Chapter XXII: Act II (1)

SCENE.--_A handsome Apartment well lighted, Tea, Cards, &c.--A large party of Ladies and Gentlemen; among them MELESINDA._

_1st Lady_. I wonder when the charming man will be here.

_2d Lady_. He is a delightful creature. Such a polish--

_3d Lady_. Such an air in all that he does or says--

_4th Lady_. Yet gifted with a strong understanding--

_5th Lady_. But has your ladyship the remotest idea of what his true name is?

_1st Lady_. They say, his very servants do not know it. His French valet, that has lived with him these two years--

_2d Lady_. There, Madam, I must beg leave to set you right; my coachman--

_1st Lady_. I have it from the very best authority; my footma--

_2d Lady_. Then, Madam, you have set your servants on--

_1st Lady_. No, Madam, I would scorn any such little mean ways of coming at a secret. For my part, I don't think any secret of that consequence.

_2d Lady_. That's just like me; I make a rule of troubling my head with nobody's business but my own.

_Melesinda_. But then, she takes care to make everybody's business her own, and so to justify herself that way-- (_Aside_.)

_1st Lady_. My dear Melesinda, you look thoughtful.

_Melesinda_. Nothing.

_2d Lady_. Give it a name.

_Melesinda_. Perhaps it is nameless.

_1st Lady_. As the object--Come, never blush, nor deny it, child. Bless me, what great ugly thing is that, that dangles at your bosom?

_Melesinda_. This? It is a cross: how do you like it?

_2d Lady_. A cross! Well, to me it looks for all the world like a great staring H. _(Here a general laugh.)_

_Melesinda_. Malicious creatures! Believe me it is a cross, and nothing but a cross.

_1st Lady_. A cross, I believe, you would willingly hang at.

_Melesinda_. Intolerable spite!

_(MR. H. is announced.)_

_Enter MR. H._

_1st Lady_. O, Mr. H., we are so glad--

_2d Lady_. We have been so dull--

_3rd Lady_. So perfectly lifeless--You owe it to us to be more than commonly entertaining.

_Mr. H_. Ladies, this is so obliging--

_4th Lady_. O, Mr. H., those ranunculas you said were dying, pretty things, they have got up--

_5th Lady_. I have worked that sprig you commended--I want you to come--

_Mr. H_. Ladies--

_6th Lady_. I have sent for that piece of music from London.

_Mr. H_. The Mozart _(seeing MELESINDA)_--Melesinda!

_Several Ladies at once_. Nay, positively, Melesinda, you shan't engross him all to yourself.

[_While the ladies are pressing about MR. H., the gentlemen show signs of displeasure_.

_1st Gent_. We shan't be able to edge in a word, now this coxcomb is come.

_2d Gent_. Damn him, I will affront him.

_1st Gent_. Sir, with your leave, I have a word to say to one of these ladies.

_2d Gent_. If we could be heard--

[_The Ladies pay no attention but to MR. H_.

_Mr. H_. You see, gentlemen, how the matter stands. _(Hums an air.)_ I am not my own master: positively I exist and breathe but to be agreeable to these--Did you speak?

_1st Gent_. And affects absence of mind--Puppy!

_Mr. H_. Who spoke of absence of mind; did you, Madam? How do you do, Lady Wearwell--how do? I did not see your ladyship before--what was I about to say--O--absence of mind. I am the most unhappy dog in that way, sometimes spurt out the strangest things--the most mal-à-propos--without meaning to give the least offence, upon my honor--sheer absence of mind--things I would have given the world not to have said.

_1st Gent_. Do you hear the coxcomb?

_1st Lady_. Great wits, they say--

_2d Lady_. Your fine geniuses are most given--

_3d Lady_. Men of bright parts are commonly too vivacious--

_Mr. H_. But you shall hear. I was to dine the other day at a great Nabob's that must be nameless, who, between ourselves, is strongly suspected of--being very rich, that's all. John, my valet, who knows my foible, cautioned me, while he was dressing me, as he usually does where he thinks there's a danger of my committing a _lapsus_, to take care in my conversation how I made any allusion direct or indirect to presents--you understand me? I set out double charged with my fellow's consideration and my own; and, to do myself justice, behaved with tolerable circumspection for the first half-hour or so,--till at last a gentleman in company, who was indulging a free vein of raillery at the expense of the ladies, stumbled upon that expression of the poet, which calls them "fair defects."

_1st Lady_. It is Pope, I believe, who says it.

_Mr. H_. No, Madam; Milton. Where was I? Oh, "fair defects." This gave occasion to a critic in company, to deliver his opinion on the phrase--that led to an enumeration of all the various words which might have been used instead of "defect," as want, absence, poverty, deficiency, lack. This moment I, who had not been attending to the progress of the argument (as the denouement will show) starting suddenly up out of one of my reveries, by some unfortunate connection of ideas, which the last fatal word had excited, the devil put it into my head to turn round to the Nabob, who was sitting next me, and in a very marked manner (as it seemed to the company) to put the question to him, Pray, sir, what may be the exact value of a lack of rupees? You may guess the confusion which followed.

_1st Lady_. What a distressing circumstance!

_2d Lady_. To a delicate mind----

_3d Lady_. How embarrassing----

_4th Lady_. I declare, I quite pity you.

_1st Gent_. Puppy!

_Mr. H_. A Baronet at the table, seeing my dilemma, jogged my elbow; and a good-natured Duchess, who does everything with a grace peculiar to herself, trod on my toes at that instant: this brought me to myself, and--covered with blushes, and pitied by all the ladies--I withdrew.

_1st Lady_. How charmingly he tells a story.

_2nd Lady_. But how distressing!

_Mr. H_. Lord Squandercounsel, who is my particular friend, was pleased to rally me in his inimitable way upon it next day. I shall never forget a sensible thing he said on the occasion--speaking of absence of mind, my foible--says he, my dear Hogs--

_Several Ladies_. Hogs--what--ha--

_Mr. H_. My dear Hogsflesh--my name--(_here a universal scream_)--O my cursed unfortunate tongue! H. I mean--where was I?

_1st Lady_. Filthy--abominable!

_2nd Lady_. Unutterable!

_3rd Lady_. Hogs--foh!

_4th Lady_. Disgusting!

_5th Lady_. Vile!

_6th Lady_. Shocking!

_1st Lady_. Odious!

_2nd Lady_. Hogs--pah!

_3rd Lady_. A smelling-bottle--look to Miss Melesinda. Poor thing! it is no wonder. You had better keep off from her, Mr. Hogsflesh, and not be pressing about her in her circumstances.

_1st Gent_. Good time of day to you, Mr.Hogsflesh.

_2nd Gent_. The compliments of the season to you, Mr. Hogsflesh.

_Mr.H_. This is too much--flesh and blood cannot endure it.

_1st Gent_. What flesh?--hog's-flesh?

_2nd Gent_. How he sets up his bristles!

_Mr. H_. Bristles!

1_st Gent_. He looks as fierce as a hog in armor.

_Mr. H_. A hog!--Madam!--(_here he severally accosts the Ladies, who by turns repel him_.)

1_st Lady_. Extremely obliged to you for your attentions; but don't want a partner.

2_d Lady_. Greatly flattered by your preference: but believe I shall remain single.

3_d Lady_. Shall always acknowledge your politeness; but have no thoughts of altering my condition.

4_th Lady_. Always be happy to respect you as a friend; but you must not look for anything further.

5_th Lady_. No doubt of your ability to make any woman happy; but have no thoughts of changing my name.

6_th Lady_. Must tell you, Sir, that if, by your insinuations, you think to prevail with me, you have got the wrong sow by the ear. Does he think any lady would go to pig with him?

_Old Lady_. Must beg you to be less particular in your addresses to me. Does he take me for a Jew, to long after forbidden meats?

_Mr. H_. I shall go mad!--to be refused by old Mother Damnable--she that's so old, nobody knows whether she was ever manned or no, but passes for a maid by courtesy; her juvenile exploits being beyond the farthest stretch of tradition!--Old Mother Damnable!

[_Exeunt all, either pitying or seeming to avoid him._

SCENE.--_The Street_.

BELVIL _and another Gentleman_.

_Belvil_. Poor Jack, I am really sorry for him. The account which you give me of his mortifying change of reception at the assembly, would be highly diverting if it gave me less pain to hear it. With all his amusing absurdities, and amongst them not the least, a predominant desire to be thought well of by the fair sex, he has an abundant share of good-nature, and is a man of honor. Notwithstanding all that has happened, Melesinda may do worse than take him yet. But did the women resent it so deeply as you say?

_Gent._ O intolerably--they fled him as fearfully when 'twas once blown, as a man would be avoided, who was suddenly discovered to have marks of the plague, and as fast; when before they had been ready to devour the foolishest thing he could say.

_Belvil_ Ha! ha! so frail is the tenure by which these women's favorites commonly hold their envied preëminence. Well, I must go find him out and comfort him. I suppose, I shall find him at the inn.

_Gent._ Either there or at Melesinda's--Adieu! [_Exeunt._

SCENE.--Mr. H----'s _Apartment._

_Mr. H. (solus.)_ Was ever anything so mortifying? to be refused by old Mother Damnable!--with such parts and address,--and the little squeamish devils, to dislike me for a name, a sound.--Oh my cursed name! that it was something I could be revenged on! if it were alive, that I might tread upon it, or crush it, or pummel it, or kick it, or spit it out--for it sticks in my throat, and will choke me.

My plaguy ancestors! if they had left me but a Van, or a Mac, or an Irish O', it had been something to qualify it.--Mynheer Van Hogsflesh,--or Sawney Mac Hogsflesh,--or Sir Phelim O'Hogsflesh,--but downright blunt------. If it had been any other name in the world, I could have borne it. If it had been the name of a beast, as Bull, Fox, Kid, Lamb, Wolf, Lion; or of a bird, as Sparrow, Hawk, Buzzard, Daw, Finch, Nightingale; or of a fish, as Sprat, Herring, Salmon; or the name of a thing, as Ginger, Hay, Wood; or of a color, as Black, Gray, White, Green; or of a sound, as Bray; or the name of a month, as March, May; or of a place, as Barnet, Baldock, Hitchen; or the name of a coin, as Farthing, Penny, Twopenny; or of a profession, as Butcher, Baker, Carpenter, Piper, Fisher, Fletcher, Fowler, Glover; or a Jew's name, as Solomons, Isaacs, Jacobs; or a personal name, as Foot, Leg, Crookshanks, Heaviside, Sidebottom, Longbottom, Ramsbottom, Winterbottom; or a long name, as Blanchenhagen, or Blanchenhausen; or a short name, as Crib, Crisp, Crips, Tag, Trot, Tub, Phips, Padge, Papps, or Prig, or Wig, or Pip, or Trip; Trip had been something, but Ho---. (_Walks about in great agitation--recovering his calmness a little, sits down._)

Farewell the most distant thoughts of marriage; the finger-circling ring, the purity figuring glove, the envy-pining bridemaids, the wishing parson, and the simpering clerk. Farewell the ambiguous blush-raising joke, the titter-provoking pun, the morning-stirring drum.--No son of mine shall exist, to bear my ill-fated name. No nurse come chuckling, to tell me it is a boy. No midwife, leering at me from under the lids of professional gravity. I dreamed of caudle.--(_Sings in a melancholy tone._) Lullaby, Lullaby,--hush-a-by-baby--how like its papa it is!--(_Makes motions as if he was nursing._) And then, when grown up, "Is this your son, Sir?" "Yes, Sir, a poor copy of me, a sad young dog,--just what his father was at his age,--I have four more at home." Oh! oh! oh!

_Enter_ LANDLORD.

_Mr. H._ Landlord, I must pack up tonight; you will see all my things got ready.

_Landlord._ Hope your Honor does not intend to quit the Blue Boar,--sorry anything has happened.

_Mr. H._ He has heard it all.

_Landlord._ Your Honor has had some mortification to be sure, as a man may say; you have brought your pigs to a fine market.

_Mr. H._ Pigs!

_Landlord._ What then? take old Pry's advice, and never mind it. Don't scorch your crackling for 'em, Sir.

_Mr. H._ Scorch my crackling! a queer phrase; but I suppose he don't mean to affront me.

_Landlord._ What is done can't be undone; you can't make a silken purse out of a sow's ear.

_Mr. H._ As you say, Landlord, thinking of a thing does but augment it.

_Landlord._ Does but _hogment_ it, indeed, Sir.

_Mr. H. Hogment_ it! damn it, I said augment it.

_Landlord._ Lord, Sir, 'tis not everybody has such gift of fine phrases as your Honor, that can lard his discourse--

_Mr. H._ Lard!

_Landlord._ Suppose they do smoke you--

_Mr. H._ Smoke me!

_Landlord._ One of my phrases; never mind my words, Sir, my meaning is good. We all mean the same thing, only you express yourself one way, and I another, that's all. The meaning's the same; it is all pork.

_Mr. H._ That's another of your phrases, I presume.

[_Bell rings, and the Landlord called for._

_Landlord._ Anon, anon.

_Mr. H._ Oh, I wish I were anonymous.

[_Exeunt several ways._

SCENE.--_Melesinda's Apartment._

MELESINDA _and Maid._

_Maid._ Lord, Madam! before I'd take on as you do about a foolish--what signifies a name? Hogs--Hogs--what is it--is just as good as any other, for what I see.

_Melesinda._ Ignorant creature! yet she is perhaps blest in the absence of those ideas, which, while they add a zest to the few pleasures which fall to the lot of superior natures to enjoy, doubly edge the----

_Maid._ Superior natures! a fig! If he's hog by name, he's not hog by nature, that don't follow--his name don't make him anything, does it? He don't grunt the more for it, nor squeak, that ever I hear; he likes his victuals out of a plate, as other Christians do; you never see him go to the trough----

_Melesinda._ Unfeeling wretch! yet possibly her intentions----

_Maid._ For instance, Madam, my name is Finch--Betty Finch. I don't whistle the more for that, nor long after canary-seed while I can get good wholesome mutton--no, nor you can't catch me by throwing salt on my tail. If you come to that, hadn't I a young man used to come after me, they said courted me--his name was Lion, Francis Lion, a tailor; but though he was fond enough of me, for all that he never offered to eat me.

_Melesinda._ How fortunate that the discovery has been made before it was too late! Had I listened to his deceits, and, as the perfidious man had almost persuaded me, precipitated myself into an inextricable engagement before----

_Maid._ No great harm if you had. You'd only have bought a pig in a poke--and what then? Oh, here he comes creeping----

_Enter_ MR. H. _abject._

Go to her, Mr. Hogs--Hogs--Hogsbristles, what's your name? Don't be afraid, man--don't give it up--she's not crying--only _summat_ has made her eyes red--she has got a sty in her eye, I believe---- _(going.)_

_Melesinda._ You are not going, Betty?

_Maid._ O, Madam, never mind me--I shall be back in the twinkling of a pig's whisker, as they say.

[_Exit._

_Mr. H._ Melesinda, you behold before you a wretch who would have betrayed your confidence--but it was love that prompted him; who would have trick'd you, by an unworthy concealment, into a participation of that disgrace which a superficial world has agreed to attach to a name--but with it you would have shared a fortune not contemptible, and a heart--but 'tis over now. That name he is content to bear alone--to go where the persecuted syllables shall be no more heard, or excite no meaning--some spot where his native tongue has never penetrated, nor any of his countrymen have landed, to plant their unfeeling satire, their brutal wit, and national ill manners--where no Englishmen--(Here_ MELESINDA, _who has been pouting during this speech, fetches a deep sigh.)_ Some yet undiscovered Otaheite, where witless, unapprehensive savages shall innocently pronounce the ill-fated sounds, and think them not inharmonious.

_Melesinda._ Oh!

_Mr. H._ Who knows but among the female natives might be found----

_Melesinda._ Sir! (_raising her head._)

_Mr. H._ One who would be more kind than--some Oberea--Queen Oberea.

_Melesinda._ Oh!

_Mr. H._ Or what if I were to seek for proofs of reciprocal esteem among unprejudiced African maids, in Monomotopa?

_Enter Servant._

_Servant._ Mr. Belvil. [_Exit._

_Enter_ BELVIL.

_Mr. H._ Monomotopa (_musing._)

_Belvil._ Heyday, Jack! what means this mortified face? nothing has happened, I hope, between this lady and you? I beg pardon, Madam, but understanding my friend was with you, I took the liberty of seeking him here. Some little difference possibly which a third person can adjust--not a word. Will you, Madam, as this gentleman's friend, suffer me to be the arbitrator--strange--hark'ee, Jack, nothing has come out, has there? you understand me. Oh, I guess how it is--somebody has got at your secret; you haven't blabbed it yourself, have you? ha! ha! ha! I could find in my heart--Jack, what would you give me if I should relieve you?

_Mr. H._ No power of man can relieve me (_sighs_); but it must lie at the root, gnawing at the root--here it will lie.

_Belvil._ No power of man? not a common man, I grant you: for instance, a subject--it's out of the power of any subject.

_Mr. H._ Gnawing at the root--there it will lie.

_Belvil._ Such a thing has been known as a name to be changed; but not by a subject--(_shows a Gazette_).

_Mr. H._ Gnawing at the root--(_suddenly snatches the paper out of_ BELVIL'S _hand_)--ha! pish! nonsense! give it me--what! (_reads_) promotions, bankrupts--a great many bankrupts this week--there it will lie. (_Lays it down, takes it up again, and reads._) "The King has been graciously pleased"--gnawing at the root--"graciously pleased to grant unto John Hogsflesh,"--the devil--"Hogsflesh, Esq., of Sty Hall, in the county of Hants, his royal license and authority"--O Lord! O Lord!--"that he and his issue"--me and my issue--"may take and use the surname and arms of Bacon"--Bacon, the surname and arms of Bacon--"in pursuance of an injunction contained in the last will and testament of Nicholas Bacon, Esq., his late uncle, as well as out of grateful respect to his memory:"--grateful respect! poor old soul-----here's more--"and that such arms may be first duly exemplified "--they shall, I will take care of that--"according to the laws of arms, and recorded in the Herald's Office."

_Belvil._ Come, Madam, give me leave to put my own interpretation upon your silence, and to plead for my friend, that now that only obstacle which seemed to stand in the way of your union is removed, you will suffer me to complete the happiness which my news seems to have brought him, by introducing him with a new claim to your favor, by the name of Mr. Bacon. (_Takes their hands and joins them, which_ MELESINDA _seems to give consent to with a smile._)

_Mr. H._ Generous Melesinda! my dear friend--"he and his issue," me and my issue!--O Lord!--

_Belvil._ I wish you joy, Jack, with all my heart.

_Mr. H._ Bacon, Bacon, Bacon--how odd it sounds! I could never be tired of hearing it. There was Lord Chancellor Bacon. Methinks I have some of the Verulam blood in me already.--Methinks I could look through Nature--there was Friar Bacon, a conjurer,--I feel as if I could conjure too----

_Enter a Servant._

_Servant._ Two young ladies and an old lady are at the door, inquiring if you see company, Madam.

_Mr. H._ "Surname and arms"--

_Melesinda._ Show them up.--My dear Mr. Bacon, moderate your joy.

_Enter three Ladies, being part of those who were at the Assembly._

_1st Lady._ My dear Melesinda, how do you do?

_2nd Lady._ How do you do? We have been so concerned for you----

_Old Lady._ We have been so concerned--(_seeing him_)--Mr. Hogsflesh----

_Mr. H._ There's no such person--nor there never was--nor 'tis not fit there should be--"surname and arms"--

_Belvil._ It is true what my friend would express; we have been all in a mistake, ladies. Very true, the name of this gentleman was what you call it, but it is so no longer. The succession to the long-contested Bacon estate is at length decided, and with it my friend succeeds to the name of his deceased relative.

_Mr. H._ "His Majesty has been graciously pleased"--

_1st Lady._ I am sure we all join in hearty congratulation--_(sighs)._

_2nd Lady._ And wish you joy with all our hearts--_(heigh ho!)_

_Old Lady._ And hope you will enjoy the name and estate many years--_(cries)._

_Belvil._ Ha! ha! ha! mortify them a little, Jack.

_1st Lady._ Hope you intend to stay--

_2nd Lady._ With us some time--

_Old Lady._ In these parts--

_Mr. H._ Ladies, for your congratulations I thank you; for the favors you have lavished on me, and in particular for this lady's _(turning to the old Lady)_ good opinion, I rest your debtor. As to any future favors--_(accosts them severally in the order in which he was refused by them at the assembly)_--Madam, shall always acknowledge your politeness; but at present, you see, I am engaged with a partner. Always be happy to respect you as a friend, but you must not look for anything further. Must beg of you to be less particular in your addresses to me. Ladies all, with this piece of advice, of Bath and you

Your ever grateful servant takes his leave.
Lay your plans surer when you plot to grieve;
See, while you kindly mean to mortify
Another, the wild arrow do not fly,
And gall yourself. For once you've been mistaken;
Your shafts have miss'd their aim--Hogsflesh has
saved his Bacon.

POEMS.

DEDICATION[1]

[Footnote 1: Prefixed to the Author's works published in 1818.]

* * * * *

TO S. T. COLERIDGE, ESQ.

My Dear Coleridge,

You will smile to see the slender labors of your friend designated by the title of _Works;_ but such was the wish of the gentlemen who have kindly undertaken the trouble of collecting them, and from their judgment could be no appeal.

It would be a kind of disloyalty to offer to any one but yourself a volume containing the _early pieces,_ which were first published among your poems, and were fairly derivatives from you and them. My friend Lloyd and myself came into our first battle (authorship is a sort of warfare) under cover of the greater Ajax. How this association, which shall always be a dear and proud recollection to me, came to be broken,--who snapped the threefold cord,--whether yourself (but I know that was not the case) grew ashamed of your former companions,--or whether (which is by much the more probable) some ungracious bookseller was author of the separation,--I cannot tell;--but wanting the support of your friendly elm, (I speak for myself,) my vine has, since that time, put forth few or no fruits; the sap (if ever it had any) has become, in a manner, dried up and extinct; and you will find your old associate, in his second volume, dwindled into prose and _criticism._

Am I right in assuming this as the cause? or is it that, as years come upon us, (except with some more healthy-happy spirits,) Life itself loses much of its Poetry for us? we transcribe but what we read in the great volume of Nature; and, as the characters grow dim, we turn off, and look another way. You yourself write no Christabels, nor Ancient Mariners, now.

Some of the Sonnets, which shall be carelessly turned over by the general reader, may happily awaken in you remembrances, which I should be sorry should be ever totally extinct--the memory

"Of summer days and of delightful years--"

even so far back as to those old suppers at our old ... Inn,--when life was fresh, and topics exhaustless,--and you first kindled in me, if not the power, yet the love of poetry, and beauty, and kindliness.--

"What words have I heard
Spoke at the Mermaid!"

The world has given you many a shrewd nip and gird since that time, but either my eyes are grown dimmer, or my old friend is the _same_ who stood before me three-and-twenty years ago--his hair a little confessing the hand of Time, but still shrouding the same capacious brain,--his heart not altered, scarcely where it "alteration finds."

One piece, Coleridge, I have ventured to publish in its original form, though I have heard you complain of a certain over-imitation of the antique in the style. If I could see any way of getting rid of the objection, without rewriting it entirely, I would make some sacrifices. But when I wrote John Woodvil, I never proposed to myself any distinct deviation from common English. I had been newly initiated in the writings of our elder dramatists: Beaumont and Fletcher, and Massinger, were then a _first love_; and from what I was so freshly conversant in, what wonder if my language imperceptibly took a tinge? The very time which I had chosen for my story, that which immediately followed the Restoration, seemed to require, in an English play, that the English should be of rather an older cast than that of the precise year in which it happened to be written. I wish it had not some faults, which I can less vindicate than the language.

I remain,

My dear Coleridge,

Yours,

With unabated esteem,

C. LAMB.

POEMS

* * * * *

HESTER.

When maidens such as Hester die,
Their place ye may not well supply,
Though ye among a thousand try,
With vain endeavor.

A month or more hath she been dead,
Yet cannot I by force be led
To think upon the wormy bed,
And her together.

A springy motion in her gait,
A rising step, did indicate
Of pride and joy no common rate,
That flush'd her spirit.

I know not by what name beside
I shall it call:--if 'twas not pride,
It was a joy to that allied,
She did inherit.

Her parents held the Quaker rule,
Which doth the human feeling cool,
But she was train'd in Nature's school,
Nature had blest her.

A waking eye, a prying mind,
A heart that stirs, is hard to bind,
A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind,
Ye could not Hester.

My sprightly neighbor! gone before
To that unknown and silent shore,
Shall we not meet, as heretofore,
Some summer morning,

When from thy cheerful eyes a ray
Hath struck a bliss upon the day,
A bliss that would not go away,
A sweet fore-warning?

* * * * *

TO CHARLES LLOYD.

AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR.

Alone, obscure, without a friend,
A cheerless, solitary thing,
Why seeks, my Lloyd, the stranger out?
What offering can the stranger bring

Of social scenes, home-bred delights,
That him in aught compensate may
For Stowey's pleasant winter nights,
For loves and friendships far away?

In brief oblivion to forego
Friends, such as thine, so justly dear,
And be awhile with me content
To stay, a kindly loiterer, here:

For this a gleam of random joy
Hath flush'd my unaccustom'd cheek;
And, with an o'ercharged bursting heart,
I feel the thanks I cannot speak.

Oh! sweet are all the Muses' lays,
And sweet the charm of matin bird;
'Twas long since these estrangèd ears
The sweeter voice of friend had heard.

The voice hath spoke: the pleasant sounds
In memory's ear in after-time
Shall live, to sometimes rouse a tear,
And sometimes prompt an honest rhyme.

For, when the transient charm is fled,
And when the little week is o'er,
To cheerless, friendless, solitude
When I return, as heretofore;

Long, long, within my aching heart
The grateful sense shall cherish'd be;
I'll think less meanly of myself,
That Lloyd will sometimes think on me.

* * * * *

THE THREE FRIENDS.

Three young maids in friendship met;
Mary, Martha, Margaret.
Margaret was tall and fair,
Martha shorter by a hair;
If the first excell'd in feature,
Th' other's grace and ease were greater;
Mary, though to rival loth,
In their best gifts equall'd both.
They a due proportion kept;
Martha mourn'd if Margaret wept;
Margaret joy'd when any good
She of Martha understood;
And in sympathy for either
Mary was outdone by neither.
Thus far, for a happy space,
All three ran an equal race,
A most constant friendship proving,
Equally beloved and loving;
All their wishes, joys, the same;
Sisters only not in name.

Fortune upon each one smiled,
As upon a fav'rite child;
Well to do and well to see
Were the parents of all three;
Till on Martha's father crosses
Brought a flood of worldly losses,
And his fortunes rich and great
Changed at once to low estate:
Under which o'erwhelming blow
Martha's mother was laid low;
She a hapless orphan left,
Of maternal care bereft,
Trouble following trouble fast,
Lay in a sick-bed at last.

In the depth of her affliction
Martha now receiv'd conviction,
That a true and faithful friend
Can the surest comfort lend.
Night and day, with friendship tried,
Ever constant by her side
Was her gentle Mary found,
With a love that knew no bound;
And the solace she imparted
Saved her dying broken-hearted.

In this scene of earthly things
Not one good unmixèd springs.
That which had to Martha proved
A sweet consolation, moved
Different feelings of regret
In the mind of Margaret.
She, whose love was not less dear,
Nor affection less sincere
To her friend, was, by occasion
Of more distant habitation,
Fewer visits forced to pay her;
When no other cause did stay her;
And her Mary living nearer,
Margaret began to fear her,
Lest her visits day by day
Martha's heart should steal away.
That whole heart she ill could spare her,
Where till now she'd been a sharer.
From this cause with grief she pined,
Till at length her health declined.
All her cheerful spirits flew,
Fast as Martha's gather'd new;
And her sickness waxèd sore,
Just when Martha felt no more.

Mary, who had quick suspicion
Of her alter'd friend's condition,
Seeing Martha's convalescence
Less demanded now her presence,
With a goodness, built on reason,
Changed her measures with the season;
Turn'd her steps from Martha's door,
Went where she was wanted more;
All her care and thoughts were set
Now to tend on Margaret.
Mary living 'twixt the two,
From her home could oft'ner go,
Either of her friends to see,
Than they could together be.

Truth explain'd is to suspicion
Evermore the best physician.
Soon her visits had the effect;
All that Margaret did suspect,
From her fancy vanish'd clean;
She was soon what she had been,
And the color she did lack
To her faded cheek came back.
Wounds which love had made her feel,
Love alone had power to heal.

Martha, who the frequent visit
Now had lost, and sore did miss it,
With impatience waxèd cross,
Counted Margaret's gain her loss:
All that Mary did confer
On her friend, thought due to her.
In her girlish bosom rise
Little foolish jealousies,
Which into such rancor wrought,
She one day for Margaret sought;
Finding her by chance alone,
She began, with reasons shown,
To insinuate a fear
Whether Mary was sincere;
Wish'd that Margaret would take heed
Whence her actions did proceed.
For herself, she'd long been minded
Not with outsides to be blinded;
All that pity and compassion,
She believed was affectation;
In her heart she doubted whether
Mary cared a pin for either.
She could keep whole weeks at distance,
And not know of their existence,
While all things remain'd the same;
But, when some misfortune came,
Then she made a great parade
Of her sympathy and aid,--
Not that she did really grieve,
It was only _make-believe_,
And she cared for nothing, so
She might her fine feelings show,
And get credit, on her part,
For a soft and tender heart.

With such speeches, smoothly made,
She found methods to persuade
Margaret (who being sore
From the doubts she'd felt before,
Was preparèd for mistrust)
To believe her reasons just;
Quite destroy'd that comfort glad,
Which in Mary late she had;
Made her, in experience' spite,
Think her friend a hypocrite,
And resolve, with cruel scoff,
To renounce and cast her off.

See how good turns are rewarded!
She of both is now discarded,
Who to both had been so late
Their support in low estate,
All their comfort, and their stay--
Now of both is cast away.
But the league her presence cherish'd,
Losing its best prop, soon perish'd;
She, that was a link to either,
To keep them and it together,
Being gone, the two (no wonder)
That were left, soon fell asunder;--
Some civilities were kept,
But the heart of friendship slept;
Love with hollow forms was fed,
But the life of love lay dead:--
A cold intercourse they held,
After Mary was expell'd.

Two long years did intervene
Since they'd either of them seen,
Or, by letter, any word
Of their old companion heard,--
When, upon a day once walking,
Of indifferent matters talking,
They a female figure met;
Martha said to Margaret,
"That young maid in face does carry
A resemblance strong of Mary."
Margaret, at nearer sight,
Own'd her observation right;
But they did not far proceed
Ere they knew 'twas she indeed.
She--but, ah I how changed they view her
From that person which they knew her!
Her fine face disease had scarr'd,
And its matchless beauty marr'd:--
But enough was left to trace
Mary's sweetness--Mary's grace.
When her eye did first behold them,
How they blush'd!--but, when she told them,
How on a sick-bed she lay
Months, while they had kept away,
And had no inquiries made
If she were alive or dead;--
How, for want of a true friend,
She was brought near to her end,
And was like so to have died,
With no friend at her bedside;--
How the constant irritation,
Caused by fruitless expectation
Of their coming, had extended
The illness, when she might have mended,--
Then, O then, how did reflection
Come on them with recollection!
All that she had done for them,
How it did their fault condemn!

But sweet Mary, still the same,
Kindly eased them of their shame;
Spoke to them with accents bland,
Took them friendly by the hand;
Bound them both with promise fast.
Not to speak of troubles past;
Made them on the spot declare
A new league of friendship there;
Which, without a word of strife,
Lasted thenceforth long as life.
Martha now and Margaret
Strove who most should pay the debt
Which they owed her, nor did vary
Ever after from their Mary.

* * * * *

TO A RIVER IN WHICH A CHILD WAS DROWNED.

Smiling river, smiling river,
On thy bosom sunbeams play;
Though they're fleeting, and retreating,
Thou hast more deceit than they.

In thy channel, in thy channel,
Choked with ooze and grav'lly stones,
Deep immersed, and unhearsed,
Lies young Edward's corse: his bones

Ever whitening, ever whitening,
As thy waves against them dash;
What thy torrent, in the current,
Swallow'd, now it helps to wash.

As if senseless, as if senseless
Things had feeling in this case;
What so blindly, and unkindly,
It destroy'd, it now does grace.

* * * * *

THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES.

I have had playmates, I have had companions,
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days,
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have been laughing, I have been carousing,
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies,
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I loved a love once, fairest among women;
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her--
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man;
Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.

Ghostlike I paced round the haunts of my childhood.
Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse,
Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,
Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling?
So might we talk of the old familiar faces,--

How some they have died, and some they have left me,
And some are taken from me; all are departed;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

* * * * *

HELEN.

High-born Helen, round your dwelling
These twenty years I've paced in vain:
Haughty beauty, thy lover's duty
Hath been to glory in his pain.

High-born Helen, proudly telling
Stories of thy cold disdain;
I starve, I die, now you comply,
And I no longer can complain.

These twenty years I've lived on tears,
Dwelling forever on a frown;
On sighs I've fed, your scorn my bread;
I perish now you kind are grown.

Can I, who loved my beloved
But for the scorn "was in her eye,"
Can I be moved for my beloved,
When she "returns me sigh for sigh?"

In stately pride, by my bedside,
High-born Helen's portrait's hung;
Deaf to my praise, my mournful lays
Are nightly to the portrait sung.

To that I weep, nor ever sleep,
Complaining all night long to her--
_Helen, grown old, no longer cold,_
_Said,_ "You to all men I prefer."

* * * * *

A VISION OF REPENTANCE.

I saw a famous fountain, in my dream,
Where shady pathways to a valley led;
A weeping willow lay upon that stream,
And all around the fountain brink were spread
Wide-branching trees, with dark green leaf rich clad,
Forming a doubtful twilight--desolate and sad.

The place was such, that whoso enter'd in,
Disrobèd was of every earthly thought,
And straight became as one that knew not sin,
Or to the world's first innocence was brought;
Enseem'd it now, he stood on holy ground,
In sweet and tender melancholy wrapt around.

A most strange calm stole o'er my soothèd sprite;
Long time I stood, and longer had I staid,
When lo! I saw, saw by the sweet moonlight,
Which came in silence o'er that silent shade,
Where, near the fountain, SOMETHING like DESPAIR
Made, of that weeping-willow, garlands for her hair.

And eke with painful fingers she inwove
Many an uncouth stem of savage thorn--
"The willow garland, _that_ was for her love,
And _these_ her bleeding temples would adorn."
With sighs her heart nigh burst, salt tears fast fell,
As mournfully she bended o'er that sacred well.

To whom when I addrest myself to speak,
She lifted up her eyes, and nothing said;
The delicate red came mantling o'er her cheek,
And gath'ring up her loose attire, she fled
To the dark covert of that woody shade,
And in her goings seem'd a timid gentle maid.

Revolving in my mind what this should mean,
And why that lovely lady plainèd so;
Perplex'd in thought at that mysterious scene,
And doubting if 'twere best to stay or go,
I cast mine eyes in wistful gaze around,
When from the shades came slow a small and plaintive
sound.

* * * * *

"Psyche am I, who love to dwell
In these brown shades, this woody dell,
Where never busy mortal came,
Till now, to pry upon my shame.

"At thy feet what dost thou see
The waters of repentance be,
Which, night and day, I must augment
With tears, like a true penitent,

"If haply so my day of grace
Be not yet past; and this lone place,
O'ershadowy, dark, excludeth hence
All thoughts but grief and penitence."

_"Why dost thou weep, thou gentle maid!
And wherefore in this barren shade
Thy hidden thoughts with sorrow feed?
Can thing so fair repentance need?"_

"O! I have done a deed of shame,
And tainted is my virgin fame,
And stain'd the beauteous maiden white
In which my bridal robes were dight."

_"And who the promised spouse? declare:
And what those bridal garments were."_

"Severe and saintly righteousness
Composed the clear white bridal dress;
JESUS, the Son of Heaven's high King,
Bought with his blood the marriage ring.

"A wretched sinful creature, I
Deem'd lightly of that sacred tie,
Gave to a treacherous WORLD my heart,
And play'd the foolish wanton's part.
Soon to these murky shades I came,
To hide from the sun's light my shame.
And still I haunt this woody dell,
And bathe me in that healing well,
Whose waters clear have influence
From sin's foul stains the soul to cleanse;
And, night and day, I them augment,
With tears, like a true penitent,
Until, due expiation made,
And fit atonement fully paid,
The Lord and Bridegroom me present,
Where in sweet strains of high consent,
God's throne before, the Seraphim
Shall chant the ecstatic marriage hymn."

"Now Christ restore thee soon"--I said,
And thenceforth all my dream was fled.

* * * * *

DIALOGUE BETWEEN A MOTHER AND CHILD.

CHILD
O Lady, lay your costly robes aside.
No longer may you glory in your pride.

MOTHER
Wherefore to-day art singing in mine ear
Sad songs were made so long ago, my dear?
This day I am to be a bride, you know,
Why sing sad songs, were made so long ago?

CHILD
O mother, lay your costly robes aside,
For you may never be another's bride.
That line I learn'd not in the old sad song.

MOTHER
I pray thee, pretty one, now hold thy tongue,
Play with the bridemaids; and be glad, my boy,
For thou shalt be a second father's joy.

CHILD.
One father fondled me upon his knee.
One father is enough, alone, for me.

* * * * *

QUEEN ORIANA'S DREAM.

On a bank with roses shaded,
Whose sweet scent the violets aided,
Violets whose breath alone
Yields but feeble smell or none,
(Sweeter bed Jove ne'er reposed on
When his eyes Olympus closed on,)
While o'erhead six slaves did hold
Canopy of cloth o' gold,
And two more did music keep,
Which might Juno lull to sleep,
Oriana, who was queen
To the mighty Tamerlane,
That was lord of all the land
Between Thrace and Samarchand,
While the noontide fervor beam'd,
Mused himself to sleep, and _dream'd_.

Thus far, in magnific strain,
A young poet soothed his vein,
But he had nor prose nor numbers,
To express a princess' slumbers.--
Youthful Richard had strange fancies,
Was deep versed in old romances,
And could talk whole hours upon
The Great Cham and Prester John,--
Tell the field in which the Sophi
From the Tartar won a trophy--
What he read with such delight of,
Thought he could as eas'ly write of--
But his over-young invention
Kept not pace with brave intention.
Twenty suns did rise and set,
And he could no further get;
But, unable to proceed,
Made a virtue out of need,
And, his labors wiselier deem'd of,
Did omit _what the queen dream'd of_.

* * * * *

A BALLAD.

NOTING THE DIFFERENCE OF RICH AND POOR, IN THE WAYS OF A RICH NOBLE'S PALACE AND A POOR WORKHOUSE.

_To the Tune of the "Old and Young Courtier."_

In a costly palace Youth goes clad in gold;
In a wretched workhouse Age's limbs are cold:
There they sit, the old men by a shivering fire,
Still close and closer cowering, warmth is their desire.

In a costly palace, when the brave gallants dine,
They have store of good venison, with old canary wine,
With singing and music to heighten the cheer;
Coarse bits, with grudging, are the pauper's best fare.

In a costly palace Youth is still carest
By a train of attendants which laugh at my young Lord's jest;
In a wretched workhouse the contrary prevails:
Does Age begin to prattle?--no man heark'neth to his tales.

In a costly palace if the child with a pin
Do but chance to prick a finger, straight the doctor is called in;
In a wretched workhouse men are left to perish
For want of proper cordials, which their old age might cherish.

In a costly palace Youth enjoys his lust;
In a wretched workhouse Age, in corners thrust,
Thinks upon the former days, when he was well to do,
Had children to stand by him, both friends and kinsmen too.

In a costly palace Youth his temples hides
With a new-devised peruke that reaches to his sides;
In a wretched workhouse Age's crown is bare,
With a few thin locks just to fence out the cold air.

In peace, as in war, 'tis our young gallants' pride,
To walk, each one i' the streets, with a rapier by his side,
That none to do them injury may have pretence;
Wretched Age, in poverty, must brook offence.

* * * * *

HYPOCHONDRIACUS.

By myself walking,
To myself talking,
When as I ruminate
On my untoward fate,
Scarcely seem I
Alone sufficiently,
Black thoughts continually
Crowding my privacy;
They come unbidden,
Like foes at a wedding,
Thrusting their faces
In better guests' places,
Peevish and malecontent,
Clownish, impertinent,
Dashing the merriment:
So in like fashions
Dim cogitations
Follow and haunt me,
Striving to daunt me,
In my heart festering,
In my ears whispering,
"Thy friends are treacherous,
Thy foes are dangerous,
Thy dreams ominous."

Fierce Anthropophagi,
Spectra, Diaboli,
What scared St. Anthony,
Hobgoblins, Lemures,
Dreams of Antipodes,
Night-riding Incubi,
Troubling the fantasy,
All dire illusions
Causing confusions;
Figments heretical,
Scruples fantastical,
Doubts diabolical;
Abaddon vexeth me,
Mahu perplexeth me,
Lucifer teareth me----

_Jesu! Maria! liberate nos ab his diris tentationibus Inimici._

* * * * *

A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO.

May the Babylonish curse
Straight confound my stammering verse,
If I can a passage see
In this word-perplexity,
Or a fit expression find,
Or a language to my mind,
(Still the phrase is wide or scant)
To take leave of thee, GREAT PLANT!
Or in any terms relate
Half my love, or half my hate:
For I hate, yet love, thee so,
That, whichever thing I show,
The plain truth will seem to be
A constrain'd hyperbole,
And the passion to proceed
More from a mistress than a weed.

Sooty retainer to the vine,
Bacchus' black servant, negro fine;
Sorcerer, that mak'st us dote upon
Thy begrimed complexion,
And, for thy pernicious sake,
More and greater oaths to break
Than reclaimèd lovers take
'Gainst women: thou thy siege dost lay
Much too in the female way,
While thou suck'st the lab'ring breath
Faster than kisses or than death.

Thou in such a cloud dost bind us,
That our worst foes cannot find us,
And ill-fortune, that would thwart us.
Shoots at rovers, shooting at us;
While each man, through thy height'ning steam,
Does like a smoking Etna seem,
And all about us does express
(Fancy and wit in richest dress)
A Sicilian fruitfulness.

Thou through such a mist dost show us,
That our best friends do not know us,
And, for those allowèd features,
Due to reasonable creatures,
Liken'st us to fell Chimeras,
Monsters that, who see us, fear us;
Worse than Cerberus or Geryon,
Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion.

Bacchus we know, and we allow
His tipsy rites. But what art thou,
That but by reflex canst show
What his deity can do,
As the false Egyptian spell
Aped the true Hebrew miracle
Some few vapors thou may'st raise,
The weak brain may serve to amaze,
But to the reins and nobler heart
Canst nor life nor heat impart.

Brother of Bacchus, later born,
The old world was sure forlorn
Wanting thee, that aidest more
The god's victories than before
All his panthers, and the brawls
Of his piping Bacchanals.
These, as stale, we disallow,
Or judge of _thee_ meant; only thou
His true Indian conquest art;
And, for ivy round his dart,
The reformèd god now weaves
A finer thyrsus of thy leaves.

Scent to match thy rich perfume
Chemic art did ne'er presume
Through her quaint alembic strain,
None so sov'reign to the brain.
Nature, that did in thee excel,
Framed again no second smell.
Roses, violets, but toys
For the smaller sort of boys,
Or for greener damsels meant;
Thou art the only manly scent.

Stinking'st of the stinking kind,
Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind,
Africa, that brags her foison,
Breeds no such prodigious poison,
Henbane, nightshade, both together,
Hemlock, aconite----

Nay, rather,
Plant divine, of rarest virtue;
Blisters on the tongue would hurt you.
'Twas but in a sort I blamed thee:
None e'er prosper'd who defamed thee;
Irony all, and feign'd abuse,
Such as perplex'd lovers use,
At a need, when, in despair
To paint forth their fairest fair,
Or in part but to express
That exceeding comeliness
Which their fancies doth so strike,
They borrow language of dislike;
And, instead of Dearest Miss,
Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss,
And those forms of old admiring,
Call her Cockatrice and Siren,
Basilisk, and all that's evil,
Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil,
Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor,
Monkey, Ape, and twenty more;
Friendly Trait'ress, loving Foe,--
Not that she is truly so,
But no other way they know
A contentment to express,
Borders so upon excess,
That they do not rightly wot
Whether it be pain or not.

Or, as men, constrain'd to part
With what's nearest to their heart,
While their sorrow's at the height,
Lose discrimination quite,
And their hasty wrath let fall,
To appease their frantic gall,
On the darling thing whatever,
Whence they feel it death to sever,
Though it be, as they, perforce,
Guiltless of the sad divorce.

For I must (nor let it grieve thee,
Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee.
For thy sake, TOBACCO, I
Would do anything but die,
And but seek to extend my days
Long enough to sing thy praise.
But, as she, who once hath been
A king's consort, is a queen
Ever after, nor will bate
Any tittle of her state,
Though a widow, or divorced,
So I, from thy converse forced,
The old name and style retain,
A right Katherine of Spain;
And a seat, too,'mongst the joys
Of the blest Tobacco Boys;
Where, though I, by sour physician,
Am debarr'd the full fruition
Of thy favors, I may catch
Some collateral sweets, and snatch
Sidelong odors, that give life
Like glances from a neighbor's wife;
And still live in the by-places
And the suburbs of thy graces;
And in thy borders take delight,
An unconquer'd Canaanite.

* * * * *

TO T. L. H.

A CHILD.

Model of thy parent dear,
Serious infant worth a fear:
In thy unfaltering visage well
Picturing forth the son of TELL,
When on his forehead, firm and good,
Motionless mark, the apple stood;
Guileless traitor, rebel mild,
Convict unconscious, culprit child!
Gates that close with iron roar
Have been to thee thy nursery door;
Chains that chink in cheerless cells
Have been thy rattles and thy bells;
Walls contrived for giant sin
Have hemm'd thy faultless weakness in;
Near thy sinless bed black Guilt
Her discordant house hath built,
And fill'd it with her monstrous brood--
Sights, by thee not understood--
Sights of fear, and of distress,
That pass a harmless infant's guess

But the clouds, that overcast
Thy young morning, may not last;
Soon shall arrive the rescuing hour
That yields thee up to Nature's power:
Nature, that so late doth greet thee,
Shall in o'erflowing measure meet thee.
She shall recompense with cost
For every lesson thou hast lost.
Then wandering up thy sire's loved hill,[1]
Thou shalt take thy airy fill
Of health and pastime. _Birds shall sing
For thy delight each May morning._
'Mid new-yean'd lambkins thou shalt play,
Hardly less a lamb than they.
Then thy prison's lengthen'd bound
Shall be the horizon skirting round:
And, while thou fillest thy lap with flowers,
To make amends for wintry hours,
The breeze, the sunshine, and the place,
Shall from thy tender brow efface
Each vestige of untimely care,
That sour restraint had graven there;
And on thy every look impress
A more excelling childishness.

So shall be thy days beguiled,
THORNTON HUNT, my favorite child.

[Footnote 1: Hampstead.]

* * * * *

BALLAD.

FROM THE GERMAN.

The clouds are blackening, the storms threatening,
And ever the forest maketh a moan:
Billows are breaking, the damsel's heart acting,
Thus by herself she singeth alone,
Weeping right plenteously.

"The world is empty, the heart is dead surely,
In this world plainly all seemeth amiss:
To thy breast, holy one, take now thy little one,
I have had earnest of all earth's bliss,
Living right lovingly."

* * * * *

DAVID IN THE CAVE OF ADULLAM.