Chapter II: Private Theatricals

----“Sweet, when actors first appear,
The loud collision of applauding gloves.”
--MOULTRIE.

Your labours, my talented brother,
Are happily over at last:
They tell me--that, somehow or other,
The Bill is rejected,--or passed;
And now you’ll be coming, I’m certain,
As fast as your posters can crawl,
To help us to draw up our curtain,
As usual, at Fustian Hall.

Arrangements are nearly completed;
But still we’ve a Lover or two,
Whom Lady Albina entreated
We’d keep, at all hazards, for you:
Sir Arthur makes horrible faces;
Lord John is a trifle too tall;
And yours are the safest embraces
To faint in, at Fustian Hall.

Come, Clarence;--its really enchanting
To listen and look at the rout:
We’re all of us puffing and panting,
And raving, and running about;
Here Kitty and Adelaide bustle;
There Andrew and Anthony bawl;
Flutes murmur--chains rattle--robes rustle
In chorus, at Fustian Hall.

By-the-by, there are two or three matters
We want you to bring us from town:
The Inca’s white plumes from the hatter’s,
A nose and a hump for the clown;
We want a few harps for our banquet,
We want a few masks for our ball;
And steal from your wise friend Bosanquet
His white wig, for Fustian Hall!

Hunca Munca must have a huge sabre;
Friar Tuck has forgotten his cowl;
And we’re quite at a stand-still with Weber
For want of a lizard and owl:
And then, for our funeral procession,
Pray get us a love of a pall,--
Or how shall we make an impression
On feelings, at Fustian Hall?

And, Clarence, you’ll really delight us,
If you’ll do your endeavour to bring,
From the Club, a young person to write us
Our prologue, and that sort of thing;
Poor Crotchet, who did them supremely,
Is gone for a Judge to Bengal;
I fear we shall miss him extremely
This season, at Fustian Hall.

Come, Clarence! your idol Albina
Will make a sensation, I feel;
We all think there never was seen a
Performer so like the O’Neill:
At rehearsals, her exquisite fury
Has deeply affected us all;
For one tear that trickles at Drury,
There’ll be twenty at Fustian Hall!

Dread objects are scattered before her
On purpose to harrow her soul;
She stares, till a deep spell comes o’er her,
At a knife, or a cross, or a bowl.
The sword never seems to alarm her
That hangs on a peg to the wall;
And she doats on thy rusty old armour,
Lord Fustian, of Fustian Hall.

She stabbed a bright mirror this morning,--
(Poor Kitty was quite out of breath!)--
And trampled, in anger and scorning,
A bonnet and feathers to death.
But hark!--I’ve a part in “The Stranger,”--
There’s the Prompter’s detestable call!
Come, Clarence--our Romeo and Ranger--
We want you at Fustian Hall!

SONG.

Tell him I love him yet,
As in that joyous time;
Tell him I ne’er forget,
Though memory now be crime;
Tell him, when sad moonlight
Is over earth and sea,
I dream of him by night,--
He must not dream of me!

Tell him to go where Fame
Looks proudly on the brave;
Tell him to win a name
By deeds on land and wave;
Green--green upon his brow
The laurel wreath shall be;
Although the laurel now
May not be shared with me.

Tell him to smile again
In Pleasure’s dazzling throng,
To wear another’s chain,
To praise another’s song.
Before the loveliest there
I’d have him bend his knee,
And breathe to her the prayer
He used to breathe to me.

And tell him, day by day,
Life looks to me more dim;
I falter when I pray,
Although I pray for him.
And bid him when I die,
Come to our favourite tree;
I shall not hear him sigh,--
Then let him sigh for me!

CONFESSIONS.

_From the Manuscript of a Sexagenarian._

In youth, when pen and fingers first
Coined rhymes for all who choose to seek ’em,
Ere luring hope’s gay bubbles burst,
Or Chitty was my _vade mecum_,
Ere years had charactered my brow
With the deep lines, that well become it,
Or told me that warm hearts could grow
Cold as Mont Blanc’s snow-covered summit--

When my slow step and solemn swing
Were steadier and somewhat brisker,
When velvet collars were “the thing,”
And long before I wore a whisker,
Ere I had measured six foot two,
Or bought Havannas by the dozen,
I fell in love--as many do--
She was an angel--hem--my cousin.

Sometimes my eye, its furtive glance
Cast back on memory’s shorthand record,
I wonder--if by any chance
Life’s future page will be so checkered!
My angel cousin!--ah! her form--
Her lofty brow--her curls of raven,
Eyes darker than the thunder-storm,
Its lightnings flashing from their heaven.

Her lips with music eloquent
As her own grand upright piano;
No--never yet was Peri lent
To earth like thee, sweet Adriana.
I may not--dare not--call to mind
The joys that once my breast elated,
Though yet, methinks, the morning wind
Sweeps over my ear, with thy tones freighted:

And then I pause, and turn aside
From pleasure’s throng of pangless-hearted,
To weep! No. Sentiment and pride
Are by each other always thwarted!
I press my hand upon my brow,
To still the throbbing pulse that heaves it,
Recall my boyhood’s faltered vow,
And marvel--if she still believes it.

But she is woman--and her heart,
Like her tiara’s brightest jewel,
Cold--hard--till kindled by some art,
Then quenchless burns--itself its fuel--
So poets say. Well, let it pass,
And those who list may yield it credit;
But as for constancy, alas!
I’ve never known--I’ve only read it.

Love! ’tis a roving fire, at most
The _cuerpo santa_ of life’s ocean;
Now flashing through the storm, now lost--
Who trust, ’tis said, rue their devotion.
It may be, ’tis a mooted creed--
I have my doubts, and it--believers,
Though one _is_ faithless--where’s the need
Of shunning all--as gay deceivers?

I said I loved. I did. But ours
Was felt, not growled hyæna fashion!
We wandered not at midnight hours,
Some dignity restrained the passion!
We loved--I never stooped to woo;
We met--I always doffed my beaver;
She smiled a careless “How d’ye do--
Good morning, sir,”--I rose to leave her.

She loved--she never told me so;
I never asked--I could not doubt it;
For there were signs on cheek and brow;
And asking! Love is known without it!
’Twas understood--we were content,
And rode, and sang, and waltzed together!
Alone, without embarrassment
We talked of something--not the weather!

Time rolled along--the parting hour
With arrowy speed brought its distresses,
A kiss--a miniature--a flower--
A ringlet from those raven tresses;
And the tears that would unbidden start,
(An hour, perhaps, and they had perished,)
In the far chambers of my heart,
I swore her image should be cherished.

I’ve looked on peril--it has glared
In fashionable forms upon me,
From levelled aim--from weapon bared--
And doctors three attending on me!
But never did my sternness wane
At pang by shot or steel imparted;
I’d not recall that hour of pain
For years of bliss--it passed--we parted.

We parted--though her tear-gemmed cheeks,
Her heaving breast had thus unmanned me--
She quite forgot me in three weeks!
And other beauties soon trepanned me.
We met--and did not find it hard
Joy’s overwhelming tide to smother--
There was a “Mrs.” on her card,
And I--was married to another.

SONG.[9]

LORD ROLAND.

Lord Roland rose, and went to mass,
And doffed his mourning weed!
And bade them bring a looking-glass,
And saddle fast a steed;
“I’ll deck with gems my bonnet’s loop,
And wear a feather fine,
And when lorn lovers sit and droop
Why, I will sit and dine!
Sing merrily, sing merrily,
And fill the cup of wine!

Though Elgitha be thus untrue,
Adèle is beauteous yet;
And he that’s baffled by the blue
May bow before the jet;
So welcome--welcome hall or heath!
So welcome shower or shine!
And wither there, thou willow wreath,
Thou never shalt be mine!
Sing merrily, sing merrily,
And fill the cup of wine!

Proud Elgitha! a health to thee,--
A health in brimming gold!
And store of lovers after me,
As honest, and less cold:
My hand is on my bugle horn,
My boat is on the brine;
If ever gallant died of scorn,
I shall not die of thine!
Sing merrily, sing merrily!
And fill the cup of wine!

CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS.

Once on a time, when sunny May
Was kissing up the April showers,
I saw fair Childhood hard at play
Upon a bank of blushing flowers:
Happy--he knew not whence or how,--
And smiling,--who could choose but love him?
For not more glad than Childhood’s brow
Was the blue heaven that beamed above him.

Old Time, in most appalling wrath,
That valley’s green repose invaded;
The brooks grew dry upon his path,
The birds were mute, the lilies faded.
But Time so swiftly winged his flight,
In haste a Grecian tomb to batter,
That Childhood watched his paper kite,
And knew just nothing of the matter.

With curling lip and glancing eye
Guilt gazed upon the scene a minute;
But Childhood’s glance of purity
Had such a holy spell within it,
That the dark demon to the air
Spread forth again his baffled pinion,
And hid his envy and despair,
Self-tortured, in his own dominion.

Then stepped a gloomy phantom up,
Pale, cypress-crowned, Night’s awful daughter,
And proffered him a fearful cup
Full to the brim of bitter water;
Poor Childhood bade her tell her name;
And when the beldame muttered--“Sorrow,”
He said--“Don’t interrupt my game;
I’ll taste it, if I must, to-morrow.”

The Muse of Pindus thither came,
And wooed him with the softest numbers
That ever scattered wealth and fame
Upon a youthful poet’s slumbers;
Though sweet the music of the lay,
To Childhood it was all a riddle,
And, “Oh,” he cried, “do send away
That noisy woman with the fiddle!”

Then Wisdom stole his bat and ball,
And taught him, with most sage endeavour,
Why bubbles rise and acorns fall,
And why no toy may last for ever.
She talked of all the wondrous laws
Which Nature’s open book discloses,
And Childhood, ere she made a pause,
Was fast asleep among the roses.

Sleep on, sleep on! oh! Manhood’s dreams
Are all of earthly pain or pleasure,
Of Glory’s toils, Ambition’s schemes,
Of cherished love or hoarded treasure:
But to the couch where Childhood lies
A more delicious trance is given,
Lit up by rays from seraph eyes,
And glimpses of remembered Heaven!

LOVE AT A ROUT.

When some mad poet stops to muse
About the moonlight and the dews,
The Fairies and the Fauns,
He’s apt to think, he’s apt to swear,
That Cupid reigns not anywhere
Except in groves and lawns,
That none have vulnerable livers
But bards who haunt the banks of rivers,
That none are fair enough for witches
But maids who roam through dells and ditches,
That dreams are twice as sweet as dances,
That cities never breed romances,
That Beauty always keeps a cottage,
And Innocence grows pure on pottage.
Yes! those dear dreams are all divine;
And those dear dreams have all been mine;
I like the dawning of the day,
I like the smell of new-mown hay,
I like the peaches and the posies,--
But chiefly, when the season closes,
I wander from my drowsy desk
To revel in the picturesque,
To hear beneath those hoary trees
The far-off murmur of the seas,
Or trace yon river’s many channels
With Petrarch, and a brace of spaniels,
Combining foolish rhymes together,
And killing sorrow, and shoe-leather.

Then, as I see some village maid
Go dancing down the sunny glade,
Coquetting with her fond adorer
As nobler dames have done before her,
“Give me,” I cry, “the quiet bliss
Of souls like these, of scenes like this;
Where damsels eat and sleep in peace,
Where gallants never heard of Greece,
Where day is day, and night is night,
Where frocks--and morals--both are white;
Blue eyes below--blue skies above--
Here are the homes, the hearts, for Love!”
But this is idle; I have been
A sojourner in many a scene,
And picked up wisdom in my way,
And cared not what I had to pay;
Smiling and weeping all the while,
As other people weep and smile;
And I have learnt that Love is not
Confined to any hour or spot;
He lights the smile and fires the frown
Alike in desert and in town.
I think fair faces not more fair
In Peebles, than in Portman Square,
And glances not a ray more bright
In moonbeams, than in candle-light;
I think much witchcraft oft reposes
In wreaths of artificial roses,
And ringlets--I have ne’er disdained them
Because the barber has profaned them;
I’ve been half mad with half a million
Whose legs have never crossed a pillion,
Whose hands have never dressed a salad,
Whose lips have never sung a ballad:
I think that many a modern dance
Breeds pretty subjects for romance;
And many a concert has its springs
For breaking hearts as well as strings:
In short, I’m very sure that all
Who seek or sigh for Beauty’s thrall
May breathe their vows, and feed their passion,
Though whist and waltzing keep in fashion,
And make the most enchanting sonnets,
In spite of diamonds, and French bonnets!

BEAUTY AND HER VISITORS.

I looked for Beauty:--on a throne,
A dazzling throne of light, I found her;
And Music poured its softest tone
And flowers their sweetest breath, around her.
A score or two of idle gods,
Some dressed as peers, and some as peasants,
Were watching all her smiles and nods,
And making compliments and presents.

And first young Love, the rosy boy,
Exhibited his bow and arrows,
And gave her many a pretty toy,
Torches, and bleeding hearts, and sparrows:
She told him, as he passed, she knew
Her court would scarcely do without him;
But yet--she hoped they were not true--
There were some awkward tales about him.

Wealth deemed that magic had no charm
More mighty than the gifts he brought her,
And linked around her radiant arm
Bright diamonds of the purest water:
The goddess, with a scornful touch,
Unclasped the gaudy, galling fetter;
And said,--she thanked him very much,--
She liked a wreath of roses better.

Then Genius snatched his golden lute,
And told a tale of love and glory:
The crowd around were hushed and mute
To hear so sad and sweet a story;
And Beauty marked the minstrel’s cheek,
So very pale--no bust was paler;
Vowed she could listen for a week;
But really--he _should_ change his tailor!

As died the echo of the strings,
A shadowy Phantom kneeled before her,
Looked all unutterable things,
And swore, to see was to adore her;
He called her veil a cruel cloud,
Her cheek a rose, her smile a battery:
She fancied it was Wit that bowed;--
I’m almost certain it was Flattery.

There was a beldame finding fault
With every person’s every feature:
And by the sneer, and by the halt,
I knew at once the odious creature:
“You see,” quoth Envy, “I am come
To bow--as is my bounden duty;--
They tell me Beauty is at home;--
Impossible! that _can’t_ be Beauty!”

I heard a murmur far and wide
Of “Lord! how quick the dotard passes!”
As Time threw down at Beauty’s side
The prettiest of his clocks and glasses;
But it was noticed in the throng
How Beauty marred the maker’s cunning;
For when she talked, the hands went wrong;
And when she smiled, the sands stopped running.

Death, in a doctor’s wig and gown,
Came, arm in arm with Lethe, thither,
And crowned her with a withered crown,
And hinted, Beauty too must wither!
“Avaunt!” she cried,--“how came he here?
The frightful fiend! he’s my abhorrence!”
I went and whispered in her ear,
“He shall not hurt you!--sit to Lawrence!”

THE FORSAKEN.

He never meets me as of old,
As friends less cherished meet me;
His glance is even calm and cold,
To welcome or to greet me:
His sighs ne’er follow where I move,
Or tell what others’ sighs do;--
But though his _lips_ ne’er say, “I love,”
I often think his _eyes_ do!

He never turns, amid the throng,
Where colder ears will listen;
Or gives one thought to that poor song
Once made his eyelids glisten;
But sometimes when our glances meet,
As looks less warm--more wise--do,
Albeit his _lips_ ne’er say, “‘Tis sweet,”--
I often think his _eyes_ do!

Oh! brighter smiles than mine may glass
His hours of mirth or sorrow;
And fairer forms than mine may pass
Across his path to-morrow:
But something whispers solace yet,
As stars through darkened skies do;--
His _lips_ ne’er say, “I don’t forget,”--
I often think his _eyes_ do!

SECOND LOVE.

“L’on n’ aime bien qu’ une seule fois; c’est la premierè. Les
amours qui suivent sont moins involontaires!”--LA BRUYERE.

How shall I woo her!--I will stand
Beside her when she sings;
And watch that fine and fairy hand
Flit o’er the quivering strings:
And I will tell her I have heard,
Though sweet her song may be,
A voice whose every whispered word
Was more than song to me.

How shall I woo her?--I will gaze
In sad and silent trance
On those blue eyes, whose liquid rays
Look love in every glance:
And I will tell her, eyes more bright,
Though bright her own may beam,
Will fling a deeper spell to-night
Upon me in my dream.

How shall I woo her?--I will try
The charms of olden time,
And swear by earth, and sea, and sky,
And rave in prose and rhyme:
And I will tell her, when I bent,
My knee in other years,--
I was not half so eloquent,--
I could not speak for tears!

How shall I woo her?--I will bow
Before the holy shrine;
And pray the prayer and vow the vow,
And press her lips to mine;
And I will tell her, when she parts
From passion’s thrilling kiss,
That memory to many hearts
Is dearer far than bliss.

Away, away, the chords are mute,
The bond is rent in twain;
You cannot wake that silent lute,
Nor clasp those links again;
Love’s toil, I know, is little cost,
Love’s perjury is light sin;
But souls that lose what I have lost,
What have they left to win?

HOPE AND LOVE.

One day through Fancy’s telescope,
Which is my richest treasure,
I saw, dear Susan, Love and Hope
Set out in search of pleasure:
All mirth and smiles I saw them go;
Each was the other’s banker;
For Hope took up her brother’s bow,
And Love, his sister’s anchor.

They rambled on o’er vale and hill,
They passed by cot and tower;
Through summer’s glow and winter’s chill,
Through sunshine and through shower:
But what did those fond playmates care
For climate, or for weather?
All scenes to them were bright and fair
On which they gazed together.

Sometimes they turned aside to bless
Some Muse and her wild numbers,
Or breathe a dream of holiness
On Beauty’s quiet slumbers:
“Fly on,” said Wisdom, with cold sneers,
“I teach my friends to doubt you:”
“Come back,” said Age, with bitter tears,
“My heart is cold without you.”

When Poverty beset their path
And threatened to divide them,
They coaxed away the beldame’s wrath
Ere she had breath to chide them,
By vowing all her rags were silk,
And all her bitters, honey,
And showing taste for bread and milk,
And utter scorn of money.

They met stern Danger in their way
Upon a ruin seated;
Before him kings had quaked that day,
And armies had retreated:
But he was robed in such a cloud
As Love and Hope came near him,
That though he thundered long and loud,
They did not see or hear him.

A grey-beard joined them, Time by name;
And Love was nearly crazy
To find that he was very lame,
And also very lazy:
Hope, as he listened to her tale,
Tied wings upon his jacket;
And then they far outran the mail,
And far outsailed the packet.

And so, when they had safely passed
O’er many a land and billow,
Before a grave they stopped at last,
Beneath a weeping willow:
The moon upon the humble mound
Her softest light was flinging;
And from the thickets all around
Sad nightingales were singing.

“I leave you here,” quoth Father Time,
As hoarse as any raven;
And Love kneeled down to spell the rhyme
Upon the rude stone graven:
But Hope looked onward, calmly brave,
And whispered, “Dearest brother--
We’re parted on this side the grave,--
We’ll meet upon the other.”

STANZAS.

O’er yon Churchyard the storm may lower;
But, heedless of the wintry air,
One little bud shall linger there,
A still and trembling flower.

Unscathed by long revolving years,
Its tender leaves shall flourish yet,
And sparkle in the moonlight, wet
With the pale dew of tears.

And where thine humble ashes lie,
Instead of ’scutcheon or of stone,
It rises o’er thee, lonely one,
Child of obscurity!

Mild was thy voice as Zephyr’s breath,
Thy cheek with flowing locks was shaded!
But the voice hath died, the cheek hath faded
In the cold breeze of death!

Brightly thine eye was smiling, sweet!
But now decay hath stilled its glancing;
Warmly thy little heart was dancing,
But it hath ceased to beat!

A few short months--and thou wert here!
Hope sat upon thy youthful brow;
And what is thy memorial now?
A flower--and a Tear.

CASSANDRA.

They hurried to the feast,
The warrior and the priest,
And the gay maiden with her jewelled brow;
The minstrel’s harp and voice
Said “Triumph and rejoice!”--
One only mourned!--many are mourning now!

“Peace! startle not the light
With the wild dreams of night!”--
So spake the Princes in their pride and joy,
When I, in their dull ears,
Shrieked forth my tale of tears,
“Woe to the gorgeous city, woe to Troy!”

Ye watch the dim smoke rise
Up to the lurid skies;
Ye see the red light flickering on the stream;
Ye listen to the fall
Of gate, and tower, and wall;
Sisters, the time is come!--alas, it is no dream!

Through hall, and court, and porch,
Glides on the pitiless torch
The swift avengers faint not in their toil:
Vain now the matron’s sighs,
Vain now the infant’s cries;--
Look, sisters, look! who leads them to the spoil?

Not Pyrrhus, though his hand
Is on his father’s brand;
Not the fell framer of the accursèd steed;
Not Nestor’s hoary head,
Nor Teucer’s rapid tread,
Nor the fierce wrath of impious Diomede.

Visions of deeper fear
To-night are warring here;--
I know them, sisters, the mysterious Three:
Minerva’s lightning frown,
And Juno’s golden crown,
And him, the mighty Ruler of the sounding sea!

Through wailing and through woe
Silent and stern they go;
So have I ever seen them in my trance:
Exultingly they guide
Destruction’s fiery tide,
And lift the dazzling shield, and point the deadly lance.

Lo, where the old man stands,
Folding his palsied hands,
And muttering, with white lips, his querulous prayer:
“Where is my noble son,
My best my bravest one--
Troy’s hope and Priam’s--where is Hector, where?”

Why is thy falchion grasped?
Why is thy helmet clasped?
Fitter the fillet for such brow as thine!
The altar reeks with gore;
O sisters, look no more!
It is our father’s blood upon the shrine!

And ye, alas! must roam
Far from your desolate home,
Far from lost Ilium, o’er the joyless wave;
Ye may not from these bowers
Gather the trampled flowers
To wreath sad garlands for your brethren’s grave.

Away, away! the gale
Stirs the white-bosomed sail;
Hence! look not back to freedom or to fame;
Labour must be your doom,
Night-watchings, days of gloom,
The bitter bread of tears, the bridal couch of shame.

Even now some Grecian dame
Beholds the signal flame,
And waits, expectant, the returning fleet;
“Why lingers yet my lord?
Hath he not sheathed his sword?
Will he not bring my handmaid to my feet?”

Me too, the dark Fates call:
Their sway is over all,
Captor and captive, prison-house and throne:--
I tell of others’ lot;
They hear me, heed me not!
Hide, angry Phœbus, hide me from mine own!

SIR NICHOLAS AT MARSTON MOOR.

To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas! the clarion’s note is high;
To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas! the huge drum makes reply:
Ere this hath Lucas marched with his gallant cavaliers,
And the bray of Rupert’s trumpets grows fainter on our ears.
To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas! White Guy is at the door,
And the vulture whets his beak o’er the field of Marston Moor.

Up rose the Lady Alice from her brief and broken prayer,
And she brought a silken standard down the narrow turret stair.
Oh, many were the tears those radiant eyes had shed,
As she worked the bright word “Glory” in the gay and glancing thread;
And mournful was the smile that o’er those beauteous features ran,
As she said, “It is your lady’s gift, unfurl it in the van.”

“It shall flutter, noble wench, where the best and boldest ride,
Through the steel-clad files of Skippon and the black dragoons of Pride;
The recreant soul of Fairfax will feel a sicklier qualm,
And the rebel lips of Oliver give out a louder psalm,
When they see my lady’s gew-gaw flaunt bravely on their wing,
And hear her loyal soldiers shout, For God and for the King!”--

’Tis noon; the ranks are broken along the royal line;
They fly, the braggarts of the court, the bullies of the Rhine:
Stout Langley’s cheer is heard no more, and Astley’s helm is down,
And Rupert sheathes his rapier with a curse and with a frown;
And cold Newcastle mutters, as he follows in the flight,
“The German boar had better far have supped in York to-night.”

The knight is all alone, his steel cap cleft in twain,
His good buff jerkin crimsoned o’er with many a gory stain;
But still he waves the standard, and cries amid the rout--
“For Church and King, fair gentlemen, spur on and fight it out!”
And now he wards a Roundhead’s pike, and now he hums a stave,
And here he quotes a stage-play, and there he fells a knave.

Good speed to thee, Sir Nicholas! thou hast no thought of fear;
Good speed to thee, Sir Nicholas! but fearful odds are here.
The traitors ring thee round, and with every blow and thrust,
“Down, down,” they cry, “with Belial, down with him to the dust!”
“I would,” quoth grim old Oliver, “that Belial’s trusty sword
This day were doing battle for the Saints and for the Lord!”--

The lady Alice sits with her maidens in her bower;
The grey-haired warden watches on the castle’s highest tower.--
“What news, what news, old Anthony?”--“The field is lost and won,
The ranks of war are melting as the mists beneath the sun;
And a wounded man speeds hither,--I am old and cannot see,
Or sure I am that sturdy step my master’s step should be.”--

“I bring thee back the standard from as rude and rough a fray,
As e’er was proof of soldier’s thews, or theme for minstrel’s lay,
Bid Hubert fetch the silver bowl, and liquor _quantum suff_:
I’ll make a shift to drain it, ere I part with boot and buff;
Though Guy through many a gaping wound is breathing out his life,
And I come to thee a landless man, my fond and faithful wife!

“Sweet, we will fill our money-bags, and freight a ship for France,
And mourn in merry Paris for this poor realm’s mischance;
Or, if the worse betide me, why, better axe or rope,
Than life with Lenthal for a king, and Peters for a pope!
Alas, alas, my gallant Guy! out on the crop-eared boor,
That sent me with my standard on foot from Marston Moor!”

THE COVENANTER’S LAMENT FOR BOTHWELL BRIDGE.

The men of sin prevail!
Once more the prince of this world lifts his horn;
Judah is scattered, as the chaff is borne
Before the stormy gale.

Where are our brethren? where
The good and true, the terrible and fleet?
They whom we loved, with whom we sat at meat,
With whom we kneeled in prayer?

Mangled and marred they lie
Upon the bloody pillow of their rest;
Stern Dalzell smiles, and Clavers with a jest
Spurs his fierce charger by.

So let our foes rejoice;
We to the Lord, who hears their impious boasts,
Will call for comfort; to the God of hosts
We will lift up our voice.

Give ear unto our song;
For we are wandering o’er our native land
As sheep that have no shepherd; and the hand
Of wicked men is strong.

Only to Thee we bow:
Our lips have drained the fury of Thy cup;
And the deep murmurs of our hearts go up
To Heaven for vengeance now.

Avenge,--oh! not our years
Of pain and wrong, the blood of martyrs shed,
The ashes heaped upon the hoary head,
The maiden’s silent tears.

The babe’s bread torn away,
The harvest blasted by the war-steed’s hoof,
The red flame wreathing o’er the cottage roof,
Judge not for these to-day!--

Is not Thine own dread rod
Mocked by the proud, Thy holy book disdained,
Thy name blasphemed, Thy temple courts profaned?
Avenge Thyself, O God!

Break Pharaoh’s iron crown;
Bind with new chains their nobles and their kings:
Wash from thine house the blood of unclean things,
And hurl their Dagon down!

Come in Thine own good time!
We will abide; we have not turned from Thee,
Though in a world of grief our portion be,
Of bitter grief and crime.

Be Thou our guard and guide!
Forth from the spoiler’s synagogue we go,
That we may worship where the torrents flow
And where the whirlwinds ride.

From lonely rocks and caves
We will pour forth our sacrifice of prayer.--
On, brethren, to the mountains! seek we there
Safe temples, quiet graves!

WRITTEN UNDER A PICTURE OF KING’S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE.

Most beautiful! I gaze and gaze
In silence on the glorious pile,
And the glad thoughts of other days
Come thronging back the while.
To me dim memory makes more dear
The perfect grandeur of the shrine;
But if I stood a stranger here,
The ground were still divine.

Some awe the good and wise have felt,
As reverently their feet have trod
On any spot where man hath knelt
To commune with his God;
By sacred spring, or haunted well,
Beneath the ruined temple’s gloom,
Beside the feeble hermit’s cell,
Or the false Prophet’s tomb.

But when was high devotion graced
With lovelier dwelling, loftier throne,
Than here the limner’s art hath graced
From the time-honoured stone?
The Spirit here of worship seems
To bind the soul in willing thrall,
And heavenward hopes and holy dreams
Come at her voiceless call;

At midnight, when the lonely moon
Looks from a vapour’s silvery fold;
At morning, when the sun of June
Crests the high towers with gold;
For every change of hour and form
Makes that fair scene more deeply fair,
And dusk and daybreak, calm and storm,
Are all Religion there.

ANTICIPATION.

“Oh yes! he is in Parliament;
He’s been returning thanks;
You can’t conceive the time he’s spent
Already on his franks.
He’ll think of nothing, night and day,
But place, and the _Gazette_:”--
No matter what the people say,--
You won’t believe them yet.

“He filled an album, long ago,
With such delicious rhymes;
Now we shall only see, you know,
His speeches in the _Times_:
And liquid tone and beaming brow,
Bright eyes and locks of jet,
He’ll care for no such nonsense now:”
Oh! don’t believe them yet!

“I vow he’s turned a Goth, a Hun,
By that disgusting Bill;
He’ll never make another pun;
He’s danced his last quadrille.
We shall not see him flirt again
With any fair coquette;
He’ll never laugh at Drury Lane.”--
Psha!--don’t believe them yet.

“Last week I heard his uncle boast
He’s sure to have the seals;
I read it in the _Morning Post_,
That he has dined at Peel’s;
You’ll never see him any more,
He’s in a different set:
He cannot eat at half-past four:”--
No?--don’t believe them yet.

“In short, he’ll soon be false and cold,
And infinitely wise;
He’ll grow next year extremely old,
He’ll tell enormous lies;
He’ll learn to flatter and forsake,
To feign and to forget:”--
O whisper--or my heart will break--
You won’t believe them yet!

MARS DISARMED BY LOVE.

(1830.)

Aye, bear it hence, thou blessed child,
Though dire the burden be,
And hide it in the pathless wild,
Or drown it in the sea;
The ruthless murderer prays and swears;
So let him swear and pray;
Be deaf to all his oaths and prayers,
And take the sword away.

We’ve had enough of fleets and camps,
Guns, glories, odes, gazettes,
Triumphal arches, coloured lamps,
Huzzas and epaulettes;
We could not bear upon our head
Another leaf of bay;
That horrid Buonaparte’s dead:
Yes, take the sword away,

We’re weary of the noisy boasts
That pleased our patriot throngs;
We’ve long been dull to Gooch’s toasts,
And tame to Dibdin’s songs;
We’re quite content to rule the wave
Without a great display;
We’re known to be extremely brave;
But take the sword away.

We give a shrug, when fife and drum
Play up a favourite air;
We think our barracks are become
More ugly than they were;
We laugh to see the banners float:
We loathe the charger’s bray;
We don’t admire a scarlet coat;
Do take the sword away.

Let Portugal have rulers twain,
Let Greece go on with none,
Let Popery sink or swim in Spain
While we enjoy the fun;
Let Turkey tremble at the knout,
Let Algiers lose her Dey,
Let Paris turn her Bourbons out:
Bah! take the sword away.

Our honest friends in Parliament
Are looking vastly sad;
Our farmers say with one consent
It’s all immensely bad;
There was a time for borrowing,
And now it’s time to pay;
A budget is a serious thing;
So take the sword away.

And, oh, the bitter tears we wept
In those our days of fame,--
The dread that o’er our heart-strings crept
With every post that came,--
The home affections, waged and lost
In every far-off fray,--
The price that British glory cost!
Ah, take the sword away!

We’ve plenty left to hoist the sail
Or mount the dangerous breach,
And Freedom breathes in every gale
That wanders round our beach;
When duty bids us dare or die,
We’ll fight, another day;
But till we know the reason why,
Take--take the sword away.

WATERLOO.

“On this spot the French cavalry charged, and broke the English
squares!”--_Narrative of a French Tourist._

“Is it true, think you?”--_Winter’s Tale._

Aye, here such valorous deeds were done
As ne’er were done before;
Aye, here the reddest wreath was won
That ever Gallia wore;
Since Ariosto’s wondrous knight
Made all the Paynims dance,
There never dawned a day so bright
As Waterloo’s on France.

The trumpet poured its deafening sound,
Flags fluttered on the gale,
And cannon roared, and heads flew round
As fast as summer hail;
The sabres flashed their light of fear,
The steeds began to prance,
The English quaked from front to rear,--
They never quake in France.

The cuirassiers rode in and out
As fierce as wolves and bears;
’Twas grand to see them slash about
Among the English squares!
And then the Polish Lancer came
Careering with his lance;
No wonder Britain blushed for shame
And ran away from France!

The Duke of York was killed that day;
The King was sadly scarred;
Lord Eldon, as he ran away,
Was taken by the Guard;
Poor Wellington with fifty Blues
Escaped by some strange chance;
Henceforth I think he’ll hardly choose
To show himself in France.

So Buonaparte pitched his tent
That night in Grosvenor Place,
And Ney rode straight to Parliament
And broke the Speaker’s mace;
“Vive l’empereur” was said and sung,
From Peebles to Penzance;
The Mayor and Aldermen were hung,
Which made folk laugh in France.

They pulled the Tower of London down,
They burnt our wooden walls,
They brought the Pope himself to town,
And lodged him in St. Paul’s;
And Gog and Magog rubbed their eyes,
Awaking from a trance,
And grumbled out in great surprise,
“Oh, mercy! we’re in France!”

They sent a Regent to our Isle,
The little King of Rome;
And squibs and crackers all the while
Blazed in the Place Vendôme;
And ever since in arts and power
They’re making great advance;
They’ve had strong beer from that glad hour,
And sea-coal fires, in France.

My uncle, Captain Flanigan,
Who lost a leg in Spain,
Tells stories of a little man,
Who died at St. Helène.
But bless my heart, they can’t be true;
I’m sure they’re all romance;
John Bull was beat at Waterloo!
They’ll swear to that in France.

THE NEW ORDER OF THINGS.

“Incipiunt magni procedere menses.”--VIRGIL.

(1830.)

We’re sick of this distressing state
Of order and repose;
We have not had enough of late
Of blunders or of blows;
We can’t endure to pass our life
In such a humdrum way;
We want a little pleasant strife:
The Whigs are in to-day!

Our worthy fathers were content
With all the world’s applause,
They thought they had a Parliament,
And liberty, and laws.
It’s no such thing; we’ve wept and groaned
Beneath a despot’s sway;
We’ve all been whipped and starved and stoned:
The Whigs are in to-day!

We used to fancy Englishmen
Had broken Europe’s chain,
And won a battle now and then
Against the French in Spain;
Oh no! we never ruled the waves,
Whatever people say;
We’ve all been despicable slaves:
The Whigs are in to-day!

It’s time for us to see the things
Which other folks have seen,
It’s time we should cashier our kings,
And build our guillotine;
We’ll abrogate Police and Peers,
And vote the Church away;
We’ll hang the parish overseers:
The Whigs are in to-day!

We’ll put the landlords to the rout,
We’ll burn the College Halls,
We’ll turn St. James’s inside out
And batter down St. Paul’s.
We’ll hear no more of Bench or Bar;
The troops shall have no pay;
We’ll turn adrift our men-of-war;
The Whigs are in to-day!

We fear no bayonet or ball
From those who fight for hire,
For Baron Brougham has told them all
On no account to fire;
Lord Tenterden looks vastly black,
But Baron Brougham, we pray,
Will strip the ermine from his back:
The Whigs are in to-day!

Go pluck the jewels from the crown,
The colours from the mast;
And let the Three per Cents come down,
We can but break at last;
If Cobbett is the first of men,
The second is Lord Grey;
Oh, must we not be happy, when
The Whigs are in to-day!

SONG.--WHERE IS MISS MYRTLE?

AIR--“Sweet Kitty Clover.”

Where is Miss Myrtle? can anyone tell?
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
She flirts with another, I know very well;
And I--am left all alone!
She flies to the window when Arundel rings,--
She’s all over smiles when Lord Archibald sings,--
It’s plain that her Cupid has two pair of wings:
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
Her love and my love are different things;
And I--am left all alone!

I brought her, one morning, a rose for her brow;
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
She told me such horrors were ne’er worn now:
And I--am left all alone!
But I saw her at night with a rose in her hair,
And I guess who it came from--of course I don’t care!
We all know that girls are as false as they’re fair;
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
I’m sure the lieutenant’s a horrible bear:
And I--am left all alone!

Whenever we go on the Downs for a ride,
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
She looks for another to trot by her side:
And I--am left all alone!
And whenever I take her downstairs from a ball,
She nods to some puppy to put on her shawl:
I’m a peaceable man, and I don’t like a brawl;--
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
But I would give a trifle to horsewhip them all;
And I--am left all alone!

She tells me her mother belongs to the sect,
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
Which holds that all waltzing is quite incorrect;
And I--am left all alone!
But a fire’s in my heart, and a fire’s in my brain,
When she waltzes away with Sir Phelim O’Shane;
I don’t think I ever _can_ ask her again:
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
And, Lord! since the summer she’s grown very plain;
And I--am left all alone!

She said that she liked me a twelvemonth ago;
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
And how should I guess that she’d torture me so?
And I--am left all alone!
Some day she’ll find out it was not very wise
To laugh at the breath of a true lover’s sighs;
After all, Fanny Myrtle is not such a prize:
Where is she gone, where is she gone?
Louisa Dalrymple has exquisite eyes;
And I’ll be--no longer alone!

THE CONFESSION.

“Father--Father--I confess--
Here he kneeled and sighed,
When the moon’s soft loveliness
Slept on turf and tide.
In my ear the prayer he prayed
Seems to echo yet;
But the answer that I made--
Father--I forget!
Ora pro me!

“Father--Father--I confess--
Precious gifts he brought;
Satin sandal, silken dress;
Richer ne’er were wrought;
Gems that make the daylight dim,
Plumes in gay gold set;--
But the gaud I gave to him--
Father--I forget!
Ora pro me!

“Father--Father--I confess--
He’s my beauty’s thrall,
In the lonely wilderness,
In the festive hall;
All his dreams are aye of me,
Since our young hearts met;
What my own may sometimes be--
Father--I forget!
Ora pro me!”

STANZAS

WRITTEN IN LADY MYRTLE’S “BOCCACCIO.”

In these gay pages there is food
For every mind and every mood,
Fair Lady, if you dare to spell them:
Now merriment--now grief prevails;
But yet the best of all the tales
Is of the young group met to tell them.

Oh, was it not a pleasant thought
To set the pestilence at nought,
Chatting among sweet streams and flowers
Of jealous husbands, fickle wives,
Of all the tricks which love contrives
To see through veils, and talk through towers?

Lady, they say the fearful guest
Onward--still onward to the west,
Poised on his sulphurous wings, advances,
Who on the frozen river’s banks
Has thinned the Russian despot’s ranks,
And marred the might of Warsaw’s lances.

Another year--a brief, brief year--
And lo, the fell destroyer here!
He comes with all his gloomy terrors;
Then Guilt will read the properest books,
And Folly wear the soberest looks,
And Virtue shudder at her errors.

And there’ll be sermons in the street;
And every friend and foe we meet
Will wear the dismal garb of sorrow;
And quacks will send their lies about,
And weary Halford will find out
He must have four new bays to-morrow.

But you shall fly from their dark signs,
As did those happy Florentines,
Ere from your cheek one rose is faded;
And hide your youth and loveliness
In some bright garden’s green recess,
By walls fenced round, by huge trees shaded.

There brooks shall dance in light along,
And birds shall trill their constant song
Of pleasure, from their leafy dwelling;
You shall have music, novels, toys;
But still the chiefest of your joys
Must be, fair Lady, story-telling.

Be cautious how you choose your men:
Don’t look for people of the pen,
Scholars who read, or write the papers;
Don’t think of wits, who talk to dine,
Who drink their patron’s newest wine,
And cure their patron’s newest vapours.

Avoid all youths who toil for praise
By quoting Liston’s last new phrase,
Or sigh to leave high fame behind them.
For swallowing swords, or dancing jigs,
Or imitating ducks and pigs;
Take men of sense, if you can find them.

Live, laugh, tell stories; ere they’re told,
New themes succeed upon the old,
New follies come, new faults, new fashions;
An hour, a minute will supply
To thought a folio history
Of blighted hopes, and thwarted passions.

King Death, when he has snatched away
Drunkards from brandy, Dukes from play,
And common-councilmen from turtle,
Shall break his dart in Grosvenor Square,
And mutter, in his fierce despair,
“Why, what’s become of Lady Myrtle?”

A BALLAD

TEACHING HOW POETRY IS BEST PAID FOR.

“Non voglio cento scudi.”--_Italian Song._

O say not that the minstrel’s art,
The glorious gift of verse,
Though his hopes decay, though his friends depart,
Can ever be a curse;
Though sorrow reign within his heart,
And poortith hold his purse.

Say not his toil is profitless;
Though he charm no rich relation,
The Fairies all his labours bless
With such remuneration
As Mr. Hume would soon confess
Beyond his calculation.

Annuities and Three per Cents,
Little cares he about them;
And Indian bonds, and tithes, and rents,
He rambles on without them;
But love, and noble sentiments,
Oh, never bid him doubt them!

Childe Florice rose from his humble bed
And prayed, as a good youth should;
And forth he sped, with a lightsome tread,
Into the neighbouring wood;
He knew where the berries were ripe and red,
And where the old oak stood.

And as he lay at the noon of day
Beneath the ancient tree,
A grey-haired pilgrim passed that way;
A holy man was he,
And he was wending forth to pray
At a shrine in a far countrie.

Oh, his was a weary wandering,
And a song or two might cheer him,
The pious Childe began to sing,
As the ancient man drew near him;
The lark was mute as he touched the string,
And the thrush said, “Hear him, hear him!”

He sang high tales of the martyred brave,
Of the good, and pure, and just,
Who have gone into the silent grave
In such deep faith and trust,
That the hopes and thoughts which sain and save
Spring from their buried dust.

The fair of face, and the stout of limb,
Meek maids and grandsires hoary,
Who have sung on the cross their rapturous hymn,
As they passed to their doom of glory;
Their radiant fame is never dim,
Nor their names erased from story.

Time spares the stone where sleep the dead
With angels watching round them;
The mourner’s grief is comforted
As he looks on the chains that bound them;
And peace is shed on the murderer’s head,
And he kisses the thorns that crowned them

Such tales he told; and the pilgrim heard
In a trance of voiceless pleasure;
For the depths of his inmost soul was stirred
By the sad and solemn measure:
“I give thee my blessing,” was his word,
“It is all I have of treasure!”--

A little child came bounding by;
And he, in a fragrant bower,
Had found a gorgeous butterfly,
Rare spoil for a nursery dower,
Which with fierce step and eager eye
He chased from flower to flower.

“Come hither, come hither,” ’gan Florice call;
And the urchin left his fun:
So from the hall of poor Sir Paul
Retreats the baffled dun;
So Ellen parts from the village ball,
Where she leaves a heart half won.

Then Florice did the child caress,
And sang his sweetest songs:
Their theme was of the gentleness
Which to the soul belongs,
Ere yet it knows the name or dress
Of human rights and wrongs;

And of the wants which make agree
All parts of this vast plan;
How life is in whate’er we see,
And only life in man;
What matter where the less may be,
And where the longer span?

And how the heart grows cold without
Soft Pity’s freshening dews;
And how when any life goes out
Some little pang ensues:--
Facts which great soldiers often doubt,
And wits who write reviews.

Oh, song hath power o’er Nature’s springs,
Though deep the Nymph has laid them!
The child gazed--gazed on gilded wings
As the next bright breeze displayed them;
But he felt the while that the meanest things
Are dear to Him that made them!

The sun went down behind the hill,
The breeze was growing colder;
But there the Minstrel lingered still,
And amazed the chance beholder,
Musing beside a rippling rill
With a harp upon his shoulder.

And soon, on a graceful steed and tame,
A sleek Arabian mare,
The lady Juliana came
Riding to take the air,
With many a lord at whose proud name
A Radical would swear.

The Minstrel touched his lute again;
It was more than a Sultan’s crown,
When the Lady checked her bridle rein
And lit from her palfrey down:--
What would you give for such a strain,
Rees, Longman, Orme and Brown?

He sang of Beauty’s dazzling eyes,
Of Beauty’s melting tone,
And her praise is a richer prize
Than the gems of Persia’s throne,
And her love a bliss which the coldly wise
Have never, never known.

He told how the valiant scoff at fear
When the sob of her grief is heard;
How fiercely they fight for a smile or a tear,
How they die for a single word:--
Things which, I own, to me appear
Exceedingly absurd.

The Lady soon had heard enough;
She turned to hear Sir Denys
Discourse in language vastly gruff
About his skill at Tennis;
While smooth Sir Guy described the stuff
His mistress wore at Venice.

The Lady smiled one radiant smile,
And the Lady rode away--
There is not a Lady in all our Isle,
I have heard a Poet say,
Who can listen more than a little while
To a poet’s sweetest lay.--

His mother’s voice was fierce and shrill
As she set the milk and fruit:
“Out on thine unrewarded skill,
And on thy vagrant lute;
Let the strings be broken an they will,
And the beggar lips be mute!”

Peace, peace! the Pilgrim as he went
Forgot the Minstrel’s song,
But the blessing that his wan lips sent
Will guard the Minstrel long,
And keep his spirit innocent,
And turn his hand from wrong.

Belike the child had little thought
Of the moral the Minstrel drew;
But the dream of a deed of kindness wrought--
Brings it not peace to you?
And does not a lesson of virtue taught
Teach him that teaches too?

And if the Lady sighed no sigh
For the Minstrel or his hymn,--
Yet when he shall lie ’neath the moonlit sky,
Or lip the goblet’s brim,
What a star in the mist of memory
That smile will be to him!

OLD WINE.

It was my father’s wine,--alas!
It was his chiefest bliss
To fill an old friend’s evening glass
With nectar such as this.
I think I have as warm a heart,
As kind a friend, as he;
Another bumper ere we part!
Old wine, old wine, for me.

In this we toasted William Pitt,
Whom twenty now outshine;
O’er this we laughed at Canning’s wit,
Ere Hume’s was thought as fine;
In this “The King”--“The Church”--“The Laws”--
Have had their three times three;
Sound wine befits as sound a cause;
Old wine, old wine for me.

In this, when France in those long wars
Was beaten black and blue,
We used to drink our troops and tars,
Our Wellesley and Pellew;
Now, things are changed, though Britain’s fame
May out of fashion be,
At least my wine remains the same!
Old wine, old wine for me.

My neighbours, Robinson and Lamb,
Drink French of last year’s growth;
I’m sure, however they may sham,
It disagrees with both.
I don’t pretend to interfere;
An Englishman is free;
But none of that cheap poison here!
Old wine, old wine for me.

Some dozens lose, I must allow,
Something of strength and hue;
And there are vacant spaces now
To be filled up with new;
And there are cobwebs round the bins,
Which some don’t like to see;
If these are all my cellar’s sins,
Old wine, old wine for me.

THE TALENTED MAN.

A LETTER FROM A LADY IN LONDON TO A LADY AT LAUSANNE.

Dear Alice! you’ll laugh when you know it,--
Last week, at the Duchess’s ball,
I danced with the clever new poet,--
You’ve heard of him,--Tully St. Paul.
Miss Jonquil was perfectly frantic;
I wish you had seen Lady Anne!
It really was very romantic,
He _is_ such a talented man!

He came up from Brazenose College,
Just caught, as they call it, this spring;
And his head, love, is stuffed full of knowledge
Of every conceivable thing.
Of science and logic he chatters,
As fine and as fast as he can;
Though I am no judge of such matters,
I’m sure he’s a talented man.

His stories and jests are delightful;--
Not stories or jests, dear, for you;
The jests are exceedingly spiteful,
The stories not always _quite_ true.
Perhaps to be kind and veracious
May do pretty well at Lausanne;
But it never would answer,--good gracious!
_Chez nous_--in a talented man.

He sneers,--how my Alice would scold him!--
At the bliss of a sigh or a tear;
He laughed--only think!--when I told him
How we cried o’er Trevelyan last year;
I vow I was quite in a passion;
I broke all the sticks of my fan;
But sentiment’s quite out of fashion,
It seems, in a talented man.

Lady Bab, who is terribly moral,
Has told me that Tully is vain,
And apt--which is silly--to quarrel,
And fond--which is sad--of champagne.
I listened, and doubted, dear Alice,
For I saw, when my Lady began,
It was only the Dowager’s malice;--
She _does_ hate a talented man!

He’s hideous, I own it. But fame, love,
Is all that these eyes can adore;
He’s lame,--but Lord Byron was lame, love,
And dumpy,--but so is Tom Moore.
Then his voice,--_such_ a voice! my sweet creature,
It’s like your Aunt Lucy’s toucan:
But oh! what’s a tone or a feature,
When once one’s a talented man?

My mother, you know, all the season,
Has talked of Sir Geoffrey’s estate;
And truly, to do the fool reason,
He _has_ been less horrid of late.
But to-day, when we drive in the carriage,
I’ll tell her to lay down her plan;--
If ever I venture on marriage,
It must be a talented man!

P.S.--I have found on reflection,
One fault in my friend,--_entre nous_;
Without it, he’d just be perfection;--
Poor fellow, he has not a _sou_!
And so, when he comes in September
To shoot with my uncle, Sir Dan,
I’ve promised mamma to remember
He’s _only_ a talented man!

PLUS DE POLITIQUE.

(1832.)

No politics!--I cannot bear
To tell our ancient fame;
No politics!--I do not dare
To paint our present shame!
What we have been, what we must be,
Let other minstrels say;
It is too dark a theme for me:
No politics to-day!

I loved to see the captive’s chain
By British hands burst through;
I loved to sing the fields of Spain,
The war of Waterloo:
But now the Russians’ greedy swords
Are edged with English pay;
We help, we hire, the robber hordes:
No politics to-day!

I used to look on many a home
Of industry and art;
I gazed on pleasure’s gorgeous dome,
On labour’s busy mart:
From Derby’s rows, from Bristol’s fires,
I turn with tears away;
I can’t admire what Brougham admires:
No politics to-day!

Let’s talk of Coplestone and prayers,
Of Kitchener and pies,
Of Lady Sophonisba’s airs,
Of Lady Susan’s eyes;
Let’s talk of Mr. Attwood’s cause,
Of Mr. Pococks’s play,
Of fiddles, bubbles, rattles, straws!
No politics to-day!

TALES OUT OF SCHOOL.

A DROPPED LETTER FROM A LADY.

Your godson, my sweet Lady Bridget,
Was entered at Eton last May;
But really, I’m all in a fidget
Till the dear boy is taken away;
For I feel an alarm which, I’m certain,
A mother to you may confess,
When the newspaper draws up the curtain,
The terrible Windsor Express.

You know I was half broken-hearted
When the poor fellow whispered “Good bye!”
As soon as the carriage had started
I sat down in comfort to cry.
Sir Thomas looked on while I fainted,
Deriding--the bear!--my distress;
But what were the hardships I painted
To the tales of the Windsor Express?

The planter in sultry Barbadoes
Is a terrible tyrant, no doubt;
In Moscow, a Count carbonadoes
His ignorant serfs with the knout;
Severely men smart for their errors
Who dine at a man-of-war’s mess;
But Eton has crueller terrors
Than these,--in the Windsor Express.

I fancied the Doctor at College
Had dipped, now and then, into books;
But, bless me! I find that his knowledge
Is just like my coachman’s or cook’s:
He’s a dunce--I have heard it with sorrow;--
’Twould puzzle him sadly, I guess,
To put into English to-morrow
A page of the Windsor Express.

All preachers of course should be preaching
That virtue’s a very good thing;
All tutors of course should be teaching
To fear God, and honour the King;
But at Eton they’ve regular classes
For folly, for vice, for excess;
They learn to be villains and asses,
Nothing else in the Windsor Express.

Mrs. Martha, who nursed little Willy,
Believes that she nursed him in vain:
Old John, who takes care of the filly,
Says “He’ll ne’er come to mount her again!”
My Juliet runs up to her mother,
And cries, with a mournful caress,
“Oh, where have you sent my poor brother?
Look, look at the Windsor Express!”

Ring, darling, and order the carriage;
Whatever Sir Thomas may say,--
Who has been quite a fool since our marriage,--
I’ll take him directly away.
For of all their atrocious ill-treating
The end it is easy to guess;
Some day they’ll be killing and eating
My boy--in the Windsor Express!

STANZAS TO THE SPEAKER ASLEEP.

(1833.)

Sleep, Mr. Speaker; it’s surely fair
If you don’t in your bed, that you should in your chair,
Longer and longer still they grow,
Tory and Radical, Aye and No;
Talking by night, and talking by day;--
Sleep, Mr. Speaker; sleep, sleep while you may!

Sleep, Mr. Speaker; slumber lies
Light and brief on a Speaker’s eyes;
Fielden or Finn, in a minute or two,
Some disorderly thing will do;
Riot will chase repose away;--
Sleep, Mr. Speaker; sleep, sleep while you may!

Sleep, Mr. Speaker; Cobbett will soon
Move to abolish the sun and moon;
Hume, no doubt, will be taking the sense
Of the House on a saving of thirteen pence;
Grattan will growl, or Baldwin bray;--
Sleep, Mr. Speaker; sleep, sleep while you may!

Sleep, Mr. Speaker; dream of the time
When loyalty was not quite a crime;
When Grant was a pupil in Canning’s school;
When Palmerston fancied Wood a fool;
Lord, how principles pass away!
Sleep, Mr. Speaker; sleep, sleep, while you may!

Sleep, Mr. Speaker; sweet to men
Is the sleep that cometh but now and then;
Sweet to the sorrowful, sweet to the ill,
Sweet to the children that work in a mill;
You have more need of sleep than they;--
Sleep, Mr. Speaker; sleep, sleep while you may!

LATIN HYMN TO THE VIRGIN.

I.

Virgin Mother, thou hast known
Joy and sorrow like my own;
In thy arms the bright Babe lay,
As my own in mine to-day;
So he wept and so he smiled;
Ave Mary! guard my child!

II.

From the pains and perils spread
Round about our path and bed,
Fierce desires, ambitious schemes,
Moody doubts, fantastic dreams,
Pleasures idle, passions wild,
Ave Mary! guard my child!

III.

Make him whatsoe’er may be
Dearest to the saints and thee;
Tell him, from the throne above,
What to loathe and what to love;
To be true and just and mild,
Ave Mary! teach my child!

IV.

By the wondrous mercy won
For the world by thy blest son,
By the rest his labours wrought,
By the bliss his tortures bought,
By the Heaven he reconciled,
Ave Mary! bless my child!

V.

If about his after fate
Sin and sorrow darkly wait,
Take him rather to thine arms
From the world and the world’s harms;
Thus unscathed, thus undefiled,
Ave Mary! take my child!

THE NEWLY-WEDDED.

(1835.)

I.

Now the rite is duly done;
Now the word is spoken;
And the spell has made us one
Which may ne’er be broken:
Rest we, dearest, in our home,--
Roam we o’er the heather,--
We shall rest, and we shall roam,
Shall we not? together.

II.

From this hour the summer rose
Sweeter breathes to charm us;
From this hour the winter snows
Lighter fall to harm us:
Fair or foul--on land or sea--
Come the wind or weather,
Best or worst, whate’er they be,
We shall share together.