no accomplish’d blackguards, like Tom Jones,
But gentlemen in stays, as stiff as stones.

They separated at an early hour--
That is, ere midnight, which is London’s noon;
But in the country, ladies seek their bower
A little earlier than the waning moon.
Peace to the slumbers of each folded flower--
May the rose call back its true colour soon!
Good hours of fair cheeks are the fairest tinters,
And lower the price of rouge--at least some winters.
_Lord Byron._

GREEDINESS PUNISHED

IT was the cloister Grabow, in the land of Usedom;
For years had God’s free goodness to fill its larder come:
They might have been contented!

Along the shore came swimming, to give the monks good cheer
Who dwelt within the cloister, two fishes every year:
They might have been contented!

Two sturgeons--two great fat ones; and then this law was set,
That one of them should yearly be taken in a net:
They might have been contented!

The other swam away then until next year came round,
Then with a new companion he punctually was found:
They might have been contented!

So then again they caught one, and served him in the dish,
And regularly caught they, year in, year out, a fish:
They might have been contented!

One year, the time appointed two such great fishes brought,
The question was a hard one, which of them should be caught:
They might have been contented!

They caught them both together, but every greedy wight
Just spoiled his stomach by it; it served the gluttons right:
They might have been contented!

This was the least of sorrows: hear how the cup ran o’er!
Henceforward to the cloister no fish came swimming more:
They might have been contented!

So long had God supplied them of his free grace alone,
That now it is denied them, the fault is all their own:
They might have been contented!
_Friedrich Rückert._

WOMAN

ALL honour to woman, the sweetheart, the wife,
The delight of our firesides by night and by day,
Who never does anything wrong in her life,
Except when permitted to have her own way.
_Fitz-Greene Halleck._

THE RICH AND THE POOR MAN

SO goes the world. If wealthy, you may call
This friend, that brother--friends and brothers all;
Though you are worthless, witless, never mind it;
You may have been a stable-boy--what then?
’Tis wealth, good sir, makes honourable men.
You seek respect, no doubt, and you will find it.
But if you’re poor, Heaven help you! Though your sire
Had royal blood within him, and though you
Possess the intellect of angels, too,
’Tis all in vain; the world will ne’er inquire
On such a score. Why should it take the pains?
’Tis easier to weigh purses, sure, than brains.

I once saw a poor devil, keen and clever,
Witty and wise; he paid a man a visit,
And no one noticed him, and no one ever
Gave him a welcome. “Strange,” cried I, “whence it is so!”
He walked on this side, then on that,
He tried to introduce a social chat;
Now here, now there, in vain he tried;
Some formally and freezingly replied, and some
Said by their silence, “Better stay at home.”

A rich man burst the door--
As Crœsus rich, I’m sure;
He could not pride himself upon his wit
Nor wisdom, for he had not got a bit:
He had what’s better--he had wealth.
What a confusion! All stand up erect!
These crowd around to ask him of his health;
These bow in honest duty and respect;
And these arrange a sofa or a chair,
And these conduct him there.
“Allow me, sir, the honour;” then a bow
Down to the earth. Is’t possible to show
Meet gratitude for such kind condescension?

The poor man hung his head,
And to himself he said,
“This is indeed beyond my comprehension.”
Then looking round,
One friendly face he found,
And said, “Pray tell me, why is wealth preferred
To wisdom?” “That’s a silly question, friend,”
Replied the other; “have you never heard,
A man may lend his store
Of gold or silver ore,
But wisdom none can borrow, none can lend?”
_Sir John Bowring._
(From the Russian of Kremnitzer.)

OZYMANDIAS